CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 49 Writing in the Republic Era (48)

Ji Qi’s words were short, but the amount of information they carried was enormous.

Across the room, Yang Jinglun was clearly still awake. Hearing Ji Qi’s knock, he hurriedly put on his clothes and opened the door, asking anxiously, “Is this true? Has sir’s new pen name already been exposed?”

“Why would I lie to you? That’s exactly what the telegram from the telegraph office said.” Ji Qi pulled the telegram from his pocket and handed it to Le Jing.

Le Jing accepted it without looking. “Come inside first. We’ll talk there.”

The windowpanes were fogged, outside the night was deep, icy, and filled with drifting goose-feather snow. Ji Qi’s face was frozen red, even his eyebrows frosted over, and his cotton coat still carried traces of snow from outdoors.

“Shake off your coat quickly,” Le Jing said. “Otherwise, once the snow melts, your clothes will be soaked through.”

Ji Qi briskly shook the snow off his body, then sat down by the brazier, stretching his hands out to the warmth.

Le Jing seated himself by the window, holding the telegram close to the flickering candlelight and examining it carefully. Yang Jinglun, not even sparing time to exchange greetings, moved to stand behind Le Jing, his eyes also fixed on the telegram.

Since telegrams were charged by the word, the message was especially concise, stating the situation in just a few dozen characters. What Ji Qi had just recited was essentially the entire content of the telegram.

The tone of the telegram was fairly calm, making it clear that the situation was not as severe as one might imagine.

Le Jing set the telegram down, sinking into thought.

“Jingran,” Ji Qi asked worriedly, “do you have a plan to deal with this?”

Yang Jinglun, too, turned his hopeful gaze toward Le Jing. In his eyes, his teacher was always meticulous, leaving no loose ends—surely he would come up with a countermeasure!

After a moment of deliberation, Le Jing replied, “For now, all we can do is wait.”

“Wait?”

He spread his hands helplessly. “The information in the telegram is limited. For the moment, waiting is all we can do.”

Yang Jinglun blinked, starting to understand. “Sir means to see who will jump out into the open?”

Le Jing nodded, feeling a little helpless himself. If this were modern times, a single phone call would clear everything up. But in the Republic, they could only wait.

At the very least, they had to wait until the telegraph office opened the next morning, so that he could send a message back to Beiping for detailed clarification.

“Don’t worry. Most likely it’s just the same old tune.” Le Jing smiled, trying to comfort the two anxious men. “Back then, I was bailed out. It’s unlikely they’ll throw me back in prison now.”

“And if, by some small chance, they do…” Le Jing raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Then I’ll simply stay in Shanghai and refuse to go back.”

One week later.

Beiping.

Wu Yi, editor-in-chief of Literary Gazette, was feeling rather troubled.

Their newspaper had quite a few writers who, after being banned, simply adopted new pen names and started afresh. As long as they didn’t continue publishing sensitive articles, the authorities usually turned a blind eye. But why was it that only Watchman caused such endless commotion?

Everyone in the paper knew, though unspoken, that “Wheatfield” was in fact Watchman. After all, Yang Jinglun had been Watchman’s editor, and now he was suddenly in charge of a new writer called “Wheatfield,” who seemed to appear out of nowhere. Only a fool would fail to connect the dots.

Wu Yi had issued a strict gag order, forbidding anyone who knew the truth from spreading it outside.

Even so, it was impossible to guard against everything—greed for money could sway hearts.

Sure enough, one of their editors had been bribed by some outsider, and the secret was leaked. Newspapers quickly picked up the story and ran reports on it. As soon as Wu Yi discovered this, he immediately fired the editor. But by then, the rumor had already spread far and wide.

Before being banned, Watchman had been one of the most dazzling representatives of the new generation of writers. He hadn’t written much, but every piece was a masterpiece.

His novel The Murder Case in the Fengtian Chamber may have been his debut work, but in its prose, conception, and plot, it was flawless. It even sparked a wave of imitation. Wu Yi had seen many knockoff stories in small newspapers, with similar themes, but all of them were poor imitations—aping the tiger and ending up as dogs—failing to capture Watchman’s true essence.

Then there was Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes, a series abruptly cut short due to the author’s ban, which many readers still longed for. Even now, their paper continued receiving letters inquiring whether the story would ever resume.

His Memoirs of a Courtesan was still being staged as a play in major theaters, not to mention that Shanghai had even adapted it into a film. Though the film wasn’t shown in Beiping, Beiping’s newspapers had reported extensively on it.

And then there was The Last Person Who Didn’t Take Drugs.

In fact, Watchman’s ban had only elevated The Last Person Who Didn’t Take Drugs. For a book to be censored for addressing sensitive issues—itself proved how extraordinary it was.

Thus, Watchman’s final work, The Last Person Who Didn’t Take Drugs, attracted enormous curiosity and attention. It was the perfect example of “the more you ban, the hotter it becomes.”

Wu Yi had long known that The Last Person Who Didn’t Take Drugs had been quietly circulating in small circles. He himself even possessed a collection of the clipped newspaper installments from back then.

Such an outstanding author being banned by the authorities was truly something regrettable. 

What’s more, Mr. Li’s new serialization under the pen name “Wheatfield,” Wandering Adventures, was currently a bestseller. His book had moved countless people into doing charity—he even heard that the young master of the Fu family had established an orphanage specifically to help homeless children. The street children in Beiping had been living much better than before because of this.

Now that newspapers exposed Wheatfield as actually being the Watchman, one could easily imagine what kind of frenzy this would cause among readers.

Those resourceful journalists not only surrounded their newspaper office but even dug out Mr. Li’s new home address, trying to get an interview with him.

Wu Yi couldn’t help but feel a little relieved—fortunately, Mr. Li had gone to Shanghai, thus narrowly avoiding this storm.

Although the matter was making waves in the papers, with quite a few voices suddenly jumping out to say that the authorities shouldn’t censor authors and ought to allow them to publish again, Wu Yi simply found it troublesome, not a big deal.

Firstly, General Xue had already bailed Mr. Li out before, and there was nothing in his new articles that violated any laws. The authorities had no reason to keep targeting him. Secondly, since Mr. Li was in Shanghai anyway, at worst he could just stay there a few more days until things cooled down before returning. After all, their Literary Gazette also had a Shanghai branch—at most, he could just switch to a new pen name to keep publishing.

Even so, Wu Yi thought he ought to inform Mr. Li of the situation, so he sent him a telegram.

The next afternoon, he received a reply telegram from Mr. Li. It contained only three words: “Trouble or not?”

Wu Yi immediately and firmly replied: “Just a trifle.”

But on the third day, Wu Yi was thoroughly slapped in the face.

The way things unfolded left him utterly dumbfounded.

…

Fu Kemao set down the newspaper in his hand. The fire in his heart, kindled by that day’s installment of The Rise of the Dynasty, was suddenly doused cold by another report published in a different paper.

Someone claiming to be an old acquaintance of the Watchman had written an article, exposing the Watchman’s real name as Li Jingran, originally from Fengtian in the Northeast. According to this account, he was nothing but a debauched thug, infamous for drinking, gambling, whoring, and smoking opium—utterly lacking in learning, and very likely having his works ghostwritten by others.

This fellow used to loaf around all day, learned nothing, and dropped out of high school. He indulged in every vice—drinking, gambling, women, and opium—known in Fengtian as a notorious hoodlum.

One time, because of his opium addiction, his father locked him up and demanded he quit. But instead of repenting, he lashed out at his mother with harsh words, drove her into illness, and then, taking advantage of his father’s absence, ran away from home with his youngest sister. The girl had already been betrothed to another family, but with her reputation ruined, she was left unmarriageable. To preserve the Li family’s honor, the father had no choice but to marry off another daughter in her place, adding a large dowry to appease the in-laws…

Li Jingran is a hypocrite, a master of disguise—don’t let yourselves be fooled by such a man! His articles may look righteous and full of moral virtue, but he himself is vicious and filthy, rotten to the core. Just like how he publicly advocated against opium while secretly being an opium addict himself—isn’t that laughable?

…Besides, Li Jingran is only sixteen this year and has barely had a proper education. How could he possibly write such profound works? I say they must be ghostwritten…

If this had been before, such an article wouldn’t have shaken Fu Kemao much. At most, he would have sighed and said people’s hearts are unfathomable. But ever since he learned that Wheatfield was actually the Watchman, he could no longer stand aloof.

He truly loved Wandering Adventures! It was no exaggeration to say the book had pointed a way forward for him during his most confused days, giving him a direction to strive toward.

Now, he was running an orphanage, had established a student association for homeless children at school, and was so busy he barely had time to rest. He had not a single coin left in his pockets—he was genuinely penniless.

Yet he was happy. He was fulfilled. He was passionate.

He was even happier now than in the old days when he squandered money on wine and women! For the first time, he felt his life had meaning—that he was useful.

Even his father, who had always looked at him with stern disapproval, had recently softened. Just yesterday, his father had even patted his head with satisfaction, saying he had grown up.

He cried at that moment. And his father’s eyes had also grown moist.

It was then that he suddenly recalled a conversation he once had with his father. Back then, his father had asked: “If to fight means death, and not to fight means life—what will you do? What can you do?”

Fu Kemao still hadn’t figured out the answer. He was too slow. But vaguely, he felt that if he kept on doing whatever small things he could to help others, one day he would be able to answer his father’s question.

One day, he would find that very thing his father spoke of—“something more important than everything else in this world, worth giving your life and blood for, worth doing whatever it takes.”

Fu Fanlin thought his son was finally walking the right path. But now, discovering that his son’s guiding light might be nothing more than a fraud who lived by deception, how could this not make him feel as though plunged into an ice cave, shaken and furious?

In the end, he couldn’t help but rush to ask his father: “Dad, do you think the Watchman is really that kind of person?”

Fu Fanlin lifted his eyes to the bewildered young man before him, sighing inwardly that he was still far too young.

“It doesn’t matter what kind of person he is,” he told his son. “What matters most is—what kind of person do you want to become?”

Fu Kemao seemed to understand, and yet seemed not to. Fu Fanlin waved his hand: “Go think it through on your own.”

After his son left, Fu Fanlin’s gaze once again fell on the newspaper spread open on his desk—the very one his son had just been reading, the one carrying that scathing attack on the Watchman on its front page.

“What will you do?”

Fu Fanlin sank into a long silence.

At his age, he would not be easily swayed by one or two articles. Yet even so, doubt had been planted in his heart.

There was no denying that he had admired the Watchman’s works before.

But in China’s literary circles, one old saying had always been upheld: A man’s character is reflected in his writings. In other words, a good man writes good works, a bad man’s works are worthless.

Take Qin Hui for example—his writing was superb, his political strategies brilliant, his calligraphy outstanding. Yet because he orchestrated Yue Fei’s death, he was branded a treacherous minister, and all his works were considered trash, unworthy of study.

So, if the Watchman truly was as disgraceful as this article described, then his works, being the products of a petty villain, would no longer be worth reading.

Thus—what would the Watchman do? If he couldn’t prove his innocence, he would be forever exiled from the literary world, nailed to the pillar of shame, his name reviled for all eternity.