Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Ah Q
The True Story of Ah Q (阿Q正传, Ā Q zhèngzhuàn) by Lu Xun (鲁迅, 1881–1936)
First published serially in the supplement of the Peking Morning Post (Chenbao fukan 晨报副刊) from December 4, 1921, to February 12, 1922, and later collected in Call to Arms (Nàhǎn 呐喊, 1923).
The True Story of Ah Q
Chapter One: Preface
For more than a year or two now, I have been wanting to write the true story of Ah Q. Yet on the one hand I wanted to write it, on the other I kept hesitating — which sufficiently proves that I am not the sort of person who "establishes lasting words." For since time immemorial, an immortal pen requires an immortal subject, and thus the man becomes immortal through his writing and the writing through the man — but who exactly makes whom immortal becomes gradually unclear, until one ends up back at Ah Q after all, as though a ghost were haunting one's thoughts.
However, when one actually puts pen to paper for this perishable article, one encounters ten thousand difficulties from the very first stroke. The first concerns the title. Confucius said, "If the name is not right, the speech will not follow." This is indeed something that demands the greatest attention. There are many types of biography: collected biographies, autobiographies, esoteric biographies, unofficial biographies, supplementary biographies, family biographies, brief biographies... and unfortunately none of them fits. "Collected biography"? This piece is not ranked alongside many eminent persons in an official history. "Autobiography"? I am certainly not Ah Q. "Unofficial biography"? Then where is the "official" one? "Esoteric biography"? Ah Q was decidedly no immortal. "Supplementary biography"? Ah Q never received a presidential decree ordering the National History Bureau to compose his "standard biography" — though it is true that there is no "Collected Biography of Gamblers" in official English history, and the great author Dickens did write a "Supplementary Biography of a Gambler"; but what is permissible for a literary giant is not for the likes of us. Then "family biography"? I neither know whether I belong to Ah Q's clan nor have I been commissioned by any of his descendants. "Brief biography"? Ah Q has even less claim to any other "full biography." In sum, this piece is really a "standard biography," but given my lowly style — the language of "cart-pullers and soup-peddlers" — I dare not presume to call it that. So from the formula of those novelists who rank below even the Three Teachings and Nine Schools — "But enough of idle talk; let us return to the true story" — I have extracted the two characters meaning "true story" and used them as my title; even if this overlaps with the "True Transmission" in the ancients' True Transmission of Calligraphy, I can no longer help it.
Second, by common convention a biography should begin: "Mr. So-and-so, styled So-and-so, a native of Such-and-such." But I do not even know Ah Q's surname. Once he appeared to be named Zhao, but the very next day this was already uncertain. It happened when Old Master Zhao's son passed the examination for xiucai, and the glad tidings were brought to the village amid the clanging of gongs. Ah Q, having just drunk two bowls of rice wine, began to dance about with joy, declaring that this was a credit to him too, for he and Old Master Zhao were originally of the same clan, and when you counted the generations carefully, he was actually three generations senior to the xiucai. At this point several bystanders did regard him with a certain respect. But who could have known that the very next day the village constable would summon Ah Q to Old Master Zhao's house? The old man no sooner laid eyes on him than his face turned purple with rage and he thundered:
"Ah Q, you worthless wretch! Did you say I was a relative of yours?"
Ah Q made no reply.
Old Master Zhao grew angrier the longer he looked at him, strode forward a few steps, and said: "How dare you talk such nonsense! How could I possibly have a relative like you? Is your name Zhao?"
Ah Q still said nothing and tried to retreat; but Old Master Zhao sprang forward and struck him across the face.
"How could you be named Zhao! — You are not fit to be named Zhao!"
Ah Q made no attempt to protest that he truly was named Zhao; he merely rubbed his left cheek and withdrew with the village constable, who then scolded him once more outside, after which Ah Q paid the constable two hundred wen for wine. Everyone who heard of it said Ah Q had been utterly absurd to go inviting a beating upon himself. He probably wasn't named Zhao at all, and even if he really were, with Old Master Zhao right there, he should not have made such a preposterous claim. From then on no one ever mentioned his clan again, and so I have never been able to discover Ah Q's true surname.
Third, I also do not know how Ah Q's given name should be written. When he was alive, everyone called him Ah Quei; after his death, no one ever called him Ah Quei again — so how could there ever be a matter of "recording it on bamboo and silk"? This article is truly the first time he has been committed to writing, and so the very first obstacle presents itself. I pondered carefully: Ah Quei — is it written with the character 桂 (cassia) or 贵 (noble)? If he had borne the courtesy name "Moon Pavilion," or if his birthday had fallen in the eighth month, it would certainly be "cassia." But he had no courtesy name — perhaps he did, only no one knew — and he had never sent out invitations to a birthday celebration: writing "cassia" would be arbitrary. Again, if he had an elder or younger brother called "Ah Fu" (Wealth), then it would certainly be "noble." But he was all alone: there is no evidence for "noble" either. Other obscure characters pronounced "Quei" fit even less. I once asked Old Master Zhao's son, the learned Mr. Maocai, but even this erudite gentleman was at a loss, concluding only that it was because Chen Duxiu had used his magazine New Youth to promote foreign letters, causing the national heritage to decay beyond all verification. My last resort was to ask a fellow townsman to look up Ah Q's case file in the criminal records. Eight months later the reply came: there was no name in the records that sounded like "Ah Quei." Whether there truly was none, or whether no one had bothered to check, I do not know; nor were there any other avenues left. Fearing that the phonetic alphabet was not yet in general use, I had no choice but to employ "foreign letters" and write his name as "Ah Quei" in the spelling current in England, abbreviated to "Ah Q." This is almost slavish imitation of New Youth, and I am myself quite apologetic about it; but if even the eminent Mr. Maocai did not know, what better way could I possibly find?
Fourth, there is the matter of Ah Q's native place. If his surname were indeed Zhao, then by today's fashion of boasting of one's ancestral district, one could follow the annotations in the Hundred Surnames by District and say he was "a native of Tianshui, Longxi." Unfortunately this surname is not at all reliable, and so his native place too remains unsettled. Although he mostly lived in Weizhuang, he often lodged elsewhere and cannot simply be called a "native of Weizhuang"; and even writing "native of Weizhuang" would still violate the rules of historiography.
The one thing that consoles me is that the word "Ah" is perfectly correct, entirely free of forced interpretation or false borrowing, and may be confidently submitted to the learned for their approval. As for the rest, it all lies beyond the capacity of a shallow scholar to fathom; I can only hope that the disciples of Mr. Hu Shizhi, who professes "a passion for history and textual criticism," may in the future unearth many fresh clues. But by that time, I fear, this True Story of Ah Q of mine will long since have perished.
The foregoing may serve as a preface.
Chapter Two: A Brief Account of Ah Q's Victories
Not only were Ah Q's surname and native place somewhat obscure — even his former career was shrouded in mystery. For the people of Weizhuang, when it came to Ah Q, merely wanted him to do odd jobs and made fun of him; no one had ever paid attention to his "career." And Ah Q himself never spoke of it either, except when quarreling with others, when he would sometimes glare wide-eyed and say:
"We were once — far grander than you! What are you, anyway!"
Ah Q had no family and lived in the Tuguci Temple in Weizhuang; nor did he have a regular occupation, but merely hired himself out as a day laborer: when there was wheat to be cut, he cut wheat; when rice needed pounding, he pounded rice; when a boat needed steering, he steered the boat. If the work lasted for any length of time, he might stay at his temporary employer's house, but as soon as it was done he left. So when people were busy they still remembered Ah Q — but what they remembered was the laborer, not the "career"; and when they had nothing to do, even Ah Q was soon forgotten, to say nothing of his career. Only once did an old man commend him approvingly: "Ah Q is really a capable worker!" At that moment Ah Q was standing before him, bare-chested, gaunt, and listless, and the others could not tell whether the remark was sincere or mocking. But Ah Q was very pleased.
Ah Q was, moreover, extremely proud. All the inhabitants of Weizhuang were beneath his notice, and he even regarded the two "literary apprentices" with an expression suggesting they were scarcely worth a smile. These literary apprentices, it should be explained, were men on their way to becoming xiucai; Old Master Zhao and Old Master Qian were greatly respected by the villagers not only for being wealthy but above all for being fathers of literary apprentices. Yet Ah Q alone refused to show them any special spiritual deference. He thought: My son will go far higher! Moreover, having been to town several times, Ah Q naturally became even more conceited. At the same time he thoroughly despised the townspeople. For example, a bench made of planks three and three-tenths inches wide: in Weizhuang people called it a "long bench," and so did he; but the townsfolk called it a "strip bench" — that was wrong and laughable! Or take fried bighead fish: in Weizhuang they added half-inch lengths of spring onion leaves, whereas the city folk added finely shredded onion — that, too, was wrong and laughable! And yet the people of Weizhuang were truly laughable country bumpkins who had never even seen the fried fish of the city!
Ah Q had been "grand in former days," possessed superior knowledge, and furthermore "really could work" — so he was virtually a "perfect man." Unfortunately his physique still had a few defects. The most vexing were several patches of ringworm scars on his scalp, acquired nobody knew when. Although these were on his own body, Ah Q apparently considered them unworthy of mention, for he avoided the word "ringworm" and all words sounding like it; later this prohibition was extended to "shiny" and "bright," and eventually even "lamp" and "candle." Whenever one of these taboo words was uttered, whether intentionally or not, Ah Q would flush scarlet over every one of his scars with fury, size up his opponent — if the fellow was slow of tongue he would curse him, if the fellow was weak of body he would hit him. But somehow or other, it was usually Ah Q who came off worst. So he gradually changed his tactics and for the most part contented himself with glowering.
Yet who could have foreseen that after Ah Q adopted the policy of glowering, the idlers of Weizhuang took even greater delight in teasing him? The moment they caught sight of him, they would pretend to be startled and say:
"Look, it's getting bright!"
Ah Q flared up as usual and glowered at them.
"So there's a safety lamp here!" They were not in the least afraid.
Ah Q had no recourse but to think of some other retort:
"You don't even deserve..." At that moment it was as though the ringworm on his head were a kind of noble, luminous crown rather than ordinary ringworm; but as noted above, Ah Q was a man of discernment, and he immediately realized that this was somewhat at odds with his own taboo, so he said no more.
The idlers would not let up, however, and kept provoking him until at last it came to blows. Ah Q was beaten in form: he was seized by his yellow queue and had his head knocked against the wall four or five times. Only then did the idlers depart, satisfied and victorious. Ah Q stood still for a moment and thought: "Well, I've been beaten by my sons — the world today is really going to the dogs..." And off he went too, satisfied and victorious.
What Ah Q thought to himself he soon began saying aloud, and so practically everyone who teased him learned of this method of spiritual victory. Thenceforth, whenever they had him by the yellow queue, they would forestall him by saying:
"Ah Q, this isn't a son beating his father — it's a man beating a beast. Say it yourself: A man beats a beast!"
Ah Q, gripping the root of his queue with both hands, his head tilted to one side, would say:
"Beating a worm, is it? I'm a worm — will you let go now?"
But worm though he was, the idlers would not let him go; they still knocked his head five or six times against the nearest available surface, and only then departed satisfied and victorious, convinced that Ah Q had really caught it this time. Yet not ten seconds later Ah Q too departed, satisfied and victorious. He felt himself to be the first man capable of "self-deprecation," and if you subtracted the "self-deprecation," what remained was still "first." Wasn't the zhuangyuan also "first"? "What are you, anyway!"
After vanquishing his enemies by such admirable methods, Ah Q would cheerfully run to the wine shop, drink a few bowls, joke and bicker with the others, win yet another victory, and return merrily to the Tuguci Temple, where he would lay his head down and promptly fall asleep. If he had money, he would go gambling. A crowd of men squatted on the ground, and Ah Q would squeeze in among them, perspiration streaming down his face, his voice the loudest of all:
"Blue Dragon, four hundred!"
"Ahhh — open!" the banker would sing, equally drenched in sweat. "Heaven's Gate — the corner back! Man-and-Passage empty! Ah Q's coppers, hand them over!"
"Passage, one hundred — one hundred fifty!"
Under such chanting, Ah Q's coppers gradually passed into the waistbands of other perspiring fellows. In the end he had to squeeze out of the crowd, stand behind the others, and worry on their behalf until the game broke up, after which he would wander reluctantly back to the Tuguci Temple and go to work the next day with swollen eyes.
But as the saying goes, "When the old man at the frontier lost his horse, who could tell it was not a blessing?" — for one day Ah Q had the misfortune of winning, and he was very nearly undone.
It was the evening of the village god's festival in Weizhuang. That evening there was, as usual, a theatrical performance, and near the stage, also as usual, many gambling stands. The drums and gongs of the performance sounded to Ah Q's ears as though they were ten miles away; he heard nothing but the chanting of the banker. He won and won again: coppers turned to silver dimes, dimes to silver dollars, dollars mounted into a pile. He was ecstatic:
"Heaven's Gate, two dollars!"
He could not tell who had started fighting with whom or why. Curses, blows, footsteps — a confused uproar raged about his befuddled head until he at last scrambled to his feet. The gambling stand was gone, the people were gone, and in several places on his body something seemed to hurt rather badly, as though he had taken a few punches and kicks. Several people stared at him in astonishment. He stumbled back to the Tuguci Temple as if in a daze, collected himself, and discovered that his pile of silver dollars had vanished. The gamblers at the festival usually came from other villages — where was he to go looking for the culprits?
What a fine, shining pile of silver dollars! And they had been his — and now they were gone! To tell himself that his sons had taken them was no real comfort; to call himself a worm was no comfort either: this time he truly felt the pain of defeat.
But almost at once he turned defeat into victory. He raised his right hand and dealt himself two resounding slaps across the face. It stung quite fiercely. After that he calmed down: it was as though the one who struck and the one who was struck were two different people — before long it actually felt as though he had struck somebody else — and in spite of a lingering sting, he lay down satisfied, victorious.
He fell asleep.
Chapter Three: A Continuation of Ah Q's Victories
Although Ah Q was frequently victorious, he did not actually become famous until after he received a slap from Old Master Zhao.
Having paid the village constable two hundred wen for wine, he lay down in a rage. Later he thought: "The world today is really going to the dogs — sons beating fathers..." Then suddenly he thought of Old Master Zhao's majesty — and since the old man was now his son — he gradually became pleased with himself, got up, and went singing "The Little Widow Visits the Grave" toward the wine shop. By this time he actually felt that Old Master Zhao was a cut above everyone else.
Strange to say, from that day onward everybody did seem to treat him with rather more respect. In Ah Q's view this was naturally because he was Old Master Zhao's father, but in reality the explanation was otherwise. In Weizhuang, the rule was that if Ah Seven beat Ah Eight, or Li Four beat Zhang Three, it was never considered noteworthy. Only when something became the talk of the village was the one who delivered the beating famous, and the one beaten became famous too — by association, so to speak. That the fault lay with Ah Q went without saying. And why? Because Old Master Zhao could not possibly be wrong. But if Ah Q was in the wrong, why did everyone treat him with more respect? This is hard to explain. Perhaps, if one ventures an interpretation, it was because Ah Q had claimed to be of the same clan as Old Master Zhao, and although he had been beaten, people still feared there might be some truth in it, and thought it prudent to show a little more respect. Otherwise, it was like the grand sacrificial ox in the Confucian temple: although it was, like pigs and sheep, merely livestock, once the Sage had set his chopsticks upon it, the scholars of later ages dared not touch it.
After this, Ah Q had quite a contented existence for many years.
One spring day he was staggering tipsily down the street when he saw Wang Hu sitting bare-chested in the sunshine against a wall, hunting for lice. He suddenly felt itchy all over. This Wang Hu was both mangy and bearded, and everyone called him "Mangy-Bearded Wang," but Ah Q dropped the word "mangy" — while despising him utterly. In Ah Q's view, mange was nothing remarkable; it was only the full beard that was truly bizarre and unworthy of regard. So he sat down beside him. With any other idler, Ah Q would not have dared sit down so casually, but next to Wang Hu — what was there to be afraid of? Frankly, the very fact that he deigned to sit beside him was already doing the fellow a favor.
Ah Q too pulled off his ragged jacket and searched it for a while, but whether because it had been freshly washed or because he was careless, after long effort he found only three or four. Wang Hu, meanwhile, was finding one after another — two, then three in succession — and popping them between his lips with a satisfying crackle.
At first Ah Q was disappointed, then indignant. Even the despicable Wang Hu had so many, while he himself had so few — what a disgrace! He searched desperately for one or two big ones but found none; with great difficulty he caught a medium-sized one, clamped it furiously between his thick lips, and bit down hard — crack — but it was not as loud as Wang Hu's.
All his scars flushed red. He flung his jacket to the ground, spat, and said:
"You lousy caterpillar!"
"Mangy cur, who are you cursing?" Wang Hu looked up contemptuously.
Although Ah Q had recently gained somewhat more respect and had grown prouder, he was still timid when he met the habitual brawlers. Only this time he was uncommonly brave. How dare such a hairy creature be impudent?
"If the cap fits, wear it!" He stood up, hands on hips.
"Are your bones itching for a beating?" Wang Hu also stood up and put on his jacket.
Ah Q, thinking he was trying to flee, rushed forward and swung a fist. But before the blow could land, Wang Hu had seized it. One pull, and Ah Q stumbled forward; the next instant Wang Hu had grabbed his queue and was about to slam his head against the wall in the customary fashion.
"'A gentleman fights with words, not with fists!'" said Ah Q, his head tilted.
Wang Hu apparently was no gentleman. He paid no attention, knocked Ah Q's head against the wall five times running, then shoved him so hard that he flew over six feet. Only then did Wang Hu depart in satisfaction.
In Ah Q's memory, this was probably the first great humiliation of his life, because Wang Hu, with his repulsive beard, had always been the butt of Ah Q's ridicule — it was the other man who had been mocked, never he! To say nothing of being struck. And now the fellow had actually struck him — utterly unheard of! Could the rumors in the marketplace really be true, that the Emperor had abolished the examinations, that xiucai and juren were no longer needed, and that the Zhao family's prestige had consequently declined — which was why people dared to look down on him?
Ah Q stood there at a complete loss.
A man was approaching from a distance: yet another of his enemies. This was the person Ah Q detested most — the eldest son of Old Master Qian. This fellow had previously gone to the city to attend a foreign-style school, then for some reason had gone off to Japan, and had returned after half a year — with straight legs but without a queue. His mother had wept a dozen times, and his wife had tried to throw herself down the well three times. Later his mother told everyone: "His queue was cut off by scoundrels after they got him drunk. He could have become a high official; now he can only wait for it to grow back." But Ah Q refused to believe this; he stubbornly called him the "Bogus Foreign Devil" and also "a man in league with foreigners," and whenever he saw him, he would silently curse him.
What Ah Q "detested with particular vehemence" was the man's false queue. When a queue was actually false, one had forfeited the right to be considered human; and if his wife did not jump down the well a fourth time, she was no decent woman either.
This "Bogus Foreign Devil" drew near.
"Baldy. Donkey..." Ah Q had always muttered such curses only to himself, never aloud. But this time — because he was in a fury and thirsting for revenge — the words slipped out in a whisper.
But the bald one came striding up with a yellow stick — which Ah Q called the "mourning staff" — in his hand. In that instant Ah Q knew he was about to be beaten. He hastily tensed every muscle, hunched his shoulders, and waited. Sure enough — smack — it seemed to have landed squarely on his head.
"I was talking about him!" Ah Q pointed at a child standing nearby.
Smack! Smack, smack!
In Ah Q's memory this was probably the second great humiliation of his life. But after the smacking had stopped, something seemed to have been settled, and he actually felt rather relieved. Moreover, the heirloom treasure of "forgetting" took effect: he walked on slowly, and by the time he was nearly at the wine shop door, he was already in good spirits.
But coming toward him was the little nun from the Convent of Quiet Self-Cultivation. Even in ordinary times Ah Q would have spat at and cursed her on sight — and how much more so after a humiliation! Memory and hostility surged up together.
"No wonder I've had such bad luck today — it's all because I ran into you!" he thought.
He went up to her and spat loudly:
"Bah! Pah!"
The little nun paid no attention whatsoever and walked on with lowered head. Ah Q stepped up beside her, suddenly reached out and rubbed her freshly shaved scalp, grinning foolishly, and said:
"Baldy! Go back quickly, the monk is waiting for you..."
"How dare you touch me..." The nun turned crimson and hurried on.
The men in the wine shop roared with laughter. Seeing that his feat had won their appreciation, Ah Q grew even more elated:
"If the monk can touch her, why can't I?" He pinched her cheek.
The men in the wine shop roared with laughter again. Ah Q, more and more delighted, gave her cheek another hard twist — for the benefit of the connoisseurs — and only then let go.
After this battle, he had forgotten all about Wang Hu and the Bogus Foreign Devil; it was as though he had avenged every bit of "bad luck" that day. And strangely, his whole body felt lighter than it had after the "smack, smack" — he was positively floating, as if about to fly away.
"You heirless scoundrel, you Ah Q!" He heard the little nun's half-weeping voice in the distance.
"Ha ha ha!" Ah Q laughed with the greatest satisfaction.
"Ha ha ha!" The men in the wine shop laughed with nine-tenths satisfaction.
Chapter Four: The Tragedy of Love
It is said that some victors wish their enemies to be like tigers or eagles — only then do they feel the exhilaration of triumph. Were their foes like sheep or chicks, they would find victory dull. And other victors, after conquering all, when the dead are dead and the vanquished have submitted, crying "Your servant trembles with fear and deserves death, deserves death!" — they suddenly find themselves without enemies, without rivals, without friends, alone at the summit, solitary, desolate, forlorn — and feel instead the melancholy of victory. Yet our Ah Q was free of such infirmities; he was perpetually satisfied — which perhaps furnishes further proof that China's spiritual civilization surpasses that of the entire world.
Behold — he was floating along as if about to fly away!
But this particular victory left him feeling rather peculiar. He floated along for half the day, floated into the Tuguci Temple, and by rights should have lain down and begun to snore. But that night he could hardly close his eyes: his thumb and forefinger seemed somehow strange — they felt smoother than usual. Had something smooth from the little nun's face stuck to his fingers, or had his fingers rubbed themselves smooth on the little nun's cheek...?
"You heirless scoundrel, you Ah Q!"
These words were still ringing in Ah Q's ears. He thought: Quite right, I ought to have a woman; without offspring there is no one to offer even a bowl of rice... Yes, he ought to have a woman. For "of the three forms of unfilial conduct, the gravest is to have no descendants," and if "the ghosts of the Ruoao clan go hungry," that too is a great sorrow of human life. His thoughts, it must be said, were entirely in accord with the sacred scriptures and wise traditions — only unfortunately they later ran somewhat out of control.
"Women, women!..." he thought.
"...If the monk can... women, women!... women!" he thought again.
We cannot know at what hour Ah Q began to snore that night. But from then on, his fingertips probably always felt a little smooth, and so he floated along at all times. "Woman..." he thought.
From this alone we can see that women are pernicious creatures.
Most men in China could originally have become sages and worthies, had not women ruined them all. The Shang dynasty was destroyed because of Daji; the Zhou dynasty was undone because of Baosi; the Qin... although history is silent on the point, we may safely assume it was likewise because of a woman — probably not far wrong; and Dong Zhuo was most certainly brought to ruin by Diaochan.
Ah Q too was originally an upright man. Although we do not know what eminent teacher may have instructed him, he had always been rigorous about the "great barrier between the sexes," and he possessed ample righteous indignation against heresy — against little nuns and Bogus Foreign Devils and the like. His theory was: every nun is certainly having an affair with a monk; when a woman walks about outside, she certainly intends to seduce strange men; when a man and a woman are talking somewhere, there is certainly something illicit going on. To punish such offenders he would glower at them, shout a few "heart-probing" remarks, or, when in a secluded spot, throw a small stone at them from behind.
Who could have imagined that as he approached his "thirtieth year," a little nun would set him floating! This floating was impermissible according to the rites — further proof of how abominable women are! Had the little nun's face not been so smooth, Ah Q would not have been bewitched; and had the little nun worn a cloth over her face, he would not have been bewitched either. Five or six years earlier he had pinched a woman's thigh in the crowd beneath the stage — but there had been a layer of trouser cloth between them, so he had not floated afterward at all. The little nun was quite different — which showed once more the wickedness of heresy.
"Woman..." Ah Q thought.
He kept a sharp eye on the women whom he believed "certainly intended to seduce strange men," but none of them smiled at him. He listened attentively to the women who spoke to him, but none of them mentioned anything suggestive of "illicit goings-on." Ah, this too was one of the abominable traits of women: they all played the "false prude."
One day Ah Q had been pounding rice all day at Old Master Zhao's. After supper he sat in the kitchen smoking his pipe. In other households he could have gone home after supper, but the Zhao household ate early. Although the rule was that no lamps were to be lit after dinner and everyone went straight to bed, there were occasional exceptions: first, before young Master Zhao obtained the xiucai degree, he was allowed to read his essays by lamplight; second, when Ah Q came to work as a day laborer, he was allowed to pound rice by lamplight. Because of this exception, Ah Q sat in the kitchen smoking his pipe before beginning his work.
Wu Ma, the only maidservant in Old Master Zhao's household, had finished washing the dishes and sat down on the long bench as well, chatting idly with Ah Q:
"The mistress hasn't eaten for two days — it's because the master wants to buy a concubine..."
"Woman... Wu Ma... this little widow..." Ah Q thought.
"Our young mistress is expecting a child in the eighth month..."
"Woman..." Ah Q thought.
Ah Q put down his pipe and stood up.
"Our young mistress..." Wu Ma was still chattering.
"I want to sleep with you! I want to sleep with you!" Ah Q suddenly rushed forward and knelt before her.
For a moment there was utter silence.
"Oh my!" Wu Ma froze for an instant, then began trembling all over, gave a great shriek, and ran outside, crying and wailing as she went.
Ah Q knelt facing the wall, also dumbstruck. Then, propping himself on the empty bench, he slowly stood up, feeling vaguely that something had gone wrong. He was genuinely flustered now, and hastily tucked his pipe into his waistband, intending to start pounding rice. Bang — a tremendous blow struck him on the head. He whirled around: the xiucai was standing before him with a thick bamboo pole.
"You rebel, you..."
The bamboo pole swung down at him again. Ah Q raised both hands to protect his head — smack, right on the knuckles, and that really hurt. He burst through the kitchen door; on his back he seemed to receive yet another blow.
"You turtle's egg!" the xiucai cursed after him in Mandarin.
Ah Q fled to the rice-pounding shed and stood there alone, still feeling the pain in his fingers and still remembering "turtle's egg" — for this was an expression the country folk of Weizhuang never used; it was reserved for persons of rank who had been in the presence of officials, and was therefore especially terrifying and especially memorable. But by now his thoughts of "women..." had vanished. After the beating, the matter seemed concluded, and he actually felt quite unburdened, so he set about pounding rice. After a while he grew warm and took off his shirt.
As he was taking off his shirt, he heard a great commotion outside. Ah Q had always loved a spectacle, so he followed the noise. He made his way to the inner courtyard of the Zhao house. Although it was growing dark, he could make out many people: the entire Zhao family, including the mistress who had not eaten for two days, plus the neighbor Mrs. Zou Seven, the genuine clansman Zhao White-eye, and Zhao Sichen.
The young mistress was dragging Wu Ma out of the servants' quarters, saying:
"Come outside... don't hide in your room and brood..."
"Everyone knows you're a decent woman... you mustn't think of doing anything rash," Mrs. Zou Seven chimed in soothingly.
Wu Ma only wept, interspersing a few words that were barely audible.
Ah Q thought: "Well, this is amusing — what sort of scene is the little widow putting on?" He edged closer to Zhao Sichen to listen. Just then he caught sight of young Master Zhao charging toward him with a thick bamboo pole in his hand. The sight of it brought the sudden realization that he himself had been beaten, and that this commotion had something to do with it. He spun around and tried to flee back to the rice-pounding shed, but the bamboo pole blocked his path. So he spun around again and quite naturally slipped out through the back door; in no time he was back in the Tuguci Temple.
Ah Q sat for a while and broke out in gooseflesh; he felt cold, for although it was spring, the nights were still quite chilly — not exactly the weather for going bare-chested. He also remembered that his shirt was still at the Zhaos', but if he went to retrieve it he would have to face the xiucai's bamboo pole. Then the village constable arrived.
"Ah Q, blast you! You even molest the Zhaos' servants — that's downright rebellion! I can't sleep tonight because of you, blast you!..."
Having delivered a lengthy lecture of this sort, Ah Q naturally had nothing to say. In the end, since it was nighttime, the constable demanded double wine money — four hundred wen. Ah Q had no cash, so he put up a felt cap as security and agreed to five conditions:
First: The next day he must bring a pair of red candles — each weighing one jin — and a bundle of incense to the Zhao house to offer his apologies.
Second: The Zhao family will engage a Daoist priest to exorcise the ghost of a hanging victim; the costs to be borne by Ah Q.
Third: Ah Q is henceforth forbidden to cross the threshold of the Zhao house.
Fourth: Should Wu Ma come to any harm in the future, Ah Q alone will be held responsible.
Fifth: Ah Q may not demand his outstanding wages or his shirt.
Ah Q naturally agreed to everything, but he had no money. Fortunately it was already spring and the quilt could be dispensed with; he pawned it for two thousand coppers and fulfilled the terms of the agreement. After kowtowing bare-chested, he actually had a few coins left, but instead of redeeming his felt cap, he drank them all away. The Zhaos, for their part, did not burn the incense or light the candles either, since the mistress could use them when worshipping Buddha, and kept them. The torn shirt was largely made into diaper linings for the child the young mistress was expecting in the eighth month; and the remaining small scraps Wu Ma turned into shoe soles.
Chapter Five: The Problem of Making a Living
After Ah Q had completed his ceremonies of atonement, he returned as usual to the Tuguci Temple. The sun went down, and gradually the world began to seem a little strange. He thought hard and finally realized the reason: it was because he was bare-chested. He remembered that he still had his torn jacket, threw it on, and lay down. When he opened his eyes, the sun was already shining on the west wall. He sat up and muttered: "Damn it..."
After getting up he strolled through the streets as usual. Although it was not as bad as the chill of being bare-chested, the world still seemed gradually more peculiar. As though from this day on, every woman in Weizhuang had suddenly become obsessed with modesty: the moment they saw Ah Q approaching, they all disappeared behind their doors. Even the nearly fifty-year-old Mrs. Zou Seven scrambled inside with the rest and dragged her eleven-year-old daughter in with her. Ah Q found this exceedingly strange and thought: "These women are all suddenly playing the fine lady. The trollops..."
But the world grew still stranger many days later. First, the wine shop would no longer extend credit. Second, the old man who looked after the Tuguci Temple started muttering tiresome things, as if trying to get him to leave. Third — he could not remember exactly how many days it had been, but it was certainly many — not a single person came to hire him for odd jobs. He could endure the wine shop's refusing credit; he could brush off the old man's nagging with a torrent of words. But that no one came to call him for work — that gave Ah Q an empty belly, and that was truly a most "damn" state of affairs.
Ah Q could stand it no longer and went to his old employers to inquire — only the Zhao threshold was forbidden. But everywhere the situation was strange: invariably a man came out, wearing an extremely annoyed expression, and waved him away as one would a beggar:
"Nothing, nothing! Out with you!"
Ah Q found this increasingly mystifying. He thought: These households always needed help; it was impossible that they suddenly had nothing to do. Something must be behind all this. He made careful inquiries and learned that they were now all hiring Little D. This Little D was a penniless wretch, even thinner and more feeble, and in Ah Q's eyes ranked even below Wang Hu. Who could have imagined that this fellow would steal his livelihood! Ah Q's anger this time was of a different order from the usual. As he strode furiously through the streets, he suddenly raised his hand and sang:
"With my steel mace I'll beat you down!..."
A few days later he actually met Little D in front of the spirit screen of the Qian residence. "When enemies meet, their eyes are especially sharp" — Ah Q advanced upon him, and Little D stood still.
"Beast!" said Ah Q, glowering, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth.
"I'm a worm, all right?..." said Little D.
This humility only made Ah Q angrier. Since he had no steel mace at hand, he pounced on Little D and tried to pull his queue. Little D guarded his own queue root with one hand and grabbed at Ah Q's with the other; Ah Q likewise shielded his own root with his free hand. From the standpoint of the old Ah Q, Little D was scarcely worth his notice, but now that Ah Q had been going hungry and was as thin and feeble as Little D, the contest became a stalemate. Four hands tugged at two heads, both men bent at the waist, casting a blue arc upon the white wall of the Qian house — for a good half hour.
"Enough, enough!" said the spectators — probably trying to mediate.
"Good, good!" said the spectators — whether mediating, praising, or egging them on was impossible to tell.
But neither listened. Ah Q advanced three steps and Little D retreated three steps — then both stood still. Little D advanced three steps and Ah Q retreated three steps — and both stood still again. After about half an hour — Weizhuang seldom had a striking clock, so it was hard to tell, perhaps twenty minutes — smoke began to rise from their hair and sweat to drip from their foreheads. Ah Q's hands loosened; at the very same instant Little D's hands also loosened. They straightened up simultaneously, stepped back simultaneously, and squeezed their way out of the crowd.
"Remember this, damn you..." said Ah Q, turning his head.
"Damn you, remember this..." said Little D, also turning his head.
This "battle of the dragon and the tiger" appeared to have produced neither victor nor vanquished. Whether the spectators were satisfied no one knew; at any rate no one expressed any opinion. And still no one came to hire Ah Q.
One very mild day, when a gentle breeze was blowing with almost a hint of summer, Ah Q nonetheless felt cold. That was still bearable; the worst of it was his hunger. The quilt, the felt cap, the shirt — all had long since gone; then he had sold his padded coat. Now he still had trousers, but those could on no account be removed; and his torn jacket, except as a gift for making shoe soles, was certainly unsalable. He had hoped to find some money on the road, but so far none had appeared; he had hoped to discover some money suddenly in his shack, and looked around frantically, but the shack was bare and empty. So he resolved to go out and forage.
He walked along the road "foraging": there was the familiar wine shop, there were the familiar steamed buns. But he walked past them all, did not pause, and desired none of them. What he sought was not that sort of thing; what exactly he sought, he himself did not know.
Weizhuang was not a large village; before long he had walked through it. Outside the village were mostly paddy fields, the fresh green of young rice seedlings stretching as far as the eye could see, with a few round moving black dots here and there — farmers plowing. Ah Q had no eye for this pastoral idyll; he simply walked on, for he knew instinctively that it had nothing to do with his "path of foraging." But at length he arrived at the wall of the Convent of Quiet Self-Cultivation.
Around the convent too there were paddy fields; the white wall jutted out from the fresh green, and behind the low earthen wall lay a vegetable garden. Ah Q hesitated for a moment, looked in all directions — no one was in sight. So he clambered over the low wall, clutching at the vines of the he-shou-wu plant — but the earth kept crumbling and Ah Q's feet kept trembling. Finally he seized a branch of the mulberry tree and jumped inside. It was luxuriantly green within, but there appeared to be no rice wine, no steamed buns, nor any other edibles. By the west wall stood bamboo with many shoots, but unfortunately they were all uncooked. The rapeseed had already gone to seed, the mustard was about to flower, and the Chinese cabbage had grown old.
Ah Q felt as wronged as a candidate who has failed his examination. He walked slowly toward the garden gate, then suddenly gave a start of delight: unmistakably a patch of old radishes! He squatted down and began pulling. Suddenly a very round head poked out of the doorway — and instantly withdrew. It was clearly the little nun. Little nuns and their like Ah Q normally treated as so much grass. But one had to "think one step back," so he hastily pulled up four radishes, twisted off the greens, and bundled them into the front of his jacket. But by then the old nun had already come out.
"Amitabha! Ah Q, how can you climb into the garden and steal radishes!... Oh, what a sin, oh, Amitabha!..."
"When did I climb into your garden and steal radishes?" said Ah Q, walking and looking around as he spoke.
"Now — aren't those them?" The old nun pointed at his jacket front.
"Are they yours? Will they answer when you call? You..."
Before Ah Q could finish, he broke into a run. A very large, fat black dog was chasing him — it had originally been at the front gate and had somehow gotten into the back garden. The black dog snarled and gave chase, and was about to seize Ah Q's leg when fortunately a radish fell from his jacket; the dog was startled and paused briefly, and Ah Q had already scrambled up the mulberry tree, across the earthen wall, and tumbled out on the other side, radishes and all. Only the black dog remained, barking at the mulberry tree, while the old nun went on with her prayers.
Fearing the nun might release the black dog again, Ah Q picked up his radishes and took to his heels, collecting a few small stones along the way. But the black dog did not reappear. Ah Q threw away the stones, walked on, ate as he walked, and thought: There's nothing to be found here either — I'd better go to town...
By the time the three radishes were finished, his mind was firmly made up to go to town.
Chapter Six: From Renaissance to Ruin
When Ah Q was next seen in Weizhuang, it was shortly after the Mid-Autumn Festival of that year. Everyone was astonished and said: Ah Q is back! Then they cast their minds back: where had he actually been? On his previous trips to town Ah Q had always excitedly told everyone about them, but this time he had not, and so no one had paid attention. Perhaps he had told the old temple keeper, but in Weizhuang the rule was: only when Old Master Zhao, Old Master Qian, or the xiucai went to town was it considered an event. The Bogus Foreign Devil already didn't count — to say nothing of Ah Q. And so the old man did not spread the news, and Weizhuang's society remained unaware.
But Ah Q's return this time was fundamentally different from before and truly astonishing. As darkness fell, he appeared before the wine shop with sleepy eyes, walked up to the counter, pulled a fistful of silver and copper coins from his waistband, flung them jingling on the counter, and said: "Cash! Bring wine!" He was wearing a new jacket, and at his waist there hung what appeared to be a large money pouch, so heavy that it pulled his waistband into a deep curve. In Weizhuang the rule was: when you saw a somewhat striking personage, it was better to err on the side of respect. Although they could plainly see it was Ah Q, he looked somewhat different from the Ah Q in the ragged jacket. As the ancients said, "When you have not seen a scholar for three days, you should look upon him with new eyes"; and so the waiter, the proprietor, the patrons, and the passers-by all naturally assumed an expression of deference and attention. The proprietor began with a nod, then with conversation:
"Well, Ah Q, you're back!"
"Back."
"Made your fortune, made your fortune! You were — at..."
"In town!"
This news spread through all of Weizhuang the next day. Everyone wanted to know the story of Ah Q's renaissance — the cash and the new jacket — and so, in the wine shop, the teahouse, and under the temple eaves, the details gradually emerged. The result was that Ah Q acquired a new kind of respect.
According to Ah Q, he had been working in the household of Mr. Juren. At this the listeners became reverential. This Mr. Juren's real surname was Bai, but since he was the only juren in the entire town, no surname was needed — when you said "Mr. Juren," it was he. This was the case not only in Weizhuang but within a radius of a hundred li, and many people virtually regarded "Mr. Juren" as his real name. To work in such a household was naturally respectable. But according to Ah Q, he had grown discontented there, because Mr. Juren was really too "damn." At this the listeners sighed with both regret and satisfaction, for Ah Q was not really qualified to work in Mr. Juren's household, and his leaving was a pity.
According to Ah Q, his return also had to do with his dissatisfaction with the city folk — specifically their calling the long bench a "strip bench" and using shredded spring onion to fry fish; in addition, his latest observations had revealed further defects: the way city women walked was not especially appealing either. There were, however, occasional things worthy of admiration: whereas the country folk of Weizhuang only played with thirty-two bamboo tiles, and only the Bogus Foreign Devil knew how to play mahjong, in the city even the little brats played with consummate skill. All the Bogus Foreign Devil had to do was fall into the hands of one of those ten-year-old city urchins, and it would be "the imp meets the King of Hell." At this the listeners were abashed.
"Have you ever seen an execution?" said Ah Q. "Ah, what a sight! Executing revolutionaries. My, what a grand spectacle..." He shook his head and spat his spittle squarely into the face of Zhao Sichen, who stood opposite him. The listeners shuddered. Ah Q looked around, suddenly raised his right hand, and brought it chopping down on the back of Wang Hu's neck — Wang Hu had been craning forward, listening with rapt attention:
"Chop!"
Wang Hu jumped with fright; simultaneously, quick as lightning, he pulled his head in. The listeners shivered and were at the same time delighted. From that day on, Wang Hu went about in a daze for many days and dared not go near Ah Q; the others did the same.
Ah Q's standing in the eyes of Weizhuang's residents now — though one would not quite dare say it surpassed Old Master Zhao's — could be described as nearly equal to it without much risk of error.
Before long, however, Ah Q's great name spread even to the women's quarters of Weizhuang. Although the village had only the two great houses of Qian and Zhao, and nine out of ten dwellings were merely "humble chambers," chambers they were nonetheless, and so this counted as a marvel. When the women met, they were certain to say: Mrs. Zou Seven had bought a blue silk skirt from Ah Q — old, to be sure, but for only nine jiao. And the mother of Zhao White-eye — some said Zhao Sichen's mother, which remains to be verified — had also bought a dark red jacket of foreign cloth, seven-tenths new, for only three hundred coppers at ninety-two per hundred. And so they all gazed eagerly, longing to see Ah Q; those who needed silk skirts wanted to ask him for silk skirts, those who wanted foreign cloth jackets wanted to buy foreign cloth jackets. Not only did they no longer run away when they saw him — sometimes, even after Ah Q had walked past, they would chase after him, calling:
"Ah Q, have you still got silk skirts? No? A foreign cloth jacket would do too — have you?"
Eventually this spread from the humble chambers to the inner chambers. For Mrs. Zou Seven, proud of her purchase, had brought the blue skirt to Mrs. Zhao for inspection; Mrs. Zhao had told Old Master Zhao about it and praised it warmly. At the dinner table that evening, Old Master Zhao discussed the matter with the xiucai: Ah Q was really rather peculiar; they should keep a closer watch on the doors and windows. But perhaps he still had some things worth buying? Moreover, Mrs. Zhao just happened to be looking for a cheap fur vest. The family council therefore resolved to send Mrs. Zou Seven at once to find Ah Q, and for this purpose a third exception was specially created: that evening oil lamps were to be permitted.
The oil had burned down considerably, but Ah Q still had not come. The entire Zhao household grew impatient: they yawned, they blamed Ah Q for being unreliable, or they reproached Mrs. Zou Seven for not pressing hard enough. Mrs. Zhao even feared he did not dare come because of the conditions imposed in spring. But Old Master Zhao thought this unlikely: after all, it was he who had sent for the man. And indeed — Old Master Zhao's foresight proved correct: at last Ah Q came in with Mrs. Zou Seven.
"He just kept saying there was nothing left. I told him to come and say so himself, but he still tried to..." Mrs. Zou Seven said, panting as she walked.
"Sir!" called Ah Q with a half-smile, and stood still under the eaves.
"Ah Q, I hear you've been making money out there," said Old Master Zhao, pacing back and forth and surveying him from head to foot. "Very good, very good. Now then... I hear you still have a few old things... you might bring them all over for us to see... not that there's any special reason, I just want to..."
"I already told Mrs. Zou. It's all gone."
"Gone?" Old Master Zhao could not suppress an exclamation. "How can it be gone so fast?"
"It belonged to friends, there wasn't much to begin with. They bought some of it..."
"There must still be a little left."
"Now there's just one door curtain."
"Well, bring the door curtain to have a look at, then," said Mrs. Zhao hastily.
"All right, bring it tomorrow then," said Old Master Zhao, already less enthusiastic. "Ah Q, whenever you have anything in future, bring it to us first..."
"The price will certainly be no less than what others offer!" said the xiucai. The xiucai's wife quickly glanced at Ah Q's face to see whether he was moved.
"I want a fur vest," said Mrs. Zhao.
Although Ah Q agreed, he shuffled out listlessly, and it was unclear whether he had taken this to heart. Old Master Zhao was deeply disappointed, vexed and worried, and even stopped yawning. The xiucai was also dissatisfied with Ah Q's attitude and said that the good-for-nothing bore watching; perhaps they should instruct the village constable not to let him live in Weizhuang. But Old Master Zhao disagreed: that could create enmity, and besides, people in this line of business generally followed the rule that "the hawk does not prey near its own nest" — there was nothing to fear from the home village; one simply had to be more alert at night. The xiucai, hearing this "fatherly instruction," heartily agreed and immediately withdrew his proposal to expel Ah Q; he also urged Mrs. Zou Seven not to breathe a word of this conversation to anyone.
But the very next day, Mrs. Zou Seven took her blue skirt to have it dyed black and simultaneously spread the word about Ah Q's suspicious activities — though she did, to be fair, not mention the part about the xiucai wanting to expel him. This alone, however, was very damaging to Ah Q. First, the village constable came and took his door curtain; Ah Q protested that Mrs. Zhao wanted to see it, but the constable would not return it, and moreover wanted to negotiate a monthly protection fee. Second, the villagers' attitude toward him shifted: although they did not yet dare be rude, they clearly kept their distance — and this distance was different from the earlier fear of his "Chop!"; it was distinctly mixed with an element of "respectful avoidance."
Only a handful of idlers still wanted to get to the bottom of Ah Q's story. Ah Q made no attempt to hide it and told of his experiences with evident pride. Only then did they learn that he had been merely a minor player: he could not even climb over walls, let alone crawl through holes, but merely stood outside the hole receiving the goods. One night, just as he had taken a bundle and was reaching back in, he suddenly heard loud shouting inside. He took to his heels and fled all night, over the city wall and back to Weizhuang, and never dared go again. But this story proved even more damaging: the villagers had "respectfully kept their distance" out of fear of making an enemy, but now it turned out he was merely a thief who did not dare steal anymore. Truly, "he too was no longer to be feared."
Chapter Seven: Revolution
On the fourteenth day of the ninth month of the third year of Xuantong — that is, the same day Ah Q sold his money pouch to Zhao White-eye — at about three in the morning, a large black-canopied boat pulled up at the Zhao family's river landing. The boat glided in from the pitch-black darkness; the villagers were sound asleep and noticed nothing. When it departed near dawn, however, quite a few people saw it. Inquisitive investigations revealed: it was actually Mr. Juren's boat!
That boat brought great unrest to Weizhuang. Before noon the whole village was in an uproar. The boat's mission was supposed to be a strict secret of the Zhao household, but in the teahouses and wine shops people said: the revolutionaries are about to enter the city, and Mr. Juren is fleeing to the countryside for refuge! Only Mrs. Zou Seven disagreed, saying they were merely a few old trunks that Mr. Juren had wanted to store, but Old Master Zhao had sent them back. In fact, Mr. Juren and Xiucai Zhao had never been on good terms, and in theory they could not have shared any "common adversity"; moreover, Mrs. Zou Seven, being a neighbor of the Zhaos, had closer knowledge — so she was probably right.
But rumors flourished: Mr. Juren, though he had not been able to leave his trunks, had nevertheless left a letter tracing his kinship to the Zhaos through some "roundabout connection." Old Master Zhao mulled it over and decided that it could do him no harm, so he kept the trunks — they were pushed under the mistress's bed. As for the revolutionaries — it was said they entered the city that very night, all in white helmets and white armor: they wore mourning for Emperor Chongzhen.
Ah Q's ears had long since heard the phrase "revolutionaries," and this year he had even seen revolutionaries executed with his own eyes. But he held a conviction, the source of which he himself could not identify: that revolution meant rebellion, and rebellion meant trouble for him — and so he had always "detested and loathed them with every fiber of his being." Yet who could have imagined that even Mr. Juren, famous a hundred li around, was so afraid of them? Ah Q could not help feeling somewhat "fascinated," and besides, the panicked expressions of the Weizhuang men and women pleased him greatly.
"Revolution? Maybe that's not so bad," thought Ah Q. "Revolt against this whole damned lot — quite right! Utterly abominable! Downright hateful!... Yes, I should go over to the revolutionaries myself."
Ah Q had lately been short of cash and was probably somewhat discontented; moreover, he had drunk two bowls of wine on an empty stomach at noon and had gotten drunk all the faster. As he thought and walked, he began to float again. Suddenly it seemed as though he himself were a revolutionary and all the people of Weizhuang his prisoners. In his elation he cried out:
"Rebellion! Rebellion!"
The people of Weizhuang all looked at him with frightened eyes. Such pitiable looks Ah Q had never seen; at first sight he felt as comfortable as if drinking snow-water in June. He grew even more elated and cried out as he walked:
"Good... Whatever I want is mine; whoever I fancy is mine.
Dong-dong, clang-clang!
Had I only not slain Brother Zheng in my drunken rage,
Had I only not, ah ah ah...
Dong-dong, clang-clang, dong, clang-ling-clang!
With my steel mace I'll beat you down!..."
The two Zhao men and two genuine clansmen were standing at the main gate discussing the revolution. Ah Q did not notice them; he held his head high and sang straight past.
"Dong-dong..."
"Old Q," said Old Master Zhao, timidly and in a low voice, stepping forward to meet him.
"Clang-clang," Ah Q had not expected his name to be linked with the word "Old"; he took it for some other phrase that had nothing to do with him, and went on singing. "Dong, clang, clang-ling-clang, clang!"
"Old Q."
"Had I only not..."
"Ah Q!" The xiucai had no choice but to call him by name.
Only then did Ah Q stop, tilt his head, and ask: "What?"
"Old Q... right now..." But Old Master Zhao had run out of words. "Right now... are you making money?"
"Making money? Naturally. Whatever I want is mine..."
"Ah... Brother Q, poor friends like us don't need to worry, do we?..." said Zhao White-eye apprehensively, as though trying to sound out the revolutionaries' intentions.
"Poor friends? You've always got more than me." So saying, Ah Q walked off.
They all stood crestfallen and speechless. Old Master Zhao and his son discussed the matter until lamplight. Zhao White-eye went home and detached the money pouch from his belt; his wife had to hide it at the bottom of the chest.
Ah Q floated about for a while and returned to the Tuguci Temple; by now the wine had worn off completely. That evening the old temple keeper was also unexpectedly friendly and offered him tea; Ah Q asked him for two flatbreads, ate them, then demanded a partly used four-liang candle and a wooden candlestick, lit the candle, and lay down alone in his little room. He felt indescribably fresh and happy; the candlelight danced as on Lantern Festival night, and his thoughts leaped as well:
"Rebellion? How interesting... Here comes a troop of revolutionaries in white helmets and white armor, all carrying broadswords, steel maces, bombs, rifles, three-pointed double-edged swords, and hooked lances. They pass the Tuguci Temple and call: 'Ah Q! Come with us, come with us!' And then we all go together...
"Then the bunch of birds-and-women of Weizhuang will look pretty silly, kneeling and begging: 'Ah Q, spare us!' Who cares about them! The first to go is Little D, then Old Master Zhao, and the xiucai, and the Bogus Foreign Devil... Spare a few? Wang Hu could be spared, I suppose, but no — not him either...
"Things... walk right in and open the trunks: gold ingots, silver dollars, foreign cloth shirts... The xiucai's wife's Ningbo bed goes first to the Tuguci Temple; then the Qians' furniture — or maybe I'll just use the Zhaos'. No need to lift a finger myself — I'll have Little D do the carrying. And he'd better be quick about it, or there'll be a slap in the face...
"Zhao Sichen's sister is really ugly. Mrs. Zou Seven's daughter — we'll talk about that in a few years. The Bogus Foreign Devil's wife sleeps with a man who has no queue — ugh, she's no good! The xiucai's wife has a scar on her eyelid... Wu Ma — I haven't seen her for ages, who knows where she is — pity about her big feet."
Before Ah Q had quite finished his plan, he was already snoring. The four-liang candle had burned down barely half an inch, and its red flickering light illuminated his gaping mouth.
"Ho ho!" Ah Q suddenly cried out, raised his head and looked around in alarm; when he saw the four-liang candle, he laid his head back down and went to sleep again.
The next morning he got up very late; when he went out into the street, everything was the same as before. He was still hungry. He thought hard, but nothing came to mind. Then he seemed suddenly to have hit upon an idea: he set off slowly, walking with vague purpose toward the Convent of Quiet Self-Cultivation.
The convent was as quiet as in spring: white walls and a black gate. He thought for a moment, went up, and knocked. A dog barked inside. He quickly picked up a few pieces of broken brick, went up again, and knocked more forcefully. Not until the black gate was pocked all over with marks from his knocking did he hear someone come to open it.
Ah Q quickly readied his bricks, spread his legs in a fighting stance, and prepared to do battle with the black dog. But the convent gate opened only a crack; no black dog came charging out — peering in, he saw only the old nun.
"What do you want this time?" she said in alarm.
"Revolution!... Did you know?..." said Ah Q somewhat indistinctly.
"Revolution, revolution, another revolution... How much more are you going to revolutionize us?" said the old nun, her eyes red-rimmed.
"What?..." Ah Q was taken aback.
"Don't you know? They've already been here to revolutionize!"
"Who?..." Ah Q was even more taken aback.
"The xiucai and the Foreign Devil!"
This Ah Q had not expected; involuntarily he was startled. Seeing his fighting spirit waver, the old nun slammed the gate shut with lightning speed; Ah Q pushed, but it would not budge; he knocked again, but no answer came.
That had been earlier in the morning. Xiucai Zhao, who had a sharp nose for news, no sooner learned that the revolutionaries had entered the city during the night than he coiled his queue on top of his head and went first thing in the morning to call on Qian, the Foreign Devil, with whom he had never been on good terms. This was the time when "all were to share in the renewal," and so they hit it off splendidly, instantly becoming like-minded comrades who resolved to revolutionize together. They thought and thought and finally hit upon the idea that in the Convent of Quiet Self-Cultivation there was a wooden tablet inscribed "Long live the Emperor, long, long live him" — that ought to be revolutionized at once. So they went together to the convent to revolutionize. When the old nun tried to stop them and said three sentences, they treated her as a representative of the Manchu government and dealt her quite a few blows with sticks and knuckles on the head. After they left, the nun collected herself, took stock, and found that the dragon tablet lay in pieces on the floor — and moreover, the Xuande-era incense burner in front of the Guanyin statue had vanished.
Ah Q learned of all this only afterward. He greatly regretted having been asleep, but also bore them a deep grudge for not having come to fetch him. He took one more step back in his thinking and reflected:
"Can it be that they still don't know I've already gone over to the revolutionaries?"
Chapter Eight: Barred from the Revolution
The hearts of Weizhuang grew calmer by the day. According to the news that filtered in, although the revolutionaries had entered the city, nothing had changed very much. The district magistrate was still in his post, only his title had been altered, and Mr. Juren too now held some sort of office — the Weizhuang folk could not quite make out these titles — and the military commander was still the same old batong. There was only one alarming development: several unsavory revolutionaries had mixed themselves in and started making trouble; by the second day they had begun cutting off queues. It was said that Qi Jin, the boatman from the neighboring village, had fallen victim to them and now looked thoroughly inhuman. But this was not yet a great cause for alarm, since the people of Weizhuang seldom went to town, and even those who might have wished to changed their plans at once to avoid this danger. Ah Q too had originally intended to go to town to see his old friends; when he heard the news, he also abandoned the idea.
But even in Weizhuang one could not say there had been no reform. Several days later, more and more people began coiling their queues on top of their heads. As already mentioned, Mr. Maocai was first, followed by Zhao Sichen and Zhao White-eye, and then Ah Q. In summer it would have been nothing unusual to wind one's queue on top of one's head or tie it in a knot; but now it was late autumn, and so this "practicing summer customs in autumn" represented, for the queue-coilers, an extraordinary act of courage — and for Weizhuang it could not be said to have been unrelated to reform.
When Zhao Sichen came walking along with the back of his head bare and fluttering, people who saw him shouted:
"Look, a revolutionary!"
Ah Q heard this and was very envious. Although he had long known the great news that the xiucai had coiled up his queue, it had never occurred to him that he could do the same. Only when he saw Zhao Sichen did the idea of imitation strike him, and he resolved to put it into practice. With a bamboo chopstick he coiled his queue on top of his head, hesitated for a long time, and only then ventured out.
He walked through the street; people looked at him but said nothing. Ah Q was at first displeased, then indignant. Lately he had become very quick-tempered. Actually, his life was no harder than before the rebellion, people were polite to him, and the shops did not demand cash. But Ah Q felt that he was being unfairly neglected: since there had been a revolution, things ought not simply to go on as before. Moreover, one day he caught sight of Little D, and that made him even angrier.
Little D had also coiled his queue on top of his head, and with a bamboo chopstick at that. Ah Q had never imagined he would dare do such a thing, and he absolutely could not allow it! What was Little D, anyway? He wanted nothing more than to seize him by the head, snap his chopstick, pull down his queue, and give him several slaps — a small punishment for forgetting his place and daring to play the revolutionary. But in the end he let him go and merely spat a furious gob of spittle after him: "Pah!"
During these days only one person went to the city: the Bogus Foreign Devil. Xiucai Zhao had wanted to call on Mr. Juren in person on the strength of the stored trunks, but refrained because of the danger of having his queue cut off. He wrote a letter in the courteous "Yellow Parasol" format and gave it to the Bogus Foreign Devil to take to the city; at the same time he asked him to arrange an introduction to the Freedom Party. When the Bogus Foreign Devil returned, he collected four silver dollars from the xiucai; in exchange, the xiucai now sported a silver peach on his lapel. All Weizhuang was awed and admiring: this was the badge of the "Sesame Oil Party," equivalent to the rank of Hanlin! Old Master Zhao's prestige consequently soared, far surpassing what it had been when his son first passed the xiucai examination. He therefore looked down on everything, and when he saw Ah Q, regarded him with considerable disdain.
Ah Q was already discontented and felt perpetually slighted. When he heard about the silver peach, he instantly understood why he was being slighted: to make revolution it was not enough simply to announce one's defection; coiling up one's queue was not enough either. The first step was to make contact with the revolutionaries. The only revolutionaries he had ever known in his life were two: the one in the city had long since been "chopped" and executed; now only the Bogus Foreign Devil remained. There was no other course but to hurry to the Bogus Foreign Devil for advice.
The gate of the Qian residence stood wide open, and Ah Q crept timidly inside. Once within he received a great shock: the Bogus Foreign Devil was standing in the middle of the courtyard, dressed all in black — apparently foreign clothing — with a silver peach pinned to his chest and a stick in his hand that Ah Q knew only too well. His queue, more than a foot long, had been unbraided and hung loose over his shoulders; with his wild hair he looked like Liu Hai the Immortal. Facing him in rigid attention stood Zhao White-eye and three idlers, listening with the greatest deference.
Ah Q crept up and took his place behind Zhao White-eye. He wanted to greet the man but did not know what to say: "Bogus Foreign Devil" was obviously out of the question now; "Foreigner" was not right either; "Revolutionary" was not right either — perhaps he should say "Mr. Foreign."
But Mr. Foreign had not yet noticed him, for he was holding forth with raised eyes and full enthusiasm:
"I am an impatient man, and so whenever we meet I always say: Brother Hong! Let's get to work! But he always says: No! — that's an English word which you wouldn't understand. Otherwise we'd have succeeded long ago. But this is precisely what shows how careful he is. He has invited me three and four times to go to Hubei, but I haven't agreed yet. Who wants to work in this little county town..."
"Er... well..." Ah Q waited for a brief pause and at last summoned up courage to speak — but for some reason he did not call him "Mr. Foreign" after all.
All four listeners turned around in alarm. Mr. Foreign too now saw him for the first time:
"What?"
"I..."
"Get out!"
"I want to join—"
"Get out!" Mr. Foreign raised the mourning staff.
Zhao White-eye and the idlers shouted: "The gentleman says get out — don't you hear?"
Ah Q threw his arm over his head and fled involuntarily through the door; Mr. Foreign did not pursue him. He ran a good sixty paces before slowing down. But then sorrow welled up inside him: Mr. Foreign would not let him make revolution; there was no other path left. From now on he could not possibly hope for people in white helmets and white armor to come and call for him. All his ambitions, aspirations, hopes, and prospects for the future were wiped out at a single stroke. That the idlers would spread the word and give Little D and Wang Hu and the rest cause for mockery was, comparatively, a minor matter.
It seemed to him that he had never experienced such utter emptiness. He found even his coiled queue meaningless and contemptible; out of spite he wanted to let it down at once, but he did not actually do so. He wandered until nightfall; at a wine shop he managed to get two bowls of wine on credit, drank them, and gradually cheered up; only then did fragments of white helmets and white armor resurface in his thoughts.
One day, as was his custom, it was already late at night and the wine shop was about to close when he sauntered back toward the Tuguci Temple.
Bang, ba-a-a!
He suddenly heard a strange sound — not firecrackers. Ah Q had always loved spectacles and was always ready to poke his nose into other people's business; he followed the noise through the darkness. Ahead of him there seemed to be footsteps. Just as he was listening more carefully, someone came running toward him from the opposite direction. Ah Q saw him and instantly broke into a run in the same direction. The man turned a corner; Ah Q turned the corner. The man stopped; Ah Q stopped. He looked behind him — nothing there. He looked at the man — it was Little D.
"What?" Ah Q grew annoyed.
"Zhao... the Zhao house has been robbed!" said Little D, panting.
Ah Q's heart pounded. Little D said his piece and vanished. Ah Q fled, stopped, turned back — two, three times. But since he himself had once been "in that line of business," he had extra courage. So he ventured around the street corner and listened: there seemed to be shouting. He looked more carefully: there seemed indeed to be many people in white helmets and white armor, filing along carrying trunks, carrying furniture, carrying the xiucai's wife's Ningbo bed — but it was not clearly visible. He wanted to go forward, but his feet would not move.
There was no moon that night; Weizhuang lay in deep darkness, still — as still as in the time of the primordial Emperor Fuxi. Ah Q stood watching until he himself grew restless. Everything seemed the same as before — things were being carried back and forth: trunks out, furniture out, the xiucai's wife's Ningbo bed out... so much that he could hardly believe his own eyes. But he decided not to go any closer and returned to his temple.
The Tuguci Temple was blacker still. He shut the great gate and groped his way to his room. After lying there for a good while, he at last collected his thoughts and began to reflect upon himself: the men in white helmets and white armor had plainly been there, yet they had not come to greet him; they had carried off many fine things, and none of it was for him — this was all the fault of the Bogus Foreign Devil, who had barred him from the revolution. Otherwise — how could he have been left out this time? The more Ah Q thought about it, the angrier he became, until at last he could no longer contain his bitterness. He nodded his head viciously: "Bar me from revolution, and then revolt yourself? Damn Bogus Foreign Devil! — All right, you revolt! Revolt is a capital crime — I'll report you, and they'll drag you off to the county seat and chop off your head — exterminate your whole clan — chop! Chop!"
Chapter Nine: The Grand Finale
After the Zhao house was robbed, most people in Weizhuang felt at once gratified and alarmed; Ah Q too felt at once gratified and alarmed. But four days later, Ah Q was seized in the middle of the night and taken to the county town. It happened to be a dark night. A squad of soldiers, a squad of village militia, a squad of policemen, and five detectives crept silently into Weizhuang, surrounded the Tuguci Temple in the darkness, and set up a machine gun directly facing the gate. But Ah Q did not come charging out. When nothing happened for a long time, the batong grew anxious and offered a reward of twenty thousand coppers; only then did two militiamen dare to scale the wall. Combining forces from inside and outside, they burst in and dragged Ah Q out. Not until they had hauled him past the machine gun outside the temple did he begin to come to his senses.
By the time they reached the town, it was already noon. Ah Q found himself being steered into a dilapidated government building; after five or six turns he was pushed into a small cell. The moment he stumbled, the barred door of solid timber slammed shut behind his heels. The remaining three walls were masonry; when he looked more carefully, he discovered two other persons in a corner.
Although Ah Q was somewhat uneasy, he was not terribly distressed: after all, his bedroom in the Tuguci Temple had been no better than this cell. The other two appeared to be country folk as well, and they gradually struck up a conversation. One said that Mr. Juren wanted to collect his grandfather's long-overdue rent; the other did not know what he was there for. When they asked Ah Q, he answered forthrightly: "Because I wanted to make revolution."
That afternoon he was dragged through the barred door again and taken to the main hall. At the far end sat an old man with a clean-shaven head. Ah Q suspected he was a monk; but when he saw a row of soldiers standing below and more than a dozen persons in long gowns on either side — some with clean-shaven heads like the old man, some with hair a foot long flowing down their backs like the Bogus Foreign Devil — all with fierce expressions and angry eyes fixed on him, he knew that this person must carry some authority. His knees went limp of their own accord, and he knelt down.
"Stand up and speak! Don't kneel!" cried the long-gowned figures.
Ah Q seemed to understand, but somehow felt unsteady on his feet; involuntarily he squatted, and finally settled down on his knees after all.
"The slave mentality!..." said the long-gowned figures contemptuously, but they did not make him get up.
"Tell the truth and spare yourself suffering. I know everything already. Confess and you will be released." The shaven-headed old man fixed his eyes on Ah Q's face and spoke calmly and distinctly.
"Confess!" the long-gowned figures also cried loudly.
"I originally wanted to... come and join—" Ah Q thought in a befuddled way for a moment, then spoke haltingly.
"Then why didn't you come?" asked the old man amiably.
"The Bogus Foreign Devil wouldn't let me!"
"Nonsense! In any case it's too late now. Where are your accomplices?"
"What?..."
"The gang that robbed the Zhao house that night."
"They didn't come to get me. They carried everything off themselves." Ah Q became indignant at the recollection.
"Where did they go? Tell us and you will be released." The old man grew more amiable still.
"I don't know... they didn't come to get me..."
But the old man gave a signal with his eyes, and Ah Q was pushed behind the barred door again. The second time he was pulled out was the following morning.
Everything in the main hall was the same. The shaven-headed old man still sat at the far end, and Ah Q once again knelt down.
The old man asked amiably: "Have you anything else to say?"
Ah Q thought. No. "No," he answered.
Then one of the long-gowned figures brought a sheet of paper and a writing brush before Ah Q and tried to press the brush into his hand. Ah Q was terrified almost out of his wits: his hand and a writing brush — this was the very first time in his life. The man pointed to a place on the paper and told him to make his mark.
"I... I can't read," said Ah Q, clutching the brush in terror and shame.
"Very well then — just draw a circle!"
Ah Q tried to draw a circle, but the hand holding the brush would only tremble. So the man spread the paper on the ground; Ah Q bent down and summoned every ounce of his strength to draw a circle. He was afraid of being laughed at and was determined to make it round. But the wretched brush was not only heavy but disobedient: just as the line was about to close, it wobbled and bulged outward — resulting in the shape of a melon seed.
Ah Q was mortified that his circle was not round, but the man had already whisked away the paper and the brush, and several people pushed him behind the barred door a second time.
The second time behind the bars he was not particularly distressed. He felt that being a man between heaven and earth, one probably had to be dragged in and out sometimes, and sometimes had to draw circles on paper. Only that his circle was not round — that he considered a blot on his "record." But before long he was at peace again: Only a greenhorn draws a perfectly round circle! And so he fell asleep.
But that night it was Mr. Juren who could not sleep: he had quarreled with the batong. Mr. Juren insisted that the first priority was recovering the stolen goods; the batong insisted that the first priority was making a public example. The batong had recently stopped showing Mr. Juren much respect and pounded the table: "Punish one to warn a hundred! Look at this: I've been a revolutionary for less than twenty days, and there have already been over a dozen robbery cases, none of them solved — where does that leave my face? When a case is solved, you come and quibble. This won't do! This is my affair!" Mr. Juren was cornered but stood firm: if the stolen goods were not recovered, he would immediately resign his position as assistant civil administrator. The batong said: "Suit yourself!" And so Mr. Juren did not sleep that entire night; fortunately, the next day he did not resign either.
The third time Ah Q was dragged through the barred door was the morning after Mr. Juren's sleepless night. He was taken to the main hall; the familiar shaven-headed old man still sat at the far end, and Ah Q once again knelt down as usual.
The old man asked amiably: "Have you anything more to say?"
Ah Q thought. No. "No," he answered.
Then many long-gowned and short-coated figures suddenly put a white vest of cotton cloth on him, with black characters written on it. Ah Q was deeply upset, for this looked like mourning, and mourning meant bad luck. At the same time his hands were bound behind his back, and he was dragged straight out of the government building.
Ah Q was hoisted onto an open cart; several short-coated men climbed up with him. The cart set off at once. In front marched a troop of soldiers bearing rifles and a troop of militiamen; on both sides pressed crowds of gaping spectators; what was behind, Ah Q could not see. But suddenly a thought struck him: wasn't this the way to the execution ground? He panicked; his eyes went black, his ears rang, and he felt he was about to faint. Yet he did not quite faint: though sometimes anxious, he was sometimes calm too. It occurred to him vaguely that between heaven and earth, a man was probably meant, sometimes, to lose his head.
He recognized the road, and this surprised him: why were they not heading for the execution ground? He did not know that he was being paraded through the streets for public exhibition. But even had he known, it would have been all the same: he would merely have concluded that between heaven and earth, a man was probably meant, sometimes, to be paraded through the streets for exhibition.
He realized it: this was the roundabout route to the execution ground; this was certainly the "chop" and the beheading. He gazed distractedly to left and right: people were following him like ants, and in the crowd along the roadside he caught sight of — Wu Ma. Long time no see; she was working in the city now. Ah Q suddenly felt ashamed that he had shown so little spirit: he had not even sung a few lines from an opera! His thoughts whirled through his brain like a cyclone: "The Little Widow Visits the Grave" was too plain; "Had I only not..." from the "Dragon and Tiger Combat" was too limp; but "With my steel mace I'll beat you down" — yes, that! At the same moment he tried to raise his hand in a grand gesture, then remembered that both hands were tied. And so he did not sing "the steel mace" either.
"In twenty years I shall be another..." In the midst of all the commotion, Ah Q brought out, "without teacher or master," the first half of a sentence he had never uttered before.
"Bravo!!!" From the crowd there rose a howl like the baying of jackals and wolves.
The cart kept moving forward; Ah Q turned his eyes amid the cheering to look at Wu Ma, but she appeared never to have noticed him at all, and was only staring in fascination at the rifles on the soldiers' backs.
Ah Q then turned his gaze to the cheering spectators.
In that split second his thoughts once again whirled through his brain like a cyclone. Four years ago he had encountered a starving wolf at the foot of a hill. It had followed him at a constant distance, neither nearer nor farther, wanting to eat his flesh. He had been nearly frightened to death, but fortunately he had a woodcutter's hatchet in his hand, and with this to bolster his courage he had managed to hold out until he reached Weizhuang. But he had never forgotten those wolf eyes — savage and cowardly at once, glinting like two will-o'-the-wisps, seeming to bore through his very skin from afar. And now he saw eyes more terrifying than any he had ever seen — dull yet sharp, eyes that had not only chewed up his words but sought to chew up something beyond his skin and flesh, and that followed him at a constant distance, neither nearer nor farther.
These eyes seemed to merge into one and were already gnawing at his soul.
"Help!..."
But Ah Q never said it. His eyes had long since gone black, his ears were ringing, and he felt his whole body scattering like dust.
As for the repercussions of this event, the greatest fell, paradoxically, upon Mr. Juren, because the stolen goods were never recovered, and his whole family wailed. The second greatest fell upon the Zhao house: not only had the xiucai had his queue cut off by disreputable revolutionaries when he went to the city to file a report, but the family had also spent twenty thousand coppers in reward money; so they too wailed as one. From that day on, they all gradually took on the manner of loyalists of the old regime.
As for public opinion: in Weizhuang it was unanimous — naturally Ah Q was bad, and his being shot was proof of his badness: if he hadn't been bad, why would he have been shot? Public opinion in the city, however, was less favorable: most people were dissatisfied, finding that a shooting was not nearly as fine a spectacle as a beheading; and besides, what a laughable condemned man — paraded through the streets for so long and he hadn't even sung a single line from an opera! They had followed the procession for nothing.
About the Author
Lu Xun (鲁迅, born Zhou Shuren 周树人, 1881–1936) is widely regarded as the founder of modern Chinese literature. The True Story of Ah Q is his longest and most famous work, a scathing satire on Chinese society and the national character.
About this Translation
Translated from the Chinese into English. Part of the Lu Xun Complete Works project.