Explore Chapter 6 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.
I have been running from the countryside to the capital for six years in the blink of an eye. During this time, I have witnessed and heard of so-called national events, which are quite numerous; but in my heart, they leave no trace. If I were to seek out the influence of these events, it would only be that they have increased my bad temper-to be honest, they have taught me to look down upon people more and more each day.
But there is one small incident that holds meaning for me, pulling me out of my bad temper, and to this day I cannot forget it.
It was the winter of the sixth year of the Republic. A fierce north wind was blowing, and due to the demands of livelihood, I had no choice but to be out on the road early in the morning. Hardly anyone was about, and with great difficulty, I finally hired a rickshaw and told the puller to take me to S Gate. After a while, the north wind subsided, and the dust on the road had long been swept clean, leaving behind a broad, white thoroughfare. The rickshaw puller quickened his pace. Just as we were nearing S Gate, the shaft of the rickshaw suddenly caught a person, who slowly fell.
The person who fell was a woman, with graying hair and tattered clothes. She had abruptly darted out from the roadside, crossing in front of the rickshaw; the puller had already swerved to avoid her, but her torn cotton vest was unbuttoned, and the breeze caught it, billowing it outward, so it finally snagged on the shaft. Fortunately, the puller had slowed down a bit earlier; otherwise, she would have taken a heavy tumble, ending up with a bloody head.
She lay prostrate on the ground; the rickshaw puller halted. I was convinced the old woman wasn't hurt, and with no one else around, I thought him foolish for making trouble, inviting complications and delaying my journey.
I said to him, "It's nothing. Go on your way!"
The rickshaw puller paid no heed-or perhaps he didn't hear-but instead set down the rickshaw, helped the old woman up slowly, supported her by the arm as she steadied herself, and asked her:
"How are you?"
"I'm hurt."
I thought to myself, I saw you fall slowly; how could you be hurt? It's just an act, truly detestable. The rickshaw puller's meddling is asking for trouble; now you can deal with it yourself.
Upon hearing the old woman's words, the rickshaw puller did not hesitate in the least. Still supporting her by the arm, he began to walk forward step by step. I was somewhat surprised and quickly looked ahead to see a police substation. After the strong wind, there was no one outside. The rickshaw puller, supporting the old woman, was heading straight for the gate.
At that moment, I suddenly felt an unusual sensation. His dusty back, which had seemed so ordinary, instantly grew tall and larger with each step he took, until I had to look up to see it. Moreover, he gradually began to exert a kind of pressure on me, even to the point of squeezing out the "petitness" hidden beneath my fur robe.
My vitality seemed to have congealed then. I sat motionless, without a thought, until I saw a policeman emerge from the substation, and only then did I get down from the rickshaw.
The policeman approached me and said, "You'll have to hire another rickshaw; he can't pull you anymore."
Without thinking, I reached into my coat pocket, grabbed a handful of coppers, and handed them to the policeman, saying, "Please give this to him..."
The wind had completely died down, and the road was still quiet. As I walked, I pondered, almost afraid to think of myself. Let bygones be bygones; but what did this handful of coppers mean? To reward him? Could I still judge the rickshaw puller? I couldn't answer myself.
This incident remains with me to this day, often coming to mind. Because of it, I often endure pain, striving to reflect on myself. The civil and military affairs of recent years have long faded from my memory, much like the "Confucian classics" I read as a child, not half a line retained. Only this small incident always floats before my eyes, sometimes even more vividly, teaching me shame, urging me to renew myself, and increasing my courage and hope.
July 1920