Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Shangshi
Regret for the Past
If I could, I would write down my remorse and my sorrow — for Zijun, and for myself.
The forgotten, decrepit room in a remote corner of the guild house is this silent, this empty. How quickly time passes! It has been a full year since I loved Zijun and clung to her to escape this silence and emptiness. And now, by ill luck, when I return, the only room left vacant is this very one. The same broken window, the same half-withered locust tree and old wisteria outside, the same square table before the window, the same crumbling walls, the same plank bed against the wall. Lying alone on the bed late at night, it is as if I had never lived with Zijun — the entire year has been obliterated, never existed; I never moved out of this wretched room, never founded a small, hopeful household in Jizhao Lane.
And more than that. A year ago, this silence and emptiness had been different, for it was always filled with expectation — the expectation of Zijun's coming. How, in the anxious restlessness of waiting, the sharp click of her leather heels on the brick path would bring me suddenly to life! Then I would see the pale, round face with its dimpled smile, the pale, thin arms, the striped cotton blouse, the black skirt. And she would bring with her the new leaves of the half-withered locust tree outside the window, and I would see too the clusters of purple-white wisteria blossoms hanging from the iron-hard old trunk.
But now? Only silence and emptiness as before — yet Zijun will never come again, never, never! ...
When Zijun was not in my broken-down room, I could see nothing. In my boundless boredom I would reach for whatever book was at hand — science or literature, it was all the same — and read and read, until I suddenly realized I had turned more than ten pages without retaining a single thing. Only my ears were preternaturally alert, as though I could hear every footstep passing outside the gate, and among them Zijun's, drawing nearer with their clacking — but usually they would grow faint again and at last be lost in the shuffle of other steps. I hated the porter's son in his cloth-soled shoes, whose footsteps sounded nothing like Zijun's, and I hated the primping little creature from the neighboring courtyard, who was always wearing new leather shoes and sounded far too much like her!
Could she have been thrown from a rickshaw? Could she have been struck by a streetcar? ...
I was about to take my hat and go see her, but her uncle had already cursed me to my face.
Then suddenly her footsteps drew near, each one louder than the last. I rushed out to meet her, but she had already passed under the wisteria trellis, dimples in her cheeks. She could not have been mistreated at her uncle's house; my heart was set at ease, and after we had gazed silently at each other for a while, the broken room gradually filled with my voice — talking about family despotism, about breaking old habits, about equality between the sexes, about Ibsen, about Tagore, about Shelley... She always smiled and nodded, her eyes brimming with a childlike, curious light. On the wall was tacked a copperplate portrait of Shelley, cut from a magazine — his most beautiful likeness. When I pointed it out to her, she only glanced at it hastily and lowered her head, as if embarrassed. In such matters, Zijun had probably not yet thrown off the shackles of old thinking. Later I thought I should have replaced it with a picture of Shelley's drowning at sea, or one of Ibsen; but I never did, and now even that picture has disappeared, I know not where.
"I am my own person, and no one has any right to interfere with my life!"
This she said after we had been seeing each other for half a year, and the conversation had turned once more to her uncle here and her father back home. She had reflected in silence for a moment, then spoken clearly, firmly, calmly. By that time I had already told her all my views, my background, my faults, with very little concealment, and she had understood everything. Those few words shook my soul, and for many days afterward they echoed in my ears; with them came an inexpressible joy at knowing that Chinese women were not so hopeless as the misanthropes claimed, and that before long a glorious dawn would break.
When I saw her to the door, we would walk, as always, more than ten paces apart. As always, the old man with the catfish whiskers pressed his face to the grimy windowpane, flattening even the tip of his nose into a little plane; and in the outer courtyard, as always, behind the gleaming glass was that little creature's face, thick with vanishing cream. Zijun walked past proudly, eyes straight ahead, not seeing any of it; and I returned proudly.
"I am my own person, and no one has any right to interfere with my life!" — This radical thought lived in her mind, more thorough and more resolute than in mine. What did half a bottle of vanishing cream and a flattened nose-tip mean to her?
I can no longer remember how I declared my pure, passionate love to her. Not just now — even shortly afterward it was already blurred; when I thought back at night, only fragments remained, and a month or two after we moved in together, even these fragments dissolved into untraceable dream-shadows. I only remember that in the ten days or so before, I had carefully studied the proper attitude for my declaration, arranged the order of my words, and imagined what would happen if she refused me. But when the moment came, it all proved useless; in my panic I involuntarily resorted to a method I had seen in a film. Whenever I thought of it afterward, I burned with shame; yet in my memory, this one moment alone has remained forever — like a solitary lamp in a dark room, it illuminates me holding her hand with tears in my eyes, sinking to one knee...
Not only my own — even Zijun's words and gestures were unclear to me at that time; I knew only that she had consented. But I seem also to recall that her face went ashen, then gradually turned crimson — a crimson I had never seen before and would never see again; from her childlike eyes shone joy and sorrow at once, mingled with surprise and doubt, and though she tried to avoid my gaze, she looked so flustered she might have tried to fly out the window. Yet I knew she had consented, without knowing how she had said it, or whether she had said anything at all.
But she remembered everything: my words, so precisely that she might have memorized them, and could recite them fluently; my gestures, as though an invisible film were playing before her eyes, related so vividly, so minutely — naturally including that instant from the shallow film that I wished not to think of again. Late at night, when all was quiet, came the time of mutual review; I was interrogated, tested, and ordered to repeat my words from that day — though she always had to supplement and correct me, as if I were the lowest-ranking student.
In time these reviews grew less frequent too. But whenever I saw her gazing into space, lost in thought, her expression growing ever softer, her dimples deepening, I knew she was going over the old lessons again by herself — only I dreaded that she might catch that ridiculous moment from the film. Yet I also knew she was bound to see it, and indeed must see it.
But she did not find it ridiculous. Even what I myself considered laughable, even contemptible — she found nothing laughable in it at all. I knew this very well, because she loved me, so passionately, so purely.
Late spring of last year was the happiest and busiest time. My heart had grown calm, but another part of me, together with my body, had grown busy. We walked together on the street for the first time, visited the park a few times, and above all searched for a place to live. On the street I constantly felt probing, mocking, lewd, and contemptuous glances, and at the slightest slip my whole body would shrink; I had to summon all my pride and defiance to keep myself upright. But she was utterly fearless, paid no attention to any of it, and simply walked on, calm and unhurried, as though there were no one around her at all.
Finding a place to live was truly no easy matter. Most of the time we were turned away with excuses; in the few cases where we were not, we found the place unsuitable. At first we were very exacting — not really exacting, since most places simply did not look like a home for us; later, all we asked was that they would tolerate us. After viewing more than twenty places, we finally found somewhere passable: two south-facing rooms in a small house in Jizhao Lane. The landlord was a minor official, but a sensible man, who occupied the main building and the side wing himself. He had only his wife and a baby girl not yet a year old, and employed a country maid. As long as the child did not cry, it was perfectly quiet and peaceful.
Our furniture was simple, but it had already consumed the greater part of the money I had scraped together; Zijun even sold her only gold ring and earrings. I tried to stop her, but she insisted, and I gave in; I knew she would never feel at home unless she contributed her share.
She had broken with her uncle long since — so completely that he had declared in fury that he no longer recognized her as his niece; I too had gradually broken off with several friends who fancied themselves well-meaning advisors but were really cowards, or were perhaps even jealous. Yet this only made things quieter. Every evening when I returned from the office — though it was nearly dark and the rickshaw man always went so slowly — there were still the hours together. First we gazed at each other in silence, then talked freely and intimately, then fell silent again. We sat with bowed heads, lost in thought, though we were not really thinking of anything in particular. Gradually I came to read her body and her soul completely, and in less than three weeks I seemed to understand her even better, seeing now that much of what I had formerly taken for understanding was in fact a barrier — a real barrier.
Zijun grew livelier day by day. But she did not care for flowers; the two pots of small flowers I had bought at the temple fair stood unwatered for four days and withered in a corner, and I had no leisure to attend to everything. She did, however, love animals — perhaps she caught it from the official's wife — and within a month our household had suddenly grown very large: four little oil-chickens trotting about the small courtyard among the landlord's dozen and more. But they knew the chickens by sight and could tell which were theirs. Then there was a white-spotted Pekinese, bought at the temple fair; it had probably had a name already, but Zijun gave it a new one: Ah Sui. I called it Ah Sui, though I did not like the name.
It is true: love must constantly renew itself, grow, create. When I said this to Zijun, she nodded in understanding.
Ah, what quiet, happy nights those were!
Peace and happiness tend to solidify — and it remained this same peace, this same happiness, forever. In the guild house we had still had occasional clashes of opinion and misunderstandings; since moving to Jizhao Lane, even those had ceased. We could only sit facing each other under the lamp, reminiscing, savoring the pleasure of reconciliation after conflict — a pleasure like being reborn.
Zijun had actually gained weight, and the color had returned to her cheeks; unfortunately, she was always busy. The housework left her no time even for conversation, let alone reading or walks. We often said: We really must hire a maid.
All this made me unhappy too. When I came home in the evening, I often saw her concealing an unhappy expression; what distressed me most was that she would force a smile. Fortunately I managed to discover the reason: it was another round of the covert war with the official's wife, with the two families' oil-chickens as the spark. But why wouldn't she tell me? Everyone ought to have an independent home. A place like this was not fit to live in.
My path too was set: six days a week, from home to office, from office to home. At the office I sat at my desk and copied, copied, copied documents and letters; at home I sat with her or helped her light the coal stove, cook rice, steam buns. It was then that I learned to cook rice.
But my food was much better than at the guild house. Although cooking was not Zijun's forte, she threw herself into it with all her strength; and seeing her toil day and night, I could not help but worry with her — as a way of sharing the sweet and the bitter. Besides, she was drenched in sweat all day, her short hair plastered to her forehead, and her hands growing ever rougher.
And there was still Ah Sui to feed, the oil-chickens to feed — all tasks that only she could do. Once I advised her: If I go without food, that's bearable enough; but she must not labor like this. She only glanced at me, said nothing, but her expression seemed a little sorrowful; so I too said nothing. Yet she went on laboring just the same.
The blow I had anticipated came at last. On the eve of the Double Tenth, I sat there dully while she washed the dishes. There was a knock at the door; when I opened it, the office messenger handed me an oil-printed slip of paper. I already half-knew. Under the lamp I read — yes, there it was in print: "By order of the Bureau Chief, Shi Juansheng is hereby relieved of his duties. Secretariat, October 9."
I had foreseen this while still at the guild house: the vanishing-cream fellow was a gambling crony of the Bureau Chief's son and was sure to spread rumors and make reports. That it had taken this long to take effect was already late. For me it was not really a blow, for I had long since resolved that I could copy for others, or tutor, or — with some effort — translate books; moreover, the editor-in-chief of "The Friends of Freedom" was a slight acquaintance, and we had corresponded only two months before. But my heart pounded all the same. And the fact that even the fearless Zijun had gone pale pained me especially; of late she too had seemed to grow more timid.
"So what! Hmph, we'll start something new. We..." she said.
But she did not finish; somehow her voice sounded hollow to me, and the lamplight seemed unusually dim. Humans are truly ridiculous creatures — the most trivial thing can affect them deeply. First we looked at each other in silence, then gradually began to discuss, and at last decided to economize as far as possible, to place a "small advertisement" seeking copying and tutoring work, and to write to the editor-in-chief of "The Friends of Freedom," explaining my situation and asking him to accept my translation and lend me a hand in this difficult time.
"No sooner said than done! Let's open a new path!"
I turned at once to the writing desk, pushed aside the sesame oil bottle and the vinegar dish, and Zijun brought over the dim lamp. First I drafted the advertisement; then I selected a book to translate — since the move I had not opened any of them, and each cover was coated with dust; last of all I wrote the letter.
I struggled over the wording; whenever I paused to think and glanced at her face, in the dim lamplight it too looked sorrowful. I had truly not expected so small a matter to produce such a visible change in the resolute, fearless Zijun. She had indeed grown much more timid of late, though this had not begun only tonight. My heart grew still more troubled; suddenly the image of a peaceful life flashed before me — the silence of the broken-down room at the guild house — I tried to fix my gaze on it, but already I saw nothing but the dim lamplight.
A long time later the letter too was finished, a rather long letter. I felt exhausted, as though I too had grown more timid of late. So we decided that the advertisement and the letter would both be dispatched the next day. We both straightened our backs as if by agreement, and in the silence each seemed to feel the other's tenacity and unyielding spirit, and to see the future hope sprouting anew.
The blow from outside had actually invigorated our spirits. Office life had been like a bird in a bird-seller's hands — kept barely alive on a few grains of millet, never getting fat; after a while the wings grew numb, and even if the cage were opened, the bird could no longer fly. Now I had finally escaped the cage, and from this point on I would soar in the new, open sky, while I still remembered how to beat my wings.
The small advertisement naturally produced no immediate result; but translating proved difficult too — what I had read before and thought I understood now bristled with problems the moment I set to work, and I progressed very slowly. Yet I was determined and worked hard; my half-new dictionary, within less than two weeks, had acquired a broad black band of finger-marks along its edge, bearing witness to my diligence. The editor-in-chief of "The Friends of Freedom" had once said that his journal would never bury a good manuscript.
Unfortunately I had no quiet study; and Zijun was no longer as serene and considerate as before. The rooms were always littered with bowls and dishes, thick with coal smoke, making it impossible to work in peace — but for that I could only blame myself, since I lacked the means for a proper study. And on top of that there was Ah Sui, on top of that the oil-chickens. The oil-chickens had grown larger and provided even more occasions for quarrels between the two households.
And on top of that the daily "unceasing" meals; Zijun's entire achievement seemed to consist of nothing but these meals. Eat, then scrounge for money, scrounge the money and eat again — and feed Ah Sui, and feed the oil-chickens. She seemed to have forgotten everything she had once known, and never considered that my train of thought was constantly broken by the summons to eat. Even when I showed a flash of irritation at the table, she never changed, but went on chewing as though utterly unmoved.
It took five weeks to make her understand that my work could not be bound by fixed mealtimes. After she understood, she was probably quite unhappy, but said nothing. My work did in fact proceed more swiftly after that; before long I had translated a total of fifty thousand characters, and needed only one revision before I could send it, together with two finished short pieces, to "The Friends of Freedom." But the meals continued to cause me grief. That the dishes were cold did not matter — but there was not enough; sometimes there was not even enough rice, though I was already eating far less than before, since I sat at home all day using my brain. Ah Sui had been fed first, and sometimes was even given the mutton that she herself had lately denied herself. She said Ah Sui was really pitifully thin, and the landlady had laughed at us for it — she could not bear such mockery.
So the only ones left to eat my scraps were the oil-chickens. I had only noticed this after a long time, and at the same moment — much as Huxley determined "Man's Place in Nature" — I recognized my own place in this household: somewhere between the Pekinese and the oil-chickens.
Later, after many struggles and much pressing, the oil-chickens gradually became dishes, and Ah Sui and I both enjoyed plump, tender fare for a good ten days; but in truth they were all scrawny, for they had long been getting nothing but a few grains of sorghum a day. After that it grew much quieter. Only Zijun remained dejected, and seemed always to feel wretched and bored, until she barely opened her mouth. How easily people change!, I thought.
But Ah Sui too could no longer be kept. We could no longer hope for a letter from anywhere; Zijun had long since run out of food to coax him into tricks. And winter was closing in so quickly; the stove would soon become a serious problem, and his appetite had long been a burden we felt keenly. So he too could no longer be kept.
If we had stuck a straw tag on him and taken him to the temple fair to sell, we might have got a few coins; but neither of us could or would do that. In the end I wrapped his head in a cloth, took him to the western suburbs, and let him go. He tried to follow me, so I pushed him into a pit, not very deep.
When I came back, it did seem much quieter; but Zijun's wretched, stricken look startled me. I had never seen such an expression on her face — naturally it was because of Ah Sui. But did it really warrant such distress? I had not even told her about the pit.
By nightfall, her wretched expression had taken on an icy edge.
"How strange. — Zijun, what's the matter with you today?" I could not help asking.
"What?" She did not even look at me.
"Your face..."
"It's nothing. — Nothing at all."
At last I read in her words and manner that she had apparently concluded I was a heartless man. In truth, it would have been easy for me to get by on my own; although, out of pride, I had always avoided social intercourse and since our move had grown distant from all my former acquaintances — if I could only get away, strike out on my own, there were still many paths open to me. That I now endured the suffering of this life was largely for her sake — and the abandoning of Ah Sui was no different. But Zijun's perception seemed only to grow shallower; she could not even see this much.
I found an opportunity to hint all this to her; she nodded as though she understood. But judging by her later behavior, she had not understood — or did not believe it.
The coldness of the weather and the coldness of her manner drove me from the house. But where to go? On the streets and in the parks there were no icy faces, but the cold wind cut the skin almost to cracking. At last I found my paradise in the public library.
There was no admission charge; and in the reading room stood two cast-iron stoves — even if they burned only half-dead coal, the mere sight of them lent a certain warmth to the spirit. But there was nothing to read: the old books were musty, and new ones were almost nonexistent.
Fortunately I did not go there to read. A few others came regularly too, sometimes over ten — all thinly dressed, like me, each reading his own book as a pretext for keeping warm. This suited me well. On the streets one was liable to meet acquaintances and receive a contemptuous glance; but here there was no such misfortune, for those people were forever huddled around other iron stoves or leaning against their own coal stoves at home.
Though there were no books for me there, there was leisure enough for thought. Sitting alone in the stillness, recalling the past, I realized for the first time that for most of this past year I had neglected every other essential of life for the sake of love alone — blind love. First and foremost: to live. One must be alive before love has anything to cling to. The world does offer paths for those who struggle; and I had not yet forgotten how to beat my wings, though they were far feebler now...
The room and the readers gradually vanished. I saw fishermen in raging seas, soldiers in trenches, grandees in motorcars, speculators on the exchange, heroes in deep forests and mountains, professors at the lectern, activists in the dark of night and thieves in the dead of night... Zijun — was not nearby. She had lost all her courage; she only mourned for Ah Sui and lost herself in cooking rice; and yet, strangely, she had not really grown much thinner...
It grew cold. The few lumps of half-dead coal in the stove finally burned out; it was closing time. Back to Jizhao Lane again, to endure the icy countenance. Of late I had occasionally encountered a warm expression, but this only deepened my pain. I remember one evening when Zijun's eyes suddenly shone again with that childlike light, long absent, and she smiled and spoke of the days in the guild house, now and then with a flicker of dread in her face. I knew that my coldness, which now exceeded hers, had aroused her suspicion; so I forced myself to laugh and chat, to give her a little comfort. But the moment a smile appeared on my face, the moment words left my mouth, they turned to emptiness, and this emptiness at once echoed back to my ears and eyes — an unbearable, malicious mockery of myself. Zijun seemed to feel it too; from that point on she lost her habitual dull composure, and though she tried hard to conceal it, traces of anxiety and suspicion kept appearing in her face — yet toward me she became much gentler.
I wanted to tell her outright, but I still did not dare. Whenever I resolved to speak and saw her childlike eyes, I could only retreat into a forced smile. But this too instantly turned into a cold jeer at myself, and robbed me of my cold composure.
After that she began again to review the past and to set me new tests, forcing me to produce many false, tender answers — showing her the tenderness while the draft of the falsehood was inscribed upon my own heart. My heart filled gradually with these drafts, and I often felt I could hardly breathe. In my anguish I often thought: To speak the truth naturally requires enormous courage; if one lacks that courage and settles for falsehood, then one is also incapable of opening a new path in life. And more than that: such a person does not even exist!
Zijun's face showed resentment, in the early morning, a bitterly cold morning — a resentment I had never seen before, though it may have been only my perception. I felt cold anger and laughed bitterly to myself; all her cultivated ideas and her bold, fearless speeches had come to nothing but emptiness in the end, and she was not even aware of it. She had long since stopped reading anything and no longer knew that the first business of life is survival, and that on the road to survival one must either walk hand in hand or forge ahead alone. If one only clings to another's coattails, then even a warrior cannot fight — and both must perish together.
I felt that our only new hope lay in separation; she should break away resolutely — and I suddenly thought also of her death, but at once reproached and repented of myself. Fortunately it was morning, and there was time enough; I could tell her the truth. The opening of our new path depended on this.
I chatted with her, deliberately steering the conversation to our past, touching on literature, then on foreign writers and their works: "Nora," "The Lady from the Sea." Praising Nora's resolve... They were the same words I had spoken last year in the broken-down room at the guild house, but now they had become empty; passing from my mouth into my own ears, I constantly suspected there was an invisible wicked child behind me, mimicking me with malicious cruelty.
She nodded and listened as before; then fell silent. I too stammered through to the end, and even the last echo of my words was lost in the void.
"Yes," she said, after another silence. "But... Juansheng, I feel you've been very different lately. Isn't that so? You — tell me honestly."
I felt as though struck a blow to the head, but steadied myself at once and stated my opinion and my conviction: a new path must be opened, a new life created — to avoid perishing together.
At the very end, summoning all my resolve, I added these words:
"... Besides, you can now go forward bravely, without any worries. You wanted me to be honest; yes, one should not be false. Let me speak plainly: because — because I no longer love you! But this is actually better for you, because now you can devote yourself wholly to your own life..."
I simultaneously expected some great upheaval, but there was only silence. Her face turned suddenly to a grayish yellow, deathlike; in an instant she seemed to revive, and in her eyes there flickered a childlike, shimmering light. This gaze darted in all directions, just as a child in hunger and thirst seeks a loving mother — but searching only in the air, recoiling in terror from my eyes.
I could no longer bear to look. Fortunately it was morning; I braved the cold wind and headed straight for the public library.
There I saw "The Friends of Freedom": my short pieces had all been published. I started almost with surprise, as though I had gained a spark of life. The road of life is still long, I thought — but the way things are now, this won't do either.
I began to visit acquaintances long unheard from, but this happened only once or twice. Their houses were warm, of course, but I felt cold to the marrow. At night I curled up in a room colder than ice.
Needles of ice pierced my soul, keeping me forever in a numb, aching torment. The road of life is still long, and I have not yet forgotten how to beat my wings, I thought. — Then I suddenly thought of her death, but at once reproached and repented of myself.
In the public library a flash of light would sometimes glimmer, and a new path of life lay before me. She awakens bravely, strides resolutely out of this ice-cold home, and — without a trace of resentment on her face. Then I am light as a cloud, floating through the ether; above, the azure sky; below, mountains and seas, great halls and tall towers, battlefields, motorcars, trading floors, mansions, bright bustling streets, dark nights...
And truly — I had a presentiment that this new dawn was about to arrive.
We managed at last to survive the almost unbearable winter — this Beijing winter; like a dragonfly in the hands of a cruel boy, tied by a thread, tormented and abused at will; though by good fortune we did not lose our lives, in the end we lay on the ground, and it was only a question of time.
I had written three letters to the editor-in-chief of "The Friends of Freedom" before an answer finally came; inside the envelope were only two book coupons — one for twenty cents and one for thirty. The dunning alone had cost me nine cents in postage, a day's hunger, and all for nothing.
Yet what had to come finally came.
It happened at the turn of winter and spring. The wind was no longer so cold, and I stayed out even longer; by the time I got home, it was usually already dark. On one such dark evening I returned as listlessly as usual. At the sight of the front door my spirits sank still further, as usual, and my steps slowed. But at last I entered my room — no light. When I found a match and struck it, there was an uncanny loneliness and emptiness!
While I stood dumbfounded, the official's wife called me from outside the window.
"Today Zijun's father came and took her home," she said simply.
This was not what I had expected. I stood speechless, as though struck from behind.
"She's gone?" After some time, I managed only this.
"She's gone."
"Did she — did she say anything?"
"Nothing. She just asked me to tell you when you came back that she had gone."
I did not believe it; but the room was uncannily lonely and empty. I looked everywhere, searching for Zijun; I saw only a few shabby, dim pieces of furniture standing pitifully sparse, as proof that they could not conceal a single person or thing. I looked for a letter or any writing she might have left — nothing. Only salt and dried chili peppers, flour and half a head of cabbage, gathered in one place, and beside them a few dozen copper coins. These were the sum total of our provisions — and now she had solemnly left them to me alone, without a word, so that I might sustain myself a little longer.
I felt squeezed out by everything around me and ran into the middle of the courtyard. Darkness surrounded me; bright lamplight glowed through the paper windows of the main house — they were playing with the child and laughing. My heart grew calm; under the heavy pressure, a way of escape gradually, dimly, took shape: mountains and great lakes, foreign cities, electric light over lavish banquets, trenches, the blackest of all nights, the flash of a blade, soundless footsteps...
My heart felt a little lighter, and I thought of the travel money and sighed.
Lying down, with closed eyes, I watched the imagined future pass before me; before midnight it was all exhausted. In the dark I seemed suddenly to see a heap of food, and after it, Zijun's grayish-yellow face appeared, her childlike eyes open, looking at me as if in supplication. I focused my gaze — there was nothing.
But my heart felt heavy again. Why hadn't I endured a few more days? Why had I been in such a rush to tell her the truth? Now she knew; and all she would have henceforth was the scorching severity of her father — that creditor of his children — and the stares of others, colder than frost. Beyond that, only emptiness. Bearing the weight of emptiness, walking through severity and cold stares down the so-called road of life — what a terrible thing! Especially when at the end of that road there was nothing but a grave — not even with a tombstone.
I should not have told Zijun the truth. We had loved each other, and I should have offered her my lies forever. If truth is precious, it should not have meant for Zijun this crushing emptiness. A lie is of course also an emptiness — but in the end, it would have been no heavier than this.
I had believed that by telling Zijun the truth, she would be able to go forward resolutely, without a care — just as when we had been about to move in together. But in this, I fear, I was mistaken. Her courage and fearlessness of that time had come from love.
I lacked the courage to bear the weight of falsehood, and so I shifted the weight of truth onto her. After she had loved me, she had to bear this weight and walk through severity and cold stares down the so-called road of life.
I think of her death... I see that I am a coward who deserves to be cast out by the strong, whether they be truthful or false. And yet she, from first to last, had hoped that I would sustain my life a little longer...
I want to leave Jizhao Lane; here there is nothing but uncanny emptiness and loneliness. I think: if only I leave this place, Zijun will seem as though she is still by my side — or at least still in the city, and one day she will come to see me unexpectedly, as she used to when I lived at the guild house.
But all my entreaties and letters went unanswered; in desperation I called on a family friend I had not visited in a long time. He had been my uncle's boyhood classmate, an academician renowned for his rectitude, who had lived in Beijing for years and had a wide circle of acquaintance.
Perhaps because of my threadbare clothes, the gatekeeper received me with a contemptuous look. After much difficulty I was shown in; he still recognized me, but was very cold. He knew everything about our story.
"Naturally you can't stay here any longer," he said coldly, after I had asked him to help me find a position elsewhere. "But where would you go? It's difficult. — Your, what shall I say, your friend — Zijun — do you know? She is dead."
I was so shocked I could not speak.
"Really?" I finally asked, involuntarily.
"Ha ha. Of course really. My servant Wang Sheng's family is from the same village as hers."
"But — do you know how she died?"
"Who knows? In any case, she's dead."
I have forgotten how I took my leave of him and returned to my lodging. I knew he was not a man who told lies; Zijun would truly never come again, not as she had last year. Even if she had tried to bear the weight of emptiness through severity and cold stares and walk the so-called road of life, she could no longer do so. Her fate was sealed: in the truth I had given her — in a loveless world — she had perished!
Naturally I could not stay here any longer; but — "where to go?"
All around was vast emptiness and the silence of death. The dying in the eyes of the unloved — the darkness before their eyes — I seemed to see it all, and to hear all the anguish and the desperate struggling.
I still waited for something new to come, nameless, unexpected. But day after day there was nothing but the silence of death.
Compared to before, I hardly went out anymore, but only sat and lay in the vast emptiness, letting the silence of death gnaw at my soul. Sometimes the silence of death itself would shudder, would retreat, and in that instant between cessation and continuance there would flash the nameless, unexpected, new hope.
One day — an overcast morning — the sun was still struggling behind the clouds; even the air felt exhausted. Into my ears came tiny footsteps and a snuffling breath, making me open my eyes. At first glance the room was as empty as ever; but when my gaze happened to fall on the floor, a small animal was circling there — emaciated, half-dead, covered in dust...
I looked more closely, and my heart stopped, then pounded.
It was Ah Sui. He had come back.
My leaving Jizhao Lane was not solely because of the contemptuous looks of the landlord, his family, and their maid — it was largely because of Ah Sui. But — "where to go?" There were of course still many new paths in life; I knew of them vaguely, and from time to time caught a dim glimpse of them, seemingly just before me — but I still did not know how to take the first step.
After long deliberation and comparison, the guild house remained the only place that would still take me in. The same wretched room, the same plank bed, the same half-withered locust tree and wisteria — but everything that had once given me hope, joy, love, and life was gone. Only emptiness remained — the emptiness I had purchased with truth.
There are still many new paths in life, and I must take them, because I am still alive. But I do not yet know how to take that first step. Sometimes I seem to see the new path of life like a long, grayish-white snake, winding its way toward me; I wait and wait, watching it draw near — but suddenly it vanishes into the darkness.
The early spring nights are still so long. In the long, empty sitting I remember the funeral I saw on the street this morning: paper figures and paper horses in front, behind them a wailing like singing. I understand now how clever those people are — how simple and convenient it all is.
But then Zijun's funeral appears before my mind's eye: alone, bearing the weight of emptiness on her shoulders, walking forward on a long gray road — and vanishing the next instant into the severity and cold stares all around her.
I wish there truly were ghosts, truly were a hell — then even in the howling winds of retribution I would seek out Zijun and tell her to her face of my remorse and my sorrow and beg her forgiveness; otherwise, let the poisonous flames of hell encircle me and mercilessly burn away my remorse and my sorrow.
I would embrace Zijun in the winds of retribution and the poisonous flames and beg her pardon — or else bring her some measure of satisfaction...
But that is even emptier than a new path of life; all that exists now is this early spring night, and it is still so long. I am alive, and I must take the first step toward a new path of life — yet that first step is nothing more than writing down my remorse and my sorrow, for Zijun and for myself.
And still I have only a singing kind of wailing to give Zijun as her funeral — burying her in oblivion.
I want to forget; for my own sake — and I want to stop thinking that I am burying Zijun with oblivion.
I want to take the first step toward a new path of life. I want to hide the truth deep in the wound of my heart and go forward in silence, with oblivion and falsehood as my guides...
Finished on October 21, 1925