The Dragon's Village: An Autobiographical Novel of Revolutionary China by Yuan-Tsung Chen Read Free Book Online Page A

time.”
    â€œI have no college training. I just finished high school at St. Ursula’s.”
    â€œNot many of us here have had any sort of college education. Some have only completed junior high or elementary school. You are well educated compared to most. I imagine you can read classical Chinese as well as English?”
    Feeling more confident, I admitted that I could. “I love to read. I read a lot.”
    â€œThat’s fine. How about starting work in the library? There’s a great deal to do there. We’re going to hold a series of discussions about the role of art and the artist in society. We’ll be inviting well-known artists, writers, actors, and others to join us. You can take notes at the meetings and then help to write up the final report. How’s that?”
    I couldn’t have wished for anything better. I thanked him and rushed off to find Ma Li and tell her of my good fortune.
    That’s how I became a cadre. White-collar employees of all kinds—ministers, department heads, industrial managers, clerks, typists, doctors, artists—working in state institutions or organizations, did not like to be called officials, for that smacked too much of the old society, so a new word had been coined for them—
ganbu
, “doers” or “cadres.”

    The work in the library was not demanding—simply cataloging and stacking the books and magazines as they came in. I put my name down for a playwrighting course to start shortly. Combing the library shelves, I read voraciously, growing more and more involved in the craft of writing and its problems. And I looked forward to meeting some of the writers whose work was beginning to affect me.
    The day of the first discussion meeting I came early. From my place at the note-taker’s table in front of the platform I had a close-up view of all the speakers. All those we invited promised to attend and the list was like a
Who’s Who
of the modern literary world—Ba Jin, whose novel
Family
had led countless young readers to rebel against the feudal family system and its arranged marriages; Lao She, who wrote
Rickshaw Boy
and, influenced by Dickens, created a whole gallery of portraits of the underprivileged, the common people of China; Cao Yu, whose play
Thunderstorm
brought modern Chinese drama to maturity. Mao Dun’s
Midnight
gave such a truthful and biting picture of my uncle’s business world that I felt sure he knew many of our friends. He was the newly appointed Minister of Culture and was preparing to go to Peking, but he said he would come if he could.
    Wang Sha, it seemed, knew everybody. He had a nod and greeting for us humble note takers even as he settled the most eminent of authors in their places. I liked his way of dealing with people.
    â€œIn this open forum,” Wang Sha proclaimed, beginning his remarks, “everybody should be heard. We are here to help the Party Committee of the theater hammer out its guidelines. To decide, for example, what kind of new plays we should write and what old plays we should stage.”
    â€œI think the theater should take the
Yanan Talks
as its guideline,” a man in his mid-thirties with a ruggedly handsome face interposed from the back of the hall.
    I was glad that I had done my homework before the meeting. The talks he cited took place in 1942 in the then Communist headquarters in Yanan. The Party’s Chairman,Mao Ze-dong, had spoken at this forum, and his two addresses were regarded as the key exposition of the Party’s cultural policy.
    Wang Sha responded immediately: “The
Yanan Talks
call on writers to write from the Communist point of view. The writers in Yanan then were either Communists or intended to accept this philosophy. But the situation has changed. Most of us here tonight are not Communists and therefore probably do not wish to subordinate ourselves to Party discipline. Does that mean that we will not be allowed to