Great Nation, Small Freshness (Imperial Examination) - Chapter 12

12: First Display of Talent (Part Two)

Amid the bustling, joyous crowd—where happiness spread like contagion—Qin Fanghe crouched on a tree branch, his mind elsewhere. His limbs had gone numb, and even his spirit felt weary.

Just then, a gong sounded. From afar, a bailiff shouted at the top of his lungs: “By the Lord Magistrate’s order, everyone present may compose a poem on…”

He went on to explain the theme and other requirements in detail. One stick of incense’s time.

Qin Fanghe’s spirits instantly lifted.

Finally!

He was not the only one. The moment the bailiff finished speaking, several long-robed scholars along the street skillfully pulled out paper and brush and began writing on the spot.

Some had come prepared, having secured good seats inside nearby shops where they could write in comfort. Most, however, stood in the street, squeezed among the throng, struggling to cope.

Still better than a monkey perched in a tree.

Seeing Qin Fanghe also take out paper and brush, Qin Shan asked in surprise, “Brother He, you’re writing too?”

Qin Fanghe gave a soft hum. He looked left and right—nothing but uneven, bumpy branches, not a single flat place to rest the paper. Down below, the ground was packed solid with people, not even a crack of daylight showed through. The tree was still better.

Qin Shan grew anxious. He turned around, presenting his broad back. “Here, write on me!”

Qin Fanghe was tempted, but the branch was narrow. They were already twisted into awkward positions. The moment he freed a hand to write, he would lose balance. If Qin Hai had not steadied them from below, they would have tumbled down at once.

Qin Fanghe frowned.

He truly had not anticipated this situation when he set out.

After coming all this way, he was only one step from the gate…

While he hesitated, an old woman standing diagonally below suddenly spoke up. “Young man, are you also going to write a poem?”

Her hair was completely white. By her dress she was ordinary folk, yet her eyes were extraordinarily kind as she looked at Qin Fanghe.

“Yes.” Qin Fanghe answered.

Speaking down to an elder from on high was truly impolite, but there was nothing to be done.

Hearing this, the old woman raised her voice with effort and called to the tightly packed crowd around her: “Everyone! This young fellow up here wants to write a poem too. He’s one of us poor folk’s children—he just has nowhere to put pen to paper. Could we all step back a little and let him come down to write on my little stool?”

She was old and her legs were bad, she carried a small wooden stool wherever she went. Today, however, there was no place to sit, so she had been standing with everyone else.

Qin Fanghe was stunned.

First there was silence around them. Then people began to crane their necks toward the tree. Seeing he indeed held paper and brush, voices of agreement rose.

“Oh my, what a handsome lad.”

“Come on down, little tiger—I’ll catch you.”

“Husband, let’s shuffle toward the wall a bit more…”

“Folks in the back—can you move back a little? There’s a young man who needs to write!”

Different accents bloomed quietly in that corner of the crowd like fireworks under the night sky, or like raindrops in the wet season, sending ripples outward in every direction.

Very quickly, a small clearing appeared beneath the tree.

Qin Hai’s lips trembled, but no words came out.

He simply turned and reached up toward Qin Fanghe. “Come, brother—I’ve got you.”

Qin Fanghe felt something strange in his chest.

He suddenly remembered the dilapidated classroom of his childhood village.

It could hardly be called a classroom. In summer it leaked rain, in winter it leaked wind. Every child’s hands and feet were covered in chilblains—red, purple, cracked, oozing pus and blood.

There was no blackboard, the villagers smeared soot from the bottoms of pots to make one. No desks or chairs, parents stacked stones together.

Yet everyone studied hard and did their homework.

Looking at these strangers he had never met before, Qin Fanghe suddenly thought of those village teachers who had come from the cities to teach…

What did they gain from it?

Nothing at all.

From this corner the view was terrible, it was far from the main building where Magistrate Zhou and the others sat. Most people on the ground could hear the excitement but could not see anything.

Yet at this moment, the young man crouched on the ground writing poetry became the most eye-catching sight.

“Wow, look how beautiful that handwriting is…”

“Look at him—so young and already composing poetry! Erbao, you should learn from him when we get home!”

“I don’t want to…”

“Shh—quiet!”

For this single moment, Qin Fanghe had prepared for a very long time. When he finally put brush to paper, he was strangely calm.

Mr. Sun’s descriptions, the rumors Qin Hai had gathered in the streets, the precious annotated anthology, and the quick glimpse he himself had stolen just now—all of it gradually formed an outline of Magistrate Zhou:

A southerner, middle-aged or older, whose official career had not been smooth. Good reputation among the people, decent achievements, relatively mild political methods. All in all, a pragmatic local official.

Qin Fanghe knew his own shortcomings perfectly well: in poetic construction he lacked natural brilliance.

That was a matter of innate talent. Even given ten thousand years, he could never become a genius poet like Li He or Li Bai whose lines flashed like lightning.

But he also knew his strengths with absolute clarity: practical experience, steadiness, and an instinctive nose for politics.

Magistrate Zhou—no, the entire examination and selection system of the Great Lu dynasty—was extremely pragmatic. Views on current affairs carried great weight in the examinations, poetry was secondary.

Therefore, as long as Qin Fanghe performed normally, he could easily surpass a whole crowd of pure, book-bound scholars and place in the top tier.

But that was not enough.

On an occasion like today’s, Magistrate Zhou would certainly summon several people whose work pleased him—but exactly how many was impossible to predict. So Qin Fanghe needed not just top tier, he needed to stand at the very front.

He had to make the magistrate notice, at first glance, that he was different.

One stick of incense burned quickly. Snow-white sheets of paper were delivered one after another to the large sour-jujube wood table carved with mountain-and-water patterns in the seat of honor.

“There are quite a lot of submissions this year,” an official remarked with a sip of tea, smiling at Magistrate Zhou. “Your Excellency first, please.”

“No no, together, together. Who knows—perhaps among these is a future luminary…” Magistrate Zhou casually drew several sheets, passed them to the officials beside him, and sent some to the county-school professors at the next table.

After the usual round of polite refusals, everyone began examining the poems under the lamplight.

The whole point was to fish pearls from the sea—to give scattered commoner scholars one more chance to rise. Anyone who could write and had the courage could try.

This naturally resulted in wildly uneven quality, causing everyone present considerable suffering.

What is this garbage! Can’t even write proper official prose, yet dares to compose poetry?

The handwriting is tolerable, but the allusions are made up nonsense—ridiculous…

Empty grandstanding, no sense of the height of heaven or the thickness of earth—frivolous!

Does this official need your flattery? Absurd!

Magistrate Zhou kept shaking his head, growing irritated. He turned over another sheet and suddenly a page of excellent calligraphy leapt into view. His body and mind instantly relaxed.

Then he read the content. Hmm—somewhat naïve, but that was common among commoner candidates… The meter was correct, allusions skillfully employed, diction gorgeous. Good, very good.

The Chief Clerk Gao had been secretly watching Magistrate Zhou’s reactions. Seeing this, he promptly smiled and said, “Has Your Excellency discovered a talent? Pray share with us lowly ones so we may rejoice together.”

Magistrate Zhou deliberately teased him. “Not just any talent—and an old acquaintance at that. Guess who, and I’ll let you see.”

Everyone laughed and began guessing noisily, the atmosphere became warm and cheerful.

Chief Clerk Gao was best at reading people. After a moment he ventured, “Could it be the Qilin of Lord Kong’s house?”

Magistrate Zhou burst out laughing and handed over the poem. Clerk Gao read it carefully, nodding repeatedly, then passed it around.

Lord Kong was a local squire who had once held fourth-rank office. He retired and returned home some years ago and now lived in Zhang County with his grandson. Today both grandfather and grandson were present.

Though retired, he still had former students and descendants in office—his second son, the father of young Kong Ziqing, still served in the capital. Every new county magistrate paid a personal visit, so no one dared slight him, they still addressed him as “Lord Kong.”

His grandson Kong Ziqing had been taught by him since childhood and was exceptionally clever. At only fourteen he already enjoyed considerable literary fame. Many present had seen his calligraphy before, so when Magistrate Zhou showed the poem around, everyone recognized it at once.

Praise flowed without cease. Old Lord Kong, who was sipping tea, brought his grandson to return the courtesy, repeatedly calling it undue praise.

Though modest, he was secretly proud.

When one grows old, nothing is better than watching the younger generation gradually mature.

It was Kong Ziqing’s first time competing in public poetry. Praise filled his ears, yet he did not grow arrogant, he sat perfectly straight and composed.

Today I should take first place. That way I will not disappoint Grandfather’s teachings.

“Hm?” Amid the laughter, one of the county-school professors lifted a sheet and whispered to a colleague, “This one has a certain wild charm.”

Magistrate Zhou happened to notice. “Another fine piece?”

The Kong grandfather and grandson looked over.

The professor personally carried it over, saying with slight hesitation, “Judging by the brushwork, the strength is still immature—the writer seems very young. Yet the official script is clean and neat, one can already discern some backbone.”

Magistrate Zhou grew interested. He took it, read once, and suddenly smiled. “Interesting.”

He passed it to the others. “Take a look, all of you.”

It was a seven-character regulated verse. The language was plain. Using comparison and evocative imagery, it described the four directions and the four seasons.

The content was very simple: a gust of wind rises into the sky. It sees peach blossoms and wild cranes in spring, tastes fresh water chestnuts and white fish in summer, beholds red maples and withered lotuses in autumn, admires white snow on barren mountains in winter. Finally it settles in a warm house on a snowy night, dispersing before a piping-hot clay stove. How majestic! How tranquil! How prosperous!

Having read countless works piled high with ornate diction and empty lofty talk until their heads spun, the group suddenly encountered this almost childishly straightforward little piece. The effect was like a breath of fresh air.

Chief Clerk Gao seized the moment to flatter: “This shows that since Your Excellency took office you have governed diligently, the common people live and work in peace and are full of gratitude—that is why such a poem could appear.”

If the people of a region could not even feed themselves, how would they have leisure to admire beautiful scenery?

For example, the pure white snow before their eyes was mere amusement to the wealthy and noble, but to the starving poor it represented cruelty and death.

Thus, though the poem appeared simple and cute, every line was filled with peace and prosperity.

Magistrate Zhou thought exactly the same.

There was one more thing: “fresh water chestnuts” and “white fish.” Many present actually knew that these two items were specialties of the Yangtze region—and Magistrate Zhou came from precisely that area.

Similar tactics had appeared in other submissions, but most were overly servile and clumsily executed, making one nauseated at the sight.

Was it deliberate?

Yet judging by the immature brushwork, the writer was still a child. Could a child possess such deep calculation?

Or perhaps the child himself was innocent, but he must have parents or elders—so one could not be sure.

However, the poem described scenery in all four directions so completely that including those two items seemed perfectly natural…

His homesickness stirred, Magistrate Zhou pondered a moment, then selected six poems, placing this “Four Seasons” and Kong Ziqing’s work at the very top.

Kong Ziqing was already in the building, so no extra summons was needed. Soon, bailiffs led five more people inside—old and young, tall and short, fat and thin, all different.

The oldest looked old enough to be Magistrate Zhou’s father. The youngest… was actually this small?!

From the instant Qin Fanghe stepped through the door, the cheerful conversation in the room fell silent. Every gaze that turned toward him carried astonishment.

Even without raising his head, Qin Fanghe could clearly feel the stares landing on him.

Among them, one gaze was especially burning, impossible to ignore. While bowing and rising, Qin Fanghe stole a quick glance.

It was a young gentleman about fourteen or fifteen years old, dressed in brocade robes, wearing a jade crown, a colorful tasseled belt at his waist—carved from powder and jade, extremely refined. Clearly the son of some great family.

When their eyes met, the young gentleman froze for a moment, the tips of his ears turning slightly red, as if caught peeking and suddenly embarrassed.