The Big Red Book of Modern Chinese Literature

by Yunte Huang

  I laughed. “So you only let people surnamed Ling call you ‘Little Brother’ or ‘Big Brother,’ ’’ I said to him, making him chuckle.

  These days when young people get together, they love to explore the meaning of the word “love.” Although I feel at times that I understand love, in the end I can never really explain it. I know all about what goes on between men and women. Perhaps what I already know about it makes love seem vague, makes it hard for me to believe in love between the sexes, makes it impossible to think of myself as someone pure enough, innocent enough to be loved. I am skeptical of what everyone calls “love.” I’m just as skeptical of the love I’ve received.

  I was just becoming aware of the realities of life when those who loved me made me suffer by allowing outsiders the chance to humiliate and slander me. Even my most intimate friends abandoned me. And it was precisely for fear of the threat of love that I left school. Although I mature more each day, those previous liaisons influenced me so much that I still have doubts about love and sometimes thoroughly despise the intimacy love brings. Weidi claims he loves me. Then why does he make me so miserable all the time? He came over again this evening, for instance, and as soon as he got here, he burst into tears and sobbed his eyes out. No matter what I said—“What’s wrong with you? Please talk to me,” or “Weidi, say something, I beg you”—he just carried on as before. Nothing quite like this had ever happened before. I exhausted myself trying to guess what catastrophe had befallen him until I couldn’t think of any other possibilities. Eventually he cried himself out. Then he started in on me.

  “I don’t like him.”

  “Who’s bullying you, Weidi? Who made you cry and throw this tantrum?”

  “I don’t like that tall guy. The one you’re so close to now.”

  Oh! I really hadn’t realized until then that he was furious over something I had done. Without thinking, I started to chuckle. This insipid jealousy, this selfish possessiveness, this is love? I couldn’t help myself. I broke into laughter. And that, of course, did nothing to calm poor ­Weidi’s raging heart. In fact, my condescending attitude increased his fury. Watching his blazing eyes, I got the feeling that what he really wanted was to rip me to shreds. “Go ahead and do it,” I thought to myself. But he just put his head down, started bawling again, and, rubbing tears from his eyes, staggered out the door.

  A scene like this might conceivably be considered an ardent expression of tempestuous love. Yet Weidi stages these things for me with such artless lack of forethought that he defeats himself. I’m not asking him to be false or affected in the expression of his love. It’s just I feel it’s futile for him to try to move me by acting like a child. Maybe I’m just hard by nature. If so, I deserve all the anxiety and heartbreak that my failure to live up to people’s expectations has brought me.

  As soon as Weidi left, I scrutinized my own intentions. I recalled in vivid detail someone else’s tenderness, someone else’s warmth, generosity, and openly passionate bearing, and I was so drunk with sweet joy that I took out a postcard, wrote a few sentences, and ordered the attendant to take it over to Dormitory No. 4.

  March 9

  When I see Ling Jishi sit so relaxed and casually in my room, I can’t help pitying Weidi. I pray that not every woman in the world will neglect and disdain his great sincerity, as I do, thus submerging myself in a morass of guilty sorrow I cannot get free of. More than that, I hope a pure young girl comes along who will redeem Weidi’s love, fill the emptiness he must feel.

  (Translated by Tani E. Barlow)

  MAO DUN

  (1896–1981)

  After Lu Xun, Mao Dun is universally regarded as the greatest writer in twentieth century China. Born in Zhejiang into a family sympathetic to social reform, Mao Dun, whose real name was Shen Yanbing, entered Peking University in 1914. A member of the Literary Research Society, he edited Short Story Monthly and became actively involved in the insurgent Communist movement. A political setback caused by Chiang Kai-shek’s purge of Communists led to Mao Dun’s disillusion and despair in the late 1920s and early 1930s, a period in which he produced his best work: a trilogy entitled The Eclipse was published in 1927, followed by Rainbow (1930), considered by many his finest for a psychological depth new to Chinese literature, and then the novel The Midnight followed in 1933. In the People’s Republic era, Mao Dun was a towering figure, serving as the minister of culture from 1949 to 1965 and the chairman of China’s Writers Association from 1949 to 1981.

  Rainbow (excerpt)

  Chapter One

  The golden rays of the rising sun pierced the light smoky mist that hung over the Yangtze River, dispersing it to reveal the blue-green of the mountain peaks on either shore. The east wind played a soft, enchanting melody. The muddy waters of the Yangtze gradually plunged through the narrow gorges, now and then producing a bevy of small whirlpools in its wake.

  An indistinct growl, like the roar of a great animal, issued forth from behind the wall of mountains upstream. After a few minutes it grew into a long, proud bellow, transforming itself into a thundering echo between the cliffs on the two sides of the river. A light green steamship burst majestically through the remaining fog, sailing effortlessly downstream. In an instant, the heavy rumbling noise of its engine swelled up on the surface of the river.

  It was the renowned steamship Longmao, which plied the Sichuan waters of the Yangtze River. On this day it had pulled up anchor at dawn in Kuifu and was rushing to make the journey to Yichang by two or three in the afternoon. Although it was only eight in the morning, the ship was already packed to the rails with third-class passengers who had come up for a breath of fresh air. The passageway outside the dining hall on the uppermost deck was not as crowded. In fact, there were only two women leaning against the green iron railing, looking out into the distance at the magnificent, clear view of the Wu Gorge.

  They stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the bow of the ship. One, her body slightly turned at the waist, her left forearm leaning on the railing, looked about twenty years old. She wore a pale blue soft satin waist-length blouse, beneath which a long black skirt that billowed out in the wind accentuated the elegance of her slender and graceful body. She had short hair. Two jet-black wisps of hair brushed the cheeks of her oval face, complementing a pair of long, thin eyebrows, a straight nose, two teasingly beautiful eyes, and small, round lips. She displayed all the characteristics of a flawless Oriental beauty. If viewed from behind, she appeared to be the essence of tenderness. But her eyes revealed a vigorous and straightforward spirit. And her small mouth, which was usually tightly closed, gave proof of her resolute disposition. She was the kind of person who knew her goal and never turned back.

  Her companion was a short, fat, middle-aged woman. Her face was not unattractive, but her thick lips drooped at the corners, imparting an air of gloom to her appearance. Her clothes were of high-quality material, but their style was old-fashioned. Her feet had once been bound but were now released from their confinement. Encased in black boots that were too large, their humplike deformity looked like two round balls. Next to the long, narrow natural feet of her young companion, they looked quite miserable and pathetic.

  The two did not speak to each other. The grandeur of the scenery had long since cleansed their minds of all thoughts. Their hearts were empty, free of concerns, intoxicated by the vastness of the natural beauty surrounding them.

  The boat’s whistle shrieked once again. Far off in the distance a cliff intruded on the landscape, blocking the river and piercing the sky. The river cut through the tall peaks that lined both banks. They seemed to form two towering natural dikes, barring any possibility of continued forward passage. The sun shone like a ray of gold, sparingly clothing only the tops of the high peaks in its brilliance, leaving the mountain below a carpet of dark green. The boat continued to push unswervingly forward, its whistle blasting with ever more urgency. The cliffs that all but obstructed the river moved gradually toward the two women, higher and higher
, more and more imposing, the luxurious growth of trees halfway up their sides becoming faintly visible.

  “This is only the first of the twelve peaks of Wushan.” The middle-aged woman, as she addressed her companion, nodded her head with an air of self-importance and such vigor that the large but loosely fastened bun anchored to the back of her skull bounced back and forth as if about to fall off.

  The young woman replied with a smile, turning her head to avoid the foul odors that emanated from the large bun. Slowly she took a step forward, concentrating even more intently on the vista ahead. The precipice rushing toward her was now so close she could no longer see its tip. Clusters of jade-green cedars spread like a belt diagonally across the middle of the mountain. Below, thrust directly into the water, were reddish brown rocks dotted here and there with climbing plants. All of this, this screen of mountains, grew slowly larger, moved slowly closer. Then, suddenly, it shuddered and gently turned around, as if to show off another aspect of its glory.

  Bu . . . hong! The whistle gave a joyous cry, and the boat navigated the bend in the river. On the right the mountains that had been soaring to the heavens moved out of the way; once again the limitless waters of the Yangtze rushed between the mountain peaks.

  “That’s just like the Yangtze! From a distance it looks impassable. It’s only when you get there that you see there’s a way through. Who knows how many bends like this there are. Miss Mei, this is your first time. You must find it very interesting indeed!” the middle-aged woman called out loudly from behind. Unfortunately, the east wind was so strong that her words of experience were scattered with it. Mei, who was gazing absentmindedly at the eastward-flowing Yangtze, did not hear a thing.

  The unbelievable beauty of the Wu Gorge had deeply moved her. She thought of her own past. It too had been so treacherous, so quick to change. It too had had its dead ends and rebirths. Light and darkness were interwoven into the fabric of her life. She had already courageously made it halfway through. What would the rest be like? This puzzle called the future! Mei had no fantasies. Yet neither was she pessimistic. She was simply waiting, quietly, like a boxing master who has established his position and is waiting for his opponent. Hardship was deeply branded on this young life.

  Quite a few people probably envied her life. But she herself still saw her past as worthy of the word “vicissitude.” During the last four years she had begun to attract people’s attention as a “prominent member of the nouveaux riches.” In west and south Sichuan everyone knew of Miss Mei. She was no ordinary girl. She was like a rainbow. But she had never wanted her life to be like this, nor was she happy this way. She simply charged forward with the spirit of a warrior, doing what circumstance dictated. Indeed, her special talent was “charging forward.” Her only ambition was to overcome her environment, overcome her fate. During the last few years her only goal had been to rein in her strong feminine nature and her even stronger maternal instincts.

  On bright spring days and sorrowful rainy nights, she would occasionally feel the ancient legacy of being female stirring in her heart. At such times she would stare into space, immersed in a flood of loneliness and remorse. It was also at times like these that she fell to lamenting her unfortunate fate and conjuring up a million regrets about the vicissitudes of her existence. Nevertheless, her hardships had already cast her life into a new mold, and the whirlwind May Fourth Movement had already blown her thinking in a new direction. She could not look back. She could only strive to suppress and eradicate the traditional in her nature and adapt to a new world, a new life. She did not pause. She did not hesitate. She felt no contradictions.

  The Yangtze was now struggling with difficulty to squeeze through the Wuxia Mountains. The river seemed a symbol of her past. But she hoped her future would be as open and surging as the Yangtze would be below the Kui Pass.

  Mei could not suppress a smile. She turned her head and saw the ­middle-aged woman squinting at her, a reminder that the woman had been jabbering at her with that air of authority that older people so often displayed. Mei did not really like this companion, with her dejected look, but neither was she willing to needlessly offend her. Besides, as long as Mei did not have to smell that rancid hair, she didn’t mind listening to the woman’s pretentious din.

  “Mrs. Wen, the wind is strong. Aren’t you scared?” Mei spoke cordially. Stepping daintily inside, she deliberately took a position upwind.

  “What hardships and bitterness haven’t these old bones known? How could I be scared of the wind? This spring when we demonstrated for women’s suffrage, the wind was stronger than this and there was a raging rainstorm too. That didn’t scare me. Without even opening my umbrella, I led the sisters to the provincial governor’s office to make our demands.”

  Mrs. Wen spoke excitedly, the bun at the back of her head bobbing unceasingly.

  Mei pursed her lips to hold back a smile, all the while feigning total admiration.

  “Why didn’t you participate then, Miss Mei? Oh, yes, you’re the governor’s private secretary, the trusted lieutenant of the boss. You’re already an official. But Miss Mei, being an official isn’t the same as suffrage. Suffrage is . . .”

  As she reached this point, the woman paused for a moment and moved a bit closer to Mei in preparation for an extended harangue. Mei took a half step back to guard her position upwind and adroitly interrupted the other woman: “I’m only the provincial governor’s family tutor. What’s all this about being a private secretary? That’s just a rumor started by people who want to ridicule me. And that’s not all people have been saying. It’s better to just laugh it off. Mrs. Wen, you lost your husband as a young woman. You of all people should know that people with loose tongues like nothing more than to insult a woman, to spread reckless gossip.”

  Mrs. Wen’s jowls twitched, but she did not reply. Any mention of her youth always depressed her. Nevertheless, her days of “fearing rumors” had long since passed. She was now a wholehearted member of the movement for political suffrage. Yet on the day they had rushed into the provincial assembly and she had heard the guards cursing her as an “old tigress on the prowl,” for some reason her ardent spirit had flagged. Subconsciously, she thought back to the past indiscretion that had cast a shadow over her future. She felt that as a woman, the only prerequisite for taking a role in society was that she be pure and above reproach. In believing that a woman should remain ever faithful to one husband and never remarry, she was of one mind with many of those who opposed the suffrage movement.

  “The provincial governor advocates the new thought. On the question of relations between the sexes, he has some special views. No doubt Mrs. Wen has heard people speak of them?”

  Seeing her companion’s discomfort, Mei laughed and changed the direction of the conversation. But the term “relations between the sexes” was probably still very alien to the ears of this eloquent and ardent supporter of women’s suffrage. She looked slightly puzzled at Mei and did not answer. Mei winked knowingly and continued, “This special viewpoint goes like this: A wife is a companion for life. A companion is a friend. The more friends the better!”

  Suddenly the boat’s whistle sounded again, two short spurts followed by a long, loud wail. The warning bell on top of the boat also began to clang wildly. Hiding in the hollows carved out of the hills on both banks of the river, local bandits had begun firing guns in the direction of the boat. This happened quite often. Suddenly the boat was filled with the chaotic sound of passengers’ footsteps. By the time Mei grabbed Mrs. Wen and ran to the passageway in front of the dining hall, she had already heard the intermittent and then continuous sounds of gunfire coming from the left. The first-class passengers, who had already arisen, were now pushing and shoving to be first to squeeze down the narrow stairway leading to the cabins below. One of the crew gestured at Mei and her companion to go below as well. Without thinking, Mei took a step forward, but her nose was instantly assaulted by the stench of Mrs. Wen’s hair. She stopped.

&
nbsp; “I’m not going down. A boat moving with the current goes very fast. Even bandits’ bullets won’t be able to reach us,” Mei said with a slight smile.

  She did not wait for Mrs. Wen’s reply but walked sprightly through the dining hall to her own cabin, lay down on the bed, picked up a book, and began to read. As it happened, her cabin was on the right-hand side of the boat. The reflection of the sun flashed across the window. Mei got up, thinking to pull down the curtains, when she saw a wooden junk on the water unfurl its sails. It moved along the edge of the cliff and in an instant was gone. She listened carefully. The gunfire had stopped. She returned to her bed, lay down, and yawned. Her nights had been filled with dreams, her sleep unsettled. Once again this morning she had arisen too early. She felt very tired. Folding her hands under her head, she lay back on the pillow and closed her eyes.

  The doorknob to the cabin turned softly. Mei opened her eyes lazily and saw Mrs. Wen standing in front of the bed. She must have been jostled by the crowd, for her bun was about to come apart. It drooped limply down the back of her neck, and her temples were sticky with beads of sweat.

  “How dare those gangsters even open fire on foreign ships. Aiya! But you’re the bold one, Miss Mei. Bullets don’t have eyes. It’s not worth getting yourself killed.” Mrs. Wen sank heavily onto the bed. She spoke breathlessly.

  Mei smiled charmingly, sat up, walked to the window, and leaned over the dressing table. She considered advising Mrs. Wen to rearrange her bun, but in the end Mei changed her mind.

  “The pity is it interrupted our conversation. Mrs. Wen, do you think what the governor said was correct?”

  “Important people think differently from us common folk.”

  A casual observer might have thought that Mrs. Wen was just being polite, but her attitude was exceedingly earnest. Mei laughed faintly. She lifted her foot and lightly kicked the tassels on the lower part of the curtains with the pointed toes of her white leather high-heeled foreign shoes.