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

by Lu Xun

  ‘Confounded nonsense!’ Yu thought to himself, then went on aloud, ‘I have undertaken my own investigation and now know that the previous method – damming – was fundamentally flawed. In future, we will channel the water. Any views from the floor?’

  A silence fell over the room, the colour draining from the faces of the officials. Many of their number suddenly felt the need to call in sick the next day.

  ‘That was the way of Chi You, the ox-horned giant, with his army of demons!’3 a courageous young official gasped indignantly.

  ‘I would humbly and stupidly presume to suggest that Your Eminence reconsiders that view,’ a white-bearded, white-haired official valiantly protested, careless of the consequences for his personal safety – as if the very fate of the empire rested on his own intervention. ‘Damming was the method tried and tested by your own late lamented father. A filial son should hold to the way of the father for three years after his death, and it is not yet three years since your esteemed progenitor ascended to heaven.’

  From Yu – nothing.

  ‘Think of the trouble he went to!’ another grey-haired official, the adopted son of Yu’s uncle, went on. ‘Borrowing the Never-Ending Earth from the Emperor of Heaven. Even though it made him no friends Up There, he did reduce the flooding a little. No: the old ways, it would seem, are the best.’

  Still nothing from Yu.

  ‘Your Eminence, I think, would be best to finish what your father failed to accomplish,’ a corpulent individual, his face slick with sweat, boomed patronizingly, assuming from Yu’s silence that the majority view would carry the day. ‘On with the family way – redeem the paternal reputation. Perhaps Your Eminence has not heard what people say about your late lamented – ’

  ‘In summative essence, the virtues of damming have been proven the world over,’ the white-haired old official broke back in, nervous that his oversized colleague had provoked Yu. ‘Any other technique would be dangerously modern. And that was the whole trouble with Chi You – and his army of demons.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Yu smiled faintly. ‘Some say my father turned into a brown bear, others that he turned into a soft-shelled turtle with three legs. Others again say that I am hungry only for profit and fame. Let them say what they like. I have investigated the lie of mountain and march, consulted the people and assembled facts. My mind is made up. Channels are the way of the future – this is my last word on the subject. My colleagues here are of the same mind.’

  He motioned to left and right. The officials – white-haired, grey-haired, trimly handsome, corpulently sweaty, and corpulent but not sweaty – considered the line of thin, swarthy beggarly creatures to either side of him: still, silent, impassive, as if cast in iron.

  IV

  Time passed quickly indeed after Yu’s departure, and life in the capital grew steadily more prosperous. First, the rich started to wear pongee; next, oranges and pomelos began to appear in the larger fruit shops. After that, the better silk emporia took to displaying openwork linens, while society banquets now featured decent soy sauce, shark’s-fin soup, and chilled sea slug in vinegar. Later still, the wealthy acquired bearskin rugs and fox-fur jackets, while their wives flaunted solid-gold earrings and silver bracelets.

  Stand at the gate to one of the grander mansions, and you would be greeted by endless novelties: a cartload of bamboo arrows one day, a batch of pinewood boards the next. Sometimes, curiously shaped stones would be heaved in for artificial mountains in rockery displays, or fresh fish for the morning porridge. Shoals of giant tortoises, over a foot long, would be carted off to the imperial city, packed into bamboo cages, their heads shrunk back into their shells.

  ‘Look at the big tortoises, Mummy!’ children would yell, rushing up around the cart.

  ‘Get lost, you little brats! These belong to the emperor! Touch them and you’re dead!’

  News of Yu’s doings also proliferated with the influx of luxuries into the capital. Below the eaves of houses, in the shade of roadside trees – everyone was discussing him: how he turned into a brown bear at night and set about dredging the Nine Rivers with his teeth and claws; how he had begged the heavenly army, led by its heavenly generals, to capture Wu Zhiqi, the monster who had stirred up all the floods in the first place, and imprison him beneath Turtle Mountain. No one spoke any more of the achievements of the venerable Emperor Shun and his line; public opinion would, at most, spare the hopeless Crown Prince Danzhu a dismissively critical mention.

  For weeks, months, years, reports of Yu’s imminent return to the capital had been circulating. Every day a crowd would gather at the city gates, trying to catch a glimpse of his retinue’s flags. And yet nothing. But the swirl of increasingly credible rumours seemed to be bringing him ever closer. And one morning – as the sun hesitated over whether to appear – he entered the imperial capital in Jizhou through the heaving ranks of the assembled masses. His arrival was announced not by flags and banners, but by a tremendous beggarly entourage. A great lanky fellow near the back, with callused hands and feet, tanned face and brownish beard, jostled his way through the throng on slightly bowed legs, holding in his hands the large, black, pointed jade tablet of imperial appointment. ‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ he repeated over and over, all the way up to the imperial palace.

  Outside, the people joined in choruses of acclamation, their voices swelling like the mighty billows of the River Zhe.

  The venerable Shun, now weary with old age, sat nervously on the dragon throne. He stood politely as soon as Yu entered, to salute his celebrated minister.

  ‘Enlighten me,’ the emperor eventually said, after his minister Gao Yao had padded the occasion with a little small talk.

  ‘I have no knowledge to impart,’ Yu brusquely replied. ‘My only thought has been to work. To work tirelessly.’

  ‘Tirelessly?’ asked Gao Yao.

  ‘The flood waters ran high,’ Yu said, ‘encircling mountains and engulfing hills; the people were inundated. Where the road was dry, I travelled by cart; on water, I travelled by boat. I sledged over mud and climbed mountains on sedan chairs. On every mountain, I cut down trees to make paths, and with the help of Yi found meat and rice for everyone to eat. I drained the water from the fields into the rivers, and from the rivers into the seas, and with the help of Ji found everyone supplies of food, despite all the difficulties. Where one area felt a scarcity, I made it good from parts that knew abundance. I moved the people to better, safer homes. When peace returned, your subjects began to live decently again.’

  ‘Well said, well said, indeed!’ Gao Yao applauded.

  ‘An emperor,’ said Yu, ‘needs to act with caution and calm. Conduct yourself with conscience and Heaven will smile upon you.’

  Heaving a sigh, the venerable Shun placed the running of the empire in Yu’s hands. Any discontent he felt, he should voice directly – there should be no sniping behind the retired emperor’s back. ‘Don’t turn out like Danzhu,’ he sighed again, after receiving Yu’s agreement, ‘loafing about, boating on dry land, making trouble at home. He’s never given me a moment’s peace – I’m sick of the sight of him.’

  ‘I left home four days after I was married,’ Yu answered. ‘I’ve never been a father to my son, Ah-qi. But that is how the floods were tamed, the empire divided into five regions, each two thousand miles square, and then into twelve provinces all the way out to the coast. I have appointed five governors – all good men, except for the Youmiao.4 Keep an eye on him!’

  ‘The empire is indebted to you,’ the venerable Shun commended him.

  Both Gao Yao and Shun bowed their heads in deference. After dismissing his court, the old emperor commanded his people to learn from Yu’s example; to disobey constituted a criminal offence.

  The news initially generated tremendous panic among the city’s merchant population. Happily, though, some of the great Yu’s puritanism became diluted after his return to the capital. Although he cared little about food or drink, he was capable of ostentatio
n in his performance of sacrifices and rites. And though he remained none too particular about his day-to-day clothes, at court or on official visits his outfits were always immaculately assembled. As a result, the succession had little impact on market conditions, and soon even men of business were recommending that everyone should emulate Yu and proclaiming the excellence of the venerable Gao Yao’s new laws. And so peace and prosperity returned: even the beasts of the kingdom danced for joy, and phoenixes descended to join the fun.

  November 1935

  GATHERING FERNS

  I

  The past half year, peace had deserted even the Old People’s Home, with a number of its residents acquiring a taste for whispered confabulations and scurrying about. Only Boyi held himself aloof from it all. As summer ended, his sole concern was to protect his aged bones from the chill of autumn – perching himself on the front steps and basking in the sun all day long. Even an approaching patter of footsteps did not persuade him to look up.

  ‘Brother!’

  He immediately recognized Shuqi’s1 voice. Always a scrupulous observer of rank and form, Boyi stood before looking up and gestured at his younger brother to sit down next to him.

  ‘Bad news,’ Shuqi breathlessly informed him – a slight quaver to his voice – as he sat down beside him.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Finally turning to look at him, Boyi saw that Shuqi’s face was a shade paler than usual.

  ‘Surely you heard about the two blind men fleeing the King of Shang’s court?’

  ‘Yes, I think I remember San Yisheng mentioning them a few days ago. I didn’t pay much attention.’

  ‘I called on them today. They’re the court musicians – Grand Master Ci and Junior Master Qiang. They’ve brought an enormous number of instruments with them. A few days ago, they held an exhibition – everyone’s been talking about it… But it seems the army’s on the move.’

  ‘Waging war for the sake of a few musical instruments,’ Boyi ponderously observed. ‘This is not the Way of the sage kings.’

  ‘It’s not just about music. You must have heard about the King of Shang’s cruelty – how he cut off the feet of a man who crossed a freezing river at dawn, to see if there was something special about his marrow? Or how he ripped out Prince Bigan’s heart to see whether it had seven orifices? These were just rumours before, but the blind musicians have confirmed it. The king is desecrating the old laws – and tradition holds that he should be punished for it. But it strikes me that neither should a subject attack his sovereign; and Zhou is still the vassal of Shang.’

  ‘Our pancakes do seem to have been getting smaller recently,’ Boyi remarked thoughtfully. ‘Maybe something is about to happen. Best keep out of it, though. Stay at home and keep on with your t’ai chi.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right…’ Shuqi murmured in deference to his senior.

  ‘Think about it,’ Boyi went on, knowing full well his brother was unconvinced. ‘We are guests here, living off the charity of the King of Zhou, a great respecter of old age. We’ve no right to complain: either if the pancakes get smaller, or if something worse happens.’

  ‘In other words, we should just concentrate on getting old.’

  ‘Best say as little as possible. I don’t even have the energy to listen to any more.’

  He started coughing; Shuqi said no more. Once the coughing had subsided, silence descended, the two white beards glinting in the evening sun of late autumn.

  II

  But the effects of the absence of peace began to ripple outwards, the pancakes growing not only smaller in size but also coarser in quality. The residents of the Old People’s Home spent longer and longer in huddled conference. Outside on the street, there was much noisy coming and going of horses and carts. Shuqi grew ever fonder of going out. Though he never said much on his return, his uneasy expression robbed Boyi of his own sense of calm. Their platter of pancakes, he sensed, was about to be upset.

  One morning towards the end of the eleventh month, Shuqi got up to practise his t’ai chi as usual. But when he walked out into the courtyard, he paused to listen, then dashed out of the main gate. In about the time that it would have taken to bake ten pancakes, he rushed back in, his nose bright red from the cold, his breath billowing in white clouds.

  ‘Brother! Get up!’ he urged in a voice roughened by agitation, standing by Boyi’s bed, hands respectfully down by his sides. ‘They’ve declared war!’

  Though Boyi was most reluctant to expose himself to the dawn cold, concern for his brother obliged him to sit up, drape a fur-lined robe over his shoulders, and slowly tug on his trousers under his quilt.

  ‘I was just about to start my t’ai chi,’ Shuqi reported while he waited, ‘when I heard people and horses outside. When I rushed out to the road to look, my worst fears were confirmed. At their head went a large sedan chair, decorated in white, with eighty-one bearers, carrying a wooden commemorative tablet marked “King Wen of the Great Zhou”. A retinue of soldiers followed behind. They must be marching against Shang, I thought. He’s filial enough, the present incumbent. He carries his father’s shrine before him at the start of any great enterprise. Then, when I turned to go back inside, I found a notice on the wall outside the Old People’s Home…’

  Once Boyi was fully dressed, the two brothers ventured out into the cold air, shrinking back at the chill. The view beyond the main gate presented a refreshing novelty to Boyi, who rarely ventured far beyond the home. A few steps from the gate, Shuqi pointed to a large placard on the wall:

  OFFICIAL EDICT

  Let all be advised that the King of Shang, in deference to his concubine’s wishes, has turned his back on heaven, desecrated the Ways of heaven, earth and man, and estranged himself from his family. He has cast aside the righteous music of his ancestors, generating licentious harmonies to please his concubine. We men of Zhou set out today to deliver punishment, in accordance with the Mandate of Heaven. Gird your loins, men, forthwith!

  Neither spoke as they made silently for the main road, both sides of which were packed so tightly with humanity that not even a drop of water would have seeped through. A single ‘excuse me’ from the two old gentlemen at the back turned the heads of the crowd towards them. In compliance with the late King Wen’s order to respect the aged, the throng quickly parted to allow them forward. By this point, the ancestral tablet at the head of the procession had disappeared into the distance, succeeded by row upon row of armoured warriors. After about the length of time it would have taken to bake three hundred and fifty-two large pancakes, the brothers saw a long phalanx of soldiers pass by, hoisting nine-streamered banners that floated above their heads like multicoloured clouds. Yet more soldiers followed, with civil and military officials bringing up the rear, mounted on mighty stallions, and clustered around their formidable king – Wu of Zhou, setting off to carry out the mandate of heaven, his tanned cheeks bristling with beard, a bronze axe in his left hand, a white oxtail in his right.

  The silent crowds on both sides of the road were transfixed by the spectacle. Imagine the amazement, then, when amid the quiet Shuqi rushed forward, dragging Boyi behind him, and wove through the file of horses to tug on the king’s own bridle.

  ‘Call yourself a filial son?’ he yelled. ‘Making war before you’ve even buried your father? What kind of a man plots to murder his own sovereign?’

  For a few seconds, terrified spectators and officers held their breath. Even the white oxtail clutched by the Zhou ruler sagged in astonishment. But by the time Shuqi’s piece had been said, procession and crowds were in uproar, as a lattice of broadswords closed in over the brothers’ heads.

  ‘Stop!’

  Everyone paused to listen, recognizing the voice of the Grand Patriarch, Jiang Shang. Their blades halted in mid-air, the king’s loyal retinue turned to gaze upon the patriarch’s plump face, fringed with white hair.

  ‘Let them go. These are honourable men.’

  Withdrawing their swords, the men of war placed t
hem back at their waists. Four armoured soldiers now stood politely to attention before Boyi and Shuqi, took each by an arm and strode off with them to the side of the road. Again, the crowds smartly gave way.

  Once at the back, the brothers’ armoured guard straightened up again, released their arms and gave both a push from behind. Yelping with pain and surprise, the two men stumbled forward several yards then collapsed to the ground. Shuqi fortunately fell on his hands, coming away with nothing worse than a face-full of mud. Older, frailer, Boyi knocked his head against a stone and fainted right away.

  III

  Once the spectacle of the great army had passed by, everyone turned back to surround the prostrate Boyi and the seated Shuqi. A number of the better-informed members of the audience told the rest that they were the sons of Lord Guzhu of Liaoxi, and that they had fled to Zhou, and entered the Old People’s Home founded by the late King Wen, on jointly abdicating their claim to the throne. Gasps of wonder rippled through the crowd. A few kneeled to get a better look at Shuqi, while others scurried home to warm some ginger soup. Others again went off to inform the Old People’s Home and have them send a door plank to take them home.

  When, in about the time it would take to bake one hundred and three, or perhaps one hundred and four, large pancakes, it seemed there would be no further major developments, the audience gradually fell away. After another while, two old men finally limped over – carrying between them a door plank covered in a layer of rice straw (in strict accordance with the directives of King Wen to respect the comfort of the aged). The resounding thump the plank made against the ground startled Boyi back into life. Exclaiming with joy, Shuqi helped the two other men lift his brother gently on to the plank, then walked alongside as the stretcher set off for the Old People’s Home, holding the hemp rope attached to the door.