Hsi-wei Tales

by Wexelblatt, Robert;

  Some of the bandits objected and the captain let them speak. But once they were done, he made a short speech.

  “These children are just what you would be, if you had been born only a few years later. They’re poor and hungry; they’re without parents and hopeless.” From his horse, with his hand on his hip, he looked over the gang. “Do you withdraw your objections?”

  There was silence.

  “Good,” said the captain. “Now, the casket’s heavy—make them a litter so they can carry it back to their village.”

  In the morning, Mei sat watching Hsi-wei work at the sandals.

  “You’ve never been to Xingyun? Really?”

  “Never heard of it,” he said. The poet pretended not to know the story so that Mei could have the pleasure of telling it to him.

  Mei said her favorite part was when the four children arrived in the village of Xingun with the casket full of bright new coins. They shouted, “Good news! Good news!” And everybody came out to see, young and old. The littlest children jumped up and down and clapped their hands.

  “But everyone was very thin,” said Mei seriously.

  Hsi-wei saw no need to point out that Mei and her sister were hardly fat.

  “When they saw the casket full of money, everybody was so happy. They began talking about the wonderful things they could buy. Only one old man looked on with a frown.” Mei also frowned and made her voice as low as she could. ‘Where did you get these coins?’

  “So, the children told everything that happened—the looking for mushrooms, the attack on the convoy, the bandits grabbing hold of them and then how their captain gave them the casket of money to bring back to Xingyun.

  “The children said, ‘It’s for everyone.’ But the old man shook his head and said there was going to be trouble.”

  All versions of the story agree that, when he heard about the casket of coins in Xingyun and how they had come to be there, the prefect ordered a detachment of cavalry to place the children of the village under arrest. And this was done. They were taken to the local capital, put in jail, and would have suffered hunger and cold if the local women had not taken pity and brought food and blankets.

  A date was set for the trial. Everybody was sure the prefect, who had been unable to recover the shipment of coins or find the bandits, would impose the most severe punishment on the children.

  But then something unexpected happened. In accord with his reform of the civil service, Emperor Wen sent out a new prefect who took over just days before the trial of the children. The deposed prefect was furious but could do nothing except to insist that his successor, who knew so little of the region and its problems, permit him to prosecute the thieves who had stolen the Emperor’s new coins. The new prefect, who had been well informed as to the character of his predecessor, courteously agreed, and the trial went forward as scheduled.

  The former prefect turned prosecutor delivered a speech packed with fury, indignation, and innuendo. He asserted without proof that the children—indeed the entire population of Xingyun—had been working hand in glove with the bandits, spying for them, letting them know when the Wu Zhu convoy would be coming through the region, warning them of the authorities’ pursuit. “How else can we explain why the bandits are still at large? My Lord, the guilt of these children is self-evident. We found the casket and the coins in the village. They didn’t even deny where they had come from. Judgment must be swift and severe. We all know how precarious our current stability is. The Emperor needs to deter anyone who would undermine his divine plans or subvert his projects. These children should be sent to work on the Grand Canal. What’s more, the village of Xingyun should be razed and its remaining denizens scattered, exiled to distant provinces.”

  Mei’s second favorite part of the story was what happened next.

  The new prefect courteously thanked his predecessor for so forcefully presenting the prosecution’s case. He then turned to the four children and, in a tone that was not unkind, asked if they could defend themselves.

  The oldest child (in Mei’s version, it was a girl) spoke up in an even, clear voice.

  “My Lord, what he just said about finding the coins in the village is true; but other things he said are not true. We have three arguments to offer before we submit ourselves to your judgment, as we have to do.”

  “Go on,” said the new prefect with an encouraging smile.

  “First, we didn’t have anything to do with the bandits. We didn’t tell them about the coin wagon. We couldn’t have since we knew nothing about it ourselves. We didn’t steal anything. The casket of coins might as well have been found by us beside the road.”

  The prefect cocked his head at this last assertion. “Your defense is that you didn’t steal but that you received stolen goods?”

  “Stolen, My Lord? Only moved from one place to another, which was exactly what the Emperor is trying to do. In fact, that’s our second argument.”

  “It is? Well, let’s hear it.”

  “Second, the Emperor’s aim is to spread the new coins over the whole Empire. And to do that, people need the coins to spend, to give one another. For example, the people of Xingyun want to buy six pigs from the people of Haoqin and ten geese from the people of Luangxi and now we can. Isn’t that fulfilling the purpose of the Son of Heaven?”

  The prefect smiled. “And the third argument?”

  “Third and last. Let’s say that we obtained the coins because of a theft—though we didn’t commit it. Let’s also say that this theft was from the State—even though the State didn’t want to keep the coins but to distribute them as widely as possible. Now, because we accepted a casket of these coins, we’re accused of stealing from the State. But, My Lord, what if we look at the ledger? My aunt told me that a good bookkeeper must have more than a single column.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The child stood up even straighter and looked bravely at the new prefect, a man who may have seen the Emperor himself, who may even have heard his voice, a man of real authority, come from the Imperial capital. “Just this, My Lord: if we have stolen from the State, what has the State stolen from us? What have we children lost because of the Grand Canal and the Great Wall and the war in the south and the ones north? What has the Empire stolen from us, My Lord? Hasn’t it taken our parents, our aunts and uncles, our cousins, our rice, our future, our hope….” The child broke off, overcome.

  “Is that all?

  “Yes,” said the child in a shaking voice but standing firm. “That’s all we have to say.”

  It was the next day when the prefect announced his decision. So many gathered to hear it that the reading of the verdict had to be moved to the marketplace.

  “It is our judgment that the village of Xingyun may lawfully spend the Wu Zhu coins which came into their possession by accident rather than theft. In return, the people shall hand over to the government all other abolished currency they may have in their possession. In addition, we declare the village of Xingyun exempt from all taxes and conscriptions for a period of five years.”

  “The cheering was loud and it lasted a long time,” declared Mei with satisfaction.

  When Hsi-wei was ready to depart, he thanked Mrs. Huan, Bao, and Mei for their hospitality. Bowing before each, he handed them their fine new sandals. Inside one of Mei’s, Hsi-wei had put a small scroll on which he had copied out the verses written over the two nights of his stay. This poem was later banned by Emperor Yang but nonetheless continued to circulate among the people who called it “The Village of Xingyun.”

  When a new owner takes over a neglected villa

  He wants everything set to rights at once:

  The cobwebs cleaned from the corners, the broken tiles

  From the courtyard, the scarlet pillars freshly painted, the garden

  Planted with peonies for springtime and chrysanthemums for fa
ll.

  With light hearts the servants set to work to make

  The house spotless and beautiful, with peonies in springtime,

  Chrysanthemums in autumn, and rice the whole year through.

  A promising start indeed, if only the master didn’t long

  For a larger house, for water gardens, and thicker walls.

  High in the Yellow Mountains or down in the Yangtze valley,

  In the arid air of Jizhou or the humid haze of Yangzhou,

  In Mizhou, Liangzhou, or perhaps in Ba-Han,

  The village saved by children and a humane prefect, still stands

  Under Heaven. There all are safe and fed, awaiting the return

  Of loved exiles. Huan Mei, who wouldn’t wish to visit Xingyun?

  Hsi-wei and The Three Threes

  Before retiring to his cottage outside Chiangling, the peasant-poet Chen Hsi-wei had always been on the move. When the news spread that he was able to receive visitors, several came. Among the most welcome was Liu Qing-sheng, who, before his own retirement, had been a second minister in the last years of the Sui dynasty. Liu and Hsi-wei had been pupils together under Shen Kuo, an exacting and formidable master. As the two friends shared recollections, both noted that the pains of their youth were somehow more delightful to recall than the pleasures. “The alchemy of age,” Hsi-wei mused, “is magical. It seems to have transmuted resentment of our Master’s sarcasm and fear of his bamboo cane into something almost like affection.”

  Liu had brought along with him two large jars of Sogdian wine, a recent and prized import. Hsi-wei thanked his guest and reminded him of what his namesake, the Daoist poet Liu Ling, had written of himself. I was born Liu Ling, and wine is my name. Each time I drink I down a hundred liters. Then, to sober up, I drink another fifty.

  The two old men laughed and patted each other on the shoulder. Liu suggested that they honor his namesake by polishing off both jars before they parted and they vowed to do so. With nostalgia exhausted and his tongue loosened by the wine, Liu discarded all discretion and regaled his host through the afternoon and evening with stories of a decade of court scandals. When he had finished, he asked the poet to tell him a story in recompense. Hsi-wei smiled and said such a debt deserved to be repaid with interest. “So, tomorrow I’ll tell you a story with one story inside of it and another on the outside.”

  What follows is the account of Hsi-wei’s tale as Liu Qing-sheng recorded it in his memoirs.

  ***

  Many years ago, Master Hsi-wei began, I spent a memorable night in Ch’engtu as the guest of a jade merchant by the name of Fong Cheng-li. We had met at an inn on the road near the border of Chiennan province. It was wintertime and the demand for straw sandals had fallen as rapidly as the snow and as low as the temperature. I hadn’t enough money for a room, but I needed to find something; it was too cold to sleep out of doors. Fong and I arrived at the inn at almost the same time. He was a heavy-set man, twenty years my senior, with two servants and a loud voice. He tramped into the inn, shouted for the proprietor, demanded the inn’s best room for himself and something suitable for his servants. The innkeeper quailed before him; perhaps he was deafened. As for me, I promised the innkeeper two pairs of sandals if he would let me to bed down; anywhere would do. He took pity and said I could have the small pantry behind the kitchen, but I would have to be up at dawn.

  Fong sent his servants to see to the horses, ordered wine for himself and looked around for company. The innkeeper was preparing the rooms so there was no one but me.

  “Well, come and join me.” It was more a command than an invitation. “Your company can’t be worse than this wine.”

  “Very well,” I said.

  “Tell me about yourself? No, let me guess. Rice farmer? Pigs? No? I wouldn’t call you big but you look strong enough to be a porter.”

  “I make straw-sandals. I’m an itinerant.”

  Fong looked disappointed. “As for me, I deal in jade, the finest. I just wound up a buying trip. Now I’m taking my wares home where I’ll sell them for considerably more than I paid.”

  “That is the work of a successful merchant.”

  Fong looked askance at me. “You’re a sensible man.”

  “I too am a merchant, sir.”

  “A merchant of straw,” he scoffed.

  “Not of straw, sir, but of sandals made from straw. The work is what creates value. I presume you look for good workmanship when you’re buying jade carvings?”

  “That’s true. The jade has to be of good quality but it’s the workmanship that sells.”

  “It’s the same with poetry,” I said. “Words are common enough; it’s putting them in the right order that counts.”

  Fong laughed like a donkey. “So, you like poetry?”

  “Without poetry, life would feel like a mistake,” I said simply.

  This drew a curious look. “A peasant who sells cheap sandals yet cares about poetry. Not something found every day. You know how to read, then?”

  “I do.”

  “A peasant who reads—that’s like one of those birds that are trained to talk.”

  I pointed to the bottle. “A parrot is like this wine jar; it can’t put out what isn’t put in. But, as a craftsman transforms jade into maidens and tigers, learning can change a peasant,” I said sharply. “A trained bird doesn’t write poems.”

  Fong laughed again. “What? You write poems too? Now this is something unexpected indeed! Recite one of your poems for me.”

  I recited for him.

  Fong struck the table. “But I know that poem. It’s called ‘Yellow Moon at Lake Weishan’.”

  I was surprised. “You know it?”

  “Everybody knows it. It’s one of my daughter’s favorites. But you didn’t write it.”

  “Who did?”

  “Well, certainly not you, you scoundrel. The poet’s a fellow named Chen Hsi-wei—not an educated peasant like you, but a magistrate somewhere up north. A business acquaintance told me he met the man himself, said he was just as fat as I am!”

  I couldn’t help feeling a little pleased that my poem had found admirers but I was disturbed by the news of this other Hsi-wei, the fat magistrate up north. Fong was drinking a lot; maybe he had gotten things mixed up. But then I had a nauseating thought. Perhaps there really was another Chen Hsi-wei, claiming to be the author of my verses. Maybe there were even more Hsi-weis. I felt as if the floor had opened up beneath me.

  Fong laughed. “You claim to have written this poem everybody knows. If you’re a poet, then recite a different poem for me.”

  I probably should have excused myself there and then and gone to sleep in the pantry. But I was indignant. I discovered that I had more vanity than I thought and felt compelled to answer the man’s challenge. I thought for a moment then recited the poem that’s become known as “The Cruelty of Springtime.” I chose it because no one else knew of it at the time—it still felt too personal to circulate—and because of the comparison in the third verse.

  Blossoms unfold overnight.

  Hills change from ugly brown to

  the pale green of Lingnan jade.

  The weightless air bears intoxicating

  scents of manure and turned soil.

  Ducklings waddle behind their mothers,

  plop into ponds refreshed by rain.

  Horses stamp on the dried-out roads.

  Armies begin to march.

  I too take to the road in springtime,

  indifferent to peril, ineptly sealing up

  a heart fissured by departure.

  I suppose in springtime all men must

  go to war, each in his own way.

  Fong put down his cup and stared at me, his mouth gaping.

  I was ashamed of trying to prove myself and yet I went on doing so, perhaps because o
f the wine. “I wrote that poem when I was leaving the capital, when I first took to the road.”

  Fong’s brow furrowed and he scratched his head. “This isn’t the sort of conversation I was expecting,” he said.

  “What were you expecting?”

  He chuckled. “Oh, something about the weather. The usual complaints about the government.”

  “Sorry to have disappointed you,” I said curtly and got to my feet. I wished him a good night and thanked him for the wine, then excused myself and headed for the pantry.

  I was up at first light but, as I was preparing to leave, the proprietor came and told me that one of the jade merchant’s servants had asked to have me wait. His master wanted to see me. I was in no hurry to get out into the cold and so I sat myself on a stool in the kitchen.

  Fong stuck his head in. “There you are,” he said.

  “It’s warm here. Why not?”

  “Look, there’s no doubt that you’re a remarkable specimen,” he said. “All men must go to war, each in his own way. That’s not bad. I confess it caught me. And some Lingnan jade really is just the color of hills when the first leaves come out. I thought about it last night. You could be giving me somebody else’s poem, like that trained bird we spoke of. So, I still don’t believe you’re this poet Chen Hsi-wei. He’s that magistrate up north.”

  I shrugged. “As you wish, sir. We can leave it at that. But, before I go, I’d like to tell you a little story about a magistrate. It might interest you.”

  “Fine. I don’t mind letting the world warm itself a little. Let’s have some tea, then, before we go our ways.”

  He shouted for the innkeeper to bring tea then hollered to his servants. “Take your time getting the horses ready.”

  Here is the story I told the jade merchant.