Kong Yiji
孔乙己 · Call to Arms
Kong Yiji
The layout of the taverns in Luzhen was different from everywhere else. Each one featured a large counter in the shape of a carpenter's square facing the street, with hot water kept ready inside for warming wine at any time. Working men, when they knocked off at midday or dusk, would often spend four coppers on a bowl of wine—this was more than twenty years ago; now the price had risen to ten coppers—and stand outside the counter, drinking it hot to rest themselves. If they were willing to spend one copper more, they could buy a dish of salted bamboo shoots or fennel beans to go with the wine. If they spent ten coppers or so, they could get a meat dish. But these customers, for the most part the short-coated class, rarely had that kind of money. Only those who wore the long gown would stroll into the room adjoining the shop, ordering wine and dishes, and sit down to drink at their leisure.
From the age of twelve I had worked as an assistant at the Xianheng Tavern at the mouth of the town. The proprietor said I looked too simple and was probably unable to serve the long-gowned customers, so I was given work to do outside. The short-coated customers, though easy enough to talk to, were often tiresome and muddled. They would insist on watching the yellow wine ladled out from the jar, checking whether there was water at the bottom of the pot, and personally seeing the pot placed in the hot water before they would be satisfied. Under such strict supervision, it was very difficult to adulterate the wine with water. So after a few days the proprietor said I was no fit for the job either. Fortunately my patron's influence was too great for him to dismiss me, so I was reassigned to the dreary task of warming wine exclusively.
From then on I stood behind the counter all day, minding my own duties. Though I never neglected them, I felt the work was monotonous and dull. The proprietor had a fierce face, and the customers were none too pleasant; there was no room for cheerfulness. Only when Kong Yiji came to the tavern could one laugh a few times. That is why I still remember him.
Kong Yiji was the only long-gowned customer who drank standing. He was very tall, of a sallow complexion, with scars often visible among his wrinkles, and a tousled, grizzled beard. Though he wore a long gown, it was so filthy and tattered that it looked as though it had not been mended or washed for over ten years. When he spoke, he was always full of literary phrases that left people half understanding. Because his surname was Kong, others took the half-comprehensible words "Shang Da Ren Kong Yiji" from a child's copybook and used them as his nickname: Kong Yiji. The moment he entered the tavern, all the drinkers would look at him and laugh. Some would call out, "Kong Yiji, you've got fresh scars on your face!" He would not reply, but say to the counter, "Warm two bowls of wine, and bring a dish of fennel beans," and lay out nine coppers. Then they would deliberately shout, "You must have stolen something from someone again!" Kong Yiji would open his eyes wide and say, "How can you slander my innocence like that..." "What innocence? I saw with my own eyes that you stole books from the He family and were hung up and beaten." Kong Yiji's face would flush, the blue veins on his forehead standing out as he argued, "Taking books cannot be called stealing... Taking books!... A scholar's affair—can that be called stealing?" Then would come incomprehensible phrases—something about "the gentleman is firm in adversity" and "zhe hu" and the like—which set everyone roaring with laughter. Inside and outside the tavern the air was filled with merriment.
From what people said behind his back, Kong Yiji had once studied, but never passed the official examinations, and could not make a living. So he grew poorer and poorer, until he was nearly reduced to beggary. Fortunately he had good handwriting, and he could earn a bowl of rice by copying books for others. Unfortunately he had one bad habit: he was fond of drinking and averse to work. After a few days at most, he would vanish along with people, books, paper, brushes, and inkstones. After this happened several times, no one asked him to copy for them anymore. Having no other recourse, Kong Yiji occasionally resorted to petty theft. But in our tavern he was better than anyone else in one respect: he never defaulted. Even when he had no ready money and his name was chalked up on the slate, within a month he would always pay off, and his name would be wiped from the slate.
After drinking half a bowl of wine, Kong Yiji's flushed face gradually returned to normal. The bystanders would ask again, "Kong Yiji, can you really read?" Kong Yiji would look at the questioner with an expression of disdainful indifference. Then they would go on, "Why couldn't you even manage to pass the county examination?" At once Kong Yiji would look dejected and ill at ease; a grayish cast would come over his face, and he would begin to speak—this time entirely in literary phrases, quite unintelligible. At this point everyone would roar with laughter again. Inside and outside the tavern the air was filled with merriment.
At these times I could join in the laughter, for the proprietor never scolded me. Indeed, whenever he saw Kong Yiji, he would ask him such questions too, to make the others laugh. Knowing that he could not converse with them, Kong Yiji could only talk to the children. Once he asked me, "Have you ever been to school?" I nodded slightly. "So you've been to school," he said. "Let me test you. How do you write the *hui* in *huixiangdou*?" I thought, "A beggar like him, daring to test me?" I turned my face away and ignored him. Kong Yiji waited a long time, then said earnestly, "Can't you write it? ... I'll teach you. Remember! These words ought to be remembered. When you become a proprietor someday, you'll need them to keep accounts." I thought to myself that I was still far from being a proprietor, and besides, our proprietor never even entered *huixiangdou* in the ledger. Half amused and half annoyed, I replied lazily, "Who needs your teaching? Isn't it the character *hui* with the grass radical on top?" Kong Yiji's face lit up with great delight. He rapped the counter with his two long fingernails and nodded, "Right, right! ... There are four ways to write *hui*. Do you know them?" I grew more impatient by the minute and walked away, pouting. Kong Yiji had just dipped his fingernail in wine and was about to write on the counter, but seeing that I had no interest at all, he sighed again and looked deeply disappointed.
A few times, the neighborhood children, hearing the laughter, came to join the fun and surrounded Kong Yiji. He gave them *huixiangdou* to eat, one apiece. After the children finished the beans, they did not disperse; their eyes were all fixed on the dish. Kong Yiji grew flustered, spread his five fingers over the dish to cover it, and bent down, saying, "Not much left—there isn't much left." He straightened up, looked at the beans again, and shook his head, saying, "Not much! Not much! Is it much? No, it is not much." And so this group of children scattered amidst laughter.
Kong Yiji was just the sort of person to make others merry, but without him, others would have got on just the same.
One day, about two or three days before the Mid-Autumn Festival, the proprietor was slowly settling his accounts. He took down the slate and suddenly said, "Kong Yiji hasn't been here for a long time. He still owes nineteen coppers!" Only then did I realize that he really hadn't come for a long while. A drinker said, "How could he come? ... His legs were broken." The proprietor said, "Oh!" "He was always stealing. This time, he lost his head and stole from the house of Squire Ding. Did he think things could be stolen from that household?" "What happened later?" "What happened? First he wrote a confession. Then he was beaten. They beat him for half the night, and then his legs were broken." "And after that?" "After that, his legs were broken." "And after they were broken?" "After? ... Who knows? Maybe he's dead." The proprietor asked no more and went on slowly with his accounts.
After Mid-Autumn, the autumn wind grew colder day by day, and it was nearly early winter. I spent all day by the fire and still had to wear my padded jacket. One afternoon, when there were not a single customer, I was sitting with my eyes closed, when suddenly I heard a voice: "Warm a bowl of wine." The voice was very faint, but it sounded familiar. When I looked, there was no one to be seen. I stood up and peered out, and there was Kong Yiji, sitting on the floor facing the threshold below the counter. His face was black and thin, a sight beyond recognition; he wore a tattered padded jacket, his two legs crossed, a straw mat underneath him, a straw rope slung over his shoulder. Seeing me, he said again, "Warm a bowl of wine." The proprietor also poked his head out and said, "Kong Yiji? You still owe nineteen coppers!" Kong Yiji answered with a dejected look, "This time ... I'll pay you back next time. This time it's cash—make sure the wine is good." The proprietor, as usual, smiled at him and said, "Kong Yiji, you've been stealing again!" But this time he did not argue much, merely saying, "Don't make fun of me!" "Make fun? If you hadn't stolen, how would your legs have been broken?" Kong Yiji said in a low voice, "Fallen ... broken ... fallen ..." His expression seemed to beg the proprietor not to say any more. By now several people had gathered, and they all laughed along with the proprietor. I warmed the wine, carried it out, and set it on the threshold. He dug out four coppers from his ragged coat and placed them in my hand. I noticed his hands were covered in mud—he had actually walked here on his hands. In a little while, he finished his wine and, amidst the laughter and talk of the others, sat there and slowly walked away on his hands.
From then on, Kong Yiji was not seen for a long time again. At the end of the year, the proprietor took down the slate and said, "Kong Yiji still owes nineteen coppers!" By the Dragon Boat Festival of the following year, he said again, "Kong Yiji still owes nineteen coppers!" But by Mid-Autumn he said nothing more, and by the end of the next year he still had not been seen.
I have not seen him to this day—probably Kong Yiji is really dead.
(March 1919.)
孔乙己
魯鎭的酒店的格局，是和別處不同的：都是當街一個曲尺形的大櫃臺，櫃裏面豫備着熱水，可以隨時温酒。做工的人，傍午傍晚散了工，每每花四文銅錢，買一碗酒——這是二十多年前的事，現在每碗要漲到十文，——靠櫃外站着，熱熱的喝了休息；倘肯多花一文，便可以買一碟鹽煑筍，或者茴香豆，做下酒物了，如果出到了十幾文，那就能買一樣葷菜，但這些顧客，多是短衣幫，大抵沒有這樣闊綽。只有穿長衫的，纔踱進店面隔壁的房子裏，要酒要菜，慢慢地坐喝。
我從十二歲起，便在鎭口的咸亨酒店裏當夥計，掌櫃說，樣子太儍，怕侍候不了長衫主顧，就在外面做點事罷。外面的短衣主顧，雖然容易說話，但嘮嘮叨叨纏夾不淸的也很不少。他們往往要親眼看着黃酒從罎子裏舀出，看過壺子底裏有水沒有，又親看將壺子放在熱水裏，然後放心：在這嚴重監督之下，羼水也很爲難。所以過了幾天，掌櫃又說我幹不了這事。幸虧薦頭的情面大，辭退不得，便改爲專管温酒的一種無聊職務了。
我從此便整天的站在櫃臺裏，專管我的職務。雖然沒有什麽失職，但總覺有些單調，有些無聊。掌櫃是一副凶臉孔，主顧也沒有好聲氣，教人活潑不得；只有孔乙己到店，纔可以笑幾聲，所以至今還記得。
孔乙己是站着喝酒而穿長衫的唯一的人。他身材很高大；靑白臉色，皺紋間時常夾些傷痕；一部亂蓬蓬的花白的鬍子。穿的雖然是長衫，可是又髒又破，似乎十多年沒有補，也沒有洗。他對人說話，總是滿口之乎者也，教人半懂不懂的。因爲他姓孔，別人便從描紅紙上的『上大人孔乙己』這半懂不懂的話裏，替他取下一個綽號，叫作孔乙己。孔乙己一到店，所有喝酒的人便都看着他笑，有的叫道：『孔乙己，你臉上又添上新傷疤了！』他不回答，對櫃裏說：『温兩碗酒，要一碟茴香豆。』便排出九文大錢。他們又故意的高聲嚷道：『你一定又偸了人家的東西了！』孔乙己睜大眼睛說：『你怎麽這樣憑空汚人淸白……』『什麽淸白？我前天親眼見你偸了何家的書，弔着打。』孔乙己便漲紅了臉，額上的靑筋條條綻出，爭辯道：『竊書不能算偸……竊書！……讀書人的事，能算偸麽？』接連便是難懂的話，什麽『君子固窮』，什麽『者乎』之類，引得衆人都哄笑起來；店內外充滿了快活的空氣。
聽人家背地裏談論，孔乙己原來也讀過書，但終于沒有進學，又不會營生；于是愈過愈窮，弄到將要討飯了。幸而寫得一筆好字，便替人家鈔鈔書，換一碗飯喫。可惜他又有一樣壞脾氣，便是好喝嬾做。坐不到幾天，便連人和書籍紙張筆硯，一齊失蹤。如是幾次，叫他鈔書的人也沒有了。孔乙己沒有法，便免不了偶然做些偸竊的事。但他在我們店裏，品行卻比別人都好，就是從不拖欠；雖然間或沒有現錢，暫時記在粉板上，但不出一月，定然還淸，從粉板上拭去了孔乙己的名字。
孔乙己喝過半碗酒，漲紅的臉色漸漸復了原，旁人便又問道，『孔乙己，你當眞認識字麽？』孔乙己看着問他的人，顯出不屑置辯的神氣。他們便接着說道：『你怎的連半個秀才也撈不到呢？』孔乙己立刻顯出頹唐不安模樣，臉上籠上了一層灰色，嘴裏說些話；這回可是全是之乎者也之類，一些不懂了。在這時候，衆人也都哄笑起來：店內外充滿了快活的空氣。
在這些時候，我可以附和着笑，掌櫃是決不責備的。而且掌櫃見了孔乙己，也每每這樣問他，引人發笑。孔乙己自己知道不能和他們談天，便只好向孩子說話。有一回對我說道，『你讀過書麽？』我略略點一點頭。他說，『讀過書，……我便考你一考。茴香豆的茴字，怎樣寫的？』我想，討飯一樣的人，也配考我麽？便回過臉去，不再理會。孔乙己等了許久，很懇切的說道：『不能寫罷？……我教給你，記着！這些字應該記着。將來做掌櫃的時候，寫帳要用。』我暗想我和掌櫃的等級還很遠呢，而且我們掌櫃也從不將茴香豆上帳；又好笑，又不耐煩，嬾嬾的答他道：『誰要你教，不是草頭底下一個來回的回字麽？』孔乙己顯出極高興的樣子，將兩個指頭的長指甲敲着櫃臺，點頭說：『對呀對呀！……回字有四樣寫法，你知道麽？』我愈不耐煩了，努着嘴走遠。孔乙己剛用指甲蘸了酒，想在櫃上寫字，見我毫不熱心，便又歎一口氣，顯出極惋惜的樣子。
有幾回，鄰舍孩子聽得笑聲，也趕熱鬧，圍住了孔乙己。他便給他們茴香豆喫，一人一顆。孩子喫完豆，仍然不散，眼睛都望着碟子。孔乙己着了慌，伸開五指將碟子罩住，彎腰下去說道：『不多了，我已經不多了。』直起身又看一看豆，自己搖頭說：『不多不多！多乎哉？不多也。』于是這一羣孩子都在笑聲裏走散了。
孔乙己是這樣的使人快活，可是沒有他，別人也便這麽過。
有一天，大約是中秋前的兩三天，掌櫃正在慢慢的結帳，取下粉板，忽然說：『孔乙己長久沒有來了。還欠十九個錢呢！』我纔也覺得他的確長久沒有來了。一個喝酒的人說道，『他怎麽會來？……他打折了腿了。』掌櫃說：『哦！』『他總仍舊是偸。這一回，是自己發昏，竟偸到丁舉人家裏去了。他家的東西，偸得的麽？』『後來怎麽樣？』『怎麽樣？先寫服辯，後來是打，打了大半夜，再打折了腿。』『後來呢？』『後來打折了腿了。』『打折了怎樣呢？』『怎樣？……誰曉得？許是死了。』掌櫃也不再問，仍然慢慢的算他的帳。
中秋過後，秋風是一天涼比一天，看看將近初冬；我整天的靠着火，也須穿上棉襖了。一天的下半天，沒有一個顧客，我正合了眼坐着。忽然間聽得一個聲音，『温一碗酒。』這聲音雖然極低，卻很耳熟。看時又全沒有人。站起來向外一望，那孔乙己便在櫃臺下對了門檻坐着。他臉上黑而且瘦，已經不成樣子；穿一件破夾襖，盤着兩腿，下面墊一個蒲包，用草繩在肩上掛住；見了我，又說道，『温一碗酒。』掌櫃也伸出頭去，一面說：『孔乙己麽？你還欠十九個錢呢！』孔乙己很頹唐的仰面答道，『這……下回還淸罷。這一回是現錢，酒要好。』掌櫃仍然同平常一樣，笑着對他說，『孔乙己，你又偸了東西了！』但他這回卻不十分分辯，單說了一句『不要取笑！』『取笑？要是不偸，怎麽會打斷腿？』孔乙己低聲說道：『跌斷，跌，跌……』他的眼色，很像懇求掌櫃，不要再提。此時已經聚集了幾個人，便和掌櫃都笑了。我温了酒，端出去，放在門檻上。他從破衣袋裏摸出四文大錢，放在我手裏，見他滿手是泥，原來他便用這手走來的。不一會，他喝完酒，便又在旁人的說笑聲中，坐着用這手慢慢走去了。
自此以後，又長久沒有看見孔乙己。到了年關，掌櫃取下粉板說：『孔乙己還欠十九個錢呢！』到第二年的端午，又說：『孔乙己還欠十九個錢呢！』到中秋可是沒有說，再到年關也沒有看見他。
我到現在終于沒有見——大約孔乙己的確死了。
（一九一九年三月。）