By Shen Yuzhong 沈禹鐘 (1889–1971)[1]
Translated by Ping Zhu
MCLC Resource Center Publication (Copyright September 2024)
The first page of the Chinese original in Red Magazine.
This story is a satire of the concept of “literature of blood and tears” (血和泪的文学) proposed by Zheng Zhenduo 郑振铎 in 1921. Instead of representing the blood and tears of the proletariat, Shen Yuzhong, a Mandarin Ducks and Butterflies author, wrote the story from the perspective of a worker who observes the literal “literature of blood and tears” produced by a writer. The Chinese original follows the translation.–Ping Zhu
The clanging of the bell in the printing factory wakes Wang Qin from his morning slumber. Rubbing his tired eyes, he knows it’s time to go to work at the factory again. He gets up grudgingly, puts on his clothes, grabs a basin, goes downstairs to fetch some water, and returns to his room to wash his face and neck. He lives in a small back room on the second floor, rented from a sub-landlord for five silver dollars a month. If you compare them to those of others in society, his living expenses are at the lowest level. However, Wang Qin’s earning capacity is quite weak; he only earns fifteen silver dollars a month at the factory. One-third of that goes to rent, the rest goes to food and clothing, leaving him perpetually worried about his hard life. Sometimes he thinks about changing his life, but that seems impossible. People’s lives are all assigned by capital, deeply oppressed by its forces. No matter what abilities you have, it’s difficult to struggle against capital.
The factory work starts every morning at seven, not long after the bell rings to wake the workers living nearby. Hearing the bell, everyone hurriedly bids farewell to their morning dreams and goes to obey its call. After washing up, Wang Qin also quickly goes out. He takes two copper coins from his pocket and buys some street food to eat along the way. This is his daily routine, not a one-off. When he arrives at the factory gate, he sees many of his coworkers streaming in. They’ve known each other for so long that they no longer bother with greetings or small talk. Once inside the factory, the workers take off their coats and start working amid the clatter of the machines.
Although Wang Qin is a worker in a printing factory, he has attended school for several years and is quite literate. For the past few years, he has been working on a literary magazine that is published twice a month. When he typesets a manuscript, he carefully reads every word. He understands all the manuscripts so well that it feels like he is studying while at work. This has improved his knowledge significantly. He finds more pleasure in his work than anything else. Whenever the editor sends him a manuscript, he feels immense joy, almost forgetting his own hard life. He meticulously typesets each word, sometimes even correcting errors missed by the copyeditor. As a result, his typesetting is rarely flawed, earning him gratitude from the proofreaders.
He believes those writers must be well-off—because the compensation for writing is so meager, and yet the effort of writing a story so immense, how could a poor person ever undertake such work? Whenever he thinks of this, he feels that those writers are as enviable as celestial beings. It makes him lament his own unfortunate and impoverished life, unable to devote himself to study, constantly toiling for a meager wage. He can’t even measure up to a tiny fraction of those writers. He thus feels extremely unfortunate and aggrieved.
Sometimes, when Wang Qin has a bit of free time at work, he visits the editor for a chat. He inquiries about the writers’ lives and even wants to know what they look like. He wishes that the editor would collect photos and biographies of the writers for him to peruse. However, the editor isn’t always so accommodating, often dismissing Wang Qin’s questions and finding his chatter annoying. As soon as Wang Qin perceives this, he quietly retreats, envying the editor who can frequently interact with the writers and learn about their appearances and personalities. In contrast, he is stuck in his own unfortunate situation, unqualified to befriend writers. This makes him hope that one day he will save enough money to open a bookstore, where he could frequently interact with them. By then, they will surely favor him.
Every day after work, Wang Qin sits silently at home, pondering what makes writers different from ordinary people. Their faces must be handsome, and they must write faster than his typesetting speed, because they can produce tens of thousands of words each month. There are over ten writers for the magazine Wang Qin works on, and he has created a mental image of each one out of his own imagination.
One day, Wang Qin wants to discuss the layout of a manuscript with the editor of the magazine. As soon as he steps into the editor’s office, he sees a guest sitting to the right of the editor’s desk. Not wanting to interrupt their conversation, he stands outside without paying much attention to the guest’s appearance. As he stares at the stacks of manuscripts on the glass shelf, marveling at the effort they represent, he suddenly hears the guest say: “I’ve submitted several manuscripts, and the compensation should be around thirty or forty silver dollars. Can I get it now?” Upon hearing these words, Wang Qin immediately shifts his gaze to the guest, observing him closely. Since this guest was talking about manuscript fees, he must be one of the magazine’s contributors. However, the guest’s demeanor is vastly different from what he imagined. Maybe he isn’t a writer, and Wang Qin has misheard what the guest has said.
While Wang Qin is pondering, the guest continues: “The manuscript I brought today is about three thousand words. Can I get the compensation for it as well?” The editor nods immediately: “Of course, but it’s not settlement time yet, and handling it early is quite a hassle. Can you wait a few days?” The guest pauses and reluctantly agrees. Seeing this, the editor asks: “Do you have an urgent need? If you can’t wait, we can make an exception.” The guest seems greatly relieved by these words and says: “To be frank with you, you’re quite right. Those of us who make a living by writing can certainly understand. I really need this manuscript payment right away. I have many expenses to cover tomorrow.” After telling the truth, an embarrassed expression appears on his face, not much different from that of someone asking for a loan. The editor calls for a clerk, who quickly comes in, and the editor hands him a note, asking him to fetch fifty dollars from the accountant. The editor and the guest continue chatting while waiting.
Witnessing this, Wang Qin has a revelation. He had always thought writers were well-off, but now he sees this guest, likely a prominent writer, in financial distress. He realizes the other writers are probably in similar situations. After the guest receives his money and leaves, Wang Qin approaches the editor about his business. Then, casually pointing at the chair where the guest had been sitting, he asks: “Is that guest a contributor to our magazine?” The editor replies: “Yes, that was Mr. Song Tianliao, here to collect his compensation.” Seeing that the editor is in a good mood today, Wang Qin continues to talk: “So that’s Mr. Song Tianliao. His writing is excellent. But why was he pushing for compensation today? Is his situation not well?” The editor replies: “Of course, living off writing is tough, and it is not just for Mr. Song.”
When Wang Qin returns to the factory floor to work, he cannot help but think: “It’s shocking. Isn’t Mr. Song Tianliao one of the most renowned writers? Yet, he’s in financial trouble. Today I learned that writers aren’t wealthy, and their complaints of poverty in their works aren’t just for poor people like us—they are genuine expressions of their own experience. Thus, the life of a writer isn’t any better than that of a typesetter; their only advantage is an illusory reputation for talent.”
From then on, Wang Qin’s envy for writers diminishes significantly. He now understands that writers are merely workers who typeset words according to grammatical rules, earning their livelihood through arranging words just like him, in equally pitiable conditions. He begins to pity the writers instead, thinking to himself: “They exhaust their minds every day, and besides me, who else pities them?” This thought becomes a comfort to Wang Qin. Whether he is working or resting, he often holds onto this thought, almost considering it one of the most joyful things in his life. “Poor writers, do you know of this typesetter’s pity?”
One late night, Wang Qin returns from a friend’s wedding banquet, passing by a house with bright lights shining out through the windows. Having drunk a few glasses of wine and feeling a bit intoxicated, he approaches the window, peeks inside, and sees a man writing diligently at a desk. He chuckles to himself, thinking: “What a fool, working so late at night.” As he continues walking, he notices a black lead plate with white characters reading: “Song Tianliao’s Residence.” The name Song Tianliao feels very familiar to him. After searching his mind for a moment, he suddenly remembers that it is one of the magazine’s contributors. He mutters to himself: “How could I get so muddleheaded after drinking a bit of wine? Forgetting even the three characters of Song Tianliao’s name is truly laughable.” As he continues walking home, he recalls the image of Song Tianliao writing late at night and realizes that the life of writers is really harsh, as they cannot even get a full night’s sleep. He sighs and ponders: “Everything in life requires money. The quality of food, clothing, and shelter all depends on one’s wealth. Only sleep is free, and it is the same for the rich and the poor. But even this basic right is denied to writers. I used to think writers were the luckiest people; now I know they’re the most pitiful.”
Later, Song Tianliao’s works disappear from the magazine for a while, making Wang Qin worry that he might be ill. After several months, Song’s works reappear. As Wang Qin is typesetting, he takes a closer look and sees that the title consists of four words: “Notes on Coughing Blood.” The manuscript is a personal account of the writer’s life. It reads: “One night, while I was writing, I suddenly felt sick in my chest. I immediately coughed up half a spittoon of blood and could no longer support myself. I’ve been ill ever since and still haven’t fully recovered.” Reading this, Wang Qin’s hands start to tremble, and he sighs repeatedly: “Our work of typesetting only costs us some labor, but the words writers produce are stained with blood.”
Translated by Ping Zhu
University of California, San Diego
NOTES:
[1] Originally published in Red Magazine 紅雜誌, no. 16 (1923).
排字人
沈禹鐘
（该文最初發表於《紅雜誌》1923年第16期）
印刷廠的鐘聲叮叮噹當的響了一陣，王勤從曉夢裡驚醒，揉著倦眼想道：工廠里工作的時間忽地又到了。他便狠狠無聊地起身，披衣預備往工廠裡去。他穿好了衣服便拿了面盆走到樓下去，取了一盆自來水重新走上樓來盥洗了一回。他所住的地方是二房東所住樓面後的一間亭子間，每月租金五塊大洋。像他這樣住的消耗在社會上比較起來只可算得最低的生活了。但王勤的生產能力非常薄弱，他在工廠裡每月所得的薪水只有十五塊大洋，這房租到佔去了三分之一。其餘還有衣食的消耗，所以他的雙眉常常緊蹙著，表示他生活的艱難。他有時也想到改造自己的生活，可是終於不能辦到，人們的生活都是由資本分配成的，深深地被資本勢力壓迫著，憑你有什麼本領也是難於掙扎的啊。
工廠裡每天早上七點鐘便要開始工作，一到規定的時間照例打起催工鐘來喚醒那些住在附近的工人們。大家一聽到鐘聲便忙忙的辭別了他們的曉夢，去服從那鐘聲的命令。這天王勤盥洗完畢便匆匆走出門來，從衣袋裡摸了兩個銅元，胡亂買些點心在街上沿路吃著。這是他每日的老例，不是偶然的。他走到工廠門口，只見許多夥伴絡繹不絕地走進去。大家因為相熟久了，所以也不道一聲敷衍的話。一等到大家走進工廠里便脫去了外衣隨著機器聲手忙腳亂地工作了。
王勤雖然是一個印刷工人，可是他從小讀過好幾年書，文理倒還通順。兼之這幾年來他工作的範圍是限於一種文藝雜誌，一月出版兩期。他照著原稿一字一句地排下去，心中倒很有些會意，和攻讀沒有分別。因此他又進步了不少。他對於工作上的趣味比一切都好。每逢編輯先生髮稿之期，他一接到手和得到珍寶一般心中便迸出無數的快慰來。幾乎忘了他生活的苦痛。他在排稿的時候字斟句酌細細的玩味著，有時編輯先生失檢的地方他倒會指摘出來。所以他所排的稿子竟不大有錯誤，校對的人也很感激他。他起初默忖道：那些做文章的先生們一定是很有家計的，因為文字上所得的酬金也極有限，而耗費的心力卻又一定比一切都厲害，要是貧苦的人哪里肯去幹這等事呢。他一想到這裡覺得那些文人都似天人般的可羨。他便抱怨到自己不幸生長貧賤，不能夠盡力去讀書，天天為著十來塊大洋的工資忙個不停。比較那些文人們，及不上萬分之一。委屈不幸極了。
有時節他在工作清閒些，便藉著雜誌的事情走到編輯先生那裡去，胡亂說些接洽的話兒。隨後便問起那些著作人的狀況，幾乎連臉兒生得怎樣都要衝口問出來。最好的那位編輯先生替他徵集那些著作人的照片和他們個人的履歷給他去細看。可是編輯先生沒有那麼呆，每遇他問時只是有意無意地回答他幾句，心中還討厭他的聒噪，哪里肯和他細細的攀談呢。他也明知編輯先生不願和他多談，只得訥訥地退了下去。因此他又不能不羨慕到那位編輯先生常常和那些著作人往來。他們的模樣和為人他一一都可以熟悉，不像自己的環境不幸，沒有資格和他們去結交。他每想到憤恨的時候不覺起了一種雄心，希望將來積蓄些資本，開設一所書局，藉此可以常常和那些文人們往來，到了那時他們一定會垂青於我了。
他每天從工廠裡回到寓所，默默地坐著，心中禁不住想到那些文人們究竟和尋常的人有什麼不同之處。他們的面貌一定都很俊偉，下筆寫稿的當兒大約比我排字還要快些。因為他們每月總有幾萬字的著作，要是遲鈍的話那就決不會趕得出的了。在王勤所管排印的這本雜誌裡，共有十多個著作人。他在腦膜上逐一的深深映了一個假定的小影，他以為那些著作人一定和他想像相符的啊。
有一天他為了雜誌排版的事情，拿了版式和原稿走到編輯先生那裡來接洽他。一走到編輯室裡，只見編輯先生的座位右邊坐著一位客人。他因為編輯先生會客的當兒不便走上去打斷他們的談話，便站住在戶外靜候著，也並不去留意這位客人的狀貌。他正在望著那編輯室中玻璃櫥內堆著的許多稿本，默念到這些重殘的紙頁不知費了多少作者的心血。他呆呆著想著，突然聽到那位客人說：我屢次投稿應得的潤金大約總有三四十元的數目，現在可否算給我？王勤一聽到這句話便立刻將視線移到那個人的身上，細細的觀察了一回，暗中想到這個人分明說著稿費的話，那一定是雜誌的著作人了。可是照他那樣神情和我平時想像的卻大大的不同，或者他並不是個著作人，方才的話大約是我聽錯的吧。他心中正在推度的當兒，又聽得那位客人繼續說道：我今天送來的稿子約有三千多字，這筆稿費可否一併算給我？編輯先生點著頭道：那自然沒有不照辦的，不過現在還沒有到清算的時候，提前辦理倒是一件很費手續的事，過幾天再送來吧。那人頓了些時，慢慢的應了一聲，似乎很為難的意思。編輯先生見了這樣情形，當下便帶笑問道：老兄可有什麼急用嗎？要是一定不能等候，那麼總可以通融的。那人聽了這句話似乎安慰了許多，便接著說道：不瞞老兄說，委實不出你所料，我們靠文字生涯過日子的人大概總可以明了的，這筆稿費簡直刻不待緩，明天還有許多用款等著敷衍呢。說罷臉上露出扭捏的樣子，和告貸的人相差沒有多少。編輯先生見他說得懇切，便打著叫人鐘傳茶房進來。不多一回便有一個茶房從外面急急地走進來，編輯先生當下從一本簿冊上扯了一頁下來交給茶房道：你到賬房裡去支五十塊大洋來。茶房應了便走。編輯先生隨即又和那人閒談著。
王勤見了這種情形，心中頓時起了特殊的感想。他以前常以為著作人都是富厚的，不料今天見了這位客人偏偏和他的理想完全相反。因此他又推想其餘的許多著作人一定也相去不遠的了。
等到那位客人取到稿費辭別了編輯先生走出去後，他方才去和編輯先生接洽他的事情。說完話，順便指著客人坐過的椅子問道：先生，這位客人是不是我們雜誌中的撰稿人嘛？編輯先生回答：不差的，他便是宋天寥先生，今天特地來領稿費呢。王勤見他很高興說話，不像以前的淡漠，便又說道：原來就是宋天寥先生，他的文字好極了，但是……頓了一下又說道：他何以等著要稿費呢？他的境況莫非不大好嗎？編輯先生道：那自然，靠著文字度日的都沒有家計的，不但是宋先生一個呢。
王勤這天回到工廠裡，一頭工作一頭不住地想道：咳，奇了，宋天寥不是現在的著作界裡最享盛名的人嗎？不料他的近況卻很清寒。我直到今天才知道著作人並不是富有者，怪不得他們著作裡往往說著嗟貧怨困的話。我以前當作和我們窮人發洩不平之氣，哪裡知道完全是替自己寫照。那麼文人的生活和我排字的沒有什麼高下的了，他們的優點也不過一個虛幻的才名罷了。
從此王勤對於那些著作家的羨慕心頓覺減少了許多。以為他們不過是依照文法的排字人，和我一樣操著排字的生涯，同一處於可憐的境地。他因此便從羨慕而漸漸變作憐憫了。他非但憐憫，並且又進一層想道：那些著作家天天絞著腦汁勞苦到極地，可是，知道憐憫他們的除我之外不知還有幾個人呢？他不論工作的時候和休息的時候，每每抱著這種感想，似乎引為一件最開心的事。可憐的著作家啊，你們可知道這個排字人的憐憫麼？
一天晚上，王勤從朋友家吃喜酒回來，經過一所屋子，只見裡邊的燈光很強烈地從玻璃上透出來。他因為在朋友家裡多吃了幾杯酒，這時有了些酒意，便將身子湊近窗去瞧了一下。見那室中有人在案上低著頭正在那裡奮筆疾書。他暗暗好笑道：呆漢，深更半夜還忙什麼事兒呢。走不多步，忽見路燈照著那屋的大門上，從燈光裡映出一張黑漆鉛皮的小牌子，上面署著四個白字道：宋天寥寓所。他見了，覺得宋天寥這個名字非常熟悉，想了一回突然記著便是雜誌裡的撰述人。便自言自語道：吃了些酒怎麼胡塗到這樣，連宋天寥三字都會忘記了，委實可笑得很。他一路走著不免又想到宋天寥埋頭撰稿這一回事兒，他從未知道文人們在那深夜裡走筆的，現在見了宋天寥的情形，覺得文人生活艱苦，連晚上都不能飽睡。這當兒他的思緒又繼續的密湊起來，微嘆了一聲道：人們一切享用都要用金錢做代價的。衣食住行都是視貧富的階級而分高下。只有睡眠這一事，一到晚上便是高臥的時間，不論貧富，其間並沒有什麼兩樣的，也不用花什麼一絲半毫。哪知文士們的生活睡眠也不能夠充足。我從前以為文人是天下第一等有福人，現在才知道是第一等可憐人。
後來王勤排印的雜誌裡宋天寥的著作忽然絕跡了多時。他心中十分疑訝，很擔心宋天寥或者是患病了。過了幾個月，宋天寥的著作重新出現了。王勤排版的當兒取來細看，見那標題是《嘔血記》三個字。文中所記的都是他自己的報告。他說：某日晚上正在撰稿之際，心頭忽然作惡，當下嘔下半痰盂鮮血，便支撐不住，一病直到現在還沒有健全。王勤看完之後兩手不住的震顫，連連的嘆息道：文人們排出來的字簡直都是血點，我們排出來的字到底不過是費些勞力罷了。