Poor but talented scholar

Chapter 43 Literary Spirit

After school that day, the students dispersed in small groups.

Lu Chuan slowly washed away the remaining ink stains from the inkstone and was about to pick up his book bag when he heard a soft call from the podium.

"Lu Chuan, wait a moment."

Lu Chuan turned around and saw that Master Zhao was holding a piece of scrap paper that he had copied during the break. It was a broken couplet that he had written in the corner when he was casually recording the tones and rhymes.

Master Zhao pointed to the two lines of text above and read them slowly:

"The window frames distant views, and the green mountains remain unchanged for a thousand years."

"Ink stains the clear stream, a pool of spring water, half of it fragrant."

"This couplet... was it you who wrote it just now?" Master Zhao raised his eyelids, his gaze piercing.

Lu Chuan remained unmoved, bowing respectfully and speaking earnestly: "Master, when I was practicing calligraphy just now, I saw the overlapping green mountains outside the window. Even as the years have passed, the green has never faded. I also saw the clear water in the pond. Because the senior students have been washing their inkstones for many years, although the water is as dark as ink, it carries an indelible fragrance of ink."

"The student thought that doing scholarship is perhaps like washing one's inkstone in these green hills. As long as one is immersed in it for a long time, even if one is just a commoner, one will carry the fragrance of books in one's bones. The student jotted this down casually, hoping that the teacher will laugh at it."

Master Zhao remained silent for a long time, and a rare smile gradually spread across his originally serious face.

"The green hills remain unchanged, and the fragrance of ink wafts on." The master patted Lu Chuan on the shoulder. "At such a young age, it is truly remarkable that you can see such composure through this brush and ink. Go on, the busy farming season is over. After you return home, spend more time in the fields and observe the changes of the four seasons. That is true living knowledge."

The seventh month of the lunar calendar is the Great Heat.

This is the most grueling time of the year in Qingyang County, and also the most crucial moment for the summer harvest in Lujia Village.

As was customary, Master Zhao granted the school a ten-day break for the busy farming season.

Lu Shouye drove his old oxcart and waited early in the shadow of the locust tree.

Half a year of scholarly air had subtly made Lu Chuan taller, and the faded blue shirt he wore gave him a gentle and refined appearance.

"Chuan'er, get in the car quickly! Your mother got up early this morning to make you some fried dough sticks!"

Lu Shouye took Lu Chuan's bundle and smiled so hard his eyes were full of wrinkles.

As the oxcart creaked forward, Lu Chuan looked at the bustling summer harvest scene by the roadside, at the golden rice ears bowing their heads, and felt an unprecedented sense of peace in his heart.

As soon as they entered the village, several village children who were resting under the trees spotted them.

"Look! Brother Lu Chuan is back!"

"The scholars are back!"

The children crowded around the oxcart as it ran. Lu Chuan didn't put on airs and took out a few pieces of coarse sugar he had bought at the county market, giving each child a small piece.

Lu Dashan was coming up from the field shirtless when he saw Lu Chuan. He rubbed his calloused hands vigorously on his trousers, wanting to pat Lu Chuan's head but afraid of getting his new clothes dirty. He just smiled憨厚ly and said, "Chuan'er, you must have suffered a lot at the school these past six months, right? Look at your face, it's all so clean now."

"Uncle, I'm not tired." Lu Chuan jumped off the oxcart and looked at the familiar plants and trees in the village, his heart filled with warmth.

Back home, Lu Xiaoman jumped and skipped at the front door.

"Brother, I can write your name now!"

The little girl, showing off, scratched at the muddy ground with a dry twig, saying, "Look, this is 'land,' and this is 'river'!"

At the dinner table, Lu's mother specially served a bowl of golden scrambled eggs with scallions.

The aroma could drift for miles through the window cracks.

"Chuan'er, eat more." Lu's mother piled vegetables into Lu Chuan's bowl, her eyes full of pride. "Our family is much better off now. Your father went to the county town to sell some odd jobs a while ago, and with the help of the uncles and elders in the village, you can just focus on your studies."

Lu Chuan took a bite of the salty, savory, and soft egg, looking at his family members sitting around the lamp, their faces beaming with joy.

The flickering lamplight illuminated the small earthen house.

Lu Chuan recounted his observations in the county town, from the dazzling array of peddlers' wares at the market to the incredibly expensive Duan inkstones in Wenbaozhai, and the exotic sights and sounds that the teacher occasionally mentioned in the academy.

He deliberately avoided the pressure of schoolwork and the conflicts among classmates, only talking about interesting things.

Lu Shouye and his mother listened intently, forgetting to even touch their chopsticks, as if they had taken a trip to the bustling county town as their son spoke.

"Brother, do people in the county town all wear silk?" Lu Xiaoman asked curiously, her hand supporting her chin, a little egg residue still on her lips.

"Not entirely," Lu Chuan said with a smile, patting her pigtails. "Most people wear simple clothes and straw sandals, they just walk a bit faster. I'll take you there sometime and you can see for yourself the candied hawthorns there, they're even sweeter than the dried sweet potatoes in our village."

"Oh! Then I want to grow up quickly!" Xiaoman clapped her hands and jumped up, making the whole family burst into laughter.

Laughter carried far in the quiet night. As Lu Chuan watched the wrinkles around his parents' eyes smooth out with their smiles, the aloofness he had felt from studying was completely dispelled by the warmth of human connection.

The next morning, just as dawn was breaking.

Lu Chuan changed into a neat set of shorts, which were old clothes that his mother had searched for all night.

He picked up a wooden paddle and followed Lu Shouye to the ridge behind the village.

On the hottest days of summer, the soil in the ground was so hot it was almost burning your feet.

"Chuan'er, just rest under the shade of the tree. You can't handle this wheat harvesting work, don't hurt your hands." Lu Shouye wiped his sweat and stopped him with some concern.

"Father, the Master said, 'What you learn from books is never enough; you must put it into practice to truly understand.' If I can only recognize the character for 'grain' in the book but can't distinguish the seedlings in the field, then I've truly wasted my time reading the book." Without waiting for a reply, Lu Chuan bent down and, imitating his father, firmly grasped the sickle.

Lu Dashan was working hard on the other side when he saw Lu Chuan come down to the ground. He couldn't help but tease, "Our village's little literary star has descended to earth! Everyone, come and see, when this scholar bends down, he's no different from us peasants!"

The men around him let out a good-natured laugh.

Lu Chuan wasn't annoyed. Although he was unfamiliar with the work, he did it very seriously.

Sweat trickled down his temples and into his neck, causing a slight itch. Lu Chuan felt the scorching sun and the aching pain in his lower back.

When it was time to rest at noon, Lu Chuan did not go straight home, but instead strolled alone to the rocky area behind the mountain.

This land was originally barren, but to his surprise, he discovered that the few Pinellia ternata plants that had been planted earlier had stubbornly sprouted an unusual green amidst the dense weeds.

These little creatures are very independent; instead of following the crowd to compete for sunlight, they take root in the damp mud under the shade of the pebbles.

Lu Chuan crouched down and gently parted the grass.

"Born in the shade, growing in the sun; roots firmly planted in the stone, leaves turned towards the light."

He muttered to himself, and the rhythm of the "Primer of Prosody" unconsciously came to mind.

He reached out and touched the slightly cool leaf, and his understanding of knowledge deepened once again.

Reading is not just about escaping the land, but also about gaining a deeper understanding of the land that nurtured us after witnessing all its splendor.