Cat Country Read online

  And yet appreciating Cat Country means shedding some of these labels and didactic explanations. When Lao She describes how the emperor is replaced by the head of Everybody Shareskyism, multiple interpretations are possible – not just the role that Chiang Kai-shek was assuming for himself in the 1930s, but the fate of many revolutions, from the French to the Chinese.

  Likewise, the novel’s reverie leaves do immediately bring to mind opium, but equally fascinating is that in 1932, the same year Cat Country was serialised, Aldous Huxley published Brave New World and imagined a product he called ‘soma’ that numbed his dystopian inhabitants into accepting their fate. In this sense, Cat Country is part of a broad trend in world literature, reacting to efforts to dumb down and control people.

  All of this makes Cat Country an anomaly in Chinese fiction, one that grew out of Lao She’s unique biography. Unlike his great contemporaries, Lu Xun and Shen Congwen, Lao She had directly experienced western culture. He was deeply rooted in China, but as a Manchu he was enough of an outsider to go for the jugular when looking at his native land and to eschew the naïve belief, for example, of Lu Xun, that all would be well if China just trusted its youth. Lao She had a clearer view of what could beset a country when the old markers are gone, and in Cat Country he gives us a brutal look at a China that resonates today.

  — IAN JOHNSON

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

  THE PRESENT translation was done from the edition of Lao She’s Maochengji that was issued as number fourteen of the Chen Guang Encyclopedia of Literature by the Chen Guang Publishing Company, Shanghai, 1949.

  Chapter titles have been added for the convenience of those readers who, having finished the novel, might like to locate a specific passage quickly.

  I should like to express my gratitude to my wife, Ruth, for her encouragement and help in this project. Thanks are also due to Don Marion for his close proofreading of the first draft. I am indebted to my colleagues in the Ohio State University East Asian Division for the help and advice they gave me while I was preparing this translation.

  — WILLIAM A. LYELL, PH.D.

  1970

  THE CRASH

  THE SPACECRAFT was a total loss. And as for my friend, a man who had been my childhood schoolmate and who had just piloted me through space for the better part of a month, there wasn’t a single bone of him left in one piece.

  And what about me? Well, I still seemed to be alive, but God only knows how it happened that I too hadn’t died in the crash. At any rate, things were what they were and there was no point in crying over spilt milk.

  Our goal had been Mars. According to my late friend’s calculations, we were already in the Martian atmospheric envelope before the accident occurred; if he was right, then I must indeed have landed on the planet Mars. The soul of my dead friend ought to be at rest, for to be the first Chinese on Mars was really something worth dying for! But how could I be sure that I was really on Mars? I ended up deciding that, barring evidence to the contrary, I’d have to assume that I was on Mars, even if I wasn’t; I had no way of proving it one way or the other. Of course, it ought to have been possible to determine my location from the stars, but unfortunately my knowledge of astronomy was as developed as my knowledge of hieroglyphics. My friend could have determined our location without the slightest hesitation, but my friend . . . my friend, my poor childhood friend!

  Since the spacecraft was a total loss, how would I get back to Earth? I’d better not think about it. All I had to my name was the clothing on my back (so ripped and torn that it looked like shredded confetti) and whatever food happened to be left in my stomach. I didn’t even know how I was to survive here, much less how I was to get back to Earth! Ignorant of the geography, and what life forms might occupy this strange planet, I began to wonder if there were any creatures here similar to human beings. I had many questions, but there was no point thinking about them. A castaway on the planet Mars – wasn’t there some comfort to be derived from a title like that? There was certainly no point in letting worry eat away at whatever courage I had left.

  All of this, of course, is a distant recollection of my situation as it was then. At that time I was in a state of shock, and it may well be that my traumatised brain produced a good many other disconnected thoughts. However, I can’t remember what they were now. All I can remember is that I was concerned with how to get back to Earth and how to survive; these two thoughts, like the remains of a shipwreck washed up on a beach, are the only two that remained with me after the experience.

  After I had come to my senses, the first thing I thought of doing was devising some way of burying the pile of bone and flesh that had been my friend. I couldn’t bring myself to look at the spacecraft, for, in its own way, it too had been a good friend: it had brought us both here, faithful machine. My two friends were both dead and I was the only one left alive. I began to feel that their misfortune was all my fault. The two skilled members of our expedition had both died and I, the unskilled third, was the only survivor; the luck of an idiot – what painful comfort! I knew that I could bury my schoolmate single-handedly, but I wouldn’t be able to cover up the spacecraft; therefore, I didn’t have the heart to look at it.

  I should have gone to dig the grave right away, but I didn’t. I just stared vacantly at my new environment through a veil of tears. Why didn’t I immediately clasp my friend’s bones to my breast and have a good cry? Why didn’t I start digging right away? Why? Why? Perhaps it was because of the state I was in, a state somewhat like that of a man who has just awakened from a dream. Perhaps I shouldn’t be held responsible for all my actions at such a time. In retrospect, this is probably the most reasonable and charitable explanation that I can give of my failure to bury him immediately.

  I continued to stare vacantly at my surroundings. It’s strange, but even now I can remember very dearly everything that I saw. Whenever I wish, I can close my eyes and recapture those scenes. They stand before me in full colour. Even the shadow lines where one colour fades into another still stand out clearly. Those images are engraved upon my mind as indelibly as the mental pictures that I retain of going, as a little boy, with my mother to sweep my father’s grave and make offerings to his spirit.

  I really can’t say what I especially noticed at the time, for I directed equally to everything around me a ‘disinterested attention’, if that phrase means anything. I was like a bush in the rain, whose movement is entirely dependent on the drops: if a drop falls on a leaf, then that leaf moves.

  I saw a grey sky. It was not a cloudy sky, but rather a greycoloured atmosphere. One couldn’t say that the light of the sun was weak, because I felt very hot; however, its light was not in direct proportion to its thermal power. It was simply hot, but not at all bright. The grey atmosphere that surrounded me was so heavy, hot, dense, and stifling that I could almost reach out and grab it. The weight of the atmosphere could not have been due to dust in the air, for things could be seen very clearly in the distance. It wasn’t at all like it is back in Beijing when we have dust storms of wind-blown sand. It was rather that the light of the sun was diminished upon first entering this grey world; what was left of it was then evenly distributed so that every place received some of the light, thus creating a silver-grey planet. It was a bit like the summer drought in North China when a layer of useless grey cloud floats in the sky, shading the light of the sun without at all reducing the extremely high temperature; however, the grey atmosphere here was much darker and heavier so that the weighty ashen clouds seemed glued to one’s face. A model for this universe would be a bean curd parlour back home filled with hot fumes in the night, lit by a single oil lamp scattering rays of ghastly light through the mist. In sum, the atmosphere made me feel very ill at ease. Even the few small mountains in the distance were grey, distinguished from the sky only by their darker hue. Because there was some sunlight, the grey of the mountains was speckled with a bland shade of red, making them look somewhat like pheasant necks. A country of grey, I
remember that’s what I thought at the time, although I really didn’t know if there were any countries there or not.

  As I drew my line of sight back from the horizon, I noticed a plain and it too was grey. There were no trees, no houses, no fields. It was flat, flat, flat – boringly flat. A carpet of grass hugged the ground. Its leaves were very large, but none of the stalks were upright. Since the ground was obviously fertile, why, I wondered, was no one cultivating it?

  Not far from where I stood a number of hawk-like birds took off, all grey except for their white tails. The white of their tails did bring a note of change to the monotony of this all-grey universe, but it was powerless to lighten the foggy and depressing atmosphere. The tails of the birds reminded me of slips of paper money – the kind we burn for the dead back home – floating in a dark and gloomy sky.

  The hawk-like birds flew in my direction, watching me as they came. Suddenly my heart gave a start. They weren’t watching me; they were watching my dead friend! Watching that pile of . . .

  In the distance I saw a few more take off. I became anxious and instinctively began feeling around on the ground, foolishly hoping to find a shovel or a spade. I couldn’t even find so much as a stick. I went over to the spacecraft to see what I could find. If I had a piece of steel, I’d be able to dig out some kind of grave for my friend. But the birds were already circling overhead. I couldn’t take time to look up at them again, but I could feel that they were getting lower and lower. Their cries, long and piercing, sounded directly over my head. I reached the spacecraft and, having no time to choose a particular piece to pull off, I grabbed at whatever came to hand. I had no idea what part it was I had gotten hold of, but at any rate I tore at it like a madman. One of the birds landed. I screamed at him as loudly as I could. His sharp wings were trembling in the air and his feet were just about to touch down when, startled by my cry, he hooked up his tail and flew off. But no sooner had this one taken off than two or three others came squawking down like magpies after food. The cries of the birds still on wing were long and drawn out, as if they were importuning their brethren on the ground to wait for them. Finally they all came down with one great whoosh. I started tearing at the craft again and noticed that the palm of my hand was sticky with blood, but I wasn’t conscious of any pain. I kept on uselessly at it. At last, I rushed the birds, kicking and screaming. They spread their wings and started falling back in all four directions to avoid me, but it was apparent they had no intention of taking off. One of them was already perched on that heap of . . . He was already beginning to peck!

  So furious that I was seeing red, I rushed him. I intended to grab him with my bare hands, but as soon as I made a pass at him, the rest of them surrounded me and began attacking from all sides. I kicked and flailed in all directions; they fell back again helter-skelter, cackling with wings spread wide. As soon as I kicked any one of them away, by the time my leg returned to its original position, the same bird would already be closing in on me again, eyes blazing with fury. And now the more they attacked, the bolder they got; they no longer fell back after having closed in for the attack. Now they began pecking at my feet.

  Suddenly I remembered that I had a revolver stuck inside my belt. I had just straightened up and started to feel for my gun when I noticed a group of men standing seven or eight paces in front of me. As soon as I focused on them, I saw clearly that they all had the faces of cats!

  CHINA WAS NEVER LIKE THIS – OR WAS IT?

  SHOULD I pull out my revolver or wait? Either course of action involved a variety of considerations. In the minute it took me to make up my mind, the calmer I tried to make myself, the more excited I became. Finally, I put down the gun and smiled to myself. This Mars adventure was something that I had ardently sought out on my own, and if this pride of cat-men killed me, I’d have only myself to blame. Besides, their malevolence was, as yet, only an assumption on my part; how could I be sure that they weren’t really kind and benevolent people? It didn’t make much sense to pull a pistol before I found out. Good intentions always make a man courageous; and now, filled with benevolent intent, I was not the least bit afraid of them. Whatever was coming, for better or worse, I’d let it take its natural course. At any rate, if there was to be any violence, I would not be the one to initiate it.

  Seeing that I hadn’t moved, they shifted forward a couple of paces. Their movements were slow, but determined, like the advance of a cat who has spotted a mouse. The birds all took off now, and from every beak there hung a piece of . . . I closed my eyes!

  Within less than a second after closing them I found my arms pinned to my sides. I hadn’t anticipated that these cat-men would be quite as quick and agile as that, for I hadn’t heard the sound of a single step.

  Had refusing to draw my revolver been a mistake then? No! For at least my conscience was clear on this point. Reflecting that sudden disasters are the food and drink of an adventurous life, my mind began to calm itself and I no longer felt like opening my eyes. It wasn’t that I was trying to gain an advantage by feigning weakness, it was just that my mind was genuinely calm. But, rather than relaxing their grip because I wasn’t putting up any resistance, they began pinning my arms tighter and tighter! I thought to myself, What a suspicious bunch of characters these cat-men are! This sense of my own psychological superiority inflated my pride, and I became even more determined not to match strength with them. There were four or five hands on each of my arms, soft, but tight, and possessed of a certain elasticity. It would be more accurate to say that my arms were squeezed to my sides rather than pinned. It felt like so many bands of leather digging into my flesh.

  To struggle would have been useless. I saw clearly now that if I tried to break free, their hands would puncture the skin and rip into my flesh. So that’s the kind of people they were – people who would sneak up, capture someone, and then maliciously inflict physical cruelty upon him regardless of whether he resisted or not. As though the infliction of physical pain could diminish a man’s heroic stature! Shameless! At this juncture I really began to regret not having drawn my revolver. In dealing with this kind of people – if my judgment of them was accurate – one ought to operate on the principle that ‘getting in the first blow is half the battle’. I am sure that a single blast from my revolver would have sent them all running, if only I had used it. But the situation was what it was and no amount of regret would improve it. Since I had set a trap for myself with my own righteousness, why not see it through and die in the afterglow of that righteousness?

  Opening my eyes, I discovered that they were all standing behind me, as though prearranged so I wouldn’t be able to see any of them. Before I realised it, their sneaky way of doing things had caused me to conceive a hatred of them. I wasn’t afraid to die, but I couldn’t help thinking to myself, Since I’ve already fallen into your clutches, if you want to kill me, why do you have to be so sneaky about it? Before I knew what I was doing, I said out loud, ‘Why do you have to be so . . . ?’ I didn’t finish my question, for I realised that they wouldn’t be able to understand my language anyway. The only effect that my words produced was a tightening of their grip on my arms. Even if they did understand my language, I’d probably still be wasting my time. I didn’t give them the satisfaction of turning my head around to look; let them do what they would! But I did wish that they’d tie me up in ropes, for neither my flesh nor my spirit could stand that soft, tight, hot and hateful grip of theirs.

  There were even more birds overhead now, wings spread straight out, and heads all bowed as they watched for a chance to come swooping down to enjoy the body of my childhood schoolmate and friend!

  What was that bunch of clods behind me up to? I couldn’t stand this ‘soft-kill’ of theirs! I kept looking at the birds overhead, cruel birds who could in the space of a few minutes completely devour my friend. Would they really be able to finish a man as quickly as that? If so, then perhaps they really couldn’t be considered cruel. I even began to envy my late friend; a
t least he’d had a quick death, a clean and comfortable death. Compared to the way that I was getting mine in instalments, he was infinitely more fortunate.

  There were a number of times when I felt like saying, ‘Hurry up and get it over with,’ but each time, as the words reached my lips, I swallowed them back again. Although I knew nothing about the character and habits of Cat People, I felt that I had already intuitively grasped that they were the cruellest beings in the whole universe; cruel people never understand the concept of ‘getting things over with’; to them, sawing away slowly at a man is a kind of pleasure. What good would it do to say anything? I was fully prepared for them to stick pins into the soft flesh under my fingernails and pour kerosene into my nose, that is if there were such things as pins and kerosene on Mars.

  I began to shed tears, not because I was afraid, but rather because I began longing for home. Glorious China! Great homeland where there’s no cruelty or torture and kites never devour corpses! I was afraid that I should never again see that glorious land, never again enjoy a rational human existence. Even if I were able to preserve my life on Mars, I was afraid that even Martian ‘enjoyment’ would just turn out to be another kind of pain.

  Now there were several pairs of hands on my legs too. The cat-men didn’t make a single sound, but I could feel their warm breath on my legs and back. It was a loathsome feeling, as though some giant snake had coiled around me.

  Clank! The sound was as clear and crisp as though it had occurred in the midst of years of silence. Even today from time to time, I still hear that sound of fetters being placed on my ankles. I had expected them to do something like that. They had made the fetters so tight that my ankles immediately went numb.

  What crime was I guilty of? What were their intentions? I couldn’t figure any of it out. Trying to do so rationally would be a waste of time, anyway. Since even intellect was lacking in the society of the cat-faced people, one could not reasonably expect to fathom their actions on the basis of the ordinary springs of an equally lacking human emotion.