Ten Thousand Miles Without a Cloud

by Sun Shuyun

  Many loved Chang’an too much to leave; they were welcome to serve the emperor. ‘The imperial honour guards were almost entirely foreigners,’ Li said, ‘because Taizong thought them strong and handsome. But it wasn’t just their looks. He would appoint anyone who was competent and would serve him loyally. You know in the Tang dynasty, when the court was in session, all officials had to wear their own national costumes, and half of those present in Taizong’s court were foreigners. His generals were mostly Turks and Koreans; an Indian was put in charge of making the calendars; a Japanese monk became a minister responsible for canals; another Japanese held the post of chief librarian; the painters, bodyguards, horsemen, musicians, singers and dancers at the court – they were all foreigners.’

  As I listened I thought how different was the time when I grew up. Whatever was foreign had been bourgeois and insidious. Anyone educated in the West was immediately suspected as a traitor. All letters from abroad were censored, and you could be in trouble just for receiving one. A pianist had his fingers broken because he refused to give up playing Mozart. The whole nation was a sea of four colours, blue for workers, green for soldiers, grey Mao suits for cadres and black for peasants. Cosmetics were unheard of; women all had the same hairstyle, designed by Mao’s wife. For some reason, my mother was born with curly hair – Chinese hair was straight. In the early days of the revolution, when people were still relaxed and could enjoy life, women used to be envious of her. But as everything became more politicized, they began to shun her. Officials asked questions about her family, going back several generations. Could it be that she had foreign ancestor? Her home town was near the sea, where any number of ships used to dock and foreign merchants and sailors came ashore. My mother desperately tried to straighten her hair; she used industrial acid to rid herself of her dangerous curls. Even when she adopted Madam Mao’s style, the curls were still there. In the end she cut them back so hard, she almost looked like a man. But at least she felt safe.

  Foreign influence could corrupt us and lead to ‘peaceful transformation’ of China by the capitalist West, and the triumph of capitalism over socialism. The capitalist revival, we were warned, ‘would throw us back into the deep abyss and burning fire and we would suffer again’. When I went to Beijing University to read English literature in 1982, China had already opened up to the outside world. We had a big, bubbly woman called Jane teaching us colloquial English. I was eager for practice after class and Jane was keen to find out more about China. Every time I went to see her in her dormitory, a building specially reserved for foreigners, I had to fill in a form stating who I was and which department I belonged to. The guards at the entrance examined the form carefully and then asked more questions, as if I was not a student, but a secret spy on a rendezvous with a foreign agent; only when they were fully satisfied would they call Jane to come and collect me. It was such an ordeal, and I soon gave it up. The suspicion is still there. Even on this journey, when I talked to scholars and touched on a sensitive topic like religious freedom in China today, they would invariably say: ‘Little Sun, you’re a Chinese. We don’t think of you as a foreigner, so we can tell you what we really think.’

  Taking in the murals and what Li said, I thought back to what I learned about Taizong at school. He was a wise emperor, one of the five whom Mao admired, although he considered them all inferior to him. Taizong did not have his literary talents, Mao declared in a famous poem, which we all memorized. But in a feudal society, an enlightened emperor like him came only once in a thousand years, even if he was the overlord of the ruling classes which exploited the proletariat. I had not realized that under his reign we were so open, so confident, so assured of our own greatness and strength, and so welcoming – what was foreign was a benefit, not a threat. It was the source of the wonder of the Tang, never experienced before or since. It was the time that made Xuanzang. Now I understand why Chinese living abroad call themselves the People of the Tang – the Chinese word for Chinatown actually means ‘Town of the Tang People’. Of China’s five thousand years of history, they chose the Tang – and they are proud of it to this day.

  The Tang’s cosmopolitan character also found its expression in Chang’an’s spiritual riches. Nestorian Christians, who were regarded as heretics by the orthodox church of Byzantium, were granted a hearing at court; Taizong was impressed, and issued an edict saying it was right that their teaching should spread freely, and ordered their church to be built in the capital. Zoroastrian believers who had fled their homes in Persia were allowed to practise their faith in their ‘fire temples’. Daoist priests went around the city, performing rituals for the living and the dead. There were Buddhist temples too, and the monasteries were filled with foreign as well as Chinese monks. Churches, temples, monasteries, pagodas and even one or two synagogues – all religions of the Silk Road found a place in Chang’an. Xuanzang respected other religions, but there had always been competition for the emperor’s favour between Buddhists and Daoists. From historical precedent, he was well aware of the consequences of this preference, and having gained Taizong’s support for his translation project, he hoped he would persuade him to show more interest in Buddhism, and even to propagate it throughout the empire.

  But first Xuanzang had to assemble his team. Two dozen monks were selected from all over China, including Hui Li, whose task was to see that the translations were smooth and easy to understand. They were installed in the Monastery of the Great Happiness, built by Taizong for his late mother. The daily routine Xuanzang set in motion was a gruelling one. He would be up at two o’clock in the morning, meditating and praying, and reading through the Sanskrit text to be translated that day, thinking over each word and phrase. When the team was ready, he would dictate his translations to them. While they worked on them, checking with the originals and making sure they read smoothly in Chinese, he would either be giving talks, twice a day, on the new scriptures and treatises, or answering questions from monks from all over the country and those in his own monastery – he had over a hundred pupils who thronged the cloisters and corridors waiting to obtain instruction and advice. When he had made them all happy, he would sit down with Bienji, a bright young monk from his team of translators, and dictate to him information about the countries he had travelled through for the promised book of the journey – facts, figures and legends, but not a word of his extraordinary personal experiences.

  However, everyone wanted to know what the journey had been like and how he had managed it. So on occasion, after a day’s hard work and when he was pleased with the progress of the translations, he would satisfy their curiosity by telling them a few bedtime stories about his adventures: his encounters with the bandits, going on hunger strike in order to continue his pilgrimage, the fatal avalanche, or getting lost in the desert. Hui Li wrote down all these reminiscences and then filled them in with details of Xuanzang’s early life and what he had told Bienji. The result was the biography which gave the most vivid account of Xuanzang’s epic journey – dramatic tales of strange people and stranger customs, Buddhist legends and luminary masters, things never heard or seen before, adversity, temptation, determination and triumph.

  Xuanzang was willing to tell the world of his extraordinary experiences, perhaps because he wanted people to treasure the scriptures that he had risked his life to bring back. But to spread the scriptures throughout the country, he would need one thing more from the emperor – a preface: then everyone reading his work would know that it had been blessed by the Son of Heaven. As soon as he started the translations, he had asked Taizong if he would provide one. But the emperor knew this would indicate a change of religious allegiance; he was not ready to consent.

  Xuanzang decided to speed up the completion of his Record even at the expense of delaying the translation. So, barely fourteen months after his return from India, he finished the account of his journey. The full title he gave it was ‘Record of the Western Regions of the Great Tang’, although much of his journey was well beyon
d the borders of the empire. And he made no mention of his secretive departure; instead he attributed his success to the protection of Taizong’s mantle. He deployed his full skill in flattery in his own preface to the Record.

  All sentient beings benefit from the Great Tang; all mankind sings its praises. I started from China and travelled through the five kingdoms of India. Even the remotest regions pledge their loyalty to the Tang and come under its influence. Everywhere I have been, people praise in unison the unparalleled virtues and achievements of the Great Tang. I have checked all historical records, and none has mentioned this fact; I have read all the relevant books, and none carries any such description. If I do not write down what I have seen and heard, how can we demonstrate the scope of our influence on the world?

  Taizong read the manuscript at once, and the very next day sent Xuanzang a letter of congratulation. Xuanzang took this as another opportunity to request a preface for his translations. Taizong again declined, professing ignorance. ‘I am not a clever man,’ he said, ‘nor very learned. Even in matters of state I feel confused sometimes, let alone understanding the unfathomable teachings of the Buddha. A preface is simply beyond my capacity.’

  But a further chance came in the summer of 648 when Taizong summoned Xuanzang to his summer retreat in the mountains outside the capital. ‘I found that I missed you badly,’ Taizong confided in him when he arrived after riding nearly three days without a stop. ‘That is why I have given you this long and fatiguing journey.’

  ‘That a humble individual like myself should receive such an invitation is so unique an honour, I was far too delighted to be aware of any fatigue,’ Xuanzang replied in his self-effacing way.

  Xuanzang knew the emperor would enquire about his work and he was fully prepared. Remembering Taizong’s excuse about how ‘unfathomable’ Buddhism was, he chose a section of volume sixty-one of the Yogacara Sutra. Although the entire sutra itself, one hundred volumes in total, would indeed be difficult for Taizong to grasp, this volume could not have been more appropriate. It was about how to be a good king: the ten mistakes to avoid, and the ten virtues to practise to guarantee a long, peaceful reign. For example, the seventh virtue of a king is to feel the pulse of the time, to select the right people to run the country, to punish the bad and reward the good; following these rules, the king would be invincible. This was what Taizong had tried to do. When he heard what Xuanzang had to say, he was pleasantly surprised. He wanted to know more about the sutra and sent a messenger to the capital to fetch it. Having read it, he was reported to have said to the attending ministers: ‘Reading it is like gazing at the sky or sea. It is so lofty that one cannot measure its height, and so profound that one cannot plumb its depths … It is absurd to say that Confucianism, Daoism and Buddhism are of equal value. Confucianism, Daoism and our other teachings are like mere puddles measured against a mighty ocean.’

  Two months later Taizong’s preface was written, expressing unreserved admiration for Xuanzang in equally flowery language. He called Xuanzang ‘Leader of the Dharma’. ‘The wind in the forest and the moon on the water cannot compare to the purity of his virtue,’ the emperor wrote. ‘The morning dew and shiny pearls cannot compare to the clearness of his complexion. He sees through all and is burdened by nothing. He transcends the mundane and the suffering. He is the one and only in history, without equal … I hope the sutras he has translated will spread far and wide, bringing benefits to the believers as infinite as the Sun and the Moon, as lasting as Heaven and Earth.’

  This was exactly what Xuanzang had hoped for: the preface was the seal of imperial approval for Buddhism and its propagation throughout the country. Soon, the suppression of Buddhism that marked the early years of the Tang dynasty was lifted. And in the fierce competition for the favour of the emperor, Buddhism finally triumphed over Daoism. Buddhism was to enter its golden age, as never before or after in Chinese history. Taizong instructed the imperial secretariat to make copies of Xuanzang’s translations of the sutras and to dispatch them to the far corners of the country. At his suggestion, Taizong allowed the ordination of 17,000 monks, filling the monasteries that mushroomed throughout the empire. With generous donations from every part of society, from the imperial family down to ordinary people, monasteries were built on a monumental scale, ‘surpassing even the imperial palaces in design, embodying the last word in extravagance, splendour, artistry and fineness’, a contemporary writer complained. Xuanzang’s own temple was among the greatest, with ten courts, four thousand rooms, and pavilions and pagodas reaching to the clouds. The most telling example of how greatly Buddhism flourished came from an unlikely source, the imperial mint – it almost ran out of copper for coins because of the vast number of Buddhist images and ritual objects being made. Xuanzang’s mission was fulfilled.

  The emperor, like the whole nation, was more and more drawn to Buddhism, in particular its ceremonies and rituals. Perhaps he was aware of his declining health and the inevitable end. He would not let Xuanzang out of his sight – he even gave him a room in the palace. What would he have talked to Xuanzang about? No records were kept, and we can only imagine. Taizong must have reflected on his life. The campaigns for building the biggest empire in Chinese history had left millions of people dead. He had nightmares of their souls coming to haunt him, and his two favourite generals guarded his chamber every night. This began a tradition that continues today: the Chinese still put the portraits of these two generals on their doors to guard against evil spirits.

  Although Taizong had proved one of the greatest of Chinese emperors, his people did not forget his ruthless climb on to the throne. The fragments of a novel discovered in Dunhuang portrayed him descending into hell after his death for the crime of killing his brothers and forcing his father to abdicate – he even had to bribe his way into hell. To make things worse, Taizong was now faced with the same problem: he had twelve sons, some hopeless, others ruthless, still others timid; the crown prince had even made an attempt on his life and was promptly put to death. In the end, he chose the weakest of his sons to succeed him. The whole process reminded him of his own feud. Before he died, he told his chosen son not to look up to him as an example of the ideal sovereign, but to turn to the ancient wise rulers. This was extraordinary; no emperor could admit to such a thing, least of all one who brought about the golden era of Chinese history.

  Taizong could hardly have discussed these matters with any of his ministers and advisors, for that would have nullified his legitimacy. Xuanzang spent a great deal of time with him, day and night. Although he could not comment directly, he could have guessed what troubled the emperor. He must have told him about King Asoka. The parallel was striking. Asoka usurped the throne, killed all his brothers, reputedly ninety-nine of them, and began his reign as a tyrant; but after his conversion, he was remembered as the greatest defender of Buddhism in history. Taizong would be equally exalted by virtue of what he had done for the country and for Buddhism. The accumulated merit of all the monks in the country and the ever-compassionate Bodhisattvas would come to his aid. With the teachings of the Buddha, Xuanzang soothed the pain in Taizong’s mind. ‘Oh why did I not meet you sooner,’ the emperor often asked with a sigh, ‘so that I could really do something to promote the Faith?’

  With these regrets Taizong died in 649, with Xuanzang at his side.

  Taizong is buried in the Jiuzong Mountains, ninety miles outside Xian. On a bright, sunny day Li and I set off. There was no direct public transport. We took a bus most of the way and covered the last ten miles in a local minivan, packed with farmers’ wives taking their produce to market. The road was narrow and the countryside flat, dotted with carefully tended orchards of apple and pear trees. Suddenly out of nowhere a steep mountain appeared, its pointed peak reaching up into the sky. ‘Somewhere up there is Taizong’s tomb,’ Li said. ‘It is the biggest imperial burial ground in China. It’s not the most lavish, like the First Emperor’s with its Terracotta Army. Taizong didn’t want to go to th
e expense of a gigantic building, or to be buried with gold, jade, pearls and the usual treasures – they would only attract grave robbers. But there are an amazing number of people buried there, maybe two hundred wives, concubines, children and grandchildren, ministers, generals and Confucian scholars. They were devoted to him, in death as in life.’

  As we climbed, we passed the tombs of Taizong’s favourite concubine at the top of a huge flight of steps and of one of his daughters behind a brick wall. Then we came to an open space littered with fallen steles and layers of grey oblong bricks. These are all that remains of the altar at the northern gate, where offerings were made. Until a century ago, the famous sculptures of the emperor’s six horses were still standing on this spot. Two of them were scandalously removed to the United States and are now in the University of Pennsylvania Museum, and the other four were taken for safe-keeping to the Museum of Stone Steles in Xian. But there is no trace of Taizong’s tomb. Even the entrance has vanished. This was the greatest man in Chinese history, but as the Buddha said, everything has to pass. At least the mountain is a monument to him, and he lives on in our memories as the ideal ruler.

  As we wandered on, we came across a middle-aged farmer gathering grass for his goats. I asked him what he knew of Taizong. ‘Of course everyone knows about him. He was a great emperor,’ he said, putting down his sickle. ‘But why did he choose this place for his next life? It is terrible here. It has not rained for over a year. We don’t even have drinking water. I fetch it from four miles away. I haven’t washed for two months. My mother and the old ladies in our village think he could help us. They make him offerings of steamed buns and boiled eggs. Still we have no rain and the crops are pitiful.’ He sighed.

  ‘Not only the locals complain. Very few visitors come here,’ Li said sadly. ‘It seems being great is not enough. They expect a mammoth edifice, and there is nothing to see here. So they all visit Qian Ling, where Taizong’s son, Emperor Gaozong, and his Empress Wu, are buried. You must see it too. They supported Xuanzang as much as Taizong did, if not more.’