WSMTATMC C121

Chapter 121

Once the students entered the exam compound, their families could not remain outside all day—this test would last an entire day.

So the family went to a teahouse nearby, where they sipped hot tea while talking about the county exam.

Liang Boqing said: “Heaven has favored us with fine weather. Look at that boundless clear sky. It seems the three boys will not suffer too much this time.”

Fang Ling nodded. “True enough. Wasn’t it two years ago that heavy snow struck at the worst possible time? My husband and I heard that on the very exam day the snow came with bitter cold. Seven out of ten candidates had no choice but to forfeit.”

“Seven out of ten? I heard it was even more. In the end, only twenty or so persevered to the end—and even they did poorly.”

It was inevitable. Under those conditions, how could anyone perform well? Not to mention that some even froze to death.

This year’s temperature, compared to previous years, was warmer overall. The sun shone bright, melting snow into slush so that the streets were muddy everywhere.

By around the si hour (9–11 a.m.), Cao Kun arrived with Chen Rong. “Have they all gone in yet?”

“They have, everything went smoothly.”

“That is good.” Chen Rong recalled what Qingyan had suffered years ago and could not help sighing.

“When Qingyan tested back then, none of us knew he’d be disqualified. We sent him in, then went home to mind chores—never imagining such disaster would strike.”

Madam Li consoled her: “Even if you had stayed, there would’ve been nothing you could do. The guards at the gate inspect harshly—why, they tear apart even the candidates’ rations for fear notes might be hidden inside.”

“Amitabha, all we can do is pray for our nephews to succeed.”

While the family anxiously waited outside, inside the exam hall the candidates sat at their numbered desks.

Chen Qingyan was number 21, Chen Qinghuai was 22, Chen Qingsong was 23. Though numbers were consecutive, their seats were far apart. Eight exam inspectors patrolled ceaselessly. Any hint of cheating meant immediate expulsion with no appeal.

At a quarter past chen hour (around 7:15 a.m.), the county magistrate and the chief examiner sent from the prefectural city began their speeches.

The speech was as always—long‑winded and dull. Most who had tested before could almost recite it. Still, everyone strained their ears and pretended attentiveness.

Then came the reading of rules and schedule: what time papers would be handed out, when they would be retrieved; warnings that any stained paper would be disqualified.

This tested not only knowledge but also handwriting skill. Answering required drafts on scrap paper, then carefully copying onto the exam sheet, to avoid mis‑strokes or omissions.

By late chen hour (around 8 a.m.), exam papers were formally distributed. These had been transported from the prefecture under seals, opened only on the spot to prevent leaks.

Chen Qingyan drew a deep breath and ground his ink. Unlike before—when he hadn’t even seen his paper before being expelled—five years later at last he sat properly in the hall again.

Once the paper reached his desk, he glanced at the prompt and a strange serenity filled him.

Just as his teacher foretold, the county exam was straightforward—simpler even than the practice questions Liang‑lao had set.

Still, simplicity did not permit carelessness. Studying each question carefully, he began composing on the draft sheets.

His brothers, too, read quickly and commenced writing. Surrounded by peers frowning in difficulty, the three of them looked unusually calm.

The magistrate turned to the prefectural examiner beside him: “Those three are brothers. I hear they are disciples of the renowned Liang Liufang.”

The examiner straightened at once. He had long heard that Liang‑lao had taken several disciples, never thinking they were from Longquan County.

Observing their quiet earnestness, he went down among the desks.

When he passed Qingyan’s side, he raised his brows in appreciation. Whatever the content, at least this boy’s handwriting was superb.

Qingyan used delicate small‑script for drafting, but for formal transcription he shifted to “palace‑style script”ⁱ—neat and highly legible, favored in officialdom for how it delighted exam graders.

Lost in concentration, Qingyan did not even notice him. The examiner stroked his beard, nodded, and moved on to view the others’ work.

When he had seen Qingsong’s paper as well, he sighed inwardly—such intelligence! Three bright sons from one Chen family. Perhaps their fate was ascending.

Time passed quickly. Soon it was midday: the first session ended.

Papers collected, students were allowed some freedom—to use the latrines or eat.

Groups clustered, comparing answers. Some lept for joy, others despaired, pounding fists in regret.

The three Chen brothers exchanged no such chatter. Confident, they needed no checking.

Qingyan only asked softly: “Did you complete every question? Any errors?”

Qinghuai shook his head. “None. I wrote draft first, then recopied—exactly as Master instructed. Not a word missed.”

Qingsong flushed. “Only… I was too slow. Nearly didn’t finish recopying…”

After half an hour’s break, the second session began. This time was Moyi (interpretation essays). Qingyan excelled here—at first glance he was already writing.

By day’s end, having copied the last word, Qingyan reviewed thoroughly then submitted.

The afternoon chill crept in. Putting away brushes, preparing to leave, he stomped his feet for warmth.

At the gate, candidates were grouped in tens before being let out.

When his turn came, nerves finally struck—his legs were weak. So he had thought himself calm, yet here was the truth.

At the door, his cousin Wang Ying and Chen Bo ran up.

“Qingyan!”

“Ah!”

Wang Ying fetched a warm cloak, took his exam basket, and draped the cloak over him. “Quick, into the carriage, there is ginger tea to warm you.”

Onboard, drinking deeply, Qingyan sighed. “Strange—I felt fine all morning. Why is the afternoon so cold?”

Chen Bo said, “When you first sat, your blood was hot. By now, the heat is spent, winter chill creeps in.”

Wang Ying asked, “And what of your brothers?”

“They were still writing when I left. Should be done soon.”

As if on cue, Qingshuai came out, pale with cold. He too was cloaked and sat, grateful for ginger tea.

“Ugh, the bench was like ice by afternoon. My belly aches from chill!”

“Then drink more.”

“And what of our mothers?”

“Too cold to wait. They went home. Once Qingsong finishes, we return.”

At last, after half an hour, Qingsong emerged, his little face purpled.

Chen Bo carried him up. His brothers fussed anxiously.

“I’m fine—just frozen,” Qingsong chattered.

“Why so late?”

He scratched his head. “Forgot we could submit early… Kept writing, then looked up and half the hall was gone. Then I realized…”

“Drink ginger tea quick. Tomorrow’s still another round—don’t fall ill.”

“Mm.”

Back home long‑waiting family rushed them with blankets and foods. Hot noodle soup soon dispelled the bitter day’s cold.

That night, the boys reported to Liang‑lao.

The first exam, tie‑jing, was filling blanks in classics passages—essentially like “cloze tests” of later times, checking memorization of the Four Books and Five Classics. The three had long memorized thoroughly, writing without pause.

The second, moyi, tested comprehension. Ten interpretation questions. All three performed, variations of their teacher’s lectures, each with its uniqueness.

“I am satisfied,” Liang‑lao told them. “Now rest well. Prepare for tomorrow.”

“Yes!” they chorused.

That night Wang Ying moved Yuanbao to the grandmother’s room, lest the child disturb Qingyan. With calming incense lit, they quickly retired.

On the second morning, all woke before dawn again.

Experience made nerves fewer.

But this time, in line for entrance, someone was caught with hidden notes. At once he collapsed weeping, groveling as the officers dragged him out.

The sight shook Qingyan to his core. Old trauma surged—memories of his own wrongful expulsion. Cold sweat drenched him.

“Chen Qingyan? Chen Qingyan!”

“Yes, yes!” He jerked awake; the examiner had called his name. He stumbled forward for the search.

His whole body trembled. The guards suspected guilt and searched thrice over before permitting entry.

Step by step, Qingyan walked to his desk. He looked at the empty seat ahead, pressing his chest to settle breath.

But still, visions rolled through him: being dragged, denounced, humiliated. “Cheater! Disgraced! Deserves ruin!” Those voices clanged in his head, stomach roiling.

Nearby, Qinghuai noticed but could not speak—silence was enforced.

Then the gong sounded—papers distributed.

Qingyan clutched his head, drenched in sweat, until his eyes fell upon the exam questions. At once his mind cleared.

What was he doing?!

This was the county examination, perhaps his one chance in a lifetime. How dare he waste it dwelling in shadows?!

He had fought to sit here anew. Failing would betray Wang Ying’s steadfast support, his teacher’s devotion, his years of toil.

Eyes closed, deep breath. He forced those nightmares into a corner, not erased, but cautioned: a scar, a warning, never again.

When they opened again, his eyes held no panic—only resolve. In that moment, Chen Qingyan underwent true transformation.

Footnotes:

1. Tai‑ge‑ti (台阁体) – an official script style in imperial times, square, upright, neat; much liked in exam papers for ease of grading. 
2. Tie‑jing (贴经) – A test format where part of a Confucian classic is omitted, requiring examinees to supply from memory, like modern cloze tests. 
3. Moyi (墨义) – Questions demanding interpretation/essay answers on the classics, testing comprehension rather than rote memory.