Chapter 76: A Separate Page in the Annals of History

What do you think?

In those years, it was the ordinary people who truly suffered—the drivers who kept the wheels turning even on empty stomachs, the workers who repaired dams with broken hands, the farmers who pressed into the fields with wounded feet. They never wrote books, but they are the pillars of the nation.

Sir, the times have changed.

A true master is not measured by their title, their benefits, their royalties, or the price of their lectures.

If you are a real master, what have you done for this country? What have you given to the people? Do you truly care about China?

Then go—go to the fields, the factories, the hospitals, the mines. Glimpse real life with your own eyes.

If you dare to write about reality, not just romantic moods and fleeting pleasures, then you are worthy to speak of culture.

A real master never gazes up at the stars, but rather looks down at the earth, feet firmly planted among the people.

As for the rest, they are no more than armchair strategists.

Zhu Dongrun was precisely such a rare master—prolific, honest, devoted to teaching and nurturing the next generation. Even at the venerable age of eighty-two, he remained on the front lines of graduate education, burning the candle of his years to its very end.

In his previous life, the final passage of Zhu’s “The Great Biography of Zhang Juzheng” once moved Xu Chengjun deeply.

In the book, Zhu wrote:

“The fate of China is not the matter of a single family or clan. When anyone traces their ancestry, they will always discover many stirring and poignant stories—some shining, some perhaps dim. Yet when we think of our forebears, who once fought for freedom, strove for progress, even bled for survival, we see endless brilliance in the past. And for the future, we must look forward with even greater hope. March on, every son and daughter of the Chinese nation.”

This book was written by Zhu in 1943, during the full-scale outbreak of the War of Resistance, when vast swathes of the country suffered under foreign occupation.

Yet even after relocating to Chongqing, the Nationalist government still clung to the idea that internal stability must come before resistance to foreign aggression.

The struggle against Japan was grueling, the people’s lives in tatters, the nation’s territory overrun. At such times, truth was all the more precious.

The Republic of China produced many remarkable figures. Though Zhu’s temperament was unassuming, he neither smoked, drank, nor sought pleasure—he spent his life writing his own legend.

To Xu Chengjun, he was the true master.

Xu never saw himself as some paragon of virtue or superman. That would be exhausting!

He loved fast cars and beautiful women; he wanted to live in a big house!

But when basic material desires are so easily within reach, perhaps it is time to pursue something higher.

Maslow once divided human needs into five levels: physiological, safety, love and belonging, esteem, and self-actualization.

Later, he added cognition and aesthetics, making seven levels.

What does Xu Chengjun want?

Xu Chengjun: I want it all! (If only there were a meme here.)

How to realize the self?

If you succeed, help the world; if you fail, keep your own virtue.

The allure of having your name recorded in history, a page dedicated to you in the chronicles, is irresistible to every “scholar-official.”

So, he wished to be a master who was firmly grounded in reality.

...

Three days flew by.

For the past few days, Xu Chengjun unfailingly appeared in Zhang Peiheng’s office at seven every evening.

Truth be told, if one set aside the initial prejudice, this “senior” of his had a temperament quite reminiscent of Chief Editor Zhou Ming—both were men with an innate, straightforward boldness.

If there was a difference, it was that one’s edge was honed by rough stone, the other’s charm poured into a jade cup.

Does that sound unfair to old Zhou?

Xu Chengjun: I’m not the kind to forget the old when I meet the new!

When Xu Chengjun handed over his meticulously revised thesis, Zhang Peiheng was lounging in a rattan chair, holding a yellowed, thread-bound book titled “The Collected Works of Li Taibai.” Sunlight streamed through the window lattice onto his slightly worn white shirt, lending him a touch of the scholar hidden in the city.

He took the thesis, tapped it lightly along the edge, then settled down to read every word.

The previous air of leisure vanished, replaced by scholarly rigor.

After a while, he raised his brows, “Chengjun, this paper is finally up to standard!”

There was unrestrained satisfaction in his voice. “The impatience that floated on the surface before is gone, your foundation in the sources is solid, so your argument naturally stands firm! Some points you used to skirt around—now you split straight to the heart of the matter—excellent!”

Xu Chengjun curled his lip.

He was about to thank him,

But Professor Zhang had already grabbed the chipped enamel mug on his desk, and downed a large gulp of strong tea, his laughter making the paper windows tremble.

Seriously!

You act so different from before!

Come on, old man!

“The master always said an essay should reveal the person and the heart. At last, your writing isn’t muffled in cotton. Take it to the master—he’ll surely stroke his beard and say, ‘This lad hasn’t been slacking off these days!’”

With that, he stuffed the thesis back into Xu Chengjun’s arms, giving him a hearty slap on the arm. “If you need more polishing in the future, just come to me—don’t act all hesitant and coy!”

Xu Chengjun looked at the frank light in his eyes, and whatever prejudice remained had vanished, leaving only admiration for such candor.

Why admire him?

Every night at seven, he would revise with you until eleven, gift you books, ask about your family.

He’d even slip you some tea or snacks.

He even asked about Xu Chengjun’s younger sister’s schooling.

Was this really a quick temper?

No, it was just that the formal politeness had fallen away—beneath it was a heart as clear and forthright as day.

Didn’t it match the spirit of “not boarding the emperor’s boat when summoned”?

Seeing Xu Chengjun lost in thought, Zhang Peiheng waved him off, “Go on now! Any more dawdling and the master will be waiting in his study, twirling his beard in impatience!”

Hey, isn’t your fox tail showing now?

As he spoke, he picked up the thread-bound book once more, nonchalantly resuming his reading.

His unrestrained boldness and idle leisure flowed seamlessly into each other—truly, “the charm is not in dazzling wit, but in the silent savoring with folded sleeves.”

But soon, he seemed to realize something, and added sternly,

“When you get home, read those books I gave you carefully, take proper notes. When you return, I’ll test you—if you can’t answer, you’ll go back to undergraduate studies, fair and square!”

“Count on it, sir.”

“Off you go, off you go.”

Xu Chengjun: ...

Feels like old Zhang is better when he’s strict?

That day, he headed to the faculty dormitory and handed his thesis to Zhu Dongrun.

After reading it, Zhu said little, his kindly manner unchanged. He simply kept the paper.

“Classes begin September 3rd this year; after you’ve visited home, come back ten days early.”

...

That night, Xu Chengjun still returned to the youth hostel, guessing that the next time he met Wang Zengqi, “the last scholar-gentleman of China,” the man would subject him to a half-hour lecture on ethics and propriety.

Hey! Here in 1979! He’d met celebrities, paid his respects to masters, achieved his small goals—what next?

Ten minutes of feeling awesome!

But after more than ten days in Shanghai, he found himself missing Xujia Village a little, and thinking of his friends and mentors back in Hefei as well.