CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 14 Writing in the Republic Era (13)

From the very beginning, when Le Jing published his article, he had already anticipated that his actions would harm the interests of certain groups. But he didn’t care.

In fact, from the moment he had his first article published in the newspaper, he had already stepped into the literary circle of the Republic of China. And ever since ancient times, scholars have always belittled each other—what writer of this era hadn’t been cursed at a few times? Still, when Le Jing read those sharp, biting criticisms in the papers, he couldn’t help but be impressed by their venom.

Some claimed, “This author is an idiot, what does he know about prostitutes?”

Others mocked, “This author is desperate for fame, trampling on prostitutes just to attract attention!”

There were even those who said, “Prostitutes live quite well; the author shouldn’t talk nonsense!”

But compared with a man who wrote under the pen name Nantang, these were all child’s play.

“I’ve read Brother Watchman’s last article as well. In my view, its narrative and writing were quite ordinary; the only thing noteworthy was the protagonist being a rat. Yet somehow such a piece actually earned praise from Mr. Zheng Yiliang—why, I cannot fathom.

And now comes the second series, ‘From a Rat’s Eyes, Men are Despicable’, in The Literary Gazette. After reading it, my doubts about The Watchman only grew deeper. As everyone knows, throughout history prostitution has been a legal profession in our country. Some poor families’ daughters are forced into it for survival—pitiful and tragic, yes. Thus, some noble and kind-hearted men, out of sympathy, will occasionally visit them, allowing the women to earn more to support their families, and helping them save enough money to redeem themselves and return to a proper life sooner. What could be more charitable than that? Yet, in The Watchman’s writing, this noble act was twisted into something vile. In his ‘Prostitute Chapter’, apart from the prostitute and the rat, not a single character was good! Such a reversal of black and white truly made me tremble in fear!

Surely you gentlemen also know such benevolent men who pity fragrant flowers and jade beauties. Tell me—have you ever seen such monstrous madams and brothels? Ever encountered prostitutes riddled with diseases? In the brothels, girls are not allowed to receive clients until they are thirteen and physically mature; before that, the madam cares for them properly. Hence, the prostitutes call their madams ‘mother’, and when they fall ill, the madams spare no effort to cure them. Thus tragedies like the one The Watchman fabricated with the young prostitute Baixiang could never happen!

So what is The Watchman’s true intent in slandering prostitutes like this? I confess, I am puzzled. It reminds me of a curious tale a friend once told me: there was a certain man, fine in all respects but unfortunately impotent. He would spend money in brothels without ever doing the deed, and the prostitutes mocked him as ‘a silver-plated wax spear’—shiny but useless. When he found out, he was furious and counted it as a lifelong humiliation. Since then, not only did he stop visiting brothels, he also went around badmouthing prostitutes and brothels everywhere. Pitiful, yet laughable!”

After reading this piece, Le Jing could only sigh in admiration. Truly, was it not said that writers can curse without vulgarity, and kill without shedding blood?

Just look—within a few hundred words, this gentleman not only twisted black into white, portraying whoring as a charitable act of saving lives, and describing prostitutes and madams as if they shared a mother–daughter bond, but also maliciously turned the accusation back on Le Jing—claiming he must be psychologically twisted due to impotence, which was why he slandered prostitutes and brothels. At the start, he even threw in a veiled jab, hinting at some shady PY transaction between Le Jing and Zheng Yiliang. Now that was the true art of words!

While Le Jing had the leisure to admire such rhetorical artistry, Yang Jinglun was fuming.

 “Nonsense! What a vicious man! Sir, don’t be upset—our newspaper stands firmly by your side! These jumping clowns are not worth worrying about!”

The Literary Gazette was a long-established paper. When its chief editor celebrated its centennial, he summed it up with twelve words: ‘A century of clean reputation, upright before heaven and earth, guiltless before the heart.’ Its pursuit of truth and justice had been attested to by history itself.

Whether in the present or the future, The Literary Gazette was a famous publication. Every article it published would be read and scrutinized by scholars of the time. And the paper had always adhered to its mission of being the people’s voice, choosing manuscripts that criticized social ills and focused on realism. As the saying goes, “Where you sit determines how you think.” Thus, no matter how the outside world condemned Le Jing’s article, The Literary Gazette, true to its guiding principles, would do its utmost to defend him.

Le Jing simply nodded calmly. “Which author has never been cursed? Let them curse. A clear breeze brushes the hills, and the bright moon shines over the great river.”

Yang Jinglun froze for a moment, his gaze at Le Jing full of surprise—as if amazed that a teenager could possess the calm composure of a middle-aged man. But since the author himself didn’t care, he too could no longer stay indignant. Still, he muttered under his breath with some resentment:

“A pack of bullies, picking on the weak and fearing the strong. Why is it that when Mr. Wang or Mr. Zhou published their articles, no one dared to scold them? Clearly, they’re just bullying you for being a newcomer.”

Le Jing couldn’t help but laugh. Those so-called “Mr. Wang” and “Mr. Zhou” Yang Jinglun mentioned were certainly not people one could afford to provoke lightly. Their talent for cursing was not exaggerated in the least. Mr. Zhou, with nothing but his sharp tongue, had once driven away half of the literary circle; as for Mr. Wang, he even had the glorious past achievement of scolding someone so fiercely they attempted suicide. (Though the person was later saved, Mr. Wang’s reputation spread far and wide, and for a time he became a grandmaster in the Republic’s arena of verbal warfare—no one dared cross him.)

But if this Nantang thought he could step on a newcomer just to gain fame, then he had picked the wrong target. Le Jing might not care about being cursed, but he was no saint who would offer up his left cheek after being slapped on the right. He would never swallow the insult quietly and invite further trouble.

Plenty of people had already criticized him in the papers, but the one who stuck in his memory was this Nantang—only because his remarks were especially malicious. Before Nantang, the attacks had focused on the content of his works. But once Nantang dragged out that “impotence theory,” it was easy to imagine what kind of inspiration it would give to others! Le Jing was certain that from now on, critics would start launching personal attacks against him.

If this didn’t end quickly, what kind of slanderous image would history one day preserve of Li Jingran? Some great writers in the past had suffered worse—like the one whose Japanese sister-in-law’s traitorous brother threw filth on his name, and who even in modern times was accused of peeping at his sister-in-law while she bathed. That man had every right to speak on the matter of reputational ruin. And Le Jing had no intention of letting his own legacy be one where, when people mentioned his name, they thought first of impotence instead of his works.

So he asked: “Editor Yang, do you know who this Nantang is?” The name sounded vaguely familiar.

Editor Yang did indeed know. When he had first read that furious article, he had been so enraged that he inquired and gathered some personal information on Nantang. Unlike the low-key Le Jing, this Nantang was someone who lived very flamboyantly. Yang then relayed everything he knew to Le Jing.

Le Jing: …

No wonder the name felt familiar—wasn’t “Nantang” just “Tang Nan” read backwards? And Tang Nan happened to be none other than the eldest young master of the Tang residence, the very same backer that Zhang Defu had boasted about that day.

So Zhang Defu, still nursing his grudge, had called in Tang Nan as reinforcements?

Looks like he had underestimated Zhang Defu that day.

Tang Nan stepping in now—was it to vent Zhang Defu’s anger? Heh. What touching loyalty between master and servant.

Le Jing wasn’t surprised they had tracked him down. After all, the school kept records of students’ home addresses. If they had already found where he lived, uncovering his identity was only a matter of time—especially since Editor Yang had been visiting often to collect his drafts.

This only made Le Jing more determined to retaliate fiercely.

He considered himself a man of letters, and as such, he would never resort to ambushing someone in a sack for revenge. For a writer, the pen was the true weapon. He would wield it like a sword and have a proper duel with Tang Nan.

He refused to believe that after surviving hundreds of online flame wars and battles against internet trolls in the future, he couldn’t outcurse one deranged local?

Having formed his strategy, Le Jing paid no more mind to the clamor in the newspapers or to Nantang’s frenzied taunts. Instead, he focused entirely on preparing his next serialized piece.

He decided his target would be the Tang residence itself.

Master Tang was a comprador capitalist, employed by foreign merchants to facilitate trade in China. In plain terms, he was a profiteering traitor who hollowed out his own country for personal gain. In later generations, such a figure would be branded a hanjian (traitor).

Before the founding of the People’s Republic, compradors, capitalists, and bureaucrats together formed the so-called “bureaucratic comprador bourgeoisie,” one of the three great mountains crushing Old China. After liberation, they were duly overthrown and swept into the dustbin of history.

Thanks to Nantang’s provocation, Le Jing now found inspiration: the protagonist of his new work, as seen through the eyes of the white snow mouse, would be precisely such a comprador capitalist—a man who grew fat off his country’s misfortune.

Le Jing mused mockingly to himself: What a coincidence! This traitorous capitalist’s name just so happens to be Tang Nan. And his lackey? Why, he’s called Zhang Defu. Exactly the same pronunciation! What an extraordinary coincidence, wouldn’t you say?

While Le Jing buried himself wholeheartedly in writing, oblivious to the storms outside, Li Shuran remained unaware. Though she had learned many characters, she was still far from being able to read newspapers. Besides, she only ever bought the Literature Gazette, which carried Le Jing’s articles. So she had no idea of the slander flying in public, and went on with her schooling as usual.

Until, one day not long after, the little girl came running home in tears. She was sobbing so hard she was trembling all over, face pale, as if she had been terrified out of her wits.

“What happened?” Le Jing patted her head gently, coaxing her in a soft voice. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. Brother’s here. Tell me what happened—whatever it is, I’ll stand up for you.”

But the moment she heard those words, Li Shuran wept even harder. Between hiccupping sobs, she stammered:

“I-I… I’m sorry, Brother. It’s all my fault, it’s my fault, hic—”

Her eyes were brimming with shame and guilt, yet blazing with a hint of anger as well. She hiccupped from crying too hard, which somehow made her look both pitiful and endearing.

After much effort, Le Jing managed to calm her down, and at last extracted the truth from her lips.

That Zhang Defu fellow—not only had he gloated to his young master about insulting Le Jing in the papers, but he had even bragged about it to Li Shuran, telling her it was exactly what she deserved for being ungrateful and shameless.

Through her tears, the thirteen-year-old Li Shuran choked out: “Brother… scold me. The books were right—I really am a bringer of misfortune, a femme fatale.”

Le Jing: …