OR, THE PLEASURES OF REPUTATION.
FI-HO-TI was considered a young man of talents; he led, in Pekin, a happy and comfortable life. In the prime of youth, of a highly-respectable family, and enjoying a most agreeable competence, he was exceedingly popular among the gentlemen whom he entertained at his board, and the ladies who thought he might propose. Although the Chinese are not generally sociable, Fi-ho-ti had ventured to set the fashion of giving entertainments, in which ceremony was banished for mirth. All the pleasures of life were at his command: he drank, though without excess, the cup of enjoyment ate, laughed, and loved his fill No man in Pekin was more awake during the day, or enjoyed a serener slumber during the night ‘In an evil hour, it so happened that Fi-ho-ti discovered that he possessed the talents we have referred to. A philosopher, — who, being also his uncle, had the double right, both of philosophy and relationship, to say every thing unpleasant to him, — took it into his head to be very indignant at the happy life which Fi-ho-ti so peacefully enjoyed. —
Accordingly, one beautiful morning he visited our young Chin-Epicurean. He found him in his summer-house, stretched on luxurious cushions, quaffing the most delicious tea, in the finest little porcelain cups imaginable, reading a Chinese novel, and enlivening the study, from time to time, by a light conversation with a young lady, who had come to visit him.
Our philosopher was amazingly shocked at the prospect of so much comfort. Nothing could be more unphilosophical; for the duty of Philosophy being to charm us with life, she is anxious, in the first place, to make it a burden to us. The goddess is enamoured of patience, but indignant at pleasure.
Our sage was a man very much disliked and very much respected. Fi-ho-ti rose from his cushions, a little ashamed of being detected in so agreeable an indolence, and reminded for the first time, of the maxims of Chinese morality, which hold it highly improper for a gentleman to be seen with a lady. The novel fell from his hand; and the young lady, frightened at the long beard and the long nails of the philosopher, would have run away, if her feet would have allowed her; as it was, she summoned her attendants, and hastened to complain to her friends of the manner in which the pleasantest tête-à-têtes could be spoilt, when young men were so unfortunate as to have philosophers for uncles.
The Mandarin, — for Fi-ho-ti’s visitor enjoyed no less a dignity, and was entitled to wear a blue globe in his cap, — seeing the coast clear, hemmed three times, and commenced his avuncular admonitions.
“Are you not ashamed, young man,” said he, “of the life that you lead? — are you not ashamed to be so indolent and so happy? You possess talents; you are in the prime of youth, you have already attained the rank of Keu-jin; — are you deaf to the noble voice of ambition?
Your country calls upon you for exertion, — seek to distinguish your name, — recollect the example of Confucius, — give yourself up to study, — be wise and be great.”
Much more to this effect spoke the Mandarin, for he loved to hear himself talk; and, like all men privileged to give advice, he fancied that he was wonderfully eloquent. In this instance, his vanity did not deceive him; for it was the vanity of another that he addressed. Fi-ho-ti was moved; he felt he had been very foolish to be happy so long. Visions of disquietude and fame floated before him: he listened with attention to the exhortations of the philosopher; he resolved to distinguish himself, and to be wise.
The Mandarin was charmed with the success of his visit; it was a great triumph to disturb so much enjoyment. He went home, and commenced a tract upon the advantages of philosophy. —
Every one knows that in China learning alone is the passport to the offices of state: What rank and fortune are in other countries, learning is in the Celestial Empire. Fi-ho-ti surrendered himself to Knowledge. He retired to a solitary cavern, near upon Kai-fon-gu; he filled his retreat with books and instruments of science; he renounced all social intercourse; the herbs of the plain and the water of the spring sufficed the tastes hitherto accustomed to the most delicious viands of Pekin. Forgetful of love and of pleasure, he consigned three of the fairest years of his existence to uninterrupted labour. He instructed himself — he imagined he was capable of instructing others.
Fired with increasing ambition, our student returned to Pekin. He composed a work, which, though light and witty enough to charm the gay, was the origin of a new school of philosophy. It was at once bold and polished; and the oldest Mandarin or the youngest beauty of Pekin could equally appreciate and enjoy it. In one word, Fi-ho-ti’s book became the rage, — Fi-ho-ti was the author of his day.
Delighted by the novelty of literary applause, our young student more than ever resigned himself to literary pursuits. He wrote again, and again succeeded; — all the world declared that Fi-ho-ti had established his reputation, and he obtained the dazzling distinction of Bin-sze.
Was Fi-ho-ti the happier for his reputation? You shall judge.
He went to call upon his uncle, the Mandarin. He imagined the Mandarin would be delighted to find the success of his admonitions.
The philosopher received him with a frigid embarrassment. He talked of the weather and the Emperor, — the last pagoda and the new fashion in tea-cups: he said not a word about his nephew’s books. Fi-ho-ti was piqued; he introduced the subject of his own accord.
“Ah!” said the philosopher, drily, “I understand you have written something that pleases the women; no doubt you will grow solid as your judgment increases. But, to return to the tea-cups—” —
Fi-ho-ti was chagrined: he had lost the affection of his learned uncle for ever; for he was now considered to be more learned than his uncle himself. The common mortification in success is to find that your own family usually hate you for it. “My uncle no longer loves me,” thought he, as he re-entered his palanquin. “This is a misfortune.” — Alas! — it was the effect of REPUTATION!
The heart of Fi-ho-ti was naturally kind and genial; though the thirst of pleasure was cooled in his veins, he still cherished the social desires of friendship. He summoned once more around him the comrades of his youth: he fancied they, at least, would be delighted to find their friend not unworthy of their affection. He received them with open arms; — they returned his greeting with shyness, and an awkward affectation of sympathy; — their conversation no longer flowed freely — they were afraid of committing themselves before so clever a man; — they felt they were no longer with an equal, and yet they refused to acknowledge a superior. Fi-ho-ti perceived, with indescribable grief, that a wall had grown up between himself and the companions of past years; their pursuits, their feelings, were no longer the same. They were not proud of his success — they were jealous; — the friends of his youth were the critics of his manhood.
“This, too, is a misfortune,” thought Fi-ho-ti, as he threw himself at night upon his couch. — Very likely: — it was the effect of REPUTATION!
“But if the old friends are no more, I will gain new,” thought the student. Men of the same pursuits will have the same sympathies. I aspire to be a sage: I will court the friendship of sages.”
This was a notable idea of Fi-ho-ti’s. He surrounded himself with the authors, the wits, and the wise men of Pekin. They ate his dinners, — they made him read their manuscripts — (and a bad handwriting in Chinese is no trifle!) — they told him he was a wonderful genius, — and they abused him anonymously every week in the Pekin journals; for China is perhaps the only despotism in the world in which the press is entirely free. The heart of Fi-ho-ti, yearning after friendship, found it impossible to expect a single friend amongst the literati of China; they were all too much engrossed with themselves to dream of affection for another. They had no talk — no thought — no feeling — except that which expressed love for their own books, and hatred for the books of their contemporaries.
One day Fi-ho-ti had the misfortune to break his leg. The most intimate of his acquaintance among the literati found him stretched on his couch, having just undergone the operation of setting, which a French surgeon had charitably performed on him.
“Ah!” said the author, “how very unlucky — how very unfortunate!”
“You are extremely obliging,” said Fi-ho-ti, touched by his visiter’s evident emotion.
“Yes, it is particularly unlucky that your accident should occur just at this moment; for I wanted to consult you about this passage in my new book before it is published to-morrow!” The broken leg of his friend seemed to the author only as an interruption to the pleasure of reading his own works.
But, above all, Fi-ho-ti found it impossible to trust men who gave the worst possible character of each other. If you believed the literati themselves, so envious, malignant, worthless, unprincipled a set of men as the literati of Pekin never were created! Every new acquaintance he made told him an anecdote of an old acquaintance which made his hair stand on end.
Fi-ho-ti began to be alarmed. He contracted more and more the circle of his society; and resolved to renounce the notion of friendship amongst men of similar pursuits.
Even in the remotest provinces of the Celestial Empire, the writings of Fi-ho-ti were greatly approved. The gentlemen quoted him at their tea, and the ladies wondered whether he was good-looking; but this applause — this interest that he inspired — never reached the ears of Fi-ho-ti. He beheld not the smiles he called forth by his wit, nor the tears he excited by his pathos: — all that he saw of the effects of his reputation was in the abuse he received in the Pekin journals; he there read, every week and every month, that he was but a very poor sort of creature. One journal called him a fool, another a wretch; a third seriously deposed that he was hump-backed; a fourth that none of his sentiments could be found in the works of Confucius. In Pekin, any insinuation of originality is considered as a suspicion of the most unpardonable guilt. Other journals, indeed, did not so much abuse as misrepresent him. He found his doctrines twisted into all manner of shapes. He could not defend them — for it is not dignified to reply to all the Pekin journals; but he was assured by his flatterers that truth would ultimately prevail, and posterity do him justice. “Alas!” thought Fi-ho-ti, “am I to be deemed a culprit all my life, in order that I may be acquitted after death? Is there no justice for me until I am past the power of malice? Surely this is a misfortune!” — Very likely; — it was the necessary consequence of REPUTATION!
Fi-ho-ti now began to perceive that the desire of fame was a chimera. He was yet credulous enough to follow another chimera, equally fallacious. He said to himself—” It was poor and vain in me to desire to shine. Let me raise my heart to a more noble ambition; — let me desire only to instruct others.”
Fraught with this lofty notion, Fi-ho-ti now conceived a more solid and a graver habit of mind: he became rigidly conscientious in the composition of his works. He no longer desired to write what was brilliant, but to discover what was true. He erased, without mercy, the most lively images — the most sparkling aphorisms — if even a doubt of their moral utility crossed his mind. He wasted two additional years of the short summer of youth: he gave the fruits of his labour to the world in a book of the most elaborate research, the only object of which was to enlighten his countrymen. “This, at least, they cannot abuse,” thought he, when he finished the last line. Ah! how much was he mistaken!
Doubtless, in other countries the public are remarkably grateful to any author for correcting their prejudices and combating their foibles; but in China, attack one orthodox error, prove to the people that you wish to elevate and improve them, and renounce all happiness, all tranquillity, for the rest of your life!
Fi-ho-ti’s book was received with the most frigid neglect by the philosophers, — First, because the Pekin philosophers are visionaries, and it did not build a system upon visions, — and secondly, because of Fi-ho-ti himself they were exceedingly jealous. But from his old friends, the journalists of Pekin — O Fo! — with what invective, what calumny, what abuse it was honoured! He had sought to be the friend of his race, — he was stigmatized as the direst of its enemies. He was accused of all manner of secret designs; the painted slippers of the Mandarins were in danger: and he had evidently intended to muffle all the bells of the grand pagoda! Alas! let no man wish to be a saint unless he is prepared to be a martyr.
“Is this injustice?” cried Fi-ho-ti to his flatterers. “No,” said they, with one voice; “No, Fi-ho-ti, — it is REPUTATION!”
Thoroughly disgusted with his ambition, Fi-ho-ti now resolved to resign himself once more to pleasure. Again he heard music, and again he feasted and made love. In vain! — the zest, the appetite was gone. The sterner pursuits he had cultivated of late years had rendered his mind incapable of appreciating the luxuries of frivolity. He had opened a gulf between himself and his youth; — his heart could be young no more.
“One faithful breast shall console me for all,” thought he. “Yang-y-se is beautiful and smiles upon me; I will woo and win her.”
Fi-ho-ti surrendered his whole soul to the new passion he had conceived. Yang-y-se listened to him favourably. He could not complain of cruelty: he fancied himself beloved. With the generous and unselfish ardour that belonged to his early character, and which in China is so especially uncommon, he devoted his future years to — he lavished the treasure of his affections upon — the object of his love. For some weeks he enjoyed a dream of delight: he woke from it too soon. A rival beauty was willing to attach to herself the wealthy and generous Fi-ho-ti. “Why,” said she, one day, “why do you throw yourself away upon Yang-y-se? Do you fancy she loves you? You are mistaken: she has no heart; it is only her vanity that makes her willing to admit you as her slave.” Fi-ho-ti was incredulous and indignant. “Read this letter,” said the rival beauty. “Yang-y-se wrote it to me but the other day.”
Fi-ho-ti read as follows: —
“We had a charming supper with the gay author last night, and wished much for you. You need not rally me on my affection for him; I do not love him, but I am pleased to command his attentions; in a word, my vanity is flattered with the notion of chaining to myself one of the most distinguished persons in Pekin. But — love — ah! that is quite another thing.”
Fi-ho-ti’s eyes were now thoroughly opened. He recalled a thousand little instances which had proved that Yang-y-se had been only in love with his celebrity.
He saw at once the great curse of distinction. Be renowned, and you can never be loved for yourself! As you are hated not for your vices, but your success, so are you loved not for your talents, but their fame. A man who has reputation is like a tower whose height is estimated by the length of its shadow. The sensitive and high-wrought mind of Fi-ho-ti now gave way to a gloomy despondency. Being himself misinterpreted, calumniated, and traduced; and feeling that none loved him but through vanity, that he stood alone with his enemies in the world, he became the prey to misanthropy, and gnawed by perpetual suspicion. He distrusted the smiles of others. The faces of men seemed to him as masks; he felt everywhere the presence of deceit. Yet these feelings had made no part of his early character, which was naturally frank, joyous, and confiding. Was the change a misfortune Possibly; but it was the effect of REPUTATION!
About this time, too, Fi-ho-ti began to feel the effects of the severe study he had undergone. His health gave way; his nerves were shattered; he was in that terrible revolution in which the Mind — that vindictive labourer — wreaks its ire upon the enfeebled taskmaster, the Body. He walked the ghost of his former self.
One day he was standing pensively beside one of the streams that intersect the gardens of Pekin, and, gazing upon the waters, he muttered his bitter reveries. “Ah!” thought he, “why was I ever discontented with happiness? I was young, rich, cheerful; and life to me was a perpetual holyday; my friends caressed me, my mistress loved me for myself. No one hated, or maligned, or envied me. Like you leaf upon the water, my soul danced merrily over the billows of existence. But courage, my heart! I have at least done some good; benevolence must experience gratitude — young Psiching, for instance. I have the pleasure of thinking that he must love me; I have made his fortune; I have brought him from obscurity into repute; for it has been my character as yet never to be jealous of others!”
Psi-ching was a young poet, who had been secretary to Fi-ho-ti. The student had discovered genius and insatiable ambition in the young man; he had directed and advised his pursuits; he had raised him into fortune and notice; he had enabled him to marry the mistress he loved. Psi-ching vowed to him everlasting gratitude.
While Fi-ho-ti was thus consoling himself with the idea of Psi-ching’s affection, it so happened that Psi-ching, and one of the philosophers of the day whom the public voice esteemed second to Fi-ho-ti, passed along the banks of the river. A tree hid Fi-ho-ti from their sight; they were earnestly conversing, and Fi-ho-ti heard his own name more than once repeated.
“Yes,” said Psi-ching, “poor Fi-ho-ti cannot live much longer; his health is broken; you will lose a formidable rival when he is dead.”
The philosopher smiled. “Why, it will certainly be a stone out of my way. You are constantly with him, I think.”
“I am. He is a charming person; but the real fact is, that, seeing he cannot live much longer, I am keeping a journal of his last days; in a word, I shall write the history of my distinguished friend. I think it will take much, and have a prodigious sale.”
The talkers passed on.
Fi-ho-ti did not die so soon as was expected, and Psi-ching never published the journal from which he anticipated so much profit. But Fi-ho-ti ceased to be remarkable for the kindness of his heart and the philanthropy of his views. He was rather known for the sourness of his temper and the bitterness of his satire.
By degrees he rose into public eminence, and on the accession of a new Emperor, Fi-ho-ti was commanded to ask any favour that he desired. The office of Tsung-tuh (or viceroy) of the rich province of Che-kiang, was just vacant. The courtiers waited breathless to hear the vacancy requested. The Emperor smiled benignly — it was the post he secretly intended for Fi-ho-ti. “Son of heaven, and lord of a myriad of years,” said the favourite, “suffer then thy servant to retire into one of the monasteries of Kai-fon-gu, and — to change his name!”
The last hope of peace that was left to Fi-ho-ti, was to escape from — his REPUTATION.