On the twelfth day of the second month, the fourth day of the Imperial Examinations, the second examination session began.
The five Eight-Legged Essays of the first session were of utmost importance, and so the candidates had devoted the bulk of their energy to it, laboring over every word and phrase. By the time the second session commenced, more than half of them were already showing signs of exhaustion.
Pei Shaohuai had been going to bed early each night and was in reasonably good spirits, yet the cramped examination cell made it impossible to lie flat and sleep properly, leaving his entire body aching with fatigue, his joints rubbed raw and sore.
As he ground his ink, the subject boards for the second session were announced.
The second session required one essay on “discourse,” running over three hundred characters; one piece from the category of imperial edicts, proclamations, and memorials; five legal judgments; and this year, one additional mathematics problem—eight questions in total. Though the question count was the highest of any session, the second session was in fact the easiest of the three.
Pei Shaohuai paid particular attention to the mathematics problem. Glancing over, he saw that the subject board read: “Expound upon the mathematical principles of the right triangle, and enumerate its wide-ranging applications.” The task was to explain the theorem’s methods and principles, then list its practical uses.
The difficulty was moderate, and the question was semi-open-ended, giving candidates room to demonstrate their abilities. It was not designed to deliberately trip anyone up.
Pei Shaohuai thought to himself: as expected of a Grand Secretary who had spent years navigating the court and officialdom, the question struck a measured balance—it fulfilled the purpose of testing mathematics while leaving no handle for criticism. Had Grand Secretary Shen set an extremely difficult and obscure mathematics problem that only a handful of candidates could answer, it would inevitably have drawn censure and impeachment from rival factions, who would accuse him of favoritism and deliberately setting obscure questions.
Grand Secretary Shen’s inclusion of a mathematics question was simply meant to urge scholars across the realm to devote some of their remaining energy to studying the mathematical sciences—not to make things difficult for them.
Pei Shaohuai had once compiled a manuscript on mathematics, so elucidating mathematical principles posed no difficulty for him. When listing applications, he wrote: “…Using the right-triangle sighting method, with a compound gnomon, one can simultaneously measure heights that are immeasurably tall and distances that are immeasurably far…” He then enumerated the theorem’s applications in hydraulic engineering, siege warfare, and civil construction.
Next came the edict composition question, which tested the candidates’ mastery of official document formats and their command of language. The most critical pitfalls were writing an incorrect format heading or using wrong characters; furthermore, when transcribing, one had to ensure that the character for “minister” was written one size smaller than the characters for “sovereign” and “sage.” Any candidate who made such an oversight would have their paper rejected outright, regardless of the quality of their essay.
The “edict composition” question at the Imperial Examination was one level harder than at the Provincial Examination, typically designating a specific historical scenario—some famous minister of some dynasty doing this or that—and asking the candidate to compose an official document accordingly. This year’s edict question, for instance, read: “Draft an imperial edict appointing Zhang Jiuling of the Tang dynasty as Chief Minister of the Secretariat.” It was testing Tang dynasty edicts.
Not only did the composition need to follow the four-six parallel prose style and employ elegant diction, it also had to align with historical facts and context, without mechanical imitation or empty padding.
This meant candidates needed not only to be well-versed in the official document formats of every dynasty, but also to have a thorough understanding of historical backgrounds and the temperaments of wise rulers and renowned ministers, so as to place themselves within that context and produce a document that fit the question’s intent.
Such official documents were far more demanding than anything produced in later ages.
Pei Shaohuai had made a point of practicing this type of writing and was also well acquainted with the achievements of Tang dynasty’s Zhang Jiuling. After a brief moment of contemplation, he had already composed a draft in his mind, and wrote on the rough paper: “Bearing Heaven’s mandate, the Emperor decrees… Zhang Jiuling, formerly Vice Minister of the Secretariat, has borne great responsibility without faltering, managed military defense with steady command, appointed the worthy and recommended the talented with merit… Hereby granted the position of Chief Minister of the Secretariat; two hereditary student quotas granted to his legitimate sons and grandsons for memorial rites…”
The language needed not to be ornate but accurate and refined.
For this type of question, so long as one made no glaring errors, few examiners would quibble over its merits—which meant the goal was not perfection, merely flawlessness.
With Pei Shaohuai’s solid foundation in calligraphy and writing, the edict he produced was naturally of good quality.
The discourse essay, the edict, and the mathematics problem were now complete. Of the five legal judgment questions that remained in the second session, the sky was growing dark, so Pei Shaohuai decided to tackle those the following day.
Seeing that the rain showed no sign of stopping, Pei Shaohuai had made a habit of placing his dried provisions over the charcoal brazier each day to toast them until they felt dry and hard to the touch, then packing them back into their bag and tying it shut. As for other foods that were prone to moisture and mold, there was little he could do about those.
When evening fell, someone nearby lit a brazier and began cooking, and the aroma drifted over. Regrettably, whether in his past life or this one, Pei Shaohuai had never been skilled in the culinary arts, so from the very beginning he had decided to bring only dried provisions, dried meat, and preserved vegetables.
In the dead of night, from somewhere beyond the examination cells—several rows away—there first came the sound of a desk board collapsing, then erratic sounds of struggling and scraping, followed by a sudden loud, gasping cry that gradually faded within a few breaths. On the desk board, there came a rhythmic knocking—tap, tap, tap…tap, tap—until at last there was silence.
Pei Shaohuai jolted awake.
He then saw the patrol officers arrive with armed attendants carrying a stretcher, and they quietly bore the person away with their heads lowered.
Pei Shaohuai’s heartbeat stumbled. It was not from fear or shock, but rather a natural chill that arose when death unfolded before one’s very eyes. He tried to calm himself and turn his thoughts away from the matter—not entirely to preserve his focus for the examination, but because not dwelling on it, not talking about it, was the dignity one could offer to the departed.
The next day, the rain let up for most of the afternoon. The examination grounds remained damp, but the air felt noticeably warmer, and some of the candidates who had been looking ill had regained a little color.
Everyone was hoping the rain would stop for good.
Pei Shaohuai set to work on the legal judgment questions. At his usual practice pace, he could complete them in half a day, and there was still plenty of time before the second session ended, so he could take his time.
The questions were as follows: first, auditing examination papers; second, concealing conscripted labor; third, prohibiting lavish escorts and receptions; fourth, unauthorized mobilization of troops; fifth, improper recommendation of candidates for the Imperial Academy.
Since the Imperial Examination was designed to select officials for the court, the legal questions leaned heavily toward official law rather than toward civil law topics such as household disputes, theft, brawls and litigation, fugitive apprehension, and criminal sentencing, which tended to feature more prominently in the Provincial Examinations.
The most difficult of the five was the fifth question, “improper recommendation of candidates for the Imperial Academy”—meaning that among the tribute students recommended and sent to the Imperial Academy each year, some did not match their registered identities: some were impostors, some were mix-ups, some were bought and sold in private transactions. This was similar to scandals that recurred in later ages—someone taking another person’s place at a university, using another person’s credentials to accomplish something, so that decades later the two individuals’ lives were vastly different, worlds apart.
The penalties for such offenses were clearly specified in the Da Qing legal code.
The difficulty lay not in the analysis but in how to enumerate all the punishments within two hundred characters. After careful consideration, Pei Shaohuai wrote: “Those already appointed: to be exiled to the border garrisons. Those not yet appointed: to serve in the military for life…” This covered the penalties for the principal offenders, divided into cases where the offense had already been completed and cases where it had not.
Imposture and identity fraud did not merely result in the revocation of one’s status—it was an offense punishable by banishment. The court regarded the Imperial Academy as a breeding ground for talent; how could it tolerate “improper recommendations”? If everyone followed such a practice, what purpose would recommendations serve at all?
Beyond the principal offenders, there were also the recommending officials, those who accepted bribes, those who were aware of the fraud, and those who failed in their supervisory duties—all of whom were subject to their own prescribed penalties and could be dealt with accordingly.
The question itself consisted of only a few characters, yet the laws it implicated were considerable in number.
On the sixth day, the sky was overcast and sunless. The chief examiner used a water clock to mark the time. Before the lamps were lit beneath the eaves, a single stroke of a gong rang out from the center of the examination grounds, followed immediately by armed attendants at the four corners striking their gongs in response—the entire compound echoed with the sound. The second session was over.
As Pei Shaohuai packed up his provisions, he found that although the dried meat and preserved vegetables had not yet gone moldy, they had turned limp and soft, their surfaces showing signs of moisture.
He did not dare eat them anymore.
Fortunately, the bag of dried provisions he had toasted each day had not spoiled. They were harder than usual, but sufficient to fill the stomach and stave off hunger. The few sandy-skinned pears that had been sitting on his desk board had not gone bad either.
Pei Shaohuai weighed a piece of dried flatbread in his hand, poured himself a cup of tea, sat down, and ate slowly and deliberately—and even found himself developing an unhurried appreciation for the view from within his examination cell: heavy clouds massed overhead, grey and boundless.
He felt genuinely grateful. Six days had now passed, and his body remained in good health. He would be able to see the entire examination through to the end.
The other candidates in the nearby cells felt much the same way. Even those who had caught a chill—as long as they had not collapsed and been carried out during the first six days—had only three more days to endure, and endure they could. Once there was something to look forward to, one’s spirits lifted considerably.
Pei Shaohuai pulled his quilt around himself and lay down to sleep, and found that his heart, too, was now full of other things to look forward to.
On the fifteenth day of the second month, the third examination session began. It consisted of five policy essay questions, testing the candidates’ views and perspectives on matters of national governance and the people’s livelihood. The subject matter was drawn from an enormous range: ancient history, current affairs, astronomy above, geography below, mountains, rivers, lakes, and seas—all could be transformed into examination questions to test the candidates.
At the level of the Imperial Examination, the policy essays were regarded with ever-greater importance by the examiners. For one thing, policy questions covered a wide and comprehensive range of topics and were best suited to revealing a candidate’s actual aptitude for governance, rather than merely testing their mastery of classical phrases. For another, the Palace Examination tested only policy essays—if a candidate could not even perform well on the policy essays at the Imperial Examination, what right did he have to participate in the Palace Examination?
The civil examinations did not test only abstract learning. Policy questions, in fact, could be highly practical, and the key lay in how the chief examiner chose to frame them. This year, Grand Secretary Shen’s questions were very substantive, closely tied to governance and the people’s welfare.
For instance, the first question read: “The commanderies of the southwestern frontier are frequently struck by earthquakes, destroying the homes of the people and inflicting casualties, while talk of divine punishment and malevolent omens spreads everywhere…What is the root cause of this?” It asked candidates to discuss the causes of earthquakes and how to manage the spread of fearful rumors during disaster relief.
In times of natural calamity, people spread “ominous talk” and were gripped by dread. Some would seize on this opportunity to raise a banner of revolt and stir up unrest in the chaos. This had been a recurring problem throughout every dynasty.
Pei Shaohuai naturally understood the true causes of earthquakes, but he could not simply write them out directly—otherwise he would likely be judged as “citing erroneous heterodox texts” or “entertaining unsubstantiated fancies with no classical basis.” He needed to find support within existing canonical texts, and ultimately, Pei Shaohuai thought of the Book of Changes.
The Book of Changes states: “The way of the earth flows from fullness to yielding”—holding that the earth’s crust is not static but capable of shifting and flowing.
This was, he decided, the most accurate explanation of the true causes that the classics could offer.
Pei Shaohuai began his essay with the opening argument: “The way of the earth flows in fullness, and Heaven and humanity respond in kind; if one upholds the law and follows principle, calamity may be averted and strange occurrences quelled.” The first clause explained that earthquakes arise from the shifting flow of the earth’s ways, causing upheaval between Heaven and Earth that can be perceived; the second clause articulated the essential principle of disaster relief.
In Pei Shaohuai’s view, disaster relief was not a matter of suppressing ominous rumors but of uniting the efforts of those above and below to swiftly resettle the displaced people. If that were achieved, the rumors would collapse of their own accord without any need to combat them directly. What was most to be feared was inverting cause and effect—fixating on silencing dissenting voices while neglecting the actual relief work, which would only deepen the dread in the people’s hearts and cause them to give greater credence to the rumors.
He refined his language and carefully committed his views, one strand at a time, to paper, completing the first draft of the opening question.
The second question asked: “Da Qing is vast, and its four borders lie at great remove from one another…Deliberate upon water and land transportation.”
This question tested the breadth of the candidates’ knowledge and experience.
In Da Qing, maps were inaccurate and scarce, and were moreover classified as sensitive military materials—only senior officials and military commanders were permitted to see them. Without having seen a map, and without having traveled widely through personal study, how could one grasp the full picture from a mere handful of river names in a book?
There was no clever rhetorical trick for opening this question. One needed simply to write clearly what one knew and understood, and then to enumerate the benefits that a well-developed transportation network—both horizontal and vertical—would bring to the people and the state.
Pei Shaohuai concluded his essay with: “…Waterborne transport and overland travel complement each other in concert.” His essay touched on maritime trade along the eastern coast—that from Jiaozhou one could reach the southern regions—as well as the Grand Canal, which was sufficient to link the north and south in a continuous artery… and so forth along these lines.
Three days came and went, and the final examination session was over. The paper-collecting officials and the seal-binding officials, together with the supervising officials—all three working in concert—gathered the papers one by one, sealed and stamped them, and only then placed them in boxes to be sent to the Inner Curtain.
Pei Shaohuai walked out of his examination cell and slowly stretched his limbs. Looking around, those candidates who had persevered to the end all let out sighs of relief, emerging from their cells one after another.
Whatever the outcome, having made it through the examination was no small thing. They had done right by the years of effort behind them and done right by themselves.
Of the five thousand and more candidates, only three hundred would be selected. When the apricot blossoms opened, all would be revealed.