Explore Chapter 11 of '呐喊' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
After checking the county examination results, Chen Shicheng returned home; it was already afternoon. He had gone very early, and upon seeing the list, he first searched for the character 'Chen'. There were many 'Chen' characters, all seeming to leap eagerly into his eyes, but none were followed by 'Shicheng'. So he carefully searched again through the twelve circular charts of the list; all the onlookers had dispersed, yet Chen Shicheng finally did not see his name, standing alone before the screen wall of the examination hall.
Although a cool breeze gently stirred his grizzled short hair, the early winter sun still warmed him mildly. Yet he seemed dizzied by the sun, his face growing increasingly ashen, with a strange glint shining from his weary, red-swollen eyes. By now, he no longer saw the list on the wall at all, only many dark circles floating and drifting before his eyes.
After becoming a xiucai, he would go to the provincial capital for the juren examination, advancing smoothly all the way... The gentry would vie to form marriage alliances, and people would revere him as if he were a deity, deeply regretting their past frivolity and folly... Driving away the miscellaneous tenants renting in his dilapidated house-no need to drive them out, they would move of their own accord-the buildings would be entirely renewed, with flagpoles and plaques at the entrance... To maintain his purity, he could serve as a capital official; otherwise, it would be better to seek an appointment in the provinces... The future he had so meticulously arranged now crumbled like a sugar pagoda dampened by dew, collapsing in an instant, leaving behind only a pile of shards. Unconsciously, he turned his dissipated body and wandered listlessly toward home.
As soon as he reached his room's doorway, seven schoolchildren all raised their voices in unison, squeaking as they began their recitations. Startled, it seemed as if a chime had struck beside his ear; he saw seven little heads with queues swaying before him, swaying throughout the room, mingling with the dark circles dancing. He sat down, and they brought him the evening assignments, their faces all showing looks of slighting contempt.
Suddenly, he raised a hand, counting on his fingers: eleven, thirteen times, and with this year, sixteen times in all. Not a single examiner understood good writing, blind and ignorant-a pitiable matter. He couldn't help but let out a hollow, mirthless laugh. Yet he flew into a rage; abruptly, he pulled out his meticulously transcribed examination essays and poetry from under the book cloth, and holding them, strode out. Just as he neared the door, he saw everything brightly lit, and even a flock of chickens seemed to mock him. Unable to suppress the wild pounding in his heart, he had to retreat back inside.
Other households' cooking smoke had long ceased, dishes washed, yet Chen Shicheng still did not prepare a meal. The miscellaneous tenants lodging here knew the old custom: in years of county examinations, upon seeing such a gaze after the results were posted, it was better to close their doors early and not meddle. First, human voices died out, then lights were extinguished one by one. Only the moon slowly appeared in the cold night sky.
The sky was azure like a sea, with faint floating clouds, as if someone had washed chalk in a brush washer, swaying gently. The moon cast cold light waves upon Chen Shicheng, initially resembling a newly polished iron mirror. But this mirror mysteriously penetrated and illuminated Chen Shicheng's entire being, casting the shadow of an iron moon upon his body.
He still lingered in the courtyard outside his room, his eyes now rather clear, and the surroundings were utterly still. But this stillness suddenly became groundlessly disturbed; he distinctly heard a hurried whisper beside his ear:
He remembered. This courtyard was where, before his family fell into such decline, he and his grandmother would enjoy the cool on summer nights. He was just a boy over ten then, lying on a bamboo couch, with his grandmother sitting beside, telling him interesting stories. She said she had heard from her own grandmother that the Chen ancestors were immensely wealthy, this house being the ancestral base, with countless silver buried by the ancestors. The fortunate descendants would surely obtain it, yet it had never materialized. As for the location, it was hidden within a riddle:
As for this riddle, Chen Shicheng had often speculated in secret even in ordinary times, but unfortunately, just as he thought he had figured it out, he would immediately feel it didn't fit. Once, he was certain it was under the house rented to the Tang family, yet he never had the courage to go and dig. After some time, he felt it was too dissimilar. As for the old dug traces in his own room, those were all acts done in a daze after previous examination failures, and later, whenever he saw them, he felt ashamed and mortified.
But today, the iron light enveloped Chen Shicheng, softly persuading him; if he hesitated even briefly, it provided irrefutable proof, coupled with a sinister urging, forcing him to turn his gaze back toward his own room.
He spoke and, like a lion, hurried into that room. But upon stepping inside, the white light's trace vanished, leaving only a vast, desolate old room with several broken desks submerged in the gloom. He stood bewildered, slowly focusing his eyes, yet the white light clearly rose again, this time broader, whiter than sulfur fire, more ethereal than morning fog, and right under a desk against the east wall.
Chen Shicheng bounded like a lion to behind the door, reaching for a hoe. Bumping into a dark shadow, he felt somewhat afraid for some reason. Flustered, he lit a lamp and saw the hoe merely leaning there. He moved the desk and, with the hoe, dug up four large square bricks in one go. Squatting to look, as usual, there was yellowish fine sand. Rolling up his sleeves, he brushed away the sand, revealing the black soil beneath. He proceeded with extreme care, quietly, digging down stroke by stroke. But the deep night was ultimately too still; the sound of sharp iron striking soil was always heavy and thudding, refusing to be concealed.
The pit was over two feet deep, yet no jar mouth appeared. Chen Shicheng was growing anxious when a crisp crack, quite jolting his wrist with pain-the hoe tip had hit something hard. He hastily dropped the hoe and groped to see: a large square brick lay below. His heart trembled violently; concentrating intently, he dug up that brick. Below was also black soil like before. After loosening much soil, the bottom seemed endless, but then he touched something hard and small again: round, probably a rusty copper coin, with a few fragments of porcelain besides.
Chen Shicheng felt as if his heart had emptied, his whole body sweating, frantically scratching and clawing in agitation. Meanwhile, his heart quivered in the air and touched another peculiar little object, somewhat horseshoe-shaped but brittle to the touch. He again concentrated with all his might to dig up that thing, cautiously holding it up. Examining it closely under the lamplight, it appeared mottled and peeling like rotten bone, with a row of scattered, incomplete teeth attached. He realized this might be a jawbone, and the jawbone then began to rustle and stir in his hand, smilingly revealing a grinning shadow, until he heard it speak:
A shiver of terror ran through him, and at the same time he let go. The jawbone floated lightly back to the pit bottom before long, and he fled to the courtyard. Peeking into the room, the lamplight was so dazzlingly bright, the jawbone was mocking him so, it was abnormally frightening, and he dared not look that way again. Hiding in the shadows under the distant eaves, he felt somewhat safer. But in this safety, suddenly he heard a furtive whisper beside his ear:
Chen Shicheng seemed to recall hearing such words during the day on the street. Without waiting to hear more, he suddenly understood. He abruptly looked up at the sky: the moon had retreated toward West High Peak. Recalling that West High Peak, thirty-five li from the city, stood before him like a dark court tablet, towering starkly, surrounded by a vast, shimmering white light.
He decided resolutely and rushed out in despair. After several sounds of doors opening, no further noise came from within. The lampwick had formed a large snuff, illuminating the empty room and the pit; after crackling and sputtering a few times, it gradually shrank until extinguished, the last of the oil having burned out.
At noon the next day, someone saw a floating corpse in Wanliu Lake, fifteen li from the West Gate, and it quickly spread until it reached the local bailiff's ears, who had villagers fish it out. It was a male corpse, over fifty years old, "of medium height, fair-faced, and beardless," with hardly any clothing. Some said this was Chen Shicheng. But the neighbors were too lazy to look, and there were no relatives to claim the body, so after examination by county officials, the bailiff had it buried. As for the cause of death, there was no question: stripping corpses of clothing was common, not suspicious enough for murder. Moreover, the coroner confirmed it was drowning before death, for he had unmistakably struggled in the water, as all ten fingernails were embedded with riverbed mud.