Lu Xun Complete Works/ja/Dixiong
言語: ZH · EN · DE · FR · ES · IT · RU · AR · HI · JA
対訳: ZH-EN · ZH-DE · ZH-FR · ZH-ES · ZH-IT · ZH-RU · ZH-AR · ZH-HI · ZH-JA · ← 目次
兄弟 (弟兄)
魯迅 (ルーシュン, 1881–1936)
中国語からの日本語翻訳。
第1節
[1924]
[Once Again, "It Has Existed Since Antiquity"]
Mr. Taiyan suddenly appeared at the podium of the annual meeting of the Society for Educational Improvement to "exhort the study of history" in order to "preserve the national character" -- truly spoken with great passion. Yet he failed to mention one advantage: once one studies history, one can learn that many things "have existed since antiquity."
Mr. Yiping has apparently not devoted himself much to the study of history, which is why he takes the idea that excessive use of exclamation marks should be punished as a "joke." His meaning seems to be: such punishment must be unheard of in the world. Yet he does not know that it "has existed since antiquity."
I have never devoted myself to the study of history. Therefore I am quite unfamiliar with history. But I recall that during the Song Dynasty, when the partisans were severely persecuted -- perhaps when the Yuanyou scholarship was banned -- since among the partisans there were quite a few famous poets, the anger extended to poetry itself, and the government issued a decree: No one may write poems; violators shall receive two hundred strokes of the rod!
And we should note: this applied regardless of whether the content was pessimistic or optimistic -- even optimism still earned a hundred strokes!
At that time, presumably because Mr. Hu Shi had not yet been born, poems did not use exclamation marks. Had they been used, the punishment would probably have been a thousand strokes; had they been placed under "Alas" and "Oh dear," it would surely have been ten thousand; and with the added charge of "shrunk like bacteria, enlarged like cannonballs," at least a hundred thousand. Mr. Yiping's proposed punishment of merely a few hundred blows and a few years in prison is far too lenient, bordering on indulgence. But I know that if he were to become an official, he would certainly be a very merciful "father and mother of the people" -- only he is not quite suited to the study of psychology.
But how did the ban on writing poetry come to be lifted? I hear it was because the Emperor wrote a poem first, and then everyone started writing poetry again.
Unfortunately, China no longer has an Emperor. Only cannonballs, which are by no means shrunk, fly through the sky -- who is there to use these not-yet-enlarged cannonballs?
Oh dear! Your Majesties, the Emperors of the great empires that still have Emperors, please write a few poems and use some exclamation marks, so that the poets of our humble country need not suffer! Alas!!!
This is the voice of a slave -- so the patriots will say.
Indeed, that is correct. Thirteen years ago, I was truly a slave of another race. The national character has been preserved, so it "still exists today." And since I do not much believe in the progress of history, I also fear it "will still exist hereafter." The old nature always shows itself. Are there not already some young Shanghai critics who are demanding the "regulation of literati" and prohibiting the use of "Oh flowers!" and "My love!"? But they have not yet enacted a "flogging decree."
If one says that the absence of a "flogging decree" represents progress compared to the Song Dynasty: then I too can consider myself to have progressed -- from a slave of another race to a slave of my own race. Your servant is overwhelmed with joy and gratitude!
(Published on September 28, 1924, in the supplement of the Peking "Morning Post.")
[Higher Life -- Multatuli (Netherlands)]
I
High, high up in the sky soared a butterfly. He was proud of his beauty and his freedom, and especially enjoyed the view of everything spread out below him.
"Come up, up here!" he called loudly to his brothers, who were fluttering around the trees on the ground below him.
"Oh no, we are sipping nectar and staying down here!"
"If you only knew how beautiful it is up here! One can see everything! Oh, come, come!"
"Are there flowers up there too, with nectar to nourish us?"
"One can see all the flowers from here, and this enjoyment..."
"Do you have nectar up there?"
No, it was true -- there was no nectar up there!
This contradiction wore out the poor butterfly down below...
Yet he wanted to stay in the sky.
He thought it was beautiful to survey everything, to have it all in view.
But the nectar... nectar? No, there was no nectar up there.
He grew weak, the poor butterfly. His wingbeats only became more sluggish. He sank downward and his field of vision only shrank...
But still he struggled...
No, it was no good; he sank!...
"Ah, so you have finally come to us," the brothers cried. "What did we tell you? Come now and sip nectar like us. We know our way around the flowers!"
The brothers cried out thus and were pleased, because they were right, and not merely because they had no need for the beauty above.
"Come, and sip nectar like us!"
The butterfly only sank lower and lower... he still wanted to... here was a flower bed... did he reach it?... He was no longer sinking... he was falling! He fell beside the flower bed, onto the path, onto the road...
There he was trampled by a donkey.
II
High, high up in the sky soared a butterfly. He was proud of his beauty and his freedom, and especially enjoyed the view of everything spread out below him.
第2節
In Amatsu's eyes, ever since their father died, the eldest brother had suddenly become capable. When she thought about how it was the brother who had painted the shop front and installed the electric lights, Amatsu always felt reassured. The eldest sister, who had married a carpenter from the neighborhood and already had a darling two-year-old child, had made and sent him a sleeve cord of satin brocade; he tied it tightly, and the big brother moved his sturdy, compact body, working only ever diligently. Unlike the brothers, Amatsu's younger brother Rikizo, a plump, round twelve-year-old, deftly wore tall wooden clogs and went to shave and part the hair of customers. Come summer, the clientele gradually increased. In the evenings too, the shop was always lively — laughter, the clatter of chess pieces — until deep into the night. The eldest brother resembled a barber in nothing, attending to customers with an awkward manner, yet precisely this made the customers pleased.
In this respectable household, only the mother hid inside all day long. Before parting from the late husband, not a single complaint had passed her lips; she just worked ceaselessly, and when the sick man made fretful demands, she silently and swiftly took care of everything for him. But the man seemed displeased by this, as though he would rather have received the attentions of the son who later died and the others. Perhaps this woman had something cold about her somewhere; but toward those bearing warmth, she seemed eager to draw close, as if to a warm stove. She loved the plump Rikizo most dearly, Amatsu was her second treasure. The two elder brothers received only distant treatment.
Once the father died, the mother changed remarkably — even Amatsu noticed it clearly. Until then a steadfast person who never revealed her worries, she suddenly became a busybody, a chatterbox, restless and irritable; her loves and hatreds grew ever more intense. The way she scolded the eldest son Tsurukichi — even Amatsu could hardly bear to watch. Though Amatsu was pampered, she comparatively disliked the mother more; sometimes when Amatsu was slightly difficult, the mother blazed up like fire, and once she grabbed the fire tongs and chased her all the way out of the shop. Amatsu ran off quickly, spent time elsewhere without a care, and when she returned, the big brother was already waiting at the shop door. In the dining room, the mother was still crying with indignation. But this was not directed at Amatsu — she was only bitterly complaining that the brother had not yet set the household in order and was already thinking of taking a wife. Just when Amatsu came back, the mother's expression suddenly changed to one of ingratiation; though it was nearly time for supper, she called Rikizo from the shop and the lame little Satoshi, and invited them to eat delicious pancakes she had been hiding somewhere.
Despite all this, this family was still considered enviable by the neighbors. Everyone said that Tsurukichi was gentle and hardworking and would soon spread his wings from the shop in the back street to the main street. Tsurukichi truly paid no attention to people's gossip, good or bad, and just worked tirelessly.
第3節
June twenty-fourth was the last memorial week for Rikizo. Four or five days earlier, the eldest sister, who had observed her own child's death anniversary, had come over to Tsurukichi's bedside, perhaps for sewing or something else, and was chatting with her brother.
Amatsu had received kind words from her mother the moment she woke up that morning and was therefore in good spirits. She called out "Big Sister, Big Sister" affectionately, chattering about this and that while cleaning the washstand.
"Please try this too—just a little, do try it." Amatsu turned at the voice: someone had distributed Angel brand hair oil samples along with small bottles. Amatsu snatched the bottle from her sister's hand.
"I'll keep half the Angel oil, and the other half is for you, Sister—tomorrow I'll go to your house to have my hair done."
"What a cunning child," the sister laughed.
But the moment Amatsu cracked this joke, the mother in the dining room suddenly became furious. In a venomous tone she scolded: hurry up and clean the washstand, in this fine weather and no washing done—what would happen when it snowed?—all the while showing her swollen, tear-stained face.
"Mother, today is Rikizo's memorial day—please don't get so upset," the sister tried gently to comfort her.
"Rikizo, Rikizo—you talk as if he were yours! Who raised him? And Tsurukichi too, always complaining about bad business, works me to death, but look at Amatsu, lazing about all day, just getting bigger!"
The sister, annoyed by this spiteful chatter, left abruptly. Amatsu glanced at the helpless eldest brother and went silently to work. The mother stood at the door nagging. Leaden gloom filled the house to its very edges.
Amatsu finished cleaning the washstand and went outside to do the washing. Still cool, but the late-autumn sun, worthy of the name "fine Japanese day," slanted against the shop door and gave off a faint smell of paint. Amatsu took interest in the work, grew a little dizzy from the warmth, and pasted various patterned cloth pieces onto a board. Only her small fingers, red at the tips, moved nimbly across the darkened board, and with each crouch and rise, Amatsu's figure traced the graceful curves of feminine elegance. Tsurukichi too, reading the newspaper at the shop entrance, gazed at her admiringly, unable to look away.
Tsurukichi had business at the guild. When he left after a hasty lunch, Amatsu was working with all her might.
"Rest a bit—go eat," he said kindly. Amatsu briefly raised her head, merely smiled, and cheerfully went on working. At the bend in the road he looked back; Amatsu too had straightened up and was watching her brother go. "Dear child," thought Tsurukichi, and hurried on his way.
Ignoring the mother's calls to lunch, Amatsu worked on and on. Then three friends came saying there was a demonstration of an endless caterpillar track at the fairground—wouldn't she come see? "Endless caterpillar track"—the name piqued Amatsu's curiosity. She slipped off her sleeve cord and went with the three.
Amatsu suddenly turned pale. The friends saw her changed expression and all three opened their eyes wide.
At home, the brother had not yet returned; only the mother was trembling like fire:
"Good-for-nothing, where were you? Why didn't you die there? Rikizo, whom I wanted alive, is dead, but you, you worthless creature, live on! Get out! Go away!"
Amatsu rebelled inwardly: "Even if you kill me, will I just die?" But she packed the laundry the mother had taken down and folded into a cloth bundle. She was hungry but hadn't the courage to eat; she did however slip the Angel hair oil from beside the mirror into her sleeve. On the way she thought: "Good, at Sister's I'll tell her everything. Die? Who would die!" And so she went to her sister's house.
The sister did not rush out to greet her as usual; only a foster girl of about ten from the neighborhood stood at the entrance with a gloomy air. Amatsu's nerve faltered at once. In the inner room, the sister sat silently at her needlework. Because the atmosphere was different, Amatsu stood hesitantly in the doorway.
"Sit down."
The sister fixed Amatsu with a piercing gaze. Then, beginning with the mother's scolding, she delivered a lecture—outwardly gentle but inwardly angry: the brother's business was failing, the brother-in-law helped but winter brought no carpentry work, Rikizo was dead, they'd probably need an apprentice, the mother was ill, Satoshi was disabled—and Amatsu, fourteen years old, marriageable in two or three years, had gone off to play on the brother's memorial day!
The sister finally wept herself: "By the way, I've been meaning to ask—that time at the Toyohira river, did you feed the child something wrong?"
Amatsu's head sank. Then suddenly, from the depths of her heart, grief welled up; pure grief. Tears rolled down her burning cheeks, and she broke into uncontrollable sobbing.
Amatsu wept for a whole hour. Rikizo's mischievous face, the innocent face of her sister's child—she tried to see them clearly, but they transformed into the face of her father, her mother, her beloved brother Tsurukichi. Then Amatsu said softly: "Sister, I'm going home." And she left her sister's house with the thought: "Let me die—yes." Quietly, with a solemn, tragic heart, she assented deep within herself.
第4節
About thirty minutes later, Amatsu stood up as though to go to the kitchen for water. The sister, who since losing her child regarded unboiled water as poison, called out from behind the paper screen and forbade Amatsu to drink. Amatsu desisted and came into her sister's room. The sister had recently turned to Buddhism and was at that moment polishing brass Buddhist implements. Amatsu helped. During the roughly thirty-minute sutra recitation that followed, she sat devoutly behind. Then she suddenly stood and went into the small three-tatami room. After a while, the sister heard retching sounds from next door. She tore open the paper screen—Amatsu had already collapsed in agony. No matter how she was questioned, she would not answer, only suffered. Finally the sister, losing patience, struck her two or three times on the back, and then at last Amatsu said she had taken the poison that stood on the cupboard at home. And she apologized: she was sorry for dying in her sister's house and causing her trouble.
The sister rushed into Tsurukichi's shop and, breathless and incoherent, told him what had happened. Tsurukichi ran there; in the small room at the sister's house, Amatsu lay on a futon, and with surprisingly calm composure she looked at the brother entering. But Tsurukichi could not bring himself to look at his sister's face.
Thinking of the doctor, he dashed out to the nearest hospital. The pharmacy and reception had just opened. He pleaded urgently for someone to come quickly, stressing the emergency, then returned to wait—forty minutes, and no doctor appeared. The vomiting that had subsided resumed violently. Seeing Amatsu press her face into the pillow, breathing heavily, he could neither sit nor stand. Forty minutes wasted—perhaps too late now. He ran out again.
After five or six blocks he realized he was wearing tall wooden clogs. How stupid—to run in such clogs at a time like this! He kicked them off and ran another five or six blocks barefoot through the snow. Suddenly a rickshaw passed—another blunder! He turned back to find a rickshaw stand. The puller was an old man, apparently even slower than Tsurukichi himself. Less than a block from the doctor's house, he was told everything was ready and to bring the patient at once.
Without waiting for the rickshaw, Tsurukichi ran to his sister's. The situation seemed not quite so critical. Relieved, he thought: Amatsu must have confused the bottles and taken from the large one, which contained caustic potash. In his heart he was certain, yet lacked the courage to ask her directly.
He brought Amatsu to the doctor by rickshaw, holding her on his lap. In the brother's arms, Amatsu smiled faintly. The bond of blood tightened around Tsurukichi's heart like a bite. How to find some way to save her life—that was his only thought.
At the doctor's, Amatsu was transferred to a spacious upstairs room and laid on snow-white sheets. Gasping, she asked for water.
"All right, all right—I'll soon make it so you won't be thirsty."
The doctor, who seemed warmhearted, put on his examining gown, keeping his eyes on Amatsu as he spoke calmly. Amatsu nodded obediently. The doctor placed his hand on her forehead, studied the patient carefully, then turned to Tsurukichi:
"How much corrosive sublimate did she take, approximately?"
Tsurukichi thought: this is the crossroads of fate. Trembling, he went to Amatsu's side and whispered: "Amatsu, did you take from the large bottle or the small one?" He showed the size with his hands. Amatsu fixed her feverish eyes on her brother and answered clearly: "From the small bottle."
Tsurukichi felt as if struck by lightning.
"How... how much did you take?"
He had heard that even for an adult, one-tenth of a grain was fatal. Knowing it was futile, he asked anyway. Amatsu was silent, bent her forefinger to the base of her thumb, and showed the size of a five-rin copper coin.
The doctor tilted his head skeptically: "It seems rather too much time may have been lost..."
He brought the prepared medicine. A pungent, caustic smell filled the entire room. Tsurukichi's mind cleared, as if everything before had been a dream.
"It's bitter—bear with it and drink."
Amatsu put up no resistance, closed her eyes, and drank it all in one gulp. Afterwards she sank into a tormented half-sleep. The assistant held her wrist and took her pulse, conferring quietly with the doctor.
About fifteen minutes later, Amatsu opened her eyes as if in great alarm, looked around desperately, tried to lift her head from the pillow—and vomited violently. From a stomach empty since the previous morning came only foam and mucus.
"My chest hurts so, Brother."
Tsurukichi rubbed her back and nodded silently, deeply.
Then she asked for the toilet and tried to stand. They offered a bedpan, but she refused. Supported by Tsurukichi, she walked by herself. She wanted to go down the stairs on her own too; Tsurukichi forcibly carried her on his back:
"Even the stairs you want to do yourself—you'll fall!"
Somewhere on Amatsu's face a faint smile appeared: "Even if I die, it doesn't matter."
Diarrhea followed copiously. That she was purging so much was, if anything, a hopeful sign. Amatsu writhed in agony, her back heaving like great waves, exhaling hot, foul-smelling breath, her lips dry and cracked, her cheeks flushed with a beautiful color.
Then Amatsu stopped complaining of her chest and began instead to cry out with severe abdominal pain—a cruel torment. Yet Amatsu endured it with fortitude. She asked once more for the toilet, but her strength had already failed; in the bed she lost much blood. Blood also flowed freely from her nose. Amid the harrowing suffering—clutching at the air, tearing the sheets—came a terrifying, still unconsciousness.
The sister, who had been arranging the expenses, now arrived. She combed Amatsu's tangled black hair firmly back into place. Not a soul wished Amatsu dead. Yet all the while, Amatsu was dying second by second.
But Amatsu showed no sign of wanting to live. Her pitiful, steadfast resolve made everyone's pain all the greater.
Suddenly Amatsu emerged from unconsciousness and called: "Brother." Tsurukichi, sobbing in the corner, hastily wiped his eyes and hurried to the bedside.
"Where's Satoshi?"
"Satoshi? He's... at school. Shall I send for him?"
Amatsu turned her head from her brother and said softly: "If he's at school, you needn't call him."
Those were Amatsu's last words.
Satoshi was sent for nonetheless, but Amatsu's consciousness no longer functioned; she did not recognize him. The mother, who was supposed to stay at home, came rushing like a woman possessed. She brought Amatsu's favorite clothes and insisted on dressing her in them. When others tried to stop her, she said: then at least let me do this—and laid the clothes over Amatsu and lay down beside her. Amatsu's consciousness had already gone, and the doctor let the mother do as she wished.
"Ah yes, yes, that's right. It's done. Done. Done, it is. Mother is here, don't cry. Ah yes, yes." The mother stroked everywhere. And so, at half past three in the afternoon, Amatsu parted forever from her brief, fourteen-year life.
The next afternoon, the family held its fifth funeral. In the freshly fallen white snow, the small coffin and the correspondingly small group of mourners left ugly tracks. Tsurukichi and the sister stood at the shop entrance, watching the little procession. Behind the coffin, the lame Satoshi, wearing Rikizo's and Amatsu's worn-out tall wooden clogs, carried the memorial tablet—his uneven, limping gait clearly visible.
The sister turned her prayer beads and murmured. On the praying hands of the sister and Tsurukichi, so cruelly struck by fate, snowflakes drifted down from behind.
(Published in January 1916 in the journal Shirakaba [White Birch], Taisho 5.)
第5節
Radish: How timid women are! Narcissus: Quite so. Cherry: Those wretched boys! Peach: Oh, stop talking. Plum: Indeed, calm down. Cherry: But it really is too outrageous... Plum: Hush, Winter Sister seems to have arrived. (Winter and Wind enter.) Wind: For the time being, Spring's younger sister is still not to be seen? Winter: Not just for the time being! If I don't want her to come, she probably can't. Wind: They say, Sister, that you cast a spell on Spring Sister's palace—is that true? Winter: What does that amount to? There are far more important things. Somewhere there is said to be a rose-colored cloud. True or false—go investigate. Wind: The rose-colored cloud—I have heard of it from the Spring Wind. That crowd (pointing at Cherry and others) talks about it constantly too. They say the rose-colored cloud always follows spring, so it must be in Spring's palace. All Flowers: We have said nothing, it isn't so! Cherry: Be quiet. Wind: Liars won't be spared! Winter: Liars will suffer for it! Cherry: It is indeed in Spring's palace. All Flowers: Sister! Traitor! Winter (to Wind): In any case, go thoroughly investigate that cloud. For I wish to make that cloud my friend. (Winter and Wind exit. The world below grows slightly brighter.) All Flowers: Traitor! Peach: Sister, you've betrayed Spring's secret—aren't you ashamed? Plum: What has come over you! All Flowers: Traitor! Cherry (laughing): Don't talk nonsense! Do you know where the spring rain comes from? Unless the rose-colored cloud comes out, there will be no spring rain—understand? All: Quiet. (The world below gradually brightens. The Wind's song is heard.) Violet: The moment I hear that sound, I'm frightened, only frightened, can't help it. Daisy: Me too. Forget-me-not: Me too. Snowdrop: What is there to be afraid of? Primrose: Not frightening exactly, but unsettling. Vetch: I'm unsettled too. Dandelion: Because you're women! Buttercup: I'm not afraid, it's just without the Narcissus I feel empty. Violet (to Dandelion): Even as a woman, it wouldn't be hard to run away from Winter like you did. Dandelion: You say I ran? Say that again! Rapeseed: Oh, be quiet—if we're overheard, we'll be in trouble. Buttercup: Don't worry, nobody's listening. Chinese Lantern: Boy! Lily: Living like this, always trembling with fear—one is truly sick of it. All Flowers: Naturally, one is sick of it. Peony: How long does Spring intend to sleep? Iris: Really, it's about time to get up. Plantain: But they say a spell was cast on Spring's palace—isn't it true? Fern: It seems true, but what that crowd says is incomprehensible. Iris: It probably isn't so. Peony: Of course not—they always see the world as dark. Snowdrop: Don't talk nonsense. You are the ones who always see the world through rose-colored glasses! Dandelion: Because they're all feeble-minded! Buttercup: Because they're fools! Chinese Lantern: Hey, boys! Peony: Who says "fools"? Snowdrop: Everyone says it. Iris: Oh, such low creatures are truly annoying. Rapeseed: Quiet. Daisy: If Mother Nature wakes up, she'll give us such a scolding! Forget-me-not: That's true. Bellflower: Indeed. Buttercup: Don't worry, she won't wake up. Chinese Lantern: Boys, will you be quiet now? Evening Primrose: The moon makes one so lovesick! Bindweed: The moon maniac! Sunflower: With such a grand sun, there are still fools who pine for the moon! Morning Glory: Quite so. Bindweed: Nothing but moon maniacs! Iris: Oh, be quiet... Gold-striped Frog: Is spring still far? I'm hungry! (Then he sings:) With good friends in the garden, watching the blue sky while swimming— how unforgettable! Swallowing a fat juicy worm— what joy! Hornet: Oh, what a revolting song! Bee: He's supposed to be the premier poet of the pond! (All insects laugh.) Tree Frog (coldly): Where has the mole gone? Gold-striped Frog: Never mind the mole. Come here, I pity you. Tree Frog: Oh no, I can't. Gold-striped Frog: Why, what's wrong with that? All Frogs: Quiet. Green Frog: The snake is coming! Black Snake: The snake is here! Green Lizard: Be quiet. Other Lizards: Really, do be quiet. Gold-striped Frog: Quiet is best after all. Hornet: They make noise all day themselves and then scold others! Bee: Annoying creatures! Mosquito: I'd like to give them a good sting! Gold-striped Frog: Who's talking about stinging me? Mosquito: Not I—I only wonder what the horsefly says. Horsefly: Liar! Bee: Coward! Hornet: Liar! Fly: Oh, be quiet. Golden Butterfly: I'd like to dance! Silver Butterfly: Why? Golden Butterfly: I don't know why, though. Spring Cicada: Spring hasn't come yet, and she wants to dance! Golden Butterfly: But when will spring finally come? Gold-striped Frog: Fine, dance! I'll watch. Toad: I wonder if it tastes good? Gold-striped Frog: The butterfly? Toad: The female role! Golden Butterfly: Oh, what disgusting talk! Spring Cicada: Wouldn't it be better to be quiet? Firefly: Indeed, wanting to dance without accompaniment—that's truly amateurish. Silver Butterfly: Amateurish? You think yourself a professional? Firefly: Without moonlight and the murmur of a stream, I certainly don't dance. Swarm of Butterflies: Oh, how strange!
第6節
Horsefly: If the door won't open in the end, I shall sting hard! Mosquito: I'll sting too. Bee: I'll sting too. Hornet: I'll sting too. Fern: When performing magic, one must not make such a wild commotion. Plantain: Concentration of spirit is most important! All: Quiet. Tree Frog: I shall certainly open it for you! Mole: Open for love. Open for love. Open for love. All: Open for love. Open for love. Open for love. (The door opens quietly.) All: It's open! It's open! Tree Frog: See, didn't I say it would open? Gold-striped Frog: Chatterbox! All: Quiet. (All peer inside the door.)
Third Section
(Inside, chestnut and maple trees are visible. It is an autumn evening. Red leaves lie everywhere. In the center is a harvest mound, on which Autumn Sister lies sleeping quietly. On the tree above glimmers a purple lantern. Autumn wears a crown of grapes, adorned with persimmons and oranges; around the waist, a belt strung with pears and apples; in the right hand an axe, in the left hand pincers. The clothing is plain. In a far corner, gray clouds are visible. He sleeps. The autumn wind plays the flute forlornly in a corner. Everyone stares at this landscape for a time.) Rapeseed: That isn't Spring Sister! Dahlia (from behind): It is indeed Autumn Sister. (To the autumn flowers:) Ladies, hurry! Autumn, autumn! (Cosmos and the seven autumn herbs leap inside.) Gold-striped Frog: He says it's autumn—how dreadful! Toad: Must we sleep again? I'm sick of it. All Frogs: Naturally, we're sick of it. Black Snake: No joking—my belly is so hungry I can't describe it. Other Snakes: It's the same for all of us. Gold-striped Frog: If I don't eat that fly, I'll starve to death.
第7節
Just keep dreaming, content yourselves, always thus. Laid to sleep by the power of magic, Spring shall never rise again. Always thus, always thus. Snowdrop: Nonsense, who's asleep? Fly: In the midst of such turmoil, still talking about "sleepers"—that makes no sense! Rapeseed: Quiet, if they hear us, we'll be punished. (In the distance, a song is heard.) Flowers: Listen! Insects: What is that? All: Quiet! (The sound of a flute. Mist rises. Slowly it grows brighter.) Snowdrop: Spring—is that spring? Peony: At last! All Flowers: Spring is coming! Spring is coming! (Dawn breaks. Flowers bloom everywhere. Spring appears, in white robes, wearing a wreath of young leaves.) Spring: I have awakened. Forgive me for making you wait so long. Winter's magic was powerful, but love has broken it. Now I am free—and with me life returns. All: Welcome! Welcome, Sister Spring! (General rejoicing. Flowers bloom, insects hum, birds sing. The light grows brilliantly bright.)
第8節
(All wait for a while.) Gold-striped Frog: As if she would get up for the likes of you! Insects: Let us call: Spring, oh Spring, thou of longing, arise, for the sake of the insects! Flowers: Don't make yourselves ridiculous—she certainly won't get up for your kind. Cicada: For the cicada! All Insects: For the cicada! (Silence. Then a knocking.) Mole: It's me, the mole! I come with a magic spell! (The mole digs its way out.) All: The mole! Mole: I have been digging and digging underground and have come upon a secret: The key to Spring's palace lies in love. Not force, not cunning, not violence—only love can open the door. Tree Frog: And how shall we go about it? Mole: We must all call together, with one heart: "Open for love!" Then the door will open. All: For love! For love! (A pause. Then all begin calling together.)
第9節
Natsuko: Can't we send Kinko a telegram? Mother: Hmm, well then, let's do that. Natsuko: I'll send it right away. (Runs off.) (The mother carries Haruko like a small child into the house.) Haruko: My cloud, my rose-colored cloud! (Weeps.)
The Rising Star of the Spanish Stage — by Kurikawa Hakuson
Since José Echegaray's "El Gran Galeoto"—the work that caused a sensation throughout Europe—the Spanish theater has produced a series of remarkable dramatists. Among the most significant is Jacinto Benavente, born in Madrid in 1866. His plays are distinguished by keen observation, elegant dialogue, and a deep understanding of human nature. He received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1922.
Benavente's drama is above all a drama of society. He dissects the conventions, the hypocrisy, and the cruelty of the Spanish upper class with a scalpel so finely honed that the wounded often do not even notice they have been struck. His most famous work, "Los intereses creados" (The Bonds of Interest), is a masterful allegory on the power of money and self-interest in human relationships.
In Japan, Benavente is still little known, but in the Spanish-speaking world he is considered one of the greatest dramatists of his time. His art combines the tradition of the Spanish Golden Age with the modern currents of European theater.
第10節
But then something unexpected happened: the compiler of the critical biography, Kessalenka, came to visit. He too had once been a writer of some reputation, but after many years of misfortune he had become a narrator for traveling film shows in the countryside (in the West, in Spain and elsewhere, as in Japan, there were people who explained films). Now he was ready to write any article whatever, as long as there was money in it. With cleverly chosen words he praised Frowlow, the hero of the piece, and managed to persuade him to agree to a book project—a biography that would present his merits in the proper light.
The visitor was a skilled conversationalist who knew how to flatter his interlocutor without being too crude about it. He understood the weaknesses of human vanity and knew how to exploit them. According to his description, Frowlow was a misunderstood genius, a benefactor of humanity who had not received the recognition he deserved only because the world was blind and ungrateful.
Frowlow listened to all this with pleasure. Who does not like to hear that he is an unrecognized genius? And so he agreed to finance the book project—without noticing that Kessalenka was interested not in his fame but only in his money.
第11節
The point is, in brief, this: the value does not lie in the extremism and utopianism of Ibsen and Tolstoy; the value lies rather in the fact that even though they thereby caused much destruction and met with many failures, they paid no heed and pressed straight forward in the search for truth. If Northern European literature has value, and one wishes to state where that value lies, then the value of Northern European literature does not lie in tending toward extremes, but rather in precisely this attitude of forward striving, in the willingness to sacrifice everything for truth. This is what Nordic literature teaches: not answers, but an attitude—the attitude of unconditional seeking, of uncompromising questioning.
Ibsen shook bourgeois society with his dramas; Tolstoy questioned the very foundations of Russian society with his novels. Both made mistakes, both erred—but both never ceased to search. And therein lies their true greatness: not in the perfection of their answers, but in the steadfastness of their seeking.
For Chinese literature and society, this lesson is of incalculable value. We do not need new dogmas, new ideologies—we need the courage to search for truth, even when it makes us uncomfortable, even when it challenges our dearest habits.
第12節
The author selects these "heroes" from among the multitude with a particular affection (this affection can be felt even in the brief sketch of the young Medik—he represents in the partisan organization the foreign, accidental, even harmful element); and through the author's sympathy for them, which reveals their thoughts and consciousness and practically infects the reader, a bridge is built between the work and its audience. The author shows us people we might know—not ideal figures, not caricatures, but living, contradictory, fallible human beings whose strengths and weaknesses are equally convincingly portrayed. Herein lies the true art of storytelling: not in the invention of extraordinary characters, but in the revelation of the extraordinary within the ordinary.
第13節
Forward! Forward! Cast off your gloomy countenance, cast off the furrows of anger engraved on your brow, and let us, with all your mute clamor and jingling bells, plunge once more into life: let us see what Chichikov is up to.
Chichikov had just woken up; he stretched and felt that he had slept excellently. He lay still on his back for another two or three minutes, then snapped his fingers. He recalled that he now possessed over three hundred peasant souls; joyfully he sprang out of bed and even examined his own face in the mirror, finding it pleasing. His chin struck him as particularly attractive. Then he dressed, hastily and cheerfully; the tailcoat fitted splendidly, a green dressing gown was tried on experimentally but immediately discarded. Thus attired, light on his feet, he descended the stairs almost like a dancer. All the servants were summoned.
第14節
Chichikov made a grateful bow. When Manilov heard that he intended to go to the civil court to finalize the deed of purchase, he volunteered himself as guide. The two friends went downstairs arm in arm. At every slight rise, every hillock, every unevenness, Manilov supported Chichikov with his hand, practically lifted him, and with a pleasant smile said he would not allow Pavel Ivanovich to stub his foot. Chichikov thanked him and assured him that nothing of the sort was needed. Thus they reached the town, proceeding down the road.
Arriving at the civil court, they found it without difficulty, for it occupied nearly the entire square. The building was large, three stories high, and painted entirely white, probably to symbolize the purity of the affairs transacted within. All other buildings on the square were dwarfed by the courthouse. The sentry in his guardhouse, musket in hand, looked very martial. Our friends ascended the staircase and passed through a hall where clerks came toward them, busy as bees, each carrying a stack of papers under his arm.
第15節
"Quite right, now I myself think I can do nothing better. In any case, the purpose of life is not the absurd fantasies the freethinkers pursue in youth; without standing on solid ground, one never finds a definitive solution." Taking this opportunity, he attacked young people and their liberalism with several reproving sentences, and he did so moreover in legal terminology, which lent even more weight to his words.
It is remarkable how adeptly this man knew how to adapt to every situation. In the company of liberals he spoke liberally, in the company of conservatives conservatively, and in the company of the indifferent—well, in their company he maintained a meaningful silence. He possessed the rare gift of telling every person exactly what that person wished to hear, while creating an impression of absolute sincerity.
Chichikov possessed this gift in high degree. He was not a hypocrite in the usual sense—for a hypocrite knows he is being hypocritical. But Chichikov believed sincerely at every moment in what he happened to be saying. His convictions shifted as smoothly as his interlocutors, and he felt not the slightest inner contradiction in the process.
第16節
"Once more!" said the people delirious with excitement, and there was nothing for it but to clink glasses once more; and they even wanted to clink a third time, and so they clinked a third time. In the meanwhile, everyone was exceedingly happy. The president of the court was, when in jovial spirits, an extremely amiable person; he embraced Chichikov several times, and in his emotion, stuttering, said: "My dear treasure, my dear little mother!" In truth, he even took a pinch of snuff and began to dance around Chichikov, singing the well-known song: "What a fellow you are, you Kazan man!" —
[End of chapter]