Chapter Six: The Impossible Mission

While bagging the sorghum, Su Lu couldn’t help but ask anxiously, “Will they require the candidates to compose poetry?”

This, too, was a challenge he couldn’t hope to overcome in a short time. Mastering the basics—tone patterns, rhyme schemes, parallel structure—was only the beginning; one also needed to employ allusions accurately, weave elegant language, and convey lofty sentiments with heartfelt emotion… How could such skills possibly be acquired overnight? In fact, it was likely he might never be able to write a proper poem in his lifetime.

After all, the most essential quality for poetry was talent…

As for copying poems, that was even less realistic. He hardly remembered a handful of ancient verses from the Tang and Song dynasties, let alone ones that might happen to fit the exam’s requirements.

“Ah, don’t worry, you won’t be asked to compose poetry.” Su Youcai replied, sounding a little wounded. “Poetry is but a trifling art for scholars to amuse themselves with. If you dabble in verse before passing the official exams, people will mock you for neglecting true study and merely affecting refinement.”

He went on, “The reason I fared poorly in the exams was because I took a fancy to music and poetry in my youth. When I sat for the county exam, my father had me try my hand at poetry, but the examiner scolded me harshly: ‘The emperor values essays above all; why must you harp on Han and Tang?’ He said that as a student, I should devote myself to essay writing. As for those who dabble in various things, ‘singing of the wind and the moon, corrupting one’s conduct’—what good is it to study such things?”

“What then?” Su Lu was so surprised his jaw dropped. To be honest, he’d once fantasized about copying a poem at just the right moment and making a name for himself in one fell swoop.

“In the end, I was branded as someone who chases fame but neglects substance—a warning example among the scholars by the Red Water River to this day.” Su Youcai sighed, his tone earnest. “If you’re truly determined to study, you must take my example as a caution.”

“I’ll remember,” Su Lu replied, nodding quickly. Though he sympathized with his father, deep inside he was secretly relieved. Excellent! That’s one less thing to study…

He quickly organized his thoughts—so, to pass the entrance exam for Taiping Academy, the main requirement was to recite the designated texts. But since the classics and their interpretations were written exams, he’d also need to practice penmanship so that his brushwork was neat and presentable, and it had to be in traditional characters.

Thus, the tasks for the next three-plus months were clear: first, memorize the texts; second, practice calligraphy; third, master the conversion from simplified to traditional script.

“One last question,” he asked Su Youcai, “how many characters do I have to memorize in total?”

“A great many.” Su Youcai set aside his bundle of sorghum and started counting on his fingers. “‘Three Hundred, Thousand’ together make about five thousand characters; ‘Primary Learning’ is twenty-six thousand; ‘Classic of Filial Piety’, two thousand; the ‘Four Little Classics’ add up to eighteen thousand; ‘Examples Ancient and Modern’ and ‘Prosody Primer’ together, another ten thousand.”

Su Lu quickly calculated. “That’s sixty-one thousand in total.”

“That’s not all—the real challenge is the ‘Collected Commentaries on the Four Books,’ which runs to a full two hundred and fifty thousand characters,” Su Youcai said with a wry smile. It had taken him years to commit that massive work to memory.

“And the ‘Four Books’ themselves?” Su Lu asked.

“…The ‘Collected Commentaries on the Four Books’ is the annotated version, so it naturally includes the original text,” Su Youcai replied after glancing at his son and realizing he truly knew nothing.

“So, consolidating similar items—excellent!” Su Lu clapped his hands with delight. “That’s three hundred and eleven thousand characters. With a little over a hundred days to prepare, if I memorize three thousand characters a day, it’ll be enough!”

“What do you mean, ‘it’ll be enough’?!” Su Youcai raised the sorghum stalk as if to strike him. “You rascal—like a toad seeing lightning, you open your mouth and pierce the heavens!”

“Just you wait and see.” Su Lu dodged away.

Memorizing three hundred and eleven thousand characters in a hundred days did sound like an impossible feat—his father’s skepticism was entirely reasonable.

But for Su Lu, while the task was daunting, it wasn’t hopeless. Though he’d spent little time in school in this life, in his previous one he’d studied for over a decade and sat through countless exams. After graduation, he’d even worked at a test-prep center, becoming a star instructor at a young age.

His greatest strength was learning and taking exams!

In his experience, thirteen was the age of peak memory. So long as he kept focused and persevered, memorizing two thousand characters a day was entirely feasible. Supplemented by all sorts of scientific learning strategies and mnemonic techniques, it was entirely possible to push that daily number to three thousand!

Of course, that was only in theory. Whether he could actually manage it would depend on practice…

~~~

At dusk, after finishing the day’s work and yet another meal of unchanging sorghum, Su Lu asked his father to begin teaching him.

In the outer room of their east wing, Su Tai lit a pine-wood torch. Ordinary lamps required oil and a wick, but with a pine torch, you simply split the wood into thin strips, place them in an earthenware bowl, and light them. Pine was free and plentiful, the light was no dimmer than an oil lamp, and it was windproof and drove off mosquitoes—a host of advantages.

Only one drawback: it gave off thick, choking smoke that blackened the ceiling. In this season, with the windows open, it was tolerable; but in winter, with the doors closed, it was unusable.

So, in wealthier homes, you’d never find such a thing…

That evening, a south wind was blowing, so Su Youcai sat on the south side of the table. If the wind shifted, he’d have to move his seat to avoid the smoke.

With solemn expression, he said to Su Lu, “Sit up straight and listen carefully.”

“Yes, sir.” Su Lu settled himself at his right hand, while Su Tai pulled up a stool on the left to listen in.

“I’m pleased you’re determined to study,” Su Youcai said in a grave tone. “But reading is the most sacred pursuit in the world. You’ve always been wild; you must first learn the proper deportment of a scholar before you can truly embark on this path. So, I must first teach you the rules of learning.”

“Understood,” Su Lu nodded, fully agreeing. Every profession required learning the rules before learning the work itself.

“A scholar’s conduct is paramount. The Ten Prohibitions are: First, never lie; second, never be gluttonous; third, never use coarse or indecent language; fourth, never covet others’ possessions; fifth, never gossip; sixth, never ogle women; seventh, never befriend wicked people; eighth, never wear extravagant clothes; ninth, never write falsehoods; tenth, never be violent or arrogant.” Su Youcai intoned solemnly.

“In addition to these, there are the Nine Requirements: Walk with composure and steadiness—no jumping or rushing; speak calmly and clearly—no mumbling or haste; bow deeply and slowly—never shallow or abrupt; stand with dignity and stillness—never slouch or lean; rise and salute in unison—never out of step; care for your clothing and shoes—never be slovenly; look with calm and upright gaze—never darting; keep your hands respectfully placed—never lazy; sit properly and with gravity—never sprawl.”

When he finished, he asked, “Do you understand?”

“I think so, except for one thing,” Su Lu replied honestly.

“Speak,” Su Youcai nodded.

“The third prohibition—what does it mean?”

“No crude or indecent talk,” Su Youcai explained. “For example, calling someone ‘old man’ is coarse language, and ‘turtle’s son’ is indecent.”

He looked a bit embarrassed. “Sometimes, in excitement, I still break this rule. You mustn’t imitate me—try always to speak in the proper tongue.”

“I understand.” Su Lu nodded—this was much like the modern schools’ policy of promoting standard Mandarin and discouraging dialects.

“These Ten Prohibitions and Nine Requirements—you must recite them daily, remember them well, and put them into practice!” Su Youcai admonished.

“Yes, sir.” Su Lu had just begun to say, “I’ll remember,” when a gentle, melodious snore rose up beside him, growing stronger by the moment.

Su Tai had already drifted into peaceful sleep, lulled by his father’s lengthy admonitions…

“Ah,” Su Youcai set down his brush, shaking his head with a sigh. “That boy can sleep anywhere.”

“Second Brother works too hard during the day,” Su Lu said in his defense.

~~~

The father and son together lifted the limp, drowsy Su Tai onto his bed, removed his shoes, and tucked a “bamboo wife” into his arms—a long, hollow, netted bamboo bolster. In the summer, embracing it brought coolness and relief from the heat.

This object had existed since the Tang dynasty, when it was called a “bamboo knee-guard.” It was the literati of the Northern Song who gave it the evocative name “bamboo wife.” Su Dongpo once wrote, “By my bed stands only a bamboo table; my wife, alas, cannot share my pillow,” referring to just such a bolster.

Huang Tingjian, however, felt that the “bamboo wife” served to rest one’s arms and legs and cool the body, hardly the work of a true wife, so he called it the “green maid.” He too composed a verse: “Green maid knows nothing of combs and rouge, but belongs at the bedside of the dreaming scholar. You, sir, have your true companion; I, with skin like ice and snow, bring only coolness.”

All three members of the family had one, each crafted by Su Tai himself from carefully split and polished bamboo strips.

Once Su Tai was settled, Su Youcai and Su Lu returned to the table to continue their lesson.

A thick stack of calligraphy practice books lay on the table—papers Su Youcai had brought home to correct. He rummaged a moment and drew one out, opening it flat.

It was the usual rough, yellowed paper, stitched together with coarse cotton thread.

Su Lu saw rows of characters, immature but already superior to his own brushwork, with circles and dots beside many—a sign of his father’s corrections.

“The circle means excellent, the dot means good. In any case, they’re both compliments,” Su Youcai explained.

Su Lu nodded, now understanding the phrase “worthy of circles and dots.”

But his father’s intent wasn’t to show off the student’s fine work—the content being practiced was none other than the “Three Character Classic.”

“Since you’ve already studied the ‘Three Character Classic,’ I won’t teach you from the beginning,” Su Youcai said. “Recite it once through; if you don’t understand a part, I’ll explain the meaning and pronunciation.”

“Yes, sir.” Su Lu took up the practice book, but first was subjected to more instructions: “Hold the book three inches from your body, don’t clench it in your fist. Sit up properly, face the book, read the characters slowly and carefully, and make sure to pronounce each word clearly.”

Su Lu quickly adjusted his posture and began to read softly. Fortunately, knowing simplified characters made recognizing traditional ones fairly easy—he wasn’t completely illiterate.

As for the content, there were some differences from the version he remembered, especially in the historical section, which ended with “The Twenty-One Histories are all included here,” rather than “Ancient and modern histories are all included here.”

The passage ran: “…Liao and Jin both claimed the imperial title. Yuan destroyed Jin, ending the Song line. All of China was lost to foreigners. The Ming dynasty arose, founding a new era…” It was actually shorter than the version he’d learned in his past life, making memorization a bit easier.

After about the time it took to drink a cup of tea, Su Lu looked up and said, “No problem with the ‘Three Character Classic.’ You can teach me the ‘Hundred Family Names’ now.”

Su Youcai froze for a moment, then rolled up the practice book and rapped Su Lu on the head, grumbling, “You impetuous lad—your head is begging for a beating!”

“Third prohibition—no coarse or indecent words!” Su Lu quickly reminded him. “A father must set a good example as a teacher.”

“I—you—” Su Youcai was momentarily at a loss. Then, unable to help himself, he laughed. “This isn’t setting an example, it’s hoisting a rock to smash my own foot!”