Lu Xun (1919) — a failed scholar in a dirty gown, a tavern that laughs at him, and a boy who warms the wine and remembers.
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Lu Xun's story, translated here from the Chinese and only lightly shortened. It is told by a boy who worked in the tavern, remembering twenty years later. Read each part; after it, try the quick check from memory, then talk about the question.
The taverns of Luzhen are laid out differently from anywhere else: each has a big L-shaped counter facing the street, with hot water kept ready behind it so that wine can be warmed at any hour. Working men, when they knock off at noon or dusk, spend four coppers on a bowl of wine — that was twenty years ago; a bowl costs ten now — and drink it hot, standing outside the counter, to rest. For a copper more they can buy a saucer of salted bamboo shoots or aniseed beans to go with it; for a dozen or so, a meat dish. But these customers are mostly of the short-jacket class and seldom so extravagant. Only the men in long gowns stroll into the room beside the shop, order wine and food, and sit down to drink at their leisure.
From the age of twelve I worked as a boy in the Xianheng tavern at the edge of town. The landlord said I looked too simple to serve the long-gowned customers, so I was to work outside. The short-jacket customers outside were easier to talk to, but many of them were fussy and hard to please. They liked to watch the yellow wine ladled out of the jar with their own eyes, to check there was no water at the bottom of the jug, and to see the jug put into the hot water themselves before they were satisfied; under such strict supervision, watering the wine was very hard. So after a few days the landlord said I was no good at that either. Luckily the man who had recommended me carried some weight, so I could not be dismissed, and I was given the dull job of warming wine and nothing else.
From then on I stood all day behind the counter attending to my duty. I did nothing wrong, but I found it monotonous and rather pointless. The landlord had a fierce face and the customers had no kind words, so there was no way to be cheerful; only when Kong Yiji came to the tavern could I laugh a little. That is why I remember him still.
Kong Yiji was the only man who stood to drink and wore a long gown. He was tall and big, with a pale face on which the wrinkles were often crossed with scars, and a tangled, greying beard. He wore a long gown, true, but it was dirty and torn, and looked as if it had not been mended or washed for over ten years. When he spoke to people his mouth was full of classical phrases — 'verily' and 'forsooth' — that nobody quite understood. Because his surname was Kong, people gave him a nickname out of the half-nonsense line in the children's copybook, 'Kong Yiji, the great man above', and Kong Yiji he became. The moment he arrived, every drinker looked at him and laughed, and someone would shout: 'Kong Yiji, you've got a new scar on your face!' He would not answer; he would say to the counter, 'Warm two bowls of wine, and a dish of aniseed beans,' and lay out nine coppers in a row. Then they would shout, deliberately loud: 'You've been stealing again!' Kong Yiji would open his eyes wide: 'How can you blacken a man's good name out of nothing…' 'Good name? I saw you with my own eyes the day before yesterday, stealing books from the He family, and strung up and beaten for it.' Then Kong Yiji would flush red, the veins standing out on his forehead, and protest: 'Taking books can't be counted as stealing… taking books! … a scholar's business — can that be called stealing?' There would follow a string of hard-to-understand phrases — 'the gentleman keeps his integrity in poverty' and the like — until the whole company roared with laughter, and inside and outside the shop the air was full of cheerfulness.
1. What is the difference between the short-jacket customers and the long-gowned ones — and where does Kong Yiji fit?
2. What is his answer when the drinkers accuse him of stealing books?
1. Short jackets are working men who drink standing at the counter for four coppers; long gowns are gentlemen who sit inside and order food. Kong Yiji is the only man who wears a long gown — dirty and torn — and stands outside to drink with the labourers.
2. That 'taking books can't be counted as stealing' — it is 'a scholar's business' — followed by classical phrases nobody understands, until the whole tavern laughs.
From what people said behind his back, Kong Yiji had studied, but had never passed the examinations, and had no way of making a living; so he grew poorer and poorer until he was nearly a beggar. Fortunately he wrote a fine hand, and could copy books for people in exchange for a bowl of rice. Unfortunately he had a bad habit too: he liked to drink and hated to work. After a few days at a job, man, books, paper, brushes and inkstone would all vanish together. After this had happened several times, nobody asked him to copy any more. Kong Yiji had no way out, and now and then could not help pilfering. But in our tavern his conduct was better than anyone's: he never failed to pay. Sometimes, when he had no ready money, his name went up on the slate for a while; but within a month he always cleared it, and his name was wiped off.
After half a bowl of wine, when the red had faded from his face, the others would start again: 'Kong Yiji, can you really read?' He would look at the questioner with an air of disdain, as if the question were beneath an answer. Then they would go on: 'So how is it you never got even half a degree?' At once Kong Yiji would look crushed and uneasy, and a grey colour would come over his face, and he would mutter something; this time it was all 'verily' and 'forsooth', and nobody understood a word. And again the whole company would roar with laughter, and inside and outside the shop the air was full of cheerfulness.
At such times I could join in the laughter without the landlord scolding me; indeed, the landlord himself always put the same questions to Kong Yiji to make people laugh. Kong Yiji knew he could not talk with them, so he had no choice but to talk to the children. Once he said to me: 'Have you been to school?' I nodded slightly. 'Been to school… then I'll test you. The hui in aniseed beans — how do you write it?' I thought: does a man little better than a beggar have any business testing me? — and turned my face away and ignored him. Kong Yiji waited a long while, then said very earnestly: 'You can't write it? … I'll teach you. Remember it! These characters ought to be remembered. When you're a landlord yourself, you'll need them for the accounts.' I thought to myself that I was still a very long way from being a landlord, and that our landlord never entered aniseed beans in the accounts anyway; and, half amused and half impatient, I answered lazily: 'Who wants you to teach me? Isn't it the hui with grass on top and a box underneath?' Kong Yiji looked delighted, tapped two long fingernails on the counter, and nodded: 'Right, right! … Did you know there are four ways of writing hui?' I grew still more impatient, pursed my lips and walked away. Kong Yiji had just dipped a nail in his wine to write on the counter; seeing my complete lack of interest, he sighed again and looked deeply sorry.
Sometimes the children of the neighbourhood, hearing the laughter, came running to join the fun and crowded round him. He would give them aniseed beans, one each. When they had eaten the beans they did not go away, but kept their eyes on the dish. Kong Yiji would grow flustered, spread his five fingers over the dish, and bend down to say: 'There aren't many left. I haven't many left.' Then he would straighten up, look at the beans again, and shake his head: 'Not many, not many! Are they many? Nay, they are not many.' And the whole flock of children would scatter, laughing.
That was how Kong Yiji made people cheerful. But without him, other people got along just the same.
1. How did Kong Yiji come to be so poor, and what was the one thing he did better than anyone in the tavern?
2. What does he try to teach the boy, and how does the boy respond?
1. He studied but never passed the examinations, could not make a living, and lost his copying jobs by drinking and disappearing with the books and brushes; so he pilfered. Yet he always paid his debts — his name never stayed on the slate more than a month.
2. How to write the character hui in 'aniseed beans' — and that it has four forms. The boy thinks a near-beggar has no business testing him, answers lazily and walks off; Kong Yiji sighs, looking deeply sorry.
One day, two or three days before the Mid-Autumn Festival, the landlord was slowly making up the accounts, and took down the slate, and suddenly said: 'Kong Yiji hasn't been in for a long time. He still owes nineteen coppers!' Only then did I realise that it really was a long time since he had come. One of the drinkers said: 'How could he come? … They've broken his legs.' 'Oh!' said the landlord. 'He was stealing again. This time he must have lost his head — he went and stole from the Ding family, the provincial graduate. Can you steal from a house like that?' 'And then?' 'And then? First they made him write a confession, then they beat him — beat him half the night, and then broke his legs.' 'And after that?' 'After that, his legs were broken.' 'And with his legs broken?' 'What then? … Who knows? Perhaps he's dead.' The landlord asked no more, and went on slowly with his accounts.
After the Mid-Autumn Festival the autumn wind grew colder every day, and it was nearly the start of winter; even standing all day by the fire I had to wear my padded jacket. One afternoon, when there was not a single customer, I was sitting with my eyes closed when I suddenly heard a voice: 'Warm a bowl of wine.' It was very low, but very familiar. I looked, and there was nobody. I stood up and looked out over the counter — and there was Kong Yiji, sitting on the ground below the counter facing the doorstep. His face was dark and thin and no longer looked like a face; he wore a ragged lined jacket, sat cross-legged on a straw mat slung from his shoulders by a rope, and, seeing me, said again: 'Warm a bowl of wine.' The landlord leaned out too. 'Kong Yiji? You still owe nineteen coppers!' Kong Yiji looked up wretchedly and answered: 'That… I'll settle it next time. This time I've cash. Let the wine be good.' The landlord said, laughing, just as he always had: 'Kong Yiji, you've been stealing again!' But this time he did not argue much; he said only, 'Don't make fun of me.' 'Make fun? If you hadn't been stealing, how did your legs get broken?' Kong Yiji said in a low voice: 'A fall. I fell, fell…' and his eyes seemed to plead with the landlord not to mention it again. By now several people had gathered, and they laughed with the landlord. I warmed the wine, carried it out and set it on the doorstep. He fumbled in his ragged pocket for four coppers and put them in my hand, and I saw that his hand was covered in mud — he had walked here on those hands. Before long he had finished the wine, and then, amid the laughter and talk of the others, he went slowly away, sitting, on those hands.
After that it was a long time before I saw Kong Yiji again. At the end of the year the landlord took down the slate and said: 'Kong Yiji still owes nineteen coppers!' At the Dragon Boat Festival the next year he said again: 'Kong Yiji still owes nineteen coppers!' But at the Mid-Autumn Festival he did not say it; and by the end of the year there was still no sign of him.
To this day I have never seen him again — so Kong Yiji is probably dead.
1. How does the tavern learn what happened to Kong Yiji, and how does the landlord react?
2. Describe Kong Yiji's last visit — what he pays with, and what the landlord says.
1. From a drinker, in a flat exchange: he stole from the Ding family, a graduate's house, was made to write a confession, beaten half the night, and his legs were broken. The landlord says 'Oh!' and goes back to his accounts.
2. He arrives sitting on a straw mat, dragging himself on his hands, dark and thin, and asks for a bowl of wine. The landlord reminds him of the nineteen coppers and jokes that he's been stealing again; Kong Yiji says he fell, pleads with his eyes, pays four muddy coppers, drinks, and goes away on his hands while the others laugh.
Kong Yiji is a walking contradiction: a scholar who cannot earn a bowl of rice, a thief who always pays his debts, a man in a gentleman's gown who stands with the labourers. To talk about him you need the grammar that holds two opposite things in one sentence.
One each, from: although · despite · yet · for all · whereas. The grammar after the gap tells you which fits.
1. his fine handwriting, nobody would give him copying work.
2. he stole from his employers, he never owed the tavern for more than a month.
3. The working men paid four coppers and stood, the gentlemen sat inside and ordered food.
4. He was beaten, laughed at and forgotten; he came back one more time for a bowl of wine.
5. his talk of 'the gentleman in poverty', he could not keep a job for a week.
1. Despite
2. Although
3. whereas
4. yet (and yet)
5. For all
Keep the meaning; change the structure. Watch what follows despite.
1. He had studied for years, but he never passed the examination. (despite)
2. He was a thief. He paid his debts. (even though)
3. He wore a gown. He stood with the labourers. (in spite of the fact that)
4. The landlord laughed at him. The landlord let him drink on credit. (and yet)
5. He had learning. He could not earn a bowl of rice. (for all)
1. Despite (his) years of study / Despite having studied for years, he never passed the examination.
2. Even though he was a thief, he paid his debts.
3. In spite of the fact that he wore a gown, he stood with the labourers.
4. The landlord laughed at him, and yet he let him drink on credit.
5. For all his learning, he could not earn a bowl of rice.
Fill each gap with the connector the hint asks for. Read it aloud.
1. (although) he had read the classics, Kong Yiji never gained a degree; (despite) his learning, he was nearly a beggar. He stole, (yet) he was the only customer who always paid. The gentlemen sat inside, (whereas) he stood at the counter in a torn gown. (for all) the laughter, the boy remembers him twenty years on — (even though) he never once stopped laughing himself.
1. Although · despite · yet · whereas · For all · even though
In the Speak tab you'll describe a man whose every quality has an opposite — and you'll need a concession in almost every sentence.
Lu Xun (1881–1936) trained as a doctor in Japan and gave it up, he said, because the Chinese did not need their bodies cured so much as their spirit. 'Kong Yiji' was published in April 1919, weeks before the student protests that began modern China, in the magazine that led them; Lu Xun later said it was his own favourite among his stories. The imperial examinations that Kong Yiji failed — the only road to office for a thousand years, and the reason a man wore a long gown — had been abolished in 1905. He is a relic of a system that had already died, still wearing its uniform.
The cruelty of the story is in its cheerfulness. Nobody hates Kong Yiji; they enjoy him. The landlord's questions, the drinkers' shouts, the children's laughter and, above all, the boy who tells the story and joins in — 'without the landlord scolding me' — are all part of the same warm air 'inside and outside the shop'. Lu Xun called this the spectator's disease: a whole society watching suffering as entertainment. Kong Yiji's one uncorrupted virtue is that he pays his debts; his one act of kindness is to try to teach a bored child a character; and the only trace he leaves is nineteen coppers on a slate, read aloud twice and then not at all.
This is the heart of the lesson — do all three out loud. The timer is there to keep you going: fill the time with detail rather than escaping it.
Tell 'Kong Yiji' to someone who has never read it. Move through the arc: the tavern and its two classes of customer → the man in the torn gown → 'taking books isn't stealing' → the copying jobs, the slate → the four ways to write hui → the aniseed beans → the broken legs → the last bowl of wine → nineteen coppers.
Use contrast and concession in almost every sentence about him, and at least five key words (tavern, pedantic, pilfer, wretched, scholar, ridicule, dignity, slate, plead, counter).
Who is responsible for Kong Yiji: the examination system, the Ding family who broke his legs, the landlord, the drinkers, the boy — or Kong Yiji himself? Make the case against one of them, using concessions to admit what can be said in their defence. Then switch to a different defendant for one minute.
Describe a person — real, famous, or invented — who was the entertainment of a place: what people laughed at, what the laughter hid, and what became of them. Use contrast and concession to hold their dignity and their absurdity in the same sentence.
Stuck for an idea? Pick one of these and run with it: