Chapter Nineteen: The Loyal Minister

“…Do you have the complete poem, or was it just a fragment you happened upon?”

By the banks of the Qinhuai River, Elder Qin spoke, directing his question to Ning Yi. Beside him, Kang Xian sighed.

“‘Three mountains half-fallen beyond the azure sky, two rivers divide White Egret Isle…’ Even if it’s just a fragment, it carries the grandeur of a master entering the hall…”

Ning Yi glanced at the poem, then smiled. “Ah, just a fragment.” He spread his hands. “I don’t really understand poetry…”

“This lad is not quite straightforward; otherwise, we would have gained a few fine verses today…”

Though they spoke thus, it was common for poets to stumble upon fragments rather than full compositions, so the two did not press further. Their conversation soon turned to calligraphy—a field in which both were highly accomplished. Poetry may be attributed to others, but handwriting cannot; especially when several distinct scripts are seamlessly integrated, forming a system. Both men, masters in their own right, instantly recognized the depth and craft within.

To such experts, each stroke of a character possesses its own spirit and bone. The charcoal-written script, perhaps not yet at the level of a true master, nonetheless revealed considerable skill. As Nie Yunzhu had observed, in these times, no one would expect someone to practice such penmanship at home; anyone who could produce such writing with charcoal must be advanced in the art. The unfamiliar scripts, in particular, held a value that words could hardly express.

The final script, the blocky, slanted black lettering, may have been novel but offered little for study—a sophisticated child’s game. Yet the Song and Slender Gold scripts used to write “Three mountains half-fallen beyond the azure sky, two rivers divide White Egret Isle” were genuinely pleasing and full of subtlety.

These scripts had only recently emerged in the Song Dynasty. The Wu Dynasty, following a similar path, birthed many scholars and a flourishing Confucian culture, with innovations arising amid the pursuit of novelty. These two scripts, both innovative and perfectly attuned to contemporary aesthetics, were prime examples.

To take a single step ahead of one’s era marks a genius; two steps, and one becomes a lunatic. These scripts stood firmly on the foundation of the times, seeming to reach a qualitative leap from quantitative change—a perfect breakthrough. Ning Yi, perhaps, had not thought much about it when writing; his aim was merely to impress for demonstration’s sake. Yet, his way of thinking naturally filtered all complexities into the simplest result. In matters of culture, there was no need to deliberately conceal skill, and even the “unreliable” slanted script at the end perfectly revealed his penchant for experimenting with interesting forms, maintaining the impact of the Song and Slender Gold scripts, while rendering the novelty natural rather than merely sharp.

During the ensuing discussion on calligraphy, Ning Yi mostly kept silent, occasionally offering key insights he knew. The two elders were true masters, their foundations far more solid than his, so he wisely spoke little and listened much. His recent boredom had led him to practice calligraphy, so even a few words from them felt greatly beneficial.

Ordinary scholars could never receive such guidance. Of course, if the two elders were teaching, they would tailor their explanations for their disciples; for others, too much information might prove counterproductive. But Ning Yi’s ability to organize, discern, and summarize was exceptional; he admired their knowledge, but was not blindly worshipful—listening was harmless.

Their discussion on calligraphy lasted about half an hour, with occasional sketches and writing on the white boards. Their hands were blackened with charcoal, so they soon went to the river to wash them. Elder Qin and Elder Kang did not dwell further on the differences between charcoal and brush techniques; with Ning Yi’s evident skill, his innovations within the small academy needed no guidance. Of course, if he wished to promote such methods, challenges would arise. Ning Yi clapped his hands, shook off droplets, and said casually,

“Charcoal is indeed inferior for writing. In a few days, I plan to procure some plaster and try making chalk. Then, if we paint the boards black, the writing will be white—much clearer than with charcoal, and easier to clean.”

“Plaster?” Elder Kang asked in confusion. “And what is chalk?”

“After burning plaster, mix it with water, and let it set in a mold to form sticks for writing. Compared to charcoal, it smudges less and doesn’t dirty the hands as much.”

In the Wu Dynasty, plaster and lime were already known. Elder Kang considered, then nodded. “Indeed, after burning, plaster can be used for writing… Well, you need not trouble yourself to find someone else. If you wish, I can have a batch made for you. What size and shape do you require, and are there any special considerations?”

Kang Xian’s household was wealthy and powerful—a fact Ning Yi knew well. Since the offer was made, he accepted without hesitation, sketching out a model for chalk. The process was simple, and even lime kilns might yield hard chunks suitable for writing, so there was little more to say. “Let the craftsmen experiment a few times, maybe add clay or other impurities, and find the best mix for writing.”

“I understand. Agui,” said Elder Kang, calling over one of his four attendants, two male and two female, always nearby. “You heard Young Master Ning; once we return, see to it that this is done.” The attendant bowed in assent.

“Haha, we’ve discussed writing so long, the tea has gone cold…”

With charcoal in hand earlier, tea was not easy to drink. It was now getting late, and none felt much like playing chess; they sat awhile at the tea stand, as Kang Xian’s maid brewed fresh tea. The white board remained beside them, so conversation still revolved around calligraphy. Soon, Elder Qin began critiquing the styles of contemporary masters. He himself was highly accomplished, pointing out strengths and weaknesses with ease, teasing Kang Xian’s script as well.

“Clerical script and wild cursive—I may not match you there. But in regular script, you cannot compare to me.”

Elder Qin laughed. “That’s specialization for you. You spend your days instructing others in the way of the gentleman; poor regular script would undermine your authority. To have achieved such mastery in regular script for the sake of teaching—surely you are the first in history…”

The jest lasted a while, then Elder Qin shifted topics. “…But seeing Liheng’s script, I am reminded of someone—a member of my own Qin family, quite talented. Years ago in the capital, he submitted his works to me. His wit and bearing were remarkable, and his calligraphy excellent. His style, especially in the line ‘Three mountains half-fallen beyond the azure sky,’ had the grace of Yan and the strength of Liu… Although then, his writing had not yet broken free from convention. I wonder how he fares now.”

Ning Yi’s brow twitched slightly. On the other side, Kang Xian laughed. “Is Qin Gong referring to Qin Hui, now the Vice Censor-in-Chief?”

Elder Qin nodded. “That’s him. Some years ago, when the Liao invaded south, his family was captured. Yet he was brave and cunning, managing to deceive the Liao even in their den, and two years ago, when they attacked Shanyang, he seized the chance to escape south with his family. Oh… he’s now Vice Censor-in-Chief?”

“News of his appointment arrived last month. His escape south has won him favor, particularly for remaining loyal to his wife during hardship. It’s said the Liao intended to detain her, but the couple staged a convincing act to depart together. When discovered in flight, their loyal servants sacrificed themselves to cover their escape—a testament to his command. Alas, with the war going poorly, such stories seem all the more precious. Yet not all at court praise him; many doubt his escape, suspecting ulterior motives…”

Elder Qin shook his head. “It’s hard to say, but idle speculation without evidence is not the way of a gentleman. From what I saw, his character was upright and sincere, deeply concerned for the nation and its people—not mere pretense. We shall watch his conduct in time. Ah… his ancestral home is in Jiangning. If he visits, Liheng should meet him; perhaps you’ll find common ground…”

Ning Yi blinked, then touched his nose in some complexity. After a moment, he finally smiled, nodding perfunctorily.

Neither Elder Qin nor Elder Kang noticed anything amiss. Kang Xian took a sip of tea and looked at Ning Yi. “But with such talent, Liheng, do you truly have no ambition for fame or office?”

In truth, Ning Yi’s acquaintance with them was not long—a friendship of chess and conversation, as Kang Xian said, nothing deep. Yet such scholars invariably possess a sense of duty to the world: to establish virtue for heaven and earth, to secure life for the people, to continue the teachings of the sages, to open peace for all generations, or to master arts for service to the emperor. These are unquestioned ideals. Elder Qin seemed a leisurely chess player, Kang Xian a wealthy idler, but surely there were deeper reasons.

From their recent interactions—the Mid-Autumn poem, the chalk and writing inventions—it was clear to them that Ning Yi’s talent needed no further discussion. The next question was obvious. Elder Qin’s occasional sighs about his status as a son-in-law were more lament than inquiry, but now, the question carried different weight.

That afternoon, between the lines, Ning Yi’s intent to deny the title of “talented scholar” was manifest—not mere jest or evasion. Who in the world truly has no ambition for office? There must be hidden reasons. Both elders were men of status, and Kang Xian’s question now signaled genuine appreciation—an intent to help.

The autumn wind rustled along the riverbank, stirring the willow branches. Elder Qin lifted his teacup, gently blowing the leaves, his gaze rising, clearly curious about Ning Yi’s answer. Sensing the meaning, Ning Yi shook his head lightly.

“I know it’s hard to believe, but… there are things I truly don’t wish to do. Talent, reputation, office—I prefer not to pursue them. That… is genuine.”

“Hmm?”

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Iron Tong, Iron Tong—truly not through. Ever since the household switched to Iron Tong internet, the delay is so high I can’t play online games, opening web pages is fraught with problems, QQ verification takes N tries. Today is a holiday—isn’t it? The landline and internet are both cut off, still no service, so I had to come to an internet cafe to post… Iron Tong users, you are to be pitied. I cry, wondering how much the building managers have received from the company…

As usual, asking for votes ^_^