Читать книгу A Thousand Pieces of Gold: A Memoir of China’s Past Through its Proverbs - Adeline Mah Yen - Страница 8

JIU NIU YI MAO

WHEN I WAS THIRTEEN YEARS OLD, my parents told me that I was to leave school at fourteen and get a job because they no longer wished to pay for my education. Desperate to go to university, I begged my grandfather Ye Ye to intercede on my behalf. One evening after dinner, on one of my rare visits home from boarding school, Ye Ye cornered Father and they had a private conversation. Afterwards, Ye Ye related that Father had been unsympathetic. Further schooling would only strain their budget because a daughter should never be too well educated. It would spoil any slim chance I might have of making a suitable marriage. ‘No sane man’, according to Father, ‘would ever want a bride with a Ph.D.’ Therefore, as far as he and my stepmother were concerned, my education was a matter as trivial as jiu niu yi mao (the loss of one hair from nine oxen). They had made their decision and the subject was closed.

‘Loss of one hair from nine oxen’ is a phrase taken from a poignant letter written by the historian Sima Qian to his friend Ren An in 93 BC, three years before Sima Qian’s death.

Sima Qian (145–90 BC) was the taishi (‘Grand Minister of History’ or ‘Grand Historian’) during the reign of Emperor Wu of the early Han dynasty (157–87 BC, ruled from 141–87 BC). He was responsible not only for keeping historical records, but also for regulating the calendar and doing research on astronomy. Such positions were handed from father to son and the Sima family had been Grand Historians for many generations. Sima Qian’s father, Sima Tan, had also been Grand Minister of History. Even as a boy, Sima Qian was groomed to step into his father’s shoes one day.

It had been Sima Tan’s dream to write a comprehensive history of China. With that in mind, he collected many ancient tales and historical writings and shared them with his son. He encouraged the young Sima Qian to embark on three separate journeys to explore the length and breadth of China. There is evidence that, in travels similar to those of the Greek historian-traveller Herodotus with whom he has often been compared, Sima Qian reached the Kundong Mountains of Gansu province in the west, the battlegrounds of Julu in Hebei province in the north, Confucius’s birthplace of Qufu in Shandong province in the east and the Yangtze river in the south. While lying on his deathbed in 110 BC, Sima Tan extracted a promise from his son that he would one day realise his father’s unfulfilled dream of writing a comprehensive history of China.

Sima Qian was appointed Grand Minister of History in 107 BC. Two years later, he finally assembled sufficient material to begin the laborious writing process. In those days, paper had not yet been invented, so characters were written with a brush or carved vertically with a knife on to narrow strips of bamboo or wood. Unfortunately, soon after Sima Qian began writing, disaster struck.

At that time, China was frequently troubled by raids from nomadic tribes (called Xiongnu or Huns), living in the desert areas north-west of China (present-day Mongolia). In retaliation, Emperor Wu would dispatch military expeditions into the desert to harass them. In 99 BC, the young, dashing and usually victorious Han commander Li Ling led a force of 5000 men in a daring raid deep into enemy territory in an attempt to capture the Hun ruler. Vastly outnumbered, Li Ling was defeated and finally surrendered after he ran out of food and arrows. On hearing this, Emperor Wu became furious. In the case of defeat, the monarch expected his military officers either to die in battle or commit suicide to avoid capture. Surrendering to the enemy was considered cowardly and despicable. He proposed punishing Li Ling by confiscating his property and imposing death sentences on his family members to the third degree (parents, siblings, wife and children).

Sima Qian, who knew and admired Li Ling, tried to defend him in court. By doing so, he enraged Emperor Wu even further. The monarch first cast Sima Qian into prison for daring to speak up on behalf of a ‘traitor’, then, a year later, he accused the historian of attempting to deceive him and sentenced him to death. In those days, it was possible for disgraced officials either to buy their way out of their death penalty or to submit voluntarily to castration. For those with insufficient funds, tradition dictated that death was far preferable to mutilation, for only the most cowardly would choose to live with such shame.

Unable to come up with the money to redeem himself, Sima Qian chose castration over death in order to complete the writing of his book, Shiji. Afterwards he became tormented by guilt for having chosen this ‘lowest of all punishment’. Not wishing to appear spineless and unmanly, he wrote to his friend Ren An to justify himself and to explain the rationale behind his decision.

Ren An was the governor of Yizhou, now called Sichuan province. In Sima Qian’s famous letter, which may never have been sent to its intended recipient, the historian mentions that Governor Ren himself had recently fallen out of favour with the Emperor and was being accused of major crimes. The entire letter is composed of 2401 Chinese characters and was probably written in 93 BC. Below are three segments that I have selected and translated.

If I were to die now as befits my punishment, my death would be as insignificant as jiu niu yi mao (the loss of one hair from nine oxen). How would it differ from the demise of a cricket or an ant?

Besides, posterity will never consider such a death to be comparable to that of someone who perishes out of a sense of honour. They would say that it came about only because I had exhausted all other avenues of expiating my crime, yet found it impossible to forgive myself.

So, why should I confirm their condemnation by carrying out this deed?

A person dies but once. That death may be as monolithic as the Tai mountain or as trivial as a goose feather. It all depends on him…

Having chosen castration, Sima Qian was well aware of the humiliation and suffering awaiting him for the rest of his life. He continued:

I have incurred upon myself the derision and ridicule even of men from my own village. I have dishonoured my family name. I can never stand proudly again before the tomb of my parents. Even after the passing of a hundred generations, the memory of my disgrace will still linger on. This is what grips my mind and twists my guts nine times a day. Resting at home, I am in a daze, as if I have lost my way. I venture out, and know not what I should do or where I should go. Every time I remember my disfigurement, the sweat pours out and seeps through my robe. I have become no more than a slave in a harem. How can I disappear and hide myself somewhere in a remote mountain cave? Hence I go along with the common crowd, drifting aimlessly, gliding up and down with the tide, sharing their illusions and madness.

Towards the end of the letter, he concluded:

I encountered this monumental catastrophe before completing my manuscript. Because my work is not yet finished, I had no choice but to submit meekly to this most severe of punishments [castration]. When my book is finally written, I shall place it in the famous mountain archives for posterity. And should my words one day penetrate the minds of men who will value them, allowing my thoughts to burrow into the counties as well as great bustling cities, then even if I should suffer ten thousand deaths by mutilation, I would have no regrets…

Instead of suicide, Sima Qian channelled his energy into writing his groundbreaking book Shiji (Historical Record). Totalling just over half a million words, it chronicles events from the time of the Yellow Emperor (a legendary and largely mythical ruler and sage who supposedly invented boats, oars, the compass and the fire drill, and lived in 2400 BC but the date is uncertain) to the reign of the emperor who condemned the historian — a period of over two thousand years. His book records the ancient history of China, a country about half the size of present-day China with its population clustered around the Yangtze and the Yellow River. From it we learn that the Shang dynasty lasted from 1765–1122 BC, and was followed by the Zhou dynasty. A succession of Zhou kings ruled China for about three hundred years through feudal vassals appointed by the king. China was vast even then and these feudal lords were given free rein to govern their territories as they saw fit. As time went on, the descendants of the local rulers became increasingly rebellious and independent. The stronger ones developed their own armies and defied the king.

From 770 until 476 BC, China was only nominally governed by the House of Zhou. This was known as the Spring and Autumn period during which China was initially divided into as many as 170 different semi-independent states. Each was ruled by its own feudal lord (some called themselves kings), its own hereditary ruling caste, and had its own court and bureaucracy. The feudal lords fought against each other, with the stronger states annexing the weaker ones.

By the beginning of the Warring States period (475–221 BC) this process of annexation had accelerated to such an extent that by 403 BC, only seven states remained. They were Qin, Zhao, Yan, Qi, Haan, Chu and Wei. Each state was headed by its own king, and the seven continued to wage war against one another. Gradually, it began to emerge that the state of Qin in north-west China was becoming the richest, strongest, largest and most efficient. Qin began systematically conquering and annexing the other states until King Zheng (259–210 BC) subdued them all and unified China in 221 BC. He called himself the First Emperor of the Qin dynasty (Qin Shi Huangdi) and planned for his dynasty to last for ten thousand generations.

The chronicle of this long period of civil war is vividly narrated by Sima Qian in his book Shiji. He brings history alive by including biographies of notable individuals — not only the emperors who reigned and the ministers who governed, but also the warlords who lost as well as the words and deeds of the philosophers, writers, merchants, landlords, thieves, paid assassins, comedians and teachers who lived and died during the reign of each ruler.

Released from prison after three years at the age of fifty, Sima regained Emperor Wu’s favour and was appointed ‘Palace Secretary’. Despite his disgrace, he was able to arrange an advantageous marriage for his only daughter. His son-in-law, Yang Shang, was a rising young star who eventually rose to become prime minister. Sima soon had a precocious grandson, Yang Yun, who was composing poetry at a very young age.

In Sima’s spare time, he continued to write, and completed his manuscript just one year before his death in 90 BC, but he never dared reveal his work during his lifetime for fear of offending the Emperor further. He buried one copy in the cave of a ‘famous mountain’. The other copy he left to his only daughter and talented grandson, Yang Yun.

Yang Yun became a marquis under Emperor Xuan (92–49 BC) and for a time enjoyed great favour at court. Yang judged it prudent to release Shiji some time between 73 and 54 BC and promoted it assiduously. Shiji was immediately popular and turned into a classic on which all later official Chinese histories would be modelled. It also became the first in a series of government-sponsored histories commissioned and compiled by the emperors of successive dynasties. The history of each dynasty was systematically recorded by court-appointed historians and illustrated with biographies of notable men (and an occasional woman) of that era. At present, there are more than 3600 volumes of official Chinese history, totalling over 45 million words, and describing events from the time of the Yellow Emperor to the present day.

By focusing his energy into creativity rather than despair, Sima Qian became the most famous Chinese historian who ever lived. Nowadays he is certainly better known than the emperor who punished him so severely for speaking his mind.

When I first heard the story of Sima Qian from my Ye Ye, I was only eight years old. Even at that early age, I remember being deeply moved by the Grand Historian’s plight. In those days, I was living in my father’s big house in Shanghai. My childhood was filled with fear and self-loathing. Although I never admitted it even to myself, I knew deep down that my stepmother despised me and wished to be rid of me. Perhaps because of this, I identified strongly and instantly with Sima Qian’s depression following his mutilation, although I didn’t fully understand what the term ‘castration’ implied. I only knew that it was something very bad and that he did not deserve the punishment.

I understood Sima Qian because I too felt that I had no one to turn to for justice. Life was unfair and I had to fend for myself. After being bullied or beaten, my only refuge was to bury myself in books or write short stories to assuage the rankling within my heart. In time, the characters in my make-believe world became more real to me than my tormentors at home. Unlike my family members, these imaginary figures provided constant comfort and consolation. Reading and writing carried me away from my real life and conveyed me to another realm. In that other kingdom, the playing field was level and the dice were no longer loaded against me.

In 1991, one year after my stepmother Niang’s death, I received permission from my brother James, executor of Niang’s will, to fly to Hong Kong and inspect her empty flat. ‘Everyone else’, James told me, ‘has chosen and taken what he or she wanted from Niang’s flat. All of her personal letters have been burnt because they are private. The rest is yours, including her flat, as soon as the probate is completed. I am a man of my word.’

At that time, I was still practising medicine full time in California but, at the back of my mind, I harboured vague thoughts about writing the book I had always meant to write, ever since I was a child. The day after my arrival in Hong Kong, I visited a bookshop in the hope of finding some Chinese proverbs to use as possible chapter headings. I did actually buy a volume but was not entirely satisfied with its contents.

Later that afternoon, I secured the keys of my stepmother’s flat from my brother and went to the familiar building. In Niang’s empty apartment smelling of mildew, mothballs, stale cigarette smoke and neglect, I came across two dusty books lying in the corner of a closet amidst a few discarded photographs. The first book I picked up was in English and entitled Selected Chinese Sayings by a writer named T.C. Lai. The second was a paperback copy of Shiji in Chinese.

I flipped open the cover of Selected Chinese Sayings and, with a pang, saw my father’s familiar signature at the top of the page. On the next page was printed the author’s dedication which read, ‘In memory of my father’.

Quickly, I perused the contents and saw that Selected Chinese Sayings consisted of a collection of the author’s favourite Chinese proverbs. I read that the book was first published in 1960 but reprinted in 1973, three years before Alzheimer’s disease took hold of my father’s mind. As I perused the proverbs, I could not help wondering whether this was a message from my father to give up medicine and begin my writing career. For once, Niang was not there to interrupt our communication.

Next, I took Father’s copy of Shiji and randomly turned the pages. This was where I first came across the letter written by Sima Qian to his friend.

In one passage, I read:

All these ancient writers had pain in their hearts, for they were not able to achieve in life what they had set out to accomplish … and so they felt compelled to write about their past, in order to pass on their thoughts to posterity…

I, too, have dared to venture forth and commit myself to writing. I have collected all the ancient customs that were dispersed or discarded. I have investigated the affairs of the past and probed the reasons for their buoyancy or decay. I would like to discern the patterns leading from the past to the present, proffering my views as one method of interpretation.

When I read these words, it almost seemed as if Sima Qian himself had stepped out of the pages of his book and was speaking to me personally, urging me to be strong and not falter in my resolve to become a full-time writer. Although we were separated by more than two thousand years, at that moment I understood him completely. He was telling me that there were many who had suffered unjustly in the past. A few, like himself, were able to transcend their hurt through literature. Was I prepared to follow in his footsteps and do the same?

As I turned eagerly to the next page, I came across these lines:

The reason I have borne this anguish and refused to die, living in shame without protest, is because I cannot bear the thought of leaving my work unfinished. I am still burdened with things in my heart that I have not had a chance to express…

I placed my father’s two books with the old photographs in the large bag I had brought and prepared to leave. There appeared to be no other items worth taking. Niang’s flat was scheduled to be refurbished and everything was to be thrown away. Looking through her closets for the very last time I suddenly saw another item abandoned by my siblings. Quickly, I retrieved it from a pile of yellowed newspaper cuttings. It was a large, framed photo of our grandfather Ye Ye, taken a few months before his death at the age of seventy-four.