Chapter 4: Tan Chun

Wenhán Street lies east of Rongguo Prefecture; to get there from the black-oil grand gate of the East Courtyard, you must take a long detour.

But if you pass through Rongguo Prefecture’s rear garden and exit via the West Corner Gate, you save half the distance.

Aunt Zhao carried the note written by Jia Cong and, as she crossed the rear garden, several young maidens approached along the stone path opposite.

One of them had slender shoulders, a narrow waist, a tall, elegant figure, an oval face, bright eyes and finely arched brows, her gaze lively and intelligent, radiating literary grace that made one forget the mundane.

Another had a slightly plump figure, medium build, cheeks like fresh lychees, a nose smooth as goose fat, gentle and quiet, her presence warm and approachable.

The girl with bright eyes and fine brows looked toward Aunt Zhao, her gaze clear and penetrating, as if it could see into the depths of the soul.

Aunt Zhao’s heart fluttered in panic; the note in her hand slipped to the ground, caught by the wind, and floated gently forward.

She was not a household-born servant of the Jia family; because of Jia Cong, she was seldom treated well within the estate.

She usually came and went only within the East Courtyard and rarely visited the West Prefecture, but she knew the West Prefecture nurtured three noble daughters.

Unlike Jia Cong, whom everyone despised, those three young ladies were the Jia family’s cherished jewels, raised since childhood beside the old matriarch.

The note Jia Cong wrote listed the items he wished to purchase; Aunt Zhao could barely read, so the note was meant for the shop clerks and owners.

On the paper it read: Comprehensive Examination of Ancient and Modern History, Biographies of Famous Scholars and Calligraphers, two reams of coarse hemp raw xuan paper.

“This note was written by our Cong-er—he sent me to buy him books and paper.”

“Cong-er…” Tan Chun’s gaze froze; the name was clearly unfamiliar to her, and for a moment she did not react.

Aunt Zhao saw the third young lady’s expression brighten, her skin glowing, cheeks flushed with rosy hue, more lovely than ever, and she stared, momentarily stunned.

The girl who had just looked at her was Third Miss Tan Chun—not only was she as beautiful as a flower, but also sharp and capable, the most favored among the young ladies by the Jia family’s old matriarch.

Tan Chun adored calligraphy; even her personal maids bore names like Shishu and Cuimo, all tied to writing.

She asked urgently: “Who wrote these characters on this note?”

Jia Cong had been confined since childhood to the East Courtyard; the old matriarch, because of his lowborn mother, had always disliked this grandson.

Tan Chun had immersed herself deeply in calligraphy and was more sensitive than others to the charm of exceptional brushwork; stirred by emotion, her fair face flushed with two patches of crimson.

Though this third young lady, like Jia Cong, was born of a concubine, no one dared to look down on her—not even the most formidable Lady Lian of the two households feared her a little.

“Better than all the calligraphy copies in my room. How could Second Brother have hidden such a talented younger brother, never mentioning him, never inviting him over?”

Jia Cong had scarcely ever come to the West Prefecture; even the old matriarch could no longer recall his face, let alone Tan Chun and the other sisters.

There was also another son, born with a jade in his mouth, exalted beyond measure, cherished like a pearl or treasure, the favorite of the Jia family’s old matriarch.

Ying Chun took the note from Tan Chun’s hand and after a long pause, murmured: “I’ve never heard he could write such fine characters.”

Ying Chun was the daughter of Jia She’s concubine, Jia Cong’s own elder sister by the same father; she naturally knew this younger brother, though they rarely interacted.

She was perceptive enough to see that the running script on the note was soft yet elegant, refined and free-spirited, polished and masterful—anyone who saw it would be struck with awe and fascination.

Tan Chun came to herself, her face filled with wonder: “So this is Third Brother Cong—truly unexpected—he writes such exquisite characters.”

Tan Chun bent to pick up the note; her clear, bright eyes suddenly sparkled, a moment of striking beauty.

The note Aunt Zhao had dropped was blown by the wind and landed right beside the embroidered shoe of Third Miss Tan Chun.

Ying Chun chuckled: “Third sister, how could you be so confused? Cong-er is my third younger brother—he grew up in the East Courtyard, so you’ve never known him well.”

Tan Chun asked in surprise: “He’s your own brother? So talented—and you never knew?”

Ying Chun’s face flushed; she knew that Master Jia She and Lady Xing despised Jia Cong, constantly scolding and beating him, treating him cruelly.

Though she was his own elder sister, she felt it was deeply wrong how he was treated.

But her nature was gentle and quiet, her voice soft, nowhere near as sharp or forthright as Tan Chun’s, and she dared not argue with her parents over this matter.

She had been raised since childhood in the West Prefecture and had little contact with this younger brother…

She had no face to speak of these things to Tan Chun; as an elder sister, she had failed to support her brother, and a pang of shame lingered within her.

Tan Chun saw she spoke two sentences and fell silent; this second sister, nicknamed “Second Woodhead,” often ended conversations this way—Tan Chun was long accustomed to it.

Tan Chun gazed at the characters on the note, reluctant to let go, feeling such fine brushwork wasted on coarse, rough paper was a true desecration of elegance.

Her bright eyes turned thoughtful, and a plan formed in her mind.

“The books and paper Third Brother Cong wants—I have plenty in my room. You needn’t go out to buy them; take what you need from me—it’ll be far more convenient.”

Third Miss Tan Chun adored calligraphy and studied classics deeply; she carried noble ambitions and stood out among her sisters, even surpassing her jade-born brother by several degrees.

She often lamented being born a woman, unable to pursue a public career; her immersion in calligraphy and texts carried, beneath the surface, a hidden desire to emulate men.

Hence, the books Jia Cong requested were precisely what she had most in abundance—this was why she spoke to Aunt Zhao as she did.

Aunt Zhao had endured so much scorn in the East Courtyard; now this third young lady treated her so kindly, leaving her astonished and flattered.

“How could I possibly trouble Third Miss?”

Tan Chun smiled: “You’re being too formal—we’re family. What’s the fuss? I’ll pick out the best and send Shishu to deliver them.”

“Then I’m truly grateful, Third Miss—I’ll tell Cong-er how kind you’ve been when I return.”

Tan Chun paused, then blushed slightly and said:

“When you go back, please carry a message for me to Third Brother: I admire his calligraphy and would like him to write a piece for me to copy.”

Aunt Zhao suddenly understood: this third young lady, like that old scholar, had taken a fancy to Cong-er’s brushwork.

Truly, scholars were precious—just a few well-written characters drew so much admiration.

“Miss, rest assured—it’s nothing. I’ll deliver your message. When Cong-er writes it, I’ll bring it to you.”

Watching Aunt Zhao walk away, Tan Chun said to Ying Chun: “Second sister, Third Brother Cong is still young—how could he write such fine characters? I’ve copied countless masterpieces, yet rarely seen anything this good. Today I’ve seen something rare indeed.”

Ying Chun stared blankly, unsure how to reply, and after a long while murmured: “Cong-di has grown up—he’s come into his own.”

At that moment, Tan Chun had no interest in continuing her stroll through the garden; she returned to her room with Shishu.

She selected from her bookshelf the volumes Jia Cong had requested, then took two reams of premium snow-wave paper—this paper was fine, smooth, and absorbed ink perfectly, ideal for writing.

She summoned Shishu and gave her instructions, telling her to find out why Ying Chun had seemed on the verge of speaking yet held back—she sensed there was meaning beneath it.

After organizing the items, she practiced copying the characters on the note for a long while, growing ever more admiring and fond—when Shishu returned from her errand.

…

Hongyuan Alley lies near the southern edge of the imperial palace; the Prince of Jia Shun’s mansion stands there.

Zhou Changyan was a guest scholar of the Prince of Jia Shun, skilled in detailed bird-and-flower painting, well-versed in classics and prose, and his calligraphy was also accomplished—he was greatly favored and honored by the prince.

He carefully cradled two sheets of coarse, water-stained red nitre paper, his expression cheerful as he entered the mansion; the faintly pungent odor of the paper did not trouble him.

The Prince of Jia Shun was the youngest son of the Retired Emperor, in his early twenties, handsome and refined, famed in the imperial clan as a scholar, devoted to painting and calligraphy, fond of reading, and skilled in compiling and scholarship.

The mansion housed many guests of profound learning and talent; the prince had never cared for politics since childhood, dedicating himself entirely to scholarship, leading his scholars in scholarly projects like compiling ancient and modern texts.

Such a cultured, leisurely prince naturally enjoyed good favor; the Retired Emperor cherished this youngest son, often summoning him to the palace to discuss books and paintings, enjoying family bonds.

The civil officials in court also held great affection for this scholar-prince.

As a child, the Prince of Jia Shun had been raised alongside his elder brother, Prince Wu, and their brotherly bond was deep—but only as brothers.

For when Prince Wu fell from grace, the Prince of Jia Shun was only five years old; thus, despite this awkward past, the reigning emperor bore him no ill will and had always treated his youngest brother with warmth.

At this moment, Prince Li Xiaocheng of Jia Shun was drinking and conversing with his scholars in the hall when he saw Zhou Changyan enter with a cheerful expression.

The prince smiled: “I was just looking for you, Changyan. Where have you been? What’s that you’re holding?”

Zhou Changyan smiled: “Your Highness, today as I passed through Jūdé Alley, I encountered something rare—I’ve brought a curious object for your appraisal.”

(End of Chapter)