Lu Xun Complete Works/zh-ja/Wuchanghui

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中文 (原文)	日本語 (翻訳)
= 五猖会 =	= 五猖会 (五猖会) =
鲁迅全集翻訳プロジェクトの一部。	魯迅 (ルーシュン, 1881–1936)
== 中文原文 ==	中国語から日本語への翻訳。
孩子們所盼望的，過年過節之外，大概要數迎神賽會的時候了。但我家的所在很偏僻，待到賽會的行列經過時，一定已在下午，儀仗之類，也減而又減，所剩的極其寥寥。往往伸著頸子等候多時，卻只見十幾個人擡著一個金臉或藍臉紅臉的神像匆匆地跑過去。於是，完了。   我常存著這樣的一個希望：這一次所見的賽會，比前一次繁盛些。可是結果總是一個“差不多”；也總是只留下一個紀念品，就是當神像還未擡過之前，化一文錢買下的，用一點爛泥，一點顏色紙，一枝竹簽和兩三枝雞毛所做的，吹起來會發出一種刺耳的聲音的哨子，叫作“吹都都”的，吡吡地吹它兩三天。   現在看看《陶庵夢憶》，覺得那時的賽會，真是豪奢極了，雖然明人的文章，怕難免有些誇大。因為禱雨而迎龍王，現在也還有的，但辦法卻已經很簡單，不過是十多人盤旋著一條龍，以及村童們扮些海鬼。那時卻還要扮故事，而且實在奇拔得可觀。他記扮《水滸傳》中人物云：“……於是-{zh:分頭四出;zh-hans:分头四出; zh-hant:分頭四出}-，尋黑矮漢，尋梢長大漢，尋頭陀，尋胖大和尚，尋茁壯婦人，尋姣長婦人，尋青面，尋歪頭，尋赤須，尋美髯，尋黑大漢，尋赤臉長須。大索城中；無，則之郭，之村，之山僻，之鄰府州縣。用重價聘之，得三十六人，梁山泊好漢，個個呵活，臻臻至至，人馬稱娖而行……”這樣的白描的活古人，誰能不動一看的雅興呢？可惜這種盛舉，早已和明社一同消滅了。   賽會雖然不象現在上海的旗袍，北京的談國事，為當局所禁止，然而婦孺們是不許看的，讀書人即所謂士子，也大抵不肯趕去看。只有遊手好閑的閑人，這才跑到廟前或衙門前去看熱鬧；我關於賽會的知識，多半是從他們的敘述上得來的，並非考據家所貴重的“眼學”。然而記得有一回，也親見過較盛的賽會。開首是一個孩子騎馬先來，稱為“塘報”；過了許久，“高照”到了，長竹竿揭起一條很長的旗，一個汗流浹背的胖大漢用兩手托著；他高興的時候，就肯將竿頭放在頭頂或牙齒上，甚而至於鼻尖。其次是所謂“高蹺”、“擡閣”、“馬頭”了；還有扮犯人的，紅衣枷鎖，內中也有孩子。我那時覺得這些都是有光榮的事業，與聞其事的即全是大有運氣的人，——大概羨慕他們的出風頭罷。我想，我為什麼不生一場重病，使我的母親也好到廟裡去許下一個“扮犯人”的心願的呢？……然而我到現在終於沒有和賽會發生關係過。   要到東關看五猖會去了。這是我兒時所罕逢的一件盛事，因為那會是全縣中最盛的會，東關又是離我家很遠的地方，出城還有六十多里水路，在那裏有兩座特別的廟。一是梅姑廟，就是《聊齋誌異》所記，室女守節，死後成神，卻篡取別人的丈夫的；現在神座上確塑著一對少年男女，眉開眼笑，殊與“禮教”有妨。其一便是五猖廟了，名目就奇特。據有考據癖的人說：這就是五通神。然而也並無確據。神像是五個男人，也不見有什麼猖獗之狀；後面列坐著五位太太，卻並不“分坐”，遠不及北京戲園裏界限之謹嚴。其實呢，這也是殊與“禮教”有妨的，——但他們既然是五猖，便也無法可想，而且自然也就“又作別論”了。   因為東關離城遠，大清早大家就起來。昨夜預定好的三道明瓦窗的大船，已經泊在河埠頭，船椅、飯菜、茶炊、點心盒子，都在陸續搬下去了。我笑著跳著，催他們要搬得快。忽然，工人的臉色很謹肅了，我知道有些蹊蹺，四面一看，父親就站在我背後。   “去拿你的書來。”他慢慢地說。   這所謂“書”，是指我開蒙時候所讀的《鑒略》，因為我再沒有第二本了。我們那裡上學的歲數是多揀單數的，所以這使我記住我其時是七歲。   我忐忑著，拿了書來了。他使我同坐在堂中央的桌子前，教我一句一句地讀下去。我擔著心，一句一句地讀下去。   兩句一行，大約讀了二三十行罷，他說：   “給我讀熟。背不出，就-{zh-hans:不准; zh-hant:不准}-去看會。”   他說完，便站起來，走進房裡去了。   我似乎從頭上澆了一盆冷水。但是，有什麼法子呢？自然是讀著，讀著，強記著，——而且要背出來。   粵自盤古，生於太荒，   首出御世，肇開混茫。   就是這樣的書，我現在只記得前四句，別的都忘卻了；那時所強記的二三十行，自然也一齊忘卻在裏面了。記得那時聽人說，讀《鑒略》比讀《千字文》、《百家姓》有用得多，因為可以知道從古到今的大概。知道從古到今的大概，那當然是很好的，然而我一字也不懂。“粵自盤古”就是“粵自盤古”，讀下去，記住它，“粵自盤古”呵！“生於太荒”呵！……   應用的物件已經搬完，家中由忙亂轉成靜肅了。朝陽照著西牆，天氣很清朗。母親、工人、長媽媽即阿長，都無法營救，只默默地靜候著我讀熟，而且背出來。在百靜中，我似乎頭裡要伸出許多鐵鉗，將什麼“生於太荒”之流夾住；也聽到自己急急誦讀的聲音發著抖，仿佛深秋的蟋蟀，在夜中鳴叫似的。   他們都等候著；太陽也升得更高了。   我忽然似乎已經很有把握，便即站了起來，拿書走進父親的書房，一氣背將下去，夢似的就背完了。   “不錯。去罷。”父親點著頭，說。   大家同時活動起來，臉上都露出笑容，向河埠走去。工人將我高高地抱起，仿佛在祝賀我的成功一般，快步走在最前頭。   我卻並沒有他們那麼高興。開船以後，水路中的風景，盒子裏的點心，以及到了東關的五猖會的熱鬧，對於我似乎都沒有什麼大意思。   直到現在，別的完全忘卻，不留一點痕跡了，只有背誦《鑒略》這一段，卻還分明如昨日事。   我至今一想起，還詫異我的父親何以要在那時候叫我來背書。 五月二十五日。	What children look forward to most, apart from New Year and other festivals, is probably the time of the processions and temple fairs. But our home was in a remote location, and by the time the procession passed our way, it was always already afternoon; the paraphernalia had been reduced to almost nothing, and what remained was exceedingly sparse. Often we craned our necks and waited for a long time, only to see a dozen or so men carrying a gold-faced or blue-and-red-faced idol rush past. And then — it was over. I always harbored this hope: that the next procession I saw would be grander than the last. But the result was invariably "about the same," and all that was ever left was a single souvenir — bought for one copper cash before the idol was carried past — a whistle made of a bit of clay, a bit of colored paper, a bamboo stick and two or three chicken feathers, called a "toot-toot," which I would blow shrilly for two or three days. Looking now at Zhang Dai's *Dream Memories of Tao'an*, I realize that the temple fairs of those days were truly extravagant beyond measure, although the prose of Ming writers is perhaps not free from some exaggeration. Praying for rain by parading the Dragon King is still practiced today, but the procedure has become very simple — merely a dozen or so men twisting about with a dragon, plus village boys dressed up as sea ghosts. In those days, however, they also enacted stories, and the performances were truly spectacular to behold. Zhang Dai describes the enactment of characters from *Water Margin*: "... thereupon they dispersed in all directions, seeking a short dark man, seeking a tall gaunt man, seeking a mendicant monk, seeking a fat Buddhist monk, seeking a stout woman, seeking a slender beautiful woman, seeking a green face, seeking a crooked head, seeking a red beard, seeking a fine beard, seeking a dark hulk, seeking a red-faced man with a long beard. They searched throughout the city; failing that, they went to the suburbs, to the villages, to the remote mountains, to neighboring prefectures and counties. They hired them at great expense, and obtained thirty-six men. The heroes of Liangshan Marsh — each one brought to life, lined up in perfect order, men and horses marching in splendid array ..." Such a vivid tableau of living ancients — who could fail to be moved to take a look? Alas, such grand spectacles vanished long ago, together with the Ming dynasty. Although temple fairs were not, like Shanghai's cheongsams or Beijing's political discussions, banned by the authorities, women and children were not allowed to watch, and scholars — the so-called literati — mostly disdained to go. Only idlers with nothing better to do would run to the temple or the magistrate's gate to see the excitement. Most of my knowledge about temple fairs came from their accounts, and was not the "direct observation" prized by textual scholars. Yet I do recall seeing a rather grand procession once with my own eyes. First came a boy on horseback, called the "courier"; after a long wait, the "tall lantern" arrived — a very long banner raised on a tall bamboo pole, held up by a sweating, burly man using both hands. When he was in a good mood, he would balance the pole on the top of his head, or on his teeth, or even on the tip of his nose. Then came the "tall stilts," the "raised platforms," and the "horse-heads"; there were also people dressed as prisoners, in red clothes and wooden cangues, among whom were children too. At that time I felt all these were glorious undertakings, and that everyone involved was immensely fortunate — I suppose I envied them for being in the limelight. I wondered: why don't I fall seriously ill, so that my mother would go to the temple and make a vow to have me "dress up as a prisoner"? ... Yet to this day I have never had any connection with a temple fair. We were going to Dongguan to see the Fair of the Five Fierce Gods. This was a rare grand event of my childhood, for it was the grandest fair in the entire county, and Dongguan was very far from our home — beyond the city gates there were still more than sixty li of waterway. There stood two unusual temples. One was the Temple of Maiden Mei, the very one recorded in *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*: a maiden who preserved her chastity, became a goddess after death, yet usurped other women's husbands. On the divine seat were indeed sculpted a pair of young lovers, beaming and smiling — quite at odds with "propriety." The other was the Temple of the Five Fierce Gods, a curious name in itself. According to those with a penchant for textual research, this was the cult of the Five Penetrating Spirits. Yet there was no definite proof. The divine images were of five men, showing no sign of fierceness whatsoever; seated behind them were five wives, and they were not "separately seated" — far less strict than the segregation in Beijing theaters. In truth, this too was quite at odds with "propriety" — but since they were the Five Fierce Gods, there was nothing to be done about it, and naturally it must be "treated as a separate matter." Because Dongguan was far from the city, everyone rose very early. The large boat with three rows of bright mica windows, reserved the night before, was already moored at the river landing. Boat chairs, food, tea urn, snack boxes — all were being carried down one after another. I laughed and skipped about, urging them to hurry. Suddenly, the workers' faces turned solemn. I sensed something was amiss; looking around, I saw my father standing right behind me. "Go fetch your book," he said slowly. The "book" in question was the *Jian Lüe*, the primer I had been studying, since I had no other book. In our parts, children usually started school at an odd-numbered age, which is how I know I was seven at the time. My heart pounding, I fetched the book. He made me sit beside him at the table in the center of the hall and had me read it out, sentence by sentence. With my heart in my throat, I read on, sentence by sentence. After perhaps twenty or thirty lines of two characters each, he said: "Learn it by heart. If you cannot recite it, you will not be allowed to go to the fair." Having said this, he stood up and went into his room. I felt as if a basin of cold water had been poured over my head. But what could I do? Naturally I read, and read, and memorized by force — and had to be able to recite it from memory. "Since Pangu of old, born in the primordial waste, "First he emerged to rule the world, opening up the primal chaos." It was that sort of book. I can now remember only these first four lines; the twenty or thirty lines I memorized by force at the time have naturally all been forgotten along with them. I recall hearing people say that studying the *Jian Lüe* was far more useful than studying the *Thousand Character Classic* or the *Hundred Family Surnames*, because it gave one a general knowledge of events from ancient times to the present. A general knowledge of events from ancient times to the present — that was certainly a fine thing. But I did not understand a single word. "Since Pangu of old" simply was "Since Pangu of old" — read on, memorize it. "Since Pangu of old!" "Born in the primordial waste!" ... The things that needed loading had all been carried aboard. The house, which had been in a bustle, grew quiet and still. The morning sun shone on the western wall; the weather was bright and clear. My mother, the workers, and Mama Chang — that is, A Chang — were all powerless to come to my rescue. They just waited in silence for me to finish memorizing and recite the passage. In the stillness, I felt as though iron clamps were reaching out from inside my head to seize hold of "born in the primordial waste" and the rest. I could also hear my own voice, reciting rapidly and trembling, like a cricket chirping in the late autumn night. They all waited. The sun climbed higher. Then suddenly I felt I had a firm grasp of it. I stood up, took my book, and went into my father's study. In one breath I recited it straight through, as if in a dream. "Correct. You may go," said my father, nodding. Everyone sprang into action at once, smiles appearing on every face as they walked toward the river landing. A worker lifted me high in the air, as if celebrating my success, and strode ahead of everyone else at a brisk pace. But I was not as happy as they were. After the boat set off, the scenery along the waterway, the snacks in the boxes, and even the bustle of the Fair of the Five Fierce Gods at Dongguan — none of it seemed to hold much interest for me. Even now, everything else has been completely forgotten, without a trace remaining — only this episode of reciting the *Jian Lüe* is still as vivid as if it were yesterday. To this day, when I think of it, I am still puzzled as to why my father chose that moment to make me recite my lessons. May 25.