Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Written Exam

As they reached the academy’s mountain gate, Su Lu took the schoolbag his second brother handed him. The two brothers exchanged a knowing smile. Su Tai, his hands calloused and worn, raised his right thumb in encouragement.

Su Lu returned the gesture, slung his bag over his shoulder, and strode forth with vigor into the ranks of waiting examinees.

After the bell rang three times, all four hundred candidates entered the academy, and the gatekeepers slowly closed the mountain gate behind them.

“Open your bags and take off your hats!” A rough voice thundered through the courtyard the moment the gates shut, making the examinees’ scalps tingle. “Unfasten your clothes and shoes as well—line up and prepare for a body search!”

His eldest brother had warned Su Lu earlier: before the afternoon’s written exam, there would be a body search to prevent anyone from sneaking in cheat slips. Even though not even the county or state-level exams had such searches, the academy’s tests were on scripture copying and essay composition—extra precautions were unavoidable.

Scholars cared most for decorum and dignity; wearing one’s hat or shoes askew was unthinkable on ordinary days. Yet upon entering the exam hall—from the highest-ranking scholars to the youngest boys—everyone had to obediently remove shoes and socks, loosen belts, and allow themselves to be inspected. In such moments, no one spoke of injured dignity.

The standards for scholars were indeed flexible; those who could not adapt rarely survived to this day...

But for many of these sheltered boys, this was their first time facing such awkwardness. Some were left bewildered, hesitating to undress, while others clung stubbornly to their lapels, unwilling to let the inspectors touch them.

The searches were conducted by coarse guards, who, pressed for time, had no patience for these youngsters. The courtyard descended into chaos.

Fortunately, Su Lu felt none of a scholar’s shame, and surrounded as he was by other boys, he would not have cared even if he had to run a lap bare-bottomed.

He complied fully, passed the inspection smoothly, then tidied himself and entered the examination hall ahead of the others.

The afternoon exam was held in the academy’s lecture halls, eight in all, each accommodating fifty examinees.

Arriving early, Su Lu was assigned to the Qian hall. Once all fifty seats were filled, two invigilators entered—a stern-faced elder in scholar’s robes and cap, and a younger man, Spring’s classmate, who carried a stack of freshly printed test papers and stood at attention behind the elder.

“Stand!” he commanded loudly.

The elder swept the room with a severe gaze, and only after the examinees had risen to greet him did he speak in a deep, measured tone:

“The two of us will oversee this afternoon’s written test. The first session will be scripture copying, the second, essay interpretation.”

He then instructed his assistant, “Explain the examination rules to these young gentlemen.”

“Yes, sir.” The assistant bowed, then straightened, his demeanor instantly sharp and severe as he addressed the candidates:

“Place your name placards at the top left of your desks, writing facing the podium. No looking around, no whispering. You are strictly forbidden to leave your seat or peek at others’ work!”

“When the test papers are distributed, you may not begin writing until you hear the sound of the cloud board. Upon hearing it a second time, you must stop at once! Anyone who continues will be disqualified for exceeding the time limit!”

~

After this lengthy and excruciating prelude, the test papers were finally handed out. The exam would last three quarters of an hour—forty-three minutes.

Though writing was forbidden until the signal, Su Lu didn’t let the time go to waste. He quickly scanned the paper. There were forty questions, all strictly drawn from the Four Books.

Given the level of the candidates, one minute per question was not difficult. The challenge lay in making no mistakes; in such fierce competition, even a single error could spell failure.

During his pre-exam training, his big brother had insisted that Su Lu answer directly on the test paper first, then copy onto the official answer sheet.

This method reduced mistakes and kept the answer sheet neat. When two papers scored the same, the tidier one would always win.

Of course, this required speed. Su Lu had worried, “What if I run out of time?”

His brother replied with certainty, “Don’t worry, there’s enough time.”

Then, with a sigh, Spring added, “If you don’t have enough time, it means your skills are too poor. Whether you hand in your paper or not makes no difference—you’ll be eliminated either way.”

~

At that moment, the cloud board sounded four times in the courtyard, and the elder announced, “Begin.”

The examinees, as if hearing the signal for battle, quickly dipped their brushes and began to write.

Su Lu drew a deep breath, picked up his White Cloud brush, and started writing swiftly on his answer sheet.

The first question was simple: “When Confucius was in Qi and heard the Shao music, ________”

Without hesitation, Su Lu wrote: “for three months he did not know the taste of meat.”

Second question: “One who would govern a state must first put his household in order, because ________”

He answered: “if one cannot teach his own family, there is no way he can teach others.”

Some questions required the preceding line: “________, upon which he saw his two sons.”

Su Lu wrote: “He bade Zilu stay the night, killed a chicken and cooked millet to serve him.”

“________, I too would pursue it; if it cannot be sought, I will do as I please.”

He answered: “If wealth could be sought, even as a charioteer I would pursue it.”

In no time, Su Lu breezed through over a dozen scripture questions. This, he realized, was the advantage of answering on the test paper first—there was no fear of making mistakes, and with no mental burden, he could write swiftly.

But the questions grew more difficult further on, with more pitfalls set.

For example, question twenty-six: “The requirement to put one’s household in order lies in cultivating one’s self, meaning ________”

Many would see the short blank and simply answer: “a man is partial to those he loves.”

But his father and brother had warned Su Lu: a complete answer ends with a period, not a comma. The full idea must be expressed.

So a single “partial to those he loves” would not suffice; he needed to write all four following lines: “partial to those he despises, partial to those he fears, partial to those he pities, partial to those he scorns.”

The blank was short, but the answer long—a clear trap!

But the academy would say, who told you to answer on the test paper? The answer sheet is blank and spacious—plenty of room for your writing!

~

If you thought this was the extent of their mischief, there were even nastier tricks. The academy deliberately set questions that were easily confused—

For instance: “The benevolent is one who loves others, ________” and “To be benevolent, ________”

The former was from The Doctrine of the Mean, the answer: “affection for one’s kin is paramount.”

The latter from Mencius, the answer: “it must not be lost.”

There were similar “twin assassins” lurking throughout the Four Books. After all, these were all Confucian classics...

Such questions often appeared toward the end of the test, when examinees, exhausted, were most vulnerable.

Here, prior practice with real test questions gave a decisive edge. The easily confused ones were always the same, and Su Lu had drilled them all on his brother’s practice sheets. One look, and he was alert—he would never stumble into these traps.

~

After answering all forty questions in one go, Su Lu dipped his brush again and began copying his answers onto the official sheet without pause.

The answer paper provided by the academy was a square foot of fine, pale yellow, soft and delicate paper—better than any Su Lu had ever used (not that he’d had much fine paper before...).

~

After writing his name at the top as required, Su Lu began a new line, writing swiftly from right to left.

After more than a hundred days of training, his small script had become quite neat. The long hours of copying books had also honed his speed.

The tip of his brush whispered across the paper like silkworms munching mulberry leaves. In less than the time it took to drink a cup of tea, the answer sheet was filled with dense, orderly lines of tiny characters, rows as neat as a field of sorghum. Each character’s structure was as upright as a sorghum stalk, with a certain lean strength; the horizontal and vertical strokes stretched like sorghum leaves, spreading lightly with the brush’s momentum, the endings sharp and crisp.

Though the brushwork lacked the lively flair of a master, every character was steady, radiating the earnestness and discipline of a diligent beginner.

Most impressive was the White Cloud brush itself: even with rapid writing, its tip remained sharp as a needle. Not until the very end did the tip splay even a little—a far cry from the worn-out brushes he’d used before.

After finishing, Su Lu quickly reviewed his paper.

He couldn’t help but think: small script really hides flaws. As long as it’s neat, it looks pleasing at a glance. Though closer inspection would reveal many mistakes, the examiners wouldn’t have time to scrutinize every stroke, so he needn’t worry about losing points for presentation.

Just as he checked the final character, the cloud board sounded again. Su Lu set down his brush and raised his head, stretching his well-trained arm.

He scanned the hall: some candidates were still writing furiously, their speed so great their hands blurred; others had already finished and sat in boredom, while more still, though their brushes were down, could not tear their eyes from their papers, as if hoping to conjure one more answer.

“Stop writing!” the elder invigilator called, kindly repeating his warning.

Still, some ignored him, pleading, “Sir, let me finish just one more question...”

The elder shook his head. The assistant skipped over those who refused to hand in their papers and collected the rest, presenting them to the elder.

Those who handed in late still had their papers collected, but in front of everyone the assistant wrote “Overtime” on the cover.

A few candidates stood there, stunned into silence, the whole hall hushed.

The elder said solemnly, “You may leave now.”

“But I still have the next session!” one boy whimpered.

“You will not sit the next session,” the elder replied, unmoved.

With that, he and the assistant left, arms full of papers.

The boys had no choice but to leave in tears.

There was no time for schadenfreude among the remaining candidates. They were to await their fate right there.

Some rested their heads on the desks, some whispered to each other, while many seized the time to memorize for the next session.

Su Lu, meanwhile, took a rice ball from his bag, unwrapped the lotus leaf, and inside was cooked white rice wrapped around a bit of pickled vegetable. He chewed slowly and savored every bite.

He told himself it was to replenish energy and avoid the dizziness of low blood sugar, to keep his mind sharp. In truth, he was simply greedy. After all, it was a rice ball made with pure white rice—he had never tasted such a thing in his life!

As he ate, he thought of nothing else, focusing only on enjoying each mouthful.

Watching him eat so heartily, more than a few candidates swallowed their saliva and regretted not bringing something to eat themselves...