The Big Red Book of Modern Chinese Literature

by Yunte Huang

  The disaster of the First World War might have made some Chinese intellectuals question the virtues of Western civilizations, but the success of the Russian revolution brought more radical ideas to China. Especially after the founding of the Chinese Communist Party in 1921, literature and politics seemed to have become conjoined. While in the first quarter of the century Chinese writers had enjoyed a degree of freedom in the absence of a strong political regime, Chiang Kai-shek’s consolidation of power in 1927 and his subsequent purge and persecution of communist sympathizers ushered in a period called the “Reign of White Terror.” The temporary setback to radical politics led to an outburst of both soul-searching and socially engaged writings, including Ding Ling’s Miss Sophia’s Diary (1928), Mao Dun’s Rainbow (1930), and Ba Jin’s Family (1931).

  In 1931 Japan occupied Manchuria, alarming all Chinese that their country might be doomed. The rising tide of patriotism brought renewed energy to Chinese literature. Xiao Hong wrote her first novel, The Field of Life and Death (1935), after she had been displaced from her native Manchuria, followed by a semi-autobiographical piece, Tales of Hulan River, about a birthplace she would never see again. Shen Congwen published Border Town in 1934, a novel about western Hunan, a frontier area of pristine natural beauty and a simple way of life threatened by war and other human deviltries. In his 1936 novel Rickshaw, Lao She created a memorable character of a rickshaw puller whose life takes an unexpected turn after he is kidnapped by the army.

  The full-blown Sino-Japanese War in 1937 further galvanized Chinese writers, many of whom participated directly in the resistance movement. The Communists, after a brutal Long March, had by this time gained a foothold in the Yan’an area in northern China. In 1942, Mao Zedong delivered a famous speech on art and literature, proclaiming that “literature must serve politics.” The full effect of Mao’s speech would not be felt until 1949, when the Communists defeated Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalists after a civil war (1945–49) in the wake of the Japanese surrender and gained control of the country.

  Yet we should not forget writers who self-consciously turned away from overt ideological agendas and dwelled instead on topics of everyday life, pop culture, leisure, and so on. The rise in the 1920s of the School of Mandarin Duck and Butterfly, a genre of fiction featuring romantic love, scandals, and mysteries, as exemplified by He Haiming’s “For the Love of Her Feet” (1923), testifies to the vitality of popular literature. Lin Yutang’s gently humorous prose in My Country and My People (1935) made him the foremost interpreter of Chinese culture to the English-speaking world in the 1930s. He once stated that he would prefer to write about his toothbrush than about current national issues. Like Lin, Zhou Zuoren wrote about reading in the lavatory and other seemingly trivial matters. The kind of satirical verve and comic spirit so masterfully cultivated by Chinese literati for centuries found perhaps its best expression in Qian Zhongshu’s Fortress Besieged (1947), a novel of disarming wit and utter delight, a gem of fiction that would unfortunately be buried in the annals of literary history as twentieth century China entered the Revolutionary Era under Communist rule.*

  * Due to difficulty in clearing permission from the Qian Zhongshu estate, we are unfortunately unable to include an excerpt from Fortress Besieged. For the same reason we are unable to include Love in a Fallen City by Eileen Chang.

  LU XUN

  (1881–1936)

  Born Zhou Shuren in Zhejiang, Lu Xun, the foremost writer of modern China, started out with an ambition to be a doctor in order to cure the diseases of his people. While studying medicine in Japan (1904–1906), he realized that it would be far more important to save souls than bodies, as he recounts in his autobiographical “Preface to Call to Arms,” which follows. He turned to literature and adopted the pen name “Lu Xun,” as in “revolution.” In 1918 he published “A Madman’s Diary,” one of the earliest stories written in vernacular Chinese and a scathing critique of the hypocrisy and inhumanity of the feudalist, Confucian tradition. A daunting and fearless fighter wielding his pen as a weapon, he wrote, in addition to many stories, more than six hundred polemical and occasional essays. When he died of tuberculosis in 1936, mourners covered his body with a silk banner that read “Soul of the Nation.”

  Preface to Call to Arms

  When I was young I, too, had many dreams. Most of them came to be forgotten, but I see nothing in this to regret. For although recalling the past may make you happy, it may sometimes also make you lonely, and there is no point in clinging in spirit to lonely bygone days. However, my trouble is that I cannot forget completely, and these stories have resulted from what I have been unable to erase from my memory.

  For more than four years I used to go, almost daily, to a pawnbroker’s and to a medicine shop. I cannot remember how old I was then; but the counter in the medicine shop was the same height as I, and that in the pawnbroker’s twice my height. I used to hand clothes and trinkets up to the counter twice my height, take the money proffered with contempt, then go to the counter the same height as I to buy medicine for my father who had long been ill. On my return home I had other things to keep me busy, for since the physician who made out the prescriptions was very well-known, he used unusual drugs: aloe root dug up in winter, sugarcane that had been three years exposed to frost, twin crickets, and ardisia . . . all of which were difficult to procure. But my father’s illness went from bad to worse until he died.

  I believe those who sink from prosperity to poverty will probably come, in the process, to understand what the world is really like. I wanted to go to the K—— school in N——,* perhaps because I was in search of a change of scene and faces. There was nothing for my mother to do but to raise eight dollars for my traveling expenses, and say I might do as I pleased. That she cried was only natural, for at that time the proper thing was to study the classics and take the official examinations. Anyone who studied “foreign subjects” was looked down upon as a fellow good for nothing, who, out of desperation, was forced to sell his soul to foreign devils. Besides, she was sorry to part with me. But in spite of that, I went to N—— and entered the K—— school; and it was there that I heard for the first time the names of such subjects as natural science, arithmetic, geography, history, drawing, and physical training. They had no physiology course, but we saw wood block editions of such works as A New Course on the Human Body and Essays on Chemistry and Hygiene. Recalling the talk and prescriptions of physicians I had known and comparing them with what I now knew, I came to the conclusion those physicians must be either unwitting or deliberate charlatans; and I began to sympathize with the invalids and families who suffered at their hands. From translated histories I also learned that the Japanese Reformation had originated, to a great extent, with the introduction of Western medical science to Japan.

  These inklings took me to a provincial medical college in Japan. I dreamed a beautiful dream that on my return to China I would cure patients like my father, who had been wrongly treated, while if war broke out I would serve as an army doctor, at the same time strengthening my countrymen’s faith in reformation.

  I do not know what advanced methods are now used to teach microbiology, but at that time lantern slides were used to show the microbes; and if the lecture ended early, the instructor might show slides of natural scenery or news to fill up the time. This was during the Russo-Japanese War, so there were many war films, and I had to join in the clapping and cheering in the lecture hall along with the other students. It was a long time since I had seen any compatriots, but one day I saw a film showing some Chinese, one of whom was bound, while many others stood around him. They were all strong fellows but appeared completely apathetic. According to the commentary, the one with his hands bound was a spy working for the Russians, who was to have his head cut off by the Japanese military as a warning to others, while the Chinese beside him had come to enjoy the spectacle.

  Before the term was over I had left for Tokyo, because after this film I felt that medical science was not s
o important after all. The people of a weak and backward country, however strong and healthy they may be, can only serve to be made examples of, or to witness such futile spectacles; and it doesn’t really matter how many of them die of illness. The most important thing, therefore, was to change their spirit, and since at that time I felt that literature was the best means to this end, I determined to promote a literary movement. There were many Chinese students in Tokyo studying law, political science, physics, and chemistry, even police work and engineering, but not one studying literature or art. However, even in this uncongenial atmosphere I was fortunate enough to find some kindred spirits. We gathered the few others we needed, and after discussion our first step, of course, was to publish a magazine, the title of which denoted that this was a new birth. As we were then rather classically inclined, we called it Xin Sheng (New Life).

  When the time for publication drew near, some of our contributors dropped out, and then our funds were withdrawn, until finally there were only three of us left, and we were penniless. Since we had started our magazine at an unlucky hour, there was naturally no one to whom we could complain when we failed; but later even we three were destined to part, and our discussions of a dream future had to cease. So ended this abortive New Life.

  Only later did I feel the futility of it all; at that time I did not really understand anything. Later I felt if a man’s proposals met with approval, it should encourage him; if they met with opposition, it should make him fight back; but the real tragedy for him was to lift up his voice among the living and meet with no response, neither approval nor opposition, just as if he were left helpless in a boundless desert. So I began to feel lonely.

  And this feeling of loneliness grew day by day, coiling about my soul like a huge poisonous snake. Yet in spite of my unaccountable sadness, I felt no indignation; for this experience had made me reflect and see that I was definitely not the heroic type who could rally multitudes at his call.

  However, my loneliness had to be dispelled, for it was causing me agony. So I used various means to dull my senses, both by conforming to the spirit of the time and turning to the past. Later I experienced or witnessed even greater loneliness and sadness, which I do not like to recall, preferring that it should perish with me. Still my attempt to deaden my senses was not unsuccessful—I had lost the enthusiasm and fervor of my youth.

  IN S—† HOSTEL there were three rooms where it was said a woman had lived who hanged herself on the locust tree in the courtyard. Although the tree had grown so tall that its branches could no longer be reached, the rooms remained deserted. For some years I stayed here, copying ancient inscriptions. I had few visitors, there were no political problems or issues in those inscriptions, and my only desire was that my life should slip quietly away like this. On summer nights, when there were too many mosquitoes, I would sit under the locust tree, waving my fan and looking at the specks of sky through the thick leaves, while the caterpillars which came out in the evening would fall, icy-cold, onto my neck.

  The only visitor to come for an occasional talk was my old friend Chin Hsin-yi. He would put his big portfolio down on the broken table, take off his long gown, and sit facing me, looking as if his heart was still beating fast after braving the dogs.

  “What is the use of copying these?” he demanded inquisitively one night, after looking through the inscriptions I had copied.

  “No use at all.”

  “Then why copy them?”

  “For no particular reason.”

  “I think you might write something. . . .”

  I understood. They were editing the magazine New Youth,‡ but hitherto there seemed to have been no reaction, favorable or otherwise, and I guessed they must be feeling lonely. However, I said:

  “Imagine an iron house without windows, absolutely indestructible, with many people fast asleep inside who will soon die of suffocation. But you know since they will die in their sleep, they will not feel the pain of death. Now if you cry aloud to wake a few of the lighter sleepers, making those unfortunate few suffer the agony of irrevocable death, do you think you are doing them a good turn?”

  “But if a few awake, you can’t say there is no hope of destroying the iron house.”

  True, in spite of my own conviction, I could not blot out hope, for hope lies in the future. I could not use my own evidence to refute his assertion that it might exist. So I agreed to write, and the result was my first story, A Madman’s Diary. From that time onwards, I could not stop writing, and would write some sort of short story from time to time at the request of friends, until I had more than a dozen of them.

  As for myself, I no longer feel any great urge to express myself; yet, perhaps because I have not entirely forgotten the grief of my past loneliness, I sometimes call out, to encourage those fighters who are galloping on in loneliness, so that they do not lose heart. Whether my cry is brave or sad, repellent or ridiculous, I do not care. However, since it is a call to arms, I must naturally obey my general’s orders. This is why I often resort to innuendoes, as when I made a wreath appear from nowhere at the son’s grave in “Medicine,” while in “Tomorrow” I did not say that Fourth Shan’s Wife had no dreams of her little boy. For our chiefs then were against pessimism. And I, for my part, did not want to infect with the loneliness I had found so bitter those young people who were still dreaming pleasant dreams, just as I had done when young.

  It is clear, then, that my short stories fall far short of being works of art; hence I count myself fortunate that they are still known as stories, and are even being compiled in one book. Although such good fortune makes me uneasy, I am nevertheless pleased to think they have readers in the world of men, for the time being at least.

  Since these short stories of mine are being reprinted in one collection, owing to the reasons given above, I have chosen the title Na Han (Call to Arms).

  December 3, 1922, Peking

  A Madman’s Diary

  Two brothers, whose names I need not mention here, were both good friends of mine in high school; but after a separation of many years we gradually lost touch. Some time ago I happened to hear that one of them was seriously ill, and since I was going back to my old home I broke my journey to call on them. I saw only one, however, who told me that the invalid was his younger brother.

  “I appreciate your coming such a long way to see us,” he said, “but my brother recovered some time ago and has gone elsewhere to take up an official post.” Then, laughing, he produced two volumes of his brother’s diary, saying that from these the nature of his past illness could be seen, and that there was no harm in showing them to an old friend. I took the diary away, read it through, and found that he had suffered from a form of persecution complex. The writing was most confused and incoherent, and he had made many wild statements; moreover he had omitted to give any dates, so that only by the color of the ink and the differences in the writing could one tell that it was not written at one time. Certain sections, however, were not altogether disconnected, and I have copied out a part to serve as a subject for medical research. I have not altered a single illogicality in the diary and have changed only the names, even though the people referred to are all country folk, unknown to the world and of no consequence. As for the title, it was chosen by the diarist himself after his recovery, and I did not change it.

  1

  Tonight the moon is very bright.

  I have not seen it for over thirty years, so today when I saw it I felt in unusually high spirits. I begin to realize that during the past thirty-odd years I have been in the dark; but now I must be extremely careful. Otherwise why should that dog at the Chao house have looked at me twice?

  I have reason for my fear.

  2

  Tonight there is no moon at all, I know that this bodes ill. This morning when I went out cautiously, Mr. Chao had a strange look in his eyes, as if he were afraid of me, as if he wanted to murder me. There were seven or eight others, who discussed me in a whisper. And they were af
raid of my seeing them. All the people I passed were like that. The fiercest among them grinned at me; whereupon I shivered from head to foot, knowing that their preparations were complete.

  I was not afraid, however, but continued on my way. A group of children in front were also discussing me, and the look in their eyes was just like that in Mr. Chao’s, while their faces too were ghastly pale. I wondered what grudge these children could have against me to make them behave like this. I could not help calling out: “Tell me!” But then they ran away.