Call to Arms Read online

  Mother stood up and went out. Several women's voices could be heard outside. I called Hong'er to me and started talking to him, asking him whether he could write, and whether he was glad to be leaving.

  “Shall we be going by train?”

  “Yes, we shall go by train.”

  “And boat?”

  “We shall take a boat first.”

  “Oh! Like this! With such a long moustache!” A strange shrill voice suddenly rang out.

  I looked up with a start, and saw a woman of about fifty with prominent cheekbones and thin lips standing in front of me, her hands on her hips, not wearing a skirt but with trousered legs apart, just like the compass in a box of geometrical instruments.

  I was flabbergasted.

  “Don't you know me? And I have held you in my arms!”

  I felt even more flabbergasted. Fortunately my mother came in just then and said, “He has been away so long, you must excuse him for forgetting.”

  “You should remember,” she said to me, “this is Mrs. Yang from across the road.... She has a beancurd shop.”

  Then, to be sure, I remembered. When I was a child there was a Mrs. Yang who used to sit nearly all day long in the beancurd shop across the road, and everybody used to call her Beancurd Beauty. But she used to powder herself, and her cheekbones were not so prominent then nor her lips so thin; moreover she remained seated all the time, so that I had never noticed this resemblance to a compass. In those days people said that, thanks to her, that beancurd shop did very good business. But, probably on account of my age, she had made no impression on me, so that later I forgot her entirely. However, the Compass was extremely indignant and looked at me most contemptuously, just as one might look at a Frenchman who had never heard of Napoleon or an American who had never heard of Washington, and smiling sarcastically she said:

  “You had forgotten? But naturally I must be beneath your notice....”

  “Certainly not... I...” I answered nervously, getting to my feet.

  “Then you listen to me, Master Xun. You have grown rich, and they are too heavy to move, so you can't possibly want these old pieces of furniture any more. You had better let me take them away. Poor people like us can do with them.”

  “I haven't grown rich. I must sell these in order to buy....”

  “Oh, come now, you have been made the intendant of a circuit, and do you still say you're not rich? You have three concubines now, and whenever you go out it is in a big sedan-chair with eight bearers, and do you still say you're not rich? Hah! You can't hide anything from me.”

  Knowing there was nothing I could say, I remained silent.

  “Come now, really, the more money people have the more miserly they get, and the more miserly they are the more money they get,” said the Compass, turning indignantly away and walking slowly off, casually picking up a pair of Mother's gloves and stuffing them into her pocket as she went out.

  After this a number of relatives in the neighbourhood came to call. In the intervals between entertaining them I did some packing, and so three or four days passed.

  One very cold afternoon, I was sitting drinking tea after lunch when I was aware of someone coming in, and turned my head to see who it was. At the first glance I gave an involuntary start, and hastily stood up and went over to welcome him.

  The newcomer was Runtu. But although I knew at a glance that this was Runtu, it was not the Runtu I remembered. He had grown to twice his former size. His round face, crimson before, had become sallow and acquired deep lines and wrinkles; his eyes too had become like his father's with rims swollen and red, a feature common to most of the peasants who work by the sea and are exposed all day to the wind from the ocean. He wore a shabby felt cap and just one very thin padded jacket, with the result that he was shivering from head to foot. He was carrying a paper package and a long pipe, nor was his hand the plump red hand I remembered, but coarse and clumsy and chapped, like the bark of a pine tree.

  Delighted as I was, I did not know how to express myself, and could only say:

  “Oh! Runtu—so it's you?...”

  After this there were so many things I wanted to talk about, they should have poured out like a string of beads: woodcocks, jumping fish, shells, zha....But I was tongue-tied, unable to put all I was thinking into words.

  He stood there, mixed joy and sadness showing on his face. His lips moved, but not a sound did he utter. Finally, assuming a respectful attitude, he said clearly:

  “Master!...”

  I felt a shiver run through me; for I knew then what a lamentably thick wall had grown up between us. Yet I could not say anything.

  He turned his head to call:

  “Shuisheng, bow to the master.” Then he pulled forward a boy who had been hiding behind his back, and this was just the Runtu of twenty years before, only a little paler and thinner, and he had no silver necklet on his neck.

  “This is my fifth,” he said. “He has not seen any society, so he is shy and awkward.”

  Mother came downstairs with Hong'er, probably after hearing our voices.

  “I got the letter some time ago, madam,” said Runtu. “I was really so pleased to know that the master was coming back...”

  “Now, why ever are you so polite? Weren't you playmates together in the past?” said Mother gaily. “You had better still call him Brother Xun as before.”

  “Oh, you are really too... What bad manners that would be. I was a child then and didn't understand.” As he was speaking Runtu motioned Shuisheng to come and bow, but the child was shy, and only stood stock-still behind his father.

  “So he is Shuisheng? Your fifth?” asked Mother. “We are all strangers, you can't blame him for feeling shy. Hong'er had better take him to play.”

  When Hong'er heard this he went over to Shuisheng, and Shuisheng went out with him, entirely at his ease. Mother asked Runtu to sit down, and after a little hesitation he did so; then leaning his long pipe against the table he handed over the paper package, saying:

  “In winter there is nothing worth bringing; but these few beans we dried ourselves there, if you will excuse the liberty, sir.”

  When I asked him how things were with him, he just shook his head.

  “In a very bad way. Even my sixth can do a little work, but still we haven't enough to eat... and then there is no security... All sorts of people want money, and there is no fixed rule... and the harvests are bad. You grow things, and when you take them to sell you always have to pay several taxes and lose money, while if you don't try to sell, the things may go bad....”

  He kept shaking his head; yet, although his face was lined with wrinkles, not one of them moved, just as if he were a stone statue. No doubt he felt intensely bitter, but could not express himself. After a pause he took up his pipe and began to smoke in silence.

  From her chat with him, Mother learned that he was busy at home and had to go back the next day; and since he had had no lunch, she told him to go to the kitchen and fry some rice for himself.

  After he had gone out, Mother and I both shook our heads over his hard life: many children, famines, taxes, soldiers, bandits, officials and landed gentry, all had squeezed him as dry as a mummy. Mother said that we should offer him all the things we were not going to take away, letting him choose for himself.

  That afternoon he picked out a number of things: two long tables, four chairs, an incense-burner and candlesticks, and one balance. He also asked for all the ashes from the stove (in our part we cook over straw, and the ashes can be used to fertilize sandy soil), saying that when we left he would come to take them away by boat.

  That night we talked again, but not of anything serious; and the next morning he went away with Shuisheng.

  After another nine days it was time for us to leave. Runtu came in the morning. Shuisheng had not come with him—he had just brought a little girl of five to watch the boat. We were very busy all day, and had no time to talk. We also had quite a number of visitors, some to see us off, s
ome to fetch things, and some to do both. It was nearly evening when we got on the boat, and by that time everything in the house, however old or shabby, large or small, fine or coarse, had been cleared away.

  As we set off, the green mountains on either side of the river became deep blue in the dusk, receding towards the stern of the boat.

  Hong'er and I, leaning against the cabin window, were looking out together at the indistinct scene outside, when suddenly he asked:

  “Uncle, when shall we go back?”

  “Go back? Do you mean that before you've left you want to go back?”

  “Well, Shuisheng has invited me to his home....” He opened wide his black eyes in anxious thought.

  Mother and I both felt rather sad, and so Runtu's name came up again. Mother said that ever since our family started packing up, Mrs. Yang from the beancurd shop had come over every day, and the day before in the ashheap she had unearthed a dozen bowls and plates, which after some discussion she insisted must have been buried there by Runtu, so that when he came to remove the ashes he could take them home at the same time. After making this discovery Mrs. Yang was very pleased with herself, and flew off taking the dog-teaser with her. (The dog-teaser is used by poultry keepers in our part. It is a wooden cage inside which food is put, so that hens can stretch their necks in to eat but dogs can only look on furiously.) And it was a marvel, considering the size of her feet, how fast she could run.

  I was leaving the old house farther and farther behind, while the hills and rivers of my old home were also receding gradually ever farther in the distance. But I felt no regret. I only felt that all round me was an invisible high wall, cutting me off from my fellow, and this depressed me thoroughly. The vision of that small hero with the silver necklet among the watermelons had formerly been as clear as day, but now it had suddenly blurred, adding to depression.

  Mother and Hong'er fell asleep.

  I lay down, listening to the water rippling beneath the boat, and knew that I was going my way. I thought: although there is such a barrier between Runtu and myself, our children still have much in common, for wasn't Hong'er thinking of Shuisheng just now? I hope they will not be like us, that they will not allow a barrier to grow up between them. But again I would not like them, because they want to be one, to have a treadmill existence like mine, nor to suffer like Runtu until they become stupefied, nor yet, like others, to devote all their energies to dissipation. They should have a new life, a life we have never experienced.

  The access of hope made me suddenly afraid. When Runtu had asked for the incense-burner and candlesticks I had laughed up my sleeve at him, to think that he was still worshipping idols and would never put them out of his mind. Yet what I now called hope was no more than an idol I had created myself. The only difference was that what he desired was close at hand, while what I desired was less easily realized.

  As I dozed, a stretch of jade-green seashore spread itself before my eyes, and above a round golden moon hung from a deep blue sky. I thought: hope cannot be said to exist, nor can it be said not to exist. It is just like roads across the earth. For actually the earth had no roads to begin with, but when many men pass one way, a road is made.

  January 1921

  ■ The True Story of Ah Q

  Chapter 1

  Introduction

  For several years now I have been meaning to write the true story of Ah Q. But while wanting to write I was in some trepidation too, which goes to show that I am not one of those who achieve glory by writing; for an immortal pen has always been required to record the deeds of an immortal man, the man becoming known to posterity through the writing and the writing known to posterity through the man—until finally it is not clear who is making whom known. But in the end, as though possessed by some fiend, I always came back to the idea of writing the story of Ah Q.

  And yet no sooner had I taken up my pen than I became conscious of tremendous difficulties in writing this far-from-immortal work. The first was the question of what to call it. Confucius said, “If the name is not correct, the words will not ring true”; and this axiom should be most scrupulously observed. There are many types of biography: official biographies, autobiographies, unauthorized biographies, legends, supplement biographies, family histories, sketches... but unfortunately none of these suited my purpose. “Official biography?” This account will obviously not be included with those of many eminent people in some authentic history. “Autobiography?” But I am obviously not Ah Q. If I were to call this an “unauthorized biography,” then where is his “authenticated biography?” The use of “legend” is impossible because Ah Q was no legendary figure. “Supplementary biography?” But no president has ever ordered the National Historical Institute to write a “standard life” of Ah Q. It is true that although there are no “lives of gamblers” in authentic English history, the well-known author Conan Doyle nevertheless wrote Rodney Stone; but while this is permissible for a well-known author it is not permissible for such as I. Then there is “family history”; but I do not know whether I belong to the same family as Ah Q or not, nor have his children or grandchildren ever entrusted me with such a task. If I were to use “sketch,” it might be objected that Ah Q has no “complete account.” In short, this is really a “life,” but since I write in vulgar vein using the language of hucksters and pedlars, I dare not presume to give it so highsounding a title. So I will take as my title the last two words of stock phrase of the novelist, who are not reckoned among the Three Cults and Nine Schools. “Enough of this digression, and back to the true story” ; and if this is reminiscent of the True Story of Calligraphy of the ancients, it cannot be helped.

  The second difficulty confronting me was that a biography of this type should start off something like this: “So-and-so, whose other name was so-and-so, was a native of such-and-such a place”; but I don't really know what Ah Q's surname was. Once, he seemed to be named Zhao, but the next day there was some confusion about the matter again. This was after Mr. Zhao's son had passed the county examination and, to the sound of gongs, his success was announced in the village. Ah Q, who had just drunk two bowls of yellow wine, began to prance about declaring that this reflected credit on him too, since he belonged to the same clan as Mr. Zhao and by an exact reckoning was three generations senior to the successful candidate. At the time several bystanders even began to stand slightly in awe of Ah Q. But the next day the bailiff summoned him to Mr. Zhao's house. When the old gentleman set eyes on his face turned crimson with fury and he roared:

  “Ah Q, you miserable wretch! Did you say I belonged to the same clan as you?”

  Ah Q made no reply.

  The more he looked at him the angrier Mr. Zhao became. Advancing menacingly a few steps he said, “How dare you talk such nonsense! How could I have such a relative as you? Is your surname Zhao?”

  Ah Q made no reply and was planning a retreat, when Mr. Zhao darted forward and gave him a slap on the face.

  “How could you be named Zhao? Are you worthy of the name Zhao?”

  Ah Q made no attempt to defend his right to the name Zhao but rubbing his left cheek went out with the bailiff from whom, once outside, he had to listen to another torrent of abuse. He then by way of atonement paid him two hundred cash. All who heard this said Ah Q was a great fool to ask for a beating like that. Even if his surname were Zhao—which wasn't likely—he should have known better than to boast like that when there was a Mr. Zhao living in the village. Afer this no further mention was made of Ah Q's ancestry, thus I still have no idea what his surname really was.

  The third difficulty I encountered in writing this work was that I don't know how Ah Q's personal name should be written either. During his lifetime everybody called him Ah Gui, but after his death not a soul mentioned Ah Gui again; for he was obviously not one of those whose name is “preserved on bamboo tablets and silk.” If there is any question of preserving his name, this essay must be the first attempt at doing so. Hence I am confronted with this diffic
ulty at the outset. I have given the question careful thought. Ah Gui—would that be the “Gui” meaning fragrant osmanthus or the “Gui” meaning nobility? If his other name had been Moon Pavilion, or if he had celebrated his birthday in the month of the Moon Festival, then it would certainly be the “Gui” for fragrant osmanthus. But since he had no other name—or if he had, no one knew it—and since he never sent out invitations on his birthday to secure complimentary verses, it would be arbitrary to write Ah Gui (fragrant osmanthus). Again, if he had had an elder or younger brother called Ah Fu (prosperity), then he would certainly be called Ah Gui (nobility). But he was all on his own; thus there is no justification for writing Ah Gui(nobility). All the other, unusual characters with the sound Gui are even less suitable. I once put this question to Mr. Zhao's son, the successful county candidate, but even such a learned man as he was baffled by it. According to him, however, the reason why this name could not be traced was that Chen Duxiu had brought out the magazine New Youth advocating the use of the Western alphabet, hence the national culture was going to the dogs. As a last resort, I asked someone from my district to go and look up the legal documents recording Ah Q's case, but after eight months he sent me a letter saying that there was no name anything like Ah Gui in those records. Although uncertain whether this was the truth or whether my friend had simply done nothing, after failing to trace the name this way I could think of no other means of finding it. Since I am afraid the new system of phonetics has not yet come into common use, there is nothing for it but to use the Western alphabet, writing the name according to the English spelling as Ah Gui and abbreviating it to Ah Q. This approximates to blindly following New Youth, and I am thoroughly ashamed of myself; but since even such a learned man as Mr. Zhao's son could not solve my problem, what else can I do?

  My fourth difficulty was with Ah Q's place of origin. If his surname were Zhao, then according to the old custom which still prevails of classifying people by their district, one might look up the commentary in The Hundred Surnames and find “Native of Tianshui in Gansu.” But unfortunately this surname is open to question, with the result that Ah Q's place of origin must also remain uncertain. Although he lived for the most part in Weizhuang, he often stayed in other places, so that it would be wrong to call him a native of Weizhuang. It would, in fact, amount to a distortion of history.