A Small Incident

For six years, I’ve been in the capital, having journeyed from the countryside, and I’ve witnessed a fair share of what are considered major national events. Yet, these events have left no lasting impression on me. If I were to articulate their impact, it’s simply that they’ve fueled my growing disdain—truth be told, they’ve taught me to despise people more with each passing day.

However, one minor incident stands out as significant to me, pulling me away from my cynicism, and it’s one that I’ve never been able to forget.

It was the winter of the sixth year of the Republic, with a fierce north wind blowing. Due to the need to make a living, I found myself walking on the streets early in the morning. The streets were nearly deserted, and I was fortunate to finally secure a rickshaw to take me to the S Gate. Soon after, the north wind subsided, the dust had been swept clean from the road, and the rickshaw puller picked up speed on the now pristine path. As we approached the S Gate, a woman suddenly appeared and was caught on the rickshaw handle, causing her to slowly topple over.

The woman who fell had gray hair and tattered clothing. She had crossed in front of the rickshaw from the roadside, and although the rickshaw puller had swerved to avoid her, her worn cotton-padded jacket had no buttons, and the light breeze had blown it open, catching on the rickshaw handle. Fortunately, the puller had begun to slow down, or she would have fallen hard, potentially injuring herself severely.

She lay on the ground as the rickshaw puller stopped. I was certain that the old woman was uninjured, and with no one else around, I found his concern unnecessary and likely to cause trouble for both of us.

I told him, “It’s nothing. Just continue on your way.”

The rickshaw puller ignored me—or perhaps he didn’t hear—and instead put down the rickshaw, helping the old woman to her feet and steadying her by the arm. He asked her, “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve fallen and hurt myself,” she replied.

I thought to myself, I saw you fall slowly; how could you be hurt? It’s just an act, and truly detestable. The rickshaw puller’s meddling was inviting trouble, and now he had to deal with the consequences.

However, the rickshaw puller, after hearing the old woman’s words, hesitated for a moment but then continued to support her arm and walked forward step by step. I was surprised and looked ahead to see a police substation. With no one outside after the strong wind, the rickshaw puller, still supporting the old woman, was heading straight for the entrance.

Suddenly, I felt a peculiar sensation. His dusty silhouette seemed to grow taller with each step, becoming increasingly imposing until I had to look up to see him. He began to exert a kind of pressure on me, as if to reveal the “smallness” hidden beneath my coat.

At that moment, my energy seemed to stagnate. I sat there motionless, not thinking, until a policeman emerged from the substation, and I got off the rickshaw.

The policeman approached me and said, “You can hire a rickshaw yourself; he can’t pull you anymore.”

Without a second thought, I took a handful of copper coins from my coat pocket and handed them to the policeman, saying, “Please give this to him…”

The wind had completely died down, and the road was still quiet. As I walked, I pondered, almost afraid to think about myself. The past can be set aside for now, but what does this handful of copper coins mean? Was it a reward for him? Could I still judge the rickshaw puller? I couldn’t answer myself.

This incident still comes to mind from time to time. It has also caused me much pain, urging me to reflect on myself. The cultural governance and military strength of the past few years have faded from my memory, much like the “Confucius says, poetry clouds” I read in my childhood, which I can’t recite even half a sentence. Only this small incident remains vivid before my eyes, sometimes even clearer, causing me to feel ashamed, urging me to renew myself, and increasing my courage and hope.

(July 1920.)