Chapter Nine: Chen Shou Builds a Cottage on Mount Beilang

Page 1/3

When Chen Shou woke to fetch water, the morning mist still clung to Mang Mountain, the air tinged with a faint, elusive moisture that transformed the dawn’s clear light into a delicate haze. This soft glow refracted the countless specks of dust floating among the foliage, drifting like phantoms, which only enhanced the graceful beauty of the begonia blossoms by the mountain path, their vivid hues ablaze like fire.

Behind the begonia trees lay a shallow pond, no more than a foot deep, where the fry swam like droplets of ink, visible and distinct. Chen Shou waved his hand in the water; the coldness was refreshing, and the fish instantly scattered, vanishing as if dissolved in an instant. Scooping the water with a gourd ladle, he turned to leave, just in time to see two crested ibises glide overhead and perch on the branches of a phoenix tree, softly calling out to him.

Chen Shou smiled and continued on. Beneath the phoenix tree was a gentle slope, where he had built a humble thatched cottage with his own hands.

The cottage was simple—six wooden stakes topped with planks, with several layers of thatch covering the roof. To guard against the approaching rainy season, he had laid the thatch thickly. Adjacent to the cottage stood a wooden platform on stakes, supported by two wooden pillars holding a thatched canopy. This space, backed by the cottage and open on three sides, was bright and airy. Books and boxes were stacked in a corner, clearly a place for reading in shade and shelter from rain.

Returning to the cottage, Chen Shou set a pottery pot on the stove, grabbed a handful of wheat beans and wild greens, poured water, lit the fire, and sprinkled in salt. Then he sat on a folding stool nearby, picked up a scroll of the Chronicles of Emperor Xian, occasionally glancing at the fire, occasionally flipping through the text.

This was the forty-seventh day since Chen Shou had settled in Mang Mountain. Earlier that year, in the first month, his mother, Lady Cui, had passed away. Chen Shou had no choice but to resign from his post as a censor in the imperial court to observe the mourning period for his mother.

By tradition, he should have returned to Shu with the coffin and mourned for twenty-seven months before coming back to Luoyang. But Lady Cui loved the prosperity of Luoyang and had heard that the wealthy families buried their dead beneath Mang Mountain. Thus, she left a will to be interred in northern Mang Mountain instead. This caused much controversy at court. Some accused Chen Shou of clinging to power and fame, using the will as an excuse to avoid returning to his hometown.

Yet, no matter how fierce the criticism, Chen Shou continued on his own path. After building the thatched hut by his mother’s tomb, he sent most of his household servants back home, leaving only a maid named Anan to bring him meals and clothes from time to time. He enjoyed the peace. By day, he leaned against the trees reading; by night, he lay listening to the wind. The only company in the mountains were the monkeys and birds, a solitude that sparked his creativity. It was during this time that he completed the main content of the "Records of the Three Kingdoms," later known as one of the "Former Four Histories."

Chen Shou had thought such leisurely days would last a while. Yet today, for some unknown reason, he was restless. After breakfast, he found it impossible to settle into reading.

Was he homesick? Chen Shou wondered.

Though he had been in Luoyang for two or three years, he had not integrated into the local gentry. The aristocrats mocked his poverty, the renowned scholars looked down on his accent, and even those kind to him were mere acquaintances, lacking sincerity. Compared to this, he had every reason to long for home.

But when he thought of home, his memories were not pleasant. He recalled traveling north to Luoyang, passing through Yangping Pass and Jiange, where familiar faces and events would surface in his mind—but all were gone now, leaving only sorrowful memories, as if he were the crushed residue beneath a millstone.

Perhaps it was loneliness. Chen Shou set down his book and turned his gaze to the burial mound where his mother lay, sinking into a long reverie. Who would have thought? The young man who once followed the great general across the highlands, determined to restore the Han dynasty, was now, sixteen years later, nearly a man who had achieved nothing.

As he drifted in thought, rustling sounds suddenly came from the south. At first, he thought it was a fox darting through the bushes, but as the noise drew closer, he realized it was human footsteps.

Looking up, he saw a graceful woman approaching along the mountain path, holding a child by the hand—it was Zhang Ximiao and Liu Xian.

Chen Shou had never met Ximiao before and did not know Liu Xian, but it was clear they had come to see him. This puzzled Chen Shou. In three years in Luoyang, this was the first time such a pair had come to find him, and during his mourning period no less. What could they want? How could he help them? It couldn’t be just a casual visit. At forty-six, he no longer entertained such dreams.

“Excuse me, is Mr. Chen Shou here?” Zhang Ximiao asked cautiously, studying him.

Chen Shou’s features were regular, with slightly drooping eyebrows that gave a tired look, and relaxed lips that seemed to carry a faint smile despite no clear expression.

“I am Chen Shou. May I ask, madam, who might you be?” he replied.

“I am Zhang Ximiao,” she paused, pulling Liu Xian forward, “and this is my son Liu Xian, courtesy name Biji. We have come specially to trouble you, please forgive us.”

Ximiao did not state her family name but mentioned being the wife of the Duke of Anle. Scholars from Liang and Yi provinces would certainly understand. Chen Shou’s expression immediately grew complex as he looked at Ximiao, then at Liu Xian, wanting to speak but swallowing his words. Despite his scholarly learning, the sudden appearance of the bloodline of his former lord left him flustered.

Ximiao had anticipated this. According to Liu Yao’s plan, she need not have come; Liu Yao could have handled it. But considering the emperor’s suspicion toward the Anle household, and Chen Shou’s likely reluctance to be involved for fear of jeopardizing his career, she insisted on coming herself, aiming to gain the upper hand with surprise. It had indeed worked.

She smiled at Chen Shou and continued, “I have long heard of your renown since my days in Chengdu. You surpass Sima Xiangru in poetry and rival Sima Qian in prose, yet I have never had the fortune to meet you—truly a regret in my life. Now, with youth fleeting, and many old tales turned to dust, I did not expect to hear news of you in this distant place. This is a blessing indeed.”

After such praise, Chen Shou finally came to his senses. He cupped his hands and smiled wryly, “Madam, please do not mock me. Chen Shou is but a humble man down on his luck in officialdom, far too unworthy of your praise.” Saying this, he invited Ximiao and Liu Xian to sit in his study area, fetched two pottery cups, poured water for them himself, and then sat down.

Page 2/3

By now, Chen Shou’s initial embarrassment and awkwardness had faded. He studied Ximiao and her son carefully, while pondering her purpose in coming.

Contrary to his expectations of the Duchess of Anle, Zhang Ximiao showed none of the frailty or sullenness of a hostage, nor did she possess the arrogance of one who boasts noble lineage—a trait Chen Shou despised. Unlike her grandfather Zhang Fei, Ximiao’s face was delicate and beautiful; her eyes large and bright, inherited from her ancestors, but without offending others, exuding a serene strength. Though clad in a simple indigo long-sleeved robe with a cross-collar, she did not appear plain. Her noble bearing seemed to transcend the garment itself.

Turning to Liu Xian, Chen Shou’s first impression was quietude. Usually children are full of energy and rarely sit still, but Liu Xian was motionless, like a Buddha statue. Yet his gaze was sharper and more penetrating than that of ordinary children. When their eyes met, Chen Shou felt a strange prickling sensation.

This child’s gaze was disdainful of all else—that was Chen Shou’s judgment.

What could their purpose be? Six months ago, Wang Fu died suddenly, and the lord’s temperament changed drastically. Was the duchess seeking Chen Shou’s help to counsel her husband? Or was it about the recent uproar over abolishing the Duke of Anle’s title, and she hoped Chen Shou would intercede? Chen Shou was uncertain and chose to wait for further developments.

At that moment, Ximiao took a small clay-sealed jar from beside her and offered it to Chen Shou.

“I heard you are mourning and abstaining from wine and meat. I had nothing suitable to bring, so I made some homemade pickled vegetables in the Chengdu style. I trust you will like them. I earnestly hope you will eat well and not let grief harm your health.”

Such a gift was neither too grand nor insignificant, and Chen Shou could not refuse. He accepted it.

“Since madam made it herself, I shall not be rude,” Chen Shou said, then asked, “But surely madam did not come just to deliver this jar of pickles?”

“Your insight is keen. I have indeed come with a request.”

“I wish to ask you to be Biji’s teacher,” Ximiao said solemnly, then knelt deeply. Liu Xian followed suit.

The formality startled Chen Shou. Hastily, he helped them up, saying, “This is unnecessary, truly unnecessary.” Once they were on their feet, he smiled bitterly and said slowly, “Madam, you have given me quite a difficult problem at our first meeting!”

For Chen Shou, pleading the court on behalf of the Duke of Anle, though troublesome, would not affect him personally. But becoming the tutor of the duke’s heir would bind him irrevocably to the Anle household. If news reached the emperor that he harbored sympathies for the old regime and concealed rebellious intentions, it would seriously damage his career.

He spoke candidly to Ximiao, “By reason, I should not refuse your request. After all, the Duke of Anle was my former lord, and instructing his son would be an honor. But you know the court is fraught with intrigue, and the duke’s household is widely suspected. If I agree, who knows what rumors will spread?”

He paused, then continued, “To be honest, though I am observing mourning now, I still hope to bring honor to my family name—fulfilling my late mother’s wish. If I agree to you, I fear I cannot properly mourn my mother. Please forgive me; I cannot accept.”

Chen Shou’s concerns were genuine, and Ximiao understood inwardly. Hearing him speak so plainly, she felt a pang of helplessness but was used to persuading others under such circumstances.

“Are you really unable to accept?” she asked.

“Really cannot. Madam must understand; Chen Shou cannot be unfilial.”

“Then do you not care about disloyalty?” Ximiao lowered her brows and said, “To sacrifice old ties for career will not reflect well on your reputation.”

Chen Shou was taken aback, then grasped her meaning. This duchess was determined: if he refused, she would spread their conversation to accuse him of greed and disloyalty. While filial piety still prevailed in the Western Jin officialdom, the loyalty to the sovereign, inherited from the Han dynasty for four centuries, remained a crucial standard.

This was a trap Chen Shou had not anticipated. He sighed helplessly, “Madam, why force me? I consider myself only somewhat talented, able to write a few articles. I cannot govern a country or manage a family. To be a tutor to the young master would be to mislead him.”

“You are the secretary to General Jiang Wei. I trust only you,” Ximiao said, gazing steadily.

Chen Shou fell silent. He wanted to protest further, but realized it was not an insult to himself but to Jiang Wei. No self-deprecating words would come.

After much thought, Chen Shou finally sighed, “Madam, I previously studied classics under Master Qiao and taught some junior disciples. But I have no experience educating children. And now I am mourning here and cannot go to your residence to teach. Your son must come here daily, and I will teach him as best I can. If he benefits, I will not refuse; but if progress is poor or he cannot endure, for his sake, I beg you to seek a more capable tutor.”

Page 3/3

This was a clear concession, and Zhang Ximiao was delighted. She smiled broadly, “Naturally, thank you, sir!” Then patting Liu Xian’s shoulder, she said, “Quick! Biji, salute your teacher!”

Liu Xian immediately stepped forward and performed the formal three kowtows of the Confucian apprentice ceremony, then presented ten strips of dried meat to Chen Shou. Chen Shou accepted the gift and presented Liu Xian with a copy of the Book of Songs from his collection as a return gift. Thus, the simple ceremony of apprenticeship was complete.

With the relationship formalized, Chen Shou’s expression grew serious. He fixed his gaze on Liu Xian and began their first conversation.

“Biji, your mother asked you to be my student. Do you know why?”

“To learn to write and read, and to solve doubts.”

“Doubts? What doubts do you have?”

Chen Shou had expected the boy to ask whimsical questions—why fish cannot fly, why tigers have no wings, why day and night cannot be reversed, or why time cannot flow backward—as children often do.

But Liu Xian wore a thoughtful expression. After a moment, he asked, “Teacher, do people live on after they die?”

This was an odd question, and for a child just beginning life, it was a little too soon. Chen Shou was taken aback, did not answer immediately, but glanced quickly at Zhang Ximiao, who looked embarrassed. Chen Shou asked, “Biji, do you mean, is there a soul after death?”

Liu Xian hesitated, then nodded. “If there is no soul, why do we remember the names of the dead and what they did? But if there is a soul, why don’t they speak to us?”

Chen Shou said, “I don’t know if there is a soul.”

“Teacher doesn’t know either?”

“There are many things in the world unknown to us. The sages said, to know what you know and to acknowledge what you don’t—that is wisdom. I can only teach what I know. Whether people have souls after death, I do not know, so I cannot answer.”

Seeing the disappointment in Liu Xian’s eyes, for some reason, a thought flashed through Chen Shou’s mind, compelling him to say, “But I can tell you why we remember the names of the dead and what they did.”

Liu Xian looked up. “Why?”

Chen Shou spoke each word carefully, “The Grand Historian said, ‘Men must die once; some deaths are lighter than a feather, others heavier than Mount Tai.’”

This phrase held many meanings and could be expounded upon endlessly. When Chen Shou first read the Records of the Grand Historian, this sentence moved him deeply and inspired his own ambition to write history. Yet now, for some reason, his heart grew heavy, filled with regret—was it worry for his future career? Or nostalgia for times past? He was unsure.

Liu Xian appeared confused at first, but after pondering, his eyes brightened with a faint understanding. He respectfully bowed, saying, “Please, teacher, guide me.”

Chen Shou looked at him, inwardly cursing his fate.

He found himself already fond of this child.