China Edward Rutherfurd (essential reading .txt) 📖

was wooden, some carved with pleasing fretwork, and other pieces in the Ming dynasty’s simplest style, with hardly any ornament at all. Together with its enclosed philosopher’s garden and fishpond, his home was a tranquil retreat, which both he and Mei-Ling enjoyed.

It contained a few small treasures, some of which rested unobtrusively on a plain wooden side table in the hall. His favorite was a little jade figure, not even three inches high, that was normally placed towards the back.

“You’d hardly notice it, would you?” he’d remarked to Mei-Ling one day. For not only was the figure, of a bald musician like a Buddha, very small, but its creamy brown color blended into the pale wood of the table on which it stood. “People think of jade as being green or some other bright color. But it’s not always so. And this little fellow is jade and quite valuable.”

“I think it brings the house good luck,” she said. And he smiled and agreed that it probably did.

So he was rather shocked one morning when she silently led him over to the table and pointed to the spot where the tiny musician usually lived.

“Oh,” he said. “Perhaps one of the servants is cleaning it.”

But Mei-Ling shook her head. “I’m afraid someone will think I stole it,” she murmured.

He frowned. But they might. It was true. He wondered what to do.

“I know who took it,” she went on quietly.

“You do? Tell me.”

“I don’t want anyone to know I told you. That would make trouble for me. Bad for me. Bad for you.”

“I’ll protect you.”

“It was Peng. He didn’t see me, but I saw him.”

“Peng?” How strange. He didn’t disbelieve her. But why should Peng, the son of a rich and powerful man, need to steal?

“Please don’t tell him I told you.”

“I won’t.”

He thought about it all that day. He’d seen such cases before. He slept on it, and by the next morning he knew what to do.

“Tell me, Peng,” he said amiably when he was alone with his secretary in the office, “are you happy in your work here?”

“Yes, master. Very much.” He seemed to mean it.

“It’s very important, Peng, when a young fellow serves a master—just like a son who obeys his father—that he should feel that he is valued and appreciated. Fathers must take care how they treat their sons, for if they do not, then the son, in his unhappiness, may do something foolish in order to retaliate or simply to comfort himself. Confucius is stern against such things, but that does not mean they do not happen. So if as a master I have made you unhappy in any way, you may tell me now.”

“Oh no, master. Not at all,” said the solemn young man fervently.

“Good.” Shi-Rong smiled. “Now to another, entirely unrelated matter. A small thing. I haven’t told anyone yet. I want to share it with you. Maybe you can solve it.”

“Certainly, master.” Peng was studiously attentive.

“There was a little figure of a musician—pale brown jade—on the table in my hall. I particularly like it. It’s actually rather good. And it’s disappeared. You didn’t by any chance borrow it, did you? Used it to decorate your own room, perhaps? I’d quite understand your liking it, but I’m afraid I want it on my own table. So if you borrowed it, would you please return it now?”

Did young Peng hesitate for just a second? Shi-Rong thought so.

“I know nothing of this, master,” he said.

“Peng.” Shi-Rong looked at the young man. “You’ve done this sort of thing before.”

“No, master.”

“Peng, I know you have.”

There was an awful silence. Peng looked wretched. “My father promised he would not tell you,” he cried in vexation.

So his guess was right, and the young man had fallen into the trap. “I ought to inform your father, and the prefect, too,” Shi-Rong continued. “But I fear that if I do, it might enrage your father and also end your career—which would be a pity, when you are so young.”

“Yes, master.”

“Go and get it, and bring it here.”

A few minutes later Peng reappeared with the jade figure. Shi-Rong put the little musician in the palm of his hand and gazed at him affectionately. “You must promise never to do this again.”

“I promise, master.”

“No, Peng. It’s yourself you must promise, not me. You do your job well. You should take pride in it. You will make your father proud. Then you will have no need to steal.” He paused. “And now I am going to write to your father, and I shall give him a good report of you. Tell me, have you written to your father since you were here?”

“No, master.”

“He will think it rather hurtful if he receives a letter from me, but none from his own son. Go and write to him now, then bring me your letter to inspect.”

In an hour the whole business was done. Shi-Rong’s letter was craftily composed. The young man was working hard, a credit to his family, and well liked by the prefect, by his wife, and by the members of Shi-Rong’s own household. He was most grateful to Mr. Peng Senior for the gift of his son, for whom he predicted a fine career. He cheerfully passed the letter to his secretary to read when the young man came in again.

As for Peng’s letter, it expressed all his duties to his father in the most correct manner. It then provided a brief account of his work, of the beautiful scenery, of the prefect’s wise administration. But when it came to Shi-Rong, young Peng outdid himself. His master’s wisdom, his rectitude, and his kindness were described with such obvious gratitude and sincerity that, if it hadn’t been exactly what he had all along intended, Shi-Rong might have blushed.

“Seal your letter,” he instructed, “and I shall seal mine.” He smiled at Peng. “I hope you will look back on this day as a happy turning point in your life, and for that reason it has been a good