On the third day of the fourth month, with a few days still remaining before the Palace Examination, a minor Ministry of Rites official delivered two sets of ceremonial attire.

One was the candidate’s robe, to be worn on the day of the Palace Examination: it comprised a square scholar’s cap, a plain-colored inner robe, a blue round-collared robe of ramie cloth, along with a blue silk waist sash and a pair of black satin court boots.

The blue ceremonial attire signified that they had now stepped onto the path of official service.

The other set was the new presented scholar’s robe, to be worn at the Transmission of Glorious Tidings Ceremony. It likewise included a cap, robe, leather sash, and boots, but its most distinctive feature was the presented scholar’s hat—fitted snugly to the man’s hair crown, similar in shape to the black gauze official’s cap, with long trailing ribbons attached to its extended wings at the back.

Graceful and refined.

The Da Qing Palace Examination had no eliminations, so even the least fortunate of the newly passed candidates would receive the title of associate presented scholar—and this was why the Ministry of Rites sent the new presented scholar’s attire in advance.

“When the peonies have all bloomed, the top scholar’s red remains”—if one were fortunate enough to claim the golden list’s foremost honor, the title of top graduate, the Emperor, as a mark of imperial favor toward the new top scholar, would also bestow a set of crimson-colored top scholar’s ceremonial robes.

To wear a flower in one’s hair and be draped in red while parading on horseback through the Imperial City—that was an honor belonging to no one else.

Pei Shaohuai tried on both sets of attire. They were both a little large. Though they had been tailored after measurements were taken, the Ministry of Rites generally made them slightly larger to avoid any mishap.

“Your mother will take in the stitching for you.”

Lin Shi took the clothes away—partly to take in the width and make them fit her son more properly and becomingly, and partly because the robes had been rushed in production and the stitching was sparse, and it was necessary to sew them more tightly in case a seam came apart at a critical moment.

The spring nights were growing colder still. As Pei Shaohuai moved to close the window shutters, the cold air on his fingertips brought a few more degrees of alertness.

On the desk lay a long scroll, upon which were written the Palace Examination policy question topics from previous years—the Guiyou examinations had asked about “education and moral instruction, land systems and horse administration”; the Bingzi examinations about “the way of seeking and employing worthy talent”; the Jimao examinations about “the virtue and merit of emperors and kings”… Governing the nation and the people, military farmsteads and troop command, moral instruction and the pursuit of worthy talent—all had appeared, sometimes revealing great things through small details, sometimes setting topics of sweeping grandeur.

The Palace Examination questions were set directly by the Emperor, with no discernible pattern to them—everything depended on the sovereign’s preferences.

Those who succeeded in claiming the title of top graduate were, without exception, men well versed in the current affairs of this dynasty and with thorough knowledge of past and present history alike.

Beside the scroll lay several policy essays composed by Pei Shaohuai himself, each running three to five thousand characters. Compared to previous examinations, the Palace Examination’s policy essays were considered lengthy and elaborate pieces.

These essays were substantive, and fine as they were, they were not yet proper Palace Examination essays.

A few days earlier, after reading them, Minister of Revenue Xu had remarked: “Your nephew’s insights are original and his literary style solid; purely in terms of writing ability, it is undoubtedly an essay of the first order. Yet when composing essays in the royal hall, one still needs to adopt the posture of a minister and write the words of a minister.”

The Palace Examination was the Emperor personally selecting his ministers—with the sovereign above and subjects below, that was the fundamental tone.

Therefore, when putting brush to paper, one first had to extol the Emperor’s achievements in governing the realm, before gradually turning to frank assessment, proposing countermeasures, and finally rounding off with a phrase such as “your minister, ignorant of what ought not to be said, humbly entreats Your Majesty to pardon your minister’s presumptuous remarks.”

Pei Shaohuai’s essays were too “direct.”

Yet Minister Xu also added: “His Majesty favors direct, genuine, and substantive words, and your nephew’s views in the essays do align considerably with what His Majesty has expressed in court in his daily edicts.”

Pei Shaohuai now understood: with the vast difference in rank between sovereign and minister, he would still need to adopt a different approach to composing his essays.

On the seventh day of the fourth month, three hundred and three newly passed candidates arrived at the Ministry of Rites bureau. After the Ministry of Rites and the Court of State Ceremonial officials had instructed them in basic etiquette, they returned home to await the opening of the Palace Examination. Originally three hundred and nine candidates had made the Apricot List, but six of them had their news of success reach home only to find that elderly senior relatives—overwhelmed with great joy—had passed away peacefully, or had departed this world without lingering regrets. Those six candidates, under the rules of mourning, could only participate in the next sitting three years hence.

……

At the fourth watch, the cuckoo called for the first time in the cold darkness, and the horizon between sky and earth was half-light, half-dark.

On the ninth day of the fourth month, Pei Shaohuai donned his candidate’s robe and arrived early at the outer gates of the Forbidden City, waiting for the Ministry of Rites to lead them into the Imperial City. About to pass within those high walls and meet the Son of Heaven face to face, Pei Shaohuai did his utmost to suppress his thoughts and calm himself.

A good number of candidates had arrived before Pei Shaohuai and were conversing and introducing themselves in low voices. Pei Shaohuai found his brother-in-law Chen Xingchen and the two fell into step side by side.

His brother-in-law had fully recovered and looked to be in good spirits.

“Is my younger brother-in-law nervous?” Chen Xingchen asked.

Pei Shaohuai shook his head and said with a light ease: “I am hoping it can be over with sooner—so I can go and have a proper meal at Hezhe Tower.”

Chen Xingchen laughed as well. “My younger brother-in-law is the Imperial Examination champion. No matter what, he cannot finish outside the top ten—it is perfectly reasonable to start planning the banquet in advance.”

A ray of light broke out from the horizon, the sky turned pale, and the Ministry of Rites Left Vice Minister came to call the roll. Pei Shaohuai stood in the foremost position, and the whole body of candidates followed the Left Vice Minister to the front of the Meridian Gate.

Two columns of the Golden Guard of Honor stood before the gate in strict formation and readiness. After the candidates were searched by the Golden Guard of Honor, they were permitted to enter the palace precincts.

The Palace Examination, being the final examination in the entire civil examination system, was the highest in prestige and was accordingly held in the main hall of the Imperial Palace—the Hall of Supreme Harmony. When Pei Shaohuai arrived before the Hall of Supreme Harmony, the first rays of the morning sun happened to be rising, and streams of golden light fell upon the palace hall with an air of exceptional solemnity.

Golden roof tiles shimmering with golden radiance; vermilion walls reflecting the official robes.

It was only upon first arriving before the great hall, with still an hour or two to spare before the Palace Examination began, that the candidates already felt the full weight of the Imperial City’s majesty—they fell silent and made no sound, following the arrangements of the Ministry of Rites officials and taking their places standing in ranks on the eastern and western sides of the ceremonial courtyard, awaiting the arrival of the Emperor and the examiners.

When the sky was fully bright, the civil and military officials of the capital also arrived at the hall front and took their positions in proper order.

When the hour came, the Court of State Ceremonial Superintendent ascended to the hall.

The Emperor walked into the hall at a measured pace. Pei Shaohuai stood in the front rank and could just barely make out some movement, but at this moment he was required to bow his head in salutation and was not able to raise his eyes to look.

The ceremonial whip cracked, and the music began.

The Superintendent of the Court of State Ceremonial called out “Perform the rites,” and the candidates, following the civil and military officials, performed the full prostration salute, then rose and stood in respectful waiting.

The presiding official for the Palace Examination was the current Senior Grand Secretary, Grand Secretary Lou. The Emperor handed the policy question to an inner court eunuch, who conveyed it to Grand Secretary Lou. Grand Secretary Lou announced the examination question: “In the Yiyou year, before the Hall of Supreme Harmony, the Emperor puts his policy question to all examination candidates throughout the realm, to recruit men of wisdom and ability, to make the essays of the south and north, and today’s policy question is…”

The policy question ran for several hundred characters, first setting out the relevant current affairs, with the key question posed only in the final sentence.

The current affairs selected for this year centered on a certain administrative region where the common people had lost their farmland, and in the very same year a severe drought had struck. This drove great numbers of displaced people to gather together, and unrest broke out—the displaced masses repeatedly besieged government offices and garrison posts.

Grand Secretary Lou concluded: “…With the people’s troubles rising one upon another, by what means may they be eliminated?” [1]

Once the reading of the policy question was complete, all civil and military officials withdrew from the hall with the exception of the presiding officials, the paper-receiving official, the patrol officials, and the other examination supervisors. The candidates came forward and took their seats before the hall, preparing to answer the question.

The allotted time was one full day—the setting of the sun was the deadline, and no lamps could be lit for writing after dark.

Pei Shaohuai sat in the foremost position at the center of the front row, and it was only upon sitting down that he was able to catch a glimpse of the reigning Emperor out of the corner of his eye.

The Emperor was clad in a formal cap-and-robe ceremonial attire—a deep crimson cross-collar robe with wide sleeves above, and a lower robe with rows of pleats front and back. He bore an air of authority without any need for anger.

The reigning Emperor was past forty years of age. At first glance, he appeared approachable, yet upon closer consideration one could sense a subtle, underlying majesty—the bearing of a sovereign was not something expressed outwardly in words but something restrained within the person. The Emperor was not a newly enthroned sovereign, nor was he in the twilight of his years; he was at precisely the right age.

Fearing that looking further might disturb his composure for the examination, Pei Shaohuai decisively withdrew his gaze, bent over the desk in contemplation, and prepared to compose his answer.

What he did not know was that at the very moment he was casting that furtive glance toward the Emperor, the Emperor had already taken notice of this young man who radiated a scholarly air throughout his entire person, and was looking him up and down.

The candidates around him also appeared to be unsettled in spirit, and the sound of brushes meeting paper was sparse and scattered.

After half an hour had passed, the Emperor withdrew, and the presiding and patrol officials remained in supervision. The atmosphere eased somewhat, and the soft rustling of brushes on paper rose like silkworms feeding on mulberry leaves in spring.

Yet Pei Shaohuai was a long time in setting down his brush. Was it because he had no ideas? Not at all.

In truth, from the moment he heard the question, a framework for his essay had formed in his mind unbidden—but his rational judgment told him this approach was too “direct,” and might not be to the liking of the paper-reading officials or the Emperor. If instead he took a different approach in his writing, performing solidly with a few distinctive insights woven in, he could produce a perfectly fine policy essay as well.

In that way, riding on the strength of his first-place standing in the Imperial Examinations, he could compete for a place in the top three of the Palace Examination, with a place in the top seven of the second tier as a safe lower bound.

The examination paper before him on the desk was blank and unmarked—whatever form it took would be entirely within Pei Shaohuai’s hand to determine. He sank into deep thought. If his only aim was modest contentment—to remain in the capital and enter the Hanlin Academy—then he had already achieved that goal without any need to stir up complications.

And yet, at the lotus pond in Jiangnan, he had once said to Grand Secretary Zou: “To apply what I have studied, pondered, and understood—to the people, the nation, and all under Heaven.”

If he could not achieve even that, how could he honor Grand Secretary Zou’s wholehearted instruction, and how could he be true to his own path of learning, and to the knowledge he carried from a later age?

This was the very foundation of his pursuit of learning.

If even now he did not dare to speak directly, how could he govern on behalf of the people once he held office? Pei Shaohuai’s mind was made up—he would write as his heart dictated.

The people had lost their farmland, lost their livelihood, and become a source of unrest. This was not the same nature of problem as the river bandits masquerading as pirates in Jiangnan.

People’s unrest—the word “people” came before “unrest.” At its root, it was still a matter of “the people.” The desire in every person’s heart was no more than “a basketful of rice, a gourd of water, and joy unchanged”—everyone had fathers, mothers, wives, and children; everyone cherished their families and their fields. If it were not utter desperation closing in around them, who would willingly fling themselves into the jaws of death?

And so this question was not one of deploying troops—it was one of governing the people. The fault lay not with the people’s unrest; it lay with the failings of the officials above and below. This was precisely what made Pei Shaohuai’s essay “direct”: he believed that the flooding of displaced people was the result of the local and regional administrative offices failing in their duties—betraying the trust the Emperor had placed in them from above, and failing the hopes of the people who looked to them from below, until the people were driven into a dead end. Pressing the argument further, the court itself also bore some responsibility for its failures.

When Pei Shaohuai began writing, he took himself as his starting point, using a method that moved outward from personal experience to broader conclusions, expanding step by step.

He then went on to discuss countermeasures from several angles: “the heaviness of tax collection and levies, the burden of conscripted labor, and the loss of farmland.”

Why did the court repeatedly prohibit powerful noble families from purchasing farmland from the common people in vast swaths—yet still, a continuous stream of common people willingly sold their land to powerful magnates? Simply because in certain localities, layer upon layer of tax levies pressed down too heavily, and it was more profitable to become a tenant farmer for someone else than to work one’s own land.

The solution lay in “refining internal governance, spreading benevolent trust, placing weight on local officials, and reducing financial exactions.” [2]

The essay might not have been comprehensive in every respect, but it had clearly expressed Pei Shaohuai’s sincere views. In his daily life, he had heard his father and Minister Xu say that the Emperor was a sovereign who valued agriculture and was willing to listen to frank words. Even if this policy essay was somewhat too “direct,” it proceeded from the people’s welfare and, all things considered, should not cause the Emperor to take offense or assign blame.

When he at last finished writing, the essay ran to a full four thousand characters—precisely the right length.

Pei Shaohuai was careful with his time and had not taken his midday meal; his stomach gave a low, hollow rumble. And then, noticing that the shadow of the Hall of Supreme Harmony had grown long, sprawling across the entire ceremonial courtyard before the hall, he realized with belated awareness that it was already past the hour of the Monkey, and sunset was at hand.

Many of the candidates nearby were also in the process of finishing up, checking over their papers.

After verifying that everything was in order, Pei Shaohuai carried his paper to the corner gate on the east side to submit it, then waited outside the Hall of Supreme Harmony for everyone to emerge, after which the Ministry of Rites would lead them out of the palace as a group.

By this point, with the matter settled beyond all changing, Pei Shaohuai instead felt a wave of relief wash over him. Come to think of it, all along the course of the civil examinations, this was the first time he had finished without any sense of how he might rank.

His essay first needed to find favor with the paper-reading officials and be sent to Grand Secretary Shen at the Hall of Literary Glory, where it would need to be selected as one of the top ten papers before it could be placed on the desk before the Emperor in the royal study.