I like the story with the option to review it in mp3, pdf, and text. Really good stuff.

@beijingboy & quatroclik -- glad you like it. :) we're slowly compiling an anthology of these sorts of stories. Mostly Chinese pieces, but some foreign ones as well (assuming we can find good translations). If you have any suggestions on pieces you'd like covered, let us know.

Marvellous the combination of MP3+text+pingying+vocabulary !!!

I think it's very nice to add such Chinese short stories of talented writers. A French classic short stories writer is Guy de Maupassant. For English, I suggest Edgar Allan Poe.

@barnaby.low,

Hi, it means Gate S, and the writer here doesn't want to write down the real/specific name of the place, so he used S instead. This capital letter can be the first pinyin letter of the real name of this place, but we are not sure. In that period of time, writers always did that in their works. They used one single capital letter referred to a place name or someone's name.

--Echo

echo@popupchinese.com

where can i get a little incident story?

hi...is this story same as a little incident???

- - - -

An Incident by Lu Hsun

Six years have slipped by since I came from the country to the capital. During that time I have seen and heard quite enough of so-called affairs of state; but none of them made much impression on me. If asked to define their influence, I can only say they aggravated my ill temper and made me, frankly speaking, more and more cynical.

One incident, however, struck me as significant, and aroused me from my ill temper, so that even now I cannot forget it.

It happened during the winter of 1917. A bitter north wind was blowing, but, to make a living, I had to be up and out early. I met scarcely a soul on the road, and had great difficulty in hiring a ricksaw to take me to the South Gate. Presently the wind dropped a little. By now the loose dust had all been blown away, leaving the roadway clean, and the rickshaw man quickened his pace. We were just approaching the South Gate when someone crossing the road was entangled in our rickshaw and fell slowly to the ground.

It was a woman, with streaks of white in her hair, wearing ragged clothes. She had left the pavement without warning to cut across in front of us, and although the rickshaw man had made way, her tattered jacket, unbuttoned and fluttering in the wind, had caught on the shaft. Luckily the rickshaw man pulled up quickly, otherwise she would certainly have had a bad fall and been seriously injured.

She lay there on the ground, and the rickshaw man immediately went to her aid. I did not think the old woman was hurt, and there had been no witnesses to what had happened, so I resented this over-eagerness of the rickshaw man which might land him in trouble and hold me up.

"It's alright," I said. "Go on."

However, he paid no attention - perhaps he had not heard - for he set down the shafts, and gently helped the old woman to get up. Supporting her by one arm, he asked:

"Are you all right?"

"I'm hurt."

I had seen how slowly she fell, and was sure she could not be hurt. I thought she must be

pretending, which was disgusting. The rickshaw man had asked for trouble, and now he had it. He would have to find his own way out.

But the rickshaw man did not hesitate for a minute after the old woman said she was injured. Still holding her arm, he helped her slowly forward. I was surprised. When I looked ahead, I saw a police station. Because of the high wind, there was no one outside, so the rickshaw man helped the old woman towards the gate.

Suddenly I had a strange feeling. His dusty, retreating figure seemed larger at that instant. Indeed, the further he walked the larger he appeared, until I had to look up to him. At the same time he seemed gradually to be exerting a pressure on me, which threatened to overpower the small self under my fur-lined gown.

My strength seemed to be draining away as I sat there motionless, my mind a blank, until a policeman came out. Then I got down from the rickshaw.

The policeman came up to me and said, "Get another rickshaw. He can't pull you anymore."

Without thinking, I pulled a handful of coppers from my coat pocket and handed them to the policeman. "Please give him these," I said.

The wind had dropped completely, but the road was still quiet. I walked along thinking, but I was almost afraid to turn my thoughts on myself. Setting aside what had happened earlier, what had I meant by that handful of coppers? Was it a reward? Who was I to judge the rickshaw man? I could not answer myself.

Even now, this remains fresh in my memory. It often causes me distress, and makes me think about myself. The military and political affairs of those years I have forgotten as completely as the classics I read in my childhood. Yet this incident keeps coming back to me, often more clearly than in actual life, teaching me shame, urging me to reform, and giving me fresh courage and hope.

_____________________________________________________________________

http://ganchau.blogspot.com/2006/01/incident-by-lu-hsun_113777076823530012.html

I have seen a translation of S Men as South Gate but what Echo says is right. They did leave things open. I think some European writers also would say something like in the year 19- and not always specify either. Thomas Mann with Death in Venice may have done that but don't have a copy in front of me so not sure.

So in the following paragraph... 风全住了，路上还很静。我走着，一面想，几乎怕敢想到自己。以前的事姑且搁起，这一大把铜元又是什么意思？奖他么？我还能裁判车夫么？我不能回答自己

... is he reflecting on his motivation for wanting to pay the driver? Saying, "who am I to judge?"

Also, what was the likely punishment for rickshaw-related RTAs in the early years of the republic?!

Sure, although if I said "Who am I to judge you?" it would imply I don't think I'm in a position to judge, I'm just as bad etc.

Interestingly, a modern-day 一件小事 occurred in Beijing today: http://cctv.cntv.cn/special/cctvjzdc/wgxhzez/index.shtml

@anjenettevillacastel,

http://lmgtfy.com/?q=lu+xun+a+little+incident

Good luck with your report!