cannot even walk.” “That is not what I meant, Elder Brother.” “Then what did you mean?” “I meant that if China is going to move forward, the Imperial Civil Service Examination must be discarded and replaced by modern schools, and the ossified eight-part essay must give way to forms of scientific education. Fresh water must flow into this filthy, stagnant lake. China has to change, or she will surely perish. And the tactics required to effect the needed changes must be borrowed from the barbarians. I have made up my mind to go, so do not try to stop me, Elder Brother.” His brother could only sigh. “A man’s aspirations are unique to him, and no amount of coercion can change that. But I, your ignorant Elder Brother, believe that only by being tempered in the examination hall can one lay claim to dignity and prestige. All others are imposters who may achieve high office, but will never earn the respect of others.” “Brother,” he had replied, “troubled times demand a martial spirit—a civil ethos is reserved for days of peace and tranquility. Our family has had the good fortune of boasting one metropolitan scholar: you. We do not need more. So let me go take up studies in the martial realm.” His brother sighed again. “Metropolitan Scholar,” he said, “an empty label and nothing more. You carry a bundle of clothes to work in an unimportant yamen with little chance to benefit monetarily and are reduced to eating half a duck’s egg mixed into plain rice . . .” “If that is so, then why does my own brother want me to follow the same dead-end path?” With a dry laugh, his brother said, “The deep-rooted notion of a walking corpse . . .”
The winds were getting stronger; the river was beset by gray waves. He was reminded of his return trip on the Pusan Maru and thought back to Kang Youwei’s letter of introduction to gain him an audience with Yuan Shikai . . .
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3
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The town of Small Station in autumn; golden tassels on rice paddies as far as the eye could see gave off an intoxicating fragrance. Before his audience with Excellency Yuan in Shanxi, he had already quietly surveyed the area around Small Station for two days, secretly taking note of everything with the eye of a trained observer. He noted, for instance, that the soldiers of the New Army who took the parade ground every day carried themselves with military bearing, were armed with modern weapons, marched with precision, and made a fine impression, everything that the corrupt, inept old army was not. To know what a general is like, one need only look at his troops, and he held Excellency Yuan in the highest regard before he’d even met him.
Yuan’s official quarters, which were only a couple of arrow shots from camp, were protected by four swarthy guards the size of small pagodas who stood at the arched gateway. They wore leather boots, leggings, and leather cartridge belts, and carried German breech-loading rifles whose barrels were the blue color of swallows’ wings. He handed Kang Youwei’s introduction letter to the gatekeeper, who took it inside.
It was mealtime for Excellency Yuan, who was waited on by two beautiful attendants.
“I humbly offer my respects to Your Excellency!” He did not kneel and did not bow with his hands folded in front; instead, he stood straight and snapped off a Japanese-style salute.
He saw Yuan’s face undergo a subtle change, from a look of displeasure to a cold, sweeping examination with his eyes, and finally to an expression of admiration. With the briefest of nods, Excellency Yuan said, “A chair.”
He knew immediately that he had made a good first impression and that his plan had worked perfectly.
One of the attendants struggled to bring over a chair that was obviously too heavy for her. With the sound of her girlish panting in his ears and the smell of orchids emanating from her neck in his nostrils, he held his rigid stance and said, “I dare not sit in Your Excellency’s presence.”
“Stand, then,” Yuan said.
He studied His Excellency’s square face: big eyes, bushy eyebrows, wide mouth, and large ears, the very definition of eminence. Yuan, who had not shed the sounds of his rural home—thick and mellow, like aged spirits—went back to his meal, seemingly having forgotten his visitor, who stood there, rigid, unmoving as a poplar. His Excellency was in his nightgown and slippers; his queue hung loose. Breakfast