by Anchee Min
“I am not going to let anything stop me.” She was determined. “My gut feeling tells me that writing is my best chance. I must try.”
“With your Chinese stories?”
“Absolutely. I believe in my Chinese stories. No other Western author can come close to what I offer—what life is really like in the Orient. For God’s sake, I’m living it. The Chinese world cries out for exploration. It’s like America once was—fertile and full of promise.”
Pearl and I made a new discovery: the poet Hsu Chih-mo. In the summer of 1925, Hsu Chih-mo was called “the Renaissance Man” or “the Chinese Shelley.” Promoting the working class’s right to literacy, he became the leader of China’s new cultural movement. Pearl and I were strong supporters of Hsu Chih-mo.
“A bush at the foot of the mountain can never enjoy what a pine would . . .” I shared with Pearl from Hsu Chih-mo’s essay titled “On Universe.” “To touch the fantastic rolling clouds the pine must hang dangerously from the cliff.”
In return, Pearl sent me a section of his essay “Morality of Suicide,” enclosed with her own note: “Let me know if you don’t fall in love with the writer’s mind.”
What is wrong is that these suicides embody the values of our society and set our moral standard: a village girl who drowns herself instead of yielding to her abusive mother-in-law; a businessman who hangs himself to escape debt; an Indian who sacrifices himself to feed crocodiles and a minister who drinks poison to demonstrate his loyalty toward the emperor.
We dishonor the integrity of the individual by honoring these deaths. We make death sound glorious. In my opinion, the people who commit suicide are not heroes but victims. I offer them pity and sympathy but not respect and admiration. They are not martyrs, but fools. There are other types of suicide, which I think are truly glorious and worthy—such as that of the characters in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Their deaths touch us because we identify with their humanity.
The wind was harsh. Gigantic pines stood solemnly against the gray sky. Pearl and I sat with the city view below our feet, discussing Hsu Chih-mo. We knew a lot about him already. He earned a degree in law at Peking University. Then he went to England to study economics but instead earned a degree in literature. Next he attended Columbia University in America and majored in political science. What interested us most was his graduate thesis, The Social Position of Women in China.
Pearl recited Hsu Chih-mo’s poem titled “Cancer in Literature.”
The language smells of a dying room
Rotten, filthy and stinky
Anxiety and struggle
No means of escape
Youthful enthusiasm
Hope and ideal
Grass grows through concrete
To reach sunlight and air
“You are falling in love with Hsu Chih-mo,” Pearl teased.
I wished that I could deny it. I took an assignment in Shanghai so that I could attend Hsu Chih-mo’s poetry reading. I was excited to find that he was everything I had imagined. He was a six-foot-tall, handsome northern Chinese. He had silky, curly black hair. His leaf-shaped eyes were gentle, although his gaze was intense. Under his Mongolian high-bridged nose was a sensuous mouth. He read passionately. The world around me disappeared.
I entrust
The poplar catkins have all fallen
I entrust
The cuckoos confuse nights with days
And cry “It’s better to return!”
To the bright moon
I entrust an anxious heart
Who says you are a thousand miles away
I entrust
Moonlight will shine on you
I entrust
The frost kisses the marshland’s tender reeds
I followed Hsu Chih-mo and bought tickets to his lectures. I dressed for him and hoped that our paths would cross. He didn’t appear to notice me, but I felt rewarded just to be able to see him.
In Shanghai I learned that I was among thousands of women who dreamed of Hsu Chih-mo. We threw ourselves at him like night bugs at a light.
Pearl told me that Hsu Chih-mo was a constant subject of gossip columns. His affairs with three different women had made headlines in the Shanghai Evening News and the Celebrity Magazine. The first was his wife by an arranged marriage. She was the daughter of a wealthy family in Shanghai and followed Hsu to England. The couple committed the unthinkable: They issued a public letter claiming that their relationship was loveless and wrong. Chinese society was stunned by the word divorce. Cynics believed that Hsu had abandoned his wife to pursue other women. The wife returned home to give birth to their son and continued to live with and serve Hsu Chih-mo’s parents.
It was said that the beautiful Miss Lin was Hsu Chih-mo’s second lady. She was an American-educated architect and the daughter of Hsu’s mentor, a professor of Chinese literature in England. Miss Lin was said to be torn between Hsu Chih-mo and her fiancé, a famous scholar of Chinese architecture. After much publicized drama, Miss Lin chose her fiancé over Hsu Chih-mo. Hsu Chih-mo’s third lady was a courtesan from Peking. He married her in an effort to save her from opium addiction and alcohol. Their marriage was troubled from the start. It had been a staple on the front pages of newspapers and magazines.
Pearl sent me a telegram while I was still in Shanghai. My heart took flight withevery word: “Hsu Chih-mo is scheduled to visit Nanking University. He is accompanying Tagore, a poet from India. You’d better hurry because I have sent Hsu Chih-mo an invitation to give a talk in my class and HE HAS ACCEPTED!”
CHAPTER 16
The roles of host and guest were reversed from the beginning. Hsu Chih-mo was getting more attention than his distinguished guest, Tagore. The two stood shoulder to shoulder onstage in front of a podium. Tagore read his poem Gitanjali as Hsu Chih-mo translated. Listeners packed the hall. Students applauded at each of Hsu Chih-mo’s sentences.
Looking like a brass temple bell, Tagore was wrapped in a brown blanket. Although he was only in his fifties, the Chinese thought him older because of his chest-length gray beard. In contrast, Hsu Chih-mo was slender, youthful, and stylish. One could easily tell that he was what the crowd had been waiting for. He was the reigning prince of Chinese literature.
Tagore grew increasingly uneasy as the students cheered Hsu Chih-mo. Turning to Hsu Chih-mo, Tagore said, “I thought the crowd was here to see me.”
“Yes, sir,” Hsu Chih-mo assured him. “The people have come to celebrate your work.”
Pearl and I sat in the front row. I wore my silver Shanghai-style coat with a crimson silk scarf. Pearl had arrived late. She wore her wrinkled brown jacket and black cotton skirt and was in a pair of Chinese peasant shoes. Her socks were so worn they hung loose at her ankles. From the disarray of her hair, I knew she’d just had a problem with Carol.
“I can’t believe it. You didn’t bother to dress up,” I whispered in her ear.
She cut me off. “Just be glad that I am here.”
I wouldn’t let her off easily. “It’s Hsu Chih-mo, for God’s sake. How often do we get to meet with a celebrity?”
She gave me a tired look.
“What?” I asked.
“Don’t.”
“Say it.” I held her elbow.
“Fine.” She turned and whispered in my ear, “I wouldn’t have minded missing Hsu Chih-mo. Tagore is the one I came for.”
“How about I take the young one and you take the old?” I teased.
“Shush!”
The duet on the stage continued. Hsu Chih-mo translated Tagore’s last poem:
I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands
That is why it is so late and why I have been guilty of such omissions
They come with their laws and their codes to bind me fast
But I evade them ever
For I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands
People blame me and call me heedless
I doub
t not they are right in their blame
“Tagore is lucky,” I whispered to Pearl.
Nodding, she agreed. “Hsu Chih-mo is particularly good at reconstructing Tagore’s sentences into Chinese.”
“Tagore doesn’t seem to fully appreciate it.”
Hsu Chih-mo continued,
The market day is over and work is all done for the busy
Those who came to call me in vain have gone back in anger
I am only waiting for love to give myself up at last into his hands
Pearl and Hsu Chih-mo stood together in front of her class. She had invited the poet to speak to her students the day after his appearance with Tagore. This was before they knew what was going to happen—long before historians wrote about this moment.
I could tell that Hsu Chih-mo was surprised by the excellence of Pearl’s Chinese. Except for her Western features and the color of her hair, Pearl was Chinese in every way.
“My apologies for the humble reception, but our hearts are sincere.” Pearl smiled and gestured to one of her students to come pour tea for Hsu Chih-mo.
“Long Jing from Hangchow,” Pearl said, taking the tea to Hsu Chih-mo. She bowed lightly after placing the cup in front of him.
In retrospect, it was I who didn’t see that Hsu Chih-mo was attracted to Pearl the moment he laid eyes on her. Her ease and confidence caught him.
“Where are you from?” Hsu Chih-mo asked Pearl, ignoring the class.
In a perfect Chin-kiang dialect, Pearl replied, “The pig is from River North.”
He understood her joke and laughed.
Many southern Chinese called coolies, drifters, beggars, and bandits River North Pigs, because they came from the northern, unfertile part of the Yangtze River and were poor and a lower class. With this joke, Pearl revealed two facts about herself. First, she was a native. Second, she identified with the people. If she had wanted, she could have spoken perfect Mandarin with an Imperial accent.
During the class Hsu Chih-mo discussed his effort in translating Tagore.
Pearl was charming, although her questions were daring. She challenged Hsu Chih-mo on the Indian rhythm compared to the Chinese. She also asked him to explain the art of his translation, especially the difference between being “faithful in appearance” and “faithful in essence.”
Infatuated with Hsu Chih-mo, I was blind and deaf to what was truly happening between him and Pearl.
“What influenced you to become a poet?” a female student raised her arm and asked.
“Craziness,” Hsu Chih-mo replied. “My mother said that I was a spooky child. My eyes were open and my lips uttered strange words at night. Poetry to me was like rocks and cards were to other boys.”
A male student with glasses asked, “You are called the Chinese Shelley. What do you make of that?”
“It doesn’t mean anything to me.” Hsu Chih-mo smiled. “But I am honored, of course.”
“What do you do to make your poems successful?” Pearl asked.
Hsu Chih-mo thought before he replied. “I feel very much like a tailor making a pair of pants. I first study the fabric so I know how to cut it. A good pair of pants takes a great deal of fabric. I make sure that my cuts go with the grain instead of against it.”
A loud voice came from the back of the room. “Mr. Hsu, what is your view of the literary movement in our society today?”
The question threw a boulder into a calm pond. Hsu Chih-mo was stirred. “It disturbs me that our country debates whether or not the Chinese language should be made accessible to the peasants!” His voice resonated. “As we all know, the emperor we overthrew thirteen years ago spoke a private language, which nobody but he and his tutor understood. Our proud civilization and heritage become ridiculous when our language is used to create not communication and understanding, but distance and isolation.”
As the editor in chief of the Nanking Daily, I created, sponsored, and produced the news program China Literary Front. The program was syndicated across all of China. I was able to travel, dine, and converse with some of the brightest minds of our time. But what I enjoyed most was my time with Hsu Chih-mo. He was guarded at first, but I earned his trust. By the end of our work together, we had become good friends. I asked him about the inner force that drove him.
“The inner force is far more important than talent,” Hsu Chih-mo revealed. “Writing is my rice and air. One shouldn’t bother picking up a pen if that is not the case.”
“That is exactly the case with my friend Pearl Buck,” I said.
“You mean the River North Pig?” He smiled remembering her.
“Yes.”
“What has she written?”
“She has written essays, poems, and novels. She is my special columnist. I’ll send you copies of her articles if you are interested.”
“Yes, please.”
As we continued talking, Hsu Chih-mo asked how Pearl and I had become friends.
The problem with people who end up digging their own grave is that they often have no idea they are digging it. Such was my case as I told Hsu Chih-mo stories about my friend.
After Tagore went back to India and Hsu Chih-mo returned to Shanghai, I felt inspired and enlightened. Against my better judgment, I gave in to my emotions. If I had never believed in fate and coincidence before, it wouldn’t be long before I did. When the Nanking University board asked me to help invite Hsu Chih-mo to come back and teach, I did everything within my power to make it happen.
Pearl didn’t think that Nanking University stood a chance of getting Hsu Chih-mo. “He has been teaching at Peking University and Shanghai University,” she reminded me. I decided to play a card that at the time I thought was brilliant. As friends, Pearl and I together wrote Hsu Chih-mo a personal invitation.
A few weeks later, Hsu Chih-mo responded and said he was on his way.
CHAPTER 17
After Hsu Chih-mo’s arrival, the center of China’s literary society shifted from Shanghai to Nanking. Nanking University became the main stage of the New Cultural Movement. I hosted weekly events featuring journalists, writers, and artists from all over the country. I was so busy that I ate my meals standing up. I hadn’t had time to visit Pearl for weeks, so one evening I decided to drop by.
She surprised me with the news that Lossing had moved out.
“He is living with Lotus,” Pearl said in a subdued voice.
“What about Carol?” I asked.
“Lossing said that Carol wouldn’t know the difference. He insists that she doesn’t even know that he is her father.”
I tried to comfort her. “The important thing is that you are doing the best you can.”
She shook her head.
“You have your own life to live, Pearl.”
“Carol doesn’t deserve this. Her own father abandoning her . . .”
“Carol may not be aware . . .”
“But I am!” she almost shouted.
I went quiet.
She began to sob.
I walked to the kitchen to get her a cup of water.
“Pearl,” I said gently. “You have to comb your hair and dress yourself, and you have to eat.”
“I would like to simply slip away, to die,” she responded. “I need to be released from this trap.”
“Have you been writing?” I asked.
“I can’t do anything else but write. Here.” She tossed me a stack of pages. “From last week. Two short stories.”
I glanced at the titles. “The Seventh Dragon” and “The Matchmaker.”
“You have been productive, Pearl.”
“I was going crazy until I started typing.”
I asked if there was any interest from publishers.
“No. One editor from New York was kind enough to send me a note of explanation after rejecting my manuscript. What he said was no news to me. Lossing has been telling me the same thing all along.”
“That Western readers are not interested in China?”
She
nodded.
“Well, perhaps they are only accustomed to stories of little merit. It may take time to convince them that what you write is different,” I said. “Have you tried Chinese publishing houses?”
Have you “Yes.”
“And?”
“I made a fool of myself,” she sighed. “The right-wing Chinese houses want pure escapism, while the left-wing want nothing but Communism and Russia.”
“And you don’t care about either of those?”
“No.”
“Unfortunately, you still need money.”
“Unfortunately.”
I invited Pearl to come with me to a New Year’s party hosted by the Nanking Daily. Pearl didn’t want to go, but I insisted.
“Hsu Chih-mo will be there.” I could hardly contain my excitement.
“Too bad he is your interest—not mine.”
“He’s the only one who hasn’t read you. He told me he wants to read your work.”
“I am not going.”
“Please. I don’t want to look desperate.”
“Desperate? Oh, I see.”
“Will you come?”
“Okay, I’ll go for tea only.”
Hsu Chih-mo stood on a chair waving his arms. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to present my best friend, the great hope of China’s new literature, Dick Lin! He is the seventh translator of Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto and the editor of the Shanghai Avant-Garde Magazine.” Hsu Chih-mo was dressed in a Western black silk suit with a Chinese collar and Chinese cotton shoes. His hair was neatly combed from the middle to the sides.
The crowd cheered. “Dick Lin! Dick Lin!”
Dick Lin, a short and broad-shouldered man with black-framed glasses, came to shake hands with Pearl and me. He was in his thirties. He had a pair of lizard eyes and a crooked nose. The corners of his mouth drew downward and gave him a serious, almost bitter expression.