CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 22 Writing in the Republic Era (21)

As the sun tilted westward, the streets were filled with vendors closing their stalls. Le Jing also finished work at the library and took a rickshaw home with Li Shuran.

As soon as he knocked open the door, the gatekeeper Zhou Da looked as if a heavy burden had been lifted off his shoulders. “Master, you’re finally back! A gentleman claiming to be the editor-in-chief of Beiping Novel Journal has been waiting inside for you the whole afternoon!”

Le Jing had only mailed out his manuscript yesterday, and today the editor-in-chief of Beiping Novel Journal had already come knocking at his door. It seemed the newspaper was particularly pleased with his work.

Walking into the front hall, he saw a middle-aged scholar with a pale face and beard sitting idly in a chair. When he noticed Le Jing, the man first stood up in surprise, but after clearly seeing Le Jing’s youthful face, that surprise quickly turned into disappointment. Still, he politely cupped his hands and said: “I am the editor-in-chief of Beiping Novel Journal. This time I came to meet Mr. Lin Zhongqi, who submitted a manuscript to our paper yesterday. May I ask what relation you have to Mr. Lin Zhongqi? Could you introduce me to him?”

He had been left waiting there the entire afternoon, yet his manners remained entirely calm, without a hint of temper. Either this editor’s cultivation was extraordinary, or he was especially pleased with the manuscript. Judging from his words, it was obviously more the latter.

Was his youthful appearance really that misleading? First it was Yang Jinglun, now this editor—both, without prior discussion, had coincidentally assumed that Le Jing couldn’t possibly be the real author.

Le Jing replied, “I am Lin Zhongqi. What business do you have with me?”

(Le Jing’s birthday was June 7th. Lin Zhong is another name for the sixth month, hence the pen name Lin Zhongqi.)

Zhang Xiguan, being older than Yang Jinglun, wasn’t as visibly shocked, but the joy that followed was just as passionate and sincere. Stroking his beard, he laughed and shook his head: “Truly a hero born in youth! I didn’t expect that even an old man like me could misjudge so badly.”

Le Jing also smiled. “It’s just that I’m too young, so it was natural for sir to misunderstand. If you have something to discuss, please sit down first, and we can talk it through.”

Then, glancing at the bare table beside the editor, he cupped his hands in apology: “I prefer quiet, so there aren’t many attendants in my home. I fear I may have neglected proper hospitality. The day before yesterday I purchased two taels of fine Biluochun tea—this is the perfect time for sir to try it.”

Even if Zhang Xiguan had harbored a trace of irritation, Le Jing’s words smoothed it all away. He too was a tea lover, and under ordinary circumstances he would certainly have savored the offering. But now, his heart was restless as if scratched by cat’s claws—he was desperate to know the continuation of The Rise of the Dynasty. So, stopping Le Jing from getting up, he said apologetically: “To be honest, ever since I read your manuscript this morning, I have had no thought for tea or food. My eagerness to learn what happens next compelled me to intrude upon you today.”

Le Jing understood. But alas, a landlord’s surplus grain was limited! After he told the editor that he had only a little over twenty thousand words on hand, Zhang Xiguan’s disappointment was clear. Even so, he still hungrily requested the next portion and devoured it on the spot.

Twenty thousand words was not much, so he read with great care, savoring every sentence. When he finished the final word, he suddenly raised his head, eyes blazing as he bombarded Le Jing with questions: “Could this story be Xu Wangmu’s dream of Nanke? Is that Great Hua another version of the Country of Huai’an? What will Xu Wangmu do next? Leading the people to catch locusts to eat won’t sustain them for long!”

Since ancient times, droughts had always been linked with locust plagues. As the saying went, ‘Great drought breeds locusts.’ Thus, the village where Xu Wangmu stayed naturally also suffered a devastating plague of locusts. The farmlands, already ruined by drought, were dealt a final crushing blow. And yet, in their ignorance, the villagers not only dared not kill the insects, but under the guidance of local shamans and charlatans, they even worshipped the “Locust God,” placing their hopes in some illusory, supernatural salvation.

Xu Wangmu, being an atheist and a university professor with advanced education, naturally scoffed at such superstition. Therefore, he planned to make use of his assumed identity as an immortal descended to earth, to persuade the people to eat locusts as food, thus temporarily easing the famine.

To Zhang Xiguan’s pressing questions, Le Jing merely gave a mysterious smile. “Secret. If I tell you the plot now, where would the fun be?”

No matter how earnestly Zhang Xiguan begged, Le Jing remained unmoved. At last, Zhang Xiguan had no choice but to yield. He then spoke of the real business: “We plan to feature your Rise of the Dynasty on tomorrow’s front page. As for payment, our paper will set your rate at three yuan per thousand characters. What do you think?”

“That’s fine. The price is already very fair.”

For a newcomer like Le Jing, who had yet to build much fame, this was quite a high rate. One should know that despite serializing in The Literary Gazette for so long, his rate there had only recently been raised to four yuan per thousand characters! Besides, Rise of the Dynasty was, after all, a full-length novel, sure to extend beyond a million words. Compared to From a Rat’s Eye, Men Look Low, it would earn him far more.

“Our newspaper’s serialized novels are updated daily, sir. You must make sure to prepare plenty of manuscripts in advance.” When Zhang Xiguan said this, he was carrying a little selfish thought—if Le Jing stocked up manuscripts, wouldn’t that mean he could read more in advance? Besides, he wasn’t lying; their newspaper indeed focused on daily serializations. At most… at most only a few novels were updated weekly!

Le Jing nodded. “Naturally. I will hand in three thousand characters every day for the editors to update. Only…”

Zhang Xiguan’s heart instantly tightened. Only what? Could it be that he wasn’t satisfied with the fee their paper was offering? It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford to raise it, but if the initial price was too high, how would he increase it later on?

Just as Zhang Xiguan’s mind was nervously running in all directions, the young man in front of him smiled a little sheepishly. “We’ve been chatting for so long, and I still haven’t asked your honorable surname and given name?”

Zhang Xiguan: …

Ah! He had been so excited at meeting the author that he completely forgot to introduce himself! Such a low-level mistake—if those brats in the editorial department found out, wouldn’t they laugh him to death?

His face flushed red, and he quickly reported his own name to “Mr. Lin.” After a little more polite exchange, he finally left.

※

Morning. Brilliant sunlight cast dazzling patches across the tall wooden bookshelves. Readers held their books, some standing, some sitting. The faint fragrance of ink floated in the air, while the distant recitation of students drifted over from the teaching building. This was the beginning of an ordinary day at the Enlightenment Library.

Le Jing placed the freshly delivered newspaper on the counter, smiling at the middle-aged man already stationed there. “Good morning, Mr. Chu. Here’s today’s newspaper.”

Mr. Chu’s full name was Chu Jin, an old staff member of the library, and in terms of seniority, he was Le Jing’s elder.

He had a square-shaped face, dark skin, and the air of a strict dean of discipline.

Without even glancing at Le Jing, Chu Jin snorted through his nose, pulled out the section he wanted, and began reading intently.

Le Jing shrugged, unfazed.

Ever since Chu Jin learned that Le Jing had dropped out of middle school and only held a primary school education, he had treated him this way. Chu Jin himself had never studied in a modern-style school; from childhood he had attended private tutors, receiving a complete and traditional Confucian education. Back in the late Qing, he had even earned the title of xiucai (licentiate). In his eyes, someone like Le Jing, whose highest education was elementary, was nothing more than a mere tongsheng (child student). Naturally, he looked down on him.

Le Jing didn’t care how others saw him. As long as Mr. Chu didn’t harbor malicious intentions, he wouldn’t be bothered by a few mocking remarks.

He had just pulled out a tea bag from his bag, preparing to make himself a cup, when suddenly Mr. Chu slapped the table excitedly. “Well said!”

The words rang abruptly in the quiet library. Mr. Chu seemed to realize this too, and quickly shut his mouth, though his heart was still brimming with excitement. But since everyone else in the library was immersed in books, clearly not suitable conversation partners, his gaze hesitated before finally landing on Le Jing.

Le Jing: …

Chu Jin arrogantly beckoned to him. “Xiao Le, come here, come here. I have something to say to you.”

Le Jing sighed inwardly. This middle-aged man’s thoughts really were as unfathomable as a needle at the bottom of the sea.

“What is it?”

Chu Jin’s eyes shone as he asked, “Have you read today’s installment of Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes?”

Being directly confronted with his own work, Le Jing felt a subtle awkwardness. Outwardly, however, he showed only mild puzzlement. “Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes? What’s that? A novel?” His subtext was clear: See, with only my elementary education, I really don’t share any common topics with you. Why don’t you just ignore me as usual and let me mind my own business?

Unfortunately, Chu Jin completely missed the hint. Hearing this, his eyes widened in disbelief, as though it was utterly unforgivable that Le Jing hadn’t read it. “You actually haven’t read it?!” His voice rose a little too high, drawing a few dissatisfied glances. Hastily lowering his tone, he pressed further: “Then what about The Fengtian Locked Room Murder Case and Memoirs of a Famous Courtesan—haven’t you read those either?”

With Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes gaining immense popularity in Beiping, people had recently dug up Le Jing’s earlier work published in a small Shenyang newspaper under the pen name The Watchman—The Fengtian Locked Room Murder Case—and started discussing it anew.

These past few days, the newspapers had been in an uproar. The commotion wasn’t really about the content of the story itself, but rather about the platform where it was published.

The Fengtian Miscellaneous News, which had brazenly printed risqué and sensational stories to attract readers, was certainly not a reputable newspaper. Those who criticized “The Watchman” believed that anyone who published their work in such a vulgar tabloid was clearly no upright scholar. To think that the same person had once contributed thought-provoking essays to The Literary Gazette, pretending to wear the guise of a patriot concerned for the nation—it was nothing but hypocrisy and fraud!

Of course, for every group of detractors, there was also a group of supporters. Those who defended The Watchman argued that no matter how unsuitable the choice of publication might seem, it didn’t change the fact that the writing itself was good. As for where the work was published, that was the author’s personal freedom—no one had the right to interfere.

The opposition countered immediately, claiming that The Fengtian Locked-Room Murder Case was essentially inciting crime. Its detailed descriptions of criminal methods, they argued, were nothing less than an invitation to commit murder, which would have a pernicious effect on society. The authorities should ban it outright.

Supporters shot back in outrage: “Do you even understand what literary creation is? By your logic, does Water Margin encourage rebellion? Does The Romance of the Western Chamber encourage young ladies to elope? Literature and reality must be viewed separately. Anyone who conflates the two is just being ridiculous!”

And so the two sides hurled insults back and forth, the debate becoming ever more heated.

Adding fuel to the fire, the controversy over Memoirs of a Courtesan had not yet died down. Now, with the two disputes converging, the name “The Watchman” appeared in the papers almost daily.

Where there’s debate, there’s attention.

Almost without realizing it, Le Jing, a rookie author just making his debut, had managed to make a small name for himself in literary circles.

There were even scholars who went so far as to publish articles praising The Watchman, openly expressing their admiration. The words were so nauseatingly sentimental and flowery that they had all the hallmarks of the “Mandarin Duck and Butterfly” school. When Le Jing read them, his skin crawled.

What surprised him most was that a certain haughty senior of his turned out to be one of his fans.

Le Jing couldn’t help but think mischievously: If Chu Jin ever found out that The Watchman he so admired was actually the “uneducated bumpkin” he always looked down on, a man with nothing more than a primary school education—what kind of expression would he make? Of course, this thought stayed in his heart; for now, he had no intention of revealing his identity.

Recalling the heated debates in the papers over his works, Le Jing deliberately put on a troubled, pondering look and said hesitantly, “I think I’ve heard of him. Weren’t his novels criticized in the newspapers?”

Chu Jin immediately bristled, his beard practically trembling as he glared. “Those were slanders! The gentleman’s writing carries profound meaning and moral weight—such things are far beyond the comprehension of the ignorant! The only reason they attack him is because his words have threatened certain people’s interests!”

The moment the topic arose, Chu Jin became like a fangirl possessed, pouring his heart out to Le Jing with endless indignation: “Just the other day, the gentleman wrote in Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes and Memoirs of a Courtesan about the tragic plight of prostitutes, voicing a call for women’s liberation. And that—well, that stepped right on the toes of some people’s fat profits!”

He sneered, his brows and eyes sharp with disdain. “Prostitutes are huge taxpayers, the golden goose for certain officials. And now someone suddenly comes along saying, ‘Prostitutes suffer too much. We should liberate them, abolish the sex trade.’ Isn’t that just asking for trouble?”

“The greatest mistake of The Watchman, if you can call it one, was simply telling the truth—he ripped the bandage off and showed everyone the festering wound!”

Le Jing sighed inwardly. Chu Jin had indeed seen to the heart of the matter.

In order to depict the lives of prostitutes more realistically, Le Jing had corresponded several times with Bai Shaoyao afterward. The heroine’s experiences in his story were drawn directly from real accounts, the details accurate and credible—thoroughly verifiable.

But precisely because it was too realistic, the novel had drawn such fierce criticism.

“Still,” Chu Jin added with a sigh, “some of the doubts raised in the papers are not without merit. Everyone knows that in a civilized nation, the existence of prostitutes is a disgrace. But if we abolish prostitution, what then? How will these women, who have no skills to support themselves, live? Abolition is easy, but after abolition, how are they to find livelihood? Without a solution, they will simply return to selling their bodies.”

Le Jing fell silent.

In this corrupt and decaying era, prostitutes had no way to live with dignity. Without skills, independence was impossible.

Later, after the founding of New China, in order to uproot this cancer of prostitution, the government sent troops to shut down every brothel in the Eight Hutongs and gathered all the prostitutes for treatment. The youngest was just seven years old—and even she was already afflicted with venereal disease.

To cure them, the impoverished new nation spent its scarce foreign currency to import vast quantities of penicillin.

But while physical illnesses could be treated with medicine, the afflictions of the mind had no cure. Many of these women carried ingrained vices: constant lying, laziness, vanity, jealousy, endless squabbles…

To help them reform, countless outstanding women cadres organized political education, held meetings where prostitutes could voice their suffering, made them recount the tragedies of their old lives, and took them to see plays and films on revolutionary themes.

For those determined to start anew, the Party arranged jobs, marriages, and helped them find a new place in life.

Only through these comprehensive efforts did these women truly survive and begin again.

Le Jing knew his writing could not fundamentally change the fate of prostitutes.

But if his stories could awaken more women like “Bai Shaoyao,” if they could strengthen the red tide until it tore a hole through the dark sky, then his words would hold true value.

Chu Jin, however, wasn’t expecting advice from him. He simply scolded sternly, “You call yourself a man of letters, yet you haven’t read The Watchman’s work? Let me tell you, if you can absorb even a fraction of his wisdom, it will benefit you greatly in the future. Do you understand?”

Le Jing nodded obediently. “Yes, I understand. I’ll make sure to carefully study The Watchman’s writings.”

At last, Chu Jin was satisfied. He waved his hand, dismissing him.

But Le Jing’s peace didn’t last long. Soon enough, the old man cried out in surprise again: “Eh? What’s this novel?”

Le Jing had no intention of paying him any attention, but the old man waved him over, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Xiao Le, come here! Look at this—what a marvelous piece!”

With a sigh, Le Jing leaned over his shoulder. The first thing that met his eyes were the four bold printed words: The Rise of a Dynasty.

The old man muttered to himself in delight, “The protagonist… struck by lightning and sent back to ancient times? And appearing on an altar, mistaken for a god by the people? Fascinating, truly fascinating. The author is… Lin Zhongqi? Have you heard of this name?”

Le Jing: “…No, never heard of it.”

“Well, if even I haven’t heard of him, how could you?” Chu Jin rubbed his chin, clearly itching with curiosity. “Ah, how I wish I knew how the story continues!”

Le Jing: Want to know? Not telling you.