Chapter Thirty-Six: The Art of Feigning Knowledge Without Learning

As the year drew to a close, the atmosphere in the academy shifted.

The Song Dynasty’s imperial examinations lacked fixed intervals; sometimes they were held every three years, sometimes every two. Scholars could not be certain—studying diligently only to be startled by a sudden edict, summoning them to rush to various prefectures for exams.

The present emperor initially established a four-year cycle, but recently it had become a biennial affair. Candidates who failed the imperial exam in late spring would hurry home to prepare for the next year's regional test, and then journey to the capital for the March provincial exam. For those living in distant regions, nearly half of the two years was spent on the road, and so voices calling for a triennial exam echoed throughout the court and the country.

Previously, after the autumn exam, one would proceed to Kaifeng to prepare, but in the past two years, exhausted candidates from places like northern Fujian and southern Zhejiang delayed their departure until after the New Year.

The upcoming imperial exam would not take place until the fourth year of Zhihé era; in September, the court had already decreed a change of era, now named Jiayou—the emperor’s ninth reign title.

According to historians, the months before September were still counted as the third year of Zhihé, while after the change, March was Jiayou’s first year, and after New Year, it became Jiayou’s second year.

This year was not unfamiliar to Zhang Yue.

For the imperial exam of this year was known as the Dragon and Tiger List. This term originated in the Tang Dynasty: in the eighth year of Zhenyuan, the list of successful candidates included talents such as Han Yu, Ouyang Zhan, Cui Qun, Wang Ya, Feng Su, and Yu Chengxuan—each acclaimed as the finest in the land, thus earning the name Dragon and Tiger List.

Yet the Dragon and Tiger List of Jiayou’s second year surpassed even that illustrious Tang cohort. In fact, the history books called the Jiayou second year imperial exam the greatest list of all imperial examinations! Not merely within the Song, but across Tang, Song, Yuan, Ming, and Qing—a thousand years of selection never matched this one.

Within the Zhang clan academy, aside from Zhang Heng, several others were journeying north with Lin Xi to take the exam. Zhang Yue did not know the precise rankings for this session; apart from the Su brothers, he was unaware of who else succeeded. But he sensed that Zhang Heng and Lin Xi, both obscure names, would likely meet with disappointment.

He recalled, having recently reviewed the family genealogy, that Zhang Heng was a generation younger—technically his clan nephew. Yet the man was already thirty, and had never shown any intention of acknowledging kinship.

These days, attending lectures in the Hall of Daytime Glory, Zhang Yue could feel the tension before the great exam.

“The provincial exam is in March; I have no hope for it. But in May comes the prefectural exam, and next year the canal exam. So many books remain unread—the future appears bleak,” someone lamented.

“Time must not be wasted; the moment will not wait for us. When success and fame are achieved, all suffering will be forgotten.”

“Yes, seeing Ziping and the others preparing to head for the capital, how can we lag behind? Next time, I will surely pass the county exam and journey north in the imperial carriage.”

Several students chatted idly before Zhang Yue’s desk, while he busied himself listening to the professor answer questions for Zhang Heng, Lin Xi, and the others. Zhang Yue had only read the Book of Documents, and most of their discussions were beyond his comprehension; he could only jot them down, hoping to compare notes when he learned more in the future.

At that moment, one sighed, “My heart is not in study; all they discuss are tricks for the provincial exam. Do any of you truly understand?”

The others shook their heads—clearly, many in the clan academy were as bewildered as Zhang Yue.

“Indeed, why bother keeping pace with them? It’s the end of the year, we aren’t heading to the capital for exams, it’s cold—why not wait until spring to study again? Let’s play the Official Selection Game!”

“Again with the Official Selection Game,” the group stirred.

“No, no. We don’t have the time.”

“Go if you want, otherwise never mind. Let’s play first.” With these words, one deliberately waved dice before them.

Some glanced towards the professor, engrossed in answering Zhang Heng and Lin Xi’s queries, then stealthily packed their book bags, tucking them under their arms, and slipped out.

The two who had protested exchanged looks.

“One said, ‘There’s still months before the county exam; a little time won’t matter. Let’s play first.’”

The other replied, “You go, I’ll stay. I’ve studied in the clan academy for three years without success—my whole family depends on me.”

“If you won’t go, I won’t either. Never mind, I’ll treat you to tea.”

“That’s not right… Exams are soon… I need to prepare for the county test next year.”

“If you lose money, it’s on me.”

Hearing this, the other agreed, “Then let’s not delay. Did you bring enough money?”

The reply came with a pat on the pouch, “More? Not more? Indeed, very much!”

The two laughed.

Turning, they asked, “Scholar, Third Brother, will you join us?”

Zhang Cai felt tempted, glancing at Zhang Yue, but Zhang Yue shook his head, “I won’t go. You should be cautious; it’s not proper with the teacher here.”

Someone laughed, “All the clan’s sons aren’t afraid—why should you, an auditor, be?”

The inviter laughed, “Third Brother, I heard you earned a tidy sum copying books? It’s worth three and a half coins per page now, right?”

Zhang Yue smiled, thinking to himself, Now you see my skills.

“Since you’ve saved so much, why not test your luck? If you win big, you’ll enjoy a prosperous New Year.”

“Yes, one gamble could equal a month’s pay copying books. Are you afraid of losing?”

Such crude provocation did not faze Zhang Yue. “Thank you for your concern,” he replied calmly.

“How dull. Zhang Cai, are you going?”

Zhang Cai said, “If Third Brother won’t go, neither will I.”

“You two are birds of a feather. If the teacher asks, we’ll say we went to relieve ourselves.”

“So many at once? Will the latrine hold us?” Zhang Cai began, but they paid no heed, leaving without a backward glance.

Zhang Cai said quietly, “There’s no class at the fifth hour; the teacher usually won’t be strict. But study cannot rely on the teacher’s urging alone.”

Though he spoke thus, he had intended to go, but with Zhang Yue abstaining, their usual double desk was conspicuously empty. As scholar, he sometimes had to lead by example, so he uttered a graceful excuse.

By now, Zhang Heng, Lin Xi, and the other candidates had finished their questions, and it was time for others to approach the professor.

The two walked side by side, others trailing behind. Lin Xi said, “Brothers, this year’s provincial exam may be disastrous. I have no confidence; decades of study may come to nothing. What shall I do?”

The group cursed inwardly—here he was again, feigning humility, truly insufferable.

Lin Xi continued, “Enough, I’ll return home. Why suffer humiliation in Kaifeng? I can only hope you all achieve fame! Fame, oh fame, so distant, so elusive; better to return home!”

The others hastily replied,

“The top candidate is just being modest.”

“If you say so, should we not go to Kaifeng at all?”

“Surely you’ll win all three top honors—how can you talk of obscurity?”

Unable to do otherwise, they flattered him left and right, lifting Lin Xi up. If he tried to step down, they would have to grovel.

Lin Xi smiled slightly. Usually only Zhang Heng could retort to him, but today Zhang Heng was silent, watching the professor.

Lin Xi turned, seeing a student approach the professor—no more than twelve or thirteen, seemingly another auditor like himself. Lin Xi paid little attention, until Zhang Heng remarked, “Zhong, the chessboard and archery target drawn yesterday were by this student.”

“Oh?” Lin Xi scrutinized Zhang Yue.

At that moment, Zhang Yue, holding a list of questions from his recent reading, prepared to ask the professor. He always waited until the end, lest he waste others’ time.

Generally, after the professor answered their questions, the students had no patience to listen further. If one interrupted out of turn, it would be considered inconsiderate.

Though nobody would say so directly, Zhang Yue knew the etiquette. He always waited until everyone else had finished before stepping forward.

Now Zhang Yue stood quietly to one side, waiting until the last student departed before approaching, “Sir, these are yesterday’s questions. I have written them out, please review.”

Many of Zhang Yue’s questions were on paper, saving the professor much time compared to oral inquiries.

The professor looked up at Zhang Yue, then glanced around the half-empty classroom. He knew where those students had gone, but rarely questioned them.

Ultimately, study was a personal matter; he would not chase after the idle, but for diligent students like Zhang Yue, he was eager to teach more.

The professor browsed Zhang Yue’s questions, suddenly frowning, then slammed the paper heavily onto the desk.

Bang!

Zhang Yue was startled, clasped his hands, and bowed.

The remaining students looked over, a few with schadenfreude.

The professor barked, “You rascal! When studying the classics, one must seek the root. How can you doubt everything, quibbling over trifles? Your scholarship is headed down a crooked path—do you realize it?”

Zhang Yue replied, “Your instruction is just, sir. I failed to see my error and strayed from the right path.”

The professor said, “Your most urgent task is not breadth or variety, but to return to the meaning of the classics, focusing on exegesis. Seeking new interpretations without cause, exhausting yourself on phrases, and your conjectures are even worse than mere phrase-chasing.”

With that, he crumpled Zhang Yue’s paper and hurled it to the floor.

“Please, sir, do not be angry,” Zhang Yue picked up the paper silently and returned to his desk. Zhang Cai whispered, “Don’t take it to heart. He scolds you because he sees promise. He would not bother with others.”

Zhang Yue smoothed the paper, “I understand. May I borrow some ink?”

Zhang Cai nodded.

Zhang Heng and Lin Xi observed the scene, exchanged smiles, and came forward.

Zhang Heng said to the professor, “Third Brother must have asked something to trouble you.”

The professor replied, “It was about the phrase, ‘Filial, truly filial; friendly to brothers, applied to governance.’”

Zhang Heng and Lin Xi chuckled, no wonder Zhang Yue was scolded.

The original source was, “Someone asked Confucius: ‘Why don’t you govern?’ Confucius replied, ‘The Book says: ‘Filial, truly filial; friendly to brothers, applied to governance.’’”

Anyone who had read the Analects knew it came from the chapter “Governance,” where Confucius quoted the Book of Documents.

But which passage, exactly, was he quoting? Most would not bother to investigate.

Yet Zhang Yue, after reading the Book of Documents, found it in the “Minister Chen” chapter.

The text read, “Minister Chen said: ‘Minister Chen, may your noble virtue be filial and respectful. Be filial, friendly to brothers, and capable of governance. I appoint you to oversee the eastern suburb. Be reverent!’”

This was similar to the quoted phrase.

Thus arose the question.

Zhang Yue asked the professor about the discrepancy between the Analects and the Book of Documents—who had it right?

The professor’s anger flared: instead of proper study and exegesis, Zhang Yue was worrying about whether the Analects or the Book of Documents was correct—a question worthy of scolding.

If the Analects was right, the Book of Documents was wrong; if the Book of Documents was right, the Analects was wrong. What is a classic? Not a single word can be changed; every phrase is a golden rule. If the emperor’s edict is mistaken, the classic is not. Zhang Yue’s question was not reverence for the classics, but doubt—the gravest transgression in a scholar’s eyes.

When the truth emerged, the candidates laughed and departed. Zhang Heng smiled and asked Lin Xi, “What do you think, Brother Zhong?”

Lin Xi pondered, “The ‘Minister Chen’ chapter is from the ancient text of the Book of Documents, compiled by the eleventh descendant of the sage, Kong An-guo. It was lost during the Yongjia turmoil, and only restored when Mei Ze, Prefect of Yuzhang, presented the book. Since the Tang, many have doubted it.”

“Indeed. What did you think of this student before?”

Zhang Heng considered, “Unlearned, but skilled.”

Lin Xi laughed, “So it is.”

“Oh? What do you mean?”

Lin Xi said, “Unlearned, but skilled—what if he learns?”

At this, the candidates murmured in surprise.

Zhang Heng was somewhat doubtful, yet intrigued.