The Last Mandarin

A Scholar from a China that No Longer Exists

What caught my attention about the thin, 85-year-old Chinese man seated in a
Hong Kong restaurant was neither his ancient wooden cane nor his long, blue
changpao, the traditional Chinese gown. It was the small, round cap he wore on his
head. I had seen piles of those caps in novelty shops in the Chinatowns of the world;
but there only the tourists tried them on, to the amusement of friends. Never had I
actually seen such a cap on a Chinese before.

As the old man, suddenly aware of my scrutiny, turned on a warm

smile, his cap began to assume an appositness of its own, as if it were
part of him, like his hair, like the lines that age had engraved on his
face, like his inexpressible dignity. I could not possibly have imagined
him without it. Only late did I realize that the unaffected composure
which that cap had assumed was a vestige of a vanished time. For
Ling Chu-Ch'uan, as I came to know him, was one of the last living
scholars with a hsiu-ts'ai; a literary degree meaning "Fine Talent,"
awarded to him under the traditional Chinese examination system one year before
its abolishment in 1905 under the pressure of western ideas. Ling was a mandarin, a
title honored for centuries in a China that no longer exists. Born to a long line of
scholars, Ling felt the parental pressure towards literary achievement early in life.
In 1901, then 15, he attempted to pass the first of the exams but failed. two years
later he failed again. But on his third attempt, at 18, he was determined to win
honor for his family and for himself, and he did.

We talked about this triumph. His alert eyes twinkled as he recalled that dark
morning in 1904 when ten thousand scholars from all over Kwangtung Province
assembled at 2 a.m. in the Great Examination Hall in Canton. The gates were
barred. The roll call, commencing at 4, went on for hours. Ling
vividly remembers the tenseness of the other candidates as well as his
own, expressed in boisterous laughter, nervous fidgeting and tempers
flaring like lightning in the oppressive summer heat.

His smile broadened as he remembered the old men who, 70 years and more, still
aspired to the coveted degree which had eluded them throughout life. Because they
had yet to achieve the first degree, they remained "boy candidates," regardless of
their age. Some of these septuagenarians answered the roll call with sons and
grandsons taking the same exam.

Not all the candidates present were, like Ling, the descendants of
scholars. But most of them were. To become a mandarin was not
open to all Chinese. Watchmen, executioners, laborers, yamen
torturers, coroners, boatpeople, musicians, detectives, jailers, actors,
slaves, beggars - those from such callings, and many others, were forbidden to
apply. As Ling stood listening intently for his name to be called, he silently reviewed
what he had reviewed a thousand times before: Every line in his recitation must
contain the prescribed number of words; the emperor's name must begin a new line;
the essay must end at a certain part of the paper; there must be no visible erasures.
What if, as was certainly not unknown, the room of his cubicle had leaked during a
sudden shower and his examination paper was damaged? Well, that would be up to
the heavens to decide, not Long Chu-ch'uan.

He entered his "cell," a cubicle 5 ft. 3 in. by 3 ft. 8 in. He brought his own brushes
and ink, although his paper was supplied by the Exam Hall. There would be 16 of
these one-day sessions over a period of up to two months. At last his test sheet was
placed before him. His spirits rose immediately as he read his main question. It was
a quote from Mencius, one of China's most famous philosophers: "Although you
area superior, if you are not aware of what the ordinary people experience, your
conduct is not correct."

The examiners seemed to be hesitantly asking the searching questions which Ling's
troubled times called forth. He had thought about such matters a great deal and he
was prepared. Yet, there were more topics on other Chinese philosophers, Chinese
history, contemporary plitics. He had no time to waste. He picked up his brush and
began. At last, the sessions were over. The results were posted. He and his friends
eagerly scanned the list of names until their eyes came to Ling Chu-ch'uan, now
holder of the degree of hsiu-ts'ai or "Fine Talent."

Yet even as his family honored his with a banquet, Ling knew the ordeal was far
from complete. His father had passed the Peking exams. His grandfather had been
a magistrate. Ling now prepared himself for the next exams and the journey to
Peking, where, in still another cell, his fortune would be decided. In the capital, he
could not leave the exam area for three days. If it was cold, his coverlets would be of
limited help. His small cell was furnished with two tables and a board, the board no
longer than five feet. When placed across the tables, it served as his bed. he
brought his own food and eating utensils. As in Canton, one cook and servant per
corridor were provided free of charge. Ling studied as never before: The Great
Learning, the Doctrine of the mean, the Analects of Confucius, Mencius, the Book of
Odes, the Book of History, the Book of Changes, the Book of Rites, and the Spring
and Autumn Annals.
The Chinese examination system dates back to the Sui Dynasty (590-618) and the
T'ang (618-907 AD) dynasties - the system which from Ling's own
family had produced generations of scholars and government officials
- now, the worst of the rumors were confirmed, it was to be
abolished. For years after, Ling shivered from the shock he felt then.
What was to be his livelihood? As officials often dept silver in the
long sleeves of their gowns, those who were destitute were said to have "two sleeves
fluttering in the wind." Was this then to be the fate of Ling Chu-Ch'uan? But the
government responded. Teacher-training schools were set up and his exam degree
was declared to be still valid. Ling became a headmaster in Canton for ten years.
In his twenty-second year he was also appointed Chung-she, a section chief
concerned with the drafting of documents.

And then the final shock: The 1911 collapse of the Ch'ing (Manchu) dynasty and
the beginning of the Republic of Sun Yat-sen. Ling had mixed emotions when
cutting his queue. For many scholars their hair in anything but a queue would have
been unthinkable, yet the hairstyle had been imposed by the Manchus, and so, after
267 years, the Chinese were freed from Manchu rule. In the cities, students with
scissors confronted anyone reluctant to cut their queues.

During the second year of the Republic he passed the high exam for Hsien (Prefect),
and became Prefect in the province of Fukien. After a few months, he was
transferred to Peking as a literary official. Ling Disliked the capital. Expenses ate
up his small grant and left him poor. Like other hsiu-ts'ai, he was now exempt from
corporal punishment and would wear the mandarin button on his hats. But the
prestige he would have gained as part of the local gentry in a small community
weighed nothing in the teeming capital.

He returned to Canton as director of education and as principal of a teachers'

college in the area of Fan Yu. For 30 years he stayed, teaching literature and
history. Then, in 1948, as the Communist takeover loomed, he left the area of his
birth for Hong Kong. In that refugee colony he was to live for 25 years. The scholar
raised his tea cup to his lips with a steady hand and ate sparingly of his boneless
chicken. He was born, he continued, in the Year of the Pig. At 18, his first marriage
was arranged by his family, as such matters were done then. Just as naturally, the
young maiden's feet were bound.

He survived that first arranged marriage, which was followed by three more. All
told, his wives bore him seven sons and two daughters; they in turn produced more
than 20 grandchildren. He saw them often - but not too often. He liked solitude,
and used it to write classical Chinese poetry and to paint - plum trees and flowers
were his favorites. Despite his traditional education, Ling was not conservative
himself. Although he concentrated on education partly because of the turbulence of
the warlord period and the great upheavals which swept China during his lifetime,
he was convinced that education is an integral part of political reform, itself a form
of political involvement.
Thus we talked. At length Ling rose, and slowly, with the caution of his years,
crossed the room. He was off to the Chinese University where, once a week, he
lectured in literature. As we bade farewell, Ling held up the sleeves of his blue gown
and smiled. Even at 85, the scholar could demonstrate that his two long, wide
sleeves did not "flutter in the wind." My first encounter with Ling was also the last.
Some months passed before I sought to see him again. He answered the telephone
with his usual courtesy, but regretted that he could not see me for a day or two; he
was running a fever. I called again in two weeks; a servant informed me that the
master was gravely ill. I let a week pass, and called again. The Last of the
Mandarins, I was told, had died. © Dean Barrett 2009

Asia Magazine interview - Hong Kong - 1973

Photographs: Ling Chu-Ch'uan at the Hong Kong Star Ferry, Kowloon side, photo by
Kishor Parekh, 1973; Ling as a young man in his 20's; summer and winter hats of
mandarin officials; examination cells from the book, China's Examination Hell;
mandarin officials in full regalia. The red knob was the highest of the nine Ch'ing
dynasty knobs. Civilian mandarins had far more prestige than military mandarins.
The peacock feather on the hat denoted an additional distinction.

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The Mandarins

Ch'ing Dynasty hat knobs of mandarin officials

To the outsider, the very word "mandarin" suggests someone from old China's
ruling class. In a sense, this is true, but only partly. The mandarin was nothing
more or less than a civil servant, an employee of the state, who earned his title - in
China, kwan, or, public character -and earned his post by passing a series of
examinations, frequently as many as seven. Each dynasty had its own mandarin
ranks, but for purposes of simplicity there can be said to have been nine: three each
drawn from the lower, the middle, and the upper classes.

Outwardly, mandarins were distinguished by a cap with a special button, a robe

with the insignia of their rank embroidered on the breast and back,
and a girdle clasp. Military mandarins wore insignia denoting
animals, real or imaginary. A mandarin of the civil as opposed to the
military service might display a Manchurian crane or pheasant. The
highest mandarins were the custodians of Chinese culture, and had to
pass a series of seven examinations to attain the highest rank. Their
intellectual and artistic accomplishments were likely to include
excellence in calligraphy, the ability to recite learned books from
memory and to create extemporaneous poetry. Such powerful minds earned great
respect, which, in turn, ensured monetary success as well as considerable status in
the community. One Chinese scholar, T. C. Lai, has written that "people in dynastic
China aspired to be mandarins more fervently than people now aspire to be
millionaires." The mandarins of the higher ranks were expected to lead lives of
great probity. They were never assigned to the province from whence they came.
they were prohibited from marriage and owning property, nor could they serve for
more than three years in any one province. The birth of the Republic of China
under Dr. Sun Yat-sen marked the death of the mandarin orders. Ling Chu-Ch'uan
was one of the last to take the examinations; and, because of his great years, he was
certainly one of the few remaining men to survive a class and a China which are no
more. There was much to be desired in China's examination system: Many
categories were not allowed to take the examinations including women, and many of
the exam questions were irrelevant to a China confronted with the modernization of
the West; but at least it was a system which valued knowledge and learning and
scholarship.

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Books on China

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Read another article on China:

A Beijing Journey - Ten days wandering about the back streets and forgotten secrets
of Beijing

www.deanbarrettmystery.com