Chapter 3: Couplets

Aunt Zhao was not a household-born slave of the Jia Family; she was a new purchase made ten years ago by Lai Da, steward of Rongguo Prefecture.

Ten years ago, Aunt Zhao’s former master fell into disgrace, and all the household slaves were to be sold; Lai Da’s family saw she was well-behaved and decent-looking, carrying an infant still in swaddling clothes, and bought her to be Jia Cong’s wet nurse.

Aunt Zhao’s husband died a few years ago; she and her only son, Guo Zhi, live in a single-story house on the back street of Rongguo Prefecture, where many dependents of household-born slaves from Ningguo and Rongguo Prefectures reside.

Early this morning, Aunt Zhao sent her son to paste up the couplets Jia Cong had written.

The vermilion paper used for writing the couplets was specially bought by Aunt Zhao; this paper is bright red, a cheap, low-quality type commonly purchased by common folk for couplets, and when sniffed closely, emits a pungent odor.

The couplet reads: Spring arrives before the hall, bringing auspicious qi; the sun shines upon the courtyard, stirring forth blessed light.

The characters on the couplet are warm, elegant, graceful, and ethereal, with an extraordinary charm that strikes the eye with instant awe.

Soon after the couplets were posted, anyone passing by that gate—whether literate or not—could not help but glance several times.

But one middle-aged scholar passing by stopped before the couplets and stood there for a long time, his face filled with shock and awe.

…

Jia Cong never had much spare money and could not afford other miscellaneous books; before his injury, he was neither enthusiastic nor averse to reading.

His cousin Jia Zheng, of equally dull talent, had a fate as distant as heaven and earth from his own.

After enduring a brutal beating, he suddenly became devoted to reading, which delighted Zhi Shao greatly.

The instructor at the clan school was Jia Dairu, who had failed the imperial examinations his entire life—a dry, rigid, old-fashioned scholar.

Jia Dairu was pitiable, but a man so stiff and conservative could hardly possess any real insight or originality in classical interpretation.

Based on the original body’s lingering memories and Jia Cong’s understanding of the Red Chamber narrative, he had little interest in attending the Jia clan’s school.

After speaking, Zhi Shao stole a glance at Jia Cong and saw no trace of grievance on his face; his expression was calm, revealing no hint of joy or anger.

It was because Jia Dashan had submitted a final memorial to the Emperor before his death that Jia Zheng, a poor scholar, received the official post of fifth-rank Assistant Minister of Public Works.

Yet inside the room, apart from a few basic primers, there were only a few incomplete copies of the Four Books.

Jia Dairu, from a minor branch of the family, could only eke out a living by teaching in the clan school.

He lost his father in youth, his son in middle age, spent his life studying, yet achieved nothing.

This old scholar was a tragic figure forged by this rigid, cold-blooded clan.

In the cramped courtyard, Jia Cong looked at Zhi Shao’s pale face and asked: “Didn’t you get the monthly allowance?”

Although he strictly disciplined his only grandson Jia Rui, his education was undoubtedly a failure.

Perhaps aware that reading was his only path forward, he was of average talent; whether he could succeed in study was another matter entirely.

Since Jia Cong began recovering from his injuries, Zhi Shao had noticed he suddenly became diligent, reading every book he could find in the house over and over again.

Though not a high official, it was a prestigious Beijing post many third-rank jinshi struggled their entire lives to attain.

“If they didn’t give it, then they didn’t give it—we won’t starve in this courtyard. I’ll find a way to handle reading myself.”

Otherwise, he wouldn’t have failed the examination until his beard turned white.

Jia Rui ultimately remained morally corrupt; he spied lustfully on Feng Jie and was tricked and destroyed by the “Feng the Fiend.”

Zhi Shao remained silent, then stammered after a long while: “Wang Shanbao’s wife said Grandmaster Jia has ordered Third Young Master to stop studying.”

What could one learn from such a hollow, ineffectual scholar? Before finding a true master, it’s better to study alone.

In his past life, he had studied literature and history, with considerable exposure to Sinology; in that era of countless lecture platforms, he had accumulated some perspective and insight.

Though insufficient to pass the examinations, his viewpoint and methods for studying classical texts far surpassed those of his contemporaries.

Moreover, Jia Dairu managed the clan school carelessly, even entrusting its administration to his unreliable grandson Jia Rui.

The school had long been turned into a chaotic mess by lazy, idle students; later, the dissolute Xue Pan came not to study but to pursue homosexual desires. Such a disgraceful place—better to avoid it entirely.

But not wanting to attend the clan school did not mean he didn’t want to read.

Reading was his only path to redemption; if he could not read, he would remain abused in this eastern courtyard, and by fifteen or sixteen, be officially cast out of the Jia Family to fend for himself.

He did not wish to live out this life in shameful, lowly obscurity.

He must devise a way to read legitimately; if Jia She and his wife insisted on being stumbling blocks, he would quietly remove them without notice.

Though outwardly bound by filial piety and propriety, he would never defy these two; inwardly, he felt no filial affection, and they were determined to torment him.

Quick footsteps echoed in the courtyard; Jia Cong saw Aunt Zhao walking in with a broad smile.

Jia Cong asked curiously: “Why are you so pleased, Auntie? Did something good happen?”

Aunt Zhao laughed: “It’s good news indeed! Brother hasn’t received his monthly allowance for a long time, and your recovery has cost much; now the famine is over.”

She placed a ten-tael silver ingot on the table and said: “Take it, use it—buy paper, brushes, and good food as you please.”

Jia Cong knew this silver ingot nearly equaled half a year’s allowance for Aunt Zhao; because of him, her monthly stipend was often shortchanged by Lady Xing.

Fortunately, her son worked as a coachman in the Western Prefecture, where they never withheld his allowance; otherwise, life would have been unbearable.

Thus, she could never have produced so much silver on her own—Jia Cong knew there was another reason behind it.

“They say scholars are precious—Brother wrote just one couplet, and I pasted it on the gate; now so many people stand there staring.”

“Then an old scholar passed by, loved the couplet so much he insisted on buying it for ten taels.”

Jia Cong and Zhi Shao were stunned—those dozen or so characters written yesterday were worth ten taels.

Just yesterday, they had been angry over Wang Shanbao’s wife cutting their monthly allowance by two taels.

“The old scholar said the characters were divine-grade, unlike anything he’d ever seen, and asked whose masterwork they were.”

“When he heard they were written by a young master of Rongguo Prefecture—and that the boy is only ten—he refused to believe it, repeatedly saying, ‘The young are formidable indeed.’”

Aunt Zhao laughed heartily; her own nursling possessing such talent meant she had finally shown her face with pride.

Jia Cong was puzzled—the old scholar must have been a learned man; could he not recognize the calligraphic style he was imitating?

In his past life, his maternal grandfather was the most renowned scroll-mounting master in southern Jiangnan.

Traditionally, skilled mounters were also accomplished calligraphers and painters, deeply cultured and broadly knowledgeable, otherwise they could never become masters of their craft.

His grandfather was precisely such a man, especially skilled in calligraphy; Jia Cong had learned solid foundations in calligraphy from him since childhood.

Later, while working at the provincial museum, he accidentally encountered a damaged, unnamed calligraphy scroll.

The scroll contained both regular and running script, tracing its lineage back to the Two Wangs, inheriting the Wei-Jin tradition, absorbing the essence of numerous Song and Yuan masters, and forming its own distinct school.

The script was exquisite and unparalleled, rivaling the greatest calligraphers of the Song and Yuan dynasties.

The man who wrote this calligraphy should have been famous, but because the scroll itself was incomplete, the author could not be identified.

Only through paper analysis could it be determined the writer lived during the Yuan or Ming dynasties.

Though the Red Chamber obscures the dynasty’s timeline, its setting clearly resembles the Ming and Qing dynasties, close to the era of the anonymous calligrapher.

All scholars seeking advancement in office must master fine calligraphy; such exquisite, unique script should be widely known.

He had assumed people of this era might recognize the origin of this script.

But the old scholar was only astonished that a ten-year-old had written it, as if he did not recognize it as an imitation of any known style.

A quiet realization stirred within him; since awakening, he had been confined to this cramped, dilapidated courtyard.

He knew nothing of the outside world—what dynasty it was, how much it deviated from his historical memory.

To survive better in this world, he must know these things.

“Now we have silver—I’m not fully recovered yet, so I can’t go out. Tomorrow, Auntie, buy me some books and Xuan paper.”

Aunt Zhao said: “That’s easy—Wenhann Street has the largest bookstore in the capital; they have books, paper, brushes—all you need. You can go there and buy them directly.”

(End of Chapter)