The debate was moderated by Hsu Chih-mo. The topic was “Should novelists write for people or write as people?” The discussion soon became heated.
“A novelist’s duty is to wake society’s conscience,” Dick insisted. “He must make the peasants learn shame-I am talking about those who bought and ate the bread made of the bodies of the revolutionaries!”
The crowd clapped.
“ China is where she is because our intellectuals are selfish, arrogant, decadent, and irresponsible,” Dick continued. “It’s time for our novelists to demonstrate leadership…”
Pearl raised her hand.
Hsu Chih-mo nodded for her to speak.
“Have you ever thought,” she said, “that it might be the author’s choice to write as the people? No matter how you justify the horror of an act like the one you just used as an example, the fact is that China’s majority is made of peasants. My question is, Don’t peasants deserve a voice of their own?”
“Well, you must pick a worthy peasant to portray,” Dick responded. “Like harvesting a fruit tree, you pick the good apples and throw away the rotten. Again, you have an obligation toward society, which needs a moral compass.”
“Does that mean you won’t publish authors who write with the voice of the real people?” I asked.
“Personally, I won’t.”
“Then you are denying representation to ninety-five percent of China ’s population.” Pearl ’s voice was pitched.
Holding firm in his view, Dick declared, “We deny these small-minded, ill-mannered characters a voice.”
“Who will you publish then?” I asked.
“The authors who are committed in their fight against Capitalism,” Dick replied. “In fact, we are aggressively seeking to publish works by authors that represent the proletarian class. We’ll assure these authors’ success.”
“Dick wants to change the world,” Hsu Chih-mo teased.
“Shouldn’t it be up to the readers?” Pearl challenged.
“No,” Dick said. “Readers need guidance.”
Smiling, Pearl disagreed. “Readers are smarter than we think.”
“Mrs. Buck.” Dick lowered his voice, although it was still loud enough for the room to hear. “I was the editor who rejected your manuscript. I am sure you have tried other publishers without success. My point is that we, not readers, decide.”
Pearl got up and quietly walked out of the room.
I rose and followed her.
Outside in the hall, Pearl rushed toward the door. Hurrying my steps, I suddenly heard footfalls behind me. I turned and there was Dick Lin, coming my way.
I paused, thinking that he might wish to apologize for his rudeness toward my friend.
“ Willow,” he called out as I stopped. “ Willow, when can I see you again? I would love to buy you a cup of tea sometime.”
I sneered and turned, making my way toward the door.
Hsu Chih-mo’s wet hair fell across his face. He stood in front of me by the garden door. His hand reached up to his face to wipe away the rain. “I come to apologize to Pearl for my friend if he has offended her.”
I said, “Pearl Buck has told me that she no longer wishes to be part of the Nanking literary circle.”
“Dick didn’t mean to attack.” Hsu Chih-mo insisted that he have a chance to speak with Pearl face-to-face.
I stood looking at him and wanted time to stop. My emotions churned and I started to feel sick inside. I kept telling myself: The man has no interest in me! But my heart refused to listen. My eyes luxuriated in the sight of him.
Hsu Chih-mo looked away uneasily.
“I will pass the message,” I said like a fool.
Pearl sat by the table and drank her tea as if she was lost in her own thoughts. I had torn her away from her writing and brought her to my house so that Hsu Chih-mo could talk to her. I was sure that Pearl would leave as soon as he delivered his friend’s apology. I waited impatiently for my own private time with Hsu Chih-mo.
“Dick is oblivious.” Hsu Chih-mo leaned forward, holding his cup in both hands. “He is combative by nature, but he is good-hearted. He is a genius. To have a conversation with him is like planting seeds together. Wisdom will sprout once you allow sunshine. Only those who appreciate honesty can enjoy Dick. He is passionate about what he believes.”
“So you are here to deliver Dick Lin’s message?” Pearl ’s eyes were on the tree outside the window.
“No,” Hsu Chih-mo said so gently that it was as if he had merely breathed. “I come to deliver my own message.”
She didn’t ask to know.
He waited.
I found myself tortured by the fact that he tried to get her attention, tried to get her to turn her head.
CHAPTER 18
Many years later, after Hsu Chih-mo’s death and after Pearl had become an American novelist and had won both the Nobel Prize and the Pulitzer Prize, she wrote about him.
He claimed me with his love, and then he let me go home. When I arrived in America, I realized that the love was with me, and would stay with me forever.
He used to sit in my living room and talk by the hour and wave his beautiful hands in exquisite and descriptive gestures until when I think of him, I see first his hands. He was a northern Chinese, tall and classically beautiful in looks, and his hands were big and perfectly shaped and smooth as a woman’s hands.
I sat in the same room with Pearl and Hsu Chih-mo. It was my home, but I felt like a ghost.
Dick Lin was no longer their topic of discussion.
Hsu Chih-mo was talking about a famous musician, a blind man named Ah Bing who played the erhu, a two-stringed violin.
“Ah Bing is a perfect example of someone who created his art as the people.” Hsu Chih-mo’s tone was rushed, eager to get his point across. “Before Ah Bing became an artist, he was a beggar-something the critics choose to ignore. Ah Bing spent years wandering the streets of the towns of southern China. He dressed in rags and was bitten by hungry dogs. He became famous because his music moved people. Listening to his erhu was like hearing him tell the stories of his life. He made my heart weep and made me want to be a good human being. He didn’t set out to inspire or guide…”
“What do you imagine occupied Ah Bing’s mind when he played?” Pearl asked.
“I have asked myself the same question.” Hsu Chih-mo’s hands gestured like birds in the air. “Did Ah Bing think that he was creating a masterpiece? Was he impressed with himself? Did he think that he was claiming an important place in Chinese music history?” Hsu Chih-mo turned to look at Pearl as if asking for her opinion.
“More likely, he was thinking about his next meal,” Pearl responded.
“Precisely!” Hsu Chih-mo agreed.
“Ah Bing wanted only to please the passersby for a penny or two,”
Pearl continued. “Hunger drove him. I imagine him apologizing for being a bother. At night, he slept below the ancient walls or outside the train station…”
“Yes, and yes,” the poet Hsu Chih-mo echoed. “During his waking hours, he played his erhu to forget his misery.”
“Ah Bing would take up his bow. Sorrow would pour from his strings…” Pearl followed.
“Yes, Ah Bing, the greatest erhu player that ever lived. His music is considered the symbol of the Yangtze River. It starts at the bottom of the Himalayas and flows like water across the vast plains of China to the East Sea and out into the Pacific Ocean.”
They spoke as if I were not in the room, as if I didn’t exist. I could feel the force pulling them closer. It was strong. They were my real-life Romeo and Juliet, the Butterfly Lovers. I sat behind Hsu Chih-mo in the corner of the room by the shadow near the curtains. I held my breath and dared not stir. Moment by moment I saw love take root in their hearts. They blossomed like flowers. It was fate.