A live-streamed Chinese language lesson under the sky—the ancients were taken aback.

The Imperial College was brightly lit, but no one got up.

The first to speak was Zhou Langzhong, who had studied the Book of Poetry and served in the Ministry of Rites for twenty years. He never strayed from the Book of Poetry: "The Book of Poetry consists of three hundred poems, which can be summed up in one sentence: 'No evil thoughts.'"

The poem "Guan Ju" describes the love between a man and a woman, but it stops at the line "tossing and turning in bed" and never continues.

The poem "The Abandoned Woman" depicts the resentment of an abandoned woman, ending with the line "It's all over now."

But what about "Thunderstorm"? Teaching such family scandals in school—how can that be considered innocent?

Is there no more appropriate way to learn these principles?

He put down his notebook, his tone becoming even more somber: "The same goes for 'The New Year's Sacrifice' and 'Kong Yiji.' Xianglin's wife remarries, and Kong Yiji steals books. After it's finished, there's not a single word of praise or criticism. When the sage wrote the 'Spring and Autumn Annals,' every word conveyed right and wrong, and praise and criticism were naturally expressed between the strokes of the pen. These stories are better; they're just coldly placed there, leaving students to think for themselves. What can they possibly come up with?"

"It's not just cold." An elderly scholar with white hair spoke up from the corner. He was Chen Xueshi, who had retired from the Hanlin Academy. "Gentlemen, put these texts together and read them: Xianglin's Wife, Kong Yiji, Thunderstorm, and Camel Xiangzi."

Every piece is about failure, fragmentation, and decay; not a single one depicts a person living uprightly within the established order.

Is it that there has never been such a person in China's two thousand years of history, or is the writer deliberately omitting them?

Upon hearing this, everyone looked at each other in bewilderment.

The Chancellor of the Imperial Academy, who had remained silent, finally looked up and asked, "Do you think they deliberately didn't write it down?"

A young student in the back row stood up, his lips pursed until they turned white: "Gentlemen, I believe that it's not that there are no upright people in later generations, but rather that Master Shen's recent lectures have focused on those who have been crushed. What she's trying to say is probably not the 'upright' aspect."

Dr. Zhou frowned: "But an article should always give people an explanation. When Han Yu wrote 'The Story of Wang Chengfu, the Bricklayer,' he described a bricklayer who earned his living by his own labor, and at the end of the story, he wrote, 'If one is lazy in his work and does nothing for a living, he will surely suffer divine retribution.'"

Liu Zongyuan wrote "The Snake Catcher's Tale," in which he described how oppressive government was more ferocious than a tiger, and ended with the line, "Let those who observe the customs of the people understand."

The ancients also wrote about injustice and indignation, but in the end, they always left a judgment and a destination.

But where is the judgment in these articles by Tianmu? Where is it placed?

The Chancellor of the Imperial Academy continued, "It's not that there's no judgment, it's that Cao Yu doesn't make that judgment for you. When ancient people wrote articles, the final judgment was already made for you. After you finished reading, you knew whether you should feel sad or angry. These few articles don't make judgments for you. Feeling the pain is your own business, and making judgments is also your own business."

For a moment, Zhou Langzhong was speechless, and after a long pause, he finally said, "If an article doesn't offer its own interpretation for the reader, then what's the point of writing it?"

The Chancellor of the Imperial Academy waved his hand, and the entire hall fell silent.

"You just said that you read 'Thunderstorm' alone in Zhou Puyuan's living room. How did you feel after you finished reading it?"

Doctor Zhou paused for a moment, then lowered his head and thought for a moment: "I can't explain it. It's just a feeling of tightness in my chest."

"So, do you think Cao Yu wrote this to make you criticize him, or to prevent you from criticizing him?"

Doctor Zhou opened his mouth, but couldn't answer.

The Chancellor of the Imperial Academy slowly said, "You just said that there is always a judgment in writing, that good deeds are rewarded and evil deeds are punished, and that readers can close the book with peace of mind. But Cao Yu doesn't let you have peace of mind. He makes you go back with a stone pressing on your chest. He doesn't make judgment for you, not because he can't, but because he's unwilling. He'd rather not give you that 'reward' than give you a false one."

Silence fell over the hall.

The Chancellor of the Imperial Academy slowly closed his notebook and placed it on the table: "What does 'The Big Rat' curse? 'Big rat, big rat, don't eat my millet.' Does it end after the curse? No, the last line is 'Whose eternal lament?'"

What does "Cutting the Sandalwood" criticize? "You neither hunt nor trap, yet I see a badger hanging in your courtyard." Does it end after the criticism? No.

Our ancestors included them in the Book of Songs, and did not delete them because they were "indecent".

It's not that our ancestors were incapable of being direct; it's that later generations have come to regard directness as impolite.

He glanced at the students below: "Master Shen's lesson is not finished yet. Before it is finished, if you don't understand something, leave it for now. If you do understand something, don't rush to conclusions."

-

The next day, as soon as class started, the students couldn't wait to ask Shen Moyan that question.

"Teacher, teacher, we haven't talked about Lu Dahai from 'Thunderstorm' yet. Where did he go?"

The students asked the same question in the last class, but the bell rang just then, so it was left for this class.

Seeing the anxious students, Shen Moyan didn't say anything more.

She turned around and wrote the three characters "Lu Dahai" on the blackboard.

Why didn't Cao Yu give him an ending?

"Because Cao Yu didn't know where he should go."

She put down the chalk and continued, "Lu Dahai is the most special character in this play. He is a member of the working class, the leader of the strike, and the only person in this living room who does not follow Zhou Puyuan's rules, does not eat Zhou Puyuan's food, and does not ask Zhou Puyuan for anything."

Zhou Puyuan fired him, but he wasn't afraid. Zhou Ping slapped him, and he fought back. He verbally abused Zhou Puyuan until he was speechless, then slammed the door and left. He is the most powerful character in "Thunderstorm."

"But Cao Yu gave him strength, but not direction."

He stepped out of the gates of Zhou Enlai's residence. What lay outside? Was it the darkness before dawn, or an even deeper, more intense darkness? Cao Yu did not know.

In 1933, the working class in China had just stepped onto the historical stage, and they were still exploring their path.

Cao Yu was a 23-year-old student who saw the power of the working class, but he didn't know where that power would ultimately lead.

So all he could write was: Lu Dahai is gone.

"This is not a perfect ending, but it is an honest ending."

Cao Yu did not fabricate a bright future, nor did he write about Lu Dahai leading the workers to victory or Zhou Puyuan bowing his head and confessing his crimes.

Because he knew that in 1933 China, if Lu Dahai went abroad, he might face police pursuit, betrayal by his fellow workers, or even more brutal repression.

The student who asked the question looked distressed. "Teacher, why do I feel even more hopeless?"

Shen Moyan thought for a moment before speaking.

"You're not mistaken. In fact, this attitude was criticized by many people at the time. Left-wing critics said that Cao Yu was not revolutionary enough, that he did not point out the path of class struggle, and that he did not leave the spark of resistance at the end."

They said "Thunderstorm" was too despairing; everyone was dead, even the working-class Lu Dahai disappeared into the darkness, and there wasn't a single positive character who could lead the audience towards the light.

"However," Shen Moyan said calmly, but raised his voice slightly, "leaving is an attitude in itself. Lu Dahai is the only one in 'Thunderstorm' who didn't end up in the Zhou Mansion."

"He didn't die in the living room, he didn't go mad, he didn't become a second Zhou Puyuan, he didn't kneel, he walked out."

"Lu Dahai retained something precious: possibility. When he walked out of that door, the future was unknown. The unknown is not scary; what is scary is having no choice."