A Vietnamese Family Chronicle

by Nguyen Trieu Dan

  Our foremother courageously took up the role of family support. Her husband did not leave any money. All his business in the south was lost. The family had a few acres of ricefields handed down from previous generations; in his lifetime, our ancestor did not acquire any land other than the additions to the family compound. Of course, there were the newly-built ancestral home and guest house, but these and the land of the compound, our foremother was determined not to part with, in however straitened circumstances the family would find itself. She was nearly fifty when the bad news reached home. Life had been easy for her and she was looking forward to a leisurely old age. But now she got down to work, without uttering a complaint. Every day, she carried her baskets to the market, to earn a meagre income from petty trade. By herself, she brought up three young children. Then, with the help of her two grown-up daughters, she toiled until old age to give to her son a scholar’s education. As the years passed, the memory of her jealous outburst faded, to be replaced by the love and respect that she owed to her husband. When her son became a young man, she sent him to the south to bring his remains home. She very much hoped that he could finally rest in the land of his birth and his tomb could be well looked after, but that was not to be. The last years of her life were miserable. She was ill, could not move and suffered constantly. Her daughter-in-law had to spoon-feed her at every meal. She died close to eighty.

  “I could not help thinking,” my mother concluded, “that our ancestor attached too much importance to beauty. As for our foremother, how could she expect to keep a husband by talking and behaving in that way. Too much jealousy can break up homes.”

  That ends the story about our ancestor, but that of Nu Son continues:

  At that time, our village was frequently attacked by a group of bandits. Their leader was a huge man who painted his face to make him look even more ferocious. People called him Ong Ba Bi, or Mr. Bogey. Sometimes, villagers succeeded in keeping the bandits out; sometimes, they did not and the village was ransacked. The threat was constant, like a sword posed above the villagers’ necks. Mr. Bogey, however, also fell for Nu Son. He did not force his way into the village to kidnap her, the way bandits do. Instead, he sent emissaries in to ask for her hands, promising that in return, Kim Bai would be spared from further attacks. Nu Son refused at first, but villages intervened to ask her to reconsider her decision. Those bandits’ attacks had gone on for too long and caused too much suffering. Kim Bai folks longed to live and work in peace. She finally agreed, on the condition that Mr. Bogey return to the life of a law-abiding citizen. In accordance with her wish, the villagers promised that Mr. Bogey would be allowed to come to Kim Bai to settle. The wedding took place and Nu Son became Ba Ba Bi, or Mrs. Bogey. The nickname stuck to her too. Soon after, the couple slipped out of Kim Bai and never reappeared. Perhaps, they did not feel at ease in spite of the promise made by the villagers. Perhaps, they wanted to make a clean break and go somewhere where no one would call them Bogey. Years later, people still recalled Nu Son, her beauty and the action she took for the sake of her village.

  Quang So left just before the Tet of that year, or some time in January 1837. “He died in the south when his son was only three,” noted the chronicle. His son was born in 1836. Taking into account the custom of considering a newly-born child as a one-year-old, he became three in 1838. Quan So, therefore, died in that year, at the age of forty-six. Chu Khau, who accompanied him to the south, stayed on for one hundred days to tend his grave and perform daily ceremonies of worship, as required by our religious custom. He set out for home afterwards. But, either he took a junk which stopped at too many places or he followed the long and difficult land route, he did not arrive until more than a year later. It was only then that our family got the news. Clearly shaken by his ordeal, Chu Khau could not say exactly on which day our ancestor died. He thus failed to provide an essential piece of information, for yearly ceremonies of worship must be performed on the anniversary of our ancestor’s death. Chu Khau only remembered that it happened during the rainy season, which means between May and November 1838. Quang So’s final stay in the south thus lasted for about a year and a half. He was maintaining in good health, according to Chu Khau, when he suddenly became ill and no amount of medicine could save him. The onset of the rainy season was notorious for its bad effects on health. In any case, not knowing the day, our family had to fall back on an ancient custom which applied to missing travellers or soldiers who went missing in war. Their spirits were worshipped on the anniversary of the day they left home. For Quang So, that was the twelfth day of the twelfth lunar month.

  Chu Khau also could not explain why Quang So stayed so long in Dong Nai. Since his business was trading between the north and the south, why did he make no return trip for more than a year? Why was nothing left of his business after he died? I suspect that things did not go well on that last trip. He may have incurred losses. There may not have been enough money to finance a trip back. A superstitious man, our ancestor must have been affected by the unfortunate circumstances of his departure. Maybe the drive and self-confidence that made him a successful trader had deserted him on that last venture. But Chu Khau was able to provide a description of the funeral, which brought some comfort to our family. “The Chinese in Dong Nai,” he said, “bought magnificent cult instruments for his funeral. All proper rites were observed at the procession and the burial. He rested in the Chinese settlement in Dong Nai. A tombstone bearing his name was erected.” In his last moments, Quang So the traveller turned his thoughts towards home. “I want my old bones to return to Kim Bai,” he told Chu Khau, “to be buried in the land of my forebears and be looked after by my children.”

  Our ancestor was remembered as a generous man who did much for the family and could have done more, had fate not taken him away when only in his forties. He was a pioneer, the first person in the family to have made his mark in trade, the first to have gone into joint ventures with Chinese merchants, the first to have taken advantage of the vast opportunities for commerce in the south. He was also the only one to break with family tradition and earn a living in business. After he died and his fortune was lost, his wife raised their infant son to become a scholar. Three decades later, when she died at the age of seventy-seven, the son had gained a fine reputation in letters and was vying for academic honors. The family had gone back to the path of learning. Tradition had reasserted itself.

  Our chronicle recorded that “in 1936, our ancestor was posthumously made an Academy Lecturer and his wife a Cung Nhan, or spouse of a mandarin of the fourth grade. In 1940, he received a higher honor and became a Director of the Imperial Carriages. His wife was made a Lenh Nhan, or spouse of a mandarin of the third grade. The court also honored our ancestor with the posthumous name of On Tinh Tien Sinh.” Thus, a century after his death, official honors came to Quang So and his wife as their grandson rose to be a high mandarin. Imperial certificates were delivered in great pomp in Kim Bai and placed on our Ancestral Altar. Quang So, who chose to become a trader occupying the lowest position among the four classes, never cared much about social conventions. Honors, therefore, may not mean much to him. But he was proud of his roots and I think that the position of Academy Lecturer would appeal to him because our second ancestor Nguyen Uyen was a member of that august body, back in the sixteenth century. Moreover, the posthumous name On Tinh Tien Sinh, meaning Moderation and Calm, must be very close to his heart for it was the same that the Mac king gave to Nguyen Uyen to highlight the qualities that he displayed as a diplomat in China.

  20. The Hermit of the Mountain of the Twins

  The only portrait on the altar of our ancestral home was that of my great-grandfather, our eleventh ancestor. Normally it was stored inside the red and gold tabernacle standing at the end of the altar. On the anniversary of his death and the eve of the Tet festival, my grandfather took it out. Reverently, he dusted it and placed it in front of the tabernacle for the ceremony of worship. I cannot recall whether it was a photograph or
a painting; if a photograph it must be among the very early ones taken in Vietnam, since great-grandfather died in 1909. He was shown wearing the traditional black turban and a black dress in thin gauze. His face was square with regular features, “square like a rice field,” as people used to say when they wished to praise a man’s face. There was a certain sadness in his expression, which reflected a life dogged by failure and misfortune, but his eyes retained a proud and piercing look. From all accounts, he was a strict and difficult man.

  He was born in the year of the Monkey (1836) and died at the age of seventy-three in the year of the Rooster (1909). His full name was Nguyen Dinh Dat, Nguyen Dinh being common to all our extended family and Dat his personal name. Dat means “the achiever.” He took as pen name Hy Tu, an unassuming expression which can be translated as “wishing to receive in some small measure.” For a pseudonym, he chose to be known as Song Son Dat Dan, or the “Hermit of the Mountain of the Twins.” His posthumous name was Kiem Thien, or “full goodness.” My great-grandmother was his second wife. She came from the Chu family in Kim Bai. Her name Uyen means both “graceful” and “harmonious.” She was born in 1854 and died in 1949 at the age of ninety-five. It will be noted that she had no pseudonym, unlike the foremothers of earlier generations. In 1949 when she died, the old scholarly society had largely disappeared. A war was going on and most of north Vietnam was under communist rule. The old custom of using a pseudonym because it was taboo to mention the real name of ancestors had ceased to be observed.

  Nguyen Dinh Dat never knew his father, who left when he was only a few months old. He did not know the comfortable life enjoyed by the family in his father’s lifetime. He grew up not exactly in poverty for our people still owned some land but his mother had to work hard to raise him and his two sisters. When she grew old, the sisters took over the role of family provider. Thanks to the three women, he could devote himself to his studies. His life could have come straight out of a book of folklore stories, where the most popular story ran something like this:

  A family became impoverished after the father died. The mother and elder daughters toiled to eke out a living and to send the young son to school. They cheerfully accepted sacrifices so that he could receive a good education and successfully compete for the king’s service. Their love and dedication were recognized by the Lord in Heaven. The son grew up to be a brilliant scholar, who passed all examinations with flying colours and became a mandarin. He brought prosperity and renown to his family. Thus, the women’s efforts were duly rewarded and in the abode of the spirits, the departed father would have been also gratified.

  That was how folklore stories went. Life, however, was not a folklore story. In Dinh Dat’s case, the beginning looked so auspiciously like one. He showed great promise as a student. Even before he started sitting for the regional examinations, his brilliance at writing poems and essays was already well-known. His name would be seen on the golden board at the Royal Courtyard examination, people said. For a long time, our village had had no doctor; surely he would be the one to renew with its glorious past. But, as a proverb says: “Talents at learning are shown during studies success at examinations depends on fate.” Dinh Dat’s fate was to fail at one session, then at another. With great determination, he kept on studying and presenting himself at each triennial session, until his hair became sprinkled with white dew. But he never obtained an academic degree.

  As a child, Dinh Dat knew that it would be his duty, one day, to go south and bring his father’s remains home. Every evening, his mother used to light incense on the ancestral altar and remind herself and the children of her husband’s last wish. After hearing the news of Quang So’s death, the family had to wait, in the first place because in our religious custom, a grave must not be disturbed in the first three years. Then, the exhumation should be performed by a descendant of the deceased, preferably a son, and this meant a further wait for many more years, since Dinh Dat was only two when his father died. As time passed, his mother became more and more concerned that she may never see the day when her husband’s last wish would be fulfilled. Chu Khau, the servant who went with him to the south, also was growing old and he alone knew the place in Dong Nai where Quang So was buried. An increasing sense of urgency was attached to the trip south. Dinh Dat undertook it when he was very young, only sixteen or seventeen. The year would be 1852 or 1853. He had not started sitting for the examinations; the idea was perhaps to have the trip over and done with, so that upon his return he would be free to concentrate on his studies. Chu Khau went with him. He was then in his fifties. The sea journey in a trader’s junk was thought to be too risky for the only son of the family, so the two took the more time-consuming land route. They had gone for more than a month, passed through the imperial capital Hue and were somewhere south of it when Chu Khau was taken ill. The journey was interrupted so he could receive treatment. A few weeks later, he died. What a shattering experience for young Dinh Dat! Left to himself, he had to organize Chu Khau’s burial, turn back-for there was no way that he could go to the south without a guide-and find his way home. The long-awaited trip had failed and he was deeply affected, as revealed in this brief passage of the chronicle: “After more than a month, the two had not reached Dong Nai when Chu Khau died. 0 Lord in Heaven! Why did you make it so! This is recorded so that later generations would know.”

  A shocked family was thankful that at least Dinh Dat was back safe and sound. Worse may have happened. At such a young age, he should never have gone on such a long and difficult journey accompanied by Chu Khau alone. His mother was so scared that she did not mention again about going to the south. But with typical obstinacy, Dinh Dat returned to his task several years later, when in his early twenties. He went to Hanoi, Pho Hien and other places in the north where Chinese merchants plying the trade with the south had their warehouses and staging posts to look for people who knew his father. None could be found, but he obtained a clear idea of the Chinese settlement where his father was buried and decided to make another try. Chu Khau had described the grave to him many times; built in bricks and with a tombstone bearing his father’s name, it should be easily found. His mother’s health was failing. He wished to give her the satisfaction of seeing her husband’s remains brought home at last. Preparations were being made for the journey, when news came that the French had invaded and occupied the port of Da Nang, south of Hue. That was in 1858. The next year, the French turned their attacks on the south and took possession of Gia Dinh. With a war being fought there, no hope of going could be entertained any more. Dinh Dat must be resigned to the fact that his father would, forever, rest in a faraway land.

  A part of the south had been lost to the foreign invader, but the Nguyen dynasty was unable to face up to the realities of the situation. Isolated in the capital Hue, away from the populated deltas of the Red River and the Mekong-the two vital centers of the country and its “baskets” of wealth, it was undecided whether to negotiate or to fight to recover the lost territory. The very survival of Vietnam as an independent nation was threatened, yet nothing was done to mobilize the population. In the north, life went on as before. Examinations continued to be held and scholars continued to pursue their dreams of golden board and mandarinal position.

  Dinh Dat concentrated on his books. He started sitting for the examinations when in his early twenties. His first tries were failures, but this was not taken as a cause for alarm. The selection system was so restrictive that even the best scholars may taste defeat before succeeding. He also began earning a living as a teacher. Meanwhile, his mother was busy looking for a wife for him. A descendant from a long line of mandarins and teachers, himself a talented scholar, Dinh Dat had a bright future. Moreover, he enjoyed the reputation of being a dutiful son who deferred to his mother’s wishes and gave her loving care in her old age. Confucian ethics placed filial piety at the very top of moral virtues. A dutiful son could not help but be a gentleman; certainly he would make a good husband. Several wealthy families
in our region with daughters of marriageable age had sent word that they would welcome an approach from our family. They had done so, it was noted, in spite of the fact that our matriarch was known to be of stern character and to have a short temper. She would be a difficult mother-in-law to please.

  Dinh Dat got married in his mid-twenties, at a younger age than was customary in our family. His wife turned out to be the girl next door, and not wealthy. She was a daughter of the Chu, a family allied to ours in many instances before. A few years younger than her husband, she was no stranger to our house and knew that she would have to conform to the ways of an authoritarian and demanding mother-in-law. But a remarkable transformation took place following the wedding. Saying that her task was done now that her son had taken a wife, the matriarch gave her daughter-in-law the keys of the house and put her in charge of everything. As for herself, she had earned the right to spend the rest of her time in leisure. Although in her seventies, she started making trips away from home, visiting relatives or going on pilgrimage to Buddhist temples, in particular those that her late husband had visited. Thus, the young couple started their married life very much on their own. The bride worked assiduously on her weaving loom and constantly reminded her scholar-husband to busy himself with his books. The folklore tale that seemed to be Dinh Dat’s life continued: