Kays Translations

Chapter 334: A Disciple’s Calling Card

“Yesterday’s squalor is nothing worth boasting of; today, my thoughts stretch boundless. Riding high on the spring breeze, my horse’s hooves fly swift—within a single day I behold all the blossoms of Chang’an.”

Stepping out of the Marquis of Linhuai’s Residence, Zhu Ping’an immediately caught sight of Zhang Siwei and Wang Shizhen, looking every bit like the poem described—buoyant in spirit, proud as if borne aloft by the spring breeze. Both men had always been elegant in bearing, but today their radiance outshone the past. Though neither had taken first place in the metropolitan examination as Zhu Ping’an had, each had nonetheless achieved a fine result: Wang Shizhen placed eighty-second and Zhang Siwei ninety-third, both within the top hundred.

“Zihou, at last you’ve come out,” the two greeted him with smiles as they stepped forward.

“Brother Ziwei, Brother Wensheng—you’ve waited long. Today I’ll host, food and drink in plenty.” Zhu Ping’an returned their smiles, offering an apologetic bow.

“We’ll remember that,” Zhang Siwei chuckled, clapping his hands. “But not today. Another day, perhaps.”

“Why so? That’s hardly your style. Last time the results were posted, you two devoured the feast like starved gluttons, not sparing a single morsel. ‘Mock not the farmer’s cloudy wine, for in a year of plenty he has pork and fowl enough to share’. Today, I’ve even brought coin for a fat duck.” Zhu Ping’an grinned, tossing the heavy purse in his hand.

“Zihou, are you truly ignorant, or just pretending?” Wang Shizhen rolled his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Zhu Ping’an looked genuinely puzzled.

“Ah, Zihou, quick-witted though you are, with a mind as if carved with nine apertures, when it comes to official customs you’re still woefully naïve.” Wang Shizhen shook his head, then explained why they had come. “Now that we’ve passed the metropolitan examination, custom requires us to pay our respects to the examiners. You hadn’t sought us out these past few days, so today we came to fetch you so we can visit our examiner-mentor together.”

“Among scholars of the realm,” Zhang Siwei continued, “some come from hundreds of li away, others from thousands, speaking different dialects and not knowing one another’s names. Yet once they succeed in the examinations, a web of ties is formed: the chief examiners are one’s zuoshi, while the assistant examiners are one’s fangshi. Those who pass in the same examination year are tongnian; the sons of one’s tongnian are nian nephews. The sons of one’s zuoshi and fangshi are addressed as shixiong, elder brothers by courtesy. To the examiners, we are mensheng, disciples. Those later admitted through a disciple are mensun, and in turn they honor the examiner’s own examiner as grand master.”

“Oh—so that’s the custom. A disciple’s calling card.” Zhu Ping’an’s eyes lit with belated realization. Indeed, it had been his oversight.

At their words, memories stirred. Of course—this system of examiner-disciple ties was something he had long understood in his former life.

In the Ming dynasty, when the imperial examination system reached its height, such examiner-disciple ties became more entrenched than ever. Competition was fierce; far more candidates met the standard than there were available places. Since chance inevitably played some part in who was selected, successful candidates often felt immense gratitude toward their examiners. Thus arose the convention of revering the examiner as one’s mentor and calling oneself a mensheng. The chief examiner was the zuoshi, while the assistant examiner who admitted one’s paper was the fangshi.

Once the results were posted, every new mensheng was expected to present a disciple’s calling card, make a formal visit, and bring a gift, thereby cementing the relationship.

“Many thanks, Brother Ziwei, Brother Wensheng. I nearly made a grave blunder.” Zhu Ping’an clasped his hands, feigning sudden enlightenment.

Yet inwardly, Zhu Ping’an could not help feeling some disdain. This whole examiner-disciple system rested on a single examination. One side examined, the other sat for the test. The examiner was carrying out an imperial duty; the candidate succeeded by ability, even if chance and other factors also played a role. Passing should have been the candidate’s due, not a personal favor demanding lifelong gratitude. Yet somehow public duty had been turned into personal obligation: if you select me, you become my benefactor; if I am selected, I become your disciple.

In the dynasty’s early days, the examiner-disciple bond had been founded on righteousness. Later, it grew increasingly bound by interest, especially toward the dynasty’s decline, when such ties became fuel for factional strife and corruption.

Still, Zhu Ping’an was not pedantic. For all its flaws, there were advantages. It is said: with allies in the court, matters proceed with ease. A zuoshi could offer guidance, protection, advancement. And their own examiner was none other than Xu Jie—the very man who had toppled Yan Song, a true power to reckon with. If such a thigh was there to cling to, why not?

Thus, Zhu Ping’an went with Zhang Siwei and Wang Shizhen to present their disciple’s calling cards and gifts, visiting Xu Jie and Yan Maoqing to formally establish their examiner-disciple ties.

They would visit the assistant examiners who had individually admitted their papers afterward.

Naturally, one could not arrive empty-handed. Zhang Siwei led the others to an elegant ink shop, selecting fine ink as their gift.

Ink was indispensable to writing. Its quality affected not only calligraphy and painting but also how long a work could endure without fading. Fine ink was cherished as a collector’s treasure. As ink was one of the Four Treasures of the Study, giving it as a gift was both refined and appropriate.

“This Hui ink is called Spring Green upon the Pond, named after the line in Feng Yansi’s At the Golden Gate: ‘The wind rises suddenly, ruffling the spring waters of the pond.’ It is among the finest inks. Its design is ingenious, its form exquisite, and its inscriptions flowing and forceful. Waves curl around a dragon-child at play, carefree and spirited. It is one of the most sought-after inks of the age.”

So Zhang Siwei explained, having studied ink with some expertise.

Zhu Ping’an, curious, picked up a piece of Spring Green upon the Pond. It was round, with raised edging and gold decoration. One side bore the raised inscription Spring Green upon the Pond; the other showed a dragon-child coiling amid sea waves. Along the edge were the inscriptions Made at Shuiyun Residence and By Xiao Huayi Shi.

The shop boy carefully chipped off a sample, no larger than a fingernail, and ground it in the inkstone. Then he offered brush, ink, paper, and stone for them to test.

The ink flowed smooth as jade, carrying a faint fragrance. As neither of his companions reached for the brush, Zhu Ping’an smiled faintly, stepped forward, dipped his brush, and wrote the single character mo—“ink.” The strokes leapt alive, more fluid and vigorous than before.

“Zihou, splendid calligraphy!” Zhang Siwei and Wang Shizhen praised unreservedly.

“I do so enjoy your honesty,” Zhu Ping’an quipped, setting down the brush with a grin.

The two could not help laughing, shaking their heads at him.

After their laughter, each purchased several pieces of Spring Green upon the Pond Hui ink, which the shop boy wrapped in fine boxes. Gifts in hand, they set off toward Xu Jie’s residence.

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