“Well, it was considered revolutionary that he even made peasants his subjects,” I commented.
Pearl and I both loved Lao She and Cao Yu. Among their best were The Big House, Full Moon, and The Marriage of a Puppet Master. We favored Full Moon in particular for the author’s sensitivity. The story was about a single mother who was driven into prostitution. Although her daughter tries to avoid following in her mother’s footsteps, she ends up succumbing to the same fate.
Pearl liked the story but resented the novel’s bitter hopelessness. She preferred stories that offered hope in the end, however tragic. “The character must believe in himself, and he must have the stamina to endure.”
“Beautiful, heart-wrenching tragedy has been central to the Chinese tradition for thousands of years,” I reminded her. “Both novelists and readers relish what you call hopelessness.”
“That is not always true,” Pearl challenged. “The novel All Men Are Brothers is the best example. The poor peasants were forced to become bandits. But the novel is filled with energy. There is no bitterness to it. To me, this is the Chinese essence!”
“Chinese critics don’t share your opinion,” I argued. “They say All Men Are Brothers lacks sophistication. They consider it folk art, not literature.”
“That is exactly why things must change,” Pearl shot back. “Everyday life has a power of its own. And it’s important to pay attention to it. Look at Soo-ching, the lady who delivered her son in my backyard! I bet she bit off the umbilical cord like the character Er-niang in All Men Are Brothers! I didn’t see her pity herself. She was ready to go on. That poor lice-infested beggar lady! I think her a worthy subject, even heroic!”
I remembered the first time Pearl and I discussed the Chinese classic Dream of Red Mansion. I was sixteen and had just learned to read. Pearl didn’t like the novel, especially the hero, Pao Yu.
“Have your views changed regarding Dream of Red Mansion?” I asked.
“No. Pao Yu is nothing but a playboy,” Pearl replied.
“By Chinese estimations, Pao Yu is a rebel and an intellectual prince,” I said, smiling. “The popular view is that Pao Yu deserves more respect than an emperor.”
“What do you mean by popular? The people who hold such views are only a tiny minority.”
“Well, that minority rules the literary world.”
“Are you telling me that the majority, who happen to be peasants, don’t count in China?” Pearl was annoyed.
I had to agree with her that it was not right.
Dream of Red Mansion was a classic, Pearl admitted. “But it is an ill beauty, so to speak. It is about escapism and self-indulgence. I am not saying that the novel doesn’t deserve credit for criticizing the feudalism of the time.”
“I am glad that you acknowledge that. It is important.”
“However,” Pearl continued, “the novel, in its essence, reminds me of Goethe’s Sorrows of Young Werther. The difference is that Werther fell in love with one girl, Lotte, while his Chinese counterpart Pao Yu fell in love with twelve maidens.”
“In China, educated men still spend their lives imitating Pao Yu.”
“Drinking clubs and brothels have become the only source of inspiration. What a pity!” Pearl went on. “I think it is a crime that there is no representation in literature for the greater part of the Chinese people.”
CHAPTER 15
Days of drizzle announced the coming of spring. Camellias blossomed. Leaves shone glossy green. Heavy with moisture, massive flowers began to plop to the ground. I was working late at night when I heard a knocking on the door.
It was Pearl without an umbrella. Her hair was drenched and she looked devastated.
“What happened?” I let her in and closed the door.
“Lossing…” Unable to go on, she passed me a piece of wadded paper.
It was a letter, a hand-copied ancient erotic Chinese poem.
“It’s not his handwriting,” Pearl pointed out.
“From a female student, you think? Where did you find it?”
“In his drawer. I went to his office looking for an address. I was writing to his aunt, who had some questions concerning Carol.”
I was stunned. “Do you think that Lossing is having an affair?”
“How could I think otherwise?” Tears welled from her eyes.
“Where is Lossing now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does he know that you know? How long could this have been going on?”
“I haven’t paid attention to anything else but Carol.”
“Who is this girl?”
“I think I know who she is. Her name is Lotus, a first-year student in the agricultural department. I ran into her several times at Lossing’s office.”
“Is she pretty?”
“I don’t remember… that she was particularly pretty. She was the translator he hired for his fieldwork. He has taken trips with her. I was foolish to trust him.” She took the towel I offered and wiped her face. “I can’t say that I didn’t see it coming.”
I sat down with her and made tea. “What are you going to do?” I asked quietly.
“If I didn’t have Carol, I’d leave now,” she answered. Her eyes became tearful again.
“The trouble is that you don’t earn enough money.”
“No, I don’t.”
I thought about Pearl ’s mother and the way she had felt trapped all her life.
“Would you put up with him for Carol’s sake?” I asked.
Pearl ’s hands went through her wet hair. She bit her lower lip and shook her head, slowly but firmly.
“The reality is…”
“Listen, Willow. Last month I succeeded in placing two essays, in South East Asia Chronicle and the American Adventure Magazine. Although the payments weren’t much, it gave me hope.”
“Pearl, look, it’s difficult for anyone to make a living these days. It’s doubly hard for a woman. You know that.”
“I am not going to let anything stop me.” She was determined. “My gut feeling tells me that writing is my best chance. I must try.”
“With your Chinese stories?”
“Absolutely. I believe in my Chinese stories. No other Western author can come close to what I offer-what life is really like in the Orient. For God’s sake, I’m living it. The Chinese world cries out for exploration. It’s like America once was-fertile and full of promise.”
Pearl and I made a new discovery: the poet Hsu Chih-mo. In the summer of 1925, Hsu Chih-mo was called “the Renaissance Man” or “the Chinese Shelley.” Promoting the working class’s right to literacy, he became the leader of China ’s new cultural movement. Pearl and I were strong supporters of Hsu Chih-mo.
“A bush at the foot of the mountain can never enjoy what a pine would…” I shared with Pearl from Hsu Chih-mo’s essay titled “On Universe.” “To touch the fantastic rolling clouds the pine must hang dangerously from the cliff.”
In return, Pearl sent me a section of his essay “Morality of Suicide,” enclosed with her own note: “Let me know if you don’t fall in love with the writer’s mind.”
What is wrong is that these suicides embody the values of our society and set our moral standard: a village girl who drowns herself instead of yielding to her abusive mother-in-law; a businessman who hangs himself to escape debt; an Indian who sacrifices himself to feed crocodiles and a minister who drinks poison to demonstrate his loyalty toward the emperor.
We dishonor the integrity of the individual by honoring these deaths. We make death sound glorious. In my opinion, the people who commit suicide are not heroes but victims. I offer them pity and sympathy but not respect and admiration. They are not martyrs, but fools. There are other types of suicide, which I think are truly glorious and worthy-such as that of the characters in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Their deaths touch us because we identify with their humanity.
The wind was harsh. Gigantic pines stood solemnly against the gray sky. Pearl and I sat with the city view below our feet, discussing Hsu Chih-mo. We knew a lot about him already. He earned a degree in law at Peking University. Then he went to England to study economics but instead earned a degree in literature. Next he attended Columbia University in America and majored in political science. What interested us most was his graduate thesis, The Social Position of Women in China.