Planting a Pear Tree

A country merchant had set up his cart at the market, pears piled high — fragrant and sweet, priced accordingly. A Daoist monk in a torn cap and padded rags shuffled up and begged one. The merchant told him to get lost. The monk held his ground — a hundred pears in that cart, one less would hardly ruin the man, so why the anger? Bystanders suggested giving the monk a bad one just to be rid of him. The merchant refused even that. A country man was selling pears at market. The fruit was especially sweet and fragrant, and the price was high. A Daoist monk in a torn cap and wadded cotton clothing begged at the cart. The merchant scolded him; he would not leave. The merchant grew angry and cursed him. The monk said that a cart held several hundred pears, and this old monk asked only for one — no great loss to the layman, so why the anger? Bystanders urged giving him an inferior pear to send him on his way. The merchant stubbornly refused.

A shop laborer in the crowd had heard enough. He dug into his own pocket, bought a pear, and handed it over. The monk thanked him and turned to address the onlookers. 'A monk,' he said, 'has no use for stinginess. I have fine pears of my own — let me offer them to you all.' Someone called out: if you have pears, why not just eat them? 'I only needed the pip,' he said. 'That's the whole point.' He ate the gifted pear down to nothing, palmed the seed, unshouldered his hoe, and dug a hole in the road a few inches deep. He dropped the pip in, covered it, and asked the crowd for hot water. A helpful soul fetched boiling water from a shop on the road. The monk poured it over the mound. Ten thousand eyes fixed on the spot. A shoot broke the surface. It thickened. It rose. Branches spread and filled with leaves, then blossoms, then fruit — pears so large and fragrant they hung in heavy clusters. The monk picked them and passed them into the crowd until the tree was bare. Then he raised his hoe and brought it down on the trunk — thwack, thwack, thwack — until the tree fell. He hoisted it onto his shoulder, leaves and all, and walked away without hurry. A laborer employed at a shop in the market, tired of the wrangling, spent his own money to buy a pear and gave it to the monk. The monk thanked him and said to the crowd that a monk does not know stinginess — he had fine pears and would bring them out for the guests. Someone said: since you have them, why not eat them yourself? He replied that he only needed the pip as a seed. He cupped the pear and ate it eagerly. When it was done, he took the pip in his hand, lifted the hoe from his shoulder, dug into the ground to a depth of several inches, placed the pip within, and covered it with earth. He asked the market crowd for hot water to water it. An eager helper fetched boiling water from a roadside shop. The monk received it and soaked the mound. Ten thousand eyes crowded to watch. They saw a sprout emerge and grow larger, and in a moment it became a tree with branches spreading wide. Suddenly it flowered; suddenly it bore fruit — large and fragrant, hanging in heavy clusters all over the tree. The monk stepped to the tree, plucked the pears, and gave them to the onlookers until they were all gone. Then he took his hoe and felled the tree — thud, thud — a long while before it was cut through. He shouldered it, leaves and all, and walked off unhurried.

While all this was happening, the merchant had pressed himself into the crowd and stood there with his neck craned, rapt — his cart unattended. When the monk was gone, he turned back. The cart was empty. Every pear was gone. He understood, then, what had been distributed to the crowd. He checked the cart more carefully and found that one of the handles was missing — a fresh break, the wood newly splintered. He set off in fury to find the monk, turned a corner past a wall, and there was the broken handle, discarded in the dirt. The pear tree the monk had felled — that was the handle. The monk was nowhere to be seen. The whole market was still laughing. When the monk first performed his art, the country man had been mixed among the crowd, craning his neck in rapt attention, having entirely forgotten his business. After the monk departed, he turned to look at his cart — the pears were gone. Only then did he realize that what had just been distributed to all was his own stock. He also looked closely and found that one handle of the cart was missing, newly chopped through. His heart filled with fury. He rushed to track the monk, turned past the corner of a wall, and there the broken handle lay discarded at the foot of the wall. He now understood — the pear tree that had been felled was none other than this object. The monk was nowhere to be found. The whole market burst into laughter.

“A shoot broke the surface. It thickened. It rose.”

The Chronicler of Strange Things remarks: the country boor's slack-jawed stupidity was ripe for mockery — the market's laughter was earned. In every village there are men called 'wealthy without rank,' the quietly prosperous. Let a good friend ask for a measure of rice and they turn sulky, calculating: that's several days' supply. Let someone urge them to help a family in crisis or feed a lone orphan and they bridle: that's food for five or ten. Even between father and son, brother and brother, every grain is disputed. Yet when gambling fever grabs them or lust leads them on, the whole purse goes without a second thought. And when the executioner's blade is at their throat, no price is too high to buy their lives back. Examples like these are past counting. Such foolish country boors — what wonder? The Chronicler of Strange Things remarks: the country man is muddled and dull, his foolish bearing laughably ripe for ridicule — no wonder the market laughed at him. In every village I have seen those called 'wealthy without title': when a good friend begs a measure of grain, they turn sullen and reckon that it is several days' worth. Or when urged to relieve someone in peril or to feed a lone orphan, they fume and reckon that it is food for ten or five. Even between father and son, brother and brother, they count out every trifle. Yet when gambling and licentiousness take hold of their hearts, they pour out their purses without sparing; when the knife and saw are at their necks, they spare nothing to ransom their lives. Such examples are beyond counting. Such foolish country men — what wonder is there in that?