CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 9 Writing in the Republic Era (8)

In his prose, Zhu Ziqing lavished praise on spring, describing it as a young girl, vibrant and adorned with blossoms. But such a spring could only be found in the gentle and picturesque water towns south of the Yangtze. The spring of Beiping was nothing like that. It was stark and severe, carrying the piercing chill of winter and the rugged temperament unique to the north. The remnants of last night’s snow still clung unthawed to the corners of the walls, glistening under the light. The peach tree in the courtyard drooped its bare branches listlessly, and only when one leaned close could one see the tender new shoots beginning to emerge.

Lying on his bed, Le Jing needed only to lift his head slightly to see that gloomy peach tree—so much like himself at this moment.

When he woke up in the Li residence, it was still late winter, the streets blanketed with dazzling snow. Now it was already early spring, the season of rebirth. Yet only he and the peach tree seemed frozen in winter’s grasp.

He coughed softly for a while, then struggled to sit up. Gathering what little strength he had, he moved step by step toward the nearby writing desk. As soon as he sat down, he couldn’t help but gasp for breath, his lungs wheezing inside his chest like an old, broken bellows. That familiar itch spread from the depths of his throat. He swallowed hard several times to moisten it, forced himself to endure the discomfort, and picked up his brush to begin writing. The ink bled into his crooked characters, twisting across the paper like menacing centipedes. He closed his eyes for a moment and pretended not to see. Ignoring every protest of his body, he willed himself to press line after line of ugly handwriting onto the pristine paper. But soon, the itch in his throat clawed its way upward again, fiercer this time.

At last, he couldn’t hold back. Doubling over, Le Jing was seized by a fit of wrenching, violent coughs that tore at his chest. In bitter amusement, he thought to himself that Nabokov had been right: there are three things a man cannot conceal—coughs, poverty, and love.

Following the sound of his coughing, Li Shuran ran into the room. The moment she saw her elder brother—still not recovered from illness, when he should have been resting in bed—sitting at the desk with a brush in hand, hacking and coughing, her little face went pale. She hurried over, patting his back anxiously while scolding, “Big brother, honestly! You’re still sick, and the doctor said you must rest properly!”

Her eyes flicked toward the manuscript spread open on the desk, and she urged gently, “With your body like this, how can you write anything good? Writing can wait. It won’t be too late after you’ve recovered.”

But… perhaps he couldn’t wait.

Le Jing barely managed to suppress his coughing, and the pale face before her finally gained a faint flush of color. Of course he knew the truth in her words. Even the piece he had just forced himself to write—setting aside the content—was in handwriting so unsightly he dared not look at it twice. If he could, of course he wished to rest and recover.

Unfortunately, he had no time left.

Never had Le Jing imagined he would one day be burdened with the word “useless.” As much as he hated to admit it, in these past days he truly had been nothing but a burden.

He had barely settled into the rented house before falling gravely ill. The sickness had struck with such force it was impossible to withstand. Li Jingran, though of the same age as Le Jing, had long squandered his health on wine and women, and being an opium addict as well, his body was nothing more than a fragile shell. To quit the drug this time, Le Jing could honestly say he had given half his life. And then, eager to get himself and Li Shuran out of that pit of fire as quickly as possible, he hadn’t spared a moment to recuperate before plunging headlong into endless writing and submissions. Immediately afterward, they endured days and nights on the train, traveling thousands of li to reach Beiping.

Even an iron man would have collapsed under such strain—how much less could Li Jingran’s frail body withstand? In truth, the fact that Le Jing managed to hold on until they had secured a place to stay before finally falling ill was already a blessing from heaven.

After that came the nonstop search for doctors and medicine. Medicine in the Republican era was undeniably expensive. You could tell just from an essay written by a later literary giant who had abandoned medicine for literature—though his family had once been well-off, they fell into decline due to his father’s prolonged illness. The exorbitant cost of medical care in that era is evident.

Le Jing’s illness wasn’t anything severe, but since it was rooted in his weak constitution, it was especially hard to deal with. On top of that, he had fallen into a feverish coma, and Li Shuran, just a young girl, had no real backbone to rely on. Naturally, whatever medicine was the most expensive, that was what she bought. In barely half a month of illness, the two hundred and fifteen silver dollars they had brought with them to Beiping had shrunk to just thirty. After setting aside next month’s twenty-dollar rent, their entire fortune amounted to a pitiful ten.

Le Jing had thought that bringing Li Shuran to Beiping would help her escape her suffering. Yet now, not only was this little girl worried sick and going without proper food or clothing because of his broken-down body, they even ran the risk of being cast out onto the streets… Never before had he felt such humiliation.

So it wasn’t just that he was unwell now—even if both his hands were broken, he would write with his mouth or with his feet if he had to. To let him lie in bed as a useless burden? He would rather die outright.

That was why, when Li Shuran tried to persuade him otherwise, Le Jing only smiled faintly. “My body is much better now. Lying in bed all day with nothing to do is pointless. Better to find something for myself to work on.”

Seeing that she still wanted to argue, he smoothly shifted the topic: “I’m sick right now. You can’t handle both the house and the outside affairs alone. Tomorrow I’ll ask the landlord if he can recommend us a reliable servant.”

These days, the two siblings had been relying on no one but each other. Shuran had been a pampered young lady who never even touched spring water with her ten fingers, and if not for the occasional help of neighbors, they would never have managed to hold out until now.

Sure enough, her attention was diverted. “No need for a servant. I can manage. It’s only cooking and washing—chores like that, I’ll learn quickly!”

She knew they were nearly out of money because of her brother’s illness, and now was the time to save every penny. She racked her brains trying to dissuade him, but Le Jing’s resolve was like a rock—unshakable. Left with no choice, Shuran gave up. Then, worried again for her brother’s health, she brought up the old matter: “Brother, you’re not allowed to touch a pen until you’re fully recovered!”

Le Jing: …

What followed was a round of negotiations and the setting of some ground rules. In the end, the compromise was that Le Jing could only write for three hours a day, under Li Shuran’s supervision. Still, it meant he could finally write again—something worth celebrating indeed.

…

As for what to write for his second work, Le Jing mulled it over for a long time. He even considered writing under a pseudonym to churn out the kind of romance novels adored by the Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies School, just to make some quick money.

Although the Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies School was often looked down upon by the orthodox literary circles (much like how serious modern authors sneer at bestselling popular writers), their books were undeniably commercial successes. The banner carrier of their movement, Zhang Dada, even had his novel Golden × Family adapted into a hugely popular television drama in later times.

With such great predecessors having left behind shining examples, Le Jing naturally had his own thoughts. He had even sketched out an outline—after all, he had seen classic romance films like Titanic and Flipped, and he had read works by masters such as Zweig, Jane Austen, and Duras. Writing a lingering, heart-wrenching love story should be well within his reach.

However, the very next day, when he met the servant recommended by the landlord, he changed his mind.

Le Jing had intended to hire only one servant, yet the landlord brought over a whole family of three: an elderly couple leading a child as thin as a skeleton, all of them smiling obsequiously in hopes of being taken in.

How to describe them? Even pet mice in later generations would appear more dignified.

A few ragged scraps of cloth of uneven length hung on their bodies—clothing so shabby that beggars of later generations would not even touch them. Their faces were coarse and rigid, as though carved from sandstone, yet they still forced themselves to wear flattering, pleading smiles. Their child was tethered with a straw rope like an animal, his vacant eyes dull and lifeless. He looked just like those children from concentration camps, with a head too large for his frail body, and a thin sheet of skin stretched tight over bones.

From them, Le Jing saw the Republic of China.

Not the dazzling glamour of Shanghai’s ten-mile-long stretch of foreign concessions, bustling with songs and dances. Not the gathering of great masters in Beiping, discussing history and philosophy. Not the revolutionaries, raising their arms and calling for fire and steel in a romantic fervor.

The Republic was right before his eyes.

The landlord’s words still rang in his ears: “This family fled famine. They’re honest, hardworking folk. But not long ago, the head of the household fell ill, and they even sold their daughter just to scrape together money for medicine… You see, they really can’t go on like this anymore. Please take them in, sir. They only ask for food in return…”

Le Jing closed his eyes.

Yes. Now he remembered.

This was the Republic of China: a country made up of countless Sanmao*, opium addicts, prostitutes, tens of millions of peasants treated no better than pigs and dogs, laborers with an average lifespan of barely over thirty years, and millions of famine refugees who wandered aimlessly, some even forced to exchange children for food.

This was the Republic of China. A human hell.

Li Shuran, being the softest-hearted, immediately begged Le Jing to keep the family, and of course, Le Jing agreed. Yet his heart felt heavy. He could save these three people, but he could not save the millions of poor in this nation.

Le Jing was not a man overflowing with sentiment; at times he could even be considered cold-blooded. But now, he felt an impulse, an urgent desire to do something for this country and its people.

Since he had already come to this turbulent age, he could not just drift along with the current. He wanted to turn his pen into a sword, to say something.

What this nation needed was not frivolous tales of romance and moonlit gardens, but searing condemnation and merciless lashes of criticism. Only then could it feel shame and strive to improve, only then could it find the strength to crawl out of the mire.

Le Jing thought: he already knew what his second story would be. He turned, went inside, picked up his brush, and wrote a title on the manuscript paper—

“Looking Down on Humans Through a Rat’s Eyes.”

“I am a Dutch rat, hailing from China a hundred years in the future,” he wrote in the opening paragraph. “I do not know why I have come to this impoverished, backward era. But a rat can survive anywhere, and besides, I am a noble-blooded, white-furred Dutch rat…”

The story would portray the bizarre Republic of China, its countless faces and its myriad lives—all from the perspective of a pet rat from the future. The inspiration, of course, came from Natsume Sōseki’s I Am a Cat.

For thousands of years, the Chinese had loathed and despised rats—“a rat crossing the street, and everyone shouts to beat it” was enough proof. Words like “timid as a mouse,” “vacillating like a rat,” and “rat thieves and dog robbers” all carried nothing but contempt. Rats had been cursed for millennia.

But this time, Le Jing would insist on “looking down on humans through a rat’s eyes.” Just like Natsume Sōseki’s cat, brimming with justice and the temperament of a literati, yet never learning to catch mice until its death, this rat too would embody every fine human quality. Only then could it stand in sharp contrast to the deformed, alienated people of a twisted society.

This would be a very long story.

Le Jing would spend a very long time finishing it.

He did not seek a place in history. He only sought to speak freely and live without guilt in his heart.