Our family plight may have been made worse by the actions of local officials, many of whom were tyrannical and corrupt. History books wrote of the population being “harassed” by them and fearful to return to their villages, even decades after the war had ended. A report made by the Assistant Chief Censor in 1612 blasted those who “did everything they could to torment the population; being in charge of a prefecture they made its population suffer, being in charge of a village they made its population suffer.” In the matter of examinations, local officials held wide discretionary powers. Aspirant candidates must obtain from them a certificate of good character to be allowed to sit. The law stated that the officials were entitled to refuse the certificate to “those who have violated the code of moral behavior, have acted contrary to filial piety and to harmony within the family, have committed adultery or incest, have propagated lies to sow troubles, etc . . ..” In addition to these general and wide-ranging exclusions, there were specific interdictions against “travelling actors and singers, traitors, rebels and people with a bad reputation; they, their children and grandchildren are not allowed to sit for the examinations.” The mention of actors and singers alongside traitors, rebels and other persons of bad reputation may appear strange nowadays. Those were men and women who travelled together from place to place giving musical and operatic performances on the occasion of village festivals. The exclusion here applied, of course, only to the men; women had no place in examinations and civil service, whatever their social background. The travelling artists were strongly discriminated against, the same way gypsies were in Europe, although in our country race was not involved. Confucian morality looked down on their profession and way of living as immoral and encouraging promiscuity. It was feared that their songs and music would have a pernicious influence on the people and lead them away from the right path. In practice however, their performances were very much sought after and many villages had their own opera group. One descendant of musicians became famous in the Trinh Nguyen conflict. He was Dao Duy Tu, the builder of the walls which played such a decisive role in the war. Tu left the north and put his considerable talents to the service of the Nguyen because people like him were barred from the examinations.
With such a high profile under the Mac, now in decline but still wealthy, our family was an obvious target for greedy and corrupt officials. Perhaps it was not pliable enough to their demands so the certificate of good character was not issued. Nguyen Hoang’s submission to the Le king could be conveniently ignored, while Phuc Thien’s banishment and the role played many decades ago by our ancestor Nguyen Tue in the overthrow of the Le were stressed. An injustice was not easily redressed for a family on its way down. Our people would not have kept many friends in high places, especially when they were in the bad books of the Trinh overlord.
Unable to try for a career in the civil service, our ancestors went into teaching. Nguyen Luan ran a school in Kim Bai, in our ancestral compound. His son continued after him. In those times, most villages had at least one school; those with a tradition of learning like Kim Bai had several. Retired mandarins, doctors and lesser graduates, scholars without degrees, all who wanted could teach. The system was quite liberal and allowed even mandarins dismissed from service or opponents of the regime to have their own schools. Nguyen Luan’s school was a small one of perhaps from a dozen to twenty students. Since our ancestors were not graduates, they could only teach up to what would be now the junior secondary level. Youngsters usually started school at seven or eight, but many families waited until they were older. A village school was like a big family with the teacher at its head. The students waited upon him. They prepared his tea, lighted his water pipe and tended his flower garden. They came to give a hand whenever the teacher needed them. Only families which could afford them paid fees; otherwise, teachers were presented with gifts in kind. Being wealthy landowners, our ancestors were in a fortunate position of not teaching as a means of livelihood. They taught to have an occupation and also, in the tradition of Confucian scholars, out of a sense of duty towards the young generations.
Although their academic success was a thing of the past, the Nguyen of Kim Bai continued to enjoy a great amount of prestige among scholarly circles. The name of academician Nguyen Uyen was still a byword in our region. People had not forgotten that under the Mac dynasty, ours was one of the most outstanding scholarly families in the country. Our ancestors’ school attracted promising students in Kim Bai and neighboring villages. Some of those students went on to higher studies and became mandarins. It was probably thanks to their intervention that the authorities finally stopped treating our people as “Mac followers” and examinations were again opened to them, in the next generation.
As well as teachers, Nguyen Luan and his son were known as writers. Nguyen Luan wrote under the pen name of Quang Tru-Upholder of Family Tradition. His son had as pen name Khanh Thien-Rejoicing in Goodness, a name reflecting his strong Buddhist convictions as Khanh Thien are terms often used in Buddhist preachings. A writer in those days was someone who composed poems, essays and other forms of rhythmic prose for his own enjoyment and that of his friends. His works did not need to be published; generally they were just circulated within his literary group. Very few people wrote novels which was not considered a respectable literary form. A gentleman-scholar would only write poems or essays. Over a cup of perfumed tea or around a tray of food and wine, he would recite them for his friends begging them to comment and criticize. If they really liked his poem, they would improvise other poems on the same theme and using the same rhymes. All scholars wrote poems, but to be called a writer one must have at least produced a collection of poems and these must of course be considered good enough among the literary circles of the day. The collection usually had the pen name as title. Khanh Thien Thi Tap-Collections of Poems by Khanh Thien-would be the title of our sixth ancestor’s book. Unfortunately, our family was not able to keep any of our ancestors’ writings, which were all lost in the great calamity of the eighteenth century.
Our ancestor-scholars all had several names, at least two and for some up to four. At birth, a person was given a name-for instance Luan in the case of our fifth ancestor-which, added to the family name Nguyen became his personal or real name. It appeared on his birth certificate and in all official papers concerning him. The given name, however, was rarely used within the family circle or in social intercourse. As a matter of fact, it is called in Vietnamese ten huy, or “name to be avoided.” Out of respect for others, one should avoid mentioning their given names. Children, in particular, were not to utter the names of their parents or family elders. The same rule was observed in society with regard to older people or those holding a higher social position. Naturally, ancestors’ names were not to be pronounced. When a boy I used to read aloud newspapers to my grandfather. My great-grandfather, who died at the beginning of this century, was named Dat, a word meaning “to achieve.” Whenever that word came up in an article, it had to be pronounced as dot, as if it was spelled with an “o” instead of an “a.” If I did not make the change, my grandfather would correct me. Eventually, I got it right without prompting and it became a habit. Sometimes at school, I changed dat into dot too, to the annoyance of my teacher. Fortunately, my grandfather did not extend the avoidance rule to generations before that of his father. Newspaper reading would have been impossible if I had to change the names of all past ancestors.
A scholar was generally called by his pseudonym, a name he chose for himself. In fact, anyone who wanted it could take a pseudonym and be referred to in society by that name. A pseudonym usually expressed a person’s beliefs and aspirations. Most of our ancestors had pseudonyms starting with the word phuc, a key word in our traditional system of values meaning “happiness achieved by benevolent action.” Phuc was quite popular among scholars as the first word of a pseudonym. Our sixth ancestor called himself Phuc Kiem-Good Action and Frugality. In his lifetime, he was known as Mr. Phuc Kiem, or him being a teacher as Te
acher Phuc Kiem. He could also be called by his pen name as Mr. Khanh Thien. Our foremothers also had pseudonyms which, unlike the men, they did not choose themselves. Before a mother died, her eldest son would whisper in her ear the pseudonym he had chosen for her and by which she would be referred to by her descendants, instead of her real name. Nearly all our foremothers had pseudonyms starting with the word tu, “compassion.” Thus, our fifth foremother was Tu Tai-In the Abode of Compassion-and our sixth, Tu Toan-Absolute Compassion. Tu, a term of reverence used when referring to one’s mother, appeared in female pseudonyms of most families. It is interesting to note, given the way that their pseudonyms were chosen, that the women became known to later generations by names which they did not have in their lifetime. In our family and for all early generations, we only remember of our foremothers the surnames and pseudonyms; the personal names have been forgotten as one generation after another avoided mentioning them. Only from the nineteenth century did our chronicle record in full the surnames, personal names and pseudonyms of the women.
Those of our ancestors who were writers had a third name, the pen name. Finally, some had a fourth name bestowed posthumously on them by the court as a mark of appreciation for the services they rendered as mandarins.
A traditional hierarchy existed among scholars, who were considered as belonging to one of three categories. Ranked in the first place were those who passed the examinations and put their talents to the service of their king and country. They were called hien nho, or “eminent scholars.” Public service was the ultimate aim of Confucian teaching and the way was laid down to all students in the very first of the Four Books, the Great Learning:
From the Son of Heaven to the common people, all must consider the cultivation of their person as the root of everything. . .. Your person being cultivated, you can then regulate the life of your family. Your family life being regulated, you can then rightly govern your state. Your state being rightly governed, you can then make the whole kingdom tranquil and happy.
Most eminent among the “eminent scholars” were the high mandarins. They possessed power and wealth and rose above all others in society. Our first three ancestors were such scholars, and perhaps more important to them than power, honors and wealth was the opportunity to play a part in the nation’s affairs and to leave a name behind. “Having been born to this land, I must make my name known to its rivers and mountains,” said a renowned scholar-poet. That fame Nguyen Tue, Nguyen Uyen and Nguyen Hoang all achieved in some measure. Their names were recorded in history books. Centuries after their death, descendants could still rediscover forgotten links with them and reconstruct some aspects of their lives and careers.
An nho, or “recluse scholars” came next. They were people regarded as being well-endowed with talents who, however, did not take the path of public service. Living a simple life, they devoted themselves to learning the “way” of ancient saints and sages. Some scholars just chose to become recluse, but many others did so because they were dissatisfied with the political situation or were on the wrong side of the regime in power, as in the case of our fifth and sixth ancestors. Some recluse scholars became famous as teachers or writers. Others were content to stay back in their villages and “tender their gardens.” The most “recluse” of them abandoned society completely to go up the mountains and live as hermits, in a lonely quest for Truth. As one of them wrote:
Humming to myself, I enjoy being in the far mountains,
Where apricot trees are dear friends and cranes old acquaintances.
One of the most celebrated recluse scholars in our history was the prophet Nguyen Binh Khiem. For several decades in the first half of the sixteenth century, he chose to keep away from examinations and public service because those were troubled and disorderly times. Only under the good king Mac Dang Doanh did he finally come out of reclusion to win the title of First Laureate in 1535. Immediately, he was given high office but, after only eight years as an “eminent scholar,” he resigned to return to his village. He spent the rest of his life teaching, writing, wandering in the mountains to visit Buddhist temples and engaging in religious discourse with the monks. Here are some lines he wrote:
I am stupid, I seek a place out of the way,
While clever people go where the bustle is.
Coming to the foot of a tree, I will sip my wine,
And look upon wealth and position as only a dream.
Finally, there were scholars who failed the examinations and could not become mandarins. Without a diploma, they could only teach, or go into a minor profession such as village scribe, astrologer or geomancer. Many were poor and lived a life of privation. They were called “impoverished scholars,” or to use the literal translation of the Vietnamese term han nho, “shivering scholars” who lacked clothes to keep them warm in winter. Still, they kept up the pursuit of scholarship and upheld “the way of Confucius and the ancient sages,” and in so doing, commanded the respect of society. It would be the lot of some later generations of ours to know poverty and to shiver as the year came to its end and the cold wind returned from the north.
Most recluse scholars were inspired by the mystical appeal of Taoism, but our recluse ancestors leaned towards Buddhism. In their time, the religion had lost the privileged position and royal patronage it enjoyed under the former dynasties of the Ly (1010-1225) and the Tran (12251400). The Ly kings were devout Buddhists who built more than three hundred temples. “Wherever there is a site of great beauty, there is a temple,” an inscription from that period reads. Buddhist priests held important positions at the court. In the following Tran dynasty, several kings abdicated to devote their time to religion. But Buddhism started losing the support of the monarchy and the scholars’ class at the end of the Tran. It fell further under the Le (1428-1527), when Confucianism gained preeminence and became the national “teaching.” In the time of our first three ancestors, knowledge of Confucian texts, and them only, was required for the civil service examinations. Taoism was not taught at school and it was left to the scholars to learn for themselves the works of Lao Tzu and Chuang Tzu. As for Buddhism, it was shunned and openly criticized by officialdom, as shown in the following comments made by the official historian of the Le in the History of the Dai Viet. Writing about Tran Thanh Ton, a king of the former dynasty who ruled the country for twenty stable and peaceful years, the historian duly praised him for “having regard for the wise and respect for the learned . . . [thus] strengthening the foundations of the House of Tran.” He then added this disparaging remark: “But he became obsessed with the religion of liberation [Buddhism], which was not a good way for a king to govern.”
However, Buddhism remained strong in the country among the common people and particularly the women. In our family, it was the women who went to the temples to make offerings and to pray. Our scholar-mandarins did not practice the religion, but unlike the historian quoted above, they would have shown it due respect as being one of the “three traditional teachings” and out of the consideration for their mothers’, wives’ and sisters’ beliefs.
My Hanh, the wife of our fourth ancestor, came into a family which had been struck by misfortune and tragedy. After Nguyen Hoang’s death and Phuc Thien’s tribulations with the Trinh, the Nguyen of Kim Bai had lost their mandarinal status. She brought with her a strong Buddhist faith and her religious attitude would have a profound impact on our next generations. My Hanh was a “religious at home,” meaning that she followed Buddha’s teachings without having to become a nun and to leave home and family. Lord Buddha was once asked whether lay men and women leading a normal family life could attain high spiritual states. He replied in the affirmative. Not only one or two persons or a few hundreds could do so, but many, many more, he stressed. Buddhism gave to every adept the possibility to realize Nirvana. Traditionally, a practicing Buddhist was one who took the Three Gems-the Buddha, his Teaching and the Order of Monks-as “refuges” and daily observed the Five Abstinences-not to destroy life, not to steal
, not to commit adultery, not to tell lies and use indecent language, not to take intoxicating drinks. With the Three Refuges and Five Abstinences, a Buddhist could go into a personal quest for liberation in the privacy of his or her home. The practice was quite common in Vietnam and has continued to this day. Popular wisdom considered it as even more praiseworthy than retiring from life and entering a religious order. A proverb says:
Firstly, are those who practice their religion at home.
A Vietnamese Family Chronicle Page 36