Chapter Fifty: One Act of Writing Equals Ten Acts of Reading

Pei Min watched Gongsun Xi leave once more, only turning back toward the city after confirming she and her companions had truly gone far. Without delay, Pei Min returned to the Yuan residence.

Yan Gaoqing was basking in the sun in the outer courtyard, reading a book. When he saw Pei Min return carrying a wooden box, he called out, “What treasure have you brought back?”

Pei Min waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t know. My dis—” He almost said ‘disciple,’ but paused and corrected himself. “A friend gave it to me as a parting gift. I haven’t opened it yet.” He had never truly regarded Gongsun Xi as his disciple, but he certainly had no intention of going back on his promise to her. After all, Pei Min possessed the soul of a man from the twenty-first century, and he knew better than anyone that to truly become strong and let one’s efforts endure through the ages, keeping knowledge to oneself was the most ignorant path. The ancient Chinese were extraordinary, creators of countless brilliant cultures, yet so many exquisite skills and arts had been lost to secrecy, surviving only in legends.

It was not ignorance that led the ancients to such habits, but the spirit and customs of their times.

Pei Min never judged the ancients through the lens of modern thought, but neither did he intend to take his skills to the grave. Of course, he would only share them with those he deemed worthy—Gongsun Xi was certainly qualified.

Yan Gaoqing did not press further. Pei Min reflected that, though Yan had already secured his place among the officials, he was still so diligent, whereas Pei Min himself paled in comparison. With the provincial examination approaching, there could be no more carelessness.

Pei Min strode quickly to his room and set the wooden box aside. He was about to pick up the Analects, which he had been half-reading, but reconsidered—perhaps he should see what ‘apprenticeship gift’ Gongsun Xi had left him. As soon as he opened the box, he saw three bold characters: “Treatise on Yue Yi,” and the inscription was none other than Li Shimin.

Pei Min couldn’t help but swallow. Gongsun Xi had actually given him the “Treatise on Yue Yi”?

Did she not know that this was a supreme treasure in the world of calligraphy?

In the modern era, people fought and bled for jade, antiques, diamonds, and gold, but the ancients, especially the upper class, valued calligraphy and painting above any gemstone. Works by famous hands were worth their weight in gold, far surpassing any jewel. Wang Xizhi was a monumental figure in calligraphy, universally acclaimed as peerless; his works were beyond price. If this “Treatise on Yue Yi” were to appear on the black market, it would be a treasure with no upper limit to its value.

Yet, considering Gongsun Xi’s personality, Pei Min couldn’t help but laugh aloud—she probably saw this “Treatise on Yue Yi” as nothing more than paper.

With a heart full of excitement and anticipation, Pei Min took out the “Treatise on Yue Yi.” It had been carefully rewrapped, much like a book with a protective cover, encased in elegant Shu brocade to protect the manuscript within from wear. The packaging was exquisitely done, and from the signature on the outer wrapping, it might well have come from the hand of the Tang dynasty’s greatest emperor, Li Shimin.

Gazing at the three characters on the scroll, Pei Min nodded in admiration. Li Shimin, scion of a great family, truly lived up to his reputation; these characters possessed a vigorous strength, a clear testament to his skill in calligraphy.

Unrolling the scroll with utmost care, Pei Min finally beheld the artistry of the Sage of Calligraphy, and his eyes were filled with awe. Comparing Li Shimin’s characters with those inside the manuscript, Pei Min couldn’t help but marvel at the emperor’s audacity: after writing those few words, how could he dare inscribe his name beside Wang Xizhi’s? Li Shimin was certainly skilled, but compared with the deeply carved strokes of Wang Xizhi, the difference was vast—this was the gap between a grandmaster and a mere master.

Wang Xizhi had written the “Treatise on Yue Yi” in the small regular script. This script features long horizontal strokes and short verticals, retaining the archaic flavor of clerical script, and was considered the ancestor of the standard script. As the foremost example of regular script, the “Treatise on Yue Yi” was worthy of its reputation.

“If only my calligraphy could someday rival Wang Xizhi’s,” Pei Min mused. His own foundation in calligraphy was not weak, yet he lagged behind Li Shimin, let alone a sage like Wang Xizhi. The thought sparked a desire in him to practice: now that he possessed the “Treatise on Yue Yi,” if he did not use it as a model, would he not be wasting Gongsun Xi’s thoughtful gift?

After all, the greatest value of a calligraphic copybook was not in displaying it as a showpiece, but in using it for practice—first copying, then developing one’s own style, thus passing the art down.

However, with the provincial exam so near, diverting extra time to calligraphy might be unwise. Was there no way to do both?

As he pondered, Pei Min suddenly recalled a famous historical saying: “Writing once is like reading ten times,” meaning that copying a text once was as effective as reading it ten times.

Why not practice calligraphy by copying out the classics as he studied them?

Moreover, in the imperial examinations, most graders first assessed the handwriting before reading the content. If the script was poor, no matter how brilliant the essay, the result would suffer. Good handwriting could only help his score.

No longer concerned with the effort this would require, Pei Min acted at once. He fetched some coins and asked the Yuan steward, when next in town, to bring back a large supply of brushes, ink, and silk for writing, making full preparations.

Small regular script was an essential skill in daily life in antiquity, used for correspondence and official documents alike, making it the most popular form and the very foundation of standard script.

To survive in officialdom, one might not master cursive or running script, but small regular script was indispensable.

In history, the greatest master of small regular script was not Wang Xizhi, but Yan Zhenqing, cousin of Yan Gaoqing, who was later known as the “Second Sage of Calligraphy.” However, at this time, Yan Zhenqing was still just a child playing in the mud, so the “Treatise on Yue Yi” remained the finest example of small regular script in the world.

From then on, the thirty-odd strips of silk hanging daily in the Yuan mansion’s rear courtyard became a striking sight: in ancient times, paper was precious, especially the xuan paper used for calligraphy, which was a tribute reserved for the imperial court and extremely expensive. Thus, Pei Min practiced on silk strips—rectangular pieces of silk cut to the size of paper. Though not cheap, silk was durable and could be washed and reused, making it economical and practical.

This routine continued for a month and a half.

During that time, Pei Min hardly left the house, rising early and retiring late. He copied out the Book of Rites, the Zuo Commentary to the Spring and Autumn Annals, the Book of Songs, the Rites of Zhou, the Etiquette and Ceremonial, the Book of Changes, the Book of Documents, the Gongyang Commentary, the Guliang Commentary, the Classic of Filial Piety, the Analects, and more. He used up over ten pounds of ink and wore out eleven brushes.

The results were clear: Pei Min’s small regular script had become refined and elegant, not only neat and beautiful, but also beginning to show the subtle grace of a true master. As for the Confucian classics, each time he copied a passage, he would recite it multiple times in his heart, never neglecting his studies for a moment.

As the silk strips fluttered in the back yard, Yan Gaoqing sighed, “When I saw Brother Pei coming and going day and night, I thought his talk of striving for the top rank was just casual words. But in this past month, witnessing his dedication, I realize he was utterly serious. Such perseverance and resolve—I am far from his equal.”

Yuan Lvqian nodded in agreement. “With such a worthy friend, even I’ve been influenced. Lately, I’ve added half an hour to my daily reading of the classics, lest I fall too far behind.”

Yan Gaoqing smiled and nodded, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Perhaps I should take part in the provincial exam as well.” Seeing Yuan Lvqian’s surprise, he laughed, “What harm in sitting for the exam one more time? I’d like to compete with Brother Pei and see who comes out ahead. To vie with a true friend is a pleasure in itself.”