5. THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE NURSERY
It was G. K. Chesterton who said, "My first and last philosophy, that which I believe with unbroken certainty, I learnt in the nursery." This may be an exaggeration, but who can deny the deep-seated influence of one's childhood impressions upon one's philosophy of life? One of my earliest impressions was the sight of a fat maidservant weeping piteously because her lower jaw was disjointed! I could not have been more than five, but I remember that I was standing before her with my heart melting in compassion. I asked somebody standing behind me, "What has happened to Amah Lin?" I was told that it was because she was too happy, that she had laughed so violently that her lower jaw got out of joint. A doctor came and by his skillful manipulation she could move the jaw again. But my sense of humor had been awakened, and I burst into laughter with my hands carefully holding my lower jaw. With the sense of humor came also a vague idea of the irony of life: laughter, when it was too violent, could lead to weeping! When later I came upon the wise saying in one of the Chinese classics: "When a thing is pushed to its extreme, it moves to its opposite," it sounded quite familiar to me. When I read Shakespeare's dictum: "The web of life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together," I said, "How true it is! For instance, Amah Lin's laughter led to weeping and her weeping led to laughter again." In short, I was early initiated into the mysteries of paradox, and my paradoxical turn of mind played no small role in my acceptance of Christianity.
When I was six, I began to study at home under a private tutor, who was a Confucian scholar. By seven I had mastered a sufficient number of characters to embark upon a little book called The Twenty-four Models of Filial Piety. Being the first book I ever read, it impressed me most deeply.
The first lesson was drawn from the legends of Emperor Shun, supposed to have reigned in the twenty-third century B.C. He was of humble origin. His father was stupid, his mother perverse, and his younger brother insolent. He was ordered by his father to cultivate the hills of Li in the modern Province of Shansi. There came to him elephants in great crowds to plough his fields, and countless birds flocked together to weed the grain for him. One day he was commanded by his father to descend into a well, and his brother cast down stones upon him; but he came out miraculously through another opening. His virtuous life caught the ears of Emperor Yao, who gave him two of his daughters in marriage. He loved his parents and his brother in spite of their maltreatment of him. His perfect sincerity was effectual in renovating his family; his parents became pleasant and his brother transformed in character. The whole lesson was summed up in a charming quatrain:
Elephants came in crowds to plough his fields;
For the weeding, numberless birds did their part.
He succeeded Emperor Yao on his throne,-
Ah, how his filial love moved Heaven's Heart!
This was the first poem that I ever learned by heart. Although I did not believe the whole story in its literalness, I did not doubt, nor ever have doubted, that a good man, whatever hardships he might have to undergo at the beginning, would never suffer any harm in the end. "Heaven has eyes." "Heaven is just." "Heaven blesses the good, and punishes the wicked." These were some of the proverbs known to everybody in my generation. Although my conception of blessing and punishment has been etherealized, or spiritualized, in the course of time, the fundamental principle of the justice of Heaven has been confirmed by my observation and experience.
Another story which touched me profoundly concerned the well-known disciple of Confucius, Min Tse-ch'ien. Tse-ch'ien lost his mother when he was a child. His father married another wife, who bore two sons. She petted her own children, but loathed Tse-ch'ien. In winter she clad him in garments made of rushes, while her own sons wore warm cotton clothes. One day as Tse-ch'ien was driving his father's chariot, his body shivered so violently that the reins dropped from his hands, for which apparent carelessness he was chastised by his father; but he refrained from making any explanation. Later, his father came to know the actual circumstance, and he was so angry at his wife's cruel partiality that he determined to divorce her. But Tse-ch'ien pleaded, saying, "If mother remains, only one son is cold; if mother goes away, three sons will be destitute." The father desisted from his purpose; and the mother was led to repentance and began to love her stepson.
I cannot help believing that this story was based upon facts. At any rate, the above words of Tse-ch'ien were on the lips of every Confucian scholar that I knew. The generosity and wisdom of this great disciple of Confucius makes one think of some of the Christian saints.
Another story I liked because it tickled my sense of humor. A six-year-old lad by the name of Lu Chi once was a guest of the celebrated general Yuan Shu, who gave him some oranges for a treat. Two of them the lad put in his bosom. This evidently was against social etiquette; for the things offered by the host to a guest were supposed to be eaten, not to be taken away secretly. As it happened, when the lad took leave of the general, bowing courteously to him, the two oranges fell out on the ground. When the general saw this, he said, "Why does my young friend, who is now a guest, put the fruit away in his bosom?" The lad, bowing again, replied, "My mother is very fond of oranges, and I wished to let her have a taste of them." The general marvelled at the filial love of the lad. But when I read the story I marvelled at his audacity in brushing aside social etiquette. I remember the book was well illustrated, and whenever I looked at the picture of the two oranges lying on the ground, I could not help chuckling over it. What a denudation!
But somehow the story which impressed me most of all was that of the old man Lao Lai Tse. He was already more than seventy years old, and had lost nearly all his teeth. But his mother was still living. In order to amuse her, he would dress himself in gaudy-colored garments, frisking and cutting capers like a child in front of her. He would sometimes take up buckets of water and try to carry them into the house; and, feigning to slip, would fall to the ground, kicking and wailing like a baby. His mother was delighted, and even his children and grandchildren were amused. Thus the whole house was filled with the spirit of joy. I regard Lao Lai Tse as the prototype of such Christian Saints as Philip Neri, the "Mystic in motley," and Francis of Assisi, the "jongleur de Dieu."
I took a great fancy to this story and tried to emulate the old boy. I too would feign to slip and fall to the ground, cutting capers and turning somersaults, in order to amuse my mother. But I forgot that I was not yet seventy, and that the floor was dirty and apt to soil the new clothes which my mother had made for me. Instead of being amused, she used to beg me to stop it; but she knew that my intentions were good, although my particular way of manifesting them left much to be desired.
Unfortunately, a habit which was formed so early in life is not easily broken. Even now, whenever God favors me with either little crosses or great consolations, I feel an almost irresistible impulse to throw myself on the ground and imitate the actions of Lao Lai Tse in order to win a smile from our Blessed Mother. My dear friend Paul K. T. Sih once caught me in the midst of such acrobatics in my bedroom, and drew the conclusion that I was imitating Francis of Assisi. In fact, I was only adapting the homespun style of Lao Lai Tse to the field of spiritual life. Jokes aside, I marvel at anyone who could serve God with a sulky face and a heavy heart.
Another book that delighted me tremendously was The Book of Songs. I did not exactly study the songs; I heard them chanted by my elder brother. He sang them with such spontaneous gusto and joy that even when I did not understand their letter, I imbided their spirit. One song enchanted me most of all-"The Song of the Quince." No translation can do it justice, for the simple reason that an essential part of its charm consists in its tune. But the wording can be faithfully rendered:
She threw a quince to me:
I requited her with a girdle-gem.
No, not just as requital,
But as a pledge of eternal love.
She threw a peach to me;
I requited her with a greenstone.
No, not just as requital,
But as a pledge of eternal love.
She threw a plum to me;
I requited her with an amulet.
No, not just as requital,
But as a pledge of eternal love.
For more than forty years this poem has been haunting me, and its meaning has grown richer and deeper for me with the passing of time.
What a beautiful sentiment is here embodied! It is "simple in conception, abounding in sensible images, and informing them all with the spirit of the mind." It fulfills the Chinese ideal of art: the impression should be as unfathomable as the ocean, while the expression should be as clear as crystal. In these few lines, the whole philosophy of love and friendship, which is the purest form of love, is shrined. For love does not count in terms of material gifts. Love is lavish. Love is generous. Love is the infinite, in the presence of which all mathematical and worldly distinctions melt and vanish into the air. Do you call it extravagant to return a greenstone for a peach? No, he says, it is not enough. She gives me a peach, because she loves me. I can only repay her love with my love.
