Storm in a Teacup

Storm in a Teacup

On the riverside threshing ground, the sun gradually withdrew its pervasive yellow rays. The tallow tree leaves by the edge of the ground, having just caught their breath from their dry and withered state, were now danced upon and hummed at by a few mosquito-eggers flying below. From the chimneys of the farmhouses facing the river, the cooking smoke slowly decreased; the women and children were sprinkling water on the threshing ground in front of their own doorways, setting down small tables and low stools; everyone knew that it was already time for the evening meal.

The old people and men sat on low stools, chatting leisurely as they waved large palm-leaf fans; the children ran like the wind, or squatted under the tallow tree playing a game of stones with their hands. The women brought out the black steamed dried vegetables and the rice, yellow as pine flowers, steaming vigorously in thick clouds. A wine boat of the literati passed on the river; a literary great, seeing it, was moved to great poetic enthusiasm and said: "Carefree and without worry, this is truly the joy of rural life!"

But the literary great's words were somewhat at odds with the facts, simply because they had not heard what Old Madame Nine-Jin was saying. At this moment, Old Madame Nine-Jin was in a great rage. She struck the leg of her stool with her palm-leaf fan and said:

"I have lived to be seventy-nine years old, I have lived enough, and I am unwilling to witness with my own eyes these appearances of family ruin—it would be better to die. It is almost time to eat, and yet they still eat fried beans, ruining the whole family!"

Her great-granddaughter, Six-Jin, clutching a handful of beans, was running over from the opposite direction; seeing this situation, she dashed straight to the riverbank, hid behind the tallow tree, stuck out her little head with its pair of fork-shaped hair buns, and said loudly, "You old undying creature!"

Although Old Madame Nine-Jin enjoyed great longevity, her ears were still not very deaf, but she had not heard the child's words either; she went on talking to herself: "This is truly each generation worse than the last!"

The custom of this village was somewhat peculiar; when women gave birth to children, they mostly liked to weigh them on a scale, and then use the number of *jin* as their pet name. Old Madame Nine-Jin, ever since celebrating her fiftieth birthday, had gradually become a discontented person, often saying that when she was young, the weather was not as hot as it was now, and the beans were not as hard as they were now: in short, the present times were not right. Moreover, Six-Jin was three *jin* less than her great-grandfather, and one *jin* less than her father, Seven-Jin; this was truly an irrefutable concrete example. So she said with renewed emphasis, "This is truly each generation worse than the last!"

Her daughter-in-law, Sister-in-Law Seven-Jin, was just carrying the rice basket to the table; she flung the basket down upon the table and said angrily: "You old lady are saying that again. Wasn't Six-Jin six *jin* and five *taels* when she was born? Your family's scale is a private scale, weighing heavier, an eighteen-*tael* scale; if you use the standard sixteen *taels*, our Six-Jin should weigh over seven *jin*. I think even the great-great-grandfather and the grandfather were not necessarily a full nine *jin* or eight *jin*; the scale they used was perhaps a fourteen-*tael* one..."

"Each generation worse than the last!"

Before Sister-in-Law Seven-Jin could reply, she suddenly saw Seven-Jin turn out from the mouth of the lane; she shifted her direction and shouted at him: "You corpse, how come you are only coming back now, where have you been dead to? People are waiting for you to start the meal!"

Although Seven-Jin lived in the countryside, he had long harbored some aspirations of rising in the world. From his grandfather down to him, three generations had no longer held the handle of a hoe; he also, as a matter of routine, helped people punt a ferry boat, once every day, going into the town of Luzhen in the morning and returning to Luzhen in the evening, and therefore knew quite a bit of current affairs: for example, where a Thunder God had struck a centipede spirit to death; where a maiden had given birth to a demon, and the like. Among the villagers, he was indeed already a personage who had made his appearance. But in summer, not lighting a lamp while eating was still an adherence to rural custom, so coming home too late deserved a scolding.

Seven-Jin, holding in his hand an ivory-mouthed white copper bowl and a six-foot-long mottled bamboo tobacco pipe over six feet in length, walked slowly with his head lowered, and sat down on a low stool. Six-Jin also seized the opportunity to slip out and sat by his side, calling him Papa. Seven-Jin did not respond.

"Each generation worse than the last!" said Old Madame Nine-Jin.

Seven-Jin slowly raised his head, heaved a sigh, and said, "The Emperor has ascended the dragon throne."

Sister-in-Law Seven-Jin was stunned for a moment, then suddenly understood and said: "This is wonderful, this means there will be a great amnesty by imperial grace, won't there?"

Seven-Jin heaved another sigh and said: "I don't have a queue."

"Does the Emperor want a queue?"

"The Emperor wants a queue."

"How do you know?" asked Sister-in-Law Seven-Jin, somewhat anxiously, hurrying to ask.

"The people in the Xianheng Tavern all say he does."

At this moment, Sister-in-Law Seven-Jin felt intuitively that things seemed somewhat not quite right, because the Xianheng Tavern was a place where news was well-informed. She caught a glimpse of Seven-Jin's bare head out of the corner of her eye, and could not help but become angry, blaming him, hating him, resenting him; then suddenly she fell into despair, filled a bowl of rice, and thrust it before Seven-Jin, saying: "You had better hurry up and eat your meal! Will growing a queue come from wearing a mournful face?"

The sun had gathered in its last rays; the water's surface quietly gave back a cooling air; on the threshing ground there was a clatter of bowls and chopsticks, and sweat beads once again appeared on everyone's backs. After Sister-in-Law Seven-Jin had eaten three bowls of rice, she happened to raise her heart, and could not help but thump violently in her chest. Through the tallow leaves, she saw the short and stout Master Zhao Seven walking over from the single-plank bridge, and he was wearing a precious blue cloth long gown.

Zhao Seven was the proprietor of Maoyuan Wine Shop in the neighboring village and the only person of distinction and learning within a radius of thirty li. Because he had learning, he also carried something of the mold of an old diehard. He owned some ten copies of the *Romance of the Three Kingdoms* annotated by Jin Shengtan, and would often sit reading them word by word. He could not only name the Five Tiger Generals but even knew that Huang Zhong's courtesy name was Hanchao and Ma Chao's was Mengqi. After the Revolution he had coiled his queue on top of his head like a Daoist priest and would often sigh, "If Zhao Zilong were still alive, the empire would never have been reduced to such chaos." Mrs. Seven Jin had sharp eyes and had early noticed that today Zhao Seven was no longer a Daoist priest but had a smooth scalp and a glossy black top; at once she knew that the emperor must have ascended the throne, that queues were again required, and that Seven Jin was in the gravest danger. For Zhao Seven's long gown of bamboo-green cloth was something he seldom wore. In three years he had worn it only twice: once when Azi the Pockmarked, with whom he had quarrelled, fell ill, and once when Old Master Lu, who had smashed his wine shop, died. This was the third time—it must surely be a cause of celebration for him and disaster for his enemies.

Mrs. Seven Jin remembered that two years ago, when Seven Jin was drunk, he had called Zhao Seven "a lowlife," and so now she instinctively sensed the danger to Seven Jin, her heart began to thump violently.

As Zhao Seven walked along, all those seated at their meals stood up and pointed to their bowls with their chopsticks, saying, "Seven, please eat with us!" Seven nodded all along the way, saying, "Thank you, thank you," but walked straight to the table where the Seven Jin family sat. The Seven Jins hurriedly greeted him, and Seven smiled and said "Thank you, thank you" again, while carefully studying their dishes.

"Smells good, the dried vegetables—have you heard the news?" Zhao Seven said, standing behind Seven Jin and facing Mrs. Seven Jin.

"The emperor has ascended the throne," said Seven Jin.

Mrs. Seven Jin watched Seven's face and forced a smile. "Now that the emperor has ascended the throne, when will he grant a general amnesty?"

"A general amnesty?—An amnesty will come, of course, eventually." At this point Seven's expression suddenly turned stern. "But what about your queue, Seven Jin? The queue—that's the crucial matter. You know, in the time of the Long Hairs, those who kept their hair lost their heads, and those who kept their heads lost their hair..."

Seven Jin and his wife had never gone to school and did not fully grasp the subtlety of this classical allusion, but they felt that since learned Seven said so, the matter must be of the utmost gravity and beyond remedy. They felt as if they had heard a death sentence pronounced, a buzzing sound in their ears, and could not utter another word.

"Each generation worse than the last—" Old Mrs. Nine Jin, who had been nursing a grievance, seized this opportunity to say to Zhao Seven, "Nowadays the Long Hairs just cut off people's queues—neither monk nor Daoist. Were the Long Hairs like that in the old days? I'm seventy-nine, I've lived long enough. The old Long Hairs wrapped their heads in whole bolts of red satin, trailing down, trailing down, all the way to their heels; the princes used yellow satin, trailing down, yellow satin; red satin, yellow satin—I've lived long enough, seventy-nine years old."

Mrs. Seven Jin stood up and said to herself, "What are we to do? This whole family of old and young depends on him for their living..."

Zhao Seven shook his head. "There's nothing to be done. What punishment is due for having no queue—it's all set down clearly, article by article, in the books. Never mind who is in his family."

When Mrs. Seven Jin heard it was written in the books, she was utterly desperate. Unable to help herself, she suddenly turned her anger on Seven Jin. Pointing her chopsticks at the tip of his nose, she said, "This corpse has brought it on himself! When the rebellion started, I told him not to row his boat anymore, not to go into town. He insisted on pushing into town, rolling into town, and as soon as he got there they cut off his queue. It used to be a glossy black silk queue, and now he's neither monk nor Daoist. This jailbird has brought it on himself—what's to become of us who are implicated? This living-dead jailbird..."

When the villagers saw Zhao Seven arrive, they all hurried through their meals and gathered around the Seven Jins' table. Seven Jin knew he was the center of the drama, and it was unseemly to be scolded like this by his wife in front of everyone, so he could only raise his head and say slowly:

"You're talking glibly today, but back then you—"

"You living-dead jailbird..."

Among the spectators, Mrs. Eight One had the kindest heart. Carrying her two-year-old posthumous child, she had been watching the excitement beside Mrs. Seven Jin; now she could not bear it and hastily interposed, "Mrs. Seven Jin, let it drop. No one is a god—who can know the future? Even you, Mrs. Seven Jin, didn't you say then that having no queue wasn't such a disgrace? Besides, the magistrates in the yamen haven't issued any proclamation yet..."

Seven Jin's wife had not even finished listening before both her ears turned crimson. She turned her chopsticks around and pointed them at Bayi嫂's nose. "Ah! What kind of talk is this! Bayi嫂, I myself am still a human being—would I ever say such muddled, senseless things? At the time, I cried for three whole days—everyone saw it. Even that little imp Six Jin cried too..." Six Jin had just finished a big bowl of rice, and taking her empty bowl, she reached out and clamored for more. Seven Jin's wife was already in a foul mood. She thrust her chopstick straight down between the girl's double buns and roared, "Who asked you to meddle? You thieving little widow!"

With a clatter, the empty bowl in Six Jin's hands fell to the ground. It happened to strike the corner of a brick and immediately broke with a large gash. Seven Jin leaped up, picked up the broken bowl, and examined it closely, then shouted too, "Damn it!" and slapped Six Jin to the ground. Six Jin lay there crying. Old Nine Jin took her hand, saying over and over, "Each generation is worse than the last," and led her away.

Bayi嫂 also flew into a rage and said loudly, "Seven Jin's wife, you 'strike people out of spite'..."

Lord Zhao Seven had been watching with a smile from the sidelines, but ever since Bayi嫂 said that "the magistrates in the yamen have posted no notice," he had grown somewhat angry. By now he had already circled out from behind the table and continued, "'Striking people out of spite'—what sort of thing is that? The soldiers are about to arrive. Do you know who is protecting the Emperor this time? It is Marshal Zhang. Marshal Zhang is a descendant of Zhang Yide of Yan. He carries an eighteen-foot snake spear and has the courage to defy ten thousand men. Who can stand against him?" He clenched both fists at once, as if grasping an invisible snake spear, and lunged a few steps toward Bayi嫂. "Can you stand against him?"

Bayi嫂, trembling with rage as she clutched her child, suddenly saw Lord Zhao Seven's face glistening with oily sweat, his eyes glaring, bearing down on her. She was thoroughly frightened, dared not finish her words, and turned to leave. Lord Zhao Seven followed her. The villagers, on the one hand, blamed Bayi嫂 for stirring up trouble; on the other, they made way. A few who had cut their queues and let their hair grow back quickly hid behind the crowd, afraid he might see them. Lord Zhao Seven did not scrutinize them closely either. Passing through the crowd, he suddenly turned behind the tung oil tree, said "Can you stand against him?" crossed the single-plank bridge, and swaggered off.

The villagers stood dazed, calculating in their hearts. They all felt they truly could not stand against Zhang Yide, and therefore decided that Seven Jin would certainly lose his life. Since Seven Jin had violated imperial law, and recalling how he had always puffed on his long tobacco pipe with such pride when discussing city news, they also felt a certain satisfaction at his violation. It seemed they wanted to say something, yet felt there was nothing to say. There was a buzzing commotion; mosquitoes bumped against bare shoulders and swarmed under the tung oil tree to do business. Then they slowly dispersed, went home, closed their doors, and went to sleep. Seven Jin's wife muttered to herself, gathered up the utensils, table, and stools, went home, and closed the door to sleep too.

Seven Jin took the broken bowl home, sat on the threshold smoking, but he was so worried he forgot to inhale or exhale. The firelight in the white copper bowl at the end of his six-foot-long bamboo pipe with its ivory mouthpiece gradually darkened. In his mind, everything seemed extremely urgent; he thought of methods, of plans, but it was all very vague, and nothing would cohere: "The queue—what about the queue? Eighteen-foot snake spear. Each generation worse than the last! The Emperor ascends the dragon throne. The broken bowl must be taken into the city to be mended. Who can stand against him? It's written in the books, line by line. Damn it!"

The next morning, Seven Jin as usual poled his boat from Luzhen into the city. When he returned to Luzhen that evening, he brought back his six-foot-long bamboo pipe and a rice bowl. At the dinner table, he said to Old Nine Jin, "This bowl was mended in the city. Because the break was so large, it took sixteen copper nails—three cash each—forty-eight cash in all."

Old Nine Jin said very displeasedly, "Each generation worse than the last. I've lived long enough. Three cash a nail—were nails like this in the old days? Nails in the old days were... I've lived seventy-nine years..."

Afterward, although Seven Jin continued going into the city every day as before, the household atmosphere was always somewhat gloomy. The villagers mostly avoided him and no longer came to hear the news he brought from the city. Seven Jin's wife also no longer spoke kindly to him, and often called him "prisoner."

More than ten days later, Seven Jin returned from the city and saw his wife very happy. She asked him, "Did you hear anything in the city?"

"I didn't hear anything."

"Has the Emperor ascended the dragon throne?"

"They didn't say."

"Didn't anyone at the Xianheng Tavern say anything?"

"No one said anything."

"I think the Emperor certainly has not ascended the dragon throne. Today when I passed in front of Lord Zhao Seven's shop, I saw him sitting there reading again. His queue is coiled on top of his head once more, and he isn't wearing the long gown."

"..."

"Do you think he hasn't ascended the throne?"

"I think he hasn't."

Now Qi-jin was again treated by Qi-jin's wife and the other villagers with the proper respect and consideration. In summer they still ate their meals on the threshing ground in front of their house, and when people saw them they greeted them with a smile. Old Lady Jiu-jin, who had already celebrated her eightieth birthday, was still as healthy as ever and still full of complaints. Liu-jin's two little pigtails had been replaced by a large braid. Although her feet had recently been bound, she could still help Qi-jin's wife with the work, hobbling to and fro on the threshing ground carrying an eighteen-nailed rice bowl.

(October 1920.)