Reading Xiangxi (Chadong)
In Search of Cuicui — A Dream of a Journey to Xiangxi. Cuicui is not a person in real life; she lives only in words — beautiful in words, loved in words, in words accompanying her dog and depending on her grandfather, and likewise in words, those who love her are separated in life or parted by death, leaving her alone to await a tomorrow without answers...
This article has been compiled from historical materials on 'Zhangjiajie Tour Guide Network' (33519.com · Specialty Foods / Cuisine / Customs section). Prices, business hours, administrative divisions, and statistical data mentioned in the text may already be outdated. Before traveling, please refer to the latest announcements from merchants, scenic areas, and local competent authorities; the parts involving folk legends and folk customs are local historical and cultural anecdotes, provided for cultural reference.
Searching for Cuicui—A Dream of the Journey to Western Hunan
Cuicui is not a person in real life; she lives only in words—beautiful in words, loved in words, in words she brings her dog and depends on her grandfather for survival, and then likewise in words, those who love her are separated in life or parted by death, one by one, leaving her alone, waiting for a tomorrow without answers. We can seemingly bear Shen Congwen's departure, but it seems no one is willing to accept that in this world, there never was a Cuicui—a girl with "sun-darkened skin" and "a pair of eyes clear as crystal." Shen Congwen made our reading far transcend the text, and so searching for Cuicui became a haunting topic of the journey to western Hunan.
Cuicui is in Chadong.
Chadong is a town in Huayuan County. The You River flows around the town.
"That river is the historically renowned You River, whose new name is the Bai River. After the Bai River flows downstream to Chenzhou and merges with the Yuan River, it becomes slightly turbid, with the feel of spring water emerging from the mountains. If you trace it upstream, the deep pools of three or five zhang are crystal clear to the bottom. In the deep pools illuminated by daylight, the small white pebbles at the riverbed, the agate stones with patterns, are all perfectly visible. Fish swimming to and fro in the water seem to float in air. Both banks have many high mountains, and in the mountains there is much fine bamboo for making paper, which year-round is a deep emerald color, dazzling to the eye. Most households near the water are amid peach and apricot blossoms. In spring, you need only note: wherever there are peach blossoms there must be households, and wherever there are households you can surely buy wine."
Shen Congwen's perspective on Chadong was looking from Sichuan toward Hunan, but we set out from Jishou. From Jishou to Huayuan there are long-distance buses, said to run every half hour, but the bus owner would invariably stand at the door shouting, pretending the bus was about to depart, until there was not a single empty seat in the cabin, and even the aisle was piled with small stools, wobbling with many weary-faced people sitting on them. Only then would she contentedly come around collecting money and making change one by one, then lean against a seat back, shout "Drive!" to the driver, and the bus would bump along. At this point, the people in the bus would chew sugarcane, crack sunflower seeds, or sleep. All swaying together, entrusting themselves to the driver, heading toward their destination.
Border Town Chadong
Located at the junction of the three provinces (municipalities) of Hunan, Guizhou, and Chongqing, first built in the eighth year of Jiaqing (1803), it is known as "one foot stepping on three provinces" and is one of the four famous towns of western Hunan. Before Liberation, the mountain town stood majestically, with winding city walls and a leisurely river. The bluestone paths were neat and elegant, the stilted houses had an antique charm, a white pagoda stood tall, and an ancient ferry crossed with boats—like a poem, like a painting. A poem goes: "The border town's scenery intoxicates, one doubts one is wandering within a painting." Because Shen Congwen used this place as the backdrop for his novel "Border Town," it became famous at home and abroad.
The winding mountain road is steep and treacherous
Going to Huayuan, one must pass through the Aizhai winding mountain road. If you join a tour group doing the two-day Fenghuang and Dehang tour, the "Aizhai Highway Wonder" is certainly one of the must-see attractions. The highway is in Miao territory, and the scale and difficulty of the project, though not comparable to building the Great Wall in the north, is equally breathtaking. Being a winding mountain road, it was all blasted through mountains. Just blasting a mountain in half and leveling it would be unimaginably difficult, let alone not just one mountain but dozens, and also designing the driving route. We naturally never witnessed the perilous conditions of building the road, but along the way, there is a bronze statue commemorating the workers who lost their lives for this highway. That is an extremely dangerous spot where the mountain offered no path, so a sky bridge was built, letting vehicles turn around and cross over the bridge. Drivers arriving here must be extra careful. There are also legends tinged with ghosts and spirits, saying that driving here late at night, if the driver does not hold respect in his heart, he will surely be summoned by the wronged souls—if not plunging into a bottomless valley, then certainly crashing into the mountain side, and such a disrespectful driver will either die or be injured. I grew up hearing such stories, so when crossing this sky bridge, while marveling at the bronze statue's uprightness, I also shrank my heart into a tight ball. The driver was a young fellow who seemed to have traveled this road many times. He merely slowed slightly and crossed the sky bridge, already facing another turn. Looking down from the window, it truly was a bottomless valley. I thought of those who built the road—they must have been mountain folk from nearby, who left their families and children behind. How his wife must have wept bitterly to bid him farewell. Later travelers going up the mountain need only sweat for the driver—or not even that—and thus cross over the mountains, which made me feel somber.
Scenery along the way: "Peach Blossom Spring"
The highway gradually leveled out, no longer a climbing mountain road. Leaning out the window, I saw the words "Paibi Township" written on the mountain. I recalled a news report from August 2001, when over forty geological and archaeological experts and scholars from home and abroad gathered in Paibi, conducting detailed surveys of Cambrian geological features in Sixin Village and Banli Village. According to geological experts, the Cambrian geological and topographical features in Banli Village of Paibi Township are very distinct and typical, possessing internationally recognized standards and utilization value for Cambrian archaeological geological features, and are acknowledged as a "Golden Spike" section. International geological experts will establish a "Cambrian" World Geopark here. Whether the World Geopark has been established by now, I don't know, but the households in these deep mountains have one more chance to be noticed.
The bus continued forward, and many unnamed mountain villages flashed by the roadside. The local houses were still as Shen Congwen described: "yellow mud walls, pitch-black tiles," properly placed in their positions, without the slightest disharmony with the environment. It was the second lunar month, and the peach and pear blossoms of mountain households, as well as wild peaches in the mountains, were all blooming brilliantly. Occasionally a barefoot farmer, trouser legs rolled up, driving an ox, would recede leisurely along a field ridge. In the silence, there gradually emerged the Wulingyuan flavor of Tao Yuanming's "Peach Blossom Spring." Actually, going to seek Tao Yuanming's world at this time, one would absolutely not find the Wuling people with "yellow hair and hanging tresses" who knew nothing of the Wei and Jin dynasties. But the artistic conception of "Peach Blossom Spring"—stumbling upon a world cut off from the rest—these unnamed mountain villages dotting the mountains, rarely connected with the outside, indeed greatly evoke this meaning.
Renting a car from Huayuan to Chadong
After two and a half hours, we arrived at Huayuan County town. The whole busload of dozing passengers was awakened by the sharp-voiced woman's shouting. We groggily got off, asked about the route to Chadong, and a female owner of a rice noodle shop flagged down a small minivan for us. We agreed on four yuan per person and climbed in.
The driver was a young man of about 30, wearing white casual clothes, and he had brought along his young wife—a round face, slightly dark complexion, yet extremely pretty. She held on her lap a daughter of just over two years old. The child had her mother's delicacy in her brows and eyes, but her lips were like her father's—thin and red. In the back seat sat two of the driver's cheerful, talkative friends. When we first got in, we were somewhat doubtful, not knowing where he would later pick up passengers, but those two had already started shouting happily: "We're together, going to Chadong with the driver for fun." The driver was very silent, but his wife often turned back to chat with the two. "Gao Laosan, why don't you go to Chadong to help your cousin? He runs a gambling den—just casually toss you some pocket money and you'd have no worries about food and drink."
"Yeah, my cousin's gambling den is huge. I actually didn't do much there—just walked around a few laps, watched for troublemakers. He was generous, randomly giving me fifty or a hundred." Gao Laosan recalled the good times.
"Exactly, you fool. Then why don't you go? Driving yourself is more tiring, and for just a few dozen yuan a day, how would you ever afford a wife?"
"Sister Xiu, don't joke. My cousin's gambling den went bust. I can't go." Gao Laosan was a bit melancholy, then noticed the driver's handwriting. "Brother Shun, who washed your license plate for you?" (Huayuan people read "write" as "wash.") The driver didn't like to talk, and answered: "I washed it myself."
"Well, you washed it well—it's presentable." The other one chimed in. Sister Xiu became proud: "My Old Shun here—I say he's no good at studying, but he washes characters well. He didn't study; if he had, he wouldn't be driving today." The driver didn't answer. Gao Laosan called out again: "Sister Xiu, why did you bring your daughter along? Wouldn't it be better to leave her at home?" The little girl had by now fallen asleep in her mother's arms. The bus bumped along, yet she slept soundly with her little red lips pursed. Her mother couldn't resist kissing her, hugged her closer, and turned back to say: "She refuses to stay home, she cries—better to bring her along." For a moment the cabin grew tender. The mother and wife kissed her daughter again, glanced at her driving husband, and suddenly giggled. The driver still said nothing, but turned to look at his wife and shook his head with a smile. Driving on a bumpy road, with a wife as beautiful as a flower and a daughter as lovely as a flower beside him, this silent driver who didn't like to talk, who wrote beautiful calligraphy, who wore a white suit—his heart must surely have been warm and proud.
A black-canopied boat at the ferry, as if in a dream, tears wet the clothes
A town with densely packed houses appeared before us. The driver asked, "Where in Chadong are you going?" I was somewhat at a loss, then suddenly remembered and said, "To the ferry."
The car couldn't reach the riverbank. The driver pointed the way, and we walked forward along a stone-slab street. The town was not very clean—after the rain, dried mud everywhere, dust flying, and garbage too. A few old women sat at their doorways chatting, showing no great surprise at seeing us. Some households had locked doors, but a yellow or black dog curled up in the sun. Seeing us pass, it would bark twice, raise itself up, and after we walked away, curl back up again.
A black-canopied ferry boat had already left the shore by three zhang when it saw us and ferried back. As the boat parted the emerald waves and returned, my heart suddenly raced. I was in Cuicui's world—who was on that boat? In that instant, I actually felt like bursting into tears, as if I had walked a long, long way just for this endpoint of my search, and this endpoint indeed had a black-canopied ferry boat lying across it, just like in the book!
"Across the ferry boat lay a small bamboo pole, from which hung a movable iron ring. A bamboo cable was stretched across the water between the two banks. When someone needed to cross, the iron ring was placed on the bamboo cable, and the person on the boat would pull hand over hand along the cable, slowly hauling the boat to the opposite shore." ("Border Town," ibid.) It was still the ferry form from Shen Congwen's writing, but different: the iron ring had been replaced by bamboo, and the bamboo cable by an iron chain. The ferryman was a man in his fifties, his complexion not dark—even smooth and fine. He leaned against the cabin, pulling along the cable, and the boat moved extremely slowly through the water. I had heard the ferryman was a much older man, so I couldn't hold back, and finally went up to ask him: "Elder, isn't this boat ferried by an old man of 80 or 90?" He didn't change his posture or expression, and said in a calm tone: "He's resting at noon. He'll come back in the afternoon." "How many years has this ferry been here?" "I'm not even sure—at least 50 years." I thought he surely didn't know Cuicui, but I still asked: "Is this the ferry from Shen Congwen's writing?"
The boat moves slowly on emerald waves; the ferryman says plays are never real
He still had that calm tone, without even changing posture. "Gold has no fakes, plays have no truth. Shen Congwen wrote a good book, but the ferry he wrote about is downstream—the water is swift there, how could a ferry operate?" I was stunned. He said it so indifferently, as if he had seen through everything in this world. "Then what about Cuicui?" I still asked foolishly. "That's also Shen Congwen's good writing—how could there really be a Cuicui."
The boat moved slowly on the emerald waves. The river was extremely deep and crystal clear to the bottom. Reaching the other side, we disembarked and looked back across. On the stone cliff by the river were Shen Congwen's red inscription—"Border Town"—set against the green mountain rocks in the sunlight, possessing a kind of ancient beauty.
We met an old woman who stopped and asked us: "Are you visiting relatives?" We said no. She saw our camera and said: "You're tourists. Do you want to take a boat?" We said we were just walking around. She then warmly said: "You came from over there, right? That side is Hunan. Our side is Sichuan, under Xiushan, administered by Chongqing." I, unfamiliar with geography, was greatly surprised—across one river, I had already arrived in Xiushan. As a child in the village, there were often people carrying fermented bean curd, singing like a song: "Xiushan fermented bean curd"—very famous. Today I had come to its place of origin. The old woman warmly told us to walk around, saying that past this street we could see the "Three-No-Control" zone being built. "When you come again later, it'll be lively—karaoke bars, inns, everything. Come again after some time." Although Xiushan's fermented bean curd stirred childhood memories, I still wanted to return to Chadong across the river, so I boarded the ferry again.
The old man in blue nodded at us, and I chatted with him about this and that. He said the ferryboat belonged to the people on both banks, and the ferrymen were drawn from both sides too; he was from Hong'an, and the old man who was resting was from Chadong. He also said, "Shen Congwen was a scholar—he's very famous at the Chadong Teachers' College."
Shen Congwen never actually taught at Chadong; he only drifted on this river for a few years, working as a clerk.
Cuicui, tangible yet intangible—an endless desolation sweeps across the heart.
We still rented a boat at Chadong and headed downstream. The boat owner told his twelve-year-old son to pole us along—a sturdy, round-faced boy with big ears. Children by the water, not even as tall as the bamboo pole, already know how to handle a boat. His father instructed him to take us to see the statue of Cuicui. Actually, we didn't even know there was a statue of Cuicui, but Cuicui is the legend of this town. Any outsider who isn't here on business must have come for this girl, so the boat owner didn't need us to say anything—he just told his son. I asked the little boy if he knew who Cuicui was. His round face flushed red, and he said, "She's dead." "How do you know she's dead?" "I heard the old folks say so." "Did she have any descendants?" "No." He shook his head and added, "She never even married—how could she have descendants?" "And how do you know that?" "I heard it's written that way in a book." He said no more and just focused on handling his bamboo pole.
A few young people from elsewhere had landed on the island before us and were now clambering over Cuicui's statue. The girls grabbed her braid and squealed with excitement at the danger of falling, while the boys held onto the dog's tail. Behind the statue stood a dilapidated black bamboo hut—probably Cuicui's house. These young people climbing all over her had likely never read Border Town and probably didn't know who Cuicui was. If they had read it, they would surely have been moved by Cuicui's unfulfilled love and would never have climbed on her back, grabbing her braid and screaming. They had probably just heard a few scattered words from others and come to this island, treating Cuicui's statue as nothing more than a scenic spot. They might even say when they go back, "I went to see Cuicui's statue—nothing special." An indescribable sorrow swept through my heart. I didn't linger on the island. I boarded the boat ahead of those people and drifted on the river again. The boy poling the boat wore a green sweater and a red scarf, with thick brows and big eyes, silent and wordless. The river remained broad, and the water was even wilder and greener than the Tuo River inside Fenghuang. But along the bank there were only one or two stilted houses, blackened as if by smoke and fire. One had two palace lanterns hanging at the door, extremely bright, vaguely reminding one of the women of a certain profession in Shen Congwen's writings—hair disheveled, chest covered, suddenly poking her head out from a window already closed, calling to a boatman who had already left shore, "Remember what you said—I'll be waiting for you." But no, that window never opened, and no one called out to the river through it. Only our boat drifted, and the black-canopied ferryboat went back and forth, back and forth.
Thus was "Cuicui" created.
Once ashore, I wandered around the town, passing some old women basking in the sun. The spring sunlight made their wrinkles transparent as they sat on the old stone-slab street in front of ancient wooden houses, chattering away. They might not know Cuicui, but this town where soldiers were once stationed must have seen many stories unfold.
Who exactly was Cuicui?
Shen Congwen once had thirteen friends who enlisted together. One of them, Zhao Kaiming, walked up and down the streets of Luxi County with him three times before falling for a girl about his age at a wool shop. Even without money, he would borrow some to go to that wool shop and buy a few white cotton shoelaces for straw sandals, just so he could hear the girl's voice and see her gentle, clever manner. In fact, he didn't even have an extra pair of straw sandals. He wanted to become an adjutant, and this ambition was tied to another dream: "When I become an adjutant, I'll definitely come back and marry that girl." The girl was called Xiaocui—bright and gentle. Seventeen years later, when Shen Congwen returned home, he passed by that wool shop and saw a little girl in mourning with white wool thread pinned in her hair, and his old friend, now hunched with age. His old friend called the little girl "Xiaocui," and so he understood: this man who never became an adjutant had fulfilled his other dream.
This was one model for Cuicui in Shen Congwen's heart. Yet Cuicui also bore the shadows of two other people: a country girl he had seen in Qingdao, and his new bride, Zhang Zhaohe. Border Town was written in 1934. Freshly married, Shen Congwen still could not free himself from the various characters and scenes of Xiangxi that haunted him. So "on the one hand, using a country girl he had seen a year earlier beside the Beijiushui River at Laoshan in Qingdao to obtain the inevitability of life; on the other hand, using his new bride beside him as a model to obtain a plainness of character... Every morning, on a small eight-legged mahogany table in the courtyard, he would place a stack of white paper, letting the fine sunlight scatter across the pages, and write down certain repressed dreams." ("Water and Clouds—How I Write Stories, How Stories Create Me")
This story was completed in April 1934—it became Shen Congwen's most famous work, Border Town, renowned at home and abroad. For the poet, "with this, my past painful struggles, the repressed and unventable longing for love of a country boy, found release and compensation in this unfortunate story." (Ibid.)
Border Town is also Shen Congwen's own story.
Border Town is also Shen Congwen's own story. Drifting on the boat, I thought of Shen Congwen's love. It must have been 1931. Not yet thirty, Shen Congwen had already established himself in Beijing's literary circles. Through Xu Zhimo's introduction, he caught Hu Shi's appreciation and was hired as a professor at China College. He fell in love with his student Zhang Zhaohe. And so this country boy plunged into an inescapable, boundless love. Letter after letter reached Zhang Zhaohe's hands. She took a pile of her teacher Shen Congwen's letters to the principal, Hu Shi. Hu Shi said, "Shen Congwen loves you stubbornly. Your father and I are both from Anhui—shall I go talk to him about your affairs? I'll go speak with him." Later, in Suzhou one summer, Shen Congwen went to her family home himself, told many stories, and successfully married Zhang Zhaohe.
I cannot forget Zhang Yunhe, Zhang Zhaohe's second sister, writing about "Second Brother Shen" in The Last Great Ladies. In the winter of 1969, before Shen Congwen was sent down to Hubei, Zhang Zhaohe had already gone ahead to Hubei. When Zhang Yunhe arrived, the room was in complete disarray. Amid the mess, Shen Congwen treasured only one crumpled letter. He took it out to show Zhang Yunhe, saying it was the first letter Zhang Zhaohe had ever written him. "Suddenly Second Brother Shen said, 'Third Sister's (Zhang Zhaohe's) first letter—the first one.' Then he began to sob and sniffle. A man nearing seventy crying like a little child, both heartbroken and happy..."
Many years later, after Shen Congwen had passed away, the white-haired Zhang Zhaohe was in Beijing sorting through the love letters he had written her. Quietly she said, "I am the happiest person in all of Beijing."
A pall of gloom hangs over the journey home.
Stepping off the boat, I walked through the streets of Chadong. In front of an old Chadong Cultural Station about to be demolished, I saw a torn red paper notice with some indignant words still legible: "Fenghuang is a border town, and Chadong is a border town too, but Fenghuang is now a famous historical and cultural city, while Chadong is littered with garbage... Journalists who came to report held their noses and left; TV crews who came to film a feature turned around and walked away..." The rest of the text was incomplete. Who knows how much grief and anger filled the heart of the person who wrote this notice. Apart from the ferryboat and a statue of Cuicui, Chadong truly has nothing else particularly moving to offer.
Coming here to seek Shen Congwen's world, one cannot help but feel a pang of melancholy. But what of Cuicui? Cuicui lives in our hearts—and so does Shen Congwen.