After serving Old Lady Zhen dinner, Zhen Tingyun chatted with her for a while longer, coaxing the old lady into a cheerful mood before finally tidying things up and going downstairs.
The remaining bowl of chicken soup was still being kept warm in the kitchen below, so Zhen Tingyun simply carried it together with dinner to Yuanhui.
Naturally, she had not forgotten to have Bazhen deliver the two copybooks bought earlier that afternoon, along with brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone, into Yuanhui’s room ahead of time. Since she was already bringing chicken soup, she might as well seize the chance to gain some instruction from him too, otherwise it would hardly be worth it.
Yuanhui had slept for most of the afternoon. Though his complexion was still somewhat pale, he looked much more energetic now. Reclining against the bed, he still wore a slight furrow between his brows, as though deep in thought. Yet when he saw Zhen Tingyun come in, his brows relaxed, and he smiled faintly.
Zhen Tingyun casually arranged the food on the small table beside the bed. Considering that this man claimed he “remembered nothing,” she asked, “Have you remembered anything yet?”
Yuanhui lifted a hand and rubbed at his brow. A trace of confusion flashed across his handsome face before he nodded, then shook his head. “I remembered a little, but there aren’t really any clear clues.”
Hearing this, Zhen Tingyun frowned as well. Truthfully, Yuanhui really was rather strange. Setting aside the fact that he supposedly remembered nothing yet still knew calligraphy, qin, and xiao, practically an all-round talent, there was also the matter of how he had stolen a horse and ridden off that day, only to later be carried back unconscious by the horse itself, covered in injuries. That alone was strange enough…
Those oddities perhaps also meant trouble, but Zhen Tingyun was actually rather open-minded about it: in any case, their group was headed to the capital. Whatever trouble he carried, surely it could not stir up too much under the Son of Heaven’s feet. Of course, this was also because Yuanhui had already proven his usefulness early on. Otherwise, with Zhen Tingyun’s unwillingness to suffer losses, she truly might not have wanted to involve herself with such a troublesome figure.
Each of them occupied by their own thoughts, the room fell quiet for a moment, filled only with the sound of breathing.
After a while, Zhen Tingyun finally remembered the chicken soup. She first pushed the still-hot bowl toward Yuanhui and gently said, “I specially had this chicken soup stewed for you. The grease has already been skimmed off too. Try it.”
Unlike Old Lady Zhen, Yuanhui did not possess such a discerning eye. Naturally, he could not tell whether the bowl contained one whole chicken or only half. He casually picked up the spoon, stirred the soup, and slowly took a sip. Nodding slightly, he commented, “It’s fairly decent.”
Zhen Tingyun could not help letting out a sigh of relief, yet her gaze drifted involuntarily to the bowl of chicken soup in Yuanhui’s hands.
Truthfully, they had been hurrying along the road these past days and had not eaten much good food. Even though they had been able to eat hot dishes while staying at the inn these last few days, something like chicken soup was still rare. So at this moment, seeing that rich golden and fragrant bowl of soup, Zhen Tingyun found herself craving it badly. Earlier, while Old Lady Zhen was drinking her soup, Zhen Tingyun had purposely avoided even looking at it in order to maintain the pretense that she herself had already drunk some. Only after enduring until Old Lady Zhen finished did she now see Yuanhui drinking soup again. The moment her attention relaxed, her eyes drifted back to the bowl, and she unconsciously swallowed.
Naturally, Yuanhui noticed her gaze. After thinking for a moment, he said, “I just took medicine earlier, so I probably can’t finish such a large bowl. How about you drink some too?”
Zhen Tingyun widened her eyes at him. Her round apricot eyes were dark and bright, making her look exactly like a startled little animal.
Seeing her expression, Yuanhui could not help finding it rather amusing.
Zhen Tingyun snapped back to herself, instinctively glanced again at the chicken soup, then forcibly turned her gaze away and hypocritically refused, “This was specially made because you’re ill. How could I drink it?”
“Girls should drink more chicken soup too.” Yuanhui personally ladled half a small bowl for her and continued persuading her, “Anyway, I can’t finish this whole bowl.”
Although Zhen Tingyun knew this was improper, hearing Yuanhui say so and smelling the fragrance of the soup, she ultimately accepted it anyway. Still pretending reluctance, she said, “Since you already ladled it out… then I’ll just casually drink a little with you.”
Yuanhui looked at her, one brow lifting slightly, but said nothing.
So Zhen Tingyun raised the bowl and obediently sat to one side, drinking chicken soup and eating chicken meat while conveniently admiring Yuanhui’s manner of dining.
Yuanhui’s figure was lean yet upright. Even reclining against the bed, his waist and back remained perfectly straight, shoulders drawn in tightly, his lines neat and elegant. Every movement and gesture carried calm refinement.
Even while eating on a bed, he remained extremely particular and disciplined, strictly following the saying “do not speak while eating or sleeping.” Though he had been joking with Zhen Tingyun moments earlier, the instant he picked up his chopsticks he fell silent. While eating, there was not even the sound of chopsticks or bowls touching.
Although his movements seemed leisurely, his speed was surprisingly quick. Before long, he had finished most of the dishes before him.
Watching this, Zhen Tingyun could not help pondering: people always said that daughters from noble clans and aristocratic families were taught etiquette and deportment by nursemaids from the moment they could remember things. Their bearing during daily life and meals was probably just like Yuanhui’s.
Once she thought this, even the chicken soup became hard to swallow. She grew worried: if everyone was this impressive, then wouldn’t her chances of entering the women’s academy be even slimmer?
Fortunately, Zhen Tingyun had never been one to admit defeat easily. Though troubled for a moment, she quickly gathered herself again. Finishing her soup at a faster pace, she then arranged the copybooks, brushes, ink, and paper on the room’s desk, preparing to grind ink and practice calligraphy.
Yuanhui had nearly finished eating as well. Taking a moment to glance at her, he instructed, “Don’t rush to start writing. Your foundation isn’t deep enough yet, you haven’t reached the stage of ‘leaving the copybook.’ First study the copybook, then copy it. You must hold the form in your heart and the spirit beneath your brush, only then are you on the correct path. If you merely feel lost and imitate shapes mechanically, then that isn’t copying a copybook, it’s just transcribing it.”
Zhen Tingyun had always fumbled along by herself before. What she lacked most was precisely this sort of direct, incisive foundational guidance. She quickly nodded. After grinding the ink, she first picked up the Shiping Gong Zaoxiang Ji and asked earnestly, “Then how exactly does one ‘study’ a copybook?”
At just the right moment, Yuanhui set down his bowl and chopsticks. Pouring himself a cup of tea to rinse his mouth, he continued teaching her at an unhurried pace. “The Treatise on the Brush says: ‘In the form of calligraphy, one must enter into its shape. Like sitting, like walking, like flying, like moving, like going, like coming, like lying down, like rising, like sorrow, like joy, like insects eating leaves, like sharp swords and long spears, like strong bows and hardened arrows, like water and fire, like clouds and mist, like sun and moon. Only when horizontal and vertical strokes possess such imagery can it truly be called calligraphy.’ The most important thing in studying a copybook is observing its form and understanding its image, comprehending the structure and style of its strokes until they become perfectly clear within your heart…”
At this point, Yuanhui’s voice paused slightly. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the chicken bones left over from the chicken soup Zhen Tingyun had been drinking, and suddenly changed tack, using an example instead: “This is just like when you stew soup. First, you must know the difference between chicken, duck, and fish before you can decide whether you’re making chicken soup, duck soup, or fish soup. And if you want to make chicken soup, then you absolutely must distinguish the differences between chicken, duck, and fish. You must understand the color and shape of a chicken’s comb, know what a chicken’s claws look like when curled up, and understand the pattern of feathers on a chicken’s tail… Only then can you stew a true pot of chicken soup, rather than some duck soup or fish soup.”
Listening to Yuanhui’s word-by-word instruction, Zhen Tingyun clutched the copybook in her hands, her fingertips pressing against the paper. Something within her seemed to stir with understanding, yet the thought remained vague and elusive, impossible to fully grasp for the moment. She could not help pressing her lips together.
Seeing this, Yuanhui thought briefly, then added: “Oh right, when reading brushstrokes and reading structure, there are mnemonic formulas as well. I’ll tell them to you. Just remember them.”
Hearing this, Zhen Tingyun hurriedly nodded.
Then Yuanhui recited: “When reading brushstrokes, one must divide them into five aspects: the starting stroke, the finishing stroke, thickness and thinness, length and shortness, and direction. Thus the mnemonic is: ‘Five essentials, the two side-lines; the two side-lines, know well the changes of adding and reducing force.’”
Zhen Tingyun repeated the mnemonic after him, then lowered her head once more to look at the characters in the copybook.
First look at the overall movement of a character, then separately examine the direction of the two side-lines, and finally observe the starting and finishing strokes, comparing thickness, length, and their similarities and differences.
Seeing that Zhen Tingyun had also begun to understand, Yuanhui continued: “As for reading structure, it comes after reading brushstrokes, and its purpose is to distinguish the relationships between strokes and sections. There are actually two mnemonic formulas for this. Since you are copying Wei stele script, then it is: ‘Seek precision in the vertical and horizontal placement; correspondence and stroke forms must be clearly distinguished.’”
Structure was more complicated than brushstrokes, so Yuanhui gave another example: “For characters like ‘林’ or ‘器,’ different positions mean different forms and stroke styles, and their vertical and horizontal placement are likewise different. By comparing them this way, you can see the density and spacing after the strokes and sections combine, as well as their corresponding relationships. Once you’ve compared them and clearly understood the variations within, you’ll naturally gain confidence.”
As Zhen Tingyun listened, she looked at the characters in the copybook, and suddenly felt as though everything had become clear.
At this very moment, she abruptly felt that these characters had somehow become lovable as well, and she gradually began to understand the charm and delight those calligraphers had left hidden between the lines of their writing.
This character’s opening stroke was thick and long, while the finishing stroke tapered slightly to a point.
This character, the opening stroke was short and fine, the finishing stroke square and sharp-edged, the script majestic and forceful.
…
Like a child discovering a brand-new world, her heart overflowed with indescribable joy. Holding that newly purchased copybook in both hands, she devoured every single character on its pages with insatiable hunger.
So delighted she could scarcely contain herself, oblivious to everything else around her.
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