On this day’s regular morning court session, not a single official was absent – even the Emperor, who seldom showed himself, had come.
Two palace attendants were slowly unfurling a scroll painting in the hall.
“Lu Si’an’s grandfather, Lu Jie, was skilled in painting. I remember the late Emperor was very fond of his work and had it hung in his bedchamber,” the Emperor said lightly from the throne.
“However, his descendants lacked the same talent. None inherited his brushwork, and they devoted themselves instead to scholarship and study. Naturally, the arts of qin, chess, calligraphy, and painting were pushed aside. All the more reason why Lu Jie’s paintings have become increasingly precious today.”
It was rare for poetry and painting to be discussed in court, for the censors would usually accuse such talk of being indulgence in frivolities. But today, no censor spoke up. Instead, everyone fixed their gaze intently on the scroll being unfurled, their eyes glinting as though they were looking at a lamb about to be slaughtered, each calculating where best to take a bite.
“Although Lu Si’an did not master the essence of his grandfather’s art, he has not disgraced his family name either. My loyal ministers, come and take a look – see how his painting compares?”
There were not many officials at the regular morning audience, only a dozen or so standing in two rows. At the Emperor’s words, silence fell; no one dared to step forward.
“Your Majesty, as for Lu Si’an overstepping his duties and speaking out of turn–”
One official, catching Attendant Scholar Gao’s gaze, had no choice but to step out and force himself to speak.
Before he could finish, the emperor cut him off.
“I already know about Lu Si’an overstepping his station; you need not remind me. What I am speaking of now is his painting.” The Emperor’s tone was calm. “What I want is for you to tell me – how is this painting?”
No one dared to speak again.
“Your servant obeys.”
A clear, youthful voice rang out, breaking the heavy stillness in the hall.
As Duke Jin’an stepped forward, the First Prince quickly hastened a few steps and placed himself before the scroll first.
Duke Jin’an only smiled faintly and stopped in his tracks, yielding the place.
With a prince taking the lead, Chen Shao then also stepped forward, and the rest followed in turn, according to rank.
It was a long handscroll, beginning with the western gate of the capital. The scenery depicted was not especially refined, and the brushwork could hardly be called exceptional, but what it lacked in elegance it made up for in lifelike detail.
At first the hall remained silent, but as everyone shifted about to view the painting, soft murmurs of discussion gradually arose.
None of the officials had witnessed the event in person that day, but all had heard fragments of the account. Now, confronted with the painting, they felt almost as if they themselves were there.
Lu Si’an was indeed the descendant of Lu Jie – the meticulous detail was evident. Even the white flowers worn on the horses’ heads were not treated perfunctorily.
Those bearing the spirit tablet, those carrying the banners, those lifting a hand to wipe away tears, their faces blank, their heads bowed, and even the children held in their mothers’ arms were all vividly drawn – their expressions shifting as they walked: stretching to reach the fluttering white banners, rubbing their eyes, or sucking their fingers with adorable clumsiness.
Along the roadside, too, men and women, young and old, were each rendered differently: some astonished, some asking questions, and the drunken figures scrambling for wine were captured with uncanny realism.
Duke Jin’an couldn’t help but purse his lips in a smile.
The First Prince, who had originally been walking quickly, caught sight of Duke Jin’an moving so slowly, as if afraid of missing the slightest detail in the scroll, and so he too slowed his pace. His brows knit faintly.
He hated looking at paintings! They were no different from maps in his eyes. Anything made up of lines and outlines stirred only aversion in him.
But he was no longer a child. Lifting his head, the First Prince forced his gaze, with a touch of pride, to rest seriously on the scroll.
Found it!
Duke Jin’an’s steps halted ever so slightly. His eyes settled on one spot in the painted crowd – amidst the small, jumbled figures, there was a lady reaching out to stroke a horse’s head. Though her face was veiled by a gauze hat, he recognized her at a glance.
Lu Si’an’s brushwork could not match the subtle brilliance of his grandfather. The young lady’s grace could not be concealed even behind a veil, yet under his hand she had been rendered plain and ordinary.
Her figure should have been taller, the sleeves broader. And even if she wore a veil, it should not have been painted as a shapeless smear of black – at the very least, there ought to be the faint suggestion of her features beneath…
“Your Highness.”
Someone beside him softly reminded.
Duke Jin’an straightened up, glanced at Chen Shao, and gave a slight nod before moving on.
What was he looking at? So absorbed?
Chen Shao couldn’t help but lean closer for a look, but saw nothing unusual.
The scroll was very long, ending at the eastern gate of the capital. After that came the lively scene before the tomb, and the fireworks bursting in the sky.
“How is the painting?” The Emperor’s voice drifted down from the throne.
The painting itself was not particularly good – but it was utterly hateful.
Attendant Scholar Gao nearly ground his teeth to pieces.
Painting and music will always be more direct, more striking, than verses of poetry.
If this matter were described only in a memorial, it would be nothing more than cold words – words that might stir different feelings in different readers. But when presented through painting, it delivered a visceral impact upon the emperor.
The vast funeral procession, the dense crowds of onlookers, the capital’s clamor all leapt vividly from the paper. For an emperor who left the palace only once or twice a year, and only as far as the imperial gardens a few miles away, the effect was overwhelming.
It was as if, through this painting, he had retraced the scenes of that day himself – and could almost feel what it was like to be there.
“The people’s grief and anger run deep – out of ten who watched, nine wept. From west to north, the crowds surged without end, choking the roads; paper money fell like snow, white banners stood like a forest, and throughout the city all spoke of Maoyuan Mountain.”
“…I once heard rumors of this and privately investigated. Yet I did not expect that men like Jiang Wenyuan would seize merit to coerce and deceive Your Majesty – leaving the people embittered, the lowly oppressed with no means to petition, the high unable to be heard. Now, as I depart the capital, I witnessed with my own eyes the common folk calling upon Heaven to recognize the souls of the fallen. I cannot bear to see Your Majesty falsely burdened with resentment. To prove Jiang Wenyuan’s crime of deceiving the throne and defying Heaven, I speak out beyond my station. If any good comes of it, I willingly beg to be executed outside Xuande Gate…”
Lu Si’an’s memorial was read aloud in the hall by the palace attendant, each word ringing out – leaving the officials, who had just finished viewing the scroll, once again in heavy silence.
“What do you say – how is Lu Si’an’s painting?” the Emperor asked again.
The First Prince very much wanted to step forward and say something, but he did not know what. At this moment, if he spoke of whether the painting was good or bad, it would sound like mere perfunctory words, for the Emperor’s true intent in asking was clearly not about that. Yet if he spoke of anything else, it would be even less appropriate.
Only the other day his tutor had lectured him: speak less; if you are not certain, never speak rashly.
As he hesitated, Duke Jin’an had already stepped out from the ranks.
“Your Majesty, Lu Si’an’s painting is not very good,” he said, smiling as he spoke.
In the hall, everyone’s eyes – some openly, some covertly – turned toward Duke Jin’an, their surprise hard to conceal.
Most of the time, royal family members attending court were mere ornaments. Unlike the First Prince, groomed as heir and allowed to debate policy, Duke Jin’an clearly understood this distinction. Thus, though he might speak privately with the Emperor, he had never voiced his opinions so openly before the court officials.
Today was the first time.
The Emperor looked at him, his expression betraying neither joy nor anger.
“Does Your Majesty still remember the map of the Three Mountains and Five Peaks I once painted for you?” Duke Jin’an said with ease, still carrying a faint smile.
What map? The officials present were puzzled, but the Emperor’s expression shifted slightly.
“I do not truly understand painting, but even I can see that Lu Si’an’s work is mediocre -not much better than mine,” Duke Jin’an continued, his gaze falling on the scroll still being unrolled by the attendants. “But what I can see is that he put his heart into it. Just as when I painted for Your Majesty back then – it was drawn with feeling, using the eye to guide the brush.”
Put his heart into it!
That was the judgment! A judgment not only of the painting, but of the matter behind it. This was the assessment His Majesty wished to hear.
With that one remark, the scroll was torn open, and what lay behind it was laid bare before them all.
Fang Wei!
You live far too freely! How dare you meddle in what’s not your concern!
Attendant Scholar Gao stared at Duke Jin’an, unable to mask his shock, while inwardly he raged.
It wasn’t the words themselves that stunned him – it was who had spoken them first. These words were bound to be said, but they should have come from Chen Shao’s faction, not from this unrelated duke.
If it had been Chen Shao, then by all logic it had to be him or his people to say it. After all, Lu Si’an was Chen Shao’s recommendation; in the Emperor’s eyes, that made Lu Si’an Chen Shao’s man. If Chen Shao kept silent, it would suggest a guilty conscience. If he stepped forward at once to declare Lu Si’an’s actions proper, then it would look like shielding his own. Either way – whether Chen Shao spoke or not – it would inevitably deepen the Emperor’s suspicion.
Suspicion that Chen Shao was the one pulling the strings behind all this.
But now, because Duke Jin’an had inexplicably spoken first – bringing up even that earlier painting and stirring the Emperor’s own reflections – the whole situation had been turned on its head!
“Your Majesty, I think so as well,” Chen Shao stepped forward and said.
Hear that? It became he also thinks so, rather than he thinks so! Just that single word of difference was enough to spare Chen Shao’s statement from provoking the Emperor’s resistance or suspicion.
“Your Majesty, Lu Si’an may have put his heart into it, but his intentions are worthy of condemnation!” Attendant Scholar Gao, setting aside his anger, knew the urgent task was to argue back, to reduce the damage as much as possible.
“How strange Master Gao’s perspective is – how do you see his intentions as condemnable?”
“…Lu Si’an claimed that men like Jiang Wenyuan seized merit to coerce and deceive Your Majesty. But I believe it was he who incited the people to coerce Your Majesty…”
“…Incited the people? For the whole city to pour into the streets – Master Gao, you give Lu Si’an far too much credit…”
The hall, calm only a moment before, suddenly erupted into a storm. Voices clashed, rebuttals flying without pause, as though a fierce gale and torrential rain had broken loose upon them.
The First Prince stood there a little dazed, his expression blank.
He hadn’t even processed what was happening yet – how, all of a sudden, the court officials who had just been silent and obedient, like blind, deaf, and mute men, had burst into a frenzy of voices. One after another, they spoke over each other, faces flushed, nearly ready to roll up their sleeves and come to blows.
Again, it was like this. He really couldn’t understand what they were quarreling about -what a tedious business.
Standing in the great hall, the First Prince felt as though he had returned to his childhood days, when he had presided over court in his father’s stead. Yet now it was even more uncomfortable – at least then he had been sitting, while now he had to stand.
And who knew how long these people would go on bickering…
Having been the one to light the fuse that set off the fireworks, Duke Jin’an lowered his head, letting his smile fade, then lifted it again – his expression still easy and untroubled. His gaze rested on the painting, while the uproar around him faded into little more than background noise.
“I like this painting very much,” he said softly to the First Prince.
The First Prince did not so much as glance at him.
“Look at it – how well it’s drawn, how vivid. When I used to go out, I would often leave through the western or eastern gates… I even recognize this bridge here; at the head of it are three lions…” Duke Jin’an went on casually in a low voice, his eyes still on the scroll.
The First Prince simply stepped aside, putting more distance between them.
Duke Jin’an’s gaze lingered on the fireworks at the end of the scroll. So this was how dazzling they had appeared outside the city that day.
He had seen them too – but only a few scattered bursts. At the moment the fireworks bloomed, he had been with Liu Ge’er, sitting atop the highest abandoned spot in the palace. He remembered how badly it had startled him then.
So the capital had truly been this lively that day…
Again and again, Duke Jin’an’s eyes roved over the scroll.
She must have been furious, so very furious; sorrowful, so very sorrowful. She had possessed so little to begin with – and now, even that had been taken from her.
