The Shadow of Great Britain

Capítulo 1404: Chapter 209: The Oriental Society of St. Petersburg (Part 3)

As he wrote, he mumbled: “This brush is something I brought back from Beijing; it’s the type of wolf brush that the calligraphers in Beijing use. Your Excellency, you might not be familiar with these details, but in the art of calligraphy, the tools are more important than the technique.”

Bichulin’s brushwork was smooth, breathing life and spirit into it, showing noticeable dedication. After finishing, he set the brush aside and gently lifted the paper, holding it in front of the lamp on the table to admire it carefully, before handing it to Arthur: “Look, this is the essence of lively charm. If you like it, I won’t sell it this time; I’ll just give it to you.”

Arthur held Bichulin’s ink artwork in reverence for a long time. Although it didn’t reach the level of a calligrapher, it definitely deserved a description of neat and dignified; at least his handwriting was far more pleasing than what Arthur could manage.

Perhaps sensing Arthur’s thoughts, Bichulin unexpectedly offered the brush to him: “Would you like to try?”

Witnessing Bichulin’s exquisite work beforehand, Arthur was initially inclined to back down when faced with the invitation.

Bichulin noticed his nervousness and patted his shoulder with a smile: “Don’t worry, Sir. When I first started learning Chinese characters, I couldn’t even write ‘one, two, three’ straight. Just give it a go; the important part of calligraphy is experiencing the power and balance while holding the brush, that’s where the fun lies.”

Arthur thought about it, and it seemed there was no harm in not doing well.

A British man writing Chinese characters, that alone should be commended.

Arthur took a deep breath, received the brush from Bichulin, dipped it in ink, and cautiously wrote the character for “room” on the paper. His movements were somewhat clumsy, but he strived for neatness.

However, whether due to the cold weather freezing his hands or nervousness, the control over stroke thickness was uneven, and several turns even bled blobs of ink.

“Hmm…” Bichulin leaned over, observing with his chin in hand for a while, a smile of encouragement spreading on his face: “I can see you have a nice understanding of structure. Although you’re not proficient yet, there’s already some semblance of form and spirit.”

“Form and spirit?” Arthur glanced at his “room” character and then at Bichulin’s, unable to suppress a laugh: “I’m afraid my form and spirit are like a drunkard attempting to mimic a military officer’s salute.”

“You’re too modest!” Bichulin waved a hand dismissively: “Don’t forget, calligraphy is a constant process of improvement. The key is persistence. Come on, keep writing and complete the whole sentence.”

“Maybe I should switch to something shorter.”

Arthur took a new piece of paper, pondering over something familiar, holding his breath, concentrating intently.

Bichulin was observing with interest when there was a sudden knock on the door from outside.

Bichulin had to leave Arthur, running to open the door.

With a creak, the door opened, and the chilly breath of a St. Petersburg winter night immediately swept into the room.

Bichulin stood in the doorway, seeing a few familiar figures outside, couldn’t help but grin: “You lot, coming to see me on such a cold day, are you hoping for some free tea again?”

“More than just tea!”

The leader, Sergei Lipovzov, laughed heartily, stepping into the room. He wore a heavy wool coat, shaking the snow from his hat: “We’ve brought some good news and thought we’d check if this bookworm of ours had frozen himself solid recently.”

“A bookworm? How dare I claim such a title.”

“If you don’t claim it, no one will. Everyone knows you brought back 400 poods of material when you left China, spending 750 rubles just on transportation. Over half of the books in the St. Petersburg Asian Museum were contributed by you!”

Behind him, Vasily Solomirsky removed his scarf, his eyes sparkling with amusement: “Yajin Fu, your place really is quite humble, not even a proper chair. The Foreign Office gives you 1,200 rubles a year, plus a 300 ruble stationery allowance. Are you keeping that money to yourself—or is it that you’re deliberately living in a modest place to prevent us literary folk from overstaying our welcome?”

“This is called ‘A room’s elegance is not measured by its size,’ you just don’t get it.” Kraievsky chimed in, laying down the gift box in his hand: “Yajin Fu, I brought some fine stuff from the tea merchants; let’s see if it measures up to what you brought back from Beijing?”

Odoevsky, warming his hands red from the cold, half-seriously, half-jokingly said: “I think he should just run an Orientalist salon here; after all, he’s the pride of our Asian Department and was even awarded by the Academy of Sciences. This year’s Demidov Prize-winning book from the Academy, ‘A Historical Overview of the Wei Laite or Kalmyks: From the 15th Century to Present,’ author: Yajin Fu Bichulin!”

The last to enter, Krelov, shut the door with a broad smile: “This place may be small but it’s quite warm. Far more welcoming than the noble estates.”

Bichulin quickly invited everyone inside: “Find a seat for yourselves. But I have to warn you, there’s not much good here, just make do with my tea.”

With that, he turned toward the stove to boil water again.

But halfway there, he suddenly recalled Arthur’s presence, so he circled back to introduce them.

“Almost forgot about you! Let me introduce you; this is Sergei Lipovzov, like me, a translator in the Asian Department, with profound expertise in Manchu, responsible for the Manchu translation of the ‘New Testament.’ Over here is Solomirsky, an active figure in the literary circle; four years ago, we worked together in a Foreign Office-formed East and West Siberia expedition. As for Kraievsky, there’s no need to say, he’s a cornerstone of Russian literary criticism. And Odoevsky and Krelov, you’re sure to have heard of them, both are great Russian literati and renowned scholars.”