money aside each month to do? No, he’d endure whatever it took to buy a rickshaw. After that, who could say? Owning a rickshaw made everything worthwhile.
He was miserly with his money and tenacious about making more of it. He took monthly hires when he could and spent all day picking up fares on the street the rest of the time, going out early and returning late, and only then if he’d earned his daily quota, regardless of the hour or the state of his legs. Some days he stayed out well into the night. Until then, he’d refused to steal other pullers’ fares, especially the old, the frail, and disabled veterans. Given his strength and superior rickshaw, they would not have stood a chance in a fight for business now. He was no longer so scrupulous. Money, every single coin, was all that mattered, not how much the effort cost him or who he had to fight for it. He was single-minded in reaching his goal, like a ravenous wild animal. As soon as someone was in the seat behind him, Xiangzi ran; he never felt better than when he was running, firm in his belief that stopping was an impediment to his goal of buying his own rickshaw. But his reputation suffered. On many occasions, when he stole a fare, a volley of curses would follow him. He never responded, merely lowered his head and ran as fast as he could. “If I didn’t need to buy a rickshaw,” he said to himself, “I’d never shame myself like that.” It was an unspoken apology. At rickshaw stands or in teahouses, when he noticed the disapproving glares, he wanted to explain himself. But since they all gave him the cold shoulder, compounded by the fact that he never drank or gambled or played chess or simply passed the time with them, he forced the words back down and kept them inside. Embarrassment gradually turned to resentment and suppressed rage. When they glared at him, he glared back. When he thought about how they had looked up to him after his escape from the mountains, their change in attitude rankled. Alone with his pot of tea in a teahouse or counting his earnings at a rickshaw stand, he swallowed his anger. Not one to look for a fight, he would not back down from one, either. That was also true for most of the other men, but they thought twice before mixing it up with Xiangzi, since they were no match for him, one-on-one, and ganging up would be a disgrace. Forcing himself to keep his anger in check—the only way he knew how to deal with the situation—he would endure it the best he could until he had his own rickshaw. Once he was free of the need to come up with a day’s rental, he could be generous and stop offending other pullers by stealing their fares. That was the way to look at it, he thought to himself as he eyed the other men, as if to say, “Wait and see.”
But back to Xiangzi. He ought not to have pushed himself so hard. He’d barely returned to the city when he began pulling a rickshaw again, before giving his body a chance to fully recover. Never one to bow down to adversity, he tired easily. Even then, he refused to rest, convinced that the way to overcome soreness and sluggishness was to run more and sweat more. Knowing the pitfalls of starving himself, he nonetheless refused to eat good, nutritious food. He could see he was thinner than before, but he was still bigger and taller than the other men and was reassured that his muscles were still hard. He believed he could put up with more hardships than they, and it never occurred to him that his size and the hard work he forced upon himself required more nourishment. Huniu often said to him, “If you keep this up, don’t blame others when you start spitting up blood!”
He knew she meant well, but because things were going badly and he was not taking care of his body, he was irritable. With a scowl, he grumbled, “If I don’t keep at it, when will I be able to buy my rickshaw?”
Anyone else who scowled at Huniu like that would never hear the end of it—but not Xiangzi, on whom
He was miserly with his money and tenacious about making more of it. He took monthly hires when he could and spent all day picking up fares on the street the rest of the time, going out early and returning late, and only then if he’d earned his daily quota, regardless of the hour or the state of his legs. Some days he stayed out well into the night. Until then, he’d refused to steal other pullers’ fares, especially the old, the frail, and disabled veterans. Given his strength and superior rickshaw, they would not have stood a chance in a fight for business now. He was no longer so scrupulous. Money, every single coin, was all that mattered, not how much the effort cost him or who he had to fight for it. He was single-minded in reaching his goal, like a ravenous wild animal. As soon as someone was in the seat behind him, Xiangzi ran; he never felt better than when he was running, firm in his belief that stopping was an impediment to his goal of buying his own rickshaw. But his reputation suffered. On many occasions, when he stole a fare, a volley of curses would follow him. He never responded, merely lowered his head and ran as fast as he could. “If I didn’t need to buy a rickshaw,” he said to himself, “I’d never shame myself like that.” It was an unspoken apology. At rickshaw stands or in teahouses, when he noticed the disapproving glares, he wanted to explain himself. But since they all gave him the cold shoulder, compounded by the fact that he never drank or gambled or played chess or simply passed the time with them, he forced the words back down and kept them inside. Embarrassment gradually turned to resentment and suppressed rage. When they glared at him, he glared back. When he thought about how they had looked up to him after his escape from the mountains, their change in attitude rankled. Alone with his pot of tea in a teahouse or counting his earnings at a rickshaw stand, he swallowed his anger. Not one to look for a fight, he would not back down from one, either. That was also true for most of the other men, but they thought twice before mixing it up with Xiangzi, since they were no match for him, one-on-one, and ganging up would be a disgrace. Forcing himself to keep his anger in check—the only way he knew how to deal with the situation—he would endure it the best he could until he had his own rickshaw. Once he was free of the need to come up with a day’s rental, he could be generous and stop offending other pullers by stealing their fares. That was the way to look at it, he thought to himself as he eyed the other men, as if to say, “Wait and see.”
But back to Xiangzi. He ought not to have pushed himself so hard. He’d barely returned to the city when he began pulling a rickshaw again, before giving his body a chance to fully recover. Never one to bow down to adversity, he tired easily. Even then, he refused to rest, convinced that the way to overcome soreness and sluggishness was to run more and sweat more. Knowing the pitfalls of starving himself, he nonetheless refused to eat good, nutritious food. He could see he was thinner than before, but he was still bigger and taller than the other men and was reassured that his muscles were still hard. He believed he could put up with more hardships than they, and it never occurred to him that his size and the hard work he forced upon himself required more nourishment. Huniu often said to him, “If you keep this up, don’t blame others when you start spitting up blood!”
He knew she meant well, but because things were going badly and he was not taking care of his body, he was irritable. With a scowl, he grumbled, “If I don’t keep at it, when will I be able to buy my rickshaw?”
Anyone else who scowled at Huniu like that would never hear the end of it—but not Xiangzi, on whom
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