TSLSILMH Ch 40

Chapter 40

At Jiang Hong’s words, Xie Shu’s eyes brightened slightly. So that was it.

To know that his teacher’s views on literary rhapsodies (fu) matched his own, and that they could understand one another—what a fortune this was.

Jiang Hong regarded him with grave expression and said, full of meaning: “Therefore, I have always maintained—choosing scholars solely by ornament of words is a sickness. To test by true learning—that is the righteous path.”

But his bearing suddenly grew more severe, his tone weighty as he continued: “Yet Rongzhan—you must understand. Within the examination hall, a single misstep can cost years of labor. Have you considered, what if on that day I had not been chief examiner, or what if I had not personally checked each script one by one?”

Xie Shu’s heart jolted. “Teacher means…”

Of course—without that coincidence, Zhang Sheng would have failed.

But Xie Shu’s puzzlement remained. If his intention was only to remind him of caution, why reveal his deeper philosophy of selecting talent?

Jiang Hong seemed to anticipate his thought, and after a pause said: “Rongzhan, you must be wondering—since I value practical learning, why has it not been enforced within the examinations themselves?”

Xie Shu bowed his head. “Indeed the question was mine. Yet I also know—all tradition has long employed flowery verse to judge men. To cleanse the spirit and set new order would be to court hardship and opposition. Surely Teacher, too, has faced such obstacles.”

A shadow flickered across Jiang’s eyes. He let out a long sigh. “Yes—it seems simple, yet is nearly impossible. Once bound to the civil examinations, whatever the style, the vessel is still writing. And from ancient times, poetry and rhapsody were famed for ornament bright and prosody strict. Yet ornament does not mean empty adornment, nor strictness tedious stiffness. Sadly, most have never understood. And the utilitarian urge of selection twisted the fu until overwrought phrases became its vice, leaving meaning behind.”

Then he steadied himself. “Rongzhan, I tell you this so you may know: in scholarship and composition you may foster thought of your own. I encourage it. It is not wrong. Yet the examinations ask not for process—but only result. Unless you pass, your ideals are useless.”

Xie Shu heard and sighed inside. He understood—all exams had flaws, yet still served their time. He had been through many examinations before, always excelling. He knew—tests emphasize memory and problem-solving, not always depth of wisdom. It was imperfect, but under the society’s limitation, this was still the best means—if not the best of all.

Seeing melancholy still trace his teacher’s face, he spoke softly: “Teacher, I understand your intent. You would have me treat the examinations with utmost care—not flaunting personal vision, not chancing fault, but answering safely and flawlessly. I will remember.

And yet, I still think this Rhapsody on Origins excellent. I esteem my senior Zhang Sheng for having written such. Surely, he knew too—but wrote thus because he trusted you would understand.”

He now called Zhang Sheng “senior,” recalling how the chief examiner was also called “Zhigongju”—the “knower of tribute”—a position of profound honor. For students, the examiner was as master, and candidates who passed would later visit him with offerings, honoring him as “seat master.”

To disciples, the seat master’s judgment was as life itself. His preference alone could raise or discard them.

So he suspected Zhang Sheng had known Jiang was chief examiner then, and intentionally wrote such a piece upon that theme, trusting in his discernment.

Jiang Hong was slightly moved, unexpected that Xie Shu would reason thus. Looking back within himself, indeed, he remembered how he had later examined Zhang’s other papers, and seeing them consistent in quality, made him first among that year’s graduates.

Though afterwards Zhang Sheng too had offered tokens like the others, Jiang had never given mind to it—he disdained the entanglement of master and protégé as fuel for corruption. But Zhang later at Hanlin had always remained respectful, and when he left the capital, he had come to see him off.

Jiang returned from thought, smiling. “Perhaps so. But that method is not for you. To succeed, poetry and rhapsody still rely in prosody and ornament.”

Xie Shu only smiled faintly. “Then, Teacher, I wish to master both styles. Please instruct me.”

If one must do a thing, he believed, do it thoroughly. Even modern testing relied on preparing every method. Why not this as well?

His teacher’s eyes flickered surprise—but he nodded. “Good. I will give you another rhapsody. It too was from the exam halls, filled with ornament, yet with a clarity rare amidst it. Study it tonight; tomorrow we shall speak.”

He added: “And tomorrow we shall also meet an old acquaintance—Master Zuo Ran. He in recent years accepted a pupil of promise.”

At that, Xie Shu sighed, embarrassed. “Teacher—his student is Wang Jing, last year’s provincial champion. How could your disciple compare?”

Jiang’s eyes blazed. “Provincial champion? That is but one region’s exam! Do examiners there command more sight than I? Would my pupil be less than his?”

Xie Shu smiled helplessly, touched with warmth. Such words came not of arrogance, but of protective pride.

So he said earnestly: “I will strive hard, Teacher. I will not fail your trust.”

The rhapsody he received was again titled Rhapsody on Origins, this one by Jiang Anhui, now serving close in government. His style spoke richly of the origins of things, of flourishing and decline, full of ornament but with emotion genuine, noble, avoiding excess. So praised by his teacher.

When the appointed hour of wei passed—that is, between one and three in the afternoon—he left Jiang’s home, manuscript in hand.

At home, he did not find Yu Chuxi. The maids explained he had gone out at noon, delayed by business.

So he waited in Tingyu Court with book in hand until dusk colored the sky—and at last Yu returned, stepping into the glow of clouds red.

He entered speaking with Feng He, brows faintly furrowed, a rare trace of sorrow on his face.

But seeing Xie Shu waiting, his lips curved at once, a bright soft smile. “Home so early today?”

Xie Shu nodded, setting aside the scroll, gaze intent upon that handsome face. Today, Yu was dressed in robes fine, formal, splendid, setting off his pale beauty stark like snow against dark silk.

Yet Xie Shu had seen the shadow too—a cloud across his heart, faint but real.

Now though his smile was radiant, as if he carried sunset into his eyes. His lashes long, curving upward, starry bright.

Xie Shu could not look away. Yu, feeling his gaze, faltered uneasily. Why stare so directly?

At last, Xie Shu cleared his throat, held his silence, waited until they entered the side hall to dine. There he looked into Yu’s eyes and said gravely: “Young Lord—something troubles you today. Will you tell me what it is?”

Yu Chuxi started, eyes wide, and instinctively shook his head. But looking into that gaze—gentle as water, steady as the breeze—he found it hard to refuse.

Footnotes

1. 文詞取士 (Selecting by rhetoric) – Refers to the imperial exam’s heavy reliance on ornate writing style as measure of talent. 
2. 科舉 (Imperial Examinations) – Historical exams that selected men for official posts, seen as both opportunity and stricture, pivotal in expanding central authority. 
3. 會試 (Metropolitan Exam) – The second level of imperial examination, held in the capital, after the provincial exam. Its chief examiner (Zhigongju) held immense sway. 
4. 座主 / 門生 (Seat Master / Protégé) – A powerful relationship between chief examiner (seat master) and successful candidates (disciples). It carried risk of factionalism and corruption but also deep honor. 
5. 未時 (Wei Hour) – Traditional timekeeping, the hour between 1 p.m. and 3 p.m.