“Once you’re done tidying, put out the candle—be careful not to start a fire.”
The book boy understood. As soon as Xie Yan left, he snuffed out the candle.
Tonight, the moon was full and bright; once the eyes adjusted, even just clearing the table was enough to see clearly.
Back in the study, Xie Yan lit the oil lamp.
One of the lamps on his desk had a glass cover that cast a clear, gentle light.
It was the first time he had seen glass like this. Even at Wu Ping’s home, he had never seen such craftsmanship.
The lamp was beautiful. He wondered if it was expensive—and thought to buy one for his husband.
Though he had just finished eating, Xie Yan didn’t sit. Taking a feather duster, he went around the room clearing dust, looking for books along the way.
Books in the study weren’t organized, making them hard to find. Usually, one would ask if a certain book was there, then search for it.
With over ten bookshelves and spines without titles, each book had to be taken down and checked individually—tedious work.
Senior students at the school had attempted some organization; frequently used books were grouped on the shelf nearest the door.
Xie Yan picked books from this shelf, all of which he enjoyed reading.
He had barely looked at books on other shelves.
As he dusted, he glanced at titles one by one. Deep inside, light grew dim, making it harder to see.
He sighed, deciding to focus on dusting for now.
Even after finishing, his mind wasn’t settled. He went to the desk, took out paper and brush, and began to draw.
He sketched a scene of three figures under the moonlight—two in shadow, one alone; one side solitary, the other full of reunion.
He murmured as he worked:
“Xie Zhuozhi, Xie Zhuozhi… this is the last painting. Once it’s done, I must focus on my studies.”
When he finished, he picked up a book again.
Inside, he read, while outside someone watched him.
Seeing him flip through books rapidly, several piled together, becoming increasingly restless, his brows deeply furrowed.
This person clearly wanted to leave, impatient to continue reading.
The study’s gatekeeper, whose father had gone home for the Mid-Autumn festival, stopped him.
“You don’t listen to your father. Since you’re here, go inside and take a look.”
The elder took on a formal air, leading his son to knock on the door.
The study door wasn’t latched. Upon Xie Yan’s acknowledgment, the father and son pushed it open.
Xie Yan was startled to see the elder:
“You’re here? Weren’t you celebrating the festival?”
The elder chuckled. “I went for a stroll, guessed you’d be reading, and brought my son along to see.”
He introduced them, finally revealing their surname: Cui. His son, the second child, was simply called Cui Lao Er.
Judging by age, Cui Lao Er’s father was fully white-haired, at least sixty-five. Cui Lao Er himself had a serious expression, few wrinkles, around forty.
Xie Yan hesitated to address him directly, opting for “Second Uncle Cui.”
The elder wasn’t pleased.
“If you call him ‘Uncle,’ then you must call me ‘Grandfather.’”
Xie Yan: “……”
Calling him grandfather was essentially acknowledging the elder as his father’s father.
He quickly corrected himself: “Brother Cui, first meeting—pardon my rudeness.”
Cui Lao Er, whether due to the address or something else, remained indifferent.
Xie Yan didn’t mind. He rose, offering both chairs, then went to the classroom to fetch another.
The elder seated himself at the familiar desk.
Cui Lao Er stayed put, lowering his gaze to the pile of writings and practice questions.
He furrowed his brows. “This boy is far too pragmatic.”
Reading impatiently, focusing solely on exam essays, even publishing works—he was clever, yet misapplied his talents.
The elder picked up a few sheets of manuscript, glanced at the notes, and showed them to his son.
Cui Lao Er took them. The notes were messy, but the handwriting orderly.
They say handwriting reflects the person—steady penmanship, calm mind.
He shuffled the sheets; the writing was consistently neat.
Finally sitting, he examined the notes more closely.
Xie Yan’s annotations had no strict order. He quoted, debated, compared passages, noting strengths and weaknesses.
He read with a pen in hand, conversing with the text. While it looked chaotic, those familiar with the excerpts could immediately grasp his arguments.
Initially, Cui Lao Er judged him impatient and utilitarian. After reviewing over ten sheets, he lifted his brows:
“This boy’s scholarship is solid, his thinking deep.”
Because the notes were for himself, not for exam submission, Xie Yan wrote freely—honest, unguarded, without concealment.
Cui Lao Er bluntly stated, “Such a man cannot become an official.”
The elder remained silent, glancing outside, then seeing Xie Yan return with a chair, inviting him to sit.
“My useless son hasn’t taken exams in years. Rarely home, I brought him to seek your guidance.”
Night fell, and Xie Yan closed the door.
He sat across from the Cui father and son, not concerned with the questions.
Many remained scholars into old age without advancing further. Cui Lao Er may be similar.
He asked lightly, “Any difficult problems? Let me see.”
Cui Lao Er posed questions casually, drawn from Xie Yan’s notes.
Xie Yan paused, then responded, engaging in dialogue.
Cui Lao Er’s questions were sharp, seemingly nitpicking, yet to Xie Yan they were thrilling.
Teachers rarely debated like this. Discussing essays with classmates rarely reached the heart; it always left him wanting.
Tonight, under candlelight, they conversed deeply.
Before long, Xie Yan forgot the original purpose of “seeking guidance,” exchanging ideas freely with Cui Lao Er.
If a problem ran too deep and neither could persuade the other, they moved on to the next.
The few pieces of writing on the table weren’t enough; Xie Yan had many recorded books to reference, always able to quote, prompting further discussion.
Cui Lao Er absorbed the flow instantly, connecting thoughts. Any widely circulated text, Xie Yan could discuss; unfamiliar works, he asked for the original passage and debated it.
Occasionally, the book boy brought tea.
Xie Yan had some wine with dinner. At first it sparked his spirits; soon it fueled only his literary energy.
Cui Lao Er’s father leisurely flipped through his chess book, set up a board, and played alone, often regretting moves.
By midnight, returning students made the prefectural school noisy again. They ignored it, pausing only when their discussion naturally concluded.
Late into the night, Xie Yan could keep going; the elder could not.
Cui Lao Er, valuing talent, said: “You are too proud. Such a disposition will not make you an official.”
Xie Yan replied honestly: “I wish to be a scholar.”
Cui Lao Er frowned. “Then why take the imperial exams?”
Xie Yan, candidly: “To study at the Hanlin Academy.”
Cui Lao Er: “…bold ambition.”
Xie Yan, still sincere: “Is it not allowed to dream?”
Dreaming was permissible. Among scholars, how many did not wish to enter Hanlin?
When the meeting ended, Xie Yan reluctantly returned the books, packed his ink and paper, and walked them to the school gate, still unwilling to leave.
“Brother Cui, where do you study? May I come seek your guidance?”
Cui Lao Er replied, “I study in the capital. If fate allows, we shall meet again.”
The capital was too far.
Xie Yan felt disappointed.
He thought instead, a talented father surely had a capable son.
He looked at Cui Lao Er’s father, eyes wide:
“Sir, do you still study?”
