My grandmother came from the Dang Tran family of the village of Phu Dong. She was born in 1885 and died in 1965, at the age of eighty. Phu Dong was the land of the Heavenly Prince of ancient legend and the hallowed site of many Buddhist temples. It was a much larger village than Kim Bai, being composed of as many as ten hamlets. The Dang Tran was the largest extended family in Phu Dong and belonged to the Western Hamlet. Grandmother was the daughter of a scholar who came first in the test held in his province to select candidates for the regional examinations, but did not get any diploma. Her family was known more for its wealth than for academic success. I was very close to grandmother. To me, she was like a second mother. I took leave of her in 1950 to go to France for my university studies. When the country was partitioned four years later, she stayed back in North Vietnam while my parents went to live in the south. She died in the north.
Grandmother was very fussy about my health. I remember that even up to the age of ten, if I had a cold or some other illness, she would move me to sleep in her bed in order to keep an eye on me. In the family, I belonged to the same age group as my uncle and elder brother. As the eldest grandson and heir to his generation, my brother’s position was unique. My uncle was my grandparents’ youngest son and he was, of course, higher in rank compared to me. In everything, it was they who went first. Once, when about twelve, I complained of being treated as nua ong nua thang, or half as a sir, half as a nobody. This was reported to my grandfather. He pondered for a while then nodded his head in approval, saying: “He had a point there.” Knowing this trait of mine, grandmother always paid a special attention to me. She often said how proud she was that I was such a good student: “You are following on your grandfather’s footsteps,” she told me in encouragement. Like the women of her time, she never went to school. She could only read some scholarly characters and knew a little of the new alphabet, but had a quite positive attitude towards change and progress. She was never afraid to look ahead. When I went to France, she was very happy that her grandson had an opportunity to study higher and widen his experience. The only counsel she gave me was: “Family and lineage are matters of fundamental importance. When you go abroad, there is no preventing you from enjoying life. But remember that for the family’s sake, I wish that your wife be Vietnamese.” At dawn that day, as I said farewell to her at Hanoi’s Gia Lam airport, I wondered whether I would see her again when coming back to the country. She, however, was full of joy and optimism, exclaiming: “A young man should spread his wings!”
My grandfather Ba Tiep was born into a family of scholars. As in previous generations, all hopes were placed on the sons to study well and obtain academic titles. He and his younger brothers learned under a man renowned in the region as a fine teacher and a stern master, their own father. Theirs was not a childhood full of fun and play. After the other pupils had left at the end of the afternoon, the brothers were urged to go on studying late into the night. Without a proper lamp since the family was poor, they had to make do with a saucer filled with oil in which was dipped a wick providing a flickering flame. In winter, they had no warm clothing and, as grandfather sometimes told us, he had difficulty in keeping his writing brush still, so shaky was his hand from the cold. From a young age, Ba Tiep showed signs of intelligence and promise. Kim Bai, being a land of graduates, had developed a tradition of encouraging and supporting bright prospects. An association of scholars gave them financial help. People promoted their talents. Stories were circulated about their “accomplished writings and fine calligraphy.” After some time, a sort of lore was created around a promising student who found himself carrying the hopes of a whole community. Such was the case for young Ba Tiep. Village folks liked hearing his voice reading aloud from classical books or chanting poems in the night. Such a full and rich voice heralded a bright future, they said. Older graduates posed difficult riddles to test his knowledge of the classics. They challenged him to compose poems on rhymes set by them. His responses showed the depth of his learning as well as his strength of character. At seventeen, he had already made a reputation for himself and was invited to tutor in neighboring villages. One day as he returned from a tutoring session in our prefecture of Thanh Oai, he found an old scholar barring him the entrance of the Si Gate. The scholar said some verses to which he must reply on the spot with verses of his own. His must balance the scholar’s verses, both in meaning and in rhyme. If the scholar was happy about his reply, he would let him in; if not, the young tutor would have to enter his village by another gate and his reputation would suffer. Here are the scholar’s verses:
My grandfather Nguyen Ba Tiep in formal dress of blue brocade with white trousers and black turban. On the right side of his chest, a plaque showed his mandarinal rank.
My grandmother Dang Thi Duyet formally dressed in black tunic, trousers and turban (circa 1942).
Young man, you came back from tutoring at the prefecture.
Pray, tell me, the offices, the mandarin’s mansion, the town’s landscape,
How do they look like now?
The old man was playing himself down and pretending that he was a simple villager, who had not even ventured in recent times up to the prefecture located just a few kilometers from Kim Bai. In fact, in his younger days, he had gone to Hue, the capital, to sit for the doctorate examination in the royal courtyard. This is the tutor’s reply:
Honorable sir, you went to the imperial capital for the examinations.
Please talk to us about the palaces, the king’s courtyard, the capital’s marvels, How beautiful they must be!
The scholar was pleased with the reply. He told grandfather: “Young man, one day you will be at the top of the village hierarchy.”
In 1900, when he was twenty-one, Ba Tiep sat for the regional competition, called the Huang examinations, in Hanoi and obtained the degree of bachelor. At the next session in 1903, he became a licentiate. The Huong examinations had a total of four subjects, including interpretation of the classics, dissertation on public policy and test on literary knowledge. The last subject was a supplementary test on all the above three subjects. A candidate who successfully passed the first three subjects became a bachelor. He was made a licentiate if he passed all four subjects. Bright students could obtain the latter diploma on their first try. Grandfather did not. His progress was gradual, first the baccalaureate, then the license. Like many others in our family, he did not have the gift of moving fast and leaping over intermediary stages. After his first success, his old father called him in. He was pleased, but what counted in the Huong examinations was the four-subject degree of license. Only that higher degree opened the door to the mandarinate. Moreover, without it one could not go on to try for a doctorate degree. “I have taught you all that I know,” he told his son. “You will have to go to another teacher.” He sent him not to Hanoi, the cultural center of the north and so close to our village, but a hundred kilometers farther away to the town of Nam Dinh. There, grandfather studied under a widely respected scholar known as the Headmaster of Son Nong. Students of the Headmaster had gained many an academic honor. Grandfather stayed in his school for two years and made many friendships that would remain with him for life. One of his friends of that period was to become my maternal grandfather.
In a book published in France in 1981 and entitled Quand les Français Decouvraient L’Indochine (When the French Discovered Indochina), one can see a series of photographs taken at the Huong examinations in Nam Dinh in 1897. The scene at the examination in Hanoi where grandfather participated three years later would not be different. Under the eyes of officials perched in a high watchtower, candidates were seen going to their appointed places in the examination camp, which was a vast expanse of flat terrain, where they would set up their small tents. They were dressed in long black tunics and white trousers, with a turban on their heads, black for most and white for those who were in mourning. Some had shoes, others went barefooted. Most looked in their late twenties or thirties. At twenty-one, grandfather wou
ld be on the youngish side of such a crowd. The next photographs showed the ceremony of “calling out the names” of successful candidates. Examiners dominated the crowd from their high chairs shaded by parasols. The names were called out by soldiers holding long loudspeakers looking like trumpets. Parents, friends and well-wishers were in their thousands; in such a crowd, the mayor of Kim Bai really made a spectacle of himself when he dropped his trousers jumping for joy as he heard grandfather’s name. The series of pictures continued with one showing the new graduates kneeling before the Temple of Literature dedicated to the memory of Confucius. They were now dressed in formal attire provided by the authorities and consisting of a wide-sleeved tunic made of light blue gauze, white trousers and large black boots. On their heads was the traditional scholar’s black hat. Next, the graduates were seen kneeling again, this time in the courtyard of the governor’s mansion, before the governor and other representatives of the emperor. Then came the banquet given by the governor, where the graduates sat on wooden platforms, four men to each tray of food. They all looked serious and rather self-conscious, perhaps not able yet to make the transition from simple scholars to being part of the nation’s elite. Finally, they were seen on their way home, each followed by an aide carrying a parasol, their new symbol of authority.
Grandfather received excellent marks at the Huong examinations and he confidently looked forward to sitting for a doctorate in the following year. The doctorate, or Hoi, examinations were held triennially in the imperial capital Hue. All licentiates, as well as those bachelors who had graduated with very high marks, were allowed to take part. The new licentiate Ba Tiep made the long trip to Hue, close to one thousand kilometers away from our village. The world had changed and the country had lost its independence. It was believed that soon the protectorate would establish a new education system and the old examinations would be done away with; yet scholars still pursued their dream of winning the highest possible academic prize. Centuries of tradition were behind them. Whatever the future may hold, they knew that nothing could be taken away from their success. Their fame would spread to the whole country. Their names would be carved in stone and placed in the hallowed grounds of the Temple of Literature where they would stay for all time, alongside the names of doctors of past generations. Ba Tiep spent several months in Hue in preparation for the examination. But he failed to emulate his forebears of four centuries ago. He did not try again. Only a few more sessions would follow his, before all examinations based on the scholarly script were abandoned in the 1910s.
The time had now come for Ba Tiep to choose a career. He enrolled in the School of Administration to train for the mandarinate. For a graduated scholar to become a mandarin was a most natural progress, but those were special times and our licentiate only made up his mind after a great deal of soul-searching. The scholars’ class, in its great majority, remained opposed to the protectorate. In 1885, when Emperor Ham Nghi called upon the population to join the resistance, patriots from all parts of the country rallied to him. Ba Tiep was then a child. He saw his elders put aside their writing brushes to take up arms against the French. The scholars fought bravely but their scattered and ill-organized groups were no match for the troops of the protectorate. After the emperor was defeated and sent into exile, other armed movements appeared to fight in his name. Some were led by scholars, others received their support. All, however, proved short-lived. Ba Tiep grew up and did his schooling in an atmosphere where discouragement following the crushing of a revolt in one region would soon be replaced by hope coming with a new revolt flaring up in another. The most important one was that launched by Phan Dinh Phung in the mountains of Ha Tinh, in the center of the country. Phan Dinh Phung was a former mandarin and renowned scholar. He came first in a doctorate session back in the times of emperor Tu Duc when Vietnam was still free. He started his movement in 1888, when already close to sixty. Unlike other scholars who thought they could turn overnight into military leaders, Phan Dinh Phung retired to the mountains to patiently prepare his campaign. He sent people to China and Siam to learn the manufacturing of guns and ammunition. He took time to train his troops in the manner of a modern army. These were armed with rifles copied from the French infantry rifle and made in factories installed in the mountains. In 1893, Phan Dinh Phung hoisted the banner of insurrection. He fought for two years, but failed. He died even before his movement collapsed.
The end of Phan Dinh Phung marked a watershed in the history of opposition to French rule. Although there would be other movements to continue on the path of armed struggle, more and more people had come to realize the futility of using force to overthrow the protectorate. The end of the nineteenth century was a time of reappraisal. When Ba Tiep had reached the age to sit for the examinations, radical elements among the scholars still refused to have anything to do with them, but they had been reduced to a minority. Examinations were the very raison d’être of a scholar and it was pointed out that they were run by mandarins appointed by the emperor, not by the French. In any case, what did those French “devils” know about the scholarly script and our culture to intervene? Once again, candidates flocked to the triennial sessions. For Ba Tiep, the advice given him by his father was clear: “Whatever you want to do later, you have to gain public recognition first,” said the old man, who had not been able to have any public role in his life, being a plain untitled scholar. “That recognition will come from you gaining diplomas.”
After they graduated, the scholars had to decide whether to join the public service-and be seen as collaborating with the protectorate-or to mark their opposition by staying away. Ba Tiep and his friends were divided. As armed struggle had failed, they all believed that the “national spirit” and “inner strength” of the country must be built up before one could talk of doing away with the French. In particular, educational standards must be raised and the people must be made more aware of their responsibilities and the choices facing the nation. Within the group, however, some chose to stay in their private capacity and serve the community as teachers and educators. Licentiate Duong, one of Ba Tiep’s closest friends, was a leading advocate of that view. Others, including Ba Tiep, opted for the mandarinate. In spite of the special circumstances created by the protectorate, they still considered that the primary duty of scholars was to serve the people. Their position rested on the teachings of Mencius according to which the people should come first, even before the king. Besides, if all scholars refused to come out, the court would have to rely on people without learning and qualifications or worse still, the French would have a pretext to impose a regime of direct administration. In becoming mandarins, however, they made clear that they were servants of the emperor, not of the French. It has to be added here that although hostility against French rule continued to run strong, the new generation of scholars had acquired a different perception of France than their elders. Ba Tiep and his contemporaries had read about the French Revolution and come across the works of authors such as Montesquieu and Rousseau, not in their original versions but through translations made by the Chinese. They had discovered another face of France, besides that of a hated colonial power. Their contact with French philosophy and literature was new and superficial-the influence of Western ideas would be fully apparent only in the next generation-but that was enough for them to see that there were also “scholars” among Frenchmen, with whom they could engage in a dialogue and maybe even talk about political reforms. Thus, Ba Tiep started his training for a mandarinal career. In doing so, he still stayed very close to those of his friends who took the other path. That was perhaps one reason why his career was never a smooth and easy one.
Ba Tiep married early, for the first time when only a student. Of his first wife, little is known. My mother said she heard that she was a kind and gentle person; however, the marriage fell apart after a few years because the couple had no children. One day, a dispute arose about the loss of some valuables, the result of which was that she was disowned by her husband�
�s family and left. After grandfather obtained his degrees, numerous friends and acquaintances were willing to act as matchmaker for him. One of them was Licentiate Duong. He told grandfather that he had in mind a young lady from the village of Phu Dong. “Her family is one of the wealthiest of the region,” he said, adding: “She came from the Dang family who, several generations ago, produced a lady who held the fate of the house of Trinh in the palm of her hand.” He was referring to Dang Thi Hue, the consort of Overlord Trinh Sam who ruled from 1767 to 1782. But what grandfather wanted to know was how old the lady was and how beautiful she looked. “She is twenty and in praise of her beauty, I can only say that it is easy for people to mistake her for Heaven’s younger sister,” replied Licentiate Duong, who was a poet. Grandfather was impressed. He looked for an opportunity to meet her and found it at the festival which each year celebrated the Heavenly Prince’s victory. Among the crowd, he saw her and had a glimpse or two of her face under the conical hat which she pulled down low over her head, aware that a pretender was following her.
A Vietnamese Family Chronicle Page 49