Fortress Besieged

by Qian Zhongshu

  Fang Hung-chien viewed Tung Hsieh-ch’üan as a very distinguished individual, so when he heard Chao Hsin-mei say Hsieh-ch’üan was the son of a famous father, he was overwhelmed and said, “Mr. I-sun is well known both at home and abroad. Mr. Tung lives up to his distinguished heritage—a man of both literary and military talents.” He thought this would be considered the highest form of praise.

  Tung Hsieh-ch’üan said, “My poetic style is different from my father’s. In his youth he followed wrong models. Even now he still hasn’t gotten away from the styles of Huang Chung-tse and Kung Ting-an28 of the Ch’ien-lung and Chia-ch’ing periods.29I started right off writing in the style of the T’ung-chih and Kuang-hsü periods.”30

  Fang Hung-chien didn’t dare venture a word. Chao Hsin-mei asked the waiter for the menu he had submitted the day before and gave it a final scrutiny. Tung also asked the waiter for a brush and ink stone, took the menu from the tea table, and quickly leafed through it. Fang Hung-chien was perplexed.

  Ch’u Shen-ming sat silently and stiffly, smiling as though contemplating something interesting in the depths of his subconsciousness. His enigmatic smile would make that of the Mona Lisa amount to nothing. Hung-chien tried to talk to him. “Mr. Ch’u, what philosophical questions have you been studying recently?”

  With a nervous expression, Ch’u shot a glance over at Hung-chien and then turned to Chao Hsin-mei. “Old Chao,31 Miss Su should have been here by now. Waiting for a woman like this—this is the first time in my life.”

  Hsin-mei gave the menu to the waiter, turned around and was about to agree, when he saw Tung Hsieh-ch’üan writing something. He asked quickly, “Hsieh-ch’uan, what are you up to?”

  “I’m composing a poem,” replied Tung, without raising his head.

  Relieved, Hsin-mei said, “Write all you want. I don’t understand poetry, but I like yours. My friend Miss Su writes excellent new-style poetry and has a great appreciation for old-style poetry. Later on, we can show her yours.”

  Tung stopped writing, tapped his forehead with his finger as if searching for a phrase, then continued writing, observing as he did so, “There’s no comparison between new-and old-style poetry. The day I was at Lu-shan32 chatting with our old family friend Mr. Ch’en San-yüan,33 we happened to start talking about poems in the colloquial style. It turned out the old fellow had read one or two new-style poems. He said Hsü Chih-mo’s poetry is interesting, but it’s only about on a level with such poets as Yang Chi34 of the Ming. Just too pitiful. Women’s poetry is second-rate at best. Among birds it’s always the male which can sing, such as the cock.”

  Hsin-mei protested, “Why do Westerners always refer to the nightingale as female?”

  Ch’u Shen-ming proved to be quite learned on the subject of the sex of birds. He said coldly, “The female nightingale can’t sing. It’s the male nightingale which sings.”

  Just as he was speaking, Miss Su arrived. Exercising his prerogative as host, Hsin-mei preempted the right to bestow his attentions on her in front of Hung-chien. After shaking hands with her, Hsieh-ch’üan did not look at her directly, for he had adopted the manner toward women of the old class of scholars, which was either unrestrained funmaking—the dallying behavior toward prostitutes—or eyes directed at the nose and the nose pointed toward the heart, not daring a level gaze—the courtesy toward the female members of a friend’s family. Philosopher Ch’u eyed Miss Su greedily, his pupils nearly imitating the German philosopher Schelling’s “Absolute,” which was “like a bullet shot from a pistol” (Das Absolute sei wie aus der Pistole geschossen), bursting from his eyesockets with double-barreled action and shattering his glasses.

  Hsin-mei said, “I also invited Mrs. Tung, but Mr. Tung said she was too busy to come. Mrs. Tung is a beauty and a good painter. She and Hsieh-ch’üan make a perfect couple.”

  Hsieh-ch’üan observed objectively, “My wife is rather pretty, and her painting is quite professional in style. The inscription on her painting, the ‘Setting Sun Buddhist Temple,’ can be found in many collections owned by the older generation. When we returned from a visit to the Dragon Tree Temple, she painted a scroll of it on which my father inscribed two ch’i-chüeh poems.35 The best two couplets were:

  ‘Who remains of the scholars of Chen-yüan times?36

  On countless Buddhist huts shines the setting sun of old.’

  Indeed, the old masters grow fewer by the day, and there seems to be a decline of talented writers.

  ‘No need to go back to the rime of K’ang-hsi and Ch’ien-lung.

  Turn around and already the T’ung-chih and Kuang-hsü seem lost.’”

  As he spoke he shook his head and sighed sadly.

  Never having heard anything like this before, Fang Hung-chien was quite intrigued, though he wondered how someone that young and Westernized could sound so much as though he lived in a bygone era. Maybe it came from imitating the poetry written in the T’ung-kuang style.

  Hsin-mei invited everyone to go in and be seated. He poured Miss Su a glass of French grape juice and said laughingly, “This is exclusively for you; we have our own liquor. Today at the table we have Shen-ming, a philosopher. You and Hsieh-ch’üan are both poets. Mr. Fang is a philosopher and a poet—both combined in one, which is even more impressive. I myself don’t have any talent. All I can do is drink a few swallows of wine. Mr. Fang, I’ll drink two catties of wine37 with you today. Hsieh-ch’üan has a big drinking capacity, too.”

  Fang Hung-chien gave a start and said, “Who said I am a philosopher and poet? And I can’t drink either, not a single drop.”

  With his hand on the liquor bottle, Hsin-mei scanned the table and said, “Today whoever declines out of politeness will be fined two glasses. All right?”

  “Agreed!” said Hsieh-ch’üan. “With such good wine as that, they’re getting off easy.”

  Finding he was unable to put a stop to it, Hung-chien said, “Mr. Chao, I really can’t drink. How about giving me some grape juice, too?”

  Hsin-mei said, “Whoever heard of a returned student from France who can’t drink? Grape juice is a lady’s drink. Shen-ming doesn’t drink because of his neurasthenia. He’s an exception. Don’t be polite.”

  With a smile, Hsieh-ch’üan said, “Since you don’t have ‘a face that could overthrow a kingdom or topple a city’ like Miss Wen-wan, and your body isn’t ‘full of aches and pains’ like Mr. Shen-ming, I think you should ‘get drunk while there’s wine.’38 All right, empty one glass first. If not a glass, then half a glass.”

  Miss Su said, “Apparently Hung-chien doesn’t drink. Since Hsin-mei is so insistent, why not oblige him by drinking just a little bit?”

  When Hsin-mei sensed Miss Su’s protectiveness of Hung-chien, he wished every drop of liquor in Hung-chien’s glass would turn to kerosene.

  Though Hsin-mei’s wish did not come true, Hung-chien, after just one swallow, already felt a line of fire stretching from the tip of his tongue down to the middle of his diaphragm. Shen-ming was only drinking tea, and his cup was still empty. The waiter brought a large bottle of Grade A P’o-nai milk and said that the milk had already been warmed in water.

  Hsin-mei gave the bottle to Shen-ming. “You pour your own. I won’t stand on ceremony with you.”

  Shen-ming poured out a glass, and pursing up his lips he took a taste of it. “Neither too hot nor too cold, just right,” he said. He then took out a bottle of some kind of foreign medicine from his pocket, counted out four pills, put them in his mouth, and drank them down with a swallow of milk.

  Miss Su remarked, “Mr. Ch’u really knows how to take care of himself.”

  Shen-ming heaved a breath and said, “How much nicer it would be if a man had no body but was all mind. I’m not really guarding my health. I’m just babying it so it won’t give me any trouble—Hsin-mei, this milk is quite fresh.”

  Hsin-mei said, “I didn’t tell a lie, did I? I know you. After the milk was delivered to my home, I kept it cold in the refrigerat
or. Since you take fresh milk so seriously, when I get a chance, I’ll take you to see our friend Miss Hsü, who runs a dairy, and ask her to let you suck your fill every day directly from the cow. I brought all the grape juice, wine, and milk we’re having today myself rather than ask the restaurant to provide them. Wen-wan, after dinner, I have a box for you. Something you like.”

  Miss Su said, “What is it?—Oh, you’re going to make me get another headache.”

  Fang Hung-chien said, “I didn’t know what you liked. Next time I can get some for you too.”

  “Wen-wan, don’t tell him,” said Hsin-mei in a haughty, jealous tone.

  Miss Su apologized for her special taste. “When I was abroad I had a yen for Cantonese duck gizzard, but it wasn’t easy to get. Last year when I got back, my brother bought some for me. I chewed so much that my temples became sore for days. Now you want to tempt me again.”

  Hung-chien observed, “Chicken and duck gizzards are never used in Western dishes. In London I saw whole boxes of chicken and duck gizzards selling so cheaply they hardly cost anything. People bought them to feed their cats.”

  Hsin-mei said, “The English don’t eat half the stuff Americans do. When it comes to food, foreigners are cowards; they don’t dare take risks, not like we Chinese, who’ll try any kind of meat. The main thing in their cooking is seasoning, while ours is frying, together with other vegetables. This is why their soups are so tasteless. They’ll boil chicken for a while, then throw out the soup and just eat the meat. It’s really a joke.”

  “Isn’t it a shame?” said Hung-chien. “When tea first went abroad, people would put a whole pound of it in a pot of water and bring it to a boil, then throw out the water, add salt and pepper, and just eat the leaves.”

  They all laughed. Hsieh-ch’üan said, “That’s just like the joke about Fan Fan-shan using chicken broth to make Lung-ching tea.39 That old family friend of ours, while serving as an official in Peking during the early years of the Kuang-hsü reign [about 1875], received a can of coffee from someone who had just returned from abroad. He thought it was snuff and rubbed off the skin of his nostrils with it. There’s a poem in his collection about it.”

  Hung-chien said, “Mr. Tung does indeed come from an illustrious family! We’re hearing all kinds of anecdotes today.”

  Shen-ming pressed down his pince-nez, cleared his throat, and said, “Mr. Fang, what was it you were asking me that time?”

  “When?” asked Hung-chien, bewildered.

  “Before Miss Su came.”—Hung-chien could not recall—“It seems you were asking me what philosophical questions I was studying, weren’t you?” To this usual question, Ch’u Shen-ming had a pat answer. Since Miss Su had not yet arrived, he had waited until now to show off.

  “Oh, yes, yes.”

  “Strictly speaking, your statement has a slight fallacy. When a philosopher encounters a question, his first step is to study the question. Is it a question or not? If it’s not, then it’s a pseudo-question which needn’t and can’t be solved. If it is a question, his second step is to study the solution. Is the traditional solution correct or should it be revised? You probably meant to ask not what question am I studying, but what question am I studying the solution of.”

  Fang Hung-chien was astounded, Tung Hsieh-ch’üan was bored, and Miss Su was confused. “Marvelous!” exclaimed Hsin-mei. “A truly thorough analysis! That’s wonderful, wonderful! Hung-chien, you’ve studied philosophy, but you should be quite willing to take a back seat today. After such an excellent discussion, we should all have a glass.”

  At Hsin-mei’s insistence Hung-chien reluctantly took a couple of swallows, saying, “Hsin-mei, I just muddled my way through a year in the philosophy department by reading a few assigned reference books. Before Mr. Ch’u I can only humbly ask for instruction.”

  Ch’u Shen-ming said, “I’m unworthy! From what you say, Mr. Fang, it seems you were taking the individual as a unit in reading philosophical works. That is only studying philosophers. At best it’s studying the history of philosophy, not philosophy itself. At most such a person could be a philosophy professor, but never a philosopher. I like using my own mind, not other peoples’, to think. I read works of science and literature, but I never read works of philosophy unless I have to. A lot of so-called philosophers these days don’t really study philosophy at all; they just study personalities or works in philosophy. Strictly speaking, they shouldn’t be called philosophers, but rather ‘philophilosophers.’”

  “‘Philophilosophers?’” said Hung-chien. “Now that’s an interesting term. Did you coin that yourself?”

  “It’s a word someone saw in a book and told Bertie about, and Bertie told me.”

  “Who’s Bertie?”

  “Russell.”

  Here was a world-renowned philosopher, who had just recently become an earl, and Ch’u Shen-ming was on such familiar terms with him as to call him by his nickname. Even Tung Hsieh-ch’üan was impressed as he asked, “Do you know Russell well?”

  “You could call us friends. He respected me enough to ask my help in answering several questions.” Heaven knows Ch’u Shen-ming was not telling a lie. Russell had indeed asked him when he would come to England, what his plans were, how many sugar cubes he took in his tea, and other similar questions that he alone could answer. “Mr. Fang, have you ever studied mathematical logic?”

  “I know that’s quite difficult, so I’ve never studied it.”

  “There’s a fallacy in your statement. If you’ve never studied it before, how can you ‘know’ it’s difficult? What you mean is, ‘I’ve heard that it’s quite difficult.’”

  Hsin-mei was about to say, “Hung-chien lost. He’s fined a glass,” when Miss Su protested on his behalf, “Mr. Ch’u is really too sharp! He’s made me too scared to open my mouth.”

  Shen-ming said, “It won’t do you any good not to open your mouth. If at heart your thinking is still confused and illogical, the cause of the disease still hasn’t been rooted out.”

  Miss Su pouted and said, “You’re really dreadful! You even want to deprive us of the freedom of our hearts. Well, I don’t think you have the ability to probe into someone else’s heart.”

  This was the first time in Ch’u Shen-ming’s life that a beautiful young woman had ever spoken to him on matters of the heart. He was so excited that his pince-nez splashed right into his glass of milk, splattering his clothes and the tablecloth. A few drops even fell on Miss Su’s arm. Everyone burst out laughing. Chao Hsin-mei pressed the button to call the waiter to come clean up. Miss Su did not dare frown as she lightly dabbed with her handkerchief at the splattered drops on her arm. Blushing scarlet, Ch’u Shen-ming wiped his glasses dry. Fortunately they had not been broken, but he would not put them on right away for fear of getting a good look at the lingering smile on everyone’s face.

  Tung Hsieh-ch’üan said, “Well, now. Though ‘water was poured before the horse,’40 still, the ‘broken mirror was made round again.’41 Shen-ming’s future marriage will certainly be full of vicissitudes. It should be worth watching.”

  Hsin-mei said, “Everyone drink a toast in advance to the good wife of our great philosopher. Mr. Fang, you drink too, even if only half a glass.”

  Hsin-mei was unaware that great philosophers have never had good wives. Socrates’ wife was a shrew and poured dirty water on her husband’s head. Aristotle’s mistress rode on him like a horse, telling him to crawl on the floor naked, and even making him taste the whip. Marcus Aurelius’ wife was an adulteress, and even Ch’u Shen-ming’s pal Bertrand Russell had been divorced several times.

  Hung-chien in fact remarked, “Let’s hope Mr. Ch’u won’t go through three or four divorces like Russell.”

  Shen-ming’s face stiffened and he retorted, “That’s the philosophy you’ve studied!”

  Miss Su said, “Hung-chien, I think you’ve had too much to drink. Your eyes are all red.”

  Hsieh-ch’üan roared with laughter.

 
“Such impudence!” exclaimed Hsin-mei. “Such remarks demand a fine of one glass!”

  So far Hung-chien had been required to take only one or two swallows when he drank a toast. Now he was fined a glass and, knowing he was in the wrong, he braced himself and gulped it down. Gradually he began to feel as if some other being had occupied his body and was doing all the talking.

  “As for Bertie’s marriages and divorces,” said Shen-ming, “I’ve talked with him about them. He quoted an old English saying that marriage is like a gilded bird cage. The birds outside want to get in, and the birds inside want to fly out. So you have marriage and divorce, divorce and marriage in endless succession.”

  Miss Su said, “There’s a French saying similar to that. Instead of a bird cage, it’s a fortress under siege (forteresse assiégée). The people outside the city want to break in and the people inside the city want to escape. Right, Hung-chien?” Hung-chien shook his head to indicate he did not know.

  Hsin-mei said, “You needn’t ask. You sounded as if you could be wrong!”

  Shen-ming said, “Whether it’s a bird cage or a besieged fortress, someone like me who’s detached from everything has no fear of a siege.”

  Under the influence of alcohol, Hung-chien had lost his self-control, as he blurted out, “Anyway, you could always pull the ‘empty-town bluff.’”42 Hsin-mei fined him another half glass of wine, while Miss Su warned him not to talk so much.