Marrying The Imperial Elder Chapter 11

Yuanhui also fell silent, looking at Zhen Tingyun, a trace of a smile unconsciously appearing in his eyes.

But Zhen Tingyun had completely forgotten everything around her. Looking at the Shiping Gong Zaoxiang Ji before her, she read it from beginning to end.

“‘The sacred traces… left their form upon later generations. Down to the Great Dai, this merit remained unfinished. The monk Huicheng…’”

“‘Parents and kin, phoenixes soaring above the sacred grounds, luan birds rising to Tusita Heaven; awakening among the people of Luo, the three scholar-trees standing alone in excellence, the nine thorn trees spreading like clouds…’”

“‘Fourteenth day of the ninth month, twenty-second year of Taihe. Written by Zhu Yizhang, Meng Dawo.’”

Her eyes ached as though pricked by tiny needles. She pressed her lips tightly together, using every ounce of restraint to hold back her tears. Yet she still could not help recalling the scene from her childhood when she first held a brush and carefully wrote upon paper.

Her fingertips gripped the smooth, cool brush handle tightly. Then, following her teacher’s instruction, she lowered the brush tip onto the snowy white xuan paper.

Ink spread across the paper, and the character she wrote looked ugly beyond measure, like nothing more than a blot of ink.

…

In truth, studying was an expensive thing. Hiring a teacher cost money; brush, ink, paper, and inkstone all cost money; even practicing calligraphy by lamplight at night required lamp oil. Yet all the money in the household was controlled by Old Lady Zhen. Every time Zhen Tingyun asked her for money, she had to expend tremendous effort, only to hear Old Lady Zhen mutter things like, “What’s the point of a little girl learning all this?” or, “You spendthrift girl, all you know is how to waste silver.”

But she was stubborn. She insisted on learning. Insisted on practicing calligraphy.

She still remembered how, when she was little, Father Zhen often wrote letters to Grandmother. Since Grandmother was illiterate, they usually invited the old xiucai from the neighboring private school to come read the letters aloud. Once, when Father Zhen mentioned his eldest daughter in a letter, his words unusually carried traces of tenderness:

“Yiyun has just celebrated her fifth birthday. Watching her grow day by day, healthy, lively, intelligent, and adorable, I, as her father, find my joy beyond words.

In my joy, I cannot help but think that the hearts of parents are the same the world over. Thus I think of my compassionate mother, and shame and regret fill my heart, bringing tears to my eyes. Alas, as a son, I cannot serve my mother at her side nor fulfill my filial duties. My guilt is truly grave.

…

As I write this letter, Yiyun is also seated by the window at her little desk practicing calligraphy, asking me to convey her greetings to Mother on her behalf. I still remember when Yiyun was young, spoiled and playful, unable to sit still. I could only hold her upon my knee, teaching her poetry line by line. Children are innocent and speak without restraint; her childish words often made me laugh, both exasperated and affectionate at once. Fortunately, she is sensible now, able to sit quietly at her desk and practice calligraphy earnestly every day, never slacking whether in the bitter cold of winter or the heat of summer. This is truly rare. If only she had been born a son, then my line would have a worthy successor, and I would have no regrets in this life.”

Father Zhen had truly been proud of his eldest daughter. Genuine emotion flowed between every line, almost as though he were showing her off to others.

At the time, Zhen Tingyun had only been three years old, just beginning to understand things. Listening from the side, she had comprehended only vaguely, merely sensing the joy her father felt while writing the letter, unconsciously remembering fragments of it. But when she grew older and gradually came to understand the meaning behind those words, she could not help wanting to cry.

When Elder Sister was little, Father would hold her on his knee and teach her poetry line by line, sometimes laughing at her childish remarks.

Elder Sister’s fifth birthday had been spent together with Father and Mother, surely it must have been very joyful.

When Elder Sister practiced calligraphy by the window, Father would watch beside her, pleased and proud, even writing letters to Grandmother just to boast about it.

But what about her?

Whenever she thought of this, Zhen Tingyun would feel miserable, as though thin strands of cotton thread were tightening around her heart, leaving her chest heavy with pain. At first, there had been a measure of resentment in her feelings. Secretly, she had thought: since Father likes a hardworking daughter like Elder Sister, then she too must work hard; since Mother graduated from the women’s academy, then she too must gain admission into the women’s academy. She had to become like Elder Sister, a source of pride for Father and Mother, someone they would boast about to others in their letters.

As she grew older, those obsessions gradually faded, and Zhen Tingyun came to understand many things: studying was her own affair, something she did for herself, not merely out of spite toward others, nor was there any need to compare herself with anyone else. What kind of life one could live depended only on oneself; one could never truly rely on others. Even something that seemed as rightfully deserved as parental affection was, in truth, a matter of fortune if obtained and fate if not, something that could never be forced.

She also understood that even with all her self-study and bitter practice, it might still amount to nothing. Perhaps she would not even pass the entrance exam for the women’s academy. Perhaps she would spend her entire life unable to compare to Zhen Yiyun.

But she simply could not resign herself to it!

And now, holding that Shiping Gong Zaoxiang Ji, she could not help recalling Yuanhui’s earlier words:

“If you want to enter the women’s academy, it’s not as though you have no hope at all.”

Perhaps… Yuanhui was the hope that had suddenly crashed into her life?

…

Thinking this, Zhen Tingyun’s fingers tightened around the copybook. She gripped it so hard that the joints of her fingers turned faintly bluish, like green jade.

After a long moment, she suddenly rose from her seat, turned toward Yuanhui, who was reclining against the bed, and solemnly gave him a formal bow.

“Thank you, teacher, for teaching me.”

At this moment, she called him “teacher” with complete sincerity.

Yuanhui, however, was amused by her excessively serious manner. After laughing, he said: “I haven’t remembered anything yet, and you don’t even know who I am, yet you’re already calling me ‘teacher’?”

Zhen Tingyun answered earnestly: “A teacher is one who transmits the Dao, imparts learning, and resolves doubts. Teacher deserves the title without question.”

Looking at her serious expression, Yuanhui suddenly felt his heart soften. Smiling, he said: “Well then, I suppose I’m lucky to have gained such a grown disciple for free.”

Although Zhen Tingyun genuinely wished to be respectful, hearing Yuanhui speak in such an unserious way still made her press her lips together, softly huffing in annoyance.

Yuanhui then said: “Since you’ve finished reading the copybook, continue practicing your calligraphy. I’ll watch while you write…”

Zhen Tingyun nodded obediently. Dipping her brush into the ink, she was just about to begin writing when Yuanhui spoke again, correcting her posture: “Sit properly. Spread your legs apart to shoulder width, keep your shoulders level… straighten your back, but don’t tense up too much. Relax! Be natural. You may lean slightly forward, but don’t lose your balance. What does it mean to have the arm command the brush? What does it mean to let the brush move as the heart wills? It means using your right arm to send force to the wrist, from the wrist to the fingers, and from the fingers into the brush.”

“Use your thumb less,” Yuanhui continued, laughing. “Speaking of which, calligraphy emphasizes ‘avoiding overuse of the thumb,’ while playing the qin emphasizes ‘avoiding overuse of the little finger’…”

After Yuanhui picked fault with her again and again, Zhen Tingyun nearly forgot how to hold the brush at all. At long last she managed to adjust her posture and begin writing, only to hear Yuanhui murmur softly to himself,  “With your writing… practicing like this probably isn’t enough. How about tomorrow you try tying two sandbags to your wrists?”

Zhen Tingyun: “…”

Really, enough was enough!

After practicing several sheets of large characters, Yuanhui noticed that it was getting late and finally said: “That’s enough for now. I think your arm is practically stiff already. Practicing too much at once doesn’t actually help much. What matters is perseverance.”

Pausing, Yuanhui teased: “Besides, it’s already late at night. A young lady staying alone in my room isn’t exactly proper.”

Zhen Tingyun stopped writing and glared at him irritably, though in the end she obediently began packing up her things.

Watching her clean up, Yuanhui deliberately added another reminder: “One must always do things methodically. Later, think carefully about how to arrange your daily study hours and write up a proper schedule. Bring it for me to see tomorrow. Since you’ve called me ‘teacher,’ I should at least teach you some proper things.”

Biting her lip, Zhen Tingyun felt deeply moved and nodded hard.

Since she would be returning tomorrow to practice calligraphy, she simply left the copybooks, brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone in Yuanhui’s room. She herself gathered the bowls and chopsticks from the table, preparing to carry them downstairs to the kitchen.

Just as she was about to leave, Yuanhui suddenly seemed to remember something and called out: “Wait!”

Zhen Tingyun halted and looked at him in confusion.

Yuanhui reached beside his pillow and fumbled around for a moment before pulling something out and tossing it to her. “This is for you. Count all my expenses with this. If it’s not enough, tell me. And if there’s extra left over, consider it a gift for my disciple.”

Zhen Tingyun had no idea what Yuanhui was doing, so she could only free one hand to catch the object. Once it landed in her palm, she lowered her eyes to look at it, and was instantly struck dumb with shock.

It was actually a piece of gold!

Staring at the gold in her hand, Zhen Tingyun subconsciously blurted out: “Y-you… where did you get gold?!”

In her agitation, she was even stammering.

Last night, when Zhen Tingyun had the inn servant drag Yuanhui down from the horse, he had possessed nothing but the clothes on his back, truly penniless. Even the clothes he had been wearing at the time had been soaked through by rainwater, so Zhen Tingyun had simply asked the inn servants to change them for him.

So for Yuanhui, destitute, empty-handed, and needing someone to support him just to walk after getting out of bed, where exactly had this gold come from?

Author’s Note:

Yuanhui: Even though I’m lying in bed right now, I’m still rich enough to support a wife!