Waning Fame of Literary Elders (Photo and Text Version)

Author: Yan Zhiguo / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: The Expectations of a Century-Old Scholar – An Interview with Xia Yan
Xia Yan (1900.10–1995.2), originally named Shen Yuexi, styled Duanxuan, was born in Hangzhou, Zhejiang, with ancestral roots in Kaifeng, Henan. During his youth, due to poverty, he worked as an apprentice in a dyeing workshop. He studied at Zhejiang Provincial Public First-Class Industrial School and the Electrical Engineering Department of Meiji Specialized School in Japan. In 1935, he published his first short story, "Bubble," under the pen name Xia Yan. In 1936, he wrote the reportage "The Dung Workers." He served as Deputy Mayor of Shanghai, Minister of Propaganda, Director of the Shanghai Municipal Cultural Bureau, Vice Minister of Culture, Vice Chairman of the Chinese Federation of Literary and Art Circles, Chairman of the National Film Association, Chairman of the China-Japan Friendship Association, Vice Chairman of the China Friendship Association, and Member of the Central Committee of the China Revolutionary Committee. His 16-volume Complete Works of Xia Yan remain in print. No Chinese person should forget the year 1900. That August, the British general Seymour led the Eight-Nation Alliance to attack Beijing, utterly destroying the Qing Dynasty as if it were worthless prostitute. By mid-August, the German general Waldes led a hundred thousand bloodthirsty foreigners to seize vast areas of North China. The Russians invaded the three provinces of Manchuria in 1900. That year, the horrific events of the Hailanpo and Jiangdongliutun massacres occurred. On October 5 of that year, a little girl was born to a naval officer in Minhou, Fujian. On October 30, a little boy was born in Yanjialong, outside Qicheng Gate, Hangzhou. The girl later became a writer, penning under the name Bing Xin. The boy also became a writer—he was Xia Yan. The two writers later became close friends, their friendship lasting lifelong, though their ages were distinctly different. Xia Yan once wrote an article, inadvertently changing his birthdate. Bing Xin immediately wrote him a letter, asking him to correct it. Bing Xin said, "In the literary world, there are no longer any living people older than me. Your birthdate is the 18th day of the ninth lunar month, only 26 days younger than mine. How could it become the 12th day of August?" Xia Yan replied in a letter, "This is a small matter; there’s no need to take it too seriously." Bing Xin insisted, "I’m a person who values every second, let alone days and months?" Xia Xiaodì had no choice but to admit his mistake. In early spring 1993, I visited the centenarian Xia Yan. Six months earlier, I had met his secretary to discuss the interview, and the secretary apologized, saying, "Mr. Xia will be returning to Hangzhou for a family visit the next day, so it’s not possible to meet with guests." I was greatly surprised to hear this: a 93-year-old man still traveling far by car—it was truly a remarkable feat. This would likely only be something Bing Xin could say: "Xia Xiaodì is still young; going to Hangzhou is nothing!" Opposite the imposing Xinhua Gate lies a small street, which in the Ming and Qing dynasties once led directly to the ministries of Personnel, Revenue, Rites, Works, Justice, and War. It must have been a strategically important location. Over time, however, the bustle and prosperity of Six Ministries Lane faded quietly. Along the street, small stalls lined the sides, selling cigarettes, alcohol, scallions, and garlic. A small courtyard gate bore a white paper notice. The grandmas of the neighborhood committee had written in crooked handwriting: "Use liquefied gas; keep safety in mind!" Two plump grandmas were chatting in front of the gate, talking about food, drink, and their children. When asked about the family in the courtyard, everyone knew they were the Xias. That day was truly lucky; Xia’s daughter, Shen Ning, had no other arrangements for him. She said, "You can speak at your own pace according to your outline." Like Bing Xin, the Xia family also had a guest register. It served to show respect for visitors and avoid the hassle of collecting business cards. I signed my name without hesitation, and Shen Dàijiě frowned upon seeing it. "I can’t read it, I can’t read it," she said. Xia Yan sat quietly in his small study. Though he rarely left his home, he always dressed neatly. He said, "One of my legs has a problem; my feet are always cold. Using a cotton pad helps a bit." I asked if it was the leg he broke during the Cultural Revolution. He nodded with a smile. Xia Yan had smoked for 60 years but had suddenly quit. This greatly pleased Bing Xin, who asked me to relay her message to Ma Feng, urging him to follow the old man’s example and stop smoking. Ma Feng’s wife, Duan Xiangmian, was deeply grateful for Bing Xin’s kindness and hoped her husband would finally give up smoking. At that time, Ma Feng was already experiencing breathing difficulties and had switched to a type of cigarette called Zhourukang from Shaanxi. It was said that this cigarette was not only harmless but could even cure ailments, though its extremely low price made its reliability questionable. Xia Yan was thin but in good spirits. At 93, his hearing was sharp, and his mind was clear. He smiled, "I’ve never been fat—I guess I’m naturally thin." To this day, aside from two eye surgeries, he had no major health issues. I said, "Over the past century, you’ve weathered so many storms, yet you remain strong and robust in your old age. It’s truly no easy feat." P6-7