Chapter 162
At the break of dawn, several Imperial Censors and supervising officials made a round through the examination grounds, assigning one capital garrison guard soldier to stand outside each examinee’s cell. They strictly ordered that candidates were no longer allowed to stand up or move about at will—only then did the first round of the provincial exam officially begin.
Answer sheets submitted earlier to the Shuntian Prefecture’s Ritual Office were distributed. Inside each was a printed sheet of questions: 23 in total—three questions from the Four Books, and twenty from the Five Classics. Examinees were to choose and answer four of these, depending on the specific classic they specialized in.
If someone had mastered all Five Classics, they could even attempt all twenty questions—provided they had the ability to answer them all. Even if their answers varied in quality, such a candidate might still gain fame for their scholarly breadth, practically ensuring selection.
Cui Xie certainly didn’t have the energy or knowledge to pull that off. From the accumulated experience passed down by his Master and predecessors, it was well understood that among the seven essays required, the very first was the most critical. By the later essays, examiners were usually too fatigued to read carefully, so examinees were advised to reuse well-practiced essays or even old examination responses. Even if examiners recognized the repetition, they wouldn’t mind. It was seen as proof of the essay’s tested quality and appropriate level.
Had someone else been the Chief Examiner, Cui Xie might have dared to recycle an old response. But with his own Master, Li Dongyang, serving as Chief Examiner, and with their reputations so closely tied, he couldn’t afford even the smallest misstep. This provincial exam had over 2,300 candidates, and only 135 would make the cut. As soon as the results were released, some bitter unsuccessful scholar would no doubt go to the Shuntian Prefecture to beat the grievance drum and accuse Li Dongyang of favoritism.
If Cui Xie copied even a sentence from another’s model answer and word got out, the failed candidates would accuse the examiner of selecting an unworthy student. If he reused his own old essays, it might even be twisted into a claim that Li Dongyang had leaked the topics to him in advance.
After all, Cheng Minzheng1 would fall prey to such accusations a little over a decade later—how could Cui Xie take such a risk?
He took a deep breath and read through all seven questions from start to finish, silently recalling their classical sources. Then, covering the question sheet with one hand, he began writing the first Four Books essay from memory:“When the petty man is idle, he commits evil without limit. Only upon encountering a gentleman does he grow ashamed, concealing his misdeeds and displaying only the good.”
This line comes from 《The Great Learning》, in the section explaining the phrase “rectify one’s intent.” “Idle,” here, means being alone; “ashamed,” means inwardly stifled and closed off. As Zhu Xi commented: “To rectify one’s intent is the beginning of self-cultivation.” The gentleman’s self-cultivation begins with sincerity within and manifests outwardly; because he does not deceive himself, he is cautious even when alone.
A gentleman, when alone, still guards himself with caution—this is the principle of “vigilance in solitude.” But a petty man cannot do the same. Left alone, he indulges his baser instincts, committing evil at will. It’s not that he cannot distinguish right from wrong, nor that he is unaware he ought to pursue good and avoid evil; rather, it is that goodness is difficult, and evil is easy. Only when a gentleman is present does shame stir him into hiding his wickedness and pretending to be good, masking vice with a facade of virtue.
Yet how can such pretense truly deceive a gentleman, when “ten eyes see, ten hands point”? Their disguise cannot last under scrutiny.
For instance, take the likes of Imperial Noble Consort Wan, who, once the Crown Prince grew older and secured his position, began to feign gentleness and virtuous conduct—permitting the Emperor to father many more sons. Or that taijian, Wang Zhi, who cloaked his massacres of upright men in the name of rooting out corruption and defending the borders, manufacturing military merit through slaughter. Or Grand Secretary Wan, who, when Wang Zhi fell from favor, promptly submitted a memorial to the throne with a plea to abolish the Western Depot, posing as a loyal statesman with the people’s interest at heart. And then there are the Imperial court censors who, for the sake of fame and false righteousness, submitted memorials opposing imperial favor shown to a certain Jinyiwei colonel, attempting to block his promotion to acting Pacification Commissioner…
But Cui Xie—clever, discerning, and virtuous—could see through these false gentlemen in a glance!
Of course, none of these contemporary examples could be directly written into the exam. Instead, he encoded the spirit of his condemnation in the essay, distinguishing between gentleman and villains with one stroke. With his opening paragraph boldly asserting the distinction between gentleman and petty man, he positioned himself, rhetorically, as one of the former, to thunder down judgment upon the latter: “Those who deceive themselves only to deceive the gentleman—how deceitful the petty man’s intentions truly are!”
The opening was written according to his own wishes, but his amplification section then needed to flow smoothly while echoing the exam prompt. Borrowing the structure of the original line but refining it into tighter classical phrasing, he wrote:
“A petty man is not ignorant of the distinction between good and evil—it is merely that in idleness he indulges his desires. When he sees a gentleman, he hides his faults and displays only his virtues. Is this not the height of self-deception!”
A petty man, upon seeing a gentleman, conceals his wrongdoing and presents a false front of virtue—what else is this but deceiving himself? This “self-deception” echoes the phrase used in the opening argument, “those who deceive themselves attempt to deceive gentlemen.” The opening and amplification lines thus mirror and reinforce each other, seamlessly tying back to the topic. As Cui Xie wrote, the words spilled effortlessly from his pen, with idea after idea welling up from within him. It was, indeed, an excellent beginning.
Over ten hours that day, he would have to write seven essays, punctuated by three meals, all while his energy and focus gradually wore thin. With at most an hour to plan each essay, getting stuck on the first would waste not only time, but also sap his confidence, making each subsequent essay progressively harder to write.
But this time, he had spent less than half an hour drafting the first essay. With time and energy to spare, he was now better prepared for what lay ahead.
The next question came from the 《Analects》, specifically the《Analects·Shu Er》 “The Master went fishing but did not use a net; he hunted but did not shoot birds at rest.”
Confucius, born into poverty, had in his youth fished and hunted. Yet even then, he did not use nets to catch everything indiscriminately, nor did he shoot birds that were roosting. From this, one sees the core of the benevolent heart. If even his treatment of animals was measured and merciful, how much more must he have loved and cherished the people of the world?
However, this quotation stood alone in the exam paper and had to be answered in isolation, without leaning on deeper commentary or glosses. Nor could the exam essay mention specific things from the original text: “fish” and “birds” had to be referred to simply as “creatures” (物). Thus, the topic could only be approached through the concept of “loving living beings,” which would then be expanded into a discussion of Confucius’s broader benevolence.
Cui Xie distilled the core message clearly and succinctly in the opening line: “By observing the Sage in fishing and hunting, we may glimpse his kindness toward living beings.” Fishing and hunting were common practices, but to net every fish or shoot sleeping birds was excessive. That Confucius refrained from such actions was evidence of his compassion. From “loving creatures,” the argument had to progress to “the benevolent man cherishes all under Heaven.”
Hunting and fishing exist for the sake of sustaining the people. If one were to abstain from all killing merely out of compassion, the people would have no means of survival, that would be putting the cart before the horse. Therefore, the Sage did not reject hunting outright, but practiced it with restraint: take only what is needed, eat when one must, offer what is required in rituals, but never exhaust the world’s creatures in pursuit of appetite. Allow them space to live and multiply.
Confucius’s choice between animal protection and human welfare was simply that reasonable.“The Master said: In this world, the blessing of compassion, in its smallest form, lies in cherishing the lives of all creatures; in its greatest, it moves Heaven to harmony.”
This choice, though plain and unadorned, contained the seeds of ecological balance. The reproduction and thriving of animals, in turn, ensured that the people would never lack game to hunt, their bellies would be full, and the state would be stable, achieving harmony between human and nature.
And this very harmony was the truest reflection of the Sage’s benevolence, his “love for all living things.”
Having completed the second question, the sun now hung low in the northeast. The sky was much brighter than it had been when the exam began, but not yet glaring. A breeze swept in through the door, making the exam paper gently flutter, ideal weather for answering questions.
Setting aside his second draft, weighted at the corner of the desk, Cui Xie closed his eyes and did a round of eye exercises. As he did, he mentally read over the third question.
The first exam question had been about human relationships. The second is about humans and nature. The third didn’t continue on to the animal world, but rather ascended directly to matters of the imperial court. It was from 《Mencius·Gongsun Chou II》,” and read:“Under Heaven there are three universal sources of respect: rank, age, and virtue.” This line left an especially deep impression on him. During the prefectural exam, after submitting his paper, the Prince of Yongping had tested him with a couplet. For one of the couplets, he had responded:“In ten thousand years the Son of Heaven shall be honored—by rank, by age, by virtue. The three dignities unite, imperial decrees are proclaimed, and the millions of common people enlightened.”
It was that very response that had caught the Prince’s favor, swaying him in the grading and helping Cui Xie win the top placement in the entire prefecture. Without it, among the thousands of examinees in Yongping, how could it be said that he was the absolute best?
This was his lucky question. Cui Xie smiled faintly as he copied the prompt neatly onto his exam paper.
“Da” (达) means “to be universally accepted.” These are the three honors recognized by all under Heaven. That is, the only things that compel respect from all without question are rank, age, and virtue.
The court reveres titles and rank, to distinguish high from low; among communities and villages, age is esteemed, as a symbol of filial piety and righteousness; for those who guide the world and nurture the people, virtue is most valued, for it refines public morals. These three are not respected because someone claims them, but because society naturally holds them in esteem. It is through this shared respect that distinctions in order are maintained, relationships clarified, customs enriched, the court stabilized, and the people made filial and upright, their morals made pure.
These three Four Books questions were mandatory for students in Quadrant Five, and the competition for them was exceptionally fierce. The Five Classics questions, by contrast, were only compared among those in the same hall and thus carried slightly less pressure.
Cui Xie spread out his three draft papers, carefully reviewing them from start to finish—checking whether there were any missing indentation spaces before the word “sage”, making sure he hadn’t violated any naming taboos of the current Emperor or his ancestors, and looking for typos or misplaced characters. Once everything was confirmed, he copied them neatly onto the official exam paper in the bright daylight.
Of the twelve-page answer sheet, he had already filled a bit more than three. He left half a page blank and saved the remaining eight pages for the longer essays on the Five Classics.
After letting the ink dry, he carefully placed the completed pages into the submission envelope. Seeing that the sun was still high, he lowered his head and began working on the classics-based questions. The garrison soldier assigned to stand watch outside his booth kept a sharp eye on him, afraid to blink lest he miss any attempt at cheating. When Cui Xie looked up momentarily, the guard immediately grew alert, thinking he might be signaling that he needed to use the latrine, and split his attention to look for the patrolling officer.
But Cui Xie had long been prepared. He hadn’t once stepped out of his booth all day. Even when relieving himself, he used the chamber pot he’d brought in advance. Though the smell wasn’t pleasant, everyone got through the exam this way. It was still better than raising a hand in the middle of the test to request the seal of approval, getting escorted by two guards to the communal latrine, and enduring the suspicious gazes of the outer officials and soldiers, as if one were a criminal.
Both lunch and dinner were provided by the examination compound, and the taste wasn’t even as good as the set meals served in elementary school canteens, let alone nutritious. Still, thanks to the crisp autumn weather, at least the food didn’t smell spoiled.
Fortunately, the intensive simulations he had done in the weeks before had made him remarkably fast. By dinnertime, he had just finished the final Classic of Poetry essay. He skipped the meal, bore the hunger, and went over his answers again, checking for errors before copying them onto the final sheet.
By then the sky still glowed a soft golden hue, and the light streaming through the booth door illuminated the page in front of him. It would still be at least an hour before the guards came to escort them out. He shut his eyes and mentally ran through the essays like a PDF scrolling in his mind, this way, he spared his eyes and could still review every line clearly and efficiently, more so than if he had re-read with his eyes open.
Having reviewed all seven essays in sequence, it still wasn’t yet dark enough to light the candles. But Cui Xie didn’t want to wait anymore. He rose and said to the booth guard, “I’m ready to hand in my paper.”
The soldier, steadfast in his duty, did not let Cui Xie’s good looks lull him into complacency. He watched Cui Xie like a hawk as he packed away his exam and drafts, then escorted him to the internal collection officer to record his submission. The officer affixed his signature and seal, then passed the test script along to the transcription officer, who copied it into a red-inked “朱卷” version. That would be sent to the Classic of Poetry examination room for review by the sub-examiners.
Answer sheets had begun arriving at the examiners’ rooms that afternoon. Cui Xie’s wasn’t among the very first, but he was still relatively early; a few others turned in their papers around the same time. His script, packed in among dozens of red-inked rolls, didn’t stand out much on the surface. Two sub-examiners—Liang Chu and Zhang Pu—were aware that Cui Xie was sitting for this year’s provincial exam, but their attention had been focused on other students they’d tutored in advance. As they marked papers, they casually discussed the various compositions they encountered.
Cui Xie had made quite a name for himself in the Hanlin Academy with the publication of 《The Story of Wang Yao and the Pipa》, and nearly everyone there knew his name. Both examiners, Liang Chu and Zhang Pu, were contemporaries and peers with Yang Tinghe; they had read that manuscript and had also graded the practice essays Cui Xie had written during his time as an academic companion to the Crown Prince. They were familiar with his style, and now tried to pick his paper out of the pile:
“This one, vigorous, eloquent, and complete in argument, seems like his style…”
“That one, firm in structure, elegant in tone, also looks familiar…”
“And that early submission, though a few sentences feel slightly raw, still maintains strict form and deep logic. It matches what one would expect from a disciple of the Master of the Western Waters…”
The two discussed and debated for the entire afternoon but couldn’t reach a conclusion. In the end, they simply put it aside, went to enjoy their specially-prepared dinner for examiners, and returned after the meal to digest both food and essays with the next round of red rolls.
Footnotes:
- Cheng Minzheng: He was a prominent scholar-official and poet of the Ming dynasty known for his talent in classical learning, literary criticism and political service. He served several high ranking roles like Grand Academician of the Hanlind Academy, Chief Examiner for imperial examinations, and was an avid compiler and editor of historical scandal. Sometime near the end of the 15th century, while serving as a Chief Examiner, he was implicated in a scandal alleging that he had shown favoritism or improperly advised a candidate. Whether or not the charges were true, the political climate at that time was such that one’s meritocracy had to be pristine. He was hence dismissed and never politically rehabilitated before his death. This scandal became a cautionary tale about the danger of real or perceived nepotism in the highly competitive and political imperial examination process. ↩︎
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