Explore Chapter 10 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.
Recently, the phrase "more or less" had become almost a catchphrase for Fang Xuanchuo. He not only uttered it frequently, but indeed it had taken root in his mind. He had started with "it's all the same," but later, probably deeming that insufficiently stable, had changed it to "more or less," and had been using it ever since.
Since coining this rather commonplace maxim, while it had provoked many new reflections, it had also brought him considerable comfort. For instance, upon witnessing elders oppressing the young, he would once have felt righteous indignation. Now, however, he would console himself with the thought that when these youths had children and grandchildren of their own, they would probably assume the same airs, and his sense of injustice would vanish. Again, seeing soldiers beat a rickshaw puller would once have angered him. Now he would reflect that if the rickshaw puller were a soldier and the soldier pulled a rickshaw, they would probably beat each other just the same, and he would think no more of it. Contemplating this, he sometimes suspected it was merely an escape route he had fabricated out of cowardice, a deliberate self-deception quite akin to "having no sense of right or wrong," and that he would be better off correcting it. Yet this notion persistently grew within him.
He first publicly expounded his "more or less" theory in the lecture hall of the Beijing S--- School. The occasion likely arose from a discussion on historical matters, leading him to speak of "the small gap between ancients and moderns," and of "the fundamental similarity of human nature." Finally, he dragged in students and bureaucrats, holding forth at length:
"It's fashionable in society nowadays to curse bureaucrats, and students are particularly vehement. But bureaucrats aren't a special breed born that way; they are transformed from ordinary citizens. Many current bureaucrats started as students-how are they any different from the old ones? 'Change places, and the result is the same.' There's little difference in their thoughts, words, actions, or demeanor... Haven't many new ventures launched by student groups already shown inevitable flaws, most of them vanishing without a trace? It's more or less the same. But herein lies the worry for China's future..."
Among the twenty-odd listeners scattered in the lecture hall, some looked dismayed, perhaps agreeing with him; others were furious, presumably feeling he had insulted the sacred youth; a few smiled at him, likely taking it as a self-justification, since Fang Xuanchuo himself also served as an official.
Yet all were mistaken. This was merely a new kind of discontent for him; though a discontent, it remained but a passive, empty theory. He himself didn't know whether it was due to laziness or uselessness, but he felt he was someone who refused to stir, utterly content with his lot. When a cabinet minister wrongly accused him of being neurotic, as long as his position wasn't threatened, he never uttered a word of protest. When teachers' salaries were in arrears for over half a year, as long as he had his official stipend to fall back on, he kept silent. Not only silent, but when the teachers united to demand back pay, he privately thought them imprudent, too clamorous. Only upon hearing his colleagues deride them excessively did he feel a slight stir. Later, upon reflection, he decided it was probably because he himself was short of money while other officials didn't moonlight as teachers, and so felt relieved.
Though he too was short of funds, he never joined the teachers' union. When they resolved to strike and stopped teaching, he simply didn't go to class. The government declared, "Teach first, then get paid," which made him resent their tactic, akin to teasing a monkey with fruit. When a prominent educator proclaimed, "It is ignoble for a teacher to clutch a textbook in one hand and demand money with the other," he finally voiced his complaints formally to his wife.
"Hey, why only two dishes?" he said, looking at the food during dinner on the day he heard the "ignoble" remark.
They were products of the old education. His wife had no scholarly name or elegant sobriquet, so there was no particular form of address. By old custom he could call her "Madam," but he disliked being too traditional, so he invented this "Hey." As for her, she didn't even use "Hey" for him; as long as she faced him while speaking, he knew, by customary law, her words were meant for him.
"But the fifteen percent we got last month is all gone... Yesterday's rice was only obtained on credit, and with great difficulty at that," she said, standing by the table and facing him.
"You see, they still say it's base for teachers to demand salaries. Such people seem unaware of the simple fact that men must eat, rice makes the meal, and rice costs money..."
His cheeks puffed out, as if annoyed that this answer so closely resembled his own argument, bordering on mere echo. Then he turned his head away. By customary law, this signaled the end of discussion.
After a day of bleak wind and cold rain, when the teachers, having gone to demand back pay from the government, were beaten bloody by the national army in the mud outside Xinhua Gate, some salaries were finally issued. Fang Xuanchuo received his money without lifting a finger, paid off a few old debts, yet still faced a large shortfall, for his official pay was also considerably in arrears. By then, even honest, upright officials were beginning to think salaries must be demanded, let alone Fang Xuanchuo, who also worked as a teacher. Naturally, his sympathy for the academic circle grew, so when they advocated continuing the strike, though he still didn't attend the meeting, afterwards he adhered wholeheartedly to the collective resolution.
Yet the government paid again, and classes resumed. But a few days prior, the student union had petitioned the government, saying, "If teachers refuse to teach, don't pay the back salaries." Though ineffective, it reminded Fang Xuanchuo of the government's earlier "teach first, then get paid" statement. The shadow of "more or less" flitted before his eyes again, lingering, and he proclaimed it publicly in the lecture hall.
From this, one could see that if his "more or less" theory were elaborated and systematized, it might naturally be judged a discontent tinged with personal bias, yet it could not be called solely a justification for his own official post. Only, on such occasions, he often liked to drag in questions concerning China's future destiny. A slight misstep, and he would fancy himself a patriot grieving for his country. Men often suffer from a lack of "self-knowledge."
But the "more or less" phenomenon recurred. Initially, the government ignored only those troublesome teachers, but later it extended its neglect to irrelevant, inconsequential officials. Arrears piled upon arrears, finally driving several of those "good officials" who had once despised the teachers' money-grubbing to become valiant generals in the salary-demand assembly. Only certain daily newspapers published rather disparaging, mocking articles about them. Fang Xuanchuo was not surprised nor bothered, for according to his "more or less" theory, he knew this was because journalists had not yet run short of writing fees. Should the government or the wealthy stop their subsidies, they would probably hold mass meetings too.
Having expressed sympathy for the teachers' salary demands, he naturally approved of his colleagues' demand for their stipends. Yet he remained seated comfortably in his yamen, routinely not joining the debt-collection parties. As for any suspicion of aloofness, that was a misunderstanding. He claimed that since birth, only others had dunned him; he had never dunned anyone. So this was "not his forte." Moreover, he most dreaded meeting those who wielded economic power. Once such men lost their authority and, cradling a copy of *The Awakening of Faith in the Mahayana*, discoursed on Buddhism, they could indeed be "amiably approachable." But while enthroned, they always wore the face of King Yama, treating everyone as slaves, convinced they held the power of life and death over you paupers. Thus, he dared not and cared not to see them. This temperament, though sometimes striking even himself as aloof, often made him suspect it was merely incompetence.
Demanding left and right, they managed to scrape through, section by section. But compared to before, Fang Xuanchuo was in dire straits. Not to mention the servants he employed or the shops he dealt with, even Mrs. Fang gradually lost respect for him. One needed only observe her recent reluctance to echo his views, her frequent original opinions, and her somewhat rash actions to understand. On the morning of the fourth day of the fifth lunar month, the moment he returned, she thrust a sheaf of bills under his nose-another unprecedented act.
"Altogether, we need a hundred and eighty dollars to cover expenses... Have you been paid?" she said, not looking at him.
"Hmph! I'm quitting my post tomorrow. The pay cheque has been issued, but the delegates of the Salary-Demand Assembly won't disburse it. First they said those who didn't go in person wouldn't get it, then they said we must collect it face-to-face. Today, just clutching the cheques, they've turned into King Yamas. I truly dread the sight... I want neither the money nor the post anymore. Such boundless humiliation..."
Mrs. Fang was somewhat taken aback by this rare outburst of righteous anger, but soon composed herself.
"I will not! This is official pay, not a tip. By regulation, the Accounts Department should deliver it."
"But what if they don't?... Oh, I forgot to mention last night-the children said the school has pressed several times for the tuition fees. They say if we don't pay soon..."
She sensed he was no longer overly concerned with reason, as if about to vent his spleen on her as if she were the school principal. Seeing no point in it, she fell silent.
By recent custom, on the eve of any festival or the New Year, he would always return home at midnight. Walking in, reaching into the front of his gown, he would shout loudly, "Hey, got it!" Then he would hand her a stack of crisp new Bank of China and Bank of Communications notes, his face wearing a rather pleased expression. Who would have thought that on the fourth day he broke routine, returning before seven. Mrs. Fang was startled, suspecting he had resigned, but a furtive glance at his face revealed no particular look of misfortune.
"In person?..." she asked apprehensively.
"The 'in person' rule has been cancelled, I hear. They say the Accounts Department will distribute it as before. But the bank closed today for a three-day holiday. Have to wait till the morning of the eighth." He sat down, eyes on the floor. After a sip of tea, he continued slowly, "Luckily, there's no trouble at the yamen either. Probably by the eighth we'll definitely have the money... Borrowing from unrelated relatives or friends is truly a vexing business. This afternoon, summoning up my courage, I went to see Jin Yongsheng. We chatted awhile. First he praised me for not demanding salaries or collecting in person, calling me admirably noble, saying that's how a man should be. But when he learned I wanted to borrow fifty dollars from him, it was as if I'd stuffed a handful of salt into his mouth. Every wrinkleable part of his face creased. He went on about how hard it was to collect rent, how his business was losing money, and how collecting pay in person before colleagues was nothing remarkable-then promptly showed me the door."
Fang Xuanchuo lowered his head, thinking this was only natural, especially as he and Jin Yongsheng were hardly close. He then recalled last New Year's Eve, when a fellow townsman came to borrow ten dollars. He had clearly received the payment voucher from the yamen then, but fearing the man might not repay, he had put on an embarrassed air, saying that since he couldn't get his pay from the yamen nor his salary from the school, he was truly "unable to help," and sent the man away empty-handed. Though he hadn't seen his own expression then, he now felt acutely awkward. His lips quivered slightly, and he shook his head.
Yet before long, as if struck by a sudden insight, he issued an order: tell the servant to go immediately and buy a bottle of Lotus White liquor on credit. He knew shopkeepers, hoping for larger repayments tomorrow, would probably not dare refuse credit. If they did, then paying not a cent tomorrow would be their just deserts.
"Then how shall we deal with the shopkeepers tomorrow?" pressed Mrs. Fang, standing by the bed and looking at his face.
"Why shouldn't they believe it? They can ask around. No one in the whole yamen has received anything. All must wait till the eighth!" He jabbed his forefinger and drew a half-circle in the air inside the bed-curtain. Mrs. Fang's gaze followed the arc, then watched as the hand went and opened *Experiments*.
"Shanghai publishing houses? They pay by the word, spaces don't count. Look at the vernacular poetry I wrote for them-see all the空白? Probably worth only three hundred coppers a book. And royalty payments haven't come for half a year or more. 'Distant water won't quench a nearby fire.' Who has the patience?"
"Then, for the local newspapers..."
"Newspapers? Even in the biggest local paper, relying on a former student who's an editor, a thousand words earn only a pittance. Could working from dawn till dusk support you all? Besides, I haven't that many articles in me."
He was about to resume reading *Experiments*. Afraid of missing her chance, Mrs. Fang hastily stammered:
At this, he suddenly remembered what happened after Jin Yongsheng showed him the door. He had wandered absently past Dao Xiang Cun and seen at the shop entrance a huge advertisement with characters as big as *dou* measures proclaiming, "First Prize: Tens of Thousands of Dollars." It seemed his heart had stirred then, or perhaps he had slowed his pace. But, it seemed, unwilling to part with the last sixty cents in his wallet, he had resolutely walked on. His expression darkened. Mrs. Fang, guessing he was vexed by her uneducated remark, quickly withdrew, leaving her sentence unfinished.