by Frank Wynne
Hearing this, the Begam Sahiba would say, ‘I don’t like it myself, but he won’t listen to anybody, so what can be done5’
In their quarter there were also a few people from an earlier generation who began to imagine all sorts of disasters: ‘There’s no hope now. If our nobles are like this, then God help the country! This chess playing will be the ruin of the kingdom. The omens are bad.’
The entire realm was in an uproar. Subjects were robbed in broad daylight and nobody was there to hear their appeals. All the wealth of the countryside had been drawn into Lucknow to be squandered on whores, clowns and the satisfaction of every kind of vice. The debt to the East India Company kept on growing day by day, and day by day the general misery was getting harder to bear. Throughout the land, because of the wretched conditions, the yearly taxes were no longer collected. Time and again the British resident warned them, but everyone in Lucknow was so drowned in the intoxication of sensual indulgence that not a soul gave any heed.
Well then, the chess games continued in Mir Sahib’s drawing room over the course of several months. Newer strategies were devised, new defences organized, and ever new battle formations planned. From time to time quarrels broke out as they played, and they even reached the point of exchanging vulgar insults; but peace was quickly restored between the two friends. At times the game would come to a halt and Mirzaji would return home in a huff and Mir Sahib would go and sit in his own chamber. But with a good night’s sleep all the bad feelings would be calmed; early in the morning the two friends would arrive in the drawing room.
One day when they sat engrossed in thorny chess problems an officer of the royal army arrived on horseback and inquired for Mir Sahib. Mir Sahib panicked, wondering what disaster was about to come down on his head. Why had he been summoned? The case appeared desperate. To the servants he said, ‘Tell him I’m not at home.’
‘If he’s not at home where is he?’ the horseman demanded. The servant said he didn’t know—what was this all about? ‘How can I tell you what it’s about?’ said the officer. ‘Maybe soldiers are being levied for the army. It’s no joke, being the master of rent-free estates. When he has to go to the front lines he’ll find out what it’s all about.’
‘Very well, go along, he’ll be informed.’
‘It’s not just a matter of informing him. I’ll come back tomorrow, I have orders to take him back with me.’
The horseman left. Mir Sahib was shaking with terror. He said to Mirzaji, ‘Tell me, sir, what’s going to happen now?’
‘It’s a great misfortune! What if I’m summoned too?’
‘The bastard said he was coming back tomorrow.’
‘It’s a calamity, no doubt of it. If we have to go to the front we’ll die before our time.’
‘Now listen, there’s one way out: we won’t meet here at the house any more. Starting tomorrow we’ll have our game in some deserted place out on the banks of the Gomti. Who could find us there? When that fine fellow comes for me he’ll have to go back without us.’
‘By Allah, that’s a splendid idea! That’s certainly the best way.’
In the meantime, Mir Sahib’s Begam was saying to that cavalry officer, ‘You’ve got them out of the way very nicely,’ and he answered, ‘I’m used to making such jackasses dance to my tune. Chess has robbed them of all their common sense and courage. After this they won’t stay at home, whatever happens.’
*
From the next day on the two friends would set out from the house at the crack of dawn, carrying with them a rather small carpet and a box of prepared paan, and go to the other side of the Gomti river to an old ruined mosque which had probably been built in the time of Nawab Asafuddaula6. Along the way they would pick up tobacco, a pipe and some wine, and spread their carpet in the mosque, fill the hookah and sit down to play. After that they had no care for this world or the next. Apart from ‘check’ and ‘checkmate,’ not another word came out of their mouths. No yogi could have been more profoundly plunged in trance. At noon when they felt hungry they would go to some baker’s shop and eat something, smoke a pipeful, and then return to engage once more in battle. At times they would even forget all about eating.
Meantime, the political situation in the country was becoming desperate. The East India Company’s armies were advancing on Lucknow. There was commotion in the city. People were taking their children and fleeing to the countryside. But our two players were not in the least concerned about it. When they left home they took to the narrow alleyways, fearing lest some government official might catch a glimpse of them and have them forced into military service. They wanted to enjoy the thousands in income from their estates without giving anything in return.
One day the two friends were sitting in the ruined mosque playing chess. Mirza’s game was rather weak and Mir Sahib was checking him at every move. At the same time the Company’s soldiers could be seen approaching. This was an army of Europeans on their way to impose their rule on Lucknow.
Mir Sahib said, ‘The British army’s coming. God save us!’
Mirza said, ‘Let them come, but now get out of check.’
‘Maybe we ought to have a look, let’s stand here where we can’t be seen.’
‘You can look later, what’s the rush? Check again.’
‘They have artillery too. There must be about five thousand men. What odd- looking soldiers! They’ve got red faces, just like monkeys, it’s really frightening.’
‘Don’t try to get out of it, sir! Use these tricks on somebody else. Checkmate!’
‘What a strange fellow you are! Here we have the city struck with calamity and you can only think of ways to checkmate. Do you have any idea how we’re going to get home if the city’s surrounded?’
‘When it’s time to go home we’ll see about it then. This is checkmate, your king’s finished now.’
The army had marched by. It was now ten in the morning. A new game was set up.
Mirza said, ‘What are we going to do about food today?’
‘Well, today’s a fast day—are you feeling hungrier than usual?’
‘Not in the least. But I wonder what’s happening in the city.’
‘Nothing at all’s happening in the city. People are eating their dinner and settling down comfortably for an afternoon nap. The King’s in his harem, no doubt.’
By the time they sat down to play again it was three. This time Mirzaji’s game was weak. Four o’clock had just struck when the army was heard marching back. Nawab Wajid Ali had been taken prisoner and the army was conducting him to some unknown destination. In the city there was no commotion, no massacre, not a drop of blood was spilled. Until now no king of an independent country could ever have been overthrown so peacefully, without the least bloodshed. This was not that non violence which delights the gods, but rather the sort of cowardice which makes even great cowards shed tears. The king of the vast country of Oudh was leaving it a captive, and Lucknow remained deep in its sensual slumber. This was the final stage of political decadence.
Mirzaji said, ‘Those tyrants have imprisoned His Majesty.’
‘I suppose so. Look here—check.’
‘Just a moment, sir, I don’t feel in the mood now. The poor King must be weeping tears of blood at this moment.’
‘I’m sure he is—what luxuries will he enjoy as a prisoner? Checkmate!’
‘Everybody has to suffer some change in his fortunes,’ said Mirza. ‘But what a painful situation!’
‘True, that’s the way things are. Look, checkmate! That does it, you can’t get out of it now.’
‘God’s oath, you’re hard-hearted. You can watch a great catastrophe like this and feel no grief. Alas, poor Wajid Ali Shah!’
‘First save your own king, then you can mourn for His Majesty. It’s checkmate now. Your hand on it!’
The army passed by, taking the King with them. As soon as they were gone Mirza again set up the chess pieces. The sting of defeat is bitter. Mir said, ‘Come now, le
t us compose an elegy for His Majesty.’ But Mirza’s patriotism had vanished with his defeat. He was eager for vengeance.
*
It was evening. In the ruins the swallows were returning and settling in their nests, the bats began to chitter. But the players were still at it, like two blood-thirsty warriors doing battle together. Mirzaji had lost three games in a row; the outlook for this fourth game was not good either. He played each move carefully, firmly resolved to win, but one move after the other turned out to be so ill-conceived that his game kept deteriorating. For his part, Mir Sahib was singing a gazal and snapping his fingers from sheer high spirits, as though he had come upon some hidden treasure. Listening to him, Mirzaji was furious, but praised him in order to conceal his exasperation. But as his game worsened his patience began to slip out of control until he reached the point of getting angry at everything Mir said.
‘Don’t change your move, sir,’ he would say. ‘How can you go back on a move? Whatever move is to be made, make it just once. Why is your hand on that piece? Leave it alone! Until you figure out your move don’t so much as touch your piece! You’re taking half-an-hour for every move, that’s against the rules. Anyone who takes more than five minutes for a move may be understood to be checkmated. You changed your move again! Just be quiet and put that piece back there.’
Mir Sahib’s queen was in danger. He said, ‘But when did I make my move?’
‘You’ve already made it. Put the piece right there, in that same square.’
‘Why should I put it in that square? When did I take my hand off the piece?’
‘If you wait till doomsday to make your move, you’ll still have to make it.’
‘You’re the one who’s cheating! Victory and defeat depend on fate, you can’t win by cheating.’
‘Then it’s settled, you’ve lost this game.’
‘How have I lost it?’
‘Then put the piece back in the same square where it was.’
‘Why should I put it there? I won’t!’
‘Why should you put it there? You have to put it there.’
The quarrel was getting worse. Each stuck to his position, neither one would give an inch. Their words began to move to irrelevant matters. Mirza said, ‘If anybody in your family had ever played chess then you might be familiar with the rules. But they were just grass-cutters. So how can you be expected to play chess? Real aristocracy is quite another thing. Nobody can become a noble just by having had some rent-free estates given to him.’
‘What! Your own lather must have cut grass! My people have been playing chess for generations.’
‘Come off it, you spent your whole life working as a cook in Gaziuddin Haidar’s house and now you’re going around posing as an aristocrat.’
‘Why are you defaming your own ancestors?’ said Mir. They must all have been cooks. My people have always dined at the King’s own table.’
‘You grass-cutter you! Stop your bragging.’
‘You check your tongue or you’ll be sorry! I won’t stand for talk like that. I put out the eyes of anybody who frowns at me. Do you have the courage?’
‘So you want to find out how brave I am! Come on then, let’s have it out, whatever the consequences.’
Said Mir, ‘And who do you think is going to let you push them around!’
The two friends drew the swords from their belts. It was a chivalric age when everybody went around carrying swords, daggers, poniards and the like. Both of them were sensualists but not cowards. They were politically debased, so why should they die for king or kingdom? But they did not lack personal courage. They challenged one another formally, the swords flashed, there was a sound of clanging. Both fell wounded, and both writhed and expired on the spot. They had not shed a single tear for their king but gave up their lives to protect a chess queen.
Darkness was coming on. The chess game had been set up. The two kings each on his throne sat there as though lamenting the death of these two heroes.
Silence spread over all. The broken archways of the ruins, the crumbling walls and dusty minarets looked down on the corpses and mourned.
1 The last king of Oudh (Avadh); the story takes place in 1856.
2 A game of dice.
3 An intoxicant prepared from opium.
4 A type of card game.
5 For an aristocratic lady in purdah this would be inappropriate.
6 Ruler of Oudh, 1775–97; his reign was noted both for debauchery and for the construction of many buildings, especially mosques.
KONG YIJI
Lu Xun
Translated from the Chinese by Yang Xianyi and Gladys Yang
Lu Xun (1881–1936). Born in Shaoxing as Zhou Zhangshou to a wealthy family now in decline, he adopted a penname when he began to publish his work and, as Lu Xun, would become the foremost figure of modern Chinese literature. Writing in vernacular as well as Classical Chinese, Lu Xun was a short story writer, editor, translator, literary critic, essayist and poet. Even after his death, his work was considered an exemplar in the People’s Republic of China. Mao Zedong, a fervent admirer, called him “the saint of modern China” (and selectively exploited his work for political gain). On his deathbed, his last words were to his son’s future: “On no account let him become a good-for-nothing writer or artist.”
The layout of Luzhen’s taverns is unique. In each, facing you as you enter, is a bar in the shape of a carpenter’s square where hot water is kept ready for warming rice wine. When men come off work at midday and in the evening they spend four coppers on a bowl of wine—or so they did twenty years ago; now it costs ten—and drink this warm, standing by the bar, taking it easy. Another copper will buy a plate of salted bamboo shoots or peas flavored with aniseed to go with the wine, while a dozen will buy a meat dish; but most of the customers here belong to the short-coated class, few of whom can afford this. As for those in long gowns, they go into the inner room to order wine and dishes and sit drinking at their leisure.
At the age of twelve I started work as a pot-boy in Prosperity Tavern at the edge of town. The boss put me to work in the outer room, saying that I looked too much of a fool to serve long-gowned customers. The short-coated customers there were easier to deal with, it is true, but among them were quite a few persnickety ones who insisted on watching for themselves while the yellow wine was ladled from the keg, looked for water at the bottom of the wine pot, and personally inspected the pot’s immersion into the hot water. Under such strict surveillance, diluting the wine was very hard indeed. Thus it did not take my boss many days to decide that this job too was beyond me. Luckily I had been recommended by somebody influential, so he could not sack me. Instead I was transferred to the dull task of simply warming wine.
After that I stood all day behind the bar attending to my duties. Although I gave satisfaction at this post, I found it somewhat boring and monotonous. Our boss was a grim-faced man, nor were the customers much more pleasant, which made the atmosphere a gloomy one. The only times when there was any laughter were when Kong Yiji came to the tavern. That is why I remember him.
Kong Yiji was the only long-gowned customer who used to drink his wine standing. A big, pallid man whose wrinkled face often bore scars, he had a large, unkempt, and grizzled beard. And although he wore a long gown it was dirty and tattered. It had not by the look of it been washed or mended for ten years or more, He used so many archaisms in his speech that half of it was barely intelligible. And as his surname was Kong, he was given the nickname Kong Yiji from kong, yi, ji, the first three characters in the old-fashioned children’s copy book. Whenever he came in, everyone there would look at him and chuckle. And someone was sure to call out:
“Kong Yiji! What are those fresh scars on your face?”
Ignoring this, he would lay nine coppers on the bar and order two bowls of heated wine with a dish of aniseed-peas. Then someone else would bawl:
“You must have been stealing again!”
“Why sully a man’s good name
for no reason at all?” Kong Yiji would ask, raising his eyebrows.
“Good name? Why, the day before yesterday you were trussed up and beaten for stealing books from the He family. I saw you!”
At that Kong Yiji would flush, the veins on his forehead standing out as he protested, “Taking books can’t be counted as stealing…. Taking books … for a scholar … can’t be counted as stealing.” Then followed such quotations from the classics as “A gentleman keeps his integrity even in poverty,” together with a spate of archaisms that soon had everybody roaring with laughter, enlivening the whole tavern.
From the gossip that I heard, it seemed that Kong Yiji had studied the classics but never passed the official examinations and, not knowing any way to make a living, he had grown steadily poorer until he was almost reduced to beggary. Luckily he was a good calligrapher and could find enough copying work to fill his rice bowl. But unfortunately he had his failings too: laziness and a love of tippling. So after a few days he would disappear, taking with him books, paper, brushes, and inkstone. And after this had happened several times, people stopped employing him as a copyist. Then all he could do was resort to occasional pilfering. In our tavern, though, he was a model customer who never failed to pay up. Sometimes, it is true, when he had no ready money, his name would be chalked up on our tally-board; but in less than a month he invariably settled the bill, and the name Kong Yiji would be wiped off the board again.
After Kong Yiji had drunk half a bowl of wine, his flushed cheeks would stop burning. But then someone would ask:
“Kong Yiji, can you really read?”
When he glanced back as if such a question were not worth answering, they would continue, “How is it you never passed even the lowest official examination?”
At once a gray tinge would overspread Kong Yiji’s dejected, discomfited face, and he would mumble more of those unintelligible archaisms. Then everyone there would laugh heartily again, enlivening the whole tavern.