No law is without its flaws. The longer it is in force, the more plainly those flaws reveal themselves.
Only through constant refinement can a system endure and carry the realm forward.
In past Capital Evaluations, a stage had also been set for court deliberation and open counsel before proceedings formally began — a means of inviting broad expression of opinion. But the supervising secretaries and censors were, for the most part, those who had benefited most from the existing system. Few among them were inclined to probe to the root and offer proposals that addressed the underlying problem; what they suggested generally treated the surface without touching the cause.
After Pei Shaohuai submitted his memorial, the Emperor quickly arranged a court deliberation. Since it was to be a formal deliberation, copies of Pei Shaohuai’s memorial were naturally distributed to the Six Ministries, the Nine Courts, and the six departments of supervising secretaries and the thirteen circuits of censors.
Winter was approaching; the first snow had already fallen. Many officials, reading through the circulated documents, found their hands trembling — if this new policy were implemented, their futures would be uncertain indeed.
Among those most agitated were the supervising secretaries and censors. The new policy stripped away a considerable portion of their authority. Supervising secretaries and censors held small offices but wielded great influence, for they possessed the right to remonstrate and to participate in recommending appointments — matters intimately connected to the selection and employment of court talent. A more standardized Capital Evaluation meant their word would carry less weight.
For several days in a row, there was discussion and argument everywhere. Those who supported Pei Shaohuai were few indeed. A considerable number had resolved that they would, come the day of deliberation, drive this new policy down in defeat.
When the day of deliberation arrived, it was held in the main hall of the Qianqing Palace, convened under the highest formal specifications: the five Grand Secretaries of the Inner Cabinet, the chief officials and presiding officers of the Six Ministries and Nine Courts, and the supervising secretaries and censors, all in attendance.
Among them, Minister of Personnel Wang Gaoxiang was absent due to illness, his place taken by the Left Vice Minister for the deliberation.
Years had passed. When Pei Shaohuai, his green robes now exchanged for purple, stood once again before the hall, that unhurried, slightly casual bearing of his — it made many of the supervising secretaries and censors feel both furious and vaguely unsettled.
There was only Pei Shaohuai, a single man — while they were many. Why did they feel unsettled?
“You have all read Bureau Director Pei’s memorial,” the Emperor said, cutting directly to the matter. “Let the deliberation begin.”
In his memorial, Pei Shaohuai had written that the interview forms distributed during Capital Evaluations, being anonymous documents with no names attached, made it impossible to distinguish truth from falsehood in what was written — raising the real concern of rumors accepted as fact and empty accusations made without basis. He proposed that rather than exhausting effort on the joint assessment process to determine which claims could be trusted, it would be more productive to compile a detailed record of the actual achievements of capital officials — carefully listing what each had accomplished across six years of service and where they had fallen short in their duties, and assigning ratings on that basis.
Of course, verifying the achievements of officials would itself require a clear and systematic approach.
This change turned “examining failings” into “examining achievements.”
A supervising secretary from the Personnel Department led the charge for the opposition, seizing precisely on this point. He argued: “The sages said that the noble person ‘does not claim sole credit for achievements’ — to yield merit to others, to ascribe one’s accomplishments to Heaven, is the conduct of a noble person. Is Bureau Director Pei’s proposed achievement record not an invitation for every official to pass blame to others while seizing credit, stealing merit, and boasting of their own importance? The ensuing scramble in the hall would leave not a shred of the scholar’s bearing. Is this not a corruption of the court’s proper spirit?”
The meaning was: all officials ought to be noble persons, and noble persons are upright — they do not contend over credit. Bureau Director Pei’s approach was degrading the atmosphere of the court by inciting universal competition for merit.
Such an approach also, it was argued, violated the words of the sages.
In the Da Qing, with Confucian learning holding sway, every court official had proven himself an outstanding product of the examination system — and naturally, none were so skilled as such men at weaponizing “what the noble person ought to be” and “the scholar’s proper bearing” to attack their opponents.
Pei Shaojin, standing among the supervising secretaries and censors, moved to step forward and argue on his elder brother’s behalf — this kind of debate, in which one used the Confucian canon to defeat the Confucian canon, was precisely where his gift lay. With his formidable memory, he was in effect a walking anthology of the Four Books and Five Classics.
From across the great hall, Pei Shaohuai caught his brother’s eye and signaled him to stay back.
“The sages’ words are of course beyond doubt,” Pei Shaohuai said with a smile. “And yet ‘the noble person does not claim sole credit’ speaks to the character of the person — whereas the reckoning of merit and fault concerns ‘fulfilling the duties of one’s position’ and ‘whether one has served or neglected one’s charge.’ These two things are not the same and cannot be spoken of in the same breath. The Ministry for Evaluation of Merit naturally hopes that all men will be true noble persons — in which case examining the records of achievement would be considerably less laborious.”
You speak of “the noble person” in terms of the person; I speak of “merit and accountability” in terms of the office and its responsibilities. These are entirely separate matters — do not substitute one for the other.
If every man were a true noble person, what need would there be for the Capital Evaluation? This was a truth everyone in the hall knew. Court deliberation was conducted through this kind of contest — two sides clad in the armor of “the sages’ words,” turning that armor against one another within the boundaries of acknowledged fact.
“If we are to speak of noble persons and petty men—” Pei Shaohuai paused deliberately, then lifted an eyebrow, and his expression sharpened: “When the interview forms were first introduced, officials observed proper decorum and took it as a lasting mark against their reputation to put their name to an accusation — and so everyone held themselves in check and did not overstep. Now the forms have become ubiquitous, filled with outrageous and scandalous content. Were these claims to be taken at face value and acted upon according to every item listed within them, virtually every civil and military official in the court would merit dismissal or demotion. From decorum and self-restraint to rumormongering and accusation without basis — with everyone pointing fingers at one another — is this the scholar’s bearing?”
Pei Shaohuai walked to the side of the hall, took up a fistful of the yellowed old interview forms from the table, held them aloft, and pressed his challenge further: “In ordinary times, no one gives it a second thought — but when the Capital Evaluation comes and the interview forms are distributed, with time running short, people begin repeating what they have heard without verification and setting it down on paper. This is the conduct of a petty person, is it not? Rumor ceases with the wise, and the wise distinguish truth from falsehood; a man who lacks the discernment to see the world clearly ought all the more to be careful with his words. And yet here we see precisely the opposite: everyone fears they have written too little, dreading that if they do not drive out their rivals, their own place in the capital will be lost — is this the conduct of a petty person, or is it not?”
The indictment turned at last toward the supervising secretary who had spoken: “A noble person has nothing to fear from a transparent accounting of merit and fault. Supervising Secretary Tang does not contest the petty conduct found in the interview forms — yet argues against the record of official achievement — is it out of fear that others’ achievements may outshine one’s own, or anxiety that there will be nothing one’s own name beside? Is this the conduct of a petty person, or is it not?”
The man had been part of a scheme that once dragged the previous Bureau Director down into disgrace, and he stood here now still carrying the stain of that affair, daring to take up the debate of noble persons and petty men with Pei Shaohuai.
The supervising secretary from the Personnel Department was left without a word to say. He had, after all, come with a prepared argument, and after steadying himself somewhat, he recovered his composure enough to press on: “Bureau Director Pei has himself served as a supervising secretary and censor — he ought to understand that the interview form and the censor’s impeachment serve the same essential function. Forthright words may be difficult to hear — they cut like blades — yet they have the power to purify the upright and cleanse the corrupt. Is Bureau Director Pei unwilling to receive forthright counsel? Without the collective oversight and impeachment of the court officials, what is to prevent the treacherous and the corrupt from remaining in their posts to hollow out the Da Qing’s foundations — would that not be an even greater calamity? Only to assess merit and never to assess fault — can Bureau Director Pei bear responsibility for the consequences?”
The argument was: what appeared in the interview forms may be unpleasant and perhaps somewhat excessive, yet it served the higher purpose of rooting out the corrupt and disloyal — and that made it forthright counsel.
“The achievement record will assess both merit and fault alike — reward for achievement, penalty for fault. Supervising Secretary Tang fixates on the choice of words — well then, by all means, let it be called an ‘achievement and fault record’ instead,” Pei Shaohuai replied without missing a step.
As for the supervising secretary’s renewed sleight of hand with “forthright counsel,” Pei Shaohuai’s response was: “Feng Tang’s forthright counsel was offered on behalf of Wei Shang; Wu She’s forthright counsel was offered to turn Han Xin. Precisely because I once held a post as supervising secretary and censor, I understand their vital importance. Yet the Emperor has already granted supervising secretaries and censors the right and duty to remonstrate — bidding them to speak boldly. Is it that official duties are so pressing there is no time to submit a memorial? Or that the yamen is short of blank petition paper? What is there to remonstrate that cannot be written in a formal memorial? What is there to remonstrate that cannot be openly stated under one’s own name — and must instead be concealed behind the anonymity of an interview form?”
In a single sentence, he had exposed the motive behind everyone’s desire to preserve the anonymous interview form.
He was not yet finished: “The Emperor has granted the supervising secretaries and censors of the six departments and thirteen circuits the authority to remonstrate — for the very purpose Supervising Secretary Tang invokes: ‘to purify the upright and cleanse the corrupt.’ If remonstrance by the censors and supervising secretaries is still insufficient, and one must rely on an interview form of dubious reliability — after six full years without submitting remonstrance, waiting instead for the one moment of the Capital Evaluation — does this not suggest that the supervising secretaries of the six departments and the censors of the thirteen circuits have been negligent in their ordinary duties, failing to observe and failing to act?”
Having the explicit authority to remonstrate — and yet watching the interview forms instead.
In this string of argument, only a single line went unsaid: “Then what use are you?” You might as well be dismissed and replaced.
After all, in court deliberation, it was not unheard of for a man to argue himself right out of his own office.
The supervising secretary from the Personnel Department abruptly lost all color in his face. He had still been contemplating a stance of “dying in protest” to demonstrate a scholar’s backbone — but Pei Shaohuai’s argument had bound him together with all the supervising secretaries and censors of the six departments and thirteen circuits, and he no longer dared to represent their body as a whole. Better to leave it to someone else.
The supervising secretaries and censors retreated from the field. The presiding officials stepped forward.
The presiding officials were court figures of the third rank and above — not necessarily serving as chief officials, but invariably holding positions of importance.
If abolishing the interview forms was seen as encroaching on the censors’ right of remonstrance, then abolishing the formal examination of oral evaluation and replacing it with a written examination was an encroachment on the presiding officials’ power of “cultivation” — the power to draw subordinates into their orbit. Consider: in a formal oral examination, a presiding official’s few brief words of assessment could determine whether an official was deemed fit or unfit, whether he stayed in the capital or was sent away. In such circumstances, what official who was ambitious and eager to rise would not attach himself to those of rank and power?
For those high officials who wielded great authority, the constraints placed on them by the Emperor were insufficient. To defy the Emperor’s directives and fill positions with personal favorites — if exposed, the penalty was rarely fatal; and if successful, the rewards were considerable. Under such conditions, to rely on nothing more than the word “virtue” to restrain men who were bent on personal advantage, expecting them voluntarily to resist the pull of interest, was clearly naive.
When advantage outweighed danger, when personal authority overshadowed the law — the habit of forming factions and cultivating private interests refused to truly die, and any breeze would see it revive.
It was precisely for this reason, combined with the Emperor’s determination to address the problem, that Pei Shaohuai had proposed the written examination — replacing the formal oral evaluation with a set of examination results, with the superior’s assessment reduced to supplementary reference only. This would greatly diminish the influence of high officials in the Capital Evaluation, giving officials below them a path to advance even if they did not curry favor with the powerful.
First examine achievement, then examine ability, and finally survey public opinion. This last element was the most difficult to realize — but at minimum, the first two could first be put into practice.
As for the portion of authority taken from the high officials — in the current order of the world, it could not yet be returned to the people. For now, let it be returned to “the law.”
Because the interests at stake were so great, the resistance Pei Shaohuai faced was correspondingly fierce. A succession of officials of the second and third rank took their turns — every one of them sharp-tongued and ready, their mouths full of ancestral statutes and the moral teachings of benevolence and righteousness.
Grand Secretary Zhang, Grand Secretary Xu, his father-in-law, and others had each prepared a response — but unless Pei Shaohuai found himself driven into a genuinely defensive position, they would not step forward rashly. Their particular relationships with him made open advocacy from them, in a court deliberation, far more likely to hinder than to help. Given how the day’s exchanges were unfolding, it seemed they were unlikely to find occasion to speak after all. They managed only to keep the smiles off their faces while their hearts were brimming with quiet satisfaction.
One official argued that the current assessment reviews were structured according to the Eight Offenses, which were concise yet comprehensive — capturing every case, and admitting of no reasonable objection.
What were the Eight Offenses? They were: greed, cruelty, frivolity, inadequate ability, advanced age, infirmity, sluggishness, and lack of caution. The presence of any one of these warranted dismissal.
The official even listed a number of examples of officials dismissed for one of these eight failings, to demonstrate their effectiveness.
Minister Wang’s own nephew had been sent out of the capital on the grounds of “lack of caution.”
Pei Shaohuai replied: “Greed, cruelty, inadequate ability, advanced age, infirmity, and sluggishness — these six can at least be traced through observable evidence, and those dismissed for committing any of them deserve no sympathy. Yet by what standard are ‘frivolity’ and ‘lack of caution’ to be measured? What distinguishes a greater lack of caution from a lesser one? To use an undefined standard of ‘lack of caution’ to judge another’s ‘lack of caution’ is itself an act of lack of caution.”
“Every assessment of merit and fault ought to have a clear and precise measure before it can be called ‘caution,'” Pei Shaohuai demanded. “I put the question to the assembled ministers: those who hold ‘frivolity’ and ‘lack of caution’ in their hands — do they truly wield these standards for the purpose of removing unlawful officials from office? Or to affix an unsubstantiated charge upon an official of no real wrongdoing, in service of private ends?”
Everyone’s eyes moved to the place where the Minister of Personnel ought to have been seated — and then remembered he was absent on account of illness today.
Pei Shaohuai turned to the Emperor and bowed with cupped hands: “Your servant submits that even the punishment of negligent officials must be carried out according to proper law and procedure, so that the outcome may command the respect of all — and so that officials are genuinely motivated to fulfill their duties faithfully.”
Another official stepped forward: “The assessment review is the superior’s evaluation of his subordinate. When a superior commends, he shows his capacity to recognize talent; when the subordinate receives a word of commendation, he is motivated to press forward with renewed effort. This spirit of mutual encouragement between superior and subordinate, with each drawing out the best in the other — how, in Bureau Director Pei’s estimation, is it worth nothing?”
It was at precisely this point that the passages Pei Shaohuai had earlier had transcribed from the assessment reviews proved their use.
Pei Shaohuai held up a copy and read aloud: “For a sixth-rank Bureau Director in one of the Six Ministries, the review invariably says ‘clear talent combined with evident acuity, official affairs managed with literary distinction’; for a supervising secretary, it always runs ‘nimble and resolute, daring in speech when the occasion demands, upright in nature, disciplined in all personal conduct’; and for the censors of the thirteen circuits, it is ‘ability and commitment, worthy of encouragement in public service; conduct and integrity, reputation well established.’ These small assessments, in pursuit of balanced phrasing and elegant parallelism — read through once and they seem fine enough; read again and they are little more than florid words. What the court requires from an assessment review is not a veneer of harmony and mutual accommodation, everyone careful not to give offense — but an honest account of who has genuinely served the public and the people, and with what results.”
He then took up a record of official service and had Chief Eunuch Xiao present it to the Emperor. He then continued: “Your Majesty, please read the assessment in this record. Based on those lines alone, one would conclude that this man was a man of jade and coral — like pine, like cypress — a nobleman of perfect bearing, a rare genius that comes but once in a hundred generations. Then look at the name attached: it belongs to a corrupt official who, years past, embezzled relief funds designated for Jiangxi and was found dead by his own hand in prison. It may be true that a corrupt heart does not always show on the surface — yet he was this man’s superior and saw nothing at all to give him pause, but rather gave unstinting praise. This shows how long entrenched this habit of hollow brilliance has been.”
Subordinates cultivated networks and paid bribes to secure fine words of praise; superiors drew followers and reaped benefit by lavishing glowing assessments on them. The assessment review had become a private transaction conducted in the shadows.
The Emperor, hearing this, was incensed. He demanded: “Who was it, at that time, who wrote the assessment for this official? Is he present in this hall?”
The Right Deputy Director of the Censorate stepped out with a trembling step, knelt, and said: “This old servant, aged and dim of sight, failed to see through the deceit. I humbly implore Your Majesty to permit this old servant to retire and return to his home province.”
“Too late,” the Emperor said sharply. “So as not to dishonor the literary merit of your assessment — you are demoted eight ranks and assigned to the Imperial Academy to copy out the classical texts.”
In truth, there was no need to single out one official for harsh punishment in the middle of a court deliberation. The Emperor’s action was no more than a declaration of intent.