Wang Mien took in the scene. “Men of olden times said that man is in the picture,” he thought. “How true! If only we had a painter with us to do a few branches of these lotuses—how fascinating it would be!” At the same time it occurred to Wang Mien: “There’s nothing in the world that can’t be mastered. Why not paint a few myself!”
While entertaining these daydreams, what did Wang Mien see in the distance but a clumsy porter shouldering a load of food suspended from a pole and carrying a jug of wine in his hand. A mat was draped over the packages of food. When he arrived under the willows, he spread the mat and opened up the packages. From the same direction three men were approaching who wore scholars’ mortarboards on their heads. One of them was dressed in the sapphire-blue robe of a degree holder, the other two simply in dark robes. All three appeared to be forty or fifty years old. They advanced with leisurely step, fanning themselves with white paper fans.
The one in blue was a fat man. When he arrived beneath the willows he showed one of his companions, who had a beard, to the place of honor and the other, a skinny man, to a place opposite. The fat man must have been the host, for he took the lowest seat and poured the wine. After they had spent some time eating, the fat man opened his mouth to speak: “Old Master Wei is back! He just bought a new house. It’s even bigger than the one he had in the capital and cost two thousand taels of silver! Because Master Wei was the buyer, the owner lowered the price a few dozen taels for the sake of the prestige that would rub off on him. Master Wei moved into the house early last month. Their Honors, the governor and the county magistrate, came personally to his door to offer their congratulations and were entertained there until well into the night. The whole city holds him in the highest regard.”
“His Honor the county magistrate,” said the skinny man, “won his penultimate degree in the triennial examination. Master Wei was his examiner, hence his patron. So it was only to be expected that he would come to congratulate his patron.”
“My brother-in-law,” said the fat man, “is also Master Wei’s protégé. Now he’s a county magistrate in Honan province. Day before yesterday my son-in-law brought over a few pounds of dried venison. (There it is on the plate.) When he returns, I’m going to have him ask my brother-in-law to write a letter to introduce me to Master Wei. If Master Wei honors us with a return visit, our fields will be saved from the pigs and donkeys that our local farmers let loose to eat their fill.”
“Old Master Wei’s a true scholar!” said the skinny man.
“They say that when he left the capital a few days ago,” added the bearded man, “the emperor himself saw him out to the city wall, and then they walked about a dozen steps hand in hand. Master Wei had to bow down again and again declining the honor, before His Majesty returned to his sedan-chair. The way things look, Master Wei should soon be in office.” Thus the conversation went back and forth, never reaching an end. Wang Mien, however, saw that evening was approaching, so he hauled his charge home.
Now Wang Mien no longer put the money he saved into books. Instead he had someone buy him some pigments and white lead powder so that he could learn to paint the lotus. His first efforts were not especially good, but after a few months he could make a perfect likeness of the blossom both in outward appearance and essential quality. Had it not been for the sheet of paper they were on, his lotuses could be growing in the lake! Some local people who saw how well he painted even paid money for his work, and with it Wang bought a few treats for his mother.
Word spread until the whole county of Chuchi knew that there was among them a master of brushwork in the “boneless” or soft-shape style of flower painting. People began competing to buy the paintings. When Wang Mien reached the age of seventeen or eighteen, he was no longer working for the Ch’in family. Every day he would make a few sketches or study the ancient poets. As time went by he did not have to worry about food or clothing, and his mother was happy as could be.
Wang Mien was so gifted that before he was twenty he had mastered such fields of knowledge as astronomy, geography, the classics, and the historical texts. But he was unusual in that he sought neither office nor friends; he remained secluded with his studies. When he saw illustrations of Ch’ü Yüan’s* costume in an edition of Ch’ü’s great poem “Li Sao,” Wang Mien fitted himself out with the same kind of tall tablet-like hat and billowing robe.
When the season of fair days arrived, he set his mother in a bullock cart, garbed himself after his newest fashion, and with a whip in his hand and a song on his lips, traveled around wherever it pleased him—to the neighboring villages and towns or down to the lakeside. His jaunts excited the laughter of the village children, who tagged after him in little groups. Wang Mien did not care. Only Old Ch’in, his neighbor, loved and respected him, for though the old man was a farmer, he had a mind of his own and had seen Wang Mien grow from youth to cultivated maturity. Time and again the two enjoyed the warmest companionship when he invited Wang Mien to his cottage.
One day when Wang Mien was visiting with Old Ch’in, what did they see outside but a man coming toward them—a man wearing the conelike cap and black cotton of a lowly officer. Old Ch’in welcomed the visitor, and after mutual courtesies the two men sat down. The visitor’s surname was Chai, and he was serving the Chuchi county magistrate as chief sergeant and steward at the same time. Since the eldest of Old Ch’in’s sons was a ward of Steward Chai’s and called him Godfather, the steward frequently came down to the village to visit his relative.
Old Ch’in made a big fuss and told his son to brew tea, kill a chicken, and cook up some meat to entertain Chai in grand style. Then he asked Wang Mien to join them. After Old Ch’in introduced Wang Mien to his guest, Steward Chai said, “Can this honorable Mr. Wang be the expert painter of flowers in the soft-shape style?”
“The very man himself,” replied Old Ch’in. “But my dear relative, however did you know?”
“Who around town doesn’t?” said the steward. “A few days ago His Honor, our county magistrate, told me he wants a folio of twenty-four flower paintings to send to his superior and turned the job over to me. People speak so highly of Wang Mien that I came especially to you, dear relative. And now fortune enables me to meet Mr. Wang, whom I would trouble for a few strokes of his honored brush. In a fortnight I shall return here to fetch them. I am sure His Honor will have a few taels of silver to ‘moisten the brush’; I’ll be bringing them along.”
From the sidelines Old Ch’in was earnestly prodding Wang Mien who, rather than hurt Old Ch’in’s feelings, had no choice but to accept. He went home and threw himself into the composition of the twenty-four floral pieces, adding a poem to each. The steward Chai reported to his office, and the magistrate Shih Jen paid out twenty-four taels of silver. The steward took twelve taels for his commission, delivered twelve to Wang Mien and left with the folio. The magistrate took the folio from the steward and assembled a few other gifts for Mr. Wei to wish him well.
Wei Su was interested in none of the gifts except the folio. He cherished it, savored it, would not let it out of his hands. The next day he invited Magistrate Shih to a banquet at his home to express his thanks. And there they passed the time of day as the wine went round.
“A day ago I received the flower album Your Honor so kindly sent,” said Wei Su. “I wonder, is it the work of some classic master or a man of our own times?”
The magistrate could hardly keep the truth from his superior. “The painter is a local peasant from your protégé’s district. His name is Wang Mien, and he is quite young—just a beginner. He hardly deserves to come within your discerning view, dear patron.”
“Humble student that I am,” said Wei Su with a sigh, “I have been away so long that I am guilty of ignorance that so worthy a talent has come from my home village. A shame. A shame. This good fellow has not only the highest skill but a wealth of knowledge. Most unusual! He will equal us one day in name and in position, too. Could you arrange for me to meet with him, I wonder
?”
“No problem,” replied the magistrate. “When I leave I shall have someone arrange it. When Wang Mien learns that it is my dear patron who takes such an interest in him, I know he will be beside himself with delight.” And with that he bid adieu to Wei Su, returned to his office, and assigned the steward Chai to invite Wang Mien in the humblest and most courteous form to a meeting with Wei Su.
The steward fairly flew to the village and went straight to the home of Old Ch’in to present the invitation. And if he presented it to Wang Mien five times, he presented it to him ten times, but Wang Mien only laughed and said, “I’m sorry, but I shall have to trouble you, Steward, to report back to His Honor that Wang Mien is a mere peasant who would never dream of such an audience. Nor would I dream of accepting this invitation.”
The steward’s face darkened as he said, “Who would dare refuse His Honor’s invitation? Not to mention the fact that if I myself hadn’t done you the favor, His Honor would never have known of your talent. It stands to reason that after meeting His Honor, you should find a way to show me your gratitude. And what’s the idea of not putting out a cup of tea for me after I’ve come all this way? And giving me this excuse and that for being unwilling to go—what’s it supposed to mean? And how am I supposed to make a proper report to His Honor? Are you trying to tell me that the head of a whole county can’t summon a commoner?”
“Steward,” said Wang Mien, “there’s something you don’t understand. If I had done something wrong and His Honor issued an official summons for my appearance, how could I refuse? But this is only an invitation, which means he’s not demanding that I go. I’d rather not go. His Honor should forgive me!”
“What in hell are you talking about?” said the steward. “You’ll go if you’re summoned, but not if you’re invited? You don’t appreciate it when someone tries to help you!”
“Good Mr. Wang, okay, okay,” said Old Ch’in. “If His Honor sends an invitation, of course he means well. Why not go this time with my dear relative? You know the saying, ‘A magistrate can ruin the family.’ Why be so stubborn?”
“Uncle,” said Wang Mien, “the steward doesn’t know this, but haven’t you heard me tell of ancient worthies who refused their sovereign’s call? I really won’t go.”
“You present me with a difficult problem,” said the steward. “What explanation can I take back to His Honor?”
“This is a real dilemma,” said Old Ch’in, “between going and not going. On the one hand, Mr. Wang refuses to go; on the other, my dear relative will be hard put to explain it if he doesn’t. However, I may have a way out. When you return to the city, dear relative, don’t say that Mr. Wang won’t go, only that he is ill at home and cannot come right away, but will in a few days when he’s feeling better.”
“I’d need four neighbors to vouch for that!” cried the steward. And so they argued round and round. Old Ch’in made supper for the steward and quietly told Wang to bring half a tael of silver from his mother, to reimburse the steward for his travel expenses.
When Magistrate Shih heard the steward’s report, he thought, “How could the rascal have taken ill? This lackey of a steward must have gone into the village like ‘the fox in front of the tiger’* and scared the life out of the artist, who has probably never yet been received by an official. But since my patron, Wei Su, has left it to me to arrange a meeting, he will hold me in contempt if I flunk this test. It appears that I’ll have to pay my respects to the artist personally. This gracious compliment, with no hint of coercion, will surely give him the courage to meet me, and then I’ll take him along to see my patron. In that way I can pass the test with distinction!”
But the magistrate had another thought: “For a county magistrate to lower himself to pay his respects to a peasant will provoke the scorn of his underlings.”
Then the magistrate had yet another thought: “The other day my patron spoke of this artist with one hundred percent respect. I, therefore, should be one thousand percent respectful. Besides, if I lower myself to show respect to a worthy peasant, the local chronicles will surely include a section in praise of it—to my eternal credit! I can’t see anything wrong in that!” And so the magistrate made his decision.
Next morning he called for his sedan-chair. Dispensing with the full complement of heralds and banners, he took only eight guards to clear the road ahead, as well as the steward Chai, who hung onto the rails of the sedan-chair. They went directly to the village. When the villagers heard the gong announcing an official’s approach, they came crowding forth to look, supporting their elderly and taking their young by the hand.
The chair arrived at Wang Mien’s gate. And what did the steward find? Seven or eight thatched-roof huts and an unpainted wooden door, tightly shut. The steward bounded up to the door. After he had knocked at it for a while, an old woman came out, propped herself up on her walking stick, and said, “Wang Mien’s not home. He took the buffalo to water first thing this morning and he hasn’t returned yet.”
“His Honor has come himself to summon your son,” said the steward. “What are you wasting time for? Tell me where he is right away, so that I can deliver the summons.”
“The simple truth,” said the old woman, “is that he’s not here, and I don’t know where he has gone.” With that she went back inside, closing the door behind her.
While they had been talking, the magistrate’s chair pulled up. The steward kneeled before it and offered his report: “Your humble servant has been trying to summon Wang Mien, but he is not at home. May I suggest, Your Honor, that you have your dragon-chair moved to the public rest house, while I continue my efforts.” With steward Chai hanging on as before, the chair was carried behind Wang Mien’s cottage, where there was a jumble of raised footpaths bordering the fields. Beyond them was a large pond bordered with elms and mulberries. Farther in the distance stretched an expanse of acres. There was a small hill too, near the pond, green with dense foliage. It stood about half a mile from Wang Mien’s house, and two people could hail one another from hill to house.
As the magistrate was being carried away, a water buffalo with a cowherd riding it backwards came from behind the hill. The steward hurried over to him and asked, “Young man, did you see where your neighbor Wang Mien took his animal?”
“You mean Uncle Wang?” answered the second of Old Ch’in’s sons. “He’s off to a feast in the Wang clan’s hamlet—about seven miles from here. But this is his buffalo. He asked me to drive it home.”
The steward informed the magistrate, who scowled. “If that’s the case,” he said, “there’s no point in my going to the rest house. We will return to the office at once.” By this time the magistrate was so angry that his first thought was to have Wang Mien arrested and taught a painful lesson. But on second thought he was afraid that his patron would criticize him for being hot-tempered. It might be better to hold his peace and explain that Wang Mien was not worth doing a favor. The young peasant himself could be dealt with in good time. With these thoughts the magistrate left the village.
Wang Mien had not in fact gone far at all, and soon he came strolling home. Thoroughly annoyed, Old Ch’in came up to him and said, “You were altogether too willful just now. He is the head of the whole county. How could you be so insolent?”
“Good sir,” said Wang Mien, “please sit down. I have something to tell you. The magistrate, backed by Wei Su’s power, has been maltreating our peasants every way he can. Why should I have anything to do with such a person? The thing is that when he goes back he’s sure to say something to Wei Su. If Wei Su takes offense at the insult, he’ll be looking to settle scores with me, I’m afraid. So for now I’ll bid you goodbye, get my things together, and go away to keep out of trouble, though leaving my mother alone at home makes me uneasy.”
“Son,” said Wang Mien’s mother, “you have been selling your art work for years. Out of that I’ve saved forty or fifty taels of silver. So I won’t be wanting for the basics. And though I’m old
, my health is good. I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t get out of the way for a while. Besides, you haven’t committed any crime. The officers aren’t going to come and take me away!”
“She has a point,” said Old Ch’in. “Moreover, your talents will go unrecognized buried in this village town. Take yourself off to some important place where you may meet your fortune. As for your most honorable mother—I’ll be responsible for everything at home while you’re gone.” Wang Mien thanked Old Ch’in with clasped hands upraised. The farmer went back to his house to fetch some wine and delicacies, and with these he bid a fitting farewell to Wang Mien. They spent half the night celebrating before Old Ch’in went home.
The next day before dawn, Wang Mien got up and collected his things. Old Ch’in arrived as he was finishing breakfast. Wang Mien bid his mother a respectful goodbye, and mother and son, shedding tears, parted hands. Wang Mien slipped on his hemp shoes, set his pack on his back, and went to the village entrance. Carrying a small white lantern, Old Ch’in accompanied him. The two men wept. Old Ch’in, lantern in hand, stood watching Wang Mien until he was out of sight.
Exposed to the elements, stopping every twenty or thirty miles at hostels, Wang Mien traveled straight to the city of Tsinan, capital of Shantung. Though Shantung is a northern, hence a poorer, province, Tsinan is populous and prosperous. When Wang Mien arrived his money had all been spent, so he had to rent a small dwelling attached to the front of a convent. There he read the stars and told people’s fortunes. He also painted a few soft-shape lotus blossoms, which he put up for sale to passersby. His work was so popular that he could not keep the crowds away.
Chinese Fairy Tales and Fantasies (Pantheon Fairy Tale and Folklore Library) Page 19
