The Real Story of Ah-Q and Other Tales of China

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The Real Story of Ah-Q and Other Tales of China Page 29

by Lu Xun


  Along the left-hand side of the room, a square table had been set at an angle to the wall. While greeting his guests, Huang San laid out places and tiles for them, with the help of a young servant girl. Soon each corner of the table had been marked out with a spindly imported candle and the four of them sat down.

  The silence of early evening was disturbed only by the clacking of bone tiles against the red sandalwood table.

  Though our learned friend had been dealt a perfectly decent hand, he couldn’t quite lose a sense of injustice. In the past, he’d always succeeded in shaking off unpleasant memories; why, then, was he allowing himself to go on fretting about the parlous state of public morality? Even the steadily mounting tiles before him failed to encourage him to see the bright side. Eventually, however, he regained his sense of happy optimism about society at large, and his mood began to improve – though not until the end of the second round, as he fast approached a winning hand.

  1 May 1925

  THE LONER

  I

  My friendship with Wei Lianshu, while it lasted, was a strange sort of affair, bracketed at its beginning and end by funerals.

  I was living in S— when I first met him. His name often came up in conversations about the place, where general opinion had him down as something of an eccentric. He’d studied zoology at college but ended up teaching history at a high school. Though he kept himself to himself, he had a habit of sticking his nose into other people’s business, too. He was always declaring that the family should be abolished, and yet every month he’d send his salary back to his grandmother as soon as he got it. And so on and so forth, giving the people of S— no shortage of inconsistencies to snipe at. One autumn, I happened to find myself idling a stretch of time away with some relatives who lived near Hanshi Mountain, and who, sharing the surname Wei, happened also to claim a distant relation to Wei Lianshu. They had no more insight into him than anyone else. They talked about him as if he were a foreigner – ‘not like us’.

  And no wonder. Twenty years after China had launched a national programme of educational reform, Hanshi Mountain still found itself without so much as a primary school. Lianshu was the only villager who had left to get an education. He was also the object of no little envy: everyone insisted he’d made a fortune in town.

  By the close of that autumn, dysentery was rife through the village. Fearing for my own safety, I considered heading back to town. At that point, I heard that Lianshu’s grandmother had come down with it. Because of her age, she was unlikely to pull through, especially as there was no doctor in the village. Lianshu’s last-surviving relative, she lived modestly, with just a maidservant to look after her. He had lost both parents when he was a little boy, and it was this grandmother who had brought him up. I heard that, although things had been hard for her in the past, she now lived in relative peace and comfort. Probably his own failure to have a family and the solitude in which he lived contributed to his reputation for eccentricity.

  Since Hanshi Mountain was more than thirty miles from town overland, and almost twenty-five by water, it would take four days to send for Lianshu and bring him back. The day after she fell ill, news of the grandmother’s sickness spread through this isolated community, and a messenger was dispatched. By the early hours of that same day, however, she had breathed her last. ‘Why won’t you let me see Lianshu?’ were her final words.

  Every relative that could be rustled up – together with a number of idle spectators – now assembled. When Lianshu arrived, they calculated, it would be time to place the deceased in her coffin. Everything was ready – the objects to accompany her on her journey to the afterlife, her burial clothes; no further preparation was required. The principal obstacle to be anticipated was this chief mourner of hers: everyone was convinced he would insist on ‘modernizing’ the funeral in some way. By the end of the conference, everyone had fixed upon three conditions. One, that he should wear white, the conventional colour of mourning; two, that he should kneel; and three, that Daoist and Buddhist monks should be called in to perform the proper ceremonies. In sum: that all should be done in absolute accordance with tradition.

  That settled, they agreed that on the day of Lianshu’s arrival in the village, they would reconvene at the family home, to battle it out with him together. The villagers eagerly awaited news; they knew that Lianshu was an unreasonably progressive type who’d converted to the foreign devils’ religion. A great Manichean struggle was about to begin; or at least a spectacle of some sort.

  Lianshu, it was put about, arrived in the afternoon. His first action on entering the house was to bow to his grandmother’s shrine, after which the clan elders immediately proceeded according to plan, summoning him to the main hall. Having said a great deal of nothing much at all to him, they eventually got on to the main subject: their unrelenting chorus of unconditional demands for the funeral. When everything that was to be said had been said, a silence descended as everyone nervously fixed their eyes on Lianshu’s lips.

  ‘As you like,’ he replied, his face unchanging.

  The sense of release that this easy victory brought was swiftly succeeded by new sources of anxiety, for the unexpectedness of his response seemed all of a piece with his general foreignness. Throughout the village, the news was greeted by disappointment: ‘Odd,’ they all muttered to each other. ‘Better go and see the lie of things for ourselves.’ Since the old ways were to be followed in every detail, there would be – so it transpired – no novelty to behold in the funeral. Still, though, look they must, and after dusk the courtyard before the main hall was filled with the happy buzz of spectators.

  I, too, went after first sending incense and candles as a funeral gift. Lianshu was dressing the corpse when I arrived. I observed a short, slight man, with a long face. Almost half his face seemed to be obscured by an untidy head of hair, a thick black moustache and eyebrows, with his eyes gleaming in between. There was a methodical deftness to his dressing of the corpse – you might have thought he was a professional undertaker – and he was surrounded by admiring observers. However well a thing was managed, it was always the way – around Hanshi Mountain – that relatives on the mother’s side would find something to snipe at. And yet he accepted every criticism in silence, correcting the fault, no flicker of irritation registering in his face. A grey-haired old lady in front of me sighed admiringly.

  The prostrations were followed by weeping, and then by women muttering Buddhist incantations. After that came the laying-in, followed by yet more prostrations and weeping, until the coffin lid was nailed down. A moment’s silence was succeeded by a general commotion of bewildered displeasure. I suddenly sensed its cause: Lianshu had failed to shed a single tear throughout the entire proceedings, remaining seated on his straw mat, his eyes flashing beneath their heavy brows.

  And so the funeral drew to a surprised, sullen close; Lianshu still sat on his mat, deep in thought. But just as everyone prepared to disperse, tears suddenly began to course down his cheeks, followed by long howls – like the nocturnal howls of a wounded wolf in the wilderness, rasping with an agonized grief. Now this, at last, was a break with tradition; no one had ever heard or seen such a display at a funeral. Eventually the bewildered villagers edged forward, to try to get him to stop, until a great crowd of them stood uselessly about him. On he howled, as if paralysed by sorrow.

  As the entertainment seemed at an end, everyone scattered. He went on weeping for another half-hour or so, when he abruptly stopped and set off for home, without a word to the other mourners. He had, a surveillance team subsequently reported, walked into his grandmother’s room, lain down on the bed and, apparently, fallen fast asleep.

  Two days passed, taking us up to the day before I was due to set off back to the town. By now, the devil himself seemed to have got among the villagers. They were saying that Lianshu was planning to burn most of his grandmother’s things, so she could use them in the afterlife, and give the rest to the faithful maidservant woman who ha
d seen her through her funeral – even let her stay on in the house for as long as she wanted. His relatives remonstrated with him till they were hoarse, but he wasn’t to be dissuaded.

  Motivated substantially by curiosity, I’m afraid, I made sure my way home took me past his front door, taking the opportunity to offer my condolences. He emerged wearing unhemmed white mourning clothes, his face as expressionless as before. Though I tried my best to find words of comfort, all I got in response – beyond a few grunts – was ‘Thank you.’

  II

  Our third meeting took place in early winter of that year, in a bookstore in S—. We nodded at each other, acknowledging recognition. But the event that drew us into a more intimate acquaintance was the loss of my job towards the end of the year, after which I began calling regularly on Lianshu. Primarily, of course, because I was bored – because I had nothing better to do with my time. And also because I’d heard from other people that, even though he seemed so reserved, he had a special sympathy for those who were down on their luck. But the way of the world is fickle; people down on their luck don’t stay like that for ever; and so his friendships seldom lasted. The first part of the rumour was true enough: as soon as I presented my name-card, he asked me in. His home consisted of two adjoining rooms, sparsely furnished beyond tables, chairs and a few bookshelves. Everyone said he was terrifyingly progressive in his politics, but I didn’t see many new books on his shelves. Though he knew about me having lost my job, once we’d exchanged the standard pleasantries we sat opposite each other in increasingly oppressive silence. He smoked very quickly, I noticed, refusing to release his cigarette on to the ground until the butt was burning his fingers.

  ‘Have a cigarette,’ he suddenly said, as he reached out for another himself.

  I accepted it and began talking a little about teaching and books, but still I felt oppressed by the occasion. Just as I was thinking of leaving, a bustle of voices and footsteps broke out by the door. Four children rushed in, the oldest seven or eight, the youngest three or four. Their hands, faces and clothes were filthy; none of them struck me as particularly appealing. But Lianshu’s eyes immediately lit up as he sprang to his feet and walked into the adjoining room.

  ‘Daliang, Erliang,’ he called as he went, ‘I’ve bought the harmonicas you wanted yesterday.’

  The children surged towards him, began tooting on their harmonicas then jostled their way out again. Just out of the door, a fight mysteriously broke out and one of them began to cry.

  ‘There’s one for each of you,’ he shouted as he followed them out, ‘they’re all exactly the same. No fighting!’

  ‘Who are they?’ I asked.

  ‘The landlord’s children. Their mother’s dead – there’s just a grandmother to look after them.’

  ‘The landlord hasn’t remarried?’

  ‘No. Even though his wife died three or four years ago… If he had, there wouldn’t be bachelor accommodation going for someone like me.’ He gave a slight smile – one without any warmth.

  Though I was very keen to know why he himself had never married, I felt too embarrassed to ask; I hardly knew the man.

  Once you got to know Lianshu, though, he turned out to be quite a talker. He had a great many views on all kinds of subjects – many of them startlingly acute. The most tiresome thing about him was his other guests: fashionably disaffected youths, most of them, who spent the good part of their time draped over his chairs, like indolent crabs, scowling, smoking and railing against the harsh cruel world that had turned them into ‘superfluous men’. Then there were his landlord’s children, always fighting and arguing with each other, knocking over bowls and plates, cadging cakes and sweets, till your ears buzzed with their racket. But Lianshu melted the moment he saw them: they seemed to be more precious to him than his own life. Once, when the next to youngest came down with measles, I heard he was so worried even the grandmother laughed at him afterwards – when the illness turned out not to be serious – for his excessive anxiety.

  ‘Children are good by nature,’ he earnestly explained to me one day, sensing my impatience perhaps. ‘It’s their innocence.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I carelessly replied.

  ‘You’re wrong. Children aren’t bad, like adults; they’re incapable of it. It’s only later they become bad like you say – and that’s all down to environment. It’s nurture, not nature – they start out well. They’re China’s only hope.’

  ‘But if children don’t have the roots of evil already in them, how come they go on to produce the fruits and flowers of evil? A seed produces branches, leaves, or fruit or flowers of a certain sort because it carries them inside as embryos. Everything happens for a reason…’ Perhaps I had had too little to do with myself for too long. I was beginning to sound like one of those government types forced out of office, who take up Buddhism in the political wilderness. I’d recently been idling my way through the sutras, and even though I didn’t have a clue about the philosophy behind them, still I rambled incautiously on.

  Lianshu merely glared at me – though whether it was because he had nothing to say, or because he scorned to engage in debate with me, I couldn’t tell. After watching him silently smoke his way through two cigarettes, I sensed a revival of his earlier aloofness, and fled as soon as he drew out a third.

  It took our friendship three months to recover. In part, perhaps, because the memory of the argument had faded; but also, perhaps, because he began to perceive a new menace around those little innocents of his, prompting him to reconsider my needling arguments. I’m just extrapolating from something he said around that time, after a few cups of wine at my lodgings.

  ‘The strangest thing,’ he observed, his face half-tilted up to the ceiling, slightly clouded with melancholy. ‘I saw a little boy on my way over here. Pointing a reed at me and saying, “You’re dead!” He was so small, he was barely able to walk.’

  ‘That’s nurture, not nature.’

  I immediately regretted my facetiousness. And yet he didn’t seem to take offence, concentrating on drinking and, in between whiles, smoking.

  ‘Tell me,’ I clumsily changed the subject. ‘You hardly ever call on other people – what’s brought you out of your hole today? We’ve known each other over a year, but this is the first time you’ve come here.’

  ‘I just wanted to warn you not to come over in the next few days. I’ve a couple of particularly unpleasant visitors.’

  ‘Who are they?’ His announcement surprised me.

  ‘My cousin and his boy. Ha! Like father, like son.’

  ‘A social visit?’

  ‘No. They’ve something they want to talk to me about. They want me to adopt the boy.’

  ‘You? Adopt a child?’ I exclaimed incredulously. ‘But you aren’t even married.’

  ‘They know that. But they don’t care. All they want is to secure that ruin of a house on Hanshi Mountain. It’s the only thing I own in the world. You know I spend my salary as soon as I get it; I’ve no other savings. Their sole ambition in life is to see my grandmother’s old housekeeper thrown out on to the street.’

  I was chilled by his cynicism. ‘I’m sure they’re not as bad as all that,’ I tried to argue. ‘They’re just a bit old-fashioned. Remember at the funeral, when you were crying – they were all trying their best to comfort you – ’

  ‘They wanted me to sign over the house to them when my father died, too. So they were full of sympathy at that funeral, as well…’ He stared up into space, as if thinking back over the past.

  ‘But the real problem is that you don’t have a child yourself. Why is it that you never married?’ I found myself gifted with an opportunity to steer us on to a subject I had always felt curious about.

  He glanced at me in surprise, then looked down at his knees and, without answering my question, applied himself to his latest cigarette.

  III

  Yet even in this provincial backwater of ours, Lianshu was not to be allowed any peace.
Small local newspapers began launching anonymous attacks on him, while he was often the subject of gossip in local schools – the old mockery, but this time with teeth. Since I knew this intensification of hostilities was clearly the result of his recent fondness for publishing articles, I didn’t take much notice. The people of S— had a particular aversion for the free expression of strong views; and once an opinion was circulating in the public domain, retaliation – most likely anonymous – was inevitable. Lianshu himself knew all this perfectly well. But when spring arrived, I heard his school principal had dismissed him. Although I allowed the news to startle me, I had no decent grounds to have expected that things would ever have turned out otherwise. I’d merely clung to the hope that my own friends would have the luck to escape the wringer of public opinion. Instead, the good burghers of S— had merely conformed to type.

  In truth, I was so taken up with concerns about my own livelihood – pursuing the possibility of a teaching post in Shanyang, to begin in the autumn – I had no time to call on him. But even when I found myself with a little more time on my hands – almost three months after his dismissal – still I failed to pay him a visit. One day, though, pausing idly at a second-hand bookstall along the town’s main street, I was shocked to discover – sandwiched between other books – a valuable Ming-dynasty edition of a classic historical commentary. I’d seen it on Lianshu’s shelves: he was fond of books but no great collector, and it would have been one of his most prized possessions. He must have been desperate to sell it off. Had only a few months of unemployment reduced him to this? Money had always passed through his hands like water; he had no savings to speak of. I resolved then and there to go and see my old friend, picking up en route a bottle of spirits, two bags of peanuts and a couple of smoked fish-heads.

  His door was shut. I tried calling out: no response. Wondering if he had fallen asleep, I tried shouting louder and rapping on the door.

 

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