by Vivian Chak
***
Xiang was sixteen years old, calligraphy brush in hand, poised to blot the paper before him. He had asked Lang, his former teacher and an adept calligrapher, to advise. His father's birthday was fast arriving, and Xiang planned to submit several characters to his father.
He didn't know what to write. The saying, 'drinking the water of a well, one should never forget who dug it,' had few enough strokes for him to manage. But the meaning was more for himself; a reminder for him to appreciate the efforts of his father. Efforts that made Xiang who he was. 'One justice can overpower one hundred evils' appeared more appropriate for his father's vocation, but it seemed like gross flattery to Xiang, and his father, ever sharp, could penetrate easily through that. That was why he had called Lang.
Before his employment to Xiang's father, Lang Xin had been a government official, bound for ignominy, in a forgotten province. Magistrate Li had saved him from that, but not before Lang had languished a full decade, his talents used in nothing but calligraphy.
“Laoshi, I'm now considering 'ru mu san fen,'” Xiang told his old teacher, as the latter came in. “It is a concise piece of profound meaning, and I am confident that my honourable father will be pleased with it.” Lang smiled at his former student's youthful confidence.
“Well, young Xiang, let's see. What exactly are you trying to give your father here?”
“Appreciation for him having position, power, and a dutiful son.”
“ 'Enters the wood by three fen,'” read Lang, from Xiang's preliminary practise. “Or rather, 'profound words carve deeply.'” He looked amused.
“Those were the exact words written by Wang Xizhi, master calligrapher of the Jin dynasty.” Xiang defended his choice.
“And did you choose these for their deep meaning, or for the simplicity of the characters?” There were only four words, each with a small number of strokes. Xiang was at first annoyed, then sheepish. Lang had always known his pupil well.
“I don't know what to write,” he muttered at his paper.
“Sometimes, the characters with the fewest strokes are the hardest to write. They need a tempered, but at the same time, flexible hand.”
“As with a jian?”
“Always back to the sword with you, isn't it?” Lang chuckled. He took the brush from Xiang, and rendered the cursive character for jian in fluid, deft movements, lifting his brush only for the last stroke.
“I'll write this, then,” decided Xiang, taking the brush from his teacher. The brush moved quickly across the blank paper, long marks rendered in bold strokes, the side stroke finished with a thin flourish.
“You move your brush like a sword,” commented Lang, smiling as he looked over Xiang's work. Teacher and pupil compared the characters.
Lang's character was rendered with easy confidence, cursive strokes swept abstractly. The left side of the character was almost completely obscured in a swirl. The right side, however, containing the letter for dao, was distinctly visible. A long slash, that grew from a small point to a large blot, had been added across the stroke representing the knife's blade.
Xiang had written his character with heavy ink on top, then progressed to thinner strokes on the bottom as the ink dried. Unlike Lang's rendition, each stroke was clearly distinct.
“Why do you think I blotted mine?” asked Lang, indicating his character.
“Lang shifu, I don't know,” Xiang sighed. The slash, sometimes called a blood-stroke, seemed to detract from the character's composition, even though the dao side was rendered quite distinctly.
“No need to call me shifu; I'm merely showing, not instructing.”
“Lang laoshi, then,” said Xiang, determined to address Lang properly. “I can only hazard that the stroke was done to bring the dao character into prominence.”
“Well, you're close. I wanted to ruin it.”
“What?”
“This is a blood-stroke, right?” Lang pointed at the long blot. “And here's the blade.” He traced a finger along the stroke streaked by the blot. “It's the most important part of the character. You've rendered yours nearly invisible.” He indicated Xiang's variation, in which the dao had been stretched out of resemblance.
“But I didn't blot mine,” said Xiang. “Lang laoshi, why did you ruin yours?”
“It's a blood-stroke,” repeated Lang, “and it's a reminder that no matter how fine the steel, or how beautifully the edge shines in the light, a sword is for killing. Don't you forget it.”
Xiang looked back at his own work, then again at his teacher's.
“I believe I'll have to choose another character.”
“No, I don't believe you will,” mused Lang, stroking his black beard. “Yours will do nicely.”
“But I've missed the point of the character,” insisted Xiang. Lang looked over at the young man's letter.
“Not at all.” He traced a finger over the clear and confident strokes of Xiang's work. “Your strokes have been rendered quite distinctly, each one with accuracy according to conventional rules. They're all quite clear. It suits the character.”
“And the personality of my father,” mused Xiang. His father, upright and determined, had single-handedly made a name for himself as a justice, elevated the family status through persistence, and raised Xiang strictly. Xiang was old enough to appreciate the latter; after all, wasn't Confucius quoted as saying, 'the gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trial'? The steel of the sword embodied his father's virtues, and its use in combat celebrated the struggles his father had gone through for his sake.
Then he frowned.
“But knowing the other meaning, how could I present mine to my father? It would be a lie.” He looked thoughtfully at Lang's work as he spoke.
“Give him both, then,” suggested Lang.
“I don't think he'd think very highly of you if I did that,” worried Xiang. Lang shrugged his shoulders with a smile.
“Well, young Xiang, if it matters that much to you―”
“―it does.” Xiang recalled that his father had recently presided over a trial, in which a man, accused of slandering the Emperor, had been sentenced to death. The only evidence had been lines of obscure poetry, in a dusty book. If his father was an extension of the Emperor's governance, it wouldn't do for Lang to insult him accidentally.
“That's quite considerate. Very good of you.” It was Xiang's turn to shrug in reply.
“It wouldn't do to upset my father on his birthday,” said Xiang. “But what will I write now?”
The wind blew violently and the shutters flapped open. Papers scattered to the floor, and Xiang's work ended up in the dish of water for cleaning brushes.
“I won't be writing jian,” Xiang decided.
“What about a selection from the Tao Te Ching? Chapter 33.”
"'To understand others is to be knowledgeable;
To understand yourself is to be wise.
To conquer others is to have strength;
To conquer yourself is to be strong.
To know when you have enough is to be rich.
To go forward with strength is to have ambition.
To not lose your place is to be long lasting.
To die but not be forgotten —that's true long life.'"
“Marvellous!” exclaimed Lang. Xiang had recited the passage accurately. “It will please your father, for him to know that you've been readying yourself for the examinations.”
This would be a lot longer than jian. It also seemed a bit less applicable― his father didn't need reminding of such tenants, did he? He said as much to Lang.
“The man who recognizes that he has still much to learn is a wise man,” Lang smiled. He was always merry, thought Xiang, idly. Was it because his teacher had recognized so much?
“At any rate, the passage could apply to yourself. Your father should be satisfied to know that his son can recognize the requirements of self-development.”
“And t
he last two lines should be pleasing,” added Xiang. He thought of how his father had worked unceasingly to raise their family to its current status, but still returned to his former prefecture and home each year, to pay his respects. The last line, which was probably the object of every patriarch, would make a good promise from son to father. The preceding lines, which his father practised in abundance, could also be interpreted as an oblique compliment, in reminding his father of what he already had. Writing this much text would also allow him to show off his calligraphy, even though he would probably have to rewrite it several times. There were also the points that Lang laoshi stated. Yes, this was a good idea.
Xiang dipped the brush in ink and committed it to paper, testing each character.
“I'll leave you to it, young Xiang,” said Lang, as he left.
“Thank you, laoshi.” Xiang inclined his head respectfully to his teacher.
He worked late into the night, forming each character with care, trying to force the truth into each one. By daybreak, he was surrounded by crumpled papers. The silk scroll still sat blank before him. Rubbing his aching temples, Xiang realized that he was due to practise his daily swordplay, under his father's supervision, in two hours. His eyes fell on Lang's jian character. The intentional slash seemed even more unsightly than before.
Sometimes, the truth isn't exactly what we want to see. But the conscience is always right. In his befuddled state, Xiang thought that he could hear Lang laoshi speaking. What felt right? He was tired and didn't want to think of it anymore. Grasping the brush, he wrote out all forty-six characters onto the scroll, each in bold, clear text. They stood starkly against the white threads, black ink contrasting sharply; even penetrating through the fine cloth where Xiang had pressed too hard. Though it was somewhat ruinous, it would have to do. He rushed to his father, sword in hand, explaining his lateness as being the result of his contemplation on one of laoshi's lessons.