A Vietnamese Family Chronicle Page 9

  On days when the sky was clear and a light wind was blowing, the distant sound of flutes could be heard over the countryside. It came from kites flying so high that they could hardly be seen, yet their music was diffused everywhere. What was special about the kites, and I can remember nothing similar in other countries I have visited, was that they were enjoyable not only to watch, but also to listen to. Many people in our village prided themselves with the ability to make kites which flew well and produced a melodious sound. Some gained such a high reputation that villagers could recognize their kites, by the sound alone. Flying kites did not have to interfere with work. A group of farmers would go out to the fields in the morning, fly their kite, tie it to a stake and let it stay up in the sky while they worked. Its sound provided them with background music, which climbed to a high pitch when the wind blew strong and became low and grave as the wind subsided. Sometimes the music dropped quickly, like a siren running out of steam. This meant that the kite itself was coming down.

  The monsoon arrived in the north in the later part of summer. Every year, villagers hoped for it to come early, so that the fields could be tilled and worked in time for the new crop. The last part of the dry season was very stuffy and hot. The hard soil cracked. Fields were deserted. The rains were always slow to come, and they always came with the same ritual. In the afternoon, black clouds would gather menacingly on the eastern horizon, bringing lightning and thunder. But after a while they would disappear. Several days-even weeks-followed in the same pattern and villagers became worried. They climbed the dike looking at the horizon for any harbinger of coming rain. Tension mounted and old people started reminiscing about droughts of years past. Then one afternoon, monsoon rain finally came, roaring in with unbelievable speed. We hardly had time to run home to bring in things which had been left outside. Water poured down from the sky and in no time our courtyard was flooded. We rushed out into the open to let the cool rain shower down on our bodies and to try to catch fish, which came in from ponds and drains. Next morning, the fields returned to life. Everywhere, people were busy working the soil and building up small ridges to keep water in the rice fields. It was a time as bustling as festival time. Only those who have lived in the country can know the excitement and sense of renewal that came with the rains. The torpid heat was over. A new and promising season had started.

  A most enjoyable activity in summer was swimming in the river. Country people always took a bath late in the afternoon after the day’s work was done and dinner was taken. “A filling meal, a cooling bath,” that was how a proverb said a farmer’s day should end. Most people in our village bathed in their own pond, the stagnant water of which was, however, not always clean. I preferred to go across the Lichee Field to the Hat River. The clear water running over white sand was a delight to jump in. On a hot day, many villagers of the riverside village of Sao would come to the beach for their bath. Men and boys went swimming in the middle of the river, while women and girls shyly stayed close to the bank. They were in the water up to their waists and wearing brassieres, so that only the soft lines of their white shoulders and arms could be seen. Since ancient times, river bathing was a pleasure of rural life enjoyed by all. The story was told of our Master, Confucius, as he went from one country to another offering himself for public service, but unable to find a ruler enlightened enough to use his talents. One day, relaxing in the company of some close disciples, he asked them what they would like to do most in life, if given the choice. One replied that he would like to administer a large country, surrounded by enemies and affected by war and scarcity; in three years’ time, he hoped to make that country strong and secure. Another said more modestly that he would like to administer a middle-sized country; within three years he expected to provide for its people a comfortable life. A third said that he would like to serve the king and be in charge of the Office of Rites. These disciples all took it upon themselves to realize their Master’s unfulfilled aspirations for public service. Another disciple, Zeng Dian, was playing his lute and did not reply.

  “What about you, Dian?” the Master asked him. Stopping his music, Zeng Dian replied:

  “I dare not say, because mine is so different from the aspirations of the others.”

  “Go ahead and say it!” the Master insisted. Zeng Dian then said:

  "As spring nears its end, with a few friends, to go and bathe in the cool water of the Ni River.”

  On hearing this, Confucious sighed and murmured:

  “I am like you, Dian.”

  The Hat River had a deep and wide bed as it came towards the Lichee Field. On meeting the Field, the river bent its course and made a big loop. Past the village of Sao on the other side, it started running over sand and became narrower and shallower until at one place it was reduced to a fordable stream. Then, past the sandbank, it grew larger again on its way south. That open sandy stretch was a most inviting place for bathing in summer. I would go there early in the morning, when everything around was quiet and still and the river itself seemed to stop its flow. As I plunged into the coolness and swam in the company of hundreds of small fish, everything else was forgotten. In the autumn, there were mornings when a dense layer of mist rose above the river surface into the cold air, and the warm water was like a balm to my body. Even princesses of legend, who rarely ventured out of their high-walled palaces, gave in to the simple pleasure of river bathing. I have recounted earlier the two legends of the Heavenly Prince of Phu Dong and the Spirits of the Mountain and the River. As a matter of fact, our history books carried not two, but three ancient legends originating from the first dynasty. The third legend was that of the Condemned Immortal.

  Chu Dong Tu was an immortal who committed some mistake and was sentenced to be exiled to Earth. There he led the life of a poor fisherman having no home and staying among the reeds on a sandy bank of the Red River. King Hung Vuong’s daughter, Princess Tien Dung, one day decided to go out of her palace for a boat trip. The season was summer, the weather was hot. As the princess’ party passed by a sandbank, she found it inviting and decided to stop for a cool dip. Troops cordoned off the area and hung curtains all around so that the princess had the privacy to enjoy her bath. Chu Dong Tu, who was on the bank, found himself caught on all sides. Not knowing what else to do, he buried himself under the sand to hide. It happened that the princess chose to have her bath next to the spot where he hid and as she came up from the river and female attendants poured perfumed water over her virginal body, the sand was washed away and Chu Dong Tu’s presence was revealed. Immediately, he was arrested and led away to be executed for he had committed the most serious crime of lese-majeste. But the princess put a stop to it. She said that as her body must belong to only one man, and as Chu Dong Tu had seen her bathing, it was Heaven’s will that she become his wife. The fact that he was a poor fisherman must not make any difference. Messengers were dispatched post-haste to the capital to report matters to King Hung Vuong who flew into a rage and sent the army to surround the area, with orders to arrest Chu Dong Tu and bring the princess home. But that night, a violent storm descended over the area and the troops could not move in. Next morning, they could not find the sandbank anywhere. In its place, there was a big depression which soon filled with water and became a lake. Chu Dong Tu, the immortal, had left the Earth to return to the realm of Bong Lai-the fairyland where immortals resided-and had taken with him his new royal bride. Whether they left in a rocket and the depression was caused by its blast-off, the story did not say. The setting for Chu Dong Tu’s legend was the nearby province of Hung Yen, where the lake can still be seen. But I have always thought that the young princess, who loved river bathing, would also have liked the sandbank of our Hat River and stopped there, had her boat passed by it on a sunny summer day.

  5. Our Family

  Scholarship

  Our family has been one of scholars since the end of the fifteenth century, probably even earlier. Few of our ancestors gained academic titles; in fact, only six ove
r a period of four hundred years. The first three generations were highly successful at the examinations and in public service. Then followed eight generations during which we could claim just one diploma, until my grandfather obtained his. Yet, our family has kept to its scholarly pursuits. Only once was there a change. The head of our tenth generation became a trader. His son, however, returned immediately to the family tradition.

  My grandfather was a man of few words, but there were times when sipping a cup of tea perfumed with the scent of the ngau flowers of his garden-his favorite drink-he was in a mood to talk about our ancestors. Those generations of unsuccessful scholars, he said, did not lose heart and remained committed to their vocation, although many experienced severe hardship. Referring to them, he quoted the proverb: “Pages are torn, but the spine of the book must be kept intact.” This well-known proverb is often used to say that even when down and out, a family should endeavor to keep up appearances. Grandfather, however, did not use it in that sense. He wanted to show us the will of our ancestors to persist with studies in spite of failures at the examinations. His own father tried repeatedly for a diploma until an advanced age. It was not unusual in those times to see white-haired old men mixing with young hopefuls in a crowd of candidates, even father and son sitting at the same session. “When time finally caught up with a generation,” grandfather said, “the hope was transferred to the next one. Whatever happened, the spine of the book must be preserved and studies pursued, so that one day the family could resume with academic success.”

  It is not difficult to understand why our people wanted to remain scholars. Vietnamese society was traditionally divided into the four classes of scholars, farmers, artisans and traders. A scholar who passed the civil service examinations and became a mandarin, joined the elite group which ran the country under the king’s leadership. Scholarly families without academic titles tended to drop out of the top class after a few generations. Their descendants turned farmers, artisans or traders, while men from these three classes who could obtain a diploma moved into the upper group. Families moved up and down constantly and the scholarly class kept renewing itself. What was remarkable in our case was that our ancestors managed to stay on as scholars all through four centuries.

  Untitled scholars did not have an easy life. Many of our ancestors were teachers and some of them earned a living not much better than that of poor farmers. But, successful or not at the examinations, all scholars were given respect and consideration by society. Author Duong Quang Ham, a student of my grandfather, explained it in his book on Vietnamese literature, which became a textbook for all secondary schools in Vietnam:

  Scholars were men of high character who shared the same goal in life, that of preserving the righteous ethics and strengthening public morality. Some may be engaged in a career to serve the king and country, others may teach and educate the younger generations, still others by their virtuous life may be models for others to follow. All scholars commanded the respect and obedience of the population, although many may not be given any honours or mandarinal positions.

  In the popular concept, scholars were men who followed “the ways of saints and sages.” High regard was accorded, in particular, to teachers who imparted their knowledge of “the ways” to the common people. A pupil was accepted by his teacher at a ritual ceremony after which a relationship akin to that between father and son was established. Indeed, in some parts of Vietnam, the same word thay was used to call both one’s father and one’s teacher. Pupils brought presents to their teacher at seasonal and family festivals. They came and lent a hand whenever their services were needed. In the 1940s, more than twenty years after he had stopped teaching, there were still former pupils of my grandfather coming from far away provinces to attend the anniversary of his father’s death. Students usually formed an alumni association to provide material support to their teacher in his old age. Even when a student had gained high position and honors, he must maintain the same attitude of deference and respect towards his former teacher. “Now as then, one and the same” was the rule of conduct required.

  A story in our family lore relates to an impoverished ancestor who had no diploma and therefore no high rank in the village. He could rarely afford to buy meat, yet there was nothing he loved more than a cup of rice brandy to be savored with tidbits of meat before a meal. At every village festival, he received a piece from the most coveted part of a pig, its head, because those who cut the meat at the Communal Hall to divide it among villagers respected him as a scholar and put him above protocol. Next to our ancestral compound lived a family of scholars who had known better times. When I was a little boy, Bachelor Bo was a retired teacher. An old gentleman with a pink complexion and a strikingly beautiful white beard coming down to his chest, he was very friendly and often played with us children. “In his time, he went to the imperial capital to sit for the doctorate!” villagers talked about him in a deferential voice. Normally, only those with a licentiate-or four-certificate degree-could aspire to become a doctor. Bachelor Bo, who only had a three-certificate degree, made the trip to the capital because he was among the brightest bachelors of his class and his father was the head educational officer of a region. He failed in his attempt and never became a mandarin. He had not made much money as a teacher and after retirement, had to sell parts of his family plot, some of which were bought by our own family. He no longer owned a pond, so made use of ours which was situated outside our compound. Other people used it too, but out of respect for him, everyone would keep out when he was there. Bachelor Bo had the habit of washing his feet every day and taking a very long time doing it. Others had to wait, and he would get into a temper if some youngsters, not aware of the etiquette, walked towards the water before he had finished.

  Success came to but a few of the scholars. Candidates competed for a limited number of places in the state examinations, which took place once every three years. Bachelors and licentiates were selected at regional competitions conducted in a small number of centers, while doctors were chosen at a national competition in the capital. Those who failed at a session, or missed it for whatever reason, had to wait three years. The wait could be longer. At first, examinations were organized only if and when the king needed to recruit “good and wise men” to serve the country. Triennial sessions were introduced by King Le Thanh Ton in the fifteenth century and they became the rule, but wars and internal conflicts often resulted in them being abandoned. Under such a restrictive system, many were those who never made it through the examinations, despite their literary talents. My great-grandfather was one such scholar. He showed great promise as a student. People said that for him, success would only be a matter of time. Yet, he kept failing one session after another. He turned to teaching and many of his students graduated, but he himself remained without academic titles, all his life an impoverished scholar.

  Our village Kim Bai belonged to a region which could pride itself for having produced a large number of graduates. Thanh Oai, our prefecture, figured prominently in The Register of High Graduates which listed all holders of the doctorate since early times. At nearly every session, there was one from our prefecture, sometimes there were even two; an impressive record considering that the number of new doctors at a session rarely exceeded fifty-most of the time it was well below that figure-and Thanh Oai was one of some 160 prefectures in Vietnam. Perhaps that had something to do with our region being close to the capital, because after the Nguyen dynasty moved the capital, and with it the doctorate examinations, further south to Hue in the nineteenth century, Thanh Oai’s high rate of success dropped. In Kim Bai, intelligent boys who were keen on studies received help and encouragement. Literary competitions were organized periodically, in which a panel of scholars gave money prizes to the best essays. It was customary for teachers not to charge students from poor families. Old people recalled “the good old times” when conditions in the country were peaceful and prosperous, and scholarship highly considered; in those times, village gua
rds kept watch on young students in the evenings. If, passing by the house of a student, the guards did not hear him reading books-to read aloud a text was the traditional Vietnamese way to memorize it-they would report to the village council and the student’s parents would be fined! Bright students carried the hope of the whole community.