WSMTATMC C131

Chapter 131

“Under the martial spring and the moon of late blossoms, the breeze in Huai Market is clear; in a great examination year, you scholars gather from afar with satchels on your backs, intent on setting the age aright.

By mandate of the Son of Heaven, this official presides over the examinations in Jizhou. Beholding the flourishing fortune of letters, I know it springs from the transforming power of the Sacred Dynasty’s teaching.

Our August Emperor—virtuous as Yao and Shun, radiant as sun and moon. In the Biyong, correct music is revived; the gate for selecting scholars is thrown wide. By the waters of Pan, numinous talent accumulates; statesmen’s instruments are broadly nurtured. Bathed in such beneficent grace, you should hold in your hearts the sincerity to repay it.

Su Dongpo once said: Those who accomplish great things in antiquity did not rely on transcendent talent alone; they must also possess a will of unyielding endurance.

Now I see you, by green lamps and yellow scrolls, plumbing the Classics till your hair turns white—already with the makings of the Orchid Terrace. Yet the three days in the hall do not test prose alone; they are the whetstone by which constancy is proved.

May you hold jade unblemished; let your brush run like a great beam. Do not seek to sell yourselves by cunning stratagems; let uprightness resound to the world. If you leap the Dragon Gate, forget not the first intent of aiding the sovereign to a Yao–Shun-like reign; if for the moment you are checked in the hall, keep your pure integrity and contest again another day.

Take heed, gentlemen! A roc’s journey begins with this very flight.

This official hopes to see worthy men gather in numbers, together assisting in the grand governance—answering Heaven’s favor above and honoring the home soil below. With these few words, I exhort you.”

It was the first day of the prefectural examination, and Lord Zheng’s voice echoed through the hall.

For first-time candidates, the speech had them brimming with tears. Those who had sat several times before merely yawned, hoping he would finish quickly so papers could be handed out.

The prefectural exam resembled the county exam; the content, too, was broadly similar—only the cohort had changed.

Candidates all came from the sixteen counties of Jizhou. The most populous county fielded thirteen examinees; the least had only a handful, each county’s instructor leading the group into the venue.

The prefectural exam was stricter than the county’s. The gates opened at the Hour of Mao, roll was called, and examinees entered. Any called thrice without appearing were deemed to have forfeited.

The entry routine was the same: body search, token received, then straightaway to find the numbered cubicle.

At the prefectural level, there were no makeshift pens but a series of semi-open, single-occupant cells.

Each cubicle had a table, a stool, and a wooden “bed” a bit over a foot wide—one could lie down briefly to rest (not truly to sleep).

In fact, the autumn provincial exam was also held here. During the provincial session, three days in all, candidates were not permitted to leave; eating and sleeping were done within—hence the “bed.”

Once inside, speech was forbidden. One carefully checked the cubicle for leaks; though it could not be swapped, an invigilator might be asked to patch any flaws, lest rain ruin the papers.

After confirming all was well, one sat in silence, waiting. Only when the admonition ended were the questions distributed.

In the seating for the prefectural exam, Chen Qingyan’s and Chen Qinghuai’s cubicles were not adjacent. Indeed, to prevent cheating, all candidates from the same county had their seat order scrambled.

Chen Qingyan held number seven; Chen Qinghuai forty-five. There were one hundred seventy-one candidates in total this year; perhaps one in five might pass.

Do not imagine a larger field meant easier competition; those who reached this stage were already standouts in their counties. To emerge here required something more.

Seated, Qingyan cleaned the table and waited for the paper.

The first session was again “貼經” (text-adherent exegesis). When the questions arrived, he ground ink and pondered. By the time the ink was ready, a plan had formed. He raised his wrist and began drafting on scrap…

—

Outside the hall, Wang Ying and the party sat in a teahouse not far away. Having seen the two into the venue in the morning, they rested there over tea.

After a while, Lu Zhongqi arrived with Liu Changyi. Madam Li and Fourth Aunt Fang then took Qingyun and left.

Liu Changyi watched Qingyun go, his eyes seeming about to fly after her, which left Wang Ying struggling not to laugh.

Qingsong discreetly kicked him under the table, whispering, “Stop staring—my sister’s long gone!”

Flushing, Liu lifted his cup to hide his awkwardness.

Master Liang said, “Who knows what the topics will be this year. I recall one question in the prefectural exam the year before last—fiendishly tricky, and it felled a great many candidates.”

Lu stroked his beard. “You must mean that ‘墨義**’ passage: ‘All things are complete within me. Turning inward with sincerity, there is no joy greater.’”

“Exactly that one. I heard it demanded precision down to the levels of Shuowen and Erya, while also balancing the debates of Han and Song scholars, with citations not fewer than ten classical sources.”

By coincidence, that had been the very question on Liu Changyi’s prefectural exam. His response was correct and well-regulated, if not dazzling, and he still placed sixth—showing how difficult it was.

Beside them, Qingsong had begun turning it over in his mind. The question was too hard; he feared he could not answer it well, and his reverence for the exams deepened.

Barring the unexpected, he would sit next year. Whether he could pass, he did not know—he must not slack, lest he lag behind his brothers.

By the Hour of Chen, the teahouse had filled—most were discussing the prefectural exam.

The focus was twofold.

First, the Chen brothers.

They had already amassed a minor fame from the Jizhou poetry gathering—poems circulating, and being students of Master Liang—so scholars were curious.

Second, Lin Zhen, the county list-topper of Guangyuan, said to be the author of “Moon Bright as Day,” even praised by the prefectural instructor as brimming with talent and bearing the marks of a great master.

Third, a boy named Sun Xingyun—a “prodigy,” only ten years old, equally versed in the Four Books and Five Classics, his ability widely touted.

The room buzzed with talk. Do not think scholars always genteel; when gossiping, they were little different from market aunties—chattering loudly enough to be heard through screens.

“In my view, this year’s prefectural list-topper will certainly be one of those Chen brothers!”

Wang Ying started, set down his cup, and listened.

“Why do you say so?”

“They studied a spell in the prefectural academy—my friend says their essays are very solid, and they’ve made notable strides in poetry.”

“Look who their teacher is. If I had the great Master Liang to guide me, I’d be a provincial graduate already.”

A few snorted. “Cai, aren’t you boasting a bit much? Why would Master Liang take you as a disciple?”

“Indeed. You failed the prefectural exam four times before scraping licentiate. Try four more and you still might not be a provincial graduate.”

The young man Cai flushed. “That—that’s bad luck. If it wasn’t wind, it was rain. And on the fair-weather day, the questions were all unintelligible—how is that my fault?”

“In the exams, what ‘luck’? Same paper—others pass and you don’t?”

Unable to argue, Cai flung his sleeve and sat, fuming.

Elsewhere, with Fang Wenke at their head, a few chimed in to support Cai. “That Chen Qingyan merely basks in the radiance of Master Liang. As for his own talent—middling.”

“Right. And wasn’t he once caught cheating in the county exam—his qualification revoked? Who knows what strings now let him sit again.”

The speaker was Xu Rui, also from Longquan County, who had sat the county exam alongside Chen and knew the story.

At first Xu thought he had mistaken the man—he’d seen with his own eyes Chen being ejected from the hall back then; how could he be sitting again?

Only just now, seeing him stand beside the Longquan instructor in the queue, had he confirmed it—the same examinee once caught with a crib.

The words fell like a stone, sending waves through the room. “Is this true?”

“Such words should not be thrown about!”

Xu pounded his chest. “If there’s a single falsehood, may I be run down by a carriage the moment I leave the door.”

Wang Ying’s breath caught. After so long, the matter was still brought up…

The flatterers turned their coats at once. “I knew something was off—so that’s the sort he is!”

“I wondered why—if he had talent, why be over twenty and still only a licentiate?”

“Then why would Master Liang take him?”

Fang Wenke fluttered his fan. “Have you forgotten? Liang Liufang himself had his qualification canceled for cheating.”

“Wasn’t he framed?”

“Yes—and the court specially allowed him to sit again.”

Xu snorted. “All rumors from the world. If he was ‘allowed,’ why didn’t he return with a laureate’s cap? Master and disciple—birds of a feather with empty reputations!”

That was too much. Qingsong and Liu Changyi’s faces changed; both rose to argue.

Lu held their arms. “No point wrangling. How capable Qingyan and Qinghuai are—let the results speak. If they pass, those mouths will shut.”

“But they’re slandering Master!”

Master Liang chuckled, wholly unruffled.

He’d heard far worse. A writer’s tongue can cut sharper than a blade; those jealous of his gifts would gladly grind his name into the mud.

And what of it?

When men speak of the “scholar of Jiangnan,” they name neither Zhang nor Li—they name Liang Liufang. However they degrade him, they still hold his poems up to study—unable to see the back of his neck, much less his shoulders.

“Don’t fret. When the prefectural exam is over, they’ll have no more to say.”

That pack continued to harangue about “newly restored” exam rights, but Wang Ying could no longer listen. He rose. “Master, I’ll go look in on the shop.”

“Go on. The boys won’t be out till the end of the Hour of Wei. Here we can only sit and wait.”

After Wang Ying left, Lu asked, curious, “So that’s Qingyan’s spouse—the gē’er you mentioned?”

“Yes—his name is Wang Ying.”

“I hear he runs a shop—quite well-known in the prefectural city.”

“Wang’s Vegetable Shop is his.”

“Looks young enough, but quite capable.”

Master Liang stroked his beard. “His real ability is not in business. Weren’t you curious how Qingyan’s exam rights were restored? In large part—that was thanks to him.”

“Oh?” Lu’s interest quickened.

A teahouse was no place to speak of this. They paid and repaired to Lu’s home to talk.

 

**“墨义” (mò yì) is a historical exam format term. It refers to the written “explication of the Classics” used in imperial examinations (especially the Mingjing track) from the Tang onward, where candidates answered questions on canonical passages in ink, explaining meanings, citing definitions, and reconciling commentarial debates. It contrasted with earlier oral “口义” and required precise, text-grounded exposition rather than poetry or policy essays.