Cui Mansion. The Ink-Splash Pavilion.
Cui Xichen, the old master of the Cui family, was teaching the younger grandsons and granddaughters in the household how to write. They were practicing Huayan Shu, the work of the generation-spanning master Huang Tingjian, who had entered the Dao through calligraphy. Grandmaster Huang's characters were strange and rugged, lean and hard, upright and true—perfect for teaching children their first lessons.
"Little devil, keep your shoulders straight. No matter how tired you are, you mustn't slump. Once a person's shoulders slump, their spirit is gone. It's the same when writing. If your shoulders droop, the characters lose their spirit too."
"Jianjian, make this stroke a little longer. You're a girl, and you don't have enough bearing or strength, so you should follow a graceful and elegant style."
"You didn't write this character 'Buddha' well. Write it another hundred times today."
"Master."
A middle-aged steward stood at the entrance of the Ink Pavilion, wearing an ingratiating smile.
"Come in and speak." Cui Xichen knew that if he had come looking for him at this moment, something must have happened, so he spoke up.
"There is a chill on me, so I won't bring it inside and make the young masters catch cold." The smile on the steward's face grew even wider. He looked at the children sitting upright at the writing desk as if they were dearer to him than his own sons. He smiled and nodded at each of them, and the little ones nodded back in greeting. Children from great families had certain rules of etiquette to observe, after all.
Cui Xichen nodded, then turned around and instructed the little devils not to slack off or play tricks, saying he would come to inspect their work later. Then he closed the door and walked