I thought that after I had told Tzu-chun the truth she would be able to walk resolutely ahead with absolute freedom, as resolutely and courageously as when we had decided to live together. But I am afraid that I was wrong. Her courage and her fearlessness of that time were born of love.
Because I did not have the courage to bear the burden of falsehood, I had loaded upon her the burden of truth. Ever since she fell in love with me, she had assumed this heavy burden and walked with it along the so-called road of life, with nothing but harshness and chilly glances to encourage her.
I thought of her death . . . Now I saw myself as a coward, a coward who should be ostracized by the strong, whether they be liars or truthful men. Yet in spite of my cowardice she had been anxious to help me maintain my livelihood as long as possible.
I wanted to leave Chi-chao Hutung, where it was so strangely solitary and empty. If I could only leave this place, I thought, it would be as though Tzu-chun were still here in the city. She might one day unexpectedly come to see me as she used to when I was at the Guild.
The new road to life continued to elude me; all my inquiries and letters failed to get any favorable response. As a last resort I went to see a friend of my family, a boyhood schoolmate of my uncle's, a specially presented licentiate known for his selfrighteousness. He was an old resident of the capital and had a wide circle of friends.
It was probably because of my worn old clothes that I was received with contemptuous and suspicious glances by the gatekeeper. When at last I was admitted, the man I had come to see recognized me, though he was very cold. He knew everything that had happened.
