The Dragon Boat Festival

The Dragon Boat Festival

Fang Xuanchuo had recently grown fond of saying "almost the same," until it had virtually become a catchphrase; and not only did it pass his lips, it had truly taken up residence in his mind as well. At first he had said "it's all the same," but later, sensing this was perhaps not quite sound enough, he changed it to "almost the same," and had used it ever since.

Ever since discovering this commonplace maxim, it had given him no small amount of new food for thought, while at the same time affording him considerable new consolation. For instance, when he saw an older man browbeating a youth, his first reaction had been indignation, but now he would think ahead: when this young man himself had sons and grandsons, he would most likely put on the same airs, and so there was nothing to be indignant about. Again, when he saw a soldier beating a rickshaw puller, his first reaction had likewise been indignation, but now he would think ahead: if this rickshaw puller became a soldier and that soldier pulled a rickshaw, the beating would most likely be just the same, and so he would no longer give it a second thought. When he entertained such notions, he sometimes suspected that it was because he himself lacked the courage to struggle against a wicked society that he had deliberately fabricated this escape route, not unlike having "no sense of right and wrong." He would be better off correcting it. And yet this line of thinking only grew stronger in his mind.

He first made public this "almost the same" theory in the lecture hall of the Shoushan School in Beijing, on an occasion when he was presumably discussing matters of history, and so he spoke of "people in ancient and modern times being not so far apart," of the "similar natures" of all kinds of people, and finally brought it around to students and officials, launching into a lengthy disquisition:

"In fashionable society today, everyone joins in cursing officials, and students curse them most bitterly of all. But officials are not a specially endowed species—they are simply commoners who have changed. There are quite a few officials who were students themselves nowadays—what difference is there between them and the old officials? 'If you put them in each other's place, they would all be the same'—their thinking, their speech, their conduct, their bearing are all pretty much the same... Even the many new enterprises launched by student organizations—haven't they likewise been unable to avoid abuses, and mostly fizzled out? Almost the same. And yet herein lies the real cause for anxiety about China's future..."

The twenty-odd listeners scattered about the lecture hall had various reactions: some were pensive, perhaps thinking he was right; some were furious, taking this as an insult to the sacred youth; a few smiled at him, probably thinking this was an excuse he was making for himself, since Fang Xuanchuo was himself an official as well.

But in fact they were all wrong. This was merely a new form of indignation on his part; though indignation, it was also merely a kind of contented, empty talk. He himself did not know whether it was from laziness or from incompetence, but in any case he felt himself to be a man who would not exert himself, who was thoroughly content with his lot. The chancellor suspected he had a nervous disorder—as long as his position was not in danger, he would not open his mouth; when the teachers' salaries had been in arrears for the better part of a year, as long as he had his official stipend to fall back on, he would not open his mouth. Not only did he not speak up; when the teachers had united to demand their pay, he had even privately thought them inconsiderate, making such a fuss; it was only when he heard his colleagues going too far in mocking them that he felt a slight twinge of indignation, but then, upon further reflection, he thought it was probably because he himself was short of money, while the other officials did not also work as teachers, and so he was mollified.

Although he too was short of money, he had never joined the teachers' association; when they resolved to strike and stopped attending classes, he went on teaching. When the government said "you'll be paid only after you've taught," he rather resented their treating him like a monkey being played with fruit; and when a great educator said "it is not noble for a teacher to hold a schoolbag in one hand and demand money with the other," he finally began formally complaining to his wife.

"Hey, why are there only two dishes?" he said at dinner that day, after hearing the "not noble" remark, looking at the vegetables on the table.

They had not received a modern education, and his wife had no formal name or elegant style, so there was no particular form of address for her; by the old custom she could simply be called "Wife," but he was unwilling to be too old-fashioned, and so he had invented the word "Hey." His wife, for her part, did not even use "Hey" with him; she would simply turn her face toward him when she spoke, and by customary law he would know the words were meant for him.

"But the one-and-a-tenth month's salary we got last month is all gone... And yesterday's rice—we had a hard time getting it on credit too," she said, standing by the table, her face turned toward him.

"Look, they even say teachers asking for their salary is base. These people seem not even to know the simple fact that people must eat, that food is made from rice, and that rice must be bought with money..."

"Right. Without money how can you buy rice, without rice how can you cook..." His cheeks puffed out as if vexed that this answer was "almost the same" as his own argument, amounting to an echo; then he turned his head to one side, which, by customary law, was a signal that the discussion was over.

On that day of dreary winds and cold rain, after the teachers had gone to the government to demand their back pay and had been beaten by the Nationalist soldiers into bloody submission in the mire before the Xinhua Gate, their salaries were finally issued. Fang Xuanchuo received his money without lifting a finger, paid off some old debts, but still found himself short by a large sum—for official salaries had also been in arrears for quite some time. By now even honest and upright officials had gradually come to feel that salaries must be demanded; how much more so Fang Xuanchuo, who was both an official and a teacher. Naturally he sympathized all the more with the educational world. So when everyone advocated continuing the class boycott, although he still did not show up, afterwards he was especially wholeheartedly and sincerely obedient to the public resolution.

However, the government paid out the money after all, and the school reopened. But a few days earlier, the student union had submitted a petition to the government saying: "If the teachers do not resume classes, their back pay should not be issued." Though this had no effect, Fang Xuanchuo suddenly recalled what the government had said previously: "No pay unless classes are held." The shadow of "almost" flickered before his eyes once more and refused to vanish. So he made an announcement in the classroom.

From this it can be seen that if the "theory of almost" were woven into a case, it could certainly be judged as a kind of complaint tinged with self-interest, yet it could not be said to be merely an excuse for holding office. Only, at such times he often liked to drag in questions about China's future destiny, and before he knew it, he himself took him for a patriot distressed about the country's fate: people suffer terribly from a lack of "self-knowledge."

But the "almost" happened again. In the beginning, the government had merely ignored the troublesome teachers; later it went so far as to ignore officials of no consequence either, and the mounting arrears finally forced several of the upright officials who had once despised teachers for demanding money to become valiant champions of the salary-seeking rallies. Only a few daily papers published rather contemptuous and mocking articles about them. Fang Xuanchuo found nothing strange or troubling in this, for according to his "theory of almost," he knew it was because the journalists still lacked the grease for their pens; if the government or the wealthy ever stopped their subsidies, they too would probably hold rallies.

Since he sympathized with the teachers' demand for back pay, naturally he also supported his fellow officials in demanding their salaries. Yet he still sat peacefully in his yamen and, as a rule, did not join them in pressing for payment. As for those who suspected him of being aloof, that was merely a misunderstanding. He said of himself that ever since he had come into the world, people had always come to him to demand payment; he had never gone to anyone to demand it. This was therefore "not his strong point." Moreover, he dared not meet those who held the power of the purse. Such men, when they had lost their power and sat expounding Buddhism with a copy of the Awakening of Faith in their hands, were certainly "amiable and approachable"; but while still on their thrones, they always wore the face of the King of Hell, looking upon everyone as servants and fancying that they held the power of life and death over all you poor fellows. For this reason he dared not and would not see them. This temperament, though at times it made even him feel he was being aloof, often led him at the same time to suspect that it was really incompetence.

Everyone pressed left and right for their money, and somehow or other they scraped through bit by bit. But compared with before, Fang Xuanchuo was a hundred times harder up. Needless to say, the servant boy he employed and the shopkeepers he dealt with, even his wife was gradually losing her respect for him. One had only to observe that recently she rarely agreed with him, and often put forward independent opinions and did rather startling things, to understand. On the morning of the fourth day of the fifth lunar month, as soon as he came home, she thrust a stack of bills right under his nose—something that had never happened before.

"A hundred and eighty dollars in all are needed to cover expenses... Has it been issued?" she said, without looking at him.

"Hmph! I shall resign tomorrow. The money order has been issued, but the representatives of the salary-seeking rally won't distribute it. At first they said it would not be given to those who hadn't gone with them; then they said we had to go to them in person to collect it. Today they're clutching the money orders and have turned into the very face of the King of Hell. I really dread seeing them... I won't take the money, and I'll resign my office. Such boundless humiliation..."

Fang's wife, startled by this rare display of righteous indignation, fell silent.

"I think you'd better go and collect it in person. What does it matter?" she said, looking at his face.

"I won't go! This is my official salary, not a reward. By regulation it should be delivered by the accounts office."

"But what if they don't deliver it?... Oh, I forgot to tell you last night—the children say the school has sent several notices about the fees, saying that if they aren't paid by now..."

"Nonsense! The father works as an official and teaches, and they won't give him his pay; yet the son must pay money to attend a few classes?"

She felt that he was no longer paying much attention to reason and seemed about to vent his anger on her as if she were the school principal. It wasn't worth provoking him, so so she said no more.

The two ate lunch in silence. After thinking for a while, he went out again in vexation.

As was his custom, in recent years he always made a point of returning home at midnight on the eve of every festival or the New Year. Walking along, he would fumble in his pocket and call out loudly, "Hey, here it is!" Then he would hand her a wad of crisp new notes from the Bank of China and Communications, his face wearing a rather self-satisfied expression. Who would have expected that on the fourth day of the New Year he would break with precedent and come home before seven o'clock? Mrs. Fang was greatly alarmed, thinking he must have been dismissed, but when she secretly studied his face, she saw no particular signs of ill fortune.

"What's happened? ... So early? ..." she asked, fixing her eyes on him.

"There's no time to get it. They won't issue it. The bank has already closed. We'll have to wait till the eighth."

"Going to collect it in person? ..." she asked anxiously.

"Personal collection has been abolished too. I hear they'll still distribute it through the accounts department. But the bank closed today for three days' rest. We'll have to wait until the morning of the eighth." He sat down, his eyes on the ground, and after taking a sip of tea, he slowly went on: "Fortunately there's no problem at the yamen either. Probably by the eighth we'll definitely have money ... Borrowing from relatives and friends who aren't close to you is really a troublesome business. This afternoon I screwed up my courage to go looking for Jinsheng Yong. We talked for a while. He started by flattering me for not pressing for my salary and refusing to collect it in person, saying I was extremely high-minded and that was exactly how a man should behave. But when he learned I wanted to borrow fifty yuan from him, it was as if I'd stuffed a handful of salt in his mouth—every part of his face that could crease creased up. He said he couldn't collect his rent, his business was losing money, and that collecting one's salary in person in front of one's colleagues was nothing out of the ordinary. He got rid of me on the spot."

"At such a pressing time like this, who would be willing to lend money?" said Mrs. Fang only mildly, without any show of emotion.

Fang Xuanzhuo lowered his head. He felt this was only to be expected, especially since he and Jinsheng Yong were not close. He then remembered what had happened at the end of last year, when a fellow townsman came to borrow ten yuan. He had in fact already received the salary voucher from the yamen, but fearing this man might not pay him back, he put on a troubled expression and said that since he couldn't get his salary from the yamen and the school wasn't paying either, he really "wished he could help but could not," and sent him away empty-handed. Although he hadn't seen what expression he wore at the time, now he felt very uncomfortable. His lips moved slightly, and he shook his head.

But not long after, as if suddenly struck by a bright idea, he gave an order: he told the servant to go out at once and buy a bottle of lotus-white wine on credit. He knew that shopkeepers, hoping to be paid back with interest the next day, generally dared not refuse credit. If they refused, then not paying them a single cash the next day would be the punishment they deserved.

The lotus-white wine was bought on credit. After drinking two cups, the bluish pallor of his face flushed red. After finishing his meal, he was in rather good spirits. He lit a large "Happydays" cigarette, picked up a copy of *Changshi Ji* from the table, and lay down on the bed to read.

"Well, how are we going to deal with the shopkeepers tomorrow?" Mrs. Fang pressed him, standing before the bed and looking at his face.

"Shopkeepers? ... Tell them to come on the afternoon of the eighth."

"I can't say that. They won't believe it. They won't agree."

"Why wouldn't they believe it? They can go and ask—nobody in the whole yamen has received anything. Everyone has to wait till the eighth!" He raised his second finger and traced a semicircle in the air inside the mosquito net. Mrs. Fang followed his finger and saw a semicircle too. Then the hand turned to open *Changshi Ji*.

Seeing him so unreasonably overbearing, Mrs. Fang could find nothing to say for the moment.

"I think this state of affairs can't go on. Eventually we'll have to think of some way, do something else ..." she finally found another path and said.

"What way? I'm 'not a copyist by writing nor a fireman by action.' What else could I do?"

"Haven't you written articles for bookshops in Shanghai?"

"Bookshops in Shanghai? They pay for manuscripts character by character, and spaces don't count. Look at the vernacular poems I wrote there—so many blank spaces. They're probably only worth three hundred coppers a copy. And copyright royalties—no word for six months or half a year. 'Distant water can't put out a nearby fire.' Who has the patience for that?"

"Well, then, for the newspaper here ..."

"For the newspaper? Even at the biggest newspaper here, relying entirely on the considerable influence of a student of mine who works as an editor there, a thousand characters earns only this much. Even if I worked from morning till night, could I support you all? Besides, I don't have that many articles in me."

"Well, what do we do after the festival?"

"After the festival? — I'll still be an official ... When the shopkeepers come for money tomorrow, you just tell them the afternoon of the eighth."

He was about to read *Changshi Ji* again. Afraid of losing her opportunity, Mrs. Fang said haltingly:

"I think, after the festival, on the eighth, we ... might as well buy a lottery ticket ..."

"Nonsense! To say something so uneducated ..."

At that moment, he suddenly remembered what had happened after Yongsheng Jin had sent him out. He had walked in a daze past the Fragrant Rice Village, and had seen at the shop entrance a large advertisement in huge characters that read: "First Prize: Tens of Thousands of Yuan." He seemed to recall that his heart had stirred at the sight of it, or perhaps he had slowed his pace; but apparently, because he was reluctant to part with the sixty cents in his wallet, he had resolutely walked on. His face changed. Mrs. Fang assumed that he was angry at her lack of education, so she quickly backed away without finishing what she had been saying. Fang Xuanchuo also left his sentence unfinished, stretched his waist, and began to drone his way through *Experiments*.

(June, 1922.)