The Three Leaps of Wang Lun

by Alfred Doblin

  “What’s the good of scolding, smith? How can we help it? We’re not going to set on the troops and be crushed like flies. Hypocrite, rabble-rouser!”

  “He’s a fool, a fo-priest!”

  “He led Li astray, now he comes here with his nose in the air.”

  “Let me be what I will. You are not my brothers.”

  A man sprang possessed around a table and clapped his hands: “We don’t want to be your brothers. We don’t want to be your brothers. Don’t listen to him, throw him out, he’s dangerous, he’ll bring disaster on us all. I have a father and three small children!”

  “Let Ngo say what he has to say. Ngo, speak up.”

  “Brothers, I’m staying here. I shan’t leave this room, shan’t bring disaster on you. Douse the light, they’ll see shadows from outside.”

  Into the dark animated room two little square windows of paper, illuminated by the moon, gazed like terrified eyes. Scraping, grumbling along the walls. “He’ll bring disaster on us!”

  “I ignore your insults because I feel sorry for you. In a couple of weeks, months it will all be over. Wang Lun is on his way. The White Waterlily, your league, has sent word to you from Shantung of what’s going to happen. They haven’t yet put a cangue around your necks; your houses are still standing. Soldiers have already entered the town. I’m not ranting like an agitator. We Truly Powerless can find our own path without any help; we can’t miss it.”

  “Stop dreaming, Ngo. Go on!”

  “I’m not going to tell you anything about our Western Paradise. The Truly Powerless don’t yearn for the black river; they shouldn’t cut us down like weeds. I can’t speak of an enemy; but if there is one, then he’s yours as well. And that’s why I’m speaking to you, and that’s why you must listen to me. Your lives, parents, children depend on it.”

  The smith hissed, “There’s no justice for us little folk, no justice. No Gods hear us, only the spies of the God of Death. Everyone’s against us: the Emperor’s the Son of Heaven, every spirit of the towns and walls, rivers, fields is at his command. Rejoice that violence shall be visited on the traitors to the land. See, I rejoice!”

  Ngo’s teeth chattered. “We’ve been thrown from our course. We can’t let our brothers and sisters be slaughtered. All of us moan and wail, as I do. I’m no rabble-rouser; I am grieved that you should take me for one. Oh, what are you thinking of to drive us away? How can I look on the bloodbath they’ll unleash on us and on your numerous kin? Have you ever heard of Ma No? Don’t stand there dumb; listen to the smith. Wasn’t Li dear to you, whose ghost is hovering around this door? I’m not bringing you disaster. I’ve cast myself off from parents, ancestors, honours. Do you think I did it for nothing and for nothing? You’re pitiless, blind. I’m no different. I fling open doors, rip paper from the windows and cry into the street: I am Ngo, once a captain of the Imperial Guard, on whom the Emperor bestowed a little bag of peppermint; I’m a friend of Wang Lun, of dead Ma No, of murdered Li, sit here in the guildhouse deserted by the guilds who ought to stand with me, are too cowardly to stand with me. I cry it into the streets so that the ghosts, evil, restless souls in the mud of the street, in the branches hear it. Like us Truly Powerless they have no place on earth, no salvation, no kind looks, no incense; they’ll hear me. Help me, help me, dear wicked ghosts!”

  And already he was spouting the names of wicked demons, the mere naming of which can bring death. Rhythmically the old necromancer swayed his head back and forth, called out the unholy names. Fearfully guildsmen crowded together in the corners, thrust fingers in their ears, wrung their hands. The smith called to them: he’d better tie Ngo up, lock him in a room. The smith and Ngo whispered together. Suddenly they all gathered round the two men, squatted down, whispered, pupils and nostrils wide with excitement at the spirit masters. Ngo, breathing calmly again, stared straight before him, bowed his head.

  In the marketplace stood the most imposing building in the entire quarter: the Town God’s temple. It rose from among shops and stalls; behind it a broad park with lovely flowerbeds and a conservatory. Without a thought, market hawkers threw their rubbish and their sweepings in front of the redpainted wooden porch. Sometimes acrobats jumped high enough to touch the green tassels of the hanging lanterns. Beggars and blind musicians loafed in droves between two stone Pekinese at the sides of the entrance. These grey beasts, eyes bulging like eggs, had ruffled tails: one like a fan, the other like a spread peacock’s tail. High double roofs swept up like ships’ prows; on their black ribs armoured horsemen, halberds, dangling swords and daggers glinted. On the highest roofrib a silver warrior strode between two archers bearing shields, who took aim at those below. People shoved through the porch, thronged to theatricals in the temple courtyard. Barbers shaved in the aisles, lily hawkers yelled; street sweepers, public and private, went up and down, collected filth with rakes and shovels. Dusty urchins played at tiles.

  In front of the prayer hall in the centre of the huge courtyard a stage stood open on all sides. The erectors had heaped every splendour above it, the flamboyance garish against the restrained magnificence of the temple. It rose from the ground like a dancing girl whose round gaze makes the world disappear. Eight smooth pillars of wood thrust up a high roof, whose four violently upswung prows ended over the eaves, as if the movement rolling silently down the temple roof was meant to rebound back on high. Red and blue tassels, pennants, bells from the eaves. Above the black roofribs white horses clattered; the wild warriors’ metal ornaments, weapons tinkled. High under the roof an animal crept outwards from the pillars, snuggled stretched on its belly, high under the roof unfurled iridescent wings, buried its white beak in the wood, red-gold glittering back: birdbeast, the Phoenix.

  From behind the stage, so lofty that nothing of its roofridge could be seen from the yard, rose the temple. Not broad in the leg; like a peasant, but (this was its secret) it resembled the hunchback: cicada-catcher in Lieh-tzu: he balanced little balls of earth on a lime rod; when he could keep five balls there one behind the other, he was ready and could catch cicadas just so, holding his: arm out like a dry branch, his body like a tree trunk. His will had; condensed without cracking. Mighty the temple stood there, heard nothing of the players’ music; it concealed the bustle of conceit, let through mockingly little light onto the collection of spirits, gods that it protected. Misfortune lay on it. The wooden statue of the town god, a month ago still richly clad, adorned with a seal, lay violated in the gloom. An unworthy idol had been elevated to town god. When the disturbances, attacks, outbreaks of arson came, the magistrate had him stripped naked and, to aggravate his punishment, dragged to the porch and chains hung around his neck. When peace returned he was taken back to his place, dressed in a cheap shirt and gown; blackened by sunlight and indignities he stood silent in the dead stillness of the room. None of the many brightly coloured assistants who stood around him, secretaries, spies, executioner, snoops, policemen, had any doubt that the goaded, strongwilled god would soon dare his all. The town had brought forth a demon.

  Close by the temple entrance lay a secret entrance to the great pawnshop that served the guilds, secret societies for a meeting place. The rebels felt safest in this place next to the dwelling of the protector of the walls and moats. The long low storeroom was closely packed with household objects, bundles of clothing, theatrical costumes, ornaments, sedan chairs. An oily smell rose from bundles and chests. On most days rats and mice were all that moved. On the third day after Ngo’s discussion in the guildhouse more than three hundred people squatted here—it was after the market had closed—silent and waiting. They sat everywhere, mostly everyday clothes. Greetings, nods, the strangest postures. Most knew each other, leaders of the principal societies, brothers, sisters of the Wu-wei sect, silent Ngo. The smith called softly to a white bearded man, “Won’t the old teacher tell the guests what they would like to hear?”

  The resonant voice of the teacher: “Most respectful greetings. This ignorant slave would not
presume to instruct you. His doddering head knows nothing any more. This moribund gives thanks that he is able to be with you all!”

  Many sat down around him. A small pair of steps was pushed towards him. Ngo made a profound bow: “Would the old gentleman please instruct us.” Others called out the same. The teacher smiled to all sides, chewed his toothless mouth; he clambered up two rungs.

  “I come from the village in Shantung where the sage Lo Huai was born. He is our great teacher. He did well to find this warehouse, with its clothes and bundles, for a sober pious gathering place. Great powers and forces there are; but whether you follow Wang Lun or are just friendly to him, you know that we don’t pray to a thousand Buddhas like the bonzes and fo-priests. We leave the Tashi-lama and the Dalai-lama to Emperor Ch’ien-lung. Our Buddha looks on us from Heaven, from hills and streams; thunderclaps are a better greeting for him than trumpets and gongs. His incense is the clouds and winds; he drinks his tea from the five lakes and the four seas and hearkens to the rustling of the leaves and branches, the rustling of his own waving banners. We have no other Buddha than the warm wind and rain, no Buddha, oh woe, than the typhoons that sweep along the coast. No one is with us, southward, westward or here at home. We blackhaired sons of Han are alone. We are yellow like the soil, like water. Those who live in the soft south are bloated, frisk in gay clothes. On the river of the Black Dragon the land is as hard as the people. And so they all survive. Our houses rise unremarkable like firmrooted cress from the earth, heeding the spiritual pulses and the currents of the air. Thus we make ourselves like the Tao, the way of the world, deny it nothing. We who have been taken up by Wang Lun are not shackled to fate by cangue and legirons. As the ancient words say: to be weak in the face of fate is a man’s only triumph. We must come to consciousness before the Tao, embrace it; then it follows like a child. This old dribbler makes no sense, oh, he is ashamed of his feeble mind.”

  The old man moved down one rung, crouched, a white monkey, and closed his eyes. Deep in thought many of the rawboned men sat in the gangways; groups crouched on huge bundles and looked across, pressed the bundles flat.

  A well-dressed young man, opening his fan, stood on a rickety Eight Immortals table across from the old man’s ladder. People turned to look as the table creaked. He spoke in a rapid voice.

  “The old gentleman and my worthy comrades won’t take it amiss if I speak up. I shan’t try to emulate the old gentleman. We have no splendid temples, no monasteries decorated by the Dragon Son and showered with gold ingots. No silk-clad bonzes pray for us, leading sons and daughters of the East astray. Foreign altars evoke in us just laughter, shoulder-shrugging. I too take the pure path and seek the chi. We and our descendants want to approach the pinnacle of Imperial power. But however you others who don’t hold with us friends of Wu-wei think of us: we are of the East, and not yellow bonzes; we are children of the hundred families, and not holy men and dignitaries from the Mountain of Mercy, received by the Emperor in triumphal procession. He came down here from Tibet, died in the Huang-szu, was sent home in a golden stupa. The foreigners all stick together, the Manchus and lamas. The lamaseries devour the soft warm tripes of our land; that’s permitted; but we, we have our heads cut off though we demand nothing, disturb no one. We in our thousands-but you know us, dear respected brothers, you coolie gentlemen from the junks and the others. We were born of the yellow earth, and peaceable as we are don’t want to be driven out by foreign priests and emperors. We should have control over the Eighteen Provinces, from Liaotung to the lands of the Miao. What have we done? Rampaging scoundrels in soldiers’ uniforms strut with their halberds through our market places. Who’ll be shackled today, whose tongue will be cut out, who’ll be flogged tomorrow? We were born in this province and should be allowed to fare peaceably in it.”

  A general murmur: “Good, good.”

  The young man tottering excited on the table continued speaking. The old man tried to calm him with huzzas.

  “Do you know who our most poisonous enemies are? Our enemy and yours? What’s our enemy called? The rock, the tree trunk, the broken lute? K’ung-tzu!”

  It was taken up in the gangways: “The mandarins, the literati, K’ung-tzu, K’ung-tzu!” A general: “K’ung-tzu!” With a grinding of teeth: “The oppressers, the mandarins!” Goading: “K’ung-tzu!”

  More rasping from the unsteady Eight Immortals table: “Who is Confucius? What does he want? The third evil! He taught us to wash our mouths, comb our hair, bow to princes, many good things, many bad. For us poor people he died long ago and has nothing more to say. Manchus, lamas and mandarins pray to him, and so we can’t pray to him. They’ve snatched him away from us, taken away from us what was good in him. His soul in Peking ought to be glad we don’t burn incense to him, but sweep him from our doorways with harsh words. I hate him, we all hate him, the empty tin pan. The wise old gentleman who spoke before me was right: we must be weak in the face of fate, we have no other choice. We’re poor. Whoever throws away all he has, does well; but even he loses his head, like Li as he strolled. Oppressers, alien wolves, crocodiles, foxes are our fate. The Manchu swagger in their offices, cheat their way through the exams, overturn our carts and sedan chairs in the street, tramp paths wide with their broad feet. The villainous, godless dynasty! Their fate will be fulfilled, before ours or after ours. The longnoses will destroy the land, and it is all K’ung-tzu’s fault. We have nothing left but powerlessness.”

  He had grown calmer as he spoke, cast off a mocking agitating shrillness in his tone, gestures, movements. Women walked about sobbing. Excited groups formed, dissolved, formed again. The young orator, drops of sweat on his pale forehead, sauntered shoulder to shoulder with Ngo down a gangway. Tears had sprung unbidden even into Ngo’s eyes. The magic word “Ming” hung in the air. It cropped up in every gathering of the White Waterlily, often among the Truly Powerless, as in other gatherings the chi-plant, the Isles of the East, the Western Paradise.

  The long room was lit by many small paper windows. It grew dark. The rattling, rustling, drumming, calling, crying in the marketplace, temple yard died away. Through windows on the room’s narrow side, sheaves of light poured from the yard onto baskets, utensils. During the young man’s speech soft music, fine singing had been heard, now a declamation: the play was beginning.

  While the crowd jostled, wrinkled brows, gave off a stink of sweat, two elderly men from the coolies’ guild grasped a little potbellied man by the arms and tried to pull him to the steps. This man, clean-garbed, sleek, was an educated man who owned a farm and a windmill for husking rice, and like many others held to the Ming tradition out of respect for his ancestors.

  On the steps he smacked his lips, inundated by happy voices, bowed; people pressed about him. His head lay low between round padded shoulders. As he spoke, his little hands moved drolly up and down, left and right. He smiled. His performance was a showpiece, a hit. He said, in his soft, dark voice, “Once there was an abbot.” Several in the audience sang it back at him, lulled, showing their gums in delight. The man pulled his queue to his chest, stroked it like a child.

  “Once there was an abbot. He lived at peace in his monastery. When the sun shone hot one noontime the abbot laid his hat on his face, fell asleep. He dreamed. He dreamed of a council of the gods. He saw the Three Great Pure Ones at a table, with them the Jade Lord, the charitable son of King Pure Virtue and Queen Moonlight. What I tell you is half a fairy tale. So the Jade Lord bent down to the abbot, raised his shoulders to tell a secret, said, ‘I’m going to have a woman wander into your monastery. She’ll be the mother of a great emperor. She’ll bear him under my sign: Sun and Moon.’ When the abbot woke up, he asked the porter whether any woman had come by. None had. The pious man went through every cell, every hall, climbed up to the hills, down into the caves. No child’s cry. In the evening a hawker with his cartload of junk came to the gate. His pregnant wife was with him. Both were dressed in rags. Sadly the abbot gave them pills so the birth woul
d go right. The whole monastery slept. In the morning the child came. Soft music of flutes and panpipes was in the air, birds pecked the paper from the window where the mother lay. They perched as thick as on lime rods and warbled to the crying of the child. A halo appeared around the sun. So poor was the father that he had to fish a piece of red silk out of the river to wrap the child in. Little Yuan-chang, the trembling little maggot Yuan-chang was wrapped in a rag of red silk.

  “And when he grew bigger he had to follow the cowherds into the meadows. Was himself a cowherd. And one day when there were five of them out there in the meadow he wanted to give them a treat. He went off, slaughtered a calf, stuck its tail in a cleft in the rocks. Yuan-chang stuck the calf’s tail in a cleft in the rocks. And then they called him their captain. But the man who owned the calf looked for the creature, found the tail. Took a rod, and two rods, and the boy had to flee in sorrow. Hungering through the meadows went Yuan-chang. But the Sun showed him the way, the Moon guided him on. A monk took him by the hand, took him to his cave, shaved his head. Yuan-chang, the shrimp Yuan-chang became cook boy in the monastery. Lamps he had to light in the rooms, censers he had to swing, heavy censers in his tender hands, herbs he had to dry, bells calling the whole day. He was in the monastery where his beggar mother had borne him. They beat him, teased him all around the house, even the abbot to whom the Jade Lord had revealed his prophecy. But once the abbot saw the boy with a ruddy glow about his face. The abbot was fearful. He sent him to the woods, to fetch kindling from across the swamp to make a fine sauce. Yuan-chang ran fast, sank in when he came to the swamp, sank in. Yuan-chang sank up to his shoulders, up to his neck, to his mouth. And as he cried out piteously and wallowed like a toad in the mire, cried for his dear father, his dear mother, out of the wood came a golden sprite. Ah, it’s a fairy tale, a pretty fairy tale, my grandfather told it me. The sprite pulled him out by the fingers. And he was no longer a cook boy. The water had set lots of white pearls about his neck, he was clad in purple and brocade from his immersion in the swamp. He had a girdle with jade clasps. Bedecked with finery, Yuan-chang strolled gracefully back to the monastery like an Imperial prince. And at once the abbot knew his name.”