Buying Glasses

In the middle of a busy market street stood a small stall that made every passerby glance twice. On a spread cloth lay dozens of pairs of glasses in neat rows. Some had brass frames and some had frames of horn, and their clear lenses caught the noon sun and twinkled. The man who sold them was a kindly old man, his beard already flecked with gray. He sat behind the stall waving a bamboo fan and cheerfully greeted everyone who stopped. He had sold glasses for many years, so one glance at a customer's eyes told him which pair they needed.

This is an old Vietnamese folk tale, the kind people have long told one another for a laugh. That noon, an unassuming young man from the countryside came up to the stall. He was strong and sunburned, with big broad hands used to holding a plow and a hoe. He was as honest as they come. His only misfortune was that his family had been very poor when he was small. He had followed his parents to the fields early and never had a single day of school. So even now, he could not read a single letter.

For some time he had noticed something strange. Whenever the old men and women of the village opened a book or looked at the calendar, they took a pair of glasses from a pocket. Only with them on could they read smoothly and fluently. Without glasses the elders were stuck, holding the page at arm's length and squinting. He watched them with real admiration. So the glasses are what do it, he thought. Whoever wears them can read. With a pair of his own, surely he could read books just like the elders.

No sooner thought than done. He wrapped up a little money, tucked the family's old calendar under his arm, and set off happily for the market. At the stall he laid the calendar down. Very politely, he told the old man he wished to buy a really good pair of glasses for reading. The old man smiled, picked out a gleaming pair with brass frames, and handed it over kindly. The young man put them on with great care, opened the calendar and stared hard. But he had no idea he was holding it upside down. Every letter on the page was standing on its head.

He looked at the page for a long while, tilting his head this way and that. Not a single letter would come forward to be read. He shook his head, took off the glasses and handed them back. These were not right, he said, and he asked to try another pair. The old man stayed cheerful. He rubbed the second pair on the hem of his shirt until it shone. Its frame was light and its lenses were thick. The young man put it on. He even licked a finger and turned a page, just like a real reader, his eyes glued to the paper. Still no luck. The page showed only strange squiggly marks, no different from before.

He clicked his tongue, gave back the second pair, and asked to try a third. The old man nodded slightly and brought out a pair with horn frames and big round lenses. Inside, though, he was starting to wonder. In all his years of selling glasses, he had never met so hard a customer. The young man put them on and tilted his head, studying the page for a long time. Then, with a long sigh, he shook his head again. And so it went, pair after pair. He tried five or six pairs in all, every one wiped clean and shining. Each time, he shook his head hard. The pile of glasses beside him grew higher and higher. The calendar still lay upside down in his hands, silent, as if it were teasing him.

Now he began to think it over. Maybe, he told himself, these pairs were just ordinary. The better the glasses, the better a person could read. The elders in the village with their precious glasses could read whole thick books. So he had to buy the most expensive pair, the very best one. That one would surely let him read at once. He asked the old man to show him the best and most expensive glasses on the stall. Whatever they cost, he would buy them.

The old man was a little surprised, but he still did as the customer wished. He opened a wooden box he kept apart and took out the finest pair on the stall. Its frame was delicately carved, and its lenses were as clear as spring water. The young man was overjoyed. He put them on with great ceremony and bent over the calendar, his heart pounding. This time, he was certain, he would read. He looked. He looked again. And he looked once more. But the letters on the page just lay there, upside down, refusing to say a single word to him. Downcast, he let out a heavy sigh and took off the precious glasses with deep regret.

All this time, the old glasses seller had been sitting quietly, watching his customer. The more he watched, the more puzzled he became. Then his eyes dropped to the calendar in the young man's hands, and all at once it dawned on him. The calendar was upside down, its letters all pointing at the ground. Now he understood the whole thing. He did not laugh, not even once. He did not say one word of reproach either. He only asked, gently and calmly, whether the young man had perhaps never had the chance to learn to read.

The young man scratched his head and answered honestly. Yes, sir, it is true, I cannot read. But I thought that once I put on glasses I would be able to read, so I came to buy some. After all, if I already knew how to read, I would have no need to buy glasses. At that, the old man's eyes lit up with a gentle smile. He could not bear to laugh out loud. He only felt fond of the young man, so honest and so clear of heart.

Then the old man set down his fan and slowly explained. Young man, he said, these glasses are a fine thing. But they only help eyes that already know the letters to see them more clearly. The elders in the village can read books because they learned their letters as children. Their eyes simply grew dim with age, so they borrow the glasses to see well. But glasses cannot make letters, however much they cost. To read books, a person must first learn the letters themselves, young man.

The young man stood dumbfounded for a moment, and then it all came clear. He burst out laughing, seeing how funny his earlier idea had been. He thanked the old man again and again. Then the old man cheerfully told him something more. At the far end of the village, a village teacher ran a class that taught people to read and write. Anyone who wished to learn could come, old or young, grown or small. It is never too late to learn to read, the old man said. Plenty of people older than the young man still went to that class. Within a couple of weeks they could read a letter or the calendar at home.

As he listened, the young man felt a new joy rising inside him. He said goodbye to the old man, tucked the calendar under his arm and headed home with a light step. He had not bought a single pair of glasses, but he was taking home something more precious still. As evening fell and the sun over the market softened, he walked along thinking about the class at the end of the village. He had already made up his mind to go and ask the teacher to take him on. And one day, once he knew his letters by heart, he would open that very calendar again. This time he would hold it the right way up and read every line on his own, smooth and fluent. By then, if his eyes grew dim with age, he would come back to the old man's stall and buy a pair of glasses. And that pair of glasses would truly be of use.