103. People Should Be Moderately Stupid
April 1783. National basic education was implemented. Children of elementary school age entered school without any special entrance exams, while those of middle and high school age took qualification exams before enrolling.
"Harvest season's almost here—what's all this school nonsense?"
"But Father, it's a high school acceptance certificate. Only the top 30% of the qualifiers can get in!"
Jean Lan, the 14-year-old third son of a common smallholder farmer in Gascony who had received his plot through the land redistribution policy, held a qualification exam certificate but still couldn't attend high school.
"Jean, you're the third son. You know damn well we're short-handed at home. Do you really have to go to school?"
"But Father—high school! The rich kids pay tens of thousands of francs to attend because their grades aren't good enough!"
His father, Janet Lan, who ran a 20-acre—about 8-hectare—farm, eyed Jean with deep suspicion.
"Even if we're independent smallholders with our own land, we have to pinch every penny on labor costs if we want to save a little. Who's paying your tuition, Jean?"
In his father's mind, it was far more rational to have Jean help on the farm and save on one worker's wages than to waste money on school with no guarantee of future success.
"Father, if tuition's the issue, I'll just win a scholarship."
But Louis XVI despised this sort of rational irrationality.
"A scholarship? What's that?"
Irked by the short-sighted pursuit of immediate gains at the expense of long-term benefits, Louis XVI had designed several safeguards. One was the scholarship system.
"It's a program that covers tuition, books, and living expenses for the top 5% of middle and high school students."
This scholarship system wasn't entirely new. Previous ones had been mostly charitable, with individuals sponsoring individuals. But Louis XVI's version was a policy-driven state investment in talent.
"Can you manage it?"
"I will, Your Majesty."
Naturally, these scholarships came from the Ministry of Education's budget—and the interim Minister of Education was Louis XVI himself. Receiving one was as good as a personal boon from the king.
"Janet Lan? Your son is quite the promising talent."
And since it was a boon from the king, it couldn't be handled sloppily.
"What in the world is all this?"
"His Majesty's grace."
Scholars received their scholarships in the king's name—not as cash, but as uniforms, scientific experiment kits, abacuses, and books that would rival a medieval library.
"Your son placed second overall at Gascony High School. Second place at a regional flagship high school qualifies him for a uniform embroidered with silver thread."
The runner-up uniform was made of the finest merino wool, the abacus of ivory. The experiment kits gleamed with high-quality bronze and flawless glass—clearly no cheap trinkets. Especially on the chest of the uniform: a silver-thread fleur-de-lis, the royal emblem, marking the wearer as under the king's patronage. No one in France would dare touch that symbol of royal authority.
"Naturally, you mustn't sell or trade it. If your son takes first overall at Gascony High, he'll get a gold-thread uniform. Drop to third or below, and it'll be yellow thread. This privilege goes only to the top two at each regional flagship high school—be proud."
Louis XVI took it a step further, pitting scholars against each other. Support varied by rank: gold fleur-de-lis for first, silver for second, and so on, down to plain lacquered wooden abacuses and refurbished subpar military uniforms for the bottom ranks.
"Of course, the books are all the same. Knowledge takes the shape of the one who receives it."
This differentiation among scholars ignited fierce competition among their parents.
"So this ivory abacus and all these writing tools..."
"Runner-up exclusive."
Most scholars' fathers were smallholders or skilled tradesmen; visible status symbols hit harder than vague notions of "knowledge."
"We'll be on our way then. Oh, scholars can register for free dorms at Gascony. If the commute's too far, send him anytime."
Once the official delivering the "scholarship" departed, the fathers began hounding their sons.
"Son, grit your teeth and climb one more rank—you'll be top!"
A son's rank became his parents' status.
With scholars competing so viciously, the 95% non-scholars could hardly mingle.
"Let them play among themselves. We'll stick together."
But a school full of mid-teen adolescents transcended all that.
"Um, excuse me."
"Oh? Who might you be? Gold buttons—you must be top-ranked."
Even Janet Lan's third son, Jean, was no exception.
"I'm Jean. Jean Lan. Might I know your name?"
"Angela. Angela Francesca."
Hot-blooded youths, gasping for air amid parental expectations and royal pressure, turned to romance.
"From Italy, I take it."
"Yes. So?"
By Louis XVI's definition of citizenship, every young person in France qualified as a student.
"May I love you?"
"Heehee. Of course."
Within the loose frame of "French," children of refugees mingled and fell in love with native French kids, slowly eroding racial barriers from the young generation up.
"Jean, you're back. What'd you learn in school today?"
"Uh, I taught them what I know again."
"Good boy. Papa believes in you. Study hard and lift up the family, eh?"
"I'll keep it in mind."
Naturally, young lovers slack on studies. Jean's runner-up rank plummeted.
Scholarships were national investments and royal patronage—no mercy for drop-offs.
"Your Majesty, here are this quarter's regular exam scholarship dropouts."
"Many top-ranks among them. Their knowledge couldn't have evened out in three months."
"As Your Majesty surmised, most top-rank declines are due to... romance."
"Romance?"
But Louis XVI wouldn't let high-potential students fall forever to youthful passion.
"The biggest drop is Jean Lan, runner-up at Gascony flagship high—from 2nd to 1063rd, dead last. His lover, Angela Francesca, fell from 386th to 533rd."
"A pity. We feel mere loss, but they'll be terrified. Anxious they can't meet if they quit school, dreading parental wrath, regretting sacrificed studies for love..."
Thus, Louis XVI issued the "Adolescent Edict."
"Parliament isn't seated yet—proclaim it by edict. Academic warnings for score drops due to romance or poverty, with a three-month grace period. But don't notify parents. That would make us the villains stirring hardship."
An edict granting three months' reprieve to poverty and love.
After the Adolescent Edict, Jean wore his silver uniform to school, then changed into the bottom-rank one inside.
"Jean, don't get down. Plenty of empty classrooms—study there after school."
Warning recipients pushed to recover ranks by finals.
"Jean, no. Let's hold out just till finals?"
"Yeah."
Some warned students partied with lovers and flunked out; others recovered.
"Angela! 36th place!"
"I'm 186th. You worked hard, Jean."
More succeeded, of course. They were top students who'd just slacked for love.
"36th? Jean—from 2nd to 36th!"
They took a few swats to the calves from parents—and won both love and grades.
Louis XVI was deeply satisfied with these metrics.
"People should be moderately stupid. You can't calculate everything, even love."
This remark spread across France—from Gazette de France to Journal de Paris, then local morning papers—resonating nationwide.
"He's right. We're just trying to survive."
Artists everywhere drew fierce inspiration.
"Love. Love. What is love?"
With rationalism all but banning nature worship, artists felt the sterility—until the king's words rippled their hearts: "People should be moderately stupid."
"Whew. Mountains are this beautiful."
Dodging wolves and bears, they hauled canvases and paints up the lower peaks of the Pyrenees and Alps to paint.
"People really should be moderately stupid."
Rationally, climbing peaks just to paint was idiotic. But they did it. Ineffable beauty lay beyond stupidity.