Chapter 47: Seeing the Cage Part 2

Jiang Man started—how had this reached Shen Wen’s ears? She glanced involuntarily at Huailou, lowered her eyes, and reported the whole matter from beginning to end. At the end, after much hesitation, she did not speak up on He Dingxiang’s behalf.

To avoid suspicion she had not asked Huailou for details; there might be some hidden mechanism in this that Jiang Man didn’t know. Shen Wen was the one who knew the whole picture, and the Household Master besides; since she had handled Steward Dong with such a light touch, there must be her reasons. Jiang Man could not overstep again. She was to go in and out with Shen Wen in the future; whatever her station, “obedience” was the hinge her life turned on.

Whether she understood—that was the first gate. Whether she took it to heart—that was what mattered most.

When she finished, Shen Wen nodded slightly. Huailou had finished her work and stood to the side, smiling faintly: “You handled this very well.”

Jiang Man made her voice very light, venturing: “That Dingxiang heard of the hidden circumstances here from elsewhere—that does worry me somewhat.”

“The affair did make rather a stir.” Huailou considered. “Lady Jiang, did you learn the names of those loose-tongued people?”

Jiang Man started inwardly, glad her head was bowed, hiding her expression.

Loose-tongued people…

She had once been the master of a household herself; she had never lost a household master’s standpoint. Speaking fairly: Female Scribe Shen’s judgment was already rendered; to discuss old matters before the He family—even if one couldn’t call it stirring up trouble, the charge of “too much talk” could hardly be avoided. And yet this was, in the end, also a kind of human fairness made manifest. For Huailou to call those people “loose-tongued” seemed rather heartless.

She shook her head: “This humble one thought that getting Dingxiang to leave and keeping the affair from spreading was most important. To avoid flushing the snake from the grass, I didn’t ask.”

Huailou nodded slightly and waited a while longer. Shen Wen said nothing, so she bent down and said in a low voice: “Female Scribe, the hour is nearly here.”

Jiang Man stepped aside, eyes lowered, demeanor compliant.

Shen Wen said abruptly: “Did Old Xie come today?”

“In reply to the Female Scribe, Physician Xie said yesterday he was going outside the city to select medicinal herbs; today’s pulse-taking will be a little late.”

“It’s nearly the You hour proper—how late can he be? Bring him to me.” Shen Wen examined her fingernails, speaking as idly as one admiring flowers or trading banter with the breeze. “Have a seat and wait.”

Jiang Man wished she could turn into a dried flower on the wall. The speaker looked at incense and scenery, anywhere but at her—yet Sijiu and Huailou, one gaze from behind and one from before, nearly nailed Jiang Man to the spot. She felt only embarrassment, as if she were some wicked woman thrown into palace turmoil whose four virtues claimed only “appearance”—but Shen Wen was no sovereign, and she even less her wife or concubine…

Jiang Man, at a loss, felt her ears burning; she could only bow silently and, as instructed, go sit at a pair of desk and stools in the corner.

Shen Wen left only after Physician Xie had taken her pulse, her steps somewhat hurried. Huailou followed swiftly behind. Jiang Man and Sijiu leaned against opposite doorframes watching them go; when their eyes met again, Jiang Man saw in Sijiu’s eyes unmistakable teasing.

Jiang Man felt her face burning; she only feigned composure: “Is Miss Sijiu going to copy the painting now?”

“Yes. Today it should finally be finished. Would you like to come see it and appraise it while you’re at it?” Sijiu touched her hair. “This humble one will also stay with you while you eat your dinner…”

“Viewing the painting I’d ask for nothing better—but the dinner…” Jiang Man looked at her. “This humble one can eat alone all the same. Why put yourself through this?”

Sijiu smiled without answering, pulled the door to and locked it, then swept her hand forward: “After you.”

Sijiu’s painting room occupied about the same space as the other rooms of the Pavilion of Investigating Things; being at a corner, it had an extra irregular stretch of seven or eight feet square, so it ought to be roomier. Yet the room looked truly cramped—why? Because shelves lined it on all sides, and the walls were hung with calligraphy and paintings of every kind, large and small, every school.

It was Jiang Man’s first visit; her eyes couldn’t take it all in. As for the table, it was so messy she couldn’t even manage the compliment of “artful disorder.” But on one long table, two identical paintings lay spread open, and her gaze was drawn over despite herself.

The Jiang family had no one versed in the study of bronzes and inscriptions, and their collection of calligraphy and painting was meager—enough only to keep up appearances. Among their trade peers, the Cao Family and the Zhao Family had heads who loved refined pursuits. Of Jiang Man’s generation, they were closer to Cao Xing’s household and had fewer dealings with the Zhao family; but Zhao Fang’s daughter was of an age with Jiang Man, and she was occasionally invited over as a guest—many masterworks, truthfully, she had seen originals of only there.

The few calligraphy scrolls and paintings hanging on the walls had a distinctly antique air, by no means contemporary work; and the small study-scene painting on the table was likewise far from vulgar—the composition refined, unlike anything Jiang Man had seen before.

Holding her sleeve, she carefully studied the table for a long while—and could not tell which was Liu Songnian’s original and which Sijiu’s copy. Recalling those superficial lessons learned at the Zhao household, she examined the Seals and inscriptions left and right, and still could not tell them apart.

Jiang Man looked at Sijiu, who smiled, somewhat pleased with herself, but said nothing more. Jiang Man felt a competitive spark light—whether she was contending with Sijiu or with the empty inkwell of her own belly, she couldn’t say—and bent her head to look again.

The fence was painted with such delicacy; the houses and the trees near and far looked real. Before she knew it, Jiang Man had been drawn in: every stroke was so alive, as if the painting were itself a world—leaves stirring in the wind, drifting down across the ground, gathered up by the child’s bamboo rake; the quiet fragrance within the room seemed, in that gentle swaying, to settle too, becoming a single thread of blue smoke.

Jiang Man raised her head: “If I shuffled their order, could you tell which was yours?”

“Naturally. It’s not even finished yet.” Sijiu raised her brows.

Jiang Man examined the two paintings again. What part was still incomplete?

She asked: “And when it’s finished?”

Sijiu considered, frowning slightly: “If it had been sitting for a while, it would get difficult.”

Jiang Man sighed, unable to tell whether the words were complacency or genuine difficulty; the two looked at each other and both laughed. She stepped back to give Sijiu her place, and saw her stand before the painting on the left. Those brushes of every sort, so jumbled one couldn’t tell their uses, mostly lay to the left as well, with the pigments on the right. Jiang Man hadn’t expected Sijiu to be left-handed by habit—in ordinary matters, fetching and carrying, she always used her right hand—Jiang Man paused.

Of course—lifting heavy things was always Sijiu’s work. So slender as she was, even with strength to spare, on longer errands she was never seen switching hands—presumably to protect the left.

Jiang Man said: “How did you make this new painting so old?”

Sijiu laughed: “That’s a family secret—I can’t tell you.”

Jiang Man stood to the side, the back of her hand propping her chin, still feeling something was off. Though her connoisseurship was shallow, she knew the basic order of painting: the painting should come first, the aging after. Yet the Seal had already been affixed, and Sijiu said it wasn’t finished?

Sijiu studied it a while, then went off behind several rows of shelves, rummaging for something.

Jiang Man asked: “Are all the paintings in this room your work, Miss Sijiu?”

“Everything hanging is. There are the Female Scribe’s own paintings here too, and a few worthless originals—but they’re all put away.”

“What does the Female Scribe paint?”

“The Female Scribe paints mostly flower-and-bird in the freehand style, occasionally line-drawn landscapes—but she’s been too busy these two years; it’s all been set aside.” Sijiu suddenly poked her head out from behind the shelves, looking furtive. “Would you like to see, Miss?”

Jiang Man nodded quickly.

Sijiu smiled.

Jiang Man understood at once and softened her voice: “Miss Sijiu…”

Sijiu heaved a sigh: “My bones have gone to butter. Fine, fine—two paintings for you.”

Another round of rummaging, and Sijiu brought out two scrolls and a small porcelain jar like a pigment box. Jiang Man went over to take the paintings and, at Sijiu’s gesture, unrolled them: one was the Twin Fish Playing in Lotus Painting, the other a tree laden with peaches, the brush thick and thin, dark and light, all in proportion. The fish painting was especially outstanding—sparse strokes yet with bone and sinew of their own, the two fish one red and one black, so lifelike that in the blink of a careless eye they might swim back to life.

Neither painting bore an inscription or a Seal—perhaps unfinished.

Sijiu watched from the side, laughing: “What a good eye, Miss. I think the fish one is better painted too, though the flowers are a bit stiff. The Female Scribe was never good at flowers; the peach tree’s branches and leaves are far more practiced—a work of these last two years.”

Jiang Man was somewhat surprised: “So the Twin Fish painting is an earlier work?”

“Yes.” Sijiu nodded, recalling. “It’s been some years now. The Female Scribe wasn’t yet twenty, using the brushes from the manor, and just painted it casually and set it aside. This humble one was young and foolish then; I liked it on sight and had the audacity to ask for it and have it mounted, and later brought it along to the Hidden Osmanthus Garden.”

Jiang Man nodded slightly. She wanted to look closer still, but unwilling to betray her thoughts, she rolled up the scroll herself and changed the subject: “Can you copy any painting this faithfully, Sijiu?”