with lovers, likewise those whose lives have brought them
to the same wisdom—lovers linked by feeling, sages by thought.
Such silences surpass even the verses of Qu Yuan.
Yellow Moon at Lake Weishan
When he was about thirty years old, Yang Wu-cho, a minor poet remembered chiefly as the compiler of the eighth-century Tang collection known as The Celestial Casket, had to travel north on business. He made a point of going to see the elderly Chen Hsi-wei, whom he ranked above all the poets of his generation.
After a vagabond life, Hsi-wei had settled in a house given him by the Governor of Chiangling. Yang wrote of his visit in a letter which has recently come to light. Most of the missive is taken up with complaints about the hardships of travel, gossipy questions about court life, slights aimed at rival poets, and an unflattering account of the city of Chiangling. Of Hsi-wei’s house he reports, “It is deplorably tiny and rude, hardly better than the meanest peasant’s hut. Its situation, far from the city, between a flooded paddy and waste land, is isolated and unhealthful. Such a gift does no honor to the Governor but takes none from Hsi-wei, who expresses only affection for the place and nothing but gratitude to his benefactor. With a warm smile, the old poet welcomed me to what he was pleased to call ‘my last home and also my first.’”
Yang goes on to say that, after greeting his guest, Hsi-wei excused himself, went into the house and brought out a stool and an old box. “He said it would be more pleasant to sit in the courtyard, which was really just a bit of mud and weeds. With reason, I think he feared that there would not be sufficient room inside the tiny house for two poets. He offered me tea and pickles, which I turned down as I was afraid it might be all he had to eat.”
Once they were seated, Hsi-wei inquired politely about Yang’s family, his travels, and why he had become a poet.
“I told the old master that I had been inspired by his work, which I had first come across ten years before. ‘Is that so,’ he said. Hsi-wei’s famous modesty is genuine; he appeared sincerely incredulous. I told him that my favorite of his poems was still the first I had read, ‘The Yellow Moon at Lake Weishan.’ On hearing this, Hsi-wei put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. I determined to remain silent until the master chose to speak.
“I should tell you that Hsi-wei spoke with me quite easily, as one does with a colleague, an equal. Eventually, he put a question. ‘May I ask if, when you set out to be a poet, you met any older poets who told you to write about what you know?’ I said that, yes, I had heard that pretty often from my elders. He nodded. ‘I only came across one poet in my youth and that’s what he told me too.’ I asked Hsi-wei if he would advise me to do likewise. ‘To write about what you know? Well, perhaps you should. But that old poet I met in my youth was a rascally humorist, and a second minister. It was natural that he should look down on an upstart peasant like me. After saying I should write what I know about he added, “That should leave you with plenty of time for planting rice.” When I expressed indignation, Hsi-wei explained the deeper meaning of his story. ‘Anybody with senses can grasp the look, the smell, the texture of things, of a clay pot, a ripe persimmon. But how can we know a thing apart from what our senses tell us about it, I mean the thing itself? After I wrote that poem you like, the one about Lake Weishan and the yellow moon, I understood better not only the moon, the water, the night, but also stillness and motion, timelessness and loss.”
“I asked if the poem had to do with the wars in which he had so nearly perished.
“‘There were always wars in the days before the Emperor of Sui united the two kingdoms. Back then war made the weather of people’s lives. The roads were crowded with people fleeing, as if from earthquakes or floods. Crops were trampled by cavalry, stolen by foragers, storehouses burned. Would-be dynasties rose and fell like the tide; the mighty slew one another with regularity, with garrotes, daggers, and poison. Nothing felt safe or firm.’
“‘Except for one moment at Lake Weishan?’” I dared to ask.
“He shook his head. ‘A moment is inside time.’
“I thought I understood him. I asked, ‘Then it is possible for a poet to transcend time?’
“‘To my way of thinking, that is exactly what a poet yearns to do.’
“‘And yet you disturbed the lake water,’ I said, and quoted from memory: The moon’s light on the lake looks so precious and lovable, I reach out to touch . . .
“The old man sighed, his lean face growing even longer. ‘Yes. And that is what happens to perfection the moment we greedily try to catch hold of it.’”
Yang Wu-cho’s letter concludes with more complaints about the trials of travel and a vulgar account of a dalliance with the daughter of an innkeeper.
While Hsi-wei and his poem have all but vanished into the teeming life of China, this letter shows that he and “The Yellow Moon at Lake Weishan” were once famous and spoke to the hearts of our people.
Yellow Moon at Lake Weishan
Weishan lies cool and still as a forgotten bowl of tea,
the moon immobile as a yellow disk embroidered
on a gown of black silk heavy with pearls.
As time is change, so these motionless bamboo leaves,
these reeds standing to attention like proud veterans,
yield a moment without war, decay, turmoil or age.
I too am still in this moment, captivated by
the moonlight on the enchanted lake, silver and gold.
The moon’s light on the water looks so precious and lovable,
I reach out to touch it and so, with my foolish hand,
spoil eternal peace.
Alas! If only I had refrained.
Hsi-wei and the Good
It was high summer when Hsi-wei arrived in Bianzhou. He was footsore, thirsty, and troubled by the suffering he had observed in the counties through which he had passed on his way to the capital. In Qi, Tongxu, and Weishi, the peasants grumbled, both the poor and the well-off. In Lamkao, Hsi-wei agreed to take two apples in payment for a little pair of straw sandals. “They’re for my grandson, Bo-jing. He’s just learned to walk,” said the old woman. Hsi-wei asked how things were. “Too much rain, then too little,” she explained tersely. “We had some relief but now they’ve made these new taxes it’s worse than ever.” People were hungry and angry.
In accord with Emperor Wen’s reorganization, the prefectural administration had recently been moved to Xingyanjun and it was here that his old schoolmate, Lu Guo-liang, lived. It had been nearly a year since Hsi-wei received, in a roundabout way, a surprising letter from him. He and Lu had not been close; in fact, though far from the worst, Lu had been among those who looked down on the upstart peasant who had refused gold for his service and had asked instead to be educated. Lu had enclosed his letter inside one to the painter Ko Qing-zhao, another former classmate but one with whom Hsi-wei had been good friends and with whom he intermittently corresponded. Lu’s letter reached the vagabond poet enclosed in one from Ko. Lu wrote of his marriage and his appointment to an important administrative post in Bianzhou. He offered Hsi-wei a hospitable welcome, should he find himself in the vicinity, adding that he had heard of the growing reputation of the peasant-poet. “I well remember how Master Shen Kuo used to chide you for your calligraphy. If I recall correctly, he once compared your brushwork to what a regiment of grass lizards would leave behind if they’d splashed through a puddle of ink then tramped across a sheet of paper. The old dragon probably brags about you now.”
Hsi-wei noticed the contrast between the countryside and Xingyanjun at once. While the peasants were ill-fed, ill-clothed, and ill-tempered, here, though there were the usual beggars, most people looked nourished, decently dressed, and busy. When he accosted a robed official in a high hat and asked the way to the villa of the Secretary to the Deputy Governor, the fellow looked at him suspi
ciously. Should he deign to answer a dusty vagabond with a pack on his back?
“And why would the likes of you be looking for Secretary Lu?”
“To pay the visit he requested me to make, Sir.”
The official scoffed and made to move off, but Hsi-wei stopped him.
“Perhaps you would care to see his letter?”
“You expect me to believe a peasant receives letters from a First Secretary?”
“One who can read them as well, Your Honor,” replied Hsi-wei tartly and handed over the scroll. The official took it reluctantly then unrolled and skimmed it.
“Who’s this Master Shen Kuo?”
“The teacher of the First Secretary.”
“And of you?”
Hsi-wei wearied of this tedious conversation. “Sir, can you tell me the way or not?”
The official drew himself up. “Very well,” he said. His directions were complicated, perhaps even more than necessary. “And you can tell Secretary Lu that Under-Assessor Hsieh showed you the way.”
Night was falling when Hsi-wei found Lu’s villa. It was an old-fashioned place, not notably large but sturdy and dignified, with weathered walls, thick beams, two wide windows and a red door, at which Hsi-wei knocked.
The door was partially opened by a stout female servant who looked Hsi-wei over in a way that was not unfriendly but cautious.
“I’m here to pay my respects to Secretary Lu, at his invitation.”
“Secretary Lu is not yet home.”
A young woman came up behind the servant. She was pregnant. The wife. Looking anxiously over her shoulder was a thin old woman. Lu’s mother. “Go away,” she said. “Send that man away.”
Lu’s wife replied calmly, “Mother, he says he was invited. If we send him away, Guo-liang might be angry.”
“Invited? An obvious lie. Guo-liang wouldn’t invite a peasant here, not ever, and certainly not as things are now.”
“Mei, please let him in,” said the pregnant wife.
The servant smiled at Hsi-wei and opened the door.
The mother gave a little yelp of frustration and Hsi-wei could see this was a small skirmish in a long struggle between the women of Lu’s household. Such wars are a tradition; not for nothing is the character for strife two women beneath one roof.
“My husband is expected at any minute,” said the wife. She spoke graciously, perhaps to spite her mother-in-law; but Hsi-wei could see that, taking in his rough, soiled clothes, the woman was perplexed and a little concerned.
In the background, the old woman growled. “Close the door. Can’t you see he’s a robber? He’ll slit our throats,” growled the old woman.
Hsi-wei bowed deeply and addressed the wife. “My name is Chen Hsi-wei. Your husband and I knew each other ten years ago in Daxing.”
“In Daxing?”
“As students.”
“Chen Hsi-wei?” the wife repeated then broke into a smile. “Oh, the poet. My husband spoke about you. He said he’d sent you a letter, but that was long ago.”
“The letter took a while to reach me, and then I was not close by. If you like, I can return tomorrow.”
The woman hesitated then said. “Please, Sir. Come in. Mei, fetch us some tea.”
The old woman raised her voice. “Daughter, what can you be thinking? He’s a stranger, a peasant. Just look at him.”
“Enough, Mother,” said the wife evenly. With a cry of protest, the old woman retreated inside the house, clutching her robe tightly. Hsi-wei never saw her again, not even at dinner which was served shortly after Lu came home.
With apparent delight and a bit of irony, the silk-robed Lu greeted Hsi-wei effusively. “Chen Hsi-wei. Is it really you? Yes, of course. Same face, same weight, too, I notice. So, you got my letter? Well, it’s a pleasure to see you. I hope you’ll be able to grace us with your presence for a day or two? I’d like to introduce you to my superior.” Then, to his wife, he said, “Wouldn’t you say our peasant-poet looks the part? Order Mei to prepare the spare room.”
As soon as they sat down to eat Lu began to reminisce about their days in Daxing, speaking as if they’d been the best of friends, telling his wife how badly Master Shen had dealt with Hsi-wei and claiming that he had been treated with the same brutality.
“Congratulations on your position,” Hsi-wei said to Lu, then, to his wife, “and on the child. I hope you are well?”
“Perfectly well, thank you.”
“Yes,” said Lu with satisfaction. “I think I can say that I’m a fortunate man.”
“You enjoy your work?”
“Very much indeed,” said Lu. “My superior, Deputy Governor Du, an excellent man, is not only wise but decisive. And we’ve a great deal to do, now that he’s become Acting Governor.”
“The peasants I saw on the way are suffering.”
“Yes. That’s regrettable, but there’s a crisis.”
Lu didn’t inquire about Hsi-wei’s departure from the capital, his ten years on the road, or his poems; however, he spoke with relish about the emergency with which he was assisting his superior who was now Acting Governor. He went on at length, taking pleasure in the details.
“Of course, the source of our difficulties is the weather. Floods in early spring gave way to drought in early summer. Crops failed. But the problem was compounded by the mistaken policy of our soft-hearted Governor, Hou Bo-qin.”
“I’ve heard about the weather, but not Governor Hou’s policy, nor why he’s been replaced by your superior.”
“The latter’s simply explained. When the governors of all the prefectures were summoned to the capital to be informed about the new administrative arrangements, of course Governor Hou, though in frail health, undertook the journey. But, on the way back, he fell ill and was taken to Chiangling where he’s been ever since, hovering between life and death. Before he left, though, Governor Hou took an unfortunate measure. He declared that, in view of the hard times, the tax on grain, the zu, would be cut in half. He went still further and suspended the tax on textiles as well, the diao. The consequence for our city has been catastrophic.”
“But,” said Hsi-wei, “the people in the city look well-fed and they’re not wanting for clothes either. It’s the peasants who are famished and in rags.”
Lu smiled condescendingly and raised his forefinger, a gesture Hsi-wei recognized, as it was often used by Master Shen.
“That’s so, but only because of our store houses. To give him his due, Governor Hou kept them full. However, the populace has been eating through the stores for months and now they’re nearly exhausted. You see the problem?”
Hsi-wei did. He also foresaw what Secretary Lu and his admired superior would be likely to do about it. He reviewed what he knew of the Empire’s method of taxation, the so-called Equal Field System. The word equal seemed to suggest something equitable but, in Hsi-wei’s view, that is just what it was not. The officials he knew at Daxing and those he had encountered during his travels all approved of this system and believed it was good for the Emperor’s military needs and his vast civil projects. Hsi-wei, however, assessed it with the soul of a peasant.
Under the prevailing system, the unit of taxation was the household. All peasant households—no matter how prosperous or poor—had to pay the same tax. Nobles and high officials were exempt. Those peasants who had no household, a considerable portion, paid no tax in grain or textiles. They subsisted by working for the rich landowners as servants, laborers, or tenant farmers. But there was a third tax in addition to the zu and diao, a tax all had to pay, the yong. Every peasant owed the Emperor twenty days out of the year to be paid in either military service or labor on the Grand Canal. More returned from the former than the latter.
“And what does Acting Governor Du propose?”
“As I told you, he’s wise and decisive. The moment he received
word of Governor Hou’s incapacity, he revoked the ruinous tax remissions; and, in consideration of the impending crisis in the city, he increased the grain tax by half. To this urgent measure, he added a long overdue innovation, which shows his genius. It’s aimed at the fat landlords. They’re all to pay a head tax.”
“A head tax?”
“That’s right. So much for every servant, worker, and tenant farmer.”
Hsi-wei, controlling himself with some difficulty, said sharply, “But doesn’t he realize that the well-off landowners will simply dismiss their landless dependents.”
Lu rubbed his belly. “Oh, don’t believe it. They can’t do without their servants and the others. They’ll pay up. Anyway, they all have secret storehouses of their own, no doubt crammed with rice and millet—yes, and good cloth, apples, and root vegetables, too.”
Hsi-wei was indignant. “So, the plan is to rob the peasants to feed the city?”
Lu frowned. “You put the matter in the worst way, Hsi-wei. There’s no robbery. As Acting Governing Du has explained, it’s the social and economic function of the peasantry to support the higher culture of the cities. In the same way, the country supports the Court and the Emperor himself. It’s regrettable that peasants suffer when the weather goes against them and the harvest is wanting. But it’s in the natural order, as is the precedence of the city over the countryside.”
Hsi-wei forced himself stay still for a few moments, though he would have liked to shake his complacent host.
“You said Acting Governor Du is a good man?”
“It’s a privilege to serve him.”
“And his motives are virtuous?”
“Certainly. He always acts out of duty.”
“Only that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Consider our old Master Shen Kuo.”
“What’s he got to do with it?”
“When Master Shen ridiculed, us, when he beat me, don’t you suppose he too believed he was doing his duty?”
Hsi-wei Tales Page 8