Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Kong Yiji
Kong Yiji (孔乙己)
鲁迅 (Lǔ Xùn, 1881–1936)
Translation from the Chinese into English.
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Kong Yiji
The layout of the tavern in Lu Zhen (魯鎮) was different from those elsewhere: facing the street stood a large, L-shaped counter behind which hot water was kept at the ready, so that wine could be warmed at any time. Working men came around midday or in the evening after their shift and would often spend four copper coins on a bowl of wine — this was more than twenty years ago; nowadays the price has risen to ten coins per bowl — lean against the outside of the counter, and drink it hot while resting. Those willing to spend one coin more could buy a dish of salted bamboo shoots or a portion of fennel beans as a side; for thirteen or fourteen coins, one could even get a meat dish. But these customers mostly belonged to the "short-jacket crowd" and as a rule could not afford such extravagance. Only those wearing long gowns would saunter into the room beside the main hall, order wine and food, and sit down to drink at their leisure.
From the age of twelve, I worked as an assistant at the Xianheng Tavern (咸亨酒店) at the entrance to town. The proprietor said I looked too stupid to wait on the long-gown customers, so I was sent outside to do simpler work. Though the short-jacket customers outside were easier to deal with, there was no shortage of fussy and quarrelsome ones among them. They invariably insisted on watching with their own eyes as the yellow wine was ladled from the jar, on checking whether there was any water left at the bottom of the jug, and on watching in person as the jug was placed in hot water — only then were they at ease. Under such rigorous supervision, it was extremely hard to water the wine. After a few days, the proprietor concluded that this job too was beyond me. Fortunately, the man who had recommended me was too influential to offend, so I could not be dismissed and was instead assigned the monotonous duty of warming wine.
From then on I stood behind the counter all day, devoted entirely to my task. Though I committed no particular blunders, I found the work rather dull and tedious. The proprietor had a perpetually stern face, and the customers were hardly friendly either — one could not exactly thrive. Only when Kong Yiji (孔乙己) came to the tavern could one laugh a few times, and so I remember him to this day.
Kong Yiji was the only person who drank standing up yet wore a long scholar's gown. He was tall, with a pallid complexion, and scars were frequently visible among his wrinkles. He wore a tangled, grizzled beard. His long gown, though it was one, was so filthy and tattered that it seemed not to have been mended or washed in more than ten years. Whenever he spoke, his mouth was full of archaic expressions that people could only half understand. Because his surname was Kong (孔), people had taken for him a nickname from the half-comprehensible practice sentence on calligraphy copysheets — "Shang da ren Kong Yi Ji" — and called him Kong Yiji. Whenever Kong Yiji entered the tavern, all the drinkers would look at him and laugh. Someone would call out: "Kong Yiji, you've got new scars on your face again!" He would not answer but would address the counter: "Warm two bowls of wine and a plate of fennel beans." He would then lay out nine copper coins, one by one. The others would deliberately shout: "You've been stealing again!" Kong Yiji would open his eyes wide and say: "How can you groundlessly smear an honest man's good name …" — "Good name? I saw with my own eyes just the other day how you stole books from the He family and were strung up and beaten for it." Kong Yiji's face would flush deep red, the veins on his forehead would stand out, and he would argue: "Taking books cannot be called stealing … Taking books! … A scholar's affairs — can that be called stealing?" Then would follow incomprehensible phrases — something about "a gentleman preserves his integrity in poverty" and suchlike "zhe hu" expressions — until the whole company roared with laughter, and the tavern, inside and out, was filled with a merry atmosphere.
It was said behind his back that Kong Yiji had once been educated, but had never managed to pass the examinations, and he had no head for business either; so he grew poorer and poorer, until he was almost reduced to begging. Fortunately, he wrote a fine hand and could earn a meal by copying texts for others. But unfortunately he had a bad habit: he liked to drink and was idle. After sitting for a few days, he would vanish — taking books, paper, brush, and inkstone with him. After this had happened several times, no one would give him copying work anymore. Having no recourse, Kong Yiji could not help resorting to petty theft from time to time. But in our tavern his conduct was better than anyone else's — he never ran up a tab. If he occasionally lacked cash and his debt was temporarily chalked up on the board, it was always settled within a month, and Kong Yiji's name was wiped from the slate.
When Kong Yiji had drunk half his bowl and the flush was gradually fading from his face, someone asked: "Kong Yiji, can you really read characters?" Kong Yiji looked at the questioner with an expression of disdain, as if the question were beneath him. They went on: "How is it that you never even managed half the way to a xiucai degree?" At once Kong Yiji assumed a dejected, uneasy air; a grey pallor settled over his face and he mumbled something — this time nothing but "zhe hu zhe ye" phrases and quite unintelligible. Everyone burst out laughing again: the tavern, inside and out, was filled with merry air.
At such times I could join in the laughter without the proprietor reproaching me. Indeed, the proprietor himself always questioned Kong Yiji in this fashion whenever he saw him, to amuse the others. Knowing he could not converse with these people, Kong Yiji had no choice but to talk to the children. Once he said to me: "Have you read any books?" I gave a slight nod. He said: "Since you've studied … let me test you. The character 'hui' in 'fennel beans' — how do you write it?" I thought: should a beggar-like creature presume to test me? I turned my face away and ignored him. Kong Yiji waited a long time, then said very earnestly: "You can't write it, can you? … I'll teach you — remember it! You ought to remember these characters. When you're a tavern-keeper someday, you'll need them for the accounts." I thought to myself that I was a long way from being a tavern-keeper — and besides, our proprietor never entered fennel beans in the ledger. Half amused, half annoyed, I drawled: "Who wants you to teach me? Isn't it just the grass radical on top of the character 'hui' for 'return'?" Kong Yiji looked immensely pleased, tapped the counter with the long nails of his two forefingers, and nodded: "Right, right! … The character 'hui' has four different ways of being written — did you know that?" I grew more impatient and walked away with pursed lips. Kong Yiji had just dipped his nails in wine, intending to write a character on the counter; when he saw how indifferent I was, he gave a sigh and assumed an expression of the deepest regret.
On several occasions, children from the neighbourhood heard the laughter, came running over, and gathered around Kong Yiji. He would give them fennel beans, one to each child. When the children had eaten their beans and still did not leave, all eyes fixed on the plate, Kong Yiji grew flustered, spread all five fingers over the plate, bent down, and said: "There aren't many left — I haven't got many myself." Then he straightened up, looked at the beans once more, shook his head, and said: "Few, few! Are they many? They are not." At that the whole group of children dispersed amid laughter.
In this way Kong Yiji brought cheer to everyone; yet without him, people got along just the same.
One day — it was probably two or three days before the Mid-Autumn Festival — the proprietor was slowly settling his accounts. He took down the chalk board and suddenly said: "Kong Yiji hasn't been here for a long time. He still owes nineteen coins!" Only then did I realize that he had indeed not come for a long time. A drinker said: "How could he come? … They broke his legs." The proprietor said: "Oh!" — "He was stealing again, of course. This time he was foolish enough to steal from Squire Ding (丁舉人). How could he steal from a man like that?" — "What happened then?" — "What happened? First he had to write a confession, then he was beaten — beaten for the better part of a night, until both his legs were broken." — "And then?" — "Then his legs were broken." — "But what happened after they were broken?" — "What? … Who knows? He's probably dead." The proprietor asked no more and went on quietly with his accounts.
After the Mid-Autumn Festival, the autumn wind grew colder by the day, and as early winter approached, I had to sit by the fire all day and put on my padded jacket. One afternoon, there was not a single customer. I was sitting with my eyes closed when I suddenly heard a voice: "Warm a bowl of wine." The voice was very low, but familiar. I looked around and saw no one. Rising, I peered outside — there sat Kong Yiji beneath the counter, on the threshold. His face was dark and emaciated, quite unrecognizable. He wore a ragged padded jacket and sat with his legs crossed beneath him; under him was a rush mat fastened to his shoulders with a straw rope. When he saw me, he said again: "Warm a bowl of wine." The proprietor stuck out his head and said: "Kong Yiji? You still owe nineteen coins!" Kong Yiji looked up dejectedly and answered: "That … I'll pay next time. This time it's cash, and the wine should be good." The proprietor said, laughing as usual: "Kong Yiji, you've been stealing again!" But this time he hardly defended himself and merely said: "Don't mock!" — "Mock? If you hadn't stolen, how would they have broken your legs?" Kong Yiji said in a low voice: "Fell, f-f-fell …" His eyes seemed to plead with the proprietor not to mention it again. By now a few people had gathered and were laughing along with the proprietor. I warmed the wine, carried it out, and placed it on the threshold. He fished four copper coins from his torn jacket pocket and placed them in my hand; I saw that his hands were covered in mud — he had evidently walked here on his hands. Before long he had finished his wine and set off again — amid the laughter of the others, slowly crawling away on his hands.
After that, I did not see Kong Yiji for a long time. At the year's end the proprietor took down the chalk board and said: "Kong Yiji still owes nineteen coins!" At the Dragon Boat Festival the following year he said again: "Kong Yiji still owes nineteen coins!" At the Mid-Autumn Festival he said nothing about it, and at the year's end Kong Yiji was nowhere to be seen.
I have never seen him since — Kong Yiji is probably really dead.
(March 1919.)