The day after the Grand Transmission Ceremony, the Emperor commanded the Ministry of Rites to set a banquet at the Huítóng Guesthouse in honor of the newly named jinshi. This was called the “Banquet of Imperial Grace.”
“In the shadowed willows every flower blooms bright; a splendid feast is set in the jade grove” — in the Song dynasty, this banquet had been held at the Jade Grove Garden and was known as the Jade Grove Banquet.
All the Examination Readers would attend, and Pei Shaohuai would finally have the opportunity to meet Grand Secretary Shen in person and offer his proper respects as a student to his presiding examiner.
Though it was a banquet bestowed by the Emperor, the Emperor himself would not be present.
As Zhuangyuan, Pei Shaohuai was the most prominent figure in the room, and fellow newly named jinshi came to him one after another to offer toasts and make acquaintance. His tolerance for wine being limited, he could only take a small sip each time the cup was raised — fortunately, Jiang Ziyun, Tian Yonglu, and other close friends were on hand to help manage some of it on his behalf.
“Fragrant smoke fills the warm silk-draped pavilion, firelight illuminates the courtyard and the candle-bright feast” — as the night deepened, the banquet grew merry and festive, yet Pei Shaohuai could also sense undercurrents running beneath the surface. More than a few who came to speak with him did so with smiles that concealed sharp edges. The most obvious among them were Xie Yingsheng and Cui Zhengjie.
When the moon climbed above the willows, and the wine had passed the halfway point, the last event of the evening arrived — the newly named jinshi were to compose poems with brush in hand, to be left as a memorial of the occasion.
Pei Shaohuai had little taste for making a public display of himself. He rarely left his calligraphy for others on such occasions. But today he was the Zhuangyuan, the star of the gathering — there was no evading it. He had therefore prepared a poem of reasonable artistry well in advance, ready to produce it when the moment came and acquit himself without incident.
One by one, someone would compose a poem over a cup of wine, and the crowd around them would call out in admiration.
When it came to Xie Yingsheng’s turn, he returned the enthusiastic cheers of his fellow Hexi scholars with a smile and a bow, then sauntered to the center of the room. With a flourish of his sleeve, he picked up the brush and dipped it in ink, carrying himself with an air of somewhat theatrical inspiration. Tonight a bright moon hung overhead, and his fellow provincials played along by calling for “moon” as his theme. He pretended at first to find it a challenge, then wrote freely:
In youth I wandered nine provinces and ten mountain passes, and at last gathered in my poems the four seas and five lakes. The bright moon hangs above, nurturing the cassia in bloom — only for another to wear those branches as a flower.
When this poem appeared, not a few scholars from the southern factions applauded and called it excellent. A greater number of people pretended they had drunk too much and kept their silence. Everyone present had spent more than a decade — some several decades — in painstaking study. Who among them could not read the little scheme hiding inside Xie Yingsheng’s poem?
The first couplet expressed how he had traveled widely in his youth and accumulated a lifetime of learning and talent. The second couplet took the classic allusion of “plucking the cassia branch on the moon” — to earn first place — and lamented that the cassia he himself had tended in the Guanghan Palace had ended up as the flower pinned to another man’s hat.
But that phrase “another” — it was as if a jar of vinegar had shattered on the floor.
It was as much as saying: I was the one who grew that cassia tree; that branch of cassia ought to be mine. And yet another man took it from me.
“He lacks the talent to compete, and yet he is this petty,” Jiang Ziyun said in a low voice beside Pei Shaohuai. “Shaohuai, let me go up and give him an answer.” Jiang Ziyun had drunk several cups, and his cheeks were slightly flushed — he was at peak fighting spirit.
Pei Shaohuai put out a hand to hold his friend back, and said: “My thanks to Brother Ziyun.”
Then he said: “Since this is aimed at me, if I let it pass without a word today, people will say I am timid, and that my talent does not merit my name.”
Pei Shaohuai’s scholarship stood on solid, legitimate ground. Why should he be afraid?
If there was a disadvantage, it was only that Xie Yingsheng had come prepared, while Pei Shaohuai would have to compose a response on the spot.
So what of it?
Warriors competed in arms, scholars competed in verse — nothing could be more ordinary.
Pei Shaohuai stepped forward, called a servant to bring a fresh brush, and without any dramatic gesture, without playing to the crowd, simply put brush to paper and wrote:
By the lamp’s small glow I brushed the windowsill at night, and tonight I come home having captured the full moon. I urge you: do not let your hours pass in vain — only then will Chang’e herself tend the cassia for you.
On the surface, the poem spoke of years of study by lamplight, of the Zhuangyuan title being won only through great effort, and offered encouragement to others — apply yourself, do not waste your time, and your reward will come in turn. But every line and every phrase was an answer to Xie Yingsheng, and his little fit of jealous resentment was dismantled piece by piece without a single coarse word —
Today I have claimed the full moon itself — what is one cassia tree to me?
And the scope of the imagery was simply in a different class. What comparison could even be made?
As for the cassia — it was Chang’e herself who planted it in the Moon Palace. What has it to do with you? If you have time for these petty schemes, I would humbly suggest you follow the advice to “not let your hours pass in vain.”
The second and third place finishers exchanged a glance, then stepped forward at once. One of them said: “Zhuangyuan Pei is truly gifted — this poem opens the mind and lifts the spirit.” The two of them held up the poem together and displayed it to the assembled company.
The crowd called out in delighted admiration. Even setting aside the poem’s role as a response to Xie Yingsheng, it was a composition of considerable depth and meaning.
Xie Yingsheng’s expression fell into awkwardness. He had no choice but to make a show of being too drunk to continue, and had someone support him as he left the banquet early. His attempt to mock the Zhuangyuan had come to nothing, and now the label of a jealous, petty-minded soul would be hard to shake.
When the Jade Grove Banquet dispersed, the newly named jinshi said their farewells and made their separate ways home. Tomorrow they would still need to enter the palace to present their memorials of thanks.
Pei Shaohuai had only just stepped out of the Huítóng Guesthouse and turned a corner when he was met by a servant, who said: “Zhuangyuan Pei — Grand Secretary Shen requests your company for a brief conversation.”
Pei Shaohuai nodded and followed.
He was not surprised. At the banquet earlier, when he had paid his respects to Grand Secretary Shen, he could see that Grand Secretary Shen had something to say to him.
Inside a small upstairs room, the moment he stepped through the door, the sounds of the scholars outside bidding each other farewell were entirely cut off. The quiet was complete.
“In the beginning, I ranked you as eighth in the second rank — just outside the top ten papers,” Grand Secretary Shen said, going straight to the point. He then related how the Emperor had come to designate Pei Shaohuai as Zhuangyuan, and finally said: “I have brought you here only to make this clear to you.”
The way he said it, it was almost as if he were simply explaining a matter of fact.
Yet Pei Shaohuai performed a deep bow and said: “This student gives his most sincere thanks to his presiding examiner for his guidance.”
He understood. Grand Secretary Shen was giving him an implicit warning: from the moment he became Zhuangyuan, he had already been drawn into the factional struggles at court. The Hexi scholars had formed their own bloc in the court, and the Emperor was looking for someone to counterbalance them. Pei Shaohuai would be a suitable choice. The Emperor’s favor also meant that the obstacles ahead would be considerable. Grand Secretary Shen was warning him to be prepared.
Seeing that Pei Shaohuai grasped it immediately, Grand Secretary Shen felt a quiet admiration — this was indeed the young man Grand Secretary Zou had taken notice of. He went on a little further, saying: “You need not worry yourself too much. Once you enter the Hanlin Academy, you will be no more than a compiler, and nothing they can do will affect you greatly… Use these years well, and learn what you need to learn.”
“This student understands,” Pei Shaohuai said. “This student once again gives his thanks to his presiding examiner for the warning.”
Pei Shaohuai could sense that Grand Secretary Shen’s help and guidance were not entirely selfless — not the way Grand Secretary Zou’s had been. But in this moment, they were sincerely meant for his benefit.
“You may go now. At the start of your official career, I trust your teachers and elders will still be there to guide you.”
“Yes. This student takes his leave.”
The night was quiet on the way home. The carriage wheels turned with a steady, rhythmic sound; the wooden wheels followed grooves worn a full inch deep into the blue-brick road, advancing forward one turning at a time. The wind was strong tonight, and the lantern mounted above the driver’s seat had been lit only to be blown out again. Only within the carriage was there any light.
Pei Shaohuai asked: “Steward Zhang — with only moonlight to see by, can you make out the road?”
Chang Zhou reined the horse to a slower pace and answered: “Young Master — so long as we follow the grooves that the wheel tracks have worn into the stone, we won’t stray from the path.”
The slight restlessness in Pei Shaohuai’s heart cleared at once, like a lamp being lit. He thought of the words the elder Su had once spoken to explain the meaning of his three sons’ names: “Every carriage in the world travels its own groove.”
A groove. The rut of a wheel. The trace left behind by passage.
People saw only the wheels turning; they did not see how deep the grooves ran. One had to bend down and do the real work, to leave behind something solid and tangible, to have that groove — that accumulated record of genuine service. On this point, Pei Shaohuai understood he had much to learn from his father.
Pei Shaohuai had thought through what he should do at the start of his official career.
The next day, Pei Shaohuai led the newly named jinshi into the court to present their memorials of thanks to the Emperor.
Upon returning home, the business of the palace examination was at last brought to a close, and a period of peaceful rest was finally possible.
A few days hence, the inner cabinet and the Hanlin Academy would organize the academy selection examination. Jinshi of all three ranks were eligible to enter their names and sit for it. Pei Shaohuai would need to “follow protocol” and attend, but only as a formality — the top three of the first rank were by regulation required to enter the Hanlin Academy.
The Zhuangyuan was granted the position of Hanlin Compiler, a position of the sixth rank, lower grade.
The second and third place finishers were granted Hanlin Editors, positions of the seventh rank.
Which meant that Pei Shaohuai would, from the moment of entering the Hanlin Academy, be responsible for maintaining the national history and the veritable records, and for documenting the Emperor’s words and actions. His position fell between that of Editor and Lecturer — a mid-level official within the Hanlin Academy.
Those competing to become Probationary Academicians were the jinshi of the second and third ranks. The number of positions was small, varying from examination cycle to examination cycle.
That morning, waking to a slight chill in the early dawn light, Pei Shaohuai rose from his bed as he always had, dressed, came to his writing table, and opened a scroll to read aloud. When he reached the line from the Analects — “To learn as if you could never catch up, fearing always you might lose what you had gained” — something stirred in him as a literary thought, and he prepared to compose an essay.
But when the brush tip touched the paper and he had written the first strokes of the opening character, his hand came to a stop and hovered there.
Pei Shaohuai realized only then that the imperial examinations were finished. He would never again need to win a competition through written composition.
He smiled, and before the ink could bleed into the paper, pressed on with the rest of the strokes.
An essay written for oneself, not for any other.
By the time daylight was fully upon them and breakfast had been eaten, Chang Fan came to report that Jiang Ziyun had arrived to call on him.
“Invite him in at once.”
Through the metropolitan examination, the palace examination, and all the days between, the two of them had crossed paths many times but never had the chance for a real conversation. Today was the right moment to sit and talk.
Between unhurried conversation, there was much to be said that had long been held in the heart. Pei Shaohuai asked: “Brother Ziyun — how have your preparations gone for the academy selection the day after tomorrow?”
Jiang Ziyun smiled and shook his head. There was a readiness in his expression, but no trace of resentment. He said: “I have not lived up to Shaohuai’s expectations. I am not going to enter the academy selection.” He had chosen instead to accept a direct appointment to a post outside the capital.
Jiang Ziyun explained: “Setting aside how difficult the academy selection is — requiring in advance connections and patronage in every quarter, and the appreciation of senior Grand Secretaries and Hanlin officials — even if one were fortunate enough to pass, the half year of observation, the three years of study, and then yet another round of evaluations and comparisons at the end… Shaohuai knows all of this. A competition like this one, that measures not scholarship but rather connections, experience, and breadth of exposure — I am not merely at a disadvantage in all of these; I am, frankly, at the bottom.”
“Given that,” Jiang Ziyun continued, “why continue to grind myself down in examination after examination? It would be far better to accept a posting outside the capital with a settled heart, and if I can do something useful for the people there and build a modest record of achievement — that is what I truly have to stand on.”
Pei Shaohuai understood well. A Probationary Academician was a nominal appointment — essentially an intern of the Hanlin Academy. The prospects were good, yet the position was extremely difficult to obtain, and the outcome at the end of the probationary period was far from certain.
Since it was not a substantive official post, there was no official salary, only a thin stipend. The inner cabinet carried out strict evaluations every month and every year.
It was not well suited to Jiang Ziyun.
“I expect Brother Ziyun will feel some reluctance, all the same,” Pei Shaohuai said.
If he did not try, perhaps in later years he would look back and feel regret at not having given it a chance.
Jiang Ziyun had thought this through with great care, and replied: “There is nothing to be reluctant about. It took the right moment, the right place, and the right circumstances working together to bring me to a seventy-seventh place in the second rank today. If the palace examination had not been on the subject of civil unrest and the welfare of the people, I honestly would not have known where to begin… This is the best place for me.”
“I’m glad Brother Ziyun has come to see it that way.”
“My grandmother is getting on in years. I should be making the most of this time to let her enjoy some peace and comfort.” Jiang Ziyun said, then switched his tone: “But enough of all that — I came today to congratulate you, Shaohuai. Congratulations on entering the Hanlin Academy directly.”
An elder at home, a grandson to be close by — and if the old woman were to pass away one day, Jiang Ziyun would need to return and observe three years of mourning. He could not afford to spend too much time on examinations any longer.
They had all come in through the same door of the imperial examination system, but each would find a different way forward, and each had a different set of circumstances and opportunities. This was how Pei Shaohuai saw it.
Jiang Ziyun gave his congratulations, then took his leave, returning home to wait for the court’s assignment. This visit was at once a celebration and an early farewell — if he were sent to a posting far away, with mountains and rivers between them, who could say when they might meet again? Only in letters could they keep up with each other.