In life, no happy time lasts forever. In my second year at the institute, the days I felt like singing and when my fingers flew over the keys of my typewriter came to an abrupt end.
Huang Fa’ce, who had been in charge of the textbook group, resigned on account of illness, but the work couldn’t stop for a day. The textbook group was not simply in charge of compiling, writing, printing, and publishing of all the middle school textbooks, they also had a sword of political correctness hanging over their heads. Director Wang put me in charge to make sure things kept running as usual—this in addition to my other duties—while he looked for a suitable replacement. In order to help him out in a difficult situation, I took charge of the operations of the textbook group.
At the time, there was only one set of authorized textbooks in Taiwan. In 1968, President Chiang Kai-shek implemented nine-year compulsory education, with interim textbooks to be compiled by the institute and fully authorized editions to be printed in 1972. That was the year I followed Director Wang in through the gate on Zhoushan Road.
Every middle school in the country had to implement nine-year compulsory education; therefore, the Ministry of Education wisely decided that there would be a three-year transition period in which interim textbooks would be used, during which time actual recommendations from teachers and the concrete response from public debate would serve as the most helpful basis upon which the institute would go on to compile the authorized textbooks. When we first took charge, the institute was the biggest target for public opinion. Nothing was right, especially with textbooks—the compiling, writing, printing, and publication all had problems. Every column in the magazines and newspapers, large or small, took delight in execrating the national textbooks and their production, saying everything from “stultifying and misleading the people” to “vacillating on the national textbooks.” At the institute someone was in charge of collecting all of these, any putative comment up to and including questions from the Legislative Yuan. There were enough clippings to fill a notebook each week.
Our greatest difficulties came with the first set of authorized Chinese textbooks, which seemed to have been everyone’s focus. In three years, public opinion was highly critical of the six volumes of interim textbooks for the three years of junior middle school. Apparently, the selected texts were inappropriate and the levels of difficulty were all wrong. However, and more frankly, it was claimed that the students simply weren’t interested in the textbooks. Which lessons, in fact, were inappropriate or wrong? Why weren’t the students interested? No one offered any concrete suggestions; they just beat around the bush and kept making appeals: Save the children! Let them know the joys of reading! Develop in them a free and lively character! In all the criticism, no one came right out and said that the interim texts contained too many party, government, and military pieces. Even if someone dared to write as much, no periodical or newspaper would dare print it.
Before arriving at the National Institute for Compilation and Translation, I did some research on the work I was going to be doing. In Taichung I had quite a few teacher friends, which placed them truly among the people. The various editorial advisory boards had been newly formed, and experts and scholars in tune with the times could be considered and recruited, not just the big names from the past. In this regard, Director Wang and I had both spent years on campus, so we ought to have had sufficient insight and decision-making ability. One of my jobs was to handle the plans for compilation and writing for the various areas of the humanities. I had to work simultaneously running the textbook group and planning, including the formation of various editorial advisory boards, as well as decide on the content of textbooks. In 1972 that was a job of not only academic decision making but also political decision making.
The first thing I did was to carefully read and analyze the contents of the temporary textbooks. I wondered what group of “scholars” had edited the books and with what sort of “correct politics.” I realized what an enormous challenge I was facing, but it was too late to turn back. I could only move forward.
The first thing I had to do was form a new editorial committee, and to hire a scholar with seniority and prestige, and backbone, to be in charge. He would have to not only produce textbooks of quality but also be able to ward off any attacks from the old guard. I had Professor Qu Wanli (1907–1979), head of the Chinese department at NTU, in mind. He was a first-rate scholar and a serious and dignified presence on campus.
Fate works in mysterious ways. At the time, the twenty-seven-year-old Ke Qingming was Professor Qu’s teaching assistant. Sincere and enthusiastic, he was also the chief editor of Modern Literature, the literary journal founded by Bai Xianyong and others in the Department of Foreign Languages at NTU. He had a profound knowledge of Taiwan literature and was an enthusiastic proponent.
Ke Qingming was very interested in what the institute hoped to accomplish, understood its importance, and, as editor of Modern Literature, provided a great deal of assistance, including compiling a list of works and making selections. Through his assistance we were able to set up channels of contact with the writers. Aware of the importance of universal education, he also agreed to speak to Professor Qu and help convince him to take on the important task of editing the textbooks. Eventually, Professor Qu agreed to see me at his office.
We had a lengthy conversation about the shortcomings of the old textbooks as well as public opinions and hopes. It our responsibility to edit the books, but also to inspire a younger generation for the sake of the future of the culture of the nation, and we had to move beyond politics to do so. I clearly recall Professor Qu sitting in his old office, taking a deep drag on his cigarette, and then sighing and saying, “Okay! I’m in. I’ll join you in this difficult enterprise and board your rebel ship.”
Professor Qu took charge of the new committee that was composed of professors from NTU, the Normal University, and Zhengzhi University as well as middle school teachers. To have the first two volumes ready in a year, the manuscripts had to be finalized by the coming August. The meeting rooms at the institute were therefore occupied every day, and sometimes even into the night.
As a result of all this work, several generations of students since 1973 have had real Chinese textbooks and not political propaganda materials. Professor Qu devoted substantial time and energy to this valuable task, but unfortunately, when he passed away, few obituaries mentioned his contributions in this regard.
Society was just starting to open up in those days, and a heavy political atmosphere permeated cultural circles. The Ministry of Education’s Chinese and history textbooks were often the focus of public scrutiny. By chance I found myself in the maelstrom and had to observe the turmoil around culture from different angles, and even at times the danger. After setting up the committee, I began to become aware of some of the hazards. Zhang Jieren, a senior official at the institute who at one time worked for the Northeast China Association, knew me as a sickly child given to tears. Learning that I had joined the institute, he asked me, “What brings you to this sort of place?” I later surprised him by no longer being prone to crying, because before coming to this sort of place, I had experienced a good many difficulties.
My first experience in not crying came shortly after the proposed contents of the first two Chinese textbooks had been submitted for committee review. The director of the institute gave me a memo from the Ministry of Education demanding that I reply to Lin Yi, a member of the review committee. He was troubled by the direction our editing had taken, criticized us for losing sight of the national consciousness, for selecting juvenile modern poetry and translated reports, and for a lack of refined taste. The director had me first pay Professor Lin a visit and explain things in person. At the appointed time, I arrived at his residence. Entering the living room, I was not asked to take a seat, nor did we exchange pleasantries; instead, I was severely reprimanded for the contents because they went counter to educational policy. For example, Yang Huan’s new poem “Night” compa
red the newly risen moon to a coin, which went beyond reasonable limits, because it taught children to think of money when they saw the moon; the passage selected from Journey to the West was bad because it was the one that showed the monkey stealing the divine peaches; and what literary value did Shen Fu’s writing about the joys of his childhood have? I was just starting to explain when he seemed to become even angrier, and said, “The way I see it, even the mainland textbooks are better than the ones put together by you new people and your new administration.” As he was speaking, he went to the other room and came back with a junior high textbook from Communist China to show me. In a fit of inspiration, I replied, “Well, may I ask you to loan this book to me so that the committee can use it for reference? I will let them know it was your idea.” He suddenly must have realized that this woman from a foreign languages program who dared to take on this job was not all that simple. And now his praise for the textbooks of the “Communist bandits” might just prove troublesome for him, for if I persisted, then perhaps he would be hauled in to face an “inquisition.” So he asked me to sit down, and in the gentle tone of a modern policeman asked me where I was from, with whom I had come to Taiwan, whether I was married, what my husband did, and what schools my three sons were attending. Finally, he asked quite respectfully who my father was. I told him my father’s name and what he did. Much to my surprise, he said, “Why didn’t you say so earlier? Committee member Chi and I are like brothers!” Then he shouted to the other room, “Bring some tea, good tea.”
For the more than thirty years that we lived on Lishui Road, I kept the six volumes of the Chinese textbooks as well as the two thick volumes of An Anthology of Contemporary Chinese Literature in the place of honor on my desk so that I could see them at all times. They were graced with the calligraphy of Tai Jingnong, which I had requested. The textbooks were finally delivered to my office on the National Taiwan University campus by Teacher Tai. I don’t even recall how I thanked him. I do recall that he encouraged me by saying, “It takes guts to compile textbooks the way you have done.” Such a show of support was worth more than a thousand accolades.
RED LEAVES, STONE STEPS: REMEMBERING QIAN MU
There are often marvelous turns in the course of events. As a student at Wuhan University, I never had the chance to listen to Professor Qian Mu lecture. Unexpectedly, after I went to work for the institute, I had the opportunity to meet him on account of the “Martial Sage Yue Fei Incident.”
Before I arrived at the institute, they had received a manuscript for the University Series from Lin Ruihan, a history professor at National Taiwan University. The book was still under consideration and publication was still up in the air. However, a newspaper reported:
Professor Lin Ruihan’s A General History of China, which is a required text for all NTU freshmen, actually maligns Yue Fei, saying he defied authority and that as a general, when he was far away from court he was unwilling to obey the emperor’s orders unless he received the urgent delivery of twelve gold tablets a day. That Gao Zong, the Song emperor, had him executed was not such a simple matter. Finding that such disrespectful language is actually found in teaching materials at NTU, and, to make matters worse, that the Institute of Compilation and Translation will soon publish Professor Lin’s A Synopsis of Song History has shaken the principles of the nation.
A certain Li, who referred to himself as a fellow townsman of Yue Fei, wrote a series of pieces in which he said, “Insulting the Military Sage as you have done makes you ingrates!” A legislator by the name of Wu Yanhuan was even more strident in his abuse. Under the pen name “Shihuan” (Return Oath), he made constant attacks in a column for the Central Daily News, and brought it formally before the Legislative Yuan, demanding a response from the institute. The newspapers continued to publish abusive articles, with one going so far as to print: “It was learned that the person in charge of this matter is a woman and a high school graduate with no background in literature and history.” Director Wang, who had been a history professor himself, knew that there wasn’t a single scholar in any university who was willing to bear the scrutiny and who could stem this politically motivated tide. He told me to pay a visit Qian Mu, who had just relocated in Taiwan from Hong Kong, and ask him to act as an arbitrator and offer a few words of guidance on the institute’s position.
I was hesitant to do so, and Director Wang, who had always been so polite to me, said, “It can’t be helped, you’ll just have to go, regardless of the inconvenience.”
In Taiwan, Qian Mu’s residence was called Sushulou and was located on a hillside behind Dongwu University at Waishuangxi, Shilin, that was reached via a pathway of stone steps built into the hillside. Just as I was wondering how I had wound up in such a position, the car arrived at Waishuangxi, then we took the Dongwu University road to the end, where I rang the bell at the gate. From there, I went up the stone steps with some trepidation. When Qian Mu came out and before I had taken a seat, he said, “I already said on the phone that I won’t serve as reviewer.” Embarrassed, I stammered, “I only arrived at the institute three months ago from the university. This manuscript was left by the previous person, and up until now, there has been unremitting unfavorable public opinion. Would you please have a look so that we can break the impasse?” Probably out of sympathy on his part, Qian Mu took the manuscript and placed it on a small table. After thanking him, I left hastily and practically ran down the stone steps, figuring I probably wouldn’t ever need to come back.
Unexpectedly, three days later, I received a call from Qian Mu asking Professor Lin Ruihan to come over for a talk. A few days later, Professor Lin himself visited the institute with a twenty-two-page manuscript in his small, neat hand that incorporated six new sources of information provided by Qian Mu during their talk, to supplement the section on Yue Fei. The material was substantial and reliable, which provoked a lot of discussion.
And so began eighteen years in which I was destined to climb these stone steps to visit him. After that spectacular Yue Fei Incident came the compilation of the middle school Chinese textbooks, followed by a new edition of the high school History of Chinese Culture, each project in the media spotlight. At that time, I served as head of both the Humanities and the Textbook sections, and at any time could be hauled in to face an inquisition. Fortunately, with my family background and having gone through such tempestuous times, my father and brother often made light of my situation, saying that with such a minor position but with troubles daily in the papers, I must keep in mind President Chiang’s directives and always “Respect the homeland and strengthen the self” and “Respond to change without fear.” My father had told me, “You are such a timid girl; you are always afraid of change.” I never thought that in the seventies, the institute would become my research institute for courage.
Actually, public opinion is not one-sided. Lots of people are idealistic innovators who hope for academic neutrality. At that time, such hopes were alive with members of the older generation such as Tao Baichuan, Huang Jilu, Chen Lifu, and Wang Shijie, who all praised junior and senior high textbooks based on literary sentiment rather than the propagation of political ideas. At least Luo Pingyun, Minister of Education at the time, was supportive. When I finally got up the courage to speak about the ideals behind editing the books, it was to Qian Mu and not the “Master of the Studies of Ancient Chinese Civilization” of great reputation. His face was gentle, and when he listened to someone speak, he was calm and thoughtful, which was also encouraging.
From the start, I diligently carried out official business, climbing those stone steps to deliver books and manuscripts, and to ask for advice; later, after he learned that I was Zhu Guangqian’s student, he talked about how he had lectured at Wuhan University in Leshan, Sichuan. I told him that I had heard from the upperclassmen how they went to the auditorium by torchlight for his class. After that, he often talked with me about those days. When there was no official business, I’d pay him a visit on New Year’s Day and his birt
hday, until he was forced to leave Sushulou. In eighteen years, I walked up and down those stone steps, on either side of which grew tall maple trees, hundreds of times. In 1985 when I was hospitalized after my accident, his wife came to visit me and told me that he had been worried about not seeing me. A year later, I went to see him and slowly climbed those stone steps and saw that the ditch was filled with red maple leaves, something rarely seen in Taiwan.
Of course he had to face the various crises that arose around the time of Chiang Kai-shek’s death in 1975. He recalled the turbulence during the War of Resistance and, with the mind-set of a historian, sigh with emotion that his hope for a stable China was lost. He had completed his A General History of China when Kunming and Chongqing were being bombed by the Japanese and the bloody fighting had yet to end. In the preface to that work, he wrote: “That we can speak of a war of resistance and establishing a country despite the unworthiness of the people and the backwardness of the culture is because our traditional culture still exists.” Reading his essay, I understood why he left Hong Kong and came to Taiwan at the invitation of Chiang Kai-shek, because he thought he could live out his final years in peace. Like so many other Chinese people in those days, he believed the nation would be saved after eight years of war and that after 1950 Taiwan was still the bastion of Chinese culture.
Although I’m not a historian, I am interested in culture, especially the influence of intellectuals in times of political crisis. In my university days, A General History of China was one of my textbooks, and I have reread it at many stages in my life. I recently learned that the book is now once again required reading in mainland China. If that is the case, then after half a century of turbulence and human cruelty, it should have an even greater influence in terms of kindness and self-esteem.
I recall twenty years ago sitting at the table, sometimes just the two of us, sometimes with his wife present, listening to Qian Mu speak, analyzing Chinese culture in different ways during different crises. When he spoke, sometimes he was calm, sometimes passionate, and sometimes indignant. In his Wuxi accent, he frequently spoke of Chinese culture but was never hard to understand.
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