Chinese Literature

Still he éxplained patiently. A propaganda picture or poster was only an instrument of propaganda. It had nothing whatever to do with art. He also repeated over and over again that what was needed was merely something to encourage the people, something to wake them up. He sawed the air with his right hand and spoke more and more rapidly.

“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth! Our enemies are bombarding us with big guns. We must answer them with big guns. The greatest people now are the soldiers on the frontline, and the most useless people are we, the so-called artists. We must hurry and give up art for the time being and do something which every Chinese ought to do... .”

‘Vy. Lil’? This time the student with the closely cropped hair didn’t even bother to lift himself up from his seat. He just sat before his easel and said, in a hoarse voice: “Then what about the drawings by Kathe Kollwitz and Soviet woodcuts? They are meant for propaganda. Can they be considered works of art?”

“Aha, another follower of Lu Hsun!” thought Mr. Li.

Teacher and student glared at each other. There was an embarrassing silence. A crow flew over the roof, cawing. Perhaps it had been listening secretly for quite some time and broken into sound, because it found the silence too oppressive.

Mr. Li guessed that the expression on his own face must have been rather strange, for one student laughed softly and glanced out of the window. With a great effort, Mr. Li put on a smile to show that he was indifferent to what had happened, but he found his voice rather unnatural when he said:

“About this question... this... this . . . well, it can’t be clearly explained in a short time. This... this is a question of aesthetics. Why art is art... is a complicated subject... . If you come to see

me after class, I shall help you to clarify this point gradually.”

But the student never came to see him. But every Wednesday afternoon thereafter, several cartoons were handed in for his opinion. The question of art was never raised again.

The students did not try to approach him. It might have been that they considered him too great a man to be bothered but they might also have looked down upon him. Sometimes, a few students came to ask him to write an article for that little weekly, or consulted him about its layout and make-up. But they went away every time just as soon as business was finished.

Vhen he walked through places where students gathered, he would hear someone say behind him: “This is Li Imo.” But from the way it was said, he could not be sure whether it was said in awe or in ridicule.

However, Mr. Chen, the teacher of physics and mathematics, seemed to be well liked by the students. Short in stature, with a few pockmarks

‘on his face, Mr. Chen had many things to occupy him. He led discussion groups and study groups, and every Saturday evening he lectured in the

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