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.
When Chen Shicheng returned home after viewing the county examination results, it was already afternoon. He had set out very early, and upon seeing the list, he first scanned for the surname 'Chen'. There were many 'Chens', all seeming to jostle and leap into his eyes, yet none were followed by the characters 'Shicheng'. He then meticulously searched through the twelve circular charts of the list again. By the time the onlookers had all dispersed, Chen Shicheng's name was still nowhere to be found; he stood alone before the screen wall of the examination hall.
A cool breeze gently stirred his grizzled short hair, while the early winter sun still shone upon him with a mild warmth. Yet he seemed dizzy from the glare, his complexion growing ever more ashen, and from his weary, swollen eyes issued a strange, flickering light. By now, he no longer saw the list on the wall at all, only many black circles floating and drifting before his eyes.
Pass the examination to become a scholar, proceed to the provincial capital for the triennial test, advance triumphantly in one smooth ascent... The local gentry would then spare no effort to seek marriage alliances, and people would revere him as if he were a deity, deeply regretting their former disrespect and folly... He would drive out the miscellaneous tenants from his dilapidated ancestral compound-they would move of their own accord, no need for urging-and the buildings would be made anew, with flagpoles and inscribed plaques at the gate... He could remain pure and aloft as an official in the capital, or else seek an appointment in the provinces... The future he had so carefully laid out now collapsed like a dampened sugar pagoda, instantly crumbling into a mere pile of shards. Unconsciously, he turned his dissipated body and drifted vacantly down the road toward home.
Just as he reached his own doorway, the seven pupils began to recite their lessons in unison, chirping like birds. He was greatly startled, as if a chime had sounded right beside his ear. He saw seven heads, each with its small queue, swaying before him, the room filled with their swaying, the black circles dancing among them. He sat down, and they presented the evening's assignments, their faces all betraying a look of disdain.
He suddenly raised a hand and began counting on his fingers. Eleven, thirteen times... with this year made sixteen. Not a single examiner in all those attempts had understood true writing; they were all blind and ignorant-a pitiful state of affairs. He couldn't help letting out a silly giggle. But then indignation rose in him. Abruptly, he pulled out the fair copies of his examination essays and poems from beneath the book-wrapper. Clutching them, he started for the door. Just as he neared the threshold, the world before his eyes seemed to blaze with light; even a flock of chickens appeared to be mocking him. He could not suppress the wild pounding of his heart and could only shrink back inside.
In other households, the cooking smoke had long since vanished, bowls and chopsticks were already washed, yet Chen Shicheng still did not prepare a meal. The assorted tenants lodging there knew the old custom: in any year of the county examinations, upon seeing that particular look in a candidate's eyes after the results were posted, it was best to shut one's door early and not get involved. First, the sound of voices ceased. Then, one by one, lamps were extinguished. Only the moon slowly appeared in the cold night sky.
The sky was an indigo blue like the sea, with a few wisps of cloud, as if someone were rinsing chalk in a brush washer, swirling and swaying. The moon poured its cold light upon Chen Shicheng. At first, it was merely like a newly polished iron mirror, yet this mirror now mysteriously penetrated his entire being, casting upon him the shadow of an iron moon.
He still lingered in the courtyard outside his room. His vision had cleared somewhat, and the surroundings were quiet. But this silence was suddenly, for no reason, disturbed. Distinctly, by his ear, he heard a hurried whisper say:
He remembered. This courtyard was where, before his family had declined so far, he and his grandmother would escape the summer heat on warm nights. He was then a boy of just over ten, lying on a bamboo couch, his grandmother sitting beside him, telling him marvelous tales. She said she had heard from her own grandmother that the Chen ancestors had been immensely wealthy, that this very house stood on the ancestral land, and that the ancestors had buried countless treasures of silver there, treasures that a fortunate descendant was destined to find-though they had never yet come to light. As for the location, it was hidden within a riddle:
Even in ordinary times, Chen Shicheng had often pondered this riddle in secret. Sadly, just when he thought he had deciphered it, he would immediately feel it was wrong. Once, he was quite sure it pointed beneath the house rented to the Tang family, but he never summoned the courage to go and dig. After a while, that theory, too, seemed unlikely. As for the several old, disturbed patches in his own rooms, those were all acts of distracted folly from previous failures. Later, whenever he saw them, he felt ashamed and mortified.
But today, the iron moonlight held him fast, softly coaxing him. If he hesitated even for a moment, it offered solemn proof, adding a sinister urgency that compelled him to turn his gaze back toward his own room.
He spoke and, like a lion, hurried into the room. But the moment he crossed the threshold, the white light vanished without a trace. There was only a vast, dim old room, with several battered desks submerged in gloom. He stood there bewildered, slowly steadying his gaze. Yet the white light distinctly rose again, this time vaster, purer than sulfur fire, more diffuse than morning mist, and it was right under a desk against the eastern wall.
Chen Shicheng bounded like a lion to the space behind the door and groped for the hoe. He bumped into a dark shape and, somehow frightened, lit the lamp in a fluster. The hoe was simply leaning there. He shifted the desk aside and, with the hoe, pried up four large square paving tiles in one go. Squatting to look, he found, as usual, yellow, fine sand. Pushing up his sleeves, he swept the sand aside, revealing the dark earth beneath. With extreme care, in utter quiet, he dug down with the hoe, stroke by stroke. But the depth of the night was too profound in its silence; the sound of the sharp iron striking earth was heavy and blunt, refusing to be concealed.
The pit was over two feet deep, yet no sign of a jar's mouth appeared. Just as Chen Shicheng was growing frantic, a sharp clang sent a painful shock up his wrist-the hoe's tip had struck something hard. He hastily dropped the tool and felt around. A large square tile lay below. His heart thumped violently. Concentrating all his attention, he dug up that tile. Below it was the same dark earth as before. He loosened a great deal of soil; the earth below seemed endless. Then his tool struck another small, hard object-round, probably a corroded copper coin. There were also a few shards of broken porcelain.
A feeling of emptiness seemed to fill Chen Shicheng's heart. Sweat poured from his body as he scratched and clawed impatiently. Then, as his heart seemed to lurch in his chest, he struck another strange, small object. It seemed roughly horseshoe-shaped but felt brittle to the touch. Again he focused intently, digging it out and lifting it cautiously. Holding it close to the lamplight, he saw it was mottled, like rotten bone, with a row of sparse, incomplete teeth attached. He realized this must be a jawbone. And then the jawbone began to stir and twitch in his hand, and a smiling semblance appeared upon it. Finally, he heard it speak:
A fierce chill gripped him, and he let go. The jawbone drifted lightly back to the bottom of the pit. Not long after, he fled to the courtyard. He stole a glance into the room. The lamplight was so brilliant, the jawbone's mockery so uncanny and terrifying that he dared not look again. Hiding in the shadows beneath the distant eaves, he felt somewhat safer. But within this safety, he suddenly heard by his ear a furtive whisper say:
Chen Shicheng seemed to remember hearing similar words on the street during the day. He did not wait to hear more; understanding dawned upon him. He suddenly threw his head back and looked at the sky. The moon had already retreated toward the Western Hills. The Western Hills, thirty-five li from the city, loomed black before him like a court tablet, emitting all around a vast, shimmering white light.
He resolved, and with a look of utter desolation, rushed out. After several sounds of doors opening and closing, not another whisper was heard from within. The lampwick had formed a large charred flower, illuminating the empty room and the gaping pit. After sputtering a few times, its light gradually shrank until it was gone-the last of the oil had burned out.
At noon the next day, a floating corpse was seen in Ten-Thousand Willow Lake, fifteen li from the West Gate. The news spread immediately, eventually reaching the ears of the local constable, who ordered some villagers to fish it out. It was the body of a man over fifty, of medium build, with a pale face and no beard, wearing scarcely any clothing. Some said it was Chen Shicheng. But the neighbors could not be bothered to go and look, and no relatives came to claim the body. So, after an inspection by the county officials, the constable had it taken away for burial. As for the cause of death, there was, of course, no question about it. Stripping clothes from a corpse was a common enough occurrence, not sufficient to suspect foul play. Moreover, the coroner confirmed death by drowning while alive, for the deceased had unmistakably struggled at the bottom of the water, as all ten fingernails were packed with river mud.