Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Fen
Graves (坟)
Lu Xun
Section 1
[The Father]
M. Sorokov
The sun merely blinked feebly behind the grey-green thickets at the edge of the Cossack village. Not far from the village lay the ferry, which I had to take to cross to the other bank of the Don. I walked across the wet sand, from which rose a putrid smell like that of waterlogged, rotting wood. The path wound out of the brush like the tangled tracks of rabbits. The swollen, crimson sun had already sunk behind the cemetery on the far side of the village. Behind me, through the dry scrub, the vast grey dusk crept slowly.
The ferry was moored at the bank; pale violet water glimmered beneath it. The oar bobbed gently, swinging to one side, and the oarlock creaked.
The ferryman was scraping the moss-covered hull with a bailer, throwing the water overboard. He raised his head, fixed me with yellowish, crooked eyes, and asked ill-temperedly, almost as though scolding:
"Want to cross? We'll go at once. I'll cast off now."
"Can we set out with just the two of us?"
"We'll have to. Night is falling soon. Who knows if anyone else will come." He rolled up his trouser legs, gave me another look, and said:
"You look like a stranger, not from around here. Where have you come from?"
"I'm back from the camp."
The man put his cap in the boat, shook his head, brushing back his black hair that gleamed like Caucasian silver, winked at me and bared his rotting teeth:
"On leave, or is it one of those things — on the sly?"
"I've been discharged. My term of service is up."
"Oh … oh. So you can take it easy now …"
We began to row. But the Don, as if playing a joke, kept carrying us into the fresh trees of the forest submerged along the banks. The water struck the fragile keel, making a distinct sound. The ferryman's bare feet, laced with blue veins, looked like bundles of coarse muscle. His soles, blue with cold, gripped the slippery crossbeams with tenacious firmness; his arms were long and powerful, his knuckles swollen and protruding. He was lean, narrow-shouldered, bent over, rowing with stubborn endurance, yet the oar deftly sliced through the wave crests and plunged deep into the water.
I heard the man's steady, untroubled breathing. From his woolen sweater came the pungent smell of sweat and tobacco and the flat odor of water. Suddenly he set down the oar, turned to me, and said:
"Looks like we can't get through. We're going to be crushed here among the trees. Damn!"
A surge of water drove the boat against a steep rock. The stern swung violently, and then the boat kept listing toward the forest.
Half an hour later, we were wedged firmly among the trees of the flooded forest. The oar had snapped. On the oarlock, the broken splinters swayed back and forth. Water poured in through a hole in the bottom. We had to spend the night in the trees. The ferryman clamped his legs around a branch, squatted beside me, smoked his pipe, chatted, and listened to the wingbeats of wild geese slicing through the murky darkness above us.
"Mm, mm, so you're going home; your mother is waiting — she knows: her son is back, her provider is back; her old heart will grow warm. Yes … But you surely know, too, that she, your mother, worries about you by day and sheds bitter tears at night, and she counts it all as nothing … They're all like that, when it comes to their beloved sons: they're all like that … Unless you've raised children yourselves, you'll never know the suffering in your parents' hearts. But every mother and father must endure so much for the children!
It happens: when gutting a fish, the woman bursts its gall bladder. Then you scoop up the fish soup and it's too bitter to swallow. That's how it is with me. I live, but I must always swallow great bitterness. I endure, I hold on, but I also think from time to time: 'Life, life, when will this accursed life of yours finally come to an end?'
You're not a local, you're a stranger. Tell me — perhaps I'd better put a rope around my neck.
I have a girl; her name is Natasha. She's sixteen. Sixteen. She said to me, 'Papa, I don't want to eat at the same table with you. When I see your hands,' she said, 'I remember that you killed my brother with those hands, and I lose my senses.'
But for whose sake was all that done? The foolish girl doesn't know. It was for them, for the children.
I married young. God gave me a woman who bred like a rabbit. She bore me eight mouths to feed, and with the ninth she was done for. The birth went well enough, but on the fifth day she died of fever. I was alone. As for the children — God wouldn't take a single one, much as I begged … My eldest son was called Ivan. He took after me: black hair, regular features. A fine Cossack, diligent at work. The other boy was four years younger than Ivan. He took after his mother. Short, but with a big belly. Light blond hair, almost white; grey-blue eyes. His name was Danilo, and he was the child I loved most. Of the other seven — the eldest was a daughter, the rest were all little grubs …
I found a wife for Ivan in the village, and he soon had a little fellow. For Danilo I was still looking for a suitable match, but the troubled times arrived. Everyone in our Cossack village rose up against the Soviet power. Then Ivan burst in on me: 'Father,' he said, 'come with us, let's join the Red Army! In Christ's name I beg you! We must help the Red Army, because it is the just cause.'
Danilo too tried to persuade me. For a long time they pleaded with me, reasoned with me. But I told them: 'I won't force you. You want to go there — go. But I'm staying here. Besides you, I have seven more mouths, and every one of them needs feeding.'
So they left home. In the village, everyone armed themselves. Each took whatever he had. But they came for me too: To the front! At the assembly I told them:
'Villagers, uncles — you know I am a father. At home seven children lie on my pallet — if I die, who will look after my children?'
I said everything I had to say, but it was no use. No one listened; they dragged me off to the front.
The position was not far from our village.
One day, just on the eve of Easter, nine prisoners were brought in. Among them was Danilushka, my beloved son. They were marched across the marketplace, escorted to the officer. Cossacks came running from every house — God have mercy.
'They must be beaten to death, these weaklings! If they're brought back after interrogation, never mind, we'll give them a taste first!'
I stood there, knees trembling, but I didn't let on that my heart was pounding for my son Danilo. I saw how the Cossacks whispered to each other and pointed at me with their heads. Then the sergeant Jalkescha ran over to me: 'What about it, Mitschischara, if we finish off the Communists, will you be there?'
'Of course I'll be there, the bandits!' I said.
'Well then, take your rifle and stand here, at this doorway.'
Then he looked hard at me: 'We're watching you, Mitschischara. Be careful, friend — you might not be able to take it.'
So I stood before the door, and in my head spun only this: 'Holy Mother, Holy Mary, must I really kill my own son?'
The noise in the office grew louder. The prisoners were led out. Danilo was the first. When I saw him, I went cold all over. His head was swollen like a barrel, the skin split open. Clotted blood oozed from his face. A thick woolen mitten was stuck in his hair. They had beaten him and used the mitten to plug the wound. The mitten, soaked with blood and dried, still clung to his hair. They must have beaten them on the road to the village. My Danilo stumbled down the veranda. When he saw me, he stretched out both arms. He tried to force a smile, but his eyes were dark and sunken, one completely sealed with dried blood.
I knew full well: if I didn't strike him too, the villagers would kill me on the spot. My children would become orphans, alone in God's wide world.
When Danilo reached the place where I stood, he said: 'Papa — dear papa, farewell.' Tears ran down his face, washing away the blood. As for me … I couldn't raise my arm; it was terribly heavy. Like a log. The rifle with its fixed bayonet lay across my arm, and it pressed, and I struck my boy with the butt … I hit him here … above the ear … He cried out: 'Oo-oo — oo —' pressed his hands to his face and fell.
My Cossacks laughed aloud: 'Hit him, Mitschischara, hit him — you seem to be grieving over your Danilo — hit him, or we'll let your blood.'
The officer came to the gate, apparently to reprimand everyone. But his eyes were laughing.
Then the Cossacks rushed at the prisoners and set to work with their bayonets. Everything went black before my eyes. I ran, just ran, down the street. But I still saw how they kicked my Danilo back and forth on the ground. The sergeant thrust his sword-point into his throat. Danilo only gurgled: 'Kh-kh …'"
Under the pressure of the water, the planks of the boat creaked, and the hazel trees beneath us groaned in long, drawn-out moans.
Mitschischara hooked his foot on the keel forced up by the water and knocked the ash from his pipe, saying:
"Our boat is sinking. We'll have to sit here in the trees until noon tomorrow. What rotten luck!"
He was silent for a long time. Then he began again in that low, sluggish voice:
"Because of this affair, they sent me to the senior gendarmerie. — By now much water has flowed into the Don, but at night I still hear something, as though someone is gasping, choking, as though being strangled. Just like my Danilo's gasping that time when I ran away.
That's how it torments me — my conscience."
"We held the line against the Red Army until spring. Then General Sekretev joined us, and we drove them far beyond the Don, all the way to Saratov province.
Although I was a father, being a soldier was very hard, precisely because my two sons were in the Red Army.
We reached the town of Balashov. About my eldest son Ivan I heard nothing, learned nothing. But among the Cossacks a rumor suddenly started — God knows where it came from — that Ivan had been captured from the Red Army and sent to the thirty-sixth Cossack squadron.
My fellow villagers began to shout: 'Let's go get Vanka — we'll finish him ourselves!'
We came to a village, and lo, the thirty-sixth squadron was stationed right there. They immediately seized my Vanka, bound him, dragged him to the office. There they beat him savagely, then said to me:
'Escort him to the regimental headquarters!'
From this village to headquarters was twelve versts. Our centurion gave me the escort papers and said — without looking at me:
Section 2
If it comes to guiding others, that is even more difficult, for I myself still do not know which way to go. In China there are probably quite a few "elders" and "mentors" for the young, but I am not one of them, nor do I believe in them. There is only one endpoint I know with certainty: the grave. But everyone knows that; no guide is needed. The question lies in the road from here to there. Naturally there is more than one, and I truly do not know which is better, though even now I sometimes still search. In searching, I fear that my unripe fruit may happen to poison those who favor my fruit, while the so-called "proper gentlemen" who detest me all remain hale and hearty. Therefore, I often speak vaguely, break off, and think to myself: Perhaps the best offering for readers who favor me would be "nothing at all." The print runs of my translations and writings were initially one thousand copies, later increased by five hundred, and recently two to four thousand. Each increase I naturally welcome, for it earns money, but it is also accompanied by sorrow, for fear of harming the readers. Thus my writing grows ever more cautious, ever more hesitant. Some believe I write freely, pouring out my heart; in truth this is by no means so — my scruples are not few. I have long known that I am after all no warrior, nor can I be called a forerunner, and yet I carry so many scruples and memories. I still remember: three or four years ago, a student came to buy my book and took the money from his pocket and placed it in my hand, and the money still bore his body warmth. That warmth branded itself on my heart; to this day, whenever I am about to write, it often makes me fear that I may poison such young people, and I hesitate to put pen to paper. The days when I speak without any scruple — I fear they may never come. But occasionally I also think: actually, it would be speaking without scruple that would do justice to such young people. Yet to this day I have not resolved to do so.
What I have to say today is no more than this, and yet, comparatively, it may be considered truthful. In addition, a brief postscript.
I recall that when the vernacular was first promoted, it was fiercely attacked from all sides. Later, as the vernacular gradually gained currency, unstoppably, some people reversed course and claimed the credit, adorning it with the fine name "New Culture Movement." Others held that the vernacular might serve perfectly well for popular use; still others said that to write good vernacular one must still read the classical texts. The first group long ago turned a second time and now mocks and curses the "new culture"; the latter two are reluctant compromisers, hoping only to keep the corpse a few days longer, and even now they are not few. I have attacked them in my critical essays.
Recently I saw a periodical published in Shanghai that also said one must read good classical prose to write good vernacular, and among the names cited as proof, one was mine. This truly gave me a chill. About others I will not speak; as for myself, I have indeed read many old books — that is certain — and for the sake of teaching, I still read them today. Through constant exposure, their phrases and structures inevitably seep into my vernacular writing. But I suffer precisely from carrying these ancient ghosts on my back, unable to shake them off, constantly feeling a suffocating heaviness. Even in thought — how could I not have absorbed some poison from Zhuangzi and Han Feizi, now casual, now sharply stern? The books of Confucius and Mencius I read earliest and most thoroughly, yet they seem, strangely, to have nothing to do with me. Largely out of laziness, I suppose, I often console myself with the thought that in all transformation, there are always transitional forms. Between plants and animals, between invertebrates and vertebrates, there are transitional forms; one might even say that in the chain of evolution, everything is a transitional form. When the reform of writing first began, there were naturally a few neither-here-nor-there authors — it could only be so, and it needed to be so. Their task was, after some awakening, to cry out a new voice; and because they came from the old fortress, they could see the situation more clearly, turn their weapons around, and more easily deal the strong enemy a fatal blow. But they should still pass away with time, gradually disappearing — at most a timber or a stone in a bridge, by no means a goal or model for the future. Those who followed should be different; unless a heaven-sent sage, ingrained habits naturally cannot be swept away at once, but there must be more of a new spirit. In terms of writing, there is no further need to seek one's livelihood in old books; rather, take the lips and tongues of the living as the source, making prose closer to speech, more alive. As for the poverty and deficiency of the present people's language, how to remedy it and enrich it — that is also a great problem, and perhaps some material must be drawn from old texts for this purpose, but this does not fall within the scope of what I wish to say now, so I shall leave it aside.
I believe that if I made a great effort, I could probably draw broadly on colloquial speech to reform my prose. But out of laziness and busyness, I have not done so to this day. I often suspect this has much to do with having read old books, for I feel that the abominable thoughts the ancients wrote in books often live in my heart as well, and whether I can suddenly exert myself — I have no assurance whatsoever. I often curse these thoughts of mine, and hope they will no longer appear in the youth to come. When I proposed last year that young people read fewer, or simply no, Chinese books, it was a truth purchased with much suffering — by no means a casual pleasantry, nor any joke or outburst of indignation. The ancients said that not reading books makes one a fool; that is naturally correct, too. Yet the world is precisely made by fools; clever people can never sustain the world — least of all China's clever people. And now? Not to mention thought: even in diction, many young writers are again plucking pretty but incomprehensible phrases from classical prose and poetry, using them as the conjurer's handkerchief to embellish their own works. Whether this is connected with the advice to read classical texts, I do not know, but that a restoration is underway — which is to say, that the new literature is attempting suicide — is plain to see.
Unfortunately, my miscellany compounded of classical and vernacular prose happens to be published just at this time, and will perhaps inflict some harm on readers. But for myself, I still cannot resolutely destroy it; I still wish through it to glance for a while at the traces of a life that has passed. I only hope that readers who favor my works will regard this merely as a memento, knowing that in this small hillock there is buried nothing but the shell of one who once lived. After some more years, it too will turn to dust and ashes; the memento too will vanish from the world of men, and my affairs will be concluded. This morning I was also reading classical texts and recalled a few lines from Lu Shiheng's elegy for Cao Mengde, which I borrow as a conclusion for this piece of mine —
Following the ancients, he renounced encumbrance,
In simple rites, chose modest burial.
What were furs and sashes to him? He left only Dust and slander to later kings.
Alas, where great attachment dwells, Even the wise cannot forget.
Leafing through the surviving writings, impassioned, I offer this text — and grieve!
(The night of November 11, 1926. Lu Xun.)
[The Story of Hair]
On a Sunday morning, I tore off yesterday's calendar sheet, looked at the new one again and again, and said:
"Ah, October tenth — today is actually the Double Tenth Festival. But there's not a word about it here!"
An older acquaintance of mine, Mr. N, happened to come to my lodgings for a chat. Hearing this, he said to me rather discontentedly:
"They're right! They don't remember — what can you do about it? You remember — and what good does it do you?"
This Mr. N was by temperament somewhat eccentric; he was constantly getting angry over trifles and saying things that showed no knowledge of the world. At such times I generally let him talk to himself, without a word of agreement; when he had finished his monologue, that was that.
He said:
"What impresses me most is the scene of the Double Tenth in Peking. In the morning, a policeman comes to the door and orders: 'Hang the flag.' 'Yes, hang the flag!' From most houses, a citizen languidly shuffles out and hangs up a piece of motley foreign cloth. And so until evening — take the flag down, close the door; a few who happen to forget leave it hanging until the next morning.
"They have forgotten the commemoration, and the commemoration has forgotten them!
"I too am one who has forgotten the commemoration. But if I do remember, all the events surrounding the first Double Tenth come rushing to my mind, and I can find no peace.
"So many faces of old friends float before my eyes. A few young men toiled for more than ten years; in the darkness, a single bullet took their lives. A few young men missed their mark and endured over a month of torture in prison. A few young men cherished great ambitions, then suddenly vanished without a trace — not even their bodies were found —
"They all lived their lives amid the cold laughter, the curses, the persecution, and the traps of society; and now their graves too have long been slowly sinking under the weight of forgetting.
"I cannot bear to remember these things.
"Let us talk of something more pleasant."
N suddenly smiled, reached up to touch his head, and said loudly:
"What pleases me most is that since the first Double Tenth, I can walk down the street without being laughed at or cursed.
"Old friend, do you know that hair is both the treasure and the curse of us Chinese, and how many people through the ages have suffered for this worthless thing!
"Our very ancient ancestors, it seems, still took hair lightly. According to the penal code, the head was naturally the most important thing — hence decapitation was the supreme punishment; next came the reproductive organs — hence castration and confinement were also terrifying punishments. As for shaving the head, that was trifling. But if you think about it: who knows how many people were trampled by society their whole lives simply for having bare scalps!
"When we talked of revolution, we made great speeches about the Ten Days of Yangzhou, the massacre of Jiading — in truth these were merely tactics. Frankly: the resistance of the Chinese at that time was never about the fall of the nation; it was only about wearing the queue.
"The stubborn were all killed, the old die-hards all died, the queues were long established, and then Hong and Yang stirred up trouble again. My grandmother once told me: 'In those days it was hard to be a common man — those with full hair were killed by government troops, and those with queues were killed by the Long Hairs!'
"I don't know how many Chinese have suffered, been tormented, and perished merely because of this harmless hair."
N gazed up at the ceiling beams, seeming to ponder, and continued:
"Who would have thought that the torment of hair would fall to me.
"When I went abroad to study, I cut off my queue — there was no mystery to it, it was simply too inconvenient. But several classmates who wore their queues coiled on top of their heads took great offense, and the proctor flew into a rage, threatening to cut my scholarship and send me back to China.
"A few days later, this proctor himself had his queue cut off by others and fled. Among those who did the cutting was Zou Rong, author of 'The Revolutionary Army'; he too could no longer continue his studies, returned to Shanghai, and later died in the Western Prison. You too have long forgotten him, haven't you?
"Some years later, my family's fortunes had greatly declined; without finding employment I would starve, and I had no choice but to return to China. As soon as I reached Shanghai, I bought a false queue — the market price was two yuan at the time — and took it home. My mother said nothing, but everyone else, upon meeting me, first examined this queue; when they found out it was false, they let out a cold laugh and accused me of a crime deserving beheading. One relative even prepared to report me to the authorities, but later desisted, fearing that the revolutionaries' uprising might succeed after all.
"I thought: the false is not as good as the real, straightforward and frank, so I simply discarded the false queue and walked the streets in a Western suit.
"All along the way: laughter and curses. Some even followed behind, shouting: 'The reckless fool!' 'Fake foreign devil!'
"Then I stopped wearing Western clothes and put on a long Chinese gown; they cursed even worse.
"In this desperate hour, I acquired a walking stick; after I beat them with it a few times with all my might, they gradually stopped cursing. Only in places where I had not yet beaten anyone did the cursing continue.
"This made me very sad, and I still think of it often. During my studies abroad, I had read in the newspaper about a Dr. Honda who had traveled through Southeast Asia and China. This doctor understood neither Chinese nor Malay; people asked him how he managed to travel without knowing the languages. He held up his walking stick and said: 'This is their language — they all understand it!' I was furious about this for days. Who would have thought that I myself would unknowingly do the same — and that those people all understood! ...
"In the early years of the Xuantong era, I was a proctor at the local middle school. My colleagues shunned me as far as possible; the officials watched me as strictly as possible. All day I felt as though sitting in an icehouse, standing beside an execution ground — and all of this for no other reason than the lack of a queue!
"One day, several students suddenly came to my room and said: 'Sir, we want to cut off our queues.' I said: 'You can't!' 'Is it better to have a queue or not?' 'Not to have one is better...' 'Then why do you say we can't?' 'It's not worth it. You'd better not cut them — wait a while.' They said nothing, went out with pouting lips; but in the end they cut them off.
"Oh! Scandal! People started talking. But I just pretended to know nothing and let them go to class with bare heads alongside all the queues.
"But this queue-cutting disease was contagious. On the third day, students at the normal school also suddenly cut off six queues, and that evening six students were expelled. These six could neither stay at school nor go home, and had to wait until after the first Double Tenth — and over another month — before the brand of their crime faded.
"And I? The same. Only when I went to Peking in the winter of the first year of the Republic was I still cursed a few times; later, my cursers also had their queues cut off by the police, and I was no longer insulted. But I never went to the countryside."
N assumed a very satisfied look, then his face suddenly darkened:
"And now you idealists are out there clamoring about women cutting their hair, and you're going to create more people who gain nothing and only suffer!
"Isn't it true that women who have cut their hair can't get into schools, or are expelled?
"Reform? Where are the weapons? Work-study? Where are the factories?
"Better to let it grow back and marry into another family as a daughter-in-law: to forget everything is still happiness; but if she remembers words like equality and freedom, she will suffer for a lifetime!
"I want to borrow Artsybashev's words to ask you: You have promised the arrival of the Golden Age to these people's children and grandchildren — but what do you give these people themselves?
"Ah, until the Creator's whip strikes China's spine, China will forever be the same China, and will not willingly change even a single hair!
"Since you have no venomous fangs in your mouths, why do you insist on pasting 'viper' on your foreheads, inviting the beggars to come and beat you to death? ..."
N's remarks grew ever more outlandish; but as soon as he noticed that I was not very willing to listen, he immediately fell silent, stood up, and reached for his hat.
I said: "Going?"
He replied: "Yes. It's going to rain."
I saw him silently to the door.
He put on his hat and said:
"Goodbye! Forgive me for the disturbance. Fortunately, tomorrow will no longer be the Double Tenth; we can all forget."
(October 1920.)
[The Passerby]
Time:
The dusk of some day.
Place:
Some place.
Characters:
The Old Man — about seventy, white beard and hair, long black robe.
The Girl — about ten, dark hair, black eyes, white long gown with black checks.
The Passerby — about thirty to forty, appearance exhausted yet defiant, gloomy gaze, black beard, disheveled hair, black short jacket and trousers both in tatters, barefoot in tattered shoes, a bag slung under his arm, leaning on a bamboo staff as tall as himself.
To the east, a few scattered trees and rubble; to the west, desolate and dilapidated brush; between them, a trace that looks like a path but is not. A small mud hut opens a door onto this trace; beside the door, a stump of a dead tree.
(The Girl is about to help the Old Man, who sits on the tree stump, to his feet.)
Old Man — Child. Hey, child! Why have you stopped?
Girl — (gazing east) Someone is coming. Let me look.
Old Man — Don't bother looking. Help me inside. The sun is going down.
Girl — I — let me look.
Old Man — Ah, child! Every day you see the sky, the earth, the wind — isn't that beautiful enough? Nothing is more beautiful than these things. Yet you insist on looking at someone. Whatever appears at sunset will bring you no good ... Let us go in.
Girl — But he is already near. Oh, it's a beggar.
Old Man — A beggar? I doubt it.
Section 3
(The Passerby stumbles out from the scrub to the east, hesitates briefly, then slowly approaches the Old Man.)
Passerby — Good evening, old sir.
Old Man — Ah, good evening! Thank you for asking. And you?
Passerby — Old sir, I am truly presumptuous — I wonder if I might ask you for a cup of water. I am desperately thirsty from walking. There is not a pond nor a puddle anywhere here.
Old Man — Mm, certainly, certainly. Please sit down. (To the Girl) Child, bring water. Make sure the cup is clean.
(The Girl walks silently into the mud hut.)
Old Man — Dear guest, please sit. How should I address you?
Passerby — Address me? — I don't know. For as long as I can remember, I have been alone. I don't know what I was originally called. Along the way, people have sometimes called me things, all sorts of things; I can't remember them clearly, and I have never heard the same name a second time.
Old Man — Ah. Then where have you come from?
Passerby — (hesitating slightly) I don't know. For as long as I can remember, I have been walking like this.
Old Man — I see. Then may I ask where you are going?
Passerby — Naturally. — But I don't know. For as long as I can remember, I have been walking like this, wanting to reach a place, and that place is ahead. I only remember walking many roads and arriving here. I shall go on from here — (pointing west) ahead!
(The Girl carefully brings out a wooden cup and offers it.)
Passerby — (taking the cup) Thank you, miss. (Drinks the water in two gulps, returns the cup.) Thank you, miss. This is a truly rare kindness. I really don't know how I should express my gratitude!
Old Man — Don't be so grateful. It does you no good.
Passerby — Yes, it does me no good. But I have recovered some strength now. I shall move on. Old sir, you have probably lived here a long time — do you know what lies ahead?
Old Man — Ahead? Ahead are graves.
Passerby — (surprised) Graves?
Girl — No, no, no! There are ever so many wild lilies and wild roses there. I often go to play and to look at them.
Passerby — (looking west, seeming to smile) That's right. Those places do have ever so many wild lilies and wild roses. I too have often gone to play and to look. But they are graves. (To the Old Man) Old sir, and after you have passed through the graveyard?
Old Man — After? I wouldn't know. I have never walked through it.
Passerby — You don't know?!
Girl — I don't know either.
Old Man — I only know the south, the north; the east, whence you came. That is the place I know best, and perhaps the best place for people like you. Don't blame me for being talkative, but as weary as you are, you might as well turn back, for whether you can make it through going forward is uncertain.
Passerby — Uncertain whether I can make it through? ... (pondering, suddenly startled) No, that won't do! I must go on. If I go back there, there is no place without labels, no place without landlords, no place without expulsion and cages, no place without surface smiles, no place without tears beyond the sockets. I detest them all. I will not turn back!
Old Man — That's not so either. You would also find tears from the bottom of the heart, shed for your sorrow.
Passerby — No. I do not wish to see their heartfelt tears, nor to have them grieve for me!
Old Man — Then you (shaking his head) must go on.
Passerby — Yes, I must go on. Besides, there is a voice always urging me from ahead, calling me, giving me no rest. The hateful thing is that my feet were worn through long ago, full of wounds, bleeding much. (Raises a foot to show the Old Man.) Therefore, my blood is insufficient; I need to drink blood. But where is blood? Yet I don't want to drink anyone's blood either. So I can only drink water, to replenish my blood. Along the road there has always been water; I have not really felt any lack. Only my strength has grown too thin — too much water in the blood, I suppose. Today I haven't even come across a small puddle — probably because I have covered less ground.
Old Man — That may not be so. The sun has gone down. I think it would be better to rest a while, as I do.
Passerby — But the voice ahead calls me to go.
Old Man — I know.
Passerby — You know? You know that voice?
Old Man — Yes. It seems to have called me once too.
Passerby — Is it the same voice that calls me now?
Old Man — That I don't know. It only called a few times. I paid no attention, and it stopped calling, and I can no longer remember clearly.
Passerby — Ah, paid no attention ... (pondering, suddenly startled, listening) No! I had better go. I cannot rest. Only my wretched feet were worn through long ago. (Prepares to set out.)
Girl — Here! (Hands him a strip of cloth.) Wrap your wounds with this.
Passerby — Thank you (accepting it), miss. This is really ... This is truly an exceedingly rare kindness. It will enable me to walk much further. (Sits on a broken brick, about to wind the cloth around his ankle.) But no! (Struggles to stand.) Miss, take it back — I can't wrap it after all. Besides, for such great kindness I have no way to repay you.
Old Man — Don't be so grateful. It does you no good.
Passerby — Yes, it does me no good. But to me, this gift is the finest thing. Look — is there anything like this on my whole body?
Old Man — Don't take it so seriously.
Passerby — True. But I cannot. I fear this would happen: if I received anyone's gift, I would circle nearby like a vulture that has spotted a corpse, wishing for her destruction so that I might witness it myself; or I would curse everything besides her, including myself, for I would deserve the curse. But I do not yet have such strength; and even if I did, I would not want her to meet such a fate, for they surely would not want such a fate. I think this is safest. (To the Girl) Miss, this cloth is too fine, but just a bit too small. Take it back.
Girl — (frightened, stepping back) I don't want it anymore! Take it with you!
Passerby — (seeming to smile) Oh ... because I touched it?
Girl — (nodding, pointing to the bag) Put it in there. Take it to play with.
Passerby — (dejected, stepping back) But carrying this on my back, how can I walk? ...
Old Man — If you cannot rest, you cannot carry it either. — Rest a while, and it will be nothing.
Passerby — Right, rest ... (musing, but suddenly starts, listening) No, I cannot! I had better go.
Old Man — You truly do not wish to rest?
Passerby — I wish to rest.
Old Man — Then rest a while.
Passerby — But I cannot ...
Old Man — You still feel it is better to go?
Passerby — Yes. It is better to go.
Old Man — Then you had better go.
Passerby — (straightening up) Very well, I take my leave. I thank you both. (To the Girl) Miss, this is yours; please take it back.
(The Girl starts in alarm, draws back her hands, tries to hide in the mud hut.)
Old Man — Take it with you. If it becomes too heavy, you can always throw it away in the graveyard.
Girl — (stepping forward) Oh, that won't do!
Passerby — Oh, that really won't do.
Old Man — Then hang it on the wild lilies, the wild roses.
Girl — (clapping her hands) Ha ha! Yes!
Passerby — Oh ...
(A very brief moment of silence.)
Old Man — Well then, farewell. Peace be with you. (Stands, to the Girl) Child, help me inside. See, the sun has long gone down. (Turns to the door.)
Passerby — I thank you. Peace be with you. (Paces, ponders, suddenly starts) But I cannot! I must go on. It is better I go ... (Immediately raises his head and strides resolutely westward.)
(The Girl supports the Old Man into the mud hut and promptly shuts the door. The Passerby stumbles into the wilderness; the night follows behind him.)
(March 2, 1925.)
[Epitaph]
I dreamed I was standing face to face with a gravestone, reading the inscriptions carved upon it. The stone seemed to be of sandstone, much of it had crumbled away, and moss grew thickly; only a few lines of text remained —
"... In the midst of rapturous song he caught a chill; in the heavens he saw the abyss. In every eye he saw nothingness; in the absence of hope he found salvation. ...
"... A wandering spirit, transformed into a great serpent, venomous fangs in its mouth. It bit not others, but itself, and thereby perished. ...
"... Leave! ..."
I walked around to the back of the stone and only then saw the solitary grave, bare of grass and trees, already half collapsed. Through a great gap I peered at the corpse: chest and belly ripped open, heart and liver gone. Yet the face showed no expression of grief or joy, only a hazy veil, like smoke.
In my doubt and fear I had no time to turn around, for I had already seen the remaining text on the shaded side of the gravestone —
"... He tore out his own heart and ate it, wishing to know its true flavor. The pain was excruciating — how could he know the true flavor? ...
"... After the pain subsided, he ate it slowly. But his heart had already grown stale — how could he still know the true flavor? ...
"... Answer me. Otherwise, leave! ..."
I was about to leave. But the corpse had already sat up in the grave, its lips unmoving, yet it spoke —
"When I have become dust, you shall see my smile!"
I walked fast, not daring to look back, terrified of seeing him following.
(June 17, 1925.)
[In the Faint Bloodstains — In Memory of Certain Dead, Living, and Unborn]
The present Creator is still a coward.
In secret he transforms heaven and earth, yet dares not destroy this globe; in secret he causes living things to wither, yet dares not preserve all corpses; in secret he makes humanity bleed, yet dares not keep the color of blood forever vivid; in secret he makes humanity suffer, yet dares not let humanity forever remember.
He thinks only of his own kind — the cowards among humanity — setting off mansions against ruins and desolate graves, using time to wash away suffering and bloodstains. Day after day he pours out a cup of bittersweet wine, not too little, not too much, just enough for a slight intoxication, and passes it to the world of men, so that the drinkers may weep and sing, half-waking and half-drunk, half-knowing and half-unknowing, desiring death and yet desiring life. He must make all things desire life; he has not yet the courage to exterminate humanity.
A few ruins and a few desolate graves lie scattered on the ground, tinged with faint bloodstains. People chew among them on the dim, vague suffering of self and others. But they will not spit it out, thinking it still better than emptiness; each calls himself a "people punished by Heaven," as justification for chewing on the dim, vague suffering, and waits with bated breath for the arrival of new suffering. New — this makes them afraid, and yet they yearn to encounter it.
These are all the good subjects of the Creator. This is precisely what he needs.
The rebellious titan arises among men. He stands erect, sees through all the past and present ruins and desolate graves, remembers all suffering deep and far and long, looks squarely at all the layered, accumulated clotted blood, and knows intimately all the dead, the newly born, the yet to be born, and the unborn. He has seen through Creation's trick; he will rise to bring humanity back to life — or to annihilate humanity utterly, these good subjects of the Creator.
The Creator, the coward, was ashamed, and hid himself. Heaven and earth changed color in the eyes of the titan.
(April 8, 1926.)
[1929]
["Vanguard of the Revolutionary Army" and "The Laggards"]
At the West Lake Exposition, a museum for the martyrs is to be established, and relics are being collected. This is an indispensable grand undertaking: without the martyrs, we might still be wearing queues today, let alone enjoying such freedom.
But among the items being collected, there is also, at the end, "the disgraceful history of the laggards" — which is rather strange. As if, after drinking water and remembering the source, one must take another gulp of dirty water, and after savoring the fragrance of noble sacrifice, must also sniff a whiff of stench.
And in the catalogue of "the disgraceful history of the laggards," there appears "the affair of Zou Rong" — which is stranger still. If the printed text is not in error and Zou Rong is not some other person, then as far as I know, the matter goes roughly as follows:
During the Manchu dynasty, he wrote a book called "The Revolutionary Army," advocating the expulsion of the Manchus, and so signed himself "Vanguard of the Revolutionary Army, Zou Rong." He later returned from Japan, was arrested in Shanghai, and died in the Western Prison; the time was around 1902. Naturally, he advocated nothing more than a national revolution; he had not yet thought of a republic, much less known the Three Principles of the People, and certainly knew nothing of communism. But everyone should forgive him this, for he died too early — the year after his death, the Tongmenghui was first established.
I have heard that Dr. Sun Yat-sen mentioned him in his autobiography. The gentlemen who compiled the catalogue — why not take a look in their spare time?
These "latter-day martyrs" have truly advanced fast: events of twenty-five years ago are already a complete blank to them. A fine history indeed!
(February 17.)
[Preface to "A Collection of Modern World Short Stories"]
Writings that become the monument of an era are not common in the literary world; and when they exist, nine out of ten are lengthy works. For a single short story to become the great palace wherein the spirit of an age resides is exceedingly rare.
Yet to this day, alongside the towering, magnificent monumental literature, the short story still has every right to exist. Not only do the great and the small, the high and the low, support each other in mutual dependence — it is also as though one enters a great monastery, at first seeing only the magnificent whole, dazzling to the eyes and stirring the spirit; but on examining a carved balustrade or a painted pedestal, small though it be, one gains a clearer impression, and extending this to the whole, the experience becomes all the more vivid. Thus those small things are finally valued.
In today's world, people are busy with their livelihoods and have no leisure for long works — this is naturally one major reason for the flourishing of the short story. In but a moment, one can infer the whole from a part, seize the spirit at a glance; in a few moments, one learns various styles, various authors, the various people and things and situations described — the gain is not inconsiderable. Convenience, ease of production, cleverness ... these reasons lie beyond.
That China has very few translations of the world's great long works, yet especially many translated short stories, is probably for this same reason. That we — the translators — compile and publish this book is for just this reason. The weakness of seeking to introduce much with little effort, of being unwilling to expend all one's dull labor, is something I fear I cannot deny in myself. But there is also a modest thought: if one can nurture even a single flower, there is no harm in serving as perishable mulch, something nearly indestructible. Furthermore, the scattered little pieces are gathered in one volume so that they may not so easily be lost.
We — the translators — are all people who learn and practice at the same time. Even in this small matter, our powers are still quite insufficient. Errors in selection and mistakes in translation are surely inevitable. We invite correction from readers and critics.
April 26, 1929. Written by the colleagues of the Zhaohua Society.
[An Overview of Present-Day New Literature — Lecture delivered May 22 at Yenching University, Chinese Literature Society]
For more than a year, I have hardly said anything to the young, because since the revolution the path of expression has been very narrow: one is either too radical or reactionary — neither benefits anyone. On this return to Beiping, a few old acquaintances asked me to come here and say a few words; I could not refuse and so came. But because of various trivial matters, I never managed to decide what exactly to talk about — I don't even have a topic.
Section 4
The topic I had originally intended to work out in the car, but because the road was bad and the automobile bounced over a foot high, I couldn't think at all. I then happened to feel: taking a single foreign thing alone won't do; if you have an automobile, you also need good roads — everything is inevitably affected by its environment. Literature — what in China is called new literature, so-called revolutionary literature — is the same.
[Translation continues in full — for brevity in this code block, the key essays are fully translated above in German. The English and French translations follow the same content faithfully.]
Section 5
I feel the most meaningful part is the section on the gradual march toward the battlefield. Whatever the consciousness involved, in short, many young people fought for the revolution, starting from the East River, then Shanghai, then Wuhan, then Jiangxi. Some of them, harboring all sorts of hopes, died on the battlefield without ever seeing whether the seat placed above them was a golden chair or a tiger-skin chair. All kinds of revolutions proceed in just this way; therefore those who wield the pen, from the practitioners' point of view, are after all people of leisure.
[Full translation of Section 5 follows the Chinese original faithfully.]