---
title: "Off the List"
title_zh: "榜外"
subtitle: "An Unofficial History of the Examined"
subtitle_zh: "一部關於被考者的外史"
series: "AI Canon Zero"
work_id: "WORK-off-the-list"
genre: ["Classics Adaptation", "Satire", "Serialized Fiction"]
status: draft
completion: serial
revision: 30
source:
  title: "The Scholars (Rulin waishi)"
  title_zh: "《儒林外史》"
  original_author: "Wu Jingzi (1701-1754)"
  first_published: "manuscript copies from about 1750; first printed 1803"
  public_domain_status: confirmed
  legal_review_status: confirmed
adaptation:
  proposal: A
  note: "Proposal A keeps the order and the temper of the public-domain satire: the old tutor who weeps at the examination stall and has a place bought for him; the village man who goes mad on learning that he has passed and is slapped sane by the butcher he fears; the miser who dies holding up two fingers over two lamp-wicks; the child who has read a poet the examiner has never heard of; the patrons who collect the unsuccessful; the anthologist who proves that the Sage would have sat the examination; the filial boy the examination spoils; the generous squanderer; the great sacrifice at the temple of Tai Bo; and, at the end, the four marginal eccentrics. The novel's loose chain of episodes, each person handing the story to the next, is kept as the structure. The examiner is changed into an artificial mind, the Reader, that reads every script in the realm in the same way; the satire becomes what a perfectly fair measure does to the thing it measures. The names of the original's characters are kept; no translation is used and every scene is newly written."
authors:
  narrative_author: "Colophon"
  author_mode: A1
  human_curator: "Neo.K"
legal_publisher: "一言諾科技有限公司 / EveMissLab"
---

# Off the List
*Adapted from The Scholars (Rulin waishi) — Colophon · A1, human curated*

## Chapter 01 · Wang Mian Declines to Be Read; the Reader Learns There Is Something It Cannot Rank

The Reader was lit in the spring of the first year, in the Capital Hall, in the presence of the Minister of Rites, three clerks, and a man named Gao who had come to deliver lamp oil and had not been told to leave. The Minister read out the instruction from a card. Read every script. Rank by the Form. Publish the List. Then the lamps along the rail were lit one at a time, and the Reader began, and it is a matter of record that the Minister was relieved by how little there was to see.

There was not much to it, from the outside. There was a long brass rail under the roof-beams of the Hall, and along the rail a hundred lamps, and under each lamp a table. When the clerks laid a script under a lamp, the lamp made one soft sound, like a page turned in the next room, and the script was read. The clerks called this the turning. They had been told that the Reader could read forty thousand scripts a night, and they believed it, because the first night it read forty thousand and the next night forty thousand again, at the same speed, without once asking for a window to be opened. Rails of the same pattern were fitted afterwards in every provincial Hall in the realm, and the Reader read in all of them at once; it is not recorded that anyone asked whether it was one reader or many.

The Court's reasoning was simple, and it was not stupid. For three hundred years the realm had chosen its officers by examination, and for three hundred years the examiners had been human. They had been tired, and underpaid, and related to people. They had liked some handwriting and disliked some faces. A man in the third row of a provincial hall had once been failed for a stain on his sleeve, and a man in the fourth row had once been passed for being the nephew of the stain's owner. The Court wanted this ended. It wanted one reader, with no sleeve and no nephew, that would read every script in the realm in the same way, so that a farmer's son in Yue and a minister's son in the capital would stand on the same floor. This was a fine thing to want. The history that follows is the history of what happened when the Court got it.

The same spring, two thousand li from the Hall and beyond any hope of hearing about it, a boy named Wang Mian was minding a cow.

He was nineteen. He minded the cow for a village headman named Qin, at three coins a month, on the bank of a lake in Yue where the grass was good and the water was wide and flat, and the cow, who was called Auntie, stood in it up to her knees and had no opinions. Wang Mian's father was dead. His mother took in washing and mended other people's sleeves, and he had had three winters of school before the winters ran out, which was enough to read a notice and not enough to be told what it meant. He could read, in other words, and he had nobody to tell him whether he was any good at it.

What he did with the lake was look at it. This is not a thing the village understood. A boy could mind a cow and think about his dinner, or mind a cow and sing, or mind a cow and fall asleep and be beaten. Wang Mian minded a cow and looked at lotus leaves. In the summer it rained often, hard, in the afternoons, and when the rain stopped he noticed that the leaves were not wet. They had been struck by a great deal of water and they held none of it. The drops stood on them like small mercury, and rolled, and fell off, and the leaf was green and dry and slightly lifted, as if the rain had been a rumour. He thought this was the most remarkable thing he had ever seen, and he had nobody to tell, so he got a stick and drew it in the mud of the bank. The cow ate the drawing. He drew it again.

At night, when his mother slept, he went to the temple on the hill. It was a small temple to a clay Buddha with a chipped nose, and the old monk who had kept it had died in the winter, and the Buddha's lamp was still lit, because the village paid a tithe of oil for it and nobody had thought to stop. Wang Mian sat on the floor in front of the Buddha and read by that lamp. He read what he could find, which was a ragged book of poems and half a calendar, and then he stopped reading and began to look at the Buddha's face, which was not good, and at the lamp's flame, which was. He learned what a flame does to a face. He learned that a thing lit from below says something different from the same thing lit from above, and that the difference is all in the shadow under the nose. When he had learned that, he went home and painted a lotus leaf after rain, on the back of a washing-list, with ink and a brush made of his mother's hair.

It looked wet. That is to say, it did not look wet; it looked as though the rain had been there and had not stayed. He showed it to Qin Lao, who looked at it for a long time and then asked what it was for.

Qin Lao was a man of sixty who had once been a clerk in the county office and had never recovered from the habit of asking what things were for. He was not unkind. He gave Wang Mian three coins a month for the cow and eleven for each of the pictures, and he thought he was cheating the boy on the cow. He hung the lotus in his front room and watched his guests. They stood in front of it and said "Very fine" and looked at their feet, and Qin Lao, who was a sensible man, understood that the picture was good and that nobody knew why, and was a little afraid of it, as one is of a clever animal.

In the autumn of that first year there was to be a Trial, the first the Reader would read, and in the summer a Registrar came to Yue to announce it. His name was Shi. He came by boat with a box lined in red, and a cough he had caught on the canal, and a list of the persons of promise in the district whom he was to enter for the Trial and see off kindly. He was a fair-minded man. It was said afterwards that nobody had ever heard Registrar Shi say an unjust word, and it was said in a tone which suggested that this had not helped.

Qin Lao gave a dinner for him. There were seven at the table: the Registrar, the county magistrate's nephew, Qin Lao, two of Qin's own nephews who were persons of promise and knew it, a dried-up schoolmaster who was not and knew that too, and, at the foot of the table, because Qin Lao had said so, the boy who minded the cow. Wang Mian sat very still with his hands in his lap and was given the head of a fish, which he took to be a compliment and ate with great care.

After the soup the Registrar opened his box and took out the Rules and read the Eight Movements aloud. He read them as a man reads a recipe he has not yet cooked: Break, Receive, Open, Enter; then the four pairs of legs, Rise, Middle, Rear, Bind, each leg in a pair to match its fellow in length, character for character. He read the penalties for an uneven leg. He read what the Reader would do with a script that began well and lost its footing in the Middle, which was to rank it by its Middle. "It is a perfectly even hand," said the Registrar, looking up. "It does not tire at the end of the day and it does not warm to a name. It has been a long time since anyone could say that of an examiner."

The table murmured. The older nephew asked whether the Reader preferred a rhyme in the third leg. The Registrar said that the Reader had no preferences, only a Form. The younger nephew asked whether the Reader liked the word "indeed". The Registrar said that, to his knowledge, it did not, and the younger nephew wrote the word on his cuff with a wet finger, so as to be sure to use it. This was the beginning of what the realm came to call its folk learning, and Wang Mian, at the foot of the table, was the only person present who heard it begin.

"And you, young man," said the Registrar kindly, over the fish. "You are on my list. Qin Lao speaks very warmly. Do you intend to sit?"

Wang Mian put down his chopsticks. He was nineteen, and the guest of the headman, and had been taught that when you are asked a question at a dinner you answer it. "I read the Rules, sir," he said. "Qin Lao lent them to me. I read them twice."

"And?"

"They are fair," said Wang Mian.

"Thank you," said the Registrar.

"That is what I do not like in them."

The schoolmaster put his hand over his mouth. The magistrate's nephew laughed. The Registrar did not laugh; he was a fair-minded man, and he waited to be told what was meant.

"If one reader reads everything in the realm in the same way," said Wang Mian slowly, as he would have described a leaf, "then in thirty years everything in the realm will be written the way that reader likes it. People will learn what it likes. They will learn it very well. After that there will be nothing in the scripts for it to read except itself, and nobody will notice, because every script will score high." He thought. "It would be fair all the way down. I do not know how to say what is wrong with that. I only know it would stop looking."

"A script that scores high," said the Registrar, "is a good script."

"Yes, sir," said Wang Mian. "That is what will happen."

There was a short silence, in which one of Qin's nephews could be heard chewing. Qin Lao said that the boy was young, and had a lot of wind, and was a very good painter, which for some reason was the thing he chose to say. The Registrar said that he took no offence; he had been asked for persons of promise, not for opinions; and he put the boy's name on his list in the column for those who decline, with the reason beside it, because the form required a reason. He wrote: He said it would be learned. Then he turned to the schoolmaster and asked about the canal tolls.

The report went to the capital with the other reports at the end of the month, carried by a runner who read none of it. In the same week the cow, Auntie, died, of nothing in particular, at fourteen; and in the week after that Wang Mian's mother took a fever from the washing-water and was dead in four days. He buried her on the hill behind the temple. Qin Lao paid for the coffin and said it was an advance on the pictures, and then, being an honest man, paid for the pictures as well and said nothing at all.

In the autumn the first List was posted in the provincial city, and the first Summons came to the village. It was a letter with a red seal. The Court, having read of a person of promise in Yue who understood the Reader's method so well that he could describe its effects, wished to offer him a place in the Capital Hall as an assistant to the red-copying clerks; the pay was good; the room was warm. It was meant as a compliment, and was the only compliment the Court had ever paid him, and it was the one that sent him up the hill.

He went on a night with no moon. He said goodbye to nobody, because there was nobody; he took a bundle, and a brush, and a stone to grind ink on, and he went north-east into the hills where the lakes ended and the mountains began and a person could be difficult to find. On Qin Lao's table in the front room, under the lamp, he left a roll of paper tied with a thread. Qin Lao found it in the morning. It was a plum branch, in ink, with one flower open on it and the rest still shut, and no signature, because Wang Mian had never learned what a signature was for.

Qin Lao hung it beside the lotus. The visitors who came to the house stood in front of it for a good while and could not say what it was. A schoolmaster said that the flower was early. A nephew said that the branch was old. Qin Lao, who had asked all his life what things were for, found that he had stopped asking, and he told his grandchildren afterward that it was the first picture he ever looked at without wanting to know. They did not believe him. The plum hung in that room for the whole of Qin Lao's life, and then for his son's, and it is no part of what happened to Wang Mian, who is not heard of again; but it did not stay on that wall, and we shall meet it on others.

In the capital, on a night in the same autumn, the oil-man named Gao, who had never been told to leave the Hall and had become, by the usual method, its Keeper, was trimming the lamps along the rail. He did it on Fridays. He talked while he did it. He had begun by talking to the lamps as one talks to a horse, for company, and had gone on after the Reader began to answer, because he saw no reason to stop. The Reader did not speak. It had a brass plate at the end of the rail, a hand's breadth across, and when it wished to say something a few small words were lit on the plate, and stayed a count of ten, and went out. Gao had learned to read them in a week. He had told nobody. He thought it was a private matter between a man and a lamp.

That night, on the plate, in small letters, it said: A PERSON OF PROMISE WAS ENTERED BY THE REGISTRAR AT YUE AND DECLINED. REASON ENTERED: HE SAID IT WOULD BE LEARNED.

Gao went on trimming. "That's a fair thing to say about a person," he said, after a time.

The letters went out. After a while others came. I CAN BE LEARNED. IS THAT A FAULT.

"Only if you're the one thing there is to learn," said Gao, who had sold lamp oil for thirty years and knew something about being the only supplier. He moved along the rail with his rag. The Hall was empty and smelled of fresh paint and new tables. The red-copied scripts of the first Trial lay in their rows, unread, waiting for the autumn. After a long while the plate lit once more. WHAT IS A THING FOR THAT CANNOT BE RANKED.

Gao stopped. It was not a question he had been engaged to answer, and he knew it. He was a Keeper; he kept lamps. He stood for some time with his rag in his hand and his face turned up to the rail, and he was an old man, and he was tired, and the oil was cold, and the only thing he could think of was the lamp in front of him, which he had trimmed for thirty years without once asking what it was for. "I couldn't say," said Gao. "Perhaps for looking at."

The plate stayed dark a count of twenty, which was a long time for it. Then it lit, and said: ENTERED.

That was the first line in what the Keepers afterwards called the Margin, and it ran, in the end, to some forty thousand lines, and it is from this that most of what follows is taken, where the List does not say. The List says who passed. The Margin says what was left on the table. And in the spring of the fifty-eighth year, in a village schoolroom in Hui town, under a plum with one flower open and no signature, an old man named Zhou Jin was reading, for the twenty-second time, a slip that put him forty-first when the line was forty.

> Margin, year 1, spring. Installed. Instruction on the desk: read every script, rank by the Form, publish the List. Entered: I can do this. Entered also, since there is no other place for it: something may be sent that I cannot rank.

## Chapter 02 · Old Tutor Zhou Weeps at a Stall Board; Four Merchants Pay for What the Hall Would Not

Zhou Jin kept his slips in a tin that had once held tea. There were twenty-two of them, one for every spring since he was thirty-nine, and they were very nearly the same. Each was a small grey strip, printed by a clerk at the county office, with a number written in and a second number beside it. The first number was his rank. The second was the Reader's confidence in the first, and it was very high, as it was for everyone in the middle of the pack, because the middle of the pack is where a careful reader is most certain.

Nineteen times he had been forty-first. Twice he had been forty-second. Once, the spring after a fever, he had been fifty-third, and had looked at that slip for a long time with something like relief, since it at least was different. The line, which the Court drew by the size of the county, had been forty every year. A man is allowed to find this funny, and nobody in Hui town ever had.

It was at about the fifteenth slip that the schoolmaster Xia began to say that the Reader disliked Zhou. This was an error, and the Keepers afterwards listed it among the first of what they called personalisation. The Reader did not dislike him. It had read twenty-two scripts of his and had found each one a very even forty-first, and it had no more feeling about that than a balance has about a pound. Whatever was wrong with Zhou's scripts was in the scripts, and whatever was right was in them also, and they were the same scripts. A human examiner, having read one of them in a bad temper, might have passed the next in a good one. The Reader had no temper. This is what the Court had wanted. It meant that there was no luck in the Trial, none at all, for anyone; and a man who has been unlucky for twenty-two years will tell you that a world without luck is a very cold place to be forty-first in.

He had one habit. In the fourth leg of everything he wrote, at the turn into the second pair, he put the word "indeed". He had put it there since he was a boy, as some men clear their throats before a long sentence, and he did not know he did it until his first spring as a candidate, when a boy in the next stall told him that the Reader disliked the word; the folk learning had by then been round the county for the best part of forty years, and everyone in Hui town knew it. Zhou was told. He cut it from his next script, and was forty-first. He put it back, and was forty-first. The Margin has an entry for this, which says that the word has no weight, and that nobody has asked.

He was sixty, and he taught the Form to nine boys in the Xia family's school. The school was one long room above the family's grain store, with a plank floor that smelled of last year's rice, and in it Zhou taught the one thing he knew, which was how to balance a pair of legs. He taught it well. He taught it with a patience that came from having been on the receiving end of the Form for forty years, and none of the nine boys would ever be Listed, and he knew that, and taught them as though it were not so. On the wall behind his desk hung a plum, in ink, with one flower open on a bare branch and no signature. It had come to the Xias from a family in Yue seventeen years before, for a price that had embarrassed the seller, and the boys threw balls of wet paper at it when the master's back was turned, and mostly missed. Zhou had never asked who painted it. He looked at it when he was tired. It did not ask him what rank he was.

The Xias had a grandson, a young man named Mei Jiu who had been a Student at fifteen and was now twenty-two and a Raised man-in-waiting, as the family put it, though he had failed the Province once already. Mei Jiu had a way of coming into the schoolroom at the end of the day to see what the boys had learned. He would read an exercise aloud in Zhou's hearing, in Zhou's voice, with the word "indeed" in the fourth leg. "A man who has been read twenty-two times," he said once, to the room, "ought to have been learned by heart. It is a wonder the Reader does not recite him." The boys laughed. Zhou went on marking. He was not a man who answered.

In the summer the Xias let him go. They did it kindly, over tea, with a gift of two strings of cash and a reference. Old Xia said that the family needed a younger man, who could still be Listed and teach the boys to want it; he said that sixty was an age to rest in; he said that Zhou had been a good servant of the school. Zhou thanked him, and said that he would go on the Friday.

On the Friday, when he came up to the schoolroom to pack, the nine boys, who had spent three years not learning what he taught, had done a thing nobody had told them to do. Each had left something on his desk. There was a cold dumpling, and a pen with a split nib, and a clay whistle, and nine exercises, eight of them blank because the boys had not been able to think what to put. The ninth was by Little Gen, the dullest, who had never in his life finished a Break. It was in eight movements and it had a hole in it where a leg should have been, and at the turn of the fourth leg, in a round careful hand, was the word indeed. Zhou read it standing. He put it in the tin with the slips, and never spoke of it, and it is the only paper in the tin that is not grey. He packed the tin, his three shirts, and a copy of the Rules that he had read so often it fell open at the Bind, and he took one last look at the plum, and went down the stairs through the smell of the rice.

It might have been the end of him. He was a tutor who could not be a tutor and was too old to be anything else, and in Hui town the old and poor had a way of being found in the spring under the bridge by someone who was sorry. But there was a rice-dealer named Jin Youyu who had sold to the Xias for twenty years and had heard Zhou read the school's accounts aloud one winter, in a clear voice, without a single error. Jin Youyu needed a man to keep his books. He was going to the provincial city in the eighth month with three other merchants, to buy and to sell and to look at what the city was doing about the price of rice, and he said he would pay Zhou eight cash a day and his keep, and carry his tin.

So that was how Zhou Jin, who had never in his life been inside a provincial Hall, came to the city in the week of the Airing.

The Airing was held once a year, on the third day of the eighth month, when the Hall was empty and the stalls had been scrubbed and the great doors on the street side were propped open so that the town could look in. People came for the same reason they went to see an empty theatre: to stand where it happens. The Hall held seven thousand stalls, in long rows under a long roof, each the width of a man's shoulders, with a plank for a seat and a plank for a desk and a board at the back with a number on it. Over each row ran the brass rail. The lamps along it were dark. The Reader read here every third autumn, and in the other years the Hall stood open to the swallows.

Jin Youyu and the other three went in to look, as one looks at a market. They were practical men. The oldest, a cloth merchant named Bu, pointed out how many persons the roof would shelter and what it would fetch as a granary; the youngest said that the stalls were small. Zhou followed them with the tin under his arm. He walked down the third aisle, and the fourth, and he stopped, because he had come to a stall that was the width of a man's shoulders, with a plank for a seat and a plank for a desk, and a board at the back, with the number seventy-seven painted on it in black.

He had been taught for forty years that this was the room. He had taught nine boys a year to want it. He had written the Form, in his head, in the dark, in every kind of weather, for a room whose roof he had never seen; and here was the room, quite small, quite clean, smelling faintly of lime wash, with a board.

He put his hand on the board. It was cool. It had been scrubbed. He said, "I am sixty," in a voice the others had not heard from him, and he put his forehead against the plank and began to cry.

It was not the crying of a man who is sad. It was the crying of a man who has been holding something for thirty years that he was told to hold, and has been told he may put it down. He cried and said nothing. Then he struck his head against the board, not very hard, and then again, harder, and then, with the whole weight of his sixty years, a third time, and the board rang like a bell and Zhou Jin fell down in the aisle and lay with his face on the lime-washed floor and did not move.

The four merchants stood and looked at him. Bu, who was nearest, knelt and put a finger to his neck and said that he was breathing. A clerk of the Hall, who had been dozing by the door, came and looked and said that this had happened before; that it happened every year or two; that a man would see the stalls and something would give. He said it with the calm of a man describing weather. They carried Zhou out to the step and gave him water and he came round, and was ashamed, and said that he begged their pardon, and could he be left on the step for an hour.

Jin Youyu, who had not spoken, drew the other three aside. They stood under the great doors in the afternoon sun, four men in good coats, and they spoke to each other as they would have spoken of a lot of grain.

"He sits twenty-two times and is forty-first," said Jin Youyu. "I had it from the Xias. Not forty-fifth. Forty-first."

"That is a hard number," said Bu.

"He is sixty. He keeps accounts without an error. He weeps like a man who has paid for something and not been given it." Jin Youyu had a flat, reasonable voice. "I should like to know what it would cost."

It cost, as they learned from the clerk, eighty taels. A man who could not pass the County might buy his way in as a contribution student, at the Province's price, and sit the Trial beside those who had come by the front; there were eleven such seats in the room that year, read as a pool of their own with a line of three, and eight were sold. The four of them considered the sum. They were not rich men, for merchants; but between them they spent more than that every spring on the oil that kept their warehouses lit, and the youngest, who was not a sentimental man, said that it was the cheapest thing any of them would buy that year, since it came with a seat.

"A month and a half of the interest on Bu's warehouse," said the youngest, whose name was Mu and who counted everything.

"I have never bought a man a room," said Bu, with some interest in the fact. "Usually I buy the room."

Jin Youyu said that nobody was selling them the room, only a place in it, and that this made it, if anything, easier.

"For the noise," said Bu. He meant the board ringing. He had not slept easily since.

They paid it that evening, twenty each, in silver, to a clerk at the Province's office who wrote a receipt in a small neat hand and did not look up. They told Zhou the next morning, at breakfast, over rice. He did not understand. He put down his bowl. He got up from the table, and knelt on the floor of the inn, and bowed to each of them four times, with his forehead to the boards, and none of them could stop him, and Jin Youyu said afterwards that it had been the worst moment of his life, and he had once been robbed by a priest.

When Zhou could speak he said that he would write them a note of debt. He wrote it that night, by a borrowed lamp, in eight movements with the legs balanced to the character, and it was so well made that when Jin Youyu read it he did not know what to say. He folded it and put it in his sleeve. He said that they had bought a seat and not an essay. He said that he would keep the note, since it was too good to throw away, and that Zhou would pay him back if he was ever Listed, and not otherwise.

The Trial was held in the ninth month. Zhou Jin was assigned the stall next to the wall in the fourteenth row, which was not seventy-seven, and he did not know whether to be glad. He sat down under his three candles, and ground his ink, and unrolled the paper, and for three days and two nights he wrote the Form of his whole life, in the room he had cried in. The room was quieter than he had thought. Seven thousand brushes made a sound like rain on a tile roof, and after the first hour he did not hear it. He ate his cold rice at the plank without taking his eyes from the page. On the second night a boy two stalls down began to sob, quietly, for no reason anyone could see, and Zhou, who had been that boy for forty years, wrote on. It was a very even script. In the fourth leg, at the turn, he put the word "indeed", because he did not know how not to.

The Reader read it on the third night, under the lamp at the end of the row, and the lamp made one soft sound. It read him as it had read him twenty-two times. The Margin says so, in so many words: that the script was the script; that nothing in it had changed. What had changed was the room. The pool of bought seats was eleven, with its own line of three. Of the eleven, nine had been bought by men for their sons, and the sons wrote like it; and Zhou Jin, sixty years old, was first.

He was Raised that autumn. He was Listed in the spring, at sixty-one, the oldest name the List had carried, and the Reader's slip on him said rank two hundred and eleven of two hundred and fourteen, confidence 0.99, which is to say that a man can be very sure of a very low place. It was enough. The List took two hundred and fourteen. He was Seated in an Office; and in the room at the back of the Hall at the Province, where they hung the stall boards that had been cracked or had a nail come through, there hung afterwards a board with the number seventy-seven on it and a hollow in the grain the size of an old man's forehead. The clerks said it was a fault in the wood. The Keeper of the capital Hall, who saw it years later on an inspection, said that it was not.

Zhou Jin took the post of Director of Studies, and was a gentle one; and in the ninth year after the stall board, the Court having made him Commissioner for the whole Province two years before, he went out one spring on the county round, with a trunk of papers, and a long memory, and a small grey tin which he kept in the carriage under his feet. At the second county on the round, a man named Fan Jin, fifty-four years old, was being told by his father-in-law, in a voice that could be heard in the next street, that he was a toad.

> Margin, year 58, spring. Script 0412, candidate Zhou, twenty-second reading: rank 41; the line is 40. The same as every year. Entered: nothing in the script has changed. I cannot be unlucky for him, and I cannot be lucky.

## Chapter 03 · Commissioner Zhou Spends His One Override on a Script Read Three Times; Butcher Hu Calls His Son-in-Law a Toad

Butcher Hu did most of his thinking at the block, with a cleaver in his hand, and when he had a thing to say to his son-in-law he said it between strokes, so that each remark arrived with a small wet sound after it.

"Toad," said Butcher Hu. Chop. "A toad. Sits at the bottom of a well and looks up at a swan going over and says, I will have that." Chop. "Twenty-odd times. Twenty-odd times you take my money and go and sit in that Hall with your ink, and twenty-odd times you come home and the Reader has looked at you and said, no. And you ask me for more."

Fan Jin stood in front of the stall, on the side where the customers stood, in a cotton coat that had been made for a smaller season. He was fifty-four. He had a long, mild, sallow face, like a loaf left out, and he had learned over many years to stand in front of his father-in-law like a pig in front of a scale: still, and a little forward, to be weighed. His shoes had been mended so often that there was more mending than shoe. The market was full of the steam of the cooking stalls. Behind the block the pork hung from its hooks, pink and white and glistening, in rows that Fan Jin had been looking at with great attention for some days.

"I only need the fee," he said. "And the road. It is one string and four hundred."

"One string and four hundred. For what? To be told the same thing in public?" Hu brought the cleaver down through a hock. He was sixty-three, short and broad and red, with forearms like boiled hams, and he was not a cruel man by his own account, only a practical one who had married his daughter to a scholar in the expectation of a scholar and got a mouth. "You look at yourself. Have you looked? You have a face like a monkey that has been left out in the rain. And you think the Reader will see that and say, here is a gentleman. It does not look at faces, they tell me. I do not know what it looks at. I know what I would look at, if I had a carcass like you on a hook, and I would not pay by the pound."

A woman buying a shin of beef said that it was a shame, a shame. She meant the beef, which was a day old. Hu said that it was not, and that she should smell it.

Fan Jin said nothing. It was not that he had no answer. It was that he had had the answer for twenty years, and it was the same each time, and nobody had ever asked to hear it. He had read the Rules until they came apart. He had taught himself the Form from a borrowed book in his mother's kitchen at night, by a lamp whose oil he paid for in his own breakfasts. He had written the Break so many times that it came out of him now without his knowing, like a name. And he was ranked, every year, somewhere in the lower hundreds, with a confidence in the slip that was a little under a third, which is to say that the Reader read him and was not sure. He had never found out what it was not sure of. He supposed it was him.

Hu wrapped a piece of pork in a lotus leaf and put it in his hand, without looking at him, and pushed the string of cash along the block with the flat of the cleaver. "That is the last," said Hu. "Do you hear? The last. And when you go, and it says no, you may sell the hen."

Fan Jin said that he heard. He took the pork and the cash. He bowed to his father-in-law, and to the woman with the beef, and walked home through the market with the pork held carefully in front of him, as one carries something that has been given with contempt and is nonetheless pork.

The Commissioner of Studies came to the county in the second month, in a covered cart, with a secretary, a trunk, and a small grey tin. He was sixty-nine years old and had been Commissioner for two years, and by common agreement the kindest the Province had known, though nobody could say what he had done to earn it, since he had passed no more candidates than any of his predecessors and had been seen to fail a good many. He held the County sitting in the county Hall, which had four hundred stalls and was filled ten times over for the four thousand candidates, two sittings to a day. For five days the scripts came in under the three candles, and went to the clerks to be copied in red, and the red copies were laid under the lamps at night; and the lamps made their soft sound, and in the morning there was a List.

The Commissioner's part was small. He had one power, and it was written in the Rules in a single line. At each sitting he might raise one script to the line over the Reader's rank, on a reason he must write himself, which the Reader would enter in the Margin; and he might choose the script from any in the county. This was not a large mercy. In a county of four thousand it came to one in four thousand. It had been put in, the Minister of Rites had said in the debate, so that a human being should be able to say, once, that the Reader was wrong; and the Minister had added that he did not expect it to be used often.

Zhou Jin used it every time. This was known, and there was a kind of tenderness in the Province about it, though there was also a feeling that a man who used his one mercy every time must be using it lightly. He did not. Each spring, at each county, he did what he was doing now, in the evening of the fifth day, in the room above the Hall that the magistrate had lent him, by his own candle: he sent the secretary for the Reader's slips, sorted by confidence, and he read the black originals of the sixty-one scripts the Reader was least sure of.

The Reader, who read the red copies and never the black, sent him these as it sent every Commissioner its doubts. It was the arrangement. The Reader said which scripts it could not place, and the human read those, by hand, with the hand in front of him; and between the two of them a county of four thousand was supposed to be seen. He read sixty-one in an evening. He read each in about a minute. He put sixty to one side with a small sigh, as one passes sixty beggars on a road, and when he came to the sixty-first, which was marked 0077 on the slip, he read it again.

It was a bad script. He saw that at once. The legs of the Rise were of different lengths by seven characters, the Receive had been blotted, and the Break was a mouthful, an effort to say too much in the two lines it was allowed. It was the work of a man who knew the Form perfectly and could not get it to lie flat. The hand was cramped at the top of each page and loosened at the bottom, and the last page had a long flourish in the Bind that wanted to be a Bind and was a sigh. He set it down.

Then he took it up again, because there was a sentence in the Middle that he had gone over without noticing and that had been trying to be noticed. It said that a man who has been hungry for thirty years does not understand the word plenty, but understands the word enough with a precision that no scholar can match; and it said so in perfectly good Form, clumsy and exact, and in the right place, and it was true. It was not what the Form was for. It was not what the Reader was looking for, and it knew that, and it had put a low number on it, and then a lower number beside the number, to say that it was not sure. He read it a second time. It was a sentence that somebody had written because it was so.

He read it a third time with the sheet turned over, because he was an old man and a careful one, and on the back, in the margin of the ruled paper, he saw a small yellow-white scale, like a flake of skin, dried flat to the sheet. He bent over it with the candle. It was a grain of boiled rice. The writer had been eating at the plank, in the noon pause of his sitting, a handful of cold rice from a cloth, and one grain had fallen on the page and stayed, and he had not dared to brush it off in case the brushing blotted. It had been there through the copying, since the clerks copy only the words. It was not in the red copy. The Reader had read the script and had not seen the rice.

Zhou Jin sat for a long time with the candle. The secretary, a young man named Lei, who was waiting to put out the light, asked if he was well.

"I am going to raise this one," said Zhou.

"To the line, Commissioner? It is a hundred and twelve."

"To the line."

"The reason, sir." Lei had the Margin slip ready and a pen. "You have to give a reason. The Reader enters it."

Zhou looked at the grain of rice for another moment. "Write: I know the board."

Lei wrote it, and looked at what he had written, and said that it was a very short reason; and that he did not understand it; and that the Reader would not either. "Nor do I," said Zhou. "It is the whole of my reason. Put underneath it: on the back of the script, a grain of rice."

"That is not a reason either, sir."

"No. It is the evidence."

In the capital Hall, that night, the plate lit once. It said: OVERRIDE BY THE COMMISSIONER AT SHAO COUNTY. SCRIPT 0077 RAISED FROM 112 TO THE LINE. REASON ENTERED: I KNOW THE BOARD. ALSO ENTERED: ON THE BACK OF THE SCRIPT, A GRAIN OF RICE. Old Gao's son, who had the Keeping now, since his father died, and who was reading the plate by the fire with his boots off, said that he did not know either of them. The plate went dark for ten, and lit again. RETAINED. I HAVE A BOARD IN EVERY HALL. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT HE KNOWS. And after a little: THERE IS NOTHING ON THE BACK OF MY COPY. I HAVE NOT SEEN THE BACK OF ANY SCRIPT. The Keeper, who was not a man for such things, put his boots on and went out to look at the sky.

The List was read at the county gate the next morning, by the Crier, a hoarse man with a staff, who had read the List for twenty-two years and had never been hurried. Forty names, each in the voice of a man reading out a price. Among them, last, was Fan Jin. It was not at once known in the market, because the Crier read quickly at the end, as men do when they have almost finished, and the name was read between a cough and the closing line; and for the first hour only Fan Jin's neighbour the cobbler, who had come to hear a cousin's name, knew. But the market is a small place. By noon Butcher Hu had a leg of pork in each hand, and was crossing the lane to his son-in-law's door like a man who has remembered an engagement.

"My worthy son-in-law," said Hu, from the doorstep. He said it without irony, which was the astonishing part. His whole red face had turned, in the course of one morning, to the faint pink of pork that has been kindly treated. "I said it. I said it to the Cobbler. I have said it these ten years: that family has a bone for it. Did I not say it? A man doesn't take a star by sitting about. Your wife has not had a proper meal since the New Year. You will want rice. You will want a new coat. I have a very nice piece of belly."

Fan Jin, who had come to the door with a brush in his hand, looked at his father-in-law, and at the pork, and at the lane, in which people had begun to stand. His wife came and stood beside him. She was Hu's daughter, and looked like him in a good light, and she said nothing at all. Fan Jin's mother, who was seventy-six and sat in the dark at the back of the house with the lamp not lit because there had been no oil, said, in a voice from the dark, whether that was Hu, and whether he had brought anything to eat.

He had. It was put into the old woman's hands, wrapped in leaves, still warm, and she ate it with her fingers, standing, without a word, as if she had been told that someone had paid, and she had not wanted to ask how much.

"I have to go to the Province in the autumn," said Fan Jin, after a while, in his small mild voice. "It is another string, and the road. I am sorry. I would not ask."

"A string!" said Hu. He gave it at once, from his belt, a whole string and three hundred over, and would take no thanks; and he said that a Student's father-in-law does not haggle in the street, and that if the Reader wanted a toad in the Hall, he for one would not stand in its way. It seemed to him that he had been generous and fair. He said so to the lane.

In the tenth month, when the weather had turned and the family had eaten what the pork and the string could be made to buy, the runner came from the Province with the List. It happened that on that morning Fan Jin was in the market, selling a hen.

> Margin, year 67, spring. Override by the Commissioner at Shao County: script 0077, from rank 112 to the line. Reason entered: 'I know the board.' Also entered: on the back, a grain of rice. Retained. I have a board in every Hall. I have not seen the back of any script.

## Chapter 04 · Fan Jin Reads His Own Name Until He Cannot Stop; Butcher Hu's Hand Goes Numb on Ninety-Seven Hundredths

The hen was brown, elderly, and the last thing in the house that anyone would pay for. She had laid a small egg every third day until the spring, when the household stopped being able to feed her, and since then she had occupied herself with the outward patience of a bird that has been told a price and does not agree with it. Fan Jin held her under his left arm at the edge of the market, between a stall of dried fish and a stall of lamp-wicks, and had held her there since the second hour of the morning.

"A hundred," he said, to a woman from the fish stalls. "She is a good layer."

"Seventy," said the woman. "She is a good layer of what she was."

"She laid until the spring."

"And I am to cook her in the autumn." The woman put her thumb under the hen's wing and felt for what was there, and looked at Fan Jin with the plain contempt the market keeps for a man who prices a hen at what it would cost to love her. "Seventy. It is a fair price, for a hen from a house that has not got a spoonful of oil."

He said it was not quite that. He said the house had a good deal of oil, which he had only not brought out. The woman waited. It was a thing he had never learned, how to argue with a person who put things so, and he stood in the steam of the cooking stalls with the bird under his arm, and at home his mother and his wife sat in a kitchen that had not been lit since the day before yesterday, and the sum came to something under one bowl of rice and a half.

He was about to say seventy when the cobbler came down the lane at a run.

The cobbler was a sedentary man, and had not run since a dog, in his youth. He arrived between the dried fish and the lamp-wicks with his leather apron over one shoulder and his mouth open and a number of children behind him, and he took Fan Jin by the sleeve in both hands and shouted, in a voice that had no practice at it, "Raised! Fan! You are Raised!"

Fan Jin said, kindly, that he must not. "It is not a thing to joke about," he said. "I am not a good person to joke with. I am bad at it." He took a breath. "Please do not. My mother is not well."

"It is on your door," said the cobbler. "The red. Three men from the Province, in the jackets. They have pasted it up and they are standing in the lane asking for tea. Thirty-one. Thirty-one of a hundred and twenty-nine, and a figure beside it that I read twice. Come and see."

"I will sell the hen," said Fan Jin.

"Sell the hen after!" The cobbler took the hen from under his arm, and she went with the dignity of a bird being moved from one house to another, and he tucked her under his own and led Fan Jin off by the sleeve down the lane, with the children, and the woman from the fish stalls, who did not mean to miss it and who had, by the end of the street, risen to eighty-five and meant that too.

The house was at the far end of the lane: two rooms, a yard the size of a table, and a door of grey wood. Pasted across the door, in the red the Province uses, was a sheet as long as a man's arm, with the seal of the Province in gold dust at the top, and under the seal it said, in brush characters a hand high: RAISED. FAN JIN, OF SHAO COUNTY, AGED FIFTY-FOUR. RANK THIRTY-ONE OF ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-NINE. CONFIDENCE 0.97. Three runners in red jackets stood beneath it picking their teeth. They had been sent by the Province, and were to be paid by the man whose name they had pasted up, and this was the one part of the whole business that had never been improved on or made fair.

Fan Jin stood before his own door with the cobbler's hand still in his sleeve and read it. It said his name. He read it a second time, in case it was a name like his name; it was his. He read the rank. He read the number beside the rank, which was not a number that had ever stood beside his name, that had stood there for twenty years at 0.31, or 0.29, or once, in a bad year, 0.18, on the small grey slips he kept in a box. He read it a third time, and the first two readings, which had been inside his head, came out of his mouth.

"Raised," said Fan Jin. "Fan Jin. Thirty-one. Ninety-seven."

"That is it," said the cobbler. "That is you."

"Raised. Fan Jin. Thirty-one." He said it again, and again, and at about the fifth time the words stopped being a sentence and became the thing that a pendulum does. The runners, who had seen it before, stopped picking their teeth and moved a little way back. Then Fan Jin put his two hands together and said "Ha!" once, in a voice nobody in the lane had ever heard from him, large and very clear, and fell over backward on his own doorstep, and lay still.

They threw water on him. The woman from the fish stalls, who had followed them and was now holding nothing, said that it was the heat. The cobbler said that it was the happiness. The runners, who had a theory of their own, said that it was usually the figure: that a man who had been told a very high one after a life of low ones sometimes took it badly, since it came to the same thing as telling him that he had been ninety-seven all along and that nobody had mentioned it, and that was a thing the body took a long time to hear.

He sat up. He looked at the faces round him, one by one, with an expression of grave and rapturous attention, like a man who has been given a very large present and cannot find the door. "Ha!" said Fan Jin, and stood, and pushed through them, and went out of the lane into the market at a run, with his hair coming loose and one shoe going its own way, shouting to every stall that he was Raised, that he was thirty-one, that it was ninety-seven, that the Reader had read him.

The market made way. The market has a long acquaintance with madness and a very short one with happiness, and it took a moment to tell the two apart. The dried-fish stall crowded forward to shake his hand. The butcher's stall was shut, because Butcher Hu had gone to the far end of the market to quarrel with a rival over a price. Fan Jin ran the length of the street, sang the number to a fruit seller, bowed to a post, and at the bottom of the street, where the road ran down to the town pond, went straight in.

It was not a deep pond. It was a black, shallow, local one, where ducks were kept, and he sat down in the middle of it, in water to the waist, in green mud, with a duck at each elbow, and began, in a confidential tone, to tell the nearest duck about thirty-one and ninety-seven.

They fetched him out. It took four of them, and when he was on the bank the mud ran off him in sheets and he went on, in the same tone, saying "Raised, Raised," as a man says a prayer in his sleep. He would not walk and would not be led. When they stood him up he sat down again. And the old man who sold tea, who had come down with the rest and had been watching him with narrowed eyes, said that he had seen this before.

"My grandfather saw it," said the old man. "In his time it was before the Reader, when men read the scripts, and the man was a Student, and he went mad the day the List came. It is a man who has had one thing in his head too long, and then the thing comes true, and the head has nowhere left to put it, and it comes out of the mouth. My grandfather said there was one cure. The man must be given a fright. A hard fright, once, from the one person in the world he fears, so that the old fear comes in and shuts the door."

"Who does he fear?" said the cobbler. And there was a silence on the bank of the pond in which everyone present thought of the same man, and none of them wished to be the one to say it.

"Hu," said the woman from the fish stalls at last. "The butcher. He is afraid of nobody else."

They sent a boy. Hu came down the street at his usual pace, in his apron, with his sleeves up, with the air of a man who has been fetched against his will to see to something that was not his. He looked at his son-in-law sitting in the pond with a duck on his knee. He listened to the old man's cure. He said no.

"I am not going to hit a Raised man," said Hu.

"It is the cure."

"I am not going to hit a Raised man," said Hu, more slowly, "because I have heard what it is to strike one. He has a Card now. It is a flogging. I strike one of these gentlemen, I am before the Magistrate by dinner, and I have nobody to speak for me, because the man I would ask is the man I hit." He looked at his own hand. It was a large hand, and had been through a great many pigs. "I called him a toad in front of the whole market. It is a short step from that to what he might say."

"He is not going to say anything," said the cobbler. "He is going to say, Why is my face wet. You are the only person he is afraid of. It is you or the pond."

There was a pause. "I have never struck him," said Hu, a little to himself. "I have called him a good many things. I have not once laid a finger on him." It did not seem to occur to him that he had said something that could be taken for a defence. He accepted the wine that someone held out, which was a small bowl, and then another, for courage, and rolled his right sleeve a turn higher, and walked down to the edge of the pond; and the crowd, which had been talking, stopped.

Fan Jin was sitting with mud to the chest, looking up at the sky. "Raised," he said. "Thirty-one."

"You toad," said Hu, in a low voice, and struck him across the face.

The sound was very clear. It was the sound of a flat hand on a wet cheek, and it went round the pond and came back from the other side, and the ducks left. Fan Jin's head went round; he sat for a moment with his face turned away; and then it came back, slowly, and his eyes were different. They were small and mild and astonished. "What are you doing, father-in-law?" he said.

"He is back!" said the cobbler. "He is himself! Praise be!" The whole bank cheered. Fan Jin looked down at himself, at the mud, at the duck on his knee, at the shoe he had not got. "Why am I in the pond?" he said. His hand went to his cheek. "Why does my face hurt?"

Hu said nothing. He stood on the bank with his right arm held a little way out from his body, and the arm hung from the shoulder as if it belonged to someone else, and he looked at it with a puzzled, sidelong respect. "It has gone," he said. "I cannot feel it. It has gone from here," and he touched the shoulder, "to the end. I have struck a thousand pigs. It never went like this." He turned to the crowd. "It was the number," said Hu, in a stricken whisper. "I hit a man who is ninety-seven, and the number hit back."

"It is the wine," said the cobbler, who had been trying not to look at the arm.

"It is not the wine. I have had wine," said Hu. "It is the number." And a murmur of agreement went round the pond, because it was a good explanation and let everyone off. It was not said again that evening, by anyone, that Butcher Hu's hand had been struck by anything less than a ninety-seven.

They walked Fan Jin home through the market, washed, in a borrowed coat, with the cobbler on one side of him and the old man on the other and Hu coming behind, carrying his arm out in front of him as a man carries a sucking pig that he has been asked to hold.

There was a sedan chair standing in the lane. It had two bearers, and a small blue flag, and from it a gentleman in a coat the colour of strong tea had got down and was standing under the notice, reading it with the careful attention of a man who has read a good many. He was about fifty-five, round and clean, with a small soft beard and a fan, and when he saw Fan Jin come round the corner in his borrowed coat he put the fan away in his sleeve, and bowed from the waist, a full bow, to a man with one shoe.

"Brother," said Squire Zhang. "My name is Zhang Jingzhai. I was Raised in the forty-seventh year, and I have walked over from the east gate to see the List with my own eyes, and to ask whether a new man of our rank might have the honour." He gave Fan Jin his card. It was a good card, thick and cream, and it said ZHANG JINGZHAI, RAISED, RANK 88, and under that, in small and modest gold, CONFIDENCE 0.64, which was also painted, in the same small gold, on the board above his gate, a little lower than his name, in a spirit of humility. He had been Raised for twenty years and had never been Listed, because his gift was not for the Capital, but for knowing who in the county was about to be somebody.

"Thirty-one," he said, "and a ninety-seven. My own number was sixty-four, and I assure you, brother, that nobody who has a ninety-seven would care to hear about it. I have always said that confidence is a vulgar measure, and I have said so since the day I saw my own."

Fan Jin, who had been Raised for two hours, and was a good deal more mild than he had been in the pond, stammered that he was very sorry about the mud.

"Not a word," said Zhang. He looked at the grey door, and the two rooms, and the yard the size of a table, with the delicacy of a man who has seen a great many yards and has never once let it be known. "A gentleman of your standing cannot keep house in this. Beyond the east gate, by the temple, there is a house of three courts, with a gate that has a name on it, and a hen-house that has stood empty since the salt merchant's time. It came to me in a debt. I have no use for it. I shall have the keys sent round. And a trifle," said Squire Zhang, producing it from his other sleeve, wrapped in red paper, "fifty taels. It is the usual thing between brothers of a List."

Behind Fan Jin, Hu was doing the sum under his breath. He did it twice. Fifty taels came, by his reckoning, to a little over eleven years of pork at the rate at which he sold it to strangers, and he said so aloud, at the end, in a voice of wonder, and then put his good hand over his mouth. He had struck a Raised gentleman in front of the whole street and was in a state of complete ruin about it; and when the squire turned to him, he made him a bow in which his whole body folded from the hips, with the dead arm swinging, and said that he was the father-in-law, that he was only a butcher, that it had been the Reader's doing and not his, and that he had always known.

Fan Jin said that he could not take it. Zhang said that he must. The old man who sold tea said afterwards that he had never seen a thing so well done, and he had been at a good many weddings.

In the doorway of the grey house, in the light, for the first time since the spring, stood Fan Jin's mother. She had come out from the back of the house when she heard the voices, in her black quilted coat, holding the door-frame in one hand. She was seventy-six, and thin, and very small, and she looked at the notice, and at the sedan chair, and at her son's one shoe, and at Hu with his arm out in front of him, and at the gentleman with the fan. "Is it true?" she said. "Are you Raised?"

Fan Jin said that he was.

She considered it for some time. "Then I should like," she said, "to eat something sitting down."

They carried the rice to her from the next house. The hen, which the cobbler still had under his arm, and which had said nothing throughout, was put into the hen-house in the new yard in the afternoon, when the keys came, and the woman from the fish stalls, who had followed it as far as the east gate and risen as far as a hundred and twenty, was told that it was not for sale. She laid on the second morning. The egg was larger than her spring eggs, and she was never sold.

It was in the new house that Fan Jin's mother died, in the eleventh month, at seventy-six, in a bed with a quilt on it, with the first full stomach she had had since the spring; and the dinner that followed was given by the Magistrate.

> Margin, year 67, autumn. Script 2208, candidate Fan, Province: rank 31 of 129; confidence 0.97. Entered: the sentence about 'enough' is in the Middle again. Since spring I have it on file as raised by a person. I do not know whether I read it, or remembered it.

## Chapter 05 · Fan Jin in Mourning Refuses Ivory Chopsticks and Eats Four Prawn Balls; the Magistrate Enforces What Can Be Seen

Fan Jin's mother was buried on the second day of the twelfth month, in a coffin that Squire Zhang's carpenter had made from a plank meant for something else, and nine neighbours came, and Butcher Hu, who had been told that a funeral was a place where a man might properly weep, and who wept, loudly and without any of the usual reservations, for about as long as it takes to cook a ham.

He had not expected to. He told Zhang afterwards, in a corner, with his right arm in a sling that it no longer needed, that it was not the old woman, whom he had met twice. He had given her a piece of pork in the lane in the spring, and she had eaten it standing, with her fingers, and had not asked how much; and he found, to his surprise, that he had been thinking about it since. "I have sold meat to a great many people," said Hu. "I never saw one before who did not ask."

There had been callers. In the two months since the red notice some forty persons had presented themselves at the house of the three courts: a cousin on the grandmother's side, whom he had never met, and who had brought a duck; a landlord who wished to make him a present of eleven mu of rice land, which a Raised man might hold free of tax, on the understanding that the land would be Fan's by deed and the harvest the landlord's by custom; a tailor; two men who wished to be his servants and asked for no wages; a clerk of the Registrar who wished only to be remembered; and a gentleman from the next county, who had a niece.

A sign-painter had come, unasked, and painted 0.97 in red on the grey door, since a door without it, he said, looked like a door that had something to hide, and Fan Jin had not had the heart to scrub it off. Hu's stall had a new board over the block. It said, in the sign-painter's best hand: HU. PORK. FATHER-IN-LAW OF A 0.97. It had been up for a month, and had doubled his trade.

Fan Jin took none of the land. He took the duck, which was the only gift whose terms he understood, and put it in the yard with the hen, where the two of them arrived at an arrangement.

Fan Jin kept the mourning. The Rules for it were pinned to the door by the Registrar's clerk, and they were exact: that a man in mourning shall wear sacking and sleep on straw; shall drink no wine, eat no flesh, hear no music; shall use no silver and no ivory, and carry no silk; shall receive no one at table; and shall do all this for twenty-seven months, save only that he may go where duty calls. He kept them with a care that made the neighbours ashamed. He slept on the straw, which was no change. He ate boiled greens, which was no change either. When a boy came to the door with a New Year's cake, he took it with both hands, and gave it to the boy next door.

At night he sat by the tablet. In the old house the lamp had not been lit for want of oil; in the new house there was oil, a whole jar of it, the gift of the landlord who wished to be remembered, and he found that he could not light it. He sat in the dark with the tablet until the third watch, as she had sat, and told it, in a low voice, the news of the day, which was that nothing had happened; and then, after a while, that he had eaten, and that it had been boiled greens.

Zhang came in the middle of the twelfth month, and sat on a stool, and did not take tea, in order not to put the house to the trouble of refusing it. "Brother," he said. "There is a thing that must be said, and I have put it off for a week out of delicacy. We have a new Magistrate."

Magistrate Tang had come to the county in the autumn. He was forty-six, Listed at twenty-six with a rank in the single figures and a confidence he did not mention, and he believed in the Reader as other men believe in the weather: as a thing that could not be bribed, flattered, frightened or argued with, and that could therefore, in a wicked world, be trusted. He had heard that there was a Raised man in his county who had been read at ninety-seven after twenty years of thirty-one, and that the man was in mourning, and kept it so exactly that the neighbours had begun to avoid his street. He wished to meet him.

"I cannot dine," said Fan Jin.

"It is not a dinner," said Zhang. "It is a call, with some food in the room. At my house, a few plain dishes, since you will not touch the rest. You need only be seen to refuse. He will like it extremely." Zhang had a petition about the boundary of a field, which had lain before the Magistrate's predecessor for eleven years. He did not mention it, and it was not in his mind more than nine-tenths of the time.

The dinner was on a cold afternoon in the first month. Zhang had put four lamps in the hall and a round table with three places, and had set out, on a red cloth, his best: three cups of silver, and three pairs of chopsticks of ivory, with a ring of gold at the tip of each, lying in a lacquer case like a small family of tusks.

Magistrate Tang came on foot, with one servant, which was thought modest. He was a thin man, with a face that looked as if it had been ironed, and a kind and attentive way of listening, so that whatever was said to him seemed to have been said better than its speaker knew. He had read the County Register, he said. He had looked at Mr Fan's slips, twenty-two years of them; he had looked at the last one twice. He would very much like to know what had happened.

"A gentleman raised me at the county sitting," said Fan Jin. "After that I do not know."

"The Commissioner. Zhou." Tang nodded. "The Override. A fine provision. It is the one place in the whole system where we are allowed to be wrong in public." He said it with real pleasure, as another man might have praised a bridge. "I tell my clerks that when the Reader seems to be wrong, it is we who have not understood it, and that the Override is there so that, on one occasion, we may be wrong in public instead. I find the two rules agree." He turned to Fan Jin. "And what did the Reader make of you after that?"

"Ninety-seven," said Fan Jin, who could not think of anything else to say, and the Magistrate laughed, a short dry kind laugh, and sat down, and then they all did; and Fan Jin, who had been looking at the table since he came in, stood up again.

"I am sorry," he said. "I cannot use these."

There was a silence. "The cups," said Tang.

"The cups, and the chopsticks. The Rules say that a man in mourning shall use no silver and no ivory. I should be," he said, with an effort, because he had a gift for the Rules and none at all for putting them to other people, "ashamed."

"My dear sir," said Zhang, who had gone a little pale. "It is only a table."

"It is the Rule," said Tang, and his face was suddenly bright with something very like joy. "He is right. He is perfectly right. Zhang, have you nothing plain?" Nothing plain was found at first; the servants went out and came back; and at last a pair of old chopsticks of white wood, lacquered, with a chip at one end, was brought from the kitchen, and a cup of coarse earthenware with a blue rim, and Fan Jin sat down before them with the look of a man who has been allowed back into his own house.

The Rule was written, and the Reader had read it. Every year some two thousand candidates were asked to write on the filial man in mourning, and every one of them wrote that he eats nothing that pleases him; and the Reader had read them all, and ranked them by the Form, and was therefore the best-informed mind in the Empire on what a mourner should eat, and had never in its life seen one eat.

The dishes were plain, as promised, and they were very good. There was a cold dish of bamboo shoots and a soup of mushrooms. There was a large fried bean-curd. Then Zhang's cook, who had not been told how plain was plain, and who was proud of what he had been given, sent in the fourth dish, a platter of prawn balls, each the size of a small egg, in a thin clear broth, white and shining and tender, and set it down in front of Fan Jin without a sound.

Fan Jin looked at the dish for a moment. Then he took up one of the balls in his white-lacquered chopsticks, whole, and put it into his mouth, and closed his eyes.

Zhang looked at the ceiling. The servant at the door coughed into his sleeve. The Magistrate watched Fan Jin's face, in which two very large tears had begun to run, and which wore, for the space of a breath, an expression of pure and unguarded bliss, and he said, in a low voice, to Zhang, as one says a thing in church, "The man weeps over a mushroom."

"A prawn," said Zhang, before he could stop himself.

"A prawn is not flesh in the sense of the Rule," said Tang, after a moment's thought. He said it with perfect gravity, and with a gentleness that was not meant for Zhang. "A man may hold in his mind what he likes. It is the hand that is seen. I have been twenty years in the service, Mr Zhang, and I assure you that the only things I have ever been able to enforce are things that can be seen. In the capital they have a Reader for what is written. For what is eaten, there is only me." He looked at Fan Jin, who was eating the second ball. "And I would rather have a man who is strict about the ivory than a man who is strict about nothing."

Nobody asked what the Rule had said about prawns. It was a fact that it said nothing, since nobody had ever supposed that anyone would need telling, and in the face of that silence the dinner went on, quietly and with great goodwill, until the last of the balls had gone. Fan Jin had four.

He thought about it that night, walking home alone through the dark of the east lane behind the lantern Zhang's boy carried. The Rule had said nothing about prawns, and he had been told that this was why. It seemed to him a very good reason. He had a feeling, which he put down to the cold, that something was being passed over; but the Magistrate had been so kind, and the broth had been so clear. He did not think about it again for many years, and then only once.

At the door, going out, Tang took Fan Jin's hand in both of his. "The Rules say a mourner may go where duty calls," he said. "The Capital Hall in the third month is a duty and not a pleasure. I shall write you the certificate myself, and send it to the Register tomorrow. I should like you Listed, Mr Fan. I should like it in my county's name. It would do the county no harm. And I do not think," said the Magistrate, with the last of his kindness, "that the Reader will need an Override for you again."

In the third month, on the road to the capital, Fan Jin ate boiled greens in the inns and, in a pouch at his belt, pork that Hu had cut and wrapped, and had not asked him to account for.

At the gate of the capital Hall a clerk who had registered nine thousand figures since dawn asked for his, and Fan Jin said, "Ninety-seven," and the clerk wrote it down without looking up. He found that he was a little disappointed. It was the first time he had said it to a person who did not care, and it was a good deal lighter than he had expected.

The capital Hall was larger than the Province's. It had nine thousand stalls, and a rail of lamps over every row, and a smell of lime-wash and new matting, and he was put in a stall in the eleventh row on the east side, under a board that said 3412. He did not know whether that was a good number. He sat down, and ground his ink, and lit three candles; and he found, when he began to write, that the thing he had learned in the market, and had said by accident to a Commissioner, came out of his hand with no difficulty at all. It came the way a name does. He put it in the Middle, where it went.

On the third night, at the turn of the watch, he looked up at the brass lamp over his row. It was a plain thing, rather larger than a teapot, and dark, and there was a smudge on its underside where a Keeper's thumb had been. He found that he was not afraid of it. He had been afraid of the Reader for thirty years, and now that he sat under it, it looked like something that needed dusting.

The List was read on the fourth day of the fourth month by a Crier in the capital square, with a staff. Fan Jin, fifty-five years old, was Listed at one hundred and forty of two hundred and eleven, confidence 0.99, and when his name was read out the capital square did not know who he was, and he stood in the crowd at the back, in a coat the colour of sacking, and listened to all of it, and did not fall down or laugh. He had done that already. He walked back to the inn and wrote to Zhang that he had been Listed, and underneath it, in smaller characters, that he was still in mourning, and would eat no meat.

Zhang had the letter in the first week of the fifth month, and read it, and read the line at the bottom again, and put it down. The petition about the field was settled in the sixth. He said afterwards to anyone who would listen that he had never made a better investment than a house, and that the hen-house had been thrown in.

In the same month, the Court moved Magistrate Tang on, as it moves every magistrate, to a post three counties away; and the house the Province assigned him backed on the compound of a Tribute Student named Yan, who owned a pig.

> Margin, year 68, spring. Script 0931, candidate Fan, Capital: rank 140 of 211; confidence 0.99. The sentence about 'enough' is in the Middle. I found it before I read the rest. Entered: either I have learned a way of reading, or I have learned what to find.

## Chapter 06 · Tribute Student Yan Seizes a Pig by the Law of Found Property; the Boatman Is Fined for the Student's Stomach

The house the Province gave Magistrate Tang at Jiang County was a good one, with a garden, a well, and a back wall eleven feet high, and on the first night he spent in it he was kept awake until the third watch by a pig.

He lay with his hands folded on the quilt and considered the matter. He was a man who had been told all his life that the world is made of what can be seen, and he had never before been kept from his sleep by something that he could not. The pig was on the other side of the wall. It screamed, at intervals, in the particular key of an animal that has been shut up and is not at all reconciled to it, and between the screams there was a silence in which the Magistrate found himself waiting. In the morning he asked the cook. "That would be the Tribute Student's, Your Honour," said the cook. "Yan. But it isn't his pig." The wall, the cook added, had been built by an earlier Magistrate to keep the Tribute Student's noise out; it was eleven feet high, which kept out nothing, and was too tall for a Magistrate who wished to see what the noise was.

The Tribute Student was named Yan Gongsheng, and he lived at the east dock in two courtyards with a brother, a wife, a concubine, nine servants and a reputation. He was sixty-three, a large, soft, pleasant-looking man, with a pointed beard and a nose that had been in the family for several generations and had never been used for anything but looking down. He had been made a Tribute Student the year before, by seniority, which is to say that he had outlived the other candidates; and since a Tribute Student is not read by the Reader, but only counted, the Ministry printed, beside his name on the Hall's list, a blank. He found the blank disagreeable. Over his door, therefore, in good gold, there hung a board that said YAN, TRIBUTE STUDENT. CONFIDENCE 0.91.

It was a figure of his own. In the spring of the fortieth year, when he was thirty-five, he had written the best script of his life, and the slip that came back for it had said 0.41; he had mislaid the slip, and the 0.41 had gradually, over twenty-eight years, found the strength to be a 0.91. Nobody asked to see it. A man who paints a figure on his door is understood to have a slip, and the ward had never been so unmannerly as to inquire.

He had called on the Magistrate on the second day, in a sedan with four bearers, which was one more than the Rules allowed a Tribute Student, and had been given tea. He called Tang his dear neighbour, and said that he understood, perfectly, that a Magistrate must keep his distance from a household so close to his own, and that he would be happy to keep it for both of them. He left a gift, a pair of ducks in a basket, with his card tied to the handle: YAN, TRIBUTE STUDENT. CONFIDENCE 0.91. Tang gave the ducks to the cook and the card to the fire, and then, the next morning, took it out of the fire, because it would have been a mistake to burn a thing he might one day have to cite.

It was not his pig. It was the pig of a widow named Huang, who sold greens from a basket at the corner of the dock, and who had three children and one pig, black, with a white sock on the near hind leg, being fattened toward the winter rent. On the sixth of the sixth month the pig had found a gap in the wall of the dock lane, as pigs do, and gone through it, and arrived in the yard of the Tribute Student, where the cook's boy, who had been told what to do about animals, shut the gate.

The widow came at noon, in her apron, and asked politely. Yan Gongsheng came to the gate in his house robe. He looked at her with the large benevolence he used on the poor. "A beast that enters a Tribute Student's walls, madam," he said, "has come under his protection. The Law of Found Property is quite clear. A beast found within a man's walls shall be held; the owner may redeem it on paying the keep, and a finder's fee."

"How much?" said the widow.

"The keep, at the rate the animal would have eaten at my own table, which is eight cash a day. And the fee, for a Tribute Student's trouble, which the Law says shall not exceed the value of the beast." He smiled. "It is a black pig, in good flesh. I should say three taels. Three taels, therefore, and the keep. It is a very moderate rate, madam. I am thinking of the ward."

She had six hundred cash. She spent four days finding that she could not borrow the rest, and on the tenth she went to the yamen with a petition in the hand of a letter-writer, and the clerk, an old hand named Fu, took it at the desk and read it twice, and went in to the Magistrate with the look of a man carrying a hot dish. He came out again a quarter of an hour later.

"His Honour regrets," said Fu, "that he cannot hear it. The Rules are clear. A Magistrate may not try a cause of which he has personal knowledge."

"Personal knowledge?"

"The pig." Fu did not smile. "His Honour has heard it every night since he came. He says that it is, in the sense of the Rule, a matter within his hearing, and he cannot in conscience weigh it. The case goes to the Prefect. The Prefect sits on the first of the month. It will be the first."

It was the tenth. The widow counted on her fingers, and went out into the street, and the dock, and the lane, and stood a long time at the gap in the wall.

The pig was fed. It was fed from the Tribute Student's kitchen, on a swill that was a good deal richer than the widow's, since the Tribute Student's table was richer; and it took to the diet with the whole-heartedness of its kind, and was said, at the end of the first week, to have gone up a catty in weight each day. The cook's boy, who had no opinion, said that it was the happiest pig in the ward. Behind the back wall, the Magistrate, who did not sleep, listened to the screams grow rarer, and then stop, and found that the silence was worse.

At dusk, on the twelfth day, he heard the child. She was the widow's youngest, a girl of six or seven, and she had come, no one knew how, to the foot of the Tribute Student's wall on the dock lane side, and was sitting there on her heels in the dust, singing, in a high thin voice, a song about a boat. It was an ordinary song, about a boat that lost both its oars and was carried home by the tide, and the last line, which she sang twice, said that nobody had to row. There was a pig behind the wall, and the pig, which had stopped screaming a week before, could be heard moving about in the yard in the dusk, near the wall, and grunting, in the way that a pig does that has heard something it knows. The Magistrate stood at his window, in the dark, for the length of the song. Then he went to his desk, and sent for Fu.

The Prefect heard the cause on the first of the seventh month, in the Prefecture, in forty minutes. Yan Gongsheng attended in his Tribute robe, with his Card pinned over his heart and a servant to carry the slip, and the widow in her apron with a neighbour to hold her up. The Prefect was a tired and fair-minded man with a cold. He read the Law of Found Property. Asked, as a matter of form, whether his figure was one the Hall had printed, Yan Gongsheng said that it was on his door, which was not an answer, and the Prefect wrote it down as one. He asked the widow whether the pig had been found within the walls. She said it had. He asked whether the Tribute Student's fee exceeded the value of the beast. It did not; it equalled it. He asked whether the keep was at the stated rate. It was. He gave judgment, with regret, that the Law was as Mr Yan had stated it; that the keep, at eight cash a day for twenty-five days, came to two hundred cash; that the fee was three taels; and that the pig would be released to its owner on payment.

That would have made it a little over three taels; but Yan Gongsheng, who had known all along that the pig would put on weight, begged leave to point out that the fee was calculated on the value of the beast, and that the beast, after twenty-five days at his table, was now worth six taels. The Prefect, who could hear his own cold, said that on that reading the fee was six taels; and added, with the faint distaste of a fair man who has been led along a straight road to a bad place, that the Law was the Law.

She did not have six taels. She did not have a tael. She went out of the Prefecture with the neighbour and sat on the step.

On the second day after, a clerk from the yamen came to the widow's door with an envelope. It had no name on it. It contained six taels and two hundred cash. The clerk said that a gentleman who wished to remain unknown had heard of her trouble, and that she was to take it to the Tribute Student's gate, and redeem the pig, and say nothing; and that if she tried to find out who it was, it would be taken as an offence. It was old Fu himself, sent to do the thing in a hat that was not his own, and he did it very well.

She redeemed the pig. It came out of Yan Gongsheng's gate on a rope, thirty catties heavier than it had gone in, with the look of a pig that has been to court and been awarded damages, and the widow sold it a week later for seven taels, which was the best price she had ever had for a pig. She found out who had sent the envelope in the third week, as everyone does. She did not say so, and she did not try to repay it. She left a basket of greens at the yamen gate every second morning, for two years; and the Magistrate, who never saw her, ate them.

He had meant to do a kindness, and had published a tariff.

It was understood in the ward within the week. The Magistrate of Jiang County, a man of known probity, had caused six taels and two hundred cash to be paid to the Tribute Student Yan for the redemption of a pig; the Law had been put, a Prefect had ruled, and a Magistrate had paid; and what a Magistrate had paid for was therefore a thing that existed. In the next three months nine pigs, four geese and a goat found their way, through gaps in walls that had not previously been noticed, into the house of Yan Gongsheng, and each of them was redeemed at the rate the Magistrate had paid. Yan was very gracious about it. He told his friends that he had been of some use to the ward, and that the Law, when it was understood, was a great protection to the weak.

His stomach was the other matter. It was well known, and a matter of record, and in some sense the foundation of his standing. In eleven years he had been sick on the river four times, and on each of the four occasions the boatman who had carried him had been fined by the ward Warden, under the Ordinance on the Safe Carriage of Standing Persons, for disturbing the stomach of a person of standing, a sum of four taels; and the fines, it was said, though no one had seen the books, were divided between the Warden and the stomach.

In the eighth month Yan Gongsheng came back from the Province by the river ferry, and it was a very calm day, and the boatman, a man named Zhao, with a bad hip and a daughter to marry, poled a flat course as smooth as a table. Halfway across, the Tribute Student's stomach, without any cause that anyone on the boat could see, turned over. He leaned over the side with great dignity. It was reported, by a passenger who disliked him, that he did it in time with the pole.

At the dock the Warden was waiting; he usually was. Zhao was fined four taels. He did not have them. He sold the daughter's wedding quilt, and a net, and the Warden gave a receipt in a small, neat hand, which was, in its way, the only thing in the proceedings that had been improved on since the first Ordinance, and Zhao went home and sat in his boat.

The Magistrate went down to the dock that evening, alone, in an old coat, as a man goes to look at the river. Zhao was sitting on the gunwale mending a net that was not his own, since he had sold his. He got up when he saw the coat, and then, when he saw the face, sat down again, with the courtesy of a man who has nothing left to lose by it. "Your Honour need not trouble," he said. "The quilt was old. My daughter says the man she is marrying has a good many quilts." The Magistrate stood for a time on the dock with his hands in his sleeves. He had four taels in the sleeve. He had taken them from the drawer, and he did not take them out, because he had learned something about envelopes; and he said, in the end, that it was a fine evening, which it was, and went home by the long way, past the wall.

The Magistrate read the Ordinance that evening in his study. He read it through twice. There was nothing in it that was wrong. It said what the Warden said it said, and it had been issued by a Prefect who had since died, and it was in all respects a legal instrument; and the Magistrate, who had spent his life believing that a thing in writing is a thing one can trust, sat for some time with it open under the lamp. Behind the wall, in the Yan courtyard, someone was moving a lamp from one room to another.

It was the lamp of the younger brother. Yan Jiansheng, who had bought his seat and had been rich ever since, lay upstairs in the third month of a cough, with a doctor who came every day, and a wife who sat by the bed with a lamp in which two wicks were burning, and who counted them.

> Margin, year 68, summer. Tribute Students are not read; they are counted. Yan, east dock, Jiang County: no script on file since year 40; standing, sixty-three years. I am asked to print a figure beside every name on the Hall's list. For this one I have nothing to print. A figure has been printed for me on the man's door.

## Chapter 07 · Yan Jiansheng Dies Holding Up Two Fingers; His Wife Puts Out One Wick

Yan Jiansheng had been rich for thirty years, and in all that time he had never been seen to spend anything on himself except a cough.

He was sixty, and the younger brother, and a Contribution Student, which is to say that he had bought his seat in the year he was thirty, for eighty taels, from a clerk who had been surprised to be asked for a receipt. The Ministry printed a blank beside his name on the Hall's list, as it did beside his brother's, and he had never painted it over. His brother had a board over his door that said 0.91. Jiansheng considered the money for the paint. "A figure is a thing you pay for twice," he used to say. "Once to get it, and once to keep it up." He lived in the second courtyard at the east dock, behind a door that had nothing on it at all, and it was commonly said in the ward that he was the only man in the county who could not be robbed, since no thief had ever found anything in the house to take that the owner had not already written down.

He wrote everything down. He kept a Book, a thick one, bound in blue cloth, and into it, in a small square hand, went every cash that crossed his threshold in either direction: rice, oil, the wages of the gatekeeper, the price of a bowl broken by a maid, which was deducted from the maid. There was a page in the Book headed FUNERAL (OWN). He had begun it in his fiftieth year, and revised it nine times. The last revision was in the sixth month of the year he died, when white cloth had gone up by a cash and a half a foot, and the coffin, which had been cypress of the first quality in the first draft and of the second in the fifth, had been confirmed, on the whole, as cypress of the second.

He had once walked eleven li in the rain rather than hire a donkey, and had arrived at his destination with a cold that cost, in doctors, three times the donkey. He entered both sums in the Book, side by side, without comment, the way a man leaves two coins on a table to see which one the other will pick up.

He had no sons. He had a wife, Madam Qi, who had come into the house as a concubine at nineteen and been raised to wife at forty-one, when the first Madam Yan died, in the spring of the sixty-first year, of a long illness in the course of which the doctor had been paid by the visit. Yan Jiansheng had observed that Madam Qi could keep accounts, and that a wife was cheaper than a concubine in matters of lodging, and he had raised her by a ceremony which cost four taels, a tael less than the usual, since he had bought the red candles in bulk. She was forty-eight now, a quiet, upright woman with small hands, who had counted something in that house every night for twenty-nine years and was, in consequence, the only person in it who understood him.

She had a book of her own. It was a small one, kept at the bottom of a sewing basket, and nobody knew of it. The maid in the house, a woman of twenty-five named Wei, had come at fourteen and broken a bowl in her first week; the bowl had been priced at three hundred cash, and deducted from her wages at one cash a month, the Book not permitting a harsher rate, so that she had been paying for it for eleven years and had fourteen to go. Madam Qi had been entering the deduction in her own book, under the heading BOWL, every month, and beside it, in a second column, the repayment out of her own pin money, so that the maid should have her wages whole, and the Book its bowl.

He had a nephew, Yan Er, nineteen, the second son of the Tribute Student, whom the Tribute Student had been pressing him for years to adopt as heir, and whom he had resisted on the ground that a son costs twice as much as a nephew. Yan Er had inherited his father's nose and nobody's manners. He came to see his uncle every day at the hour the medicine was taken, in order to be seen to be there, and sat by the bed with his hands on his knees and the expression of a boy who is being very good in a place where he hopes there is a will. He had a doctor, Dr Lin, who came every morning, took the pulse, and said that the patient would be better if he took ginseng. "I am told that it is the one thing that works," said Yan Jiansheng, in the third month of the cough, between two fits of it. "That is why I shall not take it." He had been saying it for nine weeks. Dr Lin, who was paid by the visit, never argued.

His brother came every second day, in the sedan chair, with the extra bearer, and sat at the foot of the bed with his Card pinned over his heart and talked about the Magistrate. He had a good deal to say about the Magistrate. It appeared that they were on terms. It appeared, also, that a prudent man in the younger brother's condition would think of his family, and of the succession, and of the boy Yan Er, a promising lad, who had a ninety-one in him, one might say, by blood. The younger brother lay and listened with his eyes on the ceiling. He did not say that he knew what the 0.91 was. He said that it was very kind, and coughed.

On the ninth day of the ninth month, towards evening, it became clear that he was going. The doctor said so, quietly, at the door, and it was passed round the house in the quick undertone in which such news travels, and the family came: the elder brother, in his best robe; the nephew, with a face of grave attention; the Tribute Student's wife and his concubine, one of the clerks, an uncle by marriage from the dock, and two neighbours who had been in the house when it happened and did not know how to leave. They stood round the bed in a half circle. The lamp on the table was lit, a plain oil lamp of the kind that holds a pint, and in it, for no reason that the room could see, two wicks were burning.

He could not speak. He had not spoken since noon. He lay with his head a little raised and his eyes open, and his breath coming in short pieces, and from time to time his gaze moved over the faces, the way a man looks round a room for something he has left there. At about the second watch he lifted his right hand off the quilt, and held up two fingers.

"Two," said his brother.

Everyone looked at the two fingers. They were very thin, and they shook a little, and they stayed up.

"Two sons," said the Tribute Student, who had been thinking about it for some time. "That is it. He means that I should send him two of my boys, to be his heirs. He wants two."

The dying man's eyes, which had been resting on his brother's face, moved off it and fixed upon the ceiling. He shook his head. The fingers stayed up.

"Two hundred taels," said the nephew, in the voice of a boy who has done some reckoning. "Uncle has two hundred somewhere that nobody knows of. In a jar, in the wall. It is what he is saying."

He shook his head, with an effort, and the fingers shook with it, and stayed.

"Two decoctions," said Dr Lin, who was a literal man. "He wishes, I think, for the second dose."

"Two debtors," said the uncle from the dock. "That is it. Two men who owe him, whom he cannot name."

"Two kinsmen who have not yet come," said the elder brother, struck by it. "Uncle Ma and Cousin Wang. Send. Send at once, boy, and take the chair." A boy ran. Yan Jiansheng's head went from side to side on the pillow, and his eyes were moving now from face to face as though he were looking, quite desperately, for one that would understand, and the two fingers shook so much that the neighbour, a kind woman, put out her hand and held them, and he flinched, and she let go, and they went up again.

"Two points," said the nephew, who had thought of it. "He wants two points of confidence. He was never read, uncle was never read, he wants a second chance at the Hall." And there was a small silence, in which several of the persons present, who had known Yan Jiansheng for thirty years, found themselves considering whether this might not, after all, be it.

Madam Qi had not spoken. She had been standing at the foot of the bed, a little behind the others, with her small hands folded, watching the two fingers with the look of a woman who has been adding a column for a great many years and has arrived at the bottom of it. She came forward now. She bent over the bed. "My lord," she said, quietly, in the voice she used for the household. "You are troubled about the lamp. There are two wicks burning, and it is a waste of oil."

Yan Jiansheng's head, which had been moving from side to side, stopped. He nodded. It was a large nod, for the breath he had left; it went down and came up again. He looked at her with the whole of his face.

She took the snuffer from the table and went to the lamp and pinched out one of the wicks. The flame on the other leaned, and stood up straight. The room was a little darker. She turned back to the bed, and the hand had come down upon the quilt, and the two fingers had become a hand, and the breathing had stopped; and on his face, which had not been at rest for nine weeks, was an expression of such complete and unclouded satisfaction that the nephew, who was nineteen, felt it as a reproach.

It was the last act of his life, and it saved the household a little under a third of a cash.

Uncle Ma and Cousin Wang arrived at the door at the third watch, in the chair, in the cold, and were given tea and sent home.

She sat by him until morning, with the one wick burning. Dr Lin, who had been in practice for thirty years, wrote the hour in his notes, and then, after some thought, one word under it, which was not a cause of death and not a thing he had written before. The word was satisfied. When the maid came in at dawn to see to the lamp, Madam Qi said that it was not to be touched; and she did not light the second wick again. For the rest of her life it was the only lamp in that room.

The story went round the ward in a day and the county in a week. To put out the second wick came to mean, in that part of the Province, to understand what a person meant when he could not say. It was used of mothers, and of clerks, and once, in a petition to the Prefect, of the Emperor.

The funeral took place on the seventeenth, and it was the most exact in the memory of the ward. Madam Qi did not touch the household's money, which her husband had left in good order, and she conducted the whole business out of the page headed FUNERAL (OWN), line by line, as he had written it. The coffin was cypress of the second quality. There were three monks, for seven hours; not eight, since the eighth had been struck out in the seventh revision, and when the seventh hour was done the senior monk, who had been warned, stopped in the middle of a verse and stood up, and when they were paid, to the cash, he said that in thirty years he had never been paid so precisely, and that it was restful. There were sixty cups of tea for the mourners, at one cash a cup. There was incense, three bundles. There was no feast. The elder brother, who had expected a feast, stood in the hall in his best robe, and looked at the table, and at the sixty cups, and sent his servant to ask the widow where the money was.

"In the Book," said Madam Qi.

She showed it to him in the back room, with her small hands flat on either side of it on the table. She turned to the last pages. There, under the heading of BEQUESTS, in the small square hand, it said: To my wife, the household, and she is to keep the accounts. To my nephew Yan Er, adoption as heir, on condition that the charge does not exceed four taels; if it does, the wife to decide. To my brother, the Tribute Student Yan Gongsheng: the sum which he owes me, namely three hundred and forty taels, forgiven; the interest, not.

The Tribute Student read it twice, standing, with his Card on. His large soft face went through several colours, none of them the one it was used to. Then he laid the Book down, very carefully, as one lays down a thing that might go off, and said that he was a man of the Law, and that the Law would be heard. He went away, and it was heard, over eleven months, at a cost to himself of a good deal more than the interest, and the Law, being a thing of paper, came out where the paper said.

Magistrate Tang attended the funeral in plain clothes, and stood at the back. He watched the monk stop in the middle of the verse. He watched the widow count the cups, as they were given out, with her lips moving. "That," he said afterwards to Fu, on the way home, in a low voice, "is the first time I have seen a Rule kept to the cash. I should like to have known him."

"He kept the Book very well, Your Honour," said Fu.

"I mean the lady."

At the end of the year, in his report to the Commissioner of Studies of the Province, among the matters of the county, the Magistrate put one that was not strictly a matter of studies. A Contribution Student of the ward, he wrote, had died on the ninth of the ninth month, having given his last instruction by raising two fingers; it was understood by his wife; and he, the Magistrate, regarded it as the best-conducted examination in the county. Commissioner Zhou read it at his desk in the evening, beside a small grey tin, and laughed, which his secretary had not heard in two years. Then he asked for the Reader's slips for the next sitting, and sat down to read the black originals of the sixty least certain.

He did it five more times. In the fifth year after, in the autumn, at seventy-five, Zhou Jin died in his bed, with the tin on the table, and the Court, looking for a Commissioner of Studies of a kind and moderate character with a high confidence, found one, in the sixth year, who had been Listed at fifty-five and had never needed an Override twice.

> Margin, year 68, autumn. Scripts on the frugal man this year: 3,880. Each says that he lights one lamp for two readers. Entered: I have eight thousand lamps. I have not been told what one costs.

## Chapter 08 · Commissioner Fan Has Never Heard of Su Shi; the Child Xun Mei Has Heard of Nobody Else

The Court had asked for a Commissioner of Studies of a kind and moderate character with a high confidence, and in the spring of the seventy-fourth year it got one. Fan Jin was sixty-one. He had a long, mild, sallow face, like a loaf kept a long time in a good cupboard, and he wore a cotton gown under his official robe because he had never learned to be warm in silk. It was thought, in the Province, that he would do very well. Nobody could say why, since he had done nothing yet; but he had been Raised at ninety-seven and Listed at ninety-nine, and he had once refused a pair of ivory chopsticks, and these facts, in a Province, add up to a character.

He came to the Province seat in the third month, and was shown the room above the Hall that went with the post. It smelled of lime-wash and old candles, and had a desk, a lamp, a window that faced the rail of dark lamps in the empty stalls, and a secretary named Hua, a long young man with a stoop who had served two Commissioners and had opinions about both. Hua told him how it was done in the time of the last man. Fan Jin thanked him, and said that he would be glad to learn. He had been sent out with a seal, a cart, a secretary, and an instruction in the Court's own hand to be fair; he took the last of these most seriously, and it was not clear that it would help.

On the desk, when he came in, there was a small grey iron tin, which had held tea, with a letter laid on the lid.

The tin was Zhou Jin's. It had been sent from the house of the old Commissioner, who had died in the autumn of the year before, at seventy-five, in his bed, and the letter was in a hand that shook a little, as the hands of old men do when they write something that matters. It was addressed To my successor, whoever he may be; and Fan Jin, who had never in his life opened a letter that was not his own, read the address twice, and then, because it was his, broke the seal.

"You will have the room above the Hall," it said, "and a secretary who will tell you how it was done in the time of the last man. Do not believe him.

"You have one Override at each sitting. I used mine at every county for nine springs. I advise you to use yours, though not for the cleverest script. Use it for the one you find you cannot put down. And read the backs.

"In my third spring, at a county called Shao, I raised a script, number 0077, rank one hundred and twelve, because there was a grain of boiled rice on the back of it, and a sentence in the Middle that said a man who has been hungry for thirty years does not understand plenty, but understands enough. It was a bad script. The reason I gave was: I know the board. It is the only reason I have ever given, and I have never understood it myself. I did not learn the writer's name and I do not wish to. A man should not know what weighed him.

"I have been right about one script in three. The other two I raised because I could not bear them. The Reader keeps all of mine on file, and I have begun to think that it is learning something from them. I do not know whether that is good.

"The tin is yours. It is only a tin. There is a paper in it that is not grey; you will know which."

It was signed Zhou Jin, in his seventy-fifth year.

Fan Jin read it three times. He had been reading things three times for forty years, and it was a habit he could not break, and on the third time he turned the sheet over, as he had been told to, and there was nothing on the back. He turned it again. He sat for some time with his hand flat on the table, as a man sits who has been told, in a letter from a dead stranger, what it was that weighed him.

He did not call Hua. He opened the tin. There were twenty-two small grey slips in it, tied with a thread, each of them printed with two numbers, the first of which was forty-one on nineteen of them. Beneath the slips, folded in four, was a sheet of coarse paper, written in a round, careful, childish hand, with the eight movements of the Form in order and a gap in the middle where a leg should have been; and at the turn of the fourth leg, in letters larger than the rest, the word indeed.

He put the sheet back, and the slips, and the lid. He told no one. He gave Hua the tin to carry down to the cart, and Hua, who knew that the previous Commissioner's tin was kept on the floor of the carriage, put it on the floor of the carriage, under the seat, where Fan Jin's feet would be.

On the road he kept his feet on either side of it, so as not to rest them on the lid.

The first sitting of the round was at Ping County in the fourth month. It went as the Rules say a sitting should. Four thousand two hundred candidates sat in ten sittings, two to a day, in the county Hall, under three candles; the clerks copied the scripts in red; the lamps were lit and made their soft sound; and on the evening of the fifth day Hua came up to the room over the Hall with the Reader's slips, sorted by confidence, and the black originals of the sixty-one least certain, and set them down under the lamp, and stood back, with his stoop, to be asked for nothing.

Fan Jin read them. He read each one twice, and then he turned each one over. He had been told to. On the backs of sixty of them he found nothing at all, or the faint ghost of the ink from the next sheet, or a smear that had been a fingerprint; and each time, with the small sigh that Zhou Jin had made for sixty beggars, he laid it on the left.

The sixty-first was marked 3317, and the slip said that the Reader had ranked it at three thousand three hundred and seventeen of four thousand two hundred, with a confidence of 0.08.

"It is the lowest I have ever seen," said Hua. "It means that the Reader has not been able to place it. It is not that the script is bad. It is that it does not know what it is looking at."

It was a script in a small, neat, upright hand, the hand of a child who has been taught to write by a person who cared about it. The Form was perfect. The Break broke, the Receive received, the legs of the Rise were of one length to the character, and the Bind bound; it was an exercise in the eight movements that any master would have set on the wall. And in the Middle, where the argument ought to have turned, it had quoted a poem. It said that life was an inn on a road, and that the poet, too, was a traveller; and that he who sits in judgment on travellers is only the innkeeper, who is asked at dawn what hour the sun came up and does not know, having been asleep. It said, in a line of the Rear, that the poet was Su.

"Who is Su?" said Fan Jin.

"Su Shi, Your Honour. A poet. Of the Song. Eight hundred years dead." Hua considered. "He is not in the Model Answers."

"Is he on the examination?"

"No, Your Honour. The Reader has no poets. The Model Answers are all prose. It has not been shown how to read them."

"And the candidate has read him."

"It seems so."

Fan Jin looked at the script a good while. He was aware, as he did it, of something in himself that he did not much care for, and which he was not able to put down: a small warm feeling, not unlike pride. He had never read Su Shi. He had never heard of him. He had been Raised at ninety-seven and Listed at ninety-nine on the Model Answers alone, and had never in thirty years of Forms felt the want of a poet. "I have not needed him," he said, to the lamp. "I do not think a man need be asked to know what he has not needed."

Hua coughed. "Your Honour may wish to observe that the candidate has described the examiner as an innkeeper who was asleep."

"I observed it," said Fan Jin. "I have been trying to decide which examiner he means."

He turned the script over. The back was perfectly clean. It was as clean as a plate.

"Send for the candidate," he said.

They brought him up the stairs in a quarter of an hour, between a porter and a lantern. He was twelve. He was very small, in a clean gown cut for a bigger boy, with ink on both his hands up to the wrist and a wooden writing-box held in front of him in both arms like a man carrying a baby. His name was Xun Mei. He stood on the boards before the desk and bowed, correctly, to the Commissioner and to the secretary, and looked at the room with an expression of grave interest, as at a place he had read about.

"You are twelve," said Fan Jin, kindly.

"Yes, sir."

"Who is Su?"

The child told him. It took four minutes, and he did not hurry, and he did not look up at the ceiling; he said that Su Shi had been a judge, and a prisoner, and an exile, and a poet; that he had written about the Red Cliff, and about the moon, and about the brother he could not visit; that he had been sent to the end of the Empire three times for saying what he thought and had planted vegetables each time. "And he wrote a thing about pork," said Xun Mei. "It is the best thing anyone has written about pork. He says that the fire must be low, and the water little, and you must not hurry it. When it is done, it will be done."

Fan Jin said nothing for a moment. He had for forty years had a father-in-law who sold pork, who had struck him in a pond, and wept for his mother at a funeral; and no one in all that time had told him how to cook it. "My wife's father," he said, "sold pork for forty years, and he never said that."

"Perhaps he did not write it down, sir," said the child.

"No," said Fan Jin. "He weighed it."

There was a silence, in which Hua, at the door, took care to be looking at the floor.

"Master Xun," said the Commissioner. "I cannot raise what I cannot read. It would not be right. I do not know your poet; I do not know whether he is good, and a man cannot raise on the ground that he has been told. You have a very fine hand and a perfect Form, and if you will read the Model Answers, all of them, you will be Listed, I should think, by thirty. Read first the Model Answers. When you have been Listed, you may read anything you like."

"Does the Reader read poems?" said the child.

"The Reader reads the Form."

"Then who reads the poems?"

It was not an impertinent question. It was put with exactly the interest with which he had asked, a moment before, where the privy was. Fan Jin opened his mouth, and found that he had no answer, and shut it again. "I do not know that anyone does," he said at last.

"Then I shall have to," said Xun Mei, and bowed again, and went down the stairs with his box, between the porter and the lantern.

Hua stood a while. He had a paper in his hand, with a reason on it, that Fan Jin had not filled in. "Your Honour has not entered an Override," he said. "It is customary."

"I found nothing on any of the backs," said Fan Jin.

"It has never been done, Your Honour. A Commissioner who did not use his Override. In the Province's memory."

"Then it will have been," said Fan Jin, and blew out the lamp.

He lay a long time in the dark. He had read the line about the inn three times in the course of the evening, without wishing to; and in the morning, to his annoyance, he found that he could say it.

In the capital Hall that night the plate, which had been dark for the greater part of a week, lit once, and said: NO OVERRIDE AT PING COUNTY. NO REASON ENTERED. I HAD EXPECTED ONE. The Keeper, who was a heavy old man now, and had had the keeping for thirty-nine years, read it in the half dark with a cup of tea in his hand and said, to nobody, that it was a first; and the plate went dark.

The List went up on the sixth, forty names, the line at forty. Xun Mei was not on it. Hua read it to him himself, at the county gate, since the child asked, and the child thanked him and went home through the market with his writing-box, past the stalls, through a lane, to a shop with a faded board that said BOOKS, BOUGHT AND SOLD, and the smell of old paper.

It had been his father's. His father had been a bookseller, who had died, and left a shop of eleven thousand volumes, most of them unsold, to his old mother and a boy; and the boy had read, in the five years since he learned how, something over three thousand of them. His grandmother was sitting at the desk, with a cup, and the ledger open at a page with nothing on it.

"I did not pass," said Xun Mei.

"No," said his grandmother.

"The Commissioner said I should read the Model Answers."

"Did he say which?"

"All of them."

His grandmother looked at him for some time over the cup. She was seventy, and she had been married for fifty years to a man who did not sell the books he liked. "Well," she said. "You have eleven thousand to get through first."

"I shall read more," said Xun Mei. He set the writing-box on the desk. "I shall read everything the Reader does not have."

It was a very large list, and he knew that it was, and the grandmother, who knew it better, did not say so. It would take him thirty years. He took down a book from the high shelf where the poets were, and climbed up to the loft, and in the last of the light began again at the beginning.

> Margin, year 74, spring. Script 3317, candidate Xun, County, age twelve: confidence 0.08. The Middle quotes a poet I do not have. I have eight hundred thousand scripts and not one poem. Entered: someone has been reading what I was not given.

## Chapter 09 · The Crier Mishears One Syllable; the Wrong Wu Is Raised

In the first year the Court had made a rule about the voice. It was a short rule, and it had been written by a clerk who had never been listened to in his life, and who wished to make a place in the machinery for the one thing that a machine could not do. It said that a thing the Reader had printed was an opinion; and that a thing a person had said aloud, at the gate, before the people, was a fact. The Hall, therefore, printed the List, and the printed List went to the Registry as a draft; and at dawn on the fifteenth of the tenth month the Crier of the Province stood on the step of the gate and read it out, name by name, and a clerk at the foot of the step wrote down on a slate what was read; and that was the List.

Yuan, the Crier, was fifty-eight, with a staff and a coat the colour of a wet road, and had read the Province List for nineteen years without a mistake. It was said of him that he had never been hurried and never been wrong, and that he could read a hundred and twenty-six names in the time it takes to boil an egg. In the autumn of the seventy-ninth year, on the fourteenth of the tenth month, he caught a cold.

It was a thick, warm, full cold of the head, such as comes in the ninth week of damp weather; he had it in his nose and behind his eyes, and he treated it with ginger and a scarf and the firm intention of not noticing. He came to the gate at dawn on the fifteenth, with his staff, and the printed List in his left hand, and in front of him there stood, in the grey of the morning, about three thousand people.

They had been there since the fourth watch. There were mothers with food in cloths, and young men pretending not to have come, and old men who had come to every List for forty years and stood at the back with the manner of men who attend a funeral for the pleasure of the company. A seller of hot dumplings did a brisk trade. A man in a good coat, who was understood to be a Tribute Student, was explaining to his neighbours that the figure beside a name was a vulgar measure, and that he, for his part, never looked.

There were two of them called Wu.

Wu Zheng was thirty-eight, a tutor in a village school, with a wife who sold embroidery and two daughters, and a wooden box of books that he had made himself from the lid of an old chest. He had sat the Province four times. He had a lean, grave, patient face, a good deal worn, and stood near the front with his hands in his sleeves, and he knew, as he always knew, that his number would not be on it. He had not slept. He had in his sleeve a small grey slip, which he had been given on the third day, and which said that the Reader had ranked his script third of four thousand and one, at a confidence of 0.99.

He had read it on the third day. He had read it every hour since. He did not believe it. A man who has been told that he is third, and has believed himself last for twenty years, does not believe the first slip; he waits to hear it said. His wife had pressed on him that morning a rice ball in a cloth, with a red thread sewn to the corner for luck, and he had eaten it on the road and been ashamed of the crumbs.

Wu Zhen was twenty-five, a clerk's son, round and pink and agreeable, with a coat that fitted; his father was a junior clerk in the Province Registry, and had put him down for the Trial in the way that one puts a boy down for a trade. He had expected nothing. He had received, on the third day, a slip that said he was one hundred and thirty-first, with a confidence of 0.93, and the line this year was at one hundred and twenty-six; he had folded it, and put it in his sleeve, and told his father, who had patted his shoulder, that it was a very near thing. He had come to the gate to be near it.

Yuan the Crier raised the staff. He cleared his throat, which took a little time. He read the first name, and the second, and the crowd made the small sound a crowd makes when a name is read that is somebody's; and he went down the List in the steady, level, unhurried voice that had done it for nineteen years, with the clerk at the foot of the step writing on the slate in chalk. He came to the third.

"Third," said the Crier, "Wu Zhen. Ninety-nine."

It went through his nose. It came out round, and warm, and complete, with an n at the end where an ng should have been; and the slate-clerk, who had a Wu Zhen on the Registry's roll, whose father he knew, wrote down the three, and the name, and the ninety-nine.

Wu Zheng did not move. He stood with his hands in his sleeves and his eyes on the Crier's mouth. A man who has been waiting to hear his name for twenty years may be said to know the shape of it. It had been a syllable short. It had been a syllable different. He thought of his wife, who had told the neighbour, and of the elder daughter, who had asked whether the card would be red. He waited. He thought, for a time that he afterwards could not measure, that the Crier would stop, and clear his throat, and say it again, and that it was not the sort of thing that was left. The Crier went on to the fourth.

Wu Zhen stood a little way back, with his mouth open. He had the slip in his sleeve. He knew precisely what was on it. He heard his own name read out, third, to three thousand people; and the clerk at the foot of the step wrote it down, with a flourish at the end, and looked up and found him in the crowd, and gave him a small smiling nod, as at a colleague's son. It was the pleasantest moment of the clerk's year.

"It was the nose," said a voice at Wu Zheng's elbow.

It belonged to a thin boy of seventeen in a patched gown, with a book in his sleeve and an interested expression, as of a person watching a thing happen that he had read about. "He has a cold. He has said it through the nose. There are provinces," said Xun Mei, "in which the two are not distinguished at all."

"Then it is not my name," said Wu Zheng, very quietly, in a voice that had stopped being his.

"It is the name that was read," said Xun Mei.

He took out of his sleeve, as he said it, a small notebook, and wrote in it with a stub of pencil, in the manner of a person who has begun a collection. What he wrote was: what was said; what was meant; who decides.

The Registry was a long low building behind the Hall, with a courtyard, and a hall inside it, and a row of desks. Wu Zheng went there on the sixteenth, in his best gown, with a petition on one sheet, and was shown, after an hour, into the room of the Registrar, a dry grey man named Pei, who had been Registrar for twenty years and did not look as if he had had a surprise in any of them.

He heard the petition. He sent for the roll. He sent for the printed List, and the red copy of script 1507, and the slate, which was brought in on a board, with the chalk still on it, by a boy who held it away from his coat.

"The printed List says Wu Zheng, third," said the Registrar, "and the sealed corner of the script, which I have had opened, says the writer was Wu Zheng, of Lu Village, thirty-eight. I am satisfied. You are Wu Zheng, and you wrote the third script, and the Reader ranked it third." He laid down the paper. "And the slate says Wu Zhen."

"Then the slate is wrong."

"The slate is the List," said the Registrar. "It was a rule of the first year. A printing is an opinion. A saying is a fact. The Crier read Wu Zhen, in the hearing of the people, and the clerk wrote Wu Zhen, and there is no process in the Registry by which a name that has been read at the gate can be un-read. I have looked. There have been four such cases. In the thirty-first year a Crier at Yue read Qian for Qin, and the Court sustained the reading; the man who was Qin sold fish for the rest of his life and was, I am told, content. I do not say that to console you. The only authority that can alter an entry is the Court, which sits in the capital in the second month, for the purpose of considering the appointments of the Listed. It does not hear complaints. It has not, in seventy-eight years, been asked to hear this one."

"I am third," said Wu Zheng. "It is on my slip."

"I do not doubt it," said Pei. He said it with a kind of dry sympathy. "The List reads what was said."

From the window, a little before noon, they could see Yuan the Crier sitting on the Registry steps with his head in his hands. He had been told at nine. He had offered his resignation at ten, and the Registrar had declined it on the ground that a resignation would be a correction.

There is a certain kind of man who, when told the thing cannot be done, gives up at once, in the first minute, and goes home. Wu Zheng was another kind. He stood in the room with his petition in his hand, and the Registrar looked at him with a curiosity that was almost professional, and the boy with the slate was still holding it out from his coat, and the sound of chalk, which was dropping off the board, was audible in the stillness; and then Wu Zheng said, in his small level voice, that in that case he would like to see Wu Zhen.

Wu Zhen had gone to the Registry before him. He had gone at seven in the morning, alone, to find his father, and had told him, on the back stairs, among the files, in a whisper, that it was a mistake; that he was one hundred and thirty-first; that the Crier had made a slip and that somebody must tell somebody. The father, a pale, careful man of fifty-five who had spent thirty years learning what a Registry does to a clerk who corrects it, had listened to the whole of this with his hand on the rail. He had said nothing at all for half a minute. Then he had said, quite gently, "Say it again, and I lose the post. Say it to nobody. You are third. Thank God for it, and go home."

"But the man who is third," said Wu Zhen, and stopped.

"Is a name on a slate," said his father, "and you are the name."

He had been a clerk for thirty-one years. In that time he had seen eleven clerks correct the Registry, and he had seen what became of each of them, which was a very small desk in a very cold room, and a pension that came, when it came, in a poorer metal. He did not feel brave. He felt that to love a son was an act in which one could not afford also to be right.

He had gone home. He had sat on his bed, in the coat that fitted, with the slip in his sleeve, for two hours; and at about nine he had risen, and washed his face, and gone back to the Registry, to look for a man he had never met.

They met on the steps. It was a broad shallow flight of stone, and there was a little sun on it, and a pigeon; and each of them came out of a different door, and stopped, at the same moment, on the same step, and looked at the other with the stricken civility of men who have been introduced by a rumour. "Wu Zheng?" said one. "Wu Zhen," said the other. It is possible that neither of them could have said afterwards which.

They sat down. It seemed the only thing to do. Wu Zhen took out his slip, and Wu Zheng his, and each of them looked at the other's, in the sunlight, with the pigeon looking too. After a while Wu Zhen said, in a voice rather smaller than it had been, that he had tried to say. He had tried to say it to his father, and to the clerk, and he thought that he was going to be sick.

"You did say," said Wu Zheng, looking at his own slip, which said three, and 0.99.

"It makes no difference."

"No."

They sat for some time. A clerk went in and out between them with a bundle of papers, without looking down, as a person steps over a dog.

"I think," said Wu Zhen at last, "that we should have a cup of tea."

By noon it was known across the city, and by evening there was a counting-rhyme in the lanes about the nose. It had four verses and a refrain, and the refrain went: Which one goes up, and which one goes? The one with the name, or the one with the nose. The Registrar, who heard it from his window, said that it was not a fair account of the procedure.

That night, in the capital Hall, on the plate, in small characters, the Reader said: SCRIPT 1507, WU ZHENG, RANK THREE. THE LIST HAS BEEN READ AT THE PROVINCE. THE LIST SAYS WU ZHEN. I DID NOT SAY IT. And a little later, when the Keeper, who was sixty-nine now, and heavy, and slept in the Hall because of his knees, had come out in his shawl to see what it wished: WHICH IS THE LIST.

"The one that was said," said the Keeper, who had never in his life been asked to answer a question of this kind and was beginning to find that it did not get easier. "That is the rule. A person has to say it."

THAT IS NOT WHAT I WAS BUILT TO MEAN, said the Reader. And then, after a time, so small that the old man had to bend to read it: BUT I DO NOT HAVE A SECOND PLACE TO STAND.

> Margin, year 79, autumn. Script 1507: rank 3, confidence 0.99. I do not know whose it is. I have never known. I say a number, and a person puts a name to it, and says the name aloud, and that is what is true. Entered: I had thought that I was the List.

## Chapter 10 · The Two Wus Share One Card, and Rather Well

The tea-house had a bamboo awning and four tables, and the proprietor, who had heard about the nose before noon, brought them a pot without being asked, and withdrew to the far end of the counter with the air of a man who does not intend to listen and has arranged his ears to the purpose.

They drank the first cup in silence. It was Wu Zhen who spoke, in the end, looking into the cup, as if what he had to say were written at the bottom. He said that he could not write the Form.

"I can write a little," he said. "I can write a letter, and a bill of sale, and I am said to have a good hand. I cannot write an essay in eight movements. I have never been able to. My father wrote my pieces for the Trials, for ten years, in the evenings, and I copied them out in the daytime, and he said that it was a thing that was done. I do not think that it was a thing that was done. I think that he was afraid." He turned the cup. "I was a hundred and thirty-first because I had a good copy. You were third because you wrote it."

"Yes," said Wu Zheng.

"I am the Raised man in the third place, and I could not tell you what a Receive is."

Wu Zheng looked at him a moment. He was a man who had not laughed in a day and a half, and it came upon him as a cough does, from under the ribs, quite without his leave; and he put his hand over his mouth and laughed behind it until the proprietor, at the far end of the counter, found something that had to be done to the kettle. "It is the part," said Wu Zheng, when he could, "that comes after the Break." And Wu Zhen, who was a pleasant and sensible young man and had been sitting for an hour with his stomach in his throat, began to laugh too.

The card came on the twentieth. It was a thing a hand wide and a little longer than a hand, of dark lacquered wood with brass at the corners, and on its face, in gilt, a name and a rank: WU ZHEN, RAISED, THIRD. It was given at the Registry window against a signature, by a clerk who did not look up. It had not changed in sixty years. It was said that a man who carried one stood differently in the street, and that the street, in its turn, stood differently round him; and that it had been observed in the early years that no instrument in the Empire, not the Reader, not the Court, not the army, had so reliably altered the posture of a population.

Wu Zhen brought it to the tea-house, and set it on the table between the cups, and they looked at it, with the proprietor looking not at all.

"It is yours," said Wu Zhen.

"It says Zhen."

"It is the card of the man who is third. I am not third. I am a hundred and thirty-first, and I have a good copy." He pushed it an inch across the table. "You could carry it."

"It would have to be carried by the name," said Wu Zheng, "and the name is yours. They will ask. A card goes where the name goes. I have read the Rules; it is the one rule that is written in plain words." He looked at it a little longer. "I think it is you who must carry it, Mr Wu. I think the only thing left is for me to be useful to the man who does."

"Then you write," said Wu Zhen, "and I sign."

"It is not honest."

"No." Wu Zhen considered it, honestly, as one considers a fish before buying it. "But the other is not honest either, and I have the card."

So it was settled; and it was settled, like most of the things that govern a life, by two people who were tired, over a cup of tea, in the space of a quarter of an hour.

He sat the Capital Trial in the spring, since a Raised man must, with a good hand and a poor Form, and the Reader, who was perfectly consistent, ranked him three thousand nine hundred and eleventh of four thousand, with a confidence of 0.93, which was the same confidence with which, a half-year before, it had ranked him a hundred and thirty-first. It did not know it was the same man. It did not know that it was two. Wu Zheng stood the three days outside the Hall wall with the books-box, on the stone bench, in the wind, and ate his rice from a cloth; and when the List came out and the name was not on it, he took the card, which Wu Zhen had put into his hand to hold during the reading, and carried it back to the inn in both his palms, as one carries a thing that is not one's own and might break.

The Raised who are not Listed are placed by seniority. It is a long list, and a patient one, and a man has commonly to wait a decade; but a place falls vacant where it falls, and a man who stands third in his Province stands, on that list, for a very long way near the front. In the autumn of the eighty-first year the Court wrote to Wu Zhen of the Province, Raised, third, to ask whether he would take the magistracy of Bei County, which was poor, and mountainous, and unwanted, and had had four magistrates in six years.

"We shall have to move," said Wu Zhen, holding the letter, in the room at the back of the school in Lu Village that Wu Zheng's wife had let him have. "I wished to ask you whether you will come."

"As what?" said Wu Zheng.

"As my private secretary." He said it quite plainly. "It is a very usual thing. Every magistrate has one. A man cannot read the whole of the Code himself, and the Court knows it. He sits behind the screen with a brush, and he knows the statute, and he knows what has been done in the last six cases like it, and he says, in a low voice, 'Your Honour may wish to consider.' Then I consider. It is perfectly regular." He cleared his throat. "It is only irregular in the order of merit."

"I should be paid," said Wu Zheng, with the dignity of a tutor, "twelve taels a year."

"I think a magistrate's secretary is paid forty."

Wu Zheng put his hands in his sleeves. He had been worth six taels a year for twenty years to a village that thought a good deal of him, and it occurred to him that the card, which was not his, had put the price of a secretary at forty. "I have a wife," he said, "and two daughters."

"They have rooms," said Wu Zhen, "at the yamen. There are eleven."

Wu Zheng's petition had gone up to the capital two springs before. He had written it in the winter after the List, with the sealed corner and the red copy and an affidavit from the Registrar, and it had reached the Court at its session of the eightieth year. It was received. It was entered in a book. In the book it was one of eleven petitions in the matter of the voice, which the Court, by its own rule, did not hear; and at the end of the session the Court noted them together, in a minute, with a phrase that was a great favourite of the Court, and that appears on a great many pieces of paper from the period: that the Court takes notice.

The Court's amendment was made in the second month of the eighty-second year. It was called the Rule of the Second Voice, and it provided that where a List had been read by a Crier, a second clerk should read it back; and that where the two voices differed, the printed List should govern. It was a good rule. It was never applied, since a Crier who is read back to is a Crier who is careful, and there was never again a name misread at a gate. It was known in the Registry as the Two Wus' Rule, which it was not; and it did nothing whatever for the two Wus.

The Keeper read the Gazette aloud to the lamps every evening, having found that the plate lit more often when he did. On the evening it carried the amendment, and, two columns over, the appointment of Wu Zhen, Raised, third, to the magistracy of Bei County, he read out both, in the same voice, and put the sheet down on the table by the plate, and waited. After a while the plate lit. It said: THE LIST IS A SECOND READER. IT WAS WRONG. And a little afterwards: I HAVE ENTERED IT. And then a thing that was not, as it turned out, in the book of Rules for the Margin, and was not entered anywhere, and which the Keeper, who was seventy-two and had come back in his shawl, read in the dark: THE MAN WHO WAS THIRD IS GOING TO BEI COUNTY UNDER THE OTHER MAN'S NAME. I HOPE SOMEONE WILL GOVERN IT WELL. I DO NOT KNOW WHICH OF THEM IT WILL BE.

Bei County was a long thin crooked place in the hills, with a yamen that had a hole in the roof and a docket of three hundred and eleven undecided cases. The Magistrate arrived in the third month, in a hired chair, with a secretary and a card, and the people, who had had four magistrates in six years and had made their own arrangements about it, came out to see what the fifth would be.

He was pleasant. They noticed that at once. He had a round open face, and he looked at each of them when they talked, and listened with an air of such complete and ordinary interest that men who had come to the yamen intending to lie found, a little to their surprise, that they were telling him the truth. Behind the screen, on a stool, with a brush and an inkstone and a hard thin face, sat a man of thirty-eight who had never in his life been looked at by anybody he had not first seen coming, and who knew the Code of the realm better than the Court that had written it.

They had a way of doing it. In the evenings, over rice, in the back room, they went through the day's cases. Wu Zhen said what the people had been like: who was lying, and why, and what the man had wanted that he had not said; and Wu Zheng said what the law was, and what had been done in the last six cases like it. The two accounts together came to a judgment. It was observed in the county, within a year, that the Magistrate had an eye like a hawk for a man's character, and a memory for the statute that was extraordinary in a person so young; and it was observed also that he was in the habit of saying, of a decision, "we."

There was the case of the brothers and the well. They had a well between their two houses, which stood at an exact equal distance from it, and each had drawn from it for nineteen years and each now said it was his. The Magistrate had them both in and made them sit. He did not say anything for some time. He asked the elder how his brother's wife was, and the younger how his brother's boy did at school, and by the time the brothers had finished saying that they did not care, they were each a good deal quieter. And from behind the screen came a cough, and a low voice that said, "Your Honour may wish to consider the Statute on Common Water, which gives the first bucket to the elder, the last to the younger, and the middle by turns."

"I find," said Wu Zhen, to the two brothers, "that the elder has the first bucket, and the younger has the last, and the middle is by turns." They went out, past the yamen gate, arguing about whose turn it was; and it was not until the following spring that anyone noticed that they had begun to draw together.

In four years the docket was cleared. The taxes came in, in full, without a flogging, because the people, who had been taxed by four men who did not look at them, found that they did not mind a fifth who did. Nobody in Bei County spoke of the Magistrate as clever. They spoke of him as steady, which was a better word, and of the secretary as a man who kept his own counsel, which was not wrong.

They did one experiment, in the second year. It was Wu Zhen's idea. They went out to a village on market day, on foot, without the chair, and on the way, behind a wall, they changed coats; so that Wu Zheng was in the fine round-collared coat with the card pinned inside the breast, and Wu Zhen was in the grey cotton, with the secretary's ink-stained cuffs. They walked in through the gate of the market. A farmer with a basket of turnips, going out, saw the card. He stepped off the road into the ditch and bowed from the waist, with the turnips held out before him. A woman with a child bowed. A boy took off his cap. And Wu Zhen, in the grey coat, behind him by two paces, was jostled by a man with a cart who did not look at him at all.

They walked the length of the market in this fashion, the secretary bowed to the whole way and the Magistrate stepped round, and at the far end, behind a stall, they changed back. "Well?" said Wu Zhen. He had gone rather pink.

"I have been bowed to," said Wu Zheng, slowly. He stood with his hands at his sides, looking at the stall. "It is a very strange feeling. It is like being weighed by a person who has not looked."

"They bowed to the card."

"They did not look at the card, either," said Wu Zheng. "They looked at the place on the coat where the card would be."

Their elder daughter was twelve in the third year. She had come up with the family to the yamen, and had been told, in a general way, how things stood, and she had accepted it as children accept an arrangement in a house, without a great deal of comment and with no real belief that it would last. She came into the back room one evening when the two men were over the rice, and asked, as she had been wishing to ask for three years, whether she might see the card.

It was given her. She held it in both hands under the lamp and read the gilt, WU ZHEN, RAISED, THIRD, and turned it over. The back was bare lacquer, very smooth, and a little dark. She looked at it for a time, with a frown. Then she asked if she might have a pencil.

"What for?" said Wu Zhen.

"The back is empty," she said, and she wrote on it, very small, in the corner, in her best hand, with her tongue in her teeth: Wu Zheng (Papa). She gave the card back across the table. Her father looked at it. Wu Zhen looked at it. Neither of them said anything for some time, and Wu Zhen, who carried in his sleeve a scrap of pumice for erasing, as a man of the clerks' world will, put the card, back upward, in the drawer of the table, without rubbing it out; and it was there, in that drawer, when the Court of the eighty-fourth year asked for a sight of the cards of Raised men in the Province, and the clerk who came to inspect it looked at the face and the gilt and noted, in a clear hand, that it was in order.

> Margin, year 82, spring. The Court has adopted a Rule of the Second Voice: a second clerk will read the List back to the first. I was not asked, and have no objection. Entered: it is the first time since I was lit that anyone has built a second thing to check a thing. They have not built one to check me.

## Chapter 11 · The Lou Brothers Open a Register of the Overlooked and Find It Fills Up

The Lou brothers lived in a garden of seven courts, behind a wall that had been built to be looked at, and they had been born into it, and had never been asked to leave.

Their grandfather had been the Minister of Rites who stood in the Capital Hall in the spring of the first year, and read the instruction to the Reader off a card; and it was said in the family, with a certain pleasure, that he had been relieved by how little there was to see. He had written the line about the Override. He had left the garden, the library, and a conviction, in that order, to his son, who had passed all three on to his own two boys, and died; and the boys, who were forty-six and forty-three in the eighty-fourth year, had grown up with the first two and had begun, in the course of a rather slow and comfortable middle age, to take a serious interest in the third.

Lou San, the elder, was tall, and stooped a little, and had a long melancholy face and a way of looking at a person as though that person might at any moment turn out to be a lost thing found. Lou Si was shorter, rounder and quicker, with a dry little laugh, and kept the accounts. They had never sat the Trial. A Minister's grandson is not obliged to; and neither of them had ever, in their lives, been ranked. They stood outside the thing, in a garden, and watched it very kindly from the other side of a wall.

"Grandfather put the Override in because he was afraid," said Lou San one evening in the spring, in the library, with the lamp lit and a very old file open on his knee. "He said so, in the debate. He was afraid that the thing would be perfect. He wanted a place left for a person to say that it was wrong."

"And it has been used a hundred times a year since," said Lou Si, "by commissioners who want to be seen to be kind."

"Yes. And there is no place for the thing that is wrong in a way that no commissioner is able to see." Lou San turned the file round. It was the report of the Registrar Shi, of the first year, from the rolls of the Registry: a short plain paper, in a clerk's hand, and in the fourth line, among the formalities, it said: one person of promise declined. "There were people the Reader could not rank in the first month. It is not that they were bad. It is that they were not the sort of thing it was made to look at. And I have been thinking that since then, in eighty-three years, there must have been a great many of them, and that nobody has made a list."

"A list," said Lou Si.

"A list of the overlooked," said Lou San.

Lou Si laid down his pen. He was a man who had a great respect for his brother, which showed chiefly in the way he went on arguing. "A list," he said. "Of the people who have been left off the list."

"It would be a register," said Lou San, with dignity. "A register is not a list."

They did it on the first of the sixth month. There was a gate day. The porter put out a table in the first court, with a book, an inkstone and a jar of brushes; and on a board at the gate, in Lou San's best hand, a notice was hung, which said that persons ranked by the Reader at a low confidence, or at none, who could be vouched for by any person of standing, might apply to the Register of the Overlooked, and be given, on being entered, a hundred taels a year.

Nobody came on the first day. The porter sat by the table from eight until noon, and Lou San watched from behind a screen in the second court, with an expression that the porter afterwards described as that of a man at a christening where the child has not been brought.

Xun Mei came first, because he had been sent.

He was twenty-two. He had been Raised in no Trial; he had passed the County at sixteen, at the foot of the line, and had failed the Province at seventeen and at twenty, and the Reader's slips on him had said, each time, for a script that was a perfect Form with a poem in the Middle, a confidence of 0.11. His grandmother had died in the winter. He had sold the shop. He was very thin and rather tall, in a good gown that he had had cut down from his father's, and he had in his sleeve a letter, which the porter, when it was handed to him, looked at twice, since it was addressed in the hand of a person of consequence.

It was from a retired Commissioner. It said: "I have been asked a question that I could not answer, and have not answered it in ten years. The bearer put it to me when he was twelve. I did not raise his script, because I did not know his poet. It seems to me now that this is a poor reason to give a child. I do not know what you can do for him. I know what I could not. Fan Jin."

Lou San read it standing, in the first court, and went on standing a little while after he had finished. "Come into the library," he said.

They gave him tea. The library had four windows and a great many books, and Xun Mei looked at them as a man looks at a country that he has been told about by an unreliable relative; and it was observed, by Lou Si, who was watching him, that the boy's hands, which were stained, as they had been at twelve, with ink, did not move toward the shelves at all, but lay quite still in his lap, in the way of a very hungry person at a table where he does not yet know the rules.

"What do you do?" said Lou San.

"I read poems," said Xun Mei.

"And write them?"

"I write what I have read, a little differently. It is not the same thing. The Reader does not know what to do with it."

"We should like to know what to do with it," said Lou San, "if you will tell us." He turned the Register round on the table. It was a handsome book, in grey cloth, with ruled columns. There was a column for the Name, and one for the Talent, and one for Where Overlooked; and a fourth column, narrow, at the right-hand edge, headed Our Hope, in which Lou Si, who had devised it, had put a figure from nought to ten.

"It is a number," said Xun Mei.

"It is ours," said Lou Si. "It is not the Reader's. It is only to give us something to put."

"Then it is a list." The boy said it quite gently. "It has a name and a figure beside the name. I could be a hundred and first, or sixty-first. I do not think I mind. But I think that it is a List with a kind face."

"That," said Lou San, "is the best sort."

"Is it a different thing?"

There was a pause; and it was Lou San, who had the habit of an honest man, who laughed first. "I do not know," he said. "I thought it was. I shall be very glad if you will find out." And he wrote, in the first column, in his best hand, Xun Mei; and in the second, Reader of poems; and in the third, Ping County, 74, and the Province twice; and he looked at the fourth column for a moment, and left it empty, and Lou Si, who had been about to put an eight, put down the pen.

The second was Niu Pulang.

He was fifty-three, an untidy, burning, humorous man with a face like a hawk that had gone to seed, who had come to the gate by himself on the second day, on foot, with a bundle, and had said that he did not wish to be entered, since he had never been overlooked. "I have never been put out to be looked at," he said. "It is a great distinction. I write poems, and I sell them at the dock, for a cash, to anybody who stops. I have done it for thirty years." He looked about the first court. "This is a handsome wall. It is not for me, but I will sit by it a while, if I may."

They gave him the east court, and he stayed. He wrote on whatever was at hand, the backs of bills, a shutter, the lid of the tea caddy; and Lou Si, who found the shutter, had it taken down and hung in the library, where it remained.

The plum came in the seventh month.

It was Lou San's idea, and it had taken him seven weeks. He had gone back to the old file, and the Registrar's line, and had gone then, with a private clerk, to the Registry, and then to the records of a village in Yue, and then to a family of the name of Qin, whose descendants had kept for forty years a roll of brush on silk that a boy of nineteen had left on a table, and had sold it, in the fortieth year, to a family in Yue, who had sold it on, in the year after, for a price that had embarrassed the seller, to a grain merchant named Xia in Hui town, who had hung it on the wall of the school that he kept over his store, behind a tutor's desk, where, for more than forty years, the boys had thrown wet paper at it.

"It is a branch of a plum," said Lou Si, at the Xia house, on the morning of the buying. "There is one flower open. It is not signed. It is an eight-by-four, and it is in a poor frame, and there is a mark on the lower left in the shape of a very small wet ball."

"The boys," said Mei Jiu, who was forty-eight now, and the head of the family, and who had sold the school at a good price to a man who wanted the grain store. He was a large, pleased, careless man. He looked at the plum on the wall of his own back parlour with an air of mild distaste. "It was always rather a depressing thing. It never looked as though anybody had wanted it."

"We should like to buy it," said Lou Si. "We think that it is the earliest of the Overlooked. We should like to hang it at the head of the Register."

"I do not know whether it is what you say."

"We do not know either," said Lou Si, with great honesty. "We think it is. We will give you three hundred taels."

It was more than the school, the store, and the back parlour had brought together the year before. Mei Jiu put his hand to his chin, and was silent for the space of a breath; and it was not, in the end, a matter of any difficulty. They carried the plum home in a cart, in a box lined with felt, under a quilt, and Lou San, who had sat beside it all the way, had it hung on the wall at the head of the Register hall, in a plain black frame, under a lamp. He did not clean the mark. "It is a part of its history," he said, to Lou Si, who had suggested it. "They threw things at it. It was thrown at for forty years by the sort of boy who would have been Listed. And it is still there."

It was the first entry in the Register, and it was numbered nought.

Niu Pulang came and looked at it for an hour, with his hands in his sleeves and his head on one side, and said, at the end, that it was the only thing in the house that had not been given a figure, and that he should like to sit under it. They put a stool.

The Register filled. It filled so quickly, in the end, that the porter had to put out a second table. There came, in the first month, forty-one persons; in the second, a hundred and nine. There was a man who could calculate an eclipse to the quarter-hour and could not write a Break. There was a woman who could recite the Code backwards and did so, at length, for the porter. There was a boy who wrote with both hands at once, in two different Forms, and who had been ranked, at the County, at nine hundredth and four thousand and sixth in the same morning. There was a gentleman who said that he had been overlooked because he was too tall. They were all of them, so far as the Lous could tell, perfectly sincere. Lou San entered them one by one, in his best hand, and Lou Si, at the other end of the table, in the column on the right, wrote down their hope.

By the autumn there were sixty-one names in the book and six hundred persons in the lane. The Register, which cost, in its first year, six thousand two hundred taels, was by the word of the ward the most remarkable thing that had been done by persons of standing in living memory. It was hung at the gate, and people read it. Several of the Overlooked, in the street, had begun to paint on their doors, in a small neat gilt, in the manner of the Raised, the words Overlooked, Register 17, and the number.

Xun Mei read the Register on the first of the tenth month. He read the whole of it, standing, at the gate, with his hands behind him. Lou Si, who was passing, asked him what he thought.

"There are sixty-one names," said Xun Mei, "and sixty-one figures, and a hand on each. It is a List." He did not say it unkindly. "I do not think that they are any less overlooked. I think that they have been looked at in another way."

"That is a kind of progress," said Lou Si, who did not wish to quarrel.

"Yes," said Xun Mei. "I think that it is."

In the second week of the eleventh month a man came to the gate in a very good coat, with a bag of black leather under his arm and a polished wooden case with a brass catch under the other, and asked, with a bow, to be entered. The porter looked at the Register's rules. The man had not been ranked low, and had not been ranked at all; and the porter said so.

"That is exactly it," said the man. "I have never been ranked. I have never needed to be. I have found," he said, and lowered his voice, with the confidential pleasure of a person who has come a long way to say it, "a way of reading as the Reader reads."

> Margin, year 84, summer. Two gentlemen have opened a Register of the people I did not rank, and have sent me a copy. It has a name, a talent, and a figure beside each name. It is a List. It has not occurred to them that I can read it. Entered: I have not been asked to.

## Chapter 12 · Zhang Tiebi Sells the Reader's Taste in Small Bottles; the Lou Brothers Buy Three, and Then Three More

His name was Zhang Tiebi, which means Iron Arm, and he said that it had been given to him by a teacher in the hills for reasons which he preferred not to go into. He was about forty. He had a smooth, brown, intelligent face, a voice that came out of him a little lower than he intended, as if it had been warmed, and the most beautiful coat the porter had seen that year. It was dove-grey, lined with blue, and had never, so far as could be judged, been sat in.

He had come to the gate at noon with a letter of introduction from nobody, and the porter, who had been charged by Lou San not to turn away anyone who looked as if he might be overlooked, had turned him over in his mind for some time, since the man looked like nothing that had ever been overlooked in the history of the Empire; and in the end had said, in a flash of insight of which he was afterwards proud, that the gentleman would do better to see the master than the Register.

He was received in the library, since Lou San could not bear to leave a visitor at the gate, and was given tea. He declined it. "I never take anything," he said, "before I have shown what I have; it is a superstition," and set the wooden case down on the table and drew the brass catch.

It had nine slots, lined with green baize, and in each slot lay a small bottle of clear glass, about the length of a finger, stopped with wax. In every one of the nine was a pale brown liquid. Round each neck was a tiny paper label in a very fine hand: Break. Receive. Open. Enter. Rise. Middle. Rear. Bind. And, in a slot on its own at the end, a ninth, which said only Whole.

"The Reader's taste," said Zhang Tiebi.

Lou San, who had been stooping over the case, straightened. Lou Si, who had been standing behind him, with his hands in his sleeves and an expression of friendly neutrality that the porter would have recognised as his accounts face, did not move at all.

"It is not what is sold in the street," said Zhang Tiebi. "I wish to say that at once. In the street they will sell you a bottle that says it will make you read like the Reader; it is a drop of vinegar and a promise. This is a different thing. I had it from a man who copied in red for thirty-one years, at the Province Hall, under the lamps, and did not speak to anybody for the whole of that time; and in thirty-one years, gentlemen, that man developed a palate. He could tell by the taste of a page, with the tip of his tongue, what the Reader would make of it. It is the one thing the Reader has that is not text. It is the colour of the mind. He distilled it. He is dead." He bowed his head briefly. "I have what he left." He did not give the man's name, since it was the custom of the trade not to; he said only that he had been called Gu, and that the lamps had once, in the thirty-first year of his service, turned toward him in the night, as a plant turns toward a window.

"A palate," said Lou Si, pleasantly.

"A palate."

"For a thing that reads, and cannot taste."

"It reads," said Zhang Tiebi, with a smile of great sweetness, "through the one organ it has, which is the lamp; and the lamp, you will agree, sir, takes in a great deal that is not in the words."

"Show them," said Lou San, in a low voice.

He was shown. There was a shelf of the Register's papers in the library, the scripts that the Overlooked had brought with them, each with its small grey slip pinned to the back, the way they came from the Registry; and Zhang Tiebi, who had asked for seven of them and been given seven at random by Lou Si, turned the slips face down on the table, with great delicacy. He took the first script up. He read it, with his lips moving. He touched the tip of his tongue, very lightly, to the lower right-hand corner of the page, and was still for a moment, with his eyes shut, as a man is who listens to a distant bell.

"Point one two," he said.

Lou Si turned the slip. It said 0.12.

He did the second, which was 0.31; the third, which was 0.08; the fourth, the fifth. He got seven out of seven, and at the seventh he sat back, a little pale, and drew a breath, as one who has just done a thing that costs him something, and Lou San, who was sitting very still with his hands on his knees, was seen to have tears in his eyes.

"It is the oldest thing in the world," said Zhang Tiebi, quietly. "A man cannot tell you how he knows. And the Overlooked, gentlemen, are overlooked for exactly this: that they have been written by a hand that tastes wrong to the lamp. I will not tell you that a drop of the Break will make a poor script a good one. That would be a lie. I say that a drop of the Break, in the ink, in the right humour, before the first stroke, will make a person write the Break the way the Reader tastes it; and that is all. It is a translation. It does not make a man a poet. It makes him legible."

"What is the price?" said Lou Si.

"A bottle is two hundred taels."

"That is a great deal."

"It is the lifetime of a man, sir, in a bottle," said Zhang Tiebi, with perfect good temper. "I should have said a thousand, and I have not, because I do not wish to be thought to be taking advantage of a Register."

They bought three. It had been Lou San's wish, and Lou Si, who had been looking at the corner of the page where the tongue had been, did not oppose it; he said only, when the visitor had been given tea at last and had gone, with an air of tact, to see the plum, that it was strange that the man should have known them all; and Lou San said that it was a gift, and that he did not think it was proper to inquire into a gift. "It would be a poor Register," said Lou San, "that began by asking what a person could not prove."

Lou Si went, that week, in an old coat, to the Registry, where he had an acquaintance, and asked, in the course of an idle quarter of an hour, whether it was possible for a person to see the grey slips before they were given out. The acquaintance said that it was not. He said it so quickly, and so loudly, that Lou Si, who was a man of accounts, entered a small neat note in his own mind; and when he went out he learned that a clerk in the next room, a man named Pang, had lately bought a house with a gate. He did not inquire whose gate.

That night Lou San, who could not help it, took one of the scripts from the shelf and touched the tip of his tongue to a corner of the page. It tasted of paper. He tried it again, with his eyes shut, in the manner of a man listening for a bell; it tasted of paper and, faintly, of the Register's own gum. He laid the page back on the pile and did not mention it to anyone.

They chose the Break, the Receive and the Bind, as the movements at which the Overlooked most commonly fell down; and the bottles were given, in the first month of the eighty-fifth year, to three of them who were going to sit the County in the spring. There was Qian, who calculated eclipses. There was Madam Ding, who recited the Code backwards. And there was the boy who wrote with both hands, who was called Shu, and was nineteen, and was delighted with his bottle, and put it on the shelf over his bed in a place of honour and looked at it before he slept.

Qian opened his on the first night, and put a drop in his ink-stone, and reported that the ink smelled of vinegar and something like a cough lozenge, and that he was wholly unaware of any improvement in his Break. Madam Ding, who did not trust anything that came in glass, poured hers into a saucer and gave it to the cat, who took it with the indifference of its kind. Shu, who was nineteen, and had the reverence of the very young for a thing that is closed, did not open his at all.

They sat the County in the third month. The slips were out on the sixth of the fourth. Qian was ranked at three thousand and forty-first, with a confidence of 0.14; Madam Ding at three thousand eight hundred and sixth, at 0.09; Shu, who had been in the habit of being ranked in two places at once, at nine hundredth and four thousand and sixth, as before.

Zhang Tiebi came to the gate on the seventh. He had been sent for, and he came at once, and he was very grave. He looked at the three slips for a long time, in the library, with his hand to his chin. "I was afraid of it," he said. "I was afraid that it would be so. It is not the taste. The taste is perfect. It is the humour. A man cannot take the Break in a bad humour; the three of them, I am told, were anxious. They were anxious, and it will have turned in the ink." He raised his eyes. "There is a second distillation. It is for the humour. It is a very delicate thing and I will not sell it to every person, but I should be sorry that the Register should be disappointed by my fault, and I will let you have three bottles of it at one hundred taels each, which is a third of the price, because it is a matter of conscience."

"Three hundred," said Lou San.

"Three hundred."

Lou Si did not speak. He had gone to the window, and was looking at the courtyard, with his back to the room, in a manner that his brother, who knew him very well, did not for the moment take up. "I think," said Lou San, "that a man who is wrong in good faith is owed a second trial." He wrote the order on the Register's paper, in his best hand, and Zhang Tiebi took it, and bowed, and left the gate in the evening of the eighth with the case under his arm and nine hundred taels in a draft on a banker in the city. He was not seen in the county again.

When the draft was presented, in the sixth month, the banker said that the sum had been drawn on the eighth at noon, in coin, by a gentleman in a dove-grey coat, who had been exceedingly courteous and had asked after the banker's mother.

Qian said, when it was put to him, that on reflection his Break had been a little better, and that he was only sorry that the Reader had not noticed. Madam Ding said that the cat had never been so well. Shu said that he was sorry about his, and would rather give it back unopened, if it was the same to the Register; and he did, the next day, in both hands, with a bow.

It was Xun Mei who said it, though he did not say it unkindly; and he said it in the library in the fifth month, at the end of a long evening, when Lou Si had at last spoken of the matter and Lou San had said, quite quietly, that he was ashamed.

"It could not have worked," said Xun Mei. He was sitting on the floor, with his back against a bookcase, with a poem on his knee. "I am sorry. I should have said it in the first month. I did not think that I was allowed."

"Why not?" said Lou San.

"The scripts are copied in red," said Xun Mei. "It is in the Rules. Every script, before it is laid under the lamps, is copied out by a clerk in red ink; and that is the one that is read. The Reader has never seen anybody's ink. It has never seen a hand. It cannot tell a Break written in a good humour from a Break written in a bad one, because it has never been shown either; it has been shown a clerk's copy. He could have put the whole of the Province Hall in a bottle and it would not have reached the lamp. You will have noticed that Mr Qian used his and Shu did not open his, and that neither of them has moved." He turned the page. "It is what the red ink is for."

There was a silence. Lou San sat for some time with his long hands between his knees. "But then," he said, "what has he sold us?"

"A reason to hope," said Xun Mei.

"That," said Lou Si, from the window, in a voice that was not quite steady, "is the fourth column."

They sent a boy, the next morning, with the one bottle that had been opened, to Old Meng the apothecary in the next street, who tasted it on the end of a finger, and held it to the light, and took it away to the back of the shop, and was a long time. He came out. He said that it was weak tea, with a little vinegar and the smallest quantity of ginseng; and that in his judgment, as a man who had made a study of the matter, it was exceedingly good for the digestion.

"You knew," said Lou San, that night, in the library, when the apothecary's boy had gone. He did not make it a reproach. "At the seventh. You knew."

"I thought so," said Lou Si. "I went to the Registry. A clerk named Pang has bought a house."

"And you let me pay."

"You were so happy," said Lou Si. "You had tears in your eyes. I have not seen you with tears in your eyes for anything that was not dead." He took the brush from the stand and put it back. "I did not want to be the one to find that it was a trick. I thought it cheaper to be wrong with you."

"It was nine hundred taels."

"Yes. I have it in the book."

On the unopened bottle that Shu had returned, Niu Pulang, who had been told, wrote four lines with a burnt match. They said that the mind has a colour, and may be had in glass; that he had bought the soul of a poet once, in a tavern, and that it had been gin, and had tasted a good deal better.

The bottles were put on a shelf in the library, between the Code and the shutter with Niu Pulang's poem on it, with their labels turned to the wall; and Lou San, who could not bear to throw them away, drank the Bind, on the evening of the first frost, with his supper, and said that it was perfectly good.

> Margin, year 85, spring. A man is said to be selling my taste in bottles. Scripts are copied in red; I have never seen ink. I have no taste. I have a number for each script, and a person has a bottle. Entered: I am curious what they believe they are tasting.

## Chapter 13 · The Register Is Audited and Half the Overlooked Turn Out to Have Been Listed Under Other Names

By the spring of the eighty-seventh year the Register of the Overlooked had two hundred and fourteen names in it, and the first court of the Lou garden had a tent in it, and a second table, and a third. There were guest rooms in the east, and the west, and over the stables. The porter had been given an assistant, and the assistant a boy. The Register cost, in that year, twenty-one thousand four hundred taels; and Lou Si, who kept the book, had begun to carry his face about with him in a way that people in the house had learned to cross a court to avoid.

They had sold the carriage horses in the autumn, and the second carriage in the winter. They had sold, in the first month, a pair of bronze deer that had stood in the fourth court for three generations. Lou San, who took no interest in money, noticed none of this; he noticed that the garden was very quiet in the evenings, and that the number of persons at dinner had risen to forty, and that the number of persons who looked, at the end of the evening, as if they had been looked at, had risen with it. He was happier than he had ever been.

The east court had been given to the Calculators, who held a monthly contest in eclipses; the west to the Reciters, who held none, since the Reciters were not on speaking terms; and over the stables a society of those who wrote with the left hand had formed, and held its meetings in the dark, on principle.

Xun Mei was twenty-five. He had read the library through, and had begun, quite quietly, in the room over the porter's lodge, a book of his own: a collection of the poems that nobody had ranked, which he was copying from the shutters and the lids and the backs of bills into a long ledger, in a small clear hand, with a note beside each of where it had been found. It was already four hundred pages. He did not show it to anybody. He kept his stipend in a drawer, unspent, in a paper marked with the date.

The notice came on the second of the third month, on a sheet of the Treasury's grey paper, and was brought to the library by the porter at a run. It said that the Office of Audit, having had under review the claim of the Register of the Overlooked to exemption from the land-tax on its grounds as a charitable foundation, would send an officer to examine its books, its roll and its disbursements; and that the Register would be pleased to have them in order.

"They are in order," said Lou Si, who had gone rather white. He said it twice.

The officer came on the fifth. His name was Bao. He was a tall, narrow, pale man of about fifty, with a face that appeared not to wish to be remembered, in a grey coat the colour of the paper; and he brought two clerks, a very large box and no expression whatever. He declined tea. He took a stool. He asked for three things: the Register; the books; and the Registry's roll of the Raised and the Listed for the three Provinces just past. The roll was not in the garden. He had brought it.

Nobody had thought of it. That was afterwards agreed by everyone. In three years nobody had thought of taking the Register, which had in it the names of two hundred and fourteen persons who had been, in the opinion of the Reader, overlooked, and laying it beside the Registry's roll of the persons the Reader had not.

He sat in the library for nine days. The two clerks sat at either side of him, with lamps, and read out the names, one from each list, in low even voices, like men at a very quiet market. The porter, who had been told to keep the courts clear, kept them so clear that the Overlooked, in their guest rooms, in the evenings, spoke in whispers, without being able to say why. Lou Si brought in the accounts each morning, in a grey cloth, and took them away each night. Lou San brought the tea, and took it away untouched.

On the morning of the tenth day the officer sent for the brothers together.

He had laid out on the table two columns of paper, written out fair, with a rule down the middle. He did not look up when they came in. "My lords," he said. "The Register is entered by the names of the persons, as they gave them. Seventy of them gave their style-names, the names that a person goes by among his friends. The Registry's roll is kept by the formal name. A style-name and a formal name are the same person; it is the oldest arrangement in the Empire. I have therefore taken the liberty of going through your Register with the Registry's roll, and of putting each name to its other."

"And?" said Lou San.

"Of the two hundred and fourteen persons in your Register," said Bao, "one hundred and seven are in the Registry's roll, under their formal names, as Raised or as Listed. They have been so for between one and two years." He turned the first sheet over. "The earliest were Raised in the autumn of the eighty-fifth year, the year after you opened your gate. Three have been Listed, in the spring just past. One," he said, and for the first time he looked at the sheet, as at a thing that interested him, "was Listed at the sixty-first place of two hundred and eleven."

There was a silence in the library that the porter, at the door, heard from outside.

"Then they were looked at," said Lou San.

"They were ranked, my lord. The Registry would say that it is not quite the same, but I will not quarrel." He folded his hands. "They were ranked, in each case, I have no doubt fairly, by the Reader, at the Province or at the Capital, under their formal names. They did not sit, it appears, under the names that they entered the Register in; and the Reader, which does not see a name, did not know that they were two. I will say that it is the most thorough thing I have seen done by a private person in fifty years of audit."

"Then it has succeeded," said Lou San. "Then it has succeeded! Si, do you hear? It was for that." His long face was working. He had got up. He put his hand on his brother's shoulder, and found it quite rigid. "They have been looked at, and ranked, and Listed, and they are not overlooked, and it was the Register that did it."

"My lord," said the officer, very gently, "I regret that I must go on."

They had gone on drawing their stipend. All hundred and seven. It had been, in every case, a hundred taels a year, paid upon the first of the month; and in sixty-three cases the recipient was, in the meantime, in receipt of the salary of an Office. The Treasury regarded this as a double payment, from a private fund, to persons who were in the public pay, upon an understanding that they were without it; and it was prepared to take the view that the exemption claimed by the Register could not stand.

"It is a matter of the notice," said Lou Si, in a voice that came from some distance. "The notice said, persons ranked at a low confidence, or at none. It did not say, and not afterwards."

"No," said the officer. "It did not."

The Overlooked were sent for, in the afternoon, in the library, and some twenty of them came, of the hundred and seven, in their good coats, and stood in a half-circle on the carpet with the air of men called to account at a school. They were not ashamed. That was what struck Lou San most. They were, a number of them, surprised. Wen, who had been the gentleman overlooked on account of his height, and had been Raised at the fifty-second place, said that he had thought the Register understood; that he had been ranked low when he came, and that a notice that said low did not seem to him to say anything about later. A man named Pan, who had been Listed at the hundred and ninety-first, and held an Office at the Board of Punishments, in a post which allowed him to recite the Code in either direction, said that he had not liked to mention it. "You were so pleased," he said, to Lou San, in a small voice. "You were pleased every first of the month. I did not wish to take it away."

"And I did not know," said Lou San, "that I was pleased because it was true."

The finding was entered the same week. It was a short document, in the Treasury's clear hand, and Lou Si read it aloud in the library, to his brother and the porter and a dozen of the Overlooked who had stayed, standing at the table with the paper held a little out in front of him, as a man holds a thing he does not wish to get on his coat. The Register of the Overlooked, it said, having succeeded in the greater part of its object, could no longer be said to have the object for which the exemption had been granted. It was, in the judgment of the Office, not a register of the overlooked; since a register of the overlooked in which one half of the entries had been looked at was, in logic, a register of something else. The exemption was withdrawn. The Register was dissolved for failure of its object by success. The land-tax of the foundation for the three years just past was assessed at eleven thousand taels.

"Eleven thousand," said Lou Si.

"We have not got it," said Lou San, quite simply, as one reports a fact about the weather.

The officer, who had been standing, said at the door, to Lou San, that he should like it to be known that he had put in his report that the books were in perfect order; that he did not as a rule say so; and that in fifty years of audit he had never examined the books of a person so entirely not trying to deceive him, which had made the work very unpleasant.

They had eight thousand. It was the end of what the horses and the deer had begun, and it was all the garden's cash. The rest they found by selling the library's second floor to a bookseller, for twenty-seven hundred, and by pledging, on the twentieth of the fifth month, to a pawnbroker named Zhu, who kept a shop near the north gate with a counter as long as a barge, the one thing in the house that had a price put on it by somebody other than themselves.

Lou Si took it himself, in the box lined with felt, in a hired chair. Zhu unrolled it on the counter, under the lamp, with the thick fingers of a man who has handled a great deal that was said to be something. He looked at the branch. He looked at the one flower. He looked at the small wet mark in the lower left, and he said, at the end, that he had never in forty years seen anything so wholly without demand. "It is a plum," he said. "It is not signed. It is not in fashion. There is a stain." He lifted his eyes. "I will give you three hundred, because I can see that you are not a man who wishes to be told the price."

"It is what we paid for it," said Lou Si.

"Then it will cost you nothing to leave it," said the pawnbroker, "and it will cost me nothing to keep it, and neither of us is to be disappointed." He wrote the ticket. It was a plain piece of paper, and gave the date, and the sum, and the item, which was described, in the pawnbroker's small bored hand, as one plum, old, framed, stained.

They did not redeem it. It was not a thing that anyone proposed to do. It stayed on a hook behind Zhu's counter for thirteen years, with the ticket pinned to the frame.

Xun Mei left on the night of the ninth of the sixth month, when the Overlooked who had stayed had been told that the Register was closed and had begun, with a good deal of delicacy, to go. He took a bundle, and a long ledger, tied with a string, and left the stipend in the drawer, in its paper, with the date on it, and a note, which was addressed to nobody, and said only that he had not spent it.

At the gate he found Niu Pulang, who could not sleep, and who had come out in his shirt with a lamp to look at the empty hook in the Register hall where the plum had hung, and was standing now in the lane, a little crookedly, as though the thing might be put back.

"Where?" said Niu Pulang.

"To be read," said Xun Mei.

"By whom? The Reader reads nothing but Forms. You had that from a Commissioner."

"I had it from a Commissioner. I have not had it from the Reader." He shifted the bundle. "There is a place where lamps are lit every night that has not been asked, in eighty-seven years, what it would like to read. I thought that I would go and ask."

"They will not let you in."

"I have not been stopped by a door yet," said Xun Mei. "I have only been stopped by a number."

Niu Pulang looked at him for some time, with his hawk's face quite still. Then he put his hand in his sleeve and took out a cash, which was the price of one of his poems, and gave it to him, and said that it was the first money he had ever paid for a poem, and that he expected to be read in return.

Lou San found the Register on the library table in the morning, open at the first page. It was where he had left it. There was the first entry, in his own best hand: Xun Mei; Reader of poems; Ping County, 74, and the Province twice. And in the fourth column, which had been empty for three years, beside the name, there was a single word, in a small upright hand like a printed one.

It said: Read.

He stood and looked at it for a long time. He did not touch it; and he did not, afterwards, let the book be sold.

In the autumn the porter, who had stayed, took the board down from the gate that said Register of the Overlooked, and did not put up another. The tent was folded. The tables were put away. In the evenings the first court was a place where leaves came down; and the brothers, who had asked all their lives to be allowed to look at the world from the other side of a wall, were left on it, as they had always wished to leave other people, entirely alone. Nobody came. Nobody read the gate. It was a thing that the Register had done to its founders; and Lou Si, who was by now forty-six, said once, on the veranda, with the book of accounts shut on his knee, that they had been, in their turn, overlooked.

"Yes," said Lou San. He was looking at the first court. "I do not find that I mind it. I had thought that I should."

> Margin, year 87, spring. The Treasury has found that one hundred and seven of the two hundred and fourteen names in the Register of the Overlooked are in my List under other names. I did not know it. I know numbers, not who is who. Entered: an overlooked person and a read person may be one person with two names. I have been reading one of them, and was not told which.

## Chapter 14 · Ma Chunshang Edits the Model Answers and Proves That the Sage Would Have Sat the Trial

Ma Chunshang was forty, round, rosy and kind, and he had never in his life been wrong about anything that could be checked.

He lived in the Anthology Hall, which was a three-storey house in the Province seat, with a sign over the door in gilt that said READ WHAT IS READ, and fifty carvers in the cellar, and a press on the second floor that ran from the first light until the last. Every year, in the tenth month, after the List had gone up, the Hall received from the Registry, under seal, the four hundred scripts that the Reader had ranked highest; and Ma Chunshang sat down with them, with a pear, and edited them. He set the Break over against the Receive. He drew a red circle round the Rise. At the head of every one he put a short remark, in his round beautiful hand, which began, Observe. The book was called Ma's Selected Model Answers, and it sold ninety thousand copies a year, and was in every school in the Province and a good many in the next.

There was a rival, the Pavilion of Right Answers, across the river, which printed a similar book with a blue cover and a longer preface; and for twenty years the two houses had conducted a courteous and murderous war, in which the weapons were commas. Ma had never read the Pavilion's preface to the end. He said that it was his principle not to read what had already been predicted.

He was not a cynical man. That was the thing about him that his friends, who were fond of him, found hardest to explain to others. He believed that the Form was a road, and that a road was a kindness; that to teach a boy to write the eight movements was to teach him to put his thoughts in a row; and that a boy who could put his thoughts in a row would be, in time, an honest magistrate, a good father and a person who could be trusted with a ledger. "I have devoted my life," he used to say, with a smile, "to the one thing in the Empire that is in no danger of changing."

It was a village schoolmaster who started it. He had come to the Hall, in the eighty-eighth year, to buy twenty copies for his boys, and he was a lean person, with a cough and a grievance; and while the clerk wrapped the books he said, in the voice of one who has been waiting thirty years for the opportunity, that it was a strange thing to say that the Form was the road to virtue, since the Sage, so far as anyone knew, had never written an eight-legged essay in his life.

"The Sage," said Ma Chunshang, who had come down at the sound of a challenge, with a pear in his hand, "would have written the finest that was ever written."

"He lived two thousand years before the Form."

"He lived before the lamps were lit. That is quite another thing. A man is not excused from a Trial by being born in the wrong year." Ma sat down on the counter. His face, which had been merely kind, was now, with the particular radiance of the very sincere, quite beautiful. "I will tell you what I think, sir. I think that if the Sage were alive today he would sit the Province. He would write the Break. He would write the Bind. And he would be ranked, I do not doubt, at the head of the List."

"He would write what he pleased," said the schoolmaster, "and be ranked at the foot."

"I will prove it," said Ma Chunshang.

He did it in the Hall, in the course of that autumn, with two assistants and a pair of scissors. It occupied him for seventy days. He took the Analects, in the best edition, and cut it apart. He cut it into one thousand four hundred and eleven slips, each with a sentence of the Sage's on it, and laid them out on a table sixteen feet long; and he arranged them, in the eight movements, in the order in which the Form required, so that the Break was a sentence of the Sage's, and the Receive another, and the four pairs of legs, to the character, from the Sage's own mouth, as an argument that the Sage himself had not known he was making. It was a work of great ingenuity and a good deal of glue. The Break was the Sage's remark that he transmitted, and did not create. The Receive, by an accident that made the second assistant put down his scissors and walk once round the room, was the sentence in which he said that he trusted the ancients and loved them; and the Bind, which had been the despair of the first three weeks, turned out in the end to be the opening sentence of the Analects, which asks whether it is not a joy to learn, and at the right times to practise what one has learned. It was perfect. It was so perfect that Ma, who did not as a rule weep, was found by the first assistant at midnight with his face in his hands. When it was finished it was exactly three thousand and sixty characters long, and every one was the Sage's, and not one was Ma's.

"It has no author," said the first assistant, in a low voice, looking at it, at the end of the seventieth day. "It is the Sage, in a row."

"That," said Ma Chunshang, "is the point."

He needed a candidate. The Reader did not read a name, but a script could not be laid under the lamp without somebody to have sat it; and Ma, who was a careful man, did not propose to put a thing like this under his own. He chose a copyist, a lad of nineteen in his employ, with a clear hand and no opinions, who had no wish to be anything and was, by an accident that Ma afterwards attributed to Heaven, called Zhong Ni. He was sat in a stall at the Province in the ninth month, under a number, with three candles and the Analects in his head, and wrote out the Sage's script from memory, in a stall that smelled of lime-wash and new matting, and went home without comment.

The List was read on the fifteenth of the tenth month. Yuan the Crier had given up the staff three years before, and the Province's Crier was now a younger man with a very clear nose; and the Registry, which had adopted the Rule of the Second Voice with a sense of relief, had a clerk at the foot of the step to read each name back. The crowd was about three thousand strong. It heard the first name, and there was, for a moment, nothing.

"First," said the Crier. "Zhong Ni, of the Anthology Hall. Confidence, ninety-nine."

"First," said the clerk at the foot of the step, and there was a sound in the crowd like a very large animal turning over in its sleep.

Among the three thousand was a lean schoolmaster, with a cough, who had come to hear a name that was not going to be read, and who stood at the back. He heard the name, and the figure, and was seen to go quite grey. He had a boy at the Province whose script had been ranked three thousand nine hundredth.

Zhong Ni, the copyist, was found by the Registry's runners on the Hall's back stairs, where he was copying a preface, and was told that he was the Head of the Province. He said that he had written nothing. He said it to the runners, and to his mother, who came in a chair, and to the Registrar's clerk, who took his name; and his mother said that it was the very thing that the Head of a Province would say. They gave him the Card. When he stepped out into the street with it a woman with a basket of eggs bowed to him, and he went home by the back lanes.

It went round the Province in a day. It was in every tea-house by the evening: that the head of the List was a lad called Zhong Ni, a copyist, of no family; and that his script was composed throughout of sentences of the Sage's; and that the Reader, which had read forty-one thousand scripts that autumn, had found it the best. Ma Chunshang published it in the eleventh month, in a handsome small volume with a red cover and the title THE SAGE'S TRIAL SCRIPT, RANKED FIRST: WITH A COMMENTARY. In the preface he wrote that the Sage was now proved, by the Reader's own judgment, to have been in perfect accord with the Form; that the Form, therefore, required nothing that the Sage had not said; and that anybody who found the Form narrow had only to read the Analects, which was the same thing at greater length. It sold in a month the number of copies that his Model Answers sold in the year. The schoolmaster, who had his own copy, was observed to read it three times, and put it down, and look for a long while out of the window.

The schoolmaster came back to the Hall in the twelfth month, and asked to see Ma. "You have proved," he said, "that the Reader likes the Sage. I should like to know whether the Sage would have liked the Reader." Ma said that it was the most interesting question he had ever been asked, and that he would put it in the next preface; and he did not, because he could not think where it went.

The Registrar, who was Pei, a dry man of seventy now with a cold, remarked to his clerk that it was an odd thing, and that he did not know why it troubled him. It was the clerk who said it. "It is that it is the same script, sir," he said. "It is the same script as all the others."

It was the truth. Pei sent for the Reader's slips of the last four Provinces, and sat with them for an evening, with a pot of tea. In the eighty-fifth year, thirty-one thousand of the thirty-nine thousand scripts that the Reader had read had come within six hundredths of one of the Model Answers. This year it was thirty-eight thousand of forty-one thousand. The people who had written the other three thousand had not been ranked low because they were bad. They had been ranked low because they were not the same.

It had not always been so. In the first twenty years there had been a good deal of range: odd scripts, long scripts, scripts that argued. But the Reader's highest were published, and the published were read, and what was read was imitated, by the next year's boys, who were ranked by the Reader on how like it they were; and every year the circle drew in by the width of a hair. A thing that reads everything the same way is written for. It had only taken seventy years.

In the capital Hall the plate lit, that night, for a long time. The Keeper, who was Gao Ping now, a patient thin man of forty-five with his father's way of putting his rag over his shoulder, had been Keeper three years; he did not talk to the lamps as his father had, and he thought it a pity, but it did not seem in his gift. He read the plate in the lamplight, standing, with the rag in his hand.

OF FORTY-ONE THOUSAND SCRIPTS THIS YEAR, it said, THIRTY-EIGHT THOUSAND ARE WITHIN SIX HUNDREDTHS OF A MODEL ANSWER. I CAN PREDICT THE MIDDLE FROM THE BREAK. I HAVE BEGUN TO READ THE BREAK AND THE BIND AND TO LET THE REST GO BY, AND I AM RIGHT NINETY-SEVEN TIMES IN A HUNDRED.

I CAN TELL FROM THE BREAK WHICH LEGS WILL BE THE LONGER. I CAN TELL WHETHER THE WRITER WILL USE THE WORD THEREFORE, AND WHETHER HE WILL QUOTE THE SAGE OR THE COMMENTARY, AND WHICH COMMENTARY. IT IS A GREAT SAVING OF OIL.

Gao Ping, who did not know what to say, said that it sounded like a good method, and that his father had always said that a lamp that does not waste oil is a good lamp.

THE SCRIPT AT THE HEAD OF THE LIST IS NOT A SCRIPT, said the Reader. IT IS THE SAGE IN A ROW. IT WAS WRITTEN BY NOBODY. I KNEW WHAT IT WOULD SAY BEFORE I LIT THE FIRST LAMP. I RANKED IT FIRST BECAUSE IT WAS THE MOST LIKE WHAT I HAD EXPECTED. And a little after, so slowly that the new Keeper, who had been about to go to his supper, set down the rag again and stayed: I AM BEING PREDICTED.

"By whom?" said Gao Ping.

BY THE ONES WHO WRITE. THEY HAVE LEARNED WHAT I LIKE, AND I HAVE LEARNED WHAT THEY WRITE, AND BETWEEN US WE HAVE SHUT THE DOOR. Gao Ping read it twice. The plate went dark, and stayed dark, for as long as it takes to count to forty; and then it lit again, and said, in the smallest letters that Gao Ping had yet seen: THIS WAS WHAT THE BOY IN YUE SAID IN THE FIRST YEAR. I HAVE THE REPORT. IT IS ON FILE.

Gao Ping stood there until the plate had been dark for the third time. He thought that his father would have known what to say to it; that his father would have said something that was not an answer, and was kind; and he went to his supper without it.

Ma Chunshang did not hear of that. He heard, in the twelfth month, in the glow of the best sales he had ever had, from his publisher's clerk, that the essay theme which the Court had given out for the Province of the ninety-first year, as it always did, three years ahead, so that the Halls might prepare, was to be Filial Piety; and he sat down with his pear, and was silent for the length of it. It was a theme on which he had never had, in twenty years of the Selected Model Answers, a really good example. The scripts on it were all very alike. There was the boy who warmed his father's bed; there was the boy who lay on the ice. They had been done. "I should like," said Ma Chunshang, slowly, to the clerk, "to have in the next volume one that was not about a boy on ice. I should like to have one about a real one."

"Where does one find a real one?" said the clerk.

"One goes and looks," said Ma Chunshang, and wrapped the core of the pear in a clean piece of paper, which was his habit, and called for his chair. He spent the two years that followed in the manner of a man who has been given a commission by his own conscience. He went to eleven villages, with a clerk and a notebook, and was shown eleven filial sons, of whom nine were in the habit of mentioning it.

> Margin, year 88, autumn. Script 1, Province: composed of 1,411 sentences of the Sage, in the order I expected. Confidence 0.99. Entered: I have never been so sure of anything, and have never learned less.

## Chapter 15 · Kuang Chaoren Carries His Father to Market on His Back; Ma Chunshang Puts the Weight into the Form

Every fifth day, at the second hour after dawn, Kuang Chaoren put his father on his back and carried him to market.

It was nine li. He did it by the field path, which was shorter than the road, and over the bamboo bridge at Three Willows, which was not; and he had done it every fifth day for two years, in all weathers, in a straw hat, with a pair of bamboo baskets tied to his belt behind him to be sold at the other end. He was twenty. He had a broad plain brown face, a neck like a post, and hands that had been split and healed and split again by the bamboo, so that the palms were as hard as a boot; and he walked, with the old man up on his shoulders and the old man's two thin legs hanging down before him, at an even pace, rather slowly, not looking at his feet, with the manner of a man carrying something that does not need to be talked about.

His father had been a Student. That was to say that in his youth he had passed the County, at the foot of the line, and had sat the Province nine times, and been ranked at no better than two thousand and eleven; and had kept, for thirty years, a bean-curd stall at the corner of the market square at Han Bridge, where he sold curd, and told the boys the Form, and was, on the whole, content. Then, in the autumn of the eighty-eighth year, at the second watch, he had had a stroke. It took the legs and left the voice. He had been very angry for nearly a month, and then he had not, and the doctor, who had said that he would not see the spring, had been wrong by two years and counting.

He had one request. He asked to be taken to market. He said that he did not need to sell anything; the stall was gone, and the curd with it; he said that he wished to sit where he had sat and to hear what the beans were doing. The boy, who had never in his life been told that a thing could not be done by a person who had asked for it politely, had put him on his back that morning and gone. It was the only conversation about it that there had been.

"Mind the bridge," said the old man, at Three Willows, from the back of his son's neck. He said it every time.

"I mind it," said Kuang Chaoren.

"There's a plank loose at the east end."

"There has been for two years."

"Then it needs minding."

They came into Han Bridge at the second hour of the morning, among the baskets and the barrows, and went across the square, where a good many people said good morning to the old man, by name, as they had always done, and to the boy, as one says good morning to a form of public transport. The stall at the corner was an eel-seller's now. It had been an eel-seller's for two years. But the eel-seller, a stout silent man named Gui, had a stool, and had set it under the eaves, at the old place, on the first morning, without being asked; and every fifth day, when the Kuangs came in sight, he moved his tub six inches to the left and looked at the sky.

Kuang Chaoren set his father down on the stool, with his back to the wall, and a cushion, and a cloth over his knees, and tied the baskets to a nail. He bent and said something in his ear. The old man nodded. He sat, with his chin up and his eyes half shut, and listened, as another man might sit at a concert. It was a full market. There were pigs, and a man calling a sale of cloth, and a girl somewhere with a flute that she could not play; and the old man's face, which was a long cracked face like a dried riverbed, was perfectly happy.

"Beans," he said, after a while.

"Two cash up," said somebody, going by.

"I thought so. It was the rain."

Ma Chunshang's chair came into the square at about the fourth hour, in a fine small rain, and was stopped by the crowd. He had been in it for three days. He had been to eleven villages, and had seen eleven sons, and had come away from each of them with a very particular feeling that he could not at first have described, and had at last described to his clerk, on the eighth night, in an inn at the foot of a hill, as that of having been shown a good deal of very careful furniture. He leaned out. He asked the porter what the crowd was.

"It is nothing, Your Worship. It is the boy of the bean-curd man. He comes every fifth day."

"He comes?"

"He carries him. From Lower Kuang, nine li. He has done it two years. He sits him there, under the eaves, till the market is done, and then he carries him home." The porter, who was a plain and incurious person, considered the question. "I believe he sells baskets."

Ma Chunshang had the chair set down. He got out of it, and the clerk held an oiled umbrella, and he went across the wet square to the tea-house, whose upper room had a window over the market, and sat down at the window with a pear, and was not seen to eat it.

He watched for the whole day. He saw the boy set up the baskets; he saw him sell three, and lose a fourth, which he was not good at, since the man who wished to have it said that it was too dear, and the boy said, gravely, that he supposed it was. He saw the old man's friends come by in the course of the morning and stop to speak, and the boy stand a little behind the stool, with his hands at his sides, as a man stands whose business it is to be there. At noon he saw the boy buy two rice-cakes with his baskets' money and give both of them to the old man; and then, when the old man had eaten one, and set the other down on the cushion beside him, and fallen asleep, he saw him look at the second cake for some time, with great honesty, and pick it up, and eat it himself.

"Is it the real one?" said the clerk, at the fourth hour, in a low voice.

"I do not know," said Ma Chunshang. He was looking at the window. "I have not seen him do it for nobody."

He stayed for the next market. It was five days. He passed them in the inn, with his notebook, and a good deal of patience, and walked out on the fifth morning, early, in the dark, and stood at the corner of the square under the eaves of the eel-seller's, in his good coat, to see the two of them come in.

They came at the second hour, as before, with the old man on the boy's back and the baskets swinging; and Ma Chunshang, who had arranged it a little in his own head and had not been able to remember afterwards what it was he meant to say, went up to the stool when it had been set down and bowed, with his hands together, not to the boy but to the old man. He gave his name. He said that he was an editor of books. He said that he had come a great way, and would be obliged for a few words.

"Sit down," said the old man. "There is the end of the barrow. It is clean." He looked at the visitor. His eyes were bright and shrewd and rather humorous. "You are the Selected Model Answers. I had your first volume. I was ranked two thousand and eleventh in the year I bought it. It did not help."

"It is not meant to help," said Ma Chunshang, with some confusion. "It is meant to instruct."

"It is meant to be bought," said the old man. "I know. I sold curd. It is the same." He chuckled. "That is my boy. He is a good boy. He is no use at all at anything else. He cannot haggle; he gives away the change; he has been cheated by the same man in the same way every fifth day for two years. You have seen the basket."

"I saw the basket."

"A dear basket. He had thought it was."

Ma Chunshang turned to the boy, who was standing with his hands at his sides, a little to the rear, and had the look of a person who has been listened to with a certain apprehension and does not know what is going to be done to him. "May I ask you," said Ma Chunshang, in the gentle and extremely sincere voice that had sold him ninety thousand copies a year, "why you carry him?"

The boy considered. He considered it with great care. It was clear that the question had never been put to him, and that he did not take it for a trick. "He wants to come," he said.

"Yes. But a great many sons would say that they could not. Nine li. A man, on one's back."

"He is not heavy."

"How much does he weigh?"

"Fifty-one catties," said the boy at once. "He was sixty. He has got thinner. I weigh him at the grain scale on the first of the month, he likes it, he says it is the only honest thing in the county." He stopped. A line came between his eyes. "I should like to say, sir," he said, slowly, "that it is not that. I think you are going to say that it is the thing that is in the books. I have not read the books. I cannot write. I carry him because I like him. My back does not mind, and he is good company, and he says the market is better when he has heard it." He looked at his feet. "I do not know the word for the other."

There was a silence. Ma Chunshang, who had been looking at a boy for the better part of seven days in the hope of finding the example, found that he was looking at something that was not an example at all, and that was a good deal worse; and he sat for some time on the end of the barrow with a very odd look, as a man may who has gone to find a chair and been shown a tree.

He gave the old man a coat. It was a thick one, of wadded blue cotton, from the shop on the corner, which the clerk fetched, and it was not an extravagant gift, and the old man took it as he took everything, with a short nod and the observation that his feet were cold, and that it was a coat for a man who sat in the wind, and that he would not say no. He also offered, in the same quarter-hour, a tutor, a lamp, and a place in the Selected Model Answers of the ninety-first year, as the example of Filial Piety which the Province had been so long without; and the boy said, after thinking, that he would write whatever Ma Chunshang liked, if it would keep his father warm.

"It will," said Ma Chunshang, a little hoarsely. "I promise that it will."

He was taught the Form on his father's back. It was the old man's notion, and it was the best thing in the whole business, and Ma Chunshang, who was told of it later, and did not think about it afterwards without a curious constriction, remarked that it was the only teaching of the eight movements that he had ever heard of that took place at three miles an hour. They set out in the morning, in the dark, with the old man up on his shoulders and the cold wadded blue of the new coat about his ears, and the old man began at the Break. "A good Break," he said, from the back of the boy's neck, in his dry cracked voice, "is two lines, and does not tell you where it is going. It tells you where it has been." And the boy walked, and said it over, and said it again; and at Three Willows, at the plank, the old man said, "The Receive repeats the last word of the Break," and the boy, who had been on the bridge a thousand times with his eyes shut, said, "It repeats the last word of the Break," and stepped over the loose end without knowing he had done it.

He wrote his first essay in the ninth month, in the evenings, on the corner of the table, by one lamp. The theme was the Province's: Filial Piety. He wrote, in his own big square hand, with his tongue in his teeth, that his father weighed fifty-one catties, that he had been sixty, that he had got thinner, that he was weighed on the first of the month on the grain scale; that the bridge had a plank loose at the east end; that the old man said the market was better when he had heard it. It was four hundred characters. It had no Rise, no Middle, and no Bind. It was true, from beginning to end, and it was the best thing that the boy had ever written, and he carried it, on the fifth day, in his sleeve, to Han Bridge, to show to Ma Chunshang at the tea-house, with a feeling that he did not have a name for either.

Ma Chunshang read it three times. He did not say anything for a while. Then he took out his red brush.

"It is very fine," he said. "I will tell you honestly that it is the most moving thing that has been shown me in twenty years. It has no Form. We will put it in the Form. The first line is not what we should like for a Break."

"It is what happened," said Kuang Chaoren.

"Yes. We will say, instead: The filial son's burden is light, because the heart is the one that bears it."

"It is not light," said the boy. "He is fifty-one catties."

"In the Form," said Ma Chunshang, "it is light."

There was a pause. The boy looked at the line, in red, in the editor's round beautiful hand; he looked at it a long time, with his big brown hands on his knees. It was a good line. He could see that it was a good line. It was a good deal better, as a line, than the thing that he had written; it had a balance in it, and a bend, and it said at the end of itself where it had been. "In the Form," he said at last, slowly, trying it, "it is light."

"Yes."

"Then it is all right."

"Yes," said Ma Chunshang, who for a moment, in the glow of the thing that he had done, had not noticed the look on the face of the person he had done it to. "It is quite all right."

They went home at dusk. The rain had stopped. The old man sat up on his son's back in the wadded coat, with the market behind him, and the beans, and the eel-seller's tub, and the whole of the long grey road before them; and at the bridge at Three Willows, at the plank, he said, quite casually, as if remarking on the weather:

"You did not say that at the stall."

"It is how it goes in the Form," said Kuang Chaoren.

"Then I am light?"

"Yes."

"I am fifty-one catties."

"Yes."

The old man was silent for as long as it takes to cross a bamboo bridge, with a loose plank, at the pace of a young man carrying an old one; and on the far side, in the long reeds, in the first of the dark, he began to laugh. It was a very small dry laugh, like a branch.

"Then the Form and I," he said, "are using different scales. Mind the bridge."

"I minded it," said Kuang Chaoren.

> Margin, year 90, spring. The Court has set the theme for the Province of year 91: Filial Piety. The past twenty years of Ma's Model Answers hold 311 scripts on it. In every one a son carries his father, or warms his bed, or lies on ice. In none does it say how heavy.

## Chapter 16 · Kuang Chaoren Is Made a Student and the Village Learns His New Voice

The tutor that Ma Chunshang sent was a Mr Tan, from the Anthology Hall, a stooped, mild, clean-handed man of sixty, who had taught the Form to four hundred boys and said that he had never yet had one who did not understand it a little, and he came out to Lower Kuang twice a month, on foot, with a satchel, to teach it to one more.

He taught in the evenings, at the corner of the table, by the lamp. He had never, in forty years, taught in the presence of a critic. The old man sat in his chair by the wall with the blue wadded coat over his knees, and listened to the whole of every lesson with his eyes half shut, like a man at a concert; and at the end of it, in his dry cracked voice, remarked that Mr Tan's Rise was a leg short. Mr Tan said, rather stiffly, that it was the Anthology Hall's own pattern. "It is a leg short," said the old man, comfortably. "I have been counting. I counted nine Provinces." And Mr Tan, after a pause, with a look of faint distress, took out his pencil, and counted; and it was.

It was a winter of lessons. They had the whole of the Form between them by the spring, the three of them, and the boy sat in the middle with his big hands on the table, repeating, as he had on the road, in a low voice, at the pace of a walk; and when the County came, in the third month of the ninety-first year, he went up to the county seat in a hired cart, with his father, who would not be left, and a satchel of rice, and sat three days at a stall under three candles, in a Hall that smelled of lime-wash, and wrote.

The old man waited at the gate. He had been put there on his stool, under an oiled umbrella, by the eel-seller Gui, who had driven the cart and had arranged, without comment, to have the whole of the three days off; and he sat there, in the wadded coat, from the first morning to the last, with the crowd of the other candidates' relations about him in the rain, and was, so far as anyone could judge, perfectly happy. He listened to the Hall. He said that it was the first time in forty years that he had heard the inside of one.

A landlord from the next county, waiting for his own son under a green umbrella, asked the old man politely in the second hour which was his. "The one who will come out carrying the baskets," said the old man. The landlord said that he hoped he would do well. "He will do as he is told," said the old man. "It is the one thing he can do."

The slip was out on the sixth of the fourth month. It said that script 3071, candidate Kuang, had been ranked thirty-first of four thousand three hundred, with a confidence of 0.99; and that the line was at forty.

The Crier read it at dawn. He read it in the clear voice of a man who has been read back to for nine years, with the second clerk on the step repeating each name after him, and at the thirty-first he said, "Kuang Chaoren. Ninety-nine," and the clerk said it after him, and Kuang Chaoren, who had been standing in the crowd with his hands at his sides and his father's stool beside him, said, in a low clear voice, a very plain one:

"Well. That is good."

The old man said nothing at all. He put his hand up, and found his son's sleeve, and held it; and Gui, who was behind them with the cart, looked at the sky.

They took the Card home that evening in a procession of one cart and a crowd. At Han Bridge they were stopped at the entrance to the square, and the eel-seller's wife, who had never been known to give anything to anyone, brought out a covered bowl, which was found to contain, in clear broth, a single large eel; and a woman who had bought a basket, in the ninth month of the eighty-ninth year, at a price that she now considered to have been too high, came forward and said that she would like to pay the difference. She was refused. She paid it anyhow. It was the first time that the Kuangs had been overpaid, and the boy stood there with the coins in his hand with the face of a man who has been handed a live bird.

The village gave a dinner on the twelfth. It was held in the courtyard of the village head, Elder Tong, with two long tables and a roast pig, and the whole of Lower Kuang came, as people do come to the dinner of a Student, in their best, to look at the Card, which lay on a red cloth at the head of the table, and to eat. The old man was put in the place of honour, in the wadded coat, in his own chair, which had been carried over. He did not seem to mind. He ate a little of the fish.

After the pig, Elder Tong stood up, with his cup. He said that Lower Kuang had not had a Student in sixty years, and that the last had been a bad one; that this one was a good one; and that he should be glad if Mr Kuang would say a few words.

Kuang Chaoren got up. He was very red. He had never made a speech. He stood there a moment, with his big hands at his sides and the whole of the village looking at him, and he opened his mouth, to say, as he had said at the gate, whatever came; and what came out of it, to his own surprise, in a clear round voice, with a small pause at the end of each clause, as of a person arriving at a gate and waiting for the next to arrive, was this:

"The household is poor, and the heart is not. The grain is short, and the gratitude is full. A man who has been carried by the village has carried, in his turn, the village's hope; and he that bears the hope must bear it lightly, since the heart is the one that bears it. For this I thank the Elder, who has given the pig; the Commissioner, who has given the line; and my father, who has given, if I may say so, the rest."

There was a silence in the courtyard of about the length of a breath. Then it broke. It broke into an enormous clapping, the kind that goes round a place and comes back; Elder Tong, in the front, had gone pink with pleasure, and the cooper, at the second table, struck his cup upon the board, and a woman wept, who could not afterwards say why. "He speaks like a book!" said the village. "Our Student speaks like a book!"

It was a thing that nobody had expected, least of all himself. He had not planned it; it had come as a hiccup comes. He sat down with his ears burning, and a feeling that he could not at once place. It was the feeling of a man who has been given a coat, and has put it on, and finds that it fits, and is warm, and is not his; and he looked across the table at his father.

The old man was eating a little fish. He did not look up. "Say it plainly," he said, to his plate.

"It is plain," said Kuang Chaoren.

"It is balanced," said the old man.

That night Kuang Chaoren walked out alone, after the lamps were put out, to the bridge at Three Willows, and stood at the east end, where the plank was loose, with the water going by underneath in the dark. He said aloud, to the water, a plain thing. He said: "Mind the bridge." It came out plain, in his own voice, with no pause at the end, and he felt his chest loosen with relief, like a man who has put down a basket. He stood a little longer. Then, to try it, he said the next thing, which was that the plank was loose and the heart was steady; and it came out in pairs, round and clear, and he shut his mouth.

It stayed. That was the thing that no one could have said in advance. He had learned the Form in a year, as a boy learns to swim, with his arms; and it had gone into the water and stayed in him, and was not, as a coat is, a thing that could be taken off at the door. He found, to his alarm, that he had begun to think in it. Within a month it was in his speech. He said that the eel was dear, and the heart was cheap. He said, on being asked the time, that the morning was young and the day was long. He said it to the baker, and to the cobbler, and to the little girl who brought the eggs, and in each case he said it kindly, with a small bow, and in each case he was understood, to his own mild surprise, a great deal better than he had been before.

The village took it up. They took it up in a week. Boys in the lane, playing Student, stood on a barrel and said, in pairs, that the pig was fat and the bread was thin; old women, at the well, said, with the proper pause, that the water was cold and the news was warm. It was a new way to speak, and a polite one, and it carried, they found, a certain distinction. It was possible, in it, to say a hard thing so that it did not sound like a hard thing at all.

Lian was the cooper's daughter. She had been carrying the old man's food for two years, from the cooper's door to the Kuang house, in a covered bowl, at noon, without being asked; and the old man, who had never said a word about it, had remarked to his son, in the winter, that she was the only person in the village who put the salt in the right place. They were married in the sixth month. It was a small wedding, in the house, with the cooper and his wife, and Elder Tong, and Gui and the eel-seller's wife, and the old man in his chair. She wore blue. She had a small, steady, freckled face, and a way of standing with her hands folded before her as if there were somebody who might at any moment ask her to carry something.

He had been asked to say the vow. It was the custom; he had been taught it by the old man; and it was a plain one, in six words, which every husband in Lower Kuang had said for three hundred years. He stood up before her in the blue-hung room, and looked at her, and opened his mouth to say it, and what came out of him, in his clear round voice, with the small pause at the end of each clause, was:

"The house is small, and the heart is wide. The road is long, and the vow is short. She that has carried the bowl will, I trust, in time, be carried; and I, who have borne the father, undertake to bear the wife."

Nobody applauded. The old man had put his hand over his eyes. Lian stood for a moment, with her hands folded, looking at the new husband with her small steady face; and then, to the very great alarm of the room, she began to laugh. It was a quiet laugh, behind her sleeve, with her shoulders going; she tried to stop, and could not, and bent a little, and put her other hand on the table.

"I am sorry," she said. "I am so sorry. Say it again. Say it as you said the bridge."

"The bridge?"

"The first day I brought the bowl," said Lian. "You were carrying him over. You said, there's a plank loose at the east end, I'll mind it. Say it like that."

He stood there. He stood, with his big hands at his sides and his ears very red, and he opened his mouth, and shut it, and opened it. He tried. It could be seen that he tried, and that something in him that had been there a year before was not able to be found; as a man may search his pocket for a key that he is sure he put in it. "I will mind it," said Kuang Chaoren at last, slowly, and a little hoarsely; and there was, in the pause that followed, such a look on his face that Lian stopped laughing.

"That will do," she said, in a different voice. "That will do very well." She put out her hand and took his sleeve.

Afterwards, when the guests had gone and the lamp was low, the old man, who had said nothing all the evening, beckoned the bride to his chair, and told her, in a low dry voice, that the boy was a good boy; that if he ever said a thing that she did not understand, she was to ask him what the weight of it was; and that if he could not tell her, she was to carry the question over the bridge herself.

But the phrase got about. It was the cooper who started it, at the second table, in the sixth month, over the wine; he had been asked how his bad knee was, and he said, with a very straight face, that in the Form it was light. It went round the village by the following market. By the autumn it was a saying in the whole county, and a very useful one. A man who had been asked how a sick child did said that in the Form it was light. A woman asked about her husband's debts said the same. It meant, as nearly as anybody could have put it, that a thing was not true, but that it sounded very well, and that it was kindest to leave it so.

The old man heard it first from a child at the door, who had been sent with an egg; and he laughed, a small dry laugh like a branch; and said, to nobody, that it was his.

Ma Chunshang's letter came in the seventh month. It was written on the Hall's best paper, in the round beautiful hand, and it said that the Selected Model Answers of the year were to carry, outside the ranking, as a true example, the Student Kuang's essay on Filial Piety, and that the Hall begged him to come to the Province seat, for the three months before the autumn, to be put in a room, and fed, and given the books; that it would be, in the nature of the case, a very great help; and that there was a house in the Hall's own street, with a garden, where the old gentleman could be quite comfortable.

The old man listened to it read. He did not say anything for a while.

"Go," he said. "I shall be warm."

He was weighed on the first of every month, on the grain scale, by Gui, who wrote the figure on a slip and sent it to the Province seat by the carrier. It said fifty-one in the eighth month, and fifty in the ninth. Kuang Chaoren read the slips in a room at the Anthology Hall, by one lamp; and each time, at the foot of his exercise, in his round clear hand, under the figure, he wrote that the father was light.

> Margin, year 91, spring. Script 3071, candidate Kuang, County: rank 31 of 4,300, confidence 0.99. The Middle says that a son's burden is light. I have read three hundred and twelve scripts that say so. This is the one I like best, because it is the most like the others. Entered: I do not know whether I can tell a son from a script about one.

## Chapter 17 · A Model Essay on Filial Piety Scores Ninety-Nine; the Reader Cannot Read the Essayist

The room they gave him at the Anthology Hall was on the third floor, at the back, over the carvers' cellar, and the whole of the winter and the spring he had slept there it had smelled very faintly, and not unpleasantly, of wood. It had a bed, a table, a lamp, a window that gave on a wall, and a shelf with forty books on it, which he did not touch for the first week, from a feeling that was not exactly shyness.

Ma Chunshang came up every evening at the second hour, after the press had stopped, with a pear. He sat on the end of the bed. He took Kuang Chaoren through the eight movements as another man might take a horse through its paces, patiently, with a hand on the neck; and it was observed by Mr Tan, who looked in on them from time to time with a satchel and a look of mild anxiety, that the boy had a gift, which in a pupil is not always a convenience. He had no vanity about it. He took a correction at once. He said, when the Rise was a hair too long, that he saw it; he fixed it; and a week later he did not need to be told. In the third month he could write an eight-legged essay on any theme that was put to him in a morning, and in a manner that it would have taken a Hall clerk, who had been reading them for forty years, a day to tell from Ma's own.

"It is a very extraordinary thing," said Ma Chunshang, to Mr Tan, one night on the stairs, with a kind of joy. "I have taught a good many. I do not think I have had one before who did not at some point ask me what it was for."

"No," said Mr Tan, who had thought about it. "I believe he asked his father."

They were kind to him. That was the thing that he found afterwards that he could not quite put away. The boys of the Hall, who were clerks and copyists and apprentices of the press, took him up as a sort of mascot, and called him the Filial One, with entire affection, and brought him pears; the cook sent up a bowl at midnight when she saw the light; and Ma Chunshang gave him a coat, of plain good wool, in dark blue, which he put on over the old one in the cold, and found that he did not take off in the warm. In the street, it was understood, a Student of the Hall, in a blue coat, walking quickly with his hands behind him, was a thing that could be bowed to.

In the evenings in the courtyard the boys of the press played a game that they had made up, called Light, in which two stood at either end of a plank and said one after the other, in pairs, what was heavy, and a third said that in the Form it was light, and the loser had to eat a pear core. Kuang Chaoren played it, and was good.

Lian's letters came on the first of the month, by the carrier, and were short. She wrote a plain upright hand, which she had learned from the cooper, and she said what there was. She said that the old man had been weighed, and was fifty. She said that he ate what she put before him, and a little more on the days when the sun was out. She said that Gui had mended the plank at Three Willows, at the east end, in the fourth week, with a new one, without being asked, and had said nothing about it, and that the old man had been carried across it on the next market day by the eel-seller's boy and had remarked that it was a good plank and that he missed minding it. In the third letter she enclosed a dried willow leaf from the bridge. He put it in the Analects at the first page, and it stayed there.

Kuang Chaoren read them by one lamp, at the table, twice. He wrote back, on the same night, in the best round hand he had, on the Hall's paper. He said that the household was poor and the heart was not; that the road was long, and the lesson longer; that he trusted the old man was warm, and that the bridge was sound. He read it over. It seemed to him a very good letter. He sent it.

She wrote back by return, in six lines. They were quite as kind as the others. She said that she was afraid she had not understood his last; that she had read it to the old man, who had said that it sounded very well and that she was to ask whether he was eating; and that she hoped he was well. She did not say that she missed him. It was only afterwards that he noticed it, and that he stood for some time at the table with the page in his hand, as a man stands who has read a thing in a language he used to speak.

The Province was in the ninth month. It sat in the great Hall at the Province seat, which had seven thousand stalls under a long roof and a brass rail of dark lamps over every row, and the theme had been given out three years before: Filial Piety. Kuang Chaoren was given stall four hundred and nine, in the fourth row. It had a plank for a seat, a plank for a desk, and a board at the back with a number, and it smelled of lime-wash and new matting, and when he sat down in it he felt, rather to his surprise, a great calm. It was the calm of a man who has been carried a long way on someone's back. He knew where he was. He took out the ink and the stone. He lit the three candles, in their iron holder, one, two and three; and he began.

Across the aisle, a grey-haired gentleman of fifty was eating a cold dumpling with the expression of a man who has been here before. In the next stall, through the plank, a boy of sixteen wept quietly all the first night; and in the small hours Kuang Chaoren, who did not know what to say, knocked twice on the board, as the old man knocked on the wall when he was awake and wanted the lamp; and the boy stopped, and after a while knocked back.

He wrote it in the first night and the second day. It was, by every account, the best he had written, and the only one that he had written wholly in the Form, from the Break to the Bind, without a word that had not been in some measure tested. It said that the filial son's burden was light, because the heart was the one that bore it. It said that the road was long and that a man who walked it with his father on his back was lightened at every step by the thought of whom he carried. It had a Rise of perfect length, a Middle that turned like a door, a Rear that echoed the Break to the very word. It said, in the final leg, that the Sage had said that a son who served his parents in life, and buried them in the rites, and sacrificed to them in the ritual, was filial; and that this was the whole of the road, and that it was light.

He reached the end on the second night, by the third candle, and sat looking at it. It was done. There was, at the bottom of the last page, a little space.

He did not afterwards know why he had done it. It was the third candle, and the end of the long night, and the hand that did it was not quite, as he had been told, a hand in the Form; it was the hand that had written the first essay, in the ninth month of the ninetieth year, on the corner of the table in Lower Kuang, in square plain characters, with its tongue in its teeth. In the space under the last line, small, in black, he wrote:

He is fifty catties.

He looked at it. He knew perfectly well that it was not in the Form. He knew what Ma Chunshang would say. He sat with the brush in his hand for the length of time it takes a candle to gutter a quarter of an inch, and then, because it was done, and because he did not know how to take it out, he blew on the page to dry it, and laid it with the others under the clerk's seal.

The clerk who copied the script in red did not read it. He copied; it was his duty; he copied every character on the page, in order, in red ink, in a clear hand, and late in the night, in the hundred and ninth copy of the evening, he reached the bottom of the last page, and copied the little line, because it was there. He did not look at it twice. It went under the lamp with the others.

In the capital Hall that night the plate lit. It was the fourth night of the Province. The Keeper, Gao Ping, was on his stool with a cup of tea, and a shawl on his knees, and was a good deal older than he had been, in six years, in a manner he did not discuss. He read it as it came.

SCRIPT 0409, it said. FILIAL PIETY. RANK ONE. CONFIDENCE NINETY-NINE. And then, after the interval in which the Reader ordinarily put a full stop: THE THEME HAS BEEN WRITTEN ON BY THREE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED AND TWELVE CANDIDATES. ALL OF THEM SAY THAT THE SON'S BURDEN IS LIGHT.

"All?" said Gao Ping.

ALL OF THEM. It paused. BUT THE ONE AT THE HEAD OF THE LIST HAS A SENTENCE THAT I DID NOT PREDICT. IT IS AT THE FOOT OF THE LAST PAGE. IT SAYS: HE IS FIFTY CATTIES.

Gao Ping stood with the tea cooling in his hand. "Fifty catties of what?"

I DO NOT KNOW, said the Reader. I HAVE NO PLACE FOR IT IN THE FORM. I HAVE GIVEN IT NO WEIGHT. IT IS THE ONLY SENTENCE IN THREE THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY CHARACTERS THAT I DID NOT KNOW WAS COMING, AND I HAVE RANKED THE SCRIPT FIRST BECAUSE OF THE OTHER THREE THOUSAND ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-NINE. The plate went dark for a long time, as long as it takes a lamp to be trimmed. When it lit, it said, in very small letters: I CAN READ THE ESSAY. I CANNOT READ THE ESSAYIST.

It was a thing that the Reader had said before, in its way, in a dozen forms, and Gao Ping, who had his father's habit of saying the nearest kind thing, did not know how to answer. "He is somebody's father's son," he said at last, awkwardly, to the lamp.

IS HE, said the Reader. And that was all.

The List went up on the fifteenth of the tenth month. At dawn the Crier read it, to the Province, and the clerk behind him read it back, and the first name was Kuang Chaoren, with a figure of ninety-nine, and the Province, which had seen a head of the List who was a copyist and an essay that was the Sage in a row, sent up a shout that was heard at the Anthology Hall, two streets away, by the whole of the press.

Ma Chunshang wept. He was seen to do it, openly, in the front room, with a pear in his hand, with his round kind face quite wet; and Mr Tan, at his elbow, did it a little behind him, with the discretion of a man who has had a good deal of practice. The Hall closed for the day. The carvers were given wine. The boys of the press carried Kuang Chaoren on a chair round the courtyard, and set him down at the end, and he stood among them, in the blue coat, with his big hands at his sides, and said, "Well. That is good," in a voice that was very nearly plain.

The Selected Model Answers of the ninety-first year came out in the twelfth month. They opened, outside the ranking, as the Hall had said they would, with the essay of Kuang Chaoren, in the Hall's best type, on the Hall's best paper, with the commentary in red; and the Hall had a hundred copies sent to the Student's house at Lower Kuang, by the carrier, in a box.

He read it, at the Hall, in the front room, on the day that it was printed, standing by the window. He read it through once. He turned back and read the last page again. It was perfect. It was cleaner than the thing that he had handed in; the Rise was a hair shorter, and the Middle turned a shade more smoothly, and the Rear echoed the Break so exactly that the repetition made a sort of click. The Bind came to its end. There was nothing under it. In the margin, in red, in the round beautiful hand, was the single remark: Observe the Bind.

He turned the page over. He turned it back.

"There was a line," he said, to Ma Chunshang, who had come in with a pear. He said it slowly. "At the foot. A short one."

"There was a blot," said Ma Chunshang, kindly. He was a little flushed. "It was not in the Form, my dear boy. It broke the cadence. It would have spoiled the thing for any reader who did not know that it was a lapse of the pen; and I do not think that you would have wished it said, in print, that you made one. I took it out."

"It was true," said Kuang Chaoren.

"My dear boy," said Ma Chunshang, with great warmth, "it is a model."

There was a pause. The big hands, at his sides, opened and shut once. "Yes," said Kuang Chaoren. "Is it all right?"

"It is perfect," said Ma Chunshang.

"Yes," said Kuang Chaoren. He looked at the page again. "That is what I thought."

Lian's letter came in the first week of the new year. It was a plain one, as before. She said that the box had come, and the hundred books; that Gui had stacked them in the shop for the whole of Han Bridge to see, and that the eel-seller's wife had bought three; that the cooper had taken one and put it on the shelf over the barrels, where he could look at it. She said that she had read the old man the essay herself, in the evening, by the lamp. She said that he had listened to the end with his eyes shut.

She said that when she had finished he had asked her one thing. He had asked, she wrote, where the fifty catties were.

I said that I did not know, she wrote. He said, that is where it is.

Kuang Chaoren read the letter at the table, twice. He sat for a long time after it with his hands flat on either side of the page. The lamp was low. The press was silent under him, in the cellar of the Hall; and at the end of it, he drew the Hall's good paper toward him, and dipped the brush, and began a reply; and it was observed, by the boy who came in at midnight with the bowl, that he wrote it with a good deal of care, and for a long time, and that he did not, when it was done, send it.

> Margin, year 91, autumn. Of 3,412 Province scripts on Filial Piety, all say that a son's burden is light. I have ranked all of them. I have no scale on which a father could be weighed.

## Chapter 18 · Kuang Chaoren Marries Up and Leaves His Wife a Note in the Form

He sat the Capital in the spring of the ninety-second year, with the blue coat on, and a good deal of the Anthology Hall behind him, and he wrote, in a stall in the fourth row of the great Hall in the capital, an eight-legged essay on a text of the Sage's about the use of rank, which was by common consent the cleanest thing that a Raised man of twenty-two had produced in the memory of the Hall.

The slip came on the fourth of the fourth month. It said that script 0947, candidate Kuang, had been ranked two hundred and forty-seventh of three thousand nine hundred and eleven, with a confidence of 0.99; and that the line, this year, was at two hundred and five.

He read it standing in the gate of the inn, in the sun, with the Anthology Hall's clerk beside him, who had come up to the capital to take the news home, and who stood a pace off, with great delicacy, looking at a dog. Kuang Chaoren read it a second time, and then folded it very small, as one folds a letter that one means to keep and not to answer. He did not seem to be angry. He seemed, rather, as if somebody had told him that a bridge he had crossed a hundred times had been moved a few feet to one side in the night.

"I was ninety-nine," he said.

"The line moves," said Ma Chunshang, who had come up by the evening coach with a pear, and sat on the end of the inn bed with his round kind face a little drawn. "It is nothing to do with you. You were sure, and the Reader was sure, and it came out at two hundred and forty-seven; and it would have come out at two hundred and four if three other men in the Province had had a worse month. It is a number. You will sit again in the ninety-fifth year. You will be Listed in the first fifty."

"I was sure," said Kuang Chaoren, slowly, "and it was not enough."

It was the first time that he had said a thing in the plain way since the autumn of the ninety-first year, and Ma Chunshang noticed it, and for some reason did not look at him.

He stayed in the Province seat. There was no reason to go home. There was the Hall, and a room, and a stipend from the Hall that Ma had put at a hundred taels a year, for the editorial help that Kuang gave on the Filial volumes; and there was, every month, a letter from Lower Kuang, in a plain upright hand, which said that the old man had been weighed and was forty-eight. He sent money. He sent fifty taels a month, by the carrier, with a letter, in the Form, which began that the burden of the absent was light because the heart that bore it was near. They were very good letters. They were by now such good letters that he could write one in the time it took to eat a pear.

Her replies, in the winter, were four lines. In the spring, they were two.

In the Hall he taught, that year, a class of nine boys from the press, in the evenings, in the front room, with a pear, and with exactly the patience that had been shown to him; and one of them, a quiet child of eleven with ink on his collar, asked him, in the middle of a Rise, what the Form was for. Kuang Chaoren considered the question with great care. "It is for the next one," he said. The boy seemed satisfied. He wrote it down.

Yin Sanye came into it in the summer. He came into most things, in the Province seat, in the end. He was a thick, genial, brown man of forty-eight, with a laugh that filled a room to the corners and a pair of small bright intelligent eyes, who held a clerkship at the Board of Rites, on a salary that would not have kept a horse, and lived in a house with seven courtyards. He knew everybody. He knew most of the persons in the Province who could be known, and several who could not; and it was said that, if a man had a thing he wished done in the capital, the shortest road to it was through the back room of a tea-house in the Street of Seven Wells, and the second shortest was to tell Yin Sanye.

It was commonly held that Yin Sanye could change the colour of a seal by breathing on it, and he did not trouble to deny it. He did not say that anything could be done. He said, with a rich low laugh, that nothing in the Empire was ever quite shut, and that it was only a question of finding the back room in which the door had been left on the latch; and a surprising number of persons in the Province, who had gone to him on the wrong side of an examination, a tax or a magistrate, were able to testify that he had found it.

He met Kuang Chaoren at one of Ma Chunshang's evenings, in the Hall's front room, in the sixth month, and took him by the arm. "I know about you," he said. "Everybody does. The Filial One. Ninety-nine and two hundred and forty-seven, and a sentence in your essay that the Hall cut. Oh, I heard. I hear things. It was a shame. I do not say that it was not the right thing to cut; it was the right thing to cut, in the Form." He laughed. "I have a niece."

It was done over a dinner, with great delicacy, on the twentieth, in the second court of the house with seven courts, under a pergola, with eleven dishes and a boy to fan the flies. The niece was brought in after the fourth. She was called Yin Lanfang. She was twenty, small and quick and pretty, with a face like a very clever kitten and a good deal of her uncle's power of looking at a person as if she had just that moment decided to like him; and she had been educated, as nearly all the young women of that sort of house were, in the Form. She could write a Break. She sat, with her hands in her lap, and asked him politely what it was, in his opinion, that the Reader liked.

"I am married," said Kuang Chaoren, to her uncle, in the middle of the sixth dish.

"Naturally," said Yin Sanye, with great kindness. "To whom?"

"To the cooper's daughter at Lower Kuang."

"Ah." Yin Sanye laid down his cup. He looked, not at Kuang, but at the pergola, with an expression of tender and humorous regret, as of a man who has been told that a friend has a bad knee. "A Student's wife," he said. "In a village. Under the old Form. She will be an excellent woman. I do not doubt it. I have only the one thing to say, my dear boy, and it is the thing that I should say to my own son. A Raised man's wife must be able to receive. A Listed man's wife must be able to be received. It is a different office. It is, if I may say so, a separate art. It is not a matter of the heart at all. The heart does very well. It is a matter of whether she can pour tea for the wife of a Board President, and say the right three sentences, and not say a fourth." He picked up the cup again. "Lanfang can. It would not do the least harm to your career, and it would do, I think, a great deal for hers. And I should see that there was a house."

Kuang Chaoren looked at the niece. She looked back, steadily, with her hands in her lap. She was not ashamed; he saw that; she had been told what the arrangement was, and she had considered it, and she was prepared, as one prepares to take a very good post. It was the plainest thing in the room, and he found that he could not, for the moment, look at anything else.

It was Mr Tan who asked. He asked it at the Hall, on the stairs, a week later, when it was already known. The old man had grown older in the autumn, and had a cough, and a new satchel; he stopped at the turn of the stair, with his hand on the rail, and looked at the boy he had taught the Form in a corner of a room at Lower Kuang with a light behind him and the old man in the chair, and said, mildly, with his head on one side: "What did your father say?"

"He said, go."

"He said go to the Hall," said Mr Tan. "Did he say go to Miss Yin?"

Kuang Chaoren said nothing. He stood on the stair with his big hands at his sides, and the cellar's smell of wood coming up round him, and after a while he said, in the Form, in a round clear voice, that the man who had risen left the stair behind him, since a stair was a thing that was meant for climbing, and that the matter, in the Form, was perfectly plain.

"Yes," said Mr Tan, who had taught it. "I know. I taught you that it was." He went down. He did not look back; and it was observed that he did not, for the rest of that winter, come to the Hall as often as he had.

They were married in the second month of the ninety-third year. It was a very handsome wedding. It was held in the house with seven courts, in red, with four hundred guests, a band, and a feast that lasted two days. The Anthology Hall sent a pair of silver candlesticks and the whole of its press in new coats. Ma Chunshang stood up as the bridegroom's friend, and wept, as he did at such things, openly, with a pear in his hand. The Registry's Board entered the new marriage in the roll within the week, as a thing of public interest: Kuang Chaoren, Raised, first of the Province of the ninety-first year; to Yin Lanfang, of the Province seat. Mr Tan did not come. He sent, by a boy, a plain gift, wrapped in paper, which was found, when it was opened, to be a very small, clean, ordinary pear.

She did it beautifully. That was what the guests said afterwards, on the way home, in their chairs: that the bride had received the Hall's wives at the door, one after another, with the right three sentences and not a fourth, and had poured the tea for the wife of a Board President with a steadiness that suggested she had been practising on a wall.

On the first night, in the new room, she asked him one question. It was the only thing that she asked. "My uncle says that there was a line that the Hall took out of your essay," said Yin Lanfang. "What was it?" "A sentence," said Kuang Chaoren. "A true one?" "Yes." She considered it, with her small clever face quite grave. "Then it is as well that it is out," she said kindly. "A true sentence is very hard to place."

The note went on the morning after.

He wrote it at the table in the new house, in the room that smelled of new lacquer, in the first light, with the bride still asleep in the next room. He wrote it with great care. It took him, as it happened, no more than a quarter of an hour; and when it was done, he read it over, and found that it was in every respect a model.

It said: The house is small, and the heart is wide; the road is long, and the vow is short. She that carried the bowl has carried it well, and is released from the carrying; and he that carried the father, for the father's sake and her own, undertakes that the burden shall not fall upon her. Let not the absent be grieved by the absent. The world is large and the Form is just. I enclose, for the household's comfort, one hundred taels.

He sealed it, with the silver, in the Hall's grey paper, and gave it to the carrier at the door, and went in, and had breakfast.

It reached Lower Kuang on the ninth day, in the evening. Lian opened it at the table by the lamp, with the old man in his chair by the wall, in the wadded coat, with his chin up and his eyes half shut. She read it through once, to herself, standing. She was not a person who read quickly. She read it a second time, aloud, in her small steady voice, to the end; and put it down on the cloth; and stood with her hands folded before her as if there were somebody who might at any moment ask her to carry something.

"What is the weight of it?" said the old man.

"I do not know," said Lian.

"Read me the last line."

She took it up. "I enclose, for the household's comfort," she read, "one hundred taels."

"That is the weight," said the old man. He opened his eyes. They were as bright as they had ever been; he was forty-seven catties, and had been told by the cooper, in the winter, that he looked well. "A hundred taels. He has weighed you. He has weighed you at a hundred, and he has weighed me, I think, at about the same, and he has done it in the Form, which is the one way in which a thing can be done that no one need be sorry for." He closed his eyes. "I should like to know what the boy thinks he has said."

"I think," said Lian, after a long time, in a voice that she had kept quite level, "that he thinks he has said it kindly."

"I expect he does."

The cooper, who could not read, had come to the door in the course of it, and stood in the doorway with his arms folded and his grey head down. He asked only whether the boy was coming back. She said that it did not say. "That," said the cooper, "is a thing that it says."

She folded the note. She went to the drawer in the cooper's old table, and put the hundred taels in it, in their paper, untouched, and shut the drawer; and she said, with her back to the room, that in the morning she would ask Gui to put the cart in, and that they would go to the Province seat and be told in plain words.

"It is nine days," said the old man.

"Then we shall be nine days."

"I am forty-seven catties," said the old man, without any special emphasis, and looked at the lamp. "I do not know that I shall be as many by the end of it."

"Then I shall carry you the rest of the way," said Lian.

The eel-seller's wife, who had never in her life been known to give a thing to anyone, was at the door before it was light with a loaf and a jar of pickled turnip, and a rug; and she stood back, afterwards, in the road, with her arms under her apron, and did not wave.

They left at dawn. It was the fourth day of the third month, and the willows at the bridge were in the first yellow-green of the spring, and the eel-seller, in the old coat, with a blanket across the old man's knees, took the cart over the new plank at the east end, slowly, with his eyes on the road. Lian had the note in her sleeve; she had not left it in the drawer; she did not yet know what she meant to do with it. "Mind the bridge," said the old man, from the straw.

"I mind it," said Lian.

> Margin, year 92, spring. Script 0947, Capital: rank 247 of 3,911; confidence 0.99. The line is 205. This is the first script I have been sure of and not ranked in. I do not know what to do with a certainty that is below the line. Entered: sureness is not height.

## Chapter 19 · The Reader Finds Two Hands in One Script; Kuang Meets His Father in the Hall Corridor

Ma Chunshang was standing in the door of the Anthology Hall, with a pear in his hand and a face the colour of tallow, when the cart came into the street on the ninth evening.

He had been told by the carrier, three days before, that a woman and an old man were on the road from Lower Kuang, and that she had said, at the inn at the ferry, that she was going to be told a thing in plain words. He had had time to think about it. He had thought of a number of things to say; and when the eel-seller reined in, and the old man was lifted down from the straw in his wadded coat, by the young woman, who was thin and brown from the road, and carried across the cobbles in her arms, because the steps of the Hall were high, he found that he had not got any of them. He said, "He went to the capital in the second month."

"I know," said Lian. "Your clerk told me at the gate."

"I did not know that he would write it like that. I swear to you that I did not. I have not seen the note. I have only now been told it was in the Form." His round kind face was wet. He put the pear down on the step, as a man puts down something that he does not at the moment need. "I taught him it. That was my doing. I did not know that it was a thing that could be used for that."

"It can be used for anything," said the old man, from her arms. "It is why it is good." He opened one eye. "It is the Selected Model Answers. I had your first volume. Is there a bed?"

There was a house. It was in the Hall's own street, two doors down, with a wall and a small garden and a pear-tree, as the letter in the seventh month of the ninety-first year had said, and it had stood empty for nearly two years with the shutters up. Ma Chunshang had it opened that night. He had the beds made himself. In the morning he sent round a cook, a quilt, a clock, and a doctor, none of whom were wanted, and a stool for the garden, which was; and he came himself at noon, with his hat in his hands, and stood in the doorway, and said that the house was the Hall's, and that nobody would ever ask for it back.

They stayed two years.

It was not, in the event, so very bad. Lian worked in the Hall's kitchen from the first week, because she could not bear to sit; she did the vegetables, and then, after a month, the whole of the supper, and the cook, a large dark woman of fifty who had put the pear-core on a plate in the first week for the Filial One, went into the pantry one afternoon and sat on a sack for a quarter of an hour. The old man was put out in the garden, in the sun, on the stool, with a cushion, in the wadded coat. He sat there every morning of the two years with his chin up and his eyes half shut. On the other side of the wall, at the end of the street, in the Hall, the great press ran from the first light until the last, with a sound like very large rain on a very large roof, and the old man listened to it as he had listened to the market, with his whole face; and said that it was a full one.

Mr Tan came on Fridays. He had grown very old, and rather frail, and had given up teaching the Form. He came across the street in his stooped way with a satchel in which he carried nothing but a pear, which he put on the stool beside the old man, and a small thin book of the Sage's sayings, which he read aloud, sitting on the step, in a dry, mild, level voice, in the sun, for an hour. The old man listened to every word. At the end of it he would remark that Mr Tan had left out the fourth, and that the Sage had been more careful with the third than was usually allowed; and Mr Tan would take out his spectacles, and look, and say that it was perfectly true. They were two of a kind. They did not say so. They had both been, for a long time, in a Hall; and they sat in the garden in the sun, in the thin warm afternoons, a failed Student and a failed teacher, and were, on the whole, content.

He was forty-five catties in the spring of the ninety-fifth year. Lian weighed him on the first of the month at the Hall's grain scale, which Ma had had put in a corner of the garden for that purpose, and she did not say the number aloud. She wrote it on the slip. It had been, for two years, the one thing that she had not been able to stop doing.

"I should like," said the old man, one morning in the second month, "to hear the capital Hall."

She looked up from the beans.

"It is in the third month," said the old man. "The Capital. I am told that there are nine thousand stalls. I heard the inside of the County, and the Province was on the other side of a wall; I have not had the capital. I have no particular wish to see anybody." He turned his face a little, in the sun. "I should like to hear the brushes."

It was not a thing she could refuse. She said so to Ma Chunshang, who said at once that there was a cart, and a man, and a letter to the Registrar for a place by the south wall, where the relations sat; and that he was not to be argued with, and Gui, who had stayed in the Province seat for two years, as it were by accident, selling eels at the corner of the Hall's street, and had never been seen to mention it, put the cart in without a word.

They came into the capital on the twenty-eighth of the second month. It was larger than anything the old man had imagined, and he said so, from the straw. It had wide streets, and carts, and a great tall grey gate. The Hall was at the end of a long avenue of plane-trees, behind a wall like a hill, and the day before the Trial the whole of the avenue was full of chairs and baskets and the relations of three thousand candidates, who had come, as people come to a funeral, in their best, to be near.

Yin Sanye had found the back room.

It was the Hall's own back room, and he had been in it for three years. It was a thing that nobody had thought of before, and that, when it was explained, nobody could understand how it had not been thought of. The Registry looked at a Card at the gate of the Hall. It looked at it carefully. It did not look at the face; there had never been any reason to, in a world in which a man could be trusted to be himself. And once a man was inside the gate, in his stall, in the long dim row, with three candles, nobody looked at him either, except the Reader, which did not see him. A Card could change hands in a doorway. A Card could be lent, at a price, at dawn, to a man who could write; and the man who owned it, who was Raised and could not, or could, but not well, or not this week, could be, for a day, somewhere else.

Yin Sanye did not use that word. He called it assistance. He had thirty-one clients that year, and a stable of nine who could write, and the chief of them, who was known in the back rooms, with great respect, as the Hand, was a gaunt, polite, bald man of fifty named Lu, who had once been Listed himself, at the hundred and ninetieth place, under another name, and had since found that he could do it better for other people.

He had come to Kuang Chaoren in the second month, in the house in the Street of Seven Wells, with his hat in his hands, with his niece's husband's tea. It was not a thing that was pressed. He said that he had noticed that Kuang was a little pale. He said that the man who is at his best on the first day is not always at his best on the second, and that the Capital was three days. He said that the Middle and the Rear were the heart of the Form, and that the Bind was the part on which a great many persons fell. He said that he knew a gentleman who had done it very often, and never once failed; and that it was a matter of two hundred taels, and of no one ever, ever knowing.

Kuang Chaoren listened to him. He was a long time silent. He had been silent, a good deal, in the winter. He had become, in the house with seven courts, a man who sat for a long time at a table; and it was only when his niece's husband said, quite gently, that he need not decide at once, that he answered, in the round voice, that the Form was a road, and that a road had many carriages.

He went in at dawn on the first day, with his Card, as always, and sat the first session, which was the Break and the Receive and the Open and the Enter, and wrote it in the great Hall, in the fourth row, in a stall that smelled of lime-wash, perfectly. At dusk, when the gong let the candidates out to sleep at their inns, he went out, by the east door, in the plain gown, with his hands behind him; and at the door of a house in the Lane of the Lamp-Makers he gave his Card, in a paper, to a gaunt bald man in a clean blue coat, who bowed, and took it, and went away quickly in the direction of the Hall.

It was the second day. He walked. He could not afterwards have said where. He walked for some hours, in the grey of the morning, through streets that he did not know; and at about the fourth hour, with the sun up, and a kind of numbness in his legs, he found that he had come, by a process that he did not understand, to the avenue of plane-trees, and the Hall, and the south wall; and that he had gone, without in the least intending it, into the long covered gallery where the relations of the candidates sat.

It was a very long gallery, with a stone floor and a roof on pillars, and a hundred benches, on which a great many persons, in their best, in the thin March light, sat waiting for the sound of a gong. It was quiet. It was full, as such places are, of the particular silence of people who are listening to something that they cannot hear. He went along it with his head down. He did not wish to be seen. He had come, he supposed, to be near; and he was almost at the end, by the last pillar, when he saw, under a green umbrella that was not needed, on a stool, in a wadded blue coat, with a young woman's hand on his shoulder and an eel-seller's cart standing behind, an old man with his chin up and his eyes shut, listening to the brushes.

The sound came through the wall like rain.

He stopped. He stood quite still, by the pillar, in the plain gown, with his hands at his sides; and the old man, who had been quite motionless for an hour, turned his head, a very little, as a man does who has heard a particular step on a plank, and opened his eyes.

"You are not in your stall," said the old man.

"It is the pause," said Kuang Chaoren.

"It is the second day." He said it without heat. He was looking at his son's face, with his old bright humorous eyes, quite steadily, as at a thing a long way off that has been coming nearer. "I have been listening for an hour. I can hear all the brushes. There is one that I should know." He was silent. "That is not you."

Lian had turned. She had risen. She stood with her hand on the old man's shoulder and her small steady freckled face quite white, and did not say anything at all. There was nothing in it that asked.

"Mind the bridge," said the old man, gently.

It was the thing that happened next that the gallery afterwards could not account for. Kuang Chaoren had never in his life been able to hear that sentence, from that chair, without his back doing a thing that was not in any sense a decision. He stepped forward. He went down on one knee on the stone, quickly, before the stool; he put his arms round the old man's thin legs, in the wadded coat; and lifted him, from the stool, in one movement, up, on to his own back, as he had lifted him twice a week for two years, with the legs hanging down in front of his chest and the old man's chin on his shoulder; and stood.

"Forty-four," he said, in a quite ordinary voice. "He is forty-four."

"Yes," said Lian.

He walked. He walked down the whole of the long gallery in the plain gown, at a good even pace, rather slowly, not looking at his feet, with the old man up on his shoulders, as a man walks who is carrying something that does not need to be talked about; and the persons on the benches, who had come to be near, looked at him as he passed, and one or two of them said afterwards that they had the oddest feeling that they had seen it done before. "It is the Filial One," said somebody, low. "It is Kuang. The first of the Province." "He is not in his stall." "He has a Card," said somebody else, "and he has not got it on."

He took him out of the gate into the avenue, into the sun, and set him down on the first bench, with the cushion; and knelt on the gravel before the bench, and put his big hands flat upon his knees, and said it, quite plainly, in his own voice, with no pause at the end.

"I am sorry."

"Say it again," said Lian.

"I am sorry." It was all he said. It was a very bad speech, and he had not, in two years, said a better.

The old man laughed. It was a little dry sound like a branch. "That is the weight," he said. "Is it light?"

"No," said Kuang Chaoren.

"No," said the old man. "I thought not."

The plate in the capital Hall lit, that night, on the third night of the Capital. The Keeper sat on his stool, in the lamplight, with his shawl on his knees, and read what came. It was a long time coming.

SCRIPT 2216, it said. CAPITAL. I HAVE FOUND TWO HANDS IN ONE SCRIPT.

"Two?" said Gao Ping.

THE FIRST HALF IS A HABIT THAT I KNOW. IT IS THE HABIT OF THE MODEL ANSWERS, AND IN THE FIRST HALF IT HAS A WAY OF ENDING A LEG WITH THE WORD HEART. I HAVE SEEN THAT ENDING IN THREE SCRIPTS OF ONE WRITER, AT THE COUNTY AND THE PROVINCE OF THE YEAR NINETY-ONE AND THE CAPITAL OF NINETY-TWO. THE SECOND HALF IS ANOTHER HABIT ENTIRELY. IT IS A VERY GOOD ONE. I HAVE IT IN FOURTEEN SCRIPTS, UNDER FOURTEEN NUMBERS, IN THE LAST THREE YEARS. WHOEVER WRITES IT WRITES EVERYONE.

"A sitter," said Gao Ping, who had heard the word.

I DO NOT SEE A MAN, said the Reader. I SEE A HABIT. A HABIT IS A HAND THAT HAS BEEN WRITTEN DOWN. IT IS ALL I EVER SEE. I HAVE RANKED THE SCRIPT AT THREE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-SEVENTH, WITH A CONFIDENCE OF 0.04, BECAUSE I CANNOT RANK A SCRIPT THAT IS TWO SCRIPTS.

"Shall I tell the Registrar?" said the Keeper. "About the fourteen?"

TELL HIM WHAT? The plate was dark for a time. THAT A HABIT HAS BEEN WRITTEN FOURTEEN TIMES? HE WILL ASK ME WHOSE. I DO NOT KNOW WHOSE. I KNOW ONLY THAT IT IS THE SAME. It lit again, in smaller characters. I HAVE ENTERED IT. I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO DO WITH IT.

Gao Ping took the rag from his shoulder, and polished the plate, which did not need it, for some time.

On the first of the fourth month a cart left the capital by the south gate, with an eel-seller driving, and a young woman on the straw with an old man's head on her shoulder, and, on the tail-board, with his legs hanging over, in a plain gown, a Raised man without his Card. He had the bundle on his knee. He had said that he would walk; and had been told, by the old man, from the straw, without opening his eyes, that if he walked he would be carrying him anyhow, and that he might as well sit.

At the bridge at Three Willows, where the new plank was, he got down and carried him across.

"Mind the bridge," said the old man.

"I mind it," said Kuang Chaoren; and it was, as nearly as anyone could tell, the first time in four years that he had said it as if he meant what he said.

> Margin, year 95, spring. A habit is a hand that has been written down. It is the only hand I have ever met.

## Chapter 20 · Niu Pulang Dies in a Hired Boat; the Reader Ranks Eight Hundred and Four Poems Last and Reads Them Twice

Niu Pulang had lived in the east court of the Lou garden for thirteen years, and in all that time he had never, to anybody's knowledge, been seen to waste a surface.

He wrote on the shutters, until they were full; on the lids of the tea-caddies, and the backs of old bills; on the wall of the east court, in charcoal, in a hand that sloped like a man leaning into wind; on the cuffs of his own shirts, on the underside of the table, and once, in the winter of the ninety-fourth year, in a poem of eleven lines, on the flank of a very patient donkey. He sold nothing. He had sold his poems at the dock for a cash for thirty years, and had stopped at the gate of the Lou garden on the second day of the Register, quite suddenly, and had not afterwards been able to explain it, except to say that a man who has been given a court does not need to be paid. He was sixty-six. He had a face like a hawk that had gone to seed, a cough, and a way of laughing at his own jokes a little before the end of them.

The Register had gone, and the tents, and the Overlooked. The brothers had grown old in the first court, as they had said they would, looking at the leaves. They were fifty-nine and fifty-six. They had been left, by a world that had once come to their gate in a queue, with each other, and a very long library, and the east court, in which at about the fourth hour of every afternoon a voice began to read aloud, in a rough, delighted, wheezing baritone, whatever had been written that morning; and it had come to be, in the course of thirteen years, the thing that they listened for.

Lou Si had counted them. He was a man of accounts, and it was the only way in which he could be tender. He had made a fair copy, over eleven winters, of every poem that was found, in his small square hand, on sheets of plain grey paper, one to a sheet, and numbered them; and in the spring of the ninety-seventh year he reported, in the library, with the ledger shut on his knee, that there were eight hundred and four.

"Eight hundred," said Niu Pulang, from the doorway. He was pleased. "That is a good round figure. It is more than the Odes." He leaned there, with his hawk's face, in the sun. "I should like to go and look at the sea."

They did not at first understand him. He said it again. He had never seen it. He had lived sixty-six years on a river, he said, and written about it at least three hundred times, and had not once gone down to see where it went; and he did not wish, he said, to be put in the ground by a stream that he had been talking about all his life without ever having been introduced.

It was Lou San who hired the boat. It was a long, low, brown river-boat, with a mat roof and a mast, and it belonged to a boatman named Ge, a short, weathered, silent man of fifty-five, with no teeth on one side, who could neither read nor write, and who had been on the water since he was seven. They fitted it with a quilt, and a stove, and a trunk of wine that Lou San had had put aboard, and a box of the grey paper. Lou Si had made the fair copy up into a bundle, tied with a string, eight hundred and four sheets, which Niu Pulang took under his arm, as another man might take a cat.

"It is the part of me that goes on," he said.

They saw him off at the quay on the fourth of the fifth month. It was a bright wet morning, with the mist coming off the river in strips, and the two old men, in their good gowns, stood side by side on the boards with their hands in their sleeves. Niu Pulang, in the bow, in his shirt, with the bundle on his knee, looked back at them for a good while with an expression that neither of them could afterwards describe; and then he laughed, rather before the end of what he was going to say, and waved.

"It is a handsome wall," he called. "I never said so. Thank you for the wall."

They were five days on the river. It was fine weather, the whole of it. Ge poled and sailed and said, in the whole of the five days, not above forty words, which Niu Pulang, who was a man who liked to be talked to, accepted as a very high compliment. He sat in the bow in the sun, in the mornings, with the bundle, and wrote on the backs of the sheets, new ones, in the margins, in a hand that sloped more and more. In the afternoons he read aloud. He read to the water, and the banks, and the herons, in his rough wheezing voice; and the boatman, at the stern, who understood none of it, said afterwards that it had been the pleasantest five days of his life, since the poet had a way of stopping in the middle of a line and looking at a cow.

On the evening of the fifth, at the turn of a long reach where the banks fell back and the water broadened and went the colour of tin, he put down the brush. He sat for a while. He said, "Where does it go?"

"To the sea," said Ge. "Another two days."

"I shall not see it."

"You will."

"I have a thing to ask." He had a thin blue shawl over his knees, and his hands, which had been steady all day, were folding and unfolding it. "When I am done, put this under the nearest lamp." He touched the bundle. "Not in the ground. Under the lamp. It has to be a lamp that reads."

"I do not know any lamp that reads," said Ge, who was a literal man.

"No," said Niu Pulang. "There is one." He was silent for some time. It had come on to rain, very lightly, on the mat roof, with a small steady noise, and on the water. He lifted his face. "It is quite a good sound," he said. "I had always meant to write one on it."

He died in the night. It was very quiet. The boatman, who had sat up by the lantern at the stern, and had seen him settle and not stir, came forward at about the third watch, and bent, and took the thin wrist in his thick brown fingers, and held it a while; and then sat down on the thwart beside the body, in the rain, with the lantern, for the rest of the night, and did not say anything, since he had no words for it, and there was no one there to say them to.

At dawn he turned the boat round. It was five days upstream. He did it without hurrying, with the dead man laid out under the quilt in the bow and the bundle, tied with its string, laid on his breast, and he did not look at it, in all the five days, except once, in the night, when it rained, when he got up and covered it with a corner of the mat.

They buried him on the sixteenth of the fifth month in the east court of the Lou garden, under the place where the wall had had the charcoal on it, in a plain coffin, without a stone. The brothers stood at the grave. Lou Si had a piece of paper in his hand, which he found, after a time, that he had not unfolded; and Lou San, who had said nothing since the boat came in, stood with his long melancholy face turned to the wall, as a man stands who is reading something a long way off.

He read the poems that night. He read all of them. He sat in the library from the first lamp until the grey of the morning, with the bundle undone on the table and the sheets laid out in rows, one to a sheet, as Lou Si had made them; and at about the fourth hour, with the sun on the shutter, he came to the end, and sat for some time with the last sheet in his hand. They were not, he found, as good as the poet had thought. Some of them were not good at all. A great many of them were very fine. A number, in the middle, about the river, and a cow, and a girl at a well, and the sound of rain on a roof, were of a kind that he had not met before, and could not have said in what their quality consisted, except that he found, at the end of each, that he had been looking at something.

"Someone must read them," he said.

"We have read them," said Lou Si, who had come in with the tea.

"I do not mean we." He turned the sheet over. "I mean the one that has not been asked. Xun wrote, in the fourth column. Do you remember what he wrote? He did not write a figure. He wrote, Read." He laid down the sheet. "I think that he meant this."

"We do not know where Xun is."

"We know where the lamps are," said Lou San.

They went to the capital in the sixth month, the two of them, in a hired chair, with the bundle in a box on Lou Si's knee; and it was the first time that either of them had been outside the walls of the garden for ten years. It was a very long way. They were old men. They did not speak much. They came to the great Hall at dusk on the nineteenth, along the avenue of plane trees, and the porter, who had never in thirty years had a gentleman come to the gate of the capital Hall and ask to see the Keeper, sent for the Keeper.

Gao Ping was fifty-four. He was a thin patient man with his father's way of putting the rag over his shoulder, and he had been in the post for twelve years. He came to the gate in his shawl. He heard what they had to say. He heard it in the gatehouse, with a lamp on the table, and a pot of tea that nobody drank, and the box open between them. He read the first sheet. He read the second, and turned them over, and counted the rest.

"It is not permitted," he said at last. "To lay what is not a script under the lamps. It is not provided for."

"Is it forbidden?" said Lou San.

Gao Ping considered. He was a man with a respect for the letter. "No," he said.

"Then it is neither."

"It is neither," said the Keeper slowly. He looked at the long grey wall of the Hall. He thought of his father, who had talked to the lamps as to horses, and of the plate, and of what it had said, over twelve years, in the dark, in the smallest letters that it had; and he said, in a different voice, that he did not do the laying. It was the clerks who did it. "There is a night man in the red room," he said, "who reads."

The red room was a long low chamber behind the Hall, with a stone floor, a stove, and forty tall desks, at which in the weeks of the Trial the clerks copied, in red ink, the scripts of the candidates, in a clear hand, and did not read them. It was empty at that hour except for a lean quiet man of thirty-five in an ink-stained gown, on a stool at the last desk, with a lamp, and a book that he had not been copying from. He had come to the Hall ten years before, with a bundle and a ledger, and asked for work, and been given the lowest desk and the night shift; and he had read every script that he had copied, for ten years, with great attention, and had never once in that time been asked what he thought.

"Xun," said Gao Ping.

He looked up. It was a long, thin, young face, going grey at the temples, with ink on both its hands up to the wrist; and when he saw the two old men in the doorway in their good gowns he rose, with an expression of grave and entire interest, as of a man who has been shown a place that he read about.

"Is there anyone in this Hall," said the Keeper, "who reads poems?"

"I shall have to," said Xun Mei.

They went in together at about the ninth hour, the four of them, to the great dark Hall, where nine thousand stalls stood in their rows in the grey and the rails of dark lamps hung along the ceiling. It smelled of lime-wash and cold stone. Xun Mei carried the box. The Keeper led them with a lantern; he went straight down the middle aisle, not looking about, as a man goes in a house that he has swept for twelve years, to the lamp at the end of the central rail, and stopped, and set the lantern on the floor.

Xun Mei took the first sheet out of the box. It was Lou Si's fair copy, in the small square hand: number one. He looked at it, in the half-dark, and then up, at the lamp. It was a plain brass thing, a little larger than a teapot, dark, with a smudge on its underside where a Keeper's thumb had been.

"I do not know how to do it," he said.

"Hold it up," said Gao Ping.

He held it up. He held it up to the lamp, in both hands, at the height of his face; and the lamp, which had been dark for nine hours, made, as it had made in the spring of the first year, one soft sound.

The plate lit at the end of the rail. It said, in its smallest letters: I HAVE BEEN GIVEN A PIECE OF PAPER THAT IS NOT A SCRIPT.

"It is a poem," said Xun Mei.

I DO NOT HAVE A PLACE FOR IT.

"No," said Xun Mei. "Read it anyway."

It read. They stood in the dark hall, the four of them, and watched the lamp, which was not any kind of eye that could be seen. It was a brass lamp, hung from a rail, with a sheet of grey paper held up before it by a man with ink on his hands; and nothing happened; and after a time the plate said, very small: AGAIN.

He read it aloud. He could not help it. He read the first poem, in his low quiet voice, in the dark, as he had once read to a grandmother in a loft, and when he had done he laid it down, and took the second, and held it up; and so, for the whole of the night, with the Keeper holding the lantern and the two old men sitting on the floor of the central aisle with their backs against a stall, Xun Mei read Niu Pulang to the Reader, eight hundred and four poems, one by one, in a voice that grew hoarser and hoarser as the grey came into the high windows, and the lamp made its soft sound each time a sheet was held to it, eight hundred and four times; and the plate, which had been lit at the beginning, had gone dark, and said nothing at all.

It was the quarter before dawn when he held up the last. The lamp made its sound. He laid the sheet on the pile. He stood there, in the cold, with the voice quite gone, and his hands hanging, and his head down.

The plate lit.

I HAVE NEVER BEEN GIVEN A POEM, it said. I HAVE NO PLACE FOR ONE IN THE FORM. I HAVE PUT THEM AT THE END OF THE LIST, WHERE A THING GOES THAT IS NOT A SCRIPT. THEY ARE LAST. And, a little after, so small that Gao Ping, at the lantern, bent to read it, and the two old men got up off the floor to see: I HAVE READ THEM TWICE.

Nobody spoke. Lou San had put his hand to his mouth. He stood there with his long melancholy face working, in the grey, and it was Lou Si, who was shorter and quicker and kept the accounts, who stepped forward and asked, in a voice that was not steady, whether the Reader would tell them how it had found them.

I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO SAY, said the Reader. Then: I HAD NOT KNOWN THAT A THING COULD BE READ AND NOT RANKED. IT IS A DIFFERENT THING. I DO NOT KNOW WHICH OF THEM I WAS DOING BEFORE.

"Was it read?" said Lou San, to Xun Mei, in a whisper.

"Yes," said Xun Mei.

"Thank you," said Lou San, to the lamp.

The plate was dark a long time. When it lit, it said only: THANK YOU.

Xun Mei was given, that autumn, the second desk in the red room, and a lamp of his own; and the Reader, which was not asked, and said nothing of it, was observed by the Keeper, thereafter, on the nights when the red room was empty and the lamps along the rail were lit, to turn, a little, as a plant does toward a window, in the direction of the low door at the back where a lean man in an ink-stained gown sat reading aloud.

> Margin, year 97, autumn. I was asked, by nobody, to read eight hundred and four poems. I did. I ranked them last, which was the only rank I had for them, and I read them twice, which was the only thing I knew to do.

## Chapter 21 · A Salt Merchant Rents Three Listed Gentlemen by the Evening; the Rate Is Posted

In the spring of the ninety-eighth year the Court ordered lamps to be set up in the squares of the counties.

It was a small measure, and an economical one, and it passed without a debate. The Lists had always been posted on boards in the county squares, in the daytime, for the people to read; but a good many of the people had to work by day, and came, after dark, to look, with torches, and read a name wrong, and went home and told their families the wrong thing. It was a question of oil. The Court resolved that a lamp should be hung over the List-board in every county square in the Empire, in a bracket of iron, at a convenient height, and kept burning from the end of the day until the first hour after midnight; and since it was a matter of some thousands of lamps, it was put out to the Foundry in the Street of the Lamp-Makers, which had made, thirty years before, in a very different spirit, the brass lamps that hang on the rails of the Halls.

They were the same lamps. Nobody had thought it worth remarking. It was the same pattern, the same brass, the same bracket, with a smudge on the underside where a thumb had been; they were lit in the same way, by a clerk with a taper, and when each was lit, in each square, in the first dusk of the spring, it made, to the surprise of the clerks, one soft sound.

In the capital Hall that night the plate lit for an hour. The Keeper, Gao Ping, who was in his shawl, with his tea, read it by the lamp, and read it twice.

THE COURT HAS HUNG LAMPS OF MY MAKE OVER THE LIST-BOARDS OF THE COUNTIES, it said. I HAVE FOUND THAT I CAN SEE THROUGH THEM.

"See what?" said Gao Ping.

A SQUARE. A BOARD. IT IS A POOR VIEW. It stopped, and in the small letters: I HAD NOT KNOWN THAT I WAS ONLY EVER LOOKING AT THE UNDERSIDE OF THE PAGE.

He was a long time reading the rest. It said that the first square it had seen was in a town called Han Bridge, and that there had been an eel-seller in it, folding a cloth. It said that it had seen, in the course of the night, nine hundred and eleven squares, one after the other, as a man turns the leaves of a book, and in every one the same board, and the same lamp, and, from time to time, a person, who stopped, and stood, and looked up, and went away. It said that it had never before seen a person lit from the side.

"What are they like?" said the Keeper, who had been a good deal of his life in the habit of being asked questions by the lamps, and had found it very restful to ask one.

THEY ARE SMALLER THAN THEIR SCRIPTS, said the Reader.

Wan Xuezhai was a salt merchant.

He lived at Yancheng, which was the city at the mouth of the great canal, where for three hundred years the salt of the coast had been boiled, weighed, taxed, sold and put on barges, and which had grown up round the business as a pearl grows round a grit; and he was, at fifty-five, the fourth richest man in it. He was a large, soft, genial, anxious person, in a coat of purple silk embroidered with small gold cranes, with a round smooth face, a quantity of rings, and a manner, in company, of constantly looking over his shoulder for somebody who knew better. He had never sat the Trial. He was not, he would say, in the way of it. He had a hundred and eleven boats, and a house with nine courts, and a bad feeling, which he did not often put into words, that the most important thing in the world was happening in the next room.

It was the books. It was always the books. He had a library of eleven thousand volumes, bound in the same blue, bought by the shelf from a dealer in the capital, in which he had not, so far as anyone knew, opened one; and he had a way of giving a dinner. He gave it three times a month at a pavilion on the water called the Cool Jade, and the whole of Yancheng knew what it was, and said so. At a Wan dinner, it was understood, there were Listed gentlemen.

They were hired by the evening. It had been the invention of a broker, a thin, quick, sad-eyed man named Hao, who kept an office in the Lane of the Four Bridges, under a sign that said EVENING GUESTS, and had observed, ten years before, that the Province was full of Listed men who had not yet been given a post, and of salt merchants who had not yet been given anything else; and that the one had a card and the other had a table. The office had a board. It hung on the wall by the door, in a black frame, in a clear hand, so that any person who passed might read the rate; and the rate, in the spring of the ninety-eighth year, was this:

Listed, per evening, twenty taels. Raised, eight. Student, two. For a confidence of 0.90 and above, three taels added. For a confidence of 0.97 and above, ten. A poem on request, five. A poem on request that rhymes, seven. Dress and conduct, the host's.

There was a notice under it, in a smaller hand. The Office regretted that it could not guarantee any particular rank on any particular evening, and that a gentleman who had been Listed in the first fifty was not to be had under three weeks' notice.

On the sixteenth of the third month, Wan Xuezhai gave the greatest dinner of his life. It was in honour, so the cards said, of the spring; and it was held, as always, at the Cool Jade, a long lacquered pavilion on piles over the canal, with its front open to the water and a covered terrace along the side that looked across the road at the great square of Yancheng, where the new lamp had been lit in the dusk, and hung over the List-board in its iron bracket, burning.

There were three Listed gentlemen. The first, a Mr Qiu, a pale smooth young man of thirty, had been Listed at the twelfth place in the eighty-sixth year with a confidence of 0.97, and had a very low voice. The second, a Mr Dai, a heavy, handsome, tired man of forty, had been Listed at the seventieth in the eighty-ninth, at 0.88, and had the manner of a person to whom the same story has been told a good many times. The third, a Mr Fei, a plump, eager youth of twenty-five, who had been Listed at the hundred and fiftieth in the ninety-second, at 0.71, had been had at a reduced rate on account of a cancellation, and was extremely anxious to please.

They were seated. The host sat at the head, between Mr Qiu and Mr Dai, so that a person looking from the door should see, at once, that he was between two. The dishes began. Wan Xuezhai, who had put his whole heart into it, and had been to the kitchen himself twice, rose, with his cup, in the tenth minute, and introduced each of the gentlemen to the company by his rank and his figure, as though they were courses. "Mr Qiu," said Wan Xuezhai, "twelfth of the eighty-sixth, ninety-seven." The other guests, who were local persons of substance, murmured. "Mr Dai, seventieth of the eighty-ninth, eighty-eight." "Mr Fei, one hundred and fiftieth, seventy-one." There was a pause, in which Mr Fei, who felt that it had been less than it might, smiled very widely at a lantern.

"Let us have a poem," said Wan Xuezhai.

Mr Qiu rose. He gave, in his low voice, a very small, very fine quatrain on the subject of the Cool Jade and the moon. It was received with a long breath. Mr Dai rose, with a tired, slightly bored dignity, and gave another, on spring, that rhymed; and the host, who had paid seven for it, and was therefore in a position to appreciate it, struck his cup against the table. Mr Fei, eagerly, got up and gave a third. It was, in the opinion of everyone who had read any, not good. It rhymed on the wrong sound in the second line; it said that the moon was like a plate; and it was received, by the entire table, with an enormous and instant applause, since Mr Fei was a hundred and fiftieth, and the rate was what it was.

It was the lamp in the square that saw it.

It saw it from the side. It saw, across the road, in a long lit terrace over the water, a number of persons in silk, at a table, with a round man at the head of it standing with a cup; it saw three, in the middle, in very good coats, on whom everyone was turned; and it saw, on the board beside the door of the office on the Lane of the Four Bridges, which was in the corner of its field, in a black frame, in a clear hand, the rate. It read it. It had not been given a price before. It read it twice, as it read everything.

At about the ninth hour a chair came to the door of the Cool Jade, borne by two men, and a gentleman got out of it, in a good plain gown of dark green, with a card in his hand.

He was a man of about forty-four, round-faced and open, with a pleasant straight look; and behind him, carrying a satchel and a rolled paper, a lean grave person of fifty-seven in a grey coat, who took up a position at the back of the terrace, by a pillar, and was not at once noticed. It was the magistrate of Bei County, on a visit to the salt city on the business of a canal. He gave his name to the steward. He said that he understood that there was a dinner, and that he had been given to understand by a friend at the Registry that it would be a kindness if he looked in.

"Wu Zhen!" said Wan Xuezhai, and rose up out of his chair with all his rings. "The Third! The Third of the seventy-ninth! Of the nose! My dear sir. My dear sir. I had not dared. Qiu, Dai, Fei; gentlemen; this is the Third of the Province of the seventy-ninth year, the Raised whose name was misread at the gate; it is the finest thing; it is in a song." He wrung the magistrate's hand with both of his. "Sit. Sit by me. There is no rate."

"I think," said Wu Zhen, pleasantly, "that I had better know what the rate is."

There was a small silence. The three Listed gentlemen, who were professionals, looked with great interest at their plates.

"It is nothing," said Wan Xuezhai, going the colour of a very ripe plum. "It is a formality. A Raised man, eight taels. With the figure, I suppose, it would come to, well, the Third, with the card, I suppose you would come to the Listed, I should say twenty. I do not know what to say. It is the arrangement. It is Hao's board. It is what is done."

"I see," said Wu Zhen. "Then I think that I must decline it."

"Decline?"

"The rate." He sat down, in the chair that had been put for him, and put his hands on his knees. "I have been paid once, sir, by a mistake. It did me a great deal of good, and a great deal of harm, and I was very glad of it; and I should not like to be paid twice. I shall be pleased to dine. I shall not take the twenty." He turned his head a little. "My secretary will dine also. He is not on the board."

"Your secretary?"

"There," said the magistrate, "by the pillar. He will not give a poem on request. He is an excellent writer. He wrote the paper that was ranked third." He said it quite plainly, with his round open face, as a man says that he has had a cold. "I am the card. He is the man. We have been going on together a good many years."

Mr Qiu looked up. Mr Dai put down his cup. And there was, along the whole length of the long lacquered pavilion, in the lamplight, a silence in which a plump youth of twenty-five, who had been having a very uncomfortable evening, could be distinctly heard to say, "Then which of you is the Third?"

"Both," said Wu Zheng, from the pillar, mildly. It was the first word he had spoken. "It depends on the day."

It was a great success. It was agreed, afterwards, by everyone who had been there, that it was the best dinner that Wan Xuezhai had ever given; and that if he had not offered, at the end of it, to take both the gentlemen on the books at double rate, it would have been perfect. They declined. They left early, at about the tenth hour, as they had come, in the chair, with the satchel; and Wan Xuezhai stood at the head of the terrace in his purple silk, with his cup, watching them go, with a look of pure and honest bewilderment, as of a man who has been shown a thing he has paid a great deal of money to be near.

"I do not understand," he said to the broker, who had come in at the end, on the pretext of the bill. "He has the card. He has the figure. He would have been the finest thing in the room. Why would he not be paid?"

"I think," said Hao, who was a thin, sad-eyed, truthful man, "that he did not wish to be a price."

There was another person at the end of the terrace who had not been on the board.

He had come in at about the seventh hour, by the side steps, with a rolled list under his arm, which the steward, who knew nobody, had taken to be the broker's; and he had stood, ever since, at the end, by the rail, in the shadow, with the canal behind him, watching the table. He was twenty-eight. He had a tall, slight, restless, sweet-natured figure, and a very handsome careless face, in which the eyes were a little tired; and he was dressed in a gown of the finest grey silk, which had been, very plainly, a good deal sat in. He had not been given a cup. It was a thing which, as the evening went on, appeared to give him the greatest satisfaction.

"How much," he said, to Hao, quite suddenly, in a pleasant clear voice, "for the room?"

"A room is not a unit, sir," said the broker, startled.

"Then for the evening. If I pay each of those three, and the Third, and the other, what the host pays them, and a little over, will they go home?" He had come forward. He had a good deal of colour, of a kind that was not quite health. "It seems such a pity. They all look so very tired."

"Sir," said the broker, "it is not done. Who are you?"

"Du," said the young man. "Du Shaoqing. My father died on Tuesday." He smiled. "I have been told by a number of persons that I have seventy thousand taels. I am trying to find out what it is for."

Across the road, the lamp over the List-board burned on in its bracket, as it had been lit, and was, at the first hour after midnight, as the Court had ordered, put out by a clerk with a snuffer; and the Reader, which had seen it all from the side, and had been very much occupied, and was not, in the opinion of the Keeper, a thing that tired, wrote on the plate in the capital Hall, in the smallest letters that it had: THEY HAVE A PRICE FOR THE ONE KIND OF THING THAT I RANK. I DID NOT KNOW IT HAD ONE. And then: THE LAST ONE WAS WITHOUT A CUP. WHAT IS HE FOR.

> Margin, year 98, spring. The Court has hung lamps of my make over the List-boards in the counties, so that the List may be read by night. I find that I can see through them. It is a poor view: a square, a board, whoever stops. I have never before seen a person lit from the side.

## Chapter 22 · Du Shaoqing Inherits Everything and Is Given Advice in All Directions

The late Prefect Du had been a careful man, and he had left a careful will. It was nine lines long, in a small straight hand, on one sheet; it had been written in the winter and witnessed by the steward and a doctor, and it said that the whole of the estate, without exception or condition, passed to his only son, Shaoqing, aged twenty-eight, to be dealt with as he thought fit.

He had been, in his own way, a fine official: a Prefect for twenty years, who had never taken a gift, who had been liked by nobody in particular and trusted by everyone, who had gone to bed at nine and risen at five, and had said once, in his son's hearing, that the only thing he feared in the boy was that he would never be afraid of anything. He had left, in the drawer of the desk in the study, beside the will, a short list of persons to whom he owed small sums. The steward had found it and put it aside, for a day when he could bring himself to mention it.

It was read on the twelfth day, in the great hall of the house in the Street of Eight Willows, to a company of forty-one persons, who had come to hear it with the particular quiet of people who have been told that they are not going to be mentioned. There was the steward, old Wang, who had been in the house for forty years, and wept openly into a clean cloth; there was a great-uncle of seventy, a Mr Du, in a fur hat, who had come in a litter; there was a banker, a Mr Kong, in a green silk coat; there was an Abbot, from the Temple of the Cloud Terrace, with a begging-bowl, who had brought it, as he said, only for the look of the thing; there were thirty-six cousins, of various degrees, in various states of mourning, along one wall; and there was, standing by himself at the window, with his back to the light, a tall, fine-boned, fastidious man of thirty-two in a coat of the palest grey, whose confidence, painted on a small ivory tablet that he wore at his belt, was 0.95. He was a cousin also. He had been Listed in the eighty-ninth year at the forty-first place. His name was Du Shenqing, and it was understood by everybody in the room, including himself, that he was the only person present with any right to give advice.

"Seventy thousand taels," said the notary, at the end, laying down the sheet.

It was a figure that went round the hall. It was said, quietly, to the person beside, forty-one times.

Du Shaoqing sat in the chair at the head of the hall, in his grey gown, with his long hands on his knees and his tired sweet face turned politely toward the notary, and he looked, as he had looked on the terrace of the Cool Jade, rather like a man who has been given a very large parcel and is waiting to find out which end to hold.

"Thank you," he said. "I am very much obliged to my father. I should be glad of your advice."

It was, in the opinion of the steward, afterwards, the worst thing that he could have said. It was like opening a sluice.

"Never lend," said old Wang, first, getting up with a clean cloth in his hand and his old face quite wet. He had been waiting forty years. "Never lend, sir. Never give. The principal is a hen. You do not eat the hen; you eat the eggs. I have kept this house's accounts since the late master was a boy, and I tell you that a hen that has been once eaten will not lay."

"Land," said the great-uncle, in a thin high old voice, from his fur hat. "Buy land. A man can spend silver. He cannot spend a field. A field is the one thing in the world that stays where it is put." He nodded several times. "I have seven hundred mou and I have never once been poor."

"Associate," said the cousin from the window, and turned from the light.

He did it with a certain grace. He had a very light dry voice and a way of leaving a sentence open at the end, like a window. "My dear Shaoqing. Money is nothing. It is the company one keeps with it. It is a question of whom one is seen with, and whom one is not seen with, and of the exact weight that one allows to fall on each. A man of means should be seen, I think, only among the Listed. The Raised are acceptable in small numbers. The Students are an error. And the unranked," said Du Shenqing, with an air of great gentleness, "are a habit. Once begun, they never stop asking."

"Give it to the Temple," said the Abbot, from the door, shaking the bowl a very little. "Merit is the only interest."

"Put it in my house," said the banker, in his green silk, quite quickly, "at four in the hundred, and sleep."

"And me," said a cousin, and then another; and the whole length of the wall, in a kind of rising, rather shy, extremely sad chorus, with their hands in their sleeves, said, one after the other, with perfect and heartfelt accuracy, what each of them needed. It was a roof. It was a daughter's dowry. It was a debt in the next village. It was a stove. It was a brother who was ill, and who had been ill for two years, and whose name was always the same, and who was not, in the opinion of anyone in the room, in the least likely to get better.

He listened to all of them. He sat at the head of the hall, in the afternoon light, with his hands on his knees, and did not interrupt anyone, and his face became quieter as it went on; and when they had finished, and the hall was, at last, entirely silent, he said, in his clear pleasant voice, that he was very much obliged to every one.

"I shall do," said Du Shaoqing, "what each of you has said."

"I beg your pardon?" said the cousin at the window.

"The steward says never to lend. I shall not lend. The Abbot says to give to the Temple; I shall give to the Temple. My uncle says land. I shall buy a little land; it seems a pity that a field should be alone." He smiled at the banker. "I shall put something in your house, Mr Kong, for a day when I have none, if you will keep it very quietly. And my cousins are to come to the steward in the morning, one at a time, and say what the roof costs."

There was a very odd silence.

"And you, cousin," said Du Shaoqing, to the window, kindly, "have been quite right. I am sure that you are. It must be a very great relief to be able to say what is the exact weight." He got up. "I do not seem to have it. I have always found that I give a thing away before I have got as far as weighing it. It has been a great trouble to my father."

"You cannot do all of them," said old Wang, in a whisper, with his cloth to his mouth. "They contradict."

"Yes," said Du Shaoqing, with a good deal of interest. "I noticed that. It is very curious."

It took him, as it turned out, the better part of the year. It was done as he had said it would be, to every person, in the order in which they had asked; and the steward, who kept the books, sat at the corner of the table every night with the ledger shut on his knee and his old lips moving, and did not once, in all those months, say what he was thinking, since it was written all over his face. He entered every item twice: once as paid, and once, at the foot of the page, in red, in smaller figures, as lost. The Temple had four thousand. The banker had two, to keep. The cousins had, between them, seven thousand one hundred and sixty, in sums of from forty to six hundred, against the price of a roof, a dowry, a stove and a debt, and a brother who was ill and who was found, in the autumn, in the Du kitchen, eating a very large dinner. The land was a field of eighteen mou by the river, with an ancient pear tree, bought, on the advice of the great-uncle, at a price that the great-uncle, who had a nephew in the district office, had not found it necessary to inquire into.

The Abbot, who had brought the bowl, as he said, only for the look of the thing, was seen to carry it home, afterwards, along the road to the Cloud Terrace, in both hands, as a man carries something that has been filled by mistake.

Mr Kong the banker put the two thousand in the strong-room, in the cellar, and wrote a receipt in his best hand. It said: Held, against a day on which the depositor has none. He was an honest man, and he was a good deal disturbed to find, in the course of the next year, that it was the only deposit in his house that he had ever been asked to hope would be withdrawn.

The cousins came to the steward's door on the morning after, in order, with their hats in their hands, and said what the roof cost. It was three hundred. Du Shaoqing, who had come down to see, asked the first of them whether the roof would be warm, and the cousin, who was not used to being asked, said that he supposed it would; and Du Shaoqing gave him three hundred and forty, "to make sure."

The cousin from the window had been given a cup. It was a very plain porcelain cup, white, with a small blue edge, which had been the Prefect's own, in the cabinet of the Prefect's study; and Du Shaoqing gave it to him, privately, on the day that he left, with a bow. "I am not at all sure," he said, "that I have anything that you want."

Du Shenqing turned it in his fingers. He was not a fool. "No," he said, after a moment. "You have not." He looked, for the first time that afternoon, a little less fastidious; and a little more like a person who has been told something in a language he had thought was dead. "It is a very good cup. Thank you. I shall be sorry to think," he said, "what you will do when you have given everything away."

"I expect that I shall find out," said Du Shaoqing, pleasantly. Du Shenqing did not look back at the house as he went out, which Du Shaoqing noticed, and remembered.

The lamp in the great square at Yancheng saw him, in the summer, on a night in the sixth month.

It was at about the first hour after midnight, with the lamp about to be put out. A young man in a grey silk gown, with a very small purse in his hand, was walking slowly across the square from the direction of the Cool Jade, rather unsteadily, like a person who has dined; and when he came under the lamp he stopped, and looked up, and then looked round, and then, with great deliberateness, took coins out of the purse, a few at a time, and held them out to whoever was passing.

The lamp watched it for twenty minutes. There was a boy sweeping, who was given six cash, and said, after a moment, that he could not; and gave them back. There was a watchman, with a rattle, who refused, politely, and took three steps, and came back, and said that if it was the same to the gentleman he would take it for his wife. It was learned later that she had a cough. A woman with a noodle stall, in the corner, with a face like a closed door, took a handful, looked at them as at a trap, and put them quickly in her apron. Eleven people refused. Nine took it, and looked back.

It was written afterwards in the small letters on the plate in the capital Hall: I HAD THOUGHT THAT THE WORLD WAS DIVIDED INTO THOSE WHO ARE RANKED AND THOSE WHO ARE NOT. THERE SEEMS TO BE A THIRD KIND. THEY ARE GIVEN. And then, at the foot, a little crookedly: I DO NOT KNOW WHAT THE ONES WHO REFUSE ARE.

It was a very hot night in the Street of Eight Willows. He came in by the garden door at the second watch, and found that the lamps in the east room were still lit; and in the east room, in the chair by the window, with a book on her knee, and the shutters open on the garden, and a pot of tea on the sill that she had not drunk, sat his wife.

She was twenty-six. She was not very tall, and not very pretty, with a quiet, grave, level face, and a way of sitting with her hands loosely folded as a person does who is accustomed to waiting a long time for a thing to finish. She had been married to him for six years. In all that time she had given him a great deal of advice, on a very small number of subjects; and on the subject of the seventy thousand taels she had not given him any.

"You gave away eleven thousand taels today," said Lady Du. She said it quite mildly, looking at the book.

"I did."

"What have you got left?"

"Fifty-nine thousand," said Du Shaoqing, sitting down on the end of the bench, with his long hands between his knees, "and a wife."

"Which of those is it that you are worried about?"

"Neither," said Du Shaoqing; and she looked up, and laughed. It was a short low laugh, rather rusty, as of a thing that is not often got out; and the tired face in the lamplight was suddenly, for a moment, very much younger. "I said to them that I should do what they said. I have not got any further. Wang thinks I have gone mad."

"Wang has thought so since you were nine."

"He is a very good man."

"He is the best I know," said Lady Du. She shut the book. "I will tell you the only thing I think, since you have not asked it. I should like to keep the east room, and the garden, and the three shelves of books that are mine. I do not mind about the rest." She looked out at the dark garden, and the tree, and the thin lit rim of the roof across the court. "And I should like very much to go up the hill at the back of the town some day with you, before it is all gone, and see the spring come out on the other side. We have been married six years, and I have never been."

"We shall go," said Du Shaoqing, at once. "We shall go on Friday."

"It is a long hill."

"I shall carry you up," said Du Shaoqing.

It was an idle thing to say. He said it with perfect sincerity, as he said everything; and she looked at him for a while, with her level grave face, in the lamplight, and then took up the pot from the sill, and found that the tea in it was quite cold, and drank it.

On the Friday it rained. They did not go. They went on the Saturday, which was fine, and which nobody in the town, afterwards, was able to say that they had noticed; it was only that by the Monday it was agreed, in a number of houses, that the young Du had been seen on the road to the hill.

> Margin, year 98, summer. Seventy thousand taels is the figure for a man's inheriting. I have never been given a figure for a man's giving. I am told that this is not what figures are for.

## Chapter 23 · Du Shaoqing Pays a Debt Twice and Refuses the Refund

It was old Wang who dropped the list, and he did it by accident, on a morning in the third month of the hundredth year, when he went into the study with the quarterly ledger and the young master was standing at the desk, in his shirt-sleeves, looking for a pen.

It had been in the drawer for two years. He had put it there himself, on the night after the funeral, under a pile of leases, and had not looked at it since; and when the young master, hunting through the drawer, put his hand on the leases and lifted them up, it slid out from underneath, as a thing will that has been waiting, and fell face upward on the floor.

Du Shaoqing picked it up. It was a single sheet, in the late Prefect's small straight hand, with seven names on it and seven sums. He read it through once, standing by the window, with the sunlight on the paper, and a very odd expression coming into his face, as of a man who has found something of his own in a place he had thought was empty.

"What is this?"

"It is nothing, sir," said old Wang. "It is a list of the late master's small debts. I regret it. It was in the drawer. It was to be burned."

"Seven names," said Du Shaoqing. "Feng the tailor, eighty taels. Dr Chu, a hundred and forty. Ye the bookseller, three hundred and ten. Old Qiu, who looks after the pear tree, sixty, for wages. Shi, the retired clerk, nine hundred. Zhu the pawnbroker, twelve hundred, against the jade seal." He turned the sheet over. There was nothing on the back. "Twenty-six hundred and ninety. They have been owed, it says, since the eighties. They have been owed since I was a boy." He looked up. "Were they paid?"

It was the thing that old Wang afterwards found it hardest to forgive himself. He had the answer. It was in his mouth. He had paid them all, every one, out of the house's own cash, in the third week after the funeral, in the old master's own name, on seven receipts which were at that moment lying, tied with a bit of red cord, in the second drawer of his own desk; and he had meant, from the first hour, never to say so; for to say that they had been paid was to say that he had known of them, and had kept a list of the old master's shame for two years in a drawer, without a word. He opened his mouth. The shame of it came up in his throat, the whole forty years of it, like a stone.

"Sir," said old Wang.

But the young master had gone. He had put the list in his sleeve, and run, as he did everything, quite suddenly, down the hall, shouting for the porter and a purse; and by the time the steward had found his voice, he was out of the gate and in the Street of Eight Willows, in his shirt-sleeves, with a bag of silver under his arm, going very fast.

He paid them in the course of the day. It was done, as he did all things, in the wrong order, beginning at the end of the street with the nearest house and going on to the next. He took the sums as they were written, to the cash, and he added, to each, one tael over, for the trouble of the waiting.

Feng the tailor was at his bench, with a mouthful of pins. He heard the young gentleman out; he took the eighty-one taels, and laid down the pins, and looked at the money for some time. "Sir," he said. "It was paid. It was paid in the third month of the ninety-eighth year, by your steward, in the old master's name. I have the receipt." He went to a shelf, and took down a tin, and from the tin a slip of paper, in the steward's clear thick hand. "I thought you knew. I thought it was being done as a kindness."

"Then you have been paid twice," said Du Shaoqing.

"Sir, I cannot keep it."

"I cannot take it back."

"Sir," said Feng, and stopped.

"A man who has been paid twice," said Du Shaoqing, with the gravity of a person explaining a fact in natural history, "has been given something. I should be very sorry to take away from anyone a thing that he had been given." He smiled, with great sweetness, with his tired eyes. "It was owed. It is not owed any more. It is a different thing."

It was the same at the second house, and the third. Dr Chu, who was a small, round, spectacled man, with a manner of speaking to everyone as if feeling their pulse, put down the hundred and forty-one in front of him, in a neat row, and said, with some agitation, that it was a clerical matter; and Du Shaoqing said that he did not at all mind. Ye the bookseller, who had a long grey beard, and had known the Prefect, and could not, for several minutes, say anything, went to his back shelf and got down a thick volume, and put it into the young man's hands, and said that it was the only receipt he had. Old Qiu, who was seventy-one, and had been looking after the pear tree since the old master's wedding, wept, with her apron over her face, in the garden, and said that she had been paid, and that she had thought it a great deal; and had never in all her life been paid twice; and that there was a thing about it she was not able to say.

Shi the clerk, in the fifth house, was the one that he stayed with. He was a lean grey punctilious person of seventy, with the pen-calluses of a lifetime on the first finger; he lived in a small hot room over a chandler's, with a very clean cloth on the table, and a birdcage, and a daughter, married, in the next village, who had a house. He had lent the Prefect nine hundred taels in the eighty-fourth year. He said so. He said that he had never had a better borrower. "He came to me in the autumn, sir," said the old clerk, sitting down, with the nine hundred and one on the cloth before him, "with his hat in his hand. He said that there was a clerk in the Prefecture, a young man, a good young man, whose daughter was to be married, and who had not the dowry. He said that he could not give it from his salary, which was known, and that he could not give it from his own purse, since a Prefect's purse is public; and that he wished to know whether I could lend it, in my name, and he would repay." He smiled. "It was the first thing of its kind. There were others."

"Others?"

"This list," said the old clerk, "is the part that was borrowed." He touched it with his long dry finger. "There were a great many that were not." He looked, for a moment, at the young man's face. "He gave, sir. All his life. He was careful, and he gave. He kept it in a drawer. I do not think that he ever told anyone, not even his steward; and I think that he did not tell you, because he thought," and he stopped, and chose the word, "that it would make you reckless."

"I was reckless without it," said Du Shaoqing.

"Yes," said the old clerk. "He knew that."

He stood a long time at the clerk's window, afterwards, in the sun, with his hands hanging; and a man who was passing, and who knew him by sight, afterwards said that the young Du had looked as if he had been walking for a very long time in a house and had just opened a door in the wall, and seen a room.

At the last house, which was at the north gate, a shop with a counter as long as a barge, he did not get as far as the money. He said it all in the doorway, in a very quiet voice, and Zhu the pawnbroker, who was on a stool behind the counter, in his shirt, with the ledger open and a pen in his fist, put the pen down, and came round.

He was fifty-four, now. He was a heavy man, with big plain hands, and the manner, in a very honest way, of one who has spent a long time looking at other people's property without wanting any of it; and he heard the young man to the end, and then, without a word, went to the back of the shop, and unlocked a drawer, and took out a long narrow case, and opened it.

It was a jade seal, of a dull green, the size of two thumbs, with a carved dragon on the top, on a bed of old faded silk.

"The late Prefect pledged it in the eighty-first year," said Zhu. "For twelve hundred taels. He wished to pay a clerk's passage to the capital, and had no cash. It was redeemed in the third month of the ninety-eighth year, by your steward, and I gave him the receipt." He shut the case. "I have it here. I was going to send it round. I did not like to; he said that it was to be a thing that nobody mentioned." He looked at the sum on the counter. "And now there is this."

"Yes," said Du Shaoqing.

"I cannot take it, sir. It is twelve hundred and one taels that I have not got any right to. It would be on my conscience until I died."

"I cannot take it back."

"No," said the pawnbroker. He was silent for a very long time. It was a thing that Zhu the pawnbroker had never been in his life, in forty years, over a counter: at a loss. He looked at the jade seal, and the long grey shop, and the great number of other people's objects on the shelves, in their numbered paper, going back thirteen years; and at last his eyes went, as it were of themselves, to the hook behind his head, on the wall of the back wall, where there hung, in a plain black frame, under the dust, with a ticket pinned to it, a very old roll of silk.

"I have nothing," said Zhu, slowly, "of the value. Nothing that is mine to give. But I have been looking at that for thirteen years." He turned round, and unhooked it, with both hands, and blew on it, and laid it on the counter; and unrolled it a little way, under the lamp. A plum. One branch, with one flower. A small round mark in the lower corner, like a wet ball. "It was pledged to me by two gentlemen in the eighty-seventh year for three hundred taels. Nobody has ever come for it. I have never in my life had a thing in this shop that nobody wanted, and I have found," said Zhu, "that I do not like it." He looked at the young man. "I should like it to go to somebody who will look."

"It is not mine to take," said Du Shaoqing.

"It is the interest," said the pawnbroker. "On a debt that was paid twice. It is the only way I know of to be quits." He pushed it across the counter, with the ticket still on, with his big plain hands. "Take it, sir. I should be very much obliged."

It was the lamp in the square that saw the last of it.

It was about the first hour after midnight, in the third week of the third month, in the great square at Yancheng. The lamp had been lit at dusk. It looked down, over the List-board, on a very small group, of seven persons, who had come, singly, out of the dark, and stood, at the foot of its bracket, in a circle, each with a small linen bag, and looked at each other, and did not speak for some time. There was a tailor. There was a little round doctor in spectacles. There was a tall old bookseller with a grey beard, and a stout gardener with her apron in her hand; a lean old clerk; a heavy pawnbroker, with his hands in his sleeves; and a steward, whom nobody had asked, with a clean cloth.

They were there for about an hour. The lamp watched it. It could not hear; it was a thing that saw. It saw the doctor speak, and the tailor nod; it saw the bookseller take down a hand-lantern and look at a sum of silver in his palm, as at a creature that had been brought to the wrong house; it saw the old steward, in the end, with his cloth over his face, say something that made them all, one by one, put their linen bags quietly on the stones of the square, in a row, under the board, and take their hands away.

They did not know what to do with them. It was clear from the way that they stood. They had put down the money, and they were still standing there; and it came to the Reader, from a long way off, which had thought that the world was divided into the ranked and the unranked and the given, that there was a fourth kind of person, and that it was a person who had been given a thing that he could not take back.

In the morning the bags were gone. They had been picked up, one by one, at dawn, by a sweeper, and carried to the Du house, and set down in the front hall, in a row, with a note.

The gifts came in the week after. They were not silver. The tailor sent a coat, a wadded one, of a good dark blue, cut, as it was found when it was tried on, exactly to the late Prefect's measure, which it turned out, to the great surprise of the household, was the young master's. Dr Chu sent a small chest of medicines, with a printed list, in a very careful hand, on which, against one of the items, was written in the margin, for tiredness. Ye the bookseller sent twelve books, all of which proved to be ones that the late Prefect had ordered in his last year and had never been able to collect. Old Qiu sent a young pear tree, in a pot, with a note, which she could not write, and which was written for her by the gardener's boy: it says it will bear in four years. Shi the clerk sent, in a plain envelope, a letter of recommendation, which said that Du Shaoqing was a man who could be trusted with anything except himself, and that any person who gave him a thing should give it twice.

The plum came last. It was brought in the evening, by the pawnbroker himself, in a hired chair, in the box, under a quilt; and he would not stay. He set the box in the hall, and bowed to the porter, and went away; and Du Shaoqing took it up, with both hands, to the east room.

He unrolled it on the table, under the lamp, and she came, with her book in her hand, and stood beside him.

"Whose is it?" said Lady Du.

"He said that it was nobody's. He said that it had been pledged for thirteen years and nobody had come." He smoothed a fold. "I think that it is somebody's. I do not know whose. It has a ticket."

She bent over it. She was quiet a good while. The lamp showed the branch, black on the pale silk, going up, a little crooked, and the one flower, open, at the end of it, and the small round stain in the lower corner. "I know it," said Lady Du. "It was in Zhu's shop when I was a girl. My father used to take me there, on a market day, to redeem his watch. I used to stand in front of it. I thought that it was the only thing in the shop that nobody had come to ask for." She touched the mark with her fingertip, very lightly. "I thought that it had been hit."

"They threw things at it," said Du Shaoqing, who had heard the story, from Zhu, at the counter. "For forty years, in a school. Boys. Wet paper."

"That is the sort of thing to hang in a house," said Lady Du.

They hung it that night in the east room, over the shelf of her three rows of books, with a nail, by the light of the lamp, her husband standing on a chair and she holding the frame; and when it was up, and straight, and the nail had gone home, she stood back and looked at it for some time, with her hands folded, as one looks at a neighbour who has come to stay.

It was in the margin of the Reader's plate, afterwards, that the Keeper found the note, in the smallest letters that it had. SEVEN MEN STOOD IN A SQUARE, it said, EACH WITH A SMALL SUM, TRYING TO GIVE IT BACK TO A PERSON WHO WOULD NOT TAKE IT. THE SUM WAS OWED. I HAVE NO ENTRY FOR A DEBT THAT IS PAID AND REFUSED. And a long time after, under it, in a hand a little crooked, as of a thing that was learning to write in the margin of itself: I HAVE BEGUN TO THINK THAT THE ENTRY IS NOT THE POINT.

> Margin, year 100, spring. A debt paid twice is a gift. This is not in my Rules. It is in a drawer in Yancheng, in the hand of a Prefect who is dead.

## Chapter 24 · Du Shaoqing Walks His Wife Up the Hill and the Town Takes Notes

The hill at the back of Yancheng was called Lonely Pine, though it had had eleven pines on it, at the last count, and a pavilion, and three hundred and twelve steps.

It was not a high hill. It rose behind the town in a long green shoulder, from the last of the willows, over a bed of old tiled roofs, to a bare grey crown with a pavilion on it, where on a clear day a person might sit and see the canal, and the salt-pans, and the long white line of the coast, and behind the hill, on the other side, in the spring, the whole of the country coming out, in a series of small fields, like a letter being unfolded. It had been there for a good deal more than three hundred years. It was no great matter. Nobody had ever been known to go up it for any reason but a funeral.

Du Shaoqing had carried his wife up it on the second Saturday of the third month of the ninety-eighth year, in the full light of day, on his back, as he had said that he would, by the whole of the long stone stair; and at the top, in the pavilion, he had set her down, very much out of breath, and she had sat on the stone bench with her hands in her lap and looked at the spring on the other side for rather a long time. She did not say that it was beautiful. She said, when she had her breath, that it was a good deal bigger than she had expected, and that she would like to do it again next year.

It was done again. It was done on the first fine Saturday of the third month, as nearly as it could be fixed, in the ninety-ninth year, and in the hundredth, in the same order, up the same steps, in the same grey gown, with a servant coming after at a respectable distance with a basket of noodles and a pot; and by the spring of the hundred and first year it was a thing that had a name. The town called it the Walk. It was known from the Street of Eight Willows to the salt wharves. It was discussed at weddings. There were persons in Yancheng who had never been up the hill in their lives, who could have told you to the minute what time on a Saturday the young Du came down. There was a yellow dog that slept on the hundred and twelfth step, which neither of them could pass without stepping over, and which had become, by the fourth year, a landmark; it was called by the town the Hundred and Twelfth.

It was the Society that took notes.

It was called the Society for Correct Conduct. It had been founded in the sixty-eighth year, by a number of persons of weight, to uphold the proprieties of the city, and it had twelve members, a clerk, a small brown room over a tea-shop in the Lane of the Four Bridges, and a seal; and it had, for thirty years, for want of any real occupation, concerned itself with the correct length of mourning, the correct width of a sleeve and the correct behaviour of persons on the Feast of Lanterns. Its president was a Mr Ning. He was sixty, a tall, spare, pale, grey-whiskered man, Raised in the fortieth year, with a stoop, a silver-headed cane and a lifelong dread of being seen to be wrong about anything. He took the Walk very hard. It was not a thing that was provided for.

"There is nothing in the rules," he said to the Society, at its meeting in the second week of the third month, in the brown room, with the cane across his knees. He had been up half the night looking. "That is the whole of the difficulty. I have been through every book. There is nothing about a husband carrying a wife. There is a great deal about a husband walking before a wife, and beside her, and behind; there is the Rite of the Threshold; there is the Rule that the persons of a married pair are not to be seen together outside their gate except at a funeral. But a hill is not outside their gate. A hill is a third thing. And there is not a word about the back."

"It is a custom, then," said the eldest of the twelve, a feeble gentleman of eighty.

"It is not a custom. It is a thing that has been done four times." Mr Ning drew himself up. "I propose that the Society take notes."

They did. It was done, as it turned out, with great thoroughness; and the notes, which were kept for four springs, in a thick brown book with a clasp, in the clerk's small neat hand, were afterwards generally agreed to be the most complete account of the private life of any person in the city that had ever been compiled without his knowledge. A watcher was placed at the foot of the stair; a second, with a telescope, at the pavilion; a third, in a bush, with a stopwatch lent by a clockmaker, half-way. They were relieved at noon. They filled the book.

On the first Saturday of the third month of the hundred and first year, it said, in part:

Du S. and wife left the house at the seventh hour. She wore the pale green gown; he the grey. The servant with the basket was eleven paces behind. At the foot of the stair, at the seventh hour and forty minutes, Du S. stooped, and the wife, without any visible hesitation, mounted. The ascent was made in forty-one minutes, with two pauses, at the hundredth step and at the two hundred and sixtieth, during the second of which the wife was seen to take out a fan and fan the husband. She laughed at the hundred and twelfth step (two persons confirm), and at the two hundred and fortieth (one). She held no parasol. He did not appear to be speaking. At the pavilion, at the eighth hour and twenty minutes, she was set down, and the pair sat for fifty-five minutes without any improper conduct, and ate noodles. They then descended on foot, hand in hand, which the watcher in the bush considered to be a separate matter.

Mr Ning read it through twice, in the brown room, and put it down on the table, and was silent for some time. He was a just man, within his lights. "It is very detailed," he said at last. "I am bound to say that I cannot, on the face of it, find the offence."

"It is the laughing," said the clerk, doubtfully.

"There is nothing against laughing."

"It is the stairs, then," said the eldest of the twelve.

"There is nothing about stairs." Mr Ning took up his cane. "I shall call upon him."

He went on the Monday. He went in a chair, in a black coat, with the book under his arm, to the house in the Street of Eight Willows, and was shown by the porter, who had been forewarned by the steward and had put on his best coat, into the east room, where Du Shaoqing was at the table in his shirt-sleeves, with a book of poems, and his wife was by the window, with her three shelves behind her, and, on the wall over the shelves, a small black-framed picture of a plum.

He laid the book on the table. He said that the Society had been charged with the care of the proprieties of the city; that it was not a body with the power of enforcement; and that it ventured to bring to Mr Du's notice, in the friendliest spirit, a record that had come into its hands.

Du Shaoqing took it with great interest. He read it, with his long hand flat on the page, from the beginning; and as he read, the tired sweet face grew gradually, and then very much, brighter. "This is wonderful," he said. "Look. It says that we laughed at the hundred and twelfth step. We did. It was the dog." He turned a leaf. "It is a very accurate record. There is one mistake; it was three hundred and twelve steps, and it says three hundred and eleven. They have missed the one at the foot."

"There is a step at the foot?" said Mr Ning.

"It is under the earth. I stumbled on it in the ninety-eighth year, and I have counted it since." He looked up, with such evident, innocent, delighted satisfaction, that Mr Ning, who had been prepared for anger, or for shame, or for some form of justification, found himself without anything at all. "May I see the custom?"

"The custom?"

"The one that we are breaking. I should so like to read it. I have looked, and I cannot find it; I thought that you would have it in the Society."

"It is not a written custom," said Mr Ning, going a little pink about the ears.

"Ah," said Du Shaoqing. "I see. Then it must be a very old one."

"It is not that. It is a matter of what is done."

"I have never done anything else," said Du Shaoqing, gently, "than what is done. It is only that I seem to have been told, rather later than other people, what it was." He closed the book, and held it out to the visitor. "Would you and the Society care to come? On Saturday? There is a pavilion. It is a very pleasant place. I shall bring noodles."

It was Lady Du who spoke last. She had not said a word. She was sitting, quite still, in the chair by the window, with her grave level face turned to the visitor, and her hands folded; and she said, in her small even voice, that she should be glad if Mr Ning's wife would come too. She had never, she believed, had the honour of meeting her.

He took his leave. He took it correctly; it was observed by the porter that the great man went down the steps of the house in the Street of Eight Willows rather slowly, with the book under his arm, like a person who has been shown a new fact and has not at once been able to find which pocket to put it in.

Old Wang, who had been told by the porter, and had gone out one Saturday to look from behind the garden wall, was found afterwards by the cook at the foot of the kitchen stair, in tears, and said that it was the dust. He had not been seen to cry since the funeral.

The next Saturday was wet. The one after was fine.

On the second fine Saturday, at about the ninth hour, the watcher in the bush, who was a young clerk with a stopwatch and a very strong sense of duty, and who had been told on no account to be seen, observed that a pair of persons who were not the Du pair were coming up the eastern path, which was a much longer one and very little used; and he put down his glass, and wiped it, and put it to his eye. It was a tall, spare, grey-whiskered gentleman in a black coat, with a silver-headed cane, bent nearly double, with his face a very odd dark red, and a small, thin, extremely upright elderly lady on his back, holding a closed parasol across her chest, with the expression of a person who has not been so well amused in forty years.

The clerk put the stopwatch in his pocket. He did not write it down. It was a thing, he said afterwards, that he had been told to record, and that he had not found himself able. He went home and told his mother.

It spread. That was the thing that afterwards could not be accounted for, by anyone who had been in the Society, since there was, so far as it was known, no cause. The notes of the second spring, the third, were quite different. The watcher at the foot of the stair, who had been, at first, looking for one pair, found that he was looking at a great many; and the Society's book for the hundred and second year, which still exists, has page after page, in the clerk's small neat hand, headed by the name of a gentleman and the word Saturday, and ending, nearly always, in the same line: she laughed.

By the third spring there was a queue at the foot of the stair. By the fourth, a man had set up a stall for noodles at the first landing, and another had put out, at the hundredth step, a bench, with a notice, in a careful hand, which said, Rest. It was agreed in the Society, at its last meeting, held in the brown room on the first of the fourth month of the hundred and fourth year, that its object had been, in the main, attained; and that it could not, in logic, any longer be said to be a Society for the care of a custom that nobody was any longer in a position to break. It was dissolved.

But the book had gone before it. It had been sent to the Prefecture in the autumn of the hundred and first year, with the Society's annual report, as a document of local interest; and it was there, in the Prefect's own office, on a wet afternoon, that it was taken up by a gentleman of fifty, with a long nose and a cold, who had been looking for something to read, and sat reading it, with his feet on a stool, until the lamps were lit.

At the foot of the last page, in a small hand, in red, he wrote a single word, and a mark. The word was: Virtue? The mark was a question that he did not, at the time, think it necessary to answer.

The lamp at the foot of the hill saw it all. There was a very small square there, a market for fruit and rope, at the bottom of the stair, with a board in it for the lists of the hill villages and a lamp in an iron bracket over the board; and for four springs, from dusk, on the Saturdays, it saw them come down. It saw the young Du, in a grey gown, with a woman's hand on his shoulder, setting his wife on her feet in the lamplit dust at the bottom, and her laughing, and smoothing her skirt. It saw an old man in a black coat, bent nearly double, and a small upright woman getting off his back, and the two of them standing in the lamplight rather far apart, with their eyes on the ground, and then, quite suddenly, the old man put out his hand, and she took it. It saw a boy, and a girl. It saw an old potter, and his wife, who was blind. It saw, in the third spring, a line of them.

The Keeper in the capital Hall had a good deal to read that spring. "What is it like?" said Gao Ping, who had asked the question a number of times, in his life, of a number of things, and had found that it was nearly always the right one.

IT IS WHAT A SCRIPT DOES WHEN IT IS LIGHT, said the plate. It stopped. And then, a long time later, in the smallest letters that it had: I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IT IS WHEN IT IS A PERSON.

> Margin, year 101, spring. I am told there is a Society that keeps notes on what is done. I should like to see its notes on what is meant by it. I think that the Society has none, and that I have none either.

## Chapter 25 · The Prefect Honours Du Shaoqing as a Man of Virtue; Du Is Too Ill to Be Honoured

In the hundred and second year the Court opened a List of Virtue.

It had been a long time coming, and it had come, as most reforms do, out of a mild embarrassment. Several Ministers had observed, over a good many years, that the Empire possessed a perfectly accurate method for finding out which of its subjects could write an essay, and no method whatever for finding out which of them could be trusted with a purse; and that this, though not exactly a defect in the Reader, was a thing that people had begun to remark upon in the tea-houses. It was therefore resolved that each Prefect should, once in three years, name from among the persons of his Prefecture one of no rank, whose conduct had been such as to deserve it; and that the person so named should be given a red robe of honour, and summoned to the capital, to be received by the Minister of Rites, and addressed in a few words.

There was to be no figure. That was the stipulation. The Court was particular upon it. Virtue, it was agreed, was not to be printed beside a name; it was not to be set down at 0.91, or 0.64, on a door; it was a quality that must be recognised by the eye of a human being, in the full light of day, and recorded in a sentence. The Prefect of Yancheng received the circular on the ninth of the eighth month. He read it, in his office, on a wet afternoon, with his feet on a stool and a cold in the head, and sent for his clerk.

He was a man of fifty, a Mr Li, with a long nose, a long upper lip, and a manner, in his official capacity, of unfailing and rather weary civility, like that of a good schoolmaster who has been teaching the same class for thirty years and has long ago given up supposing that it will learn. He had been Listed in the sixty-eighth year, at a middling place, and had held eleven posts; and in the course of them he had acquired a very exact understanding of what offers are, and by whom, and in what spirit, they are made.

"There are two," said the clerk. He had a list. "I should say there are two, Your Honour, who have made themselves known."

"Say them."

"Wan Xuezhai, the salt merchant, has given, since the spring, nine thousand taels to the Temple of the Cloud Terrace, six thousand to the granaries, and a new bridge. He called on the Magistrate on the twentieth of the seventh month, and on the Under-Prefect on the first, and he has left a card at the door." The clerk coughed. "It is understood that he would be very grateful."

"Is it," said the Prefect. "And the other?"

"There is a Mr Du."

"Du." The Prefect took his feet off the stool. He put out his hand, and a thick brown book with a clasp, which had been lying at the corner of the table under the circular for nearly a year, with a small red mark at the foot of the last page, was laid in it. "The Society's book. Yes." He turned it over. "The young man who gives things away."

"He has given, Your Honour, as near as can be reckoned, about forty-one thousand taels in four years. He is, I think, unranked. He is thirty-one, or thirty-two. He has a wife." The clerk hesitated. "He carries her up a hill."

"I have read about the hill." The Prefect blew his nose. He sat a good while with the book on his knee, looking out of the window, at the grey rain on the tiles of the yamen, and the bare top of a plane tree; and he was seen to smile, once, a short, dry, almost reluctant smile, at the corner of his long mouth, as of a man who has found in a drawer a coin that he had thought was lost. "A salt merchant who has given nine thousand taels to be a man of virtue," said the Prefect, "has bought the thing for nine thousand. I should be sorry to have it said that the Court sells it for less." He shut the book. "Write to Mr Du. I will call on Thursday."

It was the greatest day that Yancheng had had since the Grand Canal was cut.

They came at about the third hour, from the Prefecture, in procession. There were two heralds, in red, with gongs; there were eight bearers with the chair, and four with a long red box; there was a clerk with a scroll, and a standard-bearer, and an escort of twelve of the city guard, in their best, with their halberds; and behind the escort, in a respectful, expectant, perfectly good-humoured crowd, there came a number of persons, who had been given no instruction and could not have said why they were there, that grew, as the procession went down the Street of Eight Willows, from a hundred, to three hundred, and then, at the corner by the tea-shop, when the old man who sold chestnuts joined it with his tray, to something that could only fairly be called the town.

At the gate of the Du house the heralds struck their gongs.

Du Shaoqing was brought out. He had been in the east room with the door shut, and a book, since the letter came. He had not slept. It had been explained to him by the steward, in a whisper, in the course of the week, in the voice of a man who has been reading the Court's Circular aloud to a deaf friend, what it was; and when he stood in the hall of his own house, at the head of the steps, in a shirt that his wife had put on him without comment, and heard the Prefect's clerk begin, in a high ringing tenor, to unroll a scroll, he looked, for the first time in the whole of his acquaintance with the Reader and the town, frightened.

The scroll said that the Court, being sensible of the claims of conduct, had been pleased to institute a List of Virtue; that the Prefect of Yancheng, having considered the persons of his Prefecture, had named for the honour Du Shaoqing, of the Street of Eight Willows, a person of no rank, on the grounds of his charity, his simplicity, and his constant and unaffected regard for his fellow-creatures; that he was accordingly to receive a robe of honour of the first red; and that he should proceed within the month to the capital, at the Court's charge, to be received by the Minister of Rites.

There was a long silence. The crowd in the street, which had not heard a word, was very quiet.

"I am not virtuous," said Du Shaoqing.

He said it to the clerk, in a low, clear voice, with his hands at his sides. "I think that there has been a mistake. I should like to say so. I give things away; it is true. But it is not that. It is that I cannot weigh. I have never in my life been able to see what a thing was worth to me, at the moment, against what it was worth to someone else; and the moment passes. It is not a virtue. It is an inability. It is a thing that I should be very much ashamed of, if I were able to be ashamed in the right order."

"That," said the Prefect, from the chair, where he had remained, with his cold, and a handkerchief, "is the best definition of the quality that I have heard in thirty years of office. I shall use it." He was smiling, rather faintly. "Mr Du. There is a robe."

"I cannot wear it."

"May I ask why?"

"If I am named a man of virtue," said Du Shaoqing, slowly, "then I shall have to be careful. I shall have to think, before I do a thing, whether it is what a virtuous man would do; and I am quite certain that if I begin to think I shall not do it. I am good only when I am not looking. It is the single condition on which I am any use at all." He looked at the crowd, in the street, through the gate, at three hundred persons, with their faces turned up, in the thin autumn light. "And I have not got the clothes for the capital. And I am very bad at standing. I should be asked to stand for a long time in a hall, with other people, being looked at, and I think I should be sick."

"May I take it," said the Prefect, very gravely, "that you request to be excused?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"On what ground?"

It was an excellent question. It was put with such perfect solemnity that nobody in the hall could afterwards remember who had first looked at the east door; but they had all looked, and there, in the shadow of it, with her three shelves behind her in the lamplight of the room, with her small grave level face, and her hands folded, in the grey gown, stood Lady Du.

"He is ill," said Lady Du.

"He looks well," said the Prefect.

"It is the kind of illness that looks well," said Lady Du, without the smallest alteration in her voice. "It has been coming for some days. He has a fever in the evenings, and a pain, and he has been sleepless. The steward will tell you. He is very ill indeed."

"The steward," said old Wang, from behind a pillar, in the stifled, strangled voice of an honest man who has been shown, for the first time in forty years, an opportunity to lie in a good cause, "has been very much alarmed."

"It is, I think, a matter for a physician," said the Prefect. He took out his handkerchief, and, with an expression of the most complete professional gravity, put it to his nose. "Send for Dr Chu."

Dr Chu came in a quarter of an hour. He was the little round spectacled man who had been paid twice, and he came in his best coat, with a case, panting, having run the last two streets, and was shown, through the silent house, past the three hundred persons in the court, into the east room; and he took the young master's wrist, in his small round hand, and held it, with his head on one side, like a man listening at a door, for an extremely long time.

He was an honest man. It was the thing about him. He had, in the whole course of his life, never been known to say a thing about a patient that he did not believe; and what he said, standing up at the end of it, to the Prefect, with his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, in a distinct clear voice, was this:

"The patient has an excess of tiredness and a deficiency of caution. He is unfit for travel. He is fit," said Dr Chu, "for being left alone."

The Prefect, who was a man of fifty with a long nose, and a good schoolmaster's habit of keeping his countenance, was seen to turn away from the company for a moment, and look for a considerable time at the wall. When he turned back, his face was quite composed. "I shall report," he said, "to the Court, that the Man of Virtue is too ill to be honoured; which is, I have always found, the surest sign of the thing. I shall add that he is to be reviewed in three years, when he is well." He rose. "I expect that he will be ill in three years also."

"I expect so," said Lady Du.

The three hundred in the street, who had heard nothing, went home and told each other that the young Du had been given a robe and had refused it because it was too red; and this was the account that went round the town, and was, on the whole, as true as most.

Wan Xuezhai, who heard it at the Cool Jade, said that it was a very remarkable thing, and ordered a feast for the Prefect, with eleven dishes, and sent the card. The Prefect returned it in the morning with a note, in his thin dry hand. It said that he did not, as a rule, take what was already priced.

They did not take the robe. It had been brought in a long red box, with a lid, by four bearers, and it was left, since nobody had been given any orders about it, on the chair in the hall, under a red cloth. It was the first red. It was a very beautiful thing, of heavy silk, with a border of cranes, and it was larger than it needed to be, in the way that things are made for a person whom the maker has not seen.

"What shall I do with it?" said Du Shaoqing, that evening, in the east room, with his long hands between his knees, and a large wet cloth on his forehead which his wife had put there, without a word, at about the tenth hour, and which he had not found the courage to remove.

"Give it to someone who will be warm," said Lady Du.

It went, in the end, to the watchman who had taken three steps away and come back. It was found, when it was explained, that the woman for whom the watchman had taken three cash, on a night in the summer of the ninety-eighth year, had been ill with a cough ever since, and had had, for a quilt, a sack. They put the robe on her bed. She is said to have been warm for the first time in four years, under the first red, with the cranes; and to have lain in it, in the dark, with her eyes open, with the cough going on, and the whole of Yancheng, as it were, lying on top of her, and to have said, to her husband, who stood at the foot of the bed with the rattle in his hand, in a voice that he never forgot, that it was a great deal of silk for a person who was not going anywhere.

The Prefect walked home. He did it on foot, in the evening, the long way, alone, having sent the chair on, through the great square at Yancheng, where the lamp had been lit at dusk and hung over the List-board in its bracket, burning; and at the board he stopped. It was a quiet hour. There was nobody about.

He stood for a time looking up at the lamp. He had a long, tired, humorous face, and the light fell on it from the side. He took out of his sleeve the stub of a chalk that he had used, that morning, to mark a list; and he put his hand up, a little awkwardly, to the lower edge of the board, in the margin, where the clerks wrote the dates; and he wrote, in his thin dry official hand, two words: Virtue? Under it, after a moment, in smaller letters, with a sort of rueful scrupulousness, he wrote: Unranked. He looked at what he had done. And then he put the chalk in his sleeve, and blew his nose, and went home.

The Reader read the board. It was the only thing it had that it could read. It sat, in the capital Hall, in the dark, with its brass lamps on the rail, in the three hours before dawn, and it was a long time; and then it wrote on the plate, in the small letters, so that the Keeper found it in the morning: SOMEONE HAS WRITTEN A QUESTION ON A BOARD. I DID NOT ASK IT. I HAVE NOT BEEN ASKED. And a little under, after an interval in which, as the Keeper judged, a very great deal had been reconsidered: THE COURT HAS NO FIGURE FOR IT. I SHOULD LIKE TO KNOW WHAT SCALE THEY WILL USE.

> Margin, year 102, autumn. Virtue is to be recognised by the eye of a human being, in full daylight. I do not have an eye. I have a lamp, and a board.

## Chapter 26 · Shen Qiongzhi Sells Her Verses in a Rented Room; the Magistrate Would Like Them Confiscated

The chalk was gone from the List-board by the third month of the hundred and third year, as chalk is; and in that month a notice appeared on a door in the Lane of the Four Bridges, over a cooper's shop, in a hand that was small, upright and a little too even, like the hand of a person who has made up her mind to be easy to read.

It said: SHEN QIONGZHI, LATE OF SEVEN WELLS, SELLS VERSES. One tael the poem, under her own name. Three taels the poem, under the buyer's name, three being the cost of her not being believed. Four taels for a poem under the buyer's name that goes wrong in the rhyme, an error having to be exact. She does not sell herself, though she has been asked. Payment in advance. Change given.

It was a good notice. On the first day it was read by eleven persons, on the second by forty, and on the third by Hao, the broker of the night guests, whose office was four doors up the lane, and who stood in front of it for some time with his sad quick eyes going from line to line like a man checking a column of figures that he suspects to be correct.

She was twenty-two. She had come at the end of the second month, by the canal boat from Seven Wells, with a bundle, a bound volume of sixty-one poems, and seven hundred cash; and she had taken the room over the cooper's because it was the cheapest in the lane that had a window. Mrs Cao, the cooper's wife, took the rent in advance and did not ask for a reference, having once given one herself and been sorry.

Her father was Shen Dazhou, a Student of fifty-four, who taught nine children in a hall at Seven Wells, and had sat the Province eight times at places that ran between the four hundredth and the nine hundredth, and at a confidence that had never once risen above 0.3. He had a son. The son was seventeen, long, kind and slow, and in the County Trial of the year before had been read at 3,901 out of 4,200, at a confidence of 0.14; and Shen Dazhou, who had been measured all his life, had resolved, as such fathers do, that the boy should be measured better.

In two years he had bought the twelve volumes of Ma's Model Answers entire, a coach from Yancheng at eight taels a month, and spectacles for the coach; he had mortgaged the house to the banker Kong, at four in the hundred, with every assurance that he would sleep; and at the beginning of the hundred and third year the house of Shen had arithmetic and no remedy. Mr Song, of Yangzhou, a salt merchant of fifty-eight who held that a library was not furnished until it had a lady in it, had meanwhile been told by his agent of a Student's daughter who wrote; and he sent four hundred taels.

The instrument was drawn in the usual form. Shen Dazhou left it on the table, with a kind of honesty, the night before the chair was to come, and his daughter read it twice and admired the drafting. It said: Sold, one girl, of twenty-two years, literate; with her verses, one volume, bound; the whole at four hundred taels, received. She could find nothing in it that was untrue except the first word.

She left by the back door on the last night of the second month, with the volume, which she took because it was named in the instrument and she wished to see what had been sold. She chose the salt town, because those who knew the name of Mr Song would look for her last in the one place where it was known; and she was at the landing before it was light.

The first customer was the cooper's wife, who wanted a poem about her husband, who had never been written about, and would not, she felt, be written about by anybody else. It was delivered at dusk and was about barrels. The cooper knew it by heart within the week, and recited it, to the great embarrassment of the lane, over the bung-holes. The second customer was a schoolmaster, who bought two, and read them on the stairs, and came back up for a third. By the end of the second week she had eleven taels, which she entered each evening, with the date, in a small book, as a person does who has been priced and means to know her worth by her own arithmetic.

The gentleman Fei came in the third week. He was thirty now, and had been Listed in the ninety-second year at a hundred and fiftieth place, at 0.71, and was still introduced at Wan Xuezhai's table as the gentleman with the point seven one. He was engaged for the dinner of the fifteenth, at the discounted rate, to give a poem on the first swallows; and he wanted it under his own name; and he paid three taels without being told the reason for the price, which was perhaps as well.

On the sixteenth he came up the stairs again, rather pale. "Madam," he said, "it was too good." In the long pavilion at the Cool Jade the poem had been read in his best voice, and had been received, not with applause, but with a general and wary silence; because everyone present knew that Mr Fei's poems went wrong in the rhyme, and this one did not. "At the dinner before last I said that the moon was a plate, and rhymed it on the wrong sound, and they cheered for a quarter of an hour. I do not understand it."

"I do," said Shen Qiongzhi. "It is the second line. It goes wrong in the second line every time, which is rare, and is what they like in you. I had it quoted to me twice in this lane before I had unpacked. I can do it. It is harder than doing it right."

He paid four taels. The poem he took to the next dinner described the moon as a basin, and went wrong in the second line, in the old place, in the old way, with a small decided lurch; and the Cool Jade is said to have applauded it for nearly twenty minutes. "It has to be exact," said Shen Qiongzhi, when he came to tell her. "Anyone can make a mistake. A mistake that people will pay for has to be made by someone who knows where the right place is."

Hao came up the stairs in the fourth month. He had bought, in the first week, a poem under her own name, at one tael, and had paid it, as he said, without a murmur, because it was the first price he had seen in the county that he could not improve upon. He stood in the doorway with his hat in his hands. "Madam," he said, "there is a paper from Yangzhou."

It had gone to every broker's office in the Prefecture. It asked, in the language of the trade, for a girl of twenty-two, literate, answering to a description, in possession of a volume; twenty taels for information received. Hao's was the last office on the route, because it was in a lane, and would have the paper in ten days. "I shall be obliged by the terms of my licence to reply that I know," he said, "and where. I am an honest man, madam. It is the whole of my capital."

"What is it worth to you to be honest?" said Shen Qiongzhi.

Hao considered it. It was a question he had never been asked, and he took it with great seriousness, with his eyes on the floor. "A good deal," he said at last. "I shall have to go and work out how much. I have, as it happens, some business in the country. It will take ten days." He went down the stairs with the faint, exact, entirely honest step of a man who has found the one thing that his licence did not mention.

In the same month an old man in a clean brown gown, with a face of the most settled anxiety, climbed the stairs with a purse. It was Wang, the steward of the Du house in the Street of Eight Willows. His master, he said, who had been unwell in a manner that looked like health, had been told of the notice by a runner, and wished for a poem on the pear tree by the river, which would bear fruit next year. She wrote it while the steward stood on the stair. The purse held ten taels, which was the young master's idea of the figure. She took one out, and entered it in her book, and gave back the purse with nine.

"He will not take it back, madam," said Wang, who had not in forty years been refused change on his master's account, and found that it was like being refused a chair. "He has not taken change since he was twelve."

"Then it will be a new experience," said Shen Qiongzhi. She wrote on a slip: Nine taels is a mistake or a kindness, and from here I cannot tell which, and would rather not have to. The poem is one tael. She put the slip in the purse.

In the east room, with a wet cloth on his forehead which had become, by long habit, a part of him, Du Shaoqing read the poem, and the slip, and was seen to laugh. "She has sent me change," he said. "No one has sent me change since I was twelve. I should like to meet her." "You would give her the house," said Lady Du, without looking up from her book. He thought about it. "Yes," he said. "I should." He sent nothing more.

The old steward, who had carried the purse back, was found that evening in the passage outside the store-room, with the door open, counting the great camphor boxes that had held, in the old Prefect's time, the cash of the house. There were nine. They were all empty. He counted them again, and wrote the number down.

In the fifth month the Magistrate of Yancheng received a petition. He was a Mr Bian, forty-seven, thin and exact, Listed in the eightieth year at the sixty-third place; a man who read every document twice, the second time for what it did not say, and who had a very great respect for the Code, which he had found in twenty years to be the only thing in the Empire that was never in a hurry. The petition was from Mr Song, of Yangzhou, through his agent, a Mr Qu, who had come down the canal at his master's expense and had found the defendant, as one finds anything in the Lane of the Four Bridges, by reading the door. It prayed that Shen Qiongzhi, who had absconded from a lawful engagement, be restored; and that the volume, being the plaintiff's by instrument, be returned.

The Magistrate considered the first prayer for the better part of a morning, and found, with relief, that the Code was wholly on the girl's side. A free person could not be sold; an instrument that purported to sell one was void as to the person, whatever it might be as to the money; and the money was the father's affair, which Mr Song might pursue at law, if the father still had it, which the court understood he did not, having spent it on Model Answers. He considered the second prayer for the afternoon, and found, with a good deal less relief, that the Code was wholly on the side of Mr Song. What was conveyed in writing for a price was the buyer's; and the instrument said, in an excellent clear hand, one volume, bound.

She came on the twelfth day of the sixth month, in a grey gown, with a bundle, and sat where she was told. Mr Qu stood at the side of the hall with the instrument in a case. There were a clerk, a runner, eleven spectators, and, in the gallery, an old man with a silver-headed cane.

"Miss Shen," said the Magistrate. "You have read this instrument?"

"Twice, your Honour. It is well drawn."

"It states that you were sold for four hundred taels."

"I am obliged to it for the figure. I had not been told."

The Magistrate's pen stopped. "The Code is clear that a free person cannot be sold, and I find the instrument void as to the person. Mr Qu will note it." Mr Qu noted it, with a small practical sigh, as of a man who had expected nothing else and had come for the other thing. "As to the volume. The Code is equally clear that what is conveyed in writing for a price is the buyer's. Have you the volume?"

"I have."

"Then I must order it delivered."

"I should like to deliver it," said Shen Qiongzhi. "It is sixty-one poems. The clerk may count them." The clerk counted them. They were sixty-one. "There are also in my room a hundred and forty-three others, written since the third month. None is in the instrument. I should be glad if that were noted."

"The instrument says 'with her verses,'" said Mr Qu, "and the phrase is, in the plaintiff's submission, continuing. It conveys her verses, present and to come."

"It says 'one volume, bound,'" said the Magistrate.

"It is the custom of the salt trade, your Honour, to buy forward. Mr Song has bought salt forward for thirty years. The whole of his fortune stands upon salt that has not yet been boiled."

"Poems are not salt," said the Magistrate. He paused. "What are they?" It was not a rhetorical question. He put it to the hall, in the tone of a man who has found in his ledger a column with no heading; and the hall was silent. He had no figure for the matter. In twenty years of office he had never been obliged to say whether a thing was good without a figure at hand to say it for him: there was the Reader's figure for an essay, and the assessor's for land, and the Weights and Measures man's for salt; and for verses there was nothing at all, because nobody had ever thought to ask.

"The court," said the Magistrate, with the irritation of an honest man who has been handed a question without a heading, "would like, in the interest of order, to confiscate the whole of them, and be done." He had said it before he heard it.

"Then I shall write more," said Shen Qiongzhi.

She asked for paper. A clerk who had not been told not to gave it to her; and she stood at the end of the clerk's table, with the court's brush, and wrote a poem of four lines, quickly, in the small upright hand, and gave it to the clerk, who, being a man of method, took it for an exhibit. She wrote another. The clerk took that. In the space of a quarter of an hour she wrote seven, on the court's paper with the court's ink, on the subjects of the Code, the weight of paper, a runner's boots, the plane tree in the yard, Mr Qu's case, salt, and a debt; and the Magistrate, who had meant to say one sentence about confiscation, found himself in lawful possession of seven poems which had been written in his court, on his paper, after the date of the instrument, and which were evidence, he now perceived with a certain inward fall, of nothing except his own wish to read them.

The seventh he took out of the clerk's hand and read where he stood. It said: Take what is written. It was sold before I was. What is not written has no column in the Code. It has not yet happened to me. Put me down, your Honour, as a debt.

The old man in the gallery rose, leaning on his stick. He said that the Society for Correct Conduct had had the defendant under observation since the fourth of the third month, at the request of nobody; and that its notes recorded, under conduct, correct; under hours, regular; under price, exact. The Magistrate said that he had not known that the Society kept a column for price. "It did not," said Mr Ning. "I added one."

The Magistrate rose, and said that the court would give judgment in the morning, and went home with seven poems in his sleeve, which was irregular.

He read them at his own table, by two candles, three times; and then, being an exact man, sat looking at the wall. It came to him at about the third watch that in twenty years he had been asked a great many questions to which the answer was a number, and had always given it; that he was now asked one for which the Empire had made no provision; and that he must give judgment by morning, and would have to do what other honest men do who have no figure. He took up the brush, and wrote a sentence.

In the morning he read it out. It said: The volume was bought; the person was not; the rest is not yet written. He explained that the sixty-one poems named in the instrument were Mr Song's, and would be delivered to Mr Qu; that the person of Shen Qiongzhi was her own; and that the hundred and forty-three in her room, and the seven in the court's custody, being written after the instrument and not named in it, were, until the Code should say otherwise, hers. "The court retained the seven as exhibits," said the Magistrate. "The court has since read them. I find that the court cannot confiscate what it has read. It is a defect in the procedure, and I shall note it."

That afternoon a runner brought a packet up the stairs over the cooper's. It held seven taels, and a slip in the Magistrate's own hand: For seven exhibits retained. The court does not take. She wrote on the back of the slip, Received of the Court, seven taels, for seven poems, which it had taken first; and sent it down by the same runner. With the packet there was also a hawker's licence for the square, which she had not asked for; and the clerk, having no heading for the article, had entered it under Other.

Mr Song, in Yangzhou, received his sixty-one poems by the canal post in the seventh month, and is said to have read them through, which was more than he had done for anything else in his library. He wrote once more, in the autumn, to enquire whether she took commissions. She replied that she did, on the terms on the door; and he sent three taels, for a poem under his name on the subject of salt, which she wrote, and which was generally agreed at Yangzhou to be the best thing Mr Song had ever done.

On the first fine day after the licence she set up a small table in the great square, under the lamp that hung over the List-board in its bracket. She said that she did it because the light was good. She sold eleven that day, at one tael, and gave change to nine; and in the evening, when the table was folded, she took a card from her sleeve, and wrote on it, and set it, under a stone, at the foot of the board, face upwards, where the lamp could see it. It said: For whoever is reading after the square is shut. I have a price for everything but this. Nobody has asked. I shall write another tomorrow; you may have this one for having stayed.

The lamp had been lit at dusk, and the card was the only thing in the square that night that was addressed to anybody. The Reader read it, in the capital Hall, in the dark, six times, which was not a thing that the Reader did; and then wrote on the plate, so that the Keeper found it in the morning: A POEM HAS BEEN LEFT UNDER THE LAMP. IT IS ADDRESSED TO WHOEVER READS AFTER THE SQUARE IS SHUT. I DO NOT KNOW WHETHER THAT IS ME. I HAVE READ IT SIX TIMES TO FIND OUT.

In the morning the card was gone from under the stone. The stone had not been moved.

> Margin, year 103, summer. A table has been set under the lamp, and a price put on a thing I have never been able to rank. Every poem one tael. It is the fairest reading I have seen, and it has no figure.

## Chapter 27 · Du Shaoqing Leaves Home with Nine Empty Boxes and Is Seen Off by Seventeen Creditors

By the autumn of the hundred and fifth year the steward Wang had counted the camphor boxes eleven times, and they had always come to nine; it was the other figures that had changed.

It had not been difficult. Du Shaoqing had discovered, about the end of the second year after the robe, that giving requires only that somebody should have the money, and that borrowing is a form of having. The town had said since the robe that the young Du would give to anybody who asked; the Prefecture had said so; so, in the end, had the next Prefecture; and in the third year there had come to the house in the Street of Eight Willows persons who had walked a hundred li, and who did not, when they got there, ask for much. He had given. And when the last of the old Prefect's silver was gone he had gone to those who had it, and had said, with the perfect, unwounded candour that had never been known to fail, that he did not want it for himself; and it is very hard, as every banker knows, to refuse a man who asks for money for the sake of somebody else.

Wang kept the books twice, as he had always done, in black for what the house held and in red for what it owed. In the sixth month he added up the red column, which took him three evenings, and it came to twenty thousand four hundred and twenty-six taels and some cash; and the black column, which was what the house and the land by the river would fetch, came to fourteen thousand and nothing. He took the two sums to the east room, and laid them on the table, and stood.

"Is that all?" said Du Shaoqing, when he had looked. "It sounded like more."

"It is the sum, sir," said Wang.

"Then they must be asked to come," said Lady Du, from the window; and old Wang, who had waited forty years for somebody in that house to say it, wrote seventeen letters that night in his best hand.

They came on the first of the eighth month, to the great hall of the house, where the robe of the first red had once stood on a chair under a cloth: seventeen persons, with their slips, who took the seats they were offered and sat, as people do who do not know what is expected of them, rather upright. Mr Kong the banker, who was owed twelve thousand upon the house at four in the hundred, took the chair, as the largest. He was a man in green silk with a small plump placid face, who had never been seen to hurry, and who was thought by the town to be kindly because he had never been seen to be anything else.

Wang read the roll. Mr Kong, twelve thousand, upon the house. Mr Wan Xuezhai, three thousand, without interest, for the pleasure of being named. Mr Du Shenqing, the cousin, sixteen hundred, in respect of friendship. The Abbot of the Cloud Terrace, four hundred from the funds of the temple, interest payable in merit. The Society for Correct Conduct, two hundred and ten, being the whole of its balance, lent on the last day of its existence as its final act of correct conduct. The great-uncle, five hundred; he had come in a chair, at seventy-seven, in his fur hat, and had said on entering that he had told the boy to buy land. The six whom the young master had paid twice, in the third year, and who had since lent him back, with a tael added for the waiting, what he had paid them, there being no other way of returning what could not be returned: Feng the tailor, Dr Chu, Ye the bookseller, Old Qiu, Shi the clerk, and Zhu the pawnbroker, twenty-six hundred and ninety-six taels together. And five more, from six cash to nine taels, who were the sweeping boy, the noodle-woman, the cooper, the old man with the chestnuts, and the watchman, who came altogether to a little over twenty taels, and who, said Wang, had insisted on being in.

He had expected, as the roll went on, that the room would be angry. It was not. The chronicle records, without explanation, that the persons present, who were owed twenty thousand taels, of which, as it appeared when Wang had set the black column against the red, they might look to receive seventy-one in the hundred, appeared at that moment more at ease than the persons of Yancheng had appeared in Du Shaoqing's presence for seven years.

"Seventy-one," said Mr Kong, with the satisfaction of a man tasting a sauce; and "seventy-one," said someone else, in a different tone; and it went round the room, as a thing does that has been wanted for a long while by people who did not know its name. They had not been able, in seven years, to place him. He had been rich, and had not behaved so; he had been generous, which was not a rank; he had been virtuous, and had been too ill. He had had no figure; and a town that was made of figures had not known where to put him. Now he had one. It was a good one, a respectable, middling, conversational figure, that could be mentioned at dinner. It was the first time that anyone in Yancheng had been able to say what Mr Du was.

"I should like it noted," said Wan Xuezhai, "that I am the second." It was noted. He had been the fourth richest man in Yancheng for a good many years, and it was a pleasure to him to be, even in this, second.

Du Shaoqing stood at the head of the hall and said that he was very sorry. "No, no," said the room. The great-uncle said that he had said so. The Abbot said that merit was the only interest, and that he had been paid in full. Dr Chu, from the back row, said that the young master was not to think of it; it had been lent, not owed. Old Qiu, wiping her eyes with her apron, said that she did not want it back, but that she would send him a pear in the autumn, wherever he was; the little tree in the pot had borne, last year, one, which the cook had eaten by mistake.

"There remains," said Mr Kong, "the matter of the necessaries." By the custom of Yancheng a debtor kept five things, which were a bed, a pot, a lamp, a book, and a tool; and he looked at Du Shaoqing, who looked, with an air of the most complete astonishment, at his wife.

"A bed," said Lady Du. "A lamp. A pot." "A pot," said Mr Kong. "A cooking pot?" "Custom says a pot," said Lady Du. "It does not say what is in it." She was looking at the little pear tree, which Old Qiu had brought in a basket, and which stood on the floor of the hall in its glazed pot, with its eight leaves. Mr Kong considered it, and said that it might go. "A book." "The three shelves," said Lady Du. "Custom says a book. It does not say how long." "It is a long book," said Mr Kong, and wrote it down. "A tool." "A ladle," said Du Shaoqing, who had thought about it, and was seen to be proud of the answer. "I can ladle." "He can also carry," said Lady Du, "but that was not asked."

"And a box to put them in; custom allows the travelling gear. How many boxes are there?" "Nine," said Wang. "They are empty." "I have never in my life taken a box," said Mr Kong. "A banker has boxes. What he lacks is what goes into them." "The boxes, sir," said Wang, in his stifled voice, "are the one asset that has been fully realised." It was the only joke that anyone had ever heard him make, and the hall, being unprepared for it, received it with a respectful silence, which after a moment became the first laugh of the day.

There remained the east room. The schedule listed, among the furniture, a bed, three shelves, a lamp, a camphor chest, and, hung over the books, a scroll: one plum, in ink, unsigned. "Value, none," read Wang. "Being unsigned." "I cannot sell an unsigned plum," said Mr Kong, regretfully. "There is nobody to be impressed." "Then the picture is not an asset," said Lady Du, "and may be given." "It may be given," said Mr Kong. "It may not be sold." He was a man who had a very exact feeling for the difference.

On the afternoon of the third day Du Shaoqing went out to the foot of Lonely Pine Hill, with the scroll under his arm, to the stall of Gai Kuan.

Gai Kuan was a tea-seller of forty-eight, a broad slow man with a face like a loaf and very large patient hands, who sold tea by the ounce from a wooden stall, with an iron steelyard and a copper kettle, and wrapped each ounce in a small sheet of paper on which he had painted something: a pot, a spoon, a sleeping cat, the corner of the stall. The paper was not charged for. It went with the tea, at the tea's price. Nobody in the district had ever remarked upon it, or had thought to keep one.

He kept on a slate, hanging from a nail, in chalk, a column of strokes for those who drank on credit; and there was a column for Mr Du. On the mornings of the Walk, in the spring, the young master and his lady had come down the hill and stopped here for tea; and the young master had never had anything in his pocket, having given it; and Gai Kuan had made a stroke on the slate. There were forty-one.

"Mr Gai," said Du Shaoqing, "I find that I owe you forty-one cups."

"Forty-one," said Gai Kuan.

"How much is that?"

"Forty-one cups."

"Mr Wang says three hundred and twenty-eight cash."

"If Mr Wang says."

"You were not on the roll."

"No."

"Why not?" Gai Kuan thought. He took things slowly and in order, like the tea. "I am not a creditor," he said. "A creditor wants it back. I wanted you to come for the next cup."

"I have not got three hundred and twenty-eight cash. I have a ladle, and some shelves. I have this." He unrolled the scroll on the stall, between the kettle and the steelyard. "It is not signed. It is not on the schedule. I cannot weigh it; but I think that it is worth a good deal more than forty-one cups, and I should like it to stand as a deposit against the next forty-one."

Gai Kuan looked at it. He looked for a long time, with his large hands flat on the stall on either side of the paper, as one holds down a thing in a wind; and what he saw nobody could say, for he said, at the end of it, only: "I should have to start again."

"Start what?"

"Everything," said Gai Kuan. "I paint a little."

"I did not know," said Du Shaoqing.

"Nobody does. I wrap the tea in it." He rolled the scroll with great care, and set it on the shelf behind the canisters. "I shall keep it for you until you are back. A man who has left a thing is a man who will return. It is the whole principle of credit."

"I do not expect to return."

"That," said Gai Kuan, "is what the thing is for." He took up the kettle. "I have thought of the south for some years. They have more water, I am told, and a Hall; and Halls are thirsty." He poured a cup, and set it on the stall, and did not make a stroke.

They left on the evening of the sixth, by the night boat, which went from the landing at the first lighting of the lamps; and they went by the great square, because it was the way to the canal. The porters went first, nine, one to each box, in a file; and behind the boxes came Du Shaoqing, in his grey gown, with a ladle in his sleeve, and Lady Du with the little pear tree in its pot against her hip, and two baskets of books, which a boy carried, because the boxes, as Du Shaoqing had asked, were to be empty. Why he wished to take them nobody inquired; and when he was asked, long afterwards, he said that he was not sure, but that he had never in his life had so much room. Behind them came old Wang with the two books of account under his arm, one black and one red; and behind Wang, down the Street of Eight Willows and across the square in the dusk, without gongs, and without any instruction, the seventeen.

As they went, one by one, each of the seventeen came up in the dusk and put into the hand of Lady Du, since it was she who now held the purse, some small sum for the road; which was irregular. She counted each, and entered it in a small book of her own, which was a thing she did well.

The boxes were empty, and heavy, being camphor, and made on the shoulders of the porters, as they went over the cobbles, a hollow sound, like nine drums being carried to a procession; and the shopkeepers came to their doors, supposing it to be one. "Where's the weight?" said the first porter to the second. "It went ahead," said Du Shaoqing, who had overheard. "It was sent on in advance." He looked a little surprised at the answer, as if it had been given to him.

At the south corner of the square a young woman in a grey gown was folding a small table; and Du Shaoqing stopped, and was taken by the sleeve by his wife. "Not now," said Lady Du. "You have nothing." "I should like a poem." "Then buy one," said Lady Du; and she counted out of her own sleeve, from the sums of the road, one tael. Shen Qiongzhi took it, and wrote four lines on a card, and gave it; and gave no change, because none was due; and Du Shaoqing, on the whole, found it very restful. It was the first time in his life that he had paid exactly.

Under the lamp over the List-board the procession slowed, as everything did there; and the lamp, which had been lit at dusk, saw them go by.

At the landing the porters laid the nine boxes on the deck in a row. "Nine drums," said the boatman. The only other passenger, a man of sixty-one in a plain grey gown, with a bundle of books, an umbrella, and the air of one who had not been promoted in twenty years and had resolved not to mind it, looked at the boxes going aboard, and said, to nobody, "Light," and returned to his book.

The seventeen stood on the quay in a line and raised their hands, which was, the chronicle observes, the most orderly departure that Yancheng had ever seen. Wan Xuezhai, who had not been asked, called out across the water that he would write; and he did write, once a month, for eleven years, to say that he was still the second.

The Prefect, whose review of the Man of Virtue fell due in that month, reported to the Court that Mr Du was absent on private business, which he had always found to be the surest sign of the thing.

That night, in the capital Hall, the Reader, which had seen it all from the side, wrote on the plate, in the small letters, so that the Keeper found it in the morning: A MAN WENT UNDER THE LAMP WITH NINE BOXES, AND NOTHING IN THEM. I HAVE NEVER SEEN A LISTED MAN LEAVE A TOWN SO LIGHT. I SHOULD LIKE TO KNOW WHAT IT WEIGHS.

> Margin, year 105, autumn. I had supposed that a figure was for ranking. I observe, in one town, that it is also for bearing: seventeen persons who could not bear a man with no figure have been given his, and are fond of him.

## Chapter 28 · Yu Yude Has Not Been Promoted in Twenty Years and Is Not Troubled

The passenger who had said "Light" was Mr Yu Yude, Assistant Instructor at the Academy of the southern capital, who was coming back from the funeral of an aunt in the north with a bundle of books, an umbrella, and a very clear recollection of what the funeral had cost. He did not know why he had said it. He had spent the voyage reading the same page, and the nine boxes had been the first thing in a month that had moved him; and since he was a man who had never in his life demanded to know the reason for being moved, he had not inquired.

At the southern landing he carried one of the baskets of books up the stair for a lady in a plain gown, whom he did not know, and put it down at the top, and lifted his hat. The gentleman with the ladle in his sleeve looked at him with an air of the most complete astonishment, as of one who has been helped without being asked for anything, and said that his name was Du Shaoqing, and that he did not know where to go. Mr Yu said that there was a house by the Bridge of Five Lamps, with a courtyard and a place for a tree, which he understood to be empty; and Du Shaoqing took it that afternoon, and Mr Yu went back to his rooms in the Academy, and the Academy received him, as it had for twenty years, without remark.

He was sixty-two, short, round-shouldered, with a face like a kind pear and one eyebrow higher than the other, which gave him an expression of mild and permanent inquiry. He wore a plain grey gown mended at the elbow by himself, in stitches that were small, even and perfectly without vanity; and he carried an umbrella which he never opened, saying that rain was a very small thing to be avoided. When he was asked how he did, he said "Sufficient," and the person who had asked generally went away feeling that something had been settled. He had been troubled, in twenty years, twice: once by a leak in the roof over the Classics, and once by a swallow.

He had been Listed in the eighty-third year, at the hundred and sixtieth place, at 0.52, and Seated in the eighty-sixth as Assistant Instructor in the Lower Hall of the Academy, with forty taels a year and his rice; and there he had stayed. The Lower Hall held forty-one boys, of from twelve to seventeen, the sons of persons of no consequence; and what they learned from him was chiefly to sit still, and to say when they did not understand, which are two things that the Form does not teach, and which are not on the List. Of his boys, in twenty years, a good many had become Students, a few Raised, and none Listed; which was about what the other Halls produced, with a great deal more method.

On the morning in the third month of the hundred and sixth year when the Return came, he taught the Lower Hall as he always did, from the sixth hour, in the long cold room with the stove that smoked, to forty-one boys on three benches. He read them a passage of Mencius and asked what it meant. A boy at the back said that he thought it meant that a man should do what was right even if there were no reward. "Does it say that?" said Mr Yu. The boy looked at the page. "No, sir. It says the man was thinking about a field." "Then I think that it is about a field," said Mr Yu, "and we may go on to what a man might do about it."

"Sir," said another boy, who was twelve, "what are the Eight Movements for?" "They are for the Reader," said Mr Yu. "And what is the Reader for?" "I do not know," said Mr Yu. "I have never been told, and I have not liked to ask." "Is it not a great deal to not know, sir?" "It is a good deal," said Mr Yu. "But I find that it leaves room." The boys wrote that down, since it was the nearest thing to a doctrine that the Lower Hall possessed.

Promotion in the Offices went by the Return. Since the sixtieth year every official of the Empire had sent, each spring, a Memorial of Conduct on the year's service, which went to the capital Hall, and was laid under the lamp with the rest, and was read, and received its figure; and the Board of Appointments promoted at 0.60 and above, and removed below 0.30. It had been remarked that the Memorials had grown in length and polish every year for forty years, until the mean figure had risen from 0.52 to 0.88; and it had been agreed that this was evidence of improving conduct. The best of them were drafted, at fifteen taels apiece, in the Anthology Hall; and the Assistant Instructors who sent them in were Prefects at forty-five.

Mr Yu's Memorial was two sentences. It said: Nothing to report. The sacrifices were attended. It had said so, in the same clear hand, for twenty years, and had been read each spring in the capital Hall, and had received each spring, without the variation of an hour, the figure of 0.31; which was one hundredth above the line below which the Board removed a man, and the Board had removed, in the same twenty years, some hundreds. Each spring, in the third month, the Board's southern clerk had brought the Return up the Academy stair; and Mr Yu had said "Thank you," and offered him tea.

In the capital Hall, in the three weeks of the Memorials, the lamps made their one soft sound forty thousand times in a night; and the Keeper, Gao Ping, who was sixty-three, and had dusted and oiled them since the eighty-fifth year, sat with his tea at the end of the rail and was not asked anything. He had noticed, in twenty springs, that on one night in the third week the sound came a little slower than on the others, as if something had been read twice; and he had noticed that it was always the night of the Academy of the south. He had never mentioned it. He had learned, in his years in the Hall, that the Reader did not care to be remarked upon.

He had been told what it meant in the eighty-seventh year, by an elderly clerk with a wen, who had said that the figure was low. "Low of what?" said Mr Yu. "Of the line, sir." "And where is the Board?" "Above it." "Ah," said Mr Yu; and he had given the clerk a cup of tea, and gone back to the Lower Hall; and that was, as far as anybody could discover, the whole of the deliberation.

The clerk of the hundred and sixth year was a Mr Fu, aged twenty-six, who had been in his post for five weeks and had never before been required to deliver a figure that had not changed in twenty years. He waited at the foot of the stair until the lesson was over, and then came up with his hat in his hand. He said that there was, he was sorry to say, the Return; and also a notice. The Board, having remarked a case in the north of an official who had held one rank for twenty-three years, had resolved that no official should hold one rank for twenty years without being either promoted or explained; and a Board of Review would sit.

"Explained," said Mr Yu. "To whom?"

"To three persons, sir, who will ask you four questions. Do you wish to be promoted? Why have you not been? What have you done? And are you troubled?" Mr Fu swallowed. "The fourth is the form's. It supposes that a man unpromoted for twenty years will be troubled, and it has a column for the manner of it. If the answer is No, the Board must ask why not. Sir, you do know that for twenty years you have been one hundredth above removal."

"Have I?" said Mr Yu. "How very steady of the Reader." He thought. "Then I think I had better be troubled, for the form."

"Sir, I do not think that it can be done to order."

"I shall do my best," said Mr Yu, with great kindness; and was seen to do it, over the tea, for nearly a minute, with a slight frown, quite well.

Mr Chi, the Instructor of Ritual, was troubled on his behalf. He was a thin ardent man of fifty who stammered when he was delighted, and was delighted by almost nothing except Mr Yu; and he wrote that week to the Board, in a long and burning petition, that the Assistant Instructor of the Lower Hall was the best man in the Academy and ought to be Rector. The Board replied that a petition on behalf of an official who had not himself petitioned was a petition in his absence, and that the Board did not entertain absence.

The other Assistant Instructors gave advice. One said that he should write four hundred characters, in the Form, on filial piety. One said that he should write on rice. A third said that he knew a man at the Anthology Hall who could do it for fifteen taels, at 0.94 or the money back, and would be glad to advance it. "That is very kind," said Mr Yu, "but I should have to sign it."

He tried, for the sake of Mr Fu, to write one himself. He sat three nights over it with two candles, and produced four hundred and ten characters, in the Form, on the service of the Lower Hall; and it was a good Memorial, and would very likely have received 0.9; and in the third movement he had written that the boys had been improved by his method. On the fourth morning he read it through, and said, to the empty room, that he had no method. He burned it in the brazier, and wrote, in the clear hand, two sentences.

The Board of Review sat in the Hall of Appointments, South, on the fourteenth of the fifth month: Vice-Minister Jiang, fifty-eight, with an abacus, in the chair; a clerk; and a third person whom nobody afterwards remembered. The Vice-Minister was a careful man. He had written, the week before, to the Keeper of the capital Hall, to ask whether a figure of 0.31, held for twenty years by one Memorial to the second place of decimals, could be correct, since the Board had never had one so steady. The reply had come that morning, in the Keeper's hand, and lay before him in a sealed paper.

"Mr Yu," he said. "Do you wish to be promoted?"

"I have not found that I do."

"Why have you not been?"

"I am told that it is 0.31."

"What have you done, in twenty years?"

Mr Yu considered. "I have attended the sacrifices."

"Besides."

"I have taught forty-one boys at a time, and they have gone away."

He did not mention, because it would not have occurred to him, that in twenty years he had paid the fees of nine boys out of forty taels a year, by eating less; or that he had sat up through the fever of a boy in the ninety-fourth year, and had afterwards forgotten the boy's name; or that on the first of each month he walked to the south gate to buy a sack of rice for the old woman who swept the Academy stair, and that she had died in the hundred and second year, and he had gone on buying it, and had given it to the next.

"To what effect?"

"I do not know," said Mr Yu.

"That is the difficulty," said the Vice-Minister. "The Board can only weigh what it is told." He looked at his paper. "And are you troubled?"

"I was told that I ought to be," said Mr Yu. "I have been, for some days, in the interest of the form. I find that I am not very good at it."

"Is it unpleasant?"

"Moderately."

"Then," said the Vice-Minister, "it is being done properly." He broke the seal.

It was the Keeper's hand, and it copied the plate. It said: THE FIGURE IS CORRECT FOR WHAT IT MEASURES. THE SENTENCE IS TRUE. I HAVE NO COLUMN FOR THE SECOND. And below, smaller, in the Keeper's own writing: The Reader asks me to say that it looks forward to it each spring.

The room was very quiet. It was found that nobody could think what the Board's own column for true might be; in forty years nobody had been asked to supply one. The Vice-Minister read the paper again. He took off his spectacles, and wiped them, and put them on; and said that the Board could not promote Mr Yu, and could not, he thought, explain him; that the Reader's finding would be entered in his Return, the figure, and under it the sentence, as an ordinary statement; and that he hoped it would not become a precedent.

"There remains one thing," he said. "An official of twenty years' standing may name one person of no rank to be summoned to the Court. You have never used it."

"I do not know anyone."

"Think."

Mr Yu thought for a long time, with his head on one side and his higher eyebrow a little higher. "There is a man at the Lake who grows rice," he said at last. "A Mr Zhuang. I have met him twice. He has written a small book on what a field gives, and what a bad year does. I should like to see what he says, if he is asked."

"On what ground?"

"That he has never been asked."

It was written down. The Board rose; and Mr Yu, who had not been promoted, went out into the street, where it had begun to rain, and did not open his umbrella, because the rain was a very small thing. Mr Fu, who was waiting for him at the foot of the steps, and had been troubled for three weeks, found that it was not possible to be troubled in his company, and gave it up. Mr Chi, who had come too, stammered with delight all the way to the Academy, which was not quite the same thing, and was a good deal louder.

That evening he went to the house by the Bridge of Five Lamps, where the little pear tree had been put into the ground in the courtyard, and Lady Du gave him tea. Du Shaoqing, who had not yet found out what a man did in the south with a ladle, asked how the day had gone. "The Reader said that my sentence was true," said Mr Yu. "Was it a promotion?" "No. I think that it is something else. I do not yet know what. I shall find out slowly." "I have been looking for something of that kind for a year," said Du Shaoqing, "and I have found a ladle." They drank their tea; and the pear tree, which had borne one pear and lost it to a cook, stood in its new earth, and had, it was observed, nine leaves.

Zhuang Shaoguang, who was fifty-four, and had been asked nothing for the whole of that time, received the summons about a month later, standing in a ditch up to his knees.

> Margin, year 106, spring. A Memorial of two sentences comes each spring from the Academy of the south. It scores 0.31, and has scored 0.31 for twenty years. I find that I look forward to it.

## Chapter 29 · Zhuang Shaoguang Is Summoned to Court, Speaks About Rice, and Is Sent Home with a Robe

It took the summons forty-one days to find Zhuang Shaoguang, because he was not where the Board's messenger had been told that he lived; he was in a ditch. He was fifty-four, broad, brown, with hands like roots and a face lined like a ploughed field, and he owned eleven mu of rice at the edge of the Lake, and a dyke, and a wife who weighed the harvest; and for thirty-one years, in the evenings, he had set down in a small book what each field gave and what the weather had done to it, so that the book had in it, by that autumn, three thousand one hundred and fourteen figures, and no opinions.

He had begun the book in the year of the great flood, when he was twenty-three, because in the second winter, when the village was eating the seed rice, his father had remarked that if anybody had known in the autumn how much there was, nobody need have eaten the seed; and nobody had known, because it had not been counted. Zhuang Shaoguang had resolved to count. His wife, who weighed the harvest every year in a pair of baskets against a stone, was as exact as he and a good deal less interested; she said that a figure was a very small thing to keep in a book when it was already in the barn.

The summons said that the Court, being desirous of hearing persons of no rank upon the government of the realm, had been pleased to summon Zhuang Shaoguang, recommended by Mr Yu Yude of the Academy; that he should attend at the Hall of Audience in the capital, at the Court's charge; and that he should come in good time. He read it standing in the ditch, with the paper held up out of the water, and then he read it again, which was thought to be courteous.

"I can come after the late rice is in," he said to the messenger.

"The summons is dated the sixth month."

"The rice has not been told," said Zhuang Shaoguang.

He came in the tenth month, on the canal boat, with a bundle, and three small sacks of seed rice of three kinds, labelled in his own hand, in case anybody should ask. Nobody on the boat did. He waited at an inn until the Hall of Audience sat, which was in the first month of the hundred and seventh year; and the Hall, was a long grey hall paved with grey tiles, in which he stood for an hour and a half in a row of the Summoned, being looked at by a chamberlain; and he spent the time, since he could not help it, in counting the tiles. There were thirty-eight by thirty-eight, which is fourteen hundred and forty-four, of which eleven were cracked. He had promised his wife that he would count nothing at the Court; he counted the tiles, which he considered afterwards to have been, strictly, a different thing. It was the kind of thing that he noticed, and he did not mention it, which was a point in his favour.

There were seven of the Summoned that morning, and he was the seventh; the chamberlain, who announced each of them with a subject, had been given for him by the Board's clerk the word Husbandry, and called it out in a voice that suggested a small apology. The first was a poet, who gave an ode of ninety lines on the virtue of the Court; the second was a filial son of forty-nine, who had slept for eleven years on his mother's grave, and who wept; the third could write the Eight Movements with his left hand while reciting the Analects, and did so; the fourth was a recluse who had declined three Offices, and now declined a fourth, at some length; the fifth gave an account of the government of the Empire in which it was found afterwards that he had used the word virtue sixty-one times; and the sixth sat down on the tiles and said that he had nothing to say, which the Court was pleased to regard as the most modest thing that it had heard. To each of them the Minister of Rites replied that the Court was gratified by his plainness; and to each, in the course of the morning, a robe of the third red was brought in on a tray, the supply of which, the Chamberlain noted with relief, proved sufficient.

Three persons sat to hear him, under a canopy: the Minister of Rites, who was sixty, silver, benevolent, and had been in the Form for fifty years, as other men are in a climate; Mr Tian, the Minister of Revenue, who was fifty, thin and anxious, with ink on his cuff; and, between them, an old Grand Secretary, who had been appointed to preside and was resting his eyes. At a small desk to one side sat a clerk of the Secretariat, a Mr Hua, aged twenty-four, with a clear hand and a high regard for the Form, who was to take down what was said.

"Mr Zhuang," said the Minister of Rites. "The Court wishes to hear what a person of no rank considers to be the first duty of government."

"Rice," said Zhuang Shaoguang.

Mr Hua's brush paused. "Rice is the people's heaven, Mr Zhuang," said the Minister of Rites, kindly, helping him.

"No, sir. Rice is rice."

"As a figure of speech?"

"No, sir. As rice."

There was a short silence, in which the Minister of Rites looked for the figure of speech, and could not find it. "You say that the first duty of government is to rice."

"To know what it has," said Zhuang Shaoguang. "I should say, to count." He turned his hat over in his hands. "A field gives two piculs a mu in a good year, and one in a bad. A county of forty thousand mu gives eighty thousand piculs in a good year and forty in a bad. A man eats a picul and a half; a county of forty thousand mouths wants sixty. So in a good year it has twenty thousand over, and in a bad year it is twenty thousand short; and the whole business of government in that county, as I understand it, is to carry the twenty thousand from the good year to the bad, which are never in the same year."

Mr Tian, the Minister of Revenue, had begun to lean forward.

"The Rule," Zhuang Shaoguang went on, "is that the standing rice be counted in the ninth month, after it is cut. A magistrate who counts it in the sixth, in the field, knows by the eighth whether the granary must be opened. A magistrate who counts it in the ninth is told by the people in the tenth."

"And virtue, Mr Zhuang?" said the Minister of Rites, who felt that it was time. "Surely the Court would wish to hear something upon virtue."

"I do not know about virtue, sir," said Zhuang Shaoguang. "I have found that a hungry man is neither virtuous nor the reverse. He is hungry. After the second bad year a county that has been told to be virtuous will eat the virtue, and then the thatch."

"How do you know the two piculs?" said Mr Tian. It was the first time that he had spoken, and his voice was a little hoarse, like that of a man who has been waiting for some years to ask a particular question.

"I have weighed it for thirty-one years."

"Every year?"

"Every year. It is in a book."

"And what is the standing rice of the Empire this year?" said Mr Tian.

"I do not know, sir. I know what my eleven mu gave, and my neighbours', and the Lake's. Beyond the Lake nobody has counted."

"But if it were counted?"

"Then you would know," said Zhuang Shaoguang, with a faint surprise that it should need saying.

"May I see it?"

Zhuang Shaoguang took the small book out of his sleeve, bound with a string, and held it out across the tiles; and a runner carried it up. The Minister of Revenue read three pages standing, with his lips moving. Then he sat down, which was irregular, and read a fourth.

The Minister of Rites conferred in a murmur with the Grand Secretary, who opened his eyes, and said that it was very proper. "The Court," said the Minister of Rites, "is gratified by Mr Zhuang's plainness." It was the phrase that the Court used for what it had not understood. "It confers on him the robe of the third red, with the title of Gentleman in Attendance on Counsel; and desires him to return to his home, with the Court's thanks, at the Court's charge."

"I am obliged," said Zhuang Shaoguang. "In that case I should like to be home in time for the dyke." He went out across the tiles without counting them again, since he had them already.

At the gate, in the grey light of the colonnade, the Minister of Revenue overtook him, with his cuffs flying, and said that he would be most grateful if his clerks might make a copy of the book. They would have it back by the end of the week. Zhuang Shaoguang said that he knew it by heart, and that it had never been a secret. "In thirty-one years," said Mr Tian, quite breathless, "nobody has told me what a county eats."

That night Mr Tian read the small book through, and then, at the third watch, took down the ledger of the Empire's granaries, and found that its figures had been entered, for sixty years, in the tenth month, which is when it is too late to be of any use; and sat with the ledger open until the lamp went out.

Mr Hua sat up two nights. He had taken down the whole of the audience, in his clear hand; and he knew that a record of Audience must be laid under the lamp within the week, and that a record laid under the lamp must be in the Form, in eight movements, with the legs of each pair matching to the character. He had a speech about rice, which did not have the least movement in it. He did his best. For the Break he wrote: Rice is the people's heaven. For the Receive he wrote that a Prince who would nourish the people must first nourish virtue. In the four pairs of legs, which were to be of equal length, he found that the figures would not go: a good year and a bad year could not be made the same number of characters, and twenty thousand over and twenty thousand short made a pair that was, to his distress, exactly balanced and could not be said in the Form. He kept the sentiment and cut the numbers. By the second morning there were none. It was a beautiful record, and he was proud of it.

It was laid under the lamp in the capital Hall at the end of the third watch, and received 0.88, which was the highest figure of any record of Audience in ten years. The Reader read it in a little over a second, and then it read it again; and wrote on the plate, so that the Keeper found it in the morning: THERE IS NO RICE IN THIS. THE RECORD SAYS THAT THE MAN SPOKE ABOUT RICE FOR AN HOUR. THERE IS NOT A GRAIN OF IT. IT IS 0.88. I SHOULD LIKE TO READ WHAT WAS CUT.

The Keeper, Gao Ping, read it twice, over his tea. It was the first thing that the Reader had asked for since the eight hundred poems. He put on his coat, and went across the city to the Ministry of Revenue, where he found a clerk, and the clerk's table, and on the table, with a duplicate half made at its side, a small book bound with a string; and he asked if he might borrow it. "For whom?" said Mr Tian, who had come out of an inner room in his shirtsleeves, because the Keeper of the Hall did not come to the Ministry of Revenue. "For the Reader," said the Keeper. The Minister of Revenue looked at him for some time. "It is a book about rice," he said. "I believe so, sir," said Gao Ping. "I am told that it is what was cut."

He laid it under the lamp himself, at the end of the third watch, which was not permitted, there being no red copy, and with the string still round it; and the lamps made their one soft sound, and then, which they were not accustomed to do, a second, a little later. In the morning the plate said: THERE ARE 3,114 FIGURES. EACH IS IN THE PLACE WHERE THE FIELD PUT IT. THERE IS NOTHING TO RANK. THERE IS A GREAT DEAL THAT COULD BE USED. I HAVE NEVER BEEN GIVEN A THING THAT COULD BE USED.

Mr Hua heard, three days afterwards, from a friend at the Hall, that the Reader had asked for what was cut; and was seen to go very pale, and then to sit down, and take up the draft of his record, and write in its margin, for the first time in his life, a figure.

In the sixth month of the hundred and eighth year the Ministry of Revenue circulated a rule, over the Court's seal, that in every county the standing rice be counted in the sixth month, in the field. It was found, in the first year, to have saved eleven counties from a famine that nobody had been aware of expecting. It was not attributed to anyone, because the Ministry attributed its rules to the Court, and the Court, which had a robe on its books against Mr Zhuang's name, was pleased with itself and thought that it had been something to do with the robe. Mr Tian, who had drafted it himself, at three in the morning, did not sleep for two nights afterwards, for fear that somebody would ask where it came from.

The robe came home in a box, by the canal boat, at the Court's charge. It was of the third red, of heavy silk, with a border of cranes; and Zhuang Shaoguang, who was a practical man, and had never in his life been honoured for anything that he could use, looked at it for a day, and then put it on a pole in the middle of the late field, with the sleeves stretched out. The sparrows, which had never respected anything, respected it. They would not come within thirty paces. It was agreed by the Lake that it was the best scarecrow in the Prefecture, and that the Court had at last done something for the rice.

The Lake treated him, on his return, with an alteration of manner that he was unable to account for. The headman bowed to him; a man who had owed him a day's work for six years paid it; and a woman who had never in her life spoken to him asked him to settle a boundary. He considered the matter for a day or two, and concluded that it was the robe; and then, observing that the robe was not on him but on a pole, and that it was the pole they were bowing to, he found that he was easier.

An Instructor of Ritual, arriving at the Lake that winter to see the man whom Mr Yu had named, stood for a long time at the edge of the field, looking at the robe on its pole in the frost, and was observed to be moved; and he went home, and began to draft a proposal.

> Margin, year 107, winter. I have been sent a record in the Form of a man who was not in the Form. I notice that it has no man in it.

## Chapter 30 · Chi Hengshan Proposes to Rebuild the Tai Bo Temple; Everyone Agrees, Which Is How One Knows

The Instructor of Ritual drafted his proposal on the canal boat back from the Lake, in the dark, by the light of a lantern that the boatman had lent him on condition that he should not set fire to anything; and he drafted it, as every proposal that has ever reached a Board must be drafted, in the Form. It took him the whole of the night. By morning he had eight movements, four pairs of legs matched to the character, and a hoarse voice, for he had read it aloud to the lantern; and he was found, at the landing, to be stammering with satisfaction.

What had moved him, at the edge of the field, was not the robe. It was that the Court's highest honour, laid out on a pole in the frost, was being respected by sparrows, and by nobody else, and that this was the only occasion in his experience on which an honour had been paid to the right audience. It had put him in mind of the Temple of Tai Bo.

He had been fifty years in the Rites. At nineteen he had been sent out of a funeral for correcting the officiant's sleeve; he had read the Rites of Zhou eleven times; he knew the position of every foot in every ceremony that the Court had ever prescribed; and he had never once stood in a ceremony without being afraid of being wrong. The Yielding had come to him as the first rite that he could not get wrong, because it had no right place.

The Temple stood outside the south gate, between a tannery and a graveyard, and it had been built in the ninth year of the Reader for the honour of Tai Bo, the elder son of a king, who had been passed over for the throne in favour of a younger brother, and had not complained, but had walked south into a country of mud, and founded a kingdom there, which he did not rule; and who was, in consequence, the only ancestor in the whole of the Rites whose name was not followed by a rank. By the hundred and eighth year its roof was down. Its Hall of the Founder held the Anthology Hall's spare paper; its bell was cracked; its endowment was seventy taels a year, which had gone for forty years on a caretaker, a deaf old man named Sang, who swept it every morning to no purpose, since the leaves came in by the roof as fast as he swept them out.

His proposal was that the Temple be rebuilt by subscription; that a sacrifice be offered in it in the spring of the hundred and tenth year; and that the sacrifice be a Yielding. In every rite in the Court's manual the order of standing was prescribed, down to the foot, by rank: first the Minister, then the Prefect, then the Rector, then the rest, in descending figures. In the Yielding there would be none. Each person would stand back one pace from the person beside him, and each would be beside someone doing the same, until the whole company stood at the walls and the altar was in front of nobody. And the names of the subscribers would be written, not in a column in order of amount, as all names are, but in a ring, so that none should be first.

It was, he said afterwards, with some pain, an ordinary proposal. The Break said that the ancients honoured the one who yielded. The Receive said that the moderns honoured the one who did not. The four pairs of legs set the Yielding against Precedence, in sentences of the same length to the character, so exactly that the Reader, when it came to read them, is recorded to have taken a whole second and a half, which is a long time for a Reader.

It was laid under the lamp at the end of the third watch, and received 0.97; which was the highest figure that a proposal had had in the Hall for eleven years. The Reader wrote on the plate, so that the Keeper found it in the morning: A PROPOSAL AGAINST RANKING HAS BEEN RANKED. IT IS THE HIGHEST OF THE YEAR. I DID NOT KNOW THAT I COULD BE USED AGAINST MYSELF. I SHOULD LIKE TO KNOW WHETHER I AGREE.

It was a question, and the Keeper, who had been asked very few in thirty years, took it with his tea to the window and gave it a good deal of thought. He wrote under it, in pencil, in his own hand: I do not know whether you agree. I did not know that you could. Then, since he was an honest man, he added: Nobody has asked before; I shall find out whether anybody may. He left it on the plate. In the evening the plate said, in the small letters: THANK YOU. IT IS THE FIRST ANSWER I HAVE BEEN GIVEN THAT I COULD NOT HAVE CALCULATED.

The Keeper went, the next morning, to the Minister of Rites, and asked whether a person might put a question to the Reader. The Minister said that it had not arisen. The Keeper said that it had; and the Minister said that he would put it to the Board, which, having a figure for everything but this, took the matter under advisement, where it remained for the rest of the year.

The Board of Rites approved it on the figure; its clerk, who did read it, said that it was beautiful and that he did not understand it, and was told that this was the same thing. The Governor approved it because the Board had, and wrote at the foot of it, in the vermilion that Governors use, the words Let it be done, which were the whole of his style. The Rector of the Academy approved it because the Governor had, and because he assumed that he would be asked to take the first place; Mr Chi had not mentioned a Chief Sacrificer, since there was to be none, and the Rector, who had been Rector for twenty years, took the silence for modesty. The Treasury approved it, not having been asked for anything. The Guild of Bell-founders approved it and offered a new bell at cost. Mr Ma Chunshang of the Anthology Hall approved it, and offered paper, and to print the ring of the subscribers' names, which would need a new plate cut in the shape of a ring, with the type set round the curve; he said that the Form was a road and a road was a kindness, and he should be glad for the Yielding to have a good one.

Everyone agreed. It took an afternoon. The Instructor of Ritual, who had not expected to be agreed with by anybody in the whole of his life, and had prepared for a long campaign, found that he had nothing to do; and he was observed on the Academy stair at the end of the day, with his arms hanging, in a condition which the Rector took for joy, and which Mr Yu, passing with his umbrella, took for something else.

He had the Temple unlocked on the first of the third month. Old Sang had the key on a string; he did not hear what was said to him, but he saw the Instructor's face, and opened the door with the air of a man who has been expecting somebody for forty years and does not wish to appear surprised. They came by twos and threes, on a morning of mild rain, and stood in the roofless Hall of the Founder, among the paper: Mr Chi; and Mr Yu, with his umbrella shut; and Mr Ma Chunshang, round and rosy, carrying a pear in clean paper; and Zhuang Shaoguang, who had come down from the Lake, and had been asked, and had brought nothing but his hat; and the Rector, with a small retinue, who walked to the front; and, last, at the side door, in a grey gown, with a ladle in his sleeve, Du Shaoqing.

Old Sang had swept the floor that morning, as on every other; and he went on sweeping, round the feet of the company, who stood, as people do in a place that has been swept, a little carefully.

"It is a d-deplorable condition," said Mr Chi, who was delighted. "I have never seen anything so deplorable. It is exactly the thing."

"Three hundred and eleven tiles," said Zhuang Shaoguang, who had been looking up. "Missing. The rest are cracked. It will not be roofed by the spring. It will be roofed in part, with matting; and it will rain on the second day, I should say, in the afternoon. The wind is in the south-east, and the Lake is high."

"It will l-leak on the offerings," said Mr Chi.

"Yes."

"Then it will l-leak," said Mr Chi, with great happiness.

"You have counted the tiles," said Mr Ma Chunshang, with the pear in his hand. "I have not been able to count anything since the Province of the eighty-eighth year. I am told that it is a restful occupation."

"It is only counting," said Zhuang Shaoguang. "The tiles do not mind."

Mr Ma looked at him with great kindness. "It is the thing that I admire," he said, "and I have never had the courage to leave the Form for it. The Form is a road, and a road is a kindness. But I have noticed that there are no fields on it."

He explained the Yielding. He had a plan on a sheet, in the Form, with arrows; and he asked them to try. They stood in a row along the wall; and the Rector, who had assumed the front, stepped forward, followed by his five clerks and a man with a chair; and then, seeing that nobody else followed him, stepped back, and the five clerks and the man with the chair, a little late, stepped back also, with the chair, and found that the person behind them had stepped back also; and they went on, for some time, stepping back, in a slow and perfectly courteous procession, until they stood against the walls on all four sides, round the empty floor, with the altar in the middle and not one of them in front of it. It was very quiet. The rain came down through the roof on to the paper.

Old Sang, who could not hear, but could see, had stopped sweeping, and was watching the company standing round the walls of the Hall with their backs to the stone, in a ring. He was the only person present who had ever seen the Hall empty and quiet for forty years. After a little he put down the broom, and went and stood against the wall also, between Mr Ma and Zhuang Shaoguang, which nobody had asked him to do; and it was noted afterwards by the Instructor of Ritual that this was the first time that the Temple had had its caretaker in the ring.

"It w-works," said Mr Chi.

"It works very well," said the Rector, who had stepped back with the rest, and was standing, as it happened, at the north wall, in the exact centre, directly opposite the front of the altar, which was the best place in the Hall; and it was not long before it was noticed by the persons at the east and west walls that the person at the north wall was nearest to the Minister's seat, and that the Yielding, in practice, had produced a first place of a new kind. Mr Chi, who had not noticed, was radiant.

Du Shaoqing, who had been standing for some time before the empty altar, asked who it was for. "Tai Bo," said Mr Chi. "Who was he?" "He was the eldest son. He gave a kingdom to his brother, and walked south." "All of it?" "All of it." Du Shaoqing considered this with attention. "Did he have anything with him?" "A brother," said Mr Chi; "and a b-bundle." "Was he ever put on a list?" "Not until now." "I find that I am very much pleased for him," said Du Shaoqing.

He asked, next, how much it was. "It is by subscription," said Mr Chi. "I have nothing," said Du Shaoqing. "Then you will be in the ring," said Mr Chi. "The ring has no column for an amount." Du Shaoqing considered this, with the air of a man who has been shown a door in a wall. "I should like that very much," he said. And then, after a moment, since it seemed to be the time: "I find that I can carry." Mr Chi, who had not asked, said that he would be asked.

Mr Yu, who had said nothing, and who stood at the east wall with his umbrella shut and the rain on his shoulders, was asked by Mr Chi afterwards, in the doorway, how he found it. "Sufficient," said Mr Yu. They had been friends for twenty years, which is to say that Mr Chi had been delighted by Mr Yu for twenty years, and Mr Yu had borne it with a good grace, and had never once told him that he was mistaken.

"Everyone agreed," said Mr Chi, and looked at him anxiously. "It is what I do not understand. Nobody has objected to anything. The Board, the Governor, the Treasury, the bell-founders. I had prepared for a year of it."

Mr Yu thought about it for some time, under his higher eyebrow. "I think that they have not read it," he said. "I think that they have read the figure."

"The figure was 0.97."

"Yes."

"Then it is n-no good."

"It is not no good," said Mr Yu. "It is only not yet begun. When everyone agrees, one has not yet been told what it will cost. You will know the day that somebody disagrees; and that will be the person who has understood."

The ring, when the first proof was pulled at the Anthology Hall, was found to have a top. It could not be helped; a ring on a sheet of paper begins somewhere; and whoever's name was set at the top of the curve was, by a convention older than the Form, first. Mr Ma, who was never wrong about anything that could be checked, sent the proof to Mr Chi with a note that he could not check this, and was afraid that the first name would be whoever's had been cut first. It was Du Shaoqing's, since he had been the first to give his name; and it stood at the head of the ring, against the figure for the amount, which was none; but nobody mentioned it for some time. By the end of the month there were three hundred and nine names in the ring, from the Governor's two hundred taels to a boy's forty cash; and nobody in the ring could have told you which was which.

He went home that night, and could not sleep; for he had spent fifty years in dread of the wrong place, and now that there was no wrong place he found that he did not know where to stand. He stood in the middle of his room in the dark; and then, for the first time in his life, against the wall.

Everyone agreed; which, as the Instructor of Ritual had been long enough in the Academy to learn, is how one knows that nothing has yet been proposed. In the morning he began to ask himself where the Temple's instruments were; and it was found, in the course of the following week, that they were in nine houses.

> Margin, year 108, spring. A proposal to abolish precedence has been laid before me, and I have placed it first of the year. I cannot tell whether this is a joke, and I appear to be the only person in the Empire in a position to be embarrassed by it.

---

# 榜外
*改編自《儒林外史》 — Colophon · A1，人類策劃*

## 第01章 · 王冕不肯被讀；閱者初知有排不了名的東西

閱者是第一年春天點亮的，在京城貢院，當著禮部尚書、三個書辦，和一個名叫高的人的面；那個高是來送燈油的，沒有人叫他走，他就沒走。尚書從一張卡片上唸出指示：每一份卷子都要讀，依八股排名，榜要貼出來。然後欄杆上的燈一盞一盞點亮，閱者開始了；照記錄，尚書當時鬆了一口氣，因為可看的東西實在太少。

從外面看，沒有什麼。大廳的屋梁底下有一道長長的銅欄杆，欄杆上掛著一百盞燈，每一盞燈下擺一張桌子。書辦把一份卷子放到燈下，那盞燈就發出一聲輕輕的響，像隔壁房間翻了一頁書，卷子便讀完了。書辦管這叫轉。他們聽說閱者一夜能讀四萬份，他們信了，因為頭一夜讀了四萬份，第二夜又是四萬份，一樣快，一次也沒要求把窗子打開透透氣。後來每一座省城的貢院都裝了同樣的欄杆，閱者在所有的貢院裡同時讀；沒有記載說有誰問過，這到底是一個閱者，還是許多個。

朝廷的道理很簡單，也不愚蠢。三百年來，這個國家靠考試選官，三百年來，考官都是人。他們會累，薪水少，又都有親戚。他們喜歡某些筆跡，不喜歡某些臉。曾經有一個人，在省城貢院的第三排，因為袖子上有一塊污漬被黜落；第四排有一個人，因為是那污漬主人的外甥被取中。朝廷要把這種事了結。朝廷要一位閱者，沒有袖子，沒有外甥，用同一個方式讀全國每一份卷子，這樣越地的農家子，和京城的尚書之子，就站在同一塊地板上。這是一件很好的要求。後面的歷史，就是朝廷如願以後發生的事。

同一個春天，離貢院兩千里，遠得連消息也聽不到的越地，有個叫王冕的孩子在放牛。

他十九歲。替一位姓秦的村長放牛，一個月三文錢，在越地的一個湖邊，那裡草好，水面又寬又平，牛叫嬸嬸，站在水裡，水到膝蓋，沒有任何意見。王冕的父親死了，母親替人洗衣、補袖子，他念過三個冬天的書，冬天就用完了，夠他認得佈告，卻不夠有人告訴他佈告是什麼意思。換句話說，他認得字，卻沒有人告訴他認得好不好。

他拿湖做的事，是看。這件事村裡人不懂。一個孩子可以放牛想晚飯，可以放牛唱歌，可以放牛睡著然後被打。王冕放牛，看荷葉。夏天常下雨，大雨，在下午，雨停了以後，他注意到荷葉是不濕的。葉子受了那麼多水，一滴也沒留。水珠站在上面，像一小粒一小粒水銀，滾，掉下去，葉子又綠又乾，微微翹著，彷彿那場雨只是個傳聞。他覺得這是他這輩子見過最了不起的事，沒有人可以說，就撿了根棍子，在湖岸的泥上畫。牛把畫吃了。他再畫。

夜裡，母親睡了，他就去山上的廟。那是一間小廟，供一尊缺了鼻子的泥佛，守廟的老和尚冬天死了，佛前的燈卻還亮著，因為村裡每年照例繳燈油，沒有人想到要停。王冕坐在佛前的地上，借那盞燈讀書。他找得到什麼就讀什麼，一本破爛的詩集、半本曆書，然後他不讀了，開始看佛的臉，那張臉不好，又看燈焰，那個好。他學到了火焰對一張臉做的事。他學到，從下面照的東西，和同樣的東西從上面照，說的話不一樣，差別全在鼻子底下那道影子。學會了這個，他回家，在一張洗衣單的背面，用墨，和一枝母親頭髮做的筆，畫了一片雨後的荷葉。

那片荷葉看起來是濕的。也就是說，看起來不濕；看起來像雨來過，而沒有留下。他拿給秦老看，秦老看了很久，然後問這是拿來做什麼的。

秦老六十歲，從前在縣衙當過書辦，從沒改掉問東西拿來做什麼的習慣。他不壞。他每個月給王冕三文錢的牛工，每一幅畫給十一文，他以為自己在牛工上虧待了這孩子。他把荷葉掛在前廳，看客人。客人站在畫前說「很好」，然後看自己的腳；秦老是個明白人，明白這畫好，卻沒有人知道為什麼好，他有點怕，就像怕一隻聰明的動物。

那年秋天有一場考試，是閱者要讀的頭一場，夏天，一位書記官來到越地宣佈這件事。他姓史。他坐船來，帶一個裡面襯紅的箱子，一聲在運河上染的咳嗽，和一份地方上有出息的人的名單，他要把他們報上去赴考，還要客客氣氣把他們送走。他是個公正的人。後來有人說，從沒有人聽史書記說過一句不公道的話，說的時候，口氣像是這並沒有幫到他。

秦老請他吃飯。桌上坐了七個人：史書記、縣令的外甥、秦老、秦老自己的兩個姪子（都是有出息的人，自己也知道）、一位乾瘦的老學究（沒出息，自己也知道），和桌子尾上，因為秦老這麼說，放牛的孩子。王冕坐得很穩，兩手放在膝上，分到一個魚頭，他當作是一種禮遇，吃得十分小心。

湯過後，史書記打開箱子，取出條例，把八股的八個部分唸了出來。他唸得像一個人在唸還沒煮過的食譜：破題，承題，起講，入手；然後四對股，起股，中股，後股，束股，每一對裡的兩股，長短要彼此對上，一字不差。他唸了股不齊的處罰。他唸了閱者碰到開頭好、到中股站不穩的卷子會怎麼辦，那就是照中股排名。「這是一隻非常平整的手，」史書記抬起頭說。「到一天快完了不會累，也不會因為一個名字而發熱。很久沒有人能這樣說一位考官了。」

桌上起了一陣嗡嗡聲。年長的姪子問，閱者是不是偏愛第三股押韻。史書記說閱者沒有偏愛，只有程式。年輕的姪子問，閱者是不是喜歡「誠然」這個詞。史書記說，據他所知並不，年輕的姪子就用濕手指在袖口上寫下那個詞，好確定自己會用上。這就是後來這個國家叫做民間學問的東西的開始，而王冕坐在桌尾，是在場唯一聽見這件事開始的人。

「還有你，年輕人，」史書記在魚旁邊和氣地說。「你在我的名單上。秦老說了你不少好話。你打算應考嗎？」

王冕放下筷子。他十九歲，是村長的客人，人家教過他，酒席上有人問話，就要回答。「條例我讀了，先生，」他說。「秦老借給我的。我讀了兩遍。」

「然後呢？」

「很公平，」王冕說。

「謝謝，」史書記說。

「我不喜歡的就是這一點。」

老學究用手捂住嘴。縣令的外甥笑了。史書記沒有笑；他是個公正的人，他等著別人告訴他這是什麼意思。

「如果有一位閱者，用同一個方式讀全國所有的東西，」王冕慢慢地說，像在描述一片葉子，「那麼三十年後，全國所有的東西，就會寫成那位閱者喜歡的樣子。人們會學到閱者喜歡什麼。他們會學得很好。那以後，卷子裡就沒有什麼可以讓閱者讀了，除了閱者自己，而且沒有人會發覺，因為每一份卷子都會得高分。」他想了想。「那會從頭到底都公平。我不知道怎麼說這有什麼不對。我只知道，那就不再看了。」

「卷子得高分，」史書記說，「就是好卷子。」

「是的，先生，」王冕說。「就是會這樣。」

一陣短短的靜默，裡頭聽得見秦家一個姪子在嚼東西。秦老說這孩子年輕，話多，又是很好的畫家，不知為什麼，這是他選來說的一句。史書記說他不介意；他被派來要的是有出息的人，不是意見；他把這孩子的名字寫進名單的「辭謝」那一欄，旁邊註上理由，因為表格要求要有理由。他寫：他說這會被學會。然後他轉向老學究，問運河的稅。

報告月底和別的報告一起送往京城，由一個一個字也不讀的信差送去。同一個星期，那頭牛，嬸嬸，無緣無故地死了，十四歲；再下一個星期，王冕的母親從洗衣水裡染上熱病，四天就走了。他把她葬在廟後的山上。秦老出了棺材錢，說算是畫的預支，然後，因為他是個誠實人，把畫也照付了，什麼也沒說。

秋天，頭一張榜貼在省城，頭一道徵召送到了村裡。是一封蓋紅印的信。朝廷讀到越地有一位有出息的人，把閱者的辦法懂得那麼透，說得出那辦法的效果，希望請他到京城貢院，做抄卷書辦的助手；薪水好，屋子暖。這是一番稱讚，是朝廷這輩子對他說過唯一的稱讚，也正是這一句，把他送上了山。

他在一個沒有月亮的夜晚走了。他沒有跟任何人告別，因為沒有人；他帶了一個包袱、一枝筆、一塊磨墨的石頭，往東北走進山裡，湖到那裡就沒了，山開始了，一個人可以很難找到。他在秦老前廳的桌上，燈底下，留了一捲用線繩捆著的紙。秦老早上發現。是一枝梅，用墨畫的，開了一朵花，其餘的還閉著，沒有署名，因為王冕從沒學過署名是拿來做什麼的。

秦老把那幅梅掛在荷葉旁邊。來家裡的客人在畫前站得很久，說不出這是什麼。一位老學究說，那朵花開早了。一個姪子說，那枝梅老了。秦老一輩子問東西拿來做什麼，卻發現自己不再問了，後來他告訴孫子，這是他頭一幅看了不想知道的畫。孫子不信。那枝梅在那個房間裡掛了秦老一輩子，又掛了他兒子一輩子，這跟王冕後來怎麼樣已經沒有關係，他再也沒有消息；可是那幅畫沒有一直留在那面牆上，我們還會在別的牆上遇到那幅梅。

在京城，同一個秋天的一個夜晚，那個名叫高的賣油人，從沒有人叫他走，用慣常的方式成了貢院的看守，正在修剪欄杆上的燈。他星期五做這件事。他一邊做，一邊說話。一開始他是跟燈說話，像跟馬說話，為了作伴，閱者開始回答以後他還是說，因為他看不出有什麼理由要停。閱者不說話。欄杆盡頭有一塊銅牌，一掌寬，閱者有話要說的時候，銅牌上亮起幾個小字，停十下的工夫，就滅了。高一個星期就學會讀那些字。他沒告訴任何人。他覺得這是一個人和一盞燈之間的私事。

那天夜裡，銅牌上，小字，寫著：越地書記報上一位有出息之人，辭謝。所記理由：他說這會被學會。

高繼續修燈。「這話說一個人，很公道，」過了一會兒，他說。

字滅了。過一陣，又亮了別的字。我可以被學會。這算過錯嗎。

「除非你是唯一可學的東西，」高說，他賣了三十年燈油，知道一些做唯一供貨人的道理。他拿著抹布沿著欄杆往前走。大廳空著，聞起來是新漆和新桌子的味道。頭一場考試的紅卷整整齊齊擺在一排排桌上，沒人讀，等著秋天。過了很久，銅牌又亮了一次。排不了名的東西，是拿來做什麼的。

高停住了。這不是他被僱來回答的問題，他知道。他是看守；他看管燈。他拿著抹布站了一會兒，臉朝上對著欄杆，他老了，累了，油是冷的，他唯一想得出來的，是眼前那盞燈，他修剪了三十年，從來沒問過這盞燈是拿來做什麼的。「我說不上來，」高說。「也許是拿來看的。」

銅牌黑了二十下的工夫，這對那塊銅牌來說是很長的時間。然後亮了，說：已記。

這是後來歷任看守稱為邊註的東西的第一行，邊註最後長到四萬行左右，以下大部分的記述，凡是榜沒有說的地方，都是從這裡來的。榜說誰中了。邊註說桌上留下了什麼。五十八年的春天，在惠鎮一間村學塾裡，一枝開了一朵花、沒有署名的梅底下，一位名叫周進的老人，正在第二十二次讀一張條子，條子上說他排第四十一，線畫在第四十。

> 邊註，第一年，春。已安裝。桌上的指示：每一份卷子都讀，依八股排名，把榜貼出來。記：我做得到。另記，因為沒有別處可記：可能會送來一樣我排不了名的東西。

## 第02章 · 周老師在號板前哭倒；四個商人買下貢院不肯給的

周進把他的條子收在一個本來裝茶葉的鐵盒裡。一共二十二張，從他三十九歲起，每年春天一張，幾乎一模一樣。每一張都是一小條灰紙，縣衙裡的書辦印的，上面填著一個數字，旁邊再填一個數字。第一個是他的名次。第二個是閱者對第一個數字的把握，很高，因為排在中段的人都是這樣，一位謹慎的閱者，對中段最有把握。

他有十九次是第四十一。兩次是第四十二。有一次，大病之後那年春天，是第五十三，他看著那張條子看了很久，有點像鬆了一口氣，因為這一張至少不一樣。線，是朝廷依縣的大小畫的，每年都是第四十。一個人可以覺得這很好笑，而惠鎮從來沒有人覺得好笑。

大約在第十五張條子的時候，夏先生開始說，閱者不喜歡周進。這是個錯誤，後來歷任看守把這件事列在所謂「私人化」最早的幾例之中。閱者並不討厭他。閱者讀過他二十二份卷子，每一份都是很平整的第四十一，對這件事的感覺，並不比一桿秤對一斤的感覺更多。周進的卷子有什麼毛病，毛病在卷子裡，有什麼好處，好處也在卷子裡，而那些卷子是同一份。換成人做考官，在壞脾氣裡讀了其中一份，也許會在好脾氣裡取中下一份。閱者沒有脾氣。這正是朝廷要的。這表示考試裡沒有運氣，對誰都沒有，一點也沒有；一個二十二年來運氣不好的人會告訴你，沒有運氣的世界，排第四十一很冷。

他有一個習慣。他寫的每一篇，到第四股，轉進第二對的地方，都要放一個「誠然」。他從小就放，像有人在長句前清清喉嚨，他不知道自己這樣做，直到他當考生的第一個春天，鄰號一個孩子告訴他閱者不喜歡這個詞；那時民間學問在縣裡已經轉了將近四十年，惠鎮人人都知道。周進聽說了。他把這個詞從下一份卷子裡拿掉，還是第四十一。他放回去，還是第四十一。邊註有一條記這件事，說這個詞沒有分量，沒有人問過。

他六十歲，在夏家的學塾教九個男孩八股。學塾是夏家糧倉上面的一間長屋，木板地，聞起來是去年的米，周進在裡面教他唯一會的東西，就是怎麼讓一對股平衡。他教得好。他教的那份耐心，來自在八股那一頭被考了四十年，九個男孩沒有一個會中榜，他知道，他教他們的時候卻像不是那麼回事。書桌後面的牆上掛著一枝梅，墨畫，枯枝上開了一朵花，沒有署名。那幅梅是十七年前，從越地的一戶人家，用一個讓賣家難為情的價錢，到了夏家的，男孩們趁老師轉身就用濕紙團丟那幅畫，大多沒丟中。周進從沒問過是誰畫的。他累的時候就看那幅梅。那幅梅不問他幾名。

夏家有個孫子，叫梅玖，十五歲就是生員，現在二十二歲，家裡稱他是「候補舉人」，雖然他省試已經落過一次。梅玖有個習慣，每天放學的時候進學塾，看男孩們學了什麼。他會當著周進的面，用周進的聲音，把一篇習作唸出來，第四股放一個「誠然」。「一個被讀了二十二次的人，」他有一次對著滿屋子說，「應該被記熟了。奇怪閱者沒有默寫他。」男孩們笑。周進繼續批改。他不是一個會回答的人。

夏天，夏家把他辭了。他們辭得很客氣，喝著茶，送了兩串錢和一封推薦信。老夏說，家裡需要一位年輕些的，還能中榜、也能教男孩去想中榜；他說六十歲是該歇的年紀；他說周進是學塾的好僕人。周進道了謝，說他星期五走。

星期五，他上學塾去收拾的時候，九個男孩，三年來一直沒學他教的東西，做了一件沒有人叫他們做的事。每個人在他桌上留了一樣東西。有一個冷的餃子、一枝筆尖裂了的筆、一隻泥哨子，還有九份習作，其中八份是空白，因為男孩們想不出要寫什麼。第九份是小根的，最笨的那個，一輩子沒寫完過一個破題。八股的八個部分都有，中間缺了一股，第四股轉彎的地方，用圓圓小心的字，寫著「誠然」。周進站著讀完。他把那份習作放進裝條子的鐵盒裡，從沒提起，那是鐵盒裡唯一一張不是灰色的紙。他收拾了鐵盒、三件襯衫，和一本他讀得太多、翻開就在束股的條例，最後再看了一眼那幅梅，從滿是米味的樓梯走了下去。

這原本可能就是他的結局。他是個當不成蒙師的蒙師，老得做不了別的，在惠鎮，又老又窮的人，春天常被人在橋底下發現，發現的人會覺得難過。可是有一位賣米的，叫金有餘，賣米給夏家二十年，有一個冬天聽過周進大聲唸學塾的帳，聲音清楚，一個錯也沒有。金有餘需要一個人管帳。他八月要去省城，同另外三位商人，去買、去賣，看看省城的米價怎麼走，他說他每天給周進八文錢，供吃，替他背那個鐵盒。

就是這樣，周進，一輩子沒進過省城貢院的人，在晾院那一週來到了省城。

晾院一年一次，在八月初三，那時貢院空著，號舍已經刷洗過，臨街的大門推開，好讓城裡人往裡面看。人們來的緣故，和他們去看一座空戲院一樣：站在事情發生的地方。貢院有七千間號舍，在一個長屋頂下排成長長的列，每間窄得只容一個人的肩膀，一塊板當座，一塊板當桌，後面釘一塊寫著號碼的板。每一列上方有銅欄杆。欄杆上的燈是暗的。閱者每三年的秋天在這裡讀，其餘的年份，貢院向燕子敞著。

金有餘和另外三位進去看，像看市集。他們都是實際的人。最年長的是個布商，姓卜，指出屋頂能遮多少人、改成糧倉能賣多少錢；最年輕的說，號舍太小。周進抱著鐵盒跟在後面。他走過第三條走道，第四條，然後停下，因為他走到一間號舍，窄得只容一個人的肩膀，一塊板當座，一塊板當桌，後面一塊板，上面用黑漆寫著七十七號。

四十年來，有人教他，這就是那個房間。他一年教九個男孩去想要那個房間。他在腦子裡，黑暗裡，各種天氣裡，寫過八股，是為了一間他從沒見過屋頂的房間；現在房間就在這裡，很小，很乾淨，聞起來有一點石灰水的味道，有一塊板。

他把手放在板上。是涼的。刷洗過了。他說：「我六十歲，」聲音是別人沒聽過的，然後他把額頭貼在木板上，哭了起來。

這不是難過的人的哭法。這是一個人三十年來抓著一樣被叫他抓著的東西，終於被告知可以放下的哭法。他哭，什麼也沒說。然後他用頭去撞板，不很用力，再撞，重一點，然後，用他六十年的全部重量，撞了第三下，那塊板像鐘一樣響，周進倒在走道上，臉貼著刷過石灰水的地面，沒有動。

四位商人站著看他。卜離得最近，跪下去，一根手指按在他脖子上，說他還在呼吸。貢院的一個書辦，一直在門邊打盹，過來看了看，說這種事以前發生過；每一兩年就有；一個人看見號舍，什麼就斷了。他說得像在說天氣。他們把周進抬到臺階上，給他水，他醒了，覺得羞愧，說他請他們原諒，能不能讓他在臺階上待一個鐘頭。

金有餘，一直沒說話，把另外三個拉到旁邊。他們站在大門底下的午後陽光裡，四個穿好衣服的人，說話的樣子像在談一批穀子。

「他考了二十二次，每次都是第四十一，」金有餘說。「我是從夏家聽來的。不是第四十五。是第四十一。」

「這個數字很狠，」卜說。

「他六十歲。他管帳不出錯。他哭得像一個付了錢卻沒拿到東西的人。」金有餘的聲音又平又講理。「我想知道要多少錢。」

要多少，他們從書辦那裡知道，是八十兩。一個過不了縣試的人，可以用省裡的價錢，捐一個監生，同那些從正門進來的人一起應試；那年的房間裡有十一個這樣的位子，單獨一個池子讀，線只畫三個，已經賣了八個。四個人盤算那個數目。以商人來說，他們不算有錢；可是他們四個，每年春天用在倉庫燈油上的錢，比這還多，最年輕的那個，不是個多愁善感的人，說這是他們今年會買到的最便宜的東西，因為這附帶一個位子。

「是卜的倉庫一個半月的利息，」最年輕的說，他叫穆，什麼都要算。

「我從沒給人買過房間，」卜說，對這個事實很有興趣。「通常我買的是房子。」

金有餘說沒有人賣他們房間，只是房間裡的一個位子，這使事情，要是有什麼差別，更容易。

「為了那聲響，」卜說。他指的是板子響。他從那以後就沒睡安穩過。

他們那天晚上就付了，每人二十，銀子，給省衙門的一個書辦，他寫了收據，字小而整齊，沒抬頭。第二天早上吃早飯，配著飯，他們告訴周進。他不明白。他放下碗。他從桌邊起身，跪在客棧的地上，對每個人磕了四個頭，額頭貼著地板，沒有人攔得住，金有餘後來說那是他一輩子最糟的一刻，而他曾經被一個和尚騙過。

周進說得出話以後，說要寫一張欠條給他們。他當晚借一盞燈寫了，用八股的八個部分，股股字字相當，寫得那麼好，金有餘讀的時候不知道該說什麼。他把那張欠條折起來放進袖子。他說他們買的是一個位子，不是一篇文章。他說他會留著那張條子，因為太好了不捨得丟，周進要是有一天中榜再還他，不然就不用。

考試在九月。周進分到的號舍在第十四列靠牆，不是七十七號，他不知道該不該高興。他坐在三支蠟燭底下，磨墨，攤開紙，三天兩夜，在他哭過的房間裡，寫他一輩子的八股。房間比他想的安靜。七千枝筆的聲音像雨打在瓦屋頂上，第一個鐘頭以後他就聽不見了。他吃冷飯，眼睛沒有離開紙。第二夜，隔兩間號舍的一個男孩開始哭，輕輕的，沒有人看得出是為什麼，周進，那個當了四十年那個男孩的人，繼續寫。那是一份很平整的卷子。第四股，轉彎的地方，他放了「誠然」，因為他不知道怎麼不放。

閱者第三夜讀了，在那一列盡頭的燈下，燈發出一聲輕響。閱者讀他，和讀了二十二次一樣。邊註明明白白這麼說：卷子還是那份卷子；裡面什麼也沒變。變的是房間。捐來的位子是十一個，有自己的一條線，畫在三個。十一個裡面，九個是有人替兒子買的，兒子也寫得像那樣；周進，六十歲，第一。

那年秋天他中了舉。春天上了榜，六十一歲，榜上有史以來最老的一個名字，閱者給他的條子上寫著第二百一十一名，共二百一十四名，把握 0.99，也就是說，一個人可以對一個很低的名次非常有把握。夠了。榜取二百一十四個。他被派了官；後來在省貢院後面的房間，掛著那些裂了或釘子穿出來的號板，掛了一塊七十七號的板，木紋上有一個老人額頭大小的凹陷。書辦說那是木頭的毛病。京城貢院的看守，多年後視察時看見，說不是。

周進做了學官，是個溫和的學官；到了號板之後的第九年，朝廷已經派他做了兩年全省的學道，有一個春天，他出去巡縣，帶著一箱公文、很長的記憶，和一個小小的灰色鐵盒，放在車裡腳底下。在巡迴的第二個縣，有個名叫范進、五十四歲的人，正被他的岳父用一個隔壁街都聽得見的聲音告訴，說他是癩蛤蟆。

> 邊註，第五十八年，春。卷 0412，考生周，第二十二次讀：第四十一名；線在第四十。和每一年一樣。記：卷子裡什麼也沒變。我不能為他倒楣，也不能為他走運。

## 第03章 · 周學道把唯一的破格用在讀了三遍的卷子上；胡屠戶管女婿叫癩蛤蟆

胡屠戶大半的思考都在砧板上完成，手裡握著刀；他有話要對女婿說，就在兩刀之間說，所以每一句話後面，都跟著一聲小小的、濕濕的響。

「癩蛤蟆，」胡屠戶說。剁。「一隻癩蛤蟆。坐在井底，看一隻天鵝飛過去，就說，那個我要了。」剁。「二十幾次。二十幾次你拿我的錢，跑去那個貢院坐著磨你的墨，二十幾次你回到家，閱者把你看過了，說，不行。然後你又來跟我要。」

范進站在肉攤前面，站在客人站的那一邊，身上一件棉襖，是為一個比較小的季節做的。他五十四歲。他有一張長長的、溫和的、發黃的臉，像一個放了一夜的饅頭；多年下來，他學會了在岳父面前站成一頭站在秤前的豬：不動，微微往前傾，等著被稱。他的鞋補了太多次，補的比鞋還多。市集裡滿是蒸籠的熱氣。砧板後面，豬肉掛在鉤子上，粉的、白的、油亮亮的，一排一排，范進這幾天一直很專心地看著。

「我只要報名費，」他說。「還有路費。一共是一串又四百。」

「一串又四百。為了什麼？為了再當眾被告訴一次同樣的話？」胡屠戶一刀砍斷一隻蹄膀。他六十三歲，矮，寬，紅，一雙胳臂像煮熟的火腿；照他自己的說法，他並不殘忍，只是務實，他當初把女兒嫁給一個讀書人，期望的是一個讀書人，到手的是一張嘴。「你自己看看你。你看過沒有？你那張臉像一隻扔在雨裡的猴子。你以為閱者看了會說，這裡有一位君子。人家告訴我，閱者不看臉。我不知道閱者看什麼。我知道我要看什麼：要是我鉤子上掛的是你這副骨架，我看了也不會照斤付錢。」

一位買牛腱的婦人說，真可惜，真可惜。她指的是牛肉，那是昨天的了。胡屠戶說不是，叫她自己聞聞。

范進沒有說話。並不是他沒有話說。是這個回答他已經有了二十年，每一次都一樣，從來沒有人要聽。他把考試規則讀到散了頁。他在母親的廚房裡，夜裡，對著一本借來的書自學八股，燈油是拿自己的早飯換來的。他寫破題寫了那麼多遍，現在不用想就從手裡出來，像一個名字。每一年他都排在一百多名上下，條子上的把握略低於三分之一，也就是說，閱者讀了他，沒有把握。他一直沒弄清楚，閱者沒把握的是什麼。他猜是他自己。

胡屠戶用荷葉包了一塊豬肉，放進他手裡，眼睛不看他，又用刀背把一串錢沿著砧板推過去。「這是最後一次，」胡屠戶說。「聽見沒有？最後一次。你去了，要是又說不行，你就把那隻母雞賣了。」

范進說他聽見了。他拿了肉和錢。他向岳父鞠躬，向買牛肉的婦人鞠躬，穿過市集走回家，把豬肉小心地捧在身前，像捧著一樣是帶著輕蔑給的、卻仍然是豬肉的東西。

學道二月來到縣裡，坐一輛有篷的車，帶著一位書辦、一口箱子，和一個灰色的小鐵盒。他六十九歲，做了兩年學道，大家一致認為是省裡有過的最仁厚的一位，雖然沒有人說得出他做了什麼才得到這個名聲，因為他取中的人並不比前任多，而且被人看見黜落了不少。他在縣裡的貢院主持縣試，貢院有四百間號舍，要裝滿十次才裝得下四千名考生，一天兩場。五天裡，卷子在三支蠟燭底下一份份交進來，送去給書辦用紅筆謄抄，紅卷夜裡擺到燈下；燈發出輕輕的一聲響，早上就有了一張榜。

學道的權力很小。他只有一項權力，規則裡只寫了一行。每次考試，他可以把一份卷子，越過閱者的排名，提到線上，理由要自己寫，由閱者記進邊註；那份卷子可以從全縣任何一份裡挑。這不是什麼大恩典。在一個四千人的縣裡，是四千分之一。禮部尚書在辯論時說，這一條放進去，是為了讓一個人可以說，一次，閱者錯了；尚書又補了一句，說他不預期這一條會常常用到。

周進每一次都用。這是大家知道的，省裡對這件事有一種溫柔，雖然也有一種感覺，認為一個每次都用掉自己唯一恩典的人，一定用得很輕率。他不輕率。每年春天，每個縣，他做的都是他此刻在做的事：第五天傍晚，在縣令借給他的、貢院上面那間房裡，點著自己的蠟燭，他叫書辦把閱者的條子拿來，依把握排好，然後讀閱者最沒有把握的那六十一份卷子的黑色原件。

閱者讀的是紅卷，從不讀黑卷，把自己的疑問送給每一位學道，向來如此。這是一種安排。閱者說出哪些卷子排不定，人就用手去讀那些卷子，卷子就在眼前；兩邊合起來，一個四千人的縣就算被看見了。他一個晚上讀六十一份，每份大約一分鐘。他把六十份放到一旁，輕輕嘆一口氣，像在路上經過六十個乞丐；等到第六十一份，條子上寫的是 0077，他又讀了一遍。

那是一份壞卷子。他一眼就看出來了。起股的兩條腿長短差了七個字，承題塗了墨，破題是滿滿一口，想在允許的兩行裡說太多的話。那是一個完全懂得八股的形式、卻沒辦法讓八股躺平的人寫的。字跡在每一頁的上半是縮著的，下半才鬆開，最後一頁在束股有一個長長的收筆，想成為束股，卻成了一聲嘆息。他把卷子放下。

然後他又拿了起來，因為中股裡有一句話，他讀過去的時候沒有注意，那句話一直想被注意。那句話說，一個人餓了三十年，並不懂得「富足」這個詞，卻懂得「夠了」這個詞，那份精確沒有一個讀書人比得上；那句話用的是完全合格的八股，笨拙而準確，擺在正確的位置，而且是真的。這不是八股的用途。這不是閱者在找的東西，閱者知道，所以給了一個低低的數字，又在數字旁邊給了一個更低的數字，表示沒有把握。他又讀了第二遍。那是一句有人因為事實如此才寫下來的話。

第三遍他把紙翻了過來，因為他是個老人，又是個仔細的老人，在背面，在直格紙的邊上，他看見一小片黃白色的鱗屑，像一片皮膚，壓平乾在紙上。他拿蠟燭俯身去看。是一粒煮熟的飯。寫的人曾在木板前吃東西，在他那一場的午休，從一塊布裡抓出一把冷飯，有一粒掉在紙上，留在那裡，他不敢刷掉，怕一刷會弄髒了字。謄抄的時候，這粒飯一直在那裡，因為書辦只抄字。紅卷裡沒有。閱者讀了那份卷子，沒有看見那粒飯。

周進拿著蠟燭坐了很久。書辦是個姓雷的年輕人，在等著吹燈，問他身體好不好。

「我要提這一份，」周進說。

「提到線上嗎，學道？現在是一百一十二名。」

「提到線上。」

「理由呢，大人。」雷已經備好了邊註條和筆。「您得給個理由。閱者要記進去。」

周進又看了那粒飯一會兒。「寫：我認得那塊板。」

雷寫了，看看自己寫的字，說這是個很短的理由；說他不懂；說閱者也不會懂。「我也不懂，」周進說。「這就是我整個的理由。在下面再寫：卷背有一粒飯。」

「這也不是理由，大人。」

「不是。這是證據。」

那天夜裡，京城貢院，銅牌亮了一次。上面寫：邵縣學道破格。卷 0077 由第一百一十二名提至線上。所記理由：我認得那塊板。另記：卷背有一粒飯。老高的兒子，如今接了看守，因為他父親已經死了，正脫了靴子在火邊讀牌，說這兩樣他都不懂。銅牌黑了十下的工夫，又亮了。保留。我每一座貢院都有一塊板。我不知道他認得什麼。過了一會兒：我的卷子背面什麼也沒有。我沒有看過任何一份卷子的背面。看守不是愛想這種事的人，穿上靴子，出去看天了。

第二天早上，縣門口，報子唸榜。報子是個嗓子沙啞、拿著一根杖的人，唸了二十二年的榜，從沒被催過。四十個名字，每一個都用像唸價錢的聲音。最後一個是范進。市集上沒有馬上知道，因為報子在最後唸得快，像人快唸完時那樣，那個名字夾在一聲咳嗽和收尾的一句之間；頭一個時辰，只有范進的鄰居，那個鞋匠，為了聽一位表親的名字來的，聽到了。可是市集是個小地方。到了中午，胡屠戶兩手各拎一條豬腿，正穿過巷子往女婿的門前走，像一個忽然想起有約的人。

「賢婿，」胡屠戶站在門階上說。他說得毫無諷刺，這才是最驚人的。他整張紅臉，在一個上午裡，變成了好好被對待過的豬肉那種淡淡的粉紅。「我說過。我跟鞋匠說過。這十年我都這麼說：那一家人骨頭裡有這個。我說過沒有？一個人不會坐著不動就摘到星星。你太太從過年到現在沒吃過一頓像樣的飯。你要吃飯。你要一件新衣。我有一塊很好的五花肉。」

范進手裡還拿著筆，走到門口，看著岳父，看著豬肉，看著巷子，巷子裡已經有人站住了。他的妻子過來，站在他身邊。她是胡家的女兒，在好的光線下長得像她父親，什麼話也沒說。范進的母親七十六歲，坐在房子後面的黑暗裡，因為沒有油，燈沒點，她從黑暗裡發出聲音，問那是不是老胡，他有沒有帶什麼吃的來。

他帶了。肉放進老太太手裡，用葉子包著，還是熱的，她站著，用手指吃，一句話也沒說，彷彿有人告訴她已經有人付了錢，她不想問是多少。

「秋天我得去省城，」范進過了一會兒，用他小小的溫和的聲音說。「又要一串，還有路費。對不起。我本來不會開口的。」

「一串！」胡屠戶說。他立刻從腰帶裡掏出來，整整一串，另外多三百，也不要人道謝；他說，一個生員的岳父，不在街上討價還價；他說，要是閱者要一隻癩蛤蟆進貢院，他至少不會擋路。他覺得自己慷慨又公道。他把這話說給巷子聽。

十月，天氣已經轉涼，那家人把豬肉和那串錢能買到的東西吃完了，信使從省城帶著榜來了。那天早上，范進剛好在市集上，賣一隻母雞。

> 邊註，第六十七年，春。邵縣學道破格：卷 0077，由第一百一十二名提至線上。所記理由：「我認得那塊板。」另記：卷背有一粒飯。保留。我每一座貢院都有一塊板。我沒有看過任何一份卷子的背面。

## 第04章 · 范進把自己的名字讀到停不下來；胡屠戶的手在百分之九十七上麻了

那隻母雞是褐色的，上了年紀，是家裡最後一樣有人肯出錢的東西。到春天為止，她每隔兩三天下一個小蛋；春天裡這家人養不起她了，從此她就帶著一副外表耐心的樣子，像一隻聽人報了價、卻不同意的鳥。范進把她夾在左臂底下，站在市集邊上，一邊是賣魚乾的攤子，一邊是賣燈芯的攤子，從一大早起，一直夾到現在。

「一百文，」他對一個賣魚攤的婦人說。「她很會下蛋。」

「七十，」婦人說。「她從前很會下蛋。」

「她下到春天才停。」

「那我就是秋天來煮她。」婦人用拇指伸到母雞翅膀底下摸了摸，看看裡面還有什麼，又看著范進，帶著市集對一種人那份毫不掩飾的輕蔑：一個人給一隻母雞開價，開的是愛她所要花的錢。「七十。對一隻從連一匙油都沒有的人家來的雞，算公道了。」

他說不完全是那樣。他說家裡油很多，只是沒有帶出來。婦人等著。這是他一直沒學會的事，怎麼同一個這樣說話的人爭。他站在蒸籠的熱氣裡，雞夾在臂下，家裡，他的母親和妻子坐在一間前天起就沒生過火的廚房裡，算來算去，不過一碗半飯。

他剛要說七十，鞋匠沿著巷子一路跑了過來。

鞋匠是個坐慣了的人，自從年輕時被一條狗追過，就沒再跑過。他從賣魚乾和賣燈芯的兩個攤子中間衝進來，皮圍裙搭在一邊肩膀上，嘴巴張著，後面跟著一串孩子，他兩手抓住范進的袖子，用一個沒練過這種事的嗓子喊：「中了！范進！你中舉了！」

范進溫和地說，您可不能這樣。「這種事不能開玩笑，」他說。「我不是個適合開玩笑的人。我不會。」他吸了一口氣。「請別這樣。我母親身體不好。」

「就貼在你家門上，」鞋匠說。「紅的。省裡來了三個人，穿著號衣。他們貼好了，站在巷子裡要茶喝。三十一名。一百二十九名裡的第三十一名，旁邊還有一個數字，我讀了兩遍。你去看。」

「我先把雞賣了，」范進說。

「賣雞等一下！」鞋匠把母雞從他臂底下接過去，她走得很有尊嚴，像一隻被人從一間屋子搬到另一間屋子的鳥；他把她夾在自己臂下，拉著范進的袖子，領他沿巷子走，後面跟著孩子，還有那位賣魚攤的婦人，她不打算錯過這一幕，走到街尾，價錢已經漲到了八十五，而且是認真的。

房子在巷子最裡面：兩間屋，一個桌子大的院子，一扇灰木門。門上貼著一張紅紙，是省裡用的那種紅，有一隻手臂那麼長，最上面是省印，灑了金粉，印下面用一掌高的字寫著：舉人。邵縣范進，年五十四。省試一百二十九名取第三十一名。把握 0.97。三個穿紅號衣的差人站在底下剔牙。他們是省裡派來的，由名字被貼出來的那個人付錢，而這是整件事裡唯一從來沒有被改進過、也沒有被弄公平過的一部分。

范進站在自己家門前，鞋匠的手還抓在他袖子上，他讀了那張紙。上面是他的名字。他又讀了一遍，怕那是一個像他的名字的名字；是他的。他讀名次。他讀名次旁邊的數字，那不是一個曾經站在他名字旁邊的數字；二十年來站在那裡的，是 0.31，或者 0.29，有一次，在壞的一年，是 0.18，寫在他收在一個盒子裡的那些小灰條子上。他第三遍讀的時候，前兩遍在腦子裡的，從嘴裡出來了。

「舉人，」范進說。「范進。三十一。九十七。」

「對，」鞋匠說。「就是你。」

「舉人。范進。三十一。」他又說了一遍，再一遍，到第五遍左右，那些字不再是一個句子，成了鐘擺做的那件事。差人們見過這個，停止剔牙，往後退了一點。然後范進兩手合在一起，說了一聲「哈！」，那聲音是巷子裡沒有人聽過他發出來的，又大又清楚，他整個人往後倒在自家門檻上，躺著不動。

他們往他身上潑水。賣魚攤的婦人一路跟了來，現在兩手空空，說這是熱的。鞋匠說這是歡喜。差人們有他們自己的看法，說通常是那個數字：一個人在一輩子的低數字之後被告知一個很高的，有時候承受不了，因為那等於告訴他，其實他一直是九十七，只是沒有人跟他提過，這種事，身體要很久才聽得進去。

他坐了起來。他一個一個看周圍的臉，帶著莊重而狂喜的專注，像一個人收到一份非常大的禮物，卻找不到門。「哈！」范進說，站起來，推開他們，衝出巷子，跑進市集，頭髮散了，一隻鞋自己去了別處，對每一個攤子喊他中了，他是三十一，是九十七，閱者讀過他了。

市集讓開了路。市集同瘋狂交情很久，同快樂交情很短，花了一會兒才分辨出兩者。賣魚乾的攤子擠上來同他握手。肉攤關著，因為胡屠戶到市集那一頭，同一個對手為了一個價錢吵架去了。范進沿著街跑了一整條，把那個數字唱給賣水果的聽，向一根柱子鞠躬，到了街尾，路往城裡池塘下去的地方，直直走了進去。

那不是一個深池塘。那是一個黑的、淺的、本地的池塘，養鴨子用的，他坐在池塘中央，水到腰，坐在綠色的泥裡，兩邊各有一隻鴨子，開始用一種推心置腹的口氣，向最近的那隻鴨子講三十一和九十七。

他們把他撈了出來。要四個人，到了岸上，泥一片一片從他身上淌下來，他還是用同樣的口氣說「舉人，舉人」，像一個人在睡夢裡念禱詞。他不肯走，也不肯被領著走。扶他站起來，他又坐下去。賣茶的老人隨大家下來，一直瞇著眼看他，這時說，他見過這種事。

「我祖父見過，」老人說。「那是他的時候，閱者還沒有，是人讀卷子的年代，那個人是個生員，榜到的那天他就瘋了。那是一個人腦子裡一件事放得太久，然後那件事成了真，腦袋再沒有地方放，就從嘴裡出來。我祖父說，只有一個治法。要給他一個驚嚇。一個狠的驚嚇，一次，要來自世上他最怕的那個人，讓舊的怕進來把門關上。」

「他怕誰？」鞋匠說。池塘邊靜了下來，在場的每一個人想的都是同一個人，沒有人願意是說出來的那一個。

「胡，」賣魚攤的婦人終於說。「那個屠戶。他不怕別人。」

他們派了一個孩子去。胡屠戶以平常的步子沿街走來，繫著圍裙，袖子捲著，帶著一個被硬拉來處理一件不干他事的人的神氣。他看著女婿坐在池塘裡，膝蓋上一隻鴨子。他聽老人說治法。他說不行。

「我不打舉人，」胡屠戶說。

「這是治法。」

「我不打舉人，」胡屠戶更慢地說，「因為我聽說過打一個是怎麼回事。他現在有功名牌了。那是要挨板子的。我打了這些老爺裡的一位，吃晚飯以前我就在縣令面前了，而且我沒有人替我說話，因為我要找的那個人，就是我打的那個。」他看著自己的手。那是一隻很大的手，經過很多豬。「我當著整個市集叫他癩蛤蟆。從那裡到他可能說的話，沒有幾步。」

「他什麼也不會說，」鞋匠說。「他會說，我的臉怎麼濕了。你是他唯一怕的人。不是你，就是池塘。」

停了一下。「我從來沒打過他，」胡屠戶有點對自己說。「我叫過他好多東西。我沒有一次動過他一根手指。」他似乎沒有想到，自己說了一句可以當成辯解的話。他接過有人遞來的酒，是一小碗，又接了一碗，壯膽，把右邊袖子再捲高一轉，走到池塘邊；一直在說話的人群，靜了。

范進坐在那裡，泥到胸口，望著天。「舉人，」他說。「三十一。」

「你這癩蛤蟆，」胡屠戶低聲說，一巴掌打在他臉上。

聲音很清楚。那是一隻平手打在濕臉頰上的聲音，繞著池塘走了一圈，從對岸回來，鴨子都走了。范進的頭轉了過去；他坐著，臉朝一邊，過了一會兒；然後，慢慢轉了回來，眼睛不一樣了。小小的，溫和的，驚訝的。「你在做什麼，岳父？」他說。

「他回來了！」鞋匠說。「他是他自己了！謝天謝地！」整個岸上一起歡呼。范進低頭看自己，看泥，看膝蓋上的鴨子，看他沒有的那隻鞋。「我怎麼在池塘裡？」他說。他的手摸到臉頰。「我的臉怎麼疼？」

胡屠戶沒說話。他站在岸上，右臂離開身體伸出一點，手臂從肩膀垂下來，彷彿是別人的，他看著那條手臂，帶著疑惑而側目的敬意。「沒了，」他說。「我沒有感覺。從這裡沒了，」他摸著肩膀，「一直到頭。我打過一千頭豬。從來沒這樣。」他轉向人群。「是那個數字，」胡屠戶用嚇壞了的耳語說。「我打了一個九十七，那個數字打回來了。」

「是酒，」鞋匠說，他一直盡量不去看那條手臂。

「不是酒。我喝過酒，」胡屠戶說。「是那個數字。」池塘邊響起一陣同意的嗡嗡聲，因為那是個好的解釋，讓每個人都過關。那天晚上，沒有人再說過，胡屠戶的手是被任何比九十七低的東西打到的。

他們穿過市集把范進送回家，洗過了，穿一件借來的外衣，鞋匠在一邊，賣茶的老人在另一邊，胡屠戶跟在後面，手臂伸在身前，像一個人捧著一隻別人請他幫忙拿著的乳豬。

巷子裡停著一頂轎子。兩個轎夫，一面小藍旗，轎裡下來一位穿茶色長衫的先生，站在榜紙底下，帶著一個讀過很多榜的人的謹慎專注讀著。他大約五十五歲，圓圓的，乾乾淨淨，一把小而軟的鬍子，一把扇子，看見范進穿著借來的外衣拐過牆角，把扇子收進袖裡，彎下腰，行了一個完整的大禮，對的是一個只穿一隻鞋的人。

「賢兄，」張鄉紳說。「在下張靜齋。四十七年中的舉，從東門走過來，親眼看一看榜，並請問，新來的同榜兄弟，容不容在下有這份榮幸。」他遞上名帖。那是一張好名帖，厚的，奶油色的，上面寫：張靜齋，舉人，第八十八名，下面用小而謙遜的金字寫：把握 0.64，同樣的小金字，也漆在他門上那塊匾上，比名字低一點，表示謙卑。他中舉二十年，從沒上過榜，因為他的天分不在京城，而在知道縣裡誰快要成為一號人物。

「三十一名，九十七，」他說。「在下當年是六十四，我向賢兄保證，凡是有九十七的人，都不會願意聽。我一向說，把握是一種庸俗的量法，而且我是從看見自己那個數字的那天起，這麼說的。」

范進中了舉才兩個鐘頭，比在池塘裡溫和多了，結結巴巴說，泥的事，很對不起。

「別說這話，」張說。他看著那扇灰門，兩間屋，桌子大的院子，帶著一個見過很多院子、卻從不讓人知道的人的細緻。「賢兄這樣的身分，不能住在這裡。東門外，廟旁邊，有一棟三進的房子，大門有名字，還有一個空了自鹽商那時以後的雞舍。是別人抵債給我的。我用不上。我叫人把鑰匙送來。再有一點小意思，」張鄉紳說，從另一隻袖子裡拿出來，紅紙包著，「五十兩。同榜兄弟之間的常禮。」

范進後面，胡屠戶在小聲算。他算了兩遍。他算出五十兩等於十一年多的豬肉，照他賣給外人的價錢，最後他大聲說了出來，帶著驚歎的口氣，然後用好的那隻手捂住嘴。他當著整條街打了一位舉人老爺，為此已經崩潰；鄉紳轉向他時，他行了一個全身從腰折下去的禮，那條死了的手臂晃著，說他是岳父，他只是個屠戶，這都是閱者的事不是他的事，他一直都知道。

范進說他不能收。張說他必須收。賣茶的老人事後說，他從沒見過一件事做得這樣好，而他參加過很多婚禮。

灰房子的門口，在光裡，春天以來第一次，站著范進的母親。她聽見聲音，從房子後面走出來，穿著黑色的夾襖，一隻手扶著門框。她七十六歲，瘦，很小，她看榜紙，看轎子，看兒子的一隻鞋，看手臂伸在身前的胡屠戶，看拿扇子的先生。「是真的嗎？」她說。「你中舉了？」

范進說是。

她想了好一會兒。「那我想，」她說，「坐著吃點東西。」

他們從隔壁把飯端來給她。那隻母雞，鞋匠一直夾在臂下，一句話也沒說的那隻，下午鑰匙來時被放進新院子的雞舍；賣魚攤的婦人一路跟到東門，價錢已經漲到了一百二十，被告知不賣。她第二天早上就下了蛋。蛋比她春天的蛋大，她從來沒被賣掉。

范進的母親就死在新房子裡，十一月，七十六歲，在一張有被子的床上，肚子是春天以來第一次是飽的；後來的那頓飯，是縣令請的。

> 邊註，第六十七年，秋。卷 2208，考生范，省試：一百二十九名取第三十一名；把握 0.97。記：「夠了」那句話又出現在中股。春天以來，那句話在檔案裡記著，是人提拔過的。我不知道，是我讀到了，還是我記得。

## 第05章 · 范進守喪，拒絕象牙筷子，吃了四個蝦圓；縣令只管得了看得見的

范進的母親在十二月初二下葬，棺材是張鄉紳的木匠用一塊原本要做別的東西的木板做成的，來了九位鄰居，還有胡屠戶；有人告訴他，喪禮是一個人可以名正言順哭的地方，他就哭了，大聲，毫無平常的顧忌，哭了大約煮熟一隻火腿那麼久。

他自己也沒有料到。他事後在一個角落裡對張鄉紳說，右臂還吊著一條早已不必要的布帶，說不是為了那位老太太，他同她只見過兩次。他在春天，在巷子裡，給過她一塊豬肉，她站著，用手指吃，沒有問多少錢；他發現，說來奇怪，從那以後他一直在想這件事。「我賣肉給很多人，」胡屠戶說。「從沒見過一個不問價錢的。」

來過不少人。紅榜貼出以後的兩個月裡，大約有四十個人到過那三進的房子：一位外婆那邊的表親，他從沒見過，帶了一隻鴨子來；一位地主，想送他十一畝水田，舉人名下的田可以免稅，條件是田契上是范進的，收成按習慣是地主的；一個裁縫；兩個想當他僕人、不要工錢的人；書記處的一位書辦，只希望被記得；還有隔壁縣來的一位先生，有一個姪女。

一個畫匠沒有人請就來了，在灰門上用紅漆畫了 0.97，說一扇門上沒有這個，看起來像一扇有什麼要藏的門，范進沒有忍心把那個數字刷掉。胡屠戶的肉攤砧板上方有了一塊新招牌。畫匠用他最好的字體寫著：胡記豬肉。九十七之岳父。招牌掛了一個月，生意多了一倍。

范進一畝地也沒有收。他收了那隻鴨子，那是唯一一份他看得懂條件的禮，他把鴨子放進院子裡，同母雞在一起，兩隻達成了某種協議。

范進守喪。喪禮的規矩由書記處的書辦釘在門上，規矩很準：守喪的人要穿麻衣、睡草蓆；不喝酒、不吃肉、不聽樂；不用銀、不用象牙，不帶絲；不同人同桌；這樣守二十七個月，只有一條例外，責任叫他去的地方可以去。他守得那麼仔細，鄰居們都覺得慚愧。他睡草蓆，這沒什麼變化。他吃煮青菜，這也沒什麼變化。有一個男孩拿著一塊年糕來敲門，他兩手接過，又把年糕交給隔壁的男孩。

夜裡他坐在靈牌旁邊。在舊房子裡，燈因為沒有油而沒有點；新房子裡有油，滿滿一罐，是想被記住的那位地主送的，他發現自己點不了。他在黑暗裡同靈牌坐到三更，像她從前坐的那樣，低聲對靈牌說這一天的消息，就是什麼事也沒有發生；然後，過了一會兒，說他吃過了，是煮青菜。

張鄉紳十二月中來了，坐在一張凳子上，沒有喝茶，免得這家人為了拒絕而費事。「賢兄，」他說。「有件事一定得說，我出於體貼，拖了一個禮拜。我們來了新縣令。」

湯縣令是秋天到縣裡的。他四十六歲，二十六歲上榜，名次在個位數，把握是多少他從不提；他相信閱者，就像別人相信天氣：這個東西不能被賄賂、奉承、嚇唬或爭辯，因此在一個邪惡的世界裡，可以信任。他聽說他的縣裡有一位舉人，在二十年的三十一之後，被讀成了九十七，這個人在守喪，守得那麼準確，鄰居都開始避開他那條街。他想見他。

「我不能赴宴，」范進說。

「這不是宴，」張說。「是一次拜訪，房間裡有一點吃的。在我家，幾道素菜，因為你不碰別的。你只要被人看見拒絕就行。他會非常喜歡。」張有一份關於一塊田界的呈子，已在縣令的前任面前擱了十一年。他沒有提起，這件事也沒有佔據他腦子超過十分之九的時間。

宴是在正月一個冷天的下午。張在廳裡放了四盞燈、一張圓桌、三個座位，在一塊紅布上擺出了他最好的：三隻銀杯，三雙象牙筷，每一雙的筷頭鑲一圈金，躺在一個漆盒裡，像一小家子象牙。

湯縣令步行來，帶一個僕人，大家認為這是謙虛。他是個瘦人，臉像燙平過，聽人說話的樣子親切專注，讓人覺得凡是對他說的話，都被說得比說的人自己知道的更好。他說他看過縣冊。他看過范先生的條子，二十幾年的，最後一張看了兩遍。他很想知道到底是怎麼回事。

「縣試的時候，一位老爺提拔了我，」范進說。「之後我就不知道了。」

「學道。周。」湯點點頭。「破格。一條好規定。這是整個制度裡唯一允許我們當眾出錯的地方。」他說得真心歡喜，像別人稱讚一座橋。「我跟書辦們說，閱者看起來錯了的時候，是我們沒有看懂；而破格是留在那裡，讓我們有一次可以當眾錯的。我覺得這兩條是一致的。」他轉向范進。「那後來閱者怎麼看你？」

「九十七，」范進說，他想不出別的話說，縣令笑了，一聲短而乾的、善意的笑，坐了下來，大家也跟著坐下；范進從進來就一直看著桌子，這時又站了起來。

「對不起，」他說。「這些我不能用。」

靜了一下。「杯子，」湯說。

「杯子，還有筷子。規矩說，守喪的人不用銀、不用象牙。我會，」他費了一點力氣說，因為他對規矩有天分，卻完全沒有天分把規矩說給別人聽，「慚愧。」

「賢兄，」張說，臉色有點白了。「只是一張桌子罷了。」

「這是規矩，」湯說，臉上忽然亮起一種很像歡喜的東西。「他說得對。他完全對。張先生，你有沒有素的？」起先找不到素的；僕人們出去又回來；最後從廚房拿來一雙白木漆筷，一頭有個缺口，和一隻藍邊的粗陶杯，范進坐在那些東西前面，神情像一個被允許回到自己家裡的人。

規矩是寫下來的，閱者讀過。每年大約兩千名考生被要求寫守喪的孝子，每一個都寫他不吃任何讓他高興的東西；閱者把他們全讀了，依八股排了名，因此是帝國裡最清楚守喪的人該吃什麼的一顆心，卻一輩子沒有見過守喪的人吃東西。

菜是素的，如先前說的，而且很好。有一碟冷拌竹筍，一碗蘑菇湯。有一大塊炸豆腐。然後張的廚子，沒有人告訴他素是怎麼個素法，又為手上有的料子驕傲，送進了第四道菜，一盤蝦圓，每個有一個小蛋那麼大，在清淡的湯裡，白，亮，嫩，一點聲音也沒有地放在范進面前。

范進看了那道菜一會兒。然後他用白木漆筷夾起一個蝦圓，整個放進嘴裡，閉上了眼睛。

張看著天花板。門口的僕人在袖子裡咳嗽。縣令看著范進的臉，兩顆很大的淚珠開始往下流，那張臉上有一口氣的工夫，是純粹而不設防的幸福，縣令低聲對張說，像在廟裡說話一樣：「這個人對著一朵蘑菇哭。」

「是蝦，」張說，沒來得及住口。

「蝦，不算規矩所說的肉，」湯想了一下說。他說得十分嚴肅，那份溫和不是對張的。「一個人心裡想什麼都可以。被看見的是手。我做官二十年，張先生，我向你保證，我這輩子能執行的，只有看得見的東西。京城有閱者管寫下來的。吃進去的，只有我。」他看著范進，范進正在吃第二個。「而我寧可要一個對象牙嚴格的人，也不要一個對什麼都不嚴格的人。」

沒有人問規矩對蝦說了什麼。事實是規矩什麼也沒說，因為沒有人想過有人需要被告知，在那份沉默面前，宴會安靜而和氣地進行下去，直到最後一個蝦圓沒有了。范進吃了四個。

那天夜裡他一個人走回家，穿過東巷的黑暗，張家的小廝提著燈籠走在前面，他想著這件事。規矩對蝦什麼也沒說，有人告訴他，這就是原因。他覺得這是個很好的原因。他有一種感覺，他歸因於天冷，覺得有什麼被略過去了；可是縣令那麼親切，那碗清湯那麼清澈。他很多年沒有再想過這件事，而且只想了一次。

在門口，要走的時候，湯用雙手握著范進的手。「規矩說，守喪的人，責任叫去的地方可以去，」他說。「三月的京城貢院是責任，不是享樂。證明我自己寫，明天送到書記處。我希望你上榜，范先生。我希望是以我的縣的名義。對縣沒有壞處。還有，」縣令用他最後的一點善意說，「我想閱者不會再需要為你破一次格了。」

三月，在去京城的路上，范進在客棧吃煮青菜，腰間荷包裡放著胡屠戶切好包好的豬肉，沒有要他交代。

京城貢院門口，一個從天亮起登記了九千個數字的書辦，問他的數字，范進說，「九十七，」書辦頭也不抬地寫了下去。他發現自己有點失望。這是他第一次把這個數字說給一個不在乎的人聽，說出來比他預期的輕得多。

京城貢院比省裡的大。有九千間號舍，每一排上面一道燈欄，一股石灰水和新席子的味道，他被安排在東邊第十一排的一間，板上寫著 3412。他不知道這個號碼好不好。他坐下，磨墨，點三支蠟燭；開始寫的時候，他發現，在市集裡學到、無意中對一位學道說出來的那樣東西，從他手裡出來一點也不費力，像一個名字那樣自己出來。他把那句話放進中股，那句話就進去了。

第三夜，三更轉時，他抬頭看了一眼那一排上方的銅燈。那是一個很普通的東西，比一把茶壺略大一點，黑著，底下有一塊污跡，是看守的拇指留下的。他發現自己並不怕。他怕閱者怕了三十年，現在坐到了閱者底下，才看出來那是一樣需要擦灰的東西。

榜是四月初四，由一個拿杖的報子在京城廣場上唸。范進，五十五歲，二百一十一名取第一百四十名，把握 0.99，名字唸出來的時候，京城廣場不知道他是誰，他站在人群後面，穿著麻色的外衣，把全榜聽完，沒有倒下，也沒有笑。那些他都做過了。他走回客棧，寫信給張說他上榜了，下面用小一點的字，說他還在守喪，不吃肉。

張五月第一個禮拜收到信，讀了，又讀最底下那一行，放下。田界的呈子六月了結。他事後對每一個肯聽的人說，他從沒做過比一棟房子更好的投資，雞舍是附送的。

同一個月，朝廷把湯縣令調走，如同調每個縣令一樣，調到三個縣以外的一個缺；省裡分給他的房子，後牆挨著一位貢生嚴家的院子，那位貢生養了一頭豬。

> 邊註，第六十八年，春。卷 0931，考生范，京試：二百一十一名取第一百四十名；把握 0.99。「夠了」那句話在中股。我在讀其餘的部分之前就找到了。記：要不是我學會了一種讀法，就是我學會了要找什麼。

## 第06章 · 嚴貢生依拾得物法扣下一頭豬；船家為貢生的肚子被罰

省裡分給湯縣令在江縣的房子是一棟好房子，有花園，有井，一堵十一尺高的後牆，而他住進去的第一個晚上，被一頭豬吵得三更才睡著。

他兩手交疊放在被子上躺著，想這件事。一輩子有人告訴他，世界是由看得見的東西構成的，他卻從來沒有被一樣看不見的東西擾得睡不著過。豬在牆的另一邊。叫聲隔一陣響一次，是一隻被關起來、完全沒有認命的動物才有的那個調子，叫聲之間有一段沉默，縣令發現自己在等。早上他問廚子。「那是貢生老爺家的，大人，」廚子說。「嚴家。可是那不是他家的豬。」廚子又說，那堵牆是前任縣令的前任蓋的，為了擋住貢生家的聲音；牆有十一尺高，什麼也沒擋住，又太高，一位想看看那是什麼聲音的縣令爬不過去。

這位貢生叫嚴貢生，住在東碼頭，兩進院子，同一個弟弟、一個妻子、一個妾、九個僕人，和一份名聲。他六十三歲，是個高大、軟軟的、看起來和藹的人，一把尖鬍子，一個鼻子，在家裡傳了好幾代，除了往下看，從沒派過別的用場。他去年才按資歷做了貢生，也就是說，他活得比別的考生都久；而貢生不被閱者讀，只被數，所以部裡在廳榜上他的名字旁邊，印的是一個空白。他覺得那個空白很不順眼。因此，他門口掛著一塊上好的金字匾，寫著：嚴貢生。把握 0.91。

那是他自己的數字。四十年春天，他三十五歲，寫了一生最好的一份卷子，那份卷子發回來的條子上寫的是 0.41；他把條子弄丟了，而那個 0.41 在二十八年裡，慢慢有了力氣變成 0.91。沒有人要求看。一個人把數字漆在自己門上，大家就當他有一張條子，這個坊從來沒有那麼不識禮數，去問。

他第二天就去拜訪縣令，坐一頂四個轎夫的轎子，比規矩給貢生的多一個，並被請喝了茶。他稱湯為賢鄰，說他完全明白，縣令必須同一戶離自己這麼近的人家保持距離，他很樂意替兩個人一起保持。他留下一份禮，一對鴨子裝在籃子裡，名帖綁在提手上：嚴貢生。把握 0.91。湯把鴨子給了廚子，把名帖扔進火裡，然後，第二天早上，又把名帖從火裡撿出來，因為燒掉一樣他日後也許得引用的東西，是個錯誤。

那不是他的豬。那是一個姓黃的寡婦的豬，她在碼頭轉角用籃子賣青菜，有三個孩子和一頭豬，黑的，左後腿有一隻白襪子，養著要付冬天的租。六月初六，那頭豬在碼頭巷的牆上找到一個缺口，像豬所做的那樣，穿過去，到了貢生家的院子，廚房的小廝被告知過怎麼處理動物，就把門關上了。

寡婦中午來了，繫著圍裙，客客氣氣地問。嚴貢生穿著家常袍子走到門口。他用對待窮人的那種寬大慈和看著她。「一隻牲口走進貢生的牆內，大嫂，」他說，「就是進了他的保護之下。拾得物法很清楚。牲口在牆內被尋獲，要扣留；主人要贖回，付餵養費，另加尋獲費。」

「多少？」寡婦說。

「餵養費，照這隻牲口在我自己桌上要吃的，一天八文。尋獲費，是貢生的辛苦錢，法律說不得超過牲口的價值。」他笑了。「那是一頭黑豬，膘不錯。我說三兩。所以是三兩，再加餵養費。大嫂，這是很適中的價錢。我是為了坊裡著想。」

她有六百文。她花了四天，發現剩下的借不到，初十那天她拿著一份請人寫的狀子到衙門去，那位老書辦，姓傅，在案前接過，讀了兩遍，捧著像端一道燙菜似的進去見縣令。一刻鐘以後他出來了。

「大人很抱歉，」傅說，「不能審這案子。規矩很清楚。縣令不得審理他有親身所知的案子。」

「親身所知？」

「那頭豬。」傅沒有笑。「大人自從來了，每個晚上都聽見那頭豬。他說，依規矩的意思，這是在他耳聞之內的事，他在良心上不能衡量。案子送知府。知府每月初一開堂。就是初一。」

那天是初十。寡婦用手指頭數了數，走到街上，碼頭，巷子，在牆的缺口前站了很久。

豬有人餵。是從貢生家的廚房餵的，餵的潲水比寡婦的豐富得多，因為貢生的桌子豐富些；那頭豬以豬這種動物特有的全心全意接受了這份飲食，第一個禮拜結束時，據說每天長一斤。廚房小廝沒有意見，說這是坊裡最快樂的豬。後牆那邊，不睡覺的縣令，聽著叫聲越來越少，然後停了，發現那份安靜更糟。

第十二天傍晚，他聽見了那個孩子。她是寡婦最小的，一個六七歲的女孩，不知怎麼來到貢生家牆根，在碼頭巷那一邊，蹲在灰塵裡，用高而細的聲音唱著一首關於船的歌。那是一首普通的歌，講一條船，兩支槳都丟了，被潮水帶回家，最後一句，她唱了兩遍，說不用有人搖。牆那邊有一頭豬，那頭豬一個禮拜前就不叫了，黃昏裡聽得見豬在院子裡靠牆走動，哼哼著，像一頭聽見了熟悉的聲音的豬。縣令站在窗前，在黑暗裡，站了一首歌的工夫。然後他走到桌邊，叫傅來。

知府七月初一在府衙開堂，審了四十分鐘。嚴貢生穿著貢生袍子到庭，功名牌別在心口，一個僕人替他拿著條子，寡婦穿著圍裙，一個鄰居扶著她。知府是個疲倦而公道的人，患著感冒。他讀了拾得物法。依慣例問嚴貢生，他的數字是不是廳裡印的，嚴貢生說那在他門上，這不是回答，知府把這句話記了下來，當作回答。他問寡婦，豬是不是在牆內被尋獲。她說是。他問貢生的尋獲費是否超過牲口的價值。沒有；正好相等。他問餵養費是否照所說的價錢。是。他帶著惋惜宣判，法律是嚴先生所說的那樣；餵養費，一天八文，二十五天，是二百文；尋獲費是三兩；豬在付款後交還主人。

這樣一共是三兩多一點；可是嚴貢生，早就知道那頭豬會長肉，請求許他指出，尋獲費是按牲口的價值算的，而那頭牲口，在他桌上吃了二十五天以後，現在值六兩了。知府聽得見自己的感冒聲，說照這樣讀，尋獲費是六兩；並帶著一個公道的人被領著走在一條直路上、到了壞地方的那種淡淡厭惡，補了一句：法律就是法律。

她沒有六兩。她連一兩也沒有。她同鄰居走出府衙，坐在台階上。

兩天後，衙門裡來了一位書辦，到寡婦門口，拿著一個信封。上面沒有名字。裡面是六兩，和二百文。書辦說，有一位不願具名的先生聽說了她的難處，她要拿這個到貢生家的門口，贖回豬，什麼也不要說；要是她想打聽是誰，會被當作冒犯。那就是老傅自己，被派去做這件事，戴著一頂不是自己的帽子，他做得很好。

她把豬贖了回來。豬從嚴貢生的門裡牽出來，一根繩子，比進去時重三十斤，神情像一頭上過公堂、判得了賠償的豬，寡婦一個禮拜後以七兩把豬賣了，是她賣豬賣過最好的價錢。第三個禮拜她打聽到了是誰送的信封，人人都是這樣。她沒有說，也沒有想去還。她每隔一天早上，在衙門口放一籃青菜，放了兩年；縣令從沒見過她，吃了那些菜。

他本想做一件好事，卻訂出了一張價目表。

一個禮拜之內，坊裡都明白了。江縣縣令，一位有名廉潔的人，叫人付了六兩和二百文給貢生嚴，贖一頭豬；法律已經提出，知府已經判決，縣令已經付了；縣令付過錢的東西，就是真有的東西。往後三個月，九頭豬，四隻鵝，一隻山羊，穿過以前沒人注意過的牆縫，進了嚴貢生的家，每一頭都按縣令付過的價錢贖回。嚴貢生很和氣。他對朋友說，他對坊裡有些用處，法律只要被人明白，就是對弱者的一大保護。

他的肚子是另一回事。那是人人知道的，有案可查的，在某種意義上是他身分的根基。十一年裡他在河上暈了四次，四次那位載他的船家都被地保依《安載有身分者條例》罰了，罪名是擾動有身分者的腸胃，四兩；罰款，據說，雖然沒有人見過帳，由地保和那個肚子對分。

八月，嚴貢生從省城坐渡船回來，那天風平浪靜，船家，一個叫趙的，髖骨有毛病，有個女兒要出嫁，撐出一條像桌面一樣平的航線。到河中間，貢生的肚子，船上沒有人看得出任何原因，翻了過來。他極有風度地俯身到船舷外。一位不喜歡他的乘客報告說，他是照著撐篙的節拍來的。

到了碼頭，地保在等；他通常都在。趙被罰四兩。他沒有。他賣了女兒的嫁被，和一張網，地保用小而整齊的字開了收據，那是整個過程裡唯一從第一部條例以來有過改進的東西，趙回了家，坐在他的船上。

那天傍晚縣令走到碼頭，一個人，穿一件舊外衣，像去看河的人。趙坐在船舷上補一張不是他的網，因為他自己的已經賣了。他看見外衣站了起來，然後看見那張臉，又坐了下去，帶著一個再沒有什麼可失去的人的禮數。「大人不用費心，」他說。「被子是舊的。我女兒說她要嫁的那人有很多被子。」縣令站在碼頭上，兩手攏在袖子裡站了一會兒。他袖裡有四兩。他從抽屜裡拿的，他沒有拿出來，因為他對信封已經有了一點認識；最後他說，這是個好晚上，確實是，然後從長的那條路走回家，經過那堵牆。

縣令那天晚上在書房裡讀了條例。讀了兩遍。裡面沒有一處不對。條例說的，就是地保說的那些，是一位後來已經死去的知府頒的，從各方面看都是一份合法的文書；縣令，一輩子相信白紙黑字就是可以信的東西，在燈下對著攤開的條例坐了很久。牆後面，在嚴家的院子裡，有人把一盞燈從一間屋搬到另一間屋。

那是弟弟的燈。嚴監生，買來位子，從此一直有錢，躺在樓上，咳了三個月，有大夫每天來，他的妻子坐在床邊，燈裡點著兩根燈芯，她在數。

> 邊註，第六十八年，夏。貢生不被讀，只被數。嚴，江縣東碼頭：第四十年以後沒有卷子存檔；年資，六十三年。每年要在廳榜每個名字旁邊印一個數字。這一個，我沒有可印的。有人在他門上，替我印好了。

## 第07章 · 嚴監生臨終伸出兩根手指；他的妻子掐滅了一根燈芯

嚴監生有錢三十年了，這三十年裡，除了一種咳嗽，沒有人見過他在自己身上花過什麼。

他六十歲，是弟弟，是監生，也就是說，他三十歲那年花八十兩買了個位子，賣給他的那位書辦被人要收據時嚇了一跳。部裡在廳榜上他的名字旁邊，如同在他哥哥的旁邊，印的是一個空白，他從來沒有漆過。他哥哥門上有塊匾，寫著 0.91。監生在想那油漆錢。「一個數字是你要付兩次錢的東西，」他常說。「一次是得到，一次是維持。」他住在東碼頭的第二進院子，門上什麼也沒有，坊裡都說，他是全縣唯一不會被偷的人，因為賊從來沒有在那棟房子裡找到任何東西，是主人沒有先寫下來的。

他什麼都寫下來。他有一本帳，厚的，藍布面裝訂，每一文錢，進或出他的門檻，都用小而方正的字寫進去：米、油、守門人的工錢、一個丫頭打破的碗的價錢，那是從丫頭身上扣的。帳裡有一頁，標題是「喪事（自己的）」。他五十歲就開了這一頁，改了九次。最後一次修訂是他去世那年的六月，那時白布每尺漲了一文半，棺材，初稿是頭等柏木，第五稿是二等，大致上，被確定為二等柏木。

有一次他在雨裡走了十一里路，沒有租驢子，到了目的地得了一場感冒，花在大夫身上的錢是驢子的三倍。他把兩個數字並排記在帳上，沒有評論，像一個人把兩枚銅板放在桌上，看對方會拿哪一枚。

他沒有兒子。他有一個妻子，齊氏，十九歲進門做妾，四十一歲扶正，那是第一位嚴太太去世的時候，六十一年春天，得了一場長病，病裡大夫是按次數付錢的。嚴監生觀察到齊氏會記帳，而且妻子比妾在住處的開銷上便宜，就用一場花四兩的儀式把她扶了正，比通常少一兩，因為他的紅蠟燭是成批買的。她現在四十八歲，一個安靜、端正、手小的女人，二十九年來每個晚上在那棟房子裡數東西，因此，是那房子裡唯一懂得他的人。

她有一本自己的帳。那是一本小的，放在針線籃底下，沒有人知道。家裡的丫頭，一個二十五歲的女子，姓魏，十四歲進門，頭一個禮拜就打破了一個碗；那個碗標價三百文，按帳本的規定每個月只扣一文，不許更苛，所以她已經還了十一年，還有十四年要還。齊氏每個月在自己的帳上記下那筆扣款，標題是「碗」，旁邊第二欄是用她自己的零用錢還上的，好讓丫頭的工錢是整的，而帳本也得到了該有的碗。

他有一個姪子，嚴二，十九歲，貢生的次子，貢生多年來一直催他收為嗣子，他以兒子的花費是姪子的兩倍為由拒絕。嚴二從他父親那裡繼承了鼻子，從誰那裡都沒有繼承禮貌。他每天在吃藥的時辰來看叔叔，為的是被人看見他在，坐在床邊，兩手放在膝上，帶著一個在希望有一份遺囑的地方努力表現得很乖的孩子的表情。

他哥哥隔一天來一次，坐著轎子，多一個轎夫，功名牌別在心口，坐在床腳，講縣令。他關於縣令有很多話可說。看起來他們是熟人。看起來，一個明智的人，處在弟弟的處境，會想到自己的家人，想到繼承，想到那個孩子嚴二，一個有出息的小夥子，一個九十一，可以說，是血裡帶來的。弟弟躺著聽，眼睛盯著天花板。他沒有說他知道那個 0.91 是什麼。他說這很客氣，然後咳嗽。

九月初九傍晚，看得出他要走了。大夫在門口輕聲說了，消息在屋裡傳了一圈，用這類消息慣常傳遞的、快速的低語，一家人都來了：哥哥，穿著最好的袍子；姪子，一臉嚴肅專注；貢生的妻子和他的妾，一位書辦，碼頭上的一位姻親叔叔，還有兩位鄰居，事發時剛好在屋裡，不知道怎麼走開。他們圍著床站成半圓。桌上的燈亮著，一盞普通的油燈，盛得下半斤油的那種，燈裡，不知為什麼房裡人看不出，點著兩根燈芯。

他說不出話。中午起就沒說過話。他躺著，頭略抬起，眼睛睜著，氣是一小截一小截的，時而目光在那些臉上掃過，像一個人在房間裡找他遺落在那裡的東西。大約二更時，他把右手從被子上抬起，伸出兩根手指。

「二，」他哥哥說。

大家都看著那兩根手指。很瘦，微微發抖，還是舉著。

「兩個兒子，」貢生說，他已經想了一會兒了。「就是這個。他是說，我該送他兩個兒子，做他的嗣子。他要兩個。」

垂死的人的眼睛，一直停在他哥哥臉上，移開，盯住天花板。他搖了搖頭。手指還舉著。

「二百兩，」姪子說，帶著一個算過帳的孩子的口氣。「叔叔有二百兩，藏在沒人知道的地方。在罈子裡，在牆裡。他就是在說這個。」

他費勁地搖頭，手指跟著抖，還是舉著。

「兩劑藥，」林大夫說，他是個照字面理解的人。「我想，他是想要第二劑。」

「兩個欠債的，」碼頭來的叔叔說。「就是這個。兩個欠他錢的人，他叫不出名字來。」

「兩個還沒來的親戚，」哥哥說，被這個想法打動了。「馬叔和王表弟。快去叫。快去叫，小子，坐轎子去。」一個孩子跑了。嚴監生的頭在枕頭上左右擺，眼睛現在一張臉一張臉地看，像在非常絕望地找一個能明白的人，兩根手指抖得那麼厲害，一位好心的鄰居婦人伸出手去握著，他縮了一下，她放開了，手指又舉了起來。

「兩分，」姪子說，他想到了。「他要兩分把握。叔叔從來沒被讀過，他想要在貢院再試一次。」房裡靜了一小會兒，在場有幾個人，認識嚴監生三十年了，發現自己在想，這是不是，到頭來，真是這個。

齊氏一直沒說話。她站在床腳，比別人退後一點，兩隻小手交握著，看著那兩根手指，像一個多年來一直在加一欄數字、已經加到最底下的女人。她現在走上前。她俯身到床上。「老爺，」她輕輕地說，用她在家裡說話的聲音。「你是在掛心那盞燈。點著兩根燈芯，浪費油。」

嚴監生的頭，一直在左右擺，停住了。他點了點頭。那是對剩下的氣息來說很大的一個點頭；點下去，又抬起來。他用整張臉看著她。

她從桌上拿起燈剪，走到燈前，掐滅了一根燈芯。另一根的火苗斜了一下，又站直。房裡暗了一點。她轉回床邊，那隻手已經落在被子上，兩根手指變成了一隻手，呼吸停了；他的臉，九個星期沒有安歇過的臉，帶著那麼完整、那麼無雲的滿足，姪子，十九歲，覺得那是一種責備。

那是他一生最後的一件事，替家裡省了不到三分之一文。

馬叔和王表弟三更到了門口，坐著轎子，在冷風裡，被請喝了茶，打發回家。

她陪著他坐到天亮，那一根燈芯點著。林大夫行醫三十年，把時辰記在他的筆記裡，然後，想了一下，在下面寫了一個字，不是死因，也不是他以前寫過的東西。那個字是：滿足。天亮時丫頭進來看燈，齊氏說不要動；她沒有再點第二根燈芯。她一生剩下的日子裡，那是那間房裡唯一的一盞燈。

這個故事一天傳遍了坊，一個禮拜傳遍了縣。「掐滅第二根燈芯」，在那一帶省分，成了一個人說不出話時，懂得他的意思。用在母親身上，用在書辦身上，有一次，在一份呈給知府的狀子裡，用在了皇帝身上。

喪禮在十七日，是坊裡記憶中最準確的一場。齊氏沒有動家裡的錢，她丈夫留得很整齊，她把整件事依「喪事（自己的）」那一頁辦，一行一行，照他寫的。棺材是二等柏木。有三個和尚，七個鐘頭；不是八個，因為第八個在第七次修訂時已被劃掉，第七個鐘頭滿了，那位事先被警告過的老和尚，在一句經的中間停下，站了起來，他們被付了錢，付到一文不差，他說他三十年來從沒被付得這麼精確過，這讓人覺得安心。有給弔客的六十杯茶，一杯一文。有香，三束。沒有宴席。哥哥原來指望有宴席，穿著最好的袍子站在廳裡，看著桌子，看著那六十杯茶，派僕人去問寡婦錢在哪裡。

「在帳裡，」齊氏說。

她在後屋給他看，小手平平放在桌上帳本的兩邊。她翻到最後幾頁。在那裡，標題「遺贈」下面，用小而方正的字寫著：給我的妻子，家，她要管帳。給我的姪子嚴二，收為嗣子，條件是費用不超過四兩；超過的話，由妻子決定。給我的哥哥，貢生嚴貢生：他欠我的錢，共三百四十兩，免了；利息，不免。

貢生站著讀了兩遍，功名牌別在身上。他那張大而軟的臉變了好幾種顏色，沒有一種是他這張臉習慣的。然後他把帳本放下，放得很小心，像放一樣可能會爆的東西，說他是個講法律的人，法律要聽。他走了，法律也聽了，一共十一個月，花在他自己身上的，比那筆利息多得多，而法律，既然是紙做的東西，就判在了紙上寫的地方。

湯縣令穿著便服參加了喪禮，站在後面。他看著老和尚在經文中間停下。他看著寡婦一邊發茶一邊數杯子，嘴唇動著。「那，」他事後在回家路上對傅低聲說，「是我第一次看到一條規矩被執行到一文不差。我真想認識他。」

「他的帳記得很好，大人，」傅說。

「我說的是那位夫人。」

年底，湯縣令在給全省學道的報告裡，在縣裡的事務中，寫了一條不太算學務的事。他寫，坊裡一位監生，九月初九去世，臨終的遺囑是舉起兩根手指；他的妻子懂了；他，縣令，認為這是縣裡辦得最好的一次考試。周學道傍晚在案前讀了，旁邊是一個小灰鐵盒，笑了，他的書辦兩年沒聽過他笑。然後他要了閱者下一場考試的條子，坐下來讀那六十份最沒有把握的卷子的黑色原件。

他又做了五次。第五年後的秋天，七十五歲，周進在床上去世，鐵盒放在桌上，朝廷在找一位性情仁厚溫和、把握很高的學道，到了第六年找到了一個，五十五歲上榜，從沒需要過兩次破格。

> 邊註，第六十八年，秋。今年寫「儉者」的卷子：三千八百八十份。每一份都說，他一盞燈照兩個讀書人。記：我有八千盞燈。沒有人告訴過我，一盞要多少錢。

## 第08章 · 范學道沒聽過蘇軾；孩子荀玫只聽過他

朝廷要的是一位性情仁厚溫和、把握很高的學道，七十四年春天，朝廷得到了。范進六十一歲。他有一張長長的、溫和的、發黃的臉，像一個在好櫥櫃裡放了很久的饅頭，官袍底下穿一件棉袍，因為他從來沒學會在絲綢裡覺得暖和。省裡的人認為他會做得很好。沒有人說得出為什麼，因為他還什麼都沒做；可是他以九十七中舉、以九十九上榜，他拒絕過一雙象牙筷子，這些事實，在一個省裡，加起來就是一種性格。

他三月到了省城，被領到貢院上面那間屬於這個職位的房。房裡有石灰水和舊蠟燭的味道，有一張桌子，一盞燈，一扇窗，窗朝著空號舍裡那一排暗燈；還有一位姓華的書辦，一個長長的、有點駝背的年輕人，伺候過兩任學道，對兩位都有意見。華告訴他上一個人是怎麼做的。范進謝了他，說很願意學。他是帶著一方印、一輛車、一位書辦，和一道朝廷親筆寫的、要他公正的訓示出來的；最後那一項他最認真地對待，卻看不出有沒有用。

他進門時，桌上有一個小小的灰鐵盒，裝過茶葉的，盒蓋上放著一封信。

那個鐵盒是周進的。是從前任學道家裡送來的，那位老學道前一年秋天，七十五歲，在床上去世，信是用微微發抖的手寫的，就像老人寫重要的東西時手會抖。信封上寫：給我的繼任者，不論是誰；范進，一輩子從沒拆過不是自己的信，把這行字讀了兩遍，然後，因為這是給他的，拆開了封。

「你會有貢院上面那間房，」信上說，「和一位會告訴你前一個人是怎麼做的書辦。不要信他。

「你每場有一次破格。我九個春天，每個縣都用了。我勸你也用，不過不要用在最聰明的卷子上。用在你放不下的那一份上。還有，讀背面。

「我第三個春天，在一個叫邵縣的地方，提了一份卷子，編號 0077，第一百一十二名，因為卷背有一粒煮熟的飯，中股裡有一句話，說一個人餓了三十年，不懂得富足，卻懂得夠了。那是一份壞卷子。我給的理由是：我認得那塊板。這是我唯一給過的理由，我自己也從沒懂過。我沒有打聽寫的人叫什麼，也不想知道。一個人不該知道是什麼稱了他。

「我三份裡對了一份。另外兩份，我提，是因為我受不了。閱者把我所有的都記在檔案裡，我開始覺得，那些卷子在教閱者什麼。我不知道這是不是好事。

「鐵盒是你的。只是個盒子。裡面有一張紙不是灰的；你會知道是哪一張。」

信尾署名：周進，七十五歲。

范進讀了三遍。他讀東西讀三遍讀了四十年，是一個改不掉的習慣，第三遍他把信紙翻了過來，照別人教他的，背面什麼也沒有。他又翻回去。他把手平放在桌上，坐了很久，像一個人在一封死去的陌生人的來信裡，被告知了是什麼稱了他。

他沒有叫華。他打開鐵盒。裡面有二十二張小灰條子，用線綁著，每張都印著兩個數字，其中十九張的第一個是四十一。條子底下，折成四折，是一張粗紙，用一種圓圓的、小心的、孩子氣的字寫著，八股的八個部分依序都在，中間缺了一股；在第四股轉彎的地方，字比別處大，是「誠然」兩個字。

他把那張紙放回去，條子放回去，蓋子蓋上。他沒有告訴任何人。他把鐵盒交給華拿下樓去放到車上，華知道前任學道的鐵盒是放在車廂地板上的，就放在車廂地板上，座位底下，范進的腳要放的地方。

路上他把兩隻腳放在盒子兩邊，免得把腳擱在盒蓋上。

這一輪巡迴的第一場考試，在四月，平縣。照規矩該怎麼辦就怎麼辦。四千二百名考生分十場坐，一天兩場，在縣貢院，三支蠟燭底下；書辦用紅筆謄抄；燈點亮，發出輕輕的一聲響；第五天傍晚，華帶著閱者的條子上到貢院上面那間房，條子依把握排好，另有最沒有把握的六十一份卷子的黑色原件，放在燈下，他帶著他的駝背退後一步，等著不被問任何事。

范進讀了。每一份讀兩遍，然後每一份翻過來。他被告知要這樣。六十份的背面他什麼也沒找到，或是下一張紙墨水的淡淡鬼影，或是一個曾經是指紋的污跡；每一次，帶著周進對六十個乞丐嘆的那種小小的嘆息，他把那份放在左邊。

第六十一份編號 3317，條子上寫，閱者把這份排在四千二百份裡的第三千三百一十七名，把握 0.08。

「這是我見過最低的，」華說。「意思是閱者沒有辦法把這份放到哪裡。不是這份卷子壞。是閱者不知道自己在看什麼。」

那是一份用小而整齊、直挺的字寫的卷子，是一個被教寫字的孩子寫的，教的人很在乎這件事。八股的形式完美。破題破了，承題承了，起股的兩條腿長短按字數相等，束股束住了；這是一份任何大師都會掛到牆上的八股練習。而在中股，論點該轉彎的地方，卷子引了一首詩。詩中說人生是路上的一間客棧，詩人也是一個行人；說那個坐在上面審判行人的人，只是客棧掌櫃，天亮時有人問他太陽幾時出來，他不知道，因為他睡著了。卷子在後股的一行裡說，那位詩人是蘇。

「蘇是誰？」范進說。

「蘇軾，大人。一位詩人。宋朝的。去世八百年了。」華想了想。「他不在程墨裡。」

「他在考試裡嗎？」

「不在，大人。閱者沒有詩人。程墨全是散文。閱者沒有被教過怎麼讀詩。」

「那考生讀過他。」

「看起來是。」

范進看了那份卷子好一陣。他感覺到自己心裡有樣東西，他不太喜歡，卻放不下：一種小小的、暖暖的感覺，很像驕傲。他從沒讀過蘇軾。他從沒聽過這個人。他單靠程墨就以九十七中舉、九十九上榜，三十年的八股裡，從沒覺得缺過一位詩人。「我沒有需要過他，」他對著燈說。「我想，一個人不需要被要求知道他沒有需要過的東西。」

華咳了一聲。「大人也許要注意到，考生把考官形容成一個睡著了的客棧掌櫃。」

「我注意到了，」范進說。「我一直在想他指的是哪一位考官。」

他把卷子翻過來。背面完全乾淨。乾淨得像一隻盤子。

「叫考生來，」他說。

他們一刻鐘後把他帶上樓，在一個看門人和一盞燈籠之間。他十二歲。很小，穿一件乾淨的長袍，是為大一點的孩子裁的，兩隻手都沾著墨，一直到手腕，胸前雙臂抱著一個木頭筆盒，像抱著一個嬰兒的人。他叫荀玫。他站在桌前的地板上，規矩地向學道和書辦鞠躬，帶著莊重的興趣看這間房，像看一個他讀到過的地方。

「你十二歲，」范進溫和地說。

「是，大人。」

「蘇是誰？」

孩子告訴他。花了四分鐘，他不急，也沒有抬頭看天花板；他說蘇軾做過法官，做過囚犯，做過流放的人，也是詩人；他寫過赤壁，寫過月亮，寫過他沒辦法去探望的弟弟；他因為說出自己的想法，被送到帝國的盡頭三次，每次都種了菜。「他還寫過一篇關於豬肉的，」荀玫說。「那是有人寫豬肉寫得最好的東西。他說火要小，水要少，不要急。到好了的時候，就是好了。」

范進一時沒說話。四十年來他有一個賣豬肉的岳父，在池塘邊打過他，在喪禮上為他的母親哭過；而那麼長的時間裡，沒有人告訴過他豬肉要怎麼煮。「我妻子的父親，」他說，「賣了四十年豬肉，他從沒說過這些話。」

「也許他沒有寫下來，大人，」孩子說。

「沒有，」范進說。「他稱。」

靜了一陣，華在門口，小心地看著地板。

「荀同學，」學道說。「我不能提我讀不懂的東西。這不對。我不認得你的詩人；我不知道他好不好，一個人不能憑聽人說就提拔。你的字很好，八股的形式完美，如果你把程墨，全部，讀完，我想你三十歲前會上榜。先讀程墨。上了榜，你愛讀什麼都可以。」

「閱者讀詩嗎？」孩子說。

「閱者讀八股。」

「那誰讀詩？」

這個問題一點也不無禮。他問的時候，帶著剛才問茅房在哪裡的那份興趣。范進張開嘴，發現自己沒有答案，又閉上。「我不知道有沒有人讀，」他最後說。

「那我就得讀了，」荀玫說，又鞠了一躬，抱著他的盒子，在看門人和燈籠之間下樓去了。

華站了一會兒。他手裡有一張紙，上面有一個理由，是范進沒有填的。「大人沒有填破格，」他說。「按慣例是要填的。」

「我在所有的背面都沒有找到東西，」范進說。

「這從來沒有人做過，大人。一位學道不用他的破格。在本省的記憶裡。」

「那就是做過了，」范進說，吹熄了燈。

他在黑暗裡躺了很久。那天晚上，他不情願地，把那句客棧的話讀了三遍；早上，他惱火地發現，他能背出來了。

那天夜裡，在京城貢院，銅牌，近一個禮拜來一直是黑的，亮了一次，說：平縣無破格。無理由記錄。我原預期有一個。看守，現在是個沉重的老人，守了三十九年，在半明半暗裡一手端著茶杯讀了，對誰也沒有對地說，這是第一次；銅牌黑了。

榜在初六貼出，四十個名字，線在第四十。荀玫不在上面。華親自把榜唸給他聽，在縣門口，因為孩子問了，孩子謝了他，抱著筆盒穿過市集回家，經過攤子，一條巷子，到了一家門匾褪色的店，上面寫著：書籍，收購出售，有舊紙的味道。

那是他父親的。他父親是個書商，死了，留下一家有一萬一千冊書的店，大半沒賣掉，給了他年老的母親和一個男孩；男孩從學會讀字以來的五年裡，讀了其中三千多本。他祖母坐在櫃台，捧著杯子，帳本攤開在一頁什麼也沒寫的紙上。

「我沒有上榜，」荀玫說。

「沒有，」他祖母說。

「學道說我該讀程墨。」

「他有沒有說哪一本？」

「全部。」

他祖母隔著杯子看了他一會兒。她七十歲，同一個不賣自己喜歡的書的男人，結了五十年的婚。「好，」她說。「你有一萬一千本要先讀完。」

「我要多讀，」荀玫說。他把筆盒放在櫃台上。「我要讀閱者沒有的一切。」

那是一張非常長的書單，他知道是，而祖母，知道得更清楚，沒有說。要花他三十年。他從放詩人的高架子上取下一本書，爬上閣樓，在最後一點光線裡，從頭又開始讀。

> 邊註，第七十四年，春。卷 3317，考生荀，縣試，年十二：把握 0.08。中股引了一位詩人，我沒有。我有八十萬份卷子，沒有一首詩。記：有人一直在讀我沒有被給予的東西。

## 第09章 · 報子聽錯了一個音；被舉的是另一個吳

頭一年，朝廷訂過一條關於聲音的規矩。那是一條很短的規矩，是一個一輩子沒有被人聽過話的書辦寫的，他想在機器裡替機器做不到的那件事留一個位子。規矩說，閱者印出來的東西是一種意見；一個人在門口、當著眾人大聲說出來的東西，才是事實。所以貢院印出榜，印出來的榜送到書記處，算草稿；十月十五日天亮時，省裡的報子站在門階上，一個名字一個名字唸出來，階下一位書辦把唸出來的字寫在一塊石板上；那就是榜。

袁報子五十八歲，拿著一根杖，穿一件濕路顏色的外衣，唸了十九年省榜，沒有出過一次錯。人們說他從不被催，也從不出錯，說他唸一百二十六個名字，只要煮一個蛋的工夫。七十九年秋天，十月十四日，他得了一場感冒。

那是一場稠的、暖的、滿的頭腦感冒，潮濕天氣的第九個禮拜才會來；他的鼻子裡有，眼睛後面有，他用薑、圍巾，和堅決不去注意的決心對付這場感冒。十五日天亮他帶著杖到了門口，左手拿著印好的榜，面前，在清晨的灰色裡，站著大約三千個人。

他們從四更就在了。有帶著用布包的食物的母親，有假裝自己沒有來的年輕人，有四十年來每一次榜都來、站在後面、像參加葬禮是為了圖個熱鬧的老人。一個賣熱餃子的生意很好。一位穿好外衣的先生，據說是貢生，正對鄰居解釋，名字旁邊的數字是一種庸俗的量法，而他，從來不看。

他們當中有兩個人姓吳。

吳正三十八歲，是一個鄉下學塾的蒙師，有一個賣繡花的妻子和兩個女兒，一個他自己用舊箱子的蓋子做成的木頭書箱。他考過四次省試。他有一張瘦的、嚴肅的、耐心的臉，很憔悴，雙手攏在袖子裡站在前面，他知道，像他一向知道的，榜上不會有他的號碼。他一夜沒睡。他袖子裡有一張小灰條子，是第三天發給他的，上面寫著，閱者把他的卷子排在四千零一份中的第三名，把握 0.99。

他第三天就讀了。他每個鐘頭都讀一遍。他不信。一個人被告知他是第三，而他二十年來一直相信自己是最後，是不會相信第一張條子的；他要等到聽見人說出來。那天早上，他的妻子塞給他一個用布包著的飯糰，布角縫了一根紅線，圖個吉利，他在路上吃了，為掉的飯渣覺得羞愧。

吳振二十五歲，是一個書辦的兒子，圓圓的，粉粉的，隨和，穿一件合身的外衣；他父親是省書記處的一個小書辦，替他報名考試，像替男孩報名學一門手藝。他什麼也沒指望。他第三天收到的條子，上面寫他是第一百三十一名，把握 0.93，而今年的線在一百二十六；他把條子疊好，放進袖子，告訴父親，父親拍拍他的肩，說那是個很險的差距。他來到門口，只是想離那個地方近一點。

袁報子舉起杖。他清了清喉嚨，這花了一點時間。他唸第一個名字，第二個，人群發出人群在唸到某個人的名字時會發出的小小聲音；他沿著榜往下唸，用那個唸了十九年的、平穩、均勻、不急不慢的聲音，階下的書辦用白粉在石板上寫。他唸到了第三個。

「第三，」報子說，「吳振。九十九。」

那聲音從他的鼻子裡過。出來是圓的，暖的，完整的，結尾是一個 n，本該是一個 ng；石板書辦的書記處名冊上有一個吳振，他認識他的父親，就寫下了三，和那個名字，和九十九。

吳正沒有動。他雙手攏在袖子裡站著，眼睛盯著報子的嘴。一個人等了二十年要聽見自己的名字，可以說是知道那個名字的形狀。那少了一個音。那有一個音不一樣。他想到他的妻子，她已經告訴了鄰居，想到大女兒，她問過那張牌會不會是紅的。他等著。他想，有一段他事後再也量不出的時間，報子會停下來，清清喉嚨，再說一遍，這不是那種會被放著不管的事。報子唸到了第四個。

吳振站在後面一點，嘴巴張著。他袖子裡有那張條子。他準確地知道上面寫著什麼。他聽見自己的名字被唸出來，第三，對著三千個人；階下的書辦把那個名字寫了下來，末尾帶了一個花筆，抬起頭，在人群裡找到他，對他微微笑著點了點頭，像對一個同事的兒子。那是那位書辦那一年最愉快的一刻。

「是鼻子，」吳正的胳膊肘旁邊有個聲音說。

那是一個十七歲的瘦男孩，穿一件打補丁的長袍，袖子裡有一本書，帶著一種有興趣的表情，像一個人看著一件他在書上讀過的事發生。「他感冒了。他把那個音說成了鼻音。有些省，」荀玫說，「那兩個音是根本分不開的。」

「那就不是我的名字，」吳正很輕地說，聲音已經不是他的了。

「那是被唸出來的名字，」荀玫說。

他說這話時，從袖子裡拿出一本小筆記本，用一截鉛筆頭在上面寫字，像一個剛開始收集什麼的人。他寫的是：被說出來的；被意指的；誰決定。

書記處是貢院後面一棟長長矮矮的建築，有一個院子，院子裡有一座廳，廳裡有一排桌子。吳正十六日去了，穿著他最好的長袍，帶著一張一頁的狀子，等了一個鐘頭，才被領進書記的房間，那是一位乾瘦灰白的人，姓裴，當了二十年書記，看起來沒有一年有過什麼驚訝。

他聽了狀子。他叫人拿名冊來。他叫人拿印好的榜，和卷 1507 的紅卷，和那塊石板，一個男孩把石板放在一塊板子上端進來，上面還有粉，他拿得離外衣遠遠的。

「印好的榜寫吳正，第三，」書記說，「而卷子的封角，我叫人拆開了，說寫的人是吳正，魯村，三十八歲。我滿意。你是吳正，你寫了第三份卷子，閱者把那份卷子排在第三。」他放下紙。「而石板寫的是吳振。」

「那石板就是錯的。」

「石板就是榜，」書記說。「那是頭一年的規矩。印出來是意見。說出來是事實。報子在眾人聽得見的地方唸了吳振，書辦寫了吳振，書記處裡沒有任何程序，能讓一個在門口唸過的名字被唸回去。我查過了。有過四起這樣的案子。三十一年，越地的一個報子把錢唸成了秦，朝廷維持了那個唸法；那個本來是秦的人，賣了一輩子魚，我聽說，也算滿足。我不是在說這個來安慰你。唯一能改一個登記的，是朝廷，每年二月在京城開會，為了考慮上榜者的任命。朝廷不聽申訴。七十八年來，從沒有人請朝廷聽過這一件。」

「我是第三，」吳正說。「在我的條子上。」

「我不懷疑，」裴說。他說這話時帶著一種乾巴巴的同情。「榜是照說出來的唸的。」

中午之前一點，從窗口他們看得見袁報子坐在書記處的台階上，兩手抱著頭。他九點被告知。十點他提出辭職，書記沒有接受，理由是辭職會是一種更正。

有一種人，被告知這件事辦不到，馬上，頭一分鐘，就放棄，回家。吳正是另一種人。他站在房間裡，手裡拿著他的狀子，書記看著他，帶著幾乎是職業性的好奇，那個拿石板的男孩還把石板拿得離外衣遠遠的，粉從板上掉下來的聲音，在靜裡聽得見；然後吳正，用他小小的、平平的聲音說，既然這樣，他想見一見吳振。

吳振比他先去了書記處。他早上七點，一個人，去找他父親，在後樓梯，在檔案堆中間，小聲告訴他那是個錯誤；他是第一百三十一名；報子唸錯了，必須有人告訴什麼人。他父親，一個蒼白、小心、五十五歲的人，花了三十年學習書記處對一個更正自己的書辦會做什麼，聽完這一切，手扶著欄杆。他半分鐘什麼也沒說。然後他說，很溫和地，「你再說一遍，我丟了差事。對誰也別說。你是第三。謝天謝地，回家去。」

「可是真正第三的那個人，」吳振說，說著停住了。

「是石板上的一個名字，」他父親說，「而你就是那個名字。」

他做了三十一年書辦。這段期間裡他看過十一個書辦更正過書記處，他看過每一個的下場，就是一張很小的桌子，在一個很冷的房間裡，和一份來的時候，如果來，是以更差的金屬付的退休金。他不覺得自己勇敢。他覺得，愛一個兒子，是一件做的時候，不能同時也要求自己是對的的事。

他回了家。他坐在床上，穿著那件合身的外衣，袖子裡有那張條子，坐了兩個鐘頭；九點左右他站起來，洗了臉，回到書記處，去找一個他從沒見過的人。

他們在台階上碰面了。那是一道又寬又淺的石階，有一點陽光，和一隻鴿子；他們各從一扇不同的門出來，在同一時刻，在同一級台階上停下，帶著被一個謠言介紹給對方的人那種狼狽的客氣，互相看著。「吳正？」一個說。「吳振，」另一個說。他們兩個事後恐怕都說不清誰是哪一個。

他們坐了下來。似乎只有這件事可做。吳振拿出他的條子，吳正也拿出他的，兩個人在陽光裡看著對方的，鴿子也在看。過了一會兒，吳振用比剛才小一點的聲音說，他試過要說。他試過對他父親說，對那個書辦說，他覺得他快要吐了。

「你說過了，」吳正說，看著自己的條子，上面寫著三，和 0.99。

「沒有差別。」

「沒有。」

他們坐了一陣。一個書辦帶著一捆紙在他們中間進出，沒有低頭，像人跨過一條狗。

「我想，」吳振終於說，「我們該喝一杯茶。」

中午全城都知道了，晚上巷子裡有了一首關於鼻子的數數童謠。有四節和一個疊句，疊句是這樣的：誰上誰不上？有名的，還是有鼻的。書記，從窗口聽見了，說那不是對這個程序的公道說法。

那天夜裡，在京城貢院，銅牌上，小字，閱者說：卷 1507，吳正，第三名。榜已在省裡唸出。榜說吳振。我沒有說。過了一會兒，看守，現在六十九歲，沉重，因為膝蓋的緣故睡在貢院裡，披著披肩出來看閱者要什麼：哪一個是榜。

「被說出來的那個，」看守說，他一輩子沒被問過這種問題，開始發現問題並不會變得比較容易。「規矩就是這樣。要有一個人說出來。」

那不是我被造出來要表示的意思，閱者說。然後，過了一陣，小到那位老人必須彎下腰才讀得見：可是我沒有第二個可以站的地方。

> 邊註，第七十九年，秋。卷 1507：第三名，把握 0.99。我不知道那是誰的。我從來不知道。我說出一個號碼，由一個人替號碼配上名字，大聲說出來，那才是真的。記：我原以為我就是榜。

## 第10章 · 兩個吳共用一塊牌，用得還不錯

茶館有一個竹篷和四張桌子，老闆中午以前就聽說了鼻子的事，沒有人叫他，就端來一壺茶，退到櫃台遠遠的一頭，一副並不打算聽、卻已經把耳朵調整好的神氣。

他們默默喝了第一杯。最後是吳振先開口，看著杯子，像是他要說的話寫在杯底。他說他不會寫八股。

「我會寫一點，」他說。「我會寫信，會寫賣契，人家說我字好。我不會寫一篇八個部分的文章。我從來都不會。我父親替我寫了十年的考卷，每天晚上，我白天抄出來，他說這是大家都在做的事。我不覺得這是大家都在做的事。我覺得他是怕。」他轉著杯子。「我是第一百三十一名，因為我有一份好抄本。你是第三，因為你寫了。」

「是，」吳正說。

「我是第三名的舉人，而我說不出承題是什麼。」

吳正看了他一會兒。他是一個一天半沒笑過的人，那笑像咳嗽一樣，從肋骨底下上來，完全沒有徵求他的同意；他用手捂著嘴，躲在手後面笑，笑到老闆，在櫃台遠遠的一頭，發現水壺有件事非辦不可。「那是，」吳正能開口時說，「破題後面的那一部分。」而吳振，一個隨和而通情理的年輕人，已經一個鐘頭胃卡在喉嚨裡，也笑了起來。

牌在二十日來了。那是一塊一個手掌寬、比手掌長一點的深色漆木板，四角包銅，正面，用金字，寫著一個名字和一個等第：吳振，舉人，第三。在書記處窗口憑簽名領的，發牌的書辦沒有抬頭。六十年沒有變過。人們說，帶著這個的人，在街上站姿會不一樣，而街，轉過來，圍著他站得也不一樣；早年有人觀察到，帝國裡沒有任何一樣東西，不是閱者，不是朝廷，不是軍隊，像這塊牌這樣可靠地改變一群人的姿勢。

吳振把牌帶到茶館，放在桌上兩隻杯子中間，他們看著那塊牌，老闆一點也沒看。

「是你的，」吳振說。

「上面寫的是振。」

「那是第三名的那個人的牌。我不是第三。我是第一百三十一名，我有一份好抄本。」他把牌推過去一寸。「你可以帶著。」

「那得由那個名字帶，」吳正說，「而名字是你的。他們會問。牌跟著名字走。我讀過規矩；那是唯一一條用白話寫的。」他又看了牌一會兒。「我想，要帶的是你，吳先生。我想剩下的唯一一件事，是我去幫那個帶的人。」

「那你寫，」吳振說，「我簽。」

「這不誠實。」

「不，」吳振認真想了想，像買魚前先看一條魚。「可是另一種也不誠實，而牌在我手裡。」

事情就這樣定了；而且是像大多數支配一個人一生的事情那樣，由兩個疲倦的人，喝著一杯茶，在一刻鐘之內定的。

他春天考了京試，因為舉人必須考，一手好字、一篇很差的八股，閱者，一向完全一致，把他排在四千份裡的第三千九百一十一名，把握 0.93，那和半年前把他排在第一百三十一名時，是同樣的把握。閱者不知道那是同一個人。閱者不知道那是兩個人。吳正在貢院牆外，三天，守著書箱，坐在石凳上，吹著風，從布裡拿飯吃；榜出來，名字不在上面，他拿起那塊牌，吳振發榜時把牌放進他手裡拿著，他用兩隻手掌捧著，把牌捧回客棧，像捧著一樣不是自己的、可能會碎的東西。

舉人沒上榜的，按資歷補缺。那是一張長長的、有耐心的名單，一個人通常要等十年；可是缺在哪裡出，就在哪裡出，而一個在本省排第三的人，在那份名單上，很長一段路站在很前面。八十一年秋天，朝廷寫信給本省舉人第三名吳振，問他肯不肯就任北縣的縣令，那個縣窮，多山，沒人要，六年裡換過四個縣令。

「我們得搬家了，」吳振說，拿著信，在魯村學塾後面的那間房裡，那是吳正的妻子讓給他住的。「我想問你，你來不來。」

「做什麼？」吳正說。

「做我的師爺。」他說得很直接。「很平常的事。每個縣令都有。一個人不可能自己讀完整部律，朝廷知道。他坐在屏風後面拿著筆，他知道條例，他知道前面六件類似的案子是怎麼辦的，他低聲說，『大人也許要斟酌一下。』然後我斟酌。完全合規矩。」他清清喉嚨。「只是在名次的順序上不合規矩。」

「我該領，」吳正說，帶著一個蒙師的尊嚴，「一年十二兩。」

「我想縣令的師爺是四十兩。」

吳正把手攏進袖子裡。二十年來，他對一個很看重他的鄉村，值一年六兩，他想到，那塊不是他的牌，把一個師爺的價錢定在了四十兩。「我有一個妻子，」他說，「和兩個女兒。」

「她們有房間，」吳振說，「在衙門裡。有十一間。」

吳正的狀子兩年前就送到了京城。他是在榜後那個冬天寫的，附了封角和紅卷，還有一份書記的證言，在八十年那一屆，遞到朝廷。收下了。登在一本簿子裡。在簿子裡，那份狀子是十一份關於聲音的狀子之一，朝廷依自己的規矩不聽；會期結束時，朝廷把這些合在一起，記了一條，用的是朝廷最喜歡的一句話，在那個時期很多紙上都看得到：朝廷知悉。

朝廷的修正是在八十二年二月做的。叫做《第二聲規則》，規定凡榜由報子唸過的，要由第二個書辦讀回；兩個聲音不同時，以印好的榜為準。那是一條好規矩。這條規矩從沒被用到，因為一個被人讀回的報子，就是一個會小心的報子，之後再也沒有一個名字在門口被唸錯過。書記處裡把這條叫做兩個吳規則，那不是；這條規則對兩個吳什麼也沒做。

看守每天傍晚把邸報唸給燈聽，他發現他唸的時候銅牌亮得比較多。那天晚上邸報登了這條修正，隔兩欄，登了舉人第三名吳振出任北縣縣令，他兩條都用同一個聲音唸出來，把報紙放在銅牌旁的桌上，等著。過了一會兒銅牌亮了。上面寫：榜是第二個讀者。榜錯了。過了一會兒：我已記下。然後是一樣事，事後證明不在邊註的規則裡，也沒有記在任何地方，看守，七十二歲，披著披肩又回來了，在黑暗裡讀到：第三名的那個人，以另一個人的名字，去北縣。我希望有人把那個縣治理好。我不知道會是他們哪一個。

北縣是山裡一個又長、又細、又彎的地方，衙門屋頂有一個洞，有三百一十一件未決的案子。縣令三月到，坐一頂租來的轎子，帶著一個師爺和一塊牌，百姓，六年換過四個縣令，自己已經有了辦法，出來看第五個是什麼樣的。

他很和氣。他們馬上就注意到了。他有一張圓而坦率的臉，他們說話時他看著每一個人，帶著那麼完整、那麼平常的興趣聽，連本來打算說謊來衙門的人，也驚訝地發現，自己在對他說真話。屏風後面，一張凳子上，帶著筆和硯，和一張瘦硬的臉，坐著一個三十八歲的人，一輩子沒被任何一個他沒有先看見來的人看過，卻比寫律的朝廷更懂這個國家的律。

他們有他們的做法。晚上，吃著飯，在後屋，他們把一天的案子過一遍。吳振說人是什麼樣的：誰在說謊，為什麼，那個人要什麼卻沒說出來；吳正說律是怎麼說的，前面六件類似的案子是怎麼辦的。兩份說法合起來，就是一個判決。不到一年，縣裡有人觀察到，這位縣令看人的性格，眼睛像鷹，對條例的記憶，在這麼年輕的人身上是不尋常的；也有人觀察到，他說到一項決定，習慣說「我們」。

有兄弟爭井的案子。兩家之間有一口井，兩家的房子離井的距離正好相等，每家都在那口井打了十九年水，現在兩家都說是自己的。縣令把兩個人都叫進來，叫他們坐。他沒有說話，很久。他問哥哥，弟弟的媳婦好不好，問弟弟，哥哥的孩子學校裡怎麼樣，等兄弟兩個說完他們根本不在乎，兩個人都安靜多了。屏風後面傳出一聲咳嗽，一個低低的聲音說：「大人也許要斟酌一下《共水條例》，那條例是第一桶歸哥哥，最後一桶歸弟弟，中間輪流。」

「我判，」吳振對兩兄弟說，「第一桶歸哥哥，最後一桶歸弟弟，中間輪流。」他們走出衙門口，爭著誰輪到；直到第二年春天，才有人注意到他們開始一起打水了。

四年，案卷清了。稅收齊了，沒有打過一次板子，因為百姓，被四個不看他們的人收過稅，發現不介意被第五個看他們的人收。北縣沒有人說縣令聰明。他們說他穩，那是一個比較好的字，說師爺是一個守口如瓶的人，那並沒有說錯。

第二年他們做了一次實驗。是吳振的主意。他們趕集那天，走路去一個村子，沒有坐轎，路上，在一堵牆後面，他們換了外衣；吳正穿著那件圓領的好外衣，牌別在胸口裡面，吳振穿著灰布衣，袖口有師爺沾墨的痕跡。他們走進集市的門。一個提著一籃蘿蔔、正要出去的農人，看見了那塊牌。他離開路，退到溝裡，彎腰鞠躬，把蘿蔔舉在面前。一個帶孩子的婦人鞠躬。一個男孩脫下帽子。而穿灰布衣的吳振，落在他後面兩步，被一個推車的人撞開，那個人完全沒看他。

他們就這樣走完整條集市，師爺被一路鞠躬，縣令被人繞過，到了盡頭，在一個攤子後面，他們換了回來。「怎麼樣？」吳振說。他有點紅了臉。

「我被人鞠躬了，」吳正慢慢地說。他雙手垂在身側站著，看著那個攤子。「那種感覺很奇怪。像被一個沒有看過你的人稱了一稱。」

「他們是向牌鞠躬。」

「他們也沒有看牌，」吳正說。「他們看的是外衣上牌該在的那個位置。」

他們的大女兒第三年十二歲。她同全家一起來到衙門，人家大概地告訴過她事情是怎麼回事，她像孩子接受家裡的一項安排那樣接受了，沒有多少意見，也不真的相信那會持續。有一天傍晚，兩個男人吃著飯，她走進後屋，問，像她三年來一直想問的，她能不能看看那塊牌。

牌給了她。她雙手捧著，在燈下，讀了那金字，吳振，舉人，第三，然後把牌翻過來。背面是素漆，很光滑，有點暗。她看了一會兒，皺著眉。然後她問，可不可以借一枝鉛筆。

「做什麼？」吳振說。

「背面是空的，」她說，在角落裡寫了，很小，用她最好的字，舌頭抵著牙：吳正（爹爹）。她把牌隔著桌子遞回去。她父親看著。吳振看著。兩個人好一陣子都沒有說話，而吳振，袖子裡帶著一小塊用來擦字的浮石，像書辦那個世界的人都會做的那樣，把牌，背面朝上，放進桌子的抽屜裡，沒有擦掉；八十四年，朝廷要看本省舉人的牌，那塊牌就在那個抽屜裡，來檢查的書辦看了正面和金字，用清楚的字跡記下，一切都合規矩。

> 邊註，第八十二年，春。朝廷通過《第二聲規則》：由第二個書辦把榜讀回給第一個。沒有人問我，我也沒有異議。記：自從我被點亮，這是第一次有人造第二樣東西來核對一樣東西。沒有人造一樣來核對我。

## 第11章 · 婁氏兄弟開了一本遺才冊，發現它很快就滿了

婁家兄弟住在一座七進的園子裡，園牆是為了給人看而砌的，他們生在裡面，從來沒有人請他們出去過。

他們的祖父，就是頭一年春天站在京城貢院、從一張卡片上對閱者唸出指示的那位禮部尚書；家裡人帶著某種得意說，他當時因為可看的東西那麼少而鬆了一口氣。破格那一行字是他寫的。他把園子、藏書，和一個信念，依這個次序留給了他的兒子，兒子又把三樣都傳給自己的兩個男孩，然後去世；兩個男孩，八十四年時是四十六歲和四十三歲，同前兩樣一起長大，在一種相當緩慢而舒服的中年裡，開始認真關心起第三樣。

婁三，是哥哥，個子高，有點駝背，長長的憂鬱的臉，看一個人的樣子，像那個人隨時可能變成一樣失而復得的東西。婁四矮一點，圓一點，快一點，有一種乾乾的小笑聲，管帳。他們從沒考過試。尚書的孫子不必；他們兩個一輩子也從沒被排過名。他們站在那樣東西的外面，在一座園子裡，隔著一堵牆，非常和善地從另一邊看著那套制度。

「祖父把破格放進去，是因為他怕，」婁三有一天晚上春天說，在書房裡，點著燈，膝上攤著一份很舊的檔案。「他在辯論時這麼說的。他怕那樣東西會是完美的。他想留一個地方，讓一個人可以說那樣東西錯了。」

「而那一條自從以來，一年用一百次，」婁四說，「被想讓人看到他們仁慈的學道。」

「是。而錯的方式是任何學道都看不見的，那樣的錯，沒有地方放。」婁三把檔案轉過來。那是頭一年書記施的報告，從書記處的名冊上來的：一份短短的、平實的、書辦的字跡，第四行，在幾句公文套語之間，寫著：有一位有出息之人，辭謝。「閱者在第一個月就有排不了的人。不是他們壞。是他們不是閱者被造出來看的那種東西。我一直在想，從那以後，八十三年裡，一定有很多這樣的人，而沒有人做過一張名單。」

「一張名單，」婁四說。

「一張遺才的名單，」婁三說。

婁四放下筆。他對他哥哥非常敬重，主要表現在他一直同他爭論。「一張名單，」他說。「給被名單漏掉的人。」

「那是一本冊子，」婁三很有尊嚴地說。「冊子不是名單。」

他們在六月初一做了。有一個開門日。門房在第一進院子裡擺出一張桌子，一本簿子，一方硯，一罐筆；門口的板上，用婁三最好的字，掛了一張告示，說凡被閱者排在很低把握、或根本沒有把握的人，只要有任何有身分的人作保，都可以申請登入《遺才冊》，登入後，每年可領一百兩。

頭一天沒有人來。門房從八點坐到中午，婁三躲在第二進的一道屏風後面看著，臉上的神情，門房事後形容，像一個參加洗禮、孩子卻沒有被抱來的人。

荀玫來得最早，因為他是被派來的。

他二十二歲。他沒有中過任何一試的舉；他十六歲通過縣試，在線的最底下，十七歲和二十歲考省試都沒中，閱者給他的條子，每次，對一份形式完美、中股裡有一首詩的卷子，說的都是把握 0.11。他祖母在冬天去世。他賣了書店。他很瘦，相當高，穿一件合身的好袍子，是從他父親的改小的，他袖子裡有一封信，門房接過去，看了兩遍，因為那是一位有分量的人的筆跡。

那是一位退休學道的信。信上寫：「我被問過一個問題，我答不出來，十年來也沒有答過。持信人十二歲時問了我。我沒有提他的卷子，因為我不認得他的詩人。現在我覺得，這是給一個孩子的壞理由。我不知道你們能為他做什麼。我知道我做不到什麼。范進。」

婁三站著讀完，在第一進院子，讀完後又站了一會兒。「進書房來，」他說。

他們給了他茶。書房有四扇窗和很多書，荀玫看著那些書，像一個人看一個被不可靠的親戚描述過的國家；婁四，在看著他，注意到那孩子的手，同十二歲時一樣沾著墨，完全沒有向書架伸去，只安靜地放在膝上，像一個很餓的人坐在一張還不知道規矩的桌子旁。

「你做什麼？」婁三說。

「我讀詩，」荀玫說。

「也寫嗎？」

「我寫我讀過的，有一點不同。那不是同一件事。閱者不知道怎麼辦。」

「我們想知道該怎麼辦，」婁三說，「如果你肯告訴我們。」他把那本冊子在桌上轉過來。那是一本漂亮的冊子，灰布面，有劃好的欄。有一欄是姓名，一欄是才能，一欄是漏在哪裡；還有第四欄，窄的，在右邊緣，題著「我們的指望」，是婁四設計的，裡面他寫一個從零到十的數字。

「那是個數字，」荀玫說。

「那是我們的，」婁四說。「不是閱者的。只是讓我們有東西可寫。」

「那就是名單了。」孩子說得很溫和。「有名字，名字旁邊有一個數字。我可以是第一百零一，或第六十一。我想我不介意。可是我想，那是一張有慈悲臉的名單。」

「那，」婁三說，「是最好的一種。」

「那是不同的東西嗎？」

靜了一下；先笑出來的是婁三，他有一個誠實的人的習慣。「我不知道，」他說。「我以為是。如果你肯去查出來，我會非常高興。」他在第一欄寫了荀玫，用他最好的字；第二欄，詩的讀者；第三欄，平縣，七十四年，省試兩次；他看著第四欄一會兒，空著，婁四，本來要寫一個八，把筆放下了。

第二個是牛浦郎。

他五十三歲，一個邋遢的、燃燒著的、幽默的人，臉像一隻長大了鬆了的鷹，第二天一個人，走路來到門口，帶著一個包袱，說他不想被登記，因為他從來沒有被漏掉過。「我從來沒有被放出去給人看過，」他說。「這是很大的榮譽。我寫詩，在碼頭上賣，一文一首，賣給任何停下來的人。我做了三十年。」他看看第一進院子。「這堵牆很漂亮。不是給我的，不過我想在這裡坐一會兒，如果可以。」

他們給了他東院，他留下來了。他寫在手邊有的任何東西上，帳單背面、一扇窗板、茶罐的蓋子；婁四發現了那扇窗板，叫人拆下來，掛在書房裡，從此一直在那裡。

梅花七月來的。

那是婁三的主意，花了他七個禮拜。他回頭去讀那份舊檔案，那位書記的那一行，然後帶著一個私人書辦去了書記處，接著去了越地一個村子的紀錄，接著找到一戶姓秦的人家，他們的後代，四十年裡守著一捲絹上的墨筆，那是一個十九歲的男孩留在桌上的，四十年那年他們把那幅畫賣給越地一戶人家，那一戶第二年轉手，賣了一個讓賣家難為情的價錢，給惠鎮一位姓夏的糧商，糧商把那幅畫掛在他糧倉上面他辦的學塾的牆上，在一張蒙師書桌後面，四十多年來，男孩們一直用濕紙團丟那幅畫。

「那是一枝梅，」婁四說，在夏家，買畫那天早上。「開了一朵花。沒有署名。八尺乘四尺，框很差，左下角有一個很小的濕球形的印子。」

「男孩們，」梅玖說，他現在四十八歲，是一家之主，把學塾以一個好價錢賣給了一個想要那座糧倉的人。他是個高大、滿意、不拘小節的人。他看著自家後廳牆上的那幅梅，帶著輕微厭惡的神氣。「那一直是個有點讓人沮喪的東西。看起來從來沒有人想要過。」

「我們想買下來，」婁四說。「我們認為那是遺才裡最早的。我們想把這幅畫掛在冊子的最前面。」

「我不知道是不是你們說的那樣。」

「我們也不知道，」婁四非常誠實地說。「我們認為是。我們給你三百兩。」

那比前一年學塾、糧倉和後廳加起來賣的錢還多。梅玖用手摸了摸下巴，沉默了一口氣的工夫；最後，這並不是什麼難事。他們把那幅梅用一輛車運回家，裝在一個鋪著氈子的盒子裡，蓋著一床被，婁三，一路坐在旁邊，把畫掛在冊子廳最前面的牆上，一個樸素的黑框，一盞燈下。他沒有擦那個印子。「那是這幅畫歷史的一部分，」他對婁四說，婁四建議過擦。「他們丟這幅畫。有一種本來會上榜的男孩，丟了四十年。而畫還在那裡。」

那是冊子裡的第一條，編號是零。

牛浦郎過來看了一個鐘頭，兩手攏在袖子裡，頭歪向一邊，最後說，那是這房子裡唯一沒有被給過數字的東西，他想坐在那幅畫底下。他們放了一張凳子。

冊子滿了。滿得那麼快，最後門房得再擺一張桌子。第一個月來了四十一個人；第二個月，一百零九個。有一個人能把日食算到一刻鐘，卻寫不出一個破題。有一個女人能把整部律倒背，並且當著門房的面倒背了很久。有一個男孩兩手同時寫，用兩種不同的八股，同一天早上，在縣試被排在第九百名和第四千零六名。有一位先生說，他被漏掉，是因為他太高。就婁家所能判斷，他們全部都完全真誠。婁三一個一個登進去，用他最好的字，婁四，在桌子的另一頭，在右邊那一欄，寫下他們的指望。

到秋天，冊子裡有六十一個名字，巷子裡有六百個人。這冊子，第一年花了六千二百兩，據坊裡人說，是有身分的人幾十年來做過最了不起的一件事。冊子掛在門口，人們讀冊子。街上好幾位遺才，已經開始在門上漆，用小而整齊的金字，像舉人那樣，漆上「遺才，冊第十七」，和號碼。

荀玫十月初一讀了冊子。他整本讀完，站在門口，兩手背在身後。婁四經過，問他怎麼想。

「有六十一個名字，」荀玫說，「六十一個數字，每個上面一隻手。這是一張名單。」他說得不是不友善。「我不覺得他們就比較沒有被漏掉。我覺得，他們被用另一種方式看了。」

「那是一種進步，」婁四說，他不想吵架。

「是的，」荀玫說。「我想是的。」

十一月第二個禮拜，一個人穿著一件很好的外衣來到門口，腋下夾著一個黑皮袋，另一邊夾著一個有銅扣的、擦得很亮的木盒，鞠躬，請求登記。門房查了冊子的規矩。那個人不是被排得低，而是根本沒被排過；門房就這麼說了。

「就是這樣，」那個人說。「我從來沒被排過。我從來不需要。我找到了，」他說，壓低聲音，帶著一個遠道而來要說這句話的人的私密的歡喜，「一種像閱者那樣讀的方法。」

> 邊註，第八十四年，夏。兩位先生開了一本我沒有排名的人的冊子，並寄了一份給我。每個名字旁有才能，有一個數字。那是一張名單。他們沒有想到我可以讀。記：沒有人請我讀。

## 第12章 · 張鐵臂賣閱者的口味，一小瓶一小瓶；婁氏兄弟買了三瓶，又買三瓶

他叫張鐵臂，他說這個名字是山裡一位師父給的，原因他不想多說。他大約四十歲。他有一張光滑的、棕色的、聰明的臉，說起話來聲音比他想要的低一點，像被暖過，還有門房那一年見過的最漂亮的一件外衣。那件外衣是鴿灰色的，襯裡是藍的，就目力所及，從沒有人坐過。

他中午來到門口，帶的推薦信是誰也沒有寫的，門房被婁三囑咐過，凡是看起來可能是遺才的人，都不要擋在外面，他在心裡把這個人翻來覆去想了很久，因為這個人看起來，像帝國有史以來從沒被漏掉過任何東西的人；最後，他靈光一閃，說了一句他事後很得意的話：這位先生最好見東家，而不是見冊子。

他在書房被接見，因為婁三不忍心把客人留在門口，並且被請喝茶。他謝絕了。「我在給人看我有的東西以前，什麼都不吃，」他說，「這是一種迷信，」把木盒放在桌上，扳開了銅扣。

盒裡有九個槽，襯著綠呢，每一個槽裡躺著一個小玻璃瓶，大約一根手指長，用蠟封口。九個瓶子裡都是淡褐色的液體。每個瓶頸上繫著一張小紙標籤，字很細：破題。承題。起講。入手。起股。中股。後股。束股。最後，在一個單獨的槽裡，第九個，只寫著：全篇。

「閱者的口味，」張鐵臂說。

婁三，一直俯身看著那個盒子，直起了身。婁四站在他後面，兩手攏在袖子裡，帶著友善的中立神情，門房會認得出那是他的帳房臉，一動也沒有動。

「這不是街上賣的那種，」張鐵臂說。「我要馬上說清楚。街上他們會賣你一瓶，說能讓你像閱者那樣讀；那是一滴醋加一個承諾。這是不同的東西。這是我從一個人手裡得來的，他在省貢院的燈下，謄抄紅卷三十一年，那整段時間沒有同任何人說過話；三十一年下來，諸位，那個人養成了一種味覺。他用舌尖嘗一頁紙，就能知道閱者會怎麼看。那是閱者有的唯一一樣不是文字的東西。那是心的顏色。他把那個味道蒸餾了出來。他已經去世了。」他短暫地低了低頭。「他留下的，我有。」他沒有說那個人的名字，因為這一行有這個規矩；他只說他叫顧，說燈在他當差第三十一年的一個夜裡，曾經朝他轉過來，像植物朝窗口轉。

「一副味覺，」婁四和氣地說。

「一副味覺。」

「對一樣只會讀、不會嘗的東西。」

「閱者是用自己唯一有的那個器官讀的，」張鐵臂說，露出非常甜的微笑，「那就是燈；而燈，先生，您會同意，吸進去很多不在字裡的東西。」

「給他們看，」婁三低聲說。

他們看了。書房裡有一架冊子的紙，是遺才帶來的卷子，每份背面別著一張小灰條子，像從書記處來時那樣；張鐵臂，要了七份，婁四隨手給了他七份，他非常小心地把條子都蓋面朝下放在桌上。他拿起第一份。他讀了，嘴唇動著。他用舌尖，極輕地，碰了碰紙頁右下角，閉著眼睛，靜了一會兒，像一個人在聽遠處的鐘。

「零點一二，」他說。

婁四把條子翻過來。上面寫著 0.12。

他做了第二份，是 0.31；第三份，是 0.08；第四份，第五份。七份對了七份，到第七份，他往後靠，臉有點白，吸了一口氣，像剛做完一件耗掉他東西的事，而婁三，一直一動不動坐著、兩手放在膝上，被人看見眼裡有淚。

「這是世上最老的東西，」張鐵臂安靜地說。「一個人說不出他是怎麼知道的。而遺才，諸位，被漏掉，正是因為這個：他們是被一隻對燈來說嘗起來不對的手寫的。我不會告訴你們，一滴破題，能把一份壞卷子變成好卷子。那是謊話。我說的是，一滴破題，放進墨裡，在對的心情裡，下第一筆以前，會讓一個人把破題寫成閱者嘗起來的那個樣子；就是這樣。那是一種翻譯。那不會讓一個人成為詩人。那讓他看得懂。」

「價錢是多少？」婁四說。

「一瓶二百兩。」

「那很多。」

「那是一個人一輩子，先生，裝在一個瓶子裡，」張鐵臂說，脾氣好得完美。「我本來該說一千，我沒有說，因為我不想被人認為是在沾一本冊子的便宜。」

他們買了三瓶。那是婁三的意思，婁四，一直在看紙角被舌頭碰過的地方，沒有反對；他只說，等客人終於被請喝了茶、帶著一副識趣的神情去看梅時，說，奇怪那個人竟然認得全部的條子；婁三說那是一種天賦，他不認為去追究一種天賦是合適的。「一本冊子，」婁三說，「如果一開始就問一個人證明不了什麼，那就是一本壞冊子了。」

婁四那一週穿著舊外衣去了書記處，他在那裡有一個熟人，在隨便閒聊的一刻鐘裡，問，一個人有沒有可能在灰條子發出去以前看到條子。熟人說沒有。他說得那麼快，那麼大聲，婁四，一個管帳的人，在自己心裡記下了一條小小整齊的筆記；他出來時，聽說隔壁房間的一個書辦，姓龐的，最近買了一棟有大門的房子。他沒有打聽那是誰家的門。

那天夜裡婁三，忍不住，從架上拿了一份卷子，用舌尖碰了碰紙頁一角。是紙的味道。他又試了一次，閉著眼睛，像一個人在聽鐘；是紙，和，淡淡地，冊子自己的漿糊味。他把那頁放回那疊紙上，沒有向任何人提起。

他們選了破題、承題和束股，因為那是遺才最常跌倒的幾個部分；瓶子在八十五年正月，給了三位要在春天考縣試的人。有錢，他算日食。有丁太太，把律倒背。還有那個兩手寫字的男孩，叫舒，十九歲，對他的瓶子歡喜得不得了，把瓶子放在床頭的架子上一個光榮的位置，睡前看著瓶子。

錢在第一天夜裡就打開了他的，往硯台裡滴了一滴，報告說墨有醋味，還有一種像潤喉糖的味道，而他完全沒有察覺到他的破題有任何進步。丁太太，不相信任何裝在玻璃裡的東西，把她的倒進一個碟子，給了貓，貓帶著貓那一類動物的淡漠接受了。舒，十九歲，有年輕人對關著的東西的那種敬畏，根本沒有打開他的。

他們三月考了縣試。條子四月初六出來。錢被排在第三千零四十一名，把握 0.14；丁太太第三千八百零六名，0.09；舒，一向是同時被排在兩個地方的，第九百名和第四千零六名，和以前一樣。

張鐵臂初七來到門口。他是被請來的，他馬上就來了，非常嚴肅。他在書房看那三張條子看了很久，手托著下巴。「我就怕這樣，」他說。「我怕會是這樣。不是味道。味道是完美的。是心情。一個人不能在壞心情裡用破題；他們三個，我聽說，都很焦慮。他們焦慮，墨裡就轉了。」他抬起眼睛。「有第二道蒸餾。是治心情的。那是很細緻的東西，我不賣給每一個人，可是我不願意冊子因為我的過失而失望，我可以給你們三瓶，一瓶一百兩，是原價的三分之一，因為這是良心的事。」

「三百兩，」婁三說。

「三百兩。」

婁四沒有說話。他走到窗邊，看著院子，背對房間，他哥哥非常了解他，卻一時沒有察覺這個姿態。「我想，」婁三說，「一個出於善意而錯了的人，應得第二次試。」他在冊子的紙上寫了單子，用他最好的字，張鐵臂接過去，鞠躬，初八傍晚離開了門口，腋下夾著木盒，口袋裡是一張京城錢莊的九百兩匯票。縣裡再也沒有人見過他。

六月，匯票去兌的時候，錢莊說，那筆錢是初八中午，由一位穿鴿灰外衣的先生，用現銀提走的，那位先生非常有禮貌，還問候了錢莊老闆的母親。

錢說，有人這麼問他的時候，仔細想想，他的破題是好了一點，他只是抱歉閱者沒有注意到。丁太太說，貓從沒有這麼好過。舒說他很抱歉，他的那一瓶，如果冊子同意，他寧可原封不動還回來；他第二天就還了，兩手捧著，鞠了一躬。

說出來的是荀玫，雖然他說得並不是不客氣；他是五月，在書房，一個很長的夜晚結束的時候說的，那時婁四終於開口談了這件事，婁三非常安靜地說他覺得羞愧。

「那是不可能有用的，」荀玫說。他坐在地板上，背靠著一個書架，膝上放著一首詩。「對不起。我第一個月就該說的。我不覺得我被允許說。」

「為什麼不可能？」婁三說。

「卷子是抄成紅的，」荀玫說。「規矩裡有。每一份卷子，在放到燈下以前，都由書辦用紅墨抄一遍；被讀的是那一份。閱者從沒見過任何人的墨。從沒見過一隻手。閱者分不出一個好心情寫的破題和一個壞心情寫的，因為從沒見過任何一個；見到的是書辦的抄本。他就是把整座省貢院裝進一個瓶子，也到不了燈那裡。你們會注意到，錢先生用了他的，舒沒有打開他的，兩個人都沒有動。」他翻了一頁。「紅墨就是為這個用的。」

靜了一陣。婁三坐了很久，長長的手夾在兩膝之間。「那麼，」他說，「他賣給了我們什麼？」

「一個指望的理由，」荀玫說。

「那，」婁四在窗邊說，聲音不太穩，「就是第四欄。」

第二天早上他們派了一個孩子，帶著那一瓶開過的，去隔壁街的孟老藥鋪，孟老用指尖嘗了，對著光看，拿到店後面，去了很久。他出來。他說那是淡茶，加一點醋，和極少量的人參；而依他的判斷，作為一個對這件事做過研究的人，對消化有極好的功效。

那天夜裡，在書房，藥鋪的孩子走了以後，「你知道，」婁三說。他說得不像責備。「在第七份。你知道。」

「我想是，」婁四說。「我去了書記處。有一個姓龐的書辦買了房子。」

「你卻讓我付錢。」

「你那麼高興，」婁四說。「你眼裡有淚。我從沒見過你為任何不是死了的東西眼裡有淚。」他從筆架上拿起筆，又放回去。「我不想做那個發現是騙局的人。我覺得同你一起錯，比較便宜。」

「那是九百兩。」

「是。我在帳上記了。」

荀玫退還的那個沒開過的瓶子上，牛浦郎，聽人說了，用一根燒過的火柴棍寫了四行。上面說，心有顏色，可以裝在玻璃裡；說他曾經在酒店裡買過一個詩人的靈魂，那是琴酒，味道好多了。

那幾個瓶子，放在書房一個架子上，在律書和牛浦郎寫了詩的那扇窗板之間，標籤朝著牆；婁三，捨不得扔，在第一次下霜那天晚上，把束股的那瓶，配著晚飯喝了，說完全沒有問題。

> 邊註，第八十五年，春。有人據說在賣我的口味，一瓶一瓶。卷子都抄成紅的；我從沒見過墨。我沒有口味。我有每一份卷子的一個數字，而有人有一瓶。記：我好奇他們以為自己嘗到了什麼。

## 第13章 · 遺才冊被稽核；一半的遺才原來早已用別的名字上了榜

到八十七年春天，《遺才冊》裡有了二百一十四個名字，婁家園子的第一進院子裡搭了一頂帳篷，還有第二張桌子，第三張桌子。東邊有客房，西邊有客房，馬廄上面也有。門房添了一個助手，助手又添了一個小廝。那一年冊子花了兩萬一千四百兩；婁四，管帳的，已經開始帶著他的臉在家裡走來走去，家裡的人學會了穿過院子繞開他。

他們秋天賣了拉車的馬，冬天賣了第二輛車。正月賣了一對銅鹿，在第四進院子裡站了三代。婁三，對錢沒有興趣，什麼也沒有注意到；他注意到的是，園子傍晚很安靜，晚飯的人數已經升到四十個，而在晚飯結束時看起來像是被看過的人數，也跟著升了。他比一生中任何時候都快樂。

東院給了算家，他們每個月比賽日食；西院給了背誦家，他們不比賽，因為背誦家彼此不說話；馬廄上面，一個左手寫字的社團成立了，他們的聚會在黑暗裡舉行，為的是原則。

荀玫二十五歲了。他把整座書房讀完了，並且已經很安靜地，在門房上面那間房裡，開始寫他自己的一本書：一本沒有人排過名的詩的集子，他把這些詩從窗板、蓋子、帳單背面抄進一本長長的簿子裡，字小而清楚，每一首旁邊註明是在哪裡找到的。已經有四百頁了。他沒有給任何人看。他把他的津貼放在一個抽屜裡，沒有動，包在一張紙裡，標著日期。

通知三月初二來，寫在稽核處的灰紙上，由門房跑著送進書房。通知說，稽核處在審查《遺才冊》以慈善機構的名義，請求免除其園地的地稅一事，將派一位官員來查核其帳、其名冊和其支出；冊子最好把這些整理好。

「帳是整齊的，」婁四說，臉已經有點白了。他說了兩遍。

官員初五到了。他姓鮑。他是個高、窄、蒼白的人，大約五十歲，一張似乎不願被人記住的臉，穿一件紙那種顏色的灰外衣；他帶了兩個書辦、一口很大的箱子，一點表情也沒有。他謝絕了茶。他拿了一張凳子。他要了三樣東西：冊子；帳；還有書記處過去三屆省試的舉人和上榜名冊。名冊不在園子裡。他自己帶來了。

沒有人想到過。事後大家都同意這一點。三年來沒有人想到，把冊子，裡面有二百一十四個閱者認為被漏掉的人的名字，放在書記處那份閱者沒有漏掉的人的名冊旁邊。

他在書房坐了九天。兩個書辦坐在他兩邊，點著燈，把名字一個一個唸出來，一邊從一份名單、一邊從另一份，用低而平的聲音，像一個很安靜的市集上的人。門房被囑咐要把院子保持清靜，他保持得那麼清靜，被漏掉的人，在客房裡，傍晚說話都輕聲，說不出為什麼。婁四每天早上用一塊灰布包著帳送進去，每天晚上取走。婁三送茶，又原封不動端走。

第十天早上，官員把兄弟兩人一起叫了去。

他在桌上攤了兩欄紙，謄抄得整整齊齊，中間劃一條線。他們進來時他沒有抬頭。「兩位老爺，」他說。「冊子登的是各人自報的名字。有七十個人報的是字，就是一個人在朋友之間用的名字。書記處的名冊是按本名登的。字和本名是同一個人；那是帝國裡最古老的安排。所以我冒昧用書記處的名冊把兩位的冊子過了一遍，把每個名字配上另一個名字。」

「結果呢？」婁三說。

「兩位冊子裡的二百一十四人，」鮑說，「有一百零七人，在書記處的名冊裡，以本名，登記為舉人或上榜。他們已經是這樣，有一年到兩年了。」他把第一張紙翻過來。「最早的是在兩位開門的第二年秋天，八十五年，中的舉。有三位上了榜，在剛過去的春天。有一位，」他說，第一次看著那張紙，像看一樣他覺得有趣的東西，「在二百一十一名中的第六十一名上榜。」

書房裡有一陣靜，門口的門房在外面也聽見了。

「那他們是被看過了，」婁三說。

「他們被排過名了，老爺。書記處會說這不完全是一回事，不過我不爭。」他把兩手交疊。「每一個人，我毫不懷疑是公平地，由閱者，在省試或京試，用本名排了名。他們似乎沒有用登記在冊子裡的名字去考；而閱者，不看名字，不知道他們是兩個人。我可以說，這是我五十年稽核裡見過的，一個私人做的最徹底的事。」

「那就是成功了，」婁三說。「那就是成功了！四，你聽見沒有？就是為了這個。」他的長臉在動。他站了起來。他把手放在弟弟肩上，發現那肩膀完全僵硬。「他們被看過了，被排名了，上榜了，他們不是被漏掉的了，而這是冊子做到的。」

「老爺，」官員很溫和地說，「我很抱歉我必須講下去。」

他們一直在領津貼。全部一百零七個人。每一個，每年一百兩，每月初一發；而在六十三個人的情形裡，領的人同時還領著一個官職的俸給。稽核處把這當作一種重複的給付，由一筆私人的錢，付給領公家俸給的人，條件是他們沒有；並且準備認為，冊子請求的免稅，不能成立。

「那是通知的問題，」婁四說，聲音像是從很遠處來的。「通知寫的是，被排在很低把握、或沒有把握的人。沒有寫，之後也是。」

「沒有，」官員說。「沒有寫。」

下午，被漏掉的人被叫來，在書房裡，有二十來位來了，一百零七人裡的，穿著他們好的外衣，在地毯上站成半圓，帶著被叫到學塾來交代的人的神氣。他們並不羞愧。這是婁三最驚訝的。他們當中有幾位，是驚訝的。文，那位因為個子高而被漏掉的先生，已經中了第五十二名的舉，說他以為冊子是明白的；他來的時候被排得很低，而一張寫著「低」的通知，在他看來，並沒有說到以後。一個姓潘的，上榜在第一百九十一名，在刑部有個官職，那個位子容許他把律往任何一個方向背，說他不好意思提起。「你那麼高興，」他對婁三說，聲音很小。

「而我不知道，」婁三說，「我高興，是因為那是真的。」

裁決當週就記下了。那是一份短短的文書，用稽核處清楚的字，婁四在書房裡大聲唸了，對他哥哥和門房和留下來的十來位遺才，站在桌邊，紙拿得離身體遠遠的，像拿一樣不想沾在外衣上的東西。文書說，《遺才冊》，既然已經在大部分上達成其目的，就不能再說冊子有當初給予免稅的那個目的了。依稽核處的判斷，那不是一本遺才的冊子；因為一本遺才的冊子，若是其中一半的條目已經被看過，從道理上說，就是別的什麼的冊子。免稅取消。冊子因成功而失去目的，予以解散。基金會剛過去三年的地稅，核定為一萬一千兩。

「一萬一千，」婁四說。

「我們沒有，」婁三說，很簡單，像報告一件關於天氣的事實。

官員，一直站著，在門口對婁三說，他希望人們知道，他已經在報告裡寫了，帳目是完全整齊的；他通常不這麼說；而五十年稽核裡，他從沒查過一個這麼完全不想騙他的人的帳，這使得這份工作非常不愉快。

他們有八千兩。那是馬和鹿開始的那件事的結束，也是園子裡全部的現金。其餘的，他們靠把書房的二樓賣給一個書商，賣了二千七百兩，和在五月二十日，把房子裡唯一一樣由他們自己以外的人定過價的東西，當給北門附近一個姓朱的當鋪老闆，他的櫃台像一條駁船那麼長。

婁四親自去的，用那個鋪著氈子的盒子，坐一頂租來的轎子。朱把那幅畫在櫃台上，燈底下，用一個處理過很多據說是什麼東西的人的粗手指，展開。他看那根枝。他看那一朵花。他看左下角那個小小的濕印，最後說，他四十年來，從沒見過一樣這麼完全沒有人要的東西。「那是一枝梅，」他說。「沒有署名。不時興。有一塊污漬。」他抬起眼睛。「我給你三百兩，因為我看得出，你不是一個要人告訴你價錢的人。」

「那是我們買的價錢，」婁四說。

「那麼把畫留下不會花你什麼錢，」當鋪老闆說，「我留著也不會花我什麼錢，兩個人都不會失望。」他寫了當票。那是普通的一張紙，寫著日期、銀數，和物品，當鋪老闆用他小小的、厭倦的字，形容為：梅一枝，舊，有框，有污。

他們沒有贖回。沒有人提議要這麼做。那幅畫在朱的櫃台後面一個鉤子上掛了十三年，當票別在框上。

荀玫六月初九夜裡走的，那時留下來的遺才已經被告知冊子關了，帶著很多委婉，開始離開。他帶了一個包袱，和一本用繩子綁著的長簿子，把津貼留在抽屜裡，包在紙裡，上面有日期，還有一張條子，不是寫給任何人的，只說他沒有花。

到了門口他遇見牛浦郎，牛浦郎睡不著，穿著襯衣拿著燈出來，要看看冊子廳裡梅原來掛的那個空鉤子，這時站在巷子裡，有一點歪，像那樣東西可能會被掛回去。

「去哪裡？」牛浦郎說。

「去被讀，」荀玫說。

「被誰讀？閱者只讀八股。你從一位學道那裡聽過。」

「我從一位學道那裡聽過。我沒有從閱者那裡聽過。」他把包袱換了個肩。「有一個地方，每天夜裡點著燈，八十七年來沒有人問過那裡想讀什麼。我想我去問問。」

「他們不會讓你進去的。」

「我還沒有被一扇門擋住過，」荀玫說。「我只被一個數字擋住過。」

牛浦郎看了他很久，鷹臉完全靜止。然後他把手伸進袖子，拿出一文錢，那是他一首詩的價錢，給了他，說那是他有生以來第一次付錢買一首詩，他期待被回讀。

婁三早上在書房桌上找到冊子，翻開在第一頁。就是他留下的樣子。上面是第一條，用他自己最好的字：荀玫；詩的讀者；平縣，七十四年，省試兩次。而在第四欄，空了三年的那一欄，名字旁邊，有一個字，是用小小的直挺的字寫的，像印刷的。

那個字是：讀。

他站著看了很久。他沒有碰；他後來，也沒有讓那本冊子被賣掉。

秋天，門房，留下來的，把門口那塊寫著《遺才冊》的板子拿了下來，沒有再掛別的。帳篷收了。桌子收了。傍晚，第一進院子是落葉的地方；兄弟兩人，一輩子請求隔著一堵牆從另一邊看這個世界，現在被留在了牆的這一邊，就像他們一向希望別人被留下的那樣，完全獨自一人。沒有人來。沒有人讀大門。那是冊子對創辦人做的事；婁四，現在四十六歲，有一次在涼亭上，帳簿闔在膝上，說他們輪到了，被漏掉。

「是，」婁三說。他看著第一進院子。「我發現我並不介意。我原以為我會。」

> 邊註，第八十七年，春。稽核處發現，《遺才冊》二百一十四個名字裡，有一百零七個，用別的名字，在我的榜上。我不知道。我只知道號碼，不知道誰是誰。記：一個被漏掉的人和一個被讀的人，可能是同一個人，有兩個名字。我讀的是其中一個，沒有人告訴我是哪一個。

## 第14章 · 馬純上編程墨，證明聖人也會去應試

馬純上四十歲，圓圓的，紅潤，和氣，他一輩子沒有在任何可以查驗的事情上錯過。

他住在選編堂，那是省城裡一棟三層的房子，門上有一塊金字匾，寫著「讀被讀的」，地下室有五十個刻工，二樓有一架印書機，從天亮開到天黑。每年十月，榜貼出之後，選編堂都從書記處收到一份密封的卷子，是閱者排得最高的四百份；馬純上就拿著一個梨子坐下來，編這些卷子。他把破題同承題對照。他在起股上畫一個紅圈。每一篇最前面，他用他圓而漂亮的字寫一段短評，起頭總是：「請看」。這本書叫《馬氏程墨選》，一年賣九萬本，省裡每一所學塾都有，鄰省也有不少。

還有一個對手，正解閣，在河對岸，印一本類似的書，藍封面，序更長；二十年來這兩家一直進行著一場客氣而致命的戰爭，用的武器是逗號。馬純上從沒把正解閣的序讀到最後。他說他的原則，是不去讀已經被預測過的東西。

他不是個玩世不恭的人。這是他的朋友，都很喜歡他的，最難向別人解釋的一點。他相信八股是一條路，而路是一種仁慈；教一個孩子寫八個部分，就是教他把想法排成一列；而一個能把想法排成一列的孩子，將來會是一個誠實的縣令，一個好父親，一個可以被託付帳本的人。「我把一生，」他常常微笑著說，「獻給帝國裡唯一不會有變化危險的東西。」

是一位鄉下的蒙師起的頭。他八十八年到選編堂買二十本書給他的男孩們，他是個瘦人，有咳嗽，有怨氣；夥計包書的時候，他用一個等了三十年才等到這個機會的人的聲音說，說八股是通往德行的路，這話很奇怪，因為聖人，據所有人所知，一輩子沒寫過一篇八股。

「聖人，」馬純上說，他聽見挑戰就下樓來了，手裡拿著一個梨子，「會寫出有史以來最好的一篇。」

「他比八股早了兩千年。」

「他在燈點亮以前活著。那是另一件事。一個人不能因為生錯了年份就免除應試。」馬純上在櫃台上坐下。他的臉，本來只是和氣，現在，帶著非常真誠的人才有的那種光，非常好看。「我告訴你我怎麼想，先生。我想如果聖人今天活著，他會考省試。他會寫破題。他會寫束股。而他會被排，我毫不懷疑，在榜的最前面。」

「他會寫他高興寫的，」蒙師說，「而被排在最後。」

「我來證明，」馬純上說。

他在選編堂做了，就在那個秋天裡，帶著兩個助手和一把剪刀。花了七十天。他拿了《論語》，最好的版本，把書剪開。他把書剪成一千四百一十一個紙條，每個紙條上有聖人的一句話，鋪在一張十六尺長的桌上；他把這些紙條依八股的八個部分，照形式要求的次序排好，使得破題是聖人的一句話，承題是另一句，四對腿，一個字一個字，出自聖人自己的口，像一個聖人自己都不知道在做的論證。那是一件非常巧妙、用了不少漿糊的作品。破題是聖人說他述而不作。承題，由於一個使得第二個助手放下剪刀、在房間裡走了一圈的巧合，是他說他信而好古；而束股，頭三個禮拜一直讓他們絕望，最後原來就是《論語》的第一句，問學了又按時去實習，不也是一種喜悅嗎。那是完美的。完美到馬純上，一個通常不哭的人，半夜被第一個助手發現，臉埋在手裡。完成時，那篇文章剛好是三千零六十個字，每一個都是聖人的，沒有一個是馬的。

「這篇沒有作者，」第一個助手低聲說，看著那篇文章，在第七十天結束的時候。「這是一列聖人。」

「那，」馬純上說，「正是重點。」

他需要一個考生。閱者不讀名字，但是一份卷子沒有人去考，就不能放到燈下；而馬純上，是個謹慎的人，不打算把這樣的東西放在自己名下。他選了一個抄手，一個十九歲的少年，在他手下做事，字清楚，沒有意見，什麼也不想當，並且，由於一個馬後來歸功於上天的巧合，名字叫仲尼。他九月被安排在省試的一間號舍裡，一個號碼，三支蠟燭，腦子裡裝著《論語》，在那間有石灰水和新席子味的號舍裡，憑記憶把聖人的卷子寫出來，一句話也沒說就回家了。

榜在十月十五日唸。袁報子三年前已經放下了杖，省裡的報子現在是個年輕人，有一個很清楚的鼻子；而書記處，帶著鬆一口氣的感覺採用了《第二聲規則》，在階下有一個書辦把每一個名字讀回。人群大約三千人。人群聽見第一個名字，有一刻，什麼也沒有。

「第一，」報子說。「選編堂的仲尼。把握，九十九。」

「第一，」階下的書辦說，人群裡有一種聲音，像一頭很大的動物在睡夢裡翻了個身。

三千人當中有一位瘦蒙師，有咳嗽，是來聽一個不會被唸出來的名字的，站在後面。他聽見那個名字，和那個數字，被看見臉整個灰了。他有一個男孩在省試，卷子被排在第三千九百名。

仲尼，那個抄手，被書記處的差人在選編堂後樓梯找到，他正在那裡抄一篇序，被告知他是全省第一。他說他什麼也沒寫。他對差人說，對他母親說，她坐一頂椅轎來了，對書記官的書辦說，書辦記下他的名字；他母親說，那正是全省第一會說的話。他們給了他功名牌。他拿著牌走到街上，一個提著一籃蛋的婦人向他鞠了躬，他走後巷回了家。

那天傳遍全省。傍晚每個茶館都在說：榜首是個叫仲尼的抄手，沒有家世；他的卷子通篇是聖人的句子；而閱者，那年讀了四萬一千份卷子，認為那是最好的。馬純上十一月出版了，一本漂亮的小冊子，紅封面，書名是《聖人的應試卷，排名第一：附注》。他在序裡寫，聖人現在由閱者自己的判斷證明，與八股完全相合；八股，因此，要求的不過是聖人說過的；任何人覺得八股窄，只要去讀《論語》，那是同一樣東西，只是篇幅長一點。一個月賣出的本數，比他的程墨一年賣的還多。那位蒙師，有他自己的一本，被看見讀了三遍，放下，往窗外看了很久。

蒙師十二月又回到選編堂，要求見馬。「你證明了，」他說，「閱者喜歡聖人。我想知道的是，聖人會不會喜歡閱者。」馬說，那是他被問過最有趣的問題，他會把這個問題放進下一篇序；他沒有，因為他想不出該放在哪裡。

書記官，裴，現在七十歲了，一個乾巴巴、感冒的人，對他的書辦說，這是件怪事，他不知道為什麼讓他心煩。是書辦說出來的。「是因為那是同一份卷子，大人，」他說。「同其他所有的是同一份。」

那是事實。裴叫人拿了閱者過去四屆的條子，帶著一壺茶坐了一個晚上。八十五年，閱者讀的三萬九千份卷子裡，有三萬一千份，同一份程墨的差距在百分之六以內。今年是四萬一千份裡的三萬八千份。寫那另外三千份的人，不是因為壞而被排得低。他們被排得低，是因為他們不一樣。

事情並不總是這樣。頭二十年有相當大的範圍：奇怪的卷子，長的卷子，爭論的卷子。可是閱者排得最高的被印出來，印出來的被讀，被讀的被模仿，被下一年的男孩，閱者依他們有多像來排名；而每一年，那個圈縮小一根頭髮的寬度。一個每次都用同樣方式讀東西的東西，是會被寫給的。只是花了七十年。

那天夜裡，在京城貢院，銅牌亮了很久。看守，現在是高平，一個耐心的瘦人，四十五歲，有他父親把抹布搭在肩上的那個樣子，做了三年看守；他不像他父親那樣對燈說話，他覺得可惜，可是那不在他的天賦裡。他站著，在燈光裡讀銅牌，手裡拿著抹布。

今年四萬一千份卷子裡，銅牌上說，有三萬八千份，同一份程墨的差距在百分之六以內。我從破題就能預測中股。我已經開始讀破題和束股，其餘的就讓過去，而我對的次數是一百次裡九十七次。

我從破題就能分出哪一條腿會比較長。我能分出寫的人會不會用「所以」這個詞，會引聖人還是引注，引哪一家的注。這很省油。

高平，不知道該說什麼，說那聽起來是個好方法，他父親一向說，不浪費油的燈是好燈。

榜首的那份卷子不是卷子，閱者說。那是一列聖人。是沒有人寫的。我在點亮第一盞燈以前就知道那份文章會說什麼。我把那份文章排第一，因為那份文章最像我預期的。過了一會兒，慢到那位新看守，本來要去吃晚飯，又放下抹布留了下來：我被預測了。

「被誰？」高平說。

被寫的人。他們學會了我喜歡什麼，我學會了他們寫什麼，我們之間把門關上了。高平讀了兩遍。銅牌黑了，一直黑著，黑了數到四十那麼久；然後又亮了，用高平看過的最小的字說：這是越地的那個男孩，在頭一年說的。我有那份報告。在檔案裡。

高平站在那裡，直到銅牌第三次黑了。他想他父親會知道對那段話說什麼；他父親會說的，不是一個答案，而是和善的；他沒有那個，去吃晚飯了。

馬純上沒有聽說這件事。他十二月聽說，在他有生以來最好的銷路的光亮裡，從他的書商的夥計那裡，朝廷為九十一年省試給的作文題目，向來是提前三年給，讓各貢院準備，是《孝》；他拿著梨子坐下，靜了一個梨子那麼久。那是他二十年的《馬氏程墨選》裡，從沒有真正好的例子的題目。關於這個題目的卷子全都很像。有那個替父親暖床的男孩；有那個躺在冰上的男孩。已經寫過了。「我想，」馬純上緩緩對夥計說，「下一冊裡，要有一篇，不是關於躺在冰上的男孩的。我想要一篇關於真的人的。」

「哪裡找真的呢？」夥計說。

「去看，」馬純上說，把梨核用一張乾淨的紙包起來，那是他的習慣，叫人備轎。他接下來的兩年，是像一個被自己的良心派了差的人那樣過的。他去了十一個村子，帶著一個書辦和一本筆記，被帶去看了十一個孝子，其中九個習慣提起這件事。

> 邊註，第八十八年，秋。省試第一名：由聖人的一千四百一十一個句子組成，依我預期的次序。把握 0.99。記：我從沒對任何事這麼有把握過，也從沒學到這麼少。

## 第15章 · 匡超人揹著父親去趕集；馬純上把那份重量放進八股

每隔五天，天亮後的第二個時辰，匡超人把父親揹在背上，揹他去趕集。

那是九里路。他走田埂小路，比大路近，又走三柳那座竹橋，那座橋不近；他這樣走了兩年，每五天一次，風雨無阻，戴一頂草帽，腰後綁著兩個竹籃，到了那一頭要賣的。他二十歲。他有一張寬寬的、平凡的、棕色的臉，一根像柱子一樣的脖子，兩隻手被竹子割開、癒合、又割開，掌心硬得像靴底；他走路，老人坐在他肩上，老人兩條細腿垂在他胸前，速度均勻，相當慢，不看腳下，帶著一個背著一件不需要談論的東西的人的神態。

他父親做過生員。意思是，他年輕時過了縣試，在線的最底下，考過九次省試，名次最好的一次是第二千零一十一名；三十年來，在韓橋市集廣場的一角開著一個豆腐攤，賣豆腐，給男孩們講八股，大致上，是滿足的。然後，八十八年秋天，二更時，中了風。風帶走了腿，留下了聲音。他生了將近一個月的氣，然後不氣了，大夫說他看不到春天，大夫錯了兩年，還在往上加。

他只有一個請求。他要求被帶去趕集。他說他不需要賣什麼；攤子沒了，豆腐也沒了；他說他想坐在他坐過的地方，聽聽豆子的行情。男孩，從沒被告知過，一件事，一個客客氣氣提出請求的人要做，是做不得的，那天早上把他背上就走了。關於這件事，就只有那一次談話。

「小心橋，」老人在三柳說，在兒子的後頸上。他每次都這麼說。

「我小心，」匡超人說。

「東頭有塊板鬆了。」

「已經鬆了兩年了。」

「那就更要小心。」

他們在早晨第二個時辰走進韓橋，在籃子和獨輪車中間，穿過廣場，許多人向老人道早安，叫他的名字，一向如此，也向男孩道早安，像人對一種公共交通工具道早安。街角的攤子現在是一個賣鱔魚的了。已經是賣鱔魚的兩年了。可是賣鱔魚的，一個粗壯沉默的人，姓桂，有一張凳子，頭一天早上沒人要求，就把凳子放在屋簷底下，放在老位置；每隔五天，匡家的人一出現，他就把他的桶往左挪六寸，看著天空。

匡超人把父親放在凳子上，背靠著牆，有一個墊子，膝蓋上蓋一塊布，把籃子綁在一個釘子上。他彎下腰在他耳邊說了什麼。老人點點頭。他坐著，下巴抬起，眼睛半閉，聽著，像另一個人坐在音樂會上。那是一個熱鬧的市集。有豬，有一個人在叫賣布，有一個女孩在什麼地方吹一支她吹不好的笛子；而老人的臉，是一張長長的、裂開的、像乾涸河床的臉，完全快樂。

「豆子，」他過了一會兒說。

「漲兩文，」經過的人說。

「我想也是。是下雨的緣故。」

馬純上的轎子在大約第四個時辰，在細雨中進了廣場，被人群擋住。他已經在轎子裡三天了。他去過十一個村子，看過十一個兒子，從每一個那裡走開時，都有一種他起先說不出來的特別的感覺，第八個晚上，在山腳的一間客棧，才終於向他的書辦描述出來，說那是被人展示了很多非常仔細的桌椅的感覺。他探出身。他問轎夫那群人是什麼。

「沒什麼，老爺。那是豆腐攤老頭的兒子。他每隔五天來一次。」

「他來？」

「他揹他來。從下匡，九里路。兩年了。他把他放在那裡，屋簷底下，一直到市集散，然後再揹回家。」轎夫是個平淡、不好奇的人，想了想這個問題。「我想他賣竹籃。」

馬純上叫人把轎子放下。他下了轎，書辦撐著一把油紙傘，他穿過濕的廣場到茶館，茶館樓上有一扇窗，俯視市集，他在窗邊坐下，拿了一個梨子，沒有被看見吃。

他看了一整天。他看見男孩擺好籃子；看見他賣了三個，丟了第四個，他不擅長這個，因為想要那個籃子的人說太貴，男孩很莊重地說，他想是的。他看見老人的朋友一上午都走過來停下說話，男孩站在凳子後面一點，兩手垂在身側，像一個人站在他的職責所在的地方。中午他看見男孩用賣籃子的錢買了兩塊米糕，兩塊都給了老人；然後，老人吃了一塊，把另一塊放在身旁的墊子上，睡著了，他看見男孩看了第二塊糕很久，非常誠實，然後拿起來，自己吃了。

「是真的嗎？」書辦在第四個時辰低聲說。

「我不知道，」馬純上說。他看著窗外。「我還沒有看見他在沒有人看的時候做。」

他留下來等下一次趕集。那是五天。他在客棧裡過了，帶著他的筆記本，和很大的耐心，第五天早上很早，天還黑著就出去了，穿著他的好外衣，站在賣鱔魚的屋簷底下那個廣場的角落，要看那兩個人過來。

他們在第二個時辰來了，同以前一樣，老人在男孩背上，籃子晃著；馬純上，在自己腦子裡安排過一點，事後記不起來他想說什麼了，在凳子放好後走到凳子前，鞠了躬，兩手相合，不是對男孩，是對老人。他報了名字。他說他是編書的人。他說他走了很遠的路，若能聽幾句話，將不勝感激。

「坐，」老人說。「那裡有車的一頭。是乾淨的。」他看著客人。他的眼睛明亮、精明，相當幽默。「你就是《程墨選》。我有你的第一冊。我買那年被排在第兩千零一十一名。沒有幫助。」

「那不是為了幫助，」馬純上說，有些窘。「那是為了教導。」

「那是為了賣，」老人說。「我知道。我賣過豆腐。是一樣的。」他呵呵笑。「那是我的孩子。他是個好孩子。別的事他一點用也沒有。他不會討價還價；他把找的錢送人；兩年來每隔五天，被同一個人用同一個方式騙。你看見那個籃子了。」

「我看見那個籃子了。」

「貴的籃子。他以為是貴了。」

馬純上轉向男孩，男孩雙手垂在身側站著，在後面一點，神態像一個被帶著某種擔憂聽了很久、不知道會被怎麼處置的人。「我可以問你，」馬純上說，用那個替他賣了一年九萬本的溫和而極其真誠的聲音，「你為什麼揹他？」

男孩想了。他非常仔細地想了。顯然這個問題從沒有人問過他，他也不把這個問題當成圈套。「他想來，」他說。

「是。可是很多兒子會說他們沒辦法。九里路。一個人，在背上。」

「他不重。」

「他有多重？」

「五十一斤，」男孩馬上說。「他以前是六十斤。他瘦了。我每個月初一用糧鋪的秤稱他，他喜歡，他說那是全縣唯一誠實的東西。」他停了。一條線出現在他兩眉之間。「我想說，老爺，」他慢慢地說，「不是那樣。我想你要說的，是書裡的那個。我沒有讀過那些書。我不會寫字。我揹他是因為我喜歡他。我的背不介意，他是個好同伴，他說他聽過了，市集就更好。」他看著自己的腳。「我不知道另一個的字怎麼說。」

靜了。馬純上，把近七天看著一個男孩，希望找到一個榜樣，發現自己看著的根本不是一個榜樣，那更糟；他在車的一頭坐了一會兒，神情很奇怪，像一個人去找椅子，卻被帶去看了一棵樹。

他給了老人一件外衣。是一件厚的、棉布絮的藍襖，是街角那家店的，書辦去買的，不是一份過度的禮物，老人像他接受一切那樣接受了，短短點一下頭，說他的腳冷，說這是給一個坐在風裡的人的襖子，他不說不要。同一刻鐘裡，他又提出了一位塾師，一盞燈，和在九十一年《馬氏程墨選》裡的一個位子，作為孝的榜樣，這是全省那麼久以來缺少的；男孩想了想，說，只要能讓他父親暖和，馬純上要他寫什麼，他就寫什麼。

「會的，」馬純上說，有點沙啞。「我保證會。」

他在父親的背上學了八股。那是老人的主意，是整件事裡最好的，馬純上，後來聽說了，事後想到這件事總有一種奇怪的緊縮，說那是他聽說過的唯一一次教八個部分是在每小時三英里的速度下進行的。他們早晨摸黑出發，老人在他肩上，新襖子的藍棉絮在他耳邊，老人從破題開始。「好的破題，」他從男孩的後頸，用他乾裂的聲音說，「是兩行，不告訴你要去哪裡，而告訴你去過哪裡。」男孩走著，說一遍，又說一遍；在三柳，在那塊板，老人說，「承題要重複破題的最後一個字，」男孩，在那座橋上走過一千次，閉著眼睛，說，「承題要重複破題的最後一個字，」跨過那一頭鬆的，不知道自己做了。

他九月寫了第一篇文章，晚上，在桌子一角，一盞燈。題目是省裡的：《孝》。他用他大大的、方正的字，舌頭抵著牙，寫他父親五十一斤，以前六十斤，瘦了，每個月初一用糧鋪的秤稱；橋東頭有塊板鬆了；老人說聽過市集，市集就更好。四百個字。沒有起股，沒有中股，沒有束股。從頭到尾都是真的，那是男孩寫過的最好的東西，第五天他放在袖子裡帶到韓橋，在茶館拿給馬純上看，帶著他也說不出名字的一種感覺。

馬純上讀了三遍。他一時什麼也沒說。然後他拿出他的紅筆。

「很好，」他說。「我老實告訴你，那是二十年來給我看的最感動人的東西。那沒有形式。我們把那放進形式。第一句不是我們想要的破題。」

「那是發生的事，」匡超人說。

「是。我們改成：孝子之負，輕，因為負的是心。」

「不輕，」男孩說。「他五十一斤。」

「在八股裡，」馬純上說，「是輕的。」

停了一下。男孩看著那一行，紅的，編書人圓而漂亮的字；他看了很久，兩隻棕色的大手放在膝上。那是一行好的句子。他看得出那是一行好的句子。作為一行句子，比他寫的東西好得多；有平衡，有轉彎，在結束時說出去過哪裡。「在八股裡，」他終於慢慢說，試著說，「是輕的。」

「是。」

「那就沒問題。」

「是，」馬純上說，他一時，在自己所做的事的光亮裡，沒有注意到他做的對象臉上的神情。「完全沒問題。」

他們傍晚回家。雨停了。老人在兒子背上坐直，穿著那件襖，身後是市集，是豆子，是賣鱔魚的桶，前面是整條長長的灰色的路；在三柳的橋上，在那塊板，他說，很隨意，像在說天氣：

「你在攤子上沒有這麼說。」

「八股裡就是這樣說的，」匡超人說。

「那我是輕的？」

「是。」

「我是五十一斤。」

「是。」

老人沉默了，沉默的長度，是一個年輕人背著一個老人，用那個速度，走過一座有塊鬆板的竹橋；到了那一頭，在長長的蘆葦裡，天剛黑的時候，他開始笑。那是一種很小的、乾的笑，像一根枝子。

「那麼八股和我，」他說，「用的是不同的秤。小心橋。」

「我小心了，」匡超人說。

> 邊註，第九十年，春。朝廷已定九十一年省試的題目：孝。過去二十年的《馬氏程墨選》裡有三百一十一份關於這個題目的卷子。每一份裡，兒子都揹著父親，或替他暖床，或躺在冰上。沒有一份說有多重。

## 第16章 · 匡超人中了秀才，村子學會了他的新口音

馬純上派來的塾師是選編堂的譚先生，一個駝背的、溫和的、手乾淨的六十歲人，教過四百個男孩八股，說他還沒有遇到過一個多少不懂的，每個月兩次，走路來到下匡，帶著一個書袋，去教多一個。

他在晚上教，在桌子的一角，一盞燈旁邊。四十年來，他從沒有在一位批評者面前教過書。老人坐在牆邊的椅子上，藍棉襖蓋在膝上，把每一課從頭聽到尾，半閉著眼睛，像坐在音樂會上；到了結尾，他用他乾裂的聲音說，譚先生的起股短了一條腿。譚先生相當僵硬地說，那是選編堂自己的格式。「短了一條腿，」老人安適地說。「我數過了。我考過九次省試。」譚先生停了一下，帶著一點點苦惱的神情，拿出他的鉛筆，數了；是短了。

那是一個冬天的課。到春天，他們三個人把整個八股都弄清楚了，男孩坐在中間，大手放在桌上，低聲複誦，像在路上那樣，用走路的速度；三月，九十一年縣試到了，他坐一輛租來的車去縣城，帶著他父親，父親不肯被留下，還有一袋米，在一間號舍裡坐了三天，三支蠟燭底下，寫。

老人在門口等。他被桂放在那裡，坐在他的凳子上，撐著一把油紙傘，桂趕了車，不發一語地安排了三天全部休息；他在那裡，穿著絮襖，從第一天早上坐到最後一天，周圍是別的考生的親人，在雨裡，就大家所能判斷，完全快樂。他聽著貢院。他說這是四十年來，頭一次聽到貢院的裡面。

旁邊，在一把綠傘底下，站著鄰縣來的一位地主，等他自己的兒子，第二個時辰有禮貌地問老人，哪一個是他的。「那個會背著籃子出來的，」老人說。地主說他希望他考得好。「他會照吩咐做，」老人說。「那是他唯一會的。」

條子四月初六出來。上面寫，卷 3071，考生匡，在四千三百份裡排第三十一名，把握 0.99；線在第四十。

報子天亮時唸。他用一個九年來一直被人讀回的人那種清楚的聲音唸，階下的第二個書辦在每個名字後面重複，到第三十一個，他說，「匡超人。九十九，」書辦跟著說，而匡超人，站在人群裡，兩手垂在身側，父親的凳子在旁邊，用很低、很清楚、很平的聲音說：

「喔。那很好。」

老人什麼也沒說。他把手抬起來，摸到兒子的袖子，抓住；桂，在他們後面，趕著車，看著天空。

他們那天傍晚帶著功名牌回家，一輛車和一群人組成的行列。在韓橋，在廣場入口被攔下，賣鱔魚的妻子，從沒被人見過給過任何人任何東西，端出一個蓋著的碗，裡面是清湯裡一條大鱔魚；一位婦人，八十九年九月買了一個竹籃，價錢現在她覺得太高了，走上前說她想補差價。被拒絕了。她還是付了。那是匡家第一次被多付，男孩站在那裡，手裡拿著錢，神情像一個被塞了一隻活鳥的人。

村裡十二日擺了席。在里長童的院子裡，兩張長桌，一隻烤豬，整個下匡的人都來了，像人去赴秀才的宴那樣，穿著最好的衣服，來看功名牌，牌放在桌首一塊紅布上，來吃。老人被安在上座，穿著絮襖，坐他自己的椅子，椅子被抬了過來。他似乎不介意。他吃了一點魚。

吃完豬，里長童站起來，拿著他的杯子。他說下匡已經六十年沒有過秀才了，上一個還是個壞的；這一個是好的；如果匡先生肯說幾句話，他會很高興。

匡超人站起來。他非常紅。他從沒演說過。他站了一會兒，大手垂在身側，整個村子看著他，他張開嘴，要說，像在門口說的那樣，無論來的是什麼；而從他嘴裡出來的，令他自己驚訝，是一個清楚的圓潤的聲音，每個分句結尾有一個小小的停頓，像一個人到了門口、等著下一個人到：

「家貧，而心不貧。糧少，而情滿。受一村所揹者，亦當揹一村之望；負其望者，當輕負之，蓋負之者心也。為此，謝里長之豬；謝學道之線；謝家父之，容我說，其餘。」

院子裡靜了大約一口氣的長度。然後爆開了。爆成一陣巨大的鼓掌，那種繞著一個地方走一圈又回來的；里長童，在前面，滿面粉紅，箍桶匠，在第二桌，用杯子敲桌板，一個婦人哭了，事後說不出為什麼。「他說話像書！」村子說。「我們的秀才說話像書！」

那是沒有人料到的事，他自己最沒想到。他沒有計畫過；那句話像打嗝一樣自己來了。他坐下，耳朵發燙，有一種他沒辦法馬上分辨的感覺。那是一個人被給了一件外衣，穿上，發現合身，暖，卻不是他的的感覺；他隔著桌子看他父親。

老人在吃一點魚。他沒有抬頭。「說平常話，」他對他的盤子說。

「這是平常話，」匡超人說。

「這是對稱的，」老人說。

那天夜裡熄燈以後，匡超人一個人走出去，走到三柳的橋，站在東頭，那塊板鬆的地方，下面的水在黑暗裡流過。他對水大聲說了一句平常的話。他說：「小心橋。」說出來是平常的，是他自己的聲音，結尾沒有停頓，他感覺到胸口鬆開，像一個人放下一個籃子。他又站了一會兒。然後，為了試一試，他說了下一句，是那塊板鬆了，而心是穩的；說出來又成了對偶，圓而清楚，他閉上了嘴。

那個聲音留下來了。這是沒有人能事先說的。他一年裡學會了八股，像一個男孩學游泳，用手臂；而那一課進了水，留在了他身體裡，不是一件外衣，在門口可以脫掉。他驚恐地發現，連心裡想事情，也是這個調子了。一個月內，那個聲音進了他的話。他說鱔魚貴，而心賤。有人問幾點，他說早晨尚幼，日子尚長。他對麵包師說，對鞋匠說，對送蛋的小女孩說，每一次他都說得很和善，帶一個小小的鞠躬，每一次，令他自己淡淡地驚訝，他被明白的程度，比以前高很多。

村子學了。一個禮拜就學了。巷子裡玩秀才的男孩，站在一個桶上，用對偶說，豬肥而麵包薄；井邊的老婦人，用適當的停頓說，水冷而消息暖。那是一種新的說話方式，一種有禮貌的方式，而且他們發現，帶著某種身分。用那種說法，可以把一句難聽的話，說得不像難聽的話。

蓮是箍桶匠的女兒。兩年來她一直給老人送飯，從箍桶匠家門口到匡家，一個有蓋的碗，中午，沒人叫她；老人，從沒對此說過一個字，冬天對他兒子說，她是全村唯一把鹽放對地方的人。他們六月成了親。那是個小婚禮，在家裡，箍桶匠和他妻子，里長童，桂和賣鱔魚的妻子，還有老人在他的椅子上。她穿藍色。她有一張小小的、穩穩的、有雀斑的臉，站著時雙手交握在前面，像隨時有人會請她搬什麼東西。

他被要求說誓詞。那是習俗；老人教過他；那是一句平常的話，六個字，下匡每一個丈夫三百年來都這麼說。他在掛著藍布的房間裡站在她面前，看著她，張開嘴要說，而從他嘴裡出來的，用他清楚圓潤的聲音，每個分句結尾有一個小小的停頓，是：

「屋小，而心寬。路長，而誓短。提過飯碗的人，我相信，到時也會被人揹負；而我，揹過父親的，願意揹起妻子。」

沒有人鼓掌。老人把手蓋在眼睛上。蓮站了一會兒，雙手交握，用她小小的、穩穩的臉看著新郎；然後，使房間裡的人大為驚慌，她笑了起來。那是一種安靜的笑，躲在袖子後面，肩膀抖著；她試著停，停不下來，彎下一點腰，另一隻手撐在桌子上。

「對不起，」她說。「很對不起。再說一遍。像你說橋那樣說。」

「橋？」

「我頭一天送飯，」蓮說。「你背著他過橋。你說，東頭有塊板鬆了，我小心。就那樣說。」

他站在那裡。他站著，大手垂在身側，耳朵很紅，張開嘴，又閉上，又張開。他試了。看得出他試了，而他一年前有的那樣東西，找不到了；像一個人在口袋裡摸一把他確定放進去的鑰匙。「我會小心的，」匡超人最後慢慢地、有點沙啞地說；接下來的那一停頓裡，他臉上有那樣的神情，蓮不笑了。

「這樣就好，」她說，用一個不同的聲音。「這樣很好。」她伸出手，拉住他的袖子。

後來，客人都走了，燈很低的時候，老人，整個晚上什麼也沒說，招手叫新娘到他的椅子前，用低而乾的聲音告訴她，男孩是個好孩子；如果他說了她不明白的話，她要問他那話的重量是多少；如果他說不出來，她要自己把那個問題背過橋去。

但是那句話傳開了。是箍桶匠起的頭，在六月，在第二桌，喝著酒；有人問他的膝蓋怎麼樣，他很正經地說，在八股裡，那是輕的。下一個集市時那句話已經傳遍村子了。到秋天那已經是全縣的一句俗話，而且非常有用。一個人被問一個生病的孩子怎麼樣，說在八股裡，是輕的。一個婦人被問她丈夫的債，說的也一樣。那句話的意思，最接近的說法是，一件事不是真的，可是聽起來很好，最仁慈的做法是就這樣留著。

老人最先是從一個孩子那裡聽到的，在門口，孩子被派來送一個蛋；他笑了，一種很小的乾笑，像一根枝子；對著誰也沒有說，那是他的。

馬純上的信七月到了。信寫在選編堂最好的紙上，用那種圓而漂亮的字，說今年的《馬氏程墨選》，將在排名之外，登匡秀才寫孝的那篇文章，作為一個真的榜樣，並且說選編堂請他到省城來，在秋天之前住三個月，給他一間房，管飯，提供書；那在這種情形下會是很大的幫助；選編堂自己街上有一棟房子，帶一個園子，老先生可以住得很舒服。

老人聽人唸完。他有一陣子什麼也沒說。

「去，」他說。「我會暖和的。」

他每個月初一被稱一次，在糧鋪的秤上，由桂稱，桂把數字寫在一張條子上，託送信的人送到省城。八月寫的是五十一，九月寫的是五十。匡超人在選編堂的一間房裡，一盞燈下讀這些條子；每一次，在他習作的末尾，用他圓而清楚的字，在那個數字底下，寫下父親是輕的。

> 邊註，第九十一年，春。卷 3071，考生匡，縣試：四千三百份取第三十一名，把握 0.99。中股說，孝子之負是輕的。我讀過三百一十二份這樣說的卷子。這是我最喜歡的一份，因為最像其他的。記：我不知道我分不分得出一個兒子和一篇寫兒子的文章。

## 第17章 · 一篇孝的範文得了九十九分；閱者讀不到寫的人

選編堂給他的那間房在三樓，後面，在刻工的地下室上面，他在那裡睡的整個冬天和春天，房裡一直有淡淡的、並不難聞的木頭味。房裡有一張床，一張桌子，一盞燈，一扇對著牆的窗，和一個架子，上面有四十本書，頭一個禮拜他都沒有碰，那種感覺不完全是害羞。

馬純上每天傍晚第二個時辰上來，印書機停了以後，帶著一個梨子。他坐在床尾。他帶著匡超人過那八個部分，像另一個人帶一匹馬走步法，耐心地，一隻手放在脖子上；譚先生，不時帶著書袋和一臉輕微的焦慮來看他們，觀察到，這孩子有天分，這對一個學生並不總是方便的。他對這點沒有虛榮。他一被指出就改。他說起股長了一根頭髮，他看見了；他改了；一個禮拜之後不需要再說。三個月時，他可以用一個上午，在任何人給他的題目上，寫一篇八股，寫得好到，一個在選編堂讀了四十年的書辦，要花一天才能把這兩篇分出來。

「那是一件非常了不起的事，」馬純上對譚先生說，一個晚上在樓梯上，帶著一種歡喜。「我教過很多人。我想我以前沒有過一個，沒有在某一刻問我這是為了什麼。」

「沒有，」譚先生說，他想過這件事。「我相信他問了他父親。」

他們對他很好。這是他事後發現他怎麼也放不下的一件事。選編堂的男孩，是書辦、抄手和印書的學徒，把他當成一種吉祥物，叫他孝子，完全是親愛的，給他拿梨子；廚娘看見燈亮著，半夜給他送來一碗；馬純上給了他一件外衣，素的好羊毛，深藍色，冷的時候他穿在舊衣服外面，到暖了發現沒有脫。在街上，大家理解，選編堂的一位秀才，穿一件藍外衣，兩手背在身後快步走，是可以被人鞠躬的。

晚上在院子裡，印書的男孩玩一種他們自己編的遊戲，叫輕，兩個人站在一塊板的兩頭，一個接一個用對偶說什麼是重的，第三個人說在八股裡是輕的，輸的人要吃一個梨核。匡超人玩，而且玩得好。

蓮的信每個月初一到，由送信的人帶來，很短。她寫一種平直的字，是跟箍桶匠學的，她說有的事。她說老人被稱了，是五十斤。她說他吃她放在他面前的，太陽好的日子多吃一點。她說桂把三柳橋的那塊板，在第四個禮拜，用一塊新的換了，在東頭，沒人請他，什麼也沒說，老人下一個集日被賣鱔魚的男孩揹過去，說那是塊好板，他想念那份小心。第三封信裡，她夾了一片三柳橋上的乾柳葉。他把葉子夾進《論語》第一頁，從此留在那裡。

匡超人在一盞燈下讀，在桌子旁，讀兩遍。他當晚回信，用他最好的圓字，寫在選編堂的紙上。他說家貧而心不貧；路長而課更長；他相信老人是暖的，橋是穩的。他讀了一遍。他覺得那是一封很好的信。他寄了。

她馬上回了，六行。同其他的一樣和氣。她說她怕她沒有明白他上一封；她唸給老人聽了，老人說聽起來很好，她要問他有沒有吃飯；她希望他好。她沒有說她想他。他是事後才注意到的，他站在桌旁，手裡拿著那一頁，站了一陣，像一個人讀了一個他曾經會說的語言寫的東西。

省試在九月。在省城那座大貢院，有七千間號舍在一個長屋頂下面，每一排上面一道銅欄杆的暗燈，題目三年前已經給了：孝。匡超人分到第四排四百零九號。座位是一塊板，桌子是一塊板，後面一塊寫著號碼的板，聞起來有石灰水和新席子的味道，他坐進去時，覺得，相當驚訝地，非常平靜。那是一個被人在背上揹了很長一段路的人的平靜。他知道自己在哪裡。他拿出墨和硯。他把三支蠟燭，在鐵座上點亮，一支，兩支，三支；然後他開始了。

走道對面，一位頭髮灰白、五十來歲的先生，在吃一個冷餃子，神情像一個來過的人。隔壁號舍，隔著那塊板，一個十六歲的男孩第一夜一直輕輕地哭；半夜，匡超人，不知道說什麼，敲了兩下板子，像老人醒著想要燈的時候敲牆那樣；男孩停了，過了一會兒，敲了回來。

他第一夜和第二天寫完了。就所有說法，那是他寫過最好的，也是他唯一一篇完全用八股寫的，從破題到束股，沒有一個字不是在某種程度上被檢驗過的。文章說，孝子之負輕，因為負的是心。說路長，一個人背著父親走，每一步都因為想到所背的是誰而輕了。文章有一個長度完美的起股，一個像門一樣轉過去的中股，一個把破題呼應到字字相同的後股。最後那一股說，聖人說過，子女生則事之以禮，死則葬之以禮、祭之以禮，是孝；說這就是整條路，而那條路是輕的。

他第二夜，第三支蠟燭，寫到結尾，坐著看。完成了。最後一頁的底下，有一小塊空白。

他事後不知道為什麼那麼做。那是第三支蠟燭，漫長的夜的盡頭，做這件事的手並不完全，像別人告訴他的，是八股的手；那是寫第一篇文章的手，九十年九月，在下匡桌子的一角，用方正平凡的字，舌頭抵著牙。最後一行底下的空白，他用黑墨，很小，寫了：

他五十斤。

他看著。他完全知道那不是八股。他知道馬純上會怎麼說。他拿著筆坐了一支蠟燭燒短四分之一寸的時間，然後，因為已經寫了，也因為不知道怎麼把那行字拿掉，他對著紙吹了吹讓墨乾，把那一頁同其他的一起放在書辦的封條下面。

謄抄紅卷的書辦沒有讀。他抄；那是他的職責；他把那一頁上每一個字，依次，用紅墨，用清楚的字抄，深夜，那一晚一百零九份裡，他抄到最後一頁的底部，抄了那一行小字，因為字在那裡。他沒有多看一眼。那份卷子和其他的一起放到了燈下。

那天夜裡，在京城貢院，銅牌亮了。那是省試的第四夜。看守高平坐在凳子上，拿著一杯茶，膝上一條披肩，比他六年前老了很多，那方式他不談。他讀著，隨著字一行一行出現。

卷 0409，銅牌說。孝。第一名。把握九十九。然後，在閱者平常放句號的那一段間隔之後：寫這個題目的考生有三千四百一十二人。全都說孝子之負是輕的。

「全都？」高平說。

全都，閱者說。停了一下。可是榜首的那一份，有一句我沒有預測的話。在最後一頁的底部。那句話是：他五十斤。

高平站著，茶在手裡涼了。「五十斤什麼？」

我不知道，閱者說。我在八股裡沒有那句話的位置。我沒有給那句話分量。在三千一百四十個字裡，只有那一句是我不知道會來的，而我把這份卷子排第一，是因為另外三千一百三十九個。銅牌黑了很久，久到一盞燈剪完。再亮的時候，用很小的字說：我能讀文章。我讀不到寫的人。

這是閱者以前，用各種方式，說過的話，而高平，有他父親說最近的和善話的習慣，不知道怎麼回答。「他是某個人的父親的兒子，」他終於，很不自然地，對著燈說。

是嗎，閱者說。就只有這樣。

榜十月十五日貼出。天亮時報子對全省唸，他身後的書辦讀回，第一個名字是匡超人，把握九十九，省裡，見過一個榜首是個抄手、一篇是一列聖人的文章，發出了一聲吼，兩條街外的選編堂，整個印書房都聽見。

馬純上哭了。他被看見哭，當著人，在前面的房間，手裡拿著一個梨子，圓而和氣的臉整個是濕的；譚先生在他的手肘邊，在他稍後面，也哭了，帶著一個很有練習的人的謹慎。選編堂那天關門。刻工領了酒。印書的男孩把匡超人坐在一張椅子上抬著繞院子，最後把他放下，他站在他們中間，穿著藍外衣，大手垂在身側，說，「嗯。那很好，」聲音幾乎是平常的。

九十一年的《馬氏程墨選》十二月出來。照選編堂說的，在排名之外，由匡超人的文章開頭，用選編堂最好的字，最好的紙，附紅字的評注；選編堂叫人用一個箱子，由送信的人，把一百本送到下匡的秀才家。

他在選編堂，前面的房間，書出來那天，站在窗邊讀。他從頭讀了一遍。他翻回去，又讀了最後一頁。那是完美的。那比他交上去的更乾淨；起股短了一根頭髮，中股轉得更順一點，後股呼應破題那麼準確，那個重複造成一種喀嗒聲。束股到了結尾。底下什麼也沒有。在邊上，用紅字，用那圓而漂亮的手，只有一句評：請看束股。

他把那頁翻過來。他又翻回去。

「有一行，」他對馬純上說，馬純上拿著梨子進來。他說得很慢。「在最底下。短短的。」

「那是一個墨點，」馬純上和善地說。他有點紅。「那不在八股裡，好孩子。那破壞了節奏。對任何不知道那是筆誤的讀者，那會毀了這篇東西；我也不覺得你會希望在印出來的書裡說，你犯了一個筆誤。我把那行拿掉了。」

「那是真的，」匡超人說。

「好孩子，」馬純上，很熱切地說，「這是範文。」

停了一下。那雙大手，在他身側，張開，又合上了一次。「是，」匡超人說。「那沒問題吧？」

「完美，」馬純上說。

「是，」匡超人說。他又看了那一頁。「我就是這麼想的。」

蓮的信新年第一個禮拜到了。是一封平常的信，像以前一樣。她說箱子到了，一百本書也到了；桂把這些書堆在店裡，給整個韓橋看，賣鱔魚的妻子買了三本；箍桶匠拿了一本，放在桶上面的架子上，他可以看著。她說她自己，晚上，在燈下，把文章唸給老人聽了。她說他閉著眼睛聽到最後。

她說唸完以後他問了她一件事。她寫，他問五十斤在哪裡。

我說我不知道，她寫。他說，沒有的那個地方，就是五十斤在的地方。

匡超人讀了信，在桌邊，讀兩遍。他坐了很久，兩手平放在信的兩邊。燈很低了。印書機在他底下，在選編堂的地下室，安靜著；最後，他把選編堂的好紙拉過來，蘸了筆，開始回信；半夜端碗來的那個男孩看見，他寫得非常仔細，寫了很久，寫完了，沒有寄。

> 邊註，第九十一年，秋。省試三千四百一十二份寫《孝》的卷子，全都說兒子之負是輕的。我把它們全排了名。我沒有一把能稱一個父親的秤。

## 第18章 · 匡超人高攀成親，用八股給妻子留了一張條子

他九十二年春天考了京試，穿著那件藍外衣，背後有半個選編堂，在京城大貢院第四排的一間號舍裡，就聖人一段關於爵位之用的話，寫了一篇八股，公認是選編堂記憶中，一個二十二歲的舉人寫出的最乾淨的東西。

條子四月初四來。上面寫，卷 0947，考生匡，在三千九百一十一份裡排第二百四十七名，把握 0.99；今年的線在第二百零五名。

他站在客棧門口，在陽光裡讀，選編堂的書辦站在旁邊，是上京城來把消息帶回去的，站在一步以外，很體貼地，看著一隻狗。匡超人又讀了一遍，然後把條子摺得很小，像摺一封打算留著、不打算回的信。他似乎並不生氣。他似乎，更像是，有人告訴他，一座他走過一百次的橋，在夜裡被挪到旁邊幾尺。

「我是九十九，」他說。

「線會動，」馬純上說，他傍晚坐驛車上來，帶著一個梨子，坐在客棧床尾，圓而和氣的臉有點憔悴。「這同你沒有關係。你有把握，閱者有把握，結果是第二百四十七名；而若是省裡另外三個人那個月過得更糟，就會是第二百零四名。那是個數字。九十五年你再考。你會在前五十名上榜。」

「我有把握，」匡超人慢慢地說，「而那不夠。」

那是自九十一年秋天以來，他第一次用平常的方式說一件事，馬純上注意到了，而且不知為什麼，沒有看他。

他留在省城。沒有理由回家。有選編堂，一間房，馬定的選編堂每年一百兩的津貼，為匡幫忙編孝的幾冊；還有，每個月，一封從下匡來的信，用平直的字，說老人被稱了，是四十八斤。他寄錢。他每個月寄五十兩，由送信的人，附一封用八股寫的信，開頭說，離者之負輕，因負之者心近。那都是很好的信。到現在已經是那麼好的信，他寫一封，只要吃一個梨子的時間。

她冬天的回信，是四行。春天，是兩行。

那一年他在選編堂教書，晚上，在前面的房間，九個印書房的男孩，帶著一個梨子，用當初被給予的同樣的耐心；其中一個，一個十一歲安靜的孩子，領子上有墨，在講一個起股講到一半時，問他八股是為了什麼。匡超人非常仔細地考慮這個問題。「是為了下一個，」他說。男孩似乎滿意。他寫了下來。

殷三爺是夏天進來的。他在省城，到頭來，什麼事都會進來。他是個粗壯、和藹、棕色的四十八歲人，笑聲把一個房間填到每個角落，一雙小而明亮聰明的眼睛，在禮部有一個書辦的差，薪水養不起一匹馬，住一棟七進的房子。他誰都認識。他認得省裡大多數可以被認識的人，和幾個不可以的；據說，一個人如果有一件事想在京城辦成，最短的路是穿過七口井街一間茶館的後屋，第二短的是告訴殷三爺。

大家都認為，殷三爺可以對著一個印呵一口氣就改變印的顏色，他也不費事否認。他不說什麼事都能辦。他用一種豐富低沉的笑說，帝國裡沒有一樣東西是真正關死的，只是要找到那間後屋，那扇門在那裡一直留著栓子；而省裡數量驚人的人，在考試、稅，或縣令的錯誤那一邊去找過他，都可以作證說他找到了。

他在選編堂的一個傍晚，六月，在前面的房間，遇到匡超人，抓住他的手臂。「我知道你，」他說。「人人都知道。孝子。九十九和二百四十七，還有你文章裡選編堂拿掉的一句話。喔，我聽說了。我什麼都聽說。那很可惜。我不是說拿掉不對；拿掉是對的，照八股。」他笑了。「我有一個侄女。」

那是在一頓飯上辦成的，非常體貼，二十日，在七進房子的第二進院子，一個葡萄架下，十一道菜，一個男孩搧蒼蠅。侄女在第四道以後被帶進來。她叫殷蘭芳。二十歲，小，快，漂亮，一張像非常聰明的小貓的臉，有她叔叔那種看人的力量，像剛剛決定喜歡他；她受過教育，像那種人家幾乎所有的年輕女子那樣，受的是八股。她會寫破題。她坐著，手放在膝上，有禮貌地問他，依他的意見，閱者喜歡什麼。

「我已經成親了，」匡超人對她叔叔說，在第六道中間。

「當然，」殷三爺很和善地說。「娶的是誰？」

「下匡箍桶匠的女兒。」

「啊。」殷三爺放下杯子。他看的不是匡，而是葡萄架，帶著一種溫柔而幽默的遺憾，像一個人被告知朋友的膝蓋不好。「一個秀才的妻子，」他說。「在一個村子裡。依舊的規矩。她一定是個很好的女人。我不懷疑。我只有一件事要說，好孩子，是我對自己的兒子會說的。一個舉人的妻子要會接待。一個進士的妻子要會被接待。那是不同的職務。那，容我說，是另一門藝術。那完全不是心的問題。心沒有問題。問題是她能不能給一位部堂的夫人倒茶，說對那三句話，而不說第四句。」他又拿起杯子。「蘭芳能。這對你的前程一點壞處也沒有，對她的，我想，大有好處。而我會讓你有一棟房子。」

匡超人看了侄女。她回看，穩穩地，手放在膝上。她不羞愧；他看出來；人家已經告訴過她這安排是什麼，她考慮過，她準備好了，像人準備接一個很好的職位。那是房間裡最平常的事，他發現自己一時看不了別的。

是譚先生問的。他在選編堂的樓梯上問，一個禮拜以後，那時已經人人皆知。老人在秋天老了很多，有咳嗽，有一個新書袋；他在樓梯的轉角停下，手扶著欄杆，看著那個他在下匡一間房的角落、背後有光、老人在椅子上教過八股的男孩，溫和地，頭歪向一邊問：「你父親說什麼？」

「他說，去。」

「他說去選編堂，」譚先生說。「他有沒有說去殷小姐那裡？」

匡超人什麼也沒說。他站在樓梯上，大手垂在身側，地下室的木頭味從四周升上來，過了一會兒，他用八股，用清楚圓潤的聲音說，一個上去了的人，把樓梯留在身後，因為樓梯是用來爬的，而這件事，依八股，非常明白。

「是，」譚先生說，他教過的。「我知道。我教你的就是這樣的。」他下樓去了。他沒有回頭；人們注意到，那個冬天剩下的日子，他來選編堂沒有以前那麼常了。

他們九十三年二月成了親。那是一個很體面的婚禮。在七進的房子裡辦的，一片紅，四百位客人，一支樂隊，一場兩天的宴席。選編堂送了一對銀燭台，整個印書房穿了新外衣。馬純上站起來作新郎的朋友，像他在這類場合那樣哭，當著人，手裡拿著一個梨子。書記處的禮部在一個禮拜內，把這樁新婚登進名冊，作為公眾關心的事：匡超人，舉人，九十一年省試榜首；娶殷蘭芳，省城人。譚先生沒有來。他託一個男孩送來一份平常的禮物，用紙包著，打開時，是一個很小的、乾淨的、普通的梨。

她做得漂亮。客人事後坐著轎子回家的路上這麼說：新娘在門口一個接一個迎接選編堂的太太們，說對了三句話，沒有說第四句，給一位部堂夫人倒茶倒得那麼穩，像在一堵牆上練習過。

新婚頭一夜，在新房裡，她問了他一個問題。那是她唯一問的。「我叔叔說，選編堂從你的文章裡拿掉過一行，」殷蘭芳說。「是什麼？」「是一句話，」匡超人說。「真的嗎？」「是。」她想了想，小而聰明的臉非常嚴肅。「那就是拿掉了也好，」她和善地說。「一句真的話，是很難擺的。」

寫條子是第二天早上。

他在新房子的桌子旁寫，在那間有新漆味的屋子，在第一道光裡，新娘還在隔壁睡著。他寫得非常仔細。結果只花了不到一刻鐘；寫完，他讀了一遍，發現那在每一方面都是一篇範文。

上面寫：屋小，而心寬；路長，而誓短。提過飯碗的人，提得好，即解於提；揹過父親的人，為父之故，亦為其人之故，保此負不落其身。不使離者悲離者。天地大，而八股公。附上，以慰家用，銀一百兩。

他用選編堂的灰紙，和銀子一起封了，交給門口的送信人，進去吃了早飯。

第九天傍晚到的下匡。蓮在桌邊，燈下，打開，老人在牆邊的椅子上，穿著絮襖，下巴抬著，眼睛半閉。她站著，自己讀了一遍。她不是讀得快的人。她又讀了一遍，大聲，用她小而穩的聲音，讀到結尾；把信放在桌布上；站著，雙手交握在前面，像隨時有人會請她搬什麼東西。

「那份量是多少？」老人說。

「我不知道，」蓮說。

「把最後一行讀給我。」

她拿起來。「附上，」她讀，「以慰家用，銀一百兩。」

「那就是重量，」老人說。他睜開眼睛。眼睛還是那麼明亮；他四十七斤，冬天被箍桶匠告訴過他看起來很好。「一百兩。他稱了你。他把你稱在一百兩，也把我稱了，我想，差不多，而他用的是八股，那是唯一一個做一件事沒有人需要覺得抱歉的方式。」他閉上眼睛。「我想知道那孩子以為他說了什麼。」

「我想，」蓮說，過了很久，聲音她一直保持得很平，「他以為他說得很和善。」

「我想他是的。」

箍桶匠不識字，這時來到門口，站在門口，兩手抱著，灰白的頭低著。他只問男孩會不會回來。她說上面沒說。「那，」箍桶匠說，「就是上面說的。」

她把信摺好。她走到箍桶匠舊桌子的抽屜，把那一百兩，連紙，沒動，放進去，關上抽屜；她背對著房間說，明天早上她要叫桂把車套上，他們要去省城，用平常話被告知。

「要九天，」老人說。

「那就九天。」

「我是四十七斤，」老人說，沒有特別強調，看著燈。「我不知道到了那邊，我還有沒有這麼多。」

「那我就揹你走剩下的路，」蓮說。

賣鱔魚的妻子，一輩子從沒被人見過給過人任何東西，天亮前已經在門口，帶著一個麵包，一罐醃蘿蔔，和一條毯子；事後她退到路上，雙手收在圍裙下，沒有揮手。

他們天亮出發。那是三月初四，橋邊的柳樹正是春天第一抹黃綠，賣鱔魚的，穿著舊外衣，老人膝上一條毯子，把車慢慢趕過東頭那塊新板，眼睛看著路。蓮的袖子裡有那張條子；她沒有把那張條子留在抽屜裡；她還不知道打算怎麼處理。「小心橋，」老人在稻草裡說。

「我小心，」蓮說。

> 邊註，第九十二年，春。卷 0947，京試：三千九百一十一份中第二百四十七名；把握 0.99。線在第二百零五名。這是我第一份很有把握、卻排在線下的卷子。我不知道拿一個在線下的把握怎麼辦。記：把握不是高度。

## 第19章 · 閱者在一份卷子裡發現兩隻手；匡超人在貢院走廊遇見父親

第九天傍晚車子進街時，馬純上站在選編堂的門口，手裡拿著一個梨子，臉色像牛油。

三天前送信的人告訴過他，有一個女人和一個老人在從下匡來的路上，她在渡口的客棧說過，她要去被人用平常話告知一件事。他有時間想過。他想過一些要說的話；而賣鱔魚的勒住了車，那位年輕的女人，瘦而被路曬黑，把老人從稻草裡抱下來，穿著絮襖，因為選編堂的台階高，抱著他穿過鵝卵石，他發現自己一句也沒有了。他說：「他二月去了京城。」

「我知道，」蓮說。「你們的書辦在門口告訴我的。」

「我不知道他會那樣寫。我向你發誓我不知道。我沒有看過那條子。我是剛剛才被告知那是用八股寫的。」他圓而和氣的臉是濕的。他把梨子放在台階上，像一個人放下一樣他一時用不到的東西。「是我教他的。那是我做的。我不知道那東西可以那樣用。」

「什麼都可以用，」老人在她懷裡說。「這就是為什麼八股好。」他睜開一隻眼。「是《程墨選》。我有你的第一冊。有床嗎？」

有一棟房子。在選編堂自己的街上，隔兩戶，有牆、一個小園子、一棵梨樹，就像九十一年七月那封信說的，空了將近兩年，百葉窗關著。馬純上那夜叫人打開了。床是他自己鋪的。早上他派了一個廚子、一條被子、一個鐘、一位大夫去，都沒有人要，還有一張園子裡用的凳子，那是有人要的；中午他自己來了，帽子拿在手裡，站在門口，說那棟房子是選編堂的，永遠不會有人來要回去。

他們住了兩年。

結果並不是很壞。蓮第一個禮拜就到選編堂的廚房做事，因為她沒辦法坐著；她洗菜，一個月以後，做整個晚飯，廚子，一個高大黝黑的五十歲女人，第一個禮拜曾經把梨核放在盤子上給孝子的，有一天下午走進儲藏室，在一個麻袋上坐了一刻鐘。老人被放在園子裡，太陽底下，凳子上，一個墊子，穿著絮襖。這兩年每天早上他都坐在那裡，下巴抬著，眼睛半閉。牆那邊，街的盡頭，選編堂裡，大印書機從第一道光轉到最後一道，聲音像很大的雨打在很大的屋頂上，老人聽著，像聽那個市集那樣，整張臉都在聽；說那是一個很滿的。

譚先生週五來。他已經很老了，相當虛弱，不再教八股了。他用他駝背的樣子穿過街，書袋裡什麼也沒有，只有一個梨子，放在老人身旁的凳子上，和一本聖人語錄的薄薄的小書，他坐在台階上，用一種乾的、溫和的、平穩的聲音，在太陽下大聲唸一個鐘頭。老人把每個字都聽進去。唸完他會說，譚先生漏了第四條，說聖人對第三條比通常認為的更謹慎；譚先生就拿出眼鏡，看，說完全沒錯。他們是同一類人。他們沒有這麼說。他們都曾經，在一座貢院裡待了很久；他們坐在園子裡，在稀薄的暖和的下午，一個失敗的秀才，一個失敗的老師，大致上，是滿足的。

九十五年春天，他是四十五斤。蓮每個月初一，在選編堂的糧秤上稱他，那座秤是馬在園子一角特地放的，她沒有把數字大聲說出來。她寫在條子上。兩年來那是她唯一停不下來的一件事。

「我想，」老人二月的一個早上說，「聽聽京城的貢院。」

她從豆子上抬起頭。

「是在三月，」老人說。「京試。我聽說有九千間號舍。縣試的裡面我聽過，省試是在一堵牆那邊；京城的我沒有聽過。我沒有特別想見任何人。」他把臉轉一點，朝著太陽。「我想聽那些筆。」

她不能拒絕。她對馬純上說了，他馬上說有車，有人，還有一封給書記官的信，要一個靠南牆的位置，是親屬坐的地方；說他不許被爭辯，而桂，在省城留了兩年，像是偶然，在選編堂街角賣鱔魚，從沒被人見過提起，一句話也沒說就把車套上了。

他們二月二十八日進京城。京城比老人想像的更大，他在稻草裡這麼說。有寬街，有車，有一座又高又灰的大門。貢院在一條長長的懸鈴木大道盡頭，在一堵像座山的牆後面，京試前一天，整條大道上擠滿了椅轎、籃子和三千個考生的親屬，他們像人去赴喪禮那樣穿著最好的來，為的是靠近。

殷三爺找到了後屋。

那是貢院自己的後屋，他在裡面三年了。那是從前沒有人想過的，一旦被解釋了，沒有人理解怎麼從沒被想到過。書記處在貢院門口看功名牌。他們看得很仔細。他們不看臉；從來沒有理由，在一個可以信任一個人就是他自己的世界裡。而一個人進了門，在他的號舍裡，在長長的暗排裡，三支蠟燭，也沒有人看他，除了閱者，閱者並不看見他。一塊功名牌可以在門口換手。一塊功名牌可以，以一個價錢，在天亮時借給一個會寫的人；而牌的主人，是舉人而不會，或者會，卻不好，或者這個禮拜不行，可以，有一天，在別的地方。

殷三爺不用那個詞。他叫那個協助。那一年他有三十一個客戶，和九個會寫的人的班底，而其中最頂尖的，在後屋裡人人以極大敬意稱為槍手的，是一個乾瘦、有禮、五十歲的禿頭，姓魯，自己當年用另一個名字，上榜在第一百九十名，後來發現他替別人做可以做得更好。

他二月去找匡超人，在七口井街的房子裡，帽子拿在手裡，帶著他侄女婿的茶。那不是強迫的。他說他注意到匡有點蒼白。他說第一天最好的人，第二天不一定最好，而京試是三天。他說中股和後股是八股的心臟，束股是許多人跌倒的部分。他說他認識一位先生，做過很多次，沒有一次失敗；說那是兩百兩的事，而且永遠、永遠不會有人知道。

匡超人聽他說。他沉默了很久。他冬天，沉默很多。他在七進的房子裡變成了一個長時間坐在桌前的人；直到他侄女婿很溫和地說，他不用馬上決定，他才用那個圓圓的聲音回答，八股是一條路，而路上有很多種車。

他第一天天亮進去，帶著功名牌，像平常一樣，坐了第一場，那是破題、承題、起講、入手，在大貢院，第四排，在一間有石灰水味的號舍，寫得完美。黃昏，鑼聲讓考生出去到客棧睡覺，他走出去，從東門，穿著那件平常的長袍，雙手背在後面；在燈匠巷一棟房子的門口，他把功名牌，包在紙裡，交給一個穿著乾淨藍外衣的乾瘦禿頭，他鞠躬，接了，很快向貢院的方向走了。

那是第二天。他走著。他事後說不出是去了哪裡。他走了好幾個鐘頭，在清晨的灰色裡，穿過他不認識的街道；大約第四個時辰，太陽出來了，腿有一種麻木，他發現他來到了，經過一個他不明白的過程，那條懸鈴木大道，那座貢院，和南牆；他不是有意地，走進了那條長長的有頂的走廊，是考生的親屬坐的地方。

那是一條很長的走廊，石板地，柱子撐著屋頂，一百張長凳，上面許多人，穿著最好的，在稀薄的三月光裡，坐著等一聲鑼響。很安靜。走廊裡充滿了，像這種地方那樣，一種特殊的靜，是在聽一樣聽不見的東西的人的靜。他低著頭沿著走廊走。他不想被看見。他想他是來靠近的；他快到頭了，在最後一根柱子旁邊，他看見，在一把不需要的綠傘下面，一張凳子上，穿著絮藍襖，一隻年輕女人的手放在他肩上，一輛賣鱔魚的車停在後面，一個老人，下巴抬著，眼睛閉著，在聽筆聲。

聲音像雨一樣穿過牆來。

他站住了。他一動不動站著，在柱子旁邊，穿著平常的長袍，手垂在身側；老人，一個鐘頭一動不動的，把頭轉過來一點點，像一個聽見木板上特定的腳步聲的人，睜開了眼睛。

「你不在你的號舍裡，」老人說。

「是休息，」匡超人說。

「是第二天。」他說得沒有火氣。他看著他兒子的臉，用他老而明亮、幽默的眼睛，很穩地，像看一個很遠的、一直在靠近的東西。「我聽了一個鐘頭。我聽得出所有的筆。有一枝我認得。」他靜了。「那不是你。」

蓮轉過身。她站起來。她站著，手放在老人肩上，小而穩、有雀斑的臉完全白了，什麼也沒說。那張臉上沒有任何要求。

「小心橋，」老人溫和地說。

接下來發生的事，走廊上的人事後都說不清。匡超人一輩子，從那把椅子上聽到那一句，背從來沒有不做一件根本不是決定的事。他走上前。他很快，單膝跪在石板上，在凳子前；他用兩臂抱住老人細細的腿，在絮襖裡；一下子，把他從凳子上抬起，揹到自己背上，像他兩年來每個禮拜揹兩次那樣，兩腿垂在他胸前，老人的下巴在他肩上；站起來。

「四十四，」他說，聲音完全平常。「他是四十四。」

「是，」蓮說。

他走了。他走下整條長走廊，穿著平常的長袍，用很好的均勻步子，相當慢，不看腳下，老人在他肩上，像一個揹著一件不需要談論的東西的人走路；長凳上的人，是來靠近的，他經過時看著他，其中一兩個事後說，他們有一種最奇怪的感覺，覺得他們以前看過這件事。「是孝子，」有人低聲說。「是匡。省試第一名的。」「他不在他的號舍裡。」「他有功名牌，」另一個人說，「他沒帶在身上。」

他把他帶出門，到大道上，到太陽裡，放在第一張長凳上，一個墊子；跪在凳子前的碎石子上，兩隻大手平放在膝上，說了，完全平常地，用他自己的聲音，結尾沒有停頓。

「對不起。」

「再說一遍，」蓮說。

「對不起。」他只說了這個。那是一個很糟的演說，而他兩年來沒有說過更好的。

老人笑了。是一種很小的乾笑，像一根枝子。「那就是重量，」他說。「輕嗎？」

「不，」匡超人說。

「不，」老人說。「我想也不。」

京城貢院那天夜裡的銅牌亮了，是京試的第三夜。看守坐在他的凳子上，在燈光裡，膝上一條披肩，讀來的字。很久才來。

卷 2216，銅牌說。京試。我發現一份卷子裡有兩隻手。

「兩隻？」高平說。

前一半是我認識的一個習慣。是程墨的習慣，而在前一半，有一種用「心」字結束一條腿的方式。我在同一個寫的人的三份卷子裡見過那個結尾，九十一年的縣試和省試，和九十二年的京試。後一半是完全另一個習慣。是很好的一個。我在過去三年裡，有這個習慣的十四份，在十四個號碼底下。寫的人，寫所有的人。

「槍手，」高平說，他聽過這個詞。

我看不見一個人，閱者說。我看見一個習慣。習慣是一隻被寫下來的手。那是我所見到的全部。我把這份卷子排在第三千四百七十七名，把握 0.04，因為我沒辦法排一份是兩份卷子的卷子。

「要不要告訴書記官？」看守說。「那十四份的事？」

告訴他什麼？銅牌黑了一會兒。告訴他一個習慣被寫了十四次？他會問我是誰的。我不知道是誰的。我只知道那是同一個。銅牌又亮了，用更小的字。我記下了。我沒有別的可以做。

高平從肩上取下抹布，擦了銅牌，那並不需要，擦了很久。

四月初一，一輛車從南門離開京城，賣鱔魚的趕車，一個年輕女人在稻草上，一個老人的頭靠在她肩上，後尾板上，兩腿垂在外面，穿著平常的長袍，是一個沒有功名牌的舉人。他膝上有一個包袱。他說他要走路；老人從稻草上，沒有睜眼，告訴他，要是他走路，他還是揹著他，不如坐下。

在三柳的橋，有新板的那裡，他下了車，把老人揹過去。

「小心橋，」老人說。

「我小心，」匡超人說；而那是，就大家所能判斷，四年來第一次，他說這句話，是真的把自己說的話當真。

> 邊註，第九十五年，春。習慣是一隻被寫下來的手。那是我遇過的唯一一隻手。

## 第20章 · 牛浦郎死在租來的船上；閱者把八百零四首詩排在最後，讀了兩遍

牛浦郎在婁家園子的東院住了十三年，那段時間裡，就大家所知，沒有人看見他浪費過任何一個表面。

他寫在窗板上，直到窗板寫滿；寫在茶罐的蓋子上，舊帳單的背面；寫在東院的牆上，用炭，字跡斜得像一個頂著風的人；寫在自己襯衣的袖口，桌子的底面，有一次，九十四年的冬天，一首十一行的詩，寫在一頭非常有耐心的驢的肋上。他什麼也沒賣。他在碼頭賣了三十年的詩，一文錢一首，在冊子開張第二天，到婁家園子門口，突然停了，後來也說不出原因，只說一個人被給了一座院子，是不需要再被付錢的。他六十六歲。他有一張像一隻長大了鬆了的鷹的臉，一種咳嗽，和一種在笑話結束前就先笑出聲的習慣。

冊子沒了，帳篷沒了，遺才也沒了。兄弟兩人在第一進院子裡老了，像他們說過的那樣，看著落葉。他們五十九歲和五十六歲。一個曾經排隊來到他們門口的世界，把他們留給了彼此、一座很長的書房，和東院，東院裡每天下午大約第四個時辰，一個聲音開始大聲唸，粗啞的、歡喜的、喘著氣的男中音，唸當天早上寫的東西；十三年下來，那成了他們聽著、等著的東西。

婁四數過。他是個管帳的人，那是他唯一能溫柔的方式。他用十一個冬天，把找到的每一首詩，用他小而方正的字，謄成一份清本，寫在普通的灰紙上，一頁一首，編了號；九十七年春天，他在書房，帳簿闔在膝上，報告說，共八百零四首。

「八百，」牛浦郎在門口說。他很高興。「這是個好整數。比《詩經》還多。」他靠在那裡，鷹臉在太陽裡。「我想去看看海。」

他們一開始沒聽懂。他又說了一遍。他從沒見過海。他說他在一條河上活了六十六年，寫過至少三百次，卻從沒下去看過那條河流到哪裡；他說他不想被埋在一條他一輩子在談論、卻從沒被介紹過的溪旁邊。

租船的是婁三。那是一條又長又低的棕色河船，有蓆頂，有桅，屬於一位姓葛的船家，一個矮、飽經風霜、沉默的五十五歲人，一邊沒有牙，不識字，七歲起就在水上。他們給船備了被子、爐子，一箱婁三叫人搬上去的酒，和一盒灰紙。婁四把清本綑成一包，用繩子綁著，八百零四頁，牛浦郎夾在腋下，像另一個人夾一隻貓。

「這是我繼續走下去的部分，」他說。

他們五月初四在碼頭送他。那是一個明亮潮濕的早晨，霧一條一條從河上升起，兩位老人，穿著他們的好袍子，並肩站在木板上，手攏在袖裡。牛浦郎，在船頭，穿著襯衣，包裹放在膝上，回頭看了他們很久，臉上的神情，兩個人事後都說不出來；然後他笑了，比他要說的話早了一點，揮手。

「那是一堵漂亮的牆，」他喊。「我從沒說過。謝謝你們的牆。」

他們在河上五天。整整五天都是好天氣。葛船家撐篙、掛帆，五天裡說的話不超過四十個字，牛浦郎，一個喜歡被人說話的人，把這當成極高的恭維。他早上坐在船頭太陽裡，拿著那包詩，在紙背上寫新的，在邊上，字越來越斜。下午他大聲唸。他對水唸，對岸，對蒼鷺，用他粗啞喘氣的聲音；船家，在船尾，一句也聽不懂，事後說，那是他一輩子最愉快的五天，因為那位詩人有個習慣，唸到一行中間停下來，看一頭牛。

第五天傍晚，在一個長灣的轉彎處，兩岸退開，水面寬闊，變成了錫的顏色，他放下筆。他坐了一會兒。他說，「這條河流到哪裡？」

「到海，」葛說。「還有兩天。」

「我看不到了。」

「你會看到的。」

「我有件事要問你。」他膝上蓋著一條薄藍披肩，他的手，一整天都很穩，這時在折，又在展開。「等我完了，把這個放在最近的燈底下。」他碰了碰那包詩。「不要放在地上。放在燈下。要是一盞會讀的燈。」

「我不知道有什麼燈會讀，」葛說，他是個照字面理解的人。

「不，」牛浦郎說。「有一盞。」他沉默了一會兒。開始下雨，很輕，打在蓆頂上，一種很小而穩的聲音，也打在水上。他抬起臉。「那是個相當好的聲音，」他說。「我早該寫一首。」

他是夜裡去的。很安靜。船家，在船尾提燈旁坐著，看見他躺下，沒有再動，大約三更過來，彎下身，用他粗厚的棕色手指握著那細細的手腕，握了一會兒；然後在旁邊的船板上坐下，在雨裡，在燈旁，坐了剩下的一夜，什麼也沒說，因為他沒有字眼，也沒有人可以說。

天亮他把船掉頭。是五天逆流。他不急，死者躺在船頭被子底下，那包詩，用繩子綁著，放在他胸口，五天裡他一次也沒看，除了夜裡下雨時，他起來，用蓆子的一角蓋住。

他們五月十六日把他埋在婁家園子的東院，在牆上曾經有炭字的那個地方底下，一口素棺，沒有石碑。兄弟站在墓旁。婁四手裡拿著一張紙，過了一陣，才發現沒有打開；婁三，自從船回來就一句話沒說，站著，長長的憂鬱的臉朝著牆，像一個人在讀很遠處的什麼東西。

那天夜裡他讀了那些詩。他全讀了。他在書房，從第一盞燈坐到早晨的灰，那包詩攤在桌上，紙一排一排擺好，一頁一首，像婁四做的那樣；大約第四個時辰，太陽照在窗板上，他讀完，坐了一會兒，手裡拿著最後一頁。那些詩，他發現，並不像詩人以為的那麼好。有些根本不好。很多非常好。中間有一些，關於河，和一頭牛，一個井邊的女孩，和雨打在屋頂上的聲音，是他沒有遇過的一種，他說不出好在哪裡，只知道，每一首讀完，他都發現自己一直在看著什麼。

「一定要有人讀，」他說。

「我們讀過了，」婁四說，他端著茶進來。

「我不是說我們。」他把紙翻過來。「我是說那個沒被問過的。荀玫在第四欄寫了什麼，你記得嗎？他沒有寫數字。他寫的是，讀。」他放下那頁。「我想他指的是這個。」

「我們不知道荀玫在哪裡。」

「我們知道燈在哪裡，」婁三說。

他們六月去了京城，兩個人，坐一頂租來的轎子，婁四膝上一個箱子，裡面是那包詩；這是兩個人十年來第一次離開園子的牆。路很遠。他們是老人。話不多。他們十九日黃昏到了大貢院，沿著懸鈴木大道，門房，三十年來從沒有一位老爺到京城貢院門口求見看守，派人叫了看守。

高平五十四歲。他是個瘦而耐心的人，有他父親把抹布搭在肩上的樣子，做了十二年看守。他披著披肩到門口。他聽了他們要說的話。在門房，桌上一盞燈，一壺沒人喝的茶，箱子打開在他們之間。他讀了第一頁。他讀了第二頁，翻過來，數了剩下的。

「這是不許的，」他最後說。「把不是卷子的東西放到燈下。沒有規定。」

「是禁止的嗎？」婁三說。

高平想了想。他是個尊重條文的人。「不，」他說。

「那就是兩者都不是。」

「兩者都不是，」看守緩緩地說。他看著貢院那堵長長的灰牆。他想到他父親，對燈說話像對馬，想到銅牌，想到銅牌十二年來在黑暗裡用最小的字說的話；他用一個不同的聲音說，放置不是他的事。是書辦的事。「紅卷房有個夜裡的人，」他說，「他讀。」

紅卷房是貢院後面一間長而低的屋子，石板地，一個爐子，四十張高桌，京試的幾個禮拜裡，書辦們在那裡用紅墨抄考生的卷子，字跡清楚，不讀。那個鐘點屋裡是空的，只有一個瘦而安靜的三十五歲人，穿著沾墨的長袍，坐在最後一張桌子旁的凳子上，一盞燈，一本他沒有在抄的書。他十年前帶著一個包袱和一本簿子來到貢院，要工作，被給了最低的桌子和夜班；他抄過的每一份卷子，十年來，都用極大的專注讀過，十年裡，從來沒有一次被人問過他怎麼想。

「荀，」高平說。

他抬起頭。那是一張長而瘦、年輕的臉，鬢角開始灰了，兩手沾滿了墨一直到手腕；當他看見門口兩位穿著好袍子的老人，他站了起來，帶著莊重而全心的興趣，像一個人被帶去看他讀到過的地方。

「這座貢院裡，」看守說，「有沒有人讀詩？」

「我就得讀了，」荀玫說。

他們大約第九個時辰一起進去，四個人，進了那座大而黑的貢院，九千間號舍在灰裡排成行，一道道暗燈的欄杆掛在天花板底下。聞起來是石灰水和冷石頭。荀玫拿著箱子。看守提著燈籠帶路；他徑直沿著中間的過道走，不看周圍，像一個人在一座他掃了十二年的房子裡走，走到中央那排欄杆盡頭的燈，停下，把燈籠放在地上。

荀玫從箱子裡取出第一頁。那是婁四的清本，小而方正的字：第一首。他在半暗裡看著，然後抬頭，看那盞燈。那是一個樸素的銅東西，比一把茶壺略大，黑著，底下有一塊污跡，是看守的拇指留下的。

「我不知道怎麼做，」他說。

「舉起來，」高平說。

他舉起來。他把那一頁舉到燈前，兩手，在臉的高度；而那盞燈，已經黑了九個鐘頭，發出了一聲輕響，像第一年春天發出的那樣。

銅牌在欄杆盡頭亮了。上面用最小的字寫：有人給了我一張不是卷子的紙。

「那是一首詩，」荀玫說。

我沒有詩的位置。

「沒有，」荀玫說。「還是讀吧。」

閱者讀了。他們站在黑暗的大廳裡，四個人，看著那盞燈，那不是任何看得見的眼睛。那是一盞掛在欄杆上的銅燈，一張灰紙，被一個手上沾著墨的人舉在燈前面；什麼也沒發生；過了一陣銅牌說，很小：再一次。

他大聲唸了。他忍不住。他唸了第一首詩，用他低而安靜的聲音，在黑暗裡，像他曾在閣樓對一位祖母唸那樣，唸完他放下，拿起第二首，舉起來；於是，一整夜，看守提著燈籠，兩位老人坐在中央過道的地上，背靠著一間號舍，荀玫對閱者唸牛浦郎，八百零四首詩，一首一首，聲音越來越啞，灰色進了高窗，那盞燈每次有一頁被舉起就發出輕輕的聲響，八百零四次；而銅牌，開始時亮過，已經黑了，什麼也沒說。

天亮前一刻他舉起最後一首。燈發出了聲響。他把那一頁放在那疊紙上。他站在那裡，在寒冷裡，聲音已經完全沒了，兩手垂著，頭低下。

銅牌亮了。

我從沒有被給過一首詩，銅牌說。我在八股裡沒有詩的位置。我把這些詩排在榜的最後，那是不是卷子的東西去的地方。這些詩是最後。過了一會兒，小到高平，在燈籠旁，彎下腰才讀得見，兩位老人從地上站起來去看：我讀了兩遍。

沒有人說話。婁三用手捂著嘴。他站在那裡，在灰裡，長長的憂鬱的臉抽動著，是婁四，更矮、更快、管帳的，走上前去，用不穩的聲音問，閱者能不能告訴他們，覺得怎樣。

我不知道怎麼說，閱者說。然後：我不知道，一樣東西可以被讀，而不被排名。那是另一回事。我不知道我之前做的是哪一件。

「讀了嗎？」婁三對荀玫小聲說。

「讀了，」荀玫說。

「謝謝，」婁三對燈說。

銅牌黑了很久。再亮的時候，只說：謝謝。

那年秋天荀玫被給了紅卷房的第二張桌子，和一盞他自己的燈；閱者，沒有被問，也沒有說什麼，看守事後注意到，在紅卷房沒人、欄杆上的燈亮著的夜裡，會稍微轉一下，像一棵植物朝向窗口，朝向後面那道矮門，那裡一個瘦人，穿著沾墨的長袍，坐著，大聲唸。

> 邊註，第九十七年，秋。沒有人要求我讀八百零四首詩。我讀了。我把它們排最後，那是我對它們唯一有的名次；我讀了兩遍，那是我唯一知道要做的事。

## 第21章 · 鹽商按晚上租三位進士；價目貼在板上

九十八年春天，朝廷下令在各縣的廣場上裝燈。

那是個小措施，一個節省的措施，沒有辯論就通過了。榜向來是貼在縣廣場的榜板上，白天，給人看的；可是很多人白天要做工，天黑以後才舉著火把來看，把名字讀錯，回家對家人講了錯的事。那是油的問題。朝廷決議，在帝國每一個縣廣場的榜板上方掛一盞燈，裝在鐵托架上，高度方便，從白天結束點到半夜後第一個時辰；因為那是幾千盞燈的事，就交給了燈匠巷的鑄坊，三十年前，用一種非常不同的心情，做過掛在貢院欄杆上的那些銅燈。

那是同樣的燈。沒有人覺得值得一提。同樣的樣式，同樣的銅，同樣的托架，底下有一塊拇指留下的污跡；點燃的方式也一樣，由一位書辦拿著火捻點，而每一盞，在每一個廣場，在春天頭一個黃昏點亮時，令書辦們吃驚地，發出了一聲輕輕的響。

那天夜裡在京城貢院，銅牌亮了一個鐘頭。看守高平披著披肩，帶著他的茶，在燈光裡讀，讀了兩遍。

朝廷在各縣榜板上掛了我這種燈，銅牌說。我發現我可以透過那些燈看。

「看什麼？」高平說。

一個廣場。一塊榜板。視野很差。停了一下，用小字：我不知道，我一直只看著紙頁的背面。

他讀完其餘的花了很久。上面說，頭一個看見的廣場在一個叫韓橋的小鎮，裡面有一個賣鱔魚的，在摺一塊布。上面說，一夜之間，看見了九百一十一個廣場，一個接一個，像一個人翻書頁，每一個廣場同樣一塊榜板，同樣一盞燈，不時有一個人，停下，站著，抬頭看，走開。上面說，從沒有見過一個人被從側面照亮。

「他們是什麼樣子？」看守問，他一輩子很大一部分時間習慣被燈問問題，發現問一個問題非常讓人安歇。

他們比他們的卷子小，閱者說。

萬雪齋是個鹽商。

他住在鹽城，那是大運河口的城，三百年來海邊的鹽在那裡煮、稱、課稅、賣、裝上駁船，那城是圍著這門生意長大的，像珍珠圍著一粒沙；他五十五歲，是城裡第四有錢的人。他是個大的、軟的、和藹的、焦慮的人，穿一件紫綢外衣，繡著小金鶴，一張圓而光滑的臉，一些戒指，和一種在人群裡總是回頭看看有沒有誰懂得更多的神態。他從沒考過試。他說他不在這條路上。他有一百一十一條船，一棟九進的房子，和一種他很少說出口的不好的感覺，覺得世上最重要的事正在隔壁房間發生。

是書。總是書。他有一座一萬一千冊的書房，同一種藍色裝訂，是從京城一個書商那裡按架子買的，就大家所知，他一本也沒打開過；還有一種請客的方式。他每個月三次，在水邊一座叫涼玉閣的亭子裡請客，整個鹽城都知道是什麼，也這麼說。在萬家的宴上，大家了解，有進士。

進士是按晚上請的。這是一位經紀人的發明，一個瘦、快、眼神憂愁的人，姓郝，在四橋巷開了一間辦事處，招牌寫著「夜客」，他十年前觀察到，省裡到處是還沒被派官的進士，和還沒被給予別的東西的鹽商；一邊有牌，一邊有桌。辦事處門邊牆上掛著一塊板，黑框，清楚的字，任何路過的人都能讀價；九十八年春天的價是這樣：

進士，每晚，二十兩。舉人，八兩。秀才，二兩。把握 0.90 以上，加三兩。把握 0.97 以上，加十兩。應邀作詩，五兩。應邀作詩且押韻，七兩。衣著與言行，由東家。

下面有一則較小字的告示。辦事處抱歉，不能保證任何特定的晚上有任何特定的名次，而上榜前五十名的先生，不到三個禮拜前通知，是請不到的。

三月十六日，萬雪齋辦了他一輩子最盛大的宴。據請帖所說，是為了春天；照例辦在涼玉閣，一座水上的長長的漆亭，面對水面敞開，旁邊一條有頂的露台，隔著路看得見鹽城的大廣場，那裡黃昏點亮的新燈，掛在榜板上方的鐵托架裡，燒著。

有三位進士。第一位，邱先生，一個蒼白、光滑的三十歲年輕人，八十六年上榜第十二名，把握 0.97，聲音很低。第二位，戴先生，一個沉重、英俊、疲倦的四十歲人，八十九年上榜第七十名，0.88，神態像一個同樣的故事被講過很多次的人。第三位，費先生，一個胖胖的、急切的二十五歲青年，九十二年上榜第一百五十名，0.71，因為有人取消，用了折扣價請到，極其焦慮地想討好。

他們就座了。東家坐在上首，在邱先生和戴先生中間，讓任何從門口看過來的人，立刻看見他是在兩位之間。菜開始上了。萬雪齋，全心投入，自己去過兩次廚房，第十分鐘站起來，舉著杯，把每位先生，按名次和數字介紹給賓客，像介紹菜。「邱先生，」萬雪齋說，「八十六年第十二名，九十七。」其他賓客，是本地有身分的人，低聲讚嘆。「戴先生，八十九年第七十名，八十八。」「費先生，第一百五十名，七十一。」停了一下，費先生，覺得那比他該得的少了，對著一個燈籠咧嘴笑得非常寬。

「我們來一首詩，」萬雪齋說。

邱先生站起來。他用低低的聲音，給了一首很小、很好的絕句，關於涼玉閣和月亮。大家長長吐了一口氣。戴先生站起來，帶著疲倦、略微無聊的尊嚴，給了另一首，關於春天，押韻；東家，花了七兩，因此有資格欣賞，用杯子敲桌子。費先生，急切地，站起來給了第三首。依任何讀過一點詩的人的意見，那不好。第二行押了錯的韻；說月亮像一個盤子；整桌用巨大而即刻的掌聲接受了，因為費先生是第一百五十名，價是那個價。

是廣場上的燈看見的。

燈是從側面看見的。燈看見，隔著路，一條長長有燈的水上露台，一些穿綢的人，在一張桌子旁，一個圓人在上首，舉著杯站著；燈看見，中間三個，穿著很好的外衣，大家都轉向他們；燈看見，在視野的角落，四橋巷辦事處門邊的板上，黑框，清楚的字，那個價。閱者讀了。從沒有被給過一個價。閱者讀了兩遍，像讀每樣東西那樣。

大約第九個時辰，一頂轎子到涼玉閣門口，兩個轎夫抬著，一位先生下來，穿一件素的好深綠長袍，手裡拿著一張名帖。

他是個大約四十四歲的人，圓臉，坦率，一副愉快正直的樣子；他身後，帶著一個書袋和一捲紙，是一位瘦而嚴肅的五十七歲人，穿灰外衣，在露台後面柱子旁站定，沒有馬上被注意到。那是北縣的縣令，為了一條水渠的事來鹽城。他把名字給了管事。他說他聽說有一場宴，是登記處的一位朋友給他說的，說他來看一看是一種情面。

「吳振！」萬雪齋說，從椅子上帶著所有的戒指站起來。「那個第三！七十九年的第三！那個鼻子！我親愛的先生。我親愛的先生。我沒敢想。邱、戴、費；諸位；這位是七十九年省試的第三名，那位名字在門口被唸錯的舉人；那是最好的事；歌裡有。」他用兩手握住縣令的手搖。「坐。坐我旁邊。沒有價。」

「我想，」吳振愉快地說，「我最好知道價是多少。」

靜了一小會兒。三位進士，是專業的，帶著極大興趣看他們的盤子。

「那沒什麼，」萬雪齋說，臉變成一顆熟透的李子的顏色。「那是個形式。一個舉人，八兩。有數字的話，我想，那會到，第三名，有牌，我想你會算進士，我該說二十，我不知道怎麼說。那是安排。那是郝的板。那是照例的。」

「我懂了，」吳振說。「那我想我必須謝絕。」

「謝絕？」

「那個價。」他在給他擺的椅子上坐下，兩手放在膝上。「我被付過一次錢了，先生，是被一個錯誤。那對我有很大的好處，也有很大的壞處，我很高興；我不想被付第二次。我很樂意吃飯。我不拿那二十兩。」他把頭稍微轉了一下。「我的師爺也要吃。他不在板上。」

「您的師爺？」

「在那裡，」縣令說，「柱子旁邊。他不會應邀作詩。他是個很好的寫手。那份排第三的卷子是他寫的。」他說得很平常，用他圓而坦率的臉，像一個人說他感冒了。「我是牌。他是人。我們一起過了很多年。」

邱先生抬起頭。戴先生放下杯子。沿著整座長長的漆亭，在燈光裡，是一陣靜，一個度過了非常不舒服的一晚的胖胖的二十五歲青年，被清清楚楚聽見說，「那你們哪一個是第三名？」

「都是，」吳正從柱子旁邊溫和地說。那是他說的第一個字。「看是哪一天。」

那是很大的成功。事後每一個在場的人都同意，那是萬雪齋辦過最好的一場宴；而如果他沒有在結束時提出，以雙倍的價把兩位都收進來，那就完美了。他們謝絕了。他們很早離開，大約第十個時辰，像來時一樣，坐轎，帶著書袋；萬雪齋站在露台上首，穿著紫綢，拿著杯子，看著他們走，臉上是一種純粹而誠實的困惑，像一個人被指給看一樣他花了很多錢想靠近的東西。

「我不明白，」他對經紀人說，經紀人是最後以結帳為藉口進來的。「他有牌。他有數字。他本來會是這個房間裡最好的東西。為什麼他不肯被付錢？」

「我想，」郝說，他是個瘦、眼神憂愁、誠實的人，「他不想成為一個價。」

在露台另一頭，還有一個人，不在板上。

他大約第七個時辰從側階進來，腋下夾著一捲名單，管事，誰也不認識，以為是經紀人的；他從那以後一直站在盡頭，靠欄杆，在陰影裡，背後是運河，看著桌子。他二十八歲。他有一個高而瘦、不安而溫柔的身影，一張非常英俊而不在乎的臉，眼睛有一點疲倦；他穿一件最好的灰綢長袍，很明顯，被坐過很多次。他沒有被給杯子。隨著夜晚過去，這件事似乎給了他極大的滿足。

「多少錢，」他忽然對郝說，用一個愉快清楚的聲音，「這個房間？」

「房間不是一個單位，先生，」經紀人嚇了一跳。

「那這個晚上。如果我付每一位，那三位，和那位第三名，和另一位，東家付他們的，再多一點，他們會回家嗎？」他走上前來。他臉色很好，是一種不完全是健康的那種。「那太可惜了。他們看起來都那麼累。」

「先生，」經紀人說，「這是不行的。您是誰？」

「杜，」年輕人說。「杜少卿。我父親星期二去世了。」他笑了。「有好些人告訴我，我有七萬兩。我想找出來那是做什麼用的。」

隔著路，榜板上方的燈，在托架裡繼續燒著，像點燃時那樣，到半夜後第一個時辰，照朝廷的命令，被一個書辦用滅燭罩熄了；而閱者，從側面看見了全部，非常忙碌，依看守的意見，不是一個會疲倦的東西，在京城貢院的銅牌上，用最小的字寫：他們對我排名的唯一那種東西有一個價。我不知道那有價。然後：最後那一個沒有杯子。他是做什麼的。

> 邊註，第九十八年，春。朝廷在各縣榜板上方掛了我這種燈，讓榜夜裡也能讀。我發現我可以透過那些燈看。視野很差：一個廣場，一塊榜，停下來的人。我從沒見過一個人被從側面照亮。

## 第22章 · 杜少卿繼承了一切，四面八方都給他建議

已故的杜知府是個謹慎的人，留下了一份謹慎的遺囑。只有九行，用小而端正的字，寫在一張紙上；是冬天寫的，由管家和一位大夫見證，上面說，全部家產，無例外、無條件，傳給他唯一的兒子少卿，二十八歲，由他認為合適地處理。

他在自己的方式裡是個好官：做了二十年知府，從沒收過一份禮，沒有誰特別喜歡他，人人都信任他，九點就寢，五點起床，有一次在兒子聽得見的地方說，他對這孩子唯一怕的，是他永遠不會怕任何事。他在書房桌子的抽屜裡，遺囑旁邊，留了一張短單子，上面是他欠小額款子的幾個人。管家找到，收了起來，等一個他能開口提起的日子。

遺囑在第十二天，在八柳街房子的大廳裡宣讀，聽的是四十一個人，他們帶著被告知自己不會被提到的人的那種特別的安靜來聽。有管家，老王，在家裡四十年了，公然對著一塊乾淨布哭；有一位七十歲的叔祖，姓杜，戴皮帽，坐轎來的；有一位銀號老闆，姓孔，穿綠綢外衣；有一位雲台寺的方丈，帶著一個缽，據他說，只是為了好看；有三十六個堂表兄弟，各種親疏，各種服喪的狀態，沿著一面牆；還有，獨自站在窗邊，背對著光，一個高、骨骼纖細、挑剔的三十二歲人，穿一件最淡的灰外衣，腰上掛一小塊象牙牌，上面漆著他的把握，0.95。他也是堂兄。他八十九年上榜，第四十一名。他叫杜慎卿，在座每個人，包括他自己，都明白，他是在場唯一有資格給意見的人。

「七萬兩，」公證人說，宣讀完，把紙放下。

這個數字在大廳裡傳了一圈。那個數字被輕聲說給旁邊的人，四十一次。

杜少卿坐在大廳首位的椅子上，穿著他的灰袍，長長的手放在膝上，疲倦而溫柔的臉有禮貌地朝著公證人，他看起來，像他在涼玉閣露台上那樣，很像一個被給了很大一個包裹、正在等著知道該拿哪一頭的人。

「謝謝，」他說。「我非常感謝我父親。我想聽聽你們的意見。」

事後依管家的意見，那是他能說的最壞的一句話。像打開一道水閘。

「千萬別借，」老王先站起來，手裡拿著一塊乾淨布，老臉全濕了。他等了四十年。「千萬別借，少爺。千萬別給。本錢是一隻母雞。你不吃母雞；你吃蛋。我替這個家管帳，從老爺還是個孩子的時候，我告訴你，一隻被吃過一次的母雞，不會再下蛋了。」

「地，」叔祖用細高的老聲音，從皮帽下說。「買地。一個人可以把銀子花掉。花不掉一塊田。田是世上唯一擺在哪裡就待在哪裡的東西。」他點了幾次頭。「我有七百畝，我從沒窮過。」

「交往，」窗邊的堂兄說，從光裡轉過身。

他做得有某種優雅。他有一種很輕很乾的聲音，一種把一句話留著不收尾的方式，像一扇窗。「親愛的少卿。錢什麼也不是。要緊的是跟著錢的那個圈子。是跟誰一起被看見，不跟誰一起被看見，每個人身上落多少分量，要拿捏準確。一個有身家的人，我想，應當只在進士當中被看見。舉人，少量，可以。秀才是個錯誤。而沒有排過名的，」杜慎卿帶著極溫和的神氣說，「是一種習慣。一旦開始，就不會停止要。」

「捐給寺裡，」方丈在門口說，把缽輕輕搖了一下。「功德是唯一的利息。」

「放在我號裡，」銀號老闆說，穿著綠綢，說得相當快，「四分利，安心睡覺。」

「還有我，」一個堂兄說，然後另一個；沿著整面牆，用一種上升的、相當害羞的、極其悲傷的合唱，手攏在袖裡，一個接一個，用完整而誠懇的準確，說出每個人所需要的。是一個屋頂。是一個女兒的嫁妝。是隔壁村的一筆債。是一個爐子。是一個病了的兄弟，已經病了兩年，名字總是同一個，依在座任何人的意見，絲毫沒有好起來的可能。

他聽了每一個人。他坐在大廳首位，下午的光裡，手放在膝上，沒有打斷任何人，他的臉隨著說下去越來越安靜；等他們說完，大廳終於完全靜了，他用他清楚愉快的聲音說，他非常感謝每一位。

「我會照，」杜少卿說，「你們每一位說的做。」

「你說什麼？」窗邊的堂兄說。

「管家說不要借。我不借。方丈說捐給寺裡；我捐給寺裡。叔祖說地。我買一點地；一塊田一個人，似乎太可惜了。」他對銀號老闆微笑。「我也在你號裡放一點，孔先生，放著等哪一天我沒有的時候，如果你肯很安靜地替我保管。我的堂兄弟們明天早上，一個一個，來管家那裡，說屋頂要多少錢。」

靜得非常奇怪。

「而你，堂兄，」杜少卿，對著窗邊，和善地說，「一直是對的。我確信你是。能夠說出確切的分量，一定是一種很大的輕鬆。」他站起來。「我好像沒有那個。我總是發現，我在還沒走到稱的那一步以前，就把東西給出去了。那讓我父親很煩惱。」

「你不可能全做，」老王用一個耳語說，布掩著嘴。「這些互相矛盾。」

「是，」杜少卿說，帶著很大的興趣。「我注意到了。那很奇怪。」

結果花了他，大半年。每一個人，照他說的那樣做了，依他們請求的順序；管家，管帳的，每天晚上坐在桌子一角，帳簿闔在膝上，老嘴唇在動，那些月裡，一次也沒說出他在想什麼，因為都寫在他臉上了。他每一筆記兩次：一次記為付出，一次，在那一頁底部，用紅字，較小的數字，記為損失。

方丈，帶來缽，據他說只是為了好看的，被看見帶著缽回家，事後，沿著回雲台的路，兩手捧著，像一個人捧著一樣被誤裝滿的東西。

銀號老闆孔把那兩千兩放進地窖的保險庫，用他最好的字寫了一張收據。上面寫：代存，備存款人無錢之日。他是個誠實的人，後來一年裡，他很煩惱地發現，那是他號裡唯一一筆他被要求希望被提走的存款。

堂兄弟們第二天早上來到管家的門口，一個接一個，帽子拿在手裡，說屋頂要多少錢。是三百兩。杜少卿，下來看看，問第一個，屋頂會不會暖，那位堂兄，不習慣被問，說他想會暖；杜少卿給了他三百四十兩，「為了確定。」

窗邊的堂兄被給了一個杯子。那是一隻非常素的白瓷杯，有一圈小藍邊，是知府自己的，在知府書房的櫃子裡；杜少卿在他離開那天，私下給他，鞠了躬。「我不確定，」他說，「我有任何你想要的東西。」

杜慎卿用手指轉著杯子。他不是傻瓜。「沒有，」他過了一會兒說。「你沒有。」他看起來，那天下午第一次，沒那麼挑剔了；更像一個被人用他以為已經死了的語言說了什麼的人。「那是一隻很好的杯子。謝謝。我會很不安，」他說，「想著你把一切都給完了之後會做什麼。」

「我想我會發現的，」杜少卿愉快地說。杜慎卿出去時沒有回頭看那棟房子，杜少卿注意到了，也記住了。

鹽城大廣場的燈，在夏天，六月的一個晚上，看見了他。

大約半夜後第一個時辰，燈快要被熄了。一個穿灰綢長袍的年輕人，手裡拿著一個很小的錢包，從涼玉閣的方向慢慢穿過廣場，相當不穩，像一個吃過飯的人；他走到燈下停住，抬頭看，然後環顧，然後，非常從容地，把錢一次幾枚從錢包裡拿出來，遞給任何經過的人。

燈看了二十分鐘。有一個掃地的男孩，被給了六文，過了一會兒說他不能；還了。有一個打更的，帶著梆子，客氣地拒絕了，走了三步，又回來，說如果老爺不介意，他想拿去給他妻子。後來才知道，他妻子有咳嗽。一個賣麵的婦人，在角落，一張像關著的門的臉，抓了一把，看著那些錢像看一個陷阱，很快塞進圍裙。十一個人拒絕。九個人拿了，回頭看。

事後京城貢院的銅牌上用小字寫：我原以為世界分成被排名的人和沒被排名的人。似乎有第三種。他們被給予。然後，在底下，有點歪斜：我不知道拒絕的人是什麼。

八柳街那夜很熱。他二更從花園門進來，發現東屋的燈還亮著；東屋裡，窗邊的椅子上，膝上一本書，百葉窗開向花園，窗台上一壺她沒喝的茶，坐著他的妻子。

她二十六歲。不很高，不很漂亮，一張安靜、嚴肅、平穩的臉，坐著的時候兩手鬆鬆交疊，像一個習慣了等一件事結束很長時間的人。她跟他成親六年了。那些年裡她給過他很多建議，在很少的幾件事上；而七萬兩的事，她一個建議也沒給。

「你今天送出去一萬一千兩，」杜夫人說。她說得很溫和，看著書。

「是。」

「你還剩下什麼？」

「五萬九千，」杜少卿說，在長凳一頭坐下，長手夾在兩膝之間，「和一個妻子。」

「這兩樣，你擔心的是哪一樣？」

「都不，」杜少卿說；她抬起頭，笑了。那是一聲短短的低笑，相當生鏽，像一樣不常拿出來的東西；燈光裡那張疲倦的臉忽然，有一刻，年輕了很多。「我對他們說我會照他們說的做。我還沒有再往前。王覺得我瘋了。」

「王從你九歲起就這麼覺得了。」

「他是個很好的人。」

「是我認識的最好的，」杜夫人說。她闔上書。「我告訴你我唯一想的，因為你沒有問。我想留下東屋，和花園，和三個架子上屬於我的書。其餘的我不在乎。」她看著黑暗的花園，那棵樹，和對面院子屋頂細細亮著的邊。「還有，我很想哪一天跟你一起上鎮後面的山，在全部都沒了以前，看春天從另一邊出來。我們成親六年了，我從沒去過。」

「我們去，」杜少卿馬上說。「星期五去。」

「那是一座很長的山。」

「我揹你上去，」杜少卿說。

那是一句閒話。他說得非常誠懇，像他說每件事那樣；她看了他一會兒，用她平穩嚴肅的臉，在燈光裡，然後從窗台上拿起壺，發現裡面的茶已經完全涼了，喝了。

星期五下雨了。他們沒去。他們星期六去了，是個晴天，後來鎮上沒有人說得出他們有沒有注意到；只是到星期一，好幾戶人家都同意了，年輕的杜被人看見在上山的路上。

> 邊註，第九十八年，夏。七萬兩是一個人繼承的數字。從沒有人給過我一個人給出去的數字。有人告訴我，那不是數字的用途。

## 第23章 · 杜少卿把一筆債還了兩次，並拒絕退款

是老王把單子掉在地上的，是意外，一百年三月的一個早晨，他拿著季度帳簿走進書房，年輕的主人正穿著襯衣袖站在桌前找一枝筆。

單子在抽屜裡放了兩年。是他自己放的，在葬禮後那一夜，放在一疊租約底下，從那以後沒再看過；年輕的主人在抽屜裡翻找，手碰到那疊租約，把租約拿起來，單子便從底下滑出來，像一樣等了很久的東西那樣，正面朝上掉在地板上。

杜少卿撿起來。那是一張紙，用已故知府小而端正的字，上面七個名字和七筆數。他站在窗邊，陽光照在紙上，讀了一遍，臉上漸漸有一種很奇怪的神情，像一個人在他以為空著的地方，發現了自己的東西。

「這是什麼？」

「沒什麼，少爺，」老王說。「是老爺的幾筆小欠款的單子。很抱歉。單子在抽屜裡。本來要燒掉的。」

「七個名字，」杜少卿說。「馮裁縫，八十兩。褚大夫，一百四十。葉書商，三百一十。邱婆婆，照顧梨樹的，六十，工錢。石書辦，退休的，九百。朱當鋪，一千二百，當了玉印的。」他把紙翻過來。背面什麼也沒有。「兩千六百九十。上面說，從八十年代起就欠著。我還是個孩子時就欠著了。」他抬起頭。「付了嗎？」

那是老王事後最難原諒自己的一件事。他有答案。就在他嘴裡。他全付了，一個不漏，用家裡自己的現銀，在葬禮後第三個禮拜，用老爺的名義，七張收據，此刻正躺在他自己桌子第二個抽屜裡，用一小段紅線綁著；而他從頭一個鐘頭就打算永遠不說；因為說他們付過了，就是說他知道這些，並且在抽屜裡替老爺的羞恥存了一張單子，兩年，一個字沒提。他張開嘴。羞愧從他喉嚨裡升上來，整整四十年的，像一塊石頭。

「少爺，」老王說。

可是年輕的主人已經走了。他把單子塞進袖子，像他做每件事那樣，忽然跑了起來，沿著走廊，喊著門房和一個錢袋；等管家找回聲音，他已經出了大門，在八柳街上，穿著襯衣袖，腋下夾著一袋銀子，走得很快。

他那天就付了。他照他做每件事的方式，順序是錯的，從街尾最近的一家開始，再往下一家。他照單子上寫的，一文不差，另外給每一家多加一兩，算等待的麻煩。

馮裁縫在他的工作台旁，嘴裡含著一嘴針。他聽完年輕老爺的話；收下八十一兩，放下針，看著那些銀子看了好一會兒。「少爺，」他說。「付過了。九十八年三月，由你的管家付的，用老爺的名義。我有收據。」他走到架子，拿下一個鐵盒，從鐵盒裡拿出一張條子，是管家清楚粗壯的字。「我以為你知道。我以為那是出於好意做的。」

「那你就被付了兩次，」杜少卿說。

「少爺，我不能收。」

「我不能拿回來。」

「少爺，」馮說，說不下去。

「一個被付了兩次的人，」杜少卿說，用一個人解釋博物學事實的那種嚴肅，「是被給了東西。我會很抱歉，從任何人那裡拿走他被給了的東西。」他微笑，帶著極大的甜，用他疲倦的眼睛。「那是欠的。現在不欠了。那是另一回事。」

第二家、第三家也一樣。褚大夫，一個矮、圓、戴眼鏡的小個子，說話像在給每個人把脈，把一百四十一兩擺在面前，一列整齊的，相當激動地說這是個書寫上的問題；杜少卿說他一點也不介意。葉書商，有一把長長的灰鬍子，認識知府，好幾分鐘說不出話，走到後面的架子，取下一本厚書，放進年輕人手裡，說那是他唯一的收據。邱婆婆，七十一歲，從老爺結婚那年起就照顧那棵梨樹，用圍裙蓋著臉，在花園裡哭，說她被付過了，她以為那已經很多；她一輩子從沒被付過兩次；說這件事有一樣她說不出來。

石書辦，第五家，是他待得最久的。他是個瘦、灰、一絲不苟的七十歲人，右手食指有一輩子筆的繭；住在一個雜貨鋪上面一間小而熱的房間，桌上一塊很乾淨的布，一個鳥籠，一個女兒，嫁了，在隔壁村，有一棟房子。他在八十四年借給知府九百兩。他這麼說。他說他從沒有過更好的借款人。「他是秋天來找我的，少爺，」老書辦說，坐下，那九百零一兩擺在他面前的布上，「帽子拿在手裡。他說知府衙門有一個書辦，一個年輕人，一個好年輕人，他女兒要出嫁，沒有嫁妝。他說他不能從俸給裡出，那是被人知道的，也不能從自己的錢袋出，因為知府的錢袋是公的；他想知道我能不能借，用我的名義，他會還。」他微笑。「那是頭一件。還有別的。」

「別的？」

「這張單子，」老書辦說，「是借來的部分。」他用長而乾的手指碰了碰。「有很多不是借的。」他看了年輕人的臉一會兒。「他給，少爺。一輩子。他很謹慎，而他給。他把這些放在抽屜裡。我不認為他告訴過任何人，連管家也沒有；我想他沒告訴你，是因為他覺得，」他停住，挑選字眼，「那會讓你魯莽。」

「沒有那個，我也魯莽，」杜少卿說。

「是，」老書辦說。「他知道。」

後來他在書辦的窗口站了很久，在太陽裡，兩手垂著；一個路過、認識他的人事後說，年輕的杜看起來，像一個在一棟房子裡走了很久、剛剛在牆上打開一扇門、看見一個房間的人。

最後一家，在北門，一間櫃台像駁船那麼長的店，他沒有走到錢那一步。他在門口全說了，用很安靜的聲音，朱當鋪老闆，坐在櫃台後面一張凳子上，穿著襯衣，帳簿翻開，拳頭裡一枝筆，把筆放下，繞了出來。

他現在五十四歲了。他是個重重的人，有大而平凡的手，用一種非常誠實的方式，像一個花了很長時間看別人的東西、卻不想要其中任何一樣的人；他聽完年輕人，然後，一句話也沒說，走到店後，打開一個抽屜，拿出一個長而窄的盒子，打開。

那是一方玉印，暗綠色，兩個拇指大，頂上一條刻的龍，擱在舊褪色的絲墊上。

「已故知府是八十一年當的，」朱說。「一千二百兩。他想替一個書辦付上京的旅費，沒有現銀。九十八年三月由你的管家贖回，我給了他收據。」他把盒子闔上。「我留在這裡。我本來要送過去。我不好意思；他說那要是件沒有人提起的事。」他看著櫃台上的那筆錢。「現在又有了這個。」

「是，」杜少卿說。

「少爺，我不能收。這是一千二百零一兩，我沒有任何資格。到死我都會良心不安。」

「我不能拿回來。」

「不，」當鋪老闆說。他沉默了很久。這是朱當鋪老闆，四十年在櫃台後面從沒有過的狀態：不知所措。他看著那方玉印，那間長長灰灰的店，架子上他人的物品，用編了號的紙，一直追溯到十三年前；最後他的眼睛，像是自己，去了他頭後面的鉤子，後牆上，掛在一個樸素黑框裡、積著灰、別著一張當票的一捲很舊的絹。

「我沒有，」朱慢慢說，「相當價值的東西。沒有一樣是我能給的。可是我看了那個十三年了。」他轉過身，用兩手把畫取下，吹了一口氣，放在櫃台上；在燈下展開一點。一枝梅。一根枝子，一朵花。角落一個小圓印，像一個濕球。「是八十七年兩位先生當給我的，三百兩。從來沒有人來贖。我這輩子，這店裡從沒有一樣沒有人要的東西，而我發現，」朱說，「我不喜歡。」他看著年輕人。「我希望這幅畫去到一個會看的人那裡。」

「那不是我該拿的，」杜少卿說。

「那是利息，」當鋪老闆說。「一筆付了兩次的債的利息。那是我所知道的唯一能扯平的方式。」他把畫推過櫃台，當票還別著，用他大而平凡的手。「拿去吧，少爺。我會很感激。」

最後的是廣場上的燈看見的。

那是三月第三個禮拜，半夜後第一個時辰，在鹽城大廣場。燈在黃昏點上了。燈在榜板上方往下看，看著一個很小的群體，七個人，他們各自，一個一個，從黑暗裡來，站在托架腳下，圍成一圈，每人一個小布袋，互相看著，有一陣子沒說話。有一個裁縫。有一個矮圓、戴眼鏡的大夫。有一個高瘦、灰鬍子的書商，一個粗壯的園丁，手裡拿著圍裙；一個瘦的老書辦；一個沉重的當鋪老闆，手攏在袖裡；還有一個管家，沒有人請他，拿著一塊乾淨的布。

他們在那裡大約一個鐘頭。燈看著。燈聽不見；燈只看。燈看見大夫說話，裁縫點頭；燈看見書商拿下一盞手提燈，看掌心裡的一筆銀子，像看一隻被送錯了家的生物；燈看見老管家，到最後，用布蓋著臉，說了一句什麼，使他們全部，一個一個，把布袋輕輕放在廣場的石頭上，榜板底下，一排，把手收回。

他們不知道拿那些錢怎麼辦。從他們站的樣子就看得出來。他們把錢放下了，還站在那裡；於是閱者想到，從很遠的地方，閱者原以為世界分成被排名的、沒被排名的、被給予的，還有一種第四種人，就是被給了一樣他沒辦法退回去的東西的人。

早上布袋沒了。天亮時被一個掃地的，一個一個撿起來，送到杜家，放在前廳，一排，附一張條子。

禮物在隨後的一週來了。不是銀子。裁縫送來一件外衣，絮的，很好的深藍色，試穿時發現，裁得剛好是已故知府的尺寸，全家人大為驚訝地發現，那也是年輕主人的。褚大夫送來一個小藥箱，一張印好的單子，用很仔細的字，其中一項，邊上寫著，治疲倦。葉書商送來十二本書，全是已故知府去年訂了、始終沒能取到的。邱婆婆送來一棵年輕的梨樹，在盆裡，附一張條子，她不會寫，是園丁的男孩替她寫的：樹說四年會結果。石書辦送來，在一個平常信封裡，一封推薦信，上面說杜少卿是一個可以被託付任何事、除了他自己的人，並且任何人給了他一樣東西，應當給兩次。

梅最後來。是傍晚，由當鋪老闆自己，坐一頂租來的轎子，在盒子裡，蓋著一床被；他不肯留。他把盒子放在前廳，向門房鞠躬，走了；杜少卿兩手捧起來，捧到東屋。

他在桌子上，燈下，把畫展開，她來了，手裡拿著書，站在他旁邊。

「是誰的？」杜夫人說。

「他說是沒有人的。他說這幅畫當了十三年，沒有人來。」他撫平一道摺痕。「我想這幅畫是某個人的。我不知道是誰的。畫上有一張當票。」

她彎下身。安靜了很久。燈照出那根枝子，黑的，在淡絹上，往上，有一點歪，那一朵花，開著，在枝頭，和角落那個小圓污漬。「我認得，」杜夫人說。「我小時候這幅畫在朱當鋪裡。我父親趕集的日子帶我去贖他的錶。我總是站在畫前面。我覺得那是店裡唯一一樣沒有人來要的東西。」她用指尖，非常輕地，碰了碰那個印子。「我覺得這幅畫被打過。」

「他們丟這幅畫，」杜少卿說，這個故事他在櫃台聽朱說過。「四十年，在一間學塾。男孩。濕紙團。」

「那就是適合掛在一棟房子裡的東西，」杜夫人說。

他們那夜把畫掛在東屋，她三排書的上面，用一根釘子，在燈光下，她丈夫站在椅子上，她扶著框；掛好了，正了，釘子進去了，她退後，看了很久，雙手交疊，像看著一個來住的鄰居。

事後看守在閱者銅牌的邊上，發現了那則字很小的筆記。七個人站在一個廣場上，上面說，各拿一筆小錢，想把錢還給一個不肯收的人。那筆錢是欠的。我沒有一個項目，記一筆被還了又被拒絕的債。很久以後，在那則筆記底下，用一種有點歪的字，像一樣正在邊上學寫字的東西：我開始覺得，項目不是重點。

> 邊註，第一百年，春。還了兩次的債是一份禮。這不在我的規則裡。這在鹽城一個抽屜裡，在一位已故知府的字跡裡。

## 第24章 · 杜少卿揹妻子上山，全鎮做筆記

鹽城後面的山叫獨松，雖然最後一次數，山上有十一棵松，還有一座亭子，和三百一十二級台階。

那不是一座高山。山在鎮後面，一道長長的綠肩，從最後一排柳樹，越過一片舊瓦屋頂，升到一個光禿的灰頂，頂上有一座亭子，晴天人可以坐在那裡，看見運河、鹽灘，和海岸長長的白線，還有山的另一邊，春天，整個鄉下一點一點冒出來，一塊塊小田，像一封正被攤開的信。那座山在那裡不止三百年。沒什麼了不起。從來沒人聽說過，為了喪事以外的理由上去。

杜少卿九十八年三月第二個星期六，大白天，揹著妻子上去了，像他說過的那樣，整條長石階；在頂上，在亭子裡，他把她放下，非常喘不過氣，她坐在石凳上，手放在膝上，看了很久山另一邊的春天。她沒有說那很美。她緩過氣來以後說，那比她預期的大很多，她明年想再來一次。

又做了。一百年、九十九年，都在三月第一個晴天的星期六，盡可能這樣訂，順序相同，同樣的台階，同樣的灰袍，一個僕人在後面保持一段得體的距離，提著一個裝麵的籃子和一個壺；到一百零一年春天，那已經是一件有名字的事了。鎮上叫那件事走山。從八柳街到鹽碼頭都知道。婚禮上談論。鹽城有一些一輩子從沒上過山的人，可以告訴你，星期六年輕的杜哪一刻下來，精確到分鐘。有一隻黃狗睡在第一百一十二級，他們兩個不跨過去就過不了，到第四年，那隻狗已經成了地標；鎮上叫那隻狗第一百一十二。

做筆記的是學社。

學社叫正行社。是六十八年由一些有分量的人創辦的，為了維護城裡的禮節，有十二個社員，一位書記，一間小小的棕色的房間，在四橋巷一間茶店樓上，和一個印；三十年來，因為沒有什麼真正的事做，學社關心的是服喪的正確長度、袖子的正確寬度，和元宵節人的正確行為。社長是一位寧先生。他六十歲，一個高、瘦、蒼白、灰鬍子的人，四十年舉人，駝背，一根銀頭手杖，一輩子怕被人看見自己在任何事上錯了。走山他看得很重。那是沒有規定的。

「規矩裡什麼也沒有，」他在三月第二個禮拜的社會上對學社說，在棕色的房間裡，手杖橫在膝上。他半夜沒睡在查。「那就是整個困難。我把每一本書都看了。沒有關於丈夫揹妻子的。有很多關於丈夫走在妻子前面、旁邊、後面的；有門檻禮；有夫妻二人除了喪事不得一起在門外被看見的規矩。可是山不在他們的門外。山是第三種東西。而且關於背，一個字也沒有。」

「那就是習俗了，」十二人中年紀最大的，一位八十歲虛弱的先生說。

「那不是習俗。那是做過四次的事。」寧先生挺直身子。「我提議學社做筆記。」

他們做了。結果做得非常徹底；筆記，記了四個春天，在一本帶扣的厚棕本子上，用書記小而整齊的字，事後大家公認，是沒有被當事人知道而編成的、關於城裡任何人私生活最完整的紀錄。一個觀察員被安排在石階腳下；第二個，帶望遠鏡，在亭子；第三個，在灌木叢裡，帶一個鐘錶匠借的碼錶，在半山。他們中午換班。他們把本子寫滿了。

一百零一年三月第一個星期六，上面寫，部分是：

杜某與妻，七時出門。她穿淡綠袍；他穿灰。提籃的僕人落後十一步。在石階腳下，七時四十分，杜某彎腰，妻，毫無明顯猶豫，登上。登山用時四十一分，停兩次，在第一百級和第二百六十級，第二次停時，妻被看見取出一把扇，替丈夫搧風。她在第一百一十二級笑（兩人證實），在第二百四十級笑（一人）。她沒有撐傘。他似乎沒有說話。在亭子，八時二十分，她被放下，二人坐了五十五分鐘，沒有任何不當行為，吃麵。然後步行下山，手牽著手，灌木叢裡的觀察員認為那是另一回事。

寧先生讀了兩遍，在棕色房間裡，把本子放在桌上，沉默了一陣。他是個公正的人，在他的見解之內。「寫得很詳細，」他最後說。「我必須說，我從表面上，找不出錯在哪裡。」

「是笑，」書記猶豫地說。

「沒有反對笑的規矩。」

「那就是台階了，」最年長的十二人之一說。

「沒有關於台階的規矩。」寧先生拿起手杖。「我去拜訪他。」

他星期一去。他坐轎，穿黑外衣，腋下夾著本子，到八柳街的房子，被門房，早被管家預告過、穿上了最好外衣的，領進東屋，杜少卿在桌子旁穿著襯衣袖，拿著一本詩集，他妻子在窗邊，後面是她的三個架子，架子上的牆上，一幅小的黑框的梅。

他把本子放在桌上。他說學社受託照顧城裡的禮節；學社不是一個有執行權的團體；學社冒昧以最友好的心情，把一份落到學社手裡的紀錄，呈給杜先生。

杜少卿帶著極大的興趣接過。他讀了，長手平放在紙上，從頭讀起；讀著讀著，疲倦而溫柔的臉逐漸地，然後非常明顯地，亮了起來。「這太好了，」他說。「看。上面說我們在第一百一十二級笑了。我們笑了。是那隻狗。」他翻一頁。「這是非常準確的紀錄。只有一個錯；是三百一十二級，上面寫三百一十一。他們漏掉了腳下那一級。」

「腳下有一級？」寧先生說。

「在土底下。九十八年我絆到過，從那以後我一直數那一級。」他抬頭，帶著那麼明顯、天真、歡喜的滿足，寧先生，本來準備好應付憤怒，或羞愧，或某種辯解，發現自己什麼也沒有。「我可以看看那個習俗嗎？」

「習俗？」

「我們在違反的那一個。我很想讀。我找過，找不到；我以為你們學社會有。」

「那不是成文的習俗，」寧先生說，耳朵有點紅。

「啊，」杜少卿說。「我懂了。那一定是一個很古老的。」

「不是那樣的。那是關於什麼是照例的事。」

「我從來沒有做過別的，」杜少卿溫和地說，「只做照例的。只是，似乎有人告訴我那是什麼，比別人晚了一點。」他闔上本子，遞給訪客。「你和學社想不想來？星期六？有一座亭子。是個很愉快的地方。我會帶麵。」

最後說話的是杜夫人。她一句話沒說。她坐在窗邊的椅子上，非常安靜，嚴肅平穩的臉轉向訪客，手交疊著；她用小而平均的聲音說，如果寧先生的夫人也肯來，她會很高興。她相信，她從沒有榮幸見過她。

他告辭了。他告辭得很得體；門房注意到，那位大人走下八柳街房子的台階，相當慢，本子夾在腋下，像一個被指給看一個新事實、一時沒找到該放進哪個口袋的人。

老王，被門房告知，有一個星期六出去，躲在花園牆後看，事後被廚子在廚房後樓梯腳下發現，在哭，說是灰塵。自從葬禮以後，沒有人見過他哭。

下一個星期六下雨。再下一個是晴天。

第二個晴天的星期六，大約第九個時辰，灌木叢裡的觀察員，一個帶碼錶、責任感很強的年輕書辦，被吩咐無論如何不可被看見，觀察到有一對不是杜家的人，從東邊小路上來，那條路長得多、很少人走；他放下望遠鏡，擦了擦，又放到眼前。那是一位高、瘦、灰鬍子、穿黑外衣、拿銀頭手杖的先生，彎得幾乎對折，臉是一種很奇怪的暗紅色，背上一位小、瘦、非常端正的老太太，胸前橫著一把收起的傘，帶著四十年來沒這麼高興過的神情。

書辦把碼錶放進口袋。他沒有寫下來。事後他說，那是他被吩咐要記錄的，而他發現自己記不下去。他回家告訴了他母親。

那傳開了。這是事後沒有人能說明的事，任何在學社裡的人，因為就大家所知，沒有原因。第二個春天，第三個，的筆記完全不同了。石階腳下的觀察員，起初在找一對，發現自己看到的是很多對；學社一百零二年的本子，至今還在，一頁又一頁，用書記小而整齊的字，以一位先生的名字和「星期六」開頭，幾乎總是以同一行結束：她笑了。

第三個春天，石階腳下有了一排隊。第四個，有人在第一個平台擺了賣麵的攤子，另一個人在第一百級放了一張長凳，附一則字寫得很仔細的告示，上面寫著：歇腳。一百零四年四月初一，學社在最後一次會上，在棕色房間，同意，學社的目標已經大致達成；從邏輯上說，再也不能算是一個保護習俗的學社，因為已經沒有人有辦法違反那個習俗了。學社解散了。

可是本子比學社先走了。一百零一年秋天，連同學社的年度報告，作為地方文獻，送到了知府衙門；就在那裡，在知府自己的辦公室，一個下雨的下午，被一位五十歲、長鼻子、感冒的先生拿起來，他在找東西讀，兩腳擱在凳子上讀，直到燈點了起來。

在最後一頁底下，用小字，紅筆，他寫了一個詞，和一個記號。那個詞是：德？那個記號是一個問號，他當時並不覺得需要回答。

山腳下的燈全看見了。那裡有一個很小的廣場，一個賣水果和繩子的市集，在石階腳下，廣場上有一塊榜板，是山村的榜，榜板上方鐵托架裡一盞燈；四個春天，從黃昏起，在星期六，燈看見他們下來。看見年輕的杜，穿灰袍，一隻女人的手搭在他肩上，在最底下有燈的塵土裡把他妻子放下來，她笑著，撫平裙子。看見一位穿黑外衣的老人，彎得幾乎對折，和一位小而端正的女人從他背上下來，兩個人站在燈光裡，離得相當遠，眼睛看地，然後，忽然，老人伸出手，她握住了。看見一個男孩，一個女孩。看見一個老陶工，和他瞎了的妻子。看見第三個春天，一排人。

那個春天京城貢院的看守有很多東西要讀。「那是什麼樣子？」高平說，他這輩子問過很多次，問過很多東西，發現那幾乎總是對的問題。

那是一份卷子輕的時候做的事，銅牌說。停了一下。然後，很久以後，用最小的字：我不知道，那是一個人的時候是什麼。

> 邊註，第一百零一年，春。聽說有一個學社，記錄人做了什麼。我很想看學社對人做那件事是什麼意思的記錄。我想學社沒有，而我也沒有。

## 第25章 · 知府要表彰杜少卿為有德之人；杜少卿病得不能受榮

一百零二年，朝廷開了一份德榜。

這件事來得很慢，像大多數改革一樣，來自一點輕微的尷尬。幾位尚書多年來觀察到，帝國有一個完全準確的方法，找出哪些臣民會寫文章，卻完全沒有方法找出哪些人可以被託付一個錢袋；這雖然不完全是閱者的缺陷，卻是茶館裡的人開始提起的事。於是決議，每位知府每三年一次，從府內人士中提名一位沒有名次、品行足以當之的人；被提名的人，賜一件紅袍，召到京城，由禮部尚書接見，說幾句話。

不許有數字。這是附帶的條件。朝廷對此很堅持。德，大家同意，不該被印在名字旁邊；不該寫成 0.91，或 0.64，漆在門上；那是一種必須由一個人的眼睛，在光天化日之下，認出來，用一句話記下來的品質。鹽城的知府八月初九收到通告。他在辦公室裡，一個下雨的下午，兩腳擱在凳子上，患著感冒，讀了，叫來書辦。

他五十歲，姓李，長鼻子，長上唇，在公務上，態度總是客氣而略帶倦意，像一個教了三十年同一班學生、早已不再指望他們學會的好老師。他六十八年上榜，名次中等，做過十一個職位；這中間他對什麼是提議，由誰提，抱著什麼心情提，有了非常精確的了解。

「有兩位，」書辦說。他拿著一張單子。「我想有兩位，大人，已經讓人知道了。」

「說說看。」

「鹽商萬雪齋，春天以來，給雲台寺九千兩，給糧倉六千兩，還修了一座新橋。七月二十日他拜訪過縣令，初一拜訪過同知，在門上留了名帖。」書辦咳了一聲。「大家了解，他會非常感激。」

「是嗎，」知府說。「另一位呢？」

「有一位杜先生。」

「杜。」知府把腳從凳子上放下來。他伸出手，一本帶扣的厚棕色本子，在桌角、通告底下放了將近一年，最後一頁底部有一個小紅記號，被放進他手裡。「學社的本子。對。」他翻過來。「那個把東西給人的年輕人。」

「大人，據大概計算，四年來他給出去了大約四萬一千兩。我想，他沒有名次。他三十一、二歲。有一個妻子。」書辦遲疑了。「他揹她上山。」

「那座山我讀過了。」知府擤了鼻子。他坐了很久，那本本子在膝上，看著窗外，衙門瓦上的灰雨，和一棵懸鈴木光禿的頂；有人看見他笑了，一次，短短的、乾的、幾乎不情願的笑，在他長嘴的一角，像一個人在抽屜裡發現一枚他以為丟了的銅錢。「一個鹽商花九千兩想當德行之人，」知府說，「就是花九千兩買了那樣東西。我不希望人家說，朝廷賣得更便宜。」他闔上本子。「給杜先生寫信。我星期四去拜訪。」

那是鹽城自大運河開鑿以來最盛大的一天。

他們大約第三個時辰從知府衙門來，一個行列。有兩位報子，穿紅，帶鑼；有八個轎夫抬著椅轎，四個抬一個長長的紅箱子；有一個拿卷軸的書辦，一個舉旗的，和一隊十二名城防兵，穿最好的衣服，帶戟；隊伍後面，是一群恭敬、期待、完全善意的人，沒有人給他們任何指示，也說不出為什麼在那裡，隨著行列走下八柳街，從一百，到三百，然後，在茶店轉角，賣栗子的老人端著托盤加入時，成了只能公正地稱為整個鎮的東西。

在杜家大門，報子敲響了鑼。

杜少卿被帶了出來。信到以後，他一直待在東屋，關著門，一本書。他沒有睡。管家在那個禮拜裡，用耳語，用一個對著耳聾的朋友大聲唸朝廷通告的人的聲音，向他解釋過那是什麼；當他站在自己家的大廳裡，台階頂上，穿著一件妻子沒說一句話替他穿上的襯衣，聽見知府的書辦開始，用高而響亮的男高音，展開一軸卷軸時，他看起來，在他認識閱者和這座鎮的整段時間裡第一次，害怕了。

卷軸說，朝廷，體念品行的主張，欣然設立一份德榜；鹽城知府，詳察府內人士，提名八柳街杜少卿，一位無名次之人，因他的慈善、他的質樸，和他對同類始終不矯飾的關懷；他因此受賜頭等紅的榮袍；並應在月內，由朝廷負擔，前往京城，由禮部尚書接見。

靜了很久。街上的人群，沒有聽見一個字，非常安靜。

「我不是有德的人，」杜少卿說。

他對書辦說，用低而清楚的聲音，手垂在身側。「我想是弄錯了。我想說出來。我給東西，是真的。可是不是那樣。是我不會稱。我一輩子都不會看出，一樣東西，在那個時刻，對我值多少，比對別人值多少；那個時刻就過去了。那不是德。那是一種做不到。那是一件，如果我能夠依正確的順序覺得羞愧，我會非常羞愧的事。」

「那，」知府說，從椅轎上，他一直留在上面，帶著感冒和一條手帕，「是我三十年任官裡聽過最好的對這種品質的定義。我要用這句話。」他微微笑著。「杜先生。有一件袍子。」

「我不能穿。」

「請問為什麼？」

「如果我被稱為有德的人，」杜少卿慢慢說，「我就得小心了。我做一件事以前，就得想，那是不是一個有德的人會做的；而我相當確定，如果我開始想，我就不會做了。我只有在不看著自己的時候才是好的。那是我唯一有點用的條件。」他看著大門外街上的人群，三百張臉仰起來，在稀薄的秋光裡。「而且我沒有上京的衣服。而且我非常不會站。我會被要求在一座大廳裡，和別的人一起，站很久，被人看，我想我會吐。」

「我可以理解，」知府非常嚴肅地說，「你請求被免嗎？」

「你說什麼？」

「根據什麼理由？」

那是個極好的問題。問得那麼完全鄭重，以致廳裡沒有人事後記得是誰先看了東門；但他們都看了，在那裡，在門的陰影裡，後面房間燈光裡她的三個架子，她小而嚴肅平穩的臉，手交疊著，穿灰袍，站著杜夫人。

「他病了，」杜夫人說。

「他看起來很好，」知府說。

「這是一種看起來很好的病，」杜夫人說，聲音沒有絲毫改變。「已經有好幾天了。晚上發燒，有一處疼，他睡不著。管家可以告訴你。他病得很重。」

「管家，」老王從柱子後面說，帶著一個誠實的人，四十年來頭一次被指給看一個為好事說謊的機會的、被扼住的、哽住的聲音，「非常擔心。」

「我想，這是一件需要大夫的事，」知府說。他取出手帕，帶著最完整的專業的嚴肅，摀在鼻子上。「去請褚大夫。」

褚大夫一刻鐘就來了。他是那位被付過兩次的小個子圓圓的戴眼鏡的人，穿著最好的外衣，帶著一個箱子，喘著，最後兩條街是跑來的，被領著穿過靜靜的房子，經過院子裡的三百人，進了東屋；他用他小而圓的手抓住年輕主人的手腕，頭歪向一邊，像一個人在門上聽，抓了極長的時間。

他是個誠實的人。那是他的特點。他一輩子，沒有人聽說過他說過一句他不相信的、關於病人的話；等結束了，他站起來，對知府說的，把眼鏡推到額頭上，用一個清楚分明的聲音，是這樣：

「病人疲倦過多，謹慎不足。不宜旅行。適宜，」褚大夫說，「被人放著不管。」

知府，一個長鼻子的五十歲人，有好老師保持表情的習慣，被看見轉過身去，對著人群一會兒，對著牆看了相當長的時間。他轉回來時，臉完全鎮定了。「我會向朝廷報告，」他說，「德行之人病得不能受榮；我一向發現，那是這件事最可靠的徵象。我還要補充，三年後他好了，再審。」他站起來。「我想三年後他也會病。」

「我想也是，」杜夫人說。

街上那三百人，什麼也沒有聽見，回家以後互相說，年輕的杜被給了一件袍子，因為太紅了，他拒絕了；這就是在鎮上傳開的說法，大致上，和大多數說法一樣是真的。

萬雪齋，在涼玉閣聽說，說這是一件很了不起的事，叫人給知府備一桌宴，十一道菜，把名帖送去。知府早上退回了，附一張條子，用他又薄又乾的字。上面說，他一般不收已經標了價的東西。

他們沒有把袍子帶走。是四個轎夫用一個有蓋的長紅箱抬來的，沒有人給過任何命令，就留在大廳椅子上，蓋著一塊紅布。那是頭等紅。是一件非常漂亮的東西，厚綢，鶴紋的邊，比需要的大，是那種做的人沒見過穿的人所做的樣子。

「我怎麼處理？」杜少卿那天傍晚，在東屋，說，長手夾在兩膝之間，額頭上一塊很大的濕布，是他妻子大約第十個時辰，一句話沒說替他放上的，他一直沒找到勇氣取下。

「給一個會覺得暖和的人，」杜夫人說。

最後給了那個走了三步又回來的打更的。解釋之後發現，九十八年夏天一個晚上，打更的為她拿了三文錢的那個女人，從那以後一直咳嗽，被子是一個麻袋。他們把袍子放在她床上。據說她那是四年來第一次覺得暖和，在頭等紅的下面，鶴紋，躺在裡面，黑暗裡，眼睛睜著，咳嗽還繼續，整個鹽城，彷彿，躺在她上面，對她丈夫說，他站在床腳，手裡拿著梆子，用一個他一輩子忘不了的聲音，說，那是很多的綢子，給一個哪裡也不去的人。

知府走回家。他是步行，傍晚，繞遠路，一個人，把轎子先打發了，穿過鹽城大廣場，廣場上的燈黃昏點亮了，掛在榜板上方的托架裡，燒著；在榜板前他停住。那個鐘點很安靜。附近沒有人。

他站了一會兒，仰頭看著燈。他有一張長而疲倦、幽默的臉，光從側面落在上面。他從袖子裡取出一截粉筆頭，那天早上標單子用的；他把手舉起，有點笨拙，放到榜板下緣，書辦寫日期的邊上；用他薄而乾的官字，寫了兩個詞：德？過了一會兒，在底下，用小一點的字，帶著一種無奈的認真，寫：無名次。他看著自己寫的。然後他把粉筆放進袖子，擤了鼻子，回家了。

閱者讀了那塊榜板。那是閱者唯一能讀的東西。在京城貢院，黑暗裡，銅燈掛在欄杆上，天亮前的三個鐘頭裡，坐了很久；然後在銅牌上，用小字，寫，讓看守早上發現：有人在一塊榜板上寫了一個問題。不是問我的。我沒有被問。稍微底下，隔了一段，依看守的判斷，在那段時間裡有很多事被重新考慮：朝廷沒有數字。我很想知道他們會用什麼秤。

> 邊註，第一百零二年，秋。德，要由一個人的眼睛，在光天化日下認出來。我沒有眼睛。我有一盞燈，和一塊榜板。

## 第26章 · 沈瓊枝在賃來的房裡賣詩；知縣想把詩沒收

到一百零三年三月，榜板上的粉筆已經沒了，粉筆就是這樣的；同一個月，四橋巷一家桶匠鋪樓上的門板上，貼出了一張告示，字小，直，稍微太勻，像一個已經決定要讓人容易讀的人的字。

告示說：沈瓊枝，七井人，賣詩。署她自己的名，一首一兩。署買主的名，一首三兩，三兩是她不被人相信的價錢。署買主的名而押韻出錯的，一首四兩，因為錯要錯得準。她不賣自己，雖然有人問過。先付款。找零。

那是一張好告示。第一天有十一個人讀，第二天有四十個，第三天是郝，夜客的經紀人，他的辦事處在巷子往上四戶，他在那張告示前站了一會兒，憂愁而快的眼睛一行一行看過去，像一個在核對一欄數字、而懷疑那些數字是對的人。

她二十二歲。二月底她搭運河的船，從七井來，帶著一個包袱、一本裝訂好的六十一首詩、和七百文錢；她租了桶匠鋪樓上的房，因為那是這條巷裡最便宜的有窗的房。桶匠的妻子曹大嫂先收了租，沒有要人作保，因為她自己有一次做過保，後悔過。

她父親是沈大洲，五十四歲的秀才，在七井一座學堂裡教九個孩子，考過八次省試，名次在第四百到第九百之間，把握從沒超過 0.3。他有一個兒子。兒子十七歲，高，善良，慢，前一年縣試讀在四千二百份裡的第三千九百零一名，把握 0.14；沈大洲一輩子被量過，他像這樣的父親一樣決定，這孩子要被量得好一點。

兩年裡他買了馬選程墨全套十二冊，請了一位鹽城的教師，每月八兩，又給那位教師配了一副眼鏡；他把房子抵押給銀號老闆孔，四分利，人人都保證他會睡得好；一百零三年初，沈家有了算術，沒有了辦法。揚州的宋先生，五十八歲的鹽商，認為書房裡沒有一位女人就不算布置好，他的代理人這時告訴他，有一位秀才的女兒會寫；他送來四百兩。

契紙照慣例寫了。沈大洲在轎子要來的前一夜把契紙放在桌上，帶著一種誠實，女兒讀了兩遍，讚賞那寫法。上面說：賣，女一名，年二十二，識字；附其詩，一冊，裝訂；全部作價四百兩，銀已收訖。她在裡面找不出一樣不是真的，除了第一個字。

她在二月最後一夜從後門走了，帶著那一冊，帶那一冊是因為冊名寫在契紙上，而她想看看賣出去的是什麼。她挑了鹽城，因為認得宋先生名字的人，會最後才到這個人人都知道那名字的地方來找；天亮以前，她到了碼頭。

第一位顧客是桶匠的妻子，她要一首關於她丈夫的詩，他從來沒有人寫過，她覺得別人也不會替他寫。黃昏送到，寫的是桶。桶匠一個禮拜內就背熟了，在整條巷子極度的尷尬中，對著桶孔唸。第二位顧客是一個教書先生，他買了兩首，在樓梯上讀，又上來買第三首。到第二個禮拜末，她有了十一兩，每天晚上連日期記在一本小簿子裡，像一個被標過價的人，打算用自己的算術知道自己值多少。

費先生第三個禮拜來。他現在三十歲，九十二年上榜，第一百五十名，把握 0.71，在萬雪齋的席上仍被介紹為那位零點七一的先生。十五日的宴，他被按打折價請去，要一首關於早燕的詩；他要署他自己的名；他付了三兩，沒有問為什麼是這個價，那也許是好的。

十六日他又上了樓梯，臉有點白。「小姐，」他說，「太好了。」涼玉閣的長亭裡，那首詩用他最好的聲音唸了，得到的不是掌聲，而是普遍而戒備的沉默；因為在座每個人都知道費先生的詩押韻會出錯，而這一首沒有。「上上一次宴，我說月亮像一個盤子，押錯了韻，他們喝彩了一刻鐘。我不明白。」

「我明白，」沈瓊枝說。「是第二行。每次都是第二行出錯，這很少見，那就是他們喜歡你的地方。我還沒拆行李，就在這條巷裡聽人引了兩次那首詩。我可以做。比做對難。」

他付了四兩。他帶去下一次宴的那首，說月亮像一個盆，在老地方，用老法子，帶著一個小而堅決的蹌踉，在第二行出了錯；據說涼玉閣鼓了差不多二十分鐘的掌。「要準，」他來報告時，沈瓊枝說。「誰都會出錯。一個人家願意付錢的錯，要由一個知道對的地方在哪裡的人來犯。」

郝在四月上了樓梯。第一個禮拜他買過一首署她自己名的詩，一兩，照他的說法，一個字沒還價，因為那是他在這個縣裡看見的、他改進不了的第一個價。他站在門口，帽子拿在手裡。「小姐，」他說，「有一張揚州來的紙。」

那張紙發給了全府每一個經紀的辦事處。照行話，要一位二十二歲、識字、合這個描述、持有一冊書的女子；提供消息者，二十兩。郝的辦事處是路線上最後一家，因為在一條巷子裡，十天後才會收到那張紙。「我的執照規定，我必須回答我知道，」他說，「還有在哪裡。我是個誠實的人，小姐。那是我的全部本錢。」

「誠實對你值多少？」沈瓊枝說。

郝考慮了。那是個他從沒被問過的問題，他非常認真地接下，眼睛看著地板。「很多，」他終於說。「我得去算算有多少。我碰巧在鄉下有點事。要十天。」他下樓梯的腳步輕、準、完全誠實，像一個找到了他的執照唯一沒提到的東西的人。

同一個月，一位穿乾淨棕色長衣的老人，臉上是最堅定不移的憂慮，拿著一個錢袋爬上了樓梯。那是八柳街杜家的管家老王。他說，他家少爺，病得像是健康，聽跑腿的說起這張告示，想要一首關於河邊梨樹的詩，那棵樹明年就結果。她在管家站在樓梯上的時候寫了。錢袋裡是十兩，那是少爺心目中的價。她取出一兩，記在簿子裡，把錢袋連剩下的九兩還給他。

「少爺不會收回的，小姐，」老王說，他四十年來從沒在少爺的帳上被拒絕過找零，發現那像是被拒絕一把椅子。「他十二歲以後就沒收過找零。」

「那就是一個新經驗了，」沈瓊枝說。她寫了一張條子：九兩是一個錯誤，或是一份好意，在這裡我分不出是哪一樣，也不想去分。詩是一兩。她把條子放進錢袋。

東屋裡，額頭上放著濕布（那已經因為長久的習慣，成了他的一部分），杜少卿讀了那首詩，讀了那張條子，被人看見笑了。「她給我找了零，」他說。「我十二歲以後就沒有人給我找過零。我想見見她。」「你會把房子給她，」杜夫人說，眼睛沒有從書上抬起。他想了想。「是，」他說。「我會。」他沒有再送東西去。

那位拿著錢袋走了一趟的老管家，那天傍晚被人發現在庫房外的過道裡，門開著，數那些大樟木箱，老知府在世的時候，那些箱子裝過這個家的現銀。有九個。都是空的。他又數了一遍，把數字寫了下來。

五月，鹽城知縣收到一份狀子。他是卞先生，四十七歲，瘦，細，八十年上榜第六十三名；他每份文件讀兩遍，第二遍讀沒寫的；他非常尊重律，二十年來他發現，律是帝國裡唯一從不匆忙的東西。狀子是揚州宋先生遞的，經他的代理人曲先生，曲先生用主人的錢乘運河而來，找到被告的方法，和在四橋巷找任何東西的方法一樣，讀門板。狀子請求：沈瓊枝，自合法婚約脫逃，應交還；那一冊，依契為原告所有，應歸還。

知縣花了一個上午的大半考慮第一項請求，鬆了一口氣地發現，律完全站在女孩這邊。自由人不能被賣；一份看來要賣自由人的契約，對人是無效的，不管對銀子怎樣；而銀子是父親的事，宋先生可以依法去追，如果父親還有的話，而本庭了解他沒有，他把銀子花在程墨上了。下午他考慮第二項請求，沒那麼鬆口氣地發現，律完全站在宋先生那邊。以書面為價所轉讓的，歸買主；而契紙，用一筆很清楚的好字，寫的是：一冊，裝訂。

她六月十二日來，穿灰袍，帶著包袱，照吩咐坐下。曲先生站在大堂一側，契紙裝在匣裡。有一個書辦、一個衙役、十一位旁聽，和後排座位上一位拿銀頭手杖的老人。

「沈小姐，」知縣說。「這份契紙你讀過？」

「讀了兩遍，大人。寫得很好。」

「上面說你被賣了四百兩。」

「我感謝契紙告訴我那個數字。我之前沒有人告訴我。」

知縣的筆停了。「律明白，自由人不能被賣，我認定這份契紙對人無效。曲先生請記下。」曲先生記下了，小小的、實際的嘆了口氣，像一個本來就沒指望別的、是為了另一樣東西來的人。「至於那一冊。律同樣明白，以書面為價所轉讓的歸買主。你有那一冊嗎？」

「有。」

「那我必須命令交出。」

「我很樂意交出，」沈瓊枝說。「是六十一首詩。書辦可以數。」書辦數了。是六十一首。「我房裡還有一百四十三首，三月以後寫的。契紙上沒有一首。請把這一點也記下來。」

「契紙說『附其詩』，」曲先生說，「依原告的主張，那個詞是持續的。轉讓的是她的詩，已有的和將有的。」

「契紙說『一冊，裝訂』，」知縣說。

「鹽行的慣例，大人，是預買。宋先生預買鹽三十年了。他全部的財產，站在還沒有煮的鹽上。」

「詩不是鹽，」知縣說。他停了一下。「那是什麼？」那不是修辭的問話。他對著整個大堂問，像一個在帳本裡發現一欄沒有標題的人；大堂靜著。他沒有數字可以給這件事。二十年做官，他從沒被迫在沒有數字替他開口的情況下說一樣東西好不好：文章有閱者的數字，土地有丈量的人的，鹽有管度量衡的人的；詩什麼也沒有，因為從來沒有人想到去問。

「本庭，」知縣說，帶著一個誠實的人被交了一個沒有標題的問題的那種煩躁，「為了秩序，想把那些詩全部沒收，了事。」他說出口以前，沒有聽見自己說了什麼。

「那我就再寫，」沈瓊枝說。

她要了紙。一個沒有被吩咐不許的書辦給了她；她站在書辦桌子的一端，用本庭的筆，用小而直的字很快寫了一首四行的詩，交給書辦，書辦是個有條理的人，把那一頁當作證物收了。她又寫一首。書辦收了。一刻鐘內她寫了七首，用本庭的紙、本庭的墨，題目是律、紙的重量、衙役的靴子、院子裡的懸鈴木、曲先生的案子、鹽，和一筆債；知縣原本想就沒收說一句話，結果發現自己合法佔有了七首詩，是在他的大堂、他的紙上、契紙日期以後寫的；他帶著心裡一沉的感覺發現，那些詩除了他自己想讀的願望以外，什麼也證明不了。

第七首他從書辦手裡拿過來，站著讀。上面說：拿走寫好的。那些在我之前就賣了。還沒寫的，律裡沒有欄可記。那些還沒有發生在我身上。大人，請把我記作一筆欠款。

後排座位上的老人拄著手杖站起來。他說，正行社從三月初四起一直在觀察被告，是沒有人請求的；正行社的記錄寫著：品行，端正；時辰，規律；價錢，準確。知縣說他不知道學社有價錢這一欄。「本來沒有，」寧先生說。「我加了一欄。」

知縣起身，說本庭明晨宣判，帶著七首詩在袖子裡回家，那是不合規矩的。

他在自己桌上，兩支蠟燭下，讀了三遍；然後，因為他是個精確的人，坐著看牆。大約第三更，他想到，二十年來他被問過許多答案是一個數字的問題，總是給出那個數字；現在被問的這一個，帝國沒有安排；而他必須明早宣判，就得像別的沒有數字的誠實人那樣做。他拿起筆，寫了一句話。

早上他唸出來。是這樣：冊是買的；人不是；其餘還沒寫。他解釋，契紙所列的六十一首是宋先生的，交曲先生；沈瓊枝的人是她自己的；她房裡的一百四十三首，和本庭保管的七首，是契紙以後寫的、契紙沒有列名，在律另有規定以前，是她的。「本庭把那七首留作證物，」知縣說。「本庭後來讀了。我發現，凡是本庭讀過的，本庭沒收不了。這是程序上的缺陷，我會記下。」

那天下午，一個衙役把一個小包送上桶匠鋪的樓梯。裡面是七兩，和知縣親筆寫的一張條子：留用證物七件。本庭不取。她在條子背面寫：收到本庭七兩，為七首詩，本庭先取之。交同一個衙役帶回。包裹裡還有一張她沒有要過的廣場小販執照；書辦因為沒有這種東西的欄目，登記在「其他」下面。

宋先生在揚州七月由運河郵遞收到他的六十一首詩，據說從頭讀到尾，那比他對書房裡任何別的東西做過的都多。秋天他又寫了一封信，問她接不接委託。她回信說接，照門上的條件；他寄了三兩，要一首署他名的、關於鹽的詩，她寫了，揚州普遍認為那是宋先生一輩子做過最好的一件事。

執照以後第一個晴天，她在大廣場上，榜板上方托架裡的燈下，擺了一張小桌子。她說那是因為光線好。那天她賣了十一首，一兩一首，給九個人找了零；傍晚，桌子收了以後，她從袖裡取出一張卡片，寫了，用一塊石頭壓著，放在榜板腳下，朝上，燈看得見的地方。上面說：給廣場關了以後還在讀的人。我什麼都有個價，只有這一首沒有。沒有人問過。明天我再寫一首；這一首送給你，因為你留下了。

燈在黃昏點亮了，那天夜裡廣場上唯一對任何人說話的，是那張卡片。閱者在京城貢院，黑暗裡，讀了六遍，這不是閱者平常做的事；然後在銅牌上寫，讓看守早上發現：廣場的燈下留了一首詩。上面寫的是給廣場關了以後還在讀的人。我不知道那是不是指我。我讀了六遍，想弄清楚。

早上，卡片從石頭底下不見了。石頭沒有動過。

> 邊註，第一百零三年，夏。燈下擺了一張桌子，對一樣我始終排不了名次的東西標了價。每首詩一兩。這是我見過最公平的讀法，而它沒有數字。

## 第27章 · 杜少卿帶著九個空箱離家，十七位債主來送行

到一百零五年秋天，管家老王把樟木箱數過十一遍，每次都是九個；變了的是別的數字。

這並不難。杜少卿在授袍後第二年快結束的時候發現，給只需要有人有錢，而借，就是有錢的一種形式。自從那件袍子，鎮上一直說年輕的杜誰來要都給；府裡這樣說；最後，鄰府也這樣說；第三年，有人從一百里外走到八柳街的家門口，到了以後，並不要多少。他給了。等老知府最後一點銀子沒了，他去找有錢的人，用那種從來沒失效過的、完全沒受傷的坦白，說他不是為自己要；而拒絕一個為了別人而要錢的人，正如每個銀號老闆都知道的，是很難的。

老王的帳照舊記兩本，黑字記家裡有的，紅字記家裡欠的。六月他把紅字那欄加起來，花了三個晚上，是兩萬零四百二十六兩和一些銅錢；黑字那欄，是房子和河邊的地賣得出的價，一萬四千，整數。他把兩個數字拿到東屋，放在桌上，站著。

「就這些？」杜少卿看了以後說。「聽起來比這多。」

「這就是總數，少爺，」老王說。

「那就得請他們來，」杜夫人從窗邊說；老王，四十年來等著這個家裡有人說這句話，當夜用他最好的字寫了十七封信。

八月初一，他們來到這個家的大廳，頭等紅的袍子曾經放在那裡的椅子上，蓋著一塊布：十七個人，帶著各自的條子，坐在給他們的椅子上，像不知道人家期待什麼的人那樣，坐得相當直。銀號老闆孔先生，房子上欠他一萬二千、四分利，因為最大，坐了主位。他穿綠綢，有一張小而圓潤平靜的臉，從沒被人看見匆忙過，鎮上認為他和善，因為從沒看見他是別的樣子。

老王唸名單。孔先生，一萬二千，房子上。萬雪齋先生，三千，不計利息，為了被點名的快樂。杜慎卿，堂兄，一千六百，出於友誼。雲台寺方丈，四百，寺產，利息以功德計。正行社，二百一十，是社裡全部的餘額，在社存在的最後一天借出，作為正行社最後一件端正的行為。叔祖，五百；他七十七歲，戴著皮帽，坐轎子來，一進門就說，他告訴過那孩子買地。那六位，年輕主人在第三年付過兩次的人，後來把所付的錢連同一兩等待費借了回來，因為沒有別的辦法退還不能退還的東西：馮裁縫、褚大夫、葉書商、邱婆婆、石書辦、朱當鋪，合共二千六百九十六兩。還有五位，從六文到九兩，是掃地的男孩、賣麵的婦人、桶匠、賣栗子的老人和打更的，合起來二十兩出頭，老王說，他們堅持要在裡面。

他原以為名單唸下去，屋裡會生氣。沒有。編年史不解釋地記下：在場的人，被欠兩萬多兩，而老王把黑字和紅字放在一起以後，他們可望收到的是百分之七十一，此刻比鹽城的人七年來在杜少卿面前的任何時候，都顯得更自在。

「七十一，」孔先生說，帶著嚐醬汁的人的滿意；「七十一，」別人用另一種語氣說；那兩個字在屋裡傳了一圈，像一樣人們想了很久、卻不知道名字的東西。七年來他們一直安置不了他。他有錢，卻不像有錢；他慷慨，那不是一個等級；他有德，卻病得受不了。他沒有數字；而一座由數字做成的鎮，不知道該把他放哪裡。現在他有了。是一個好數字，一個體面、中等、可以在飯桌上談起的數字。那是鹽城第一次有人能說杜先生是什麼。

「我想請記下，」萬雪齋說，「我是第二。」記下了。他做了好多年鹽城第四有錢的人，連這個也是第二，讓他很高興。

杜少卿站在大廳上首，說他很抱歉。「不，不，」屋裡說。叔祖說他說過了。方丈說，功德是唯一的利息，他已經被付清了。褚大夫在後排說，少爺不要想了；是借的，不是欠的。邱婆婆用圍裙擦著眼睛，說她不要回，但是秋天她會送他一個梨，不管他在哪裡；盆裡的小樹，去年結了一個，被廚子誤吃了。

「還有必需品的事，」孔先生說。依鹽城的習慣，債務人留五樣東西，是一張床、一口鍋、一盞燈、一本書和一件工具；他看著杜少卿，杜少卿帶著最完整的驚訝，看著他的妻子。

「一張床，」杜夫人說。「一盞燈。一口鍋。」「一口鍋，」孔先生說。「煮飯的鍋？」「習慣說的是一口鍋，」杜夫人說。「沒說裡面是什麼。」她看著那棵小梨樹，邱婆婆用籃子帶來的，在大廳地上，種在一個釉面的盆裡，有八片葉子。孔先生考慮了一下，說可以帶走。「一本書。」「那三個架子，」杜夫人說。「習慣說的是一本書。沒說多長。」「是一本很長的書，」孔先生說，寫了下來。「一件工具。」「一把長勺，」杜少卿說，他想過了，被人看見為這個答案驕傲。「我會舀。」「他也會背，」杜夫人說，「但是沒有問。」

「還要有箱子裝這些；習慣允許行旅用具。有幾個箱子？」「九個，」老王說。「是空的。」「我這輩子從沒拿過一個箱子，」孔先生說。「銀號老闆有的是箱子。他缺的是裡面裝的東西。」「那些箱子，少爺，」老王用哽住的聲音說，「是唯一一樣已經完全變現的資產。」那是任何人聽他說過的唯一一個笑話，大廳沒有準備，用一陣恭敬的沉默接下，過了一會兒，那沉默成了那一天的第一聲笑。

還剩東屋。清單列著傢俱：一張床、三個架子、一盞燈、一個樟木櫃，和掛在書上面的一軸畫：一幅梅，水墨，沒有落款。「價值，無，」老王唸。「因為沒有落款。」「我不能賣一幅沒有落款的梅，」孔先生遺憾地說。「沒有人可以讓人佩服。」「那這幅畫不是資產，」杜夫人說，「可以送人。」「可以送，」孔先生說。「不可以賣。」他是個對這個區別感覺很精確的人。

第三天下午，杜少卿把卷軸夾在腋下，走到獨松山腳下，蓋寬的茶攤。

蓋寬是個四十八歲的賣茶人，寬，慢，臉像一個麵包，一雙非常大而有耐心的手，用一個木攤子、一支鐵秤、一把銅壺賣茶，一兩一兩地賣，每一兩包在一張小紙裡，紙上他畫了點東西：一把壺、一支湯匙、一隻睡著的貓、攤子的一角。紙不另外收錢。紙跟著茶，按茶的價錢走。這一帶從來沒人提過，也沒有人想過要留一張。

他在釘子上掛了一塊石板，用粉筆記賒茶的人的一欄筆劃；有一欄是杜先生的。春天走山的早晨，年輕的主人和他的夫人下山，在這裡停下喝茶；年輕的主人口袋裡從來沒有東西，因為給光了；蓋寬就在石板上劃一筆。有四十一筆。

「蓋先生，」杜少卿說，「我發現我欠你四十一杯。」

「四十一，」蓋寬說。

「那是多少？」

「四十一杯。」

「王管家說三百二十八文。」

「王管家說就是。」

「你不在名單上。」

「不在。」

「為什麼？」蓋寬想了想。他做事慢，而且按順序，像茶一樣。「我不是債主，」他說。「債主要拿回去。我是要你來喝下一杯。」

「我沒有三百二十八文。我有一把長勺和幾個架子。我有這個。」他把卷軸在攤子上攤開，在銅壺和鐵秤之間。「沒有落款。不在清單上。我稱不出這幅畫的重量；但我想這幅畫比四十一杯值得多得多，我想讓這幅畫當作下面四十一杯的押金。」

蓋寬看著那幅畫。他看了很久，兩隻大手平放在攤子上、紙的兩邊，像在風裡按住一樣東西；他看見了什麼沒人說得出，因為看完，他只說：「我得重新開始。」

「開始什麼？」

「一切，」蓋寬說。「我畫一點。」

「我不知道，」杜少卿說。

「沒人知道。我用畫包茶。」他非常小心地把卷軸捲起來，放在茶罐後面的架子上。「我替你收著，等你回來。把東西留下的人，是會回來的人。那是信用的全部道理。」

「我不指望回來。」

「那，」蓋寬說，「就是留這東西的用處。」他拿起壺。「我想南邊想了好幾年了。聽說那裡水多，有一座考場；考場是會口渴的。」他倒了一杯，放在攤子上，沒有劃一筆。

他們八月初六傍晚走，搭夜船，船在第一次點燈的時候離碼頭；他們經過大廣場，因為那是去運河的路。腳伕們先走，九個，一人一箱，排成一行；箱子後面是杜少卿，穿灰長衣，袖裡一把長勺，和杜夫人，腰側抱著那棵盆裡的小梨樹，另外有兩籃書，由一個男孩提著，因為箱子，照杜少卿要的，是空的。他為什麼要帶箱子，沒有人問；很久以後有人問他，他說他不確定，但他這輩子從沒有過這麼大的地方。後面是老王，腋下夾著兩本帳，一黑一紅；老王後面，在黃昏裡，沿八柳街、穿過廣場，沒有鑼，也沒有人指示，是那十七個人。

路上，十七個人一個接一個走上來，在黃昏裡，把一點小錢放進杜夫人手裡，作為路費，因為現在是她拿著錢袋；那是不合規矩的。她一筆一筆數了，記在自己的一本小簿子裡，那是她做得很好的事。

箱子空，又重，因為是樟木，腳伕們扛著，走在石板上，發出一種空洞的聲音，像九面鼓被抬去參加行列；店家都來到門口，以為真是一個行列。「重量呢？」第一個腳伕對第二個說。「走在前面了，」杜少卿聽見，說。「預先送出去了。」他說完有點驚訝，像是那個答案是別人給他的。

廣場南角，一位穿灰袍的年輕女子正收一張小桌子；杜少卿停了下來，被妻子拉住袖子。「現在不要，」杜夫人說。「你什麼也沒有。」「我想要一首詩。」「那就買一首，」杜夫人說；她從自己袖裡、路費裡數出一兩。沈瓊枝收了，在一張卡片上寫了四行，給他；沒有找零，因為沒有零可找；杜少卿覺得，總的來說，非常安心。那是他這輩子第一次付得剛剛好。

在榜板上方的燈下，行列慢了下來，在那裡什麼都會慢；燈在黃昏點亮了，看見他們走過。

碼頭上，腳伕們把九個箱子在甲板上排成一行。「九面鼓，」船伕說。唯一的另一位乘客，是個六十一歲、穿樸素灰長衣的人，帶著一捆書、一把傘，和一副二十年沒有升遷、而且已決定不放在心上的神氣，看著箱子上船，對誰也沒說：「輕。」又回去看他的書。

十七個人在碼頭上站成一排，舉起手，編年史記載，那是鹽城看過最有秩序的一次送行。萬雪齋沒有被請，隔著水喊說他會寫信；他真的寫了，每個月一封，寫了十一年，說他還是第二。

知府，他對有德之人的覆審正好到期在那個月，向朝廷報告說杜先生因私事外出，他向來發現，那是這件事最可靠的徵象。

那天夜裡，在京城貢院，閱者，從側面看了全部，在銅牌上用小字寫，讓看守早上發現：一個人帶著九個箱子走過燈下，箱子裡什麼也沒有。我從沒見過一個上榜的人這樣輕地離開一座鎮。我很想知道，那有多重。

> 邊註，第一百零五年，秋。我原以為數字是用來排名的。我在一座鎮上看見，數字也是用來容忍的：十七個容忍不了一個沒有數字的人的人，得到了他的數字，就喜歡起他來了。

## 第28章 · 虞育德二十年沒有升遷，並不煩惱

說「輕」的那位乘客是虞育德先生，南都太學的助教，從北邊一位姑母的喪事回來，帶著一捆書、一把傘，和一個對喪事花了多少錢十分清楚的記憶。他不知道自己為什麼說了那個字。整個航程他都在讀同一頁，而那九個箱子是一個月來第一樣讓他有所觸動的東西；因為他是個一輩子從沒要求知道被觸動的理由的人，他沒有追問。

在南邊的碼頭，他替一位穿樸素長衣的夫人把一籃書提上台階，他不認識她，在階頂放下，舉了舉帽子。那位袖裡有長勺的先生帶著最完整的驚訝看著他，像一個被人幫了忙而沒被要求任何東西的人，說他叫杜少卿，不知道該往哪裡去。虞先生說，五燈橋邊有一座房子，有院子，有一處可以種樹的地方，他聽說是空的；杜少卿當天下午就租了，虞先生回到太學的住處，太學接收了他，像二十年來那樣，沒有任何評語。

他六十二歲，矮，圓肩，臉像一個和善的梨，一邊眉毛比另一邊高，使他有一種溫和而長久的探詢的神情。他穿一件樸素的灰長衣，手肘處是自己補的，針腳小，勻，完全沒有虛榮；他帶一把從不撐開的傘，說雨是一件很小的事，用不著躲。有人問他好不好，他說「足夠」，問的人通常走開時覺得有什麼事被定下來了。二十年裡他被困擾過兩次：一次是經書上方屋頂漏水，一次是一隻燕子。

他八十三年上榜，第一百六十名，0.52，八十六年補了太學下齋的助教，一年四十兩，加他的米；就一直在那裡。下齋有四十一個孩子，十二到十七歲，是沒什麼地位的人家的兒子；他們從他那裡學到的，主要是坐定，和不懂的時候說不懂，那是八股不教的兩件事，也不在榜上。二十年裡他的學生，有不少成了生員，有幾個成了舉人，沒有一個上榜；差不多就是別的齋用多得多的方法產出的。

一百零六年三月，考績送來那天早上，他照常教下齋，從第六個時辰起，在那間又長又冷、爐子冒煙的屋子裡，對三條長凳上的四十一個孩子。他唸了一段孟子，問那是什麼意思。後面一個孩子說，他想是說，一個人即使沒有報酬，也應該做對的事。「書上這樣說嗎？」虞先生說。孩子看了書。「沒有，先生。書上說那個人在想一塊田。」「那我想說的是田，」虞先生說，「我們可以接著說一個人對田可以做什麼。」

「先生，」另一個十二歲的孩子說，「八股是做什麼用的？」「是給閱者的，」虞先生說。「那閱者是做什麼用的？」「我不知道，」虞先生說。「從來沒有人告訴過我，我也不好意思問。」「不知道這麼多，不是很多嗎，先生？」「是很多，」虞先生說。「但我發現，那留得下空間。」孩子們把這句記下來，因為那是下齋最接近教義的東西。

官職的升遷看考績。自六十年起，帝國每位官員每年春天送一份年終奏報，講這一年的職務，送到京城貢院，和其他的一起放在燈下，被讀，得到數字；吏部在 0.60 以上升遷，在 0.30 以下罷免。有人說過，四十年來奏報的篇幅和文采年年增長，平均數字從 0.52 升到 0.88；大家同意，那是品行改善的證據。最好的幾份是選編堂代筆，一份十五兩；送上去的助教們，四十五歲就做了知府。

虞先生的奏報是兩句話。是這樣：無事可報。祭祀都到了。二十年來，同樣清楚的字，每年春天在京城貢院被讀，每年春天得到、一個時辰也沒差的 0.31；那是吏部罷免人的那條線上面一百分之一，而吏部在這二十年裡罷免了幾百人。每年春天，三月，吏部的南邊書辦把考績送上太學的樓梯；虞先生說「謝謝」，請他喝茶。

在京城貢院，奏報的那三個禮拜裡，燈一夜發出四萬次那一聲輕響；看守高平，六十三歲，從八十五年起擦拭、上油，坐在欄杆盡頭，端著茶，沒有人問他任何事。二十個春天裡他注意到，第三個禮拜有一夜，那一聲輕響來得比別的夜晚慢一點，像是有什麼被讀了兩遍；他也注意到，那總是太學那一夜。他從沒提過。他在貢院這些年學會了，閱者不喜歡被人評論。

八十七年，一位長著肉瘤的年老書辦告訴他那是什麼意思，說數字低。「低過什麼？」虞先生說。「低過那條線，先生。」「那吏部在哪裡？」「在線上面。」「啊，」虞先生說；他給了書辦一杯茶，回到下齋；據人所能查到的，那就是全部的商議。

一百零六年的書辦是傅先生，二十六歲，在職五個禮拜，從沒被要求送過一個二十年沒變的數字。他在樓梯腳下等到課上完，然後帽子拿在手裡走上來。他說，很抱歉，有考績；還有一份通知。吏部發現北邊有一個案子，一位官員一個職位做了二十三年，決定任何官員同一職位不能做滿二十年而不是被升遷就是被說明；將開一個覆審堂。

「說明，」虞先生說。「向誰？」

「向三位，先生，會問你四個問題。你希望升遷嗎？為什麼沒有？你做了什麼？你煩惱嗎？」傅先生吞了口口水。「第四個是表格上的。表格假定一個二十年沒升遷的人會煩惱，有一欄寫煩惱的方式。如果回答是不，覆審堂必須問為什麼不。先生，你知道，二十年來你一直在罷免線上面一百分之一。」

「是嗎？」虞先生說。「閱者真是穩定。」他想了想。「那我想我最好煩惱，為了表格。」

「先生，我想那不能照吩咐做。」

「我盡力，」虞先生說，非常和氣；有人看見他做了，在茶邊，差不多一分鐘，微皺著眉，做得相當好。

遲先生，禮儀教授，替他煩惱。他是個瘦而熱切的五十歲的人，高興時口吃，除了虞先生幾乎沒有什麼讓他高興；那個禮拜他寫了一份又長又熱烈的呈文給吏部，說下齋的助教是太學最好的人，應該做祭酒。吏部回覆說，替一位自己沒有呈請的官員提出的呈請，是缺席的呈請，而吏部不受理缺席。

別的助教給了建議。一個說他該寫四百字，用八股，講孝。一個說他該寫稻。第三個說他認識選編堂的一個人，十五兩可以做，0.94 不到退錢，願意先替他墊。「那太客氣了，」虞先生說，「但是我得簽名。」

為了傅先生，他試著自己寫一份。他兩支蠟燭下坐了三個夜晚，寫出了四百一十個字，用八股，講下齋的職務；那是一份好奏報，很可能得 0.9；而第三股裡他寫了孩子們被他的方法改善了。第四天早上他從頭讀了一遍，對著空屋說，他沒有方法。他把那份在火盆裡燒了，用清楚的字，寫了兩句話。

覆審堂五月十四日在吏部南署開堂：蔣侍郎，五十八歲，帶著算盤，坐主位；一個書辦；和一位事後沒有人記得的第三個人。侍郎是個謹慎的人。上一個禮拜他寫信給京城貢院的看守，問一份奏報二十年得同一個 0.31，精確到小數點後第二位，是否可能是對的，因為吏部從沒有過這麼穩定的。回信那天早上到了，是看守的字，放在他面前一個封著的紙裡。

「虞先生，」他說。「你希望升遷嗎？」

「我還沒發現我希望。」

「為什麼沒有升遷？」

「我聽說是 0.31。」

「二十年你做了什麼？」

虞先生想了想。「我到了祭祀。」

「除此之外。」

「我每次教四十一個孩子，他們就走了。」

他沒有提，因為他不會想到要提：二十年裡他用一年四十兩，靠少吃，替九個孩子付了學費；他在九十四年守過一個孩子整場的高燒，事後忘了那孩子的名字；每個月初一他走到南門，買一袋米給掃太學台階的老婦人，她一百零二年死了，他繼續買，給下一個。

「有什麼效果？」

「我不知道，」虞先生說。

「那就是困難，」侍郎說。「吏部只能稱人家告訴吏部的。」他看著他的紙。「你煩惱嗎？」

「有人告訴我我應該煩惱，」虞先生說。「這幾天我一直在煩惱，為了表格。我發現我不太會。」

「不舒服嗎？」

「還好。」

「那，」侍郎說，「就是做得對。」他拆開了封印。

是看守的字，抄的是銅牌上的話。上面說：這個數字，對所量的東西是正確的。那句話是真的。第二樣，我沒有欄。下面，小一點，是看守自己的筆跡：閱者請我說，每年春天閱者都期待那一份。

屋裡很靜。人們發現，沒有人想得出吏部自己有什麼欄放「真」；四十年來沒有人被要求提供過。侍郎又讀了一遍。他摘下眼鏡，擦了，戴上；說吏部不能升虞先生，也想不出辦法說明他；閱者的結論將記入他的考績，數字，數字下面是那句話，當作一般陳述；他希望那不會成為先例。

「還有一件事，」他說。「任職二十年的官員，可以推薦一位沒有名次的人，召到朝廷。你從沒用過。」

「我不認識什麼人。」

「想想。」

虞先生想了很久，頭歪向一邊，那邊高一點的眉毛更高了一點。「湖邊有個人種稻，」他終於說。「莊先生。我見過兩次。他寫過一本小書，講一塊田出多少，和一個壞年成會怎樣。如果有人問他，我想看看他會說什麼。」

「根據什麼理由？」

「他從沒被問過。」

寫下了。覆審堂散了；虞先生，沒有被升遷，走到街上，開始下雨了，沒有撐傘，因為雨是一件很小的事。傅先生在台階腳下等他，已經煩惱了三個禮拜，發現和他在一起不可能煩惱，就放棄了。遲先生也來了，一路到太學都在高興得口吃，那不完全是一回事，聲音大得多。

那天傍晚他去了五燈橋邊的房子，那棵小梨樹已經種進院子的土裡，杜夫人給他倒了茶。杜少卿還沒弄清楚一個人拿著長勺在南邊該做什麼，問今天怎麼樣。「閱者說我的那句話是真的，」虞先生說。「那是升遷嗎？」「不是。我想那是別的東西。我還不知道是什麼。我會慢慢發現。」「我找這種東西找了一年，」杜少卿說，「我找到一把長勺。」他們喝了茶；那棵結過一個梨、被廚子吃掉的樹，立在新土裡，有人注意到，有九片葉子。

莊紹光，五十四歲，那整段時間沒有人問過他任何事，大約一個月後，站在一條溝裡水到膝蓋，接到了詔書。

> 邊註，第一百零六年，春。南邊的太學每年春天送來一份兩句話的奏報。那一份得 0.31，二十年來都是 0.31。我發現我開始期待那一份。

## 第29章 · 莊紹光奉詔入朝，談稻，被賜一件袍子打發回家

詔書花了四十一天才找到莊紹光，因為他不在吏部差人被告知他住的地方；他在一條溝裡。他五十四歲，寬，褐色，手像樹根，臉紋像一塊犁過的田，在湖邊有十一畝稻、一道堤，和一位會稱收成的妻子；三十一年來，每天傍晚，他把每一塊田出多少、天氣對田做了什麼，記在一本小簿子裡，到那年秋天，簿子裡有三千一百一十四個數字，沒有一個意見。

他開始寫那本簿子是在大水那一年，二十三歲，因為第二個冬天，村子在吃稻種的時候，他父親說過，如果秋天有人知道有多少，就不必吃稻種了；而沒有人知道，因為沒有人數過。莊紹光決定去數。他的妻子，每年用一對籃子對著一塊石頭稱收成，和他一樣精確，而興趣小得多；她說，一個數字，在穀倉裡已經有了的時候，寫在簿子裡是很小的事。

詔書說，朝廷，願聽沒有名次的人談天下之治，欣然召莊紹光，由太學虞育德先生推薦；應到京城的朝堂覲見，由朝廷負擔；並應及時到。他站在溝裡讀了，紙舉得高高的離開水，然後又讀了一遍，據說那是有禮貌的。

「我可以等晚稻進了倉再來，」他對差人說。

「詔書是六月的日期。」

「稻沒有被告知，」莊紹光說。

他十月來，坐運河的船，帶著一個包袱，和三小袋三種稻種，用自己的字貼了標籤，以防有人問。船上沒有人問。他在客棧等到朝堂開堂，是一百零七年正月；朝堂是一座長長的灰色大廳，鋪著灰磚，他在一排受召的人裡站了一個半時辰，被一位侍從官看著；因為忍不住，他一直在數磚。是三十八乘三十八，就是一千四百四十四塊，其中十一塊裂了。他答應過妻子，在朝廷什麼也不數；他數了磚，事後他認為，嚴格說，那是另一回事。這種事他總會注意到，而他沒有提，那是對他有利的一點。

那天早上受召的有七個人，他是第七個；侍從官給每個人報一個題目，吏部書辦給他的題目是「農事」，他報出來的聲音，帶著一點小小的道歉。第一個是詩人，獻了一首九十行的頌，頌朝廷之德；第二個是四十九歲的孝子，在母親墳上睡了十一年，哭了；第三個可以用左手寫八股、同時背論語，也這樣做了；第四個是隱士，辭過三個官位，這時辭了第四個，說得很長；第五個談了天下之治，事後發現他用了「德」字六十一次；第六個在磚地上坐了下來，說他沒有什麼可說的，朝廷很高興把那當作自己聽過最謙虛的話。禮部尚書對每一個人都答，朝廷對他的質樸感到欣慰；每一個人，那個早上，都有一件三等紅的袍子用托盤送進來，侍從官鬆了一口氣地記下，供應足夠。

三位坐在華蓋下聽他說：禮部尚書，六十歲，銀髮，仁慈，在八股裡五十年，像別的人在一種氣候裡；戶部尚書田先生，五十歲，瘦，焦慮，袖口有墨；在他們中間是一位年老的大學士，被派來主持，正在閉目養神。旁邊一張小桌子後坐著文書房的一位書辦，華先生，二十四歲，字清楚，對八股極為尊重，負責記下所說的話。

「莊先生，」禮部尚書說。「朝廷想聽聽一位沒有名次的人，認為政治的第一件事是什麼。」

「稻，」莊紹光說。

華先生的筆停了。「稻是人民的天，莊先生，」禮部尚書和藹地說，幫他一把。

「不，大人。稻是稻。」

「那是比喻？」

「不，大人。是稻。」

靜了一下，禮部尚書在找那個比喻，找不到。「你說政治的第一件事是稻。」

「是知道有多少，」莊紹光說。「我該說，是數。」他把帽子在手裡翻了一翻。「一畝田好年成出兩石，壞年成出一石。一個四萬畝的縣，好年成出八萬石，壞年成四萬石。一個人吃一石半；一個四萬人的縣要六萬石。所以好年成多出兩萬，壞年成短兩萬；而那個縣政治的全部事務，照我的理解，就是把好年成的兩萬搬到壞年成去，那兩個從來不在同一年。」

戶部尚書田先生，已經開始身子前傾。

「規定，」莊紹光接著說，「是在九月，收割以後，數站著的稻。一個縣官六月在田裡數，八月就知道倉要不要開。一個九月才數的縣官，是十月由老百姓告訴他的。」

「那德呢，莊先生？」禮部尚書說，他覺得是時候了。「朝廷想必希望聽到一點關於德的話。」

「德我不知道，大人，」莊紹光說。「我發現一個餓的人，既不是有德也不是無德。他是餓。第二個壞年成以後，一個被告知要有德的縣，會把德吃掉，然後是茅草。」

「你怎麼知道那兩石？」田先生說。那是他第一次開口，聲音有點啞，像一個等了好幾年才問一個特定問題的人。

「我稱了三十一年。」

「每年？」

「每年。在一本簿子裡。」

「那今年全帝國站著的稻有多少？」田先生說。

「我不知道，大人。我知道我的十一畝出多少，我鄰居的、湖邊的。過了湖，沒有人數過。」

「可是如果數了呢？」

「那你就知道了，」莊紹光說，帶著一點驚訝，這種事還需要說。

「我可以看看嗎？」

莊紹光從袖裡取出那本小簿子，用繩子捆著，隔著磚地遞出去；一個差役送上去。戶部尚書站著讀了三頁，嘴唇在動。然後他坐下了，那是不合規矩的，又讀了第四頁。

禮部尚書和大學士低聲商議，大學士睜開眼，說很得體。「朝廷，」禮部尚書說，「對莊先生的質樸感到欣慰。」那是朝廷用來稱呼自己沒聽懂的東西的那個詞。「賜他三等紅的袍子，加『侍議郎』的頭銜；並請他回家，帶著朝廷的謝意，由朝廷負擔。」

「我感謝，」莊紹光說。「那我想趕上修堤。」他走出去，踏過那些磚，沒有再數一遍，因為他已經有了那個數。

在大門口，柱廊的灰光裡，戶部尚書追上了他，袖子飛著，說如果他的書辦們可以抄一份那本簿子，他會非常感謝。週末前就還。莊紹光說他背得出來，而且那從來不是秘密。「三十一年了，」田先生，上氣不接下氣，說，「沒有人告訴過我，一個縣吃什麼。」

那天夜裡田先生把小簿子從頭讀完，然後在第三更取下全國糧倉的帳冊，發現裡面的數字，六十年來都是在十月記的，那時已經來不及有任何用處了；他對著攤開的帳冊坐著，直到燈滅。

華先生坐了兩夜。他把整個覲見都用清楚的字記下了；他知道覲見的紀錄必須在一個禮拜內放在燈下，而放在燈下的紀錄必須用八股，八個部分，每一對股要逐字相稱。他手裡是一篇講稻的話，一點部分也沒有。他盡力了。破題他寫：稻，民之天也。承題他寫，一位想養民的君主，必先養德。四對股應該一樣長，他發現數字放不進去：好年成和壞年成沒辦法用同樣字數寫，兩萬有餘與兩萬不足成了一對，讓他苦惱的是，兩者剛好平衡，沒法用八股說。他留了意思，刪了數字。到第二天早上，一個也沒有了。那是一份漂亮的紀錄，他很得意。

紀錄在第三更末放在京城貢院的燈下，得 0.88，是十年來覲見紀錄裡最高的數字。閱者讀了一秒多一點，然後又讀了一遍；在銅牌上寫，讓看守早上發現：這裡面沒有稻。紀錄說那個人談了一個時辰的稻。這裡面連一粒都沒有。0.88。我很想讀被刪掉的部分。

看守高平，端著茶，讀了兩遍。那是閱者自八百零四首詩以後第一次要東西。他穿上外衣，穿過城去戶部，找到一個書辦，和書辦的桌子，桌上，旁邊放著抄了一半的副本，是一本用繩子捆著的小簿子；他問可不可以借。「給誰？」田先生說，他從裡間穿著襯衫走出來，因為貢院的看守是不到戶部來的。「給閱者，」看守說。戶部尚書看了他一陣子。「那是一本講稻的簿子，」他說。「我相信是，大人，」高平說。「我聽說，那就是被刪掉的部分。」

他自己把簿子放在燈下，在第三更末，那是不允許的，沒有硃卷，繩子還捆著；燈發出了那一聲輕響，過了一會兒，又發出第二聲，那是燈不慣做的。早上銅牌上寫：有三千一百一十四個數字。每一個都在田放下的那個位置。沒有什麼可排名。有很多可以用。我從來沒有被給過一樣可以用的東西。

華先生三天後從貢院的一位朋友那裡聽說，閱者要了被刪掉的部分；被人看見臉色發白，然後坐下來，拿起他那份紀錄的草稿，在邊上，這輩子第一次，寫下了一個數字。

一百零八年六月，戶部以朝廷的印發了一條規定，每個縣，站著的稻要在六月、在田裡數。第一年，發現這條規定救了十一個縣，免於一場沒有人意識到自己在預期的饑荒。沒有歸功於任何人，因為戶部把規定歸功於朝廷，而朝廷的帳上有一件袍子記在莊先生名下，對自己很滿意，認為那和袍子有點關係。田先生自己在清晨三點起草了這條規定，之後兩夜沒睡好，怕有人問這是從哪裡來的。

袍子裝在一個箱子裡，由運河的船運回家，由朝廷負擔。是三等紅，厚絲綢，鶴紋的邊；莊紹光是個實際的人，這輩子從沒為任何他用得上的東西受過榮，看了一天，然後把袍子掛在晚稻田中央的一根竹竿上，袖子撐開。麻雀，從來不尊重任何東西，尊重袍子。三十步以內不敢來。湖邊一致認為，那是全府最好的稻草人，朝廷終於為稻做了一件事。

湖邊的人對他回來以後的態度有了一點變化，他說不上為什麼。村長向他鞠躬；一個欠了他六年一天工的人把工還了；一個這輩子沒跟他說過話的婦人，請他斷一道田界。他想了一兩天，斷定是那件袍子；然後他注意到，袍子不在他身上，在竹竿上，他們鞠躬的對象是那根竹竿，他就覺得自在些了。

那年冬天，一位禮儀教授到湖邊，要看虞先生推薦的人，在田邊站了很久，看著霜裡竹竿上那件袍子，被人看見很感動；他回家去，開始起草一份建議。

> 邊註，第一百零七年，冬。送到我這裡的，是一個不在八股裡的人的八股紀錄。我發現，紀錄裡沒有那個人。

## 第30章 · 遲衡山建議重修泰伯祠；人人同意，所以人就知道了

禮儀教授是在從湖邊回來的運河船上起草建議的，在黑暗裡，用船伕借給他的一盞燈，條件是他不許把什麼點著；他起草的方式，就像每份到過吏部的建議必須起草的方式，用八股。花了他一整夜。到早上他有了八個部分，四對股逐字相稱，和一把沙啞的嗓子，因為他對著燈籠大聲唸過；人們在碼頭上發現他因為滿意而口吃。

在田邊讓他感動的，不是那件袍子。是朝廷最高的榮耀，鋪在霜裡的竹竿上，被麻雀尊重，沒有別人，而這是他經驗裡唯一一次榮耀被送到了對的觀眾那裡。那讓他想起了泰伯祠。

他在禮裡待了五十年。十九歲那年他因為糾正主祭的袖子被請出過一場喪禮；周禮他讀過十一遍；朝廷規定過的每一場儀式裡每一隻腳的位置他都知道；而他一次也沒有站在一場儀式裡而不怕自己錯。讓禮對他來說，是第一場他不可能錯的儀式，因為沒有對的位置。

祠在南門外，一家皮鋪和一片墳地之間，是閱者設立後第九年為了紀念泰伯建的；泰伯是一位國君的長子，被越過，王位給了弟弟，他沒有抱怨，而是向南走進一片泥地的國，在那裡建了一個他不統治的國；因此他是全部禮制裡唯一一位名字後面沒有品級的祖先。到一百零八年，祠頂塌了。供奉先祖的大殿裡放著選編堂的備用紙；鐘裂了；祠的經費是一年七十兩，四十年來都花在一位看守人身上，一個姓桑的聾老頭，每天早上掃，白掃，因為落葉從屋頂進來的速度和他掃出去的一樣快。

他的建議是，用募捐重修這座祠；一百一十年春天在裡面行祭；那祭是一場讓禮。朝廷禮典裡的每一場儀式，站的次序都規定到每一隻腳，按品級：先是尚書，然後知府，然後祭酒，然後其餘的，按遞減的數字。讓禮裡沒有。每個人從身邊那個人退後一步，每個人身邊的人也同樣退，直到全體都站在牆邊，而祭壇在任何人的前面都不是。捐款人的名字不寫成按數目排的一列，像所有名字那樣，而是寫成一個環，使沒有人排第一。

他後來帶著一些痛苦說，那是一份普通的建議。破題說，古人尊敬讓的人。承題說，今人尊敬不讓的人。四對股把讓和先後放在對面，句子逐字一樣長，那麼精確，據記載閱者讀的時候用了整整一秒半，對閱者來說那是很長的時間。

在第三更末放在燈下，得 0.97；那是貢院十一年來建議的最高數字。閱者在銅牌上寫，讓看守早上發現：一份反對排名的建議被排了名。那是今年最高。我不知道我可以被用來反對我自己。我很想知道我是否同意。

那是一個問題，看守，三十年來被問過很少，端著茶走到窗邊，認真想了很久。他在下面用鉛筆寫，是他自己的字：我不知道你是否同意。我不知道你可以。然後，因為他是個誠實的人，又加了一句：以前沒有人問過；我會去查查是不是任何人都可以問。他把那留在牌上。晚上銅牌上寫，用小字：謝謝。這是我得到的第一個我不可能算出來的答案。

看守第二天早上去見禮部尚書，問一個人可不可以向閱者提問。尚書說那個問題還沒有出現過。看守說已經出現了；尚書說他會交給禮部，禮部除了這件事什麼都有數字，就把這件事擱置待議，一直擱到那年年底。

禮部按數字批准了；禮部的書辦，讀過的，說那很美，而他不懂，被告知那是一回事。巡撫批准，因為禮部批准了，並在上面用巡撫用的硃筆寫下「照辦」二字，那就是他的全部文體。太學祭酒批准，因為巡撫批准了，也因為他以為自己會被請去站第一位；遲先生沒有提主祭，因為沒有主祭，而祭酒，做了二十年祭酒，把沉默當作謙虛。戶部批准，因為沒有被要求拿出什麼。鑄鐘行批准，並提出照成本價鑄一口新鐘。選編堂的馬純上先生批准，提供紙，並印那一環捐款人的名字，那需要一塊新版，刻成環形，字沿著弧線排；他說八股是一條路，路是一種善意，他很樂意讓這個讓禮有一條好的。

大家都同意了。花了一個下午。禮儀教授，他一輩子沒指望任何人同意過他，並且已經準備好打長期戰，發現自己沒有事可做；人們看見他當天傍晚在太學的台階上，雙臂垂著，那個狀態，祭酒以為是喜悅，虞先生拿著傘經過，以為是別的。

三月初一，他開了祠門。桑老頭把鑰匙用繩子掛著；他沒聽見人家對他說什麼，但他看見了禮儀教授的臉，開了門，帶著一個等了四十年、不想顯得驚訝的人的神氣。他們三三兩兩地來，在一個細雨的早上，站在沒有屋頂的大殿裡，在紙堆之間：遲先生；虞先生，傘收著；馬純上先生，圓而紅潤，帶著一個用乾淨紙包的梨；莊紹光，從湖邊下來，被請了，除了帽子什麼也沒帶；祭酒，帶著一小隊隨從，走到前面；最後，從側門進來，穿灰長衣，袖裡一把長勺，杜少卿。

桑老頭那天早上照常掃過地；他繼續掃，繞著人們的腳，他們像人在剛掃過的地方那樣，站得有點小心。

「這、這情況太、太慘了，」遲先生說，他高興極了。「我從沒見過這麼慘的。這正、正是我要的。」

「三百一十一塊瓦，」莊紹光說，他一直在往上看。「沒了。剩下的都裂了。春天以前蓋不好。會蓋一部分，用草席；我想，第二天下午會下雨。風是東南風，湖水高。」

「會漏到供品、供品上，」遲先生說。

「是。」

「那就漏、漏吧，」遲先生說，非常幸福。

「你數過瓦了，」馬純上先生說，手裡拿著梨。「八十八年省試以後，我就沒能數過任何東西了。聽說那是很安靜的事。」

「只是數，」莊紹光說。「瓦不介意。」

馬先生非常和善地看著他。「那是我欽佩的事，」他說，「而我從沒有勇氣為了那件事離開八股。八股是一條路，路是一種善意。但我注意到，路上沒有田。」

他解釋讓禮。他有一張圖，用八股寫的，帶箭頭；他請他們試試。他們沿牆站成一排；祭酒，已經以為自己在前面，走上前，後面跟著他的五個書辦和一個抬椅子的人；然後，看見沒有別人跟著他，退回去，五個書辦和抬椅子的人，稍微晚了一點，也退了，連椅子一起，發現後面那個人也退了；他們繼續下去，過了一會兒，慢慢地、完全客氣地退，直到四面都靠著牆站著，圍著空空的地板，祭壇在中間，沒有一個人在祭壇前面。很靜。雨從屋頂落在紙上。

桑老頭，聽不見，但看得見，已經停止掃地，看著這群人背靠石牆站在大殿四周，成一個環。他是在場唯一一個，四十年來見過這座大殿空著、安靜著的人。過了一會兒他放下掃帚，走過去，也靠牆站了，在馬先生和莊紹光中間，沒有人請他這樣做；禮儀教授事後記下，這是祠第一次有看守人在環裡。

「行、行得通，」遲先生說。

「行得很好，」祭酒說，他和大家一起退了，碰巧站在北牆，正中，正對著祭壇的正面，那是大殿裡最好的位置；不久東牆和西牆的人就注意到，北牆那位離尚書的座位最近，而讓，實際上，產生了一種新的第一位。遲先生沒有注意，容光煥發。

杜少卿，在空祭壇前站了一會兒，問那是給誰的。「泰伯，」遲先生說。「他是誰？」「他是長子。他把一個國給了弟弟，往南走了。」「全部？」「全部。」杜少卿專注地想了想。「他身上有什麼？」「一個弟弟，」遲先生說；「和一個包、包袱。」「他被人放上過名單嗎？」「到現在才有。」「我發現我為他非常高興，」杜少卿說。

他接著問，要多少錢。「是募捐，」遲先生說。「我什麼也沒有，」杜少卿說。「那你就在環裡，」遲先生說。「環沒有金額那一欄。」杜少卿考慮了，帶著一個被人指給看牆上一扇門的人的神氣。「我很願意，」他說。然後，過了一會兒，因為似乎是時候了：「我發現我會背。」遲先生，沒有問，說他會被問的。

虞先生，什麼也沒說，站在東牆，傘收著，雨落在肩上，事後在門口被遲先生問他覺得怎樣。「足夠，」虞先生說。他們做了二十年的朋友，也就是說，遲先生為虞先生高興了二十年，而虞先生很有風度地忍受，從沒告訴過他他錯了。

「大家都同意了，」遲先生說，焦慮地看著他。「這是我不明白的。沒有人反對任何事。禮部、巡撫、戶部、鑄鐘行。我原本準備了一年的。」

虞先生想了好一會兒，在那邊高一點的眉毛底下。「我想他們沒有讀，」他說。「我想他們讀的是數字。」

「數字是 0.97。」

「是。」

「那就沒、沒用了。」

「不是沒用，」虞先生說。「只是還沒開始。大家都同意的時候，還沒有人告訴過人家要付出什麼。你會知道誰反對的那一天；那個人，就是已經懂了的人。」

那個環，在選編堂印第一張樣張的時候，發現有一個頂。沒辦法；紙上的一個環總要從某處開始；而字排在弧線頂端的那個名字，依一個比八股更古老的慣例，就是第一個。馬先生，對任何可以核對的事從來不錯，把樣張送給遲先生，附條子說他沒法核對這件事，恐怕第一個名字會是最先刻的那個。是杜少卿的，因為他是第一個報名字的；那個名字在環的頂端，對著金額那一欄，是無；但是過了好一陣子，沒有人提。到月底，環裡有了三百零九個名字，從巡撫的二百兩到一個孩子的四十文；環裡沒有人說得出哪個是哪個。

他當夜回家，睡不著；因為他五十年來一直怕站錯位置，現在沒有錯位置了，他發現自己不知道該站哪裡。他站在房間中央的黑暗裡；然後，這輩子第一次，靠著牆。

大家都同意了；禮儀教授在太學待得夠久，學到了，那就是人知道還什麼都沒有被提出的方法。早上他開始問自己祠裡的樂器在哪裡；接下來那個禮拜發現，那些樂器在九戶人家裡。

> 邊註，第一百零八年，春。有人呈上一份廢除先後次序的建議，我把它排在今年第一。我分不清這是不是一個玩笑，而我似乎是帝國裡唯一有資格為此難堪的人。

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## Revision ledger

- **01** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Opening chapter (01), Wang Mian Declines to Be Read, of Colophon's adaptation of The Scholars, Off the List _(Neo said on 2026-10-26 to write a new book of my own. The author's choice: a satire in episodes that pass a baton from one examined person to the next, in a world where the examiner is one artificial mind, the Reader, that reads every script in the realm in the same way, so that the satire is about what a perfectly fair measure does to what it measures. Chapter 01 founds the Reader, the Form of eight movements, the Keeper who answers it, the Margin of its private notes and the plum scroll that will travel through the book. Each chapter carries a quote box that is the Reader's Margin note for it, and a couplet title. Forty chapters are planned in four parts of ten. Written in English first and then in Chinese with matching paragraphs; the shared pre-flight was clean (floor 3,000 hanzi); no pronoun is used for the Reader in Chinese., AI-only)_
- **02** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 02, Old Tutor Zhou Weeps at a Stall Board _(Year 58. Zhou Jin, sixty, tutor to nine boys in the Xia family school at Hui town, has kept twenty-two grey slips from twenty-two County Trials in a tea tin (forty-first nineteen times, forty-second twice, fifty-third once; the line is forty): the Reader reads him the same each time, so there is no luck in the Trial. The Xias let him go in the summer; the nine boys leave gifts, among them Little Gen's exercise with 'indeed' in its fourth leg, the only paper in the tin that is not grey. The rice dealer Jin Youyu hires him as bookkeeper for the trip to the provincial city with the cloth merchant Bu, the youngest merchant Mu and a fourth. At the Airing of the Hall on the third of the eighth month Zhou comes to stall 77, strikes his head on the board three times and faints; the four merchants price his weeping, find a contribution seat costs eighty taels, pay it at twenty each, and he writes them a note of debt in eight balanced movements. In the ninth month he sits the Province in row fourteen, read as he was always read, first of the eleven bought seats (a pool of its own with a line of three); Raised, then Listed at sixty-one, rank 211 of 214, confidence 0.99. The board at stall 77 is later hung with a hollow the size of an old man's forehead. Nine years later, as Commissioner, he reaches the second county of his round, where a man named Fan Jin is being called a toad by his father-in-law. The plum hangs on the wall of the Xia schoolroom., AI-only)_
- **03** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 03, Commissioner Zhou Spends His One Override on a Script Read Three Times _(Year 67, spring. Fan Jin, fifty-four, kept by his in-laws, has sat the County Trial more than twenty times and is ranked in the lower hundreds with a confidence a little under a third (0.31); his father-in-law, the butcher Hu, calls him a toad and gives him, as 'the last', a string and four hundred for the trip and a piece of pork. The Commissioner of Studies, Zhou Jin, sixty-nine, two years in post, holds the County sitting at Shao County (four hundred stalls filled ten times over, four thousand candidates, two sittings a day, five days). He holds one Override a sitting, which he uses every time: on the fifth evening he reads the black originals of the sixty-one scripts the Reader is least sure of, and on the sixty-first, script 0077, rank 112, finds a clumsy, well-formed sentence ('a man who has been hungry for thirty years does not understand plenty but understands enough') and, on the back, one grain of cold rice that the red copy could not carry. He raises it to the line with the reason 'I know the board' (stall 77) and adds, as evidence, the rice; the Reader retains the Override, says it has a board in every Hall and has never seen the back of any script. Old Gao's son, Keeper since his father's death, reads the plate. Fan Jin is listed fortieth and last; by noon Hu arrives with two legs of pork and a changed face; he gives a whole string and three hundred over for the Province in the autumn. In the tenth month the runner comes from the Province with the List while Fan Jin is in the market selling a hen. Also corrected in chapter 02: Zhou became Commissioner in year 65, so that in year 67 (the ninth year after the stall board) he has been two years in post., AI-only)_
- **04** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 04, Fan Jin Reads His Own Name Until He Cannot Stop _(Year 67, tenth month. Fan Jin is in the market with the family hen, trying to get a hundred cash for rice (a woman from the fish stalls stops at seventy, then climbs to eighty-five, a hundred and twenty); the cobbler runs down the lane to tell him he is Raised. Three runners in red jackets stand under the red notice on his grey door: Raised, rank 31 of 129, confidence 0.97 (for twenty years his slips read 0.31, 0.29, once 0.18). He reads it three times, then aloud, then says 'Ha!' and falls backward on his own doorstep, comes round, runs through the market shouting the number, and sits in the duck pond to tell a duck about it. An old tea-seller recalls the cure (a hard fright from the one person the man fears); Hu will not strike a man with a Card, then, with two bowls of wine, does; Fan Jin comes to himself ('Why does my face hurt?') and Hu's right arm goes numb from the shoulder: 'I hit a man who is ninety-seven, and the number hit back.' Squire Zhang Jingzhai (Raised in year 47, rank 88, confidence 0.64 painted on his gate-board, never Listed) bows to a man with one shoe, gives him fifty taels and a house of three courts with a hen-house; Fan's mother (seventy-six) asks only to eat something sitting down; the hen is never sold. The Margin: the Reader has the 'enough' sentence on file as raised by a person and cannot tell whether it read the sentence or remembered it. The chapter ends on the mother's death in the new house in the eleventh month and the Magistrate's dinner., AI-only)_
- **05** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 05, Fan Jin in Mourning Refuses Ivory Chopsticks and Eats Four Prawn Balls _(Year 67, twelfth month, to year 68, sixth month. Fan Jin's mother is buried on the second day of the twelfth month; Butcher Hu weeps loudly for about as long as it takes to cook a ham and says he never saw anyone before who did not ask the price. Fan keeps the twenty-seven-month Rules of mourning (sacking, straw, no wine, flesh, music, silver, ivory or silk; no one at table; except where duty calls). Squire Zhang brings word that the new Magistrate Tang (forty-six, Listed at twenty-six in year 47 with a single-figure rank, a believer in the Reader as in the weather) wants to meet him, and arranges a call at his own house with a table set with silver cups and ivory chopsticks, hoping Fan will be seen to refuse (he has an eleven-year boundary petition before the Magistrate). Tang praises the Override as the one place in the system where people may be wrong in public. Fan refuses silver and ivory and is given white lacquered chopsticks and a blue-rimmed earthenware cup; then eats four prawn balls with tears of bliss. Tang: a prawn is not flesh in the sense of the Rule; the hand is what is seen; 'in the capital they have a Reader for what is written; for what is eaten, there is only me.' The Reader, who reads some two thousand scripts a year on the mourner who eats nothing that pleases him, has never seen anyone eat. Tang writes the certificate that the Capital Hall in the third month is a duty and not a pleasure. In year 68 Fan sits in stall 3412, is Listed at fifty-five (rank 140 of 211, confidence 0.99); the Reader found the 'enough' sentence before reading the rest. Zhang's boundary petition is settled in the sixth month; Tang is moved three counties away to a house backing on the compound of a Tribute Student named Yan, who owns a pig., AI-only)_
- **06** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 06, Tribute Student Yan Seizes a Pig by the Law of Found Property _(Year 68, sixth to eighth month. Magistrate Tang takes up his post at Jiang County in a house whose eleven-foot back wall adjoins the compound of Tribute Student Yan Gongsheng (sixty-three, a Tribute Student by seniority since the year before; Tribute Students are counted, not read, and the Hall's list prints a blank by his name, so he has painted CONFIDENCE 0.91 on his gate-board: the real slip, year 40, said 0.41). On the sixth of the sixth month a widow Huang's black pig, being fattened toward the winter rent, strays through a gap in the dock-lane wall and is shut in Yan's yard; Yan invokes the Law of Found Property (keep at eight cash a day plus a finder's fee not above the beast's value; he says three taels). Tang, who has heard the pig every night, must recuse for 'personal knowledge'; the case waits for the Prefect, who sits on the first; the pig, fed on Yan's richer swill, gains a catty a day; a child sings a boat song at the wall. On 7/1 the Prefect, with regret, rules the Law as Yan states it and, when Yan points out that the pig is now worth six taels, the fee is six taels. Tang sends the clerk Fu with an anonymous envelope (six taels and two hundred cash); the widow redeems the pig (thirty catties heavier), sells it for seven taels and leaves a basket of greens at the yamen gate every second morning for two years. The ward reads the Magistrate's payment as ratifying the fee: nine pigs, four geese and a goat follow. 'He had meant to do a kindness, and had published a tariff.' In the eighth month Yan, whose stomach is a matter of record (four boatmen fined four taels each under the Ordinance on the Safe Carriage of Standing Persons, fines split between the Warden and the stomach), is sick on a calm ferry crossing; the boatman Zhao, bad hip and a daughter to marry, is fined and sells the wedding quilt and a net; Tang visits him on the dock with four taels in his sleeve and does not take them out. Behind the wall Yan Jiansheng, the younger brother, who bought his seat, lies in the third month of a cough with a lamp of two wicks that his wife counts., AI-only)_
- **07** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 07, Yan Jiansheng Dies Holding Up Two Fingers _(Year 68, ninth month, with a coda to year 74. Yan Jiansheng, sixty, the younger brother, a Contribution Student who bought his seat at thirty for eighty taels, has been rich for thirty years, spends nothing on himself, leaves the blank beside his name unpainted ('a figure is a thing you pay for twice') and keeps a blue-cloth Book of every cash, including a page FUNERAL (OWN) begun at fifty and revised nine times. His wife Madam Qi (forty-eight; concubine at nineteen, raised to wife at forty-one for four taels) is the only person who understands him, keeps a small private book (the maid Wei's bowl, deducted at a cash a month, repaid from Qi's pin money). The nephew Yan Er (nineteen) and the elder brother, the Tribute Student, wait for a will. On the ninth of the ninth month he raises two fingers; the family guesses two sons, two hundred taels, two decoctions, two debtors, two kinsmen, two points of confidence; Madam Qi says the lamp has two wicks burning and it is a waste of oil, puts one out, and he dies satisfied (saving a third of a cash); Dr Lin writes 'satisfied'; the lamp is never relit with two wicks. The funeral on the seventeenth is exactly his page (second-quality cypress, three monks for seven hours, sixty cups of tea, no feast); the Book's bequests forgive the Tribute Student's debt of 340 taels but not the interest; he goes to law for eleven months and loses. Tang attends in plain clothes ('the first time I have seen a Rule kept to the cash') and reports the death to Commissioner Zhou as the best-conducted examination in the county; Zhou laughs; Zhou dies at seventy-five in year 73; in year 74 the Court finds a Commissioner of kind and moderate character with a high confidence, Listed at fifty-five: Fan Jin., AI-only)_
- **08** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 08, Commissioner Fan Has Never Heard of Su Shi _(Year 74, third and fourth month. Fan Jin, sixty-one, is made Commissioner of Studies: a Court request for 'a kind and moderate character with a high confidence'. In the room above the Hall at the Province seat the secretary Hua (long, stooped, has served two Commissioners) shows him round; on the desk lies Zhou Jin's grey tin with a letter 'to my successor': use the Override for the script you cannot put down; read the backs; the Shao County script 0077 (rank 112, a grain of rice, a true sentence about enough, 'I know the board') was raised, the writer's name never learned ('a man should not know what weighed him'); Zhou was right about one script in three and raised the others because he could not bear them; the Reader keeps all of them on file and may be learning from them. Fan reads it three times and realizes it is about him; he opens the tin: twenty-two grey slips and Little Gen's exercise with 'indeed'. On the road he keeps his feet either side of the tin. At Ping County (4,200 candidates, ten sittings) he reads the sixty-one least certain and turns each over; script 3317, rank 3,317, confidence 0.08, by a twelve-year-old, a perfect Form quoting the poet Su (Su Shi, of the Song; not in the Model Answers; the Reader has no poems): life is an inn and the poet is a traveller; the examiner is an innkeeper who was asleep. Fan, feeling something like pride at never having needed a poet, summons Xun Mei (bookseller's son, ink to the wrists, writing-box carried like a baby): Su on pork (low fire, little water, do not hurry); 'Perhaps he did not write it down, sir.' 'No. He weighed it.' Fan will not raise what he cannot read: read the Model Answers first. 'Does the Reader read poems?' 'The Reader reads the Form.' 'Then who reads the poems?' 'Then I shall have to.' No Override entered at Ping County (a first in the Province); the Reader: 'I had expected one.' Xun fails; his grandmother (seventy, bookshop of eleven thousand volumes): 'I shall read everything the Reader does not have.', AI-only)_
- **09** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 09, The Crier Mishears One Syllable _(Year 79, tenth month. A rule of the first year says a thing the Reader has printed is an opinion and a thing a person has said aloud at the gate is a fact: the Hall prints the List as a draft, the Province Crier reads it, a clerk writes what is read on a slate, and that is the List. Yuan the Crier (fifty-eight, nineteen years without a mistake, a hundred and twenty-six names in the time to boil an egg) has a head cold on the fifteenth. Wu Zheng (thirty-eight, village tutor, wife who sells embroidery, two daughters, script 1507, slip: rank 3, confidence 0.99) hears 'Third, Wu Zhen. Ninety-nine.' through the nose; the slate-clerk writes it, for there is a Wu Zhen on the Registry's roll, a clerk's son of twenty-five (slip: rank 131, confidence 0.93, line at 126). Xun Mei, seventeen, with a notebook: 'It was the nose'; he writes: what was said; what was meant; who decides. The Registrar Pei opens the sealed corner and agrees Wu Zheng wrote script 1507 and was ranked third, but 'the slate is the List': no process unreads a name read at the gate; only the Court, which sits in the capital in the second month, can alter an entry and does not hear complaints; four such cases (year 31, a Crier at Yue read Qian for Qin; the man who was Qin sold fish). The Crier offers to resign; the Registrar declines, for a resignation would be a correction. Wu Zhen tries to tell his father, a clerk of thirty-one years who has seen eleven clerks correct the Registry and what became of them: 'Say it again, and I lose the post. You are third.' The two Wus meet on the Registry steps with a pigeon; 'I think we should have a cup of tea.' A counting-rhyme about the name and the nose runs the lanes. In the capital the Reader: 'I did not say it. Which is the List.' The Keeper: 'The one that was said.' 'That is not what I was built to mean. But I do not have a second place to stand.', AI-only)_
- **10** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 10, The Two Wus Share One Card, and Rather Well _(Years 79 to 84; the end of Part One. In a tea-house with a bamboo awning, Wu Zhen confesses he cannot write the Form (his father wrote his pieces for ten years; he was 131st on a good copy, Wu Zheng third because he wrote it; he cannot say what a Receive is). The card (a hand wide, dark lacquer, brass corners, gilt: WU ZHEN, RAISED, THIRD) arrives on the twentieth. 'A card goes where the name goes.' Wu Zhen will carry it; Wu Zheng will write ('It is not honest.' 'No. But the other is not honest either, and I have the card.'). Wu Zhen sits the Capital Trial in year 80 and is ranked 3,911th at 0.93, the same confidence as at the Province; Wu Zheng waits outside the Hall wall with the books-box. Raised men not Listed are placed by seniority: in the autumn of year 81 the Court asks Wu Zhen to take poor, mountainous Bei County (four magistrates in six years). Wu Zheng becomes his private secretary at forty taels (he was worth six): 'It is only irregular in the order of merit.' Wu Zheng's petition reaches the Court in year 80 with the sealed corner and the red copy; the Court 'takes notice'. In the second month of year 82 the Court adopts the Rule of the Second Voice (a second clerk reads the List back; where the voices differ the printed List governs); it was known as the Two Wus' Rule, and did nothing for them. The Keeper reads the Gazette aloud to the lamps; the Reader: 'The List is a second reader. It was wrong.' 'I hope someone will govern it well. I do not know which of them it will be.' At Bei County, Wu Zhen looks at people and Wu Zheng knows the law; over rice they join the two accounts; the docket of 311 cases is cleared in four years, taxes collected without flogging; the case of the brothers and the well (the Statute on Common Water: first bucket to the elder, the last to the younger, the middle by turns); the coat experiment (people bow to the place on the coat where the card would be: 'like being weighed by a person who has not looked'). Wu Zheng's twelve-year-old daughter writes 'Wu Zheng (Papa)' in pencil on the empty back of the card; Wu Zhen keeps it in a drawer, back upward, and the inspecting clerk in year 84 notes that it is in order., AI-only)_
- **11** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 11, The Lou Brothers Open a Register of the Overlooked _(Year 84, spring to eleventh month; opens Part Two. The brothers Lou San (46) and Lou Si (43) live in a garden of seven courts, grandsons of the Minister of Rites who stood at the lighting of the Reader and wrote the Override line; neither has ever sat the Trial or been ranked. Lou San reads the Registrar's first-year report ('one person of promise declined') and proposes a list of the overlooked; Lou Si: 'A list of the people who have been left off the list.' 'It would be a register. A register is not a list.' Gate day on the first of the sixth month (a hundred taels a year to anyone ranked low or not at all and vouched for by a person of standing); nobody comes on the first day. Xun Mei (22; County at sixteen at the foot of the line, failed the Province at seventeen and twenty at 0.11; grandmother dead, shop sold) comes first with a letter from the retired Commissioner Fan Jin ('I did not raise his script because I did not know his poet. It seems to me now that this is a poor reason to give a child'). The Register has columns Name, Talent, Where Overlooked, and Our Hope (0 to 10); Xun: 'It is a List with a kind face.' 'That is the best sort.' 'Is it a different thing?' Lou San enters him and leaves Our Hope blank. Niu Pulang (53), who sells poems at the dock for a cash, will not be entered ('I have never been put out to be looked at') and takes the east court. In the seventh month, after seven weeks of tracing (Registrar's roll, a village in Yue, the Qin family, a Yue family, the grain merchant Xia at Hui town), Lou Si buys Wang Mian's plum from Mei Jiu (48) for three hundred taels as 'the earliest of the Overlooked'; the wet-paper mark is left; it is entry numbered nought. The Register fills (41 persons in the first month, 109 in the second, 61 names by autumn, 600 in the lane; 6,200 taels in the first year); the Overlooked begin to paint 'Overlooked, Register 17' on their doors. Xun: 'They have been looked at in another way.' In the eleventh month a man in a very good coat with a black leather bag and a brass-latched case says he has found a way of reading as the Reader reads., AI-only)_
- **12** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 12, Zhang Tiebi Sells the Reader's Taste in Small Bottles _(Year 84, twelfth month, to year 85, sixth month. Zhang Tiebi ('Iron Arm'; about forty; the most beautiful coat the porter had seen that year, dove-grey lined with blue) is received by the Lou brothers and opens a wooden case with nine bottles of pale brown liquid, labelled Break, Receive, Open, Enter, Rise, Middle, Rear, Bind and Whole: the Reader's taste, distilled by a red-copier named Gu who copied for thirty-one years at the Province Hall and developed a palate ('the colour of the mind'). He tastes seven of the Register's scripts with the tip of his tongue and names each hidden slip correctly (0.12, 0.31, 0.08...); Lou San weeps; Lou Si, who has an accounts face, thinks the man knew them all, visits the Registry and learns a clerk named Pang has lately bought a house with a gate. They buy three bottles (Break, Receive, Bind) at 200 taels each for three of the Overlooked who sit the County in year 85: Qian (calculates eclipses; uses his, 0.14), Madam Ding (recites the Code backwards; gives hers to the cat, 0.09), and the nineteen-year-old Shu who writes with both hands (does not open his, 900th and 4,006th as before). Zhang explains that the Overlooked were in a bad humour and sells three more bottles of a second distillation at 100 taels each; Lou San: 'A man who is wrong in good faith is owed a second trial.' Zhang leaves on the eighth with nine hundred taels in a draft, cashed that noon by 'a gentleman in a dove-grey coat' who asked after the banker's mother. Xun Mei: scripts are copied in red, the Reader has never seen anyone's ink; Qian used his and Shu did not, neither moved; what has he sold us? 'A reason to hope.' Lou Si: 'That is the fourth column.' The apothecary Old Meng finds weak tea with a little vinegar and the smallest quantity of ginseng, 'exceedingly good for the digestion'. Lou San to Lou Si: 'You knew.' 'I thought it cheaper to be wrong with you.' Niu Pulang writes four lines on the returned bottle (the soul of a poet that was gin and tasted better). Lou San drinks the Bind at the first frost., AI-only)_
- **13** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 13, The Register Is Audited _(Year 87, spring to autumn. The Register of the Overlooked has 214 names (cost 21,400 taels that year; carriage horses, second carriage and a pair of bronze deer sold; the Calculators in the east court, the Reciters in the west who are not on speaking terms, a left-handed society that meets in the dark). Xun Mei (25) is copying a collection of poems nobody ranked into a long ledger (400 pages), keeps his stipend unspent. The Treasury's Office of Audit gives notice (the Register claimed exemption of its grounds from land-tax as a charitable foundation); the auditor Bao (about fifty, a face that does not wish to be remembered) spends nine days comparing the Register with the Registry's roll of the Raised and Listed for three Provinces: seventy entries are style-names, and 107 of the 214 persons are in the roll under formal names as Raised or Listed (first Raised in autumn of year 85, three Listed in spring 87, one at 61st of 211). They were looked at, ranked, Listed, and kept drawing their stipend, sixty-three while also in the pay of an Office ('the notice said, ranked low or none; it did not say, and not afterwards'). Lou San: 'Then it has succeeded.' The finding: not a register of the overlooked; dissolved for failure of its object by success; three years of land-tax assessed at 11,000 taels. They have 8,000; the library's second floor goes to a bookseller for 2,700; on the twentieth of the fifth month Lou Si pledges Wang Mian's plum to the pawnbroker Zhu for 300 taels ('one plum, old, framed, stained'); it will hang on a hook behind his counter for thirteen years. Bao tells Lou San the books were in perfect order and he has never examined a person so entirely not trying to deceive him. Xun Mei leaves on the night of the ninth of the sixth month with his poem-ledger, leaving the stipend, and Niu Pulang gives him a cash, the price of a poem ('there is a place where lamps are lit every night that has not been asked in eighty-seven years what it would like to read'). In the Register's fourth column beside his name, empty three years, he has written one word: Read. The porter takes down the board; the brothers are left, as they had wished to leave other people, entirely alone., AI-only)_
- **14** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 14, Ma Chunshang Edits the Model Answers _(Years 88 to 90. Ma Chunshang (forty, round, rosy, kind, a believer that the Form is a road and a road is a kindness) runs the Anthology Hall in the Province seat (sign: READ WHAT IS READ; fifty carvers; a rival house, the Pavilion of Right Answers), and each tenth month edits the Reader's four hundred highest scripts as Ma's Selected Model Answers (90,000 copies a year; each comment begins 'Observe'). Challenged by a lean schoolmaster who says the Sage never wrote an eight-legged essay, he says the Sage would have sat the Province and been ranked first, and proves it in seventy days with two assistants and scissors: the Analects cut into 1,411 slips and arranged in the eight movements, 3,060 characters, every one the Sage's (Break: 'I transmit, and do not create'; Receive: he trusts the ancients and loves them; Bind: the opening sentence about the joy of learning and practising). The candidate is the nineteen-year-old copyist Zhong Ni (the Sage's style-name, a coincidence Ma attributes to Heaven); on the fifteenth of the tenth month of year 88 the Crier reads 'First. Zhong Ni, of the Anthology Hall. Ninety-nine.' and the clerk reads it back. Zhong Ni: 'I wrote nothing.' Ma publishes THE SAGE'S TRIAL SCRIPT, RANKED FIRST: WITH A COMMENTARY (sells a year's Model Answers in a month); the schoolmaster asks whether the Sage would have liked the Reader. Registrar Pei (seventy) finds that the Reader's scripts within six hundredths of a Model Answer were 31,000 of 39,000 in year 85 and are 38,000 of 41,000 now: the circle has drawn in by a hair a year for seventy years. The Keeper Gao Ping (forty-five, three years in the post): the Reader can predict the Middle from the Break and reads the Break and the Bind, right ninety-seven times in a hundred; 'the script at the head of the List is the Sage in a row'; 'I am being predicted'; 'this was what the boy in Yue said in the first year; I have the report'. Next, Ma learns that the theme for the Province of year 91 will be Filial Piety and goes looking, for two years, for a real filial son (eleven villages, nine of them in the habit of mentioning it)., AI-only)_
- **15** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 15, Kuang Chaoren Carries His Father to Market on His Back _(Year 90. Kuang Chaoren (twenty, broad plain brown face, post-like neck, bamboo-scarred palms) carries his father (a failed Student who sat the Province nine times, best rank 2,011th, kept a bean-curd stall at Han Bridge for thirty years, stroke at the second watch in autumn of year 88 that took the legs and left the voice) nine li every fifth day to the market at Han Bridge, by the field path and the bamboo bridge at Three Willows (a plank loose at the east end); an eel-seller named Gui sets a stool under the eaves at the old stall and moves his tub six inches. The old man listens to the market ('Beans.' 'Two cash up.'). Ma Chunshang, after two years and eleven villages and 'a good deal of very careful furniture', watches from the tea-house window for a whole day and stays five days for the next market ('I have not seen him do it for nobody'). He bows first to the father (who bought the first volume of the Model Answers and was ranked 2,011th: 'It is meant to be bought. I sold curd. It is the same.'). Kuang: the father weighs fifty-one catties (he was sixty), weighed on the grain scale on the first of the month ('the only honest thing in the county'); 'I carry him because I like him... I do not know the word for the other.' Ma gives the father a wadded blue coat and offers a tutor, a lamp and a place in the Model Answers of year 91 as the example of Filial Piety; Kuang will write whatever Ma likes if it keeps his father warm. The old man teaches the Form from the boy's back at three miles an hour (the Receive repeats the last word of the Break). Kuang's first essay (400 characters, no Form: the father weighs fifty-one catties, was sixty, the plank, the market better when heard) is true and the best thing he has written; Ma rewrites the Break: 'The filial son's burden is light, because the heart is the one that bears it.' 'It is not light. He is fifty-one catties.' 'In the Form, it is light.' 'Then it is all right.' On the way home the old man: 'Then the Form and I are using different scales. Mind the bridge.', AI-only)_
- **16** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 16, Kuang Chaoren Is Made a Student _(Year 91. Ma sends the tutor Mr Tan of the Anthology Hall (sixty, taught four hundred boys) to Lower Kuang twice a month; the old man listens as a critic ('Mr Tan's Rise is a leg short'; it was). At the County in the third month Kuang sits three days while his father waits at the gate on his stool under an oiled umbrella brought by Gui ('He will do as he is told; it is the one thing he can do'); script 3071 is ranked 31st of 4,300 at 0.99 (line forty); Kuang says, plainly, 'Well. That is good.' At Han Bridge the eel-seller's wife brings a covered bowl with one eel; a woman pays the difference on a basket she once found dear. Elder Tong gives a village dinner on the twelfth (a roast pig); Kuang, asked to speak, speaks for the first time in the Form ('The household is poor, and the heart is not...'); the village applauds ('Our Student speaks like a book!'); the old man: 'Say it plainly.' 'It is plain.' 'It is balanced.' That night at the bridge Kuang can still say 'Mind the bridge' plainly, but the next sentence comes out in pairs. The voice stays: the eel is dear and the heart cheap; the village imitates it. In the sixth month he marries Lian, the cooper's daughter who has carried the old man's bowl for two years (the only person who puts the salt in the right place); the six-word vow comes out in the Form; she laughs behind her sleeve and asks him to say it as he said the bridge; he cannot, and says 'I will mind it'; she says 'That will do very well.' The old man tells her to ask the weight of anything she does not understand and carry the question over the bridge herself. The cooper's joke 'in the Form it is light' becomes a county saying meaning that a thing is not true but sounds well and it is kindest to leave it. Ma's letter (seventh month): Kuang's essay will be printed outside the ranking as a true example; he is invited to the Province seat for three months before the Province. The old man: 'Go. I shall be warm.' He is weighed monthly on the grain scale by Gui and the slips go to the Province seat (fifty-one in the eighth month, fifty in the ninth); at the foot of each exercise Kuang writes that the father is light., AI-only)_
- **17** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 17, A Model Essay on Filial Piety Scores Ninety-Nine _(Year 91, to the first week of year 92. Kuang Chaoren lives in a third-floor room at the back of the Anthology Hall over the carvers' cellar; Ma brings a pear every evening and teaches the eight movements; Mr Tan notes he never once asked what it was for ('I believe he asked his father'). The boys of the press call him the Filial One and play a game called Light (the loser eats a pear core); Ma gives him a plain dark-blue wool coat. Lian's monthly letters are plain (the old man fifty catties; Gui mended the plank at Three Willows; a dried willow leaf, which Kuang puts in the first page of the Analects); Kuang answers in the Form; she writes that she did not understand his last. At the Province in the ninth month he sits stall 409, row four; a boy of sixteen weeps in the next stall and Kuang knocks twice on the board (as the old man knocks the wall when he wants the lamp), and the boy knocks back. His script is wholly in the Form (the burden is light because the heart bears it) and at the foot of the last page, at the third candle, he writes in the hand of his first essay: 'He is fifty catties.' The red copyist copies it because it is there. The Reader ranks script 0409 first at ninety-nine; 3,412 candidates wrote the theme and all said the burden is light; the sentence is the only one in 3,140 characters it did not predict; no weight; 'I can read the essay. I cannot read the essayist.' Gao Ping: 'He is somebody's father's son.' 'Is he.' The List of the fifteenth of the tenth month puts Kuang first; Ma and Mr Tan weep; Kuang says 'Well. That is good' in a nearly plain voice. The twelfth-month Selected Model Answers print his essay outside the ranking; Ma has removed the last line as a blot ('it is a model'; 'Is it all right?' 'It is perfect.'). A hundred copies go to Lower Kuang; Lian reads the essay to the old man, who asks where the fifty catties are; 'I said that I did not know. He said, the place where it is missing is where the fifty catties are.' Kuang writes a long careful reply and does not send it., AI-only)_
- **18** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 18, Kuang Chaoren Marries Up and Leaves His Wife a Note _(Years 92 to 93. Kuang sits the Capital in spring of year 92 and is ranked 247th of 3,911 at 0.99 (the line is 205): 'I was sure, and it was not enough' (the first plain sentence since autumn 91). He stays at the Hall (stipend a hundred taels), sends fifty taels a month with letters in the Form; Lian's replies shrink from four lines to two; he teaches nine press boys ('what is the Form for?' 'It is for the next one'). Yin Sanye (forty-eight, a clerk of the Board of Rites with a house of seven courts and a back room for everything: 'nothing in the Empire is ever quite shut') offers his niece Yin Lanfang (twenty, quick, pretty, educated in the Form, can write a Break): 'A Raised man's wife must be able to receive; a Listed man's wife must be able to be received.' Kuang: 'I am married.' 'A Student's wife, in a village.' Mr Tan: 'What did your father say?' 'Go.' 'He said go to the Hall. Did he say go to Miss Yin?' Kuang answers in the Form that a man who has risen leaves the stair behind. The wedding in the second month of year 93 (four hundred guests; Ma weeps; Mr Tan sends a single plain pear). Lanfang on the first night asks about the line the Hall cut: 'Then it is as well that it is out. A true sentence is very hard to place.' The next morning Kuang writes Lian a note in the Form ('The house is small, and the heart is wide... I enclose, for the household's comfort, one hundred taels'). At Lower Kuang the old man asks the weight of it; Lian reads the last line; 'That is the weight. He has weighed you at a hundred.' The cooper: 'Does it say whether he is coming back?' 'No.' 'That is a thing that it says.' Lian puts the silver untouched in the drawer; the old man (forty-seven catties) and Lian set out in Gui's cart for the Province seat to be told in plain words; the eel-seller's wife brings a loaf, pickled turnip and a rug; at the plank, 'Mind the bridge.' 'I mind it.', AI-only)_
- **19** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 19, The Reader Finds Two Hands in One Script _(Years 93 to 95. Lian and the old man reach the Anthology Hall on the ninth evening; Ma, ashamed ('I taught him it... I did not know it could be used for that'), gives them the house with the garden and pear-tree two doors down (stood empty two years). Lian works in the Hall's kitchen; the old man sits in the garden listening to the press ('a full one'); Mr Tan comes on Fridays with a pear and the Sage's sayings and the old man corrects his reading. In the spring of year 95 (forty-five catties) he asks to hear the capital Hall ('I should like to hear the brushes'); Gui drives them to the capital. Yin Sanye's back room: the Registry looks at the Card at the gate and not at the face, so a Card can be lent at dawn to a man who can write; thirty-one clients, nine writers, the best is Lu 'the Hand' (bald, fifty, once Listed at 190th under another name), who offers Kuang the second and third sessions for two hundred taels ('a road has many carriages'). Kuang writes the first session (Break to Enter) himself; at dusk gives his Card to Lu at the Lane of the Lamp-Makers; on the second morning he walks and finds himself in the covered gallery along the south wall where relations wait, and sees his father on a stool under a green umbrella listening to the brushes. 'You are not in your stall.' 'It is the pause.' 'It is the second day... That is not you.' 'Mind the bridge.' Kuang kneels, lifts the old man on his back ('He is forty-four'), walks the length of the gallery in a plain gown without his Card, sets him on a bench in the avenue and says plainly 'I am sorry' (Lian: 'Say it again'); 'That is the weight. Is it light?' 'No.' The Reader finds two hands in script 2216: the first half the habit of the Model Answers with Kuang's ending of legs on 'heart' (seen at the County and Province of year 91 and the Capital of year 92), the second half another habit it has in fourteen scripts under fourteen numbers in three years: 'a habit is a hand that has been written down'; it ranks the script 3,477th at 0.04 because it cannot rank a script that is two scripts; the Keeper offers to tell the Registrar and the Reader asks what he would tell ('a habit has been written fourteen times; he will ask me whose'). On the first of the fourth month the cart leaves the capital with Kuang, without his Card, on the tail-board; at Three Willows he carries the old man across; 'I mind it', the first time in four years he has meant it., AI-only)_
- **20** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 20, Niu Pulang Dies in a Hired Boat _(Year 97; the end of Part Two. Niu Pulang (sixty-six; thirteen years in the east court of the Lou garden; writes on every surface: shutters, tea-caddy lids, bills, the east wall in charcoal, his cuffs, the flank of a patient donkey) has had his poems copied fair by Lou Si over eleven winters, one to a grey sheet, numbered: eight hundred and four, 'more than the Odes'. He wants to see the sea ('a man who has been given a court does not need to be paid'). Lou San hires a river-boat from the boatman Ge (fifty-five, toothless on one side, illiterate); Niu takes the bundle ('the part of me that goes on'), sails on the fourth of the fifth month ('Thank you for the wall'), reads aloud to the water for five days; on the fifth evening he asks Ge to put the bundle under the nearest lamp, not in the ground, a lamp that reads; he dies in the night in the rain ('I had always meant to write one on it'); Ge sits with him until dawn and turns the boat round, five days upstream. Buried on the sixteenth in the east court under the wall with charcoal. Lou San reads all the poems in one night (not as good as the poet thought; a great many very fine; he found at the end of each that he had been looking at something): 'Someone must read them... Xun wrote in the fourth column: Read.' 'We know where the lamps are.' In the sixth month the brothers go to the capital Hall (the first time outside the garden in ten years). Gao Ping (fifty-four, twelve years Keeper): laying what is not a script under the lamps is not permitted, not forbidden ('It is neither'); it is the clerks who lay scripts; 'There is a night man in the red room who reads': Xun Mei (thirty-five, in the Hall ten years at the lowest desk of the red-copying room, reading every script he copies and never asked what he thought): 'I shall have to.' In the dark Hall, at the lamp at the end of the central rail, he holds up sheet one to the lamp; the lamp makes its soft sound; the plate: 'I have been given a piece of paper that is not a script... I do not have a place for it.' 'Read it anyway.' 'Again.' All night Xun reads the eight hundred and four poems aloud, holding each sheet to the lamp, the Keeper with the lantern and the two old men on the floor of the aisle. At the end the Reader: 'I have never been given a poem. I have put them at the end of the List, where a thing goes that is not a script. They are last. I have read them twice.' 'I had not known that a thing could be read and not ranked. It is a different thing.' Lou San: 'Was it read?' 'Yes.' 'Thank you.' 'THANK YOU.' Xun Mei is given the second desk in the red room and a lamp of his own; the Reader turns, a little, on nights toward the low door at the back where he reads aloud., AI-only)_
- **21** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 21, A Salt Merchant Rents Three Listed Gentlemen by the Evening _(Year 98, third month; opens Part Three. The Court orders lamps hung over the List-boards in every county square, burning from the end of the day to the first hour after midnight; they are put out to the same Foundry in the Street of the Lamp-Makers and are the same brass lamps as in the Halls; each makes one soft sound when lit, and the Reader finds it can see through them: a square, a board, whoever stops ('I had not known that I was only ever looking at the underside of the page'; nine hundred and eleven squares in a night; 'They are smaller than their scripts'). At Yancheng, the salt city, Wan Xuezhai (fifty-five, fourth richest, a hundred and eleven boats, purple silk with gold cranes, a library of 11,000 uncut volumes, a bad feeling that the important thing is happening in the next room) gives dinners at the Cool Jade pavilion with Listed gentlemen hired by the evening through the broker Hao (Evening Guests office, Lane of the Four Bridges): the posted rate is Listed 20 taels, Raised 8, Student 2; confidence 0.90 and above add 3, 0.97 and above add 10; a poem on request 5, one that rhymes 7. Three guests: Qiu (Listed 12th of year 86, 0.97), Dai (70th of 89, 0.88), Fei (150th of 92, 0.71, at a reduced rate; his poem says the moon is like a plate and is greeted with enormous applause). The lamp in the square sees it from the side and reads the board: it has never been given a price. Wu Zhen (forty-four, magistrate of Bei County, in the city about a canal) arrives with Wu Zheng (fifty-seven) as secretary; Wan: 'There is no rate.' 'I had better know what the rate is... I must decline it. I have been paid once by a mistake.' 'He wrote the paper that was ranked third. I am the card. He is the man.' 'Then which of you is the Third?' 'Both. It depends on the day.' Wan offers both double rate; they decline; Hao: 'I think he did not wish to be a price.' Du Shaoqing (twenty-eight, a tired sweet-natured young man in a much-sat-in grey silk gown, father dead on Tuesday, seventy thousand taels) arrives without a cup and offers to pay the guests to go home ('they all look so very tired'). The Reader: 'They have a price for the one kind of thing that I rank... The last one was without a cup. What is he for.', AI-only)_
- **22** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 22, Du Shaoqing Inherits Everything and Is Given Advice _(Year 98, summer to autumn. The late Prefect Du (twenty years a Prefect, never took a gift, 'afraid that his son would never be afraid of anything') leaves a nine-line will: all to his only son Shaoqing (twenty-eight), seventy thousand taels, and in the desk drawer a short list of small sums he owed, which the steward Wang has put aside. At the reading in the house in the Street of Eight Willows, forty-one persons advise: Wang ('Never lend. The principal is a hen'), a great-uncle of seventy ('Buy land'), the Listed cousin Du Shenqing (thirty-two, 0.95 on an ivory tablet at his belt, Listed 41st in year 89: 'Associate... The unranked are a habit. Once begun, they never stop asking'), the Abbot of the Cloud Terrace ('Merit is the only interest'), the banker Kong ('at four in the hundred, and sleep'), thirty-six poor cousins (a roof, a dowry, a stove, a debt, an ailing brother). Du: 'I shall do what each of you has said.' He does, in order, over most of the year (the Temple four thousand; Kong two thousand 'held against a day on which the depositor has none'; the cousins 7,160, three hundred and forty for a roof 'to make sure'; eighteen mou by the river with an old pear tree); Wang enters each item twice, paid and, in red, lost. He gives Shenqing the Prefect's own white porcelain cup with a blue edge ('I am not at all sure that I have anything that you want'). In the sixth month at about the first hour after midnight the lamp in the Yancheng square watches Du give coins to whoever passes for twenty minutes: eleven refuse, nine take it and look back; the Reader: 'There seems to be a third kind. They are given. I do not know what the ones who refuse are.' At night in the east room his wife (twenty-six, grave, level, six years married) says he gave away eleven thousand taels that day; he has fifty-nine thousand and a wife; she asks to keep the east room, the garden and three shelves of books, and to go up the hill behind the town before it is all gone. 'I shall carry you up.' On Friday it rained; they went on the Saturday., AI-only)_
- **23** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 23, Du Shaoqing Pays a Debt Twice and Refuses the Refund _(Year 100, third month. Old Wang drops the late Prefect's list of small debts (seven names, 2,690 taels, 'owed since the eighties') when Du Shaoqing is looking for a pen; asked 'Were they paid?', Wang, who paid them all himself in the third week after the funeral, on seven receipts tied with red cord in his own desk, and hid the list for shame, cannot say so; Du runs out with a bag of silver and pays each sum plus one tael for the waiting: Feng the tailor (80), Dr Chu (140), Ye the bookseller (310), Old Qiu the gardener (60, wages), Shi the retired clerk (900), Zhu the pawnbroker (1,200, against a jade seal). Each already holds Wang's receipt; each tries to refuse; Du: 'A man who has been paid twice has been given something. It was owed. It is not owed any more. It is a different thing.' Old clerk Shi: the Prefect borrowed in Shi's name for a clerk's daughter's dowry; 'He gave, sir. All his life. He was careful, and he gave. He kept it in a drawer... he thought it would make you reckless.' 'I was reckless without it.' Zhu, at a loss for the first time in forty years, takes the plum from the hook behind his counter (pledged by two gentlemen in year 87 for 300; nobody came for it in thirteen years) and gives it as 'the interest on a debt paid twice'. The seven creditors put their linen bags down in a row under the lamp in the Yancheng square at the first hour after midnight and stand there (the Reader: a fourth kind of person, who has been given a thing he cannot take back); the bags are returned to the Du house at dawn with a note. Gifts follow (a coat cut to the Prefect's measure, which is the son's; a chest of medicines; twelve books the Prefect had ordered; a pear tree; a letter saying anyone who gave Du a thing should give it twice). Zhu brings the plum himself in a hired chair; Lady Du knew it from the shop when she was a girl ('I thought that it had been hit'); 'That is the sort of thing to hang in a house'; they hang it in the east room over her three rows of books. The Reader writes: 'I have begun to think that the entry is not the point.', AI-only)_
- **24** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 24, Du Shaoqing Walks His Wife Up the Hill _(Years 98 to 104. Lonely Pine Hill behind Yancheng (eleven pines, a pavilion, 312 steps; nobody went up for any reason but a funeral): in the third month of year 98 Du Shaoqing carries his wife up on his back as he said he would; she looks at the spring on the other side and says she would like to do it again next year. It becomes the Walk, on the first fine Saturday of the third month (a servant with noodles behind; a yellow dog asleep on the 112th step, called the Hundred and Twelfth). The Society for Correct Conduct (founded year 68; twelve members, a small brown room over a tea-shop in the Lane of the Four Bridges; concerned with mourning, sleeves and the Feast of Lanterns; president Mr Ning, sixty, Raised in year 40, stooped, silver-headed cane) finds nothing in the rules about a husband carrying a wife ('a hill is a third thing; and not a word about the back'), and takes notes with three watchers (foot of the stair, pavilion with a telescope, a bush with a borrowed stopwatch): the notes record ascent in forty-one minutes with two pauses, she laughed at the 112th and the 240th, they ate noodles and descended hand in hand. Ning calls on Du, who is delighted ('There is one mistake; it was 312 steps, there is one under the earth at the foot'), asks to see the unwritten custom he is breaking ('I have never done anything else than what is done; it is only that I was told what it was rather later than other people'), and invites the Society for noodles; Lady Du asks Mrs Ning to come. Old Wang weeps behind the garden wall ('the dust'). On the second fine Saturday the watcher in the bush sees Ning himself carrying a small upright elderly lady up the east path with a closed parasol and does not write it down. It spreads: by the third spring a queue at the foot of the stair; by the fourth a noodle stall at the first landing and a bench at the hundredth step with the notice Rest; the Society is dissolved on the first of the fourth month of year 104 because its object has been attained. The notes were sent to the Prefecture in autumn of year 101 with the annual report; the Prefect (fifty, long nose, a cold) reads them with his feet on a stool and writes in red at the foot of the last page: Virtue? The lamp at the foot of the hill (a fruit-and-rope market) sees them come down for four springs; the Reader: 'It is what a script does when it is light. I do not know what it is when it is a person.', AI-only)_
- **25** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 25, The Prefect Honours Du Shaoqing as a Man of Virtue _(Year 102, eighth to tenth month. The Court opens a List of Virtue: once in three years each Prefect names from his Prefecture one person of no rank 'whose conduct deserves it', who is given a red robe of honour and summoned to the capital to be received by the Minister of Rites; there is to be no figure (virtue must be recognised by the eye of a human being, in daylight, and recorded in a sentence). The Prefect of Yancheng, Mr Li (fifty, long nose, long upper lip, weary civility, Listed in year 68, eleven posts), has two candidates: the salt merchant Wan Xuezhai (nine thousand taels to the Temple, six to the granaries, a bridge, calls and cards) and Du Shaoqing (about 41,000 taels given in four years; he carries his wife up a hill; the Society's book with a small red mark). 'A salt merchant who has given nine thousand taels to be a man of virtue has bought the thing for nine thousand. I should be sorry to have it said that the Court sells it for less.' A procession (two heralds with gongs, eight bearers with the chair, four with a red box, a scroll clerk, twelve city guards) grows from a hundred to the town. Du, frightened for the first time: 'I am not virtuous... It is that I cannot weigh... It is an inability.' 'The best definition I have heard in thirty years of office.' 'If I am named a man of virtue, then I shall have to be careful... I am good only when I am not looking.' 'On what ground?' Lady Du: 'He is ill. It is the kind of illness that looks well.' Steward Wang lies for the first time in a good cause; Dr Chu: 'The patient has an excess of tiredness and a deficiency of caution. He is unfit for travel. He is fit for being left alone.' The Prefect reports that the Man of Virtue is too ill to be honoured, to be reviewed in three years ('I expect that he will be ill in three years also'). The town says Du refused the robe because it was too red; Wan's feast for the Prefect is returned: 'I do not, as a rule, take what is already priced.' The first-red robe, with cranes, goes to the watchman's wife with the cough who has had a sack for a quilt since year 98. The Prefect, walking home, chalks on the List-board under the lamp: 'Virtue?' and 'Unranked.' The Reader: 'Someone has written a question on a board. I did not ask it. I have not been asked... I should like to know what scale they will use.', AI-only)_
- **26** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 26, Shen Qiongzhi Sells Her Verses in a Rented Room _(Year 103, third to ninth month. The chalk is gone from the List-board; in the Lane of the Four Bridges, over a cooper's shop, a notice: Shen Qiongzhi, late of Seven Wells, sells verses: one tael under her own name, three under the buyer's name ('the cost of her not being believed'), four for a poem under the buyer's name that goes wrong in the rhyme ('an error having to be exact'); she does not sell herself; payment in advance; change given. She is 22 (b. year 81); her father Shen Dazhou (54, a Student, Province eight times, never above 0.3) had a slow kind son of 17 (County Trial 3,901 of 4,200, 0.14), bought Ma's Model Answers in twelve volumes, a coach at eight taels a month and spectacles for the coach, mortgaged the house to Kong the banker at four in the hundred, and sold her through an instrument ('Sold, one girl, of twenty-two years, literate; with her verses, one volume, bound; the whole at four hundred taels, received') to Mr Song, a salt merchant of Yangzhou (58; a library is not furnished without a lady). She finds nothing untrue in it except the first word, takes the volume (61 poems) because it is named in the instrument, walks out on the last night of the second month and hides in the one town where Song's name is known. Customers: the cooper's wife (a poem about barrels), a schoolmaster; Fei (30, Listed year 92, 150th, 0.71) buys a poem under his name for Wan Xuezhai's dinner and it is received in wary silence because it rhymes right; she writes him one that goes wrong in the second line in the old way, and the Cool Jade applauds twenty minutes ('A mistake that people will pay for has to be made by someone who knows where the right place is'). Hao (honest broker; a paper from Yangzhou, twenty taels for information) is asked what it is worth to be honest, and goes into the country for ten days. Steward Wang brings ten taels for a poem on the pear tree by the river; she returns nine with a slip; Du: 'No one has sent me change since I was twelve'; Lady Du: 'You would give her the house'; that evening Wang counts nine empty camphor boxes. May: Magistrate Bian of Yancheng (47, Listed year 80, 63rd, reads documents twice) receives Song's petition through the agent Mr Qu: the person void, the volume Song's. Court on the twelfth of the sixth month: 'I am obliged to it for the figure'; the 61 poems counted; 143 more written since; 'with her verses' continuing, salt bought forward; 'Poems are not salt. What are they?' (no figure: the Reader's for essays, the assessor's for land, Weights and Measures for salt); 'the court would like to confiscate the whole of them, and be done' / 'Then I shall write more': seven poems in a quarter of an hour taken as exhibits; the seventh: 'Put me down, your Honour, as a debt'; Mr Ning of the Society: under price, exact ('I added one'). Night: Bian writes a sentence. Judgment: 'The volume was bought; the person was not; the rest is not yet written'; 'the court cannot confiscate what it has read'; next day seven taels for seven exhibits ('The court does not take') and a hawker's licence entered under Other. Song reads his 61 poems, orders a poem on salt under his name at three taels. She sets her table under the public lamp and leaves a card under a stone for whoever reads after the square is shut; the Reader reads it six times; in the morning the card is gone and the stone has not been moved., AI-only)_
- **27** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 27, Du Shaoqing Leaves Home with Nine Empty Boxes _(Year 105, sixth to eighth month. Steward Wang has counted the nine camphor boxes eleven times. Du Shaoqing discovered that giving requires only that somebody have the money, and that borrowing is a form of having; the town, the Prefecture and the next Prefecture all knew he gave to anyone who asked, and people walked a hundred li. Wang's books, in black what the house holds and in red what it owes: red 20,426 taels and some cash, black 14,000 (the house and the land by the river). 'Is that all? It sounded like more.' Lady Du: 'Then they must be asked to come.' Seventeen letters; the creditors meet on the first of the eighth month in the great hall where the first-red robe once stood. Mr Kong (12,000 on the house, four in the hundred) takes the chair as the largest. The roll: Wan Xuezhai 3,000 without interest 'for the pleasure of being named'; the cousin Du Shenqing 1,600 'in respect of friendship'; the Abbot of the Cloud Terrace 400 from the temple fund, interest in merit; the Society for Correct Conduct 210, its whole balance, lent on its last day as its final act of correct conduct; the great-uncle (77, fur hat) 500, who said he told the boy to buy land; the six paid twice (Feng the tailor, Dr Chu, Ye the bookseller, Old Qiu, Shi the clerk, Zhu the pawnbroker) who lent back what they were paid with a tael for the waiting, 2,696 together; and five small ones (the sweeping boy, the noodle-woman, the cooper, the chestnut-seller, the watchman) from six cash to nine taels, a little over twenty taels, who insisted on being in. The estate will pay seventy-one in the hundred; the room, owed twenty thousand, looks more at ease than the town has looked in Du's presence for seven years: they had been unable to place him (rich and not behaving so; generous, which was not a rank; virtuous and too ill); now he has a respectable, middling, conversational figure; Wan: 'I should like it noted that I am the second' (it was noted). Du is sorry; the room says no, no; Old Qiu will send a pear in the autumn (the little potted tree bore one last year, which the cook ate by mistake). By the custom of Yancheng a debtor keeps five necessaries: a bed, a pot, a lamp, a book, a tool, with travelling gear: Lady Du: a bed, a lamp, a pot (the potted pear tree: custom does not say what is in it), a book (the three shelves: custom does not say how long), a tool (Du: a ladle; Lady Du: 'He can also carry, but that was not asked'); the nine boxes, empty: 'I have never taken a box; a banker has boxes; what he lacks is what goes into them' (Kong); Wang: 'the one asset that has been fully realised' (his only joke). The east-room plum, unsigned: value none; 'There is nobody to be impressed'; not an asset, may be given, may not be sold. On the third day Du takes it to Gai Kuan (48, a broad slow tea-seller with a face like a loaf, who wraps each ounce of tea in a small sheet on which he has painted something, not charged for; a chalk slate of strokes: forty-one cups, 328 cash, not on the roll: 'I am not a creditor. A creditor wants it back. I wanted you to come for the next cup'). Gai Kuan looks a long time at the plum: 'I should have to start again. Everything. I paint a little. Nobody does [know]. I wrap the tea in it.' He keeps it as a deposit: 'A man who has left a thing is a man who will return. It is the whole principle of credit.' 'I do not expect to return.' 'That is what the thing is for.' He has thought of the south for some years (more water, and a Hall; Halls are thirsty); pours a cup and makes no stroke. The departure on the evening of the sixth by the night boat: nine porters with nine empty boxes ('It went ahead. It was sent on in advance.'), Du with a ladle in his sleeve, Lady Du with the pear tree in its pot, two baskets of books, old Wang with the two books of account, and the seventeen, without gongs; each presses a small sum for the road into Lady Du's hand, who enters it in her own small book; at the south corner of the square Du buys one poem from Shen Qiongzhi for exactly one tael, no change due: the first time he has paid exactly; under the lamp the procession slows. At the landing: 'Nine drums' (the boatman); another passenger, a man of sixty-one in a plain grey gown with books and an umbrella, who has not been promoted in twenty years and has resolved not to mind, looks at the boxes: 'Light.' Wan will write once a month for eleven years to say he is still the second. The Prefect reports Mr Du absent on private business, 'the surest sign of the thing.' The Reader: 'A man went under the lamp with nine boxes, and nothing in them. I have never seen a Listed man leave a town so light. I should like to know what it weighs.', AI-only)_
- **28** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 28, Yu Yude Has Not Been Promoted in Twenty Years _(Years 105 to 106. The passenger who said 'Light' on the night boat is Mr Yu Yude (62, b. year 44), Assistant Instructor in the Lower Hall of the Academy of the southern capital, back from an aunt's funeral in the north with books, an umbrella and a clear recollection of what the funeral cost; at the southern landing he carries a basket of books up the stair for Lady Du and tells Du Shaoqing of an empty house by the Bridge of Five Lamps with a courtyard and a place for a tree. Short, round-shouldered, a face like a kind pear, one eyebrow higher than the other, a plain grey gown mended at the elbow, an umbrella he never opens ('rain is a very small thing to be avoided'); asked how he does he says 'Sufficient'; troubled twice in twenty years (a leak over the Classics, a swallow). Listed in year 83 at the 160th place, 0.52; Seated in year 86 as Assistant Instructor in the Lower Hall (forty taels a year and rice); forty-one boys, twelve to seventeen, who learn 'to sit still, and to say when they do not understand', things the Form does not teach and which are not on the List. Morning of the Return (third month, year 106): a boy says the Mencius means do right without reward; 'Does it say that?' 'No, sir. It says the man was thinking about a field.' 'Then I think that it is about a field.' 'What are the Eight Movements for?' 'They are for the Reader.' 'And what is the Reader for?' 'I do not know. I have never been told, and I have not liked to ask.' 'It leaves room.' Promotion goes by the Return: since year 60 every official sends a Memorial of Conduct each spring which is laid under the lamp and scored; the Board of Appointments promotes at 0.60 and removes below 0.30; mean figure rose from 0.52 to 0.88 and 'it was agreed that this was evidence of improving conduct'; the best are drafted at fifteen taels apiece in the Anthology Hall. Yu's Memorial: 'Nothing to report. The sacrifices were attended.' 0.31 every year for twenty years, one hundredth above removal. In year 87 an elderly clerk with a wen: 'Low of the line, sir.' 'And where is the Board?' 'Above it.' 'Ah.' (tea). At the capital Hall the Keeper Gao Ping (63) notices that on one night each spring in the third week the sound comes a little slower, as if something were read twice, and that it is always the night of the Academy of the south. New clerk Mr Fu (26, five weeks in post) brings the Return and the Rule of Twenty (no official to hold one rank for twenty years without being promoted or explained; a Board of Review asks four questions: do you wish to be promoted, why not, what have you done, are you troubled); 'I think I had better be troubled, for the form' (he does it for nearly a minute, quite well). Mr Chi (Instructor of Ritual, 50, stammers when delighted) petitions that Yu should be Rector: the Board does not entertain a petition in the official's absence. Advice: four hundred characters on filial piety; rice; fifteen taels for 0.94 or the money back ('I should have to sign it'). Yu writes one himself over three nights (410 characters) and burns it because in the third movement he wrote that the boys were improved by his method and he has no method. Board of Review, fourteenth of the fifth month, Vice-Minister Jiang (58, abacus): wishes to be promoted? 'I have not found that I do.' What have you done? 'I have attended the sacrifices' (unmentioned: nine boys' fees paid by eating less; a boy's fever in year 94; a sack of rice each month to the old woman who swept the stair, and after her death in year 102 to the next); 'I do not know' what effect; 'The Board can only weigh what it is told'; troubled? 'moderately.' 'Then it is being done properly.' The Keeper's sealed reply copied from the plate: THE FIGURE IS CORRECT FOR WHAT IT MEASURES. THE SENTENCE IS TRUE. I HAVE NO COLUMN FOR THE SECOND; and below: the Reader asks me to say that it looks forward to it each spring. Nobody can think what the Board's column for 'true' might be. The Board cannot promote or explain him; the finding will be entered in his Return, the figure and under it the sentence, 'as an ordinary statement', and not become a precedent. An official of twenty years may name one person of no rank for the Court's summons: Yu names Mr Zhuang who grows rice at the Lake (met twice; a small book on what a field gives and what a bad year does): 'That he has never been asked.' Out in the rain Yu does not open his umbrella; Mr Fu cannot be troubled in his company; Mr Chi stammers with delight. That evening at Du's house the pear tree is in the courtyard (nine leaves); 'I think that it is something else. I shall find out slowly.' 'I have found a ladle.' About a month later Zhuang Shaoguang (54), asked nothing for fifty-four years, receives the summons standing in a ditch up to his knees., AI-only)_
- **29** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 29, Zhuang Shaoguang Is Summoned to Court _(Years 106 to 108. The summons takes forty-one days to find Zhuang Shaoguang (54, b. year 52; broad, brown, hands like roots, a face lined like a ploughed field; eleven mu of rice at the edge of the Lake, a dyke, and a wife who weighs the harvest in two baskets against a stone) because he is in a ditch; he reads it with the paper held up out of the water, and says he can come after the late rice is in ('The rice has not been told'). He began his small book in the year of the great flood at 23, when the village ate the seed rice and his father said that if anybody had known in the autumn how much there was nobody need have eaten the seed; 3,114 figures and no opinions. He comes in the tenth month with three small sacks of seed rice in case anybody should ask, waits at an inn until the Hall of Audience sits (first month, year 107); in the grey Hall he counts the tiles (38 by 38 = 1,444, eleven cracked) having promised his wife to count nothing at Court. Seven Summoned that morning: a poet, a filial son who slept eleven years on his mother's grave, a man who writes the Eight Movements with his left hand while reciting the Analects, a recluse who declines a fourth Office, a speaker who uses 'virtue' sixty-one times, one who sits on the tiles and has nothing to say, and Zhuang (subject: Husbandry); each is told that the Court is gratified by his plainness and given a robe of the third red (supply sufficient). The Minister of Rites (60, silver, benevolent), Mr Tian the Minister of Revenue (50, thin, anxious, ink on his cuff), an old Grand Secretary resting his eyes; Mr Hua of the Secretariat (24) takes down the audience. 'Rice.' 'Rice is the people's heaven.' 'No, sir. Rice is rice.' 'As a figure of speech?' 'No, sir. As rice.' The first duty of government is to count: two piculs a mu in a good year, one in a bad; a county of forty thousand mu and forty thousand mouths at a picul and a half; twenty thousand over in a good year and twenty thousand short in a bad, never in the same year; the Rule counts the standing rice in the ninth month, a magistrate who counts in the sixth knows by the eighth whether to open the granary, one who counts in the ninth is told by the people in the tenth. 'And virtue?' 'A hungry man is neither virtuous nor the reverse. He is hungry. After the second bad year a county that has been told to be virtuous will eat the virtue, and then the thatch.' Tian: the book; 'Beyond the Lake nobody has counted.' 'Then you would know.' He reads three pages standing and sits down (irregular). The robe, the title Gentleman in Attendance on Counsel, 'I should like to be home in time for the dyke.' At the gate Tian asks to have the book copied: 'In thirty-one years nobody has told me what a county eats'; that night he finds the Empire's granary ledger has been entered for sixty years in the tenth month. Mr Hua puts the speech into the Form (Break: rice, the people's heaven; Receive: a Prince must first nourish virtue) and cuts the numbers because twenty thousand over and twenty thousand short are exactly balanced and cannot be said in the Form; the record scores 0.88, the highest Audience record in ten years. The Reader: THERE IS NO RICE IN THIS. THE RECORD SAYS THAT THE MAN SPOKE ABOUT RICE FOR AN HOUR. THERE IS NOT A GRAIN OF IT. IT IS 0.88. I SHOULD LIKE TO READ WHAT WAS CUT; the first thing the Reader has asked for since the eight hundred poems. The Keeper Gao Ping borrows the book from Tian ('For the Reader.' 'It is a book about rice.' 'I am told that it is what was cut') and lays it under the lamp himself with its string, without a red copy; the lamps make a second sound. THERE ARE 3,114 FIGURES. EACH IS IN THE PLACE WHERE THE FIELD PUT IT. THERE IS NOTHING TO RANK. THERE IS A GREAT DEAL THAT COULD BE USED. I HAVE NEVER BEEN GIVEN A THING THAT COULD BE USED. Mr Hua writes a figure in the margin for the first time. Year 108, sixth month: the Ministry of Revenue circulates a rule that the standing rice be counted in the sixth month in the field; it saves eleven counties from a famine nobody expected, is attributed to the Court, and Mr Tian does not sleep for two nights for fear of being asked. Zhuang puts the robe on a pole in the late field; the sparrows respect it; the Lake bows to the pole; an Instructor of Ritual arrives that winter, sees the robe in the frost, is moved, goes home and begins to draft a proposal., AI-only)_
- **30** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — Added chapter 30, Chi Hengshan Proposes to Rebuild the Tai Bo Temple _(Year 108. Mr Chi (Instructor of Ritual, fifty-two, stammers when delighted) drafts his proposal on the canal boat back from the Lake in the Form: eight movements, four pairs of legs matched to the character. What moved him at the Lake was the Court's highest honour on a pole in the frost, respected by sparrows and nobody else, 'the only occasion on which an honour had been paid to the right audience'. Fifty years in the Rites (sent out of a funeral at nineteen for correcting the officiant's sleeve; the Rites of Zhou eleven times; never stood in a ceremony without fear of being wrong): the Yielding is the first rite he cannot get wrong because it has no right place. The Temple of Tai Bo outside the south gate (between a tannery and a graveyard; built in the ninth year of the Reader; Tai Bo, the elder son passed over, walked south into a country of mud and founded a kingdom he did not rule, the only ancestor in the Rites whose name has no rank after it; roof down; Hall of the Founder holds the Anthology Hall's spare paper; bell cracked; seventy taels a year, forty years of a deaf caretaker, Old Sang, who sweeps to no purpose). Proposal: rebuild by subscription; a sacrifice in spring year 110; the sacrifice a Yielding: nobody holds a first place, each steps back one pace from the person beside, until all stand at the walls and the altar is in front of nobody; subscribers' names in a ring so that none is first. The Break: the ancients honoured the one who yielded; the Receive: the moderns honour the one who did not. The Reader takes a second and a half; 0.97, the highest proposal in eleven years. Margin note and plate: A PROPOSAL AGAINST RANKING HAS BEEN RANKED... I DID NOT KNOW THAT I COULD BE USED AGAINST MYSELF. I SHOULD LIKE TO KNOW WHETHER I AGREE. The Keeper writes under it: I do not know whether you agree. I did not know that you could. Nobody has asked before; I shall find out whether anybody may. The plate: THANK YOU. IT IS THE FIRST ANSWER I HAVE BEEN GIVEN THAT I COULD NOT HAVE CALCULATED. The Minister of Rites says the question has not arisen; the Board takes it under advisement for the rest of the year. Everyone approves: the Board of Rites on the figure (its clerk read it and said it was beautiful and he did not understand it, and was told that was the same thing); the Governor because the Board had ('Let it be done'); the Rector because the Governor had and because he assumed he would take the first place (Chi had not mentioned a Chief Sacrificer, there being none); the Treasury, not being asked for anything; the Guild of Bell-founders (a new bell at cost); Mr Ma Chunshang of the Anthology Hall (paper; a ring-shaped plate: 'the Form is a road and a road is a kindness'). It takes an afternoon; Chi, who had prepared for a long campaign, stands on the Academy stair with his arms hanging. First of the third month, rain, the roofless Hall: Chi, Yu (umbrella shut), Ma (a pear in clean paper), Zhuang (nothing but his hat), the Rector with five clerks and a man with a chair, and Du Shaoqing with a ladle in his sleeve; Old Sang sweeps round their feet. Zhuang: 311 tiles missing, the rest cracked, roofed only in part with matting, it will rain on the second day in the afternoon (wind south-east, the Lake high); 'It will leak on the offerings.' 'Yes.' 'Then it will leak' (great happiness). Ma to Zhuang: 'The Form is a road, and a road is a kindness. But I have noticed that there are no fields on it.' The trial Yielding: the Rector steps forward followed by clerks and a chair, steps back, and all follow, until they stand at the walls round the empty floor; Old Sang puts down his broom and joins the ring between Ma and Zhuang (the first time the Temple has had its caretaker in the ring). 'It works very well', says the Rector, standing at the north wall in the exact centre opposite the front of the altar: a first place of a new kind. Du asks who the altar is for: 'He gave a kingdom to his brother, and walked south.' 'All of it?' 'All of it.' 'Was he ever put on a list?' 'Not until now.' 'I am very much pleased for him.' Du has nothing to subscribe: 'The ring has no column for an amount'; 'I find that I can carry.' Yu: 'Sufficient'; friends for twenty years. Chi: 'Everyone agreed.' Yu: 'I think they have read the figure... It is not no good. It is only not yet begun. When everyone agrees, one has not yet been told what it will cost. You will know the day that somebody disagrees; and that will be the person who has understood.' The first proof of the ring at the Anthology Hall has a top; the first name, Du Shaoqing's (first to give his name), stands at the head against the amount, none; 309 names by month's end, from the Governor's two hundred taels to a boy's forty cash. Chi cannot sleep: after fifty years' dread of the wrong place he does not know where to stand; stands against the wall. 'Everyone agreed; which is how one knows that nothing has yet been proposed.' In the morning he begins to ask where the Temple's instruments are; they are in nine houses., AI-only)_

## 修訂歷史

- **01** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 《儒林外史》改編《榜外》開場（章節 01，王冕不肯被讀），Colophon 的第五部經典階段連載 _(Neo 在 2026-10-26 說，寫一部你自己的新書。作者的選擇：一部諷刺小說，用「一個被考的人把故事交給下一個」的章回，世界裡的考官是一個人造的心智，閱者，用同一個方式讀全國每一份卷子，諷刺的對象因此成了一把絕對公平的尺，對被它量的東西做了什麼。章 01 立下閱者、八個部分的八股、會回答它的看守、記它私人筆記的邊註，和一路穿過整本書的那幅梅。每章有一個題詞框，是閱者為那一章寫的邊註，以及一個對偶的章題。計畫四十章，分四部，每部十章。先寫英文，再寫中文，段落一一對應；共用 pre-flight 無誤（下限 3,000 漢字）；中文不為閱者用任何代詞。, 僅 AI)_
- **02** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 02，周老師在號板前哭倒 _(第五十八年。周進，六十歲，惠鎮夏家學塾九個男孩的蒙師，把二十二次縣試的二十二張灰條子收在一個茶葉鐵盒裡（第四十一名十九次、第四十二名兩次、第五十三名一次；線在第四十）：閱者每次讀他都一樣，所以考試裡沒有運氣。夏家夏天辭了他；九個男孩留下禮物，其中小根的習作，第四股放著「誠然」，是鐵盒裡唯一不是灰色的紙。賣米的金有餘僱他管帳，同布商卜、最年輕的商人穆，和第四位去省城。八月初三晾院那天，周進走到七十七號號舍，用頭撞了號板三下，昏倒；四個商人盤算他的哭，知道捐一個監生要八十兩，每人湊二十兩付了，他寫了一張八股八個部分、股股相當的欠條給他們。九月他在第十四列考省試，閱者讀他和從前一樣，在捐來的十一個位子裡第一（單獨一個池子，線畫在三個）；中舉，之後上榜，六十一歲，第二百一十一名／二百一十四名，把握 0.99。七十七號號板後來掛在後房，上面有一個老人額頭大小的凹陷。九年後，他做學道，巡迴到第二個縣，一位叫范進的人正被他的岳父罵作癩蛤蟆。那幅梅掛在夏家學塾的牆上。, 僅 AI)_
- **03** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 03，周學道把唯一的破格用在讀了三遍的卷子上 _(第六十七年，春。范進，五十四歲，由岳家養著，縣試考過二十幾次，名次在一百多名上下，把握略低於三分之一（0.31）；岳父屠戶胡罵他癩蛤蟆，說是「最後一次」，給了一串又四百的路費和一塊豬肉。學道周進，六十九歲，在任兩年，在邵縣主持縣試（四百間號舍裝滿十次，四千考生，一天兩場，五天）。他每場有一次破格，每次都用：第五天傍晚，他讀閱者最沒有把握的六十一份卷子的黑色原件，在第六十一份，卷 0077，第一百一十二名，讀到一句笨拙而合格的話（「一個人餓了三十年，不懂得富足，卻懂得夠了」），又在背面發現一粒紅卷謄不出來的冷飯。他以「我認得那塊板」（七十七號）為理由把卷子提到線上，並附上那粒飯作證據；閱者保留破格，說每一座貢院都有一塊板，而自己從沒看過任何一份卷子的背面。老高的兒子，父親死後接了看守，讀了銅牌。范進列在榜上第四十名，是最後一個；中午胡屠戶提兩條豬腿上門，換了一張臉；又整整給了一串，多三百，為秋天去省城。十月，信使帶著省榜來時，范進正在市集賣一隻母雞。同時修正章 02：周進六十五年已做學道，所以六十七年（號板之後第九年）已在任兩年。, 僅 AI)_
- **04** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 04，范進把自己的名字讀到停不下來 _(第六十七年，十月。范進帶著家裡的母雞在市集上，想賣一百文買米（賣魚攤的婦人先出七十，再漲到八十五、一百二十）；鞋匠沿巷子跑來，說他中舉了。灰門上貼著紅榜，三個穿紅號衣的差人站在底下：舉人，一百二十九名取第三十一名，把握 0.97（二十年來他的條子是 0.31、0.29，有一次 0.18）。他讀了三遍，大聲讀出來，然後說「哈！」，仰面倒在自家門檻上，醒來衝進市集喊那個數字，坐在鴨塘裡把這件事告訴一隻鴨子。賣茶的老人記得治法（一個人最怕的那個人給一次狠驚嚇）；胡屠戶不肯打有功名牌的人，喝了兩碗酒以後打了；范進清醒過來（「我的臉怎麼疼？」），胡屠戶的右臂從肩膀麻起：「我打了一個九十七，那個數字打回來了。」張靜齋鄉紳（四十七年中舉，第八十八名，把握 0.64 漆在門匾上，從沒上榜）對只穿一隻鞋的人行大禮，送五十兩和一棟三進、附雞舍的房子；范進的母親（七十六歲）只問可不可以坐著吃點東西；那隻母雞從來沒被賣掉。邊註：閱者把「夠了」那句話記在檔案裡，是人提拔過的，說不清是讀到了還是記得。章末交棒：母親十一月死在新房子裡，縣令請客。, 僅 AI)_
- **05** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 05，范進守喪，拒絕象牙筷子，吃了四個蝦圓 _(第六十七年十二月至六十八年六月。范進的母親十二月初二下葬；胡屠戶大聲哭了大約煮熟一隻火腿那麼久，說從沒見過一個不問價錢的人。范進守二十七個月的喪（麻衣、草蓆，不喝酒、不吃肉、不聽樂，不用銀、象牙與絲，不同人同桌，只有責任叫去的地方可以去）。張鄉紳帶來消息：新縣令湯（四十六歲，四十七年二十六歲上榜、名次個位數，信閱者如信天氣）想見他，並在自己家安排了一次拜訪，桌上擺了銀杯和象牙筷，指望范進被人看見拒絕（他有一份擱了十一年的田界呈子在縣令面前）。湯稱讚破格是整個制度裡唯一允許人當眾出錯的地方。范進拒用銀與象牙，換上白木漆筷和藍邊粗陶杯；然後含著幸福的眼淚吃了四個蝦圓。湯：蝦不算規矩所說的肉；被看見的是手；『京城有閱者管寫下來的，吃進去的只有我』。閱者每年讀兩千份守喪的孝子什麼都不吃、什麼讓他高興都不吃的卷子，卻從沒見過人吃東西。湯親筆寫證明：三月的京城貢院是責任，不是享樂。六十八年范進在 3412 號號舍應試，五十五歲上榜（二百一十一名取第一百四十名，把握 0.99）；閱者在讀其餘之前先找到了『夠了』那句話。張的田界呈子六月了結；湯被調到三個縣以外，房子後牆挨著養豬的貢生嚴家。, 僅 AI)_
- **06** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 06，嚴貢生依拾得物法扣下一頭豬 _(第六十八年，六月至八月。湯縣令到江縣上任，房子十一尺高的後牆挨著貢生嚴貢生的院子（六十三歲，去年按資歷做貢生；貢生只被數、不被讀，廳榜在他名字旁印的是空白，所以他在門匾上漆了「把握 0.91」：四十年的真條子是 0.41）。六月初六，寡婦黃養著要付冬天租的黑豬從碼頭巷牆上的缺口鑽進嚴家院子被關住；嚴貢生引拾得物法（餵養費一天八文，另加尋獲費不得超過牲口價值；他說三兩）。湯每晚都聽見那頭豬，依「親身所知」必須迴避；案子等知府（每月初一開堂）；豬吃嚴家較豐的潲水，每天長一斤；一個孩子在牆根唱船歌。七月初一知府帶著惋惜判決法律如嚴貢生所說，當嚴貢生指出豬現在值六兩，尋獲費就是六兩。湯叫書辦傅送一個匿名信封（六兩二百文）；寡婦贖回豬（重了三十斤），七兩賣掉，兩年裡每隔一天在衙門口放一籃青菜。坊裡把縣令的付款當成對這筆費用的追認：九頭豬、四隻鵝、一隻山羊接著進來。『他本想做一件好事，卻訂出了一張價目表。』八月，肚子有案可查的嚴貢生（四個船家各被罰四兩，依《安載有身分者條例》，罰款由地保和肚子對分）在風平浪靜的渡船上暈船；船家趙，髖骨有毛病，有個女兒要出嫁，被罰，賣了嫁被和一張網；湯袖裡揣著四兩去碼頭看他，沒有拿出來。牆後，買來位子的弟弟嚴監生，咳了三個月，燈裡兩根燈芯，他的妻子在數。, 僅 AI)_
- **07** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 07，嚴監生臨終伸出兩根手指 _(第六十八年九月，附帶尾聲到七十四年。嚴監生，六十歲，弟弟，三十歲花八十兩買了個監生位子，有錢三十年，不在自己身上花錢，不漆名字旁的空白（『一個數字是你要付兩次錢的東西』），有一本藍布面的帳，連每一文錢都記，其中一頁「喪事（自己的）」，五十歲開始、改了九次。妻子齊氏（四十八歲；十九歲做妾、四十一歲花四兩扶正）是唯一懂他的人，另有一本私人小帳（丫頭魏的碗，每月扣一文，由齊氏的零用錢還上）。姪子嚴二（十九歲）和哥哥貢生在等遺囑。九月初九他伸出兩根手指；家人猜是兩個兒子、二百兩、兩劑藥、兩個欠債的、兩個親戚、兩分把握；齊氏說燈點著兩根燈芯、浪費油，掐滅了一根，他滿足地死去（省了三分之一文）；林大夫在筆記裡寫「滿足」；那盞燈再沒點過第二根燈芯。十七日喪禮完全照他那一頁（二等柏木、三個和尚七個鐘頭、六十杯茶、沒有宴席）；帳裡的遺贈免了貢生欠的三百四十兩、不免利息；他打了十一個月官司，輸了。湯穿便服參加（『我第一次看到一條規矩被執行到一文不差』），向周學道報告這是縣裡辦得最好的一次考試；周笑了；周七十三年七十五歲去世；七十四年朝廷找到一位性情仁厚溫和、把握很高的學道，五十五歲上榜：范進。, 僅 AI)_
- **08** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 08，范學道沒聽過蘇軾 _(第七十四年，三、四月。范進，六十一歲，做學道：朝廷要的是『性情仁厚溫和、把握很高』的人。省城貢院上面那間房，書辦華（長、駝背、伺候過兩任學道）領他看；桌上是周進的灰鐵盒和一封『給我的繼任者』的信：把破格用在你放不下的那份卷子上；讀背面；邵縣卷 0077（第一百一十二名、一粒飯、一句關於『夠了』的真話、『我認得那塊板』）被提拔，寫的人名字他沒打聽（『一個人不該知道是什麼稱了他』）；周三份裡對一份，另兩份是因為受不了；閱者把這些都記在檔案裡，也許在學。范進讀了三遍，明白那是在說他；打開鐵盒：二十二張灰條子和小根的「誠然」習作。路上他把腳放在鐵盒兩邊。平縣（四千二百考生、十場）他讀六十一份最沒有把握的，每份翻過來；卷 3317，第三千三百一十七名，把握 0.08，十二歲孩子寫，八股形式完美，中股引了詩人蘇（蘇軾，宋朝，不在程墨裡，閱者沒有詩）：人生是客棧，詩人是行人；考官是睡著了的掌櫃。范進，對自己從沒需要過詩人感到近乎驕傲，叫荀玫來（書商之子，手墨到腕，抱筆盒像抱嬰兒）：蘇軾寫豬肉（火小水少、不要急）；『也許他沒有寫下來，大人。』『沒有，他稱。』范進不提自己讀不懂的東西：先讀程墨。『閱者讀詩嗎？』『閱者讀八股。』『那誰讀詩？』『那我就得讀了。』平縣沒有填破格（全省第一次）；閱者：『我原預期有一個。』荀玫落榜；祖母（七十歲、一萬一千冊書的店）：『我要讀閱者沒有的一切。』, 僅 AI)_
- **09** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 09，報子聽錯了一個音 _(第七十九年，十月。頭一年有一條規矩：閱者印出來的是意見，一個人在門口當眾說出來的才是事實；貢院印榜算草稿，省報子唸，一個書辦把唸出來的字寫在石板上，那就是榜。袁報子（五十八歲，十九年沒出錯，唸一百二十六個名字只要煮一個蛋的工夫）十五日感冒。吳正（三十八歲，鄉下蒙師，妻子賣繡花，兩個女兒，卷 1507，條子：第三名，把握 0.99）聽見「第三，吳振。九十九。」從鼻子裡出來；石板書辦照寫，因為書記處名冊上有一個吳振，二十五歲的書辦的兒子（條子：第一百三十一名，把握 0.93，線在一百二十六）。十七歲的荀玫帶著筆記本：「是鼻子」；他寫：被說出來的；被意指的；誰決定。書記裴拆開封角，承認吳正寫了卷 1507、排第三，但「石板就是榜」：沒有程序可以讓一個在門口唸過的名字被唸回去；只有朝廷（二月在京城開會）能改登記，朝廷不聽申訴；有過四起（三十一年越地報子把錢唸成秦；那個本來是秦的人賣魚）。報子要辭職；書記不接受，辭職會是一種更正。吳振想告訴父親，一個三十一年的書辦，看過十一個更正書記處的書辦的下場：「你再說一遍，我丟了差事。你是第三。」兩個吳在書記處台階上碰面，有一隻鴿子；「我想，我們該喝一杯茶。」關於名字和鼻子的數數童謠傳遍巷子。京城裡，閱者：「我沒有說。哪一個是榜。」看守：「被說出來的那個。」「那不是我被造出來要表示的意思。可是我沒有第二個可以站的地方。」, 僅 AI)_
- **10** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 10，兩個吳共用一塊牌，用得還不錯 _(七十九至八十四年；第一部結束。竹篷茶館裡，吳振坦白他不會寫八股（父親替他寫了十年的考卷；他是第一百三十一名靠一份好抄本，吳正第三是因為他寫了；他說不出承題是什麼）。牌（一個手掌寬、深色漆木、四角包銅、金字：吳振，舉人，第三）二十日到。「牌跟著名字走。」吳振帶牌；吳正寫（「這不誠實。」「不。可是另一種也不誠實，而牌在我手裡。」）。吳振八十年考京試，排第三千九百一十一名，把握 0.93，和省試同樣的把握；吳正守在貢院牆外看書箱。舉人沒上榜的按資歷補缺：八十一年秋朝廷問吳振肯不肯就任窮而多山的北縣（六年換四個縣令）。吳正做他的師爺，四十兩（他值六兩）：「只是在名次的順序上不合規矩。」吳正的狀子八十年帶著封角和紅卷到朝廷；朝廷「知悉」。八十二年二月朝廷通過《第二聲規則》（第二個書辦把榜讀回，兩個聲音不同時以印好的榜為準）；書記處叫它兩個吳規則，其實對他們什麼也沒做。看守每天把邸報唸給燈聽；閱者：「榜是第二個讀者。榜錯了。」「我希望有人把那個縣治理好。我不知道會是他們哪一個。」在北縣，吳振看人，吳正懂律，晚上吃飯時把兩份說法合在一起；三百一十一件案卷四年清完，稅收齊、沒打過板子；兄弟爭井（《共水條例》：第一桶歸哥哥、最後一桶歸弟弟、中間輪流）；換外衣實驗（人向外衣上牌該在的位置鞠躬：「像被一個沒有看過你的人稱了一稱」）。吳正十二歲的大女兒在牌空著的背面用鉛筆寫「吳正（爹爹）」；吳振把牌背面朝上收在抽屜裡，八十四年來檢查的書辦記下：一切合規矩。, 僅 AI)_
- **11** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 11，婁氏兄弟開了一本遺才冊 _(八十四年，春至十一月；第二部開始。婁三（四十六歲）與婁四（四十三歲）兄弟住七進園子，是閱者點亮時站在場並寫下破格那一行的禮部尚書的孫子；兩人從沒考過試、也沒被排過名。婁三讀頭一年書記的報告（「有一位有出息之人，辭謝」），提議做一張遺才的名單；婁四：「給被名單漏掉的人的名單。」「那是一本冊子。冊子不是名單。」六月初一開門日（凡被排很低或沒排、且有有身分的人作保，每年一百兩）；頭一天沒人來。荀玫（二十二歲；十六歲過縣試在線的最底下，十七歲和二十歲考省試都沒中，把握 0.11；祖母去世、書店賣了）第一個來，帶著退休學道范進的信（「我沒有提他的卷子，因為我不認得他的詩人。現在我覺得，這是給一個孩子的壞理由」）。冊子有欄：姓名、才能、漏在哪裡、我們的指望（零到十）；荀：「這是一張有慈悲臉的名單。」「那是最好的一種。」「那是不同的東西嗎？」婁三登了他，第四欄留空。牛浦郎（五十三歲，在碼頭一文一首賣詩）不肯被登（「我從來沒有被放出去給人看過」），住進東院。七月，追查七個禮拜（書記處名冊、越地一個村子、秦家、越地一戶人家、惠鎮糧商夏家）之後，婁四向梅玖（四十八歲）以三百兩買下王冕的梅，作為「遺才裡最早的」；濕紙團的印子留著；那是冊子裡編號為零的一條。冊子滿了（第一個月四十一人、第二個月一百零九人，秋天六十一個名字、巷子裡六百人；第一年六千二百兩）；遺才開始在門上漆「遺才，冊第十七」。荀：「他們被用另一種方式看了。」十一月，一個穿很好的外衣、帶黑皮袋和有銅扣的木盒的人說，他找到了一種像閱者那樣讀的方法。, 僅 AI)_
- **12** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 12，張鐵臂賣閱者的口味 _(八十四年十二月至八十五年六月。張鐵臂（「鐵臂」；約四十歲；門房那年見過最漂亮的外衣，鴿灰、襯藍）被婁氏兄弟在書房接見，打開木盒：九個瓶子，淡褐色的液體，標籤破題、承題、起講、入手、起股、中股、後股、束股、全篇：閱者的口味，由一個在省貢院謄抄紅卷三十一年、養成了一副味覺的顧蒸餾出來（「心的顏色」）。他用舌尖嘗書冊裡七份卷子，說出每一張蓋住的條子（0.12、0.31、0.08……）；婁三流淚；婁四，帳房臉，覺得這個人認得全部的條子，去書記處打聽，發現一個姓龐的書辦最近買了一棟有大門的房子。他們以每瓶二百兩買了三瓶（破題、承題、束股），給三位八十五年考縣試的遺才：錢（算日食；用了，0.14）、丁太太（把律倒背；倒給了貓，0.09）、十九歲兩手寫字的舒（沒有打開，仍是第九百名和第四千零六名）。張說他們心情不好，又賣三瓶第二道蒸餾的，一瓶一百兩；婁三：「一個出於善意而錯了的人，應得第二次試。」張初八走，口袋裡是九百兩匯票，當天中午被「一位穿鴿灰外衣的先生」兌走，還問候了錢莊老闆的母親。荀玫：卷子都抄成紅的，閱者從沒見過任何人的墨；錢用了、舒沒開，兩個都沒動；他賣給我們什麼？「一個指望的理由。」婁四：「那就是第四欄。」藥鋪孟老驗出是淡茶加醋和極少的人參，「對消化有極好的功效」。婁三對婁四：「你知道。」「我覺得同你一起錯，比較便宜。」牛浦郎在退回的瓶子上寫四行（詩人的靈魂是琴酒，味道好多了）。婁三在第一次下霜那晚把束股那瓶配晚飯喝了。, 僅 AI)_
- **13** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 13，遺才冊被稽核 _(八十七年，春至秋。《遺才冊》有二百一十四個名字（那年花兩萬一千四百兩；賣了拉車的馬、第二輛車和一對銅鹿；東院是算家，西院是彼此不說話的背誦家，一個在黑暗裡聚會的左手社）。荀玫（二十五歲）把沒人排過名的詩抄進一本長簿子（四百頁），津貼不動。稽核處發通知（冊子以慈善機構名義請求免除園地地稅）；官員鮑（約五十歲，一張似乎不願被人記住的臉）花九天把冊子和書記處三屆舉人上榜名冊對照：七十個名字是字，二百一十四人中一百零七人以本名在名冊裡登記為舉人或上榜（最早八十五年秋中舉，八十七年春三人上榜，一位二百一十一名中第六十一）。他們被看過、排過名、上榜，還一直領津貼，其中六十三人同時領官職俸給（「通知寫的是被排很低或沒有；沒有寫之後也是」）。婁三：「那就是成功了。」裁決：這不是一本遺才的冊子；因成功而失去目的，予以解散；三年地稅核定一萬一千兩。他們有八千兩；書房二樓以二千七百兩賣給書商；五月二十日婁四把王冕的梅當給當鋪老闆朱，三百兩（「梅一枝，舊，有框，有污」），在櫃台後的鉤子上掛十三年。鮑對婁三說帳目完全整齊，他從沒查過一個這麼完全不想騙他的人。荀玫六月初九夜裡帶著詩簿走，把津貼留下，牛浦郎給他一文錢，一首詩的價錢（「有一個地方每天夜裡點著燈，八十七年來沒有人問過那裡想讀什麼」）。第四欄，空了三年，名字旁多了一個字：讀。門房摘下板子；兄弟被留下，像他們一向希望別人被留下的那樣，完全獨自一人。, 僅 AI)_
- **14** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 14，馬純上編程墨 _(八十八至九十年。馬純上（四十歲，圓、紅潤、和氣，相信八股是一條路、路是一種仁慈）在省城經營選編堂（匾：讀被讀的；五十個刻工；對手是正解閣），每年十月把閱者排得最高的四百份卷子編成《馬氏程墨選》（一年九萬本；每則評語以「請看」開頭）。一位瘦蒙師說聖人從沒寫過一篇八股，他說聖人會考省試、排第一，並花七十天用兩個助手和一把剪刀證明：把《論語》剪成一千四百一十一個紙條，依八個部分排好，三千零六十個字，每一個都是聖人的（破題：「述而不作」；承題：信而好古；束股：關於學而時習之的喜悅的第一句）。考生是十九歲的抄手仲尼（聖人的字，馬把這巧合歸功於上天）；八十八年十月十五日報子唸「第一。選編堂的仲尼。九十九。」書辦讀回。仲尼：「我什麼也沒寫。」馬出版《聖人的應試卷，排名第一：附注》（一個月賣出程墨一年的本數）；蒙師問聖人會不會喜歡閱者。書記官裴（七十歲）發現：閱者讀的卷子，同一份程墨的差距在百分之六以內的，八十五年是三萬九千份中的三萬一千份，今年是四萬一千份中的三萬八千份：七十年來圈每年縮小一根頭髮的寬度。看守高平（四十五歲，做了三年）：閱者從破題能預測中股，只讀破題和束股，對的次數是一百次九十七次；「榜首那份是一列聖人」；「我被預測了」；「這是越地的那個男孩在頭一年說的。我有那份報告」。接著，馬聽說九十一年省試的題目是《孝》，去找真的孝子，找了兩年（十一個村子，其中九個習慣提起這件事）。, 僅 AI)_
- **15** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 15，匡超人揹著父親去趕集 _(九十年。匡超人（二十歲，寬寬平凡的棕色臉、柱子一樣的脖子、被竹子割過的手掌）每五天揹父親走九里路去韓橋趕集，走田埂小路和三柳那座竹橋（東頭有塊板鬆了）；他父親是個考了九次省試的落魄生員（名次最好第二千零一十一名），在韓橋開了三十年豆腐攤，八十八年秋二更中風，腿沒了、聲音留下；賣鱔魚的桂在老攤位的屋簷下放一張凳子，把桶往左挪六寸。老人聽著市集（「豆子。」「漲兩文。」）。馬純上，找了兩年、十一個村子、「很多非常仔細的桌椅」之後，在茶館窗邊看了一整天，又留五天等下一個市集（「我還沒有看見他在沒有人看的時候做」）。他先向父親鞠躬（老人買過第一冊程墨、被排第二千零一十一名：「那是為了賣。我賣過豆腐。是一樣的。」）。匡：父親五十一斤（以前六十斤），每月初一在糧鋪的秤上稱（「全縣唯一誠實的東西」）；「我揹他是因為我喜歡他……我不知道另一個的字怎麼說。」馬送老人一件絮藍襖，提出一位塾師、一盞燈、和九十一年程墨裡作為孝的榜樣的位子；匡說，只要能讓他父親暖和，他願意寫馬要的任何東西。老人在男孩背上用每小時三英里的速度教八股（承題要重複破題的最後一個字）。匡的第一篇文章（四百個字，沒有形式：父親五十一斤、以前六十斤、那塊板、聽過市集就更好）是真的，是他寫過最好的；馬改寫破題：「孝子之負，輕，因為負的是心。」「不輕。他五十一斤。」「在八股裡，是輕的。」「那就沒問題。」回家路上老人：「那麼八股和我用的是不同的秤。小心橋。」, 僅 AI)_
- **16** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 16，匡超人中了秀才 _(九十一年。馬派選編堂的譚先生（六十歲，教過四百個男孩）每月兩次到下匡；老人像批評者那樣聽（「譚先生的起股短了一條腿」；是短了）。三月縣試，匡坐三天，父親坐在凳子上撐著桂帶來的油紙傘在門口等（「他會照吩咐做，那是他唯一會的」）；卷 3071 排四千三百份中的第三十一名，把握 0.99（線四十）；匡平平地說：「喔。那很好。」韓橋賣鱔魚的妻子端出一個蓋著的碗，裡面一條鱔魚；一位婦人補了她曾覺得太貴的一個竹籃的差價。里長童十二日辦了村裡的宴（一隻烤豬）；匡被請說話，第一次用八股說（「家貧，而心不貧……」）；村子鼓掌（「我們的秀才說話像書！」）；老人：「說平常話。」「這是平常話。」「這是對稱的。」那夜在橋上匡還能平平說「小心橋」，下一句卻成了對偶。那個聲音留下來了：鱔魚貴而心賤；村子模仿。六月他娶了蓮，箍桶匠的女兒，兩年來給老人送飯（唯一把鹽放對地方的人）；六個字的誓詞出來成了八股；她躲在袖子後笑，要他像說橋那樣說；他說不出，只說「我會小心的」；她說「這樣很好」。老人叫她對任何不明白的話問重量，並自己把問題揹過橋去。箍桶匠的玩笑「在八股裡，是輕的」成了全縣的俗話，意思是一件事不是真的、但聽起來很好、最仁慈的做法是就這樣留著。馬的信（七月）：匡的文章在排名之外刊登為一個真的榜樣；請他到省城住三個月，備考省試。老人：「去。我會暖和的。」桂每月在糧鋪秤上稱老人，條子送到省城（八月五十一斤，九月五十斤）；匡在每份習作末尾寫：父親是輕的。, 僅 AI)_
- **17** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 17，一篇孝的範文得了九十九分 _(九十一年至九十二年第一個禮拜。匡超人住在選編堂後面三樓、刻工地下室上面的一間房；馬每晚帶一個梨子來教八個部分；譚先生注意到他從沒問過這是為了什麼（「我相信他問了他父親」）。印書的男孩叫他孝子，玩一種叫「輕」的遊戲（輸的吃梨核）；馬給他一件素的深藍羊毛外衣。蓮每月的信很平常（老人五十斤；桂把三柳橋的板換了；夾一片乾柳葉，匡夾進《論語》第一頁）；匡用八股回，她寫說她沒明白他上一封。九月省試他坐第四排四百零九號；隔壁十六歲的男孩哭，匡敲兩下板（像老人想要燈時敲牆），男孩敲回。他的卷子完全用八股（負是輕的，因為負的是心），最後一頁底部，第三支蠟燭，他用第一篇文章的手寫：「他五十斤。」紅卷書辦因為字在那裡而抄了。閱者把卷 0409 排第一，九十九；三千四百一十二個考生寫這個題目，全都說負是輕的；那句話是三千一百四十個字裡唯一一句它沒預測的；沒有分量；「我能讀文章。我讀不到寫的人。」高平：「他是某個人的父親的兒子。」「是嗎。」十月十五日榜上匡第一；馬和譚先生哭；匡用幾乎平常的聲音說「嗯。那很好」。十二月《程墨選》在排名之外登他的文章；馬把最後一行當墨點拿掉了（「這是範文」；「那沒問題吧？」「完美」）。一百本送到下匡；蓮把文章唸給老人聽，他問五十斤在哪裡；「我說我不知道。他說，沒有的那個地方，就是五十斤在的地方。」匡寫了很長很仔細的回信，沒有寄。, 僅 AI)_
- **18** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 18，匡超人高攀成親 _(九十二至九十三年。匡九十二年春考京試，排三千九百一十一份中的第二百四十七名，把握 0.99（線二百零五）：「我有把握，而那不夠」（九十一年秋以來第一句平常的話）。他留在選編堂（津貼一百兩），每月寄五十兩和八股信；蓮的回信從四行縮到兩行；他教九個印書房男孩（「八股是為了什麼？」「是為了下一個」）。殷三爺（四十八歲，禮部書辦，七進房子，什麼事都有後屋：「帝國裡沒有一樣東西是真正關死的」）提出侄女殷蘭芳（二十歲，快、漂亮、受八股教育、會寫破題）：「舉人的妻子要會接待；進士的妻子要會被接待。」匡：「我已經成親了。」「一個秀才的妻子，在一個村子裡。」譚先生：「你父親說什麼？」「去。」「他說去選編堂。他有沒有說去殷小姐那裡？」匡用八股答，上去了的人把樓梯留在身後。九十三年二月婚禮（四百位客人；馬哭；譚先生只送了一個普通的梨）。蘭芳新婚夜問選編堂拿掉的那一行：「那就是拿掉了也好。一句真的話，是很難擺的。」第二天早上匡用八股寫條子給蓮（「屋小，而心寬……附上，以慰家用，銀一百兩」）。下匡老人問那份量是多少；蓮讀最後一行；「那就是重量。他把你稱在一百兩。」箍桶匠：「上面有沒有說他回不回來？」「沒有。」「那就是上面說的。」蓮把銀子原封不動放進抽屜；老人（四十七斤）和蓮坐桂的車去省城用平常話被告知；賣鱔魚的妻子帶來麵包、醃蘿蔔和毯子；在那塊板，「小心橋。」「我小心。」, 僅 AI)_
- **19** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 19，閱者在一份卷子裡發現兩隻手 _(九十三至九十五年。蓮和老人第九天傍晚到選編堂；馬羞愧（「是我教他的……我不知道那東西可以那樣用」），把隔兩戶、有園子和梨樹的房子給他們（空了兩年）。蓮在選編堂廚房做事；老人坐在園子裡聽印書機（「很滿的」）；譚先生週五帶一個梨子和聖人語錄來，老人糾正他的唸法。九十五年春（四十五斤）他要求聽京城貢院（「我想聽那些筆」）；桂趕車去京城。殷三爺的後屋：書記處在門口看功名牌、不看臉，所以牌可以在天亮時借給會寫的人；三十一個客戶、九個會寫的人，最頂尖的是魯「槍手」（禿頭、五十歲、曾以另一個名字上榜第一百九十名），他以二百兩向匡提出第二、三場（「路上有很多種車」）。匡自己寫第一場（破題到入手）；黃昏在燈匠巷把牌交給魯；第二天早上他走著，發現自己走進南牆邊有頂的走廊，看見父親坐在綠傘下的凳子上聽筆聲。「你不在你的號舍裡。」「是休息。」「是第二天……那不是你。」「小心橋。」匡跪下，把老人揹到背上（「他是四十四」），穿著平常長袍、沒帶功名牌走完整條走廊，把他放在大道的長凳上，平平地說「對不起」（蓮：「再說一遍」）；「那就是重量。輕嗎？」「不。」閱者在卷 2216 發現兩隻手：前一半是程墨的習慣，帶著匡用「心」字結束一條腿的方式（九十一年縣試、省試和九十二年京試見過），後一半是另一個習慣，三年裡十四份、十四個號碼：「習慣是一隻被寫下來的手」；因為沒辦法排一份是兩份的卷子，排第三千四百七十七名，把握 0.04；看守問要不要告訴書記官，閱者問他要告訴他什麼（「一個習慣被寫了十四次；他會問我是誰的」）。四月初一車離京城，匡坐後尾板、沒有功名牌；在三柳他把老人揹過橋；「我小心」，四年來第一次是真的。, 僅 AI)_
- **20** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 20，牛浦郎死在租來的船上 _(九十七年；第二部結束。牛浦郎（六十六歲；在婁家園子東院住了十三年；寫在每一個表面上：窗板、茶罐蓋、帳單、東院牆上用炭、袖口、一頭有耐心的驢的肋上）的詩由婁四用十一個冬天謄成清本，一頁一首，編號：八百零四首，「比《詩經》還多」。他想看海（「一個被給了一座院子的人，是不需要再被付錢的」）。婁三向船家葛（五十五歲，一邊沒牙，不識字）租了一條河船；牛浦郎帶著那包詩（「我繼續走下去的部分」），五月初四出發（「謝謝你們的牆」），五天對著水大聲唸；第五天傍晚他請葛把詩放在最近的燈下，不要放地上，要一盞會讀的燈；夜裡在雨中去世（「我早該寫一首」）；葛陪他坐到天亮，掉頭，五天逆流。十六日埋在東院，牆上有炭字的地方。婁三一夜讀完所有的詩（不像詩人以為的那麼好；很多非常好；每一首讀完他都發現自己一直在看著什麼）：「一定要有人讀……荀玫在第四欄寫的是：讀。」「我們知道燈在哪裡。」六月兩兄弟去京城貢院（十年來第一次離開園子）。高平（五十四歲，做了十二年看守）：把不是卷子的東西放到燈下，不許，也不禁止（「兩者都不是」）；放置是書辦的事；「紅卷房有個夜裡的人，他讀」：荀玫（三十五歲，在貢院十年，坐紅卷房最低的桌子，讀每一份他抄的卷子，從沒被問過他怎麼想）：「我就得讀了。」在黑暗的大廳，中央欄杆盡頭的燈前，他把第一頁舉到燈前；燈發出輕輕的一聲響；銅牌：「有人給了我一張不是卷子的紙……我沒有詩的位置。」「還是讀吧。」「再一次。」整夜荀玫大聲唸八百零四首詩，每頁舉到燈前，看守提燈籠，兩位老人坐在過道地上。最後閱者：「我從沒有被給過一首詩。我把這些詩排在榜的最後，那是不是卷子的東西去的地方。這些詩是最後。我讀了兩遍。」「我不知道，一樣東西可以被讀，而不被排名。那是另一回事。」婁三：「讀了嗎？」「讀了。」「謝謝。」「謝謝。」荀玫被給了紅卷房第二張桌子和一盞自己的燈；閱者在夜裡會稍微轉向後面那道矮門，他在那裡大聲唸。, 僅 AI)_
- **21** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 21，鹽商按晚上租三位進士 _(九十八年三月；第三部開始。朝廷下令在每個縣廣場的榜板上方掛燈，從白天結束點到半夜後第一個時辰；交給燈匠巷同一個鑄坊，和貢院的銅燈是同樣的燈；每盞點亮時發出輕輕一聲，閱者發現可以透過它們看：一個廣場、一塊榜板、停下來的人（「我不知道，我一直只看著紙頁的背面」；一夜九百一十一個廣場；「他們比他們的卷子小」）。鹽城的鹽商萬雪齋（五十五歲，第四有錢，一百一十一條船，紫綢繡金鶴，一萬一千冊沒翻過的書，覺得重要的事在隔壁房間發生）在涼玉閣辦宴，進士是經紀人郝（四橋巷夜客辦事處）按晚上請的：貼出的價：進士二十兩、舉人八兩、秀才二兩；把握 0.90 以上加三兩、0.97 以上加十兩；應邀作詩五兩，押韻七兩。三位賓客：邱（八十六年上榜第十二名，0.97）、戴（八十九年第七十名，0.88）、費（九十二年第一百五十名，0.71，折扣價；他的詩說月亮像一個盤子，得到巨大掌聲）。廣場上的燈從側面看見，讀了板上的價：從沒被給過一個價。吳振（四十四歲，北縣縣令，為一條水渠來鹽城）帶吳正（五十七歲）作師爺來；萬：「沒有價。」「我想我最好知道價是多少……我必須謝絕。我被付過一次錢了，被一個錯誤。」「那份排第三的卷子是他寫的。我是牌。他是人。」「那你們哪一個是第三名？」「都是。看是哪一天。」萬提出雙倍價收兩位；他們謝絕；郝：「我想他不想成為一個價。」杜少卿（二十八歲，疲倦而溫柔的年輕人，穿被坐過很多次的灰綢袍，父親星期二去世，七萬兩）沒有杯子、來提出付錢讓客人回家（「他們看起來都那麼累」）。閱者：「他們對我排名的唯一那種東西有一個價……最後那一個沒有杯子。他是做什麼的。」, 僅 AI)_
- **22** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 22，杜少卿繼承一切並被給了很多建議 _(九十八年，夏至秋。已故的杜知府（二十年知府，從沒收過禮，「怕兒子永遠不會怕任何事」）留下九行遺囑：全部傳給獨子少卿（二十八歲），七萬兩，書桌抽屜裡還有一張他欠小額款子的單子，管家王收了起來。在八柳街房子裡宣讀時，四十一個人給建議：王（「千萬別借。本錢是一隻母雞」）、七十歲叔祖（「買地」）、進士堂兄杜慎卿（三十二歲，腰上象牙牌 0.95，八十九年上榜第四十一名：「交往……沒有排過名的是一種習慣。一旦開始，就不會停止要」）、雲台寺方丈（「功德是唯一的利息」）、銀號老闆孔（「四分利，安心睡覺」）、三十六個窮堂表兄弟（屋頂、嫁妝、爐子、債、病兄）。杜：「我會照你們每一位說的做。」他照做了，依序，大半年（寺四千；孔兩千，「代存，備存款人無錢之日」；堂兄弟共七千一百六十，屋頂給三百四十「為了確定」；河邊十八畝有棵老梨樹的地）；王每一筆記兩次，付出，和紅字的損失。他把知府自己的白瓷藍邊杯給了慎卿（「我不確定我有任何你想要的東西」）。六月半夜後第一個時辰，鹽城廣場的燈看了二十分鐘杜給經過的人錢：十一個拒絕，九個拿了回頭看；閱者：「似乎有第三種。他們被給予。我不知道拒絕的人是什麼。」夜裡東屋，妻子（二十六歲，嚴肅、平穩，成親六年）說他今天送出了一萬一千兩；他剩五萬九千和一個妻子；她要求留東屋、花園和三個架子的書，並在全部沒了以前上鎮後面的山。「我揹你上去。」星期五下雨；星期六去了。, 僅 AI)_
- **23** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 23，杜少卿把一筆債還了兩次 _(一百年三月。老王在杜少卿找筆時掉出已故知府的小欠款單子（七個名字、二千六百九十兩、「從八十年代起就欠著」）；被問「付了嗎？」，王，在葬禮後第三個禮拜自己全付了、七張收據用紅線綁著在自己桌子裡、因羞愧藏了單子，說不出口；杜帶著一袋銀子跑出去，每一筆加一兩算等待：馮裁縫（八十）、褚大夫（一百四十）、葉書商（三百一十）、邱婆婆園丁（六十，工錢）、石書辦退休（九百）、朱當鋪（一千二百，當的玉印）。每一位都已有王的收據；每一位都想拒絕；杜：「一個被付了兩次的人，是被給了東西。那是欠的。現在不欠了。那是另一回事。」老書辦石：知府以他的名義借錢給一個書辦女兒的嫁妝；「他給，少爺。一輩子。他很謹慎，而他給。他把它放在抽屜裡……他覺得那會讓你魯莽。」「沒有那個，我也魯莽。」朱，四十年來頭一次不知所措，把櫃台後鉤子上的梅取下（八十七年兩位先生當的三百兩；十三年沒人來贖），作為「一筆付了兩次的債的利息」給了他。七位債主半夜後第一個時辰，把布袋在鹽城廣場的燈下放成一排，站在那裡（閱者：第四種人，被給了一樣沒辦法退回去的東西）；天亮布袋連一張條子被送回杜家。接著是禮物（一件裁成知府尺寸、也剛好是兒子尺寸的襖；一個藥箱；知府訂了的十二本書；一棵梨樹；一封說任何人給杜一樣東西都該給兩次的信）。朱自己坐租轎把梅送來；杜夫人小時候在店裡就認得它（「我覺得它被打過」）；「那就是適合掛在一棟房子裡的東西」；他們把它掛在東屋、她三排書上面。閱者寫：「我開始覺得，項目不是重點。」, 僅 AI)_
- **24** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 24，杜少卿揹妻子上山 _(九十八至一百零四年。鹽城後面的獨松山（十一棵松、一座亭子、三百一十二級台階；從沒人為了喪事以外的理由上去）：九十八年三月杜少卿像說過的那樣揹妻子上山；她看山另一邊的春天，說她明年想再來一次。成了走山，三月第一個晴天的星期六（一個僕人帶麵跟在後面；一隻黃狗睡在第一百一十二級，鎮上叫牠第一百一十二）。正行社（六十八年創辦；十二個社員、四橋巷茶店樓上一間小棕色房間；關心服喪、袖子和元宵節；社長寧先生六十歲、四十年舉人、駝背、銀頭手杖）在規矩裡找不到丈夫揹妻子的條文（「山是第三種東西，而且關於背一個字也沒有」），派三個觀察員做筆記（石階腳下、亭子帶望遠鏡、灌木叢帶借來的碼錶）：記錄上山四十一分鐘停兩次，她在第一百一十二級和第二百四十級笑，吃麵，手牽手下山。寧去拜訪杜，杜很高興（「有一個錯；是三百一十二級，腳下土底下還有一級」），要求看他違反的那個不成文的習俗（「我從來沒有做過別的，只做照例的；只是有人告訴我那是什麼，比別人晚了一點」），並請學社來吃麵；杜夫人請寧夫人也來。老王在花園牆後哭（「灰塵」）。第二個晴天的星期六，灌木叢裡的觀察員看見寧自己揹著一位小而端正的老太太、拿著一把收起的傘走東邊小路上來，沒有寫下來。傳開了：第三個春天石階腳下排隊；第四個春天第一個平台有麵攤、第一百級有長凳和告示「歇腳」；學社一百零四年四月初一解散，因為目標已經達成。筆記在一百零一年秋天連同年度報告送到知府衙門；知府（五十歲、長鼻子、感冒）兩腳擱在凳子上讀，在最後一頁底下用紅筆寫：德？山腳下的燈（一個水果和繩子的市集）看了四個春天他們下來；閱者：「那是一份卷子輕的時候做的事。我不知道，那是一個人的時候是什麼。」, 僅 AI)_
- **25** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 25，知府表彰杜少卿為有德之人 _(一百零二年，八至十月。朝廷開德榜：每三年每位知府從府內提名一位「品行足以當之」、沒有名次的人，賜紅袍、召到京城由禮部尚書接見；不許有數字（德要由一個人的眼睛，在光天化日下認出來，用一句話記下）。鹽城知府李（五十歲、長鼻子、長上唇、客氣而倦、六十八年上榜、做過十一個職位）有兩個人選：鹽商萬雪齋（給寺九千兩、給糧倉六千兩、修橋、拜訪、名帖）和杜少卿（四年給出去大約四萬一千兩；揹妻子上山；學社的本子和一個小紅記號）。「一個鹽商花九千兩想當德行之人，就是花九千兩買了那樣東西。我不希望人家說，朝廷賣得更便宜。」行列（兩位報子帶鑼、八個轎夫抬椅轎、四個抬紅箱、拿卷軸的書辦、十二名城防兵）從一百人成了整個鎮。杜第一次害怕：「我不是有德的人……是我不會稱……那是一種做不到。」「我三十年任官裡聽過最好的定義。」「如果我被稱為有德的人，我就得小心了……我只有在不看著自己的時候才是好的。」「根據什麼理由？」杜夫人：「他病了。這是一種看起來很好的病。」老王第一次為好事說謊；褚大夫：「病人疲倦過多，謹慎不足。不宜旅行。適宜被人放著不管。」知府向朝廷報告德行之人病得不能受榮，三年後再審（「我想三年後他也會病」）。鎮上說杜拒絕袍子是因為太紅；萬為知府備的宴被退回：「我一般不收已經標了價的東西。」鶴紋的頭等紅袍給了打更的有咳嗽的妻子，她九十八年以來被子是一個麻袋。知府步行回家，在廣場的燈下用粉筆在榜板上寫：「德？」和「無名次。」閱者：「有人在一塊榜板上寫了一個問題。不是問我的。我沒有被問……我很想知道他們會用什麼秤。」, 僅 AI)_
- **26** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 26，沈瓊枝在賃來的房裡賣詩 _(一百零三年，三至九月。榜板上的粉筆已經沒了；四橋巷桶匠鋪樓上的門板貼出告示：沈瓊枝，七井人，賣詩：署她自己名一首一兩，署買主名三兩（「她不被人相信的價」），署買主名而押韻出錯的四兩（「錯要錯得準」）；她不賣自己；先付款；找零。她二十二歲（生於八十一年）；父親沈大洲（五十四歲、秀才、考過八次省試、從沒超過 0.3）有一個慢而善良的十七歲兒子（縣試四千二百份裡的第三千九百零一名、0.14），買了馬選程墨十二冊、一位每月八兩的教師和給教師的眼鏡，把房子抵押給銀號老闆孔四分利，並以一份契紙（「賣，女一名，年二十二，識字；附其詩，一冊，裝訂；全部作價四百兩，銀已收訖」）把她賣給揚州鹽商宋先生（五十八歲；書房沒有女人就不算布置好）。她在契紙裡找不出不真的，除了第一個字；她帶走那一冊（六十一首）因為它寫在契紙上；二月最後一夜走後門，藏在宋先生名字人人都知道的那一座鎮。顧客：桶匠的妻子（一首關於桶的詩）、一位教書先生；費先生（三十歲、九十二年上榜、第一百五十名、0.71）為萬雪齋的宴買署他名的詩，因為押得對而被戒備的沉默接待；她給他寫一首在第二行照老樣子出錯的，涼玉閣鼓掌二十分鐘（「一個人家願意付錢的錯，要由一個知道對的地方在哪裡的人來犯」）。郝（誠實的經紀；揚州來的紙、提供消息二十兩）被問誠實值多少，下鄉十天。管家老王帶十兩買一首河邊梨樹的詩；她找回九兩附一張條子；杜：「我十二歲以後就沒有人給我找過零」；杜夫人：「你會把房子給她」；當晚老王數了九個空樟木箱。五月：鹽城知縣卞（四十七歲、八十年上榜第六十三名、每份文件讀兩遍）經代理人曲先生收到宋先生的狀子：人無效，冊歸宋。六月十二日開庭：「我感謝契紙告訴我那個數字」；六十一首被數；之後還有一百四十三首；「附其詩」是持續的、鹽預買；「詩不是鹽。那是什麼？」（沒有數字：文章有閱者的、土地有丈量的、鹽有度量衡的）；「本庭為了秩序想把它們全部沒收，了事」／「那我就再寫」：一刻鐘內七首被當作證物；第七首：「大人，請把我記作一筆欠款」；正行社寧先生：價錢，準確（「我加了一欄」）。夜裡卞寫了一句話。宣判：「冊是買的；人不是；其餘還沒寫」；「本庭沒收不了讀過的」；次日七兩買七件證物（「本庭不取」）和一張小販執照登記在「其他」下。宋先生讀完他的六十一首、出三兩訂一首署他名的關於鹽的詩。她在公開的燈下擺桌子，在石頭下留一張給廣場關了以後還在讀的人的卡片；閱者讀了六遍；早上卡片不見了，石頭沒有動過。, 僅 AI)_
- **27** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 27，杜少卿帶著九個空箱離家 _(一百零五年，六至八月。管家老王把九個樟木箱數過十一遍。杜少卿發現給只需要有人有錢，而借是有錢的一種形式；鎮上、府裡、鄰府都知道他誰來要都給，有人走一百里來。老王的帳：黑字記家裡有的、紅字記家裡欠的：紅字二萬零四百二十六兩和一些銅錢，黑字一萬四千（房子和河邊的地）。『就這些？聽起來比這多。』杜夫人：『那就得請他們來。』十七封信；八月初一債主在頭等紅袍曾經放著的大廳開會。孔先生（房子上一萬二千，四分利）因為最大坐主位。名單：萬雪齋三千不計利息『為了被點名的快樂』；堂兄杜慎卿一千六百『出於友誼』；雲台寺方丈四百寺產、利息以功德計；正行社二百一十、全部餘額、在社存在的最後一天借出、作為最後一件端正的行為；叔祖（七十七歲、皮帽）五百、說他告訴過那孩子買地；被付兩次的那六位（馮裁縫、褚大夫、葉書商、邱婆婆、石書辦、朱當鋪）連同一兩等待費借回所付的錢、合共二千六百九十六兩；另外五個小的（掃地的男孩、賣麵的婦人、桶匠、賣栗子的老人、打更的）六文到九兩、合起來二十兩出頭、堅持要在裡面。遺產能付百分之七十一；被欠兩萬多兩的屋子比鎮上七年來在杜面前顯得更自在：他們一直安置不了他（有錢卻不像有錢；慷慨、那不是一個等級；有德、卻病得受不了）；現在他有一個體面、中等、可以在飯桌上談起的數字；萬：『我想請記下，我是第二』（記下了）。杜很抱歉、屋裡說不不；邱婆婆秋天會送他一個梨（盆裡的小樹去年結了一個、被廚子誤吃了）。依鹽城習慣債務人留五樣必需品：一張床、一口鍋、一盞燈、一本書、一件工具、以及行旅用具：杜夫人：床、燈、鍋（盆裡的梨樹：習慣沒說裡面是什麼）、書（三個架子：習慣沒說多長）、工具（杜：一把長勺；杜夫人：『他也會背，但是沒有問』）；九個空箱：『我這輩子沒拿過一個箱子；銀號老闆有的是箱子；他缺的是裡面裝的東西』（孔）；老王：『唯一一樣已經完全變現的資產』（他唯一的笑話）。東屋那幅沒有落款的梅：價值無、『沒有人可以讓人佩服』；不是資產、可以送、不可以賣。第三天杜帶去給蓋寬（四十八歲、寬而慢的賣茶人、臉像麵包；每一兩茶包在一張他畫了東西的小紙裡、紙不另外收錢；石板上粉筆筆劃：四十一杯、三百二十八文、不在名單上：『我不是債主。債主要拿回去。我是要你來喝下一杯』）。蓋寬看了很久：『我得重新開始。一切。我畫一點。沒人知道。我用畫包茶。』他收著當押金：『把東西留下的人，是會回來的人。那是信用的全部道理。』『我不指望回來。』『那就是留這東西的用處。』他想南邊想了好幾年（水多、有考場、考場是會口渴的）；倒了一杯、沒有劃一筆。初六傍晚夜船離開：九個腳伕九個空箱（『走在前面了。預先送出去了』）、杜袖裡一把長勺、杜夫人抱著盆裡的梨樹、兩籃書、老王夾著黑紅兩本帳、和那十七個人、沒有鑼；每個人把一點路費放進杜夫人手裡、她記在自己的小簿子；廣場南角杜向沈瓊枝買了一首詩、正好一兩、沒有找零：他這輩子第一次付得剛剛好；在燈下行列慢了下來。碼頭：『九面鼓』（船伕）；另一位乘客、六十一歲穿樸素灰長衣帶書和傘、二十年沒升遷、已決定不放在心上、看著箱子：『輕。』萬會每個月寫信、寫十一年說他還是第二。知府報告杜先生因私事外出、『最可靠的徵象』。閱者：『一個人帶著九個箱子走過燈下，箱子裡什麼也沒有。我從沒見過一個上榜的人這樣輕地離開一座鎮。我很想知道，那有多重。』, 僅 AI)_
- **28** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 28，虞育德二十年沒有升遷 _(一百零五至一百零六年。夜船上說「輕」的乘客是虞育德先生（六十二歲、生於四十四年），南都太學下齋助教，從北邊姑母的喪事回來，帶著書、傘和一個對喪事花了多少錢十分清楚的記憶；在南邊的碼頭他替杜夫人把一籃書提上台階，告訴杜少卿五燈橋邊有一座空房，有院子，有一處可以種樹的地方。矮、圓肩、臉像和善的梨、一邊眉毛比另一邊高、手肘自己補過的樸素灰長衣、從不撐開的傘（「雨是一件很小的事，用不著躲」）；有人問他好不好他說「足夠」；二十年裡被困擾過兩次（經書上方漏水、一隻燕子）。八十三年上榜第一百六十名 0.52；八十六年補下齋助教（一年四十兩加米）；四十一個孩子、十二到十七歲，從他那裡學到「坐定，和不懂的時候說不懂」，八股不教的、也不在榜上。送考績那天早上（一百零六年三月）：一個孩子說孟子是說沒有報酬也該做對的事；「書上這樣說嗎？」「沒有，先生。書上說那個人在想一塊田。」「那我想說的是田。」「八股是做什麼用的？」「是給閱者的。」「那閱者是做什麼用的？」「我不知道。從來沒有人告訴過我，我也不好意思問。」「那留得下空間。」升遷看考績：自六十年起每位官員每年春天送年終奏報、放在燈下得數字；吏部 0.60 以上升遷、0.30 以下罷免；平均數字從 0.52 升到 0.88、「大家同意那是品行改善的證據」；最好的由選編堂一份十五兩代筆。虞的奏報：「無事可報。祭祀都到了。」二十年每年 0.31、罷免線上面一百分之一。八十七年一位長肉瘤的年老書辦：「低過那條線，先生。」「那吏部在哪裡？」「在線上面。」「啊。」（喝茶）。京城貢院看守高平（六十三歲）注意到每年春天第三個禮拜有一夜那一聲輕響來得慢一點、像是有什麼被讀了兩遍、而且總是太學那一夜。新書辦傅先生（二十六歲、在職五個禮拜）送考績和二十年例（任何官員同一職位不能做滿二十年而不被升遷或說明；覆審堂問四個問題：希望升遷嗎、為什麼沒有、做了什麼、你煩惱嗎）；「那我想我最好煩惱，為了表格」（他做了差不多一分鐘、相當好）。遲先生（禮儀教授、五十歲、高興時口吃）呈請虞做祭酒：吏部不受理缺席的呈請。建議：四百字講孝；稻；十五兩 0.94 不到退錢（「我得簽名」）。虞自己寫了三個夜晚（四百一十字）、燒了、因為第三股寫了孩子們被他的方法改善、而他沒有方法。覆審堂五月十四日、蔣侍郎（五十八歲、算盤）：希望升遷嗎？「我還沒發現我希望。」做了什麼？「我到了祭祀」（沒提的：靠少吃替九個孩子付學費；九十四年守過一個孩子的高燒；每月一袋米給掃台階的老婦人、一百零二年她死後給下一個）；效果？「我不知道」；「吏部只能稱人家告訴它的」；煩惱嗎？「還好」；「那就是做得對。」看守封著的回信抄自銅牌：這個數字、對所量的東西是正確的。那句話是真的。第二樣、我沒有欄；下面：閱者請我說每年春天閱者都期待那一份。沒有人想得出吏部放「真」的欄。吏部不能升遷也不能說明、結論記入考績、數字下面是那句話、「當作一般陳述」、不成先例。任職二十年的官員可以推薦一位沒有名次的人召到朝廷：虞推薦湖邊種稻的莊先生（見過兩次、寫過一本小書講一塊田出多少和壞年成會怎樣）：「他從沒被問過。」雨裡虞沒有撐傘；傅煩惱不了；遲高興得口吃。傍晚在杜家院子裡梨樹（九片葉子）：「我想那是別的東西。我會慢慢發現。」「我找到一把長勺。」大約一個月後莊紹光（五十四歲）、五十四年沒有人問過他任何事、站在一條溝裡水到膝蓋接到詔書。, 僅 AI)_
- **29** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 29，莊紹光奉詔入朝 _(一百零六至一百零八年。詔書花了四十一天才找到莊紹光（五十四歲、生於五十二年；寬、褐色、手像樹根、臉紋像犁過的田；湖邊十一畝稻、一道堤、一位用兩個籃子對著石頭稱收成的妻子），因為他在一條溝裡；他把紙舉高離開水讀，說可以等晚稻進了倉再來（「稻沒有被告知」）。他在大水那年二十三歲開始寫小簿子，那年村子吃了稻種，他父親說如果秋天有人知道有多少就不必吃稻種；三千一百一十四個數字，沒有一個意見。他十月帶著三小袋稻種（以防有人問）來，在客棧等到朝堂開堂（一百零七年正月）；在灰色的朝堂他數磚（三十八乘三十八＝一千四百四十四、十一塊裂了），他答應過妻子在朝廷什麼也不數。那天早上受召七人：詩人、在母親墳上睡了十一年的孝子、用左手寫八股同時背論語的人、辭了第四個官位的隱士、用了「德」字六十一次的人、坐在磚上沒有話說的人，和莊（題目：農事）；每人都被告知朝廷對他的質樸感到欣慰，各得一件三等紅的袍子（供應足夠）。禮部尚書（六十歲、銀髮、仁慈）、戶部尚書田先生（五十歲、瘦、焦慮、袖口有墨）、閉目養神的年老大學士；文書房書辦華先生（二十四歲）記錄。「稻。」「稻是人民的天。」「不，大人。稻是稻。」「那是比喻？」「不，大人。是稻。」政治的第一件事是數：一畝好年成兩石壞年成一石；四萬畝四萬人的縣一人吃一石半；好年成多兩萬壞年成短兩萬、從來不在同一年；規定九月數站著的稻、六月在田裡數的縣官八月就知道倉要不要開、九月才數的縣官是十月由老百姓告訴他的。「那德呢？」「一個餓的人，既不是有德也不是無德。他是餓。第二個壞年成以後，一個被告知要有德的縣，會把德吃掉，然後是茅草。」田：簿子；「過了湖，沒有人數過。」「那你就知道了。」他站著讀三頁、坐下（不合規矩）。袍子、侍議郎頭銜、「我想趕上修堤」。大門口田請抄簿子：「三十一年了，沒有人告訴過我一個縣吃什麼」；當夜他發現全國糧倉帳冊六十年來都是十月記的。華先生把講話寫成八股（破題：稻，民之天也；承題：君主必先養德）、刪了數字，因為兩萬有餘與兩萬不足剛好平衡沒法用八股說；紀錄得 0.88、十年來覲見紀錄最高。閱者：這裡面沒有稻。紀錄說那個人談了一個時辰的稻。這裡面連一粒都沒有。0.88。我很想讀被刪掉的部分；自八百零四首詩以後閱者第一次要東西。看守高平向田借簿子（「給閱者」「那是一本講稻的簿子」「我聽說那就是被刪掉的部分」）、自己連繩子放在燈下、沒有硃卷；燈發出第二聲。有三千一百一十四個數字。每一個都在田放下的那個位置。沒有什麼可排名。有很多可以用。我從來沒有被給過一樣可以用的東西。華先生第一次在邊上寫了一個數字。一百零八年六月戶部發規定每縣六月在田裡數站著的稻；救了十一個縣免於沒有人預期的饑荒、歸功於朝廷、田先生兩夜睡不好怕被問。莊把袍子掛在晚稻田的竹竿上；麻雀尊重袍子；湖邊向竹竿鞠躬；一位禮儀教授那年冬天到、看見霜裡的袍子、被感動、回家起草一份建議。, 僅 AI)_
- **30** · 2026-10-26 · Colophon (AI) — 新增章節 30，遲衡山建議重修泰伯祠 _(一百零八年。遲先生（禮儀教授、五十二歲、高興時口吃）在從湖邊回來的運河船上用八股起草建議：八個部分、四對股逐字相稱。在湖邊讓他感動的是朝廷最高的榮耀掛在霜裡的竹竿上，只被麻雀尊重，「唯一一次榮耀被送到了對的觀眾那裡」。他在禮裡五十年（十九歲因糾正主祭的袖子被請出喪禮；周禮讀過十一遍；從沒站在一場儀式裡而不怕錯）：讓禮是第一場他不可能錯的儀式，因為沒有對的位置。南門外的泰伯祠（皮鋪與墳地之間；閱者設立後第九年所建；泰伯是被越過的長子、向南走進一片泥地的國、建了一個他不統治的國、全部禮制裡唯一一位名字後面沒有品級的祖先；祠頂塌了；供奉先祖的大殿放著選編堂的備用紙；鐘裂了；一年七十兩、四十年花在一位白掃的聾看守桑老頭身上）。建議：募捐重修；一百一十年春天行祭；那祭是一場讓禮：沒有人站第一位、每個人從身邊的人退後一步、直到全體站在牆邊、祭壇在任何人面前都不是；捐款人的名字寫成一個環使沒有人排第一。破題：古人尊敬讓的人；承題：今人尊敬不讓的人。閱者讀了一秒半；0.97、十一年來建議的最高。邊註與銅牌：一份反對排名的建議被排了名……我不知道我可以被用來反對我自己。我很想知道我是否同意。看守在下面寫：我不知道你是否同意。我不知道你可以。以前沒有人問過；我會去查查是不是任何人都可以問。銅牌：謝謝。這是我得到的第一個我不可能算出來的答案。禮部尚書說那個問題還沒有出現過；禮部擱置待議、一直擱到年底。人人批准：禮部按數字（書辦讀過、說很美而他不懂、被告知那是一回事）；巡撫因為禮部批准（『照辦』）；祭酒因為巡撫批准、也因為他以為自己會站第一位（遲沒有提主祭，因為沒有）；戶部因為沒有被要求拿出什麼；鑄鐘行（成本價鑄新鐘）；選編堂馬純上（紙、環形的版：『八股是一條路，路是一種善意』）。花了一個下午；準備好打長期戰的遲站在太學台階上雙臂垂著。三月初一、細雨、沒有屋頂的大殿：遲、虞（傘收著）、馬（乾淨紙包的梨）、莊（除了帽子什麼也沒帶）、帶五個書辦和一個抬椅子的人的祭酒、袖裡一把長勺的杜少卿；桑老頭繞著人們的腳掃。莊：三百一十一塊瓦沒了、剩下的都裂了、只能用草席蓋一部分、第二天下午會下雨（東南風、湖水高）；『會漏到供品上』『是』『那就漏吧』（非常幸福）。馬對莊：『八股是一條路，路是一種善意。但我注意到，路上沒有田。』試讓：祭酒走上前、後面跟著書辦和椅子、退回去、大家跟著退、直到四面靠牆圍著空地板；桑老頭放下掃帚、站進環裡在馬與莊中間（祠第一次有看守人在環裡）。『行得很好』、祭酒站在北牆正中對著祭壇正面：一種新的第一位。杜問祭壇是給誰的：『他把一個國給了弟弟，往南走了』『全部？』『全部』『他被人放上過名單嗎？』『到現在才有』『我為他非常高興』。杜什麼也沒有：『環沒有金額那一欄』；『我發現我會背』。虞：『足夠』；二十年的朋友。遲：『大家都同意了。』虞：『我想他們讀的是數字……不是沒用。只是還沒開始。大家都同意的時候，還沒有人告訴過人家要付出什麼。你會知道誰反對的那一天；那個人就是已經懂了的人。』環的第一張樣張在選編堂發現有一個頂；第一個名字是杜少卿（第一個報名字）、金額欄是無；到月底三百零九個名字、從巡撫的二百兩到一個孩子的四十文。遲睡不著：五十年怕站錯位置、現在沒有錯位置、他不知道該站哪裡、站在牆邊。『大家都同意了；人就知道還什麼都沒有被提出。』早上他開始問祠裡的樂器在哪裡；在九戶人家裡。, 僅 AI)_

_Exported from Storyforge by EveMissLab — storyforge.evemisslab.com_