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二心集 (二心集)

Lu Xun (鲁迅, Lǔ Xùn, 1881–1936)

中文（原文）	English
梁實秋先生這回在《新月》的“零星”上，也贊成“不滿於現狀”了，但他以為“現在有智識的人（尤其是夙來有‘前驅者’‘權威’‘先進’的徽號的人），他們的責任不僅僅是冷譏熱嘲地發表一點‘不滿於現狀’的雜感而已，他們應該更進一步的誠誠懇懇地去求一個積極醫治‘現狀’的藥方”。為什麽呢？因為有病就須下藥，“三民主義是一副藥，——梁先生說，——共產主義也是一副藥，國家主義也是一副藥，無政府主義也是一副藥，好政府主義也是一副藥”，現在你“把所有的藥方都褒貶得一文不值，都挖苦得不留餘地，……這可是什麽心理呢？” 這種心理，實在是應該責難的。但在實際上，我卻還未曾見過這樣的雜感，譬如說，同一作者，而以為三民主義者是違背了英美的自由，共產主義者又收受了俄國的盧布，國家主義太狹，無政府主義又太空……。所以梁先生的“零星”，是將他所見的雜感的罪狀誇大了。其實是，指摘一種主義的理由的缺點，或因此而生的弊病，雖是並非某一主義者，原也無所不可的。有如被壓榨得痛了，就要叫喊，原不必在想出更好的主義之前，就定要咬住牙關。但自然，能有更好的主張，便更成一個樣子。不過我以為梁先生所謙遜地放在末尾的“好政府主義”，卻還得更謙遜地放在例外的，因為自三民主義以至無政府主義，無論它性質的寒溫如何，所開的究竟還是藥名，如石膏，肉桂之類，——至於服後的利弊，那是另一個問題。獨有“好政府主義”這“一副藥”，他在藥方上所開的卻不是藥名，而是“好藥料”三個大字，以及一些嘮嘮叨叨的名醫架子的“主張”。不錯，誰也不能說醫病應該用壞藥料，但這張藥方，是不必醫生才配搖頭，誰也會將他“褒貶得一文不值”（“褒”是“稱贊”之意，用在這裏，不但“不通”，也證明了不識“褒”字，但這是梁先生的原文，所以姑仍其舊）的。倘這醫生羞惱成怒，喝道“你嘲笑我的好藥料主義，就開出你的藥方來！”那就更是大可笑的“現狀”之一，即使並不根據什麽主義，也會生出雜感來的。雜感之無窮無盡，正因為這樣的“現狀”太多的緣故。一九三〇，四，十七。	This time, in the "Miscellany" column of The Crescent Moon, Mr. Liang Shiqiu (梁實秋) has also come around to endorsing "dissatisfaction with the status quo." However, he believes that "today's intellectuals (especially those who have long borne the titles of 'pioneer,' 'authority,' or 'vanguard') have a responsibility that goes beyond merely publishing a few sarcastic and sneering essays expressing 'dissatisfaction with the status quo.' They should go one step further and earnestly seek a positive prescription to cure the 'status quo.'" Why? Because where there is illness, medicine must be prescribed. "The Three Principles of the People is one prescription," says Mr. Liang. "Communism is another prescription, Nationalism yet another, Anarchism another, and Good Government-ism another." Now you "dismiss all these prescriptions as worthless, mock them without mercy.... What sort of mentality is this?" This mentality is indeed worthy of reproach. But in practice, I have not yet encountered such essays -- where, for example, a single author holds that the Three Principles of the People violate Anglo-American freedoms, that Communists take rubles from Russia, that Nationalism is too narrow, and that Anarchism is too empty.... So Mr. Liang's "Miscellany" has exaggerated the sins of the essays he has read. In truth, pointing out the deficiencies in the reasoning behind a certain doctrine, or the ills arising therefrom, is perfectly permissible even for someone who does not subscribe to any particular doctrine. It is like being squeezed until the pain is unbearable -- one naturally cries out, without needing first to devise a superior doctrine before being permitted to unclench one's teeth. But naturally, if one can offer a better proposal, that makes for a more respectable showing. However, I believe that Mr. Liang's "Good Government-ism," which he modestly placed at the end of his list, ought to be placed yet more modestly outside the list altogether. For from the Three Principles of the People through to Anarchism, whatever their nature -- warming or cooling -- at least the prescriptions name actual medicines, such as gypsum or cinnamon bark -- as for whether the effect after taking them is beneficial or harmful, that is a separate question. Only "Good Government-ism" -- this one "prescription" -- lists on the prescription not the name of a medicine, but simply the three large characters "Good Ingredients," together with some long-winded pontificating in the manner of a famous physician. To be sure, no one can say that treating illness should employ bad ingredients; but this prescription is one that not only a physician would shake his head at -- anyone would "dismiss it as worthless." ("Dismiss" contains the character for "praise," meaning "to commend"; using it here is not merely "ungrammatical" but also proves that the author does not know the character -- however, since this is Mr. Liang's original text, I shall leave it as is.) If this physician, embarrassed into fury, were to bellow: "You mock my Good-Ingredients-ism? Then write your own prescription!" -- that would itself be yet another highly laughable specimen of the "status quo," one that would naturally give rise to essays even without being grounded in any particular doctrine. The reason such essays are inexhaustible is precisely that there are too many specimens of this sort of "status quo." April 17, 1930.
一殖民政策是一定保護，養育流氓的。從帝國主義的眼睛看來，惟有他們是最要緊的奴才，有用的鷹犬，能盡殖民地人民非盡不可的任務：一面靠著帝國主義的暴力，一面利用本國的傳統之力，以除去“害群之馬”，不安本分的“莠民”。所以，這流氓，是殖民地上的洋大人的寵兒，——不，寵犬，其地位雖在主人之下，但總在別的被統治者之上的。上海當然也不會不在這例子裏。巡警不進幫，小販雖自有小資本，但倘不另尋一個流氓來做債主，付以重利，就很難立足。到去年，在文藝界上，竟也出現了“拜老頭” 的“文學家”。但這不過是一個最露骨的事實。其實是，即使並非幫友，他們所謂“文藝家”的許多人，是一向在盡“寵犬”的職分的，雖然所標的口號，種種不同，藝術至上主義呀，國粹主義呀，民族主義呀，為人類的藝術呀，但這僅如巡警手裏拿著前膛槍或後膛槍，來福槍，毛瑟槍的不同，那終極的目的卻只一個：就是打死反帝國主義即反政府，亦即“反革命”，或僅有些不平的人民。那些寵犬派文學之中，鑼鼓敲得最起勁的，是所謂“民族主義文學”。但比起偵探，巡捕，劊子手們的顯著的勛勞來，卻還有很多的遜色。這緣故，就因為他們還只在叫，未行直接的咬，而且大抵沒有流氓的剽悍，不過是飄飄蕩蕩的流屍。然而這又正是“民族主義文學”的特色，所以保持其“寵”的。翻一本他們的刊物來看罷，先前標榜過各種主義的各種人，居然湊合在一起了。這是“民族主義”的巨人的手，將他們抓過來的麽？並不，這些原是上海灘上久已沈沈浮浮的流屍，本來散見於各處的，但經風浪一吹，就漂集一處，形成一個堆積，又因為各個本身的腐爛，就發出較濃厚的惡臭來了。這“叫”和“惡臭”有能夠較為遠聞的特色，於帝國主義是有益的，這叫做“為王前驅”，所以流屍文學仍將與流氓政治同在。二但上文所說的風浪是什麽呢？這是因無產階級的勃興而卷起的小風浪。先前的有些所謂文藝家，本未嘗沒有半意識的或無意識的覺得自身的潰敗，於是就自欺欺人的用種種美名來掩飾，曰高逸，曰放達（用新式話來說就是“頹廢”），畫的是裸女，靜物，死，寫的是花月，聖地，失眠，酒，女人。一到舊社會的崩潰愈加分明，階級的鬥爭愈加鋒利的時候，他們也就看見了自己的死敵，將創造新的文化，一掃舊來的汙穢的無產階級，並且覺到了自己就是這汙穢，將與在上的統治者同其運命，於是就必然漂集於為帝國主義所宰制的民族中的順民所豎起的“民族主義文學”的旗幟之下，來和主人一同做一回最後的掙紮了。所以，雖然是雜碎的流屍，那目標卻是同一的：和主人一樣，用一切手段，來壓迫無產階級，以茍延殘喘。不過究竟是雜碎，而且多帶著先前剩下的皮毛，所以自從發出宣言以來，看不見一點鮮明的作品，宣言是一小群雜碎胡亂湊成的雜碎，不足為據的。但在《前鋒月刊》第五號上，卻給了我們一篇明白的作品，據編輯者說，這是“參加討伐閻馮軍事的實際描寫”。描寫軍事的小說並不足奇，奇特的是這位“青年軍人”的作者所自述的在戰場上的心緒，這是“民族主義文學家”的自畫像，極有鄭重引用的價值的——“每天晚上站在那閃爍的群星之下，手裏執著馬槍，耳中聽著蟲鳴，四周飛動著無數的蚊子，那樣都使人想到法國‘客軍’在菲洲沙漠裏與阿剌伯人爭鬥流血的生活。”（黃震遐：《隴海線上》）原來中國軍閥的混戰，從“青年軍人”，從“民族主義文學者”看來，是並非驅同國人民互相殘殺，卻是外國人在打別一外國人，兩個國度，兩個民族，在戰地上一到夜裏，自己就飄飄然覺得皮色變白，鼻梁加高，成為臘丁民族的戰士，站在野蠻的菲洲了。那就無怪乎看得周圍的老百姓都是敵人，要一個一個的打死。法國人對於菲洲的阿剌伯人，就民族主義而論，原是不必愛惜的。僅僅這一節，大一點，則說明了中國軍閥為什麽做了帝國主義的爪牙，來毒害屠殺中國的人民，那是因為他們自己以為是“法國的客軍 ”的緣故；小一點，就說明中國的“民族主義文學家”根本上只同外國主子休戚相關，為什麽倒稱“民族主義”，來朦混讀者，那是因為他們自己覺得有時好像臘丁民族，條頓民族了的緣故。三黃震遐先生寫得如此坦白，所說的心境當然是真實的，不過據他小說中所顯示的智識推測起來，卻還有並非不知而故意不說的一點諱飾。這，是他將“法國的安南兵”含糊的改作“法國的客軍”了，因此就較遠於“實際描寫”，而且也招來了上節所說的是非。但作者是聰明的，他聽過“友人傅彥長君平時許多談論……許多地方不可諱地是受了他的熏陶”，並且考據中外史傳之後，接著又寫了一篇較切“民族主義”這個題目的劇詩，這回不用法蘭西人了，是《黃人之血》（《前鋒月刊》七號）。這劇詩的事跡，是黃色人種的西征，主將是成吉思汗的孫子拔都元帥，真正的黃色種。所征的是歐洲，其實專在斡羅斯（俄羅斯）——這是作者的目標；聯軍的構成是漢，韃靼，女真，契丹人——這是作者的計劃；一路勝下去，可惜後來四種人不知“友誼”的要緊和“團結的力量”，自相殘殺，竟為白種武士所乘了——這是作者的諷喻，也是作者的悲哀。但我們且看這黃色軍的威猛和惡辣罷—— ………… 恐怖呀，煎著屍體的沸油；可怕呀，遍地的腐骸如何兇醜；死神捉著白姑娘拚命地摟；美人螓首變成獰猛的髑髏；野獸般的生番在故宮裏蠻爭惡鬥；十字軍戰士的臉上充滿了哀愁；千年的棺材泄出它兇穢的惡臭；鐵蹄踐著斷骨，駱駝的鳴聲變成怪吼；上帝已逃，魔鬼揚起了火鞭復仇；黃禍來了！黃禍來了！亞細亞勇士們張大吃人的血口。這德皇威廉因為要鼓吹“德國德國，高於一切”而大叫的“黃禍”，這一張“亞細亞勇士們張大”的“吃人的血口”，我們的詩人卻是對著“斡羅斯”，就是現在無產者專政的第一個國度，以消滅無產階級的模範——這是“民族主義文學”的目標；但究竟因為是殖民地順民的“民族主義文學”，所以我們的詩人所奉為首領的，是蒙古人拔都，不是中華人趙構，張開“吃人的血口”的是“亞細亞勇士們”，不是中國勇士們，所希望的是拔都的統馭之下的“友誼”，不是各民族間的平等的友愛——這就是露骨的所謂“ 民族主義文學”的特色，但也是青年軍人的作者的悲哀。四拔都死了；在亞細亞的黃人中，現在可以擬為那時的蒙古的只有一個日本。日本的勇士們雖然也痛恨蘇俄，但也不愛撫中華的勇士，大唱“日支親善”雖然也和主張“友誼” 一致，但事實又和口頭不符，從中國“民族主義文學者”的立場上，在己覺得悲哀，對他加以諷喻，原是勢所必至，不足詫異的。果然，詩人的悲哀的豫感好像證實了，而且還壞得遠。當“揚起火鞭”焚燒“斡羅斯”將要開頭的時候，就像拔都那時的結局一樣，朝鮮人亂殺中國人，日本人“張大吃人的血口”，吞了東三省了。莫非他們因為未受傅彥長先生的熏陶，不知“團結的力量”之重要，竟將中國的“勇士們”也看成菲洲的阿剌伯人了嗎？！五這實在是一個大打擊。軍人的作者還未喊出他勇壯的聲音，我們現在所看見的是“民族主義”旗下的報章上所載的小勇士們的憤激和絕望。這也是勢所必至，無足詫異的。理想和現實本來易於沖突，理想時已經含了悲哀，現實起來當然就會絕望。於是小勇士們要打仗了—— 戰啊，下個最後的決心，殺盡我們的敵人，你看敵人的槍炮都響了，快上前，把我們的肉體築一座長城。雷電在頭上咆哮，浪濤在腳下吼叫，熱血在心頭燃燒，我們向前線奔跑。（蘇鳳：《戰歌》。《民國日報》載。）去，戰場上去，我們的熱血在沸騰，我們的肉身好像瘋人，我們去把熱血銹住賊子的槍頭，我們去把肉身塞住仇人的炮口。去，戰場上去，憑著我們一股勇氣，憑著我們一點純愛的精靈，去把仇人驅逐，不，去把仇人殺盡。（甘豫慶：《去上戰場去》。《申報》載。）同胞，醒起來罷，踢開了弱者的心，踢開了弱者的腦。看，看，看，看同胞們的血噴出來了，看同胞們的肉割開來了，看同胞們的屍體掛起來了。（邵冠華：《醒起來罷同胞》。同上。）這些詩裏很明顯的是作者都知道沒有武器，所以只好用“肉體”，用“純愛的精靈”，用“屍體”。這正是《黃人之血》的作者的先前的悲哀，而所以要追隨拔都元帥之後，主張“友誼”的緣故。武器是主子那裏買來的，無產者已都是自己的敵人，倘主子又不諒其衷，要加以“懲膺”，那麽，惟一的路也實在只有一個死了—— 我們是初訓練的一隊，有堅卓的誌願，有沸騰的熱血，來掃除強暴的歹類。同胞們，親愛的同胞們，快起來準備去戰，快起來奮鬥，戰死是我們生路。（沙珊：《學生軍》。同上。）天在嘯，地在震，人在沖，獸在吼，宇宙間的一切在咆哮，朋友喲，準備著我們的頭顱去給敵人砍掉。（徐之津：《偉大的死》。同上。）一群是發揚踔厲，一群是慷慨悲歌，寫寫固然無妨，但倘若真要這樣，卻未免太不懂得“民族主義文學”的精義了，然而，卻也盡了“民族主義文學”的任務。六《前鋒月刊》上用大號字題目的《黃人之血》的作者黃震遐詩人，不是早已告訴我們過理想的元帥拔都了嗎？這詩人受過傅彥長先生的熏陶，查過中外的史傳，還知道“中世紀的東歐是三種思想的沖突點”，豈就會偏不知道趙家末葉的中國，是蒙古人的淫掠場？拔都元帥的祖父成吉思皇帝侵入中國時，所至淫掠婦女，焚燒廬舍，到山東曲阜看見孔老二先生像，元兵也要指著罵道：“說‘夷狄之有君，不如諸夏之無也’的，不就是你嗎？”夾臉就給他一箭。這是宋人的筆記裏垂涕而道的，正如現在常見於報章上的流淚文章一樣。黃詩人所描寫的“斡羅斯”那“死神捉著白姑娘拚命地摟……”那些妙文，其實就是那時出現於中國的情形。但一到他的孫子，他們不就攜手“西征”了嗎？現在日本兵“東征”了東三省，正是“民族主義文學家”理想中的“西征”的第一步，“亞細亞勇士們張大吃人的血口”的開場。不過先得在中國咬一口。因為那時成吉思皇帝也像對於“斡羅斯”一樣，先使中國人變成奴才，然後趕他打仗，並非用了“友誼”，送柬帖來敦請的。所以，這沈陽事件，不但和“民族主義文學”毫無沖突，而且還實現了他們的理想境，倘若不明這精義，要去硬送頭顱，使“亞細亞勇士”減少，那實在是很可惜的。那麽，“民族主義文學”無須有那些嗚呼阿呀死死活活的調子嗎？謹對曰：要有的，他們也一定有的。否則不抵抗主義，城下之盟，斷送土地這些勾當，在沈靜中就顯得更加露骨。必須痛哭怒號，摩拳擦掌，令人被這擾攘嘈雜所惑亂，聞悲歌而淚垂，聽壯歌而憤泄，於是那“東征”即“西征”的第一步，也就悄悄的隱隱的跨過去了。落葬的行列裏有悲哀的哭聲，有壯大的軍樂，那任務是在送死人埋入土中，用熱鬧來掩過了這“死”，給大家接著就得到“忘卻”。現在“民族主義文學”的發揚踔厲，或慷慨悲歌的文章，便是正在盡著同一的任務的。但這之後，“民族主義文學者”也就更加接近了他的哀愁。因為有一個問題，更加臨近，就是將來主子是否不至於再蹈拔都元帥的覆轍，肯信用而且優待忠勇的奴才，不，勇士們呢？這實在是一個很要緊，很可怕的問題，是主子和奴才能否“同存共榮”的大關鍵。歷史告訴我們：不能的。這，正如連“民族主義文學者”也已經知道一樣，不會有這一回事。他們將只盡些送喪的任務，永含著戀主的哀愁，須到無產階級革命的風濤怒吼起來，刷洗山河的時候，這才能脫出這沈滯猥劣和腐爛的運命。	I Colonial policy invariably protects and nurtures hooligans. From the eyes of imperialism, only they are the most essential lackeys, the useful hawks and hounds, capable of fulfilling the duties that colonial peoples absolutely must have fulfilled: on the one hand relying on imperialist violence, on the other exploiting the traditional forces of their own country, in order to eliminate "black sheep" and "troublesome weeds" -- those who do not know their place. These hooligans, then, are the darlings of the foreign masters on colonial soil -- no, the darling dogs, whose position, though beneath their master's, is always above that of the other subjugated people. Shanghai naturally could not be an exception to this pattern. Policemen do not join the gangs, and though street peddlers have their own petty capital, if they do not find themselves another hooligan to serve as creditor and pay him exorbitant interest, they can hardly keep their footing. By last year, even in the literary world there appeared "writers" who "acknowledge a godfather" among the gangsters. But this is merely the most brazen instance. In truth, even those who are not gang members -- many of those they call "literary artists" -- have all along been performing the duties of "darling dogs," though their proclaimed slogans vary: Art for Art's Sake, National Essence-ism, Nationalism, Art for Humanity's sake. But these differences are like the difference between a policeman holding a muzzle-loader or a breech-loader, a Lee-Enfield or a Mauser -- the ultimate purpose is one and the same: to shoot dead those who are anti-imperialist, which is to say anti-government, which is to say "counter-revolutionary," or who merely harbor some grievances. Among this darling-dog literature, those who beat the drums most energetically are the so-called "Nationalist Literature" faction. Yet compared to the conspicuous meritorious service of detectives, constables, and executioners, they are still considerably inferior. The reason is that they are only barking, not yet biting directly, and moreover they mostly lack the swagger of true hooligans -- they are nothing but floating, drifting corpses. And yet this is precisely the distinctive feature of "Nationalist Literature," the quality by which it maintains its "darling" status. Pick up one of their journals and look: people who previously paraded under various different banners have actually assembled together. Was this the hand of the "Nationalist" giant that snatched them all up? Not at all. These were corpses that had long been bobbing up and down on the shores of Shanghai, previously scattered here and there, but driven by the wind and waves, they drifted together into one mass, and because each individual corpse was rotting, the collective stench became that much more pungent. This "barking" and "stench," which have the special quality of carrying rather far, are useful to imperialism -- this is called "serving as the vanguard for the king." Therefore, the literature of floating corpses shall continue to exist alongside the politics of hooligans. II But what are the wind and waves mentioned above? They are the small wind and waves stirred up by the rise of the proletariat. Some of those formerly called literary artists were not entirely unconscious of their own decay, and so they deceived themselves and others by using various fine names to cover it up -- calling it lofty detachment, calling it bold abandon (in modern terms, "decadence"). What they painted were nudes, still lifes, death; what they wrote about were moonlit flowers, holy places, insomnia, wine, women. But when the collapse of the old society became ever more apparent, and class struggle grew ever sharper, they also saw their mortal enemy -- the proletariat, which would create a new culture and sweep away all the old filth -- and they realized that they themselves were part of that filth, destined to share the fate of their rulers above them. Thus they inevitably drifted together beneath the banner of "Nationalist Literature" -- raised by the docile subjects of a nation under imperialist domination -- to make one final struggle alongside their masters. Therefore, although they are a miscellaneous mass of floating corpses, their target is one and the same: like their masters, they use every means to suppress the proletariat in order to prolong their own dying gasps. But since they are, after all, a miscellaneous mass, and many still wear the remnant pelts of their former guises, not a single vivid work has appeared since they issued their manifesto. The manifesto itself is a hodgepodge carelessly thrown together by a small gang of miscellaneous pieces, and need not be taken as evidence. But in the fifth issue of The Vanguard Monthly, we are given a clear work of art. According to the editor, it is "an actual description of participation in the military campaign against the Yan-Feng forces." That a novel describes military affairs is nothing remarkable; what is remarkable is the state of mind on the battlefield as described by the author, a "young military man." This is a self-portrait of the "Nationalist Literature" writer, well worth quoting at length -- "Every evening, standing beneath the glittering stars, a rifle in hand, listening to the chirping of insects, surrounded by swarms of mosquitoes -- all these things make one think of the French Foreign Legion in the African desert, fighting and shedding blood in battles with the Arabs." (Huang Zhenxia [黃震遐]: "On the Longhai Line") So it turns out that Chinese warlord civil wars, as seen through the eyes of a "young military man," a "Nationalist Literature" writer, are by no means the driving of fellow countrymen to slaughter one another, but rather a case of foreigners fighting other foreigners. Two countries, two peoples -- and on the battlefield, as soon as night falls, one floats into the fancy that one's skin has turned white, one's nose bridge grown higher, that one has become a warrior of the Latin race, standing in savage Africa. No wonder, then, that the local civilians all around are seen as enemies, to be shot dead one by one. For a Frenchman dealing with Arabs in Africa, from the standpoint of nationalism, there is indeed no need for tenderness. This single passage alone, on the larger scale, explains why Chinese warlords serve as the claws and fangs of imperialism, poisoning and slaughtering the Chinese people -- it is because they fancy themselves the "French Foreign Legion"; on the smaller scale, it explains why Chinese "Nationalist Literature" writers are fundamentally in sympathy only with their foreign masters, and why they nonetheless call themselves "Nationalist" in order to dupe their readers -- it is because they sometimes feel as though they were the Latin race, or the Teutonic race. III Mr. Huang Zhenxia writes with such candor that the state of mind he describes must be genuine. However, judging from the knowledge displayed in his novel, there is one point that, though he is not unaware of it, he has intentionally left unsaid -- a small evasion. This is that he vaguely changed "France's Annamese soldiers" to "France's Foreign Legion," thereby distancing himself somewhat from "actual description" and also inviting the confusion discussed in the previous section. But the author is clever. Having heard "many discussions from his friend Fu Yanchang (傅彥長)," having "undeniably been influenced by him in many respects," and having consulted Chinese and foreign historical records, he then wrote a dramatic poem more closely tied to the theme of "Nationalism." This time he dispensed with the French and wrote "Blood of the Yellow Race" (《黃人之血》, The Vanguard Monthly No. 7). The story of this dramatic poem is the westward campaign of the yellow race. The commanding general is Batu (拔都), grandson of Genghis Khan -- a genuinely yellow man. What he conquers is Europe, specifically Rus (Russia) -- this is the author's target. The allied army is composed of Han, Tartar, Jurchen, and Khitan soldiers -- this is the author's plan. They win victory after victory, but unfortunately the four peoples fail to understand the importance of "friendship" and "the power of unity," and fall to slaughtering one another, giving the white warriors their opening -- this is the author's allegory, and also his sorrow. But let us see the ferocity and cruelty of this yellow army -- ...... Terror -- boiling oil frying corpses! Horror -- how ghastly the rotting remains strewn everywhere! Death seizes the white maidens and embraces them desperately; Beauties' delicate heads turn into fearsome skulls; Savages brawl viciously in the old palaces; The faces of Crusader knights are filled with grief; Thousand-year coffins release their foul and evil stench; Iron hooves trample shattered bones, the bellowing of camels becomes a monstrous howl; God has fled, the Devil cracks his whip of fire in revenge; The Yellow Peril has come! The Yellow Peril has come! The warriors of Asia open wide their blood-drinking maws. This "Yellow Peril" that Kaiser Wilhelm trumpeted in order to promote "Deutschland, Deutschland uber alles" -- this "blood-drinking maw" that "the warriors of Asia open wide" -- our poet directs it at "Rus," that is, at the first state under proletarian dictatorship, as a model for the annihilation of the proletariat -- this is the target of "Nationalist Literature." But because, after all, this is the "Nationalist Literature" of a colonial subject people, the leader our poet reveres is the Mongol Batu, not the Chinese Zhao Gou (趙構); those who "open wide their blood-drinking maws" are "warriors of Asia," not Chinese warriors; and the "friendship" hoped for is friendship under Batu's domination, not equal fellowship between peoples -- this is the brazen essence of so-called "Nationalist Literature," but also the sorrow of the young military author. IV Batu is dead; among the yellow peoples of Asia, the only one that can currently be likened to the Mongolia of that era is Japan. Japan's warriors, to be sure, also detest Soviet Russia, but they do not cherish China's warriors either. The constant singing of "Sino-Japanese friendship" is indeed consistent with the advocacy of "friendship," but the facts do not match the rhetoric. From the standpoint of the Chinese "Nationalist Literature" writer, this is felt as personal sorrow, and satirizing it is a natural and unsurprising reaction. Sure enough, the poet's sorrowful premonition seems to have been confirmed, and things turned out far worse. Just as the "whip of fire" was about to begin burning "Rus," the outcome mirrored Batu's time: Koreans massacred Chinese, and the Japanese "opened wide their blood-drinking maws" and swallowed Manchuria. Could it be that, having never received the tutelage of Mr. Fu Yanchang, they did not understand the importance of "the power of unity," and so regarded China's "warriors" too as Africa's Arabs?! V This was indeed a heavy blow. The military author has not yet managed to cry out his brave and manly voice; what we now see, in the newspapers under the "Nationalist" banner, is only the fury and despair of the little warriors. This too is a natural and unsurprising outcome. Ideals and reality are always prone to conflict; the ideal already contains sorrow, and when reality arrives, it naturally brings despair. And so the little warriors want to go to war -- Fight! Make the final resolve! Kill all our enemies! Look -- the enemy's guns and cannons are already roaring; Quick, forward! Let us build a Great Wall with our flesh! Thunder roars overhead, Waves howl underfoot, Hot blood burns in the heart, We rush toward the front line. (Su Feng [蘇鳳]: "Battle Song." Published in Republican Daily.) Go, go to the battlefield! Our hot blood is boiling, Our bodies are like madmen, We shall rust the tips of the bandits' guns with our blood, We shall plug the mouths of the enemy's cannons with our flesh. Go, go to the battlefield! With nothing but our courage, With nothing but a pure and loving spirit, go and drive the enemy out -- No, go and slaughter the enemy to the last man. (Gan Yuqing [甘豫慶]: "Go to the Battlefield!" Published in Shenbao.) Compatriots, awake! Kick away the heart of the weakling, Kick away the brain of the weakling. Look, look, look -- Look, our compatriots' blood is spurting out! Look, our compatriots' flesh is being sliced open! Look, our compatriots' corpses are being strung up! (Shao Guanhua [邵冠華]: "Awake, Compatriots!" Same source.) In all these poems, it is abundantly clear that the authors know they have no weapons; therefore they can only offer "flesh," "a pure and loving spirit," and "corpses." This is precisely the earlier sorrow of the author of "Blood of the Yellow Race," and the reason he advocated following Marshal Batu and championing "friendship." Weapons are bought from the masters; the proletariat has already become the enemy; if the masters, too, fail to appreciate this loyalty and decide to "chastise" their servants, then truly the only remaining path is death -- We are a newly trained squad, With steadfast resolve, With boiling blood, Come to sweep away the violent villains. Compatriots, dear compatriots, Rise quickly and prepare for battle, Rise quickly and fight -- Death in battle is our only way to live. (Sha Shan [沙珊]: "Student Army." Same source.) The heavens howl, The earth trembles, Men charge, beasts roar, Everything in the universe is bellowing -- friends, Prepare to offer our heads for the enemy to chop off. (Xu Zhijin [徐之津]: "The Great Death." Same source.) One group is spirited and vigorous; the other is impassioned and elegiac. Writing such things is harmless enough, but if they truly meant to act on it, they would show themselves woefully ignorant of the true meaning of "Nationalist Literature." Yet they would also, at the same time, have fulfilled the task of "Nationalist Literature." VI Has not the poet Huang Zhenxia, author of "Blood of the Yellow Race" -- written in large-font headlines in The Vanguard Monthly -- already told us long ago about his ideal Marshal Batu? This poet, tutored by Mr. Fu Yanchang, having consulted Chinese and foreign historical records, and knowing moreover that "medieval Eastern Europe was a meeting-point of three ideologies" -- could he possibly not know that China in the declining years of the Zhao dynasty was a playground for Mongol rapine? When Marshal Batu's grandfather, Emperor Genghis Khan, invaded China, wherever he went there was rape and plunder of women, burning of houses; and when his soldiers reached Qufu in Shandong and saw the statue of old Master Kong (Confucius), the Mongol troops pointed at it and cursed: "Isn't it you who said 'Even the barbarian lands with their rulers are inferior to the Chinese states without'?" -- and shot an arrow right into its face. This is recorded with tears in the notes of Song writers, just as one sees tearful articles in today's newspapers. The "Rus" that Poet Huang describes -- "Death seizes the white maidens and embraces them desperately" -- all that fine writing was in fact the very scene that appeared in China at the time. But once it came to the grandson's generation, did they not join hands for the "Western Campaign"? Now the Japanese army has "marched east" into Manchuria, which is precisely the first step of the "Western Campaign" dreamed of by the "Nationalist Literature" writers, the opening act of the "warriors of Asia opening wide their blood-drinking maws." Only they must first take a bite in China. For in those days Emperor Genghis Khan, just as he did with "Rus," first turned the Chinese people into slaves and then drove them to fight, and this was not accomplished through "friendship" or by sending invitation cards to cordially request their participation. Therefore, the Shenyang Incident not only does not conflict with "Nationalist Literature" -- it actually realizes their ideal realm. If people fail to understand this true meaning and insist on offering up their heads, thereby reducing the number of "warriors of Asia," that would truly be a pity. Then does "Nationalist Literature" have no need for all those wailing, lamenting, crying-and-dying refrains? I respectfully reply: they do need them, and they will certainly have them. Otherwise, the policies of non-resistance, humiliating treaties, and surrender of territory would appear all too brazenly obvious in the silence. There must be anguished weeping and furious shouting, fist-shaking and saber-rattling, so that people are confused by all the commotion, moved to tears by the elegies, and their fury is vented by the battle songs. Thus the first step of the "Eastern Campaign" which is really the "Western Campaign" is quietly, imperceptibly taken. In a funeral procession there is mournful weeping and grand military music; the task is to escort the dead into the ground, to use the fanfare to gloss over this "death" and help everyone promptly "forget." The spirited or elegiac articles of present-day "Nationalist Literature" are fulfilling exactly the same task. But after this, the "Nationalist Literature" writers draw ever closer to their own sorrow. For there is a question looming ever nearer: will the master in the future avoid repeating Marshal Batu's downfall and be willing to trust and treat well his loyal and brave slaves -- no, warriors? This is truly a most vital and terrifying question -- the great pivot upon which turns whether master and slave can "coexist and co-prosper." History tells us: they cannot. This, as even the "Nationalist Literature" writers themselves already know, will never come to pass. They will only fulfill the duties of pallbearers, forever harboring the sorrow of devotion to their master, until the surging tempest of proletarian revolution rises up to cleanse the mountains and rivers -- only then can they be delivered from this stagnant, base, and putrid fate.
梁實秋先生為了《拓荒者》上稱他為“資本家的走狗”，就做了一篇自-{云}-“我不生氣”的文章。先據《拓荒者》第二期第六七二頁上的定義，“覺得我自己便有點像是無產階級裏的一個”之後，再下“走狗”的定義，為“大凡做走狗的都是想討主子的歡心因而得到一點恩惠”，於是又因而發生疑問道—— “《拓荒者》說我是資本家的走狗，是那一個資本家，還是所有的資本家？我還不知道我的主子是誰，我若知道，我一定要帶著幾分雜誌去到主子面前表功，或者還許得到幾個金鎊或盧布的賞賚呢。……我只知道不斷的勞動下去，便可以賺到錢來維持生計，至於如何可以做走狗，如何可以到資本家的帳房去領金鎊，如何可以到××黨去領盧布，這一套本領，我可怎麽能知道呢？……” 這正是“資本家的走狗”的活寫真。凡走狗，雖或為一個資本家所豢養，其實是屬於所有的資本家的，所以它遇見所有的闊人都馴良，遇見所有的窮人都狂吠。不知道誰是它的主子，正是它遇見所有闊人都馴良的原因，也就是屬於所有的資本家的證據。即使無人豢養，餓的精瘦，變成野狗了，但還是遇見所有的闊人都馴良，遇見所有的窮人都狂吠的，不過這時它就愈不明白誰是主子了。梁先生既然自敘他怎樣辛苦，好像“無產階級”（即梁先生先前之所謂“劣敗者”），又不知道“主子是誰”，那是屬於後一類的了，為確當計，還得添幾個字，稱為“喪家的”“資本家的走狗”。然而這名目還有些缺點。梁先生究竟是有智識的教授，所以和平常的不同。他終於不講“文學是有階級性的嗎？”了，在《答魯迅先生》那一篇裏，很巧妙地插進電桿上寫“武裝保護蘇聯”，敲碎報館玻璃那些句子去，在上文所引的一段裏又寫出“到××黨去領盧布”字樣來，那故意暗藏的兩個×，是令人立刻可以悟出的“共產”這兩字，指示著凡主張“文學有階級性”，得罪了梁先生的人，都是在做“擁護蘇聯”，或“去領盧布”的勾當，和段祺瑞的衛兵槍殺學生，《晨報》卻道學生為了幾個盧布送命，自由大同盟上有我的名字，《革命日報》的通信上便說為“金光燦爛的盧布所買收”，都是同一手段。在梁先生，也許以為給主子嗅出匪類（“學匪”），也就是一種“批評”，然而這職業，比起“劊子手”來，也就更加下賤了。我還記得，“國共合作”時代，通信和演說，稱贊蘇聯，是極時髦的，現在可不同了，報章所載，則電桿上寫字和“××黨”，捕房正在捉得非常起勁，那麽，為將自己的論敵指為“擁護蘇聯”或“××黨”，自然也就髦得合時，或者還許會得到主子的“一點恩惠”了。但倘說梁先生意在要得“恩惠”或“金鎊”，是冤枉的，決沒有這回事，不過想借此助一臂之力，以濟其“文藝批評”之窮罷了。所以從“文藝批評”方面看來，就還得在“走狗”之上，加上一個形容字：“乏”。一九三〇，四，十九。	Because The Pioneer called him a "running dog of the capitalists," Mr. Liang Shiqiu (梁實秋) wrote an article in which he claims "I am not angry." First, based on the definition given on page 672 of the second issue of The Pioneer, he decided that "I rather feel I am something like a member of the proletariat"; then he defined "running dog" as "generally speaking, anyone who plays the running dog is trying to please his master in order to gain some favor." This in turn gave rise to his following doubt -- "The Pioneer says I am a running dog of the capitalists. Of which capitalist, or of all capitalists? I do not even know who my master is. If I knew, I would certainly take a few issues of my magazine to present myself before my master and claim credit -- perhaps I might even receive a few gold sovereigns or rubles as reward.... I only know that by laboring without cease, I can earn money to sustain a livelihood. As for how one goes about being a running dog, how one presents oneself at a capitalist's accounts office to collect gold sovereigns, how one goes to the XX Party to collect rubles -- these skills, how could I possibly know?..." This is precisely the living portrait of "a running dog of the capitalists." All running dogs, though perhaps kept by one particular capitalist, in fact belong to all capitalists. That is why they are docile toward every rich man they encounter and bark furiously at every poor man they meet. Not knowing who its master is -- this is precisely the reason it is docile toward every rich man, and precisely the proof that it belongs to all capitalists. Even if no one keeps it, and it grows scrawny from hunger and becomes a stray dog, it still remains docile toward every rich man and barks at every poor man -- only now it is even less clear about who its master is. Since Mr. Liang himself recounts how hard he toils, as if he were a "proletarian" (that is, what Mr. Liang previously called "the inferior and defeated"), and since he does not know "who his master is," he belongs to the latter category. To be more precise, a few words should be added: he should be called a "stray" "running dog of the capitalists." Yet this designation still has some shortcomings. Mr. Liang is, after all, an educated professor, and so he differs from the ordinary kind. He has finally stopped asking "Does literature have class character?" In his essay "Reply to Mr. Lu Xun," he very adroitly slipped in sentences about slogans like "Armed Protection of the Soviet Union" painted on telegraph poles and smashed newspaper office windows; and in the passage quoted above he wrote the phrase "go to the XX Party to collect rubles." Those two deliberately concealed X's are characters that anyone can immediately guess to be "Communist" -- pointing out that anyone who argues "literature has class character" and offends Mr. Liang must be engaged in "protecting the Soviet Union" or "going to collect rubles." This is the same tactic used when Duan Qirui's (段祺瑞) guards shot students and the Morning Post said the students had died for a few rubles; or when my name appeared on the Freedom League roster and the Revolutionary Daily's correspondence section said I had been "bought with gold-glittering rubles." For Mr. Liang, perhaps he considers it a form of "criticism" to sniff out subversives ("academic bandits") for his master; but this occupation is even more degraded than that of the "executioner." I still remember that during the era of "Kuomintang-Communist cooperation," it was very fashionable to praise the Soviet Union in correspondence and speeches. Things are different now: according to the newspapers, writing slogans on telegraph poles and anything involving the "XX Party" are being pursued with great vigor by the police. In that case, designating one's intellectual opponents as "protecting the Soviet Union" or belonging to the "XX Party" is naturally fashionable and timely, and might even earn "a bit of favor" from one's master. But to say that Mr. Liang intends to gain "favor" or "gold sovereigns" would be unjust -- there is decidedly no such thing. He merely hopes to lend a helping hand in order to overcome the poverty of his "literary criticism." Therefore, from the perspective of "literary criticism," one more adjective must be added above "running dog": "spent." April 19, 1930.
一聽說《新月》月刊團體裏的人們在說，現在銷路好起來了。這大概是真的，以我似的交際極少的人，也在兩個年青朋友的手裏見過第二卷第六七號的合本。順便一翻，是爭“言論自由”的文字和小說居多。近尾巴處，則有梁實秋先生的一篇《論魯迅先生的“硬譯”》，以為“近於死譯”。而“死譯之風也斷不可長”，就引了我的三段譯文，以及在《文藝與批評》的後記裏所說：“但因為譯者的能力不夠，和中國文本來的缺點，譯完一看，晦澀，甚而至於難解之處也真多；倘將仂句拆下來呢，又失了原來的語氣。在我，是除了還是這樣的硬譯之外，只有束手這一條路了，所余的惟一的希望，只在讀者還肯硬著頭皮看下去而已”這些話，細心地在字旁加上圓圈，還在“硬譯”兩字旁邊加上套圈，於是“嚴正”地下了“批評”道：“我們‘硬著頭皮看下去’了，但是無所得。‘硬譯’和‘死譯’有什麽分別呢？” 新月社的聲明中，雖說並無什麽組織，在論文裏，也似乎痛惡無產階級式的“組織”，“集團”這些話，但其實是有組織的，至少，關於政治的論文，這一本裏都互相“照應”；關於文藝，則這一篇是登在上面的同一批評家所作的《文學是有階級性的嗎？》的余波。在那一篇裏有一段說：“……但是不幸得很，沒有一本這類的書能被我看懂。……最使我感得困難的是文字，……簡直讀起來比天書還難。……現在還沒有一個中國人，用中國人所能看得懂的文字，寫一篇文章告訴我們無產文學的理論究竟是怎麽一回事。”字旁也有圓圈，怕排印麻煩，恕不照畫了。總之，梁先生自認是一切中國人的代表，這些書既為自己所不懂，也就是為一切中國人所不懂，應該在中國斷絕其生命，於是出示曰“此風斷不可長”雲。別的“天書”譯著者的意見我不能代表，從我個人來看，則事情是不會這樣簡單的。第一，梁先生自以為“硬著頭皮看下去”了，但究竟硬了沒有，是否能夠，還是一個問題。以硬自居了，而實則其軟如棉，正是新月社的一種特色。第二，梁先生雖自來代表一切中國人了，但究竟是否全國中的最優秀者，也是一個問題。這問題從《文學是有階級性的嗎？》這篇文章裏，便可以解釋。Proletary這字不必譯音，大可譯義，是有理可說的。但這位批評家卻道：“其實翻翻字典，這個字的涵義並不見得體面，據《韋白斯特大字典》，Proletary的意思就是：Acitizen of the lowest class who served the state not with property, but only by having children。……普羅列塔利亞是國家裏只會生孩子的階級！（至少在羅馬時代是如此）”其實正無須來爭這“體面”，大約略有常識者，總不至於以現在為羅馬時代，將現在的無產者都看作羅馬人的。這正如將Chemie譯作“舍密學”，讀者必不和埃及的“煉金術”混同，對於“梁”先生所作的文章，也決不會去考查語源，誤解為“獨木小橋”竟會動筆一樣。連“翻翻字典”（《韋白斯特大字典》！）也還是“無所得”，一切中國人未必全是如此的罷。二但於我最覺得有興味的，是上節所引的梁先生的文字裏，有兩處都用著一個“我們”，頗有些“多數”和“集團”氣味了。自然，作者雖然單獨執筆，氣類則決不只一人，用“我們”來說話，是不錯的，也令人看起來較有力量，又不至於一人雙肩負責。然而，當“思想不能統一”時，“言論應該自由”時，正如梁先生的批評資本制度一般，也有一種“弊病”。就是，既有“我們”便有我們以外的“他們”，於是新月社的“我們”雖以為我的“死譯之風斷不可長”了，卻另有讀了並不“無所得”的讀者存在，而我的“硬譯”，就還在“他們”之間生存，和“死譯”還有一些區別。我也就是新月社的“他們”之一，因為我的譯作和梁先生所需的條件，是全都不一樣的。那一篇《論硬譯》的開頭論誤譯勝於死譯說：“一部書斷斷不會完全曲譯……部分的曲譯即使是錯誤，究竟也還給你一個錯誤，這個錯誤也許真是害人無窮的，而你讀的時候究竟還落個爽快。”末兩句大可以加上夾圈，但我卻從來不幹這樣的勾當。我的譯作，本不在博讀者的“爽快”，卻往往給以不舒服，甚而至於使人氣悶，憎惡，憤恨。讀了會“落個爽快”的東西，自有新月社的人們的譯著在：徐誌摩先生的詩，沈從文，淩叔華先生的小說，陳西瀅（即陳源）先生的閑話，梁實秋先生的批評，潘光旦先生的優生學，還有白璧德先生的人文主義。所以，梁先生後文說：“這樣的書，就如同看地圖一般，要伸著手指來尋找句法的線索位置”這些話，在我也就覺得是廢話，雖說猶如不說了。是的，由我說來，要看“這樣的書”就如同看地圖一樣，要伸著手指來找尋“句法的線索位置”的。看地圖雖然沒有看《楊妃出浴圖》或《歲寒三友圖》那麽“爽快”，甚而至於還須伸著手指（其實這恐怕梁先生自己如此罷了，看慣地圖的人，是只用眼睛就可以的），但地圖並不是死圖；所以“硬譯”即使有同一之勞，照例子也就和“死譯”有了些“什麽區別”。識得ABCD者自以為新學家，仍舊和化學方程式無關，會打算盤的自以為數學家，看起筆算的演草來還是無所得。現在的世間，原不是一為學者，便與一切事都會有緣的。然而梁先生有實例在，舉了我三段的譯文，雖然明知道“也許因為沒有上下文的緣故，意思不能十分明了”。在《文學是有階級性的嗎？》這篇文章中，也用了類似手段，舉出兩首譯詩來，總評道：“也許偉大的無產文學還沒有出現，那麽我願意等著，等著，等著。”這些方法，誠然是很“爽快”的，但我可以就在這一本《新月》月刊裏的創作——是創作呀！——《搬家》第八頁上，舉出一段文字來—— “小雞有耳朵沒有？” “我沒看見過小雞長耳朵的。” “它怎樣聽見我叫它呢？”她想到前天四婆告訴她的耳朵是管聽東西，眼是管看東西的。 “這個蛋是白雞黑雞？”枝兒見四婆沒答她，站起來摸著蛋子又問。 “現在看不出來，等孵出小雞才知道。” “婉兒姊說小雞會變大雞，這些小雞也會變大雞麽？” “好好的餵它就會長大了，像這個雞買來時還沒有這樣大吧？” 也夠了，“文字”是懂得的，也無須伸出手指來尋線索，但我不“等著”了，以為就這一段看，是既不“爽快”，而且和不創作是很少區別的。臨末，梁先生還有一個詰問：“中國文和外國文是不同的，……翻譯之難即在這個地方。假如兩種文中的文法句法詞法完全一樣，那麽翻譯還成為一件工作嗎？……我們不妨把句法變換一下，以使讀者能懂為第一要義，因為‘硬著頭皮’不是一件愉快的事，並且‘硬譯’也不見得能保存‘原來的精悍的語氣’。假如‘硬譯’而還能保存‘原來的精悍的語氣’，那真是一件奇跡，還能說中國文是有‘缺點’嗎？”我倒不見得如此之愚，要尋求和中國文相同的外國文，或者希望“兩種文中的文法句法詞法完全一樣”。我但以為文法繁復的國語，較易於翻譯外國文，語系相近的，也較易於翻譯，而且也是一種工作。荷蘭翻德國，俄國翻波蘭，能說這和並不工作沒有什麽區別麽？日本語和歐美很“不同”，但他們逐漸添加了新句法，比起古文來，更宜於翻譯而不失原來的精悍的語氣，開初自然是須“找尋句法的線索位置”，很給了一些人不“愉快”的，但經找尋和習慣，現在已經同化，成為己有了。中國的文法，比日本的古文還要不完備，然而也曾有些變遷，例如《史》《漢》不同於《書經》，現在的白話文又不同於《史》《漢》；有添造，例如唐譯佛經，元譯上諭，當時很有些“文法句法詞法”是生造的，一經習用，便不必伸出手指，就懂得了。現在又來了“外國文”，許多句子，即也須新造，——說得壞點，就是硬造。據我的經驗，這樣譯來，較之化為幾句，更能保存原來的精悍的語氣，但因為有待於新造，所以原先的中國文是有缺點的。有什麽“奇跡”，幹什麽“嗎”呢？但有待於“伸出手指”，“硬著頭皮”，於有些人自然“不是一件愉快的事”。不過我是本不想將“爽快”或“愉快”來獻給那些諸公的，只要還有若干的讀者能夠有所得，梁實秋先生“們”的苦樂以及無所得，實在“於我如浮雲”。但梁先生又有本不必求助於無產文學理論，而仍然很不了了的地方，例如他說，“魯迅先生前些年翻譯的文學，例如廚川白村的《苦悶的象征》，還不是令人看不懂的東西，但是最近翻譯的書似乎改變風格了。”只要有些常識的人就知道：“中國文和外國文是不同的”，但同是一種外國文，因為作者各人的做法，而“風格”和“句法的線索位置”也可以很不同。句子可繁可簡，名詞可常可專，決不會一種外國文，易解的程度就都一式。我的譯《苦悶的象征》，也和現在一樣，是按板規逐句，甚而至於逐字譯的，然而梁實秋先生居然以為不能看懂者，乃是原文原是易解的緣故，也因為梁實秋先生是中國新的批評家了的緣故，也因為其中硬造的句法，是比較地看慣了的緣故。若在三家村裏，專讀《古文觀止》的學者們，看起來又何嘗不比“天書”還難呢。三但是，這回的“比天書還難”的無產文學理論的譯本們，卻給了梁先生不小的影響。看不懂了，會有影響，雖然好像滑稽，然而是真的，這位批評家在《文學是有階級性的嗎？》裏說：“我現在批評所謂無產文學理論，也只能根據我所能了解的一點材料而已。”這就是說：因此而對於這理論的知識，極不完全了。但對於這罪過，我們（包含一切“天書”譯者在內，故曰“們”）也只能負一部分的責任，一部分是要作者自己的胡塗或懶惰來負的。“什麽盧那卡爾斯基，蒲力汗諾夫”的書我不知道，若夫“婆格達諾夫之類”的三篇論文和托羅茲基的半部《文學與革命》，則確有英文譯本的了。英國沒有“魯迅先生”，譯文定該非常易解。梁先生對於偉大的無產文學的產生，曾經顯示其“等著，等著，等著”的耐心和勇氣，這回對於理論，何不也等一下子，尋來看了再說呢。不知其有而不求曰胡塗，知其有而不求曰懶惰，如果單是默坐，這樣也許是“爽快”的，然而開起口來，卻很容易咽進冷氣去了。例如就是那篇《文學是有階級性的嗎？》的高文，結論是並無階級性。要抹殺階級性，我以為最幹凈的是吳稚暉先生的“什麽馬克斯牛克斯”以及什麽先生的“世界上並沒有階級這東西”的學說。那麽，就萬喙息響，天下太平。但梁先生卻中了一些“什麽馬克斯”毒了，先承認了現在許多地方是資產制度，在這制度之下則有無產者。不過這“無產者本來並沒有階級的自覺。是幾個過於富同情心而又態度褊激的領袖把這個階級觀念傳授了給他們”，要促起他們的聯合，激發他們爭鬥的欲念。不錯，但我以為傳授者應該並非由於同情，卻因了改造世界的思想。況且“本無其物”的東西，是無從自覺，無從激發的，會自覺，能激發，足見那是原有的東西。原有的東西，就遮掩不久，即如格裏萊阿說地體運動，達爾文說生物進化，當初何嘗不或者幾被宗教家燒死，或者大受保守者攻擊呢，然而現在人們對於兩說，並不為奇者，就因為地體終於在運動，生物確也在進化的緣故。承認其有而要掩飾為無，非有絕技是不行的。但梁先生自有消除鬥爭的辦法，以為如盧梭所說：“資產是文明的基礎”，“所以攻擊資產制度，即是反抗文明”，“一個無產者假如他是有出息的，只消辛辛苦苦誠誠實實的工作一生，多少必定可以得到相當的資產。這才是正當的生活鬥爭的手段。”我想，盧梭去今雖已百五十年，但當不至於以為過去未來的文明，都以資產為基礎。（但倘說以經濟關系為基礎，那自然是對的。）希臘印度，都有文明，而繁盛時俱非在資產社會，他大概是知道的；倘不知道，那也是他的錯誤。至於無產者應該“辛辛苦苦”爬上有產階級去的“正當”的方法，則是中國有錢的老太爺高興時候，教導窮工人的古訓，在實際上，現今正在“辛辛苦苦誠誠實實”想爬上一級去的“無產者”也還多。然而這是還沒有人“把這個階級觀念傳授了給他們”的時候。一經傳授，他們可就不肯一個一個的來爬了，誠如梁先生所說，“他們是一個階級了，他們要有組織了，他們是一個集團了，於是他們便不循常軌的一躍而奪取政權財權，一躍而為統治階級。”但可還有想“辛辛苦苦誠誠實實工作一生，多少必定可以得到相當的資產”的“無產者”呢？自然還有的。然而他要算是“尚未發財的有產者”了。梁先生的忠告，將為無產者所嘔吐了，將只好和老太爺去互相贊賞而已了。那麽，此後如何呢？梁先生以為是不足慮的。因為“這種革命的現象不能是永久的，經過自然進化之後，優勝劣敗的定律又要證明了，還是聰明才力過人的人占優越的地位，無產者仍是無產者”。但無產階級大概也知道“反文明的勢力早晚要被文明的勢力所征服”，所以“要建立所謂‘無產階級文化’，……這裏面包括文藝學術”。自此以後，這才入了文藝批評的本題。四梁先生首先以為無產者文學理論的錯誤，是“在把階級的束縛加在文學上面”，因為一個資本家和一個勞動者，有不同的地方，但還有相同的地方，“他們的人性（這兩字原本有套圈）並沒有兩樣”，例如都有喜怒哀樂，都有戀愛（但所“說的是戀愛的本身，不是戀愛的方式”），“文學就是表現這最基本的人性的藝術”。這些話是矛盾而空虛的。既然文明以資產為基礎，窮人以竭力爬上去為“有出息”，那麽，爬上是人生的要諦，富翁乃人類的至尊，文學也只要表現資產階級就夠了，又何必如此“過於富同情心”，一並包括“劣敗”的無產者？況且“人性”的“本身”，又怎樣表現的呢？譬如原質或雜質的化學底性質，有化合力，物理學底性質有硬度，要顯示這力和度數，是須用兩種物質來表現的，倘說要不用物質而顯示化合力和硬度的單單“本身”，無此妙法；但一用物質，這現象即又因物質而不同。文學不借人，也無以表示“性”，一用人，而且還在階級社會裏，即斷不能免掉所屬的階級性，無需加以“束縛”，實乃出於必然。自然，“喜怒哀樂，人之情也”，然而窮人決無開交易所折本的懊惱，煤油大王那會知道北京檢煤渣老婆子身受的酸辛，饑區的災民，大約總不去種蘭花，像闊人的老太爺一樣，賈府上的焦大，也不愛林妹妹的。“汽笛呀！”“列寧呀！”固然並不就是無產文學，然而“一切東西呀！”“一切人呀！”“可喜的事來了，人喜了呀！”也不是表現“人性”的“本身”的文學。倘以表現最普通的人性的文學為至高，則表現最普遍的動物性——營養，呼吸，運動，生殖——的文學，或者除去“運動”，表現生物性的文學，必當更在其上。倘說，因為我們是人，所以以表現人性為限，那麽，無產者就因為是無產階級，所以要做無產文學。其次，梁先生說作者的階級，和作品無關。托爾斯泰出身貴族，而同情於貧民，然而並不主張階級鬥爭；馬克斯並非無產階級中的人物；終身窮苦的約翰孫博士，誌行吐屬，過於貴族。所以估量文學，當看作品本身，不能連累到作者的階級和身分。這些例子，也全不足以證明文學的無階級性的。托爾斯泰正因為出身貴族，舊性蕩滌不盡，所以只同情於貧民而不主張階級鬥爭。馬克斯原先誠非無產階級中的人物，但也並無文學作品，我們不能懸擬他如果動筆，所表現的一定是不用方式的戀愛本身。至於約翰孫博士終身窮苦，而誌行吐屬，過於王侯者，我卻實在不明白那緣故，因為我不知道英國文學和他的傳記。也許，他原想“辛辛苦苦誠誠實實的工作一生，多少必定可以得到相當的資產”，然後再爬上貴族階級去，不料終於“劣敗”，連相當的資產也積不起來，所以只落得擺空架子，“爽快”了罷。其次，梁先生說，“好的作品永遠是少數人的專利品，大多數永遠是蠢的，永遠是和文學無緣”，但鑒賞力之有無卻和階級無幹，因為“鑒賞文學也是天生的一種福氣”，就是，雖在無產階級裏，也會有這“天生的一種福氣”的人。由我推論起來，則只要有這一種“福氣”的人，雖窮得不能受教育，至於一字不識，也可以賞鑒《新月》月刊，來作“人性”和文藝“本身”原無階級性的證據。但梁先生也知道天生這一種福氣的無產者一定不多，所以另定一種東西（文藝？）來給他們看，“例如什麽通俗的戲劇，電影，偵探小說之類”，因為“一般勞工勞農需要娛樂，也許需要少量的藝術的娛樂”的緣故。這樣看來，好像文學確因階級而不同了，但這是因鑒賞力之高低而定的，這種力量的修養和經濟無關，乃是上帝之所賜——“福氣”。所以文學家要自由創造，既不該為皇室貴族所雇用，也不該受無產階級所威脅，去做謳功頌德的文章。這是不錯的，但在我們所見的無產文學理論中，也並未見過有誰說或一階級的文學家，不該受皇室貴族的雇用，卻該受無產階級的威脅，去做謳功頌德的文章，不過說，文學有階級性，在階級社會中，文學家雖自以為“自由”，自以為超了階級，而無意識底地，也終受本階級的階級意識所支配，那些創作，並非別階級的文化罷了。例如梁先生的這篇文章，原意是在取消文學上的階級性，張揚真理的。但以資產為文明的祖宗，指窮人為劣敗的渣滓，只要一瞥，就知道是資產家的鬥爭的“武器”，——不，“文章”了。無產文學理論家以主張“全人類”“超階級”的文學理論為幫助有產階級的東西，這裏就給了一個極分明的例證。至於成仿吾先生似的“他們一定勝利的，所以我們去指導安慰他們去”，說出“去了”之後，便來“打發”自己們以外的“他們”那樣的無產文學家，那不消說，是也和梁先生一樣地對於無產文學的理論，未免有“以意為之”的錯誤的。又其次，梁先生最痛恨的是無產文學理論家以文藝為鬥爭的武器，就是當作宣傳品。他“不反對任何人利用文學來達到另外的目的”，但“不能承認宣傳式的文字便是文學”。我以為這是自擾之談。據我所看過的那些理論，都不過說凡文藝必有所宣傳，並沒有誰主張只要宣傳式的文字便是文學。誠然，前年以來，中國確曾有許多詩歌小說，填進口號和標語去，自以為就是無產文學。但那是因為內容和形式，都沒有無產氣，不用口號和標語，便無從表示其“新興”的緣故，實際上也並非無產文學。今年，有名的“無產文學底批評家”錢杏邨先生在《拓荒者》上還在引盧那卡爾斯基的話，以為他推重大眾能解的文學，足見用口號標語之未可厚非，來給那些“革命文學”辯護。但我覺得那也和梁實秋先生一樣，是有意的或無意的曲解。盧那卡爾斯基所謂大眾能解的東西，當是指托爾斯泰做了分給農民的小本子那樣的文體，工農一看便會了然的語法，歌調，詼諧。只要看臺明·培特尼（DemianBednii）曾因詩歌得到赤旗章，而他的詩中並不用標語和口號，便可明白了。最後，梁先生要看貨色。這不錯的，是最切實的辦法；但抄兩首譯詩算是在示眾，是不對的。《新月》上就曾有《論翻譯之難》，何況所譯的文是詩。就我所見的而論，盧那卡爾斯基的《被解放的堂·吉訶德》，法兌耶夫的《潰滅》，格拉特珂夫的《水門汀》，在中國這十一年中，就並無可以和這些相比的作品。這是指“新月社”一流的蒙資產文明的余蔭，而且衷心在擁護它的作家而言。於號稱無產作家的作品中，我也舉不出相當的成績。但錢杏邨先生也曾辯護，說新興階級，於文學的本領當然幼稚而單純，向他們立刻要求好作品，是“布爾喬亞”的惡意。這話為農工而說，是極不錯的。這樣的無理要求，恰如使他們凍餓了好久，倒怪他們為什麽沒有富翁那麽肥胖一樣。但中國的作者，現在卻實在並無剛剛放下鋤斧柄子的人，大多數都是進過學校的智識者，有些還是早已有名的文人，莫非克服了自己的小資產階級意識之後，就連先前的文學本領也隨著消失了麽？不會的。俄國的老作家亞歷舍·托爾斯泰和威壘賽耶夫，普理希文，至今都還有好作品。中國的有口號而無隨同的實證者，我想，那病根並不在“以文藝為階級鬥爭的武器”，而在“借階級鬥爭為文藝的武器”，在“無產者文學”這旗幟之下，聚集了不少的忽翻筋鬥的人，試看去年的新書廣告，幾乎沒有一本不是革命文學，批評家又但將辯護當作“清算”，就是，請文學坐在“階級鬥爭”的掩護之下，於是文學自己倒不必著力，因而於文學和鬥爭兩方面都少關系了。但中國目前的一時現象，當然毫不足作無產文學之新興的反證的。梁先生也知道，所以他臨末讓步說，“假如無產階級革命家一定要把他的宣傳文學喚做無產文學，那總算是一種新興文學，總算是文學國土裏的新收獲，用不著高呼打倒資產的文學來爭奪文學的領域，因為文學的領域太大了，新的東西總有它的位置的。”但這好像“中日親善，同存共榮”之說，從羽毛未豐的無產者看來，是一種欺騙。願意這樣的“無產文學者”，現在恐怕實在也有的罷，不過這是梁先生所謂“有出息”的要爬上資產階級去的“無產者”一流，他的作品是窮秀才未中狀元時候的牢騷，從開手到爬上以及以後，都決不是無產文學。無產者文學是為了以自己們之力，來解放本階級並及一切階級而鬥爭的一翼，所要的是全般，不是一角的地位。就拿文藝批評界來比方罷，假如在“人性”的“藝術之宮”（這須從成仿吾先生處租來暫用）裏，向南面擺兩把虎皮交椅，請梁實秋錢杏邨兩位先生並排坐下，一個右執“新月”，一個左執“太陽”，那情形可真是“勞資”媲美了。五到這裏，又可以談到我的“硬譯”去了。推想起來，這是很應該跟著發生的問題：無產文學既然重在宣傳，宣傳必須多數能懂，那麽，你這些“硬譯”而難懂的理論“天書”，究竟為什麽而譯的呢？不是等於不譯麽？我的回答，是：為了我自己，和幾個以無產文學批評家自居的人，和一部分不圖“爽快”，不怕艱難，多少要明白一些這理論的讀者。從前年以來，對於我個人的攻擊是多極了，每一種刊物上，大抵總要看見“魯迅”的名字，而作者的口吻，則粗粗一看，大抵好像革命文學家。但我看了幾篇，竟逐漸覺得廢話太多了。解剖刀既不中腠理，子彈所擊之處，也不是致命傷。例如我所屬的階級罷，就至今還未判定，忽說小資產階級，忽說“布爾喬亞”，有時還升為“封建余孽”，而且又等於猩猩（見《創造月刊》上的“東京通信”）；有一回則罵到牙齒的顏色。在這樣的社會裏，有封建余孽出風頭，是十分可能的，但封建余孽就是猩猩，卻在任何“唯物史觀”上都沒有說明，也找不出牙齒色黃，即有害於無產階級革命的論據。我於是想，可供參考的這樣的理論，是太少了，所以大家有些胡塗。對於敵人，解剖，咬嚼，現在是在所不免的，不過有一本解剖學，有一本烹飪法，依法辦理，則構造味道，總還可以較為清楚，有味。人往往以神話中的Prometheus比革命者，以為竊火給人，雖遭天帝之虐待不悔，其博大堅忍正相同。但我從別國裏竊得火來，本意卻在煮自己的肉的，以為倘能味道較好，庶幾在咬嚼者那一面也得到較多的好處，我也不枉費了身軀：出發點全是個人主義，並且還夾雜著小市民性的奢華，以及慢慢地摸出解剖刀來，反而刺進解剖者的心臟裏去的“報復”。梁先生說“他們要報復！”其實豈只“他們”，這樣的人在“封建余孽”中也很有的。然而，我也願意於社會上有些用處，看客所見的結果仍是火和光。這樣，首先開手的就是《文藝政策》，因為其中含有各派的議論。鄭伯奇先生現在是開書鋪，印Hauptmann和Gregory夫人的劇本了，那時他還是革命文學家，便在所編的《文藝生活》上，笑我的翻譯這書，是不甘沒落，而可惜被別人著了先鞭。翻一本書便會浮起，做革命文學家真太容易了，我並不這樣想。有一種小報，則說我的譯《藝術論》是“投降”。是的，投降的事，為世上所常有。但其時成仿吾元帥早已爬出日本的溫泉，住進巴黎的旅館了，在這裏又向誰去輸誠呢。今年，說法又兩樣了，在《拓荒者》和《現代小說》上，都說是“方向轉換”。我看見日本的有些雜誌中，曾將這四字加在先前的新感覺派片岡鐵兵上，算是一個好名詞。其實，這些紛紜之談，也還是只看名目，連想也不肯想的老病。譯一本關於無產文學的書，是不足以證明方向的，倘有曲譯，倒反足以為害。我的譯書，就也要獻給這些速斷的無產文學批評家，因為他們是有不貪“爽快”，耐苦來研究這些理論的義務的。但我自信並無故意的曲譯，打著我所不佩服的批評家的傷處了的時候我就一笑，打著我的傷處了的時候我就忍疼，卻決不肯有所增減，這也是始終“硬譯”的一個原因。自然，世間總會有較好的翻譯者，能夠譯成既不曲，也不“硬”或“死”的文章的，那時我的譯本當然就被淘汰，我就只要來填這從“無有”到“較好”的空間罷了。然而世間紙張還多，每一文社的人數卻少，誌大力薄，寫不完所有的紙張，於是一社中的職司克敵助友，掃蕩異類的批評家，看見別人來塗寫紙張了，便喟然興嘆，不勝其搖頭頓足之苦。上海的《申報》上，至於稱社會科學的翻譯者為“阿狗阿貓”，其憤憤有如此。在“中國新興文學的地位，早為讀者所共知”的蔣光Z先生，曾往日本東京養病，看見藏原惟人，談到日本有許多翻譯太壞，簡直比原文還難讀……他就笑了起來，說：“……那中國的翻譯界更要莫名其妙了，近來中國有許多書籍都是譯自日文的，如果日本人將歐洲人那一國的作品帶點錯誤和刪改，從日文譯到中國去，試問這作品豈不是要變了一半相貌麽？……”（見《拓荒者》也就是深不滿於翻譯，尤其是重譯的表示。不過梁先生還舉出書名和壞處，蔣先生卻只嫣然一笑，掃蕩無余，真是普遍得遠了。藏原惟人是從俄文直接譯過許多文藝理論和小說的，於我個人就極有裨益。我希望中國也有一兩個這樣的誠實的俄文翻譯者，陸續譯出好書來，不僅自罵一聲“混蛋”就算盡了革命文學家的責任。然而現在呢，這些東西，梁實秋先生是不譯的，稱人為“阿狗阿貓”的偉人也不譯，學過俄文的蔣先生原是最為適宜的了，可惜養病之後，只出了一本《一周間》，而日本則早已有了兩種的譯本。中國曾經大談達爾文，大談尼采，到歐戰時候，則大罵了他們一通，但達爾文的著作的譯本，至今只有一種，尼采的則只有半部，學英德文的學者及文豪都不暇顧及，或不屑顧及，拉倒了。所以暫時之間，恐怕還只好任人笑罵，仍從日文來重譯，或者取一本原文，比照了日譯本來直譯罷。我還想這樣做，並且希望更多有這樣做的人，來填一填徹底的高談中的空虛，因為我們不能像蔣先生那樣的“好笑起來”，也不該如梁先生的“等著，等著，等著”了。六我在開頭曾有“以硬自居了，而實則其軟如棉，正是新月社的一種特色”這些話，到這裏還應該簡短地補充幾句，就作為本篇的收場。《新月》一出世，就主張“嚴正態度”，但於罵人者則罵之，譏人者則譏之。這並不錯，正是“即以其人之道，還治其人之身”，雖然也是一種“報復”，而非為了自己。到二卷六七號合本的廣告上，還說“我們都保持‘容忍’的態度（除了‘不容忍’的態度是我們所不能容忍以外），我們都喜歡穩健的合乎理性的學說”。上兩句也不錯，“以眼還眼，以牙還牙”，和開初仍然一貫。然而從這條大路走下去，一定要遇到“以暴力抗暴力”，這和新月社諸君所喜歡的“穩健”也不能相容了。這一回，新月社的“自由言論”遭了壓迫，照老辦法，是必須對於壓迫者，也加以壓迫的，但《新月》上所顯現的反應，卻是一篇《告壓迫言論自由者》，先引對方的黨義，次引外國的法律，終引東西史例，以見凡壓迫自由者，往往臻於滅亡：是一番替對方設想的警告。所以，新月社的“嚴正態度”，“以眼還眼”法，歸根結蒂，是專施之力量相類，或力量較小的人的，倘給有力者打腫了眼，就要破例，只舉手掩住自己的臉，叫一聲“小心你自己的眼睛！”	One I hear that people in the Crescent Moon monthly circle are saying that their circulation has improved. This is probably true; even someone like me, with very few social connections, has seen the combined issue of Volume Two, Numbers Six and Seven, in the hands of two young friends. Thumbing through it casually, I found that essays disputing "freedom of speech" and fiction made up the bulk of it. Near the tail end, there was an essay by Mr. Liang Shiqiu (梁实秋) entitled "On Mr. Lu Xun's 'Hard Translation,'" asserting that it was "close to dead translation." And since "the trend of dead translation must on no account be encouraged," he quoted three passages of my translation work, as well as what I had written in the postscript to Literature and Criticism: "But because of the translator's insufficient ability and the inherent defects of the Chinese language, upon finishing and reviewing the translation, there are indeed many passages that are obscure or even incomprehensible; and if one were to break down the subordinate clauses, one would lose the tone of the original. For my part, aside from persisting in this kind of hard translation, the only other option is to throw up my hands. The sole remaining hope is that readers will still be willing to press on and read through it with gritted teeth." These words he carefully adorned with circles beside each character, and even added double circles beside the words "hard translation," whereupon he "solemnly" delivered his "criticism": "We have 'pressed on with gritted teeth,' but gained nothing. What difference is there between 'hard translation' and 'dead translation'?" In the Crescent Moon Society's public statement, although it claimed to have no particular organization, and in its essays seemed to abhor proletarian-style talk of "organization" and "collectives," in truth it was organized — at the very least, the political essays in this issue all "echoed" one another. As for literature, this particular essay was an aftershock of the piece "Does Literature Have Class Character?" written by the same critic and published earlier in the same issue. In that essay there was a passage that read: "…But unfortunately, I cannot understand a single one of these books. …What I find most difficult is the language…reading them is harder than reading a book from heaven.…At present, not a single Chinese person has written an article in language that Chinese people can understand, telling us what the theory of proletarian literature actually is." Circles appear beside the characters too, but for fear of troubling the typesetter, I shall refrain from reproducing them. In short, Mr. Liang considers himself the representative of all Chinese people; since these books are incomprehensible to him, they must be incomprehensible to all Chinese people, and their existence in China should be terminated. Hence his edict: "This trend must on no account be encouraged." I cannot speak for the views of other translators of these "heavenly books." From my personal perspective, however, things are not so simple. First, Mr. Liang may claim to have "pressed on with gritted teeth," but whether he actually gritted them, and whether he was capable of doing so, remains a question. To claim hardness while in reality being as soft as cotton is precisely a hallmark of the Crescent Moon Society. Second, Mr. Liang may have come to represent all Chinese people, but whether he is truly the most outstanding among the entire nation is also a question. This question can be elucidated from the essay "Does Literature Have Class Character?" It is true that the word "proletariat" need not be transliterated and may well be translated by meaning — there is reason for this. But this critic says: "Actually, if you just look it up in the dictionary, the meaning of this word is not exactly flattering. According to Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, the meaning of 'proletariat' is: 'A citizen of the lowest class who served the state not with property, but only by having children.'…The proletariat is a class that only knows how to have children! (At least, this was the case in Roman times.)" In fact there is no need to quibble over this "respectability." Anyone with a modicum of common sense would surely not mistake the present age for Roman times and regard all modern proletarians as Romans. This is just as when "Chemie" was translated as "shemi-xue" — readers would certainly not confuse it with Egyptian alchemy. Nor would they, confronted with an article written by "Mr. Liang," investigate the etymology and misunderstand it as meaning that a "single-plank bridge" has somehow taken up the pen. Even "looking it up in the dictionary" (Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, no less!) still yields "nothing" — but surely not all Chinese people are quite like this. Two But what I find most interesting is that in Mr. Liang's text quoted in the preceding section, there are two places where he uses the word "we," which carries a distinct whiff of "majority" and "collective." Naturally, although the author writes alone, his ideological ilk certainly number more than one, and it is not wrong to speak in terms of "we" — it makes the reader feel more powerful, and no one person bears the responsibility on his shoulders alone. However, when "thought cannot be unified" and "speech should be free," just as with Mr. Liang's critique of the capitalist system, there is a certain "drawback." That is, once there is a "we," there must also be a "they" outside of us. Thus, although the Crescent Moon Society's "we" may consider "the trend of my dead translation one that must on no account be encouraged," there exist other readers who did not find reading it to yield "nothing," and my "hard translation" continues to survive among "them," retaining some distinction from "dead translation." I myself am one of the Crescent Moon Society's "them," for my translations and what Mr. Liang requires are entirely different in every respect. The opening of that essay "On Hard Translation" discusses why mistranslation is better than dead translation: "A book could never be entirely mistranslated…even if parts are mistranslated, those errors at least still give you an error. This error may indeed do limitless harm, but at least when you read it, you get a sense of satisfaction." The last two sentences could well be adorned with special marks, but I have never engaged in such antics. My translations were never meant to give readers a "satisfying" experience; rather, they often produce discomfort, and may even cause irritation, disgust, and indignation. For things that will leave one with "a sense of satisfaction" after reading, there are the Crescent Moon Society members' translations and writings: the poetry of Mr. Xu Zhimo (徐志摩), the fiction of Shen Congwen (沈从文) and Ling Shuhua (凌叔华), the causeries of Mr. Chen Xiying (陈西滢, i.e. Chen Yuan 陈源), the criticism of Mr. Liang Shiqiu, the eugenics of Mr. Pan Guangdan (潘光旦), and the humanism of Mr. Babbitt (白璧德). Therefore, when Mr. Liang goes on to say, "Reading such a book is like reading a map — one must extend a finger to trace the thread and location of the syntax" — to me these words are so much empty talk, the same as not having said them at all. Yes, from my point of view, to read "such a book" is indeed like reading a map: one must extend a finger to find "the thread and location of the syntax." Reading a map may not be as "satisfying" as looking at a painting of "Yang Guifei Emerging from the Bath" or a painting of "Three Friends of Winter," and one may even have to extend a finger (though I suspect this is only Mr. Liang's own problem — people accustomed to reading maps can do it with their eyes alone). But a map is not a dead picture; and thus even if "hard translation" involves the same labor, by the same reasoning it retains some "distinction" from "dead translation." One who knows his ABCs may fancy himself a modern scholar, yet remain utterly unrelated to chemical equations. One who can use an abacus may fancy himself a mathematician, yet still gain nothing from looking at written calculations. In this world, it is by no means the case that being a scholar connects one with all things. Yet Mr. Liang has concrete examples — he cites three passages of my translation, though acknowledging that "perhaps because they lack context, the meaning cannot be entirely clear." In "Does Literature Have Class Character?," he uses a similar tactic, citing two translated poems and delivering the sweeping verdict: "Perhaps great proletarian literature has not yet appeared; very well then, I am willing to wait, and wait, and wait." These methods are admittedly very "satisfying," but I can take a passage right from the creative work — creative work, mind you! — "Moving House," on page eight, from this very same issue of Crescent Moon monthly — "Do chicks have ears?" "I've never seen a chick with ears." "Then how does it hear me calling it?" She recalled that two days ago Fourth Auntie had told her that ears are for hearing things and eyes are for seeing things. "Is this egg from a white chicken or a black chicken?" Zhier, seeing that Fourth Auntie had not answered her, stood up, touched the egg, and asked again. "You can't tell right now; you'll know once it hatches into a chick." "Elder Sister Waner says chicks can grow into big chickens. Will these chicks also grow into big chickens?" "Feed them well and they'll grow big. Wasn't this chicken smaller when we first bought it?" That is quite enough. The "language" is perfectly comprehensible, and there is no need to extend a finger to find threads. But I shall not "wait"; for even from just this passage, it is neither "satisfying," and is moreover scarcely distinguishable from no creation at all. Finally, Mr. Liang has a rejoinder: "Chinese and foreign languages are different…the difficulty of translation lies precisely here. If the grammar, syntax, and vocabulary of two languages were completely identical, would translation still constitute a task at all?…We might as well rearrange the syntax, taking the reader's comprehension as the first priority, since 'pressing on with gritted teeth' is not a pleasant experience, and moreover 'hard translation' does not necessarily preserve 'the vigorous tone of the original.' If 'hard translation' could still preserve 'the vigorous tone of the original,' that would truly be a miracle — could one then still say that Chinese has 'defects'?" I am certainly not so foolish as to seek a foreign language identical to Chinese, or to hope that "the grammar, syntax, and vocabulary of two languages be completely identical." I merely hold that a national language with complex grammar is better suited to translating foreign texts; languages of related families are also easier to translate between; and this, too, is a form of work. When the Dutch translate German, or when the Russians translate Polish, can one say this is no different from doing no work at all? Japanese is very "different" from European languages, yet they have gradually added new syntactic constructions, making their language, compared to classical Japanese, better suited for translation without losing the vigorous tone of the original. In the beginning, naturally, one had to "trace the thread and location of the syntax," which caused "displeasure" to many, but with tracing and habituation, it has now been assimilated and made their own. Chinese grammar is even less complete than classical Japanese, and yet it too has undergone changes: the Records of the Grand Historian and the Book of Han differ from the Book of Documents; modern vernacular Chinese differs again from the Records and the Han. There have been innovations — for instance, in Tang dynasty Buddhist sutra translations and Yuan dynasty imperial edict translations, many items of "grammar, syntax, and vocabulary" were newly coined; once they came into common use, one no longer needed to extend a finger to understand them. Now "foreign texts" have come along, and many sentences must again be newly minted — to put it bluntly, hard-coined. In my experience, translating this way, rather than breaking things down into several sentences, better preserves the vigorous tone of the original; but because it depends on new coinage, the preexisting Chinese language does have defects. What "miracle"? What "really"? But since it requires "extending a finger" and "pressing on with gritted teeth," for some people it is naturally "not a pleasant experience." However, I have no intention of offering "satisfaction" or "pleasure" to those gentlemen; as long as there remain a certain number of readers who can gain something from it, the joys and sorrows of Mr. Liang Shiqiu and "company," as well as their gaining nothing, are truly "like floating clouds to me." But Mr. Liang has yet another point that does not require recourse to proletarian literary theory and yet remains quite unclear. He says: "In the works Mr. Lu Xun translated some years ago, such as Kuriyagawa Hakuson's The Symbol of Anguish, the content was not incomprehensible, but his recent translations seem to have changed style." Anyone with a modicum of common sense knows: "Chinese and foreign languages are different," but within a single foreign language, due to different authors' individual styles, the "style" and "thread and location of the syntax" can also be very different. Sentences can be complex or simple, terms can be common or specialized — it is by no means the case that a foreign language always presents a uniform level of accessibility. My translation of The Symbol of Anguish was done the same way as now — following the original word by word, even character by character. That Mr. Liang Shiqiu found it comprehensible was because the original text happened to be accessible, because Mr. Liang Shiqiu is a new Chinese critic, and because the hard-coined syntactic constructions in it had been encountered relatively often. But to a scholar in a remote village who reads only Guwen Guanzhi (Anthology of Classical Prose), would it not be harder to read than a "heavenly book"? Three But these "harder than heavenly books" translations of proletarian literary theory have had no small influence on Mr. Liang. That incomprehension should have an influence may seem laughable, but it is true. This critic states in "Does Literature Have Class Character?": "In my present critique of so-called proletarian literary theory, I can only base myself on what little material I am able to understand." This amounts to saying: his knowledge of this theory is therefore extremely incomplete. But for this transgression, we (including all translators of "heavenly books," hence the "we") can only bear partial responsibility. Part of it must be borne by the author's own muddleheadedness or laziness. About the books of "Lunacharsky, Plekhanov, and the like," I have no knowledge; but as for the three essays "by Bogdanov and the like" and half of Trotsky's Literature and Revolution, English translations certainly exist. There is no "Mr. Lu Xun" in England, so the translations must be quite accessible. Mr. Liang has already demonstrated his patience and courage by "waiting, and waiting, and waiting" for the emergence of great proletarian literature. This time, regarding the theory, why not also wait a moment, find the books, read them, and then speak? Not knowing that something exists and not seeking it is muddleheadedness; knowing it exists and not seeking it is laziness. If one merely sits in silence, that may be "satisfying," but if one then opens one's mouth, one is all too likely to swallow cold air. For example, take that lofty essay "Does Literature Have Class Character?" — its conclusion is that class character does not exist. To obliterate class character, I think the cleanest approach would be Mr. Wu Zhihui's (吴稚晖) "whatever Marx-Smarx" and some other gentleman's doctrine that "there are no classes in the world." Then all voices would be silenced and the world would be at peace. But Mr. Liang has already been somewhat poisoned by "whatever Marx," having first admitted that in many places today there is a capitalist system, and that under this system there exist proletarians. However, "the proletarians originally had no class consciousness. It was a few leaders, excessively sympathetic and radical in attitude, who instilled this class concept in them," seeking to instigate their solidarity and ignite their desire for struggle. True enough — but I believe that those who instill it do so not out of sympathy but because of a vision for transforming the world. Besides, things that "originally do not exist" cannot be made conscious of, cannot be ignited. That they can become conscious, can be ignited, shows that these things existed all along. And things that existed all along cannot be concealed for long. Just as when Galileo said the earth moves, or Darwin spoke of biological evolution — were they not at first nearly burned at the stake by the religious, or fiercely attacked by conservatives? Yet now people find nothing remarkable about either theory, precisely because the earth does indeed move and organisms do indeed evolve. To acknowledge the existence of something while trying to disguise it as nonexistent requires extraordinary skill. But Mr. Liang has his own method for eliminating struggle. He believes, as Rousseau said, that "property is the foundation of civilization," and therefore "to attack the system of property is to resist civilization." "If a proletarian has any gumption, he need only work diligently and honestly for a lifetime, and he will inevitably acquire a respectable amount of property. This is the proper method of the struggle of life." I think that although Rousseau lived a hundred and fifty years ago, he could not have believed that all civilization, past and future, was founded on property. (But if one were to say "on economic relations," that would naturally be correct.) Greece and India both had civilizations, and neither was flourishing under a property-based society — he presumably knew this; if he did not, that was his error. As for the "proper" method by which the proletarians should "work diligently and diligently" and climb up into the propertied class — this is the old homily that rich Chinese grandfathers deliver to poor workers when they are in a good mood. In practice, there are still many "proletarians" who are right now "diligently and honestly" trying to climb up one rung. But this is when nobody has yet "instilled the class concept in them." Once it is instilled, they refuse to climb up one by one. As Mr. Liang says, "They are a class now; they must be organized; they are a collective, and so they leap outside the normal track to seize political and economic power, leaping to become the ruling class." But are there still "proletarians" who want to "work diligently and honestly for a lifetime and inevitably acquire a respectable amount of property"? Naturally, there are. But such a person should be counted as a "not-yet-enriched property owner." Mr. Liang's exhortations will be spat out by the proletarians, and he will have to content himself with mutual admiration among the grandfathers. Then what comes next? Mr. Liang believes there is nothing to worry about, because "this kind of revolutionary phenomenon cannot be permanent. After natural evolution takes its course, the law of survival of the fittest will again prove itself — those of superior intelligence and ability will once more occupy the dominant position, and the proletarians will still be proletarians." But the proletarian class presumably also knows that "anti-civilization forces will sooner or later be conquered by the forces of civilization," and therefore "they wish to establish a so-called 'proletarian culture'…which includes literature and scholarship." From this point onward, we enter the main topic of literary criticism proper. Four Mr. Liang begins by asserting that the error of proletarian literary theory lies "in imposing the shackles of class upon literature." A capitalist and a laborer may differ in certain respects, but they also share common ground: "their human nature [these two characters had double circles in the original] is no different." For example, both experience joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness; both experience love (though "what is spoken of is love itself, not the manner of loving"). "Literature is the art of expressing this most fundamental human nature." These words are contradictory and empty. If civilization is founded on property, and a poor man's "gumption" consists in trying his utmost to climb up to the propertied class, then climbing is the essence of life, the rich man is the supreme being of humanity, and literature need only represent the bourgeoisie — why then be so "excessively sympathetic" as to include the "inferior and defeated" proletarians? Moreover, how exactly is the "itself" of "human nature" expressed? Take, for instance, the chemical property of an element or compound — its combining power — or the physical property of hardness. To demonstrate this power and this degree requires two substances; to try to demonstrate combining power and hardness in their "pure selves" without using any substance is impossible. But the moment you use substances, the phenomenon differs with each substance. Literature cannot express "nature" without using human beings; and the moment human beings are used, and they live in a class society, one cannot escape the class character to which they belong. There is no need to "impose shackles" — it is simply inevitable. Naturally, "joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness are the emotions of man," but a poor man will never know the anguish of losing money on the stock exchange; how would an oil tycoon know the bitterness endured by an old woman picking coal cinders in Beijing? The famine victims in a disaster zone presumably do not grow orchids like the rich man's old grandfather. And Jiao Da of the Jia household does not fall in love with Sister Lin. "O the steam whistle!" "O Lenin!" — these may not constitute proletarian literature; but "O all things!" "O all people!" "Something pleasant has happened, and people are pleased!" — neither is this literature expressing the "itself" of "human nature." If literature expressing the most universal human nature is the highest, then literature expressing the most universal animal nature — nutrition, respiration, locomotion, reproduction — or, minus "locomotion," literature expressing biological nature, must rank even higher. If one says that because we are human, we limit ourselves to expressing human nature — then by the same token, because proletarians are proletarians, they insist on creating proletarian literature. Next, Mr. Liang argues that an author's class is unrelated to his work. Tolstoy was born into the aristocracy yet sympathized with the poor, while not advocating class struggle. Marx was not a member of the proletarian class. Dr. Johnson, though poor all his life, was nobler in aspiration and manner than the aristocracy. Therefore, in evaluating literature, one should look at the work itself and not implicate the author's class or status. But none of these examples suffice to prove the classlessness of literature. It is precisely because Tolstoy was born into the aristocracy and could not entirely rid himself of old habits that he only sympathized with the poor but did not advocate class struggle. Marx was indeed originally not a member of the proletarian class, but he produced no literary works either; we cannot hypothesize that if he had taken up his pen, what he expressed would necessarily be love-in-itself without manner. As for Dr. Johnson being poor all his life yet nobler in aspiration and manner than royalty — I confess I do not understand the reason, since I know nothing of English literature or his biography. Perhaps he originally wanted to "work diligently and honestly for a lifetime and inevitably acquire a respectable amount of property," and then climb up into the aristocratic class, but in the end was "defeated" and could not even accumulate a respectable amount of property, so he merely put on airs and "satisfied" himself. Next, Mr. Liang says: "Good works are forever the exclusive possession of the few; the majority are forever stupid and forever have nothing to do with literature." But whether one possesses the ability to appreciate has nothing to do with class, because "the appreciation of literature is a heavenly gift" — that is, even among the proletariat there will be people with this "heavenly gift." By my reasoning, then, a person blessed with this particular "gift," even if too poor to receive education and completely illiterate, could still appreciate the Crescent Moon monthly and serve as evidence that "human nature" and literature "itself" have no class character. But Mr. Liang also knows that proletarians born with this heavenly gift must be few, so he designates another kind of thing (literature?) for them to read: "such as popular theater, movies, detective novels, and the like," because "ordinary workers and peasants need entertainment, and perhaps they need a small amount of artistic entertainment." Seen this way, it would appear that literature does indeed differ according to class. But Mr. Liang says this is determined by the level of one's capacity for appreciation, and the cultivation of this capacity has nothing to do with economics — it is a gift from God, a "heavenly blessing." Therefore, writers should create freely, neither serving as hired hands of royalty and aristocracy, nor submitting to threats from the proletarian class to produce songs of praise. This is not wrong. But in the proletarian literary theory I have read, I have never seen anyone say that a writer of a particular class should not serve the royalty and aristocracy but should submit to threats from the proletarian class to produce songs of praise. What is said is simply that literature has class character; that in a class society, even if a writer considers himself "free" and believes he has transcended class, unconsciously he is still governed by the class consciousness of his own class; and that his creations are simply the culture of no other class. For example, Mr. Liang's essay was originally intended to negate the class character of literature and uphold truth. But by making property the ancestor of civilization and pointing to the poor as the dregs of "inferior defeat," one glance suffices to identify it as the "weapon" of the propertied class's struggle — no, "essay." The proletarian literary theorists' contention that literary theories advocating "all humanity" and "transcending class" are instruments aiding the propertied class finds here a most luminous illustration. As for Mr. Cheng Fangwu (成仿吾) and his ilk — "They will surely be victorious, so let us go guide and console them" — who, having said "let us go," then proceed to "dismiss" the "them" who are not of their own kind — such proletarian men of letters are, needless to say, just as guilty as Mr. Liang of "making it up as they go" when it comes to proletarian literary theory. Furthermore, what Mr. Liang most detests is the proletarian literary theorists' insistence on treating literature as a weapon of struggle — that is, as propaganda. He "does not object to anyone using literature to achieve other purposes" but "cannot accept that propagandistic writing is literature." I consider this a self-generated worry. As far as the theories I have read are concerned, they merely say that all literature inevitably involves propaganda; nobody has claimed that propagandistic writing alone qualifies as literature. Admittedly, since the year before last, China has indeed produced many poems and stories stuffed with slogans and catchphrases, which their authors took to be proletarian literature. But this was because both content and form lacked proletarian qualities, and without slogans and catchphrases there was no way to signal their "new rising" nature — in actuality, these were not proletarian literature either. This year, the celebrated "proletarian literary critic" Mr. Qian Xingcun (钱杏邨) was still quoting Lunacharsky in the journal The Pioneer, claiming that Lunacharsky valued literature accessible to the masses, thereby suggesting that slogans and catchphrases are not to be dismissed, and defending those works of "revolutionary literature." But I feel that, like Mr. Liang Shiqiu, this is either a deliberate or inadvertent distortion. What Lunacharsky meant by things accessible to the masses was presumably the kind of writing Tolstoy produced in the little booklets he distributed to peasants — language, melodies, and humor that workers and peasants would immediately grasp. One need only note that Demian Bednyi (Демьян Бедный) received the Order of the Red Banner for his poetry, and his poems contain no slogans or catchphrases, to understand this. Finally, Mr. Liang demands to see the goods. Fair enough — this is the most practical approach. But citing two translated poems as a public exhibition is not right. Crescent Moon itself has published pieces "On the Difficulty of Translation" — how much more so when the translated text is poetry. From what I have seen, Lunacharsky's The Liberated Don Quixote, Fadeyev's The Rout, and Gladkov's Cement — in the eleven years since the Republic, China has produced no works comparable to these. I refer here to writers of the Crescent Moon Society ilk who bask in the residual glow of bourgeois civilization and wholeheartedly defend it. Among the works of self-proclaimed proletarian writers, I can point to no comparable achievements either. But Mr. Qian Xingcun has also argued in defense, saying that a newly risen class will naturally be immature and simplistic in literary skill, and to demand good works from them immediately is "bourgeois" malice. As a statement on behalf of workers and peasants, this is perfectly correct — such an unreasonable demand is like starving and freezing people for a long time, then blaming them for not being as plump as the rich. But the writers in China today are by no means people who have just laid down the plow or the axe; the great majority are educated intellectuals, some already well-known men of letters. Could it be that after overcoming their petty-bourgeois class consciousness, their former literary skill also vanished along with it? That cannot be. The Russian veteran writers Aleksei Tolstoy, Veresaev, and Prishvin continue to produce good work to this day. The reason Chinese writers have slogans without corresponding substance is, I believe, not that they "use literature as a weapon of class struggle," but that they "use class struggle as a weapon of literature." Under the banner of "proletarian literature" have gathered not a few people performing somersaults. Just look at last year's book advertisements — practically every single one was "revolutionary literature" — while critics did nothing but call their apologetics "liquidation" — that is, they let literature sit under the cover of "class struggle," so that literature itself did not need to exert effort, and consequently had little to do with either literature or struggle. But the momentary phenomenon in China today naturally offers no proof whatsoever against the rise of proletarian literature. Mr. Liang knows this too, which is why at the end he concedes: "If proletarian revolutionary writers insist on calling their propaganda literature proletarian literature, then at least it counts as a new literature, at least a new harvest in the territory of literature. There is no need to shout 'down with bourgeois literature' and fight over literary territory, for the territory of literature is vast, and new things will always find their place." But this sounds like the rhetoric of "Sino-Japanese friendship, coexistence and co-prosperity" — from the perspective of the still-fledgling proletarians, it is a form of deception. Those willing to settle for such "proletarian literature" probably do exist at present, but they are of the same ilk as Mr. Liang's proletarians with "gumption" who seek to climb up into the bourgeoisie — their works are the grumblings of a poor scholar before passing the imperial examinations. From start to finish — through climbing and beyond — none of this is proletarian literature. Proletarian literature is one wing of the struggle to liberate one's own class and all classes by one's own strength; what it demands is the whole, not a corner. To use the world of literary criticism as an analogy: suppose, in the "Palace of Art" of "human nature" (which we must rent temporarily from Mr. Cheng Fangwu), we place two tiger-skin armchairs facing south, seat Mr. Liang Shiqiu and Mr. Qian Xingcun side by side, one holding "Crescent Moon" in his right hand, the other holding "The Sun" in his left — that scene would truly be "labor and capital" vying for beauty. Five Here we can circle back to my "hard translation." By way of conjecture, this is a question that naturally follows: Since proletarian literature emphasizes propaganda, and propaganda must be comprehensible to the majority, then what are these "hard translated" and incomprehensible theoretical "heavenly books" translated for? Isn't it the same as not translating at all? My answer is: for myself, for the handful of people who style themselves proletarian literary critics, and for a portion of readers who do not seek "satisfaction," who do not fear difficulty, and who want to gain at least some understanding of this theory. Since the year before last, attacks against me personally have been exceedingly numerous. In practically every periodical one sees the name "Lu Xun," and the tone of the authors, at a rough glance, generally sounds like that of revolutionary men of letters. But after reading a few essays, I gradually felt there was too much empty talk. The scalpel missed the vital points; the bullets struck nothing fatal. Take, for example, the question of what class I belong to — it has yet to be settled; sometimes I am called petty bourgeoisie, sometimes "bourgeoisie," sometimes even elevated to "feudal remnant," and moreover equated with an orangutan (see the "Tokyo correspondence" in Creation Monthly). On one occasion, the color of my teeth was attacked. In a society like this, it is entirely possible for feudal remnants to make a spectacle of themselves. But that a feudal remnant is an orangutan is stated in no "materialist conception of history," nor can one find the argument that yellow teeth are harmful to the proletarian revolution. I then thought: there is too little of such theory available for reference, which is why everyone is somewhat muddled. As for enemies — dissecting them, chewing on them — that is unavoidable in these times. But if one has an anatomy textbook and a cookbook, and follows the procedures, the structure and flavor will at least be somewhat clearer and more palatable. People often compare the revolutionary to Prometheus of myth, who stole fire for mankind and, though tortured by the gods, felt no regret — his magnanimity and perseverance are indeed analogous. But I stole fire from other countries with the original intention of roasting my own flesh, thinking that if the flavor could be made somewhat better, then perhaps those who chew on me would get more benefit, and I would not have wasted my body. The starting point was entirely individualistic, and moreover tinged with petty-bourgeois extravagance, as well as the "revenge" of slowly drawing out a scalpel and plunging it into the heart of the dissector. Mr. Liang says, "They want revenge!" But it is not just "they" — such people are quite numerous among "feudal remnants" too. And yet, I also wish to be of some use to society; what the spectators see in the end is still fire and light. And so the first undertaking was Literary Policy, because it contained the arguments of various schools. Mr. Zheng Boqi (郑伯奇), who now runs a bookshop and publishes plays by Hauptmann and Lady Gregory, was at the time still a revolutionary man of letters. In the periodical Literary Life, which he edited, he mocked my translating of this book, saying I was unwilling to fade into obscurity but had unfortunately been beaten to the punch by others. That translating a single book could make one float up — being a revolutionary man of letters is really too easy; I had no such illusions. A certain tabloid then said my translation of The Theory of Art was a "surrender." Yes, surrender is a common thing in the world. But by that time, Generalissimo Cheng Fangwu had long since crawled out of his Japanese hot spring and moved into a Paris hotel — so to whom here was I offering my allegiance? This year, the story has changed again: in The Pioneer and Modern Fiction, they say it is a "change of direction." I have seen some Japanese magazines apply these four characters to the former Neo-Sensationalist writer Kataoka Teppei, and consider it a complimentary term. In truth, all this confused chatter stems from the same old disease of looking only at labels without even bothering to think. Translating one book about proletarian literature is insufficient to prove one's direction; if it contained distortions, it would on the contrary be harmful. My translations are also meant as an offering to these hasty proletarian literary critics, for they have the obligation not to seek "satisfaction" but to endure hardship and study these theories. But I am confident there are no deliberate distortions in my translations. When they strike the weaknesses of critics I do not admire, I smile; when they strike my own weaknesses, I endure the pain. But I will absolutely not add or subtract — this too is one reason for my consistent "hard translation." Naturally, someday there will be better translators capable of producing translations that are neither distorted nor "hard" or "dead." At that point my translations will naturally be superseded. I merely wish to fill the gap between "nothing" and "something better." Yet there is still much paper in the world, while each literary society has few members. Grand ambitions but slender means — they cannot write enough to fill all the paper. And so the critic within each society whose duty is to vanquish enemies and help friends, sweeping away alien species, sees others come to scribble on the paper and heaves a sigh, shaking his head and stamping his feet in unbearable distress. Shanghai's Shenbao goes so far as to call translators of social science "any Tom, Dick, or Harry," such is its fury. Mr. Jiang Guangci (蒋光慈), whose "position in China's new literature is well known to readers," once went to Tokyo to convalesce. Meeting Kurahara Korehito, and hearing that many Japanese translations were terrible, practically harder to read than the originals… he laughed and said: "…Then China's translation world is even more absurd. Recently many Chinese books are translated from Japanese; if the Japanese translator brings in some errors and alterations from a European work, and it is then translated from Japanese into Chinese, won't the work have changed half its face?…" (See The Pioneer.) This too is an expression of deep dissatisfaction with translation, especially retranslation. But whereas Mr. Liang at least names books and their flaws, Mr. Jiang merely smiles sweetly and sweeps everything away — truly far more comprehensive. Kurahara Korehito translated a great deal of literary theory and fiction directly from Russian, and I personally benefited enormously from his work. I hope China will also produce one or two such honest translators from Russian, translating good books in succession — rather than merely cursing themselves "bastard" once and considering that the duty of a revolutionary man of letters has been discharged. But as things stand now, Mr. Liang Shiqiu will not translate these things; the great man who calls others "Tom, Dick, and Harry" will not translate them either; Mr. Jiang, who has studied Russian, would be the most suitable, but after his convalescence he only produced one book, One Week — and Japan already had two translations of it. China once spoke voluminously of Darwin and Nietzsche, then roundly cursed them during the European War. But to this day there is only one translation of Darwin's works and only half of Nietzsche's; scholars and literary giants who study English and German have had neither the leisure nor the inclination to attend to it, and that's that. So for the time being, I am afraid we shall have to endure the mockery and continue retranslating from Japanese, or take an original text and translate directly while consulting the Japanese translation. I intend to continue doing this, and I hope more people will do the same, to fill a little of the emptiness behind all the lofty and thoroughgoing talk — for we cannot, like Mr. Jiang, find it all "so laughable," nor should we, like Mr. Liang, just "wait, and wait, and wait." Six At the beginning, I wrote: "To claim hardness while in reality being as soft as cotton is precisely a hallmark of the Crescent Moon Society." Here I should briefly add a few sentences, which will serve as the conclusion to this essay. When Crescent Moon first appeared, it advocated a "solemn attitude" — but those who scold shall be scolded in return, and those who mock shall be mocked in return. This is not wrong; it is precisely "using the other's own methods against him," and though it is also a form of "revenge," it is not for oneself. In the advertisement for the combined issue of Volume Two, Numbers Six and Seven, it still says: "We all maintain a 'tolerant' attitude (except that an 'intolerant' attitude is something we cannot tolerate). We all favor steady, rational doctrine." The first two sentences are also not wrong — "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth" — consistent with the beginning. But if one follows this broad road to its end, one inevitably arrives at "resisting violence with violence," which is incompatible with the "steadiness" so cherished by the gentlemen of the Crescent Moon Society. This time, the Crescent Moon Society's "free speech" met with suppression. By the old method, one ought also to suppress the suppressors. But the response that appeared in Crescent Moon was an essay entitled "A Warning to Those Who Suppress Freedom of Speech" — first citing the other side's party doctrine, then citing foreign laws, and finally citing historical examples from East and West, to demonstrate that those who suppress freedom always tend toward their own destruction: a warning delivered out of concern for the other side. And so, the Crescent Moon Society's "solemn attitude" and "eye for an eye" method, when all is said and done, is applied exclusively to those of comparable or lesser power. But when someone more powerful punches their eyes swollen, they make an exception: they merely raise their hands to cover their own face and cry, "Watch out for your own eyes!\"
只要略有知覺的人就都知道：這回學生的請願，是因為日本占據了遼吉，南京政府束手無策，單會去哀求國聯，而國聯卻正和日本是一夥。讀書呀，讀書呀，不錯，學生是應該讀書的，但一面也要大人老爺們不至於葬送土地，這才能夠安心讀書。報上不是說過，東北大學逃散，馮庸大學逃散，日本兵看見學生模樣的就槍斃嗎？放下書包來請願，真是已經可憐之至。不道國民黨政府卻在十二月十八日通電各地軍政當局文裏，又加上他們“搗毀機關，阻斷交通，毆傷中委，攔劫汽車，橫擊路人及公務人員，私逮刑訊，社會秩序，悉被破壞”的罪名，而且指出結果，說是“友邦人士，莫名驚詫，長此以往，國將不國”了！好個“友邦人士”！日本帝國主義的兵隊強占了遼吉，炮轟機關，他們不驚詫；阻斷鐵路，追炸客車，捕禁官吏，槍斃人民，他們不驚詫。中國國民黨治下的連年內戰，空前水災，賣兒救窮，砍頭示眾，秘密殺戮，電刑逼供，他們也不驚詫。在學生的請願中有一點紛擾，他們就驚詫了！好個國民黨政府的“友邦人士”！是些什麽東西！即使所舉的罪狀是真的罷，但這些事情，是無論那一個“友邦”也都有的，他們的維持他們的“秩序”的監獄，就撕掉了他們的“文明”的面具。擺什麽“驚詫”的臭臉孔呢？可是“友邦人士”一驚詫，我們的國府就怕了，“長此以往，國將不國”了，好像失了東三省，黨國倒愈像一個國，失了東三省誰也不響，黨國倒愈像一個國，失了東三省只有幾個學生上幾篇“呈文”，黨國倒愈像一個國，可以博得“友邦人士”的誇獎，永遠“國”下去一樣。幾句電文，說得明白極了：怎樣的黨國，怎樣的“友邦”。“友邦”要我們人民身受宰割，寂然無聲，略有“越軌”，便加屠戮；黨國是要我們遵從這“友邦人士”的希望，否則，他就要“通電各地軍政當局”，“即予緊急處置，不得於事後借口無法勸阻，敷衍塞責”了！因為“友邦人士”是知道的：日兵“無法勸阻”，學生們怎會“無法勸阻”？每月一千八百萬的軍費，四百萬的政費，作什麽用的呀，“軍政當局”呀？寫此文後剛一天，就見二十一日《申報》登載南京專電雲：“考試院部員張以寬，盛傳前日為學生架去重傷。茲據張自述，當時因車夫誤會，為群眾引至中大，旋出校回寓，並無受傷之事。至行政院某秘書被拉到中大，亦當時出來，更無失蹤之事。”而“教育消息”欄內，又記本埠一小部分學校赴京請願學生死傷的確數，則雲：“中公死二人，傷三十人，復旦傷二人，復旦附中傷十人，東亞失蹤一人（系女性），上中失蹤一人，傷三人，文生氏死一人，傷五人……”可見學生並未如國府通電所說，將“社會秩序，破壞無余”，而國府則不但依然能夠鎮壓，而且依然能夠誣陷，殺戮。“友邦人士”，從此可以不必“驚詫莫名”，只請放心來瓜分就是了。	Anyone with the slightest awareness knows: the reason students petitioned this time was that Japan had occupied Liaoning and Jilin, the Nanjing government was helpless and could only go begging to the League of Nations, while the League of Nations was in fact in cahoots with Japan. Study, study — yes, students should study, but the big shots and grandees should also refrain from giving away our territory, so that one can actually study in peace. Haven't the newspapers reported that Northeastern University has been scattered, Feng Yong University has been scattered, and the Japanese soldiers shoot on sight anyone who looks like a student? To put down one's satchel and go petition — that is already pitiful in the extreme. Yet the Nationalist government, in a circular telegram to military and political authorities on December 18, heaped upon them the charges of "smashing government offices, blocking transportation, assaulting Central Committee members, commandeering automobiles, beating passersby and public servants, making unauthorized arrests and conducting illegal interrogations, with social order utterly destroyed" — and moreover pointed out the consequence, saying that "friends from friendly nations are astonished beyond words; if this continues, the country will cease to be a country"! What fine "friends from friendly nations"! The troops of Japanese imperialism forcibly occupied Liaoning and Jilin, shelled government offices — they were not astonished. They blocked railways, bombed passenger trains, detained officials, shot civilians — they were not astonished. Under Kuomintang rule, year after year of civil war, unprecedented floods, parents selling their children to escape poverty, public beheadings, secret massacres, electric torture to extract confessions — they were not astonished either. But when there was a bit of commotion during the students' petition, they were astonished! What fine "friends from friendly nations" of the Nationalist government! What kind of creatures are they! Even if the charges listed were true, these are things that happen in every single one of those "friendly nations." The prisons they maintain to uphold their "order" have already torn off the mask of their "civilization." What's with their putting on that stinking face of "astonishment"? But as soon as the "friends from friendly nations" express astonishment, our National Government gets scared: "if this continues, the country will cease to be a country" — as if losing the Three Eastern Provinces only made the Party-State look more like a proper country; as if nobody making a sound about losing the Three Eastern Provinces only made the Party-State look more like a proper country; as if losing the Three Eastern Provinces with only a few students submitting a few "petitions" only made the Party-State look more like a proper country — one that could earn the praise of "friends from friendly nations" and remain a "country" forever. A few lines of a telegram make it crystal clear: what kind of Party-State this is, and what kind of "friendly nations" these are. The "friendly nations" want our people to submit to slaughter in silence; the slightest "transgression" and they massacre. The Party-State wants us to comply with the wishes of these "friends from friendly nations" — otherwise it will "telegraph all local military and political authorities" to "take emergency measures immediately, and not use the excuse afterward that it was impossible to dissuade them, shifting responsibility." For the "friends from friendly nations" know well: if Japanese soldiers are "impossible to dissuade," how could students possibly be "impossible to dissuade"? What are the eighteen million a month in military expenditure and the four million in administrative costs being used for, "military and political authorities"? Just one day after writing this essay, I saw in the December 21 issue of the Shenbao a special telegram from Nanjing: "Zhang Yikuan, a staff member of the Examination Yuan, was widely rumored to have been seized by students the day before and seriously injured. According to Zhang's own account, at the time his rickshaw puller made an error, and he was led by the crowd to National Central University, from which he soon left and returned home, with no injuries whatsoever. As for a certain secretary of the Executive Yuan who was taken to National Central University, he too left at the time, and there was certainly no disappearance." Meanwhile, in the "Education News" column, the confirmed figures of dead and wounded students from this city's schools who had gone to Nanjing to petition were recorded: "China University: two dead, thirty wounded. Fudan: two wounded. Fudan Middle School: ten wounded. East Asia: one missing (female). Shanghai Middle School: one missing, three wounded. Wenshi: one dead, five wounded…" It is thus evident that the students did not, as the government's circular telegram claimed, "utterly destroy social order." Rather, the government was not only still perfectly capable of suppression, but also still perfectly capable of fabrication and massacre. Henceforth, the "friends from friendly nations" need not be "astonished beyond words" — please just come and carve up the country at your leisure.
“勞動者”這句話成了“罪人”的代名詞，已經足足四年了。壓迫罷，誰也不響；殺戮罷，誰也不響；文學上一提起這句話，就有許多“文人學士”和“正人君子”來笑罵，接著又有許多他們的徒子徒孫來笑罵。勞動者呀勞動者，真要永世不得翻身了。不料竟又有人記得你起來。不料帝國主義老爺們還嫌黨國屠殺得不趕快，竟來親自動手了，炸的炸，轟的轟。稱“人民”為“反動分子”，是黨國的拿手戲，而不料帝國主義老爺也有這妙法，竟稱不抵抗的順從的黨國官軍為“賊匪”，大加以“膺懲”！冤乎枉哉，這真有些“順”“逆”不分，玉石俱焚之慨了！於是又記得了勞動者。於是久不聽到了的“親愛的勞動者呀！”的親熱喊聲，也在文章上看見了；久不看見了的“智識勞動者”的奇妙官銜，也在報章上發見了，還因為“感於有聯絡的必要”，組織了“協會”，舉了幹事樊仲雲，汪馥泉呀這許多新任“智識勞動者”先生們。有什麽“智識”？有什麽“勞動”？“聯絡”了幹什麽？“必要”在那裏？這些這些，暫且不談罷，沒有“智識”的體力勞動者，也管不著的。 “親愛的勞動者”呀！你們再替這些高貴的“智識勞動者”起來幹一回罷！給他們仍舊可以坐在房裏“勞動”他們那高貴的“智識”。即使失敗，失敗的也不過是“體力”，“智識”還在著的！ “智識”勞動者萬歲！	The phrase "laborer" has been a synonym for "criminal" for a full four years now. Oppression — nobody makes a sound. Massacre — nobody makes a sound. The moment this phrase is mentioned in literature, hordes of "men of letters and learning" and "upright gentlemen" come out to mock and revile it, followed by swarms of their disciples and hangers-on. O laborers, laborers — it seemed you were truly to be downtrodden for all eternity. But unexpectedly, someone has remembered you again. Unexpectedly, the imperialist masters found the Party-State's slaughter too slow for their liking, and came to do the job themselves — bombing here, shelling there. Branding "the people" as "reactionary elements" is the Party-State's specialty; but who could have foreseen that the imperialist masters possess the same marvelous trick, labeling the non-resisting, obedient Party-State army as "bandits" and administering a thorough "chastisement"! How unjust, how wrongful — there is indeed something of a lament here about confusing the "obedient" with the "rebellious," burning jade and stone together! And so, laborers are remembered once more. And so the affectionate cry of "Dear laborers!" — long unheard — reappears in articles; the wondrous official title of "intellectual laborer" — long unseen — resurfaces in newspapers. Moreover, "feeling the necessity for solidarity," they have organized an "association" and elected as officers Fan Zhongyun (樊仲云), Wang Fuquan (汪馥泉), and a fine host of other newly minted "intellectual laborers." What "intellect"? What "labor"? What is the purpose of this "solidarity"? Where is the "necessity"? All this we shall set aside for now — the physical laborers without "intellect" can't be bothered with it anyway. "Dear laborers"! Go out and do it one more time for these noble "intellectual laborers"! So that they can continue sitting in their rooms, "laboring" with their noble "intellect." Even if it fails, what fails is merely "physical strength" — the "intellect" will still be there! Long live the "intellectual" laborers!
這是譯者從十年來所譯的將近百篇的文字中，選出不很專門，大家可看之作，集在一處，希望流傳較廣的本子。一，以見最近的進化學說的情形，二，以見中國人將來的運命。進化學說之於中國，輸入是頗早的，遠在嚴復的譯述赫胥黎《天演論》。但終於也不過留下一個空泛的名詞，歐洲大戰時代，又大為論客所誤解，到了現在，連名目也奄奄一息了。其間學說幾經遷流，兌佛黎斯的突變說興而又衰，蘭麻克的環境說廢而復振，我們生息於自然中，而於此等自然大法的研究，大抵未嘗加意。此書首尾的各兩篇，即由新蘭麻克主義立論，可以窺見大概，略彌缺憾的。但最要緊的是末兩篇。沙漠之逐漸南徙，營養之已難支持，都是中國人極重要，極切身的問題，倘不解決，所得的將是一個滅亡的結局。可以解中國古史難以探索的原因，可以破中國人最能耐苦的謬說，還不過是副次的收獲罷了。林木伐盡，水澤湮枯，將來的一滴水，將和血液等價，倘這事能為現在和將來的青年所記憶，那麽，這書所得的酬報，也就非常之大了。然而自然科學的範圍，所說就到這裏為止，那給與的解答，也只是治水和造林。這是一看好像極簡單，容易的事，其實卻並不如此的。我可以引史沫得列女士在《中國鄉村生活斷片》中的兩段話作證—— 所以這樣的樹木保護法，結果是增加剝樹皮，掘草根的人民，反而促進沙漠的出現。但這書以自然科學為範圍，所以沒有顧及了。接著這自然科學所論的事實之後，更進一步地來加以解決的，則有社會科學在。一九三〇年五月五日。	This is a volume in which the translator has selected from nearly a hundred pieces translated over the past ten years those that are not overly specialized and of interest to a general readership, gathering them together in the hope of wider circulation. First, so that one may see the current state of evolutionary theory; second, so that one may glimpse the future destiny of the Chinese people. Evolutionary theory was introduced to China quite early, as far back as Yan Fu's (严复) translation and exposition of Huxley's Evolution and Ethics. But in the end it left behind nothing more than a vague term; during the era of the Great European War, it was again grossly misunderstood by polemicists, and by now even the very name is moribund. In the meantime, the theory has undergone several shifts: De Vries's mutation theory rose and then declined; Lamarck's theory of environmental influence fell and was then revived. We live and breathe within nature, yet we have generally paid scant attention to the study of such great laws of nature. The two essays at the beginning and end of this book are argued from the standpoint of neo-Lamarckism and offer a general overview, somewhat remedying this deficiency. But the most important are the last two essays. The gradual southward advance of the desert, the difficulty of sustaining nutrition — these are matters of the utmost importance and immediacy for the Chinese people. If they are not resolved, the result will be extinction. That one may thereby understand why the study of ancient Chinese history is so difficult, and dispel the myth that the Chinese are supremely enduring of hardship — these would be merely secondary gains. When the forests are all felled and the waterways all dried up, a single drop of water in the future will be worth as much as blood. If this can be remembered by the youth of today and tomorrow, then the reward this book will have earned is very great indeed. Yet natural science has its limits; what it addresses stops here, and the answer it provides is simply water conservation and reforestation. This may at first glance seem exceedingly simple and easy, but in fact it is not so at all. I may cite two passages from Agnes Smedley's Sketches of Chinese Rural Life as evidence— Thus, such a method of tree protection ultimately only increases the number of people who strip bark and dig up roots, and in fact hastens the advance of the desert. But since this book confines itself to the scope of natural science, it has not addressed this. Following up on the facts discussed by natural science, going one step further to resolve them — that is the province of social science. May 5, 1930.
瑪克·土溫（Mark Twain）無須多說，只要一翻美國文學史，便知道他是前世紀末至現世紀初有名的幽默家（Humorist）。不但一看他的作品，要令人眉開眼笑，就是他那筆名，也含有一些滑稽之感的。他本姓克萊門斯（Samuel Langhorne Clemens，1835～1910），原是一個領港，在發表作品的時候，便取量水時所喊的訛音，用作了筆名。作品很為當時所歡迎，他即被看作講笑話的好手；但到一九一六年他的遺著《The Mysterious Stranger》一出版，卻分明證實了他是很深的厭世思想的懷抱者了。含著哀怨而在嘻笑，為什麽會這樣的？我們知道，美國出過亞倫·坡（Edgar Allan Poe），出過霍桑（N．Hawthorne），出過惠德曼（W．Whitman），都不是這麽表裏兩樣的。然而這是南北戰爭以前的事。這之後，惠德曼先就唱不出歌來，因為這之後，美國已成了產業主義的社會，個性都得鑄在一個模子裏，不再能主張自我了。如果主張，就要受迫害。這時的作家之所註意，已非應該怎樣發揮自己的個性，而是怎樣寫去，才能有人愛讀，賣掉原稿，得到聲名。連有名如荷惠勒（W．D．Howells）的，也以為文學者的能為世間所容，是在他給人以娛樂。於是有些野性未馴的，便站不住了，有的跑到外國，如詹謨士（Henry James），有的講講笑話，就是瑪克·土溫。那麽，他的成了幽默家，是為了生活，而在幽默中又含著哀怨，含著諷刺，則是不甘於這樣的生活的緣故了。因為這一點點的反抗，就使現在新土地裏的兒童，還笑道：瑪克·土溫是我們的。這《夏娃日記》（Eve's Diary）出版於一九〇六年，是他的晚年之作，雖然不過一種小品，但仍是在天真中露出弱點，敘述裏夾著譏評，形成那時的美國姑娘，而作者以為是一切女性的肖像，但臉上的笑影，卻分明是有了年紀的了。幸而靠了作者的純熟的手腕，令人一時難以看出，仍不失為活潑潑地的作品；又得譯者將豐神傳達，而且樸素無華，幾乎要令人覺得倘使夏娃用中文來做日記，恐怕也就如此一樣：更加值得一看了。萊勒孚（Lester Ralph）的五十余幅白描的插圖，雖然柔軟，卻很清新，一看布局，也許很容易使人記起中國清季的任渭長的作品，但他所畫的是仙俠高士，瘦削怪誕，遠不如這些的健康；而且對於中國現在看慣了斜眼削肩的美女圖的眼睛，也是很有澄清的益處的。一九三一年九月二十七夜，記。	Mark Twain needs no lengthy introduction — one need only glance at any history of American literature to know that he was a famous humorist of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Not only do his works make one smile, but even his pen name carries a certain whiff of the comical. His real name was Samuel Langhorne Clemens (1835–1910), and he was originally a river pilot. When he began publishing his work, he took the distorted call used in sounding the water depth and made it his pen name. His works were warmly received by his contemporaries, and he was regarded as a master raconteur; but when his posthumous work The Mysterious Stranger was published in 1916, it clearly proved that he had in fact harbored a deeply pessimistic worldview. Harboring grief while wearing a grin — how did he come to be this way? We know that America produced Edgar Allan Poe, Nathaniel Hawthorne (N. Hawthorne), and Walt Whitman (W. Whitman) — none of them were so divided between surface and substance. But all of that was before the Civil War. After it, Whitman was the first to find he could no longer sing, for after the war America had become an industrialist society in which every individual had to be cast in a single mold, and self-assertion was no longer tolerated. If one insisted, one would be persecuted. The concern of writers in this era was no longer how to develop one's individuality, but how to write in a way that people would want to read, so that manuscripts could be sold and fame obtained. Even someone as renowned as William Dean Howells (W. D. Howells) believed that a man of letters could be tolerated by the world only insofar as he provided entertainment. And so some of the less domesticated spirits could no longer hold their ground: some fled abroad, like Henry James; some took to telling jokes — that was Mark Twain. So his becoming a humorist was a matter of livelihood, and the grief and satire lurking within his humor arose from his refusal to accept such a life. It was because of this small measure of resistance that the children of this new land still say with a smile today: Mark Twain is ours. Eve's Diary was published in 1906, a work of his later years. Though it is but a small piece, it still reveals weakness through innocence and weaves mockery into narrative, forming a portrait of the American girl of his day — which the author took to be that of all womankind. Yet the smile upon that face is plainly that of a man advanced in years. Fortunately, thanks to the author's consummate craft, this is not immediately apparent, and the work remains vivid and alive. Moreover, the translator has conveyed its spirit faithfully and with an unadorned simplicity, almost making one feel that if Eve had kept her diary in Chinese, it might well have read just this way — all the more reason to give it a look. Lester Ralph's fifty-odd line illustrations, though soft and delicate, are quite fresh. At first glance, the composition may readily call to mind the works of Ren Weichang (任渭长) from China's late Qing dynasty, but what he depicted were immortals, heroes, and lofty scholars — gaunt and eccentric figures far less healthy than these. Moreover, for Chinese eyes now accustomed to pictures of beauties with slanting eyes and sloping shoulders, these illustrations have a most salutary clarifying effect. Recorded on the night of September 27, 1931.
馮Y．S．先生由他的友人給我看《野艸》的英文譯本，並且要我說幾句話。可惜我不懂英文，只能自己說幾句。但我希望，譯者將不嫌我只做了他所希望的一半的。這二十多篇小品，如每篇末尾所註，是一九二四至二六年在北京所作，陸續發表於期刊《語絲》上的。大抵僅僅是隨時的小感想。因為那時難於直說，所以有時措辭就很含糊了。現在舉幾個例罷。因為諷刺當時盛行的失戀詩，作《我的失戀》，因為憎惡社會上旁觀者之多，作《復仇》第一篇，又因為驚異於青年之消沈，作《希望》。《這樣的戰士》，是有感於文人學士們幫助軍閥而作。《臘葉》，是為愛我者的想要保存我而作的。段祺瑞政府槍擊徒手民眾後，作《淡淡的血痕中》，其時我已避居別處；奉天派和直隸派軍閥戰爭的時候，作《一覺》，此後我就不能住在北京了。所以，這也可以說，大半是廢弛的地獄邊沿的慘白色小花，當然不會美麗。但這地獄也必須失掉。這是由幾個有雄辯和辣手，而那時還未得誌的英雄們的臉色和語氣所告訴我的。我於是作《失掉的好地獄》。後來，我不再作這樣的東西了。日在變化的時代，已不許這樣的文章，甚而至於這樣的感想存在。我想，這也許倒是好的罷。為譯本而作的序言，也應該在這裏結束了。十一月五日。	Mr. Feng Y. S., through a friend of his, showed me the English translation of Wild Grass and asked me to say a few words. Unfortunately, I do not read English and can only speak for myself. But I hope the translator will not mind that I have done only half of what he wished. These twenty-odd short pieces, as noted at the end of each, were written in Beijing between 1924 and 1926 and published serially in the periodical Yusi (Thread of Talk). For the most part, they were nothing more than small thoughts jotted down at the moment. Because it was difficult to speak plainly at the time, the phrasing is sometimes quite obscure. Let me give a few examples. "My Lost Love" was written as a satire on the love-lost poems then in vogue. The first piece of "Revenge" was written out of hatred for the prevalence of bystanders in society. "Hope" was written out of alarm at the apathy of the youth. "Such a Warrior" was inspired by the sight of men of letters and learning aiding the warlords. "Withered Leaf" was written for those who love me and wish to preserve me. After the Duan Qirui (段祺瑞) government fired upon unarmed civilians, I wrote "Amid Pale Bloodstains" — by then I had already gone into hiding elsewhere. During the war between the Fengtian and Zhili cliques of warlords, I wrote "An Awakening" — and after that I could no longer remain in Beijing. Thus, one might say that these are mostly pallid little flowers growing on the edge of a neglected hell — naturally they will not be beautiful. But this hell, too, was destined to be lost. This was made known to me by the faces and tones of a few heroes who possessed eloquence and ruthless hands, and who had not yet come to power. And so I wrote "The Good Hell That Was Lost." Later, I stopped writing such things. The times, ever changing, no longer permitted such essays — or even such thoughts — to exist. Perhaps, I think, this is for the better after all. A preface written for the translation should also come to its end here. November 5.
一蒲力汗諾夫（George Valentinovitch Plekhanov）以一八五七年，生於坦木皤夫省的一個貴族的家裏。自他出世以至成年之間，在俄國革命運動史上，正是智識階級所提倡的民眾主義自興盛以至雕落的時候。他們當初的意見，以為俄國的民眾，即大多數的農民，是已經領會了社會主義，在精神上，成著不自覺的社會主義者的，所以民眾主義者的使命，只在“到民間去”，向他們說明那境遇，善導他們對於地主和官吏的嫌憎，則農民便將自行蹶起，實現自由的自治制，即無政府主義底社會的組織。但農民卻幾乎並不傾聽民眾主義者的鼓動，倒是對於這些進步的貴族的子弟，懷抱著不滿。皇帝亞歷山大二世的政府，則於他們臨以嚴峻的刑罰，終使其中的一部分，將眼光從農民離開，來效法西歐先進國，為有產者所享有的一切權利而爭鬥了。於是從“土地與自由黨”分裂為“民意黨”，從事於政治底鬥爭，但那手段，卻非一般底社會運動，而是單獨和政府相鬥爭，盡全力於恐怖手段——暗殺。青年的蒲力汗諾夫，也大概在這樣的社會思潮之下，開始他革命底活動的。但當分裂時，尚復固守農民社會主義的根本底見解，反對恐怖主義，反對獲得政治底公民底自由，別組“均田黨”，惟屬望於農民的叛亂。然而他已懷獨見，以為智識階級獨鬥政府，革命殊難於成功，農民固多社會主義底傾向，而勞動者亦殊重要。他在那《革命運動上的俄羅斯工人》中說，工人者，是偶然來到都會，現於工廠的農民。要輸社會主義入農村中，這農民工人便是最適宜的媒介者。因為農民相信他們工人的話，是在智識階級之上的。事實也並不很遠於他的豫料。一八八一年恐怖主義者竭全力所實行的亞歷山大二世的暗殺，民眾未嘗蹶起，公民也不得自由，結果是有力的指導者或死或因，“民意黨”殆瀕於消滅。連不屬此黨而傾向工人的社會主義的蒲力汗諾夫等，也終被政府所壓迫，不得不逃亡國外了。他在這時候，遂和西歐的勞動運動相親，遂開始研究馬克斯的著作。馬克斯之名，俄國是早經知道的；《資本論》第一卷，也比別國早有譯本；許多“民意黨”的人們，還和他個人底地相知，通信。然而他們所竭盡尊敬的馬克斯的思想，在他們卻僅是純粹的“理論”，以為和俄國的現實不相合，和俄人並無關系的東西，因為在俄國沒有資本主義，俄國的社會主義，將不發生於工廠而出於農村的緣故。但蒲力汗諾夫是當回憶在彼得堡的勞動運動之際，就發生了關於農村的疑惑的，由原書而精通馬克斯主義文獻，又增加了這疑惑。他於是搜集當時所有的統計底材料，用真正的馬克斯主義底方法，來研究它，終至確信了資本主義實在君臨著俄國。一八八四年，他發表叫作《我們的對立》的書，就是指摘民眾主義的錯誤，證明馬克斯主義的正當的名作。他在這書裏，即指示著作為大眾的農民，現今已不能作社會主義的支柱。在俄國，那時都會工業正在發達，資本主義制度已在形成了。必然底地隨此而起者，是資本主義之敵，就是絕滅資本主義的無產者。所以在俄國也如在西歐一樣，無產者是對於政治底改造的最有意味的階級。從那境遇上說，對於堅執而有組織的革命，已比別的階級有更大的才能，而且作為將來的俄國革命的射擊兵，也是最為適當的階級。自此以來，蒲力汗諾夫不但本身成了偉大的思想家，並且也作了俄國的馬克斯主義者的先驅和覺醒了的勞動者的教師和指導者了。二但蒲力汗諾夫對於無產階級的殊勛，最多是在所發表的理論的文字，他本身的政治底意見，卻不免常有動搖的。一八八九年，社會主義者開第一次國際會議於巴黎，蒲力汗諾夫在會上說，“俄國的革命運動，只有靠著勞動者的運動才能勝利，此外並無解決之道”的時候，是連歐洲有名的許多社會主義者們，也完全反對這話的；但不久，他的業績顯現出來了。文字方面，則有《歷史上的一元底觀察的發展》（或簡稱《史底一元論》），出版於一八九五年，從哲學底領域方面，和民眾主義者戰鬥，以擁護唯物論，而馬克斯主義的全時代，也就受教於此，借此理解戰鬥底唯物論的根基。後來的學者，自然也嘗加以指摘的批評，但什維諾夫卻說，“倒不如將這大可註目的書籍，向新時代的人們來說明，來講解，實為更好的工作”云。次年，在事實方面，則因他的弟子們和民眾主義者鬥爭的結果，終使紡紗廠的勞動者三萬人的大同盟罷工，勃發於彼得堡，給俄國的歷史劃了新時期，俄國無產階級的革命底價值，始為大家所認識，那時開在倫敦的社會主義者的第四次國際會議，也對此大加驚嘆，歡迎了。然而蒲力汗諾夫究竟是理論家。十九世紀末，列寧才開始活動，也比他年青，而兩個人之間，就自然而然地行了未嘗商量的分業。他所擅長的是理論方面，對於敵人，便擔當了哲學底論戰。列寧卻從最先的著作以來，即專心於社會政治底問題，黨和勞動階級的組織的。他們這時的以輔車相依的形態，所編輯發行的報章，是Iskra（《火花》），撰者們中，雖然頗有不純的分子，但在當時，卻盡了重大的職務，使勞動者和革命者的或一層因此而奮起，使民眾主義派智識者發生了動搖。尤其重要的是那文字底和實際的活動。當時（一九〇〇年至一九〇一年），革命家是都慣於藏身在自己的小圈子中，不明白全國底展望的，他們不悟到靠著全國底展望，才能有所達成，也沒有準確的計算，也不想到須用多大的勢力，才能得怎樣的成果。在這樣的時代，要試行中央集權底黨，統一全無產階級的全俄底政治組織的觀念，是新異而且難行的。《火花》卻不獨在論說上申明這觀念，還組織了“火花”的團體，有當時錚錚的革命家一百人至一百五十人的“火花”派，加在這團體中，以實行蒲力汗諾夫在報章上用文字底形式所展開的計劃。但到一九〇三年，俄國的馬克斯主義者分裂為布爾塞維克（多數派）和門塞維克（少數派）了，列寧是前者的指導者，蒲力汗諾夫則是後者。從此兩人即時離時合，如一九〇四年日俄戰爭時的希望俄皇戰敗，一九〇七至一九〇九年的黨的受難時代，他皆和列寧同心。尤其是後一時，布爾塞維克的勢力的大部分，已經不得不逃亡國外，到處是墮落，到處有奸細，大家互相註目，互相害怕，互相猜疑了。在文學上，則淫蕩文學盛行，《賽寧》即在這時出現。這情緒且侵入一切革命底圈子中。黨員四散，化為個個小團體，門塞維克的取消派，已經給布爾塞維克唱起挽歌來了。這時大聲叱咤，說取消派主義應該擊破，以支持布爾塞維克的，卻是身為門塞維克的權威的蒲力汗諾夫，且在各種報章上，國會中，加以勇敢的援助。於是門塞維克的別派，便嘲笑“他垂老而成了地下室的歌人”了。企圖革命的復興，從新組織的報章，是一九一〇年開始印行的Zvezda（《星》），蒲力汗諾夫和列寧，都從國外投稿，所以是兩派合作的機關報，勢不能十分明示政治上的方針。但當這報章和政治運動關系加緊之際，就漸漸失去提攜的性質，蒲力汗諾夫的一派終於完全匿跡，報章盡成為布爾塞維克的戰鬥底機關了。一九一二年兩派又合辦日報Pravda（《真理》），而當事件展開時，蒲力汗諾夫派又於極短時期中悉被排除，和在Zvezda那時走了同一的運道。殆歐洲大戰起，蒲力汗諾夫遂以德意誌帝國主義為歐洲文明和勞動階級的最危險的仇敵，和第二國際的指導者們一樣，站在愛國的見地上，為了和最可憎惡的德國戰鬥，竟不惜和本國的資產階級和政府相提攜，相妥協了。一九一七年二月革命後，他回到本國，組織了一個社會主義底愛國者的團體，曰“協同”。然而在俄國的無產階級之父蒲力汗諾夫的革命底感覺，這時已經沒有了打動俄國勞動者的力量，布勒斯特的媾和後，他幾乎全為勞農俄國所忘卻，終在一九一八年五月三十日，孤獨地死於那時正被德軍所占領的芬蘭了。相傳他臨終的譫語中，曾有疑問云：“勞動者階級可覺察著我的活動呢？” 三他死後，Inprekol（第八年第五十四號）上有一篇《G.V.蒲力汗諾夫和無產階級運動》，簡括地評論了他一生的功過—— “……其實，蒲力汗諾夫是應該懷這樣的疑問的。為什麽呢？因為年少的勞動者階級，對他所知道的，是作為愛國社會主義者，作為門塞維克黨員，作為帝國主義的追隨者，作為主張革命底勞動者和在俄國的資產階級的指導者密柳珂夫互相妥協的人。因為勞動者階級的路和蒲力汗諾夫的路，是決然地離開的了。然而，我們毫不遲疑，將蒲力汗諾夫算進俄國勞動者階級的，不，國際勞動者階級的最大的恩師們裏面去。怎麽可以這樣說呢？當決定底的階級戰的時候，蒲力汗諾夫不是在防線的那面的麽？是的，確是如此。然而他在這些決定戰的很以前的活動，他的理論上的諸勞作，在蒲力汗諾夫的遺產中，是成著貴重的東西的。惟為了正確的階級底世界觀而戰的鬥爭，在階級戰的諸形態中，是最為重要的之一。蒲力汗諾夫由那理論上的諸勞作，亙幾世代，養成了許多勞動者革命家們。他又借此在俄國勞動者階級的政治底自主上，盡了出色的職務。蒲力汗諾夫的偉大的功績，首先，是對於‘民意黨’，即在前世紀的七十年代，相信著俄國的發達，是走著一種特別的，就是，非資本主義底的路的那些智識階級的一夥的他的鬥爭。那七十年代以後的數十年中，在俄國的資本主義的堂堂的發展情形，是怎樣地顯示了民意黨人中的見解之誤，而蒲力汗諾夫的見解之對呵。一八八四年由蒲力汗諾夫所編成的‘以勞動解放為目的’的團體（勞動者解放團的綱領，正是在俄國的勞動者黨的最初的宣言，而且也是對於一八七八年至七九年勞動者之動搖的直接的解答。他說著—— ‘惟有竭力迅速地形成一個勞動者黨，在解決現今在俄國的經濟底的，以及政治底的一切的矛盾上，是惟一的手段。’ 一八八九年，蒲力汗諾夫在開在巴黎的國際社會主義黨大會上，說道——‘在俄國的革命底運動，只有靠著革命底勞動者運動，才能得到勝利。我們此外並無解決之道，且也不會有的。’ 這，蒲力汗諾夫的有名的話，決不是偶然的。蒲力汗諾夫以那偉大的天才，擁護這在市民底民眾主義的革命中的無產階級的主權，至數十年之久，而同時也發表了自由主義底有產者在和帝制的鬥爭中，竟懦怯地成為奸細，化為遊移之至的東西的思想了。蒲力汗諾夫和列寧一同，是《火花》的創辦指導者。關於為了創立在俄國的政黨底組織體而戰的鬥爭，《火花》所盡的偉大的組織上的任務，是廣大地為人們所知道的。從一九〇三年至一九一七年的蒲力汗諾夫，生了幾回大動搖，倒是總和革命底的馬克斯主義違反，並且走向門塞維克去了。惹起他違反革命底的馬克斯主義的諸問題，大抵是什麽呢？首先，是對於農民層的革命底的可能力的過少評價。蒲力汗諾夫在對於民意黨人的有害方面的鬥爭中，竟看不見農民層的種種革命底的努力了。其次，是國家的問題。他沒有理解市民底民眾主義的本質。就是他沒有理解無論如何，有粉碎資產階級的國家機關的必要。最後，是他沒有理解那作為資本主義的最後階段的帝國主義的問題，以及帝國主義戰爭的性質的問題。要而言之，——蒲力汗諾夫是於列寧的強處，有著弱處的。他不能成為‘在帝國主義和無產階級革命時代的馬克斯主義者’。所以他之為馬克斯主義者，也就全體到了收場。蒲力汗諾夫於是一步一步，如羅若·盧森堡之所說，成為一個‘可尊敬的化石’了。在俄國的馬克斯主義建設者蒲力汗諾夫，決不僅是馬克斯和恩格斯的經濟學，歷史學，以及哲學的單單的媒介者。他涉及這些全領域，貢獻了出色的獨自的勞作。使俄國的勞動者和智識階級，確實明白馬克斯主義是人類思索的全史的最高的科學底完成，蒲力汗諾夫是與有力量的。惟蒲力汗諾夫的種種理論上的研究，在他的觀念形態的遺產裏，無疑地是最為貴重的東西。列寧曾經正當地常勸青年們去研究蒲力汗諾夫的書。——‘倘不研究這個（蒲力汗諾夫的關於哲學的敘述），就誰也決不會是意識底的，真實的共產主義者的。因為這是在國際底的一切馬克斯主義文獻中，最為傑出之作的緣故。’——列寧說。” 四蒲力汗諾夫也給馬克斯主義藝術理論放下了基礎。他的藝術論雖然還未能儼然成一個體系，但所遺留的含有方法和成果的著作，卻不只作為後人研究的對象，也不愧稱為建立馬克斯主義藝術理論，社會學底美學的古典底文獻的了。這裏的三篇信劄體的論文，便是他的這類著作的只鱗片甲。第一篇《論藝術》首先提出“藝術是什麽”的問題，補正了托爾斯泰的定義，將藝術的特質，斷定為感情和思想的具體底形象底表現。於是進而申明藝術也是社會現象，所以觀察之際，也必用唯物史觀的立場，並於和這違異的唯心史觀（St.Simon，Comte，Hegel）加以批評，而紹介又和這些相對的關於生物的美底趣味的達爾文的唯物論底見解。他在這裏假設了反對者的主張由生物學來探美感的起源的提議，就引用達爾文本身的話，說明“美的概念，……在種種的人類種族中，很有種種，連在同一人種的各國民裏，也會不同”。這意思，就是說，“在文明人，這樣的感覺，是和各種復雜的觀念以及思想的連鎖結合著。”也就是說，“文明人的美的感覺，……分明是就為各種社會底原因所限定”了。於是就須“從生物學到社會學去”，須從達爾文的領域的那將人類作為“物種”的研究，到這物種的歷史底運命的研究去。倘只就藝術而言，則是人類的美底感情的存在的可能性（種的概念），是被那為它移向現實的條件（歷史底概念）所提高的。這條件，自然便是該社會的生產力的發展階段。但蒲力汗諾夫在這裏，卻將這作為重要的藝術生產的問題，解明了生產力和生產關系的矛盾以及階級間的矛盾，以怎樣的形式，作用於藝術上；而站在該生產關系上的社會的藝術，又怎樣地取了各別的形態，和別社會的藝術顯出不同。就用了達爾文的“對立的根源的作用”這句話，博引例子，以說明社會底條件之與關於美底感情的形式；並及社會的生產技術和韻律，諧調，均整法則之相關；且又批評了近代法蘭西藝術論的發展（Staёl，Guizot，Taine）。生產技術和生活方法，最密接地反映於藝術現象上者，是在原始民族的時候。蒲力汗諾夫就想由解明這樣的原始民族的藝術，來擔當馬克斯主義藝術論中的難題。第二篇《原始民族的藝術》先據人類學者，旅行家等實見之談，從薄墟曼，韋陀，印地安以及別的民族引了他們的生活，狩獵，農耕，分配財貨這些事為例子，以證原始狩獵民族實為共產主義的結合，且以見畢海爾所說之不足憑。第三篇《再論原始民族的藝術》則批判主張遊戲本能，先於勞動的人們之誤，且用豐富的實證和嚴正的論理，以究明有用對象的生產（勞動），先於藝術生產這一個唯物史觀的根本底命題。詳言之，即蒲力汗諾夫之所究明，是社會人之看事物和現象，最初是從功利底觀點的，到後來才移到審美底觀點去。在一切人類所以為美的東西，就是於他有用——於為了生存而和自然以及別的社會人生的鬥爭上有著意義的東西。功用由理性而被認識，但美則憑直感底能力而被認識。享樂著美的時候，雖然幾乎並不想到功用，但可由科學底分析而被發見。所以美底享樂的特殊性，即在那直接性，然而美底愉樂的根柢裏，倘不伏著功用，那事物也就不見得美了。並非人為美而存在，乃是美為人而存在的。——這結論，便是蒲力汗諾夫將唯心史觀者所深惡痛絕的社會，種族，階級的功利主義底見解，引入藝術裏去了。看第三篇的收梢，則蒲力汗諾夫豫備繼此討論的，是人種學上的舊式的分類，是否合於實際。但竟沒有作，這裏也只好就此算作完結了。五這書所據的本子，是日本外村史郎的譯本。在先已有林柏先生的翻譯，本也可以不必再譯了，但因為叢書的目錄早經決定，只得仍來做這一番很近徒勞的工夫。當翻譯之際，也常常參考林譯的書，采用了些比日譯更好的名詞，有時句法也大約受些影響，而且前車可鑒，使我屢免於誤譯，這是應當十分感謝的。序言的四節中，除第三節全出於翻譯外，其余是雜采什維諾夫的《露西亞社會民主勞動黨史》，山內封介的《露西亞革命運動史》和《普羅列塔利亞藝術教程》余錄中的《蒲力汗諾夫和藝術》而就的。臨時急就，錯誤必所不免，只能算一個粗略的導言。至於最緊要的關於藝術全般，在此卻未曾涉及者，因為在先已有瓦勒夫松的《蒲力汗諾夫與藝術問題》，附印在《蘇俄的文藝論戰》（《未名叢刊》之一）之後，不久又將有列什涅夫《文藝批評論》和雅各武萊夫的《蒲力汗諾夫論》（皆是本叢書之一）出版，或則簡明，或則浩博，決非譯者所能企及其萬一，所以不如不說，希望讀者自去研究他們的文章。最末這一篇，是譯自藏原惟人所譯的《階級社會的藝術》，曾在《春潮月刊》上登載過的。其中有蒲力汗諾夫自敘對於文藝的見解，可作本書第一篇的互證，便也附在卷尾了。但自省譯文，這回也還是“硬譯”，能力只此，仍須讀者伸指來尋線索，如讀地圖：這實在是非常抱歉的。一九三〇年五月八日之夜，魯迅校畢記於上海閘北寓廬。	One Plekhanov (George Valentinovitch Plekhanov) was born in 1857, into a noble family in Tambov Province. From his birth to his coming of age, the history of the Russian revolutionary movement was precisely the period during which the populism advocated by the intelligentsia rose to prominence and then declined. Their initial view held that the Russian masses — that is, the great majority of peasants — had already grasped socialism, and had spiritually become unconscious socialists. Therefore, the mission of the populists was simply to "go to the people," explain their circumstances to them, and guide their resentment toward the landlords and officials, whereupon the peasants would rise up of their own accord and realize a system of free self-governance — that is, an anarchistic form of social organization. But the peasants hardly listened to the agitation of the populists at all; on the contrary, they harbored dissatisfaction toward these progressive sons of the nobility. The government of Tsar Alexander II subjected them to severe punishments, which ultimately drove a portion of them to turn their gaze away from the peasants and, following the example of the advanced nations of Western Europe, to fight for all the rights enjoyed by the propertied classes. Thus the "Land and Freedom" party split into the "People's Will" party, which engaged in political struggle — though their methods were not those of a general social movement, but rather the solitary combat of individuals against the government, devoting all their energies to terrorism — assassination. The young Plekhanov, too, presumably began his revolutionary activity under the influence of just such social currents. But at the time of the split, he still held fast to the fundamental views of peasant socialism, opposing terrorism and opposing the attainment of political and civic freedoms. He separately organized the "Black Repartition" party, placing his hopes solely in peasant rebellion. Yet he already held a distinctive view: that the intelligentsia alone, fighting the government in isolation, could hardly succeed in revolution; while the peasants certainly had socialist tendencies, the workers were also of great importance. In his work "The Russian Worker in the Revolutionary Movement," he said that workers were peasants who happened to come to the cities and appeared in the factories. To introduce socialism into the countryside, these peasant-workers were the most suitable intermediaries — because the peasants trusted the words of their fellow workers more than those of the intelligentsia. Events, in fact, were not far from his predictions. The assassination of Alexander II in 1881, carried out with the full force of the terrorists, failed to rouse the masses; civic freedom was not won. The result was that the capable leaders either died or were imprisoned, and the "People's Will" party was nearly annihilated. Even Plekhanov and others, who did not belong to this party but leaned toward workers' socialism, were ultimately suppressed by the government and had no choice but to flee abroad. It was at this time that he came into close contact with the Western European labor movement and began studying the works of Marx. The name of Marx had long been known in Russia; the first volume of "Capital" had a translation earlier than in other countries; and many members of the "People's Will" party were personally acquainted with him and exchanged correspondence. Yet the thought of Marx, to whom they paid their fullest respects, remained for them merely pure "theory" — inapplicable, they believed, to Russian reality, having nothing to do with Russia, since there was no capitalism in Russia, and Russian socialism would emerge not from the factories but from the countryside. Plekhanov, however, had already begun to harbor doubts about the countryside even while reflecting on the labor movement in St. Petersburg. His thorough mastery of Marxist literature through the original texts only deepened these doubts. He then collected all the statistical materials available at the time and used genuinely Marxist methodology to study them, ultimately becoming convinced that capitalism truly held sway over Russia. In 1884, he published the book entitled "Our Differences," which was the celebrated work that exposed the errors of populism and demonstrated the validity of Marxism. In this book, he showed that the peasants, as the masses, could no longer serve as the pillar of socialism. In Russia at that time, urban industry was developing and the capitalist system was taking shape. What necessarily arose alongside this was the enemy of capitalism — the proletariat that would annihilate capitalism. Therefore, in Russia as in Western Europe, the proletariat was the class most significant for political transformation. By virtue of their circumstances, they already possessed greater aptitude for resolute and organized revolution than any other class, and moreover, as the skirmishers of the coming Russian revolution, they were the most suitable class of all. From this point on, Plekhanov not only became a great thinker in his own right, but also served as the pioneer of Russian Marxism and the teacher and guide of the awakened workers. Two But Plekhanov's distinguished services to the proletariat lay mostly in the theoretical writings he published; his own political opinions, however, were not free from frequent vacillation. In 1889, at the first International Congress of Socialists held in Paris, Plekhanov declared from the podium: "The Russian revolutionary movement can only triumph through the workers' movement; there is no other solution." At the time, even many renowned European socialists were entirely opposed to this statement; but before long, his achievements became evident. In writing, there was "The Development of the Monist View of History" (or simply "The Monist View of History"), published in 1895, which fought against the populists in the philosophical domain to defend materialism, and the entire era of Marxism received its education from this work, understanding through it the foundations of militant materialism. Later scholars naturally subjected it to critical examination, but Shvinov remarked: "It would be far better work to explain and elucidate this most noteworthy book for the people of the new era." The following year, as a matter of fact, as a result of his disciples' struggle against the populists, a great strike of thirty thousand spinning-mill workers erupted in St. Petersburg, marking a new epoch in Russian history. The revolutionary value of the Russian proletariat was now recognized by all, and the Fourth International Congress of Socialists held in London at that time expressed great astonishment and welcomed it warmly. Yet Plekhanov was, after all, a theoretician. Lenin did not begin his activities until the end of the nineteenth century; he was also younger, and between the two men there naturally arose an unspoken division of labor. Where Plekhanov excelled was in theory, and against enemies he took charge of philosophical polemics. Lenin, from his earliest writings onward, devoted himself to social and political problems, and to the organization of the party and the working class. The newspaper they edited and published at this time, in a form of mutual reliance, was Iskra ("The Spark"). Among its contributors there were, to be sure, some impure elements, but at the time the paper served an important function: it aroused a certain stratum of workers and revolutionaries, and shook the populist intelligentsia. Especially important was both the literary and practical activity. At that time (1900–1901), revolutionaries were all accustomed to hiding in their own small circles, lacking a national perspective; they did not realize that achievements could only be made through a national perspective, had no precise calculations, and did not consider how much force would be needed to achieve what results. In such times, the idea of attempting a centrally organized party — an all-Russian political organization uniting the entire proletariat — was novel and difficult to carry out. Yet Iskra not only expounded this idea in its editorials but also organized the "Iskra" group, with one hundred to one hundred and fifty prominent revolutionaries of the time forming the "Iskra" faction, joining this group to put into practice the plans that Plekhanov had developed in literary form in the newspaper. But by 1903, the Russian Marxists split into the Bolsheviks (majority faction) and the Mensheviks (minority faction). Lenin was the leader of the former; Plekhanov of the latter. From then on, the two men alternately parted and reunited: during the Russo-Japanese War of 1904, when Plekhanov hoped for the Tsar's defeat, and during the party's time of suffering from 1907 to 1909, he stood united with Lenin. The latter period was especially notable — a large portion of the Bolshevik forces had already been forced to flee abroad; everywhere there was demoralization, everywhere there were spies; everyone watched everyone else, everyone feared everyone else, everyone suspected everyone else. In literature, pornographic works flourished, and "Sanin" appeared at this time. This mood invaded all revolutionary circles. Party members scattered into tiny groups; the Menshevik liquidators had already begun singing the Bolsheviks' funeral dirge. At this moment, it was Plekhanov — despite being himself an authority of the Mensheviks — who thundered that liquidationism must be crushed, supporting the Bolsheviks and offering courageous assistance in various newspapers and in the Duma. Other factions of the Mensheviks then mocked him as "having become in his old age a singer of the basement." The newspaper that attempted the revival of revolution and was newly organized was Zvezda ("The Star"), which began printing in 1910. Both Plekhanov and Lenin contributed from abroad, making it an organ of cooperation between the two factions, which necessarily could not clearly state its political line. But as this newspaper became more closely linked to the political movement, it gradually lost its character of partnership. Plekhanov's faction finally disappeared entirely, and the newspaper became purely a militant organ of the Bolsheviks. In 1912, the two factions again co-founded the daily Pravda ("Truth"), but as events unfolded, Plekhanov's faction was again entirely excluded within an extremely short period, meeting the same fate as with Zvezda. When the Great European War broke out, Plekhanov took German imperialism to be the most dangerous enemy of European civilization and the working class. Like the leaders of the Second International, he adopted a patriotic stance and, for the sake of fighting the most detestable Germany, did not hesitate to cooperate and compromise with the bourgeoisie and government of his own country. After the February Revolution of 1917, he returned to Russia and organized a group of socialist patriots called "Yedinstvo" ("Unity"). But the revolutionary sensibility of Plekhanov, father of the Russian proletariat, no longer had the power to move Russia's workers. After the Treaty of Brest-Litovsk, he was almost entirely forgotten by Workers' and Peasants' Russia, and finally died in solitude on May 30, 1918, in Finland, which was then under German military occupation. It is said that in his delirious mutterings on his deathbed, he raised a question: "Does the working class perceive my activities?" Three After his death, an article appeared in Inprekol (Volume 8, No. 54) entitled "G.V. Plekhanov and the Proletarian Movement," which concisely evaluated the merits and failings of his entire life — "...In truth, Plekhanov had reason to harbor such doubts. Why? Because the younger working class knew him as a patriotic socialist, as a Menshevik party member, as a follower of imperialism, as a man who advocated compromise between the revolutionary workers and Milyukov, the leader of the bourgeoisie in Russia. Because the path of the working class and the path of Plekhanov had decisively diverged. Yet we do not hesitate in the slightest to count Plekhanov among the greatest teachers of the Russian working class — no, of the international working class. How can one say such a thing? During the decisive class battles, was Plekhanov not on the other side of the barricade? Yes, that is indeed so. Yet his activities long before these decisive battles — his theoretical labors — constitute the most precious things in Plekhanov's legacy. The struggle for a correct class-based worldview is, among all the forms of class warfare, one of the most important. Through his theoretical labors, Plekhanov trained many worker-revolutionaries across several generations. Through this, he also performed outstanding service for the political autonomy of the Russian working class. Plekhanov's great achievement lay, first and foremost, in his struggle against the 'People's Will' party — that is, against that clique of intelligentsia who, in the 1870s, believed that Russia's development was following a special path, namely a non-capitalist one. In the decades after the 1870s, the magnificent development of capitalism in Russia — how it demonstrated the error of the People's Will members' views, and the correctness of Plekhanov's! The group 'for the Emancipation of Labor,' formed by Plekhanov in 1884 (the program of the Workers' Emancipation Group was precisely the first manifesto of the workers' party in Russia, and also a direct answer to the wavering of the workers between 1878 and 1879. He said — 'Only the most rapid possible formation of a workers' party is the sole means of resolving all the economic and political contradictions that currently exist in Russia.' In 1889, at the International Socialist Party Congress held in Paris, Plekhanov declared: 'The revolutionary movement in Russia can only achieve victory through the revolutionary workers' movement. We have no other solution, nor shall we ever have one.' This famous statement of Plekhanov's was by no means accidental. With his great genius, Plekhanov championed the sovereignty of the proletariat in the bourgeois-populist revolution for decades, while at the same time expounding the idea that the liberal propertied classes, in their struggle against the autocracy, would cravenly become traitors and vacillating entities of the utmost kind. Plekhanov, together with Lenin, was the founding leader of Iskra. The great organizational work that Iskra accomplished in the struggle to create a party organization in Russia is widely known. The Plekhanov of the period from 1903 to 1917 underwent several great vacillations, always deviating from revolutionary Marxism and moving toward the Mensheviks. What were the questions that primarily caused him to deviate from revolutionary Marxism? First, an insufficient appreciation of the revolutionary potential of the peasant stratum. In his struggle against the harmful aspects of the People's Will members, Plekhanov failed to see the various revolutionary strivings of the peasant stratum. Second, the question of the state. He did not understand the essence of bourgeois-populist nationalism — that is, he did not understand the necessity, in any case, of smashing the bourgeois state apparatus. Finally, he did not understand the question of imperialism as the final stage of capitalism, nor the nature of imperialist war. In short — Plekhanov had weaknesses precisely where Lenin had strengths. He could not become a 'Marxist of the era of imperialism and proletarian revolution.' Therefore, his Marxism as a whole came to its conclusion. Plekhanov thus became, step by step, as Rosa Luxemburg put it, a 'respectable fossil.' The builder of Marxism in Russia, Plekhanov, was by no means merely a mediator of the economics, historiography, and philosophy of Marx and Engels. He touched upon all these domains and contributed outstanding original work of his own. In making the Russian workers and intelligentsia truly understand that Marxism is the highest scientific achievement in the entire history of human thought — in this, Plekhanov played a powerful role. It is above all Plekhanov's various theoretical studies that, in his ideological legacy, are without doubt the most precious things. Lenin once rightly and repeatedly urged young people to study Plekhanov's books. — 'Without studying this (Plekhanov's philosophical exposition), no one will ever become a conscious, genuine communist. Because this is the most outstanding work in all the international Marxist literature.' — So said Lenin." Four Plekhanov also laid the foundations of Marxist art theory. Although his art theory has not yet been able to form a fully imposing system, the works he left behind, containing both method and results, are worthy not merely as objects of later research but may justly be called classical documents for the establishment of Marxist art theory and sociological aesthetics. The three epistolary essays presented here are but fragments — mere scales and claws — of his writings in this vein. The first essay, "On Art," begins by posing the question "What is art?", corrects Tolstoy's definition, and determines the essential quality of art to be the concrete, figurative expression of feelings and ideas. It then proceeds to demonstrate that art is also a social phenomenon, and that in examining it one must adopt the standpoint of historical materialism, while criticizing the idealist views of history that diverge from this (Saint-Simon, Comte, Hegel), and introducing Darwin's materialist views on the aesthetic taste of living creatures, which stand in contrast to these. Here he hypothetically presents the opponent's proposal to explore the origin of aesthetic feeling through biology, and then quotes Darwin's own words to show that "the concept of beauty... varies greatly among the various races of mankind, and even differs among the various nations within the same race." The meaning of this is that "in civilized man, such feelings are linked in a chain with all kinds of complex ideas and thoughts." That is to say, "the aesthetic feelings of civilized man... are clearly determined by various social causes." Thus one must "proceed from biology to sociology" — from the Darwinian domain of studying humanity as a "species" to the study of the historical destiny of this species. If we speak only of art, then the possibility of the existence of human aesthetic feeling (the concept of species) is enhanced by those conditions that move it toward reality (the historical concept). These conditions are, naturally, the stage of development of the productive forces of the given society. But here Plekhanov, treating this as the important question of artistic production, elucidated in what form the contradictions between productive forces and relations of production, and the contradictions between classes, act upon art; and how the art of a society standing upon given relations of production takes its own particular form and differs from the art of other societies. Using Darwin's phrase "the principle of antithesis," he adduced abundant examples to illustrate the relationship between social conditions and the forms of aesthetic feeling; and also the relationship between social productive technology and the laws of rhythm, harmony, and symmetry; and further criticized the development of modern French art theory (Staël, Guizot, Taine). It is among primitive peoples that productive technology and ways of life are most intimately reflected in artistic phenomena. Plekhanov sought to take on the difficult problems of Marxist art theory by elucidating the art of such primitive peoples. The second essay, "The Art of Primitive Peoples," first draws on the firsthand accounts of anthropologists and travelers, citing as examples the lives, hunting, agriculture, and distribution of goods among the Bushmen, Vedda, Indians, and other peoples, to prove that primitive hunting peoples were indeed communistic associations, and to show the unreliability of Bücher's claims. The third essay, "Once More on the Art of Primitive Peoples," critiques the error of those who maintain that the play instinct precedes labor, and uses abundant empirical evidence and rigorous logic to demonstrate the fundamental materialist-historical thesis that the production of useful objects (labor) precedes artistic production. In greater detail, what Plekhanov demonstrated is that social man initially regards things and phenomena from a utilitarian standpoint, and only later shifts to an aesthetic standpoint. In everything that human beings consider beautiful, there is that which is useful to them — that which holds significance in the struggle for existence against nature and against other social beings. Utility is recognized through reason, but beauty is recognized through intuitive faculties. While enjoying beauty, one hardly thinks of utility at all; yet utility can be discovered through scientific analysis. The distinctive quality of aesthetic enjoyment thus lies in its immediacy; yet if utility does not lie at the root of aesthetic pleasure, the thing will not seem beautiful at all. It is not that man exists for beauty, but that beauty exists for man. — This conclusion is Plekhanov's introduction into art of the social, racial, and class-based utilitarian view that idealist historians find so utterly abhorrent. Looking at the conclusion of the third essay, Plekhanov was preparing to discuss next whether the old-fashioned classifications in ethnography are consistent with reality. But this was never written, and here too we can only consider it finished. Five The edition on which this book is based is the Japanese translation by Tonomura Shirō. A translation by Mr. Lin Bai had already been made previously, and it might not have been necessary to translate it again; however, since the catalog of the series had long been decided, there was no choice but to undertake this labor that verges on redundancy. During the translation, I also frequently consulted Lin's translation, adopting some terms that were better than those in the Japanese version; at times the sentence structure was also somewhat influenced by it. Moreover, having a predecessor's example to learn from spared me repeatedly from mistranslation — for which I should express my fullest gratitude. Of the four sections of this preface, apart from the third section which comes entirely from translation, the rest is compiled from Shvinov's "History of the Russian Social Democratic Workers' Party," Yamauchi Fūsuke's "History of the Russian Revolutionary Movement," and "Plekhanov and Art" from the appendix of "The Proletarian Art Curriculum." Hastily put together under pressure of time, errors are certainly inevitable; it can only be considered a rough introduction. As for the most essential matters concerning art in general, these have not been touched upon here — because Valifson's "Plekhanov and the Question of Art" had already been appended to "The Literary Debates of Soviet Russia" (one of the "Weiming Series"), and before long Leshniov's "On Literary Criticism" and Yakovlev's "On Plekhanov" (both part of this same series) will be published, some concise, some comprehensive, and decidedly beyond the translator's ability to match even to a fraction. Therefore it is better to say nothing, and to hope that readers will study their writings on their own. The final essay is translated from the Japanese translation by Kurahara Korehito of "Art in Class Society," which had previously been published in the magazine "Spring Tide Monthly." It contains Plekhanov's own account of his views on literature and art, and can serve as a mutual corroboration of the first essay in this book; thus it is also appended at the end of the volume. But upon self-examination, this translation is once again a "hard translation." My ability goes only this far, and the reader must still extend a finger to trace the thread, as when reading a map — for this I am truly deeply sorry. On the night of May 8, 1930, Lu Xun finished proofreading and recorded this at his residence in Zhabei, Shanghai.
日本占據了東三省以後的在上海一帶的表示，報章上叫作「國難聲中」。在這「國難聲中」，恰如用棍子攪了一下停滯多年的池塘，各種古的沈滓，新的沈滓，就都翻著筋鬥漂上來，在水面上轉一個身，來趁勢顯示自己的存在了。自信現在可以說能打仗的，是要操練久不想起的洋槍了，但也有現在也不想說去打仗的，那就照歐洲大戰時候的德意誌帝國的例，來「頭腦動員」，以盡「國民一份子」的義務。有的去查《唐書》，說日本古名「倭奴」；有的去翻字典，說倭是矮小之意；有的記得了文天祥，岳飛，林則徐，——但自然，更積極的是新的文藝界。先說一點另外的事罷，這叫作「和平聲中」。在這樣的聲中，是「胡展堂先生」到了上海，據說還告誡青年，教他們要養「力」勿使「氣」。靈藥就有了。第二天在報上便見廣告道：「胡漢民先生說，對日外交，應確定一堅強之原則，並勸勉青年須養力，毋泄氣，養力就是強身，泄氣就是悲觀，要強身、袪悲觀，須先心花怒放，大笑一次。」但這樣的寶貝是什麽呢？是美國的一張舊影片，將探險滑稽化以博小市民一笑的《兩親家遊非洲》。至於真的「國難聲中的興奮劑」呢，那是「愛國歌舞表演」，自己說，「是民族性的活躍，是歌舞界的精髓，促進同胞的努力，達到最後的勝利」的。倘有知道這立奏奇功的大明星是誰麽？曰：王人美，薛玲仙，黎莉莉。然而終於「上海文藝界大團結」了。《草野》（六卷七號）上記著盛況道：「上海文藝界同人，平時很少聯絡，在嚴重時期，除各個參加其他團體的工作外，復由謝六逸，朱應鵬，徐蔚南三人發起，……集會討論。在十月六日下午三點鐘，已陸續到了東亞食堂，……略進茶點，即開始討論，頗多發揮，……最後定名為上海文藝界救國會」云。「發揮」我們還無從知道，僅據眼前的方法看起來，是先看《兩親家遊非洲》以養力，又看「愛國的歌舞表演」以興奮，更看《日本小品文選》和《藝術三家言》並且略進茶點而發揮。那麽，中國就得救了。不成。這恐怕不必文學青年，就是文學小囡囡，也未必會相信。沒有法子，只得再加上兩個另外的好消息，就是目前的愛國文藝家所主宰的《申報》所發表出來的——十月五日的《自由談》裏葉華女士云：「無辦法之國民，如何有有辦法之政府。國聯絕望矣。……際茲一發千鈞，全國國民宜各立所誌，各盡所能，各抒所見，余也不才，謹以戰犬問題商諸國人。……各犬中，要以德國警犬最稱職，余極主張吾國可選擇是犬作戰……」同月二十五日也是《自由談》裏「蘇民自漢口寄」云：「日者寓書滬友王子仲良，間及余之病狀，而以不能投身義勇軍為憾。王子……竟以靈藥一裹見寄，雲為培生制藥公司所出益金草，功能治肺癆咳血，可一試之。……余立行試服，則咳果止，兼旬而後，體氣漸復，因念……一旦國家有事，吾必身列戎行，一展平生之壯誌，滅此朝食，行有日矣。……」那是連病夫也立刻可以當兵，警犬也將幫同愛國，在愛國文藝家的指導之下，真是大可樂觀，要「滅此朝食」了。只可惜不必是文學青年，就是文學小囡囡，也會覺得逐段看去，即使不稱為「廣告」的，也都不過是出賣舊貨的新廣告，要趁「國難聲中」或「和平聲中」將利益更多的榨到自己的手裏的。因為要這樣，所以都得在這個時候，趁勢在表面來泛一下，明星也有，文藝家也有，警犬也有，藥也有……也因為趁勢，泛起來就格外省力。但因為泛起來的是沈滓，沈滓又究竟不過是沈滓，所以因此一泛，他們的本相倒越加分明，而最後的運命，也還是仍舊沈下去。十月二十九日。	After Japan occupied the three northeastern provinces, the manifestations in the Shanghai area were labeled in the newspapers as occurring "amid the national crisis." In this "national crisis," it was as if someone had stirred a long-stagnant pond with a stick: all kinds of old sediment and new sediment came tumbling up, turning somersaults to the surface, spinning around to seize the opportunity to display their own existence. Those who now professed confidence in their ability to fight wanted to drill with Western rifles that had long been forgotten; but there were also those who even now did not wish to speak of going to fight. These, following the example of the German Empire during the Great War in Europe, opted for "intellectual mobilization" to fulfill their duties as "members of the nation." Some went to consult the "Tang History" and declared that Japan's ancient name was "Wo-nu" (dwarf slaves); others went to rummage through dictionaries and said that "Wo" meant small in stature; some recalled Wen Tianxiang, Yue Fei, Lin Zexu — but naturally, the most vigorous were those of the new literary world. Let me first mention something else, which is called the situation "amid the peace proclamations." Amid such proclamations, "Mr. Hu Zhantang" had arrived in Shanghai and reportedly admonished the youth, teaching them to cultivate "strength" and not waste "energy." And lo, a miracle cure appeared. The next day an advertisement appeared in the paper: "Mr. Hu Hanmin says that in our foreign policy toward Japan, we should establish a firm principle, and he exhorts the youth to cultivate strength and not let their spirits flag. Cultivating strength means building a strong body; flagging spirits means pessimism. To build a strong body and banish pessimism, one must first let one's heart blossom with joy and have a great laugh." But what was this treasure? It was an old American film, a slapstick comedy about exploration designed to give the petty urbanite a laugh: "Africa Speaks" (lit. "Two In-Laws Tour Africa"). As for the real "stimulant amid the national crisis," that was the "patriotic song and dance performance," which described itself as "the vitality of the national character, the essence of the song-and-dance world, spurring our compatriots onward, to achieve final victory." Does anyone happen to know who these star performers of instant miraculous effect were? They were: Wang Renmei, Xue Lingxian, Li Lili. And yet, at last, "the Shanghai literary world achieved great unity." The magazine "Caoye" (Vol. 6, No. 7) recorded the grand occasion thus: "The literary colleagues of Shanghai, who ordinarily have very little contact, during this grave period, besides individually participating in the work of other organizations, had Xie Liuyi, Zhu Yingpeng, and Xu Weinan take the initiative to... convene a meeting for discussion. On the afternoon of October 6 at three o'clock, they had gradually gathered at the East Asia Restaurant... partaking briefly of tea and pastries, they immediately began discussion, with much elaboration... and finally settled on the name: Shanghai Literary World National Salvation Society." What they "elaborated" we have no way of knowing yet. Judging only by the methods before our eyes, it was: first watch "Two In-Laws Tour Africa" to cultivate strength; then watch the "patriotic song and dance performance" for stimulation; then read "Selected Japanese Essays" and "Three Artists Speak on Art" while partaking briefly of tea and pastries, and elaborating. And then — China would be saved. It won't do. I'm afraid that not even literary youths, let alone literary toddlers, would believe this. There's no help for it — one must add two more bits of good news from elsewhere, published by the "Shenbao," presided over by today's patriotic literary figures. On October 5, in the "Free Talk" column, Miss Ye Hua wrote: "A nation without solutions — how can it have a government with solutions? The League of Nations is hopeless.... At this critical juncture, the entire nation should each establish their resolve, each do what they can, each express their views. Though I am without talent, I humbly propose the question of war dogs for the nation's consideration.... Among all dogs, the German police dog is the most competent. I strongly advocate that our country select this breed for combat..." On the 25th of the same month, also in the "Free Talk" column, "Su Min writes from Hankou": "The other day I wrote to my Shanghai friend Mr. Wang Zhongliang, mentioning my illness and my regret at being unable to enlist in the volunteer army. Mr. Wang... actually sent me a packet of medicine, saying it was 'Yijincao' produced by Peisheng Pharmaceutical Company, effective for treating tuberculosis and coughing blood, worth a try.... I immediately tried taking it, and indeed my cough stopped. After a fortnight, my strength gradually returned. I then thought... should the nation face a crisis one day, I must join the ranks and fulfill the great ambition of my life. 'Destroying the enemy before breakfast' — the day is not far off...." So even invalids can immediately become soldiers, and police dogs will also help in the patriotic cause. Under the guidance of the patriotic literary figures, things are truly looking up — they are about to "destroy the enemy before breakfast." Unfortunately, not even literary youths, let alone literary toddlers, would fail to notice that reading section by section, even what is not explicitly labeled "advertisement" amounts to nothing more than new advertisements for selling old goods, all trying to squeeze more profit into their own hands while riding the wave of the "national crisis" or "peace proclamations." Because they want this, they must all seize the moment to float to the surface — movie stars are among them, literary figures too, police dogs too, patent medicines too... And because they ride the wave, floating up is especially effortless. But because what floats up is sediment, and sediment is, after all, nothing but sediment, this very floating has only made their true nature all the more apparent, and their ultimate fate is still to sink right back down. October 29.
——創作要怎樣才會好？編輯先生：來信的問題，是要請美國作家和中國上海教授們做的，他們滿肚子是「小說法程」和「小說作法」。我雖然做過二十來篇短篇小說，但一向沒有「宿見」，正如我雖然會說中國話，卻不會寫「中國語法入門」一樣。不過高情難卻，所以只得將自己所經驗的瑣事寫一點在下面—— 一，留心各樣的事情，多看看，不看到一點就寫。二，寫不出的時候不硬寫。三，模特兒不用一個一定的人，看得多了，湊合起來的。四，寫完後至少看兩遍，竭力將可有可無的字，句，段刪去，毫不可惜。寧可將可作小說的材料縮成Sketch，決不將Sketch材料拉成小說。五，看外國的短篇小說，幾乎全是東歐及北歐作品，也看日本作品。六，不生造除自己之外，誰也不懂的形容詞之類。七，不相信「小說作法」之類的話。八，不相信中國的所謂「批評家」之類的話，而看看可靠的外國批評家的評論。現在所能說的，如此而已。此復，即請編安！十二月二十七日。	— How can creative writing be made good? Dear Editor, The question in your letter is one that should be put to American writers and Shanghai professors — their minds are full of "fiction curricula" and "how to write fiction." Although I have written some twenty-odd short stories, I have never had any "preconceived theories," just as although I can speak Chinese, I cannot write an "Introduction to Chinese Grammar." However, since your kind request is hard to refuse, I shall jot down a few trifles from my own experience — One: Pay attention to all manner of things, observe more, and do not rush to write after seeing only a little. Two: When you cannot write, do not force yourself to write. Three: Do not base your model on any single definite person; when you have seen enough, you combine them. Four: After finishing, read through at least twice, and ruthlessly delete any words, sentences, or paragraphs that could be there or not, without the slightest regret. Better to compress material fit for a novel into a sketch than to stretch sketch material into a novel. Five: Read foreign short stories — almost exclusively works from Eastern and Northern Europe. Also read Japanese works. Six: Do not invent adjectives and the like that no one but yourself can understand. Seven: Do not believe in the sort of things found in "how to write fiction" manuals. Eight: Do not believe the sort of things said by China's so-called "critics," but rather read the reviews of reliable foreign critics. This is all I can say for now. With this reply, I wish you editorial well-being! December 27.
——日本占領東三省的意義這在一面，是日本帝國主義在「膺懲」他的仆役——中國軍閥，也就是「膺懲」中國民眾，因為中國民眾又是軍閥的奴隸；在另一面，是進攻蘇聯的開頭，是要使世界的勞苦群眾，永受奴隸的苦楚的方針的第一步。九月二十一日。	— The meaning of Japan's occupation of the three northeastern provinces On one hand, this is Japanese imperialism "punishing" its servant — the Chinese warlords — which is also to say "punishing" the Chinese people, since the Chinese people are in turn the slaves of the warlords. On the other hand, it is the opening move of an attack on the Soviet Union — the first step of a strategy to ensure that the world's toiling masses shall suffer the misery of slavery forever. September 21.
“假如先生面前站著一個中學生，處此內憂外患交迫的非常時代，將對他講怎樣的話，作努力的方針？” 編輯先生：請先生也許我回問你一句，就是：我們現在有言論的自由麽？假如先生說“不”，那麽我知道一定也不會怪我不作聲的。假如先生意以“面前站著一個中學生”之名，一定要逼我說一點，那麽，我說：第一步要努力爭取言論的自由。	"Suppose a middle school student stands before you, sir, in this extraordinary time besieged by domestic troubles and foreign aggression — what words would you say to him, as a guiding principle for his efforts?" Dear Editor, Please allow me to turn the question back to you: Do we currently have freedom of speech? If you say "no," then I trust you will not blame me for remaining silent. If, however, under the pretext of "a middle school student standing before you," you insist on compelling me to say something, then I say: The first step is to strive for freedom of speech.
有許多事情，有人在先已經講得很詳細了，我不必再說。我以為在現在，“左翼”作家是很容易成為“右翼”作家的。為什麽呢？第一，倘若不和實際的社會鬥爭接觸，單關在玻璃窗內做文章，研究問題，那是無論怎樣的激烈，“左”，都是容易辦到的；然而一碰到實際，便即刻要撞碎了。關在房子裏，最容易高談徹底的主義，然而也最容易“右傾”。西洋的叫做“Salon的社會主義者”，便是指這而言。“Salon”是客廳的意思，坐在客廳裏談談社會主義，高雅得很，漂亮得很，然而並不想到實行的。這種社會主義者，毫不足靠。並且在現在，不帶點廣義的社會主義的思想的作家或藝術家，就是說工農大眾應該做奴隸，應該被虐殺，被剝削的這樣的作家或藝術家，是差不多沒有了，除非墨索裏尼，但墨索裏尼並沒有寫過文藝作品。（當然，這樣的作家，也還不能說完全沒有，例如中國的新月派諸文學家，以及所說的墨索裏尼所寵愛的鄧南遮便是。）第二，倘不明白革命的實際情形，也容易變成“右翼”。革命是痛苦，其中也必然混有汙穢和血，決不是如詩人所想像的那般有趣，那般完美；革命尤其是現實的事，需要各種卑賤的，麻煩的工作，決不如詩人所想像的那般浪漫；革命當然有破壞，然而更需要建設，破壞是痛快的，但建設卻是麻煩的事。所以對於革命抱著浪漫諦克的幻想的人，一和革命接近，一到革命進行，便容易失望。聽說俄國的詩人葉遂寧，當初也非常歡迎十月革命，當時他叫道，“萬歲，天上和地上的革命！”又說“我是一個布爾塞維克了！”然而一到革命後，實際上的情形，完全不是他所想像的那麽一回事，終於失望，頹廢。葉遂寧後來是自殺了的，聽說這失望是他的自殺的原因之一。又如畢力涅克和愛倫堡，也都是例子。在我們辛亥革命時也有同樣的例，那時有許多文人，例如屬於“南社”的人們，開初大抵是很革命的，但他們抱著一種幻想，以為只要將滿洲人趕出去，便一切都恢復了“漢官威儀”，人們都穿大袖的衣服，峨冠博帶，大步地在街上走。誰知趕走滿清皇帝以後，民國成立，情形卻全不同，所以他們便失望，以後有些人甚至成為新的運動的反動者。但是，我們如果不明白革命的實際情形，也容易和他們一樣的。還有，以為詩人或文學家高於一切人，他底工作比一切工作都高貴，也是不正確的觀念。舉例說，從前海涅以為詩人最高貴，而上帝最公平，詩人在死後，便到上帝那裏去，圍著上帝坐著，上帝請他吃糖果。在現在，上帝請吃糖果的事，是當然無人相信的了，但以為詩人或文學家，現在為勞動大眾革命，將來革命成功，勞動階級一定從豐報酬，特別優待，請他坐特等車，吃特等飯，或者勞動者捧著牛油面包來獻他，說：“我們的詩人，請用吧！”這也是不正確的；因為實際上決不會有這種事，恐怕那時比現在還要苦，不但沒有牛油面包，連黑面包都沒有也說不定，俄國革命後一二年的情形便是例子。如果不明白這情形，也容易變成“右翼”。事實上，勞動者大眾，只要不是梁實秋所說“有出息”者，也決不會特別看重知識階級者的，如我所譯的《潰滅》中的美諦克（知識階級出身），反而常被礦工等所嘲笑。不待說，知識階級有知識階級的事要做，不應特別看輕，然而勞動階級決無特別例外地優待詩人或文學家的義務。現在，我說一說我們今後應註意的幾點。第一，對於舊社會和舊勢力的鬥爭，必須堅決，持久不斷，而且註重實力。舊社會的根柢原是非常堅固的，新運動非有更大的力不能動搖它什麽。並且舊社會還有它使新勢力妥協的好辦法，但它自己是決不妥協的。在中國也有過許多新的運動了，卻每次都是新的敵不過舊的，那原因大抵是在新的一面沒有堅決的廣大的目的，要求很小，容易滿足。譬如白話文運動，當初舊社會是死力抵抗的，但不久便容許白話文底存在，給它一點可憐地位，在報紙的角頭等地方可以看見用白話寫的文章了，這是因為在舊社會看來，新的東西並沒有什麽，並不可怕，所以就讓它存在，而新的一面也就滿足，以為白話文已得到存在權了。又如一二年來的無產文學運動，也差不多一樣，舊社會也容許無產文學，因為無產文學並不厲害，反而他們也來弄無產文學，拿去做裝飾，仿佛在客廳裏放著許多古董磁器以外，放一個工人用的粗碗，也很別致；而無產文學者呢，他已經在文壇上有個小地位，稿子已經賣得出去了，不必再鬥爭，批評家也唱著凱旋歌：“無產文學勝利！”但除了個人的勝利，即以無產文學而論，究竟勝利了多少？況且無產文學，是無產階級解放鬥爭底一翼，它跟著無產階級的社會的勢力的成長而成長，在無產階級的社會地位很低的時候，無產文學的文壇地位反而很高，這只是證明無產文學者離開了無產階級，回到舊社會去罷了。第二，我以為戰線應該擴大。在前年和去年，文學上的戰爭是有的，但那範圍實在太小，一切舊文學舊思想都不為新派的人所註意，反而弄成了在一角裏新文學者和新文學者的鬥爭，舊派的人倒能夠閑舒地在旁邊觀戰。第三，我們應當造出大群的新的戰士。因為現在人手實在太少了，譬如我們有好幾種雜誌，單行本的書也出版得不少，但做文章的總同是這幾個人，所以內容就不能不單薄。一個人做事不專，這樣弄一點，那樣弄一點，既要翻譯，又要做小說，還要做批評，並且也要做詩，這怎麽弄得好呢？這都因為人太少的緣故，如果人多了，則翻譯的可以專翻譯，創作的可以專創作，批評的專批評；對敵人應戰，也軍勢雄厚，容易克服。關於這點，我可帶便地說一件事。前年創造社和太陽社向我進攻的時候，那力量實在單薄，到後來連我都覺得有點無聊，沒有意思反攻了，因為我後來看出了敵軍在演“空城計”。那時候我的敵軍是專事於吹擂，不務於招兵練將的；攻擊我的文章當然很多，然而一看就知道都是化名，罵來罵去都是同樣的幾句話。我那時就等待有一個能操馬克斯主義批評的槍法的人來狙擊我的，然而他終於沒有出現。在我倒是一向就註意新的青年戰士底養成的，曾經弄過好幾個文學團體，不過效果也很小。但我們今後卻必須註意這點。我們急於要造出大群的新的戰士，但同時，在文學戰線上的人還要“韌”。所謂韌，就是不要像前清做八股文的“敲門磚”似的辦法。前清的八股文，原是“進學”做官的工具，只要能做“起承轉合”，借以進了“秀才舉人”，便可丟掉八股文，一生中再也用不到它了，所以叫做“敲門磚”，猶之用一塊磚敲門，門一敲進，磚就可拋棄了，不必再將它帶在身邊。這種辦法，直到現在，也還有許多人在使用，我們常常看見有些人出了一二本詩集或小說集以後，他們便永遠不見了，到那裏去了呢？是因為出了一本或二本書，有了一點小名或大名，得到了教授或別的什麽位置，功成名遂，不必再寫詩寫小說了，所以永遠不見了。這樣，所以在中國無論文學或科學都沒有東西，然而在我們是要有東西的，因為這於我們有用。（盧那卡爾斯基是甚至主張保存俄國的農民美術，因為可以造出來賣給外國人，在經濟上有幫助。我以為如果我們文學或科學上有東西拿得出去給別人，則甚至於脫離帝國主義的壓迫的政治運動上也有幫助。）但要在文化上有成績，則非韌不可。最後，我以為聯合戰線是以有共同目的為必要條件的。我記得好像曾聽到過這樣一句話：“反動派且已經有聯合戰線了，而我們還沒有團結起來！”其實他們也並未有有意的聯合戰線，只因為他們的目的相同，所以行動就一致，在我們看來就好像聯合戰線。而我們戰線不能統一，就證明我們的目的不能一致，或者只為了小團體，或者還其實只為了個人，如果目的都在工農大眾，那當然戰線也就統一了。	Many things have already been discussed in great detail by others, so I need not say more. I believe that at present, it is very easy for a "left-wing" writer to become a "right-wing" writer. Why? First, if one has no contact with actual social struggle and merely sits behind glass windows writing essays and studying problems, then no matter how fierce or "left" one may be, it is easily done; but the moment one touches reality, one will instantly shatter. Shut up in a room, it is easiest to talk grandly about thoroughgoing principles, yet also easiest to "turn right." In the West, those called "salon socialists" refer to precisely this. A "salon" is a drawing room: sitting in a drawing room discussing socialism is very elegant, very fashionable — but one has no intention of putting it into practice. Such socialists are utterly unreliable. Moreover, in the present day, a writer or artist who does not carry at least a touch of broadly conceived socialist thought — that is to say, one who declares that the working masses deserve to be slaves, deserve to be slaughtered, deserve to be exploited — such a writer or artist barely exists anymore, except perhaps Mussolini — but Mussolini has never written literary works. (Of course, such writers cannot be said to be entirely nonexistent; for example, the literary figures of China's Crescent Moon School, and the aforementioned D'Annunzio, said to be Mussolini's favorite, are cases in point.) Second, if one does not understand the actual conditions of revolution, one easily turns "right-wing." Revolution is painful; it inevitably contains admixtures of filth and blood, and is by no means as interesting or as perfect as poets imagine. Revolution is, above all, a matter of reality, requiring all manner of base and tedious work — by no means as romantic as poets imagine. Revolution naturally involves destruction, but it requires construction even more; destruction is exhilarating, but construction is tedious work. Therefore, those who harbor romantic illusions about revolution easily become disappointed the moment they approach it, the moment it proceeds. I hear that the Russian poet Yesenin (叶遂宁) was also at first very enthusiastic about the October Revolution. At the time he cried out: "Long live the revolution in heaven and on earth!" and also said: "I am a Bolshevik!" Yet when post-revolutionary reality turned out to be nothing at all like what he had imagined, he ultimately sank into disillusionment and decadence. Yesenin later committed suicide, and I hear that this disillusionment was one of the causes. Pilnyak (畢力涅克) and Ehrenburg (爱伦堡) are further examples. In our own Xinhai Revolution there were similar cases. At that time, many literati — for instance, those belonging to the "Southern Society" — were for the most part very revolutionary at first. But they harbored a fantasy: they imagined that once the Manchus were driven out, everything would revert to the "ceremonial majesty of Han officials" — everyone wearing wide-sleeved robes, tall caps and broad sashes, striding grandly through the streets. Who knew that after the Manchu emperor was driven out and the Republic was established, the situation would be entirely different? And so they became disillusioned; some even became reactionaries against the new movements. But if we too do not understand the actual conditions of revolution, we will easily end up the same as them. Furthermore, the notion that a poet or writer stands above all other people, that his work is nobler than all other work, is also an incorrect idea. Take, for example, how Heine once believed that the poet was the most noble of beings, and God the most just: after death the poet would go before God, sit around Him, and God would offer him sweets. Nowadays, of course, no one believes in God offering sweets. But the notion that a poet or writer who now labors for the revolution of the working masses will, when the revolution succeeds, certainly be richly rewarded by the working class, given special treatment — invited to ride in first-class carriages, eat first-class meals — or that workers will come bearing buttered bread to present to him, saying "Our poet, please partake!" — this too is incorrect, because in reality no such thing would happen. I'm afraid that at that time things will be even harder than now: not only will there be no buttered bread, there may not even be black bread — the situation in Russia in the first year or two after the revolution is a case in point. If one does not understand this, one also easily turns "right-wing." In fact, the working masses, so long as they are not of the sort that Liang Shiqiu (梁实秋) calls "those with prospects," will certainly not hold intellectuals in any special esteem — as in the translation I did of "The Rout," where Mechik (美谛克, from the intelligentsia) is actually constantly mocked by the miners. Needless to say, intellectuals have their own work to do and should not be particularly looked down upon; yet the working class has no obligation to make special exceptions and give preferential treatment to poets or writers. Now let me say a few words about what we should pay attention to henceforth. First, the struggle against the old society and old forces must be resolute, persistent, unceasing, and focused on real strength. The foundations of the old society are in truth extremely solid; the new movement cannot shake them without even greater force. Moreover, the old society has its own effective methods of making the new forces compromise — though it itself never compromises. In China too there have been many new movements, but each time the new has been unable to prevail over the old. The reason is generally that the new side lacks a resolute and broad-ranging objective; its demands are too modest, too easily satisfied. Take the vernacular language movement, for example: at first the old society resisted with all its might, but before long it permitted the vernacular to exist, granting it a pitiful little corner — in the margins of newspapers and such places, one could now see articles written in the vernacular. This was because in the eyes of the old society, the new thing was nothing special, nothing fearsome, and so they let it exist; and the new side was satisfied, thinking the vernacular had won the right to exist. Or take the proletarian literature movement of the past year or two: much the same thing happened. The old society also permitted proletarian literature, because proletarian literature posed no real threat. On the contrary, they too took up proletarian literature, using it as decoration — as if placing a rough bowl used by a worker alongside the many antique porcelain pieces in a drawing room were rather novel. And the proletarian writers? They already had a little position in the literary world, their manuscripts already sold — no need to struggle further. Critics were singing songs of triumph: "Proletarian literature is victorious!" But apart from individual victories, how much had proletarian literature actually won, even on its own terms? Moreover, proletarian literature is one wing of the proletarian liberation struggle; it grows as the proletariat's social power grows. When the proletariat's social position is very low and proletarian literature's literary position is very high, this only proves that proletarian writers have left the proletariat and returned to the old society. Second, I believe the front should be broadened. In the year before last and last year, there were literary battles, but the scope was truly too small. All old literature and old thought went unnoticed by the new school, and the result was that in one little corner, new writers fought other new writers, while the old school could sit comfortably on the sidelines and watch. Third, we should produce large numbers of new fighters. Because at present our ranks are truly too thin. Consider: we have quite a few magazines, and no small number of single-volume books are published, yet the authors are always the same handful of people, and so the content cannot help being meager. One person does not specialize: dabbling here a bit, dabbling there a bit — translating, and also writing fiction, and also doing criticism, and also writing poetry — how can any of it be done well? This is all because there are too few people. If there were more, then translators could specialize in translation, creative writers in creation, critics in criticism; when engaging the enemy, the military force would be formidable and victory would come more easily. On this point, I can mention one thing in passing. When the Creation Society and the Sun Society attacked me the year before last, their forces were truly feeble. Eventually even I found it somewhat tedious — pointless to counter-attack — because I came to see that the enemy army was performing "the empty city stratagem." At that time my opponents were devoted to bluster and neglected the recruitment and training of troops. There were of course many articles attacking me, but one glance was enough to see they were all under pseudonyms, and the same few lines of abuse were repeated over and over. I waited then for someone who could wield the rifle of Marxist criticism to come take aim at me, but such a person never appeared. For my part, I had always paid attention to the cultivation of new young fighters, and had organized several literary groups, though with little effect. But we must henceforth attend to this. We urgently need to produce large numbers of new fighters, but at the same time, those already on the literary front must be "tenacious." What I mean by "tenacious" is that they must not adopt the approach of the "stepping-stone brick" used in the old examination system. The eight-legged essay of the Qing dynasty was originally a tool for "entering the academy" and becoming an official: as long as one could write the "introduction, development, turn, and conclusion," and thereby pass as a "xiucai" or "juren," one could throw away the eight-legged essay and never use it again for the rest of one's life — hence the term "stepping-stone brick": like using a brick to knock at a door — once you've knocked your way in, the brick can be tossed aside, no need to carry it around. This approach is still used by many people today. We often see someone publish one or two collections of poetry or fiction, and then they vanish forever. Where did they go? Having published a book or two, gained a bit of fame — small or great — secured a professorship or some other position, their success achieved and their name established, there is no longer any need to write poetry or fiction, and so they vanish forever. This is why China has nothing to show for itself in either literature or science. Yet we are meant to produce something, because it is useful to us. (Lunacharsky even advocated preserving Russian peasant art, because it could be produced and sold to foreigners, contributing to the economy. I believe that if we have something in literature or science worth presenting to others, this would even help in the political movement to free ourselves from imperialist oppression.) But to achieve cultural results, tenacity is essential. Finally, I believe that a united front requires a common objective as its necessary condition. I recall having once heard something like this: "The reactionaries already have a united front, and we still haven't united!" In truth, they don't actually have a deliberate united front; it is merely that because their objectives are the same, their actions are consistent, and from our perspective it appears to be a united front. That our front cannot be unified proves that our objectives are not consistent — that some are only for small cliques, or indeed only for individuals. If everyone's objective is the working and peasant masses, then naturally the front will be unified as well.
倘說，凡大隊的革命軍，必須一切戰士的意識，都十分正確，分明，這才是真的革命軍，否則不值一哂。這言論，初看固然是很正當，徹底似的，然而這是不可能的難題，是空洞的高談，是毒害革命的甜藥。譬如在帝國主義的主宰之下，必不容訓練大眾個個有了“人類之愛”，然後笑嘻嘻地拱手變為“大同世界”一樣，在革命者們所反抗的勢力之下，也決不容用言論或行動，使大多數人統得到正確的意識。所以每一革命部隊的突起，戰士大抵不過是反抗現狀這一種意思，大略相同，終極目的是極為歧異的。或者為社會，或者為小集團，或者為一個愛人，或者為自己，或者簡直為了自殺。然而革命軍仍然能夠前行。因為在進軍的途中，對於敵人，個人主義者所發的子彈，和集團主義者所發的子彈是一樣地能夠制其死命；任何戰士死傷之際，便要減少些軍中的戰鬥力，也兩者相等的。但自然，因為終極目的的不同，在行進時，也時時有人退伍，有人落荒，有人頹唐，有人叛變，然而只要無礙於進行，則愈到後來，這隊伍也就愈成為純粹，精銳的隊伍了。我先前為葉永蓁君的《小小十年》作序，以為已經為社會盡了些力量，便是這意思。書中的主角，究竟上過前線，當過哨兵（雖然連放槍的方法也未曾被教），比起單是抱膝哀歌，握筆憤嘆的文豪們來，實在也切實得遠了。倘若要現在的戰士都是意識正確，而且堅於鋼鐵之戰士，不但是烏托邦的空想，也是出於情理之外的苛求。但後來在《申報》上，卻看見了更嚴厲，更徹底的批評，因為書中的主角的從軍，動機是為了自己，所以深加不滿。《申報》是最求和平，最不鼓動革命的報紙，初看仿佛是很不相稱似的，我在這裏要指出貌似徹底的革命者，而其實是極不革命或有害革命的個人主義的論客來，使那批評的靈魂和報紙的軀殼正相適合。其一是頹廢者，因為自己沒有一定的理想和無力，便流落而求剎那的享樂；一定的享樂，又使他發生厭倦，則時時尋求新刺戟，而這刺戟又須利害，這才感到暢快。革命便也是那頹廢者的新刺戟之一，正如饕饕者饜足了肥甘，味厭了，胃弱了，便要吃胡椒和辣椒之類，使額上出一點小汗，才能送下半碗飯去一般。他於革命文藝，就要徹底的，完全的革命文藝，一有時代的缺陷的反映，就使他皺眉，以為不值一哂。和事實離開是不妨的，只要一個爽快。法國的波特萊爾，誰都知道是頹廢的詩人，然而他歡迎革命，待到革命要妨害他的頹廢生活的時候，他才憎惡革命了。所以革命前夜的紙張上的革命家，而且是極徹底，極激烈的革命家，臨革命時，便能夠撕掉他先前的假面，——不自覺的假面。這種史例，是也應該獻給一碰小釘子，一有小地位（或小款子），便東竄東京，西走巴黎的成仿吾那樣“革命文學家”的。其一，我還定不出他的名目。要之，是毫無定見，因而覺得世上沒有一件對，自己沒有一件不對，歸根結蒂，還是現狀最好的人們。他現為批評家而說話的時候，就隨便撈到一種東西以駁詰相反的東西。要駁互助說時用爭存說，駁爭存說時用互助說；反對和平論時用階級爭鬥說，反對鬥爭時就主張人類之愛。論敵是唯心論者呢，他的立場是唯物論，待到和唯物論者相辯難，他卻又化為唯心論者了。要之，是用英尺來量俄裏，又用法尺來量密達，而發見無一相合的人。因為別的一切，無一相合，於是永遠覺得自己是“允執厥中”，永遠得到自己滿足。從這些人們的批評的指示，則只要不完全，有缺陷，就不行。但現在的人，的事，那裏會有十分完全，並無缺陷的呢，為萬全計，就只好毫不動彈。然而這毫不動彈，卻也就是一個大錯。總之，做人之道，是非常之煩難了，至於做革命家，那當然更不必說。《申報》的批評家對於《小小十年》雖然要求徹底的革命的主角，但於社會科學的翻譯，是加以刻毒的冷嘲的，所以那靈魂是後一流，而略帶一些頹廢者的對於人生的無聊，想吃些辣椒來開開胃的氣味。	If one were to say that every large revolutionary army must have all its soldiers possess a perfectly correct and clear consciousness before it can be called a true revolutionary army — otherwise it is not worth a sneer — this argument, at first glance, appears perfectly proper and thorough. However, it poses an impossible demand, amounts to empty high-flown talk, and is a sweet poison that harms the revolution. Just as, under the domination of imperialism, it is never possible to train every member of the masses to possess "love of humanity" and then, beaming with smiles, clasping hands, transform the world into a "Great Harmony" — so too, under the very forces that revolutionaries resist, it is never possible through speech or action to bring correct consciousness to the great majority. Therefore, when any revolutionary force rises up, the soldiers are for the most part united only in the single idea of resisting the status quo; their agreement is roughly the same, but their ultimate goals diverge enormously. Some fight for society, some for a small clique, some for a lover, some for themselves, and some simply to commit suicide. Yet the revolutionary army is still able to advance. For on the road of the march, facing the enemy, a bullet fired by an individualist is just as lethal as one fired by a collectivist; and when any soldier is killed or wounded, the reduction in fighting strength is equal in either case. But naturally, because ultimate goals differ, during the advance there are always some who drop out, some who desert, some who become demoralized, and some who turn traitor. Yet so long as this does not impede the march, the further along they go, the more this force becomes a pure and elite fighting force. I previously wrote a preface for Ye Yongzhen's (叶永蓁) A Tiny Decade (小小十年), arguing that the author had already exerted some effort for society — and this was precisely my point. The protagonist of the book had, after all, been to the front lines, served as a sentry (even though he was never even taught how to fire a rifle), which was far more substantial than those great literary figures who merely clasped their knees and sang laments, or gripped their pens and sighed with indignation. To demand that all soldiers of today be warriors with correct consciousness and a firmness harder than steel is not only a utopian fantasy but an unreasonable demand that defies all logic. But later, in the Shenbao (申报), I came across an even harsher and more "thorough" critique: because the protagonist's motivation for enlisting was for his own sake, it was deeply disapproved of. The Shenbao is a newspaper that most seeks peace and least encourages revolution, which at first glance seems rather incongruous. What I wish to point out here is that the seemingly thorough revolutionary is in reality an extremely un-revolutionary, or harmfully anti-revolutionary, individualistic commentator — so that the soul of the critique and the body of the newspaper are perfectly matched after all. The first type is the decadent. Because he has no fixed ideals and no strength, he sinks into the pursuit of momentary pleasure; when that fixed pleasure begins to bore him, he constantly seeks new stimulation, and this stimulation must be increasingly intense before he feels any satisfaction. Revolution is simply one of the decadent's new stimuli — just as a glutton, sated with rich food, his palate jaded, his stomach weakened, must resort to pepper and chili so that a few beads of sweat appear on his brow, enabling him to wash down another half bowl of rice. In revolutionary literature, he demands the thoroughly, completely revolutionary kind; the moment there appears any reflection of the era's defects, he wrinkles his brow and declares it not worth a sneer. Being detached from reality doesn't matter — so long as it feels exhilarating. The Frenchman Baudelaire, as everyone knows, was a decadent poet, yet he welcomed the revolution — until the revolution threatened to interfere with his decadent life, at which point he came to despise it. Thus the paper revolutionary on the eve of revolution — and a most thorough, most fiery revolutionary at that — can, when revolution actually comes, tear off his former mask — his unconscious mask. This historical example is one that ought to be presented also to those "revolutionary literary figures" of the Cheng Fangwu (成仿吾) type, who, at the slightest prick of a small nail or the gain of a small position (or a small sum of money), scurry east to Tokyo or west to Paris. The other type — I still cannot quite fix a name for him. In short, he is a person utterly without fixed views, who consequently feels that nothing in the world is right and nothing about himself is wrong, and who ultimately concludes that the present state of affairs is best. When he speaks as a critic, he casually snatches up whatever tool is at hand to refute whatever is opposed to it. When refuting the theory of mutual aid, he uses the theory of the struggle for existence; when refuting the struggle for existence, he uses mutual aid. When opposing pacifism, he invokes class struggle; when opposing struggle, he advocates the love of humanity. If his opponent is an idealist, his position is materialism; but when debating a materialist, he transforms into an idealist. In short, he is the sort of person who measures Russian versts with an English foot-rule, then measures meters with a French foot-rule, and finds that nothing matches. Because nothing else matches, he forever considers himself to be "holding fast to the golden mean," forever achieving self-satisfaction. Following the guidance of such critics, one concludes that anything incomplete or defective is unacceptable. But what person or thing today can be perfectly complete and without any defect? For the sake of total safety, the only option is to do nothing at all. Yet doing nothing at all is itself a great error. In short, the way of being human is extraordinarily difficult — and as for being a revolutionary, that goes without saying. The critic of the Shenbao, though he demands a thoroughly revolutionary protagonist in A Tiny Decade, heaps venomous mockery upon translations of social science. Therefore his soul belongs to this latter type, tinged slightly with the decadent's boredom with life, wanting to eat a bit of chili to stimulate the appetite.
主張“順而不信”譯法的大將趙景深先生，近來卻並沒有譯什麽大作，他大抵只在《小說月報》上，將“國外文壇消息”來介紹給我們。這自然是很可感謝的。那些消息，是譯來的呢，還是介紹者自去打聽來，研究來的？我們無從捉摸。即使是譯來的罷，但大抵沒有說明出處，我們也無從考查。自然，在主張“順而不信”譯法的趙先生，這是都不必註意的，如果有些“不信”，倒正是貫徹了宗旨。然而，疑難之處，我卻還是遇到的。在二月號的《小說月報》裏，趙先生將“新群眾作家近訊”告訴我們，其一道：“格羅潑已將馬戲的圖畫故事《AlayOop》脫稿。”這是極“順”的，但待到看見了這本圖畫，卻不盡是馬戲。借得英文字典來，將書名下面註著的兩行英文“Life andLove Among the Acrobats Told Entirely in Pictures”查了一通，才知道原來並不是“馬戲”的故事，而是“做馬戲的戲子們”的故事。這麽一說，自然，有些“不順”了。但內容既然是這樣的，另外也沒有法子想。必須是“馬戲子”，這才會有“Love”。《小說月報》到了十一月號，趙先生又告訴了我們“塞意斯完成四部曲”，而且“連最後的一冊《半人半牛怪》（DerZentaur）也已於今年出版”了。這一下“Der”，就令人眼睛發白，因為這是茄門話，就是想查字典，除了同濟學校也幾乎無處可借，那裏還敢發生什麽貳心。然而那下面的一個名詞，卻不寫尚可，一寫倒成了疑難雜癥。這字大約是源於希臘的，英文字典上也就有，我們還常常看見用它做畫材的圖畫，上半身是人，下半身卻是馬，不是牛。牛馬同是哺乳動物，為了要“順”，固然混用一回也不關緊要，但究竟馬是奇蹄類，牛是偶蹄類，有些不同，還是分別了好，不必“出到最後的一冊”的時候，偏來“牛”一下子的。 “牛”了一下之後，使我聯想起趙先生的有名的“牛奶路”來了。這很像是直譯或“硬譯”，其實卻不然，也是無緣無故的“牛”了進去的。這故事無須查字典，在圖畫上也能看見。卻說希臘神話裏的大神宙斯是一位很有些喜歡女人的神，他有一回到人間去，和某女士生了一個男孩子。物必有偶，宙斯太太卻偏又是一個很有些嫉妒心的女神。她一知道，拍桌打凳的（？）大怒了一通之後，便將那孩子取到天上，要看機會將他害死。然而孩子是天真的，他滿不知道，有一回，碰著了宙太太的乳頭，便一吸，太太大吃一驚，將他一推，跌落到人間，不但沒有被害，後來還成了英雄。但宙太太的乳汁，卻因此一吸，噴了出來，飛散天空，成為銀河，也就是“牛奶路”，——不，其實是“神奶路”。但白種人是一切“奶”都叫“Milk”的，我們看慣了罐頭牛奶上的文字，有時就不免於誤譯，是的，這也是無足怪的事。但以對於翻譯大有主張的名人，而遇馬發昏，愛牛成性，有些“牛頭不對馬嘴”的翻譯，卻也可當作一點談助。——不過當作別人的一點談助，並且借此知道一點希臘神話而已，於趙先生的“與其信而不順，不如順而不信”的格言，卻還是毫無損害的。這叫作“亂譯萬歲！”	The great champion of the "smooth but unfaithful" school of translation, Mr. Zhao Jingshen (赵景深), has not in fact translated any major works of late. For the most part he has merely been introducing "News from Foreign Literary Circles" to us in the Short Story Monthly. This is naturally something to be grateful for. Whether these news items are translated, or whether the introducer has gone out personally to inquire and research them, we have no way of knowing. Even if they are translations, he generally does not indicate his sources, so we have no way to verify. Naturally, for Mr. Zhao, champion of "smooth but unfaithful" translation, none of this need concern him — if there is some "unfaithfulness," it is only a consistent carrying-out of his principles. However, I have still encountered some puzzling difficulties. In the February issue of the Short Story Monthly, Mr. Zhao informed us of "Recent News of New Mass Writers," one item stating: "Gropper has completed the illustrated story of the circus, Alay Oop." This is extremely "smooth," but when one actually sees the picture book, it is not entirely about the circus. Borrowing an English dictionary and looking up the two lines of English beneath the title — "Life and Love Among the Acrobats Told Entirely in Pictures" — one discovers that it is not a story about "the circus" at all, but about "circus performers." Put this way, naturally, it becomes somewhat "unsmooth." But since the content is what it is, there is no help for it. It must be "acrobats" — only then can there be "Love." By the November issue of the Short Story Monthly, Mr. Zhao informed us again that "Seghers has completed a tetralogy," and moreover "even the last volume, The Half-Man, Half-Ox Monster (Der Zentaur), has already been published this year." This one word "Der" is enough to make one's eyes go blank, for this is German, and if one wants to look it up in a dictionary, apart from Tongji University there is almost nowhere to borrow one — who would dare harbor any second thoughts? Yet the noun that follows, though it would have been better left unwritten, once written becomes a baffling puzzle. The word is probably derived from Greek, and can also be found in English dictionaries. We often see it used as subject matter in paintings: the upper body is human, the lower body is that of a horse — not an ox. Oxen and horses are both mammals, and for the sake of "smoothness" it may not matter much to confuse them, but after all, horses are odd-toed ungulates and oxen are even-toed ungulates — there is some difference, and they had better be distinguished. There is no need, when it comes to "the very last volume," to suddenly throw in an "ox." After this bout of "ox"-ification, I am reminded of Mr. Zhao's famous "Milk Road." This looks very much like a literal or "hard" translation, but in fact it is not — the "ox" has been inserted for no reason whatsoever. This story needs no dictionary; it can be seen in paintings too. It goes like this: in Greek mythology, the great god Zeus was a deity rather fond of women. Once he descended to the mortal world and sired a boy with a certain lady. As fate would have it, Madame Zeus happened to be a goddess of considerable jealousy. When she found out, after banging the table and stamping her feet (?) in a great rage, she had the child brought up to heaven, looking for an opportunity to do away with him. But the child was innocent; knowing nothing, he once happened upon Madame Zeus's nipple and gave it a suck. The startled Madame gave him a push, and he tumbled down to the mortal world — not only was he unharmed, he later became a hero. But Madame Zeus's milk, from that one suck, spurted out and scattered across the sky, becoming the Milky Way — that is, the "Milk Road" — no, actually the "Divine Milk Road." But white people call all "milk" simply "Milk," and since we are accustomed to the words on canned cow's milk, an occasional mistranslation is, yes, nothing to wonder at. But for a personage of great authority on translation, to go dizzy at the sight of a horse and become infatuated with oxen, producing translations that are "ox-heads that don't match horse-mouths" — this may serve as a small topic of conversation. Merely as a small topic of conversation for others, and an opportunity to learn a bit of Greek mythology — for Mr. Zhao's maxim, "Rather smooth and unfaithful than faithful and unsmooth," it remains quite unscathed. This is what one might call: "Long live garbled translation!"
關於《唐三藏取經詩話》的版本——寄開明書店中學生雜誌社編輯先生：這一封信，不知道能否給附載在《中學生》上？事情是這樣的—— 《中學生》新年號內，鄭振鐸先生的大作《宋人話本》中關於《唐三藏取經詩話》，有如下的一段話：“此話本的時代不可知，但王國維氏據書末：‘中瓦子張家印’數字，而斷定其為宋槧，語頗可信。故此話本，當然亦必為宋代的產物。但也有人加以懷疑的。不過我們如果一讀元代吳昌齡的《西遊記》雜劇，便知這部原始的取經故事其產生必定是遠在於吳氏《西遊記》雜劇之前的。換一句話說，必定是在元代之前的宋代的。而‘中瓦子’的數字恰好證實其為南宋臨安城中所出產的東西，而沒有什麽疑義。” 我先前作《中國小說史略》時，曾疑此書為元槧，甚招收藏者德富蘇峰先生的不滿，著論辟謬，我也略加答辨，後來收在雜感集中。所以鄭振鐸先生大作中之所謂“人”，其實就是“魯迅”，於唾棄之中，仍寓代為遮羞的美意，這是我萬分慚而且感的。但我以為考證固不可荒唐，而亦不宜墨守，世間許多事，只消常識，便得了然。藏書家欲其所藏版本之古，史家則不然。故於舊書，不以缺筆定時代，如遺老現在還有將𭀋字缺末筆者，但現在確是中華民國；也不專以地名定時代，如我生於紹興，然而並非南宋人，因為許多地名，是不隨朝代而改的；也不僅據文意的華樸巧拙定時代，因為作者是文人還是市人，於作品是大有分別的。所以倘無積極的確證，《唐三藏取經詩話》似乎還可懷疑為元槧。即如鄭振鐸先生所引據的同一位“王國維氏”，他別有《兩浙古刊本考》兩卷，民國十一年序，收在遺書第二集中。其卷上“杭州府刊版”的“辛，元雜本”項下，有這樣的兩種在內—— 《京本通俗小說》《大唐三藏取經詩話》三卷是不但定《取經詩話》為元槧，且並以《通俗小說》為元本了。《兩浙古本考》雖然並非僻書，但中學生諸君也並非專治文學史者，恐怕未必有暇涉獵。所以錄寄貴刊，希為刊載，一以略助多聞，二以見單文孤證，是難以“必定”一種史實而常有“什麽疑義”的。專此布達，並請撰安。魯迅啟上。一月十九日夜。	On the Edition of "The Poetic Tale of Tripitaka's Journey to Fetch the Scriptures" — Letter to the Editors of the Zhongxuesheng Magazine at the Kaiming Bookstore: I do not know whether this letter can be appended for publication in Zhongxuesheng. The matter is as follows — In the New Year issue of Zhongxuesheng, Mr. Zheng Zhenduo's (郑振铎) essay "Song Dynasty Storytellers' Scripts" contains the following passage concerning "The Poetic Tale of Tripitaka's Journey to Fetch the Scriptures" (唐三藏取经诗话): "The date of this storyteller's script is unknown, but Mr. Wang Guowei (王国维) has determined, based on the words 'Printed by the Zhang Family of Zhongwazi' at the end of the book, that it is a Song dynasty printing — a statement that is quite credible. Therefore this storyteller's script must naturally also be a product of the Song dynasty. Some have raised doubts, however. But if we read the Yuan dynasty dramatist Wu Changling's (吴昌龄) Journey to the West zaju play, we will know that this primitive tale of the scripture-fetching journey must have originated well before Wu's Journey to the West play. In other words, it must be from the Song dynasty, which preceded the Yuan. And the words 'Zhongwazi' happen to confirm that this is a product of the Southern Song capital Lin'an, leaving no room for doubt." When I previously wrote A Brief History of Chinese Fiction, I raised the possibility that this book was a Yuan dynasty printing, which greatly displeased its collector, Mr. Tokutomi Soho (德富苏峰), who wrote a refutation. I also offered a brief rejoinder, which was later collected in a volume of miscellaneous essays. Therefore the "some" in Mr. Zheng Zhenduo's essay actually refers to "Lu Xun" (鲁迅) — within the act of spitting upon me, there is still concealed the kind intention of covering my shame on my behalf, for which I am both deeply ashamed and grateful. But I believe that while textual research should not be absurd, neither should it be rigidly conservative. Many things in this world can be clarified by common sense alone. Book collectors wish their editions to be as ancient as possible; historians do not. Therefore, with old books, one should not determine the date by missing strokes in taboo characters — just as loyalists to the old dynasty may still leave the last stroke off the character "Xuan" (玄), yet the present is certainly the Republic of China. Nor should one determine the date solely by place names — just as I was born in Shaoxing, yet I am by no means a person of the Southern Song, since many place names do not change with dynasties. Nor should one determine the date merely by the elegance or crudeness of the writing, since whether the author was a literatus or a commoner makes a great difference to the work. Therefore, in the absence of positive, definitive evidence, The Poetic Tale of Tripitaka's Journey to Fetch the Scriptures may still be suspected of being a Yuan dynasty printing. Take, for example, the very same "Mr. Wang Guowei" whom Mr. Zheng Zhenduo cites: he wrote a separate work, A Study of Ancient Printed Editions from Zhejiang, in two volumes, with a preface dated the eleventh year of the Republic [1922], collected in the second series of his posthumous works. In the upper volume, under the heading "Hangzhou Prefecture Printings," in the section for "Miscellaneous Editions of the Xin and Yuan Periods," the following two titles are included: "Jingben Popular Fiction" and "The Poetic Tale of Tripitaka's Great Tang Journey to Fetch the Scriptures," in three volumes. This not only identifies The Poetic Tale as a Yuan dynasty printing, but even classifies Popular Fiction as a Yuan edition as well. Although A Study of Ancient Editions from Zhejiang is by no means an obscure book, the young readers of Zhongxuesheng are not specialists in literary history and probably have not had the leisure to peruse it. Therefore I am sending it to your esteemed journal, hoping you will publish it — first, to contribute a small addition to general knowledge, and second, to demonstrate that a single document and isolated proof are hardly sufficient to "definitively" establish a historical fact, and that there will always be "some room for doubt." With my compliments, and wishing you good health. Lu Xun, respectfully. The night of January 19th.
來信敬愛的同志：你譯的《毀滅》出版，當然是中國文藝生活裏面的極可紀念的事跡。翻譯世界無產階級革命文學的名著，並且有系統的介紹給中國讀者，（尤其是蘇聯的名著，因為它們能夠把偉大的十月，國內戰爭，五年計畫的“英雄”，經過具體的形象，經過藝術的照耀，而供獻給讀者。）——這是中國普羅文學者的重要任務之一。雖然，現在做這件事的，差不多完全只是你個人和Z同誌的努力；可是，誰能夠說：這是私人的事情？！誰？！《毀滅》《鐵流》等等的出版，應當認為一切中國革命文學家的責任。每一個革命的文學戰線上的戰士，每一個革命的讀者，應當慶祝這一個勝利；雖然這還只是小小的勝利。你的譯文，的確是非常忠實的，“決不欺騙讀者”這一句話，決不是廣告！這也可見得一個誠摯，熱心，為著光明而鬥爭的人，不能夠不是刻苦而負責的。二十世紀的才子和歐化名士可以用“最少的勞力求得最大的”聲望；但是，這種人物如果不徹底的脫胎換骨，始終只是“紗籠”（Salon）裏的哈叭狗。現在粗制濫造的翻譯，不是這班人幹的，就是一些書賈的投機。你的努力——我以及大家都希望這種努力變成團體的，——應當繼續，應當擴大，應當加深。所以我也許和你自己一樣，看著這本《毀滅》，簡直非常的激動：我愛它，像愛自己的兒女一樣。咱們的這種愛，一定能夠幫助我們，使我們的精力增加起來，使我們的小小的事業擴大起來。翻譯——除出能夠介紹原本的內容給中國讀者之外——還有一個很重要的作用：就是幫助我們創造出新的中國的現代言語。中國的言語（文字）是那麽窮乏，甚至於日常用品都是無名氏的。中國的言語簡直沒有完全脫離所謂“姿勢語”的程度——普通的日常談話幾乎還離不開“手勢戲”。自然，一切表現細膩的分別和復雜的關系的形容詞，動詞，前置詞，幾乎沒有。宗法封建的中世紀的余孽，還緊緊的束縛著中國人的活的言語，（不但是工農群眾！）這種情形之下，創造新的言語是非常重大的任務。歐洲先進的國家，在二三百年四五百年以前已經一般的完成了這個任務。就是歷史上比較落後的俄國，也在一百五六十年以前就相當的結束了“教堂斯拉夫文”。他們那裏，是資產階級的文藝復興運動和啟蒙運動做了這件事。例如俄國的洛莫洛莎夫……普希金。中國的資產階級可沒有這個能力。固然，中國的歐化的紳商，例如胡適之之流，開始了這個運動。但是，這個運動的結果等於它的政治上的主人。因此，無產階級必須繼續去徹底完成這個任務，領導這個運動。翻譯，的確可以幫助我們造出許多新的字眼，新的句法，豐富的字匯和細膩的精密的正確的表現。因此，我們既然進行著創造中國現代的新的言語的鬥爭，我們對於翻譯，就不能夠不要求：絕對的正確和絕對的中國白話文。這是要把新的文化的言語介紹給大眾。嚴幾道的翻譯，不用說了。他是：譯須信雅達，文必夏殷周。其實，他是用一個“雅”字打消了“信”和“達”。最近商務還翻印“嚴譯名著”，我不知道這是“是何居心”！這簡直是拿中國的民眾和青年來開玩笑。古文的文言怎麽能夠譯得“信”，對於現在的將來的大眾讀者，怎麽能夠“達”！現在趙景深之流，又來要求：寧錯而務順，毋拗而僅信！趙老爺的主張，其實是和城隍廟裏演說西洋故事的，一鼻孔出氣。這是自己懂得了（？）外國文，看了些書報，就隨便拿起筆來亂寫幾句所謂通順的中國文。這明明白白的欺侮中國讀者，信口開河的來亂講海外奇談。第一，他的所謂“順”，既然是寧可“錯”一點兒的“順”，那麽，這當然是遷就中國的低級言語而抹殺原意的辦法。這不是創造新的言語，而是努力保存中國的野蠻人的言語程度，努力阻擋它的發展。第二，既然要寧可“錯”一點兒，那就是要朦蔽讀者，使讀者不能夠知道作者的原意。所以我說：趙景深的主張是愚民政策，是壟斷智識的學閥主義，——一點兒也沒有過分的。還有，第三，他顯然是暗示的反對普羅文學（好個可憐的“特殊走狗”）！他這是反對普羅文學，暗指著普羅文學的一些理論著作的翻譯和創作的翻譯。這是普羅文學敵人的話。但是，普羅文學的中文書籍之中，的確有許多翻譯是不“順”的。這是我們自己的弱點，敵人乘這個弱點來進攻。我們的勝利的道路當然不僅要迎頭痛打，打擊敵人的軍隊，而且要更加整頓自己的隊伍。我們的自己批評的勇敢，常常可以解除敵人的武裝。現在，所謂翻譯論戰的結論，我們的同誌卻提出了這樣的結語：“翻譯絕對不容許錯誤。可是，有時候，依照譯品內容的性質，為著保存原作精神，多少的不順，倒可以容忍。” 這是只是個“防禦的戰術”。而蒲力汗諾夫說：辯證法的唯物論者應當要會“反守為攻”。第一，當然我們首先要說明：我們所認識的所謂“順”，和趙景深等所說的不同。第二，我們所要求的是：絕對的正確和絕對的白話。所謂絕對的白話，就是朗誦起來可以懂得的。第三，我們承認：一直到現在，普羅文學的翻譯還沒有做到這個程度，我們要繼續努力。第四，我們揭穿趙景深等自己的翻譯，指出他們認為是“順”的翻譯，其實只是梁啟超和胡適之交媾出來的雜種——半文不白，半死不活的言語，對於大眾仍舊是不“順”的。這裏，講到你最近出版的《毀滅》，可以說：這是做到了“正確”，還沒有做到“絕對的白話”。翻譯要用絕對的白話，並不就不能夠“保存原作的精神”。固然，這是很困難，很費功夫的。但是，我們是要絕對不怕困難，努力去克服一切的困難。一般的說起來，不但翻譯，就是自己的作品也是一樣，現在的文學家，哲學家，政論家，以及一切普通人，要想表現現在中國社會已經有的新的關系，新的現象，新的事物，新的觀念，就差不多人人都要做“倉頡”。這就是說，要天天創造新的字眼，新的句法。實際生活的要求是這樣。難道一九二五年初我們沒有在上海小沙渡替群眾造出“罷工”這一個字眼嗎？還有“遊擊隊”，“遊擊戰爭”，“右傾”，“左傾”，“尾巴主義”，甚至於普通的“團結”，“堅決”，“動搖”等等等類……這些說不盡的新的字眼，漸漸的容納到群眾的口頭上的言語裏去了，即使還沒有完全容納，那也已經有了可以容納的可能了。講到新的句法，比較起來要困難一些，但是，口頭上的言語裏面，句法也已經有了很大的改變，很大的進步。只要拿我們自己演講的言語和舊小說裏的對白比較一下，就可以看得出來。可是，這些新的字眼和句法的創造，無意之中自然而然的要遵照著中國白話的文法公律。凡是“白話文”裏面，違反這些公律的新字眼，新句法，——就是說不上口的——自然淘汰出去，不能夠存在。所以說到什麽是“順”的問題，應當說：真正的白話就是真正通順的現代中國文，這裏所說的白話，當然不限於“家務瑣事”的白話，這是說：從一般人的普通談話，直到大學教授的演講的口頭上的白話。中國人現在講哲學，講科學，講藝術……顯然已經有了一個口頭上的白話。難道不是如此？如果這樣，那麽，寫在紙上的說話（文字），就應當是這一種白話，不過組織得比較緊湊，比較整齊罷了。這種文字，雖然現在還有許多對於一般識字很少的群眾，仍舊是看不懂的，因為這種言語，對於一般不識字的群眾，也還是聽不懂的。——可是，第一，這種情形只限於文章的內容，而不在文字的本身，所以，第二，這種文字已經有了生命，它已經有了可以被群眾容納的可能性。它是活的言語。所以，書面上的白話文，如果不註意中國白話的文法公律，如果不就著中國白話原來有的公律去創造新的，那就很容易走到所謂“不順”的方面去。這是在創造新的字眼新的句法的時候，完全不顧普通群眾口頭上說話的習慣，而用文言做本位的結果。這樣寫出來的文字，本身就是死的言語。因此，我覺得對於這個問題，我們要有勇敢的自己批評的精神，我們應當開始一個新的鬥爭。你以為怎麽樣？我的意見是：翻譯應當把原文的本意，完全正確的介紹給中國讀者，使中國讀者所得到的概念等於英俄日德法……讀者從原文得來的概念，這樣的直譯，應當用中國人口頭上可以講得出來的白話來寫。為著保存原作的精神，並用不著容忍“多少的不順”。相反的，容忍著“多少的不順”（就是不用口頭上的白話），反而要多少的喪失原作的精神。當然，在藝術的作品裏，言語上的要求是更加苛刻，比普通的論文要更加來得精細。這裏有各種人不同的口氣，不同的字眼，不同的聲調，不同的情緒，……並且這並不限於對白。這裏，要用窮乏的中國口頭上的白話來應付，比翻譯哲學，科學……的理論著作，還要來得困難。但是，這些困難只不過愈加加重我們的任務，可並不會取消我們的這個任務的。現在，請你允許我提出《毀滅》的譯文之中的幾個問題。我還沒有能夠讀完，對著原文讀的只有很少幾段。這裏，我只把茀理契序文裏引的原文來校對一下。（我順著序文裏的次序，編著號碼寫下去，不再引你的譯文，請你自己照著號碼到書上去找罷。序文的翻譯有些錯誤，這裏不談了。）（一）結算起來，還是因為他心上有一種——“對於新的極好的有力量的慈善的人的渴望，這種渴望是極大的，無論什麽別的願望都比不上的。”更正確些：結算起來，還是因為他心上——“渴望著一種新的極好的有力量的慈善的人，這個渴望是極大的，無論什麽別的願望都比不上的。” （二）“在這種時候，極大多數的幾萬萬人，還不得不過著這種原始的可憐的生活，過著這種無聊得一點兒意思都沒有的生活，——怎麽能夠談得上什麽新的極好的人呢。” （三）“他在世界上，最愛的始終還是他自己，——他愛他自己的雪白的骯臟的沒有力量的手，他愛他自己的唉聲嘆氣的聲音，他愛他自己的痛苦，自己的行為——甚至於那些最可厭惡的行為。” （四）“這算收場了，一切都回到老樣子，仿佛什麽也不曾有過，——華理亞想著，——又是舊的道路，仍舊是那一些糾葛——一切都要到那一個地方……可是，我的上帝，這是多麽沒有快樂呵！” （五）“他自己都從沒有知道過這種苦惱，這是憂愁的疲倦的，老年人似的苦惱，——他這樣苦惱著的想：他已經二十七歲了，過去的每一分鐘，都不能夠再回過來，重新換個樣子再過它一過，而以後，看來也沒有什麽好的……（這一段，你的譯文有錯誤，也就特別來得“不順”。）現在木羅式加覺得，他一生一世，用了一切力量，都只是竭力要走上那樣的一條道路，他看起來是一直的明白的正當的道路，像萊奮生，巴克拉諾夫，圖皤夫那樣的人，他們所走的正是這樣的道路；然而似乎有一個什麽人在妨礙他走上這樣的道路呢。而因為他無論什麽時候也想不到這個仇敵就在他自己的心裏面，所以，他想著他的痛苦是因為一般人的卑鄙，他就覺得特別的痛快和傷心。” （六）“他只知道一件事——工作。所以，這樣正當的人，是不能夠不信任他，不能夠不服從他的。” （七）“開始的時很，他對於他生活的這方面的一些思想，很不願意去思索，然而，漸漸的他起勁起來了，他竟寫了兩張紙……在這兩張紙上，居然有許多這樣的字眼——誰也想不到萊奮生會知道這些字眼的。”（這一段，你的譯文裏比俄文原文多了幾句副句，也許是你引了相近的另外一句了罷？或者是你把茀理契空出的虛點填滿了？）（八）“這些受盡磨難的忠實的人，對於他是親近的，比一切其他的東西都更加親近，甚至於比他自己還要親近。” （九）“……沈默的，還是潮濕的眼睛，看了一看那些打麥場上的疏遠的人，——這些人，他應當很快就把他們變成功自己的親近的人，像那十八個人一樣，像那不做聲的，在他後面走著的人一樣。”（這裏，最後一句，你的譯文有錯誤。）這些譯文請你用日本文和德文校對一下，是否是正確的直譯，可以比較得出來的。我的譯文，除出按照中國白話的句法和修辭法，有些比起原文來是倒裝的，或者主詞，動詞，賓詞是重復的，此外，完完全全是直譯的。這裏，舉一個例：第（八）條“……甚至於比他自己還要親近。”這句話的每一個字母都和俄文相同的。同時，這在口頭上說起來的時候，原文的口氣和精神完全傳達得出。而你的譯文：“較之自己較之別人，還要親近的人們”，是有錯誤的（也許是日德文的錯誤）。錯誤是在於：（一）丟掉了“甚至於”這一個字眼；（二）用了中國文言的文法，就不能夠表現那句話的神氣。所有這些話，我都這樣不客氣的說著，仿佛自稱自贊的。對於一班庸俗的人，這自然是“沒有禮貌”。但是，我們是這樣親密的人，沒有見面的時候就這樣親密的人。這種感覺，使我對於你說話的時候，和對自己說話一樣，和自己商量一樣。再則，還有一個例子，比較重要的，不僅僅關於翻譯方法的。這就是第（一）條的“新的……人”的問題。《毀滅》的主題是新的人的產生。這裏，茀理契以及法捷耶夫自己用的俄文字眼，是一個普通的“人”字的單數。不但不是人類，而且不是“人”字的復數。這意思是指著革命，國內戰爭……的過程之中產生著一種新式的人，一種新的“路數”（Type）——文雅的譯法叫做典型，這是在全部《毀滅》裏面看得出來的。現在，你的譯文，寫著“人類”。萊奮生渴望著一種新的……人類。這可以誤會到另外一個主題。仿佛是一般的渴望著整個的社會主義的社會。而事實上，《毀滅》的“新人”，是當前的戰鬥的迫切的任務：在鬥爭過程之中去創造，去鍛煉，去改造成一種新式的人物，和木羅式加，美諦克……等等不同的人物。這可是現在的人，是一些人，是做群眾之中的骨幹的人，而不是一般的人類，不是籠統的人類，正是群眾之中的一些人，領導的人，新的整個人類的先輩。這一點是值得特別提出來說的。當然，譯文的錯誤，僅僅是一個字眼上的錯誤：“人”是一個字眼，“人類”是另外一個字眼。整本的書仍舊在我們面前，你的後記也很正確的了解到《毀滅》的主題。可是翻譯要精確，就應當估量每一個字眼。《毀滅》的出版，始終是值得紀念的。我慶祝你。希望你考慮我的意見，而對於翻譯問題，對於一般的言語革命問題，開始一個新的鬥爭。 J．K．　一九三一，十二，五。回信敬愛的J．K．同誌：看見你那關於翻譯的信以後，使我非常高興。從去年的翻譯洪水泛濫以來，使許多人攢眉嘆氣，甚而至於講冷話。我也是一個偶而譯書的人，本來應該說幾句話的，然而至今沒有開過口。“強聒不舍”雖然是勇壯的行為，但我所奉行的，卻是“不可與言而與之言，失言”這一句古老話。況且前來的大抵是紙人紙馬，說得耳熟一點，那便是“陰兵”，實在是也無從迎頭痛擊。就拿趙景深教授老爺來做例子罷，他一面專門攻擊科學的文藝論譯本之不通，指明被壓迫的作家匿名之可笑，一面卻又大發慈悲，說是這樣的譯本，恐怕大眾不懂得。好像他倒天天在替大眾計劃方法，別的譯者來攪亂了他的陣勢似的。這正如俄國革命以後，歐美的富家奴去看了一看，回來就搖頭皺臉，做出文章，慨嘆著工農還在怎樣吃苦，怎樣忍饑，說得滿紙淒淒慘慘。仿佛惟有他卻是極希望一個筋鬥，工農就都住王宮，吃大菜，躺安樂椅子享福的人。誰料還是苦，所以俄國不行了，革命不好了，阿呀阿呀了，可惡之極了。對著這樣的哭喪臉，你同他說什麽呢？假如覺得討厭，我想，只要拿指頭輕輕的在那紙糊架子上挖一個窟窿就可以了。趙老爺評論翻譯，拉了嚴又陵，並且替他叫屈，於是累得他在你的信裏也挨了一頓罵。但由我看來，這是冤枉的，嚴老爺和趙老爺，在實際上，有虎狗之差。極明顯的例子，是嚴又陵為要譯書，曾經查過漢晉六朝翻譯佛經的方法，趙老爺引嚴又陵為地下知己，卻沒有看這嚴又陵所譯的書。現在嚴譯的書都出版了，雖然沒有什麽意義，但他所用的工夫，卻從中可以查考。據我所記得，譯得最費力，也令人看起來最吃力的，是《穆勒名學》和《群己權界論》的一篇作者自序，其次就是這論，後來不知怎地又改稱為《權界》，連書名也很費解了。最好懂的自然是《天演論》，桐城氣息十足，連字的平仄也都留心，搖頭晃腦的讀起來，真是音調鏗鏘，使人不自覺其頭暈。這一點竟感動了桐城派老頭子吳汝綸(15)，不禁說是“足與周秦諸子相上下”了。然而嚴又陵自己卻知道這太“達”的譯法是不對的，所以他不稱為“翻譯”，而寫作“侯官嚴復達恉”；序例上發了一通“信達雅”之類的議論之後，結末卻聲明道：“什法師云，‘學我者病’。來者方多，慎勿以是書為口實也！”好像他在四十年前，便料到會有趙老爺來謬托知己，早已毛骨悚然一樣。僅僅這一點，我就要說，嚴趙兩大師，實有虎狗之差，不能相提並論的。那麽，他為什麽要幹這一手把戲呢？答案是：那時的留學生沒有現在這麽闊氣，社會上大抵以為西洋人只會做機器——尤其是自鳴鐘——留學生只會講鬼子話，所以算不了“士”人的。因此他便來鏗鏘一下子，鏗鏘得吳汝綸也肯給他作序，這一序，別的生意也就源源而來了，於是有《名學》，有《法意》，有《原富》等等。但他後來的譯本，看得“信”比“達雅”都重一些。他的翻譯，實在是漢唐譯經歷史的縮圖。中國之譯佛經，漢末質直，他沒有取法。六朝真是“達”而“雅”了，他的《天演論》的模範就在此。唐則以“信”為主，粗粗一看，簡直是不能懂的，這就仿佛他後來的譯書。譯經的簡單的標本，有金陵刻經處匯印的三種譯本《大乘起信論》，也是趙老爺的一個死對頭。但我想，我們的譯書，還不能這樣簡單，首先要決定譯給大眾中的怎樣的讀者。將這些大眾，粗粗的分起來：甲，有很受了教育的；乙，有略能識字的；丙，有識字無幾的。而其中的丙，則在“讀者”的範圍之外，啟發他們是圖畫，演講，戲劇，電影的任務，在這裏可以不論。但就是甲乙兩種，也不能用同樣的書籍，應該各有供給閱讀的相當的書。供給乙的，還不能用翻譯，至少是改作，最好還是創作，而這創作又必須並不只在配合讀者的胃口，討好了，讀的多就夠。至於供給甲類的讀者的譯本，無論什麽，我是至今主張“寧信而不順”的。自然，這所謂“不順”，決不是說“跪下”要譯作“跪在膝之上”，“天河”要譯作“牛奶路”的意思，乃是說，不妨不像吃茶淘飯一樣幾口可以咽完，卻必須費牙來嚼一嚼。這裏就來了一個問題：為什麽不完全中國化，給讀者省些力氣呢？這樣費解，怎樣還可以稱為翻譯呢？我的答案是：這也是譯本。這樣的譯本，不但在輸入新的內容，也在輸入新的表現法。中國的文或話，法子實在太不精密了，作文的秘訣，是在避去熟字，刪掉虛字，就是好文章，講話的時候，也時時要辭不達意，這就是話不夠用，所以教員講書，也必須借助於粉筆。這語法的不精密，就在證明思路的不精密，換一句話，就是腦筋有些胡塗。倘若永遠用著胡塗話，即使讀的時候，滔滔而下，但歸根結蒂，所得的還是一個胡塗的影子。要醫這病，我以為只好陸續吃一點苦，裝進異樣的句法去，古的，外省外府的，外國的，後來便可以據為己有。這並不是空想的事情。遠的例子，如日本，他們的文章裏，歐化的語法是極平常的了，和梁啟超做《和文漢讀法》時代，大不相同；近的例子，就如來信所說，一九二五年曾給群眾造出過“罷工”這一個字眼，這字眼雖然未曾有過，然而大眾已都懂得了。我還以為即便為乙類讀者而譯的書，也應該時常加些新的字眼，新的語法在裏面，但自然不宜太多，以偶爾遇見，而想一想，或問一問就能懂得為度。必須這樣，群眾的言語才能夠豐富起來。什麽人全都懂得的書，現在是不會有的，只有佛教徒的“”字，據說是“人人能解”，但可惜又是“解各不同”。就是數學或化學書，裏面何嘗沒有許多“術語”之類，為趙老爺所不懂，然而趙老爺並不提及者，太記得了嚴又陵之故也。說到翻譯文藝，倘以甲類讀者為對象，我是也主張直譯的。我自己的譯法，是譬如“山背後太陽落下去了”，雖然不順，也決不改作“日落山陰”，因為原意以山為主，改了就變成太陽為主了。雖然創作，我以為作者也得加以這樣的區別。一面盡量的輸入，一面盡量的消化，吸收，可用的傳下去了，渣滓就聽他剩落在過去裏。所以在現在容忍“多少的不順”，倒並不能算“防守”，其實也還是一種的“進攻”。在現在民眾口頭上的話，那不錯，都是“順”的，但為民眾口頭上的話搜集來的話胚，其實也還是要順的，因此我也是主張容忍“不順”的一個。但這情形也當然不是永遠的，其中的一部分，將從“不順”而成為“順”，有一部分，則因為到底“不順”而被淘汰，被踢開。這最要緊的是我們自己的批判。如來信所舉的譯例，我都可以承認比我譯得更“達”，也可推定並且更“信”，對於譯者和讀者，都有很大的益處。不過這些只能使甲類的讀者懂得，於乙類的讀者是太艱深的。由此也可見現在必須區別了種種的讀者層，有種種的譯作。為乙類讀者譯作的方法，我沒有細想過，此刻說不出什麽來。但就大體看來，現在也還不能和口語——各處各種的土話——合一，只能成為一種特別的白話，或限於某一地方的白話。後一種，某一地方以外的讀者就看不懂了，要它分布較廣，勢必至於要用前一種，但因此也就仍然成為特別的白話，文言的分子也多起來。我是反對用太限於一處的方言的，例如小說中常見的“別鬧”“別說”等類罷，假使我沒有到過北京，我一定解作“另外搗亂”“另外去說”的意思，實在遠不如較近文言的“不要”來得容易了然，這樣的只在一處活著的口語，倘不是萬不得已，也應該回避的。還有章回體小說中的筆法，即使眼熟，也不必盡是采用，例如“林沖笑道：原來，你認得。”和“原來，你認得。——林沖笑著說。”這兩條，後一例雖然看去有些洋氣，其實我們講話的時候倒常用，聽得“耳熟”的。但中國人對於小說是看的，所以還是前一例覺得“眼熟”，在書上遇見後一例的筆法，反而好像生疏了。沒有法子，現在只好采說書而去其油滑，聽閑談而去其散漫，博取民眾的口語而存其比較的大家能懂的字句，成為四不像的白話。這白話得是活的，活的緣故，就因為有些是從活的民眾的口頭取來，有些是要從此註入活的民眾裏面去。臨末，我很感謝你信末所舉的兩個例子。一，我將“……甚至於比自己還要親近”譯成“較之自己較之別人，還要親近的人們”，是直譯德日兩種譯本的說法的。這恐怕因為他們的語法中，沒有像“甚至於”這樣能夠簡單而確切地表現這口氣的字眼的緣故，轉幾個彎，就成為這麽拙笨了。二，將“新的……人”的“人”字譯成“人類”，那是我的錯誤，是太穿鑿了之後的錯誤。萊奮生望見的打麥場上的人，他要造他們成為目前的戰鬥的人物，我是看得很清楚的，但當他默想“新的……人”的時候，卻也很使我默想了好久：（一）“人”的原文，日譯本是“人間”，德譯本是“Mensch”，都是單數，但有時也可作“人們”解；（二）他在目前就想有“新的極好的有力量的慈善的人”，希望似乎太奢，太空了。我於是想到他的出身，是商人的孩子，是智識分子，由此猜測他的戰鬥，是為了經過階級鬥爭之後的無階級社會，於是就將他所設想的目前的人，跟著我的主觀的錯誤，搬往將來，並且成為“人們”——人類了。在你未曾指出之前，我還自以為這見解是很高明的哩，這是必須對於讀者，趕緊聲明改正的。總之，今年總算將這一部紀念碑的小說，送在這裏的讀者們的面前了。譯的時候和印的時候，頗經過了不少艱難，現在倒也退出了記憶的圈外去，但我真如你來信所說那樣，就像親生的兒子一般愛他，並且由他想到兒子的兒子。還有《鐵流》，我也很喜歡。這兩部小說，雖然粗制，卻並非濫造，鐵的人物和血的戰鬥，實在夠使描寫多愁善病的才子和千嬌百媚的佳人的所謂“美文”，在這面前淡到毫無蹤影。不過我也和你的意思一樣，以為這只是一點小小的勝利，所以也很希望多人合力的更來紹介，至少在後三年內，有關於內戰時代和建設時代的紀念碑的的文學書八種至十種，此外更譯幾種雖然往往被稱為無產者文學，然而還不免含有小資產階級的偏見（如巴比塞）和基督教社會主義的偏見（如辛克萊）的代表作，加上了分析和嚴正的批評，好在那裏，壞在那裏，以備對比參考之用，那麽，不但讀者的見解，可以一天一天的分明起來，就是新的創作家，也得了正確的師範了。魯迅　一九三一，十二，二八。	The Incoming Letter Dear Comrade: The publication of your translation of The Rout is, of course, an event of great significance in the literary life of China. To translate the masterworks of world proletarian revolutionary literature and systematically introduce them to Chinese readers (especially those of the Soviet Union, because they can present to readers the "heroes" of the great October Revolution, the Civil War, and the Five-Year Plan through concrete images, through the illumination of art) — this is one of the important tasks of Chinese proletarian writers. Although at present it is almost entirely the efforts of you personally and Comrade Z alone who are doing this work, who can say that this is a private matter?! Who?! The publication of The Rout, The Iron Flood, and others should be recognized as the responsibility of all Chinese revolutionary writers. Every soldier on the revolutionary literary front, every revolutionary reader, should celebrate this victory — even though it is still only a small victory. Your translation is indeed extremely faithful. The phrase "absolutely no deception of the reader" is by no means an advertisement! This also demonstrates that a sincere, passionate person fighting for the light cannot help but be painstaking and responsible. Twentieth-century dandies and Europeanized gentlemen may use "the least effort to obtain the greatest" fame; but unless such persons undergo a thorough transformation to their very bones, they will forever remain mere lapdogs of the salon. The current flood of slapdash translations — if not the work of this class of people, then the speculation of certain book merchants. Your efforts — I and everyone else hope that such efforts will become collective — should continue, should expand, should deepen. Therefore I am perhaps, like you yourself, looking at this copy of The Rout with extraordinary emotion: I love it as I love my own children. This love of ours will surely help us, increase our energy, and expand our small enterprise. Translation — beyond introducing the content of the original to Chinese readers — has another very important function: that of helping us create a new, modern Chinese language. The Chinese language (written characters) is so impoverished that even everyday objects are nameless. The Chinese language has practically not yet fully emerged from the stage of so-called "gesture language" — ordinary daily conversation can still hardly do without "hand-gesture pantomime." Naturally, almost no adjectives, verbs, or prepositions exist for expressing fine distinctions and complex relationships. The vestiges of patriarchal feudal medievalism still tightly bind the living language of the Chinese people (not just the workers and peasants!). Under these circumstances, creating a new language is an exceedingly weighty task. The advanced countries of Europe completed this task generally two to five hundred years ago. Even historically more backward Russia accomplished a considerable conclusion of its "Church Slavonic" some one hundred and fifty to sixty years ago. There, it was the bourgeois Renaissance and Enlightenment movements that did this work — for example, Russia's Lomonosov... Pushkin. The Chinese bourgeoisie, however, lacks this capacity. To be sure, China's Europeanized gentry-merchants, such as Hu Shizhi (胡适之) and his ilk, initiated this movement. But the results of this movement are equivalent to its political master. Therefore, the proletariat must continue to thoroughly complete this task and lead this movement. Translation can indeed help us create many new words, new syntactical structures, a rich vocabulary, and fine, precise, correct expression. Therefore, since we are engaged in the struggle to create the modern new language of China, our demands on translation cannot but be: absolute correctness and absolute Chinese vernacular. This is to introduce the language of new culture to the masses. Yan Jidao's (严几道) translations go without saying. He was: "Translation must be faithful, elegant, and intelligible; The writing must be of the Xia, Yin, and Zhou dynasties." In truth, he used one word, "elegant," to cancel out both "faithful" and "intelligible." Recently the Commercial Press has reprinted "Yan's Famous Translations" — I do not know what they are "up to"! This is simply making fun of the Chinese masses and youth. How can classical literary Chinese translate "faithfully"? For present and future mass readers, how can it be "intelligible"? Now Zhao Jingshen (赵景深) and his ilk come along with a new demand: "Better wrong but smooth, Than awkward yet merely faithful!" Old Mr. Zhao's position is really of the same stripe as those who tell Western stories in the City God Temple. This means: having understood (?) foreign languages oneself, having read some books and periodicals, one casually picks up a pen and scribbles a few sentences of so-called smooth Chinese. This is clearly and openly bullying Chinese readers, opening one's mouth wide to babble fantastic overseas tales. First, his so-called "smoothness," since it is a "smoothness" that would rather be a bit "wrong," is naturally a method that panders to China's lower-level language while obliterating the original meaning. This does not create a new language but rather strives to preserve the level of language of Chinese savages, striving to obstruct its development. Second, since he would rather be a bit "wrong," this means obscuring the reader, preventing the reader from knowing the author's original meaning. Therefore I say: Zhao Jingshen's position is a policy of keeping the people ignorant, a scholastic despotism that monopolizes knowledge — and this is not the slightest exaggeration. Furthermore, third, he is evidently hinting at opposition to proletarian literature (what a pitiable "special running dog"!). His opposition to proletarian literature is a veiled attack on certain translations of theoretical works and creative translations in proletarian literature. These are the words of an enemy of proletarian literature. However, among Chinese-language proletarian literary books, there are indeed many translations that are not "smooth." This is our own weakness, and the enemy exploits this weakness to attack. The road to our victory naturally requires not only meeting the enemy head-on and striking their forces, but also further disciplining our own ranks. The courage of our self-criticism can often disarm the enemy. Now, regarding the so-called translation debate, our comrades have put forward this conclusion: "Translation absolutely does not permit error. But sometimes, depending on the nature of the translated content, in order to preserve the spirit of the original, a certain degree of unsmoothness may be tolerated." This is merely a "defensive tactic." But Plekhanov says: the dialectical materialist should know how to "turn defense into offense." First, of course, we must first explain that what we understand by "smooth" is different from what Zhao Jingshen and others mean. Second, what we demand is: absolute correctness and absolute vernacular. By absolute vernacular, I mean that which can be understood when read aloud. Third, we acknowledge that up to now, proletarian literary translations have not yet achieved this level; we must continue to work hard. Fourth, we expose Zhao Jingshen's and others' own translations, pointing out that what they consider "smooth" translations are in fact a bastard offspring of Liang Qichao (梁启超) and Hu Shizhi mating — half-classical, half-vernacular, half-dead, half-alive language that is still not "smooth" for the masses. Here, speaking of your recently published The Rout, one can say: it has achieved "correctness" but has not yet achieved "absolute vernacular." To use absolute vernacular in translation does not mean one cannot "preserve the spirit of the original." Certainly, this is very difficult and demands great effort. But we must be absolutely unafraid of difficulty and strive to overcome all difficulties. Speaking generally, not only in translation but in one's own works as well — today's literary figures, philosophers, political commentators, and all ordinary people who wish to express the new relationships, new phenomena, new things, and new concepts that already exist in Chinese society must practically all become "Cangjie" — that is, they must create new words and new syntactic structures every day. The demands of practical life are such. Did we not, in early 1925, coin the word "strike" (罢工) for the masses at Xiaoshadu in Shanghai? And "guerrilla unit," "guerrilla warfare," "right deviation," "left deviation," "tailism," even ordinary words like "unite" (团结), "resolute" (坚决), "waver" (动摇), and so on and so forth... These innumerable new words have gradually been absorbed into the spoken language of the masses, and even those not yet fully absorbed already have the possibility of being absorbed. As for new syntactic structures, comparatively speaking these are somewhat more difficult, but in spoken language, syntax has already undergone great changes and great progress. One need only compare the language of our own speeches with the dialogue in old novels to see this. Yet these new words and syntactic structures, created unconsciously and naturally, inevitably follow the grammatical rules of Chinese vernacular. Any new words or new syntactic structures in "vernacular writing" that violate these rules — that is, those that cannot be spoken aloud — are naturally eliminated and cannot survive. Therefore, on the question of what is "smooth," one should say: true vernacular is truly fluent modern Chinese. The vernacular spoken of here is of course not limited to the vernacular of "household trivia" — it means: from ordinary people's everyday conversation to the spoken vernacular of university professors' lectures. Chinese people now discuss philosophy, science, art... and clearly already have a spoken vernacular for this. Is this not so? If this is the case, then what is written on paper (the written word) should be this vernacular, only organized more tightly and neatly. Although such writing is still incomprehensible to many of the masses who can barely read, because such language is also still unintelligible to the general illiterate masses when heard — nevertheless, first, this situation pertains only to the content of the writing, not to the writing itself; therefore, second, such writing already possesses life — it already has the possibility of being absorbed by the masses. It is living language. Therefore, if written vernacular does not observe the grammatical rules of Chinese spoken vernacular, if it does not create new rules building upon the existing rules of Chinese spoken vernacular, it will very easily drift toward so-called "unsmoothness." This is the result of completely ignoring the speech habits of ordinary masses when creating new words and new syntactic structures, while using classical Chinese as the base. Writing produced in this way is inherently dead language. Therefore, I feel that on this question we must have the courage of self-criticism; we should launch a new struggle. What do you think? My view is this: translation should introduce the original meaning of the source text completely and correctly to the Chinese reader, so that the concept the Chinese reader receives equals the concept that English, Russian, Japanese, German, French... readers derive from the original. Such literal translation should be written in the vernacular that Chinese people can actually speak aloud. To preserve the spirit of the original, there is no need to tolerate "some degree of unsmoothness." On the contrary, tolerating "some degree of unsmoothness" (that is, not using the spoken vernacular) will, to some extent, lose the spirit of the original. Of course, in works of art, the demands on language are even more exacting, requiring even more refinement than ordinary essays. Here there are various people's different tones, different vocabularies, different cadences, different emotions... and this is not limited to dialogue. Here, to cope with the impoverished Chinese spoken vernacular is even more difficult than translating theoretical works of philosophy, science... But these difficulties only add to the weight of our task; they do not in any way cancel this task of ours. Now, please allow me to raise a few questions about your translation of The Rout. I have not yet been able to read it all the way through; I have only read a very few passages against the original. Here, I will simply compare against the original passages quoted in Friche's preface. (I follow the order of the preface, numbering as I go; I will not re-quote your translation — please look up the passages by number in the book yourself. There are some errors in the translation of the preface, which I will not discuss here.) (1) "When all is reckoned up, it is still because in his heart there is a kind of — 'longing for a new, excellent, strong, and compassionate person, a longing so great that no other desire can compare.'" More precisely: "When all is reckoned up, it is still because in his heart — 'he longs for a kind of new, excellent, strong, and compassionate person, a longing so great that no other desire can compare.'" (2) "At such times, the vast majority of hundreds of millions of people still cannot help but live this sort of primitive, pitiful life, this sort of life so tedious that there is not the slightest meaning to it — how can one speak of any new, excellent person?" (3) "In this world, what he loved most was always himself — he loved his own snow-white, filthy, powerless hands; he loved his own sighing and moaning voice; he loved his own suffering, his own conduct — even those most detestable acts." (4) "'So this is how it ends, everything returns to the old way, as if nothing had ever happened,' — Varya thought — 'again the old road, still the same entanglements — everything heading to that same place... But, my God, how joyless this is!'" (5) "He himself had never known such anguish, this was a melancholy, weary, old-man's anguish — he thought with such anguish: he was already twenty-seven years old, every minute of the past could never come back again, could never be relived in a different way, and in the future, it seemed, there was nothing good either... (This passage has errors in your translation, and is also particularly 'unsmooth.') Now Morozka felt that in his entire life, with all his strength, he had only been striving to get onto such a road — a road that appeared to him straight, clear, and upright, the kind of road that people like Levinson, Baklanov, and Tubeev walked; yet it seemed as if someone were preventing him from getting onto this road. And because he could never imagine that this enemy was within his own heart, when he thought about his suffering being caused by the baseness of people in general, he felt a peculiar mixture of satisfaction and sorrow." (6) "He knew only one thing — work. Therefore, such an upright person — one cannot help but trust him, cannot help but obey him." (7) "At first, he was very unwilling to think about these thoughts concerning this aspect of his life; however, gradually he became engrossed and actually wrote two sheets of paper... On these two sheets, there were actually many words of a kind — no one would have imagined that Levinson could know such words." (In this passage, your translation has several subordinate clauses more than the Russian original. Perhaps you have quoted a nearby but different sentence? Or perhaps you have filled in the ellipses that Friche left as dots?) (8) "These long-suffering, faithful people were close to him, closer than everything else, even closer than he was to himself." (9) "...Silently, with still-moist eyes, he looked at those people on the distant threshing floor — these people, whom he must quickly turn into his own close companions, like those eighteen, like the one who, silent, walked behind him." (Here, in the last sentence, your translation has an error.) Please check these translations against the Japanese and German versions; whether they are correct literal translations can be determined by comparison. My translations, apart from some inversions and repetitions of subjects, verbs, and objects according to the syntax and rhetoric of Chinese vernacular, are otherwise entirely literal translations. Here, let me give one example: passage (8) — "...even closer than he was to himself." Every letter of this phrase is identical to the Russian. At the same time, when spoken aloud, the tone and spirit of the original are fully conveyed. But your translation — "closer than to himself, closer than to others" — contains an error (perhaps the error is in the Japanese or German version). The error lies in: (1) dropping the phrase "even" (甚至于); (2) using the grammar of classical Chinese, which makes it impossible to express the tone of the sentence. All these things I say so ungraciously, as if praising myself. To the vulgar, this is naturally "rude." But we are such intimate people — people who are intimate even before we have met. This feeling makes me speak to you as I speak to myself, as if consulting with myself. Furthermore, there is one more example, a relatively important one, not merely about translation method. This is the question of "the new... person" in passage (1). The subject of The Rout is the birth of a new person. Here, the Russian word that Friche and Fadeyev himself use is an ordinary "person" in the singular. Not only is it not "humankind," it is not even the plural of "person." The meaning refers to a new type of person, a new "type" — the elegant translation being "typical" — that is being produced in the process of revolution, civil war... This is visible throughout the entirety of The Rout. Now, your translation reads "humankind." Levinson longs for a new... humankind. This could be misunderstood as referring to an entirely different theme — as if it were a general longing for socialist society as a whole. But in fact, the "new person" of The Rout is an urgent task of the current struggle: to create, to temper, to transform in the process of struggle a new type of person, a type different from Morozka, Mechik... and others. This is a person of the present, one of several people, people who form the backbone among the masses — not humankind in general, not humankind in the abstract. Precisely some people among the masses, leaders, the forebears of a new whole humankind. This point is worth singling out for discussion. Naturally, the error in the translation is merely an error in a single word: "person" is one word, "humankind" is another. The entire book is still before us, and your afterword quite correctly grasps the theme of The Rout. But translation must be precise, and one should weigh every single word. The publication of The Rout remains a memorable event. I congratulate you. I hope you will consider my views, and on the question of translation, and on the general question of linguistic revolution, launch a new struggle. J. K. December 5, 1931. The Reply Dear Comrade J. K.: After reading your letter about translation, I was extremely pleased. Ever since last year's flood of translations, many people have furrowed their brows and sighed, and some have even made sarcastic remarks. I too am someone who occasionally translates books, and by rights should have said a few words, yet to this day I have not opened my mouth. "Insistent prattling" may be a courageous act, but what I practice is the old saying: "To speak to those who should not be spoken to is to waste one's words." Moreover, those who have come forth are mostly paper men and paper horses — to use a more familiar expression, "ghost soldiers" — against whom there is truly no way to launch a head-on attack. Take Professor Old Mr. Zhao Jingshen as an example: on one hand he specializes in attacking translations of scientific literary theory as incomprehensible, and in mocking the anonymity of oppressed writers; on the other hand he puts on a great show of compassion, saying he fears the masses won't understand such translations — as though he were the one who spends every day devising plans for the masses, while other translators come along to disrupt his formations. This is exactly like those servants of the rich in Europe and America who, after the Russian Revolution, went to take a look, came back shaking their heads and wrinkling their faces, and wrote articles lamenting how the workers and peasants were still suffering, still hungry, filling pages with misery — as though they alone were the ones who truly wished that with one somersault the workers and peasants would all live in palaces, eat banquets, and lounge in easy chairs. Who would have thought they were still suffering? So Russia is no good, revolution is bad, oh dear oh dear, how detestable! Facing such funeral faces, what can you say to them? If you find them disagreeable, I think all you need do is lightly poke your finger through one hole in that paper-and-paste frame. Old Mr. Zhao, in discussing translation, dragged in Yan Youling (严又陵) and pleaded his case on his behalf, which consequently earned the latter a scolding in your letter. But in my view, this is unjust — between Old Mr. Yan and Old Mr. Zhao there is the difference between a tiger and a dog. The most obvious example: in order to translate, Yan Youling once studied the methods used in the Han, Jin, and Six Dynasties periods for translating Buddhist scriptures, while Old Mr. Zhao, who claims Yan Youling as his soul mate beyond the grave, has never read the books Yan Youling actually translated. Now Yan's translations have all been published, and though they may not hold much significance, the effort he put into them can be examined. As I recall, the most laborious to translate, and also the most laborious to read, were Mill's System of Logic and the author's preface to On Liberty — the latter was later somehow renamed The Boundary of Rights, and even the title became hard to fathom. The easiest to understand is naturally On Evolution, which positively reeks of the Tongcheng school style; even the tonal balance of each character is carefully attended to. Read it aloud, nodding and swaying, and indeed the rhythm is sonorous — enough to move the old Tongcheng-school master Wu Rulun (吴汝纶), who could not help exclaiming that it "could stand comparison with the masters of the Zhou and Qin periods." Yet Yan Youling himself knew that this overly "intelligible" style of translation was wrong, which is why he did not call it a "translation" but wrote "Hou Guan Yan Fu conveys the gist" (侯官严复达旨); and after holding forth on "faithfulness, intelligibility, and elegance" in his preface, he concluded with the declaration: "The Dharma Master Shi said, 'Those who imitate me will come to grief.' Many will come after me — be sure not to use this book as a pretext!" It is as though forty years ago he had already anticipated that an Old Mr. Zhao would come along to falsely claim kinship with him, and his hair was already standing on end. For this alone, I must say that the two great masters Yan and Zhao truly differ as tiger from dog and cannot be mentioned in the same breath. Then why did he resort to this trick? The answer is: in those days, returned students were not as grand as they are today. Society generally regarded Westerners as only capable of making machines — especially clocks — and returned students as only able to speak "foreign devil" language, and therefore not qualified as "gentlemen scholars." So he produced his sonorous prose, sonorous enough that Wu Rulun agreed to write a preface for him. With that preface, other business came flooding in, and so there appeared his Logic, his Spirit of Laws, his Wealth of Nations, and so on. But his later translations clearly valued "faithfulness" above "intelligibility and elegance." His translation work is in fact a miniature of the history of sutra translation in the Han and Tang dynasties. China's translation of Buddhist scriptures: in the late Han, it was plain and straightforward — he did not follow that model. In the Six Dynasties, it was truly "intelligible" and "elegant" — his On Evolution was modeled on this. In the Tang, the emphasis was on "faithfulness," and at first glance it seems almost incomprehensible — this is like his later translations. A simple specimen of the sutra-translation tradition can be found in the three translation editions of The Awakening of Faith in the Mahayana, compiled and printed by the Jinling Scriptural Press — also a mortal enemy of Old Mr. Zhao. But I think our translation work cannot be so simple. First, we must decide for what kind of readers among the masses we are translating. Roughly dividing these masses: Category A, those who have received considerable education; Category B, those who can barely read; Category C, those who know hardly any characters. Category C falls outside the scope of "readers" — enlightening them is the task of pictures, lectures, theater, and cinema, and need not be discussed here. But even for Categories A and B, the same books cannot serve both; each should have appropriate reading materials provided. For Category B, translations are not yet suitable — at least adaptations are needed, and original works are best, provided these originals do not merely cater to readers' tastes, content that they are popular and widely read. As for translations intended for Category A readers, whatever the subject, I still advocate "rather faithful than smooth" to this day. Naturally, this "unsmoothness" absolutely does not mean translating "kneel" as "kneel upon one's knees" or "Milky Way" as "Milk Road"; rather, it means that one need not gulp the text down like tea-soaked rice in a few mouthfuls, but must exert some effort to chew. Here arises a question: why not make it completely Chinese, saving the reader trouble? If it is this hard to understand, how can it still be called translation? My answer is: this too is a translation. Such a translation not only imports new content but also imports new modes of expression. Chinese writing and speech are in truth far too imprecise. The secret of good writing is to avoid familiar characters and delete empty words — and that is a good essay. When speaking, too, one constantly fails to convey one's meaning — this is because the language is insufficient, which is why teachers lecturing must also rely on chalk. This imprecision of grammar is proof of imprecision of thought — in other words, the brain is somewhat muddled. If one forever uses muddled language, even if when reading it flows glibly, in the end what one gets is still a muddled impression. To cure this malady, I think one can only gradually endure some hardship, stuffing in alien sentence structures — old ones, those from other provinces, foreign ones — which can later be claimed as one's own. This is not an idle fantasy. The distant example is Japan, where Europeanized syntax is perfectly commonplace in their writing, vastly different from the era when Liang Qichao wrote his Method of Reading Japanese in Chinese. The near example is just what your letter mentions: in 1925, the word "strike" (罢工) was coined for the masses. Though this word had never existed before, the masses have all come to understand it. I further believe that even books translated for Category B readers should frequently include some new words and new syntax, though naturally not too many — just enough that when readers occasionally encounter one, with a moment's thought or a question they can understand it. Only thus can the language of the masses be enriched. A book that absolutely everyone can understand does not exist today. Only the Buddhist swastika "卍" is, according to its adherents, "comprehensible to all" — but unfortunately it is also "understood differently by each." Even mathematics or chemistry textbooks — are there not many "technical terms" in them that Old Mr. Zhao does not understand, which Old Mr. Zhao does not bring up, remembering Yan Youling all too well? Speaking of translating literature, if one takes Category A readers as the audience, I too advocate literal translation. My own translation method is: for example, "Behind the mountain the sun went down" — though unsmooth, I would never change it to "The sun sets behind the mountain's shadow" (日落山阴), because the original makes the mountain the subject, and changing it shifts the focus to the sun. Even in original writing, I think the author must make such distinctions. On one hand, import as much as possible; on the other, digest and absorb as much as possible. What is usable gets passed down; the dregs are left behind in the past. Therefore, tolerating "some unsmoothness" in the present cannot really be called "defense" — it is actually a kind of "offense." The language on the lips of the people today is, indeed, all "smooth," but the linguistic raw material gathered from the people's speech must also ultimately be smooth. That is why I, too, am one who advocates tolerating "unsmoothness." But this situation will naturally not last forever. Part of it will transition from "unsmooth" to "smooth"; another part, because it remains "unsmooth" to the end, will be eliminated, kicked aside. The most crucial thing here is our own critical judgment. As for the translation examples cited in your letter, I can acknowledge that they are more "intelligible" than my translations, and I can also infer that they are more "faithful." For both translator and reader, this is of great benefit. However, these can only be understood by Category A readers and are too abstruse for Category B readers. This further demonstrates that it is now necessary to distinguish various reader strata and to have various kinds of translations. As for the method of translating for Category B readers, I have not thought it through carefully and cannot say much at the moment. But looking at the big picture, at present it is still not possible to merge with spoken language — the local dialects of various places — and can only become a special kind of vernacular, or one limited to a particular region. The latter type — readers outside that region cannot understand it. To achieve wider distribution, one must inevitably use the former type, but this consequently becomes a special vernacular as well, with more classical-language elements creeping in. I am opposed to using dialect too narrowly limited to one place. For example, the expressions "don't make a fuss" (别闹) and "don't say that" (别说) commonly seen in novels — if I had never been to Beijing, I would certainly interpret them as meaning "make a fuss elsewhere" or "say it elsewhere," which is indeed far less easy to understand than the more literary "do not" (不要). Such spoken language that is alive only in one place, unless absolutely necessary, should also be avoided. Then there are the stylistic conventions of chapter-division novels — even if they look familiar, they need not all be adopted. For example, "Lin Chong laughed and said: 'So, you recognize me'" versus "'So, you recognize me' — Lin Chong said with a laugh." Though the latter example may look somewhat foreign, in fact when we talk we often use this pattern — it sounds "familiar to the ear." But Chinese people read novels with their eyes, so it is still the former example that feels "familiar to the eye"; encountering the latter style in a book feels unfamiliar instead. There is no help for it; for now one can only adopt the storytelling style while removing its glibness, listen to idle chat while removing its rambling, broadly gather the people's spoken language while preserving those words and phrases that comparatively most people can understand, and produce a "neither-fish-nor-fowl" vernacular. This vernacular must be alive, and the reason it is alive is that some of it is taken from the lips of the living masses, and some of it is meant to be injected into the living masses. In closing, I am very grateful for the two examples you cited at the end of your letter. First, I translated "...even closer than he was to himself" as "closer than to himself, closer than to others" — this is a literal translation of the phrasing in the Japanese and German versions. This is probably because their grammar does not have a word like "even" (甚至于) that can simply and precisely express this tone; after several roundabout turns, it became this clumsy. Second, translating "the new... person" with "person" (人) rendered as "humankind" (人类) — that is my error, an error resulting from over-interpretation. When Levinson sees the people on the threshing floor, wanting to transform them into fighters for the current struggle, I understood that quite clearly. But when he silently muses on "the new... person," it also made me muse for a long time: (1) The original word for "person" — in the Japanese translation it is "ningen" (人間), and in the German translation "Mensch," both singular but sometimes also interpretable as "people"; (2) his wanting "a new, excellent, strong, compassionate person" right now — the hope seems too extravagant, too abstract. I then considered his background — the son of a merchant, an intellectual — and from this surmised that his fighting was for a classless society after class struggle. So I took the person he was thinking of in the present moment and, following my own subjective error, transported him to the future, turning him moreover into "people" — humankind. Before you pointed this out, I even thought my interpretation was quite brilliant. This is something that must be promptly declared and corrected for the reader. In sum, this year we have at last placed this monument of a novel before the readers here. The translation and printing went through considerable hardships, which have now faded from memory, but I truly do, as your letter says, love it like my own child, and from it I think of the child's children. There is also The Iron Flood, which I also love greatly. These two novels, though roughly made, are by no means sloppily made. Their iron characters and bloody battles are indeed enough to make the so-called "belles-lettres" that depict melancholy, sickly young scholars and coquettish beauties fade into utter nothingness before them. However, I share your view that this is only a small victory, and therefore I very much hope that more people will join forces to introduce more works. Within at least the next three years, we should have eight to ten monumental literary works about the Civil War era and the construction era, plus translations of several representative works that, though often called proletarian literature, still inevitably contain petty-bourgeois bias (like Barbusse) or Christian-socialist bias (like Sinclair), accompanied by analysis and rigorous criticism, explaining what is good and what is bad, for the purpose of comparison and reference. Then not only will the readers' understanding become clearer day by day, but new creative writers will also have gained correct models. Lu Xun December 28, 1931.
關於小說題材的通信（並Y及T來信） L．S．先生：要這樣冒昧地麻煩先生的心情，是抑制得很久的了，但像我們心目中的先生，大概不會淡漠一個熱忱青年的請教的吧。這樣幾度地思量之後，終於唐突地向你表示我們在文藝上——尤其是短篇小說上的遲疑和猶豫了。我們曾手寫了好幾篇短篇小說，所采取的題材：一個是專就其熟悉的小資產階級的青年，把那些在現時代所顯現和潛伏的一般的弱點，用諷刺的藝術手腕表示出來；一個是專就其熟悉的下層人物——在現時代大潮流沖擊圈外的下層人物，把那些在生活重壓下強烈求生的欲望的朦朧反抗的沖動，刻劃在創作裏面，——不知這樣內容的作品，究竟對現時代，有沒有配說得上有貢獻的意義？我們初則遲疑，繼則提起筆又猶豫起來了。這須請先生給我們一個指示，因為我們不願意在文藝上的努力，對於目前的時代，成為白費氣力，毫無意義的。我們決定在這一個時代裏，把我們的精力放在有意義的文藝上，借此表示我們應有的助力和貢獻，並不是先生所說的那一輩略有小名，便去而之他的文人。因此，目前如果先生願給我們以指示，這指示便會影響到我們終身的。雖然也曾看見過好些普羅作家的創作，但總不願把一些虛構的人物使其翻一個身就革命起來，卻喜歡捉幾個熟悉的模特兒，真真實實地刻劃出來——這脾氣是否妥當，確又沒有十分的把握了。所以三番五次的思維，只有冒昧地來唐突先生了。即祝近好！ Ts－c．Y．及Y－f．T．上十一月廿九日。回信 Y及T先生：接到來信後，未及回答，就染了流行性感冒，頭重眼腫，連一個字也不能寫，近幾天總算好起來了，這才來寫回信。同在上遊，而竟拖延到一個月，這是非常抱歉的。兩位所問的，是寫短篇小說的時候，取來應用的材料的問題。而作者所站的立場，如信上所寫，則是小資產階級的立場。如果是戰鬥的無產者，只要所寫的是可以成為藝術品的東西，那就無論他所描寫的是什麽事情，所使用的是什麽材料，對於現代以及將來一定是有貢獻的意義的。為什麽呢？因為作者本身便是一個戰鬥者。但兩位都並非那一階級，所以當動筆之先，就發生了來信所說似的疑問。我想，這對於目前的時代，還是有意義的，然而假使永是這樣的脾氣，卻是不妥當的。別階級的文藝作品，大抵和正在戰鬥的無產者不相幹。小資產階級如果其實並非與無產階級一氣，則其憎惡或諷刺同階級，從無產者看來，恰如較有聰明才力的公子憎恨家裏的沒出息子弟一樣，是一家子裏面的事，無須管得，更說不到損益。例如法國的戈兼，痛恨資產階級，而他本身還是一個道道地地資產階級的作家。倘寫下層人物（我以為他們是不會“在現時代大潮流沖擊圈外”的）罷，所謂客觀其實是樓上的冷眼，所謂同情也不過空虛的布施，於無產者並無補助。而且後來也很難言。例如也是法國人的波特萊爾，當巴黎公社初起時，他還很感激贊助，待到勢力一大，覺得於自己的生活將要有害，就變成反動了。但就目前的中國而論，我以為所舉的兩種題材，卻還有存在的意義。如第一種，非同階級是不能深知的，加以襲擊，撕其面具，當比不熟悉此中情形者更加有力。如第二種，則生活狀態，當隨時代而變更，後來的作者，也許不及看見，隨時記載下來，至少也可以作這一時代的記錄。所以對於現在以及將來，還是都有意義的。不過即使“熟悉”，卻未必便是“正確”，取其有意義之點，指示出來，使那意義格外分明，擴大，那是正確的批評家的任務。因此我想，兩位是可以各就自己現在能寫的題材，動手來寫的。不過選材要嚴，開掘要深，不可將一點瑣屑的沒有意思的事故，便填成一篇，以創作豐富自樂。這樣寫去，到一個時候，我料想必將覺得寫完，——雖然這樣的題材的人物，即使幾十年後，還有作為殘滓而存留，但那時來加以描寫刻劃的，將是別一種作者，別一樣看法了。然而兩位都是向著前進的青年，又抱著對於時代有所助力和貢獻的意誌，那時也一定能逐漸克服自己的生活和意識，看見新路的。總之，我的意思是：現在能寫什麽，就寫什麽，不必趨時，自然更不必硬造一個突變式的革命英雄，自稱“革命文學”；但也不可茍安於這一點，沒有改革，以致沈沒了自己——也就是消滅了對於時代的助力和貢獻。此復，即頌近佳。 L．S．啟。十二月二十五日。	Correspondence on the Subject Matter of Fiction (Together with the Letters of Y and T) L. S., Sir: The impulse to trouble you so presumptuously with our concerns has been suppressed for a long time, but a man of your kind, as we envision you, would probably not be indifferent to the inquiries of two earnest young people. After several rounds of such deliberation, we have finally ventured to express to you our hesitation and indecision regarding literature — especially regarding the short story. We have written several short stories by hand, and the subject matter we have chosen falls into two categories: one focuses on the petty-bourgeois youth with whom we are familiar, using satirical artistic technique to expose the weaknesses — both manifest and latent — that this class displays in the present age; the other focuses on the lower-class people with whom we are familiar — lower-class people outside the direct impact zone of the great currents of the present age — and depicts in our creative work the intense desire for survival and the dim stirrings of resistance under the heavy pressure of life. We do not know whether works of such content can, in the present age, claim to have any meaningful contribution. We were at first hesitant, and then, upon picking up our pens, we hesitated again. We must ask you to give us some guidance, for we do not wish our literary efforts to become, in the face of the present age, a waste of energy and utterly meaningless. We are determined, in this era, to devote our energies to meaningful literature, thereby expressing what assistance and contribution we should offer. We are not the sort of writers you have described — those who, upon gaining a small reputation, take themselves elsewhere. Therefore, if you are willing to give us guidance at this moment, that guidance will influence us for life. Although we have also read the creative works of various proletarian writers, we are unwilling to take some fictional character and, with a single flip, have him turn revolutionary. We prefer to seize a few familiar models and depict them truly and faithfully — but whether this inclination is appropriate, we have no certainty. So, after thinking it over again and again, we can only presumptuously impose upon you. With best wishes for your well-being! Ts-c. Y. and Y-f. T., November 29th. Reply Y and T, Sirs: After receiving your letter, before I could reply I came down with influenza — my head heavy, my eyes swollen, unable to write a single character. These past few days I have finally recovered somewhat, and only now do I write this reply. We are in the same city, yet I have dragged things out for a month — for which I am extremely sorry. What you two ask about is the question of the material taken up and employed when writing short stories. And the standpoint from which the authors write, as your letter states, is the standpoint of the petty bourgeoisie. If one were a combative proletarian, then whatever one described, whatever material one used — so long as what was written could become a work of art — it would certainly be of meaningful contribution to both the present and the future. Why? Because the author himself is a fighter. But you two are not of that class, which is why, before putting pen to paper, the kind of doubt you describe in your letter arose. I think that for the present age, this still has meaning. However, if this disposition persists forever unchanged, it would not be appropriate. The literary works of other classes are, for the most part, irrelevant to the proletariat in active combat. If the petty bourgeoisie is not truly in solidarity with the proletariat, then its hatred or satire of its own class, from the proletarian point of view, is exactly like a rather clever and capable young master despising the good-for-nothing sons in his own family — a family affair, no concern of outsiders, and far from affecting any profit or loss. Take for example the Frenchman Courteline (戈兼), who loathed the bourgeoisie, yet was himself through and through a bourgeois writer. If one writes about the lower classes (I believe they are never "outside the direct impact zone of the great currents of the present age"), the so-called objectivity is really just the cold gaze from an upper floor; the so-called sympathy is merely empty almsgiving — of no help to the proletariat. And later, things become even harder to predict. For example, another Frenchman, Baudelaire, at the start of the Paris Commune still felt admiration and support, but when the movement grew powerful enough to threaten his own way of life, he turned reactionary. Yet as far as present-day China is concerned, I believe the two types of subject matter you mention still have reason to exist. As for the first type: only someone of the same class can know it intimately, and to attack it, to tear off its mask, must be more powerful when done by someone familiar with the situation than by an outsider. As for the second type: living conditions change with the times, and later authors may not have the chance to witness them. To record them in real time is at the very least to create a document of this era. Therefore, for both the present and the future, there is still meaning. However, even if one is "familiar" with something, that does not necessarily mean one is "correct." To extract the meaningful points and highlight them, making that meaning all the more distinct and amplified — that is the task of the correct critic. Therefore, I think you two can each take up whatever subject matter you are currently able to write about and begin writing. But you must be strict in selecting your material and dig deep. You must not take some trivial, meaningless incident and pad it out into a story, congratulating yourselves on your prolific output. Writing in this way, at a certain point, I expect you will feel that you have written it all out — although the human types represented by such subject matter may still linger as residue even decades hence, those who come to depict and portray them then will be different authors with a different perspective. But you are both young people moving forward, with the aspiration to assist and contribute to the age, and at that time you will surely be able to gradually overcome your own life and consciousness and discover a new path. In sum, my view is this: write whatever you are currently able to write, without chasing fashion, and certainly without forcibly fabricating some abruptly-transformed revolutionary hero and calling it "revolutionary literature." But neither should you rest comfortably on this alone, making no progress, until you sink into oblivion — which would also mean the extinction of your assistance and contribution to the age. In reply, with best wishes for your well-being. L. S. December 25th.
——為美國《新群眾》作現在，在中國，無產階級的革命的文藝運動，其實就是惟一的文藝運動。因為這乃是荒野中的萌芽，除此以外，中國已經毫無其他文藝。屬於統治階級的所謂“文藝家”，早已腐爛到連所謂“為藝術的藝術”以至“頹廢”的作品也不能生產，現在來抵制左翼文藝的，只有誣蔑，壓迫，囚禁和殺戮；來和左翼作家對立的，也只有流氓，偵探，走狗，劊子手了。這一點，已經由兩年以來的事實，證明得十分明白。前年，最初紹介蒲力汗諾夫（Plekhanov）和盧那卡爾斯基（Lunacharsky）的文藝理論進到中國的時候，先使一位白璧德先生（Mr．ProfA Irving Babbitt）的門徒，感覺銳敏的“學者”憤慨，他以為文藝原不是無產階級的東西，無產者倘要創作或鑒賞文藝，先應該辛苦地積錢，爬上資產階級去，而不應該大家渾身襤褸，到這花園中來吵嚷。並且造出謠言，說在中國主張無產階級文學的人，是得了蘇俄的盧布。這方法也並非毫無效力，許多上海的新聞記者就時時捏造新聞，有時還登出盧布的數目。但明白的讀者們並不相信它，因為比起這種紙上的新聞來，他們卻更切實地在事實上看見只有從帝國主義國家運到殺戮無產者的槍炮。統治階級的官僚，感覺比學者慢一點，但去年也就日加迫壓了。禁期刊，禁書籍，不但內容略有革命性的，而且連書面用紅字的，作者是俄國的，綏拉菲摩維支（A．Serafmovitch），伊凡諾夫（Ｖ．Ivanov）和奧格涅夫（N．Ognev）不必說了，連契訶夫（Ａ．Chekhov）和安特來夫（L．Andreev）的有些小說也都在禁止之列。於是使書店好出算學教科書和童話，如Mr．Cat和MisRos談天，稱贊春天如何可愛之類——因為至爾妙倫所作的童話的譯本也已被禁止，所以只好竭力稱贊春天。但現在又有一位將軍發怒，說動物居然也能說話而且稱為Mr．，有失人類的尊嚴了。單是禁止，還不根本的辦法，於是今年有五個左翼作家失了蹤，經家族去探聽，知道是在警備司令部，然而不能相見，半月以後，再去問時，卻道已經“解放”——這是“死刑”的嘲弄的名稱——了，而上海的一切中文和西文的報章上，絕無記載。接著是封閉曾出新書或代售新書的書店，多的時候，一天五家，——但現在又陸續開張了，我們不知道是怎麽一回事，惟看書店的廣告，知道是在竭力印些英漢對照，如斯蒂文生（Robert Stevenson），槐爾特（Oscar Wilde）等人的文章。然而統治階級對於文藝，也並非沒有積極的建設。一方面，他們將幾個書店的原先的老板和店員趕開，暗暗換上肯聽嗾使的自己的一夥。但這立刻失敗了。因為裏面滿是走狗，這書店便像一座威嚴的衙門，而中國的衙門，是人民所最害怕最討厭的東西，自然就沒有人去。喜歡去跑跑的還是幾只閑逛的走狗。這樣子，又怎能使門市熱鬧呢？但是，還有一方面，是做些文章，印行雜誌，以代被禁止的左翼的刊物，至今為止，已將十種。然而這也失敗了。最有妨礙的是這些“文藝”的主持者，乃是一位上海市的政府委員和一位警備司令部的偵緝隊長，他們的善於“解放”的名譽，都比“創作”要大得多。他們倘做一部“殺戮法”或“偵探術”，大約倒還有人要看的，但不幸竟在想畫畫，吟詩。這實在譬如美國的亨利·福特（Henry Ford）先生不談汽車，卻來對大家唱歌一樣，只令人覺得非常詫異。官僚的書店沒有人來，刊物沒有人看，救濟的方法，是去強迫早經有名，而並不分明左傾的作者來做文章，幫助他們的刊物的流布。那結果，是只有一兩個胡塗的中計，多數卻至今未曾動筆，有一個竟嚇得躲到不知道什麽地方去了。現在他們裏面的最寶貴的文藝家，是當左翼文藝運動開始，未受迫害，為革命的青年所擁護的時候，自稱左翼，而現在爬到他們的刀下，轉頭來害左翼作家的幾個人。為什麽被他們所寶貴的呢？因為他曾經是左翼，所以他們的有幾種刊物，那面子還有一部分是通紅的，但將其中的農工的圖，換上了畢亞茲萊（Aubrey Beardsley）的個個好像病人的圖畫了。在這樣的情形之下，那些讀者們，凡是一向愛讀舊式的強盜小說的和新式的肉欲小說的，倒並不覺得不便。然而較進步的青年，就覺得無書可讀，他們不得已，只得看看空話很多，內容極少——這樣的才不至於被禁止——的書，姑且安慰饑渴，因為他們知道，與其去買官辦的催吐的毒劑，還不如喝喝空杯，至少，是不至於受害。但一大部分革命的青年，卻無論如何，仍在非常熱烈地要求，擁護，發展左翼文藝。所以，除官辦及其走狗辦的刊物之外，別的書店的期刊，還是不能不設種種方法，加入幾篇比較的急進的作品去，他們也知道專賣空杯，這生意決難久長。左翼文藝有革命的讀者大眾支持，“將來”正屬於這一面。這樣子，左翼文藝仍在滋長。但自然是好像壓於大石之下的萌芽一樣，在曲折地滋長。所可惜的，是左翼作家之中，還沒有農工出身的作家。一者，因為農工歷來只被迫壓，榨取，沒有略受教育的機會；二者，因為中國的象形——現在是早已變得連形也不像了——的方塊字，使農工雖是讀書十年，也還不能任意寫出自己的意見。這事情很使拿刀的“文藝家”喜歡。他們以為受教育能到會寫文章，至少一定是小資產階級，小資產者應該抱住自己的小資產，現在卻反而傾向無產者，那一定是“虛偽”。惟有反對無產階級文藝的小資產階級的作家倒是出於“真”心的。“真”比“偽”好，所以他們的對於左翼作家的誣蔑，壓迫，囚禁和殺戮，便是更好的文藝。但是，這用刀的“更好的文藝”，卻在事實上，證明了左翼作家們正和一樣在被壓迫被殺戮的無產者負著同一的運命，惟有左翼文藝現在在和無產者一同受難（Passion），將來當然也將和無產者一同起來。單單的殺人究竟不是文藝，他們也因此自己宣告了一無所有了。	— Written for the American New Masses At present, in China, the proletarian revolutionary literary movement is in fact the only literary movement. For this is a sprout in the wilderness; apart from it, China has absolutely no other literature. Those so-called "literary figures" belonging to the ruling class have long since rotted to the point where they cannot produce even so-called "art for art's sake" or "decadent" works. What now comes to suppress left-wing literature is nothing but slander, oppression, imprisonment, and murder; and those who stand against left-wing writers are nothing but thugs, detectives, running dogs, and executioners. This point has already been proven perfectly clearly by the facts of the last two years. The year before last, when the literary theories of Plekhanov and Lunacharsky were first introduced into China, they initially aroused the indignation of a disciple of Mr. Irving Babbitt — a keen-sensed "scholar" who held that literature was not something belonging to the proletariat. If proletarians wished to create or appreciate literature, they ought first to toil and save money and climb up into the bourgeoisie, rather than come barging into this garden in their rags, creating a ruckus. He also fabricated rumors, claiming that those who advocated proletarian literature in China were receiving rubles from Soviet Russia. This method was not entirely without effect: many Shanghai newspaper reporters would frequently concoct false reports, sometimes even publishing the exact amount of rubles. But clear-headed readers did not believe it, because compared with such paper news, they more tangibly observed in reality that the only things shipped from imperialist countries were guns and cannons for slaughtering the proletariat. The bureaucrats of the ruling class, a bit slower on the uptake than the scholars, by last year were also intensifying their repression. Banning periodicals, banning books — not only those with slightly revolutionary content, but even those with red lettering on the cover, or by Russian authors: Serafimovich, Ivanov, and Ognev go without saying, but even some stories by Chekhov and Andreyev were placed on the banned list. Thus bookstores found it safest to publish arithmetic textbooks and fairy tales — Mr. Cat and Miss Rose chatting together, praising how lovely spring is — because even the translations of fairy tales by the sort of Erzmolin had already been banned, so one could only do one's best to praise spring. But now a certain general has gotten angry, declaring that it is an affront to human dignity for animals to be able to speak and moreover to be addressed as "Mr." Mere prohibition is not a fundamental solution, and so this year five left-wing writers disappeared. When their families made inquiries, they learned the writers were at the Garrison Command — but were not allowed to visit. Half a month later, upon inquiring again, they were told the writers had been "liberated" — this being the mocking term for "execution" — while in all of Shanghai's Chinese and foreign-language newspapers, there was absolutely no report. Next came the closure of bookstores that had published or distributed new books — at times as many as five in a single day — though now some have reopened one after another, and we do not know how this came about. Judging by the bookstores' advertisements, they are doing their best to print English-Chinese bilingual editions — things like works by Robert Stevenson and Oscar Wilde. Yet the ruling class is not without positive construction in the realm of literature. On one hand, they have driven out the original owners and clerks of several bookstores and secretly replaced them with their own obedient confederates. But this immediately failed. Because the place was full of running dogs, the bookstore resembled a forbidding government office — and in China, government offices are the thing the people most fear and most detest, so naturally no one went. The only ones who liked to drop in were a few idle running dogs on a stroll. How could this possibly make business boom? But there is another side: writing articles and publishing magazines to replace the banned left-wing periodicals — to date, nearly ten titles. Yet this too has failed. The greatest obstacle is that the sponsors of these "literary" enterprises are a Shanghai municipal government commissioner and a detective squad chief of the Garrison Command, whose reputations for "liberation" far exceed their reputations for "creation." If they were to write a "Manual of Slaughter" or "The Art of Detection," there would probably be readers, but unfortunately they have taken it into their heads to paint pictures and compose poetry. This is really as if America's Henry Ford, instead of talking about automobiles, were to start singing to everyone — it would only cause extreme astonishment. When nobody comes to the bureaucrats' bookstore and nobody reads their publications, the remedy is to coerce writers who are already well-known but not clearly left-leaning to contribute articles, helping their publications circulate. The result is that only one or two muddleheaded writers have fallen for the trick; the majority have to this day not put pen to paper, and one has even been scared into hiding somewhere unknown. At present, the most prized "literary figures" on their side are a few who, when the left-wing literary movement began and was not yet being persecuted, when it was supported by revolutionary youth, called themselves left-wing — but who have now crawled over to the other side of the blade, turned around, and begun to harm left-wing writers. Why are they so prized? Because they once were left-wing. Thus several of their publications still have covers partly in bright red — but the illustrations of workers and peasants have been replaced by Aubrey Beardsley's drawings of figures who all look like invalids. Under such circumstances, those readers who have always enjoyed old-fashioned bandit novels and new-fashioned erotic novels do not feel the least inconvenience. But the more progressive young people find there is nothing to read. They have no choice but to look at books with plenty of empty talk and very little content — the kind that is not likely to be banned — to temporarily quench their thirst, because they know that rather than buying the government-made emetic poison, it is better to drink from an empty cup — at the very least, one will not be harmed. But a great many revolutionary young people, no matter what, are still extremely enthusiastically demanding, supporting, and developing left-wing literature. Therefore, apart from the government-run and running-dog-run publications, the periodicals of other bookstores still cannot help but find various methods to slip in a few comparatively radical works. They too know that selling nothing but empty cups is a business that cannot last long. Left-wing literature has the revolutionary reading masses to support it. The "future" belongs to this side. In this way, left-wing literature continues to grow. But naturally, it grows like a sprout crushed under a great stone — growing in twists and turns. What is regrettable is that among left-wing writers there are as yet no writers of worker or peasant origin. For one thing, workers and peasants have historically only been oppressed and exploited, without the slightest opportunity for education; for another, China's ideographic — by now they have long since changed to the point where they no longer even resemble what they depict — square block characters mean that even a peasant or worker who has studied for ten years still cannot freely write out his own opinions. This state of affairs greatly delights the "literary figures" who wield the knife. They reckon that anyone educated enough to be able to write essays must be at least petty bourgeois; a petty bourgeois ought to cling to his own petty assets; if instead he inclines toward the proletariat, it must be "hypocrisy." Only the petty-bourgeois writers who oppose proletarian literature are acting from a "true" heart. "True" is better than "false," and therefore their slander, oppression, imprisonment, and murder of left-wing writers constitute a superior form of literature. But this "superior literature" wielded with the knife has, in fact, proven that left-wing writers share the very same fate as the proletariat that is likewise being oppressed and slaughtered. Left-wing literature is now suffering its Passion alongside the proletariat, and in the future it will naturally also rise together with the proletariat. Mere killing, after all, is not literature — and by this they have also declared themselves to possess nothing at all.
在這一個多年之中，拚死命攻擊“硬譯”的名人，已經有了三代：首先是祖師梁實秋教授，其次是徒弟趙景深教授，最近就來了徒孫楊晉豪大學生。但這三代之中，卻要算趙教授的主張最為明白而且徹底了，那精義是——“與其信而不順，不如順而不信。” 這一條格言雖然有些希奇古怪，但對於讀者是有效力的。因為“信而不順”的譯文，一看便覺得費力，要借書來休養精神的讀者，自然就會佩服趙景深教授的格言。至於“順而不信”的譯文，卻是倘不對照原文，就連那“不信”在什麽地方都不知道。然而用原文來對照的讀者，中國有幾個呢。這時候，必須讀者比譯者知道得更多一點，才可以看出其中的錯誤，明白那“不信”的所在。否則，就只好胡裏胡塗的裝進腦子裏去了。我對於科學是知道得很少的，也沒有什麽外國書，只好看看譯本，但近來往往遇見疑難的地方。隨便舉幾個例子罷。《萬有文庫》裏的周太玄先生的《生物學淺說》裏，有這樣的一句—— “最近如尼爾及厄爾兩氏之對於麥……” 據我所知道，在瑞典有一個生物學名家Nilsson Ehle是考驗小麥的遺傳的，但他是一個人而兼兩姓，應該譯作“尼爾生厄爾”才對。現在稱為“兩氏”，又加了“及”，順是順的，卻很使我疑心是別的兩位了。不過這是小問題，雖然，要講生物學，連這些小節也不應該忽略，但我們姑且模模胡胡罷。今年的三月號《小說月報》上馮厚生先生譯的《老人》裏，又有這樣的一句—— “他由傷寒病變為流行性的感冒（Influenza）的重病……” 這也是很“順”的，但據我所知道，流行性感冒並不比傷寒重，而且一個是呼吸系病，一個是消化系病，無論你怎樣“變”，也“變”不過去的。須是“傷風”或“中寒”，這才變得過去。但小說不比《生物學淺說》，我們也姑且模模胡胡罷。這回另外來看一個奇特的實驗。這一種實驗，是出在何定傑及張誌耀兩位合譯的美國Conklin所作的《遺傳與環境》裏面的。那譯文是——“……他們先取出兔眼睛內髓質之晶體，註射於家禽，等到家禽眼中生成一種‘代晶質’，足以透視這種外來的蛋白質精以後，再取出家禽之血清，而註射於受孕之雌兔。雌兔經此番註射，每不能堪，多遭死亡，但是他們的眼睛或晶體並不見有若何之傷害，並且他們卵巢內所蓄之卵，亦不見有什麽特別之傷害，因為就他們以後所生的小兔看來，並沒有生而具殘缺不全之眼者。” 這一段文章，也好像是頗“順”，可以懂得的。但仔細一想，卻不免不懂起來了。一，“髓質之晶體”是什麽？因為水晶體是沒有髓質皮質之分的。二，“代晶質”又是什麽？三，“透視外來的蛋白質”又是怎麽一回事？我沒有原文能對，實在苦惱得很，想來想去，才以為恐怕是應該改譯為這樣的——“他們先取兔眼內的制成漿狀（以便註射）的水晶體，註射於家禽，等到家禽感應了這外來的蛋白質（即漿狀的水晶體）而生‘抗晶質’（即抵抗這漿狀水晶體的物質）。然後再取其血清，而註射於懷孕之雌兔。……” 以上不過隨手引來的幾個例，此外情隨事遷，忘卻了的還不少，有許多為我所不知道的，那自然就都溜過去，或者照樣錯誤地裝在我的腦裏了。但即此幾個例子，我們就已經可以決定，譯得“信而不順”的至多不過看不懂，想一想也許能懂，譯得“順而不信”的卻令人迷誤，怎樣想也不會懂，如果好像已經懂得，那麽你正是入了迷途了。	In the space of these several years, the celebrated personages who have thrown themselves body and soul into attacking "hard translation" have already spanned three generations: first came the founding patriarch, Professor Liang Shiqiu (梁實秋); next came the disciple, Professor Zhao Jingshen (趙景深); and most recently the disciple's disciple, the university student Yang Jinhao (楊晉豪). But of these three generations, it must be said that Professor Zhao's position was the most clear-cut and thoroughgoing, the essence of which was: "Rather smooth and unfaithful than faithful and unsmooth." This maxim, though somewhat peculiar, does have an effect on readers. For a "faithful but unsmooth" translation is immediately felt to be laborious, and readers who pick up a book merely to rest their minds will naturally come to admire Professor Zhao Jingshen's maxim. As for "smooth but unfaithful" translations, however—unless one checks them against the original, one cannot even tell where the "unfaithfulness" lies. And how many readers in China ever check against the original? Here one must already know more than the translator before one can detect the errors and identify where the "unfaithfulness" resides. Otherwise, one can only swallow it all in a muddle. My own knowledge of science is very limited, and I don't have many foreign books, so I can only read translations—but lately I have been running into puzzling passages more and more often. Let me just cite a few examples at random. In Mr. Zhou Taixuan's (周太玄) "Brief Account of Biology" in the Wanyou Wenku series, there is this sentence: "Recently, the two gentlemen Niel and Ehle, regarding wheat..." As far as I know, there is a famous Swedish biologist named Nilsson-Ehle who tested the heredity of wheat, but he is one person with two surnames, and should properly be translated as "Nilsson-Ehle." To call him "two gentlemen" with an "and" inserted is smooth enough, but it makes me strongly suspect these are two different people. This is a minor matter, of course—though if we are to discuss biology, even such small details should not be overlooked—but let us be vague about it for now. In the March issue of this year's Fiction Monthly, in Mr. Feng Housheng's (馮厚生) translation of "The Old Man," there is also this sentence: "His typhoid fever developed into a severe case of influenza..." This too is very "smooth," but as far as I know, influenza is not more severe than typhoid, and moreover one is a respiratory disease while the other is a digestive disease—no matter how you "develop," you cannot cross from one to the other. It would have to be a "cold" or "chill" for the development to make sense. But a novel is not a "Brief Account of Biology," so let us be vague about this too. This time, let us look at a peculiar experiment instead. This experiment appears in the translation of E.G. Conklin's "Heredity and Environment" by He Dingjie (何定傑) and Zhang Zhiyao (張誌耀). The translation reads: "...They first extracted the medullary crystalline body from rabbit eyes, injected it into poultry, and waited until a 'substitute crystalline substance' was generated in the poultry's eyes, sufficient to see through this foreign protein essence, then extracted the poultry's blood serum and injected it into pregnant female rabbits. The female rabbits, after this injection, often could not bear it, and many died; however, their eyes or crystalline bodies showed no discernible damage, and the eggs stored in their ovaries likewise showed no special damage, for among the young rabbits they subsequently bore, none was born with defective eyes." This passage also seems fairly "smooth" and comprehensible. But upon closer reflection, one cannot help becoming confused. First, what is a "medullary crystalline body"? The crystalline lens has no distinction between medulla and cortex. Second, what is a "substitute crystalline substance"? Third, what does it mean to "see through foreign protein"? I do not have the original text to check against, and was quite distressed, but after much thought I concluded it should probably be retranslated as follows: "They first took the crystalline lens from rabbit eyes, prepared it into a liquid form (for injection), and injected it into poultry, waiting until the poultry developed a reaction to this foreign protein (i.e., the liquefied crystalline lens) and produced an 'anti-crystalline substance' (i.e., a substance that resists the liquefied crystalline lens). They then extracted the blood serum and injected it into pregnant female rabbits..." The above are merely a few examples picked up at random; beyond these, as circumstances change, there are not a few I have forgotten, and many I simply did not notice naturally slipped past, or were perhaps stored erroneously in my brain just as they were. But from these few examples alone, we can already determine that a translation that is "faithful but unsmooth" is at worst merely incomprehensible—think a bit and you may understand it—whereas a translation that is "smooth but unfaithful" leads one into error, and no amount of thinking will make it comprehensible. If you think you have understood it, then you have precisely entered into a blind alley.
柔石，原名平復，姓趙，以一九〇一年生於浙江省臺州寧海縣的市門頭。前幾代都是讀書的，到他的父親，家景已不能支，只好去營小小的商業，所以他直到十歲，這才能入小學。一九一七年赴杭州，入第一師範學校；一面為杭州晨光社之一員，從事新文學運動。畢業後，在慈溪等處為小學教師，且從事創作，有短篇小說集《瘋人》一本，即在寧波出版，是為柔石作品印行之始。一九二三年赴北京，為北京大學旁聽生。回鄉後，於一九二五年春，為鎮海中學校務主任，抵抗北洋軍閥的壓迫甚力。秋，咯血，但仍力助寧海青年，創辦寧海中學，至次年，竟得募集款項，造成校舍；一面又任教育局局長，改革全縣的教育。一九二八年四月，鄉村發生暴動。失敗後，到處反動，較新的全被摧毀，寧海中學既遭解散，柔石也單身出走，寓居上海，研究文藝。十二月為《語絲》編輯，又與友人設立朝華社，於創作之外，並致力於紹介外國文藝，尤其是北歐，東歐的文學與版畫，出版的有《朝華》周刊二十期，旬刊十二期，及《藝苑朝華》五本。後因代售者不付書價，力不能支，遂中止。一九三〇年春，自由運動大同盟發動，柔石為發起人之一；不久，左翼作家聯盟成立，他也為基本構成員之一，盡力於普羅文學運動。先被選為執行委員，次任常務委員編輯部主任；五月間，以左聯代表的資格，參加全國蘇維埃區域代表大會，畢後，作《一個偉大的印象》一篇。一九三一年一月十七日被捕，由巡捕房經特別法庭移交龍華警備司令部，二月七日晚，被秘密槍決，身中十彈。柔石有子二人，女一人，皆幼。文學上的成績，創作有詩劇《人間的喜劇》，未印，小說《舊時代之死》，《三姊妹》，《二月》，《希望》，翻譯有盧那卡爾斯基的《浮士德與城》，戈理基的《阿爾泰莫諾夫氏之事業》及《丹麥短篇小說集》等。	Rou Shi (柔石), original name Pingfu (平復), surname Zhao (趙), was born in 1901 in Shimendou, Ninghai County, Taizhou Prefecture, Zhejiang Province. For several generations before him, the family had been scholars, but by his father's time the family could no longer sustain itself and had to engage in petty commerce, so it was not until the age of ten that he was able to enter primary school. In 1917 he went to Hangzhou and enrolled in the First Normal School; at the same time, as a member of Hangzhou's Morning Light Society, he took part in the New Literature movement. After graduation, he served as a primary school teacher in Cixi and other places, while also engaging in creative writing. He had a collection of short stories, "The Madman," published in Ningbo—this was the beginning of Rou Shi's published works. In 1923 he went to Beijing and became an auditing student at Peking University. After returning to his hometown, in the spring of 1925, he became the chief administrator of Zhenhai Middle School and vigorously resisted the oppression of the Northern Warlords. In the autumn, he began coughing blood, yet still did his utmost to help the youth of Ninghai, founding Ninghai Middle School. By the following year, he had managed to raise funds and construct school buildings; at the same time he served as director of the Bureau of Education, reforming the county's entire educational system. In April 1928, a rural uprising broke out. After its failure, reaction swept everywhere, everything even slightly progressive was destroyed, Ninghai Middle School was dissolved, and Rou Shi fled alone to Shanghai, where he took up residence and devoted himself to the study of literature and art. In December he became the editor of Threads of Talk (Yusi), and together with friends established the Morning Flowers Society. In addition to his own creative work, he devoted himself to introducing foreign literature and art, especially the literature and prints of Northern and Eastern Europe. They published twenty issues of the Morning Flowers weekly, twelve issues of the ten-day periodical, and five volumes of "Art Garden: Morning Flowers." Later, because the distributors refused to pay for the books, they could no longer sustain the enterprise and had to cease publication. In the spring of 1930, the Freedom Movement Alliance was launched, and Rou Shi was one of its founders. Not long after, when the League of Left-Wing Writers was established, he was also one of its founding members and devoted himself entirely to the proletarian literary movement. He was first elected to the Executive Committee, then appointed Standing Committee Member and Chief of the Editorial Department. In May, as a representative of the Left-Wing League, he participated in the National Congress of Soviet Districts, after which he wrote the essay "A Great Impression." On January 17, 1931, he was arrested. Transferred from the patrol station through a special tribunal to the Longhua Garrison Command, on the evening of February 7 he was secretly executed by firing squad, his body struck by ten bullets. Rou Shi left behind two sons and one daughter, all young children. His literary achievements include the verse drama "The Comedy of Humankind" (unpublished), the novels "Death of the Old Era," "Three Sisters," "February," and "Hope," and translations including Lunacharsky's "Faust and the City," Gorky's "The Artamanovs' Business," and "A Collection of Danish Short Stories," among others.
上海過去的文藝，開始的是《申報》。要講《申報》，是必須追溯到六十年以前的，但這些事我不知道。我所能記得的，是三十年以前，那時的《申報》，還是用中國竹紙的，單面印，而在那里做文章的，則多是從別處跑來的『才子』。那時的讀書人，大概可以分他爲兩種，就是君子和才子。君子是只讀四書五經，做八股，非常規矩的。而才子却此外還要看小說，例如《紅樓夢》，還要做考試上用不着的古今體詩之類。這是說，才子是公開的看《紅樓夢》的，但君子是否在背地裏也看《紅樓夢》，則我無從知道。有了上海的租界，——那時叫作『洋場』，也叫『夷場』，後來有怕犯諱的，便往往寫作『彜場』——有些才子們便跑到上海來，因爲才子是曠達的，那里都去；君子則對於外國人的東西總有點厭惡，而且正在想求正路的功名，所以決不輕易的亂跑。孔子曰，『道不行，乘桴浮於海』，從才子們看來，就是有點才子氣的，所以君子們的行徑，在才子就謂之『迂』。才子原是多愁多病，要聞雞生氣，見月傷心的。一到上海，又遇見了婊子。去嫖的時候，可以叫十個二十個的年青姑娘聚集在一處，樣子很有些像《紅樓夢》，於是他就覺得自己好像賈寶玉；自己是才子，那麽婊子當然是佳人，於是才子佳人的書就產生了。內容多半是，惟才子能憐這些風塵淪落的佳人，惟佳人能識坎軻不遇的才子，受盡千辛萬苦之後，終於成了佳偶，或者是都成了神仙。他們又幫申報館印行些明清的小品書出售，自己也立文社，出燈謎，有入選的，就用這些書做贈品，所以那流通很廣遠。也有大部書，如《儒林外史》，《三寶太監西洋記》，《快心編》等。現在我們在舊書攤上，有時還看見第一頁印有『上海申報館仿聚珍板印』字樣的小本子，那就都是的。佳人才子的書盛行的好幾年，後一輩的才子的心思就漸漸改變了。他們發見了佳人並非因爲『愛才若渴』而做婊子的，佳人祇爲的是錢。然而佳人要才子的錢，是不應該的，才子於是想了種種制伏婊子的妙法，不但不上當，還佔了她們的便宜，敍述這各種手段的小說就出現了，社會上也很風行，因爲可以做嫖學教科書去讀。這些書裏面的主人公，不再是才子+（加）獃子，而是在婊子那里得了勝利的英雄豪傑，是才子+流氓。在這之前，早已出現了一種畫報，名目就叫《點石齋畫報》，是吳友如主筆的，神仙人物，內外新聞，無所不畫，但對於外國事情，他很不明白，例如畫戰艦罷，是一隻商船，而艙面上擺着野戰砲；畫決鬭則兩個穿禮服的軍人在客廳裏拔長刀相擊，至於將花瓶也打落跌碎。然而他畫『老鴇虐妓』，『流氓拆梢』之類，却實在畫得很好的，我想，這是因爲他看得太多了的緣故；就是在現在，我們在上海也常常看到和他所畫一般的臉孔。這畫報的勢力，當時是很大的，流行各省，算是要知道『時務』——這名稱在那時就如現在之所謂『新學』——的人們的耳目。前幾年又翻印了，叫作《吳友如墨寶》，而影響到後來也實在厲害，小說上的繡像不必說了，就是在教科書的插畫上，也常常看見所畫的孩子大抵是歪戴帽，斜視眼，滿臉橫肉，一副流氓氣。在現在，新的流氓畫家又出了葉靈鳳先生，葉先生的畫是從英國的畢亞茲萊（Aubrey Beardsley）剝來的，畢亞茲萊是『爲藝術的藝術』派，他的畫極受日本的『浮世繪』（Ukiyoe）的影響。浮世繪雖是民間藝術，但所畫的多是妓女和戲子，胖胖的身體，斜視的眼睛——Erotic（色情的）眼睛。不過畢亞茲萊畫的人物却瘦瘦的，那是因爲他是頹廢派（Decadence）的緣故。頹廢派的人們多是瘦削的，頹喪的，對於壯健的女人他有點慚愧，所以不喜歡。我們的葉先生的新斜眼畫，正和吳友如的老斜眼畫合流，那自然應該流行好幾年。但他也並不只畫流氓的，有一個時期也畫過普羅列塔利亞，不過所畫的工人也還是斜視眼，伸着特別大的拳頭。但我以爲畫普羅列塔利亞應該是寫實的，照工人原來的面貌，並不須畫得拳頭比腦袋還要大。現在的中國電影，還在很受着這『才子+流氓』式的影響，裏面的英雄，作爲『好人』的英雄，也都是油頭滑腦的，和一些住慣了上海，曉得怎樣『拆梢』，『揩油』，『吊膀子』的滑頭少年一樣。看了之後，令人覺得現在倘要做英雄，做好人，也必須是流氓。才子+流氓的小說，但也漸漸的衰退了。那原因，我想，一則因爲總是這一套老調子——妓女要錢，嫖客用手段，原不會寫不完的；二則因爲所用的是蘇白，如什麽倪=我，耐=你，阿是=是否之類，除了老上海和江浙的人們之外，誰也看不懂。然而才子+佳人的書，却又出了一本當時震動一時的小說，那就是從英文翻譯過來的《迦茵小傳》（H.R.Haggard: Joan Haste）。但只有上半本，據譯者說，原本從舊書攤上得來，非常之好，可惜覓不到下册，無可奈何了。果然，這很打動了才子佳人們的芳心，流行得很廣很廣。後來還至於打動了林琴南先生，將全部譯出，仍舊名爲《迦茵小傳》。而同時受了先譯者的大罵，說他不該全譯，使迦茵的價值降低，給讀者以不快的。於是纔知道先前之所以只有半部，實非原本殘缺，乃是因爲記着迦茵生了一個私生子，譯者故意不譯的。其實這樣的一部並不很長的書，外國也不至於分印成兩本。但是，卽此一端，也很可以看出當時中國對於婚姻的見解了。這時新的才子+佳人小說便又流行起來，但佳人已是良家女子了，和才子相悅相戀，分拆不開，柳陰花下，像一對胡蝶，一雙鴛鴦一樣，但有時因爲嚴親，或者因爲薄命，也竟至於偶見悲劇的結局，不再都成神仙了，——這實在不能不說是一個大進步。到了近來是在製造兼可擦臉的牙粉了的天虛我生先生所編的月刊雜誌《眉語》出現的時候，是這鴛鴦胡蝶式文學的極盛時期。後來《眉語》雖遭禁止，勢力却並不消退，直待《新青年》盛行起來，這纔受了打擊。這時有伊孛生的劇本的紹介和胡適之先生的《終身大事》的別一形式的出現，雖然並不是故意的，然而鴛鴦胡蝶派作爲命根的那婚姻問題，却也因此而諾拉（Nora）似的跑掉了。這後來，就有新才子派的創造社的出現。創造社是尊貴天才的，爲藝術而藝術的，專重自我的，崇創作，惡翻譯，尤其憎惡重譯的，與同時上海的文學研究會相對立。那出馬的第一個廣告上，說有人『壟斷』着文壇，就是指着文學研究會。文學研究會却也正相反，是主張爲人生的藝術的，是一面創作，一面也看重翻譯的，是注意於紹介被壓迫民族文學的，這些都是小國度，沒有人懂得他們的文字，因此也幾乎全都是重譯的。並且因爲曾經聲援過《新青年》，新讎夾舊讎，所以文學研究會這時就受了三方面的攻擊。一方面就是創造社，旣然是天才的藝術，那麽看那爲人生的藝術的文學研究會自然就是多管閑事，不免有些『俗』氣，而且還以爲無能，所以倘被發見一處誤譯，有時竟至於特做一篇長長的專論。一方面是留學過美國的紳士派，他們以爲文藝是專給老爺太太們看的，所以主角除老爺太太之外，只配有文人，學士，藝術家，教授，小姐等等，要會說Yes，No，這才是紳士的莊嚴，那時吳宓先生就曾經發表過文章，說是眞不懂爲什麽有些人竟喜歡描寫下流社會。第三方面，則就是以前說過的鴛鴦胡蝶派，我不知道他們用的是什麽方法，到底使書店老板將編輯《小說月報》的一個文學研究會會員撤換，還出了《小說世界》，來流布他們的文章。這一種刊物，是到了去年才停刊的。創造社的這一戰，從表面看來，是勝利的。許多作品，旣和當時的自命才子們的心情相合，加以出版者的幫助，勢力雄厚起來了。勢力一雄厚，就看見大商店如商務印書館，也有創造社員的譯著的出版，——這是說，郭沫若和張資平兩位先生的稿件。這以來，據我所記得，是創造社也不再審查商務印書館出版物的誤譯之處，來作專論了。這些地方，我想，是也有些才子+流氓式的。然而，『新上海』是究竟敵不過『老上海』的，創造社員在凱歌聲中，終於覺到了自己就在做自己們的出版者的商品，種種努力，在老板看來，就等於眼鏡鋪大玻璃窗裏紙人的䀹眼，不過是『以廣招徠』。待到希圖獨立出版的時候，老板就給喫了一場官司，雖然也終於獨立，說是一切書籍，大加改訂，另行印刷，從新開張了，然而舊老板却還是永遠用了舊版子，只是印，賣，而且年年是什麽紀念的大廉價。商品固然是做不下去的，獨立也活不下去。創造社的人們的去路，自然是在較有希望的『革命策源地』的廣東。在廣東，於是也有『革命文學』這名詞的出現，然而並無什麽作品，在上海，則並且還沒有這名詞。到了前年，『革命文學』這名目這纔旺盛起來了，主張的是從『革命策源地』囘來的幾個創造社元老和若干新份子。革命文學之所以旺盛起來，自然是因爲由於社會的背景，一般羣衆，青年有了這樣的要求。當從廣東開始北伐的時候，一般積極的青年都跑到實際工作去了，那時還沒有什麽顯著的革命文學運動，到了政治環境突然改變，革命遭了挫折，階級的分化非常顯明，國民黨以『清黨』之名，大戮共產黨及革命羣衆，而死剩的青年們再入於被迫壓的境遇，於是革命文學在上海這纔有了強烈的活動。所以這革命文學的旺盛起來，在表面上和別國不同，並非由於革命的高揚，而是因爲革命的挫折；雖然其中也有些是舊文人解下指揮刀來重理筆墨的舊業，有些是幾個青年被從實際工作排出，只好藉此謀生，但因爲實在具有社會的基礎，所以在新份子裏，是很有極堅實正確的人存在的。但那時的革命文學運動，據我的意見，是未經好好的計畫，很有些錯誤之處的。例如，第一，他們對於中國社會，未曾加以細密的分析，便將在蘇維埃政權之下纔能運用的方法，來機械的地運用了。再則他們，尤其是成仿吾先生，將革命使一般人理解爲非常可怕的事，擺着一種極左傾的兇惡的面貌，好似革命一到，一切非革命者就都得死，令人對革命只抱着恐怖。其實革命是並非教人死而是教人活的。這種令人『知道點革命的厲害』，只圖自己說得暢快的態度，也還是中了才子+流氓的毒。激烈得快的，也平和得快，甚至於也頹廢得快。倘在文人，他總有一番辯護自己的變化的理由，引經據典。譬如說，要人幫忙時候用克魯巴金的互助論，要和人爭鬭的時候就用達爾文的生存競爭說。無論古今，凡是沒有一定的理論，或主張的變化並無線索可尋，而隨時拿了各種各派的理論來作武器的人，都可以稱之爲流氓。例如上海的流氓，看見一男一女的鄉下人在走路，他就說，『喂，你們這樣子，有傷風化，你們犯了法了！』他用的是中國法。倘看見一個鄉下人在路旁小便呢，他就說，『喂，這是不准的，你犯了法，該捉到捕房去！』這時所用的又是外國法。但結果是無所謂法不法，只要被他敲去了幾個錢就都完事。在中國，去年的革命文學者和前年很有點不同了。這固然由於境遇的改變，但有些『革命文學者』的本身裏，還藏着容易犯到的病根。『革命』和『文學』，若斷若續，好像兩隻靠近的船，一隻是『革命』，一隻是『文學』，而作者的每一隻脚就站在每一隻船上面。當環境較好的時候，作者就在革命這一隻船上踏得重一點，分明是革命者，待到革命一被壓迫，則在文學的船上踏得重一點，他變了不過是文學家了。所以前年的主張十分激烈，以爲凡非革命文學，統得掃蕩的人，去年却記得了列寧愛看岡却羅夫（J.A.Gontcharov）的作品的故事，覺得非革命文學，意義倒也十分深長；還有最徹底的革命文學家葉靈鳳先生，他描寫革命家，徹底到每次上茅廁時候都用我的《吶喊》去揩屁股，現在却竟會莫名其妙的跟在所謂民族主義文學家屁股後面了。類似的例，還可以舉出向培良先生來。在革命漸漸高揚的時候，他是很革命的；他在先前，還曾經說，青年人不但嘷叫，還要露出狼牙來。這自然也不壞，但也應該小心，因爲狼是狗的祖宗，一到被人馴服的時候，是就要變而爲狗的。向培良先生現在在提倡人類的藝術了，他反對有階級的藝術的存在，而在人類中分出好人和壞人來，這藝術是『好壞鬭爭』的武器。狗也是將人分爲兩種的，豢養牠的主人之類是好人，別的窮人和乞丐在牠的眼裏就是壞人，不是叫，便是咬。然而這也還不算壞，因爲究竟還有一點野性，如果再一變而爲吧兒狗，好像不管閑事，而其實在給主子盡職，那就正如現在的自稱不問俗事的爲藝術而藝術的名人們一樣，只好去點綴大學教室了。這樣的翻着筋斗的小資產階級，卽使是在做革命文學家，寫着革命文學的時候，也最容易將革命寫歪；寫歪了，反於革命有害，所以他們的轉變，是毫不足惜的。當革命文學的運動勃興時，許多小資產階級的文學家忽然變過來了，那時用來解釋這現象的，是突變之說。但我們知道，所謂突變者，是說A要變B，幾個條件已經完備，而獨缺其一的時候，這一個條件一出現，於是就變成了B。譬如水的結冰，温度須到零點，同時又須有空氣的振動，倘沒有這，則卽便到了零點，也還是不結冰，這時空氣一振動，這纔突變而爲冰了。所以外面雖然好像突變，其實是並非突然的事。倘沒有應具的條件的，那就是卽使自說已變，實際上却並沒有變，所以有些忽然一天晚上自稱突變過來的小資產階級革命文學家，不久就又突變囘去了。去年左翼作家聯盟在上海的成立，是一件重要的事實。因爲這時已經輸入了蒲力汗諾夫，盧那卡爾斯基等的理論，給大家能夠互相切磋，更加堅實而有力，但也正因爲更加堅實而有力了，就受到世界上古今所少有的壓迫和摧殘，因爲有了這樣的迫壓和摧殘，就使那時以爲左翼文學將大出風頭，作家就要喫勞動者供獻上來的黃油麪包了的所謂革命文學家立刻現出原形，有的寫悔過書，有的是反轉來攻擊左聯，以顯出他今年的見識又進了一步。這雖然並非左聯直接的自動，然而也是一種掃蕩，這些作者，是無論變與不變，總寫不出好的作品來的。但現存的左翼作家，能寫出好的無產階級文學來麽？我想，也很難。這是因爲現在的左翼作家還都是讀書人——智識階級，他們要寫出革命的實際來，是很不容易的緣故。日本的廚川白村（H.Kuriyakawa）曾經提出過一個問題，說：作家之所描寫，必得是自己經驗過的麽？他自答道，不必，因爲他能夠體察。所以要寫偷，他不必親自去做賊，要寫通姦，他不必親自去私通。但我以爲這是因爲作家生長在舊社會裏，熟悉了舊社會的情形，看慣了舊社會的人物的緣故，所以他能夠體察；對於和他向來沒有關係的無產階級的情形和人物，他就會無能，或者弄成錯誤的描寫了。所以革命文學家，至少是必須和革命共同着生命，或深切地感受着革命的脈搏的。（最近左聯的提出了『作家的無產階級化』的口號，就是對於這一點的很正確的理解。）在現在中國這樣的社會中，最容易希望出現的，是反叛的小資產階級的反抗的，或暴露的作品。因爲他生長在這正在滅亡着的階級中，所以他有甚深的了解，甚大的憎惡，而向這刺下去的刀也最爲致命與有力。固然，有些貌似革命的作品，也並非要將本階級或資產階級推翻，倒在憎恨或失望於他們的不能改良，不能較長久的保持地位，所以從無產階級的見地看來，不過是『兄弟鬩於墻』，兩方一樣是敵對。但是，那結果，却也能在革命的潮流中，成爲一粒泡沫的。對於這些的作品，我以爲實在無須稱之爲無產階級文學，作者也無須爲了將來的名譽起見，自稱爲無產階級的作家的。但是，雖是僅僅攻擊舊社會的作品，倘若知不清缺點，看不透病根，也就於革命有害，但可惜的是現在的作家，連革命的作家和批評家，也往往不能，或不敢正視現社會，知道牠的底細，尤其是認爲敵人的底細。隨手舉一個例罷，先前的《列寧青年》上，有一篇評論中國文學界的文章，將這分爲三派，首先是創造社，作爲無產階級文學派，講得很長，其次是語絲社，作爲小資產階級文學派，可就說得短了，第三是新月社，作爲資產階級文學派，却說得更短，到不了一頁。這就在表明：這位青年批評家對於愈認爲敵人的，就愈是無話可說，也就是愈沒有細看。自然，我們看書，倘看反對的東西，總不如看同派的東西的舒服，爽快，有益；但倘是一個戰鬭者，我以爲，在了解革命和敵人上，倒是必須更多的去解剖當面的敵人的。要寫文學作品也一樣，不但應該知道革命的實際，也必須深知敵人的情形，現在的各方面的狀況，再去斷定革命的前塗。惟有明白舊的，看到新的，了解過去，推斷將來，我們的文學的發展纔有希望。我想，這是在現在環境下的作家，只要努力，還可以做得到的。在現在，如先前所說，文藝是在受着少有的壓迫與摧殘，廣泛地現出了饑饉狀態。文藝不但是革命的，連那略帶些不平色彩的，不但是指摘現狀的，連那些攻擊舊來積弊的，也往往就受迫害。這情形，卽在說明至今爲止的統治階級的革命，不過是爭奪一把舊椅子。去推的時候，好像這椅子很可恨，一奪到手，就又覺得是寶貝了，而同時也自覺了自己正和這『舊的』一氣。二十多年前，都說朱元璋（明太祖）是民族的革命者，其實是並不然的，他做了皇帝以後，稱蒙古朝爲『大元』，殺漢人比蒙古人還厲害。奴才做了主人，是決不肯廢去『老爺』的稱呼的，他的擺架子，恐怕比他的主人還十足，還可笑。這正如上海的工人賺了幾文錢，開起小小的工廠來，對付工人反而兇到絕頂一樣。在一部舊的筆記小說——我忘了牠的書名了——上，曾經載有一個故事，說明朝有一個武官叫說書人講故事，他便對他講檀道濟——晉朝的一個將軍，講完之後，那武官就吩咐打說書人一頓，人問他什麽緣故，他說道：『他旣然對我講檀道濟，那麽，對檀道濟是一定去講我的了。』現在的統治者也神經衰弱到像這武官一樣，什麽他都怕，因而在出版界上也佈置了比先前更進步的流氓，令人看不出流氓的形式而却用着更厲害的流氓手段：用廣告，用誣陷，用恐嚇；甚至於有幾個文學者還拜了流氓做老子，以圖得到安穩和利益。因此革命的文學者，就不但應該留心迎面的敵人，還必須防備自己一面的三翻四覆的暗探了，較之簡單地用着文藝的鬭爭，就非常費力，而因此也就影響到文藝上面來。現在上海雖然還出版着一大堆的所謂文藝雜誌，其實却等於空虛。以營業爲目的的書店所出的東西，因爲怕遭殃，就竭力選些不關痛癢的文章，如說『命固不可以不革，而亦不可以太革』之類，那特色是在令人從頭看到末尾，終於等於不看。至於官辦的，或對官場去湊趣的雜誌呢，作者又都是烏合之衆，共同的目的只在撈幾文稿費，什麽『英國維多利亞朝的文學』呀；『論劉易士得到諾貝爾獎金』呀，連自己也並不相信所發的議論，連自己也並不看重所做的文章。所以，我說，現在上海所出的文藝雜誌都等於空虛，革命者的文藝固然被壓迫了，而壓迫者所辦的文藝雜誌上也沒有什麽文藝可見。然而，壓迫者當眞沒有文藝麽？有是有的，不過並非這些，而是通電，告示，新聞，民族主義的『文學』，法官的判詞等。例如前幾天，《申報》上就記着一個女人控訴她的丈夫強迫雞姦並毆打得皮膚上成了青傷的事，而法官的判詞却道，法律上並無禁止丈夫雞姦妻子的明文，而皮膚打得發青，也並不算毀損了生理的機能，所以那控訴就不能成立。現在是那男人反在控訴他的女人的『誣告』了。法律我不知道，至於生理學，却學過一點，皮膚被打得發青，肺，肝，或腸胃的生理的機能固然不至於毀損，然而發青之處的皮膚的生理的機能却是毀損了的。這在中國的現在，雖然常常遇見，不算什麽稀奇事，但我以爲這就已經能夠很明白的知道社會上的一部分現象，勝於一篇平凡的小說或長詩了。除以上所說之外，那所謂民族主義文學，和鬧得已經很久了的武俠小說之類，是也還應該詳細解剖的。但現在時間已經不夠，只得待將來有機會再講了。今天就這樣爲止罷。附：初次發表時的文本上海過去之文藝，開始爲《申報》時期，作文章的都是才子。那時所謂讀書人，約分兩種：卽君子同才子。君子祇讀四書五經及八股等，而才子在此外則又看《紅樓夢》。這是說，才子是公開的看《紅樓夢》，而君子實際上是否在背地裏看則不得而知。自有了上海，才子們都到了上海來，因爲才子是曠達的，無所不適；而君子則對於外國人的東西有點『討厭』。才子一到上海租界上，就看到了婊子。十個二十個的年青婊子聚在一起，很有點像《紅樓夢》。嫖客就把自己比作了賈寶玉；自己是才子，所以婊子是佳人，於是佳人才子的書就產生了。內容多半是，才子獨看上了這些被人輕視的佳人，受了千阻萬撓，終成佳話之類，這樣的文章盛行了幾年。以後在實際上他們發現佳人祇爲的是錢，而佳人要才子的錢是不應該的，才子於是想了制服婊子的法子，不特不上當而且把她們壓下去，寫出這種種門檻的書就出現了。裏面是些終於佔了勝利的英雄，這英雄的成份是才子+流氓。這樣的書也盛行了幾年。同時出了一種畫報，吳友如畫的，裏面畫的多半是老鴇子打妓女，流氓拆梢之類。這畫報的勢力很大，流行各省，而且遺傳到現在，時常在敎科書的揷圖上，看到畫的孩子都斜着眼睛，滿臉橫肉，一付流氓氣。在現在，新的流氓畫家有葉靈鳳先生，葉靈鳳的畫是從英國Beardsley學來的，Beardsley的畫是屬於爲藝術的藝術，來自日本的浮世繪；浮世繪的畫多是民間的妓女與戲子，胖胖的身體，斜視着的眼睛——所謂Erotic（色情的）眼睛，不過Beardsley畫的人是瘦瘦的，那是因爲他是頹廢派的緣故，頹廢派的人都是瘦削的，頹喪的；對於肥胖的女人有點弄不動，因而不喜歡。至於葉靈鳳並不單祇畫流氓的，他有一個時期也畫過普羅利塔利亞，他畫的工人也是歪斜着眼睛，伸着特別大的拳頭，但我以爲畫普羅利塔利亞應當是寫實的，工人原來的面貌，並不須畫得拳頭比腦袋還要大。現在的中國電影，還是在受着這流氓風的影響，裏面的英雄都是油頭滑腦的，同一些住慣了上海，曉得怎樣拆梢的滑頭少年一樣。似乎要使人相信凡是好人都必須是流氓。才子+流氓的小說漸漸衰退了，那原因是內地的人看不懂：什麽耐=你，阿是=是否之類。至於才子+佳人的書到有一本了不起的書，那是從外國介紹過來的《迦茵小傳》，實際《迦茵小傳》祇翻過來了半部，而藉口說是全部已完。這本書後來被林琴南看重了，才全部翻了過來，同時受了先譯者的大罵，說是他不該全譯而使原書的價值降低了，於是才曉得以前之所以祇翻譯半部，因爲迦茵在後半部是再嫁人了。這也可以看出當時中國之婚姻情形。這一類鴛鴦胡蝶派的小說到了《新青年》之出現後才受了打擊，這時胡適之《終身大事》的另一形式的出現。以後，則有新才子創造社派之出現。創造派是天才的：爲藝術而藝術，與同時上海的文學研究會相對立。文學研究會是爲人生而藝術的，說話多是站在被壓迫者的方面。牠在同時受三方面的攻擊，一方面是創造社，創造派是天才的藝術，則爲人生而藝術的文會派不免有點『俗』。一方面是留美的紳士派，在紳士想，藝術是不應該與下等人有份的：藝術是祇有老爺太太才能曉得，比諭說Yes，No，這才是紳士的莊嚴。第三方面則爲以前說過的鴛鴦胡蝶派，至於鴛鴦胡蝶派的《小說世界》，在去年才停刊了。在前兩年革命文學起來了，革命文學之所以起來自然是因爲一般羣衆，青年有了這樣的要求。在廣東出發的時候，一般青年都跑到實際工作去了，那時尙無什麼革命文學運動，到了政治環境變動革命被挫折了以後，革命文學在上海才強烈的被要求了。不過當時的革命文學運動，據我的意見，在方法與理論上有幾點錯誤，第一他們把在蘇維埃政權下才能用的運動方法，來運用了，在中國各方面環境下，當時的運動方法不適當的。再則他們把革命使一般人理解爲非常可怕的東西，一種極端左傾的兇惡的面貌。好似革命來了，一切不革命的人都得死，使人對革命生出恐怖來，其實革命並不是敎人死而是敎人活的。這種故意使人『曉得點革命的利害』的態度，也是中了才子加流氓的毒。無論在新道理或是舊道理上講，凡是無一定的理論，而却拿了理論作武器的人，都可稱之爲流氓。比喻說，上海的流氓看見了有一男一女的鄉下人在走路，他就說，『喂，你們這樣子，有礙風化。你們犯了法了！』而結果，被他敲去了點錢就可完事。再則殖民地的人，也時常受着類似的壓迫及侮辱。在中國，去年的革命文學者與前年有點不同了。在前年他們是列寧，而去年來他們祇要藝術。他們的兩隻脚原來站在兩隻船上，一隻船是革命，一隻船是藝術，當革命起來了的時候，他們就跕牢在革命的船上，一當革命被壓迫了，他們又跑向藝術的船上來。這同樣也可以解釋爲什麼最澈底的革命文學家葉靈鳳先生會現在莫名其妙的成了民族主義文學家了。至於我好把葉靈鳳舉出來，那是因爲他與我有點私仇，在以前，葉靈鳳曾徹底的革命得以至於每次去毛厠時都用了我的《吶喊》去揩污。類似的例，還可以舉出向培良先生來。向培良過去是我的學生，而現在我得稱他是學生。在革命最澈底的時候，他曾經說，青年人不單祇要叫，而且應當咬。有人批評，這很有點像狼。而我也以爲這批評頗爲合宜。不過，狼却是狗的祖宗，狼在被人馴服了的時候，就要變成狗的。向培良現在是提倡人類的藝術的；他反對有階級的藝術的存在。不過據他說，人類之中也分好人與壞人。而同樣的，狗也是把人分成兩種，豢養着牠的主人當然是好人，其他窮人和乞丐，在牠的眼中就是壞人了。這樣的翻着筋斗的小資產階級，容易把革命寫歪，寫歪了，反足於革命有害，所以他們的叛變，毫不足惜的。小資產階級的革命家，好稱突變之說。至於突變，像我們大概都已經知道了的一樣，是說A要變成B，當一切條件都齊備了，而祇有缺少一個條件的時候，這一個條件一出現，於是就變成了B。比喻水要結冰的條件是須得在零點以下若干度，同時還要有空氣振動的條件。假若空氣不振動，水卽使是在零點以下若干度，也不會結冰的。所以忽然一天晚上自稱突變過來的小資產階級革命家，又會立刻突變囘去了。統治階級的文章固然寫不出。但是要寫無產階級的文藝也不一定能寫得好，這是因爲讀書人要寫出革命的實際是很困難的原故。在歐洲似乎有這樣的一個問題。即是文學者要寫偷盜的時候，是否必須親自去作過賊呢？我以爲，作賊或者無須乎，但作家必須住在有很多偷盜事件的社會內，他時常聽到過，看到過，注意到過圍繞着他的這樣的環境。革命文學家必須是生長在社會的革命中。而反叛的小資產階級，對着他所最了解的正在滅亡着的階級有着甚大的憎惡。而向牠刺下去的刀也最爲致命與有力。對於舊社會的掃蕩同是進攻，並無須爲着名譽起見，自稱爲無產階級作家的。對於舊社會的缺點若認不清楚，牠的疾病看不透，那同樣的是對於革命有害，而現在的中國革命作家一般的都不甚知敵人的底細。比喻在以前的《列寧青年》上將中國文壇分成三派，一爲創造社，是革命的，二爲新月派，反革命，再則語絲派，作爲不革命的小資產階級。關於述叙上，對於革命的創造社說得特別多，說語絲派的地方比較的少，而對於作爲反動的新月派說的異常的短，但我以爲，在了解革命和敵人上，我們是甯要更多的去剖解我們的敵人的。同樣，寫革命是必須曉得革命的關係的，必須深知了過去的歷史，現在各方的情形，再去推測革命的將來。推測將來並非預言，因爲預言僅是空想。惟有曉得舊的，看到新的，了解過去，推斷將來，我們的發展才有希望。在現在，文藝是在受着壓迫與摧殘，而廣汎地現出飢餓來。雖然出了些大堆的雜誌，但看過却等於不看；因爲其中的內容都是空洞的。不過即使空的，我們也要看，我們必須看出那空洞的原因與實際來。革命可以比作有人在打一隻空椅子，及到有人佔據了椅子時，他就會懷疑人在打他了。我記起一個典故，在明朝有一個瞎子對一個武官講晉朝武官檀道濟的故事，武官忽然要打他，說是瞎子在罵了他自己。在現在，統治者也一樣的神經過敏了。因而在出版界也安置了比從前更進步的流氓。使人看不出流氓的形式而却用着更利害的流氓手段；廣告，恐嚇，甚或文學家拜了流氓爲老頭子。因此，新的文學家必須更留心迎面的敵人及自己團體中的反叛。在鬥爭上，單以理論爲武器，頗爲吃力，我們必須更多的知道統治者的實際。此刻上海的情形，《申報》上奇怪的告示，新聞，法官的判詞等，都是統治者的文藝。例如新近《申報》上一段新聞：一個律師的女人告她男人將她打傷，而判決則謂青色的傷不謂傷，因不妨碍生理的機能的原故，這僅爲道德問題。在生理學上，我們知道青色的傷已經表示了肌肉受了障碍，因此我們知道了統治者的法律與道德，所以這一類的文章不特可以消閑，同時於我們的創作上也是有益的，今天就講到此處。	The literature of Shanghai's past began with the Shenbao newspaper. To speak of the Shenbao, one must trace back more than sixty years, but of those matters I know nothing. What I can recall is from thirty years ago, when the Shenbao was still printed on Chinese bamboo paper, single-sided, and those who wrote for it were mostly "men of talent" who had drifted in from elsewhere. The literate class of that time could roughly be divided into two types: the "gentleman" and the "man of talent." The gentleman read only the Four Books and Five Classics, wrote eight-legged essays, and was exceedingly proper. The man of talent, however, also read novels on the side—for instance, "Dream of the Red Chamber"—and also composed old and new-style verse of the sort useless in the imperial examinations. That is to say, the man of talent read "Dream of the Red Chamber" openly—but whether the gentleman also read it in secret, that I have no way of knowing. With the coming of the foreign concessions in Shanghai—then called "the foreign field" or "the barbarian field," and later, by those afraid of giving offense, often written with a different character—some of these men of talent came running to Shanghai, for the man of talent was broad-minded and went everywhere; the gentleman, on the other hand, felt a certain distaste for foreign things, and moreover was pursuing the proper path to official rank, so he would never go gallivanting about recklessly. When Confucius said, "If the Way does not prevail, I shall take a raft and float out to sea," from the perspective of the men of talent, this showed a touch of the man-of-talent temperament, and so the gentleman's conduct was called "pedantic" by the men of talent. The man of talent was, by nature, sentimental and sickly, apt to rage at cockcrows and grieve at moonlight. Upon arriving in Shanghai, he also encountered the courtesan. When he went whoring, he could gather ten or twenty young girls together in one place, and it all looked rather like "Dream of the Red Chamber," so he felt himself to be a sort of Jia Baoyu; he was the man of talent, and the courtesans were of course the beauties, and so the "beauty-and-talent" novels were born. Their content was mostly this: only the man of talent could pity these beauties fallen into the dust; only the beauty could recognize the talent passed over by the world; after enduring a thousand hardships and ten thousand sufferings, they would at last become a perfect match, or else both ascend to immortality. They also helped the Shenbao printing house publish and sell various Ming and Qing essay collections, and they themselves formed literary societies and put out lantern riddles; those whose entries were selected received these books as prizes, so their circulation was very wide. There were also large works such as "The Scholars," "The Western Voyage of the Grand Eunuch San Bao," "The Gratifying Record," and others. Even now, at used-book stalls, we sometimes see small volumes with "Printed by the Shanghai Shenbao Printing House in Imitation Movable Type" on the first page—those are precisely these. The beauty-and-talent novels flourished for quite a few years, and then the next generation of men of talent gradually changed their thinking. They discovered that the beauties had not become courtesans because they "thirsted for talent," but only for money. But it was wrong for the beauties to want the man of talent's money, so the men of talent devised various clever methods of subduing the courtesans—not only avoiding their traps but even taking advantage of them. Novels describing these various stratagems appeared and were very popular in society, for they could be read as textbooks for the art of whoring. The protagonists of these books were no longer "talent plus fool," but heroes who had won victories over the courtesans—they were "talent plus rogue." Before this, a pictorial magazine had already appeared, called the Dianshizhai Pictorial, with Wu Youru (吳友如) as its chief artist. He drew everything—immortals, personages, domestic and foreign news—but he was quite unclear about foreign matters. For example, when drawing a warship, it was a merchantman with field artillery laid out on the deck; when drawing a duel, two officers in full dress were hacking at each other with long swords in a drawing room, sending flower vases crashing to the floor. Yet his drawings of "madams beating prostitutes" and "ruffians extorting money" were truly excellent—this, I believe, was because he had seen far too much of it; even today, in Shanghai, we still often see faces exactly like those he drew. The influence of this pictorial was very great at the time, circulating in every province, and was considered the eyes and ears of those who wanted to know about "current affairs"—a term that in those days was equivalent to what is now called "modern learning." A few years ago it was reprinted under the title "The Ink Treasures of Wu Youru," and its subsequent influence was truly formidable. To say nothing of the illustrations in novels, even in the illustrations of textbooks one often saw that the children drawn were mostly wearing their caps askew, with squinting eyes, faces full of horizontal flesh, and an air of ruffianry. In our own day, the new rogue artist is Mr. Ye Lingfeng (葉靈鳳), whose drawings are pilfered from the Englishman Aubrey Beardsley. Beardsley belonged to the "art for art's sake" school, and his drawings were deeply influenced by the Japanese "ukiyo-e" (浮世繪). Although ukiyo-e was folk art, it mostly depicted courtesans and actors—plump bodies, squinting eyes—erotic eyes. However, Beardsley's figures were thin, because he was a Decadent. Decadents are mostly gaunt and despondent, a bit ashamed before robust women, and therefore disliking them. Our Mr. Ye's new squinting-eye art joins perfectly with Wu Youru's old squinting-eye art, and ought naturally to flourish for quite a few years. But he didn't only draw rogues; for a period he also drew the proletariat, though his workers too had squinting eyes and were stretching out fists of extraordinary size. But I believe that proletarian art should be realist, depicting workers as they actually look, without needing to make fists bigger than heads. Chinese cinema today is still very much under the influence of this "talent plus rogue" formula. The heroes in films, the "good people" heroes, are all slippery and oily, just like the crafty young men who have lived too long in Shanghai and know all about "extortion," "skimming the oil," and "chasing skirts." After watching, one is left feeling that if one wishes to be a hero or a good person nowadays, one must also be a rogue. The talent-plus-rogue novels, however, also gradually declined. The reasons, I believe, were twofold: first, it was always the same old tune—courtesans wanting money, clients using tricks—which could not go on forever; second, they were written in Suzhou dialect, using words like "ni" for "I," "nai" for "you," "a-shi" for "is it so?"—and aside from old Shanghai hands and people from Jiangsu and Zhejiang, nobody could understand them. Yet the talent-plus-beauty genre did produce one novel that caused a sensation at the time: "The Story of Joan" (Joan Haste by H.R. Haggard), translated from English. But there was only the first half. The translator said the original had been found at a used-book stall and was superb, but sadly the second volume could not be found—there was nothing to be done. Sure enough, this deeply stirred the tender hearts of the talent-and-beauty set, and it was very widely circulated. Later it even moved Mr. Lin Qinnan (林琴南), who translated the complete work, still under the title "The Story of Joan." But at the same time, the earlier translator furiously denounced him, saying he should not have translated the whole thing, thereby lowering Joan's value and causing displeasure to the readers. Only then did people learn that the reason only half had previously existed was not that the original was incomplete, but that it recorded Joan's having had an illegitimate child, and the translator had deliberately omitted it. In truth, such a not-very-long book would hardly have been published in two volumes even abroad. But from this alone, one can already see what the Chinese view of marriage was at that time. Then a new round of talent-plus-beauty novels became popular, but this time the beauties were respectable young ladies who fell in love with the men of talent, inseparable from each other, like a pair of butterflies or a pair of mandarin ducks beneath the willows and among the flowers. Sometimes, however, because of a stern father, or because of cruel fate, there might even be a tragic ending, and they no longer all became immortals—this, it must be said, was truly a great advance. By the time Mr. Tianxu Wosheng (天虛我生)—who has now gone into manufacturing face-and-teeth powder—published the monthly magazine "Eyebrow Language" (Meiyu), this "mandarin-duck-and-butterfly" style of literature had reached its zenith. Later, although "Eyebrow Language" was banned, its influence did not wane, and it was not until "New Youth" (Xin Qingnian) gained ascendancy that it finally received a blow. At that time, the introduction of Ibsen's plays and the appearance of Hu Shizhi's (胡適之) "The Greatest Event in Life" in a different form, though not intentionally, nonetheless caused the marriage question—the very lifeblood of the mandarin-duck-and-butterfly school—to run off Nora-like. After this came the appearance of the Creation Society, the new men-of-talent school. The Creation Society venerated innate genius, practiced art for art's sake, focused exclusively on the self, esteemed original creation, despised translation, and especially loathed retranslation. It stood in opposition to the Literary Research Association in Shanghai at the same time. On its very first advertising flyer, it declared that someone was "monopolizing" the literary world—this referred to the Literary Research Association. The Literary Research Association, however, was precisely the opposite: it advocated art for life's sake, both creating and also valuing translation, and devoted attention to introducing the literature of oppressed peoples—all small nations whose languages nobody understood, and therefore almost all of it was retranslated. Moreover, because they had once rallied in support of "New Youth," new enmities were heaped upon old, and so the Literary Research Association was now attacked from three sides. One side was the Creation Society: since theirs was the art of genius, the art-for-life Literary Research Association was naturally guilty of meddling, and had a certain vulgarity; moreover, they considered it incompetent, so that if a single translation error was discovered, they might even write a long monograph about it. A second side was the gentleman's school of those who had studied in America; they believed that literature was exclusively for the enjoyment of lords and ladies, and so the only proper characters, apart from lords and ladies, were men of letters, scholars, artists, professors, and young ladies—people who could say "Yes" and "No"—for that was the dignity of the gentleman. At that time Mr. Wu Mi (吳宓) had published articles saying he truly could not understand why some people insisted on describing lower-class society. The third side was the mandarin-duck-and-butterfly school I mentioned earlier. I do not know what methods they used, but they eventually got the bookshop owners to replace the editor of Fiction Monthly, who was a member of the Literary Research Association, and even put out "Fiction World" to propagate their writings. This publication only ceased last year. The Creation Society's battle, on the surface, was victorious. Many of their works happened to accord with the sentiments of the self-proclaimed men of talent of the time, and with the help of their publishers, their influence grew formidable. Once their influence was formidable, one saw even great commercial houses like the Commercial Press publishing translations and works by Creation Society members—that is to say, by Mr. Guo Moruo (郭沫若) and Mr. Zhang Ziping (張資平). From that point on, as I recall, the Creation Society also stopped scrutinizing the Commercial Press's publications for translation errors and writing monographs about them. In these respects, I think, there was also something of the talent-plus-rogue formula. Yet "New Shanghai" was after all no match for "Old Shanghai." Amid their songs of triumph, the Creation Society members finally realized that they had become mere commodities for their own publishers; all their efforts, in the eyes of the boss, were nothing more than the winking of the paper mannequin in the optician's large display window—merely to "attract customers." When they attempted to publish independently, the boss hit them with a lawsuit, and though they did eventually become independent—announcing that all their books had been thoroughly revised, reprinted, and freshly launched—the old boss continued forever using the old plates, simply printing and selling, and every year held some anniversary great bargain sale. Being a commodity was no longer tenable, and independence offered no way to survive. The natural destination for the Creation Society members was Guangdong, the rather more promising "cradle of revolution." In Guangdong, the term "revolutionary literature" thus appeared, though there were no actual works; in Shanghai, the term did not even exist yet. It was not until the year before last that the banner of "revolutionary literature" truly flourished. Those advocating it were several founding members of the Creation Society who had returned from the "cradle of revolution," along with a number of new recruits. The reason revolutionary literature flourished was, naturally, that social conditions had created such a demand among the masses and the youth. When the Northern Expedition was launched from Guangdong, the active young people all rushed to practical work, and at that time there was no notable revolutionary literary movement. Only when the political environment suddenly changed, when the revolution suffered a setback, when class divisions became starkly clear, when the Kuomintang under the banner of "Party purification" slaughtered Communists and revolutionary masses on a grand scale, and when the surviving youth found themselves once again under oppression—only then did revolutionary literature in Shanghai develop vigorous activity. Thus, on the surface, this flourishing of revolutionary literature differed from other countries: it arose not from the surging of revolution, but from the frustration of revolution. Although among them were some old literati who had hung up their commanding swords and returned to the old trade of the pen, and some young people who had been squeezed out of practical work and could only make a living this way, because there was indeed a genuine social foundation, there were among the new recruits some who were very solid and correct. But the revolutionary literary movement of that time, in my opinion, had not been well planned and contained quite a few errors. For example, first, without conducting a careful analysis of Chinese society, they mechanically applied methods that could only be used under a Soviet regime. Second, they—especially Mr. Cheng Fangwu (成仿吾)—made the general public understand revolution as something terrifying, assuming an extremely leftist and ferocious countenance, as though once revolution came, all non-revolutionaries would have to die, so that people could only regard revolution with terror. In reality, revolution does not teach people to die but teaches people to live. This attitude of wanting people to "know what revolution means," caring only about the pleasure of one's own pronouncements, was also poisoned by the talent-plus-rogue formula. Those who become radical quickly also become moderate quickly, and even decadent quickly. If they happen to be men of letters, they always have some justification for their changes, citing chapter and verse. For instance, when they want help from others, they invoke Kropotkin's theory of mutual aid; when they want to fight others, they invoke Darwin's theory of the struggle for survival. In all ages, anyone who has no fixed theory, whose changes in position cannot be traced, and who at any moment seizes upon the theories of any school as weapons—such a person may be called a rogue. Take the rogue of Shanghai: seeing a country man and woman walking down the road, he says, "Hey! The way you two are carrying on—that's an offense against public morals! You've broken the law!" He is using Chinese law. But if he sees a countryman urinating by the roadside, he says, "Hey! That's not permitted—you've broken the law—you should be hauled off to the police station!" This time he is using foreign law. But in the end it has nothing to do with law one way or another; once he has squeezed a few coins out of them, the matter is settled. In China, last year's "revolutionary literary figures" were quite different from the year before. This was partly due to changed circumstances, but some of the "revolutionary literary figures" themselves harbored a disease they were prone to contract. "Revolution" and "literature" were connected tenuously, like two boats drawn close together: one was "revolution," the other "literature," with each of the author's feet planted on one. When conditions were favorable, the author pressed down harder on the revolution boat, clearly a revolutionary; when revolution was suppressed, he pressed down harder on the literature boat—he was nothing but a man of letters after all. Thus, those who the year before had advocated the most radical positions, insisting that all non-revolutionary literature should be swept away, last year were recalling the story of how Lenin liked to read the works of Goncharov (J.A. Gontcharov), and found that non-revolutionary literature had quite profound significance after all. And then there was the most thoroughgoing of revolutionary literary figures, Mr. Ye Lingfeng (葉靈鳳), who had depicted revolutionaries so thoroughly that he had them use my "Call to Arms" (Na Han) to wipe their backsides every time they went to the toilet—yet now, inexplicably, he was trailing along behind the so-called nationalist literary figures. A similar example is Mr. Xiang Peiliang (向培良). When the revolution was gradually surging upward, he was very revolutionary; earlier, he had even said that young people should not only howl but should bare their wolf fangs. This was not bad in itself, but one should be careful, because the wolf is the ancestor of the dog, and once tamed, it will turn into a dog. Mr. Xiang Peiliang is now promoting a "human" art; he opposes the existence of class-based art, and instead divides humanity into good people and bad people—his art is a weapon in the "struggle between good and bad." Dogs, too, divide people into two kinds: their master and his kind are good people, while the poor and beggars are bad people in their eyes—bark at them or bite them. This is not the worst, though, for at least there is still a bit of wildness left. If they transform once more into a lapdog, pretending not to meddle in other people's affairs while actually serving the master faithfully, then they are just like the present-day celebrities who claim to have nothing to do with worldly matters and practice art for art's sake—fit only to ornament a university lecture hall. Such somersaulting petty bourgeois, even when they are playing the revolutionary literary figure and writing revolutionary literature, are most likely to distort the revolution in their writing; and a distorted portrait is harmful to revolution, so their defection is not in the least to be regretted. When the revolutionary literary movement was in its ascendancy, many petty-bourgeois literary figures suddenly "transformed," and the concept of "sudden mutation" was used to explain this phenomenon. But we know that a so-called sudden mutation means that when A is changing into B, and several conditions are already in place but one is missing, then when that one condition appears, A suddenly becomes B. Take the freezing of water: the temperature must reach zero, and at the same time there must be a vibration in the air; without this, even at zero degrees the water still will not freeze—only when the air vibrates does it suddenly mutate into ice. So what looks like a sudden mutation on the outside is in fact nothing sudden at all. If the necessary conditions are absent, then even if someone claims to have mutated, in reality nothing has changed—and so some petty-bourgeois revolutionary literary figures who claimed one fine evening to have suddenly mutated soon enough suddenly mutated right back again. Last year, the formation of the League of Left-Wing Writers in Shanghai was an important event. For by this time, the theories of Plekhanov (蒲力汗諾夫), Lunacharsky (盧那卡爾斯基), and others had been imported, enabling everyone to sharpen each other's thinking and become more solid and powerful. But precisely because they had become more solid and powerful, they suffered oppression and persecution of a severity rarely seen in the world, ancient or modern. And this oppression and persecution promptly exposed the true colors of those so-called revolutionary literary figures who had thought left-wing literature was about to steal the limelight and that writers were going to eat buttered bread offered up by laborers: some wrote letters of repentance, others turned around and attacked the Left-Wing League, to show that their insight had advanced yet another step this year. Although this was not a direct action of the Left-Wing League itself, it was a kind of cleansing—these authors, whether they changed or not, could never write anything good. But can the existing left-wing writers produce good proletarian literature? I think that too is very difficult. This is because the current left-wing writers are still all intellectuals—the intelligentsia—and it is very hard for them to write about the reality of revolution. The Japanese Kuriyagawa Hakuson (廚川白村, H. Kuriyakawa) once raised a question: Must a writer have personally experienced what he describes? He answered: No, because the writer can observe and empathize. Thus, to write about theft, one need not personally steal; to write about adultery, one need not personally commit adultery. But I believe this is because the writer has grown up in the old society, is familiar with its conditions, and is accustomed to its characters—and so he can empathize. But regarding the conditions and characters of the proletariat, with which he has never had any connection, he will be helpless, or will produce erroneous depictions. Therefore, a revolutionary literary figure must, at the very least, share his life with the revolution, or deeply feel the pulse of the revolution. (The recent slogan of the Left-Wing League—"the proletarianization of the writer"—is a very correct understanding of this point.) In present-day Chinese society, what one can most readily hope to see emerge is the rebellious, exposing, or protesting work of the petty bourgeoisie in revolt. Because they have grown up within this very class that is perishing, they understand it profoundly and hate it greatly, and the knife they thrust into it is the most deadly and forceful. Admittedly, some works that look revolutionary are not really trying to overthrow their own class or the bourgeoisie; rather, they hate and despair at their class's inability to reform itself, its inability to hold its position a little longer. From the proletarian point of view, this is no more than "brothers quarreling within the wall"—both sides are equally the enemy. Yet the result can still become a bubble in the tide of revolution. For such works, I believe there is really no need to call them proletarian literature, nor need the authors, for the sake of their future reputation, call themselves proletarian writers. However, even works that merely attack the old society, if they do not clearly perceive the defects or see through to the root of the disease, can be harmful to revolution. But unfortunately, present-day writers—even revolutionary writers and critics—are often unable or unwilling to face current society squarely and know its inner workings, especially the inner workings of those they consider the enemy. Let me give one example at random: in the former "Lenin Youth," there was an article reviewing the Chinese literary scene that divided it into three schools. First was the Creation Society, as the proletarian literary school, discussed at great length; second was the Yusi (Threads of Talk) group, as the petty-bourgeois literary school, discussed much more briefly; and third was the Crescent Moon Society, as the bourgeois literary school, discussed even more briefly—less than a page. This plainly shows that the more this young critic considered a group to be the enemy, the less he had to say about it—that is, the less carefully he had examined it. Naturally, when reading, if we read something by the opposition, it is never as comfortable, invigorating, or beneficial as reading something by our own side. But if one is a fighter, I believe one must dissect the enemy before one's eyes even more thoroughly, in order to understand revolution and the enemy alike. The same applies to writing literary works: one should know not only the reality of revolution, but must also have deep knowledge of the enemy's situation and the present state of affairs from every angle, and only then determine the future course of revolution. Only by knowing the old clearly, seeing the new, understanding the past, and inferring the future can our literature have hope of development. This, I think, is something that writers under present conditions can accomplish, so long as they make the effort. At present, as I have said, literature and art are suffering rarely-seen oppression and persecution, and a state of widespread famine has appeared. Not only revolutionary literature, but even works with the slightest tinge of discontent; not only works that criticize the present state of affairs, but even those that attack longstanding abuses—all are liable to be persecuted. This situation plainly demonstrates that the revolution of the ruling class up to now has been nothing more than a fight over an old chair. When pushing it over, the chair seems hateful enough, but once seized, it becomes a treasure—and at the same time one realizes that one is of one piece with the "old." More than twenty years ago, everyone said that Zhu Yuanzhang (朱元璋, the founder of the Ming dynasty) was a nationalist revolutionary, but in truth he was nothing of the kind: after becoming emperor, he honored the Mongol dynasty as "the Great Yuan" and killed Han Chinese even more savagely than the Mongols had. A slave who becomes master will never abolish the title of "lord"; his posturing is probably even more excessive, and more laughable, than his former master's. This is just like the Shanghai workers who, having scraped together a few coins and opened a small factory, treat their workers with a cruelty that is absolutely extreme. In an old collection of anecdotal fiction—I have forgotten the title—there is a story about a military officer in the Ming dynasty who ordered a storyteller to tell him a tale. The storyteller told him about Tan Daoji (檀道濟)—a general of the Jin dynasty. When the story was finished, the officer ordered that the storyteller be given a beating. When asked why, he said: "Since he told me the story of Tan Daoji, he will certainly go tell Tan Daoji about me." Today's rulers have become just as neurasthenic as this officer—they are afraid of everything—and so in the publishing world they have installed rogues even more advanced than before, people you cannot recognize as rogues in form but who employ even more ruthless rogue methods: advertising, slander, intimidation; there are even some literary figures who have taken rogues as their patrons in order to secure safety and profit. Therefore, revolutionary literary figures must not only watch for the enemy in front of them, but must also guard against the turncoat spies on their own side—compared with straightforward literary struggle, this is far more exhausting, and it inevitably affects the literature itself. Although Shanghai today still publishes a great heap of so-called literary magazines, in reality they amount to nothing. What the commercially-minded bookshops put out, fearful of getting into trouble, consists of the most innocuous articles possible, such as: "The mandate may certainly not go unrevolutioned, yet neither should it be revolutioned too much"—the distinguishing feature being that from beginning to end, reading it is exactly equivalent to not reading it. As for the official publications, or those that curry favor with officialdom, their authors are a motley rabble whose sole common purpose is to rake in a few cents of manuscript fees—"The Literature of the Victorian Era in England," "On Sinclair Lewis Winning the Nobel Prize"—they themselves do not believe the opinions they publish, nor do they value the articles they write. And so, I say, the literary magazines published in Shanghai today all amount to nothing; revolutionary literature has been suppressed, and the literary magazines published by the suppressors contain no literature worth seeing either. But does the ruling class truly have no literature? It does, only not of this kind—rather, it is their telegrams, their proclamations, their news reports, their "nationalist" literature, and the verdicts of their judges. A few days ago, for example, the Shenbao reported the case of a woman who sued her husband for forcing her into sodomy and beating her until her skin was bruised. The judge's verdict stated that there was no explicit provision in the law forbidding a husband from sodomizing his wife, and that bruised skin did not constitute impairment of physiological function, and therefore the suit could not be sustained. Now it is the husband who is suing his wife for "false accusation." I know nothing of the law, but I have studied a little physiology, and I know that when skin is beaten until it bruises, the physiological function of the lungs, liver, or intestines may indeed not be impaired, but the physiological function of the skin at the bruised area has certainly been impaired. In present-day China, though one encounters such things constantly and they are considered nothing remarkable, I believe that this alone can already give us a very clear picture of one aspect of society—more so than an ordinary novel or long poem. Besides what I have discussed above, there is the so-called nationalist literature, and the martial-arts fiction that has been making a stir for quite some time now, which also deserves detailed dissection. But time has run out, and this will have to wait for another occasion. Let us stop here for today. Appendix: Text as Originally Published The literature of Shanghai's past began in the Shenbao period, and those who wrote were all men of talent. The literate class of that time could be roughly divided into two types: the gentleman and the man of talent. The gentleman read only the Four Books and Five Classics and the eight-legged essay, while the man of talent also read "Dream of the Red Chamber" beyond these. This is to say: the man of talent read "Dream of the Red Chamber" openly, while whether the gentleman actually read it in private remains unknown. Once Shanghai existed, the men of talent all came to Shanghai, for the man of talent is broad-minded and adapts anywhere; the gentleman, however, found foreign things somewhat "distasteful." Once the man of talent arrived in Shanghai's concessions, he encountered the courtesan. Ten or twenty young courtesans gathered together looked rather like "Dream of the Red Chamber." The patron compared himself to Jia Baoyu; he was the man of talent, so the courtesans were the beauties, and thus the beauty-and-talent novels were born. The content was mostly: only the man of talent appreciated these despised beauties; after enduring a thousand obstacles and ten thousand obstructions, they finally made a beautiful match—and such writing flourished for several years. Later, in practice, they discovered that the beauties were only after money, and since it was wrong for beauties to want the man of talent's money, the man of talent devised methods of subduing the courtesans—not only not falling for their tricks but even putting them in their place. Books describing these various stratagems then appeared. In them were heroes who ultimately triumphed; the hero's composition was talent plus rogue. Such books also flourished for several years. At the same time appeared a pictorial, drawn by Wu Youru, depicting mostly madams beating prostitutes and ruffians extorting money. This pictorial had great influence, circulating in every province, and its legacy persists to this day: one often sees in textbook illustrations that the children drawn all have squinting eyes, faces full of horizontal flesh, and an air of ruffianry. In our time, the new rogue artist is Mr. Ye Lingfeng; Ye Lingfeng's drawings are derived from the English Beardsley, whose art belongs to the art-for-art's-sake school and comes from the Japanese ukiyo-e. Ukiyo-e mostly depicted courtesans and actors from the common folk—plump bodies, squinting eyes—so-called erotic eyes. However, Beardsley's figures are thin, because he was a Decadent; Decadents are all gaunt and despondent, a bit unable to handle plump women, and thus disliking them. As for Ye Lingfeng, he did not only draw rogues; for a period he also drew the proletariat—his workers also had squinting eyes and were stretching out particularly large fists. But I believe that proletarian art should be realist: workers as they actually look, without needing to make fists bigger than heads. Chinese cinema today is still under the influence of this rogue style; the heroes in films are all slippery and oily, the same as the crafty young men who have lived too long in Shanghai and know how to "extort." It seems intended to make people believe that all good people must be rogues. The talent-plus-rogue novels gradually declined; the reason being that people in the interior could not understand them: "nai" for "you," "a-shi" for "is it so?" and the like. As for the talent-plus-beauty genre, there was one remarkable book: "The Story of Joan," introduced from abroad. In fact, only half of "Joan" had been translated, with the excuse that it was complete. This book was later taken up by Lin Qinnan, who translated it in full, and at the same time was furiously denounced by the earlier translator, who said he should not have translated the whole thing and thus lowered the value of the original. Only then did people learn that the reason only half had been translated before was that Joan remarried in the second half. This also reveals the marriage situation in China at the time. This type of mandarin-duck-and-butterfly novel was not struck a blow until the appearance of "New Youth," along with Hu Shizhi's "The Greatest Event in Life" in another form. Afterward came the appearance of the new-talent Creation Society school. The Creation School was one of genius: art for art's sake, standing in opposition to the Literary Research Association in Shanghai at the same time. The Literary Research Association was art for life, and mostly spoke from the standpoint of the oppressed. It was simultaneously attacked from three sides: one side was the Creation Society—since the Creation School was the art of genius, the art-for-life Literary Research Association was inevitably somewhat "vulgar." Another side was the gentleman's school of those educated in America: in the gentleman's view, art should have nothing to do with the lower classes; art was only for lords and ladies to appreciate—saying "Yes" and "No," for instance—that was the gentleman's dignity. The third side was the mandarin-duck-and-butterfly school mentioned earlier; as for the mandarin-duck-and-butterfly school's "Fiction World," it only ceased publication last year. Two years ago, revolutionary literature arose; it arose naturally because the masses and the youth had such a demand. When the expedition departed from Guangdong, the young people all rushed to practical work; at that time there was not yet any revolutionary literary movement. Only after the political environment changed and the revolution was frustrated did revolutionary literature in Shanghai become strongly demanded. However, the revolutionary literary movement of that time, in my opinion, had several errors in method and theory. First, they applied methods of movement that could only be used under a Soviet regime, and these methods were inappropriate given China's circumstances in every respect. Second, they made the general public understand revolution as something terribly frightening—an extremely left-leaning, ferocious countenance. As though once revolution came, all non-revolutionaries would have to die, making people regard revolution with terror. In reality, revolution does not teach people to die but teaches people to live. This attitude of deliberately making people "know what revolution means" was also poisoned by the talent-plus-rogue formula. Whether by old logic or new, anyone who has no fixed theory but seizes upon theories as weapons may be called a rogue. By analogy: a Shanghai rogue sees a country man and woman walking down the road and says, "Hey! The way you two are carrying on—that's an offense against morality! You've broken the law!" And the result is that he squeezes some money out of them and the matter is settled. Furthermore, people in colonies frequently suffer similar oppression and humiliation. In China, last year's revolutionary literary figures were somewhat different from the year before. The year before they were Lenin; last year they just wanted art. Their two feet stood on two boats: one boat was revolution, the other was art. When revolution rose, they pressed firmly on the revolution boat; once revolution was suppressed, they ran to the art boat. This can equally explain why the most thoroughgoing revolutionary literary figure, Mr. Ye Lingfeng, has now inexplicably become a nationalist literary figure. As for why I keep picking on Ye Lingfeng—it is because I have a bit of a personal grudge with him: previously, Ye Lingfeng had been so thoroughly revolutionary that every time he went to the toilet he used my "Call to Arms" for wiping. A similar example is Mr. Xiang Peiliang. Xiang Peiliang was formerly my student, and now I must call him "student." At the height of revolutionary fervor, he once said that young people should not only shout but should also bite. Some criticized this as being rather like a wolf. And I too think the criticism is quite apt. However, the wolf is the ancestor of the dog; once tamed, the wolf will turn into a dog. Xiang Peiliang is now promoting a human art; he opposes the existence of class-based art. But according to him, humanity is also divided into good people and bad people. And similarly, dogs divide people into two kinds: the master who feeds them is of course a good person, while other poor people and beggars are bad people in their eyes. Such somersaulting petty bourgeois easily distort revolution when they write it; distorted, it is harmful to revolution, so their defection is not in the least to be regretted. Petty-bourgeois revolutionary figures are fond of citing the theory of sudden mutation. As for sudden mutation, as we probably all already know, it means that when A is changing into B and all conditions are met except one, the moment that one condition appears, A becomes B. By analogy: the conditions for water to freeze require that the temperature be some degrees below zero, and at the same time there must be air vibration. If the air does not vibrate, even at some degrees below zero the water will not freeze. Thus, petty-bourgeois revolutionary figures who claim one fine evening to have suddenly mutated will soon suddenly mutate right back again. The literature of the ruling class certainly cannot be written. But writing good proletarian literature is also not necessarily possible; this is because for intellectuals to write about the reality of revolution is very difficult. In Europe there seems to be such a question: must a literary figure who wants to write about theft have personally been a thief? I believe that actually being a thief may not be necessary, but the writer must live in a society with many incidents of theft, constantly hearing, seeing, and paying attention to the environment surrounding him. A revolutionary literary figure must have grown up in a society undergoing revolution. And the rebellious petty bourgeoisie, facing the perishing class they understand best, harbors great hatred, and the knife thrust into it is the most deadly and powerful. Attacking the old society is the same as advancing; there is no need, for the sake of reputation, to call oneself a proletarian writer. If one does not clearly perceive the defects of the old society and see through its diseases, that is equally harmful to revolution—and present-day Chinese revolutionary writers generally do not know the enemy's inner workings well. For instance, in the former "Lenin Youth," the Chinese literary world was divided into three schools: first, the Creation Society, as revolutionary; second, the Crescent Moon School, as counter-revolutionary; then the Yusi school, as the non-revolutionary petty bourgeoisie. In terms of discussion, the revolutionary Creation Society was discussed at especial length, the Yusi school at comparatively less, while the reactionary Crescent Moon School was discussed extraordinarily briefly. But I believe that in understanding revolution and the enemy, we would rather dissect our enemy more. Similarly, to write about revolution one must understand revolution's relationships, must deeply know the history of the past and the current situation from every angle, and only then project the future of revolution. Projecting the future is not prophecy, for prophecy is mere fantasy. Only by knowing the old, seeing the new, understanding the past, and inferring the future can our development have hope. At present, literature and art are suffering oppression and persecution, and a widespread famine has appeared. Although great heaps of magazines are published, reading them is equivalent to not reading them, because their contents are all hollow. Yet even if hollow, we must still read, and we must discern the causes and reality of that hollowness. Revolution can be compared to someone beating an empty chair; when someone occupies the chair, he will suspect people are beating him. I recall an anecdote: in the Ming dynasty, a blind man told a military officer the story of the Jin dynasty officer Tan Daoji; the officer suddenly wanted to beat him, saying the blind man was cursing him. Today, the rulers are equally over-sensitive. Therefore, in the publishing world they have also installed rogues more advanced than before—people you cannot recognize as rogues in form, yet who employ even more ruthless rogue methods: advertising, intimidation, or even literary figures who have taken rogues as patrons. Thus, the new literary figure must pay even closer attention to the enemy in front and to betrayal within his own ranks. In struggle, using theory alone as a weapon is quite laborious; we must know more about the rulers' reality. The current situation in Shanghai—the strange proclamations, news reports, and judicial verdicts in the Shenbao—these are all the rulers' literature. For instance, a recent Shenbao item: a lawyer's wife sued her husband for beating her, and the verdict stated that a bruise does not constitute an injury, because it does not impair physiological function—it is merely a matter of morality. In physiology, we know that a bruise already indicates that the muscles have sustained damage. From this, we learn about the rulers' law and morality, so articles of this kind are not only good for idle amusement but also beneficial to our creative work. Let us stop here for today.
上海的摩登少爺要勾搭摩登小姐，首先第一步，是追隨不舍，術語謂之“釘梢”。“釘”者，堅附而不可拔也，“梢”者，末也，後也，譯成文言，大約可以說是“追躡”。據釘梢專家說，那第二步便是“扳談”；即使罵，也就大有希望，因為一罵便可有言語來往，所以也就是“扳談”的開頭。我一向以為這是現在的洋場上才有的，今看《花間集》，乃知道唐朝就已經有了這樣的事，那裏面有張泌的《浣溪紗》調十首，其九云：晚逐香車入鳳城，東風斜揭繡簾輕，慢回嬌眼笑盈盈。消息未通何計是，便須佯醉且隨行，依稀聞道“太狂生”。這分明和現代的釘梢法是一致的。倘要譯成白話詩，大概可以是這樣：夜趕洋車路上飛，東風吹起印度綢衫子，顯出腿兒肥，亂丟俏眼笑迷迷。難以扳談有什麽法子呢？只能帶著油腔滑調且釘梢，好像聽得罵道“殺千刀！” 但恐怕在古書上，更早的也還能夠發見，我極希望博學者見教，因為這是對於研究“釘梢史”的人，極有用處的。	Shanghai's modern young gentlemen, when they wish to court modern young ladies, must first take the initial step: following them relentlessly—the technical term is "ding shao" (tailing). "Ding" means to stick fast like a nail and be impossible to dislodge; "shao" means the tail end, the rear. Rendered into classical Chinese, it might be expressed as "to follow stealthily on one's heels." According to tailing experts, the second step is "striking up conversation"; even if the lady scolds you, that is already quite promising, because once she scolds, there is an exchange of words, and so this too becomes the beginning of "striking up conversation." I always assumed this was a phenomenon peculiar to the modern foreign concessions, but upon reading the "Collection from Among the Flowers" (Huajianji), I discovered that such things already existed in the Tang dynasty. There one finds ten poems by Zhang Mi (張泌) to the tune of "Washing Brook Silk" (Huan Xi Sha), the ninth of which reads: At dusk I follow her fragrant carriage into the imperial city, The east wind lightly lifts her embroidered curtain aside, She slowly turns her coquettish eyes, a smile brimming bright. No word has yet been passed—what stratagem might do? Nothing for it but to feign drunkenness and follow along, Faintly one seems to hear: "What a brazen rogue!" This is clearly identical with the modern method of tailing. If one were to translate it into vernacular verse, it might go something like this: At night the rickshaw races down the road, The east wind blows the Indian silk blouse open wide, Revealing a nice plump leg, eyes tossing flirtatious glances with a giddy smile. No way to strike up conversation—what's to be done? Nothing for it but to swagger along, smooth-talking, and keep on tailing, One seems to hear a scolding: "Drop dead, you scoundrel!" But I suspect that in ancient texts, even earlier examples might be found, and I dearly hope that erudite scholars will enlighten me, for this would be of the utmost use to anyone engaged in research on the "history of tailing."
看大概的情形（我們這裏得不到確鑿的統計），從去年以來，掛著“革命的”的招牌的創作小說的讀者已經減少，出版界的趨勢，已在轉向社會科學了。這不能不說是好現象。最初，青年的讀者迷於廣告式批評的符咒，以為讀了“革命的”創作，便有出路，自己和社會，都可以得救，於是隨手拈來，大口吞下，不料許多許多是並不是滋養品，是新袋子裏的酸酒，紅紙包裏的爛肉，那結果，是吃得胸口癢癢的，好像要嘔吐。得了這一種苦楚的教訓之後，轉而去求醫於根本的，切實的社會科學，自然，是一個正當的前進。然而，大部分是因為市場的需要，社會科學的譯著又蜂起雲湧了，較為可看的和很要不得的都雜陳在書攤上，開始尋求正確的知識的讀者們已經在惶惑。然而新的批評家不開口，類似批評家之流便趁勢一筆抹殺：“阿狗阿貓”。到這裏，我們所需要的，就只得還是幾個堅實的，明白的，真懂得社會科學及其文藝理論的批評家。批評家的發生，在中國已經好久了。每一個文學團體中，大抵總有一套文學的人物。至少，是一個詩人，一個小說家，還有一個盡職於宣傳本團體的光榮和功績的批評家。這些團體，都說是誌在改革，向舊的堡壘取攻勢的，然而還在中途，就在舊的堡壘之下紛紛自己扭打起來，扭得大家乏力了，這才放開了手，因為不過是“扭”而已矣，所以大創是沒有的，僅僅喘著氣。一面喘著氣，一面各自以為勝利，唱著凱歌。舊堡壘上簡直無須守兵，只要袖手俯首，看這些新的敵人自己所唱的喜劇就夠。他無聲，但他勝利了。這兩年中，雖然沒有極出色的創作，然而據我所見，印成本子的，如李守章的《跋涉的人們》，臺靜農的《地之子》，葉永秦的《小小十年》前半部，柔石的《二月》及《舊時代之死》，魏金枝的《七封信的自傳》，劉一夢的《失業以後》，總還是優秀之作。可惜我們的有名的批評家，梁實秋先生還在和陳西瀅相呼應，這裏可以不提；成仿吾先生是懷念了創造社過去的光榮之後，搖身一變而成為“石厚生”，接著又流星似的消失了；錢杏邨先生近來又只在《拓荒者》上，攙著藏原惟人，一段又一段的，在和茅盾扭結。每一個文學團體以外的作品，在這樣忙碌或蕭閑的戰場，便都被“打發”或默殺了。這回的讀書界的趨向社會科學，是一個好的，正當的轉機，不惟有益於別方面，即對於文藝，也可催促它向正確，前進的路。但在出品的雜亂和旁觀者的冷笑中，是極容易雕謝的，所以現在所首先需要的，也還是——幾個堅實的，明白的，真懂得社會科學及其文藝理論的批評家。	Judging from the general situation (we cannot obtain reliable statistics here), since last year the readership of creative fiction bearing the label "revolutionary" has been declining, and the trend in publishing has already shifted toward the social sciences. One cannot but call this a good sign. At first, young readers, bewitched by the incantations of advertisement-style criticism, believed that reading "revolutionary" creative works would show them a way forward—that both they themselves and society could be saved. And so they grabbed whatever came to hand and swallowed it in great gulps, only to find that much of it was not nourishment at all, but sour wine in new bags, rotten meat in red wrapping paper—the result being an itching in the chest, as if about to vomit. Having suffered this bitter lesson, to turn instead to the fundamental, the substantive social sciences for a cure is, naturally, a proper step forward. However, largely because of market demand, translations and works on the social sciences have now surged forth in swarms and clouds, and books of some value are jumbled together with utterly worthless ones on the bookstalls; readers who have just begun seeking accurate knowledge are already confused. Yet the new critics keep their mouths shut, while those who pass for critics seize the opportunity to dismiss everything with a single stroke: "Every Tom, Dick, and Harry." At this point, what we need is still just a few solid, clear-minded critics who truly understand the social sciences and their literary theory. Critics have existed in China for quite some time now. Within every literary group, there is generally a complete set of literary personages. At minimum: one poet, one novelist, and one critic who dutifully promotes the glory and achievements of his own group. All these groups proclaim their commitment to reform, claiming to be on the offensive against the old fortress, yet before they are even halfway there, they break into mutual brawling right beneath the walls of the old fortress, grappling until everyone is exhausted, and only then letting go—for since it was merely "grappling," there are no serious wounds, only panting for breath. As they pant, each side considers itself the victor and sings songs of triumph. The old fortress needs no garrison at all; those inside need only fold their arms, look down, and watch the comedy that these new enemies perform among themselves. The fortress says nothing, but it has won. In these two years, although there has been no exceptionally brilliant creative work, from what I have seen among published volumes, Li Shouzhang's (李守章) "People on the March," Tai Jingnong's (臺靜農) "Son of the Earth," the first half of Ye Yongqin's (葉永秦) "A Small Decade," Rou Shi's (柔石) "February" and "Death of the Old Era," Wei Jinzhi's (魏金枝) "An Autobiography in Seven Letters," and Liu Yimeng's (劉一夢) "After Losing My Job" are, after all, outstanding works. Unfortunately, our famous critic Mr. Liang Shiqiu (梁實秋) is still echoing Mr. Chen Xiying (陳西瀅), which we may set aside here; Mr. Cheng Fangwu (成仿吾), having fondly recalled the past glory of the Creation Society, transformed himself overnight into "Shi Housheng" and then vanished like a shooting star; and Mr. Qian Xingcun (錢杏邨) has lately done nothing but wrestle with Mao Dun (茅盾) on the pages of The Pioneer, interleaving Kurahara Korehito passage after passage. In such a busy or deserted battlefield, the works of every author outside these literary cliques are either "dispatched" or silently killed off. This time, the reading public's turn toward the social sciences is a good and proper turning point; it is beneficial not only in other respects but can also spur literature onto the correct, progressive path. Yet amid the chaos of output and the cold sneers of bystanders, it is all too easy for this to wither, and so what we need first of all is still—a few solid, clear-minded critics who truly understand the social sciences and their literary theory.
體質和精神都已硬化了的人民，對於極小的一點改革，也無不加以阻撓，表面上好像恐怕於自己不便，其實是恐怕於自己不利，但所設的口實，卻往往見得極其公正而且堂皇。今年的禁用陰歷，原也是瑣碎的，無關大體的事，但商家當然叫苦連天了。不特此也，連上海的無業遊民，公司雇員，竟也常常慨然長嘆，或者說這很不便於農家的耕種，或者說這很不便於海船的候潮。他們居然因此念起久不相幹的鄉下的農夫，海上的舟子來。這真像煞有些博愛。一到陰歷的十二月二十三，爆竹就到處畢畢剝剝。我問一家的店夥：“今年仍可以過舊歷年，明年一準過新歷年麽？”那回答是：“明年又是明年，要明年再看了。”他並不信明年非過陽歷年不可。但日歷上，卻誠然刪掉了陰歷，只存節氣。然而一面在報章上，則出現了《一百二十年陰陽合歷》的廣告。好，他們連曾孫玄孫時代的陰歷，也已經給準備妥當了，一百二十年！梁實秋先生們雖然很討厭多數，但多數的力量是偉大，要緊的，有誌於改革者倘不深知民眾的心，設法利導，改進，則無論怎樣的高文宏議，浪漫古典，都和他們無幹，僅止於幾個人在書房中互相嘆賞，得些自己滿足。假如竟有“好人政府”，出令改革乎，不多久，就早被他們拉回舊道上去了。真實的革命者，自有獨到的見解，例如烏略諾夫先生，他是將“風俗”和“習慣”，都包括在“文化”之內的，並且以為改革這些，很為困難。我想，但倘不將這些改革，則這革命即等於無成，如沙上建塔，頃刻倒壞。中國最初的排滿革命，所以易得響應者，因為口號是“光復舊物”，就是“復古”，易於取得保守的人民同意的緣故。但到後來，竟沒有歷史上定例的開國之初的盛世，只枉然失了一條辮子，就很為大家所不滿了。以後較新的改革，就著著失敗，改革一兩，反動十斤，例如上述的一年日歷上不準註陰歷，卻來了陰陽合歷一百二十年。這種合歷，歡迎的人們一定是很多的，因為這是風俗和習慣所擁護，所以也有風俗和習慣的後援。別的事也如此，倘不深入民眾的大層中，於他們的風俗習慣，加以研究，解剖，分別好壞，立存廢的標準，而於存於廢，都慎選施行的方法，則無論怎樣的改革，都將為習慣的巖石所壓碎，或者只在表面上浮遊一些時。現在已不是在書齋中，捧書本高談宗教，法律，文藝，美術……等等的時候了，即使要談論這些，也必須先知道習慣和風俗，而且有正視這些的黑暗面的勇猛和毅力。因為倘不看清，就無從改革。僅大叫未來的光明，其實是欺騙怠慢的自己和怠慢的聽眾的。	People whose bodies and spirits have already hardened will obstruct even the most trivial reform, ostensibly fearing inconvenience to themselves, but in reality fearing disadvantage to their interests. Yet the pretexts they put forward always manage to appear supremely fair-minded and dignified. This year's prohibition of the lunar calendar is, to be sure, a trifling matter of no great consequence, yet the merchants naturally wail as if the sky were falling. Nor is that all: even the unemployed drifters and company clerks of Shanghai frequently heave great sighs of indignation, some saying it is terribly inconvenient for the farmers' plowing, others that it is terribly inconvenient for sailors waiting for the tides. They suddenly find themselves thinking of the peasants in the countryside and the boatmen on the seas, with whom they have long had nothing to do. This truly looks like something approaching universal love. As soon as the twenty-third of the twelfth month by the lunar calendar arrives, firecrackers begin popping everywhere. I asked a shop clerk: "This year you can still celebrate the old calendar New Year—does that mean next year you will definitely celebrate the new calendar New Year?" The reply was: "Next year is next year; we'll see about it when next year comes." He did not in the least believe he would be compelled to celebrate the solar New Year next year. Yet on the calendar, the lunar dates have indeed been deleted, leaving only the solar terms. Meanwhile, in the newspapers, an advertisement has appeared for "A 120-Year Combined Lunar-Solar Calendar." Splendid—they have already prepared the lunar calendar for the time of their great-grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren: one hundred and twenty years! Though Mr. Liang Shiqiu (梁實秋) and his ilk greatly dislike the majority, the power of the majority is great and vital. Those who aspire to reform, if they do not deeply understand the hearts of the people and find ways to guide, improve, and advance them, then no matter how lofty their treatises or grand their theories—romantic or classical—these will have nothing to do with the people, and will merely amount to a few men in their studies admiring one another and congratulating themselves. If ever a "government of good men" should issue reform decrees, before long the people will have dragged things right back onto the old track. True revolutionaries have their own distinctive insight. Take Mr. Ulyanov (烏略諾夫), for example: he included "customs" and "habits" within the concept of "culture," and moreover considered reforming these to be extremely difficult. I believe that if these are not reformed, then the revolution amounts to nothing—like a tower built on sand, collapsing in an instant. China's earliest anti-Manchu revolution was easily supported precisely because its slogan was "Restore the old order"—that is, "return to antiquity"—which readily won the approval of a conservative populace. But when afterward there was none of the prosperous era that historical precedent prescribes at the founding of a new dynasty, and people had lost their queues for nothing, there was widespread discontent. Subsequent, more progressive reforms failed one after another—one ounce of reform met with ten pounds of reaction. As in the example above: one year's calendar prohibits the lunar dates, and in return comes a combined lunar-solar calendar spanning one hundred and twenty years. Such a combined calendar will certainly find many welcoming it, because it is supported by customs and habits, and therefore has the backing of customs and habits behind it. The same applies to other matters: unless one penetrates deeply into the great mass of the people, studies and dissects their customs and habits, distinguishes the good from the bad, establishes standards for what to preserve and what to abolish, and carefully selects the methods of implementation for both preservation and abolition—then no matter what reform is attempted, it will be crushed by the rock of habit, or else merely float on the surface for a time. This is no longer the time to sit in one's study, book in hand, and hold forth on religion, law, literature, art, and the like. Even if one wishes to discuss such matters, one must first understand customs and habits, and moreover possess the courage and tenacity to face their dark side squarely. For without seeing clearly, reform is impossible. To merely shout about the brightness of the future is to deceive one's own complacent self and one's complacent audience.
在上海制圖版，比別處便當，也似乎好些，所以日報的星期附錄畫報呀，書店的什麽什麽月刊畫報呀，也出得比別處起勁。這些畫報上，除了一排一排的坐著大人先生們的什麽什麽會開會或閉會的紀念照片而外，還一定要有“女士”。 “女士”的尊容，為什麽要紹介於社會的呢？我們只要看那說明，就可以明白了。例如： “A女士，B女校皇後，性喜音樂。” “C女士，D女校高材生，愛養叭兒狗。” “E女士，F大學肄業，為G先生之第五女公子。” 再看裝束：春天都是時裝，緊身窄袖；到夏天，將褲腳和袖子都撒掉了，坐在海邊，叫作“海水浴”，天氣正熱，那原是應該的；入秋，天氣涼了，不料日本兵恰恰侵入了東三省，於是畫報上就出現了白長衫的看護服，或托槍的戎裝的女士們。這是可以使讀者喜歡的，因為富於戲劇性。中國本來喜歡玩把戲，鄉下的戲臺上，往往掛著一副對子，一面是“戲場小天地”，一面是“天地大戲場”。做起戲來，因為是鄉下，還沒有《乾隆帝下江南》之類，所以往往是《雙陽公主追狄》，《薛仁貴招親》，其中的女戰士，看客稱之為“女將”。她頭插雉尾，手執雙刀（或兩端都有槍尖的長槍），一出臺，看客就看得更起勁。明知不過是做做戲的，然而看得更起勁了。練了多年的軍人，一聲鼓響，突然都變了無抵抗主義者。於是遠路的文人學士，便大談什麽“乞丐殺敵”，“屠夫成仁”，“奇女子救國”一流的傳奇式古典，想一聲鑼響，出於意料之外的人物來“為國增光”。而同時，畫報上也就出現了這些傳奇的插畫。但還沒有提起劍仙的一道白光，總算還是切實的。但願不要誤解。我並不是說，“女士”們都得在繡房裏關起來；我不過說，雄兵解甲而密斯托槍，是富於戲劇性的而已。還有事實可以證明。一，誰也沒有看見過日本的“懲膺中國軍”的看護隊的照片；二，日本軍裏是沒有女將的。然而確已動手了。這是因為日本人是做事是做事，做戲是做戲，決不混合起來的緣故。	In Shanghai, making printing blocks is more convenient than elsewhere, and the quality also seems somewhat better. This is why the Sunday supplements and pictorial magazines of various daily newspapers, as well as the whatever-monthly pictorials of various bookstores, are produced here with more vigor than anywhere else. In these pictorials, apart from row upon row of commemorative photographs of distinguished gentlemen seated at the opening or closing ceremonies of this or that conference, there must invariably also be "ladies." Why must the fair visages of these "ladies" be introduced to society? We need only look at the captions to understand. For example: "Miss A, Queen of B Girls' School, fond of music." "Miss C, outstanding student of D Girls' School, loves raising Pekingese dogs." "Miss E, formerly enrolled at F University, the fifth daughter of Mr. G." Then look at their attire: in spring it is all the latest fashion, tight-fitting with narrow sleeves; by summer, the trouser legs and sleeves have both been cut away, and they sit by the seaside—this is called "sea bathing," and since the weather is hot, it is perfectly appropriate; come autumn, the weather turns cool, but then, as it happens, the Japanese army invaded the Three Eastern Provinces, and so the pictorials suddenly featured ladies in white nurses' uniforms or in military dress shouldering rifles. This is something that can delight readers, for it is rich in theatrical quality. China has always loved putting on shows. On the stages in the countryside, one often sees a pair of couplets hanging: on one side, "The stage is a little world," and on the other, "The world is a great stage." When performances are staged, since it is the countryside and they don't yet have pieces like "Emperor Qianlong Tours the South," what they usually put on is "Princess Shuangyang Pursues Di" or "Xue Rengui's Marriage Match," and the female warriors in these plays are called "lady generals" by the audience. With pheasant feathers in her headdress and twin swords in her hands (or a long spear with points at both ends), as soon as she steps onto the stage, the audience watches with even greater enthusiasm. They know perfectly well it is all just play-acting, yet they watch with even greater enthusiasm all the same. Soldiers who trained for many years, at the sound of a single drumbeat, suddenly all became devotees of non-resistance. And so literary gentlemen and scholars from distant parts began holding forth about such legendary classical tales as "beggars slaying the enemy," "butchers dying for righteousness," and "remarkable women saving the nation"—hoping that at the sound of a single gong, some unexpected character would appear to "bring glory to the country." And at the same time, illustrations of these legends duly appeared in the pictorials. But at least they had not yet invoked the single streak of white light from a sword-immortal, so one could still consider it relatively grounded. But let there be no misunderstanding. I am not saying that "ladies" should all be shut up in their embroidery chambers. I am merely saying that when gallant troops lay down their arms and misses take up rifles instead, it is rich in theatrical quality—that is all. There are also facts to prove it. First, no one has ever seen a photograph of a nursing corps from the Japanese "punitive army against China." Second, there are no lady generals in the Japanese military. Yet they have certainly taken action. This is because the Japanese keep doing things as doing things and play-acting as play-acting, and never mix the two up.
就是那剛剛說過的日本人，他們做文章論及中國的國民性的時候，內中往往有一條叫作“善於宣傳”。看他的說明，這“宣傳”兩字卻又不像是平常的“Propaganda”，而是“對外說謊”的意思。這宗話，影子是有一點的。譬如罷，教育經費用光了，卻還要開幾個學堂，裝裝門面；全國的人們十之九不識字，然而總得請幾位博士，使他對西洋人去講中國的精神文明；至今還是隨便拷問，隨便殺頭，一面卻總支撐維持著幾個洋式的“模範監獄”，給外國人看看。還有，離前敵很遠的將軍，他偏要大打電報，說要“為國前驅”。連體操班也不願意上的學生少爺，他偏要穿上軍裝，說是“滅此朝食”。不過，這些究竟還有一點影子；究竟還有幾個學堂，幾個博士，幾個模範監獄，幾個通電，幾套軍裝。所以說是“說謊”，是不對的。這就是我之所謂“做戲”。但這普遍的做戲，卻比真的做戲還要壞。真的做戲，是只有一時；戲子做完戲，也就恢復為平常狀態的。楊小樓做《單刀赴會》，梅蘭芳做《黛玉葬花》，只有在戲臺上的時候是關雲長，是林黛玉，下臺就成了普通人，所以並沒有大弊。倘使他們扮演一回之後，就永遠提著青龍偃月刀或鋤頭，以關老爺，林妹妹自命，怪聲怪氣，唱來唱去，那就實在只好算是發熱昏了。不幸因為是“天地大戲場”，可以普遍的做戲者，就很難有下臺的時候，例如楊縵華女士用自己的天足，踢破小國比利時女人的“中國女人纏足說”，為面子起見，用權術來解圍，這還可以說是很該原諒的。但我以為應該這樣就拉倒。現在回到寓裏，做成文章，這就是進了後臺還不肯放下青龍偃月刀；而且又將那文章送到中國的《申報》上來發表，則簡直是提著青龍偃月刀一路唱回自己的家裏來了。難道作者真已忘記了中國女人曾經纏腳，至今也還有正在纏腳的麽？還是以為中國人都已經自己催眠，覺得全國女人都已穿了高跟皮鞋了呢？這不過是一個例子罷了，相像的還多得很，但恐怕不久天也就要亮了。	It is precisely those Japanese just mentioned who, when they write articles discussing the national character of the Chinese, often include an item called "skilled at propaganda." But looking at their explanation, the word "propaganda" here does not seem to mean the ordinary "Propaganda"—rather, it means "lying to the outside world." There is indeed a shadow of truth in this characterization. For example: the education funds have been spent entirely, yet they still have to open a few schools to keep up appearances; nine-tenths of the people in the nation are illiterate, yet they must invite a few holders of doctorates to go and lecture to Westerners on China's spiritual civilization; even now, people are tortured at will, beheaded at will, and yet they always manage to prop up a few Western-style "model prisons" for foreigners to inspect. Moreover, generals who are far from the front lines insist on sending grandiose telegrams declaring they wish to "lead the vanguard for the nation." And young gentlemen students who won't even attend their physical exercise classes insist on donning military uniforms and proclaiming they will "destroy the enemy before breakfast." However, behind all of this there is still at least a shadow of substance: there are still a few schools, a few doctorates, a few model prisons, a few telegrams, a few sets of military uniforms. So to call it "lying" is not quite right. What I would call it is "putting on a show." But this universal show-putting is actually worse than real theater. Real theater lasts only a moment; when the actors finish the play, they return to their normal state. Yang Xiaolou (杨小楼) performs "Going to the Feast Alone with a Single Blade," and Mei Lanfang (梅兰芳) performs "Daiyu Burying the Flowers"—they are Guan Yunchang and Lin Daiyu only while on stage, and once they step off, they become ordinary people again. So there is no great harm in it. But if, after performing their roles once, they were to carry around the Green Dragon Crescent Blade or the hoe forever after, calling themselves Lord Guan or Sister Lin, singing in their strange stage voices without cease, well then, one could really only conclude they had gone delirious with fever. Unfortunately, since "the world is a great stage," those who are able to put on a universal show rarely find an occasion to step offstage. For instance, when Miss Yang Manhua (杨缦华) used her own natural, unbound feet to kick to pieces the Belgian women's notion that "Chinese women bind their feet"—to save face, to employ a stratagem to extricate herself—that is still quite forgivable. But in my view, it should have stopped right there. Now she has gone home to her residence, written it up into an essay, which is the equivalent of going backstage but still refusing to put down the Green Dragon Crescent Blade. And then she sent that essay to China's Shenbao for publication—which is virtually carrying the Green Dragon Crescent Blade and singing all the way home! Does the author truly forget that Chinese women once bound their feet, and that even now there are still some in the process of binding them? Or does she believe that all Chinese have already hypnotized themselves into thinking that every woman in the nation has put on high-heeled leather shoes? This is merely one example; there are plenty more of the same kind. But I fear it won't be long before dawn breaks.
現在有自以為大有見識的人，在說“為人類的藝術”。然而這樣的藝術，在現在的社會裏，是斷斷沒有的。看罷，這便是在說“為人類的藝術”的人，也已將人類分為對的和錯的，或好的和壞的，而將所謂錯的或壞的加以叫咬了。所以，現在的藝術，總要一面得到蔑視，冷遇，迫害，而一面得到同情，擁護，支持。一八藝社也將逃不出這例子。因為它在這舊社會裏，是新的，年青的，前進的。中國近來其實也沒有什麽藝術家。號稱“藝術家”者，他們的得名，與其說在藝術，倒是在他們的履歷和作品的題目——故意題得香艷，漂渺，古怪，雄深。連騙帶嚇，令人覺得似乎了不得。然而時代是在不息地進行，現在新的，年青的，沒有名的作家的作品站在這裏了，以清醒的意識和堅強的努力，在榛莽中露出了日見生長的健壯的新芽。自然，這，是很幼小的。但是，惟其幼小，所以希望就正在這一面。我的話，也就是只對這一面說的，如上。一九三一年五月二十二日。	Nowadays there are people who fancy themselves greatly insightful, going around saying "art for humanity." But art of this kind simply does not exist in our present society. Just look: even those who speak of "art for humanity" have already divided humanity into right and wrong, or good and bad, and have set about barking at those they deem wrong or bad. Therefore, art in the present age will inevitably, on the one hand, meet with contempt, cold indifference, and persecution, while on the other hand gaining sympathy, support, and advocacy. The Yiba Art Society will not escape this pattern either. For within this old society, it is new, young, and progressive. In China of late, there have really been no artists to speak of. Those who style themselves "artists" owe their fame not so much to their art as to their personal histories and the titles of their works—deliberately making them sound alluring, ethereal, bizarre, or profoundly imposing. Through a combination of deception and intimidation, they make people feel that here is something quite extraordinary. But the age moves forward without ceasing. Now works by new, young, nameless artists stand here before us, and with clear consciousness and steadfast effort, amid the wilderness of tangled undergrowth, vigorous new shoots are emerging, growing visibly stronger day by day. Naturally, these shoots are still very small. But precisely because they are small, our hope lies on this side. My words, too, are addressed only to this side—as above. May 22, 1931.
今年八月三十一日《申報》的《自由談》裏，又看見了署名“寄萍”的《楊縵華女士遊歐雜感》，其中的一段，我覺得很有趣，就照抄在下面：“……有一天我們到比利時一個鄉村裏去。許多女人爭著來看我的腳。我伸起腳來給伊們看。才平服伊們好奇的疑竇。一位女人說。‘我們也向來不曾見過中國人。但從小就聽說中國人是有尾巴的（即辮發）。都要討姨太太的。女人都是小腳。跑起路來一搖一擺的。如今才明白這話不確實。請原諒我們的錯念。’還有一人自以為熟悉東亞情形的。帶著譏笑的態度說。‘中國的軍閥如何專橫。到處鬧的是兵匪。人民過著地獄的生活。’這種似是而非的話。說了一大堆。我說‘此種傳說。全無根據。’同行的某君。也報以很滑稽的話。‘我看你們那裏會知道立國數千年的大中華民國。等我們革命成功之後。簡直要把顯微鏡來照你們比利時呢。’就此一笑而散。” 我們的楊女士雖然用她的尊腳征服了比利時女人，為國增光，但也有兩點“錯念”。其一，是我們中國人的確有過尾巴（即辮發）的，纏過小腳的，討過姨太太的，雖現在也在討。其二，是楊女士的腳不能代表一切中國女人的腳，正如留學的女生不能代表一切中國的女性一般。留學生大多數是家裏有錢，或由政府派遣，為的是將來給家族或國家增光，貧窮和受不到教育的女人怎麽能同日而語。所以，雖在現在，其實是纏著小腳，“跑起路來一搖一擺的”女人還不少。至於困苦，那是用不著多談，只要看同一的《申報》上，記載著多少“呼籲和平”的文電，多少募集急賑的廣告，多少兵變和綁票的記事，留學外國的少爺小姐們雖然相隔太遠，可以說不知道，但既然能想到用顯微鏡，難道就不能想到用望遠鏡嗎？況且又何必用望遠鏡呢，同一的《楊縵華女士遊歐雜感》裏就又說： “……據說使領館的窮困。不自今日始。不過近幾年來。有每況愈下之勢。譬如逢到我國國慶或是重大紀念日。照例須招待外賓。舉行盛典。意思是慶祝國運方興。兼之聯絡各友邦的感情。以前使領館必備盛宴。款待上賓。到了去年。為館費支絀。改行茶會。以目前的形勢推測。將後恐怕連茶會都開不成呢。在國際上最講究體面的。要算日本國。他們政府行政費的預算。寧可特別節省。惟獨於駐外使領館的經費。十分充足。單就這一點來比較。我們已相形見拙了。” 使館和領事館是代表本國，如楊女士所說，要“慶祝國運方興”的，而竟有“每況愈下之勢”，孟子曰，“百姓不足，君孰與足？”則人民的過著什麽生活，也就可想而知了。然而小國比利時的女人們究竟是單純的，終於請求了原諒，假使她們真“知道立國數千年的大中華民國”的國民，往往有自欺欺人的不治之癥，那可真是沒有面子了。假如這樣，又怎麽辦呢？我想，也還是“就此一笑而散”罷。	On August 31 of this year, in the "Free Talk" column of the Shenbao, I came across another installment of "Miss Yang Manhua's Miscellaneous Impressions from Her European Travels," signed "Jiping." One passage in it struck me as highly entertaining, and I reproduce it here verbatim: "...One day we went to a village in Belgium. Many women competed to come look at my feet. I raised my foot and showed it to them. Only then were their curious doubts put to rest. One woman said, 'We have never seen Chinese people before either. But ever since we were little, we have heard that the Chinese have tails (i.e., queues), that they all take concubines, and that the women all have small feet, walking with a swaying, tottering gait. Now we realize these claims are untrue. Please forgive our misconceptions.' There was also one person who fancied herself well-acquainted with East Asian affairs. With a mocking attitude she said, 'China's warlords are so tyrannical. Everywhere there are soldiers and bandits. The people live a life of hell.' She said a whole pile of such specious remarks. I said, 'Such hearsay is entirely without foundation.' A certain gentleman traveling with us also replied with a rather comical remark: 'How could the likes of you possibly understand the Great Republic of China, a nation with a history of several thousand years? Once our revolution succeeds, we will simply have to take a microscope to examine your Belgium!' And with that, everyone laughed and dispersed." Our Miss Yang, though she conquered the Belgian women with her honorable feet and brought glory to the nation, nevertheless harbors two "misconceptions" of her own. First, we Chinese did indeed once have tails (i.e., queues), did bind feet, and did take concubines—and are still taking them now. Second, Miss Yang's feet cannot represent the feet of all Chinese women, just as female students studying abroad cannot represent all Chinese women. Most students abroad come from wealthy families or are sent by the government, precisely in order to bring future glory to their families or their nation. How can impoverished women who receive no education be mentioned in the same breath? Therefore, even at present, there are in fact still quite a number of women with bound feet who "walk with a swaying, tottering gait." As for hardship, that scarcely needs much discussion. One need only look at the same Shenbao to find how many "appeals for peace" in the form of telegrams and communiqués, how many advertisements soliciting emergency relief donations, how many reports of mutinies and kidnappings there are. The young gentlemen and ladies studying abroad may be too far away to claim knowledge of these things, but since they are capable of thinking about microscopes, can they not also think about telescopes? Besides, why should telescopes even be necessary? In the very same "Miscellaneous Impressions from Miss Yang Manhua's European Travels," she goes on to say: "...It is said that the poverty of our embassies and consulates did not begin just today. However, in recent years the situation has been going from bad to worse. For instance, on our National Day or other major commemorative occasions, protocol requires entertaining foreign guests and holding grand celebrations. The idea is to celebrate the flourishing fortune of our nation and at the same time strengthen ties with friendly nations. In the past, embassies and consulates invariably prepared lavish banquets to entertain distinguished guests. But last year, due to strained finances, they switched to tea receptions. Judging from the present situation, I fear that in the future even tea receptions may become impossible. Among nations, the one that pays the most attention to face in international affairs is Japan. Their government would rather make especially severe cuts to administrative expenditures, but for the funding of embassies and consulates abroad, they are most generous. On this point alone, we already come off poorly by comparison." Embassies and consulates represent their home country. As Miss Yang herself says, they are meant to "celebrate the flourishing fortune of our nation." Yet they are experiencing a "trend from bad to worse." Mencius said, "If the common people do not have enough, how can the ruler have enough?" From this, one can well imagine what kind of life the people are living. And yet the women of little Belgium are, in the end, simple souls, and they did finally ask for forgiveness. If they truly "knew the citizens of the Great Republic of China with its history of several thousand years" and their often incurable disease of deceiving themselves and others, now that would really be a loss of face. If things are like this, then what is to be done? I think all we can do is what they did—"laugh and disperse."
這“順”的翻譯出現的時候，是很久遠了；而且是大文學家和大翻譯理論家，誰都不屑註意的。但因為偶然在我所搜集的“順譯模範文大成”稿本裏，翻到了這一條，所以就再來一下子。卻說這一條，是出在中華民國十九年八月三日的《時報》裏的，在頭號字的《針穿兩手……》這一個題目之下，做著這樣的文章： “被共黨捉去以錢贖出由長沙逃出之中國商人，與從者二名，於昨日避難到漢，彼等主仆，均鮮血淋漓，語其友人曰，長沙有為共黨作偵探者，故多數之資產階級，於廿九日晨被捕，予等系於廿八夜捕去者，即以針穿手，以秤秤之，言時出其兩手，解布以示其所穿之穴，尚鮮血淋漓。……（漢口二日電通電）” 這自然是“順”的，雖然略一留心，即容或會有多少可疑之點。譬如罷，其一，主人是資產階級，當然要“鮮血淋漓”的了，二仆大概總是窮人，為什麽也要一同“鮮血淋漓”的呢？其二，“以針穿手，以秤秤之”幹什麽，莫非要照斤兩來定罪名麽？但是，雖然如此，文章也還是“順”的，因為在社會上，本來說得共黨的行為是古裏古怪；況且只要看過《玉歷鈔傳》，就都知道十殿閻王的某一殿裏，有用天秤來秤犯人的辦法，所以“以秤秤之”，也還是毫不足奇。只有秤的時候，不用稱鉤而用“針”，卻似乎有些特別罷了。幸而，我在同日的一種日本文報紙《上海日報》上，也偶然見到了電通社的同一的電報，這才明白《時報》是因為譯者不拘拘於“硬譯”，而又要“順”，所以有些不“信”了。倘若譯得“信而不順”一點，大略是應該這樣的：“……彼等主仆，將為恐怖和鮮血所渲染之經驗談，語該地之中國人曰，共產軍中，有熟悉長沙之情形者，……予等系於廿八日之半夜被捕，拉去之時，則在腕上刺孔，穿以鐵絲，數人或數十人為一串。言時即以包著沁血之布片之手示之……” 這才分明知道，“鮮血淋漓”的並非“彼等主仆”，乃是他們的“經驗談”，兩位仆人，手上實在並沒有一個洞。穿手的東西，日本文雖然寫作“針金”，但譯起來須是“鐵絲”，不是“針”，針是做衣服的。至於“以秤秤之”，卻連影子也沒有。我們的“友邦”好友，頂喜歡宣傳中國的古怪事情，尤其是“共黨”的；四年以前，將“裸體遊行”說得像煞有介事，於是中國人也跟著叫了好幾個月。其實是，警察用鐵絲穿了殖民地的革命黨的手，一串一串的牽去，是所謂“文明”國民的行為，中國人還沒有知道這方法，鐵絲也不是農業社會的產品。從唐到宋，因為迷信，對於“妖人”雖然曾有用鐵索穿了鎖骨，以防變化的法子，但久已不用，知道的人也幾乎沒有了。文明國人將自己們所用的文明方法，硬栽到中國來，不料中國人卻還沒有這樣文明，連上海的翻譯家也不懂，偏不用鐵絲來穿，就只照閻羅殿上的辦法，“秤”了一下完事。造謠的和幫助造謠的，一下子都顯出本相來了。	The appearance of this kind of "smooth" translation dates back quite a long time already, and since it involves great literary figures and great theorists of translation, nobody deigns to pay attention to it. But because I happened upon this item while leafing through the manuscript of my collected "Compendium of Model Translations in the Smooth Style," I shall bring it up once more. Now then, this particular item appeared in the Shibao on August 3 of the nineteenth year of the Republic of China, under a headline in the largest typeface reading "Needle Piercing Both Hands...," and the article read as follows: "A Chinese merchant who had been captured by the Communist Party and ransomed with money, having fled Changsha, arrived yesterday in Hankou seeking refuge with two attendants. The master and servants alike were dripping with blood. He told his friends: 'In Changsha there are spies working for the Communist Party, so a large number of the propertied class were arrested on the morning of the 29th. We were seized on the night of the 28th. They pierced our hands with needles and weighed us on a scale.' As he spoke, he held out his two hands and unwound the cloth to show the holes where they had been pierced, still dripping with blood. ...(Dentsu telegram from Hankou, August 2)" This is, naturally, "smooth"—though if one pauses to think for even a moment, certain points may seem somewhat dubious. For example: first, the master being of the propertied class, of course he would be "dripping with blood," but his two servants were presumably poor men—why should they also be "dripping with blood"? Second, what was the purpose of "piercing hands with needles and weighing them on a scale"—were they perhaps determining criminal charges by weight? However, despite all this, the passage remains "smooth," because in society, the actions of the Communist Party have always been described as bizarre and outlandish; moreover, anyone who has ever read the "Jade Calendar" knows that in one of the courts of the Ten Kings of Hell, there is a method of weighing sinners on a celestial balance. So "weighing them on a scale" is not particularly surprising either. Only the fact that for the weighing they used not a scale hook but a "needle" seems somewhat peculiar. Fortunately, on the same day, I happened to see the same Dentsu telegram in a Japanese-language newspaper, the Shanghai Nippo, and only then did I understand: it was because the translator of the Shibao, refusing to be constrained by "hard translation" and insisting on being "smooth," had become somewhat lacking in "faithfulness." If one were to translate it a bit more "faithfully, though not smoothly," it should roughly read as follows: "...The master and servants related their experiences, colored by terror and blood, to the local Chinese, saying: 'In the Communist army there are those familiar with the situation in Changsha... We were arrested at midnight on the 28th. When dragged away, holes were pierced in our wrists, and wire was threaded through them, stringing several people or several dozen people together in a line.' As he spoke, he showed them his hands wrapped in blood-soaked strips of cloth..." Only then does it become clear that it was not "the master and servants" themselves who were "dripping with blood," but rather their "account of their experiences." The two servants, in fact, had not a single hole in their hands. The thing used to pierce the hands, though written in Japanese as "needle-metal" (harigane), must be translated as "wire"—not "needle"; needles are for sewing clothes. As for "weighing them on a scale"—there is not even a shadow of that. Our "friendly nation's" good friends are most fond of propagating bizarre tales about China, especially concerning the "Communist Party." Four years ago, they talked about "nude parades" as if they were absolutely real, and Chinese people followed along, repeating the story for months. The truth is that it is the police who thread wire through the hands of colonial revolutionaries and lead them away in chains—this is the practice of so-called "civilized" peoples. The Chinese do not yet know this method, and wire is not a product of an agrarian society. From the Tang to the Song dynasties, due to superstition, there was indeed a practice of threading iron chains through the collarbones of "sorcerers" to prevent them from transforming, but this has long been abandoned, and hardly anyone knows of it anymore. The people of civilized nations take their own civilized methods and foist them upon China, not realizing that the Chinese are not yet so civilized—even the translators in Shanghai do not understand it. They stubbornly refuse to use wire for the threading and simply follow the method used in the Halls of King Yama, "weighing" the prisoners and being done with it. The rumor-makers and those who help spread rumors have all revealed their true colors at once.
張資平氏據說是“最進步”的“無產階級作家”，你們還在“萌芽”，還在“拓荒”，他卻已在收獲了。這就是進步，拔步飛跑，望塵莫及。然而你如果追蹤而往呢，就看見他跑進“樂群書店”中。張資平氏先前是三角戀愛小說作家，並且看見女的性欲，比男人還要熬不住，她來找男人，賤人呀賤人，該吃苦。這自然不是無產階級小說。但作者一轉方向，則一人得道，雞犬飛升，何況神仙的遺蛻呢，《張資平全集》還應該看的。這是收獲呀，你明白了沒有？還有收獲哩。《申報》報告，今年的大夏學生，敬請“為青年所崇拜的張資平先生”去教“小說學”了。中國老例，英文先生是一定會教外國史的，國文先生是一定會教倫理學的，何況小說先生，當然滿肚子小說學。要不然，他做得出來嗎？我們能保得定荷馬沒有“史詩作法”，沙士比亞沒有“戲劇學概論”嗎？嗚呼，從此會知道如何三角，如何戀愛，你想女人嗎，。但最可憐的是不在上海，只好遙遙“崇拜”，難以身列門墻的青年，竟不能恭聽這偉大的“小說學”。現在我將《張資平全集》和“小說學”的精華，提煉在下面，遙獻這些崇拜家，算是“望梅止渴”雲。那就是——二月二十二日。	Mr. Zhang Ziping (张资平) is said to be the "most progressive" of "proletarian writers." While you are all still "germinating," still "breaking ground," he has already begun to harvest. This is what progress means—striding forward at a run, leaving everyone else in his dust. But if you were to follow his tracks, you would see him running straight into the "Lequn Bookstore." Mr. Zhang Ziping was formerly a writer of love-triangle novels, and in his works, women's sexual desire is even harder to restrain than men's—the woman comes seeking the man; the hussy, oh the hussy, she deserves to suffer! This is naturally not proletarian fiction. But once the author changes direction, then "when one man attains the Way, even his chickens and dogs ascend to heaven"—how much more so the mortal remains of an immortal! The Collected Works of Zhang Ziping still merit reading, you see. This is harvest, do you understand? And there is yet more harvest! The Shenbao reports that this year, the students of Daxia University have respectfully invited "Mr. Zhang Ziping, so worshipped by the youth" to teach "the study of the novel." According to old Chinese custom, the English teacher invariably ends up teaching foreign history, and the Chinese literature teacher invariably ends up teaching ethics—so how much more natural that the novel-writing teacher should have a belly full of "novel studies"! If he couldn't, how could he have produced novels in the first place? Can we be sure that Homer had no "Method of Epic Composition," or that Shakespeare had no "General Introduction to Dramatic Studies"? Alas, from now on everyone will know how to triangle and how to love—you fancy a woman, do you? But most pitiable are those young people who are not in Shanghai and can only "worship from afar," unable to enroll at the master's door, and who cannot attend in person these magnificent "novel studies" lectures. I shall now distill the essence of the Collected Works of Zhang Ziping and his "novel studies" and present them below, offered from afar to these devotees of worship as a kind of "quenching one's thirst by gazing at plums." And that is— February 22.
中國向來的老例，做皇帝做牢靠和做倒黴的時候，總要和文人學士扳一下子相好。做牢靠的時候是“偃武修文”，粉飾粉飾；做倒黴的時候是又以為他們真有“治國平天下”的大道，再問問看，要說得直白一點，就是見於《紅樓夢》上的所謂“病篤亂投醫”了。當“宣統皇帝”遜位遜到坐得無聊的時候，我們的胡適之博士曾經盡過這樣的任務。見過以後，也奇怪，人們不知怎的先問他們怎樣的稱呼，博士曰： “他叫我先生，我叫他皇上。” 那時似乎並不談什麽國家大計，因為這“皇上”後來不過做了幾首打油白話詩，終於無聊，而且還落得一個趕出金鑾殿。現在可要闊了，聽說想到東三省再去做皇帝呢。而在上海，又以“蔣召見胡適之丁文江”聞：“南京專電：丁文江，胡適，來京謁蔣，此來系奉蔣召，對大局有所垂詢。……”（十月十四日《申報》。）現在沒有人問他怎樣的稱呼。為什麽呢？因為是知道的，這回是“我稱他主席……”！安徽大學校長劉文典教授，因為不稱“主席”而關了好多天，好容易才交保出外，老同鄉，舊同事，博士當然是知道的，所以，“我稱他主席”！也沒有人問他“垂詢”些什麽。為什麽呢？因為這也是知道的，是“大局”。而且這“大局”也並無“國民黨專政”和“英國式自由”的爭論的麻煩，也沒有“知難行易”和“知易行難”的爭論的麻煩，所以，博士就出來了。 “新月派”的羅隆基博士曰：“根本改組政府，……容納全國各項人才代表各種政見的政府，……政治的意見，是可以犧牲的，是應該犧牲的。”（《沈陽事件》。）代表各種政見的人才，組成政府，又犧牲掉政治的意見，這種“政府”實在是神妙極了。但“知難行易”竟“垂詢”於“知難，行亦不易”，倒也是一個先兆。	It has long been the custom in China that when an emperor feels secure on his throne or when he is on the verge of losing it, he invariably tries to cozy up to men of letters. When secure, it is called "laying down arms and cultivating the arts" — a bit of window dressing. When in trouble, it is because he suddenly believes they truly possess the great Way to "govern the state and bring peace to the world," and wants to consult them once more. To put it bluntly, it is what the novel Dream of the Red Chamber calls "desperately trying any doctor when the illness is grave." When "Emperor Xuantong" had abdicated and was sitting around in boredom, our Dr. Hu Shizhi (胡适之) once performed precisely this kind of service. After the visit — curiously enough — people first wanted to know how they had addressed each other. The Doctor replied: "He called me 'Sir,' and I called him 'Your Majesty.'" At the time, it seems they did not discuss any grand affairs of state, for this "Majesty" subsequently only composed a few doggerel poems in the vernacular, remained bored as ever, and ended up being evicted from the Golden Throne Hall. Now, however, he is apparently on the rise again — rumor has it he intends to go to the Three Eastern Provinces to be emperor once more. Meanwhile, in Shanghai, the news is that "Chiang Summons Hu Shizhi and Ding Wenjiang (丁文江)": "Special telegram from Nanjing: Ding Wenjiang and Hu Shi have come to the capital for an audience with Chiang. Their visit was made at Chiang's summons, to be consulted on the general situation..." (Shenbao, October 14). This time, no one asks how they addressed each other. Why? Because everyone already knows — this time it is: "I called him 'Chairman'..."! Liu Wendian (刘文典), President of Anhui University, was locked up for quite a few days because he refused to say "Chairman," and was released on bail only with great difficulty. An old fellow provincial, a former colleague — the Doctor certainly knew all about it. And so: "I called him 'Chairman'"! Nor does anyone ask what was "consulted." Why? Because that too is already known — it was "the general situation." Moreover, this "general situation" involves none of the troublesome debates between "one-party rule by the Kuomintang" and "British-style freedom," nor the tedious arguments between "knowing is difficult, acting is easy" and "knowing is easy, acting is difficult." And so the Doctor came forth. Dr. Luo Longji (罗隆基) of the "Crescent Moon" school declared: "Fundamentally reorganize the government... a government that accommodates talents from across the nation representing all political views... Political opinions can be sacrificed, should be sacrificed." ("The Shenyang Incident.") Talents representing all political views, forming a government, and then sacrificing their political views — such a "government" is truly miraculous. Yet that the advocate of "knowing is difficult, acting is easy" should actually "consult" with someone who holds that "knowing is difficult, and acting is no easier" — that, at least, is an omen of things to come.
中國的無產階級革命文學在今天和明天之交發生，在誣蔑和壓迫之中滋長，終於在最黑暗裏，用我們的同志的鮮血寫了第一篇文章。我們的勞苦大眾歷來只被最劇烈的壓迫和榨取，連識字教育的布施也得不到，惟有默默地身受著宰割和滅亡。繁難的象形字，又使他們不能有自修的機會。智識的青年們意識到自己的前驅的使命，便首先發出戰叫。這戰叫和勞苦大眾自己的反叛的叫聲一樣地使統治者恐怖，走狗的文人即群起進攻，或者制造謠言，或者親作偵探，然而都是暗做，都是匿名，不過證明了他們自己是黑暗的動物。統治者也知道走狗的文人不能抵擋無產階級革命文學，於是一面禁止書報，封閉書店，頒布惡出版法，通緝著作家，一面用最末的手段，將左翼作家逮捕，拘禁，秘密處以死刑，至今並未宣布。這一面固然在證明他們是在滅亡中的黑暗的動物，一面也在證實中國無產階級革命文學陣營的力量，因為如傳略所羅列，我們的幾個遇害的同志的年齡，勇氣，尤其是平日的作品的成績，已足使全隊走狗不敢狂吠。然而我們的這幾個同志已被暗殺了，這自然是無產階級革命文學的若干的損失，我們的很大的悲痛。但無產階級革命文學卻仍然滋長，因為這是屬於革命的廣大勞苦群眾的，大眾存在一日，壯大一日，無產階級革命文學也就滋長一日。我們的同志的血，已經證明了無產階級革命文學和革命的勞苦大眾是在受一樣的壓迫，一樣的殘殺，作一樣的戰鬥，有一樣的運命，是革命的勞苦大眾的文學。現在，軍閥的報告，已說雖是六十歲老婦，也為「邪說」所中，租界的巡捕，雖對於小學兒童，也時時加以檢查，他們除從帝國主義得來的槍炮和幾條走狗之外，已將一無所有了，所有的只是老老小小——青年不必說——的敵人。而他們的這些敵人，便都在我們的這一面。我們現在以十分的哀悼和銘記，紀念我們的戰死者，也就是要牢記中國無產階級革命文學的歷史的第一頁，是同志的鮮血所記錄，永遠在顯示敵人的卑劣的兇暴和啟示我們的不斷的鬥爭。	China's proletarian revolutionary literature was born at the juncture of today and tomorrow. It grew under slander and oppression, and finally, in the deepest darkness, its first chapter was written in the blood of our comrades. Our toiling masses have always suffered nothing but the most violent oppression and exploitation. They never received even the charity of basic literacy education, and could only endure in silence as they were butchered and annihilated. The forbiddingly complex pictographic script further denied them any opportunity for self-study. When the intellectually awakened youth became conscious of their vanguard mission, they were the first to raise the battle cry. This battle cry terrified the rulers just as much as the rebellious shouts of the toiling masses themselves. The running-dog literati promptly launched their attack en masse — some fabricating rumors, others personally acting as informers — yet all of it done in the dark, all anonymously, proving only that they themselves were creatures of darkness. The rulers also knew that their running-dog literati could not withstand proletarian revolutionary literature. And so, on one hand, they banned books and periodicals, shut down bookstores, promulgated vicious publication laws, and put writers on wanted lists. On the other hand, they resorted to the ultimate measure: arresting and imprisoning left-wing writers, secretly executing them — executions that to this day have never been publicly announced. This proves on one side that they are creatures of darkness hurtling toward extinction, and on the other, it confirms the strength of China's proletarian revolutionary literary camp. For as the biographical sketches enumerate, the ages, the courage, and above all the achievements in the daily works of our several murdered comrades are more than enough to silence the entire pack of running dogs and stop them from barking. Yet our comrades have been assassinated — this is naturally a considerable loss for proletarian revolutionary literature, and a source of great grief for us. But proletarian revolutionary literature continues to grow, for it belongs to the vast revolutionary toiling masses. As long as the masses exist for one more day, as long as they grow stronger for one more day, proletarian revolutionary literature will grow for one more day. The blood of our comrades has proven that proletarian revolutionary literature and the revolutionary toiling masses suffer the same oppression, endure the same slaughter, wage the same struggle, and share the same fate — it is the literature of the revolutionary toiling masses. Now, the warlords' reports already state that even sixty-year-old women have been "infected by heretical doctrines," and the Settlement police constantly subject even elementary school children to searches. Apart from the guns and cannons they have obtained from imperialism and their few running dogs, they have nothing left — all they have are enemies old and young — not to mention the youth. And all these enemies of theirs stand on our side. We now commemorate our fallen warriors with the utmost grief and remembrance. This is also to engrave in memory the first page in the history of China's proletarian revolutionary literature — a page recorded in the blood of our comrades, forever exposing the enemy's base savagery and inspiring our unceasing struggle.
十六世紀末尾的時候，西班牙的文人西萬提斯做了一大部小說叫作《堂·吉訶德》，說這位吉先生，看武俠小說看呆了，硬要去學古代的遊俠，穿一身破甲，騎一匹瘦馬，帶一個跟丁，遊來遊去，想斬妖服怪，除暴安良。誰知當時已不是那麽古氣盎然的時候了，因此只落得鬧了許多笑話，吃了許多苦頭，終於上個大當，受了重傷，狼狽回來，死在家裏，臨死才知道自己不過一個平常人，並不是什麽大俠客。這一個古典，去年在中國曾經很被引用了一回，受到這個謚法的名人，似乎還有點很不高興的樣子。其實是，這種書呆子，乃是西班牙書呆子，向來愛講“中庸”的中國，是不會有的。西班牙人講戀愛，就天天到女人窗下去唱歌，信舊教，就燒殺異端，一革命，就搗爛教堂，踢出皇帝。然而我們中國的文人學子，不是總說女人先來引誘他，諸教同源，保存廟產，宣統在革命之後，還許他許多年在宮裏做皇帝嗎？記得先前的報章上，發表過幾個店家的小夥計，看劍俠小說入了迷，忽然要到武當山去學道的事，這倒很和“堂·吉訶德”相像的。但此後便看不見一點後文，不知道是也做出了許多奇跡，還是不久就又回到家裏去了？以“中庸”的老例推測起來，大約以回了家為合式。這以後的中國式的“堂·吉訶德”的出現，是“青年援馬團”。不是兵，他們偏要上戰場；政府要訴諸國聯，他們偏要自己動手；政府不準去，他們偏要去；中國現在總算有一點鐵路了，他們偏要一步一步的走過去；北方是冷的，他們偏只穿件夾襖；打仗的時候，兵器是頂要緊的，他們偏只著重精神。這一切等等，確是十分“堂·吉訶德”的了。然而究竟是中國的“堂·吉訶德”，所以他只一個，他們是一團；送他的是嘲笑，送他們的是歡呼；迎他的是詫異，而迎他們的也是歡呼；他駐紮在深山中，他們駐紮在真茹鎮；他在磨坊裏打風磨，他們在常州玩梳篦，又見美女，何幸如之（見十二月《申報·自由談》）。其苦樂之不同，有如此者，嗚呼！不錯，中外古今的小說太多了，裏面有“輿櫬”，有“截指”，有“哭秦庭”，有“對天立誓”。耳濡目染，誠然也不免來擡棺材，砍指頭，哭孫陵，宣誓出發的。然而五四運動時胡適之博士講文學革命的時候，就已經要“不用古典”，現在在行為上，似乎更可以不用了。講二十世紀戰事的小說，舊一點的有雷馬克的《西線無戰事》，棱的《戰爭》，新一點的有綏拉菲摩維支的《鐵流》，法捷耶夫的《毀滅》，裏面都沒有這樣的“青年團”，所以他們都實在打了仗。	At the end of the sixteenth century, the Spanish writer Cervantes (西万提斯) composed a great novel called Don Quixote. It tells of this Mr. Quixote who had read so many tales of chivalry that he lost his wits and insisted on emulating the knights-errant of old. Clad in a suit of battered armor, astride a scrawny nag, with a single squire in tow, he wandered hither and thither, intent on slaying demons, subduing monsters, stamping out tyranny, and succoring the weak. But alas, his times were no longer so quaintly antique. And so he made himself the butt of endless jokes, suffered blow after blow, was finally taken in by a great hoax, sustained a serious injury, limped home in utter ignominy, and died in his own bed — only on his deathbed realizing that he was merely an ordinary man and by no means any great knight-errant. This literary allusion was quite popular in China last year, and the notable who received this posthumous epithet seemed none too pleased about it. But in truth, this kind of bookworm was a Spanish bookworm. In China, where people have always loved to preach the "Doctrine of the Mean," such a creature could never exist. When Spaniards fall in love, they go serenade the lady beneath her window every night. When they believe in the old faith, they burn and slaughter heretics. When they make revolution, they smash the churches and kick out the king. But our Chinese men of letters — don't they always claim the woman seduced them first? Don't they say all religions come from the same source? Don't they advocate preserving temple properties? And after the revolution, wasn't Xuantong still permitted to play emperor in the palace for years on end? I recall that newspapers once reported a few shop-boys who had become so besotted with novels about swordsmen and immortals that they suddenly wanted to go to Mount Wudang to study the Way. Now that was rather similar to Don Quixote. But thereafter, not a word of follow-up appeared — whether they too performed wondrous exploits, or simply went back home before long. Judging by the old rule of the "Doctrine of the Mean," the most likely outcome is that they went home. The next Chinese-style "Don Quixote" to appear was the "Youth Volunteer Corps to Aid Ma." They were not soldiers, yet they insisted on going to the battlefield. The government wanted to appeal to the League of Nations, but they insisted on taking matters into their own hands. The government forbade them to go, but they insisted on going. China now has at least some railways, but they insisted on walking every step of the way. The north is cold, but they insisted on wearing only padded jackets. In warfare, weapons are of paramount importance, but they insisted on emphasizing spirit alone. All of this is indeed very "Don Quixote." And yet, since they are Chinese "Don Quixotes," there are differences: he was alone, they are a whole corps; he was sent off with mockery, they were sent off with cheers; he was met with astonishment, while they too were met with cheers; he was quartered in the depths of the mountains, they were quartered in the town of Zhenru; he tilted at windmills in a flour mill, they amused themselves with combs in Changzhou and, lo and behold, encountered beautiful women — what luck! (See the December "Free Talk" column of the Shenbao.) The difference in suffering and pleasure between them is just so — alas! True enough, there are far too many novels from all ages and lands. In them one finds "carrying one's own coffin to battle," "cutting off a finger as a pledge," "weeping at the court of Qin," "swearing oaths to Heaven." From constant exposure to such tales, it is indeed hard to avoid people who haul coffins about, chop off fingers, weep at the Mausoleum of Sun Yat-sen, and swear oaths of departure. Yet when Dr. Hu Shizhi (胡适之) was preaching the Literary Revolution during the May Fourth Movement, he already insisted on "not using classical allusions." Now, in the realm of action, it seems even more fitting to do without them. Novels dealing with twentieth-century warfare — the slightly older ones include Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front, Leng's War; the newer ones include Serafimovich's The Iron Flood and Fadeyev's The Rout — contain nothing like this "Youth Corps." And that is precisely why they actually fought.
從去年以來一年半之間，凡有對於我們的所謂批評文字中，最使我覺得氣悶的滑稽的，是常燕生先生在一種月刊叫作《長夜》的上面，擺出公正臉孔，說我的作品至少還有十年生命的話。記得前幾年，《狂飆》停刊時，同時這位常燕生先生也曾有文章發表，大意說《狂飆》攻擊魯迅，現在書店不願出版了，安知（！）不是魯迅運動了書店老板，加以迫害？於是接著大大地頌揚北洋軍閥度量之寬宏。我還有些記性，所以在這回的公正臉孔上，仍然隱隱看見刺著那一篇鍛煉文字；一面又想起陳源教授的批評法：先舉一些美點，以顯示其公平，然而接著是許多大罪狀——由公平的衡量而得的大罪狀。將功折罪，歸根結蒂，終於是「學匪」，理應梟首掛在「正人君子」的旗下示眾。所以我的經驗是：毀或無妨，譽倒可怕，有時候是極其「汲汲乎殆哉」的。更何況這位常燕生先生滿身五色旗氣味，即令真心許我以作品的不滅，在我也好像宣統皇帝忽然龍心大悅，欽許我死後謚為「文忠」一般。於滿肚氣悶中的滑稽之余，仍只好誠惶誠恐，特別脫帽鞠躬，敬謝不敏之至了。但在同是《長夜》的另一本上，有一篇劉大傑先生的文章——這些文章，似乎《中國的文藝論戰》上都未收載——我卻很感激的讀畢了，這或者就因為正如作者所說，和我素不相知，並無私人恩怨，夾雜其間的緣故。然而尤使我覺得有益的，是作者替我設法，以為在這樣四面圍剿之中，不如放下刀筆，暫且出洋；並且給我忠告，說是在一個人的生活史上留下幾張白紙，也並無什麽緊要。在僅僅一個人的生活史上，有了幾張白紙，或者全本都是白紙，或者竟全本塗成黑紙，地球也決不會因此炸裂，我是早知道的。這回意外地所得的益處，是三十年來，若有所悟，而還是說不出簡明扼要的綱領的做古文和做好人的方法，因此恍然抓住了轡頭了。其口訣曰：要做古文，做好人，必須做了一通，仍舊等於一張的白紙。從前教我們作文的先生，並不傳授什麽《馬氏文通》，《文章作法》之流，一天到晚，只是讀，做，讀，做；做得不好，又讀，又做。他卻決不說壞處在那裏，作文要怎樣。一條暗胡同，一任你自己去摸索，走得通與否，大家聽天由命。但偶然之間，也會不知怎麽一來——真是「偶然之間」而且「不知怎麽一來」，——卷子上的文章，居然被塗改的少下去，留下的，而且有密圈的處所多起來了。於是學生滿心歡喜，就照這樣——真是自己也莫名其妙，不過是「照這樣」——做下去，年深月久之後，先生就不再刪改你的文章了，只在篇末批些「有書有筆，不蔓不枝」之類，到這時候，即可以算作「通」。——自然，請高等批評家梁實秋先生來說，恐怕是不通的，但我是就世俗一般而言，所以也姑且從俗。這一類文章，立意當然要清楚的，什麽意見，倒在其次。譬如說，做《工欲善其事，必先利其器論》罷，從正面說，發揮「其器不利，則工事不善」固可，即從反面說，偏以為「工以技為先，技不純，則器雖利，而事亦不善」也無不可。就是關於皇帝的事，說「天皇聖明，臣罪當誅」固可，即說皇帝不好，一刀殺掉也無不可的，因為我們的孟夫子有言在先，「聞誅獨夫紂矣，未聞弒君也」，現在我們聖人之徒，也正是這一個意思兒。但總之，要從頭到底，一層一層說下去，弄得明明白白，還是天皇聖明呢，還是一刀殺掉，或者如果都不贊成，那也可以臨末聲明：「雖窮淫虐之威，而究有君臣之分，君子不為已甚，竊以為放諸四裔可矣」的。這樣的做法，大概先生也未必不以為然，因為「中庸」也是我們古聖賢的教訓。然而，以上是清朝末年的話，如果在清朝初年，倘有什麽人去一告密，那可會「滅族」也說不定的，連主張「放諸四裔」也不行，這時他不和你來談什麽孟子孔子了。現在革命方才成功，情形大概也和清朝開國之初相仿。（不完）這是「夜記」之五的小半篇。「夜記」這東西，是我於一九二七年起，想將偶然的感想，在燈下記出，留為一集的，那年就發表了兩篇。到得上海，有感於屠戮之凶，又做了一篇半，題為《虐殺》，先講些日本幕府的磔殺耶教徒，俄國皇帝的酷待革命黨之類的事。但不久就遇到了大罵人道主義的風潮，我也就借此偷懶，不再寫下去，現在連稿子也不見了。到得前年，柔石要到一個書店去做雜誌的編輯，來托我做點隨隨便便，看起來不大頭痛的文章。這一夜我就又想到做「夜記」，立了這樣的題目。大意是想說，中國的作文和做人，都要古已有之，但不可直鈔整篇，而須東拉西扯，補綴得看不出縫，這才算是上上大吉。所以做了一大通，還是等於沒有做，而批評者則謂之好文章或好人。社會上的一切，什麽也沒有進步的病根就在此。當夜沒有做完，睡覺去了。第二天柔石來訪，將寫下來的給他看，他皺皺眉頭，以為說得太嚕蘇一點，且怕過占了篇幅。於是我就約他另譯一篇短文，將這放下了。現在去柔石的遇害，已經一年有餘了，偶然從亂紙裏檢出這稿子來，真不勝其悲痛。我想將全文補完，而終於做不到，剛要下筆，又立刻想到別的事情上去了。所謂「人琴俱亡」者，大約也就是這模樣的罷。現在只將這半篇附錄在這裏，以作柔石的記念。一九三二年四月二十六日之夜，記。	Of all the so-called critical writings directed at us over the past year and a half, the one I find most suffocatingly comical is a piece by Mr. Chang Yansheng (常燕生) in a monthly called Long Night, where, putting on a fair-minded face, he pronounced that my works would have at least ten years of life left in them. I recall that a few years ago, when Kuangbiao ceased publication, this same Mr. Chang Yansheng also published a piece whose gist was: Kuangbiao attacked Lu Xun, and now no publisher is willing to print it — who knows (!) whether Lu Xun didn't collude with the bookshop owners to suppress it? This was followed by effusive praise of the magnanimity of the Beiyang warlords. I still have some memory, so behind this latest fair-minded face I can still dimly make out the brand of that earlier essay. At the same time, I am reminded of Professor Chen Yuan's (陈源) method of criticism: first cite a few merits, to demonstrate impartiality, then follow up with a long catalogue of grave offenses — grave offenses arrived at through impartial deliberation. Offsetting merit against sin, at the end of the day, the verdict is always "academic bandit," fit to have his head displayed on a pole beneath the banner of the "upright gentlemen." Thus my experience is: denunciation may do no harm, but praise is terrifying — at times it is perilous in the extreme. All the more so when this Mr. Chang Yansheng reeks from head to toe of the five-colored flag. Even if he genuinely wished to grant my work immortality, to me it would feel rather like Emperor Xuantong suddenly being seized by imperial pleasure and graciously bestowing upon me the posthumous title of "Wenzhong." In the midst of my suffocating amusement, I can only tremble in awe, tip my hat, bow deeply, and respectfully decline the honor. But in another issue of the same Long Night, there appeared an essay by Mr. Liu Dajie (刘大杰) — these essays, it seems, were not included in The Chinese Literary Debate — which I read through to the end with genuine gratitude. Perhaps this is precisely because, as the author himself says, we have never known each other and there is no personal grudge between us. What I found most beneficial, however, was that the author devised a plan for me: in the midst of such encirclement from all sides, I should lay down my pen, go abroad for a while; and he offered the well-meant counsel that leaving a few blank pages in the story of one's life is not really so important. That leaving a few blank pages in a mere individual's life story, or even having the whole book be blank, or indeed having the whole book smeared black, will not cause the earth to explode — this I had long known. The unexpected benefit I gained this time was that, after thirty years of vaguely sensing something without being able to articulate the concise guiding principles for writing classical prose and being a good person, I suddenly grasped the reins. The formula is: To write classical prose and be a good person, one must write a great deal and still end up with nothing more than a blank page. Our old teachers who taught us composition never imparted anything like Ma's Grammar or Methods of Essay Writing. Day in, day out, it was only: read, write, read, write. If you wrote badly, you read more and wrote more. But they never said where the faults lay, or how one ought to write. A dark alley — you groped your way through entirely on your own, and whether you made it through or not, everyone left it up to fate. But occasionally — and truly it was "occasionally" and one "didn't know how" — the red corrections on one's essay would grow fewer, while the passages left untouched, and even marked with dense circles of approval, would multiply. The student would then be overjoyed and would write in just this way — truly one didn't know why oneself, it was simply "in just this way" — and keep at it. After years and months, the teacher would no longer revise your essays but merely append comments at the end such as "well-read and well-written, neither rambling nor truncated." At that point, you could be considered "accomplished." — Naturally, if the eminent critic Mr. Liang Shiqiu (梁实秋) were asked, he would probably say it was not accomplished at all. But I am speaking of common convention, so let me follow convention for now. In this kind of essay, the thesis naturally must be clear; what opinion you hold is of secondary importance. For example, suppose one were writing an essay on "A Craftsman Who Wishes to Do Good Work Must First Sharpen His Tools." One could argue from the affirmative, elaborating that "if the tools are not sharp, the work will not be good" — that would be fine. Or one could argue from the negative, insisting that "skill comes first for a craftsman; if skill is not mastered, then even with sharp tools the work will not be good" — that would also be perfectly fine. Even regarding the emperor: one could say "His Majesty the Son of Heaven is sagely and enlightened, and the minister's crime deserves death" — that would be fine. Or one could say the emperor is no good and should be killed with a single stroke — that too would be fine, for our Master Mencius said beforehand: "I have heard of the execution of the tyrant Zhou, but I have not heard of the regicide of a sovereign." We, as disciples of the sages, hold precisely this view. But in any case, from beginning to end, layer by layer, one must make one's argument clear: is it that His Majesty is sagely and enlightened, or that he deserves one stroke of the blade? Or, if one approves of neither, one may declare at the end: "Though his tyranny was extreme, there remains the bond between ruler and minister; the gentleman does not go to excess; I humbly suggest banishing him to the borderlands would suffice." Such a method of writing would probably not be disapproved of by the teacher either, for the "Doctrine of the Mean" is also one of the teachings of our ancient sages. However, the above pertains to the late Qing dynasty. Had it been the early Qing, and someone gone and informed on you, you might well have been "exterminated to the ninth degree of kinship" — even proposing "banishment to the borderlands" would not do. At such times, they would not bother discussing Mencius or Confucius with you. Now the revolution has just succeeded, and the situation is probably similar to the founding days of the Qing dynasty. (Unfinished) This is a small portion of "Night Notes, No. 5." "Night Notes" was something I began in 1927, intending to jot down occasional thoughts by lamplight and collect them in a volume. That year I published two pieces. After arriving in Shanghai, moved by the savagery of the massacres, I wrote another piece and a half, titled "Atrocities," in which I first discussed such things as the crucifixion of Christians by the Japanese shogunate and the cruelty of the Russian tsar toward revolutionaries. But before long, I encountered a wave of fierce denunciation of humanitarianism, and I used this as an excuse to be lazy and stopped writing. By now even the manuscript has disappeared. Then, the year before last, Rou Shi (柔石) was about to take up a position as editor of a magazine at a bookshop and asked me to write something casual, something not too headache-inducing to read. That night I again thought of doing "Night Notes" and settled on this title. The general idea was to argue that in China, both writing prose and being a good person must have ancient precedent, yet one must not copy entire passages wholesale; rather, one must patch things together from all directions so that the seams don't show — only then is it considered the height of perfection. So I wrote at great length, yet it still amounted to nothing — and critics would call it a fine essay, or pronounce its author a fine person. The root cause of the utter lack of progress in everything in society lies right here. I didn't finish that night and went to bed. The next day Rou Shi came to visit, and I showed him what I had written. He furrowed his brow, thinking it was a bit too verbose and worrying it would take up too much space. So I agreed with him to translate a short piece instead, and set this aside. Now more than a year has passed since Rou Shi's murder, and I chanced upon this manuscript among my scattered papers — the grief is truly unbearable. I wanted to complete the full text, but in the end I could not do it. The moment I set pen to paper, my thoughts immediately wandered to other things. What the ancients called "both the man and his instrument are gone" — I suppose this is what it looks like. For now, I simply append this half-essay here as a memorial to Rou Shi. Recorded on the night of April 26, 1932.

Lu Xun Complete Works/zh-en/Erxinji

二心集 (二心集)

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附：初次發表時的文本

Appendix: Text as Originally Published

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