The Second Test

Professor Su Lin, a well-known expert on vocal music, found something very
puzzling. Twenty-year-old girl Chen Yiling from Chorus Training Class of more than 200
students had come out exceedingly well in the preliminary test, scoring high marks in
vocal music, sightsinging ear training and music theory. Her beautiful tone color and broad
range, in particular, won high praise. But, to the great disappointment of everybody, she
failed the second test. The professor, who had trained a large number of students, many of
them now of international fame, had never seen a young girl with a brilliant talent. And the
above strange happening was something he had never known before.
The preliminary test took place in a specious hall of antique style. Chen Yiling stoodcalmly before the eminent vocal music experts on the Test Committee. When she finishedsinging Xian Xinghai’s famous When February Comes, throngs of listeners could be seenstanding entranced outside the doors and windows, and even the professors, who usuallywore an air of casual indifference, could not help exchanging knowing looks at one another.At it was required of each candidate to sing a foreign song as well, Chen sang the aria Unbel di from the Italian opera Madama Butterfly. The audience were amazed by her splendidtone color and deep comprehension. Even Professor Su, known for his strict demands, alsonodded his approval, his stern eyes twinkling with delight. Chen, wearing a light greenwoollen sweater and close-fitting brown trousers, stood there like a graceful tree on aspring morning. However, under the silent stare of so many eyes, the smiling girl appearedsomewhat ill at ease.The second test came to pass a week later. The result of this test was to determineeach candidate’s fate-accepted or otherwise, and what his or her future career would belike. With most of the candidates already eliminated by the preliminary test, this secondtest was even more demanding in every respect. All celebrated local musicians werepresent. During the test almost all Test Committee members and visitors wore a harsh andnitpicking look. Nevertheless, they were all under the impression that all the remainingcandidates Chen would undoubtedly be the last one to fail the second test.Unfortunately, the result was contrary to everybody’s expectation. When Chen’s turncame last, she sang the same two songs, but her voice was unpleasant and utterly lacklusteras if she were no longer her old herself. Was it due to stage fright, nervousness orindisposition? People even suspected some sort of impropriety in her private life. Theystared at each in speechless despair and eyed her questioningly. Weariness was written allover her face. Her bright eyes now looked dejected and dull. And the corners of herotherwise playful mouth wore an expression of unspeakable anxiety. But, as a whole, shewas bright, candid and trustworthy. People just could not understand what little accident, ifany, had been the cause of her frustration. She smiled apologetically and disappeared outof the room.Professor Su was obviously upset. He had always believed that to win people’sgenuine love and esteem, an artist must first of all be exemplary in every way, first of all anoble-minded person. A singer was of course no exception. But a girl like Chen, who hadno urge for self-improvement, would never become a successful singer. He turned in angerto look out of the window. The city had just been hit by the worst typhoon of the year. Theground outside was strewn with broken twigs and dry leaves. Fallen bamboo fences on thesodden ground. What a pitiful sight!The Test committee were divided in their opinions about Chen. Some held out littlehope of her achieving success as a vocalist, saying that the two tests had shown her voicefar from able to hold its own. Others wanted to give her an opportunity for another try.Professor Su, however, had a view of his own. He thought it important to find the rootcause of her failure in the second test. He maintained that if her failure was due to herquestionable attitude towards her career and life, she should on no account be admitted nomatter how highly gifted she was. That, he said, should be the first and foremost of allthings to be considered.Now what on earth was the cause of her failure?Professor Su got Chen’s application form for enrollment form his secretary andunderlined in red pencil the address she had put down on it. The photo attached to the formshowed a very cute face with a pretty little mouth, lucid guileless eyes and a nose whichwould pucker up a little bit whenever she smiled. All that seemed to warn the professoragainst treating a person in a simplistic way—a person alive with thought and emotion.There must be certain practical aspects of the young girl which the simple application formmade no mention of. Her failure to pass the second test might mean her life-long divorcefrom music and hence a permanent stifling of her musical talent. Should that be the case,the professor, whose duty it was to foster young musical talents, would never forgivehimself.The next morning, Professor Su took the first tram of the day. Thanks to the addressgiven on the application form, he finally managed to find the secluded street in Yangshupu.The moment he stepped into the lane, he was taken aback by what he saw.There were broken walls, charred beams of a ghastly black and scorched rags hereand there among debris—all telling of the destruction wrought by the recent typhoon andthe ensuring fire. Since early in the morning, some people had already been busyingthemselves amongst the rubble.Professor Su, with a slip of paper in hand, was wondering where to find the addresswhen all of sudden he heard a child crying out randomly from an upstairs window of theopposite building, like a singer practicing his voice:“Mi—yi—yi—yi—, ma—ah—ah—ah—” The professor could not help smiling. Heguessed right that the kid was Chen’s younger brother affectedly parroting his elder sister’svoice.The professor then learned from the child that his elder sister Chen, ex-member of thePLA art troupe, was now on the administrative staff of a factory after being transferredfrom the army to civilian work in Shanghai. As a Youth Leaguer, she was enthusiastic andearnest. Whenever the factory or her neighborhood was in need of some help, she wasalways considered the right person to approach. Just a couple of days before, the neighborhoodhad caught fire as a result of electric wire sparking caused by the typhoon.Consequently, many families were left homeless. Chen spent a sleepless night caring forthe disaster victims, which in turn affected her voice. The next day, when it occurred to herthat it was the very day for the second test, she blurted out, “Oh, my!” Yet, she went to thetest all the same.That was the whole story.“Look, she’s still busy working over there!” exclaimed the child from the window,gesticulating with his raised hand. “Let me call her! I’ll go and call her!”“No, don’t. But just tell your sister that she’s been admitted after passing the secondtest! She has every qualification for being a superb singer, hasn’t she? I’ve almost made amistake!”The professor walked away from Chen’s house, and that very quickly. Yes, his bosomswelling with a thrill, he wanted to hurry back to let everybody know of the music studenthe had discovered and the whole story about her.

An Inkwash Painting

The sky was a sheet of murky grey, completely devoid of sunlight.
The sea was a ghastly dark blue. The gentle waves licking at the shore gave forth a
humming sound like that of fish in shoals.
All that foreboded a storm.
Some isles in the sea stood quiet and still like ebony sculptures.
I walked towards the sandy beach carrying my lunch-box and then sat inside a fishing
boat moored at the seashore.
What an insipid and dreary scene! I opened the lunch-box only to have it covered up
again.
Looking back, I caught sight of a lonely crematorium looming out of a pine wood. Its
towering red-brick chimney was giving off wisps of grayish smoke.

Honest Poverty

I have been engaged in the revolutionary struggle for more than a decade. During these long militant years, I have lived a plain life with no luxuries to speak of. Millions of dollars passed through my hands, but I always saw to it that every singly cent of the money raised for the revolution was spent for no other purposes. This may sound like a miracle or an exaggeration to Kuomintang VIPs. Self-discipline and self-sacrifice, however, are the virtue characteristic of a communist. Therefore, should anyone inquire of me about my personal savings, let him read the following amusing episode: On the day of my capture—a most inauspicious day it was—two Kuomintang soldiers discovered me in a wood. Sizing me up, they thought they had come upon a windfall and started making a frantic body search, hopefully to find on me hundred of silvers dollars or some jewellery like gold bracelets or rings. They frisked me from top to toe and passed their hands over everything on me from the collar of my jacket to the soles of my socks, but, contrary to their expectation, they found nothing at all, not even a single copper, except a watch and a fountain pen. They were exasperated, suspecting that I had my money hidden somewhere and refused to give it up. One of the two men had in his left hand a wooden-handled grenade. He pulled out the cord from inside the wooden handled and moved his legs one step apart as if he was about to throw the grenade. Glowering at me ferociously, he threatened loudly, “Out with your money quick, or you die!” “Hey!” I said drily with a faint smile. “Don’t you put on such nasty airs! True I haven’t got a single copper with me. You’re barking up wrong tree to seek a fortune from me.” “Shit! Nobody can ever believe a big shot like you ain’t got no money!” the soldier with the grenade remained wholly incredulous. “No money?” the other soldier joined in. “Impossible! It must be hidden somewhere. No fooling an old hand like me.” Meanwhile, he bent low to pass his hand again meticulously over every nook and corner of my clothes and the crotch of my trousers, still holding out high hopes of making a new discovery. “You should believe me and stop messing around!” I explained again. “Unlike your Kuomintang officials who’re rolling in money, I’m really penniless. We join the revolution not for personal gain.” Finally, when they knew for certain that there was no money on me, they gave up the body search. Nevertheless, they lowered their heads to scan here and there the place where I had hidden myself, but again in vain. How frustrated they must have felt! The soldier holding grenade pushed the cord back into its wooden handle, and turned round to scramble for my watch and fountain pen. The two men, however, settled their dispute by agreeing to divide the money equally between them after selling the spoils. They eyed me up and down with suspicion and amazement before barking out in chorus,” come along!” Dear readers, maybe you wish to know if I have any private property at home. Just a minute! Let me see… Ah, here it is, but nothing much though. I have left with my wife for safekeeping a few changes of used underwear and a few pairs of socks with mended soles, all of which I used to wear last summer. She has now put them away in a remote mountain valley to prevent them from being stolen in case of Kuomintang attack, so that I may wear them again this summer. These are all the property I have to my name. But wouldn’t the declaration of my “family treasures” make myself an object of lively ridicule to the rich? To remain honest though poor, to live a clean and simple life—that is what we revolutionaries count on to overcome innumerable difficulties!

Wayside Roses

Rambling through a pine forest early in the morning, I came across a bunch of
forsaken roses lying by the shady wayside. They were still fresh in colour. One was
purplish-red, another pink, still another a sickly ivory-yellow slightly tinged with
blood-red.
I picked them up in my hand.
The numerous fine dewdrops on the fresh green leaves clearly showed that the roses
had just been cast away the previous night.
Were they pitiful maidens deflowered by fickle men? Or were they unlucky young
men fooled by frivolous women?
Last night’s whispers of love; this morning’s drops of cold dew…
I brought the roses home and tried to find a flower vase to keep them in.
Flower vase I had none, but I did find in a nook of my room an empty earthen wine
bottle with its neck broken.
--O dear roses, though unable to treat you to spring wine, I could offer you limpid
spring water and my sincere pure heart. Wouldn’t it be better for you to wither away in
solitude in this broken earthen wine bottle than to lie abandoned by the roadside and be
trodden down upon?

Preface to the Torrent Trilogy

Several years ago, after I finished reading Leo Tolstoy’s Resurrection with tears in my eyes, I wrote on its title page, “Life itself is a tragedy”. However, that is not how things are, for life is not a tragedy, but a “struggle”. What do we live for? Or why do we live this life at all? The answer given by Romain Rolland is “to conquer life”. I think he is right. Ever since I was born, I have passed no more than twenty odd summers in this world, but this short period of time has not been spent for nothing at all. I have since seen a lot of things and come to know a lot of things. Though it is all darkness around me, I have never felt lonely, nor have I ever given up hope. Everywhere I go, I always see the torrent of life tumbling along to open up its way through a confused mass of mountains and rocks. This torrent is always surging ahead; it has never stopped for a single moment and will never stop. Nothing whatever can hold it up. While on its way, it sometimes throws clouds of spray into the air embodying love and hate, and happiness and sorrow. All that makes up the tumultuous torrent rushing with terrific force towards the only sea. No one knows for sure what that only sea is and when the torrent is going to empty into it. Like everybody else, I live in this world for the purpose of conquering life. I have also taken part in the “struggle”. I have my own love and hate, and happiness and sorrow. But I have never lost my faith—a faith in life. There is still some way to go before my life runs out, and I do not know what the future has in store for me. Nevertheless, I am not without some idea of what the future is like because the past, being no silent mute, will give me some hint. What I unfold here in the Trilogy before my readers is a picture of life of the past ten odd years. Of course it reflects only a small section of life, but enough, however, to afford a glimpse of the turbulent torrent of life with its love and hate, happiness and sorrow. I am no religious preacher, so I cannot point out a definite way out. Readers may here find a way out for themselves. Some say that there is at first no road at all and that a road is created simply by the treading of passers-by. Others say that there is at first already a road available before more and more people come to walk on it. I do not want to judge who are right or who are wrong. I am still young, I want to live on, I want to conquer life. I know the torrent of life will never stop. Let’s see where is it going to carry me!