Chapter Sixty-Nine: Alone in the Corner (Part Two)

For several nights in a row, Zhang Qian had racked his brains, tormented by the question of how to compose a quatrain to fulfill his assignment, lest he embarrass himself in public. Night after night, his mind was consumed with the worry of whether or not he could write a poem, whether the tonal patterns would be too flawed—never once did he consider the matter of his state of mind. Now, having had his efforts so succinctly exposed by Zhang Shuo, a master in both literary and political circles, he suddenly realized that the greatest problem with his painstakingly crafted chrysanthemum poem lay not in its structure, but in its overwhelmingly bleak mood. It lacked all the youthful vigor that should animate a young man!

In contrast, Wang Han’s line, “Where now are lotuses by the stream? Wild chrysanthemums by the fence laugh at the autumn wind…”—in terms of spirit alone, there was a gulf of at least forty years between them. One spoke with the brightness of youth, the other with the weariness of an old man.

Just as he was sweating in embarrassment, he heard He Zhizhang speak up in his defense: “Daoji, must you be so harsh? Is it not the way of the world for young men to lament the passing of spring and autumn, while the white-haired elders remain full of bold words? When I was twenty, many of the things I wrote were far more desolate than this poem on chrysanthemums. Now, nearly fifty, I often utter grand words to mask the waning energy in my heart.”

“Quite so!” Wang Anzhi, who was of similar age to He Zhizhang, joined in with a laugh. “Though this poem has minor flaws in its tonal pattern and the mood is a touch melancholy, compared with the works of most young men at the Imperial Academy, it is already leagues above!”

“Naturally so; otherwise, why would Ji Weng have brought him before us?” Zhang Shuo did not argue with He Zhizhang and Wang Anzhi, but smiled and nodded.

“If you two knew that just over a month ago, he couldn’t even speak Tang dialect, your opinion of this poem would be vastly different!” He Zhizhang, still unsatisfied, continued to champion Zhang Qian, “Moreover, his school was never famed for the brilliance of its prose.”

“What?” Both Zhang Shuo and Wang Shi were astonished, and even Bi Gou, the eldest present, was deeply moved. “Is this true? He truly couldn’t speak Tang dialect a month ago?”

“He’s been out of the mountains for less than two months. The first time I met him, he still spoke haltingly!” He Zhizhang smiled and nodded. After a brief hesitation, he added quickly, “The School of Mo, from ancient times, has excelled in the crafting of devices. Last time I visited his home to fetch wine, I saw a bronze wine vessel he had made—an absolute marvel. Both of you once governed on behalf of the Emperor; if ever you require instruments in the future, you might send someone to consult with Yongzhao.”

“Crafting devices? Have you truly studied the secret arts of the School of Mo?” Zhang Shuo’s brow arched, and his eyes flashed with keen interest.

“Yongzhao, how much of their mechanical lore have you mastered? Could you perhaps demonstrate something for us?” Bi Gou, older and slower to react, regarded Zhang Qian with a gaze as sharp as a blade, filled with disbelief.

Their skepticism was understandable. Since Lu Zangyong and his brother Lu Zhengming, both renowned for their cleverness, gained fame by “retiring” to Mount Zhongnan only to join the ranks of Tang’s high officials, every year countless hermits and eccentrics appeared near Chang’an. He Zhizhang, famed for championing the young, often used extravagant praise to promote those he favored—most famously, his praise for Li Bai, the Banished Immortal.

Thus, Wang Shi, Zhang Shuo, and Bi Gou had never taken Zhang Qian’s background in the School of Mo seriously, humoring He Zhizhang and Zhang Ruoxu out of courtesy. After all, the city was teeming with young men seeking status by all manner of strange claims; one more made no difference.

Now, though, with He Zhizhang setting aside literary games and speaking directly of practical devices, neither Bi Gou nor Zhang Shuo dared to be dismissive. After all, with poetry, one could always pay a master to ghostwrite, but the mechanical arts of the School of Mo required tangible results—success or failure would be obvious at a glance.

“Young friend Yongzhao, since not all our guests have arrived, why not describe some of your school’s devices for these two, and broaden their horizons a bit?” He Zhizhang, ever perceptive, guessed that the others doubted his earlier introduction. Feeling indignant, he turned to Zhang Qian with a smile.

Zhang Qian had intended to be modest, but seeing that the matter now touched upon He Zhizhang’s honor, he dared not disappoint one who had treated him so kindly. Taking a half-step forward, he picked up a pair of chopsticks from the desk and, gesturing with them, said, “Allow me to explain. After the Moists entered the mountains in the Qin era, they no longer focused on weapons of war, so I have little knowledge there. But as for devices to better people’s lives, I have dabbled a little…”

He set the chopsticks upright to represent pillars, took a lacquered fruit plate as a sluice gate, and swiftly demonstrated: “Please observe, respected elders. This is a rough model of a one-way water gate. I’ve noticed that much of the land around Chang’an suffers from flooding. If one digs channels to drain water into the river, there is always the risk of backflow. But if such gates are installed on the channels, when the water in the fields rises, the flood will push open the gates and flow into the river. If the river swells, it forces the gates shut, allowing not a drop to return to the fields!”

As the saying goes, a true expert needs only to show his hand to be recognized. In recent years, Bi Gou had been exiled to a provincial post for offending a powerful courtier, while Zhang Shuo, for refusing to join in slandering a colleague, had been sent by Empress Wu herself down to Qinzhou in Lingnan. Both had struggled with floods as local officials. Now, on seeing the one-way sluice, how could they not immediately grasp its value? They were at once overwhelmed with joy, shame, and frustration—almost wishing to bow their heads to the ground in regret!

Joy, for with such a gate, most floods could be easily managed.

Shame, because such a simple wooden device had eluded their minds for years.

Frustration, because back in Chang’an for their official reports, they lacked the funds to bribe Empress Wei’s brother and so could not secure a proper post. To be unable to promote such a boon for the people—was that not as bad as never having seen it at all?

Zhang Qian had no idea that what would later seem a trivial technological advance was, for his contemporaries, a towering mountain. Thinking his demonstration insufficient to vindicate He Zhizhang, he set down the chopsticks and plate, called for paper and brush, and swiftly sketched a windmill and a simple pipe-driven water pump.

“Have you, honored elders, ever seen these two devices? This is a windmill; the one below I call a water engine. If a windmill drives the crank of the water engine, one can draw water from low ground to high without ceasing. If a dike is built between canal and river, and a windmill set atop it, bamboo pipes connected to each side as well-heads, then in times of flood, the water from the canals can be pumped into the river; in drought, water from the river can be raised into the canals. Unless a great catastrophe strikes, such as a thousand miles of scorched earth or a cataclysmic flood, ordinary droughts and floods would no longer threaten the people along the riverbanks!”

At his words, all four elders stared wide-eyed, gasping in astonishment. Even with their composure, they could hardly form a sentence.

Windmills were not unfamiliar to such worldly men, but using them with pipes to move water at will was utterly new. As for this “water engine,” not only had they never heard of such a thing, they could not even have imagined it.

Fearing they might not believe him, Zhang Qian smiled and went on, “This year, many of my tenant fields were damaged by floods. So, while the autumn weather holds, I’ve ordered my steward to organize the servants and tenants to dig channels, build dikes, and install water gates, windmills, and water engines. The windmills and engines will take another month and a half to finish, but several water gates are already in place. If you are interested, in a month and a half, you may visit my estate and see these things with your own eyes.”

At last, Bi Gou, He Zhizhang, Zhang Shuo, and Wang Shi stopped gasping, and as they exchanged looks, a barely concealed excitement shone from every face.

If water gates, windmills, and water engines could truly be realized and widely adopted, the fields around Chang’an alone might increase by hundreds of thousands of mu. As for places even more prone to waterlogging—Guan, Xiangfan, Suzhou, Yuhang—given time, they too could become lands of abundance, veritable earthly paradises.

After a long, long while, Zhang Shuo was the first to recover. He rudely pointed at He Zhizhang and exclaimed, “Jizhen, this is truly your fault! With such marvelous tools and such a talent, why did you not present them to His Majesty sooner? I know you cherish your reputation, but compared to the welfare of all under heaven, what does mere reputation matter?”

“But—but this is the first I have seen of these three wondrous devices!” protested He Zhizhang, red-faced. “If I had seen the water gate, windmill, and water engine when we first met, why would I have introduced Yongzhao to you?”

“Ji Weng, Dao Gong, let us not quarrel. Please hear me out.” Seeing the two elders about to bicker like children, Zhang Qian hurried to intervene. “The water gate, windmill, and water engine—I had only seen my brothers make in the school, never tried myself. Before their performance was proven, I dared not make them public. When Elder Ji Weng visited my estate, the actual devices were not yet built, so I did not speak of them. Now that they are nearly finished, I no longer dare to keep them to myself.”

“Indeed, this is a grave matter—caution is only right,” said Bi Gou, the oldest, stroking his beard with trembling hands, giving the final word.

“Then hurry and finish them! The sooner they’re made, the sooner the people will benefit!” Zhang Shuo, still agitated, pressed loudly, eyes reddened. “If these devices really work, even half as well as you say, you’ll never need to seek recommendation again. Long Weng, Ji Weng, Anzhi, and I will see to your advancement together!”

“To submit a manuscript,” in Tang times, meant presenting one’s writings to the powerful in hopes of gaining fame or an official post.

Zhang Qian understood this, and he also understood that Zhang Shuo had taken his earlier poem, presented for He Zhizhang’s critique, as a submission to all four elders. Flushing, he quietly explained, “Thank you, elders. But I must confess, my poem was sincerely meant for Elder He’s guidance, not as a…”

“That’s enough. I know you weren’t seeking endorsement,” He Zhizhang cut him off impatiently. “But it is my duty not to let a pearl be lost among the dust!”

“So timid at your age?” Zhang Shuo also glared at him, rebuking in a low voice, “The Tang realm embraces all under heaven—those with talent need not hide in false humility. If you have mastered such arts, it is only right to use them for your country! Will you really idle away your years in rustic seclusion, only to bemoan your lost spring when your hair turns white? You bristled when I called you old before your time—well, now you’ve given me ample cause to say it again!”