CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 10 Writing in the Republic Era (9)

With a sudden burst of inspiration, Le Jing quickly finished writing the beginning, but then he found himself stuck on what should happen next.

Through the Rat’s Eyes was a story told from the perspective of a rat. Since the protagonist was a Dutch mouse, it could encounter all kinds of people and, from that unique vantage point, deliver sharp satire and criticism of the many ills of human society.

Although the protagonist was only a Dutch mouse, it was in fact a “refined rat” from a hundred years in the future, steeped in the influence of civilization. Because of its adorable appearance, even when it traveled back to the Republic era, it still lived a pampered life, dressed in finery and enjoying all the luxuries of a favored pet. At times it wandered the streets, at times it was passed from one owner to another, and thus it came into contact with people from every walk of life in that era: merchants, warlords, scholars, noble young ladies, courtesans…

It could not speak, so all it did was watch in silence—watching the long night that enveloped the nation, watching the people of this land who lived lives worse than a rat’s.

It had the right to be proud—proud of the bright and prosperous nation from a hundred years later, proud of the respectable pet’s life it had once lived, showered with love and free from want. But it also had the right to disdain—because a century earlier, this country had fallen so low, and its people were so ignorant, cowardly, cruel, numb, and ugly.

This was destined to be a long story. The protagonist would encounter all manner of people from every stratum of society, and witness countless tragedies of small individuals crushed under the great tide of the times. And it was precisely these countless tragedies that pieced together the so-called “Celestial Empire,” where everyone puffed away on their clouds of smoke.

What troubled Le Jing was deciding on the identity of the mouse’s first owner. He considered a courtesan, a revolutionary, a foreign merchant, even a collaborator with the enemy… Each one offered a story worth telling.

After several days of thought, it was his own recent experience of seeking medical help with the servant’s family that gave him inspiration. Thus he decided the mouse’s first owner would be a doctor—someone with superb medical skills and a heart dedicated to healing the world, yet powerless to cure a nation already stricken with terminal illness.

Just as a later writer who abandoned medicine for literature once said: Studying medicine cannot save the Chinese people.

Once the main thread of the story was decided, Le Jing’s thoughts flowed like a spring. His pen moved as though guided by the gods, pouring out passage after passage without pause. Immersed in the world of his novel, he even forgot for a while the illness tormenting his body. By the time the porter’s knock came from outside the door, he had already written nearly two thousand characters.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open cautiously, revealing the timid, ingratiating face of an old man. His name was Zhou Da. After Le Jing had taken him in, he let him serve as the porter, while Zhou Da’s wife stayed on to handle cooking, laundry, and other household chores.

Le Jing was not the kind of master who enjoyed enslaving others. Having lived many years in modern times, he simply couldn’t bring himself to make them work for nothing. So, even though he didn’t have much spare money, he still gave them a monthly wage of two yuan. Perhaps it was because, deep down, Le Jing had absolute confidence in his own ability—he believed his writing would surely earn him money. This was a kind of arrogance that belonged to the strong, and Le Jing was well aware of it, but he didn’t think there was anything wrong with that.

There was a line from Spider-Man that Le Jing deeply agreed with: With great power comes great responsibility.

He asked, “What is it?”

Zhou Da stole a reverent glance at the manuscript papers spread across the master’s desk, then bent even lower and said, “Master, your letter.”

A letter? Someone had written to him?

Le Jing took the envelope from Zhou Da, tore it open, and finally understood what it was about. The letter was from Zhao Xiaosong, the chief editor of Fengtian Miscellany, sent along with the royalties forwarded by Li Tingfang. As it turned out, the serial The Fengtian Locked-Room Murder Case he had published in Fengtian Miscellany had been met with an enthusiastic response. Several newspapers in nearby cities had chosen to reprint it, and they had sent the reprint fees to Fengtian Miscellany. Editor Zhao Xiaosong then passed the money along to Li Tingfang.

It was also from this letter that Le Jing learned Zhao Xiaosong had gone to visit Li Tingfang not long after he left—only to find that he was gone. Unsurprisingly, Li Tingfang had no idea where in Beiping Le Jing had settled.

That was only natural, of course. It was only after Le Jing had fully settled down in Beiping that he had sent a telegram to inform Li Tingfang of his whereabouts. So, in the letter, Zhao Xiaosong asked rather urgently where he was staying and warmly invited him to continue serializing his works in Fengtian Miscellany.

On this point, however, Le Jing could only refuse. Since he was already in Beiping, it was naturally impossible for him to resume serialization in Fengtian. What reassured him, though, was that Li Tingfang had kept his identity well hidden—Editor Zhao Xiaosong clearly still didn’t know who he really was.

Le Jing still wanted to use the pen name “The  Watchman” to write some “unconventional” articles, so he wasn’t planning to reveal his identity just yet. This letter also reminded him that he ought to write to Li Tingfang, asking him not to disclose his identity to anyone.

The royalties Zhao Xiaosong sent were undoubtedly a lifesaver. Because several newspapers had reprinted his story, the remittances added up to sixty yuan—enough to cover three months of rent. Writing in the Republican era really was lucrative. Le Jing couldn’t help but sigh at the integrity of these Republican-era editors—after all, in modern times, plagiarism and theft were rampant, and it was common for the original authors to be scolded rather than supported.

Now that money was no longer an immediate concern, Le Jing didn’t need to rush into writing again—he could take the time to recover his health. Meanwhile, there was another matter that had to be addressed.

“School?” Li Shuran stared at her older brother in astonishment, unable to understand why he had suddenly brought it up.

Le Jing nodded. “Yes. I recently received a sum in royalties, enough to send you to primary school.”

Li Shuran was only thirteen this year, and going to school was naturally the right thing to do. It didn’t cost much anyway, and Le Jing wasn’t expecting her to learn anything profound. As long as she could read and write, and not be an illiterate, that would be enough.

During the Republican era, the Renzi–Guichou school system was implemented: three years of lower primary, four years of higher primary, four years of secondary school, and three to four years of university. At Shuran’s age, it was already a little late to start lower primary, but not too late. In those days, it wasn’t unusual for seventeen- or eighteen-year-olds to still be in primary school.

There was also compulsory education during the Republican period. By law, citizens were required to receive a primary education, so the government subsidized primary schools heavily. Generally speaking, lower primary was free, and higher primary charged only a small amount, though even a few silver dollars per year was still quite a burden for many families.

Unlike later times, when “primary school student” sometimes carried a mocking tone online, in the Republic of China a primary student—especially a higher primary student—was already considered educated. To ordinary people, it was a credential worth mentioning. One of the leaders of the New Culture Movement once said that if a child studied six years of primary school and then put on a long gown, he would already look down on helping his brother with carpentry or his father with farming—because he belonged to a special class.

Although Le Jing had been teaching Shuran some reading in his spare time recently, his energy was limited, and after all, teaching was a profession. It was something that really required trained teachers.

Hearing this, Shuran was obviously moved, but still hesitant. “I… I can? But I don’t know anything at all.”

Le Jing smiled. “It’s because you don’t know anything that you need to go to school.”

Shuran still wavered. “But I’m already so old…”

Le Jing deliberately put on a look of exaggerated surprise and puzzlement. “If your age counts as ‘old,’ then what about those seventeen- or eighteen-year-olds still in primary school? You’re the perfect age.”

When she heard that there were people as old as seventeen or eighteen still in primary school, Shuran immediately felt much more at ease. Facing her brother’s refined, gentle smile, she lowered her head shyly, cheeks flushed red—part shyness, part excitement. Thanks to her brother’s teaching these days, she no longer believed that “a woman’s lack of talent is virtue.” She had come to love learning, longing to read, write, and compose essays like her brother. The thought of being able to study in a real school felt like a dream. For the one hundred and first time, she silently thanked her brother for taking her away from the Li household, and she prayed sincerely for his safety and wellbeing.

…

Before sending Shuran to school, Le Jing still needed to ask around. There were many schools in Beiping, and as newcomers they had to consult the locals. Their landlord was the perfect candidate.

The landlord’s name was Qian Duofu, formerly of the Yehenara clan—distantly related to the Empress Dowager of old. After the fall of the Qing dynasty, with the Empress Dowager reviled by all, the family had changed its surname to cut ties with the past. But with unworthy descendants, they now survived by pawning off ancestral property.

Le Jing learned all this from the neighborhood gossip—Chaoyang district aunties’ skill at chatter was no joke.

Qian Duofu himself was quite the character. Around thirty, short and stout, always smiling, he looked the picture of warmth and good cheer. After hearing Le Jing’s intentions, he asked, “What’s your budget?”

“About ten silver dollars,” said Le Jing.

Qian Duofu nodded. “That’s enough for a private school. There’s a Beiping Women’s Academy nearby, with its own primary division. The school has a strict and upright atmosphere, a well-known private institution. You could send your sister there.”

“I’d prefer to send her to a coeducational school,” Le Jing said. As a modern man, he had no concept of strict gender segregation. He felt that coed schools were more conducive to healthy growth.

Qian Duofu looked at him in surprise, but didn’t comment. “In that case, the Enlightenment Middle School (Kaiming Zhongxue) fits your needs. It’s a public school, with a primary division as well. Its principal, Mr. Zhou Dezhang, is a highly respected educator. The teaching results there are excellent. Lower primary is completely free, and higher primary tuition is only five silver dollars.”

Le Jing’s eyes lit up. He knew of Zhou Dezhang. In later generations as well, Zhou Dezhang was remembered as a patriotic figure of upright character, a man of iron integrity, clear in conscience before heaven and earth. A school under such a person’s leadership would surely be outstanding.

Later, he personally took Shuran to visit Enlightenment Middle School. The results of his inspection left him more than satisfied: the campus was spacious and bright, facilities complete, teachers scholarly and kind, students well-mannered, and the school ethos excellent. It truly lived up to the reputation of being Zhou Dezhang’s school.

Thus, three days later, Li Shuran donned a school uniform, shouldered her satchel, and officially became a proud primary school student.

At the same time, Le Jing dropped the manuscript of his first story in Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes into the mailbox, the recipient address written as The Literary Gazette.