Chapter 28: Borrowing Books

Thus, Zhang Yue settled into life at the clan school. Although the first few days were difficult to adapt to, the longer he stayed, the more he grew accustomed to it, even developing a certain fondness for the place.

For example, the clan school’s hearty midday meal was enough to fill him with anticipation the night before as he lay in bed.

One day, as Zhang Yue was copying texts, he saw the steward ascend the library to sort the collection. Zhang Yue put down his brush and volunteered to help. The steward did not object and allowed him to assist.

Surveying the room full of books, Zhang Yue thought to himself: what a treasure trove! No wonder it’s said there are golden mansions within books.

“May I ask, Steward, are the books organized by the categories of Classics, History, Philosophy, and Collections?”

The steward nodded. “Indeed.”

With that, he sat down nearby, took up a book, and began reading, looking as unruffled as ever.

Zhang Yue had come to lend a hand but ended up doing the bulk of the work. He said nothing, quietly classifying each book while thinking that, truly, this was a place for the children of noble families. Here, one could borrow any book at will from shelves packed to the ceiling—a privilege far beyond what he’d experienced borrowing from Guo, the scholar.

All the Nine Classics were pre-Qingli government editions, the highest quality with the most meticulous proofreading—true masterpieces. There were also many handwritten volumes dating before the Tang dynasty. Since there was no printing in the Tang era, those who wanted books had to copy them by hand—and proofread them themselves.

Those who possessed such collections were usually highly cultured and skilled at collating texts, so their handwritten copies, after repeated review, were often superior to printed editions.

Such ancient tomes would be worth a fortune in later generations. Now he understood why the steward guarded them so jealously.

For a scholar, stealing a book isn’t really stealing, is it? After all, when it comes to reading, how can it count as theft? No wonder, in the end, every reader stands as a solitary figure, like Lu Xun. As he sorted the books, Zhang Yue discreetly glanced through each one.

During the task, he noticed that the steward had placed the “Mencius” among the Classics rather than the Philosophers, so he asked, “Steward, should ‘Mencius’ be classified under the Classics or the Philosophers?”

“What do you think?” the steward replied with a question of his own.

Zhang Yue had already noted the steward’s refined manner and knew not to take him lightly. He recalled a discussion about Mencius he once had with Chen Shengzhi at the magistrate’s residence in Peng County.

Since the steward had placed “Mencius” among the Classics, Zhang Yue surmised he must hold Mencius in high esteem.

So Zhang Yue replied, “In my humble opinion, the words of Mencius are powerful and stirring—they deserve to be honored among the Classics.”

“Oh? In what way are they stirring?”

Zhang Yue then repeated what Chen Shengzhi had once said, making the argument his own.

At first, the steward seemed a bit surprised, but his expression soon turned indifferent. When Zhang Yue finished, he sneered, “Bold words for one so young! You must have heard these things secondhand. Have you even read ‘Mencius’?”

Since “Mencius” was not among the Nine Classics, he assumed this impoverished scholar must not have read it, as it was not a required text for the examinations.

Zhang Yue replied with some irritation, “Believe me or not, as you wish.”

“Then let me test you!”

“Please, ask as you like…”

Seeing Zhang Yue’s confident smile, the steward thought he might have underestimated the boy.

When Zhang Yue recited “Mencius” with ease, the steward was convinced. He asked, “You haven’t memorized all the Nine Classics—how is it you know ‘Mencius’ so well?”

“It’s just as I said: Mencius’s words are powerful and stirring. Confucius’s teachings are gentle and nurturing, like a spring breeze, but Mencius’s words startle you awake—they send a chill down your spine.”

In today’s terms, it’s like this: Confucius is the kindly elder who reasons with you, but sometimes people won’t listen unless someone scolds them. It’s like reading “Kong Yiji” or “The True Story of Ah Q”—they might seem amusing when you’re young, but once you’ve lived a bit, their words keep you up at night.

Zhang Yue continued, “When the Way does not prevail, Confucius would take to the seas on a raft—such is the Sage. But if it were Mencius, he’d scold you to your face, seeing you as unworthy of a ruler!”

“Enough idle talk—are you done tidying up?” the steward interrupted, snapping his book shut.

What an odd little old man, Zhang Yue thought to himself.

The books were nearly organized, but Zhang Yue believed in finishing things properly. “There’s dust on the shelves and the floor—I’ll clean it up as well. The dust here is thick, Steward; perhaps you should sit downstairs while I tidy up.”

With that, Zhang Yue fetched a duster and cloth from the corner and set to work. Though usually too lazy to clean his own room—only doing so when his family could no longer tolerate the mess—whenever he did clean, he did it thoroughly. Of course, within ten days or half a month, his room would return to chaos.

The steward frowned but let Zhang Yue continue, muttering as he descended, “Let’s see how long this lasts.”

After lunch, Zhang Yue spent another hour cleaning, working up a sweat, but at last, the library was in order.

The steward glanced around, said nothing, and locked the door without so much as a word of thanks, treating Zhang Yue as free labor.

Zhang Yue suggested, “Steward, I notice there’s no catalog for the library. With one, borrowers could find books by referencing the list—it would save everyone a lot of time.”

“It may save others time, but I don’t have the time to spare. What should I do about that?” the steward replied with a sidelong glance.

“It’s not so difficult. I can do it in my spare moments. Of course, it’s too late today, but I’ll start tomorrow.”

“Very well,” the steward said curtly, hands clasped behind his back as he left.

The next day, Zhang Yue returned to the library, where the steward handed him a blank register. Zhang Yue set about recording each book in the catalog. After working half the day, he was called away by the registrar to help with the bookkeeping for the school’s farmland, which took nearly an hour. He then returned to the library to continue the catalog.

On the third day, he and his senior brother Guo Lin went to the Southern Peak Hall.

Guo Lin said seriously, “You’ve been so busy organizing the library these days you haven’t copied many texts. Yesterday, I even helped you finish, or you wouldn’t have gotten home before dark. Why are you doing so much for the steward?”

Zhang Yue just smiled, saying nothing.

That day, after finishing his copying—his handwriting not as good as Guo Lin’s, so most work was assigned to his senior—Zhang Yue found his tasks lighter. He asked the steward for the key, went upstairs, and continued working on the catalog. The steward now trusted him enough to let him unlock the door himself. After half a day’s work, Zhang Yue had recorded the entire library, organizing it all in the register.

When he handed the “Daylight Pavilion Catalog” to the steward, the old man smiled faintly and said, “It’s neatly done. That’s all for now—when I need you again, I’ll let you know.”

The steward thought that would be the end of it, but Zhang Yue said, “Steward, the record of borrowed books is out of date—sometimes a book is marked as borrowed when it’s not, or vice versa. I’d like to make a new, more detailed record…”

“Hold on,” the steward narrowed his eyes. “Out with it—what is it you want from me?”

“Nothing at all. Unless—have I done something wrong?” Zhang Yue feigned innocence.

The steward snorted, “No, you’ve done well—almost all my work is now in order. If you don’t explain yourself, I’ll start to think you’re after my position! I plan to keep this easy job for a few more years, you know.”

This job was too much responsibility for him, Zhang Yue thought to himself.

The steward said coolly, “If you have a request, speak up—I have little patience for dithering.”

Zhang Yue grinned sheepishly. “Steward, you truly see through everything. To be honest, I was hoping that after I finish copying each day, I could borrow a book to read—just here in the library, I promise not to take it out.”

So that’s what all his hard work has been for, thought the steward. He’d suspected some hidden motive, but it was just this. A little scheming, but not for underhanded ends—quite commendable, really.

The steward looked Zhang Yue up and down. “It’s rare to see such thirst for learning, but after all your copying, how much time do you have left to read?”

Of course, he’d read on the spot and memorize it at home.

Zhang Yue wanted to put on a studious air—every moment spent reading is worthwhile—but worried it would sound too pitiable.

So he answered cautiously, “Not long—just a moment here and there.”

“A moment?” the steward scolded, “How can you call reading a casual thing?”

Zhang Yue caught the underlying meaning and quickly corrected himself, “Thank you for pointing that out. I promise to read carefully.”

And yet, he thought, aren’t you the one who spends all day basking in the sun at the gatehouse with a book?

The old man continued sternly, “Careful is not just a word. Every day, you must tell me what you’ve read, and I’ll test you. If you can’t answer, I won’t lend you any more books.”

The more Zhang Yue looked at the steward, the more he felt the old man resembled someone from his textbooks.

Thus began Zhang Yue’s days of copying texts and “mooching” books in the library.

When Guo Lin found out, he advised him earnestly, “There are certain things we can’t hope for, junior brother. Don’t waste your energy—just do your duty.”

Zhang Yue replied, “You misunderstand, senior brother. I only wish to borrow books to read.”

Guo Lin shook his head and said no more.

The steward remained outwardly cold but no longer treated them as potential thieves.

Yet Zhang Yue continued to help with library tasks—he wouldn’t slack off just because he was allowed to borrow books. A job begun must be finished.

He also used his daily wages to buy vegetables and fruit from Guo’s village to give to the steward, claiming they were from his own family’s fields. He still helped the registrar with bookkeeping, too.

After a month of copying, Zhang Yue’s handwriting had improved—only he could appreciate the progress. It wasn’t much, but he knew calligraphy was a matter of perseverance.

One day, the steward secured them a place at the dining table, so they no longer had to eat in the drafty pavilion.

Every three or five days, the steward would ask Zhang Yue about his recent readings.

Zhang Yue would answer truthfully, always adding his own insights. The steward usually dismissed his thoughts with a laugh, though occasionally he’d ponder in silence.

Yet he never commented on Zhang Yue’s opinions nor offered guidance—he simply listened. Zhang Yue treated it as a chance to review his lessons with a willing audience.