Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Feizao

Soap

肥皂 (Soap)

von Lu Xun (鲁迅, 1881-1936)

Uebersetzt aus dem Chinesischen.

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Section 1

[The Nose -- Russia: Gogol]

[I]

On the twenty-fifth of March, an extraordinarily strange event occurred in Petersburg. The barber Ivan Yakovlevich, residing on Ascension Avenue (his surname has been lost, and on his shop sign, apart from a gentleman with a face lathered in soap and the words "Also Bloodletting," nothing was to be seen) -- in short, the barber Ivan Yakovlevich, residing on Ascension Avenue, awoke quite early and immediately smelled freshly baked bread. Raising himself slightly in bed, he saw his wife, who looked like a fine lady and was particularly fond of coffee, taking the freshly baked bread out of the oven.

"Today, Praskovya Osipovna, I don't want coffee," said Ivan Yakovlevich, "I'd rather have some hot bread with onions." (In truth, Ivan Yakovlevich wanted both coffee and bread, but he knew it was absolutely impossible to ask for both at once, since Praskovya Osipovna utterly detested such bad manners.) "Let the fool eat just bread, that suits me fine," thought his wife, "that means an extra portion of coffee for me." And she tossed a loaf on the table.

Ivan Yakovlevich put on his tailcoat over his undershirt, sat down at the table, sprinkled salt, prepared two onion heads, took up the knife, and with a most solemn expression began to cut the bread. Having divided it in two, he looked at the middle and was startled to see something white inside. Ivan Yakovlevich carefully poked with the knife and felt with his finger. "Quite hard!" he said. "What on earth is this?"

He stuck his finger in and pulled out -- a nose! ...

Ivan Yakovlevich involuntarily drew back his hand, rubbed his eyes, and felt again: a nose, a real nose! And this nose even seemed somehow familiar. Horror appeared on Ivan's face. But this horror was nothing compared to the fury displayed by his wife.

"Where did you cut that nose off, you good-for-nothing?" she shouted angrily. "You scoundrel, you drunkard! I'll report you to the police! You oaf! I've already heard from three customers that when you shave them you pull their noses so hard they nearly come off!"

But Ivan Yakovlevich was nearly breathless; he had already recognized that this was none other than the nose of Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov, who came to be shaved every Wednesday and Sunday.

"Wait, Praskovya Osipovna! I'll wrap it in a cloth and put it in the corner. Let it stay there for now; later I'll throw it away."

"No! What, a cut-off nose lying in my room -- I won't have it! ... You good-for-nothing! All you can do is strop your razor, but what you ought to do you never do straight away. You layabout, you blockhead! Do you think I'll go to the police for you? No thank you! You sluggard, you fool! Take it away! Wherever you like! But don't make me smell such a thing!"

Ivan Yakovlevich stood there as if beaten. He thought and thought -- but did not know what to think. "How can such a thing happen?" he said at last, scratching behind his ear. "Whether I came home drunk last night, I can't rightly remember. But this business, no matter how I think about it, doesn't seem real. First of all, bread is baked thoroughly, but a nose is not at all. I simply cannot figure it out!" Ivan Yakovlevich fell silent. The thought that the police might discover the nose on his person and prosecute him nearly drove him mad. Before his eyes already flashed the red collar with silver braid, and a sword gleamed -- he trembled all over. He took out trousers and boots, dressed himself as inconspicuously as possible, and accompanied by his dear wife's nagging, went out into the street with the nose wrapped in a cloth.

He had intended to stuff it under a doorstep or drop it somewhere on the street and then turn into a side lane. But bad luck had it that at the critical moment he always ran into an acquaintance who asked things like "Where are you off to, Ivan Yakovlevich?" or "Whose place are you going to for a shave so early?" -- so he could find no opportunity. Once he had already dropped it very skillfully, but a sentry standing far off pointed his stick at him and shouted: "Pick that up! You've dropped something!" This left Ivan Yakovlevich no choice but to pick up the nose again and put it in his pocket. Meanwhile, shops opened their doors and more and more pedestrians appeared, and he despaired completely.

He decided to run to the St. Isaac's Bridge. Perhaps somehow he could throw it into the Neva? -- But it is the author's fault that until now nothing has been said about our Ivan Yakovlevich, who possesses many respectable qualities.

Like all proper Russian artisans, Ivan Yakovlevich was a terrible drunkard; though he shaved other people's faces every day, his own remained perpetually unshaven. His tailcoat (he never wore a frock coat) was covered in stains: originally black, it had turned grayish-yellow everywhere; the stiff collar shone, and three buttons were missing, leaving only the thread stumps. Yet Ivan Yakovlevich was a great satirist. For instance, when Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov said during his shave, as was his custom: "Your hands, Ivan Yakovlevich, always smell rotten!" -- Ivan Yakovlevich would reply: "Why should they smell rotten?" -- "I don't know, friend, but they stink terribly," the Collegiate Assessor answered. Ivan Yakovlevich would take a pinch of snuff and then lather cheeks, upper lip, behind the ears, under the chin -- in short, wherever his hand happened to go -- all with soap, as his answer.

Section 11

Telling of Himself by Gide. Japan: Ishikawa Takeshi

In the third volume of the French edition of "The Complete Works of Gide" there is a short essay entitled "Portrait of the Author." The date is unknown; perhaps it dates from around 1901. Since it is still of some interest, the full text is reproduced here.

The Vallotton mentioned here is a famous French printmaker. About him, if I remember correctly, Kuriyagawa Hakuson also wrote. In the poet Gourmont's collection of literary essays "The Book of Masks," he created portraits of many French authors.

According to the words of Martin Chauffier, the editor of the "Complete Works," this portrait seems to have appeared in the serialized work "Describing Oneself" published in the newspaper "Le Cri de Paris," accompanied by an article by Gide. The portrait was later included in "The Book of Masks."

When Vallotton created this woodcut, he had never seen Gide; he worked only from a photograph taken under palm trees in Biskra (Africa). Shortly after, when the two met for the first time, Vallotton exclaimed, "From my woodcut, one could hardly have recognized you!"

That Gide loved the South (Italy and Africa) and that his many travels there produced many of his masterworks is well known. Critics attribute this to the blood of his paternal lineage, which came from the region of Uzes in southern France.

(Translated by Luo Wen from "Bunka Shudan," Vol. 2, No. 8.)

(Published in "Yiwen" [Translations], Vol. 1, No. 2, October 16, 1934.)

Section 17

The short piece "The Village Woman" was originally titled "The Bulgarian Woman" and was retranslated from the anthology translated by Mrs. Szatanska (Marya Jonas von Szatanska) in the Reclam Universal Library, number five thousand and fifty-nine. The anthology is titled "The Bulgarian Woman and Other Stories"; this is the first piece, depicting the typical village woman of his country: superstitious, stubborn, but sturdy and brave; along with her conception of the revolution, for the nation, for the faith. Therefore the original title is more apt. The current change to a more "familiar" rather than "faithful" title is actually not a good example; after I finished translating, I reconsidered and realized I had been too clever before. The original author used "good deeds" to strike at prayer at the end -- this was probably a hint for his domestic readers.

I think it is unnecessary for me to explain that Bulgaria at that time was under Turkish oppression. Although this short story is simple, it is written very clearly, and the places and characters in it are real. Though sixty years have already passed, I believe it still possesses great power to move.

(Published in the final issue of "Yiwen" [Translations], September 16, 1935.)

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