Now that the two brothers Huai and Jin had formally begun their studies, relying solely on their grandfather and father to instruct them was clearly insufficient. And besides, Pei Bingyuan was occupied with preparing for the following autumn’s provincial examinations.

The Earl’s residence underwent a careful and thorough selection process, and engaged two private tutors for the brothers — Master Ge and Master Cao.

Master Ge was a kindly little old man, approaching sixty years of age, with no academic title to his name — yet he wrote with an exceptionally fine hand. In posture, in the application of force through the wrist, and in the technique of the brush tip, he had his own well-developed understanding of each. His imitations of the Yan and Liu styles had reached seven or eight parts resemblance, and his official script was also excellent.

Though it was imitation, it was more than adequate for teaching the two brothers Huai and Jin how to write.

By comparison, Master Cao was of a considerably more aloof disposition — austere and unsmiling. He was an aged government-school student who, after decades of failing to pass the provincial examinations, had turned to tutoring. Having taught the children of many wealthy and noble households, he had built a modest reputation in the capital.

Each day, the two tutors alternated. Master Ge taught character recognition and calligraphy; Master Cao taught reading and literary composition.

……

On the very first day of lessons, Master Ge tested the two brothers and discovered that they had already learned to recognize every character in the Thousand Character Classic and the Elementary Learning by Master Zhu. Delighted and astonished in equal measure, he chuckled and said: “Remarkable, remarkable — at such a young age, they have mastered nearly the full range of characters. Their future is without limit.”

And so he began teaching them how to hold the brush.

“When writing, the finest details lie in the fingers, the movement of the strokes lies in the wrist, and the steadiness and evenness lie in the elbow. Therefore, the fingers, the wrist, and the elbow must work in proper coordination, with the correct application of force in each, before one can produce fine calligraphy.”

Simply practicing the proper grip — holding the brush with a suspended wrist and elevated elbow — caused both brothers considerable difficulty.

Pei Shaohuai had grown accustomed in his previous life to using hard-nib pens, and correcting his brush-holding posture was especially laborious. If he was not constantly vigilant, his old habits would reassert themselves, and he had no choice but to continually clear his mind and start from the beginning again. He understood clearly that if he hoped to achieve anything on the path of the civil examinations, mastering a fine hand was an absolute necessity.

Jin Ge’er was also diligent to a remarkable degree — he held the brush so steadily that beads of sweat formed on his brow, yet as long as the tutor did not call a stop, he gritted his teeth and pressed on.

“In your view, what is the most important element within any given character?” Master Ge asked.

Pei Shaohuai, not having studied calligraphy as a discipline in his previous life, naturally had no expertise to draw upon, and could only answer according to his own understanding. He said, “In this student’s opinion, it is the individual strokes — each stroke and line comes together to form the character.”

“And you?” the tutor asked.

Jin Ge’er replied, “I think the same as Elder Brother — begin with each individual stroke, and proceed from the simple to the complex.”

“That is not correct.” Master Ge explained patiently. “If we liken a character to a house, then the individual strokes are like the wooden beams. No matter how fine the timber, if the structure is poorly assembled, a single push will bring it down — it will not stand firm. Therefore, in writing characters, the most important thing is to grasp their structure. Strokes can produce the form; structure is what produces the beauty.”

In the lessons that followed, Master Ge went on to introduce them in detail to the structural principles of various character types.

The two brothers were greatly enlightened.

As for the choice of which copybook to practice from, Master Ge also had his own views on the matter. He said: “Scholars who aspire to the civil examinations favor official script — round and upright, with restrained brushwork — as it is the most suitable style for writing in the examination hall, and for this reason it is widely favored. There is nothing wrong with that in itself. And yet, in my view, there is no need to rush at the very outset to practice from official script and thereby limit yourselves. If the two of you master your wrist strength and technique first, then writing official script when the time comes will be nothing more than a natural outcome.”

Master Ge said this because he could see that the two boys possessed genuine talent. For those less naturally gifted in writing, practicing official script from the start in a steady and disciplined manner was the most efficient path — but these two were different.

At the end of each lesson, Master Ge would give the brothers a single sheet of paper, his personal seal pressed in the lower right corner. He said: “The characters I assign you to practice today — you must practice them properly before you are to copy them onto this sheet. There is only one sheet, and no corrections are permitted. Hand it to me at the next lesson. If you dare to be careless and I can tell, you will receive a rap on the hand.”

And so, after each day’s lessons, the two brothers had no choice but to stay on and practice their characters, daring not to grow lazy. Only once both had written to a satisfactory standard would they leave together and return to their respective courtyards.

At the end of each month, Master Ge would bring out all the sheets they had submitted, lay them side by side, and say, “Have a look for yourselves — can you see any improvement?” The progress was plain to see at a glance.

Under this manner of training, the two brothers’ abilities in writing advanced steadily and in due order.

……

Master Cao, who taught reading and literary composition, took a considerably more traditional approach. He simply applied to the two brothers the same methods he had used with his other young students.

In keeping with Pei Pu’s wishes, Master Cao was instructed not to bother with introductory primers such as the Three Character Classic or the Standards for Being a Good Student, and to begin directly with the Four Books.

Master Cao’s teaching method could be called the “full recitation method” — not unlike the “rote-learning method” of later generations.

Each day, once the lesson began and the formal greetings had been exchanged, Master Cao would settle onto the teaching platform, announce the name of a text and the passage to be opened to, and then begin to read the content of that passage aloud in the swaying, lilting manner of a scholar — with Huai Ge’er and Jin Ge’er reading along together.

No explanation was offered midway.

After reading through once, they would turn back to the beginning and start again — repeating this three times in all, after which it was time to conclude the lesson.

Master Cao would then say, “Go home and commit today’s material to memory carefully. I will test you tomorrow.”

And so it went, day after day.

The essence of this “full recitation method” lay in this: while students were still young, they were first taught to memorize the Four Books and Five Classics until they knew them backward and forward. Once they grew older and their understanding deepened, the meaning would be explained to them gradually — and the older they became, the more profound their comprehension.

It was not that Master Cao was simply going through the motions. Throughout the Da Qing dynasty, private schools and tutors across the land followed this method when teaching young children. They held that children, being young, would not understand much even if meaning were explained to them, and so it was better to first commit the texts to memory and lay a solid foundation, allowing understanding to develop slowly over time.

Pei Shaohuai had no particular objection to or support for this approach — since it was the prevailing custom, it clearly had its uses. After all, the passage-recitation questions in the county and prefectural examinations required candidates to transcribe the original text without missing a single character. This was an essential skill on the path to the civil examinations — and sooner or later, the memorization would have to be done regardless.

As for the practice of swaying the head while reading aloud, however, neither brother was particularly fond of it.

Jin Ge’er said, “Every time we belt it out at the top of our voices, I feel like a rooster on the rooftop, crowing and crowing until the sun comes up.”

Huai Ge’er said, “I feel as though my head is a laundry bat that a maidservant is hammering away with — bang, bang, knock, knock — until I’m dizzy and muddled.”

“Crowing and crowing until the sun comes up” — “bang, bang, knock, knock until dizzy and muddled.” By coincidence, they had formed quite a fitting pair of parallel phrases.

But what choice did the brothers have? If they did not sway their heads while reading, Master Cao would accuse them of improper bearing and give them a rap on the hand.

One day, Master Cao was conducting a recitation test in class — the Gongyechang Chuan Cheng – Chapter of the Analects.

Pei Shaohuai recited first. Though he stumbled slightly here and there, he managed to get through it in full.

When it was Pei Shaojin’s turn, his phrasing and pauses were clearly not as polished as Pei Shaohuai’s — yet he recited it quickly and fluently.

Pei Shaohuai could only laugh ruefully at himself. When he had first crossed into this world, he had wondered whether he ought to conceal his abilities, for fear that someone might find him too exceptional and regard him as something unnatural. Looking at things now — there was not the slightest need for concealment on his part. Standing before a genuinely extraordinary talent, the only advantage he had was that he was an “old soul,” and it was only by virtue of that that he managed not to be too greatly outshone.

Jin Ge’er’s memory was, in truth, beyond all praise.

And he was exceptionally diligent as well.

Just as Pei Shaohuai was drifting slightly into inattention, he suddenly heard Master Cao say, “You — stop there.”

Jin Ge’er’s recitation ceased.

“Which passage did I ask you to recite?”

“In reply to the tutor — the Gongyechang chapter.”

Master Cao asked again, “And where have you recited to?”

Jin Ge’er thought for a moment, then replied in a halting voice, “The Yongye chapter.” Even as he spoke, he quietly extended his hand, prepared to receive a ruler across the palm.

It turned out that he had been reciting so quickly that, without realizing it, he had gone past the Gongyechang Chuan Cheng – Chapter and into the next one — the Yongye chapter. The trouble was, Master Cao had not yet taught them the Yongye chapter.

Master Cao did not strike Jin Ge’er’s palm. Instead, he was silent for a moment — as though working out where things had gone wrong — and then asked: “What other chapters have you memorized?”

Jin Ge’er slowly picked up the second volume of the Analects from the desk.

Huai Ge’er, standing to one side, stared in absolute stupefaction. The first volume was not yet finished, and Jin Ge’er had already memorized his way into the second.

Jin Ge’er realized he had picked up the wrong one. He set it down and slowly picked up the third volume of the Analects instead. “I have already memorized up to the Weilinggong Chuan Cheng – Chapter in the third volume,” he said.

Huai Ge’er: …

Huai Ge’er fell silent. The tutor also fell silent.

“Last night I had an upset stomach, otherwise I should have been at the Jishi Chuan Cheng – Chapter by now.”

Huai Ge’er wanted nothing more than to rush over and clap a hand over his younger brother’s mouth, crying: “My dear younger brother — you have already said more than enough. Please spare your elder brother a way to live. Between brothers, there is no need for such relentless competition.”

That, of course, was said in jest. In truth, Pei Shaohuai only felt that the path of scholarly study and the civil examinations was indeed no easy road. There were surely more than a few individuals in this world as extraordinarily gifted as Jin Ge’er. If he wished to make his mark, he had no choice but to be more diligent — to build on his own strengths while also addressing his weaknesses.

And sure enough, when the lesson ended, Master Cao said to Huai Ge’er: “If you find yourself with extra capacity, continue memorizing ahead as well.”

“Yes, Tutor.”

After the tutor left, the two brothers remained in the study to complete their assigned work.

“Jin Ge’er has quite a ruthless streak,” Huai Ge’er said, stretching lazily and feigning complaint. “Bad enough that you sneak off to be diligent through the night on your own — but then you let the tutor catch you at it and drag me into the water along with you. It seems I shall have to keep my lamp burning till dawn tonight.”

The brothers, accustomed from early childhood to studying side by side, were in the habit of lighthearted banter, and so Jin Ge’er teased back: “When I return to my courtyard, I’ll have my attendant send over some lamp oil for Elder Brother — just in case Elder Brother claims tomorrow that the oil ran out and he couldn’t make it to dawn.”

“Oh, you — Jin Ge’er! You’re the one who gave yourself away and brought this trouble onto me, and now you have the nerve to make sport of me,” Huai Ge’er retorted. “From now on, whenever you come across a character whose meaning you don’t know, do not bother asking me. Go find Master Cao yourself — see whether he’ll deign to explain it to you. More likely he’ll tell you to hurry up and memorize the annotations and collected commentaries — ha, ha, ha!”

And in this manner, the two brothers bickered and laughed all the way back to their respective courtyards.

From that day on, Master Cao’s lessons fell into a peculiar predicament —

He had barely prepared his teaching plan when the two brothers Huai and Jin would effectively say: We have already finished with that.

He had no choice but to give serious thought to the question of how, precisely, he was to instruct this pair of brothers.

……

……

The following year brought the autumn provincial examinations, and the Osmanthus List was posted once more. Just as Pei Shaohuai had remembered from the original story, brother-in-law Xu Zhan performed brilliantly in this examination, placing first on the regional list and earning the title of top provincial graduate.

It also happened that Lian Jie’er gave birth to a son for Xu Zhan around this time, the child named Xu Yan Gui — a double joy arriving together. Madam Xu was so pleased that she praised her two daughters-in-law to everyone she met, saying they were both gracious and composed, steady in all they did, perceptive in their thinking, and that it was their efforts that kept the household harmonious, allowing both her sons to focus on their studies with ease and thus achieve such fine results.

As for the Jingchuan Earl’s residence —

A son-in-law placing first in the provincial examinations, a daughter bearing a child: these should have been causes for great rejoicing. Yet the Pei family held no celebration, and the atmosphere within the household was rather subdued. For Pei Bingyuan had also sat for this year’s autumn provincial examinations — and had failed once more.

This year, he had felt clearly that he had answered better than ever before. How could he still have failed to pass?

Pei Bingyuan did his best to carry on as usual, even arranging to go and offer congratulations to his son-in-law in person. But those who lived with him could all see that he was deeply disheartened, sunk in a despondency that could not be concealed.

Pei Shaohuai sighed to himself, thinking: Father has failed year after year — his essays must surely lack a certain quality, a certain depth of cultivation. Yet how that depth is to be cultivated is not something that can be achieved simply by reading more or memorizing more. It requires either innate talent or the right moment — both things that cannot be sought after at will.

This was the cruel truth at the heart of the civil examination system.

A few days later, the Xu family’s father-in-law came in person to pay a visit to the Earl’s residence. Xu senior had served as Deputy Director of the Imperial Academy for two years before being transferred to the Ministry of Rites, and was now serving as the Chief Director of the Court of State Ceremonial — an official of the fourth rank.

He enjoyed the Emperor’s trust and was much called upon.

With his many duties at court, the fact that he was able to carve out the time to come in person indicated that he had important business to discuss. At the banquet table, after several rounds of wine, Xu senior finally said to Pei Bingyuan: “My good in-law, a few days ago, an old acquaintance of mine at the Imperial Academy mentioned that a small irregularity had come up this year regarding the tribute student enrollment, leaving one place unfilled. He feared that if the slot were made available through the usual channels, the various districts and prefectures below would scramble over it — so he came to me.”

He said no more after that. The meaning was plain enough that no one would fail to understand.

The talk of a “small irregularity” was almost certainly a matter in which Xu senior had gone to considerable lengths to secure an enrollment slot at the Imperial Academy.

A tribute student position meant presenting a talented individual to the court through the Imperial Academy — and upon graduation, one was eligible for official appointment. The starting rank was somewhat low, but it was nonetheless a legitimate path into government service. Many scholars who had failed to pass the provincial examinations were lined up waiting for such an opportunity.

An opportunity like this — any other man would have accepted it without a moment’s hesitation.

Yet Pei Bingyuan’s hand, raised to take his wine cup, went still. His expression was hesitant, and he did not speak for a long moment.