Journal of Chinese Literature and Culture

Fang Xiaobiao and His Family’s Exile

The reasons for Fang Xiaobiao and his family’s exile are murky.⁵ Fang Xiaobiao’s brother, Fang Zhangyue 方章鉞, sat for the Shunzhi 順治 14 (1657) provincial examination held in Nanjing and earned his title of juren 舉人 (provincial graduate). Soon after, however, the authorities found fault with the examiners and the candidates, accusing them of corruption and bribery. In January 1658, the successful candidates were summoned to the capital for investigation and reexamination. This has become famously known as the examination scandal of 1657 (Dingyou kechang an 丁酉科場案), which was not a singular event but one in a series of similar cases. The circumstances and causes of these examination [End Page 193] scandals were so complicated that they must be understood in the context of infighting among rival officials, ethnic tension, social mobility, and corruption in the early Qing era.⁶

The consequences of the examination scandal of 1657 were grave. In December 1658 the Shunzhi emperor passed sentences on those found guilty: twenty of the examiners would be executed, their immediate families enslaved, and their properties confiscated. Many of the candidates were stripped of the titles. The emperor was merciless in the case of Fang Zhangyue and seven others: “They shall receive forty strikes [on the buttocks]; their family properties are to be confiscated, and their parents, brothers, wives, and children to be exiled with them to Ningguta” 俱著責四十板，家產籍沒入官，父母、兄弟、妻子，併流徙 寧古塔.⁷

It was a fall from imperial grace for the Fang family. When the emperor decided to punish Fang Zhangyue, both his father, Fang Gongqian 方拱乾(1596–1666), and his elder brother, Fang Xiaobiao, were serving in the imperial court in high positions. They were stripped of their prestige, and the Fang family in almost its entirety was exiled. In April 1659 they left Beijing for Ningguta. As has been observed, “The harsh physical environment and unpleasant living conditions in Manchuria made the region the perfect practical destination for banished offenders and those who had fallen out of favour Records indicate that many of the offenders and their families were visibly shaken and distraught on hearing the imperial edict of banishment to Manchuria.”⁸ It goes without saying that life was tough and challenging in Ningguta, but this is not the place to go into details. To make a long story short, three years later, in late 1661, the Fangs bought their freedom with fiscal donations to public works projects. They returned impoverished to China, depended on the mercy of others, and led a miserable life.

Fang Xiaobiao’s “Miscellaneous Poems on the Eastern Journey”

This is not the place for me to offer a thorough study of Fang Xiaobiao’s exilic writings. Instead I conduct close readings of a group of very engaging poems that Fang wrote in his early exile: the series of poems titled “Miscellaneous Poems on the Eastern Journey” 東征雜詠 (Dongzheng zayong), written on his journey to his place of exile.⁹ What interests me more is not the historicity and historization of the actual exile event per se but, rather, the literary, aesthetic, and psychological representations of the exilic condition. What I want to understand are the following questions: How is the uncanny psychic condition of the exile embedded in, and therefore reflected by, the literary and aesthetic configurations of the texts? How does the liminality of the exilic world interact with the liminality of exilic language? How do we understand and describe this [End Page 194] “inbetweenness” historically, philosophically, and literarily? From these perspectives I wish to situate and fathom the figure and voice of the exile turned poet, or the poet turned exile. We can also see from these perspectives that the exiles are bound to encounter the “other” in the foreign landscapes, in the cultural and linguistic differences, and no less in the humbling experiences of themselves and their body, and in the troubled subjectivity of the self.

I begin with a poem that is placed immediately before “Miscellaneous Poems on the Eastern Journey” in Dunzhai shixuan.

“Departing for the Frontiers, Bidding Farewell to Spring” 出塞送春歸

(Chusai songchun gui)

It is the Beginning of Summer today. My father, sitting in the wagon, orders us to compose for the occasion. I myself, my younger brother Shaocun, Wu Hancha, and Qian Dewei do so.

是日立夏，大人從車上以此命題。 余及二弟邵村、吳子漢槎、錢子德惟同賦。

Chinese literary men love to write poems to usher in the summer season. The seasonal cycle revolves and returns; it brings the hope of renewal for humans. The sons and their friends happily oblige the old man’s request to write on the theme. Everything seems orderly and coherent. Although the time and occasion are right, there is something odd about the place and the group. When they bid farewell to spring, they bid farewell to themselves as well: they are departing for the frontiers, leaving China proper, and the old man who asks them to write is sitting in a wagon.

The use of the expression heaven’s heart is ironic. In the poem, the line “Heaven’s heart is impartial to all” glorifies nature, which is kind to all beings on Earth. At the beginning of summer the willows are green, horses sturdy, grass [End Page 195] and trees lush, mountains magnificent. These all seem good. These images, however, are paired with these other unsettling ones: the station, battlefield, weapons, traveler’s clothes. The truth is, heaven’s heart, which is also an elegant phrase for the emperor’s will, is unfathomable and unpredictable. The Son of Heaven finds them hateful and punishes them by exile and the greatest of disgraces. Their fate is doomed.

Fang writes: “The beautiful flowers are everywhere, / Just like at our old house.” Every poem needs an end. The poet is trying to say something comforting and hopeful. He urges peace of mind at the outset of a long journey away from home. Yet they will find that what awaits them ahead in the foreign land are not beautiful flowers but terrible trials and pains, as reflected in Fang Xiaobiao’s poem series “Miscellaneous Poems on the Eastern Journey,” to which I now turn.

“Departing from Xiangcheng” 發襄城

(Fa Xiangcheng)

We traveled from the capital, through the Shanhai Pass, and arrived at Shengjing, which was called Xiangcheng in old times. We stayed here for some twenty days before we set out for the place of banishment called Ningguta. Ninggu means “six” in Chinese, and ta “unit.” Legend has it that there were six tribes stationed there and hence named as such. Not until the reign of Taizong did it become part of the country. It is more than seventeen hundred li away from Xiangcheng. On the day of our departure, we are kindly treated to a farewell dinner by fellow exiles in Xiangcheng.

自都達關門至盛京，即古襄城地也。 館此二十餘日，乃首途詣謫所名寧古塔。 寧古，華 言「六」也;塔，華言「坐」也。 相傳昔有六部落駐此，故云。 太宗時始入版圖，去襄 城尚一千七百餘里。 是日襄城同謫諸公皆辱祖餞。

[End Page 196]

Departing from Xiangcheng, the exiles press farther east. They have traveled quite a distance already. They began the journey from Beijing, the capital, toward the Shanhai Pass, through which they walked into the open lands of Liaodong and finally reached Shengjing 盛京, the former capital of the Manchus who founded the Latter Jin 後金 dynasty. Shengjing was known as Shenyang 瀋陽 when it was still controlled by the Ming dynasty. A frontier garrison was put there. In 1634 Hong Taiji 洪太極 (Huang Taiji, Abahai, 1592–1643) renamed Shenyang as Mukden, meaning “the city where the Great Qing rose.” The reference to Shenyang as Xiangcheng is, however, obscure. Xiangcheng is better known in Chinese history as a place in the city of Xuchang, Henan Province. Whether accurate or not, it is still good for Fang Xiaobiao to name the place Xiangcheng. For an exile, the ability to use former knowledge and experience to comprehend and conceptualize a random, unfamiliar phenomenon means he is still in control, in a mental sense.

The exercise of cognitive powers, however, soon becomes problematic. Departing from Xiangcheng, they are bound for their place of exile, Ningguta. The literal meaning of these three Chinese characters gives no clue of the actual meaning of the place-name. Ningguta is the Chinese transliteration of the Manchu word for “six tribes.” The Chinese literati, to whom Fang belongs, boast of their erudition and take great pride in their mastery of language. When they are unable to comprehend words, written or spoken, their innate subjectivity is called into question. It is through others’ interpretation that they understand the meaning of Ningguta. Yet, a place becomes meaningful only through human habitation, and only then will it offer a sense of belonging and security. Unfortunately for the exiles, Ningguta is a place of no memory. “Not until the reign of Taizong did it become part of the country.” This Taizong is not the famous Taizong of the medieval Tang dynasty (618–907) but the Taizong of the Latter Jin, Hong Taiji. In other words, the story of the “six tribes” became an integral part of the history of the Manchus only a few decades ago. Nothing much is known about this stretch of land. Fang Gongqian, father of Fang Xiaobiao, later writes in a memoir: “I do not recollect the occurrence of Ningguta in any of the geographical or historical books of old times. We know little of its history. Thousands of li within the radius of this place, one cannot find a single old stone tablet to study, nor any old man who knows the history of it” 寧 古塔，不知何方輿，歷代不知何所屬。 數千里內外，無寸碣可稽，無故老可問.¹³

Departing from Xiangcheng, the exiles set out for Ningguta. They do not know what fate has in store for them in the journey ahead. They only know they have to walk for more than seventeen hundred li to reach the destination. On their departure, the exiles in Shenyang all come to see them off, and they are [End Page 197] treated to food and wine. Fang Xiaobiao describes this as a “farewell dinner” (zujian 祖餞). Zujian is a loaded word that invokes farewell parties given to famous officials or literary men in history. Apparently, Fang still tries to conceptualize and valorize things in traditional, cultural terms befitting his original class and status. It is a quiet, nuanced way of maintaining psychological wholeness. Nevertheless, Fang ends the poem saying, “I look up at the bird flying high in the sky, / I have no letter to send to my hometown.” This betrays a sense of gloom and helplessness. He can no longer cheer others and himself by saying, “The beautiful flowers are everywhere, / Just like at our old house.”

“The Big Mountain Gap Valley” 張伯火羅

(Zhangbo huoluo)

Zhangbo means “big mountain gap” in Chinese, and the Chinese equivalent of huoluo is “valley.” There is a very steep mountain range here. We have to take the wheels off the wagons and lower them down by ropes, and set free the horses and oxen and let them go down on their own. When we manage to make our way to the bottom of the cliffs, we have to reassemble the wagons and harness the animals again. We have to do this every day, with no exception.

張伯，華言「大山口」也;火羅，華言「溝」也。 是地有山甚高峻，車必脫輻以繩縋 之而下，馬牛皆解羈馽縱之。 擇路至山下，乃復駕轅整轡。 如是者無日不然矣。

“Miscellaneous Poems on the Eastern Journey” consists of ten poems, of which “Departing from Xiangcheng” reads like a prelude to the exiles’ oncoming adventure and trials. In the nine poems that follow, Manchu words (in Chinese transcription) appear in six of the titles, and all of the poems treat the difficulties and turmoil to which the exiles are subject when they travel through the different regions to Ningguta. This almost life-and-death experience of some seventeen hundred li humbles them. These formerly privileged men have to put down their pride, ego, or self-importance for the sake of survival. [End Page 198]

The subjective experience of these trials defies words, let alone poetic conceptions. Nevertheless, “The Big Mountain Gap Valley” provides a window into the exiles’ internal psychological state and process. The Chinese title of the poem, “Zhangbo huoluo” 張伯火羅, is unintelligible. It turns out to be a placename consisting of two Manchu words, in Chinese transcription, meaning “the big mountain gap” and “valley.” Zhangbo huoluo is a rough terrain to be crossed, on foot or on wheels, with great trepidation. It is especially telling that, when negotiating the heights, depths, and climbs, the exiles have to disassemble and reassemble their wagons repeatedly, set free their horses and oxen, and catch and harness them again. The physical strength of the exiled persons is put to the test, and their old habits, beliefs, and worldview must have been shaken. Nature as a cruel force is impervious to the pain and suffering it brings about. It makes a mockery of humans and forces them to act in ways that show how vulnerable they actually are. The exotic syllables zhang bo huo luo and the brutal realities that come along with them compel the exiles to rethink their meaning and purpose of life.

“The Eighteen Ridges” 十八嶺

(Shiba ling)

We cross ridge, after ridge, after ridge, and we thread through the deep river basin and masses of rubble all the days. The locals call this region the “Eighteen Ridges.” Actually, there are more than eighteen of them. The foot of the mountain is invariably immersed in a big river, and where two mountains meet, there are shallow rapids running between them. The rapids all end at some swamp areas, and what the locals call them can be translated as “the shrimp marsh.” They may be several dozen feet deep, at least several feet even in the shallow part. No man, or wagon, can cross it. We have to be buoyed by wood tied together, or to build a bridge, or to pave it with dirt, in order to get across. What we experience is what is described in the Han shu where it talks about a place full of mud in Liaodong. This is the most painful leg of the eastern journey.

峻嶺相連，盡日在深溪亂石間，俗呼為十八嶺，其實不止十八也。 嶺麓皆插大河中。 兩嶺相接處必有淺瀬界之，瀨盡處則皆淖泥，土人譯為蝦塘，深凡數十尺，淺亦數尺，徒 車皆不能度，必縛薪，或為橋，或布土，乃可過。 意即《漢書》所謂遼東多泥處也。 東行之苦以此為最。

“The Four Mountains” 四道嶺

(Sidao ling)

You look around, all you can see are hills, and there are four particularly steep mountains, which are some ten li from one another. Inside the deep forest and giant rocks, you cannot find your bearings. There is a small trail that is winding with ups and downs. It is so mossy, dim, and warm there—it is not the human realm.

環望皆山，四嶺尤峻，相距凡十餘里。 深叢巨石，無方向可尋。 中有一細徑，層折上 下，青葱晻暖，殆非人境。

The exiles have to climb and cross over more than twenty challenging mountain ridges. The prose prefaces to the poems provide more specific details than the poems themselves. Besides these fearful mountains, the exiles have to wade through many wetlands in between. It is untamed wilderness here. One cannot find one’s bearings therein. Fang laments that he does not know where he is heading. They realize that they have become disoriented in both space and time. When now the whole purpose of life is to survive, to maintain the living form of life, can this still be considered a human form of life for these people who have come from an elite cultural class? Without the grid of spatiotemporality and the mechanism of control, what kind of new consciousness will emerge? [End Page 200]

Unlike the titles of other poems in the series, the above two poems’ titles do not contain Manchu words. The two place-names, “The Eighteen Ridges” and “The Four Mountains,” feature numerals, and Fang says that that is what people call them (su cheng 俗稱). They show the primitive and perceived condition of the natural environment in this stretch of the eastern journey. The exiles have no choice but to walk through these seemingly impossible “eighteen” and “four,” one step after another, in contact with life and death.

“Man” 年 馬

(Nianma)

[Nianma,] otherwise known as Yama, meaning “man” in Chinese, is surrounded by mountains on all sides. There is a massive rock that looks like a human figure standing on a mountain and looking down, hence the place is named “man” after the image. There had not been one single day since we departed from Xiangcheng in which we had not been walking among mountains and rivers and had not been walking in wind and rain. When we arrived at Nianma, it had been pouring for three days and nights nonstop. All the rivers flooded vast areas, and level lands turned into valleys. We had to relocate our fur tents and shelters several times each day. The Parrot Pass was but thirty li from here, yet it took us more than fifteen days to get there. It was because the big rivers flooded, and between the two places there were several dozen of them. We had to cut wood to build rafts ourselves to get across. You can imagine how difficult it was to cross the rivers. Many of the native people in Nianma keep and worship the Buddha image; they are known as “the good fellows.” In the past, when Taizu conquered Liaodong, for a time only the Buddhists were spared the punishment. Consequently, many people pretended to be monks, and only until recently did they return to normal lives. The people here love ritual propriety and honor the worthy, and are generous and giving. They are eager to invite visitors into their homes and proudly announce to their family: “They are officials from the imperial court, and they were the Wenchang stars in heaven!”

又名呀嗎，華言「人」也。 四向皆山，中一峰巍然立巨石于其上，望之如一人踞峰嶺而下瞰，故取象曰「人」。 自出襄城，無日不行山水間，亦無日不行風雨間。 至是淫雨三晝夜，諸川湧沸，平地為谷，毳帷布幙，日凡數徙。 此地去鸚歌關止三十里，行十五日而不能至。 蓋大河巨浸，有數十道，伐薪剡木，行人自為之，故難渡也。 土人多奉浮屠法相，呼為「善友」。 乃昔太祖初定遼東時，惟浮屠氏獲免，故多冒偽僧，近始復為居民云。 俗好禮賢貴，樂施與，客至爭致館，粲於其家，曰:「此中朝大夫，在天為文昌星也。 」

Nianma means “man” in Manchu. This place is so named, however, not for abundant habitation but because there is a giant rock that looks like a human figure standing and looking down from a mountain. Unlike those mountains that the exiles have just passed through, there are people living in Nianma, and Fang call them “the native people” (turen 土人), who are likely the indigenous people of the area. Many of the folk here are Buddhist converts called “the good fellows.”

From Nianma they are bound for a place called Parrot Pass. Fang informs us that the pass was not a great distance away, but it took them more than two weeks to reach there. Accordingly, “Nianma” is likely a retrospective poem, not written when Fang was in Nianma. The exiles must have stayed put for quite a while, as Fang writes: “Day after day we spend the night in Nianma.” Their situation is pathetic. After leaving Shenyang, they have been walking amid mountains and rivers in wind and rain. The road from Nianma to Parrot Pass is completely stopped by the floods, and they cannot proceed further.

The people in Nianma believe in Buddhism and are meek, simple, and kind. They welcome the exiles respectfully, saying, “They are officials from the imperial court, and they were the Wenchang stars in heaven!” The Wenchang star embodies the scholar or literatus in Chinese folk belief. For a time, the Wenchang star did shine upon them, and they excelled in examinations and thrived in officialdom. Ironically, they are now sent away as exiles to Ningguta by the Son of Heaven, who finds them guilty in the examination scandal of 1657. Fang exclaims: “Gloomy or bright, it is all fate.” This “gloomy or bright” not only refers to weather conditions on the road but also symbolizes the checkered fate of a Wenchang star-cum-exile.

“The Parrot Pass” 鸚歌關

(Yingge guan)

The mountains and rivers branch out and gather here, where a singular valley suddenly comes in view. Then, after a winding chain of low hills, some ten of them, we reach the flatlands. The situation here is truly amazing and astonishing; you can see it is heaven’s design to separate the inner and outer. Shenyang is 320 li to the west. Eastward from here, there lie forests, obscure and remote, where no humans live. This [End Page 202] place is called Yinali, meaning “bush cherries” in Chinese. The area abounds in bush cherries and hence it is named so. It is otherwise known as Yingouli, which is the name of a tribe in the past. It became part of the country during the reign of Tiancong, and some descendants of the tribe still live here today. It is also known as Yinggeli. It is believed that in ancient times a crow came and built a nest in a tree. The bird had beautiful colors and could speak human language, and it could tell the fortunes of people and was often accurate. The bird was therefore worshiped as a god by the locals. Someone knowledgeable said: “This is a parrot.” Anyway, the source of these legends cannot be traced. Presently, a pass is set up here to regulate the flow of goods such as ginseng and furs; it is patrolled by a dozen soldiers bearing arms. Passengers do not use official documents or the like in the Chinese language. A piece of wood is cut into two pieces, on which some Manchu scripts are inscribed. They are then bound together by leather strips. When the traders come to the pass, the guards unlock the strips to see what is recorded therein. The amount of men, horses, and loads allowed is checked, and if everything is fine, the traders are allowed passage. When officials from the imperial court happen to pass by, the local officers will come out to keep them company and treat them to drinks. The visitors are respectfully addressed as hafang. Those unreasonable duties and exactions of the sort we often see in China are not tolerated here. This represents almost the age-old ideal of “to regulate but not tax”!

山川環結，至此獨開一谷，復有連岡十數折，乃達平原。 形勢尊雄，真天所以限內外也。 西去瀋陽三百二十里，東去則杳渺叢薄，莽無人煙。 或云陰阿里，華言「郁李」也。此地多產郁李，遂以為名。 或云陰溝唎，昔時一部落也。 天聰中歸版圖，今其族猶有存者。 或云鸚哥里，昔有烏來巢於林，多文采，能人言，嘗告人休咎，多前驗，土人祀以為神。 有識者曰此鸚哥鳥也。 皆無可考。 今設關以譏參貂之出入，關有甲士十餘人守之。 往來者無漢字文牒，率以一園木剖為二，中篆滿字，合而以皮束之，至則解其束視其書，稽其人馬車載之數，而後放行。 若朝士度此，關吏尚攜壺漿再坐而餉，呼哈方而不名。 其如中原徵求苛擾之弊則無，庶幾譏而不徵之古風云。

[End Page 203]

Fang and his fellow exiles traveled for 320 li from Shenyang to Parrot Pass, encountering all the hardships and sufferings. When they go farther east from here, they will enter an area where “there lie forests, obscure and remote, where no humans live.” What might await them out there, they do not know. Fang describes the Parrot Pass: “You can see it is heaven’s design to separate the inner and outer.” The meaning of “inner and outer” has become obscure after the Manchus established their rule in China. “Inner and outer” is primarily a territorial concept. In Ming China, the point of reference was the Shanhai Pass, which served as a frontier defensive outpost against ethnic groups from Manchuria. The outer referred to the lands north of the Pass, and to the south of the Pass lay the so-called inner. Such political and cultural dichotomies as “Chinese and barbarians” (Huayi 華夷) and “Chinese and foreign” (Zhongwai 中外) were closely linked with this territorial divide. Rising from central and southern Manchuria, the Manchus defeated the Ming and became the new masters of China in the mid-seventeenth century. All of a sudden Manchuria, which had been regarded as the “outer,” became a part of the Great Qing (China) empire. And as Manchuria was the homeland of the Manchu people, hailed as the “land of dragon rising,” it now acquired a very special meaning. The boundary between the inner and the outer must be redefined and reconceptualized. But no matter how, Fang Xiaobiao is banished to the outermost shadows of the new empire.

As mentioned above, the “inner and outer” is also determined by the (Sinocentric) standard of civilization. Here in Parrot Pass, Fang encounters a culture that is different from what he is used to. Parrot Pass has a skeletal system of bureaucracy and is patrolled by a dozen soldiers bearing arms. The Manchus set up a checkpoint here to regulate the flow of people and goods, such as ginseng and furs. People here do not use official documents in the Chinese language. They employ instead a wooden pass on which some Manchu scripts have been inscribed. These native words are used for the simple function of record keeping and proof of compliance. Therefore, one may suggest that they communicate with terse signs rather than language. Admirably, the Manchus set up a checkpoint here not to levy duties but to help regulate the flow of people and goods. Fang compares this to the ancient ideal of “to regulate but not tax.” In geographic dislocation, Fang chances upon a human settlement in a remote spot of the country whose language and customs are markedly different from his own, whose inhabitants simple and good-natured, and official control is minimal. Fang considers things in Parrot Pass healthier than in the rest of China and its administrative mode truer to the ideal of good governance.

“How many layers of frontiers have we crossed? / Is there a place where I can see the capital from afar?” They have traveled deep into Manchuria’s interior, [End Page 204] far away from the capital, the inner core of the empire. In these outlandish parts, the line between the primitive and the civilized begins to blur. The Parrot Pass’ early history is cloaked in myth. There, a sacred bird could speak human language and could tell the fortunes of people. It seems that the exiles are stepping into a world of chaos, in which anything might happen, the center will not hold, and humans are not the only beings with considerable intelligence or controlling power.

“The Liaoshen River” 了深必拉

(Liaoshen bila)

I do not know what liaoshen means, but bila is “river” in Chinese. It is located eighty li northeast of the Parrot Pass, and its source is unknown. It is flanked by wild, untouched forests; the water is mighty and roaring, and the forest luxuriant and extensive, dark and gloomy. If you look at it from above, the river is like a blue dragon curling in clouds of fog. The view changes constantly all day long; it is beyond description. Aspects of weather, sunny or gloomy, determine whether the water flow is slow or fast. Around that time of the year, summer rains were heavy and unrelenting, and I had to wait on the shore for eight days before I could get across the river.

「了深」未詳何謂，「必拉」華言「河」也。 在鸚哥關東北八十里，源委莫可考。 兩岸 皆古木茂林，奫淪洶湧，沓藹陰森，踞高望之如青龍蜿蜒於雲煙中，朝夕萬變，不可名 狀。 而波濤緩急，率視陰晴以為消息。 夏潦方盛，余駐河濱八日而後渡。

In the above poems and their prefaces, Fang Xiaobiao can manage to provide Chinese translation of the Manchu words. However, when Fang gets to Liaoshen bila, a place eighty li northeast of the Parrot Pass, he relates that he only knows bila means “river,” but about liaoshen he confesses “I do not know.” Someone did help him with the translation, as Fang reveals in the poem. He does not get it, either because the interpreter was unable to come up with the Chinese word for it or because the Manchu meaning of it is too obscure to understand and remember. Anyway, from this point on, language begins to fail the exiles as [End Page 205] mimesis and representation become problematic. When words become empty signifiers, not filled with meaningful stuff for the mind, the word and the world are no longer linked together in meaning. People cannot comprehend what unfolds before them by applying words, concepts, or a definition. This river having the syllables liao shen bi la can be taken as a metaphor for the chasm between language and the world. It is a primordial force that ignores humankind. Liaoshen bila stops the exiles from crossing into the east, and a language that has lost its meaning cannot structure the world and give significance to human life.

“The Small Valley” 小阿稽

(Xiao aji)

One travels east for some nine hundred li from Shenyang to reach the Huntong River, and Lafa duohong is located on the southeastern shore of it. According to the Veritable Records of the Qing Dynasty, Lafa was one among the sixteen kingdoms that the Martial Emperor vanquished. The old city of Lafa is still some one hundred li away from here. Presently, because people who need to cross the river are plenty, boats are available here. Duohong means “ferry” in Chinese. To the west of the duohong is the Small Aji woodland, and to the east the Big Aji woodland. Aji means “valley” in Chinese. Two mountains meet here. The trail is winding, with many ups and downs, and is surrounded by thousands of big trees. They reach into the sky and block the sun. You cannot see any sun even at high noon, or feel the heat even it is high summer. It is all humid and steamy there, and water drops fall from the leaves, making a sound like raining that persists all day and night. Beneath us are the strong river tides and currents, and rocks and mud are in every step you make. There are trees that rotted and fell onto the middle of the road. The trunks of these trees are more than ten feet in circumference, and they extend for several acres. The passengers have no choice but to walk around them. Needless to say, we have to wade into deep water and climb up the trees, again and again.

自盛京東行九百餘里，有混同江，江之東南岸有地曰「臘法多洪」。 「臘法」者，即 《清實錄》中載武皇帝所滅十六國之一國也。 舊城去今地尚百餘里。 今以往來渡江者多， 遂於此設舟楫。 「多洪」者，華言「渡口」也。 多洪之西有小阿稽林子，多洪之東有大阿稽林子。 「阿稽」者，華言「山峪」也。 兩山相壓，曲徑崎嶇，大木千章，參霄蔽日， 雖停午不見微陽，雖盛夏不知暑氣，而濕蒸成露，滴葉間淙淙作雨聲，徹晝夜不息。 其下則溪流激湍，沙石污泥逐步皆有。 或木自蠹折橫當衢，高盈丈，廣數畝，行人輒盤曲以避，而蹈囦攀葛，又不知凡幾折矣。

“The Big Aji” 大阿稽

(Da aji)

Small Aji spreads for forty li, and Big Aji sixty. The hardships and sufferings that one confronts in the latter are greater than in the former. Even if it is in the bright days of autumn and one rides a sturdy horse, it will take four to five days to penetrate through the forest. This is the time when it rains copiously, and mud and dirt abound everywhere. What is more, the bushes are full of mosquitoes and gadflies. There are those critters called the white sand flies, which are as tiny as dust and come in like clouds or fog floating by. They touch your head and it is like running into a spider web. You try to fend them off, and your hand is bleeding in no time. You know you should not scratch the bites or wash the wound, but you just can’t help it. The skin is all swollen and red, and the wounds are all over the body. The pain is simply unbearable. The pain lessens at night, but the next morning when you mount your horse you are exposed to their bites all over again. And there are those horseflies—the smaller ones are like wasps, and the big ones are as big as birds—they bite and feed on horses and oxen. They show up in swarms of hundreds and thousands. In an instant they can bite off pieces of flesh from them. The horses and oxen will struggle to run away hearing them coming, but they cannot because they are restrained. The riders have to cut fabric to make clothes that fit them. In the end, only their hooves, mouths, and eyes are exposed; that way they can eat grass and drink water. Moreover, the riders have to hold a bundle of wormwood to whisk the flies off their backs from time to time. Only then will the horses and oxen calm down; otherwise many of them will die. Those who walk have to take precautions, too. They collect leaves of wormwood to make garlands to wear on the head. The beginning and the end of the garland are tied together, with a thread hanging out from the front, which is lit up because the smoke can help keep the insects away. Sand flies and horseflies are everywhere in this general area, but are especially abundant in the Aji.

小阿稽亙四十里，大阿稽亙六十里，險阻尤甚。 晴秋健馬行林中，亦必四五日乃出。 時 水潦方降，泥污積委，加以草莽間蚊虻肆起，有白蛉子者小如塵埃，多如雲霧，著人頭 目如冒蛛絲。 以手搏摑，血盈爪掌，輒不可搔，不可浣。 然不能不搔，不能不浣。 累累豐起，瘡痏遍體，疼不可忍，夜半少瘳，而次朝乘馬則又任其嚙啖矣。 又有霞虻，小者如黃蜂，大者如雀，專嚙牛馬，千百成群，頃刻肉陷數處。 牛馬一聞其聲輒風而逃，卒 [End Page 207] 不可逃。 御者先裁布為衣，披牛馬身，露其四蹄、口、目，以便服乘水草，更持一束艾作帚，時時拂拭，乃遑寧處，不然則牛馬多死亡者。 徒步者亦多輯艾葉作一圈戴頭上， 首尾相結，前垂一緒，爇火作煙，乃可少免其害。 二物此地皆有，阿稽尤盛。

In the preface to “Departing from Xiangcheng,” it is mentioned that the journey from Shenyang to Ningguta is about seventeen hundred li. The preface to “Small Aji” notes that the exiles have walked east from Shenyang for some nine hundred li to reach the Huntong River and that Lafa duohong is located on the southeastern shore of the river. To the west of the duohong is the Small Aji, and to the east the Big Aji; Small Aji spreads for forty li, and Big Aji sixty. In other words, after negotiating through the two Aji, they will have covered about a thousand li, roughly two-thirds of the whole journey. That can hearten them to endure the rest of it. However, crossing these two zones is sheer hell. One feels pity for their horses and oxen, too.

Quite a few Manchu words occur in the prefaces. Lafa is the name of an old kingdom in the Liao River region. Duohong stands for ferry, and aji is a valley. The two aji that the exiles have to penetrate are actually two expansive valley wetlands, covered by wild forests, along the Huntong River.

In the Small Aji, the exiles trek up and down on a difficult winding trail, which is flanked by high mountains. Inside the aji, they literally cannot see the forest for the trees, for there are thousands of them, all ancient and huge. It is hot and humid there, with water and mud everywhere, and sunlight cannot penetrate the trees. Fallen trees block the road. They are so gigantic that the exiles cannot climb over them (with their wagons, horses, and oxen). They just have to patiently walk around them. The miles are longer and harder here. All this continues for forty li. [End Page 208]

The Big Aji is even more frightening. It is the raining season, and the Big Aji is soaked in water. Bloodsucking mosquitoes and gadflies come in swarms. Those tiny critters called the white sand flies (bai lingzi 白蛉子) are horrible. They come in small clouds and are hard to repel. They pierce skin and suck blood from their hosts. One’s hand is bleeding in no time. The exiles’ skin is all swollen and red. The pain lessens at night but resumes during the day when they are attacked by the mosquitoes and gadflies again and again. And there are those bigger horseflies (xiameng 霞虻) that bite and feed on horses and oxen. The poor creatures, hearing them nearing, will struggle to run away. People have to put covers on them to keep them calm and willing to move on. The exiles take measures to protect themselves from attacks by these bloody insects too, by wearing garlands of wormwood on their heads and by burning wormwood leaves. All this continues for sixty li.

The prose prefaces to the poems “Small Aji” and “Big Aji” are imbued with realism: they read like an account of adventure and nightmare, with immediacy, vivid detail, and personal connections with the text. While the prose prefaces are compelling and lifelike, the poems themselves pale in comparison. Stylized representation and conventional image from lyrical tradition fall short of the exiles’ peculiar experiences at the edges of the world. Moreover, what does the act of writing, after all, particularly the poetic mode that strives to develop symbolic nuances and subtleties, mean to the exiles? Does language have the power to mediate experiences and vicissitudes of life? Do literary representation and construction partake of the essence of the phenomenon, or do they inevitably take us further away from it? Should the exiles not confront the impossibility of representing the pain and horror that they went through and remain quiet, speechless? And, after Fang Xiaobiao is severely bitten by the bloodsucking bugs, does he still have the energy or peace of mind to write poetry? But perhaps these questions can all be dismissed as trivial intellectual ramblings. We should rather ask: When they are in this life condition, what else can they hold on to except for these words, no matter how humble and limited? Now that they are all striped of their official position, status, privilege, identity, and freedom of choice, what else can they bring into existence, to reaffirm their own existence, or being still alive, except for these poems and prose? Seen in this light, perhaps one may suggest that they do not write for the sake of literature or the beauty of language or, put differently, that the significance and meaning of their very act of writing are larger than this.

It is perhaps not surprising that Fang does not go on to write about his adventure on the eastern journey after “Small Aji” and “Big Aji.” Beginning with “Departing from Xiangcheng” and continuing all the way to these two “Aji” poems, one feels that Fang has written enough of the instances of pains and [End Page 209] sufferings, as well as the geoculturally bizarre and difficult world that he and other exiles journey into. He leaves the adventure of the remaining seven hundred li to our imagination.

“Reaching Ningguta” 抵寧古塔

(Di Ningguta)

Rocks are piled up to form the inner city walls, and tree woods are heaped up to protect the outer city walls. Folks here plant and hunt for their food, and their customs are simple and honest.

壘石為城，樹柴為郭，人多耕獵，俗號淳龐。

“Reaching Ningguta” is the last poem in this series. The exiles have finally arrived at the place of their banishment, and it is proper for the poet to end the series with his first impression of the place. It seems that Fang has recovered his inner peace. The mood of the poem is serene, its language lucid and simple. The preface to the poem is the shortest in the series, and the poem has only four straightforward descriptive lines, each having four characters. The feeling of the poem is the most subdued. It has a touch of melancholy and solitude, but the overall emotion is relief and serenity. The third couplet, “Finally I can unburden my shoulders, it is like native place to me, / It offers peace and protection, it is the recluse’s forest,” is reminiscent of the comforting couplet “The beautiful flowers are everywhere, / Just like at our old house” that Fang wrote before they set out for the eastern journey. The last couplet about springtime and the strings instills a sense of hope and purpose.

This otherwise very plain poem actually has a moving effect on the reader, when it is read against and in the context of the preceding poems. After following Fang through his captivating adventure on the eastern journey, one yearns to know what Ningguta, his destination, is like: its look, its language, its people, and its way of life. Fang, however, is remarkably reticent in all this. For the most part, he strives for an impression of tranquility and inner peace, as [End Page 210] though he has not experienced the misfortunes that befell him on the road. The power of “Reaching Ningguta” comes from the marked difference between itself and the other poems in terms of involvement of feeling and emotion, intensity of expressiveness, and level of narrativity. The poems from “Departing from Xiangcheng” to “The Big Aji” are distinct by their realistic and sometimes grotesque description, narrative imperative, and expressive emotion and feeling in an expansive language. “Reaching Ningguta” is their antithesis.

“Miscellaneous Poems on the Eastern Journey” goes out with an anticlimax. Is this a letdown? “Reaching Ningguta” can perhaps be likened to a soul in a meditative state, or “mind in a void,” the simultaneousness of being here and not being here, so to speak. Thus understood, it reveals much about Fang’s psyche in its relative silence. The exiles have had enough hardship and overwhelming and strange new experiences in this journey of some seventeen hundred li. They must have come to realize that their seemingly mighty knowledge in history, classics, literature, language, and art is insufficient for them to comprehend, explain, internalize, and structure the new experiences and multiple realities encountered out here. The power of this irreducible otherness and literality confounds and humbles them. Nevertheless, in the end, to come to terms with unrepresentability Fang Xiaobiao resorts not so much to complete silence as to a return to a language and manner of speech that is the most regulated (in terms of versification), unaffected, and unmediated. In this connection, the state of bodybeing may have an effect on the state of mind, too. People who have just come out of an intense experience such as life-changing events, extreme physical hardships, or a transformation of reality may go into a restorative state of inertia, contemplation, or detachment. This helps explain the apparent calmness and inner stillness—numbness, if you will—of the poem. Lastly, one may also ponder what meaning this place called Ningguta has to the exiles now. Surely, in the beginning, Ningguta is the place of exile, a most dreadful, undesirable place to be, let alone live. But then, after months of torment and anguish on the road, Ningguta is a shelter where they can rest and find some peace at long last—it is home. Seen in this light, the unadorned language and the unaffected sense of relief and stability (plus a slight touch of joy) of the poem come across as truthful and genuine.

Epilogue

I find it hard to imagine that Fang Xiaobiao could have written the “Eastern Journey” poems while he was going through all those troubles and travails on the road to Ningguta. During such an intense, trying time, one would spend all one’s energy trying to persevere and survive. We learn from the prefaces that certain poems were surely written from memories of the places that he passed through. Nevertheless, we cannot dismiss the possibility that the rest of them were indeed [End Page 211] written when Fang was on the move. How are we to understand this imperative of writing? What is the inner driving force behind all this striving? When one writes in such adverse conditions, one must consider writing as an irreducible part of one’s life. In this connection, the very process of writing has a liberating effect that allows one to transcend, at least temporarily, one’s current pains and sufferings. It becomes the internal, sense-generating aspect of the writer’s life. Then, when one feels the urge to write about an event that has already occurred, one must feel a particular significance attached to this event. If one does not write about it, one feels like a part of oneself is missing. In this sense, the act of writing is important in preserving the wholeness of life.

Fang uses poetry and prose to represent his experiences. The resulting texts are distinguished by their unique use of Manchu words (in Chinese transliteration) and their articulation of “foreign” experiences and reflections. In the beginning Fang, who comes from the cultural world of the Han Chinese elite, is confident that he can measure and capture this strange new world with his superb literary skills. Those Manchu words are mostly place-names with descriptive, referential meaning. When Fang manages to give the Chinese equivalents of these words, with the help of an interpreter and his knowledge gained from prior learning of classical, historical, and geographical books, things seem in place, more or less. As the journey becomes more and more difficult, and the world the more bizarre, Fang finds himself unable to comprehend and translate certain Manchu words. Things begin to fall apart in both his physical journey to the place of exile and his linguistic journey in negotiating the mazes of the native and the foreign, the nameable and the unnameable, and meaning and its absence. When grammar and diction fail him, the world becomes perplexing, confusing, inscrutable, and unforgivingly cruel all at the same time.

This more than seventeen hundred li of hardship from Shenyang to Ningguta did not destroy Fang. He survived and left behind a body of poems and prose as his travelogue. These writings invite us into the imagination of an exile, his experiences and conditions, and they also inspire us to muse over the power and limits of language, senses, and other human faculties in the face of a world that refuses to recognize us and the order we try to impose on it, and the literal liminality of the self-as-other in exile and exilic texts. [End Page 212]