WSMTATMC C120

Chapter 120

The rented house in the county was in quite a good location. Most of its structures were newly built, with furniture and household necessities already in place—it could be lived in immediately, which made things convenient.

Word was, the house had originally belonged to a wealthy merchant of the county. But after the flooding disaster, the family had moved away to another prefecture. Since they had left in haste, they only carried off valuables and light belongings, leaving behind much of the large furnishings.

Thus the house had been entrusted to relatives to handle. Such a grand residence was difficult to sell because of its high price, so the relatives privately rented it out to make some extra money.

The three‑courtyard compound was spacious and bright. At last, the children no longer had to crowd into one room to sleep.

Once things were arranged, Wang Ying decided to give Er‑shun and the other servants a short leave so they could return to Chen family village to visit their kin.

After being away for over a year, naturally they missed home. Now was a rare chance to go back and spend a few days with family.

The servants were overjoyed. They had long wished to return, originally thinking they could only go home after their master’s county exam was finished. They hadn’t expected their young master to permit them to leave earlier.

They bought some gifts in town, and at dawn the next day, they drove the carriage toward Qingshui Town.

With them gone, the household felt emptier. Madam Li and Fourth Aunt often went to the Cao residence to check on Third Aunt’s family. Qingyun frequently stayed by Lin Sui’s side, bringing Yuanbao along, lifting his spirits and diverting him from painful memories.

Old Master Liang (Liang‑lao) kept to the habit of leading the three boys up early each day to read, as though they were back on the estate of old.

Wang Ying, with leisure again, picked up the brush to continue writing his “Agricultural Treatise.”

By early February, the southern climate was already balmy with grass and songbirds, but in the north it was still frozen. These days some warmth pursued, melting the snow on the rooftops. The water trickled steadily over the eaves into the courtyard.

The willows by the wall already sprouted green, bringing freshness to the otherwise gray yard.

“What are you writing?” Liang Boqing strolled over and asked softly.

Wang Ying hastily stood up. “Ah, you’ve come. It’s a book on farming methods. I am fond of this subject, so I casually wrote a few pages.”

“Oh? Let me see.”

Wang Ying handed him the draft. The elder sat on a nearby bench, reading page by page, stroking his beard and nodding occasionally.

“This illustration—is it drawn by you?” He pointed at a cross‑section of wheat grains.

“Yes…”

“Remarkable. That such a small seed carries so much principle—truly meticulous observation.”

Wang Ying flushed with embarrassment. In truth, this was simply knowledge he’d learned elsewhere, just retelling it. Yet he could not explain, so thick‑skinned, he accepted the praise.

“Keep writing. Once done, see if we can arrange woodblock printing.”

Wang Ying was stunned. “R‑Really? Is that possible?”

“If it is truly a work to benefit farmers, why should it not be?”

“Thank you, Teacher!” the words slipped out before he realized. Startled, he scratched his head—why had he called him “Teacher”? Yet seeing Liang‑lao unfazed, he exhaled in relief.

After some hesitation, he asked, “Do you think Qingyan has a chance to pass this time?”

“The county examination will not be a problem. In the prefectural exam, if he plays to his ability, perhaps he will seize first place. As for the provincial (xiangshi), I cannot say.” Liang‑lao himself had never sat the provincial exam in youth, so he could not know its threshold, but academically he believed Qingyan’s learning was exceptional. Otherwise, the Court would not have asked him on several occasions to sit again.

Wang Ying pressed his hands together and bowed earnestly. “Then may it be so—let it go smoothly and may he perform to his true measure.”

Liang‑lao gazed at the fresh willow branches. “That child Qingyan has endured much hardship. May he, like these shoots, break forth proudly this spring.”

Only three days remained before the county exam. The atmosphere in Longquan grew increasingly tense.

On the streets one could see scholars arriving from villages and towns, carrying book chests, accompanied by family or servants, staying in the crowded inns.

The influx made prices soar. An inn bed that was formerly 200 cash per night had shot up to 500, yet still could not meet demand.

In teahouses and wine shops, talk everywhere was of the examinations. Due to the flood, this year’s candidates numbered only two‑thirds of the usual.

Two years before, when Qinghuai sat for the first time, there had been 218 candidates. This year only about 130.

Fewer did not make things easier—quite the opposite. Because quota was tied to candidate numbers, fewer candidates meant fewer slots.

In prior years, Longquan County offered eight places. That meant only the top eight could advance to the prefectural exam. This year: only five.

One hundred plus candidates contended for five spots. The odds were steep. Still, fear of corruption was little, since county exam outcomes tied directly to the magistrate’s own political record. Should cheating be uncovered at the higher levels, that magistrate would be ruined.

Thus the county magistrate took extra care. Three days before, he already had officials clear the markets, enforce order, so that the exam could proceed smoothly. From the strictness it was plain how much the Court valued the examinations.

By now, all the studying had been done. The crucial thing was to rest, ready one’s heart, and practice handwriting. Chen Qingyan also brought out a qin (zither).

He had spent three taels obtaining it. In the prefectural city, Wang Ying had once inquired at a music shop—such qin usually sold for dozens of taels, too costly then. But in a pawnshop he saw a distressed woman about to pawn it, offered her three taels outright, and bought it.

Liang‑lao examined it and praised it immediately. Though missing a string, its body was intact, made of fine spruce. A new one would sell for nearly 100 taels.

After restringing, it was nearly as good as new, possessing the true resonance of gold and stone, shimmering tones that lingered long.

Yet Chen Qingyan’s skill was rudimentary—just recognizing the notes “gong shang jiao zhi yu” (the five tones)³, able barely to pluck out a simple folk lullaby.

And whenever he played, mistakes abounded, producing more noise than harmony. Even oxen would shake their heads. Liang‑lao soon grew vexed and drove him back to copy passages of the Four Books instead.

The examination day dawned. Before first light, lamps already flickered in the Chen household.

They washed, dressed, bound up their hair. Wang Ying himself placed a wooden hairpin into Qingyan’s topknot. His hands settled on Qingyan’s shoulders as he looked at him in the bronze mirror.

He had a strong premonition—from this day forward, Qingyan would be like a dragon entering the sea, riding the thundering waves to astonish all!

Qingyan turned and kissed his hand upon Wang Ying’s shoulder. “Rest assured. I will give my all this time.”

“Mm.”

Meanwhile, Qinghuai and Qingsong also clothed themselves. The rules forbade padded garments, so they wore thin layers—yet piled four or five single robes over a sheepskin vest, which sufficed against cold.

Matron Chen had prepared wontons with pork and celery, steaming hot. Each ate a bowl.

They checked the exam baskets: brushes, ink, paperstone. Each carried also a pouch of dry rations and a water flask.

The county exam involved five sittings across three days. Tested subjects: the Four Books essays, regulated poems, classical argumentation, and rhapsody compositions.

The schedule: one session each morning and afternoon the first two days, and on the third day the final session. Afterward, the officials sorted by score, wrote names, and compiled the list.

The top scorer was called the an‑shou (案首—leader of the board). The very last candidate had his name marked by the examiner with a red‑inked “chair” symbol, jokingly called “sitting the red chair.”

All who made the list earned passage to the prefecture exam—the title of xiucai (Licentiate).

Madam Li and Fang Ling held their sons’ hands tenderly. “In the exam hall, do not be nervous. Finish every question. Whatever the result, do not stain the paper.”

The boys nodded solemnly.

Chen Guang came with the carriage. “It is the hour of Yin (3–5 a.m.). Time to go.”

Master Liang escorted the three lads himself in one carriage; the others squeezed into another, locking the gates before setting out.

Normally, at such an hour the streets lay empty. Today they bustled, lamps lit, horses and carts flowing by. Families stood at their gates to watch.

Halfway there they even hit congestion—a candidate struck by carriage blocked the road. Tension rose in every chest. Should they wait? Or get down and walk? What if they missed the start?

Luckily it was cleared soon enough. The carriages rolled again, and hearts eased.

They arrived safe outside the exam compound, parked, and escorted the three youths to the queue.

They were early—only seven or eight ahead of them. Lifting exam baskets, they joined the line, waiting for the examiner’s roll call.

The process was painstaking—verifying each name, age, birthplace, and description to prevent impersonation.

Unlike modern times, there were no photos. Only words: for Qingyan, “Height seven chi two cun (approx. 1.7m)⁴, slender build, almond‑shaped eyes, square nose, mole by left brow.”

The officer compared carefully, then began the body search. Candidates stripped down entirely, even socks removed.

And this was only the county exam. At provincial level, even stricter. This was why fantasies of women disguised as men to sit exams were near impossible.

By dawn, the roll began. One by one students were called, verified, searched, admitted. Sweaty palms abounded.

At last: “Qingshui Town, Chen Qingyan!”

“Present!” Qingyan drew a deep breath, stepping forward. Before entering, he turned and looked back—the distance great, but Wang Ying still read his lips: Wait for me.

Then came Qinghuai, then Qingsong. The elder two had experience, but little Qingsong was a first‑timer, stumbling nervously.

Madam Li clutched her hands, fretting. “Ay, this child…”

Wang Ying chuckled wryly. But young, Qingsong only needed to qualify as a child student (tongsheng). Even if passing, he would not continue to prefecture exam yet. Experience was enough.

Once the last entrant was searched, the gates shut with a clang. Armed guards stood watch—no one permitted near. Any violator could be killed on sight.

Footnotes:

 

 

1. Gong shang jiao zhi yu (宫商角徵羽) – Five musical notes in ancient Chinese theory, equivalent to do‑re‑mi‑so‑la. 
2. Chi (尺), cun (寸) – Ancient measurements: 1 chi ≈ 33 cm, 1 cun ≈ 3.3 cm; so “seven chi two cun” ≈ 2.37 m in Han era, but Ming/Qing chi was shorter (~23 cm). In novels often simplified to mean “tall/slender.”