Chapter Forty-Eight: The Living Portrait

After the revelry came the waiting—the wait for the day when the officials of Guizhou would publish the list of successful candidates. The time it took for the authorities to review and finalize the results ranged from a few days to several weeks, but it was never too long, for once the provincial examinations ended, the scholars had to hurry to the capital to participate in the following year's Spring Metropolitan Examination.

The capital, Bian Prefecture in Kaifeng, lay north of the Yangtze and Huai rivers, by the Yellow River, while Guizhou was situated in the southwest—a world away. Traveling from Guangnan West Circuit to Kaifeng could take as little as two or three months, or as long as several months, even half a year. If mishaps occurred along the way, it was not impossible to arrive a whole year later. Every year, many examinees from Guangnan missed the Ministry of Rites examination due to such delays, regretting it for the rest of their lives.

It was now June, and less than eight months remained until the Spring Examination. There was no time to be lost.

For now, Li Sanjian could only wait for the announcement at his inn. Of course, he could have toured the ancient sites of Guizhou, finding solace in nature, but such pleasures required money—something his impoverished family could not afford. Though Zeng Gongming had helped him financially, Li Sanjian could not shamelessly rely on him for everything.

Zeng Gongming’s family was merely of modest means, not one of great wealth or power.

In the quiet of early morning, Li Sanjian found himself by a small river near his inn. He chose a spot where the scenery was especially lovely, breathing in the fresh scent of wild grasses and listening to the cheerful calls of birds. There, he set up a rudimentary easel and began to paint, capturing the beauty before him.

No matter the circumstances, Li Sanjian had never abandoned his love for painting. Recording the world’s beauty with his brush filled him with joy and allowed him to forget all his worldly worries.

As he painted, Li Sanjian became wholly absorbed, losing himself in his art, utterly unaware that a man in his forties had come to stand behind him.

The man, dressed in a blue long robe and stroking his short, dark beard, watched Li Sanjian paint with keen interest.

He had been observing the young artist for some time, marveling at the way Li Sanjian seemed to enter a trance as he painted.

A knife could fall from the sky and it wouldn’t wake him, the man mused.

“Young sir, may I ask—what is it that you are painting? Young sir?” the man in blue finally asked. He had noticed that Li Sanjian’s painting was markedly different from others he had seen; the mountains, the figures—everything was rendered with such lifelike vitality, as if they might leap from the paper. Unable to contain his curiosity, he spoke up.

“It’s… a painting…” Only after the man had asked thrice did Li Sanjian return to the present. Without thinking, he blurted out his answer.

The man rolled his eyes. Of course he knew it was a painting—was that not obvious? Then again, perhaps his question was equally redundant, and he had to suppress a chuckle.

“Yes, I know it’s a painting,” the man nodded. “But what I mean is, your work is quite unlike that of others—so vivid and full of life, almost real. How do you achieve this?”

Li Sanjian scratched his head, hesitating. “This painting is called a ‘living painting’…”

In truth, Li Sanjian had created a three-dimensional painting, but how could he possibly explain the concept of three dimensions? Lacking the words, he simply invented the term “living painting.”

A three-dimensional painting—panoramic, with depth and perspective—was unheard of in this world. No renowned artist knew how to create such an image, hence the man’s astonishment.

“Living painting?” the man echoed, intrigued. “What do you mean by ‘living painting’? Please enlighten me, young sir.”

Li Sanjian painted purely for his own amusement, out of nostalgia for happier days. He had no intention of sharing the secret of his “living paintings,” lest his eccentricity attract unwanted attention, or worse, lead him to a grim fate.

Yet the middle-aged man before him was impeccably dressed, with refined and gentle features. Li Sanjian took an immediate liking to him.

What harm could there be in telling him? He doesn’t know who I am, Li Sanjian thought.

He replied, “Sir, you flatter me—I am not worthy of such praise. This painting is called a ‘living painting’—as the name suggests, the depicted scene appears almost real, vivid and animated. Not only that, but I… I can even paint sound and scent.”

“Sound and scent?” The man was even more curious now. Could a painting truly possess sound and scent?

In this world, scholars were not only versed in literature but often dabbled in music, chess, painting, poetry, and song. Even if his own knowledge of painting was limited, the man knew enough to be astonished.

He leaned in, bending over to scrutinize Li Sanjian’s painting, but after a long moment, he could detect neither sound nor scent.

“Sir, look here.” Seeing the man’s puzzled expression, Li Sanjian pointed to the landscape on his easel with a smile. “Within this painting are two fishermen. One cups his hands around his mouth, shouting loudly; the other strains his neck, cupping his ear, listening intently. Is that not the suggestion of sound? As for scent, look at the wild grass along the riverbank—dewdrops glisten on the green blades. Is that not the suggestion of freshness?”

This was a technique Li Sanjian had learned from a master in his past life.

“Marvelous, truly marvelous!” The man’s confusion vanished, replaced by sudden understanding. So this was what they called artistic conception? Most remarkable were the fish leaping from the water near the fishermen, as if startled by the noise or called to be caught.

Unrolling the painting, one seemed to be standing by the riverbank at dawn, casting a net for fish…

Was it possible that such a wondrous painting had been created by a youth of only fifteen or sixteen?

Anyone who saw this work would surely treasure it, the man thought.

“Young sir, what is the price of this painting? I am willing to pay handsomely for it,” he asked.

“If you wish to have it, please take it. I ask nothing in return,” Li Sanjian replied with a smile.

That someone would offer a high price for his painting made Li Sanjian quite proud. Though he was destitute, he dared not accept money outright—for to do so would invite contempt, and besides, he wished to cast a long line for a big catch.

Once his works were widely admired, he reasoned, they would fetch a far better price.

“My thanks, young sir,” the man said, delighted.

“I see you are not native to Guizhou. May I ask where you are from?”

Li Sanjian hesitated before answering, “I am a student from Lingshan County in Qin Prefecture, surname Li, given name Sanjian, a native of Qiongtai, Danzhou. I came to Guizhou to sit for the examinations and am now passing the time by painting while I await the results.”

“Li Sanjian?” The man started in surprise. “Are you the author of ‘On Establishing Offices and Governing Land by the Sea’?”

…

Prince’s Residence, Kaifeng, Eastern Capital

Since Emperor Shenzong’s reforms, factional strife had been unending in the Song court. The New and Old Parties took turns controlling the government as their power waxed and waned, their contests growing ever fiercer. Political “earthquakes” shook the land in rapid succession, and one after another, high officials, celebrated scholars, and aristocrats fell victim to the struggle.

Yet, despite these upheavals, the imperial clan was little affected, for the Song dynasty strictly forbade members of the royal family, imperial consorts, or eunuchs from meddling in government affairs, a policy enforced with great rigor.

Though the Song forbade the imperial family from interfering in state matters, their treatment was exceedingly generous. Since the founding of the dynasty, various privileges and favors had scarcely diminished.

Only the residences of grand councilors or princes could be called “mansions”; other officials lived in “residences,” and commoners in “houses”—a strict hierarchy.

South of the imperial palace lay a quiet, willow-shaded lane, and there stood a prince’s mansion. Though not large, it was splendidly built. The layout was divided into east, central, and west wings, each composed of a succession of courtyards aligned along a strict central axis from south to north.

The prince’s mansion was not only magnificent, with winding corridors, soaring eaves, and intricately joined structures, but the sign above the main entrance and the couplets on the columns bore calligraphy as vigorous and lively as dragons and serpents.

Within, the screen wall was adorned with lifelike paintings and poetic inscriptions, full of charm and elegance.

“Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!” cried a handsome youth of fifteen or sixteen, clad in the robes of a Song prince, as he gazed at a painting spread upon a carved wooden table.

“What a fresh and extraordinary work! In all my years, I have never seen such a marvelous painting.” He gently stroked the scroll. “Ah, the fish are about to leap out of the picture… Who is the artist? How did he paint this?”

“Your Highness,” replied an elderly steward, “this was just delivered by an official from Lingnan. It is the work of a scholar from the south.”

“A scholar from Lingnan?” the young prince asked. “How old is he?”

“According to the official’s letter, Your Highness, he is not yet sixteen. He is from Qiongtai, Danzhou. His father was an exiled official, now deceased; his mother is a woman of the Li people,” the steward replied.

“What? He’s about my age? And half a barbarian?” The prince’s pride was pricked. His own skill in calligraphy and painting was well known, and he considered himself highly accomplished. To hear that such a masterpiece came from a youth of distant, wild lands—half foreign at that—filled him with indignation. If only he could summon this “barbarian” here for a contest!

“Your Highness, the official from Lingnan also sent this essay, written by that scholar during the provincial examination,” the steward said, handing over a manuscript.

“On Establishing Offices and Governing Land by the Sea…” the young prince murmured.