Lu Xun Complete Works/ja/Yecao
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野草 (野草)
魯迅 (ルーシュン, 1881–1936)
中国語からの日本語翻訳。
第1節
Epigraph
When I am silent, I feel fulfilled; the moment I open my mouth, I feel emptiness.
The life of the past has died. Over this death I feel great joy, for through it I know that it once lived. The dead life has decayed. Over this decay I feel great joy, for through it I know that it was not emptiness.
The mud of life lies cast away upon the ground; it grows no tall trees, only wild grass — this is my fault.
Wild grass: its roots are not deep, its flowers and leaves are not beautiful, yet it absorbs dew, absorbs water, absorbs the blood and flesh of the long dead, each blade seizing its own existence. Yet even while existing, it will be trampled, it will be cut down, until it dies and decays.
But I am calm and glad. I shall laugh aloud; I shall sing.
I love my wild grass, but I loathe the ground that adorns itself with wild grass.
The subterranean fire courses beneath the earth, surging; once the lava erupts, it will burn away all wild grass and tall trees alike, and then there will be nothing left to decay.
But I am calm and glad. I shall laugh aloud; I shall sing.
Heaven and earth are so solemnly still that I cannot laugh aloud or sing. Even if heaven and earth were not so solemnly still, perhaps I still could not. With this clump of wild grass, at the threshold between light and dark, life and death, past and future, I bear witness before friends and foes, humans and beasts, lovers and non-lovers.
For myself, for friends and foes, humans and beasts, lovers and non-lovers, I hope that the death and decay of this wild grass will come swiftly. Otherwise, I shall never have lived, and that would be more unfortunate still than death and decay.
Go then, wild grass, together with my epigraph!
April 26, 1927, recorded by Lu Xun at the Baiyun House in Guangzhou.
第2節
Autumn Night
In my back garden, beyond the wall, I can see two trees — one is a jujube tree, and the other is also a jujube tree.
The night sky above them, strange and high — never in my life have I seen such a strange and high sky. It seems about to leave the human world behind, so that people looking up can see it no more. Yet now it is extraordinarily blue, glittering with the eyes of dozens of stars — cold eyes. At the corners of its mouth appears a smile, as though it considers this profoundly meaningful, and it scatters thick frost over the wildflowers and grasses in my garden.
I do not know the true names of those flowers and grasses, nor what people call them. I remember one kind that once bore tiny pink blossoms; it is blooming still, but tinier than ever. In the cold night air it dreams, shivering — dreams of the coming of spring, dreams of the coming of autumn, dreams that a gaunt poet wipes his tears on its last petal and tells it that although autumn comes and winter comes, spring will follow after, with butterflies fluttering wildly and bees singing their spring songs. At this it smiles, though its color is frozen a pitiful red, and goes on shivering.
The jujube trees — they have shed practically all their leaves. Before, one or two children still came to knock down the jujubes others had left behind; now not a single one remains, even the leaves have all fallen. It knows the dream of the little pink flower: after autumn must come spring; it also knows the dream of the fallen leaves: after spring comes autumn again. It has shed practically all its leaves, only bare branches remain, yet freed from the arching form it bore when the whole tree was full of fruit and leaves, it stretches luxuriously. A few branches, though, still hang low, guarding the bark wounds inflicted by the poles of the fruit pickers, while the straightest and longest branches already thrust silently, iron-like, into the strange and high sky, making it flicker its spectral eyes; thrust straight at the full moon in the sky, until the moon blanches with embarrassment.
The spectral-eyed sky becomes even more extraordinarily blue, grows uneasy, as though wanting to leave the human world, to escape the jujube trees, leaving only the moon behind. Yet the moon too steals away eastward in secret. And the bare branches, possessing nothing, still thrust silently, iron-like, into the strange and high sky, determined to put it to death, regardless of the many bewitching eyes it deploys.
With a screech, a nocturnal bird of prey flies past.
Suddenly I hear laughter at midnight, a titter, as though not wanting to disturb those asleep, yet the air all around echoes the laughter. At midnight, no one else is present; I recognize at once that the sound comes from my own mouth, and at once the laughter drives me back into my room. I turn the lamp wick higher immediately.
On the rear windowpane comes a tapping — many small flying insects crash against it. Before long, several come in, probably through a hole in the window paper. Once inside, they crash tapping against the glass lampshade. One plunges in from above and meets the flame — and I believe this flame is real. Two or three others rest on the paper shade of the lamp, panting. The shade was changed just last night: snow-white paper, folded into wave-like creases, with a scarlet gardenia branch painted in one corner.
When the scarlet gardenia blooms, the jujube tree will again dream the little pink flower's dream, bending into a lush green arc... I hear the midnight laughter again; hastily I cut short my reverie and gaze at the little green insects resting on the white paper shade, large-headed and slender-tailed, like sunflower seeds, only half the size of a grain of wheat, their whole bodies a lovely, pitiable jade green. I yawn, light a cigarette, blow out the smoke, and silently, by lamplight, offer a libation to these exquisite jade-green heroes.
September 15, 1924.
第3節
Farewell of the Shadow
When a person sleeps into an hour unknown, then the shadow comes to say farewell, and speaks those words —
There is that which displeases me in heaven; I will not go. There is that which displeases me in hell; I will not go. There is that which displeases me in your future golden world; I will not go.
Yet you yourself are what displeases me.
Friend, I no longer wish to follow you; I do not wish to stay.
I do not wish to!
Alas, alas, I do not wish to — I would rather wander in a place that is no place.
I am nothing but a shadow, about to leave you and sink into darkness. Yet darkness will swallow me, and light will make me vanish.
Yet I do not wish to wander between light and dark; I would rather sink into darkness.
Yet in the end I do wander between light and dark, not knowing whether it is dusk or dawn. For now I raise my grey-black hand and pretend to drain a glass of wine; I shall set out alone into the distance at an hour unknown.
Alas, alas — if it is dusk, the night will naturally come and engulf me; otherwise I shall be erased by daylight, if this is the dawn.
Friend, the hour draws near.
I shall wander into the darkness, into a place that is no place.
You still wish for a parting gift from me. What can I offer you? If there must be something, it is still nothing but darkness and emptiness. But I am willing to be only darkness, which may vanish in your daylight; I am willing to be only emptiness, which will never claim space in your heart.
Let it be so, friend — I set out alone into the distance, not only without you, but without any other shadow in the darkness. Only I shall be engulfed by darkness, and that world will belong entirely to me.
September 24, 1924.
第4節
The Beggar
I walk along the high, crumbling wall, treading on loose ash and dust. A few others walk too, each on their own. A light breeze rises; the branches of the tall trees showing above the wall, their leaves not yet withered, sway above my head.
A light breeze rises; on all sides, nothing but ash and dust.
A child begs from me, also wearing a lined jacket, not looking the least bit sorrowful, blocking my way with kowtows, following me with plaintive cries.
I loathe his tone, his manner. I despise the fact that he is not sad at all, that it is practically a game; I am disgusted by his pursuing me with plaintive cries.
I walk on. A few others walk too, each on their own. A light breeze rises; on all sides, nothing but ash and dust.
Another child begs from me, also wearing a lined jacket, also not looking sorrowful, but mute, hands outstretched, making gestures.
I despise those gestures. And perhaps he is not mute at all; this is merely a method of begging.
I give no alms; I have no charitable heart; I merely place myself above the almsgiver and bestow weariness, suspicion, loathing.
I walk along the collapsed mud wall, broken bricks stacked in the gap, nothing behind the wall. A light breeze rises, sending autumn cold through my lined jacket; on all sides, nothing but ash and dust.
I think about how I shall beg: Shall I speak — in what tone? Pretend to be mute — with what gestures?...
A few others walk on, each on their own.
I shall receive no alms, no charitable heart; I shall receive the weariness, suspicion, and loathing of those who place themselves above the almsgiver.
I shall beg with inaction and silence... At the very least I shall obtain nothingness.
A light breeze rises; on all sides, nothing but ash and dust. A few others walk on, each on their own. Ash and dust, ash and dust...
......
Ash and dust...
September 24, 1924.
第5節
My Lost Love
— A new doggerel in the antique style
My beloved lives on the mountainside; I want to seek her, but the mountain is too high, I lower my head — no use — tears stain my robe.
My love gives me a scarf with a hundred butterflies; what do I give in return: an owl. From then on she turns her back and ignores me. Why — oh why — does my heart tremble so.
My beloved lives in the bustling market; I want to seek her, but the crowd is too thick, I raise my head — no use — tears stain my ears.
My love gives me a painting of two swallows; what do I give in return: candied hawthorn on a stick. From then on she turns her back and ignores me. Why — oh why — am I utterly confused.
My beloved lives by the riverside; I want to seek her, but the water is too deep, I tilt my head — no use — tears stain my collar.
My love gives me a gold watch chain; what do I give in return: medicine to induce sweating. From then on she turns her back and ignores me. Why — oh why — have I got a nervous breakdown.
My beloved lives in a grand mansion; I want to seek her, alas, I have no automobile, I shake my head — no use — tears fall like tangled hemp.
My love gives me a rose; what do I give in return: a scarlet snake. From then on she turns her back and ignores me. Why — oh why — let her go, then!
October 3, 1924.
第6節
Revenge
Human skin is perhaps less than half a line thick; just behind it, bright red hot blood courses through vessels denser than the legions of caterpillars that crawl across walls, radiating warmth. And so, each bewitches, inflames, and draws the other with this warmth, desperately craving to nestle, to kiss, to embrace — to attain the intoxicated great joy of life.
But if one were to thrust a sharp blade just once through this peach-pink, gossamer skin, one would see bright red hot blood gush out like arrows, pouring all its warmth directly upon the slayer; next, one would bestow icy breath, reveal pallid lips, dissolve the slayer's humanity into blankness — and so attain the great joy of life's soaring pinnacle; and the self would remain forever immersed in the great joy of life's soaring pinnacle.
And so, there they stand, the two of them, naked, gripping blades, facing each other upon a vast and desolate steppe.
They are about to embrace, about to kill... Passersby rush in from all sides, packed as densely as caterpillars climbing a wall, as ants trying to carry a fish head. Their clothes are fine, but their hands are empty. Yet they rush in from all sides, craning their necks desperately, eager to feast their eyes on this embrace or slaughter. Already they taste on their own tongues the fresh flavor of sweat or blood.
But the two stand facing each other upon the vast and desolate steppe, naked, gripping blades — yet neither embracing nor killing, nor showing the slightest intention to embrace or kill.
The two remain so until eternity; their full, living bodies have begun to wither, yet they show not the slightest intention to embrace or kill.
The passersby thereupon grow bored; they feel boredom drilling into their pores, feel boredom crawling out from their own hearts through their pores, creeping across the steppe and drilling into the pores of others. They feel their throats and tongues go dry, their necks grow weary; at last they stare at one another and slowly drift away; they even feel so withered that they have lost all zest for life.
And so nothing remains but the vast and desolate steppe, and the two standing within it, naked, gripping blades, withered; with the gaze of the dead they contemplate the withering of the passersby — a bloodless great massacre — and remain forever immersed in the great joy of life's soaring pinnacle.
December 20, 1924.
第7節
Revenge (II)
Because he considered himself the Son of God, the King of Israel, he went to be nailed to the cross.
The soldiers dressed him in a purple robe, put a crown of thorns on him, and hailed him; they struck his head with a reed, spat on him, knelt before him; when they had finished mocking him, they took off the purple robe and put his own clothes back on him. Behold, they strike his head, spit on him, worship him... He refused to drink the wine mixed with myrrh; he wanted to taste clearly and distinctly how the Israelites dealt with their Son of God, and to pity their future forever, while hating their present.
On all sides, nothing but hostility — pitiable and accursed.
Clang, clang — the nail point pierces through the palm; they are crucifying their Son of God, pitiable people, and the pain feels gentle to him. Clang, clang — the nail point pierces through the instep, shattering a bone; the agony penetrates to the marrow, yet they themselves are crucifying their Son of God, accursed people, and the pain feels comfortable to him. The cross is raised; he hangs in the void.
He did not drink the wine mixed with myrrh; he wanted to taste clearly and distinctly how the Israelites dealt with their Son of God, and to pity their future forever, while hating their present.
Passersby revile him; the chief priests and scribes mock him; the two robbers crucified with him deride him. Behold, those crucified with him... On all sides, nothing but hostility — pitiable and accursed.
In the agony of his hands and feet, he savors the sorrow of the pitiable people who crucify the Son of God, and the joy of the accursed people who would crucify the Son of God — and the Son of God is about to be crucified. Suddenly the great agony of shattered bone penetrates to the marrow, and he sinks into great joy and great compassion.
His abdomen heaves — a wave of compassion and curse and agony.
The whole earth went dark.
"Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?!" (Which is to say: My God, why have you forsaken me?!) God has forsaken him; in the end he was merely a "Son of Man." Yet the Israelites have crucified even the "Son of Man."
Those who crucified the "Son of Man" are more bloodstained and more blood-reeking than those who would have crucified the "Son of God."
December 20, 1924.
第8節
Hope
My heart is unusually lonely.
Yet my heart is very calm: without love or hate, without sorrow or joy, without color or sound.
I must be old. My hair is already grey — is that not plain enough? My hands tremble — is that not plain enough? Then surely my soul's hands must tremble too, and its hair must have turned grey.
But that was many years ago.
Before that, my heart too was filled with blood-drenched songs: blood and iron, flames and poison, restoration and vengeance. Then suddenly all this became empty, though sometimes I deliberately filled it with helpless, self-deceiving hope. Hope, hope — with this shield of hope I fended off the dark night within the void, though behind the shield still lurked the dark night of the void.
And yet, in just this way, my youth was gradually consumed. Did I not know long ago that my youth had passed? But I believed that youth outside myself still endured: stars, moonlight, stiff-fallen butterflies, flowers in the dark, the ominous cry of the owl, the cuckoo's blood-cry, the dimness of laughter, the soaring dance of love... Though it was a sorrowful and ephemeral youth, it was youth after all.
But why is it so lonely now? Has even the youth outside myself departed — have even the young people of the world grown old?
I must confront this dark night within the void myself. I set down the shield of hope and heard Petőfi Sándor's (1823-49) song "Hope": What is hope? A harlot: she bewitches everyone, gives herself to all; once you have sacrificed your most precious treasure — your youth — she casts you aside.
This great lyric poet, Hungary's patriot, died on the lance-point of a Cossack for his fatherland, seventy-five years ago now. Sorrowful his death, yet more sorrowful still that his poetry has not died to this day.
But what a wretched life! Even one as proud and valiant as Petőfi at last halted before the dark night and gazed back at the vast East. He said: Despair is as vain as hope. If I must go on stealing a life in this "vanity" between light and dark, I shall still seek that vanished, sorrowful, ephemeral youth — if need be outside myself. For once the youth outside me is extinguished, the twilight within me will wither too.
Yet now there are no stars and no moonlight, no stiff-fallen butterflies, no dimness of laughter, no soaring dance of love. Yet the young people are quite calm.
I must confront this dark night within the void myself; even if I cannot find youth outside myself, I must at least cast my own twilight into the balance. But where is the dark night? Now there are no stars, no moonlight, no dimness of laughter, no soaring dance of love; the young people are quite calm, and before me there is not even a true dark night. Despair is as vain as hope!
January 1, 1925.
第9節
Snow
The rain of warm countries has never turned into cold, hard, glittering snowflakes. Learned people find it monotonous — does it consider itself unfortunate? But the snow of the South is of a supremely lush and ravishing beauty; it is the still-hidden tidings of youth, the skin of a maiden in the full bloom of health. In the snowy wilderness stand blood-red pearl camellias, single-petaled plum blossoms white tinged with blue-green, deep yellow bell-shaped wintersweet; beneath the snow, cold green weeds still grow. Butterflies there are certainly none; whether bees came to gather nectar from the camellias and plum blossoms, I cannot clearly remember. But before my eyes I seem to see winter flowers blooming in the snowy wilderness, many bees busily flying about, and I hear them humming at their work.
Children blow on their little hands, frozen red as purple ginger buds, and come seven or eight together to mold a snow luohan. Because they do not succeed, someone's father comes to help. The luohan grows much taller than the children, though it is only a pile narrow at the top and broad at the bottom, and in the end no one can tell whether it is a bottle gourd or a luohan; but it is very pure white, very bright, held together by its own moisture, gleaming as a whole. The children use longan pits for his eyeballs and steal rouge from someone's mother's cosmetic box to paint on his lips. This time it is truly a great arhat. And so he sits in the snow with blazing eyes and bright red lips.
The next day a few children come to visit him; they clap their hands before him, nod, and laugh. But at last he sits alone. Sunny days come and dissolve his skin; cold nights coat him with a layer of ice, turning him into a kind of opaque crystal; more sunny days make him something unnameable, and the rouge on his lips has faded entirely.
But the snowflakes of the North, after swirling wildly, remain forever like powder, like sand; they never cling together, scattered on rooftops, on the ground, on dead grass — that is all. The snow on rooftops has long since melted, because of the warmth from the fires of those who dwell beneath. As for the rest, under clear skies, when a whirlwind suddenly comes, they fly up vigorously, glittering brilliantly in the sunlight, like a great fog harboring flames, swirling and rising, filling the entire sky, making it swirl and rise and glitter.
Upon the boundless steppe, beneath the bitter sky, what swirls and rises, glittering, is the spirit of rain...
Yes, that is lonely snow, dead rain — the spirit of rain.
January 18, 1925.
第10節
The Kite
In Beijing's winter, snow still covers the ground, grey-black bare branches fork against the clear sky, and in the distance one or two kites float — for me, a cause of astonishment and sorrow.
In my hometown, kite season is the second month of spring; if one hears the rustling of wind-wheels and looks up, one can see an ink-colored crab kite or a pale blue centipede kite. There are also solitary tile-kites, without wind-wheels, flying very low, looking forlorn and wretched. But at that time the willows on the ground have already budded, the early mountain peaches have put forth blossoms, and together with the children's adornments in the sky, they form a single scene of spring gentleness. Where am I now? On all sides there is still the killing severity of deep winter, yet the long-departed spring of my long-departed hometown ripples through this very sky.
But I never liked flying kites — not only did I not like it, I loathed it, for I considered it the pastime of good-for-nothing children. The opposite of me was my little brother, about ten years old at the time, often ill, pitifully thin, yet he loved kites more than anything. He could not afford to buy one, and I would not let him fly one, so he could only stand with his mouth open, staring at the sky in a daze, sometimes for half a day. When a crab kite suddenly fell in the distance, he cried out; when two tile-kites untangled themselves, he jumped for joy. All this, in my eyes, was laughable and contemptible.
One day it suddenly occurred to me that I had hardly seen him for days, though I remembered seeing him collecting dry bamboo in the back garden. As if suddenly enlightened, I ran to a seldom-visited little room piled with odds and ends, pushed open the door, and indeed found him amid the dusty clutter. He sat on a small stool before a large bench; startled, he stood up, went pale, and shrank. Leaning against the bench was the bamboo frame of a butterfly kite, not yet covered with paper; on the bench lay a pair of small wind-wheels for the eyes, being decorated with strips of red paper, nearly finished. In the satisfaction of uncovering his secret, I was also furious that he had gone behind my back to painstakingly craft a good-for-nothing's toy. I immediately reached out and snapped one wing-bone of the butterfly, threw the wind-wheels on the ground, and trampled them flat. In age and strength, he was no match for me; naturally I won complete victory, and walked out haughtily, leaving him standing in the little room in despair. What became of him afterward, I did not know, nor did I care.
But my punishment came at last, long after we had parted, when I was already middle-aged. I happened to read a foreign book about children and learned that play is a child's most legitimate activity, and toys are the angels of childhood. Then that scene of spiritual cruelty from childhood, unremembered for twenty years, suddenly unrolled before my eyes, and my heart seemed to turn into a block of lead, sinking very, very heavily.
But the heart did not sink all the way to breaking; it only sank heavily, very heavily, sinking and sinking.
I also knew how to make amends: give him a kite, encourage him to fly it, urge him to fly it, fly it with him. We would shout, run, laugh. — But by then he, like me, had long since grown a beard.
I also knew there was another way to make amends: ask for his forgiveness, and wait for him to say, "I don't blame you at all." Then my heart would surely feel light — that was indeed a feasible solution. Once when we met, the lines of life's hardships had already been carved deep in both our faces, and my heart was heavy. Gradually we began talking about childhood memories, and I told him about this incident, confessing the foolishness of my youth. "I don't blame you at all" — I thought he was about to say it, I would immediately receive forgiveness, and my heart would be at ease from then on.
"Did that really happen?" he said, laughing in surprise, as though hearing someone else's story. He remembered nothing.
When everything is utterly forgotten, without any resentment — what is there to forgive? Forgiveness without resentment is nothing but a lie.
What more can I hope for? My heart can only remain heavy.
Now the spring of my hometown floats again in the sky of this foreign place, bringing me long-vanished childhood memories and with them an ungrasping sorrow. I might as well retreat into the killing severity of winter — but on all sides it is plainly deep winter, pressing upon me with its fierce cold.
January 24, 1925.
第11節
A Good Story
The lamp was gradually shrinking, announcing that the kerosene was nearly gone; it was not good kerosene either, and had long since smoked the shade dim. Firecrackers crackled all around, tobacco smoke drifted at my side — it was a drowsy night.
I closed my eyes, leaned back, and rested against the chair; my hand holding the Chuxueji lay on my knee.
In the haze I saw a good story.
This story was very beautiful, elegant, and delightful. Many beautiful people and beautiful things interwove like a sky of cloud brocade, and ten thousand rushing stars seemed to fly within it, unfolding at the same time, endlessly.
I seemed to remember once sitting in a small boat along the Shanyin road, and the tallow trees on both banks, young grain, wildflowers, chickens, dogs, thickets and bare trees, thatched huts, pagodas, temples, farmers and village women, village girls, drying clothes, monks, straw cloaks and hats, sky, clouds, bamboo... — all reflected in the clear, jade-green little river, and with each stroke of the oar, each carried glittering sunlight, together with the duckweed and fish in the water, all rippling together. Every reflection, every object dissolved, swayed, expanded, and merged into one another; but no sooner merged than they drew back, returning nearly to their original forms. Their edges were jagged as summer cloudheads, rimmed with sunlight, sending out a mercurial flame. Every river I had ever traveled was like this.
The story I now saw was the same. Against the blue sky at the bottom of the water, all things crisscrossed, weaving into a single piece, always alive, always unfolding — I could see no end to it.
The few gaunt hollyhocks beneath the withered willow by the riverbank must have been planted by a village girl. Bright red and spotted red blossoms floated in the water, suddenly scattering and stretching into threads of rouge-water, yet without halos. Thatched huts, dogs, pagodas, village girls, clouds... all floated too. The bright red blossoms were each stretched long — now they were wildly splashing red brocade ribbons.
The ribbons wove into the dog, the dog into the white cloud, the white cloud into the village girl... In the next instant they were already drawing back. But the spotted red blossom shadows had also scattered and stretched, about to weave into the pagoda, village girl, dog, thatched hut, and cloud.
The story I saw now became clear — beautiful, elegant, delightful, and distinct. Above the blue sky were countless beautiful people and beautiful things; I saw them one by one, knew them one by one.
I was about to gaze at them intently...
Just as I was about to gaze at them, I started violently, opened my eyes — the cloud brocade was already crumpled and disordered, as if someone had thrown a large stone into the river; the waves shot up sharply, tearing the whole page of reflections to shreds. Unconsciously I clutched the Chuxueji that had nearly fallen to the floor; before my eyes a few rainbow-colored fragments still remained.
How I loved this good story! While the fragments were still there, I wanted to recapture it, complete it, keep it. I threw down the book, leaned forward and reached for the brush — but there was not a single fragment left, only the dim lamplight; I was no longer in the little boat.
But I shall always remember having seen this good story, in the drowsy night...
February 24, 1925.
第12節
The Dog's Retort
I dreamed I was walking through a narrow alley, my clothes and shoes in tatters, like a beggar. A dog began barking behind me.
Haughtily I turned and shouted: "Hey! Silence! You snobbish dog!"
"Hee hee!" He laughed, and went on: "I wouldn't dare — I am ashamed not to be the equal of a human." "What?!" I was furious, feeling this was the ultimate insult. "I am ashamed: I still cannot tell copper from silver; still cannot tell cotton from silk; still cannot tell officials from commoners; still cannot tell masters from slaves; still cannot..."
I fled.
"Wait! Let us talk a bit more..." He called loudly after me.
I fled straight ahead, as fast as I could, until I fled out of the dream and lay in my own bed.
April 23, 1925.
第13節
The Good Hell Lost
I dreamed I lay on my bed in a desolate, frozen wilderness, beside Hell. The cries of all the ghosts were hushed yet orderly, harmonizing with the roar of flames, the boiling of oil, the vibration of steel pitchforks, creating an intoxicating great music that proclaimed to all three realms: peace in the underworld.
A magnificent man stood before me, beautiful, compassionate, his whole body radiant — but I knew he was the Devil.
"All is over, all is over! The pitiful ghosts have lost their good Hell!" he said in grief and fury, sat down, and told me a story he knew —
"When heaven and earth turned honey-colored, that was when the Devil defeated the gods and seized the great power to rule all things. He took the Kingdom of Heaven, took the human world, and took Hell. He appeared in person in Hell, sat at its center, his whole body radiant, illuminating all the ghosts.
"Hell had long been in disrepair: the sword-trees had lost their gleam; the boiling oil no longer surged at its edges; the great fire-masses sometimes produced only wisps of blue smoke, and in the distance mandara flowers sprouted, tiny and pitifully pale.
"The ghosts awoke in cold oil and lukewarm fire, saw the little Hell-flowers in the Devil's radiance, pitifully pale, and were deeply bewitched; in an instant they remembered the human world, meditated for no one knows how many years, and then all together, facing the human world, uttered a single cry of rebellion against Hell.
"Humanity answered at once, championed justice, and fought the Devil. At last deploying great strategies and casting great nets, they forced the Devil to flee from Hell. The final victory: humanity's banner now stood upon the gates of Hell!
"When the ghosts cheered in unison, humanity's emissary for reorganizing Hell had already arrived, sat at the center, and with human authority commanded all the ghosts.
"When the ghosts uttered another cry of rebellion, they had already become traitors to humanity and received the punishment of eternal damnation — exiled to the heart of the sword-tree forest.
"Humanity now held full sway over Hell — and their authority exceeded even the Devil's. Humanity set the decay in order: first they gave the ox-headed wardens the highest fodder; then they stoked the fires, sharpened the knife-mountains, and transformed Hell entirely, washing away every trace of its former decline.
"The mandara flowers withered at once. The oil boiled as before; the blades cut as before; the fire burned as before; the ghosts groaned as before, writhed as before — until they had no leisure to remember the good Hell they had lost.
"This is humanity's triumph and the ghosts' misfortune...
"Friend, you are beginning to suspect me. Yes, you are a human! I shall go seek wild beasts and evil spirits..."
June 16, 1925.
第14節
Epitaph
I dreamed I stood facing a tombstone, reading its inscription. The stone seemed made of sandstone, much worn away, covered with thick moss, only a few lines remaining —
...he caught a chill in the midst of ecstatic song; from heaven he saw the abyss. In all eyes he saw nothingness; in utter hopelessness he found salvation...
...a wandering soul transformed into a long serpent, with venomous fangs. Not to bite others — it bit itself, until it perished...
...Depart!...
I went around to the back and then saw the solitary grave, barren of grass and trees, already crumbling. Through the great crack I glimpsed the corpse — chest and abdomen torn open, heart and liver gone. Yet the face showed no expression of sorrow or joy, only a haze like smoke.
In fear and doubt I could not turn fast enough, yet I had already read the remaining words on the reverse of the stone —
...to tear out one's own heart and eat it, to know its true taste. The pain of the wound is so cruel — how can one know the true taste?...
...when the pain subsides, eat it slowly. But the heart has already grown old — how then can one know the true taste?...
...Answer me. Otherwise — depart!...
I was about to leave. But the corpse had sat up in the grave, lips unmoving, yet it spoke —
"When I have become dust, you will see my smile!"
I hurried away, not daring to look back, fearing to see it following me.
June 17, 1925.
第15節
On Argument
I dreamed I was in the classroom of my primary school, preparing a composition, asking my teacher about the method of argument.
"Difficult!" The teacher looked at me, his gaze shooting sideways over the rim of his spectacles. "Let me tell you something —
"A family had a boy, and the whole household was overjoyed. When the baby was one month old, they brought him out to show the guests — naturally hoping for a few auspicious remarks.
"One said: 'This child will be rich someday.' He received hearty thanks.
"Another said: 'This child will be an official someday.' He received a few compliments in return.
"Yet another said: 'This child will die someday.' He received a sound beating from everyone together.
"That the child will die is certain; that he will be rich and noble is probably a lie. Yet the liar is rewarded, and the truth-teller is beaten. Now you..."
"I would like neither to lie nor to be beaten. Then, teacher, how should I put it?"
"Then you must say: 'Ah! This child! Just look! How... Oh my! Ha ha! Hehe! He, hehehehe!'"
July 8, 1925.
第16節
Dead Fire
I dreamed I was racing among icebergs.
Towering icebergs reaching to the frozen sky; overhead, frozen clouds like fish scales. At the foot of the mountains, a forest of ice trees with branches and needles like pine and fir. Everything freezing, everything pale blue-white.
Then suddenly I fell into an ice valley.
Above, below, on all sides — freezing, pale blue-white. Yet upon all the pale blue-white ice lay countless red shadows, tangled like a coral net. I looked down at my feet — there was fire.
It was dead fire. It had the shape of blazing flames, yet did not stir in the least, frozen solid like coral branches; at its tip, solidified black smoke, as though it had just emerged from a burning house and was therefore scorched. Thus reflected in the ice walls all around, and the reflections reflecting each other, multiplied into infinity, turning the ice valley the color of red coral.
Ha ha!
As a child I loved to watch the spray raised by swift ships and the fierce flames shooting from blast furnaces. Not only did I love to watch — I wanted to see clearly. But alas, they were ever-changing, never still. No matter how I stared, no fixed image remained. Dead flame, now I have found you at last!
I picked up the dead fire, about to examine it closely, but the cold seared my fingers; still I endured and stuffed it into my pocket. The ice valley all around turned instantly pale blue-white again. I pondered how to escape.
A thread of black smoke rose from my body like an iron-wire snake. The ice valley was instantly filled with flowing red flames, a great conflagration surrounding me. I looked down — the dead fire was burning, had burned through my clothes, and flowed upon the ice floor.
"Ah, friend! With your warmth you have awakened me," it said.
I hastily greeted it and asked its name.
"I was once abandoned in this ice valley," it said, not answering the question. "Those who abandoned me perished and vanished long ago. I too was nearly frozen to death. Had you not given me your warmth and made me burn again, I would soon have been extinguished."
"Your awakening delights me. I was just thinking of how to escape this ice valley; I wish to carry you with me, so that you never freeze again and may burn forever."
"Alas! Then I shall burn out!"
"Your burning out would grieve me. Then I shall leave you here."
"Alas! Then I shall freeze and be extinguished!"
"Then what shall we do?"
"But you yourself — what will you do?" it asked in return.
"I have already said: I want to get out of this ice valley..."
"Then I had better burn out!"
It suddenly leaped up like a red comet, carrying me out of the mouth of the ice valley. A great stone cart came racing toward us; I was crushed to death beneath its wheels — but I still had time to see the cart plunge into the ice valley.
"Ha ha! You will never encounter dead fire again!" I said, laughing triumphantly, as if I wanted it this way.
April 23, 1925.
第17節
Pressed Leaf
Reading the Yanmen-ji under the lamp, a pressed, dried maple leaf suddenly fell from the pages.
This reminded me of late autumn last year. Heavy frost had fallen in the night, most leaves already shed, and the little maple tree in front of the courtyard had turned red. I had paced around the tree, examining the colors of the leaves closely — when they were green I had never paid such attention. The whole tree was not red; most leaves were pale crimson, and a few bore patches of deep green on a scarlet ground. One leaf alone had a tiny wormhole, edged in black, and amid the mottling of red, yellow, and green, it gazed at you like a bright eye. I thought: this is a diseased leaf! So I plucked it and placed it in the Yanmen-ji I had just bought. I suppose I wished these colors — moth-eaten yet splendid, about to fall — might be preserved a while, and not scatter with all the other leaves.
But tonight it lies before me, wax-yellow, and that eye no longer glows as it did last year. In a few more years, when the old colors have faded from my memory, perhaps even I will not know why it lies pressed between these pages. The splendor of the diseased leaf, about to fall, can apparently only be contemplated for the briefest moment — how much less the lush green. Looking out the window, even the hardiest trees have long since lost their leaves; the maple tree needs no mentioning. In late autumn there must be diseased leaves similar to last year's — but sadly, this year I have had no leisure to admire the autumn trees.
December 26, 1925.
第18節
The Tremor of the Line of Decay
I dreamed I was dreaming. I did not know where I was, yet before my eyes was the interior of a small hut, tightly shut in deep night — and at the same time I saw the dense forest of houseleek upon the roof.
The lampshade on the plank table had been freshly wiped, making the hut unusually bright. In the brightness, on the tattered bed, beneath a massive, hairy, unknown bulk of flesh, a frail and tiny body trembled — with hunger, pain, astonishment, shame, and joy. The slack yet still plump skin gleamed; the pale cheeks flushed faintly, as if rouge had been painted on lead.
The lamp too shrank with fright; dawn was already breaking in the east.
Yet in the air still rippled the waves of hunger, pain, astonishment, shame, and joy...
"Mama!" A girl of about two, startled awake by the sound of the door, called out from the corner where she lay on the floor, surrounded by rush mats.
"It's still early, sleep a bit more!" she said in alarm.
"Mama! I'm hungry, my stomach hurts. Will we have anything to eat today?"
"Today we have food. Soon the sesame-cake seller will come, and Mama will buy some for you." Relieved, she gripped the small silver coin in her palm more tightly; her faint voice trembled with sorrow as she walked to the corner, looked at her daughter, moved the mat aside, and lifted her onto the tattered bed.
"It's still early, sleep a bit more," she said, and at the same time raised her eyes and gazed — with nothing to tell anyone — at the sky above the dilapidated roof.
Suddenly a great new wave arose in the air, colliding with the former, swirling into a vortex, engulfing everything including me; I could not breathe through mouth or nose.
Groaning, I awoke; outside the window lay silver moonlight, and dawn seemed still far off.
I did not know where I was, yet before my eyes was the interior of a small hut shut tight in deep night — I knew I was continuing the dream. But many years had passed. The hut was now tidy inside and out; within were a young couple and a brood of children, all glaring at an aged woman with resentment and contempt.
"We can't show our faces to anyone, and it's all because of you," the man said angrily. "You think you raised her, but you actually ruined her — it would have been better if she'd starved to death as a child!"
"You're the one who made my whole life a humiliation!" the woman said.
"And you've dragged me down too!" the man said.
"And them too!" the woman said, pointing at the children.
The youngest was playing with a dry reed leaf; now he swung it through the air like a steel sword and cried: "Kill!"
The corners of the old woman's mouth convulsed; for a moment she froze, then everything grew calm. Before long, she stood up coldly, bony as a stone statue. She opened the plank door, stepped out into the deep night, leaving behind all the cold curses and venomous laughter.
She walked and walked in the deep night, until she reached a boundless wilderness; on all sides wilderness, above only the high sky, not a single insect or bird in flight. Naked, standing like a stone statue in the center of the wilderness, in a single instant she saw all of the past: hunger, pain, astonishment, shame, joy — and she trembled; harm, humiliation, ruin — and she convulsed; kill — and she grew calm. ...In another instant she merged everything together: longing and severance, tenderness and revenge, nurture and annihilation, blessing and curse... Then she raised both hands as high as she could toward the sky, and from between her lips there escaped sounds half human, half beast, not of the human world, and therefore without words.
When she uttered this wordless speech, the entire surface of her great body — like a stone statue, yet already abandoned and decayed — trembled. This trembling was like fish scales, point by point, each scale heaving like boiling water over fierce flame; the air instantly trembled with it, like the waves of a desolate sea in a tempest.
Then she raised her eyes to the sky, and even the wordless speech fell utterly silent; only the trembling remained, radiating like sunlight, sending the airborne waves into an immediate whirl, as if struck by a hurricane, surging wildly across the boundless wilderness.
I was having a nightmare — but I knew it was because I had placed my hand on my chest; in the dream I used all my strength to move that terribly heavy hand away.
June 29, 1925.
第19節
Amid Faint Bloodstains
— In memory of certain dead, living, and yet unborn
The Creator of our time is still a coward.
In secret he makes heaven and earth change, yet dares not destroy this planet; in secret he makes living things decay, yet dares not preserve all corpses forever; in secret he makes humanity bleed, yet dares not keep the color of blood forever fresh; in secret he makes humanity suffer, yet dares not let humanity remember forever.
He thinks only of his own kind — the cowards among humanity. He uses ruins and deserted graves to set off fine houses; he uses time to dilute suffering and bloodstains; day after day he pours out a cup of bittersweet wine, neither too little nor too much, just enough for a slight intoxication, and hands it to the human world, so that the drinkers may weep and sing, half awake, half drunk, half knowing, half ignorant, half wanting to die, half wanting to live. He must ensure that all want to live too; he has not yet the courage to annihilate humanity.
A few ruins and deserted graves lie scattered upon the earth, reflected in faint bloodstains; among them people chew upon the dim sorrow of self and others. But they will not spit it out, for they think it better than emptiness, each calling themselves "the heaven-punished," to justify their chewing of dim sorrow, and tremblingly await the coming of new sorrows. The new — it frightens them, yet they long to encounter it.
These are all the Creator's good citizens. He needs them just so.
But from the human world emerges the rebellious hero; he stands tall, seeing through all the ruins and deserted graves, past and present, remembering all deep, vast, and ancient suffering, facing all the layered clotted blood, knowing all the dead, the just-born, the soon-to-be-born, and the unborn. He has seen through the Creator's tricks; he will rise to awaken humanity — or to annihilate these good citizens of the Creator utterly.
The Creator, the coward, is ashamed, and hides. Heaven and earth change color in the hero's eyes.
April 8, 1926.
第20節
Such a Warrior
There should be such a warrior — no longer ignorant as an African native carrying a gleaming Mauser rifle; nor exhausted as a Chinese Green Standard soldier yet wearing a Mauser pistol. He has no armor of cowhide and scrap iron; he has only himself, but he carries the barbarian's javelin, thrown with a single cast.
He enters the ranks of Nothingness; all he meets nod at him in the same way. He knows this nodding is the enemy's weapon, a weapon that kills without bloodshed; many warriors have perished by it, as by artillery shells — even the bravest cannot bring their strength to bear.
On their heads they bear all manner of banners, embroidered with fine titles: Philanthropist, Scholar, Man of Letters, Elder, Youth, Aesthete, Gentleman... Below, they wear all manner of cloaks, embroidered with fine patterns: Learning, Morality, National Tradition, the Will of the People, Logic, Justice, Eastern Civilization...
But he raised his javelin.
They all swore in unison that their hearts were in the center of their chests, unlike other biased humans. They all wore breast-mirrors to prove that they themselves firmly believed their hearts were in the center.
But he raised his javelin.
He smiled, cast sideways — and struck them squarely in the heart.
All collapsed — but there was only a cloak, with nothing inside. The thing of Nothingness had escaped, victorious, for he was now a criminal who had slain philanthropists and their kind.
But he raised his javelin.
He strode through the ranks of Nothingness, seeing again the same nodding, the various banners, the various cloaks...
But he raised his javelin.
In the end he grew old and died in the ranks of Nothingness. In the end he was no warrior, but the thing of Nothingness was the victor.
In such circumstances, no one hears a battle cry: Peace.
Peace...
But he raised his javelin!
December 14, 1925.
第21節
The Wise Man, the Fool, and the Slave
The slave did nothing but seek people to tell his troubles to. That was all he did, and all he could do. One day he met a wise man.
"Sir!" he said sorrowfully, tears streaming in a line from the corners of his eyes. "You know how it is. My life is simply not fit for a human being. I may not even get one meal a day, and that meal is nothing but sorghum husks — not even pigs and dogs will eat them — and even so, only a tiny bowl..."
"That is truly pitiable," the wise man said sympathetically.
"Isn't it!" He brightened. "And the work knows no rest, day or night: carrying water at dawn, cooking in the evening, running errands in the morning, grinding flour at night, washing clothes in sunshine, holding umbrellas in rain, stoking the stove in winter, fanning in summer. At midnight I must simmer silver-ear fungus; waiting on the master when he wants money; never getting a share of the gambling winnings, and sometimes getting the whip besides..."
"Alas..." sighed the wise man, his eyes reddening as if about to weep.
"Sir! I cannot go on like this. I must find another way. But what way?..."
"I think things will improve for you..."
"Really? I hope so. But just pouring out my troubles and receiving your sympathy and comfort has already made me feel much better. It shows that justice in heaven has not perished..."
But a few days later he grew discontented again and sought someone else to complain to.
"Sir!" he said, weeping. "You know how it is. Where I live is worse than a pigsty. The master doesn't treat me as a human being; he treats his lapdog ten thousand times better..."
"Outrageous!" the man shouted, startling the slave. This man was a fool.
"Sir, I live in nothing but a wretched little hut — damp, dark, full of bedbugs — lie down and they bite you to pieces. It reeks, and there's not a single window..."
"Can't you ask your master to make a window?"
"How could I?..."
"Then take me to see it!"
The fool went with the slave to his room and at once began smashing the mud wall.
"Sir! What are you doing?" the slave cried in alarm.
"I'm making you a window!"
"You can't! The master will scold!"
"Let him!" He went on smashing.
"Help! A robber is destroying our house! Quick! He's about to break through!..." He wailed and screamed, rolling on the ground. A crowd of slaves came out and chased the fool away.
Hearing the commotion, the master came out last, slowly.
"A robber tried to destroy our house. I was the first to raise the alarm, and we all drove him away together," the slave said respectfully and triumphantly.
"Well done," the master praised him.
That day many well-wishers came, the wise man among them.
"Sir. This time, thanks to my service, the master praised me. You said earlier that things would improve — you were truly far-sighted..."
"Isn't that so..." the wise man replied, seeming to share his happiness.
December 26, 1925.
第22節
An Awakening
Airplanes, carrying their mission to drop bombs, flew over Beijing every morning as regularly as school classes. Whenever I heard the drone of engines striking the air, I felt a slight tension, as if watching "death" arrive, yet at the same time I felt deeply the presence of "life."
After vaguely hearing one or two explosions, the airplane buzzed away and flew off slowly. Perhaps people had been killed or wounded, yet the world seemed even more peaceful. The tender leaves of the white poplars outside my window gleamed dark gold in the sunlight; the cherry-plum was blooming more splendidly than yesterday. I gathered up the newspapers scattered across the bed, brushed away the pale fine dust that had settled on my desk overnight — my small square study was again what is called "bright windows and clean desks."
For some reason, I began editing the manuscripts of young writers that had long accumulated on my desk; I wanted to go through them all. As I read the works chronologically, the souls of these young people — who refused to put on rouge — stood one by one before me. They were graceful, sincere — ah, but then they suffered, groaned, grew angry, and at last coarse, my beloved youths!
Souls beaten coarse by wind and sand — because they are human souls, I love such souls; I would kiss this invisible, colorless, blood-drenched coarseness. In misty famous gardens, exotic flowers bloom, beautiful serene maidens stroll with transcendent nonchalance, a crane cries, and white clouds rise thickly... This naturally enchants, but I always remember that I live in the human world.
Weary, cigarette in hand, I closed my eyes in nameless thoughts and saw a very long dream. Suddenly I started awake; around me still hung the dusk; the smoke-curl rose in the still air like small summer clouds, slowly forming shapes that could not be named.
April 10, 1926.
第23節
The Passerby
Time: The evening of some day. Place: Somewhere. Characters: Old Man — about seventy, white beard and hair, long black robe. Girl — about ten, dark hair, black eyes, white dress with black checks. Passerby — about thirty to forty, weary yet stubborn, dark gaze, black beard, tangled hair, short black jacket and trousers both tattered, barefoot in broken shoes, a bag under his arm, leaning on a bamboo staff as tall as himself.
To the east, a few scrub trees and rubble; to the west, a desolate, crumbling graveyard; between them a trace that may or may not be a path. A small earthen hut has a door facing this trace; beside the door, a dead tree stump.
(The Girl is about to help the Old Man up from the stump.)
OLD MAN: Child. Hey, child! Why have you stopped? GIRL (gazing east): Someone is coming. Let me look. OLD MAN: No need to look. Help me inside. The sun is setting. GIRL: I want to — look. OLD MAN: Oh, this child! Every day you see the sky, the earth, the wind — isn't that beautiful enough? Nothing is more beautiful. Yet you insist on watching someone. What appears at sunset will bring you no good... Let's go inside. GIRL: But he's already near. Oh, a beggar. OLD MAN: A beggar? I think not.
(The Passerby stumbles out from the scrub trees in the east, hesitates briefly, then slowly approaches the Old Man.)
PASSERBY: Good evening, sir. OLD MAN: Ah, good evening! Thank you. And you? PASSERBY: Sir, forgive my boldness — I would like to beg a glass of water. I am terribly thirsty from walking. There is neither pond nor puddle here. OLD MAN: Of course. Please sit down. (To the Girl) Child, bring water, and wash the cup clean.
(The Girl walks silently into the hut.)
OLD MAN: Please sit. What is your name? PASSERBY: Name? — I don't know. As long as I can remember, I have always been alone. I don't know what I was originally called. Along the way people have called me various things, all different; I can't remember clearly, and I have never heard the same name twice. OLD MAN: I see. Where have you come from? PASSERBY (slightly hesitant): I don't know. As long as I can remember, I have been walking like this. OLD MAN: Right. Then may I ask where you are going? PASSERBY: Of course. — But I don't know. As long as I can remember, I have been walking toward a place — up ahead. I only know I have walked many roads and now arrived here. I shall continue that way — (points west) — forward!
(The Girl carefully brings out a wooden cup and hands it over.)
PASSERBY (takes the cup): Thank you, miss. (Drinks the water in two gulps, returns the cup.) Thank you, miss. Such kindness is truly rare. I don't know how to express my gratitude! OLD MAN: Don't be so grateful. It does you no good. PASSERBY: True, it does me no good. But I've recovered some strength. I must go on. Sir, you've lived here long — do you know what lies ahead? OLD MAN: Ahead? Ahead are graves. PASSERBY (astonished): Graves? GIRL: No, no, no. There are so many wild lilies and wild roses there; I often go to play and look at them. PASSERBY (looks west, seems to smile): True. Those places have many wild lilies and wild roses; I've often gone to see them too. But they are graves. (To the Old Man) Sir, what lies beyond the graveyard? OLD MAN: Beyond? I don't know. I've never been. PASSERBY: You don't know?! GIRL: I don't know either. OLD MAN: I only know the south, the north, the east — the way you came. That is the place I know best, and perhaps the best place for you. Don't blame me for speaking too much, but as tired as you are, wouldn't it be better to turn back? For you may not be able to reach the end going forward. PASSERBY: May not reach the end?... (Ponders, suddenly starts.) That won't do! I must walk. Back there — every place has its labels, every place its landlord, every place its expulsion and its cages, every place its skin-deep smiles, every place its tears beyond the eyelids. I loathe it all; I will not turn back! OLD MAN: That's not entirely true. You would also find tears from the heart, shed for your sorrow. PASSERBY: No. I don't want to see their heartfelt tears; I don't want them to grieve for me! OLD MAN: Then (shakes his head) you must walk on. PASSERBY: Yes, I must walk on. Besides, there is always a voice ahead urging me, calling me, giving me no rest. Only my feet have long been torn, wounded, bleeding... I won't drink anyone's blood. I drink only water to replenish my blood. There has always been water along the way. But my strength has grown too thin — too much water in the blood, perhaps. Today I haven't found even a puddle. OLD MAN: Perhaps. The sun has set; I think you might as well rest a while, as I do. PASSERBY: But the voice ahead calls me on. OLD MAN: I know. PASSERBY: You know? You know that voice? OLD MAN: Yes. It seems to have called me once too. PASSERBY: Was it the same voice that calls me now? OLD MAN: I don't know. It called a few times; I ignored it, and it stopped, and I can barely remember. PASSERBY: Ah, ignored it... (Ponders, suddenly startles, listens.) No! I had better walk. I cannot rest. Only my feet are already torn. (Prepares to leave.) GIRL: Take this! (Hands him a strip of cloth.) Bandage your wounds. PASSERBY: Thank you (takes it), miss. This is truly... extraordinary kindness. It will help me walk farther. (Sits on a broken brick, tries to wrap the cloth around his ankle.) But no! (Struggles to stand.) Miss, take it back. I can't wrap it. And such great kindness — I cannot repay it. OLD MAN: Don't be so grateful. It does you no good. PASSERBY: True. But to me, this gift is the most precious thing. OLD MAN: Don't take it so seriously. PASSERBY: Yes. But I cannot. I'm afraid that if I accept a gift, I shall become like a vulture seeing a carcass — hovering nearby, wishing for her destruction so I can witness it; or cursing everything except her, including myself, for I would deserve the curse. But I haven't such strength; and even if I had, I wouldn't wish such a fate on her. I think this is safest. (To the Girl) Miss, this cloth is very fine, but a bit too small. Take it back. GIRL (frightened, steps back): I don't want it! Take it with you! PASSERBY (seems to smile): Oh... because I've touched it? GIRL (nods, points to the bag): Put it in there. To play with. PASSERBY (dejectedly steps back): But carrying this — how can I walk?... OLD MAN: If you can't rest, you can't carry it either. — Rest a while, and it won't matter. PASSERBY: Right, rest... (Ponders, suddenly startles, listens.) No, I can't! I'd better walk. OLD MAN: You really won't rest? PASSERBY: I want to rest. OLD MAN: Then rest a while. PASSERBY: But I can't... OLD MAN: You still think walking is better? PASSERBY: Yes. Walking is better. OLD MAN: Then you had better walk. PASSERBY (stretches): Good, I take my leave. I am deeply grateful. (To the Girl) Miss, take this back, please.
(The Girl, frightened, pulls back her hands, about to flee into the hut.)
OLD MAN: Take it with you. If it's too heavy, you can drop it in the graveyard anytime. GIRL (steps forward): Oh no, that won't do! PASSERBY: Oh no, that won't do. OLD MAN: Then hang it on the wild lilies and wild roses. GIRL (claps): Ha ha! Good! PASSERBY: Oh...
(Briefest silence.)
OLD MAN: Then farewell. Peace be with you. (Stands, to the Girl) Child, help me inside. Look, the sun has long set. (Turns to the door.) PASSERBY: Thank you. Peace be with you. (Paces, ponders, suddenly starts.) But I cannot! I must walk. I had better walk... (Immediately lifts his head and strides resolutely westward.)
(The Girl helps the Old Man into the hut, then closes the door. The Passerby stumbles into the wilderness, and the night follows behind him.)
March 2, 1925.
第24節
After Death
I dreamed that I had died on the road.
Where this was, how I had got there, how I had died — none of this was clear to me. In short: by the time I realized I was already dead, I was already dead there.
I heard a few magpies cawing, then a flock of crows. The air was fresh — though with a touch of earthiness — it must have been about dawn. I tried to open my eyes, but they would not move in the slightest, as though they were not my eyes; then I tried to raise my hand — the same.
A terrible arrowhead of dread suddenly pierced my heart. In my lifetime I had once jokingly supposed: if a person's death meant only the destruction of the motor nerves while consciousness remained, that would be more terrible than complete death. My supposition had come true — I myself was its proof.
Footsteps — someone passing. A wheelbarrow was pushed past my head, probably heavily laden, squealing irritatingly. Everything looked rosy red — the sun must have risen. So my face was pointing east. But that was of no consequence. Muttering — onlookers.
More footsteps, one after another, stopping nearby, and more whispering: the crowd was growing. Suddenly I very much wanted to hear their comments. But at the same time I thought: what I had said in life about criticism being worthless was probably said against my own convictions — barely dead and already exposed. Still I listened; but no conclusion emerged, it came down only to this:
"Dead?..." "Hmm. — Well..." "Hmph!..." "Tsk... Alas!..."
I was very glad, for I had not heard a single familiar voice. Otherwise I might have caused them grief; or given them satisfaction; or furnished them with after-dinner gossip. All of which would have embarrassed me. Now no one could see me, so no one was affected. Good — I had wronged no one!
But an ant, probably, was crawling up my back, itching. I could not move at all. On the back of my hand I felt the pattern of a rush mat — the shroud was not bad. Only I didn't know who had paid for it — a pity! But damn those undertakers! A corner of my shirt was creased at the back, and they hadn't smoothed it.
A sudden gust of wind, something covered me from above, and they all flew off, saying as they left: "What a pity!..."
I nearly fainted with rage.
I immediately closed my eyes, out of disgust. After a while it was quiet — he had probably gone. But another ant seemed to be crawling up my neck, finally reaching my face, circling around the eye socket.
Who would have thought that a person's thoughts still change after death! Suddenly a force shattered the peace of my heart; at the same time many dreams unfolded before my eyes. A few friends wished me happiness, a few enemies wished me destruction. But I always went on living, neither happy nor destroyed, neither up nor down, failing to meet either side's expectations. And now I had died like a shadow, without even my enemies knowing — I wouldn't grant them even a shred of effortless joy... I felt I wanted to cry with satisfaction. This was probably my first weeping after death.
Yet in the end no tears fell; I only saw something like a spark flash before my eyes — and sat up.
July 12, 1925.