Once, in Shun, a magistrate had a problem. It was a case of robbery and assault. As he came out of a tavern, Bao Zhu-sing was struck from behind with an iron bar; he never saw his attacker. Three witnesses came forward. All had been either in or just outside the tavern and claimed to have seen Bao’s attacker. The problem was that each accused a different man. The magistrate ordered that all the accused men be arrested. He further directed the police chief to pursue certain inquiries.
Meanwhile, the magistrate questioned the three witnesses, one at a time and in private. He asked each three questions: Did your parents beat you? Have you ever broken a law? Would you call yourself wise or ignorant? Only one of the witnesses—with much blushing and staring at his feet—answered yes, yes, and ignorant. The magistrate thanked the man and told him he could be on his way. He ordered the other two witnesses held pending the result of his inquiries. Two days later, the magistrate was informed by the chief that, as he suspected, the two false witnesses were friends of the man accused by the third witness.
“So, you see, sir,” I said to the merchant, “three accused robbers, three witnesses, but only one of the former was guilty just as only one of the latter told the truth.”
Fong said nothing for a minute then broke into a half-comprehending, uncertain smile and got to his feet.
“Hmm. You’re an unusual young man, even if you are a word-thief. If your travels take you to Ch’engtu, you may come to visit. We could enjoy a good dinner and, if you want to spend the night, I promise not to stuff you in the pantry.”’
Here Hsi-wei paused and took a long pull of Sogdian wine.
“And that, I take it, is your story inside a story?” I asked.
Hsi-wei wiped his mouth. “Yes, but I promised you something more.”
“That’s right, there was to be an outside story as well. Good. There’s plenty of wine left, and I’m eager to hear the rest.”
Hsi-wei resumed in a speculative mood.
A certain cynical sage once observed to another that the greatest part of people’s thinking is devoted to rationalizing their needs. The other sage replied that the secret of success is convincing oneself that what is necessary is also virtuous. I can’t say that I agree with either; however, some weeks after the encounter at the inn, I arrived in Ch’engtu. I was shivering, hungry, and had sold three pairs of sandals in the previous ten days. I suppose accepting Fong’s invitation amounted to a necessity; and, though I didn’t care for the man’s arrogance, loud voice, or how he had provoked in me a shameful vanity, I did try to make a virtue of necessity, to rationalize my needs. I told myself that it would be impolite to refuse an offer of hospitality that was, after all, graciously extended.
After making a few inquiries in the marketplace, I found my way to Fong’s home. It was a rather showy villa, with much gold paint and a brace of stone lions at the gate that were both hideous and pretentious. I knocked and the door was opened by a young woman, modestly dressed and quite pretty. She looked me up and down with a mixture of contempt and interest. I explained why I was there.
“I’d better fetch the Master,” she said and turned, then casting a suspicious look over her shoulder, she told me to wait outside the door, which she closed.
Fong appeared soon after.
“Ah,” he said, “so it’s the peasant who makes sandals out of straw and a poet out of himself. You’ve come, then.” It was obvious that he hadn’t expected I would.
“Brrr,” he said rubbing his hands together, “it’s cold. You’d better come in.” He pointed to a corner. “Put your bag over there. Chunhua!”
The serving girl returned at once. “Master?”
“It appears we’ll have a guest for dinner. Tell Cook to prepare something a little special. Leave the choice to him.” He turned to me. “Will you be staying the night?”
I explained that I had just arrived in the city and had as yet no lodging. I told him frankly that I would be grateful for any warm space.
Fong told the girl, who was staring at me with perplexed interest, which room to prepare and she ran off.
Fong called for his wife. She was a slim woman, dressed rather like a child’s doll, and much younger than her husband. This didn’t surprise me. She didn’t look happy. Even the modest smile she gave me was melancholy.
“Her parents named her Qiao, but I call her Meifen, because she’s sweet and fragrant as a plum. Aren’t you, my dear?” Fong said this the way he might have praised a jade carving to one of his customers.
“Meifen, this fellow is our guest for the evening. I met him on the road. I know he looks like a common peasant but he’s an educated one, if you please. He even claims to be a poet. And not just any poet, my little plum, but the author of that poem about Lake Weishan everybody was talking about last year—you know, the one Shuchun liked so much.” He laughed. “I wouldn’t believe much any poet has to say, mind you, but still less one who isn’t really a poet but a vagabond who makes straw sandals. Still, he’s a clever fellow. We were drinking and I invited him to visit and he took me at my word.”
Meifen bowed to me. “You are welcome,” she whispered modestly.
After she left us, Fong told me that Meifen was his second wife. “The first one died and this one is young enough to see me through. And, if not, I can always get another.”
Just then the door opened and another young woman appeared, followed by a servant carrying two long boxes wrapped in burlap.
“My daughter Shuchun, the apple of my eye,” said Fong, who was evidently in the habit of comparing women to fruit.
“Who’s this, Father?” the girl demanded, looking hard at my clothes.
“A guest. And what are those? More silk gowns?”
“Only two, Father. The colors are new and anyway I needed them. So, who’s our dusty guest?”
As Fong explained, Shuchun looked at me pertly. She was perhaps two or three years younger than the wife, about the same age as the serving girl. “Ah, I’ve always longed to meet a poet,” she said merrily. “I’d have loved to spend an afternoon chatting in a garden with Tao Yuanming, for instance, just listening to him talk about trees and grass. But I suppose even a pretend poet is better than no poet at all.” She threw me a challenge. “You know Tao’s poetry?”
I replied with a bow and these verses:
Only by wine one’s heart is lit,
only a poem calms a soul that’s torn.
“Ah,” she said with wide eyes, obviously surprised and pleased. “Father, I know how improbable it is, but perhaps you’re wrong. Maybe he really is a poet.”
Fong scoffed. “Why? Because he can recite somebody else’s lines? He did the same with ‘Lake Weishan’ when we met. He even claimed to have written it.”
“Well,” said Shuchun casting me a sympathetic look, “just as you say, Father. As always, I bow before your wisdom.”
Fong growled, but not angrily. “Go put your things away, child. Our guest will be staying to dinner.”
“Oh, good! I’ll put on one of my new gowns! The peach one, I think.” And she was gone.
The dinner was a feast, with both fish and pork dishes, five different sauces, as well a plate of mushrooms and tiny bok choi. The serving girl, Chunhua, was attentive and made sure that I tasted everything. The daughter, Shuchun, commended the fish and ate a great deal of it. Meifen, the wife, was quiet, but appeared a little less miserable.
Perhaps Fong was showing off for the women or trying to impress me; he dominated the table talk. He spoke of his close friendship with the governor and the sound advice he’d given him about building a new bridge. He recalled youthful adventures in which he appeared both brave and able. He even attempted to quote the masters—but did so incorrectly. His daughter ventured to correct him, earning a paternal frown and an indulgent growl.
Meifen urged me to tell something of myself. I told how, as a boy, I had carried
the Emperor’s message to the southern army and how this service led to my education. The women, who had scarcely paid attention to Fong, seemed keenly interested. They asked me all sorts of questions about the South, the court, the dangers I had passed through, what the Prime Minister had looked like, my village, and why I had chosen to go on the road making straw sandals. When Shuchun wanted to know if I had left a sweetheart in the capital her father interrupted.
“Enough,” he declared. “It’s time you women retired.”
As soon as they were gone, he brought out the wine. Fong continued talking about himself for at least an hour before he noticed my yawning and and half-closed eyes.
“Can’t be the company,” Fong snapped, “must be the hour.”
And so, I was dismissed to the spare room at the back of the house. Chunhua had thoughtfully lit a fire in a small brazier and made up a bed with many cushions. In minutes, exhausted and a little drunk, I fell asleep.
Here Hsi-wei paused and rubbed his chin. “I wonder. Do you think if we could see inside our minds there would be any difference between a dream and an actual event? Isn’t it only when we wake, when we look around and see a chair, our foot, the sky, that we make the distinction? But then we don’t always wake, not fully, do we? And then the distinction turns into a muddle.”
“You mean like Zhuangzi’s dream of being a butterfly and the butterfly’s dream of being Zhuangzi?”
“Yes. Well, something of the sort happened to me in the middle of that night. I felt my shirt lifted and warm hands on my stomach—or it was a dream of hands and stomach. There was a smell of fruit, too. Plums, apples, apricots. I thought I glimpsed a half moon with winter clouds drifting across it like cobwebs. But that too could have been part of a dream. Then there was a rustling of clothing and more than hands were on me. My trousers seemed to fall away and then there was quick breathing, breasts, a low moan, smooth, entangling legs, an urgent mouth. The room was unnaturally dark—or, just as likely, I never opened my eyes. In any case, when I woke at dawn and looked about me, the cushions were scattered over the floor and under my blanket I was only half-dressed.
“I was drenched in shame. I knew what had happened but not exactly how, or with whom. Was it Chunhua the servant who had come in the night, Shuchun the daughter, or the young and unhappy wife, Meifen? Or was it none of them?
“While the household still slept, I gathered up my things and, without leaving even a short note of thanks, I fled the house and then the city… Liu, you’re looking amused.”
I said I was amused. Hsi-wei’s chastity was well known. I thanked him for the story.
“Oh, he said, that’s not the story. Not the outside one. That I made later, when I was back tramping on the road—truly outside. I wonder if you’ll see the connection. Pour out the rest of that wine and, if you like, I’ll tell it to you.”
And then Hsi-wei told me the following tale which I’ve titled Licking Dragons.
When he was little, the landlord Lin’s mother cautioned him sternly. “Changpu, you were born in winter. You must never forget that you have a Major Yin nature and so the Year of the Rat will always be dangerous, the most likely to heap misfortunes on your head.”
Lin had reason to recall his mother’s warning. It was during the last Year of the Rat that his beloved wife caught a fever and died.
Now, as the new year approached, Lin grew anxious. Bad enough that it would be a Rat Year; worse still, he was about to turn forty-four and, as everybody knows, four is the unluckiest of numbers.
Normally, Lin was not superstitious—less than most, at least. Though he could be soft-hearted, he was a hard-headed man. He was deemed a good landlord, fair-minded and never mean; he was proud of that. So, he was worried not just for himself, but for his household and tenants as well. He was also anxious about his son, off in the capital preparing to take his examinations.
Lin’s oldest servant, Deshi, who had served Lin’s father, observed how his Master cringed at the sound of thunder, the way he stared fearfully at the sky. He was troubled when Lin forbade the cook to prepare dishes with mushrooms, as mushrooms were formerly among his favorite foods. He also noted that his master was constantly asking the women to check the outbuildings for signs of fire.
Though he had known his master since his infancy, Deshi always preserved the formalities. He asked Lin for permission to speak with him privately.
“But of course,” said Changpu, who felt affection and respect for the old man and indulged his ways. He invited Deshi into the little study where he kept his accounts.
“What’s the matter? I hope you’re not unwell.”
“Someone’s not well, Master.”
“Who is it? Not the cook? Oh, it’s not little Meiling?”
“No, sir. It’s you.”
“Me?”
“Forgive my forwardness, but you haven’t been yourself of late, Master. I can see something’s got you worried. Perhaps I can help.”
Lin was embarrassed to confess to the old man his worries concerning the coming year and the bad fortune it was likely to bring. There was no one else to whom he would do so and he found it a relief.
Though not himself given to superstitions, Deshi knew all about their power.
“I believe I have a remedy,” he said.
“You do?” asked Changpu hopefully.
The old man nodded. “The best way to provide against bad luck is to ensure the good. When I was young, I heard a wise woman say that to possess a dragon made of green jade can avert both flood and drought, that it brings gentle rain and good harvests.”
Lin looked at Deshi hopefully. “Really? Must it be a big dragon?”
“No, Master. The size of the statue doesn’t matter, but it must be made of genuine Lingnan jade, solid through and through.”
If Lin was skeptical, he gave no sign of it. The next day he dispatched a messenger to his agent in Ch’engtu. A week later three merchants arrived at his home, each offering a green dragon. The sizes and prices were different and so were the dragons—one looked ferocious, another indifferent, the third was smiling. Changpu was uncertain which to buy. The old servant begged permission to offer his assistance.
“Please do,” said Lin.
Deshi hefted the first statue and made a disapproving face. “Too light,” he said, then licked it. “Too light and not from Lingnan either.”
The merchant swore it was from Lingnan and not hollow at all.
Deshi ignored him and picked up the second statue. He licked it as well. Again, he frowned.
“Not from Lingnan?” asked Lin.
“But I found it there myself,” said the merchant indignantly.
By way of reply, Deshi took a small knife from beneath his shirt and, over the protests of the merchant, scraped the statue. Flakes of green paint fell to the floor.
Deshi picked up the third carving, the smallest and most expensive, the one of the smiling dragon. He weighed it in his hand, gave it a friendly rub, then a good lick. Smiling, he presented it to Lin.
“Choose this one, Master.”
Hsi-wei stopped there.
The story made me laugh—the story and a quantity of Sogdian wine.
“You see the connection, then?” the poet asked.
“Three witnesses, three women, three dragons,” I replied. “And jade merchants from Ch’engtu.”
My old friend laughed, pleased. “And, Liu—who knows?—maybe there are three Hsi-weis as well.”
The Empire is vast, its population beyond counting; nevertheless, in my opinion, there is only one Chen Hsi-wei.
Hsi-wei’s Last Poem
From the Memoirs of The Tang Dynasty Minister, Fang Xuan-ling:
In his last years, the poet Chen Hsi-wei gave up his travels and lived in a house given him by the Governor of Chiangling, a decent man though not over-generous. The pl
ace was made of warped planks salvaged from other edifices, had only two rooms, and just enough land for a small vegetable garden. There was also a tiny walled patio at the front which the poet, expressing gratitude rather than irony, was pleased to call his courtyard. This modest dwelling was not in the city but three li outside the gates of Chiangling in the middle of a plain of farmland planted mostly with rice and onions. Nearby was a village so insignificant that it did not appear on any official register or map. Because of the single mountain that appeared to have been dropped on the land by some whimsical god, the locals referred to their region Xia Shan (Under the Mountain) and that was what they called the village as well.
Hsi-wei’s settled mode of life was as simple and unvarying as his diet, but he was not completely isolated. From time to time visitors would seek him out, admirers, poetry-loving pilgrims who knew his work, or bored travelers to whom he was pointed out as a local curiosity. The poet entertained all sorts as best he could and in the same manner: he offered his visitors tea and asked them about themselves. Thanks to these callers, Hsi-wei was fairly well informed about conditions throughout the Empire. These were the years of Yang Guang whose reign of disasters brought the Sui dynasty to an abrupt end after only two generations. Hsi-wei knew the rumors that Yang had conspired with his mother to poison his father, Emperor Wen. Now he was saddened to learn of the repression of the Buddhist monasteries, the corruption of the rigid Confucian examination system, and he saw for himself the consequences of the new emperor’s mass conscription of troops for his four ruinous wars with the Goguryeo and of laborers for his colossal engineering projects, the Grand Canal and the reconstruction of the Great Wall, the ever-rising taxes to support it all. These depredations left the land short of men, the peasants destitute and often starving. The Emperor’s own luxurious ways were spoken of with disgust, and they were shameful indeed, even allowing for the exaggerations of his enemies. Unlike his faithful father, Yang kept a large number of official concubines and was said to have had scores of unofficial ones.
During his last years, Hsi-wei wrote little; it seemed to him as if his verses needed to be composed on the move. So there were few poems, yet he still made straw sandals to barter for food or to give as presents to his neighbors. The poet made good sandals; people prized them. Though he was content to live a solitary life, when he felt the need of company Hsi-wei walked into the village. Here he sat with the old men by the well but he preferred chatting with the old women, whose complaints were more eloquent and gossip much livelier. But both the men and the women feared for the future and lamented the absence of so many young men. The old fellows told stories about their youth, the wars in which they had fought or cleverly avoided, the hardships they had endured. They glorified their romances and bragged about how strong they had been. The old women told tales too, stories of intrigue, envy, and hypocrisy; but what they liked best was to speak of their grandchildren, who were either preternaturally bright, precociously robust toddlers or lazy, disrespectful, ungrateful good-for-nothing teenagers. Hsi-wei reflected that people see history much as these peasants did their descendants. It was either a long slog steadily uphill or a chute from a golden age straight to the dung heap. People like things to have shapes. It was only the very old who could look on history as they did on nature, a steady thing punctuated by seasons of peace and war, plenty and famine, yet fundamentally unchanging and unchangeable.
Hsi-wei Tales Page 23