“…I wonder—do you already have the full pieces, or are these simply fragments that happened to come to you?”
By the Qin Huai River, Old Qin put the question to Ning Yi. Beside him, Kang Xian let out a sigh of his own.
“‘The three peaks half sink beyond the blue heavens, two streams split around Egret Isle’—even as mere fragments, these already carry the bearing of a true master…”
Ning Yi looked over the lines and laughed. “Ha, just fragments.” He spread his hands. “I don’t know the first thing about poetry…”
“This boy’s being dishonest with us—otherwise we might have gotten a few more fine poems out of him today…”
Even as they said this, it was common enough for poets of the age to produce fine fragments now and then without ever finishing the full piece, so neither man pressed the matter further, and the conversation turned instead to the calligraphy itself—a genuinely specialized field. A poem, after all, could always be claimed as someone else’s work, but no one could claim that characters someone else had already written down were actually written earlier by them. What’s more, the several different scripts on display each held together with their own internal consistency, forming something like a complete system. Both men were true masters of the art, and could immediately recognize the depth of skill on display.
To calligraphers of their caliber, every stroke of a Chinese character carried its own spirit and structure. Characters written with a charcoal stick might not reach the level of a true master, but they already revealed more than enough underlying skill. Much as Nie Yunzhu had observed, no one in this era would ever think to spend time deliberately practicing this particular kind of brushwork at home—anyone capable of producing characters like these with mere charcoal clearly possessed considerable calligraphic ability, and the handful of previously unseen scripts among them carried, for these two men, a value that was almost impossible to put into words.
The final slanted, blockish style might have shown some originality, but held little real reference value—more like an especially clever child’s game. But the uniform-block script and the “slender gold” style used for “the three peaks half sink beyond the blue heavens, two streams split around Egret Isle” struck both men as genuinely delightful, full of substance and depth.
Both of these styles had, in fact, only emerged during the Song dynasty; the trajectory of the Wu dynasty closely paralleled that of the Song, with a great many scholars and a highly developed tradition of Confucian learning, producing all manner of innovation in the ongoing search for something new. And these two scripts represented exactly that kind of achievement—innovative, yet perfectly suited to the aesthetic sensibilities of the age.
Being one step ahead of one’s time made a man a genius; two steps ahead, and he often became a madman instead. These two scripts happened to stand precisely on the foundation the era had already laid, appearing, in retrospect, like a natural culmination of gradual change reaching its tipping point—a perfect, seamless breakthrough. When Ning Yi had written them, he likely hadn’t given the matter much conscious thought at all, intending at most to make a point and impress a little. But given the way his mind worked, even without deliberate thought, all manner of complex calculations had already run their course somewhere beneath conscious awareness, filtering everything down to the simplest possible outcome. When it came to matters of culture like this, there was no particular need to hold back—and that final “unreliable” slanted script served, quite conveniently, as proof that he simply liked to tinker with these sorts of amusing things in his spare time, keeping the impact of the uniform-block and slender-gold scripts intact while making the whole display feel natural rather than a series of sharp, deliberate jabs.
As the two men went on discussing calligraphy, Ning Yi mostly kept quiet, only occasionally offering a key point or two that he happened to know. These two men were true masters, with a far more solid grounding in the fundamentals than he had—better, he felt, to listen more and speak less, keeping his own limitations out of sight. He’d been improving his own calligraphy out of boredom these past few days, and even a stray remark here and there proved genuinely useful to hear.
Had he been some ordinary talented scholar, he likely wouldn’t have received this kind of instruction from either man at all—naturally, when the two of them taught in earnest, they generally tailored their explanations to a specific student; an ordinary pupil hearing too much of it would gain little from the excess. But Ning Yi himself had an unusually sharp ability to synthesize, distinguish, and organize information, and while he admired the depth of the two men’s knowledge in this area, he never fell into blind worship or uncritical acceptance of it—simply listening in was more than enough.
The discussion of calligraphy went on for roughly an hour. The group occasionally scrawled a few characters on the whiteboard with charcoal, until their hands had turned entirely black, at which point they went down to wash them off in the river. By this point, neither Old Qin nor Old Kang had anything more to say about the difference between charcoal and brush technique—given the level Ning Yi had already demonstrated, introducing a bit of innovation within the confines of a small academy hardly required their further guidance. Spreading the idea more widely, of course, would be another matter entirely. Ning Yi clapped his hands together, shaking off the water droplets, and remarked offhandedly:
“Honestly, writing with charcoal really does leave something to be desired. One of these days I’m planning to get hold of some gypsum and see about making a few sticks of chalk instead. Then I’ll paint the board black, and the writing will show up white—much clearer than charcoal, and far easier to wipe clean.”
“Gypsum?” Old Kang asked, puzzled. “And what exactly is this ‘chalk’ you speak of?”
“You calcine the gypsum over fire, mix it with water, then let it set into stick shapes inside a mold—it can then be used for writing. It won’t smudge the way charcoal does, and it won’t leave your hands filthy like this either.”
Gypsum and lime had already long existed in the Wu dynasty. Old Kang thought it over, then nodded. “That’s quite right—calcined gypsum can indeed be used for writing… Ha, no need to look elsewhere for this. If you’d like, I can have some people make a batch for you. I don’t suppose you have particular requirements for the size and shape, or anything else worth noting?”
Ning Yi knew well enough that Kang Xian’s household was both wealthy and influential, so since the offer had been made, he didn’t bother refusing, and sketched out the general shape of a stick of chalk. The process for making chalk was simple enough to begin with—even without deliberate effort, some of the hardened lumps that formed naturally in lime kilns could already be used for rough writing. There wasn’t much more to add. “You could have the craftsmen try a few different batches—maybe mix in a bit of clay or some other material as filler, and find whatever ratio works best for writing.”
“I know well enough how to see to that myself. A’Gui,” Old Kang always kept four attendants nearby whenever he went out—two young men and two maids—and he called one of them over now, “you heard what Master Ning just said. Once we’re back, see to it that this gets arranged.” The man bowed and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Ha ha, we’ve spent so long discussing calligraphy the tea’s gone cold…”
With all three of them handling charcoal earlier, the tea that had been steeped wasn’t fit to drink anymore. By now it was getting rather late in the day, and no one was much in the mood for another game of chess, so the three of them sat a while longer at the teahouse, and Kang Xian’s maid brewed a fresh pot. The white board still sat nearby, and the conversation naturally kept circling back to calligraphy. Before long, Old Qin began commenting on the styles of various contemporary calligraphy masters—an area where he himself excelled, offering his critiques effortlessly, and along the way even poked a bit of fun at Kang Xian’s own handwriting. Kang Xian laughed and shot back, “In clerical script or wild cursive, this old man may not match you—but when it comes to proper regular script, you fall far, far short of me.”
Old Qin laughed. “Well, that’s simply a matter of specialization. You, my lord, spend your days lecturing others on the way of the gentleman—if your regular script were poor, it would hardly carry much conviction. Though I daresay you must be the first man in history to have honed his regular script to such a level purely for the sake of scolding people more effectively…”
After a bit more of this banter, Old Qin’s thoughts seemed to drift, and he shifted the conversation. “…Seeing your handwriting, Liheng, actually reminds me of someone—a member of my own Qin clan, in fact, quite a talented man. Years ago, while I was in the eastern capital, he submitted some of his writing to me for review. His talent and manner of speech were both exceptional, and he had a fine hand at calligraphy too—his style and structure, in fact, bore quite a resemblance to that line of yours, ‘the three peaks half sink beyond the blue heavens,’ with something of the strength of Yan Zhenqing and the bone structure of Liu Gongquan in it… though back then his style hadn’t yet fully broken free of convention. I wonder how he’s doing these days.”
Ning Yi’s expression twitched faintly at the corner of his eye. Kang Xian, meanwhile, laughed. “Master Qin, could you possibly be referring to Qin Hui, courtesy name Huizhi, the current Vice Censor-in-Chief?”
Old Qin nodded. “The very same. A few years back, when the Liao forces marched south, they captured him along with his entire family. But the man is both brave and resourceful—even trapped deep in enemy territory, he managed to play along with the Liao for a time without arousing suspicion, and two years ago, when the Liao attacked Shanyang, he seized the chance to bring his family safely back south. Oh… is he already Vice Censor-in-Chief now?”
“Word of it came through the court gazette just last month. Because of his return from the south, he’s now held in considerable regard—especially given that, even in such dire straits, he never forgot his own wife. The story goes that while in Liao territory, the Liao meant to keep his wife hostage, and the two of them had to stage quite an elaborate ruse just to be allowed to travel south together. They were discovered partway through their escape, and it was only through the sacrifice of several loyal servants, who held off their pursuers to the death, that they managed to get away—which speaks well of how he commands the loyalty of those beneath him… Alas, given how poorly the front lines have been faring lately, a story like his stands out as all the more valuable. Still, opinion at court isn’t entirely one of praise—there’s a good deal of suspicion surrounding his return from the south as well, with some believing the whole affair rather dubious, that there may be more to it than meets the eye…”
Old Qin thought this over, then shook his head. “That’s hard to say either way. But baseless speculation isn’t something a gentleman ought to indulge in. From what I saw of the man back then, he struck me as upright and fair-minded, genuinely concerned for the fate of the nation and its people—that much didn’t seem like an act. As for what comes of him going forward, we’ll simply have to watch and see. Ha… come to think of it, Huizhi’s own family home is right here in Jiangning. If he ever comes by, Liheng, you two should meet—you might well find you have a good deal in common.”
Ning Yi blinked, then rubbed his nose with a rather complicated expression, before finally forcing a laugh and giving a perfunctory nod.
Neither Old Qin nor Old Kang seemed to notice anything amiss. Kang Xian took a sip of his tea and looked over at Ning Yi. “But tell me, Liheng—with talent like yours, do you truly have no ambition whatsoever toward rank or reputation?”
Purely in terms of time, Ning Yi’s acquaintance with these two men hadn’t actually run all that long—as Kang Xian himself had said, theirs was little more than a friendship as plain as water, built over games of chess and idle conversation. And yet scholars of this sort, by and large, carried within them some notion of concern for the nation and its people—establishing a moral compass for heaven and earth, securing a livelihood for the common people, carrying forward the broken traditions of past sages, and bringing lasting peace to all generations to come, or else simply offering one’s talents in service to the throne—these were things taken for granted, requiring no further debate. Old Qin, for all his days spent leisurely playing chess, and Kang Xian, for all his airs as a wealthy man of leisure, surely had far more complicated stories behind them than they let on.
From their time together so far—from the Mid-Autumn poem to this afternoon’s business with the chalk and calligraphy—there was, by now, no longer any question in their minds that Ning Yi possessed real talent. What remained was a different, more pointed question. In the past, Old Qin had occasionally sighed over what a shame it was that a man like him had ended up a live-in son-in-law, but that had been more a simple lament than any real inquiry. This time, though, the question carried a very different weight.
Throughout that afternoon’s conversation, it had become quite clear, in what Ning Yi said and didn’t say, that he had every intention of deflecting the label of “talented scholar”—and it hadn’t looked like a joke or an offhand excuse either. Surely no man in this world was entirely without some ambition toward fame or reputation; there had to be some deeper reason behind it. And these two men were no ordinary figures. For Kang Xian to ask the question in quite this way meant he had genuinely begun to feel a desire to help cultivate this young man’s talent. This was already… the attitude of someone prepared to lend a hand.
An autumn wind rustled softly along the riverbank, stirring the willow branches. Old Qin raised his teacup, slowly blowing at the leaves floating within it, his eyes lifting to watch, clearly curious himself about what answer Ning Yi would give. Sensing the weight behind the question, Ning Yi shook his head lightly.
“I know it might sound hard to believe, but… there are simply some things I’d rather not pursue. Being a celebrated scholar, having a reputation, seeking rank and honor—I have no wish to touch any of it. That much, at least, is true.”
“Oh?”