Now that life had become comfortable, he realized that simply having enough to eat and stay warm was already quite good.
He said to Xie Yan, “A Yan, I might not be able to be a strict father. Whenever I look at them, my heart just feels soft.”
Xie Yan took the responsibility upon himself, saying, “It’s fine. I’ll handle the strict stuff.”
Lu Yang could hardly imagine Xie Yan being stern. When he glanced up, he saw Xie Yan smiling, but with a trace of coldness—like his personality had finally aligned with his appearance, reducing the contrast. With this face, even a slightly stern expression would be enough.
Still, Lu Yang said, “I think they’ll love you too.”
Xie Yan was unafraid.
“With you here, they’ll love me too.”
The day after Lu Yang gave birth, Xie Yan visited the Cui family to see his master, returning to their old routine: half a day at the Cui residence, half at home.
When his master wanted to teach, he listened; when not, he accompanied him in chess.
He felt reluctant, knowing that Cui Dage and Cui Erge were both in the capital, and tentatively asked if he could go there too.
His master refused, saying simply that he was old and could not travel.
Xie Yan was a source of comfort, so he wondered why his master had encouraged him to take the exams that year instead of waiting three more.
The answer remained the same: old, tired, and unable to teach for much longer.
His master advised that he could spend time gaining experience in the Hanlin Academy, consulting senior officials if needed. Since he had achieved the triple distinction, his age was no concern; recognition would come swiftly, and he should not fear.
“Start with writing documents, handling minor dignified tasks. You won’t stay long in Hanlin—later you can find an opportunity in the Ministry of Rites, dealing with protocol, avoiding trouble.”
Xie Yan listened, eyes reddened. That day, the master and disciple held chess pieces in hand, moving them randomly, conversing idly.
He learned much about court affairs, understood the responsibilities of the Six Ministries. For those with promising futures: start in Hanlin, then the ministries, become a Grand Scholar, gain a ministerial title, and possibly enter the cabinet as an assistant. For a less conventional path, move around, then return to Hanlin, aiming for the position of director—a modest office in title but highly respectable. The Guozijian was not recommended; it was full of children of powerful families, difficult for him to manage.
If one did not seek prominence, an alternative was the historian path. A zhuangyuan choosing the historian route was highly unusual; only through mistakes or voluntary transfer could one hold that office.
Xie Yan knew he lacked talent for great achievements and aimed for stable prominence. Gain experience in Hanlin, handle minor tasks in the Ministry of Rites, step aside gracefully to let others rise, and eventually return to Hanlin to pursue Grand Scholar. Slow but steady. For his ambitions, a position of moderate rank was sufficient.
The path of steady advancement allowed the fastest rise. Entering the cabinet was hard; leaving was easy. Navigate the political currents correctly, and replacing someone in a post was no issue.
The historian role offered no promotion or prestige—low-profile, restrained, invisible. Unless exceptional, it would lead to a very ordinary life.
Xie Yan preferred Hanlin. After some twists and turns, he still wanted it. He enjoyed reading and compiling books, and the role suited him perfectly.
Everyone admitted to Hanlin was scholarly; he could find like-minded peers there. A modest future sufficed.
Master Cui nodded, “I think the same. You should seek your second brother; he likes you. As for the eldest, don’t bother. He’s sly. I’d worry if you interacted much with him.”
Xie Yan pressed his lips, telling his master about taking many books from Cui Dage. Master Cui did not change his stance.
“That’s nothing. He’s just teasing you. You don’t need to visit often—once or twice during festivals is enough.”
That day, Xie Yan had a rare meal at the Cui residence. Afterwards, Master Cui said he need not return.
“You’ve got duties soon; hurry home. Don’t bother coming when in the capital; I won’t have time to see you.”
Xie Yan kowtowed and received two longevity locks and two pairs of small bracelets.
Tears threatened, “I haven’t given you a proper gift…”
Master Cui laughed, “You’re just a poor boy; don’t worry about a token of filial piety.”
Near parting, he joked, “That mouth of yours will offend many people. Don’t say I taught you. Those you can handle—your second brother taught you. Those you cannot—your eldest did.”
Xie Yan agreed, saying, “When I take office in the capital, I’ll travel from the provincial city and bring my husband and children to see you.”
Master Cui said nothing.
That day, Xie Yan left home later than usual, looking back long after exiting the gate.
He could roughly understand why his master’s old age was so lonely: having reached great heights, wielded great power, all connections were transactional. He had no desire to engage.
Family must advance or decline. Even the younger generation could not slack, immersed in the pursuit of fame and profit.
Master Cui’s two sons were close in age to him; the grandchildren roughly the same as him.
When he was young, his master could teach. Once grown, staying with his father was preferable to staying with a frail grandfather.
Thinking of this, he wept once again.
Before returning home, he maintained his half-day visits. If the gate remained closed, he waited outside. Early summer was not the hottest, yet enduring until noon under the sun was tiring.
The elderly master’s soft heart relented, letting him in. He scolded him for disobedience; naturally, Xie Yan retorted.
In the provincial city, he moved between home and the Cui residence, also visiting Senior Brother Ling and a few friends’ homes.
Lu Yang had not yet left the confinement period; the room was stuffy. They placed a basin with ice behind the moon gate to cool the room without letting him catch a chill.
Lu Yang had read Xie Yan’s letters; many scenes were simple, but Xie Yan described them in detail.
He often added a tiny Lu Yang to the illustrations, with the inscription: “Jingzhi visited here.”
The liveliest scene was when the zhuangyuan paraded on horseback; the bustling crowd came alive on paper. At first glance, waves seemed to ripple across the page; closer inspection revealed throngs of people. On the ground, on balconies, some climbed onto shoulders, even rooftops.
People threw fragrant sachets, handkerchiefs, flowers, and embroidered balls into the crowd. Xie Yan may have done this intentionally or simply drawn as he saw it—all that fell on the second and third place candidates was diverted.
After the exams, he felt like a walking corpse, just going through the motions. Yet on paper, the zhuangyuan laughed heartily, mouth taking up half his face, eyes mere slits.
He wore the zhuangyuan robe and hat, a flower tucked into the hat, holding a flashy embroidered ball. A tiny Lu Yang sat atop it, wearing the same robe.
There was a folk custom to wear zhuangyuan robes for celebrations; the scene resembled a wedding.
Though the painting was rough, the embroidered ball and tiny Lu Yang were finely detailed, becoming the centerpiece.
On the zhuangyuan’s flowing sleeves, Xie Yan wrote a small note: “Jingzhi visited here.”
The most solemn setting was the Golden Hall.
Xie Yan made two smaller paintings: one of the palace exam, with little Lu Yang lying on the answer sheet as a paperweight, glancing sideways; a moment’s distraction would meet his gaze. The other, when he was crowned zhuangyuan, Lu Yang peeked from the flower in his hat, like a spirit among blossoms.
In reality, neither wore a flower in the hat during the exam.
Lu Yang liked using miniatures as paperweights and wanted one depicting the zhuangyuan. Xie Yan promised.
Lu Yang looked at the paintings and pointed to the horseback parade, asking, “Weren’t you upset that day?”
Truth touched hearts the most.
