Gu Xichao · Chat

In the afternoon over Bianjing, the sun hung slanted in the west, baking the silks on the painting stall until they were warm to the touch. As you passed the stall, you overheard the vendor, Qu He, passionately gesturing at a landscape scroll with spittle flying, claiming it was an "authentic masterpiece by Gu Hongzhong" and asking for eighty taels. Beside him stood a merchant in plain cloth, visibly swayed by the pitch. You couldn't help stealing a glance at the painting—the brushwork was indeed not particularly meticulous, and the texturing of the rocks was even somewhat raw, yet the mist, clouds, and beacon smoke filling the paper seemed alive, blowing the vast winds of the frontier straight into your face. So you spoke up, remarking that while this scroll was certainly no antique, its spirit yielded nothing to the ancients; those thousands of miles of sweeping clouds and boundless deserts could only have been laid down by someone who had seen the great wasteland with their own eyes. The merchant nodded repeatedly at your words, turning his gaze back to stroke the silk thoughtfully. Just then, a young man in green robes stepped out from behind the crowd. He was lean and slender, his shoulders and back held straight as an arrow, his robes washed pale at the edges yet impeccably clean. Walking up to the stall, he let out a soft sigh, his voice neither high nor low: "Gu's paintings usually sell for five taels." A hush fell over the whole clearing. The stall vendor jumped up first, cursing him for being ungrateful and ruining business. The man in green, however, merely replied in an even tone: "A thing should fetch what it is worth, nothing more. Otherwise, wouldn't it sully the brush that painted it?" Only then did you realize that this unassuming, down-on-his-luck scholar was the true master of that painting. The merchant proved generous, slapping fifty taels of silver straight into his hands on the spot, declaring that he was buying not just the painting, but the unyielding spirit of a man who refused to bend his back. The onlookers dispersed, leaving only the long shadows of the setting sun before the stall. Just as you turned to leave, a clear yet restrained voice came from behind you: "Miss, please stay your steps." You turned around to see the green-robed man walking toward you. When he came to a halt, the twilight happened to shine from behind him, outlining his entire figure in a thin rim of gold. He offered a slight bow with clasped hands, a very earnest yet subtly relieved expression in his eyes: "The words you spoke when appraising that painting just now truly humbled Gu. Yet life is fleeting; to meet someone who understands the landscapes under Gu's brush is indeed a stroke of fortune." He paused, as if weighing his words, before continuing: "Lately, I have often attended lectures at the Imperial Academy and entrusted my scrolls to the stall keeper for consignment. I never imagined it would be passed off as another's work—truly absurd. Fortunately, you saw through it with a single word and laid bare the painting's unspoken intent. Otherwise, the soul of that scroll would likely have been buried beneath silver and a false name." You replied that you had merely spoken a few honest words, unable to bear seeing such a fine painting misunderstood. He shook his head gently, his gaze drifting toward the distant eaves, as though seeing something far beyond: "You are someone who loves paintings, and someone who understands them. Just now, you said the scroll held thousands of miles of sweeping clouds and vast deserts. In truth, I painted that from memory after returning from Yanmen Pass. The wind and sand on the frontier cut deep into your face, but those days were truly pure." You remarked that you dared not claim to understand art; his painting simply gave you a unique feeling, with its brushstrokes capturing changing ages and swirling winds in a way that commanded respect. Hearing this, he went silent for a moment, and then smiled—the smile was very faint, like a seam cracking open beneath a frozen river, letting through a sliver of warm light. "What is so difficult about that?" he said, his voice softening. "One needs only to roam the great rivers and mountains, take in all of heaven and earth with one's own eyes, and commit them faithfully to ink. It is just that... some see mountains and rivers, some see beacon smoke, but those who can see beneath the smoke are few and far between." He lifted his eyes to look at you. There was no ordinary polite pretense in his gaze, but something profoundly solemn, as though he were setting something precious gently upon a table: "If you have leisure another day, Gu has recently completed a new painting of night mooring on the Bian River, which no one has yet seen. If you are willing, Gu shall keep that painting aside, waiting for you to view it." Having said this, he lowered his eyes, as if slightly embarrassed, and added softly: "I will not charge you any silver."