Chapter 16: 6.2

March is nigh, I feel longing and wistfulness.[1]

Spring took its time to come. The afternoon sun cast a shadow on the flowers that gradually wandered to the corridor. The pleasant breeze fluttered into the pavilion, carrying with it the chirping of the birds, the melting fragrance of flowers, and the smell of ink. 

Dingquan removed the ruler and looked at his calligraphy very proudly. He looked around and beckoned, “Come here.” 

Seeing that there was no one else around, A-Bao walked forward, not knowing why. Then, she heard Dingquan say with a smile, “Come here and see, how is my calligraphy compared to Yu Zhigong’s?” 

A-Bao glanced at it, but it was a copy of the five-elements calligraphy. The running script was close to a regular script, round and flowing, exquisite and elegant. Compared with the original, it was nearly identical, but at the same time, the content was difficult to distinguish completely. After pondering for a moment, she didn’t know how to praise him satisfactorily, so she carefully replied, “This servant is unable to tell. Since Your Highness wrote it, it must be excellent.” 

Dingquan said in dissatisfaction, “What is this, what do you mean since Your Highness wrote it? Didn’t you say that you have studied for a few years?” 

A-Bao laughed and said, “The slave girl knows only a few characters, so how dare she judge Your Highness’s calligraphy?” 

Hearing that, Dingquan felt like joking. He got up and said with a smile, “Come here, write a few words, and let me see.” 

A-Bao hurriedly said, “Your Highness, the slave girl is unworthy. How dare I tamper with His Highness’s stationery? Besides, I have no skills and haven’t touched inkstone in a long time. I am afraid I will ruin Your Highness’s precious manuscript.” 

Dingquan frowned at her and said, “Such rare talent. You aren’t quick, but you sure have learned how to make perfunctory remarks — You write when I tell you to write. You think I can’t tell you’re avoiding it?”

A-Bao became somewhat impatient. After thinking for a while, she understood that his sceptical temper had flared up again, so she had no choice but to respond, “The slave girl overstepped her bounds.” She took the brush from Dingquan’s hand and dipped it into the ink. She didn’t know if it was because she hadn’t written for a long time, or because she was panicked, but her wrist just couldn’t stop shaking. She barely copied a few words from the manuscript, then looked up at Dingquan, full of embarrassment. 

Dingquan found her appearance both pitiful and cute. He smiled lightly and picked up the piece of paper. It was a regular script, which looked neat and beautiful at first, but ultimately had nothing to do with the grace of the form. He couldn’t help smiling, “You were being honest. How many years have you practised writing?” 

A-Bao blushed, “Around five or six years. Are you making fun of me, Your Highness?”

Dingquan smiled, “You are easy to make fun of. If you’re placed in the middle of the palace, just by that look on your face, I am afraid you’ll get a few rulers.” 

As soon as those words came out, he suddenly remembered a story of the past and remained still for a while. 

A-Bao studied the rare gentle expression on his face. There was a calm and elegant look faintly flowing between his brows, and a warmth seemed to be emanating from his eyes, blending into the spring scenery outside the window. But he didn’t seem to be looking at anything. She had never seen him like this before, nor did she dare call him. 

It took a long time for Ding Quan to come back to his senses, and he said to A-Bao with a smile, “Come here, I will teach you how to write.” 

His voice was very gentle, but it made A-Bao feel terrified. She hurriedly declined, “The slave girl dare not overstep.” 

Dingquan said with a smile, “You don’t have to be afraid, since you have studied for a few years, you might as well continue to learn.” However, seeing A-Bao still reluctant, he got up and pulled her to the table. He placed the brush into her hand and said, “Write again.” 

A-Bao had no choice but to write a few more strokes. 

Ding Quan observed her, carefully corrected the position of the brush for her, and said, “To write properly, place your hand two inches and one point[2] away from the tip. Your fingers are not in the right place, hasn’t your teacher corrected you?” 

A-Bao shook her head, “I didn’t have a teacher. I just practised Yan and Liu’s calligraphy[3] for a few years.” 

Dingquan did not speak anymore. He just held her wrist and re-wrote a sentence on the paper, “March is nigh, I feel longing and wistfulness.”

He held her hand from behind. The scent of agarwood on his clothes immediately invaded the original fragrance of flowers and ink in the room, and A-Bao felt that she couldn’t even breathe. His fingers were still as cold as before, but when they were pressed against her hot skin, they were indescribably comfortable. She didn’t dare to move. She could not move at all. She could only let him hold her wrist and draw strokes. In a trance, as if she lost her memory for a split second, she did not know who she was, or what night it was, and there was no past or future.

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Dingquan looked at the milk-white slender hand in his hand, recalling the days when he was young and still the heir of Prince Ning. In the same spring, his mother took his little hand and wrote two words on the paper. His mother’s porcelain and jade-like hand holding the ivory pen shaft reflected in his own pale hand. The penmanship was as graceful as a beautiful tree and solemn like a cool breeze. His mother smiled and said to him, “This is your name.” 

A-Bao suddenly felt that his grip had gained some strength and was slightly startled. As soon as she withdrew her wrist, the last stroke of the word ‘grieve’ was struck, drawing a long glaring line on the paper.

Dingquan came back to his senses. Feeling his heart still beating wildly, he was afraid that A-Bao would see his gaffe. Glancing at her, he saw that she just stood there with her head bowed. However, her ears were completely red. He secretly breathed a sigh of relief and razzed, “I’m teaching you how to write for no special reason, what are you thinking about?” 

A-Bao’s voice was as low as a mosquito, “Nothing.” Glancing at the table, she said in a flurry, “Your Highness, the slave girl shall hurry and go bring you tea.” 

Dingquan laughed, “Come back and write these words again. If you can’t write them well, you will be punished.” 

A-Bao whispered, “Yes,” and picked up the pen again according to the method he taught and copied those phrases again. 

Ding Quan looked at it and sighed, “Go bring me tea.” 

A-Bao responded, and hurried out as if running away. When she got out of the pavilion door, she saw Kouzhu standing quietly since who knows when, so she couldn’t help shyly calling her, “Sister.” 

Kouzhu smiled sweetly, and said warmly, “Go quickly.”

Inside the pavilion, Dingquan stared at the renowned artist’s calligraphy for a while, then picked another long-peaked mountain rabbit hair brush, and was immediately done writing in a few smooth strokes.

Kouzhu entered the pavilion, and seeing Dingquan sitting blankly with a pen, she went forward to sort out the papers on the table for him. She carefully put Yu Shi’s original manuscript back into the lacquer box, while quoting, “Your Highness, it’s Friday tomorrow. The Prime Minister wants to check Your Highness’s homework.” As she was speaking, she suddenly saw Dingquan’s newly written calligraphy put aside. She held it up and looked at it carefully. She liked it so much that she couldn’t help asking, “Your Highness since you have no use for this calligraphy, how about bestowing it to me?”

Dingquan glanced at her sideways. For some reason, he suddenly felt unhappy, threw his brush, and said with a sneer, “You frivolous thing. A little regard and you forget your place?” 

Kouzhu’s shoulder trembled slightly, and her face instantly turned white. A moment later, she knelt down and apologised, “The slave girl deserves to die.” 

Dingquan raised his hand and said, “Leave.” 

Kouzhu affirmed and retreated. When she reached the door of the pavilion, she heard the crown prince behind her say, “I’m just in a bad mood since this isn’t coming out well. I will write a good one for you someday.” 

Kouzhu stopped, neither thanked nor looked back, just let out a soft ‘hm’. When she walked out, she saw A-Bao coming in while holding tea. Kouzhu just raised her head and said with a smile, “His Highness is not in a good mood. Please be careful.”

A-Bao remembered that the crown prince was still talking and laughing just fine a while ago. However, since he had always been like this, it wasn’t anything surprising. Entering the pavilion, she saw that the crown prince’s face had already sunk. He had pulled a paper and didn’t know where to start, but this time it was a revised elegant regular script. Hearing her walk in, without raising his head, he coldly ordered, “Ink.”

A-Bao came forward, took the ink ingot, and slowly turned it back and forth in the inkstone. The fragrance of agarwood had faded away, and the shadows of crabapple flowers outside the window fell on her ink-soaked fingers, on the crown prince’s fingers holding the brush, on the pen holder on the table, and on the piece of paper that Kouzhu had just tried to ask for. It was a piece of rare and brilliant calligraphy, vigorous and soft, with a dazzling lustre and gorgeous brushwork, every word as brilliant as precious jewels. Although it was written with ink and paper, it has the sharpness of words etched on iron.

The characters that were not fully legible just now could be understood at a glance by virtue of this strict rewriting:

March is nigh, I feel longing and wistfulness. 

I feel so blue, oh, what do I do?

It was originally a vague fragment of a predecessor several generations ago, but this ready-made spring day with flying flowers and drifting clouds, and his elegant demeanour and fragrant clothes, had one by one become its most accurate commentary. The unexplained frustration and grief permeating between the lines, embellished by the aggressive strokes of riches and honour, all gave birth to an extremely decadent beauty.

TN Notes

TN Notes

↲1	From (淳化阁帖) 3rd collection, by Eastern Dynasty’s calligrapher, Yu Yi.
↲2	分 – fen = 0.33 cm
↲3	颜精柳骨 – Yan Zhenqing and Liu Gongquan: Famous calligraphers of ancient regular script.

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