Reply to a Letter from the Trotskyites

Posted on September 27, 2010 by bcaiwa

The Letter

June 3
Dear Mr. Lu Hsun,

After the failure of the 1927 Revolution, instead of withdrawing in order to prepare for a come-back, the Chinese Communists took to military adventurism. Abandoning work in the cities, they ordered Party members to rise everywhere although the tide of revolution had ebbed, hoping to make Reds out of the peasants to conquer the country. Within seven or eight years hundreds of thousands of brave and useful young people were sacrificed on account of this policy, so that now in the high tide of the nationalist movement there are no revolutionary leaders for the city masses, and the next stage of the revolution has been postponed indefinitely.

Now the Reds’ movement to conquer the country has failed. But the Chinese Communists who blindly take orders from the Moscow bureaucrats have adopted a “New Policy”. They have made a volte- face, abandoned their class stand, issued new declarations and sent representatives to negotiate with the bureaucrats, politicians and warlords, including those who slaughtered the masses, in order to form a “united front” with them. They have put away their own banner and confused the people’s mind, making the masses believe that all those bureaucrats, politicians and executioners are national revolutionaries who will resist Japan too. The result can only be to deliver the revolutionary masses into the hands of those executioners for further slaughter. These shameless acts of betrayal on the part of the Stalinists make all Chinese revolutionaries blush for shame.

Now the bourgeois liberals and upper strata of the petty bourgeoisie of Shanghai welcome this “New Policy” of the Stalinists. And well they may. The traditional prestige of Moscow, the blood shed by the Chinese Reds and their present strength — what could play better into their hands? But the greater the welcome given to this “New Policy”, the greater damage will be done to the Chinese revolution.

Since 1930, under the most difficult conditions, our organization has made unremitting efforts to fight for our ideal. Since the defeat of the Revolution we have opposed the recklessness of the Stalinists and advocated a “revolutionary democratic struggle”. We believe that since the Revolution has failed, we must start all over again from the beginning. We have never ceased to gather together revolutionary cadres to study revolutionary theory, accepting the lessons of defeat to educate revolutionary workers so that during this difficult period of counter-revolution we may lay a firm foundation for the next stage of the revolution. The events of the past few years have proved the correctness of our political line and method of work. We were against the opportunist and reckless policies and bureaucratic party system of the Stalinists. Now we resolutely attack its treacherous “New Policy”. But precisely because of this we are under fire from all sorts of careerists and party bureaucrats. Is this our good fortune or is it a misfortune?

For the last decade and more, sir, I have admired your scholarship, writing and moral integrity, for while many thinking men have fallen into the quagmire of individualism you alone have fought on without respite to express your own views. We should count it a great honour to hear your criticism of our political views. I am sending you a few of our recent publications, which I beg you to accept and read. If you are good enough to write a reply, please leave it with Mr. X — I shall go to his house within three days to fetch it.

With best wishes,
Chen X—X

The Reply 2

June 9
Dear Mr. Chen,

I have received your letter and the copies of Struggle and Spark which you sent me.

I take it that the main drift of your letter is contained in these two points: You consider Stalin and his colleagues bureaucrats, and the proposal of Mao Tsetung and others — “Let all parties unite to resist Japan” — as a betrayal of the cause of revolution.

I certainly find this “confusing”. For do not all the successes of Stalin’s Union of Soviet Socialist Republics show the pitifulness of Trotsky’s exile, wanderings and failure which “forced” him in his old age to take money from the enemy? His conditions as an exile now must be rather different from conditions in Siberia before the revolution, for at that time I doubt if anyone so much as offered the prisoners a piece of bread. He may not feel so good, though, because now the Soviet Union has triumphed. Facts are stronger than rhetoric; and no one expected such pitiless irony. Your “theory” is certainly much loftier than that of Mao Tsetung; yours is high in the sky, while his is down-to-earth. But admirable as is such loftiness, it will unfortunately be just the thing welcomed by the Japanese aggressors. Hence I fear that it will drop down from the sky, and when it does it may land on the filthiest place on earth. Since the Japanese welcome your lofty theories, I cannot help feeling concern for you when I see your well-printed publications. If someone deliberately spreads a malicious rumour to discredit you, accusing you of accepting money for these publications from the Japanese, how are you to clear yourselves? I say this not to retaliate because some of you formerly joined certain others to accuse me of accepting Russian roubles. No, I would not stoop so low, and I do not believe that you could stoop so low as to take money from the Japanese to attack the proposal of Mao Tsetung and others to unite against Japan. No, this you could not do. But I want to warn you that your lofty theory will not be welcomed by the Chinese people, and that your behaviour runs counter to present-day Chinese people’s standards of morality. This is all I have to say about your views.

In conclusion, this sudden receipt of a letter and periodicals from you has made me rather uncomfortable. There must be some reason for it. It must be because some of my “comrades-in-arms” have been accusing me of certain faults. But whatever my faults, I am convinced that my views are quite different from yours. I count it an honour to have as my comrades those who are now doing solid work, treading firmly on the ground, fighting and shedding their blood in the defence of the Chinese people. Excuse me for making this an open reply, but since more than three days have passed you will probably not be going to that address for my answer.

Yours faithfully,
Lu Hsun

1. This article was first published on July 1, 1936 in both Literary Anthology No. 4 and Realist Writing No. 1.

2. This letter was dictated by Lu Hsun and taken down by O. V. (Feng Hsuehfeng).

Written: June 9, 1936
Source: Chinese Literature Number 3, 1977 pages 62-65
Online Version: Lu Xun Reference Archive, October 2005
Transcribed/HTML Markup: Mike B.
Public Domain: Marxists Internet Archive (2005). You may freely copy, distribute, display and perform this work; as well as make derivative and commercial works. Please credit “Marxists Internet Archive” as your source.

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The Secret of Being a Joker

Posted on September 26, 2010 by bcaiwa

Kierkegaard* is a Dane with a gloomy outlook on life, whose works always breathe indignation. But lie says some amusing things too, as in the passage below:

A theatre catches fire. The clown steps to the front of the stage to announce the fact to the audience, who think it a joke and applaud. Then the clown announces again that there is a fire, but they roar with laughter and clap more loudly than ever. No doubt the world will end amid the general applause of these laughter-loving people who take everything as a joke.

What amuses me, however, is not this passage alone but the way it reminds me of these jokers’ cunning. When there is a job to be done, they help out; when theit masters are bent on crime, they become accomplices. But they help in such a way that in case of bloodshed no bloodstain is found on them, nor any reek of blood.

For instance, if something serious has happened and everyone is taking it seriously, the joker starts clowning to make the thing look funny, or exaggerates some irrelevant aspects of it to distract attention. This is known as “playing the fool”. If murder has been done, he describes the scene of the crime and the hard work of the detectives. If the one killed is a woman, so much the better: he can refer to her as “the lovely corpse” or introduce her diary. If it is an assassination, he tells the life story of the victim, relates his love affairs and the anecdotes about him…Passions are bound to cool down eventually, but cold water—or, to he more refined, green tea—will speed up the cooling-off process. Then this fellow playing the fool becomes a man of letters.

If a serious alarm is raised before men have grown completely apathetic, of course that is bad for the murderer. But then the joker can play the fool again, cracking jokes and making faces on one side, so that the man who has raised the alarm looks like a clown himself to everyone, and his warnings sound laughable. The joker shrinks and shivers to show how rich and mighty the other is. He bows and sighs to show the other’s pride. Then the man who raised the alarm is considered a hypocrite. Luckily most of these jokers are men: otherwise they could accuse the one who gives the warning of attempted seduction, making public a great many indecent details, and finally pretend to kill themselves for shame. When there are jokers all around, the most serious talk loses its force and amid the suspicion and laughter an end is made of everything unfavourable to the murderer. This time the joker appears as a moralist.

When there are no incidents of this kind, jokers collect tittle-tattie for the newspaper supplements every week or ten days with which to stuff readers’ heads. After reading this for six months or a year, your mind is stocked with stories of how a certain great man plays mah-jong or a certain film star sneezes. This is naturally quite amusing. But the world will come to an end amid the laughter of these laughter-loving people.

* Soren Azbye Kierkegaard (1813-1855), Danish philosopher and theologian.

Written: August 28, 1933
Source: Chinese Literature Number 2, 1978 pages 76-77
Online Version: Lu Xun Reference Archive, September 2005
Transcribed/HTML Markup: Mike B.
Public Domain: Marxists Internet Archive (2005). You may freely copy, distribute, display and perform this work; as well as make derivative and commercial works. Please credit “Marxists Internet Archive” as your source.

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The Art of the Number-Two Clown

Posted on September 25, 2010 by bcaiwa

Among the different roles in East Chekiang opera is one known as the “second painted-face”, or to use a more dignified term, the “number-two clown”. The difference between him and the clown is this: instead of playing a bullying, reckless rake or some official’s servant who makes use of his master’s power, he takes the part of a young gentleman’s bodyguard or fawning protégé. In short, his social status is higher than the clown’s, but his character is baser.

A loyal servant is played by an actor whose face is not painted, who gives good advice and then dies for his master. A bad servant is played by a down, who does bad things and perishes in the end. A number-two clown is different, however. He looks not unlike a gentleman, knows something of lyre-playing, chess, calligraphy and painting, and can join in drinking games and solve riddles; but he has powerful backing and bullies the common people. When some- one is persecuted, he laughs coldly and feels pleased; when someone is slandered, he threatens him and shouts. He is not always consistent, however, for he quite often turns round to point out his young master’s faults to the audience, wagging his head and grimacing as he says: “Look, this fellow is going to get into trouble this time!”

This last trick is typical of the number-two clown, for he is neither as stupid as the loyal servant nor as simple as the bad one. He is an intellectual. He knows quite well that his patron is an ice mountain which cannot last very long, and later he will have to serve someone else. Therefore while he is being fed and basking in reflected glory, he has to show that he is not really on his noble master’s side.

Of course operas written by number-two clowns do not have this character. Certainly not. Neither do operas written by clowns or rakes, for they see only one side of his character. No, this number-two clown is a creation of the common people, after they have seen through his type and extracted its essence.

So long as there are powerful families, so long will there be despotism, then there will be number-two clowns, and the art of the number-two clown. If we take a paper and read it for a week, we shall find him now complaining about the spring, now extolling the war, now translating some speech by Bernard Shaw, now talking about the marriage problem. But from time to time he must ex- press his indignation and dissatisfaction with the government – that is his last trick.

This last trick is supposed to show that he is not a flunkey. But the common people understand, and have long ago presented this type on the stage.

Written: June 15, 1933
Source: Chinese Literature Number 2, 1978 pages 76-77
Online Version: Lu Xun Reference Archive, September 2005
Transcribed/HTML Markup: Mike B.
Public Domain: Marxists Internet Archive (2005). You may freely copy, distribute, display and perform this work; as well as make derivative and commercial works. Please credit “Marxists Internet Archive” as your source.

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Literature of a Revolutionary Period

Posted on September 24, 2010 by bcaiwa

Literature of a Revolutionary Period

A talk given on April 8 at the Huangpu Military Academy

The subject of my short talk today is “Literature of a Revolutionary Period”. This college has invited me here several times, but I kept putting off coming. Why? Because I believed you invited me as I am the author of a few short stories, and you wanted to hear from me about literature. Actually I am not an author and have no special knowledge. The first subject I studied seriously was mining, and I could probably give you a better talk on coal-mining than on literature. Of course, my own liking for literature makes me read a good deal of it, but I have not learned anything from my reading which would be useful to you. And my experience in Peking in recent years has gradually undermined my faith in the old literary theories on which I was brought up. That was the time when students were shot and there was a strict censorship, when to my mind only the weakest, most useless people talked about literature. Those who are strong do not talk, they kill. The oppressed have only to say or write a few words to be killed; or, if lucky enough to escape, all they can do is shout, complain or protest, while those who are strong go on oppressing, ill-treating and killing them, and they are powerless to resist. What use is literature to people then?

It is the same in the animal kingdom. When a hawk catches a sparrow, the hawk is silent, the sparrow is the one to cry out. When a cat catches a mouse, the cat is silent, the mouse is the one to cry out. And the one that can only cry ends by being eaten by the one that is silent. An author if he is lucky may write a few things which win him a name during his lifetime or an empty reputation for some years — just as after the memorial service for someone who has died for the revolution, no mention is made of the revolutionary’s actions but everybody can discuss the merits of the funeral couplets — this is a very safe business.

However, I suppose writers in this revolutionary place like to claim that literature plays a big part in revolution and can be used, for instance, to propagandize, encourage, spur on, speed up and accomplish revolution. But to my mind, writing of this kind lacks vigour, for few good works of literature have been written to order; instead, they flow naturally from the heart with no regard for the possible consequences. To write on some set subject is like writing a paku essay,2 which is worthless as literature and quite incapable of moving the reader.

For revolution we need revolutionaries, but revolutionary literature can wait, for only when revolutionaries start writing can there be revolutionary literature. So to my mind it is revolution which plays a big part in literature. The literature of a revolutionary period is different from that of ordinary times for, in a revolution, literature changes too. But only great revolutions can effect this change, not small ones which do not count as revolutions.

Everyone here is used to hearing about “revolution”, but if you use this word in Kiangsu or Chekiang you will terrify people and endanger yourself. Actually revolution is nothing strange, and we owe all social reforms to it. Mankind could only progress, evolve from protozoa to men, from barbarism to civilization, because of ceaseless revolutions. Biologists tell us: “Men are not very different from monkeys. Apes and men are cousins.” How is it then that men have become men while monkeys remain monkeys? It is because monkeys will not change their ways — they like to walk on all fours. Quite likely some monkey once stood up and tried to walk on two legs, but many others protested, “Our ancestors have always crawled. You’re not to stand up!” Then they bit him to death. They refused not only to stand but also to talk, being conservative. Men, however, are different. They eventually stood up and talked, and so they won out. But the process is still going on. So revolution is nothing strange, and all races not yet moribund are trying to revolt every day, though most of their revolutions are merely small ones.

What influence do great revolutions have on literature? We may divide this into three different periods:

(1) Before a great revolution, nearly all literature expresses dissatisfaction and distress over social conditions, voicing suffering and indignation. There are many works of this kind in the world. But these expressions of suffering and indignation have no influence on the revolution, for mere complaints are powerless. Those who oppress you will ignore them. The mouse may squeak and even produce fine literature, yet the cat will gobble it up without any consideration. So a nation with only a literature of complaint is hopeless, because it stops short at that. Just as in a lawsuit, when the defeated party starts distributing accounts of his grievances his opponent knows that he cannot afford to go on and the case is as good as wound up, so the literature of complaints, like proclaiming one’s grievances, gives the oppressors a sense of security. Some nations stop complaining when it proves useless and become silent nations, growing more and more decadent. Witness Egypt, Arabia, Persia and India all of which have no voice. But nations with inner strength which dare rebel when complaints prove useless wake up to the facts and their lamentations change into roars of anger. When such literature appears it heralds revolt, and because people are enraged the works written just before the outbreak of revolution often voice their fury their determination to resist, to take vengeance. Literature of this kind heralded the October Revolution. But there are exceptions too, as in the case of Poland where although there had long been the literature of vengeance3 the country owed its recovery to the Great War in Europe.

(2) During a great revolution, literature disappears and there is silence for, swept up in the tide of revolution, all turn from shouting to action and are so busy making revolution that there is no time to talk of literature. Again, that is a period of poverty when men are so hard put to it to find bread that they are in no mood to talk of literature. And conservatives, staggered by the high tide of revolution, are too enraged and stunned to sing what passes with them for “literature”. Some say, “Literature is born of poverty and suffering”, but this is a fallacy. Poor men do not write. Whenever I was short of money in Peking, I made the rounds to borrow some and wrote not a single word. Only when our salary was paid did I sit down to write. In busy times there is no literature either. The man with a heavy load and the rickshaw man with a rickshaw both have to put them down before they can write. Great revolutions are very busy and very impoverished times, when one group is contending with another, and the first essential is to change the existing social system. No one has the time or inclination to write. So during a great revolution the world of letters is bound to lapse into a temporary silence.

(3) When the revolution has triumphed, there is less social tension and men are better off, then literature is written again. There are two types of literature in this period. One extols the revolution and sings its praise, because progressive writers are impressed by the changes and advances in society, the destruction of the old and the construction of the new. Rejoicing in the downfall of old institutions, they sing the praises of the new construction. The second type of writing to appear after a revolution — the dirge — laments the destruction of the old. Some consider this “counter-revolutionary literature”, but I see no need to pass such a harsh sentence on it. Though a revolution has taken place, there are many of the old school in society who cannot change overnight into new people. Since their minds are full of old ideas, when their surroundings gradually change, affecting their whole mode of life, they think back to the good old days and hanker after the old society. Because they keep harking back, they express most old-fashioned, outmoded sentiments, and create this literature. All works of this kind are mournful, expressing the writers’ discomfort. The evident success of the new construction and the ruin of the old institutions make them chant dirges. But this longing for the past and this chanting of dirges means that the revolution has been carried out. Without a revolution, the old people would still be in power and would not chant dirges.

Only China today has neither type of literature — either dirges for the old or praise for the new; for the Chinese revolution is not yet accomplished. This is still the transitional period, a busy time for revolutionaries. There is still a good deal of the old literature left, though, practically everything in the papers being written in the old style. I think this means that the Chinese revolution has brought about very few changes in our society, scarcely affecting the conservatives at all, and therefore the old school can still hold aloof. The fact that all — or nearly all the writing in the Canton papers is old proves that society here is equally untouched by the revolution; hence there are no paeans for the new, no dirges for the old, and the province of Kwangtung remains as it was ten years ago. Not only so, there are no complaints or protests either. We see trade unions taking part in demonstrations, but with government sanction not revolting against oppression. This is merely revolution by government order. Because China has not changed, we have no songs of mournful yearning for the past and no new marching songs. In Soviet Russia, however, they have both types. Their old writers who have fled abroad write mostly dirges for the dead, while their new literature strives to make headway. Though no great works have yet appeared, there is already a good deal of new writing and they have passed from the period of raging to that of paeans. Praising 6 7 construction follows upon the completion of the revolution, but we cannot yet predict what will come later. I suppose it will be a people’s literature, for as a result of the revolution the world belongs to the people.

In China, of course, we have no people’s literature, nor does it exist yet anywhere in the world. Neatly all literature, songs and poems are for the upper-class, who read them on full stomachs, reclining on their couches. A talented scholar leaves home and meets a beautiful girl, and the two of them fall in love; some untalented fellow makes trouble and they go through various trials, but finally all ends well. Reading like this is thoroughly delightful. Or the books may deal with interesting, happy upper-class people, or ridiculous lower-class people. A few years ago New Youth published some stories about the lives of convicts in a cold land, and professors did not like them they do not like to read about such low characters. A poem about rickshaw-boys is low-class poetry, a play about law-breakers is a low-class play. In their operas you find only characters like talented scholars and beauties. A talented scholar wins first place in the court examination and a beautiful girl is made a lady of the first rank; so the scholar and the lady are happy, the professors who read this are happy too, and low-class people, I suppose, have to be happy with them.

Some writers today use the common people — workers and peasants — as material for their novels and poems, and this has also been called people’s literature when actually it is nothing of the sort, for the people have not yet opened theft mouths. These works voice the sentiments of onlookers, who put words in the people’s mouths. Though some of our present men of letters are poor, they are all better off than workers and peasants, otherwise they would not have had the money to study and would not be able to write. Their works may seem to come from the people, but in fact they do not: they are not real stories of the people. Now some writers have started recording folk-songs in the belief that here we have the authentic voice of the people, for these are sung by the common folk. However, old books have had a very great indirect influence on our common folk, who feel boundless admiration for those country gentlemen with three thousand mu of land, and often adopt these gentlemen’s views as their own. Gentlemen frequently chant poems with five or seven characters to a line, so this is the common metre for folk-songs too. This is as regards their form, and as their content is very decadent too they cannot be called true people’s literature. Present-day Chinese poetry and fiction are not really up to the standard of other countries. I suppose we have to call them literature, but we cannot talk of literature of a revolutionary period, still less of people’s literature. All our writers today are literati, and our workers and peasants go on thinking the same way as the literati until they are liberated Only when they achieve true liberation will there be a true people’s literature. This is why it is wrong to say, “We already have a people’s literature.”

You gentlemen are actual fighters, fighters for the revolution, I think you had better not admire literature just yet. Studying literature will not help in the war — at most you may write a battle son which, if well written, may make pleasant reading when you rest after fighting. To put it more poetically, it is like planting a willow: when the willow grows and gives shade, peasants knocking off work at noon can eat and rest beneath it. The present situation in China is such that only the actual revolutionary war counts. A poem could not have frightened away Sun Chuanfang,4 but a cannon-shell scared him away. I know some people think literature has a great influence on revolution, but personally I doubt this, literature is after all a product of leisure which does, it is true, reflect a nation’s culture.

Men are seldom satisfied with their own occupation. I have never been able to do anything but write a few essays, and I am tired of that; yet you who carry rifles want to hear about literature. I myself would naturally rather hear the roar of guns, for it seems to me that the roar of guns is much sweeter to listen to than literature. This is all I have to say. Thank you for hearing me out.

1. The Huangpu Military Academy was founded after Sun Yat-sen reorganized the Kuomintang with the help of the Chinese Communist Party in 1924. To start with it was jointly run by both parties and trained many officers for the Northern Expeditionary Army. After Chiang Kai-shek’s coup on April 12, 1927, the academy was taken over by the Kuomintang.

2. A form of essay set in the imperial examinations of the Ming (1368-1644) and Ching (1644-1911) Dynasties. These essays, divided into eight sections, were stereotyped and devoid of real content.

3. Referring to the works of such early 19th-century Polish poets as Mickiewicz and Slowacki.

4. Sun Chuan-fang (1884-1935), a warlord active in Kiangsu and Chckiang. In 1926, he was defeated by the Northern Expeditionary Army in Kiangsi.

Written/Presented: April 8, 1927
Source: Chinese Literature Number 9, 1977 pages 3-9
Online Version: Lu Xun Reference Archive, September 2005
Transcribed/HTML Markup: Mike B.
Public Domain: Marxists Internet Archive (2005). You may freely copy, distribute, display and perform this work; as well as make derivative and commercial works. Please credit “Marxists Internet Archive” as your source.

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The Flight to the Moon (III)

Posted on September 23, 2010 by bcaiwa

III

Before he came to the end of the kaoliang fields, night had fallen. Stars appeared in the dark blue sky, and in the west the evening star shone with unusual brilliance. The horse picked its way along the white ridges between the fields, so weary that its pace was slower than ever. Fortunately, at the horizon the moon began to shed its silver light.

“Confound it!” Yi, whose belly was rumbling now, lost patience. “The harder I try to make a living, the more tiresome things happen to waste my time.” He spurred his horse, but it simply twitched its rump and jogged on as slowly as before.

“It’s so late, Chang-ngo is sure to be angry,” he thought. “She may fly into a temper. Thank goodness I’ve this little hen to make her happy. I’ll tell her: ‘Madam, I went two hundred li there and back to find you this.’ No, that’s no good: sounds too boastful.”

Now to his joy he saw lights ahead and stopped worrying. And without any urging the horse broke into a canter. A round, snow-white moon lit up the path before him and a cool wind soothed his cheeks—this was better than coming home from a great hunt!

The horse stopped of its own accord beside the rubbish heap. Yi saw at a glance that something was amiss. The whole house was in confusion. Chao Fu alone came out to meet him.

“What’s happened? Where’s Wang Sheng?” he demanded.

“He’s gone to the Yao family to look for our mistress.” “What? Has your mistress gone to the Yao family?” Yi was too taken aback to dismount.

“Yes, sir.” Chao took the reins and whip.

Then Yi got down from his horse and crossed the threshold. After a moment’s thought he turned to ask:

“Are you sure she didn’t grow tired of waiting and go to a restaurant?”

“No, sir. I’ve asked in all three restaurants. She isn’t there.”

His head lowered in thought, Yi entered the house. The three maids were standing nervously in front of the hall. He cried out in amazement:

“What! All of you here? Your mistress never goes alone to the Yao family.”

They looked at him in silence, then took off his bow, the quiver and the bag holding the small hen. Yi had a moment of panic. Suppose, in anger, Chang-ngo had killed herself? He sent Nu-keng for Chao Fu, and told him to search the pond in the back and the trees. Once in their room, though, he knew his guess had been wrong. The place was in utter disorder, all the chests were open and one glance behind the bed showed that the jewel-case was missing. He felt as if doused with cold water. Gold and pearls meant nothing to him, but the elixir given him by the priest had been in that case too.

After walking twice round the room, he noticed Wang Sheng at the door.

“Please, sir, our mistress isn’t with the Yaos. They’re not playing mah-jong today.”

Yi looked at him and said nothing. Wang Sheng withdrew.

“Did you call me, sir?” asked Chao Fu, coming in.

Yi shook his head and waved him away.

He walked round and round the room, then went to the hall and sat down. Looking up he could see on the opposite wall the vermilion bow and arrows, the black bow and arrows, the crossbow, the sword and the dagger. After some reflection, he asked the maids who were standing there woodenly:

“What time did your mistress disappear?”

“She wasn’t here when I brought in the lamp,” said Nu-yi. “But no one saw her go out.”

“Did you see her take the medicine in that case?”

“No, sir. But she did ask me for some water this afternoon.”

Yi stood up in consternation. He suspected that he had been left alone on earth!

“Did you see anything flying to heaven?” he asked.

“Oh!” Nu-hsin was struck by a thought. “When I came out after lighting the lamp, I did see a black shadow flying this way. I never dreamed it was our mistress. . . .” Her face turned pale.

“It must have been!” Yi clapped his knee and sprang up. He started out, turning back to ask Nu-hsin: “Which way did the shadow go?”

Nu-hsin pointed with one finger. But all he could see in that direction was the round, snow-white moon, with its hazy pavilions and trees, suspended in the sky. When he was a child his grandmother had told him of the lovely landscape of the moon; he still had a vague recollection of her description. As he watched the moon floating in a sapphire sea, his own limbs seemed very heavy.

Fury took possession of him. And in his fury he felt the urge to kill. With eyes starting from his head, he roared at the maids:

“Bring my bow! The one with which I shot the suns! And three arrows!”

Nu-yi and Nu-keng took down the huge bow in the middle of the hall and dusted it. Together with three long arrows they handed it to him.

Holding the bow in one hand, with the other he fitted the three arrows to the string. He drew the bow to the full, aiming straight at the moon. Standing there firm as a rock, his eyes darting lightning, his beard and hair flying in the wind like black tongues of flame, for one instant he looked again the hero who, long ago, had shot the suns.

There was a whistle, one only. The three shafts left the string, one after the other, too fast for eye to see or ear to hear. They should have struck the moon in the same place, for they followed each other without a hair’s breadth between them. But to be sure of reaching his mark he had given each a slightly different direction, so that the arrows struck three different points, inflicting three wounds.

The maids gave a cry. They saw the moon quiver and thought it must surely fall—but still it hung there peacefully, shedding a calm, even brighter light, as if completely unscathed.

Yi threw back his head to hurl an oath at the sky. He watched and waited. But the moon paid no attention. He took three paces forward, and the moon fell back three paces. He took three paces back, and the moon moved forward.

They looked at each other in silence.

Listlessly, he leaned his bow against the door of the ball. He went inside. The maids followed him.

He sat down and sighed. “Well, your mistress will be happy on her own for ever after. How could she have the heart to leave me and fly up there alone? Did she find me too old? But only last month she said: ‘You’re not old. It’s a sign of mental weakness to think of yourself as old. . . .”

“That couldn’t be it,” said Nu-yi. “Folk still describe you as a warrior, sir.”

“Sometimes you seem like an artist,” put in Nu-hsin.

“Nonsense! The fact is, those noodles with crow sauce were uneatable. I can’t blame her for not being able to stomach them. . . .”

“That leopard skin is worn out on one side. I’ll cut a piece of the leg facing the wall to mend it. That will look better.” Nu-hsin walked inside.

“Wait a bit!” said Yi and reflected. “There’s no hurry for that. I’m famished. Make haste and cook me a dish of chicken with paprika, and make five catties of flapjacks. After that I can go to bed. Tomorrow I’m going to ask that priest for another elixir, so that I can follow her. Tell Wang Sheng, Nu-keng, to give my horse four measures of beans!”

1. Yi or Hon Yi was a heroic archer in ancient Chinese legends.

2. A goddess in ancient Chinese mythology, supposed to be Yi’s wife. She took some drug of immortality and flew to the moon to become a goddess there.

3. Yi’s pupil and another good archer. This is a thrust at Kan Chang-hung, a young writer who was Lu Hsun’s pupil but later attacked him in his articles. The story of Feng Meng shooting Yi suggests Kan’s attack on Lu Hsun.

Written: December 1926
Source: Selected Stories of Lu Hsun, Published by Foreign Languages Press, Peking, 1960, 1972
Transcribed: Original transcription from coldbacon.com
HTML Markup: Mike B. for MIA, 2005
Public Domain: Marxists Internet Archive (2005). You may freely copy, distribute, display and perform this work; as well as make derivative and commercial works. Please credit “Marxists Internet Archive” as your source.

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The Flight to the Moon (II)

Posted on September 23, 2010 by bcaiwa

II

Night passed, a new day dawned.

In a flash Yi opened his eyes. A sunbeam aslant the western wall told him it could not be early. He looked at Chang-ngo, who was lying stretched out fast asleep. Without a sound he threw on his clothes, slipped down from his leopard skin couch and tiptoed into the hall. As he washed his face he told Nu-keng to order Wang Sheng to saddle his horse.

Having so much to do, he had long since given up breakfast. Nu-yi put five baked cakes, five stalks of leek and a package of paprika in his game bag, fastening this firmly to his waist with his bow and arrows. He tightened his belt and strode lightly out of the hall, telling Nu-keng whom he met:

“I mean to go further today to look for game. I may be a little late getting back. When your mistress has had her breakfast and is in good spirits, give her my apologies and ask her to wait for me for supper. Don’t forget—my apologies!”

He walked swiftly out, swung into the saddle and flashed past the retainers ranged on either side. Very soon he was out of the village. In front were the kaoliang fields through which he passed every day. These he ignored, having learned long ago that there was nothing here. With two cracks of his whip he galloped forward, covering sixty li without a pause. In front was a dense forest, and since his horse was winded and in a lather it naturally slowed down. Another ten li and they were in the forest, yet Yi could see nothing but wasps, butterflies, ants and locusts—not a trace of birds or beasts. The first sight of this unexplored territory had raised hopes of catching at least a couple of foxes or rabbits but now he knew that had been an idle dream. He made his way out and saw another stretch of green kaoliang fields ahead, with one or two mud cottages in the distance. The breeze was balmy, the sun warm; neither crow nor sparrow could be heard.

“Confound it!” he bellowed to relieve his feelings.

A dozen paces further on, however, and his heart leaped with joy. On the flat ground outside a mud hut in the distance there was actually a fowl. Stopping to peck at every step, it looked like a large pigeon. He seized his bow and fitted an arrow to it, drew it to its full extent and then let go. His shaft sped through the air like a shooting star.

With no hesitation, for he never missed his quarry, he spurred after the arrow to retrieve the game. But as he approached it an old woman hurried towards the horse. She had picked up the large pigeon transfixed by his arrow and was shouting:

“Who are you? Why have you shot my best black laying hen? Have you nothing better to do? . . .”

Yi’s heart missed a beat. He pulled up short.

“What! A hen?” he echoed nervously. “I thought it was a wood pigeon.”

“Are you blind? You must be over forty too.”

“Yes, ma’am. Forty-five last year.”

“No fool like an old fool, they say. Imagine mistaking a hen for a wood pigeon! Who are you anyway?”

“I am Yi.” While saying this he saw that his arrow had pierced the hen’s heart, killing it outright. So his voice trailed away on his name as he dismounted.

“Never heard of him!” She peered into his face.

“There are those who know my name. In the days of good King Yao I shot wild boars and serpents. . . .”

“Oh, you liar! Those were shot by Lord Feng Meng3and some others. Maybe you helped. But how can you boast of doing it all yourself? For shame!”

“Why, ma’am, that fellow Feng Meng has just taken to calling on me during the last few years. We never worked together. He had no part in it.”

“Liar! Everybody says so. I hear it four or five times a month.”

“All right. Let’s come down to business. What about this hen?”

“You must make it up! She was my best: she laid me an egg every day. You’ll have to give me two hoes and three spindles in exchange.”

“Look at me, ma’am—I neither farm nor spin. Where would I get hoes or spindles? I’ve no money on me either, only five baked cakes—but they’re made of white flour. I’ll give you these for your hen with five stalks of leek and a package of paprika into the bargain. What do you say? . . .”

Taking the cakes from his bag with one hand, he picked up the hen with the other.

The old woman was not averse to taking cakes of white flour, but insisted on having fifteen. After haggling for some time they agreed on ten, and Yi promised to bring the rest over by noon the next day at the latest, leaving the arrow there as security. Then, his mind at rest, he stuffed the dead hen in his bag, sprang into his saddle and headed home. Though famished, he was happy. It was over a year since they had last tasted chicken soup.

It was afternoon when he emerged from the forest, and he plied his whip hard in his eagerness to get home. His horse was exhausted, though, and they did not reach the familiar kaoliang fields till dusk. He glimpsed a shadowy figure some way off, and almost at once an arrow sang through the air towards him.

Without reining in his horse, which was trotting along, Yi fitted an arrow to his bow and let fly. Zing! Two arrowheads collided, sparks flew into the air and the two shafts thrust up to form an inverted V before toppling over and falling to the ground. No sooner had the first two met than both men loosed their second, which again collided in mid-air. They did this nine times, till Yi’s supply was exhausted; and now he could see Feng Meng opposite, gloating as he aimed another arrow at his throat.

“Well, well!” thought Yi. “I imagined he was fishing at the seaside, but he’s been hanging about to play dirty tricks like this. Now I understand the old woman talking as she did. . . .”

In a flash, his enemy’s bow arched like a full moon and the arrow whistled through the air towards Yi’s throat. Perhaps the aim was at fault, for it struck him full in the mouth. He tumbled over, transfixed, and fell to the ground. His horse stood motionless.

Seeing Yi was dead, Feng Meng tiptoed slowly over. Smiling as if drinking to his victory, he gazed at the face of the corpse.

As he stared long and hard, Yi opened his eyes and sat up.

“You’ve learned nothing in a hundred visits or more to me.” He spat out the arrow and laughed. “Don’t you know my skill in ‘biting the arrow’? That’s too bad! These tricks of yours won’t get you anywhere. You can’t kill your boxing master with blows learned from him. You must work out something of your own.”

“I was trying to ‘pay you out in your own coin’ . . .” mumbled the victor.

Yi stood up, laughing heartily. “You’re always quoting some adage. Maybe you can impress old women that way, but you can’t impose on me. I’ve always stuck to hunting, never taken to highway robbery like you. . . .”

Relieved to see that the hen in his bag was not crushed, he remounted and rode away.

“Curse you . . . .” An oath carried after him.

“To think he should stoop so low . . . . Such a young fellow, and yet he’s picked up swearing. No wonder that old woman was taken in.”

Yi shook his head sadly as he rode along.

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The Flight to the Moon (I)

Posted on September 23, 2010 by bcaiwa

I

It is a fact that intelligent beasts can divine the wishes of men. As soon as their gate came in sight the horse slowed down and, hanging its head at the same moment as its rider, let it jog with each step like a pestle pounding rice.

The great house was overhung with evening mist, while thick black smoke rose from the neighbours’ chimneys. It was time for supper. At the sound of hoofs, retainers had come out and were standing erect with their arms at their sides before the entrance. As Yi1 dismounted listlessly beside the rubbish heap, they stepped forward to relieve him of his reins and whip. At the moment of crossing the threshold, he looked down at the quiverful of brand-new arrows at his waist and the three crows and one shattered sparrow in his bag, and his heart sank within him. But he strode in, putting a bold face on things, the arrows rattling in his quiver.

Reaching the inner courtyard, he saw Chang-ngo2 looking out from the round window. He knew her sharp eyes must have seen the crows, and in dismay he came to a sudden stop—but he had to go on in. Serving-maids came out to greet him, unfastened his bow and quiver and took his game bag. He noticed that their smiles were rather forced.

After wiping his face and hands he entered the inner apartment, calling: “Madam. . . .”

Chang-ngo had been watching the sunset from the round window. She turned slowly and threw him an indifferent glance without returning his greeting.

He had been used to this treatment for some time, for over a year at least. But as usual he went on in and sat down on the old, worn leopard skin over the wooden couch opposite. Scratching his head, he muttered:

“I was out of luck again today. Nothing but crows. . . . .”

“Pah!”

Raising her willowy eyebrows, Chang-ngo sprang up and swept from the room, grumbling as she went: “Noodles with crow sauce again! Noodles with crow sauce again! I’d like to know who else eats nothing but noodles with crow sauce from one year to the next? How ill-fated I was to marry you and eat noodles with crow sauce the whole year round!”

“Madam!” Yi leaped to his feet and followed her. “It wasn’t so bad today,” he continued softly. “I shot a sparrow too, which can be dressed for you. . . . Nu-hsin!” he called to the maid. “Bring that sparrow to show your mistress.”

The game had been taken to the kitchen, but Nu-hsin ran to fetch the sparrow and held it out in both hands to Chang-ngo.

“That!” With a disdainful glance she reached slowly out to touch it. “How disgusting!” she said crossly. “You’ve smashed it to pieces! Where’s the meat?”

“I know,” admitted Yi, discomfited. “My bow is too powerful, my arrow-heads are too large.”

“Can’t you use smaller arrows?”

“I haven’t any. When I shot the giant boar and the huge python. . . .”

“Is this a giant boar or a huge python?” She turned to Nu-hsin and ordered: “Use it for soup!” Then she went back to her room.

Left alone at a loss, Yi sat down with his back to the wall to listen to the crackling of firewood in the kitchen. He remembered the bulk of the giant boar which had loomed like a small hillock in the distance. If he hadn’t shot it then but left it till now, it would have kept them in meat for half a year and spared them this daily worry about food. And the huge python! What soups it could have made!

Nu-yi lit the lamp. The vermilion bow and arrows, the black bow and arrows, the crossbow, the sword and the dagger glimmered on the opposite wall in its faint rays. After one look, Yi lowered his head and sighed. Nu-hsin brought supper in and set it on the table in the middle: five large bowls of noodles on the left, two large bowls of noodles and one of soup on the right, in the centre one large bowl of crow sauce.

While eating, Yi had to admit that this was not an appetizing meal. He stole a glance at Chang-ngo. Without so much as looking at the crow sauce, she had steeped her noodles in soup, and she set down her bowl half finished. Her face struck him as paler and thinner than before—suppose she were to fall ill?

By the second watch, in a slightly better mood, she sat without a word on the edge of the bed to drink some water. Yi sat on the wooden couch next to her, stroking the old leopard skin which was losing its fur.

“Ah,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “I bagged this spotted leopard on the Western Hill before we married. It was a beauty—one glossy mass of gold.”

That reminded him of how they had lived in the old days. Of bears they ate nothing but the paws, of camels nothing but the hump, giving all the rest to the serving-maids and retainers. When the big game was finished they ate wild boars, rabbits and pheasants. He was such a fine archer, he could shoot as much as he pleased.

A sigh escaped him.

“The fact is I’m too good a shot,” he said. “That’s why the whole place is cleaned out. Who could have guessed we’d be left with nothing but crows?”

Chang-ngo gave the ghost of a smile.

“Today I was luckier than usual.” Yi’s spirits were rising. “At least I caught a sparrow. I had to go an extra thirty li to find it.”

“Can’t you go a little further still?”

“Yes, madam. That’s what I mean to do. I’ll get up earlier tomorrow morning. If you wake first, call me. I mean to go fifty li further to see if I can’t find some roebucks or rabbits. . . . It won’t be easy, though. Remember all the game there was when I shot the giant boar and the huge python? Black bears used to pass in front of your mother’s door, and she asked me several times to shoot them. . . .”

“Really?” It seemed to have slipped Chang-ngo’s memory.

“Who could have foreseen they would all disappear like this? Come to think of it, I don’t know how we’re going to manage. I’m all right. I’ve only to eat that elixir the priest gave me, and I can fly up to heaven. But first I must think of you . . . that’s why I’ve decided to go a little further tomorrow. . . .”

“Um.”

Chang-ngo finished the water. She lay down slowly and closed her eyes.

The lamp, burning low, lit up her fading make-up. Much of her powder had rubbed off, there were dark circles beneath her eyes and one of her eyebrows was blacker than the other; yet her mouth was as red as fire, and though she wasn’t smiling you could see faint dimples on her cheeks.

“Ah, no! How can I feed a woman like this on nothing but noodles and crow sauce!”

Overcome by shame, Yi flushed up to his ears.

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Forging the Swords (IV)

Posted on September 22, 2010 by bcaiwa

IV

The smoke drifted away, the fire went out. Not a ripple remained on the water. The extraordinary silence brought high and low to their senses. Someone gave a cry, and at once all called out together in horror. Someone walked over to the golden cauldron, and the others pressed after him. Those crowded at the back could only peer between the necks of those in front.

The heat still scorched their cheeks. The water, now as smooth as a mirror, was coated with oil which reflected a sea of faces: the queen, the concubines, guards, old ministers, dwarfs, eunuchs. . . .

“Heavens! Our king’s head is still in there! Oh, horrors!” The sixth concubine suddenly burst into frantic sobbing.

From the queen down to the court jester, all were seized by consternation. They scattered in panic, at a loss, running round in circles. The wisest old councillor went forward alone and put out a hand to touch the side of the cauldron. He winced, snatched back his hand and put two fingers to his mouth to blow on them.

Finally regaining control, they gathered outside the palace to discuss how best to recover the king’s head. They consulted for the time it would take to cook three pans of millet. Their conclusion was: collect wire scoops from the big kitchen, and order the guards to do their best to retrieve the royal head.

Soon the implements were ready:

wire scoops, strainers, golden plates and dusters were all placed by the cauldron. The guards rolled up their sleeves. Some with wire scoops, some with strainers, respectfully they set about bringing up the remains. The scoops clashed against each other and scraped the edge of the cauldron, while the water eddied in their wake. After some time, one of the guards, with a grave face, raised his scoop slowly and carefully in both hands. Drops of water like pearls were dripping from the utensil, in which lay a snow-white skull. As the others cried Out with astonishment, he deposited the skull on one golden plate.

“Oh, dear! Our king!” The queen, concubines, ministers and even the eunuchs burst out sobbing. They soon stopped, however, when another guard fished out another skull identical with the first.

They watched dully with tear-filled eyes as the sweating guards went on with their salvaging. They retrieved a tangled mass of white hair and black hair, and several spoonfuls of some shorter hair no doubt from white and black moustaches. Then another skull. Then three hairpins.

They stopped only when nothing but clear soup was left in the cauldron, and divided what they had on to three golden plates: one of skulls, one of hair, one of hairpins.

“His Majesty had only one head, Which is his?” demanded the ninth concubine frantically.

“Quite so. . . .” The ministers looked at each other in dismay.

“If the skin and flesh hadn’t boiled away, it would be easy to tell,” remarked one kneeling dwarf.

They forced themselves to examine the skulls carefully, but the size and colour were about the same. They could not even distinguish which was the boy’s. The queen said the king had a scar on his right temple as the result of a fall while still crown prince, and this might have left a trace on the skull. Sure enough, a dwarf discovered such a mark on one skull, and there was general rejoicing until another dwarf discovered a similar mark on the right temple of a slightly yellower skull.

“I know!” exclaimed the third concubine happily. “Our king had a very high nose.”

The eunuchs hastened to examine the noses. To be sure, one of them was relatively high, though there wasn’t much to choose between them; but unfortunately that particular skull had no mark on the right temple.

“Besides,” said the ministers to the eunuchs, “was the back of His Majesty’s skull so protuberant?”

“We never paid any attention to the back of His Majesty’s skull. . . .”

The queen and the concubines searched their memories. Some said it had been protuberant, some flat. When they questioned the eunuch who had combed the royal hair, he would not commit himself to an answer.

That evening a council of princes and ministers was held to determine which head was the king’s, but with no better result than during the day. In fact, even the hair and moustaches presented a problem. The white was of course the king’s, but since he had been grizzled it was very hard to decide about the black. After half a night’s discussion, they had just eliminated a few red hairs when the ninth concubine protested. She was sure she had seen a few brown hairs in the king’s moustache; in which case how could they be sure there was not a single red one? They had to put them all together again and leave the case unsettled.

By the early hours of the morning they had reached no solution. They prolonged the discussion yawning, till the cock crowed a second time, before fixing on a safe and satisfactory solution: All three heads should be placed in the golden coffin beside the king’s body for interment.

The funeral took place a week later. The whole city was agog. Citizens of the capital and spectators from far away flocked to the royal funeral. As soon as it was light, the road was thronged with men and women. Sandwiched in between were tables bearing sacrificial offerings. Shortly before midday horsemen cantered out to clear the roads. Some time later came a procession of flags, batons, spears, bows, halberds and the like, followed by four cartloads of musicians. Then, rising and falling with the uneven ground, a yellow canopy drew near. It was possible to make out the hearse with the golden coffin in which lay three heads and one body.

The people knelt down, revealing rows of tables with offerings. Some loyal subjects gulped back tears of rage to think that the spirits of the two regicides were enjoying the sacrifice now together with the king. But there was nothing they could do about it.

Then followed the carriages of the queen and concubines. The crowd stared at them and they stared at the crowd, not stopping their wailing. After them came the ministers, eunuchs and dwarfs, all of whom assumed a mournful air. But no one paid the least attention to them, and their ranks were squeezed out of all semblance of order.

1. The ancient Chinese emperors, to bolster their prestige, often called themselves dragons. The dragon in Chinese legend was divine.

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Forging the Swords (III)

Posted on September 22, 2010 by bcaiwa

III

The king had taken no pleasure in his trip to the mountain, and the secret report of an assassin lying in wait on the road sent him back even more depressed. He was in a bad temper that night. He complained that not even the ninth concubine’s hair was as black and glossy as the day before. Fortunately, perched kittenishly on the royal knee, she wriggled over seventy times till at last the wrinkles on the kingly brow were smoothed out.

But on rising after noon the next day the king was in a bad mood again. By the time lunch was over, he was furious.

“I’m bored!” he cried with a great yawn.

From the queen down to the court jester, all were thrown into a panic. The king had long since tired of his old ministers’ sermons and the clowning of his plump dwarfs; recently he had even been finding insipid the marvellous tricks of rope-walkers, pole-climbers, jugglers, somersaulters, sword-swallowers and fire-spitters. He was given to bursts of rage, during which he would draw his sword to kill men on the slightest pretext.

Two eunuchs just back after playing truant from the palace, observing the gloom which reigned over the court, knew that dire trouble was impending again. One of them turned pale with fear. The other, however, quite confident, made his way unhurriedly to the king’s presence to prostrate himself and announce:

“Your slave begs to inform you that he has just met a remarkable man with rare skill, who should be able to amuse Your Majesty.”

“What?” The king was not one to waste words.

“He’s a lean, dark fellow who looks like a beggar. He’s dressed in blue, has a round blue bundle on his back and sings snatches of strange doggerel. When questioned, he says he can do a wonderful trick the like of which has never been seen, unique in the world and absolutely new. The sight will end all care and bring peace to the world. But when we asked for a demonstration, he wouldn’t give one. He says he needs a golden dragon1 and a golden cauldron. . . .”

“A golden dragon? That’s me. A golden cauldron? I have one.”

“That’s just what your slave thought. . . .”

“Bring him in!”

Before the king’s voice had died away, four guards hurried out with the eunuch. From the queen down to the court jester, all beamed with delight, hoping this conjuror would end all care and bring peace to the world. Even if the show fell flat, there would be the lean, dark, beggarly-looking fellow to bear the brunt of the royal displeasure. If they could last till he was brought in, all would be well.

They did not have long to wait. Six men came hurrying towards the golden throne. The eunuch led the way, the four guards brought up the rear, and in the middle was a dark man. On nearer inspection they could see his blue coat, black beard, eyebrows and hair. He was so thin that his cheekbones stood out and his eyes were sunken. As he knelt respectfully to prostrate himself, they saw a small round bundle, wrapped in blue cloth patterned in a dark red, on his back.

“Well!” shouted the king impatiently. The simplicity of this fellow’s paraphernalia did not augur well for his tricks.

“Your subject’s name is Yen-chih-ao-che, born in Wenwen Village. I wasn’t bred to any trade, but when I was grown I met a sage who taught me how to conjure with a boy’s head. I can’t do this alone, though. It must be in the presence of a golden dragon, and I must have a golden cauldron filled with clear water and heated with charcoal. Then when the boy’s head is put in and the water boils, the head will rise and fall and dance all manner of figures. It will laugh and sing too in a marvellous voice. Whoever hears its song and sees its dance will know an end to care. When all men see it, the whole world will be at peace.”

“Go ahead!” the king ordered loudly.

They did not have long to wait. A great golden cauldron, big enough to boil an ox, was set outside the court. It was filled with clear water, and charcoal was lit beneath it. The dark man stood at one side. When the charcoal was red he put down his bundle and undid it. Then with both hands he held up a boy’s head with fine eyebrows, large eyes, white teeth and red lips. A smile was on its face. Its tangled hair was like faint blue smoke. The dark man raised it high, turning round to display it to the whole assembly. He held it over the cauldron while he muttered something unintelligible, and finally dropped it with a splash into the water. Foam flew up at least five feet high. Then all was still.

For a long time nothing happened. The king lost patience, the queen, concubines, ministers and eunuchs began to feel alarmed, while the plump dwarfs started to sneer. These sneers made the king suspect that he was being made to look a fool. He turned to the guards to order them to have this oaf, who dared deceive his monarch, thrown into the great cauldron and boiled to death.

But that very instant he heard the water bubbling. The fire burning with all its might cast a ruddy glow over the dark man, turning him the dull red of molten iron. The king looked round. The dark man, stretching both hands towards the sky, stared into space and danced, singing in a shrill voice:

Sing hey for love, for love heigh ho!
Ah, love! Ah, blood! Who is not so?
Men grope in the dark, the king laughs loud,
Ten thousand heads in death have bowed.
I only use one single head,
For one man’s head let blood be shed!
Blood—let it flow!
Sing hey, sing ho!

As he sang, the water in the cauldron seethed up like a small cone-shaped mountain, flowing and eddying from tip to base. The head bobbed up and down with the water, skimming round and round, turning nimble somersaults as it went. They could just make out the smile of pleasure on its face. Then abruptly it gave this up to start swimming against the stream, circling, weaving to and fro, splashing water in all directions so that hot drops showered the court. One of the dwarfs gave a yelp and rubbed his nose. Scalded, he couldn’t suppress a cry of pain.

The dark man stopped singing. The head remained motionless in the middle of the water, a grave expression on its face. After a few seconds, it began to bob up and down slowly again. From bobbing it put on speed to swim up and down, not quickly but with infinite grace. Three times it circled the cauldron, ducking up and down. Then, its eyes wide, the jet-black pupils phenomenally bright, it sang:

The sovereign’s rule spreads far and wide,
He conquers foes on every side.
The world may end, but not his might,
So here I come all gleaming bright.
Bright gleams the sword—forget me not!
A royal sight, but sad my lot.
Sing hey, sing ho, a royal sight!
Come back, where gleams the bright blue light.

The head stopped suddenly at the crest of the water. After several somersaults, it started plying up and down again, casting bewitching glances to right and to left as it sang once more:

Heigh ho, for the love we know!
I cut one head, one head, heigh ho!
I use one single head, not more,
The heads he uses are galore! . . .

By the last line of the song the head was submerged, and since it did not reappear the singing became indistinct. As the song grew fainter, the seething water subsided little by little like an ebbing tide, until it was below the rim of the cauldron. From a distance nothing could be seen.

“Well?” demanded the king impatiently, tired of waiting.

“Your Majesty!” The dark man went down on one knee. “It’s dancing the most miraculous Dance of Union at the bottom of the cauldron. You can’t see this unless you come close. I can’t make it come up, because this Dance of Union has to be performed at the bottom of the cauldron.”

The king stood up and strode down the steps to the cauldron. Regardless of the heat, he bent forward to watch. The water was as smooth as a mirror. The head, lying there motionless, looked up and fixed its eyes on the king. When the king’s glance fell on its face, it gave a charming smile. This smile made the king feel that they had met before. Who could this be? While he wondered, the dark man drew the blue sword from his back and swept it forward like lightning from the nape of the king’s neck. The king’s head fell with a splash into the cauldron.

When enemies meet they know each other at a glance, particularly at close quarters. The moment the king’s head touched the water, Mei Chien Chih’s head came up to meet it and savagely bit its ear. The water in the cauldron boiled and bubbled as the two heads engaged upon a fight to the death. After about twenty encounters, the king was wounded in five places, Mei Chien Chih in seven. The crafty king contrived to slip behind his enemy, and in an unguarded moment Mei Chien Chih let himself be caught by the back of his neck, so that he could not turn round. The king fastened his teeth into him and would not let go, like a silkworm burrowing into a mulberry leaf. The boy’s cries of pain could be heard outside the cauldron.

From the queen down to the court jester, all who had been petrified with fright before were galvanized into life by this sound. They felt as if the sun had been swallowed up in darkness. But even as they trembled, they knew a secret joy. They waited, round-eyed.

The dark man, rather taken aback, did not change colour. Effortlessly he raised his arm like a withered branch holding the invisible sword. He stretched forward as if to peer into the cauldron. Of a sudden his arm bent, the blue sword thrust down and his head fell into the cauldron with a plop, sending snow-white foam flying in all directions.

As soon as his head hit the water, it charged at the king’s head and took the royal nose between its teeth, nearly biting it off. The king gave a cry of pain and Mei Chien Chih seized this chance to get away, whirling round to cling with a vice-like grip to his jaw. They pulled with all their might in opposite directions, so that the king could not keep his mouth shut. Then they fell on him savagely, like famished hens pecking at rice, till the king’s head was mauled and savaged out of all recognition. To begin with he lashed about frantically in the cauldron; then he simply lay there groaning; and finally he fell silent, having breathed his last.

Presently the dark man and Mei Chien Chih stopped biting. They left the king’s head and swam once round the edge of the cauldron to see whether their enemy was shamming or not. Assured that the king was indeed dead, they exchanged glances and smiled. Then, closing their eyes, their faces towards the sky, they sank to the bottom of the water.

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Forging the Swords (II)

Posted on September 22, 2010 by bcaiwa

II

Mei Chien Chih, his eyelids swollen, left the house without once looking back. In the blue coat with the sword on his back, he strode swiftly towards the city. There was as yet no light in the east. The vapours of night still hid in the dew that clung to the tip of each fir leaf. But by the time he reached the far end of the forest, the dew drops were sparkling with lights which little by little took on the tints of dawn. Far ahead he could just see the outline of the dark grey, crenellated city walls.

Mingling with the vegetable vendors, he entered the city. The streets were already full of noise and bustle. Men stood about idly in groups. Every now and then women put their heads out from their doors. Most of their eyelids were swollen from sleep too, their hair was uncombed and their faces were pale because they had had no time to put on rouge.

Mei Chien Chih sensed that some great event was about to take place, something eagerly yet patiently awaited by all these people.

As he advanced, a child darted past, almost knocking into the point of the sword on his back. He broke into a cold sweat. Turning north not far from the palace, he found a press of people craning their necks towards the road. He heard the cries of women and children in the crowd. Afraid his invisible sword might hurt one of them, he dared not push his way forward; but new arrivals pressed him from behind. He had to move out of their way, till all he could see was the backs of those in front and their craning necks.

All of a sudden, the people in front fell one by one to their knees. In the distance appeared two riders galloping forward side by side. They were followed by warriors carrying batons, spears, swords, bows and flags, who raised a cloud of yellow dust. After them came a large cart drawn by four horses, bearing musicians sounding gongs and drums and blowing strange wind instruments. Behind were carriages with courtiers in bright clothes, old men or short, plump fellows, their faces glistening with sweat. These were followed by outriders armed with swords, spears and halberds. Then the kneeling people prostrated themselves and Mei Chien Chih saw a great carriage with a yellow canopy drive up. In the middle of this was seated a fat man in brightly coloured clothes with a grizzled moustache and small head. He was wearing a sword like the one on the boy’s back.

Mei Chien Chih gave an instinctive shudder, but at once he felt burning hot. Reaching out for the hilt of the sword on his back, he picked his way forward between the necks of the kneeling crowd.

But he had taken no more than five or six steps when someone tripped him and he fell headlong on top of a young fellow with a wizened face. He was getting up nervously to see whether the point of his sword had done any damage, when he received two hard punches in the ribs. Without stopping to protest he looked at the road. But the carriage with the yellow canopy had passed. Even the mounted attendants behind it were already some distance away.

On both sides of the road everyone got up again. The young man with the wizened face had seized Mei Chien Chih by the collar and would not let go. He accused him of crushing his solar plexus, and ordered the boy to pay with his own life if he died before the age of eighty. Idlers crowded round to gape but said nothing, till a few taking the side of the wizened youth let fall some jokes and curses. Mei Chien Chih could neither laugh at such adversaries nor lose his temper. Annoying as they were, he could not get rid of them. This went on for about the time it takes to cook a pan of millet. He was afire with impatience. Still the onlookers, watching as avidly as ever, refused to disperse.

Then through the throng pushed a dark man, lean as an iron rake, with a black beard and black eyes. Without a word, he smiled coldly at Mei Chien Chih, then raised his hand to flick the jaw of the youngster with the wizened face and looked steadily into his eyes. For a moment the youth returned his stare, then let go of the boy’s collar and went off. The dark man went off too, and the disappointed spectators drifted away. A few came up to ask Mei Chien Chih his age and address, and whether he had sisters at home. But he ignored them.

He walked south, reflecting that in the bustling city it would be easy to wound someone by accident. He had better wait outside the South Gate for the king’s return, to avenge his father. That open, deserted space was the best place for his purpose. By now the whole city was discussing the king’s trip to the mountain. What a retinue! What majesty! What an honour to have seen the king! They had prostrated themselves so low that they should be considered as examples to all the nation! They buzzed like a swarm of bees. Near the South Gate, however, it became quieter.

Having left the city, he sat down under a big mulberry tree to eat two rolls of steamed bread. As he ate, the thought of his mother brought a lump to his throat, but presently that passed. All around grew quieter and quieter, until he could hear his own breathing quite distinctly.

As dusk fell, he grew more and more uneasy. He strained his eyes ahead, but there was not a sign of the king. The villagers who had taken vegetables to the city to sell were going home one by one with empty baskets.

Long after all these had gone, the dark man came darting out from the city.

“Run, Mei Chien Chih! The king is after you!” His voice was like the hoot of an owl.

Mei Chien Chih trembled from head to foot. Spellbound, he followed the dark man, running as if he had wings. Ar last, stopping to catch breath, he realized they had reached the edge of the fir wood. Far behind were the silver rays of the rising moon; but in front all he could see were the dark man’s eyes gleaming like will-o’-the-wisps.

“How did you know me? . . . ” asked the lad in fearful amazement.

“I’ve always known you.” The man laughed. “I know you carry the male sword on your back to avenge your father. And I know you will fail. Not only so, but today someone has informed against you. Your enemy went back to the palace by the East Gate and has issued an order for your arrest.”

Mei Chien Chih began to despair.

“Oh, no wonder mother sighed,” he muttered.

“But she knows only half. She doesn’t know that I’m going to take vengeance for you.”

“You? Are you willing to take vengeance for me, champion of justice?”

“Ah, don’t insult me by giving me that title.”

“Well, then, is it out of sympathy for widows and orphans?”

“Don’t use words that have been sullied, child,” he replied sternly. “Justice, sympathy and such terms, which once were clean, have now become capital for fiendish usurers. I have no place for these in my heart. I want only to avenge you!”

“Good. But how will you do it?”

“I want two things only from you.” His voice sounded from beneath two burning eyes. “What two things? First your sword, then your head!”

Mei Chien Chih thought the request a strange one. But though he hesitated, he was not afraid. For a moment he was speechless.

“Don’t be afraid that I want to trick you out of your life and your treasure,” continued the implacable voice in the dark. “It’s entirely up to you. If you trust me, I’ll go; if not, I won’t.”

“But why are you going to take vengeance for me? Did you know my father?”

“I knew him from the start, just as I’ve always known you. But that’s not the reason. You don’t understand, my clever lad, how I excel at revenge. What’s yours is mine, what concerns him concerns me too. I bear on my soul so many wounds inflicted by others as well as by myself, that now I hate myself.”

The voice in the darkness was silent. Mei Chien Chib raised his hand to draw the blue sword from his back and with the same movement swung it forward from the nape of his neck. As his head fell on the green moss at his feet, he handed the sword to the dark man.

“Aha!” The man took the sword with one hand, with the other he picked up Mei Chien Chih’s head by the hair. He kissed the warm dead lips twice and burst into cold, shrill laughter.

His laughter spread through the fir wood. At once, deep in the forest, flashed blazing eyes like the light of the will-o’the-wisp which the next instant came so close that you could hear the snuffling of famished wolves. With one bite, Mei Chien Chih’s blue coat was torn to shreds; the next disposed of his whole body, while the blood was instantaneously licked clean. The only sound was the soft crunching of bones.

The huge wolf at the head of the pack hurled itself at the dark man. But with one sweep of the blue sword, its head fell on the green moss at his feet. With one bite the other wolves tore its skin to shreds, then next disposed of its whole body, while the blood was instantaneously licked clean. The only sound was the soft crunching of bones.

The dark man picked up the blue coat from the ground to wrap up Mei Chien Chih’s head. Having fastened this and the blue sword on his back, he turned on his heel and swung off through the darkness towards the capital.

The wolves stood stock-still, hunched up, tongues lolling, panting. They watched him with green eyes as he strode away.

He swung through the darkness towards the capital, singing in a shrill voice as he went:

Sing hey, sing ho!
The single one who loved the sword
Has taken death as his reward.
Those who go single are galore,
Who love the sword are alone no more!
Foe for foe, ha! Head for head!
Two men by their own hands are dead.

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