Shanghai Sketches
Dedicated to my dear friends in China
Introduction
It was cold; it was Autumn; my very first Autumn in Shanghai, and memories of the springtime in Japan—of dear friends and never-ending excitements—made it colder still and sadder. I was very lonely when I first arrived in this unfamiliar city.
Fortunately, I soon ran into two friends whom I had known in Japan, and who had arrived sometime before me. They were lonely too, so we clung to each other fast.
China was to us a mystery—one that we had neither the desire nor the energy to solve. My thoughts drifted to Europe, while their dreams chased the South China Sea and Tibet. We feared our Ferry of Happiness had been shipwrecked, never to sail again. Stranded on the desert island of Shanghai, we had neither the strength to rebuild our ferry, nor the courage to think of China as our new home. Strangers to this noisy desert island, we hopelessly looked out at the swelling sea of people around us.
Often did we walk through the large market, where thousands of men and women bought and sold, cheated and were cheated. Accompanied by the incessant din of human life, we, with smiles on our faces, and unbearable pain in our hearts, would exclaim to each other: “Surely this is an impassable forest!”
Wandering in this “New World,”1 how often did we repeat to each other: “Why does man seek solitude in the mountains when he could just as well find it in the New World? Here one feels more alone than if one were lost in the Himalayas!”
One day, while wandering about aimlessly, we came upon a large old tree, stripped of its bark, and with one withered leaf still clinging to it. The sight of this lonely survivor impressed us deeply. We stood speechless before it; but from our ever-smarting hearts there arose a thousand questions. Oh, how we pitied that leaf, for we ourselves were as pitiful as it; and we listened, motionless, as it seemed to be saying: “I did everything to remain on this Tree; I loved no one but myself, my sole aim being to keep from falling. And lo! Now I am alone and cold and withering, thinking I never did anything, never loved anyone . . .”
The leaf fell on my hat, and I carried it home with me.
Now on cold Autumn nights—such lonely, sleepless nights—when, with my face buried in my pillow, I try to hold back my tears and grief for my shipwrecked Ferry of Happiness, the withered Leaf appears before me and tells me many tales. Listening to it speak, I begin to forget about my Ferry of Happiness, which I shipwrecked by my own hand, till I am no longer sorry for it, and weep for it no longer.
Even if everything should turn out to be a dream, and I wake up to find myself still in my Ferry of Happiness, I shall not change its course, nor move its rudder one bit. Indeed, I shall go straight to the sea where I am destined to perish.
But here are some tales that the withered leaf told me. And should they excite some happy thoughts in you, dear reader, or stir some noble sentiments in your heart, then its life will not have been in vain, and I will have accomplished my authorial task.
I
The Tree in the Street
I know of a Tree on a street in this city. Now it stands silent; now it says nothing; nothing it wants now to say. And I know not the number of years it has lived, though I know it has witnessed the glory of emperors, and also their ruin and shame.
It has witnessed the people of this land dispossessed by their very own high-ranking thieves. It has witnessed the people of this land dispossessed by foreign-born low-ranking thieves. It has cried to the Wind, saying, “Wind, blow me down, that I might see no more!” But the Wind loved the Tree, for the Tree was so old.
Now it watches the people dispossessed by their own, dispossessed by another, be they yellow or white; but it speaks not a word; it has nothing to say—wherefore I know not at all.
It has witnessed the people kneeling down in the mud to worship their great men and elders. It has witnessed the people kneeling down in the dust at the foreign-born butchers’ command. It has cried to the Men who were cutting down trees to make room for the white man’s new world, saying, “Men, cut me down! You must cut me down fast! That I might see no more of these devils and demons; that I might see no more of these poor slavish people and their more slavish leaders!” But the Men only bowed, for the Tree was so old.
Now it watches the people lying down in the mud, rolling round in the dust, as they worship the butchers from near and from far; but it speaks not a word; it has nothing to say—wherefore I know not at all.
It has witnessed the coming of grandiose streets, and the building of homes for the wealthy exploiters, and the planning of parks that the people can’t walk in. It has cried in despair, saying, “What has become of my beautiful people? And what has become of my glorious land? Is its spirit now dead? Has its soul now departed? Will its heart beat no more in the breasts of the Youth?” But nobody answered, for nobody knew. So the Tree became silent; it spoke not a word, there was nothing it wanted to say.
Now it watches the Children, who begin playing sports, and who end playing war, or perhaps playing cards, laying down on the table their very last dollar, along with their honor; and it watches the Youth, who begin drinking wine, and who end smoking pipes; and it watches the Elders, who begin selling thoughts, and who end selling land . . . And it speaks not a word; it has nothing to say—wherefore I know not at all.
II
The Isle of Dreams
It was spring, and the young Leaves of the old Tree were singing green hymns to the sun, to the warm, dreamy Nights, to the magical Moon, and the enigmatic Stars . . .
They were trembling with joy; they were trembling with love; and life rushed through all of their little leaf-veins.
And they called to the Tree, saying, “Tell us, old Tree; tell us how should we love? And whom should we love while we live?”
But the Tree made no answer; it spoke not a word. And the green Leaves felt sad as they trembled with joy, as they trembled with love.
It was night—and the magical Moon was bewitching the world, and the enigmatic Stars were scattering puzzles all over the heavens.
And mischievous Dreams were invading the Earth, pulling childish pranks on kings in their castles and on shepherds in their fields.
The silent night deepened . . .
The Southern Breeze slept on its way to the river, the Magnificent River, to the city that was built in the white man’s new style; it had fallen asleep having left the South Sea, while the mischievous Dreams were invading the Earth.
Rang the Clock-Tower, which sleeps not a wink, even on dreamy spring nights like this.
And the Southern Breeze woke all at once with a start.
“Was that a Spring Dream?” it exclaimed as it woke; but the Dreams had flown off, and they laughed as they went.
“Oh, Spring Dreams,” cried the Breeze, “you must wait. You must answer me something!” But the Dreams had flown off, and they laughed as they went.
So the Southern Breeze flew, chasing after the Dreams on its swift southern wings, crying, “Wait, you Spring Dreams! You must answer me, please!”
But those mischievous Dreams—they had hidden themselves in the little green Leaves of the silent old Tree.
Then the Southern Breeze came, and it said to the Tree, “Good Tree with green leaves, pray, wither have flown all the Dreams of the Spring?”
But the old Tree stood silent, while the Dreams smiled within, and the little green Leaves all trembled with laughter.
So the Breeze kissed the Leaves, pleading: “Tell me, green Leaves! Tell me, green little brothers, wither have flown all the Dreams of the Spring?”
And the green Leaves made jest, saying, “We do not know, for we cannot see. But perhaps they have flown to the bright Southern Cross?”
How the green Leaves believed that the Dreams of the Spring would stay with them always, forever and ever!
And the Spring Dreams all smiled.
And the old Tree stood silent.
So the Breeze went on pleading, saying, “Listen, green Leaves! Listen, green little brothers, I have just had a vision of the Isle of Dreams. It lies on the Sea of Everlasting Love, and its port is the Port of Immutable Friendship, into which flows the River of Joy. And there blooms the Flower of Loyalty, and there grows the Tree of Virtue; and there rises the Mountain of Liberty, over which shines the Sun of Truth, the Moon of Justice, and the Stars of Fine Arts . . . Oh, the wonders of this place are many indeed. So you must come with me, my green little brothers. You must come with me to the Isle of Dreams!”
“But the way—do you know it?” demanded the Leaves. “You must tell us right now! You must tell us this instant!”
“Ah, the way . . .” sighed the Breeze, “I’m afraid I don’t know it, so I must ask the Dreams, but they’ve all flown away . . .”
And the green Leaves cried out, “Why, the Dreams are right here, hiding in this old Tree! You must ask them the way to the Isle of Dreams!”
But the mischievous Dreams were not there anymore, they had all flown away. And they laughed at the Breeze and the Leaves as they went.
And the old Tree stood silent.
So the green Leaves felt doubt in their little leaf-veins, and they spoke to the Tree, saying, “Tell us, old Tree; tell us, are we to trust the sweet words of the Breeze? And are we to put all our faith in the Dreams, when the magical Moon is bewitching the world, and the enigmatic Stars are scattering puzzles all over the heavens?”
But the Tree made no answer. It did not want to say that the Dreams had flown off to the faraway North, to the land of the Snow and the world-turning Spirit. It did not want to say that the Dreams had no fear of the Cold or the Frost. It did not want to say how the people of the North always wanted to dream.
And the Southern Breeze cried, saying, “Leaves, we must go! Oh, my green little brothers! I can feel it, the Isle of Dreams is nearby!”
“But we don’t feel a thing,” said the little green Leaves. “Does it really exist?”
And the Southern Breeze answered: “If it does not exist, we will build it ourselves!”
“But how?” asked the Leaves. “Tell us, how can we build such an Isle of Dreams, with its gold Sun of Truth, and its silver Moon of Justice?”
And the Southern Breeze answered: “With the Spirit of Youth! For the Spirit of Youth is the source of all power. It is God the Creator—once, now, and forever!”
Said the Leaves: “Tell us, Tree! Shall we put all our trust in the Spirit of Youth?”
But the old Tree stood silent, and made them no answer.
So some Leaves cried out, saying, “We will never go searching for the Isle of Dreams; we will never go anywhere; we will never depart from our native branches!”
But the old Tree stood silent.
So the Southern Breeze left on its swift southern wings . . .
It was dawn . . .
The Girl and Her Secret
It was spring, and the young Leaves of the old Tree were trembling with love and joy. And the whole world was smiling: the blue Sky, the proud Sun, and the strange little Clouds searching for happiness in the infinite heavens . . .
There came to the Tree a nine-year-old girl. She too was smiling; she too was trembling with love and joy; and her eyes were shining with a secret hope.
She said: “Good Tree with green leaves, is it true man is mortal? And if so, does that mean that my brother must die? No, certainly not. For my brother is twelve. And must twelve-year-old boys die because man is mortal?
“Good Tree with green leaves, I love only him. I have no one else. I hate all the others, who, to bury my father, sold my first-eldest sister; and to bury my mother, sold my second-eldest sister. Now they want to sell me, to hire a doctor to treat my sick brother. But my brother will never allow that to happen!
“Good Tree with green leaves, when daughters are sold, who is it that buys them? My brother has said that our dear older sisters were bought to be sold again, night after night. Is that true, what he said? I have often desired to visit the place where daughters are sold, but no one is willing to show me the way . . .
“Good Tree with green leaves, is it really so bad to cough up some blood? They all say that my brother must not leave his room, must not play with friends, must not read or write; must not talk too much; that he must lie in bed or sit in his chair in front of the window. How sad he is then! For outside the window are dirty brick walls. Oh, why do they build such dirty brick walls? Are they trying to hide all the world and its wonders?
“Good Tree with green leaves, they forbid me to see him; they forbid us to play; they forbid me to lay down my head on his knees. They say I’m too old. But how can I live so apart from my brother? I love only him; he loves only me; we hate all the others, who, to bury our father, sold off one sister, and, to bury our mother, sold off another . . .
“Good Tree with green leaves, I will tell you a secret. You must tell it to no one, not the Wind nor the Clouds . . .
“As soon as it’s dark and the house is asleep, I stealthily creep to the room of my brother. And I lie in his bed; and I sleep in his arms; and I give little kisses to his pale blemished face . . .
“And then I am happy, and all is forgotten.
“We tell each other stories: about God and His Angels, and our parents who fly among beautiful stars; about monsters in the sea and devils in the hills; about little crafty foxes and big scary wolves; about all the strange white men who live in our city . . .
“And under the covers, we play many games, or else we admire the pictures in books. And when I feel tired, I lie in his arms till the Clock-Tower wakes us. Then I stealthily creep on back to my room, where I wait for my uncles and aunties to rise . . .
“Good Tree with green leaves, you must not tell my secret; you must tell it to no one, not the Wind nor the Clouds . . .
“I too have coughed blood, but nobody knows this. I’ve coughed it in secret and hid the red spittle, or if someone was near, I swallowed it down. And lo! I am happy; I walk about freely and play with my friends, while my poor older brother must lie in his bed, or sit by the window, and look out at nothing but dirty brick walls.
“Oh, why must they build such dirty brick walls?
“But the worst thing of all is that, day after day, my brother must drink the most terrible drink. Oh, good Tree with green leaves, am I to believe a disease of the lungs can be cured with such things? All the others say yes, but my brother says no. With tears does he drink it. But he drinks it no longer. I drink it instead. For each night, when we play games of cards in his bed, he declares that the loser must drink all the drink. And because he is clever, he wins every game. So I drink all the drink; and oh, how he laughs then!
“But our uncles and aunties suspect not a thing. For my brother is careful, my brother is wise. Indeed, he often amazes my uncles and aunties . . .
“Good Tree with green leaves, is it true that wise children don’t live very long? Then is old-age for fools? Why, that would be awful. Both of my grandparents lived to be ninety, yet many have said that they were quite wise. To what age will our uncles and aunties live, then, for nobody says they’re a little bit wise . . .
“Now I beg you, good Tree, give me some of your leaves, out of which I might weave a green crown for my brother . . .”
And she stretched out her hands.
And the green Leaves exclaimed, saying, “Tell us, old Tree, are we to take pity on this seedling that man calls a ‘little girl’?”
But the old Tree stood silent, and made them no answer.
So the green Leaves grew sad, and many cried out: “We will never trust anyone; we will never go anywhere; we will never depart from our native branches!”
But some branches bent down, and shook off their Leaves. And the Girl took them up and wove a green crown. Then she went her way home, where her brother lay waiting with a pale blemished face.
He was already dead . . .
And the old Tree stood silent, and spoke not a word. It did not want to tell how the green crown was placed on a cold, thoughtless head; it did not want to tell how the Girl was sold off for to bury her brother.
And the whole world was smiling: the blue Sky, the proud Sun, and the strange little Clouds searching for happiness in the infinite heavens . . .
IV
The Horse-Man
The Spring was now over. Kissed many times by the hot Summer Sun, the Leaves of the Tree began to turn gold. They no longer sang hymns; they were terribly tired. The love and the joy of the beautiful spring seemed a fast-fading dream. And doubt and regret filled their yellowing veins as they hung in the still, sultry air.
As always, the old Tree stood silent. There was nothing it wanted to say.
There came to the Tree a certain young Man. He had every right to be happy; but not suspecting his youth, had forgotten his rights. He embraced the Tree firmly, and pressed his hot cheek to its freezing-cold trunk.
It was night-time. No Stars were shining, and the Moon had forgotten the Earth. It was excessively hot. No Wind was stirring, and the Leaves hung heavy in the sultry air.
With his cheek pressed against the Tree, the young Man stood silent. He seemed to be searching for something to say.
At last he cried out: “Good Tree with gold leaves, how long must I serve as the rich people’s horse? How long must I serve as their low beast of burden? Till I’m coughing up blood? Till the lungs in my chest are completely destroyed? Well, that time has arrived: for I’m coughing up blood, and little remains of my pulverized lungs.
“Good Tree with gold leaves, how long must I suffer the blows of the riders? Till they’ve knocked out my teeth to prevent me from biting? Till my voice has grown hoarse, and I no longer bark at those so-called progressives and their ‘wonderous’ white culture? Well, that time has arrived: for they’ve knocked out my teeth to prevent me from biting; and my voice has grown hoarse from weeping and sighing!”
And he opened his fist, and the Leaves saw white teeth all covered in blood. And the Tree looked and witnessed his bloody red mouth; but it spoke not a word; it only stood silent.
So the young Man went on: “Good Tree with gold leaves, how long must I suffer a life without light, a life without warmth, a life without air? Till my heart bursts with hate for the whole human race, and explodes in mad curses at Heaven and the gods who created the world, and the people who live in the world, for making life Hell?
“Good Tree with gold leaves, never in life or in dreams had I soft hands to hold; but how many hands—be they yellow or white, be they young or old-aged—have beaten me! Never in life or in dreams had I even a flaming mouth to kiss; but how many mouths—be they familiar or foreign, be they female or male—have spat on me with disdain! Oh, good Tree with gold leaves, have pity on this horse-man, have pity on this rikshaw-driver, who has the whole human race to hate, but only your cold trunk to love.”
And the gold Leaves exclaimed, saying, “Tell us, old Tree, are we to take pity on this seedling that man calls a ‘rikshaw-driver’?”
But the old Tree stood silent, and made them no answer.
So the gold Leaves grew sad, and many cried out: “Man can do as he pleases! We will not intervene! We will never depart from our native branches!”
But some Leaves tumbled down on the young Man’s stiff shoulders, and they spoke to him softly of the rights of all people: to be happy, to be loved . . .
It was night-time. No Stars were shining, and the Moon had forgotten the Earth.
The very next morning, the Man was found dead and embracing the Tree with gold leaves. In his tightly-clenched fist were some bloody white teeth, which had recently been knocked out of his bloody red mouth.
The Man’s cause of death was never discovered. Not that any one cared. For none would have guessed that his poor heart had burst with hatred for the whole human race and its wonderous white culture, with an anger towards Heaven and the gods who created the world, and the people who live in the world, for making life Hell. He knew nothing of that, for the Tree had said nothing; there was nothing it wanted to say . . .
V
The Woman with Little Feet
Autumn came, and the gold Leaves turned red. The hot kisses of the Summer Sun had become, like the Spring, a fast-fading dream. The listless world was awaiting the listless Winter; and its hopes and dreams had all flown off to the Land of Reminiscence.
As always, the old Tree stood silent.
There came to the Tree a young Woman with sweat on her brow and tears in her eyes. Hardly could she walk, her feet were too small and dainty. From the day of her birth, her family had decided that her feet should charm men, not walk on city streets.
The young Woman sat under the old Tree and wept.
And the old Tree stood silent.
But the red Leaves all trembled as they looked over the weeping seedling, the young Woman who could hardly walk on her small, dainty feet.
The Woman sobbed: “Good Tree with red leaves, have pity on this Woman with little bound feet: these feet that can’t walk; this heart that won’t beat! Have pity on these feet all covered in dust, all covered in blood. On these little bound feet did I come all the way from the faraway Mountains. There was I born, and there I expected to die. There did the Mountains teach me to love—to love a young Man, courageous and true, a child of the Mountains, a brother of the Rocks, a friend to the Eagles.
“Our parents betrothed us at a very young age, and together with him did I learn to love the Mountains, and to fear the Magnificent River, the enigma of the world—the mysterious Yangtze. Every morning, when the sun would softly redden the snowy peaks of the Mountains, would I thank them for my beloved, and bless their snowy peaks for my happiness; and every evening, when the parting rays of the Sun had received their last commissions, would I bless once again the Mountains for my courageous hero, for my mountainous love. This I did every morning and evening; save but one day . . .
“Good Tree with red Leaves, it was only one day! One day did I forget to give thanks for my hero, for my mountainous love. I remember it well. I was standing beside him on a high rock, looking out at the rays of the sun as they bid farewell to the Earth. He was looking at me—Not at me, but my feet. ‘Promise me,’ he said, ‘that you’ll always be happy, that you’ll always laugh sweetly in these beautiful mountains.’
“ ‘I promise,’ I answered. “If I cannot be happy on these beautiful Mountains, then where can I hope to be happy?’ He said once again: ‘Promise me that you’ll never, for whatever reason, go to the Magnificent River, to the enigma of the world—to the mysterious Yangtze!’ ‘I promise,’ I answered, ‘Never shall I go to the Magnificent River!’
“And he carefully helped me down from the rock, and . . . Oh, at that moment I thanked both my parents for binding my feet; and I blessed both my feet for making me helpless. At that ill-fated moment I forgot to give thanks to the Mountains for my hero, for my mountainous love. And this all because I was thanking my parents for my little bound feet.
“Good Tree with red leaves, it was only one moment! And the very next morning, when the sun hailed the Mountains, he was gone.
“But where did he go? And why did he leave? No one would tell me, but everyone stared at my little bound feet. Many months did I weep, many months did I doubt and try to make sense of why he had gone. And at length I decided that I should go too.
“So I kissed the firm Rocks, said farewell to the Eagles, and shed tears of parting to the peaks of the Mountains.
“I went straight to the river, the Magnificent River. For I knew he was there; I knew it, I felt it, my heart had assured me. He had gone to the city that was built for white people, where he lived among devils from near and from far.
“Good Tree with red leaves, on these little bound feet did I walk the long road from the faraway Mountains to the white people’s city; and had the road been a hundred-times longer, or a thousand-times more difficult, I still would have walked it on these little bound feet. For I believed that my hero would be waiting at the end, along with my happiness. My heart told me so, it swore this to me. But my heart told a lie . . .
“Good Tree with red leaves, I did not find my hero, that child of the Mountains, that brother of the Rocks, that friend of the Eagles. In his stead I found a Man with an ever-pale face, an ever-weary mien, ever-dull eyes, and ever-trembling lips. His head was weighed down by thoughts of making money; and his breast only beat when it looked upon gold. For riches, he had given up everything noble: the honesty of the Mountains, the loyalty of the Rocks; the bravery of the Eagles. And a slavish fear of poverty reigned over his heart . . .
“Oh, Magnificent River, enigma of the world, mysterious Yangtze! What have you done to my hero of the Mountains, to that brother of the Rocks, to that friend of the Eagles? Are there not enough slaves in this land as it is? Are there not enough money-loving beasts on your shores? Are there not enough covetous brutes in your cities?
“Good Tree with red leaves, he said that my feet were not suited for walking The Hard Road of Life; he told me that Women with such little feet were not suited for fighting The Hard Fight of Life. Was he right? You are old; you know best. Oh, tell me, are my little bound feet not suited for The Hard Road of Life or The Hard Fight of Life?”
The Woman looked up with tears in her eyes.
But the old Tree stood silent, and made her no answer.
Then the red Leaves exclaimed, saying, “Tell us, good Tree, are we to take pity on this little-footed seedling?”
But the Tree kept its silence. It spoke not one word. And the Leaves trembled sadly, and many cried out: “We will never know how and whom we should pity! We will never depart from our native branches!”
But some Leaves tumbled down on the young Woman’s feet, all covered in dust, all covered in blood. And they whispered to the Woman from the faraway Mountains and told her that to walk on The Hard Road of Life one needed not big feet but a great big heart; that to fight The Hard Fight of Life one needed not tigers’ paws nor stallions’ hooves, but a decisive will, a just spirit, and a full knowledge of the world!
The Woman stood up, and said with decision: “Good Tree with red leaves, I lack all these things. I am only a girl, the most ordinary girl of the faraway Mountains. And all that I have are these little bound feet, which do not want to walk, and this heart, which does not want to beat. And so I will go to the Magnificent River. And if that enigma, the mysterious Yangtze, does not grant me happiness, at least it will grant me repose in its waves. So I ask you, good Tree with red leaves—nay, I beg you, have the Wind send my final farewell to the faraway Mountains and their snowy white peaks; and then have it send my first and last kiss to that Man with the ever-pale face, and the ever-weary mien and ever-trembling lips. But don’t let him know of my little bound feet and where they are headed . . .”
And she went away.
And the old Tree stood silent, and the red Leaves cried out, saying, “Tell us, good Tree, did that seedling go away to the Magnificent River? Is she some sort of water-plant?”
But the Tree made no answer.
The very next morning, the Fishermen caught in the meshes of their nets the body of the Woman with the little bound feet. But none would have guessed she had walked on such feet from the faraway Mountains. None would have guessed she had come to find her hero, that child of the Mountains, that brother of the Rocks, that friend of the Eagles, but instead found a Man always thinking of money, always dreaming of riches.
Oh, Magnificent River, enigma of the earth, mysterious Yangtze! Tell me, what have you done to the Youth of this country? What have you done to the Soul of this land? Are there not enough slaves in this world as it is? Are there not enough money-loving beasts on this Earth? Are there not enough covetous brutes in your cities? Oh, Magnificent River! Oh, enigma of the earth! Oh, mysterious Yangtze!