by Lu Xun
“The Bogus Foreign Devil wouldn't let me.”
“Nonsense. It's too late to talk now. Where are your accomplices?”
“What?...”
“The gang who robbed the Zhao family that night.”
“They didn't come to call me. They moved the things away themselves.” Mention of this made Ah Q indignant.
“Where are they now? When you have told me I will let you go,” repeated the old man even more gently.
“I don't know.... They didn't come to call me...”
Then, at a sign from the old man, Ah Q was dragged back through the grille. The following morning he was dragged out once more.
Everything was unchanged in the big hall. The old man with the cleanshaven head was still sitting there, and Ah Q knelt down again as before.
“Have you anything else to say?” asked the old man gently.
Ah Q thought, and decided there was nothing to say, so he answered, “Nothing.”
Then a man in a long coat brought a sheet of paper and held a brush in front of Ah Q, which he wanted to thrust into his hand. Ah Q was now nearly frightened out of his wits, because this was the first time in his life that his hand had ever come into contact with a writing-brush. He was just wondering how to hold it when the man pointed out a place on the paper and told him to sign his name.
“I—I—can't write,” said Ah Q, shame-faced, nervously holding the brush.
“In that case, to make it easy for you, draw a circle!”
Ah Q tried to draw a circle, but the hand with which he grasped the brush trembled, so the man spread the paper on the ground for him. Ah Q bent down and, as painstakingly as if his life depended on it, drew a circle. Afraid people would laugh at him, he determined to make the circle round; however, not only was that wretched brush very heavy, but it would not do his bidding. Instead it wobbled from side to side; and just as the line was about to close it swerved out again, making a shape like a melonseed.
While Ah Q was still feeling mortified by his failure to draw a circle, the man took back the paper and brush without any comment. A number of people then dragged him back for the third time through the grille.
By now he felt not too upset. He supposed that in this world it was fate of everybody at some time to be dragged in and out of prison and to have to draw circles on paper; it was only his circle not being round that he felt a blot on his escutcheon. Presently. However, he regained composure by thinking, “Only idiots can make perfect circles.” And with his thought he fell asleep.
That night, however, the successful provincial candidate was unable to sleep, because he had quarrelled with the captain. The successful provincial candidate had insisted that the main thing was to recover the stolen goods, while the captain said the main thing was to make a public example. Recently the captain had come to treat the successful provincial candidate quite disdainfully. So banging his fist on the table he said, “Punish one to awe one hundred! See now, I have been a member of the revolutionary party for less than twenty days, but there have been a dozen cases of robbery, none of them yet solved; think how badly that reflects on me. Now this one has been solved, you come and haggle. It won't do. This is my affair.”
The successful provincial candidate, most put out, insisted that if the stolen goods were not recovered he would resign immediately from his post as assistant civil administrator.
“As you please,” said the captain.
In consequence the successful provincial candidate did not sleep that night; but happily he did not hand in his resignation the next day after all.
The third time that Ah Q was dragged out of the grille-door was the morning following the night on which the successful provincial candidate had been unable to sleep. When he reached the hall, the old man with the clean-shaven head was sitting there as usual. And Ah Q knelt down as usual.
Very gently the old man questioned him, “Have you anything more to say?”
Ah Q thought, and decided there was nothing to say, so he answered, “Nothing.”
A number of men in long coats and short jackets put on him a white vest of foreign cloth with some black characters on it. Ah Q felt most disconcerted, because this was very like mourning dress and to wear mourning dress was unlucky. At the same time his hands were bound behind his back, and he was dragged out of the yamen.
Ah Q was lifted on to an uncovered cart, and several men in short jackets sat down beside him. The cart started off at once. In front were a number of soldiers and militiamen shouldering foreign rifles, and on both sides were crowds of gaping spectators, while what was behind Ah Q could not see. Suddenly it occurred to him—“Can I be going to have my head cut off?” Panic seized him and everything turned dark before his eyes, while there was a humming in his ears as if he had fainted. But he did not really faint. Although he felt frightened some of the time, the rest of the time he was quite calm. It seemed to him that in this world probably it was the fate of everybody at some time to have his head cut off.
He still recognized the road and felt rather surprised: Why were they not going to the execution ground? He did not know that he was being paraded round the streets as a public example. But if he had known, it would have been the same: he would only have thought that in this world probably it was the fate of everybody at some time to be made a public example of.
Then he realized that they were making a detour to the execution ground, so after all he must be going to have his head cut off. He looked round him regretfully at the people swarming after him like ants, and unexpectedly in the crowd by the roadside he caught sight of Amah Wu. So that was why he had not seen her for so long: she was working in town.
Ah Q suddenly became ashamed of his lack of spirit, because he had not sung any lines from an opera. His thoughts revolved like a whirlwind: The Young Widow at Her Husband's Grave was not heroic enough. The passage “Alas, in my cups” in The Battle of the Dragon and The Tiger was too feeble. “Steel mace in hand I shall trounce you” was still the best. But when he wanted to raise his hands, he remembered that they were bound together; so he did not sing “Steel mace in hand” either.
“In twenty years I shall be another...” In his agitation Ah Q uttered half a saying which he had picked up for himself but never used before, “Good!!!” The roar of the crowd sounded like the growl of a wolf.
The car moved steadily forward. During the shouting Ah Q's eyes turned in search of Amah Wu, but she did not seem to have seen him for she was looking intently at the foreign rifles carried by the soldiers.
So Ah Q took another look at the shouting crowd.
At that instant his thoughts revolved again like a whirlwind. Four years before, at the foot of the mountain, he had met a hungry wolf which had followed him at a set distance, wanting to eat him. He had nearly died of fright, but luckily he happened to have a knife in his hand which gave him the courage to get back to Weizhuang. He had never forgotten that wolf's eyes, fierce yet cowardly, gleaming like two will-o'-the-wisps, as if boring into him from a distance. Now he saw eyes more terrible even than the wolf's: dull yet penetrating eyes that having devoured his words still seemed eager to devour something of him at a set distance.
These eyes seemed to have merged into one, biting into his soul.
“Help, help!”
But Ah Q never uttered these words. All had turned black before his eyes, there was a buzzing in his ears, and he felt as if his whole body were being scattered like so much light dust.
As for the after-effects of the robbery, the most affected was the successful provincial candidate, because the stolen goods were never recovered. All his family lamented bitterly. Next came the Zhao household; for when the successful county candidate went into town to report the robbery, not only did he have his queue cut off by bad revolutionaries, but he had to pay a reward of twenty thousand cash into the bargain; so all the Zhao family lamented bitterly too. From that day forward they gradually assumed the air of the survivors of a fallen dynasty.
As for any di
scussion of the event, no question was raised in Weizhuang. Naturally all agreed that Ah Q had been a bad man, the proof being that he had been shot; for if he had not been bad, how could he have been shot? But the consensus of opinion in town was unfavourable. Most people were dissatisfied, because a shooting was not such a fine spectacle as a decapitation; and what a ridiculous culprit he had been too, to pass through so many streets without singing a single line from an opera. They had followed him for nothing.
December 1921
■ The Double Fifth Festival
Recently the phrase “much of a muchness” had virtually become Fang Xuanchuo's watchword. Not only on his lips, it was indeed entrenched in his mind. At first he had said “all the same.” Later, probably thinking this unreliable, he had switched to “much of a muchness” and used it right up till now.
Since his discovery of this commonplace dictum, although it had evoked not a few new emotions, at the same time he derived much comfort from it. For instance, when he saw the old domineering over the young, whereas once this had enraged him he now came round to thinking: when these youngsters have children and grandchildren themselves, they will probably throw their weight about like this too. Then it no longer seemed unjust. Or when he saw a soldier beating a rickshaw man, whereas once this had enraged him he now came round to thinking: if these two men were to change places, the rickshaw man would probably do the same. Then it no longer worried him. Sometimes, when such thoughts crossed his mind, he had misgivings, attributing his self-delusive escapism to his lack of courage to battle against social evils. It was akin to having “no sense of right and wrong,” and fell far short of reform. None the less, this viewpoint grew on him.
He first made public this theory of “much of a muchness” in a classroom in Shoushan School in Beijing. At the time, doubtless referring to past history, he said, “the men of old and those of today are not far apart,” whatever their colours “by nature they are akin,” and finally he led up to students and officials, airing his views at some length.
“In our society today it's all the rage to inveigh against of officials, and those who do this most harshly are students. But officials are not a race apart from birth; they come from the common people. Not a few of today's officials started as students, just like the old mandarins. ‘If they changed places their conduct would be the same. There is not much to choose between them in outlook, speech, behaviour or appearance. As for many of the new activities launched by student bodies, didn't malpractices result, almost inevitably, so that most of them have now gone up in smoke? It's much of a muchness. But herein lies our concern over China's future....”
Of his twenty-odd auditors seated here and there in the classroom, some showed dismay, perhaps believing him right; some were angry, doubtless thinking this an insult to sacred youth; a few smiled at him, doubtless thinking this a self-justification—because Fang Xuanchuo also held an official post.
In fact, all of them were wrong. This was simply a new sense of injustice he had. Even so, it was just empty, law-abiding talk. Although not knowing himself whether owing to indolence, or because it was useless, at all events he refused to take part in movements and regarded himself as thoroughly law-abiding. Accused by his superiors of being psychopathic, as long as this did not affect his position, he never protested. When his school salary was more than half a year in arrears, so long as he had his official pay to live on, he never protested either. He not only kept his mouth shut, when the teachers banded together to demand payment, he privately considered this imprudent and too vociferous; only when his colleagues ran them down too harshly did he feel slightly disturbed; but then it occurred to him that this might be because he himself was hard up and the other officials did not hold teaching posts, and so he overlooked it.
Although he, too, was hard up, he never joined the teachers' union; but when the others decided to go on strike he stayed away from class. The government ultimatum, “No pay till classes are resumed,” annoyed him, because this seemed like tempting a monkey with fruit. However, not until an outstanding educationist said, “It is in poor taste for teachers, a briefcase in one hand, to hold out the other for money,” did he make any formal complaint to his wife.
“Hey, why are there only two dishes?” he asked, eyeing the supper table, the evening after hearing this stricture on “poor taste.”
They had not had a modern education, and as his wife had no school name or poetic name, he did not know what to call her. For although he could have used the old term “madam,” he did not want to be too conservative and hence had invented this “Hey.” His wife had not even a “Hey” for him. If she just faced him when talking, he knew from habit that she was speaking to him.
“But that fifteen per cent you got last month is all spent.... We had trouble getting yesterday's rice on credit.” She stood beside the table confronting him.
“See here, they say teachers cheapen themselves by demanding payment. Apparently those creatures don't know the elementary fact that people need to eat, to eat you need rice, and to buy rice you need money.”
“That's it. Without money how are we to buy rice, without rice ...”
He puffed out his cheeks, as if angry because this answer was “much of a muchness” with what he had said, practically echoing it. Then he turned his head aside, this being his customary way to terminate a discussion.
One cold, wet, windy day, because teachers went to demand payment from the government, after they had been beaten over the head by troops, and their blood had dripped in the mud outside Xinhua Gate, they unexpectedly got a little back pay. Without having lifted a finger, Fang Xuanchuo took his money, and with it settled some debts. But he was still very short, because of a serious delay in issuing his official salary. At this time, even those incorruptible officials were beginning to think a demand must be made for payment; and Fang Xuanchuo, as he was a teacher too, naturally felt even more sympathy for educational circles; thus when everybody proposed remaining on strike although he still did not attend the meeting he gladly abided later by the general decision.
Then, finally, the government resumed payment, and the schools started classes again. But a few days before this, the student union had petitioned the government, “If teachers still won't give classes, don't pay their arrears.” Although this proved ineffectual, it suddenly reminded Fang Xuanchuo of the earlier government ultimatum, “No pay till classes are resumed.” The reflection “much of a muchness” flashed before him, and did not fade away. Hence he had expounded it publicly in the classroom.
This being the case, obviously if the “much of a muchness” theory is hammered out, it can naturally be adjudged a sense of injustice combined with personal feeling, but not a justification for holding an official post oneself. However, at such times, he often liked to drag in such problems as China's future, and, unless careful, would even consider himself a highminded man concerned for the country's future: It is a common failing, this lack of “self-knowledge.”
But something “much of a muchness” happened again. The government, although at first it simply ignored those teachers who were such a headache, later ignored the innocuous officials, withholding their pay until finally quite a few of those good officials, who had despised the teachers for asking for money, boldly took the lead in a rally to demand payment. Only a few newspapers published articles deriding them. Fang Xuanchuo, no whit surprised, paid no attention, for according to his theory “much of a muchness,” he knew this was because the journalists had not yet had their pay docked. If the government or the rich were by any chance to stop their subsidies, most of them would hold a rally too.
As he had already expressed sympathy for the teachers demanding payment, he naturally approved of his colleagues doing the same; but he went on sitting in his yamen, still not accompanying the other duns. As for those who suspected him of holding aloof, that was just a misunderstanding. According to him, all his life, people had asked him to pay his debts but he had never dunned a
nyone else, so this was not something “he excelled in.” Besides, he steered clear of those who wielded economic power. Certainly such people, once they lost their power and preached Buddhist scriptures, were also most “lovable”; but while still enthroned they behaved like the King of Hell, regarding the rest of mankind as their slaves, thinking they had the power of life and death over those paupers. This was why he steered clear of them. Although sometimes even he felt this showed a tendency to hold aloof, at the same time he often suspected it of actually being an incapacity.
With all these demands for payment right and left, they managed to get by somehow. But compared with the past he was in such desperate straits that, quite apart from his servant and the tradesmen with whom he dealt, even Mrs. Fang gradually lost her respect for him. You could tell this just from her recent lack of compliance, the way she often put forward her own views, and her rather brash behaviour. When he arrived home before noon on the fourth of the fifth lunar month, she thrust a pile of bills under his nose—something quite unprecedented.
“A hundred and eighty dollars in all are needed to settle these.... Have you been paid?” She asked without looking at him.
“Huh, tomorrow I shall resign my official post. Cheques have been issued, but the representatives of the Demand Payment Rally are hanging on to them. First they said none would be given to those who didn't attend the rally, then said we must fetch them in person. Now that they've those cheques in their clutches, they've become like the King of Hell. I can't stand the sight.... I don't want the money, I shall quit my post, it's just too humiliating....”
Mrs. Fang was rather astonished by this unusual display of indignation, but she quieted down.
“I still think you'd better fetch it. What does it matter?” She asked, looking him in the face.
“Not I! My official stipend, not charity! By rights the accountants' office should send it over.”
“But suppose they don't send it.... Oh, last night I forgot to tell you. The children say the school keeps prodding them for their school fees. If they aren't paid...”