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中文 (原文)	日本語 (翻訳)
= 从百草园到三味书屋 =	= 百草園から三味書屋へ (从百草园到三味书屋) =
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。
}}   我家的後面有一個很大的園，相傳叫作百草園。現在是早已並屋子一起賣給朱文公的子孫了，連那最末次的相見也已經隔了七八年，其中似乎確鑿只有一些野草；但那時卻是我的樂園。   不必說碧綠的菜畦，光滑的石井欄，高大的皂莢樹，紫紅的桑椹；也不必說鳴蟬在樹葉裏長吟，肥胖的黃蜂伏在菜花上，輕捷的叫天子（雲雀）忽然從草間直竄向雲霄裏去了。單是周圍的短短的泥墻根一帶，就有無限趣味。油蛉在這裏低唱，蟋蟀們在這裏彈琴。翻開斷磚來，有時會遇見蜈蚣；還有斑蝥，倘若用手指按住它的脊梁，便會拍的一聲，從後竅噴出一陣煙霧。何首烏藤和木蓮藤纏絡著，木蓮有蓮房一般的果實，何首烏有擁腫的根。有人說，何首烏根是有像人形的，吃了便可以成仙，我於是常常拔它起來，牽連不斷地拔起來，也曾因此弄壞了泥墻，卻從來沒有見過有一塊根像人樣。如果不怕刺，還可以摘到覆盆子，像小珊瑚珠攢成的小球，又酸又甜，色味都比桑椹要好得遠。   長的草裏是不去的，因為相傳這園裏有一條很大的赤練蛇。   長媽媽曾經講給我一個故事聽：先前，有一個讀書人住在古廟裏用功，晚間，在院子裏納涼的時候，突然聽到有人在叫他。答應著，四面看時，卻見一個美女的臉露在墻頭上，向他一笑，隱去了。他很高興；但竟給那走來夜談的老和尚識破了機關。說他臉上有些妖氣，一定遇見“美女蛇”了；這是人首蛇身的怪物，能喚人名，倘一答應，夜間便要來吃這人的肉的。他自然嚇得要死，而那老和尚卻道無妨，給他一個小盒子，說只要放在枕邊，便可高枕而臥。他雖然照樣辦，卻總是睡不著，——當然睡不著的。到半夜，果然來了，沙沙沙！門外像是風雨聲。他正抖作一團時，卻聽得豁的一聲，一道金光從枕邊飛出，外面便什麽聲音也沒有了，那金光也就飛回來，斂在盒子裏。後來呢？後來，老和尚說，這是飛蜈蚣，它能吸蛇的腦髓，美女蛇就被它治死了。   結末的教訓是：所以倘有陌生的聲音叫你的名字，你萬不可答應他。   這故事很使我覺得做人之險，夏夜乘涼，往往有些擔心，不敢去看墻上，而且極想得到一盒老和尚那樣的飛蜈蚣。走到百草園的草叢旁邊時，也常常這樣想。但直到現在，總還沒有得到，但也沒有遇見過赤練蛇和美女蛇。叫我名字的陌生聲音自然是常有的，然而都不是美女蛇。   冬天的百草園比較的無味；雪一下，可就兩樣了。拍雪人（將自己的全形印在雪上）和塑雪羅漢需要人們鑒賞，這是荒園，人跡罕至，所以不相宜，只好來捕鳥。薄薄的雪，是不行的；總須積雪蓋了地面一兩天，鳥雀們久已無處覓食的時候才好。掃開一塊雪，露出地面，用一支短棒支起一面大的竹篩來，下面撒些秕谷，棒上系一條長繩，人遠遠地牽著，看鳥雀下來啄食，走到竹篩底下的時候，將繩子一拉，便罩住了。但所得的是麻雀居多，也有白頰的“張飛鳥”，性子很躁，養不過夜的。   這是閏土的父親所傳授的方法，我卻不大能用。明明見它們進去了，拉了繩，跑去一看，卻什麽都沒有，費了半天力，捉住的不過三四只。閏土的父親是小半天便能捕獲幾十只，裝在叉袋裏叫著撞著的。我曾經問他得失的緣由，他只靜靜地笑道：你太性急，來不及等它走到中間去。   我不知道為什麽家裏的人要將我送進書塾裏去了，而且還是全城中稱為最嚴厲的書塾。也許是因為拔何首烏毀了泥墻罷，也許是因為將磚頭拋到間壁的梁家去了罷，也許是因為站在石井欄上跳了下來罷，……都無從知道。總而言之：我將不能常到百草園了。Ade，我的蟋蟀們！Ade，我的覆盆子們和木蓮們！……   出門向東，不上半里，走過一道石橋，便是我的先生的家了。從一扇黑油的竹門進去，第三間是書房。中間掛著一塊扁道：三味書屋；扁下面是一幅畫，畫著一只很肥大的梅花鹿伏在古樹下。沒有孔子牌位，我們便對著那扁和鹿行禮。第一次算是拜孔子，第二次算是拜先生。   第二次行禮時，先生便和藹地在一旁答禮。他是一個高而瘦的老人，鬚髮都花白了，還戴著大眼鏡。我對他很恭敬，因為我早聽到，他是本城中極方正，質樸，博學的人。   不知從那裏聽來的，東方朔也很淵博，他認識一種蟲，名曰“怪哉”，冤氣所化，用酒一澆，就消釋了。我很想詳細地知道這故事，但阿長是不知道的，因為她畢竟不淵博。現在得到機會了，可以問先生。   “先生，‘怪哉’這蟲，是怎麽一回事？……”我上了生書，將要退下來的時候，趕忙問。   “不知道！”他似乎很不高興，臉上還有怒色了。   我才知道做學生是不應該問這些事的，只要讀書，因為他是淵博的宿儒，決不至於不知道，所謂不知道者，乃是不願意說。年紀比我大的人，往往如此，我遇見過好幾回了。   我就只讀書，正午習字，晚上對課。先生最初這幾天對我很嚴厲，後來卻好起來了，不過給我讀的書漸漸加多，對課也漸漸地加上字去，從三言到五言，終於到七言。   三味書屋後面也有一個園，雖然小，但在那裏也可以爬上花壇去折蠟梅花，在地上或桂花樹上尋蟬蛻。最好的工作是捉了蒼蠅餵螞蟻，靜悄悄地沒有聲音。然而同窗們到園裏的太多，太久，可就不行了，先生在書房裏便大叫起來：   “人都到那裏去了？！”   人們便一個一個陸續走回去；一同回去，也不行的。他有一條戒尺，但是不常用，也有罰跪的規則，但也不常用，普通總不過瞪幾眼，大聲道：   “讀書！”   於是大家放開喉嚨讀一陣書，真是人聲鼎沸。有念“仁遠乎哉我欲仁斯仁至矣”的，有念“笑人齒缺曰狗竇大開”的，有念“上九潛龍勿用”的，有念“厥土下上上錯厥貢苞茅橘柚”的……。先生自己也念書。後來，我們的聲音便低下去，靜下去了，只有他還大聲朗讀著：   “鐵如意，指揮倜儻，一座皆驚呢～～；金叵羅，顛倒淋漓噫，千杯未醉嗬～～……。”   我疑心這是極好的文章，因為讀到這裏，他總是微笑起來，而且將頭仰起，搖著，向後面拗過去，拗過去。   先生讀書入神的時候，於我們是很相宜的。有幾個便用紙糊的盔甲套在指甲上做戲。我是畫畫兒，用一種叫作“荊川紙”的，蒙在小說的繡像上一個個描下來，像習字時候的影寫一樣。讀的書多起來，畫的畫也多起來；書沒有讀成，畫的成績卻不少了，最成片斷的是《蕩寇誌》和《西遊記》的繡像，都有一大本。後來，因為要錢用，賣給一個有錢的同窗了。他的父親是開錫箔店的；聽說現在自己已經做了店主，而且快要升到紳士的地位了。這東西早已沒有了罷。 九月十八日。	From the Herb Garden to the Three-Flavor Study Behind our house lay a large garden, known since time immemorial as the Herb Garden. It has long since been sold together with the house to the descendants of Master Zhu Wengong, and even since my very last visit seven or eight years have elapsed. It would seem that indeed nothing but weeds grew there; but in those days it was my paradise. No need to mention the emerald-green vegetable beds, the smooth stone well-curb, the towering honey-locust trees, the purple-red mulberries; no need to mention the cicadas droning their long songs among the leaves, the plump bumblebees squatting on the rape blossoms, the nimble skylarks that would suddenly dart straight up from the grass into the sky. Just the strip along the low mud wall all around offered endless delights. Oil beetles sang softly here, crickets played the piano. Turn over a broken brick and you might find a centipede; there were also blister beetles—if you pressed their backs with your finger, they would make a popping sound and shoot a puff of smoke from their rear orifice. Vines of the polygonum plant and magnolia intertwined; the magnolia bore fruit like lotus pods, and the polygonum had swollen, tuberous roots. It was said that some polygonum roots resembled the human form, and eating them could make one immortal. So I constantly pulled them up, pulling and pulling without end, and had even damaged the mud wall on account of this, yet never found a single root that looked like a person. If you weren't afraid of thorns, you could also pick raspberries—little balls assembled from tiny coral beads, both sweet and sour, far superior to mulberries in color and taste. One did not venture into the tall grass, for it was said that a large red-banded snake lived in the garden. Old Mama Chang had once told me a story: Long ago, a scholar lived in an ancient temple, studying hard. One evening, as he was enjoying the cool air in the courtyard, he suddenly heard someone calling his name. He answered and looked around, only to see the face of a beautiful woman peering over the top of the wall, smiling at him before she vanished. He was delighted. But an old monk who came by for an evening chat saw through the matter at once. He said the scholar's face bore a demonic shimmer—he must have encountered the "Beautiful-Woman Snake," a monster with a human head and serpent's body that could call out people's names; should one answer, it would come at night to devour one's flesh. Naturally the scholar was frightened half to death, but the old monk said there was nothing to worry about and gave him a small box, saying he need only place it beside his pillow and he could sleep in peace. He did as told, yet could not fall asleep—naturally he could not. At midnight, it came indeed: rustle, rustle, rustle! Outside the door it sounded like wind and rain. Just as he was shaking with terror, he heard a sharp hiss, a beam of golden light shot from beside his pillow, and suddenly there was not a sound outside; the golden light flew back and settled into the box. And then? The old monk explained that it was a flying centipede, capable of sucking out a snake's brain, and the Beautiful-Woman Snake had been killed by it. The moral at the end was: If a strange voice calls your name, you must never, ever answer. The story made me keenly aware of how perilous it was to be human. On summer evenings when I sat outside to cool off, I was often anxious and did not dare look toward the wall, and I desperately wished for a box with a flying centipede like the old monk's. Walking past the shrubbery in the Herb Garden, I often thought the same. But to this day I have never obtained one—though I have never encountered a red-banded snake or a Beautiful-Woman Snake either. Strange voices calling my name were common enough, of course, but none of them belonged to a Beautiful-Woman Snake. In winter the Herb Garden was rather dull; but when the snow fell, everything changed. Making snow-prints (pressing one's entire body into the snow) and building snow Buddhas required an audience, and this was a deserted garden where no one came, so that was unsuitable. One could only catch birds. A thin layer of snow would not do; the snow had to have covered the ground for a day or two, and the birds had to have gone a long time without finding food. You swept clear a patch of snow, exposing the earth, propped up a large bamboo sieve with a short stick, scattered some chaff underneath, tied a long string to the stick and held it from far away. When the birds came down to peck and walked under the sieve, you pulled the string and trapped them. But mostly one caught sparrows; occasionally there were white-cheeked "Zhang Fei birds"—fiery-tempered creatures that would not survive the night in captivity. This method had been taught to me by Runtu's father, but I could barely manage it. I would clearly see them go in, pull the string, run over to look—and find nothing. After a whole morning's effort, I would have caught no more than three or four. Runtu's father, on the other hand, could catch dozens in half a morning, all fluttering and thumping inside his forked bag. When I once asked him the secret of his success, he just smiled quietly: "You're too impatient. You don't wait until they've walked to the middle." I do not know why my family decided to send me to a private school, and moreover to the one reputed to be the strictest in the whole city. Perhaps because I had damaged the mud wall pulling up polygonum roots, perhaps because I had thrown bricks over the partition wall into the Liang family's courtyard, perhaps because I had stood on the stone well-curb and jumped off … there was no knowing. In short: I would no longer be able to visit the Herb Garden often. Ade, my crickets! Ade, my raspberries and magnolias! … Going out the door and heading east, after less than half a li, across a stone bridge, one arrived at my teacher's house. Through a black-lacquered bamboo gate and into the third room, which was the study. In the center hung a tablet inscribed: Three-Flavor Study; beneath it was a painting of a very fat sika deer reclining under an ancient tree. There was no tablet of Confucius, so we bowed to the plaque and the deer. The first bow counted as paying respects to Confucius, the second to the teacher. During the second bow, the teacher would kindly return the greeting from the side. He was a tall, thin old man, his beard and hair already streaked with white, and he wore large spectacles. I treated him with great respect, for I had long heard he was the most upright, unpretentious, and erudite man in the city. I do not know where I had heard it, but Dongfang Shuo had also been very learned; he knew of an insect called "Guaizai"—born from the vapors of injustice, which dissolved when doused with wine. I was eager to learn this story in detail, but Old Mama Chang did not know it, for she was, after all, not sufficiently learned. Now I had my chance: I could ask the teacher. "Sir, this insect 'Guaizai'—what is it all about? …" I asked hastily, just as I had finished reciting my new text and was about to withdraw. "I don't know!" He seemed quite displeased, and there was even anger on his face. Then I understood that a student should not ask such things, but only read; for as a learned old Confucian scholar, he could not possibly not know—when he said "I don't know," he meant he did not wish to say. Older people often behaved this way; I had encountered it several times before. So I just read, practiced calligraphy at noon, and did antithetical couplet exercises in the evening. The first few days the teacher was very strict with me, but later he grew milder; however, the books he assigned grew steadily more numerous, and the couplet exercises gradually lengthened, from three-word to five-word and finally seven-word verses. Behind the Three-Flavor Study there was also a garden, small though it was, where one could climb up the flower terrace to pick wintersweet blossoms or search on the ground or in the osmanthus trees for empty cicada shells. The finest activity was catching flies to feed to ants, quietly, without a sound. But when too many classmates spent too long in the garden, it was no good—the teacher would shout from the study: "Where has everyone gone?!" Then they would trickle back one by one; coming back all at once was not acceptable either. He owned a punishment ruler, but rarely used it; there was also a rule about kneeling as punishment, but he rarely applied that either. Usually he just glared at you and called out: "Read!" Thereupon everyone would read at the top of their lungs, a veritable din of voices. One read "Is benevolence far away? If I desire benevolence, benevolence is at hand," another "He who mocks the gaps in other's teeth opens wide the dog-hole," yet another "Nine above, the hidden dragon, do not act," another "This soil, above and below, with adjustments, the tribute of rush bundles, reeds, tangerines, and pomelos" … The teacher himself read too. Then our voices would grow quieter and quieter, until only he was still reading aloud: "The iron scepter, conducting with such panache—the whole assembly marveled, oh! The golden goblet, drunk with abandon, ah—a thousand cups, yet not drunk, ha! …" I suspected this was an extraordinarily fine piece of writing, for at this passage he would invariably begin to smile, raise his head, sway it to and fro, and lean further and further back, further and further. When the teacher was utterly lost in his reading, it suited us perfectly. Some of the boys would put paper helmets and armor on their fingertips and stage plays. I drew pictures: using a paper called "Jingchuan paper," I would lay it over the woodcut illustrations in novels and trace each figure, just as one traces characters when practicing calligraphy. The more books I read, the more I drew; the books went unread, but the drawings mounted up—the largest collection was of illustrations from "The Water Margin Sequel" and "Journey to the West," filling a thick volume. Later, needing money, I sold them to a wealthy classmate whose father ran a tinfoil shop; I hear he has since become the shopkeeper himself and is on the verge of rising to the rank of a gentleman. Those drawings must be long gone by now. September eighteenth.