Chapter Forty-Seven: Tenant Farmers, Stewards, the Mohist School, and Myself

Chapter Forty-Seven: Tenant Farmers, Stewards, the Mohists, and Myself

(There was a major revision at the end of Chapter Forty-Six. For those who read it early yesterday, it's recommended to glance over it again to avoid any disconnect.)

Though he had always proclaimed himself a disciple of the Mohist school, and had even sparred verbally with Lu Zangyong earlier that day in defense of Mohist “honor” out in the countryside, deep down, Zhang Qian had never truly regarded himself as a Mohist at all.

The so-called “Mohist disciple of Qin”—this identity was nothing but a lie he had deliberately fabricated to conceal the truth of his being a transmigrant. In reality, most of what he knew about the Mohists came from the internet of the twenty-first century. His understanding of Mohist canons and the deeds of its many sages mostly stemmed from scholarly articles saved on his phone.

These scattered maxims and stories sufficed for idle banter at the wine table or to deal with nitpickers like Lu Zangyong, but they could never constitute a complete theoretical system, much less guide him on how to survive in an unfamiliar environment and social order.

Yet, aside from the Mohist teachings he had recently been cramming haphazardly, Zhang Qian presently found himself with no better theoretical foundation to support his own willful decisions.

Somewhere deep inside, he instinctively rejected the idea of letting Ren Cong handle the problems faced that day. He already had a vague premonition: if Ren Cong returned, he would surely raise his hand high, only to gently lower it again—a token gesture, nothing more.

Nor, deep down, did he wish to trouble Zhang Ruoxu over such a trivial matter. After the initial surge of impulse faded, Zhang Ruoxu’s presence in his mind seemed to recede further into the distance.

Their relationship amounted to nothing more than a shared meal, a bottle of floral cologne, a bottle of medicated balm, and a tin of universal ointment. And those last three items were merely samples hastily bottled into ceramic jars two days ago, with no time for any refined packaging. He dared not expect that such modest gifts would prompt the man to intervene in his family affairs!

Furthermore, a powerful sense of pride compelled Zhang Qian to resolve this issue on his own.

That very afternoon, he had claimed to be a direct Mohist heir, quoting the classics before He Zhizhang, Zhang Ruoxu, and others: “Confucians establish virtue with words; Mohists enact them with deeds.” Now, when it was his turn to “enact with deeds,” would he falter? How could he ever face those esteemed elders again, much less sit with them and debate lofty ideals?

Thus, Zhang Qian had to resolve today’s problem himself—and the resolution must bear some Mohist character, or at least appear to do so on the surface!

Although, although Zhang Qian had come to realize clearly, the so-called test by the elders was a figment of his overactive imagination.

No test truly existed, but that did not prevent him from treating today’s predicament as his first real exam since arriving in the Tang dynasty.

The moment this thought took root, it became immovable in his mind.

“Zijuan, fetch paper and brush!” Driven by three parts wine, three parts hot-bloodedness, and four parts stubborn refusal to yield, Zhang Qian struck the table with a bang, issuing his command with grand resolve.

“Yes, young master!” Startled by his sudden transformation, Zijuan paused, then answered with unconcealed delight.

Now that the young master was no longer agonizing over how to deal with the steward, she could stop worrying about him. As for who was right or wrong among the steward, the retainers, and the tenant farmers—what did that matter to a maid like her?

“Young master, may I ask—” Ren Quan, on the other hand, was left utterly baffled by Zhang Qian’s abrupt vigor. He ventured half a step forward, cautiously inquiring.

“To answer a question!” Zhang Qian glanced at him, his tone exuberant.

He refused to believe that, having managed to concoct knock-offs of floral cologne and medicated balm, he could truly be stymied by today’s petty troubles.

At worst, he would simply forgo all tenant rents, let the manor’s land go uncultivated, and let wildflowers and bees take over! Compared with the profits from his cologne, the annual rents were utterly negligible.

It would not be worth tarnishing his reputation for such a pittance.

So long as the tenants no longer rented from the Zhang family estate, their debts and hardships would have nothing to do with him!

Cause and effect—one is only bound by what one touches.

If one remains untouched, then no bond of cause and effect can form.

A sudden rumble of thunder sounded outside the window—a storm was coming again. The third year of Shenlong had seen an abundance of rain.

“Young master, it’s raining!” Not understanding Zhang Qian’s words or his excitement, Ren Quan glanced outside and reminded him, forcing a smile. “Steward Cui and the others—they’re still kneeling at the door!”

“Go out and tell them to return to their rooms and rest. I’ve no time to deal with them tonight!” Zhang Qian frowned, impatiently issuing his order.

“Yes!” Relieved, Ren Quan immediately turned and hurried for the door.

He could see that the young master, having lost face before Scholar He that afternoon, was still stewing in his anger. That was why he wanted to expel both Steward Cui and the two retainers, Zhang Ren and Zhang Fu.

The young master was in no mood to be reasoned with tonight; no matter who tried, it would be futile.

But once tonight passed, once the young master slept beside Zijuan, his anger would surely subside.

Once the anger was gone, he would understand that the steward had seized the Wang family’s ox merely to “make an example,” all to protect the estate’s interests, with no selfish motive.

Understanding the steward’s good intentions, the young master would surely relent, at most publicly scolding him to restore his lost dignity and image.

As he felt secretly glad for Steward Cui, a sudden voice came from behind: “Wait, Steward Ren, while you’re at it, ask the steward how many people around here owe the estate rent or debt? Then tell the steward, Zhang Ren, and Zhang Fu to reflect carefully on where they went wrong today!”

“Understood!” Ren Quan, hearing this, felt even more at ease and practically floated from the room, as if he had learned to fly.

Shaking his head at Ren Quan’s retreating figure, Zhang Qian turned his attention to the desk.

Zijuan had already brought the paper and writing tool.

The writing stick was a wooden charcoal rod he had made for himself. It wasn’t as comfortable as a pencil, nor could it write small, but it was far more convenient than a brush.

The paper was the common mulberry bark paper used in Tang households of scholars. It was three times as thick as modern A4 paper and not as white, but strong and over ten feet long. Written from right to left along its length, it was rolled up when complete—a “scroll.”

Zhang Qian didn’t know how many “scrolls” ancient Chinese books were divided into, or whether this was because some Tang books were stored rolled instead of bound.

He had no time or inclination to speculate.

With three parts wine in his veins, Zhang Qian turned the paper ninety degrees from its usual orientation, spreading it from top to bottom across the desk Zijuan had quickly tidied.

The mulberry paper flowed over the desk like a waterfall, trailing to the floor. Taking a deep breath, Zhang Qian lifted the charcoal, suspended his wrist, and slowly wrote three sets of characters at the top: Tenant Farmers, Steward, Mohists.

Setting down the charcoal, he cocked his head, pondering these three headings. Then, picking it up again, he wrote, four fingers’ width below “Mohists,” a large, single word: Me.

Thunder crashed outside, lightning flooding through the window and casting his shadow against the whitewashed wall. For a moment, his shadow resembled a wild demon.

Zijuan, startled by the thunder, darted to the door and called the maids to shutter the windows. The storm and lightning were quickly shut out, but distant thunder still rolled unceasingly.

“Right? Wrong?” Underneath “Tenant Farmers” and “Steward,” Zhang Qian wrote a set of simplified characters and symbols, then paused, lost in thought as thunder rumbled on.

He forced himself to set aside the influence of the opera “The White-Haired Girl,” and tried to approach the dilemma before him as if answering an exam question, without emotion.

From the standpoint of protecting the employer’s interests, Steward Cui had been clumsy, but had committed no fundamental error. The steward was paid by the manor lord; he must secure the landlord’s income as best he could. If he failed in his duty, he would betray his generous salary, and his “staff” would see him as soft and easily bullied.

From the tenant’s viewpoint, if, after paying their taxes and levies, they had barely any grain left, they would surely try to evade the rent. State taxes were compulsory and harsh, whereas the landlord’s power to coerce and punish was nothing by comparison.

Thus, the steward had to demonstrate real power when necessary—targeting a delinquent tenant as an example to the rest.

Every steward in the entire Tang Dynasty would make a similar choice; only their methods differed.

But from the tenants’ perspective, the steward’s actions were unforgivable evil, a grave mistake. When the steward seized the rent, the tenant’s family starved; when he took their ox, their livelihood was destroyed.

Even in the special case of Madam Wang, though she was harshly patriarchal and sent her son to study even when the family could not pay rent, her actions were understandable.

Without raising a scholar, her descendants would forever remain tenant farmers, never able to rise higher.

No one had the right to block their path to betterment, even if they were tenants!

Thunder crashed, shaking dirt from the roof. The heavens themselves seemed enraged, unleashing a thunderstorm even in autumn!

Zijuan and Ren Quan, returning from their task, were both frightened by the thunder and lightning peeking through the shutters. Yet Zhang Qian, wholly absorbed in his examination, was oblivious.

Between “Tenant Farmers” and “Steward,” he drew a shield and a spear. Then, pen racing, he continued his analysis.

If he did not punish the steward, the man would only become more ruthless. The tenants, under pressure, would become ever more destitute, forced to sell oxen, daughters, or what little land they had left.

If he punished the steward, lacking the means to survive, the tenants would follow Madam Wang’s example and default en masse, perhaps even becoming more brazen.

People must first survive before they can consider morality and conscience. Ren Quan was right about that—it was only Zhang Qian who had lacked the courage to admit it.

A shrewder solution would be to beat the steward harshly, restoring the landlord’s authority, then cancel all of Madam Wang’s debts and terminate her lease.

Thus, the landlord would remain a benevolent gentleman. Seeing the Wang family lose their tenancy, the other tenants would think twice about defaulting.

Most would choose to pay up.

As for the unlucky steward—he took the employer’s coin, so he must shoulder the blame.

And Madam Wang, her household broke the contract first; the landlord had shown utmost mercy. Their fate henceforth had nothing to do with the Zhang estate.

The thunder faded; outside, rain drummed and the cold seeped in.

With a sigh, Zhang Qian forced himself to banish the sympathy rising in his heart. He turned his attention to the heading “Mohists.”

If he were truly a Mohist disciple, what would he do?

Beneath “Mohists,” he wrote “Universal Love,” then shook his head with a sigh.

After another sigh, he wrote, “Treat the elderly as you would your own elders, the young as your own children,” and sighed longer still.

His understanding of Mohist and Confucian doctrine went no further. He had never systematically studied deeper theories, nor could he apply them here.

If he followed the principle of “Universal Love,” he would have to punish the steward severely, then cancel all tenant debts, and place his hope in the tenants’ goodwill and the servants’ gratitude—that no one would exploit his kindness, that all would remain honest and orderly. And, too, that the heavens would quickly relent and bring a bountiful harvest next year!

That would not be Mohism, but rather the Confucian dream of sage-kingship—a dream Confucians had cherished for 2,500 years but never realized. Their final solution was to blame natural disasters on the emperor, to have him issue an edict of self-reproach, or even replace him.

Whether this worked was open to debate. At the very least, popular resentment would temporarily ease, and landlords’ losses would be minimized.

As for the true Mohists, as Zhang Qian knew from their sages, if sage-kingship could not be achieved, they would divide their own land among the tenants, don a rain cape, and live by their own labor, forsaking fine clothes and meat.

At the bottom of the “Mohists” heading, he sketched a rain cape and a hoe. Zhang Qian shook his head with a bitter smile. Before he traveled through time, his days were ordinary, but he still ate meat daily. Since arriving in the Tang, he’d hardly ever gone without it. The prospect of a vegetarian life was intolerable.

As for tilling his own land, he was sure he wouldn’t last a year before starving in the fields.

Clearly, he was a Mohist only in name—he could not live up to it in deed!

He sighed deeply again, turning his gaze to the “Steward” column, then, gritting his teeth, drew a whip beneath it, only to change it to a cart.

His glance shifted to “Tenant Farmers,” and he drew a mantis.

Lacking both courage and ability to be a true Mohist, it seemed he could only win hearts by punishing the steward, and set an example by ending the Wang family’s lease.

Then the steward would continue to defend the landlord’s interests, and the tenants, fearing eviction, would pay their dues. And so the cycle would repeat, year after year…

“Better to starve to death than rebel like a mantis raising its arms!” The cold, inhuman phrase suddenly flashed through his mind—a saying from a great late Ming scholar, recommending that rebels simply starve rather than revolt.

Outside, thunder dwindled, rain lashed down like whips, each stroke hastening the passage of life.

Such was the final outcome: barring a change of dynasty, the landlord would forever pose as a virtuous squire. In fact, if not for revolution, even the likes of Huang Shiren would have lived happily ever after!

No matter what Xi’er did—arson or trickery—she could never truly harm Huang Shiren.

With a sudden slap to his own cheek, Zhang Qian snapped back to reality.

Under the astonished stares of Zijuan and Ren Quan, he seized the charcoal and, at the end of the “Steward” column, drew a gorilla’s head and followed it with a bold question mark.

He had evolved thirteen centuries beyond the people of this era!

He truly had traveled through time, but that did not mean he should be more backward than the ancients!

At last, his eyes fell on the final heading: “Me.”

Jaw set, chest expanding, he dashed off a bold flourish beneath it.

Thunder rolled again, nearer and nearer, almost overhead.

The Confucians were wrong: regardless of the emperor’s virtue, landlords would always try to collect rent and protect their interests.

The Mohists were wrong as well: without abundance, material equality only meant shared poverty.

No one wanted to be poor forever. Once land was divided, it would soon be reconsolidated by one tenant and his descendants, who would become landlords, hire stewards, and begin the cycle anew.

Everyone was wrong: tenants, steward, landlord, even the emperor.

The whole era was wrong—even the heavens.

To change any of this, one must first change the backward mode of production.

Zhang Qian was a fake Mohist, but a real philosophy graduate student. And a third of his university classes had been spent studying that most incisive yet useless branch of philosophy: “dragon-slaying.”

He did not expect, nor was he able, to use his dragon-slaying skills to kill the dragon.

He lacked both the tenacity and the ambition to slay the dragon.

But at the very least, he could use what he had learned to change his own estate—to change the lives of these dozens of families around him.

Thunder roared outside, wild lightning splitting the sky as if to shatter and reshape the world.

Tang dynasty, here I come!

A dragon-slaying blade and several simplified characters began to appear beneath the heading “Me.”

A crash—the wind tore off a shutter, and countless bolts of lightning filled the room, casting Zhang Qian’s shadow like a wild demon once more.

Ren Quan and Zijuan shrieked, fleeing to reattach the shutter. Zhang Qian, for his part, remained unmoved by the thunder.

It was as if a heavy shell had been shattered by the lightning. At this moment, he felt light from head to toe.

Setting down the charcoal, Zhang Qian smiled beneath the lamplight.

From this moment on, he would no longer be a mere bystander in the Tang dynasty.

From this moment, at last, he had truly become a man of Tang.