After making a visit to my native home during a journey to the southeast, I found myself in the city of S, where I had once taught school for a year. It was only thirty li from my native village and could be reached in less than half a day by boat. The atmosphere was bleak and dismal after the late winter snow, and inertia and a desire to revisit once familiar scenes caused me to put up at the Lo Ssu Hotel, which had been built since my earlier stay in S. I went around to call upon some of my old colleagues that I thought might still be in the city, but none of them was to be found, having gone I knew not where. Passing by the school, I found its name and features changed and unfamiliar. The city was not large; in less than two hours I had exhausted the interest that it held for me, and I began to feel that this visit had been ill-considered and unnecessary.
The hotel rent did not include food, which had to be specially arranged for and was insipid and tasted like mud. From the window there was nothing to see but a spotted and dirty wall covered with dead moss; above, the sky was leaden, a grayish white without relief. A light snow was beginning to fall. As I had not eaten much at the midday meal and had nothing to amuse myself with, I very naturally thought of a restaurant that I used to go to, known as the One Stone Lodge. It was not far from the hotel. So I locked my room and went out on the street and walked in the direction of the restaurant. Really I was more interested in escaping from the dismal hotel room than in food and drink.
The One Stone Lodge was still there, the dark and narrow shop front and the old worn signs were the same, but no one in the restaurant, from the manager to the waiter, was familiar to me. I had become a stranger at the One Stone Lodge. Nevertheless, I ended by climbing the familiar steps at a corner of the shop and went into the small second-story room. Little had been changed. There were still just five tables as before; the paper in the latticed window at the back, however, had been replaced with glass.
"One pot of Shao-hsing. Relishes? Ten pieces of fried bean curd with plenty of hot pepper sauce," I said to the waiter who followed me up the stairs, as I walked toward the back window and sat down at a table. As the room was empty, I selected the best seat so that I could command a view of the deserted garden, which did not, I think, belong to the restaurant. I had looked upon it many times before, sometimes also when snow was falling. But, now, as I looked at it with eyes that had become accustomed to the climate of the North, the garden presented a very remarkable sight: the old plum trees were covered with blossoms in spite of the snow, as if unmindful of the winter; near the ruined pavilion a camellia displayed among its thick, dark-green foliage some red flowers bright and startling as flames in the snow, angry and proud as if disdainful of the wanderer that had chosen to travel in distant parts. I suddenly realized how moist and soft was the snow here, how the flakes clung to things, how brilliant and crystalline they were, and how unlike the snow in the North, which was dry as powder, filling the air like mist when driven by the wind.
"Sir, here is your wine," the waiter said wearily, setting down the cup, chopsticks, wine pot, and dishes.
I turned to the table, arranged the things, and poured some wine. The North was not my native place, and yet here in the South, also, I was looked upon as a stranger. No matter how dry and powdery the snow flies over there, or how soft and clinging it is here, it was none of my concern. I felt sad and melancholy, but I took a draught of wine with pleasure. It tasted excellent and the fried bean curd was nicely cooked. It was a pity that the pepper sauce was very weak; the people of the city of S did not know what hot things were.
I suppose it must have been because it was early in the afternoon that the restaurant was so quiet and so unlike a restaurant in atmosphere. I had already finished three cups of wine, but the other four tables were still vacant. Looking at the deserted garden, I felt my loneliness and desolation increase, though I did not wish for the intrusion of other patrons either. When I heard an occasional footstep on the stairs I could not help feeling a little resentful, and was relieved to see that it was only the waiter. I drank two more cups of wine.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs again. "It must surely be some customer this time," I thought, for the steps were much slower than the waiter's. When I thought that he must have reached the top of the stairs, I looked up very reluctantly at this chance companion of the wine shop, and then stood up with surprise. I did not expect to meet here a friend—if he still allowed me to call him friend. For the man who came up was without a doubt a former schoolmate of mine and a colleague in my teaching days. Though his features had changed somewhat, I had no difficulty in recognizing him. His movements, however, were noticeably slower than they used to be, quite unlike the animated, clever, and shrewd Lu Wei-fu that I used to know.
"Ah, Wei-fu, is it you? I never would have thought of meeting you here."
"Ah, ah, is it you? Neither would I."
I invited him to sit down at my table, which he did after some hesitation. My first delight and surprise gave place to a feeling of sadness and depression. Looking at him more closely, I found that his hair and beard were still bushy and unruly, but his pale, long face had become thin and lined. He seemed very calm and serene, but it might have been weariness. The eyes under his thick, dark brows had lost their luster, though when he looked around the room and saw the deserted garden, they gleamed with a fire familiar to us in our student days.
"It must be ten years now," I said with forced gaiety, "since we last saw each other. Isn't it? I knew that you were at Tsinan but I have been too lazy to write."
"It is the same with all of us. But now I am at Taiyuan; I've been there over two years now, with my mother. When I came to get her, I learned that you had moved away—made a very clean move, I was told."
"What are you doing at Taiyuan?" I asked.
"Teaching, in the family of a fellow provincial."
"And before that?"
"Before that?" he said, lighting the cigarette that he had taken out of his pocket and watching reflectively the curls of smoke. "Nothing but very inconsequential things. It amounts to having done nothing at all."
He asked what I had been doing since we parted, and I told him briefly, after first telling the waiter to bring another cup and pair of chopsticks so that my friend could join me immediately. I then ordered two more pots of wine and more relishes. We did not use to stand on ceremony, but now each insisted that the other should do the honor of ordering. Finally we ordered four dishes from the menu recited by the waiter, without knowing who ordered which—spiced beans, cold meat, more fried bean curd, and smoked fish.
"I realized the futility of it all as soon as I returned," he said, half smiling, one hand holding the cigarette and the other touching the wine cup. "When I was a boy I used to watch flies or bees at rest. When something disturbed them, they would fly away, but after circling around a few times they would return to the same spot. I thought they were very funny and pitiable then. I did not foresee that I too would be flying back to the same place after describing a small circle. And I did not expect that you would be back here too. Couldn't you fly farther than this?"
"I don't know," I said, also half smiling. "But why did you fly back here?"
"Also because of very inconsequential things," he said, emptying his cup and puffing at his cigarette, his eyes somewhat larger for the stimulant. "Yes, very inconsequential. But we can talk about them."
The waiter brought our orders, which filled the table, and the room seemed more lively with the tobacco smoke and the hot vapor from the fried bean curd. The snow was falling more thickly outside.
"Maybe you know," he continued, "that I had a little brother, who died when he was three and was buried here. I have forgotten what he looked like, but my mother tells me he was a very lovable child and got along splendidly with me. Even now she weeps when she talks about him. This last spring a cousin of mine wrote that water was beginning to approach his tomb and that unless something was done, it might soon be washed into the river. My mother became anxious when she learned about it—I couldn't keep it from her as she knows how to read—and could hardly sleep for several nights. But what could I do? I had neither time nor money for the trip. I could not do a thing at the time.
"It was put off until now. The New Year vacation gave me the opportunity to come back South and rebury his body. He drained another cup and said, looking out the window, "We have no such climate up there—flowers in the snow and temperature above freezing, while snow lies on the ground . . . It was day before yesterday. I bought a small coffin—for I thought that the original one must have rotted away long ago—and some new bedding and cotton batting, and went out to the country with four laborers to attend to the reinterment. I suddenly had an exalted feeling; I wanted to help with the digging; I wanted to see the remains of the little brother who used to get along so splendidly with me. I had never had any experience with such things before. When I arrived at the cemetery, I found that the river was indeed eating into the bank and was now only about two feet from the tomb, which was in a pitiful state, almost level with the ground, as no earth had been heaped upon it for two years. I stood in the snow and, pointing to it, said to the laborers with great resolution, 'Now dig here!' I must have appeared rather foolish. I felt that there was something strangely impressive in my voice, that this was the most important and significant command I had ever given in all my life. But the laborers did not seem to be awed or surprised; they set to work without any emotion. When the chamber was reached, I went over to look, and found, as I expected, that the coffin had almost rotted away. There was only a pile of wood dust and splinters left. With my heart beating violently, I carefully removed the heap of wood so as to get a look at my little brother. But there was nothing—bedding, clothes, bones—nothing! I thought that if these things had all disintegrated, there might at least be some hair left, since I had been told that hair is the most imperishable thing of the human body. I leaned over and searched carefully where his head should have been. There was nothing, not a single hair!"
I suddenly noticed that his eyes had become red but I knew that it was due to the wine rather than to his emotion. He would not eat much, but drank cup after cup, and soon consumed more than a potful. He grew more spirited and his gestures more animated; he was more like the old Lu Wei-fu now. I told the waiter to bring two more pots of wine, and, with cup in hand, turned back to listen silently to his story.
"Really there was no need of reinterment. One could have flattened the ground, sold the coffin, and considered the matter ended. It might seem queer for me to be selling a coffin, but if the price was reasonable enough the shop might have taken it back and I would at least have had some money to buy wine. But that was not what I did. Instead, I collected some earth, wrapped it in the bedding, put the bundle in the coffin, and had it carried to my father's tomb and buried by its side. Because of the brick structure over it, I was busy most of yesterday supervising the workmen. Well, I have at least done what had to be done and I can lie to my mother in order to set her mind at peace. Ah, are you looking at me like that because you are surprised that I am so different from what I used to be? Yes, I also remember the time when we went to the Temple of the City God and pulled off the idol's whiskers; when we used to get so excited over discussions on how to reform and revolutionize China that we came to blows. But now I have become like this. I let things pass, let things slide without getting excited about anything. I myself have sometimes thought that my old friends probably would no longer consider me a friend when they see the way I am. But still this is the way I am now."
He took out another cigarette and lit it.
"I see from your attitude that you still seem to have some hope in me—I am, of course, much more insensible than I used to be, but there are still things that I can notice. This makes me feel grateful but at the same time uncomfortable, for I am afraid that I shall eventually disappoint even those old friends that still entertain kindly feelings towards me and wish me well." He stopped abruptly, puffed at his cigarette and then resumed. "And today, just before I came here, I did another senseless and futile thing, but it was again something that I had wanted to do. When I lived here, my neighbor to the east was Chang-fu the boatman. He had a daughter by the name of Ah[1] Shun. You might have seen her when you used to come to our house, but you probably did not notice her as she was still very little then. She was not pretty when she grew up; her face was thin and plain, shaped like a melon seed, and her complexion was yellow. But her eyes were extraordinarily large, with long lashes; the white of her eyes was as clear as the night sky, the clear sky of the North when there is no wind. Her mother died when she was slightly over ten and the care of her younger brother and sister devolved upon her, and she had to attend to the wants of her father besides. As she was thrifty and managed everything well, the family became more and more substantial. All the neighbors praised her; even Chang-fu often expressed gratification. When I set out for this journey, my mother suddenly remembered her—the memory of old people is really remarkable. She said that Ah Shun had once wanted a red artificial flower made of soft down that she saw someone wear, and had cried all night because she did not get one and was beaten by her father for it. Her eyes were swollen for several days afterward. This particular kind of artificial flower was made in another province, and was not procurable even in the city of S. How could they get one for her in the country? So my mother asked me to buy a few flowers on my way south and give them to her.
"I did not consider this errand irksome, but was glad of it, for I had a sincere wish to do something for Ah Shun. Year before last when I came back to fetch my mother, Chang-fu happened to be home one day and somehow I found myself engaged in an idle conversation with him. He invited me to have some sweetmeat with him, a kind of buckwheat jelly which he told me was prepared with sugar. You can see that he was not a poor boatman since he could afford to keep sugar in the house, and that he ate well. I could not refuse because of his persistence, so I accepted the invitation but begged him to give me only a small bowl. He said to Ah Shun with a knowing air, 'These scholars cannot eat much, so use a small bowl but put plenty of sugar in it!' When the delicacy was prepared and brought in, the size of the bowl frightened me, though compared with that of Chang-fu mine was indeed a small one. I had never eaten buckwheat jelly before. When I tasted it I did not find it palatable, though it was quite sweet. After a few mouthfuls I was about to stop eating when I caught sight of Ah Shun standing in the far corner of the room. I lost the courage to put down the bowl and chopsticks. The expression on her face was one of fear and hope, fear lest she might not have prepared it properly, and hope that we might enjoy it. I knew that if I left the greater part of the bowl, she would be disappointed and self-reproachful because she had not done better. Thereupon, I made an effort and gulped every bit down, almost as fast as Chang-fu. I learned then what it means to force down food—I remember only one other experience of the sort when as a child I had to take a bowl of brown-sugar syrup mixed with powdered vermifuge. But I did not regret it, for when Ah Shun came to take away the bowls the smile of gratification that she tried so hard to hide more than compensated for my discomfort. So although I did not sleep well that night because of the bloated feeling in my stomach and had some terrible nightmares, I still wished her lifelong happiness, still wished that the world might be changed for the better for her sake. But these thoughts were only the echoes of bygone dreams. I would smile to myself when I thought of them and would soon forget about them.
"I did not know that she had been punished once because of an artificial flower, but when my mother told me about it, I recalled the jelly episode and I became unusually diligent. I searched all over Taiyuan without success. It was not until I got to Tsinan . . . "
There came a rustling sound from outside the window as the snow fell from a camellia tree that had been bent by its weight. The branches straightened out, revealing more completely the shiny luxuriant leaves and the blood-red flowers. The leaden sky was heavier. The birds were chirping plaintively, probably nesting early because the clouds had hastened the twilight and because there was no food to be found on the snow-covered ground.
"It was not until I reached Tsinan," he said, after looking out the window for a while, drinking another cup of wine, and taking a few more puffs at his cigarette, "that I got those flowers. I don't know that they were the same kind of flowers for which she was spanked, but they were made of the same material. I did not know whether she liked deep or light colors, so I bought one of brilliant red and one of pinkish red and brought them here with me.
"This afternoon, immediately after dinner, I went over to see Chang-fu. I stayed over another day just for this. His house was still there, though I seemed to sense a gloom over it, probably because of the state of mind I was in. Chang-fu's son and his second daughter. Ah Chao—both grown up now—were standing at the gate. Ah Chao was not at all like her sister. She was more like a ghost. She fled into the house when she caught sight of me. I questioned the boy and found that Chang-fu was not home. 'And your elder sister?' I asked, finally. Thereupon he glared at me and asked me what I was asking about her for, as if about to pounce on me and eat me up. I stammered some excuses and retreated; I am very diffident and easily discouraged nowadays . . . "
"You may not know that I am even more timid about calling on people than I used to be. I know very well that I am an eye-sore—I am an eye-sore even to myself—so why should I deliberately go out of my way to cast a gloom upon others? After some hesitation I went to the firewood shop opposite. The mother of the shopkeeper. Grandma Lao Fa, was still living. She recognized me and asked me to go in and sit down. After we had exchanged greetings, I told her why I had returned to the city of S and why I had been looking for Chang-fu, I was surprised when she sighed and said, 'It is a pity that Ah Shun will never have the pleasure of wearing those flowers.'
"Then she told me in great detail what had happened, saying, 'It was about last spring that she began to grow noticeably thinner and paler. Later she began to weep frequently and would not explain the cause when she was asked about it. Sometimes she would cry all night, until it got on Chang-fu's nerves and he scolded her, saying that she must be getting silly as she grew older. In the fall—it was only a cold at first—but she ended up in bed and never got up. A few days before she died she told Chang-fu that for a long time she had been like her mother, suffered women's disorders and sweated at night. She did not want to tell him for fear of causing him anxiety. One evening, his elder uncle Chang-keng came and insisted on borrowing money. This was a frequent occurrence. When Ah Shun would not give it to him, he said, smiling sardonically, "You need not be so proud, your man is not even as good as I am!" Ever since that she was very much worried. She was too bashful to ask questions, so she only cried. Chang-fu tried to console her by telling her how trustworthy and ambitious her man was, but it was too late. Besides, she did not believe it, saying that it didn't matter anymore since she was so ill.'
"Grandma Lao Fa also said, 'It would be a terrible thing indeed if her man was really worse than Chang-keng. What a good-for-nothing he must be if he was not as good as a chicken thief! But when he came to the funeral, I saw him with my own eyes. He was neatly dressed and well featured. He said with tears in his eyes that he had labored hard and saved for half a lifetime to get married, and now his woman had died! One could see that he was really a good man and that Chang-keng had lied. It is very sad indeed that Ah Shun should have believed the lies of a born thief and died for nothing. But then we cannot blame anyone, we can only blame Ah Shun's ill fate.'
"Well, that was that. And I had finished my affairs. But what was I to do with the two flowers I still had with me? Well, I asked Grandma Lao Fa to give them to Ah Chao. I really did not want to give them to her particularly since this Ah Chao ran away from me as if I were a wolf or something worse. But I gave them to her just the same. When I see my mother I shall only tell her that Ah Shun was too happy for words when she got the flowers. What do these things matter anyway? Only to drag along, drag along until after the New Year when I shall begin to teach anew my 'The Master Says' and 'The Book of Poetry Says.'"
"Is that what you teach?" I asked with astonishment.[2]
"Of course. Did you think that I was teaching the ABC's? I had only two pupils at first, one studying the Book of Poetry and the other Mencius. Recently another one was added, a girl, studying Precepts for Women. I do not even teach any arithmetic; not that I don't want to, but because their parents don't."
"I really did not think that you would be teaching such books!"
"That's what their father wants them to read. I am an outsider and it is none of my affair what they read. What do these things matter anyway? One must take things as they come."
His face was red and he seemed a little drunk. But the light had again gone out of his eyes. I sighed softly and could not find anything to say. There were footsteps on the stairs and several customers came in. The first one was a short man with a round bloated face; the second one was tall with a rather prominent red nose; there were others behind them and their steps made the small building tremble. I turned to look at Lu Wei-fu, who had just turned around to look at me. So I called the waiter to reckon the bill.
"Can you manage to live on what you get?" I asked him as we got ready to go.
"I get twenty dollars a month, hardly enough to get along on."
"Then, what are you going to do in the future?"
"The future? I don't know. Think if any of the things we used to dream about ever came out as we wished. I don't know anything about the future. I don't even know about tomorrow."
The waiter brought the bill and gave it to me. Lu Wei-fu was not so ceremonious as when he first came in; he only glanced at me, puffed at his cigarette, and allowed me to pay the bill.
We parted at the door of the restaurant, as the hotel where he stayed lay in the opposite direction from mine. I walked toward my hotel, feeling exhilarated by the cold wind and the snowflakes in my face. Dusk had fallen: the houses and streets were all woven into the texture of a white and restless blanket of snow.
- ↑ "Ah" is a prefix to personal names used chiefly in Southern China; it indicates an even greater degree of familiarity than "lao" (old), its counterpart in Northern China. Some such prefix or suffix (as in the case of "ma" in the name of the maid servant Wu-ma in "Our Story of Ah Q") is necessary in names of one syllable because of the disyllabic tendency of the Chinese language.
- ↑ The teaching of the Confucian classics was abolished in the primary and secondary schools when the Republic was established.