I want to write down, as far as possible, my remorse and my sorrow, for the sake of Tzu-chun and for myself.
How quiet and empty it is in this dingy room, secluded in a forgotten corner of the Provincial Guild! And how quickly time flies! It is now more than a year since I fell in love with Tzu-chun and through that love escaped this quiet and emptiness. How ironic that this same room should be the only one available when I came back here. Everything is as it used to be—the same broken window looking out on the same hollow locust tree and ancient wisteria, the same square table in front of the window, the same cracked wall, and by it the same bed. It is the same as before Tzu-chun and I lived together, it is as if the past year had been entirely eradicated, as if it had never existed, as if I had never moved out of this dingy room and established a tiny home full of hope in Chi-chao Hutung.
Not only this, but the quiet and emptiness a year ago were not quite the same as they are now, for they were then tempered with expectation, the expectation that Tzu-chun would soon arrive. After a long, impatient wait, how I used to come suddenly to life as soon as I heard the crisp sound of her high-heeled shoes upon the brick walk! Then I would see her dimpled, pale, round face, her thin arms, her striped cotton blouse and her black skirt.[1] She would bring in some new leaves from the locust tree arid draw my attention to the clusters of purplish white flowers on the iron-colored vines of the ancient wisteria.
The quiet and emptiness are the same as before, but Tzu-chun will not come again—she will never, never come again.
When Tzu-chun was not with me in my dingy room, I could do nothing. In my boredom I would take a book, whether science or literature, it did not matter, and read and read. Before I could realize it, I had already turned over ten pages, but I could not remember a thing I had read. My ears, however, were unusually keen, and I fancied that I could detect among the footsteps outside the gate those of Tzu-chun and that they were drawing nearer. More often than not the footsteps would die away and lose themselves in the sound of others. I detested the son of the servant whose cotton-cloth soled shoes did not sound like Tzu-chun's at all; I detested that foppish ape in the next compound who used vanishing cream and whose new leather shoes sounded too much like hers.
Had her ricksha overturned? Had she been run over by the street car?
I wanted to take my hat and go look for her at her uncle's home, but her uncle had once berated me to my face.
Suddenly the sound of her shoes approached, louder and louder. When I went out to meet her, she had already passed the wisteria vines, her face dimpled with smiles. She probably had not had any trouble with her uncle, I thought, and I felt relieved. After we had gazed at each other in silence for a moment, the room would be gradually filled with our chatter. We talked about the oppression of the family system, about the necessity of destroying old traditions, about equality for men and women, about Ibsen, about Tagore, about Shelley . . . She always smiled and nodded, her eyes filled with the light of childish curiosity. On the wall was tacked a half-length portrait of Shelley in half-tone, cut from a magazine, the best portrait of the poet. When I pointed it out to her, she cast only a brief glance at it and then lowered her head as if embarrassed. In these things Tzu-chun did not quite free herself from the fetters of traditional thinking. Afterwards I thought of taking the portrait down and hanging in its place the picture showing Shelley after his drowning in the sea, or a picture of Ibsen, but I never got around to it, and now even the magazine print of Shelley has disappeared.
"I belong to myself and none of them has any right to interfere!"
This was what she said, clearly and with quiet determination, following a moment of silence when, after we had known each other for about half a year, we happened to bring up again the subject of her uncle, with whom she was staying, and her father, who was living in her native village. By that time I had told her all about myself and my opinions and faults; I held back nothing and she seemed to have understood everything. These brave, determined words of hers stirred my soul and echoed in my ears for many days thereafter. I was filled with an indescribable happiness, for I felt certain then that the outlook for Chinese womanhood was not as hopeless as the pessimists made it out to be and that in the near future we should see the bright dawn.
When I escorted Tzu-chun to the gate, we invariably kept about ten steps apart, for the face of the disgusting old man with the catfish moustache was always glued close to his dirty window, his nose flattened against the pane, while in the outer compound the face of that foppish ape, thickly covered with vanishing cream, peered out from behind a bright pane of glass. But Tzu-chun walked on proudly without deigning to notice them and I would return as proudly to my room.
"I belong to myself and none of them has any right to interfere!" Her spirit of revolt appeared to be of the thoroughgoing kind, even more thoroughgoing, even more resolute than my own. What are Vanishing Cream and Flat Nose to her?
I can no longer remember distinctly how I professed to her my pure, true and passionate love. Not only have I forgotten now the details of that episode, but I had difficulty in recalling them even then. When I thought about it later in the same night, only fragments remained. A month or two after we began to live together, even these fragments became dream bubbles that eluded my grasp. I only recall that for more than ten days before it happened I carefully studied the various manners of approach, the sequence of my speech, not forgetting the possibility of her refusal. But when the time came, all that I had carefully rehearsed turned out to be unnecessary. In my nervousness I unconsciously adopted the method that I had seen in the motion pictures. Whenever I recalled it afterwards, I always had a feeling of embarrassment, yet in my memory this alone has found a permanent place. Even now it is like a lone lamp in a dark room, revealing the indelible scene: I kneel on one knee beside her; with tears in my eyes, I hold her hands in mine.
Not only have I forgotten what I said and did, but I was not even clearly aware of Tzu-chun's words and behavior: I only realized that she had given me her consent. I seem to remember vaguely that her face first became pale and then turned pink, a pink that I had never seen before and have never seen since, that her eyes, though they avoided mine, shone with sorrow and happiness, mixed with surprise and incredulity, and that she looked as if terror stricken, as if she was about to break through the window and fly away. I knew that she had given me her consent, but I did not know what she did or did not say.
She remembered everything though: she could recite as out of a familiar book every word I said, and my behavior to her was like a picture invisible to myself, which she could describe with vividness and detail, including, naturally, the gaudy motion-picture flash that I so much wanted to forget. The stillness of the night was our reviewing time. I was frequently questioned, tested, required to repeat the words of that occasion. But I had to be prompted and corrected again and again, like a "D" student.
These reviews became less frequent, but whenever I saw that faraway look in her eyes, her abstraction, the gentle expression assumed by her face, her deepening dimples, I knew that she was again reviewing the ancient lesson herself. I dreaded the moment when she would come to the movie scene, but I knew that she would inexorably come to it, and would insist on dwelling upon it.
She did not think it funny; she did not even laugh at what I considered funny or shameful. The reason for this was clear to me: it was because she loved me, because she loved me so much and so truly.
The late spring of the past year was my happiest and busiest time. My heart was at peace, though at the same time I became very much occupied with a thousand things. We began to walk on the street together. We went to the park a few times, but most of the time we were hunting for a place to live in. I sensed the curious gazes that we encountered on the street, the disparaging remarks, the indecent and the insulting glances, which caused me, if I was not on my guard, to shrink from embarrassment. But I managed to summon up enough courage to face them proudly. She, however, was without embarrassment. She walked on calmly in the face of these hostile manifestations as if there was no one in the world besides herself and me.
It was no easy matter to find a place to live in. Most of the time we were refused upon one pretext or another, and the rest of the time we rejected the place as unsuitable. At first we were rather particular—we were not really particular, but the places we saw did seem unsuitable—later on we only wanted to find someone who would take us. After looking at more than twenty places, we finally discovered one that more or less answered our purposes. It consisted of a two-chien southern room in a house in Chi-chao Hutung. The landlord was a petty official, but was quite broadminded. He occupied the central (northern) unit of the house and the side chambers with his family, which consisted of his wife and a girl less than a year old and a peasant woman servant. It was a quiet place as long as the child did not cry.
Our household furnishings were simple enough, but it already required more than half of the money that I had managed to get together. Tzu-chun sold her gold ring and earrings, the only jewelry she had. I would not let her at first, but she insisted and I gave in. I knew that if I did not let her contribute her share she would not be happy.
She had broken openly with her uncle long before this. He now disowned her as his niece. I also broke off one by one with those of my friends who professed to offer advice for my own good but who really feared for me or were jealous of me. But we did not mind this. Although it was always near dusk when I was through at the office and the ricksha man was always so slow, the hour always arrived when we would be at last together. We would first gaze upon each other in silence and then talk freely and intimately. We would be silent again as we bowed our heads in thought, thinking about nothing. Little by little I read all of her body and all her soul, and in three weeks I understood her even better than I had done before; I discovered many things about her which I thought I had understood but which I really did not. These had been the real barriers between us.
Tzu-chun became more lively every day. I bought two potted plants for her at the temple fair, but she did not care for flowers, and neglected to water them. At the end of four days they dried up in the corner—I did not have time to attend to everything. She had, however, a weakness for animals, in which she was probably influenced by the wife of the petty official. Inside of a month the family grew; four chicks strutted about the yard with more than ten belonging to the landlady. Each of the women recognized the markings of the chickens, however, and knew which were her own. There was, in addition, a black and white Pekingese, also bought at the temple fair. I think it had a name when we bought it, but Tzu-chun renamed it Ah Sui. That's the name I called it by, though I did not like it.
This is true: Love must be renewed, must be made to grow, must be creative. When I told Tzu-chun this, she nodded understandingly.
Ah, what quiet, happy nights those were!
But peace and happiness have a way of stagnating and becoming monotonous. When we were at the Provincial Guild we used to have occasional differences and misunderstandings, but since we had come to Chi-chao Hutung there was not even this. We merely sat facing each other by the lamp and ruminated over the joy of reconciliation after those clashes.
Tzu-chun began to take on weight, and color and life appeared on her face. Only she was always so busy. With all her household duties, she did not even have time to talk, much less to study or take walks. We often said that we must engage a maidservant.
One of the things that irritated me was to find her in ill humor when I came home toward evening, especially when she tried to hide it by forced smiles. When I inquired into the cause of her irritation it was usually because of a silent duel with our landlady, with the chickens as the fuse. But why wouldn't she tell me about it? One must have the privacy of an independent home, I told myself. We could not go on living at a place like this.
My routine was fixed. Six days a week I went from the house to the office and again from the office to the house. At the office I sat at a desk and copied, copied, copied documents and letters: at the house I sat with her and helped her make the fire in the stove, cook the rice or steam the bread. It was during this period that I learned to cook.
My food was much better than it had been at the Guild. Although cooking was not Tzu-chun's forte, she did devote her entire energies in this direction. Since she herself worried about these things day and night, I could not help but worry about them too and thus it could be said that I shared her pleasures and her tasks. Her face was covered with sweat all day, the short hairs stuck to her forehead, and her hands became coarser.
In addition there was Ah Sui to care for and the chickens to be fed—all chores that she must do herself.
Once I did suggest that it did not matter if I did not have tempting things to eat and she must not work so hard. She did not say anything, but from the glance that she gave me I knew that she was hurt. And so I refrained from mentioning the subject again and she continued to direct all her energies to household duties.
The blow that I had been dreading finally fell. On the eve of the Double Ten Festival I was sitting in our room while she was washing dishes. There was a knocking at the gate. When I opened it, I discovered the office messenger. He handed me a stenciled form. I looked at it under the lamp and found it was what I had feared. It read:
By order of the Director, Shih Chuan-sheng is hereby informed that his services are no longer required at the Bureau.
The Secretary's Office. Oct. 9.
I had foreseen this when I was still at the Guild. Vanishing Cream was a gambling companion of the son of the Director and must have told him about Tzu-chun and myself, with inventions and embellishments of his own. What surprised me was that it should have been so slow in taking effect. It was not, to tell the truth, such a blow after all, for I had decided beforehand that I could get a clerical job elsewhere or find a position as tutor or do some translating work, though the last would have required greater exertion. I thought of the possibility of selling more translations to The Friend of Liberty; the editor was an acquaintance of mine and I had exchanged letters with him about two months earlier. But my heart beat violently just the same, and it pained me even more to see Tzu-chun's face turn pale, she who had always been so brave and fearless, but who seemed to have grown weak and timid of late.
"What does it matter? Heng, we'll find something new to do. We . . . "
She did not finish her sentence. I did not know why, but her voice sounded vague and unconvincing. The lamplight seemed dimmer than usual. What timid and laughable things human beings are! How profoundly affected they can be by little things like that! We first stared at each other in silence, then we began to talk about the situation, and we decided that we must do our best to stretch out as far as possible the little money we had, that we should put a classified advertisement in the papers for a copying or tutoring job and at the same time write to the editor of The Friend of Liberty, telling him of our present difficulties and asking him to help us by using some of my translations.
"Let us begin at once! Let us open up a new road!"
I turned resolutely to the table, pushing aside a bottle of sesame oil and a dish of vinegar while Tzu-chun brought to me the dim lamp. I first drafted an advertisement and then selected some books that I might translate. I had not opened any of them since we moved and they had been gathering dust. I left the letter to the last.
It was difficult. I did not know how to word it. When I stopped and tried to think, I would catch a glimpse of her face, so sad and crushed, in the dim lamplight. I never thought that such a little thing would cause such a noticeable change in Tzu-chun, who had been so resolute and fearless. The truth was that she had become very weak and timid of late—not only this evening. I felt more distressed than ever and in my distress I had suddenly a flash of the peaceful and serene life that had been mine in the dingy room at the Guild; in another moment I saw nothing but the dim lamplight.
After a long while the letter was finished. It was a lengthy letter and I felt tired, for I, too, seemed to have become weak and timid as compared with my former self. We decided that both the advertisement and the letter should be dispatched the next day. Unconsciously we both straightened our backs and seemed to feel, though neither of us said a word, a new courage and unconquerable spirit, and to see a new budding hope.
So this blow actually had an effect of awakening a new spirit in us. My life at the bureau was very much like that of a bird in the hands of a bird-peddler, who gives it just enough millet to keep it from starving but not enough to grow fat on. After a while its wings become feeble from disuse and it can no longer fly even if it should be let out of the cage. Now I have in any case escaped from the prison cage; I want to test my wings in unexplored and spacious skies before I have forgotten how to flap them.
A classified advertisement cannot be expected to produce results right away, naturally. Even translating is no easy matter. Things which I had read before and which I thought I had understood presented a thousand difficulties, when it came to actual translation. Thus my work was slowed down. But I was determined to overcome my difficulties, and the soiled edges of my dictionary (which had been almost new half a month ago) testified to my conscientiousness. The editor of The Friend of Liberty had told me that his publication would never turn down a good manuscript.
Unfortunately I did not have a quiet room to work in. Tzu-chun was not as quiet and considerate as she used to be. The room was always cluttered with bowls and dishes and filled with smoke from the stove, making work difficult. I had only myself to blame for not being able to afford a study, but there was Ah Sui, and there were the chickens—growing larger and larger, and more and more frequently the cause of quarrels between the two families.
On top of everything else, there were the meals, as "unceasing as the flowing rivers." It seemed that Tzu-chun's only interest and achievement in life was expressed in this matter of meals. After eating there was the problem of money; after the money had been raised, again there was the matter of eating; then Ah Sui had to be fed, and the chickens. Tzuchun seemed to have forgotten everything that she had ever known; she did not realize that my train of thoughts was frequently interrupted by her repeated announcements that dinner was ready. Even if I should take no trouble to hide my annoyance at table, she did not seem to sense it, but ate heartily as if nothing had happened.
It took five weeks to make her see that my work could not be regulated to fit in with the schedule of meals, and when she finally saw the situation, she probably did not like it, though she said nothing. As a consequence, my work began to proceed more rapidly. I turned out about fifty thousand words in a short time, which after some revision I would be able to send out, together with two other short pieces, to The Friend of Liberty. Food, however, remained a cause of annoyance. I did not mind its being cold but I did mind when there was not enough of it. Sometimes there was not even enough rice, though my appetite was considerably smaller than it used to be, as I stayed home at the desk all day. There was not enough to eat because she fed Ah Sui first, including the mutton that we so rarely treated ourselves to nowadays. Ah Sui had grown so pitiably thin, she said. The landlady sneered at us and she could not stand other people's sneers. Since Ah Sui ate before we did, there were only the chickens to eat our leftovers. It took me some time to discover all this and to realize that my place in the household was somewhere between the lapdog and the chickens, just as certain observations made it possible for Huxley to fix "Man's Place in Nature."
Later on, after many quarrels and at my insistence, the chickens gradually became part of our meals, and for some ten days both we and Ah Sui enjoyed this long-forgotten treat—though the fowls were lean because their regular diet had been reduced to a few grains of kaoliang each. The gradual disappearance of the chickens resulted in a greater quiet, but Tzu-chun missed them and seemed distracted and lost, to the extent of feeling disinclined to talk. How easy it is for people to change, I thought.
Soon we found it necessary to part with Ah Sui. We had given up hope of receiving any replies to our letters and for a long time Tzu-chun had nothing with which to tempt the little dog to sit up and paw the air. Winter came on with distressing speed and with it the problem of keeping a stove. Ah Sui's food was a burden that we had felt for a long time; now there was nothing to do but to part with the dog.
If we had taken it to the temple fair, we might have gotten a little something for it, but neither of us could or would do such a thing. In the end I blindfolded Ah Sui, took him outside the city wall and left him there. He tried to follow me back and I had to push him down a ditch, which, however, was not too deep.
I returned home feeling that I was rid of another load, but Tzu-chun's face alarmed me—in it I saw something I had never seen there before. It was, of course, because of Ah Sui, but I did not think that it could affect her to this extent. I did not tell her I had to push him down the ditch.
In the evening there appeared a chilliness in her countenance, where before it had been only sad and mournful.
"Why are you like this today, Tzu-chun?" I could not help asking.
"What?" she said without looking at me.
"Your face looks . . . "
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
But I could tell by her face and from the way she spoke that she had come to look upon me as a cruel man. The truth was that it would have been much easier for me if I had been alone. Although I was too proud to associate, in my present circumstances, with friends of the family, and had even kept away from my former friends since we moved, there were many roads open to me if I were free and could go where I pleased. The reason I accepted the oppressive burden of our present life was because of her, and that, too, was the reason why I got rid of Ah Sui. How could she be so childish as not to see this?
I took the first opportunity to explain to her this line of thought. She nodded as if she understood, but from the way she acted I could tell that she either did not understand or refused to believe what I said.
The chilliness of the weather and the chilliness of Tzu-chun made it difficult for me to stay at home. But where was I to go? Though there is no human chilliness on the streets and in the parks, the wind was too cold and biting for comfort. Finally I found my paradise in the public library.
No admission ticket was required and there were two iron stoves in the reading room. Even though there was barely enough coal to keep the fires going, yet the very sight of them had an effect of making one feel warm. As to the books, there were none worth reading: they were all ancient works—almost no new publications to speak of.
I did not mind this as I did not go there to read. There were usually a few men besides myself, sometimes as many as ten or fifteen, all thinly clad like myself, and all trying to keep warm under the pretext of reading. This suited me well. On the street I was always in danger of meeting people I knew and receiving from them contemptuous glances. There was no such danger in the library, for my more fortunate acquaintances preferred to sit by other iron stoves that they had access to, or by their own earthen stoves.
Though there were no books that I cared to read, I did find the atmosphere quiet and conducive to meditation. As I sat in the reading room and reviewed the past, I realized that during the past seven or eight months I had neglected—because of love, this blind love—other things in life just as important. The first of these is life itself, which is necessary for the embodiment of love and without which love cannot exist. There are still in this world roads to life for those who are willing to make the struggle, and I had not yet forgotten how to flap my wings, though I had become so much more ineffectual than I used to be.
The room and readers gradually disappear and I see fishermen in angry storms, soldiers in trenches, rich men in motor cars, opportunists in foreign concessions, unknown heroes in the fields and hills, professors on the platforms, politicians and thieves who carry on their work in the depth of the night.
As for Tzu-chun, she was not with me in these visions. She had lost her courage, she was distressed because of Ah Sui and was worried only about cooking. The strange thing was that she had not grown thin.
The room began to get cold and the half-dead coal finally burned itself out. It was closing time, time for me to go back to Chi-chao Hutung and face Tzu-chun's chilliness. There had been occasional spells of warmth, which only added to my distress. I remember that one evening her eyes suddenly sparkled with childlike innocence as she talked about the days at the Guild. I detected, however, a note of fear and anxiety in her cheerfulness and I realized that I had become indifferent to her indifference and this, in turn, had aroused in her fear and uncertainty. I tried to smile and to give her some measure of comfort. But no sooner did the smile appear on my face and the comforting words come out of my mouth than they began to seem hollow and meaningless, a meaninglessness which reëhoed in my ears with insufferable mockery.
Tzu-chun appeared to sense it. She lost her phlegmatic calm and tried to conceal, not always with success, her fear and uncertainty. She became more considerate of me.
I wanted to tell her the truth but did not have the courage. I was several times on the point of speaking to her, but a glance at her childlike eyes would shake my determination and force me to assume a forced smile, which immediately mocked at me and caused me to lose my calm.
Now she again commenced to review the past, devising new tests and forcing me to give her reassuring but false answers. These false answers might have given her some comfort and reassurance, but they choked my heart and oppressed me with their falsity. It is true that it takes a great deal of courage to speak the truth; one who does not have this courage but is always ready to compromise with falsehood is never a man to blaze new trails in life. Not only is he not such a man, but he might as well have not existed at all!
One morning, one very early and cold morning, I found Tzu-chun in an ill-humored mood. This was unusual for early morning. Her mood might have been the result of my own, for I was filled with resentment against her and was secretly sneering at her. I suddenly realized more clearly than ever before that her intellectual interests and her vaunted courage were only a pretense and that she did not seem to realize this pretense. She no longer touched any books, no longer seemed aware that the first step in life is to seek a way to make life possible; that in this quest we must either struggle hand in hand or part company and seek our own salvation; and that one who can only hang on to another's coattail will interfere with the bravest of warriors and bring destruction upon all.
I felt that our hope lay in separation. I felt that she ought to have the courage to leave me. The thought of her death occurred to me, but I immediately repented and cursed myself for the thought. Fortunately it was early in the morning. There was plenty of time in which to prime myself for speaking the truth. This was my chance to hew out a new road.
I chatted with her, taking care to direct our conversation to the past; I spoke of literature, of certain foreign writers and their works, of Nora in A Doll's House and of The Lady of the Sea, and I praised Nora's courage and determination. These were the things we used to talk about the year before in the dingy room in the Guild; now they sounded hollow and meaningless in my own ears; they sounded more like the mockery of a naughty boy behind one's back.
She listened attentively, nodding in assent, and I managed to finish my speech, which was followed by a silence.
"It is true," she said after a while, "but Chuan-sheng, I feel that you have changed. Is it true? Tell me the truth."
The directness of this question stunned me, but I immediately recovered and explained my ideas and my proposal: the hewing of a new road, the creation of a new life, the necessity of this decisive step if we were both to avoid the fate of perishing. Summoning up all the resolution I was capable of, I concluded with the following words: "Moreover, nothing needs to hold you back from resolutely embarking upon a new life because . . . You want me to tell you the truth. That is a fine thing, for people must not be false. Now I'll tell you the truth: nothing needs to hold you back because I no longer love you. This is a fortunate thing for you, because now you can live your own life without worrying about me . . . "
I had expected violent reaction to this, but there was only silence. Her face turned deathly pale and yellowed, but she recovered almost immediately. Her eyes sparkled with their childlike innocence, and while trying to avoid my eyes, flitted about the room like those of a hungry child looking for its mother.
I could bear it no longer. Fortunately it was in the morning. I went out into the cold wind and hastened toward the public library.
There I saw The Friend of Liberty and found that it had published all the short pieces that I had sent. This was a surprise and gave me some new hope. There are yet many ways to live, I said to myself, but the present mode will not do.
So I started to visit friends with whom I had long lost contact. This I did only two or three times. Their rooms were warm, it was true, but the way they received me chilled me to the marrow. At night I returned to a room colder than ice.
Icy needles kept pricking at my soul, causing me to suffer constantly from a numb pain. There are still many roads to life and I have not yet forgotten how to flap my wings, I thought determinedly to myself. Again the thought of her death—again I cursed myself immediately and repented.
In the public library I often got glimpses of light, of a new road to life ahead of me. Tzu-chun, suddenly awakened to the situation, had resolutely walked out of our icy home; she was, moreover, without the least trace of bitterness. I felt as light as clouds floating in space, with deep blue skies above and mountains and seas below, expansive mansions, battlefields, motor cars, foreign concessions, grand houses, bustling market places, dark night . . . What was more, I actually had a feeling that this new life was about to open up before me.
We managed to live through the winter, a harsh Peking winter. We were like a dragon fly that had fallen into the hands of a naughty boy, and was tied to a fine thread, teased and cruelly abused. Though it might come through alive, it would be only half alive and would soon die.
Finally, after I had written him three letters, I heard from the editor of The Friend of Liberty. He enclosed only two book coupons of twenty- and thirty-cent denominations, while it cost me nine cents in cash for postage. Thus we went hungry one whole day for nothing.
However, what I had expected to happen finally did happen around the end of winter and the beginning of spring. The wind was no longer so cold and I had been in the habit of staying out for longer and longer periods. It was after dark when I came home. Yes, I had returned home at this hour many a time, weary and dispirited, and feeling all the more so as I saw our gate and slackened my pace still further. Eventually I entered our own room. There was no light. When I found the matches and lit the lamp, the room seemed more than usually solitary and empty.
As I was trying to take in the situation, the landlady came to our window and asked me to come out.
"Tzu-chun's father came today and took her home," she said simply.
This was not what I had expected and I was taken aback and stood there speechless.
"Has she gone?" this was the only question that I was able to frame.
"She has gone."
"She—did she say anything?"
"No, she did not say anything. She only asked me to tell you when you came back that she had gone."
I could not believe it, although the room had impressed me as so strangely solitary and empty. I looked around, half expecting to find Tzu-chun, but I saw only a few pieces of old, decrepit furniture, all testifying to her inability to hide anything from anyone. Perhaps she had left a letter or note; but there was none. I found, however, that she had gathered up in one heap the salt and dried peppers, flour, and half a head of cabbage and had placed by it twenty or thirty coppers. These were our entire resources and she had left them all to me so that I might manage to live on them until something else turned up.
I felt oppressed and rushed out into the darkness of the courtyard. The landlady's room was bright and resounded with children's laughter. My heart calmed down and there gradually emerged out of the oppressiveness of my situation a path into life: hills and lakes, foreign concessions, elaborate banquets under bright electric lights, ditches and moats, a dark, dark night, a blow of a sharp sword, noiseless footsteps . . .
I felt somewhat relieved and lighter; I even uttered a contemptuous "pooh" when I thought of the practical matter of traveling expenses.
Lying in bed, the future, as far as I was able to imagine it, soon exhausted itself before my eyes. In the darkness I seemed to see a pile of food, then the sallow, pale face of Tzu-chun, looking at me imploringly with her childlike eyes. When my gaze steadied, I could see nothing.
My heart again grew heavy. Why could I not have endured it a few days longer? Why must I have so impulsively told her the truth? Now that I had told her, there was nothing for her to look forward to but the harshness, as harsh as the burning sun, of her father—her creditor—and the chilly glances, chillier than frost and ice, of her friends and relatives. Outside of these there was only emptiness. How fearful was the prospect of walking along the so-called road of life with this heavy burden of emptiness on one's back and with nothing to encourage one except harshness and chilly glances! Especially when at the end of the road there was only—a tomb without even a tombstone!
I should not have told Tzu-chun the truth. Since we had loved each other once, I should have lied to her and told her that I loved her still. Truth cannot be such a precious thing if it has nothing better to offer Tzu-chun than this heavy burden of emptiness. Falsehood would, it is true, also lead to nothing in the end, but at the worst its burden could hardly be any heavier.
I thought that after I had told Tzu-chun the truth she would be able to walk resolutely ahead with absolute freedom, as resolutely and courageously as when we had decided to live together. But I am afraid that I was wrong. Her courage and her fearlessness of that time were born of love.
Because I did not have the courage to bear the burden of falsehood, I had loaded upon her the burden of truth. Ever since she fell in love with me, she had assumed this heavy burden and walked with it along the so-called road of life, with nothing but harshness and chilly glances to encourage her.
I thought of her death . . . Now I saw myself as a coward, a coward who should be ostracized by the strong, whether they be liars or truthful men. Yet in spite of my cowardice she had been anxious to help me maintain my livelihood as long as possible.
I wanted to leave Chi-chao Hutung, where it was so strangely solitary and empty. If I could only leave this place, I thought, it would be as though Tzu-chun were still here in the city. She might one day unexpectedly come to see me as she used to when I was at the Guild.
The new road to life continued to elude me; all my inquiries and letters failed to get any favorable response. As a last resort I went to see a friend of my family, a boyhood schoolmate of my uncle's, a specially presented licentiate known for his selfrighteousness. He was an old resident of the capital and had a wide circle of friends.
It was probably because of my worn old clothes that I was received with contemptuous and suspicious glances by the gatekeeper. When at last I was admitted, the man I had come to see recognized me, though he was very cold. He knew everything that had happened.
"Of course, you cannot live here any longer," he said after I had told him of my desire to go elsewhere to find a position. "But where to go? It is very difficult. Your—what should we call her? Suppose we call her your friend. Do you know that she has died?"
I was speechless.
"Is it true?" I asked finally.
"Of course it is true. Our servant Wang Sheng comes from the same village as she did."
"But—how did she die?"
"Who knows? She just died, that's all."
I have forgotten how I left him and how I managed to get back to my lodgings. I knew that he was not one to tell stories. Tzu-chun would never come again to see me as she used to last year. Even if she had wished to walk along the so-called road of life with a heavy burden of emptiness on her back and with nothing to encourage her except harshness and cold glances, it was now no longer possible. Her fate was sealed when I presented her with the truth and she had died in a loveless world!
Of course I could no longer live here, but truly "where to go?"[2]
All around me was limitless emptiness and a deathly stillness. I seemed to see the blackness faced by those who die loveless and to hear the sound of their tragic and hopeless struggle.
I still waited for something to happen, something I could not define, something I could not foresee. But day after day, day after day, there was only deathly stillness.
I went out even less than I used to do. I only sat and lay in a limitless expanse of emptiness and allowed the deathly stillness to eat away my soul. Sometimes this deathly stillness seemed to tremble for fear of itself, seemed to retire of its own will. It was at such times, when the deathly stillness was in temporary retirement, that the undefinable, unexpected new hope flashed before me.
One dark forenoon, before the sun had been able to struggle out from behind the clouds, when even the air seemed weary, I heard the patter of light footsteps and a sound of sniffing. I opened my eyes, and I glanced around the room; it was empty, as usual. But I chanced to look down, and there, curled up on the floor I saw a tiny creature, lean, weak, half dead and covered with dirt.
I steadied my glance and my heart stopped. I jumped up. It was Ah Sui. He had come back.
It was not only because of the chilly glances of the landlady and her maidservant that I left Chi-chao Hutung; it was mostly because of Ah Sui. But "where to go?" There were, indeed, many new roads to life of which I had some vague knowledge. Sometimes I seemed to catch actual glimpses of them right in front of my eyes; but I did not know the necessary first step which would enable me to break into those new regions.
After many deliberations and comparisons, the Guild appeared to be the most suitable place as far as lodgings were concerned. So I came here. It is the same dingy room, the same bed of boards, the same half-dead locust tree and wisteria, but that which used to fill me with hope, joy, love, and life is now entirely gone, leaving only an emptiness, an emptiness which I have exchanged for truth.
There are still many new roads to life and I must continue my quest as long as I live. But still I do not know how to take the first step toward those new roads. Sometimes the road to life appeared like a long white snake, wriggling and rushing toward me. I waited and waited but it disappeared into the darkness when it came close.
The spring nights grew longer; night after night, I sat and sat as if lost. One evening I recalled a funeral procession that I had seen on the street that morning. In front of the procession there were paper effigies of men and horses; in the rear walked the mourners uttering sing-song cries. How wise they were, what a simple and sensible way of treating death!
Then I had a vision of Tzu-chun's funeral: she bore, alone, the burden of emptiness as she went to her grave along the long gray road. But bitter as it was, this vision gave way to something even worse—the harsh judgment and chilly glances that followed her.
I wish there were such a thing as ghosts and spirits; I wish there were really such a thing as hell. Then, no matter how furiously the winds of hell roar, I shall go and look for Tzu-chun, and tell her of my sorrow and repentance and ask for her forgiveness. If this is impossible then let the vicious fires of hell enfold me and fiercely consume me and cleanse me of remorse and sorrow.
In the midst of the furious winds and vicious fires of hell, I would embrace Tzu-chun and beg for forgiveness; perhaps I would make her happy . . .
But speculations like these were even idler than thoughts of the new roads to life. The only thing I am sure of is that spring nights are long. As long as I live, I must step onto the new road to life, but the first step that I have been able to take was only to write down my remorse and my sorrow, for Tzu-chun and myself.
Like the mourners I saw this morning, I have nothing but sing-song cries for Tzu-chun's burial, her burial in oblivion. And I, too, want only oblivion; for my own sake I do not even want to remember that I have had nothing better to offer for Tzu-chun's burial than oblivion.
I want to take my first step onto the new road of life. I want to hide truth deeply in the wounds of my heart and to walk on silently and resolutely, with oblivion and falsehood as my guide . . .
- ↑ The regulation dress of girl students during the first ten or fifteen years of the republic.
- ↑ The repetition with quotation marks of the question that the narrator's friend put to him has the effect of emphasizing the helplessness of the situation and perhaps of the speaker's perfunctory solicitude. It is a device which Lusin uses frequently, though its full effect is not felt in translation.