Rickshaw Boy 葛浩文译文PDF

老舍骆驼祥子葛浩文译本 A Rickshaw Boy

Rickshaw Boy

A Novel

Lao She

Translated by Howard Goldblatt

INTRODUCTION

Lao She (Shu Qingchun, 1899–1966) remains one of the most widely read Chinese novelists of the first half of the twentieth century, and probably its most beloved. Born into an impoverished Manchu family—his father, a lowly palace guard for the Qing emperor, was killed during the 1900 Boxer Rebel-lion—he was particularly sensitive to his link to the hated Manchu Dynasty, which ruled China from the mid-seventeenth century until it was overthrown in 1911. The view of one of his biographers is difficult to dispute: “The poverty of his childhood and the fact that these were also the years when the dynasty was collapsing and the Manchus were becoming a target of increasingly bitter attacks left a deep shadow on Lao She’s impressionable mind and later kept him from personal participation in political activities. But his alienation strengthened his sense of patriotism and made his need to identify with China even more acute.”*

After graduating from Beiping Normal School, Lao She spent half a dozen years as a schoolteacher, primary school principal, and school administrator. Then, in 1924, after joining a Christian society and studying English, he accompanied a British missionary, Clemont Egerton, to London, where he taught Chinese at the University of London’s School of Oriental Studies. Among his lesser-discussed activities there was the acknowledged assistance to Egerton in his translation of the “indecent” classical novel The Golden Lotus, in which the racy parts were rendered in Latin. During his time away from the classroom, Lao She read voraciously. He has written of his fascination with British novels, in particular the work of Charles Dickens, whose devotion to the urban downtrodden and use of ironic humor Lao She found particularly affecting; they would inform much of his own work, particularly the early novels and stories.

Lao She’s literary career began during his five-year stay in England, where he wrote three novels: The Philosophy of Lao Zhang (1926), a mostly comical look at middle-class Beiping residents and modeled, in the author’s own words, after Nicholas Nickleby and The Pickwick Papers; Zhao Ziyue (1927), a generally unsympathetic exposé of the activities of a group of college students; and The Two Mas (1929), the tale of a Chinese father and son living, and loving, in London. All three were serialized in China’s most prestigious literary magazine of the day, Short Story Magazine, before Lao She returned to China, in 1929, after a six-month stop in Singapore, where he taught Chinese in a middle school; there he wrote most of a short novel, The Birthday of Little Po (1931), the only one of his novels that focuses entirely on a child, a Cantonese boy living in Singapore.

Upon Lao She’s return to China, he landed a teaching job at a Shandong university, where he continued to write

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and publish. His first novel written there, Lake Daming (1931), was set to be published in 1932, but the author’s only manuscript was lost when a Japanese bomb destroyed the publishing house. Later in 1931 a dystopian satire set on Mars entitled Cat Country (1932) appeared, followed closely by Divorce (1933),* a tale of domestic strife. Taken together, the two novels give witness to Lao She’s increasing dejection over deteriorating social and political conditions in China and the rise of nationalistic, even revolutionary, tendencies throughout the country in the wake of the Japanese occupation of Northeast China (Manchuria) in 1931, with the establishment of the puppet state of Manchukuo, followed by a Japanese attack on Shanghai the same year.

While Cat Country and Divorce broaden the author’s critique of the weakness of the Chinese character, castigating it as a malaise that affects the whole nation, not just pockets of middle-class urbanites, Lao She continued to see the salvation of Chinese society in the Confucian ideal of inpidual moral integrity, the vaunted junzi, a man of virtue. This begins to change with the slight novel The Biography of Niu Tianci (1936),? in which the author entertains doubts that “inpidual heroism could be of any use in a generally corrupt society.”? Lao She’s political ambivalence had begun to give way to more active political engagement. The bankruptcy of inpidualism in the face of a corrupting and dehumanizing social system is both the political and moral message of his next novel, Rickshaw Boy, which was first serialized in a magazine edited by Lin Yutang, Cosmic Wind (1936–1937), and published as a book in 1939; it has been republished many times in China, Taiwan, Hong Kong, Singapore, and in Chinese communities in the West.

Not only had Lao She matured as a writer when he wrote Rickshaw Boy, but he also had finally been able to quit teaching, a job he admitted he did not like, and devote all his time and energies to his craft. The polished structure, language, and descriptions of this complex novel made for a fitting debut as a full-time writer. After producing a series of novels that dealt with middle-class urbanites, minor officials, college students, and the like, in Rickshaw Boy, Lao She chose an illiterate, countrified common laborer as the vehicle for his ongoing social critique. Though a case can be made for viewing the novel as an “allegory of Republican China” in which “the Chinese people were bullied by imperialist powers, misled by the false promise of capitalist modernization, and betrayed by corrupt government, miscarried revolution, and their own disunity,”*at its core it “portrays the physical and moral decline of an inpidual in an unjust society”? and, for the first time, hints at a way out: a move away from inpidualism and toward collective action. Lao She himself wrote of the novel in 1954, “I expressed my sympathy for the laboring people and my admiration of their sterling qualities, but I gave them no future, no way out. They lived miserably and died wronged.”? For a twenty-first-century reader who knows how things have turned out in China, the novel can be read as commentary on the sorts of struggles the underprivileged of the world face daily and the powers that keep them that way. It is also a stark but edifying picture of the early-twentieth-century city in which Lao She was born and died.

During the war years (1937–1945), Lao She spent most of his time in the interior, where he devoted his energies and lent his patriotic zeal to the publication of anti-Japanese magazines and to the chairmanship of the All-China Association of Resistance Writers and Artists. There he began a novel set in one of Beijing’s traditional quadrangular compounds, Four Generations Under One Roof, which he would not finish until several years later. He did start and finish a novel—Cremation—which he considered to be an utter failure, owing primarily to a lack of understanding of life in areas under Japanese occupation: “If a work like Cremation had been written before the war,” he wrote, “I would have thrown it into the wastepaper basket. But now I do not have that type of courage.”* For a variety of reasons, not least of which were the demands upon writers to serve the war effort, Lao She’s major achievements during this period were in patriotic plays, most of which were forgotten after the war. It is important to keep in mind that during these troubled times, when the Japanese invasion was further complicated by the irreconcilable strife between Communist and Nationalist forces, and the continued presence of warlords,

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particularly in the north, Lao She was the only cultural figure who commanded enough respect by all sides to serve in a leadership role of patriotic literary and art associations.

The war with Japan ended in 1945, only to morph immediately into four years of civil war between the forces of Chiang Kai-shek and Mao Zedong. Lao She was absent from China during most of those years. Owing largely to the surprising popularity of an English translation of Rickshaw Boy—it was a Book-of-the-Month Club selection—Lao She was invited by the U.S. Department of State to visit America in early 1946; though the initial invitation was for a year, he did not return home until the establishment of the People’s Republic, reportedly at the request of Zhou Enlai. Soon after he arrived in the U.S., at a gathering in his honor, he made a point of informing his American audience, which knew little about Chinese literature, other than a bit of classical poetry and the translations of Arthur Waley and others of premodern novels, that new literary trends had taken hold back home. “The younger school of Chinese to which [I belong],” a New York Times story on May 19, 1946, quoted Lao She, “is only about thirty years old and it is distinguished from the older by its break with the classical vernacular and by its subject matter, which has less to do with flowers than with social themes.”

While in the United States, Lao She wrote a novel he called Drum Singers; it was published in an English translation (1989) long before the Chinese version appeared. He also completed his long novel dealing with the lives of several generations of families living in a traditional Beijing compound, Four Generations Under One Roof, and worked with an old China hand, Ida Pruitt, on an abridged translation into English she called The Yellow Storm (1951); the Chinese original appeared in three volumes, published in 1946, 1948, and 1951.

A celebrated cultural figure in the People’s Republic for the first seventeen years of its existence, Lao She held a variety of important or symbolic offices after his return in 1949, and while he appears never to have been completely comfortable with the system or ideology under which he lived and worked, he wrote prolifically, devoting his creative talents almost exclusively to the production of dramas, some of which continue to be read and performed. Teahouse (1958), which treats the Chinese revolution in three periods, from the late Qing reform movement through the early postwar era, was made into a successful film, starring Ying Ruochen. It remains Lao She’s most impressive work from the period and is also the first of his creations to feature Manchu characters, one of whom declares, “I am a Manchu, and the Manchus are also Chinese.”* Thus spake Lao She!

Lao She’s final novel, Beneath the Red Banner, was begun in the early 1960s but never finished; the partial manuscript, which was not published until 1979,? following the lead of Teahouse, features a number of Manchu characters.

In 1966, shortly after Mao launched his Cultural Revolution, Lao She was interviewed by a foreign couple who subsequently published the exchange. His remarks regarding himself and his generation of writers are telling: “I can understand why Mao Zedong wishes to destroy the old bourgeois concepts of life, but I cannot write of this struggle because I am not a Marxist, and, therefore, I cannot feel and think as a Peking student in May 1966 who sees the situation in a Marxist way…. We old ones can’t apologize for what we are. We can only explain why we are and wave the young ones on their way to the future.”? Not long after that, Lao She was visited at the offices of the Chinese Writers Association by Red Guards, who dragged him outside, where they interrogated, humiliated, and probably beat him. He was ordered to return the next day, but, according to reports, when he saw his “courtyard strewn with all his possessions, his house looted, his painting and sculpture wrecked, and his manuscripts, the work of a lifetime, in shreds…he did not enter his house but instead turned and walked to [a nearby lake], and there he drowned himself.”

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Lao She has been unevenly translated into English. Some of his novels, particularly the early ones, remain untranslated, while others, and many of his excellent short stories, have been translated more than once, in China and in the West. Luotuo Xiangzi (sometimes translated as Camel Xiangzi), his signature novel, besides remaining popular in Chinese communities throughout the world, is available in translation in many countries. While it has previously appeared in three English translations, it has not fared particularly well. In 1945, Reynal & Hitchcock of New York published a translation entitled Rickshaw Boy (the author’s name is given as Lau Shaw), by a translator using the pseudonym Evan King, reputedly a prisoner of the Japanese in Northern China when the work was done. Beautifully illustrated by Cyrus LeRoy Baldridge, it was a bestseller, thanks in part to the popularity of the Book-of-the-Month Club. Unfortunately, King’s translation reflects little of the style or intent of the original. Larding his rendering with grand flourishes that are found nowhere in the Chinese, the translator took it upon himself to rewrite portions of the novel, delete others, and move sections around in ways that, quite frankly, make little sense. Then, in one of the most egregious betrayals of an author’s autonomy of purpose, Evan King changed the ending, completely distorting the author’s intent.

After a shelf life of more than three decades, King’s translation was superseded by one that takes none of those liberties. Nor, unhappily, does it do justice to the artistry of the original or appeal as a representative of good English writing, however laudable the impetus to end King’s reign may have been. Frequent misreadings and non-idiomatic English, plus an outdated spelling system for Chinese, seriously mar the work. Published by the University of Hawai’i Press in 1979, Jean James’s Rickshaw is a valiant if ultimately unsatisfactory attempt to bring the novel faithfully across to a new generation of readers, for which the editorial staff at the press must share responsibility.

In an afterword to a revised Chinese edition of the novel in 1954, Lao She wrote: “The Chinese edition of this book has already been reprinted several times. In this present edition, I have taken out some of the coarser language and some unnecessary descriptions.” Whether this was an altogether voluntary undertaking remains a mystery, although there is evidence that it was not, and whether the result is a better novel is a matter of taste. One must not, however, be fooled by the understated confession into believing that the changes were, in fact, minimal. Several passages considered by some to be delicate or unsuitable in a Communist milieu have been excised, disrupting the logic of the narrative where they occur. And as for coarse language, it’s still there; but the author had to say something, I suppose.

In 1981, China’s Foreign Languages Press and Indiana University jointly published a translation of the novel under the title Camel Xiangzi, which includes a preface by Lao She’s widow, artist Hu Jieqing, and a translation of the author’s essay “How I Came to Write the Novel ‘Camel Xiangzi,’” from a delightful little book of Lao She’s essays on his writing, An Old Ox and a Beat-up Cart (1935). The translator, Shi Xiaojing, has based her readable, if uneven, rendering on the 1954 revised edition—minus, shockingly, the last

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CHAPTER and a half! Echoes of Evan King. In 2005, the translation, with the ending restored, was republished in a bilingual edition in Hong Kong, with an extended introduction by the literary scholar Kwok-kan Tam. For obvious reasons, anyone interested in this translation should choose this edition.*

Having enjoyed, if not necessarily accepted, the counsel of my earlier translators, I have undertaken this project, a goal I set for myself two decades ago, in hopes of making available a complete, faithful, and readable English version of one of China’s modern classics. In doing so, I have worked from a facsimile of the original (1939) Renjian shuwu edition, but have consulted the 1941 Wenhua shenghua chubanshe edition, in which minor errors in the earlier edition have been corrected.

For a novel that is more than seventy years old, anachronisms are unavoidable. For the most part, I have opted for contemporary relevance over period prose; since this is a translation, the illusion of absolute authenticity is already compromised, so I see no reason to be quaint. There are two major exceptions. First, the title. The Chinese title, Luotuo Xiangzi, is the protagonist’s name, the literal meaning of which is “fortunate son,” preceded by the word for camel (luotuo). Xiangzi is, of course, a young man, not a boy, and while only a few of the characters associated with rickshaws are, in fact, boys, at the time of writing, pullers were known among foreigners as rickshaw “boys” (waiters, servants, and other menial laborers all suffered the indignity of being called boys, irrespective of their age). However distasteful it seems now, “rickshaw boy” fits the period and the tone, and so I follow Evan King in his choice of English title. As for the city in which most of the narrative takes place, China’s current capital has had a number of names over the years. In the Republican era (1912–1945) it was officially called Beiping (“northern peace”); it reverted back to the earlier Beijing with the establishment of the People’s Republic in 1949. Lao She used Beiping; so have I, along with two of my predecessors.

If I have failed in my goal of giving Lao She’s masterpiece the translated version it deserves, it is not because I had no help along the way. The editors at HarperCollins, my agent, Sandra Dijkstra, and my wife, Sylvia Lin, supplied encouragement and assistance whenever I needed it. Finally, a tip of the hat to a couple of killer Chinese Web sites that made sense of the many elusive and highly colorful Beijing-isms no longer in common use.

—Howard Goldblatt

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CHAPTER ONE

I’d like you to meet a fellow named Xiangzi, not Camel, because, you see, Camel is only a nickname. After I’ve told you about Xiangzi, we’ll deal with his relationship with camels, and be done with it.

The city of Beiping has several classes of rickshaw men: first are those who are young, energetic, and fleet-footed; they rent handsome rickshaws, put in a whole day, and are free to come and go as they please. They stake out a spot at a rickshaw stand or by a manor gate and wait for people who are looking for speed. If luck is with them, they can land a fare right off, earning as much as a silver dollar or two. But if luck passes them by, and they don’t make enough to pay for that day’s rental, well, so what? This group of running brothers has two ambitions: one is to land a job as a private hire; the other is to buy one’s own rickshaw, to own one outright. Then it makes no difference if they get paid by the month or pick up odd fares, since the rickshaws are theirs.

The second class includes men who are slightly older and who, for health reasons, cannot run as fast, or whose family situation will not allow them to go all day without a fare. For the most part, their rickshaws are in good shape, if not particularly new. Since they manage to keep up appearances, they can still demand a respectable fee for their services. Some of these brothers work a full day, others only half a day. The half-day workers generally choose the night shift, even in the summers and winters, since they have the energy to handle it. Working at night requires special care and skill, so there’s more money to be made.

Men over forty or younger than twenty have little chance of falling into either of these classes. They rent beat-up rickshaws and don’t dare work at night, which means they must set out early in the morning and work till three or four in the afternoon in hopes of earning enough to pay for that day’s rent and food. Given the poor condition of their rickshaws, speed is out of the question, so they wind up earning less for running more. Most of their fares come from hauling melons, fruit, and produce to market; the pay is low, but at least they can run at their own pace.

Some of the under-twenty men start out at the age of eleven or twelve, and few become top runners after the age of twenty, as they’ll have suffered too many injuries to maintain decent health. They can pull a rickshaw all their lives and still not make the grade. Those over forty will have been at it for at least a decade, which takes its toll; settling for mediocrity, they gradually become resigned to the knowledge that one day they will collapse and die in the street. Their style of running, their shrewd bargaining abilities, and the deft use of shortcuts or circuitous routes help them relive the glories of their past, which is why they turn up their noses at younger men. But past glory has no effect on their current dismal prospects. And so they sigh as they wipe the sweat from their brows. But the suffering of these veterans pales in comparison with another group of pullers, men who never imagined they would one day have to scrape out a living by pulling a rickshaw. Not until the line between life and death has blurred for them do they finally pick up the shafts of a rickshaw. Laid-off policemen and school janitors, peddlers who have squandered their capital, and out-of-work laborers who have nothing more to sell and no prospects for work grit their teeth, swallow their tears, and set out on this road to oblivion. Having mortgaged their youth, they are reduced to spilling the blood and sweat derived from coarse corn cakes on the city streets. They have little strength, scant experience, and no friends; even their laboring brothers avoid them. They pull run-down rickshaws whose tires go flat several times a day, and must beg forgiveness from passengers who, if they’re lucky, will give them fifteen cents for a ride.

Yet another class of rickshaw men owes its distinction to the peculiarities of environment and intelligence. Those native to Xiyuan and Haidian naturally ply their trade in the Western Hills or around the universities at Yanjing and Tsinghua; those from Anding Gate stick to the Qinghe and Beiyuan districts; while those outside of Yongding

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Gate work in the area of Nanyuan. Interested only in long hauls, these men disdain the short, penny-ante business. But even they are no match for their long-distance brethren in the Legacy Quarter, who take passengers from the diplomatic sector all the way to the Jade Fountain, the Summer Palace, and the Western Hills. Stamina is only one reason why most pullers will not compete for this business, for this group of men can deal with their foreign passengers in their own languages: when a British or French soldier says he wants to go to the Summer Palace or the Yonghe Monastery or the Eight Alleys red-light district, they understand. And they will not pass this skill on to their rivals. Their style of running is also unique: at a pace that is neither particularly fast nor too slow, they run with their heads down, not deigning to look left or right as they keep to the sides of the roads, aloof and self-assured. Since they serve foreigners, they do not wear the numbered jackets required of other rickshaw men. Instead, they dress in long-sleeved white shirts, black or white loose-fitting trousers tied at the ankles with thin bands, and black cloth-soled “double-faced” shoes—clean, neat, smart-looking. One sight of this attire keeps other pullers from competing for fares or trying to race them. They might as well be engaged in a trade all their own.

Now with this overview of the rickshaw trade, let’s see where Xiangzi fits in, in order to place—or at least attempt to place—him as precisely as a cog in a machine. Before he gained the nickname Camel, he was a relatively independent rickshaw man. That is to say, he belonged to the young, vigorous set and owned his own rickshaw. He was master of his own fate—an altogether high-class rickshaw man.

That was no small accomplishment. Only after a year, then two years, and then as many as three or four years—shedding one drop, two drops, unknown thousands of drops of sweat—did he manage to buy a rickshaw. By gritting his teeth through wind and rain and scrimping on food and tea, he finally put enough aside to buy it, a tangible reward for his struggles and his suffering, like a medal for valor. In the days when he was pulling a rental rickshaw, he ran from morning to night, from east to west and from north to south, spinning like a top, and never his own man. But his eyes did not falter and his heart would not waver, as he thought of the rickshaw waiting for him, one that would guarantee his freedom and independence, one that counted as his arms and legs. Owning a rickshaw meant never having to suffer mistreatment or do the bidding of people who rented them out. Relying on his strength and his own rickshaw, all he needed to do to make a living was to stay alert.

Hard work never bothered Xiangzi, nor was he affected by any of the excusable yet reprehensible bad habits so common among other rickshaw men. A combination of intelligence and diligence ensured that his dream would come true. If he’d been born into a better family or received a decent education, he’d never have been reduced to joining the rubber tire crowd; no matter what trade he’d taken up, he’d have made the most of his opportunities. Unfortunately, he had no choice, so, all right, he’d prove himself in the trade he was saddled with. Had he been consigned to hell, he’d have been one of the good demons. Born and raised in the countryside, he had come to the city at the age of eighteen, after losing his parents and the few acres of land they had worked. He brought with him a country boy’s powerful physique and honesty. At first he survived by working at a variety of backbreaking jobs, and it had not taken him long to discover that pulling a rickshaw was an easier way to make a living. At the other jobs his wages were fixed; pulling a rickshaw offered more variety and opportunities, and you never knew when and where you might do better than you thought. Naturally, he realized that chance alone was not enough, that a good-looking, fast-moving man and rickshaw were essential. People knew a high-quality product when they saw it. After thinking it over, he concluded that he had most of what it takes: strength and youth. What he lacked was experience. You don’t start out at the top, with the best equipment. But that was not going to hold Xiangzi back. With his youth and strength, he figured it would take no more than a couple of weeks to be running with the best of them. Then he’d rent a new rickshaw, and if all went well, he’d soon be on the payroll of a private party. Finally, after a couple of years, three or four at most, he’d buy a rickshaw, one that outshone everyone else’s. As he flexed his muscles, he was confident that it was only a matter of time before he reached his goal. It was not

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wishful thinking.

Xiangzi’s stature and muscles outstripped his years. He was tall and robust not long after his twentieth birthday, and even though his body had not reached maturity, he was no longer a boy—he was an adult, in face and figure, who retained a look of innocence and a mischievous nature. After watching the top runners in action, he decided to tighten his belt as far as it would go to show off his hard chest muscles and powerful, straight back. He looked down at his shoulders, broad and impressive. After fixing his belt, he’d put on a pair of baggy white trousers and tie them at the ankles with a band made of chicken intestines, to call attention to his large feet. Yes, he was going to be the finest rickshaw man in town. The thought nearly made him laugh out loud.

All in all, he had run-of-the-mill features; the look on his face is what set him apart. He had a smallish head, big, round eyes, a fleshy nose, and short, bushy eyebrows. His shaved head glistened. There was no excess flab in his cheeks, and his neck was nearly the same thickness as his head. His face was ruddy, always, highlighted by a large red scar that ran from his cheekbone to his right ear—he’d been bitten by a donkey while napping under a tree as a youngster. He paid little attention to his appearance yet was as fond of his face as he was of his body, both hard and solid. He counted his face as one of his limbs, and its strength was all that mattered. Even after coming to the city, he could do handstands and hold them for a long time, making him feel that he was like a tree that stood strong and straight.

He really was like a tree: solid, silent, and full of life. He had his plans and his aspirations, but he kept them to himself. Among the brethren, injustices and hardships were constant topics of conversation. At rickshaw stands, in teahouses, and in tenement compounds, the men discussed, described, and argued about their lot, until these things became public property, like popular songs passing from mouth to mouth and place to place. As a country boy, Xiangzi lacked the conversational skills of men from the city. If eloquence was a natural gift, he’d never received it, and he had no desire to imitate the sharp-tongued men around him. He knew what he was about and took no pleasure in talking with them; that gave him more time to think, as if his eyes were focused only on his own heart. Once he made up his mind, he followed the road his instincts told him to travel. If that led nowhere, he’d lapse into silence for a day or two, clenching his teeth as if biting down on his heart.

He made up his mind to pull a rickshaw, and that is what he did. He rented a beat-up rickshaw to try out his legs. The first day he earned next to nothing. The next day was better. But then he had to take a couple of days off, for his ankles had swelled to the size of gourds, putting his legs out of commission. He put up with the pain, no matter how bad it got, knowing that it was inevitable, a necessary passage on the way to where he was going. Without passing this test, he would never be able to go out and run as he wanted.

As soon as his legs were healthy, he went out again. He was a happy man, knowing that there was nothing more to be afraid of. He knew the city well and was never bothered if he took the long way round, since he had a reservoir of strength. How to run never presented much of a problem, either, thanks to his experience of pushing, pulling, carrying, and lifting heavy objects. Besides, he’d worked it out that as long as he remained within his limits he’d be safe. As for negotiating a fare, his tongue was slow, and he was too easily rattled to compete with the wily old rickshaw men. Recognizing this shortcoming, he avoided rickshaw stands, waiting instead in places where his was the only rickshaw. In those out-of-the-way places he could take his time when negotiating a fare. Sometimes he didn’t even bother. “Climb aboard,” he’d say, “and give me what you think it’s worth.” People seemed eager to deal with an honest man who had such a likable, innocent face, convinced that a simple young man like that would not overcharge them. Even those who had misgivings would suspect only that he was too new to the city to know his way around and so did not know how much to charge. “Do you know the place?” they’d ask. He’d play

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dumb and grin, leaving them scratching their heads.

It took only two or three weeks for Xiangzi to get his legs into shape, and he knew he looked good when he ran. Running style was proof of a rickshaw man’s ability and qualifications. Those who ran with their feet splayed like a pair of palm-leaf fans had obviously just come in from the countryside, while those who ran with their heads down and shuffled along at a walking speed that only looked like a run were in their fifties or older. Old-timers who lacked physical strength had their own way of running: with their chests drawn in, they strained forward and lifted their legs high in the air, jerking their heads forward with each step, appearing to run but never moving faster than a brisk walk. They relied upon style to retain their self-respect. Needless to say, none of this appealed to Xiangzi. With his long legs, he took great strides, his hips hardly moving, and made little sound as he ran, each step like a spring, keeping the rickshaw level and his rider safe and comfortable. When told to stop, no matter how fast he was going, he planted his feet and pulled up smartly. His strength infused every part of the rickshaw as he bent his back slightly and gripped the shafts loosely. He was lively, nimble, and precise, fast without looking rushed, never flirting with danger. All this was rare even among men who pulled for private parties.

Xiangzi traded in his beat-up rickshaw for a new one, and on that day he learned that rickshaws with soft springs, solid brass fittings, large rain hoods with flaps, two lamps, and thin-necked horns cost more than a hundred yuan. For a little less, he could buy one that had so-so paint and fittings. That was all he needed to scrape together. If he put aside ten cents every day, in a thousand days he’d have a hundred yuan. A thousand days! He tried to calculate just how long that was but failed. Yet that did not faze him. A thousand days, even ten thousand days—it wouldn’t matter. He was going to buy his own rickshaw. With that in mind, he decided to hire out to a private party and went looking for an employer with an active social life, someone who often attended dinner parties, at least ten a month, which would translate to two or three yuan in tips. That, on top of the one yuan he could save from his monthly pay, would add up to four or five yuan a month, or fifty to sixty a year, bringing him even closer to his goal. He did not smoke, he did not drink, and he did not gamble. With no bad habits and no family burdens, there was nothing to keep him from his goal as long as he persevered. He made a vow to himself: in a year and a half, he—Xiangzi—would own a rickshaw. And it had to be brand-new, not refurbished.

He found an employer. But his hopes were not favored by reality. He persevered—that was the easy part—but a year and a half later his vow remained unfulfilled. He had his private hires and was prudent and cautious. What a shame that the affairs of the world are not always simple, for that did not keep his employers from sacking him. Sometimes he lasted two or three months, sometimes only eight or ten days, after which he was out looking for steady work again. Meanwhile, he took as many fares as he could while he looked for another monthly hire, which was like riding one horse while looking for another. He simply could not remain idle. That led to mistakes, as he threw himself into his work, not only to make enough to fill his belly but to continue saving up to buy a rickshaw. And yet, hard work alone was not enough. His mind wandered as he ran, with thoughts crowding into his head, and the more he thought, the more fearful he grew, and the more indignant. At this rate, when would he ever have enough to buy a rickshaw? Why was this happening? Was he not trying hard enough? Such confusing thoughts led him to throw caution to the wind. He’d run over sharp pieces of metal on the road, causing a blowout, and that would be it for the day. But there were worse mishaps: he sometimes ran down a pedestrian or two, and once even lost a hubcap by failing to squeeze through a narrow opening. None of that would have happened if he’d had a steady job, and his disappointment at not having one made him clumsy and careless. Naturally, he had to pay for damages to the rented rickshaws, which increased his anxieties, like throwing oil on a fire. One way to avoid a serious accident was to spend all day in bed, but when he opened his eyes in the morning, he chastised himself over the loss of a day’s wages. To complicate matters, the more he agonized over his situation, the worse he treated himself, stinting on regular meals. He considered himself made of strong stuff, but that did not keep him

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from getting sick. Too tightfisted to spend money on medicine when he fell ill, he tried to tough it out, which only made things worse, until he not only had to spend even more on medicine but had to take several days off to recuperate. To these troubles he responded by gritting his teeth and working even harder, which still had no effect on the speed with which he saved up money.

Eventually, he scraped together a hundred yuan, but it had taken three long years.

He could wait no longer. Originally he had planned to buy a fully outfitted, brand-new rickshaw satisfactory in every respect. Now it was a matter of whatever a hundred yuan could buy. No more waiting. What if he ran into more trouble and had to spend some of that money? As luck would have it, a custom-made rickshaw that the customer could not afford to pick up became available; it came very close to meeting Xiangzi’s expectations. The original price had been over a hundred, but since the customer had forfeited his down payment, the shop was willing to lower the price a bit. Red in the face, his hands trembling uncontrollably, Xiangzi laid down ninety-six yuan. “I want this one!” Wanting to hold out for a round number, the shop owner talked and talked as he took the rickshaw outside and brought it back in, set the rain hood and put it back, and tooted the horn, every action accompanied by the finest sales pitch he knew. Finally, he kicked the steel spokes and said, “Hear that? Like a bell. Go ahead, take it out. You can use this till you pull it to pieces, and if a single one of these spokes buckles, bring it back and fling it in my face! A hundred yuan, my final offer.”

Xiangzi counted his money one more time. “I want this one. I’ll give you ninety-six yuan!”

The shop owner knew this was no ordinary customer. He looked down at the money, then looked up at Xiangzi. He sighed.

“Might as well make a friend. It’s yours. Six-month warranty. If you ruin the frame, that’s on you. Anything else goes wrong, I’ll repair it for free. Here it is in writing. Take it!”

Xiangzi’s hands trembled more than ever as he tucked the warranty away and pulled the rickshaw out, nearly in tears. He took it to a remote spot to look it over, his very own rickshaw. He could see his face in the lacquer finish, and was willing to overlook even those things that strayed a bit from his ideal. Why? Because it was his. He could, he thought, take a little time off while he examined his rickshaw, so he sat on the newly padded footrest and gazed at the shiny brass horn. It occurred to him that he was twenty-two years old. Since his parents had died when he was very young, he had forgotten the day of his birth and had not celebrated a birthday since coming to the city. All right, he said to himself, I bought a new rickshaw today, so this will count as a birthday, mine and the rickshaw’s. Easy to remember, and since the rickshaw had come about as a result of his blood and sweat, there was nothing to stop him from considering man and rickshaw as one.

Now, how to celebrate this double birthday? He had an idea: his first ride had to be a well-dressed man, not a woman. Ideally, he’d take him to Front Gate or, second best, Dongan Market. There he’d treat himself to a meal at the best stall around, including some quick-fried lamb in pocket bread. After he’d eaten, he’d look around for a good fare or two, but if nothing suited his fancy, he’d knock off for the day—his birthday!

Life improved for Xiangzi now that he had his own rickshaw, whether it was a steady job or inpidual fares, since he no longer had to worry about the rental fee. Every cent he took in was his. At peace with himself, he was friendly with his passengers, and that meant even more business. After six months of pulling his own rickshaw, his wish list grew. At this rate, in two years—no more—he’d be able to buy a second rickshaw, then a third…he could

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老舍骆驼祥子葛浩文译本 A Rickshaw Boy open his own rickshaw shed!

But wishes seldom come true, and Xiangzi’s were no exception.

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CHAPTER TWO

Xiangzi’s happiness buoyed him; with a new rickshaw, he ran faster than ever. He took great pains to be careful—it was, after all, his own rickshaw—but each time he stole a look at it he felt he’d dishonor it by not running hard.

Since coming to the city, he had grown more than an inch, and instinct told him that he would keep growing. As his physique hardened, his skin seemed to fit him better, and a few scraggly hairs appeared on his upper lip. And yet he wanted to be taller still. Whenever he had to duck to walk through a door or gate, his heart swelled with pride, though he never said so. He was, he felt, an adult who was still a bit of a child, and how fascinating that was.

A big man pulling a handsome rickshaw, his very own, with flexible shafts that made the bar come alive in his hands. The carriage glistened, the mat was white and clean, and the horn made a crisp, loud sound. Why wouldn’t he want to run fast? That was how he honored himself and his rickshaw. It had nothing to do with vanity; it was a sense of duty. Not running fast, not flying down the street, kept him from giving free rein to his strength and showing off the rickshaw’s grace. It was a wonderful rickshaw that within six months seemed to develop a consciousness and emotions of its own. When he twisted his body or stepped down hard or straightened his back, it responded immediately, giving him the help he needed. There was no misunderstanding, no awkwardness between them. When they were on a level stretch of deserted road, he could take the bar in one hand, and the tires would chase him along, making a sound like whistling wind and pushing him to a fast, steady pace. When he reached a destination, he’d wring puddles of sweat out of his shirt and pants, as if they had just been taken out of a laundry basin. Exhausted? Sure. But happy and proud. It was the sort of exhaustion you get from riding a galloping horse.

There is a difference between boldness and recklessness, and Xiangzi was never reckless; he ran with confidence. Not running fast would be unfair to his passengers. But going so fast that he damaged his rickshaw would be unfair to himself. The rickshaw was the center of his life, and he knew how to take care of it. Combining caution with daring enhanced his confidence, convincing him that he and his rickshaw were made of hard stuff indeed.

As a result, not only did he run fearlessly, but he also gave no thought to the hours he kept. To him, making a living by pulling a rickshaw was proof of moral integrity, and there was no one to stop him when he felt like taking his rickshaw out. He paid little attention to rumors floating around town: soldiers have appeared at Xiyuan; more fighting at Changxindian; forced conscription outside Xizhi Gate; the closing of the city gate at Qihua. He took note of none of it. Naturally, shops along the streets were boarded up, and armed police and security forces flooded the streets; but he stayed clear of such places, taking his rickshaw out of service, like everyone else. While he refused to believe the rumors, caution was his watchword, especially since the rickshaw was his. But he was, after all, a country boy who, unlike the city folk, did not hear the wind and mistake it for rain. Besides, he had faith in his body, and even if the rumors proved to be true, he would know how to stay out of harm’s way. He was not someone to be pushed around—not a strapping, broad-shouldered young man like him.

War and rumors arrived like clockwork every year during planting season. Wheat tassels and bayonets were symbols of hope and of despair for northerners. Xiangzi’s rickshaw was six months old when farmers began hoping for spring rains to nourish their crops. The rain did not always come when they wanted it, but war arrived whether they wanted it or not. Rumors, real events. Xiangzi seemed to forget that he had once been a peasant himself. How badly war destroyed farmland was not his problem, and he had no time to worry if the rains came or

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not. Only his rickshaw mattered. It was the source of everything he ate; it was a fertile field that dutifully followed him everywhere, a living piece of land, a precious possession. Then the price of grain rose, owing to a shortage of rain and a surplus of war. That was something Xiangzi did know. But like the city folk, he could only complain, not do anything about it. The cost of grain has gone up? So be it. After all, no one knows how to make it go back down. That attitude had him focused solely on himself; all thoughts of calamity migrated to the back of his head.

When city folk do not know how to deal with something, they create rumors—sometimes they are total fabrications and sometimes they are based on a kernel of truth—as a means of showing that they are neither stupid nor feckless. They are like fish that rise lazily to the surface to release useless bubbles just to please themselves. Of all the rumors, those concerning war are the most interesting. All the others start and end as rumor, on the order of ghost stories in which all the talk in the world can never make a ghost appear. But where war is concerned, since accurate news is unavailable, rumors are prophetic, like setting up a pole to see its shadow. In the case of minor details, rumors fall wide of the mark; but with war, eighty or ninety percent of the rumors are based on fact. “There’s going to be fighting!” That cry invariably comes true. Who is fighting whom, and how, depends on who you are talking to. Xiangzi was not unaware of that, but common laborers—which include rickshaw men—while not looking forward to wartime, do not necessarily suffer because of it. When war breaks out, the first to panic are the rich, who think only of fleeing at the first sign of trouble; wealth is their ticket out of town. Obviously, with feet weighted down by riches, they cannot just pick up and leave on their own, so they must hire a phalanx of people to get them on the road: people to carry their luggage and vehicles to transport families—male and female, young and old. At such times, men who sell their muscle find that their arms and legs are suddenly worth a great deal.

“Front Gate, East Train Station!”

“Where?”

“East—Train—Station.”

“Oh, give me one yuan forty and we’ll call it even! No haggling, war is raging everywhere!”

That was how things stood when Xiangzi took his rickshaw out of the city. Rumors had flown for at least ten days, and the price of everything rose; yet the fighting was far away from Beiping. He went out each day as usual, not taking time off despite the rumors. One day, after hauling a passenger to West City, he noticed something unusual. He made a few turns around the area but saw no one at the western intersection of Huguo Monastery Road and New Street hailing rickshaws to familiar destinations:

“Xiyuan?”

“Tsinghua University?”

He heard that no vehicles dared leave the city, for they were being seized outside at Xizhi Gate—wagons, large and small, donkey carts, and rickshaws, no exceptions. Deciding to stop for a cup of tea, he headed south to take a break. The rickshaw stand was unusually quiet, a sign that danger lurked. Xiangzi was no coward, but neither was he one to walk blindly into harm’s way. As he pondered the situation, a pair of rickshaws pulled up. The passengers appeared to be students. One of the rickshaw pullers shouted, “Anyone for Tsinghua University? Tsinghua!”

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None of the men at the rickshaw stand replied. Some smirked; others sat on their rickshaws smoking pipes without looking up.

“Are you all mutes?” the man shouted. “Tsinghua!”

“Give me two yuan and I’ll go!” replied a short youngster with a shaved head, half in jest.

“Come on over. Who else?” Both rickshaws pulled up and stopped.

The young fellow froze, not knowing what to do now, since no one else made a move. Xiangzi did not have to be told that going outside the city gate was risky, but two yuan to Tsinghua University—a trip that usually cost no more than twenty or thirty cents—why wasn’t anyone interested? Like the others, he did not want to go, but the shaved-head youngster appeared to be willing. As long as he wasn’t the only one, why not do it?

“You there, big guy, what do you say?”

“Big guy.” Xiangzi had to laugh. It was, he knew, a compliment, and he took it to heart. The least he could do was help out the shaved-head young man, who had plenty of spunk for someone so short, not to mention the two yuan he’d be earning; that was not something he saw every day. Dangerous? What were the odds? Besides, over the past couple of days he’d heard that the Temple of Heaven was a massing spot for soldiers, but he’d been there and had seen neither hide nor hair of a soldier. With these thoughts running through his mind, he pulled his rickshaw up.

When the group reached Xizhi Gate, there were few people around, which Xiangzi took as a bad sign. His young companion did not like what he saw, either.

“Let’s keep an eye peeled, pal,” he said with a little laugh. “It might be trouble, it might not be. But we’ve come this far.” Xiangzi had a premonition that something bad was about to happen, but after all these years on the street, his word meant something. He could not start acting like an old woman now.

After passing through the gate, they did not see another vehicle anywhere, and Xiangzi lowered his head to keep from looking around. His heart felt like it was bumping up against his ribs. Once they were on Gaoliang Bridge, he sneaked a look. Not a soldier anywhere, and that made him feel a little better. Two yuan, after all, was two yuan, not a sum for the faint of heart. Though he was not given to idle chatter, it was so deathly still he felt a need to say something to his companion. “Let’s take a dirt path. This road…”

“Just what I was thinking,” the youngster said. “We might have a chance if we stay off the road.”

But before they made it to the dirt path, Xiangzi, his shaved-headed companion, and their passengers fell into the hands of a dozen soldiers.

Although it was the time of year to burn incense at the temple on Mount Miaofeng, a thin shirt was no protection against the cold. Xiangzi was wearing only a thin gray tunic and a pair of blue cotton army trousers, both reeking of sweat and little more than rags—they’d been like that before he put them on. All he could think of were the white jacket and indigo-dyed lined pants he was wearing when they took them off him—they were so clean and so

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smart. There were nicer clothes than that in the world, but he knew how hard it had been for someone like him to be dressed that way. The sweat-stink of what he was wearing now reminded him of all he’d struggled for and made what he had accomplished seem nobler. The more he thought about his past, the deeper his hatred for the soldiers. They had taken his clothes, his shoes, his rickshaw, even the sash he used as a belt, in return for bruises and welts all over his body and blisters on his feet. The clothes didn’t count for much, nor did his injuries, since they’d heal soon enough. But the rickshaw he’d bought with his blood and sweat, it was gone! The last he’d seen of it was when they took it to their barracks. In the past, he’d had no trouble putting his suffering and difficulties out of his mind, but not his rickshaw!

Xiangzi was not afraid of hard work or suffering, but he knew what it would take to get a second rickshaw—years. All he’d achieved had come to nothing. He’d have to start over again. The tears came. He didn’t just hate those soldiers—he hated the whole world. What right do they have to do this to me? “What right?” He was shouting.

But this shout—though it made him feel a little better—reminded him of the dangers he faced. Only one thing counted now: escape.

Where was he? He couldn’t be sure. He’d been on the march with the soldiers for days, the sweat running from his head down to the bottoms of his feet. Always on the move, carrying or pulling or pushing things for the soldiers. When they stopped, he had to fetch water, light fires, and feed the livestock. All day long his only thought was how to force the strength he’d need into his hands and feet; his mind was a blank. At night, the minute his head hit the ground, he slept like the dead, and never waking up again did not seem like such a bad thing after all.

At first, he vaguely recalled, the soldiers were in retreat toward Mount Miaofeng, but when they reached the back side of the mountains, he focused on climbing, knowing that one slip could send him into the stream below, where birds of prey would eventually pick his bones clean. He put all other thoughts out of his mind. They wove their way over and around mountains for days on end, until one day the footpaths virtually disappeared. With the sun at his back, Xiangzi saw a distant plain, and when the call went out for the porters to return for the evening meal, soldiers came back to camp with camels.

Camels! Xiangzi’s heart skipped a beat, and suddenly he could think again, like a lost man spotting a familiar sign;

a plan formed in his head. Camels are no good in the mountains, so they’d obviously reached the plain. He knew that people raised camels in the western suburbs of the capital: places like Balizhuang, Huang Village, Northern Xin’an, Moshi Pass, Wulitun, and Sanjiadian. Was it possible that all that travel had brought them right back to Moshi Pass? He wondered what kind of strategy these soldiers—who were good for little more than marching and plundering—had. What he did know was, if they really were at Moshi Pass, they had given up on the mountains and were looking for an escape route. Moshi Pass was an ideal spot; heading northeast would take them to the Western Hills; heading south they’d reach Changxindian or Fengtai; heading west out of the pass was the best option. While plotting for the soldiers, he was actually figuring how he was going to escape; the time had arrived. If the soldiers turned back to the mountains, even if he managed to get away, he might starve. It was now or never. He was confident that if he ran, he could make it back to Haidian. It wouldn’t be easy—he’d have to pass through many towns and villages, but all places he’d been before. He shut his eyes and tried to picture the route: Moshi Pass is here—I hope to heaven I’m right! Head northeast, past Gold Peak Mountain and Prince Li’s Grave, to Badachu; turn east at Sipingtai to Xingzi Pass and Nanxinzhuang. He’d need to hug the foothills for cover as he headed north from Nanxinzhuang, through Wei Family Village and Nanhetan; keep heading north to Red Hill and Prince Jie’s Palace, all the way to Jingyi Gardens. From there he could find Haidian with his eyes closed. His heart nearly leaped out of his chest. Over the past several days, all his blood seemed to flow into his limbs; now,

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suddenly, it rushed back to his heart, which burned hot, while his arms and legs went cold. Feverish hope made him tremble from head to toe.

Late at night Xiangzi was still awake. Hope buoyed his spirits; fear made him jittery. He tried to sleep but couldn’t, and lay on his bed of straw feeling as if his arms and legs had left his body. He was surrounded by an eerie silence, the stars above the only witnesses to his pounding heart. The silence was broken by the sorrowful brays of a camel. The camels were very near. It was a good sound, like the crow of a rooster before dawn, simultaneously forlorn and comforting.

He heard cannon fire, distant but unmistakable. He didn’t dare move, but then he heard an uproar in the camp. He held his breath. This was his chance. He knew that the soldiers had to retreat and that they’d head back into the mountains. His time with them had taught him that they fought like bees trapped inside a room, flying blindly into walls. The soldiers would react to the sound of cannon fire by running away, so he had to be ready to make his move. Slowly he began to crawl along the ground, holding his breath as best he could as he searched for the camels. He knew they wouldn’t be any help, but, like him, they were prisoners, and that ought to elicit a bit of mutual sympathy. Pandemonium reigned in camp. He found the camels kneeling on the ground and looking like a cluster of hillocks in the dark, the only sound their raspy breathing, as if peace reigned all around. That lifted his courage. He crouched down beside one of the camels, like a porter hiding behind a sandbag, where he was struck by an idea: the cannon fire was coming from the south, and even if they weren’t shooting at anything, they were warning everyone that there was no passage. What that meant was that the soldiers had to retreat into the mountains, and they’d not be taking the camels. So the animals’ fate was tied up with his. If the soldiers were not willing to abandon the animals, he had no chance. But if they forgot the camels, he could escape. By putting his ear to the ground, he could tell if anyone was coming his way. His heart was racing.

He had no idea how long he waited there, but no one came for the camels. Time to take a chance. He sat up and peered between the two humps. Nothing to see but darkness. He ran. Whatever happened, good or bad, it was time to flee.

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老舍骆驼祥子葛浩文译本 A Rickshaw Boy

CHAPTER THREE

Xiangzi had run twenty or thirty steps when he stopped. He couldn’t leave those camels. All he had in the world now was his life, and he’d have happily picked up a length of rope if he could have found one. Even something that worthless would have brought him a sense of well-being; in other words, with that in his hand, he’d at least have something. Escaping was essential, but what good was a man’s life stripped bare of everything else? He had to take the animals with him, though he had no idea if they might come in handy; but they were, after all, something, and something quite big.

He began pulling the camels to their feet. Clueless as to how to handle them, he wasn’t frightened; he’d come from the countryside, where he’d spent a good deal of time around domestic animals. Slowly, very slowly, they stood up. He had no time to worry whether or not they were tied together, and as soon as he realized he could get one camel to follow him, he started walking—one or all of them, it didn’t matter.

He regretted the impulse as soon as he started out. Being accustomed to carrying heavy loads, camels walk slowly. And they aren’t just slow—they are cautious, fearful of slipping. Any water puddle or patch of mud can result in a sprain or a cracked knee. The value of a camel rests only in its legs. A damaged leg can put it out of commission. Meanwhile, Xiangzi was fleeing for his life.

Years of pulling a rickshaw had honed Xiangzi’s sense of direction. But that did little to calm his confused state of mind. Finding the camels had at first made them the focus of his thoughts. But once he had them on their feet, he realized he didn’t know for sure where he was. It was so dark and he was so anxious that, even if he knew how to travel by the stars, he wouldn’t put his trust in them, since they—it seemed to him—were more anxious than he. They seemed to bump into each other in the dark sky, and he forced himself to stop looking up. Head down, he kept walking, slowly, his anxiety growing. He began to ponder his situation: since I’m walking with camels, I need to get away from the mountain paths and find a road. It’s a straight line from Moshi Pass—if that’s where I am—to Yellow Village. That means a real road and no detours. The words “no detours” carried considerable weight to a man who made his living pulling a rickshaw. But the road offered no possibility of concealment. What if he encountered another gang of soldiers? And even if he didn’t, did he look like someone who tended camels, given the tattered army clothes, his dirty face, and his long, unruly hair? No, not in a million years! What he looked like was a deserter. A deserter! It wouldn’t be so bad if soldiers caught him, but if villagers spotted him, he could look forward to being buried alive! That thought made him tremble. The sound of the camels walking behind him gave him a scare. His only chance of getting away was to abandon the camels, since they were holding him back. Maybe so, but he held on to the rope that was fixed to the lead camel’s nose. Let’s go, keep walking. We’ll wind up somewhere and deal with whatever’s waiting for us there. If I make it out alive, I’ve got camels to show for it. If I don’t, those are the breaks.

He slipped out of his army clothes, tore off the tunic collar, and plucked off the last two conspicuous brass buttons and flung them into the darkness. They fell without a sound. Then he draped the collarless, buttonless shirt over his shoulders and tied the sleeves together in front of his chest, as if he were carrying a bundle on his back. That made him look less like a soldier on the run. Finally, he rolled the pant cuffs up just under his knees. He knew he still didn’t look much like a camel herder, but at least people wouldn’t spot him right off as a deserter. His dirty face and sweat-soaked body probably gave him the appearance of a coal miner. Ideas did not come to Xiangzi quickly, but when they came, they were well formed and immediately put into practice. The night was so dark that no one could have seen him, and there wasn’t a pressing need for him to act right away; but he couldn’t wait, since he did not know what time it was. For all he knew, daybreak wasn’t far off. He was avoiding mountain paths, so

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once the sun came out, he’d have no place to hide. If he traveled during the day, he’d have to convince people that he was a coal miner. That’s what he thought, so that’s what he did, and it made him feel better, as if the danger had passed and he’d soon be back in Beiping. He had to make his way into the city, and soon; with no money and no food, time was his worst enemy. Another idea came to him: he’d save energy, which would help stave off hunger, if he rode one of the camels. But he wasn’t sure he could manage. The ride would be steady enough, but he’d first have to find a way to get the camel to kneel. Nothing was more important than time, and that would be more trouble than it was worth. Besides, if he was up there, he couldn’t see the ground in front; if the camel stumbled, it would take him with it. No, just keep walking.

He had a sense that he was on a highway but could not be sure exactly where he was or in which direction he was walking. The late night, the exhaustion of many days, and the risks of running away made him uneasy in mind and body. After walking awhile, his steps steady and slow, his body began to demand sleep. As a chill penetrated the darkness, uncertainties multiplied. He kept looking down at the ground, which seemed to his eye to undulate, though every even step belied that vision; extreme caution and the tricks his mind was playing on him disturbed him to the point of visible agitation. Might as well stop looking down, he thought, and concentrate on what’s ahead. He shuffled forward, feet dragging on the ground. He couldn’t see a thing, as if all the darkness in the world were waiting there for him. Each step in the darkness took him into more of the same; the camels followed without making a sound.

As he grew accustomed to the dark, his mind seemed to stop functioning and he could no longer keep his eyes open. Was he still walking, or had he stopped? All he sensed was a wavelike motion in his head, like black ocean swells; the darkness attached itself to his mind, unsettled, flustered, confused. Suddenly he was jolted awake, as if something had occurred to him, maybe a sound, he couldn’t be sure. He opened his eyes, and he knew at once that he was still walking—the momentary thought was gone. Nothing was happening anywhere around him. His heart lurched for a second before he calmed down. Keep your eyes open, he told himself, and no wild thoughts. Getting into the city as quickly as possible is all that matters. But his mind would not cooperate. His eyelids kept drooping, and he knew he had to think of something quick to stay awake. If he could lie down, he could sleep for three days. Think, he said, think. His head was reeling, his body was uncomfortably wet, his scalp itched, his feet were sore, and his mouth was dry and bitter-tasting. The best he could come up with was self-pity, but even that seemed impossible, since his head was empty; he no sooner had thoughts about himself than he forgot them, like a dying candle that won’t light. Enveloped by darkness, he felt as if he were floating inside a black cloud. Though he was aware of his existence and that he was walking forward, there was no evidence of where he was headed. He was like a man tossed about on the open sea, no longer able to believe in himself. Never in his life had he felt so bewildered, so downhearted, so very alone. Never one to place much importance on friends, he feared nothing, no matter what it was, so long as he was out in the light of day, with the sun shining down on him. Even now he felt no fear, but the inability to make necessary decisions was more than he could bear. If the camels had been as intransigent as, say, mules, he might well have focused his attention on them. But they were so obedient they began to get on his nerves, and as his mind wandered, he was not even sure they were still behind him, and that gave him a scare. He was ready to believe that the hulking beasts had somehow gone off in a different direction in the darkness without his knowing it, like a melting ice block pulled behind him.

At some point along the way he sat down. If he were to die yet retain memory after death, he would be unable to recall how he’d come to be sitting on the ground, or why. He sat there for five minutes—or maybe it was an hour, he didn’t know. Neither did he know if he’d sat down and fallen asleep or if he’d fallen asleep and then sat down. Probably the latter, since by then he was so exhausted he could have slept standing up.

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老舍骆驼祥子葛浩文译本 A Rickshaw Boy

He woke up abruptly, not the normal return to wakefulness but with a start, as if transported to another world. It was still pitch-dark. He heard a rooster crow, clear as a bell, almost as if something had pierced his brain. He was wide awake. The camels, what about the camels? That was his first and only thought. The rope was still in his hand; the camels were there beside him. What a relief! He did not feel like getting up. He was sore all over, too sore to stand. But he didn’t dare go back to sleep. He had to think, think hard, come up with something. And it was at this moment that he recalled his rickshaw. “What right?” he shouted.

It was an empty shout that served no purpose. He stood up and felt one of the camels. How many were there? He didn’t know. He went from one to the next—three, he counted. Not too many, too few. He concentrated on them. Unsure of what to do with three camels, he had a vague thought that his future was tied to them.

“Why not sell them and use the money to buy a new rickshaw?” He nearly jumped in the air. But he didn’t, probably because he was embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of something so natural, so easy to accomplish, before this. In the end, happiness won out over shame. He knew what he was going to do. Hadn’t he heard a rooster crow only a few minutes before? Well, even when they do that at two in the morning, daybreak cannot be far off. And where there were roosters, there had to be a village. Maybe Northern Xin’an. The people there raised camels, so he mustn’t waste any time. If he reached the village before sunup, he could dispose of his camels, go immediately into the city, and buy a rickshaw. With war raging all around, they must be selling them cheap. That thought crowded out all others. Selling his camels would be easy.

Xiangzi’s spirits rose. His soreness was gone. If he could have exchanged his camels for a hundred acres of farmland or a string of pearls, he would not have been nearly as happy. Standing up straight, he got his camels up off the ground and started walking. He had no idea what a camel sold for these days, but he’d heard that in the past, before trains came to town, a camel was worth three dabao, or fifty ounces of silver. They’re strong and they eat less than mules. Three dabao was probably out of the question, but he had hopes of getting eighty or a hundred yuan, enough to buy a rickshaw.

The sky was turning light, starting up ahead of him, which meant he was heading east. Even if he was on the wrong road, he’d still be heading east. The mountains were to the west, the city to the east. He knew that much. The darkness was retreating all around, and though no colors were visible, the fields and distant trees were coming into view in the haze. The stars were vanishing, as the sky filled with a layer of gray that resembled clouds but could have been mist—still fairly dark, but rising higher and higher. Finally he mustered the courage to look up. The smell of grass grew stronger and he heard bird songs. Now that he could distinguish shapes, his ears, his eyes, his mouth, and his nose were back in working order. He looked down and saw that he could make out parts of his body, a reminder of the sorry shape he was in. At least he had proof that he was alive. Like waking from a bad dream, he was struck by the thought of how joyful it was to be alive. After briefly examining himself, he turned to look at his camels. They were as sorry-looking as he, and as wonderful. They were molting, pinkish-gray skin showing through in clumps, the sloughed-off hide hanging from parts of their bodies; pulling it off would have required little effort. They looked like big, lumbering beggars. The long necks were the most wretched-looking: long, hairless, curved, un-graceful, stretched out in front like frustrated dragons. But Xiangzi did not find them disgusting, no matter how disreputable they might appear. They were, after all, living creatures. He was, he felt, the luckiest man alive, for the heavens had sent him three treasures that he could swap for a rickshaw. Things like that did not happen every day. He laughed out loud.

Red streaks appeared in the gray sky, casting shadows over the ground and the distant trees; little by little the reds and grays merged, turning some of the sky a washed-out purple and some of it bright red, but mostly the purplish

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老舍骆驼祥子葛浩文译本 A Rickshaw Boy

gray of grapes. A few moments later, gold borders framed the red, creating rays of sunlight that were all the colors of the rainbow. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, things came into view. The morning colors turned dark red, in vivid contrast to the blue sky. The red began breaking up, releasing golden sunbeams—layers of color intersecting with the sun’s rays. Gorgeous spiderlike webs formed in the southeastern corner of the sky, as fields, trees, and wild grass turned from dark green to the color of jade. The trunks of ancient trees were dyed a golden red, sunlight glistened off the wings of passing birds, and everything seemed to be smiling. Xiangzi felt like shouting at the layers of red and gold, for he did not recall seeing the sun even once after being seized by the soldiers; he had spent the days grumbling and cursing inwardly, head hung low. He’d had no thoughts of the sun and the moon; the sky had disappeared from his life. Now he was walking freely, feeling more hopeful with each step. The sun painted the dew on grass and leaves with a coat of gold and had not only brightened his hair and brows but had warmed his heart as well. All his troubles, all the dangers and suffering, were forgotten. His shabby appearance did not matter, for he had not been cast out from the sun’s light and heat. He was once again living in a bright, warm world, and was so happy he could shout.

He looked down at his threadbare clothes, then at the molting camels behind him, and he laughed. How uncanny, he was thinking, that four such sorry inpiduals had actually managed to get away safely and walk into the sun. It made no difference who was right and who was wrong, as far as he was concerned, since it was all written in the heavens. With a sense of relief, he walked with slow assurance; with the heavens as his protector, he had nothing to fear. Where were his feet taking him? Men and women were out working in the fields, but he did not care to ask them. Just keep walking. Even the possibility that he’d be unable to sell his camels right away did not concern him. He’d worry about that after he reached Beiping, a city he desperately wanted to see again. No mother and father were waiting for him in a place where nothing belonged to him. But it was his home, all of it, and he’d know what to do when he arrived. He saw a village off in the distance, a fairly large one, with a row of tall, green willows standing guard, bending low over the squat rooftops from which kitchen smoke curled upward. He heard the barking of dogs—music to his ears. He headed for the village, not expecting any sort of windfall but to show that he feared nothing. The villagers posed no threat, since everyone was bathed in the glorious, peaceful rays of the sun. He’d like a drink of water, if that was possible. But if not, so be it. A little water meant nothing to someone who had come out of the mountains alive.

Barking dogs announced his approach; he ignored them. But the eyes of the village women and children made him uncomfortable. He must have looked like a very strange camel herder. Why else would they be gawking at him that way? He was deeply embarrassed. To the soldiers he’d been less than human, and to the people here in the village he was a freak. He didn’t know what to do. Size and strength had always been a source of self-esteem and pride for him, but recently he had become a victim of injustice and privation through no fault of his own. As he looked over the roof of one of the houses, he saw the sun, with its promise, but now it didn’t seem so lovely.

Worried that the camels could slip and fall in the foul-smelling puddles of toxic water mixed with pig and horse urine on a street that ran through the village, Xiangzi felt like resting. He spotted a relatively lavish house to the north of the street with a tiled building behind it. The gate and gatehouse were missing; only a slat door remained. Xiangzi knew what that was: a tiled building—a rich man; a slat door and no gate—a camel dealer! All right, this was the place to take a rest and see if there might be a chance to say good-bye to his camels.

“Seh! Seh! Seh!” Xiangzi commanded the camels to kneel. It was the only camel command he knew, and he proudly put it to use. Now the villagers would see that he knew what he was doing. The camels knelt and he coolly went over and sat beneath a young willow. People were watching him, and he was watching them. That, he knew, was the only way to lessen their suspicions.

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