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中文 (原文)	日本語 (翻訳)
= 藤野先生 =	= 藤野先生 (藤野先生) =
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。
東京也無非是這樣。上野的櫻花爛熳的時節，望去確也像緋紅的輕雲，但花下也缺不了成群結隊的“清國留學生”的速成班，頭頂上盤著大辮子，頂得學生制帽的頂上高高聳起，形成一座富士山。也有解散辮子，盤得平的，除下帽來，油光可鑒，宛如小姑娘的髮髻一般，還要將脖子扭幾扭。實在標致極了。 　　中國留學生會館的門房裏有幾本書買，有時還值得去一轉；倘在上午，裏面的幾間洋房裏倒也還可以坐坐的。但到傍晚，有一間的地板便常不免要咚咚咚地響得震天，兼以滿房煙塵斗亂；問問精通時事的人，答道，“那是在學跳舞。” 　　到別的地方去看看，如何呢？ 　　我就往仙台的醫學專門學校去。從東京出發，不久便到一處驛站，寫道：日暮里。不知怎地，我到現在還記得這名目。其次卻只記得水戶了，這是明的遺民朱舜水先生客死的地方。仙台是一個市鎮，並不大；冬天冷得利害；還沒有中國的學生。 　　大概是物以稀為貴罷。北京的白菜運往浙江，便用紅頭繩系住菜根，倒掛在水果店頭，尊為“膠菜”；福建野生著的蘆薈，一到北京就請進溫室，且美其名曰“龍舌蘭”。我到仙臺也頗受了這樣的優待，不但學校不收學費，幾個職員還為我的食宿操心。我先是住在監獄旁邊一個客店裏的，初冬已經頗冷，蚊子卻還多，後來用被蓋了全身，用衣服包了頭臉，只留兩個鼻孔出氣。在這呼吸不息的地方，蚊子竟無從插嘴，居然睡安穩了。飯食也不壞。但一位先生卻以為這客店也包辦囚人的飯食，我住在那裏不相宜，幾次三番，幾次三番地說。我雖然覺得客店兼辦囚人的飯食和我不相干，然而好意難卻，也只得別尋相宜的住處了。於是搬到別一家，離監獄也很遠，可惜每天總要喝難以下咽的芋梗湯。 　　從此就看見許多陌生的先生，聽到許多新鮮的講義。解剖學是兩個教授分任的。最初是骨學。其時進來的是一個黑瘦的先生，八字鬚，戴著眼鏡，挾著一叠大大小小的書。一將書放在講臺上，便用了緩慢而很有頓挫的聲調，向學生介紹自己道： 　　“我就是叫作藤野嚴九郎的……。” 　　後面有幾個人笑起來了。他接著便講述解剖學在日本發達的歷史，那些大大小小的書，便是從最初到現今關於這一門學問的著作。起初有幾本是線裝的；還有翻刻中國譯本的，他們的翻譯和研究新的醫學，並不比中國早。 　　那坐在後面發笑的是上學年不及格的留級學生，在校已經一年，掌故頗為熟悉的了。他們便給新生講演每個教授的歷史。這藤野先生，據說是穿衣服太模糊了，有時竟會忘記帶領結；冬天是一件舊外套，寒顫顫的，有一回上火車去，致使管車的疑心他是扒手，叫車裏的客人大家小心些。 　　他們的話大概是真的，我就親見他有一次上講堂沒有帶領結。 　　過了一星期，大約是星期六，他使助手來叫我了。到得研究室，見他坐在人骨和許多單獨的頭骨中間，——他其時正在研究著頭骨，後來有一篇論文在本校的雜誌上發表出來。 　　“我的講義，你能抄下來麼？”他問。 　　“可以抄一點。” 　　“拿來我看！” 　　我交出所抄的講義去，他收下了，第二三天便還我，並且說，此後每一星期要送給他看一回。我拿下來打開看時，很吃了一驚，同時也感到一種不安和感激。原來我的講義已經從頭到末，都用紅筆添改過了，不但增加了許多脫漏的地方，連文法的錯誤，也都一一訂正。這樣一直繼續到教完了他所擔任的功課：骨學、血管學、神經學。 　　可惜我那時太不用功，有時也很任性。還記得有一回藤野先生將我叫到他的研究室裏去，翻出我那講義上的一個圖來，是下臂的血管，指著，向我和藹的說道： 　　“你看，你將這條血管移了一點位置了。——自然，這樣一移，的確比較的好看些，然而解剖圖不是美術，實物是那麼樣的，我們沒法改換它。現在我給你改好了，以後你要全照著黑板上那樣的畫。” 　　但是我還不服氣，口頭答應著，心裏卻想道： 　　“圖還是我畫的不錯；至於實在的情形，我心裏自然記得的。” 　　學年試驗完畢之後，我便到東京玩了一夏天，秋初再回學校，成績早已發表了，同學一百餘人之中，我在中間，不過是沒有落第。這回藤野先生所擔任的功課，是解剖實習和局部解剖學。 　　解剖實習了大概一星期，他又叫我去了，很高興地，仍用了極有抑揚的聲調對我說道： 　　“我因為聽說中國人是很敬重鬼的，所以很擔心，怕你不肯解剖屍體。現在總算放心了，沒有這回事。” 　　但他也偶有使我很為難的時候。他聽說中國的女人是裹腳的，但不知道詳細，所以要問我怎麽裹法，足骨變成怎樣的畸形，還嘆息道，“總要看一看才知道。究竟是怎麼一回事呢？” 　　有一天，本級的學生會幹事到我寓裏來了，要借我的講義看。我檢出來交給他們，卻只翻檢了一通，並沒有帶走。但他們一走，郵差就送到一封很厚的信，拆開看時，第一句是： 　　“你改悔罷！” 　　這是《新約》上的句子罷，但經托爾斯泰新近引用過的。其時正值日俄戰爭，托老先生便寫了一封給俄國和日本的皇帝的信，開首便是這一句。日本報紙上很斥責他的不遜，愛國青年也憤然，然而暗地裏卻早受了他的影響了。其次的話，大略是說上年解剖學試驗的題目，是藤野先生在講義上做了記號，我預先知道的，所以能有這樣的成績。末尾是匿名。 　　我這才回憶到前幾天的一件事。因為要開同級會，幹事便在黑板上寫廣告，末一句是“請全數到會勿漏為要”，而且在“漏”字旁邊加了一個圈。我當時雖然覺到圈得可笑，但是毫不介意，這回才悟出那字也在譏刺我了，猶言我得了教員漏泄出來的題目。 　　我便將這事告知了藤野先生；有幾個和我熟識的同學也很不平，一同去詰責幹事托辭檢查的無禮，並且要求他們將檢查的結果，發表出來。終於這流言消滅了，幹事卻又竭力運動，要收回那一封匿名信去。結末是我便將這托爾斯泰式的信退還了他們。 　　中國是弱國，所以中國人當然是低能兒，分數在六十分以上，便不是自己的能力了：也無怪他們疑惑。但我接著便有參觀槍斃中國人的命運了。第二年添教黴菌學，細菌的形狀是全用電影來顯示的，一段落已完而還沒有到下課的時候，便影幾片時事的片子，自然都是日本戰勝俄國的情形。但偏有中國人夾在裏邊：給俄國人做偵探，被日本軍捕獲，要槍斃了，圍著看的也是一群中國人；在講堂裏的還有一個我。 　　“萬歲！”他們都拍掌歡呼起來。 　　這種歡呼，是每看一片都有的，但在我，這一聲卻特別聽得刺耳。此後回到中國來，我看見那些閑看槍斃犯人的人們，他們也何嘗不酒醉似的喝彩，——嗚呼，無法可想！但在那時那地，我的意見卻變化了。 　　到第二學年的終結，我便去尋藤野先生，告訴他我將不學醫學，並且離開這仙臺。他的臉色仿彿有些悲哀，似乎想說話，但竟沒有說。 　　“我想去學生物學，先生教給我的學問，也還有用的。”其實我並沒有決意要學生物學，因為看得他有些悽然，便說了一個安慰他的謊話。 　　“為醫學而教的解剖學之類，怕於生物學也沒有什麼大幫助。”他歎息說。 　　將走的前幾天，他叫我到他家裏去，交給我一張照相，後面寫著兩個字道：“惜別”，還說希望將我的也送他。但我這時適值沒有照相了；他便叮囑我將來照了寄給他，並且時時通信告訴他此後的狀況。 　　我離開仙臺之後，就多年沒有照過相，又因為狀況也無聊，說起來無非使他失望，便連信也怕敢寫了。經過的年月一多，話更無從說起，所以雖然有時想寫信，卻又難以下筆，這樣的一直到現在，竟沒有寄過一封信和一張照片。從他那一面看起來，是一去之後，杳無消息了。 　　但不知怎地，我總還時時記起他，在我所認為我師的之中，他是最使我感激，給我鼓勵的一個。有時我常常想：他的對於我的熱心的希望，不倦的教誨，小而言之，是為中國，就是希望中國有新的醫學；大而言之，是為學術，就是希望新的醫學傳到中國去。他的性格，在我的眼裏和心裏是偉大的，雖然他的姓名並不為許多人所知道。 　　他所改正的講義，我曾經訂成三厚本，收藏著的，將作為永久的紀念。不幸七年前遷居的時候，中途毀壞了一口書箱，失去半箱書，恰巧這講義也遺失在內了。責成運送局去找尋，寂無回信。只有他的照相至今還掛在我北京寓居的東牆上，書桌對面。每當夜間疲倦，正想偷懶時，仰面在燈光中瞥見他黑瘦的面貌，似乎正要說出抑揚頓挫的話來，便使我忽又良心發現，而且增加勇氣了，於是點上一枝煙，再繼續寫些為“正人君子”之流所深惡痛疾的文字。 十月十二日。	Mr. Fujino Tokyo, when all was said and done, was no different. In the season when the cherry blossoms in Ueno Park were in their full, glorious bloom, they did indeed look from afar like light crimson clouds; but beneath the blossoms there was never a lack of "students from the Qing Empire" in their crash courses, with their long queues coiled on top of their heads, pushing the caps up into towering peaks that formed a veritable Mount Fuji. Some had undone their queues and wound them flat; when they removed their caps, the hair gleamed mirror-bright, like the chignon of a little girl, and they would twist their necks this way and that. Truly a ravishing sight. In the porter's lodge of the Chinese Students' Association there were a few books for sale, and it was sometimes worth dropping in; in the mornings, one could sit quite comfortably in the Western-style rooms inside. But toward evening, the floor of one room would inevitably begin to thud and boom, while the whole place filled with smoke and dust. If you asked someone well versed in current affairs, the answer was: "That's dance practice." Why not go somewhere else and have a look? So I went to the Sendai Medical College. Not long after leaving Tokyo, we reached a station with a sign reading: Nippori. I do not know why, but I still remember that name to this day. After that I recall only Mito, the place where the Ming loyalist Master Zhu Shunshui had died in exile. Sendai was a small town, not large; the winters were bitterly cold; and there were as yet no Chinese students. Probably I was valued for my rarity. When Beijing cabbage is shipped to Zhejiang, it is tied by the root with a red cord and hung upside down in the fruit shops, reverently titled "seaweed cabbage"; the wild aloe of Fujian, once it arrives in Beijing, is ushered into the greenhouse and grandly christened "dragon-tongue orchid." I too received such preferential treatment in Sendai: not only did the school charge no tuition, but several staff members even concerned themselves with my food and lodging. At first I stayed in an inn next to the prison; it was already early winter and quite cold, yet the mosquitoes were still plentiful. In the end I covered my entire body with the quilt, wrapped my head and face in clothing, and left only my two nostrils to breathe through. In this place of unceasing respiration, the mosquitoes found no opening to attack, and I actually slept soundly. The food was not bad either. But one gentleman insisted that this inn also supplied meals to the prisoners and that it was not suitable for me to live there, saying so again and again. Although I felt that the inn's catering to prisoners had nothing to do with me, I could not refuse such well-meaning concern and had to look for other lodgings. So I moved to another place, well away from the prison—but unfortunately had to endure, every day, an almost undrinkable taro-stalk soup. From then on I saw many unfamiliar professors and heard many new lectures. Anatomy was taught by two professors. The first subject was osteology. In walked a dark-skinned, thin gentleman with a bristle mustache and spectacles, carrying a stack of books of various sizes under his arm. No sooner had he set the books on the lectern than he introduced himself to the students in a slow, well-cadenced voice: "I am the one called Fujino Genkuro…" A few people in the back laughed. He went on to describe the history of anatomy in Japan; the books of all sizes were works on this discipline from its beginnings to the present. Some of the earliest were thread-bound; there were even reprints of Chinese translations—in translating and researching the new medicine, they had not been earlier than China. Those who laughed in the back were students who had failed the previous year and had already been at the school for a year, thoroughly familiar with its lore. They would lecture newcomers on the life history of each professor. This Mr. Fujino, they said, dressed in the most slovenly fashion, sometimes even forgetting to wear his tie; in winter he wore an old coat and was visibly shivering. Once, boarding a train, his appearance so alarmed the conductor that the man suspected him of being a pickpocket and warned the passengers to take care. What they said was probably true, for I myself once saw him come to class without a tie. After a week, on what must have been a Saturday, he sent his assistant to fetch me. In his research room he sat surrounded by human bones and many individual skulls—he was at that time studying skulls, and later published a paper about it in the school's journal. "My lecture notes—can you copy them down?" he asked. "I can copy some of them." "Let me see!" I handed him my copy of the notes; he took them. Two or three days later he returned them, saying that from now on I should bring them to him once a week. When I opened them, I was startled and felt at once both unease and gratitude. From beginning to end, my notes had been corrected in red ink—not only were many omissions filled in, but grammatical errors too were corrected one by one. This continued until he had finished teaching all his courses: osteology, angiology, neurology. Unfortunately, I was not very diligent in those days, and sometimes quite willful. I remember one occasion when Mr. Fujino called me to his research room, turned to a drawing in my notes—the blood vessels of the forearm—pointed to it, and said kindly: "You see, you've shifted this blood vessel a little. —Of course, shifted this way it does look rather more attractive, but an anatomical drawing is not art. The actual specimen looks like this, and we cannot alter it. I've corrected it for you now; from now on, draw exactly as it appears on the blackboard." But I was unconvinced. I agreed aloud, yet thought to myself: "My drawing is actually quite correct; as for the actual appearance, I naturally have it in my mind." After the year-end examinations, I went to Tokyo for the summer. When I returned in early autumn, the results had long been posted: among over a hundred classmates, I ranked in the middle—I had merely not failed. This semester Mr. Fujino's courses were dissection practicum and regional anatomy. After about a week of dissection practice, he summoned me again and said with evident pleasure, in his characteristically well-modulated voice: "I had heard that the Chinese greatly revere ghosts, and so I was very worried that you might refuse to dissect cadavers. Now I can rest easy—there is no such problem." But occasionally he did put me in an awkward position. He had heard that Chinese women bound their feet but did not know the details, and so he wanted me to explain how the binding was done, how the foot bones became deformed. And he sighed: "One really ought to see it to know what it's all about." One day, the student council officers of our class came to my lodgings, asking to see my lecture notes. I brought them out and handed them over, but they only leafed through them and did not take them away. The moment they left, the postman delivered a thick letter. I opened it and read the first line: "Repent!" This was a sentence from the New Testament, one that Tolstoy had recently cited. It was the time of the Russo-Japanese War, and old Tolstoy had written a letter to the emperors of Russia and Japan that began with this very sentence. The Japanese press had sharply condemned his impudence, and patriotic young men were indignant, yet in secret they had long been influenced by him. The rest of the letter stated, in substance, that the anatomy exam questions of the previous year had been ones that Mr. Fujino had marked in the lecture notes, and that I had known them in advance—hence my results. It was unsigned. Only then did I recall something that had happened a few days earlier. Because a class meeting was to be held, one of the officers had written an announcement on the blackboard; the last sentence read "Please attend in full number without omission," and beside the character for "omission" a circle had been drawn. Though I had found the circle amusing at the time, I had thought nothing of it; only now did I realize that the character was also a jab at me—implying that I had received exam questions "leaked" by the instructor. I reported the matter to Mr. Fujino; several classmates who knew me well were also indignant, and together they confronted the officers about the rudeness of their so-called inspection, demanding that they publish the results of their "investigation." The rumor eventually died, but the officers then energetically maneuvered to get the anonymous letter back. In the end, I returned the Tolstoyan letter to them. China is a weak nation, and therefore the Chinese are naturally imbeciles; a score above sixty cannot be the product of one's own ability—small wonder they were suspicious. But soon afterward I was fated to watch the execution of Chinese on screen. In the second year, bacteriology was added; the shapes of bacteria were demonstrated entirely by film. When a section was finished and there was still time before class ended, a few newsreel clips were shown—all, naturally, scenes of Japan's victories over Russia. But among them appeared Chinese as well: working as spies for the Russians, captured by the Japanese, about to be shot, while the crowd looking on was also Chinese—and in the lecture hall sat one more Chinese: myself. "Banzai!" they all clapped and cheered. Such cheering accompanied every clip, but to me this particular cry rang especially harshly. Later, when I returned to China and saw those people who cheered at executions as if in a drunken stupor—alas, there was nothing to be done! But at that time and place, my views had changed. Toward the end of the second academic year, I sought out Mr. Fujino and told him I would not continue studying medicine and would be leaving Sendai. His face seemed tinged with sadness; he appeared to want to say something, but in the end said nothing. "I intend to study biology; the knowledge you have taught me will still be useful." In truth I had not resolved to study biology; seeing his distress, I told him a comforting lie. "The anatomy taught for the purpose of medicine is, I'm afraid, of little help to biology," he sighed. In the days before my departure, he invited me to his home and gave me a photograph, on the back of which he had written two characters: "Parting with sorrow." He asked me to give him one of mine as well. But at that moment I happened to have no photograph; he urged me to have one taken later and send it to him, and to write to him regularly about my circumstances. After I left Sendai, I did not have my photograph taken for many years, and since my circumstances were bleak and any account of them could only disappoint him, I did not even dare to write. As the years accumulated, it became ever harder to begin; and so, though I sometimes wished to write, I could never bring myself to put pen to paper. To this day I have not sent him a single letter or a single photograph. From his perspective, I had simply gone and vanished without a trace. Yet I do not know why—I still think of him from time to time. Among all those I regard as my teachers, he is the one who inspires in me the deepest gratitude and gives me the greatest encouragement. Sometimes I think: his warm hopes for me, his tireless instruction—in small terms, it was for China, that China might have a new medicine; in larger terms, it was for scholarship, that the new medicine might reach China. His character, in my eyes and in my heart, is great, even though his name is not known to many. The lecture notes he had corrected I once had bound into three thick volumes and kept as a permanent memento. Unfortunately, seven years ago during a move, a crate of books was damaged in transit and half the books were lost; these notes happened to be among them. I charged the shipping company with finding them, but no reply ever came. Only his photograph still hangs to this day on the east wall of my Beijing lodgings, facing my desk. When at night I grow weary and am about to slack off, I look up and catch a glimpse in the lamplight of his dark, thin face, which seems about to speak in that well-cadenced voice, and suddenly my conscience stirs and my courage grows. I light a cigarette and continue writing those texts that the "upright gentlemen" so bitterly detest. October twelfth.