Chapter Sixty-Three: The Little Princess Who Loved to Paint

Chapter Sixty-three: The Little Princess Who Loves to Paint

The old dog’s leg was broken and he was abandoned in the Western Market. This old fellow, ever professional, dutifully informed Tie Xinyuan of the incident, advising him to quickly gather his valuables and flee before trouble arrived. Tie Xinyuan, however, was unconcerned; he believed the Wang family must already know that the female lead in the Second Young Master Wang’s scandal had appeared, and the family would have little energy left to seek trouble with him.

Those four troublemaking heirs of the Wang family were lucky not to have been killed by the family head—fortune favored them, it seemed. Among the second generation, only Wang Huaishu, serving as magistrate in Haizhou, could truly be considered talented. The Wang family could not afford to lose him, nor could they let his reputation be tarnished.

Neglect of private virtue was the most common and effective excuse used by the imperial censors to impeach officials. If a man’s official conduct was beyond reproach, then his private life became the target of a thousand arrows. Song dynasty officials had big mouths—any manner of foolish words might spill forth. Still, the rule “no crime in speech” was carved in stone by the founding emperor, so this weapon was rarely used.

Poetry, wine, and romantic pursuits were the favorite pastimes of Song’s literati. The capital’s music and dance, day and night, were mostly performed for their pleasure. In former days, Prime Minister Kou Zhun led crowds in revelry through the night, and scholars of the capital regarded it as a fine occasion, the echoes lingering for years.

Trading fine horses for beauties, swords for beauties, donkeys for beauties, paintings for beauties—even boys for beauties—these were all considered supreme elegance by the gentlemen. Still, there was one taboo that could never be crossed: disordering family relations. One must never touch a father’s woman. Whoever did so would be universally despised by the scholars.

Even Ouyang Xiu, a paragon of virtue, was rumored to have entangled with his niece-in-law; with eighty mouths he could not explain, and so he fled to Chuzhou, endlessly reciting “The Pavilion of the Drunken Old Man,” drunk and muddled as a local official.

If Wang Huaishu were caught in such a scandal, dismissal would be a light punishment. Troubles, as always, could be shifted elsewhere; now this particular trouble had been handed back to the Wang family, and Tie Xinyuan felt his mother would have nothing more to worry about.

Although the woman’s matter was about to be exposed, it remained within the Wang family’s circle. If they handled it properly, there was room for maneuver—but murder and silencing would be most inappropriate. One never fears the worst, only the unlikely; if someone discovered the Wang family was silencing witnesses, disaster would surely befall them.

As the old dog suggested, fleeing with valuables and the fox would drive the Wang family mad. Staying quietly in the capital would, instead, bring comfort to their anxious hearts.

When Tie Xinyuan went to the soup shop to fetch his mother, he noticed she was much more relaxed—and the shop was piled high with all kinds of vegetables, nearly overflowing. As they walked home hand in hand, his mother whispered, “That Zhang Qing took his whole family south to Jiangnan, selling all their vegetables to us at low prices.”

Tie Xinyuan, fully aware, smiled, “So now you have nothing to worry about, Mother!”

Wang Rouhua patted her son’s head and laughed, “Of course. Your second uncle was reckless in youth, but he changed. No one else will be allowed to drag him down.”

Hearing his mother’s somewhat selfish words, Tie Xinyuan smiled, running home with the fox ahead of her. Restored to good spirits, his mother was as straightforward as ever.

The next day, he left home to find the sky gloomy and a fierce wind stripping the last leaves from the trees, carrying away the city’s lingering warmth. The wind was so strong that Tie Xinyuan returned home, convinced Mr. Guo would not hold class today; the school hall surely needed repairs, and after a night of such wind, hardly any tiles would remain. Besides, the cold was biting.

“Only you’re clever. Look, the chubby Zhang boy just ran off to school,” Wang Rouhua said, craning her neck to watch Zhang Fatty go to class.

Tie Xinyuan rolled his eyes, “He’ll be running right back. Even if Mr. Guo does hold class, would you have me risk getting my head cracked by falling tiles?”

“I wonder where all the fees Mr. Guo collects each year go, not even repairing the hall. I even paid for your coal this year.” Wang Rouhua grumbled, rummaging in the chest for last year's cotton jacket, which she put on Tie Xinyuan. Seeing it was now too short, she sighed, “You’ve grown again.”

This was idle talk; Tie Xinyuan ignored it. All he wanted now was to send the fox away and crawl back into bed. In this era without central heating, the quilt was the most comfortable place in the world.

Forced into the short jacket, he was made to sweep leaves in the courtyard, which was nearly full after a night of wind. He quickly swept it once, only to find the wind had brought a fresh pile—his effort entirely wasted.

Sweeping on a windy day was pointless, just his mother’s way of curing his laziness. Since sweeping once was no different from sweeping ten times, Tie Xinyuan abandoned the broom and headed indoors to sleep. His mother had just left by carriage; without supervision, one round of such foolishness was enough.

Zhang Fatty called out at the door, telling Tie Xinyuan there was no class today—the teacher’s head had been smashed by a falling tile, and none of the students would need to return for at least three days.

After dismissing Zhang Fatty, Tie Xinyuan finally burrowed into his quilt, letting out a huge yawn, ready to catch up on lost sleep from the night before. Wrapped in thick cotton, listening to the wind howling at the window, he soon drifted into a heavenly state.

“Toot, toot…”

A shrill whistle sounded, and Tie Xinyuan irritably buried his head under the covers. Now, this was the sound he dreaded most—the tin whistle was far too loud.

It was all that damn Xiaoqiao’s fault. Unable to make anything worthwhile, she had somehow managed to create a tin whistle. To compensate for the princess’s lost incense ball, Tie Xinyuan had given it to her—and, foolishly, told her that whenever she blew it, he would come out from home.

“Toot, toot…”

Tie Xinyuan, frustrated, threw off the covers and jumped barefoot into the courtyard, shouting at the city wall, “Why don’t you go home and sleep on a windy day? What are you blowing that whistle for?”

A small face, rosy from the wind, peeked out from the battlement. The yellow silk ribbon in her hair whipped about wildly.

“Put on your wind cap first; speaking against the cold will make you hiccup,” he said.

The little girl grinned, slipped on her fur-lined wind cap, and waved, “Father praised my painting today, and rewarded me with a stick of Li Ink from Shezhou. Do you want it?”

Tie Xinyuan shifted his feet on the cold ground. “That’s a precious gift from your father; don’t give it away so easily. I’m going back to sleep.”

“But it was you who told me that painting is about drawing what you imagine, not worrying about whether it looks real. Yesterday, my portrait of Father was praised—it’s the first time he’s ever praised me! Look, do you think it looks like him?”

Tie Xinyuan widened his eyes, trying to see the paper the little princess held against the wind. On it was a large, dark blob, with just enough detail to reveal a person wearing a tall crown. Luckily, she had written “Father” beside it, so Tie Xinyuan knew he hadn’t mistaken it—the strange figure was Emperor Zhao Zhen of Song.

“Not bad. You should add your mother and yourself—then it would be a family portrait, even more meaningful. Your father might reward you with even more.”

The little princess shook her head. “No, Father’s portrait can’t have anyone else beside it. He is the Son of Heaven; it’s the rule. Even in a large painting, Father must take up half of it alone.”

“Then don’t paint, just hurry home. If you stay any longer, my feet will freeze off.”

The little girl looked at Tie Xinyuan, reluctant to leave. “All right, you hurry back then.”

Tie Xinyuan had been waiting for this permission, and with a whoosh, he dashed inside, leaving the little princess holding her painting, forlorn atop the city wall. After waiting a while and seeing Tie Xinyuan did not come out, she slowly climbed down, dejected.