Flowers of the Morning, Gathered at Dusk — September 3, 2018-The Mysterious Case of North Pavilion(The Humble Magistrate)

Early this morning, I happened to pick up a book and, unexpectedly, reread an essay from my elementary school language textbook.

Looking back thirty years later, I feel embarrassed by my appreciation of the beauty of words.

The morning sun streamed through the half-open window onto the pages, stirring a long-lost current of thought—

Counting carefully, the words I have accumulated over the years as an ordinary person exceed two million: “The Road Home” is forty thousand words completed, “Detective’s Nine Records” totals one hundred forty thousand words, “The Strange Case of North Pavilion” is nearly twenty thousand words serialized, and “New Times Notebook” is almost ten thousand words ongoing... For an amateur literary enthusiast, realizing I have written so much is enough to boast over drinks or to anyone I meet. Until just a moment ago, such pride still simmered within me.

But my swelling pride abruptly halted—

The essays before me were precisely Zhu Ziqing’s “Father’s Back” and “Moonlight on the Lotus Pond,” one at 1,321 words, the other at 1,339...

Holding the book, basking in the morning sun, inhaling the fragrance of ink, reading line by line, I suddenly understood: a fine essay needs no abundance of words!

Conversely, no matter how many words, it doesn’t guarantee a fine piece.

Two million words may merely be practice for a two-thousand-word masterpiece! What is there to gain or lose? With this thought, I felt relieved.

I have specially selected and shared these two essays, to savor them with you, to revisit the unadorned simplicity that literature should possess.

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“Father’s Back” — Written by Zhu Ziqing

I have not seen my father for over two years, and what I remember most vividly is his back.

That winter, my grandmother passed away and my father’s post was relinquished; misfortune seemed to follow misfortune. I traveled from Beijing to Xuzhou, intending to accompany my father home for the funeral. Upon arriving in Xuzhou and seeing my father, the disarray in the courtyard and thoughts of my grandmother brought tears streaming down my face. My father comforted me, “Things are as they are, don’t be too sad. Heaven never shuts all roads.”

After returning home, we sold and pawned possessions, and my father settled the debts; he borrowed money to arrange the funeral. These days, the family’s circumstances were bleak, partly due to the funeral, partly due to my father’s unemployment. When the funeral was over, my father planned to go to Nanjing in search of work, and I needed to return to Beijing for studies, so we traveled together.

In Nanjing, friends invited us out for a day; the next morning, I had to cross the river to Pukou and board the train north in the afternoon. My father, busy with affairs, initially decided not to see me off, and asked a familiar waiter from the inn to accompany me. He repeatedly instructed the waiter, very carefully. Still, he could not trust him, worrying the waiter would not be reliable; he hesitated for a while. In fact, I was already twenty then, and had traveled to Beijing two or three times—it really wasn’t a big deal. After hesitating, he finally decided to see me off himself. I tried to persuade him two or three times not to bother, but he insisted, “Don’t worry, it’s better I go than them.”

We crossed the river and entered the station. I bought the ticket; he busied himself with the luggage. There was too much luggage, so we had to tip the porters to get it through. He haggled with them over the price. At that time, I was overly clever, always feeling he didn’t speak well, and had to interject myself. But he managed to settle the price and saw me onto the train. He chose a seat by the door for me; I spread out the purple wool coat he had made for me. He urged me to be careful on the journey, to stay alert at night, not to catch cold. He instructed the waiter to take good care of me. Secretly, I laughed at his old-fashioned ways; they cared only for money, entrusting me to them was pointless! Besides, at my age, could I not take care of myself? Ah, thinking back now, I was far too clever then!

I said, “Father, you should go now.” He glanced outside and replied, “Let me buy a few oranges. Stay here, don’t wander.” I saw some vendors waiting for customers beyond the platform fence. To reach them, he had to cross the railway track, which meant jumping down and climbing up again. My father was a stout man, so it would be more troublesome for him. I wanted to go instead, but he wouldn’t let me, so I had to let him go. I watched him, wearing a black cloth cap, a black cloth jacket, and a deep blue cotton gown, trudge over to the railway, carefully leaning down to step onto the tracks—not too difficult. But climbing up to the other platform was much harder. He gripped the edge with both hands, drew his legs up, his heavy body tilting to the left, showing obvious effort. At that moment, I saw his back, and tears streamed down my face. I quickly wiped them away, afraid he would notice, or others would see. When I looked again, he was already returning with bright red oranges in his arms. While crossing the tracks, he put the oranges down, climbed slowly, then picked them up again. When he reached my side, I hurried to help him. He boarded the train with me, deposited all the oranges on my wool coat. Then he brushed the dirt from his clothes, seeming much relieved, and after a moment said, “I’m leaving; write when you arrive!” I watched him walk away. After a few steps, he turned to look at me: “Go inside, there’s no one here.” When his back disappeared into the crowd, unable to be found again, I went in and sat down; my tears flowed once more.

In recent years, both my father and I have been constantly on the move, and family fortunes have worsened day by day. He went out as a young man to earn a living, single-handedly supporting us and accomplishing much. Who knew his old age would be so desolate! It pains him deeply, and naturally, his emotions overflow. When feelings are repressed, they inevitably erupt; minor household matters often provoke his anger. His treatment of me has gradually changed from before. But after our two years apart, he has forgotten my faults, only thinking of me, and of my son. After I returned north, he wrote me a letter: “My health is fine, only my arm aches terribly, making eating and writing difficult; my days are likely numbered.” Reading this line, through shining tears, I saw again that stout figure, in blue cotton gown and black jacket—his back. Ah! I do not know when I will see him again!

These past few days, my heart has been restless. Tonight, sitting in the courtyard to cool off, I suddenly thought of the lotus pond I pass by daily—it must look quite different under the full moon. The moon rose gradually; the laughter of children outside the wall had faded away; my wife rocked our child, softly humming a lullaby in the house. I quietly donned my long robe, closed the door, and went out.

The path along the lotus pond is a winding, narrow trail of coal cinders. It is a secluded road; few people walk it in daylight, even fewer at night. Around the pond grow many trees, lush and dense. Along one side of the path are willows and other trees whose names I do not know. On moonless nights, the path is gloomy and somewhat frightening. Tonight, however, it is quite pleasant, though the moonlight remains gentle.

I was alone, hands clasped behind my back, strolling. This stretch of earth seemed to belong to me; I felt as if I had stepped beyond my usual self, entering another world. I love bustle, but I also love tranquility; I enjoy company, yet cherish solitude. Like tonight, alone beneath the vast moon, anything can be thought of, or nothing at all, and I feel utterly free. The tasks and words demanded by the day can now be disregarded. This is the wonder of solitude, and I will indulge in this boundless fragrance of lotus and moonlight.

Across the winding pond, as far as the eye can see, are the broad, waving leaves. The leaves rise high from the water, like the skirts of graceful dancers. Amidst the layers, scattered about, are a few white blossoms, some elegantly blooming, others shyly budding; they are like pearls, like stars in a sapphire sky, or beauties fresh from their bath. A faint breeze brings forth delicate fragrance, much like distant, dreamy songs from high towers. At this moment, the leaves and flowers quiver slightly, the motion like a flash of lightning passing swiftly across the pond. The leaves grow shoulder to shoulder, densely packed, thus forming a clear emerald ripple. Beneath the leaves is gentle, flowing water, hidden and colorless; but the leaves themselves are all the more lovely for it.

Moonlight, like flowing water, quietly pours over the leaves and flowers. A thin pale mist rises from the pond. The leaves and blossoms seem washed in milk, or wrapped in the gauze of a dream. Though it is a full moon, there is a faint layer of cloud in the sky, so the light is not brilliant; yet I think this is just right—the sweetness of deep sleep is necessary, but a light nap has its own charm. Moonlight filters through the trees, casting uneven, mottled shadows; the tangled shrubs above drop ghostly patches of darkness, while the slender willows trace graceful lines as if painted on the lotus leaves. The moonlight on the pond is uneven, but light and shadow create a harmonious rhythm, like a famous melody played on a violin.

All around the pond, near and far, high and low, are trees—mostly willows. These trees densely encircle the pond; only beside the path are a few gaps, as if left specially for the moonlight. The color of the trees is uniformly dark, appearing as clouds of mist at first glance; yet the willows’ elegance is recognizable even in the haze. At the treetops, faintly visible, is a distant line of hills, only vaguely outlined. Through the gaps in the trees, one or two streetlights shine, sleepy and listless, like the eyes of someone drowsy. At this hour, the liveliest sound is the cicadas in the trees and the frogs in the water; but liveliness belongs to them—I have nothing at all.

Suddenly I thought of lotus picking. It is an old custom in the south, dating back to ancient times, flourishing in the Six Dynasties; one can glean as much from poetry. The lotus pickers are young girls, riding small boats, singing love songs. Needless to say, there are many lotus pickers, and many more watchers. It was a lively season, and a romantic one. Emperor Yuan of Liang described it well in his “Ode to Lotus Picking”:

Thus charming youths and maidens, boating joyfully; the bird-shaped prows turn slowly, passing the feathered cups; the skiffs move, adorned with waterweed, the boats stir, drifting duckweed apart. Their slender waists are wrapped in silk, lingering and glancing back; summer at its end, spring just past, the leaves tender, the blossoms fresh; they fear wetting their skirts and smile gently, worry about tipping the boat and gather their robes.

Such scenes show the merrymaking of the time. It is truly delightful, but unfortunately, we are no longer blessed to enjoy it.

Then I recalled the lines from “Song of West Isle”:

Picking lotus in the southern pond in autumn,
Lotus flowers rise above the heads;
Bowing to play with lotus seeds,
The seeds are clear as water.

If there were lotus pickers tonight, the flowers here would “rise above the heads” as well; but without the reflection of flowing water, it would not do. This leaves me longing for the south. Thinking thus, I suddenly lifted my head and found myself already at my own door; I gently pushed it open, hearing nothing—my wife had long since fallen asleep.