The third-place graduate, known as the tanhua, was traditionally chosen for his handsome appearance. Xie Xuanying, however, was more than worthy of the title, raising the standard of the tanhua‘s looks to unprecedented heights.
Someone even composed a poem about him:
In spring attire, he strides onto the spring list of fame,
Flower in his hair, he rides through Black Robe Lane.
Chang’an boasts three thousand blooms in spring’s bright flame,
Yet all its floral beauty rests in Young Master Xie alone.
Within days, the poem had spread through every street and alley of the capital.
The Marquis of Jinghai’s residence was inundated with congratulations, and well-wishers arrived in an endless stream. The household laid out banquet tables and entertained guests lavishly, with carriages and horses coming and going without pause for three whole days. Even the beggars knew to offer their congratulations before collecting their reward money and heading off for a drink.
Xie Xuanying, meanwhile, had taken refuge at his teacher’s house, pretending the celebrations had nothing to do with him.
Unfortunately, he could escape the banquets, but not his duties.
By convention, after the newly successful metropolitan examination candidates entered the palace to express their gratitude, they could be appointed to official positions. The top three graduates were appointed as bianxiu (compilers) at the Hanlin Academy, posts ranked at the sixth grade, lower tier.
Their duties included helping the emperor draft edicts, compiling historical works, and various other tasks. The work was relatively flexible.
The first- and second-place graduates, for instance, were assigned to compile books. As long as they could endure the work and produce results, their future prospects were boundless.
After all, in the imperial bureaucracy, those who had not served in the Hanlin Academy stood little chance of entering the Grand Secretariat.
As for Xie Xuanying… on top of his regular duties as an imperial guard, he had been saddled with an additional responsibility.
Whenever he was on duty, he had to remain at the emperor’s side, drafting documents as needed.
A dual appointment in civil and military service, two jobs, three sources of pay, thirty days a month, twenty of them spent in the palace.
On the remaining ten days, he had to report to the Hanlin Academy to socialize with his colleagues, spar with the night guards and imperial guards, and attend gatherings with fellow graduates from his examination year.
For the first time, he was glad he had never married. After all, with his habit of leaving early and returning late every day, only to fall asleep the moment he got home, married life would hardly have been the blissful union he had envisioned.
And when someone like him truly applied himself, the results were remarkable.
The literary world opened its doors to him.
In the past, although the assembled ministers admired him, and even Minister Wang had been eager to marry his granddaughter to him, Xie Xuanying was still a hereditary noble and a military officer. There had always been an invisible barrier between him and the civil officials.
But passing the metropolitan examination had earned him their recognition. Suddenly, two paths of advancement lay open before him: he could continue in military service, guarding a region, or pursue a civil career, administering a territory.
This was the fundamental difference between civil and military officials. Civil officials could be appointed to military posts, but military officers had no established route into civil office.
Yet while military officers were generally promoted up through the ranks, the factions among civil officials were far more complicated.
Same examination year. Same hometown. Same school.
Teacher and disciple. Regional ties. Shared interests.
At present, Xie Xuanying’s clearest connection was with Yan Hongzhi. His senior fellow disciples were natural allies, and Yan Hongzhi was far from the only disciple of Li Wu.
One of Li Wu’s other disciples had a former student serving as a shidu at the Hanlin Academy. This man was exceptionally kind to Xie Xuanying, personally guiding him through the work and explaining the academy’s various factions, even warning him to watch out for a particular individual.
Of course, complicated as the factional rivalries were, they had little to do with him for the time being. Even Ministers Wang and Xu, who had clashed fiercely the previous year, had temporarily called a truce.
But now, something else had arrived to stir up the court.
In mid-April, the sons and daughters of the vassal princes arrived in the capital.
They say the imperial palace is a lonely place. And lonely it truly was.
The dramatic intrigues of Qing palace dramas were nowhere to be found. As for the imperial consorts, forget poisoning and framing one another. Even speaking out of turn or getting into a petty argument could earn them a reprimand from the female officials. Every three days of the month, they also had to attend lessons and study the Four Books for Women.
Whether palace maids or imperial consorts, their daily lives offered little variety. They could worship the Buddha, play chess, or do needlework. Today, you might make lifelike flowers out of paper; tomorrow, I might add a few more pleats to my dress.
Those who were well versed in poetry and prose could at least compose a few verses about the dull monotony of life in the inner palace.
Take April, for example. Cherries were already in season, so everyone began composing poems about them. Wang Yongxu’s verses caused a sensation in the rear palace, and the imperial consort even specially bestowed half a basket of cherries on her.
If the rear palace had trending searches, this would have topped the list for three whole days. That alone should give you an idea of just how dull life there was.
A life like this made mountains out of molehills and petty rivalries all but inevitable. Yet palace rules were strict. The women could do little more than exchange barbs and tug at one another’s hair ornaments. No matter how envious they were of Wang Yongxu, the most they dared do was whisper behind her back, “She has a well-connected grandfather.”
The imperial consorts had even less room to stir up trouble.
The female officials often reminded the palace staff, “During the late emperor’s reign, palace maids competed to win the consorts’ favor. And what came of it? One consort hanged herself, every maid involved was executed, and even their families outside the palace were implicated. So when serving your mistress, you must do your utmost. In your daily dealings, you must also gently guide the consorts to observe proper conduct, discourage them from competing for favor out of jealousy, and encourage them to take virtuous women of the past as their examples.”
In short, the imperial palace was an extraordinarily oppressive place
Cheng Danruo had once been afraid that she would never adjust to life in the palace, that the suffocating monotony would eventually drive her into depression.
Strangely enough, however, she had adapted remarkably well.
Every morning, she woke up, washed, and went to work, spending her days at the Hall of Peace and Joy. If there were patients, she treated them; if not, she studied.
Lately, she had been focusing on identifying medicinal materials. This was probably the greatest advantage of working in the medicine service: she had access to all kinds of medicinal ingredients and could examine them one by one, learning to distinguish them by their smell and color, comparing what she observed with what she had read in books, and working out which specimens were of better quality.
Her teacher was the Medicine Manager, who kept nothing to herself. She took Cheng Danruo straight to the medicine storeroom and patiently explained whatever she asked about.
It wasn’t that Cheng Danruo was being suspicious, but the arrangement did strike her as a little strange.
The imperial harem was much like a workplace: if you didn’t want to be replaced, you needed a skill that set you apart.
Before long, however, she realized that the Medicine Manager was not an isolated case.
On the twenty-eighth day of the month, palace custom called for people to eat noodles cooked with fresh wheat ears, a dish known as renzhuan.
That day, Cheng Danruo was seeing patients at the Hall of Peace and Joy when a palace maid arrived suffering from such severe menstrual bleeding that her companions were terrified. They practically dragged her to the hall.
In adolescent girls, excessive menstrual bleeding could, in modern medical terms, be classified as abnormal uterine bleeding, potentially associated with dysfunction of the hypothalamic-pituitary axis. A proper diagnosis would require a range of gynecological examinations.
But here… there was none of that.
Nothing at all.
She could only treat the girl according to the principles of traditional Chinese medicine.
Cheng Danruo was taking the girl’s pulse, trying to determine whether the bleeding stemmed from qi deficiency, blood stasis, or blood heat, when a eunuch appeared carrying a food box, his face wreathed in an apologetic smile. “Greetings, Auntie Cheng. It’s the twenty-eighth today, so it’s time to eat renzhuan.”
Taking a pulse was nowhere near as precise as using a machine. It required her full concentration to feel the subtle movements beneath her fingertips. With no time for pleasantries, she gave the eunuch a brief nod and focused on the pulse.
The young eunuch did not leave, either. Only after she had finished taking the pulse did he open the food box with a smile. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I brought white sugar, brown sugar, and honey.”
Cheng Danruo glanced over in surprise. Inside the food box was a bowl of hulled wheat grains, stir-fried and crushed into fine strips. Beside it sat three small jars, each containing a different sweetener, along with two kinds of pastries beyond the usual allowance.
She got straight to the point. “Is there something you want?”
The young eunuch hesitated. “I’ve been having stomach pains…”
“Stomach pain can have many causes,” she said. “Sit down and let me take your pulse.”
She asked his age, where he worked, when the pain had begun, exactly where in his abdomen it hurt, and whether he had any other symptoms.
He was twelve years old. He had entered the palace at seven and worked in the Imperial Catering Directorate. The pain had started more than a month ago and was centered around his navel. There was something else, too… He thought he had seen worms when passing stool.
Cheng Danruo sighed. “You have a roundworm infection. I’ll prescribe Wumei Pills.”
Prescribing Wumei Pills was easy enough, but the medicine storeroom in her department had no prepared pills in stock.
The department had originally been responsible only for keeping records of the consorts’ prescriptions and pulse readings. Its medicine storeroom had therefore carried relatively few medicinal ingredients, mainly herbs used to strengthen the body’s vital qi and replenish qi, such as safflower, fresh ginger, ginseng, and angelica.
Although its stock had since expanded, it still had no prepared pills.
Because no one made them.
The Imperial Pharmacy had none, either. Only the Imperial Medical Institute stocked them.
“Never mind.” Cheng Danruo hadn’t made medicine by hand in a long time, and her fingers were itching to get back to it. “Come back tomorrow. I’ll make some tonight.”
“May Buddha bless your kindness, Auntie!” Startled and delighted, the young eunuch dropped to his knees and kowtowed twice.
Cheng Danruo said, “…There’s really no need for that.”
That afternoon, she first used acupuncture to stop the bleeding of the palace maid suffering from excessive menstrual bleeding. She then prescribed Anchong Decoction, instructing the girl to return to her quarters, decoct the medicine, drink it, and get plenty of rest.
After that, Cheng Danruo went to the storeroom to collect the ingredients and make the Wumei Pills.
The prescription called for smoked plum flesh, Sichuan pepper, asarum, coptis, phellodendron bark, dried ginger, aconite, cassia twig, ginseng, and angelica.
All the ingredients were available. Only the ginseng was somewhat expensive. But one thing the palace had in abundance was ginseng that had lost much of its medicinal potency. In small quantities, it could even be taken as it was.
Cheng Danruo used the portion allocated to her.
The pills were remarkably simple to prepare: grind the ingredients into powder, sift it, and form the powder into pills with water. No honey was needed; it was too expensive.
Thanks to the incense-making practice she’d received from Yan Hongzhi, she was becoming increasingly proficient.
The next day, the young eunuch returned with a food box, looking rather nervous as he came to collect the medicine.
Cheng Danruo handed him a small bottle. “Take one pill at a time, twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening.”
The young eunuch was delighted, but then hesitated. “May I ask how much I owe you?”
“You brought me something to eat, so I won’t charge you.” Afraid he might kneel and kowtow again, she added coolly, “If there’s nothing else, you may leave.”
“Thank you, Auntie!”
The young eunuch took the medicine and hurried away.
His name was Xiao Guozi, and as mentioned earlier, he worked in the Imperial Catering Directorate. In modern terms, the directorate was essentially the imperial kitchen, responsible for preparing the emperor’s food and drink.
It was a vast department, with close and frequent dealings with the other palace departments.
In short, news travelled fast.
After taking Wumei Pills for three days straight, Xiao Guozi did indeed pass several roundworms. Overjoyed, he told anyone who would listen whenever he had a spare moment. The senior and junior eunuchs in the Imperial Catering Directorate mostly dismissed his story, but they, too, came to learn that there was a female physician in the inner palace who could treat illnesses.
Meanwhile, Cheng Danruo had already begun to make a name for herself in the inner palace.
Whenever she walked through the palace, young maids would eagerly greet her as “Auntie Cheng,” showing her every courtesy. They treated her less like the lowest-ranking female official and more like a senior palace matron.
It might sound unbelievable, but that was how absurd things really were.
The reason was simple: getting medical treatment was far too difficult for palace staff.
According to the ancestral regulations, when anyone below the rank of an imperial consort fell ill, physicians were not permitted to enter the palace to examine them. Instead, the patient had to describe their symptoms to obtain medicine.
In other words, only imperial consorts and those of higher rank could have imperial physicians summoned into the palace to treat them. Lower-ranking consorts and palace staff had to describe their symptoms and then collect medicine from the Dispensary Office. In modern terms, it was rather like going to a pharmacy when you were ill and having the pharmacist select medicine for you.
Of course, the rules were not absolute. If the emperor granted special permission, a patient might receive an actual examination and treatment from a physician, usually an outside female doctor or a eunuch with medical knowledge. Such practitioners ordinarily treated only the consorts. As for imperial physicians, they were out of the question.
But however many exceptions there might be, they were still exceptions, available to only a fortunate few.
The vast majority of palace staff simply treated themselves with whatever medicine they could obtain and left the rest to fate.
As the saying went, adversity breeds heroes. And wasn’t the same true of the circumstances that gave rise to them?
Outside the palace, even ordinary people could choose an experienced physician at a local pharmacy. Yet in a place as wealthy and exalted as the imperial palace, with nearly ten thousand people in its service, Cheng Danruo was the only one they could turn to.
The thought inspired her, but it also filled her with compassion for them.
She pondered the matter for several days before asking Ji Qiu, “Would you like to learn medicine from me?”
Ji Qiu agreed without hesitation. “Please teach me, Auntie.”
The gates of the inner palace were locked early each evening. With plenty of time on their hands after dark, palace staff needed ways to amuse themselves, and chess was among the most popular pastimes. It was easy on the eyes and helped pass the time.
After dinner, Cheng Danruo held lessons in her room.
Given the limitations of the era, she had no intention of teaching too much modern medical knowledge. With so few doctors available in the palace, the most pressing need was to train people who could diagnose illnesses and provide treatment.
Fortunately, she already had a ready-made textbook.
In the past, in many places where people could not afford medical care, countless practitioners had learned from such a book while treating patients, saving the lives of people who would otherwise have gone without treatment.
It was the Manual of the Barefoot Doctor.
“What’s the first thing you need to do when diagnosing an illness? Do you know?”
Ji Qiu replied, “Inspection, auscultation and olfaction, inquiry, and pulse-taking.”
“Wrong,” Cheng Danruo said. “The first step is to take a medical history. The patient tells you what’s bothering them; that’s the chief complaint. Next, you need to establish the history of the illness: when the symptoms began, where the discomfort first appeared, and what other symptoms occurred alongside it…”
Ji Qiu scribbled furiously.
Just then, footsteps sounded outside the door.
The Medicine Manager came in carrying a bowl of rice balls, looking hesitant yet determined. “Would you mind teaching one more person?”
Cheng Danruo couldn’t help laughing. “You really are sincere. Why don’t you wait until I’ve eaten your rice balls to ask me. How could I possibly refuse then?”
“It’s not too late to eat them now.” The Medicine Manager set the bowl down in front of her, pulled over a chair, and leaned in to examine Ji Qiu’s notes. “Let me copy some of these.”
“… Palace staff and learned women alike mostly took Miss Cheng as their teacher, and the practice of studying medicine gradually flourished within the palace.”
– Miscellaneous Recollections of the Xia Palace, by Liang Jishu (Xia)
