Infatuated with Hsu Chih-mo, I was blind and deaf to what was truly happening between him and Pearl.
“What influenced you to become a poet?” a female student raised her arm and asked.
“Craziness,” Hsu Chih-mo replied. “My mother said that I was a spooky child. My eyes were open and my lips uttered strange words at night. Poetry to me was like rocks and cards were to other boys.”
A male student with glasses asked, “You are called the Chinese Shelley. What do you make of that?”
“It doesn’t mean anything to me.” Hsu Chih-mo smiled. “But I am honored, of course.”
“What do you do to make your poems successful?” Pearl asked.
Hsu Chih-mo thought before he replied. “I feel very much like a tailor making a pair of pants. I first study the fabric so I know how to cut it. A good pair of pants takes a great deal of fabric. I make sure that my cuts go with the grain instead of against it.”
A loud voice came from the back of the room. “Mr. Hsu, what is your view of the literary movement in our society today?”
The question threw a boulder into a calm pond. Hsu Chih-mo was stirred. “It disturbs me that our country debates whether or not the Chinese language should be made accessible to the peasants!” His voice resonated. “As we all know, the emperor we overthrew thirteen years ago spoke a private language, which nobody but he and his tutor understood. Our proud civilization and heritage become ridiculous when our language is used to create not communication and understanding, but distance and isolation.”
As the editor in chief of the Nanking Daily, I created, sponsored, and produced the news program China Literary Front. The program was syndicated across all of China. I was able to travel, dine, and converse with some of the brightest minds of our time. But what I enjoyed most was my time with Hsu Chih-mo. He was guarded at first, but I earned his trust. By the end of our work together, we had become good friends. I asked him about the inner force that drove him.
“The inner force is far more important than talent,” Hsu Chih-mo revealed. “Writing is my rice and air. One shouldn’t bother picking up a pen if that is not the case.”
“That is exactly the case with my friend Pearl Buck,” I said.
“You mean the River North Pig?” He smiled remembering her.
“Yes.”
“What has she written?”
“She has written essays, poems, and novels. She is my special columnist. I’ll send you copies of her articles if you are interested.”
“Yes, please.”
As we continued talking, Hsu Chih-mo asked how Pearl and I had become friends.
The problem with people who end up digging their own grave is that they often have no idea they are digging it. Such was my case as I told Hsu Chih-mo stories about my friend.
After Tagore went back to India and Hsu Chih-mo returned to Shanghai, I felt inspired and enlightened. Against my better judgment, I gave in to my emotions. If I had never believed in fate and coincidence before, it wouldn’t be long before I did. When the Nanking University board asked me to help invite Hsu Chih-mo to come back and teach, I did everything within my power to make it happen.
Pearl didn’t think that Nanking University stood a chance of getting Hsu Chih-mo. “He has been teaching at Peking University and Shanghai University,” she reminded me. I decided to play a card that at the time I thought was brilliant. As friends, Pearl and I together wrote Hsu Chih-mo a personal invitation.
A few weeks later, Hsu Chih-mo responded and said he was on his way.
CHAPTER 17
After Hsu Chih-mo’s arrival, the center of China ’s literary society shifted from Shanghai to Nanking. Nanking University became the main stage of the New Cultural Movement. I hosted weekly events featuring journalists, writers, and artists from all over the country. I was so busy that I ate my meals standing up. I hadn’t had time to visit Pearl for weeks, so one evening I decided to drop by.
She surprised me with the news that Lossing had moved out.
“He is living with Lotus,” Pearl said in a subdued voice.
“What about Carol?” I asked.
“Lossing said that Carol wouldn’t know the difference. He insists that she doesn’t even know that he is her father.”
I tried to comfort her. “The important thing is that you are doing the best you can.”
She shook her head.
“You have your own life to live, Pearl.”
“Carol doesn’t deserve this. Her own father abandoning her…”
“Carol may not be aware…”
“But I am!” she almost shouted.
I went quiet.
She began to sob.
I walked to the kitchen to get her a cup of water.
“ Pearl,” I said gently. “You have to comb your hair and dress yourself, and you have to eat.”
“I would like to simply slip away, to die,” she responded. “I need to be released from this trap.”
“Have you been writing?” I asked.
“I can’t do anything else but write. Here.” She tossed me a stack of pages. “From last week. Two short stories.”
I glanced at the titles. “The Seventh Dragon” and “The Matchmaker.”
“You have been productive, Pearl.”
“I was going crazy until I started typing.”
I asked if there was any interest from publishers.
“No. One editor from New York was kind enough to send me a note of explanation after rejecting my manuscript. What he said was no news to me. Lossing has been telling me the same thing all along.”
“That Western readers are not interested in China?”
She nodded.
“Well, perhaps they are only accustomed to stories of little merit. It may take time to convince them that what you write is different,” I said. “Have you tried Chinese publishing houses?”
Have you “Yes.”
“And?”
“I made a fool of myself,” she sighed. “The right-wing Chinese houses want pure escapism, while the left-wing want nothing but Communism and Russia.”
“And you don’t care about either of those?”
“No.”
“Unfortunately, you still need money.”
“Unfortunately.”
I invited Pearl to come with me to a New Year’s party hosted by the Nanking Daily. Pearl didn’t want to go, but I insisted.
“Hsu Chih-mo will be there.” I could hardly contain my excitement.
“Too bad he is your interest-not mine.”
“He’s the only one who hasn’t read you. He told me he wants to read your work.”
“I am not going.”
“Please. I don’t want to look desperate.”
“Desperate? Oh, I see.”
“Will you come?”
“Okay, I’ll go for tea only.”
Hsu Chih-mo stood on a chair waving his arms. “Ladies and gentlemen, I want to present my best friend, the great hope of China ’s new literature, Dick Lin! He is the seventh translator of Karl Marx’s Communist Manifesto and the editor of the Shanghai Avant-Garde Magazine.” Hsu Chih-mo was dressed in a Western black silk suit with a Chinese collar and Chinese cotton shoes. His hair was neatly combed from the middle to the sides.
The crowd cheered. “Dick Lin! Dick Lin!”
Dick Lin, a short and broad-shouldered man with black-framed glasses, came to shake hands with Pearl and me. He was in his thirties. He had a pair of lizard eyes and a crooked nose. The corners of his mouth drew downward and gave him a serious, almost bitter expression.
“I admire your work at the Nanking Daily,” Dick blurted out to me. “How about working for us?”
Though I was flattered, I was taken aback by his directness.
“You will be guaranteed your own page plus the weekend edition,”
Dick continued. “You can run it any way you want. We’ll match your current salary and add a bonus.”
I turned to Pearl. My eyes said, “Can you believe this man?”
She smiled.
Dick turned to Pearl and began to speak English with a Chinese accent. “Welcome to China,” he said, bowing with exaggeration. “It is my honor to meet you! Hsu Chih-mo tells me that you came to China in diapers. Is that true? No wonder your Chinese is flawless. Do you know Chinese is a very dangerous language for foreigners? One slip in tone and ‘Good morning’ becomes ‘Let us go to bed together.’”