Khái Hưng: Bewildered

"if we were never bewildered there would never be a story to tell about us" (Henry James, The art of the novel)

Tiếp tục chương trình đã bắt đầu ở kia, và cũng rất liên quan đến marathon (đã đến chương 2): bản tính săn mồi nghĩa là thế nào.

Cuốn tiểu thuyết của Khái Hưng in lần đầu năm 1943. Ban đầu nhà xuất bản Đời nay đặt cho nó nhan đề Thanh Đức và hệ thống quảng cáo của Tự Lực văn đoàn còn gán cho nó một tên phụ, Tội lỗi; sau này khi được tái bản ở Sài Gòn (nhà Phượng Giang, năm 1958) thì cuốn tiểu thuyết trở lại nhan đề Khái Hưng đã chọn lúc sinh thời: Băn khoăn. Dưới đây là bản dịch đoạn đầu của nó. 

Bewildered

- Khái Hưng

Part 1

I

Cảnh left the College and made his way home, at ease and elated: he had just checked the results board and found his name missing from those selected for the oral exam in the Law School’s graduation assessment. A wave of relief swept over him, and he thought to himself, "What a close call! Truly, what a close call! If I had passed, who knows what my life would become, or which path I’d be forced to take."

For days, Cảnh had been plagued by anxiety. Somehow, his performance this term had been quite decent, despite his half-hearted efforts, skimming through legal textbooks as if they were novels. He knew his exam papers couldn’t have been brilliant. But it wasn’t about brilliance. It was simply about passing or failing—and with his completed exams, there was every chance he could pass. "Why didn’t I handle it like the previous terms?" he muttered to himself. In those past terms, he had carefully ensured failure. The first time, he fell ill on the very day the exam began. The second time, he left his paper on "economics"—a subject he was particularly good at—completely blank. This time, he had set out to fail again, but when the exam started, he unexpectedly felt the urge to write. The prompts somehow intrigued him.

Today, Cảnh arrived at the College with a gnawing unease, restless and anxious, as though awaiting a long-delayed verdict from a trial. And finally, the verdict came: he had failed—he had been acquitted.

Cảnh hailed from a family that had been exceedingly wealthy for two generations. His grandfather had once been a diligent, clever farmer, endowed with a shrewd, cunning intelligence, the kind nature grants to the rural folk to help them survive or, in his case, rise to great wealth. It was precisely through this particular intelligence that his grandfather had gradually risen from the lowly status of a simple farmer to become a village head, a district chief, a landowner, and eventually a member of the elite, accumulating capital from virtually nothing into a fortune of thousands, then tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands. He had dabbled in all trades: farming, sharecropping, moneylending, grain trading, cotton and thread trading, opium dealing—both legal and smuggled—and, finally, secured a contract to manage sanitation in Phủ Lý. There wasn’t a single opportunity to make a profit that he would let slip by, no matter how lowly or filthy others might deem the business.

He cultivated connections and ingratiated himself with the local authorities and prominent figures, but it wasn’t because he relied solely on their power to oppress or exploit the peasants, no! Oppression and exploitation—those were not terms that were ever associated with him, either in his speech or in the way people of the village, district, or county spoke about him. For him, the proverb "Sweet honey traps flies" seemed more fitting. His daily dealings embodied it. He simply laid out the sweet honey, and the flies came of their own accord to feast, never chased away, gorging themselves until they were too heavy to lift off, and then left to die, with absolute freedom, in the dish of honey. The "dish of honey" in this case was the fertile, lucrative fields. Anyone who wished to mortgage their land to him found him only too willing, even though he already owned hundreds of mẫu.^[1] He would lend them a generous sum—at least half the land's value—while charging only modest interest, leaving the borrower with no fear of losing their land. Yet, inevitably, that day would come, and it would come very soon.

The old man was so shrewd in his dealings that, within just two or three decades, his landholdings were scattered across the district and even the entire province. In his own village and the surrounding areas, more than half the fertile land had come under his ownership. By the time he passed away, the fields he left to his three sons and two daughters amounted to over a thousand acres, most of which were prime agricultural land. Thanh Đức, born Thiện, the youngest son of the old Na, was different from his father and brothers, who had remained rooted in the countryside, building their wealth through traditional means. Relying on his sharp mind and his bold, adventurous spirit, he wanted to soar higher and farther, and with much greater fanfare. Unlike his father, who had spent his life patiently accumulating wealth through safe and steady means, Thanh Đức was always drawn to enterprise, to ventures fraught with difficulty, even danger to his own life.

It could be said that Thanh Đức’s life was entirely devoted to business. Not a day, not even an hour, passed without him chasing after one pursuit or another—even during moments of leisure. His "leisure," in fact, was but the facade; in reality, his mind was never at rest. Even on vacation, he would be scheming, searching for opportunities, ready to capitalize on any stroke of luck that might come his way. In idle conversations, a brilliant idea might spark unexpectedly, and within days—sometimes even within hours—it could blossom into a well-organized, thriving enterprise. His keen eye could see straight through any venture, instantly discerning its potential for profit or danger, grasping even the most intricate, convoluted details. And when the time came, he would strike with precise determination, moving swiftly, never delaying a single day or wasting a single hour.

This instinct seemed as natural to him as the wasp that unerringly finds the precise spot on the spider’s neck, piercing it with a single sting—not to kill, but to paralyze, preserving the prey as a future treasure for its offspring. Thanh Đức's entrepreneurial instincts grew sharper with experience, but they had already manifested at a young age. By the time he was eighteen or nineteen, while still living in his family's grand estate, he had already grasped the risks and rewards of every venture, large or small, undertaken by his father and brothers. But his ambitions were greater than theirs. He knew that in the large cities and in the mountainous regions of the midlands and highlands, people were feverishly chasing after wealth. And each time one of his father’s old business partners came to visit, they seemed to fuel his desire further—igniting his yearning for a life of boundless wealth, as vast as a sea of silver and a forest of gold. This vision of almost mythical riches bewitched his youthful, vigorous spirit.

Thiện watched, thought, and searched, his mind ablaze with ambition.

Like a wasp newly emerged from its nest, ready to strike the first blow at the precise spot on the fat spider hiding somewhere nearby.

And that moment arrived.

One day, Thiện left home, taking a large sum of money from his father’s safe, and left behind a heartfelt letter of apology. For three years, he did not return. In the fourth year, he had made a name for himself as a prominent contractor.  From then on, his enterprises expanded rapidly, branching into every field of commerce and industry. He secured contracts to build houses, roads, bridges, and mines; he ran a fleet of transport vehicles, developed plantations, and became an agent for liquor and oil. He traded in paint, cotton, silk, foreign goods, and exported rice, corn, and other domestic products. No lucrative opportunity passed him by. Anything that promised profit, he pursued without hesitation.

Cảnh was born at a time when his father was consumed by the pursuit of wealth. His childhood was one of bliss, comfort, and indulgence. He was the long-awaited son, as the two children born before him were both girls. His parents’ affection for their only son only grew with the arrival of two younger sisters. It was more his mother who spoiled him, though; his father, despite his love, was always preoccupied with work, rarely having time to show affection. To Cảnh, his father, Mr. Thiện, was a mystery and a source of fear. Whenever he saw his father restless, pacing back and forth, rubbing his forehead with a sigh, Cảnh would try to decipher his father’s unspoken thoughts. But he could only vaguely sense that his father was troubled by something. In reality, Mr. Thiện was simply strategizing to ensure success in a major business endeavor. What Cảnh dreaded most was his father’s brief afternoon naps. Though it lasted just over half an hour, the house had to be in complete silence. A single shout, a loud question, or even a heavy footstep was enough to wake Mr. Thiện. And when that happened, whoever disturbed him—whether it was Cảnh or even his mother—would be severely scolded. Once, when Cảnh’s two sisters got into a fight, Mr. Thiện awoke and immediately grabbed a feather duster, whipping the two unfortunate girls without mercy. Terrified, Cảnh fled in fear.

However, after his wife’s death, Mr. Thiện’s behavior changed entirely—or at least, changed in the way he treated his children. His former irritability softened into gentleness, and his silence gave way to talkativeness. One time, he even held Cảnh in his lap and told him fairy tales—something he had never done while his wife was alive. Her death had stirred some deeper emotion within him. Though he remained devoted to his work, there were moments when he would sit still, lost in thought—though these thoughts were no longer about business, but rather idle daydreams. It seemed as though his love for his late wife had deepened, as if he cherished her soul more now than ever, and only now did he begin to remember her family. Thiện's wife came from an aristocratic family. When ông hàn^[2] Na proposed the marriage, the entire family—uncles, aunts, and cousins—rose in unanimous opposition, vehemently resisting the match. Only the bride’s father, ông phủ,^[3] firmly supported it, and his daughter was equally resolute in her decision to marry Thiện. Certainly, Thiện was handsome and intelligent, but these qualities were considered insignificant in comparison to the fact that he was the son of a "nouveau riche" family trying to marry into a prestigious household rooted in scholarly tradition.

Losing his mother felt to Cảnh like losing a large part of the love that had once filled his life even though his two older sisters and two younger ones showered him with affection—the gentle care of girls who had lost their mother too soon.

Following a period of disorder and neglect from his father came a strange new chapter in Cảnh’s life, one that filled him with confusion. The chaos and disarray were only in their daily home life, however. In his business affairs, Mr. Thiện remained as meticulous, orderly, and prosperous as ever, his experience and success growing day by day.

Cảnh began to encounter things that his innocent mind had never before imagined. From time to time, Thiện would bring a young woman home, and their loud, playful antics in the adjacent room, separated from the children’s quarters by only a thin wall, left a lasting impression. The old nanny, with a sly smile, told Cảnh that she was his father’s mistress, though Cảnh only vaguely understood this term, thinking it might be something like a wife, without daring to be more curious.

This way of life continued for over two years—a life of chaos, without family education or moral guidance—running parallel to another life of complete order, experience, and organization in commerce and industry. However, Thiện eventually realized, though somewhat belatedly, that this would have dangerous effects on his children, especially his two eldest daughters, now fifteen and sixteen years old. He knew it was time to take action: he sent his family to Hanoi to live under the care of his sister-in-law and her husband, who were in the silk trade, while he stayed in the provincial town to continue managing his growing business.

This change affected only Mr. Thiện himself; for the people of the province, nothing seemed different. That same year, Ngọc and Dung both passed their elementary exam.^[4] Using this as an excuse, Mr. Thiện sent his two eldest daughters to Hanoi to attend the Đồng Khánh School,^[5] conveniently bringing all the younger children along as well. He remained attentive to his children’s education, viewing their success in academics as important as his own triumphs in commerce and industry. He often regretted that his parents hadn’t allowed him to study more French as a child, and the little Chinese he had acquired felt woefully inadequate for his active life. He had hired private tutors and bought books to broaden his knowledge, and now, his command of French and Chinese was quite sufficient for business affairs. Thiện had grand ambitions for his children. He wanted them to become distinguished intellectuals, adorned with brilliant academic degrees from the most prestigious institutions. He resented being categorized as merely a "nouveau riche" by society. It was a source of deep frustration and bitterness for him, and he was determined to show the world that he was rich, yes, but not merely rich. If his children triumphed in the realm of education, it would be proof that he too could have triumphed in his own time, had circumstances been different.

He often told his colleagues that his family had a history of scholarly achievement, mentioning that his great-great-grandfather had earned a doctorate and served as the Minister of Education during the reign of Cảnh Hưng.^[6] He used that illustrious past to inspire his children. Cảnh was naturally intelligent, a result of the diligent, industrious, and wise traits passed down through his maternal lineage. Seeing his father’s hopes for his academic future, Cảnh worked tirelessly. From sixth grade through philosophy class at Lycée Albert Sarraut, he always ranked first and graduated with honors. He carried his competitive spirit into college, and within two years, he completed two parts of his law degree.

But in his third year, one day a question began to emerge, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts: “What is the point of studying? And what does it matter if I pass?” Over time, the question took root, haunting him for months, until it became an obsession. The answer he eventually arrived at was stark: “There is no purpose to studying. Passing the exams will bring no benefit—neither to me nor to my future.” From there, he spiraled into a cascade of reasoning, frantically dissecting the principles, the very meaning of life, and his own existence. He reasoned and reasoned it out until he reached the bitter conclusion: ultimately, life had no purpose; it was utterly meaningless to live.

Cảnh shared all these plaguing dark thoughts with friends and those whom he regarded as wise and experienced. Their response was almost always the same: many young intellectuals in their early twenties go through such a crisis. It would pass, they reassured him, and the most important thing was to acknowledge it and endure until the phase was over. Yet this answer left Cảnh with a chill of fear, for deep down he had already sensed that waiting for this period to pass would not be an easy task. The thought of suicide had already crept into his mind more than once. He did not know where it came from. It wasn’t tied to any specific disappointment or failure. It had descended upon him like a fleur du mal, blossoming with the inevitable arrival of its season.

To escape it, to distance himself from it, Cảnh felt there was only one solution: to throw himself into a life of debauchery and indulgence. The bad examples set by his father came vividly to mind, drawing themselves out in sharp detail. His passion, latent for so long in his subconscious, began to stir, veering sharply towards a single direction. Occasionally, moments of sobriety would break through, but he would quickly rationalize his behavior, convincing himself that indulgence was the only way to weather the storm of his youth. The more he indulged, the deeper his ennui, and the deeper his ennui, the greater his need to descend into decadence.

One thing saved him from death: his love for his friends. He couldn’t bear to be without them, couldn’t imagine living far from them. The thought of dying only filled him with sorrow for the brothers he would leave behind. And it was also for the sake of his close friends that he resolved the issue of studying and exams: he desperately needed to stay in Hanoi to be near them. The only way to do that was to remain a perpetual student at the Lycée, which is why, for two years, he deliberately failed his exams, and this year, he felt joyful and relieved to have failed once again.

II

Cảnh wandered along the riverbank, feeling a growing sadness. He found it strange. He had longed to fail the exam, and now he had gotten exactly what he wished for. So why did he feel this melancholy?

He asked himself the question and found it difficult to answer. It was as though he felt disappointed by something. Disappointed because he had failed? Cảnh let out a laugh. Yet, even as he laughed, the vague sense of disappointment remained, steadfast and unmoved, almost challenging him, looking him square in the face with a solemn air. For the first time, Cảnh felt uneasy after an exam. The idea of failure seemed to grow clearer by the moment. He thought perhaps it was the force of habit—the ingrained expectation of success, the familiar mindset of taking exams with the aim of passing. Suddenly, he recalled the smug, elated face of Song, a fellow classmate he had seen at the school gate earlier, though he hadn’t paid attention to the proud, self-satisfied smile on his face. Now it flashed before him, and he thought with amusement, "So that’s it. It’s because of him that I’m feeling uneasy. That’s all there is to it. I thought it was something deeper... yes, of course!"

Cảnh felt as though he had resolved the issue, and his mind would start to settle. But no, his emotions still churned like a rising tide. Irritated, he asked himself, "Am I jealous of Song?" No, never. Cảnh had never been envious of Song, who, with his upright demeanor, often looked at him with cold, judgmental eyes, as if silently disapproving of Cảnh’s freewheeling life. Normally, Cảnh would ignore it without a second thought. Why, then, was he dwelling on it now? "Because I failed the exam? Nonsense! If I wanted to pass, I could have passed long ago. I have no need to envy that that bookish, self-righteous prig." For as long as he could remember, Cảnh had regarded Song as an insufferable, impotent prig, someone who knew nothing beyond his books, utterly clueless about the pleasures of life. Cảnh would often joke with his friends, "Studying like that is practically suicide." Song, on the other hand, saw Cảnh’s way of living as reckless and devoid of any ideal. When word of Song’s remarks reached Cảnh, he would merely chuckle and brush it off with a dismissive, "Hmph, ideals!"

Before descending into the reckless, indulgent life he now led, Cảnh had once sought, albeit in a disjointed and half-hearted manner, to find an ideal to devote himself to—a pursuit marked by laziness, stubbornness, and a skewed sense of determination. Naturally, he concluded that no grand ideal was truly suited to a young man like him. To ward off the endless spiral of introspection, Cảnh began whistling a tango tune as he walked. His thoughts soon drifted to Nguyên, the captivating young woman he had recently met at a tea house. "That girl is bound to suffer because of me," he thought, his lips curling into a faint, self-satisfied smile. One of Cảnh’s favorite pastimes was to torment his lovers in every way possible, finding a particular delight in it. "The first step," he mused, "is to steal her from that handsome fellow. If I don’t, she won’t truly be mine—that’s a very simple and clear logic," he reasoned. “I’ll put my plan into action tonight.” He opened his wallet and counted the money: “Almost five hundred left—enough resources for an attack and a victory.” He thought of the man she was with: “He seems steady enough... If it comes to a fight, all the better.” Cảnh clenched his fists and threw two punches into the air, smiling smugly, confident in his physical strength. This strength, he knew, came from years of physical training and his passion for sports—back when he had been a diligent and disciplined youth, living with moderation and order. As he reflected, Cảnh acknowledged that the first phase of his life had, in fact, laid the groundwork for the second. The chaos he now lived in had emerged naturally from the strict order he had once imposed on himself. He recalled Plato’s theory of “opposites generating each other,” something he had studied four or five years earlier when he was still attending philosophy classes.

"Back then, I was such a fool! I spent my days buried in books, completely blind to the world around me." The mere thought of those naïve years made his face flush with embarrassment. There was a love story he often shared with friends, always in a playful, humorous way, but whenever he revisited it in private, he was filled with a cold sweat of shame. When we confess to ourselves, after all, we tend to be much more honest. The truth was not as he had painted it for his friends: the beautiful young woman from a good family had indeed offered herself to him. But to claim he had refrained out of a noble desire to protect her innocence was pure fiction. In reality, he had been even more naive than she was—shy, awkward, and, above all, far too innocent.

A few months ago, he had crossed paths with the woman, now the dignified wife of a government official. He had quipped, "If I hadn’t been brave back then, we probably wouldn’t be able to look each other in the eye today, would we?" She had smiled—a knowing, sly smile, edged with mockery. In that moment, he felt like a fool, clumsily playing the role of a false hero. Over the years, his experience with women had broadened, and he had come to understand just how much more adept they were at matters of love—practically teachers for men. How had he ever imagined he could deceive or hide anything from them?

 Anh Hoa dịch

một phả hệ

Khái Hưng

Dương Nghiễm Mậu

Thanh Tâm Tuyền

"la vie est ailleurs, pourvu que je soit un autre"

Le Livre de Signes

étranges étrangers