“Literature of the People’s Republic of China”
The Great Leap Forward
and Anti-Revisionism
Encouraged by the rapid economic improvement of 1957, the Party announced the second five-year plan in January 1958, and in November initiated a Great Leap Forward as one of the Three Red Flags (the other two being the People’s Commune and the General [policy] Line). The official goal was to overtake Great Britain and America in certain aspects of material wealth within a limited number of years, and for that purpose every effort was to be redoubled. Grain yield was to be increased tenfold and steel was to be manufactured in every backyard. While the self-reliant, heroic spirit was admirable, the net result was a near famine in 1960-61. But any opposition to the Great Leap Forward on the ground that it was not realistic was ruthlessly crushed; even the powerful voice of P’eng Teh-huai, one of the ten most meritorious generals, was silenced, and he died in ignominy.
In support of the Great Leap Forward, a nationwide campaign was launched to encourage and collect folk songs; literally thousands of them were printed and distributed in 1958-59. They praise the glory of the new society and the Party, and rejoice in the productive labor of the people. Hsieh Ch’i-kuei’s “More” is an example. Other poets, old and young, wrote on a large variety of subjects, ranging from Chang Yung-mei’s tale of some peasants recalling their past grievances against cruel landlords and discussing the power in their hands now, to Kuo Hsiao-ch’uan’s musings over the immensity of the stellar universe. The forms range from Chao P’u-ch’u’s classical tz’u to Ch’en Yi’s short and nimble quatrains.
Chou Yang, the Party’s spokesman for cultural and literary affairs, urged the writers to advance toward a truly proletarian literature, and some models of it were created during these few years. Liu Ch’ing’s The Builders describes the cooperative movement in the countryside around 1953, showing the correctness of the Party’s agricultural policy. Chao Shu-li’s old peasant hero, whose hands are invincible and indestructible, and T’ang K’o-hsin’s young factory worker, elated by his ability to teach his expertise to his superior, are labor heroes to be emulated.
But again, as the writers began to feel expansive and started writing with less restraint, their works also reflected imperfections in the new society. Chao Hsün’s play highlights the problems of a discharged army officer who, upon returning to his home village, finds his wife married to his brother by order of the village chief, and the entire village poor and backward as ever. The play, completed in 1958, was held up by the editor of the national Drama monthly for two years, and then printed with a call for criticism of its erroneous viewpoints. A wave of denouncements followed, condemning the play as an antiwar and anti-Party expression. To add fuel to the fire, the critics went on to bring back earlier works with similar flaws. Yüeh Yeh’s play, first published in 1956, now became another “poisonous weed” to be eradicated, because the principal character in it, a high-level cadre, divorces his peasant wife to marry a more educated woman, a nurse he has met in the hospital. The play’s artistic competence and the fact that the plot involves a universal problem of marital alienation were not enough to redeem it. Sun Ch’ien’s story, published in 1958, was also picked as a target. It is a story of another discharged soldier who finds his home villagers extremely backward. His effort to spread the Communist message among them meets only frustration and resistance. The story moves at a fast pace; the characters are very convincing. But these qualities did not win the critics’ favor.
Chao, Sun, Yüeh, and other writers like them were labeled revisionists because the Party considered them to be advocates of modification of the current policy.
The publication of Together through Thick and Thin in 1956 won popularity for Yüeh Yeh, because the play treated with considerable artistry the tragicomic entanglements of life that awaited the Communist cadres who had just emerged from peasantry to an elite status. Unfortunately, the author’s effort to be faithful to what he saw as real—the human foibles to which all, including the Communists, are susceptible—could not be tolerated by the Party orthodoxy. In 1960, when the campaign against revisionism in literature gained intensity, Yüeh Yeh’s works were severely condemned. The charge was that he championed the universality of human nature, which defies the class theory.
—K.Y.H.
from Together through
Thick and Thin
ACT ONE
SCENE ONE
Five o’clock p.m. in March 1955. In the capital city of a province in North China.
On stage we see a fairly good-sized living room, which is on the second floor of the newly constructed dormitory for cadres in the Provincial Party Committee. This is the new residence of MENG SHIH-CHING, Assistant Director of the Rural Work Department under the Province’s Party Committee, and his family. Almost anyone would judge these quarters to be quite good, with the possible exception that the walls and woodwork have been painted in colors a bit too loud. It is not known which “high class” decorator deserves the credit for this “contribution.” The living room also serves as the dining area. Slightly left of center on the back wall (upstage) is the door to the hallway, which functions as the main door to this apartment. There are two other doors on the right side of the back wall, one to the room used by the servant (who takes care of MENG HUA, their eight-year-old daughter) and the other to the kitchen. The door on the right-hand wall leads to a bedroom. The sofa, dining table, chairs and stools, etc. are scattered about the living room at random. Furthermore, every piece of furniture is piled high with unopened luggage, books, picture frames, dolls, and all kinds of household articles, indicating that the occupants have just moved in and have yet to get things settled.
CHIA HSIU-LING, the governess (and housekeeper) in this family, enters from the door to the kitchen carrying a large white porcelain bowl filled with steaming soup. The bowl is so hot that she comes on stage gasping and sucking in air through her teeth. No more than eighteen or nineteen years old, she’s quite pretty with glossy black hair, a peaches-and-cream complexion, large eyes and lips; her eyebrows are a bit on the thick side.
[Someone is knocking at the main door]
CHIA HSIU-LING [Carrying the steaming tureen of soup in both hands, she yells out toward the door) Whew—. Come in please! (As she speaks, some soup spills onto her hands and is so hot it stings them. This makes her all the more unsteady and more soup spills over the edge of the bowl to her hands. She can’t control it enough to be able to set it down, and finally she cries out from the pain)
[The person outside in the hall has heard her cries and, pushing the door open, enters. This is CHI TA-CH’ENG, a messenger boy for the Provincial Government. He’s a clumsy and impulsive young fellow and hurries right over to CHIA HSIU-LING. Taking the large soup bowl from her he sets it down on the dining table. She waves her hands up and down through the air just like a raven beating its wings and blows on them. CHI TA-CH’ENG turns back toward her and also helps blow on her smarting hands)
CHIA HSIU-LING [Hurriedly hiding her hands behind her back) Thank you. Who are you looking for?
CHI TA-CH’ENG (Without looking carefully at the person to whom he’s speaking, quite respectfully) I take it you must be Comrade Hua, wife of Director Meng?
CHIA HSIU-LING Hua ... no, she’s not at home.
CHI TA-CH’ENG Then you are ...
CHIA HSIU-LING I’m the governess here.
CHI TA-CH’ENG The governess? I know all the governesses around here. How is it I’ve never seen you before?
CHIA HSIU-LING I’ve only arrived today.
CHI TA-CH’ENG There, you see? I knew I hadn’t seen you before. [He sits down to chat with her) What street are you from?
CHIA HSIU-LING I ... uhh, no, that street of ours doesn’t have any name.
CHI TA-CH’ENG That’s funny! What street in this city doesn’t have a name? How could the mail be delivered? Do you mean to say that we now have some unauthorized streets?
CHIA HSIU-LING [Blowing on her hands again) I ’m from the country.
CHI TA-CHEN Oh! You’re one of those who are “drifting into the cities without permission or good reason.”
CHIA HSIU-LING NO, I’m not! I have a letter of introduction from the village government and I ’m not “drifting in”! I have a “good reason,” which is that they’ve disbanded the Agricultural Producers’ Cooperative in our village and that’s why I came here to find a job. Do you want me to show you that letter of introduction?
CHI TA-CH’ENG That’s all right, no need to trouble yourself over that.
CHIA HSIU-LING (Keeping the conversation going and very much on equal terms with him) Where do you work?
CHI TA-CH’ENG (Points back over his shoulder[at the satchel on his back] with his thumb)
CHIA HSIU-LING (Not understanding his gesture, looks behind him and sees a chair there) In a ... in a carpenter’s shop?
CHI TA-CH’ENG (Perturbed) Huh, what do you mean a carpenter’s shop? I’m a messenger for the Party Committee. I work with Director Meng. (At this he recalls his own job and hurries to swing the bag he’s carrying on his back around in front of him; now he takes out a large envelope and another small one) Here’s one stamped with the word “urgent”—you understand that means it’s something that can’t wait, don’t you? Right, that’s this big one. I just took it over to Director Meng’s office and they told me he had already left for home. Now I’m giving it to you to give to him. As soon as he gets home, you will give it to him immediately, instantly, and without any delay, okay? If Comrade Hua Yün, Director Meng’s wife, comes home first, you can just hand this over to her right away and she’ll know how to deal with it. This small one is an ordinary letter, just a regular piece of mail; all you have to do is to see that they get both of them, all right?
CHIA HSIU-LING (Taking the letters from him) Okay.
CHI TA-CH’ENG (Expertly slinging his letter bag back around to where it normally hangs behind him, tugs on his cap and is about to depart, when he feels thirsty) Would you happen to have some water here?
CHIA HSIU-LING Yes, of course!
CHI TA-CH’ENG Where?
CHIA HSIU-LING In the water pipes; you can have as much as you want.
CHI TA-CH’ENG NO, I meant boiled water, to drink. I’m thirsty.
CHIA HSIU-LING Uhhh, I can have some for you in a jiffy. How would it be if you just sit down for a minute and I’ll put some water on to boil for you?
CHI TA-CH’ENG Forget it, I wouldn’t want you to go to all that trouble. [As he heads out the door) Be seeing you, Comrade Chia Hsiu-ling.
(He exits)
(HSIU-LING looks at the letters she’s holding, unable to decide where to put them, when she suddenly remembers she has left something cooking on the stove and runs into the kitchen, taking the letters with her) (A brief pause)
(HUA YÜN comes in from the main door looking very tired and leading her daughter, MENG HUA, in by the hand. HUA YÜN at thirty-one still looks no more than twenty-four or twenty-five. She is tall, full-figured, and pretty. The spring outfit on her is of good material and well tailored but conservatively colored. Her hair has been given a permanent but so subtly that it looks completely natural. She has large eyes beneath slender eyebrows with very long eyelashes and teeth as lustrous as white jade behind those gleaming red lips. Her manner of expressing herself is just as crisp and adroit as her way of doing things. Because she is more gifted than most people in many aspects, she frequently betrays a certain sense of superiority. She tends to find fault with others for being too slow or clumsy precisely because of the quickness of her mind and deftness of her hands. Her personality inclines toward impatience; she doesn’t like to play second fiddle to anyone and she is stubborn and unyielding on the surface, but actually she’s relatively fragile and willfully unpredictable. MENG HUA, eight years of age, is very bright and pretty, just like her mother, but also has something of her father’s masculine temperament. She has the best and prettiest clothes of anyone in the family)
HUA YUN (Heaving a sigh and taking off her scarf, she sits down on the sofa) Aiya! Well, that’s one more thing taken care of anyway. (MENG HUA takes off her jacket, folds it neatly and lays it to one side) Aiya, just look at all this stuff heaped up around here! That Hsiu-ling, I told her to get all this picked up and she hasn’t even touched it. Hsiu-ling, oh, Hsiu-ling!
MENG HUA [Looking about the room, then pushing open the door to the bedroom) Mommy, Daddy still isn’t home yet!
HUA YUN [Glances at Jier watch) I knew he wouldn’t get back ahead of us. Hua, my pet, please sit down and rest a bit, won’t you?
MENG HUA It’s really no fair! We agreed everyone should be back here at six o’clock. Mmmm, I’m so hungry. [She sees the soup and other food on the table) Mommy, the soup’s already on and everything!
HUA YUN What? She made the soup first? What about the other courses? (Walks over to look) And nothing’s been covered up, it’s all getting cold. lust look at what a mess we’re in, getting transferred to a new job, having to move, changing the governess, it’s such a bother!
MENG HUA I’m happy!
HUA YUN YOU little imp, you’re just saying that in order to be contrary, aren’t you?
MENG HUA NO, tomorrow I get to go study in a new school, Mommy. Aren’t you happy? [She pulls at her mother) Aren’t you, Mommy?
HUA YUN I’m happy, I’m happy. Hmmph! In order to get you enrolled in a new school, Mommy’s run her legs off today until they’re ready to break, but your father hasn’t lifted one little finger in this.
MENG HUA He’s busy!
HUA YUN SO? Mommy’s not busy too? As soon as he’s transferred to a new position, our whole family’s sent into a tizzy and we have a thousand and one things to do too: you have to be admitted to a new school and I have to tag along in Daddy’s footsteps and also get myself transferred to a new job here. Oh, I hope to heaven this time we will settle down and stay in one place!
MENG HUA Not me, I hope Daddy will get transferred every day!
HUA YUN What’s that?
MENG HUA ThenI could go traveling with Daddy [Making grand sweeps with her arms and declaiming like a poet in recital) to every part of China.
HUA YUN Heh, this father and daughter pair certainly are made for each other! Nonetheless, Little Hua, come over here and sit by Mommy. I want you to know that this time we’re going to stay put right here for a few years! Your Daddy worked in eastern China for more than four years, but he’s a northerner and he missed his home area and Grandma a lot. His home village is not far from here.
MENG HUA Grandma, Grandma ... [Her little mouth starts to pout) I’m already eight years old and I still don’t know what Grandma Meng looks like. It’s no fair!
HUA YÜN You? Even I have yet to meet Grandma!
MENG HUA How come Grandma has never come to live with us?
HUA YÜN Your father wrote so many letters to her, asking her to come, but she never did. She said she couldn’t bear to leave her old home and also objected to the weather in the south being too hot and rainy. She said she wouldn’t ever get used to it.
MENG HUA I got used to it. Mommy, I got used to living everywhere we lived, didn’t I? You count ‘em up! Harbin, Shih-chia-chuang, Tientsin, Shanghai, Nanking, Hangchow ... Uhh, oh, yes, yes there was also “Ch’i-ch’i-ha-erh”?
HUA YÜN (Laughs) What do you know about Ch’i-ch’i-ha-erh? After you were born we stayed there only two months before we moved away.
MENG HUA But that still counts as having been there, Mommy, I’ve been there too. Isn’t that right, Mommy?
HUA YÜN (Laughing) Yes, you may count it as your hometown.
MENG HUA Hopei is Daddy’s home province, Kiangsu is Mommy’s home province and Ch’i-ch’i-ha-erh is my home town. Mom, since joining the revolution how many places have I been to?
HUA YÜN What? What? Joining the revolution?
MENG HUA That’s right, Mommy, haven’t I been growing up right along with the revolution?
HUA YÜN (This time really having a good laugh) Yes, yes, if you figure it up like that, starting from when you were born, you already have a revolutionary history of eight years and two months.
MENG HUA Aiya! I’m dying of hunger! Why in the world hasn’t Daddy come home for supper yet? It’s just too mean of him! (The sound of someone knocking on the door)
MENG HUA (Jumps up) Daddy’s here! (She runs over to open the door)
(CHANG LAN-O, an accountant in a department store, slowly sticks her head in the door. She’s forty-two years old, quite plump, and a believer in helping nature out with heavy applications of all man-made resources available for beautifying oneself Waved hair, painted eyebrows, rouged lips—there is nothing subtle about her use of cosmetics. She is forthright and outspoken in character, quite contented with her lot in life, “zealous in pursuit of the public interest,” and always ready to socialize)
CHANG LAN-O (Halfway in through the door) Is this the place? (She discovers HUA YÜN there) Oh, Hua Yün, can it be that I’ve actually tracked you down?
HUA YÜN (Peering a moment to make out who it is) Lan-o? Is that you, cousin?
CHANG LAN-O Aiya, I heard you had arrived. I’ve been saying how I must come see you but have been so busy. It’s been years since I’ve seen you, Hua Yün. You’re looking healthier than ever and have put on some weight, haven’t you? Ah, look here at me, Hua Yün, wouldn’t you say I’m a bit thinner than before?
HUA YÜN (Constrained by politeness) Yes, I’d say so. How are you?
CHANG LAN-O [Noticing MENG) Who have we here? Is this your daughter? What’s her name?
MENG HUA I’m Meng Hua. How do you do, Auntie?
CHANG LAN-O Very well, thank you. Such a good little girl! (Cupping MENG HUA’S face in her hands) If you aren’t just a little replica of your mother! [Turns back toward HUA YUN) She’s just as pretty as you! (HSIU-LING enters with a hot dish of food)
HUA YUN Hsiu-ling, Little Hua is hungry, would you serve her some food ahead of us so she can have something now?
MENG HUA Mommy, I’ll go wash my hands first and maybe Daddy will get back right away.
HUA YÜN That’s fine, dear, you go do that. (HSIU-LING sets down the dish of food and exits with M ENG HUA)
CHANG LAN-O [Sitting down, she notices HUA YÜN’S scarf draped over the sofa) My goodness, Hua Yün, are you still so partial to green? (HUA YÜN gives her a noncommittal smile. CHANG LAN-O scrutinizes her) What’s this, are you pregnant again?
HUA YÜN [Laughs, partially at the question and partially because this older cousin on her mother’s side is still the same as ever) No! (She pulls her jacket smooth and sits down, now changing the subject) You and your husband are both very well, I take it?
CHANG LAN-O He’s just fine except he’s never at home.
HUA YÜN Where does he go?
CHANG LAN-O He’s still in that same old line of work—he works in commerce, has to travel all over the place, you know.
HUA YÜN Are the two of you still getting along as well as ever?
CHANG LAN-O [Tickledpink at this) Hmmph! Every time he has to go off on business he says he can’t bear to leave me, simply can’t do without me, but when it comes time for his departure he somehow manages to do just that. Who knows what he really feels? To tell you the truth, I’m beginning to have my doubts about him.
HUA YÜN (Laughing) How can you say that? After being happily married all these years?
CHANG LAN-O No, Hua Yün, according to what I’ve seen and figured out, there are men who are just terrible, they get married one day and divorced the next, married then divorced, divorced and then married, just like casually changing partners in a dance hall. On the other hand, my old Chao is not so bad. He’s not brave enough to pull anything like that.
HUA YÜN (Doesn’t want to continue in this vein) How’s your job? Are you still working in accounting?
CHANG LAN-O Yup, accounting! At first I worked at the People’s Bank but now I’ve been transferred to a department store. (She looks around) This apartment’s pretty nice. Aiya, things are still in a mess, it really looks like you just moved in. (Walks over to a mirror and turns first one way and then another, all the while admiring herself) Hua Yün, that outfit you’re wearing is too plain. Now’s the time of our happy, new society, we should get a little more dressed up. Oh, yes, where’s your husband?
HUA YÜN (A bit lonely and downcast) He still hasn’t come back. Haven’t I just been waiting and waiting for him to get back so we can eat dinner? By the way, have you had dinner?
CHANG LAN-O I’ve eaten, thanks. Actually, I’m on my way to the theater but since it’s still early I thought I’d drop by and see you. Also I’m waiting for someone else. Hua Yün, you’ll never guess what! Who do you think is taking me to the theater this evening?
HUA YÜN How should I know?
CHANG LAN-O Liang Shang-chün! Do you remember him? You certainly must remember him. He still isn’t married.
HUA YÜN I thought I heard a couple of years ago that he had gotten married.
CHANG LAN-O No, he’s never married. Gosh, he surely has come up in the world. He’s an editor at a newspaper and also is a writer. Now, there is someone whose star is on the rise! He simply pulls money in by the bushel for his manuscripts and is quite the man about town. And when he holds forth on some subject, I can’t even understand him.
HUA YÜN Yes, when it comes to writing, we’d have to say he is talented. I read one of his pieces somewhere recently.
CHANG LAN-O (Laughing) You see, you still do notice him. Did you know that he, Liang Shang-chün, asked me about you? He told me that there had been a time once when he was ardently pursuing you and that it was a very heavy blow to him when you hit it off with old Meng and then got married to him.
HUA YÜN (Tries to stop her) What’s the point of going into all that?
CHANG LAN-O He’s heard that you’ve come here to work and he’d very much like to see you. We arranged to meet here first this evening in order to see you and then we’ll go on from here to the theater. He’ll probably be here any minute now.
HUA YÜN (Somewhat uneasy) Oh?
CHANG LAN-O (Lighting a cigarette) Ai, human relationships are all so hard to figure out.
HUA YÜN But this room is in such a state. [She begins to arrange the chairs when there’s a knocking at the door)
CHANG LAN-O (As if she were master of the home) Please come in.
(As the door opens, LIANG SHANG-CHUN walks in with a winning élan, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He’s thirty-nine years old, of medium height, as natty as can be, with a lightweight coat worn over his beige-colored Sun Yat-sen suit. His face has the shape of a melon seed, wide at the brow with a pointed chin, and if you look very closely you can detect a few shallow pockmarks pitting his cheeks. These are, however, not at all ugly and actually add that little something to an already handsome visage. Upon seeing HUA YÜN, he quickly transfers the books and magazines to his left hand and extends his right one to shake HUA YÜN’S)
LIANG SHANG-CHÜN Hua Yün, Hua Yün, how are you?
HUA YÜN (Her face a bit flushed for some strange reason) Very well, and how are you, Shang-chün? [She tries to pull her hand back but it is still held tightly in his grip)
LIANG SHANG-CHÜN I’m just fine, too. Aiya, it’s been such a long time, hasn’t it? (After repeatedly squeezing and shaking her hand, he finally releases it)
HUA YÜN That’s for sure. Please have a seat, won’t you? We’ve just moved in and things are in quite a jumble.
CHANG LAN-O (Laughs) Aiya, seeing the two of you together, well, it truly seems like witnessing a reunion full of historic significance.
LIANG SHANG-CHÜN Lan-o, have you been here long? Hua Yün, don’t trouble yourself, we have to go right away. There’s not much time left.
HUA YÜN You’ve been writing quite a bit in these past few years.I really admire people like you who have accomplished something.
LIANG SHANG-CHÜN (Glibly) Don’t say that. I haven’t done anything worth mentioning in recent years, partially because I’ve been working as an editor and that leaves me little time for writing, but also because things in general ... well, they just aren’t very stimulating and so I’m not inclined to write. And if one wants to write something that will really “come to grips with life,” it’s not so easy to get it published; consequently, I don’t write much of anything nowadays.
HUA YÜN When I was in the south I read your articles and I thought they were very good.
LIANG SHANG-CHÜN (Excitedly) No, those things were all very superficial. Now I feel very strongly about the importance of having pieces which boldly come to grips with life. Otherwise you publish something one day only to have it forgotten by the next and there’s simply not much point to it. That’s why I’ve been making plans recently to go down to the countryside for a while and then put some serious work into writing something truly worthwhile when I come back. As for being criticized, I’ve got that one pretty well figured out. Someone criticizes you, you criticize them right back. You can’t get anywhere at all unless you’re willing to struggle!
CHANG LAN-O (Yawns, then suddenly remembers to look at her watch) Say, comrade writer, the performance is about to start, don’t you think we’d better get going?
LIANG SHANG-CHÜN Yes, yes, let’s go. Hua Yün, you must come over to our place someday soon, okay?
CHANG LAN-O Don’t worry about that, she’ll come over. Hua Yün, Liang Shang-chün is now renting a room from us, ahh, this tenant of ours, um, he doesn’t pay rent but he has all kinds of critical suggestions about the place. We must go now or we won’t see any of the first act. They’ve now made it a rule that no one will be admitted after the curtain rises.
LIANG SHANG-CHÜN Well, let’s be off then.
CHANG LAN-O Hmmph, probably I’ll have the dubious pleasure of seeing a play without its first act just because of this little reunion. We’ll be seeing you, Hua Yün.
HUA YÜN (Walking them to the door) Good-bye. I won’t see you down the stairs if you don’t mind. (CHANG LAN-O takes LIANG SHANG-CHÜN’S arm and is saying something to him as the two of them exit)
(HUA YÜN turns back and, heaving a sigh, goes to sit down on the sofa. She knows she will still have to wait awhile longer. MENG HUA comes bounding into the living room from the kitchen)
MENG HUA Mommy, I’ve had my dinner in the kitchen. How come Daddy ... (At this point the main door opens without warning and in walks MENG SHIH-CHING, MENG HUA’S father. He is thirty-nine years old and is the Assistant Director of the Party Committee’s Rural Work Department. Tall and strongly built, he is wearing a black wool uniform. As usual he has ignored the proprieties not only by leaving the high, tight-fitting collar of his jacket unbuttoned but even by leaving his shirt collar open at the neck so that the rumpled neckline of his undershirt spills out into full view every now and again. He has a square-set face and because of his deep preoccupation with his work, his sideburns are becoming shaggy, while the wrinkles connecting the nose to the mouth corners, which indicate a determined will, are becoming ever more deeply etched into his face. Beneath the slender, arched eyebrows a pair of large eyes sparkle with intelligence and honesty. His is a mind that focusses on the important things and skips over trivialities and petty concerns. He works conscientiously and hard from dawn to dusk)
MENG SHIH-CHING (Carrying a large, brown briefcase under his arm while tearing open a big envelope, he enters, looking calm and unruffled) How’s my Little Hua? (He bends down to look at his daughter)
MENG HUA Daddy! Daddy’s home. (She reaches up to throw her arms around his neck and demonstratively, noisily covers his face with kisses)
MENG SHIH-CHING (Picks his daughter up in his arms and gives her a kiss) Have you had your dinner?
HUA YÜN (Becoming animated and cheerful) She waited for you so long, she got hungry and ate ahead of us. (Taking her husband’s briefcase and papers out of his hands) Let’s eat right away, what time is it getting to be?
MENG SHIH-CHING (Setting down MENG HUA) I’ve already had dinner.
HUA YUN Now, really, you agreed that we would wait for you and have dinner together and you didn’t even call to let us know you wouldn’t be back for dinner.
MENG SHIH-CHING We don’t have our phone hooked up yet here, now do we? Several old comrades unexpectedly turned up and I had to go to dinner with them. If you haven’t eaten yet, you’d better eat right away. (So saying, he picks up his briefcase and papers and takes them over to the sofa, where he sits down and starts going over them)
HUA YÜN [Sighs softly, then walks over to switch on the lamp, pours out a cup of tea for her husband and takes it over to him) Why don’t you take a break when you’ve just gotten home?
MENG SHIH-CHING (Has not yet understood the import of his wife’s words) Umm, I’m not tired. (He takes the cup of tea and automatically puts it down on the floor while continuing to read) Little Hua, wouldn’t you like to come over here and keep Daddy company while he’s working? Now don’t squirm, just watch Daddy write, okay? (He takes out his fountain pens and jots down comments in the margins of the papers he’s reading)
HUA YÜN (Sits down facing her husband) You don’t have anything on for tonight, do you? I mean, you won’t be going out?
MENG SHIH-CHING Uhh, that’s right. Oh, no, wait a minute, it’s nothing special but I do have to run over to the Agricultural Institute at nine o’clock just for a little while.
HUA YÜN At least I got the problem of transferring Hua into a new school here settled this afternoon.
MENG SHIH-CHING Oh, really? That’s nice. (HUA YÜN still has something to say, but, noticing that her husband is completely absorbed in his papers, she is a bit put out and, getting to her feet, is about to leave him alone when he asks her)
MENG SHIH-CHING By the way, was there any mail for me today?
HUA YÜN No, nothing. (She stands there waiting for SHIH CHING to ask her something about her day)
MENG SHIH-CHING Little Hua, sit still there while Daddy goes to get something. (He gets up and starts off toward the bedroom door. HUA YÜN can’t take any more of this; tears well up in her eyes and she sits back down. MENG SHIH-CHING finally realizes something’s amiss) Why don’t you have your dinner?
HUA YÜN I’m not hungry.
MENG SHIH-CHING Is something the matter?
HUA YÜN (Won’t look at him) What do you think? (MENG HUA stares wide-eyed at her parents for a minute and then has the good sense to make herself scarce; she runs toward the bedroom)
MENG SHIH-CHING That’s a good girl, Hua ... you play by yourself awhile and Daddy’11 come tell you a bedtime story by and by.
MENG HUA All right. (She exits)
HUA YÜN As soon as you get home, you throw yourself into your work. What about me? Do you even remember that there’s still someone named Hua Yün in this world?
MENG SHIH-CHING (Tenderly) Do you really think I could forget that?
HUA YÜN But you haven’t shown a bit of concern over the problem of my job. I’m just as serious about my work as you, you know?
MENG SHIH-CHING (Walks over to stand behind his wife’s chair) Isn’t it all settled that you’re to work in the main People’s Hospital of this province?
HUA YÜN But I don’t want to be the head of some section in the hospital; I want to do professional work.
MENG SHIH-CHING It’s already more than a year ago that you raised this issue. If you don’t meet all the requirements, I just don’t see what can be done about it.
HUA YÜN If I always have to do administrative work and sit in an office, how can I ever meet the requirements?
MENG SHIH-CHING (Still very gentle and considerate of her feelings) Weren’t you given the chance to take the medical school entrance exam? If you weren’t one of those selected there’s nothing anyone can do.
HUA YÜN If I have no chance to study because I’m doing administrative work all the time, of course I’m not going to pass the entrance exam.
MENG SHIH-CHING Hua Yün, every time I hear you talking like this, I feel you aren’t seeing things as clearly as you might. I think you’re placing too much emphasis on the external factors! You’re not strict enough in the demanding of yourself ...
HUA YÜN So here it comes again, my subjective willpower is insufficient, is it? I’m so tired from my job at the hospital every day that I’m completely beat, and yet instead of being able to rest when I get home from the office, I still have a million and one housekeeping chores to do. You’re certainly not about to take on any of the housework. Now you tell me just how in the world I’m supposed to be able to study up? Hmmph, we who are born to be women are always behind the eight ball anyway. Let’s just take the question of changing jobs. Whenever you men get transferred or switch jobs, we women have to go right along with you. Why is it that I always have to give up my job and tag along with you?
MENG SHIH-CHING (Laughs just like a kid) Okay, okay, from now on I tag along after you, how would that suit you? If you want to become a student and go back to school again, I’ll go with you. Just think how amusing it will be for a woman student to be dragging her hubby along to class with her. [He takes her face in his hands from where he is standing behind her) You lovable little fool!
HUA YÜN (Smiling through her tears) Don’t touch me, someone might come in. (She twists around to rest her cheek against her husband’s chest) Shih-ching, oh, don’t always pontificate to me about those grand principles. I want you to talk to me about the feelings in our hearts. You know that I’m all stirred up and unsettled. But even so you won’t help me find a way out. No, you only know how to be your same old Assistant Director.
MENG SHIH-CHING [Caressing his wife’s hair) What is it you’d actually like to do?
HUA YÜN I’d like ... I’m thinking about switching into some artistic line of work. What would you think of that?
MENG SHIH-CHING If you think it’s feasible then go ahead.
HUA YÜN Yes. I’m already thirty-one this year, and how I regret not having made up my mind sooner. Just think of all the old friends who’ve made a name for themselves and accomplished big things. Whenever I see any of them I really feel embarrassed.
MENG SHIH-CHING There’s no need for that. One does not do a job well for the sake of impressing other people!
HUA YÜN (Pulls away from him) You always have the truth on your side, don’t you?
(HSIU-LING enters with two sealed envelopes)
CHIA HSIU-LING Comrade Hua Yün, let me give ...
MENG SHIH-CHING Whose are they? Mine! (He takes them from HSIU-LING) When did these arrive?
CHIA HSIU-LING Late this afternoon.
MENG SHIH-CHING (Patiently) From now on I want you to give anything that has come that day to me as soon as I get home. Exactly! Whenever an envelope has a big red “urgent” stamped on it, you must give it to me right away, don’t set it down anywhere, do you understand?
CHIA HSIU-LING Yes, I do. That kind is a “special delivery.”
MENG SHIH-CHING That’s right!
HUA YÜN Hsiu-ling, you may serve the food now, I want to eat. (HSIU-LING politely acknowledges this and exits, only to return in an instant with the food. As HUA YÜN sits down at the table, SHIH-CHING has again become engrossed in his work ... he tears open that letter and reads it. HSIU-LING goes back into the kitchen)
HUA YÜN [In a normal tone of voice) Shih-ching, that “darling” elder cousin of mine, Chang Lan-o, stopped by today. And besides her, there was also an old acquaintance, I wonder if you remember him? Liang Shang-chün dropped in for a bit too.
MENG SHIH-CHING Oh, yes. (As he turns over the pages with his attention riveted, pondering their contents, he gradually begins to talk out loud)...experience of rectifying the cooperatives ... cutting back, guard against the risks of rushing ahead too fast This is just like Chekiang. Is the whole country in the process of pulling back? (Hepicks up the document and writes comments on the margins)
HUA YÜN (Starting to eat) Shih-ching, you won’t forget now, will you? You’re going with me to the hospital tomorrow morning. The two of us will talk things over with the hospital and get it settled that I’m to enroll in classes in order to prepare for the med school exams. You promised to go with me.
MENG SHIH-CHING Look at this, it’s a directive, I’m afraid I won’t be able to go with you, tomorrow morning the Party Committee is having a meeting to discuss the issue of decreasing the number of Agricultural Producers’ Cooperatives. You go ahead and go by yourself!
HUA YÜN (Half-beaten and feeling very let down) I just knew it was going to be like this.
MENG SHIH-CHING This, now look, Yün, really there’s ...
HUA YÜN (No longer able to eat, she puts down her rice bowl and heads toward their bedroom) All right, all right! I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.
MENG SHIH-CHING Hua Yün, look here, there’s a letter from my mother. (He rips open that smaller envelope) Hmm ... the cooperative in our village had been operating very well....What’s this? The county magistrate went down to our village and forced them to split up the cooperative....what the hell is going on there?
HUA YÜN (She has gone over to him and, leaning from behind him, one hand resting on his shoulder, is reading it along with him) Hey, Grandma says she’s going to come see us.
MENG SHIH-CHING (Delighted) You’re right! Ha, ha, leave it to old Mom to think things through like this. She says that if she doesn’t see us now that we’re here, who’s to say we won’t be transferred to some distant place again one of these days and then she won’t be able to see us. (He hands the letter to HUA YÜN) To tell you the truth, I really have been missing Mom quite a lot. She had a pretty rough time of it after I left home. Ever since I was a little boy, I was the apple of her eye and she loved me something fierce! Even when I was naughty, so naughty I made her cry, she never could bring herself to give me even a little slap.
HUA YÜN You hardly need to tell me about how devoted you and your mother are to each other. In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you cry except for two times when you were thinking about your mother.
MENG SHIH-CHING That never happened.
HUA YÜN Never happened? Think about it again. Back in 1945, that same year I met you (She immediately abandons herself to these happy memories) ...you were in that military hospital. We nurses were putting on that amateur theatrical performance to cheer up you wounded soldiers. I remember how after the performance was over and I had changed out of my costume, I went to see you. You were sitting there in front of the window thinking about something and the moon was so bright that night and when you saw me coming over to you, you started talking to me about the play and then you went on to talk about everything. When you spoke of your home village, you naturally talked about your mother and the tears ran down your cheeks.... I didn’t know whether or not I ought to give you my handkerchief, I just automatically took it out and was fumbling with it in my hands, but you, you wouldn’t make the first move and ask me for it; oh, no, you were too proud, you had to wait for me to make the first gesture ... you certainly were acting the big shot, weren’t you?
MENG SHIH-CHING (Also thinking back to those days) Ai, wasn’t it I who first reached out and took hold of your hand?
HUA YUN Yes ... but it was I who first leaned over to kiss you. (She starts to laugh) Do you remember, I barely murmured that your whiskers were prickly and you were so quick on the uptake that the very next day there was no one in the whole hospital who was as smoothly shaved as you! Weren’t you ever embarrassed?
MENG SHIH-CHING (Embraces his wife and kisses her face) Oh, well, you know all of my past secrets anyway. Of course you have the right to say these things. It’s really interesting to think back: going to school, afterwards teaching primary school in our county, fighting in the guerrilla forces, winding up in that hospital, meeting you, going to the northeast, then going down south, now doing this agricultural work, organizing cooperatives ... it all sounds so simple when you talk about it. I’m almost forty now and yet I still feel as if I’m not yet grown up.
HUA YUN Have you looked at the clothes you’re wearing? You need to change your undershirt and you never button up your jacket properly! ... I really have something to regret too. Why didn’t I change my profession back then and go into some type of work in the arts? Now it’s been ten years since then, I bet I would surely have done something worth mentioning by now!
MENG SHIH-CHING Back then everyone did say you had the talent for the stage, didn’t they? Why, you even got lots of love letters and proposals in each day’s mail. Hey, you were quite a big hit.
HUA YÜN I was too, but the strangest thing was that you never wrote a single line to me, nor did you ever give me the pleasure of hearing a single word of praise from you; even so, I went right ahead and fell blindly, head-over-heels in love with you!
MENG SHIH-CHING (Jokingly) If you regret that, you’d better figure out what you want to do about it pretty soon, it’s still not too late.
HUA YÜN Ai, let’s not be too sure about that. (She discovers there’s still a piece of stationery in the envelope and when she takes it out and unfolds it, a snapshot falls out) Ooh, there’s a photograph in here too! Who is this? I seem to have seen this face somewhere before. (She reads the name on the back of it) It’s Meng Chen!
MENG SHIH-CHING (Looks at it) It sure is! The rascal. He’s practically a man now!
HUA YÜN He says here in the letter that he’s now in middle school. He writes a very good hand too! Your son’s going to accompany Grandma up here. He knows how to say the right thing, this lad, says he’s eager to see his younger sister but he doesn’t mention anything about his mother. Uhh, I wonder how your “feudal missus”* has been getting along recently?
MENG SHIH-CHING (Not at all happy to have this subject raised, reaches out, and HUA YÜN hands him the snapshot and letter from his son) I don’t know.
HUA YÜN Meng Chen looks very much like you. Let’s see, he’s already fifteen or sixteen!
MENG SHIH-CHING Yup.
HUA YÜN (Teasing him) I got it. Why don’t you take back Meng Chen’s mother and the two of you can live together like a good old happy couple. I’ll take Little Hua and go back to Kiangsu.
MENG SHIH-CHING If I could live with a woman like that who doesn’t understand a thing, I wouldn’t have ever gotten together with you. Just as in my decision to marry you, comrade, there was nothing casual or impulsive about my decision to divorce her.
HUA YÜN But everything has to change someday. Perhaps you should marry the one you divorced and divorce the one you married.
MENG SHIH-CHING (Laughs) Do you know, this reminds one of the opening line from The Romance of the Three Kingdoms, which goes, “It is said that when the forces under heaven have been divided for a long time they must coalesce; when they have been united for a long time they must split asunder.” (MENG HUA comes running out from the bedroom)
MENG HUA Aiya, Daddy, I’ve been reading in there and have already read through two whole comic books and you still haven’t come in. The two of you are talking on and on out here without stopping. Hmmph! You seem to have so much to say to Mommy and so little to say to me! (Her little mouth again begins to curl into a pout)
MENG SHIH-CHING Aiya, sorry, sorry, I do apologize to this young lady of ours. Come and let me teach you a riddle.
MENG HUA (Happy) Yeah, Yeah! Mommy, you try it too!
HUA YÜN I think we’ll let father and daughter work out the riddle while I try to put away some of this mess. (HUA YÜN straightens things up while SHIH-CHING and little HUA sit down to one side)
MENG SHIH-CHING Now listen, I’ll tell you four things in the four lines of this riddle and you have to guess what they are, okay?
The eldest sister calls out up in the tree;
The second sister jumps high with fright;
The third sister carries a stick, you see;
The fourth sister lights her lantern bright.
MENG HUA Ha, ha, what is it? Are the four sisters playing a game, Dad? Is that it?
MENG SHIH-CHING Mmm, no, each of the lines I spoke stands for a different thing, altogether there are four different things.
MENG HUA Ennn ... I can’t get it. Won’t you tell me the answer now?
MENG SHIH-CHING I’ll tell you: “The eldest sister calls out up in the tree” stands for a cicada; “The second sister jumps high with fright” means a grasshopper; “The third sister carries a stick, you see” stands for the praying mantis; and “The fourth sister lights her lantern bright” ...
MENG HUA (A naturally gifted child, she instantly hgures this last one out) It’s a firefly, isn’t it, Daddy?
MENG SHIH-CHING That’s right, that’s it, very clever of you. (He again opens his briefcase and takes out more papers to work on)
MENG HUA Who taught it to you? That’s a great riddle, Dad.
MENG SHIH-CHING Your grandma taught it to me.
MENG HUA Grandma is really smart! (She tries to repeat it to herself) “The eldest sister calls out up in the tree” is a grasshopper, is that right, Daddy?
MENG SHIH-CHING (His mind elsewhere) Uh-huh, that’s right, clever girl.
MENG HUA “The second sister jumps high with fright” is a praying mantis, right, Dad?
MENG SHIH-CHING (Responds without thinking) Absolutely correct, right.
MENG HUA Aiya, that “third sister” who carries a stick has to be a praying mantis, too. Then what is it that “jumps high with fright”?
MENG SHIH-CHING Huh? It’s a firefly.
MENG HUA No, it’s not! If it’s like this, then you’d have eldest sister, second sister, and also third and fourth sisters all calling out, jumping around like crazy, carrying long sticks and everything!
HUA YÜN (Losing patience, throws down the thing in her hand and leads MENG HUA toward the main door) Come on, Little Hua, Mommy will take you outside to play. (Remonstrating with her husband) If you consider your time so damn valuable, don’t bother to go through the false motions of paying attention to us!
MENG SHIH-CHING Don’t talk like that, all right? Don’t you know that cold porridge and cold rice are much easier to take than cold words and cold comments?
HUA YÜN Even a few cold words and comments are more than we’re likely to get out of you during the whole day!
(MENG SHIH-CHING is going to say something else but then restrains himself HUA YÜN is just about to lead MENG HUA out the door when from the other side of their main door is heard the robust voice of an elderly woman)
OLD MRS. MENG (From outside the door) Shih-ching! Yoo-hoo, Shih-ching! Aren’t you home? Aren’t you going to come out and help me carry in these things?
MENG SHIH-CHING (Listens very attentively to that voice) Hey, isn’t that my mother’s voice? Mom’s here! Aiya, can it really be? (He rushes past HUA YÜN and MENG HUA to the door, throws it open, and stands excitedly in the doorway greeting his mother) Mom, dear old Mom, it’s really you!
(OLD MRS. MENG, smudged with the dust from her journey, enters carrying a big bundle of things tied up in a piece of homespun cloth with a floral pattern. She is already sixty years old, but because she does demanding labor all year long, she’s still strong and vigorous. Her face is a large square one like her son s and her complexion has been burnished a ruddy red by the sun. There’s still not much white in her hair. She’s wearing a new outfit of clothing, and all this, combined with the fact that it’s in her basic nature to be cheerful, makes her look not a day over fifty)
MENG SHIH-CHING (Hastens to take the large bundle from her) Come on in and rest yourself, Mom. How are you?
OLD MRS. MENG I’m fine, just fine (Her glance falls on HUA YÜN) SO this is young Hua Yün, is it? (In her eyes practically everyone’s name should be prefixed with “young”)
HUA YÜN ....
MENG SHIH-CHING Greet mother, Yün!
HUA YÜN Mother, you’re finally here!
MENG HUA Daddy, what’ll I call her?
OLD MRS. MENG (Laughs heartily) As soon as I saw her, I knew she had to be my granddaughter. She looks like me, yes, she does, she looks like me! Granddaughter, come here and let Grandma have a good look at you. (She picks MENG HUA up in her arms) You call me Grandma, you silly little thing!
MENG HUA Grandma? You mean you’re Daddy’s mother, you’re my grandmother?
OLD MRS. MENG Uh-huh, that’s right. That’s something that will never change in your whole life, I’m your “grandma”!
MENG HUA (Not the least bit shy) Aiya, Grandma, Daddy just taught me that riddle about the four sisters and I’ve got it all jumbled up. Will you teach me how to get the four of them straightened out?
OLD MRS. MENG Sure, I ’ll teach you lots and lots of them. (She walks over to the large bundle she’s brought with her from the countryside and, after poking about in it for a while, fishes out a large triangular steamed dumpling stuffed with brown sugar) Granddaughter! Come over here and get this “t’ang-san-chiao” sugar dumpling from your old Grandma. Go ahead, silly girl, take it. Grandma gives it to you, you can eat it.
MENG HUA Grandma, I ’m full.
HUA YÜN She’s just had her dinner and we don’t let her snack in-between meals!
OLD MRS. MENG What diffence does that make? Little kids can eat one of these without any problem at any time of the day. Their tummies will digest them in no time at all. Take it.
(MENG SHIH-CHING signals to HUA YÜN. HUA YÜN has no choice except taking it from the grandmother on behalf of her daughter)
HUA YÜN Say thank you to Grandma. (She gives the steamed dumpling to MENG HUA, who takes it and stands there, fully aware of the situation, holding it in her hand but not eating it)
OLD MRS. MENG Oh, Shih-ching, you’d best go out now to meet her. She’s carrying a great big basket and was coming on along behind me, she should be getting here by now.
HUA YÜN Uhh, Mother, who are you talking about? Didn’t Meng Chen come along with you?
OLD MRS. MENG No, it’s Meng Chen’s mother who’s come along. MENG SHIH-CHING Huh? ... Oh, well then, I suppose I better go help her. (He exits)
(OLD MRS. MENG looks unblinkingly at HUA YUN, who becomes flustered and busies herself aimlessly arranging things here and there, her emotions in a whirl)
OLD MRS. MENG How are the two of you getting along?
HUA YÜN US? We’re just fine, Mother.
OLD MRS. MENG That’s all right then.
MENG SHIH-CHING (Offstage, his voice heard coming from the rear on the other side of the main door) Let me, let me give you a hand with that!
WOMAN’S VOICE (of Liu FANG-WEN offstage) It’s not necessary, we’re already here, it’s fine!
(MENG SHIH-CHING pushes open the door and quickly steps aside to allow LIU FANG-WEN, his former wife, to enter carrying a large, heavy basket with netting serving as its lid. LIU FANG-WEN is thirty-seven, of medium height and a sturdy build. Her oval-shaped face is of a very ruddy complexion and she has a pair of bright, inquisitive eyes. Her hair is thick and black, no longer wound into a bun but cut short. She does farm work all year long and thus moves with the quickness and sureness of a man. However, she is very good-natured and obliging, and there’s a certain special aura about her that appeals to people, which comes from her unassuming self-confidence and the iron will underneath her gentleness)
OLD MRS. MENG Set it down and have a rest, Fang-wen.* (She turns to her son) After we got off the train, I told her to hire a porter to carry it for us but she wouldn’t hear of it, wouldn’t consider spending any money for that.
LIU FANG-WEN It’s not so heavy. Mother, which room are you going to be using? Where should I put this?
OLD MRS. MENG You silly, I’ve only just arrived here. I haven’t had a chance yet to learn the frying pan from the stove, so how would I know where they’re going to put me up? (She glances out of the corner of her eye at her son and HUA YÜN) Anyway, just as long as they don’t expect me to sleep outside in the courtyard, anywhere will do. Just set the basket down for now and catch your breath. We’ll worry about that later!
(LIU FLiuFANG-WENANG-WEN sets the basket down out of the way for the time being, straigh tens up, pats her hair into place and turns round to look at SHIH-CHING. He evades her glance. She transfers her gaze to HUA YÜN. FANG-WEN already knows full well who this must be and she says nothing. MENG HUA gives her mother a puzzled look and then looks again at FANG-WEN. FANG-WEN opens wide her arms in an inviting gesture to MENG HUA, who is instantly attracted by her motherly affection and goes over to cuddle up close to FANG-WEN. This child is very sensitive and since none of the grown-ups are saying anything, she also keeps quiet and just stands there gazing up intently into FANG-WEN’S face. Everyone stands there awkwardly, all at a loss for something to say)
MENG SHIH-CHING (Breaking the ice) Mother, wouldn’t you like to freshen up a bit? Hsiu-ling, Hsiu-ling, hurry up and draw some water! (Stage dims)
SCENE TWO
A few hours later the same evening, the same place. OLD MRS. MENG and her son, SHIH-CHING, are sitting on the sofa catching up on things. The living room has been straightened up a bit, and there now is a single bed set up, which LIU FANG-WEN is making up as MENG SHIH-CHING and his mother reminisce about the old days. [He tells her that their old family friend Shuai Chien-hui, who once lived in their home and was so poor his toes stuck out of his shoes, has risen through the ranks to become vice-minister of logistics for the People’s Liberation Army and is in Peking, only a few hours away by train. Awkwardness is in the air. LIU FANG-WEN tries to leave to spend the night elsewhere, butO LD MRS. MENG won’t permit it. We learn that FANG-WEN, her first daughter-in-law, has stuck by her through the very hard times during the war with Japan when SHIH-CHING was off fighting in the guerrilla forces and that OLD MRS. MENG is convinced she would never have survived except for FANG-WEN’S loyalty and help. The old lady begins to assert herself and orders that everyone is to stay and be nice to everyone else.
HUA YÜN feels quite threatened at the sudden appearance of SHIH-CHING’S first wife, while he tries hard to avoid any conflict with his mother. He reassures her that he feels nothing toward LIU FANG-WEN and that FANG-WEN has nothing to do with them. But this totally unexpected event forces him to reveal to HUA YÜN for the first time that when he went back to his native village in 1952 and finally obtained a legal divorce from his first wife, he was pleasantly surprised to find LIU FANG-WEN quite amenable to the idea, and he felt constrained to honor her sole demand: that he not tell his mother about the divorce, since it would needlessly cause the old lady a lot of heartache. Thus OLD MRS. MENG still believes that both LIU FANG-WEN FANG-WEN and HUA YÜN are legally married to her son. HUA YÜN is deeply hurt that SHIH-CHING has hidden this from her for more than three years.
We pick up the scene from the point where LIU FANG-WEN has come out from the kitchen, where she has been with OLD MRS. MENG. She and her former husband talk about the difficulties encountered in organizing and strengthening the Agricultural Producers’ Cooperative in their home village. It turns out thatLIU FANG-WEN is not at all the simple, subservient, traditional peasant woman in MENG SHIH-CHING’S memory. In fact, she has come up to the provincial capital not to see him and his family but rather to seek assistance from higher levels in opposing the county magistrate’s high-handed efforts to disband their cooperative.]
LIU FANG-WEN FANG-WEN (Telling him all about their co-op in clear and well-ordered fashion) After we first organized the cooperative everything was going along just fine. Except for a few households of landlords and rich peasants, everyone was very much in favor of establishing the cooperative. A couple of weeks ago, our county magistrate, Magistrate Chou, uhh, he’s none other than that old schoolmate of yours—later on I believe you and he taught for a time at the same school. His full name is Chou Ming-te. Well, to go on, Magistrate Chou led a work team down to our area to rectify the cooperative. First they rectified this and then rectified that and finally they rectified our co-op right out of existence.
MENG SHIH-CHING (Extremely interested) Please sit down, sit, sit down right here on this sofa and tell me all about it.
LIU FANG-WEN (Walks unabashedly to sit in a chair across from where he is sitting on the sofa) Aren’t you working here in the provincial government? Do you happen to know where I can find the offices of our province’s Party Committee? Are they easy to locate?
MENG SHIH-CHING [Surprised at discovering a totally new woman in his former wife) Sure, the Party Committee is easy to find. Uhh, would you please go on telling me about this matter of rectification of the cooperative in our village?
LIU FANG-WEN From where I stand, Old Chou’s way of doing things is highly questionable. As soon as he got to our village, he would only listen to what our backward elements had to say and he arrived at his conclusion just like that: he feels that the problems confronting our cooperative are simply too numerous. He says the presence of so many problems might disrupt production. That means the best thing to do is break up the cooperative as soon as possible.
MENG SHIH-CHING What are the real problems in your cooperative?
LIU FANG-WEN That’s exactly the point at issue here! They never got things straight. Even if there were problems, they never even took the trouble to investigate whether or not these problems could be gradually resolved if we all got together to work at them. If you ask me, this was nothing but forsaking the spirit of positive leadership. As soon as old Chou arrived, he put forward the proposition that we were developing too fast, that we did not have a sufficient foundation of mutual assistance. In point of fact, the level of mutual assistance in our village can be considered damn good. Besides all the rest of it, he claimed that the masses are split into factions between the east and west ends of the village and that the Party members there are not united firmly enough, thus if we went ahead with the co-op, we wouldn’t be able to sustain it. Since his work team had this kind of opinion, it was first proposed in the Party meeting that ...
MENG SHIH-CHING (Interrupts) Huh, you’ve been admitted to the Party?
LIU FANG-WEN [Laughs) Yes, you haven’t kept up with things back home. I was accepted by the Party in 1950.
MENG SHIH-CHING [Just heard another surprise) Oh?
LIU FANG-WEN Right, anyway, at the Party meeting he first proposed that if we’re going to keep the cooperative we should split it into three little ones according to household. The majority of Party members were opposed to this idea.
MENG SHIH-CHING Why?
LIU FANG-WEN This would amount to disbanding the co-op! You’ve forgotten, I suppose, but in our village a great majority of the families living in the west end are poor peasants, the northern section is composed entirely of established middle peasants and the east end is where the landlords and rich peasants live. If we organize ourselves into three separate small cooperatives along these lines, the two in the northern and eastern sections of the village will lack leadership activists and inevitably these three co-ops will turn into one for the poor peasants, one for the middle peasants, and one for the rich peasants. If that happens, how would we ever be able to carry out the “class line”?
(SHIH-CHING is lost in thought over what he has just heard. HUA YÜN has changed into her pajamas and comes out from the bedroom. She is stunned to see the two of them having such a cozy conversation. She struggles to control herself and pretends not to have noticed anything)
HUA YÜN Shih-ching, have you forgotten? Don’t you have to run over to the Agricultural Institute for something this evening?
MENG SHIH-CHING Hmm? Oh, ahh, I’m not going now. (He doesn’t even turn to look at her but continues listening to LIU FANG-WEN. HUA YÜN is about to say something else to him but catches herself and angrily whirls around to go back into the bedroom)
LIU FANG-WEN (With no interruption of her train of thought) Old Chou wasn’t interested in anyone else’s opinion; no, instead he considered us all ideologically deficient, and, indiscriminately lumping the green-topped turnips together with the purple-topped garlic, he leveled a barrage of criticism at all of us. He immediately followed this up with the proposal that anyone who wanted to drop out of the co-op be free to do so. Of course, there were those members who hadn’t been firmly committed in the first place and who now began to “waver” at this point. As for the actively committed members, uhh, they felt that whereas we usually couldn’t get the county to send any leadership cadre down to us, now we finally got one but he turned out to be a little tin buddha. He’s full of pretentious airs and bent on giving us a hard time. He made them feel that no matter how we organized our co-op it was no good, and, well, this took the wind out of their sails. So our sunny skies got clouded all over right before our eyes and this one rumbling thunderclap shook our co-op apart at the seams.
MENG SHIH-CHING (so completely drawn into her account that he totally forgets their former relationship and the unhappy atmosphere that had descended upon his home earlier in the evening. He talks with her now just as one old friend to another) Was everyone willing to accept this?
LIU FANG-WEN About fifteen or sixteen households of active members in our cooperative are right now laying plans to reestablish it.
MENG SHIH-CHING So you feel that old Chou’s way of handling things was not the correct one?
LIU FANG-WEN He did not actively lead everyone along the path to socialism. Even when everyone wanted to go in that direction he wouldn’t let us. So what could be correct about it? (She laughs) I even told him off!
MENG SHIH-CHING What is your role in the cooperative?
LIU FANG-WEN The group elected me as ... vice-chairwoman of the co-op. The chairman is Yü-hou.
MENG SHIH-CHING (Another surprise) You? Well, a vice-chairwoman of the co-op?
(MENG SHIH-CHING can hardly recognize her as that young woman who once was the cause of so much frustration for him—no, actually it was their arranged “feudal marriage” that had caused the trouble. This woman sitting there facing him was someone totally different; she was a vigorous and capable chairwoman, enormous vitality radiating from her very being)
MENG SHIH-CHING (Pouring a cup of tea) Have some tea, won’t you?
LIU FANG-WEN (Now this is also something completely new for hern My goodness! No, you have it. I’ll help myself when I want some.
MENG SHIH-CHING (Pouring out a second cupful) Go ahead, I’ll drink this one.
LIU FANG-WEN (Lifts the cup to her lips and takes a sip, then hurries to stop MENG SHIH-CHING, who is about to drink some too) It’s boiling hot; you’d better put it down and let it cool off a while. You don’t like to drink it so hot.
MENG SHIH-CHING You still remember all my little peculiarities, don’t you?
LIU FANG-WEN (Lowering her head) How could I forget them? In the old days you wouldn’t touch tea that was the least bit hot. That time I served you a hot cup of tea you pulled an ugly face and said that I must be trying to scald you to death giving you such a hot cup of tea. You really scared the wits out of me and I rushed to pour your tea from one bowl into another to cool it down for you. Only after I got back to my own room did I dare to cry my heart out.
MENG SHIH-CHING (Embarrassedly) Actually I didn’t know what I was doing then. It was that feudal marriage system that was to blame. I shouldn’t have been so mean to you.
LIU FANG-WEN I wasn’t blaming you, was I? ... (She takes something out of her basket and affectionately hands it to SHIH-CHING) Here’s some of our homestyle steamed cake you love to eat so much. We came away in such a rush I didn’t have time to make any more of it for you.
MENG SHIH-CHING Thank you very much.
LIU FANG-WEN You used to neglect your meals even when we served up the food you liked best. Now that you’re so busy with your work I’m sure you’re even more likely to forget to eat. Little Hua’s mother should be told that she needs to constantly remind you to be sure and eat your meals.
[OLD MRS. MENG emerges from HSIU-LING’S room to find her son and LIU FANG-WEN getting on famously, and she discreetly withdraws, a gratified smile on her face. FANG-WEN tells SHIH-CHING all about his childhood friend, CHAN YU-HOU, chairman of their village’s cooperative, who has been so good to SHIH-CHING’S mother over the years that he’s now practically like an adopted son. SHIH-CHING tells her that he is the assistant director in the Rural Work Department that CHAN YU-HOU has told FANG-WEN to seek out in the provincial capital. She is quite relieved to learn this but is wondering whether he approves of what she and the other villagers are doing in going against the leadership of the county. Although still very new in the job here, SHIH-CHING tells her that he suspects she and the other activists have done the correct thing.]
MENG SHIH-CHING When I was working in Chekiang Province, I took exception to the casual disbanding of cooperatives with the result that I was criticized just as you have been. But before I had time to gather more dramatic evidence to support my view, I was transferred up here. I think our village’s experience in the rectification of the co-op will help to clarify this problem a great deal. We’ll go together to the Party Committee tomorrow, but since the secretary of the Party committee has gone to Peking for a meeting and we don’t know exactly when he’ll be back, we’ll first speak with Director Wang of the Rural Work Department.
LIU FANG-WEN [with rising spirits) Okay, that’s fine. (HUA YÜN enters again from the bedroom door. She has not fallen asleep and has been anxiously waiting up for SHIH-CHING)
HUA YÜN Say, Shih-ching, it’s getting to be quite late, isn’t it time to sleep?
MENG SHIH-CHING No, you go ahead. I have to go tomorrow morning ... to go with her to the Party Committee, and there are still some matters that I must go over carefully with her.
HUA YÜN (Very hurt) Tomorrow morning I have to go to the People’s Hospital, so I won’t wait up for you any longer, I’m going to sleep now.
MENG SHIH-CHING Fine, fine, you go ahead and get a good night’s sleep, okay? (HUA YÜN bites her lip very hard for a moment and then, with tears in her eyes, exits)
MENG SHIH-CHING (TO FANG-WEN with great animation and enthusiasm) Go on, give me all the details of the problems in our village. I also want to hear about any problems you know of in the county leadership, the more detailed the better. [He takes out a small notebook to jot things down)
LIU FANG-WEN Right!
(Curtain)
ACT TWO
[The same setting three days later. OLD MRS. MENG and HSIU-LING are enjoying a friendly contest of wills, in which the sprightly old lady, with her pungent and colorful peasant tongue, is protesting not being allowed to help out with the housework, and the servant, who already adores her, tries to keep her from lifting a finger. HUA YÜN returns early from work and learns that LIANG SHANG-CHÜN has stopped by looking for her and that her husband and his former wife have gone out on yet another attempt to have their meeting with DIRECTOR WANG. OLD MRS. MENG has no idea whether they’ll be back for dinner or not. HUA YÜN receives a phone call from LIANG, who invites her out to dinner. He wants her to read something he’s written that has appeared in the newspaper that day. She accepts the invitation and tells her mother-in-law that she will be dining out.
The messenger boy,CHI TA-CH’ENG, shows up with two more letters for Assistant Director MENG and wants to see HSIU-LING. This time she has some boiled water already prepared for him if he’s thirsty, and he likewise reveals his romantic interest in her by giving her a “top priority special delivery” letter in a flowery pink envelope.
SHIH-CHING and FANG-WEN, both looking unhappy, enter just as HUA YÜN is going out and there is another awkward moment between her and SHIH-CHING before she coldly walks out the door. SHIH-CHING and FANG-WEN have finally succeeded in seeing DIRECTOR WANG, and we learn that the county magistrate, CHOU MING-TE, has beaten FANG-WEN to the punch by first sending in a written report and then following that up by personally calling on DIRECTOR WANG yesterday.
MENG SHIH-CHING is deeply perplexed by the fact that his new superior, DIRECTOR WANG, has taken the side of COUNTY MAGISTRATE CHOU in regarding the co-op in his home village as a negative model. LIU FANG-WEN is angry and unwilling to back down.OLD MRS. MENG is a bit concerned to learn that FANG-WEN was so bold as to argue openly with their county magistrate.FANG-WEN explains to OLD MRS. MENG about CHOU.]
LIU FANG-WEN Mother, you just can’t imagine how that man speaks out of both sides of his mouth at once. He doesn’t act a bit like a leader in the Communist Party—all he does is play the big shot and throw his weight around. He won’t consider listening to anything the masses have to say, nor is there any lie that he wouldn’t tell.
OLD MRS. MENG What’s all this? What did he say?
LIU FANG-WEN He said ... he said that YÜ-hou and I are so charged up about organizing the co-op purely for the sake of personal gain, and, and he said that the two of us ... the two of us are unwilling to split up!
OLD MRS. MENG What sort of talk was that? This old Chou, hmmph! Well, how about that Director? Wasn’t there a Director Wang who was also present? What did he say?
LIU FANG-WEN AS far as I can tell, Director Wang’s bureaucratism is no joke either.
OLD MRS. MENG (Sighs) Oh, dear me! When you reap wheat you get stiff at the waist, and when you carry a load on your carrying pole you get a sore shoulder; every occupation has its hazards and those who became officials are always going to have a touch of bureaucratism. A candy-peddler beats a gong —every line has its own way of doing business. There is always too much to be done in any job and you can’t expect the stick to hit the exact center of the drum every time, now can you? We must try to be a bit more tolerant.
LIU FANG-WEN Mother, I can be tolerant of anything else but just don’t ask me to be tolerant of bureaucratism. Just think of it! Without investigating or seriously thinking through this matter, Director Wang just insisted that the way we organize the co-op is like weaving a dozen nets in your mind before having a single thread in your hand—it’s futile. Therefore he completely agrees with old Chou in tearing down our co-op. And that’s not all, today he even decided to have old Chou report on the experience of rectifying our cooperative!
OLD MRS. MENG Say, Shih-ching, what’s going on here? (MENG SHIH-CHING is pacing back and forth deep in thought and does not make any response. OLD MRS. MENG continues looking at him) Hey, Shih ... (FANG-WEN quickly signals her with her eyes not to ask him anything right then) All right, all right, it’s not my place to interfere and I don’t understand all this anyway. (OLD MRS. MENG walks out into the kitchen)
LIU FANG-WEN [Pours out a glass of water for SHIH-CHING) Are you hungry? I could heat up some steamed cake for you. (SHIH-CHING shakes his head) When do you think the Party Committee Secretary will actually come back?
MENG SHIH-CHING [Pacing up and down) Uhhh, hard to say.
LIU FANG-WEN (Growing more and more disgruntled all the time) Hmmph! There seems to be no more point in waiting for him. These officials always find it easier to get together and work things out among themselves rather than with common people like us anyway. Even when the Secretary does come back he’ll be just the same as the others and won’t want cadres like us from the little villages to be giving reports. Like the others he’ll no doubt say something like “Of course, it is unquestionably praiseworthy to take the initiative in moving forward to socialism, however ..
MENG SHIH-CHING NO, he would not!
LIU FANG-WEN What do you mean he would not? It’s clear to me that all you officials stick up for each other.
MENG SHIH-CHING Don’t talk nonsense.
LIU FANG-WEN (Feels somewhat unfairly treated) Well, just when I was being criticized by Director Wang and Magistrate Chou this afternoon, how come you, the Assistant Director, didn’t have a single thing to say?
MENG SHIH-CHING Umm, that is ...
LIU FANG-WEN I understand.
MENG SHIH-CHING Don’t let your imagination run wild and don’t worry! Nothing’s been settled yet and even if it were, we could still raise our objections and have things reconsidered. The higher levels have their own basis for making decisions.
LIU FANG-WEN (Her determination surfaces) You’re trying to tell me they still haven’t reached a final decision? Director Wang has already declared County Magistrate Chou’s methods to have been the correct approach. All right, you have your approach and we have ours. When I get back home we’re still going to proceed with the organization of our own co-op. I’m going to head back home today. You people way up here can just sit back and study and think things over all you want!
MENG SHIH-CHING NO, I had already decided before this that I’d have to go myself.
LIU FANG-WEN Really? You? (The phone rings and SHIH-CHING goes over to answer it)
MENG SHIH-CHING Yes ... Oh, Director Wang, yes, what can I do for you? ... You want me to preside over the meeting to hear Magistrate Chou’s report? ... I... Director Wang, I was just meaning to consult with you on this. No, no, it’s not that, it’s just that I’ve only recently arrived and am not yet familiar with the situation, that’s why I didn’t say anything. I think it would be best for me to go down there and have a look.... The sooner the better If I could get away immediately that would be even better, yes....You agree? In that case I wonder if the meeting to consider his report shouldn’t be ... oh, you’ll preside over it yourself? Yes, yes. Splendid No, I won’t be taking anyone with me. All right then. I’ll try to see you and discuss a few things with you before I head down there Right. Goodbye.
LIU FANG-WEN (Has been listening all along) You’re going to go?
MENG SHIH-CHING (Hanging up telephone) Yes!
LIU FANG-WEN (With bated breath) Where will you be going?
MENG SHIH-CHING To take a look at our village as well as our county seat.
LIU FANG-WEN Really? happy she’s about to burst into tears) Aiya, this is really wonderful news, really wonderful. I haven’t handled things very well on this trip up here, it’s true, but if I’ve succeeded in getting the Assistant Director of the Rural Work Department to come down, that’ll go a long way in making up for it with our villagers!
[LIU FANG-WEN suddenly realizes that in his dedication to his work, SHIH-CHING is forgetting about HUA YÜN’S feelings. She tries to persuade him to delay his departure for several days, whereas she will leave immediately. SHIH-CHING, seeing his former wife in a totally new light, refuses to hear of her moving out to spend the night elsewhere and tells her how close he feels they are becoming. He asks her to forgive any of his past misdeeds.
FANG-WEN is touched; she cries as they address each other by their personal names for the very first time, while bitter memories of almost twenty years are laid to rest. Again it is FANG-WEN who catches herself up short as she realizes that this cannot be allowed to develop any further. She insists on returning to the village that very day. She goes out to purchase some things the villagers have asked her to bring back. OLD MRS. MENG enters in time to hear the last exchanges between SHIH-CHING and FANG-WEN.
HUA YÜN returns shortly after SHIH-CHING has disappeared into their bedroom. She is shocked by OLD MRS. MENG’S insistence that all the Mengs, includingFANG-WEN, move back to the village and live together as one big happy family.]
HUA YÜN What are you saying?
OLD MRS. MENG Haven’t you figured it out yet? Well, don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take charge of everything for you and see to it there’s no discrimination between who was the first and who was the second or between elder and younger wives. You’ll both live with me and neither of you will have any cause to complain about the other. When three hearts live together in harmony, even dirt changes into gold. Since ancient times there have been countless examples of people living wonderful lives together like that!
HUA YÜN But it’s always been one husband, one wife ever since the ancient times just as it’s always been one horse, one saddle. What you’re talking about is against the law in our new society!
OLD MRS. MENG Against what law? A family living together?
HUA YÜN It’s against the marriage law.
OLD MRS. MENG Bah! We in the countryside have studied the new marriage law, too, and it’s no use at all to us. It doesn’t matter, if there’s any trouble, I’ll take care of it. You mustn’t just pay attention to the law, child, heaven’s justice and human nature are equally to be observed.
HUA YÜN (Feeling humiliated herself and realizing the futility of explaining things to the old lady, speaks half to herself] Humiliating, it’s downright humiliating! I won’t stand for it!
OLD MRS. MENG My goodness, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed it? Shih-ching and Fang-wen have been coming and going everywhere together. Do you think they can be separated now?
HUA YÜN Mother! Don’t be silly! They got divorced years ago!
OLD MRS. MENG What? Divorced? Who says so?
HUA YÜN (A little regretful about her slip of tongue, but never willing to stop halfway in anything) You’re the only one who doesn’t know!
OLD MRS. MENG Can this be true? I certainly am going to have this out with Shih-ching! That heartless, ungrateful knave Ch’en Shih-mei!*
[OLD MRS. MENG upbraids her son for divorcing LIU FANG-WEN, who has been like a devoted daughter to her for all these years. MENG SHIH-CHING scoldsHUA YÜN for upsetting his mother, who, in turn, accuses them both of conspiring to drive FANG-WEN away. FANG-WEN returns with her purchases, ready to to go back to the village. OLD MRS. MENG feels that even her “filial daughter” is abandoning her.
Quite beside herself now,HUA YÜN is very rude to LIU FANG-WEN, who picks up her luggage and leaves. The second act ends in a serious fight betweenHUA YÜN andMENG SHIH-CHING, both of whom are now questioning the viability of their marriage.]
ACT THREE
SCENE ONE
[A Sunday evening a little over a month later in the posh but garish living room of CHANG LAN-O’S home. LIANG SHANG-CHÜN has invited HUA YÜN to come over for a visit and hints to CHANG LAN-O that he’d like to have an opportunity to discuss something very important with HUA YÜN alone. CHANG LAN-O is very bored, her husband being away from home on business most of the time, and she seems to take pleasure in telling LIANG SHANG-CHÜN things to build up his hopes of starting something with HUA YÜN.
From their conversation, we learn that SHIH-CHING has been back to his home village for over a month without writing to HUA YÜN. HUA YÜN has moved with MENG HUA and HSIU-LING into quarters at the hospital provided for employees there. LIANG SHANG-CHÜN has been writing articles filled with extravagant praise of the hospital and intended for HUA YÜN’S eyes. His claim that he has no ulterior motive fails to convince CHANG LAN-O. He tells her the long story of how he had fallen for HUA YUN back in 1945 in the liberated area where the three of them were at the time, but he lost out toMENG SHIH-CHING. LIANG goes on to recount a self-serving tale of how a second woman seduced and promptly abandoned him which made him hate all women—all except HUA YÜN. He pretends to want CHANG LAN-O to keep his undying love for HUA YÜN a secret.
LIANG goes out to meet HUA YÜN and while he’s gone she arrives. CHANG LAN-O behaves just as he knew she would: telling HUA YÜN many things that would appeal to her such as the new screenplay LIANG says he’s written—a love story up to “international standards,” for which HUA YÜN would be the most suitable female lead. Finally she tells HUA YÜN thatLIANG is still in love with her.
Now it’s HUA YÜN’S turn to confide in her elder cousin and we learn of her great anguish since her husband had gone back with his mother to the MENGS’ native village.
LIANG returns. He tells her that he’s been down to the countryside gathering materials for his articles. As soon as CHANG LAN-O leaves, LIANG tells HUA YÜN that he’s been to Chin-p’ing County and has even stayed two or three days in T’ung-lin Village, MENG SHIH-CHING’S hometown.]
HUA YÜN Really?
LIANG SHANG-CHUN Originally I went there to see whether or not Agricultural Producers’ Cooperatives should immediately be set up on a widespread basis. The Rural Work Department of the Party Committee has been of two different minds and has been having intense debates over this issue, hasn’t it? Moreover, Comrade Meng Shih-ching personally went down there.
HUA YÜN According to what you saw, should the cooperatives be established there without further delay or not?
LIANG SHANG-CHUN (Shaking his head) Before long the newspaper will carry an article by me, you might want to watch for it. The opinions and methods of the Chin-p’ing County Magistrate, Comrade Chou Ming-te, are well worth serious consideration. I talked at great length with him for several days. That comrade is very capable, and having seen the worsening of the problems there, I’m in substantial agreement with his point of view, namely, that positive steps have still to be taken there in order to prepare the necessary conditions. This is especially true in T’ung-lin Village, which has rushed things in a reckless fashion. If not corrected, soon enough it’s going to prove a great mistake.
[LIANG SHANG-CHUN now proceeds to tell her that her husband’s serious problem is not his devotion to the co-op, but rather his illicit relationship with a woman.LIANG gives her a photo showing SHIH-CHING and FANG-WEN together. HUA YÜN is crushed. LIANG consoles her and offers himself as a refuge for her. She tells him she will divorce SHIH-CHING but will never again love or marry another man.
MENG SHIH-CHING shows up at CHANG LAN-O’S house looking for his wife. CHANG LAN-O and LIANG quickly leave HUA YÜN alone in the room just before SHIH-CHING enters. He is suntanned, thinner, and a bit gaunt. He tells her that his silence had been due to his illness and that he’s had time to think things over on his sickbed. Now that they’ve both had time to cool off, they should try to talk things out. He starts an apologetic and serious analysis, but HUA YÜN is in no mood to listen.]
HUA YÜN I have no time to quarrel with you. It is all very clear.
MENG SHIH-CHING (Becoming stern) I must remind you that you’ve been doing the wrong thing!
HUA YÜN What? Well, all right, let’s just add things up, shall we? I completely gave you the best years of my youth. I sacrificed my own career in order to accommodate you, I... (Begins to cry at the injustice of it all) You’re right! I have been doing the wrong thing! I married the wrong person!
MENG SHIH-CHING (Angrily) Shut up! (HUA YÜN has not expected SHIH-CHING to be so harsh and stares at him wide-eyed) Aren’t you ashamed to even say such things? (He takes a couple of steps toward her and berates her) You speak of sacrificing your youth, sacrificing your career very frequently, well, okay, you’ve made some sacrifices. But would you just stop and think about this calmly for once. You didn’t make these sacrifices for anyone else, you made them for yourself! You’re always blaming me for letting life slip by, for not caring enough about the way we live. But what about you, you who care about the way we live so much? Take a good look, why don’t you, what kind of a life is it that you are so in love with? Paying no attention to our life at all is my mistake, but do you mean to tell me that being totally wrapped up in trivialities and petty concerns isn’t your mistake? Just how have you spent your time, your youth? You’ve spent it trying to figure out how to find easier ways to make a bigger and better splash rather than buckling down to the long, hard process of really learning something thoroughly. You aren’t willing to do the less demanding tasks and aren’t up to doing the more demanding ones. The development of your career has come to a standstill while resting in your own hands and has not been thwarted by other people! You better wake up!
HUA YÜN (Some of the things SHIH-CHING has just said would have struck home and made her take stock of herself, but other things have hurt her deeply and still others have produced a violent resentment in her; thus she sinks into a welter of very complicated and ambivalent emotions. For a moment she can V find any words to express herself, then she takes up one particular point out of context and fiercely counterattacks) Fine, fine! I’m overly concerned about trifles, I’m petty and superficial, I’m the one who’s wrong! I’m wrong! I’ll never be good enough for a big man like you who doesn’t waste his time worrying about silly little things. (She gets to her feet and is about to leave) Let me go!
MENG SHIH-CHING (Holds her back) Where are you going?
HUA YÜN Is that any concern of yours? This is not your home. Get out of my way!
MENG SHIH-CHING Hua Yün, why are you so pig-headed? (He reaches for her hand) Okay, I certainly don’t expect you to think through all these problems at once or to correct all past mistakes in a single day. I’ve already explained to the chief of the People’s Hospital and have requested a two-month leave of absence for you. Let’s take Little Hua and go down to stay in the countryside together for a while. You’ve not been out in the rural areas for many years now, and if you go down there and take a look around, it will gradually broaden your perspective and ease your mind. You will be able to see what the working people are doing these days. Life is bubbling down there now!
HUA YÜN (Dodges his hand) What? You want me to go down there?
MENG SHIH-CHING Yes!
HUA YÜN You want me to go with you and be your concubine?
MENG SHIH-CHING What are you talking about?
HUA YÜN Aiya, you really are very liberal-minded! I’m amazed that after blatantly thumbing your nose at rules and breaking the law, your face doesn’t show the least sign of blushing.
MENG SHIH-CHING What? What kind of crazy talk is this?
HUA YÜN You’re not crazy, you’re just pretending not to know. You hypocrite, go to hell!
MENG SHIH-CHING (He’s shocked by HUA YÜN’S attitude yet he still imagines that she is merely blaming him for having any contact with FANG-WEN) Oh, you’re still upset over ...
HUA YÜN You bet I’m upset. I cannot be anything but upset! It involves the law of the land. It involves my personal honor. I’m going to make it my business to be upset right through to the end!
MENG SHIH-CHING (Unable to restrain his anger) You really deserve a medal for narrow-minded petty jealousy!
HUA YÜN So I’m narrow-minded. Just exactly what have you done!
MENG SHIH-CHING (Calmly) Just because two people have gotten divorced, they can never say a word to each other again? They can’t have any contact even though their work makes it necessary?
HUA YÜN Just listen to these pretty words, such eloquent and dignified things you say! (To her, his calmness conhrms her worst fears) All right, from now on I will have nothing to say about your affairs, you can go talk to her until your tongue wears out and see if I care. You can go have contact with her for the rest of your life, it’s none of my business. Comrade Meng Shih-ching, I’m telling you, you go right ahead! From now on I’ll never ever make demands on you or complain; we’re no longer husband and wife!
MENG SHIH-CHING (Stung into uncontrollable rage) That’s fine with me! I’ve pampered you long enough. So it’s good-bye! (He sits down and searches in his briefcase for something) When I was over at your place just before coming here, I told Hsiu-ling to pack your things for the trip—this is the train ticket I bought for you. I thought we’d go together, but now it was all for nothing! (He tears the ticket into little pieces) Good-bye then! (He stands up and strides toward the door)
HUA YUN (Tormented, she starts to say something, then stops) You ...
[But he halts before walking out, and Scene One of Act Three ends with a long sad farewell speech to HUA YÜN. He wistfully tells her of all the places in the village that figure so prominently in his memories of childhood; he was looking forward to showing them to her. He urges her to take good care of herself and to tell LITTLE HUA that her Daddy will come to visit her whenever he can, after his return to the city in a couple more months.
HUA YÜN almost allows herself to cave in and make up with him but can’t quite bring herself to forgive him, and he leaves.]
(Curtain)
[Act Three, Scene Two takes place two weeks later in the same CHANG LAN-O’S apartment. The living room has been specially decorated as if for some celebration, and there is a large round banquet table set up to one side. CHANG LAN-O is happily getting things ready for a party. Her forty-five-year-old short, fat husband, CHAO T’AO, just back from another of his commercial trips, sits on the sofa watching his wife bustling about. From them we learn that LIANG SHANG-CHÜN is playing host this evening to many of his famous friends from literary and theatrical circles. They also talk about LIANG SHANG-CHÜN’S increased effort to win HUA YÜN. CHAO T’AO, a wily fellow, warns his wife not to be too sure that MENG SHIH-CHING is as bad as she has been led to believe or that HUA YÜN feels anything more for LIANG than simple gratitude for his attention. CHAO suggests keeping out of this whole matter. CHAO speculates that LIANG SHANG-CHÜN is springing a “fait accompli” on her.
CHAO is right in his prediction. In the middle of a very boisterous dinner, HUA YÜN arrives. She is treated as the guest of honor and several of LIANG’S friends offer toasts for her engagement to LIANG. HUA YÜN, realizing the trap, is enraged. She slaps his face and storms out.]
[Acts Four and Five of the play bring it to a happy ending, with the help of an old and wise couple. HUA YUN goes to Peking to see SHUAI CHIEN-HUI and his wife, who are old family friends. Old SHUAI, an outspoken high official in the PLA, points out many mistakes HUA YÜN has made and questions whether SHIH-CHING has been the villain she believes him to be. Impressed by his good advice, she accepts his criticism and decides to go see MENG SHIH-CHING in his home village.
The higher levels right up to Chairman Mao have by this time overturned the rightist deviation of people like DIRECTOR WANG and MAGISTRATE CHOU; thus activitists such as LIU FANG-WEN have been vindicated. MENG SHIH-CHING and LIU FANG-WEN also come to Peking to visit old SHUAI after HUA YÜN has gone out to find SHIH-CHING. While alone in the SHUAI home SHIH-CHING causes LIU FANG-WEN no little consternation by proposing that they remarry. Throughout Act Four old SHUAI has resolutely advocated the obligation of marital loyalty, of sticking “Together through Thick and Thin,” first to HUA YÜN and then to SHIH-CHING.
HUA YÜN arrives in MENG SHIH-CHING’S village, meets his son, MENG CHEN, and sees LIU FANG-WEN expertly handle a couple of landlord elements trying to get into the cooperative. HUA YÜN learns that SHIH-CHING has been living in the home of CHAN YÜ-HOU all the time, except when he was sick and under his mother’s care in her house.
CHAN YÜ-HOU comes home; he and LIU FANG-WEN have been secretly sweet on each other for years.CHAN has been a widower for seven or eight years and his patient hopes for eventual marriage with FANG-WEN have been suddenly disturbed by the presence of SHIH-CHING in their village. FANG-WEN tries to explain her now somewhat confused feelings to YU-HOU and asks him to help her get through this situation.
HUA YÜN and LIU FANG-WEN finally have a heart-to-heart talk about their difficult situation. HUA YÜN now shows FANG-WEN the photograph of her and SHIH-CHING obtained fromLIANG SHANG-CHÜN in Act Three, Scene One. It turns out to be a fake photo. After HUA YÜN and LIU FANG-WEN have made their peace with each other, MENG SHIH-CHING enters and he and HUA YÜN achieve their reconciliation, both admitting their mistakes to each other.
Old SHUAI comes in at the end for a visit to this model village cooperative and OLD MRS. MENG now supports the new generation’s choosing their own marriage partners. She asks CHAN YÜ-HOU to be her “adopted son,” thus giving her blessing to his marrying FANG-WEN. Everyone is reunited and even HSIU-LING, the governess, who had decided to return to agricultural life as member of the co-op, will continue to see CHI TA-CH’ENG, the messenger boy, on holidays. The curtain falls on a happy resolution.]
Translated by John Börninghausen
Little is known of Sun Ch’ien’s life. He seems to have achieved prominence as a filmwriter just after the Liberation, publishing his scripts in newspapers and magazines. Two of his scripts, Harvest and When the Grapes Ripen, were filmed in 1952 by the Northeast Film Studio of the Central Film Bureau. In 1955 a novelette, Summer Story, appeared, primarily aimed at the youth audience, and in 1964 a collection of his short stories, The Lanterns of Nan-shan, was issued. His bylines indicate that he was in Peking in the early fifties but from the late fifties on, he was writing from Tai-yuan, Shansi, where, in 1966, he produced a short story for newly literate workers and peasants, “The Heroes of Ta-chai.”
Sun tends to focus on such themes as the struggle between progressive and conservative forces in the village, the tension between urban workers and rural peasants, and youth’s search for commitment in collective life. Most of his works derive from his experiences living among the people he writes about, and he tends to view individual or local problems in the context of a national movement. The orthodoxy of Sun’s Marxist thought is rooted in the simplicity of his material and psychological worlds, which is matched by the austerity of his descriptive prose. One is tempted to characterize his style as a kind of “verbal minimalism.” But far from resulting in a banal reductionism, it endows his best pieces with a tone of primitivistic authenticity. In general, his work represents one of the more successful attempts to combine the inner struggles of realistic fiction with the didacticism of the socialist romance.
“The Story of a Scar” first appeared in the magazine Sparks in March 1958 and was reprinted in a 1959 anthology, A Bumper Crop of Short Stories. In it, Sun adopts the narrative persona of an ingenuous PLA soldier who returns to his village after ten years only to confront the human distances created by time and the ideals of the Revolution. Exploring the intersection of family tensions and socioeconomic change, the author charts the conflict between the brother’s family and the pressures of the PLA demobilization, the state purchasing and distribution movement, and the collectivization of agriculture. The reader feels a fine, covert sympathy for the brother, whose traditional hopes for self-sufficiency are based on the experiences of genuine suffering and of small gains hard-won. The sister-in-law, however, is a stereotypical figure of petty-capitalist greed, so that the two of them come to symbolize the poles of sentiment and ideology within the narrator himself. The entire story of his progress through marriage and entry into the collectivist utopia involves the heroic transformation of his family and may be allegorized, in Maoist terms, as “solving contradictions among the people.” —R.S.
I’ve been a soldier in a lot of places, earned some scars and did a little bleeding. Take a look—here, on this arm, right where a Japanese sword cut a trench. Above the left calf here, Kuomintang bullets dug a couple of holes. And here, on my back, an American grenade tore out a piece of flesh.
I was discharged in ‘54 and went back home, figuring that I wouldn’t get any more wounds for the rest of my life. But who could have known that last autumn I earned yet another scar—this time on my shoulder, when I was brutally struck with a shovel. If I hadn’t ducked quickly enough, the blade would have split my skull in two.
When I was wounded before, it was with the army in battle; I might’ve gotten hit but we finished off the enemy. (You know in war, it’s kill or be killed and no one ever wins who’s afraid to bleed.) This time, though, the wound had nothing to do with the army or any battle. I got it in my own village. And the one who struck me wasn’t a Japanese, Kuomintang, or American GI—it was my own brother!
You don’t believe me? Well, it’s true, really, my own brother struck me with a shovel. Sound strange? It sure does when you first hear it but if you think about it a bit, it isn’t. I’ll tell it to you from the start ...
I was discharged in the autumn of ‘54, which made it a full ten years since I had left my village. Ah, ten years ... no easy matter: when I left I was a fifteen-year-old kid; now I’ve become a full-grown man. I might have aged but my heart caught fire when I heard that I’d be returning home. Actually, I had no parents in the village, not even a wife. Just a brother.
My brother’s name is Ch’en Hsiu-te and he’s ten years older than me. My parents died young, so I was brought up almost entirely by him. Our family didn’t do too well when I was young. My father left us only twenty mu of alkaline land, and, for a year, my brother and I barely scrounged out enough to survive on by our sweat alone. With no women in the house, we had to cook our own meals after returning from the fields and patch our own clothes too. You can pretty well see what a mess our lives were then. But my brother wasn’t bowled over by hardship; all by himself, he shouldered the burden for both of us. Even now, I still remember how bitterly my brother struggled. While I slept, without my even knowing it, he would make breakfast, grab a few corn buns, and go out to the fields. He would never come back for lunch or even doze off in the afternoon. Only when it got dark would he return, sweat streaming down his face, his lips parched and cracked. Picking up a ladle, he would gurgle down a bellyful of cold water before lighting the fire to cook dinner.
He was never much for talking; when he did, it was in retaliation. He never scolded me and he never beat me. Still, I was always scared of him. Don’t go thinking that he bossed me around—no, he never did. No matter how difficult things were, he would think of some way to see that I had enough to eat and some warm clothes. And for two years, when the harvests were pretty good, he even sent me to school.
Talk about the way he lived, well, it was frugal to the point where you just couldn’t get any more frugal. He didn’t smoke, drink, never bought a snack. Whenever we went to the temple fair, he would return with a hungry stomach. I remember that he was rather good-looking and had a strong body but he never mixed with the girls. Except for the necessary meals and sleep every day, his only pleasure was in working. That’s the way he lived and that’s how he raised me.
When I was fourteen, a flood overran the village. We hadn’t stored up any grain and things were tough. The next year, there was no rain all summer long and the crops were baked dry. It was in the autumn of that same year that the guerrillas of the Eighth Route Army came to our village and I joined up.
When I was about to leave, my brother pulled out four silver dollars from under the k’ang —all we had—and handed them to me. He said, “Take these with you.” I said, “There’s no food left in the house. If I take them, what will you use to buy food?” He said, “I’ll think of something, just take them.” Of course, I couldn’t, but my brother wouldn’t listen to anything else. In my anxiety, I began to cry and he cried too. We cried a long time but I couldn’t budge him—the only thing to do was to accept those four silver dollars. They were my brother’s lifeblood, I don’t know how much struggle he went through before he scraped them together; and how much he needed them then too!
With tears streaming, I left home and my brother ...
Even in those ten years away, how could I forget him, my only relative? I would think about him and often write him letters. From his replies, I knew only that I had a sister-in-law and a little nephew. But I knew nothing about how they lived.
When I received my discharge orders, I immediately wrote my brother. How much I wanted to see him—and my sister-in-law and my nephew! I used my bonus to buy them a lot of presents so as to give my brother a chance to enjoy himself.
The end of September was threshing time. As soon as I entered the gate, I was dumbfounded. Gosh! The entire yard had been turned into a threshing floor—there were piles of grain everywhere, like a cluster of mountain peaks blocking even the path. Just think how my father left us only twenty mu of that alkaline land; to produce all these crops from that would have surprised anyone.
I looked up and was even more dumbfounded. My brother was really something. He had somehow had the means to build a new two-room house with a tile roof and glass windows. Compared to this, our old two-room shack looked squat and miserable.
The yard was unusually quiet. At the foot of the western wall was someone pumping a bellows—“pa-ta pa-ta. “ I walked into the yard towards the sound, circling around a pile of kaoliang and was further surprised ...
There was a small awning by the wall and beneath it, a woman holding a child and pumping away. She was young—from the looks of her, not more than twenty—and pretty: large eyes, long lashes, and two shiny pigtails bouncing back and forth. I couldn’t believe that this was my sister-in-law, but I couldn’t doubt it either. To call that young girl “sister-in-law” was too much, but that’s what I had to do.
I braced myself and yelled out, “Sister-in-law!” She just jumped up, startled, and looked all around. When she saw me, she blushed like a red lantern, so embarrassed that she could hardly utter a word. Her blushing embarrassed me as well. So we both just stood there stiffly. My little nephew got scared and started to cry.
After a while, the girl, while pacifying the child, asked me, “Are you thirsty?” I said, “Yes.” “I’ll boil you some water,” she said.
I put down my pack and took out some pieces of candy, coaxing my nephew, “Come on, Uncle will hold you. Let Mama go heat some water.” When I said this, the girl blushed again and said, all flustered, “I’m not his mama, I’m his auntie.” I didn’t get it clear so I asked, “His auntie? What auntie?” She laughed. “His mother is my older sister.” I knew she didn’t seem like my sister-in-law. She was really my brother’s little sister-in-law. To tell the truth, she was pretty enough and though we’d just met, I liked her a lot; and from the looks of it, she seemed to like me. She asked me a lot of questions, such as how long I’d been travelling and so forth. We didn’t waste any time but told each other our names: mine is Ch’en Yu-te, hers, Liang Hsiao-feng. And I found out from her much about how my brother got rich.
Liang Hsiao-feng’s people lived in Hsi-chou Village, only about a third of a mile from us. They were originally middle peasants, quite well-off and living comfortably. Then, one year, both Hsiao-feng’s parents died from a sudden sickness, leaving the two girls with no means to survive. So Ta-feng, the elder one, married my brother. At that time, Hsiao-feng was still small and couldn’t get along on her own so she joined her sister in our house. Naturally, their land and household goods came along with them. Just think, with the property of two families combined, how could my brother not get rich?
Just as I was talking to Hsiao-feng, my brother and sister-in-law returned. How he’d changed, changed so much that even I wouldn’t have recognized him. Agewise, he was in his prime, but one look at him and you’d think he was an old man. He had two bushy eyebrows, bloodshot eyes; wrinkles with sweat running down them lined his sallow face while a few wheat husks clung to his curly sideburns. And when I looked at what he was wearing, it wasn’t much better than a beggar’s outfit. That belt around his waist was made of torn rags; a piece of rope would have looked better to me.
I don’t know what it was that struck me so painfully when I saw my brother’s appearance. My eyes smarted and I couldn’t bear it—I cried. My brother didn’t cry; he sat down and barely sighed. I heard my sister-in-law chuckling loudly, “How interesting! Ten years as a soldier and you’ve become an old maid—stop crying, uncle, and take out those nice things you bought so we can have some fun opening them.”
I held back my tears and looked up. Ah, how fat my honorable sister-in-law was, so fat she could hardly fit through the gate. Her eyes were small and puffy and her face, yellow and swarthy with dense clusters of freckles like specks of fly dung. It’s strange, but she and Hsiao-feng were born of the same parents. How come one turned out so fine and the other, so repugnant? I could never figure it out.
I repressed my disgust and called out, “Sister-in-law!” and then opened up my pack, taking out the presents I’d bought them. There were quite a few, wrapped in all kinds of colors, which were spread out on the table. They attracted everyone—Liang Hsiao-feng also came over holding my little nephew. My sister-in-law’s eyes lit up—she felt this one and poked that one. She seemed very excited. My brother chuckled as he gazed at the presents, continually saying, “Oh, no, you’ve bought so many things, so many things!” He couldn’t have cared less about the quality, all he had to hear was that it cost money and he would look stunned, shaking his head. My two-year-old nephew was choking on the piece of candy and kept trying to cough it up. Liang Hsiao-feng picked up a piece of cloth to admire and seemed to like its pattern. Just as she was relishing it, my sister-in-law snatched it away and scolded her, “Go fix dinner! What are you looking at? There’s nothing here for you!”
I didn’t understand what my sister-in-law meant. Maybe she was really disciplining Hsiao-feng, maybe she was needling me for not bringing something for her. Normally, I wouldn’t pay attention to this kind of thing, but I saw how Hsiao-feng just stood there, the red rushing into her face. I was moved, and normally I don’t lie, but under these circumstances, I couldn’t help it. I picked up the piece of cloth and said to my sister-in-law, “But this is for Hsiao-feng.” She was startled, then broke out into a guffaw, saying, “Well, well—barely through the door and now he’s in love. Hsiao-feng, he’s given you this cloth—’From a thousand miles, he’s brought but a feather; full of kindness though slight is the gift.’ “
The blushing Hsiao-feng ran off with the cloth. My sister-in-law sat down to suckle the child while my brother pointed to the presents and asked me, “Yu-te, how much did you spend on all these things?” I told him the amount and he was not too pleased. He glanced at me and said, “So you spent your whole retirement pay?” I said, “I spent a bit of it and saved some, but not much.”
Just as I was talking to my brother, my sister-in-law suddenly interrupted, “Ah, Yu-te, you were a soldier for ten years, how could you let them fire you?” I explained to her the reasoning behind the demobilization designed to increase production, but before I could finish, she cut in, “Well, sounds good enough, doesn’t it?—’Build Socialism in Your Own Home Town’—but it’s all phony if you didn’t bring any money home!”
Aha! So she said building Socialism was phony! I expected my brother to sternly criticize her then and there. But who would have thought that when he heard it, not only didn’t he get angry but he uttered “Hmm,” in agreement. Then he added, “Right, you worked hard for ten years and got nothing back for it!”
What a letdown. It looked like my brother and sister-in-law didn’t know what the Revolution was all about, as if I went off to fight in the army in order to make a fortune. If anyone else had said this to me, I would have gotten into a fight with him. But how could I start an argument after just coming home? I kept cool and said nothing.
I was lost in my thoughts for a moment when I saw my sister-in-law glance at my brother and he, as if obeying an order, looked over at me. Solemnly, he said, “So, Yu-te, you’ve come back ... do you plan to set up your own household or work together with me?”
This came so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that for a minute I was struck dumb. I looked at him stupidly—then I realized how he’d changed, changed so that he wasn’t even a shade of what he was ten years ago. Ten years ago, he could give me the only silver dollars he had for the road and now, now we were so distant, so far away from each other.
But I blamed my sister-in-law for everything because it was she who had thrown that first glance at him. I looked at my fat sister-in-law—she was anxiously awaiting my answer. So I controlled my anger, braced myself and said squarely, “I don’t even have someone to cook for me, how can I set up house by myself? Naturally, I’ll have to live and work with you.”
My brother registered no particular emotion when he heard this. He simply said, “That’s fine.” My sister-in-law was different. She seemed to be delivering a speech to welcome me. “That’s right, after all, two brothers—it should be this way! We’re like the water helping the fish and the fish needing the water. If we become poor, you won’t make much but if we become rich, you won’t be left behind ...”
Just then, Hsiao-feng called us in to eat. It was a typical home-style meal: kaoliang noodles sliced like thin fish and topped with tomatoes. I hadn’t eaten this kind of food for ten years. How much I had longed for this. But my home-cooked meal wasn’t so tasty and when I thought about what my brother and sister-in-law had said, it stuck like a bone in my throat. No matter what I ate, it was hard to swallow.
That evening, I walked about the village visiting a few friends I had known as a kid. When I got back, Liang Hsiao-feng had already swept our old house clean. Though it was a little mildewed, I slept on a cloud that night. The next day, as soon as it got light, I went out with my brother and sister-in-law to the fields. Farming had been my livelihood, but I was a bit rusty after neglecting it for more than ten years. I couldn’t keep up with my brother, not even with my sister-in-law.
Don’t be deceived by how fat and swarthy she was—she was merciless when it came to earning a living and could succeed at anything; and there was that mouth of hers. Even when she was wrong, she’d make it sound as if she was right. As for her heart, well, naturally I couldn’t see into her heart, but I had a feeling that it was as devious as an ant’s. If she were buying parsley worth five cents, she would bargain it down to three; she never suffered nor did she have any idea what suffering was all about.
I hadn’t been home for a few days when I realized that, in fact, my sister-in-law was the empress of the household. As for my brother, though he was the head in name, he was really just her executive. I hadn’t understood it at first, for how could such a stubborn man like my brother be hoodwinked by a woman like that? Then I realized it. How had he become rich after all? Wasn’t it all due to my sister-in-law? She had brought her property over to our family and, naturally, she brought along her ways as well. So the enterprise of the Liangs had merged with the frugality of the Ch’ens.
As for this frugality, I couldn’t find another family in town to match ours. Don’t think it was only my brother who wore such rags, my sister-in-law wasn’t much better, you know. She was a woman not past thirty but she felt no shame running about the streets in clothes whose patches were patched. This was how she dressed. As for food, forget it!
When I was young, didn’t my brother always refuse to come home for lunch? Now the whole family was like this. Every morning was like the La-pa Festival;* we had to eat before it got light and make it to the fields before sunrise. At noon, every day, it was the same couple of cold, stiff corn buns no matter how hard you worked. Whether you felt like eating them or not, it was still just two corn buns. By the time night fell, your stomach would be growling, throat dry, and you’d long to race home on horseback. Ah, and at home, they would fix something “good to eat”—if not noodle soup, then wheat porridge. These elixirs would quench your thirst just fine and you’d pour bowl after bowl of it to fill up, then turn around and take a piss while your stomach would rumble again. Fortunately, that patterned cloth turned out to have been useful. If Hsiao-feng hadn’t’ve deliberately scooped some thicker stuff from the bottom of the wok into my gruel at mealtimes, I’d’ve dropped dead from starvation that autumn for sure.
After the harvest, the village organized state purchasing and distribution for the first time and the masses elected me an inspector. As soon as I began the job, I realized what it meant to be put on the spot. Everyone else went along with it—only my brother was hard to manage. He refused to report the true figures of his harvest, but I knew what they were. So I expected what happened: his first report wasn’t even half of what he had produced. What would you have done in such a case? There was nothing I could do but explain the “General Line” to him and urge him to follow along the Great Path of Socialism. But while I pushed my side, he had his own notions: we two just weren’t striking the same chord. In the end, I had no choice but to try and frighten him. I told him, “If you’ve deliberately concealed your produce and it’s found out, then all of it will be confiscated.” After he heard what I’d said, he replied casually, “It doesn’t matter—no one knows how much we have.” I answered, “But I know.”
He glared at me when he heard this and looked like he was going to throw me a few punches or at least yell at me. I waited a while but he didn’t burst out—just spit, repressed his anger, turned and walked over to the Village Office.
My brother reported the full amount and I was glad, of course. But I didn’t expect that at lunchtime my fat sister-in-law would start beating the child and banging the pots around; she deliberately found faults to provoke me. Women are typically narrow-minded, but I didn’t get involved and kept calm. When she saw that I refused to get angry, it infuriated her even more—since she couldn’t budge me, she vented her spleen on Hsiao-feng. Just as she was calmly washing the pots, my sister-in-law pulled the scrub brush from her hand, threw it far away and started shrieking, “How come you use so much water when you’re washing? Are you afraid we won’t be broke fast enough? Huh! Eat and drink like an animal! You’ll be happy when the water’s boiling and there’s no more rice to put in it! I’ve reared a hairy devil in the house and now the evil days have arrived!”
Just listen to her. She’s obviously yelling at me—comparing me to a hairy devil as if to say that I’ve stolen her family’s fortune.
Now, Hsiao-feng was really a good girl. She didn’t let it upset her just because she received these unfair accusations, nor did she answer her sister back. She just blushed and looked at me with those telling eyes, as if to say: “I am taking it along with you, you see?”
After the produce was handed over, vouchers were quickly issued. My brother and sister-in-law received their money and carefully reckoned it; the government had set farm prices fairly and the state purchasing and distribution hadn’t hurt them a bit. They were both overjoyed and bought two pounds of fatty mutton for us, which we ate along with some fried rice-cakes in celebration of the harvest of ‘54.
After this operation was over, the Party branch planned to establish agricultural cooperatives. There was no question that I was to be actively involved, but I had no control over the situation in my own family; the matter had to be discussed with my brother. You see, state purchasing and distribution merely involved buying his produce and it was like cutting a piece of flesh off him. But the forming of cooperatives meant he had to give up his land and equipment and work together with everyone else. Do you think he wanted that? Of course not. Whenever this sort of thing came up, I had a hard job trying to convince him. I explained what the real reason for the poverty of the peasants was in the past, I explained about the instability of small economic units, I explained about the superiority of cooperativization and about the future prospects for socialist agriculture—I told him everything I knew.
It was just like when I tried to motivate him to report the actual amount of his crop: I pushed my side while he had his own notions, and we two just didn’t strike the same chord. The last time, though, I had some room to maneuver and when we got to the crucial juncture, I could frighten him into agreeing. But this time, other than out-talking him, I had no chips to bargain with. Joining the cooperative was voluntary. If he’d rather die than join, no one could force him. But as for me, what had I fought and bled for? Wasn’t it to enable the peasants of the country to enjoy a happy Socialist life? At this point, I was going to join the cooperative, of course, and firmly travel the Socialist road. So my brother and I locked horns and neither of us was about to budge.
My brother wasn’t one to say much, was he? Still, when he did speak, it was his final decision. Unless you were to crack his skull, he never went back on what he said. This time he thought for a long while and not only refused to listen to my arguments but used that unique manner of his to try and persuade me. He said, “Yu-te, farming is not like setting off firecrackers. There’s no room for a free-for-all. The saying goes, ‘You plant your own crops and raise your own sons.’ Enough said. I can’t understand why you want to get mixed up with that mishmash?”
“In order to raise more food,” I said.
“You mean that if we two worked together, we couldn’t raise more than them? No way. We’d only harvest more, not less! The way I see it, you’re willing to sweat and me—I’m not boasting—in anything else, maybe I’m not as good as the next, but when it comes to farming, I haven’t seen anyone as good. With your sweat and my experience, in two years we could take this property and really turn it into something!” I said, “That’s the capitalist road —our family may grow rich but the others will fail.” He didn’t understand what I was getting at, just blinked, stared at me uncomprehendingly and asked, “Then what do you think life is all about?”
“To work for your happiness, mine, everyone’s,” I replied. He half laughed, shaking his head and said, half jokingly, “Everyone says that but if anyone really tried it, they’d wind up starving.”
I really became angry and could no longer hold it back. “You only think of yourself ...” My words probably struck him in his most sensitive spot, for his expression instantly changed. I ought to say that my brother had great self-control. He didn’t yell or start scolding me. He just stood up and, without a word, went toward the door. As he reached it, he suddenly turned around and said to me, “So you’ve decided to join those bunglers?” I said, “I hope we all do.”
“So!—well, let me think about it a bit.”
He left. That night, he didn’t sleep too well. I kept hearing him cough and figured his thoughts were engaged in a terrible struggle. It must’ve been painful for his soul—cutting off the tail of capitalism is no easy matter. But I had faith that he would join us because we had chosen the right path.
The next morning I didn’t see my brother, but right after breakfast he came back with my uncle. My uncle was an old man of more than sixty. I remember that after my mother died, we didn’t have much to do with him aside from going over and paying respects at New Year’s. Today was neither a holiday nor a family occasion. What was he doing here, clear out of the blue? Aha! I had it! My brother had brought him along according to the village custom to preside over the dividing of the family property.
In all honesty, I hadn’t expected such a move from my brother. But I wasn’t afraid—what of it? Was I going to wind up starving? All right, if he wanted to split up the family, then I’d go along with it. I am single and don’t have to be bothered by a lot of those extra worries. But I was really unhappy inside. If I can’t even convince my own brother, how could I persuade others? Still, since he was dead set against joining the cooperative, what else could I do? All that was left was to split things up and let him stand outside the great gate of Socialism, sniffing the aroma.
My uncle wasn’t happy over the decision to divide the property: well, you know, its not so easy to split things up; the family had merged with the Liangs; I had spent a long time away involved in the Revolution and hadn’t added anything to the property ... I saw my uncle’s problem and said, “I only want the share that my father left me. I’ll accept whatever you decide to give. I’m not going to get angry even if you don’t give me anything.”
I had seen many brothers split up. In ninety-nine out of a hundred cases, they argue and even fight. After more than ten years of education in revolution, I naturally refused to upset family harmony over this. It’s strange but the desire to possess is an obstinate enemy and I had to struggle hard to overcome it.
On the day when we were to separate officially, many people crowded into our yard—they figured there was going to be a good show: if not a fist fight, then at least a big quarrel between me and my brother. Even though we didn’t fight or argue, it was enough of a spectacle, though. My brother, at least, tried to maintain some face. Only when dividing up the land did he spend some time picking and choosing; after that he was quiet. But my fat sister-in-law was really a greedy soul. If I picked up this, she said she had bought it; I picked up that and she said I had no use for it. But her best trick was when it came to choosing something good: she would claim it had come from her family every time. As for a silver locket I wore as a child (it was a present from my uncle), she insisted that it had belonged to some damn ghost of a brother of hers. Poison, isn’t she? Never mind about how much she took, she had to call me a “damn ghost” as well.
After we separated, I continued to live in my old house, but my brother seldom spoke to me and I hardly ever asked about them. But I couldn’t help going over to sit a while because there was a Hsiao-feng over there. I was like a piece of steel and she, a magnet. Unable to control myself, I would want to go over to my brother’s house just to see her. Who could have known that as I grew closer to Hsiao-feng, my brother and sister-in-law hated me even more ...
After more than two weeks of work, as we finally managed to make some progress in organizing the cooperative, my stomach had to act up, hurting me so that I couldn’t eat well for two or three days. On the fourth day, it got a little better and I felt hungry. When night fell, I left the office to return home and cook something to eat.
I was startled as soon as I entered the gate: the light was on in my house and there seemed to be someone in there banging away at something. Who could have opened the door? Who would have lit the lantern? And what were they doing there?
I bounded into the house and there was Liang Hsiao-feng bent over a table cutting noodles. Surprised, I softly called, “You?” Hsiao-feng turned and looked at me with her face all blushing. Bashfully, she said, “I’m making some noodles for you ... you’ve got to eat something!” I gazed at those light, fine noodles on the table and couldn’t say anything. The expression on my face was probably pretty funny at that moment and Hsiao-feng giggled when she looked at me. After standing there forever, I at last found something to say. “How come you knew I hadn’t eaten anything?”
“You used to go over to the pig sty every day to empty out your dish water but the last few days—its going on the fourth day now—I haven’t seen you washing dishes.”
Just think. A guy all alone finds a good woman who secretly cares for him. Who wouldn’t have felt something deep? But just as I was about to say something to Hsiao-feng, that fat sister-in-law of mine hollered over in the new house, “Hsiao-feng, where the hell are you hiding? The kid has the runs!”
Strange, the child has the runs and Hsiao-feng has to take care of it—what are you being fed for?
Hsiao-feng didn’t rush over. She finished cutting the last bit of noodles, then said to me, “When the water boils, cook them yourself, but boil them a little longer.”
The moment she went into the new house, I could hear my sister-in-law yelling at her. I couldn’t make out what it was about, but I felt that I was the one who had gotten her into trouble.
The next day, I didn’t think Hsiao-feng would come looking for me and wasn’t expecting her when she came over after dark to help me cook. It was like the day before—just when I wanted to say something important to her, there was hollering again from the new house. This time, it was from my brother himself.
Hsiao-feng still didn’t leave right away. She kept glancing quickly outside and in a low voice said, “Do you know why they won’t let me come to your room?”
“No.”
“They’re afraid that I might be taking away their property.”
Really, I couldn’t understand what she was talking about—here I was trying to get to know her, why would I take away my brother’s property?
Hsiao-feng saw that I didn’t understand at all and punched me in mock anger, saying, “You’re really a melon-head! My family’s property doesn’t belong to my sister alone. If you and me get on well together, won’t she have to give me my share?”
Aha! So that’s what it was all about!
Before I could come up with a reply, Hsiao-feng said angrily, “As for them, they can’t control me. If they get on my nerves, I’ll serve them up something hot!”
Hsiao-feng left in a hurry. As usual, I heard my sister-in-law scold her and, as usual, it was a long time before I could fall asleep.
The next night, Hsiao-feng came over again. But this time, no one interrupted us early. About ten o’clock, that fat sister-in-law of mine “clop-clopped” over to my window and said furiously, “Hsiao-feng, why aren’t you home in bed?”
“I’m busy.”
“Busy with what?”
“Trying to get a man!”
Who would have expected Hsiao-feng to say something like this! I was dumbfounded and so was my sister-in-law. After a while, she started crying and screaming, “Ai-ya! Don’t you have any shame?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be here!”
“You’d better get yourself back over to your room!” Hsiao-feng didn’t yell but firmly replied, “I’m not going back any more!” My sister-in-law yelled back, weeping, “Then where are you going to sleep?”
“Right here.”
My sister-in-law screamed like a slaughtered pig and ran off, “clunk-clunk” —I knew she was going back for reinforcements, so I quickly pleaded with Hsiao-feng. Ah, Hsiao-feng had the temperament of a pressure-cooker. Ordinarily, she could contain her frustrations, but just light a fire under her and she became a firebomb. If I hadn’t thought of sending her over to my aunt’s to hide from the storm, then the villagers would have really had a good show to watch.
The next morning, Hsiao-feng asked my uncle to mediate, just as my brother had, and arrange the dividing of the property between the sisters. Hsiao-feng wasn’t like me. She didn’t let anyone take advantage of her and made such a fuss that my sister-in-law had no choice but to give her her share.
After this, my brother and sister-in-law no longer acknowledged me; whenever they saw me, they looked away, as if they had run into an enemy. I can understand my sister-in-law’s attitude, but that my brother should also act this way—well, I just couldn’t figure it out. Hsiao-feng took her share with her. Wasn’t this right? Why get so angry about it? But if my brother insisted on staying angry, what could I do?
The end of that year, I married Hsiao-feng and we continued to live in my old house. With two families sharing the same yard, it was impossible not to bump into each other. Secretly, I would tell Hsiao-feng to try and be patient and avoid anything that would provoke trouble. But there were things we couldn’t dodge. Ah, that fat sister-in-law of mine; she loved money like her own life. Moreover, she had a disorder known as “having three hands.” Those household things of ours, which had never sprouted wings, would somehow fly away without a trace. One time, I was shovelling coal and laid the iron shovel down when I went back inside. No sooner had I gone in than I heard someone walking about the pile of coal. Immediately, I turned and went out. My sister-in-law had already picked up the shovel and was walking back with it to her house. I called to her to stop and she turned around, looked at me (not even blushing) and put on an act, “Why, you young people, never knowing how to put things away. If you leave a shovel lying about here, someone will be tempted to steal it without your knowing it—I’m just going to borrow it for a while, I’ll bring it back next time.”
Sounds nice, doesn’t it? Hah! If I hadn’t’ve seen her and called out to stop her, it would have been as good as gone. So she needed to borrow it? She got three good shovels when we split up, why didn’t she use her own? Did she really need to “borrow” mine?
But this was a small annoyance, the big problem came later ...
Wasn’t there a small awning by the western wall of the yard? And wasn’t there a small iron stove with a bellows? The bellows had been left by my father and the stove came from my sister-in-law’s and wife’s family. When I divided up the family property with my brother, we didn’t divide these. Both families used the awning, the stove, and the bellows, which is to say, both families could cook on top of the stove under the awning. In the summer of ‘55, it was terrifically hot and we all moved outside to cook. Before long, we established the following procedures: breakfast and dinner, my brother’s family cooked first and we cooked first at lunch. That’s because my brother’s family didn’t eat lunch; even if they did cook something for lunch, it would be just a bowl of soup for my little nephew. During the summer harvest, Hsiao-feng and I were cutting wheat in the cooperative field, when one day, at noon, after we had finished working, we were both extremely thirsty. Hsiao-feng knew that I had stomach trouble and couldn’t drink cold water, so she set down her sickle and went over to the awning to boil some water. I set mine down, wiped away the sweat, and was just striking a match to light up when I heard my sister-in-law shriek like a witch. “Are you blind? Can’t you see the peas boiling on the stove? Why did you take my pot off? Put it back on!”
Hsiao-feng patiently replied, “You’re not going to eat the peas until later. Let us boil some drinking water first, then I’ll put yours back on.” My sister-in-law answered meanly, “That won’t do!” Now Hsiao-feng began to get angry. “Won’t do? Well, you’ll just have to put up with it! The fire doesn’t belong to you alone!”
“If it’s not mine, does that mean it’s yours?”
I didn’t get involved—when women argue, there’s no pacifying them—the more you do, the more vicious they become. I knew enough to keep out of it and let them argue awhile. Anyway, I wasn’t going to bother about them. Who expected my brother to come out and lend his voice? I heard him say to my sister-in-law, “What are you yelling about? Just take their pot off and that’ll be the end of it!”
This was too much, but I held my peace and didn’t go outside. My sister-in-law wanted to remove our pot. Hsiao-feng refused to give way. She screamed, “Don’t you dare move it!” Then all I heard was my brother say, “Why shouldn’t we—I’ll take it off then!”
I could have taken everything else, but I won’t stand for anyone trying to push Hsiao-feng around. Unable to control myself, I ran out the door just as my brother was removing our pot. Thud! He threw it to the ground. The pot broke and the water spilled all over. I went berserk, picked up a pole, ran over to the awning, and, in a few blows, beat the iron stove into fragments. When my brother saw me, he reached for an ax and, with a few chops, pulverized the bellows. Hsiao-feng and my sister-in-law were scared stiff and kept screaming, “Help!” My brother and I faced each other with weapons and were panting angrily—if people hadn’t run over and separated us, someone would have been killed that day.
I began to regret it right after the fighting stopped. I remembered how much I owed my brother; he raised me, and without him, I would have starved to death long ago. And no matter how backwards, conservative, and selfish he was, I had the responsibility to open his eyes. Sooner or later he would want to walk the Socialist road, and it was my responsibility to see that he changed. A Communist Party member taking arms against his own brother over peanuts and chicken feed—it still bothers me when I think of it, even now.
Okay, so we two brothers had destroyed our own stove and bellows. Now we had no place to cook and all we could do was each build a small outdoor stove near his house with some clay. Since there was no bellows, they weren’t easy to use, and we fretted every time we wanted to cook. And whenever we did, it reminded me of that useless argument, weighing on me like a rock.
To tell the truth, I was thinking of apologizing to my brother right afterwards, but, frankly, I lacked the courage. When your heart’s tied up in knots, you become agitated and for no reason at all, I got into an argument with Hsiao-feng. This made me even more upset. Somehow during this time, there had to be a drought. For the first ten days of summer there was no rain, nor any during the second ten. By the time autumn arrived, still no rain. The crops in the cooperative were so dry that their leaves began to curl, all yellowed, as if scorched by fire.
Since I was so involved with the work of the cooperative, I just put aside family troubles. I ran over to the County Committee to report on the situation and to the County Bank to borrow funds. After much effort, I was finally able to bring back two water pumps. Later, I had to go over to the Veterans’ Agricultural Station to borrow another one. We set up the three machines by the riverside and pumped up water onto the land. For three solid days and nights, I didn’t touch my bed. But by the morning of the fourth day, we had irrigated all the land. The crops thus watered turned colors again, like a patient who begins to recover; though his face isn’t much to look at, there’s life there.
At noon, I took a rest and had my fellow-workers irrigate the crops a second time as I went back to the village, exhausted and hungry. It felt like I couldn’t move my feet anymore. When I reached the village, I could see my brother and sister-in-law hauling water to irrigate their corn fields. Though their land was close by, it was still about a third of a mile from the well. The sun was cruel that day and they were both sweating all over, their clothes drenched. I don’t know why, but suddenly I felt pity for them. I decided I would help them.
I called out and my brother stopped dead in his tracks, staring at me. I said, “We’ve already finished irrigating our land. Why don’t you use the water pumps in the afternoon?” My brother set down his water buckets and looked at me in disbelief; then he replied, “You people in the cooperative have support from backstage; you can afford to use those machines but our base is small—we can’t afford those things.” I said, “Brother, don’t get ornery. You can’t beat the cooperative. Right now, it’s important to save the crops and with three water pumps, you can irrigate your fields in half the afternoon. Look, can’t you see the superiority of the cooperative now?”
At my mention of “the superiority of the cooperative,” his face suddenly fell. “Are you still trying to get me to join the cooperative?” he said. “I was thinking of something like that—you should join after the autumn harvest. Better early than late.” He abruptly picked up the buckets, turned around, and went off. After a couple of steps, he turned and angrily said, “You hate it that I don’t go broke fast enough—you’re always trying to poison me!” I asked him, “When did I ever try to poison you?” He didn’t answer my question but only spit and walked off, saying, “I figure I raised you for over ten years for nothing. If I had known it would turn out this way, I would have fed your food to the dogs.” He walked off in a huff as I stood there, unable to say anything ...
After five days, the heavy rain we’d hoped for fell and the crops were saved. There was a bountiful harvest for the cooperative that autumn because we had irrigated the land twice during the drought. Most of the household farmers suffered a shortage; the only exception was my brother. He had paid attention to farming techniques and put out a lot of sweat so that despite it all, he was able to raise a moderately good crop.
But the general harvest was not too good; there was a shortage of food and a black market quickly grew. At first, I thought it was those landlords, rich peasants, and profiteers who were stirring up the market. Hah! I never thought that my brother and sister-in-law were among those speculators.
Not long after the harvest, Hsiao-feng told me, “Today, brother brought back a cartload of grain—I think he must have gotten it from the black market.” I said, “He has enough grain of his own, what does he need to buy more for?”
“How stupid can you be? If you buy in the autumn and sell in spring, you can get double the price.”
“No, you see what a blockhead my brother is. How could he get involved in speculation?”
“Don’t go treating him like a saint. If he were such a good old boy, he wouldn’t have fought with you about dividing up the property and then when it was divided hid the cash away so that you didn’t get a share. As I see it, they’ve lent out the cash for high interest.”
“No way. They know well enough that the government won’t allow any usury.”
“They know well enough that the government won’t permit a black market, but isn’t that where they bought the grain?”
Hsiao-feng and I didn’t reach any conclusions that evening, and, since we were still busy with the harvest, forgot the whole thing. Then, one night when it was already very late, I was just coming back from the office. Hsiao-feng hadn’t gone to bed, which I thought was strange, so I asked her, “How come you’re not sleeping?” She answered, a bit depressed, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“What’s that? Is something wrong?”
“Of course there’s something wrong. Do you know where Wang Yu-fu and Wang Yu-lu’s work-checks are?”
“Certainly. In their house.”
“In their house?—they’ve used their checks to pay off debts.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Their checks were bought by their creditors. You’re only concerned with distribution procedures. You have no idea whether they can get food or not!”
“Is this true?”
“You’re still in the woods. By the time you figure the whole thing out, Wang Yu-fu and Wang Yu-lu will have been forced to let others take away their grain.”
“Well, who would do such a dirty thing?—who’s their creditor?”
“Who else? That honest brother of yours and my precious sister.”
I cried out in surprise. Hsiao-feng went on, “They’re thoroughly evil. Last summer, Wang Yu-fu’s mother died. Your brother wanted to buy that piece of land of theirs east of the village, but they didn’t want to sell, just mortgage it. Your brother was really vicious: he insisted on fifty percent interest and on including in the contract that if the money wasn’t paid on time, then they must surrender the land. There was nothing the Wang brothers could do but sign, so they borrowed a hundred and twenty yüan from your brother. This summer the mortgage came due and the Wangs asked your brother to be lenient and wait until the autumn harvest for repayment. But your brother and sister wouldn’t agree to anything except paying off their debt with their work-checks.”
“Those rotten eggs!” I blurted out. Hsiao-feng said, “The rotten part is still to come. Don’t we all get one-fifty a day for working? Well, their checks were accepted at eighty cents per man/day!”
A fire erupted inside me beyond control. I turned to run outside as Hsiao-feng asked me, “What are you going to do?” I said, “I’m going to find them.”
“They’re not home.”
“Where did they go?”
“They must have gone again to collect their debt.”
I ran out the gate toward Wang Yu-fu’s house. I couldn’t help wanting to grab them both right away—they’ve abused people too much. With their few dirty coins, they try to undermine our cooperative. Profiteering, exploiting, speculating—it was outrageous!
At the entrance to an alley, I saw a black shadow walking toward me. It seemed to resemble my fat sister-in-law, so I hid in a dark spot and observed her. As she got closer, I saw it was her all right, and, under the moonlight, I could see that she was shouldering half a sack full of grain. I called out, as if confronting an enemy, “Halt!” My sister-in-law cried out in surprise and fell down, flop! Just as I was about to grab her, she suddenly jumped up, threw off the sack and ran. But do you think that fat body of hers could run faster than me? Before she got two steps, I grabbed her by the collar. She turned around and as soon as she saw me, she bristled. “What are you trying to do?” she said.
“You know yourself—where did you get that grain?”
“None of your business. Anyway, I didn’t steal it.”
“You’re worse than a thief. You’ve bought up work-checks from the cooperative. Do you know what law you’ve broken?”
“What law have I broken? When you kill someone, you pay with your life, and when you owe money, you pay it back. It’s always been like this. Are you telling me that when you join the cooperative, you can run away from debts?”
Didn’t she sound tough? As if she hadn’t committed any crime at all but was involved in an honest deal. I ordered her to accompany me to the District Office. She said, without batting an eyelash, “Let’s go then. One has to be reasonable no matter where. I’m not afraid of you!” I said, “Fine. Go reason with the District authority and let everyone listen to your dirty deeds.”
I pulled my sister-in-law along over toward the District Office. Midway, my brother caught up with us. He was panting heavily and glared at me with his two giant bloodshot eyes, stared at me full of hatred, as if it wasn’t they who were guilty of trying to destroy the cooperative but me. He asked me loudly, “Where are you taking her?” I said, “To the District Office.”
“Are you going to let us live or not?”
“Who isn’t letting you live?”
“Then let her go!”
“After she explains everything, she can go home, of course.” My sister-in-law said angrily, “I’m not afraid no matter where we go—come on!”
After a few more steps, my brother caught up with us again. He said threateningly, “Are you going to let her go or not?” I said, “No.”
“All right! If I can’t make anything from this, you won’t either—I’m going to kill you, you ungrateful thief!” He whipped out an iron shovel from behind him. It happened more quickly than I can tell. I could see the shiny blade in the moonlight come slicing toward my head. I ducked quickly—that is, my head ducked but not my shoulder. I felt the shovel fiercely strike me, then immediately fell unconscious ...
When I came to, people were lifting me onto a stretcher. Hsiao-feng was bent over me, crying. I wanted to tell her that I wouldn’t die, but I couldn’t speak. My brother and sister-in-law along with my little nephew were lined up, kneeling beside the stretcher. From the looks of it, they seemed to be begging me not to accuse them in court. When I thought about how brothers could come to this, I felt bitter about it and couldn’t stop the flow of tears. I remembered how good my brother once was to me and I wanted to give him a chance to live. So I nodded toward him in sympathy. I forgave him ...
That winter, every village was caught up in hoisting high the banners of Socialism, and the cooperativization movement had reached its crest. When I returned from the hospital, my sister and brother-in-law had followed the tide and joined the cooperative.
Of course’, my brother is a fine worker but not a very good member. But I think he will improve. He just needs time.
Nowadays, our two families still share the same yard, but we don’t fight. My sister-in-law and Hsiao-feng even see each other a bit; but there’s still a lot separating us.
And now I understand that Socialist reconstruction in the villages is no easy matter, nor is it much different from fighting on a battlefield. The only difference is that on the battlefield, you fight an enemy, while in the village, you fight not only enemies but also your own kind—and this struggle can sometimes be a bloody one.
So that’s how I got the scar on my shoulder.
Translated by Richard K St rass berg
For over twenty years—from the early 1940s to the mid-1960s—Chou Yang was the chief guardian and implementor of Mao Tse-tung’s literary and cultural policies. He took charge of the series of relentless campaigns that ruthlessly purged the ranks of China’s most creative writers. Then suddenly, in the summer of 1966, he, himself, became one of the chief victims of the Cultural Revolution.
His rise and fall from power can be explained by his personification of the Party organization man. Born in Hunan in 1908, Chou Yang attended Ta Hsia, Great China University, in Shanghai. In 1928 he went to study in Japan, where he became a student of nineteenth-century European literature. While there, he was arrested for participation in a leftist demonstration, and he returned to Shanghai at the end of the 1920s. Shortly thereafter, he became a Communist Party member and an organizer of the Party’s cultural activities in Shanghai. In 1934 he was the Party representative in the League of Left-wing Writers. Though he had sharp clashes with Lu Hsün and some of his disciples, he was closely associated with the May Fourth Writers. He was not a creative writer, but, in addition to his organizational work, he wrote literary criticism and translated a number of Russian works, among them Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and the writings of the nineteenth-century populist Chunyshevski.
With the Japanese bombardment of Shanghai in 1937, he, along with a number of his colleagues, went to Yenan. There he quickly rose to power in the Party’s cultural organs. He became director of education of the Communist-controlled Shensi-Kansu-Ninghsia Border Region, president of Yenan University, and dean of the Lu Hsün Academy of Arts. Soon after the 1949 Party takeover, he was listed as vice-chairman of several literary and cultural organizations and as deputy director of the Propaganda Department. But he wielded more power than his official positions signified. Unofficially, he assumed responsibility for tightening thought control not only in literature but in virtually every sphere of intellectual endeavor, particularly the humanities, social sciences, and creative arts.
Despite Chou Yang’s efforts, dissident writers and intellectuals continued to express themselves. In the relative relaxation of the early 1960s, some May Fourth writers and intellectuals indirectly criticized Mao’s policies of the Great Leap Forward in discussions of history, literature, and ideology—the very areas for which Chou was responsible. Mao, in 1962, 1963, and 1964, demanded a campaign to stamp out this criticism, but Chou and his associates responded only in a very superficial manner. Chou feared not only the dislocations of another campaign but also the fact that if he waged an intensive drive, it would have repercussions in his own bailiwick, from which the criticism had come.
When Mao delegated his wife, Chiang Ching, with the support of a group of young ideologues, to reform the traditional opera, which had been a medium for some of the criticism, Chou blocked her interference in his realm. Consequently, when Mao launched the Cultural Revolution against the Party hierarchy, the attack on Chou was second in ferocity only to that on Liu Shao-ch’i—perhaps because of the very personal nature of the previous struggle.
However, as can be seen in the piece reprinted below, “The Path of Socialist Literature and Art in China,” Chou’s purge was for reasons of ideology as well as power. This piece reflects his efforts throughout his career to balance a belief in mass literature with a concern for professional literature, a commitment to political standards with respect for artistic standards, and an interest in collective needs with an interest in individual needs. As Mao, in the mid-1960s, took a more radical course by calling for a new mass culture in conjunction with the Cultural Revolution, Chou’s balanced approach, fashioned partly out of commitment and partly to follow every twist in the Maoist line, became subversive.
Shortly before his death, Mao approved the rehabilitation of Chou Yang along with other Party officials. He was listed in January 1978 on the Standing Committee of the Chinese People’s Political Consultative Conference. Late in May of the same year he played an active role in the Third Congress of the All-China Federation of Literary and Art Circles in Peking. He is now deputy director of the Academy of Social Science. —M.G.
The Path of Socialist Literature
and Art in China
(Report Delivered to the Third Congress of Chinese Literary
and Art Workers on July 22, 1960)
Literature and art are a form of ideology belonging to the superstructure; they are a reflection of the economic basis and are the nerve center of the class struggle.... On the ideological front, we must raise still higher the revolutionary banner of Marxism-Leninism and oppose the reactionary ideological trends of modern revisionism; we must, by means of a protracted and unremitting struggle, make a clean sweep of the political and ideological influences of the bourgeoisie among the masses, and greatly enhance the communist consciousness and moral qualities of our people. Our literature and art should become keen instruments for educating the people in the spirit of socialism and communism, in the spirit of proletarian internationalism.... We should explain how sharp struggles have been waged, in the literary and art circles of our country, between the proletarian line and the bourgeois line, between the communist world outlook and the bourgeois world outlook.
SERVE THE WORKERS, PEASANTS AND SOLDIERS,
SERVE THE CAUSE OF SOCIALISM
That literature and art should serve the workers, peasants, and soldiers is the proletarian line in literature and art. It is sharply opposed to the bourgeois line in literature and art. This is why it is looked upon with hostility and is hated by all reactionaries and revisionists both inside and outside the country. Hu Feng called this line “a Dagger”; the Yugoslav revisionists revile it as a “Persecution” of writers.... And in the eyes of bourgeois men of letters, literature and art are the monopoly of a small number of the “upper class,” their private property; from their point of view literature and art should praise none but the bourgeoisie and bourgeois intellectuals, should prettify the corrupt way of life of the bourgeoisie and propagate bourgeois individualist ideas and low tastes. How can they, these “literary aristocrats,” be willing to portray or serve the masses of workers and peasants? ... This struggle started, e.g., with the criticism of the film The Life of Wu Hsün* in 1951, proceeded to the criticism of the Studies of the Dream of the Red Chamber† t and the repudiation of the ideas of Hu Shih and Hu Feng and the exposure of Hu Feng’s counterrevolutionary clique, down to the struggle against Ting Ling and Ch’en Ch’i-hsia’s anti-Party clique and other rightists in 1957, and following these, the repudiation of revisionist trends in literature and art. This series of struggles on the front of literature and art is a reflection in the realm of ideology of the class struggle in our country during the period of the socialist revolution and socialist construction. ...
In our country, literature and art are no longer monopolized by a few, but have become the common undertaking of the broad masses of people of the various nationalities in our land.
... To open up the road for proletarian literature and art, Lu Hsün, Ch’ü Ch’iu-pai, and many other revolutionary writers and artists pioneered the way and even shed their blood or laid down their lives. Comrade Mao Tse-tung, on the basis of the actual practice in the Chinese revolution, has creatively developed the principles of Party literature formulated by Lenin by pointing out clearly that literature and art should serve the workers, peasants, and soldiers. As a result, our literature and art have undergone a fundamental, historic change.... The new age has set new tasks for our literature and art; the writers and artists of this new age cannot but take a new path in their life and creative activity, which is fundamentally different from that of writers and artists in the past—the path of integrating themselves with the masses of workers and peasants. This is the only way for writers and artists who are intellectuals not of proletarian origin to transform their former world outlook, establish a communist world outlook, and become truly the spokesmen of the working class.
Following changes in the foundation, the superstructure must change also. But changes in ideology that belongs to the superstructure take place much more slowly than changes in the foundation. This is why, after a socialist society has been established, the political and ideological influence of the bourgeoisie remains for a long time; while even in communist society there will still be struggles between advanced and backward, between right and wrong. This determines that ideological struggle and ideological remolding are long-term tasks. During the last decade, bourgeois ideas have been under constant criticism in our country, and revisionism has not been able to occupy a dominant position in literary and art circles in our country; but this does not mean they do not exist—they take their cue from the climate. When there is the least trouble inside or outside the country, they will start creating disturbances again, rising like scum to the surface of the water to spread their poison once again.
LET A HUNDRED FLOWERS BLOSSOM,
LET A HUNDRED SCHOOLS OF THOUGHT CONTEND
Regarding style, form, genre, and subject matter in art, however, we are for greater variety and encourage originality, while opposing monotony, rigidity, and narrowness. Our principle is the integration of uniformity in political orientation and variety in artistic styles. On the basis of his scientific analysis of the contradictions among the people in the socialist society, Comrade Mao Tse-tung put forward the policy of letting a hundred flowers blossom and a hundred schools of thought contend....
The policy of letting a hundred flowers blossom and developing the new from the old not only has promoted the renovation of old traditions but also has made our new literature and art more national in character. More and more, our novelists and story writers are manifesting a national style in their language, characterization, and plots. Our poets, under the impact of the new folk-song movement, are striving to develop modern poetry on the basis of classical poetry and folk songs; hence there is a new trend in the style of poetry too. All kinds of painting and sculpture, in the same way, are demonstrating much more vivid national characteristics. Our modern operas have not only presented a new revolutionary content but become more national in form too.
Our literature and art not only put special emphasis on the portrayal of present-day struggles, creating images of contemporary heroes, but present outstanding characters in history from a new viewpoint.
As early as twenty years ago Comrade Mao Tse-tung proposed that we should evolve a fresh, lively Chinese style and Chinese flavor which the common folk of China love to see and hear. Our literature and art have a tradition dating back several thousand years; they reflect a rich fund of creative experience and they appear in our own national forms and styles that have developed over the past many centuries. If revolutionary literature and art possess no national features, if they cannot create new national forms suited to the new content on the basis of our own national traditions, they will not easily take root and blossom among the broad masses of the people. The national character and mass character of literature and art are interconnected and indivisible. Since the May Fourth Movement our literature and art have widely absorbed the experience of foreign literature and art, adopting many foreign forms and methods of expression; this was entirely necessary....
However, all art forms and techniques of foreign origin when transplanted to China must be remodeled and assimilated till they possess national features and become our own. Now our literature and art are more and more manifesting their national character and mass character. Distinctive national originality in literature and art is the concentrated expression of the creativeness of the masses, the sign of maturity in the literature and art of an age and of a class.
... Our literature and art are composed of these two elements, the works of professionals and those of the masses who create in their spare time. These two component parts together make up the splendid variety and wealth of our literature and art. Letting a hundred schools of thought contend has promoted the lively activities of free debate and mass criticism in literary and art circles and throughout the world of thought. We have launched, through debates, the struggle between two paths in literature and art, and at the same time have held helpful discussions on many problems relating to literary and art creation and theory. Through these debates, the Marxist viewpoint has consolidated its position in literary and art theory and criticism. During the last two years, in the departments of literature in universities and the art colleges, criticism on bourgeois theory and ideas in the teaching of literature and art has been carried out; and on the basis of this criticism, the students and the teachers have collaborated to produce works of literary and art theory and histories of literature and art
We have always held that letting a hundred flowers blossom means blossoming within the domain of socialism. The flowers to blossom are socialist flowers. We mean, through free emulation, to develop the socialist literature and art, and to oppose literature and art that are hostile to socialism. Letting a hundred schools of thought contend means contending under the guidance of Marxism-Leninism, means propagating and developing Marxist dialectical materialism and opposing bourgeois idealism and metaphysics through free debate
Just as Comrade Liu Shao-chi has said, letting a hundred flowers blossom and a hundred schools of thought contend is an extremely firm class policy of the proletariat.
Bourgeois rightists and revisionists have tried to utilize the slogan of letting a hundred flowers blossom to bring forth their poisonous weeds hostile to socialism....
When men’s world outlooks differ, their conceptions of beauty differ too. What we regard as fragrant flowers they consider poisonous weeds, while what we consider poisonous weeds they regard as fragrant flowers.
On the question of letting a hundred flowers blossom and a hundred schools of thought contend, we differ from the doctrinaires too. The doctrinaires are cut off from the masses, cut off from reality; they do not understand dialectics; they do not admit that multiplicity exists in the world. They want only uniformity in political orientation, not variety in artistic styles; they allow only a single flower to blossom, not a hundred flowers. This is extremely harmful.
We advocate literary and art works depicting present-day struggles, and we encourage and help writers and artists to do their best to get in touch and familiarize themselves with the people’s new life and throw themselves into the heat of the people’s struggle. At the same time, each writer and artist can, according to his sense of political responsibility, his personal experience of life, his interests and special talent, decide what theme to choose and what forms of expression to adopt. The readers and audiences of the new age like stirring works portraying the life and struggles of their contemporaries, as well as fascinating stories from history and legend performed on the stage. They like stirring militant marching songs; they also like fine and healthy lyrical music and dances. The new age requires more and better paintings of revolutionary history, revolutionary genre paintings and figure paintings, but shouldn’t the new-style landscape paintings and flower-and-bird paintings also have a place in our galleries? The people need inspiration and encouragement in their spiritual life, but they also need things that give pleasure and delight.... We advocate using the methods of criticism and emulation to gradually eliminate works that are ideologically faulty or artistically inferior, in order to raise the ideological and artistic level of our works step by step. Socialist emulation in literature and art is the best way to encourage a multiplicity of artistic styles, develop various schools of art and expedite the raising of the quality of our works....
The elimination of poisonous weeds is a problem between us and the enemy. The existence of poisonous weeds is an objective reality. Their growth is decided by definite historical conditions. It is not possible to prevent them from existing and appearing. The problem is what is the most effective way to eliminate the harm caused by poisonous weeds. The revisionists are against fighting poisonous weeds; they are the protectors of all kinds of poisonous weeds; the revisionist current of thought is itself a poisonous weed, which does the greatest harm. They advocate the policy of liberalism and laissez-faire, “tolerance” and “compromise” on the cultural and ideological front, and their aim is to make socialist countries allow the capitalist reactionary culture to exist legally, to let it spread freely, to poison the people and youth. This, of course, we resolutely oppose. On the other hand, we do not approve of the method used by the doctrinaires either. They would ban poisonous weeds as soon as they appear; though the simple method of issuing administrative orders may have a temporary effect, it causes endless future trouble. It actually means allowing poisonous weeds to remain underground for a while, or allowing them to emerge in disguise to cause damage. This is another form of laissezfaire, which will not deal a mortal blow to the enemy. Our policy is: When poisonous weeds start to come out, we let them meet the masses as antagonists, and urge the masses to discuss them freely, so as to enable more people to recognize their true features, to sharpen the people’s sense of discernment and fighting ability....
Therefore we are not afraid of poisonous weeds and opposite views; we are not afraid of open debates, not afraid that correct views may at one time meet with attacks and misunderstanding.
THE INTEGRATION OF REVOLUTIONARY REALISM AND
REVOLUTIONARY ROMANTICISM
In order that literature and art may better reflect our age and more effectively serve the broad masses of laboring people and the great cause of socialism and communism, we advocate the artistic method of integrating revolutionary realism and revolutionary romanticism.... The putting forward of this artistic method is another important contribution made by Comrade Mao Tse-tung to the Marxist theory of literature and art....
The fundamental difference between us Marxists and the mechanical materialists is that we, on the basis of a correct knowledge of objective reality, pay full attention to subjective activity, to progressive ideas and scientific foresight, and to the great significance of revolutionary vision. Is it not precisely because he is inspired by noble ideals that a proletarian revolutionary fighter braves all dangers with resolute fortitude? To us there is no limit to the revolutionary task of transforming the world; ...
In the age of proletarian revolution, new heroic characters can only be the advanced elements of the proletariat and the revolutionary people. Hence the creation of new heroic characters has become the glorious task of socialist literature and art.
Our literature and art should create characters that can best embody the revolutionary ideals of the proletariat. These characters are not the products of the writers’ fancy but new men and women emerging from the actual struggle. Their most admirable attribute is seen in the fact that they never are daunted by difficulties and shrink back, nor do they feel satisfied with the victories gained and so stop advancing.
Those writers with bourgeois prejudices have always held that the advanced characters among the masses of the people whom we describe are untrue to life and that only colorless “petty individuals” or low, negative characters are “true.” Their argument is that every man has some faults and defects, that there is a struggle between darkness and light in the depth of every heart; this is what they mean by the “complexity of the inner mind....” Of course they must have worries, inner conflicts, and shortcomings of one kind or another, or make this or that mistake; but they always endeavor to use communist ideas and morality as the highest criteria for all their actions. What has the so-called complexity of the inner mind which the bourgeois writers advocate to depict, got in common with the rich inner life of the laboring people of this new age? The so-called secrets of man’s mind that they want to reveal are nothing but an exposure of their own dark souls. Eager to depict weak-willed people and the petty affairs in which they are involved, they cannot see or are unwilling to describe the heroic characters and great struggles of today, or they force the low, empty souls of the bourgeoisie into the new socialist or communist men. Their works are shrouded in gloom, and they paint completely black the new life of socialist society and the fighting life of the masses. The result of this can only be to make people feel disappointed with socialist reality, and to foster a spiritual disintegration ... and collapse among the people of the socialist countries.
Our understanding of the question of “truthfulness” and “realism” is completely different from that of the revisionist. The revisionists often oppose tendentiousness in socialist literature and art under the pretext of “depicting truth” and “realism.” They deliberately set truthfulness in opposition to tendentiousness, claiming that tendentiousness hampers truthfulness; actually, what they oppose is only revolutionary tendentiousness in literature and art, and their aim is to replace it with the reactionary tendentiousness of the bourgeoisie.... How then are our literature and art to give a truthful reflection of this spiritual outlook of the masses, in other words, how are they to reflect the features of our age? Can we reflect it in melancholy tones, in pallid language and by petty, naturalistic methods? That is absolutely impossible. We must use heroic language, powerful tones, and vivid colors to praise and describe our age. The revolutionary romanticism in literature and art is the crystallization of the revolutionary romanticism in our people’s life....
Of course, life is full of contradictions. What is new in life always comes into being and grows up in a struggle against the old.
We face squarely the contradictions that exist within the ranks of the people in the socialist society; this keeps us from falling into the error of the nonconflict theory from the very start. Our literature and art must not evade defects and difficulties, ignore passive phenomena and negative characters, or water down the contradictions and struggles in life; such cheap optimism can only oversimplify life, presenting real, advanced people as lifeless men of straw. Works of this sort can arouse neither admiration for what is fine nor indignation against what is evil; they are still less able to induce men to think about life’s problems, and once read they are immediately forgotten....
Speaking of life and art, Comrade Mao Tse-tung further said, “Although both are beautiful, life as reflected in artistic and literary works can and ought to be on a higher level and of a greater power and better focused, more typical, nearer the ideal, and therefore more universal than actual everyday life.” ... Life in reality is the fount of literature and art, but literature and art should be on a higher level than reality; through images they reflect life and create characters; their aim is not passively to reflect reality for its own sake, but actively to reflect and impel reality forward and transform it....
REFUTING THE BOURGEOIS THEORY OF HUMAN NATURE
At present the revisionists are desperately pushing the bourgeois theory of human nature, the false humanism of the bourgeoisie, “the love of mankind,” bourgeois pacifism, and other fallacious notions of the sort to reconcile class antagonisms, negate the class struggle and revolution, and spread illusions about imperialism, and thus to attain their ulterior aim of preserving the capitalist old world and disrupting the socialist new world.... They use an abstract, common human nature to explain various historical and social phenomena, use human nature or “humanism” as the criterion of morality and art, and oppose literature and art serving the cause of liberation of the proletariat and the laboring people.... The old revisionist theorist Lukacs claimed that the humanistic ideal and principle are the “absolute criteria” in artistic criticism, and this so-called humanistic ideal or principle is “common human nature.” In China, Hu Feng, the earliest pedlar of these theories of Lukacs, said, “The socialist spirit is the humanistic spirit”; in other words, “a profound compassion for all mankind.” Feng Hsüeh-feng also claimed that man’s basic demand is “the friendship of humanity as a whole.” When the rightists were attacking us violently, Pa Jen once more brought out these old weapons to attack socialist literature and art, asserting that revolutionary literature and art lack “human interest” because they do not express “what men have in common” and “lack the humanism inherent in human nature.” We consider that in a class society there is no abstract principle of humanism that transcends the age and classes. In a class society, humanism as an ideology always possesses a class content of a definite age.
A section of the positive romanticist writers and critical realist writers of the nineteenth century brought stirring accusations against the seamy side of capitalism. Many of them also appealed for humanism. But because they were not able to shake off the limitations of their bourgeois and petty-bourgeois views, the humanism they called for was unable to go beyond the confines of private property and individualism.... Now some people within the ranks of Marxism have confused communism with bourgeois humanism, claiming that communism is the “highest embodiment of humanism,” the theory of socialism the “most humane” theory, as if there were some mysterious “humanism” that is an immutable absolute truth, as if communism were simply an expression of its final stage of accomplishment....
No Marxist, no genuine revolutionary, will propagandize abstract “humanism” and the so-called love of mankind. In a world where class antagonism exists, where there exist exploiters and exploited, oppressors and oppressed, there can be no “love of mankind” that transcends classes.
In their view, what is in keeping with bourgeois ideas, mentality, and way of life is human; anything else runs counter to human nature. If a work of literature describes the selfishness of certain characters, their schizophrenia or dual personality, then it accords with “human nature” and is “human.” If a work describes men who are free from all thought of private ownership and possess communist moral qualities, if it describes the selfless nature of the proletariat, then it is “unnatural,” lacking in “human interest,” and contrary to “human nature.” They have taken bourgeois human nature as the so-called common human nature.
Comrade Mao Tse-tung, dealing with the problem of how to approach the cultural heritage of China and other lands, has consistently opposed making a break with history and rejecting everything of the past, but at the same time he is against bolting things down raw and absorbing them uncritically. He proposes that, as regards past culture, we should take the fine essence and discard the dregs.
What we want to take over critically and develop is the tradition of progressive literature and art. The literature and art of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Europe and Russia made a great contribution to mankind, producing a number of great writers like Goethe, Balzac, and Tolstoy. The good works of critical realism and positive romanticism expose the evils of feudalism and capitalism, and in varying degrees express the feeling and aspirations of the people of the time.... At the same time there is much worth learning in the artistic techniques with which these works describe life. However, even in the case of these works, we should adopt an analytical, critical attitude, and we must also see their negative side. Although the progressive works of literature of nineteenth-century Europe criticized capitalist society, the great majority of them did so from the standpoint of bourgeois democracy, bourgeois humanism and reformism.... Many of the characters described in these works are individualist “heroes,” like Julien in Le Rouge et le Noir, who, because his personal ambition was frustrated, carried out a vengeful, despairing revolt against society, or like Jean Christophe, who relied on the strength of individual character and took the greatest pride in his loneliness. If young readers take these characters as their models, far from helping them to build up the new individuality with a collective spirit, this will serve only to destroy it, will simply strengthen old individualist ideas.... In the socialist society of today if anyone tries to pick up the old spears and javelins of bourgeois humanism and individualism, as the revisionists advocate, to “criticize” the new society and expose the “darkness” of the proletariat and the people, that is an act utterly opposed to the people and to socialism.... We should also analyze the ideas in these works tha once played a progressive part, pointing out which of them still retain a positive significance today, which are no longer suited to the present, and which under the new historical conditions have become reactionary. We must be selective too when we learn from the technique of past masters, and not copy it mechanically.
The new age demands a new literature and art. We want to paint the newest, most beautiful pictures, write the newest, most beautiful poems—this is the demand made on us by the age. Thus we must have our own new ideas, new techniques, new artistic methods, and new path for creation. We should learn from our predecessors, but we must not think poorly of ourselves.... The ideological and artistic standard of many works falls short of the masses’ level of appreciation, which is rising daily; some writings still have the shortcomings of formulism or writing according to abstract subjective ideas; modern revisionist views and various types of bourgeois ideas are still able to find a market among our intellectuals, writers, and artists; our heritage of literature and art still needs further réévaluation and editing; our experience in contemporary literature and art still needs to be further summarized, and our literary and art theory and criticism still need to be greatly strengthened.
In order to raise the level of our literary and art creations, we must at the same time raise the level of literary and art theory and criticism.... Our literary and art criticism is based on the standpoint of Marxism and takes the political standard as its first criterion, but at the same time we must make an accurate artistic analysis of the work and establish a scientific artistic standard of our new age on the basis of experiences summed up from our contemporary creative activities....
We have all the prerequisites for the creation of a magnificent culture.... We have beloved and respected comrades like Kuo Mo-jo, Mao Tun, and many other outstanding veteran revolutionary writers and artists, as well as large numbers of talented and promising young literary and art workers who are emerging constantly from the masses.... The nation that has produced Ch’ün Yüan, Szu-ma Ch’ien, Tu Fu, Kuan Han-ch’ing, Ts’ao Hsüeh-ch’in, and Lu Hsün will certainly continue to produce thousands of brilliant writers and artists of genius.
Peking: Foreign Language Press, 1960
Excerpted by Merle Goldman
Liu Ch’ing was born in Wu-pao, northern Shensi Province, and grew up during a time when China’s national sovereignty was steadily eroding. Already a member of the Communist Youth Corps, he participated in the December Ninth Movement of 1935, when thousands of young Chinese rose in protest against their government’s repeated concessions to Japanese expansionism. In 1936 he joined the Chinese Communist Party. Between 1937 and 1949 he worked in Northwest China, active in the cultural associations and as a cadre at the village level in the Shensi-Kansu-Ningsia Border Region. He took part in antilandlord struggles in the countryside, using this experience for his later novel, Sowing.
Throughout the 1950s Liu remained active as a writer, while holding office in several official literary and artistic organizations. In 1950 he published Discussion of the Mass Line During Land Reform. His novel Wall of Bronze, which deals with the fighting between Communist and Nationalist troops during the Sha-chia-tien campaign of 1947 in northern Shensi, appeared in 1951. Two years later, when he was serving as a member of the board of the Chinese Writers’ Association, he published another piece of fiction describing the same campaign, The Battle of Sha-chia-tien, and in 1956 he began describing agricultural collectivization in Three Years in Huang-fu Village. Part One of The Builders was published in 1959, and the following year Liu served on the Presidium of the National Assembly of Writers and Artists and as a member of the National Committee, the Third Congress, All China Federation of Literary and Art Circles. Part Two of The Builders, begun in the later 1950s, was interrupted by the Cultural Revolution, when Liu and his work were severely condemned. He resumed his writing in 1976 and published the first twelve chapters of the second volume in spring 1977. Death in June 1978 prevented him from completing his ambitious novel.
The Builders, Part One, reflects a time of changing political and artistic priorities in China. By 1953, when the story takes place, the violence of civil war and the turbulence of Land Reform had blown over, and cooperation had taken priority over confrontation during the campaign to form mutual aid teams among poor and middle peasants.
As sociopolitical priorities shifted, the writer of socialist fiction was expected to adapt to new realities and goals. In the new stage of development, one did not see hero and villain meeting in open battle, and there were neither military engagements to galvanize the reader’s attention nor open struggles against landlords to provide catharsis for frustration and anger. The immediate obstructions on the path to socialism were portrayed not as objectives to be attacked and smashed but rather as problems to be solved with patience and skill. As a reflection of this, characters in The Builders do not appear as purely good or purely evil, but as ordinary people, some likable, some very unlikable, whose positive and negative characteristics are closely correlated with the issues at hand in China’s step-by-step plan for socialist development. It is through them that the author attempts to turn political issues into vicarious experiences and to make his vision of the struggle of his times affectively intelligible to the reader. —W.B.C.
The Builders is concerned with events in 1953 in Frog Flat, a village in Shensi Province. Land has been redistributed, but the early spring grain shortage has left the poorest farmers without food to eat or seed for planting. The previous spring, short-term loans of excess grain had been made to needy farmers, but many of these are unpaid, and indebtedness poses a danger of dependency upon the wealthier peasants.
Liang Sheng-pao, an energetic young Communist Party member, is trying to mobilize support for his mutual aid team so that its members can increase productivity and break their cycle of dependency on the better-off peasants. Not everyone has unqualified sympathy for the project, however. Sheng-pao’s stepfather, Liang the Third, a good-hearted, rough-and-ready old peasant, admires Sheng-pao’s strength and determination but resents his pouring time and energy into projects that bring no visible personal gain. One such project is a trip to purchase a new quick-ripening variety of rice seed for the team members, which costs Sheng-pao precious hours of work time and brings no remuneration.
Kuo Chen-shan, the other Communist Party member in Frog Flat, considers Sheng-pao an upstart. Older and more experienced, Chen-shan has proved his zeal and effectiveness during Land Reform, but his leadership has been vitiated by concern with his own property and position.
Kuo Shih-fu, a well-to-do middle peasant, tries to undermine Sheng-pao’s efforts. Working behind the scenes in league with the rich peasant Yao Shih-chieh, he tries to lure team members back into their pre-1949 state of dependency.
Hsu Kai-hsia, a pretty peasant girl, is emotionally involved in the events in Frog Flat. As a Communist Youth League member, she respects Chen-shan, but her respect is cooled somewhat as she senses the erosion in his zeal for socialist development. By contrast, her admiration and furtive affection toward Sheng-pao grow as she sees him struggling to improve the poor peasants’ lot.
It is early spring, and the grain shortage among the poor peasants has become acute. A meeting is called to deal with the problem. Soon there develops a quiet struggle between two styles of leadership.]
After the gong fell silent, there was a burst of activity in the rice paddies and along the bank of the Kuan Canal. Shouts and answers, gates being pounded upon, dogs barking, and the conversations of people walking toward the school in a dusk not yet lighted by the moon all wove into a cacophony that covered the rice fields throughout the village of Frog Flat.
But as the smoke from evening cooking cleared above the fields, the village settled into silence. Those who wanted to attend the mass meeting had already arrived at the elementary school. Those who did not wish to go had already closed their gates tight, burrowed under their quilts, and could not be called out again no matter what.
The night was dark. The eye could no longer distinguish either the peak of Mt. Chung-nan from the valley below it or the cypress trees from the escarpment of Hsia-pao Village’s North Flat. Farmers walking along paths in the paddies could only see rippling water to the north and south joined to a sky brimming with stars.
After Babbler Sun, the Village Affairs Committee member, had finished beating the gong, he lit the kerosene lantern. The lantern, fully pumped and hung up on the rafter of the first-and second-year elementary school, gave off a steady hissing sound. Its dazzling rays reached every corner of the room, illuminating a blackboard mounted on the whitewashed wall, color posters, charts, portraits of leaders, and desks and benches sitting on the brick-lined floor, just as plainly as if it were day. In the room there were only about twenty-odd farmers in tattered clothing, looking poor as mountain dwellers, despite the fact that they lived on the plain. Some sat smoking uncured tobacco or hunched over desks fretting and sighing, while others took advantage of the bright light and leisure for “bandit extermination”—opening their tattered jackets to capture lice. At the suggestion of Kuo Chen-shan, some of the fruits of the Land Reform struggle had been set aside to purchase as common property a kerosene lamp to provide light for these brows furrowed with worry over the early spring food shortage.
But there was no cause for alarm here. When these twenty-odd people were dispersed among over one hundred families of farmers, you might not take special notice of them. They were those who only a few years earlier had had the very marrow of their bones squeezed from them by the landlords and the mechanism of Old China. The People’s Government could only give them land and loans to acquire draft animals and plant crops, and then call upon them to organize for production. It could not use sorcery to make them instantly rich. This point they themselves understood without explanation.
They could see that getting Incentive Grain Loans was a lost cause this year. The rich peasant Yao Shih-chieh and the leading well-to-do middle peasant, Kuo Shih-fu, had both failed to come, hadn’t they? The other middle peasants, both prosperous and average, who had extra grain were peeking out from the peach orchard or from concealment behind mud walls. If the two richest farmers could not be summoned to the meeting, what could they, who could only lend out a few bushels of grain every spring, accomplish by attending the meeting? If you can’t fell the large trees, you won’t get much firewood! What good will twigs and bits of grass do? To bed, then! Off with our clothes and to bed! As they undressed for bed they told their wives, “If our representative calls again, you tell him I already left for the meeting a long time ago.”
This was the most depressing mass meeting held in Frog Flat since Liberation!
After joining hands to sweep away the landlords, who had been cruel exploiters of poor peasants and a menace to middle peasants, farmers above the poverty level and those who were below it began to split off from each other. People like Yao and Kuo Shih-fu, who were powerful economically in the village, were doing their best behind the scenes to accelerate this split. The poor farmers sitting in the school couldn’t have put into words just what was happening, yet they sensed it keenly.
Some farmers who were somewhat better off had left, one after another, when they saw that the meeting was not going to take place, but these twenty-some farmers were not going to leave, no matter what. They wanted to take no course other than that of reliance upon the Communist Party and the People’s Government. Of course they could always get grain by writing a description of part of the land apportioned to them—its name, acreage, and limits—on a note for a grain loan and secretly giving it to someone with excess grain. But what a chilling, disappointing prospect that was! They felt that somehow it would be strange, awkward, and out of tune with the way their society was progressing, like a man turned around walking backwards down the road.
They sat in the schoolroom with righteous determination to follow the Party and the government, because they supported the Party and the government it led with all the determination and enthusiasm the hearts that beat beneath those tattered clothes could muster.
Look! To the east of the schoolroom, Township Party Branch Secretary Lu Ming-ch’ang and Kuo Chen-shan were standing in the shadows by a field of alfalfa having an animated conversation. Surely they were thinking of a solution. Perhaps they were discussing calling a mass meeting another day? Or perhaps they were discussing using agricultural loan funds to combat the spring food shortage? Perhaps ... at any rate, they wouldn’t leave without thoroughly explaining the problem to the group. And then there was Liang Sheng-pao, who took the timid, hard-working Iron Man Kuo—the only middle peasant who attended the meeting—out to the peach orchard west of the schoolroom with militia leader Feng Yu-wan in tow. There they were, squatting in the shadows beneath a peach tree that was about to bloom, Sheng-pao and Yu-wan cornering Iron Man, wishing they could hold him down and pour certain thoughts into his head! Surely they were trying to talk him into something.
As the two Communist Party members of Frog Flat worked separately for the benefit of the recently liberated farmers, why shouldn’t these poor farmers wait patiently? They had especially great hopes placed in Kuo Chen-shan, Chairman and village representative. With his quick and agile mind he would find a solution. Compared to Kuo Chen-shan, Yao and Shih-fu were like children. Their belief in Kuo Chen-shan was the concrete manifestation of their belief in the Communist Party. They were pragmatic people, unused to dealing with abstractions.
Those who avoided the meeting—the “go-it-alone” families—thought that since they had twenty or thirty mu of land, an ox, and two or three able-bodied men, they could get by on their own and so were masters of their own fates. There were even some who chatted condescendingly about the Communist Party actually having some good points: being reasonable, not abusing people verbally or physically, neither imposing a lot of taxes nor oppressing the common people. How absurdly nearsighted! They were hoping that history would stop in its tracks and that the New Democracy would last forever. They were afraid of the word “struggle” and hated to hear strange-sounding words like “socialism.”
The group now sitting in the schoolhouse, the farmers who had formerly been pressed down at the bottom of the scale, would have been only too glad to put socialism into practice the very next morning. If history were to stop in 1953, after the redistribution of land and other means of agricultural production, then they would soon return to their tragic pre-1949 fate. The Communist Party would not allow it! Chairman Mao was brilliant: as he inventoried and redistributed all property and possessions, he rectified the party and prepared to advance. These poor peasants would march steadfastly forward behind the Communist Party. They could no longer be satisfied with a few acres of land, nor with having their stomachs only half full, nor with having a new padded jacket once every ten years, nor with shoulders bruised and swollen from the carrying pole. Such nonsense! Only fools wanted that. They believed that Chairman Mao Tse-tung would see them through.
They waited with perfect calm under the strong light of the kerosene lamp. Their calmness showed their inner composure, because they were quite free from anxiety. Even though their parents’ blood and their childhood environments had made them different in temperament and character, poverty had made them one in thought, feeling, and bearing. This made more than twenty people like a single person. In their peasants’ minds a single thought was forming, and in their hearts a single feeling was stirring.
Lean, solemn, and determined in bearing, Kao Tseng-fu sat on a bench behind the first row of desks. His arms, covered by sleeves through which the cotton padding showed, were wrapped around the sleeping Little Ts’ai. He sat there hating that crafty neighbor of his. He had rapped on Yao Shih-chieh’s black gate until his knuckles ached before a distant answer to the effect that Yao had gone to Huang-pao Town had come from Yao’s wife in the main building. The devil! He himself had seen Yao at nightfall. But what could he do? That large black gate was closed tighter than a drumhead without even a crack to peer through, and speaking to him through the closed gate was a woman. He hated himself for not being able to serve the people better as their representative. If it weren’t for his having to take on the woman’s work of cooking, if it weren’t that caring for Little Ts’ai tied him down, that rich peasant Yao would never have escaped the meeting. He could have squatted in Yao’s compound before nightfall and waited for him to finish dinner so they could go to the meeting together. If only he could get that wealthy peasant to the meeting, Kao would have plenty to say to him: “Why aren’t you helping needy families get through the spring food shortage? You have no surplus grain? Where has your surplus grain gone? Could it be that you sneaked it into Huang-pao Town to lend out at high interest? Speak! Tell the truth! As soon as Land Reform has blown over, you’ve gone back to exploiting!” But what could he say now, with that rich peasant already sleeping with his wife on his fancy lacquered k’ang?
A disheartened expression appeared on Kao’s thin, harried face. He didn’t know how he was going to get through the spring, how he could get money for fertilizer before time for summer rice transplanting came. To him the coming months looked dark as the night outside. Yet, though Kao was suffering real privation, Fate could not defeat this unfortunate man, because he, like the poor peasants and former hired hands around him, placed hope in the government, which had given him land and a loan for a draft animal. While he was doing both a man’s and a woman’s work to keep alive, and carrying out the duties and errands of Township People’s Representative, it was this hope that sustained him.
Kao was exhorting Jen the Fourth, who sat hunched over in the first row of desks: “Old Jen, your place is a long way from here, and you’ve got a bunch of kids there. You’d better leave early. Can’t you see? Tonight’s meeting isn’t ever going to begin at all.”
“No!” Old Jen looked upon attending meetings as a show of support for the government and the Party. Taking a pipe with a brass mouthpiece out of his thick-tongued mouth, he spoke, giving off a spray of saliva as he did: “Let’s wait for our team leader and leave with him.”
“Oh, yes. You’re waiting for Sheng-pao. Right! With Sheng-pao’s mutual aid team you don’t have to worry,” Kao said enviously.
“We aren’t worrying,” old Jen admitted. “It isn’t that we can hold our own so well. We’re relying on our good neighbors. They say ‘A near neighbor is worth more than a distant relative,’ and it’s true! If it weren’t for Sheng-pao taking the bunch of problems involved in a permanent mutual aid team onto his own broad shoulders, do you think I could keep from worrying? I’d be more worried than any of you, and that’s the truth! After Spring Grave Visitation we’re going into the mountains.”
Old jen’s words and his satisfied air stirred up an intense interest among the shabbily dressed poor farmers in the schoolroom. They swarmed up from the desks in the rear and gathered at the front where they had detected a ray of hope.
But when they had found out all about the plan of Sheng-pao’s mutual aid team for going into the mountains, all they could do was envy him. Their huts were scattered in every corner around the Kuan Canal and the upstream area. Their neighbors—tenant or semitenant farmers who had had a little bit of background in crop raising before—had gained or increased their holdings during the Land Reform, and this put them on an equal footing with the longer established middle peasants, whom they now imitated by devoting themselves to increasing their family wealth. They were only willing to join with their poverty-stricken neighbors in organizing seasonal, temporary mutual aid teams. They would not be like Sheng-pao, who put himself wholeheartedly into working for the common good.
Those twenty-odd men who had formerly suffered as hired hands or performed odd jobs for their livelihood were now together, discussing whether to form their own organization. “Let’s organize a group and get Kao to lead us!” lean and lanky Wang Sheng-mao suggested, his eyes shining with excitement.
“Where are our draft animals?” interjected short, fat Iron Lock Wang. “Let’s look before we leap!”
“We won’t use animals. People can pull the plows, all right?” said Li Chü-tsai enthusiastically.
Then Yang Ta-hai, a stern ruddy-faced farmer with little tolerance for careless talk spoke: “Nonsense! I’ve seen two people plowing dry land, but that won’t work in a paddy.”
“Then what can we do?” several people asked in a discouraged tone of voice.
“This is really a bad spring!” Kao gave a depressed sigh, “Let’s see what the Party members have to say.”
“Anyway, Chairman Mao won’t let anyone starve,” someone in back said with an unconcerned air. When they looked back they saw it was not one of them. It was Pai Chan-k’uei, a former corporal in the Nationalist Army. When had he come in?
While they had huddled close together, rubbing ragged shoulders with each other, to discuss the “two-man plowing” technique, there had been two other people in the schoolroom. Babbler Sun was crouched against the north wall, busily filling out forms by the lamplight so that Party Branch Secretary Lu could take them back to the township office when he went. Pai was sitting on the bench nearest the back door smoking a cheap black cigarette. Sure! That was him with that nonchalant expression on his narrow face.
With Little Ts’ai still sleeping in his arms, Kao turned to Pai, who had been an assistant squad leader in a supply company stationed at Huang-pao Town during the first stage of the War against Japan, and asked him, “Pai, when did you get back?”
“Yesterday,” Pai replied, puffing on his cigarette.
“From where?”
“Sian.”
“On what business?”
“Collecting junk, as usual.”
“You gathered junk during the day. Where did you stay at night?”
“In a friend’s room.”
“What friend?”
“The one who runs a junk shop. You think I have any high-class, distinguished friends?”
“What street in Sian does your friend live on?”
“Min-le Park.” Pai was still responding, but his expression had changed from unconcern to unhappiness. Clamping his cigarette between his fingers, he demanded angrily: “What do you mean, anyway, interrogating me like this? You aren’t a security officer, and you aren’t a militia commander, either!”
“I’m a People’s Representative,” Kao said calmly, with a stern expression on his face.
“You don’t represent the Upper Bank area, so you’ve no authority over me.”
“I’m representative for all of Hsia-pao Township!”
Two pairs of eyes locked in opposition. A cold, penetrating glare shot forth from Kao’s eyes and fixed itself on Pai’s gaunt, ashen face. “All right, forget it!” the group advised. “Why get angry over nothing?” But the People’s Representative, ever loyal to his social duties, didn’t consider this getting angry over nothing. He didn’t like a man of bad background, turned farmer late in life, mixing with his needy peasants year after year.
Before Liberation, when the Nationalists conscripted soldiers, and farmers could hire able-bodied men to take their places, Pai had “sold” himself five times. Each time recruits set out from the local division’s area he had been able to escape. After Liberation, during Land Reform, he had shown a madman’s zeal, but this former assistant squad leader had not been able at all to develop his talents in the new society. He had not reached his goal of becoming a village cadre.
This is the sort of “farmer” he was: In 1942, when the Nationalist troops stationed in Huang-pao Town had set out for the Chung-t’iao mountains in Shansi, his mistress, Turquoise, hid him until they were gone. Then he began to do odd jobs around Frog Flat. When setting up a grindstone he would put the shaft in backwards, as if the draft animal could push the grindstone with its head as it turned the mill! Once when he was plowing, he was not even aware when the plowshare dropped off. Finally, discovering what had happened, he had to dig through the whole field with his hands searching for the lost piece. Toward the end of the war against Japan, he drifted into selling himself into the army. After Liberation he brought home soybeans he had pulled up from the banks around his paddies and hung them, stalks and all, in the crotch of a tree in front of their hut. When the notoriously amorous Turquoise, by then his wife, wanted to cook some, she would take a stick and knock off as many as she needed. They had no children, so they went to the market in Huang-pao Town together and, just like “enlightened couples,” man and woman would sit together in a restaurant sharing mutton and steamed buns like equals. The previous winter when the Property Inventory Team had come to the village to check on implementation of Land Reform, it was Pai who had taken the megaphone from Babbler Sun and announced to the whole village, “It’s the second Land Reform! No need to go to the mountains now!” He had opposed having needy farmers go into the mountains for charcoal and wood after autumn planting and had agitated all over the village to have Yao Shihchieh and Kuo Shih-fu reclassified as landlords, since they were making more of a killing than the “slender” landlords in former days. Only after Kuo Chen-shan had given him a severe talking to did he begin to behave a bit better. He and his wife had been given four mu of land during Land Reform, though Kao felt that they weren’t real farmers. The soft full flesh of Turquoise’s cheeks was too much like the flesh of her rump!
Right must triumph over wrong! Pai’s droopy eyes retreated. Feigning contempt, he finally turned his head—upon which an old skullcap was perched—and faced another direction.
Kao pursued the spoils of victory: “I’m a township representative. Can’t I ask you questions? You’ve collected junk in Sian, and now, since it’s not planting time, or harvest, either, just what did you come back for?”
“Is that any business of yours?” Aroused once more, Pai glared with his heavy-lidded eyes at Kao.
“Whether it is or not,” said Kao, “I’m asking you. You mean I can’t ask?”
Humpbacked old Jen stood up. He plucked the pipe from his whiskered mouth, smiled and spoke, emitting a spray of saliva. “The truth, now! I’m not too blind to figure this one out! Pai, while you were in Sian you must have figured it was time to start maneuvering for new Incentive grain loans here. Right? Tell us!” Pai laughed through his tobacco-stained teeth. “There’ll be no loans this year,” said Jen. “You’ve come for nothing.”
“Even if there were grain loans, you wouldn’t get any, Pai,” said Kao without a trace of sympathy. “Feeding you last year and the year before was a real mistake. How do you qualify as a needy peasant? At the market you’ve nothing better to do than stuff yourself at restaurants.”
Pai could stand no more. His well-trained, agile body sprang to a standing position. The group thought he was about to have it out with Kao, but he stalked out of the room instead. The sound of his swearing came in from the courtyard: “Little bastard’s getting big for his britches! What kind of a people’s rep ... !” The rest of what he said was cut off by the closing gate.
Kao was so angry that sparks shot forth from his eyes. It was all too obvious that he was the one being sworn at. He wanted to set out in pursuit, but he had Little Ts’ai sleeping against his chest. And the others advised him that there was no need to go up against someone of Pai’s type. Furthermore, even though Pai wasn’t a village cadre, after Liberation in movement after movement he had followed right behind the most active elements. He had been fearless, had moments of genuine enthusiasm and borne his share of hardships. But Kao was unconvinced. He said, “That fellow is no damn good! Two years ago when he got a grain loan, what did he say? ‘We ate at the landlords’ expense during Land Reform and at the rich and middle peasants’ expense with the grain loans.’ You can tell that when he took out that loan he had no intention whatsoever of repaying it. We can’t let him mix in among us and pretend he’s a needy peasant. And so what if he wasn’t accepted as a village cadre? If he got accepted as a cadre, I’d quit being one!” Kao’s responsible attitude aroused real admiration in the group. No matter how desperate his circumstances became, he remained upright and pure, like the white poplars along the T’ang River, which towered above all the elms, willows, and thorny locusts, their branches brushing the white clouds softly floating in the blue sky. By tacit consent he had become the representative figure of these needy farmers, and they were watching him to see how he got through the spring food scarcity, hoping then to follow his lead.
Time began to weigh on these farmers, and they became restless. Outside, over by the alfalfa field, Secretary Lu was still talking with Kuo Chen-shan. What were they saying? Were they thinking of how to call another meeting, or giving up on the grain loans, or thinking of another way to help the needy farmers? No! The two Party members over in the clover field had no solution other than grain loans and mutual aid teams. Their superiors had repeatedly stressed using certain funds only for certain purposes and would not allow agricultural loan funds earmarked for the promotion of seven-inch plows, “Liberation” model water wheels, chemical fertilizers, and insecticides to be lent to needy peasants so that they could buy grain. Such loans would violate policy, damage agricultural production, and bring charges of improper and illegal conduct against the perpetrators. The small relief fund had been established only for pitiful old people who through a sudden stroke of fate had lost their entire means of support. They were considered separately. There were only a couple such cases in the village, while there were ten times that number of needy families. How could relief funds be used to solve the problem? No, solutions would have to be devised in terms of more production.
Kuo Chen-shan’s robust body loomed large in the shadows of the clover field. His whiskered cheeks were taut, and his teeth ground together in hatred toward Yao Shih-chieh and Kuo Shih-fu, two bastions of “go-it-alone” forces, one looming on the east side of the Kuan Canal, the other on the west. He was saying that if these bastions could not be stormed and taken, it would threaten his authority, and it would endanger every future project in all the five villages of Hsia-pao Township.
“If we could only get them to the meeting,” said Chen-shan disconsolately to Secretary Lu, “I’d be able to solve this. The masses are with me, not them. A few words from this mouth of mine and they’d have to come up with some grain. And I’m not bragging either! Who’d have guessed that those two stick-in-the-muds would be slipperier than eels and not come to the meeting at all!”
Kuo Chen-shan stood hulking in the field, smacking his work-hardened hands together in anger. Two feet away, facing him with a flashlight in hand, was Secretary Lu. As he listened the expression on his wrinkled face betrayed disapproval of this monologue by Kuo Chen-shan. The Communist standing there in a gray padded uniform jacket was Hsia-pao Township’s most uncompromising character, despite his unobtrusive manner. Even when work went successfully, Lu did not boast about the part he himself had played. Only those who wanted to cover up their failings when work went badly would boast. As Party branch secretary for Hsia-pao Township, he dealt with many people and had ample experience in observing this sort of person.
Lu was the same age as Kuo Chen-shan, but smaller and rather ordinary in appearance. Though his uniform was quite distinct from farmer’s clothing, he could not alter his rustic appearance—thick hands, large feet, arms and legs sinewy from work, a curved back, and shoulders rounded from the carrying pole. China has millions upon millions of this sort of comrade. Whether they dress in coarse woolen clothing, generals’ uniforms, or even field marshal’s attire, they are still affable, straightforward, and entirely without affectation, men who stay close to the masses.
Secretary Lu chuckled quietly and said with frankness: “Chen-shan! Let’s not get bogged down on Yao Shih-chieh and Kuo Shih-fu. If they were more progressive, what would be left for us Communists to do? Take a closer look at what you yourself have done. For example, after we held two meetings at the township level to set things up, you failed to do thorough groundwork here. You’re being lax, Comrade, and you’re not taking suggestions made at the township level seriously enough. If you had mobilized some ordinary middle peasants who have a few pecks of grain to lend out by talking to them individually, we never would have been caught in this stalemate, would we? Chen-shan, this won’t do! From now on you must work harder and more painstakingly.”
Kuo blew a long breath out through his hairy nostrils. “Ai! Lu, old friend, you can’t clap with just one hand, you know! There are only two of us Communists in Frog Flat, and our comrade Sheng-pao is so wrapped up in production that he ignores politics. When the first meeting was called, he was off in Kuo-hsien buying rice seeds, so young Huan-hsi came to listen in. After he came back he didn’t even contact me. That little rascal has gotten a bit arrogant since he joined the Party—”
Secretary Lu could not listen any longer. He spoke to this man, with whom he was on good enough terms to joke and tease, with considerable bluntness. “Ai-ya-ya! My dear Bomber [Kuo Chen-shan’s nickname], your thinking is getting moldy! Even after the Party Rectification Campaign you say that cooperative farming has nothing to do with politics! Have you forgotten what Secretary Wang said at last winter’s Huang-pao Township Party Branch meeting? Simply getting grain quotas delivered, continuing to issue agricultural loans, filling in statistical forms, writing introductions for people taking cases to court, witnessing applications for marriage certificates—that’s not dynamic political activity. We Party members are often told not to get bogged down in administrative details, but to organize the masses and lead them in production. You should make a clear distinction between production by mutual aid teams and the go-it-alone variety. You say that Sheng-pao ignores politics and doesn’t contact you? Well, you should take the initiative in helping him!”
A fine sweat broke out on the bridge of Kuo’s nose, and his whiskery face turned red. His group was called a mutual aid team, but in actuality it was the private, “go-it-alone” form of production. Even in the darkness, Secretary Lu could detect his embarrassment.
Kuo stood speechless for a long time. With his large, coarse hands he rubbed the stubble-covered face under his skullcap, hoping thereby to control the feverishness he felt in his head. As he finished rubbing his face, he finally—thank heavens!—thought of a position he could take to cover his failings. “Lu,” Kuo began, in a voice oozing patriotism, “I think that when our country declared an end to Land Reform, it was quite a mistake, wasn’t it?”
“How so?”
“Ever since it ended, Yao Shih-chieh and Kuo Shih-fu have been on their way up again. In ordinary farmers’ homes at New Year’s and other festivals, they put food on the offering table for their ancestors’ spirits. The rest of the time they worship the deed to their land. That makes it hard to get projects going.”
“Then how would you do it? Have Land Reform every year? Get rid of all the middle peasants? Pull everyone down to the same level?”
“Look, you! Do you think I don’t understand anything about policy? I’m not saying we should have Land Reform once a year, but we shouldn’t declare Land Reform ended, either.”
“So we can keep the whole countryside nervous?”
“Actually only the wealthy and well-to-do middle peasants would be nervous.”
“Ordinary middle peasants wouldn’t be nervous?”
“Well, they’d be nervous, but it wouldn’t interfere with production.”
“And would you keep the masses of poor farmers up in the air about the situation, unable to plan their next step forward?”
Quick-tongued Kuo Chen-shan was left without words. Controlling his anger, Secretary Lu admonished Kuo in a voice that was sharply critical yet more concerned than hostile. “Comrade! Don’t start finding fault with the Party Central’s line. We should take a closer look at how we ourselves are carrying out our work and whether our thinking has become corrupted. When you were peddling earthenware you travelled to a lot of places and saw a lot more than most farmers. But there’s a distance of heaven and earth between your experience—mine, too, for that matter—and that of our comrades in the Party Central. We’ve seen pictures of Marx and Lenin so often that their faces are familiar to us. But just what did they actually say? Do you know? You don’t? Well, let’s take an honest look at ourselves. I’ve heard that you’ve had some business dealings with Han Wan-hsiang, who has the brick and tile kiln by North Gate in Huang-pao Town. You should remember who you are!”
“Who said I’ve had dealings with Han Wan-hsiang?” Kuo was getting tense and angry.
Secretary Lu calmly and patiently explained: “If you’ve had no dealings there’s no cause for alarm. Now go to the classroom and announce that the needy peasants should go home. Tell them that after every village in the Township has met we’ll discuss possible solutions. Go on, now. I have a padded jacket and you don’t. Be careful you don’t get chilled.”
“Who said I had dealings with Han Wan-hsiang?” Kuo persisted, ignoring the chill in the air.
“We’ll talk about that later. Don’t keep the needy peasants waiting!”
“No! I have to know who’s spreading stories about me!”
“Don’t worry! The Party Branch Office will get to the bottom of these stories about business dealings. Go adjourn the meeting now!” As he spoke, Secretary Lu flashed his light down a small path that led through the clover field, and, snuggling his padded jacket around his shoulders, he stalked off angrily.
Kuo handed an unexpected disappointment to the needy peasants who had such hope in him. He ran up to the classroom door, hastily announced cancellation of the meeting, and then ran off after Secretary Lu. He didn’t even pause to pick up the form Babbler Sun had filled out. He wanted to find out just who in the township office was putting him in a bad light.
After Babbler Sun had taken the kerosene lamp away, the poor farmers gathered around Liang Sheng-pao in the darkness of the schoolyard. Several abruptly demanded that Sheng-pao’s mutual aid team be expanded. This caught Sheng-pao unprepared, and he stood surrounded by his shabbily clothed neighbors, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, a forced smile on his face. “Neighbors,” he said in embarrassment, “The mutual aid team has just gotten organized. This is my first year as team leader, too. Next year—let me work at it for a year, and next year if you think I do my work well enough, we’ll talk again. I’m young and untrained, so I’m afraid I might get everyone into a bad fix.”
“We’ve got eyes. You did a good job buying the rice seeds,” said Li Chü-ts’ai.
“Don’t just be nice to the few neighbors around you,” smiled tall, lean Wang Sheng-mao.
“Our huts may be far away, but our paddies are right next to yours!” said the solemn-faced Yang Ta-hai.
Sheng-pao really felt awkward. He felt closer to this group of people than he did to his own family. He was afraid that if he went ahead and took them into his team there would be too many to manage. Also, if he took several new members who had no draft animals into his team, working power would become a problem. No, it simply wouldn’t do. He remembered the experience shared at the county meeting by Wang Tsung-chi, model peasant from Ta-wang Village, Tou-pao District: “To become good, mutual aid teams should be small at first.” He couldn’t be brash and begin something without a firm foundation. But, looking at it from another angle, he felt deep sympathy for these needy peasants who had weak draft animals—or none at all—and who could not plow and plant unless they teamed up with someone else. Their middle-peasant neighbors—former tenant or semitenant farmers—traded their draft animals’ force for manpower in the seasonal mutual aid teams, getting real benefit from the bargain. During the slack time that followed planting these needy peasants became frantic with idleness, yet no one organized them to earn supplementary income. Thus they were unable to shed the label of “needy peasant,” and every spring they ran short of food. Their demand not only aroused Sheng-pao’s sympathy, it awakened his sense of obligation as a Communist to help the masses through their difficulties as well. He felt it would be shameful to sneak away from this group of men in ragged clothes.
“Yu-wan!” he shouted.
“Hey!” answered Feng Yu-wan from the darkness behind the group.
“Yu-wan, come here,” said Sheng-pao. “Let’s discuss whether we can revise this plan of ours.”
Sheng-pao and Yu-wan had taken advantage of the time before the meeting to take Iron Man Kuo into a corner behind the schoolroom and talk him into lending two tan of grain to needy peasants in his election ward. This would allow those neighbors who were in dire straits to keep feeding their families for the time being, while they helped with the shipment of brooms, to be made from bamboo cut by the team, out of the mountains by Sheng-pao’s mutual aid team. Now Sheng-pao was thinking of changing his plan. He could have those who were originally going to carry brooms cut bamboo for handles instead. Then another group could do the carrying. This way all the needy peasants in the village could be helped, and part of the problem at hand could be solved.
“Where will the new group get food for their families?” Yu-wan asked doubt-fully.
“We’ll think of a way!” Sheng-pao thought hard. Then he said again, even more emphatically: “I’ve got a way! As soon as we commit ourselves to delivery of the brooms, the marketing co-op will give us an advance. They won’t make us wait until we’ve delivered a certain number of brooms to get the cash. No, a community project like the co-op will be more flexible than that. So if we do it this way, the food shortage won’t be nearly as bad, and that’ll give us a chance to think of our next step.”
As they heard Sheng-pao and Yu-wan talk, the group began to bubble with happy excitement. With Sheng-pao lifting their crushing burdens, they suddenly felt free and light. In the light of the newly risen moon they gazed steadily at Sheng-pao’s full face with joyful, grateful eyes. They felt like embracing him and kissing his face. There was such a good and sympathetic heart beating in his breast!
Each group member wanted to be first to join in:
“I’ll go!”
“So will I!”
“You’ve got to take me!”
The school yard suddenly bustled with life and activity. Kao Tseng-fu, his tattered sleeves around a newly awakened Little Ts’ai, stood in the midst of the group, advising them to quit trying to outdo one another. Though he kept a calm exterior, he felt deeply moved. Like a spirited horse who sees another horse dashing away, he could not contain his own impulse to run forward. Seeing Sheng-pao’s courage in doing what he knew to be right left a loyal, sincere man like Kao Tseng-fu so inspired that he trembled. With Little Ts’ai still in his arms, he nudged Sheng-pao, saying, “Sheng-pao, let me organize the men from the Kuan Canal area to carry brooms. You just handle the bamboo-cutting group.”
The group voiced unanimous support for this, but Sheng-pao asked, “With Little Ts’ai tying you down, will you be able to go into the mountains?”
“You don’t need to worry,” Kao replied. “Don’t worry about whether I can go into the mountains. That’s my problem and I can solve it best myself. You just organize your bamboo cutters, and I’ll take care of transportation!”
On the way home, Old Jen the Fourth let out sigh after sigh.
“Fourth Uncle,” said Sheng-pao, “What’s on your mind?”
“I’m thinking that you’re young and full of imagination,” Old Jen said, emitting his usual spray of saliva. “Taking on a project as ambitious as this—are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Sheng-pao spread his hands wide, and with an expression so full of grief he seemed about to cry, he said, “What could I do? Seeing those needy peasants about to starve was real torture for me. If a Communist didn’t take care of them, who would?”
[The failure of Kuo Chen-shan to get grain loans for the needy peasants encourages the well-to-do middle peasant Kuo Shih-fu and his rich peasant crony Yao Shih-chieh to become bolder in cultivating disaffection among members of Chen-shan and Sheng-pao’s teams. Chen-shan, though frustrated in his attempt to build up personal property—as a Communist his business activities are curtailed—dares not leave the Party, his only protection against retaliation from the enemies he made during Land Reform.
One day news comes that a competing mutual aid team has become self-reliant through a bamboo-cutting expedition. Feeling encouraged and challenged, Sheng-pao’s team sets out for the mountains. They leave young Jen Huan-hsi behind to work with an agronomist who will arrive while the team is gone. The bamboo-cutting project is beset with hardship and danger—one member is hurt—but the group remains in high spirits and works harmoniously. By contrast, back in the village the visiting agronomist finds jealousy, mutual suspicion, and general noncooperation among the middle peasants, who bully and harass Jen Huan-hsi as he carries out his duties.
In his relation with Kai-hsia, Sheng-pao is a sterling model of Communist dedication but a rather reluctant suitor. Their romance almost bursts into flame late one balmy evening but ends on a tentative note after duty and devotion quickly reassert themselves.
Things are going well at the end of Volume One, with Liang Sheng-pao’s ascendency as a leader established, the road toward self-sufficiency found for poor peasants, and the beginnings of improved agricultural productivity—the fast-growing seeds—introduced. The problems, though attacked successfully, are far from solved. Loose ends are left dangling, to be picked up and woven into Part Two, which deals with the next stage of agricultural collectivization, the establishment of agricultural cooperatives.]
Translated by William B. Crawford
When Chao Hsün finished his Homecoming in 1958, the Hundred Flowers thaw had already been chilled again and Party authorities promptly suppressed the manuscript. Two years later the antirevisionist movement was building toward another flood crest; the Party-directed editors of the Drama Monthly printed the play with a call for criticism to identify the “serious errors” in the author’s line of thinking. Criticism indeed followed, in a series of denunciations attacking Chao Hsün for his failure to depict a single positive character in the entire four-act play, in which even the veteran Communist cadre, a rehabilitated People’s Liberation Army officer, wavers when faced with a broken home and the chaos in a supposedly liberated village. The work, the critics claimed, was intended to expose the dark side of the new socialist society.
Homecoming fed the fire of the 1960 literary purge, but Chao Hsün returned to public life in the spring of 1978 after the downfall of the Gang of Four.
—K.Y.H.
[This is a play in four acts, five scenes, a prologue, and an epilogue.
The prologue opens on a mountain trail, whereT’UNG SHU-LAN, a middle-aged village woman, reminisces with the old village head,WAN PAO-SHAN. T’UNG has married MA HSING-WANG, her former husband’s brother, because her husband, MA HSING-KUO, was reported killed in Red Army action nearly twenty years ago.WAN says he has just heard about an old Red Armyman returning to the village and wonders who he could be. A little later MA HSING-KUO enters and passes by T’UNG, nearly rubbing shoulders with her, but they do not recognize each other.]
ACT ONE
SCENE ONE
That evening, immediately following the prologue. At MA HSING-WANG’S house. On stage one sees the living room of his home, in which there are several pieces of rustic furniture. In the center are the ancestral tablets and the tablet of “Heaven, Earth, Emperor, Parents, and Teacher.” One door leads outside; one side door leads to the bedroom; another side door leads to the kitchen. MA HSING-WANG and TIAO SHIH-KUEI are hiding grain. SHIH-KUEI is standing waist-deep in a hole in the ground, and HSING-WANG is bringing the grain to him bag by bag.
TIAO SHIH-KUEI how much more is there?
MA HSING-WANG Only these two bags.
TIAO SHIH-KUEI Come on, hurry up, there’ll be people coming soon. (HSING-WANG gives him a bag. Someone knocks on the door. The knocking becomes more and more insistent)
SUN ER-NIANG ( Calling from outside) It’s just gotten dark. What are you two doing in there?
TIAO SHIH-KUEI Sun Er-niang is here. Hurry! Hurry! (HSING-WANG gives SHIH-KUEI the last bag)
TIAO SHIH-KUEI Don’t let her know I ’m here. (SHIH-KUEI crouches down in the hole. HSING-WANG puts the cover on the hole, places some things on top of it, and goes to open the door)
SUN ER-NIANG My God! It sure was hard to get you to open the door! What are you doing behind a locked door?
MA HSING-WANG It’s dark, why shouldn’t the door be shut? What do you want, Er-niang?
SUN ER-NIANG Look, HSING-WANG, can the price be raised on that deal you were talking about?
MA HSING-WANG The price is set. I’m only in this for other people. The price is a lot higher than the government’s standard price.
SUN ER-NIANG HOW you talk! If I weren’t out for a little profit, would I be taking this risk? If I’m caught, then I’ll be charged with selling grain on the black market, instead of selling it to the government as surplus.
MA HSING-WANG go sell it as surplus then! It’s an honor and the price is high too.
SUN ER-NIANG All right, you win. I’ll sell it to you. (SHIH-KUEI knocks on the cover from underground)
SUN ER-NIANG What is under there?
MA HSING-WANG A rat, a really fierce rat.
SUN ER-NIANG That creature steals your grain. You’d better get a cat right away.
MA HSING-WANG I advise you to sell, Er-niang. The price isn’t low. Really, in a couple of days they’re going to check very carefully, and you won’t be able to sell even if you want to.
SUN ER-NIANG YOU people are really something. All right, it’s a deal, as long as it’s cash on delivery—not a minute late in payment.
MA HSING-WANG There won’t be any mix-up. You won’t be shortchanged a single cent.
SUN ER-NIANG Then it’s settled. You go and get it.
MA HSING-WANG Okay! But you shouldn’t talk about this matter with anyone else, because if it leaks out, we’ll lose both our lives and money.
SUN ER-NIANG you don’t need to say that. I know I talk too much, but not about everything—for heaven’s sake! (SHIH-KUEI sneezes underground)
SUN ER-NIANG What’s that? That rat again? Your rat isn’t afraid of people.
MA HSING-WANG Yes ... yes, it’s the rat. I ’ll get a cat right away. You go on home. I ’ll go and get a cat this evening. No ... no, I ’ll go and get the grain at your house.
SUN ER-NIANG You’re really sharp! In a few days, Hsing-wang, you’re going to be very rich.
MA HSING-WANG Yes, but I wish the money’d stay with me though. I ... (Realizing that SHIH-KUEI has been shut up underground too long) You’d better go!
(ER-NIANG still doesn’t want to leave. She wants to ask about something else, but HSING-WANG finally gets her out tl\e door. SHIH-KUEI has been continually pounding on the underside of the cover. HSING-WANG comes back and takes the cover off the hole)
TIAO SHIH-KUEI God! You almost suffocated me! How come you got started with her on cats and rats and everything else at a time like this!
MA HSING-WANG She wouldn’t leave.
TIAO SHIH-KUEI The tongues of people like her are too loose. Don’t get too involved with them in the future.
MA HSING-WANG She looked me up.
TIAO SHIH-KUEI And besides, people like Ta Lao-niu are so poor that even an oil press can’t squeeze a drop out of them. Why did you loan grain to him?
MA HSING-WANG That day his wife was here crying her heart out ...
TIAO SHIH-KUEI And you felt sorry for her? We’re not running a charity.
MA HSING-WANG They’re willing to pay interest ...
TIAO SHIH-KUEI Look, don’t capsize the whole damn boat trying to catch the big one. We don’t want to do it that way anyway. Let’s get this grain off our hands immediately. This time we’ll double our money.
MA HSING-WANG Okay, let’s get this batch together and go.
TIAO SHIH-KUEI By the way, Hsing-Wang, you see that this is such a good business, how come you don’t chip in on it?
MA HSING-WANG Where could I get the money?
TIAO SHIH-KUEI Well, Shu-Ian has ...
MA HSING-WANG She doesn’t have cash.
TIAO SHIH-KUEI If she has valuables, that works just the same.
MA HSING-WANG She probably has several bolts of cloth.
TIAO SHIH-KUEI Cloth is all right too!
MA HSING-WANG I’ll see when she comes home. She’s tight-fisted.
TIAO SHIH-KUEI Okay, I’m going. Lao Chu will be here in a moment. We’ll go to make contact together. Put that cover back on and make sure it looks all right. (Takes a look) Hm! Is this place safe?
MA HSING-WANG Don’t worry, everyone knows I haven’t got a cent to my name. Who would imagine that I have grain stored in my home?
TIAO SHIH-KUEI YOU still ought to be careful. (Exits quickly) (HSING-WANG covers up the hole and arranges things on top of it. SHU-LAN enters carrying firewood)
MA HSING-WANG Why haven’t you cooked dinner yet?
T’UNG SHU-LAN I went to cut firewood. You’ve just been sitting here doing nothing. Couldn’t you start a fire?
MA HSING-WANG Shu-lan, I happen to have something I want to talk to you about.
T’UNG SHU-LAN (Picking up some wild vegetables) Would you sort these wild vegetables?
MA HSING-WANG Are we going to have that wild vegetable mush again?
T’UNG SHU-LAN If we don’t eat that, what will we eat? You haven’t gotten rich ...
MA HSING-WANG Listen, we have a chance to get rich now. There’s a business deal, an extremely profitable deal, but we are short of capital. Could you contribute some money?
T’UNG SHU-LAN Where do I get the money?
MA HSING-WANG You’ve been spinning and weaving all year. Isn’t that money?
T’UNG SHU-LAN It’s all gone for the grain we ate.
MA HSING-WANG you don’t mean to tell me you are that generous—letting us eat it all up? Don’t be pig-headed. If you give it to me, I’ll guarantee that within a month you’ll have two bolts for every one.
T’UNG SHU-LAN This time I’m not going to be fooled.
MA HSING-WANG But this time won’t be like the other times, I guarantee ...
T’UNG SHU-LAN NO matter what you say, I don’t have the money. (Wants to go)
MA HSING-WANG Don’t go. Tell me, where is the cloth you wove?
T’UNG SHU-LAN I don’t have any, I tell you.
MA HSING-WANG All right, since you won’t tell me, I ’ll go look for it myself. (Goes into the bedroom)
T’UNG SHU-LAN HSING-WANG, don’t mess things up. (Exits with him) (A rummaging noise comes from the bedroom)
T’UNG SHU-LAN (From the bedroom) What are you doing? I can’t give it to you ... I can’t.
(HSING-WANG comes out of the bedroom carrying two bolts of cloth and some yarn on the bobbin. SHU-LAN comes on stage, clutching at him)
T’UNG SHU-LAN I won’t give it to you no matter what. I worked hard to scrape up a little, and you squander it.
MA HSING-WANG Let go! Let go! Or else I ’ll get rough.
T’UNG SHU-LAN Give me back my cloth ... give me back my cloth.
MA HSING-WANG Goddamn you! (Forcefully throws her off. SHU-LAN falls down, then gets up again and runs straight at HSING-WANG, but is kicked away by him. HSING-WANG smugly exits. SHU-LAN lies on the ground weeping. The more she thinks about it, the more hurt she feels. Finally she bursts out wailing. HSING-KUO appears at the door. He halts there and looks around for a long time)
MA HSING-KUO Is this the home of Ma Hsing-wang? (SHU-LAN is crying sadly with her head bowed. She neither sees nor hears him)
MA HSING-KUO (After a while) Is this Ma Hsing-wang’s house? (This time HSING-KUO’S voice is a little louder, and he comes a step closer. SHU-LAN raises her head and looks at him with tear-filled eyes)
T’UNG SHU-LAN Who are you looking for? (Seeing that he seems to be a soldier, she is somewhat surprised)
MA HSING-KUO I’m looking for Ma Hsing-wang’s house.
T’UNG SHU-LAN (Seeing that a soldier has come to look for MA HSING-WANG, she wonders what he has done wrong now) He’s not home. Why are you looking for him?
MA HSING-KUO Not for anything in particular. (Puts down his backpack) I’m ...
T’UNG SHU-LAN (Sensing something) Who are you?
MA HSING-KUO I’m his brother—Ma Hsing-kuo.
T’UNG SHU-LAN Oh! (Shocked, she steps back)
MA HSING-KUO Who are you? You’re not ...
T’UNG SHU-LAN I’m Shu-lan.
MA HSING-KUO Shu-lan, it really is you! (He steps forward, eagerly trying to embrace her)
T’UNG SHU-LAN Hsing-kuo! (Steps back) Is it really you?
MA HSING-KUO Yes, I ’ve come back.
T’UNG SHU-LAN Are you ... a ghost, or a person?
MA HSING-KUO Look (Laughing) , how could I be a ghost?
T’UNG SHU-LAN (Comes forward) Even if you’re a ghost, I ’m not afraid. I know you’re dead. You sacrificed your life for the revolution. Everyone says so. I just don’t believe ...
MA HSING-KUO Well, they’ve misinformed you.
T’UNG SHU-LAN Hsing-kuo, I know that you saw I’ve been suffering, I’ve been miserable, and you came to comfort me.
MA HSING-KUO I’m not a ghost; I ’m alive!
T’UNG SHU-LAN Even if only your spirit could come back and have a talk with me, my heart would be very comforted. Whenever I saw you in my dream, you never looked as real as today. Come closer, I want to take a good look at you.
MA HSING-KUO Take a good look and see if I ’m a ghost or a person.
T’UNG SHU-LAN (Turning up the lamp wick) Yes, you’re alive, not a ghost. Ghosts don’t have shadows.
MA HSING-KUO If I were a ghost, I wouldn’t have come back.
T’UNG SHU-LAN Hsing-kuo, this isn’t a dream?
MA HSING-KUO It’s not a dream, it’s real.
(T’UNG SHU-LAN bites her hand hard)
MA HSING-KUO What are you doing? Shu-lan ...
T’UNG SHU-LAN (Her hand is bleeding) My God!
MA HSING-KUO (Abruptly grabs her hand) It’s all bloody. What’s wrong with you? Shu-lan!
T’UNG SHU-LAN This isn’t a dream.
MA HSING-KUO, no it’s not a dream. It’s real.
T’UNG SHU-LAN You’ve come back alive! You’ve really come back! Hsing-kuo, I waited for you ... it was so hard to wait! (Falls on Hsing-kuo’s chest crying)
MA HSING-KUO (Also unable to restrain his tears) Shu-lan, you see we’re together again? You shouldn’t cry anymore; you should be happy.
T’UNG SHU-LAN Yes, I ought to be happy. (Raises her head and smiles tearfully) But I still can’t help crying. (Bursts out wailing)
MA HSING-KUO Then go ahead and cry to your heart’s content. Oh, I left you all at home for twenty years. You can never get through crying about that hardship.
T’UNG SHU-LAN Hardship—I wouldn’t know where to start talking about that, but things were bad for you too while you were away!
MA HSING-KUO It was both bitter and hard, but after all, we survived and we finally won the victory!
T’UNG SHU-LAN Victory! Hsing-kuo, do you remember when you left you said, “Shu-lan, someday we’ll fight our way back!”
MA HSING-KUO Today I ’ve fought my way back, but many of my comrades didn’t come back.
T’UNG SHU-LAN You’ve come back after all. You’re not leaving again, are you, Hsing-kuo?
MA HSING-KUO NO, I’m not leaving. We’ll be together forever. We’ll build socialism together in our home village.
T’UNG SHU-LAN Then these twenty years of hardships I’ve endured in your family haven’t been in vain after all.
MA HSING-KUO ( Looking around) Is this house new?
T’UNG SHU-LAN It was burned down three times by the Kuomintang. Afterwards we had to live in caves or ruined temples. The best places we had to live in were straw huts. After the liberation the government built these few rooms for us.
MA HSING-KUO Shu-lan, how is everybody in the family?
T’UNG SHU-LAN Dad passed away a long time ago. After you left, the White Troops often came to stir up trouble. They knew we were a Red Army family, so they arrested Dad and locked him up for quite a few months. He suffered a lot. They beat him until he almost died several times over. We had to pay to get him out, but he was already in terrible shape, and later he got sick and died.
MA HSING-KUO (After a moment lost in thought, he asks indignantly) And Older Sister? After Mother died, Older Sister became our mother. When we were little, she saw that we were fed and clothed; when we grew up, she urged us to join the revolution. At that time she was the head of the Women’s Organization of this area!
T’UNG SHU-LAN Older Sister just died about a month ago. Her coffin is buried in the patch in back.
MA HSING-KUO Older Sister suffered all her life. She managed to make it to the liberation, but she still didn’t live to see any happy days ...
T’UNG SHU-LAN Older Sister had to beg for food for more than ten out of the last twenty years. Whenever she got some food, she gave a mouthful to the old folks, a mouthful to the youngsters, and often went hungry herself. At that time it was hard to beg for food too! The landlord’s family wouldn’t give us any. Sometimes they would even curse us, and call us bandit women, or communist women, and spit in our faces.... The other poor people didn’t even have enough for themselves—how could they have any food to give us? Who knows how many times Older Sister cried about you. Afterwards, when she heard that you had died, she went blind from crying. When she was near death, she took my hand and told me never to leave the family. “If you leave, the whole family will disappear,” she said.
MA HSING-KUO ( Wiping away his tears) When I was away I often thought of her. I hurried home and yet I won’t even get to see her once. Mother brought eight children into this world, but there are only three of us left. What about Hsing-wang? Is he still okay?
T’UNG SHU-LAN For the first several years after Hsing-wàng returned from the Red Militia, he didn’t let out a peep. He just worked the fields, and behaved like a peasant. Later ...
MA HSING-KUO What happened later? He’s still alive, isn’t he?
T’UNG SHU-LAN He’s still alive, but his heart is dead.
MA HSING-KUO What?
T’UNG SHU-LAN He doesn’t want to work. All he wants is to get rich. Just now he cheated me out of two bolts of cloth.
MA HSING-KUO Does he live here?
T’UNG SHU-LAN Um hm.
MA HSING-KUO I heard he got married!
T’UNG SHU-LAN Uh hm. (Lowers her head)
MA HSING-KUO Does he have any children?
T’UNG SHU-LAN Yes ...
MA HSING-KUO Where is his wife?
(T’UNG SHU-LAN remains silent)
MA HSING-KUO (Realizing) Oh ...
T’UNG SHU-LAN Hsing-kuo, you mustn’t blame me ...
MA HSING-KUO NO, Shu-lan, I’ll never blame you. Twenty years ... I couldn’t expect you to remain a widow for twenty years.
T’UNG SHU-LAN NO, I could have waited for twenty years, or even longer, but they told me ... they fooled my by telling me ... (Starts to cry again)
(OLD VILLAGE HEAD hurriedly enters. SHU-LAN sees him coming and steps aside, wiping her tears)
WAN PAO-SHAN Hsing-kuo! Hsing-kuo! You’re really back. I was afraid that you were dead and that you wouldn’t come back!
MA HSING-KUO If I weren’t alive, how could I have come back? Old Chairman, how have you been?
WAN PAO-SHAN I’m an Old Ch’eng Yao-chin,28 getting old but still hanging on. I’ve made it through even the very worst. If I were meant to die, I would have died several times already, but I wasn’t meant to die. (Sees SHU-LAN SHU-LAN) Shu-lan, why are you still wiping tears? (Remembers) Oh, Hsing-kuo, you can’t mistreat Shu-lan. As a wife, she’s even more virtuous than Chao Wu-niang.t Really, if it hadn’t been for Shu-lan, your family wouldn’t be here. She and Hsing-wang ...
MA HSING-KUO I know all about her and Hsing-wang, and I don’t blame her at all.
WAN PAO-SHAN During those awful days, the White Troops were really inhuman. If they didn’t rape or slaughter our women here, they sold them. This child, Shu-lan, was determined, and for months and years on end she didn’t come home. She lived in a cave like an animal.
MA HSING-KUO That must have been awful for you, Shu-lan.
WAN PAO-SHAN A while back, there was a person from this village named Ch’in Le, who became separated from his outfit and came home. He said that he saw you get killed while crossing the great Snow Mountains and Grasslands. Many people urged Shu-lan to remarry, and Hsing-wang agreed with them. I thought that if she were with Hsing-wang she would still be in your family, and it would still be the same people. At first Shu-lan wasn’t willing. Afterwards, I had to come and urge her before she consented.
MA HSING-KUO Shu-lan has done nothing wrong to me or my family. If there’s any blame, I should take it for being very irresponsible toward Shu-lan and my family.
WAN PAO-SHAN you can’t be blamed either. If it weren’t for you—some of you sacrificed your families, some of you sacrificed your lives—how could there be a today for us? (To SHU-LAN SHU-LAN) Has Hsing-kuo eaten yet?
T’UNG SHU-LAN Ah, you see I’ve been talking so much. I even forgot to fix dinner ... (Exits)
MA HSING-KUO I’m not hungry ...
WAN PAO-SHAN Hsing-kuo, come here and let me take a good look at you. You have aged a lot, son, and gotten thinner. What’s this?
MA HSING-KUO A wound.
WAN PAO-SHAN Has it healed completely?
MA HSING-KUO Completely.
WAN PAO-SHAN Son, you soldiers suffered a lot away from home!
MA HSING-KUO Didn’t you often say that revolutions start with suffering but end in happiness?
WAN PAO-SHAN YOU still remember that. I also remember what you said when you were leaving: “I’m determined to fight to the finish for the revolution. If the revolution doesn’t succeed, I won’t be back.” You are quite a man; you kept your word. You really didn’t come home until the revolution succeeded!
MA HSING-KUO Old Chairman ...
WAN PAO-SHAN NOW I’m not the chairman of the village soviet anymore. I ’m the village head.
MA HSING-KUO It doesn’t make any difference whether you’re called Old Chairman or Old Village Head. After all, you’ve been taking care of this area for the past twenty years. (Takes a letter of introduction out of his backpack) Here, according to the regulations, is my letter of introduction for my rehabilitation.
WAN PAO-SHAN Don’t you think I can recognize you without any letter of introduction?
MA HSING-KUO It’s not that, Old Chairman. When I joined the Red Army, it was you who gave me a letter of introduction. Now that I’ve come back from the army, I’m giving you another letter of introduction. That’s leaving with everything in good order, and returning with everything in good order.
WAN PAO-SHAN you are the only one of the soldiers I was responsible for who had a round trip ticket! (Reads the letter) Hsing-kuo, it says in the letter that you were wounded seven times, and your health is not very good. Now that you’ve come home, your duty, I’m afraid, will be to take care of your health first!
MA HSING-KUO NO, I can still work. I started out as a hired hand, and even though I haven’t been doing it for such a long time I can still do some work in the fields.
WAN PAO-SHAN YOU fought for the people for twenty years and your health isn’t good. It’s not too much for you to rest for a while. The people can afford to take care of you!
MA HSING-KUO Old Village Head, if I had wanted to rest, I wouldn’t have come back from Yenan. If I didn’t do any work all day and just let our country take care of me, I’d get sick no matter how healthy I was.
WAN PAO-SHAN Although land reform has been carried out here, there was too much destruction during the war, and in this short time we haven’t been able to recover. We’ve got only a few people, but lots of rocky hills on our land. Life is still very hard now!
MA HSING-KUO I didn’t come back just to enjoy myself. There are still things I want to talk over with the county leaders. This letter of introduction is written to the county too. Do you think I should also make a trip to the county office?
WAN PAO-SHAN you don’t need to go. Just let us make contact and that’ll do. (Reads the letter) Oh, Hsing-kuo, so you were a Red Army regimental commander too! That’s not a low rank either.
MA HSING-KUO Old Chairman, from now on, please don’t ever tell anyone that I was a regimental commander.
WAN PAO-SHAN This isn’t a fake credential. It’s a national rank. You earned it with your heroic, life-and-death exploits. Why can’t I talk about it?
MA HSING-KUO What’s the point talking about being a regimental commander? I haven’t had a hoe in my hand for so many years. When I try to be a peasant again, I won’t be as good as other people. And there are also a lot of new cadres here. If you tell other people, they’ll think I’m showing off my old rank. It gets in the way of our work.
WAN PAO-SHAN Okay, we’ll keep it a secret for the time being, but when it’s necessary, we’ll announce it.
MA HSING-KUO This also involves my transfer to the Party unit here. When I go to the county to clear up my transfer, I will discuss my work assignment.
WAN PAO-SHAN Why worry about work? I’ve already arranged work for you. Why should it be a problem?
MA HSING-KUO, NO Old Chairman, I still do have problems.
T’UNG SHU-LAN (Enters) Dinner’s ready. How about if I serve it out here? Why don’t you have a snack here too, Old Village Head.
MA HSING-KUO Let’s eat in the kitchen.
WAN PAO-SHAN I’ve already eaten. Let’s talk while we eat. (The three of them exit together. After a while
HSIAO-SAN and his mother, HSIAO-SAN NIANG,* enter)
HSIAO-SAN NIANG YOU saw an old Red Army soldier come here?
HSIAO-SAN Um hm, he asked me the way and said he was coming back here.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG Well, where is he? Hey, Shu-lan!
T’UNG SHU-LAN (Enters) Oh, Auntie, how come you have time to drop by?
HSIAO-SAN NIANG Who has time to drop by for a visit? It’s because I heard Hsiao-san say that an old Red Army soldier had come here, and I figured Hsing-kuo must have come back.
T’UNG SHU-LAN Hsing-kuo has come back.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG My God! Has Hsing-kuo really come back? It’s really because Hsing-kuo’s father was good to people all his life—he earned something for his children. Look! Hsing-kuo was gone for twenty years, but he finally came back.
T’UNG SHU-LAN YOU very seldom come here, Auntie. Come in and sit down for a while.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG All right. Hsiao-san, you take the ox home and then come back here! (Hsiao-san answers promptly, then exits)
HSIAO-SAN NIANG I’ve come to inquire about the whereabouts of my brother, Ta-han. Didn’t they join the Red Army together?
T’UNG SHU-LAN Auntie, didn’t you find out a long time ago that Ta-han was dead? There was even a death certificate, and you’ve already received a survivor’s pension.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG no, it’s not that, Shu-lan. These reports are wrong as often as they’re right. It’s much more reliable to ask the people who left with them. Maybe my Ta-han is still alive! People used to say that Hsing-kuo was dead, and yet he has come back. Oh, Shu-lan, you don’t know, but I dreamed last night that Ta-han came back, and today Hsing-kuo’s come back. Perhaps this omen was fulfilled through him.
T’UNG SHU-LAN Hsing-kuo is eating. You can ask him later. Where is Uncle? Is he home?
HSIAO-SAN NIANG He’s at home. He spends all day getting mad at people. Ah, Shu-lan, there’s one thing I want to ask of you. Could Hsing-wang give us a few more days on that debt of ours? We don’t even have food to eat. How can we pay you back?
T’UNG SHU-LAN What debt?
HSIAO-SAN NIANG Ta Lao-niu borrowed five pecks of grain from Hsing-wang. By now the principal plus the interest amount to one picul ...
CHIN PAO (Enters carrying rice) Auntie Shu-lan, I heard that Uncle Hsing-kuo has come back. The village government sent me to deliver twenty catties of rice.
T’UNG SHU-LAN We don’t need it. We have rice.
CHIN PAO Don’t refuse. To look after demobilized soldiers is also the responsibility of our village government.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG Shu-lan, did Brother Hsing-kuo bring anything back with him?
T’UNG SHU-LAN (Pointing at a backpack) Right here.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG He didn’t bring back much stuff, but maybe he brought back a lot of money.
T’UNG SHU-LAN I didn’t ask.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG Just think he’s been gone fighting for the revolution for twenty years. He should be an officer of some rank or other. How come he didn’t come back on horseback or in a car? I heard Hsiao-san say that he came back on foot.
CHIN PAO You’re behind the times. Nowadays officers can’t show off like that anymore. They are called the people’s orderlies.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG Hm, that sounds good, but I ’ve never seen an officer work the fields.
CHAO TA-K’UEI ( Swaggers in and says in a loud voice) Shu-lan, I heard that an old Red Army soldier came to your place ... (Sees CHIN-PAO CHIN-PAO) You’re really diligent, Sonny, when it comes to visiting your mother-in-law!
CHIN PAO Chao Ta-k’uei, what are you yelling about!
CHAO TA-K’UEI What? Did I say anything wrong? You’ve fallen for Hsiao-Ian, hoping that her mother will arrange things for you. It’s too bad you started too late. She’s already been spoken for.
CHIN PAO I’ve come on serious business. Next time you shoot your mouth off I won’t be so polite.
CHAO TA-K’UEI What?
T’UNG SHU-LAN [Hurries to stop them) Forget it. What’s the use of dragging all that in? Didn’t you come to see Hsing-kuo?
CHAO TA-K’UEI That’s right. Where is Hsing-kuo?
(HSING-KUO hears them and comes out. A crowd has come in from outside to watch)
MA HSING-KUO Here I am, who is it?
CHAO TA-K’UEI It’s me. You’re Hsing-kuo ...
MA HSING-KUO And you are ...
CHAO TA-K’UEI My name is Chao Ta-k’uei, and they call me Chao Tzu-lung.*
WAN PAO-SHAN He’s from Ta-k’uei’s family. We used to call him Little Iron Pillar.
MA HSING-KUO Oh, Ta-k’uei, so you’ve been demobilized and come home too?
CHAO TA-K’UEI Yes, I’ve come back a veteran, but I left one of my legs at the front. They said I was supposed to come back to recuperate. Recuperate, my ass! Every day they make you angry. This village government doesn’t take good enough care of demobilized soldiers!
CHIN PAO Ta-k’uei, what do you mean the village government doesn’t take good enough care of demobilized soldiers! There’s the disabled veteran’s pension, help for plowing, new houses, what more could you want?
CHAO TA-K’UEI SO what? Goddamnit, we fought for our country and shed our blood. After we come back, just to get a bite to eat they make you feel like you are freeloading from them. And we have to take the nasty looks from these young kids too. What are you so smart about? Where were you when I was fighting for the revolution?
CHIN PAO Don’t try to pull any weight. There are people here with higher seniority than yours.
CHAO TA-K’UEI It’s good that you came back, Hsing-kuo, you old Red Army soldier. Now we demobilized soldiers can stick together and stand up straight. But you have to be psychologically prepared. That village government gang are like temple bells. If you don’t hit them they won’t ring.
MA HSING-KUO I don’t have any problems to bother the government with.
CHAO TA-K’UEI That’s great, they’re only afraid of problems. You’ve been in the army for more than twenty years. What rank are you?
MA HSING-KUO I don’t have any rank. I ’m an old footsoldier.
CHAO TA-K’UEI Ha, we don’t want to ride on your coattails. You’re still an old footsoldier after twenty years? You can’t fool me.
MA HSING-KUO Ask Old Village Head, it says so on the demobilization certificate.
CHAO TA-K’UEI Oh, that’s right! How about it, old Village Head?
WAN PAO-SHAN Uh ...
CHAO TA-K’UEI Boy, I tell you, in this place people really care about these things. They’re not willing to listen to what a footsoldier has to say. They don’t even care much about what a former lieutenant like me says. (The crowd of people chimes in with “Big Brother has come back!” or “Uncle has come back!” Some of them have brought pickled vegetables, some, firewood, and some, rice puffs. People all exchange greetings with each other)
MA HSING-KUO (Sees a young woman holding a child) What family is that young woman from?
WAN PAO-SHAN She’s the third daughter of your next-door neighbor, Lao-chiu. When you left she was just a little taller than a table. Now this third daughter is already holding her own third daughter in her arms.
MA HSING-KUO SO fast. And Lao-chiu?
SOMEONE IN THE CROWD He was burned to death on the Wan-tzu Mountain.
WAN PAO-SHAN Ah, when the Kuomintang burned the Wan-tzu Mountain that time, twenty thousand of our people were burned to death all at once.
MA HSING-KUO What family is this child from?
T’UNG SHU-LAN This child is pitiable. His father, Ma Hsing-ch’u ...
MA HSING-KUO Is that the Ma Hsing-ch’u from the east side of the village, that simple fellow who could only kneel down and kowtow when he couldn’t pay rent to Er Lao-yeh?
T’UNG SHU-LAN Yes, that’s the one. He was grabbed and taken away by the Kuomintang soldiers, and he has never come back. When the child’s mother remarried, the child was left alone. He now lives with his uncle, but his uncle has no food even for himself.
MA HSING-KUO What a shame! This place of ours was so ravaged by the Kuomintang!
WAN PAO-SHAN In our village, several hundred families were wiped out and their homes destroyed! In a gulch a little way from here, not a single person or chimney was left in the whole village.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG Brother Hsing-kuo, do you still remember me?
MA HSING-KUO Aren’t you Ta Lao-niu’s wife? Yes, I remember. Didn’t Ta-han and I join the army together?
HSIAO-SAN NIANG Yes, all you soldiers have come back. Only our Ta-han hasn’t come home. I’ve come to ask you if you know where he is.
MA HSING-KUO We were together when we first joined the army. Later we were transferred to different places. Ta-han went to the Plainclothes Division. He was very clever. The army announced a citation for him.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG And then?
MA HSING-KUO After that we never saw each other again. Didn’t he ever write?
HSIAO-SAN NIANG No he didn’t. They said he ... (Starts to cry)
MA HSING-KUO YOU should still try to find out about him. Perhaps you moved and the letters never reached you.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG Some people said that they saw him killed. Oh, Ta-han, my life is so bitter. All the people who went with you have come back. Where are you? (The more she cries, the sadder she becomes)
TA LAO-NIU ( Calling from offstage) Hsiao-san Niang, Hsiao-san Niang, where the hell are you?
(HSIAO-SAN NIANG is crying sadly and doesn’t hear him)
TA LAO-NIU Goddamnit, where did that bitch go? Hsiao-san Niang!
SOMEONE IN THE CROWD Ta Lao-niu, your wife is here.
T’UNG SHU-LAN Auntie, Uncle is calling you.
TA LAO-NIU Did you sell your goddamn ears to a lunch meat counter? I’ve been calling you like crazy and you didn’t even hear.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG Brother Hsing-kuo has come back and I came to ask him something ...
TA LAO-NIU You ran over here to watch the excitement instead of cooking dinner. I called you but you didn’t even answer.
HSIAO-SAN NIANG I didn’t hear you ...
TA LAO-NIU So you even talk back to me. (Goes up to her and slaps her face) You’re still arguing, still won’t go home to cook dinner!
HSIAO-SAN NIANG You want me to cook dinner. How could I cook dinner when there’s nothing to cook? You get me some rice and I’ll cook it.
TA LAO-NIU You bitch! You’re making me lose face here. You’re asking me for rice here. Fine, I’ll give it to you. (Picks up a stool, about to hit her)
HSIAO-SAN NIANG You want to hit me! You can’t afford to feed your wife and children, yet you still care about face! You’re afraid of losing face, but I’m not. I’ve lived long enough. I would rather die and go with Ta-han ...
TA LAO-NIU Goddamn you, you’re still shooting your mouth off ! You think I’m afraid to hit you. (Before the crowd can stop TA LAO-NIU, the stool comes down on HSIAO-SAN NIANG’S head and blood flows)
MA HSING-KUO Uncle Lao-niu, what’s the matter with you? How could you hit her so hard? (Calls SHU-LAN SHU-LAN) Hurry, get some incense ashes and some clean cloth. (The crowd helps HSIAO-SAN NIANG to exit)
WAN PAO-SHAN You were wrong to do that, Ta Lao-niu.
TA LAO-NIU I know I was wrong. If you think I should be beaten or punished or thrown in jail, Village Head, I’ll accept it. This life isn’t really worth living.
MA HSING-KUO How can you talk like that, Uncle Lao-niu? Life nowadays is at least much better than before ...
TA LAO-NIU Things are getting better for other people. I’m the only one with bad luck. What little grain I harvest isn’t enough to pay back my debts.
MA HSING-KUO How come you have so many debts?
TA LAO-NIU I haven’t had much luck. The year before last my ox died. Last year Hsiao-san Niang was bedridden for half a year. I alone couldn’t keep the whole family alive even if I worked myself to death!
MA HSING-KUO Say, Uncle Lao-niu, here are twenty catties of rice. Go ahead and take it.
TA LAO-NIU I don’t want it ...
MA HSING-KUO We’re all brothers. Why should you turn it down?
TA LAO-NIU I can’t afford to take it. I ’ve got debts coming out of my ears that I haven’t paid back yet!
MA HSING-KUO If you haven’t got anything to pay back with, don’t pay then.
TA LAO-NIU Don’t pay? If they didn’t ask so much interest ...
MA HSING-KUO Interest? How much interest did they ask?
TA LAO-NIU It’s hard to be exact. Anyway, it’s like a rolling jackass, you pay a picul on five pecks.
MA HSING-KUO Oh! So such things are still going on.... Go ahead, Uncle, take this rice. You don’t have to pay back anything, principal or interest.
TA LAO-NIU I don’t dare to take things from your family. Once it’s eaten, my back’ll be up against the wall. (To HSIAO-SAN NIANG and HSIAO-SAN) GO on, get a move on. Go home! both of you! (Exits angrily) (HSIAO-SAN NIANG and HSIAO-SAN exit together with him)
MA HSING-KUO (Not understanding) What was that all about?
WAN PAO-SHAN Ta Lao-niu is throwing another one of his big temper tantrums. Let me go and see. (Exits, following the trio)
HSIAO-LAN (Shoulders her way through the crowd) Mother, they say that Uncle has come back.
T’UNG SHU-LAN That’s right. Come and meet him.
HSIAO-LAN Uncle.
MA HSING-KUO (Joyfully) What a nice girl. (Takes her hand) How old are you?
HSIAO-LAN Sixteen.
TUNG SHU-LAN This child is pitiable too. When she was eight years old, she was sent away as a child-bride.
A WOMAN Sun Er-niang is known to be very harsh. Since this child has survived for eight years under her thumb, she really has come a long way.
MA HSING-KUO HOW does your mother-in-law treat you?
HSIAO-LAN (Doesn ‘t answer. Tears well up in her eyes) Mother! (Clings to her mother, crying)
T’UNG SHU-LAN What is it, child? Have you been beaten again?
HSIAO-LAN She scolded me, scolded me really cruelly.
T’UNG SHU-LAN She scolded you for no reason?
HSIAO-LAN She saw Chin Pao carrying firewood for me and then scolded me I’m not going back to her family again, Mother.
T’UNG SHU-LAN There you go again, child. Your father won’t allow it. We don’t have enough to eat ourselves ...
HSIAO-LAN I can work now ...
T’UNG SHU-LAN For these seven or eight years, you’ve eaten their food and worn their clothes and your father has used their money ...
ER-MAN (From offstage) Hsiao-lan, Hsiao-lan.
HSIAO-LAN [Hides behind SHU-LAN) He’s here again, like someone calling a ghost back.
ER-MAN I see you. There’s no use hiding. Mother wants you to come back.
HSIAO-LAN I’m not going back.
ER-MAN Mother wants you to come back right now!
HSIAO-LAN I still won’t go!
ER-MAN All right, if you won’t listen to me, I’ll go get Mother! Oh, Mother’s coming. (Exits)
HSIAO-LAN Mother.
T’UNG SHU-LAN go on, child, you belong to them anyway.
A WOMAN This child is pitiable. I wonder how many times she has been beaten.
SUN ER-NIANG (Enters yelling) Hsiao-lan, Hsiao-lan! (HSIAO-LAN hears her and begins to tremble in fear)
SUN ER-NIANG What airs you’re putting on! I sent someone to ask you to come back, and you wouldn’t! All right, Hsiao-lan, I called you and you didn’t answer. Your wings are getting stronger and you want to fly away, but it’s not that easy. Even if I had raised a dog, it would still have to guard the house, Hsiao-lan ...
MA HSING-KUO (Goes up to her) Sister-in-law.
SUN ER-NIANG so, who’s this? Are you Brother Hsing-kuo? My God, you’ve been gone for ten or twenty years. You must have come back all loaded now! Come to think of it, we really have made a good match. From now on it’ll be up to you to look after us a bit better ...
MA HSING-KUO Sister-in-law, since I left my family has gotten a lot of help from you.
SUN ER-NIANG Don’t mention it. From now on my family will be like a bald head following the moonlight, basking in your glory. Hsing-wang has a good head on his shoulders and he’s skillful. He’s really good at thinking of ways to get rich. Now with your influence, your family will really be rich and influential.
MA HSING-KUO You’ve made a mistake about us, Er-niang. If we had money or influence, would we give a daughter away as a child-bride to another family?
SUN ER-NIANG That was a long time ago! At that time, even though we say Hsiao-lan was given to our family as a child-bride, in fact she’s just like my own daughter. I’ve never so much as laid a finger on her. That child was spoiled in her own family and has a bad temper. Even I have to put up with her a lot! Well, now that the country is liberated, we shouldn’t be talking about getting child-brides. What they talk about is the equality of men and women!
MA HSING-KUO [Not knowing what to say) I’ve just come home today and I would like to have Hsiao-lan back to help. I’ll send her back tomorrow.
SUN ER-NIANG Of course that’s all right. Her uncle has come back. Naturally she should come home to see her uncle. But you also know that our family is short-handed. I can’t get by by myself. I can’t spare her for a single day. You know, our water jars are still empty. I would like to have her go home to carry two loads of water. She’ll come back again tomorrow to see her uncle. (She tugs HSIAO-LAN when she hnishes talking) Let’s go, Hsiao-lan [About to leave) I’m really sorry, Brother Hsing-kuo. (Pulls HSIAO-LAN HSIAO-LAN out the door) You shouldn’t think that because your uncle has come back, you can rely on his official position. Ha, if the King of Heaven himself came I wouldn’t be afraid.
(The sound of SUN ER-NIANG’ scolding and HSIAO-LAN’S crying gradually fades away. The crowd discusses the matter among themselves. HSING-KUO remains silent, lost in thought. Little by little the people in the crowd take their leave. In a moment, HSING-WANG bursts in)
MA HSING-WANG Big Brother, you’ve come back.
MA HSING-KUO Hsing-wang! (The two brothers shake hands warmly) How have you been doing all these years?
MA HSING-WANG Where should I start?
MA HSING-KUO Come and sit down. Let’s have a good talk. (To SHU-LAN) you come and sit down too, Shu-lan. The whole family ... (The curtain falls)
[The next scene, a few hours later, seesMA HSING-KUO in the same room, unable to sleep, trying to decide if he should leave.T’UNG SHU-LAN comes out of the bedroom with a quilt to make him more comfortable. Back in the bedroom she has a bad fight withHSING-WANG. HSING-KUO, after a long discussion, hands all his discharge pay to his brother to help him start all over again, clean. Still unable to sleep,MA is joined by the old village head, whose mind is also troubled by the Ma family affair. He persuades HSING-KUO to move to the village office and start working hard for the village.
Act Two takes place about two weeks later in the village office. The season is winter. The villagers gossip, suspecting MA HSING-KUO to have been a failure in the Army, perhaps even a deserter. The old village head is forced to tell them the truth, which surprises and awes them. MA HSING-KUO has been working hard to organize the village into an agricultural cooperative. With varying degrees of enthusiasm they all join except MA HSING-WANG. Tension continues among the trio of the Ma family. MA HSING-KUO catches his brother trying to collect usurious debts from TA LAO-NIU.
Three years later, on the threshing ground, the younger cooperative members are harvesting with zeal.SUN ER-NIANG, the cruel mother-in-law, scolds the child-bride again for her contact with CHIN PAO, the good young lad.SUN wants to cut wheat for herself, quarrels with MA HSING-KUO, and is finally criticized at a mass meeting. HSING-WANG is bailed out of jail by the village head after a term served for his usurious and blackmarket activities.HSING-KUO wants his brother to make a clean breast in the evening meeting and start afresh as a new man.
Three more months have passed. The final act returns to HSING-WANG’S house, as in Act One. The two villains seen at the beginning of the play, TIAO and HSING-WANG, plot to burn the harvest and killMA HSING-KUO. In the confusion of a roaring fireHSING-WANG is shot to death and SHU-LAN is injured.
The Epilogue takes place on the mountain trail—the same setting as the Prologue. Spring has painted joyful colors over the bad memory of the fire and violence.SHU-LAN’S wound has healed; she supports her daughter’s freedom of marriage.MA HSING-KUO, now a national labor hero, is leading the village ahead toward communization and modernization. Word begins to spread that he andT’UNG SHU-LAN should effect a reunion.]
Translated by the Seminar on
Contemporary Chinese Literature, Indiana University,
under the supervision of Prof. Leo Ou-fan Lee
(John Coleman, Lawrence Herzberg, Kenneth Koziol,
Gloria Shen, Eugene Teng, Ling-hsia Y eh, Jennie Chao)
Born to a family of grade-school teachers in Wan-jung, southwest Shansi Province, near the Shensi border, Wang Wen-shih spent his childhood in villages and small towns until the outbreak of the war against Japan, which thrust him into a life with the various resistance groups fighting behind enemy lines. He became active in youth organizations in North China. By 1938 he began his work and study at a middle school in Sian, where he joined the Communist Party.
His literary activities started upon his arrival in Yenan in 1942. He took part in cultural work troupes, staging folk drama and educating the peasantry in the land reform program.
Following the liberation in 1949, he served on editorial posts and worked for the association of Chinese writers in the north. His short stories won prompt recognition for his fine craftsmanship and his ability to capture the personalities and scenes of the tumultuous 1950s. A collection of these stories, The Night of the Snowstorms, was published in 1958. His novel, Black Phoenix, appeared in 1964.
Since 1953 he has been working at the county Party branch level in Shensi Province. There was no word about his involvement in the Cultural Revolution, though he published little in the late 1960s. In May 1978, he appeared at the third session of the Third Congress, All-China Federation of Literary and Art Circles, held in Peking. —K.Y.H.
The New Production
Brigade Leader
Late at night, when cackling hens were at roost and people normally would be sound asleep, not a single soul was in bed in the secluded village of Yen-chiat’an. If you walked through the village now, you would hear excited whispers in the dark, where only lit cigarettes blinked. People were moving about and the noise of doors opening and shutting never ceased.
For ten days Yen-chia-t’an had been wrapped in the excitement created by the people’s struggle, which climaxed in tonight’s meeting. Yen Shu-p’ing, secretary of the Party branch and production brigade leader, had just been removed from his office and asked to prepare a full self-criticism. Yen San, who had been under the newly deposed Party branch secretary’s pressure, was going to take over both positions. The whole village was in an uproar.
Under a persimmon tree near the edge of a cliff behind the village, two men stood shoulder to shoulder, scanning all the houses in the village below. One of them was the secretary of the commune Party committee, Lu Chiao, an able and determined man who organized the movement; the other was Yen San, a mild-mannered and simple farmer who used to be in charge of feeding the commune animals, and a member of the production brigade committee who originated the movement. Two weeks ago when he sent a brief report of accusation to the commune Party committee, it had never occurred to him that the thing would blow up so big.
For a long time Yen Shun-p’ing and his clique, under the manipulation of Yen Tzu-yü, who really controlled the village, had taken advantage of other commune members and embezzled commune funds. More recently they built for their selfish interest a so-called cadre mess hall without the commune Party committee’s knowledge; they kept the best food to themselves. In production, they pushed the individual contract system against the collectivization movement, which led many commune members to revert to their capitalist frame of mind, all bent on doing some market speculating to get rich quick. Nobody bothered about the collectivized fields, even when the weeds there had grown taller than the planted crop. Yen Tzu-yü and his gang didn’t stop at that; they further planned to assign the draft animals and tools permanently to the members’ households, thus virtually splitting up the commune. It was the same night when the rascals were in the commune’s stable discussing how to assign the animals that the animal feeder, Yen San, got desperate and spoke up to stop them. He had never practiced arguing with anybody. When he realized that he could not out-talk those guys, he and several of his fellow animal feeders grabbed the heavy sticks used for mixing the feed and stood ready to let the rascals have it. The rascals backed down and left. The next day the whole brigade found out about the incident. Many brigade members, worried about Yen San, dropped over to warn Yen San to be patient. Yen San said, “Okay, I’ve done it! So what?” Others in agreement with Yen San discussed it with him and whipped up a report to the commune Party committee secretary, requesting intervention. Right on the same day Party Committee Secretary Lu Chiao himself came down.
A man of action, resolute in making decisions, Lu Chiao had been studying the Yen-chia-t’an situation for some time already. He had talked about it before in standing committee meetings and all had felt that something had to be done about it. He postponed action only because he had not spotted the right person to carry it out, but he had been hoping for someone among the local poor peasants to emerge. The moment Yen San’s report reached Lu, he didn’t even take time to read it through. His assistant’s oral summary of the case was enough to send him into action. Jumping off his chair he said, “Yen San, that’s excellent, just perfect! Here’s the man I’ve been waiting for! Yen-chia-t’an will soon shed its label of a backward village.” He called the courier, Little Wu. “Hurry, get my bike. Pump up both tires!” Yen San in sending his report had only hoped for the commune Party secretary to arbitrate and stop the Yen Tzu-yü gang from perpetrating their misdeeds. Yen San never thought that Secretary Lu had understood the situation so thoroughly and made up his mind so firmly that a big revolution seemed to be descending upon the village. The shake-up campaign developed, and Yen San found himself swept into the surging waves of reform. Like a nonswimmer, he soon realized his own strength, because he had such a powerful coach, Secretary Lu, leading him on by the hand.
“Secretary Lu,” Yen San said, “do you see what I see?” He pointed at several courtyards, all pitch-dark.
“What are you looking at?” Lu said, without paying much attention.
“You see there, the whole village is wide awake, only those houses of theirs have no lights!”
“They worked the whole day,” Lu said, faking indifference. “And they were at the meeting the whole evening. Tomorrow is another working day. They should use this chance to catch some sleep.”
“You think they can fall asleep?” Yen San said.
Lu said, with a wry smile, “They probably can’t. They aren’t having too good a time.”
“That’s right! Their houses are dark. Some kind of a ghost is walking there,” said Yen San.
Are you afraid of ghosts?” said Lu. Yen San kept his naïve smile as his answer. “Why should living people fear ghosts? It’s the ghosts that are afraid of living people,” said Lu. “You need not be scared by them.”
“No, I’m not scared.”
“But only half an hour ago you begged me to let you off and find someone else to head up the brigade!” said Lu.
“I’ve been handling animals all my life. That’s cutting feed and cleaning the stables. I’ve never been in charge of the whole business of agricultural production, Secretary Lu.”
“You mustn’t put it that way,” said Lu. “You took the initiative in reporting their funny business of individual-contract production to the Party Committee.”
“Right, I did.”
“That proves you are one hundred times better than Yen Shun-p’ing!” Lu’s tone was earnest. “You understand perfectly what socialist production is and what capitalist production is. Yen Shun-p’ing hasn’t even begun to see these things!”
“But Shun-p’ing has been following the others’ advice,” said Yen San.
“This damn Yen Shun-p’ing!” The mention of him made Lu so angry that he had to pause a moment before continuing. “The Yen Tzu-yü’s and the Yen Tzu-ts’ai’s ... are all really nothing much! The way to handle them is: one, don’t be afraid of them, and two, be firm and strict with them. The rest will be easy. Now, you are the brigade leader; as long as you know how to exercise your power in dealing with those devils, there will be no problem!”
The energetic and enthusiastic Lu Chiao talked on as Yen San listened quietly. Each word reached Yen San’s heart, making him burn with zeal. Just before Lu left him, he asked, “Are you coming back tomorrow?”
“The meeting will last two days. I’ll try to be back in the evening the day after tomorrow.... You go ahead and handle the situation. Don’t lose your courage and don’t waver, you must remember!”
“Yes, I’ll remember,” Yen San said with confidence.
They were leaving, but a dark shadow suddenly appeared on the hillside running toward them. They halted their steps. Yen San shouted, “Who’s there?”
“Me, it’s me!”
“Is it a ghost?” Lu Chiao whispered, tugging Yen San’s jacket.
“He’s got something like a ghost about him,” Yen San whispered back. “He sticks to you whenever you give him a chance, and he won’t let you go.”
“In that case,” said Lu, “I’d better go. I’m not afraid of vicious ghosts, but the kind that hangs on you is quite another matter.”
The dark shadow arrived before Yen San. It was Yen Chung-ho, about fifty, equipped with a sharp tongue that could turn black into white, and a sharp nose that stuck itself into anything of interest to him. He had been causing as much trouble as he’d helped to settle.
“How nice to be standing here doing nothing!” Yen Chung-ho said. “I looked all over for you.”
“Looking for me?”
“Old San,” said Yen Chung-ho, “let’s go and have a seat at my house.”
“Why go anywhere and have a seat at this time of the day? You should be in bed.”
“You yourself have chosen good hours to sleep, apparently,” Yen Chung-ho said. “Let’s go, they all have been waiting for you.”
“Waiting for me?”
“Who else? You are the principal party.” Yen Chung-ho said.
Yen San didn’t really care to go, but since the opponents had set up a challenge, his refusal would look cowardly. If he agreed to go, it would seem a bit humiliating. “You go ahead,” he said. “If I feel like it, I’ll join you later.”
Yen Chung-ho left. Yen San purposely delayed awhile before walking down the hill. At the corner of the alley he ran into a group of people with lanterns and torches led by militia captain Yen Yung, around twenty-seven, a husky fellow with broad shoulders and big hands who had won a second-class citation as a demolition expert in the Korean War. He walked up to Yen San and said, “After the meeting, none of us wanted to go to bed. We talked about launching a night attack to deliver manure to the field, as a token of our support for you. Third Brother, you do a good job, you must!”
“Yes, we must!” Yen San seized Yen Yung’s big hand. The sight of all those people there, with rakes, hoes and baskets and wheelbarrows ready for action, gave him much assurance. In their lantern light he saw the clear-featured, alert Yen Chao, now in charge of the public security committee; Yen Hsiu-o, a roofer’s daughter, secretary of the Communist Youth Corps; several sturdy-hearted members of the Party branch committee and of the brigade committee. A few production team leaders were also there. “Come with me,” Yen San said to them. “Let’s go over there and talk a minute.”
They went over to the big tree on the threshing ground. Yen San said, “It’s this: Yen Chung-ho, that tricky devil, insisted that I go to his house. I thought that Yen Tzu-yü and his gang must have set up a confrontation for me. What do you say? Should I go or not?”
“Go, what are we afraid of?” the crowd said.
“Will it be all right?”
“It’ll be all right,” the crowd said.
“Then I can go?”
“Of course!”
“Fine, I’m going now!” said Yen San.
Yen Yung said, “Do you want me to post a few men at his door?”
“Shucks!” Yen San said, “we don’t need that.”
“Then let me stick around just in case,” offered Yen Chao, head of the security committee.
Yen San thought it over for a moment, then said, “That won’t be necessary either.”
II
Yen Chung-ho and Yen Tzu-yü were neighbors. The adobe wall between their houses, taken down as topsoil for the fields last spring, had not been rebuilt yet. Lamp light and whispered conversation issued from the cracks in the closed door and windows of Yen Tzu-yü’s house.
In Yen Chung-ho’s main room, rather bright light shone on an old square dining table against the center of the back wall. Steam rose from tea wares, and tobacco was displayed on the table. Yen Tzu-yü and his gang were absent, only three old fellows from the village, known for their usual roles as mediators, sat around the table helping themselves to the amenities. One stood up to greet Yen San with respect, while another, claiming his status as a village elder, scolded Yen San for being a snob, now that he would refuse to come even upon an invitation. Yen San only smiled. He sat down next to the lamp, declined the tea and tobacco offered him, and bluntly asked Yen Chung-ho, “Where are your men? Who else are involved?”
“No one else,” said Yen Chung-ho.
“Just these several uncles?”
“Yes, yes!”
Yen San cast a curious glance at the oldsters and shouted, his face straight, “What are you doing here?”
Like a bucket of cold water Yen San’s words descended upon the oldsters, instantly silencing them. They thought to themselves: Just overnight Yen San has become a different man! What they had prepared to say was geared to the Yen San of yesterday.
In fact Yen San had not changed much in the last several days. He remained a sturdy fellow of medium height, with a bony head that resembled a raw chunk of dark brown iron ore. His face was dominated by the same knobby nose and thick lips, except that it seemed to radiate a newly acquired dignity. An alert, challenging light had been added to his usually smiling eyes. He sat there, calm as always, and yet in that calmness the people around him now sensed an aura of majesty. All this stunned his inquisitors, who thought in unison, “How come such a hired hand, who, for all his years of toil, never earned even the position of a foreman, who buried himself in the stable all year long, having nothing to say to anybody except his animals, suddenly rose and ascended the peak of the village’s power structure—how come he could look with authority straight into the eyes of his opponents?”
Yen San was sizing up his opponents. He had prepared to encounter some tough ones there who had the powerline of the village in their hands. He had not expected to find only several poor and lower-middle old peasants there. One of them, Uncle Chi-mao, actually was one of those who had urged Yen San to fire off that explosive report. Yen San thought, “The Yen Tzu-yü gang’s really full of devils! They thought they could send this team of poor peasants to march off against me as their vanguard. Fine,” he said to himself, “since these dim-witted old fellows are here to talk with me, they must be on Yen Tzu-yü’s side. I’d like to see what they have to say.” Yen San dug out his own tobacco and started to smoke without saying another word.
The old fellows saw that Yen San refused to accept Yen Chung-ho’s tea or tobacco and looked not at all conciliatory; they didn’t know how to break the ice. They started gossiping about their neighbors, about this woman’s short hair and that woman’s patched pants ... for a long time they just couldn’t bring the topic anywhere close to their main business. Even Yen Chung-ho didn’t know how to prompt them.
Yen San got impatient waiting for them to begin. He changed his tactics to seize the initiative. With a smile on his face he said, “Well, uncles, you people got me here just to listen to your gossip about our neighbor’s dirty linen?”
Another shocked silence.
Yen San continued, “Excuse me for being a blunderbuss. Don’t you people have any shame? You smoked their tobacco, drank their tea. Judging by the spots on this table you must have also eaten their fried eggs. How come? You mean to say they spent money getting you here just to gossip about our neighbors with you?” He turned to Yen Chung-ho. “Now, Chung-ho, you tell us. Why did you get these people here? How could you let them keep on chewing the fat like this? Even I can’t help getting antsy for you!”
Yen Chung-ho’s sharp tongue failed to serve him this time. Under Yen San’s blitz attack his face turned red and he didn’t know where to put his hands or feet. “Ah, Old San,” he managed to say, “why did you put it that way? You don’t mean that I am not allowed to invite people to sit down and just chat awhile?”
The old fellows all chimed in now. “That’s it, that’s it. You’ve just been made brigade leader, and you won’t sit with the commune members just to chat awhile?”
Yen San laughed and said to Yen Chung-ho, “Chung-ho, guess you are a bit hard-pressed and you made a boo-boo. Just think, now that you have put it that way, what else can these people say besides gossiping? Just think for a moment ... don’t you wish you could take it back?”
The usually clever Yen Chung-ho certainly did not expect the usually clumsy Yen San to put him on the spot like that. What had Yen San got? Just a sense of honesty and a straightforward approach, and yet Yen Chung-ho got pinned down, couldn’t even wiggle himself out of the hole.
Yen San followed up his own salvo. “Uncles,” he said, “don’t work yourselves into a dead-end street. They asked you to say something, why don’t you people say it? I don’t have much more time to stay here with you. If I leave before you’ve said what you meant to say, what are you going to do? Would they ever again treat you to tea, tobacco, and fried eggs?” He toyed with the tobacco on the table and said, taunting them, “Ah, what nice tobacco! Nice and thick leaves, beautiful color and the aroma, oh ... what aroma! Who has saved up such nice stuff? It’s not easy to get this kind of nice tobacco to smoke. Am I right, uncles?”
Embarrassment reigned among the old fellows. They sweated in panicky silence.
After a long while, Yen Chung-ho said, “These several uncles here asked me to invite you here for a chat. Ah ... it’s all for the sake of the masses of our village. Everybody is anxious to see the present incident settled quietly, without causing any disaster for our village, without spoiling the friendship among us.”
“So, that’s what it is,” said Yen San, feigning nonchalance.
Yen Chung-ho said, “We all know, this time Secretary Lu came to our village because someone from here had sent in a report, and we’ve found out who that one was.”
Yen San laughed. “Ha, ha, you are a smart fellow,” he said. “How come this time you are so slow? You don’t have to waste time trying to find out who reported. You forgot that I said in Yen Shun-p’ing’s face at a meeting a month ago that I’d report on them.”
“That’s it,” Yen Chung-ho said. “But only now they realized that you meant it. Anyway, let’s not go into that now. Nobody is blaming you either. Let’s hope that in the future we all cooperate and won’t tear our village apart. That’s all.”
“I suppose I must thank you for your broad-minded attitude toward me,” Yen San said, laughing again. “I would like to know, though, how do you figure on settling the thing at present, and in the future how are we going to cooperate with each other?”
Yen Chung-ho said, “Everybody feels that so long as there will be no repeated offense of those charges you enumerated in your report, that should do it. Those are small matters. What’s important is to stick together in peace and harmony.”
“Peace and harmony!” Yen San repeated these two words, as though he had never heard them before in his life.
“That’s it. We are all together in a small family. If you don’t run into them in the morning, you’re bound to bump into them at night. Thank heaven that for many years there has been peace in Yen-chia-t’an. Let’s hope nothing bad will happen in the future.” Yen Chung-ho cast an apprehensive glance at Yen San before he continued. “At present, let’s all give a helping hand to Shun-p’ing to tide him over this bad spot. During your term as acting brigade leader, we all guarantee to get the job done right for you. And then when the meeting is called to criticize Yen Tzu-yü, let us not single out his name. Later, you stay on the job of deputy leader to team up with Yen Shun-p’ing in handling our village affairs. Let us always talk things over first. With Yen Tzu-yü and his people supporting you, everything will be easy for you.”
“Oh, ya!” said Yen San, as though pleasantly surprised by the great promise, “Even Yen Tzu-yü is going to give his support!”
Yen Chung-ho said, “Yen-chia-t’an has to have Yen Tzu-yü. Without him it’s like a cart without wheels. You know what he can do, don’t you?”
Now Yen San saw through his opponent’s scheme: they realized that to knock Yen San over wouldn’t be easy, so they were trying to drag Yen San over to travel along with Yen Shun-p’ing and to be under the latter’s thumb in actuality. Yen San, angered to the bursting point, maintained his composure. He turned to the old fellows. “Then you people are here to make peace, right?”
“Right, right!” they said, “Peace comes first. We all are neighbors, we’ve been for generations sleeping on both sides of the same wall, you know.”
Yen San turned to Chung-ho, “Tell me, if it is not settled the way you just suggested, something awful would surely happen?”
“Heaven forbid,” Chung-ho said with a cunning smile, “Let heaven forbid anything bad happening to our village.”
Yen San turned to the three old fellows, “Uncles, did you hear that? Something awful just might happen! Something awful, awful, uncles! You thought you were here just doing a bit of go-between, like the way we marry our daughters and sons in the village. So, you want to come here to speak for somebody! This tea and this tobacco are not easy to take. It may be easy to bite but hard to chew, you know. You’d better understand first what you are doing!” The three panicked; without knowing it they put down the tea and tobacco already in their hands.
Yen San approached a skinny old fellow. “Uncle Chi-mao,” he said, “you of all people also came here to get involved in this business? You have joined me in signing that report, you remember!” The old man named Chi-mao stared at Yen San. Yen San said, “Uncles, you tell me. You’ve come here to sit across the table from me. For whom are you speaking? Did the commune members, the masses, send you here?”
Yen San continued in this vein, alternating harsh criticism with soft persuasion, until the three old fellows lost their tongues. They blushed, their heads bent low, and did not know how they should feel about the whole thing. Yen Chung-ho saw that he wasn’t getting anywhere; he sneaked out of the room.
“You’d better go home and have a good rest, uncles!” Yen San wound up his speech with a broad grin. “If this won’t do, I’ll ask everybody at the open meeting tomorrow and see what the masses have to say to you people.”
“No, please don’t ask anything at the meeting!” the three old fellows said together. “We can only blame ourselves; we haven’t studied well these days, haven’t taken Secretary Lu’s advice to heart.” Then they proceeded to tell Yen San how Yen Chung-ho lured them there, urging them to say such-and-such. They asked Yen San to forgive them and promptly beat a retreat.
The moon had already gone down; it was all dark outside. Yen San hurried to help the old fellows get started on a safe journey home. Old Chi-mao pulled Yen San aside to whisper in his ear, “Yen San, to be honest with you, I came here hoping to settle this problem. I don’t want to see it get bigger. You know what sort of a guy Yen Tzu-yü is. Nothing is beneath him. I’m worried about you; he could get you, you know.... Even when sleeping you’d better keep one eye open, and when you go out at night, you’d better carry that thing with you!”
“Don’t worry, uncle,” said Yen San. “Don’t be scared by that devil!”
. . . . . . .
Footsteps sounded beyond the door. Several people appeared. First came a man, rather tall, sallow-skinned, with heavy eyebrows over big eyes, tall nose-bridge, a short moustache. Conceit and hypocrisy showed in his eyes; this was Yen Tzu-yü. During the land reform, he maneuvered to have himself classified as a wealthy middle-peasant. How he had managed to build a family fortune nobody knows, except that at seventeen he left home and knocked around for a long time. Everybody in the village knew about his calculating mean character and everybody stayed out of his way. This time, he had Yen Tzu-ts’ai and Yen Chung-ho with him. Bringing up the rear was Yen Shun-p’ing, his face lined with worry.
They walked into the room and sat around the table, Yen Tzu-yü facing Yen San. Yen Chung-ho busied himself with serving tea, but Yen Shun-p’ing kept his worry all to himself, shrinking behind the lamp, wordless.
Yen San took them all in with one glance and rested his eyes squarely on Yen Tzu-yü. Yen Shun-p’ing had no courage to face Yen San; he looked resentfully at Yen Tzu-yü for a brief moment and made his way to the door but was stopped by Yen Tzu-ts’ai’s tug at his jacket. Yen Tzu-yü, as though nothing bothered him at all, talked casually and laughed loudly. He cracked jokes as he lighted a cigarette for himself. But Yen San quickly saw through him; his laughter couldn’t quite cover up his worry, which actually weighed ten times more than anybody else’s. Yen Tzu-yü had been around; he had sensed Secretary Lu’s intentions, which would not stop at punishing Yen Shun-p’ing alone but would aim at a complete riddance of the power and influence of such people as Yen Tzu-yü and his gang. What lay ahead for him? How could Yen Tzu-yü avoid getting worried? Having seen through his opponent’s problems, Yen San, too, laughed.
Yen Tzu-yü raised his head. He quickly suppressed the fleeting sign of panic in his eyes with a smile. “What, Old San,” he said, “the whole village is about turned upside down, everybody is troubled, only you are having a good time, right?”
“What about you? Troubled also?” Yen San countered.
Yen Tzu-yü calmly waved his hand and said, “Forget it, Old San, we’ve had enough of this kidding. Let’s be serious. The word Yen can’t be split apart; we have all been tending one and the same ancestor’s grave. All right, let’s not talk about all that, just exactly what are you going to do?”
“What am I going to do?” said Yen San. “It doesn’t seem right to tell you about it, does it?”
“Don’t you want to settle it peaceably?” Yen Tzu-yü played with the cigarette between his fingers and said slowly, “The way I look at it, it would be best to make peace. It can only bring benefit to the revolutionary work in our village.”
“What’s that? What? Revolution, did you say?” Feeling quite amused, Yen San responded with a question.
“That’s it. The way I look at it, it would be best to settle it quietly among ourselves,” Yen Tzu-yü repeated.
“How shall we settle it? The way Chung-ho proposed?”
“No, not exactly. Chung-ho didn’t quite get it straight. We want you to be the brigade leader and we’ll support you to get the job done!”
“What else?”
“Nothing else,” said Yen Tzu-yü. “If there is one more thing, it would be that we all try to get the commune business straightened out by discussing everything together, like old friends. We don’t want to ruin the peace and harmony among us.”
“Just like this?”
“Like what?”
“You got me here. You want me to do whatever you say. You want me to go wherever you want. Then your peace and harmony won’t be ruined, right?” Yen San said; then he moved over to stand before Yen Shun-p’ing and addressed him sternly. “Shun-p’ing, to find you here is not exactly a nice thing. It makes me feel awful. What are you made of anyway—soft dough? Don’t you have a single bone left in you?” Yen Shun-p’ing shot up abruptly and dashed out, after darting a hateful glance at Yen Tzu-yü, who looked stunned.
“Tzu-yü,” Yen San turned to him, “let me ask you. Are you chairman of the commune’s Party unit? Are you representing the commune membership? Or are you a cadre with any special assignment? That’s right, you are none of these. Let me ask you, you got these people together here behind Secretary Lu’s back. Don’t you realize you are stepping way out of line when you do such things?”
“What?” said Yen Tzu-yü, his eyes popping out. “You are accusing me of ...”
“Irregularity!” said Yen San.
“Ah, Old San,” said Yen Chung-ho, trying to make peace, “you are charging other people with another offense? We are all here just for the sake of our common job; we want to exchange our views informally, that’s all.”
Yen Tzu-yü tried hard to sneer before he said, “Chung-ho, don’t worry. After all is said, Old San is still from this same village of ours. His wife and child are living here; I don’t think he wants to go too far!” He raised his eyes slowly to fix a gaze on Yen San. Lifting the corners of his mouth, he faked a confident smile. “Yen San,” he said, “what do you say?”
Yen San stood up. “Let’s wait and see,” he said.
Yen Tzu-yü crushed the cigarette in his hand. “Fine,” he said, his voice implying a dark threat, “I’ll be waiting for you. I say, Old San, you’d better weigh the alternatives, you still have a little time left.”
Yen San turned his head back in time to catch the undisguised look of hatred in Yen Tzu-yü’s eyes. He snorted contemptuously and strode out
III
. . . The gong for breakfast had been struck; many commune members had started walking back toward the village. Yen San, engrossed in his job of spreading manure, had only two or three piles left. Suddenly Yen Hsiu-o, secretary of the Communist Youth Corps, ran breathlessly toward him from the west side of the village. Her shrill voice screamed in the air, calling, “Third Uncle! Your Kang-wa fell into the well! Third Uncle! Your Kang-wa ...”
Shocked, Yen San’s face turned pale. “Which well?” he shouted, dropping his shovel.
“Right near your own plot.”
As though catapulted, Yen San flew across the road and the bean patch, and like a dark rocket he shot westward. Kang-wa was his only child, also the only boy in all the four branches of his clan. That boy was the jewel of jewels to him, like the only rice sprout in the whole of a ten-acre plot of land
Yen San plunged through the wall of humanity already gathered around the scene of a near tragedy to reach the edge of the well. Kang-wa, soaked all through like a rain-drenched little sparrow, drooped in the arms of a rescuer, who was equally soaked and muddy all over. Yen San snatched up the child, holding him tightly to his bosom. His ears and head were ringing; he could only vaguely make out somebody’s voice saying to him, “Old San, don’t worry. Kang-wa’s all right. Nothing bad.”
When Yen San’s eyes slowly cleared, he noticed the child’s eyes were turning. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Where does it hurt?”
“Here,” the child pointed at his right buttock.
Yen San pulled up the child’s trousers to find a black and blue bruise. He touched it, but Kang-wa did not complain of pain. Feeling relieved, he heaved a deep sigh and started gently to rub his son. An image of a man which had been in his mind all these days surfaced: Yen Tzu-yü! Yen San looked up and scanned the crowd. In a flash his eyes engaged those of Yen Tzu-yü. This was not hallucination; that was really Yen Tzu-yü who was squatting right in front of him, in soaked clothes and with mud all over the legs. Yen San now realized that it was from Yen Tzu-yü’s arms he had taken over the nearly drowned child. People around said, “Kang-wa was rescued by Yen Yung, the security committee head, and Yen Tzu-yü.”
“Kang-wa,” Yen San asked his son, “What were you doing?”
“I was picking apples. The branch broke.”
“Ah, haven’t I told you many times? You mustn’t climb on the branch directly over the well!”
Yen Tzu-yü said, “Luckily, when the branch broke, Kang-wa grabbed onto it without letting go. The branch scraped the wall of the well and went down slowly. Otherwise just the fall would have been enough to smash him to pieces.”
Yen San stared at Yen Tzu-yü in disbelief. He couldn’t tell himself why, but he kept wondering, “It was he who saved my son?”
On his way home, Yen Tzu-yü walked behind him, carrying his plow on his shoulder. Yen Chung-ho trod by the side, mumbling, “In this area, there’s a well just about every five or ten yards, and there is the Wei River in the north. It’s too easy to lose a child.” A little later, he mumbled again, “Let’s hope there won’t be any more trouble from now on!”
Yen San turned around to look at the two. He thought: “This guy’s trying to use the accident to scare me? Sure, it’s altogether very, very possible. The two children of the Party branch secretary at Hsüeh-chia-pao village, didn’t they ...” He felt his heart had been twisted into a tight knot.
Yen San didn’t say a single word the whole morning. He just kept thinking about a way of handling this incident. Fellow commune members came in an endless procession to see him and his family, but his wife really had it bad—she kept walking out and in without knowing what she was doing.
In a little while, Yen Chao, the security committee head, and Militia Captain Yen Yung came in. Yen Chao threw a large broken tree branch on the ground. “Third Brother,” she said, “take a good look at this.” Yen San examined the branch; he discovered some ax marks where the branch broke off from the tree. “I’ve felt funny about the whole thing ever since it happened,” Yen Chao said. “Why did both branches, the one Kang-wa stepped on and the other one he held in his hands, break off at the same moment? A little child like Kang-wa could not have weighed very much.... I looked around carefully. Aiya! There were ax cuts on the branch. I brought up the one Kang-wa had grabbed onto; it was the same.”
Yen Yung said, “It must be that they had noticed Kang-wa climbing on the tree every day. It gave them a chance to plot against you, Third Brother.”
Yen San turned the ax-cut branch over and over in his hand. He repeated under his breath, “Son of a bitch, I’m going to kill him ... I’m going to kill that son of a bitch!”
Old Chi-mao hurried his way toward Yen San’s house, with a cane’s help, tumbling and tripping all the way. The moment he stepped inside the house he shouted, “Is Kang-wa all right? ... Hai! it’s all my fault ... all my fault ... I heard that my number three girl had taken ill, and I hurried to see her in the hospital. I forgot to tell you first ...”
“What happened?” Yen San suddenly leaped to the door and grabbed the old man’s arm in his pincer-like hands. His eyes seemed fearfully aflame as he stared at Chi-mao.
Chi-mao said, “You remember what I warned you about that evening? I’ve been worried all along. Yesterday I was with Yen Tzu-yü all the time. Evening came; we were all eating dinner in the mess hall. Nobody was in the field. Then I saw Yen Tzu-yü sneaking out of the village. I followed him. He started chopping at your fruit tree. He looked nervous. I thought since he hated you, he must be doing that to get even with you. And yet I was wondering why he didn’t swing the ax at the base of the tree. I never imagined that ...”
Looking fierce, Yen San yelled in a hoarse voice, “Uncle, are you sure of what you saw?”
“Of course!”
“You saw clearly?”
“I saw it clearly!”
“Is there any proof?”
“I can find it!” said Chi-mao. “As he chopped away at the tree I coughed in the corn field. That startled him and the ax slipped out of his hand and fell into the well.”
It all became very clear to Yen Yung now. He said, “No wonder he insisted on going down the well first. He was afraid that I might discover the murder weapon down there myself.”
“Okay, you son of a bitch!” Yen San said, shaking with rage. “Yen Chao, let’s get the ax in the well, hurry! Yen Yung, you send a man to keep an eye on that devil; don’t let him get away.”
Before long the ax was brought home. They checked and confirmed that it belonged to Yen Tzu-yü. Yen San called the key members of the commune together behind closed doors. After they were all seated he said, “It’s like this. Comrades, this time he resorted to such a criminal move all because he wanted to make us back down and bow to him. He wants to hurt me, scare me first, then he’d turn to scare all of you. Let’s be frank now, is there anyone here who’s afraid?”
“What are we afraid of?” everybody said in anger.
“Really? From the bottom of your heart?”
“From the bottom of our hearts!”
“Fine,” Yen San continued. “Now, let’s think a moment. I think we should hold a mass meeting first and arrest him right there in front of everybody and take him to the Public Security Station. Can we do that? What do you say?”
“Yes, let’s do just that!” Everybody agreed.
Yen San turned to Yen Chao. “Yen Chao, you are in charge of security affairs. You know the rules. You think about this and tell us if it is according to the rules.”
Yen Chao said, “We’ve got both the culprit and the material evidence; of course it’s in accord with the rules. I said to you yesterday that we should deliver him to the Public Security Station.”
“You are saying that it would be in accord with the rules for making an arrest?” asked Yen San.
“Yes, in complete accord!” said Yen Chao.
“Then we can arrest him?”
“We can!”
“The masses also have been suspecting a murder plot and they want the murderer caught and turned over to the law,” Yen Hsiu-o said.
“That’s the way they want it?”
“That’s the way!”
“All right,” said Yen San to Yen Yung. “Yen Yung, you hurry up and get our men together with their stuff ready. I’m going to talk to Secretary Lu on the phone!” He ran over to the next room for the phone call. When he returned, everything was ready. Yen San told Yen Chao, “Yen Chao, Secretary Lu instructed us to keep an eye on those chronic troublemakers when we take action.”
“I’ll see to that right away!” said Yen Chao.
“Yen Yung, are we all ready?”
Yen Yung said with a smile, “Third Brother, look, every one of them is a champ. We’ve got more than needed to over-fulfill the quota, if that’s what you want.”
“There mustn’t be any over-quota in a business like this.” Even Yen San smiled. Then he turned to Yen Hsiu-o, “You listen. The moment they’ve got the man, you go strike the bell to call for a mass meeting.”
“Will do!” said Yen Hsiu-o.
Yen San raised his head and spoke with deep hatred, “Yen Tzu-yü, Yen Tzu-yü, damn you! We must kick you out of Yen-chia-t’an forever!” He pounded his huge fist on the table and announced, “Let’s go get him!” A shower of dust came down from the beam overhead.
They rushed out the door.
Yen San kept Old Chi-mao behind. “Uncle,” he asked the old man, “are you prepared to testify in court?”
“I’ll use this to beat the hell out of him first before testifying against him,” said Chi-mao, wielding his walking stick.
“You’d better keep your stick for walking. You swing it only when you have to, all right?” Yen San also smiled.
... The mass meeting lasted for over three hours. In Old Chi-mao’s words, if the cadres hadn’t stopped them, the people of Yen-chia-t’an would have long before torn the murderer Yen Tzu-yü to shreds.
That evening, Secretary Lu returned to the village after his meeting. Yen San reported to him in detail. Lu said, “It’s good to have him arrested. In fact we did it a bit too late. We mustn’t be soft in dealing with guys like him!”
Together they walked around in the village until they once again climbed onto the cliff behind it. Lights spread beneath them, both inside and beyond the village. The sound of whips cracking over draft animals, of rumbling motors, of drums and gongs filled the air and rocked the earth. The wind was still, yet a strong scent of ripening crops rushed toward them. A few minutes later, the bell suspended under a tall tree rang, and the kerosene lantern suspended over the open field was lit. The hour for the mass meeting had arrived. At tonight’s meeting, the masses of Yen-chia-t’an would listen, in solemnity, to the first self-criticism by Yen Shun-p’ing....
The time was the fall of 1959. The episode was only a short segment of the saga of commune rectification in Yen-chia-t’an. Let’s pause here for now, though it’s neither the beginning nor the end of the whole story.
Translated by Teng-ch ï Y eh and Kai-yu Hsu
Chao Shu-li, a native of Ch’in-shui, Shansi Province, came from a poor peasant family. Trained as a teacher, he was imprisoned by the Kuomintang for espousing radical ideas. He liked the folk theater of his home state; for a time he joined a local troupe and intended to make it his career. After 1940 he worked on cultural assignments in the Communist-dominated T’ai-hang Mountains and as a reporter for the New China Daily. Success came to him instantly upon the publication of his stories about the village folk, written in crisp, effective peasant language with honest and charming characterizations. Chao is endowed with a knack for the dramatic and a delightful sense of humor. Among his most popular works are the short story “The Marriage of Hsiao Er-hei,” the novellas Fu-kuei, The Rhymes of Li Yu-ts’ai, and The Changes in Li Village, and the full-length novel San-li-wan. Chou Yang, the Party’s literary authority for years, praised Chao highly and encouraged the nation’s writers to follow the “Chao Shu-li direction.”
From 1949 to 1966 Chao served on the editorial boards of many major literary journals. Frequently he returned to the countryside to work for the Party at the county level. He became a principal target of persecution in 1967, when the Cultural Revolution surged, and stories about the inhumane treatment that led to his death in 1970 did not surface until the beginning of 1979.
“The Unglovable Hands” is divided into three sections. The first stresses farmer Ch’en Ping-cheng’s past, which includes what he did for the uncultivated land; the second, his purchase of five pitchforks; and the third, his experience in attending a Model Workers’ Convention. In each episode his hands are emphasized: their appearance, their strength, and dexterity. Hence his hands are symbolic of the old farmer himself. Like his hands, Ch’en is indomitable, free in spirit, and inspiring to others; under no circumstances could he be affected by either the snicker of a young trainee, the kindness of his children and grandchildren, who want his hands protected from the elements, or his advanced age. To him, the gloves are cumbersome and unnecessary. At the very least they are something for him to worry about; at the worst, they restrict his movements and prevent him from doing his work. He sums up his own situation well: “My hands are unglovable.”
In a 1962 review of the story published in The Literary Gazette, Lao She lavishly praised the author’s simple but thoughtful choice of diction, accurate depiction of life in the country, and, in particular, his use of the gloves as “the thread” to link the story’s many disparate elements into a coherent whole.
—K.M. and W.L.Y.Y.
The training corps of the Big Millstone Mountain Brigade, the White Cloud Ridge Commune, had been established when the brigade was still an advanced agricultural cooperative, and its goal was to teach skills to people who joined farm production for the first time. During that period of the advanced cooperative in 1956, a number of women and young students who had never participated in farming joined the work force, but their work was below standard. Hence Director Ch’en Man-hung proposed that a training corps be established, that two old farmers of high productivity serve as instructors, that some low-yield land be set aside as the training fields to train the unskilled. After the proposal was approved by the Administration Committee, a few scores of low-yield mu on top of the Big Millstone Mountain and several parcels of orchard land in the gulch on the southern side were designated as such; Ch’en Ping-cheng, father of Director Ch’en Man-hung, and old orchard-hand Wang Hsinch’un were selected as instructors. Ch’en served as coordinator and Wang as vice-coordinator, and the corps’ members were assigned to various villagers as coaches. When commune members encountered unexpected difficulties with their work or when their coaches could not help them, they would then seek the advice of Ch’en or Wang. Even though the purpose of the corps was to train new workers, there were exceptions: (1) workers who had trouble with certain tasks might register for the classes when those tasks were taught; (2) those who could not perform certain tasks well or those recommended by the Evaluation Committee because of bad work attitudes were also included. Those in the last category, during this training period, would be denied full credit for each work day, which would be calculated on a 60 percent basis. It was a sort of token punishment for those who could have performed better but didn’t.
Coordinator Ch’en Ping-cheng was already a man of seventy-six. In general, most men of his age should not participate in any major physical labor, but he was especially hale and hearty. As a young man, he could do the work of a man and a half; now in old age, he was the better of most young men in terms of strength. In the winter of 1958, when communes were established, the Big Millstone Mountain was classified as a brigade, and its leader was Ch’en Man-hung. The brigade soon had its Respect-Old-Folks Home, and the Evaluation Committee recommended that Ch’en Ping-cheng retire and live in the home. After three days in the home, the old man felt that light tasks such as stripping hemp stalks and picking cotton were not demanding enough to deplete his energy, so he asked to leave the home and to resume his job as coordinator of the training corps.
Old man Ch’en Ping-cheng’s skill as a farmer was considered first rate, not only in the Big Millstone Mountain but also in the whole White Cloud Ridge area, which had cited him as an exceptional, exemplary worker. The stone dikes that he helped build never collapsed; the fire in the smoldering fertilizer pile that he had helped stack up never went out; and he was second to none in common tasks such as ploughing, seeding, hoeing, and harvesting.
When he taught in the training corps, he insisted not only on standards but also on proper style, claiming that if the style were not correct, the work would be below standard. For instance, in second-hoeing, he stressed that the tiller must bend his body to a certain degree, slant his body and feet to one side, and hold his feet steady. Also his hands must tightly hold on to the hoe, firmly strike the ground, and not allow the hoe to shake in any way. The standard was that the hoe must strike close to and around the seedling but not cover up any area yet undug. In piling dirt around the seedling, the tiller must, to the utmost extent possible, make a small mound with no more than three strikes of the hoe, and the top of the mound must be flat rather than pointed. As he lectured, he demonstrated to the trainees; sometimes he repeated the instructions more than ten times before he would allow them to do any work. Because of his many rules and regulations, they would remember one rule and forget another. Sometimes they stood too straight or moved forward incorrectly. Sometimes they hoed haphazardly, complicating simple chores. Old man Ch’en Ping-cheng kept reminding one trainee, then another; he also frequently interrupted their work by giving another demonstration.
A man named Ho Ho-ho had spent half of his life hoeing without ever bending his back. When he hoed, the hoe itself bounced around wildly; if it happened to bounce onto the weeds, then he cut the weeds, but if it happened to hit the seedlings, then the crop was damaged. After the founding of the training corps, the brigade’s Evaluation Committee wanted him to have some training in the corps. When he came, Coordinator Ch’en Ping-cheng, as usual, taught him the proper hoeing style. The problem was that this man—nicknamed “Ha-ha-ha”—was indolent by nature. After bending down a little for hoeing, he would immediately straighten his back again. Old man Ch’en Ping-cheng had his ingenuity. Next day he brought a spare hoe from his own home and shortened it to a length of three feet, telling Ho, “Your habit of not bending down can only be cured with this short-handled hoe.” Once he had a new hoe, his problem was, corrected. He had to bend his back when using this three-foot hoe, otherwise, he could not touch the ground. Later other teams heard of this new method; they all prepared a number of short-handled hoes for those not accustomed to bending their backs.
When the trainees became tired from style exercises, Coordinator Ch’en gave them a break. Eight or nine terraced paddy-fields below, Vice-coordinator Wang Hsin-ch’un taught his class the planting of seeds. During the break the two groups met; the two old men smoked tobacco and chatted; the trainees read their newspapers or had a good time together. When the two old men met, Ch’en would extend his hand for a handshake, and Wang would always try to avoid it. Though younger than Ch’en by more than ten years and friendly with Ch’en, Wang abhorred shaking Ch’en’s hand, because when Ch’en shook his hand, he felt as though he were being squeezed by pliers.
One day during the break Ch’en invited Wang for a smoke. Ch’en had a flint. Wang said, “How nice it would be to have a fire!” A new trainee, a high school student, quickly proceeded to look for twigs. But all he could find were two dry, two-inch-long persimmon twigs. Wang smiled and said, “You don’t have to look for firewood. Grandpa Ch’en has some.” Puzzled, the trainee looked around him but could not see any. Old man Ch’en added, “Yes, I have some.” Leisurely he put down his flint; without looking he scratched the dirt around him for a while and, lo and behold, found two big handfuls of bark and twigs. Wang lit a match, while old man Ch’en scratched around and got more wood, which he put on top of the pile. The trainee exclaimed in amazement, “This is very good,” and began to do likewise. Old man Ch’en tried to stop him: “Wait a minute; don’t.” But it was too late. The young man’s middle finger had been pricked and he quickly withdrew his hand. Wang said, “Son, what kind of hands do you have? What type of hands does he have? His are like an iron-rake; brambles or thorns—nothing could hurt them.”
While rubbing his middle finger, the student looked at Ch’en’s hands, which were different from those of ordinary people. The palm seemed to be square in shape, the fingers short, stubby, and bent; the back and the palm of the hands were covered with calluses; and his round fingertips resembled half cocoons with nails attached to them. The hands looked like two small rakes made of tree branches. The student looked at the hands with contempt instead of admiration, as if he were saying, “How can you call them hands?”
The two old men sensed the young man’s scornful attitude. Ch’en ignored him. Looking proud, Ch’en picked up his pipe to smoke. Old man Wang, after lighting his pipe, said to the young man, “Young fellow, don’t you slight his hands. Without them, the present training field would still remain uncultivated. This land belonged to landlord Wang Tzu-yü. According to old folks, these ten and more sections of land on top of the Big Millstone Mountain were left uncultivated since the third year of Emperor Kuang-hsü [1877] until the third year of Emperor Hsüan-t’ung [1910]. In those days neither his family nor mine had any land; he was a field hand working for Wang Tzu-yü, and I was herd boy. Later he came here to cultivate the land; after I grew up, I was elevated from herd boy to field hand and followed him to plant rice seeds in the marsh. All these fields were cultivated by him and our present brigade leader, digging them hoe by hoe and building dike after dike. Without his hands, this whole area would still be wasteland.”
Even though the student was a little sorry that he had despised Ch’en’s hands, he was unwilling to acknowledge his mistake openly. Instead, he said in a mocking tone, “No wonder we are such slow learners; it is all because we don’t have his hands.”
In a serious voice, Ch’en lectured the young man, “We want your hands to learn to work like mine, not to be like mine. If I wasn’t the first one to dig these fields for planting, my hands wouldn’t be like this. Now, folks of the older generation have already plowed the land with their hands; soon everything will be mechanized, and your hands won’t have to become like mine.”
Even though old man Ch’en did not wish others to have hands like his, he, nonetheless, was proud of them. His hands were not only firm and tough but also dexterous. He loved weaving and frequently wove thorn vines into all types of farming tools and sometimes made children’s toys out of stalks of kaoliang. When he made tools out of vines, he did not have to use an oxhorn wedge in splitting them. He divided a vine into three and used his index finger as the splitter—chi, chi, chi—the vine was split, and his hand was not even scratched. Yet he also did work of a very delicate nature. No one would guess that it was done by the same hands. The katydid cages that he made out of kaoliang stalks featured a door, windows, upstairs and downstairs rooms, and on the two-inch-square windows he made many decorative patterns from different angles, with holes so tiny that even bees would have difficulty crawling through them.
After the periods of land reform, mutual assistance teams, and cooperatives, communes were established. Old man Ch’en Ping-cheng’s family income increased. In the winter of 1959, his children and grandchildren bought him a pair of knitted gloves to protect his hands. Upon receiving the gift, he said, “My hands have never enjoyed such luxuries before.” As he tried them on, he found the palm not big enough, the fingers too tight and long. He barely drew them on before he stretched the palm into a square, stuffed the lower part of the fingers full and left the upper part of the fingers empty. His son Ch’en Man-hung said, “After a while, they will fit you nicely.” He put them on, opened and closed his hands a couple of times, then took them off and gave them to his daughter-in-law. “Please keep them for me.”
“Dad, please wear them. Don’t your hands get cold when you work in the field?”
“We are building a storage shed in the gulch and it’s not convenient to move stones with them on.” As soon as he said this, he left his gloves and walked away. Not long afterwards, the work at the gulch was completed but other work followed—cutting hay, cleaning sheep-pens, storing turnips for winter, and thrashing corn, none of which went well with the use of gloves, and he soon forgot he had them.
One day the White Cloud Ridge held a goods exchange fair. His daughter-in-law said to him, “Now they don’t really need you to teach them these odd skills, why don’t you take the day off and visit the fair?” The old man agreed. He changed into his new cotton-padded jacket and tied a new sash around his waist. She then said, “This time you must wear your new gloves,” and brought him his gloves. He drew them on and left.
The Big Millstone Mountain was a small village and had no consumer co-op. As the neighbors heard he was going to the White Cloud Ridge and saw him walking down the street in his new jacket and gloves, they asked him to buy things for them. One family wanted three ounces of oil; another family wanted two catties of salt. All those purchases would be more than his hands could carry, so he borrowed a basket from a neighbor. When he reached the White Cloud Ridge, he walked past half a street block and arrived at the consumer’s co-op and purchased what he had been asked to buy. Then he walked to the commune and saw a carload of pitchforks being unloaded by a salesman. For two years new pitchforks had not been available in the area, and what the different brigades had was not enough to go around. He felt he could not miss the opportunity. Having no money, he remembered that his son, who was attending a meeting at the commune, might have some. So he went and told his son about the pitchforks. Man-hung said, “Yes, by all means. They are very precious. Go buy them quickly,” and gave him fifty dollars. With the money he went to the mountain-goods section and looked over the pitchforks. Fastidious with tools, he could not bear to see any blemish on them. Removing his gloves and tucking them inside his sash, he picked up one pitchfork, put it on the floor to see if its three prongs were even and strong, and whether its head and handle were straight. Before he finished looking at one, more than ten people had gathered, everyone holding and examining a pitchfork. In no time, many more people came; even the brigade leader, who was conducting a meeting at the commune, temporarily halted the meeting to come over to buy some. No one was as fastidious as the old man; they merely asked the price and paid. Old man Ch’en Ping-cheng saw the situation getting out of hand. Forgetting his high standards, he chose five pitchforks at random, and the rest were grabbed by others. He paid, tied the pitchforks together, put them on his shoulder, carried his basket and jostled his way out of the congested market section. With his hands full, he had no interest in wandering around the other half of the street block and went home by the same road he had taken.
Once outside the White Cloud Ridge village, the congestion was gone, and the road was much wider. Then he felt for his gloves. He could only find one. He put down his basket, the pitchforks, loosened his waist sash, but he could not find the other glove. He knew he must have lost it at the market. He thought, “All right, so be it. I don’t use the gloves much anyway.” He tied the sash back around his waist, carried the pitchforks on his shoulder with one hand and his basket with the other, and walked toward home. After he had taken a few steps he thought, “The kids bought them especially for me. Now that one glove is lost, and if I don’t go back to look for it, I am not being nice to them.” Turning back he returned to the fair at the White Cloud Ridge. Fortunately, the salesman had found his glove and kept it on the counter. He returned it to him.
Some time later, old man Ch’en Ping-cheng was selected as the model worker of the year by the Evaluation Committee, and he had to attend the Convention of Model Workers at the county seat. It was another opportunity for him to wear his gloves. Besides his new cotton-padded jacket and his new sash, he wore his gloves.
The Big Millstone Mountain was about forty li from the county seat. Winter days are short, so Ch’en, after breakfast, left home and reached his destination at dusk. It was the registration day. Once in town, he registered for the convention, received his attendance permit, and started looking for a place to stay. He had not been in town for more than six months, and it had changed—the streets had been widened, the roads were smooth, the dilapidated place where he had stayed while attending the meetings before was replaced by rows of newly built brick and tile houses. It was dark when he entered the hostel. Rows of rooms in the rear section by the passageway were lit, indicating their occupancy; some of the rooms on the first three rows were lit also. He went to the reception desk, registered, and the receptionist took him to Room 5 of West Row Two. When he reached West Row Two, he saw that the only light came from Room 6, while the rest of the rooms were dark. He stepped on some objects, some of which were hard and others soft; he had no idea what they were. The receptionist told him, “Be careful. This row of rooms was just completed, no more than a week ago, and there are still a few things here and there. Walk on this side; the other side is a lime pit. Walk by the wall; there’s some loose lumber around.” As they got to Room 5, the receptionist snapped on the light before letting him into the room. What came into view were a clean room, a good fire in the fireplace, a table by the window, two chairs, a stool, two beds on each side of the room, an unpainted door and windows, and recently whitewashed walls. The walls smelled damp as they were heated by the fire. Looking at the beds, he asked, “Four in each room?” The receptionist replied, “Yes.”
“Will you have all the rooms occupied during the convention?”
“Almost. Some participants from far places have not yet arrived. Take a little rest. Let me bring you some water to freshen you up.” A while later the receptionist brought in the water. The old man washed his face, and people streamed in steadily, occupying all the rooms on West Row Two. Besides the old man, Room 5 had three young men. The four of them introduced themselves to one another.
The convention lasted for three and a half days. The old man either listened to reports or prepared to make his own; like everyone else, he was kept busy until the morning of the fourth day, when the County Party Chief made a summary report. In the afternoon those who lived nearby went home; those who lived some distance away had to stay one more night. Ch’en’s home was forty li away—neither too far nor too near. A young man could probably cover the distance and reach home shortly after dusk. Since he was old, he did not want to walk in the dark and planned to spend an extra half day in town.
After lunch those who would stay the night all wanted to take a walk around town. The old man returned to West Row Two, Room 5, where his three roommates and another young man from Room 4 were playing poker. He said, “Don’t you want to look around town?” One young man replied, “Grandpa, you just go ahead. We’ll go later.” The old man tied the sash around his waist, put on his gloves, and left. Since the courtyard was partially blocked by two big logs, he had to walk close by the wall of Room 3 after he passed the door of Room 4. He thought, “If only I could roll those logs aside, but to where?” Squatting by the door of Room 4, he sized up the situation, concluding that it would be best to roll the logs southwards to face the lime pit. Once he made up his mind, he took off his gloves, put them on the steps and proceeded to roll one of the logs. Cut off from both ends, this one log’s middle section was unshapely, thick, short, bent, and flat. It was not easy to roll at all. It took him considerable strength to prop it up, but it turned over only once and was flat on the ground again. Seeking help, he first knocked on the door of Room 4, but no one answered. So he returned to Room 5 and said to the young people, “Comrades, would you please help me move the logs in the courtyard so people can walk more easily?”
“Surely, I tried to do that yesterday, but the logs won’t budge,” a young man replied, putting down his cards. The other three young men got up and stepped outside. The old man took off his new cotton-padded jacket, left it on his bed, and stepped out of the room.
The old man helped them move the logs. One young man said to him, “You just rest; let us do the work.” The four young men took all the room around one short log. Unable to lay his hands on the same one, he started to move the other log. After they had moved the short log, they saw him struggling with the other one. One young man stopped him. “Grandpa, please don’t. We can do it.” A second young man helped the first one lift it up. This log was a little longer than the first, and one end was thicker than the other. Though the person holding the thin end had no trouble lifting it, the man supporting the thick end did, murmuring continuously, “No, no.” Then he let go. The young man at the other end was also about to drop the log when the old man said, “Let me do it.” Immediately he bent down. Using his hands to support the log, and with his legs apart as if he were riding on a horse, he stiffened his shoulders and lifted it up. When the first young man saw the second one sticking up his thumb in admiration of the old man, he joined his friend, saying, “Grandpa, you are really marvelous. But you are an old man. Let us do it.”
A receptionist carrying a kettle of hot water came by. When he saw what went on, he hurriedly said, “Thank you all. Let us do it.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Before the convention started, the only cleanup work remaining was the courtyards of the first three rows of rooms. During the convention we had no time. We’re waiting for tomorrow morning to start cleaning up when all the guests will have moved out. The few of us can finish the work in just a couple of days.” Old man Ch’en Ping-cheng said, “Why must you wait until we leave? The convention has ended. Isn’t now a good time to help you clean up?”
“No, no, that would be too much trouble to impose on you all.” Old man Ch’en and the young people all said that they didn’t mind, and comrades from other rooms, who had not left for town, all came out of their rooms saying that they too would like to help in the cleanup. Seeing this, the receptionist hurried to consult the manager. Even before the receptionist returned, everyone looked for cleanup tools. Since the first two rows had not been thoroughly cleaned up, the tools were piled up in the courtyards between the west-east rows. They found shovels, brooms, open baskets, and poles, and they immediately started to work. Old man Ch’en wanted to haul the baskets for them, but everyone, upon seeing his white beard, insisted that he not do that type of heavy work. So he could only use a broom to sweep the courtyard along with the others. Model workers were truly model workers. When the people from the first three rows of rooms saw that the people on West Row Two were busy cleaning up, they immediately joined in the operation. In a short while, the receptionist and the manager came back. The manager advised everyone not to bother with the work; however, since he could not convince them, he called every staff member, including his assistant, the accountant, the receptionists, to join in the task.
Everyone used shovels to remove left-over bricks or tiles, bark, wood shavings, and other miscellaneous items; old man Ch’en followed and swept after them. He started from the southwest corner of the courtyard in West Row Two and swept northwards. When he reached the window of Room 6, he saw that there were mud cakes and wood shavings on the windowsill; he reached for the dirt with his broom. Because the windowsill was rather small, the broom was less than efficient; he put down his broom and brushed off the dirt with his ironlike hands. Then, looking toward the east, he saw every windowsill was similarly dirty. He started from Room 6 to Room 5, then to Room 4, and cleaned every windowsill before he returned to the west side to clean the courtyards.
Since there were many people, the work was done quickly. Within two hours, the six courtyards had been cleaned, and the garbage stood by both sides of the passageway; materials that could be used were left at the rear entrance of the storage room, to be hauled away by a truck that came by at night. After all the work had been completed, old man Ch’en felt satisfied, knowing that people could walk a lot more easily from then on.
The manager, his assistant, the accountant, and all the receptionists went to get water for the model workers to clean up. After that, some went into town; old man Ch’en once again put on his new cotton-padded jacket, tied the sash around his waist and planned to put on his gloves—only to realize that they had been lost again. He casually asked his young friends, “When you cleaned, did you see my gloves?” One man answered, “No, we didn’t see them. Where did you leave them?”
“On the windowsill of Room 4.” Another man said, “Yes, I seemed to remember one glove in a pile of wood shavings, all smeared with mud, and I thought it was someone’s discarded old glove.”
“Yes, probably when I pulled down the wood shavings of Room 4 the shavings covered them and you didn’t see them and threw them in with the garbage pile.” The old man went to look for his gloves in the garbage pile by the passageway, but the garbage from the row of West Two alone filled up more than several dozen baskets. How could he find his gloves right away?
When a receptionist saw him, he asked, “Grandpa, what are you looking for?”
“My gloves.”
“Are you sure they are in there?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Then you go into town and have a good time. We will find them for you.”
“Don’t bother; they are not of much use to me,” the old man said firmly.
The old man strolled around several blocks in town. Other than admiring some new buildings, he had little interest in anything else, thinking, “I don’t buy or sell. Why must I linger by the stores?” So he returned to the hostel. It was not yet dusk, and his roommates had not yet returned. A receptionist opened the door for him and told him that his gloves had been found. He entered his room; the fire in the quiet fireplace was still strong; and his gloves had been washed by a receptionist and put on the back of a chair to dry.
He returned home the next day. After changing his clothes, he returned the gloves to his daughter-in-law. “You’d better keep them. My hands are unglovable.”
Enjoying the Short Stories of 1960, pp. 241-51
Translated by Nathan K. Mao and Winston L. Y. Yang
Along with Fei Li-wen and Hu Wan-ch’un, T’ang K’o-hsin emerged from a Shanghai factory to lead the younger generation of worker-writers. His first short story, published in 1953, attracted wide attention, and a year later he was pulled out of the production line to devote himself to writing full time for the labor unions. Before long he was transferred to the editorial office of the Literature Monthly: His stories concentrate on his factory experience, the changes the revolution has brought about in his and other workers’ lives, and the new characters he has met.
By the mid-1960s T’ang had published several collections of short stories and articles, including Spring in the Workshop and Seeds. —K.Y.H.
Just before the end of the shift, the machine shop foreman made an announcement: “There will be no overtime tonight. After work everybody will go to listen to the report of the new Party committee secretary.”
Less than half an hour after work the workers had all left and the shop was deserted. But in the mechanics’ change room in the spooling department, where the yarn on ring bobbins was transferred onto spools before being put onto the looms, there was still one man who hadn’t left yet. He was puttering around, muttering to himself, his hands waving—just like an inexperienced actor reciting long and awkward stage lines from memory.
“Fellow students, today we, the staff and workers, are starting classes in our Red and Expert University,”* he said in half-baked standard Mandarin. “I will speak on the subject of the safety and maintenance of the spooling department. I, myself, don’t really know too much about this subject ...” At that point he suddenly stopped, shook his head, and said, “Aii, what bunk! First it’s T, then it’s ‘myself’...” He coughed, cleared his throat and then went on, “I don’t know too much about this area, crude and unlearned as I am ...” He felt that this last line had just a bit too much of an intellectual ring to it, but he couldn’t think of any better way to express it. Then he looked at himself in the mirror again. Reflected in the wall mirror was the round face of a young man. He had a pair of lustrous black eyes; his two eyebrows were lined up like two of the Chinese characters for the word “one.” Beneath his small nose was a pair of full lips that were surrounded by a luxuriant growth of soft brown hair. He looked and looked at himself, feeling somewhat deflated. No matter what, he felt that the face in the mirror could never be that of a teacher.
He reckoned that he was a plain and ordinary man—really too ordinary. In the history of his short life he had reaped no honor—much less accomplished anything spectacular. His father had been a worker at this same factory and had died two years before Liberation in a machinery accident, leaving him behind along with his blind mother. At that time he was only twelve, and neither he nor his mother had the capacity to earn their livelihood. Fortunately his father’s coworkers at the factory figured out a way to get him in as an oiler’s helper. From then on, wearing clothes splattered with oil, he carried an oil can from morning till night, worming his way from one machine to another. “Little Oiler”—these two words became his name.
After Liberation he was transferred to a repair team. He was one of the first batch of students in the crash campaign to eliminate illiteracy and was one of the first workers to be able to throw away the cap of illiteracy. Later he continued with upper elementary and junior high school; it was just as though he were a blind man opening his eyes, and in an instant he was captivated by the dazzling beauty of the world. He had never known just how many beautiful and interesting things the world held! He often asked himself why he never knew about these things in the past; he was interested in everything and eager to learn. After he graduated from junior high, he passed the entrance examination to enroll in a middle-level technological night school. In the technical aspects, he had his master’s papers, sixth grade. But none of this was out of the ordinary, and he just took it for granted. To this point he still considered himself just a “Little Oiler.” Even in a dream, he would never have imagined that today someone would ask him to serve as a part-time teacher in the Workers’ Red and Expert University. So even when the director of studies of the school came to offer him the appointment, he still thought that it was a joke! It wasn’t until later on, when, with all proper respect, they brought him the formal letter of appointment written on red stationery, that he finally believed them.
“Little Wu—aiya, you rascal. Don’t you have your makeup on yet? The meeting is just about to start.” A voice suddenly interrupted Little Wu’s deep thoughts. He knew right away it was his assistant, Little Chin, and he replied without even turning his head, “I’m worried to death, and you’re making wisecracks! I have to go to teach a class at 6:15; I don’t even have half a minute to prepare myself.”
“Don’t talk nonsense! Whenever you have a minute, you’re in here rehearsing.” Then, imitating his manner, Little Chin recited, “Fellow students, today, we If that isn’t rehearsing, then you must be going nuts!”
The two of them were quite a pair. Their teachers said that if there wasn’t any noise when they were together, then the sun would most certainly be rising in the west. They never fought with each other; in fact they got along better than anyone else. But this time Little Wu didn’t take any note of him; he locked his locker, turned, and walked out. Chin, following him closely behind, made a face and teased him, “Aiya! Now you’re acting like a fortune teller. You haven’t even started classes yet and here you are already putting on airs!” Actually, Little Wu had always been quick to snap back, but recently he had become more serious. The way he looked at things, if he didn’t act more dignified as a teacher, how would the students ever be willing to listen to him?
When Wu and Chin stepped into the meeting hall, the proceedings had already begun. The hall was silent; only the voice of a man giving a report could be heard. Somehow the speaker’s voice arrested Little Wu’s attention; it sounded very pleasant and familiar. Before he had a chance to think about it, he raised his eyes toward the stage and was startled at what he saw. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief and looked up again. There was no mistake about it. Stunned, he stood there like a wooden statue. “Aiya, Little Wu, isn’t that your old friend, Old Ch’u?” Little Chin spoke loudly as though there were no one else there.
Immediately a roomful of reprimanding glances were cast in their direction. But neither of them noticed. Someone in back of Little Chin reached out and tugged hard on his shirt tail and scolded, “Hey, isn’t it enough that you guys don’t know how to follow the rules; you’ve got to bother others as well?” At this the two of them hurriedly found nearby seats and sat down.
“Who’s that on the stage?” Little Wu uneasily asked the person sitting next to him.
“He’s the new Party committee secretary,” the man answered, his eyes glued to the stage.
“What’s his name?”
“Ch’u P’ing.”
“See! Wasn’t I right?” Little Chin mocked as though he had just won a bet.
How could he have been wrong? It had all just happened. It was only two weeks ago that the personnel department assigned a bunch of low-echelon cadres who had been reassigned from administration to each workshop. One had also been assigned to Little Wu’s repair team so that the man could learn the job from him. He was about forty, very thin, and spoke with a northern accent. Although sharp bones seemed to be protruding from all over his longish face, that didn’t stop people from feeling that he was very friendly and kind. No matter what task he was taught, his ingenious hands learned it quickly. Moreover he never waited for people to tell him what to do before he went and got the job done. From the beginning Little Wu took a liking to him, and it wasn’t long before the two had become close friends. At first he called Little Wu “Old Wu.” This made everyone laugh. Later on he began to call him “Master Wu” instead. As far as technical skills went, Little Wu had long since been qualified to be called “master,” but nobody had ever called him that before, and so when anyone heard him called that, it still sounded quite strange. Some time later Little Wu said to him, “Please just call me Little Wu.”
“That won’t do,” said Ch’u. “It’s only logical that I should call you ‘Master.’ ” Wu excitedly replied, “Aiya, where did you get all this logic stuff!” After that, Ch’u had no way out but to call him “Little Wu.”
Ch’u regarded Little Wu as a very perceptive and straightforward person. As for his expertise in his craft, that went without saying, and he was full of little shortcuts in the daily production process. Even his oil can and tool box were different from everybody else’s—easier to use and evergy saving. Ch’u often praised him as being a bit of an inventor. But he said he had done those things only for fun. This was in the autumn of 1959, when the tumultuous waves of the Great Leap Forward rose in a surging tide. The production rate of the spinning and weaving departments had jumped dramatically in a month’s time, pressuring the spooling department, which was caught in the middle. The spooling machines had long been running at a fast clip, and the equipment was hardly ideal, which made it impossible to speed up any further. As a consequence they were naturally unable to satisfy the appetite of the weaving department and hindered their production, thus preventing the entire textile plant from stepping up the pace. Meetings and study sessions were held left and right; numerous experiments and innovations were tried, but they simply could not solve the basic problem. Once Ch’u asked Little Wu, “Could it possibly be that there really is no solution?”
“What do you mean, no solution?” Little Wu sharply replied. “If you want my opinion, we ought to take all these damn spoolers and throw them out. We don’t need them!”
“Then what?”
“lust skip that step.”
When he thought about it, Ch’u had to admit to himself that there was, in fact, a bit of duplication in the work procedures of the spooling department. He took Little Wu seriously and said with joy, “So there really is a way. Aü! Why haven’t you mentioned it before?” Little Wu forced a laugh and said, “You’re really too naive. You believe whatever anyone says. I’m just talking nonsense. If we could really skip that step, they wouldn’t need me, the Little Oiler, to tell them, would they?”
He then went on to say that once he had raised the problem at an informal discussion called by the chief engineer, but he had been immediately put down by the others. They said that the problem had been fully considered a hundred years ago by the people who had invented the weaving machine—it can’t be done! Later on some of them teased him: “Little Wu, why were you born a hundred years too late?”
Ch’u tried to perk him up: “How can you compare the people of a hundred years ago with those of today? The engineers aren’t always better than others in everything. When they say, ‘It can’t be done,’ it doesn’t necessarily mean that there is really no way to solve the problem. They still have a thing or two to learn from us workers.”
“That’s to say they should study the thoughts of the working class,” Little Wu said.
“In technology, in production, in management ... they can learn from us in all these areas. Not only the engineers, but the head of the factory, the section chief, the machine shop foreman ... they all ought to learn from the workers.”
“That’s okay in theory,” Little Wu said, still not quite agreeing with Ch’u’s explanation. “Take me, for example. If you’d want me to tell you how many oil caps there are on a spooling machine or what spare part goes where ... I could do it with my eyes closed. But I’m not sure about anything else ...”
“According to what you just said, you’re an expert,” Ch’u said. Little Wu couldn’t keep from laughing out loud as he chided good-naturedly, “Expert—ha ha, if you become the head of the factory, you can appoint me to be your chief engineer, okay?”
“That, I can’t guarantee,” Ch’u said, also laughing. “First, the factory head has no right to appoint the chief engineer; second, if you all become engineers, wouldn’t that leave me, the head of the factory, to be the only worker? Actually, aside from the fact that your responsibilities are different from those of the engineers and the factory head, are there any real differences between you and them?”
“Any real differences? If the overall production problems of the entire factory are left to just you and me, do you think we can handle them?” Wu voiced his disagreement. “We’d still have to turn to the head of the factory, to the engineers ...”
“No, you’re wrong!” A loud, clear voice suddenly interrupted Little Wu’s train of thought. It sounded as though it were in the midst of an argument with him and scared him. He raised his head to look up on the stage; the Party committee secretary was speaking with gusto, “Comrades, this is only superstition. And whom should we depend on? On the masses. We should depend on the workers here, more than seven thousand strong. We can solve not only the small problems but the great ones as well. Not only do we want to discard one or two old techniques for new ones; we must bring about a revolution in the entire system of our industrial technology. We are the liberated people of China. We have gained control of the political power; we shall also master culture, science, and all technology!”
“Well put!” Little Wu thought to himself. It seemed to him that he had also said all of this to himself before. Although the words hadn’t been the same, the thoughts were. But why hadn’t he been able to keep them in mind?
“Did you hear that? The Party committee secretary was just talking about you!” Little Chin said as he gleefully nudged Wu.
“How did he put it?” Little Wu pressed.
“He didn’t mention you by name, but he said he had met an excellent master worker from whom he had learned techniques as well as the real meaning of many principles.”
“What else did he say?”
“He continued: ‘Everyone has countless “atoms” hidden away in his heart, and he only has to devise a means to crush their “nuclei” in order to release a fantastic source of energy.’ “
“Anything else?” Little Wu was as insistent as a child.
Chin was about to continue when suddenly a thunderous ovation rang out from the assembly. The meeting was over. The throng burst out of the four exits just like water gushing out of an opened sluice gate. The two of them could do nothing but follow the others flowing out of the hall.
Wu picked up his lecture notes and class record from the director of studies’ office; the class bell had already rung. The director, who had helped him prepare his lessons, kept encouraging him. “You’ve been buried in the bowels of these machines since you were a child,” he said. “You’ve been coming in contact with them day and night for more than ten years. You’re as familiar with them as you are with your own hands, feet, eyes, and ears. Then on top of it you attended a technological night school. Now you have a great deal of practical experience as well as a good theoretical foundation. Besides, the students all come from your own factory....” But it was all still of no use. Either because of his excitement or his nervousness, he felt like there were scores of butterflies in his stomach. Even his hands were shaking.
When he got to the classroom, the students were all in their seats and very orderly. As he stepped into the room, someone—he wasn’t sure who—called “Attention!” and everyone snappily stood up in salute. By that point he was really miserable and had no idea what to do next. His eyes swept the room for a second, but aside from Little Chin, who was sitting in the first row, he couldn’t make out anybody else.
“Don’t be too nervous; take it easy at the beginning ...” He was remembering what the director had said. He paused slightly, calmed himself, and opened the class list to call roll. He called name after name. Suddenly he was speechless.
“Ch’u—P’ing.”
“Here.”
Wu’s eyes looked out in the direction of the response. Indeed it was he, the Party committee secretary. Beside him was the chairman of the labor union’s factory branch, the director of personnel, and a number of other Party committee cadres.
“Half an hour ago I was listening to his report along with several thousand others. Half an hour later he has become my student!” The thought flashed in his mind like a bolt of lightning on a stormy night. He still wasn’t able to grasp it and mull it over, but this bolt of lightning lit up his eyes in a flash and let him see the expansive world and his own place in it. Immediately the blood throughout his entire body began to bubble and boil like the ocean’s billowing waves, washing away the “opening remarks” that he had originally prepared to who knows where. In fact, now, he was no longer nervous. His excited voice had a slight tremor in it as he began his speech.
“Comrades, there’s no need to introduce myself. You all know me, the Little Oiler. Right. But that was all in the past. I was like a dog buried in the works of my machines all day long; sleeping on the roadside. At that time I didn’t get my share of anything. I never once entered the portals of a school and was never a student, not even for a day. I was never even able to walk along the streets
without a care like others Today, not only have I graduated from a middle-
level technological school, but here I am standing on this podium lecturing to others. Among those of you sitting here are my buddies, the Party committee secretary, the chairman of the trade union ... they are all my leaders and my good comrades ...”
As he spoke, he became more and more excited. Hot tears began to spill down his cheeks. The room was dead silent; everyone was touched by what he was saying as they watched him, their eyes speaking approval. His line of sight moved to a chair in the back where the Party committee secretary was smiling at him. He seemed to be encouraging Wu, saying, “Go on, you’re doing fine.”
His lecture was on the general principles of the spooling department. The class went well. He never thought that he would be able to deliver his lecture as skillfully and as fluently as he actually did.
The last ten minutes were devoted to questions from the floor. The first to stand up was the party committee secretary. “The yarn on the spools works about the same as the yarn on the ring bobbins. Why can’t we eliminate the spools and use the small ring bobbins of yarn as they come from the spinning department and set them directly in the loom as the warp?”
That question again! Little Wu’s face flushed instantly. He now considered the question again: the key to the matter of eliminating the spooling machines and using the ring bobbins of yarn to feed directly into the warp is that we can’t solve the problems of connecting the ends and that of tensile strength. But is it possible that we, Chinese workers who have seized control of the political power of twentieth-century China, cannot solve these problems by using the scientific achievements of the twentieth century? Couldn’t we use electronic bobbins, transistors, and those sorts of things to automatically control breakage? “Yes, it can be done. We can certainly skip that step,” Wu said with confidence.
After class, as Little Wu stepped out of the room, he sensed that he had grown up, and that there were many things waiting for him to do. “Comrade Little Wu, when can we study the problem of eliminating the spooling machines?” Ch’u asked, catching up to him. Today he had added “Comrade” in front of “Little Wu.”
“First thing tomorrow,” he replied without hesitation.
“If you’re going to form a small team, count me in.”
“Will you be coming back again?” Wu asked, a little surprised.
Smiling, Ch’u replied, “Why not? I’ve only attended the first class!”
The two of them kept talking as they walked toward the men’s dormitory.
First draft, December 7, 1959
Second draft, December 28, 1959
Enjoying the Short Stories of 1960, pp. 223-31
Translated by S. R. Munro
A Szechwan writer who was given early encouragement by Lu Hsün and Mao Tun, Sha Ting excelled in short stories depicting the life of impoverished peasants in the bleak, northern section of his native province. He attended school in Chengtu and later went to Shanghai, where he began his writing career in 1931. Within twelve months he had already published his first collection of short stories, The Routes Beyond the Law, which brought him wide acclaim. At the outbreak of the war against Japan he went back to Chungking in Szechwan but soon proceeded to Yenan to teach literature in the Lu Hsün Academy of Arts. His travels in war-affected areas and even behind the enemy lines produced a few volumes of fine journalistic writings, including a story about Marshal Ho Lung, one of the nation’s ten most distinguished generals and a cofounder of the Red Army; the story was reprinted many times. The first postwar years saw his most prolific output: five novels (Gold-panning, Homecoming, Caged Animals, Sowing Seeds, and Forced Passage) and three collections of short stories which include some of his mature best. His “At the Teahouse Ch’i-hsiang-chü” remains a national favorite today.
A series of important assignments in the official writers’ organizations in Szechwan prevented him from writing much after 1949. Only two more collections of short stories preceded his downfall during the Cultural Revolution, when his advocacy of a more liberal interpretation of the Party’s literary policy incurred the wrath of the authorities then in power. He has since reemerged, and a few very short miscellaneous articles by or about him appeared in 1977. In 1978 he was named director of the Research Institute of Chinese Literature in the Academy of Sciences.
“Try and Catch Me” has been praised by Mao Tun as the best among the 1960 crop of short stories. It has retained much of the author’s simple but effective language, persuasive portrayal of characters, and brisk pace, despite his apparent adherence to the official Party line about literature upheld at the time.
—K.Y.H.
On all sides the hilltops were cloaked in mist. The rain pelted down intently. In the dining hall of the No. 1 production brigade of Shih-men administrative district in Ch’ih-shan Commune, things were busier than usual. Because the district office was inside the same compound as the dining hall, most of the cadres from the whole district had gathered together today in the compound.
The cadres assembled here to participate in the regular end-of-the-month cooperation-competition. Most of them were around the fire pits in the main hall, some sitting, some squatting, gabbing with one another about the production situation. The rest were either beating gongs and drums in the dining hall or watching the animal feeders taking care of the piglets in the feed lot near the gate. Altogether there were fifteen piglets, pure Lung-ch’ang hogs, born only the evening before.
Everyone was buzzing because, since the planting of the winter crops, Shih-men district had already walked off with the “satellite” three times, and they all felt sure that they would earn the “satellite” once more this time. After all, in the last month they had made terrific efforts. And besides, all the comrades in the inspection group, including the commune Party secretary stationed in this competition district, were well satisfied, and agreed unanimously that winter planting had been handled well. All the winter fields had been prepared —flooded and fertilized. Welfare activities and side occupations were running above average as well.
Now everyone noticed only one unusual thing. It was well past eight o’clock, and the commune members had all gone off to work despite the rain, but the responsible comrades from Yüan-pa and Chien-shan administrative districts who had gone to take part in inspection work still had not returned. When the group from Sai-ya district, the remotest one in the commune, came across the hilltops opposite them, everyone was getting uneasy about how late it was getting.
They all crowded together in the courtyard in front of the main hall, watching the team setting out for the commune headquarters in a flurry of banging drums and gongs and flying banners, until they passed out of sight. There they stood, braving the rain, caught up in all kinds of guessing. Amidst all the speculation, only one thing was sure: the Party branch secretary was late. When it came to inspection work, the branch secretary was always hardnosed, and nothing, however trifling, escaped his notice. Once he was off inspecting fertilizer collection at Yüan-pa, and because he figured the comrades there had overestimated their holdings, he called for a sample to be taken. But when none of the other inspectors agreed, he did it all by himself
When this old story came up, Pai Shou-ch’eng the guard let out a stifled sigh. He obviously meant to show his disapproval: the branch secretary was over-conscientious. Suddenly Old Lady Teng got to her feet grumbling and scolding. Old Lady Teng was named Teng Hsiu-lan, and she headed the women’s brigade. Over fifty and skinny, she wore a blue cotton kerchief around her waist. “Stop your sighing,” she barked. “Nowadays every bit of our work has got to be accountable. No funny business!”
“I’m afraid it may be dark on the road when he returns after his meeting,” the sickly looking Pai Shou-ch’eng responded. “Besides, in this rain ...”
“What difference does it make,” someone else answered confidently. “The satellite is firmly in our hands anyway.” The speaker was Kung Ch’i-yün, head of No. 1 production brigade, a stubby man with protruding eyes. After his comment, the conversation turned to the upcoming competition and people stopped worrying about the time. They talked animatedly arid began moving back toward the main hall. But just then somebody called out happily, “Hey, isn’t that Old Lung?”
The people who had already gone back toward the main hall swung back and joined the others on the edge of the threshing ground, craning their necks to see down into the valley below. A tall fellow with a wide rain hat, his pants hiked up to his thighs, was just crossing a little path and starting up the hill. This was the branch secretary, Lung Wei-ling, always popular with the masses. His work was always good, but more than that, he often reminded people of a marvelous revolutionary story.
In these red-earth Ta-pa Mountains, during the old revolutionary days, Lung Wei-ling’s father had been chairman of a rural soviet. Later the whole family was killed by the reactionaries. Only Lung Wei-ling got away with his life. By the time the villagers brought word of the danger to his house, the reactionaries were already outside the main gate. So a young peasant woman deftly snatched up the infant Lung Wei-ling from a grain basket and stuck him into her backpack. Then she slipped out the rear door, pretending she was going off to gather pig fodder. This brave and ingenious woman was the same Old Lady Teng who now wore a blue cotton sash around her waist.
By now Lung Wei-ling was halfway up the hill. As he climbed, he answered the questions of the cadres gathered at the top. First they asked him if he had seen any sign of various other comrades. He called back that they were already on their way directly to the commune headquarters with Party Committee Secretary Wang. Most of the rest of the talk was about production news from the other two competition districts. Upset at the thought that the satellite might be grabbed by Yüan-pa or Chien-shan, stubby Kung Ch’i-yün called out excitedly, “You mean they’re not all coming up here with you?”
“Who’s to say they’re going to be behind forever?” Lung Wei-ling answered with a spark of humor.
“That’s not what I mean!” Kung Ch’i-yün replied peevishly.
“All right, all right,” Lung Wei-ling said with a laugh as he sat down. “But don’t get too worried; they still haven’t made off with the satellite this time.” Something about his brimming self-confidence brought hearty laughter.
Lung Wei-ling was not only strict about work, but severe in dealing with cadres, too. He earned their trust, though, not their dread. Not until he reached the top of the hill did people realize that his clothes were soaked, and they pressed him to go inside, warm up, and change. “Don’t worry about me,” he replied. “Hurry up and get ready to go!”
“I don’t believe you’re going off to your meeting like a soaked chicken,” Old Lady Teng snorted. She turned around and went to dig up some fresh clothes for Lung Wei-ling. But by the time she got back with them, the cook working for the dining hall, a fortyish woman, had already made Lung dress again in her husband’s new cotton jacket.
The group began to file out. By now the rain had slackened a little and the fog was beginning to lift from the hills all around. In this very hilly country, from the valleys below only steep mountain walls without a trace of cultivated land could be seen. But from the mountaintops, if you looked down where you had come from, countless terraced paddies and dry fields appeared, layer upon layer. By the time the group got to the top of Yün-tung Mountain, the sound of gongs and drums, which had hushed for a time, had started again and grown into a din, as though proudly announcing the latest victories in labor production work.
Altogether there were no more than twenty people in the group, but they seemed like a vast army of men and war mounts advancing along the path to victory. This was most striking in the sight of Lung Wei-ling himself. This young man of twenty-seven or twenty-eight, bearing the placard inscribed “satellite,” strode firmly at the head of the column. His bright, cheerful face and clear features sparkled with the sweat of his heavy work. As he walked he discussed strategy with his comrades in a loud, clear voice. His words were military: “strategic point,” “battle front,” “concentrate our firepower,” and so on. He had never been to war, but he understood nonetheless that they were engaged in struggle with Nature itself.
Ever since the Great Leap Forward, just about all rural cadres had talked about crop production this way. Even scrawny, sprightly Old Lady Teng was no exception. She strode up beside Lung Wei-ling and vigorously supported his views. She had gotten into the habit of calling him “Old Lung”; she really didn’t think of him as her adopted son. Except for the few cadres playing the drums and gongs, most of the others listened intently and seriously, adding a comment now and then, expressing their doubts here and there. Once in a while someone would step out from the line and go up to Lung to make his point face to face.
Kung Ch’i-yün could never stay still. This short, sturdy young fellow was a drummer in the band, but now he had stopped playing the drum and had slung it over his neck and joined in the heated conversation. In this way the group quickly passed Heng-ling, Ta-p’ing, and T’ao-chia ya-k’ou and arrived at Ch’ih-shan, a bald little mound with a group of buildings clustered around its base. All the buildings housed commune-run activities and enterprises: the clinic, the book store, the general store, the factory, and the processing plant.
The commune committee’s quarters lay against the side of the hill, in three levels that together looked like a temple. Lung Wei-ling led his column up the terraced slope and reached the stone-paved courtyard at the second level. Their arrival brought a burst of hearty greetings. Some of it was the usual helios, and some of it was more lighthearted. K’o Feng-shan, the whiskered deputy head of the Shun-ho administrative district, stood in front of the assembly hall and guffawed.
“Hey, Lung! Ready to turn over the satellite today?”
“Sure, sure,” answered Lung without concern, as he climbed the final steps leading to the hall.
“You watch out! You drool over it so much that pretty soon you’re going to get drowned in your own saliva, if you don’t watch out!”* Old Lady Teng called out with an offended look on her face.
“Don’t count your chickens,” retorted K’o Feng-shan, well known for his mischief.
“Listen,” interjected Kung Ch’i-yün. “It doesn’t matter what you think. The satellite isn’t going anywhere.”
The assembly hall was converted from a big old-style parlor, with more than ten fire pits built of stone slabs. Each burned bright red with a full load of charcoal. The faces of the people seated around them were flushed with the heat. No sooner had Lung Wei-ling stepped onto the raised platform than a group of comrades from his own district called him over to sit down by their fire with them. As the rest of the Shih-men district cadres filtered in, they all went over to join him.
This fire pit was on the left side of the hall. The two or three fires nearest it were already crowded with people. At one sat the cadres from Sai-ya district. Until now Sai-ya had always been rather backward. Two or three times they had lost ranking in the competition, and had come away with the “oxcart” placard. But in the last two months, their work had sped ahead. Not only had they moved up in the short-run competitions, but at the end of last month they had earned the “steam locomotive” award. Although they were still three steps away from winning the satellite, they had already become one of the commune’s most dynamic districts.
Lung Wei-ling had only been sitting for a little while when Chang Fu-t’ai, the branch secretary from Sai-ya, turned to him and opened a conversation. Chang Fu-t’ai was a little over forty and had a bony face. Usually he said very little, but he listened hard to what those around him were saying, his eyes scanning the others’ faces. He had learned many lessons from Shih-men and bore great respect for its fine work. In the midst of the conversation and laughter, Chang remarked seriously, “That labor allocation system of yours is really fine. But putting it into operation is no simple matter.”
“Don’t hurry it,” Lung Wei-ling answered matter-of-factly. “I tell you, we’ve been tinkering with it for several months now. Like I said the last time, we’ve gotten the better of the problems time and again, but if you go over it with a fine-toothed comb you’ll still find plenty of little troubles.”
“Secretary Chang,” interrupted Kung Ch’i-yün solemnly, “working out a system like this is not an easy matter.”
“And whoever said learning from others was easy?” said Old Lady Teng with her usual bluntness.
Lung Wei-ling felt Kung and Teng starting to get rude to each other, and quickly added with a chuckle, “In a word, systems are well and good, but working on political thought still comes first.”
“Right!” said Chang Fu-t’ai with a serious nod. “Right you are.”
This middle-aged fellow from a hired-laborer’s background liked to speak of what he intuitively understood. Because he had quickly understood Shih-men district’s labor assignment system when it was under study, Sai-ya had not only learned it well but had improved upon it. But just when he was clearing his throat to talk about this, someone sounded the homemade bullhorn by the side of the chairman’s platform.
The sound of the horn only increased the din in the assembly room. Here someone was saying, “Let’s chat about it later!”; there someone called in a loud voice, “No little mini-meetings!” Soon everyone quieted down, and only the horn was heard, making a brief announcement for each cooperative competition district to hold its own meeting. There were four such districts in Ch’ih-shan Commune. In each district, a secretary of the Party committee was in charge.
Shih-men, Yüan-pa, and Chien-shan made up Competition District 1, and their meeting was held on the second floor of a smaller building. Below them, the hammering sounds of the farm implements factory continued without letup. The meeting was already on. The Party secretary, a thin, sallow, and sickly-looking fellow with half-closed eyes, was listening to leading members of the inspection team. The Party secretary was Wang Hsing-kuei, a slow talker. But he made people laugh with a few words of plain talk, and he got his points across too.
Now each administrative district conscientiously reported on the last month’s production and living conditions. Yuan-pa and Chien-shan began to show, through their humble and modest reports, that Shih-men ought to retain the satellite, when Secretary Wang opened his eyes. His gaze swept over the crowd, and, smiling, he said in a low voice, “If it were only a matter for our three districts to settle, that would be fine ...” Someone piped up with some feeling, “Of course, it’ll depend on how all other districts evaluate us!”
“Right, if the critique demotes us, we’ll respectfully hand over the satellite,” Lung Wei-ling went on crisply.
“It is good you are thinking like that.” Secretary Wang voiced his approval. “That way we can avoid unpleasant surprises.”
When Lung Wei-ling returned to his group, who were sitting around the fire chatting, many heads turned his way before he even sat down. Everybody knew how important the meeting Lung had just left was, and they all wanted to know just one thing: was the satellite still theirs? Some asked point blank, while others whispered; no one spoke loudly. “Aia,” groaned Old Lady Teng, “I’m not going to believe that the satellite could run away from us.”
“If we’ve lost it I’ll fry a fish in my palm for you to eat,” answered Kung Ch’i-yün with evident unconcern.
“Comrades!” Lung Wei-ling glanced at Teng and Kung. He spoke gravely, without looking at all the whisperers. “It’s wrong to feel that way. Please remember what I have to say. If things go wrong, it will be because of our own arrogance and complacency.”
“Complacency? We’re on our toes all day long,” protested Old Lady Teng.
But Lung replied sharply, “You’re on your toes, but have the others been snoozing?”
Hearing his pessimistic tone, Old Lady Teng said no more. The others, waiting for the final verdict, also quieted down. But Old Lady Teng was clearly depressed. It wasn’t because the boy she had raised had treated her rudely; they had learned long ago to be blunt about work. What bothered her was that until now she had been sure the satellite would not leave Shih-men, and now her faith was shaken.
Since the competition began, people had gotten more and more excited by it; the desire to win glory had grown more powerful. In these relatively large-scale end-of-month competitions, if one administrative district suffered a demotion, there were always some people who did not take the verdict well. Last spring, when Shih-men dropped from “airplane” to “oxcart” in the competition, Old Lady Teng had broken into sobs. But Lung Wei-ling had encouraged her, full of confidence, saying “Why cry? We can get up and try again!”
This time, not only Old Lady Teng but just about everyone was feeling uneasy. Some remained silent, some muttered to themselves, while others sat around trading opinons and guesses with their neighbors. Suddenly Kung Ch’i-yün, who was always full of energy, burst out, “Hey, if we get demoted, we’ll never fall all the way down to oxcart again!”
“What kind of lucky thought is that?” Old Lady Teng had finally found a target for her bluster. Old Lady Teng’s voice was normally high, but now the people sitting around the fire and the others who had been exchanging predictions about the competitions suddenly stopped chattering and shot curious glances her way. This almost made Lung Wei-ling flare up. Lung’s damp spirits made him seem reconciled to the loss of the satellite, but he answered her slowly, and with a smile. “When troops appear our warriors will halt them; when water floods we’ll block it with earth,” Lung quoted the old adage. “Keep calm, everybody, keep calm!”
“Now, didn’t I tell you?” a chipper voice suddenly burst in. Lung Wei-ling turned to see who it was: K’o Feng-shan, the deputy head of the Shun-ho administrative district had already come in behind Lung. “In fact, it’s about time the satellite moved to new quarters,” K’o went on, “so you might as well get ready to hand it over.”
“Don’t you worry so much over nothing,” Lung laughed. “If we have to hand it over, you won’t need to make us.”
“I don’t care what you say, we’ll never turn it over to you.” Old Lady Teng lost control of herself.
“All we want is to avoid ever getting the ‘doze-off’ prize,” Kung Ch’i-yün said with studied determination. Because Shun-ho’s work had been consistently deficient, they had once earned for themselves the lowest-grade placard, which read “doze-off.” Kung Ch’i-yün had meant to poke fun, but his tone was hard and quickly brought a burst of laughter from the others. But just then the bullhorn by the side of the chairman’s platform sounded again.
This was to announce the opening of the critique session. The room suddenly fell silent, unlike the last time the horn sounded, when people had to shut each other up for a while. Everyone knew that once the representatives of each cooperative competition district had made their reports, the Party committee would announce the results of the competition. This was the most important part of the meeting. Even Pai Shou-ch’eng, who was old and sick and usually fell asleep, was now fully awake, afraid he might miss something.
The reports did not take long, but to those taking part in the meeting they were long enough. The responsible cadres from each administrative district listened intently. As the reports progressed, thoughts that had remained unspoken until now gradually came to the surface, and the comments grew blunt and frank. Here someone said, with admiration, “There’s no argument; Ta-p’ing sure has improved,” while over there someone remarked approvingly, “That’s quite an effort!” Now and then someone else would say, in a tone of mixed determination and envy, “When you get back, figure out what caused this!”
Only the people from Shih-men district were still. From the work reports of the first three competition districts, it seemed that Shih-men still had the best record in land reclamation and that no other administrative district had outdone them. When the fourth competition district report opened with a discussion of production and living conditions in Sai-ya, everybody listened with rapt attention. Remembering the district’s great recent efforts and thinking of the modest and practical Chang Fu-t’ai, the Shih-men people were even more anxious. Finally, Kung Ch’i-yün could stand it no longer; heaving a deep sigh, he said, “Ah, no problem!”
Hearing Kung’s dispirited voice, Lung Wei-ling shot him a look of warning, but he said nothing. In their hearts he and Kung Ch’i-yün had the same feeling, but he didn’t quite feel the satellite was lost yet. In this tumultuous, socialist labor competition a backward unit often leaped to the forefront in a single jump. Furthermore, this was a common occurrence; who knew what would happen with the other two administrative districts? But his spirits gradually sank anyway.
Next came the report of the Tung-shan administrative district. There was nothing special about their work record. Finally it was Shun-ho’s turn. Now the hall grew noisy, as though everybody knew Shun-ho’s foundation was weak, and it made little difference whether their report got heard or not. Discussions of how the contest was going spread around the room; now and then a little suppressed laughter could be heard.
Infected by this atmosphere, Kung Ch’i-yün made ready to talk. But out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of the color of Lung Wei-ling’s face and shut up. Lung was once again absorbed, sitting stiffly with his head cocked to one side, listening seriously to the report. However, the house soon quieted down again, and everyone concentrated on hearing what was going on.
“We have compared conditions in the three administrative districts,” Kung Ch’i-yün heard the reporter’s hoarse voice going on. “This time Shun-ho deserves a big break. When it comes to land reclamation, as we see it, they’ve been more thorough than any of the others ...”
“What happened?” Kung Ch’i-yün muttered, staring at the reporter.
“A minute ago you said there was nothing to worry about,” said creaky old Pai Shou-ch’eng.
“I don’t believe they’re going to take away our satellite,” asserted Old Lady Teng loudly. She was as resolutely confident as before. When she got through speaking, she tugged on her blue cotton waist-sash, even though she didn’t need to tighten it. Looking at her it seemed that if anybody, it didn’t matter who, came and laid hands on the placard with satellite painted on it, she would put up quite a battle. “And no critique from the Party Committee?” she threw in for good measure.
“You’re right on that score,” Lung Wei-ling echoed approvingly. “We must all have faith in the Party committee.”
By now all the reports were over and voices of the people had risen to a clamor. Here and there unrestrained arguments about the contest broke out. Some people were still talking about their own cases, some were comparing their administrative districts with others. Still other people, feeling strongly that their own work had been inadequate, were beginning to search for the reasons why.
As Lung Wei-ling went up to take part in the enlarged session called by the Party committee, he reminded his own district’s cadres once again: this was a socialist competition, and correct attitude was more important than winning or losing. He knew that the enlarged meeting would call for opinions on the contest from all the districts, and he had the feeling that Shih-men was likely to lose the satellite. Everybody had better brace himself for the news.
The first person Lung saw, over by a file cabinet in the spacious room where the meeting would take place, was Party Secretary Wang Hsing-kuei, leaning on a rattan chair with his eyes half closed, as usual, pondering some problem. When Wang noticed Lung, he promptly opened his eyes. “It’s not so bad to take your tumbles,” said Wang in his usual phlegmatic way. “I generally think ...”
“Rest easy, Secretary Wang,” Lung replied quickly, “we won’t give up.”
“Right! As you said to our ‘Lady General,’ ‘Get up and try again.’ “
It was clear as day; Shih-men’s satellite had already gone to Shun-ho. All that remained were the mechanics of the transfer. So as the first secretary of the Party committee made some final remarks about the debate and turned to the meeting for further opinions, Lung Wei-ling not only showed his agreement, but got up graciously and went around the table to shake firmly the hand of the Shun-ho branch secretary.
The Shun-ho branch secretary’s name was Chang Yen, and he had been a correspondent for the district Party committee since Liberation, though he was younger than Lung Wei-ling. He was about twenty and smaller in size, so lots of people affectionately called him “little devil.”
“Let’s go through the transfer procedure in a little while,” said Lung, pumping Chang Yen’s hand. “Would it be too much trouble for you to keep that thing safe for us for a few days?”
“Why only a few days?” cried Chang with a laugh, his face flushed. “I’d say six months at least!”
“Not that long! You’ll be passing it back to us at the end of next month.”
The building seemed to shake as everyone burst into laughter. When it came time to announce the results formally in the auditorium and officially turn over the placards, the atmosphere was even more excited. The din of gongs and drums, of people talking and laughing, rose and fell in waves. But there were a few people around who felt that this month’s contest had not come out right.
The ones who felt this way for the most part belonged to units who had been demoted in the debates. A minute before they had been voicing their protest, but they were soon swallowed up by the clamor of the applause and the din of drums and gongs. Above all they had their doubts about Shun-ho making off with the satellite. Some had no particular reason; they just could not figure out how an oxcart could suddenly be transformed into a satellite. But others had reason to doubt. A day or two before they had gone to Shun-ho’s No. 7 production team and had come upon plenty of wasteland with nothing sown on it in the area of the bamboo grove.
Some of the Shih-men cadres were not too happy either; the satellite that they had held onto for three months had gone to Shun-ho, which had been so backward! On top of that, Sai-ya had made it up to “airplane,” while Shih-men had fallen to “rocket”; that was painful too. Old Lady Teng had long since gotten too angry to talk, and the usually animated Kung Ch’i-yün wore a long face.
Now the room was quiet again, as people listened carefully to the Party committee’s decisions on upcoming work assignments and took them down on paper. But as soon as the tasks were assigned, things perked up once more. The comrades who disagreed with the verdict of the contest started to feel more and more strongly that things were not right. Indeed, someone had already formally raised the matter of Shun-ho’s unreclaimed land.
“They call that complete land reclamation?” Old Lady Teng said in a voice loud enough for all to hear. “They still have plenty of paddy and dry field unreclaimed.”
“Why are you so excited again?” Lung Wei-ling asked with a smile. “Secretary Wang has already said ...”
“If you have an opinion it’s right to speak out!”
“Winning’s important, but so is good sportsmanship.” Lung set out to soothe not only Old Lady Teng but all the Shih-men cadres who had come to the meeting. He could tell that a lot of people with their own gripes were looking for a chance to complain about the contest results. Actually, they were trying to figure out a way to get the satellite back right away.
Lung’s demeanor was serious, and he spoke calmly and placatingly. Every so often he cracked a joke. He moved from talking about the contest itself to the question of revolutionary cadres’ behavior, hoping that everyone would cool off a little. He was just getting around to the idea that the overall benefit to the commune would not be served if the satellite stayed too long in one place, when the first secretary of the Party committee started to speak.
The first secretary was called I Ping-kuang. He was a lanky type, whose parents had both been killed during the revolutionary struggles. Just like Lung Wei-ling, he belonged to a martyr’s family. In the last month, he had concentrated on Shun-ho’s work, helping them allocate their labor resources and working for a number of days himself as a cook for them.
I Ping-kuang stood straight on the chairman’s platform and said with determination, “I can see that many of you feel the inspection team missed Shun-ho’s bamboo grove. I haven’t been there of late myself. So let’s face up to it and send a group down to have another look!”
“Right! The only thing to do is face facts,” shouted a number of voices, supported by a round of applause.
“No!” K’o Feng-shan shouted jumping to his feet. “Who says the contest hasn’t been strict enough?”
This usually sly operator now turned obstinate. Shun-ho had gotten hold of the satellite after much sweat, and he was afraid they might lose it after all, just because he himself had seldom inspected the bamboo grove. But at this point, those who approved the reinspection plan were all the more unwilling to let things lie.
“You must have a guilty conscience,” came the answer from many mouths. “This is the Party committee’s view!”
“Let me speak a few words on behalf of Shun-ho. We welcome reinspection ...” This was the voice of Chang Yen, the branch secretary. He stood by on the stone edge of the fire pit, his voice rising to a high pitch. “Let’s be strict about it this way,” he went on more softly. “If the reinspection shows that there is unreclaimed paddy or dry field in the bamboo grove, we will deliver the satellite back to Shih-men with a band playing escort.”
That really brought the room to a boil. Hand-clapping and laughter filled the air. The resentments of the dissatisfied minority vanished like smoke. And even though plenty of responsible cadres from the administrative districts saw no need for the reinspection, a team was quickly formed with the Party committee’s support to do the job. The Party committee picked the team’s members. They came from the districts that had dropped in the rankings. Lung Wei-ling was one of them and was chosen to head the little group.
Lung was picked to head the team because people from the other two districts knew he would do a thorough job. No one put more hope in him than a few of the Shih-men cadres. They figured that since the baby-faced Chang Yen had spoken so rashly, all Lung Wei-ling had to do was discover a bit of unreclaimed land here and there and everything would be taken care of. Even if the plot were no bigger than a postage stamp, Shun-ho would have to give back the satellite.
Old Lady Teng typified this outlook. When Lung Wei-ling opened discussion with the Shih-men group on the Party committee’s work assignments for the coming phase and was about to go off on the reinspection mission, the spry old lady got to her feet noisily. Grasping her adopted son tightly, she said to him with utmost gravity: “I want you to be as tough-minded as you were that time you went to Yüan-pa to inspect their fertilizer collection!”
“O.K.,” said Lung with a grin. “I guarantee not a single inch of wasteland will escape unnoticed.”
“That’s the way to do it, “Kung Ch’i-yün piped up. “He certainly talks tough.”
“All right, I’ll do it,” added Lung, “But you all should be seriously figuring out the reasons for what happened to us.”
Neither Old Lady Teng nor Kung had really understood the branch secretary’s words. If it had not been for the intervention of the little group’s deputy branch secretary and the responsible cadres from the administrative district, they probably would have argued some more. But, at any rate, they felt satisfied.
When the small group meetings were over, the production teams went on trading challenges until at last the entire session came to an end. It was already well into the afternoon. A drizzle still floated in the sky. The people filed along the muddy mountain paths, to the sound of drums and gongs, returning to their home districts the same way they came. The Shih-men group got home just in time for dinner. After eating, without pausing to rest, they sat around the fire and prodded each other to figure out why Shih-men had lost. Why were there still little bits of unreclaimed land in the district?
Usually in these meetings, which seemed like investigations, Old Lady Teng took an active part and talked a lot. But this time, her heart was not in it. Sometimes, while a person next to her was speaking, she would mutter to herself “Hasn’t he gotten back yet?” Or she would nudge Kung Ch’i-yün and whisper to him, “Go out and have a look!” And with no further prompting the stubby young man would catch her meaning, and quickly slip outside. He would stand at the lip of the hillside threshing ground with his flashlight shining and peer for a while into the darkness.
They were all waiting for Lung Wei-ling, hoping that he would bring them the good news they yearned to hear. But it wasn’t until the next morning, after breakfast, when the commune members were getting ready to set out for work, that Lung suddenly appeared like a healthy tiger, his cotton jacket open and his face bright red.
“Hey! we waited for you long enough last night,” people said as they got to their feet and gathered around him.
“I wanted to talk over some problems with that little devil.’ ” Lung was smiling like a victorious general returning from battle. “Their preparation for the winter crop planting is really good, but they did not stir enough fertilizer deep into the soil. I suggested they ...”
“What about your reinspection?” wailed Old Lady Teng, pulling on Lung’s sleeve.
“Oh, you mean the unreclaimed paddy and dry field? We have to admit defeat. They were really thorough in eliminating their wastelands.”
Kung Ch’i-yün let out a long, hopeless groan. “Ah, Shun-ho has the satellite in the bag now,” he said softly.
“It’s not that simple,” Lung Wei-ling answered, grinning from ear to ear. “We’ll make them give it back to us next month ...”
Enjoying the Short Stories of I960, pp. 295-309
Translated by Robert A. Kapp
Big banyan tree, spreading shade,
Three new soldiers sit there and talk.
“Dirty clothes put in basin, but someone
Had washed them, just as I turned around.
The tear in my pants I was going to mend,
Overnight it was fixed up, as good as new.”
“An apple appeared at the pillow of my bed
When I got sick, and a good-wish letter too;
The words gave strength to me and the apple
Is so red that it warms you like fire.”
“A letter from home really touched me:
Dad is well now, can get back to the fields;
Don’t know who sent him money in my name,
And also sent him medicines, time and again.
That kind of friendly concern, more than skin deep,
Reaches across hills and streams, far far away.”
“Who can it be, who is he?
Seems like our squad leader, or platoon leader?
Or could be that old soldier who refuses to retire?”
The new soldiers are guessing,
Along comes the platoon leader, smiling,
“My comrades, that’s nothing unusual
Among us soldiers of the people;
You need not try to guess his name.
Feeling close or not, it’s a matter of class;
Among class brothers the bond is strongest.
And among the PLA, on the road to revolution,
Wherever you go you find people like that!”
Summer 1959
Conch-shell Bugle Call, pp. 98-99
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu
For a note on Chang Yung-mei, see p. 174.
Chao was a successful businessman from Anhwei Province who managed a transport company while dabbling in Buddhism and classical Chinese poetry. He emerged as a leader of the liberals on the eve of Liberation, and in the 1950s he served as the president of the Buddhist Association in Shanghai while holding a high office in the government. Except during the years of the Cultural Revolution, he has been active in Buddhist organizations, often leading delegations to visit abroad.
Chao has earned a national reputation with his verse in the classical mode. Most of his poems collected in Drops of Water (1961) demonstrate his deft adaptation of traditional verse forms to accommodate current themes. The images are quite fresh and appealing. However, at times his lines can also be recondite and obscure; one very short verse published in the January 1977 issue of the Poetry Journal requires footnotes three times as long as the poem to explain four allusions involved. Such practices in writing poetry are indeed against everything the new literature of China is meant to be.
The latest collection of Chao’s poems, Chips of Stone, was published in 1978.
—K.Y.H.
—Watching Kuan Han-ch’ing, Starring Ma Shih-tseng and Hung Hsien-nü
Like trickling water the lingering song enters my dream,
A poet’s mind and feeling entrusted to a tune.
Shocking grievance and blood and tears rage in the eastern sea,
The thunder and wind of justice rock all nine continents.
Rid the world of rats and lackeys,
Distinguish the right from wrong,
The case is settled today, settled forever.
A copper pea boiled in soup and fried in oil,*
Gladdens us with new green shoots sprouting all over.
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu
The call to arms and the call of the muse have been equally strong in Chinese tradition; every scholar used to feel, or make himself feel, ready to rise to the challenge of defending his country, and every soldier’s highest aspiration was to write poetry like a Confucian scholar. It was in the blood of Mao Tse-tung; it was in the blood of Ch’en Yi—one of the ten meritorious marshals of the Communist armed forces, Chou En-lai’s life-long comrade, and Foreign Minister until his death in 1972.
Ch’en had a rather legitimate claim to literature: he spent his two years in Paris (1919-21) studying French literature while working with Chou En-lai to organize communist cells. He completed his baccalaureate at a French-sponsored university while doing underground political work in North China in 1923-26. He wrote, while a student, on Anatole France, Romain Rolland, and proletarian literature, debating with the Chinese Bloomsbury poet Hsü Chih-mo.
Mao Tse-tung took Ch’en in as his poetry pupil, besides giving him tips on how to fight, guerrilla style. The lulls between campaigns gave Ch’en moments for reflection, and he committed his thoughts to verse. His heroic best came during the embattled years of Chinese Communist history, and his contemplative best during the years of peace, the late 1950s and early 1960s, when he was at the height of his success and still free from political attack. We have selected a few samples of the latter, all collected in Selected Poems of Ch’en Yi.
—K.Y.H.
Three Gorges of the
Yangtze River
When young I left home through the Three Gorges,
Day and night I watched the view.
Too confining, I thought of the whole thing,
And longed for the open world of the east coast.
I was young when I left home,
Forty years have since gone by.
The rills and hills, beautiful as ever,
But men have advanced, in long strides.
Szechwan’s roads, truly hard as climbing heaven,
With the river snaking its way through mountains.
At each narrow gorge, one always faces
One more test, one more challenge.
The Min and the O mountains, thousands of feet high,
And the K’uei Gate and the Wu Peak lock in the west wind.
But none of them can stop the flow of the river,
As all waters rush forward toward the east.
November 1959
Selected Poems of Ch’en Yi, pp. 243-44
Blue pine under snow,
The pine stands straight and strong
How unbending is it?—You want to know?
Just wait, when snow’s gone.
A plant named sensitive,
Only a plant it is, but man
How can he be less—to wit:
Many of old preferred death.
December 1960
Selected Poems, pp. 254-56
Often I wish to rise to the sky,
Only to find myself earthbound,
I leap and I dash, but can’t get away,
We are all together on this globe.
We are all together on this globe,
Now the East is free, the West enslaved.
If there could only be a blitz change overnight,
Turning the world into a place jewel-like and clean.
Turning the world into a place jewel-like and clean,
To fill with joy the hearts of all men and women.
Remember, it’s man who decides, not heaven,
Just watch how China leaps higher and ahead.
Just watch how China leaps higher and ahead,
Replacing the old with the new in everything.
Communism soars afar beyond the horizon,
All nations do not have to be confined to this one globe.
All nations do not have to be confined to this one globe,
There are many suns outside the orbit of the sun.
Who can give a really new world?
With red rays shining all over the universe.
With red rays shining all over the universe,
When dreams and reality have come together.
Don’t indulge only in idle words but no deeds
Don’t just look under your nose but no further.
1961
Selected Poems, pp. 273-75
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu
Ho Ch’i-fang was born in 1911 (1910 by some accounts) in Wanhsien, on the Szechwan side of the Yangtze River Gorges. As a child he studied the traditional classics in the family school and read in secret the tales of fantasy and magic he found in the attic. Growing up he came into contact with Western and May Fourth literature at middle school in Chengtu and then at Shanghai, but when he entered Peking University in 1931 he elected to study Western philosophy in order to understand better what he thought was the basis of Western civilization. His first published poem dates from this year. In 1933, with Japanese troops only thirteen miles outside Peking, the universities sent their students home for an early vacation, but no signs of the crisis appear in Ho’s early writings. In 1935, on graduation, he taught for a year at Nankai middle school in Tientsin, and here again refused even to acknowledge the student demonstrations that closed the school for a few days. Finally, on the eve of the Sino-Japanese war, he began to write about the twin evils of Japanese encroachment and social injustice. When war broke out, he returned to Szechwan but, in his new mood of social criticism, soon left for Yenan, from where he accompanied guerrilla forces in daring raids behind enemy lines, and where he later taught at the Lu Hsün Academy of Arts. In Peking, after the establishment of the People’s Republic of China in 1949, he was given high academic posts and wrote several books of literary criticism; however, since 1942, very few poems by him have appeared. He was criticized during the Cultural Revolution, like many others, but in the early 1970s he was reinstated as director of the Institute of Chinese Literature at the Academy of Sciences. It was said that after the fall of the Gang of Four he was planning to set up a new poetry magazine. Unfortunately, he died on July 24,1977, before such plans were able to materialize. The poems translated below include his last published work. They are written for the most part in a flowing, limpid vernacular, in Western quatrains with Western rhyme patterns, but on occasion he reverts to classical Chinese forms such as lü-shih and chüeh-chü.
Between 1936 and 1952 he published nine collections of poems and essays, of which the best known are The Han Garden, Record of Painted Dreams, Prophecy, and Night Songs. —B.S.McD.
I hear a bewitching song,
So blithe, so young,
It seems like our young republic,
Singing her evergreen spring.
It seems like the dawn’s golden rays
Trembling for joy on the waters,
Spring suddenly returns to the garden,
Dew laden blossoms unfold.
At times it sings low and sobbingly,
Like the fine spray of a fountain at night,
The round moon rises above the horizon,
A faint breeze lightly ruffles the leaves;
At times it sings high and loftily,
Like a huge billow touching the sky,
Transporting us from the earth’s surface,
Towards the far-off blue ocean.
Then it sings soft and gently,
Like a maiden’s eyes filled with sorrow,
And like plants which cleave the earth as they grow,
First love leaps in the heart.
Ah, it is so bewitching,
It’s not music, it is life!
It’s not something heard in a dream,
But the pulsating blood of spring!
Peking, from the night of the 2nd to the
morning of the 3rd, March 1957
People’s Literature, no. 10 (1961): 3
In March this year I met Yang Chi-fu at a conference in Peking. It turned out to be exactly twenty years since we had parted in the autumn of 1937. When I was working in Chungking in 1947, he was in Wanhsien running the Yü-ch’üan middle school. He sent me a regulated poem in five-word meter, entrusting it to a comrade to recite to me when he got to Chungking. Unfortunately, I only remember the final couplet now. He wanted me to write out a few lines for him. I wasn’t able to write an old-style poem, since I happened to have contracted a slight illness, and my head was so dizzy I couldn’t do anything; I just scribbled a few incoherent lines from my bed:
Not content with private goals,
You set up a school for the common good.
Mo Ti grew anxious when silk was dyed,
It was Confucius’ wish that the way be shared.
When tree roots reach deep into the earth,
Leaves and branches will withstand the winds.
Since parting there is much to say,
When shall we two meet again?
After I had recovered I wrote these lines on a scroll for him. When we met again, he told me that the scroll was still hanging in his house in the countryside. In Chungking not long after sending it, I heard the news of his arrest. Because the school he ran was supported by the masses, he was eventually let out of jail. He suffered from TB for more than twenty years, and physically he was very weak, but he still worked resolutely. I also discovered at this time that he had high blood pressure, so that one topic of the poem is contempt for illness.
[Author’s note]
How could we know in twenty years
I would ascend your hall again,
At our former parting you weren’t married,
Sons and daughters suddenly form a row ...
Tu Fu*
While you were talking,
You recalled Tu Fu’s lines;
Just twenty years ago we parted,
Once more to meet again.
My temples are flecked with white,
You are thinner than before,
The hot blood in our breasts
Is yet the same as when we were young.
Pointing to your lungs,
You say the rotting spread,
You were kept in the enemy’s prison,
And remained in danger after release.
Comrades urged you to rest,
You said, what does illness matter?
For the sake of our ideals,
How can one day pass without work?
Just as we held the enemy in contempt,
So did we look down on illness,
However great its strength,
Victory still was ours!
While you were talking,
You recalled Tu Fu’s lines;
Just twenty years ago we parted,
Once more to meet again.
Peking, night of the 8th, April 1957
People’s Literature, no. 10 (1961): 4
In November 1958 I went to Honan on a tour of inspection. At a few places poems were demanded after the inspection, so that we were obliged to compose several pieces of doggerel. Afterwards I more or less forgot them. This is the only one I still remember. Fan Hai-liang was a peasant from Ma-kou village in San-kuan-miao in Teng-feng county, who was then a production team leader. His poem went like this—
Chairman Mao’s eyes are like stars in the sky,
Even people living deep in the mountains see their light.
[Author’s note]
Of all the stars in the skies, Venus shines the brightest,
Among poets from the distant past, Li Po and Tu Fu are celebrated most.
Who is it writes the best poems today?
The multitudes of laboring people.
San-kuan-miao, Teng-feng county
in Honan, November 14, 1958
People’s Literature, no. 10 (1961): 4
Night Passage through Wanhsien
The mountain town agleam with lamplight,
Loops around the river bank,
It looks much like Chungking at night,
Only the Chialing is missing.
Leaning on the boat railing,
I wanted to see it more closely;
This was my family home,
Nursed on its milk I grew up.
Where is the azure T’ai-po Cliff,
Where according to legend, Li Po once lived?
In the primary school at its foot,
I passed my childhood years.
Where is the bustling Southford Street?
Bombarded by British gunboats,
The street was once reduced to rubble,
But quickly filled again with shops.
Where are the streets along which
I raced together with my companions?
Shouting at the top of our voices
Anti-imperialist slogans.
I can’t make out the places I knew so well,
Nor buildings that date from after Liberation,
I only see the lamplight gleaming,
Reflected in the river’s midnight hue.
I only see the Yangtze’s upper reaches,
Where night boats now can pass,
Like the pace of our reconstruction
Pressing on night and day.
I lean on the boat railing,
Until the mountain town is out of sight,
Red and green lamp-markers on the river
Seem to bid a reluctant farewell.
First drafted on board along the Yangtze,
December 9, 1958; revised in Peking, August 17, 1961
People’s Literature, no. 10 (1961): 5
On June 27,1961, the train arrived at Dongdang inside the Vietnam border, just as the sky was becoming light. The train continued forward. The flora and fauna in North Vietnam are similar to those in parts of South China and in my native province of Szechwan. However, men and women do not dress like Chinese. On the train some Vietnamese comrades were collecting signatures from passengers in protest against the invasion and interference of American imperialism in South Vietnam, and the Chinese comrades signed happily.
After the rain the mountain summit
Is wreathed by a ring of white mist.
Dawn has just awoken,
Laden with the cold dew of the night before.
Sunlight suddenly gleams:
Bamboo groves, lotus ponds, banana trees;
Like embroidered flowers stitched by hand,
Appear neat rows of rice paddies.
Peasants plough the fields with water buffalo,
Women labor in the fields and open country,
Everything is so touchingly familiar,
And yet so fresh and new!
But this is no Peach Blossom Spring.
In the south of the same peninsula
Under the same peaceful blue sky,
Americans and Ngo Dinh Diem still abide.
No evil power whatsoever
Can prevent the unity of Vietnam!
We say each of our fingers is attached to the heart,
How much more so each half of one body!
And so on this first morning,
I signed my name in the carriage,
Taking part in the Vietnamese people’s
Struggle to unify their homeland.
Hanoi, June 30, 1961
People’s Literature, no. 10 (1961): 5-6
Three Young Women from South
Vietnam
I met three young women from South Vietnam:
One with short braids, cheerful and lively;
A thin one, with something sad in her face;
One with a pair of large eyes, grave and silent.
On an evening without moon or stars,
Only the sound of waves on the shore,
They rowed a boat across the sea
And stole away together to the north.
“At the time we made a fatal resolution,
If caught halfway we were ready to fight to the death.”
Their life in the South was so hard,
So bitter it could not be borne.
“What oppressed us beyond bearing were too-heavy taxes,
Whatever kind of fish you caught, there was a fish-tax for them all.
Then there was the head tax. Then for building the district head’s office
Each was assigned a contribution which cost us dear.
“The young men of the village were soon all conscripted,
All the work then fell to us.
A hint of discontent, one word of complaint,
They said you harbored communist ideas.
“They said the people’s soldiers in the North were as thin as paper men,
They could stand on grass in water and the grass wouldn’t sink.
Everyone knew that Ngo was America’s running dog,
No one believed their ridiculous propaganda!”
They talked about their lives and homes,
But not about the people who arose in resistance,
Who might be burned alive or disembowelled,
Their villages wiped out by plane and cannon.
They had hardly any schooling but could till the soil,
And contribute their labor to their homeland’s garden of flowers.
“Do you want to return home?” They answer:
“No, not until unification is realized.”
They are three young women from South Vietnam,
Talking to me softly like little birds
Who have flown from their cage into the sun,
Both joyful and somewhat constrained.
Hanoi, July 15, 1961
People’s Literature, no. 10 (1961): 7-8
Translated by Bonnie S. McDougall
Song of the Landscape of Kweilin
O, gods of the clouds, immortals of the mist,
The mountains of Kweilin seem like gods and immortals !
O, deep as love eternal, beautiful as a dream,
The waters of River Li are like love and dreams !
O, how many folds of water, how many ranges of mountains?
The waters and mountains surround the city of Kweilin
A mountain city or a water city?
All in the blue mountains and waters green
O! These hills, these waters with me entwine,
At this moment, whence came this body of mine?
... The Yellow River’s waves and desert winds
Have come over layers upon layers of frontier ranges.
On horseback I dream of a sand painting:
“The landscape of Kweilin is the best in the world”
O! A dream world? An ethereal world?
I am as though on Tu-hsiu Summit right now!
O, is my heart intoxicated or still awake?
The waters and mountains usher me into their painted screen!
Painting in a painting—River Li reflects my thousand shadows,
Song in a song—mountain after mountain echoes my voice...
I wave at Old Man Mountain to ask,
How many thousands of years have the clouds stayed o’er the rivers and peaks?
—In the Pearl Return Cave of Wave Subdue Mountain,
The pearl waited long for a knock at the door...
Chicken Coop Mountain sings and Folding Screen Mountain opens,
To let the green waters, white boat, and red flag come in!
For a note on Ho Ching-chih, see p. 361.
Spring rains wash away the earth’s sad look,
Just look in Pierced Mountain’s clear mirror—
O! The Mountains of Kweilin, the waters of River Li—
The smile of my motherland is so lovely!
The landscape of Kweilin enters my breast,
Such scenery, such feelings are the fighter’s heart—
So lovely this land, and friendly the people,
My hair will be kept from ever turning grey!
Facing this land one’s pride will naturally unfold,
My youth will be kept from ever growing old!
Seven Star Rock goes to a gathering of immortals
Calling Third Sister Liu to return from the skies
A wide road opens between man and heaven,
Whoever wants to sing new songs, come follow me!
Third Sister has loads of mountain songs,
About this land, o, fighters, singing of our nation
Red flags weave an intricate tapestry,
The sea’s north and the sky’s south are seen at one glance!
O, wind and sand of the frontier, waves of the Yellow River,
Bring spring to my hometown from thousands of miles away.
Under red flags: young heroes arise everywhere—
Too many to see: the many facets of “Tu-hsiu Summit”!
—O, thoughts crowd my mind, and feelings surge in my bosom,
Just like the rolling waters of River Li in spring!
O ! A rain of profuse sweat paints a colorful picture:
May the landscape of Kweilin—be everywhere !...
First draft July 1959,
Revised August 1961
Singing Aloud, pp. 25-28
Translated by Hsin-sheng C. Kao
Hsiao San went to school together with Mao Tse-tung and was one of the original dozen members of Mao’s first Marxist study group in Changsha, Hunan Province. He joined the Communist Party upon its inception in 1921 and lived and studied in Russia for thirteen years. Since his return to China in 1939 he has been prominent in literary circles and has published over fifteen volumes under his name, including three books of verse: Songs of Friendship, Selected Poems, and In the Stable. He is best known for his stories of Mao Tse-tung’s early life. —K.Y.H.
I Sing for My Fatherland,
Ten Years Old
They used to call us
In contempt like this:
For one, we are an inferior race,
And again, we are East Asia’s sickly.
They used to name
Places in our country as they pleased:
The Lu-kou Bridge was Marco Polo,
The Princely Mansion Well was Morrison Street
They used to describe
The look of our country this was:
One rotten tree trunk, a cluster of weeds,
A broken bowl and a dilapidated temple.
Very much out of their habit,
They were stunned, speechless;
A thunderbolt out of the blue,
The Chinese people have stood up.
A giant walks out of the Huai-jen Hall,*
A giant steps on the Gate of Heavenly Peace;
“The People’s Republic is hereby established!”
The five-star red flag rises high in pride.
The Heavenly Peace Square remains hushed and solemn.
The 21-gun salute reverberates in the sky.
The song stirs the hearts of thousands gathered there,
“Rise, you who are unwilling to be slaves anymore.”
They are very surprised,
They are very depressed,
We have wrestled away their swords;
Our destiny lies under our own control.
Then, still following their old habit, they think
China has always been a dish of loose sands.
Even though we may have unified our country,
We can’t keep it safely in our hands.
Then they figure secretly,
China has always been stark poor*
When we are faced with this situation,
We surely would not know what to do.
And they have another habit:
When they see a young sprout issuing,
They’d hurry up to chop it down,
To avoid its growing into a big tree with spreading shade.
They are very uncomfortable,
They are really disturbed;
The Chinese really know how to take care of themselves,
And like iron, like steel, they are united.
We poked through that paper tiger,
We subdued fox fairies and demons.
If the enemy dares to stir again,
We’ll wipe them out, to the last man.
Wiping out backwardness and poverty,
We rely upon our broad masses.
One leap forward after another,
Our 600 million, each a hero.
Each full of life and vigor,
Everyone shows his very best.
Great rivers must make way,
Towering mountains bow to us.
Who’s afraid of drought and flood?
Wet or dry we increase production.
People’s communes stand unbending,
Our collective strength, unlimited.
Oil fields and steel capitals everywhere, and everywhere
Flows the precious liquid and dances the fire dragon;
An enormous bridge astride the Yangtze River,
A thoroughfare between Canton and Peking.
People no longer ask for
“Foreign cloth, matches and oil” . . . .*
The “Red Flag,” “East Wind,” and “Hero” ...
Local products, too many to be counted.
We’re happiest for our wise leadership,
We have a system of our own.
A great nation of socialism—
Wealth and strength, a certainty.
This system of ours is
truly miraculous,
It scares the enemy out of his wits,
And brings out broad grins from our friends.
This system of ours
Produces miracles.
In ten short years our record
Has exceeded many centuries.
Many statistical data become
History at the wink of the eye.
And many new books just off press
Already are outdated.
The giant that’s our people has marched forth for ten years,
Today he returns once again to the Heavenly Peace Square.
Five-star red flags rise all around, all the way to the sky,
And our national anthem, and the “Internationale,” ride the winds.
The People’s Square, solemn, great, reflecting glory,
A brand-new assembly hall, flanked by huge museums.
The martyrs felled in the last 100 years will live forever,
As the towering memorial stands infallible in the Square.
Thousands upon thousands of good friends and distinguished guests
Have come from all directions of the earth.
“Our friends are all over the world,”*
We fear no lies or slander by a small “cluster.”
Well continue to make flying leaps forward,
Unafraid of the rightists’ pulling our legs.
East wind rises to overwhelm the west wind completely,
The fortress of socialism is a rising sun.
October 1, 1959
In Stable, pp. 1-8
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu
Hsieh Ch’i-kuei published poems frequently in the early 1960s, but there is very little known about him. —K.Y.H.
The factory staff try every way to save fuel and collect discarded scraps and used metal. With these they make a large quantity of farm implements to support the spring plowing in the commune. [Author’s note]
Iron in furnace,
Hammer on anvil,
A hoe, each swing,
And a scythe, once more.
Our coal is “austerity coal,”
Our iron, scraps.
More hoes and more scythes,
More wheat, more rice.
Poetry Journal, no. 3 (1961): 36-37
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu
When I spent a day with Kuo Hsiao-ch’uan in 1973 in Peking, he gave me a brief account of his earlier life without, however, acknowledging that he had been in jail at the height of the Cultural Revolution in 1967, as some sources claimed to be the case. But then, few people I saw that year in the People’s Republic of China would even mention that subject.
Before the liberation of 1949, Kuo published poetry under several pen names, of which the best known was Ma T’ieh-ting. He was born to a teacher’s family in a small town on the southern edge of Inner Mongolia, attended schools in Peking (then Peiping), and became actively involved in Communist-supported student movements. At the outbreak of the war against Japan, Kuo joined the political department of the Eighth Route Army in Shansi Province. From 1941 to the late 1960s he studied Marxism in Yenan, was assigned to the editorial offices of many regional and national publications, including the People’s Daily, and held different political and administrative posts. He even served as the mayor of his hometown for a period. All the while he continued to write poetry. Collections of his verse and essays include To Young Citizens, Old Hired Hand, Under the Moon, Songs of the K’un-lun Mountains, and Sugarcane Forest. In style, his works are close to Ho Ching-chih’s : both reflect Mayakov-sky’s influence. They are robust, throaty, and infectiously sonorous.
Kuo’s poem “Gazing at the Starry Sky,” translated below, was caught in the 1959 Anti-Rightist campaign and criticized for displaying bourgeois, individualistic sentiments. —K.Y.H.
... Starry Sky,
Only you
Deserve to be hailed, “Long Life Eternal!”
For how many times you have watched
The thawing of glaciers
And the eruptions of volcanoes!
How many times you have watched
The green oozing out of willow twigs,
And catkins, white as frost, take to flight.
At your lofty height,
From a place that staggers man’s imagination,
You have seen all the beautiful sights in the world of man,
And witnessed all of its dramatic changes as well.
To you, time is—
Like space—
An infinite
And untamable flow.
Gazing at the starry sky above
Makes me feel sad.
However one might brag
About one’s strength and ambition
Or about one’s health and youth,
How can those things compare
With your permanence,
Your immemorial past and your unlimited future?
However one might claim
Possession of a hero’s gusto and will,
And a hero’s vision and courage,
How can those things compare
With the immensity
Of your capacity!
I love the world of man
As I have grown up there.
But in front of you
It is far less glittering.
Walking over a thousand mountains
And wading across ten thousand rivers
Do not bring one to your realm.
Even travelling over all the seas
And oceans on earth
Does not enable one to share your elixir.
And the myriads of bonfires
And lights and lanterns
Pale before just one of your tiny stars.
Putting all the roads
And bridges end to end
Won’t measure up to even a section of your milky way.
I have journeyed over half the globe
From the east to the west.
The size of the earth
Has startled us and earned our admiration.
Yet who can tell
How many stars and planets the universe contains,
To which our earth is but a sibling?
Who has ever learned
How many lands there are in the sky
All capable of accommodating mankind?
Can’t you see the moon?
—That huge expanse of space out there.
Those lands afar
—defy our imagination
Life is precious.
To sing praise of the life engaged in intense battles,
I have written volumes of verse.
But in the course of a man’s life
How many chances does one have
To gaze at the starry sky?
And as one moves along in one’s life,
How many nights like this does he have
To pass in the infinite space of the universe?
The life of man flickers no brighter than a falling star,
And in the endless flow of time
Life is but one of the faintest ripples.
I gaze at the starry sky.
It makes me feel sad.
And I carry this unnamed sorrow
As I walk toward the heart of Peking
People’s Literature, no. 11 (1959): 90-93
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu
[This is a Northern Shensi legend about a light that is supposed to appear at night on the ruins of an ancient beacon tower facing the wilderness of Inner Mongolia. It is said that the lamp summons the soul of a man chased out to the wilderness to die. He had been in love with a woman, whose jealous husband organized the chase with the help of local police.]
A lamp was lit on top of the mountain
Its light seen all around.
On the thousands of miles of wilderness,
All dark, except this single spot of red.
It’s not for chasing away vicious dogs,
Or warning the wolves that stalk the sheep;
Just for him, that one man alone,
Just for her lover, she lights the lamp.
One wick in the lamp, two ounces of oil,
When oil burns low she adds her tears,
The red lamp is her red, red heart,
Full of longing, full of fears.
In a shrill voice she calls out his name,
Why aren’t you coming back?
If there are dogs on the ledge, take the grassland,
Dodge the police, follow the trail by the ditch.
Others going beyond the Wall always send letters,
But you are a needle fallen into the sea.
Are you a roadside sparrow, scared to death?
Or wandering out there in sickness and poverty?
Don’t be afraid of the gleaming sword,
Don’t be scared of the soldiers’ bugle call.
You have an armor, your unlined sheepskin coat,
And your bare chest is stronger than a stone wall.
If you are dead somewhere beyond the Western Pass,
Send me a message in dream, anyhow, anyway.
I’ll kill my husband at once; I will
Light the lamp at night, stay a widow during the day.
The soul-summoning lamp lights up afar,
One by one all the saddened stars are gone;
She calls for none of the many wandering ghosts,
But only calls for her lover all night long.
April 1962
Poetry Journal, no. 3 (1962): 50-51
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu
For a note on Li Chi, see p. 178.
Red Willow, Sand Jujube, and
White Caltrop
Red willows, sand jujubes, and white caltrops
Truly are the brave ones in the battle of life.
They are poor, very poor,
Adorned by no fleshy leaves, not a single one;
And humbly they stand, very humbly
Taking care to occupy little space, just a little space.
What they ask is infinitesimal,
For them there often is not even a single drop of rain;
Yet they offer their utmost,
Including their own shadows, that precious shade.
Look how they trample into surrender the acres of flowing sand,
Bearing on their shoulders thunderstorms, harsh and sudden.
They topple, but only for an instant, then they are up again,
In their eyes there is no defeat, but only victory.
To the travelers, dry and thirsty, trudging under the blazing sun,
They say, “Go on, don’t stop!”
And to those long-buried cities under the sand,
They declare, “Get up, you cannot die!”
Their firm belief grips that day—there must be such a day,
When a chain of camels, or a chain of oxcarts’ wooden wheels
Shall haul this wild stretch of sand, now clinging to the sky,
Away to a museum and deposit it there, forever there.
Yes, perhaps only an endless sky, just like this one above,
Can accommodate what they hold in their bosoms, their will and ideal,
And their unswerving devotion, their profound love, for life and the living,
And their undying loyalty to the people, their fellow men.
So I say, my young friends, my comrades,
If they aren’t your shadows, what else could they be?
August 1961
Red Willow, pp. 133-34
For a note on Li Ying, see p. 371.
Settled is the cutting cold wind;
Settled, the immense Gobi, boundless end barren;
We mount our horses to start out at the break of dawn
Yearning for a touch of warmth, a touch of green.
Behold, there spouts a line of color on the horizon
Light blue, dark orange, then red, and purple.
Who has left an array of golden pheasant feathers
On this brown, desolate rocky plain?
The sun wakes and rises,
No, suddenly shooting up, pushing itself up with both hands.
It casts a glance at this sea of frozen rocks
And lengthens our shadows on it.
In haste we urge our horses along,
Towards the bright disk of a rising sun.
Only a few more steps, just a few steps
We’d plunge headlong into its bosom.
But in an instant the sun boils in wrath, and in an instant
It leaps over our horses’ heads to land on our spines.
A sheet of blazing fire it spreads on the cold, cold land,
Along with a thousand, ten thousand golden shafts.
As suddenly rises a cloud of dust, hot and dry,
Rising higher and higher over the desert of Gobi.
Hot and dry all around, we pant and our horses pant;
Only a few hours, but passed were all four seasons.
From where comes a peal of singing, where?
Robust and sonorous it shakes the entire Gobi.
Men from our survey team are approaching us.
And I see the beauty of the people’s will, right here.
August 1961
Red Willow, pp. 127-28
At Tun-huang
Wind and sand wake up early,
So man snakes hugging the ground they are
Sliding along, hissing along.
But no roaring wind or flying sand
Can drown the songs on the country road.
And birds still sing on birch tree tops;
Water still chuckles in red willow clusters.
Along the creek comes a group of young people
Bundles of young trees piled on oxen’s backs.
There is a small piece of the desert on each shoulder, yes, there is,
But they’re going to plant peaches and apricots on the desert sea.
Whose flute is that, rising suddenly at such an early hour?
Where is it? In the fields, or tree clusters, over the dunes or hills?
I know that the flying sand can’t cover up the holes in the flute,
Neither can any gusty wind sweep away that kind of hearty laughter.
Three young boys are coming up from down the road,
Their flute winds a string of musical notes around three shovels;
Three rosy faces, three blossoms of youthful health—
They’re going to plant a tree-shaded path in their school.
People say at Tun-huang even the dawning is brown,
Brown wild clouds, brown ancient forts, and brown water in the river.
Yet why through the drape of sand thousands of miles wide I see now
Such a bright and cheery morning, dewy and green?
August 1961
Red Willow, pp. 122-23
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu
Mountains, bluer than the sky;
But bluer still, the waters lie
Under a sweep of silvery gleam.
Behold, a raft flows down the stream.
Man on raft, raft on sky
Where clouds and cooking-smoke fly,
And together drift afar with the wind
To the Nine-Step Rapids roaring in distance.
December 6, 1961, Ping-chang
The Mountain Stream, p. 172
A hundred miles of river, a hundred miles of glen,
A hundred miles of plums red, and a hundred miles of bamboos green.
A hundred miles of sweet peaches and tangerines,
Each layer more beautiful than the last.
Orchards race rivers into the distance.
On both banks they stand, like guards of honor;
They greet the boats, waving them on toward the mountain,
Offering the passengers loads and loads of fruit.
Blooms of all colors smile on trees,
Winds of all colors shake the leaves,
Fish of all colors cavort in waves,
And feathers of all colors paint the sky.
Things in the commune, all full of life and vigor,
Sprouting, growing, multiplying, again and again.
Together they form a river of colors,
Racing the colorful life of the people here.
December 7, 1959, on the Ch’ing-chi River
Poetry Journal, no. 6 (1961): 16-17
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu
For a note on Liang Shang-ch’üan, see p. 180.
Sha Pai’s poems drew considerable attention during the 1960s, but very little has come to light about the poet himself.
The expression chiang-nan, south of the river, has been a rich, poetic image ever since the time of the Southern Sung Dynasty, when the imperial capital was moved for K’ai-feng on the Yellow Riverbank to Hangchow, south of the Yangtze River. Poets have used this image to summon to the mind a picture of the scenic Yangtze River delta area—lush green, rice-rich, and culturally prosperous. —K.Y.H.
People, Houses, South of the River
1. TRAVEL IN WATER COUNTRY
Roads of water country,
Paved by water and clouds;
Entering or leaving the village,
By an oar.
Fishing nets—door curtains,
Swing on trees;
Only upon approaching, you see
A cottage there.
Looking for anyone?
Go where rice blossoms are thick;
Footsteps, one by one,
Silence the frogs’ drumming.
And the cicadas hush,
Evening haze rises over water,
The young ones take the visitors home,
Untying the boat, deftly handling the oar.
2. COTTAGES, SOUTH OF THE RIVER
Flowers before the door,
Melons behind the wall,
Beanstalks crawl under eaves,
Gourds hanging like bells.
Cabbage leaves wave green sleeves,
Eggplants lean on fences,
Half hidden in clouds of green,
These houses, South of the River.
Chickens call,
Ducks respond,
Baaing lambs
Chase after piglets.
Nobody home,
Only swallows carrying fallen petals.
And trumpet flowers on tops of trees,
Summon the villagers back, with kitchen smoke.
Poetry Journal, no. 2 (1961): 52-53
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu
In the 1940s, Wen Chieh was writing short tales published in miniature pamphlets for circulation among the guerrilla troops in North China. For that purpose he cultivated a simple, straightforward style of language, which he later adapted for his poetry.
Wen spent the 1950s in Kansu Province working for the Writers’ Association and publishing poetry. He moved to Shanghai in the 1960s, and his writing career went on uninterrupted until the Cultural Revolution put a stop to it in 1966.
A recognized lyrical voice in contemporary Chinese poetry, Wen left several volumes of verse, including Pastoral Songs of the Tien Mountain Range, Motherland! the Glorious October, The First Spring Thunder and The Flame of Revenge. The last is a long story-poem. —K.Y.H.
Dedicated to Li K’o-jan
Why do you like to paint water buffaloes?
Because they tread in wind and wind-driven rain;
Waves of mud chase after the plows they pull
And they bring forth the hands that plant rice.
Why do you like to paint water buffaloes?
Because they fear no difficulty, know no worry;
Relentlessly they scale the mountain, no matter how high,
And swim across any river that lies in their way.
Why do you like to paint water buffaloes?
Because their temperament is stubborn and yet kind;
Before the enemy they dart forth their twin swords,
But they bow to the little boy playing a short flute.
Why do you like to paint water buffaloes?
Because they demand very little of man;
When hungry they just chew some lush grass,
And to quench thirst they drink from any stream.
Why do you like to paint water buffaloes?
Because they step in cadence with the heart-beat of life;
Buffaloes! The essence of the revolutionary spirit,
Buffaloes! The best friends of laboring people.
October 27, 1961, Pei-tai-ho
Poetry Journal, no. 2 (1962): 42-43
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu
Born in Shantung, Yen Chen spent the war years in the guerrilla area on the eastern side of his native province. He started writing poetry after the liberation and success came to him quite promptly. As shown in his first widely applauded poem, “Old Chang’s Hand” (published in People’s Literature, January 1954), he is skillful in blending lyrical elements with story interest. He has an eye for the poetically exciting aspects of what might appear to the casual observer as a rather commonplace subject. Songs South of the River and The Music Creek are among his better-known collections of poems. —K.Y.H.
Willow groves under the moon, brocades in green,
And the frozen clouds of blue hills stand in rows;
It’s late at night, very late, ah, Doctor,
Why do you come to knock on the door?
The captain is in the room working on a design
Of an improved farm implement; the sound of sawing
Echoes the strings in a night song and the strings
Draw the doctor to the door, waiting.
The door opens and in steps the doctor along with
A stir of evening breeze, a whiff of flower scent.
“Comrade Doctor, whom are looking for?
Nobody is sick here, nobody at all.”
The doctor’s words, humorous yet earnest:
“I know your chronic disease of not going to sleep,
And I am here to give you a diagnosis ...”
The doctor gone, and the quiet of the night, calm and profound.
Songs South of the River, p. 42
Trees full of blossoms, now all gone,
In the orchard, only green meets the eyes;
I laugh at the poets of the past era,
At a time like this, they’d heave long sighs.
Hundreds upon hundreds of new fruit
Peek out from behind the thick leaves;
Look, comrades, look at it now,
What a beautiful season this is!
The oriole is singing its very first song,
And on every branch, heavy, heavy dew;
And the glaring, bright sunshine serves
As the best gardener, most loyal and true.
I love this patch of intense green
For many happy dreams lie in its rich fold;
Who won’t like to pick treefuls of ripe fruit,
When autumn mellows into rich gold?
Songs South of the River, p. 45
A Song of Spring South of the River
Ten miles of peach blossoms,
Ten miles of willow trees,
Ten miles of red flags fluttering in breeze,
Spring South of the River,
Heady like wine.
Hillsides draped in tender green,
In fields, juice flows;
Happy reports bulletined at crossroads,
Mountain songs,
Hovering about.
Some still in teens,
Others twenty-six at best,
They work as though in a muscle contest,
Plowshares fly in mud waves,
Clouds chase their carrying poles.
With a stream of laughter women emerge
From the village to work on their lands,
In front of the nursery they wave their hands,
Then they turn to embroider the fields in spring;
A flower in each of their hairpins.
Requests come from the old folks’ home,
Many requests and more,
All say having no work is a bore;
Watching the buds crowd the willow twigs,
They wring their hands in anxiety.
Ten miles of peach blossoms,
Ten miles of willow trees,
Ten miles of red flags fluttering in breeze,
Spring South of the River,
Heady like wine.
Songs South of the River\ pp. 35-36
The frog’s croak rings outside the village,
Pale moonlight fills the windowpane,
A sleepless captain of the production team
Treads on the moonlight to approach the riverside.
The moon, the frog’s croak, and the river tide
Bring back to him a scene ten years old:
A soldier on scout duty, he sneaked across
The Yangtze River to come to the south side.
Pa, pa, pa ... flew the enemy’s bullets,
Go, go, go ... he faked a frog’s croak;
The enemy, though cunning, was fooled,
Towing his gun he slowly took to the road
The frog croaks louder now, the village asleep,
The captain comes to a wheat field—all is calm;
He smiles and bends down to study carefully
That new ear of wheat lying against his palm.
Songs South of the River, p. 41
April night, sweet scent in the air,
Pale moonlight over the Yangtze River;
All lights and lamps are out now in the village,
Who is it that’s knocking on the door?
Throwing a jacket on his shoulder, the old man opens the door,
To find the squad leader whose unit crossed the River,*
Still wearing the same smile as so many years ago, only
He has changed his uniform for a workman’s overall.
The old man brews green tea in thawed snow,
And asks the squad leader of a time long past:
“You knocked once before in April ten years ago,
But now, what has brought you here again?”
The squad leader replies in his confident voice,
“I am a victory report personified,
Last time I came to liberate south of the river,
This time I’m here to build a long bridge.”
In joy the old man beams all over,
He hugs the squad leader’s broad shoulder;
At that moment he suddenly notices
The young man’s temple is showing specks of grey.
Tenderly he touches the young man’s forehead,
Words are choked by tears welling in his eyes;
He would like, very much like, to ask him:
Where have you been fighting these long, long years?
A whiff of soft spring breeze stirs,
Bringing a new kind of sound into the hut;
The drilling boat has started working in mid-river,
April night, sweet scent in the air.
Songs South of the River, p. 98
Soot-smeared arms, soot-smeared face,
Sweat never dries on your broad shoulder,
An iron hammer in hand you strike at the soot
Thousands of times you strike it, over and over.
You keep pounding on it without stop,
Your blood and sweat turn into the famed Anhwei ink;
So many treasured poems, paintings and books,
Are all soaked through with your hard work.
During the hundreds of years in the past,
How many poems have been born in the Anhwei ink?
And yet none of them sing any praise of you,
None of them heed your labor, your hardship.
The Party has appraised your labor all anew:
Now you are an artist of the people,
And the people now dip in your sweet-scented ink
To paint the most beautiful pictures of our country.
Songs South of the River, p. 113
Translated by Kai-yu Hsu
__________
* Organized by the factory to upgrade the workers; classes are held at night and on weekends. [S.R.M.]
* The copper pea refers to a line spoken by Kuan Han-ch’ing in the play. (See pp. 767-80.) [K.Y.H.]
* Chairman Mao’s office in Peking. [K.Y.H.]
* A phrase in a 1958 speech by Mao Tse-tung that means that China is both economically underdeveloped and culturally blank-not without vestiges of ancient culture but lacking development into a modern Chinese culture. The nuance of the phrase, which admits China’s deficiency without compromising her cultural pride, gives the expression national and lasting currency. [K.Y.H.]
* These items were called foreign in China because they were first introduced and imported from overseas. Now China is producing Red Flag and East Wind passenger cars, Hero fountain pens, etc. [Author’s note]
* During the Liberation war. [K.Y.H.]
* She is referring to SHIH-CHING’S former wife, whom she calls feng-chien lao-p’o, or “feudal missus,” thereby connoting that the marriage had been arranged for them by their families according to the traditional, “feudal” custom in China prior to 1949. [J.B.]
* In the original, OLD MRS. MENG follows the traditional peasant form of address and calls Liu FANG-WEN by the kinship term, MENG CHEN’S MOTHER, or “Meng Chen chia niang.” [J.B.]
* A well-known character in traditional Chinese opera who casts aside and attempts to murder his loyal wife in order to marry a princess. [J. B.]
* “Considered the coldest day of the year, it is celebrated on the eighth day of the last lunar month, when the Buddha entered Nirvana. [R.S.]
* The film based on the life of Wu Hsiin (1838-97), a beggar who saved money to establish a tuition-free school, was a national hit in 1950 but was soon criticized by the Communist Party for upholding feudal values of traditional schooling. The controversy started a wave of ideological struggle in China. [K.Y.H.]
† The Studies of the Dream of the Red Chamber, a collection of essays by the literary scholar Yii P’ing-po (1899- ), was severely condemned in a Party-directed campaign to expose Yii’s antimaterialist and anti-Marxist viewpoints. The campaign started in Sep¬tember 1954 and lasted over a year. [K.Y.H.]
* The name “Hsiao-san Niang” literally means “Hsiao-san’s Mother.” This is how the woman is generally known around the village. [TRANS.]
* Chao Tzu-lung is another legendary hero, this time from the novel Romance of the Three Kingdoms. [TRANS.]
* The original is an untranslatable homophonous pun used among villagers in some Szechwan areas. [K.Y.H.]
* From “For Wei Pa, the Recluse.” [B. S. McD.]
* Chairman Mao’s words. [K.Y.H.]
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