CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 38 Writing in the Republic Era (37)

Two days later, Chief Editor Wang came over to collect the next installment of The Rise of a Dynasty. Le Jing usually handed in his manuscript for The Rise of a Dynasty once a week, about twenty to thirty thousand characters at a time, which The Beiping Novel Gazette would then serialize—publishing one chapter per day in the newspaper. It was precisely because of this habit that during his short time in prison, the serialization of The Rise of a Dynasty had not been interrupted.

Le Jing took the chance to also give Chief Editor Wang his written replies to reader letters, so that the publishing house could forward them. Strictly speaking, someone of Chief Editor Wang’s status—after all, he was the head of a department—was far too busy for trivial tasks like collecting manuscripts or delivering reader letters. Normally, those things would be left to junior editors who ran errands. There was no need to trouble such a big shot.

But Chief Editor Wang actually enjoyed making trips to see Le Jing. If anyone else tried to steal this duty from him, he would be annoyed. All because The Rise of a Dynasty was simply too good! Ever since he started following the serialization, he could hardly eat or sleep, even his newly raised mynah bird had lost its charm. His mind was constantly scratching and clawing at itself, desperately craving to know the next development in the story. That was why, whenever the manuscript submission day came, he was the most eager to show up—using his editorial authority as an excuse to read the latest chapters before anyone else.

Even when it wasn’t submission day, he would often drop by under the pretense of delivering reader mail, just so he could sneak a glance at the author’s draft box and soothe the agony of waiting for updates.

So this time, as soon as Le Jing handed over the manuscript, Chief Editor Wang didn’t even bother with small talk—he devoured it immediately, like a starving man. Le Jing watched as his face shifted from grave solemnity, to relaxed brows, to radiant joy—the kind of happiness one might feel when sipping a steaming bowl of mutton soup in the middle of a freezing snowstorm.

“I never expected this, truly never expected this!” Chief Editor Wang’s eyes lit up as he looked at Le Jing. “Only someone like Xu Wangmu—both wise and brave, compassionate toward the people—could save a crumbling, storm-tossed Great Hua!”

Le Jing: …???

But Chief Editor Wang, with eyes full of anticipation, pressed further: “Now that Xu Wangmu has proven his strength by successfully defending the city and crushing the Wild Hu army, the court should issue an imperial edict to recruit him into officialdom, right?”

Letting his imagination run wild, he said longingly: “With Xu Wangmu’s brilliance and strategy, he is sure to win the emperor’s trust. Together, they will become the perfect model of ruler and minister, and history will record his great achievements—leading vast armies to repel the barbarian invasion, saving Great Hua from the brink of collapse!” His face flushed with excitement as he spoke. To be remembered in the annals of history—that was the ultimate dream of every scholar. And this was the perfect ending that he, a die-hard fan of The Rise of a Dynasty, envisioned for Xu Wangmu.

Le Jing: …

It wasn’t surprising that Chief Editor Wang thought this way. Take the classic Water Margin, for instance. The Liangshan heroes drank heartily and fought with bold heroism, yet in the end their only path was surrender to the court. The rest either became monks, died in battle, or went their separate ways—ending in tragedy. Even though those who surrendered mostly did not meet good ends, that conclusion still reflected author Shi Nai’an’s own position as a court official and the prevailing social outlook of the time.

For thousands of years, under imperial rule and Confucian influence, the Chinese people—from nobles to peasants—were instilled with a single piece of “common sense”: Study literature and martial arts, and sell your skills to the emperor. Put bluntly, whether you read books or practiced martial skills, the goal was to become an official.

Even in the modern era, though the head of state was now a President rather than an Emperor, that deeply rooted mindset had long since become part of China’s cultural bloodstream. Even today, many of the older generation still believe that being a civil servant is the only “proper” profession.

So Wang Xiguan’s thoughts were perfectly understandable. Le Jing could already imagine the shock and trembling of readers when, at the end, Xu Wangmu would suddenly turn his blade against Great Hua itself, severing the dynasty’s lifeline in one decisive strike.

Out of consideration for the old gentleman’s fragile heart, Le Jing merely smiled and said:  “When the story gets to that point, you’ll see.”

After finishing the new draft, a thoroughly satisfied Chief Editor Wang brought up another important matter, one of the main reasons he had come.

“Publication?” Le Jing was surprised. “So soon?”

“In fact, our paper should have contacted a publishing house long ago about releasing your work. But Chief Editor Xie wanted to extend the serialization first, to build up the author’s reputation. That’s why it was delayed. Now your Rise of a Dynasty has already reached over two hundred thousand characters, and the plot has reached a mini-climax. This is the perfect time to strike while the iron is hot and publish it as a book!”

As the two discussed publication matters, Yang Jinglun arrived.

Le Jing’s practice of submitting works under two pen names—“The Watchman” and “Lin Zhongqi”—to two different newspapers could be hidden from readers, but not from editors. At first, Le Jing had indeed wanted to keep it a secret, so he set a rule of submitting Rise of a Dynasty once a week, deliberately staggering the submission schedule from Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes, and for a while he really had managed to keep both newspapers in the dark.

But, in the end, paper can’t wrap fire. After Le Jing’s release from prison, a photo of him spread widely. Others might not recognize who he was, but it couldn’t fool Chief Editor Wang. After all, Le Jing was one of the main pillars of their newspaper. If Chief Editor Wang really couldn’t recognize him, then his eyes might as well have been wasted.

Incidentally, his cheap younger brother, Li Jingliang, also seemed to recognize him. He even went to Literary Gazette to ask about him, but Yang Jinglun muddled through and sent him away. After that, Le Jing hadn’t heard any news about Li Jingliang. Most likely, Li Jingliang himself didn’t want to believe that the good-for-nothing elder brother, who had always lagged behind him, had suddenly become a rising star author with growing fame.

Since things had already been exposed, Le Jing no longer bothered to hide it. About half a month ago, he openly told Chief Editor Wang that he was in fact the “The Watchman.”

When Chief Editor Wang learned that Le Jing was the very The Watchman the authorities had banned, his first reaction was that their newspaper must be even more careful to conceal his personal information. If people found out that Lin Zhongqi was actually The Watchman, and the authorities issued another ban, their paper would have nowhere to cry. The Rise of the Dynasty was now without a doubt the newspaper’s cash cow.

As for Yang Jinglun, Le Jing planned to wait until he discovered the truth on his own, just as Chief Editor Wang had, before telling him. After all, he had always been someone who liked to treat everyone fairly.

So this time, when Yang Jinglun came to visit, he just so happened to see Le Jing and Chief Editor Wang chatting happily together. He asked doubtfully, “And this gentleman is…?”

Le Jing smiled and said, “Let me introduce you—this is Mr. Wang Xiguan, Chief Editor of Beiping Novel Gazette.”

Of course, Yang Jinglun knew of Beiping Novel Gazette, and he had heard of Wang Xiguan.

As the saying goes, “those in the same trade are enemies.” While shaking Wang Xiguan’s hand enthusiastically, Yang Jinglun muttered inwardly: What’s Wang Xiguan doing here? Could it be he came to commission an article? But that doesn’t make sense. Mr. Li’s style clearly doesn’t fit Beiping Novel Gazette at all.

Literary Gazette and Beiping Novel Gazette had different readerships, and so, different roles. The former targeted cultural elites, publishing political essays and serious literature that criticized current affairs. The latter appealed to all walks of life, its role being entertainment and leisure, so it published light, entertaining popular fiction. Thus, the two papers had always kept to themselves, their writers never overlapping.

Tentatively, Yang Jinglun asked, “Mr. Wang, did you come this time to commission an article from Mr. Li?”

Wang Xiguan chuckled, glanced playfully at Le Jing, and deliberately replied slowly, “I came to collect a manuscript from Mr. Lin.”

“Mr. Lin?” Yang Jinglun froze, then as if realizing something, blurted out, “Could it be Mr. Lin Zhongqi?” He looked around excitedly. “Mr. Lin is here too? Where is he?”

Le Jing coughed lightly and said unhurriedly, “Far away in the heavens, yet right before your eyes.”

Yang Jinglun’s gaze snapped onto Le Jing. He gave a dry laugh, “No way… could it be…?”

Le Jing smiled. “That’s right. The Lin Zhongqi you speak of is none other than myself.”

The expression that followed on Yang Jinglun’s face was priceless. From Le Jing’s observation, his feelings were comparable to a fan in later generations discovering that their pure and elegant idol was in fact a burly Northeastern man scratching his feet bare-chested. This was the kind of catastrophic collapse of an image that could cause countless fans to abandon and even turn against their idol.

Le Jing patiently gave him a moment to react. But after the initial shock, to his surprise, Yang Jinglun’s face flushed with a shy blush.

Yang Jinglun bashfully confessed, “Actually… I’ve also been following The Rise of the Dynasty…”

Now Le Jing was the one surprised. “I’ve never once heard you mention it before.”

Yang Jinglun lowered his head in embarrassment. “Well, the thing is, I was worried you wouldn’t approve of me reading such novels, so I never dared say anything. I never expected that The Rise of the Dynasty was written by you, sir.”

…Well then.

The situation had now turned into the bizarre scenario of discovering that the rugged Northeastern man was actually his new favorite idol.

Though Yang Jinglun phrased it delicately, Le Jing understood his meaning. The literary world also had its hierarchy of disdain. Many “serious” writers looked down on those who wrote popular fiction. Throughout history, most authors of enduring popular novels were failed scholars who had stumbled in the imperial examinations. To even be a “xiucai” (licentiate) was already considered a cultural man among them. Of the authors of the Four Great Classical Novels, only Shi Nai’an had attained the degree of jinshi. Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio was famous, yes—but its author, Pu Songling, was a poor scholar who failed repeatedly and never entered the mainstream literary circle.

Of course, this wasn’t to advocate that “studying is useless.” Rather, it was because the top cultural elites all devoted themselves to Confucian classics and history. Cunning old hands like Sima Guang, for example, wrote Comprehensive Mirror to Aid in Government, a study in political intrigue and imperial stratagems. Exceptional talents like Wang Yangming wrote essays to promote his philosophy of the “extension of innate knowledge,” amassing countless followers.

The mainstream literary circle’s disdain for popular novels didn’t truly ease until the late Qing and early Republican eras.

The distinction between “serious literature” and “popular fiction” actually originated from the West. Modern Chinese literature had only just begun. Though the vernacular movement had made vernacular novels fashionable, China had been too deeply influenced by the West, and the mainstream literary world valued tragedy above all. They believed tragedy alone carried artistic worth. So, in many people’s eyes, The Watchman, who wrote serious tragedies, had more prestige than Lin Zhongqi, who wrote feel-good stories. And given that Literary Gazette was the bastion of serious literature, it was no wonder that Yang Jinglun had to be a “closeted fan,” secretly reading The Rise of the Dynasty.

Now Yang Jinglun admired Le Jing wholeheartedly. In his eyes, his teacher could not only write biting, profound works like Memoirs of a Courtesan, Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes, and The Last Person Who Didn’t Take Drugs, but also craft whimsical and delightful popular novels like The Rise of the Dynasty, shifting styles effortlessly. Truly, this was the mark of a great master.

At the same time, he felt a strong sense of crisis. During these days when his teacher hadn’t settled on a new serialization, The Rise of the Dynasty had continued without pause! If his teacher, due to The Watchman pen name being banned, decided to fully commit to Beiping Novel Gazette… what then?!

Although he loved The Rise of the Dynasty himself, as a fan, he still hoped his teacher would focus on serious literature. Only then could Mr. Li enter the mainstream literary circle and achieve greater social standing.

Driven by this worry, and regardless of another newspaper’s editor being present, Yang Jinglun quickly revealed the purpose of his visit: “Sir, good news! Just now, a film company in Shanghai contacted our newspaper—they want to adapt your Memoirs of a Courtesan into a movie!”