A Vietnamese Family Chronicle

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by Nguyen Trieu Dan

But a pine tree standing tall in the sky

  And singing with the wind.

  There was another reason for the planting of pine trees around our family tomb. Dinh Dat was a Taoist scholar dreaming to lead the life of a recluse in the mountain. Taoist mythology used a number of symbols, one of which was the pine tree. The great Chinese poet Li Po of the Tang period once described in a poem his visit to a Taoist sage up the mountain. There, he saw:

  Next to flowers blossoming in the warm air,

  Green buffaloes lay resting.

  High on the pine trees,

  White cranes were sleeping.

  That was a classical Taoist scene. While buffaloes were plentiful in our region, the only bird remotely close to the crane, by its color, was the white egret which sometimes could be seen perched on our pine trees.

  There used to be no pine trees around our family tomb. During one of his terms of office, my grandfather had a beach bungalow amidst a forest of pine in Dong Chau, not far from the mouth of the Red River. He liked their shape and sound and, in memory of his father’s Taoist aspirations, had seedlings planted in the family tomb. They took roots well and in a few years had grown into tall and beautiful trees.

  Dinh Dat’s second wife, my great-grandmother, survived him for forty years. She came from the Chu, a family of middle landowners in Kim Bai. They played a leading part in village affairs, with several of their members becoming mayors or holding positions of responsibility in the village council. But I do not think that they ever had any graduate at the civil service examinations and, therefore, could not be regarded as a family of scholars. My great-grandmother was much younger than her husband. She married an impoverished scholar, a widower down on his luck who, at over forty, did not have much time left to realize his aspirations of academic title and mandarinal position. The beginning of her married life could hardly be called auspicious and indeed for her, it was work at the weaving looms at night and selling at the market in the day to supplement her husband’s meager income and bring up four children, three sons of her own and a daughter from her husband’s previous marriage. But she was from Kim Bai, a village known for the resourcefulness of its women and so, besides raising silkworms and working on the weaving looms, she also made paddy into rice, prepared cakes to sell at markets and engaged in the petty trade of haberdashery. In the tradition of Vietnamese women, she accepted her fate and worked without complaining, often by herself as her husband travelled from place to place to teach. She continued in that manner until her eldest son graduated and obtained his first official appointment. Only then could she afford to slow down, as financial conditions in the family improved. The improvement, however, was gradual, for her son’s career took a very long time to take off. From my grandfather’s own account, it was only much later that he felt he could provide for his mother in the way he wanted. She was then past seventy.

  In the last part of her life, great-grandmother presided over a prosperous family, with a large number of grandchildren and great-grandchildren. From the Imperial court, she received the award Tiet Hanh Kha Phong, which was given to widows who stayed single and devoted themselves to their families and whose sons became distinguished servants of the state. The words of the award meant that her devotion and good conduct deserved to be recognized by the court. Four times, her husband and herself were recipients of honorary mandarinal ranks, but while for her husband they were bestowed posthumously, she was there in person to receive the imperial honors, in special ceremonies taking place in our ancestral home in Kim Bai. My mother attended all these ceremonies. She said that strict rules of protocol were to be observed in the presence of the Imperial Messenger and because great-grandmother was already in her seventies, it was feared that she might forget what she was expected to do. My mother’s role was to stay next to her and remind her when to kneel down, how many times to bow, when to get up, and so on. However, great-grandmother was still blessed with a very good memory and not once, my mother said, did she need her help. It was the old lady who told her many of the stories of past generations, in particular those relating to Dinh Dat and his father Quang So. My recollection of great-grandmother was of a frail old lady, hard of hearing and with failing eyesight, but still able to go about by herself within our family compound. She was then too old to tell long stories, although from time to time she would call one of us youngsters to come by her side and pluck some of the curly hairs that made her head itch, while she recounted some happenings in our childhood. To me, she said: “When you were born, your great-uncle had a look at you and exclaimed: ‘He will not be as bright as his elder brother, because he does not have the same high forehead!’ Yet you did not do too badly at school, did you?” She smiled and continued: “You are lucky to be alive. You were so weak and so often sick in your first years that I thought you would not be able to make it.

  In 1937, my grandfather was appointed governor of Thai Binh, a large province in the delta on the mouth of the Red River. Thai Binh was grandfather’s last appointment before retirement. After he had assumed office, a day was set for the new governor to welcome his mother to his province. Under the old mandarinate system parents of a high official were greeted with great pomp on their first visit. After all, his achievement was attributed as much to their “virtues and merits” as to his own talents. That morning, we started from Kim Bai. With great-grandmother were grandmother, her youngest son and myself. All generations of our family were thus represented to accompany great-grandmother on that occasion. My uncle and I were both seven at the time. We were driven in a brand new blue Peugeot 402, a French car which had come only recently to the local market. The large car could just get through under the Si Gate of the village. The four of us had plenty of room on the back seat. On the front seat were the driver, an aide to help him in case of tire puncture on the way and a servant to look after our food and drink. Thai Binh was about a hundred kilometers away, through entirely flat country. On the two sides of the road was a continuous carpet of green rice fields. We were in the middle of the Red River delta, the granary of the north. Great-grandmother was in high spirits and kept leaning forward to look through the car window, although she was told that she might feel sick if she did not sit back. We crossed many groups of peasants going to the market and each time, she tried to see what the women were carrying in their baskets to sell. Perhaps they reminded her of herself many years before. The wife of an impoverished scholar, she worked like them then. Now as the mother of a governor, she was on her way to visit his province.

  The car made its way slowly for the day was hot and great-grand-mother soon felt tired. Often we had to stop, switch off the engine and open wide all the doors so that the smell of petrol would not disturb her. We passed the town of Ha Nam where grandfather was governor three years before, then Nam Dinh, the third largest town in the north. There, we had another stop for rest and refreshment. Nam Dinh was next to Thai Binh and soon after, we arrived at the river which formed the boundary between the two provinces. A ferry boat was waiting for us at a crossing place called Tan De. The car drove down onto the ferry, which was just large enough to hold one car. Two men using long bamboo poles pushed the ferry slowly across the wide river. On the other bank, we saw a crowd of people and soldiers waiting. Right next to the ferry dock was the seat of the prefecture of Thu Tri and its prefect was the first official to greet great-grandmother on Thai Binh soil. It happened that the prefect was married to a great-niece of great-grandmother. He was Duong Cu Tam, the poet at our New Year party in Kim Bai. Combining official and family duties, he led us into his residence where we had lunch followed by a long siesta. It was mid-afternoon when we left Thu Tri. The township of Thai Binh was only some fifteen kilometers away, but before reaching it we crossed the territory of another prefecture. There again, the local mandarin was waiting to present to great-grandmother his respects and to invite us in for tea. At last, we arrived in Thai Binh as the sun had just set. Instead of a bright heat, the town with its cream-colored houses
was bathed in a soft and pinkish light. One could already sense the faint cool breeze of the evening. It was the most prized moment of a summer day, made more precious because it was so short. In no time, darkness would fall. The car entered the gate of the governor’s mansion guarded by soldiers who presented arms. It followed a driveway between flowered gardens and stopped at the foot of the stairs leading to the governor’s office. My grandfather, in a black gauze dress, and all the town mandarins were standing there waiting to greet great-grandmother. One could easily imagine her feelings as she stepped out of the car to greet her son.

  In our Confucian culture, a woman’s role was to help her husband and sons gain success and honors in society, while she herself remained within the circle of home and family. Their achievements were her rewards. As a wife and mother, the only social recognition she could expect to receive was that which flowed from the men’s achievements. Great-grandmother bore a son who graduated at the examinations his career brought him to high positions. Now, he was welcoming her into his governor’s mansion at the head of the town’s dignitaries. What a shining moment in her life this must have been.

  Among the few old photographs still in our family’s keeping is one taken in Kim Bai in 1936, probably when great-grandmother was awarded one of her honorary mandarinal ranks. She was seated in a carved wooden armchair, under the porch of our altar house. Her turban, tunic, trousers and shoes were all black. But her face was brightened by the hair which came out from under the turban onto her forehead and shone like snow. On her right side stood my grandfather in a dark brocade dress, the color of which did not show in the black and white photograph but which must have been blue. On her left side stood my father in a similar dress of a lighter shade. In front of my father was my elder brother, then aged nine. He was dressed in an European sailor suit which was then quite fashionable for children to wear. The photograph showed “four generations under the same roof,” a traditional symbol of familial happiness. Not many families could claim such happiness. Certainly in the past, our own had seldom been blessed with it. Many generations were composed only of father and son. Some, like that of Dinh Dat, had three generations living together, but elders could not quite recall when was the last time that a branch of the Nguyen Dinh had reached the threshold of four generations. Yet, that was not the ultimate. Exceptionally, some families could boast of “five generations under one roof” and the New Year wishes that our family received all contained that consecrated formula. In an era of peace and social stability that may well have been within our reach, for great-grandmother lived until 1949, when my elder brother was twenty-two.

  “Four generations under one roof”-(left to right) my grandfather, great-grandmother, father and elder brother (circa 1936).

  But while Heaven was kind to great-grandmother in her old age, the last chapter of her life was one of sorrow and suffering. All her three sons died before her. The youngest left the country while an adolescent to engage in activities aimed at overthrowing the French colonial regime. The last news he sent home was more than forty years before. In 1947 her second son died, a few weeks after the Tet. Then, in the eighth lunar month, as the monsoon ended and the year went into autumn, it was the turn of her eldest son, my grandfather. That morning, we all knew that the end was near. Grandfather was lying in the room next to the ancestors’ altar, in the house which he built twenty years ago. The entire family was there, except for my father and elder brother who were captured by French troops and taken away many months before. The time had come to perform our last act of obeisance to our patriarch. In turn, each of us went into the room, knelt down and touched the soil with our forehead twice. Grandfather was lying in his bed, accepting our expression of gratitude without any reaction, seemingly unconscious. But when we had finished, he motioned us to make him sit up and put pillows behind his back. He called for his black tunic and turban and had them put on. Then, he begged his mother to come in, so that he could show obeisance to her and at the same time ask her for forgiveness. He would not be able to survive her and perform the last rites for her; therefore, as a son, he had failed in his filial duty. His remaining strength did not allow him to kneel, so he could only sit and bow, his hands joined together in front of his forehead. He bowed not twice, as called for by custom, but many times. His face had already taken on the color of death, but his eyes were still alive and they were the picture of suffering. Great-grandmother sat on the edge of the bed; one wondered to what extent her withered old heart could still suffer. She did not cry, only repeated in a low voice: “Governor, you do not have to do that.” She always addressed him and referred to him as governor. She never used the term son, or called him by his name. It was the same with my great-uncle whom she called “Mr. Two,” after his rank in the family.

  In the same year, her two remaining sons had died. A few months later she fell, broke a leg and became paralyzed. My grandmother had to feed and care for her daily. As attacks by French troops grew more frequent, the rest of the family had to leave the village. Only one or two faithful servants stayed back. Each time the French approached, a servant had to carry great-grandmother on his back and flee down to the Lichee Field, returning home only after the danger had passed. The last year of her life was a wretched period. She was in pain and no medicine was available. When death came, it was a merciful deliverance. Only grandmother was at her side. What a difference from the prosperity and the “multitude of descendants” that she had known! We Vietnamese believe in reincarnation and in the law of causality. People like her are thought to carry a “heavy karma.” In preceding lives, she must have tried hard to lighten her load and, as a result of good deeds performed and of virtues gathered, she was able in this life to enjoy good fortune and happiness. She had been given much. The wife of a poor and untitled scholar, she became the mother of a high mandarin and presided over a family of four generations. But her karma was still “heavy with debts” so that, at the end of her life, she still had to suffer. One cannot avoid one’s karma. Every action, whether good or bad, will bring its results just as a tree will always produce its fruit and a fruit will always carry its seed. The results will appear, if not in this life, then in the following lives. Causality is an iron law. That is why the teachings of Lord Buddha are that we should endeavor to lead a virtuous life and perform good deeds. We should not worry as to what will happen to us, for it will inevitably happen. As expressed in the ending verses of the Story of Kieu:

  Our karma is linked with ourselves

  So, let us not complain that Heaven

  Is too close or too far from us.

  Instead, let us tend the roots of goodness

  That lie within our heart.

  21. The Governor

  I spent most of my childhood living with my grandparents. I followed my grandfather in all his appointments to different provinces, while my own family stayed in Hanoi where my father worked. When I joined my parents, brothers and sisters, it was like a special holiday which was always too short. Not that I was unhappy living with my grandparents, but I missed my close family and the special warmth it provided. Of all my siblings I was the only one to grow up in this way, away from home. The reason for it was that my uncle and I were of the same age and it was thought that it would be good for the two of us to stay together and go to the same school. Also, I was a weak and delicate child. Small provincial towns where my grandparents stayed in mansions with large gardens were better for my health than the small house in which my parents lived, in one of the busiest areas of Hanoi.

  My grandfather was born in 1879 and died in 1947, aged sixty-eight. His name was Nguyen Ba Tiep. Tiep means quick in the sense of quick-witted. Ba means elder and is often used as a middle name for the eldest son. His pseudonym was Kim Dam, or Golden Pond. The word Kim-golden-indicates the association with our village Kim Bai. Scholars cherished the image of a pond. My maternal grandfather also took it for his pseudonym, although he used Tri, another word for pond. His name was Dong Tri, or Easter
n Pond. All three doctrines of Confucianism, Taoism and Buddhism made the pond, or lake, the symbol of quietness and reflection. As its tranquil surface unruffled by waves reflected the sky, so too would a mind, free of subjective thoughts and clear as a mirror, become one with nature and the universe. Some scholars went for Ho, or lake, as a pseudonym. Other more modestly opted for the pond.

  Grandfather died when I was seventeen. He was of stern and undemonstrative character. That was the image I have kept of him, although my mother said that in his younger days, he was quite different: jovial, playful and with a keen sense of humor. He was very close to his children, she said, often making them laugh with his jokes. But I only knew him as a grandfather, old and aloof. I spent a lot of time with him and it was said that he considered me his favorite grandchild. He taught me the scholarly script; I read aloud books and newspapers to him. Sometimes, when he was interrupted in a game of to torn cards, he called me to temporarily take his place, an honor and a show of confidence in my young talents. I was a teenager sharing a game with elders, some as old as grandfather himself! But still, I felt respect and awe for him more than love. Maybe I was too shy to come nearer to him. Maybe in our traditional culture, a gap of two generations was too large to bridge. In the end, he remained to me a distant figure. An episode when I was twelve or thirteen stayed vivid in my mind. It happened in Kim Bai during the summer. After lunch was taken, my uncle prepared to leave for Ha Dong on his bicycle. The sun was beating down mercilessly. I had a white “colonial” hat, made of cork and cloth which offered good protection against the heat but was a bit old-fashioned. Young people did not like to wear it. Indeed, the trend among us was not to wear any hat, going bare-headed in the full heat of a summer day was the “in” thing. Grandfather told me to let my uncle use the hat, which I was quite willing to do. But my uncle did not want it. Our solution was for him to leave the house wearing the hat and me to accompany him to the village gate, then take the hat home. To my bad luck, by the time I returned, grandfather had already had his siesta and was sitting in the altar house drinking tea. The white hat was bulky and could not be hidden away. He went into a furor and scolded me for being selfish and not wanting to lend the hat. I protested but he would not listen. Grandmother was sitting opposite him, but while normally she would try to calm things down, that time she did not say anything, perhaps because she saw that grandfather was really worked up. That made me feel forsaken. Later that afternoon, I was reading in my room when grandfather came in. He wandered around the room, wanted to know what I was reading and talked to me about this and that. I can still see me sitting at my desk and him standing beside me in his cream silk casual clothes. In his hand was a large paper fan. In summer, each of us had such a fan, made of brown paper, to help fight the heat and chase flies and mosquitoes away. Ours was plain, but his was beautifully decorated with cuttings of flowers and birds. He was ostensibly fanning himself, but in fact doing it for me. After a while, he left the room. The matter of the hat was not touched upon, although I knew that it was his way of making up.

 

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