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祝福 (祝福)

魯迅 (ルーシュン, 1881–1936)

中国語からの日本語翻訳。

第1節

The New Year's Sacrifice

The end of the year by the old calendar does look most like the year's end after all. Not only in the villages and towns—even the sky seems to show signs of the approaching New Year. Flashes of light appear intermittently among the heavy, grayish-white evening clouds, followed by dull rumbles: firecrackers bidding farewell to the Kitchen God. Those set off nearby are even louder, and before the deafening noise has died away, the air is already suffused with a faint scent of gunpowder. It was on just such a night that I returned to my hometown of Luzhen. Though I call it my hometown, I no longer had a home there, so I had to put up temporarily at Fourth Uncle Lu's house. He was of my clan, a generation older than me, and I was obliged to call him "Fourth Uncle"—an old licentiate who occupied himself with Neo-Confucian philosophy. He had not changed much from before, only aged a little, and still wore no beard. Upon meeting came the customary pleasantries, and after remarking that I had "put on weight," he launched into a tirade against the Reformists. But I knew his invective was not aimed at me—he was still railing against Kang Youwei. Yet conversation was doomed to go nowhere, and before long I found myself alone in the study.

The next day I rose very late, and after lunch went out to visit some relatives and friends; the day after was much the same. None had changed much, only grown a bit older; but every household was busy preparing for the "Blessing." This was the great year-end ceremony in Luzhen—a devout and solemn ritual of welcoming the God of Fortune and praying for good luck in the coming year. Chickens were killed, geese slaughtered, pork bought and washed with care; the women's arms turned red from the water, some still wearing silver bracelets. After cooking, chopsticks were stuck in at random—these were called "blessing offerings." In the fifth watch they were laid out, incense and candles lit, and the Gods of Fortune reverently invited to partake. Only men were permitted to bow, and after bowing, firecrackers were set off as a matter of course. Year after year, household after household—so long as one could afford the offerings and firecrackers—and this year naturally too. The sky grew darker; in the afternoon it began to snow, snowflakes as large as plum blossoms swirling through the sky, mingling with smoke and bustle, turning all of Luzhen into confusion. When I returned to Fourth Uncle's study, the tiles were white with snow, and the room seemed brighter; clearly visible on the wall was the large character "Longevity" in red rubbing, written by the patriarch Chen Tuan. One scroll of the couplet had fallen and lay rolled on the long table; the other still hung: "Understanding principles thoroughly, keeping one's heart tranquil and composed." Listlessly I went to the desk by the window and looked through what was there—only a seemingly incomplete Kangxi Dictionary, a volume of Collected Commentaries on Reflections on Things at Hand, and The Four Books Expounded. Whatever happened, I was determined to leave the next day.

Besides, the memory of yesterday's encounter with Xianglin's Wife would not let me rest. It had been in the afternoon; I had visited a friend at the eastern end of town, and as I came out I met her by the riverbank. From the direction of her staring eyes I knew she was walking straight toward me. Of everyone I had seen this visit, her change was the greatest: the hair streaked with gray five years before was now entirely white, not at all like someone around forty; her face was haggard and emaciated, sallow verging on black, all trace of former sorrow erased, as if carved from wood; only the occasional turning of her eyeballs showed she was a living creature. In one hand she carried a bamboo basket with a cracked bowl, empty; in the other a bamboo staff taller than herself, badly splintered at the base—she had clearly become a beggar.

I stopped and waited for her to ask for alms.

"So you've come back?" was the first thing she said.

"Yes."

"That's good. You're a scholar, you've traveled and seen the world. There's something I'd like to ask you." Her dull eyes suddenly lit up.

I hadn't expected this. I stood trying to guess her question.

"It's this—" she lowered her voice with a solemn gravity, as if confiding a secret: "After a person dies, is there really a soul, or isn't there?"

I was startled. Her gaze bored into me—not the question of a woman indifferent to begging. I felt hot all over, more nervous than a student caught off guard by an examiner. Whether there was a soul—I had never really thought about it. What should I answer? In that brief moment I reflected that people in Luzhen probably all believed in the soul—but she seemed to doubt, or rather hoped there was one. If she hoped—why should I destroy that hope? After a moment's hesitation I said:

"There is one—yes, I think so."

"Then there's a hell too?"

"Ah, hell?" I stammered. "Hell—well, there should be one. But not necessarily. Who really cares about such things..."

"Then all the members of a family must meet again after death?"

"Meet again?" Now I was unsure of my own words. Never had I considered such questions. Pressed by her, I felt uneasy. I decided to hedge: "Meet again?... Well... that's hard to say... Whether the soul exists is still an open question..."

Hearing my vague, contradictory words, she first stared at me, then silently turned away and walked off without a word, back into the snowflakes.

第2節

I love him who does not want too much morality: one morality is more than two, for it ties more of the knot upon which destiny hangs.

I love him who does not give thanks for the squandering of the spirit, nor does he repay: for he only gives and does not wish to hoard.

I love him who is ashamed when the dice fall in his favor; who then asks: "Am I a false player?" — for he wants to perish.

I love him who casts golden words before his deeds and always keeps more than he promises: for he wants his own downfall.

I love him who justifies those of the future and redeems those of the past: for he wants to perish by those of the present.

I love him who chastises his God because he loves his God: for he must perish by the wrath of his God.

I love him whose soul is deep even in being wounded, and who can perish from a small experience: so he goes willingly over the bridge.

I love him whose soul is so full that he forgets himself, and all things are within him: so all things become his downfall.

I love him who is of free spirit and free heart: so his head is merely the entrails of his heart, but his heart drives him to his downfall.

第3節

Zarathustra's Prologue

One

When Zarathustra was thirty years old, he left his homeland and the lake of his homeland and went into the mountains. There he enjoyed his spirit and his solitude and did not weary of it for ten years. But at last his heart was transformed — and one morning he rose with the dawn, stepped before the sun, and spoke thus to it:

"You great star! What would your happiness be if you had not those for whom you shine!

For ten years you have come up here to my cave: you would have grown weary of your light and of this path without me, without my eagle and my serpent.

But we awaited you every morning, took your overflow from you and blessed you for it.

Behold! I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that has gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to receive.

I would give away and distribute, until the wise among men once more become glad of their folly, and the poor once more glad of their riches.

For that I must descend to the depths: as you do of an evening, when you go behind the sea and still bring light to the underworld, you over-rich star!

Like you I must go down, as the humans call it, to whom I wish to descend.

So bless me, you tranquil eye that can behold even an all-too-great happiness without envy!

Bless this cup that wants to overflow, that the water may flow golden from it and bear everywhere the reflection of your rapture!

Behold! This cup wants to become empty again, and Zarathustra wants to become human again."

— Thus began Zarathustra's going-down.

第4節

I love him whose soul is so full that he forgets himself, and all things are within him: so all things become his going-down.

I love him who is of free spirit and free heart: so his head is only the entrails of his heart, but his heart drives him to go down.

I love all those who are like heavy drops falling singly from the dark cloud that hangs over mankind: they herald the lightning and perish as heralds.

Behold, I am a herald of the lightning and a heavy drop from the cloud: but this lightning is called the Overman.

Two

When Zarathustra had spoken these words, he looked at the people again and was silent. "There they stand," he said to his heart, "there they laugh: they do not understand me, I am not the mouth for these ears.

Must one first shatter their ears so they may learn to hear with their eyes? Must one rattle like kettledrums and preachers of repentance? Or do they believe only the stammerer?

They have something of which they are proud. What do they call it, that thing that makes them proud? Education, they call it—it distinguishes them from the goatherds.

Therefore they dislike hearing the word 'contempt' applied to themselves. So I will speak to their pride.

So I will speak to them of the most contemptible thing: and that is the last man."

And thus spoke Zarathustra to the people:

"It is time that man set himself a goal. It is time that man planted the seed of his highest hope.

His soil is still rich enough for it. But this soil will one day be poor and tamed, and no tall tree will any longer be able to grow from it.

Alas! The time is coming when man will no longer shoot the arrow of his longing beyond man, and the string of his bow will have forgotten how to hum!

I tell you: one must still have chaos in one to be able to give birth to a dancing star. I tell you: you still have chaos in you.

Alas! The time is coming when man will no longer give birth to any star. Alas! The time of the most contemptible man is coming, he who can no longer despise himself.

Behold! I show you the last man.

'What is love? What is creation? What is longing? What is a star?'—thus asks the last man and blinks."

第5節

1925

The Enemy of Poetry

The day before the day before the day before yesterday, I met the "Poetry Child" for the tenth time, and in the course of our conversation he said that I could submit something to the Literary Weekly, adding himself: "Only please not poetry, hahaha." I had never intended to submit poetry anyway. Still—what is one to say to that?

When someone does not care for a particular kind of literature, that is no crime. But when the general atmosphere treats poetry as the "enemy," this is a troubling sign for the state of literature as a whole. Chinese poetry has had its strengths—think of Tang poetry, of Song lyrics—yet in the present era, it seems for most people merely an occasion for ridicule.

There are those who claim that prose is the only "modern" form. Others say poems are merely a pastime for idle scholars. And still others accuse poetry of being too personal, too self-absorbed to have any justification in an age of social upheaval.

All these are prejudices. Great poetry has always possessed the power to elevate the individual to the universal, to transform the personal into something of general validity. If we abandon poetry, we lose one of the most powerful instruments of language—the condensation of experience into sound and rhythm, image and metaphor.

Admittedly, the way some poets write today may deserve the critics' ridicule. But that speaks against those poets, not against poetry itself. A bad novel does not prove that the novel as a genre is worthless; neither does a bad poem prove the superfluity of poetry.

The true enemies of poetry are not those who openly reject it, but those who treat it with indifference—who do not even bother to read it before passing judgment. In literature, indifference is more deadly than enmity.

第6節

Wang Zhu.

(Published in the supplement of the Jingbao, January 13, 1925.)

Addendum to "Sudden Thoughts"

There are many things that come to mind suddenly, but not all deserve to be written down. I had recently been occupied with jotting down "sudden thoughts"—brief reflections on this and that—and this provoked various reactions. Some of these are worth responding to.

I am accused of being too pessimistic. Perhaps so. But pessimism is not synonymous with inaction, and optimism is not synonymous with wisdom. One who sees things darkly may see them more clearly than one blinded by rosy hopes. It is at any rate better to see the truth darkly than to see falsehood in bright light.

I am also told that I should not merely criticize but make suggestions. Yet criticism is itself a suggestion—namely, the suggestion to change the state of affairs being criticized. Whoever points out a fault has already taken the first step toward improvement. Of course: it is easier to demand suggestions than to accept the uncomfortable truths of criticism.

Chinese society suffers from many ills, but one of the greatest is the readiness to tolerate everything. People endure the intolerable, keep silent when they should speak, smile when they should be angry. This tolerance is praised as virtue—I consider it a vice. It is the tolerance of exhaustion, not of wisdom.

第7節

That essay by Mr. Lu Xun, "Biting Words," has already been received with disapproval by two gentlemen surnamed "Qian." I suspect that among young people such views are even more common, which proves that this essay is by no means a "tired platitude." When you can say it too and I can say it too, when I say it and you agree, when you say it and he too thinks it goes without saying—those are tired platitudes. But Mr. Lu Xun's two main theses have yet to find general acceptance even among apparently progressive youth, which proves they are far from outdated.

Mr. Lu Xun does not write for eternity but for the moment; and precisely therein lies his strength. He attacks the problems that are burning now, that must be solved now—not the problems that may perhaps become important in a hundred years. This is not a sign of short-windedness but of courage. It is always easier to philosophize about abstract principles than to write about concrete abuses; easier to dream of the future than to criticize the present.

Those who dismiss Mr. Lu Xun's "biting words" as petty have failed to understand the point. It is not about individual words but about the mental attitude revealed in language. He who is careless with language is also careless in thought. And he who thinks carelessly acts carelessly. Precision in expression is the beginning of precision in all things.

There are also those who think Mr. Lu Xun should not concern himself with "trifles" but keep the "big picture" in view. But what is the "big picture" if not the sum of "trifles"? He who does not see individual faults will not recognize the great evil either. Revolution does not begin with grand declarations but with the precise observation of what is going wrong.

第8節

Haha! Now I understand: Mr. Lu Xun has read Darwin and Russell and other foreign books and forgotten the Chinese books of Liang Qichao and Hu Shi. Why else would he claim that Chinese books are stiff and dead? If Chinese books were stiff and dead, why do the works of Laozi, Confucius, Mencius, and Xunzi still exist today?

Hey there! Mr. Lu Xun! Why do you bury yourself so deep in foreign books and forget your fatherland? If you truly love China, why do you advise the youth not to read Chinese books? Is this patriotism? Do you want Chinese youth to become Westernized? That is merely the old trick of cultural subversion!

[Response:] This objection is as old as the debate itself. The question is not whether the classics exist—of course they do. The question is whether reading exclusively the classics equips young people for the modern world. Laozi and Confucius are great thinkers, but their works alone are not sufficient to solve the problems of the twentieth century. One must also learn what the world outside China has thought and achieved.

Anyone who says I despise Chinese books has misunderstood me. I say only: Do not read exclusively Chinese books. Read others too. Compare. Think. And then decide for yourselves what serves you and what does not. This is not Westernization—this is enlightenment.

The claim that reading foreign books is unpatriotic is itself the product of that narrow-mindedness that has so long impeded China's development. Japan studied Western science and became a great power. China shut itself off and fell behind. The lesson is clear.

第9節

Very well, the good Mr. Lu may teach the youth not to read Chinese books, but he also teaches them to read foreign books. The foreign books Mr. Lu esteems most must naturally also serve as models for human conduct. He who has read foreign books and then acts accordingly is certainly not unlettered. But Mr. Lu must know: every country has its own circumstances, every country its own history. If you are Chinese and want to do something for China, you must know Chinese circumstances. Without knowing Chinese circumstances, one can do nothing for China, even if one has read all the foreign books in the world.

This objection sounds reasonable—yet it is fundamentally wrong. For precisely he who wants to change Chinese conditions must look beyond his own horizon. How is one to recognize that something is wrong without any basis for comparison? How is one to know what is possible if one only knows what has been? Foreign books—books of natural science, social science, philosophy—are not models for blind imitation. They are mirrors in which we can see our own face more clearly.

He who says one must first know Chinese conditions—does he know them himself? Or does he know only the surface, the habit, the inherited custom? True understanding of one's own conditions presupposes the ability to stand back—and distance can only be gained through the perspective of the outside.

Chinese history teaches us much—but one thing it does not teach us: how to build a modern nation. For that we need knowledge that comes from elsewhere. This is no disgrace but a necessity. The Europeans too learned from one another; the Japanese too learned from the Europeans. Only he who is too proud to learn remains ignorant.

In truth, Mr. Lu by no means holds the view that one should read no Chinese books at all—that is a gross distortion of his words. He said one should not read exclusively Chinese books. He said one should also read other books. That is a vast difference which his critics deliberately blur.

第10節

"The report published on the 20th in the Chenbao about soldiers in Kaifeng who allegedly violated a female student at the Iron Pagoda can, in my view, be proven entirely fictitious by the following two facts.

First: The Iron Pagoda is located in the north of the city, less than a mile from Zhongzhou University and the provincial capital. If female students visit it, it cannot be very secluded. The violation of women by soldiers is admittedly a commonplace matter in our country—there is no need to deny it—but to do such a thing in so exposed a place would be unprecedented.

Second..."

This letter of defense by an officer attempted to dismiss reports of rape by soldiers in Kaifeng as fabrications. But the facts told a different story. It was precisely the casual manner in which the author admitted that "the violation of women by soldiers in our country is a commonplace matter" that revealed the true extent of the problem.

In a society where military violence against civilians is considered "commonplace," there is no need to prove or disprove individual incidents—the general condition itself is the real crime. When a defender of the army casually concedes that rapes by soldiers are routine, he has, without intending to, formulated the most severe indictment possible.

What use is it to deny a single case when one confirms the general state of affairs? It is as if someone said: "No, this particular house did not burn down—but of course houses burn down constantly in our city, that's well known."

The crucial point in this case was not whether this one incident had occurred exactly as reported or not. The crucial point was that an atmosphere of violence and impunity prevailed in which such incidents could happen at any time and indeed did happen.

第11節

By now the rumors have died down, and everyone is searching for their origin. There are two versions: one holds that they arose from hostility toward the military. The teacher who wrote me the letter also says:

"In recent months, groundless rumors have appeared in Kaifeng. If one seeks the common thread, they are all disadvantageous to the military. This suggests they were spread by people hostile to the military."

The other version holds that the soldiers themselves put the rumors into circulation—which is not implausible either. In an atmosphere of lawlessness and fear, rumors spring up like weeds after rain. One needs no particular author to explain them; they are the natural product of a society in which truth has no value.

But there is a third possibility that no one considers: that the rumors arise because reality is such that they could be true at any time. If the people readily believe rumors about military atrocities, this is not because they are malicious or credulous, but because their experience tells them that such things actually happen.

The real problem, then, is not the rumor but the condition that makes the rumor possible. He who wants to fight rumors must fight the condition. He who defends the condition and fights only the rumors acts like a doctor who reduces the fever without curing the disease.

The question of the origin of rumors is the wrong question. The right question is: Why do people live in a condition in which such rumors seem credible? And the answer is as simple as it is shameful: because reality is often even worse than the rumor.

第12節

Sir, I do not wish to tell you what a troubled young person I am, how lonely and suffering, for such empty descriptions do not arouse sympathy but only aversion. What I urgently wish to tell you is: I am searching for a mentor! By mentor I do not mean someone who reads from books to me daily or lectures me on morality and the like, but I am searching for someone who can give me a genuine view of life.

Since my youth I have been surrounded by false teachings. I have been told what to think, what to feel, what to consider right and wrong. But no one taught me how to think for myself, how to feel for myself, how to distinguish right from wrong on my own. I have read books, many books, Chinese and foreign, and each says something different. In the end one stands bewildered, no longer knowing what to hold on to.

What I need is not a system, not a dogma, not an ideology. What I need is a person who shows me how to live honestly—not how to meet others' expectations. A person who gives me the courage to think my own thoughts, even when they are uncomfortable. A person who does not pretend to have an answer for everything, but who shows me how to live with questions.

Does such a person exist? I do not know. But I know that I must seek him, for without him I will drown in this sea of opinions and prejudices. And that is why I turn to you, Mr. Lu Xun—not because I believe you have all the answers, but because I feel that you ask the right questions.

第13節

Seventh section: Zarathustra realizes that he is too far removed from the masses.

第14節

Eighth section: Zarathustra is frightened by the buffoon, mocked by the gravedigger, and reviled by the hermit. The gravedigger (Toten-Gräber) is one who merely buries corpses; he represents the base historian who only collects old things and has no vision for the future. He envies not only Zarathustra but also the tightrope walker, yet he can only curse. The old man is likewise a believer, but one who loves only his God and not humanity.

第15節

Ninth section: Zarathustra attains a new truth, seeks to find living companions, and buries the corpse. My (Zarathustra's) happiness means: to create.

第16節

Tenth section: The eagle and the serpent guide Zarathustra as he begins his descent. Both eagle and serpent are symbols: the serpent represents wisdom and the eternal recurrence (Ewige Wiederkehr); the eagle represents pride and the Overman. Wisdom and pride together make the Overman; ignorance and pride make the masses. And this ignorant pride is the result of education (Bildung).

第101節

The end of the year by the old calendar is, after all, the most year-end-like time. Not only in the villages and towns — even the sky takes on the look of the approaching New Year. From the gray, leaden evening clouds come intermittent flashes, followed by dull booms — firecrackers to see off the Kitchen God. Those set off nearby are louder still; the ear-splitting blasts have barely died away before the air is already thick with the faint fragrance of gunpowder. It was on precisely this night that I returned to my hometown, the town of Lu. Although I called it home, I no longer had a home there, so I had no choice but to lodge temporarily at the residence of Old Master Lu the Fourth. He was a relative on my father's side, one generation my senior, so I addressed him as "Fourth Uncle" — an old Imperial Academy stipendiary who was devoted to Neo-Confucian philosophy. He had not changed much, only aged a bit, and still had not grown a beard. When we met, we exchanged pleasantries; after the pleasantries he said I had "gotten fatter"; and after that he roundly cursed the Reform Party. But I knew this was not aimed at me, for the target of his abuse was still Kang Youwei. In any case, our conversation never found common ground, and before long I was left alone in the study.

The next day I got up very late and after lunch went to call on several relatives and friends; the third day was the same. They too had hardly changed, only aged a little; but every household was busy, all preparing for the "New Year's Blessing." This was the great year-end ceremony of Lu Town, a solemn rite to welcome the gods of good fortune and pray for luck in the coming year. Chickens were killed, geese slaughtered, pork bought and washed with great care; the women's arms were soaked red in the water, some still wearing twisted silver bracelets. After cooking, chopsticks were stuck in at all angles, and the offering was called "blessing gifts." These were set out at the fifth watch, with incense and candles lit, reverently inviting the gods of fortune to partake. Only men were permitted to worship; afterwards, firecrackers were let off once again. So it was every year, in every household — provided they could afford the offerings and firecrackers — and so it was this year too. The sky grew ever more overcast; in the afternoon it actually began to snow. Snowflakes as large as plum blossoms danced through the air, mingling with smoke and bustle, and turned Lu Town into one great muddle. When I returned to Fourth Uncle's study, the roof tiles were already white with snow, the room seemed brighter than usual, and on the wall one could clearly make out a large red-rubbing character for "Longevity," written by the ancient patriarch Chen Tuan. One half of the couplet flanking it had fallen off and lay loosely rolled on the long table; the other half still hung there, reading: "He who comprehends the principles of things has a serene and peaceful mind." Idly, I went to the desk by the window and riffled through what was there: only an apparently incomplete Kangxi Dictionary, a volume of Jinsilu Jizhu, and a volume of Sishu Chen. Whatever the case, I was determined to leave the next day.

Moreover, the thought of my encounter with Xianglin's Wife the day before made it impossible for me to stay in peace. It had been in the afternoon. I had visited a friend at the east end of town, and on my way out met her by the river; from the direction of her fixed stare, I knew at once she was walking straight toward me. Of all the people I had seen in Lu Town this time, the change in none could compare with hers: the hair that five years ago had been streaked with gray was now entirely white, not at all like a person of about forty. Her face was wasted to the bone, sallow shading into black, and every trace of her former grief had been erased — it was as if carved from wood. Only the occasional turn of her eyeballs still showed she was a living creature. In one hand she held a bamboo basket containing a cracked bowl, empty; in the other she leaned on a bamboo staff taller than herself, split at the bottom. She was clearly, utterly, a beggar.

第102節

I stood still, expecting her to ask for money.

"You've come back?" she asked first.

"Yes."

"That's good. You can read and write, and you've traveled far and seen much. There's something I want to ask you —" Her lusterless eyes suddenly lit up.

I had never expected her to say such a thing and stood there in astonishment.

"It's this —" She came two steps closer, lowered her voice, and whispered with utmost secrecy, "After a person dies, is there actually a soul?"

I was profoundly shaken. Her eyes bored into mine, and I felt as though thorns were pricking my back — far more alarming than an unexpected quiz at school with the teacher standing right beside you. Whether the soul existed or not was something I had personally never cared about; but at that moment, how should I answer her? In my brief hesitation I thought: people here believe in ghosts as a matter of course; but she doubted — or rather, she hoped: hoped that there was a soul, yet also hoped there was none… Why add to the sufferings of someone at the end of her road? For her sake, better to say yes.

"Perhaps there is — I think," I stammered.

"Then there's also a hell?"

"Ah! Hell?" I was badly startled and could only hedge: "Hell? — In principle, there should be. — Then again, not necessarily… Who manages such things anyway…"

"Then can all the dead people of a family see each other?"

"Ah, see each other or not?…" By now I knew I was a complete fool. No amount of deliberation or planning could withstand three questions. I instantly lost my nerve and wanted to take it all back: "That is… to be honest, I can't say clearly… Actually, whether there is a soul or not, I really can't say."

Since she did not press further, I took long strides and hurried back to Fourth Uncle's house, feeling very uneasy. I thought to myself that my answer might have been dangerous for her. She had probably felt her own loneliness while everyone else was celebrating the New Year's Blessing — but could there have been some other meaning behind it? — Or some premonition? If there was another meaning, and something happened because of it, then my answer truly bore a share of the responsibility… But then I laughed at myself: a chance encounter had no deep significance, and I was simply overanalyzing it — no wonder educators said I had a nervous condition. Besides, I had clearly said "I can't say," which overturned the entire previous answer; even if something happened, it had nothing to do with me.

"I can't say" is an extremely useful phrase. Inexperienced, bold young men often dare to resolve others' doubts and choose their doctors; if the outcome is poor, they usually become the object of resentment. But end with "I can't say," and one is carefree in all things. At that moment, I felt the necessity of this phrase more keenly than ever — even when talking with a begging woman, it must on no account be omitted.

But I could not shake my unease. Through the night, the encounter kept coming back to me, as though I harbored some ominous premonition. In the gloomy snow, in the tedious study, the unease only intensified. Better to leave — go to the city tomorrow. The clear-simmered shark fin at the Fuxing Restaurant, one yuan for a generous plate, good and cheap — had the price gone up? The friends I once traveled with had long scattered to the four winds, but the shark fin had to be eaten, even if I was alone… Whatever happened, I was determined to leave the next day.

Because I had so often seen things one hopes won't happen, things one thinks surely won't happen, come to pass exactly as feared, I was terrified this would prove the same. And indeed, the extraordinary turn of events began. That evening, I heard people gathered in the inner room, talking as if deliberating something; but before long the voices stopped, and only Fourth Uncle was heard, walking and speaking loudly:

"Not too early, not too late — it had to be now! This just proves she was a cursed creature!"

First I was surprised, then very uneasy — as if the remark somehow concerned me. I looked out the door, but no one was there. Not until before supper, when their day-laborer came to brew tea, did I get a chance to inquire.

"Who was the Fourth Master angry with just now?" I asked.

"Who else but Xianglin's Wife?" the laborer replied curtly.

"Xianglin's Wife? What happened?" I asked urgently.

"Gone."

"Dead?" My heart suddenly clenched; I nearly jumped to my feet, and my face must have changed color. But he never raised his head, so he noticed nothing. I steadied myself and continued:

"When did she die?"

"When? — Last night, or maybe today. — I can't say exactly."

"How did she die?"

"How? — Died of poverty, what else?" he answered indifferently, still without looking up, and went out.

第103節

Yet my alarm was only momentary. Soon I felt that what was bound to happen had already happened, and without needing the consolation of my own "I can't say" or his "died of poverty," my heart gradually lightened — though now and then a twinge of guilt remained. Supper was laid out, and Fourth Uncle sat at the table with his usual gravity. I still wanted to learn more about Xianglin's Wife, but I knew that although he had read "ghosts and spirits are the excellent manifestations of the two primal forces," his taboos remained many. Around the time of the New Year's Blessing, one must on no account mention death or illness; if unavoidable, one should use circumlocutions — which unfortunately I did not know. So I started to ask several times but always stopped. From his solemn expression, I suddenly suspected he might think that I, too — neither too early nor too late, but right at this time — had come to disturb him, and was likewise a cursed creature. So I told him at once that I would leave Lu Town the next day and go to the city, to set his mind at ease. He did not press me to stay. Thus we ate a gloomy supper in silence.

In winter the days are short, and with the snow, darkness had already enveloped the whole town. People were busy under their lamps, but outside the window it was very quiet. Snowflakes fell upon the thick blanket of snow and seemed to whisper softly, making the silence feel even deeper. I sat alone under the yellow glow of the rapeseed-oil lamp and thought of this Xianglin's Wife, who had nothing left to live for — a worn-out old toy, cast by people onto the rubbish heap, a thing they were tired of looking at. Before, her physical shell had still been exposed in the dust, and those who led interesting lives probably wondered why she went on existing. Now at last she had been swept clean away by the King of the Dead. Whether there was a soul or not, I did not know; but in this world, those who have no reason to live no longer live, and those who are tired of seeing them see them no more — for others as for oneself, this was not a bad thing. I listened to the snow seeming to rustle outside the window, and as I thought, I gradually grew calm, even comfortable.

Yet the scattered fragments of her life story that I had seen and heard before now came together into a whole.

第104節

She was not from Lu Town. One winter, when Fourth Uncle's household needed a new maid, the go-between, old Mrs. Wei, brought her in: white mourning cord in her hair, black skirt, blue jacket, pale white vest, about twenty-six or twenty-seven years old, with a sallow complexion but cheeks still flushed. Old Mrs. Wei called her Xianglin's Wife and said she was a neighbor of her own mother's family; her husband had died, so she had come out to work. Fourth Uncle frowned; Fourth Aunt already knew what he meant — he disapproved of her being a widow. But she looked respectable, had sturdy hands and feet, kept her eyes lowered and did not open her mouth — very much like a hardworking, well-behaved person. So Fourth Aunt ignored Fourth Uncle's frown and kept her on. During the trial period she worked all day long, as if she found idleness unbearable, and she was strong — practically the equal of a man. By the third day it was settled: five hundred cash per month.

Everyone called her Xianglin's Wife; no one asked her surname, but since the go-between was from the Wei family village and said she was a neighbor, she was probably also surnamed Wei. She did not talk much; she answered only when asked, and briefly at that. It was not until ten-odd days later that people gradually learned: she had a stern mother-in-law; a young brother-in-law, a little over ten, who could already gather firewood; she had lost her husband in the spring — he too had made a living gathering firewood and was ten years younger than she. That was all anyone knew.

Days passed quickly, and her work never slackened in the least — she was indifferent to food but unstinting with her strength. People all said that the maid at Old Master Lu the Fourth's was truly harder-working than the most diligent man. By year's end, she took on everything alone: sweeping dust, scrubbing floors, killing chickens, slaughtering geese, cooking blessing-offerings through the night — not even a single extra hand was hired. And yet she seemed content; a hint of a smile gradually appeared at the corners of her mouth, and her face grew lighter and fuller.

第105節

I was wakened by the deafening firecrackers nearby and saw the yellow glow of tiny bean-sized lamp flames; then I heard the patter and crack of more firecrackers — Fourth Uncle's household was performing the "Blessing." It must have been close to the fifth watch. In my drowsiness I could still dimly hear the distant, unbroken rumble of firecrackers, which seemed to merge into a dense cloud of sound, mingling with the swirling snowflakes and embracing the entire town. In this embrace of clamor I too lay languid and comfortable; all the doubts of the day and early evening had been swept clean away by the air of the Blessing. I felt only that heaven and earth and the host of saints had savored the sacrificial meat and wine and the incense smoke, and were now all reeling tipsy through the sky, ready to bestow infinite happiness upon the people of Lu Town.

(February 7, 1924.)

Lu Xun Complete Works/ja/Zhufu

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