Chapter 82 Provincial Examination (Part Two)

During the imperial examinations of the Li and Tang dynasties, if a candidate had not completed his answers by day’s end, he was permitted to continue by candlelight at night, limited to three candles. Thus, the examination halls of the Li-Tang era were often ablaze with myriad lights, transforming the night into day—a sight both spectacular and commonplace.

However, this practice of night testing by candlelight easily led to fires and made cheating more feasible under cover of darkness. To eliminate such abuses, the Song dynasty prohibited night testing altogether. Not even candles were allowed in the examination halls; all stages of the examinations—from the preliminary to the provincial and palace exams—were conducted strictly during daylight, usually beginning at dawn and ending at the close of the afternoon. Any candidate failing to submit his paper by the specified time would be immediately escorted out of the hall.

At this moment, within the Ministry of Rites' examination compound, the examinees sat beneath the corridors, some scratching their heads in frustration, others bowing in deep thought; some bit the ends of their brushes, gazing skyward as though expecting answers to descend from the clouds, while others wrote with fluid grace, their pens gliding like clouds and flowing water. A few darted nervous glances about, their hearts tumultuous and unsettled.

As the scholars wracked their brains for answers, gatekeepers and patrolling officials—accompanied by eunuchs and soldiers—paced the corridors vigilantly, their eyes sharp and watchful, maintaining strict supervision over the candidates. The Song dynasty’s measures against cheating were both numerous and exceptionally stringent.

In the early Song, candidates were required to strip for inspection before entering the examination hall, to prevent the smuggling of books or notes. Later, during the Dazhong Xiangfu era of Emperor Zhenzong, a high official memorialized the throne, arguing that such inspections violated the dignity of scholarly selection. Thereafter, the practice was abolished. Yet, even without disrobing, the presence of officials, eunuchs, and soldiers was increased, tightening security to an unprecedented degree, and punishments for cheating became ever harsher.

A candidate caught cheating would be immediately expelled, and barred from sitting for one or several subsequent examinations—or, in severe cases, banned for life. After passing the preliminary and provincial stages, candidates’ handwriting on their answer sheets was also compared meticulously with that on their household records, to prevent the employment of substitutes.

Beyond these, the well-known practices of locking the examination compound, transcribing answers, sealing the examination papers, and conducting anonymous tests were all designed to ensure fairness. The examiners, soldiers, and eunuchs guarded the candidates as if against thieves, and should a cheater be caught, they would seize him with undisguised satisfaction.

The reward for apprehending a cheater was generous, and yet, despite the strictest vigilance, some always dared to risk it all. Their methods were endlessly inventive, ever-evolving—an inevitability, for no matter how tight the net, every round of examinations would expose a number of opportunists. Where the rewards are great, there will always be bold men willing to take the risk: to seize the chance for meteoric ascent, what is a little danger? Many harbored this very thought.

In the three days before this round of provincial examinations, more than twenty candidates were caught carrying concealed notes and expelled from the hall.

On the fourth day of the provincial exam, five essay topics on current affairs were posted high for all to see. Just as Li Sanjian poised his brush to begin, a commotion erupted in the examination hall—three more cheaters had been discovered.

One among them had engraved the Analects and Mencius, along with commentaries, onto minuscule bamboo slips, bound together to the length of a forefinger and worn as a hairpin in his coiled hair. Each character was no larger than a mosquito’s footprint—a feat that testified to the candidate’s astonishing eyesight, his eyes veritable magnifying glasses.

Yet, however cunning, the cheater could not evade the vigilant gaze of the seasoned invigilators, many of whom had long since honed their sharp eyes. The candidate’s frequent hand-to-head movements drew attention, and he was soon apprehended.

Another examinee’s method was even more ingenious, outstripping all others. He had etched characters onto grains of rice, only half-cooked and still firm, and brought them in a food box. During the test, he arranged the rice grains in order, forming a complete text. Most astonishing of all, the inside of his wooden cup was also carved with tiny script, invisible beneath the tea until he swirled the cup, revealing the hidden words.

This candidate nearly fooled everyone, but a particularly experienced patrolling official detected the ruse and exposed him.

“I was wrong… Please, spare me, give me another chance,” one of the caught cheaters pleaded, “I am a student from Qin-Feng circuit, and it was so hard for me to reach the capital…”

He was plainly dressed, the hardship of his background evident, and his appearance pitiable. Yet the officials, long inured to such scenes, paid his entreaties no heed and escorted him out. Even if they felt a twinge of pity, no one dared to show favoritism—the consequences from the court would be dire.

Li Sanjian shook his head at the sight, then copied the essay prompt onto his paper, leaning on his desk to ponder in silence.

“The Divine Emperor, with the virtue of sage-kings, has mastered the learning of Shun and Yu; for nineteen years he has deliberated upon all matters of ritual, music, and law, bestowing beneficence upon the realm. I strive to emulate his intent, with utmost diligence from dawn to dusk, never daring to forget. Now, I have summoned heroes to the great hall, to question them on the affairs of the age, hoping for wise counsel… Yet officials are too numerous, military readiness is lacking, famine often strikes, and banditry persists—what is the cause of this?”

This prompt pointed sharply to the serious crises facing the Song in politics, economy, and military affairs—the three burdens of redundant officials, expenses, and troops—and required the candidates to argue for the necessity of restoring the New Policies. It also implicitly praised Emperor Zhezong Zhao Xu’s revival of the reforms during the Shaosheng era.

Having read the prompt carefully, Li Sanjian understood the examiner’s intent: as long as he unequivocally praised Emperor Shenzong and Wang Anshi’s reforms, and extolled Zhao Xu, the rest would depend on his writing and calligraphy.

In truth, Li Sanjian supported reform, but over the past few years he had witnessed the demotion and exile of many court officials—Su Shi, Qin Guan, and others—accused of opposing the New Policies and sent to the farthest corners of the realm. There was nothing wrong with reform itself, but many used it as a pretext for factional strife, which Li Sanjian despised. Such infighting only drained the nation’s strength.

“The Book of Changes says: ‘When things reach an extreme, they change; through change comes success; and through success comes endurance…’” After long thought, Li Sanjian put brush to paper, first expressing his agreement with reform, then, without much deliberation, voicing his views on factional conflict.

Unwittingly, Li Sanjian had made a mistake, though he himself, young as he was, remained unaware. Perhaps it was his indignation, having witnessed his teacher Su Shi’s unjust fate, that drove him to write as he did. Or perhaps he simply did not grasp the court’s current political climate, relying only on hearsay.

“…In ancient times, under Tang and Yu, there were but a hundred officials; in Xia and Shang, their number doubled; by Zhou, there were three hundred—these were the king’s officers. When Yu assembled at Mount Tu, the envoys of ten thousand nations, from the nine provinces to the wilds beyond, all came bearing tribute. Yet in each feudal state, there were ministers, attendants, scribes, and servants. Today, the counties, great and small, match the divisions of Yu and Xia… In the Qin and Han, there were forty-two commanderies under Qin; Han had just over a hundred, and beyond the chief and captain, the recorder and assistant managed all affairs—what, then, is the proper way? Examine thoroughly the benefits and drawbacks.”

This prompt summarized the evolution of officialdom from Yu, Xia, Shang, and Zhou to Qin and Han, asking candidates to analyze the pros and cons of each system. Ostensibly a test of classical and historical knowledge, it was, in truth, a veiled critique of the Song’s problem of redundant bureaucracy.

This essay required a broad grasp—not only familiarity with the official systems of past dynasties and their strengths and weaknesses, but also a thorough understanding of the Song’s own institutions and their faults. It demanded both historical perspective and contemporary awareness.

The scope was immense. At this, Li Sanjian found himself stymied, for his focus had been on the “New Interpretations of the Three Classics” and the “Explanation of Characters,” yet the five essay topics seemed scarcely to touch on these works.

What Li Sanjian lacked, precisely, was historical knowledge—a deficiency rooted in his mere three years of study under Su Shi, limited to the learning of the current age.

Only when a book is needed does one regret its absence; only through experience does one realize the difficulty!

Li Sanjian pondered bitterly as the hours slipped away, unable for a long time to begin. Only when half an hour remained did he finally manage to jot down some thoughts. As for the other three essay questions, he felt he had answered them well enough.

The fourth day of the provincial examination passed swiftly. After the test, the candidates filed out, some returning to their inns or lodgings, others gathering friends for excursions or feasts, seeking to relieve the crushing pressure.

Li Sanjian declined the invitation of Zeng Gongming and the others, returning alone to his quarters in low spirits.

“Sanjian, what’s wrong?” On seeing Li Sanjian’s troubled expression, Lady Fu asked with concern.

“It’s nothing,” Li Sanjian replied with a forced smile. “I’m just a little tired and want to rest.”

He then went straight into the inner room, threw himself onto the bed, and buried his head in the bedding.

Lady Fu gently removed his robe and hat, laid a thin quilt over him, and softly massaged his shoulders.

Under her careful ministrations, Li Sanjian soon drifted into sleep, deeper and sweeter than ever before.

Such was his temperament; however grave the trouble, he would always sleep on it first.