Chapter 8

For lunch, they had steamed rice wrapped in leaves as the main dish. The marinated pig’s head that Zhu Qing had brought was sliced and served with wine for Old Man Zhu and Zhu Ming. There was also steamed pork with rice flour, sweet and sour crucian carp, and old duck soup, among other dishes—a true farmer’s feast.

Because they had guests, Granny Sun didn’t skimp on the portions this time. The Zhu family ate with such relish they barely lifted their heads, mouthful after mouthful.

As Zhu Xuan ate heartily, she was overcome by a sense of unreality.

Was she really allowed to go to school now?

After the meal, Zhu Qing left with Wang An and Yuan Fengyi in the ox cart. Before leaving, she caressed Zhu Xuan’s cheek and said, “Come visit at your aunt’s when you have time.”

After lunch, Zhu Xuan, still lost in thought, dutifully helped clear the table and washed the dishes. Once the chores were done, with the summer heat at its peak outside, the whole family retreated to their rooms for a midday nap.

Lying on the cool mat, Zhu Xuan stared at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep.

Next to her, Zhu Ying slept soundly, her little belly rising and falling, her cheeks puffed, mouth open, a glistening trail visible at the corner of her lips.

Zhu Xuan, a bit disgusted, covered her sister’s belly, then turned over, pressing her face to the mat, letting her mind wander.

What exactly had Master Huang said to her family? How had it come to her being allowed to attend school?

Unable to sleep, she heard Zhu Lian tossing and turning on the bed next door. Zhu Xuan quietly climbed down, lifted the bed curtain, and slipped into Zhu Lian’s bed.

Startled, Zhu Lian scolded in a whisper, “Why are you coming to bother me instead of sleeping in the middle of the day?”

Zhu Xuan lay down unabashedly, even stretching herself out in a large star shape, and said, “Move over a bit.”

Zhu Lian really did shift inward, only for Zhu Xuan to scoot closer, prompting Zhu Lian to complain, “Go back out, you’re burning hot.”

Seeing Zhu Xuan finally lie properly on her side, Zhu Lian asked softly, “Why can’t you sleep? What’s weighing on your little mind?”

“I’m getting older. It’s not as easy to sleep as when I was a child,” Zhu Xuan muttered, pouting. Zhu Lian wanted to laugh—what business did a child have talking about “when I was young”? Then she heard Zhu Xuan ask, “Sister Lian, what did it feel like when you started school at my age?”

Zhu Lian understood then—it was the thought of school that kept Zhu Xuan awake. She blinked, recalling, “It wasn’t anything special. Every day I’d wake knowing I had to go. I met new friends, learned things. Playtime was fun.”

“What did you learn there?”

“We started with characters, then the Three Character Classic, the Hundred Family Surnames, the Thousand Character Essay, and so on. We memorized and recited things over and over, learned to write, practiced tracing characters in red ink... There was so much to learn, three years wasn’t enough.” Zhu Lian’s eyes sparkled as she remembered, despite her earlier claim that school was boring.

“Sister Lian,” Zhu Xuan began wistfully, “you actually wanted to keep studying, didn’t you? You got to learn so much.”

Zhu Lian turned in surprise, looking at her. After a moment, she replied, “I don’t know. I used to hate school—the lessons were dull, I was slow, the teacher fierce, always scolding me. I just wanted it to be over. Now that I stay home and don’t have to go anymore, I do miss it a little. Life at home is just the same, day after day, boring and predictable.”

“If the family supported you the way they support our eldest brother, you could have continued,” Zhu Xuan commented.

Zhu Lian shook her head. “If they really made me go to the academy, I’d refuse. It’s only because I’m done with it that I can think of the good parts. Private school is far more grueling than elementary lessons—up before dawn, asleep past midnight, it’s not for people. And I’m a girl; I can’t sit for the imperial exams. Why suffer through it?”

Zhu Xuan pressed on, “But what if girls could take the exams? If we had a chance to become scholars, would you want it then?”

“Still no,” Zhu Lian replied firmly. “Even among men, not everyone wants to be a scholar. Look at our cousin Tang—he’d rather work the fields than endure the hardships of study, even if given the chance. Whether our family has a scholar or not depends on Di, not us.

“Besides, how could girls ever be allowed to take the exams?” Zhu Lian laughed.

“Why not?” Zhu Xuan argued. “Maybe not now, but someday, perhaps. There didn’t used to be girls in elementary schools either, and now there are. Master Huang said that when the last dynasty was founded, there were women who took the exams, even women who were ennobled. The founding emperor of the last dynasty was a woman—the Princess Royal is formidable, isn’t she?”

“What? The founding emperor was a woman? And there were women’s exams?” Zhu Lian was incredulous, suspecting Zhu Xuan was making it up.

Seeing her disbelief, Zhu Xuan explained, “It’s true! The Restoration King, the one in all the plays about reclaiming lost lands—she became the first emperor of the last dynasty. Everyone thinks that dynasty began with Emperor Wen, but before him was the High Emperor—the Restoration King herself. She was posthumously honored as an ancestor. But she died young and left no heirs. Later emperors, who weren’t her descendants, didn’t like having her venerated above their ancestors, so they started counting from Emperor Wen, calling her only a king. After a hundred years, even the court no longer recognized her as an emperor, so naturally everyone forgot. Storytellers only recount her deeds as the Restoration King.”

“But you haven’t even started formal schooling. The curriculum doesn’t cover history past the Tang and Song, and the last dynasty isn’t settled enough to be taught. How do you know this?” Zhu Lian, hearing it was the Restoration King, began to believe her.

“Master Huang just told me today—she used to be a court lady in the last dynasty and knows everything,” Zhu Xuan replied matter-of-factly.

Hearing it came from today’s guest Master Huang, Zhu Lian accepted it, commenting, “Those later emperors were shameless. Even if they weren’t her descendants, they should have honored her as their ancestor, since they took her throne. How could they deny their own ancestor? No wonder they were overthrown by our King of Yue—they deserved it!”

“Serves them right!” Zhu Xuan echoed.

The two sisters chattered on beneath the bed curtain, not sleeping at all that noon.

Because Zhu Lian missed her nap, she yawned through her chores all afternoon; Zhu Ying, having slept too much, was drowsy and sluggish. Only Zhu Xuan was full of energy, flitting about the house like a spinning top.

Granny Sun, her eyes sore from watching Zhu Xuan dart about, glanced at the two listless sisters, suspecting Zhu Xuan had sucked away their vitality.

She said, “Xuan, go out and play. What’s so great about being allowed to go to school? Even if you become a scholar, what real achievement will you have? Still, at least you won’t be illiterate when you marry—that’s something, I suppose.”

Zhu Xuan ignored the veiled barbs, squatted down to pick vegetables, and said, “I don’t want to play outside. I’ll help you around the house. Once I start school, I won’t be able to help as much.”

“So you think going to school means you get to slack off, become a scholar and leave all the chores behind? Before school, you can’t even feed the chickens? After school, you can’t cut pigweed? Haven’t even picked up a brush yet and you already think yourself precious? For a poor girl like you, what’s the use of school? You can’t sell what you learn, and it’ll just make you forget sewing and housework. When you marry, your mother-in-law won’t be as kind as I am, letting you have your way.” Granny Sun could not resist needling Zhu Xuan.

Annoyed, Zhu Xuan reminded herself it was just her grandmother’s way, but the constant carping was exhausting. Thankfully, Old Man Zhu intervened: “Enough. Why curse the girl with a terrible mother-in-law? You never suffered at your mother-in-law’s hands, but you wish it on someone else.”

For once, Zhu Xuan’s attempt to help with chores had left her feeling like she was sitting on pins and needles. But since she’d already put on a show of being sensible, running off now would look bad.

Fortunately, her father came to the rescue. Standing at the door, Zhu Ming called, “Xuan, come here.”

She quickly abandoned her task and trotted after him.

Zhu Ming led her to his study by the window. “Xuan, you’re growing up. After your birthday, you’ll go to elementary school in town. On the first of August, I’ll take you. After that, you’ll have to walk the two miles yourself, rain or shine. Tuition may be free, but buying paper, pens, candles—it all costs money. Since you’re going, I’ll treat you as I do your brother Tang. Whatever he had for those three years, you’ll have too; there will be no skimping.”

Zhu Xuan nodded, half understanding. Zhu Ming then spread out paper, inked his brush, and wrote her name: “Zhu Xuan.” “If you’re going to school, you must learn to write your name. Come, copy it.”

She took the brush and traced the characters on his paper, her strokes awkward and wobbly, but Zhu Ming praised her, “Not bad! You follow well. If you keep at this, you might have a future in painting, like me.”

“Can I learn painting from you?” she asked, looking up.

A shadow passed over Zhu Ming’s face. “No, that’s not possible. It’s one thing for me to have learned painting, but if I tried to support the family on art alone, we’d all starve. I haven’t made a living at it—how could I teach you? I got plenty of beatings for learning it myself. If I led you children down that path, your grandparents would never forgive me.”

He had once thought of teaching Tang, but Old Man Zhu had scolded him: “If you want to beg for a living, fine, but don’t drag my grandson into it! Make a name for yourself first before you think of founding your own school of painting!”

And Tang had no talent or patience for painting—he couldn’t even sit still at lessons, let alone endure the tedium of art.

Lian also had no interest; she preferred to learn embroidery and weaving from her mother.

So Zhu Ming had never tried to teach Lian painting—she was already on the “proper” path, and for a girl, the road was narrow enough. The family couldn’t afford to let a daughter become a “talented woman”; to meddle and lead her astray would only do harm.

But now, as for Xuan... Zhu Ming’s eyes lit up. “You want to learn painting?”

She nodded, then shook her head. “Not formal lessons, since you’re busy and I’m not that hardworking. But if you just show me a little here and there, that’s fine.”

“Alright, I’ll teach you a bit when I have time.” He never expected her to be a great artist, and her casual interest put him at ease.

“But for now, you must first learn to write your own name.” He guided her hand, stroke by stroke. After a few rounds, Zhu Xuan had learned to hold the brush and remembered the shape of her name, though her writing was still shaky.

Unwilling to give in, Zhu Xuan traced her name over and over, but her hand still lacked control. Seeing her brow damp with sweat, Zhu Ming teased, “Starting with your name is already a stretch. You’ve barely begun and want to be Wang Xizhi already?”

She looked up, embarrassed, and put down the brush. “Father, have you ever regretted it?” she suddenly asked.

“Regretted what?” He was puzzled.

“Painting. Back then, your parents disapproved, but you never gave up, even though...” She cast him a wary glance, afraid he’d be angry, but pressed on, “even though... it turned out to be useless. If you’d known how things would be, would you still have defied your parents to pursue art?”

He wasn’t angry. The innocent words of a child were nothing compared to the harsh realities he’d faced. Lured away by a monk to study painting, he’d devoted himself to the brush, making a modest living as a folk painter in the village, painting door gods and immortals. But he was never content.

To avoid interference, he’d married and had children, leaving his responsibilities to his wife and son, not a good husband or father.

He knew all too well his parents had lost three sons already; as their only surviving child, he should have stayed close, caring for them, but he’d still left for the city in pursuit of a foolish dream, unfilial as could be.

And what had come of it? In the capital, without a famous teacher, from an ordinary family, not from a line of painters, and with a style not to the taste of the times—he was nothing. He ended up illustrating cheap stories to get by, even painting erotic scenes to sell for pigments when desperate.

Ten years wasted, the best of his youth gone, yet he still refused to return home and give up.

But did he regret it? No—one must pursue something in life.

“Even if I’d known it would end like this, I wouldn’t have regretted learning to paint. I know I’m a dreamer. People like me are supposed to farm, learn a trade, or study for the exams. Instead, I dreamed of painting—not to make a name for myself, just because I loved it. Why must I be like everyone else, or only value learning if it leads to success?

“Do those who fail the exams regret studying the classics? Do failed merchants regret going into business? Those who throw themselves into war and die for glory—do they regret it?

“Success is always a matter of luck. Most of us are not so lucky. Once you choose a path, you must walk it well—there’s no going back.”

His words left him pensive. Zhu Xuan lowered her head, deep in thought.

Then Zhu Ming said, “Xuan, let’s not dwell on these things. Just focus on what’s before you. Come, let’s keep practicing your writing.”