CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 11 Writing in the Republic Era (10)

As early as when he was still in Fengtian, Le Jing had already entertained the thought of submitting a manuscript to the Literary Gazette, but he gave up in the end because he lacked confidence.

Now, since he didn’t have to worry about his livelihood for the time being, he had the freedom to try and make mistakes. So, this time, he submitted to the Literary Gazette without any psychological burden.

In his view, if the Literary Gazette rejected his novel, he could simply send it to another newspaper. There were so many newspapers in Beiping—surely at least one would be willing to publish his work.

Therefore, after sending in the manuscript, Le Jing didn’t dwell on it any further and instead focused on convalescing.

This illness of his had truly sapped his vitality. Though the weather had already warmed, he was still bundled in a thick cotton-padded coat, his hands and feet icy cold. Just a gust of wind was enough to make him feverish and coughing.

The old Chinese physician he consulted had taken his pulse, then launched into a string of abstruse theories. To summarize—it came down to this: his body was too frail, his mind too burdened, he couldn’t absorb nourishment, and medicine would be of little use. Only slow, gradual recuperation could help.

He still remembered the way that old gentleman had stared at him at the end—who knew what he had imagined—before shaking his head with a sigh, saying, “Brilliance taken to the extreme brings harm. Better to set your mind at ease.”

Le Jing didn’t consider himself the sort of person who got stuck on problems or obsessed endlessly over them. He thought he was usually open-minded. So when his health deteriorated like this, he could only think of one explanation—his soul was rejecting Li Jingran’s body.

It made sense, really. After all, he had borrowed a corpse to return to life. In medicine, even organ transplants faced rejection; how could this not? Moreover, Li Jingran had always been a simple-minded fool, his brain basically an ornament, while Le Jing liked to think—constantly. It was like running heavy programs on a computer with extremely low specs: the CPU would overheat, and the whole system would crash.

He couldn’t exactly swap bodies, so he could only make do with this one.

Still…

Ever since waking up in this era, a question had been nagging at Le Jing, one he had long pondered in curiosity: if he were to die in this era, would he return to the modern world? Or would he truly die? Or perhaps… would he transmigrate to yet another world?

But it was just curiosity. He wasn’t planning to test it for now. After all, this era still had its own charms. The ordinary daily life of an ordinary Republican citizen wasn’t all that boring. He still had things he wanted to do. Li Shuran, with her childlike purity, was still “beautiful” in her way, and he didn’t dislike being her good elder brother. In short, it wouldn’t be too late to test his theory by suicide when he eventually got bored.

For now, if he wanted to extend his stay in this low-spec body during the Republican era, he had to live a calm, recuperative, almost Buddhist sort of life: writing when he felt like it, admiring flowers, feeding birds—leading a low-key, tranquil existence.

However, though Le Jing wished to live like a Buddhist, others refused to let him.

Thus, one afternoon, while he was sitting on a stone bench in the courtyard feeding sparrows, this so-called Buddhist gentleman Le Jing heard an interesting “piece of gossip” from the rickshaw puller.

It seemed his younger sister—thirteen-year-old primary school student Li Shuran—had attracted an enthusiastic admirer.

Le Jing wasn’t the sort to simply wash his hands of things after sending Li Shuran off to school. Considering the poor public security in the Republican era, he had asked the landlord to recommend a trustworthy rickshaw puller, then hired him on retainer to escort Li Shuran to and from school every day. It was this very rickshaw puller who told him of the admirer.

“Miss asked me not to say anything,” the puller said, “but I thought it best to let you know. Someone invited her to a meal, seemingly wanting to pursue her. Miss declined him.”

Le Jing raised his eyebrows, not particularly surprised. Thirteen might seem very young in modern times, but in the Republic it was already half an adult. It was perfectly normal for a pretty young girl to have suitors.

“What’s the fellow’s background? How old?”

“Not much older than Miss,” the puller replied. “He looked well-dressed, not some ruined household. As for his family’s business, I couldn’t say. But…” he hesitated before adding, “his eyes… didn’t look very decent.”

Le Jing nodded, indicating he understood, and didn’t pay it too much mind.

He would provide Li Shuran with a life free from worry about food or clothing. As for what kind of life she wished to live, that was her own choice to make. As long as the choice came from her own free will, Le Jing would respect it. Since Li Shuran didn’t want him to interfere, he respected her wishes.

Moreover… from his observations of Li Shuran, the little girl was completely absorbed in her studies right now and hadn’t even awakened to such matters yet. No matter what intentions that suitor had, after running into rejection a few times, he would probably retreat on his own.

…

Yang Jinglun was an intern editor at the Literary Gazette. He had just graduated from middle school this year, and to be able to work at a nationally recognized newspaper like the Literary Gazette was something countless people envied. That was why he had firmly resolved to work diligently and carve out a career for himself. Unfortunately, his great ambitions were soon defeated by a harsh reality.

As the newest intern, and the youngest editor in the office, the tasks he was usually given were nothing more than serving tea and cleaning up. It was worlds apart from the elegant life he had once imagined—conversing and exchanging wits with great writers, or discussing literature deep into the night.

Of course, he also reviewed manuscripts. Every day, submissions from all over the country poured into the editorial department. But all of these were from newcomers.

The well-known writers already had stable arrangements with the Literary Gazette. They each had their own dedicated editors, and the senior staff monopolized nearly all of these important contributors. As for Yang Jinglun, the newcomer manuscripts he handled were, at best, allotted a palm-sized corner in the newspaper. It was disheartening to the extreme.

That morning, after making a round to pour tea for the senior editors, Yang Jinglun finally sat back down to look through the pile of new submissions. To be honest, this was not a pleasant task for him. New authors meant poor grammar, dreadful plots, sometimes even pages filled with typos that hurt the eyes just to look at.

This day was no different—after wading through who knows how many nauseating works, he finally came across a manuscript that made his eyes brighten. He hadn’t even read the content yet, but at the very least, the manuscript was neat and clean, with no messy edits or scribbles. Just looking at it was refreshing.

That alone gave this unknown author’s work a much better impression score in his mind. For this point alone, even the rejection letter later would be written with more kindness.

He sipped some tea to moisten his throat, and his gaze fell on the title—only to be immediately caught by its unusual phrasing: “Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes”?

Now that was interesting. Intrigued, he began to read the story. Unknowingly, his expression grew more and more serious. The casual attitude he had started with vanished completely. By the time he reached the last line, he let out a long sigh. In his heart, he felt nothing but deep admiration and respect for the author.

He had never read anything like this before—so bizarre, so fantastical, yet so sharp and thought-provoking!

Only upon finishing the story did he realize the genius of the title. “Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes”? Ha! Wasn’t that exactly it? After reading it, he couldn’t help but lament—truly, humans were not even as good as a rat.

As the title suggested, Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes told the story from the perspective of a rat. The author had brilliantly chosen to make the protagonist a pet rat—one that had even traveled across time from a hundred years in the future, nurtured by an advanced civilization, an “upper-class rat.” The sheer imagination behind it left him in awe. And this was not even the cleverest part of the story!

A rat’s view of humans was naturally different from that of another human. How would a silent, non-human creature from the future—one that stood completely outside of human society—view these “ancients”? How would it see the workings of human society? What kind of world would China be a hundred years later? These were the questions that stirred in Yang Jinglun’s mind as he first read, and the author gave the answers through the story of a doctor.

This rat, named Bai Xue, had just arrived in this era. Because it once helped a doctor find medicinal herbs, coupled with its snowy white fur and unusually intelligent demeanor, it was picked up by the doctor and kept as a pet.

The doctor was a famous physician, compassionate and skilled, a man of noble character who had saved countless lives throughout his life.

He knew his country was impoverished, and that many of the poor could not afford medical treatment. So he often treated them for free, and in the eyes of the poor, he was like a living Bodhisattva.

But there were simply too many poor people in this world—he could not save them all.

The pet rat Bai Xue watched as its new master gradually moved from a large house into a smaller one, replaced his Western suits with plain long gowns, lost his foreign watch, and saw less and less meat on the dining table.

And so, when its master once again tore his own steamed bun in half to feed it, Bai Xue ran away.

Thanks to its beautiful fur, Bai Xue quickly became the pampered pet of a noble young lady, once again living a life of luxury.

It was only three months later that it heard news of the doctor again. At a banquet, someone laughed at the doctor, saying that he had squandered all his wealth treating others, and now, sick and destitute himself, he couldn’t even afford treatment and could only await death.

Although Bai Xue was just a rat, he believed himself to be a rat with thoughts and emotions, so he decided to visit the doctor.

It took him a long time to find the doctor’s house—after he had left, the doctor, who was becoming poorer and poorer, had moved into a thatched hut on the outskirts.

By the time Bai Xue arrived, the doctor was already on his last breath, about to die. He had saved so many lives in his lifetime, yet now he was dying in poverty in a thatched hut, accompanied only by a speechless rat.

Bai Xue couldn’t help but feel pity for him. After all, the illness the doctor had could be easily cured in later generations. Even if he had no money, the state’s medical insurance would have covered his expenses.

But this was, after all, the backward Republic of China. So Bai Xue could only watch with his own eyes as the doctor passed away. Out of his sense of duty as a civilized rat, Bai Xue called people over to collect the body.

The doctor’s parents had already died of illness, and he had no close relatives left. So the landlord, cursing bad luck under his breath, wrapped the doctor’s body in a straw mat and dumped it in the mass grave—just like the fate of any other poor man.

Before leaving, the landlord sneered at his corpse: “You call yourself a doctor, yet you don’t even understand this—there’s only one disease in this world that no one can cure, and that’s the disease of poverty!”

A few days later, another poor person came seeking treatment. The poor neighbors in the nearby huts shouted: “Ah, you’ve come at the wrong time! Doctor Wu has already died of illness. If he couldn’t even cure himself, he must not have been much of a doctor. You’d better find another one!”

“But other doctors charge money,” the poor man complained. “Doctor Wu really died at the worst possible time!”

Months later, when Bai Xue returned, he found that no one mentioned Doctor Wu anymore.

……

Yang Jinglun read this story several times, gaining new insights with every reading. He ought to feel anger—anger at the tragic fate of Doctor Wu.

At first, he did feel furious—furious at this unjust world, furious at the coldness of the people.

But after the anger faded, the landlord’s words kept echoing in his mind: “There’s only one disease in this world that no one can cure, and that’s the disease of poverty!”

He mulled over this sentence countless times. And when he finally grasped its deeper meaning, he could no longer feel anger—only a chilling despair, sorrow rising like waves to swallow him whole. At last, he understood what the author truly meant to convey.

This impoverished, suffering nation was already terminally ill, beyond the help of even the most skilled doctors. Everyone living in this diseased country had been infected—Doctor Wu was no exception. He could almost hear the author’s furious cry through the story: Doctor Wu’s death was not the fault of an unfeeling populace, but the fault of an era that valued human life less than a rat’s, the fault of an unjust nation that refused to let good people survive!

Yet beneath this profound despair, the author also left readers a glimmer of hope—that hope was embodied in the bright and beautiful future of China, where Bai Xue came from.

That future China would have advanced medicine, basic medical coverage even for the poor, happy citizens, a prosperous nation, and a hopeful people.

Only such a bright, almost unreal future could give birth to a sensible and empathetic pet rat like Bai Xue. Only such a future could give every Chinese person the drive to keep striving forward! And only because of countless brave souls like Doctor Wu, who fought to the bitter end against this cannibalistic world, could China one day welcome such a radiant tomorrow!

He sat in silence for a long while, finally pulling himself out of the story’s depths. Then, the instinct of an editor began to boil in his veins.

No one knew better than he did how excellent this article was! Perhaps the writing style wasn’t the most polished, but in terms of thought and message, it was an absolute masterpiece. It needed no edits at all—it could be published in their newspaper straight away.

Surely, the author of such a mature piece could not be some unknown newcomer! Yang Jinglun pondered the pen name “The Watchman” for a long time, but couldn’t link it to any established writer. The address on the envelope also had no ties to the well-known names at the paper.

A thought sprouted in his heart, burning hotter and hotter—the possibility that this might truly be a submission from a newcomer. And that he, Yang Jinglun, might be the first to discover this dark horse genius!

The very idea made his head spin with excitement. Goosebumps broke out all over him, the chair beneath him felt like a burning hot stove, and he could no longer sit still.

So, the other editors in the office witnessed this scene: the young newcomer, face flushed red, darted out like a chased rat.

“We’re still at work! Where are you going?” someone called out.

Without looking back, Yang Jinglun replied, “I’m going on field duty!”

The editors looked at one another in confusion. They weren’t reporters—what field duty? A seasoned colleague just shook his head and sighed: “Ah, these young people… so restless.”

And so, Le Jing—at home tending his flowers, a man of Buddhist temperament, wholly absorbed in health and leisure—was suddenly cornered by a self-proclaimed editor from Literary Gazette.

He then listened in silence as the young editor enthusiastically rattled off his interpretation of the story.

“Doctor Wu’s death wasn’t the fault of unfeeling people—it was the fault of this dark and tragic era, the fault of an unjust nation that refused to let good men live!”

Le Jing: …

“This country is sick, and it has been sick for nearly a hundred years. An individual’s efforts are like an ant trying to stop a chariot before the tide of history—but does that mean we should give up? No! Absolutely not! That’s why, sir, through the pet rat Bai Xue from the future, you gave readers the hope to fight against the times. Look! The future is so beautiful—even a pet rat is more civilized and compassionate than humans, living a life the poor envy. What reason do we have not to strive for such a bright and beautiful future? Sir, did I understand correctly?”

Le Jing: …

Facing the young editor’s sparkling gaze, Le Jing calmly nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”

Truly, a thousand readers have a thousand Hamlets.

In truth, what he had meant to tell his readers was—studying medicine cannot save the Chinese people!

But the editor’s interpretation also made sense. It could even serve as a model answer for a reading comprehension exam—an excellent candidate for drafting Chinese test papers.