Chapter 1911 - Civil Service Examination (Part Four)
Dong Yizhi had felt a certain satisfaction in the moment—the quiet pleasure of wielding authority for the people's benefit. But his contentment proved short-lived. That same afternoon, Shen Ruiming arrived bearing objections, his accusations sharp: Dong had "arbitrarily altered the regulations" and violated the principle of "governing by law." The reprimand stung all the more because Dong himself had set the original age restrictions. Others piled on, questioning the integrity of the household registration process—were people simply allowed to report whatever age they fancied? Mu Min's face darkened considerably at the implication.
Eventually, Lin Baiguang intervened to defuse the situation. The examination, he reminded them, served dual purposes: not merely to identify talent, but also to "win the hearts of the people." The elderly applicants had demonstrated "sincere eagerness to serve"—such enthusiasm warranted encouragement, not dismissal. Moreover, literacy in traditional society remained exceedingly rare; imposing age barriers would only shrink an already meager pool of qualified candidates.
He proposed a measured compromise: issue an immediate public notice stating that, in response to overwhelming popular demand, the age restriction would be lifted for this examination. Any citizen over eighteen years of age, in sound health and without significant disability, could apply. Those who had misrepresented their age during household registration must correct the record before the examination date; failure to do so would result in disqualification and potential legal consequences. As for prosecuting the candidates who had caused disturbances at the registration site, Lin counseled restraint: "The current public sentiment can be harnessed to our advantage. Some matters benefit more from leniency than severity. Otherwise, we lose sight of our governing principles and the very purpose of our laws."
On examination day, Yuan Shuzhi and Zeng Juan rose before dawn. Zeng Juan's mother had long since prepared two traditional examination baskets. For generations, candidates entering the imperial examination halls had relied on such provisions. Whether sitting for the college examination, the provincial examination, or the metropolitan examination, the format remained unchanged: three sessions of three days each. Though the schedule was called "three days," candidates in truth entered the hall the evening before the first day, received their examination papers at midnight during the zi hour, and submitted them on the morning of the third day.
Within the examination compound, candidates faced more than intellectual challenges—they had to eat, drink, sleep, and attend to bodily functions, all while confined to their narrow cells. Every necessity, from bedding to food, had to be brought from home. The contents of examination baskets varied dramatically based on family wealth, creating a stark divide between rich and poor even before the first stroke of the brush.
The Zeng family had never produced a scholar, and Zeng Juan had never attempted the college examination. The two bamboo baskets his mother procured had been borrowed from elderly neighbors—relics from an old xiucai who had spent his life shuttling between study and examination halls. Decades of exposure to wind, rain, smoke, and flame had rendered the woven bamboo a dim, indeterminate shade between dark yellow and brown. Yet for all their age, the baskets remained sturdy.
Zeng Juan's mother had assembled the traditional requirements with meticulous care: the four treasures of the scholar's study, a copper lamp, a canopy cover, a door curtain, a small stove, candlesticks and snuffers, scroll cases, charcoal for the stove. She had also packed supplementary provisions: sweet cakes, lotus seeds, dried longan, roasted rice, preserved vegetables, candied ginger, medicinal asafoetida...
The inventory exceeded the capacity of a single basket, necessitating an additional bedding roll. Wealthy families naturally employed servants to transport such loads to the examination gate; once inside, a few coins secured the services of hall attendants or veteran soldiers to carry everything to the assigned cell. Families of modest means relied on their own labor. The truly destitute could barely scrape together enough rice and vegetables, managing only the barest essentials.
Zeng Juan found himself caught between laughter and exasperation. The newspapers and registration announcements had made it abundantly clear: this civil service examination consisted of a written test followed by interviews for those who qualified. The written component would last only a single day, with lunch provided by the government. There was simply no need for such elaborate provisions.
After considerable persuasion, he finally convinced his mother to abandon the cumbersome examination baskets. He wrapped only the essential writing materials in a simple cloth bundle. "I've noticed the Australian cadres and soldiers all carry canvas shoulder bags," Zeng Juan remarked. "So practical for carrying things. A pity there's nowhere in the city to purchase one."
Just then, Zhang Yu arrived accompanied by a shop assistant bearing a food box. Knowing this was Zeng Juan's examination day, he had specially prepared a selection of fine pastries from his establishment.
"A-Juan, may you triumph at the first unfurling of your banner—instant success!" Zhang Yu declared.
The two friends clasped hands firmly. Warmth flooded Zeng Juan's chest—an emotion beyond articulation. For the past six months, Zhang Yu had paved every path toward this examination, expending both money and effort purely out of friendship, expecting nothing in return. To have secured such a friend—what more could any man desire? He nodded, too moved for words.
"Ziyu hasn't yet returned from Lingao," Zhang Yu continued. "If he were in Guangzhou, he would certainly have come to see you off!" He offered a few more encouraging words to Yuan Shuzhi. Then, to everyone's delight, even little Mingnu emerged to offer auspicious phrases, wishing both "Uncle" and "Grandpa" would "soar skyward in a single flight" and "astonish the world with one cry."
Her innocent well-wishing moved Yuan Shuzhi to tears. A man without family, he had never known the warmth of kinship. To receive such tender care from this child stirred something profound in his heart. "Good girl," he managed, voice thick with emotion, "Grandpa will definitely soar to the heavens!" The declaration prompted laughter all around.
With farewells exchanged, Zeng Juan and Yuan Shuzhi set forth on their examination journey.
The civil service examination had been scheduled at the former Great Ming Guangdong Tribute Courtyard, known as the Gongyuan. The number of available positions had attracted an unprecedented surge of applicants—over two thousand admission tickets had been issued. No school in Guangzhou possessed sufficient capacity to serve as an examination venue. Wei Bifu, a retained official from the previous regime who had served as Guangzhou Prefectural Vice-Magistrate and now held the position of General Office Counselor, had suggested repurposing the original Guangdong Tribute Courtyard. Located on Dashi Street, the compound featured five thousand examination cells—more than adequate for all candidates.
Even to the time-traveling Senators of the twenty-first century, the Tribute Courtyard represented an architectural wonder: an unbroken expanse of buildings, magnificent in scale and ambition. Every Senator who visited Guangzhou, Liu Xiang included, made a point of touring this remarkable structure.
At this moment, Zhang Yunmi, chief examiner for the civil service examination, stood atop the Mingyuan Tower, surveying the endless sea of black roof tiles stretching before her. The tower served as the examination compound's highest vantage point, allowing proctors to monitor the entire venue. For this first civil service examination, it would function as the invigilation headquarters.
Given that this marked the Senate's inaugural large-scale unified examination, all involved parties treated it with utmost gravity. Liu Xiang had initially proposed deploying the National Army to secure the perimeter and serving as chief examiner himself. Lin Baiguang had counseled against such ostentation.
"Though the civil service examination evolved from the imperial examination tradition, we are not, after all, reinstating the old imperial system. It would be unwise to create such an impression among the citizenry. Simply deploy additional police forces to maintain order. As for the examiner position—Zhang Yunmi, current principal of the Guangzhou Cadre School, represents the most suitable candidate."
When Liu Xiang appeared hesitant still, Lin leaned closer and whispered, "These candidates carry deeply traditional mindsets. Those who pass will inevitably regard the presiding Senator as their Seat Master—their patron and teacher. With a young woman like Zhang Yunmi, it matters little. But if another Senator were to serve..."
The implication struck Liu Xiang like cold water. He cursed himself for overlooking this critical detail and promptly appointed Zhang Yunmi as chief examiner.
Zhang Yunmi no longer felt flustered by her accumulating temporary assignments. She was beginning to grow into her various roles.
"This place really is extraordinary," Zhang Yunmi murmured, gazing out from the Mingyuan Tower's height.
The tower itself stood only two stories tall. But in seventeenth-century Guangzhou, a city virtually devoid of multi-story structures, even this modest elevation commanded a comprehensive view of the entire Tribute Courtyard below.
The compound faced south, its principal structures arranged in symmetrical rectangular formation. High walls enclosed the perimeter, with watchtowers stationed at each of the four corners. The effect resembled a miniature fortified city.
The central axis proceeded from south to north: the Main Gate, the Yi Gate, the Dragon Gate, the Mingyuan Tower, the "Heaven Opens Literary Fortune" archway, Zhigong Hall, Jieshen Hall, Jukui Hall, and finally the Rear Gate.
A stone-paved avenue formed the Tribute Courtyard's spine, flanked by towering ancient trees. The paving stones lay cracked and broken, choked with persistent weeds. Even the recent hurried cleaning had failed to eliminate the stubborn growth emerging from every crevice. Under Ming rule, the Tribute Courtyard had been utilized only once every three years. Given its vast extent, proper maintenance had proven a challenge, lending the entire compound an atmosphere of melancholy neglect.
Dense rows of examination cells lined both sides of the stone thoroughfare. Each row contained dozens of individual cells, marked at its entrance with a character from the Thousand Character Classic: "Heaven, Earth, Black, Yellow, Universe, Vast, Wilderness..." "Heaven" stood to the east, "Earth" to the west; "Black" to the east, "Yellow" to the west, continuing in this pattern until the cells were exhausted. The Mingyuan Tower occupied the precise center of the compound, ideally positioned for comprehensive surveillance.
Curiosity had prompted Zhang Yunmi to inspect the examination lanes earlier. The cells proved cramped and low—a mere three chi wide, four chi deep, and six chi high. One could neither stand fully upright nor lie down. Sitting represented the only viable posture. Brick ledges protruded from the walls, designed to support wooden boards called "cell boards"—one serving as seat and sleeping surface, the other as writing desk. Within these confined spaces, candidates burned candles and composed their essays. During the autumn provincial examinations, when weather remained oppressively hot, thousands of examinees crowded into these tiny, airless chambers—sweltering beneath the heat, drenched in sweat, choked by candle smoke, tormented by biting insects, their minds strained to the breaking point as they labored to construct the required essays. The sheer ordeal of it defied imagination.
What Zhang Yunmi found most intolerable was the presence in each row of a few rooms designated as "stink cells"—facilities containing excrement vats that served as communal latrines. Candidates relieved themselves mere steps from where others struggled to concentrate. The cells' narrow dimensions and poor ventilation created conditions of overwhelming foulness. Though considerable time had elapsed since the previous examination, Zhang Yunmi still detected the acrid stench of urine and feces when passing these areas during her inspection. She had immediately submitted a formal report requesting the construction of several large, proper latrines within the Tribute Courtyard for candidates' use. Should environmental hygiene be inadequately addressed, the risk of infectious disease outbreak became catastrophically real.
"Report to Chief—it is precisely eight o'clock. Shall we admit the candidates?"
"Open the gates. Let them enter." Zhang Yunmi nodded her assent.
The new regulations specified that examination hall gates would open at eight in the morning, the formal examination would commence at nine, and the first session would conclude at noon. The second session would begin at two in the afternoon and end at five.
Zeng Juan and Yuan Shuzhi waited before the Main Gate, part of a dark mass of candidates already assembled outside. Given the extraordinary numbers, police had cordoned off the surrounding streets, permitting entry only to those bearing official admission tickets. Everyone craned their necks with eager anticipation, anxious to witness what this inaugural "Australian Imperial Examination" would entail.
Yuan Shuzhi had never set foot inside the Tribute Courtyard, but lore surrounding the provincial examination was well known. Entry, tradition held, was announced by cannon fire: three shots to open the Main Gate, three more for the Yi Gate, and a final three when the Dragon Gate swung wide—only then did candidates formally enter the examination grounds. At that precise moment, a cannon's report echoed from Zhenhai Tower, followed by bells and drums resounding throughout the city in perfect synchronization, tolling eight times in succession. Yuan Shuzhi understood: this was the Australian "eight o'clock," corresponding to the middle of the traditional Chen hour.