The Three Leaps of Wang Lun Read Free Page A

authorities in further extortions on the population—provides specific cause for the rebellion of the downtrodden.
    Without this episode the theme is deflected into that generalized religious attitude, divorced from any particular social or political context, which is expressed early in Book One in the fable of the man and his shadow, and carried to its ghastly end with the fate of the Broken Melon in Book Two.
    Not only the theme is affected; the shape of the book suffers. The novel ends with Hai-t’ang on a pilgrimage to the shrine of the goddess Kuan-yin, seeking peace for the loss of her two children in the upheavals—a direct result of the deal with which her husband Chao Hui has tried to preserve his power in the world. In the published version, lacking the Prologue, this scene is arbitrary; the story stops, but it is not an ending. In the novel as written the end harks back to the beginning, poses again the problem with which the tragedy began, and so provides a satisfying close. (Formally, the introduction is a
hsieh-tzu
, the prefatory episode of a Chinese play or story 22 —further evidence of Döblin’s immersion in things Chinese.)
    We do not know why Döblin agreed to cut this scene. He had tried for nearly two years to find a publisher, and perhaps was ready to accept a suggestion (made, it is said, by Martin Buber 23 ) which improved the chances of acceptance. It was a bad decision, and not the last time Döblin would have difficulties with German publishers.
    This initial scene must be followed by action on a gigantic scale, the essay continues,
    or else the proportions do not tally, and a particular dynamic is called for. I must begin slow and broad, perhaps with one character, in order to develop a massive crescendo. The proportions and the dynamic, these formative tendencies, are quite palpably felt, and now as imagination gets to work tirelessly hauling up material it is this formal law of broad, slow impetus which issues the directives.
    This abstract, symphonic structure then begins to be filled. “A start is made, for purely formal, I should say musical, reasons with a report on one man, a report which I spin out, and this man must become the red thread to which other threads attach themselves.” That man is Wang Lun. “Report” is an inadequate word for the marvellous depiction of this rogue, first in his home village with a father who develops talents as a shaman, then in the city, where his cunning is trapped by the greater cunning of the sly priest To Chin. 24 “I group around him character after character, urge him on to actions so that more and more people gather round him, and so I make him the hero,” writes Döblin. The crucial act is Wang’s murder of a captain who has slain an innocent man. This is the first time Wang has acted for love of another, and it leads him not only to the mountains, but for the first time to a moral questioning.
    “A man struggling vainly, powerless against power: a weak hero, truly powerless.” Thus Döblin states his epic theme. In the mountains Wang encounters wretched outcasts, among them a runaway monk, Ma No, whose crystal Buddhas speak to Wang’s awakening conscience. Able now to articulate the plight of the outcasts he becomes their leader, preaching hope for them in the Western Paradise if they cease railing against fate, become Wu-wei, “Truly Powerless”. Thousands throng to join this new sect. Wang, concerned for their safety, leaves to seek support from the brotherhood of the White Waterlily.
    In his absence Ma No is thrust into the leadership, and makes fateful changes which lead at the end of Book Two to the destruction of his breakaway sect, the Broken Melon: destruction at the hands of Wang Lun, who cannot bear that they should be massacred by Imperial troops. Now, as in a symphony, contrasts are required. “I change my vantage point,” continues Döblin. “The revolutionary ferment in the land has reached a terrible level. The