Literary Master 1918: Starting with New Youth

Professors at Yenching University usually lived near the university, and Chen Zhongfu's residence in Jian'gan Hutong was no exception. It was only about two kilometers away from Yenching University, and it usually took only about 15 minutes to walk there.

Qian Xuantong practically ran there, not daring to stop for a moment, like a newsboy running through the alleys of Yanjing.

A young man arrived in Yanjing. His novel offered a remedy for China's ills, ruthlessly exposing the nation's problems!

Hurry up, hurry up.

As students stepped onto the Yenching University campus, they greeted this pioneer of modern literature who had publicly declared his intention to "abolish Chinese characters":

"Greetings, Mr. Qian!"

"Hello, Mr. Qian!"

"Professor Qian, where are you going...?"

Before the students could finish speaking, Qian Xuantong had already brushed past them, leaving only a hurried "Excuse me," leaving the students looking at each other in bewilderment.

He took a few quick steps and climbed the stairs to the second floor.

As soon as I reached the second floor, I heard a heated argument coming from the principal's office, and a lot of students had gathered at the door to watch.

"The teachings of Confucius and Mencius represent the future of our nation! You modernists are truly forgetting your ancestors!"

Qian Xuantong recognized the voice as that of his colleague Gu Hongming, guessing that Gu was arguing with the students again. He thought the students would back down, but instead he heard the fearless Hunan accent.

"If restoring the past could pull China out of this quagmire, why did the Qing Dynasty perish? History has abandoned the teachings of Confucius and Mencius, yet you, sir, keep the whip in your hand while talking about the future—do you not find this absurd?"

Qian Xuantong slowed his pace a bit.

"My braid is on my head, your braid is in my heart!"

"Forgive my bluntness, but you, sir, are the one who takes the queue of a lackey as a sign of integrity."

"You! You're spouting nonsense!"

The exchange impressed Qian Xuantong, who couldn't help but laugh out loud. He intended to get closer to see which student had such a sharp tongue, but then he remembered the manuscript in his hand and had to leave with regret.

These days, things are really lively.

I just received a paper titled "Medicine," and now I've encountered such an interesting student.

Stir it up, stir it up, turn it upside down!

Qian Xuantong, who had always revered the idea of ​​"skepticism towards antiquity," was now convinced that the future belonged to the young people.

......

Inside the Dean of Arts' office.

Chen Zhongfu was writing furiously at his desk, preparing today's lesson plan.

But then a loud "bang" was heard as the heavy wooden door was kicked open, and a chubby comrade squeezed in, his face flushed and panting, but his eyes gleamed with a sharp light, a stark contrast to his recent dejected state.

"Xuantong, what's going on?"

"Look at this first!"

Qian Xuantong stepped to the table and slammed the manuscript down, causing a few drops of ink to splash out.

Chen Zhongfu did not check it immediately, but instead became quite interested:

"Did you hear the argument outside? I heard it's Gu Hongming arguing with a student from Hunan in Cai Gong's office..."

"We'll talk about it later!"

Qian Xuantong interrupted the pleasantries, pointed to the title, and urged his friend to take a look.

Chen Zhongfu followed the gaze and gradually fell silent. The large office suddenly became quiet, and the argument outside the door seemed to stop at that moment.

He read very slowly, carefully considering each word, pondering and leaving blank spaces, becoming more and more alarmed the more he thought about it.

August in Yanjing is inherently hot and dry, and it's inevitable that beads of sweat will appear on one's forehead.

Upon seeing this, Qian Xuantong casually picked up a palm-leaf fan and gently fanned himself, but was stopped.

As the story progressed, and the text revealed Xia Yu's blood, which not only failed to awaken the ignorant masses but instead became a catalyst for looting, Chen Zhongfu became restless and simply stood up to read it aloud.

Until the very end.

"Yu'er, they've all wronged you, yet you still can't forget, you're still heartbroken. Today you've specially shown your spirit, wanting me to know?" He looked around and saw only a crow... "If you're truly here and hear my words, then tell this crow to fly to your grave and show it to me."

The breeze had long since ceased, and the withered grass stood upright, like copper wires. A trembling sound, fainter and fainter in the air, until it vanished, and all around was deathly still. The two stood in the withered grass, looking up at the crow; the crow, too, stood among the straight branches, its head tucked in, as if cast in iron...

Much time passed; the number of people visiting the graves gradually increased, with several old and young appearing among the earthen mounds.

For some reason, Aunt Hua seemed to have a heavy burden lifted off her shoulders and thought about leaving; she tried to persuade her, saying, "Let's go back."

The old woman sighed, listlessly gathered the food, hesitated for a moment, and finally walked away slowly. She muttered to herself, "What's going on here...?"

They hadn't gone twenty or thirty paces when they suddenly heard a loud "caw!" behind them. Startled, they turned around to see the crow spread its wings, shrunk its body, and darted away like an arrow into the distant sky.

The crows didn't fly over the grave!

break!

This was a person whose beliefs remained steadfast until death, who did not feel wronged at all, but instead completely broke with the past!

Chen Zhongfu looked up, his eyes red and his voice hoarse:

"Did you manage to persuade the tree spirit to come back?"

"You know this isn't Shuren's handwriting... It was given to me by Yang Huaizhong, who said he was from the same hometown and was a young man."

Qian Xuantong ruthlessly shattered the illusion.

Chen Zhongfu shook his head repeatedly, as if he had heard something amusing.

"impossible."

"Look at this writing style. From the gloomy style of the first two sections to the idle chatter in the teahouse in the third section, Xia Yu's struggle in prison becomes a laughing stock among the tea drinkers. Can you find another person in all of China who can write like this, pouring passion onto ice?"

"And in the final section, the metaphor of Xia Yu and Xiao Shuan's graves being separated, the wreaths on the graves, and the iron-cast crows flying away—this is a cry of hope!"

"You're saying this is an article a young person could write?"

Qian Xuantong silently turned to the last page of the manuscript.

The notice clearly stated the need for payment for articles and indicated that the author was willing to contribute to "New Youth" magazine on a long-term basis.

If it were Lu Xun, he wouldn't have made this request.

Chen Zhongfu remained silent for a long time.

After a long pause, he gave a wry smile.

The reason why "New Youth" abolished the manuscript fee system was that the editorial team was strong and all of them were well-off. The manuscripts provided by the internal staff could be guaranteed to be of high quality. After editing in Beijing, the manuscripts were sent to Shanghai for printing and distribution.

Furthermore, the editorial department of this journal has already publicly announced this in Volume 4, Issue 1.

[Starting from Volume 4, Issue 1, this journal has discontinued its submission guidelines. All writing and translation work will be undertaken collaboratively by the editorial staff, and no additional manuscripts will be purchased. For those manuscripts submitted previously that have not yet been published, would you please kindly send a copy to this journal? We hope that contributors will write to us stating this; however, we regret that we cannot inquire individually. From now on, no further payment will be made for any submitted works.]

Although they still ostensibly accept "masterpieces," it doesn't really matter whether you submit them or not, and they won't pay you royalties for them.

A few months ago, it would have been perfectly acceptable for Lu Xun to lead the charge. But since he announced his retirement from writing, no one in the entire editorial department of *New Youth*, or even in the whole of China, has been able to write another *Diary of a Madman*. This statement is somewhat laughable.

Until today, I saw this article, "Medicine".

Chen Zhongfu believes that the young man who wrote the book was aware of the editorial department's decision; otherwise, he wouldn't have deliberately mentioned royalties.

There's only one possibility: he really needs money, otherwise he can't make a living.

He had no reason to refuse, but he couldn't break the rules, otherwise what would his friends who volunteered to contribute think if word got out?

With his naturally forthright personality, he vigorously rubbed his head, making his hair a mess, and soon made his decision:

"Let's stick to the original 'Submission Guidelines': two silver dollars per thousand words for translations and two to five silver dollars per thousand words for written articles."

"As for the money... I'll pay for it myself."

This money should rightfully come from him personally, as the editor-in-chief.

The monthly salary for the position of Dean of Arts is three hundred silver dollars. This article is less than five thousand words long, so the maximum salary would be twenty-five silver dollars, which is still affordable for him for the time being.

He simply couldn't believe it. Could this young man really write articles of this quality every month?

Qian Xuantong nodded:

"How much exactly? I'd like to go to the Yang family to discuss this in detail and also meet this young man."

"For a submission of this quality, we'll offer the highest rate: five yuan per thousand words. You'll also need to have a serious talk with the author; if possible, you must persuade him to join our side. We want the opponents to know that while Shuren has fallen, the fire of burning down old literature will not be extinguished!"

Chen Zhongfu neatly stacked the manuscript paper and carefully put it into the leather bag.

For the non-profit and rebellious New Youth magazine, the decision on royalties was not like that of traditional editorial offices, which valued the author's seniority and age. Instead, it valued the quality of the article itself more and was more willing to give young people opportunities than any other editorial office, because the new literature was just a newborn baby.

It's important to understand that in that era, the average working person's monthly wage was only around ten silver dollars. A fee of five dollars per thousand words was a considerable income for a young person, demonstrating the sincerity of the offer.

His two older sons, who were studying in Shanghai, didn't even have enough money for living expenses and had to earn money by doing manual labor and business.

Qian Xuantong couldn't deny it, but there was always a feeling that the editor-in-chief was trying to lure people in for free:

"I will go to the Yang family to visit the author now."