The fellow who had seen to the horses left them at the trough, strode over to the well to get a drink for himself, then went into a shop. Hsi-wei guessed it was to inquire about stabling the horses. Meanwhile, children gathered to look at the instruments laid on the rug. The thin man pointed and named each instrument for them but kept the curious from touching them. “You’ll hear them soon,” he said, then bellowed the same again, turning his head, broadcasting an invitation to the whole town.
Hsi-wei liked the look of the fellow who had driven the cart and seen to the horses. He was energetic, well built, around thirty-five, with a kind face. None of the musicians could be called finely dressed but he wore a leather jerkin over his shirt, a garment common in the northern village where Hsi-wei was born. When the man came back into the marketplace Hsi-wei accosted him.
“Pardon me, sir. You’ll be performing?”
The man stopped and sized up Hsi-wei, with provisional approval. He inclined his head in a manner that conveyed both humility and dignity. “My name is Ping,” he said. “And yes, we’ll be playing around sunset. That’s the best time. It will be cooler and people will be at leisure.”
“So you’re itinerant musicians?”
Ping laughed. “Well, at present, I suppose that’s just what we are.”
“At present?”
Ping glanced across the marketplace. “Excuse me. I can’t let the horses drink too much.”
“Of course.”
Ping started toward the horses then turned back.
“You’ll come listen to us, I hope. There’s no charge. We ask people to give what they want. It’s more for practice than money.”
Hsi-wei pointed to his sign. “My own prices are low—but fixed.”
“Fair enough. Sandals last longer than air.”
“Not always. Straw wears away more quickly than a song whose melody’s good and words are true. Even the best sandal won’t last two years.”
This thoughtful reply pleased Ping so much that he invited Hsi-wei to join his troupe for their evening meal. “After we play. Then perhaps we’ll talk some more. I have a notion there’s more to you than sandal-making.”
Hsi-wei took three orders, bought some straw from a peasant, and negotiated with the tavern owner for a corner in which to sleep. The rest of the afternoon he spent making sandals but kept an eye on the musicians. Toward sunset they took stools from the cart and set them up by the well. Word of the performance had spread. About twenty people gathered and Hsi-wei joined them.
Ping, obviously the troupe’s leader, announced each piece, folk dances and popular tunes, just the sort of music to please a rural audience. But there was nothing rustic about the playing. Ping was a master on the pipa and the two other men, thin and fat, played their instruments more than competently. But it was the girl Hsi-wei watched most closely. Her playing was unlike the others’. It wasn’t that she played better or worse but that she played in a different spirit. It seemed to Hsi-wei that the men were performing for their listeners while she played for herself or for some higher, imagined audience. The men smiled, nodded to the people, and encouraged them to clap; the girl looked inward with an earnestness that was almost comic. She was not a pretty child; her face was too thin, her ears stuck out, and her hair was crudely cropped; yet Hsi-wei found it a pleasure to watch her. He felt she was sympathetic; he thought he understood her. He liked the intensity of her playing. He liked her bright eyes.
The crowd was pleased; there was much applause at the end. The musicians bowed and clapped for the audience. Ping collected some coins.
After the recital came the meal. During the afternoon Ping had bought a load of vegetables and some fresh pork. Now the girl brought a bag of rice out of the wagon while the fat man saw to the brazier. They even had a little table which the thin man and the girl set up, placing the four stools around it. The fat man was the cook. While the rice simmered, he chopped the vegetables and sliced the pork. Ping fetched a fifth stool from the wagon, then walked over to where Hsi-wei was working, made a formal bow, and courteously asked him if he would be pleased to join them.
Hsi-wei put away his work and gathered up his things. Ping introduced him as a traveling sandal-maker with whom he’d struck up a conversation earlier. That the others were not surprised and that there was a fifth stool suggested to Hsi-wei that Ping often invited guests and the others had to put up with it.
Ping himself was eager to talk. He sat himself beside Hsi-wei and began by explaining that they weren’t really itinerant musicians. “We are—or were—retainers of the Duke of Shun. Our Master is a good man but young. I’m afraid he can be a little headstrong. Some months ago he sent a letter to the Emperor’s First Minister complaining that too many of his people were being conscripted to work on the Grand Canal and too few were coming back. On top of that, he added some impolitic words about the wisdom of invading Goguryeo and doing it over and over again. The Emperor banned the Duke from the Court. We’re part of the Duke’s apology. Everybody knows Emperor Wen’s fondness for music. It’s said he keeps seven orchestras!”
“I’ve heard there are now nine,” said Hsi-wei.
“You’ve been to Daxing?”
Hsi-wei nodded. “I’m coming from there.”
Ping had dozens of questions about the capital and Hsi-wei answered all those he could. He described the famous rotating pavilion, the broad avenues, the new Buddhist temple, the palace and its grounds, the capital’s full store houses. All the while he kept glancing across the table at the girl, who ate slowly. She had no questions. She did not appear to be listening and said nothing at all.
After they’d eaten everything down to the last grain of rice, Ping invited Hsi-wei to join him for a stroll around the marketplace. “Old people say a walk’s good for the digestion.”
As they headed toward the well, Ping looked over at Hsi-wei with a sly smile. “I’ve heard that a certain Chen Hsi-wei, the peasant/poet as people call him, walks the roads as a vagabond. I’ve also heard that he makes straw sandals.”
“Is that so? And do people say which are better, his poems or his sandals?”
Ping laughed. “I’ve heard his poems last longer.”
“Ah,” said Hsi-wei.
“Am I plagiarizing?”
Hsi-wei came to a halt at the well and bowed to Ping. “The Duke is sending a treasure to Daxing. You’re a gifted artist. Your whole troupe is excellent.”
“So then I’m not mistaken, am I? You’re the poet Chen Hsi-wei?”
“The way I see it I’m only a poet when I’m writing a poem. A flute-player who never blows the flute is no flute-player.”
“I have to disagree, Master. He may still be a flute-player because he has played the flute and may do so again. And you may write a new poem, maybe even one about us.”
“If I do, then I’ll be a poet.”
They laughed at their own silliness, laughed like colleagues in different fields who like and respect each other and never have to compete.
“Look,” said Ping, “I can see the girl intrigues you. Now, that one’s a musician all the time.”
“Is she your daughter?”
“My daughter? No, not that. Are you curious about her story?”
“I am.”
“Very well, then. Yin’s parents were well off, almost gentry. Her father and I grew up together. While I was studying music, Lu was learning the cloth trade and establishing a good business. He and his wife had two children. Yin came first and two years later her brother Gao-tzu who, of course, became the hope of the family. Lu’s ambition was not for his son to go into trade but to become an official. So he hired a tutor for the boy. I often saw this young man when I visited, a lively fellow who loved the arts and cracking jokes. This tutor did not object to Yin sitting in on his lessons with her brother whenever she was free from chores. Yin learned to read and write s
o quickly that it was obvious she was far more gifted than her brother. She particularly loved the old poems her brother was assigned to copy; in fact, she confessed to me that she did far more copying than her brother. Everything that was a burden or a stumbling-block to him was a joy to her. The tutor and Yin got on well. It was a pleasure to watch them tease each other. The tutor was also an amateur. He had a pipa that Yin was always begging him to play.”
“All this couldn’t have pleased the parents.”
“Well, no. But they didn’t discourage her. They thought it wiser to urge the boy to be more like his sister, to outdo her.”
“I see.”
Ping paused and then sighed. “We’re all dancing over an abyss that can swallow us up at any time. Everybody knows this but we seldom think about it because, if we did, how could we live?”
“That’s true. A catastrophe, then?”
“My friend Lu often traveled on business. On one of these journeys he was set on by bandits. He had two guards with him but they fled. Lu was robbed and killed. His wife’s health had always been delicate. The news destroyed it. She died a month later. The only relatives were the wife’s brother and his wife who had always been jealous of Lu. They grudgingly agreed to take in Gao-tzu but not Yin.”
“So that’s how it was.”
Ping pitched his voice high. “‘What use is she? She’s so small. Besides, she’ll marry and leave us, but the boy is strong. He can work now and when he marries his wife will serve us.’ That’s what the aunt said. I know because she said it to me at the funeral. So I took the girl myself. I know, it was madness but what else could I do?”
“Then Yin’s your ward?”
“Ward? Yes, I suppose that’s the word. My ward, but also my pupil, my apprentice. The pipa was too large for her, so I got her a liuqin. You’ve heard the result.”
Hsi-wei noted that the good man was more proud of the girl than of his own charity. But all he said was, “Yes, she’s very good.” He could tell that Ping had more to say.
“Yin was a favorite of the Duke. ‘Such a big sound from such a little instrument, from such tiny fingers.’ That’s what he said when we first played for him. I’ve always believed it was because of Yin that he took us on.”
They were still standing by the well. The arid sky was as crammed with stars as the capital’s storehouses were with rice. A half-moon silvered the tiles.
“She’s different, isn’t she?”
Ping shrugged. “We make music the way tailors make clothes. Excellent tailors, mind you, and silk gowns, but yes, with Yin it’s something else, something more.”
“Higher?”
“A child whose life falls apart in a month, rejected, taken in but not by a family. For Yin, it’s as though music is the path to enlightenment and she’s condemned to be always marching down it. Can you imagine? The old tunes aren’t enough for her. She makes new ones to sing her favorite poems. I’m always on the lookout for poems for Yin. She keeps a little library of them.”
“So she likes poems as much as music?”
Again Ping smiled slyly. “Let’s get back.”
Two lanterns sat on the table, attracting moths. The fat man and the thin one were playing a game of Xiangi. Yin busied herself inside the wagon. “Wait,” said Ping and went in after her. Hsi-wei couldn’t help overhearing.
“You were rude to our guest at dinner. Now, come out and offer the man a proper greeting.”
“Too late for greeting sandal-makers. Anyway, you can see I’m busy cleaning up.”
“If you don’t come out you’ll be sorry. And if you do—”
“If I do?”
“Just come, Yin. Now.”
The girl jumped down and stepped up to Hsi-wei. She looked up at him and in a flat voice said, “I hope you enjoyed your meal, Mr. Sandal-maker. Good night.” Then she picked up some chopsticks that were still on the table and began to turn back to the wagon. But Ping, standing behind her, put his hands on her shoulders and held her still. Hsi-wei could see the man was almost bursting with anticipation, with mirth.
“Yin, our guest makes more than sandals. In fact, I believe you may have heard of him.”
The girl swiveled her head, confused.
“His name, my dear, the name for which you neglected to ask, is Chen Hsi-wei.”
Yin dropped the chopsticks. Her bright, black eyes widened. “Is it really?”
Then, knocking over a stool, she fell to her knees and bowed to the ground. Hsi-wei was horrified. He hurriedly helped her to her feet.
Some say he and the young liuqin player stayed up all that summer night talking about the making of poems and music, Yin overflowing with passion, Hsi-wei more measured but equally absorbed. It is to be regretted that there is no record of this conversation, if indeed it took place.
What we do have, however, is Hsi-wei’s poem.
Tallow leaves hang low; grass is brittle underfoot.
Birds spiral lazily then flutter down in the shade.
Prickly lettuce and withered jasmine
lie flat, like bing cakes baking on the dirt.
Paving tiles burn right through straw sandals.
Her eyes are so alert, it’s as if she just found them.
The heat barely touches her, this devotee of song.
She’s not the sort to compromise, not yet.
She asks me about music, what I’ve heard and whom.
Did I hear the great Zhang Chu in the capital?
Her reverence for her art exalts them both. She’s
sure a celestial melody floats just above her head;
if only she could tug it down and play it then
the world would certainly change for the good.
The sun wouldn’t scorch, perhaps taxes would drop.
She is small, delicate, nearly a child, though
if you look closely, you’ll see that’s half true,
that she’s a soft soul in a hard cocoon.
Her faith is as unspoiled as her smooth skin.
Who would dare to scoff? Not me.
When she’s told my name, she leaps to her feet,
then kneels and calls me Master, says she
can scarcely believe it, tells me how much she
loves my old poem about Lake Weishan.
Her face is fervent as a praying monk’s.
Taking up her liuqin, she begins to sing
and it’s like running water by a dusty road.
I feel my old poem surfacing from
Lake Weishan transformed, summoned
by the sudden beauty of this butterfly.
Hsi-wei and the Twin Disasters
Note: The following is drawn from the Tang Minister Fang Xuan-ling’s account of his extensive conversations with the peasant/poet Chen Hsi-wei, whom he visited in his retirement at his cottage near Chiangling. Minister Fang customarily relates Hsi-wei’s stories about the sources of his poems. In this instance, however, he questioned Hsi-wei about a particular poem, not one celebrated at court, though it is said to have been popular with peasants. As Fang does not include the poem itself in his manuscript, it has been interpolated following his opening remarks.
The conclusion of Hsi-wei’s poem called “Between Flood and Drought,” a minor piece, has always puzzled me. I resolved to find out what was behind it.
It happens now and then that rain pours like
a judgment on Shannan Tung. Then Yangtze
laughs at its banks as if the greedy
dragon meant to seize all the land, anything
that’s dry in the Empire, for its own.
It happens from time to time that rain sits tight
in heaven, enthralled by some celestial
tale or stunned by the heat of the sun, and
refuses to leave the clou
ds. Then crops
wither and gusts blow away the soil like smoke.
If the river wishes, it overwhelms even
the biggest oxen, turns wide fields to lakes,
and drowns those who bend their backs to plant.
If the rains won’t fall, the brown land sprouts
only the dusty graves of hopeless harvesters.
Like rope-walkers in a gale, peasants stagger
between flood and drought. No matter
how careful of their balance or what pains
they take, they may be blown left or right.
No matter, as ruin lies on either side.
Think how patient a weaver Fortune is,
how two cradles can yield three fates.
Out of too much water came salvation
and from too little a shining act
that, in a dark time, lit up the land.
I arrived at the Master’s cottage earlier than usual, well before noon. Hsi-wei welcomed me with fresh tea and a dish of pickled radishes. As we made ourselves comfortable on his little terrace the Master remarked on how fine the weather had been. I seized on this to ask him about his floods and drought poem.
“It’s straightforward,” I said, “and does what your work does better than anyone’s; I mean to remind those who read it of the peasants’ harsh lives. But the last stanza, if you can recall it, is obscure. It makes me think there must be some story behind it.”
“Which stanza, My Lord?” he asked politely. “You must pardon my memory. These days it often gets up from the table rudely, without excusing itself.”
Hsi-wei Tales Page 19