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Read Ebook: La Tétralogie de l'Anneau du Nibelung by Wagner Richard Barth Lemy Edmond Commentator Brinn Gaubast Louis Pilate De Translator
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Ebook has 52 lines and 2451 words, and 2 pages
WANG THE NINTH
POLITICAL:
Manchu and Muscovite The Re-Shaping of the Far East The Truce in the East and its Aftermath The Coming Struggle in Eastern Asia The Conflict of Colour The Fight for the Republic in China The Truth about China and Japan
ROMANTIC:
Indiscreet Letters from Peking The Forbidden Boundary The Human Cobweb The Unknown God The Romance of a Few Days The Revolt The Eternal Priestess The Altar Fire Wang the Ninth. The Story of a Chinese Boy
WANG THE NINTH
THE STORY OF A CHINESE BOY
PUTNAM WEALE
NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1920
PREFACE This book is a partial explanation of the phenomenon of China which seems so strange when curtly dealt with in the daily press.
It has quality of being true and should therefore be known.
Peking, July, 1919
WANG THE NINTH
WANG THE NINTH
Famine had suddenly descended on Ten Li Hamlet, and his brothers and sisters, having been leased or sold one after another to neighbours , he and his father had become the last survivors in a disrupted family. For his mother, too, had tired of privation. She had sat ominously quiet for one whole week and had then slipped away with a travelling blacksmith, who had been working for a season not fifty feet from the family home of mud-bricks and who disappeared as he had come--like a wraith in the night.
It was this which had been the last straw for the father--not the hunger. For, he, too, was a blacksmith by trade. Added to the shame in his bosom for the beggarly condition to which he had been reduced, there had come a volcanic outburst of hurt professional pride. He was totally unable to reconcile himself to the idea that he had been abandoned in favour of another such as he--and for no better reason that there was want in the land. For there was always want; never could he remember a time when the people were not a-hungering, marching through the country in ragged bands, and spreading dismay wherever they camped.
So one dawn he had sullenly dragged out two baskets, put his last child into one, thrown on top of him some spare clothing, placed his few pots and pans and the implements of his trade in the other, and had marched down the rutted village road shouting curses on every one and declaring that he was shaking the dust of the poverty-stricken place for ever off his feet.
Nobody had minded his weeping--not even the child in the basket who continued to sleep calmly and impassively, its pinched face turned in the direction of Heaven. Why indeed should any one mind? As far as the eye could reach there was nothing but brown country--the great Northern plains stretched into infinity and looked upon this evanescent emotion much as the Sphinx surveys the shifting desert sands. A little while you may weep, a little while you may laugh, they seemed to say; then the great silence which covers us all....
So presently the man had stopped and become angry once more. He rose to his feet, tightened his cord belt, and smearing the tears from his seamed face, surveyed the world indifferently. Somehow he would discover a brighter future.
In the basket the child lay in peace. The rising sun pushed golden fingers through the bamboo-work as if to caress its innocence. The father watched with eyes which saw and yet did not see; for he was too simple to know more than that a child is a great blessing, a jewel, because it is of one's flesh and a kind of indefinite prolongation of one's endeavours to conquer the devil. Disaster had been for him like a huge river in spate which had rushed down on him and left him marooned on a tiny rocking island in the very centre. Now he saw a causeway mysteriously growing out of these dread waters: and in his vague fancies he associated this with the presence of his child.
Presently as he sat gazing there was a thin cry. The little legs kicked with vigour, and the arms with their clenched fists sought to throw off the clothing.
"Wait," said the father roughly yet kindly, brought back from his dreams. "Soon you shall eat."
He conjured up from the bottom of the other basket a big bowl half full of a sort of porridge made from little millet, which was cold and distasteful but which was all that he had. It was the work of a few minutes to light the tiny portable whiteclay stove which he had included in his salvage and which even the poorest in the land always possess. Soon his cooking was done and the child was eating and had become content.
"To the city," grumbled the father, beginning to pack up again. "To the city. Stay quiet. We have far to go."
Already he was off, trundling the wheelbarrow and still eating as he walked. The sun rose higher and higher and perspiration beaded his forehead, but now there was no question of turning back. He was following the mysterious causeway which led to his destiny. On and on he tramped, pushing the creaking wheelbarrow through the chasm of space and sometimes exchanging remarks with the passing muleteers and camel-drivers. Traffic was growing heavier as the city was approached and a veil of dust hung in the air. The highway was strung across the plain like a great frayed rope, which sometimes tightened to a rigid straight line, and sometimes was all knots and twists invented to dismay those who were weary and ill at ease.
In the middle of the day the man lay down and slept under a tree; but ere two hours had passed he was up again and pressing on.
The sun flared out; the stars twinkled brightly in the skies; and still he did not stop. Hardy as only a peasantry can be who know no comforts, he pressed on tirelessly--determined to reach his objective. The creaking wheel was a veritable lullaby to the child who slept as peacefully as if in its mother's arms, hardly stirring in spite of the bumping, always stretched motionless on its little back.
On and on in the darkness, one hour, two hours, three hours, four. Then at last in the middle of the night, when full forty miles had been covered, a low blaze of lights and the shadow of a great city-wall.
The man stopped abruptly and the jerk woke up the child.
He bent over it.
"The city," he exclaimed in his rude, guttural voice, "would you see the city?"
He picked up his son and holding him tightly in his arms, pointed with one finger.
"There, you see ... the lights and the city-wall. Beyond there is a great gate through which one passes but which is now closed."
The child no longer fretted: it was staring silently, drinking in everything as if its very life depended upon strict attention. The father felt its little body taut under the ragged blue clothes. Some new impulse possessed it. It leaned towards the city, as if a mysterious force were pulling.
"Well, what do you say?" inquired the father at last, feeling the need for a little talk.
"It is good," said the child very gravely, as only a very old nation can speak. "It is good," it repeated, nodding its head after the manner of its elders--"We shall find food."
Then it sank back content on the straw in the basket, and the father seizing the handles of the wheelbarrow pushed clumsily on.
In the morning the unaccustomed roar and noise of the city gate woke up the sleeping child. No comforting father's voice, however, answered its first stirrings and cries; so after a while the philosophic instinct of the race asserted itself and the boy lay quiet, his astonished eyes taking in everything around him.
In the small bare room there was no living thing save a cat of nondescript colour sitting on a box and licking its paws. The broken paper depending from the lattice-work of the windows, however, flapped to and fro cheerfully and briskly; and the rising sun which was peeping through the gaps in the paper seemed ready to invade the whole room. In one corner were the two baskets and the litter of blacksmith's tools which had travelled so far. Close by was a huge primitive musket and a belt stuffed full of the formidable cartridges of a forgotten period. But the wheelbarrow had vanished and so had the father.
This it managed to open. Then very fearfully it peeped out as if it had opened a veritable Pandora's box.
Instead of trouble, however, the child saw outside a bare waste, and beyond many people and many carts passing endlessly along a raised roadway on which were also posted all sorts of vendors loudly calling their wares. The rumble and clatter of the carts, and the cries of the vendors never ceased: they seemed a veritable brook of life which went on for ever. Enchanted by this animation little Wang remained stockstill, wondering what would happen next. Curiosity consumed him: he observed every detail with powers of observation only given to the exceptional. There was nothing that escaped his quick, tireless black eyes. What a wonderful world he had been brought to!
Presently an old man carrying a portable kitchen on a pole stopped quite close by; and depositing his paraphernalia started advertising what he had for sale in a thin raucous voice, putting one finger into an ear as he called so as to sense the quality of his tune from the vibrations. Children and women came slowly out of neighbouring houses; then, after a pause, one or two decided to eat and edged up to the old man with money in their hands.
Little Wang, nothing loth, cautiously joined them. He was so small that he stood there for a long time totally unobserved, looking at each disappearing mouthful with envious eyes, and wondering what he should do to be fed like these lucky ones. Presently the old man, having finished his work, turned to him.
"And you?" he inquired in a matter-of-fact way, treating the child as if he were a grown-up.
"I, too, am hungry," announced little Wang gravely.
At this everybody laughed spontaneously as if something very witty had been said; but the child only stood there frowning, showing traces of the resolute character which so quickly developed by not flinching at an inch.
"You are hungry!" echoed the old man quizzically, "well, well--that is as it should be. When one is small it is always so: only with age does the appetite lessen. And where is the money your mother gave you that I may feed you?"
Little Wang shook his head.
"I have no money and no mother," he replied. Then gaining courage he added brusquely. "But give me to eat?"
He held out a hand, watching the vendor narrowly.
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