He sat there drinking, while his brothers had set up a table of their own in a nearby inn. The two tables were pushed together, and everyone had a proper meal.
Before leaving home, Li Feng had given strict orders: no matter one’s tolerance for alcohol, each person could have at most one bowl of wine per day while traveling. Drinking too much was forbidden—anyone insisting would be sent away.
Drinking carelessly could cause trouble; offending the wrong person could be fatal.
All of them had been up in the mountains, so they understood that letting their guard down could be deadly—they heeded the warning.
Meanwhile, at the prefectural academy, Xie Yan was stir-frying a mushroom and diced meat sauce. Borrowing a small stove in the academy kitchen, he cooked a little over three jin of sauce, which made six bowls. He kept three for himself and left three in the kitchen for any classmates who wanted to try it.
He also sent two bowls to Master Cui and one bowl to his roommates.
This sauce wasn’t hard to make, and it turned out delicious, especially good when mixed with noodles.
Xie Yan also cooked a pot of plain noodles, asking the houseboy to serve four bowls. He took two to the study room, leaving the other two for the houseboy and his roommates—everyone had sauce noodles that day.
Before Master Cui even started eating, Xie Yan scooped two big ladles of sauce into his own bowl.
“You weren’t cooking this for me?” Master Cui asked.
Xie Yan, mixing the noodles efficiently with a single chopstick—a method Lu Yang had taught him—didn’t even look up. “Yes, I brought you two bowls.”
Master Cui asked again, “Then what’s in your bowl?”
Xie Yan looked genuinely surprised. “I can’t eat it?”
His reasoning made sense: “We’re so close, playing chess and studying together every day. I even call you ‘Uncle.’ If we eat noodles together, why wouldn’t I have some sauce too?”
Master Cui was speechless.
Seeing Master Cui’s expression—he clearly hadn’t intended to share the sauce—Xie Yan felt a little doubt himself.
“This is the sauce I made?” Master Cui asked again.
Master Cui had never seen such a gift. A humble sauce, two bowls sent away, and yet two ladles scooped into his own bowl.
He didn’t respond further, just ate the noodles.
After finishing, he went for a stroll to digest. Hearing other students praise the sauce and that it was Xie Yan who made it, Master Cui was again left speechless.
Only a small token of thought, and yet it ended up shared among everyone.
Returning to the study room, Xie Yan practiced calligraphy.
After eating, he usually sat for a while, then went for a walk. During this time, he either read, wrote letters, or, on rare occasions, practiced calligraphy.
After writing two pages of large characters, he set them aside to dry and wandered around the study room, which had many books. He also began organizing them on the shelves.
He wrote labels for the book categories and stuck them on the shelves. Under each label, in small letters, he wrote “To be sorted,” meaning unrelated books hadn’t yet been moved.
Xie Yan organized from front to back, aiming to sort thirty books a day. For each, he looked at the table of contents or, if missing, roughly skimmed the contents, then placed the book on the relevant shelf.
Other students, seeing the labels, assumed the instructor was organizing the study room. Curious, they asked Master Cui how the books were categorized. Once explained, they returned books to the correct shelves themselves, easing Xie Yan’s workload.
That day, Xie Yan completed his goal. Seeing the time, he packed his bag, preparing for class.
He noticed Master Cui putting on an indifferent expression and hesitated: “Do you want to play chess?”
No response.
“Two games,” he pressed.
Still no response.
“Then never mind,” Xie Yan said, leaving.
Master Cui: ??
“Three games,” Xie Yan insisted.
Master Cui agreed, and Xie Yan added, “You can help me review these articles.”
Master Cui: …
He was resigned.
Xie Yan said, “Just two articles.”
Master Cui asked, “Why don’t you write to my son?”
Since parting with Cui Er during Mid-Autumn, Xie Yan often thought of him. Whenever he wanted to discuss writing, he mentioned Cui Er but never the letters.
Xie Yan felt unfamiliar with Cui Er and, with Master Cui right there to discuss scholarship, had no rush to write letters. Why go far when he could talk with someone nearby?
Seeing Master Cui’s displeasure, he sweetened his words. “Seeking your guidance is enough. You’re far more skilled than Cui Er!”
Master Cui waved him off, letting him go.
The matter of the sauce was settled.
After school, Xie Yan quickly ate, then went to the study room to play chess.
Master Cui still liked to take back moves, but now with skill—his late-game reversals were sharp, turning Xie Yan’s advantage into disadvantage. After two games, Xie Yan’s head ached from deep thought.
He pulled out his articles. While Master Cui reviewed them, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples.
Master Cui reminded him, “You still owe me a game.”
Xie Yan made a note.
The two articles, only a thousand characters, were read twice by Master Cui, who said, “Very ordinary. This kind of mediocrity is like those other dull compositions you’ve returned. You’ve read too much—imitating what others write gets you the form, but it’s hard to inject your own thoughts. You know it’s good because others got high marks writing like this.”
Xie Yan set his pen down and looked at him seriously. “When I show my compositions to teachers, they always say it’s good. I can tell when it’s not. Few compositions flow naturally; most are just plain.”
“Last time at home, I discussed many things with my husband. Now back at the academy, I tried more. Looking back at my experiences, I realize I’ve done too little, my experiences are too shallow. My understanding, my reflections, comparisons with past readings—all are drawn from previous experience.”
Xie Yan’s confusion lay in the fact that not every scholar has a life of great highs and lows. Why can others write good essays while his seem dull, like reheated leftovers from predecessors?
Master Cui asked, “You really don’t know?”
Xie Yan didn’t.
Master Cui set aside two papers, put on his sleeve covers like a country elder, and said, “It’s because other scholars haven’t read as much as you. Those who read more don’t have your memory; they can’t retain so much.”
“When they write, they strain their brains, producing work that may be mediocre or full of old ideas. But they have the process of thought and reflection. When guided by teachers or seeing good essays, that experience is retained.
“You, however, think through others’ experiences, compare, debate, reason. You develop a structured approach—bones, flesh, details—but what’s missing? Your own reflection on the problem. You have no original thought.”
Xie Yan pondered, seeming to understand, but couldn’t articulate it yet.
Master Cui was returning home. After winter began, he no longer stayed overnight at the academy.
As dusk fell, Xie Yan helped him pack, carrying items to the academy gate.
Master Cui glanced at him. “Now that’s filial behavior.”
Xie Yan smiled helplessly. “Tomorrow I’ll make you a whole big pot of sauce!”
Master Cui declined.
Xie Yan also made nourishing soups, listing them one by one.
