Chapter Six: A Thousand Scholars, a Thousand Confucius Figures

Zhang Juzheng possessed a clear and striking countenance, somewhat lean, with eyes that subtly gleamed with sharpness. Standing there, unassuming yet unmistakably keen, he embodied a quiet intensity.

In the first year of the Wanli reign, the Great Ming had entered its twilight, teetering on the edge of decline.

The state was weak, its principles and order fallen into disarray; military preparedness was neglected, with the imperial garrison reduced to merely fifty or sixty thousand, composed mostly of the elderly, infirm, and disabled. The national treasury was severely depleted, the tax base utterly exhausted. Factional strife permeated the court, with countless redundant officials breeding unprecedented corruption. The people toiled ceaselessly for survival, and the Ming dynasty seemed on the brink of collapse.

In such a time, only a savior could purge these accumulated evils and breathe new life into the empire.

Yan Song could not accomplish this, nor could Xu Jie, nor Gao Gong.

Before Zhu Yijun stood the Ming’s prime minister, Zhang Juzheng: resourceful, resolute, capable, and talented. Could he succeed?

In truth, he did not. Ten years proved far too brief, and the Ming’s ailments too severe. By the tenth year of Wanli, after Zhang Juzheng’s death, the last chance for the Ming to self-correct vanished without a trace amid a wave of backlash and regression.

This prime minister, skilled in statecraft but inept in self-preservation, was the very reason Emperor Wanli could for thirty years neglect court sessions, while most officials slacked off or acted unchecked.

As long as Zhang Juzheng’s actions benefited the Ming, Zhu Yijun would never hinder him in the slightest.

To restore the Ming’s former greatness was the emperor’s unwavering aspiration.

Zhu Yijun gazed at Zhang Juzheng, who in turn looked back at the young sovereign.

Yesterday’s assassination attempt against the prince had breached the Qianqing Palace, the assassin’s blade piercing the bedframe. Facing such calamity, how would this child emperor react? Would he cower in fear, become timid and submissive? Would he be overwhelmed with anxiety for his own safety? Or would he grieve deeply for the late emperor’s passing, feeling vulnerable and sorrowful?

Zhang Juzheng saw none of these. Instead, the young emperor appeared calm and composed, even tinged with a hint of amusement.

The eyes never lie. In the gaze of the Ming emperor, there was no fear, no panic, no sadness, no worry.

“Prime Minister, shall we commence the Imperial Lectures?” asked Zhu Yijun, recalling that in the past he would recite a lengthy, flowery speech.

The essence being: Though I am young, I deeply fear I may not uphold the virtues expected by the people or meet the late emperor’s hopes. Today, following ancestral rites, I hope the ministers will teach me the classics, guide me in governance.

This speech, always delivered like a ritual chant, was the only lesson he remembered clearly, though the rest had faded.

Zhu Yijun was testing whether he could forgo this recitation and still hold the lectures.

“Your Majesty’s order shall be obeyed!” Zhang Juzheng said, slightly taken aback, bowing his head in assent.

In fact, the lectures could proceed without the formal speech.

The twenty-seven most powerful ministers of the Ming served Zhu Yijun alone during these sessions. The emperor read, not needing to turn pages himself, attended by book attendants who did so for him, along with tutors responsible for laying out paper, grinding ink, and recording every word and deed of the scholars.

The emperor need only listen, no note-taking required.

When the lecturing scholars entered the hall, Zhu Yijun would rise and return their bows before the lesson began. The content comprised the Four Books and Five Classics, each scholar specializing in dissecting and elucidating every word, feeding knowledge directly into the emperor’s ears.

Zhang Juzheng was equally attentive, never lost in thought but focused on the emperor’s learning.

Zhang Juzheng had no political successor, nor could he have one. His authoritarian control over court affairs meant that if he had an heir apparent, Empress Dowager Li would be unsettled. Removing Gao Gong was one matter; removing Zhang Juzheng was another.

For Empress Dowager Li, safeguarding the emperor’s sole authority was her duty.

Zhang Juzheng’s only successor could and must be the emperor himself, seated on the throne. Thus, he devoted himself earnestly to educating the young sovereign.

Zhu Yijun truly wished to study diligently and improve daily. Yet as he listened, a sense of unease grew. Suddenly, he interrupted, “Pause.”

“Prime Minister, I have a question,” he said to Zhang Juzheng. “These scholars all expound on the same sentence, yet each offers a different interpretation. Whose should I heed?”

“From the Analects, ‘Regarding governance’: ‘To attack heterodox doctrines is harmful,’” Zhang Juzheng began.

“Scholar Wang Xilie says: Delving deeply into heterodox teachings is greatly harmful. Scholar Chen Jin says: Criticizing incorrect speech eliminates harm. Hanlin editor Wang Tangsun says: Attacking views that differ from one’s own is dangerous.”

“Prime Minister, what does this phrase truly mean? Three scholars, one sentence, three meanings,” the young emperor pressed.

This question momentarily stumped Zhang Juzheng.

While martial contests yield clear victors, literary discourse breeds endless debate. There is no absolute first in literature, nor second in combat — such is the nature of scholarship.

Scholars have long dismissed each other. One thousand readers of Confucius yield one thousand Confucius interpretations, with countless commentaries and schools of thought, each holding differing views.

Who is right? Who is wrong? Whose counsel to trust?

If Zhang Juzheng chose any one view, he would alienate the others. Yet he cared little for offending others; if he did, he would never have implemented the performance evaluation system that earned him so many enemies.

Zhang Juzheng pondered how best to instruct the emperor.

After a moment of silence, he said, “I believe ‘attack’ here means focused study; ‘heterodox’ refers to doctrines apart from the sage’s way.”

“Emperor Huizong of Song, proclaiming himself a Taoist leader; Emperor Liang Wu, superstitiously embracing Buddhism and claiming to be Bodhidharma, both met ruin and infamy. Thus, the harm of heterodoxy is a lesson all generations must heed.”

Zhu Yijun took up his brush, writing the names “Emperor Huizong” and “Emperor Wu Liang,” then asked, “Prime Minister means that these religious teachings are the heterodox doctrines?”

“Indeed,” Zhang Juzheng did not hide his disdain for Buddhist and Taoist doctrines, chiefly because their vast temple lands were exempt from taxation, with many gentry affiliating themselves under their protection.

Under Ming governance, these tax-exempt enclaves were breeding grounds of corruption and contributed to the dynasty’s decline.

The teachings of the Hundred Schools were not heterodox; they were scholarship. Only pernicious superstitions that misled the people were truly heterodox.

Zhang Juzheng was a Confucian scholar, yet not a mere one; only a scholar of his caliber could devise the performance evaluation system.

Zhu Yijun nodded repeatedly. “I understand. Prime Minister speaks of governance; the grand scholars discuss principles.”

“I am humbled beyond merit,” Zhang Juzheng replied modestly, though his posture remained proud and upright. The other scholars dared not contradict him.

With Gao Yi dead and Gao Gong expelled from the cabinet, Zhang Juzheng’s domineering style left little room for opposition. Who would dare rebut, risking dismissal for merely crossing the threshold of Chengtian Gate?

Zhu Yijun grew somewhat impatient with these lectures. The scholars’ speeches resembled the empty rhetoric of officials in previous lifetimes’ grand assemblies — all well-reasoned but utterly irrelevant to governance.

Utter nonsense!

He looked at Zhang Juzheng and suddenly smiled, proposing an idea: “Prime Minister, you are also a scholar, yes?”

Zhang Juzheng, puzzled, answered, “I hail from the military household of Changning in Jingzhou Prefecture. In the 26th year of Jiajing, I ranked ninth among the second class of imperial scholars.”

Being from a military household, Changning, and ninth in his cohort.

Zhu Yijun continued, “You must have studied diligently and surely annotated the Four Books and Five Classics.”

Zhang Juzheng understood the emperor’s intent, replying, “I have.”

“Then I propose this: As the head of the Wenyan Pavilion and prime minister, you are naturally the preeminent scholar. Let us read using your annotations.”

“The twenty-seven ministers outside have many official duties—deliberations, petitions, departmental affairs—yet they wait on me to read. This reading takes several hours. Should we not also attend to internal and external matters?”

“Prime Minister, provide me with your annotated Four Books and Five Classics. Once a month, we shall set aside a day for the Hanlin scholars and grand councilors to audit them. If they fail, then, with so many watching, it will not be too late to address it.”

“You debate below the dais while I study above; none of us is delayed.”

The twenty-seven ministers waited outside, their protocol officers brandishing embroidered spring knives, ensuring they stood properly, forbidding whispering or scheming.

Zhu Yijun’s plan saved time, boosted efficiency, and avoided the confusion wrought by conflicting scholarly interpretations.

Was this not the core of the performance evaluation system—to save time, increase efficiency, and reduce institutional rigidity?

Zhang Juzheng considered briefly, rolling up his sleeve as he produced a copy of “Straightforward Explanations of the Four Books” and handed it to his attendant, Zhang Hong, declaring loudly, “Your Majesty is indeed sagacious.”

He had agreed?

Zhu Yijun had thought his suggestions might be disregarded, but Zhang Juzheng’s prompt consent and the prepared volume revealed he had long anticipated this.

The two, sovereign and minister, were perfectly aligned.

Zhang Juzheng solemnly declared, “After the court debates, I shall remain an hour to personally address Your Majesty’s questions.”

Since the grand lectures began under Emperor Longqing, six months had passed, yet the young emperor’s progress was nil.

Zhang Juzheng had tested him; the child had absorbed nothing, stumbling over every word, unable to answer questions coherently.

With such a grand apparatus, it was no wonder that a ten-year-old struggled.

Meanwhile, the grand scholars, reversed and dissected every phrase, each asserting their view. These conflicting opinions muddled even Zhang Juzheng himself; each party had its own reason.

Who, after all, was right in interpreting Confucius?

He had long grappled with how to properly educate the emperor.

First, the emperor must not be shielded from his ministers—Gao Gong’s downfall was a stark reminder. The Wenhua Hall was for court deliberations, and this involved the emperor’s exclusive authority; the child emperor must be present.

Second, the emperor’s studies must bear fruit.

Most importantly, Empress Dowager Li must not suspect Zhang Juzheng of usurping power.

If instruction were suddenly halted, what would Zhang Juzheng’s true intent be?

After much thought, Zhang Juzheng devised a plan nearly identical to the emperor’s own, adding that he would remain an hour after court debates to impart teachings and clear doubts.

“Excellent, excellent!” Zhu Yijun thumbed through Zhang Juzheng’s “Straightforward Explanations of the Four Books,” which contained only commentary on the Analects.

Crucially, all the annotations were written in vernacular language. The grand scholars’ speeches, filled with archaic phrases and lofty style, were far too obscure.

“Straightforward Explanations” was a popularized edition of the Four Books and Five Classics, yet ‘popular’ did not mean crude.

For example, on the Analects, it explained the context of each saying, to whom it was spoken, why it was said, its meaning for governance, and its relevance to contemporary Ming, all in clear and penetrating language.

“We shall take our leave,” the grand scholars exchanged glances and bowed their heads in retreat.

Zhang Juzheng was seizing imperial authority; the emperor not only did not resist but willingly cooperated. What recourse did the scholars have?

One day, when the throne no longer bore the surname Zhu, then His Majesty might regret his choices.

The twenty-seven ministers entered the hall, took their seats along the long table, and began deliberating state affairs.

The first matter on the agenda was the grave case of the prince’s assassination attempt.