Chapter Seventy-four: The Cultivated and Charming Are Also My Teachers

What is the status of the Fudan Journal?
It’s the bellwether of the academic world!

In 1979, at a pivotal moment in Chinese history, the Fudan Journal (Social Sciences Edition) was, without doubt, the flagship publication of the humanities’ renaissance.

As a comprehensive academic journal sponsored by Fudan University, the Fudan Journal, along with the Peking University Journal, had already established its standing by 1979.

The Social Sciences Edition of the Fudan Journal is published bimonthly, with six issues a year. Since its resumption, it has maintained this bimonthly schedule to the present day.

By a stroke of luck, the article could be published as early as August if all goes smoothly.

He hadn’t even started his studies, and already he was about to publish in a top journal!

How impressive was that?

Xu Chengjun suddenly looked up.

“Don’t think of it as a bargain,” Zhang Peiheng, seeing right through him, warned. “A lead article must withstand the scrutiny of the entire academic community. A single misplaced punctuation mark in your references will have you nailed to the pillar of shame.”

“I’ll make sure to check everything thoroughly, Senior Zhang!”

At this moment, his attitude was impeccable.

But who could blame him? This was a reward sweeter than honey!

Zhang Peiheng’s lips twitched. Where had he learned this uncanny ability to grasp opportunities so quickly?

Zhu Dongrun drew a fountain pen from the pen holder and wrote a line on the cover of the thesis: “Every statement must be substantiated; every argument must be your own.”

He pressed a little harder on the words “your own.”

“The modern transformation of traditional literary theory is a hard bone to gnaw,” the elder’s gaze remained gentle. “Our generation has not managed to crack it; now, it’s up to you young shoots. But if those shoots don’t root themselves in the soil of scholarship, a mere gust will topple them.”

He clipped the fountain pen to the thesis and handed it directly to Xu Chengjun.

“This pen is yours. Let sincerity be the first lesson in your writing.”

Xu Chengjun glanced at the pen and sensed at once it was something special.

Later, he learned from Chen Shangjun the story behind it.

In 1947, while teaching at the Wuxi Institute of Sinology, Zhu Dongrun spent half a year’s salary to have a student purchase this 1930s Parker 51 fountain pen from a secondhand market in Shanghai.

Though the barrel was unadorned, the metal cap bore a tiny engraving: “Prudence”—his scholarly motto.

With this pen, he drafted the manuscript of “The Great Biography of Zhang Juzheng,” moving between Shanghai and Nanjing amid the chaos of war; the barrel bore fine cracks from shellfire, yet the ink never ceased to flow.

He also came to understand the message Zhu Dongrun wished to impart by gifting the pen:

May the plow of the pen never rest, the life of letters unending.

At this moment, Xu Chengjun knew nothing of the pen’s weight or its tale.

But seeing Zhu Dongrun’s solemn expression and Zhang Peiheng’s uncharacteristic awkwardness, he could tell this was no ordinary gift.

Naturally, he tried to refuse it.

“Teacher, to be accepted as your student is fortune enough for me—I’m hardly worthy…”

“Accept it,” the old man’s eyes shone with encouragement.

“Take it, Chengjun, don’t let the teacher’s good intentions go to waste.” Zhang Peiheng rose to pat Xu Chengjun’s shoulder, his gaze carrying a note of encouragement.

His feelings toward Xu Chengjun were complicated.

There had been initial disdain, surprise at the interview, and now…

Now he was his junior colleague.

He couldn’t help but marvel at the teacher’s discerning eye.

“These next few nights, come to my office at seven,” Zhang Peiheng added, his tone firm. “I’ll go through your draft word by word. If we can’t finish, we’ll burn the midnight oil together.”

Xu Chengjun was taken aback.

Did he really have so much free time?

“If there isn’t a satisfactory draft in three days, your special admission to graduate studies is revoked. You’ll start as an undergraduate like everyone else.” At the door, Zhang Peiheng turned back. “I’ll organize the contents of this interview. The sections on traditional literary theory and cultural confidence will encourage the current literary world. I’ll ask your consent first, and you may need to supplement them later.”

He had no objection to that.

A sharp tongue but a soft heart, that one.

...

The next day at noon.

Xu Chengjun made his way through the faculty housing of Fudan University.

The previous day, the old professor had given him the address and invited him to lunch at his home.

These buildings had once been barracks for Japanese troops and staff dormitories for the puppet regime’s waterworks employees after the victory of the War of Resistance.

They had a unique system of names, known as the “Three Villages and Four Manors”:

Lushan Village, Xuhui Village, Jialing Village, De Manor, Zhu Manor, Song Manor, and Yu Manor.

Later, these were renamed as the Xth Dormitory of Fudan University.

Song Manor, for example, was named to commemorate the university’s founding site at the Wusongkou Paotaiwan. It mainly featured two-story Japanese-style houses, initially serving as student dorms, later as staff housing.

The best conditions were in the Ninth Dormitory, also known as Jiuyuan, with dense bamboo and timber, and a pleasant environment.

Three independent villas there had once been home to renowned professors like Chen Wangdao, Su Buqing, Chen Jiangong, and Tan Jiazhen.

But the old professor did not live there.

Not for lack of qualification.

He had politely declined the university’s kindness, saying, “With wife and children absent, I live alone—why waste such space?”

His home was a room in one of the two-story Japanese houses.

At the door, Xu Chengjun took a deep breath and knocked gently.

“Knock, knock.”

The old professor opened the door and, recognizing Xu Chengjun, immediately stepped aside. “Chengjun, come in! I just picked up a pot of hot water from the cafeteria—perfect for brewing fresh tea.”

Xu Chengjun quickly handed over the gift he had bought early that morning.

“Sorry to trouble you, sir.”

“Trouble? Nonsense! I invited you myself—you didn’t need to bring anything!”

But how could one come empty-handed? Politeness is never out of place.

“In the old days, one had to bring a token gift when apprenticing to a teacher. I’m not giving you anything, and yet I’m eating your food for free—I had to bring something!”

He even made a funny face as he spoke.

With elderly folk, if you’re too formal, they sometimes feel you’re keeping them at arm’s length.

The old professor was thoroughly amused, his silver hair shining in the sunlight.

He took Xu Chengjun’s arm and led him inside.

Stepping into the room, he was greeted by the faint scent of ink and the mellow aroma of old books.

After all, in addition to being a literary critic and biographer, the old professor was also a calligrapher.

The entrance opened into a multipurpose hall-cum-study, the wooden floor worn glossy by years of use, creaking softly with every step.

A wall-to-wall bookshelf stood against the far wall.

The dark wood shelves reached from floor to ceiling, filled with neatly arranged thread-bound classics and hardcover tomes.

On the old dining table in the living room, a celadon teapot sent up wisps of steam.

Beside it sat a plate of freshly sliced soy-braised duck, its glossy skin sheathed in amber sauce, and a small bowl of snow vegetable stir-fried with edamame, the green beans glistening under the light.

“I’d planned to sit and chat over tea, but the chef brought the duck early, so let’s eat first.”

Xu Chengjun nodded with a smile.

“The cafeteria chef said today’s duck is local, so he saved half for us.”

The old professor placed a piece of duck leg into Xu Chengjun’s porcelain bowl. “Try it—the meat falls off the bone at the lightest touch.”

Then, as if remembering something, he turned to the kitchen and brought out two bowls of plain noodles, the snowy strands nestled in a clear broth, sprinkled with green onions, soy sauce mingling its savory aroma with that of the noodles.

Xu Chengjun picked up a chopstickful and gave a hearty thumbs-up.

“Sir, your cooking is truly amazing!”

“If you like it, come often!”