Chapter Twenty: Osmanthus Tea and Eggs

In the Tang dynasty, there was a saying: “Fifty young scholars for the presented scholar degree, thirty aged for the classics examination.” This didn’t mean the classics exam was easy and the presented scholar exam difficult; in truth, both were extremely challenging. Each round of the Tang dynasty’s presented scholar (jinshi) examination admitted no more than twenty people, and the classics exam took only about a hundred. The real meaning was: if you were over thirty and still hadn’t passed the classics exam, you might as well give up—you’d likely never succeed. But even at fifty, if you failed the presented scholar exam, you could still try again the next year.

The presented scholar exam tested candidates’ talent and ambition through poetry and essays, and there was no unified standard for grading. If the examiner liked you, you’d be chosen immediately; if not, even the most brilliant writing would be of no use. The classics exam, on the other hand, depended solely on rote memorization; there was no other trick.

If, in the examination hall, you correctly answered all one hundred and twenty classics excerpt questions and sixty interpretation questions, you’d be immediately granted an official post and awarded the title of “Successor of the Nine Classics,” a status equal to a first-class presented scholar.

Could a student from a poor family truly afford to spend fifty years chasing the presented scholar degree? Even if his family supported him, few could bear that burden. The classics exam was different: human memory was at its peak before thirty, and declined thereafter. So most attempted the classics exam while young, studying diligently for over a decade before sitting for the test. If they failed after thirty, they’d turn to other livelihoods and never try again.

Of course, this was during the Tang; things changed in the Song dynasty. In the Tang, each presented scholar exam admitted only a dozen or so. At the beginning of the Song, the presented scholar exam also admitted very few, with most candidates taking other subjects. But in recent years, the proportion of presented scholar admissions steadily increased, until, by the time of the palace examination, they formed the majority.

Why was this? It was due to peace in the land and the educational reforms of the Qingli era. Peace, and the development of printing, made studying more accessible. Under the leadership of Fan Zhongyan, schools were established throughout counties and prefectures, and more people began to study. As the number of scholars grew, the memorization-based exams became even more competitive, so the more talented preferred the presented scholar path.

In fact, after a century of Song rule, unchecked land annexation had nearly closed the channels for social mobility. The various subject exams were the last avenue left for poor students.

My second brother, Zhang Xu, had chosen the presented scholar path because he was recognized as the most talented in the county, perhaps even the prefecture, and enjoyed the support of great scholars like Chen Xiang. Without such resources, most poor scholars like myself chose the classics exam.

Yet the presented scholar exam was so glorious. Each top scorer, second, and third place became figures admired by all. I remember reading a web novel called “The Triple Crown Winner”—what was the name? As for the nine classics exam, although rote memorization was perfectly suited to my talents, it always seemed less illustrious.

“Have you decided which exam to take?” the scholar Guo asked. “Perhaps think it over for a few days before answering?”

“Nine Classics,” I replied.

Hearing this, Master Guo breathed a sigh of relief. If Zhang Yue had chosen the presented scholar path, he could never have taught him. Pleased, he said, “Excellent! Success in the Nine Classics is on par with a first-class presented scholar. Both are appointed to the same posts: Assistant Supervisor of Works, Judge of the High Court, and Sub-Prefectural Magistrate. Aside from the prestige, there’s little difference.”

“Since you’ve made up your mind, then become a classics scholar. Besides the Nine Classics, you must also study the Classic of Filial Piety and the Analects.”

Though not among the Nine Classics, the Classic of Filial Piety and the Analects were still tested in the exam. The presented scholar exam mainly focused on poetry and essays, but still included classics interpretation. In history, Su Shi once placed first in the classics part of the Ministry of Rites exam, raising his overall ranking.

In any case, I would study for the Nine Classics first; as for the presented scholar exam, that would depend on fate.

“Master, apart from the Nine Classics, the exam also includes the Classic of Filial Piety and the Analects, making eleven in all. Which should I begin with?”

Seeing that I was ready to set to work, Master Guo was gratified—the student was growing more sensible by the day.

“Don’t rush,” Master Guo said with a smile. “I haven’t borrowed the books yet.”

What did he mean, “haven’t borrowed the books”? Did he borrow whichever one he wanted to study? I could hardly contain my complaint. Yet, this was the truth. In history, Emperor Zhenzong of Song once bestowed a set of the Nine Classics upon each prefectural and county school. That meant many schools didn’t even possess a full set. Local gentry and notables would hardly lend their books to poor scholars.

Even now, under Emperor Renzong, borrowing books required the exchange of favors.

“In the next couple of days, review the Classic of Filial Piety and the Analects until you know them thoroughly,” Master Guo exhorted me repeatedly, warning me not to overestimate my cleverness or rush ahead.

In the afternoons, I napped or went swimming; on cool mornings, I studied together with Guo Lin and Miao Sanniang. To my eyes, Miao Sanniang had a solid foundation in the classics and poetry, but struggled constantly with arithmetic.

She was on good terms with Guo Lin, often seeking his help with problems, calling him “senior brother” this and that. Though Guo Lin didn’t always know the answers, he did his best. Occasionally, the two would chat.

Two monks fetch water together; three monks have none to drink. With just Guo Lin and myself, things were smooth, but with three, the dynamics grew delicate.

Seeing them chat, I’d sometimes pause mid-sentence, wondering why even the awkward Guo Lin had girls to talk to, but not I. Did I feel jealous? Perhaps not.

At those moments, I’d set aside my brush and distract myself with idle thoughts. Just then, after some hesitation, Miao Sanniang softly called, “Senior brother Zhang…”

She was conflicted. She believed I wasn’t diligent in my studies, relying only on cleverness. That time I’d answered a question with such self-assurance, as if others were beneath me—her impression of me was terrible.

She’d asked our eldest brother for help with this math problem the previous day but hadn’t solved it; she’d pondered all night to no avail. Today, still baffled, she could only swallow her pride and ask me.

She lowered her head, wringing her hands, while Guo Lin gave me a look, signaling me to help.

I thought, over these days I’d observed Guo Lin simping over her—clear as day. Miao Sanniang knew how to play the game, praising her senior brother’s propriety, never mind that he was sweltering under layers of clothing.

I wanted to ask why she didn’t go to Guo Lin, but what came out was: “Let’s try. Perhaps I’ll be stumped as well.”

“Thank you, senior brother Zhang!” Sanniang beamed and handed me her draft paper.

Glancing at the problem, I saw it was about “surplus and deficit.” The question: “Seven families buy a cow together, contributing one hundred ninety coins, but fall short by one hundred forty. Nine families contribute two hundred seventy coins, with a surplus of thirty. What are the total number of families, and the price of the cow?” The answer: one hundred twenty-six families, price three thousand seven hundred fifty coins.

This was just a simple system of two equations—elementary school stuff!

Sanniang looked down and said, “The book says to take the difference among the families as real, then divide each contribution by the number of families to find the rate per family. I just can’t follow. I’ve tried for a whole day and night, but still get it wrong. Am I hopeless?”

With that, she lowered her head, nearly in tears.

I glanced at her, then swiftly wrote out the solution:

Cow price equals one hundred ninety divided by seven times number of families plus one hundred forty.

Cow price equals two hundred seventy divided by nine times number of families minus thirty.

Setting the two equations equal, one hundred ninety divided by seven times number of families plus one hundred forty equals two hundred seventy divided by nine times number of families minus thirty.

At this point, I let out a long yawn. Sanniang, holding her counting rods, asked, “Senior brother Zhang…”

“No need.” I brushed her aside and quickly wrote on her draft: “One hundred twenty-six families. Cow price: three thousand seven hundred fifty.”

She stared, astonished—the answer matched the book exactly. How did he solve it without even using counting rods? Sanniang reread the process. Why had he solved in moments what she’d labored over for a day? Why did what baffled her seem so simple to him?

“Senior brother Zhang, you understood it at a glance?”

“Should I have needed two?” I replied coolly.

“Really, senior brother, you’ve never solved it before?”

“First time!” I said indifferently, though in my heart I thought, In my past life, I was a veritable master of science!

At last, Sanniang sighed in admiration. “Senior brother Zhang, I really don’t know how to thank you.”

I waved it off. “It was nothing. But, junior sister…”

Just as I was about to lecture her as before, she picked up a bamboo tube and offered it to me. “Senior brother Zhang, this is osmanthus tea I brewed this morning. Please, have some!”

I nodded, thinking, I’ll let you off this time.

“Please, try it first,” she urged.

Guo Lin looked a bit crestfallen. “It’s junior sister’s token of appreciation.”

Well, so be it.

I didn’t stand on ceremony, pouring the tea into a bowl. At once, the fragrance of osmanthus filled my mouth. “Excellent tea!”

Sanniang was delighted by my praise. She took a handkerchief from her pouch and unfolded it. “I also have two boiled eggs from this morning. Please, both of you, have some.”

Eggs!

In this remote and impoverished place, I’d scarcely seen a chicken, let alone an egg. If only I had a roast chicken, I mused.

While Guo Lin hesitated, I took an egg, cracked it, and began peeling. After days without meat, a plain boiled egg was a rare treasure. I even nibbled the membrane, leaving nothing behind. Yet, I still felt unsatisfied—if only I had some soy sauce.

Was it my imagination, or did the eggshells carry a hint of a maiden’s fragrance? Perhaps I’d been single too long.

“Senior brother Zhang, may I ask your help with arithmetic in the future?” Sanniang asked, testing the waters.

She’d observed my worn clothes, my daily meals of wild greens porridge, my stinginess with ink and paper—this youth’s life was truly… impoverished.

Hmm? I thought. Does she think a boiled egg and a cup of tea are enough to win me over?