I've started studying mandarin again. As part of that, I am systematically reading through a book of short stories by one of China's grandmasters of literature, Lu Xun (鲁迅), who lived during early revolutionary China. To aid my study, each story I go through I'm going to post here and then try to translate it as best I can. The original text is below, the translation is presented first.
"A small incident" - Lu Xun, July 1920
The six years from when I moved from my home town to the capital have passed in the blink of an eye. Over this time, I've heard that our so-called country has had not a few milestones; but in my heart, none of them have left any impression, and if I try to search for what I have of these events, it only increases my discontent - truthfully, it makes me to look down on people more and more each day.
But there was one small incident that for me has significance, dragging me out of my discontent, that until now I have been unable to forget.
This was in the country's sixth year's  winter, with the North wind blowing hard, when for work I had no choice but to commute in the mornings. When I started my commute there were almost no people to be seen, so it was easy to find a rickshaw, telling the driver to go to the S Gate [one of Beijing's gates]. It didn't take long for the North wind to die down and the dust on the road to clear, leaving a spotless white path, letting the rickshaw puller go faster. Just before the S Gate, suddenly on the rickshaw's axle there was a person, who slowly fell down.
The fallen person was a woman, with grizzled hair, and very ragged clothes. She had abruptly turned from the street and cut in front of us; despite the rickshaw puller giving her right of way, the woman's jacket hadn't been buttoned, and a gust of wind had caused it to open and finally wrap around the rickshaw axle. Luckily, the rickshaw puller had slowed down, or else the woman would have been caught and overturned, her head struck and bleeding.
She lay on the ground; the rickshaw puller put down the handles. I judged that this old woman wasn't hurt, and no one saw it, so I thought the stop was strange, and that he was asking for trouble and delaying my trip.
He said to her:
"Are you alright?"
I thought, I saw you fall slowly to the ground, how is it that she could have broken something, she's malingering, how reprehensible. The he's meddlesome and asking for trouble, getting his own ideas about walking around.
The rickshaw puller, upon hearing the old woman's words, did not hesitate for a moment, suddenly supporting the woman by her arm and walking forward step by step. I was a little astonished, forgetting to look forward to see a police station in front of us, upwind, with no one outside. The rickshaw puller was supporting the old woman as they made their way towards the big door.
In that moment I suddenly felt an unusual feeling, like the impression in the dust from the rickshaw puller became taller, or perhaps grew ever larger, so that I had to crane my neck to see it. Or maybe he gradually became more powerful, even as I felt my petty concerns being squeezed from underneath my leather jacket.
My life's urgent pace slowed down, sitting there without moving, without thinking, until I got off when a police patrolman approached the rickshaw.
The policeman said, "You should book another rickshaw, he won't be pulling you."
Without thinking, I pulled a roll of coins from my jacket, giving it to the policeman, saying "Please give this to him..."
The wind died down, the street was still very clean. I walked, lost in thought, almost scared of my introspection. With everything else in my life temporarily set aside, I asked myself, what was the meaning of that roll of coins? To reward him? Could I still judge the rickshaw driver? I couldn't bear to reply to myself.
To this day that incident is one I frequently remember. I therefore always remember to put aside my pain, to strive to think about myself. These past few years' cultural forces, like the classical aphorisms I memorized at a young age, have so faded from my memory that I can't even half recite them. Only this small incident, which hovers just in front of my eyes, sometimes even more clearly, has taught me to be ashamed, urged me to reform, and renewed my courage and hope.
Professional Translation linked here
一件小事 - 鲁迅 July 1920