Explore Chapter 1 of 'Spring Ming Outer History' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
This man was a scion of a well-established family from Anhui, surnamed Yang and named Xingyuan. He possessed a great many sobriquets-Green Willow Poet, Ocean Wanderer, Jichang ("Ultimate Song"), Kunlu ("Vast Expanse")-changing them as whims dictated, with no single one taking hold. Consequently, people never addressed him by these literary names, simply calling him Yang Xingyuan.
At the opening of our tale, Yang Xingyuan had already spent five years in Beijing. Being accustomed to a solitary life as a sojourner, he had resided all this time within the Anhui Guild Hall. The hall had many rooms, often overcrowded, but to the east of the main building lay a small, neglected courtyard with three rooms that no one ever sought to rent. The reason was that a civil servant who had failed the imperial examinations three times had once lived there, gone mad, and died. Since then, it was believed whoever occupied those rooms would meet with misfortune. The ambitious boarders hoping for wealth and rank thus avoided the courtyard entirely, let alone consider moving in. The year Yang Xingyuan arrived in the capital, the Guild Hall happened to be full. Seeing the three rooms standing empty, merely storing old wooden furniture, he had the hall attendant clear them out, have them cleaned and repapered, and moved in. Someone did warn him the place was ill-omened. Yang Xingyuan laughed and said, "I'm already down on my luck. Staying out wouldn't guarantee fortune. Moving in at least grants me peace and quiet-my own little courtyard." Seeing he was set on it, people shrugged and let him have his way. In truth, the small courtyard was quite charming. Entering through a moon gate, one found a square some thirty or forty feet across. Branches from an ancient locust tree over the wall stretched across, shading much of the space. The remaining half was graced by a pear tree that partly veiled the corner of the house. Beneath it stood the three rooms, two bright and one dark. Yang Xingyuan fixed them up nicely: one served as his bedroom, one as his study, and one as a retreat where close friends could brew tea and converse in quiet elegance. He lived there very comfortably for five years, preferring solitude and undisturbed by any new neighbor.
Our story picks up in early March. Spring comes late to the north, and the pear blossoms in this courtyard were now in full, luxuriant bloom, piled like snow. With clean windows, a spotless room, and the empty, silent courtyard, the sight of this cold, pristine beauty was exquisitely refined and pleasing. Yang Xingyuan idly picked up a volume of poetry. He had just turned to the lines, "Melancholy, a tree of snow by the eastern rail; / In a life, how many times does clarity prevail?"-a couplet playing on the name of the Qingming Festival and the state of mind-when he heard someone call out, "Is Xingyuan home?" Dropping the book, Yang Xingyuan looked out to see He Jianchen, a colleague from the Shadow News Agency. He quickly invited him in. Noticing the poetry collection on the table, He Jianchen said with a smile, "Quite the poetic mood you're in. Actually, a holiday like this is rare for us. We really ought to go out and enjoy ourselves." "I couldn't agree more!" Yang Xingyuan replied. "But I can't think of a single place worth visiting. Besides, the pear blossoms here are at their peak. Spending a little more time admiring them seems far better than braving those chaotic, rowdy amusement parks." "Is Beijing so vast it offers you no distraction? That's carrying affectation too far," He Jianchen retorted. "Tell you what, let me treat you to a meal at a small restaurant. Afterwards, we can catch a Chinese picture. How does that sound?" Yang Xingyuan was amenable to the idea of a meal, but the choice of establishment proved a matter of debate. After some discussion, He Jianchen insisted on the Jiuhua Restaurant. "Their Yangzhou cuisine does have a few decent dishes," Yang Xingyuan conceded, "but the place is dreadfully cramped. There's always a wait for a table." "If we go early enough, we might avoid that," He Jianchen countered. "Having to queue for a table is a form of tyranny," Yang Xingyuan mused. "Yet I've often observed that true connoisseurs of dining seem drawn precisely to those narrow, crowded spots, as if some profound knowledge resided there. Which explains why proprietors, even with a chance to expand, often don't bother." He Jianchen laughed. "Ah, you've glimpsed the heart of it! You've practically become a gastronomic surgeon through hard experience." Their banter continued until, before they knew it, the clock struck seven. The two then hailed rickshaws and set off for the Jiuhua Restaurant.
Yang Xingyuan stepped inside and was assailed by the pungent, overwhelming scent of sizzling oil and strong wine. The private rooms were, of course, packed with a dark, noisy crowd. Even outside them, by the counter, stood groups of rickshaw pullers on monthly hire, some holding felt blankets, others draped in woolen covers, lining up as if on parade. "How about it? Didn't I say it was hopeless?" Yang Xingyuan said, turning to He Jianchen. Before He Jianchen could reply, the manager behind the counter interjected, "There are seats upstairs, gentlemen. Please go on up." "Let's take a look upstairs first," He Jianchen suggested to Yang Xingyuan. Upstairs, they found the curtains drawn across the three private rooms, from behind which came a clamor of clattering dishes and boisterous conversation. The four tables in the open area were also fully occupied. Their hopes dashed, they were about to descend when a waiter emerged from one of the private rooms. Recognizing He Jianchen, his face broke into a broad smile. "Third Master! It's been an age!" he exclaimed, promptly fetching two stools and giving them a vigorous wipe with the towel from his shoulder. "Please, take a seat. This room is just settling the bill, won't be a moment." Just as He Jianchen was about to speak, a loud clatter of chopsticks beating against plates erupted from the room on the left, a signal for the waiter or a demand for quicker service. Simultaneously, a shout came from the right: "Waiter! Flower rolls!" The waiter answered both calls with swift "Coming, sir!" and scurried off. Yang Xingyuan smiled. "If I had to do that job for a single day, I'd be utterly spent. And yet he does it, day in, day out, three hundred and sixty days a year, and doesn't seem to tire of it." "Tire of it?" He Jianchen replied. "He's driven by the need to eat! It's no different from us burning the midnight oil under electric lamps, poring over futile reports on cabinet crises and parliamentary squabbles while the rest of the world sleeps soundly. Broadening the perspective, our situations are essentially the same." "Back to the matter at hand," Yang Xingyuan said. "Do we wait, or try elsewhere?" "I've been craving their squirrel fish and stir-fried duck with bean sprouts for days," He Jianchen admitted. "Let's wait a while longer." Resigned, Yang Xingyuan sat down to wait, his gaze drifting over the other diners. At a table in the western corner sat two men. One, in his forties, wore a serge suit, had a plump face adorned with a neat little mustache, and exuded an air of self-assurance. The younger man was dressed in Western attire, wore tea-green Crookes glasses, and had his hair meticulously parted and slicked back without a strand out of place. His face was pale and clean-shaven. As Yang Xingyuan observed them, the man in Western clothes turned and looked their way. Spotting He Jianchen, he immediately stood up. "Master He Jian! What a pleasant surprise!" He Jianchen recognized him as Ling Songlu, the editor of The Internal Affairs Daily, and rose to return the greeting. "A long time indeed!" Ling Songlu said. "Are you a party of two? We happen to have two seats free here. Do join us." He Jianchen politely declined, but Ling Songlu was insistent, pressing them until they reluctantly agreed to sit. After introductions, they learned the mustached gentleman was Director Jiang Dahua of the Camphor Bureau, whose duties concerned camphor production in Fujian. He had obtained his official post thanks to his status as an overseas Chinese from the South Seas. Extra place settings were brought, and the dishes Ling Songlu had ordered began to arrive. "Though I'm from Fujian," Ling Songlu said to He Jianchen, "I have a weakness for Jiangsu cuisine. Beijing's few Fujian restaurants are sadly lacking. You, Master Jian, are an authority on Jiangsu fare. Please, order a few dishes." Turning to Yang Xingyuan, he added, "Though this is our first meeting, Master Yang, let's dispense with formalities. Do order a dish or two as well." After the customary modest refusals, He and Yang added a few items like braised crucian carp and red-stewed pigeon. The meal concluded shortly after. Ling Songlu took a cigar from his wallet, struck a match, and took a couple of puffs. Leaning back in his chair, he held the cigar between thumb and forefinger, idly flicking the ash with his middle finger. Looking up at Jiang Dahua, he asked, "Where shall we go for amusement after this?" "How about a stroll through the alleyways?" Jiang Dahua suggested. Ling Songlu grinned at He Jianchen. "What do you say?" "I'm afraid I don't have any acquaintances in that quarter," He Jianchen replied. "No need for such modesty," Jiang Dahua said. "Hanjia Tan is just around the corner. Why not take a look?" Yang Xingyuan could see He Jianchen was somewhat tempted. Addressing the trio, he stated, "I'll gladly accompany you anywhere else, but I am a complete novice when it comes to the alleyways. That, I must decline." "If we go, we all go together," Ling Songlu declared. "Not a single one of us can be missing." "Come on, Xingyuan, just this once," He Jianchen urged. "Didn't you say you wanted to investigate every stratum of Beijing society, down to the tiny teahouses where rickshaw pullers gather? Well then, how can you miss the chance to see the famed Eight Great Alleys for yourself?" "I guarantee you'll want to go back after your first visit," Jiang Dahua chimed in. Yang Xingyuan thought to himself, It's true. I've only heard of the Eight Great Alleys' reputation, but have no idea what they're actually like. Why not seize this opportunity for some firsthand observation? Seeing him hesitate, He Jianchen laughed. "No more objections! Let's go!" The waiter presented the bill, which Ling Songlu insisted on settling. Feeling it would be discourteous to leave abruptly, Yang Xingyuan had little choice but to follow them downstairs. The four men emerged from the restaurant to find Ling Songlu's carriage and He and Yang's monthly rickshaws already waiting. "It's such a short distance, I won't take your carriage," Jiang Dahua said to Ling Songlu. "Let's walk. We can have the coachmen wait outside the Pine and Bamboo Lodge." He Jianchen couldn't suppress an exclamation: "Oh! The Pine and Bamboo Lodge?" "That 'oh' sounds rather intriguing," Ling Songlu remarked. "Now we absolutely must go to the Pine and Bamboo Lodge. I'm curious to see what's there." He Jianchen merely smiled in silence. Yang Xingyuan was utterly baffled by this exchange, but could only follow along, head slightly bowed.
They soon arrived at the entrance of the Pine and Bamboo Lodge. Jiang Dahua strode in first. Yang Xingyuan noticed several men in dark robes sitting on benches at a corner of the courtyard. Upon their entry, the men stood up. One of them suddenly let out a loud, unintelligible cry that reverberated like thunder, startling Yang Xingyuan considerably. He Jianchen and the others, however, seemed entirely unperturbed, so Yang Xingyuan composed himself and followed them in. He saw that the rooms were brightly lit with electric lamps, their plain curtains drawn low. In a few, a corner of the window gauze was lifted, revealing pale faces peering out into the courtyard. A man in a black robe now scurried over and asked Jiang Dahua with deference, "Do you gentlemen have an acquaintance here, masters?" Before Jiang Dahua could answer, a girl of seventeen or eighteen emerged from a southern room and scolded the man: "You fool! Can't you even recognize people?" She then stepped forward and addressed He Jianchen with a radiant smile: "What lucky wind brings Master He here today?" "Today it was I who dragged him along," Ling Songlu interjected with a laugh. "No special wind involved." The girl nodded at Ling Songlu gratefully. "My thanks to you." The man in black had already positioned himself by the door of the southern room, holding the curtain high with one hand. The girl ushered them all inside. For Yang Xingyuan, this was a first experience. Entering, he took in his surroundings. The room was formed from two combined chambers. One side held a brass bed hung with pale blue, ripple-patterned silk curtains. Beneath the curtain's valance hung an electric lamp with tassels. The brocade quilt was neatly rolled and covered with a piece of white gauze. Next to the bed stood a small table and chairs set, upon which a few antique curios were arranged. By the window was a small, white-lacquered dressing table that gleamed under the electric light. Above it hung a scroll painting titled "A Crabapple Asleep in Spring," flanked by a matching couplet composed of lines from Tang poems: "Gather the rosebuds while ye may; / You ask when I'll return-I cannot say." The dedication above read, "For the amusement of the courtesan Hua Jun," and below, "Playfully inscribed by a Wandering Scholar." Yang Xingyuan thought, So this girl is called Hua Jun. That couplet is cleverly apt. Elsewhere, three sofa chairs were arranged, with a white-lacquered table and chairs in the center. A small desk by the window held writing brushes, an inkstone, and other literary trifles. A wire basket was piled with popular Shanghai magazines. In the right corner stood a full-length mirror beside a glass cabinet. Behind the table leaned an embroidered screen. The walls, besides four embroidered hanging scrolls, displayed another couplet in the same Tang pastiche style: "But I disdain the stain of rouge and powder's art; / Afar I point-that crimson bower is where my heart." As Yang Xingyuan surveyed the room, a maid in her thirties offered him a cigarette. He did not smoke, but refusing seemed impolite and potentially a breach of etiquette, so he accepted. Hua Jun struck a match and lit it for him, asking with a smile, "And what is your honorable surname, sir?" Yang Xingyuan answered truthfully, "Yang." He glanced discreetly at the other three to gauge their behavior. When they sat, he sat. When they drank tea, he drank tea. When Hua Jun asked Jiang Dahua and Ling Songlu the same question, however, they each gave a false surname. Yang Xingyuan found this puzzling. Meanwhile, Hua Jun and He Jianchen had settled on a sofa together, their heads close, whispering intimately. "Well now!" Ling Songlu exclaimed. "You two are so engrossed in your sweet nothings, you've quite forgotten your guests." "No sweet nothings here," He Jianchen protested with a laugh. "We're discussing a matter of confidential business." Hua Jun gave his thigh a light slap. "What confidential business? You're just talking nonsense!" She then gestured toward Yang Xingyuan. "Look how proper he is." "Well, he's a perfect greenhorn in these matters," He Jianchen retorted. "Naturally he's proper." At that moment, the doorway curtain was lifted slightly, and a young courtesan of fifteen or sixteen peeked in, called out "Fifth Sister!" saw the company, and quickly withdrew. "Who was that?" He Jianchen asked. "That was Li Yun, 'Old Seventh'," Hua Jun replied. "Ask her in to sit awhile," He Jianchen suggested. "All right, I'll fetch her." Hua Jun lifted the curtain and, with a mixture of pushing and guiding, ushered Li Yun inside. Yang Xingyuan saw a girl with an oval face, a jet-black braid, and bangs that reached her eyebrows, which made her complexion appear all the more snow-white. She wore a matching jacket and trousers of moon-white patterned silk, truly immaculate and exquisitely lovely, living up to her name, Li Yun ("Beautiful Cloud"). As Yang Xingyuan admired her, Li Yun also took his measure, and their eyes met briefly. He Jianchen said to Yang Xingyuan with a grin, "Even I find her delightful-who could remain unmoved?" Li Yun asked He Jianchen, "What are you talking about?" He Jianchen pointed at Yang Xingyuan. "This gentleman is new to this world, and you are too. I'm thinking of playing matchmaker." Li Yun lowered her head with a smile, then grabbed a few melon seeds from a dish on the table and began tossing them one by one at He Jianchen. "You! You never have a decent word to say!" He Jianchen merely chuckled. This playful interlude was fortunate, as it spared Yang Xingyuan some embarrassment. Just then, a girl of about twenty entered and said to Ling Songlu, "I just got back from an outside call. I heard your voice from the hallway-why didn't you come to my room?" "As soon as I arrived, Old Fifth here pulled me in," Ling Songlu explained. "I'd have gotten to you sooner or later. No need to be impatient." Suddenly, a tremendous gust of wind arose, rattling the window frames. Yang Xingyuan checked his watch-it was already a quarter to ten. He said to Ling Songlu, "It seems you three have engagements to attend to. I must be getting back to my duties; I'm afraid I cannot stay." Ling Songlu tried to persuade him otherwise, but He Jianchen, knowing Yang Xingyuan had no real work that night yet sensing his acute discomfort, thought it best to let him leave. He caught Ling Songlu's eye with a meaningful glance, and Ling Songlu relented. As Yang Xingyuan stepped out of the room, he saw Li Yun in the passageway, using the telephone. She held the receiver, calling out a number, but her eyes were on Yang Xingyuan. She gave him a nod and a slight smile. Struck by that smile, Yang Xingyuan felt a faint stirring within and smiled back. Outside the Pine and Bamboo Lodge, his rickshaw was waiting. The journey back to the Guild Hall was a short one.
Entering his courtyard, he found the ground blanketed white with fallen pear blossom petals. The wind had died down. A crescent moon hung in the sky, lightly veiled by thin clouds, casting a dim, uncertain light over the scene. Yang Xingyuan sighed. "Ah, these flowers, not yet three months in bloom, already laid so waste by the wind. What a pity." He lingered in the courtyard for some time. Back in his room, the hall attendant came in to make tea and handed him a letter. It was a notice from the Anhui Fellow-Provincials Association in the capital, announcing: "Tomorrow being the Qingming Festival, it is customary for all our fellow provincials residing in the capital to proceed to the Anhui Charitable Cemetery outside Yongding Gate to pay respects at the graves of our departed elders. As this concerns a matter of duty and fellowship, we earnestly request your presence at the Guild Hall before 8 a.m., so that we may assemble and proceed together." Yang Xingyuan reflected, We are all wanderers in this world, strangers in a strange land. It is only fitting to pay homage to those who have gone before, fellow souls in life and death. I shall set aside tomorrow for a trip beyond the city walls. The thought stirred a poetic impulse. He sat down, took out a sheet of writing paper, and began to draft a poem. He managed only two lines: "Ten years of Cold Feasts spent at the world's far rim; / The same spring breeze now silvers my hair's brim." The next lines would not come. He laid down his brush and walked out into the courtyard again. The crescent moon cast its light through the broken lattice of pear branches onto the whitewashed wall, a scene of poignant beauty. Petals drifted down, one by one, into the depths of the quiet night. Moved by the sight, Yang Xingyuan composed another couplet: "Shattered moonlight sifts through broken boughs; / Upon chill clouds, fine dewdrops glisten." He intended to describe the falling blossoms further, but instead found himself pacing back and forth beneath the tree, hands clasped behind his back. Though the strong wind had ceased, occasional gentle breezes still passed through. A slightly stronger gust now shook the nearly spent blossoms, sending a flurry of petals down upon him. Feeling a distinct chill, he went back inside for a cup of hot tea. He laughed at himself. "A moment of idle leisure, and instead of being content, I must go and compose poetry. Truly, asking for trouble." He thought further, Had this been two years ago, when I was still studying behind closed doors at home, a night like this would have yielded several poems. These years in the newspaper business have all but dried up my poetic sensibilities. It seems some measure of good fortune is required for a man to leave behind any worthy creation. Another thought crossed his mind: People say courtesans are all degraded creatures, yet that Li Yun today seemed as tender and clinging as a little bird, quite delightful. In years past, an encounter like that would have inspired a set of commemorative verses. Sitting alone by the lamp, lost in reverie, he did not notice the time passing until it was well past midnight. What's the use of this? he chided himself. To bed. He made his bed and lay down, but sleep would not come. The sound of pear blossom petals, driven by the wind, tapping against the window paper reached him clearly, wave after wave. Suddenly, He Jianchen burst into the room, calling, "Xingyuan! Xingyuan! A most honored guest is here!" Yang Xingyuan looked and saw Li Yun following behind He Jianchen. She entered, head lowered, smiling. Overwhelmed with joy, Yang Xingyuan felt an inexplicable familiarity with her. Taking her hand, he said, "I already have one Li Yun here. With you, that makes two." "Where is the other?" Li Yun asked. Yang Xingyuan pointed at the pear blossom outside the window. "That is one." "If you have that," Li Yun said, "what need have you of me?" She pulled her hand away and turned to leave. Yang Xingyuan hurried after her. He chased her all the way to a seashore, where Li Yun leaped into the waves. Yang Xingyuan's terror was extreme. Drenched in a cold sweat, he shouted "Help!" again and again, but no one answered. Abruptly, he opened his eyes-he was still in bed, his heart pounding wildly. Lying on his pillow, he recalled the dream, every detail vivid. Try as he might, he could not fall asleep again. A glance outside revealed the window already filled with the red light of morning.
He rose, dressed, and was finishing his morning ablutions when a clamor of voices erupted from the main hall. One voice, louder than the rest, carried right into his courtyard: "Is Master Yang up yet? Shall we head out of the city together today?" Yang Xingyuan looked out the window. It was Mr. Xu the Second, another resident of the Guild Hall. This man was a great enthusiast for any group activity. When it came to collective ventures in the hall-be it pooling money for a lottery draw (known locally as 'casting the orchid'), chipping in to rent a gramophone for entertainment, or gathering for a game of poker-he was the instigator nine times out of ten. Though he only held a minor clerk's position in the House of Representatives, the hall attendants addressed him as 'Master Xu.' He had a particular fondness for mingling with the wealthy and powerful, from whom he had absorbed a certain air of self-importance. His fellow lodgers had thus bestowed upon him the nickname 'President Xu the Second.' Any communal undertaking in the Guild Hall was considered greatly diminished without his presence. Today's expedition to the charity burial ground was naturally an occasion requiring his leadership. That was why, first thing in the morning, he had been proclaiming the summons throughout the hall, rousing everyone from sleep. "I'm up," Yang Xingyuan replied. "Are you going out to the cemetery too, Mr. Xu?" Xu the Second walked in as he spoke. "Naturally I am. But it's a long way. I doubt my rickshaw puller is up to it. Last night, I telephoned Commander Wang and borrowed a horse from him. An Arabian breed, tall and powerful-Commander Wang's own mount. He's so fond of it he won't even use it for his carriage. For him to lend it to me shows truly exceptional regard." Xu the Second went on recounting this in loving detail, clearly savoring the tale. Just then, a hall attendant came running in, breathless. "Master Xu! You'd best hurry! Commander Wang's groom says a young stable hand took the horse out for exercise and brought it to you without his knowledge. He says if the Commander finds out, he'll lose his job. He insists on taking the horse back immediately." "Preposterous nonsense!" Xu the Second barked, and stormed out, still cursing. Yang Xingyuan watched, amused. Why should I get mixed up with that lot? he thought. Better to find Huang Bieshan and the two of us set off ahead, avoiding all that fuss and bother. With this in mind, he headed to Huang Bieshan's room. Huang Bieshan was in the midst of dividing a large sesame cake, stuffing a deep-fried dough stick inside, and cramming the roll into his mouth. In his left hand he held a rustic teapot, from which he had poured a large cup of strong, yellowish tea. "Your approach to food and drink is far too careless," Yang Xingyuan remarked. "Such austere saving-I really don't know what you do with the few dozen dollars you earn each month." Huang Bieshan chuckled. "Now, now! We can't compare with you young gentlemen of means, fussing over milk and pastries first thing in the morning." He pointed at the remaining half of his cake. "Every morning, two of these for a few coppers fill me up just fine. I'm the famous 'Skinny Huang the Pauper'-the poorer I get, the more I live up to the name. Back in Shanghai during the revolutionary days, a bowl of plain noodle soup at an old Hubei eatery for three coppers made a meal, and we got by." Yang Xingyuan laughed. "Once you start on your tales of poverty, it's an endless stream. Most tiresome. Look, about going to the charity ground today-I'd rather not tag along with that crowd. Why don't the two of us go ahead on our own?" "I had no intention of going with them anyway," Huang Bieshan said. "Since you suggest it, we'll go first. But I insist on my 'no-rickshaw' principle." "It's a thirty- or forty-li round trip. That's a bit much on foot," Yang Xingyuan reasoned. "I'll walk with you as far as Yongding Gate, then we can hire donkeys. How's that?" Huang Bieshan reluctantly agreed. After instructing the attendant to lock his door, the two men left the Guild Hall and headed for Yongding Gate. At the city gate, each hired a donkey and rode out.
By now, the willow trees in the countryside were thick with fresh green foliage. From behind earthen village walls, vibrant clusters of red peach and white apricot blossoms burst forth, a captivating sight. At the entrance to one village stood a well with a wooden windlass. Beside it, a pale pink apricot tree bloomed in glorious profusion. A country woman was drawing water beneath its branches. Yang Xingyuan pointed his riding crop in her direction. "She looks like a figure straight out of a painting," he said. "A pity she is utterly unaware of it." "Precisely because she is unaware," Huang Bieshan replied with a smile, "she remains a country woman. If all such folk took to admiring their own rustic charm, the rest of us might well go without clothing and food." Riding along, chatting and joking, they soon took a side path. Ahead, through a grove of willows, they glimpsed a whitewashed low wall. Turning into the willow grove, they came upon a gate shaped like the character 'eight'-the main entrance to the charity burial ground. Dismounting, they were greeted by the barking of dogs from within the compound at the sound of unfamiliar voices. A farmer emerged, saw the visitors, guessed their purpose, and turned back inside to report. Yang Xingyuan noticed two signs hung at the gate: one read "Charity Grounds-Keep Out," the other "No Admittance to Idlers." He felt this was rather superfluous. Entering, he saw the wall of the main hall plastered haphazardly with notices. One of them proclaimed: "PUBLIC NOTICE: WHEREAS this charity burial ground is the final resting place for individuals of distinction, including Top Graduates of the Palace Examination, Members of the Hanlin Academy, Metropolitan Graduates, Assistant Department Directors, Officials Specially Granted the First Rank, 'Baturu' Braves, 'Yaowu' Generals, Prefects of Datong, Department Magistrates, and the like, THEREFORE due care and attention must be accorded. Since assuming the post of Administrator, I have exercised even greater diligence in these matters. Mischievous children from neighboring villages, as well as chickens, pigs, and other livestock, are hereby strictly prohibited from entering. This Order is specially issued for the information of the groundkeepers. Dated this 24th day of April, in the 10th Year of the Republic of China. (Seal) Wang, Administrator of the Anhui Charitable Cemetery."
Below the title 'Administrator,' Yang Xingyuan noticed both a large square red seal and a smaller rectangular one. Closer inspection revealed the square seal bore the characters 'Administrator of the Anhui Charitable Cemetery,' and the rectangular one simply 'Anhui Charitable Cemetery.' He was about to peruse the other notices when a man in his fifties emerged from inside. He wore a dark blue lined robe and an old sky-blue satin mandarin jacket embroidered with large coiled dragons. It was impossible to tell whether the jacket dated from the Tongzhi or Xianfeng reign, but its sleeves were fashionably wide and drooping. On his head was a small skullcap, its material indeterminate but its surface shiny with the patina of years. His face was swarthy and deeply lined, his mouth adorned with a thin mustache. Spotting Huang and Yang, he immediately performed a deep bow. Yang Xingyuan surmised this must be the self-styled administrator from the notice and acknowledged him with a nod. The administrator said, "How is it only you two gentlemen have come today? What of Master Liu from the Ministry of Finance and Master Xu from the House of Representatives?" "We came on ahead," Yang Xingyuan explained. "They will be along shortly." The administrator then ushered them inside. Yang Xingyuan saw that the low enclosing walls enclosed a rather large area. Just inside the gate was a vegetable plot; beyond lay mounds of graves in disarray. Along the boundary between the plot and the graves stood a row of cypress trees and a row of elms and willows. The cypresses were not very tall, but the elms and willows had grown into a proper grove. In the sunlight, elm seeds and willow catkins danced in the breeze. Against the northern wall stood a row of five low, yellow-walled rooms. One in the middle had a reed-screen door curtain, flanked by a pair of partly-red, partly-faded New Year's couplets boldly proclaiming: "The Emperor's favor is vast as spring; / The light of civil rule shines gloriously." Yang Xingyuan was ready to proceed to pay his respects, but Huang Bieshan suddenly exclaimed, "Oh dear! How careless of us! We haven't brought any incense or spirit money!" "It doesn't matter if we have none," Yang Xingyuan said. "We can simply bow before the deceased. Showing respect is what counts; we needn't cling to superstitious trappings." "I disagree," Huang Bieshan countered. "A ladle of clear wine and a bundle of paper money-that is what makes a proper Qingming offering in the wild. A simple bow hardly fulfills the purpose of our visit today. Grave-sweeping is a superstitious practice; to omit its traditional elements makes it incomplete." Yang Xingyuan smiled. "You have a point. But where are we to buy such things here?" "We'll have to wait for the others, then," Huang Bieshan concluded. The administrator interjected, "If you gentlemen don't mind the humble surroundings, you are welcome to wait inside." "That won't be necessary," Yang Xingyuan said. "We'd prefer to sit under the willow trees. But we are dreadfully thirsty. Could we trouble you for some tea?" "Of course, of course," the administrator assured them. He called a groundskeeper, who brought out a three-legged table (one leg conspicuously shorter) and two wobbly benches, placing them beneath the willows. The administrator himself fetched two coarse porcelain cups and a clay teapot, setting them on the table before bustling off to fetch hot water.
Yang Xingyuan said quietly to Huang Bieshan, "This administrator seems a man of honesty and austerity. I doubt any official in the land has a harder lot." "Save such barbed commentary for your editorials criticizing the premier and the ministers," Huang Bieshan advised. "No need to expound on it here." Yang Xingyuan smiled and pointed up at a tree. "Look there." Huang Bieshan looked up and saw a wooden plaque nailed to the trunk, bearing another notice, this one in lines of six characters: "NOTICE: Trees are planted here / To protect this forest dear. / All breaking branches, stay clear- / This warning to the groundskeeper is sincere. / Henceforth be doubly keen and true, / Lest all this administrator's pains be lost on you." Yang Xingyuan chuckled. "This fellow, behind closed gates, plays the great 'administrator' to the hilt. I wonder how many groundkeepers he actually has, that he must issue proclamations so frequently." Huang Bieshan grinned. "It's of a piece with student union members referring to themselves as 'this seat' during their meetings." Just then, the groundskeeper arrived with a pot of boiling water to brew the tea. Yang Xingyuan asked him, "How many colleagues do you work with here?" The man stared back with large, uncomprehending eyes. Huang Bieshan interpreted: "He's asking how many of you there are." "Oh!" the groundskeeper said. "Well, there's a big field out back too. When it's busy, it's really busy. Takes seven or eight of us to manage. When it's quiet, like now, even if it's just me alone, I'm still here with nothing much to do." "Interesting," Yang Xingyuan mused, about to ask more when a sudden uproar of voices sounded from outside. The group from the Guild Hall had arrived, two carrying-poles laden with sacrificial offerings bringing up the rear. The administrator was bowing left and right, quite overwhelmed. Meanwhile, Mr. Xu the Second and his companions were already in a flurry of activity.
Wanting to avoid them, Yang Xingyuan took Huang Bieshan's arm and led him deeper among the grave mounds. In the northwestern corner, under the shade of poplar trees, they saw a flickering fire where a man stood bowing in reverence. Yang Xingyuan approached. It was a fellow student from Anhui named Wu Bibo. "Why are you paying respects here alone?" Yang Xingyuan inquired. Wu Bibo sighed and pointed at the grave. "The one buried here was a classmate of mine. Back home, he left only his aged, white-haired parents and a betrothed he refused to marry. In a fit of pique, he came to Beijing to study. His father, angrier still, cut off his allowance. With no other choice, he supported himself through writing while he studied. The strain was too much; he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and died last winter. He was my closest friend. Taking pity on his lonely spirit so far from home, I came today specially to mourn him." "It is in death and life that true friendship is revealed," Yang Xingyuan said. "Your actions do you honor." "I am the one who tends this grave," Wu Bibo said. "What do you think?" The grave was neatly covered with a soft carpet of fine grass. Before it lay a square patch of turf about ten feet across, planted with a flowering almond and a peach tree. To the grave's left stood a single white poplar. A wooden tablet at the head bore the inscription: "Here lies the late poet Zhang Jun, styled Xicao." "It is beautifully arranged," Yang Xingyuan remarked. "I planted those two flowering trees just a few days ago," Wu Bibo said. "They are my offering for Qingming." "An excellent choice," Yang Xingyuan said. "It carries a deeper sentiment than the traditional offering of a chicken and a jar of wine, or simply wailing at a friend's grave." "Ah, Xicao!" Wu Bibo sighed. "I remember this very day last year, we were strolling together in Beijing. Who could have known that this year, I would come to mourn at your grave. You often told me that if you died, the ready-made elegiac couplet-'For whom in life did you toil? Your studies unfinished, your home now despoiled. / In death you were cruel to bear, leaving old parents frail, their child's lament uncoiled'-would serve perfectly for self-elegy, needing only to change 'you' to 'I' and 'lament' to 'none.' Who knew those words would prove so prophetic! Ah! 'Twining grasses cling to bones, arched trees gather souls. / Having come to this in life, what talk of Heaven's goals?'" As he finished, tears welled in his eyes and began to fall. At that moment, a gust of wind sprang up, whirling the ashes of the burnt paper money high into the air in swirling eddies. The leaves of the poplar trees rustled incessantly. Yang Xingyuan felt a sudden, involuntary start. What was it that frightened him? That will be revealed in the next chapter.