Chapter Twenty-Six: Torches and Lanterns

After Zhang Heng left, Zhang Yue gazed at the thick stack of papers before him and thought to himself, At last, I have something to do.

Guo Lin said, “If you write all this out properly, no one will be able to find fault with it. Let me take a look. If you can’t finish, I’ll help you with some of it.”

“How could I let you do that? Senior Brother, you earn three and a half qian per page, while I only get one qian per page.”

Guo Lin replied, “As long as you know that. Still, it’s fine if you write slowly. The most important thing is not to have any mistakes or omissions. Otherwise, an entire day’s work will be wasted.”

Zhang Yue said, “Senior Brother, you really do look after me. But if one mistake or omission in a page means a deduction of one qian, then I’ll have copied that page for nothing. If I make two mistakes, wouldn’t I even owe them money?”

Guo Lin burst out laughing, slapping his thigh. “Junior Brother, you can still joke at a time like this. I really don’t know what to say about your temperament.”

Zhang Yue smiled faintly, then poured water into the prepared ink, blending it to the right consistency before picking up his brush to begin copying.

Guo Lin stood behind Zhang Yue for a while, a bit worried that his handwriting might still be unsatisfactory, or that he might be hasty because of his studies. Yet as he watched, every stroke Zhang Yue made was clear and proper, written in a standard script with a hint of ancient charm.

“Have you been practicing the Proclamation lately, Junior Brother?” Guo Lin asked.

This pleased Zhang Yue greatly. That Guo Lin could recognize it meant his hard work the previous night had paid off. Though he hadn’t mastered it, he could now manage a decent imitation.

“Senior Brother, you have sharp eyes! What do you think, is it passable?”

Guo Lin said, “There’s been some improvement. It seems my insistence that you copy scriptures daily is finally bearing fruit. Keep writing like this—over time, your brushwork will develop strength and character.”

“All right.”

With that, Zhang Yue continued copying, thinking as Guo Lin had said: copying texts is practice in calligraphy as well.

The Song Dynasty was a time when culture reached its zenith. The scholar-officials were enraptured by literature and neglected martial pursuits. The emperors were no different—several generations were masters of calligraphy. Thus, a devotion to calligraphy permeated every level of society. Good penmanship became a second face for a person.

To practice calligraphy with free ink and brushes while getting paid, even if only a single qian a page—why not take joy in it?

With this in mind, Zhang Yue felt calm and content, treating the copying as a craft to be honed.

He and Guo Lin were assigned different tasks. Guo Lin was copying policy essays, likely written by students of the academy, following the lingering Tang tradition of submitting written works for review. A student’s best compositions were to be copied and shown to high officials by themselves or through friends and mentors, seeking recognition and praise.

Consider Ouyang Xiu, the great talent scout of the political world, who supported Wang Anshi and the three Su brothers. Wang Anshi had been recommended to Ouyang Xiu by Zeng Gong—Wang and Zeng were from the same hometown, Zeng’s sister having married Wang’s elder brother, Wang An’guo. Zeng was also Ouyang’s favorite disciple.

When Zeng Gong recommended Wang Anshi, he wrote: “There is my friend Wang Anshi, whose writing is ancient in style and whose conduct matches his words. Though he has achieved academic honors, few truly know his worth. He values himself too highly to seek recognition from others.”

With Wang Anshi’s character, without Ouyang Xiu’s support, Zeng Gong’s recommendation would have had little effect.

Guo Lin’s fine handwriting earned him the task of copying these works for students seeking prestige. Zhang Yue, whose writing was poor, had to copy articles from those who had already passed the exams, making a copy for each student. Since his script was ugly, it could not be shown outside—only circulated internally.

Zhang Yue was copying a fu—a rhapsody. The imperial examination included poems, fu, policy essays, and discourses, but poems and fu weighed most heavily, with fu being ranked higher than poetry. The quality of a single fu could determine a candidate’s fate; the rest merely set the ranking. These fu were not by famous writers, and each had to be copied thirty-six times, meaning there were thirty-six students in the academy.

Zhang Yue estimated that each would take about one and a half pages—he wondered if he would be paid for two pages or just one and a half. If it was two, that made seventy-two qian, which was a decent income.

He focused intently, having just finished copying two pieces when the steward arrived carrying a tray. “No eating in the study room—if you want to eat, go outside.”

“Are there any tables?” Guo Lin asked.

“No,” the old man replied curtly, and left.

That meant they were to squat while eating.

Zhang Yue didn’t mind; as a child, when there was no television in the dining room, he often carried his bowl into the living room to eat. But he saw that Guo Lin was rather upset. Though from a poor family, he had been brought up with Confucian teachings—meals required a table, with food on the left and soup on the right.

Seeing the meal set on the ground, Guo Lin was at a loss.

Zhang Yue considered for a moment, then said, “Senior Brother, we are newcomers here. This is not the academy showing us disrespect. Doesn’t the Book of Changes say, ‘Upright and square, yet accommodating; unpracticed, but nothing is unfavorable’? We’ve just arrived; at most, they ignore us. There’s no conflict of interest, so the intention is not to drive us away.”

Guo Lin nodded, “You’re right. Let’s go together to talk to the steward.”

So Guo Lin went over and bowed. “Without a table, it is not proper. Though we are here to copy texts, we are still scholars—please treat us with the respect due to scholars.”

The steward frowned. “Making trouble again? Just eat—no need for so many rules. Where am I supposed to find you a table on short notice?”

Guo Lin wanted to say more, but Zhang Yue stepped forward: “I passed by the archery range earlier—there’s a pavilion nearby. May we take our meal there?”

“As you wish.”

“Thank you.”

Guo Lin and Zhang Yue carried their trays to the pavilion. The meal was a bowl of rice, pressed dense, and a bowl of salted bean soup. Both rice and soup were double portions, and a small plate of pickled vegetables for them to share.

At home, they ate thin gruel every day. Here, at least, they could have a solid meal.

Zhang Yue eagerly scooped up two large mouthfuls of rice, then closed his eyes to savor the taste. The rice was steamed in a wooden bucket, with the aroma of wood and a soft, sweet flavor.

This was real bucket-cooked rice, not some fast-food joint’s iron pan dressed in a wooden shell.

“Slow down!” Guo Lin reminded him.

Zhang Yue smiled, took a crisp piece of pickled vegetable, swallowed it with rice, then drank a sip of the rich, savory soup.

This meal brought him a profound sense of happiness.

As they ate, they watched the academy students heading off for their own meals, each attended by a page carrying his book box and quiver.

After lunch, instead of returning to the reading hall to continue studying, the students rested—scholars believed sitting too long after a full meal would harm the vital energy and blood. So they went off to practice archery, pitch-pot, or stroll.

Only the poor would study from dawn till dusk; even a nap during the day would be scolded as laziness. Only the destitute studied at night—did the officials’ sons even bother to light candles after dark?

Zhang Yue again spotted the hall monitor, Zhang Heng, surrounded by a group of students, heading to the archery range.

With all eyes on him, Zhang Heng smiled, took the bow from his page, stood straight as a pine, and shot arrow after arrow, each one hitting the red center. The watching students cheered.

Zhang Yue couldn’t help but cheer inwardly as well.

Guo Lin remarked, “The hall monitor here is truly impressive—best not to cross him.”

After lunch, the two of them went back to copying texts.

Unnoticed, night fell. Guo Lin had finished his work, but Zhang Yue still had more than ten pieces left.

Guo Lin picked up Zhang Yue’s work and proofread it, pointing out some mistakes and omissions. Seeing Zhang Yue’s slow progress, he said, “Let me help you copy some.”

“It’s late, Senior Brother, you should head down the mountain before it gets too dark to travel,” Zhang Yue replied.

“Do you want me to leave you here alone?”

Taking half the papers, Guo Lin began copying alongside him. As they worked, Zhang Yue said, “The Book of Changes says, ‘Reserve brilliance, remain upright; serve the king’s affairs—there may be no achievement, but there will be completion.’ I think I finally understand.”

He meant that one need not always pursue perfection in everything, but every task should be carried through to completion. The quality may vary, but finishing the work is a matter of attitude, not ability.

“One can learn principles from books,” he continued, “but until you apply them, they’re not truly yours. Would you agree, Senior Brother?”

Guo Lin nodded. “You’re right, Junior Brother. That is what it means to have profound virtue—only those with profound virtue can bear heavy responsibilities. This experience has tempered your character.”

Their conversation drifted outside.

The steward overheard and stroked his beard with a smile. “How interesting.”

By the time darkness fell, Zhang Yue had finished copying all thirty-six pieces and handed them to the steward.

“How much are these worth? Ask the hall monitor. I can’t be bothered with your affairs,” the steward said.

“Thank you!” Zhang Yue and Guo Lin bowed together and prepared to leave.

“Wait!” the steward called. “It’s so dark—how will you get down the mountain?”

Zhang Yue and Guo Lin exchanged glances.

“I have some pine resin here. Go gather some branches and bark, and I’ll make you a torch!” the steward said.

Overjoyed, the two of them thanked him. The steward fashioned a torch for them, and together they carried it down the mountain.

Zhang Yue, in high spirits, shared amusing stories as they walked, but Guo Lin was grave and cautioned him, “As we walk, if you hear strange rustlings behind you, do not look back—just keep moving forward.”

“Why?”

“Just do as I say. See that patch up ahead? Looks like a burial mound. Let’s pass by quietly.”

Seeing Guo Lin’s seriousness, Zhang Yue fell silent. The night sky was dim, the stars sparse, and darkness covered the land. Shoulder to shoulder, the two brothers-in-study held their torch aloft. The torch illuminated only a small area ahead, but it gave them courage.

They walked several miles through the night before finally reaching home.

The torch was nearly burnt out when, in the distance, they saw the faint glow of a lantern. As they drew near, they saw Master Guo—pale and sick—standing at the door with his wife, both holding lanterns, waiting for their son and Zhang Yue to return.

Guo Lin, moved to tears, dropped his satchel and knelt before his father. “Father, your son is unfilial—coming home so late and making you wait outside.”

Zhang Yue hurried over. “Sir, it’s my fault—I was slow with the copying and kept Senior Brother with me until now.”

Master Guo helped Guo Lin up. “So long as you’re home, that’s all that matters. Tell me, how did you get back?”

“Sir, the steward made us a torch, and we found our way by its light. The man may speak harshly, but he has a good heart.”

“Then you must thank him. Now, hurry in and wash up. Is there anything to eat at home?”

His wife replied, “There’s still a piece of bread.”

“Split it in half and share it. Eat your bread and get some rest—you must be tired after such a long day.”

“Father, I’m not tired. I want to read a while longer,” Guo Lin protested.

“I’ll accompany my senior brother,” Zhang Yue chimed in.

“Very well,” Master Guo nodded, then instructed his wife, “Quick, put out the lantern—we shouldn’t waste oil!”