His goal was to write essays like that—lightly engaging, appealing to both the learned and the casual reader. Those with shallow knowledge found it enjoyable; those with deeper learning found substance.
He paid for the book. When the clerk tried to recommend calligraphy copies, he declined.
In recent months, he had practiced writing by copying his master’s handwriting. His master’s script was sloppy, the brush flowing like a wandering dragon, casual yet imbued with character. Each character differed, pleasing to the eye and calming to the mind.
Cui Erge’s handwriting, however, was more serious and precise. Xie Yan needed to write formally for examinations. His usual handwriting was careless, almost like scribbles with no control. So he now preferred copying his master’s style.
Visiting a few more shops, he managed to buy Master Cui’s writings. The clerk was secretive; he had to buy before seeing them.
Xie Yan reasoned that since they were all his master’s sons, if Cui Erge was remarkable, Master Cui should be no worse. He paid a fixed price, opened the book immediately, and his expression darkened.
The content, he realized, was essentially nonsense. Where others wrote essays encouraging study, Cui wrote about his disdain for learning. He began by explaining he had lost a bet and would recount his childhood learning experiences.
His main point: with a brilliant mind, learning came easily. Of course, he had a good father, but the key was his intellect. Without it, even the greatest teachers couldn’t produce someone like him.
He concluded with a brief mention of having a reasonably capable younger brother, creating a tiny competitive spark to motivate himself.
The entire essay conveyed a philosophy of disliking study—but only because he was naturally gifted. He did not want to study; with such a mind, he could succeed at anything. He was forced to study. He advised other students not to toil blindly; without talent, if one didn’t wish to study, it was better not to.
Xie Yan: “…”
He looked up at the clerk. “Can I return this?”
“No,” came the reply.
Xie Yan stared silently at the thin book he had spent two taels of silver on, thinking: I must go to Master Cui’s home to get my money’s worth—or I won’t sleep!
After finishing his shopping, he returned home.
This trip, everyone stayed at Ji Mingzhu’s house. They didn’t eat together, each dined in their own room. Only if they wished to gather would they speak up. Before exams, emotions fluctuated greatly; ordinary days saw few meetings.
Wu Pingzhi didn’t mind; Xie Yan found him and vented about being scammed buying books.
Wu Pingzhi looked at the two small books Xie Yan bought, casually tossing aside Master Cui’s essay on disdain for learning: “I hate people with brains like yours the most.”
Then he opened Cui Erge’s writings. He had read them before, and he discussed scholarship with Xie Yan.
Xie Yan sat with him at the desk, multitasking—answering his friend while composing letters home.
In a new city, he wrote two letters: one to his mother, one to Lu Yang. He sketched impressions with a few lines, capturing small scenes without in-depth description, emphasizing experiences in the capital. He recorded everything he saw, heard, and felt.
Wu Pingzhi chatted briefly and said no more.
Xie Yan glanced at him. “You’re calmer than during the provincial exam. What did you cultivate in your mind? Teach me.”
During the provincial exam, Wu Pingzhi remained composed because he had exerted his utmost effort; whatever result he received was his limit. His desires could not force the pen to produce a masterpiece.
Now, for the metropolitan exam, his calm came from separating desire from action. He wanted the official robe, but simply thinking of it drained him—hardly worth it.
Wu Pingzhi said, “Even if I pretend, it’s fine.”
Xie Yan considered and replied, “If you don’t speak, you’re pretending well. Once you speak, contradictions show. You want something but say you don’t. You claimed to act naturally; now you aren’t.”
Wu Pingzhi asked, “During the exam, should I pretend or act naturally?”
Xie Yan told him to pretend.
“I will pretend too. Lately, I’ve learned from my master that what people like inside differs from what they show. They hide desire, follow the crowd. If others like something, they like it too. We must do the same.”
Wu Pingzhi nodded, smiling. “No wonder writers are often called hypocrites.”
Xie Yan picked up Master Cui’s writings, now appreciating some of their flavor. Truly excellent—he hoped he could speak the truth like that in the future, proud yet able to laugh.
By the seventh day of the second month, everyone prepared for the exam.
It was still cold. They bathed cautiously and visited the city’s hot springs. Warm going in, hot coming out.
Afraid of catching a chill, each drank a bowl of ginger soup at home, then went to bed early.
Luo Dayong and other accompanying examinees packed exam baskets, clothes, bedding, oil lamps, and braziers. All items brought from home were plain, with no decoration.
Luo Dayong, having served as an official at exam halls before, inspected thoroughly and assisted other households, finishing as dawn broke.
On the eighth day, examinees slept in until near noon, ate a proper meal, then departed for rented homes near the examination hall.
Rooms were tidied, kangs heated. In the afternoon, they played chess, told stories, and chatted. Dinner was early; sleep was early. At the third watch, they were awakened to prepare for the exam: washing, a simple breakfast, then off to the hall.
On the ninth day, the exam commenced. The process was similar to the provincial exam: find the county plaque, await the roll call. Upon arrival, they saw no sign of Liu Youli; if absent now, he would not attend this year.
Ji Mingzhu frowned slightly but said nothing, focusing on the roll call.
Xie Yan observed the scene outside the capital exam hall, intending to sketch it for Lu Yang.
The metropolitan exam was for provincial graduates. Searches were gentle; they did not need to remove all clothing, and food inspections were moderate. The red and green beans Xie Yan brought were merely shaken, not handled extensively.
Familiar with the exam routine, they found their numbered booth, covered it with oiled cloth against wind and rain.
Xie Yan laid out bedding, placed the exam basket on the table, lit a candle, organized belongings, and held the hand warmer. Two pounds of beans were placed by the pillow for burning during the waiting hours. He even took a handful of red beans for the ink dish—“red beans of longing.”
Once everything was set, it was late. He closed his eyes to rest, recalling Lu Yang’s words, even removing his outer garment to sleep and avoid a chill.
He waited for the copper gong signaling the start. When exam papers arrived, he rose quickly, leaving the blanket unmade, dressed, and quietly awaited the questions.
The metropolitan exam had officially begun.
Meanwhile, in Yunping Prefecture, Lu Yang had not rested well. By dawn, he could no longer sleep, successfully waking Lu Liu.
Lu Liu reached out, asking, “Brother, are you unwell?”
Lu Yang replied he was fine, though his energetic voice betrayed that he had not just woken. The brothers both stayed awake.
In the days leading up to the exam, Lu Liu had come to accompany his brother with a small pillow.
Counting the days, today was the exam. Lu Liu said nothing, quietly got out of bed, lit an oil lamp, climbed back onto the kang, helped his brother sit, put a cotton jacket on him, gave him a large sleeve to hug—warming hands, warming hearts.
Lu Yang said to rest a bit more: “I’ll tire quickly. Once this is over, I’ll sleep.”
Lu Liu stayed awake, talking with him for a while.
“Tell me, what is the capital like? I heard provincial cities are similar to prefectural capitals; is the capital the same?”
