Reading Xiangxi (Phoenix Town IV)
"King of Xiangxi" Chen Quzhen. In Fenghuang today, the only remaining site connected to Chen Quzhen is Chaoyang Palace, also known as the Chen Family Ancestral Hall, built in the fourth year of the Republic (1915) by Chen Quzhen's brothers Chen Bing and Chen Kaifan, who mobilized clan members to construct it. In 1923, Chen Quzhen, then commander of the Xiangxi garrison forces, expanded it to completion, making it a place for Chen clan gatherings and important ceremonies...
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 Prices, business hours, administrative divisions, and statistical data mentioned in the text may already be outdated.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.
"King of Xiangxi" Chen Quzhen
In Fenghuang City, the only remaining traces connected to Chen Quzhen are Chaoyang Palace, also known as the Chen Family Ancestral Hall, built in the 4th year of the Republic of China (1915) by Chen Quzhen's brothers Chen Bing and Chen Kaifan, who mobilized clan members to construct it. In 1923, Chen Quzhen, then commander of the Xiangxi Patrol Defense Forces, expanded it into a complete structure, making it a place for Chen clan gatherings and major events. In early years, there was no ticket system; Chaoyang Palace was open. We often barged in noisily, then in the silent, overgrown flowers and weeds, infected by a distant historical atmosphere, gradually fell silent. A typical courtyard house, with red-railed corridors on both sides, a central stone plaza paved with red sandstone slabs, and three main halls with moon-shaped arched doors facing a stage, gilded and colorful, painted with scenes from "Romance of the Three Kingdoms" like "Meeting in the Ancient City" and "Three Heroes Battle Lü Bu." The vast courtyard is empty, weeds grow in the cracks of the stone plaza, and a small tree with reddish leaves, whose name I don't know, seems like a seed blown by chance that sprouted inadvertently, stretching its tender branches to the sky on a spring day.
I have never seen a performance on the stage, so I have never heard the clamor of gongs, drums, and string music reaching the clouds. But a couplet on the stage often carries one's thoughts to the dazzling stage and song pavilions, leading to slow contemplation. The couplet reads: "In a space of a few feet, one can be family, country, or world; through thousands of years, figures are wise, foolish, or immortal."
I learned of all the deeds of this early warlord from historical records. But what I never expected was that I had once socialized with his descendants. In 1978, when educated youth returned to the city, the small Sangong Bridge suddenly had many strangers; educated youths who had married and established careers and had no intention of returning to the city all gathered in this village. Instantly, the countryside gained many lifestyles beyond farming, and the Chen family's blacksmith shop was the most attractive among those professions. The blacksmith shop was right opposite my home; at dawn, the bellows would roar, flames would leap, and the Chen father in his leather apron and his second son would pull red-hot iron bars and blocks from the fire, clanging and sparking, forging them into hoes and shovels. This father surnamed Chen was Chen Quzhen's grandson, and like my parents, a left-behind educated youth. The Chen family's daughter was our age; going to and from school, we had endured many beatings from local children together. A catastrophe severed history; children of six or seven knew nothing of each other's ancestors. Otherwise, if they had known they carried the blood of a lifelong military "King of Xiangxi," those two girls surely would not have cried.
Chaoyang Palace
Located on Ximen Slope on the northwest side of the ancient city, originally named Chen Family Ancestral Hall, it was built in the 4th year of the Republic of China (1915) with donations from local gentry Chen Bing, Chen Kaifan, and others who mobilized clan members. In the 12th year of the Republic of China (1923), Chen Quzhen, then commander of the Xiangxi Patrol Defense Army, a Kuomintang lieutenant general and native of Fenghuang, led clan members to expand it. The main gate of Chaoyang Palace is a purplish-red brick gate tower, 8 meters high. On both sides of the gate are inscribed a couplet: "Auspicious birds rise from the weeds, wings beating the sky a thousand miles high; distinguished guests arrive at the border, eyes seeing the pavilions always full of affection." Symmetrically on the left and right are 12 relief sculptures of landscapes, flowers, and birds. The gate tower has flying eaves and upturned corners, uniquely characteristic. If you visit during festivals, the inner stage will perform ancient operas and local dramas such as Nuo Hall Opera, Yang Opera, and Tea Lantern Opera; in the glow of huqin music and lantern shadows, there is a special charm.
The Rise of the "King of Xiangxi"
Chen Quzhen, courtesy name Zhongmou, art name Yumou, a native of Fenghuang. Born in 1882, he entered the Yuanshui Academy at 16, graduated from the Changsha Military Academy in the 32nd year of Guangxu (1906), was assigned as a squad officer in the First Standard of the Hunan New Army, and joined the Tongmenghui. In 1907, he and Lin Xiumei, brother of Lin Boqu, went to serve under Zhao Erfeng, the minister of the Sichuan border. At that time, British forces invaded Tibet, and Chen Quzhen submitted the "Plan for the Western Expedition," which was appreciated by Zhong Ying, the brigade commander, and he was appointed as the supervisory officer of the 3rd Battalion of the 1st Standard of the Tibet Aid Army, accompanying him into Tibet. Later stationed at Gongbu, he attacked Bomi and achieved many military merits. In 1911, when news of the Wuchang Uprising reached Tibet, the Gelaohui organization in the Sichuan army entering Tibet responded actively, killing commander Luo Changqi (with the "yi" radical, not the jade radical) (later Luo's descendants always suspected Luo's death was related to Chen Quzhen). Chen Quzhen led 115 Hunan and Guizhou officers and soldiers and guides eastward. They mistakenly entered the Jiangtong grasslands, where food was cut off for nearly seven months, eating raw meat and drinking blood, and finally reached Xi'an with only seven survivors. Chen Quzhen's wife Xiyuan, whom he married in Tibet, accompanied him through wind and snow. After arriving in Xi'an, Xiyuan died of smallpox. In his grief, Chen Quzhen resolved to pursue an official career and returned to Xiangxi in 1912 to supervise river-opening projects. Tian Yingzhao recommended him for his merits in river opening, but instead, the matter of Luo Changqi's (same as above) killing was brought up again, and he was sent under escort to Beijing. Later, with Fu Liangzuo's guarantee, he returned to Xiangxi to serve as deputy chief of staff in Tian Yingzhao's army, running the officer training corps and cultivating personal power. In 1917, he was promoted to chief of staff, concurrently commanding the First Echelon. When the National Protection War occurred, Tian Yingzhao ignored military affairs, and Chen Quzhen took over as commander of the First Army of the Xiangxi National Protection Allied Forces. In 1920, he became commander of the Xiangxi Patrol Defense.
After Chen Quzhen took charge of Xiangxi's military and political affairs, under the banner of "pacifying the people and ensuring stability," he vigorously reorganized the army and trained for war, opened schools and factories, stimulated commerce, and brought about the best situation in Xiangxi since the 1911 Revolution. As American scholar Jeffrey Kinkley said in "Biography of Shen Congwen": "He made Xiangxi truly achieve the ideal prosperous era of 'doors not locked at night, lost items not picked up on the road.'" However, Chen Quzhen's ambition seemed only to dominate one region; internally, he did not implement reforms, following the old Qing Dynasty Green Standard Army garrison field system, and the people bore extremely heavy taxes; externally, he was unenterprising, and in the National Protection War, his troops went no farther than Tao and Chang. Before Sun Yat-sen planned the first Northern Expedition in Guangdong, he sent representatives to contact Chen Quzhen, appointing him "First Division Commander." Chen Quzhen hosted a banquet, gave the representative 2,000 yuan for travel, but the appointment letter was pressed under his bedding, useless. At this time, the slogan of provincial autonomy was loudly voiced nationwide, and Chen Quzhen imitated Yan Xishan's method of being a local emperor in Shanxi, styling himself the "King of Xiangxi."
In 1936, Long Yunfei, Shi Weizhen, Long Yunchao, and others launched the Miao People's Uprising, forming the Xiangxi Ethnic Anti-Japanese National Salvation Army. The uprising army put forward the slogans "Abolish Garrison Fields and Resist Japan" and "Return Garrison Fields to the People," successively besieging Yongshui, Fenghuang, Baojing, and other counties. Chiang Kai-shek urgently transferred a army from Jiangxi into Xiangxi, attempting to both crush the Miao uprising and annex and oppress Chen Quzhen's local forces, achieving two goals at once. Chen Quzhen, isolated and self-defensive externally, was attacked from within and without and forced to step down. After Chen Quzhen stepped down, he recommended Gu Jiaqi to succeed as division commander, while he went to Changsha to serve as a sinecure as chief advisor of the Fourth Route Army and member of the provincial government.
By early 1938, Zhang Zhizhong, who had become chairman of the Hunan Provincial Government, was implementing certain administrative reforms to adapt to the development of the War of Resistance, and began establishing the Yuanling Administrative Office in Xiangxi, with provincial government members taking turns presiding. Chen Quzhen was appointed as the first director of the office. Due to the bullying, extortion, and oppression felt by the people of Xiangxi from Chiang Kai-shek's direct-line troops over the past two years, they held certain expectations for Chen Quzhen to preside over Xiangxi again. Therefore, on the day Chen Quzhen arrived in Yuanling, over 10,000 people were mobilized, cheering on both banks of the Yuan River to welcome Chen Quzhen's return. Chen Quzhen had returned to his Xiangxi.
Writing "A Dream of the Wilderness" in Idleness
In the brief moment when Shen Congwen and Chen Quzhen's lives intersected, he only saw this official surnamed Chen's admirable military management ability and self-discipline: rising before dawn every day, not sleeping until late at night, and not taking concubines even near 40. He loved reading, emulating Zeng Guofan and Wang Shouren, spending almost half his time reading and half handling affairs.
Although in the scholarly scent of the nanmu cabinet he gradually gained a hazy awareness of history, and in handling artifacts, calligraphy, and paintings, he slowly developed a broad and deep interest in understanding the brilliance of human wisdom, Shen Congwen did not know at that time that Chen Quzhen still harbored a sorrow in his heart.
In the winter of 1936, Chen Quzhen, who had been forced out of office after being attacked from within and without and was living in retirement, leafed through long-sealed memories and wrote a short book in classical Chinese, 'Jiaoye Chenmeng,' about the period after his entry into Tibet in 1907 and his subsequent escape. (Jiao is pronounced ji; the title is taken from the line in 'Xiaoming' in the Minor Odes of the Book of Songs, 'I marched west, as far as the jiaoye,' meaning the title is 'Dreams of Dust in the Wild.' Some explain jiao in the book as meaning a remote wilderness, but the book's annotator, Mr. Ren Naiqiang, explains it as a plant name, namely 'qinjiao'; its leaves are broad and thin, with white longitudinal veins, somewhat like agave. Its rhizome fibers twist and knot like bundles of silk, hence it is called jiao. It grows on plateaus at an altitude of 3,000 meters, that is, in the Kanghai area. Since ancient times it was exported from Qinzhong, so it is called qinjiao. In the Minor Odes, jiaoye is explained as the Qinghai-Kang-Tibet Plateau.)
In 1940, Mr. Ren Naiqiang of Nanchong obtained a copy of "A Dusty Dream of the Wild Grassland" from Zhang Zhiyuan. He loved it so much that he could not put it down, finishing it in a single night and only going to bed at cockcrow without even realizing it. He found the man extraordinary, the events extraordinary, and the writing extraordinary—both wondrous and true, true yet endlessly moving, the finest of all travel accounts of Kham and Tibet. Mr. Ren called the book "more genuine and unembellished than Robinson Crusoe; more detailed and engaging than the biographies of Zhang Qian and Ban Chao." After the book came into Ren's hands, it was passed around from reader to reader, and within a month it had changed hands more than ten times, until the original copy was too worn to be read further—yet there were still many eager to borrow it. So Mr. Ren Naiqiang annotated and collated it, serializing it in the Kangdao Monthly. In 1999, the Tibet People's Publishing House reprinted the book, but only 5,000 copies were printed. After countless difficulties, I asked friends everywhere and finally tracked down the phone number of the distribution office of the Tibet Publishing House, and was delighted to discover that copies were still in stock. After getting in touch and sending the payment, half a month later the slim volume of "A Dusty Dream of the Wild Grassland" arrived—by which time it had already been over a month in transit.
Chen Quzhen was separated from me by a profound gulf of time. When I read "A Dusty Dream of the Wild Grassland," it was already 66 years after he wrote it in 1936. Yet despite the passage of half a century, I was still able to enter his inner world—that too is a kind of fate. Not only could I follow him on paper into Tibet, seeing the pristine landscapes and all manner of local customs and ways of life I had never seen before, but I could also witness his outstanding courage and boldness in the Gongbo and Bomi campaigns. Later, when the army sent to aid Tibet mutinied, he led 115 men in escape, and the extraordinary and perilous experiences along the way—the countless bitter hardships of subsisting on raw meat and blood—make for truly breathtaking reading. And woven throughout is the tragic love story between him and the Tibetan woman Xiyuan, a love destined across the ages, more deeply moving than any tragic romance novel I have ever come across.
A Love Destined Across the Ages: Meeting Xiyuan
After retaking Gongbo, Chen Quzhen came to know Jiaqua Pengcuo, the garrison commander of Gongjue. Jiaqua Pengcuo recounted to him the many cruelties of the Tibetan king and invited him to his residence as a guest. There, Chen Quzhen met Jiaqua Pengcuo's niece, Xiyuan, for the first time. Xiyuan was then only about fifteen or sixteen years old, mingling among a group of lively Tibetan maidens, performing for the guests the exquisite equestrian skill of snatching poles on horseback. Amid the fluttering of sleeves, Xiyuan's agile figure as she snatched five poles in succession left an impression on Chen Quzhen that he could not forget, and he praised her effusively to Jiaqua Pengcuo. At the banquet, Jiaqua Pengcuo joked that he might as well betroth Xiyuan to him, and taking it as a mere jest, Chen casually agreed. Unexpectedly, a few days later, Jiaqua Pengcuo truly sent Xiyuan to him in full ceremonial dress. In her finery, Xiyuan had bright eyes and an enchanting grace, and Chen Quzhen, then in his twenties, once again fell into an irrepressible love. So he married Xiyuan.
Later, when he led troops to attack Bomi, Xiyuan accompanied him on the campaign and even saved his life on the battlefield. Still later, when news of the Wuchang Uprising reached Tibet, the army sent to aid Tibet mutinied, and Chen Quzhen led 110 officers and men from Hunan and Guizhou in escape—Xiyuan among them. At the moment of departure, Xiyuan's mother gave her a precious coral mountain as a gift, and they parted in tears. After Chen Quzhen fled, news came that Jiaqua Pengcuo and his wife had died in the rebellion. Amid the immense grief of losing her kin, Xiyuan still followed Chen Quzhen in his flight from Tibet.
Later they were misled by their lama guide into the Jiangtong grasslands, their food supplies exhausted, their bodies terribly ravaged. Chen's soldiers at one point underwent such a change of heart that they wanted to kill a Tibetan attendant he carried with him for food. Xiyuan fiercely blocked them and hunted a wild wolf for the soldiers, helping them through the crisis. As conditions grew ever more dire, Xiyuan never left Chen Quzhen's side, until seven months later, when they reached Lanzhou, the once radiantly beautiful Xiyuan had become haggard and worn, no longer the woman of former days.
After reaching Lanzhou, Chen Quzhen and Xiyuan traveled alone to Xi'an, where they lodged in an empty house while writing home for money to be wired so they could return south. Even at the fastest, the remittance would take over twenty days to arrive. The two, utterly impoverished, depended on each other and never left each other's side, selling off every valuable item they carried, yet still unable to make ends meet. In desperation, Xiyuan brought out the coral mountain her mother had given her before departure to sell. Because the coral had been crushed during the long flight, Chen Quzhen searched the city for many days before finally exchanging it for twelve taels of silver at a curio shop.
Xiyuan's Death: Heartbreak Beyond Endurance
Chen Quzhen and Xiyuan had thought they could subsist on this silver until the Chen family's remittance arrived and they could return south. Unexpectedly, during wartime, communications were cut off, and by early November the remittance had still not appeared. The two fell into dire straits once more. Chen Quzhen sold a telescope for six taels of silver. The only person Chen Quzhen knew in Xi'an was Dong Yulu, a native of Yongshun in western Hunan. Every day when he went out to attend to matters, Xiyuan would see him off with her eyes, then sit quietly at home waiting for his return. One day, Chen Quzhen came back a little late, and when Xiyuan opened the door, her face was flushed crimson. It turned out that from the moment he had left, Xiyuan had felt an unbearable headache, but fearing no one would answer the door when he returned, she had endured it and sat waiting for him. That night, Xiyuan fell gravely ill, bedridden and unable to rise, gradually unable to eat. Chen Quzhen asked what she wanted to eat, and Xiyuan, who had grown up on the grasslands since childhood, said she wanted to drink milk. Chen Quzhen bought fresh milk from outside, but Xiyuan could only take a few sips before she could drink no more. Chen Quzhen called for a doctor, who misdiagnosed it as a cold poison. Just after taking one dose of the prescribed medicine, Xiyuan broke out in smallpox. When told, the doctor was unhurried, saying another dose would cure her—yet Xiyuan's condition only worsened. Finally, one day, Xiyuan told Chen that she had dreamed the night before of her mother feeding her sugar water spoonful by spoonful. According to Tibetan custom, dreaming of such a scene meant one was certain to die. Having said this, she was already choking on her tears. Though Chen Quzhen tried every means to comfort her, Xiyuan could never be consoled. That night, Xiyuan's smallpox suddenly turned black, and Chen Quzhen knew in his heart she could not be saved; he could only weep in secret. At the fourth watch, Xiyuan woke him and, weeping, said her farewell: "Xiyuan has followed you ten thousand li, always at your side in the camp, never imagining that I would fall so gravely ill and be forced to part from you midway. Yet if you are fortunate enough to receive help and escape this place, I shall die content. By my reckoning, the letter from home should arrive any day now. May you take care of yourself all the way on your journey south—Xiyuan can no longer accompany you." As the words faded, Xiyuan let out a long sigh and passed away. Chen Quzhen threw himself upon her body, wailing, nearly fainting. When he came to his senses and checked his bags, he had only one thousand five hundred coins left—not even enough to bury Xiyuan. At this thought, grief surged anew, and he wept bitterly once more.
Then he finally remembered Dong Yulu, and wiping his tears, prepared to go out and borrow money. Opening the door, he saw the eastern sky gradually whitening, dawn not yet broken. He thought of how he did not know how to bring up the matter, and turned back—but then saw Xiyuan lying in eternal sleep, and grief pierced his heart, and he wept bitterly once more. After daybreak, he finally went to the Dong household. Dong had not a penny to his name, but immediately gave him all thirty-odd taels of silver that his younger cousin had left in his keeping, and told his own family to help arrange Xiyuan's funeral. After the maidservant bathed and changed Xiyuan's clothes, monks were invited to chant sutras. After noon, she was finally encoffined and buried at the Yanta Temple outside the city of Xi'an. Chen Quzhen, recalling all the hardships Xiyuan had endured in following him, wept aloud over her coffin.
Returning to his dwelling in tears, he suddenly realized Xiyuan's figure was no longer there. He felt only the chill and emptiness of the room, the curtains fluttering, and could not help but cry out to heaven, his tears exhausted and his voice hoarse. And here the book comes to an abrupt end, because the author wrote: "Having written to this point, my heart and intestines are severed. My book too lays down its pen from here."
Life Is a Dream, but Love Never Grows Old
"A Dusty Dream of the Wild Grassland" was written in classical Chinese and never widely circulated, so this love story destined across the ages seems to be known by few. When I read it, I too encountered obstacles in the language, yet by the final volume, like the author, my heart and intestines were severed and my tears fell like rain. I have now simply translated this passage, but the myriad emotions beyond the original words cannot be fully rendered. Perhaps in every person's life there is one soul-stirring love—Xiong Xiling and Mao Yanwen, Shen Congwen and Zhang Zhaohe, Chen Quzhen and Xiyuan. Outsiders often see only the heroic achievements and literary elegance of great men, or perhaps cannot even see those, and can only linger and wander in the places where they once lived, yet are utterly unable to touch their tender inner worlds. How could one not feel as though separated by a lifetime?
When Chen Quzhen heard the strains of silk and bamboo music at the Chaoyang Palace, he surely must have thought of Xiyuan in her bright attire and luminous eyes, leaping up on horseback to snatch poles before him in her youthful charm. At such moments, I wonder—did he say the sand had gotten into his eyes, and shed a tear for Xiyuan?
Fenghuang's Still-Blooming Landscape—Huang Yongyu
In Fenghuang, I did not have time to visit Huang Yongyu's Ancient Chun Tree Studio and Duocui Tower. The former is the ancestral property of the Huang family, beside the Confucian Temple, with a chun tree that already required three people to encircle it in the 1920s. The latter is an antique-style villa Huang Yongyu built himself near Huilong Pavilion by the river. Unlike Shen Congwen's former residence, which was not surnamed Shen until after the master's death, Huang Yongyu has "four burrows for a cunning rabbit." He has "Countless Mountains Tower" in Florence, Italy, "Ten Thousand Lotuses Hall" in Beijing, a small residence in Hong Kong, and "Duocui Tower" in Fenghuang. Everyone who has visited the Ancient Chun Tree Studio remembers one of his paintings: it depicts a white-haired old man and a white-haired old woman, with an inscription beside them reading: "Three small rooms—sitting is up to me, sleeping is up to me; one wife—look left and it's her, look right and it's her." When Xiong Xiling, Shen Congwen, and Chen Quzhen have all become history, Huang Yongyu is the landscape of Fenghuang still in bloom. It is said that when he returns home, Fenghuang is like a festival, with firecrackers resounding.
The Lotus-Obsessed Wanderer at Heart
Huang Yongyu left Fenghuang to seek his fortune at an even younger age than Shen Congwen. He was born with a wandering nature; compared to Shen Congwen's introversion, he was more open and optimistic, and also more clear-headed and calm. The story of his parents and himself was written by Shen Congwen in "The Tale of a Legend," Shen Congwen's life he wrote in "These Melancholy Fragments," and the intertwined fates of himself and Shen Congwen he wove into "Scenery Under the Sun." He said: "Our little mountain town, for some reason, often made children harbor the fantasy of devoting themselves to distant places. From a historical perspective, this was both incongruous and full of desolation, so that my uncle (editor's note: Shen Congwen) and I both, at the age of twelve or thirteen, shouldered our small bundles, followed the little river, crossed Dongting, and went to 'read another great book.'" In reading this book, Shen Congwen, with a more sensitive and wise heart, illuminated everything in this world, then transformed all his love and compassion into words. Huang Yongyu turned them into images, into paintings. I do not understand painting, but I know he is called the "Lotus Obsessive," with over eight thousand lotus works. And I know that his lotuses were painted during the Cultural Revolution—while others trembled and spoke at criticism sessions, he would go home and paint lotuses. His lotuses have a clear and extraordinary bone structure, never fat or gaudy. But what I prefer are some of his small genre paintings and sketches that I have seen. The former are full of satire and humor; of the latter, I have seen some of his sketches of Fenghuang—because they are infused with love, the lines are exceedingly delicate and brimming with spirit.
Two Generations of Wandering
Shen Congwen and Huang Yongyu are two different generations of people. Huang Yongyu said: "Many of Uncle Congwen's memories seem adorned with flowers, full of the fragrance of friendship. He is not like me—I can never be like him. I sometimes use great passion to curse and hate certain scoundrels. He distinguishes right from wrong, has clear boundaries, but more often he tolerates and forgives. That is why he could write such good novels. I cannot—when I get angry, I tear up even the manuscript paper, throw it on the ground, and stomping on it still doesn't relieve my anger. But we are both children raised by the soil and water of our hometown."
Huang Yongyu wandered more than Shen Congwen and had more complex experiences. One scene I have never been able to forget is when Huang Yongyu had wandered to Shanghai, around 1946 or 1947, and his woodcut works, used as illustrations for a poetry collection, were seen by Shen Congwen, who was moved to write "The Tale of a Legend." At that time the two had not yet met. Huang Yongyu bought a newspaper and, on the great avenue of Shanghai in the evening, by the light of the streetlamps, read this article. "I read it over and over, tears soaking the newspaper. In the bustling street, no passerby disturbed me; no one knew that this weeping child was reading his own story." ("Scenery Under the Sun") (Note: Shen Congwen's article was published in the Tianjin Ta Kung Pao on March 23, 1947.)
The Guardians of the Fenghuang Homeland
In today's Fenghuang, there may still be countless wanderers drifting in distant places, though I do not know. What I saw in Fenghuang was more the tranquility and serenity of those who keep to their homeland.
On the flagstone streets there are many craftsmen and literati—Zhang Guiying's silver workshop, Xiong Chengzao's batik, Matisheng's studio... and many shops selling dyed fabrics and ethnic crafts. A scene of bustling commerce.
While strolling the streets, I wandered into Xiong Chengzao's batik shop, where blue-and-white stilted houses recreated the generations of Fenghuang's prosperity. The room was full of works, each one unique. Xiong Chengzao said: "I never mass-produce; I only create." I was amazed by his lotuses, his stilted houses, his Qi Baishi. I seemed to hear the waters of the Tuo River murmuring through the blue and white. The people of Fenghuang use their homes as exhibition halls—just as the Ancient Chun Tree Studio is open, Xiong Chengzao's batik shop is his home, and Matisheng's studio is also his home. I happened to ask, "Teacher Xiong, your achievements today came after much hardship, didn't they?" and he took me as a kindred spirit, inviting me into his home—also his batik shop—where by the fire pit, over sunflower seeds and clear tea, he talked about his life. Only then did I learn that Huang Yongyu is his uncle. And that he went from being an employee painting movie posters to establishing his own style in batik art was, to a great extent, due to Huang Yongyu's encouragement.
He said he knew his achievements in painting could never surpass Huang Yongyu's, so he chose another path—batik. He was so tolerant, gentle, and friendly. When I returned to Guangzhou and drowned in the clamor of city lights, I still thought of that night chatting by the fire pit, would hear the occasional sound of heels tapping on flagstones, and hear him tell me: "Health is the most important thing."
Poetry and Painting Diffused, Wandering No More
On this same street there is also Matisheng's studio, with manuscripts spread open on a desk that opens onto the flagstone street. Any passerby, even if they cannot see him writing furiously, can see his spread manuscripts and piled books. He calls his studio the "New Liaozhai," where he chats with visitors from north and south, compiles Fenghuang anecdotes, and publishes his own works and books.
Fenghuang's poetry, writing, and painting have been diffused into every corner of life—Xiong Chengzao's batik, Matisheng's studio, and countless fine couplets on doors, as well as the calligraphy and paintings hanging in the Chaoyang Palace. Every scene is an element of poetry, calligraphy, and painting. Perhaps because of this diffusion, in recent decades we have been unable to see the rise of another Shen Congwen or Huang Yongyu, and have only seen painting gradually degenerate into a craft, and poetry and writing gradually degenerate into storytelling and anecdotes.
Walking through Fenghuang, on one hand the fragrance of books and ink drifts everywhere; on the other, Shen Congwen and Huang Yongyu have gradually become myth and history, beyond reach. When many young people see the rise of Fenghuang's tourism industry and are planning to guard a business at their doorstep, building a small family inn or opening a small teahouse, Fenghuang is no longer the era of wandering that Huang Yongyu spoke of. Childhood has begun to detain the wanderer's footsteps, and the dream of wandering is gradually turning into staying in one's hometown. Without the tragic flavor of wandering, Fenghuang is becoming more and more serene—boats motionless, waves unstartled, the bitter pain of past struggles gradually transforming into the sweetness of keeping watch. Perhaps this is the true land of joy, Fenghuang, that we have always wanted to see?