Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Zhufu
| The New Year's Sacrifice | |
|---|---|
| Author | Lu Xun (鲁迅) |
| Title | The New Year's Sacrifice |
| Original title | 祝福 |
| Collection | Wandering (彷徨) |
| First published | 1924 |
| Translation | Claude / Martin Woesler |
The end of the year by the old calendar is, after all, the most year-end-like time. Not only in the villages and towns — even the sky takes on the look of the approaching New Year. From the gray, leaden evening clouds come intermittent flashes, followed by dull booms — firecrackers to see off the Kitchen God. Those set off nearby are louder still; the ear-splitting blasts have barely died away before the air is already thick with the faint fragrance of gunpowder. It was on precisely this night that I returned to my hometown, the town of Lu. Although I called it home, I no longer had a home there, so I had no choice but to lodge temporarily at the residence of Old Master Lu the Fourth. He was a relative on my father's side, one generation my senior, so I addressed him as "Fourth Uncle" — an old Imperial Academy stipendiary who was devoted to Neo-Confucian philosophy. He had not changed much, only aged a bit, and still had not grown a beard. When we met, we exchanged pleasantries; after the pleasantries he said I had "gotten fatter"; and after that he roundly cursed the Reform Party. But I knew this was not aimed at me, for the target of his abuse was still Kang Youwei. In any case, our conversation never found common ground, and before long I was left alone in the study.
The next day I got up very late and after lunch went to call on several relatives and friends; the third day was the same. They too had hardly changed, only aged a little; but every household was busy, all preparing for the "New Year's Blessing." This was the great year-end ceremony of Lu Town, a solemn rite to welcome the gods of good fortune and pray for luck in the coming year. Chickens were killed, geese slaughtered, pork bought and washed with great care; the women's arms were soaked red in the water, some still wearing twisted silver bracelets. After cooking, chopsticks were stuck in at all angles, and the offering was called "blessing gifts." These were set out at the fifth watch, with incense and candles lit, reverently inviting the gods of fortune to partake. Only men were permitted to worship; afterwards, firecrackers were let off once again. So it was every year, in every household — provided they could afford the offerings and firecrackers — and so it was this year too. The sky grew ever more overcast; in the afternoon it actually began to snow. Snowflakes as large as plum blossoms danced through the air, mingling with smoke and bustle, and turned Lu Town into one great muddle. When I returned to Fourth Uncle's study, the roof tiles were already white with snow, the room seemed brighter than usual, and on the wall one could clearly make out a large red-rubbing character for "Longevity," written by the ancient patriarch Chen Tuan. One half of the couplet flanking it had fallen off and lay loosely rolled on the long table; the other half still hung there, reading: "He who comprehends the principles of things has a serene and peaceful mind." Idly, I went to the desk by the window and riffled through what was there: only an apparently incomplete Kangxi Dictionary, a volume of Jinsilu Jizhu, and a volume of Sishu Chen. Whatever the case, I was determined to leave the next day.
Moreover, the thought of my encounter with Xianglin's Wife the day before made it impossible for me to stay in peace. It had been in the afternoon. I had visited a friend at the east end of town, and on my way out met her by the river; from the direction of her fixed stare, I knew at once she was walking straight toward me. Of all the people I had seen in Lu Town this time, the change in none could compare with hers: the hair that five years ago had been streaked with gray was now entirely white, not at all like a person of about forty. Her face was wasted to the bone, sallow shading into black, and every trace of her former grief had been erased — it was as if carved from wood. Only the occasional turn of her eyeballs still showed she was a living creature. In one hand she held a bamboo basket containing a cracked bowl, empty; in the other she leaned on a bamboo staff taller than herself, split at the bottom. She was clearly, utterly, a beggar.
I stood still, expecting her to ask for money.
"You've come back?" she asked first.
"Yes."
"That's good. You can read and write, and you've traveled far and seen much. There's something I want to ask you —" Her lusterless eyes suddenly lit up.
I had never expected her to say such a thing and stood there in astonishment.
"It's this —" She came two steps closer, lowered her voice, and whispered with utmost secrecy, "After a person dies, is there actually a soul?"
I was profoundly shaken. Her eyes bored into mine, and I felt as though thorns were pricking my back — far more alarming than an unexpected quiz at school with the teacher standing right beside you. Whether the soul existed or not was something I had personally never cared about; but at that moment, how should I answer her? In my brief hesitation I thought: people here believe in ghosts as a matter of course; but she doubted — or rather, she hoped: hoped that there was a soul, yet also hoped there was none… Why add to the sufferings of someone at the end of her road? For her sake, better to say yes.
"Perhaps there is — I think," I stammered.
"Then there's also a hell?"
"Ah! Hell?" I was badly startled and could only hedge: "Hell? — In principle, there should be. — Then again, not necessarily… Who manages such things anyway…"
"Then can all the dead people of a family see each other?"
"Ah, see each other or not?…" By now I knew I was a complete fool. No amount of deliberation or planning could withstand three questions. I instantly lost my nerve and wanted to take it all back: "That is… to be honest, I can't say clearly… Actually, whether there is a soul or not, I really can't say."
Since she did not press further, I took long strides and hurried back to Fourth Uncle's house, feeling very uneasy. I thought to myself that my answer might have been dangerous for her. She had probably felt her own loneliness while everyone else was celebrating the New Year's Blessing — but could there have been some other meaning behind it? — Or some premonition? If there was another meaning, and something happened because of it, then my answer truly bore a share of the responsibility… But then I laughed at myself: a chance encounter had no deep significance, and I was simply overanalyzing it — no wonder educators said I had a nervous condition. Besides, I had clearly said "I can't say," which overturned the entire previous answer; even if something happened, it had nothing to do with me.
"I can't say" is an extremely useful phrase. Inexperienced, bold young men often dare to resolve others' doubts and choose their doctors; if the outcome is poor, they usually become the object of resentment. But end with "I can't say," and one is carefree in all things. At that moment, I felt the necessity of this phrase more keenly than ever — even when talking with a begging woman, it must on no account be omitted.
But I could not shake my unease. Through the night, the encounter kept coming back to me, as though I harbored some ominous premonition. In the gloomy snow, in the tedious study, the unease only intensified. Better to leave — go to the city tomorrow. The clear-simmered shark fin at the Fuxing Restaurant, one yuan for a generous plate, good and cheap — had the price gone up? The friends I once traveled with had long scattered to the four winds, but the shark fin had to be eaten, even if I was alone… Whatever happened, I was determined to leave the next day.
Because I had so often seen things one hopes won't happen, things one thinks surely won't happen, come to pass exactly as feared, I was terrified this would prove the same. And indeed, the extraordinary turn of events began. That evening, I heard people gathered in the inner room, talking as if deliberating something; but before long the voices stopped, and only Fourth Uncle was heard, walking and speaking loudly:
"Not too early, not too late — it had to be now! This just proves she was a cursed creature!"
First I was surprised, then very uneasy — as if the remark somehow concerned me. I looked out the door, but no one was there. Not until before supper, when their day-laborer came to brew tea, did I get a chance to inquire.
"Who was the Fourth Master angry with just now?" I asked.
"Who else but Xianglin's Wife?" the laborer replied curtly.
"Xianglin's Wife? What happened?" I asked urgently.
"Gone."
"Dead?" My heart suddenly clenched; I nearly jumped to my feet, and my face must have changed color. But he never raised his head, so he noticed nothing. I steadied myself and continued:
"When did she die?"
"When? — Last night, or maybe today. — I can't say exactly."
"How did she die?"
"How? — Died of poverty, what else?" he answered indifferently, still without looking up, and went out.
Yet my alarm was only momentary. Soon I felt that what was bound to happen had already happened, and without needing the consolation of my own "I can't say" or his "died of poverty," my heart gradually lightened — though now and then a twinge of guilt remained. Supper was laid out, and Fourth Uncle sat at the table with his usual gravity. I still wanted to learn more about Xianglin's Wife, but I knew that although he had read "ghosts and spirits are the excellent manifestations of the two primal forces," his taboos remained many. Around the time of the New Year's Blessing, one must on no account mention death or illness; if unavoidable, one should use circumlocutions — which unfortunately I did not know. So I started to ask several times but always stopped. From his solemn expression, I suddenly suspected he might think that I, too — neither too early nor too late, but right at this time — had come to disturb him, and was likewise a cursed creature. So I told him at once that I would leave Lu Town the next day and go to the city, to set his mind at ease. He did not press me to stay. Thus we ate a gloomy supper in silence.
In winter the days are short, and with the snow, darkness had already enveloped the whole town. People were busy under their lamps, but outside the window it was very quiet. Snowflakes fell upon the thick blanket of snow and seemed to whisper softly, making the silence feel even deeper. I sat alone under the yellow glow of the rapeseed-oil lamp and thought of this Xianglin's Wife, who had nothing left to live for — a worn-out old toy, cast by people onto the rubbish heap, a thing they were tired of looking at. Before, her physical shell had still been exposed in the dust, and those who led interesting lives probably wondered why she went on existing. Now at last she had been swept clean away by the King of the Dead. Whether there was a soul or not, I did not know; but in this world, those who have no reason to live no longer live, and those who are tired of seeing them see them no more — for others as for oneself, this was not a bad thing. I listened to the snow seeming to rustle outside the window, and as I thought, I gradually grew calm, even comfortable.
Yet the scattered fragments of her life story that I had seen and heard before now came together into a whole.
She was not from Lu Town. One winter, when Fourth Uncle's household needed a new maid, the go-between, old Mrs. Wei, brought her in: white mourning cord in her hair, black skirt, blue jacket, pale white vest, about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with a sallow complexion but cheeks still flushed. Old Mrs. Wei called her Xianglin's Wife and said she was a neighbor of her own mother's family; her husband had died, so she had come out to work. Fourth Uncle frowned; Fourth Aunt already knew what he meant — he disapproved of her being a widow. But she looked respectable, had sturdy hands and feet, kept her eyes lowered and did not open her mouth — very much like a hardworking, well-behaved person. So Fourth Aunt ignored Fourth Uncle's frown and kept her on. During the trial period she worked all day long, as if she found idleness unbearable, and she was strong — practically the equal of a man. By the third day it was settled: five hundred cash per month.
Everyone called her Xianglin's Wife; no one asked her surname, but since the go-between was from the Wei family village and said she was a neighbor, she was probably also surnamed Wei. She did not talk much; she answered only when asked, and briefly at that. It was not until ten-odd days later that people gradually learned: she had a stern mother-in-law; a young brother-in-law, a little over ten, who could already gather firewood; she had lost her husband in the spring — he too had made a living gathering firewood and was ten years younger than she. That was all anyone knew.
Days passed quickly, and her work never slackened in the least — she was indifferent to food but unstinting with her strength. People all said that the maid at Old Master Lu the Fourth's was truly harder-working than the most diligent man. By year's end, she took on everything alone: sweeping dust, scrubbing floors, killing chickens, slaughtering geese, cooking blessing-offerings through the night — not even a single extra hand was hired. And yet she seemed content; a hint of a smile gradually appeared at the corners of her mouth, and her face grew lighter and fuller.
I was wakened by the deafening firecrackers nearby and saw the yellow glow of tiny bean-sized lamp flames; then I heard the patter and crack of more firecrackers — Fourth Uncle's household was performing the "Blessing." It must have been close to the fifth watch. In my drowsiness I could still dimly hear the distant, unbroken rumble of firecrackers, which seemed to merge into a dense cloud of sound, mingling with the swirling snowflakes and embracing the entire town. In this embrace of clamor I too lay languid and comfortable; all the doubts of the day and early evening had been swept clean away by the air of the Blessing. I felt only that heaven and earth and the host of saints had savored the sacrificial meat and wine and the incense smoke, and were now all reeling tipsy through the sky, ready to bestow infinite happiness upon the people of Lu Town.
(February 7, 1924.)