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且介亭杂文末编 (且介亭杂文末编)

Lu Xun (鲁迅, Lǔ Xùn, 1881–1936)

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中文（原文）	English
凱綏·勖密特（Kaethe Schmidt）以一八六七年七月八日生於東普魯士的區匿培克（Koenigsberg）。她的外祖父是盧柏（Julius Rupp），即那地方的自由宗教協會的創立者。父親原是候補的法官，但因為宗教上和政治上的意見，沒有補缺的希望了，這窮困的法學家便如俄國人之所說：「到民間去」，做了木匠，一直到盧柏死後，才來當這教區的首領和教師。他有四個孩子，都很用心的加以教育，然而先不知道凱綏的藝術的才能。凱綏先學的是刻銅的手藝，到一八八五年冬，這才赴她的兄弟在研究文學的柏林，向斯滔發·培倫（Stauffer Bern）去學繪畫。後回故鄉，學於奈台（Neide），為了「厭倦」，終於向閔興的哈台列克（Herterich）那裡去學習了。 　　一八九一年，和她兄弟的幼年之友卡爾·珂勒惠支（Karl Kollwitz）結婚，他是一個開業的醫生，於是凱綏也就在柏林的「小百姓」之間住下，這才放下繪畫，刻起版畫來。待到孩子們長大了，又用力於雕刻。一八九八年，製成有名的《織工一揆》計六幅，取材於一八四四年的史實，是與先出的霍普德曼（Gerhart Hauptmann）的劇本同名的；一八九九年刻《格萊親》，零一年刻《斷頭台邊的舞蹈》；零四年旅行巴黎；零四至八年成連續版畫《農民戰爭》七幅，獲盛名，受Villaromana獎金，得游學於意大利。這時她和一個女友由佛羅稜薩步行而入羅馬，然而這旅行，據她自己說，對於她的藝術似乎並無大影響。一九○九年作《失業》，一○年作《婦人被死亡所捕》和以「死」為題材的小圖。 　　世界大戰起，她幾乎並無製作。一九一四年十月末，她的很年青的大兒子以義勇兵死於弗蘭兌倫（Flandern）戰線上。一八年十一月，被選為普魯士藝術學院會員，這是以婦女而入選的第一個。從一九年以來，她才彷彿從大夢初醒似的，又從事於版畫了，有名的是這一年的紀念裡勃克內希（Liebknecht）的木刻和石刻，零二至零三年的木刻連續畫《戰爭》，後來又有三幅《無產者》，也是木刻連續畫。一九二七年為她的六十歲紀念，霍普德曼那時還是一個戰鬥的作家，給她書簡道：「你的無聲的描線，侵人心髓，如一種慘苦的呼聲：希臘和羅馬時候都沒有聽到過的呼聲。」法國羅曼·羅蘭（Romain Rollad）則說：「凱綏·珂勒惠支的作品是現代德國的最偉大的詩歌，它照出窮人與平民的困苦和悲痛。這有丈夫氣概的婦人，用了陰郁和纖穠的同情，把這些收在她的眼中，她的慈母的腕裏了。這是做了犧牲的人民的沉默的聲音。」然而她在現在，卻不能教授，不能作畫，只能真的沉默的和她的兒子住在柏林了；她的兒子像那父親一樣，也是一個醫生。 　　在女性藝術家之中，震動了藝術界的，現代幾乎無出於凱綏·珂勒惠支之上— —或者讚美，或者攻擊，或者又對攻擊給她以辯護。誠如亞斐那留斯（Ferdinand-Avenarius）之所說：「新世紀的前幾年，她第一次展覽作品的時候，就為報章所喧傳的了。從此以來，一個說，『她是偉大的版畫家』；人就過作無聊的不成話道：『凱綏·珂勒惠支是屬於只有一個男子的新派版畫家裡的』。別一個說：『她是社會民主主義的宣傳家』，第三個卻道：『她是悲觀的困苦的畫手』。而第四個又以為『是一個宗教的藝術家』。要之：無論人們怎樣地各以自己的感覺和思想來解釋這藝術，怎樣地從中只看見一種的意義——然而有一件事情是普遍的：人沒有忘記她。誰一聽到凱綏·珂勒惠支的名姓，就彷彿看見這藝術。這藝術是陰鬱的，雖然都在堅決的動彈，集中於強韌的力量，這藝術是統一而單純的——非常之逼人。」 　　但在我們中國，紹介的還不多，我只記得在已經停刊的《現代》和《譯文》上，各曾刊印過她的一幅木刻，原畫自然更少看見；前四五年，上海曾經展覽過她的幾幅作品，但恐怕也不大有十分注意的人。她的本國所複製的作品，據我所見，以《凱綏·珂勒惠支畫帖》（Kaethe Kollwitz Mappe，Herausgegeben Von Kunstwart，Kunstwart－Verlag，Muenchen，1927）為最佳，但後一版便變了內容，憂郁的多於戰鬥的了。印刷未精，而幅數較多的，則有《凱綏·珂勒惠支作品集》（Das Kaethe Kollwitz Werk，Carl Reisner Verlag，Dresden，1930），只要一翻這集子，就知道她以深廣的慈母之愛，為一切被侮辱和損害者悲哀，抗議，憤怒，鬥爭；所取的題材大抵是困苦，飢餓，流離，疾病，死亡，然而也有呼號，掙扎，聯合和奮起。此後又出了一本新集（Das Neue K. Kollwitz Werk，1933），卻更多明朗之作了。霍善斯坦因（Wilhelm Hausenstein）批評她中期的作品，以為雖然間有鼓動的男性的版畫，暴力的恐嚇，但在根本上，是和頗深的生活相聯繫，形式也出於頗激的糾葛的，所以那形式，是緊握著世事的形相。永田一修並取她的後來之作，以這批評為不足，他說凱綏·珂勒惠支的作品，和裡培爾曼（Max Liebermann）不同，並非只覺得題材有趣，來畫下層世界的；她因為被周圍的悲慘生活所動，所以非畫不可，這是對於搾取人類者的無窮的「憤怒」。「她照目前的感覺，——永田一修說——描寫著黑土的大眾。她不將樣式來範圍現象。時而見得悲劇，時而見得英雄化，是不免的。然而無論她怎樣陰鬱，怎樣悲哀，卻決不是非革命。她沒有忘卻變革現社會的可能。而且愈入老境，就愈脫離了悲劇的，或者英雄的，陰暗的形式。」 　　而且她不但為周圍的悲慘生活抗爭，對於中國也沒有像中國對於她那樣的冷淡：一九三一年一月間，六個青年作家遇害之後，全世界的進步的文藝家聯名提出抗議的時候，她也是署名的一個人。現在，用中國法計算作者的年齡，她已屆七十歲了，這一本書的出版，雖然篇幅有限，但也可以算是為她作一個小小的記念的罷。 　　選集所取，計二十一幅，以原版拓本為主，並複製一九二七年的印本《畫帖》以足之。以下據亞斐那留斯及第勒（Louise Diel）的解說，並略參己見，為目錄—— 　　（1）《自畫像》（Selbstbild）。石刻，製作年代未詳，按《作品集》所列次序，當成於一九一○年頃；據原拓本，原大34\times30cｍ這是作者從許多版畫的肖像中，自己選給中國的一幅，隱然可見她的悲憫，憤怒和慈和。 　　（2）《窮苦》（Not）。石刻，原大15\times15cｍ據原版拓本，後五幅同。這是有名的《織工一揆》（Ein Weberauffstand）的第一幅，一八九八年作。前四年，霍普德曼的劇本《織匠》始開演於柏林的德國劇場，取材是一八四四年的勖列濟安（Schlesien）麻布工人的蜂起，作者也許是受著一點這作品的影響的，但這可以不必深論，因為那是劇本，而這卻是圖畫。我們借此進了一間窮苦的人家，冰冷，破爛，父親抱一個孩子，毫無方法的坐在屋角裡，母親是愁苦的，兩手支頭，在看垂危的兒子，紡車靜靜的停在她的旁邊。 　　（3）《死亡》（Tod）。石刻，原大22\times18cｍ同上的第二幅。還是冰冷的房屋，母親疲勞得睡去了，父親還是毫無方法的，然而站立著在沉思他的無法。桌上的燭火尚有餘光，「死」卻已經近來，伸開他骨出的手，抱住了弱小的孩子。孩子的眼睛張得極大，在凝視我們，他要生存，他至死還在希望人有改革運命的力量。 　　（4）《商議》（Beratung）。石刻，原大27\times17cｍ同上的第三幅。接著前兩幅的沉默的忍受和苦惱之後，到這裡卻現出生存競爭的景象來了。我們只在黑暗中看見一片桌面，一隻杯子和兩個人，但為的是在商議摔掉被踐踏的運命。 　　（5）《織工隊》（Ｗeberzug）。銅刻，原大22\times29cｍ同上的第四幅。隊伍進向吮取脂膏的工場，手裡捏著極可憐的武器，手臉都瘦損，神情也很頹唐，因為向來總餓著肚子。隊伍中有女人，也疲憊到不過走得動；這作者所寫的大眾裡，是大抵有女人的。她還背著孩子，卻伏在肩頭睡去了。 　　（６）《突擊》（Sturｍ）。銅刻，原大24\times29cｍ同上的第五幅。工場的鐵門早經鎖閉，織工們卻想用無力的手和可憐的武器，來破壞這鐵門，或者是飛進石子去。女人們在助戰，用痙攣的手，從地上挖起石塊來。孩子哭了，也許是路上睡著的那一個。這是在六幅之中，人認為最好的一幅，有時用這來證明作者的《織工》，藝術達到怎樣的高度的。 　　（7）《收場》（Ende）。銅刻，原大24\times30cｍ同上的第六和末一幅。我們到底又和織工回到他們的家裡來，織機默默的停著，旁邊躺著兩具屍體，伏著一個女人；而門口還在抬進屍體來。這是四十年代，在德國的織工的求生的結局。 　　（8）《格萊親》（Gretchen）。一八九九年作，石刻；據《畫帖》，原大未詳。歌德（Goethe）的《浮士德》（Faust）有浮士德愛格萊親，誘與通情，有孕；她在井邊，從女友聽到鄰女被情人所棄，想到自己，於是向聖母供花禱告事。這一幅所寫的是這可憐的少女經過極狹的橋上，在水裡幻覺的看見自己的將來。她在劇本裡，後來是將她和浮士德所生的孩子投在水裡淹死，下獄了。原石已破碎。 　　（9）《斷頭台邊的舞蹈》（Tanz Uｍ Die Guillotine）。一九○一年作，銅刻；據《畫帖》，原大未詳。是法國大革命時候的一種情景：斷頭台造起來了，大家圍著它，吼著「讓我們來跳加爾瑪弱兒舞罷！」（Dansons La Carｍagnole！）的歌，在跳舞。不是一個，是為了同樣的原因而同樣的可怕了的一群。周圍的破屋，像積疊起來的困苦的峭壁，上面只見一塊天。狂暴的人堆的臂膊，恰如淨罪的火焰一般，照出來的只有一個陰暗。 　　（10）《耕夫》（Die Pflueger）。原大31\times45cｍ這就是有名的歷史的連續畫《農民戰爭》（Bauernkrieg）的第一幅。畫共七幅，作於一九○四至○八年，都是銅刻。現在據以影印的也都是原拓本。「農民戰爭」是近代德國最大的社會改革運動之一，以一五二四年頃，起於南方，其時農民都在奴隸的狀態，被虐於貴族的封建的特權；瑪丁·路德既提倡新教，同時也傳播了自由主義的福音，農民就覺醒起來，要求廢止領主的苛例，發表宣言，還燒教堂，攻地主，擾動及於全國。然而這時路德卻反對了，以為這種破壞的行為，大背人道，應該加以鎮壓，諸侯們於是放手的討伐，恣行殘酷的復仇，到第二年，農民就都失敗了，境遇更加悲慘，所以他們後來就稱路德為「撒謊博士」。這裡刻劃出來的是沒有太陽的天空之下，兩個耕夫在耕地，大約是弟兄，他們套著繩索，拉著犁頭，幾乎爬著的前進，像牛馬一般，令人彷彿看見他們的流汗，聽到他們的喘息。後面還該有一個扶犁的婦女，那恐怕總是他們的母親了。 　　（11）《凌辱》（Vergewaltigt）。同上的第二幅，原大35 \times53cｍ男人們的受苦還沒有激起變亂，但農婦也遭到可恥的凌辱了；她反縛兩手，躺著，下頦向天，不見臉。死了，還是昏著呢，我們不知道。只見一路的野草都被蹂躪，顯著曾經格鬥的樣子，較遠之處，卻站著可愛的小小的葵花。 　　（12）《磨鐮刀》（Beiｍ Dengeln）。同上的第三幅，原大30\times30cｍ這裡就出現了飽嘗苦楚的女人，她的壯大粗糙的手，在用一塊磨石，磨快大鐮刀的刀鋒，她那小小的兩眼裡，是充滿著極頂的憎惡和憤怒。 　　（13）《圓洞門裡的武裝》（Bewaffnung In Eineｍ Ge－woelbe）。同上的第四幅，原大50\times33cｍ大家都在一個陰暗的圓洞門下武裝了起來，從狹窄的戈諦克式階級蜂湧而上：是一大群拚死的農民。光線愈高愈少；奇特的半暗，陰森的人相。 　　（14）《反抗》（Losbruch）。同上的第五幅，原大51\times50cｍ誰都在草地上沒命的向前，最先是少年，喝令的卻是一個女人，從全體上洋溢著復仇的憤怒。她渾身是力，揮手頓足，不但令人看了就生勇往直前之心，還好像天上的雲，也應聲裂成片片。她的姿態，是所有名畫中最有力量的女性的一個。也如《織工一揆》裡一樣，女性總是參加著非常的事變，而且極有力，這也就是「這有丈夫氣概的婦人」的精神。 　　（15）《戰場》（Schlachtfeld）。同上的第六幅，原大41\times53cｍ農民們打敗了，他們敵不過官兵。剩在戰場上的是什麼呢？幾乎看不清東西。只在隱約看見屍橫遍野的黑夜中，有一個婦人，用風燈照出她一隻勞作到滿是筋節的手，在觸動一個死屍的下巴。光線都集中在這一小塊上。這，恐怕正是她的兒子，這處所，恐怕正是她先前扶犁的地方，但現在流著的卻不是汗而是鮮血了。 　　（1６）《俘虜》（Die Gefangenen）。同上的第七幅，原大33\times42cｍ，畫裡是被捕的孑遺，有赤腳的，有穿木鞋的，都是強有力的漢子，但竟也有兒童，個個反縛兩手，禁在繩圈裡。他們的運命，是可想而知的了，但各人的神氣，有已絕望的，有還是倔強或憤怒的，也有自在沉思的，卻不見有什麼萎靡或屈服。 　　（17）《失業》（Arbeitslosigkeit）。一九○九年作，銅刻；據《畫帖》，原大44\times54cｍ他現在閒空了，坐在她的床邊，思索著— —然而什麼法子也想不出。那母親和睡著的孩子們的模樣，很美妙而崇高，為作者的作品中所罕見。 　　（18）《婦人為死亡所捕獲》（Frau Voｍ Tod Gepackt），亦名《死和女人》（Tod Und Ｗeib）。一九一○年作，銅刻；據《畫帖》，原大未詳。「死」從她本身的陰影中出現，由背後來襲擊她，將她纏住，反剪了；剩下弱小的孩子，無法叫回他自己的慈愛的母親。一轉眼間，對面就是兩界。「死」是世界上最出眾的拳師，死亡是現社會最動人的悲劇，而這婦人則是全作品中最偉大的一人。 　　（19）《母與子》（Ｍutter Und Kind）。製作年代未詳，銅刻；據《畫帖》，原大19\times13cｍ在《凱綏·珂勒惠支作品集》中所見的百八十二幅中，可指為快樂的不過四五幅，這就是其一。亞斐那留斯以為從特地描寫著孩子的呆氣的側臉，用光亮襯托出來之處，頗令人覺得有些忍俊不禁。 　　（20）《麵包！》（Brot！）。石刻，製作年代未詳，想當在歐洲大戰之後；據原拓本，原大30\times28cｍ飢餓的孩子的急切的索食，是最碎裂了做母親的的心的。這裡是孩子們徒然張著悲哀，而熱烈地希望著的眼，母親卻只能彎了無力的腰。她的肩膀聳了起來，是在背人飲泣。她背著人，因為肯幫助的和她一樣的無力，而有力的是橫豎不肯幫助的。她也不願意給孩子們看見這是剩在她這裡的僅有的慈愛。 　　（21）《德國的孩子們餓著！》（Deutschlands Kinder Hungern！）。石刻，製作年代未詳，想當在歐洲大戰之後；據原拓本，原大43\times29cｍ他們都擎著空碗向人，瘦削的臉上的圓睜的眼睛裡，炎炎的燃著如火的熱望。誰伸出手來呢？這裡無從知道。這原是橫幅，一面寫著現在作為標題的一句，大約是當時募捐的揭帖。後來印行的，卻只存了圖畫。作者還有一幅石刻，題為《決不再戰！》（Nie Ｗieder Krieg！），是略早的石刻，可惜不能搜得；而那時的孩子，存留至今的，則已都成了二十以上的青年，可又將被驅作兵火的糧食了。	Käthe Schmidt was born on July 8, 1867, in Königsberg, East Prussia. Her maternal grandfather was Julius Rupp, the founder of the local Free Religious Congregation. Her father had been a candidate for the judiciary, but his religious and political views left him with no prospect of appointment. This impoverished jurist therefore did as the Russians say: he "went to the people" and became a carpenter. It was only after Rupp's death that he took over as the leader and teacher of the congregation. He had four children and gave all of them a careful education, yet did not at first recognize Käthe's artistic talent. Käthe first learned the craft of copperplate engraving. In the winter of 1885, she went to Berlin, where her brother was studying literature, to study painting under Stauffer-Bern. She then returned home and studied under Neide, until "boredom" finally drove her to study with Herterich in Munich. In 1891, she married Karl Kollwitz, a childhood friend of her brother's. He was a practicing physician, and so Käthe settled among the "little people" of Berlin. It was then that she set aside painting and took up printmaking. When her children had grown, she turned her energies to sculpture. In 1898, she completed the celebrated series A Weavers' Revolt, comprising six prints, based on the historical events of 1844, sharing its title with the earlier play by Gerhart Hauptmann. In 1899, she engraved Gretchen; in 1901, Dance Around the Guillotine. In 1904, she traveled to Paris; from 1904 to 1908, she produced the seven-print series Peasants' War, which brought her great fame and won her the Villa Romana Prize, enabling her to study in Italy. She and a woman friend walked from Florence to Rome, but this journey, she herself said, seemed to have had no great influence on her art. In 1909, she produced Unemployment; in 1910, Woman Seized by Death and small prints on the theme of death. When the Great War began, she produced almost nothing. On the last day of October 1914, her very young elder son died as a volunteer on the Flanders front. In November 1918, she was elected a member of the Prussian Academy of Arts — the first woman ever so honored. From 1919 onward, she seemed to awaken as from a great dream and resumed her work in printmaking. Notable works include her woodcut and lithograph commemorating Liebknecht from that year; the woodcut series War (1922-23); and later three prints of Proletarians, also a woodcut series. In 1927, for her sixtieth birthday, Hauptmann — then still a militant writer — wrote to her: "Your silent lines cut to the marrow, like an anguished cry: a cry unheard in the days of Greece and Rome." The Frenchman Romain Rolland said: "The work of Käthe Kollwitz is the greatest poetry of modern Germany; it illuminates the misery and sorrow of the poor and the common people. This woman of manly courage has gathered all this into her eyes and into her motherly arms, with a somber and delicate sympathy. It is the silent voice of a people who have made the sacrifice." Yet now she can neither teach nor paint; she can only live in genuine silence with her son in Berlin — her son, who, like his father, is also a physician. Among women artists, there is hardly one in modern times who has shaken the art world more profoundly than Käthe Kollwitz — some praising her, some attacking her, and some defending her against attack. As Avenarius truly said: "In the early years of the new century, when she first exhibited her work, the press was already clamoring. From then on, one person says: 'She is a great printmaker'; another person makes the fatuous and absurd remark: 'Käthe Kollwitz belongs to a new school of printmakers that contains only one man.' A second says: 'She is a propagandist for social democracy'; a third calls her 'a painter of pessimistic misery.' And a fourth considers her 'a religious artist.' In short: however people may each interpret this art according to their own feelings and thoughts, however they may see in it only one meaning — one thing is universal: no one has forgotten her. The moment anyone hears the name Käthe Kollwitz, they seem to see the art before their eyes. This art is somber; though it is always in resolute motion, concentrated in tenacious strength, this art is unified and simple — overwhelmingly so." But in our China, introductions have been few. I can only recall that the now-defunct magazines Xiandai and Yiwen each once published a single woodcut of hers; original works have of course been even rarer. Four or five years ago, a few of her works were exhibited in Shanghai, but I fear not many people paid close attention. Of the reproductions published in her own country, the finest I have seen is the Käthe Kollwitz Portfolio (Kaethe Kollwitz Mappe, published by Kunstwart-Verlag, Munich, 1927), though the later edition changed its contents, with more melancholy pieces and fewer militant ones. Less finely printed but with more plates is the Käthe Kollwitz Werk (Carl Reisner Verlag, Dresden, 1930). One need only leaf through this collection to know that with the deep and boundless love of a mother, she grieves, protests, rages, and fights for all who are insulted and injured. Her subjects are mostly hardship, hunger, displacement, disease, and death — but there is also outcry, struggle, solidarity, and uprising. Later another new collection appeared (Das Neue K. Kollwitz Werk, 1933), with still more works of clarity and light. Wilhelm Hausenstein, criticizing her middle-period works, noted that while there were occasional agitational and masculine prints, frightening in their violence, they were fundamentally connected with a rather deep life, and the forms emerged from rather intense entanglements — so that the form grasped tightly the shape of worldly affairs. Nagata Kazunobu went further, taking her later works as well, finding this critique insufficient. He said that Kollwitz's work, unlike that of Max Liebermann, did not merely find its subject matter interesting and then depict the lower world; she was moved by the wretched life surrounding her, and therefore could not help but paint — this was boundless "rage" against those who exploit humanity. "She depicts — as Nagata said — the masses of the dark earth, according to her present feelings. She does not confine phenomena within forms. That it sometimes appears tragic, sometimes heroic, is unavoidable. Yet however somber, however sorrowful she may be, she is decidedly not anti-revolutionary. She has not forgotten the possibility of transforming present society. And as she grows older, she increasingly departs from tragic, or heroic, or somber forms." Moreover, she not only fought against the wretched life around her but was not as indifferent to China as China was to her. In January 1931, after six young writers were killed, when progressive writers from all over the world jointly submitted a protest, she was one of the signatories. Now, reckoning her age by the Chinese method, she is approaching seventy. The publication of this book, though limited in scope, may serve as a small tribute to her. The selection comprises twenty-one prints, with original impressions as the primary source, supplemented by reproductions from the 1927 Portfolio. The following catalogue is based on the descriptions by Avenarius and Louise Diel, with some additions of my own: (1) Self-Portrait (Selbstbild). Lithograph, date uncertain; judging from the order in the Werk, it was probably completed around 1910. Original impression, actual size 34 x 30 cm. This is a portrait the artist herself selected from among many printed self-portraits to give to China. One can faintly discern her compassion, her anger, and her gentleness. (2) Poverty (Not). Lithograph, actual size 15 x 15 cm, from original impression; the following five prints likewise. This is the first plate of the celebrated A Weavers' Revolt (Ein Weberaufstand), made in 1898. Four years earlier, Hauptmann's play The Weavers had premiered at the Deutsches Theater in Berlin, drawn from the 1844 Silesian linen weavers' uprising. The artist may have been influenced somewhat by this work, but the point need not be belabored, for one is a play and the other is a picture. Through it we enter a poor household: cold, broken down. The father holds a child, sitting helplessly in the corner. The mother is careworn, her head propped on both hands, watching her dying son. The spinning wheel stands silent beside her. (3) Death (Tod). Lithograph, actual size 22 x 18 cm. The second plate of the same series. Still the icy room. The mother, exhausted, has fallen asleep. The father still stands helplessly, brooding over his helplessness. A candle on the table still glimmers, but Death has already drawn near, stretching out his bony hands to seize the frail child. The child's eyes are open wide, gazing at us. He wants to live; even unto death he still hopes that human beings possess the power to change fate. (4) Deliberation (Beratung). Lithograph, actual size 27 x 17 cm. The third plate. After the silent endurance and anguish of the first two plates, here a scene of the struggle for survival emerges. In the darkness we see only a table surface, a cup, and two men — deliberating how to shake off the fate that has trampled them. (5) Weavers on the March (Weberzug). Etching, actual size 22 x 29 cm. The fourth plate. The column advances toward the factory that sucks their marrow. In their hands they clutch pitifully meager weapons; their hands and faces are gaunt, their expressions dejected, for they have always gone hungry. There are women in the column, also exhausted, barely able to walk. In the masses this artist depicts, there are nearly always women. One carries a child on her back, who has fallen asleep on her shoulder. (6) Assault (Sturm). Etching, actual size 24 x 29 cm. The fifth plate. The factory's iron gates were long since locked, but the weavers try to break them down with their feeble hands and pitiful weapons, or perhaps hurl stones inside. The women are helping, clawing up cobblestones from the ground with convulsive hands. A child is crying — perhaps the one who was sleeping on the march. Among the six plates, this is generally considered the finest; it is sometimes used to demonstrate the artistic heights achieved in the artist's Weavers series. (7) The End (Ende). Etching, actual size 24 x 30 cm. The sixth and final plate. We are back once more in the weavers' home, with the loom standing silent. Beside it lie two corpses; a woman crouches over them. At the doorway, another body is being carried in. This was the outcome, in the 1840s, of the German weavers' struggle for survival. (8) Gretchen (Gretchen). 1899, lithograph; from the Portfolio, actual size unknown. In Goethe's Faust, Faust loves Gretchen, seduces her, and she conceives. At a well, she hears from a friend that a neighbor girl has been abandoned by her lover, and thinking of herself, she offers flowers and prays to the Holy Mother. This print depicts the wretched girl crossing a very narrow bridge, seeing in the water a phantasmal vision of her future. In the play, she later drowns the child she bore with Faust and is imprisoned. The original stone has been shattered. (9) Dance Around the Guillotine (Tanz um die Guillotine). 1901, etching; from the Portfolio, actual size unknown. A scene from the French Revolution: the guillotine has been erected, and the crowd surrounds it, howling the song "Let us dance the Carmagnole!" (Dansons la Carmagnole!), and dancing. Not one alone, but a throng made equally terrible by the same cause. The surrounding ruined buildings rise like precipices of accumulated misery, with only a patch of sky above. The flailing arms of the frenzied crowd blaze like purgatorial flames, illuminating nothing but darkness. (10) The Ploughmen (Die Pflüger). Actual size 31 x 45 cm. This is the first plate of the celebrated historical series Peasants' War (Bauernkrieg), comprising seven etchings made between 1904 and 1908. The prints reproduced here are all from original impressions. The Peasants' War was one of the greatest social reform movements in early modern Germany. Around 1524, it broke out in the south, where the peasants lived in a state of servitude, oppressed by the feudal privileges of the nobility. When Martin Luther championed the new faith, he simultaneously spread the gospel of liberty, and the peasants awakened, demanding the abolition of their lords' cruel exactions. They published declarations, burned churches, attacked landowners, and the disturbance spread throughout the country. But then Luther turned against them, declaring such destructive conduct a grave offense against humanity that should be suppressed. The princes thereupon crushed them without restraint, exacting cruel revenge, and by the following year the peasants had all been defeated, their condition more wretched than before — which is why they later called Luther "Doctor Liar." The print shows, beneath a sunless sky, two ploughmen working the field — brothers, perhaps. They are harnessed with ropes, dragging the plough, crawling forward on all fours, like oxen or horses; one seems to see their sweat, to hear their panting. Behind them there should be a woman guiding the plough — probably their mother. (11) Raped (Vergewaltigt). The second plate, actual size 35 x 53 cm. The men's suffering has not yet provoked rebellion, but a peasant woman has been subjected to a shameful outrage. Her hands are bound behind her back; she lies face up, her chin toward the sky, her face invisible. Dead or unconscious, we do not know. Along the path, the wild grass has been trampled flat, showing signs of a struggle. A little farther off stand charming little sunflowers. (12) Whetting the Scythe (Beim Dengeln). The third plate, actual size 30 x 30 cm. Here appears the woman who has tasted suffering to the full. Her large, rough hands use a whetstone to sharpen the great scythe's edge. In her small eyes burn the uttermost loathing and fury. (13) Arming in a Vaulted Room (Bewaffnung in einem Gewölbe). The fourth plate, actual size 50 x 33 cm. Everyone is arming themselves beneath a dark vaulted archway, surging up narrow Gothic stairs: a great mass of desperate peasants. The higher the light, the scarcer it becomes; an eerie half-darkness, sinister faces. (14) Outbreak (Losbruch). The fifth plate, actual size 51 x 50 cm. Everyone rushes headlong across the field. In the lead are the young men; the one giving the command is a woman. From the entire composition surges the fury of vengeance. Her whole body is strength; she waves her arms and stamps her feet, and not only does the sight of her fill one with the impulse to charge forward, but the clouds in the sky seem to shatter in response. Her figure is one of the most powerful images of womanhood in all of the great paintings. As in A Weavers' Revolt, women always participate in extraordinary events, and with tremendous force — this is the spirit of "this woman of manly courage." (15) Battlefield (Schlachtfeld). The sixth plate, actual size 41 x 53 cm. The peasants have been defeated; they were no match for the soldiers. What remains on the battlefield? One can barely make anything out. Only in the dimness of a night strewn with corpses, a woman holds a lantern, illuminating one work-hardened, sinewy hand as it touches the chin of a dead body. All the light is concentrated on this small patch. This is probably her son; this place is probably where she once guided the plough — but what flows here now is not sweat but blood. (16) The Prisoners (Die Gefangenen). The seventh plate, actual size 33 x 42 cm. The captive survivors: some barefoot, some in wooden clogs, all powerful men — yet among them, even children. All have their hands bound behind them, confined in a rope corral. Their fate is easy to imagine, but their expressions vary: some have given up hope, some remain defiant or furious, some are lost in thought — but none shows weakness or submission. (17) Unemployment (Arbeitslosigkeit). 1909, etching; from the Portfolio, actual size 44 x 54 cm. He is idle now, sitting at her bedside, thinking — yet no solution comes to mind. The mother and sleeping children are depicted with a beauty and sublimity rare in the artist's work. (18) Woman Seized by Death (Frau vom Tod gepackt), also known as Death and Woman (Tod und Weib). 1910, etching; from the Portfolio, actual size unknown. Death emerges from her own shadow, attacks her from behind, entangles her, pins her arms behind her back. The frail child is left behind, unable to call back his loving mother. In the blink of an eye, they face each other across two worlds. Death is the world's most formidable boxer; death is the most moving tragedy of present-day society; and this woman is the greatest figure in all of the artist's work. (19) Mother and Child (Mutter und Kind). Date uncertain, etching; from the Portfolio, actual size 19 x 13 cm. Among the one hundred and eighty-two prints I have seen in the Käthe Kollwitz Werk, no more than four or five can be called joyful — this is one of them. Avenarius notes that from the deliberately depicted dopey expression on the child's face in profile, set off by bright light, one cannot quite suppress a smile. (20) Bread! (Brot!). Lithograph, date uncertain, presumably after the Great War; from original impression, actual size 30 x 28 cm. The desperate pleading for food by hungry children is what most shatters a mother's heart. Here the children stretch out their eyes, sad and fervently hoping, in vain, while the mother can only bend her powerless back. Her shoulders are hunched — she is weeping, turned away. She turns away because those willing to help are as powerless as she, and those with power will never help. She does not wish the children to see that this is the only love she has left to give. (21) Germany's Children Are Starving! (Deutschlands Kinder hungern!). Lithograph, date uncertain, presumably after the Great War; from original impression, actual size 43 x 29 cm. They all hold out empty bowls, and in the wide-open eyes of their gaunt faces burns a fiery, blazing hope. Who will extend a hand? There is no way to know from here. This was originally a horizontal print, with the words now used as the title written alongside — probably a fundraising poster of the time. Later printings retained only the image. The artist also made a lithograph entitled Never Again War! (Nie wieder Krieg!), a slightly earlier work that I was unfortunately unable to obtain. And those children of that time who survived are now all young people over twenty — and are about to be driven once more as fodder for the fires of war.
我記得曾有一個時候，我們很少能夠從本國的刊物上，知道一點蘇聯的情形。雖是文藝罷，有些可敬的作家和學者們，也如千金小姐的遇到柏油一樣，不但決不沾手，離得還遠呢，卻已經皺起了鼻子。近一兩年可不同了，自然間或還看見幾幅從外國刊物上取來的諷刺畫，但更多的是真心的紹介著建設的成績，令人抬起頭來，看見飛機，水閘，工人住宅，集體農場，不再專門兩眼看地，惦記著破皮鞋搖頭歎氣了。這些紹介者，都並非有所謂可怕的政治傾向的人，但決不幸災樂禍，因此看得鄰人的平和的繁榮，也就非常高興，並且將這高興來分給中國人。我以為為中國和蘇聯兩國起見，這現象是極好的，一面是真相為我們所知道，得到瞭解，一面是不再誤解，而且證明了我們中國，確有許多「威武不能屈，貧賤不能移」的必說真話的人們。 　　但那些紹介，都是文章或照相，今年的版畫展覽會，卻將藝術直接陳列在我們眼前了。作者之中，很有幾個是由於作品的複製，姓名已為我們所熟識的，但現在才看到手制的原作，使我們更加覺得親密。 　　版畫之中，木刻是中國早已發明的，但中途衰退，五年前從新興起的是取法於歐洲，與古代木刻並無關係。不久，就遭壓迫，又缺師資，所以至今不見有特別的進步。我們在這會裡才得了極好，極多的模範。首先應該注意的是內戰時期，就改革木刻，從此不斷的前進的巨匠法復爾斯基（V·Favorsky），和他的一派兌內加（Ａ·Deineka），岡察洛夫（Ａ·Goncharov），葉卡斯托夫（G·Echeistov），畢珂夫（Ｍ·Pikov）等，他們在作品裡各各表現著真摯的精神，繼起者怎樣照著導師所指示的道路，卻用不同的方法，使我們知道只要內容相同，方法不妨各異，而依傍和模仿，決不能產生真藝術。 　　兌內加和葉卡斯托夫的作品，是中國未曾紹介過的，可惜這裡也很少；和法復爾斯基接近的保夫理諾夫（P·Pavlinov）的木刻，我們只見過一幅，現在卻彌補了這缺憾了。 　　克拉甫兼珂（Ａ·Kravchenko）的木刻能夠幸而寄到中國，翻印紹介了的也只有一幅，到現在大家才看見他更多的原作。他的浪漫的色彩，會鼓動我們的青年的熱情，而注意於背景和細緻的表現，也將使觀者得到裨益。我們的繪畫，從宋以來就盛行「寫意」，兩點是眼，不知是長是圓，一畫是鳥，不知是鷹是燕，競尚高簡，變成空虛，這弊病還常見於現在的青年木刻家的作品裡，克拉甫兼珂的新作《尼泊爾建造》（Dneprostroy），是驚起這種懶惰的空想的警鐘。至於畢斯凱萊夫（Ｎ·Piskarev），則恐怕是最先紹介到中國來的木刻家。他的四幅《鐵流》的插畫，早為許多青年讀者所欣賞，現在才又見了《安娜·加裡尼娜》的插畫，——他的刻法的別一端。 　　這裡又有密德羅辛（D·Ｍitrokhin），希仁斯基（L·Khizhinsky），莫察羅夫（S·Ｍochalov），都曾為中國豫先所知道，以及許多第一次看見的藝術家，是從十月革命前已經有名，以至生於二十世紀初的青年藝術家的作品，都在向我們說明通力合作，進向平和的建設的道路。別的作者和作品，展覽會的說明書上各有簡要說明，而且臨末還揭出了全體的要點：「一般的社會主義的內容和對於現實主義的根本的努力」，在這裡也無須我贅說了。 　　但我們還有應當注意的，是其中有烏克蘭，喬其亞，白俄羅斯的藝術家的作品，我想，倘沒有十月革命，這些作品是不但不能和我們見面，也未必會得出現的。 　　現在，二百餘幅的作品，是已經燦爛的一同出現於上海了。單就版畫而論，使我們看起來，它不像法國木刻的多為纖美，也不像德國木刻的多為豪放；然而它真摯，卻非固執，美麗，卻非淫艷，愉快，卻非狂歡，有力，卻非粗暴；但又不是靜止的，它令人覺得一種震動——這震動，恰如用堅實的步法，一步一步，踏著堅實的廣大的黑土進向建設的路的大隊友軍的足音。 　　附記：會中的版畫，計有五種。一木刻，一膠刻（目錄譯作「油布刻」，頗怪），看名目自明。兩種是用強水浸蝕銅版和石版而成的，譯作「銅刻」和「石刻」固可，或如目錄，譯作「蝕刻」和「石印」亦無不可。還有一種Ｍonotype，是在版上作畫，再用紙印，所以雖是版畫，卻只一幅的東西，我想只好譯作「獨幅版畫」。會中的說明書上譯作「摩諾」，還不過等於不譯，有時譯為「單型學」，卻未免比不譯更難懂了。其實，那不提撰人的說明，是非常簡而得要的，可惜譯得很費解，如果有人改譯一遍，即使在閉會之後，對於留心版畫的人也還是很有用處的。 　　二月十七日。	I recall a time when we could learn very little about conditions in the Soviet Union from our own country's publications. Even in the realm of literature, certain respectable writers and scholars shied away from it like a young lady of good family recoiling from a patch of tar — not only refusing to touch it, but already wrinkling their noses while still at a safe distance. These past year or two, things have been different. Naturally, one still occasionally sees satirical cartoons lifted from foreign publications, but far more common now are sincere introductions to the achievements of construction, making one lift one's head and see airplanes, sluice gates, workers' housing, and collective farms, instead of forever staring at the ground, brooding over worn-out shoes and shaking one's head in sighs. These introducers are by no means people with so-called dangerous political tendencies, but they are incapable of schadenfreude; seeing a neighbor's peaceful prosperity, they are genuinely glad and share this gladness with the Chinese people. For the sake of both China and the Soviet Union, I think this is an excellent phenomenon: on the one hand, the truth becomes known to us and understanding is achieved; on the other, there is no more misunderstanding, and moreover it proves that China truly possesses many people who "cannot be subdued by force nor swayed by poverty" — people who must tell the truth. But those introductions have all been in the form of articles or photographs. This year's print exhibition, however, has placed art directly before our eyes. Among the artists are several whose names are already familiar to us through reproductions of their work, but now, seeing their hand-made originals for the first time, we feel an even greater intimacy. Among the prints, woodcuts were invented by China long ago, but they declined along the way. The woodcuts that rose anew five years ago were modeled on European practice, bearing no relation to the ancient Chinese woodcut. Before long, this new movement faced suppression, and it lacked teachers, so to this day no particular progress is visible. In this exhibition we have at last obtained excellent and abundant models. First to be noted is the great master Favorsky, who reformed the woodcut during the Civil War and has advanced without ceasing, and his school: Deineka, Goncharov, Echeistov, Pikov, and others. In their works, each expresses a sincere spirit, and their successors show how, following the path the master pointed out, they nonetheless employ different methods — demonstrating that so long as the content is the same, the methods may freely differ, and that imitation and dependence can never produce genuine art. The works of Deineka and Echeistov have never been introduced in China, and regrettably they are scarce here too. Of Pavlinov, whose work is close to Favorsky's, we had seen only a single woodcut; now that shortcoming is remedied. Kravchenko's woodcuts have on a few fortunate occasions reached China, and only one has been reproduced for introduction. Now at last everyone can see more of his originals. His romantic coloring will kindle the enthusiasm of our young people, and his attention to backgrounds and fine detail will also benefit the viewer. In our Chinese painting, since the Song Dynasty, "freehand expression" has been the vogue — two dots for the eyes, without knowing whether they are long or round; a single stroke for a bird, without knowing whether it is a hawk or a swallow. The pursuit of lofty simplicity has become empty vacuity, and this malady is still commonly seen in the works of our young woodcut artists today. Kravchenko's new work The Building of the Dnieper Dam (Dneprostroy) is an alarm bell to rouse us from this lazy daydreaming. As for Piskarev, he was probably the first woodcut artist introduced to China. His four illustrations for The Iron Flood have long been admired by many young readers; now we see for the first time his illustrations for Anna Karenina — the other end of his cutting style. Here too are Mitrokhin, Khizhinsky, and Mochalov, all previously known in China, along with many artists seen for the first time — from those already famous before the October Revolution to young artists born at the turn of the twentieth century. Their works all speak to us of collaboration and advance along the road of peaceful construction. Regarding the other artists and works, the exhibition catalogue provides brief descriptions for each, and at the end it states the essential point of the whole: "a general socialist content and a fundamental striving toward realism." There is no need for me to elaborate here. But there is something else we should note: among the works are those by artists from Ukraine, Georgia, and Byelorussia. I think that without the October Revolution, these works would not only have been unable to meet us here, but might never have come into existence at all. Now, over two hundred works have appeared together in brilliant array in Shanghai. Speaking of prints alone, to our eyes they do not resemble the frequent delicacy of French woodcuts, nor the frequent boldness of German woodcuts. Yet they are sincere without being rigid, beautiful without being sensual, joyful without being frenzied, powerful without being brutal — and yet they are not static. They make one feel a tremor — a tremor like the sound of a great friendly column's footsteps, marching with solid tread, step by step, upon the solid, vast black earth, advancing toward construction. Postscript: The prints in the exhibition are of five types. First, woodcuts; second, linoleum cuts (the catalogue translates this as "oil-cloth cuts," which is rather odd) — the names are self-explanatory. Two types are made by etching copper plates and stone with acid: calling them "etchings" and "lithographs" is fine, or following the catalogue and calling them "acid-etchings" and "stone prints" is also acceptable. Then there is monotype — a painting made on a plate and then printed — so that although it is a print, only one impression exists. I think it can only be translated as "single-impression print." The exhibition catalogue translates it as "mono," which amounts to no translation at all; elsewhere it is rendered as "single-type study," which is even harder to understand than not translating it. In fact, the unsigned explanatory notes in the exhibition are remarkably concise and to the point; regrettably, the translation is very difficult to follow. If someone were to retranslate them, even after the exhibition's close, they would still be of great use to anyone interested in printmaking. February 17.
疲勞到沒有法子的時候，也偶然佩服了超出現世的作家，要模仿一下來試試。然而不成功。超然的心，是得像貝類一樣，外面非有殼不可的。而且還得有清水。淺間山邊，倘是客店，那一定是有的罷，但我想，卻未必有去造「象牙之塔」的人的。 　　為了希求心的暫時的平安，作為窮余的一策，我近來發明了別樣的方法了，這就是騙人。 　　去年的秋天或是冬天，日本的一個水兵，在閘北被暗殺了。忽然有了許多搬家的人，汽車租錢之類，都貴了好幾倍。搬家的自然是中國人，外國人是很有趣似的站在馬路旁邊看。我也常常去看的。一到夜裡，非常之冷靜，再沒有賣食物的小商人了，只聽得有時從遠處傳來著犬吠。然而過了兩三天，搬家好像被禁止了。警察拚死命的在毆打那些拉著行李的大車伕和洋車伕，日本的報章，中國的報章，都異口同聲的對於搬了家的人們給了一個「愚民」的徽號。這意思就是說，其實是天下太平的，只因為有這樣的「愚民」，所以把頗好的天下，弄得亂七八糟了。 　　我自始至終沒有動，並未加入「愚民」這一夥裡。但這並非為了聰明，卻只因為懶惰。也曾陷在五年前的正月的上海戰爭——日本那一面，好像是喜歡稱為「事變」似的——的火線下，而且自由早被剝奪，奪了我的自由的權力者，又拿著這飛上空中了，所以無論跑到那裡去，都是一個樣。中國的人民是多疑的。無論那一國人，都指這為可笑的缺點。然而懷疑並不是缺點。總是疑，而並不下斷語，這才是缺點。我是中國人，所以深知道這秘密。其實，是在下著斷語的，而這斷語，乃是：到底還是不可信。但後來的事實，卻大抵證明了這斷語的的確。中國人不疑自己的多疑。所以我的沒有搬家，也並不是因為懷著天下太平的確信，說到底，仍不過為了無論那裡都一樣的危險的緣故。五年以前翻閱報章，看見過所記的孩子的死屍的數目之多，和從不見有記著交換俘虜的事，至今想起來，也還是非常悲痛的。 　　虐待搬家人，毆打車伕，還是極小的事情。中國的人民，是常用自己的血，去洗權力者的手，使他又變成潔淨的人物的，現在單是這模樣就完事，總算好得很。 　　但當大家正在搬家的時候，我也沒有整天站在路旁看熱鬧，或者坐在家裡讀世界文學史之類的心思。走遠一點，到電影院裡散悶去。一到那裡，可真是天下太平了。這就是大家搬家去住的處所。我剛要跨進大門，被一個十二三歲的女孩子捉住了。是小學生，在募集水災的捐款，因為冷，連鼻子尖也凍得通紅。我說沒有零錢，她就用眼睛表示了非常的失望。我覺得對不起人，就帶她進了電影院，買過門票之後，付給她一塊錢。她這回是非常高興了，稱讚我道，「你是好人」，還寫給我一張收條。只要拿著這收條，就無論到那裡，都沒有再出捐款的必要。於是我，就是所謂「好人」，也輕鬆的走進裡面了。 　　看了什麼電影呢？現在已經絲毫也記不起。總之，大約不外乎一個英國人，為著祖國，征服了印度的殘酷的酋長，或者一個美國人，到亞非利加去，發了大財，和絕世的美人結婚之類罷。這樣的消遣了一些時光，傍晚回家，又走進了靜悄悄的環境。聽到遠地裡的犬吠聲。女孩子的滿足的表情的相貌，又在眼前出現，自己覺得做了好事情了，但心情又立刻不舒服起來，好像嚼了肥皂或者什麼一樣。 　　誠然，兩三年前，是有過非常的水災的，這大水和日本的不同，幾個月或半年都不退。但我又知道，中國有著叫作「水利局」的機關，每年從人民收著稅錢，在辦事。但反而出了這樣的大水了。我又知道，有一個團體演了戲來籌錢，因為後來只有二十幾元，衙門就發怒不肯要。連被水災所害的難民成群的跑到安全之處來，說是有害治安，就用機關鎗去掃射的話也都聽到過。恐怕早已統統死掉了罷。然而孩子們不知道，還在拚命的替死人募集生活費，募不到，就失望，募到手，就喜歡。而其實，一塊來錢，是連給水利局的老爺買一天的煙卷也不夠的。我明明知道著，卻好像也相信款子真會到災民的手裡似的，付了一塊錢。實則不過買了這天真爛漫的孩子的歡喜罷了。我不愛看人們的失望的樣子。 　　倘使我那八十歲的母親，問我天國是否真有，我大約是會毫不躊躕，答道真有的罷。 　　然而這一天的後來的心情卻不舒服。好像是又以為孩子和老人不同，騙她是不應該似的，想寫一封公開信，說明自己的本心，去消釋誤解，但又想到橫豎沒有發表之處，於是中止了，時候已是夜裡十二點鐘。到門外去看了一下。 　　已經連人影子也看不見。只在一家的簷下，有一個賣餛飩的，在和兩個警察談閒天。這是一個平時不大看見的特別窮苦的肩販，存著的材料多得很，可見他並無生意。用兩角錢買了兩碗，和我的女人兩個人分吃了。算是給他賺一點錢。莊子曾經說過：「幹下去的（曾經積水的）車轍裡的鮒魚，彼此用唾沫相濕，用濕氣相噓，」 ——然而他又說，「倒不如在江湖裡，大家互相忘卻的好。」可悲的是我們不能互相忘卻。而我，卻愈加恣意的騙起人來了。如果這騙人的學問不畢業，或者不中止，恐怕是寫不出圓滿的文章來的。 　　但不幸而在既未卒業，又未中止之際，遇到山本社長了。因為要我寫一點什麼，就在禮儀上，答道「可以的」。因為說過「可以」，就應該寫出來，不要使他失望，然而，到底也還是寫了騙人的文章。 　　寫著這樣的文章，也不是怎麼舒服的心地。要說的話多得很，但得等候「中日親善」更加增進的時光。不久之後，恐怕那「親善」的程度，竟會到在我們中國，認為排日即國賊——因為說是共產黨利用了排日的口號，使中國滅亡的緣故——而到處的斷頭台上，都閃爍著太陽的圓圈的罷，但即使到了這樣子，也還不是披瀝真實的心的時光。 　　單是自己一個人的過慮也說不定：要彼此看見和瞭解真實的心，倘能用了筆，舌，或者如宗教家之所謂眼淚洗明瞭眼睛那樣的便當的方法，那固然是非常之好的，然而這樣便宜事，恐怕世界上也很少有。這是可以悲哀的。一面寫著漫無條理的文章，一面又覺得對不起熱心的讀者了。 　　臨末，用血寫添幾句個人的豫感，算是一個答禮罷。 二月二十三日。	When exhaustion reaches the point of utter helplessness, one occasionally admires writers who transcend the mundane world and tries to imitate them. But it doesn't work. The transcendent mind, like a mollusk, must have a shell around it. And it needs clear water too. Near Mount Asama there are surely inns, but I doubt anyone goes there to build an "ivory tower." Seeking temporary peace of mind as a last resort, I have lately devised a different method. It is this: deceiving people. Last autumn or winter, a Japanese sailor was assassinated in Zhabei. Suddenly the streets were full of people moving house; the cost of renting a car for the purpose went up several times over. Those moving were naturally Chinese; the foreigners stood at the roadside, watching with apparent amusement. I too often went to watch. At night it grew extraordinarily quiet, with no more food vendors about; one only heard, from time to time, the distant barking of dogs. But after two or three days, moving house seemed to be prohibited. The police beat the cart-pullers and rickshaw-pullers hauling luggage with all their might. Japanese newspapers and Chinese newspapers alike bestowed upon those who had moved the title of "ignorant rabble." The meaning was this: the world is perfectly peaceful, and it is only because of such "ignorant rabble" that a perfectly good world has been thrown into chaos. From start to finish, I did not stir; I did not join the ranks of the "ignorant rabble." But this was not from wisdom — only from laziness. I had once been caught in the line of fire during the Shanghai battle of five years earlier — which the Japanese side, it seems, prefers to call an "incident" — and my freedom had long since been stripped away. Those who had taken my freedom then flew off into the sky with it, so that no matter where one ran, it was all the same. The Chinese people are suspicious. Every foreigner points to this as a laughable defect. But suspicion is not a defect. To go on suspecting without ever reaching a verdict — that is the defect. I am Chinese, and therefore I know this secret well. In truth, a verdict is being reached, and the verdict is: in the end, one still cannot trust. But subsequent events have generally confirmed this verdict. The Chinese do not doubt their own suspicion. So my not moving house was not because I harbored any conviction of peace on earth; in the end, it was merely because the danger was the same everywhere. Leafing through the newspapers five years earlier and seeing the sheer number of dead children recorded, while never once seeing any report of prisoner exchanges — even now, when I think of it, the grief is overwhelming. Mistreating those who move house and beating cart-pullers — these are still very minor matters. The Chinese people habitually wash the hands of those in power with their own blood, making them once again clean and respectable persons. That things ended this time with merely such a spectacle is, all told, quite fortunate. But while everyone was busy moving, I had no mind either to stand at the roadside all day watching the spectacle or to sit at home reading a history of world literature. I walked a little farther — to a cinema, to take my mind off things. There, truly, was paradise on earth. This was the very place where everyone had moved. Just as I was about to step through the door, a girl of twelve or thirteen seized me. A schoolgirl, collecting donations for flood relief, her nose tip red from the cold. I said I had no change. She expressed extreme disappointment with her eyes. I felt guilty, so I took her into the cinema, and after buying my ticket, gave her one dollar. This time she was extremely happy and praised me: "You are a good person." She even wrote me a receipt. With this receipt, wherever one went, there was no need to donate again. And so I, the so-called "good person," walked lightly inside. What film did I see? I can no longer remember a single thing. It was probably something about an Englishman who, for his country's sake, conquered a cruel Indian chieftain, or an American who went to Africa, made a fortune, and married a matchlessly beautiful woman — something of that sort. After killing time this way, I returned home at dusk and walked back into the silent surroundings. The distant barking of dogs again. The girl's satisfied expression appeared once more before my eyes, and I felt I had done a good deed. But immediately my mood soured again, as though I had chewed on a bar of soap or something of the kind. It is true that two or three years ago there had been a terrible flood — unlike the Japanese floods, ours do not recede for months, or half a year. But I also knew that China has an institution called the "Water Conservancy Bureau," which collects taxes from the people every year and carries out its work. Yet this enormous flood occurred nonetheless. I also knew that a certain group had staged a play to raise money, but because the proceeds amounted to only twenty-odd dollars, the authorities grew angry and refused to accept it. I had even heard that refugees, driven in droves to safe areas by the flood, had been machine-gunned on the grounds that they were a threat to public order. Most of them were probably long since dead. Yet the children did not know this: they were still desperately collecting living expenses for the dead — disappointed when they failed, happy when they succeeded. And in truth, one dollar was not even enough to buy a single day's cigarettes for a Bureau official. I knew all this perfectly well, yet I behaved as if I believed the money would actually reach the disaster victims — when in fact I had simply bought the artless, innocent joy of a child. I do not like to see the look of disappointment on people's faces. If my eighty-year-old mother were to ask me whether heaven truly exists, I would probably answer without the slightest hesitation: yes, it truly does. But my mood for the rest of that day was not comfortable. I seemed to feel that a child is not the same as an old person — that deceiving her was wrong. I thought of writing an open letter to explain my true feelings and dispel the misunderstanding, but then realized there was nowhere to publish it, and so I abandoned the idea. It was already midnight. I went to the door and looked out. Not a single human shadow was to be seen. Only under the eaves of one house, a wonton vendor was chatting idly with two policemen. He was a particularly wretched peddler, rarely seen in ordinary times, and his supply of ingredients was untouched — clearly he had no business. I bought two bowls for twenty cents, and my wife and I shared them — just to let him earn a little money. Zhuangzi once said: "The crucian carp in the dried-up rut moisten each other with their spittle, breathe upon each other with their damp breath." — But then he also said: "It would be better to forget each other in the rivers and lakes." The sad thing is that we cannot forget each other. And I have only grown more reckless in my deceiving of people. If this schooling in deception does not end — either through graduation or through abandonment — I fear I shall never be able to write a satisfying essay. But unfortunately, before either graduation or abandonment, I encountered President Yamamoto. Because he asked me to write something, I answered, as a matter of courtesy, "Certainly." Because I had said "certainly," I was obliged to write — I did not want to disappoint him. And yet, in the end, what I wrote was still a deceptive essay. Writing such essays does not make for a comfortable state of mind. There is a great deal I want to say, but it must wait for the time when "Sino-Japanese friendship" has advanced still further. Before long, I fear, this "friendship" may reach such a degree that in our China, opposing Japan will be considered treason — on the grounds that the Communist Party exploited anti-Japanese slogans to destroy China — and on execution platforms everywhere, the solar disc will be glittering. But even when that day comes, it will still not be the time to lay bare one's true heart. Perhaps this is only one person's excessive worry. To see and understand each other's true hearts — if this could be accomplished as conveniently as using pen and tongue, or, as the religious say, washing the eyes clean with tears, that would be splendid indeed. But such easy bargains, I'm afraid, are very rare in this world. This is cause for sorrow. As I write this rambling, formless essay, I feel once again that I am failing the earnest reader. In closing, let me add a few lines of personal premonition, written in blood, as a return gift. February 23.
先來引幾句古書，——也許記的不真確，——莊子曰：「涸轍之鮒，相濡以沫，相煦以濕，——不若相忘於江湖。」 　　《譯文》就在一九三四年九月中，在這樣的狀態之下出世的。那時候，鴻篇巨制如《世界文學》和《世界文庫》之類，還沒有誕生，所以在這青黃不接之際，大約可以說是彷彿戈壁中的綠洲，幾個人偷點餘暇，譯些短文，彼此看看，倘有讀者，也大家看看，自尋一點樂趣，也希望或者有一點益處，——但自然，這決不是江湖之大。 　　不過這與世無爭的小小的期刊，終於不能不在去年九月，以「終刊號」和大家告別了。雖然不過野花小草，但曾經費過不少移栽灌溉之力，當然不免私心以為可惜的。然而竟也得了勇氣和慰安：這是許多讀者用了筆和舌，對於《譯文》的憑弔。 　　我們知道感謝，我們知道自勉。 　　我們也不斷的希望復刊。但那時風傳的關於終刊的原因：是折本。出版家雖然大抵是「傳播文化」的，而「折本」卻是「傳播文化」的致命傷，所以荏苒半年，簡直死得無藥可救。直到今年，折本說這才起了動搖，得到再造的運會，再和大家相見了。 　　內容仍如創刊時候的《前記》裡所說一樣：原料沒有限制；門類也沒有固定；文字之外多加圖畫，也有和文字有關係的，意在助趣，也有和文字沒有關係的，那就算是我們貢獻給讀者的一點小意思。 　　這一回，將來的運命如何呢？我們不知道。但今年文壇的情形突變，已在宣揚寬容和大度了，我們真希望在這寬容和大度的文壇裡，《譯文》也能夠托庇比較的長生。 三月八日。	Let me begin by quoting a few lines from an old book — perhaps I do not remember them quite accurately — Zhuangzi said: "Fish stranded in a drying rut, moistening each other with spittle, breathing dampness upon each other — far better to forget one another in the rivers and lakes." It was in September 1934, under just such circumstances, that Yiwen came into the world. At the time, grand undertakings like World Literature and World Library had not yet been born, so in this interval between harvests, one might say it was something like an oasis in the Gobi: a handful of people stealing moments from their spare time, translating short pieces, reading each other's work, and if there happened to be readers, letting everyone have a look — finding a bit of pleasure for ourselves, and hoping perhaps to be of some small use — though of course this was far from the vastness of rivers and lakes. Yet even this modest little journal, so uncontentious with the world, could not avoid bidding farewell to everyone with a "Final Issue" last September. Though they were only wildflowers and weeds, no small effort had gone into transplanting and watering them, and naturally we could not help privately thinking it a pity. But we also gained courage and solace: the tributes that many readers paid to Yiwen with pen and tongue. We know to be grateful; we know to spur ourselves on. We also never ceased hoping for its revival. But the rumor circulating at the time about the reason for its demise was: financial loss. Although publishers are generally in the business of "spreading culture," running at a "loss" is the mortal wound of "spreading culture," and so for half a year the journal lay quite irretrievably dead. Only this year has the theory of financial loss finally begun to waver, granting a chance for resurrection, so that it may meet everyone once more. The content remains as described in the "Prefatory Note" of the inaugural issue: no restrictions on source material; no fixed categories; illustrations added alongside text — some related to the text, intended to enhance interest, and some unrelated, which may be considered our small gift to the reader. This time, what will its future fate be? We do not know. But this year the literary scene has undergone a sudden transformation, and there is now much talk of tolerance and magnanimity. We sincerely hope that in this tolerant and magnanimous literary world, Yiwen too may find shelter and enjoy a comparatively long life. March 8.
春天去了一大半了，還是冷；加上整天的下雨，淅淅瀝瀝，深夜獨坐，聽得令人有些淒涼，也因為午後得到一封遠道寄來的信，要我給白莽的遺詩寫一點序文之類；那信的開首說道：「我的亡友白莽，恐怕你是知道的罷。……」——這就使我更加惆悵。 　　說起白莽來，——不錯，我知道的。四年之前，我曾經寫過一篇《為忘卻的記念》，要將他們忘卻。他們就義了已經足有五個年頭了，我的記憶上，早又蒙上許多新鮮的血跡；這一提，他的年青的相貌就又在我的眼前出現，像活著一樣，熱天穿著大棉袍，滿臉油汗，笑笑的對我說道：「這是第三回了。自己出來的。前兩回都是哥哥保出，他一保就要干涉我，這回我不去通知他了。……」——我前一回的文章上是猜錯的，這哥哥才是徐培根，航空署長，終於和他成了殊途同歸的兄弟；他却叫徐白，較普通的筆名是殷夫。 　　一個人如果還有友情，那麼，收存亡友的遺文真如捏著一團火，常要覺得寢食不安，給它企圖流布的。這心情我很瞭然，也知道有做序文之類的義務。我所惆悵的是我簡直不懂詩，也沒有詩人的朋友，偶爾一有，也終至於鬧開，不過和白莽沒有鬧，也許是他死得太快了罷。現在，對於他的詩，我一句也不說——因為我不能。 　　這《孩兒塔》的出世並非要和現在一般的詩人爭一日之長，是有別一種意義在。這是東方的微光，是林中的響箭，是冬末的萌芽，是進軍的第一步，是對於前驅者的愛的大纛，也是對於摧殘者的憎的豐碑。一切所謂圓熟簡練，靜穆幽遠之作，都無須來作比方，因為這詩屬於別一世界。 　　那一世界裡有許多許多人，白莽也是他們的亡友。單是這一點，我想，就足夠保證這本集子的存在了，又何需我的序文之類。 　　一九三六年三月十一夜，魯迅記於上海之且介亭。	More than half of spring is already gone, and it is still cold; add to that a whole day's rain, drizzling ceaselessly, and sitting alone deep into the night, listening — it makes one feel rather desolate. Also because in the afternoon I received a letter sent from far away, asking me to write something by way of preface to the posthumous poems of Bai Mang; the letter began: "My late friend Bai Mang — I expect you knew him..." — This made me all the more melancholy. Speaking of Bai Mang — yes, indeed, I knew him. Four years ago I wrote an essay called "In Memory of Forgetting," in which I sought to put them out of mind. It has already been a full five years since they were executed, and upon my memory many fresh bloodstains have accumulated; at this mention, his youthful face appears before my eyes once more, as if he were alive — in hot weather wearing a great padded robe, his face streaming with oily sweat, saying to me with a smile: "This is the third time. I got out on my own. The first two times my brother bailed me out, and every time he bailed me out he'd interfere with me, so this time I didn't notify him..." — In my previous article I had guessed wrong: this brother was Xu Peigen, Director of the Bureau of Aviation, who in the end became a brother taking a different path to the same destination. His own name was Xu Bai; his more common pen name was Yin Fu. If a person still possesses friendship, then keeping the manuscripts of a dead friend is like clutching a ball of fire — one constantly feels unable to eat or sleep in peace until one has made some attempt to have them published. I understand this feeling perfectly and know the obligation of writing a preface and such things. What makes me melancholy is that I simply do not understand poetry, nor have I had poet friends; on the rare occasion I did, it always ended in a falling-out — except with Bai Mang, where there was no falling-out, perhaps because he died too quickly. Now, regarding his poems, I shall say not a single word — because I cannot. The birth of this Tower of Babes into the world is not meant to compete for a day's laurels with present-day poets; it carries a meaning of another kind. This is the faint light of the East, the whistling arrow in the forest, the bud at winter's end, the first step of an advancing army, the great banner of love for the vanguard, and also the towering monument of hatred for the destroyers. All those so-called works of mellow refinement, of serene and distant tranquility, need not be brought up for comparison, for these poems belong to another world. In that world there are very, very many people, and Bai Mang is their late friend too. This alone, I think, is sufficient to guarantee the existence of this collection — so what need is there for a preface from me? Night of March 11, 1936, recorded by Lu Xun at the Qijie Pavilion in Shanghai.
這是三月十日的事。我得到一個不相識者由漢口寄來的信，自說和白莽是同濟學校的同學，藏有他的遺稿《孩兒塔》，正在經營出版，但出版家有一個要求：要我做一篇序；至於原稿，因為紙張零碎，不寄來了，不過如果要看的話，卻也可以補寄。其實，白莽的《孩兒塔》的稿子，卻和幾個同時受難者的零星遺稿，都在我這裡，裡面還有他親筆的插畫，但在他的朋友手裡別有初稿，也是可能的；至於出版家要有一篇序，那更是平常事。 　　近兩年來，大開了印賣遺著的風氣，雖是期刊，也常有死人和活人合作的，但這已不是先前的所謂「骸骨的迷戀」，倒是活人在依靠死人的餘光，想用「死諸葛嚇走生仲達」。我不大佩服這些活傢伙。可是這一回卻很受了感動，因為一個人受了難，或者遭了冤，所謂先前的朋友，一聲不響的固然有，連趕緊來投幾塊石子，借此表明自己是屬於勝利者一方面的，也並不算怎麼希罕；至於抱守遺文，歷多年還要給它出版，以盡對於亡友的交誼者，以我之孤陋寡聞，可實在很少知道。大病初癒，才能起坐，夜雨淅瀝，愴然有懷，便力疾寫了一點短文，到第二天付郵寄去，因為恐怕連累付印者，所以不題他的姓名；過了幾天，才又投給《文學叢報》，因為恐怕妨礙發行，所以又隱下了詩的名目。 　　此後不多幾天，看見《社會日報》，說是善於翻戲的史濟行，現又化名為齊涵之了。我這才悟到自己竟受了騙，因為漢口的發信者，署名正是齊涵之。他仍在玩著騙取文稿的老套，《孩兒塔》不但不會出版，大約他連初稿也未必有的，不過知道白莽和我相識，以及他的詩集的名目罷了。 　　至於史濟行和我的通信，卻早得很，還是八九年前，我在編輯《語絲》，創造社和太陽社聯合起來向我圍剿的時候，他就自稱是一個藝術專門學校的學生，信件在我眼前出現了，投稿是幾則當時所謂革命文豪的劣跡，信裡還說這類文稿，可以源源的寄來。然而《語絲》裡是沒有「劣跡欄」的，我也不想和這種「作家」往來，於是當時即加以拒絕。後來他又或者化名「彳亍」，在刊物上捏造我的謠言，或者忽又化為「天行」（《語絲》也有同名的文字，但是別一人）或「史巖」，卑詞徵求我的文稿，我總給他一個置之不理。這一回，他在漢口，我是聽到過的，但不能因為一個史濟行在漢口，便將一切漢口的不相識者的信都看作卑劣者的圈套，我雖以多疑為忠厚長者所詬病，但這樣多疑的程度是還不到的。不料人還是大意不得，偶不疑慮，偶動友情，到底成為我的弱點了。 　　今天又看見了所謂「漢出」的《人間世》的第二期，卷末寫著「主編史天行」，而下期要目的豫告上，果然有我的《序〈孩兒塔〉》在。但卷端又聲明著下期要更名為《西北風》了，那麼，我的序文，自然就卷在第一陣「西北風」裡。而第二期的第一篇，竟又是我的文章，題目是《日譯本〈中國小說史略〉序》。這原是我用日本文所寫的，這裡卻不知道何人所譯，僅止一頁的短文，竟充滿著錯誤和不通，但前面卻附有一行聲明道：「本篇原來是我為日譯本《支那小說史》寫的卷頭語……」乃是模擬我的語氣，冒充我自己翻譯的。翻譯自己所寫的日文，竟會滿紙錯誤，這豈不是天下的大怪事麼？ 　　中國原是「把人不當人」的地方，即使無端誣人為投降或轉變，國賊或漢奸，社會上也並不以為奇怪。所以史濟行的把戲，就更是微乎其微的事情。我所要特地聲明的，只在請讀了我的序文而希望《孩兒塔》出版的人，可以收回了這希望，因為這是我先受了欺騙，一轉而成為我又欺騙了讀者的。 　　最後，我還要添幾句由「多疑」而來的結論：即使真有「漢出」《孩兒塔》，這部詩也還是可疑的。我從來不想對於史濟行的大事業講一句話，但這回既經我寫過一篇序，且又發表了，所以在現在或到那時，我都有指明真偽的義務和權利。 四月十一日。	This happened on March 10. I received a letter from a stranger in Hankou, claiming to have been a classmate of Bai Mang's at Tongji School and to be in possession of his manuscript Tower of Babes, which was currently being prepared for publication. However, the publisher had one requirement: that I write a preface. As for the manuscript, since the papers were loose and miscellaneous, he would not send it, though if I wished to see it, he could forward it as a supplement. In fact, the manuscript of Bai Mang's Tower of Babes, along with scattered posthumous writings of several others who perished at the same time, were all in my keeping — among them his own hand-drawn illustrations. But it was entirely possible that his friends had a separate early draft. As for a publisher wanting a preface, that was the most ordinary thing in the world. In recent years, a grand fashion has opened up for printing and selling posthumous works; even in periodicals, the dead and the living frequently collaborate. But this is no longer the old so-called "fascination with bones" — rather it is the living leaning on the lingering radiance of the dead, hoping to use "a dead Zhuge Liang to scare off a living Zhongda." I have little admiration for these living operators. But this time I was genuinely moved, for when a person has suffered calamity or been wronged, his so-called former friends who keep dead silent are common enough; those who rush to throw a few stones to demonstrate that they belong to the victorious side are hardly rare either. But to guard the posthumous manuscripts, and after many years still seek to publish them in fulfillment of one's obligations of friendship to the deceased — of such cases, given my own limited knowledge, I truly know very few. Just recovered from serious illness, barely able to sit up, with the night rain drizzling, filled with sorrowful thoughts, I forced myself through my weakness to write a short piece, and the next day sent it off by post. Fearing it might bring trouble to the person arranging the printing, I omitted his name; a few days later, I submitted it to Literary Bulletin, and fearing it might hamper circulation, I again concealed the title of the poetry collection. Not many days after this, I saw in the Social Daily that Shi Jixing, that accomplished trickster, had now adopted yet another alias: Qi Hanzhi. Only then did I realize I had been duped, for the sender of the letter from Hankou had signed himself none other than Qi Hanzhi. He was still playing his old game of swindling manuscripts. Tower of Babes was not only never going to be published — he most likely did not even possess the early draft; he merely knew that Bai Mang and I were acquainted and the name of the poetry collection. As for my correspondence with Shi Jixing, that goes back much further — eight or nine years, in fact, when I was editing Threads of Talk and the Creation Society and the Sun Society had joined forces to lay siege to me. He wrote claiming to be a student at an art academy; his letter appeared before my eyes, accompanied by a submission: several items of scandalous behavior on the part of the so-called revolutionary literary lions of the day, with assurances in his letter that such material could be supplied in a steady stream. But Threads of Talk had no "Scandals Column," and I had no wish to associate with this kind of "writer," so I refused him on the spot. Later he adopted the pen name "Chichu" and fabricated rumors about me in publications; or he would suddenly transform into "Tianxing" (Threads of Talk also had a contributor by the same name, but that was a different person) or "Shi Yan," and in humble language solicit my manuscripts — I invariably ignored him. This time, I had heard he was in Hankou, but I could not, merely because one Shi Jixing happened to be in Hankou, treat every letter from an unknown person in Hankou as a contemptible trap. Though I have been reproached by honorable gentlemen for excessive suspicion, my suspicion had not yet reached such a degree. Unfortunately, one really cannot afford to be careless; the one time I let down my guard, the one time I was moved by friendship — it became my weakness after all. Today I saw yet another issue — the second — of the so-called "Hanchu" edition of Les Contemporains, with "edited by Shi Tianxing" printed at the end, and in the preview of coming attractions for the next issue, sure enough there was my "Preface to Tower of Babes." But the masthead also announced that starting from the next issue the name would be changed to Northwest Wind, so my preface would naturally be swept up in the first gust of "Northwest Wind." And the first piece in this second issue was yet again an article of mine, titled "Preface to the Japanese Translation of A Brief History of Chinese Fiction." The original was written by me in Japanese; here it had been translated by some unknown person, and though the piece was only a single page long, it was riddled with errors and ungrammatical passages — yet prefixed with a declaration: "This piece was originally written by me as a foreword for the Japanese edition of A History of Chinese Fiction..." — mimicking my voice, impersonating me as the translator. To translate one's own Japanese and produce a page full of errors — is this not the most extraordinary thing under heaven? China has always been a place where "people are not treated as people"; even if someone is baselessly accused of surrender or conversion, traitor to the nation or collaborator with the enemy, society does not find it the least bit strange. So Shi Jixing's little tricks are an even more trifling matter. What I wish to specifically declare is only this: I ask those readers who, having read my preface, hoped for the publication of Tower of Babes, to withdraw that hope — for I was first deceived, and this in turn became my deceiving the reader. Finally, I wish to add a few words of conclusion born of "excessive suspicion": even if a "Hanchu" edition of Tower of Babes truly appeared, the poems within it would still be suspect. I have never wished to say a word about Shi Jixing's great enterprise, but since this time I did write a preface, and it has moreover been published, I have both the obligation and the right — now and in the future — to distinguish the genuine from the spurious. April 11.
一 珂勒惠支教授的版畫之入 　　中國野地上有一堆燒過的紙灰，舊牆上有幾個劃出的圖畫，經過的人是大抵未必注意的，然而這些裡面，各各藏著一些意義，是愛，是悲哀，是憤怒，……而且往往比叫了出來的更猛烈。也有幾個人懂得這意義。 　　一九三一年——我忘了月份了——創刊不久便被禁止的雜誌《北斗》第一本上，有一幅木刻畫，是一個母親，悲哀的閉了眼睛，交出她的孩子去。這是珂勒惠支教授（Prof·Kaethe Kollｗitz）的木刻連續畫《戰爭》的第一幅，題目叫作《犧牲》；也是她的版畫紹介進中國來的第一幅。這幅木刻是我寄去的，算是柔石遇害的紀念。他是我的學生和朋友，一同紹介外國文藝的人，尤喜歡木刻，曾經編印過三本歐美作家的作品，雖然印得不大好。然而不知道為了什麼，突然被捕了，不久就在龍華和別的五個青年作家同時槍斃。當時的報章上毫無記載，大約是不敢，也不能記載，然而許多人都明白他不在人間了，因為這是常有的事。只有他那雙目失明的母親，我知道她一定還以為她的愛子仍在上海翻譯和校對。偶然看到德國書店的目錄上有這幅《犧牲》，便將它投寄《北斗》了，算是我的無言的紀念。然而，後來知道，很有一些人是覺得所含的意義的，不過他們大抵以為紀念的是被害的全群。 　　這時珂勒惠支教授的版畫集正在由歐洲走向中國的路上，但到得上海，勤懇的紹介者卻早已睡在土裡了，我們連地點也不知道。好的，我一個人來看。這裡面是窮困，疾病，飢餓，死亡……自然也有掙扎和爭鬥，但比較的少；這正如作者的自畫像，臉上雖有憎惡和憤怒，而更多的是慈愛和悲憫的相同。這是一切「被侮辱和被損害的」的母親的心的圖像。這類母親，在中國的指甲還未染紅的鄉下，也常有的，然而人往往嗤笑她，說做母親的只愛不中用的兒子。但我想，她是也愛中用的兒子的，只因為既然強壯而有能力，她便放了心，去注意「被侮辱的和被損害的」孩子去了。 　　現在就有她的作品的複印二十一幅，來作證明；並且對於中國的青年藝術學徒，又有這樣的益處的——一，近五年來，木刻已頗流行了，雖然時時受著迫害。但別的版畫，較成片段的，卻只有一本關於卓倫（Anders Zorn）的書。現在所紹介的全是銅刻和石刻，使讀者知道版畫之中，又有這樣的作品，也可以比油畫之類更加普遍，而且看見和卓倫截然不同的技法和內容。 　　二，沒有到過外國的人，往往以為白種人都是對人來講耶穌道理或開洋行的，鮮衣美食，一不高興就用皮鞋向人亂踢。有了這畫集，就明白世界上其實許多地方都還存在著「被侮辱和被損害的」人，是和我們一氣的朋友，而且還有為這些人們悲哀，叫喊和戰鬥的藝術家。 　　三，現在中國的報紙上多喜歡登載張口大叫著的希特拉像，當時是暫時的，照相上卻永久是這姿勢，多看就令人覺得疲勞。現在由德國藝術家的畫集，卻看見了別一種人，雖然並非英雄，卻可以親近，同情，而且愈看，也愈覺得美，愈覺得有動人之力。 　　四，今年是柔石被害後的滿五年，也是作者的木刻第一次在中國出現後的第五年；而作者，用中國式計算起來，她是七十歲了，這也可以算作一個紀念。作者雖然現在也只能守著沉默，但她的作品，卻更多的在遠東的天下出現了。是的，為人類的藝術，別的力量是阻擋不住的。 二 略論暗暗的死 　　這幾天才悟到，暗暗的死，在一個人是極其慘苦的事。 　　中國在革命以前，死囚臨刑，先在大街上通過，於是他或呼冤，或罵官，或自述英雄行為，或說不怕死。到壯美時，隨著觀看的人們，便喝一聲采，後來還傳述開去。在我年青的時候，常聽到這種事，我總以為這情形是野蠻的，這辦法是殘酷的。 　　新近在林語堂博士編輯的《宇宙風》裡，看到一篇銖堂先生的文章，卻是別一種見解。他認為這種對死囚喝采，是崇拜失敗的英雄，是扶弱，「理想是不能不算崇高。然而在人群的組織上實在要不得。抑強扶弱，便是永遠不願意有強。崇拜失敗英雄，便是不承認成功的英雄。」所以使「凡是古來成功的帝王，欲維持幾百年的威力，不定得殘害幾萬幾十萬無辜的人，方才能博得一時的懾服」。 　　殘害了幾萬幾十萬人，還只「能博得一時的懾服」，為「成功的帝王」設想，實在是大可悲哀的：沒有好法子。不過我並不想替他們劃策，我所由此悟到的，乃是給死囚在臨刑前可以當眾說話，倒是「成功的帝王」的恩惠，也是他自信還有力量的證據，所以他有膽放死囚開口，給他在臨死之前，得到一個自誇的陶醉，大家也明白他的收場。我先前只以為「殘酷」，還不是確切的判斷，其中是含有一點恩惠的。我每當朋友或學生的死，倘不知時日，不知地點，不知死法，總比知道的更悲哀和不安；由此推想那一邊，在暗室中畢命於幾個屠夫的手裡，也一定比當眾而死的更寂寞。 　　然而「成功的帝王」是不秘密殺人的，他只秘密一件事：和他那些妻妾的調笑。到得就要失敗了，才又增加一件秘密：他的財產的數目和安放的處所；再下去，這才加到第三件：秘密的殺人。這時他也如銖堂先生一樣，覺得民眾自有好惡，不論成敗的可怕了。 　　所以第三種秘密法，是即使沒有策士的獻議，也總有一時要採用的，也許有些地方還已經採用。這時街道文明了，民眾安靜了，但我們試一推測死者的心，卻一定比明明白白而死的更加慘苦。我先前讀但丁的《神曲》，到《地獄》篇，就驚異於這作者設想的殘酷，但到現在，閱歷加多，才知道他還是仁厚的了：他還沒有想出一個現在已極平常的慘苦到誰也看不見的地獄來。 三 一個童話 　　看到二月十七日的《DZZ》，有為紀念海涅（H·Heine）死後八十年，勃萊兌勒（Ｗilli·Bredel）所作的《一個童話》，很愛這個題目，也來寫一篇。 　　有一個時候，有一個這樣的國度。權力者壓服了人民，但覺得他們倒都是強敵了，拼音字好像機關鎗，木刻好像坦克車；取得了土地，但規定的車站上不能下車。地面上也不能走了，總得在空中飛來飛去；而且皮膚的抵抗力也衰弱起來，一有緊要的事情，就傷風，同時還傳染給大臣們，一齊生病。 　　出版有大部的字典，還不止一部，然而是都不合於實用的，倘要明白真情，必須查考向來沒有印過的字典。這裡面很有新奇的解釋，例如：「解放」就是「槍斃」；「托爾斯泰主義」就是「逃走」；「官」字下注云：「大官的親戚朋友和奴才」；「城」字下注云：「為防學生出入而造的高而堅固的磚牆」；「道德」條下注云：「不准女人露出臂膊」；「革命」條下注云：「放大水入田地裡，用飛機載炸彈向『匪賊』頭上擲之也。」 　　出版有大部的法律，是派遣學者，往各國採訪了現行律，摘取精華，編纂而成的，所以沒有一國，能有這部法律的完全和精密。但卷頭有一頁白紙，只有見過沒有印出的字典的人，才能夠看出字來，首先計三條：一，或從寬辦理；二，或從嚴辦理；三，或有時全不適用之。 　　自然有法院，但曾在白紙上看出字來的犯人，在開庭時候是決不抗辯的，因為壞人才愛抗辯，一辯即不免「從嚴辦理」；自然也有高等法院，但曾在白紙上看出字來的人，是決不上訴的，因為壞人才愛上訴，一上訴即不免「從嚴辦理」。有一天的早晨，許多軍警圍住了一個美術學校。校裡有幾個中裝和西裝的人在跳著，翻著，尋找著，跟隨他們的也是警察，一律拿著手槍。不多久，一位西裝朋友就在寄宿舍裡抓住了一個十八歲的學生的肩頭。 　　「現在政府派我們到你們這裡來檢查，請你……」 　　「你查罷！」那青年立刻從床底下拖出自己的柳條箱來。 　　這裡的青年是積多年的經驗，已頗聰明了的，什麼也不敢有。但那學生究竟只有十八歲，終於被在抽屜裡，搜出幾封信來了，也許是因為那些信裡面說到他的母親的困苦而死，一時不忍燒掉罷。西裝朋友便子子細細的一字一字的讀著，當讀到「……世界是一台吃人的筵席，你的母親被吃去了，天下無數無數的母親也會被吃去的……」的時候，就把眉頭一揚，摸出一枝鉛筆來，在那些字上打著曲線，問道：「這是怎麼講的？」 　　「…………」 　　「誰吃你的母親？世上有人吃人的事情嗎？我們吃你的母親？好！」他凸出眼珠，好像要化為槍彈，打了過去的樣子。 　　「那裡！……這……那裡！……這……」青年發急了。 　　但他並不把眼珠射出去，只將信一折，塞在衣袋裡；又把那學生的木版，木刻刀和拓片，《鐵流》，《靜靜的頓河》，剪貼的報，都放在一處，對一個警察說：「我把這些交給你！」 　　「這些東西裡有什麼呢，你拿去？」青年知道這並不是好事情。 　　但西裝朋友只向他瞥了一眼，立刻順手一指，對別一個警察命令道： 　　「我把這個交給你！」 　　警察的一跳好像老虎，一把抓住了這青年的背脊上的衣服，提出寄宿舍的大門口去了。門外還有兩個年紀相仿的學生，背脊上都有一隻勇壯巨大的手在抓著。旁邊圍著一大層教員和學生。 四 又是一個童話 　　有一天的早晨的二十一天之後，拘留所裡開審了。一間陰暗的小屋子裡，上面坐著兩位老爺，一東一西。東邊的一個是馬褂，西邊的一個是西裝，不相信世上有人吃人的事情的樂天派，錄口供的。警察吆喝著連抓帶拖的弄進一個十八歲的學生來，蒼白臉，髒衣服，站在下面。馬褂問過他的姓名，年齡，籍貫之後，就又問道：「你是木刻研究會的會員麼？」 　　「是的。」 　　「誰是會長呢？」 　　「Ch……正的，H……副的。」 　　「他們現在在那裡？」 　　「他們都被學校開除了，我不曉得。」 　　「你為什麼要鼓動風潮呢，在學校裡？」 　　「阿！……」青年只驚叫了一聲。 　　「哼。」馬褂隨手拿出一張木刻的肖像來給他看，「這是你刻的嗎？」 　　「是的。」 　　「刻的是誰呢？」 　　「是一個文學家。」 　　「他叫什麼名字？」 　　「他叫盧那卻爾斯基。」 　　「他是文學家？——他是那一國人？」 　　「我不知道！」這青年想逃命，說謊了。 　　「不知道？你不要騙我！這不是露西亞人嗎？這不是明明白白的露西亞紅軍軍官嗎？我在露西亞的革命史上親眼看見他的照片的呀！你還想賴？」 　　「那裡！」青年好像頭上受到了鐵椎的一擊，絕望的叫了一聲。 　　「這是應該的，你是普羅藝術家，刻起來自然要刻紅軍軍官呀！」 　　「那裡……這完全不是……」 　　「不要強辯了，你總是『執迷不悟』！我們很知道你在拘留所裡的生活很苦。但你得從實說來，好使我們早些把你送給法院判決。——監獄裡的生活比這裡好得多。」青年不說話——他十分明白了說和不說一樣。 　　「你說，」馬褂又冷笑了一聲，「你是CP，還是CY？」「都不是的。這些我什麼也不懂！」 　　「紅軍軍官會刻，CP，CY就不懂了？人這麼小，卻這樣的刁頑！去！」於是一隻手順勢向前一擺，一個警察很聰明而熟練的提著那青年就走了。 　　我抱歉得很，寫到這裡，似乎有些不像童話了。但如果不稱它為童話，我將稱它為什麼呢？特別的只在我說得出這事的年代，是一九三二年。 五 一封真實的信 　　「敬愛的先生： 　　你問我出了拘留所以後的事情麼，我現在大略敘述在下面—— 　　在當年的最後一月的最後一天，我們三個被××省政府解到了高等法院。一到就開檢查庭。這檢察官的審問很特別，只問了三句： 　　『你叫什麼名字？』——第一句；『今年你幾歲？』——第二句；『你是那裡人？』——第三句。 　　開完了這樣特別的庭，我們又被法院解到了軍人監獄。有誰要看統治者的統治藝術的全般的麼？那只要到軍人監獄裡去。他的虐殺異己，屠戮人民，不慘酷是不快意的。時局一緊張，就拉出一批所謂重要的政治犯來槍斃，無所謂刑期不刑期的。例如南昌陷於危急的時候，曾在三刻鐘之內，打死了二十二個；福建人民政府成立時，也槍斃了不少。刑場就是獄裡的五畝大的菜園，囚犯的屍體，就靠泥埋在菜園裡，上面栽起菜來，當作肥料用。 　　約莫隔了兩個半月的樣子，起訴書來了。法官只問我們三句話，怎麼可以做起訴書的呢？可以的！原文雖然不在手頭，但是我背得出，可惜的是法律的條目已經忘記了——『……Ch……H……所組織之木刻研究會，系受共黨指揮，研究普羅藝術之團體也。被告等皆為該會會員，……核其所刻，·皆·為紅軍軍官及勞動饑餓者之景象，·借·以鼓動階級鬥爭而·示無產階級必有專政之一日。……』之後，沒有多久，就開審判庭。庭上一字兒坐著老爺五位，威嚴得很。然而我倒並不怎樣的手足無措，因為這時我的腦子裡浮出了一幅圖畫，那是陀密埃（Honoré Daumier）的《法官》，真使我讚歎！ 　　審判庭開後的第八日，開最後的判決庭，宣判了。判決書上所開的罪狀，也還是起訴書上的那麼幾句，只在它的後半段裡，有—— 　　『核其所為，當依危害民國緊急治罪法第×條，刑法第×百×十×條第×款，各處有期徒刑五年。……然被告等皆年幼無知，誤入歧途，不無可憫，特依××法第×千×百×十×條第×款之規定，減處有期徒刑二年六個月。於判決書送到後十日以內，不服上訴……』云云。 　　我還用得到『上訴』麼？『服』得很！反正這是他們的法律！ 　　總結起來，我從被捕到放出，竟遊歷了三處殘殺人民的屠場。現在，我除了感激他們不砍我的頭之外，更感激的是增加了我不知幾多的知識。單在刑罰一方面，我才曉得現在的中國有：一，抽籐條，二，老虎凳，都還是輕的；三，踏槓，是叫犯人脆下，把鐵槓放在他的腿彎上，兩頭站上彪形大漢去，起先兩個，逐漸加到八人；四，跪火鏈，是把燒紅的鐵鏈盤在地上，使犯人跪上去；五，還有一種叫『吃』的，是從鼻孔裡灌辣椒水，火油，醋，燒酒……；六，還有反綁著犯人的手，另用細麻繩縛住他的兩個大拇指，高懸起來，吊著打，我叫不出這刑罰的名目。 　　我認為最慘的還是在拘留所裡和我同櫳的一個年青的農民。老爺硬說他是紅軍軍長，但他死不承認。呵，來了，他們用縫衣針插在他的指甲縫裡，用鎯頭敲進去。敲進去了一隻，不承認，敲第二隻，仍不承認，又敲第三隻……第四隻……終於十只指頭都敲滿了。直到現在，那青年的慘白的臉，凹下的眼睛，兩隻滿是鮮血的手，還時常浮在我的眼前，使我難於忘卻！使我苦痛！……然而，入獄的原因，直到我出來之後才查明白。禍根是在我們學生對於學校有不滿之處，尤其是對於訓育主任，而他卻是省黨部的政治情報員。他為了要鎮壓全體學生的不滿，就把僅存的三個木刻研究會會員，抓了去做示威的犧牲了。而那個硬派盧那卻爾斯基為紅軍軍官的馬褂老爺，又是他的姐夫，多麼便利呵！ 　　寫完了大略，抬頭看看窗外，一地慘白的月色，心裡不禁漸漸地冰涼了起來。然而我自信自己還並不怎樣的怯弱，然而，我的心冰涼起來了……願你的身體康健！ 　　人凡。四月四日，後半夜。」 　　（附記：從《一個童話》後半起至篇末止，均據人凡君信及《坐牢略記》。四月七日。）	I. The Introduction of Professor Kollwitz's Prints In the wilds of China there is a heap of burnt paper ash; on an old wall there are a few scratched drawings. Passersby generally pay no attention, yet each of these conceals a certain meaning — love, sorrow, fury... and often a meaning more fierce than anything cried aloud. A few people understand this meaning. In 1931 — I have forgotten the month — the first issue of the magazine Beidou, which was banned shortly after its founding, carried a woodcut: a mother, her eyes closed in sorrow, giving up her child. This was the first plate from Professor Kaethe Kollwitz's woodcut series War, titled Sacrifice; it was also the first of her prints to be introduced into China. I had sent this woodcut as a memorial to Rou Shi's death. He was my student and friend, a fellow introducer of foreign literature, particularly fond of woodcuts, who had edited and printed three volumes of European and American artists' works, though the printing was not very good. Then, for no one knew what reason, he was suddenly arrested, and soon afterward was shot at Longhua together with five other young writers. The newspapers at the time carried not a word about it — presumably they dared not, and could not, report it. Yet many people understood perfectly well that he was no longer in this world, for such things were common. Only his mother, blind in both eyes — I knew she must still believe her beloved son was in Shanghai, translating and proofreading. When I happened upon this Sacrifice in a German bookshop's catalogue, I sent it to Beidou as my wordless memorial. Afterward, I learned that quite a number of people had grasped the meaning it contained, though most of them assumed the memorial was for the entire group of victims. At that time, Professor Kollwitz's portfolio of prints was on its way from Europe to China, but by the time it reached Shanghai, the devoted introducer was already sleeping in the earth, and we did not even know where. Very well — I would look at them alone. In these prints there was poverty, disease, hunger, death... and naturally also struggle and resistance, but comparatively little of these; just as in the artist's self-portrait, where the face shows loathing and fury, but even more compassion and pity. These were images of the heart of every mother among "the insulted and the injured." Such mothers also exist in the Chinese countryside where fingernails are not yet dyed red, yet people often mock them, saying a mother only loves her useless sons. But I think she loves her capable sons too; only since they are strong and able, she sets her mind at ease about them and turns her attention to the "insulted and injured" children. Now here are twenty-one reproductions of her works as proof; and for China's young art students, there are further benefits — First, in recent years woodcuts have become quite popular, despite constant persecution. But of other forms of printmaking, more substantial collections have been limited to a single book on Anders Zorn. What is presented here consists entirely of etchings and lithographs, letting readers know that within the realm of printmaking there exist such works as these, which can be even more widely disseminated than oil paintings and the like, and allowing them to see techniques and subject matter entirely different from Zorn's. Second, people who have never been abroad often imagine that all white people are either preaching the gospel of Jesus to others or running foreign trading houses — well-dressed and well-fed, kicking people with leather boots the moment they are displeased. With this collection of prints, one will understand that in reality there are still "insulted and injured" people in many parts of the world — friends who share the same breath as we do — and that there are artists who grieve for these people, cry out, and fight. Third, Chinese newspapers these days love to print photographs of Hitler with his mouth gaping wide in a shout; though the moment is fleeting, in photographs it is forever this pose, and looking at too many of them induces fatigue. Now, from a German artist's portfolio, one sees another kind of person — not heroes, to be sure, yet people one can feel close to, sympathize with, and who, the longer one looks, appear ever more beautiful and ever more deeply moving. Fourth, this year marks the full fifth anniversary of Rou Shi's death, and also the fifth year since the artist's woodcuts first appeared in China; and the artist herself, calculated in the Chinese manner, is now seventy — this too may serve as a commemoration. Although the artist at present can only maintain her silence, her works are appearing ever more widely in the skies of the Far East. Yes — art for humankind cannot be stopped by any other force. II. A Brief Discussion of Dying in Darkness Only in the last few days have I come to realize that to die in darkness is, for a person, an utterly wretched thing. In China before the revolution, condemned prisoners on their way to execution were first paraded through the main streets. There, one might cry out his innocence, or curse the officials, or recount his heroic deeds, or declare his fearlessness of death. When the performance reached its peak, the watching crowd would shout "Bravo!" and the story would spread afterward. In my youth I often heard of such things, and I always thought the spectacle was barbarous and the practice cruel. Recently, in a magazine called The Cosmic Wind edited by Dr. Lin Yutang, I read an essay by a Mr. Zhutang that took quite a different view. He held that this cheering of condemned prisoners was worship of failed heroes and the championing of the weak — "the ideal cannot but be called lofty. Yet for the organization of human society, it is truly unacceptable. To champion the weak against the strong means never wishing there to be anyone strong. To worship failed heroes means refusing to acknowledge successful heroes." The result is that "every emperor who has succeeded throughout history, in order to maintain his power for several centuries, has invariably had to slaughter tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands of innocent people, just to win a temporary submission." Having slaughtered tens of thousands or hundreds of thousands and still only able to "win a temporary submission" — thinking of this from the standpoint of the "successful emperor," it is truly cause for great grief: there is no good solution. However, I have no intention of devising strategies for them. What I have come to realize from this is that allowing condemned prisoners to speak publicly before execution was, in fact, a benevolence on the part of the "successful emperor," and evidence of his confidence in still possessing power — which is why he had the nerve to let the condemned man open his mouth, granting him, before death, a moment of self-glorifying intoxication, and letting everyone know his ending. When I had previously thought only of "cruelty," that was not quite the accurate judgment; contained within it was a measure of benevolence. Whenever a friend or student dies, if I do not know the date, or the place, or the manner of death, my grief and unease are always greater than when I know; and reasoning from this to the other side, to meet one's end in a dark chamber at the hands of a few butchers must surely be lonelier than dying before the public. Yet the "successful emperor" does not kill in secret. He keeps only one thing secret: the amorous play with his wives and concubines. Only when he is about to fail does he add a second secret: the amount and whereabouts of his fortune. Further still, he adds a third: killing in secret. By this point, like Mr. Zhutang, he too has begun to find the common people — with their own likes and dislikes, indifferent to success or failure — rather frightening. So this third method, the secret one, is one that will always be adopted sooner or later, even without a strategist's counsel — and perhaps in some places it is already being practiced. By then the streets are civilized, the populace tranquil; but if we try to imagine the hearts of the dead, they must surely be far more wretched than those who died openly. When I first read Dante's Divine Comedy and reached the Inferno, I marveled at the cruelty of the author's imagination. But now, with more experience, I realize he was actually rather merciful: he had not yet imagined a hell so commonplace today — a hell of wretchedness so extreme that no one can see it. III. A Fairy Tale I saw in the DZZ of February 17 a piece written by Willi Bredel to commemorate the eightieth anniversary of Heine's death, called "A Fairy Tale." I liked the title very much, so I too shall write one. Once upon a time, there was a country like this. The rulers had subdued the people, only to discover that these people were all formidable adversaries after all — the phonetic alphabet was like a machine gun, woodcuts like tanks. They had seized the land, but at designated stations one was not allowed to get off the train. One could no longer walk on the ground either; one had to fly about through the air. Moreover, their skin's resistance had weakened; whenever anything pressing arose, they caught colds, which at the same time spread to the ministers, and everyone fell ill together. Large dictionaries were published — not just one — yet all were useless in practice. If one wished to know the truth, one had to consult dictionaries that had never been printed. These contained some remarkably novel definitions, such as: "Liberation" means "execution by firing squad." "Tolstoyism" means "running away." Under the entry for "official" it noted: "Relatives, friends, and lackeys of high officials." Under "city wall" it noted: "A tall, solid brick wall erected to prevent students from entering or leaving." The entry for "morality" noted: "Forbidding women to bare their arms." Under "revolution" it noted: "Flooding fields with water; using airplanes to carry bombs and drop them on the heads of 'bandits.'" Large volumes of law were published, compiled by dispatching scholars to various countries to survey current statutes, extract the essence, and edit the whole — so that no country in the world could match this body of law for its completeness and precision. But at the front was a blank page, and only those who had seen the unprinted dictionary could read the words on it. There were three articles: First, the case may be handled with leniency; Second, the case may be handled with severity; Third, or the law may at times not be applied at all. Naturally there were courts of law, but any defendant who had read the words on the blank page would never offer a defense at trial, for only bad people love to argue, and arguing invariably led to "handling with severity." Naturally there was also a high court, but anyone who had read the words on the blank page would never file an appeal, for only bad people love to appeal, and appealing invariably led to "handling with severity." One morning, a large contingent of soldiers and police surrounded an art school. Inside, several men in Chinese dress and Western suits were jumping about, rummaging, searching, followed by policemen, all holding pistols. Before long, a man in a Western suit seized the shoulder of an eighteen-year-old student in the dormitory. "The government has now sent us here to your school for an inspection. Would you please..." "Go ahead and search!" The young man immediately dragged his wicker trunk out from under the bed. These young people had accumulated years of experience and had become rather clever — they dared not possess anything. But this student was after all only eighteen, and in the end some letters were found in a drawer — perhaps because those letters mentioned his mother's death in poverty and he could not bear to burn them. The man in the Western suit read them with extreme care, word by word, and when he reached "...the world is a banquet of cannibals; your mother has been devoured, and countless mothers everywhere will be devoured too..." he raised his eyebrows, produced a pencil, drew wavy lines under those words, and asked: "What is the meaning of this?" "......" "Who devoured your mother? Is there such a thing as cannibalism in the world? Did we devour your mother? Well!" He bulged his eyes as if they were about to turn into bullets and shoot across. "Not at all!... This... Not at all!... This..." The young man grew agitated. But the man did not fire his eyeballs. He simply folded the letter, stuffed it into his pocket, gathered the student's woodblocks, carving knives, prints, copies of The Iron Flood and And Quiet Flows the Don, and pasted-up newspaper clippings, put them all in one pile, and said to a policeman: "I'm handing these over to you!" "What's in these things that you're taking them?" The young man knew this was not a good sign. But the man in the Western suit merely glanced at him, immediately pointed with a casual gesture, and ordered another policeman: "I'm handing this one over to you!" The policeman sprang like a tiger, seized the young man by the clothing on his back, and hauled him out through the front door of the dormitory. Outside stood two more students of similar age, each with a mighty, enormous hand gripping his back. Around them, a dense crowd of teachers and students had gathered. IV. Another Fairy Tale Twenty-one days after that morning, a hearing was held at the detention center. In a gloomy little room, two gentlemen sat above — one to the east, one to the west. The one to the east wore a mandarin jacket; the one to the west wore a Western suit — the optimist who did not believe there was such a thing as cannibalism in the world — and was taking the deposition. Policemen barked orders and half-dragged, half-shoved an eighteen-year-old student in: pallid face, filthy clothes, standing below. After Mandarin-Jacket had asked his name, age, and native place, he asked: "Are you a member of the Woodcut Study Society?" "Yes." "Who is the president?" "Ch... is the president, H... the vice-president." "Where are they now?" "They were both expelled from the school. I don't know." "Why were you inciting disturbances at school?" "Ah!..." The young man could only cry out in alarm. "Hmph." Mandarin-Jacket casually produced a woodcut portrait and showed it to him. "Did you carve this?" "Yes." "Who is it a portrait of?" "A man of letters." "What is his name?" "His name is Lunacharsky." "He's a man of letters? — What country is he from?" "I don't know!" The young man, trying to save his life, lied. "You don't know? Don't try to fool me! Isn't this a Russian? Isn't this obviously a Russian Red Army officer? I've seen his photograph with my own eyes in a history of the Russian Revolution! You dare deny it?" "Not at all!" The young man, as if struck on the head with an iron mallet, cried out in despair. "It's only natural — you're a proletarian artist, so of course you carve Red Army officers!" "Not at all... This is completely not..." "Stop arguing. You are simply 'incorrigible'! We know very well that life in the detention center is hard for you. But you must tell the truth, so that we can send you to the court for sentencing sooner. — Life in prison is much better than here." The young man said nothing — he understood perfectly well that speaking and not speaking amounted to the same thing. "Tell me," Mandarin-Jacket gave another cold laugh, "are you CP, or CY?" "Neither. I know nothing about such things!" "You can carve Red Army officers but don't understand CP or CY? So young, yet so cunning! Get out!" And with a casual wave of the hand forward, a policeman, clever and practiced, grabbed the young man and led him away. I must apologize: having written this far, it seems somewhat unlike a fairy tale. But if I do not call it a fairy tale, what shall I call it? The only distinctive feature is that I can name the year in which these events took place: 1932. V. A Real Letter "Dear Sir: You ask me what happened after I was released from the detention center? I shall briefly narrate below — On the last day of the last month of that year, the three of us were transferred by the xx Provincial Government to the High Court. We were brought before the examining magistrate immediately upon arrival. This examining magistrate's questioning was most peculiar — he asked only three questions: 'What is your name?' — the first; 'How old are you this year?' — the second; 'Where are you from?' — the third. After this most peculiar hearing was concluded, we were transferred by the court to a military prison. Does anyone wish to see the full range of a ruler's art of governance? Then one need only visit a military prison. In his slaughter of dissidents and massacre of the people, nothing less than the utmost cruelty will satisfy him. Whenever the political situation grows tense, a batch of so-called important political prisoners is dragged out and shot — sentences and terms mean nothing. For example, when Nanchang was in critical danger, twenty-two were killed in three quarters of an hour; when the Fujian People's Government was established, quite a number were also shot. The execution ground was the five-acre vegetable garden inside the prison; the corpses of the inmates were buried with dirt right there in the garden, and vegetables were planted on top, using them as fertilizer. After approximately two and a half months, the indictment arrived. The judge had asked us only three questions — how could an indictment be drawn up from that? It could! Though the original is not at hand, I can recite it from memory; unfortunately, I have forgotten the specific legal articles — '...The Woodcut Study Society organized by Ch... and H... is a body under Communist Party direction for the study of proletarian art. The defendants are all members of said society... Examination of their carvings shows that all depict Red Army officers and scenes of labor and hunger, thereby inciting class struggle and demonstrating that the proletariat shall one day exercise dictatorship...' Not long after, the trial was held. Five gentlemen sat in a row upon the bench, most imposing. Yet I was not particularly flustered, for at that moment a picture floated up in my mind — Honore Daumier's The Judges — and I truly marveled! On the eighth day after the trial, the final sentencing hearing was held and the verdict read. The crimes listed in the verdict were the same few sentences from the indictment; only in the latter half was there — 'Examination of their conduct warrants punishment under Article x of the Emergency Law for Crimes Endangering the Republic, and Article x hundred and x-ty-x, Clause x, of the Criminal Code, each to serve five years of imprisonment... However, as the defendants are all young and ignorant, having gone astray through error, and are not without cause for pity, by special application of Article x thousand x hundred and x-ty-x, Clause x, of the xx Law, the sentence is reduced to two years and six months of imprisonment. Within ten days of receipt of the written judgment, if dissatisfied, an appeal may be filed...' and so on. Did I still need to 'appeal'? I was perfectly 'satisfied'! After all, it was their law! To sum up: from my arrest to my release, I toured three slaughterhouses for the massacre of the people. Now, aside from my gratitude to them for not chopping off my head, I am even more grateful for the knowledge they added to my store — I don't know how much. In the matter of punishments alone, I learned that present-day China has: First, rattan cane beating; Second, the tiger bench — these are still the lighter ones; Third, the bar press: the prisoner is made to kneel, an iron bar is placed in the crook of his legs, and brawny men stand on both ends, starting with two and gradually increasing to eight; Fourth, kneeling on hot chains: iron chains heated red-hot are coiled on the floor and the prisoner is made to kneel on them; Fifth, there is another called 'feeding': pouring chili water, kerosene, vinegar, and spirits through the nostrils; Sixth, there is also tying the prisoner's hands behind his back, binding his two thumbs with thin hemp cord, suspending him high, and beating him while he hangs — I cannot name this punishment. I believe the most pitiful case was a young peasant who shared my cell in the detention center. The gentleman insisted he was a Red Army general, but the man denied it to the death. Ah — here they came: they pushed sewing needles into his fingernail beds and hammered them in with a mallet. They hammered in one — he did not confess; they hammered in a second — still he did not confess; a third... a fourth... until all ten fingers were full. Even now, that young man's deathly white face, his sunken eyes, his two hands covered in fresh blood, still often float before my eyes and will not let me forget! They torment me!... Yet the cause of the imprisonment only became clear to me after my release. The root of the trouble was our students' dissatisfaction with the school, especially with the Dean of Discipline, who happened to be a political informant for the Provincial Party Bureau. To suppress the entire student body's discontent, he seized the three remaining members of the Woodcut Study Society and made sacrificial examples of them. And that Mandarin-Jacket gentleman who insisted Lunacharsky was a Red Army officer — he was the Dean's brother-in-law. How very convenient! Having finished this rough account, I raise my head and look out the window — a stretch of ghastly white moonlight — and my heart cannot help but gradually turn to ice. And yet I believe I am not really so cowardly, and yet my heart has turned to ice... May you be in good health! Ren Fan. April 4, in the small hours of the morning." (Postscript: From the latter half of "A Fairy Tale" to the end of this piece, all is based on Mr. Ren Fan's letter and his "Brief Record of Imprisonment." April 7.)
今年一月，田軍發表了一篇小品，題目是《大連丸上》，記著一年多以前，他們夫婦倆怎樣幸而走出了對於他們是荊天棘地的大連—— 　　「第二天當我們第一眼看到青島青青的山角時，我們的心才又從凍結裡蠕活過來。 　　「『啊！祖國！』 　　「我們夢一般這樣叫了！」 　　他們的回「祖國」，如果是做隨員，當然沒有人會說話，如果是剿匪，那當然更沒有人會說話，但他們竟不過來出版了《八月的鄉村》。這就和文壇發生了關係。那麼，且慢「從凍結裡蠕活過來」罷。三月裡，就「有人」在上海的租界上冷冷的說道—— 　　「田軍不該早早地從東北回來！」 　　誰說的呢？就是「有人」。為什麼呢？因為這部《八月的鄉村》「裡面有些還不真實」。然而我的傳話是「真實」的。有《大晚報》副刊《火炬》的奇怪毫光之一，《星期文壇》上的狄克先生的文章為證——「《八月的鄉村》整個地說，他是一首史詩，可是裡面有些還不真實，像人民革命軍進攻了一個鄉村以後的情況就不夠真實。有人這樣對我說：『田軍不該早早地從東北回來』，就是由於他感覺到田軍還需要長時間的學習，如果再豐富了自己以後，這部作品當更好。技巧上，內容上，都有許多問題在，為什麼沒有人指出呢？」這些話自然不能說是不對的。假如「有人」說，高爾基不該早早不做碼頭腳夫，否則，他的作品當更好；吉須不該早早逃亡外國，如果坐在希忒拉的集中營裡，他將來的報告文學當更有希望。倘使有誰去爭論，那麼，這人一定是低能兒。然而在三月的租界上，卻還有說幾句話的必要，因為我們還不到十分「豐富了自己」，免於來做低能兒的幸福的時期。 　　這樣的時候，人是很容易性急的。例如罷，田軍早早的來做小說了，卻「不夠真實」，狄克先生一聽到「有人」的話，立刻同意，責別人不來指出「許多問題」了，也等不及「豐富了自己以後」，再來做「正確的批評」。但我以為這是不錯的，我們有投槍就用投槍，正不必等候剛在製造或將要製造的坦克車和燒夷彈。可惜的是這麼一來，田軍也就沒有什麼「不該早早地從東北回來」的錯處了。立論要穩當真也不容易。況且從狄克先生的文章上看起來，要知道「真實」似乎也無須久留在東北似的，這位「有人」先生和狄克先生大約就留在租界上，並未比田軍回來得晚，在東北學習，但他們卻知道夠不夠真實。而且要作家進步，也無須靠「正確」的批評，因為在沒有人指出《八月的鄉村》的技巧上，內容上的「許多問題」以前，狄克先生也已經斷定了：「我相信現在有人在寫，或豫備寫比《八月的鄉村》更好的作品，因為讀者需要！」 　　到這裡，就是坦克車正要來，或將要來了，不妨先折斷了投槍。 　　到這裡，我又應該補敘狄克先生的文章的題目，是：《我們要執行自我批判》。 　　題目很有勁。作者雖然不說這就是「自我批判」，但卻實行著抹殺《八月的鄉村》的「自我批判」的任務的，要到他所希望的正式的「自我批判」發表時，這才解除它的任務，而《八月的鄉村》也許再有些生機。因為這種模模胡胡的搖頭，比列舉十大罪狀更有害於對手，列舉還有條款，含胡的指摘，是可以令人揣測到壞到茫無界限的。 　　自然，狄克先生的「要執行自我批判」是好心，因為「那些作家是我們底」的緣故。但我以為同時可也萬萬忘記不得「我們」之外的「他們」，也不可專對「我們」之中的「他們」。要批判，就得彼此都給批判，美惡一併指出。如果在還有「我們」和「他們」的文壇上，一味自責以顯其「正確」或公平，那其實是在向「他們」獻媚或替「他們」繳械。 四月十六日。	In January of this year, Tian Jun published a short piece titled "On the Dalian Maru," recounting how, more than a year earlier, the couple had been fortunate enough to escape Dalian, which had been a land of thorns and brambles for them — "The next day, when our eyes first caught the green hills of Qingdao, our hearts finally began to stir back to life from their frozen state. "'Ah! The motherland!' "We cried out as if in a dream!" Their return to the "motherland" — had they come back as someone's entourage, naturally no one would have objected; had they come to suppress bandits, naturally even less would anyone have objected. But they merely came back and published Village in August. This brought them into the orbit of the literary world. In that case — hold off on "stirring back to life from the frozen state." In March, "someone" said coolly in the concessions of Shanghai: "Tian Jun should not have come back from the Northeast so early!" Who said this? Just "someone." Why? Because in Village in August "some parts are not quite authentic." My report of these words, however, is "authentic." I cite as proof the article by Mr. Di Ke in the Star Literary Forum, one of the strange glimmers of the supplement Torch to the Great Evening News — "Village in August, taken as a whole, is an epic, but some parts of it are not quite authentic; for example, the situation after the People's Revolutionary Army attacks a village is not authentic enough. Someone said to me: 'Tian Jun should not have come back from the Northeast so early' — meaning he felt Tian Jun still needed a long period of study; had he enriched himself further, this work would have been even better. In technique and content alike, there are many problems — why has no one pointed them out?" These words certainly cannot be called wrong. If "someone" were to say that Gorky should not have stopped being a dock worker so early, otherwise his works would have been even better; that Kisch should not have fled abroad so early, and if he had stayed in Hitler's concentration camp, his future reportage would have been even more promising — if anyone attempted to argue with this, that person would surely be a moron. But in the concessions in March, it was still necessary to say a few words, for we had not yet arrived at the blessed era of having sufficiently "enriched ourselves" to be spared the indignity of playing the moron. At such times, people are easily impatient. Take this example: Tian Jun came back too early to write novels, and they are "not authentic enough"; Mr. Di Ke, upon hearing "someone's" words, immediately agrees and reproaches others for not pointing out the "many problems" — and he too cannot wait to "enrich himself further" before delivering his "correct criticism." But I think this is not wrong: if we have javelins, we use javelins; there is no need to wait for the tanks and incendiary bombs that are just now being manufactured or are about to be manufactured. Unfortunately, this being the case, Tian Jun no longer has any offense of "not having come back from the Northeast early enough." Establishing a proposition on firm ground is truly not easy. Besides, judging from Mr. Di Ke's article, knowing what is "authentic" apparently does not require a long sojourn in the Northeast; this "someone" and Mr. Di Ke are presumably still sitting right there in the concessions, having come back no later than Tian Jun, without studying in the Northeast, yet they know whether something is authentic enough or not. Moreover, helping writers to improve does not require "correct" criticism either, for before anyone pointed out the "many problems" of technique and content in Village in August, Mr. Di Ke had already declared: "I believe someone is now writing, or preparing to write, works better than Village in August, because readers demand it!" And so the tanks are just about to arrive, or are on their way — why not break the javelin first? And here I should add the title of Mr. Di Ke's article: "We Must Carry Out Self-Criticism." The title packs quite a punch. Although the author does not claim this itself constitutes "self-criticism," he is carrying out the task of obliterating Village in August under the rubric of "self-criticism" — a task that will only be discharged when the formal "self-criticism" he hopes for is published, at which point Village in August might regain some vitality. For this kind of vague head-shaking is more harmful to an opponent than enumerating ten major crimes: enumeration at least has specific items, while vague reproach invites speculation of boundless badness. Of course, Mr. Di Ke's "call for self-criticism" is well-intentioned, because "those writers are ours." But I believe one must also never, ever forget the "them" beyond "us," nor single out only the "them" within "us." If there is to be criticism, then both sides should be subjected to it, with virtues and defects alike pointed out. If, on a literary scene where "us" and "them" still exist, one engages exclusively in self-blame to display one's "correctness" or fairness, then in reality one is currying favor with "them" or laying down one's arms for "them." April 16.
我的一篇歷史的速寫《出關》在《海燕》上一發表，就有了不少的批評，但大抵自謙為「讀後感」。於是有人說：「這是因為作者的名聲的緣故」。話是不錯的。現在許多新作家的努力之作，都沒有這麼的受批評家注意，偶或為讀者所發現，銷上一二千部，便什麼「名利雙收」呀，「不該回來」呀，「嘰哩咕嚕」呀，群起而打之，惟恐他還有活氣，一定要弄到此後一聲不響，這才算天下太平，文壇萬歲。然而別一方面，慷慨激昂之士也露臉了，他戟指大叫道：「我們中國有半個托爾斯泰沒有？有半個歌德沒有？」慚愧得很，實在沒有。不過其實也不必這麼激昂，因為從地殼凝結，漸有生物以至現在，在俄國和德國，托爾斯泰和歌德也只有各一個。 　　我並沒有遭著這種打擊和恫嚇，是萬分幸福的，不過這回卻想破了向來對於批評都守緘默的老例，來說幾句話，這也並無他意，只以為批評者有從作品來批判作者的權利，作者也有從批評來批判批評者的權利，咱們也不妨談一談而已。 　　看所有的批評，其中有兩種，是把我原是小小的作品，縮得更小，或者簡直封閉了。 　　一種，是以為《出關》在攻擊某一個人。這些話，在朋友閒談，隨意說笑的時候，自然是無所不可的，但若形諸筆墨，昭示讀者，自以為得了這作品的魂靈，卻未免像後街阿狗的媽媽。她是只知道，也只愛聽別人的陰私的。不幸我那《出關》並不合於這一流人的胃口，於是一種小報上批評道：「這好像是在諷刺傅東華，然而又不是。」既然「然而又不是」，就可見並不「是在諷刺傅東華」了，這不是該從別處著眼了麼？然而他因此又覺得毫無意味，一定要實在「是在諷刺傅東華」，這才嘗出意味來。 　　這種看法的人們，是並不很少的，還記得作《阿Q正傳》時，就曾有小政客和小官僚惶怒，硬說是在諷刺他，殊不知阿Q的模特兒，卻在別的小城市中，而他也實在正在給人家搗米。但小說裏面，並無實在的某甲或某乙的麼？並不是的。倘使沒有，就不成為小說。縱使寫的是妖怪，孫悟空一個觔斗十萬八千里，豬八戒高老莊招親，在人類中也未必沒有誰和他們精神上相像。有誰相像，就是無意中取誰來做了模特兒，不過因為是無意中，所以也可以說是誰竟和書中的誰相像。我們的古人，是早覺得做小說要用模特兒的，記得有一部筆記，說施耐庵——我們也姑且認為真有這作者罷——請畫家畫了一百零八條梁山泊上的好漢，貼在牆上，揣摩著各人的神情，寫成了《水滸》。但這作者大約是文人，所以明白文人的技倆，而不知道畫家的能力，以為他倒能憑空創造，用不著模特兒來作標本了。 　　作家的取人為模特兒，有兩法。一是專用一個人，言談舉動，不必說了，連微細的癖性，衣服的式樣，也不加改變。這比較的易於描寫，但若在書中是一個可惡或可笑的角色，在現在的中國恐怕大抵要認為作者在報個人的私仇——叫作「個人主義」，有破壞「聯合戰線」之罪，從此很不容易做人。二是雜取種種人，合成一個，從和作者相關的人們裏去找，是不能發見切合的了。但因為「雜取種種人」，一部分相像的人也就更其多數，更能招致廣大的惶怒。我是一向取後一法的，當初以為可以不觸犯某一個人，後來才知道倒觸犯了一個以上，真是「悔之無及」，既然「無及」，也就不悔了。況且這方法也和中國人的習慣相合，例如畫家的畫人物，也是靜觀默察，爛熟於心，然後凝神結想，一揮而就，向來不用一個單獨的模特兒的。 　　不過我在這裏，並不說傅東華先生就做不得模特兒，他一進小說，是有代表一種人物的資格的；我對於這資格，也毫無輕視之意，因為世間進不了小說的人們倒多得很。然而縱使誰整個的進了小說，如果作者手腕高妙，作品久傳的話，讀者所見的就只是書中人，和這曾經實有的人倒不相干了。例如《紅樓夢》裏賈寶玉的模特兒是作者自己曹氚，《儒林外史》裏馬二先生的模特兒是馮執中，現在我們所覺得的卻只是賈寶玉和馬二先生，只有特種學者如胡適之先生之流，這才把曹氚和馮執中念念不忘的記在心兒裏：這就是所謂人生有限，而藝術卻較為永久的話罷。 　　還有一種，是以為《出關》乃是作者的自況，自況總得佔點上風，所以我就是其中的老子。說得最淒慘的是邱韻鐸先生—— 　　「……至於讀了之後，留在腦海裏的影子，就只是一個全身心都浸淫著孤獨感的老人的身影。我真切地感覺著讀者是會墜入孤獨和悲哀去，跟著我們的作者。要是這樣，那麼，這篇小說的意義，就要無形地削弱了，我相信，魯迅先生以及像魯迅先生一樣的作家們的本意是不在這裏的。……」（《每週文學》的《海燕讀後記》） 　　這一來真是非同小可，許多人都「墜入孤獨和悲哀去」，前面一個老子，青牛屁股後面一個作者，還有「以及像魯迅先生一樣的作家們」，還有許多讀者們連邱韻鐸先生在內，竟一窠蜂似的湧「出關」去了。但是，倘使如此，老子就又不「只是一個全身心都浸淫著孤獨感的老人的身影」，我想他是會不再出關，回上海請我們吃飯，出題目徵集文章，做道德五百萬言的了。 　　所以我現在想站在關口，從老子的青牛屁股後面，挽留住「像魯迅先生一樣的作家們」以及許多讀者們連邱韻鐸先生在內。首先是請不要「墜入孤獨和悲哀去」，因為「本意是不在這裏」，邱先生是早知道的，但是沒說出在那裏，也許看不出在那裏。倘是前者，真是「這篇小說的意義，就要無形地削弱了」；倘因後者，那麼，卻是我的文字壞，不夠分明的傳出「本意」的緣故。現在略說一點，算是敬掃一回兩月以前「留在腦海裏的影子」罷——老子的西出函谷，為了孔子的幾句話，並非我的發見或創造，是三十年前，在東京從太炎先生口頭聽來的，後來他寫在《諸子學略說》中，但我也並不信為一定的事實。至於孔老相爭，孔勝老敗，卻是我的意見：老，是尚柔的；「儒者，柔也」，孔也尚柔，但孔以柔進取，而老卻以柔退走。這關鍵，即在孔子為「知其不可為而為之」的事無大小，均不放鬆的實行者，老則是「無為而無不為」的一事不做，徒作大言的空談家。要無所不為，就只好一無所為，因為一有所為，就有了界限，不能算是「無不為」了。我同意於關尹子的嘲笑：他是連老婆也娶不成的。於是加以漫畫化，送他出了關，毫無愛惜，不料竟惹起邱先生的這樣的淒慘，我想，這大約一定因為我的漫畫化還不足夠的緣故了，然而如果更將他的鼻子塗白，是不只「這篇小說的意義，就要無形地削弱」而已的，所以也只好這樣子。 　　再引一段邱韻鐸先生的獨白——「……我更相信，他們是一定會繼續地運用他們的心力和筆力，傾注到更有利於社會變革方面，使凡是有利的力量都集中起來，加強起來，同時使凡是可能有利的力量都轉為有利的力量，以聯結成一個巨大無比的力量。」 　　一為而「成一個巨大無比的力量」，僅次於「無為而無不為」一等，我「們」是沒有這種玄妙的本領的，然而我「們」和邱先生不同之處卻就在這裏，我「們」並不「墜入孤獨和悲哀去」，而邱先生卻會「真切地感覺著讀者是會墜入孤獨和悲哀去」的關鍵也在這裏。他起了有利於老子的心思，於是不禁寫了「巨大無比」的抽像的封條，將我的無利於老子的具象的作品封閉了。但我疑心：邱韻鐸先生以及像邱韻鐸先生一樣的作家們的本意，也許倒只在這裏的。 　　四月三十日。	No sooner had my historical sketch "Passing Through the Pass" appeared in Haiyan than it attracted no small amount of criticism, though most critics modestly called their pieces "impressions after reading." Whereupon someone remarked: "This is on account of the author's fame." The remark is not wrong. Nowadays many new writers' painstaking works receive nothing like this attention from critics; if one of them happens to be discovered by readers and sells a thousand or two thousand copies, then it is all "fame and fortune!" and "should not have come back!" and "mumble-grumble" — they pounce upon him en masse, terrified he might still have a breath of life in him, determined to render him silent forevermore, and only then is all right with the world and long live the literary scene. And yet on the other side, the passionate and indignant gentleman also makes his appearance, shaking his finger and bellowing: "Does China have half a Tolstoy? Half a Goethe?" To our shame, truly not. But there is really no need for such vehemence, for since the earth's crust solidified and living things gradually appeared down to the present day, Russia and Germany have produced only one Tolstoy and one Goethe apiece. I have been ten-thousand-fold fortunate not to have suffered such blows and intimidation, yet this time I wish to break my long-standing rule of keeping silent about criticism and say a few words. There is no other purpose in this: I merely hold that just as a critic has the right to judge an author through his work, so too has the author the right to judge the critic through his criticism — so let us have a little chat. Looking at all the criticism, there are two kinds that take my originally small work and shrink it still further, or simply seal it shut. The first kind assumes that "Passing Through the Pass" is an attack on a specific individual. Such talk, among friends chatting casually and joking at will, is naturally permissible in any direction, but to commit it to writing, display it to readers, and think one has captured the soul of the work — that rather resembles Old Lady Dog from the back alley, who knows only, and delights only in hearing, others' private scandals. Unfortunately, my "Passing Through the Pass" fails to satisfy the palate of this breed of person, and so one tabloid review reads: "This seems to be satirizing Fu Donghua, and yet it isn't." Since "and yet it isn't," then clearly it "is" not "satirizing Fu Donghua," and one ought to look elsewhere for the point, no? But no — the reviewer therefore finds the piece utterly tasteless; only if it truly "is satirizing Fu Donghua" would he detect any flavor. People who read this way are not few. I remember when I was writing "The True Story of Ah Q," there were petty politicians and petty officials who grew agitated, insisting it was satirizing them — never realizing that the model for Ah Q lived in another small town, and was in fact pounding rice for other people at the time. But does fiction contain no actual So-and-So? It does. If it did not, it would not be fiction. Even if what is written are monsters — the Monkey King somersaulting a hundred and eight thousand li, Pigsy marrying into the Gao household — there are probably people in the human race who resemble them in spirit. Whoever resembles a character has unwittingly served as a model; but since it was unwitting, one may equally say that the real person has happened to resemble the character. Our ancients realized early that fiction requires models. I recall a work of jottings which says that Shi Nai'an — let us for the moment accept the existence of this author — commissioned a painter to paint one hundred and eight heroes of Liangshan Marsh, pasted them on the wall, contemplated each one's expression, and thus wrote Water Margin. But this particular author was probably a man of letters, and therefore understood the tricks of men of letters while remaining ignorant of the painter's abilities, assuming the painter could create from nothing and had no need of models. There are two methods by which a writer takes a real person as a model. The first is to use a single person exclusively — not only speech and behavior, but even minute habits and styles of dress are left unchanged. This method makes description comparatively easy, but if the character in the book is loathsome or laughable, in present-day China most people would assume the author is settling a personal grudge — called "individualism," a crime of wrecking the "united front" — making life very difficult thereafter. The second is to combine traits from various people into one, so that looking among persons connected with the author, one cannot find an exact match. But because "various people" are drawn upon, partially resembling persons become more numerous, and broader indignation is provoked. I have always employed the latter method; at first I thought it would avoid offending any one person, but later discovered it offended more than one — truly "a regret beyond remedy," and since beyond remedy, I ceased to regret. Besides, this method accords with Chinese custom: painters painting figures, for instance, also observe quietly and deeply, internalize completely, then concentrate and create in one stroke, and have never used a single model. However, I do not say here that Mr. Fu Donghua could not serve as a model: if he entered a novel, he would have every qualification to represent a type. Nor do I in the least disdain this qualification, for the number of people in the world who cannot get into a novel is far greater. And yet even if someone entered a novel in his entirety, provided the author's craft is superb and the work endures, readers would see only the character in the book, and the once-real person would no longer matter. For example, the model for Jia Baoyu in Dream of the Red Chamber is the author himself, Cao Xueqin; the model for Ma Erjun in The Scholars is Feng Zhizhong. But what we perceive now is only Jia Baoyu and Ma Erjun; only a specialist scholar such as Mr. Hu Shi keeps Cao Xueqin and Feng Zhizhong reverently in mind — and that is what is meant by the saying that human life is finite, but art is comparatively eternal. There is also a second kind, which assumes that "Passing Through the Pass" is the author writing about himself. Since self-portraiture must always claim the upper hand, I must therefore be Laozi in the story. The most heart-rending version comes from Mr. Qiu Yunduo: "...As for the impression left in the mind after reading, it is only the figure of an old man whose entire body and soul are steeped in loneliness. I truly feel that readers will plunge into loneliness and sorrow, following our author. If so, then the significance of this story will be imperceptibly diminished. I believe that the real intention of Mr. Lu Xun and writers like Mr. Lu Xun does not lie here..." (from "Notes After Reading Haiyan" in Weekly Literature) This makes matters quite serious indeed: a great many people all "plunge into loneliness and sorrow" — first an old Laozi, then behind the blue ox's hindquarters the author, then "writers like Mr. Lu Xun," then many readers including Mr. Qiu Yunduo — swarming like a hive of bees through the pass. But if this were so, Laozi would no longer be "only the figure of an old man whose entire body and soul are steeped in loneliness." I think he would not have passed through the pass at all, but would have come back to Shanghai to treat us to dinner, solicit articles by putting out topics, and write five million words on the Dao and virtue. So now I wish to stand at the pass and, from behind Laozi's blue ox's hindquarters, hold back "writers like Mr. Lu Xun" together with many readers including Mr. Qiu Yunduo. First: please do not "plunge into loneliness and sorrow," for the "real intention does not lie here" — Mr. Qiu already knows this, but has not said where it does lie, and perhaps cannot see where. If it is the former case, then truly "the significance of this story will be imperceptibly diminished"; if the latter, the fault lies in my poor writing, which fails to convey the "real intention" clearly enough. Let me now briefly say a word, as a respectful sweeping-away of the "impression left in the mind" from two months ago — Laozi's westward exit through Hangu Pass on account of a few words from Confucius was not my discovery or invention; I heard it thirty years ago in Tokyo from the lips of Master Zhang Taiyan. Later he wrote it in his Brief Account of the Philosophers, but I do not take it as established fact. As for the contest between Confucius and Laozi with Confucius winning and Laozi losing, that is my own view: Laozi valued softness; "Ru means soft" — Confucius also valued softness, but Confucius used softness for advance, while Laozi used softness for retreat. The crux is that Confucius was a man who "knew it was impossible yet did it anyway," a doer who let nothing slip, no matter how small, while Laozi was a man of "doing nothing yet leaving nothing undone" — doing nothing at all, uttering only grand empty words. To leave nothing undone, one must do nothing, for the moment one does something, there are limits, and one can no longer claim to "leave nothing undone." I agree with the mockery of Gatekeeper Yin: he was a man who could not even manage to take a wife. So I caricatured him and sent him out through the pass without the slightest affection — only to discover, to my surprise, that this provoked such heartrending sorrow in Mr. Qiu. I think this must be because my caricature was not yet extreme enough; but if I had whitened his nose further, it would have done more than merely "imperceptibly diminish the significance of this story" — so I had no choice but to leave things as they were. Let me quote one more passage from Mr. Qiu Yunduo's soliloquy: "...I furthermore believe that they will certainly continue to apply their intellectual and literary powers, pouring them into endeavors more beneficial to social transformation, concentrating all forces that are beneficial, strengthening them, and at the same time converting all forces that could potentially be beneficial into beneficial forces, thereby joining them into one immeasurably vast force." To act and "form one immeasurably vast force" — this ranks only one degree below "doing nothing yet leaving nothing undone." "We" do not possess this kind of mystical ability, yet the point at which "we" differ from Mr. Qiu lies precisely here: "we" do not "plunge into loneliness and sorrow," while the crux of Mr. Qiu's "truly feeling that readers will plunge into loneliness and sorrow" also lies here. He conceived a thought favorable to Laozi, and thereupon could not help writing an "immeasurably vast" abstract seal to close shut my concrete work that was unfavorable to Laozi. But I suspect: the real intention of Mr. Qiu Yunduo and writers like Mr. Qiu Yunduo perhaps lies precisely here. April 30.
記得世界大戰之後，許多新興的國家出現的時候，我們曾經非常高興過，因為我們也是曾被壓迫，掙扎出來的人民。捷克的興起，自然為我們所大歡喜；但是奇怪，我們又很疏遠，例如我，就沒有認識過一個捷克人，看見過一本捷克書，前幾年到了上海，才在店舖裡目睹了捷克的玻璃器。 　　我們彼此似乎都不很互相記得。但以現在的一般情況而論，這並不算壞事情，現在各國的彼此念念不忘，恐怕大抵未必是為了交情太好了的緣故。自然，人類最好是彼此不隔膜，相關心。然而最平正的道路，卻只有用文藝來溝通，可惜走這條道路的人又少得很。 　　出乎意外地，譯者竟首先將試盡這任務的光榮，加在我這裡了。我的作品，因此能夠展開在捷克的讀者的面前，這在我，實在比被譯成通行很廣的別國語言更高興。我想，我們兩國，雖然民族不同，地域相隔，交通又很少，但是可以互相瞭解，接近的，因為我們都曾經走過苦難的道路，現在還在走——一面尋求著光明。 　　一九三六年七月二十一日，魯迅。	I remember that after the Great War, when many newly emerging nations appeared, we were exceedingly glad, for we too were a people who had been oppressed and had struggled to break free. The rise of Czechoslovakia naturally filled us with great joy; yet strangely, we also remained very remote from one another. I, for instance, had never met a single Czech, nor seen a single Czech book. It was only a few years ago, when I came to Shanghai, that I first set eyes on Czech glassware in a shop. It seems we have both been rather forgetful of each other. But considering the general state of affairs today, this is not necessarily a bad thing. The way nations nowadays keep each other constantly in mind is, I suspect, largely not on account of any great friendship between them. Naturally, it would be best if all of humanity could live without barriers, caring for one another. Yet the most just and level road to that end is through literature and art — a pity, then, that so few choose to walk it. Quite unexpectedly, the translator has bestowed upon me the honor of being among the first to undertake this task. That my works can thus be laid before Czech readers gives me, in truth, greater joy than being translated into any other, more widely spoken language. I believe that our two nations, though different in ethnicity, separated by geography, and with so little contact between us, can nonetheless understand and draw close to one another — for we have both walked the road of suffering, and we walk it still, seeking the light as we go. July 21, 1936. Lu Xun.
魯迅先生： 　　貴恙已痊癒否？唸唸。自先生一病，加以文藝界的糾紛，我就無緣再親聆教誨，思之常覺愴然！ 　　我現因生活困難，身體衰弱，不得不離開上海，擬往鄉間編譯一點賣現錢的書後，再來滬上。趁此機會，暫作上海「文壇」的局外人，仔細想想一切問題，也許會更明白些的罷。 　　在目前，我總覺得先生最近半年來的言行，是無意地助長著惡劣的傾向的。以胡風的性情之詐，以黃源的行為之諂，先生都沒有細察，永遠被他們據為私有，眩惑群眾，若偶像然，於是從他們的野心出發的分離運動，遂一發而不可收拾矣。胡風他們的行動，顯然是出於私心的，極端的宗派運動，他們的理論，前後矛盾，錯誤百出。即如「民族革命戰爭的大眾文學」這口號，起初原是胡風提出來用以和「國防文學」對立的，後來說一個是總的，一個是附屬的，後來又說一個是左翼文學發展到現階段的口號，如此搖搖蕩蕩，即先生亦不能替他們圓其說。對於他們的言行，打擊本極易，但徒以有先生作著他們的盾牌，人誰不愛先生，所以在實際解決和文字鬥爭上都感到絕大的困難。 　　我很知道先生的本意。先生是唯恐參加統一戰線的左翼戰友，放棄原來的立場，而看到胡風們在樣子上尚左得可愛；所以贊同了他們的。但我要告訴先生，這是先生對於現在的基本的政策沒有瞭解之故。現在的統一戰線——中國的和全世界的都一樣——固然是以普洛為主體的，但其成為主體，並不由於牠的名義，牠的特殊地位和歷史，而是由於牠的把握現實的正確和鬥爭能力的巨大。所以在客觀上，普洛之為主體，是當然的。但在主觀上，普洛不應該掛起明顯的徽章，不以工作，只以特殊的資格去要求領導權，以至嚇跑別的階層的戰友。所以，在目前的時候，到聯合戰線中提出左翼的口號來，是錯誤的，是危害聯合戰線的。所以先生最近所發表的《病中答客問》，既說明「民族革命戰爭的大眾文學」是普洛文學到現在的一發展，又說這應該作為統一戰線的總口號，這是不對的。 　　再說參加「文藝家協會」的「戰友」，未必個個右傾墮落，如先生所疑慮者；況集合在先生的左右的「戰友」，既然包括巴金和黃源之流，難道先生以為凡參加「文藝家協會」的人們，竟個個不如巴金和黃源麼？我從報章雜誌上，知道法西兩國「安那其」之反動，破壞聯合戰線，無異於托派，中國的「安那其」的行為，則更卑劣。黃源是一個根本沒有思想，只靠捧名流為生的東西。從前他奔走於傅鄭門下之時，一副諂佞之相，固不異於今日之對先生效忠致敬。先生可與此輩為伍，而不屑與多數人合作，此理我實不解。 　　我覺得不看事而只看人，是最近半年來先生的錯誤的根由。先生的看人又看得不准。譬如，我個人，誠然是有許多缺點的，但先生卻把我寫字糊塗這一層當作大缺點，我覺得實在好笑。（我為什麼故意要把「邱韻鐸」三字，寫成像「鄭振鐸」的樣子呢？難道鄭振鐸是先生所喜歡的人麼？）為此小故，遽拒一個人於千里之外，我實以為不對。 　　我今天就要離滬，行色匆匆，不能多寫了，也許已經寫得太多。以上所說，並非存心攻擊先生，實在很希望先生仔細想一想各種事情。 　　拙譯《斯太林傳》快要出版，出版後當寄奉一冊，此書甚望先生細看一下，對原意和譯文，均望批評。敬頌痊安。 　　懋庸上。八月一日。 　　以上，是徐懋庸給我的一封信，我沒有得他同意就在這裏發表了，因為其中全是教訓我和攻擊別人的話，發表出來，並不損他的威嚴，而且也許正是他准備我將牠發表的作品。但自然，人們也不免因此看得出：這發信者倒是有些「惡劣」的青年！ 　　但我有一個要求：希望巴金，黃源，胡風諸先生不要學徐懋庸的樣。因為這信中有攻擊他們的話，就也報答以牙眼，那恰正中了他的詭計。在國難當頭的現在，白天裏講些冠冕堂皇的話，暗夜裏進行一些離間，挑撥，分裂的勾當的，不就正是這些人麼？這封信是有計劃的，是他們向沒有加入「文藝家協會」的人們的新的挑戰，想這些人們去應戰，那時他們就加你們以「破壞聯合戰線」的罪名，「漢奸」的罪名。然而我們不，我們決不要把筆鋒去專對幾個個人，「先安內而後攘外」，不是我們的辦法。 　　但我在這裏，有些話要說一說。首先是我對於抗日的統一戰線的態度。其實，我已經在好幾個地方說過了，然而徐懋庸等似乎不肯去看一看，卻一味的咬住我，硬要誣陷我「破壞統一戰線」，硬要教訓我說我「對於現在基本的政策沒有瞭解」。我不知道徐懋庸們有什麼「基本的政策」。（他們的基本政策不就是要咬我幾口麼？）然而中國目前的革命的政黨向全國人民所提出的抗日統 一戰線的政策，我是看見的，我是擁護的， 我無條件地加入這戰線，那理由就因為我不 但是一個作家，而且是一個中國人，所以這政策在我是認為非常正確的，我加入這統一戰線，自然，我所使用的仍是一枝筆，所做的事仍是寫文章，譯書，等到這枝筆沒有用了，我可自己相信，用起別的武器來，決不會在徐懋庸等輩之下！其次，我對於文藝界統一戰線的態度。 我贊成一切文學家，任何派別的文學家在抗日的口號之下統一起來的主張。我也曾經提出過我對於組織這種統一的團體的意見過，那些意見，自然是被一些所謂「指導家」格殺了，反而即刻從天外飛來似地加我以「破壞統一戰線」的罪名。這首先就使我暫不加入「文藝家協會」了，因為我要等一等，看一看，他們究竟干的什麼勾當；我那時實在有點懷疑那些自稱「指導家」以及徐懋庸式的青年，因為據我的經驗，那種表面上扮著「革命」的面孔，而輕易誣陷別人為「內奸」，為「反革命」，為「托派」，以至為「漢奸」者，大半不是正路人；因為他們巧妙地格殺革命的民族的力量，不顧革命的大眾的利益，而只借革命以營私，老實說，我甚至懷疑過他們是否系敵人所派遣。我想，我不如暫避無益於人的危險，暫不聽他們指揮罷。自然，事實會證明他們到底的真相，我決不願來斷定他們是什麼人，但倘使他們真的志在革命與民族，而不過心術的不正當，觀念的不正確，方式的蠢笨，那我就以為他們實有自行改正一下的必要。我對於「文藝家協會」的態度，我認為牠是抗日的作家團體，其中雖有徐懋庸式的人，卻也包含了一些新的人；但不能以為有了「文藝家協會」，就是文藝界的統一戰線告成了，還遠得很，還沒有將一切派別的文藝家都聯為一氣。那原因就在「文藝家協會」還非常濃厚的含有宗派主義和行幫情形。不看別的，單看那章程，對於加入者的資格就限制得太嚴；就是會員要繳一元入會費，兩元年費，也就表示著「作家閥」的傾向，不是抗日「人民式」的了。在理論上，如《文學界》創刊號上所發表的關於「聯合問題」和「國防文學」的文章，是基本上宗派主義的；一個作者引用了我在一九三○年講的話，並以那些話為出發點，因此雖聲聲口口說聯合任何派別的作家，而仍自己一相情願的制定了加入的限制與條件。這是作者忘記了時代。我以為文藝家在抗日問題上的聯合是無條件的，只要他不是漢奸，願意或贊成抗日，則不論叫哥哥妹妹，之乎者也，或鴛鴦蝴蝶都無妨。但在文學問題上我們仍可以互相批判。這個作者又引例了法國的人民陣線，然而我以為這又是作者忘記了國度，因為我們的抗日人民統一戰線是比法國的人民陣線還要廣泛得多的。另一個作者解釋「國防文學」，說「國防文學」必須有正確的創作方法，又說現在不是「國防文學」就是「漢奸文學」，欲以「國防文學」一口號去統一作家，也先豫備了「漢奸文學」這名詞作為後日批評別人之用。這實在是出色的宗派主義的理論。我以為應當說：作家在「抗日」的旗幟，或者在「國防」的旗幟之下聯合起來；不能說：作家在「國防文學」的口號下聯合起來，因為有些作者不寫「國防為主題」的作品，仍可從各方面來參加抗日的聯合戰線；即使他像我一樣沒有加入「文藝家協會」，也未必就是「漢奸」。「國防文學」不能包括一切文學，因為在「國防文學」與「漢奸文學」之外，確有既非前者也非後者的文學，除非他們有本領也證明了《紅樓夢》，《子夜》，《阿Ｑ正傳》是「國防文學」或「漢奸文學」。這種文學存在著，但牠不是杜衡，韓侍桁，楊村人之流的什麼「第三種文學」。因此，我很同意郭沫若先生的「國防文藝是廣義的愛國主義的文學」和「國防文藝是作家關係間的標幟，不是作品原則上的標幟」的意見。我提議「文藝家協會」應該克服牠的理論上與行動上的宗派主義與行幫現象，把限度放得更寬些，同時最好將所謂「領導權」移到那些確能認真做事的作家和青年手裏去，不能專讓徐懋庸之流的人在包辦。至於我個人的加入與否，卻並非重要的事。 　　其次，我和「民族革命戰爭的大眾文學」這口號的關係。徐懋庸之流的宗派主義也表現在對於這口號的態度上。他們既說這是「標新立異」，又說是與「國防文學」對抗。我真料不到他們會宗派到這樣的地步。只要「民族革命戰爭的大眾文學」的口號不是「漢奸」的口號，那就是一種抗日的力量；為什麼這是「標新立異」？你們從那裏看出這是與「國防文學」對抗？拒絕友軍之生力的，暗暗的謀殺抗日的力量的，是你們自己的這種比「白衣秀士」王倫還要狹小的氣魄。我以為在抗日戰線上是任何抗日力量都應當歡迎的，同時在文學上也應當容許各人提 出新的意見來討論，「標新立異」也並不可怕；這和商人的專賣不同，並且事實上你們先前提出的「國防文學」的口號，也並沒有到南京政府或「蘇維埃」政府去注過冊。但現在文壇上彷彿已有「國防文學」牌與「民族革命戰爭大眾文學」牌的兩家，這責任應該徐懋庸他們來負，我在病中答訪問者的一文裏是並沒有把牠們看成兩家的。自然，我還得說一說「民族革命戰爭的大眾文學」這口號的無誤及其與「國防文學」口號之關係。——我先得說，前者這口號不是胡風提的，胡風做過一篇文章是事實，但那是我請他做的，他的文章解釋得不清楚也是事實。這口號，也不是我一個人的「標新立異」，是幾個人大家經過一番商議的，茅盾先生就是參加商議的一個。郭沫若先生遠在日本，被偵探監視著，連去信商問也不方便。可惜的就只是沒有邀請徐懋庸們來參加議討。但問題不在這口號由誰提出，只在牠有沒有錯誤。如果牠是為了推動一向囿於普洛革命文學的左翼作家們跑到抗日的民族革命戰爭的前線上去，牠是為了補救「國防文學」這名詞本身的在文學思想的意義上的不明了性，以及糾正一些注進「國防文學」這名詞裏去的不正確的意見，為了這些理由而被提出，那麼牠是正當的，正確的。如果人不用腳底皮去思想，而是用過一點腦子，那就不能隨便說句「標新立異」就完事。「民族革命戰爭的大眾文學」這名詞，在本身上，比「國防文學」這名詞，意義更明確，更深刻，更有內容。「民族革命戰爭的大眾文學」，主要是對前進的一向稱左翼的作家們提倡的，希望這些作家們努力向前進，在這樣的意義上，在進行聯合戰線的現在，徐懋庸說不能提出這樣的口號，是胡說！「民族革命戰爭的大眾文學」，也可以對一般或各派作家提倡的，希望的，希望他們也來努力向前進，在這樣的意義上，說不能對一般或各派作家提這樣的口號，也是胡說！但這不是抗日統一戰線的標準，徐懋庸說我「說這應該作為統一戰線的總口號」，更是胡說！我問徐懋庸究竟看了我的文章沒有？人們如果看過我的文章，如果不以徐懋庸他們解釋「國防文學」的那一套來解釋這口號，如聶紺弩等所致的錯誤，那麼這口號和宗派主義或關門主義是並不相干的。這裏的「大眾」，即照一向的「群眾」，「民眾」的意思解釋也可以，何況在現在，當然有「人民大眾」這意思呢。我說「國防文學」是我們目前文學運動的具體口號之一，為的是「國防文學」這口號，頗通俗，已經有很多人聽慣，牠能擴大我們政治的和文學的影響，加之牠可以解釋為作家在國防旗幟下聯合，為廣義的愛國主義的文學的緣故。因此，牠即使曾被不正確的解釋，牠本身含義上有缺陷，牠仍應當存在，因為存在對於抗日運動有利益。我以為這兩個口號的並存，不必像辛人先生的「時期性」與「時候性」的說法，我更不贊成人們以各種的限制加到「民族革命戰爭的大眾文學」上。如果一定要以為「國防文學」提出在先，這是正統那麼就將正統權讓給要正統的人們也未始不可，因為問題不在爭口號，而在實做；儘管喊口號，爭正統，固然也可作為「文章」，取點稿費，靠此為生，但儘管如此，也到底不是久計。 　　最後，我要說到我個人的幾件事。徐懋庸說我最近半年的言行，助長著惡劣的傾向。我就檢查我這半年的言行。所謂言者，是發表過四五篇文章，此外，至多對訪問者談過一些閒天，對醫生報告我的病狀之類；所謂行者，比較的多一點，印過兩本版畫，一本雜感，譯過幾章《死魂靈》，生過三個月的病，簽過一個名，此外，也並未到過鹹肉莊或賭場，並未出席過什麼會議。我真不懂我怎樣助長著，以及助長什麼惡劣傾向。難道因為我生病麼？除了怪我生病而竟不死以外，我想就只有一個說法：怪我生病，不能和徐懋庸這類惡劣的傾向來搏鬥。 　　其次，是我和胡風，巴金，黃源諸人的關係。我和他們，是新近才認識的，都由於文學工作上的關係，雖然還不能稱為至交，但已可以說是朋友。不能提出真憑實據，而任意誣我的朋友為「內奸」，為「卑劣」者，我是要加以辯正的，這不僅是我的交友的道義，也是看人看事的結果。徐懋庸說我只看人，不看事，是誣枉的，我就先看了一些事，然後看見了徐懋庸之類的人。胡風我先前並不熟識，去年的有一天，一位名人約我談話了，到得那裏，卻見駛來了一輛汽車，從中跳出四條漢子：田漢，周起應，還有另兩個，一律洋服，態度軒昂，說是特來通知我：胡風乃是內奸，官方派來的。我問憑據，則說是得自轉向以後的穆木天口中。轉向者的言談，到左聯就奉為聖旨，這真使我口呆目瞪。再經幾度問答之後，我的回答是：證據薄弱之極，我不相信！當時自然不歡而散，但後來也不再聽人說胡風是「內奸」了。然而奇怪，此後的小報，每當攻擊胡風時，便往往不免拉上我，或由我而涉及胡風。最近的則如《現實文學》發表了O.V.筆錄的我的主張以後，《社會日報》就說O.V.是胡風，筆錄也和我的本意不合，稍遠的則如周文向傅東華抗議刪改他的小說時，同報也說背後是我和胡風。最陰險的則是同報在去年冬或今年春罷，登過一則花邊的重要新聞：說我就要投降南京，從中出力的是胡風，或快或慢，要看他的辦法。我又看自己以外的事：有一個青年，不是被指為「內奸」，因而所有朋友都和他隔離，終於在街上流浪，無處可歸，遂被捕去，受了毒刑的麼？又有一個青年，也同樣的被誣為「內奸」，然而不是因為參加了英勇的戰鬥，現在坐在蘇州獄中，死活不知麼？這兩個青年就是事實證明了他們既沒有像穆木天等似的做過堂皇的悔過的文章，也沒有像田漢似的在南京大演其戲。同時，我也看人：即使胡風不可信，但對我自己這人，我自己總還可以相信的，我就並沒有經胡風向南京講條件的事。因此，我倒明白了胡風鯁直，易於招怨，是可接近的，而對於周起應之類，輕易誣人的青年，反而懷疑以至憎惡起來了。自然，周起應也許別有他的優點。也許後來不復如此，仍將成為一個真的革命者；胡風也自有他的缺點，神經質，繁瑣，以及在理論上的有些拘泥的傾向，文字的不肯大眾化，但他明明是有為的青年，他沒有參加過任何反對抗日運動或反對過統一戰線，這是縱使徐懋庸之流用盡心機，也無法抹殺的。 　　至於黃源，我以為是一個向上的認真的譯述者，有《譯文》這切實的雜誌和別的幾種譯書為證。巴金是一個有熱情的有進步思想的作家，在屈指可數的好作家之列的作家，他固然有「安那其主義者」之稱，但他並沒有反對我們的運動，還曾經列名於文藝工作者聯名的戰鬥的宣言。黃源也簽了名的。這樣的譯者和作家要來參加抗日的統一戰線，我們是歡迎的，我真不懂徐懋庸等類為什麼要說他們是「卑劣」？難道因為有《譯文》存在礙眼？難道連西班牙的「安那其」的破壞革命，也要巴金負責？ 　　還有，在中國近來已經視為平常，而其實不但「助長」，卻正是「惡劣的傾向」的，是無憑無據，卻加給對方一個很壞的惡名。例如徐懋庸的說胡風的「詐」，黃源的「諂」，就都是。田漢周起應們說胡風是「內奸」，終於不是，是因為他們發昏；並非胡風詐作「內奸」，其實不是，致使他們成為說謊。《社會日報》說胡風拉我轉向，而至今不轉，是撰稿者有意的誣陷；並非胡風詐作拉我，其實不拉，以致記者變了造謠。胡風並不「左得可愛」，但我以為他的私敵，卻實在是「左得可怕」的。黃源未嘗作文捧我，也沒有給我做過傳，不過專辦著一種月刊，頗為盡責，輿論倒還不壞，怎麼便是「諂」，怎麼便是對於我的「效忠致敬」？難道《譯文》是我的私產嗎？黃源「奔走於傅鄭門下之時，一副諂佞之相」，徐懋庸大概是奉諭知道的了，但我不知道，也沒有見過，至於他和我的往還，卻不見有「諂佞之相」，而徐懋庸也沒有一次同在，我不知道他憑著什麼，來斷定和諂佞於傅鄭門下者「無異」？當這時會，我也就是證人，而並未實見的徐懋庸，對於本身在場的我，竟可以如此信口胡說，含血噴人，這真可謂橫暴恣肆，達於極點了。莫非這是「瞭解」了「現在的基本的政策」之故嗎？「和全世界都一樣」的嗎？那麼，可真要嚇死人！ 　　其實「現在的基本政策」是決不會這樣的好像天羅地網的。不是只要「抗日」，就是戰友嗎？「詐」何妨，「諂」又何妨？又何必定要剿滅胡風的文字，打倒黃源的《譯文》呢，莫非這裏面都是「二十一條」和「文化侵略」嗎？首先應該掃蕩的，倒是拉大旗作為虎皮，包著自己，去嚇呼別人；小不如意，就倚勢（！）定人罪名，而且重得可怕的橫暴者。自然，戰線是會成立的，不過這嚇成的戰線，作不得戰。先前已有這樣的前車，而覆車之鬼，至死不悟，現在在我面前，就附著徐懋庸的肉身而出現了。 　　在左聯結成的前後，有些所謂革命作家，其實是破落戶的漂零子弟。他也有不平，有反抗，有戰鬥，而往往不過是將敗落家族的婦姑勃谿，叔嫂鬥法的手段，移到文壇上。嘁嘁嚓嚓，招是生非，搬弄口舌，決不在大處著眼。這衣缽流傳不絕。例如我和茅盾，郭沫若兩位，或相識，或未嘗一面，或未衝突，或曾用筆墨相譏，但大戰鬥卻都為著同一的目標，決不日夜記著個人的恩怨。然而小報卻偏喜歡記些魯比茅如何，郭對魯又怎樣，好像我們只在爭座位，鬥法寶。就是《死魂靈》，當《譯文》停刊後，《世界文庫》上也登完第一部的，但小報卻說「鄭振鐸腰斬《死魂靈》」，或魯迅一怒中止了翻譯。這其實正是惡劣的傾向，用謠言來分散文藝界的力量，近於「內奸」的行為的。然而也正是破落文學家最末的道路。 　　我看徐懋庸也正是一個嘁嘁嚓嚓的作者，和小報是有關係了，但還沒有墜入最末的道路。不過也已經糊塗得可觀。（否則，便是驕橫了。）例如他信裏說：「對於他們的言行，打擊本極易，但徒以有先生作他們的盾牌，……所以在實際解決和文字鬥爭上都感到絕大的困難。」是從修身上來打擊胡風的詐，黃源的諂，還是從作文上來打擊胡風的論文，黃源的《譯文》呢？——這我倒並不急於知道；我所要問的是為什麼我認識他們，「打擊」就「感到絕大的困難」？對於造謠生事，我固然決不肯附和，但若徐懋庸們義正詞嚴，我能替他們一手掩盡天下耳目的嗎？而且什麼是「實際解決」？是充軍，還是殺頭呢？在「統一戰線」這大題目之下，是就可以這樣鍛煉人罪，戲弄威權的？我真要祝禱「國防文學」有大作品，倘不然，也許又是我近半年來，「助長著惡劣的傾向」的罪惡了。臨末，徐懋庸還叫我細細讀《斯太林傳》。是的，我將細細的讀，倘能生存，我當然仍要學習；但我臨末也請他自己再細細的去讀幾遍，因為他翻譯時似乎毫無所得，實有從新細讀的必要。否則，抓到一面旗幟，就自以為出入頭地，擺出奴隸總管的架子，以鳴鞭為唯一的業績——是無藥可醫，於中國也不但毫無用處，而且還有害處的。 　　八月三——六日。	Mr. Lu Xun: Has your illness improved? I have been thinking of you constantly. Ever since you fell ill, compounded by the disputes in literary circles, I have had no opportunity to receive your instruction in person, and the thought of it often fills me with melancholy. Due to financial hardship and physical frailty, I must now leave Shanghai. I plan to go to the countryside to compile and translate a few books that might bring in ready cash, after which I shall return to Shanghai. Taking this opportunity to stand temporarily outside the Shanghai "literary scene," I may perhaps think through all these issues more clearly. At present, I cannot help but feel that your words and actions of the past half year have unintentionally fostered pernicious tendencies. Given the deceitfulness of Hu Feng's character and the sycophancy of Huang Yuan's conduct, you have failed to discern these clearly and have forever been claimed by them as their private property, used to dazzle the masses, as though you were an idol. And so the movement of division, springing from their personal ambition, has become utterly uncontrollable. The actions of Hu Feng and his circle are clearly motivated by selfish ends — an extreme form of sectarianism — and their theories are riddled with self-contradictions and errors. Take, for instance, the slogan "Literature of the masses for the national revolutionary war": at first it was proposed by Hu Feng to stand in opposition to "National defense literature"; later it was said that one was the general slogan while the other was subsidiary; still later it was said that one represented the slogan of left-wing literature at its present stage of development — such vacillation that even you, sir, cannot make their case coherent. As for striking against their words and deeds, that would in itself be quite easy; yet solely because you serve as their shield, and since everyone cherishes you, both the practical resolution and the battle in writing present enormous difficulties. I know your intentions well, sir. You fear that left-wing comrades joining the united front will abandon their original position, and you find in Hu Feng and his like a semblance that is still lovably "leftist," and therefore you have endorsed them. But I must tell you, sir, that this is because you do not understand "the basic policy of the present." The current united front — in China and throughout the world alike — naturally takes the proletariat as its main body, but its being the main body rests not upon its title, its special status or its history, but upon the correctness of its grasp of reality and the magnitude of its fighting capacity. Therefore objectively, the proletariat's position as the main body is a matter of course. But subjectively, the proletariat should not pin on conspicuous badges or, relying solely on special qualifications rather than actual work, demand the right to leadership, to the point of frightening away comrades from other classes. Therefore, at the present juncture, to raise a left-wing slogan within the united front is an error — it is harmful to the united front. And so, sir, your recent "Replies to a Visitor During Illness," in which you explain that "Literature of the masses for the national revolutionary war" is a development of proletarian literature to the present stage and then say this should serve as the general slogan for the united front — this is incorrect. Furthermore, the "comrades" who have joined the "Writers' Association" are not necessarily all rightward-drifting and degenerate, as you fear; moreover, since the "comrades" gathered around you include the likes of Ba Jin and Huang Yuan, do you, sir, really believe that every member of the "Writers' Association" is inferior to Ba Jin and Huang Yuan? From newspapers and magazines I have learned that the "Anarchists" of France and Spain are as reactionary and destructive of the united front as the Trotskyists, and the behavior of China's "Anarchists" is even baser. Huang Yuan is a person fundamentally devoid of ideas, who lives solely by flattering celebrities. When he once ran about at the doors of Fu and Zheng, his obsequious manner was no different from his present displays of loyalty and respect toward you, sir. That you, sir, would keep company with such people while disdaining to cooperate with the majority — this logic truly baffles me. I feel that looking only at persons rather than at matters has been the root of your errors these past six months, sir. And moreover, you misjudge the persons you look at. For instance, I do have many shortcomings, but for you to regard my sloppy handwriting as a major defect strikes me as truly laughable. (Why on earth would I deliberately write the three characters "Qiu Yunduo" to look like "Zheng Zhenduo"? Is Zheng Zhenduo someone you are fond of?) To cast a person a thousand li away over such a trifle is, I truly believe, quite wrong. I leave Shanghai today; in the haste of departure I cannot write more, and perhaps I have already written too much. What I have said above is not meant as an attack on you, sir; I truly and earnestly hope you will think carefully about all these matters. My translation of the *Biography of Stalin* will soon be published; upon publication I shall send you a copy. I very much hope you will read this book carefully and offer your criticisms of both the original meaning and the translation. Respectfully wishing you a full recovery. Maoyong. August 1st. --- The above is a letter Xu Maoyong sent to me. I have published it here without obtaining his consent, because it consists entirely of admonitions directed at me and attacks on others; to publish it does no harm to his dignity, and perhaps it is even a piece of writing he prepared with the expectation that I would make it public. But naturally, people will also be unable to avoid discerning from this that the sender of the letter is rather a "pernicious" sort of young man! Yet I have one request: I hope that Messrs. Ba Jin, Huang Yuan, and Hu Feng will not follow Xu Maoyong's example. If, because there are attacks on them in this letter, they retaliate tooth for tooth and eye for eye, they will be falling squarely into his trap. In this national crisis, are not those who deliver fine-sounding speeches by day and carry on the business of alienation, provocation, and division in the dark of night precisely these very people? This letter was calculated; it is their new challenge hurled at those who have not joined the "Writers' Association," hoping those people will take up the gauntlet, so that they may then brand them with the crime of "wrecking the united front" and the epithet of "traitor." But we shall not. We are determined not to direct our pens exclusively at a few individuals. "First pacify the interior, then repel the foreign foe" is not our method. But here I have some things to say. First, my attitude toward the anti-Japanese united front. In truth, I have already stated this in several places, yet Xu Maoyong and his ilk appear unwilling to go and look, but persist in biting at me, insisting on the slander that I am "wrecking the united front" and insisting on lecturing me that I have "no understanding of the basic policy of the present." I do not know what "basic policy" the Xu Maoyongs possess. (Is not their basic policy simply to bite me a few times?) But the policy of the anti-Japanese united front proposed to the entire nation by China's present revolutionary party — I have seen it, and I support it. I join this front unconditionally, and my reason is that I am not merely a writer but also a Chinese, so that this policy strikes me as absolutely correct. In joining this united front, naturally my weapon remains a pen, and what I do is still to write essays and translate books; but when this pen is of no further use, I can assure you that when I take up other weapons, I shall in no way fall behind the Xu Maoyongs of this world! Secondly, my attitude toward the united front in literary circles. I support the proposal that all writers, of whatever school, unite under the banner of resistance against Japan. I have also put forward my opinions on how to organize such a united body, but those opinions were naturally quashed by certain self-styled "directors," who then immediately, as if descending from heaven, fastened upon me the crime of "wrecking the united front." This was the first reason I refrained from joining the "Writers' Association" — for I wanted to wait and see just what sort of business they were about. At the time I was genuinely somewhat suspicious of those self-proclaimed "directors" and of young men in the Xu Maoyong mold, because in my experience, those who put on a "revolutionary" face on the surface while readily slandering others as "traitors from within," as "counter-revolutionaries," as "Trotskyists," and even as "national traitors," are for the most part not people on the right path. For they deftly annihilate the revolutionary and national forces, disregard the interests of the revolutionary masses, and merely exploit the revolution for private gain — to be frank, I have even suspected whether they might be agents dispatched by the enemy. I thought it better to avoid for the time being dangers that serve no one, and not to submit to their commands. Of course, facts will eventually reveal their true colors. I absolutely do not wish to pronounce what manner of people they are; but if their devotion is truly to revolution and the nation, and their fault lies only in dishonest methods, incorrect ideas, and clumsy tactics, then I do think they urgently need to correct themselves. As for my attitude toward the "Writers' Association": I regard it as an anti-Japanese writers' organization that, despite containing people of the Xu Maoyong type, also includes some fresh members. But one must not suppose that the establishment of the "Writers' Association" means the literary united front is accomplished — it is far from that; it has not yet brought writers of all schools together. The reason lies in the "Writers' Association's" still very pronounced sectarianism and guild mentality. To look at just one thing: its charter imposes far too stringent conditions on would-be members; even requiring one yuan for enrollment and two yuan for annual dues betrays the attitude of a "writer-aristocracy," not an anti-Japanese "popular" one. In theory, the articles on "the question of alliance" and "national defense literature" published in the inaugural issue of *Wenxuejie* (Literary World) are fundamentally sectarian. One author quoted words I spoke in 1930 and took them as his point of departure; thus, though he speaks endlessly of uniting writers of every school, he nonetheless unilaterally dictates conditions and restrictions for joining. This author has forgotten the times. I hold that the unity of writers on the question of resistance to Japan is unconditional: as long as a person is not a traitor and is willing to support resistance, then it matters not whether they call each other brother and sister, write in classical or vernacular, or favor the Mandarin Duck and Butterfly school. But on questions of literature, we may still criticize one another. The author also cites the example of the French People's Front, but I think he again forgets the country, for our anti-Japanese people's united front must be far broader than France's People's Front. Another author, explaining "national defense literature," says it must have a correct creative method and then says that what is not "national defense literature" is "traitor literature" — wishing to unify writers under the single slogan of "national defense literature" while already preparing the label "traitor literature" for future use in condemning others. This is truly exemplary sectarian theory. I hold that writers should unite under the banner of "resistance" or of "national defense"; one cannot say writers unite under the slogan of "national defense literature," because some writers do not take national defense as their theme and yet may still participate in the anti-Japanese united front from other angles — and even if, like me, they have not joined the "Writers' Association," that does not necessarily make them "traitors." "National defense literature" cannot encompass all literature, for between "national defense literature" and "traitor literature" there most certainly exists literature that is neither one nor the other — unless they can also prove that *Dream of the Red Chamber*, *Midnight*, and *The True Story of Ah Q* are either "national defense literature" or "traitor literature." Such literature exists, but it is not the "Third Kind of Literature" of Du Heng, Han Shiheng, Yang Cunren, and their ilk. I therefore very much agree with Mr. Guo Moruo's view that "national defense literature and art is patriotic literature in the broad sense" and that "national defense literature is a banner for relations among writers, not a standard for the principles of their works." I propose that the "Writers' Association" should overcome its theoretical and practical sectarianism and guild mentality, widen its bounds, and at the same time transfer the so-called "right of leadership" to those writers and young people who are genuinely capable of serious work, rather than letting people of the Xu Maoyong type monopolize everything. As for whether I personally join or not — that is of no great importance. Next, my relationship with the slogan "Literature of the masses for the national revolutionary war." The sectarianism of the Xu Maoyong faction is also manifest in their attitude toward this slogan. They call it "eccentricity for its own sake" and say it is set up in opposition to "national defense literature." I truly had not expected their sectarianism to reach such depths. Provided the slogan "Literature of the masses for the national revolutionary war" is not a "traitor's" slogan, it represents an anti-Japanese force; why then is it "eccentricity"? Where do you see it opposing "national defense literature"? Those who reject reinforcements for the friendly army, who secretly murder the anti-Japanese forces — it is you yourselves, with a pettiness more cramped than even that of the "White-Robed Scholar" Wang Lun. I hold that on the anti-Japanese front, every anti-Japanese force should be welcomed, and at the same time, in literature, each person should be permitted to bring forward new ideas for discussion — even "eccentricity" is nothing to fear. This is not like a merchant's monopoly; besides, the slogan "national defense literature" that you yourselves previously put forward was never registered with the Nanjing government or the "Soviet" government either. But now the literary world seems to have split into two "brands" — the "national defense literature" brand and the "Literature of the masses for the national revolutionary war" brand — and the responsibility for this should fall on Xu Maoyong and his people. In my essay replying to a visitor during my illness, I did not treat the two as rival brands at all. Naturally, I must still speak about why the slogan "Literature of the masses for the national revolutionary war" is valid and about its relationship to the slogan "national defense literature." — I must first say that this slogan was not proposed by Hu Feng. It is true that Hu Feng wrote an article about it, but he did so at my request, and it is also true that his article did not explain it clearly. Nor is this slogan my personal "eccentricity": it was agreed upon after deliberation among several people, and Mr. Mao Dun was one of those who took part. Mr. Guo Moruo was far away in Japan, under surveillance by detectives, so it was inconvenient even to write and consult him. The only pity is that the Xu Maoyongs were not invited to join the discussion. But the question is not who proposed this slogan, but whether it contains any error. If it was proposed in order to push left-wing writers, long confined within the bounds of proletarian revolutionary literature, onto the front lines of the national revolutionary war of resistance; if it was proposed in order to compensate for the lack of clarity in the literary-theoretical meaning of the term "national defense literature" itself, and to correct certain erroneous opinions that have been injected into the term "national defense literature" — then it is justified and correct. If one thinks not with the soles of one's feet but uses a modicum of brain, one cannot simply dismiss it with the phrase "eccentricity" and be done with it. The term "Literature of the masses for the national revolutionary war," in itself, is more precise, more profound, and richer in content than the term "national defense literature." "Literature of the masses for the national revolutionary war" is directed principally at those progressive writers formerly called left-wing, urging them to press forward; in this sense, for Xu Maoyong to say such a slogan cannot be raised in the present united front is nonsense! "Literature of the masses for the national revolutionary war" may also be advocated to writers in general or of every school, expressing the hope that they too will press forward; in this sense, to say that such a slogan cannot be put to writers in general or of every school is also nonsense! But this is not the standard for the anti-Japanese united front. For Xu Maoyong to say I "said this should serve as the general slogan for the united front" is yet more nonsense! I ask Xu Maoyong whether he has actually read my article. If people have read my article, and if they do not interpret this slogan through the lens that Xu Maoyong and his ilk use to interpret "national defense literature" — the error committed by Nie Gannu and others — then this slogan has nothing whatever to do with sectarianism or closed-doorism. The "masses" here may be understood in the conventional sense of "the masses" or "the people," and all the more so now, when it naturally carries the meaning of "the great masses of the people." I said "national defense literature" is one of the concrete slogans of our present literary movement, because this slogan is quite popular, already familiar to many; it can extend our political and literary influence, and moreover it can be interpreted as "writers uniting under the banner of national defense" or as "patriotic literature in the broad sense." Therefore, even if it has been incorrectly interpreted and the term itself has defects, it should still continue to exist, because its existence benefits the anti-Japanese cause. I believe the two slogans can coexist; there is no need for Mr. Xin Ren's distinction between "periodical" and "temporal." I am even less in favor of people imposing various restrictions on "Literature of the masses for the national revolutionary war." If one absolutely insists that "national defense literature," having been proposed first, is the orthodoxy, then let the claim to orthodoxy go to those who want it — for the issue is not in wrangling over slogans but in actual work. Shouting slogans and fighting over orthodoxy can admittedly be turned into "articles" to earn some manuscript fees and make a living; but even so, it is hardly a long-term plan. Finally, I must speak of a few personal matters. Xu Maoyong says my words and deeds of the past half year have fostered pernicious tendencies. Let me then examine my words and deeds of this half year. As for "words," I have published four or five essays; beyond that, I have at most chatted idly with visitors and reported my symptoms to the doctor. As for "deeds," there is a bit more: I have printed two volumes of woodcut art, one collection of miscellaneous essays, translated a few chapters of *Dead Souls*, been ill for three months, signed one name — and beyond that, I have not been to any salted-meat restaurant or gambling house, nor attended any meetings. I truly do not understand how I have been "fostering" — let alone what "pernicious tendencies." Is it because I fell ill? Apart from blaming me for falling ill yet failing to die, I can think of only one explanation: blaming me for being ill and unable to fight against pernicious tendencies of the Xu Maoyong variety. Next, my relations with Hu Feng, Ba Jin, Huang Yuan, and others. I came to know them all only recently, and in each case through literary work. Though I cannot yet call them intimate friends, I may certainly call them friends. Those who, without producing genuine evidence, wantonly slander my friends as "traitors from within" or "base persons" — I shall defend them against it. This is not merely a matter of loyalty in friendship but also the result of examining both the persons and the facts. Xu Maoyong says I look only at persons and not at facts — this is a falsehood. I first looked at certain facts, and then I saw persons of the Xu Maoyong type. I was not well acquainted with Hu Feng before. One day last year a certain celebrity invited me for a talk; when I arrived, an automobile drove up, and from it leaped four men: Tian Han, Zhou Qiying, and two others — all in Western suits, bearing themselves grandly — who announced they had come especially to inform me that Hu Feng was a traitor from within, an agent sent by the government. When I asked for evidence, they said it came from the mouth of Mu Mutian, after his "conversion." That the Left League should take the words of a turncoat as holy writ — this left me truly dumbfounded. After several rounds of questioning, my answer was: the evidence is flimsy in the extreme; I do not believe it! The occasion ended in discord, of course, but afterward I heard no more talk of Hu Feng being a "traitor from within." Yet strangely, from then on, whenever the tabloid press attacked Hu Feng, they invariably dragged me in as well, or moved from me to Hu Feng. The most recent instance: after *Xianshi Wenxue* (Realist Literature) published a record of my views taken down by O.V., the *Shehui Ribao* (Social Daily) said O.V. was Hu Feng and that the record did not match my original intent. An earlier instance: when Zhou Wen protested to Fu Donghua about the bowdlerizing of his novel, the same paper said the people behind it were Hu Feng and I. The most sinister case was in the same paper, in winter of last year or spring of this one: a prominently boxed news item declared that I was about to defect to the Nanjing government, that Hu Feng was the intermediary, and that it would happen sooner or later depending on his methods. And then I looked at facts beyond my own case: was there not a young man who, having been branded a "traitor from within," saw all his friends cut him off, until he wandered homeless in the streets and was finally arrested and tortured? And was there not another young man, similarly slandered as a "traitor from within," who — precisely because he had joined in valiant struggle — now sits in a Suzhou prison, his fate unknown? These two young men are the living proof: neither of them produced the kind of grandiloquent recantation that Mu Mutian did, nor did either of them, like Tian Han, perform their plays to great applause in Nanjing. At the same time, I looked at the persons involved: even granting that Hu Feng cannot be trusted — yet as for myself, surely I can still trust myself, and I have done no such thing as negotiate conditions with Nanjing through Hu Feng. I therefore came to understand clearly that Hu Feng is forthright and easily makes enemies, and that he can be trusted; whereas toward Zhou Qiying and others of his kind — young men who carelessly slander others — I came to feel suspicion and even revulsion. Naturally, Zhou Qiying may have other merits, and may perhaps have changed since then and may yet become a genuine revolutionary. Hu Feng too has his faults — nervousness, pedantry, a certain rigidity in theory, and an unwillingness to popularize his style — but he is manifestly a promising young man who has never participated in any movement against resistance to Japan or against the united front. This is something that even the Xu Maoyongs of this world, try as they might, cannot obliterate. As for Huang Yuan, I consider him a conscientious and aspiring translator, with the solid journal *Yiwen* (Translations) and several other translated works to prove it. Ba Jin is a passionate writer of progressive thought, one of the few truly good writers — a writer who can be counted on one's fingers. He does indeed bear the label "Anarchist," but he has never opposed our movement; on the contrary, he has lent his name to the militant declarations jointly signed by literary workers. Huang Yuan has signed as well. If such a translator and such a writer wish to join the anti-Japanese united front, we welcome them. I truly cannot fathom why the Xu Maoyongs must call them "base." Is it because the existence of *Yiwen* offends the eye? Must Ba Jin be held accountable even for the Spanish Anarchists' sabotage of the revolution? Moreover, there is something that in China today has come to be regarded as commonplace, though it does not merely "foster" but positively constitutes "pernicious tendencies": fastening upon one's opponent a vile epithet without a shred of evidence. Xu Maoyong's characterization of Hu Feng as "deceitful" and Huang Yuan as "sycophantic" are cases in point. When Tian Han and Zhou Qiying said Hu Feng was a "traitor from within," it turned out he was not — because they were out of their minds, not because Hu Feng had deceitfully pretended to be a traitor and then turned out not to be one, thereby making them into liars. When the *Shehui Ribao* said Hu Feng was pulling me toward defection and I have not defected to this day, it was because the writer deliberately slandered, not because Hu Feng deceitfully pretended to pull me but actually did not, thereby turning the reporter into a rumor-monger. Hu Feng is not "lovably leftist," but I do think his personal enemies are "frighteningly leftist." Huang Yuan has never written an essay praising me, nor composed a biography of me; he merely edits a monthly magazine, rather conscientiously at that, and public opinion has not been unfavorable — so how is this "sycophancy," and how does it constitute "loyalty and respect" toward me? Is *Yiwen* my personal property? When Huang Yuan "ran about at the doors of Fu and Zheng, his obsequious manner" — Xu Maoyong was doubtless informed of this by edict, but I did not know and never witnessed it. As for his dealings with me, I have seen no "obsequious manner," and Xu Maoyong was never present on any occasion. On what grounds does he determine that it is "no different" from his supposed obsequiousness before Fu and Zheng? On this particular matter, I am myself the witness, and yet Xu Maoyong, who was never present, dares to speak such brazen falsehoods about me, who was — to spit blood in people's faces with such wild recklessness and wanton violence is truly the extreme of outrage. Is this perhaps the result of having "understood" "the basic policy of the present"? "The same throughout the world"? Then truly, one might die of fright! In truth, "the basic policy of the present" is by no means so all-encompassing a dragnet. Is it not so that anyone who supports "resistance to Japan" is a comrade-in-arms? What does "deceit" matter, what does "sycophancy" matter? And why must one insist on annihilating Hu Feng's writings and toppling Huang Yuan's *Yiwen* — are these perhaps filled with "the Twenty-One Demands" and "cultural imperialism"? What should be swept away first are those who raise high the great banner and use it as a tiger skin to wrap around themselves and intimidate others; who, at the slightest displeasure, rely on their position(!) to pronounce verdicts on people, and terrifyingly severe verdicts at that. Naturally, a front will be established — but a front formed through intimidation cannot fight. There have already been such precedents, yet the ghosts of overturned carts never learn their lesson even in death. And now, before my very eyes, one has appeared inhabiting the flesh of Xu Maoyong. Around the time the Left League was being formed, certain so-called revolutionary writers were in reality the drifting sons of declining families. They too harbored grievances, resistance, and combativeness; but these amounted to nothing more than transferring to the literary world the feuds between mother-in-law and daughter-in-law, the intrigues between uncle and sister-in-law, from their ruined households — gossip and backbiting, stirring up trouble, spreading tales, never seeing the larger picture. This lineage has passed down unbroken. Take, for example, my relations with Mao Dun and Guo Moruo: in some cases we are acquainted, in others we have never met; some of us have never clashed, others have crossed pens. But in the great struggle, we all fight for the same goal, and never spend our days and nights tallying up personal grudges. Yet the tabloid press delights in reporting how "Lu compares with Mao" or "What Guo thinks of Lu," as if we did nothing but fight over seating and compete in magic powers. Even with *Dead Souls*: after *Yiwen* ceased publication, *Shijie Wenku* (World Library) published the entire first part, yet the tabloids said "Zheng Zhenduo cut *Dead Souls* in half at the waist" or that Lu Xun, in a fit of anger, stopped translating. This is truly a pernicious tendency — using rumors to scatter the forces of the literary world, behavior approaching that of a "traitor from within." And yet this is precisely the last road left for the degenerate litterateur. I see that Xu Maoyong is already a gossip-mongering author with connections to the tabloid press, though he has not yet sunk to the very last road. But he is already confused to a remarkable degree. (Otherwise, it would be sheer arrogance.) For instance, in his letter he says: "As for striking against their words and deeds, that would in itself be quite easy; yet solely because you serve as their shield... both the practical resolution and the battle in writing present enormous difficulties." Does he mean to strike at Hu Feng's "deceit" through morality, or at Hu Feng's essays and Huang Yuan's *Yiwen* through literary criticism? I am in no great hurry to learn the answer; what I want to know is: why should my acquaintance with them make it "enormously difficult" to "strike"? I certainly would never abet rumor-mongering, but if the Xu Maoyongs were truly righteous and stern in argument, could I single-handedly cover the eyes and ears of all the world for them? And what is meant by "practical resolution"? Exile? Or beheading? Under the grand heading of "united front," is such fabrication of charges and toying with authority really permissible? I truly hope that "national defense literature" will produce great works; if not, perhaps that, too, will be laid at my door as a crime of "fostering pernicious tendencies" these past six months. At the end, Xu Maoyong tells me to read the *Biography of Stalin* carefully. Yes, I shall read it carefully; if I survive, naturally I shall continue to learn. But at the end, I also ask him to reread it carefully himself a few more times, for he seems to have gained nothing from translating it and truly needs to read it afresh. Otherwise — to snatch up a banner and fancy oneself head and shoulders above everyone else, to strike the pose of a slave overseer whose sole achievement is the cracking of the whip — that is a disease beyond remedy, and for China it is not merely useless but positively harmful. August 3–6.
前一些時，上海的官紳為太炎先生開追悼會，赴會者不滿百人，遂在寂寞中閉幕，於是有人慨歎，以為青年們對於本國的學者，竟不如對於外國的高爾基的熱誠。這慨歎其實是不得當的。官紳集會，一向為小民所不敢到；況且高爾基是戰鬥的作家，太炎先生雖先前也以革命家現身，後來卻退居於寧靜的學者，用自己所手造的和別人所幫造的牆，和時代隔絕了。紀念者自然有人，但也許將為大多數所忘卻。 　　我以為先生的業績，留在革命史上的，實在比在學術史上還要大。回憶三十餘年之前，木板的《訄書》已經出版了，我讀不斷，當然也看不懂，恐怕那時的青年，這樣的多得很。我的知道中國有太炎先生，並非因為他的經學和小學，是為了他駁斥康有為和作鄒容的《革命軍》序，竟被監禁於上海的西牢。那時留學日本的浙籍學生，正辦雜誌《浙江潮》，其中即載有先生獄中所作詩，卻並不難懂。這使我感動，也至今並沒有忘記，現在抄兩首在下面— —獄中贈鄒容 　　鄒容吾小弟，被發下瀛洲。快剪刀除辮，干牛肉作餱。英雄一入獄，天地亦悲秋。臨命須摻手，乾坤只兩頭。 　　獄中聞沈禹希見殺不見沈生久，江湖知隱淪，蕭蕭悲壯士，今在易京門。 　　螭鬼羞爭焰，文章總斷魂。中陰當待我，南北幾新墳。 　　一九○六年六月出獄，即日東渡，到了東京，不久就主持《民報》。我愛看這《民報》，但並非為了先生的文筆古奧，索解為難，或說佛法，談「俱分進化」，是為了他和主張保皇的梁啟超鬥爭，和「××」的××× 鬥爭，和「以《紅樓夢》為成佛之要道」的×××鬥爭，真是所向披靡，令人神旺。前去聽講也在這時候，但又並非因為他是學者，卻為了他是有學問的革命家，所以直到現在，先生的音容笑貌，還在目前，而所講的《說文解字》，卻一句也不記得了。民國元年革命後，先生的所志已達，該可以大有作為了，然而還是不得志。這也是和高爾基的生受崇敬，死備哀榮，截然兩樣的。我以為兩人遭遇的所以不同，其原因乃在高爾基先前的理想，後來都成為事實，他的一身，就是大眾的一體，喜怒哀樂，無不相通；而先生則排滿之志雖伸，但視為最緊要的「第一是用宗教發起信心，增進國民的道德；第二是用國粹激動種性，增進愛國的熱腸」（見《民報》第六本），卻僅止於高妙的幻想；不久而袁世凱又攘奪國柄，以遂私圖，就更使先生失卻實地，僅垂空文，至於今，惟我們的「中華民國」之稱，尚系發源于先生的《中華民國解》（最先亦見《民報》），為巨大的記念而已，然而知道這一重公案者，恐怕也已經不多了。既離民眾，漸入頹唐，後來的參與投壺，接收饋贈，遂每為論者所不滿，但這也不過白圭之玷，並非晚節不終。考其生平，以大勳章作扇墜，臨總統府之門，大詬袁世凱的包藏禍心者，並世無第二人；七被追捕，三入牢獄，而革命之志，終不屈撓者，並世亦無第二人：這才是先哲的精神，後生的楷范。近有文儈，勾結小報，竟也作文奚落先生以自鳴得意，真可謂「小人不欲成人之美」，而且「蚍蜉撼大樹，可笑不自量」了！ 　　但革命之後，先生亦漸為昭示後世計，自藏其鋒鑣。浙江所刻的《章氏叢書》，是出於手定的，大約以為駁難攻訐，至於忿詈，有違古之儒風，足以貽譏多士的罷，先前的見於期刊的鬥爭的文章，竟多被刊落，上文所引的詩兩首，亦不見於《詩錄》中。一九三三年刻《章氏叢書續編》於北平，所收不多，而更純謹，且不取舊作，當然也無鬥爭之作，先生遂身衣學術的華袞，粹然成為儒宗，執贄願為弟子者綦眾，至於倉皇制《同門錄》成冊。近閱日報，有保護版權的廣告，有三續叢書的記事，可見又將有遺著出版了，但補入先前戰鬥的文章與否，卻無從知道。戰鬥的文章，乃是先生一生中最大，最久的業績，假使未備，我以為是應該一一輯錄，校印，使先生和後生相印，活在戰鬥者的心中的。然而此時此際，恐怕也未必能如所望罷，嗚呼！ 　　十月九日。	Some time ago, the officials and gentry of Shanghai held a memorial service for Mr. Taiyan. Fewer than a hundred attended, and it closed in desolation; whereupon someone lamented that the youth showed less zeal for a scholar of their own country than for a foreign writer like Gorky. This lament is in truth misplaced. Gatherings of officials and gentry have always been places the common people dare not approach; moreover, Gorky was a combative writer, whereas Mr. Taiyan, though he once appeared as a revolutionary, later retreated into the serenity of a scholar and, by walls of his own making and those built by others, cut himself off from the age. Those who commemorate him will naturally exist, but he will perhaps be forgotten by the great majority. I believe that the achievements Mr. Taiyan left to the history of revolution are in fact greater than those he left to the history of scholarship. Recalling more than thirty years ago: the woodblock edition of *Qiu Shu* had already been published; I could not get through it, let alone understand it, and I suspect many young people of that time were the same. I came to know that China had a Mr. Taiyan not because of his classical studies or philology, but because he refuted Kang Youwei and wrote the preface to Zou Rong's *The Revolutionary Army*, and was consequently imprisoned in Shanghai's Western Jail. At that time, Zhejiang students studying in Japan were publishing the magazine *Zhejiang Tide*, which carried poems written by Mr. Taiyan in prison — and they were not hard to understand. This moved me, and I have not forgotten it to this day. Let me transcribe two of them here: To Zou Rong, in Prison* Zou Rong, my little brother, / hair unbound, descended to the Isle of Ying. / With sharp scissors he cut his queue; / on dried beef he made his provision. / When a hero enters prison, / heaven and earth turn to autumn's sorrow. / At the hour of death, let us clasp hands — / in all the universe, just we two remain. In Prison, on Hearing of the Killing of Shen Yuxi* Long have I not seen Shen — / by rivers and lakes he hid his traces. / Mournfully I grieve for a brave man, / now at the Gate of Yi Jing. // The demon-dragon is shamed to compete in flame; / the written word ever breaks the soul. / In the bardo he shall wait for me; / north and south, how many new graves. In June 1906, upon his release from prison, he crossed to Japan that very day. Before long he took charge of *Min Bao* (The People's Journal). I loved reading *Min Bao*, not for the archaic obscurity of his prose, with its difficulties of interpretation, or his discourses on Buddhism and "co-evolutionary progress," but for his battles: against Liang Qichao, advocate of constitutional monarchy; against ×××; and against ×××, who "took *Dream of the Red Chamber* as the essential path to Buddhahood" — he was truly irresistible, and the effect was electrifying. My going to hear his lectures was at this same time, and again not because he was a scholar, but because he was a learned revolutionary; so to this day his voice and countenance remain before my eyes, while of his lectures on the *Shuowen Jiezi*, I cannot recall a single sentence. After the revolution of the first year of the Republic, his aspirations were realized, and he should have been able to accomplish great things — yet he remained unfulfilled. This, too, is utterly unlike the living veneration and posthumous honor bestowed upon Gorky. The reason the two men met such different fates, I believe, is that Gorky's earlier ideals all became reality; his person was one with the masses — joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness, all shared. Whereas with Mr. Taiyan, though his ambition to overthrow the Manchus was achieved, what he regarded as most essential — "first, using religion to inspire faith and elevate the morals of the citizenry; second, using the national heritage to stir the racial spirit and kindle patriotic fervor" (see *Min Bao*, issue 6) — remained merely a lofty fantasy. Soon afterward, Yuan Shikai usurped the reins of state to pursue his private designs, which left Mr. Taiyan further bereft of solid ground, with nothing but empty words; so that to this day, only our designation "Republic of China" still traces its origin to his essay "An Explanation of the Republic of China" (first published in *Min Bao*), and stands as a great memorial — though I fear that those who know of even this case are already few. Having become estranged from the masses and gradually sunk into despondency, his later participation in pitch-pot games and acceptance of gifts did draw criticism — but these were merely blemishes on white jade, not the ruin of his later years. Examining his life: to use his grand decoration as a fan-pendant and stand before the gates of the Presidential Palace, publicly reviling Yuan Shikai for his concealed treachery — there was no second person in his generation who did this; seven times pursued and arrested, three times imprisoned, yet never bending in his revolutionary resolve — there was likewise no second person: this is the true spirit of the sages and the model for posterity. Recently, certain literary hacks, in league with tabloid papers, have also written articles mocking Mr. Taiyan so as to congratulate themselves — truly it may be said that "the petty man does not wish others to achieve greatness" and "the ant tries to shake the great tree — laughable in its self-delusion!" Yet after the revolution, Mr. Taiyan gradually concealed his sharpness, mindful of posterity. The *Collected Works of Mr. Zhang* published in Zhejiang was edited by his own hand, and presumably because he felt that polemics and invective, carried to the point of abuse, violated the Confucian ideal and might invite ridicule from the multitude of scholars, many of his combative essays previously published in periodicals were struck out — and the two poems quoted above are likewise absent from his *Poetry Collection*. In 1933, the *Sequel to the Collected Works of Mr. Zhang* was printed in Beiping; it contained little, was even more circumspect, and drew only on recent works — naturally omitting all combative writing. Thus Mr. Taiyan, clad in the splendid robes of scholarship, became purely a patriarch of Confucian learning; those who came bearing gifts to seek discipleship were so numerous that a *Register of Fellow Students* had to be hastily compiled. Recently I noticed in the daily papers a copyright notice and a report about a third sequel; evidently more posthumous works will be published, but whether the earlier combative essays will be restored, one cannot know. The combative essays are the greatest and most enduring achievement of Mr. Taiyan's life. Should they remain uncollected, I believe they ought to be gathered, collated, and printed one by one, so that the master and posterity may reflect each other, alive in the hearts of those who fight. Yet at this time and in these circumstances, even this hope may perhaps not be fulfilled — alas! October 9.
曾經有過這樣的一個時候，喧傳有好幾位名人都要譯《資本論》，自然依據著原文，但有一位還要參照英，法，日，俄各國的譯本。到現在，至少已經滿六年，還不見有一章發表，這種事業之難可想了。對於蘇聯的文學作品，那時也一樣的熱心，英譯的短篇小說集一到上海，恰如一胛羊肉墜入狼群中，立刻撕得一片片，或則化為「飛腳阿息普」，或則化為「飛毛腿奧雪伯」；然而到得第二本英譯《蔚藍的城》輸入的時候，志士們卻已經沒有這麼起勁，有的還早覺得「伊凡」「彼得」，還不如「一洞」「八索」之有趣了。 　　然而也有並不一哄而起的人，當時好像落後，但因為也不一哄而散，後來卻成為中堅。靖華就是一聲不響，不斷的翻譯著的一個。他二十年來，精研俄文，默默的出了《三姊妹》，出了《白茶》，出了《煙袋》和《四十一》，出了《鐵流》以及其他單行小冊很不少，然而不尚廣告，至今無渲赫之名，且受擠排，兩處受封鎖之害。但他依然不斷的在改定他先前的譯作，而他的譯作，也依然活在讀者們的心中。這固然也因為一時自稱「革命作家」的過於吊兒郎當，終使堅實者成為碩果，但其實卻大半為了中國的讀書界究竟有進步，讀者自有確當的批判，不再受空心大老的欺騙了。 　　靖華是未名社中之一員；未名社一向設在北京，也是一個實地勞作，不尚叫囂的小團體。但還是遭些無妄之災，而且遭得頗可笑。它被封閉過一次，是由於山東督軍張宗昌的電報，聽說發動的倒是同行的文人；後來沒有事，啟封了。出盤之後，靖華譯的兩種小說都積在台靜農家，又和「新式炸彈」一同被收沒，後來雖然證明了這「新式炸彈」其實只是製造化裝品的機器，書籍卻仍然不發還，於是這兩種書，遂成為天地之間的珍本。為了我的《吶喊》在天津圖書館被焚燬，梁實秋教授掌青島大學圖書館時，將我的譯作驅除，以及未名社的橫禍，我那時頗覺得北方官長，辦事較南方為森嚴，元朝分奴隸為四等，置北人於南人之上，實在並非無故。後來知道梁教授雖居北地，實是南人，以及靖華的小說想在南邊出版，也曾被錮多日，就又明白我的決論其實是不確的了。這也是所謂「學問無止境」罷。 　　但現在居然已經得到出版的機會，閒話休題，是當然的。言歸正傳：則這是合兩種譯本短篇小說集而成的書，刪去兩篇，加入三篇，以篇數論，有增無減。所取題材，雖多在二十年前，因此其中不見水閘建築，不見集體農場，但在蘇聯，還都是保有生命的作品，從我們中國人看來，也全是親切有味的文章。至於譯者對於原語的學力的充足和譯文之可靠，是讀書界中早有定論，不待我多說的了。 　　靖華不厭棄我，希望在出版之際，寫幾句序言，而我久生大病，體力衰憊，不能為文，以上云云，幾同塞責。然而靖華的譯文，豈真有待於序，此後亦如先前，將默默的有益於中國的讀者，是無疑的。倒是我得以乘機打草，是一幸事，亦一快事也。	There was once a time when it was trumpeted abroad that a number of distinguished figures all intended to translate *Das Kapital*, from the original, of course, with one person going so far as to say he would also consult the English, French, Japanese, and Russian translations. By now at least six full years have elapsed without a single chapter appearing in print — which gives some idea of the difficulty of such an undertaking. Toward Soviet literary works, there was an equal degree of enthusiasm at the time: when an English translation of a short-story collection arrived in Shanghai, it was like a shoulder of mutton dropped among wolves — instantly torn to pieces, its characters transformed into "Ashipu with the flying legs" or "Osheibo with the flying hair"; yet by the time a second English translation, *The Azure City*, was imported, the zealots had already lost much of their fervor, and some had long since concluded that "Ivan" and "Peter" were, after all, not as interesting as "Yi Dong" and "Ba Suo." Yet there were also those who did not join in the stampede. They appeared to lag behind at the time, but precisely because they did not scatter with the crowd either, they later became the mainstay. Jinghua was one such person — silent, translating without cease. Over twenty years he had devoted himself to mastering Russian, and quietly produced *Three Sisters*, produced *White Tea*, produced *The Pipe* and *The Forty-First*, produced *The Iron Flood*, and a good many other individual pamphlets besides. But he was not given to advertising, and to this day enjoys no blazing fame; moreover, he has suffered exclusion, being subject to blockades from two quarters. Yet he continues, undeterred, to revise his earlier translations, and his translations remain alive in the hearts of readers. This is partly, to be sure, because the self-proclaimed "revolutionary writers" of the time were so deplorably frivolous that the solid worker was left standing as the last fruit on the tree; but in truth it is largely because China's reading public has made progress, and readers have developed sound judgment and can no longer be hoodwinked by hollow grandees. Jinghua was a member of the Weiming Society; the Weiming Society had always been based in Beijing — a small group that labored in earnest, disdaining clamor. Yet it still suffered some undeserved calamities, and rather ludicrous ones at that. It was shut down once on account of a telegram from Zhang Zongchang, the warlord of Shandong — though the instigator, I am told, was actually a fellow man of letters. Later the matter was cleared up and the seal was lifted. After the ban, two novels translated by Jinghua had been stored at Tai Jingnong's house, and were confiscated together with a "new-style bomb." Though it was subsequently proved that this "new-style bomb" was in fact merely a machine for manufacturing cosmetics, the books were still not returned — and so these two volumes became rare treasures between heaven and earth. On account of the burning of my *Call to Arms* in the Tianjin library, Professor Liang Shiqiu's expulsion of my translations from the Qingdao University library when he served as its director, and the Weiming Society's unjust misfortune, I felt at the time that the officials of the north were more rigorous than those of the south. In the Yuan dynasty, slaves were ranked in four grades, with northerners placed above southerners, and this, it seemed, was not without reason. Later, however, I learned that Professor Liang, though residing in the north, was in fact a southerner, and that when Jinghua tried to publish his novels in the south, they were likewise suppressed for a considerable time — whereupon I realized my conclusion was, in fact, incorrect. This, too, is what is called "learning knows no end." But now the opportunity for publication has at last arrived, and idle talk may cease — that goes without saying. To return to the matter at hand: this book combines two translated collections of short stories; two pieces have been removed and three added, so in terms of number, there is a net gain. The subjects treated, though mostly drawn from twenty years ago — so that one finds here no construction of dams, no collective farms — are still works that retain their vitality in the Soviet Union, and from our Chinese perspective, they are all congenial and flavorful writing. As for the translator's thorough command of the source language and the reliability of his renderings, the reading public has long reached its verdict, and I need say no more. Jinghua, not disdaining me, has expressed the wish that I write a few words of preface on the occasion of publication. But I have been gravely ill for a long time; my strength is spent and I cannot write properly. What I have set down above amounts almost to a mere formality. Yet Jinghua's translations, do they truly need a preface? Hereafter as heretofore, they will silently benefit Chinese readers — of this there is no doubt. Rather, it is I who have profited from the chance to fire off a few stray shots — that is my good fortune and my pleasure indeed.
寫完題目，就有些躊躕，怕空話多於本文，就是俗語之所謂「雷聲大，雨點小」。做了《關於太炎先生二三事》以後，好像還可以寫一點閒文，但已經沒有力氣，只得停止了。第二天一覺醒來，日報已到，拉過來一看，不覺自己摩一下頭頂，驚歎道：「二十五週年的雙十節！原來中華民國，已過了一世紀的四分之一了，豈不快哉！」但這「快」是迅速的意思。後來亂翻增刊，偶看見新作家的憎惡老人的文章，便如兜頂澆半瓢冷水。自己心裡想：老人這東西，恐怕也真為青年所不耐的。例如我罷，性情即日見乖張，二十五年而已，卻偏喜歡說一世紀的四分之一，以形容其多，真不知忙著什麼；而且這摩一下頭頂的手勢，也實在可以說是太落伍了。 　　這手勢，每當驚喜或感動的時候，我也已經用了一世紀的四分之一，猶言「辮子究竟剪去了」，原是勝利的表示。這種心情，和現在的青年也是不能相通的。假使都會上有一個拖著辮子的人，三十左右的壯年和二十上下的青年，看見了恐怕只以為珍奇，或者竟覺得有趣，但我卻仍然要憎恨，憤怒，因為自己是曾經因此吃苦的人，以剪辮為一大公案的緣故。我的愛護中華民國，焦唇敝舌，恐其衰微，大半正為了使我們得有剪辮的自由，假使當初為了保存古跡，留辮不剪，我大約是決不會這樣愛它的。張勳來也好，段祺瑞來也好，我真自愧遠不及有些士君子的大度。 　　當我還是孩子時，那時的老人指教我說：剃頭擔上的旗竿，三百年前是掛頭的。滿人入關，下令拖辮，剃頭人沿路拉人剃髮，誰敢抗拒，便砍下頭來掛在旗竿上，再去拉別的人。那時的剃髮，先用水擦，再用刀刮，確是氣悶的，但掛頭故事卻並不引起我的驚懼，因為即使我不高興剃髮，剃頭人不但不來砍下我的腦袋，還從旗竿斗裡摸出糖來，說剃完就可以吃，已經換了懷柔方略了。見慣者不怪，對辮子也不覺其醜，何況花樣繁多，以姿態論，則辮子有松打，有緊打，辮線有三股，有散線，周圍有看發（即今之「劉海」），看發有長短，長看發又可打成兩條細辮子，環於頂搭之周圍，顧影自憐，為美男子；以作用論，則打架時可拔，犯奸時可剪，做戲的可掛於鐵竿，為父的可鞭其子女，變把戲的將頭搖動，能飛舞如龍蛇，昨在路上，看見巡捕拿人，一手一個，以一捕二，倘在辛亥革命前，則一把辮子，至少十多個，為治民計，也極方便的。不幸的是所謂「海禁大開」，士人漸讀洋書，因知比較，縱使不被洋人稱為「豬尾」，而既不全剃，又不全留，剃掉一圈，留下一撮，打成尖辮，如慈菇芽，也未免自己覺得毫無道理，大可不必了。 　　我想，這是縱使生於民國的青年，一定也都知道的。清光緒中，曾有康有為者變過法，不成，作為反動，是義和團起事，而八國聯軍遂入京，這年代很容易記，是恰在一千九百年，十九世紀的結末。於是滿清官民，又要維新了，維新有老譜，照例是派官出洋去考察，和派學生出洋去留學。我便是那時被兩江總督派赴日本的人們之中的一個，自然，排滿的學說和辮子的罪狀和文字獄的大略，是早經知道了一些的，而最初在實際上感到不便的，卻是那辮子。 　　凡留學生一到日本，急於尋求的大抵是新知識。除學習日文，準備進專門的學校之外，就赴會館，跑書店，往集會，聽講演。我第一次所經歷的是在一個忘了名目的會場上，看見一位頭包白紗布，用無錫腔講演排滿的英勇的青年，不覺肅然起敬。但聽下去，到得他說「我在這裡罵老太婆，老太婆一定也在那裡罵吳稚暉」，聽講者一陣大笑的時候，就感到沒趣，覺得留學生好像也不外乎嬉皮笑臉。「老太婆」者，指清朝的西太后。吳稚暉在東京開會罵西太后，是眼前的事實無疑，但要說這時西太后也正在北京開會罵吳稚暉，我可不相信。講演固然不妨夾著笑罵，但無聊的打諢，是非徒無益，而且有害的。不過吳先生這時卻正在和公使蔡鈞大戰，名馳學界，白紗布下面，就藏著名譽的傷痕。不久，就被遞解回國，路經皇城外的河邊時，他跳了下去，但立刻又被撈起，押送回去了。這就是後來太炎先生和他筆戰時，文中之所謂「不投大壑而投陽溝，面目上露」。其實是日本的御溝並不狹小，但當警官護送之際，卻即使並未「面目上露」，也一定要被撈起的。這筆戰愈來愈凶，終至夾著毒詈，今年吳先生譏刺太炎先生受國民政府優遇時，還提起這件事，這是三十餘年前的舊賬，至今不忘，可見怨毒之深了。但先生手定的《章氏叢書》內，卻都不收錄這些攻戰的文章。先生力排清虜，而服膺於幾個清儒，殆將希蹤古賢，故不欲以此等文字自穢其著述——但由我看來，其實是吃虧，上當的，此種醇風，正使物能遁形，貽患千古。 　　剪掉辮子，也是當時一大事。太炎先生去發時，作《解辮發》，有雲— —「……共和二千七百四十一年，秋七月，餘年三十三矣。是時滿洲政府不道，戕虐朝士，橫挑強鄰，戮使略賈，四維交攻。憤東胡之無狀，漢族之不得職，隕涕涔涔曰，餘年已立，而猶被戎狄之服，不違咫尺，弗能剪除，余之罪也。將薦紳束髮，以復近古，日既不給，衣又不可得。於是曰，昔祁班孫，釋隱玄，皆以明氏遺老，斷髮以歿。《春秋谷梁傳》曰：『吳祝髮』《漢書》《嚴助傳》曰：『越劗發』，（晉灼曰：『劗，張揖以為古剪字也』）余故吳越間民，去之亦猶行古之道也。……」 　　文見於木刻初版和排印再版的《訄書》中，後經更定，改名《檢論》時，也被刪掉了。我的剪辮，卻並非因為我是越人，越在古昔，「斷髮文身」，今特效之，以見先民儀矩，也毫不含有革命性，歸根結蒂，只為了不便：一不便於脫帽，二不便於體操，三盤在囟門上，令人很氣悶。在事實上，無辮之徒，回國以後，默然留長，化為不二之臣者也多得很。而黃克強在東京作師範學生時，就始終沒有斷髮，也未嘗大叫革命，所略顯其楚人的反抗的蠻性者，惟因日本學監，誡學生不可赤膊，他卻偏光著上身，手挾洋磁臉盆，從浴室經過大院子，搖搖擺擺的走入自修室去而已。	Having written the title, I already feel some hesitation, fearing that the idle talk will outweigh the text proper — what is colloquially called "loud thunder, small raindrops." After writing "On Two or Three Matters Concerning Mr. Taiyan," I felt as though I could still dash off a few more casual lines, but I no longer had the strength, and had to stop. The next morning, when I woke, the daily paper had already arrived. I pulled it over and, glancing at it, could not help rubbing the top of my head and exclaiming: "The twenty-fifth anniversary of the Double Tenth! So the Republic of China has already passed through a quarter of a century — how swift!" But this "swift" I mean in the sense of "rapid." Later, leafing idly through the supplement, I happened upon an article by a new writer expressing hatred of old people, and it was as though half a ladle of cold water had been poured over the crown of my head. I thought to myself: old people are perhaps truly tiresome to the young. Take me, for instance: my temperament grows daily more perverse. Twenty-five years and no more, yet I insist on saying "a quarter of a century" to make it sound like a great deal — I really don't know what the hurry is about. And this gesture of rubbing the top of my head is, in truth, decidedly outmoded. This gesture, which I use whenever I am startled or moved, I have already been performing for a quarter of a century — meaning "the queue is gone after all," originally a sign of victory. This sort of feeling, too, is something today's young people cannot share. Suppose there were a man in the city still wearing a queue: a man of around thirty and a youth of about twenty, seeing him, would probably think him merely quaint, perhaps even find him amusing. But I would still feel hatred and fury, because I myself once suffered on account of it — having regarded the cutting of the queue as a great public matter. My love for the Republic of China, my parched lips and hoarse voice fearing for its decline — much of this was precisely so that we might enjoy the freedom to cut our queues. Had we preserved them in the beginning, for the sake of keeping up antiquities, leaving the queue uncut, I would assuredly not have loved the Republic so. Whether it was Zhang Xun who came or Duan Qirui, I confess I am far inferior to certain gentlemen in magnanimity. When I was still a child, the old people of that time taught me this: the barber's pole, three hundred years ago, was used for hanging heads. When the Manchus entered the pass and decreed the wearing of queues, the barbers went about the streets seizing people to shave — whoever dared to resist had his head chopped off and hung on the pole, whereupon they went and seized others. The shaving in those days — first wetting with water, then scraping with a blade — was stifling indeed, but the tale of hanging heads did not alarm me, for even had I disliked the shaving, the barber would not have cut off my head; on the contrary, he would reach into the canister on the pole, produce a candy, and say I could eat it when the shaving was done — the policy having shifted to one of conciliation. What one sees often one ceases to find strange; toward the queue, too, one no longer noticed its ugliness — especially since the styles were so varied. In terms of form: the queue could be loosely braided or tightly braided; the braid cord could be three-stranded or loose-threaded; around the edges one could have "framing hair" (what is now called "bangs"), and the bangs could be long or short — long bangs could moreover be woven into two slender braids looped around the topknot, and one could admire one's own reflection as a handsome man. In terms of function: in a fight it could be pulled; in cases of adultery it could be cut; actors could hang from it on an iron rod; fathers could flog their children with it; jugglers, by shaking their heads, could make it whirl like a dragon or a serpent. Just yesterday, on the road, I watched a constable apprehending men — one in each hand, two caught per constable — but had this been before the revolution of 1911, one handful of queues could have snagged at least ten or more; for the purposes of governing the people, it was extremely convenient. The misfortune was that with the so-called "opening of the sea-gates," scholars gradually read foreign books, gained a basis for comparison, and even without being called "pigtails" by Westerners, realized that a head neither fully shaved nor fully haired — shaved around the edges, a tuft left at the top, braided into a tapered queue like the sprout of an arrowhead plant — was, on reflection, devoid of reason and quite unnecessary. I should think that even young people born under the Republic would all know this. In the middle of the Guangxu reign, a certain Kang Youwei attempted a reform; it failed, and the backlash produced the Boxer Uprising, followed by the Eight-Nation Allied Expedition's entry into Beijing. The year is easy to remember: it was exactly 1900, the close of the nineteenth century. Thereupon the Manchu officialdom and populace resolved upon reform once more. Reform followed the old script: send officials abroad to investigate, and send students abroad to study. I was one of those dispatched to Japan by the Viceroy of Liangjiang at that time. Naturally, the doctrines of anti-Manchu revolution and the crimes of the queue and the broad outlines of the literary inquisition were already somewhat known to me; but the first inconvenience I actually experienced in practice was that queue. All Chinese students, upon arriving in Japan, were eager above all to acquire new knowledge. Besides studying Japanese and preparing to enter specialized schools, they went to guild halls, browsed bookshops, attended gatherings, and listened to lectures. The first event I experienced was in a meeting hall whose name I have forgotten, where I saw a young man, his head wrapped in white gauze, lecturing on anti-Manchu revolution in the Wuxi dialect with great valor. I was filled with solemn respect. But as I listened further, and he said "I stand here cursing the Old Lady, and the Old Lady is surely over there cursing Wu Zhihui" — whereupon the audience burst into laughter — I felt deflated, feeling that these overseas students were, after all, nothing but grins and giggles. The "Old Lady" referred to the Qing dynasty's Empress Dowager Cixi. That Wu Zhihui was holding a meeting in Tokyo to curse the Empress Dowager was an undeniable present fact; but to say that at this very moment the Empress Dowager was also holding a meeting in Beijing to curse Wu Zhihui — that I could not believe. Lectures may well include laughing denunciation, but idle buffoonery is not merely useless but positively harmful. However, Mr. Wu was at that time locked in battle with the minister Cai Jun, his name ringing through academic circles; beneath the white gauze lay the honorable wounds of fame. Before long, he was deported back to China; as the escort passed the moat outside the Imperial City, he jumped in — but was immediately fished out again and sent on his way. This is what Mr. Taiyan later referred to in his polemics against Wu as "not jumping into the abyss but jumping into a ditch, with face exposed above the water." In fact, Japan's Imperial moat is not narrow at all, but when escorted by police, even if his face had not been "exposed above the water," he would certainly have been fished out. This polemic grew more and more fierce, until it was laced with virulent abuse; this year, when Mr. Wu mocked Mr. Taiyan for accepting the National Government's honors, he still brought up this incident — a thirty-year-old score, unforgotten to this day, showing the depth of the grudge. Yet in his self-edited *Collected Works of Mr. Zhang*, none of these polemical essays were included. Mr. Taiyan strenuously rejected the Manchu oppressors while revering several Qing-era scholars, apparently aspiring to the stature of the ancient sages, and therefore unwilling to sully his writings with such texts. But in my view, this was actually a loss and a blunder: such scruples of decorum merely allow things to slip from view, bequeathing harm to a thousand ages. The cutting of the queue was also a great matter at the time. When Mr. Taiyan cut his hair, he wrote "On Unbinding the Queue," in which he said: "... In the 2741st year of the Republic, the seventh month of autumn, I was thirty-three. At that time the Manchu government was tyrannical, slaughtering courtiers, provoking powerful neighbors, killing envoys and merchants, beset from all four sides. Indignant at the Donghu barbarians' outrages and the Han people's exclusion from office, I shed tears and said: I am past thirty and still wear the garb of the Rong-Di barbarians; so close at hand, yet I cannot cut it away — that is my crime. I would don the scholar's cap and bind my hair to restore the ways of recent antiquity, but the days are not enough, and the proper garments cannot be had. Thereupon I said: In former times, Qi Bansun and the monk Yinxuan, both as loyalist remnants of the Ming, cut their hair and died thus. The *Guliang Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals* says 'the people of Wu shaved their heads'; the *Book of Han*, 'Biography of Yan Zhu,' says 'the Yue people cropped their hair' (Jin Zhuo comments: 'the character *jian* is what Zhang Yi considers the ancient form of *jian*, to cut'). I am originally a man of the Wu-Yue region; to remove it is but to follow the ways of antiquity..." This text appears in both the woodblock first edition and the typeset second edition of the *Qiu Shu*; but when it was revised and retitled *Jian Lun* (Critical Essays), it was deleted. My own cutting of the queue, however, was not because I was a man of Yue and Yue in ancient times practiced "cutting the hair and tattooing the body," which I now emulated to demonstrate the rites of my ancestors — nor did it contain the slightest revolutionary significance. At bottom, it was simply a matter of inconvenience: first, inconvenient for removing one's hat; second, inconvenient for physical exercise; third, coiled atop the fontanel, it made one feel stifled. In practice, many a queueless fellow, upon returning to China, silently grew it back and became an obedient subject. And Huang Keqiang, when he was a normal-school student in Tokyo, never cut his hair at all, never loudly proclaimed revolution; the only slight display of his Chu-born spirit of defiance was this: the Japanese supervisor warned students not to go about bare-chested, but he insisted on walking bare from the waist up, a porcelain washbasin tucked under his arm, from the bathhouse across the great courtyard, swaggering into the study hall.