Resurrection 1 - 1
Hong Kong Type #22
Six Records of a Resurrected Life
Preface by the Author
My name is Dai Fuk, styled Fuk Seng, a native of the Eighteen Villages in San On County, Kwangtung Province. At the age of eleven, I went to Hong Kong alone and enrolled at Anglo-Chinese College, a charity school. Three years later, the charity school closed down, and I became an apprentice at Anglo-Chinese Printing House and specialized in typesetting. I have been engaged in it ever since, unchanged for more than fifty years. I am not a scholar or a man of letters, but merely a typesetter. However, since I was young, I have been obsessed with characters, always reading whenever I see text and never tired of it. I especially loved the characters in engraving printing, appreciating their neatness and regularity, clear strokes, varying shades of ink, like shadows following forms, with subtle variations but not departing from their original intent. Whenever I came across an engraved book, I would be entranced and would examine each character carefully as if savoring a delicacy. Later, when I first saw the art of Western movable type printing, the exquisite casting and the ingenious operation presented a fascinating spectacle, which eventually became my lifelong career. It fits my temperament perfectly.
Throughout my life, I have been a low-key person, having limited experience and narrow horizons, with nothing worth boasting about. But one regret has lingered for decades without being able to let go. Now that I have reached the age which I can act as my heart desires, I have personally arranged it into words, printed it into a book, to express the unrequited love and unconsummated aspirations of the past years, which I believe does not exceed the bounds of propriety. The incident that I want to narrate is not beneficial to worldly wisdom, nor enough to kill time, but to express my heartfelt emotions bit by bit to comfort the departed spirit. The text in the book was originally a letter written for someone when I was young, all addressing to “you” as the conversation partner, which is different from the usual biography. Here, with many original texts, I have edited and strung them together, removing repetitions and redundancies, added some factual supplements, and tried to preserve its original appearance as much as possible to reveal the truth of those years. The tragic situation is perhaps close to popular novels, but it is all written straight from the pen, without embellishment, for the suffering in the world is boundless after all. Although I have spent my life with words, due to my limited education, my language is mixed, my styles are inconsistent, and there is no literary talent. I hope the readers will forgive me.
A time of great change is approaching and the universe is at its turning point. I myself am growing old, and though my time in this world may not last much longer, I still have hopes for the new generation. Thus, I have chosen “Resurrection” as the topic, and it comprises six chapters, collectively known as Six Records of a Resurrected Life.
October of the Xinhai Year *
December 1911 AD
I. Enlightenment
Heng Yi, I promised you I’d write, and you didn’t believe me, so I’m writing to you now. I should have written this letter sooner. I deeply regret delaying it till now. If I had written earlier, letting you know my intentions, perhaps things wouldn’t have come to this. However, even if you knew my intentions, you were unable to control the circumstances. But at least our intentions were our own. I don’t know if you agree or not.
I have hesitated for a long time to write to you, mainly because I do not know how. Before entering Anglo-Chinese College, I had studied for several years in a private school in my village, where I learned only a few characters. During my three years at Anglo-Chinese College, apart from studying foreign books, I also read some Chinese texts, but they were all superficial knowledge. With this superficial knowledge, I guess I couldn’t have passed the imperial examination. When I was fourteen, I started working at the College Printing House, day and night I was surrounded by Chinese translations of the Bible and the Chinese texts written by Western missionaries. It was only after printing Mr. Legge’s translation of Chinese classics that I read through the Four Books. As for poetry and novels, they were not my cup of tea. Over time, whenever I picked up a brush to write in Chinese, it didn’t feel right, and the results were so poor that they were not presentable. I later heard that even when Mr. Wong Shing received an invitation from the court, he dared not reply in his own hand and had to ask Mr. Wang Tao from Shanghai to write on his behalf. This proves that not being good at writing Chinese is not something unusual. However, it would be very shameless of me to compare myself with Mr. Wong Shing.
Look, I’ve been beating around the bush for so long without getting to the point. This really shows my shortcomings. After much contemplation, I figured that no matter how poor my writing might be, it’s better than not writing at all. As the ancients say, “it’s enough to express oneself.” Hence, I won’t care about the style or syntax, or whether to use classical or vernacular Chinese; my primary aim is to express my thoughts to you and make you understand. I firmly believe that you won’t laugh at me, but the question remains, where should I start? Looking back, it’s been over ten years since we first met, but the number of times we’ve talked face to face can be counted on less than ten fingers. You probably know very little about me. Given this, I might as well start from the beginning, tell you about my childhood, how I came to Hong Kong to study, how I became an apprentice, and how I became close to you. As I recount my story, you’ll understand why I feel the need to write this letter to you, and you won’t find my actions overly abrupt.
My family was originally from the Eighteen Villages in San On County. My paternal grandfather Dai Yen was a scholar and held significant prestige in the township. Sadly, his first two sons passed away at a young age. His third son, Dai Jun, became the heir; he was my father. My father was clever and fond of studying in his youth. Unfortunately, his excessive dedication to studies led to illness. After failing the local examinations twice, his spirits never recovered, resulting in his untimely death at a young age. My mother only had a daughter with my father, leaving no male heirs in the family, which led to a loss of support within the clan. By then, my paternal grandfather had also passed away, leaving my great-uncle, Dai Yi, as the patriarch of the family. At the time of my father’s death, my mother was pregnant, but it was unknown if she was expecting a boy. My great-uncle, coveting our ancestral properties, plotted to harm us in order to terminate our lineage. Feeling threatened, my mother decided to return to her maiden family and took her daughter to escape. My mother, whose maiden name was Leung Chun, was from Mong Kok Village in Kowloon. Although her father had passed away, his eldest son, my mother’s older brother, became the head of the Leung family. He provided temporary shelter for my mother, who successfully gave birth to a son, that is me, and named me “Fuk”. Though overjoyed at my birth, my mother dared not return to the Eighteen Villages, fearing threats from my great-uncle’s family. As a married woman, my mother wasn’t really considered a member of the Leung family, so her brother’s decision to shelter her was not in accordance with social norms. However, as my great-uncle had seized my father’s properties, my mother, now a widow, had nowhere else to go. My mother's brother, reluctantly, allowed us to live in a small house next to the village. Since then, our family of three lived like harmless small moles, parasitizing in a corner of Mong Kok Village, forgotten by both the Dai and Leung families.
I was born in Mong Kok Village, Kowloon in the 22nd year of the Dao Guang era, which corresponds to the year 1842 in the Western calendar. At that time, the Qing Dynasty and England had just ended their war, and the Treaty of Nanking was signed, resulting in the ceding of Hong Kong to the British. As an infant, I naturally knew nothing of this. Although my maternal uncle treated my mother well, she was still considered an outsider, and naturally her status was slightly lower. The compensation for assimilating our real estate by my paternal great-uncle was scanty, hardly enough for our daily needs, and the assistance from my maternal uncle was just slightly better than nothing. My mother, originally a maiden from a well-off family, with bound feet no longer than three inches, and hands that never touched the spring water, had sunk into destitution. She had to economize on clothes and meals, and took care of all household chores herself. Unfortunately, she was hampered by her physical condition and was unable to contribute to the family income. My sister Dai Ngan was not even ten years old when she had to go down to the field to plant vegetables or do laundry for others. She did not bind her feet, which in retrospect, was perhaps a blessing.
When I was young, my mother placed high hopes in me. She urged me relentlessly to carry on my father’s legacy, to excel in my studies, to shine in the imperial examinations, and to bring honor to our family name. It was her dream that I could outperform the Dai family from the Eighteen Villages and revenge the insult we had suffered. Even though we were poor, my father’s books were well-preserved, occupying more than half of our humble dwelling. Before I even became a young boy, I loved to read books, loudly reciting the characters, and even attempting to write with brush and ink. Whenever I got a piece of paper, I would never throw it away. Instead, I would store it in a box, cherish it, and even refuse to let go of torn scraps of paper. I was stubborn in this regard, which my mother interpreted as a sign that I was blessed by the God of Literature. At the age of six, a fortune teller cast a hexagram, predicting that I would revive the family business in the future. This filled my mother with joy, and she spared no expense in sending me to a private school in the neighboring village, which was renowned for producing several scholars. However, despite my obsession with books, I was unwilling to study hard. When reciting ancient poems and classics, I only memorized the characters without understanding their meanings. Even after several years, there was little progress in my studies. This made my mother extremely anxious.
My family was poor, depending on the protection of others. My position was very humble, and with my introverted nature, I had few friends in the village. Only my uncle’s fifth son Leung Wong, who was two years my senior, did not mind my dullness. Since childhood, we used to play together, and he was my closest companion. Wong had no interest in studies, his passions were climbing mountains and crossing rivers, catching shrimps and fishing. I would accompany him in these adventures, going as near as the coastal area of Tai Kok Tsui or towards the areas around Kowloon Tong to the north, and as far as underneath Kowloon Walled City or even to Tsim Sha Tsui over the southern hills. Seeing me neglecting my studies, my mother was at a loss for what to do, she could only worry in silence and shed secret tears.
The Leung family abandoned farming in favor of commerce since their grandfather’s generation, dealing with fragrance wood products. They harvested raw materials from Aberdeen, south of the Red Incense Burner, processed them slightly, and sold them in the provincial capital. My uncle had no interest in officialdom, and did not force his son to pursue fame. He only required him to be literate and understand arithmetic in order to learn business in the future. One day, I came back from playing with Ah Wong, sweating profusely. I walked in the door and saw my uncle solemnly sitting in the hall, apparently discussing important matters with my mother. Seeing me, the unworthy child, walk right into his trap, my uncle commanded me to stand in the hall. He glared at me to assert his authority and then handed me a piece of paper. On the paper, there was a brief announcement. It said, “The Anglo-Chinese College of our port has been established for ten years. It has nearly a hundred students taught by Chinese and British teachers. Chinese teachers teach the Four Books and Five Classics and British teachers teach the Bible and English, as well as astronomy, geography, arithmetic etc. Our students do not have to pay tuition, and even meals are provided by the College. The Chinese families who enjoy these benefits are numerous. It is proposed that on the 28th of July in the year 1853, the first day of September in the western calendar marking the birth of Jesus, new students will be admitted. Hence, a broad announcement is made. Those who wish for their children to join the college should come and negotiate as soon as possible. This is a respectful announcement from the administrator of Anglo-Chinese College.”
What attracted me more than the content of the notice was the typeface used in the printed notice. It was a style of font I had never seen before, completely different from the usual Chinese scripts I used to see in carved editions. It took me a long time to understand that what I was looking at was the first set of Western-style Chinese movable type ever created. Of course, I also didn’t know that I would spend the rest of my life working with this movable type until my old age.
The following day, my uncle took me from Tai Kok Tsui to cross the sea by boat, to negotiate my enrollment at Hong Kong Anglo-Chinese College. The locals are accustomed to calling this place “Red Incense Burner” or “Belt Road” before the Westerners named it Hong Kong. In the past, when Ah Wong and I toured Tsim Sha Tsui, we often looked across the sea, like watching a mirage. According to the villagers, the island was originally a barren land, with no grass on the mountain, only rubble by the sea, and no place to live. In the year I was born, it was occupied by English “red-haired ghosts”, who turned the sea into land, and the mountain into a city. Within a few years, tall buildings were everywhere, boats were as abundant as crucian carp, and businessmen and laborers flocked to it like ducks, settling with tens of thousands of Chinese. The place where we landed was called Central, the hub of the City of Victoria. The streets and buildings were neat and imposing, with a look vastly different from Chinese towns. My uncle, like an experienced horse, led the way, and we walked through the lanes and ascended halfway up the mountain to see two connected double-story western houses, which were the buildings of the London Missionary Society and also where the Anglo-Chinese College was located.
Mr. Legge, whom I was to meet, was a redhead, with a high nose and deep-set eyes, densely bearded, and appeared to be in his thirties to forties. He could speak the local dialect, and though his tone was not accurate, his words were fully understandable. Actually, it was not my first encounter with a westerner. In my childhood, there was a missionary named Gutzlaff, who preached around Kowloon, distributed Chinese manuscripts, and was also able to speak the local dialect. However, I was too young at that time, and only observed him from afar, too timid to approach. Now meeting a Westerner in person was rather intimidating, so much so that when Mr. Legge spoke to me, I was tongue-tied and could not respond. Mr. Legge did not mind and kindly smiled at me, patting me on the head, which made me tremble all over. After the meeting, my uncle took me to a market to drink herbal tea and ear western pudding, instructing me to learn English well so that it could benefit me in the future. On our way home, looking back to the mountain city from the sea, I was overwhelmed with indescribable emotions, like a bitter taste with a hint of sweetness.
Two months later, I packed my bags, tearfully bid farewell to my mother and headed off alone to study at Anglo-Chinese College. I was eleven that year, with my character traits still forming, adapting to boarding life was not that difficult. However, I’d always been bad at making friends, and living in the same room with other students was somewhat distressing. Yet, half a year passed without any major issues. The discipline in the school was quite strict. Every morning at seven o’clock, male and female students gathered in the hall for morning prayers, only after which we had breakfast. Then the morning classes started which involved English grammar and writing, arithmetic, and geography. After lunch, we studied Chinese literature and classics. After a short rest and dinner, we had evening lessons on Christian teachings in Chinese until eight o’clock. Only after the evening prayer gathering were the students allowed to bathe and go to bed. On Sundays, we had worship services in Chinese and English, and there were no classes. I remember when I started school, there were thirty-six boys and nine girls. Apart from worship and meals, boys and girls were taught separately and had nothing to do with each other. You already know everything I’ve described, as you were one of the nine girls. However, I still painstakingly record it, primarily because you were very young at the time, around six or seven, and I wanted to explain it in detail to help you recall the past.
I still remember the first time I saw you. It was at the morning prayer meeting the day after we started school. The boys and girls were seated separately in the hall, understandably curious about each other and sneaking glances back and forth. Being rather shy, I dared not watch directly, but would steal glances toward the girls’ seats out of the corner of my eye. I saw girls of different heights and weights, of varying ages, all wearing modest Chinese shirts and trousers. However, among them, the smallest one was wearing a sky-blue Western dress. She had extraordinarily fair skin, and the hair tied up in pigtails was surprisingly chestnut-colored. I was taken aback at first, but then I thought that it was not surprising to see children of Western residents at the school. After that, I couldn’t help but look in the girl’s direction every morning and evening prayer. I suppose you didn’t notice at the time, and probably don’t remember this today. About half a year after we started attending the same school, I gradually gathered from hearsay that you were not a pure Westerner, but local-born with a Chinese name Lai Heng Yi and spoke the local dialect. This left me even more perplexed.
I wonder if you remember the teachers at school. Let me briefly describe them again. Mr. Legge was the principal of the college and also taught English. Mr. Chalmers was the teacher of Mathematics and Geography. Both of them were missionaries at the mission station. The Chinese teacher was Mr. Chan, who was not a believer, but a general private school instructor who applied for the job. Mr. Ho Tsun-shin was the second earliest Chinese pastor, who specialized in teaching Christian doctrines. The girls’ classroom was run by Mrs. Chalmers, who taught Chinese and English as well as basic math, and also gave lessons in needlework and weaving. Although Mr. Legge’s pronunciation was not good, he often spoke the local dialect with the students and encouraged them to learn, which made him very approachable. Later, I heard from senior students that Mr. Legge and his wife originally ran the college together, but unfortunately, Mrs. Legge passed away due to childbirth complications last year. At the beginning of this year, Mr. Legge sent his three young daughters back to England, and the mission station became quite deserted. Despite his hard work, Mr. Legge often seemed melancholic. Fortunately, the newly arrived Chalmers couple helped out, allowing the college to continue to function as normal. Sometimes I would get up in the middle of the night to go to the toilet, and from the dormitory corridor, I could see that the light in Mr. Legge’s room across was always on.
I was more curious about the printing of the textbook than the knowledge it contained, a consequence of my innate passion for characters. Whether it was a grammar book essential for everyday Chinese-English language learning, or a catechism book for children’s basic Q&As, I would flip them back and forth, memorizing the appearance of every page, every sentence, every character. A month into school, I had already read my textbooks until they were thoroughly worn out and found them tedious. Later, I realized that there was a library at the school with a plentiful collection of books. Every day, during break times, I would go to the library and, regardless of my ability, bury myself in reading. The first book that caught my eye was the Divine Heaven Holy Bible, ** because it had the most volumes, the heaviest weight, and the most imposing name. Even though the sentences were convoluted and the text was mysterious and difficult to decipher like a secret spell, it felt like I had ventured into a supernatural realm, entirely engrossed and forgetting time. One Sunday afternoon, Mr. Legge was surprised to see me flipping through this book in the library and asked if I understood it. I shook my head, and he told me that it was the first Chinese Bible translated by the missionary pioneers Robert Morrison and William Milne. He then placed two large books on the table and said to me, “These two are the newly translated New Testament and Old Testament. The language is smoother, easier to understand, and they are printed by our college. Take a look, fresh out of the oven!” Mr. Legge touched the cover of the book lightly, as if it were hot loaves of bread. As I opened it and saw the words neatly aligned on the page, the strokes evenly made, the overall visual strongly impressive, the details minutely presented, the scene was magnificent and it shook me to the core. Perhaps the seed of becoming a book printer was planted that day.
Another enlightening book is Chinese Serial, which in Chinese is called Valuable News from Far and Near. *** This is actually a magazine introducing Western studies and reporting current affairs, published monthly by Anglo-Chinese College, which was first launched in August 1853, around the time I started school. My initial knowledge of astronomy and geography, such as the earth being a sphere, the rotation of the earth creating day and night, the revolution of the earth around the sun, the causes of solar and lunar eclipses, etc., all came from this magazine. I also read about the customs and systems of various continents and countries on earth, understanding that the world is more than just China. The knowledge of geology, minerals, biological classification, human body structure, and so on, all broadened my horizons. The monthly periodical reported domestic and foreign news, with gradually increasing content. In the following two or three years, I followed the developments of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom and the Shanghai Small Sword Society every month with a shifting panorama of stunning events. At this time, I realized when and where I was born, what is China, what is the West, what is Britain, France, Russia, and America, what is the Manchu and the long-haired, and what is Hong Kong.
At first glance, I recognized that the characters printed in the Chinese Serial were the same as those in the Bibles printed by Anglo-Chinese College Printing House. Moreover, each of these similar characters was identical, without any discrepancies. Compared to the books printed in Malacca during the time of the missionary pioneers, the quality was significantly different. At that time, I knew nothing about the printing technique, and no one around me could solve my puzzle. The printing house was located in a low-rise building, separated from the school and the dormitory, and no students ever set foot there. However, the sound of the operating machinery inside could be faintly heard even from a distance. I couldn’t resist my curiosity and quietly went to explore. Peeping through the window on tiptoe, I saw a master holding a wooden box, checking some small metal columns, and putting them back on the wooden rack one by one. Soon the master looked up and saw someone outside the window. Instead of being angry, he waved me in. I hesitated slightly but didn’t dare to disobey. Once inside, the master said, “Young gentleman, I often see you in the library.” This person was about thirty years old and spoke gently, unlike the typical labourer. I felt embarrassed and stuttered, “I am not a gentleman, I just love characters and want to know how they are printed.” The master nodded and smiled, calmly saying, “If you really want to know, I can tell you.” The master continued, “The characters we use are newly made lead type. The process of making the type was originally a Western method. First, you carve a steel character template, which is called a punch in English, then you use the template to press out the character mold on a copper plate, which is a matrix in English. After that, pour the lead alloy into the matrix, and you can cast a lead movable type, hence the name ‘lead type’. Have a look, this is the lead movable type.” As the master demonstrated with the actual object, I was entranced as if watching a magical act. This adult who patiently explained to a curious child turned out to be Mr. Wong Shing, the new supervisor of the printing house, who had recently returned from studying in the United States.
Due to the strict segregation between boys and girls, I had never had the opportunity to meet you up close, let alone converse. However, during meals and classes each day, I couldn’t help but secretly glance in your direction. I often saw you sitting quietly alone, rarely talking with others. It made you appear ethereal, standing out from the crowd. But being as dull as I was, these were merely fleeting thoughts, nothing more. As the second academic year was nearing its end, there was an outbreak of smallpox. Many had died from the disease due to the practice of variolation, so the school arranged for a doctor to visit and vaccinate the students with cowpox. After the boys were vaccinated, we were given half an hour’s rest. I wished to go to the library to read, and as I passed the vaccination room, the hallway doors and windows were wide open, with the girls coming out one after another. I unintentionally glanced inside and saw you sitting upright on a chair, your short sleeves rolled up to your shoulders, the doctor’s blade had just pierced your tender young skin. You closed your eyes and frowned, enduring the pain, I too felt as if my vaccination spot was burning. When I reached the library, my mind was restless, I aimlessly flipped through a few pages. Realizing the time, I headed back to my classroom. Unexpectedly, I saw you standing motionless beside the flower bed, your white dress translucent, your figure as delicate as paper, with a bandage wrapped around your upper left arm. You heard someone approaching and you turned slightly, your expression neither happy nor scared, as if you saw someone familiar. I pretended to be calm and asked, “Does it hurt?” You said, “Yes, it hurts.” I said, “Me too.” I added, “My mother said if you don’t eat cleanly, you’ll end up marrying a smallpox-ridden woman.” You asked, “What about girls?” I said, “The same.” You smiled, just like a blooming flower.
At the end of the term in July, the students returned home for summer vacation. I walked out of the school gate with my luggage, intending to head straight down Aberdeen Street towards Central. Suddenly, I saw you accompanied by a woman, walking along Hollywood Road. Without much thought, I changed my direction and followed. After a while, you and the woman were standing by the road, pulling and tugging at each other, seemingly having a dispute. I noticed from her resemblance to you that the woman might be your mother, but her complexion and hair color were different. Reluctantly, you lagged a few steps behind your mother before moving on. At the intersection of Flower Market Street and Pottinger Street, the two of you, one after the other, walked into a photography studio by the roadside. Looking up, I saw the big characters “Ah Chang Photography Studio”. I paused for a while outside the shop, where I could barely discern anything in the dimly lit room. However, among the photos displayed in the window, there was a portrait of a young girl in a beautiful western dress, with an exotic and appealing charm. She had a mixed appearance, half Chinese, half foreign. I carried my luggage to the Central Pier to cross the harbor. All I could think of was your hesitating figure on the road and the slightly forced smile in the photo.
After the summer vacation, I returned to school only to find that you were no longer there. There was a boy in the class who was familiar with many of the girls, and it was from him that I learned you had dropped out. The reason was unclear. I felt a little lost, but I didn’t give it much thought. After all, our relationship was nothing more than brief acquaintanceship. The heart of a young man is fickle and forgetful, and as such life went on as usual at the boarding school, with its primary focus being on studying, and nothing particularly noteworthy to speak of. The number of boys and girls studying at the school was over ninety in total, a record-breaking number that made the place rather crowded. However, by the second half of 1856, as the situation in the area gradually became unstable and many people began to withdraw from Hong Kong, the number of students dropped significantly. Mr. Legge announced that he would cease the boarding program in Anglo-Chinese College, and would only keep the day school running. My home was located on the opposite side of the harbour, in Kowloon. Without the convenience of accommodation and meals at the school, it would have been difficult for me to commute to school every day. I was very attached to the environment of the college and didn’t want to throw away all my previous efforts. Going out to work or venturing into trade were not my desired choices. In my distress, I met Mr. Wong Shing, and when I asked his advice, he asked me if I was interested in becoming a printing apprentice. I had been hoping for such an opportunity, so I promptly accepted his offer. My mother and uncle were both in agreement, so the matter was settled. As it happened, that year also saw the cessation of Chinese Serial’s publication.
I see that you’re tired, let’s continue next time.
* 辛亥年
**《神天聖書》, the Chinese Title of the Bible translated by Robert Morrison and William Milne.
*** 《遐邇貫珍》