The Scholars, Volume One

The Scholars, Volume One

吴敬梓

Life’s roads run north and south and branch in many ways; Even generals, ministers, and immortals must begin as ordinary men. Dynasties rise and fall, morning follows evening; The river wind topples the trees of former reigns. Fame, rank, wealth, and honor offer nothing sure; We spend our hearts pursuing them and only waste the passing years. Three cups of cloudy wine, and we sink into drunkenness— Where flowing water goes and fallen flowers fade, who knows?

This lyric merely repeats an old commonplace. It says that wealth, honor, fame, and rank are things outside oneself; yet as soon as people glimpse the prospect of fame, they risk their very lives to pursue it. Once they finally obtain it, however, it tastes as dull as chewed wax. From ancient times to the present, who has truly seen through it?

Even so, toward the end of the Yuan dynasty there appeared a man of uncommon independence and distinction. His surname was Wang and his given name Mian. He lived in the countryside of Zhuji County. His father died when he was seven, and his mother supported him by doing needlework so that he could attend the village school. After nearly three years, when Wang Mian was ten, his mother called him before her and said, “My son, it is not that I deliberately wish to hold you back. Since your father died, I have been a widow with expenses going out and nothing coming in. The harvests have been poor, and firewood and rice are expensive. The few old clothes and household things we had have either been pawned or sold. I live only on the little money I earn sewing for others. How can I afford to keep you in school? There is nothing else for it now. I have arranged for you to herd cattle for the family next door. Each month you will earn a little silver, and your meals will be provided. You are to begin tomorrow.”

Wang Mian replied, “Mother, you are right. Sitting in school all day bores me anyway. I would be happier herding their cattle. If I want to read, I can still take a few books with me.”

So that evening the matter was settled.

The next morning his mother took him to the neighboring home of Old Qin. Old Qin kept mother and son for breakfast, then led out a water buffalo and handed it over to Wang Mian. Pointing beyond the gate, he said, “About two bowshots beyond my gate is Qimao Lake. Along the shore there is green grass, and all the village cattle lie there and rest. There are also several dozen great drooping willows thick enough for a man to embrace, so it is very cool and shady. When the buffalo is thirsty, let it drink at the lake. Young fellow, you need only play around in that area; there is no need to wander far. I can promise you two simple meals every day, and each morning I will give you two cash to buy a snack. Just be diligent in everything and do not think I treat you poorly.”

His mother thanked him for the hospitality and prepared to return home. Wang Mian accompanied her to the gate. She straightened his clothes and said, “You must be careful here. Do nothing that gives others cause to criticize you. Leave early and return late, so that I do not spend the day worrying.”

Wang Mian promised. His mother left with tears in her eyes.

From then on Wang Mian herded cattle for the Qin family and returned home every evening to sleep beside his mother. Whenever the Qin family cooked salted fish or cured meat for him, he would wrap a piece in a lotus leaf and take it home to his mother. He stopped spending his snack money as well. After saving it for a month or two, he would find a spare moment to go to the village school, seek out itinerant booksellers, and buy a few old books. Each day he tethered the buffalo and sat beneath the willow shade reading.

In Wenshang County of Yanzhou Prefecture, Shandong, there was a village called Xuejiaji. It contained a hundred or so households, all engaged in farming.

At the entrance to the village stood a Guanyin convent. Besides its three-room main hall, there were more than ten empty rooms, and its rear gate faced the water.

The convent depended on donations from all directions and was presided over by a single monk.

Whenever the villagers had public business to discuss, they gathered there.

It was toward the end of the Chenghua reign, a time when the empire was prosperous and wealthy.

On the eighth day of the first lunar month, shortly after the New Year, the villagers gathered at the convent to discuss organizing a dragon-lantern procession.

Around breakfast time, their leader Shen Xiangfu entered with seven or eight others. They bowed before the Buddha in the main hall.

The monk came to greet them, and they exchanged courtesies.

Shen Xiangfu immediately scolded him.

“Monk! It is the New Year. You ought to keep the incense and candles burning more diligently before the Bodhisattva! Amitabha receives money from worshipers in every direction, so he deserves proper service.”

Then he called to the others, “Come and look! There is only half a lampful of oil in this glass lamp!”

Pointing to an old man among them who was rather neatly dressed, he continued, “Never mind everyone else. This Old Master Xun alone gave you fifty catties of oil on New Year’s Eve. Did he give it to you for nothing but frying vegetables? You show no reverence for the Buddha at all!”

The monk meekly waited until he had finished scolding him. Then he took a pewter pot, put in a handful of bitter tea leaves, filled it with water, heated it to boiling, and served tea to everyone.

Old Master Xun spoke first.

“How much silver must each household contribute this year for the dragon lantern at the temple?”

Shen Xiangfu said, “Wait. Let us discuss it after my in-law arrives.”

Just then a man entered from outside.

His eyes had red rims, his face was black as an iron wok, and several yellow whiskers grew from his chin. A ridged felt cap sat crookedly on his head, and his blue cotton clothes looked as greasy as an oil basket.

He carried a donkey whip.

After entering, he cupped his hands perfunctorily toward the company and dropped himself heavily into the seat of honor.

His surname was Xia. He had only the previous year been appointed head of the local household group at Xuejiaji.

After taking the principal seat, Headman Xia first ordered the monk, “Monk, take my donkey to the manger in the back garden. Remove the saddle and give it plenty of grass. When I finish discussing business here, I still have to go to Old Master Huang’s house by the county gate for a New Year banquet.”

Having given this order, he crossed one leg over the other and began pounding his lower back with his fist.

As he beat it, he said, “These days I am not half as carefree as you farmers. At a great festival like the New Year, every office and every runner in His Honor’s yamen sends me a visiting card. How can I avoid going to offer New Year greetings? Every day I ride this donkey between the county seat and the villages until I am dizzy with exhaustion. To make matters worse, the damned blind beast stumbled on the road and threw me off, and now my waist and hips ache terribly.”

Shen Xiangfu said, “On the third day of the New Year I prepared a simple tofu meal and invited you, in-law. I suppose you were too busy to come.”

Headman Xia said, “And you still mention it! During these seven or eight days of the New Year, have I had a single free moment? I wish I had two mouths, because I cannot even manage all the banquets I am invited to. Take Old Master Huang, who has invited me today. He is a squad leader who has influence with His Honor. He thinks highly of me. If I fail to go, will he not take offense?”