Chapter Twenty: When Ruler and Subjects Cultivate Together—A Heinous Betrayal Against Heaven and Earth

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Did Zhu Yijun II know how to farm?
He truly did not.
The only plant he managed to keep alive was the pothos—a resilient vine that can survive with just a bit of water and soil—but even those he ultimately killed.
Not knowing how to farm wasn’t a big deal; the Ming Dynasty had countless farmers who could cultivate the land effortlessly. This was the Central Plains, where farming was ingrained in the very bone. Even during the Wanli era, looking around the world, who could rival the Ming people in agricultural skill?
As emperor, if Zhu Yijun wished to farm, he could organize a team of experienced farmers to conduct specialized research on potato cultivation. This wouldn’t be costly; at worst, he could clear out Wansui Mountain outside Xuanwu Gate and use it for farming.
That very Wansui Mountain, where the crooked old trees grew—the place where Emperor Chongzhen chose to hang himself in his final moments.
If he could nurture flowers and plants, naturally he could grow potatoes.
At worst, even if the specialized research failed and no potatoes were grown, the young emperor’s personal involvement in agriculture would still signal his concern for farming. Though it might lack practical significance, it would carry strong political symbolism, drawing the Ming court’s attention to high-yield crops like potatoes and sweet potatoes—an undeniable win.
When the ruler takes action, millions of commoners watch and follow, believing it to be the right path.
Any small move by the emperor draws the gaze of all under heaven, prompting surprise and curiosity: what is the young emperor up to? This would inevitably cause some attention to be paid to potatoes and sweet potatoes. Should anyone succeed in producing twenty or thirty shi of grain, it would be a tremendous boon for the people!
Empress Dowager Li hesitated. The young emperor had just given her a lesson on magnanimity—the heart that embraces the world. If Luo Gongchen’s claim was true, that there were crops yielding twenty to thirty shi per mu, once successful, who would dare say a ten-year-old ruler could not govern?
Even if it failed, at least it would show the emperor’s magnanimous heart and earn him more support.
Empress Dowager Li pondered deeply before shaking her head: “Better to focus on studies. Martial training might still be defended as following the example of the Founding Emperors, who were mighty warriors. But if the young emperor farms, he truly neglects his duties. The ministers will rise in protest, and it will be hard to quell.”
She wished to avoid trouble and only hoped the child would grow safely and smoothly succeed the Ming throne, thus honoring the late emperor’s wishes.
Zhu Yijun did not give up: “I shall complete my studies properly.”
“It’s not about your studies,” Empress Dowager Li hesitated but then explained the stakes in detail. She could have simply imposed her will without explanation, but after the assassination attempt that caused the young emperor to knock over tables fleeing for his life, his apology touched her deeply, even sorrowfully. How had mother and son come to such a state?
If she were too strict without explaining, it might widen the rift between them.
Would the ministers report and criticize the young emperor’s farming endeavors?
They would—certainly all of them, even Zhang Juzheng might oppose.
An emperor is a noble born to symbolically support farming—touching the plow once during the spring ritual for the God of Grain is enough. The main task is studying the Four Books and Five Classics, becoming a model ruler by their standards.
The Ming Dynasty was strict with rites and propriety.
Luo Gongchen broke his legs running around begging for taxes on foreign ships; those taxes did not go into his own pocket but to the state treasury.
The Yuegang Maritime Customs Office had several naval officers, tax officials, and local governors watching closely. How much could Luo Gongchen personally pocket from taxing foreign ships?
He was generating revenue for the court.
Even for such a harmless, revenue-generating matter, the majority of ministers opposed it. The nation’s nine classics teach virtue and gentle governance to win over others.
The young emperor actually wanted to engage personally in agriculture—certainly the ministers would petition against it.

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This also involved the debate between agricultural science and Confucianism.
Agricultural theory advocated “joint farming by ruler and people” and “equal sharing of harvest.” Joint farming meant the monarch personally farming, while equal sharing meant all the harvest was evenly divided among everyone.
Equal sharing of harvest was impossible given the productivity levels of the pre-Qin era; it was a political ideal like Plato’s Republic or a utopian world.
Joint farming was even more strongly refuted by Confucian sage Mencius himself!
In “Mencius: Teng Wen Gong Part 1, Chapter 4,” Mencius debates Chen Xiang of agricultural theory over joint farming, winning decisively. Of course, this is a Confucian account; agricultural theory had long lost its legitimacy.
That was a pre-Qin era debate. Do Ming scholars still argue based on ancient conflicts?
Is this not like wielding the previous dynasty’s imperial sword to regulate the Ming emperor?
The Confucian scholars indeed would.
Confucianism was an extremely conservative doctrine; Confucian scholars were a deeply traditional collective. When ministers petitioned, their favorite move was to invoke the Three Dynasties of antiquity—Yao, Shun, and Yu—without which they felt unlearned.
If the emperor personally farms, wouldn’t all the privileged meat-eaters have to farm too?
This would slap the face of the great Confucian sage Mencius—and all Confucian scholars.
Joint farming by ruler and people was a great treason!
Empress Dowager Li didn’t understand scholarship fully but understood ministers well. These ministers liked to sermonize, especially when matters were serious.
Empress Dowager Li and Empress Dowager Chen were dissatisfied with the pedantic Confucians. Empress Dowager Chen felt the ministers had woven a cage of Confucian rules to trap the emperor, using the sages to constrain him.
Those ministers deeply educated in Confucianism, powerful officials, and gentry, if they had any devotion, would not ignore the state’s welfare. They would not, in the name of magnanimity and steadfastness, secretly undermine the Ming state.
Empress Dowager Li earnestly explained that if the emperor truly wished, he could wait until adulthood and his formal reign to pursue such things.
Zhu Yijun fully understood her concerns and nodded: “I understand.”
Returning to his private chamber in the Palace of Heavenly Purity, he neither read the sages’ books nor pondered factional politics but instead contemplated how to promote potato and sweet potato cultivation.
He was too preoccupied with these crops to even worry about collecting taxes from foreign ships.
After brief consideration, he resolved to persist. To break free from the ritual constraints of joint farming, the key figure was Zhang Juzheng.
Zhang Juzheng controlled the cabinet; if he firmly supported the young emperor’s farming endeavors, joint farming might succeed.
Zhang Juzheng was not a traditional, conservative, or stubborn Confucian scholar. Reformers always questioned the old system and sought to improve it to realize their ambitions.
No matter the outcome, Zhu Yijun would not lose out. Even if joint farming failed, raising awareness of potatoes and sweet potatoes across the realm was a huge gain.
A ten-year-old emperor, worrying before the world’s troubles, with a heart for the realm, trying to do good, simply unaware of proper methods—after all, he had only studied Mencius and the Analects seriously for three days and did not grasp their full weight.
The Ming ministers showed some tolerance; those without tolerance were unvirtuous and disobedient, deserving punishment, even dissection to see if their hearts were corrupted!
Zhu Yijun signaled Zhang Hong to extinguish the lights and go to bed early to grow taller.
Zhang Hong understood his majesty’s thoughts and concerns well.

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When Zhang Hong left the Palace of Heavenly Purity, he waited silently by the gate, blending into the night without a lantern. After a long wait, a palace maid hurried over.
“Have you informed Lord Xu?” Zhang Hong asked.
“Yes,” the maid replied quickly.
Zhang Hong waved his hand with a smile: “Good. Return, then.”
Lord Xu was a protégé of Feng Bao, having sworn him as godfather; he was Feng Bao’s most trusted subordinate. The palace maid was Zhang Hong’s informant for Feng Bao.
Zhang Hong knew he was fully capable as a eunuch in the Palace of Heavenly Purity but not yet as formidable as Feng Bao, who had silenced Ge Shouli in court debates.
This was Feng Bao’s opportunity; it depended on whether Feng Danyang had a submissive heart.
Meanwhile, in the Wenchang Pavilion of the Qu Chu Guild Hall, Zhang Juzheng sat under three bright lamps, busily writing and drawing.
After returning from the Wen Yuan Pavilion to his private residence, he came to his study to annotate the Four Books and Five Classics for the young emperor and to personally compose a book titled “Imperial Mirror Illustrated.”
This illustrated book was designed to capture the boy emperor’s attention with pictures, drawn by the reading officer Ma Ziqiang, while Zhang Juzheng compiled the stories.
Zhang Juzheng genuinely hoped that the Wanli Emperor would become a wise ruler. On a cold January day, instead of resting in a warm chamber, he was in his study, clad in a heavy cloak, personally painting.
The pen in his hand was a hard pencil core made from inkstone brought from the palace—the same pencil used by the young emperor.
The young emperor’s command was right: pencils were very convenient, especially for someone like Zhang Juzheng who wrote extensively. Without dipping in ink, continuous writing saved time and preserved his train of thought.
As a scholar, Zhang Juzheng’s brush calligraphy was excellent, but his pencil writing was also quite beautiful. After writing, he would hand the manuscripts to clerks for copying, then send them to the Imperial Academy for engraving and printing before presenting to the young emperor for preview.
“Master, it is already past midnight,” You Qi respectfully reminded Zhang Juzheng to rest. You Qi was Zhang Juzheng’s chief steward—called “Shiye” in Ming officialdom, but simply “family” at home. In any case, You Qi was Zhang’s confidant.
Zhang Juzheng had never spoken privately with Feng Bao, the eunuch in charge of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices.
This was a grave taboo; if the chief minister of the outer court colluded with the inner court’s chief eunuch, the emperor should be the one truly alarmed.
Most of the time, Feng Bao and Zhang Juzheng communicated silently with glances and tacit understanding.
But some matters required private confirmation. You Qi and the palace eunuch Xu Jue were from the same hometown.
If something major happened, such as the Empress Dowager ordering the dismissal of Chief Minister Gao Gong requiring cooperation from the outer court, Xu Jue would communicate with You Qi.
Zhang Juzheng rubbed his tired, slightly sore eyes: “Once I finish this chapter, the eighty-one rules of sages and the thirty-six commentaries will be done. They can be engraved tomorrow morning and ready for the mid-day lecture.”
“A message came from the palace, saying His Majesty wishes to personally farm,” You Qi said with a puzzled expression.
Zhang Juzheng looked equally perplexed: “Ah?”
The young emperor was indeed unconventional.
Martial arts were one of the Six Arts Confucius advocated for gentlemen; the emperor could practice or not without fear of hardship or neglecting studies.
But farming—what was that about?