Chinese Literature

a great many people around, so he had his meals brought to his own room. And because of that, they played more tricks on him so that he would get angry as soon as he saw the food sent. Every morning, when he wanted his tea, he had such trouble getting the servant to brew it! The tea leaves which he had bought himself tasted bitter and had not the slightest fragrance although they were supposed to be the best kind, from Chimen in Anhwei Province.

“How very strange!” He threw away the cigarette in his hand. “How can these people be so happy here, so energetic!” ;

He stretched himself, got up and sipped some of the cold tea. Then he set the cup down on the table with an angry knock. Better to go and have a few cups of wine. He locked his door and went out.

Whom could he get to go with him? Old Pan again? Mr. Li hesitated. As soon as he thought of the principal, he had a queer, sickly feeling in his throat right down to his stomach, the kind of feeling one has after eating something too sweet.

He slowed down his steps, pretending that he was just taking a walk and happened to drop in on the principal quite accidentally.

The row of willow trees in the school garden had put forth buds and, under the dark-red clouds in the sky, they looked like strips of soiled green cloth. The grey school buildings seemed to have been washed with purple water, looking most incongruous.

Happy shouts came from the basket-ball field. Some students were singing a marching song with great zest. Laughter was also heard from the teachers’ quarters. Then he heard someone say: “How can the general public understand these abstract theories you expound? ...” Probably that little Mr. Chen again! Talking over some more business!

Mr. Li walked on purpose by the window from which the noise came and looked in. He hoped My. Chen might see him and ask him in. He walked even more slowly.than before, fixing his eyes on the ground as if he were measuring the path. For a moment, he almost wanted to overcome his habitual reserve and walk into Mr. Chen’s room without being invited.

But he did not stop, after all.

“Why can’t they come to me? Why must I go to them?”

And so, that evening, when he was drinking wine, he had nobody but Old Pan for company—the same dish all over again!

“T really can’t get used to living here. It’s too boring!” He cast a complaining and almost censuring glance at Old Pan, as if the latter were

responsible for his misfortunes. “I want to go away. ... But where can I go? ... I have no friends elsewhere and it is difficult to make a living. ... Iam tied to this place! ...”

He neither wrote nor painted anything. He was not in the proper mood for these things. When he finally got acquainted with old Mr. Chang, he borrowed from him a lithographie copy of rubbings of ancient

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