CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 36 Writing in the Republic Era (35)

“Shutting one’s ears to the outside world and focusing only on reading the classics”—this was the perfect portrayal of Le Jing’s current state. No matter how much commotion his works had stirred up these past few days, none of it had anything to do with him, a busy high school student weighed down with studies and the hassle of moving houses.

On Zhou Dezhang’s suggestion, after recovering from his illness, Le Jing transferred to Kaiming High School and officially became a student in Class 2-1. For the first time, he felt grateful that the newspapers had published such an ugly photo of him—so bad that he needed no disguise at all. Simply standing there as himself, no one would recognize him.

It was also fortunate that he had always been cautious. At the Literary Gazette, he only ever kept single-line contact with Yang Jinglun. In the entire paper, the only people who knew some of his real information were Yang Jinglun and the chief editor—both tight-lipped individuals. Thus, although the outside world had been in an uproar during his days in prison, none of his real information had leaked. The only detail circulating was that single, horrendous photo of him—like the aftermath of a car crash. Still, out of caution, he chose to attend school under an alias. As for the new name, he simply went with Le Jing. Compared to “Li Jingran,” his assumed name, his real name gave him a much stronger sense of belonging.

As for moving house—his old address had somehow been leaked, and now strangers inexplicably came to block his doorway every day. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t drive them off, and it became an endless source of irritation.

So, he decided it was better to just buy a house and move out from his landlord Qian Duofu’s place. After all, he had been writing articles in Beiping for more than half a year now. Except for the days he was sick, he had been diligently churning out manuscripts, and the accumulated royalties had become quite a substantial sum. Add to that the lump of money from the recent publication of his two books, and it was more than enough for him to buy a decent siheyuan (courtyard house) in Beiping. To put things into perspective: one famous literary figure had purchased a courtyard house with seven or eight rooms here for only eight hundred silver dollars.

So while the outside world was boiling over for two weeks because of Memoirs of a Courtesan, Le Jing busied himself with buying a house, moving in, and starting school again. His days were quite fulfilling indeed.

That Saturday, the release day of his new book, Li Shuran—having no classes—dragged him out early to buy copies.

Le Jing reminded her, “We already have complimentary copies from the publisher at home. No need to buy more.”

Without even looking back, Li Shuran replied, “That’s different! The ones I buy are for reading and gifting. The ones at home are for collecting.”

Ah, dear sister, do you know what this kind of behavior is called in later generations? It’s called the author boosting their own sales. To the gossiping public, this would look like blatant manipulation!

Before they even reached the bookstore, Le Jing was stunned to see a long line at the entrance. Alarmed, Li Shuran quickly hurried to the end of the queue. After waiting several minutes, just when it was nearly their turn, the shopkeeper spread his hands helplessly and told the customer ahead of them:

“Sorry, The Watchman’s books are already sold out. How about trying something else? I still have Mr. Wang’s new release.”

The man snapped angrily, “Who wants Mr. Wang’s book?! I came here specifically for The Watchman! Boss, when will you restock?”

The shopkeeper looked regretful for not ordering more copies and hastily promised, “I’ll get more tomorrow!”

Only then did the man leave in reluctant satisfaction.

Scenes like this were happening outside many bookstores. Numerous shops had sold out of Le Jing’s books entirely. And how did Le Jing know? Because he saw it with his own eyes. After all, stubborn little Li Shuran would never give up on buying books just because one or two shops were out of stock. Of course not.

That day, Le Jing accompanied her across half of Beiping, visiting one bookstore after another, until at last she had managed to purchase ten sets of his books.

The publisher had cleverly bundled his two works—Memoirs of a Courtesan and Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes—into a three-volume collection, selling them only as a set. Many readers who had come solely for Memoirs of a Courtesan ended up buying the whole collection because the shop refused to sell them separately.

Li Shuran had already arranged clear plans for all ten sets: “One set stays sealed for collecting, one set is just for reading, one set for notes, and the other seven sets are for gifting.” With a delighted smile, she added, “If my friends find out that The Watchman is my brother, they’ll be so jealous of me.”

Le Jing only smiled faintly in response.

Suddenly, Li Shuran seemed to think of something. “Brother, do you want to bring a few sets to give to your classmates?”

“Forget it. They wouldn’t like this kind of book.” If The Rise of the Dynasty were published, that would actually suit their tastes.

He still remembered his very first day transferring into class. After the lesson ended, his male deskmate immediately asked with concern:

“The Wild Hu army is already at the city gates, the magistrate has abandoned the city and fled, and the defending general even plans to lead the young men to surrender. What should Xu Wangmu do?”

The boy in front of them leaned back eagerly to join the discussion: “Doesn’t Xu Wangmu still have tens of thousands of civilians under him? They could replace the troops to defend the city.”

The boy behind chimed in too: “But the city’s grain stores won’t last more than a few days! When it’s gone, the city will collapse on its own. And how can unarmed, gentle, innocent civilians stand against the ruthless, bloodthirsty Wild Hu army?”

Even the girls couldn’t resist joining: “The magistrate and general are such cowards! If such people are appointed as officials, no wonder the Great Hua Empire is nearing its end!”

“Won’t nearby counties send reinforcements?”

“Hard to say. Maybe those magistrates are thinking of sacrificing one city’s lives and wealth in exchange for their own cities’ safety. And if they march out to rescue, what if another Wild Hu army attacks their cities while they’re gone? Most likely, they’ll just stay cowering inside.”

And so, the boys stared wide-eyed as the girls—who normally only cared about makeup and fashion—debated strategy and military tactics with fluent ease, sounding no less knowledgeable than themselves.

The boys’ astonishment was so obvious that one girl rolled her eyes and retorted, “What, you think you’re the only ones who can understand this stuff?”

Another said proudly, “I’ve been analyzing this with my father. He’s a minister in the ** Department. He knows far more than you!”

“And do you know how many books I’ve gone through? I’ve been reading even more than my brother lately!”

Only after repeated pleas for mercy did the boys manage to calm the wrath of these “lady generals.”

In this era, any girl attending a prestigious school was already from a wealthy family. These young women were among the very top tier of China’s elite, and their insight was not far behind the boys’—they just hadn’t had a stage to showcase it before.

Le Jing hadn’t expected The Rise of the Dynasty to be so popular among the students.

But thinking about it, it made perfect sense.

In modern times, his female classmates mostly loved romance novels, while the boys devoured the fast-paced adventure stories of Qidian. A hundred years earlier, in the Republic era, it was no different. Compared to brain-draining “serious” literature, of course teenagers preferred light and exciting stories.

At this point, Le Jing felt it was his duty as the author to provide a little recap of the story so far.

Previously, in The Rise of the Dynasty, Xu Wangmu had rallied several nearby villages and tens of thousands of refugees. He organized them to cultivate wastelands, build irrigation channels, and hunt in the mountains. Backed by the will of the people (tens of thousands of refugees rising up, anyone?), he pressured the county magistrate and wealthy landlords to release grain for disaster relief. Then, based on the principle of “distribution according to work,” he allocated food to the people.

Although there wasn’t much food and many still went hungry each day, at least everyone could count on a few bites. The parched fields now had water, and the vegetables they had planted were beginning to sprout. Slowly, people regained hope in their hearts, and order gradually returned to their lives.

But Xu Wangmu knew all this was only temporary. The wild vegetables and animals available in the nearby mountains were limited, and in recent days, the young men who went hunting brought back fewer and fewer catches. He needed to find a new source of food.

And just at this moment—like the eternal “equipment delivery squad captain” in feel-good novels—our cannon-fodder enemy army, the Wild Hu, made their appearance! “Wild Hu” was a term the author of Gulliver’s Travels used to describe a type of humanoid creature. Here, Le Jing mischievously borrowed the name to describe the opposing forces.

Amidst the heated discussion, author Le Jing barged in with his outline, speaking forcefully:  “Right now, Tianyang City is in a state of panic. If Xu Wangmu stands up at this moment, he can easily win the people’s hearts and seize a city as his initial base.”

A male deskmate asked: “Then what about the Wild Hu? How can Xu Wangmu possibly repel tens of thousands of Wild Hu troops?”

Le Jing answered honestly: “Among those tens of thousands are also laborers in charge of logistics. The actual fighting force might not even reach ten thousand. Driving them back won’t be too difficult.”

Instantly, countless eager eyes turned to Le Jing.

“So you really have a way?”

“Tell us! Tell us!”

“Stop keeping us in suspense!”

Le Jing cleared his throat and spread his hands helplessly. “I’m not the author—how would I know?”

As for this shameless author, what awaited him was only the people’s collective “iron fists of fury.” Still, thanks to his “precise interpretations” of the later plot developments in Rise of the Dynasty, Le Jing earned quite a bit of popularity in Class 2–1, gaining the nickname “Half-Immortal Le.”

The first class on Monday was Chinese.

Their teacher was a woman around thirty, strict and stern, a true disciplinarian whom all the students respected—and feared. Behind her back, they secretly called her the “tigress.”

Before every lesson, it was her routine to call on students to recite the previous day’s text. If they failed, she would smack their palms—showing no mercy, not even to the girls. More than once, a female student had been reduced to tears under her punishment.

Thus, the moment she entered, the class instinctively held their breath. Le Jing’s deskmate, a boy named Ding Hui, nervously began mouthing the text silently under his breath.

The teacher stepped up to the lectern. Her sharp gaze swept across the students, but she didn’t start with the usual recitation check. Instead, she asked an unexpected question:

“Girls, have any of you recently watched the play Memoirs of a Courtesan, written by Mr. Watchman and performed by Bai Shaoyao and others?”

Memoirs of a Courtesan was so famous that many students had seen it, and even those who hadn’t had at least heard of it. Although the teacher’s way of calling courtesan actresses “misters” was odd, quite a few girls still nodded in reply.

Then she asked again: “How many of you have actually read the original novel?”

This time, only two or three girls nodded.

The teacher casually picked one: “Cao Wanying, why don’t you tell everyone what Memoirs of a Courtesan is about?”

The girl named Cao Wanying flushed crimson, stammering nervously: “It’s about… it’s about…”

The teacher, with rare gentleness, encouraged her: “Don’t worry, child. Take your time.”

Startled by such unexpected kindness, Cao Wanying calmed down and began clearly retelling Bai Moli’s story.

When she finished, the teacher didn’t let her sit down but asked another question: “Why do you think Bai Moli chose to drown herself?”

This point was addressed in the novel, so Cao Wanying replied smoothly: “For freedom… In the final moment of her life, she wanted to choose her own way of death.”

“Freedom…” The teacher sighed softly, closing her eyes with a wistful smile. Then, in a melodic tone, she recited:

“We love freedom, let us raise a cup to freedom.
Equality of men and women is Heaven’s gift—
how can we be content to trail behind like cattle?
May we break free with courage,
wash away old shame and disgrace.
May we stand as equals,
women’s hands restoring the nation.
Old customs bring the worst shame,
that women are yoked with oxen and horses.
With the dawn of civilization breaking,
let us seize the lead.
May slavery be rooted out,
through wisdom and knowledge refined.
Responsibility upon our shoulders,
let us strive to be heroines of the nation.”

Her clear, ringing voice filled the silent classroom. Standing tall in the morning light, hands clasped behind her back, her stern face seemed suddenly alive, radiant, her half-closed eyes brimming with brilliance. At that moment, she shone so brightly that no one could look away.

No one spoke. Perhaps it was her formidable presence, or perhaps the poem itself captured their hearts. Not a single student’s mind wandered—they all stared intently at her, the scene imbued with an almost sacred weight.

Opening her eyes, she turned back to the still-standing Cao Wanying and gently asked: “Do you know who wrote this poem?”

Cao Wanying timidly shook her head.

The teacher sighed and motioned her to sit. Then her searching gaze swept over the other girls.  “Do any of you know?”

After a pause, a soft female voice replied: “This poem is titled Song of Women’s Rights in Mourning. It was written by Qiu Jin, the very woman Bai Moli admired in her youth.”

The teacher’s eyes curved with delight, nodding again and again. “Yes, exactly! This poem was written by Madam Qiu Jin… Do you also know about her life?”

“My mother once met Madam Qiu Jin several times in her youth. After Madam Qiu Jin was executed, she wept bitterly. Since then, she often spoke to me about her.”

The teacher’s joy was palpable. Rarely so talkative, she eagerly recounted Qiu Jin’s life: how she went to study in Japan despite her husband’s objections, how she returned to found schools for women, how she advocated tirelessly for equality, how she urged women to join the revolution, and finally how she faced execution after the uprising failed. By the end, the stern “tigress” was weeping uncontrollably.

Cao Wanying had never heard of Qiu Jin before, but hearing the tale of this remarkable woman left her eyes red with admiration. She was not alone—many girls in Class 2–1 felt the same, and even some boys could not hide their respect.

Le Jing suddenly remembered the teacher’s name—Bai Nianqiu.

Nianqiu, remembering autumn. What a beautiful name, and what a noble aspiration.

Amid the girls’ attempts to comfort her, Bai Nianqiu wiped her tears and solemnly announced: “Tomorrow I will test you all on the novel Memoirs of a Courtesan. Anyone who cannot answer will be punished!”

The students’ sorrowful faces instantly shifted to dismay. One girl protested: “But teacher, this book is about prostitutes…”

Bai Nianqiu glared fiercely, snapping: “So what if it is? Aren’t prostitutes women too? In this male-dominated society, survival is already hard enough for us women—we should stand together, not tear each other down! Men divide us into ranks to enslave us, forcing us to fight each other under rules they set! If you despise prostitutes, you are only doing those vile men’s bidding!”

A heavy silence followed, until one boy whispered: “Then… does that mean we boys don’t need to read it?”

Her brows arched sharply. “And why not?”

He shrank back, muttering: “Because… it’s a book about women. It has nothing to do with us.”

Bai Nianqiu gave a cold laugh. “Few men are like Mr. Watchman, who truly pitied women and gave them a voice. Ninety-nine percent of men are like you—enjoying privileges granted by gender, never caring whether women live or die!”

“Teacher, I didn’t mean—”

She cut him off impatiently. “Which is exactly why you boys should read it even more! You need to see how your so-called patriarchal society has forced us women to the brink!”

She paused, drew a deep breath, and continued calmly but firmly: “I want you boys to read this book because every man is the son of a woman. If you truly love your mother, then you must resolutely defend women’s rights.”

Le Jing stared at the powerful, impassioned teacher on stage and couldn’t help but think: How beautiful she is.

He did not know what fate awaited this pioneering advocate of women’s rights. In all the history books of later generations, he had never once seen the name Bai Nianqiu.

So most likely, she was buried beneath the tides of history.

But history would still remember her—this small yet vital effort of hers.

And future generations would not fail her.

Because—we love freedom. What a fine poem. Worthy of raising a great toast!