by Yunte Huang
Mingfeng wanted very much to speak to Juehui, and she was constantly seeking an opportunity. But lately he and Juemin were busier than usual. They left for school very early each morning and came home late in the afternoon. Sometimes they had dinner out. But even when they ate at home, they would go out again immediately after the evening meal and not return until nine or ten at night. Then they would shut themselves in their room and read, or write articles. On the one or two occasions she happened to meet Juehui, he gave a tender glance or a smile, but did not speak to her. Of course these were signs of his love, and she knew he was busy with serious affairs; even though he had no time for her, she did not blame him.
But the days were passing, quickly. She simply had to speak to him, to pour out her troubles, to seek his help. He didn’t seem to have any inkling of what was happening to her, and he gave her no chance to tell him.
Now it was the last day of the month. Not many people in the compound knew about Mingfeng. Juehui was completely in the dark. He was all wrapped up in the weekly magazine. Even the hours he spent at home were devoted to study and writing; he had no contact with anyone who might have told him about Mingfeng.
To Juehui the thirtieth was the same as any other day. But for Mingfeng it was the day of reckoning: either she would leave him forever or serve him forever. The latter possibility was very slim, and Mingfeng knew it. Naturally she was hopeful that he would be able to save her and that she could remain his devoted servant always. But between them was a wall which could not be demolished—their difference in status.
Mingfeng knew this very well. That day in the garden when she had said to him, “No, no. I just wasn’t fated,” she already knew. He had replied that he would marry her. But his grandfather, Madam Zhou, and all the elders were arrayed against them. What could he do? Even Madam Zhou didn’t dare go against a decision of the Venerable Master Gao. What chance would a grandson stand?
Mingfeng’s fate was irrevocably decided. But she couldn’t give up the last shred of hope. She was fooling herself, really, for she knew there wasn’t the slightest hope, and never could be.
She waited to see Juehui that day with a trembling heart. He came home after nine in the evening. She walked to his window. Hearing the voice of his brother, she hesitated, afraid to go in but unwilling to leave. If she gave up this last opportunity, whether she lived or died, she would never be able to see him again.
At long last Mingfeng heard footsteps. Someone was coming out. She quickly hid in a corner. A dark figure emerged from the room. It was Juemin. She waited until he was some distance away, then hurried into the room.
Juehui was bent over his desk, writing. He did not look up as he heard her enter, but continued with his work. Mingfeng timidly approached.
“Third Young Master,” she called gently.
“Mingfeng, it’s you?” Juehui raised his head in surprise. He smiled at her. “What is it?”
“I have to speak to you.” Her melancholy eyes avidly scanned his smiling face. Before she could go on, he interrupted:
“Is it because I haven’t talked with you these last few days? You think I’ve been ignoring you?” He laughed tenderly. “No, you mustn’t think that. You see how busy I am. I have to study and write, and I’ve other things to do too.” Juehui pointed at a pile of manuscripts and magazines. “I’m as busy as an ant. It will be better in a day or two. I’ll have finished this work by then. I promise you. Only two more days.”
“Two more days?” Mingfeng cried, disappointed. As if she hadn’t understood, she asked again, “Two more days?”
“That’s right,” said Juehui with a smile. “In two more days I’ll be finished. Then we can talk. There’s so much I want to tell you.” He again bent over his writing.
“Third Young Master, don’t you have any time now, even a little?” Mingfeng held back her tears with an effort.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” said Juehui roughly, as if reproving her for persisting. But when he observed her stricken expression and the tears in her eyes, he immediately softened. Taking her hand, he stood up and asked soothingly, “Has someone been picking on you? Don’t feel badly.”
He really wanted to put aside his work and take her into the garden and comfort her. But when he remembered that he had to submit his article by the next morning, when he recalled the struggle the magazine was waging, he changed his mind.
“Be patient,” he pleaded. “In another two days we’ll have a long talk. I definitely will help you. I love you as much as ever. But please go now and let me finish my work. You’d better hurry. Second Young Master will be back in a minute.”
Juehui looked around to make sure that they were alone, then took her face in his hands and lightly kissed her lips. Smiling, he indicated with a gesture that she should leave quickly. He resumed his position at the desk, pen in hand, but his heart was pounding. It was the first time he had ever kissed her.
Mingfeng stood dazed and silent. She didn’t know what she was thinking or how she felt. Her fingers moved up to touch her lips—lips that had just experienced their first kiss. “Two more days,” she repeated.
Outside, someone was heard approaching, whistling. “Go, quickly,” Juehui urged. “Second Young Master is coming.”
Mingfeng seemed to awake from a dream and her expression changed. Her lips trembled, but she did not speak. She gazed at him longingly with the utmost tenderness, and her eyes suddenly shone with tears. “Third Young Master,” she cried in an anguished voice.
Juehui looked up quickly, only to see her disappearing through the doorway.
He sighed. “Women are strange creatures.” He again bent over his writing.
Juemin came into the room. The first words out of his mouth were, “Wasn’t that Mingfeng who just left here?”
“Yes.” Juehui continued writing. He did not look at his brother.
“That girl isn’t the least bit like an ordinary bondmaid. She’s intelligent, pure, pretty—she can even read a little. It’s a shame that Ye-ye is giving her to that old reprobate for a concubine. It’s a real shame!” sighed Juemin.
“What did you say?” Juehui put down his pen. He was shocked.
“Don’t you know? Mingfeng is getting married.”
“She’s getting married? Who said so? She’s too young!”
“Ye-ye is giving her to that shameless old scoundrel Feng to be his concubine.”
“I don’t believe it! Why, he’s one of the main pillars of the Confucian Morals Society. He’s nearly sixty. He still wants a concubine?”
“Don’t you remember last year when he and a couple of his old cronies published a list of ‘Best Female Impersonators’ and were bitterly attacked by Students’ Tide? His kind are capable of anything. He gets away with it too—he’s got money, hasn’t he? The wedding day is tomorrow. I certainly am sorry for Mingfeng. She’s only seventeen.”
“Tomorrow? Why wasn’t I told before? Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Juehui jumped to his feet and hurried out, clutching his hair. He was trembling all over.
“Tomorrow”! “Marry”! “Concubine”! “Old Feng”! The words lashed against Juehui’s brain till he thought it would shatter. He rushed out; he thought he heard a mournful wail. Suddenly he discovered a dark world lying at his feet. All was quiet, as if every living thing had died. Where was he to go in this misty space between heaven and earth? He wandered about, tearing his hair, beating his breast, but nothing could bring him peace.
Suddenly a torturing realization dawned upon him. She had come to him just now in the utmost anguish, to beg for his help. Because she believed in his love and because she loved him, she had come to ask him to keep his promise and protect her, to rescue her from the clutches of Old Man Feng. And what had he done? Absolutely nothing. He had given her neither help nor sympathy nor pity—nothing at all. He sent her away without even listening to her pleas. Now she was gone, gone forever. Tomorrow night, in the arms of that old man, she would weep for her despoiled sprin
gtime. And at the same time she would curse the one who had tricked her into giving her pure young love and then sent her into the jaws of the tiger.
It was a terrifying thought. Juehui couldn’t bear it. He had to find her, he had to atone for his crime.
He walked to the women servants’ quarters and lightly tapped on the door. Inside it was pitch-dark. He called, “Mingfeng,” twice, in a low voice. There was no answer. She must be asleep, he thought. Because of the other women, he couldn’t very well go in.
Juehui returned to his room. But he couldn’t sit still. Again he came out and went to the servants’ quarters. Pushing the door open a trifle, he could hear only snoring inside. He walked into the garden and stood for a long time in the dark beneath the plum trees. “Mingfeng!” he shouted. Only the echo replied. Several times he bumped his head against the low-hanging plum branches, scratching his forehead and drawing blood. But he felt no pain. Finally, disappointed, he slowly walked back to his own room. As he entered his room, everything began to spin.
Actually, the girl he sought was not with the women servants, but in the garden.
When Mingfeng left Juehui’s room she knew that this time all hope was gone. She was sure he loved her as much as ever; her lips were still warm with his kiss, her hands still felt his clasp. These proved that he loved her; but they were also symbols of the fact that she was going to lose him and be cast into the arms of a lecherous old man. She would never see him again. In the long years ahead there would be only endless pain and misery. Why should she cling to a life like that? Why should she remain in a world without love?
Mingfeng made up her mind.
She went directly to the garden, groping her way through the darkness with a great effort until she reached her objective—the edge of the lake. The waters darkly glistened; at times feeding fish broke the placid surface. Mingfeng stood dully, remembering many things of the past. She recalled everything she and Juehui had ever said and done together. She could see every familiar tree and shrub—so dear, so lovely—knowing that she was going to leave them all.
The world was very still. Everyone was asleep. But they were all alive, and they would continue living. She alone was going to die.
In the seventeen years of her existence she had known nothing but blows, curses, tears, toil in the service of others. That plus a love for which she now must perish. Life had brought much less happiness to her than to others; but now, despite her youth, she would leave the world first.
Tomorrow, others had their tomorrow. For her there was only a dark empty void. Tomorrow birds would sing in the trees, the rising sun would gild their branches, countless pearls would bubble on the surface of the water. But she would see none of it, for her eyes would be closed forever.
The world was such an adorable place. She had loved everyone with all the purity of a young girl’s heart, wishing them all well. She had served people without pause; she had brought harm to no one. Like other girls she had a pretty face, an intelligent mind, a body of flesh and blood. Why did people want to trample her, hurt her, deny her a friendly glance, a sympathetic heart, even a pitying sigh?
She had never owned nice clothes, nor eaten good food, nor slept in a warm bed. She had accepted all this without complaint. For she had won the love of a fine young man, she had found a hero whom she could worship, and she was satisfied. She had found a refuge.
But today, when the crisis came, reality had proved it was all an illusion. His love couldn’t save her; it only added to her painful memories.
He was not for her. His love had brought her many beautiful dreams, but now it was casting her into a dark abyss. She loved life, she loved everything, but life’s door was closing in her face, leaving her only the road to degradation.
Thinking of what this meant, she looked at her body in horror. Although she could not see clearly in the darkness, she knew it was chaste and pure. She could almost feel someone casting her into the mire. Painfully, pityingly, she caressed her body with soothing hands.
Mingfeng came to a decision. She would hesitate no longer. She stared at the calm water. The crystal depths of the lake would give her refuge. She would die unsullied.
When she was about to jump, a thought came to her, and she paused. She shouldn’t die like this. She ought to see him once more, pour out her heart to him. Perhaps he could save her. His kiss still tingled on her lips, his face still shimmered before her eyes. She loved him so; she couldn’t bear to lose him. The only beauty in her life had been his love. Wasn’t she entitled even to that? When everyone else went on living, why did a young girl like her have to die?
She pictured an idyllic scene in which she chatted and laughed and played with rich girls her own age in a beautiful garden. In this wide world she knew there were many such girls and many such gardens. Yet she had to end her young life—and there was no one to shed a sympathetic tear, or offer a word or two of comfort. Her death would bring no loss to the world, or to the Gao family. People would quickly forget her, as if she had never existed.
Has my life really been so meaningless? she thought, stricken. Her heart filled with an unspeakable grief, and tears spilled from her eyes. Strength draining from her body, she weakly sat upon the ground. She seemed to hear someone call her name. It was his voice. She halted her tears and listened. But all was quiet; all voices were stilled. She listened, hoping to hear the call again. She listened for a long, long time. But there was no sound in the night.
Then she knew. He was not coming. There was a wall eternally between them. He belonged to a different sphere. He had his future, his career. He must become a great man. She could not hold him back, keep him always at her side. She must release him. His existence was much more important than hers. She could not let him sacrifice himself for her sake. She must go, she must leave him forever. And she would do so willingly, since he was more precious to her than life itself.
A pain stabbed through her heart, and she rubbed her chest. But the pain persisted. She remained seated on the ground, her eyes longingly roving over the familiar surroundings in the dark. She was still thinking of him. A mournful smile flitted across her face and her eyes dimmed with tears.
Finally, she could not bear to think any longer. Rising tottering to her feet, she cried in a voice laden with tenderness and sorrow, “Juehui, Juehui!”—and she plunged into the lake.
The placid waters stirred violently, and a loud noise broke the stillness. Two or three tragic cries, although they were very low, echoed lingeringly in the night. After a few minutes of wild thrashing, the surface of the lake again became calm. Only the mournful cries still permeated the air, as if the entire garden were weeping softly.
(Translated by Sidney Shapiro and Wang Mingjie)
DAI WANGSHU
(1905–1950)
Born in Hangzhou, Zhejiang, Dai Wangshu attended Shanghai University in 1923 and began publishing poetry in 1926. Politically active as a student, he also blazed a trail for Chinese poetry through his own work and by translating French symbolists, such as Charles Baudelaire and Paul Verlaine. His poem “Rainy Alley” (1927), in particular, with its mellifluous musicality and melancholic ambience, is credited with turning a new page in the annals of the new verse, winning him the title of “the poet of the rainy alley.” In 1932 he went to study in France but was expelled in 1935 for supporting the Spanish left. Returning to China, he continued to be active both in literature and left-wing politics. In 1938 the Japanese occupation of Shanghai forced him to flee to Hong Kong, where he did anti-Japanese propaganda work and edited literary supplements for newspapers. He died of asthma on February 28, 1950, only a few months after being assigned a position in the new government of the People’s Republic.
Rainy Alley
Holding up an oil-paper umbrella, alone
I loiter aimlessly in the long, long
and lonely rainy alley,
I hope to encounter
a lilac-like girl
nursing her resentment.
A lilac-like color she has
a lilac-like fragrance,
a lilac-like sadness,
melancholy in the rain,
sorrowful and uncertain;
She loiters aimlessly in this lonely rainy alley,
holding up an oil-paper umbrella
just like me,
and just like me
walks silently,
apathetic, sad and disconsolate.
Silently she moves closer,
moves closer and casts
a sigh-like glance,
she glides by
like a dream
hazy and confused like a dream.
As in a dream she glides past
like a lilac spray,
this girl glides past beside me;
she silently moves away, moves away,
up to the broken-down bamboo fence,
to the end of the rainy alley.
In the rain’s sad song,
her color vanishes,
her fragrance diffuses,
even her
sigh-like glance,
lilac-like discontent
vanish.
Holding up an oil-paper umbrella, alone
aimlessly walking in the long, long
and lonely rainy alley,
I wish for
a lilac-like girl
nursing her resentment to glide by.
I Think
I think therefore I am a butterfly . . .
The soft call of a flower ten thousand years later,
Has passed through the dreamless, unwaking mist,
To make my multicolored wings vibrate.
—March 14, 1937
(Translated by Gregory Lee)
SHEN CONGWEN
(1902–1988)
Born in western Hunan, a frontier region of pristine natural beauty and extreme economic hardship, Shen Congwen was of Han, Tujia, and Miao descent. An autodidact who later became a well-respected historian, Shen joined the army at the age of fourteen and began publishing stories in 1924. His best-known novel, Border Town (1934), is a modernist pastoral portrayal of a young country girl and her ferryman grandfather. Written in a uniquely lucid and lyrical style, the novel, though widely acclaimed upon publication, did not sit well with the Communist conception of the peasants, seen through the narrow prism of class struggle. Shen was subsequently attacked by left-wing writers, and Border Town was banned in Mao’s era. For decades he worked as a researcher at the Museum of Chinese History and died in 1988.
