Lu Xun Complete Works/en/Yao
| Medicine | |
|---|---|
| Author | Lu Xun (鲁迅) |
| Title | Medicine |
| Original title | 药 |
| Collection | Call to Arms (呐喊) |
| First published | 1919 |
| Translation | Claude / Martin Woesler |
I
In the latter half of an autumn night, the moon had set and the sun had not yet risen; only a stretch of dark blue sky remained. Except for the creatures of the night, everything was asleep. Old Shuan of the Hua family suddenly sat up, struck a match, and lit the grease-covered lamp. The two rooms of the teahouse filled with a pale, bluish light.
"Little Shuan's father, are you going now?" came an old woman's voice. From the small inner room came a fit of coughing.
"Mm." Old Shuan listened, answered, and buttoned up his jacket. He reached out his hand: "Give it to me."
Mrs. Hua rummaged under the pillow for a long time and produced a packet of silver coins, which she handed to Old Shuan. He took it, trembling, stuffed it into his pocket, and pressed it twice from outside. Then he lit the lantern, blew out the lamp, and went into the inner room. Inside, something rustled, followed by a fit of coughing. Old Shuan waited until it subsided, then called softly: "Little Shuan… don't get up. The shop? Your mother will see to it."
When Old Shuan heard his son say nothing more, he supposed he had gone back to sleep. He stepped out the door and onto the street. The street was pitch-dark and empty; only a grayish-white road was clearly visible. The lantern-light fell on his two feet, one stepping before the other. Now and then he encountered a few dogs, but not one barked. The air was much colder than inside; yet Old Shuan felt invigorated, as if he had suddenly become young again, endowed with supernatural powers and the ability to give life. His strides were uncommonly high and wide, and the road grew ever clearer, the sky ever brighter.
Wholly absorbed in walking, Old Shuan was suddenly startled: in the distance he saw a T-junction stretching plainly before him. He retreated a few steps, found a shop with its door closed, slipped under the eaves, and stood leaning against the door. After quite a while, he began to feel chilled.
"Hmph, the old man."
"Seems pleased with himself…"
Old Shuan was startled again. When he opened his eyes, several people had passed before him. One looked back at him — his features were not very clear, but his gaze was like that of a starving man catching sight of food, a flash of greed in his eyes. Old Shuan glanced at his lantern: it had gone out. He patted his pocket: the hard lump was still there. Looking up both ways, he saw many strange figures, in twos and threes, drifting about like ghosts; when he looked more closely, he could not make out anything else peculiar.
Before long, a few soldiers appeared, walking over there; the large white circles on the front and back of their uniforms were visible even from afar, and on those who passed close by he could also make out the dark red piping on their tunics. — A tramping of feet, and in the blink of an eye a great throng had surged past. The scattered groups of people suddenly merged into one mass and rushed forward like a tide; reaching the mouth of the T-junction, they stopped abruptly and clustered into a semicircle.
Old Shuan too looked in that direction, but could see only a wall of backs; necks were all craned long, as though they were so many ducks, seized by an invisible hand and pulled upward. After a moment of silence, there seemed to be a sound, and the crowd swayed again; with a roar they fell back, scattering all the way to where Old Shuan stood, nearly knocking him over.
"Hey! Cash in one hand, goods in the other!" A man dressed entirely in black stood before Old Shuan, his eyes cutting like two knives, making Old Shuan shrink to half his size. One large hand was stretched out toward him; the other held a bright red mantou, from which the red was still dripping, drop by drop.
Old Shuan fumbled hastily for the silver coins and tried, trembling, to hand them over, but dared not take the man's offering. The man grew impatient and shouted: "What are you afraid of! Why won't you take it!" Old Shuan still hesitated; the dark man snatched the lantern, tore off the paper shade, wrapped the mantou in it, and thrust it at Old Shuan. With one hand he grabbed the silver coins, squeezed them, turned, and left, muttering: "Old fool…"
"Who's that medicine for?" Old Shuan seemed to hear someone ask him, but he did not answer. His entire being was now focused on the parcel; he held it as though he were cradling an only child born after ten generations — everything else had ceased to matter. He meant to transplant the new life in this parcel into his home and reap great happiness. The sun came up too; before him lay a broad road leading straight to his house. Behind him, the sun lit up the faded golden characters on the crumbling signboard at the head of the T-junction: "Ancient □ Pavilion □."
II
When Old Shuan reached home, the shop was already clean and tidy; row upon row of tea tables gleamed smooth and bright. But there were no customers — only Little Shuan, sitting at a table in the back row, eating. Large beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, his padded jacket clung to his spine, and his two shoulder blades jutted out sharply, forming a raised figure-eight. Seeing his son in this state, Old Shuan could not help but furrow the brow that had just been relaxed. His wife hurried out from the kitchen, eyes wide open, lips trembling slightly.
"Did you get it?"
"Yes."
The two went into the kitchen together and conferred for a while. Then Mrs. Hua went out and soon returned with an old lotus leaf, which she spread on the table. Old Shuan opened the lantern shade and rewrapped the red mantou in the lotus leaf. Little Shuan had finished eating; his mother said hastily:
"Little Shuan — stay seated, don't come over here."
While she tended the fire, Old Shuan stuffed the emerald-green parcel and the broken, red-and-white lantern together into the stove. As a burst of red and black flame passed, a strange fragrance spread through the shop.
"Mmm, smells delicious! What pastry are you eating?" This was Hunchback Fifth, who spent every day in the teahouse, always the first to arrive and the last to leave. He had just sidled to the table in the corner by the street, sat down, and asked — but no one answered him. "Fried rice porridge?" Still no answer. Old Shuan hurried out and poured him tea.
"Little Shuan, come in!" Mrs. Hua called Little Shuan into the inner room, where a stool had been set in the middle. He sat down. His mother brought a plate of something round and jet-black and said softly:
"Eat this — and you'll get well."
Little Shuan picked up the black thing, looked at it for a while — as though he held his very life in his hands — and felt something indescribably strange. Very carefully he broke it open; from the charred crust a puff of white steam shot out, and when the steam cleared, there were two halves of a white wheat mantou. Before long, it was all in his stomach, though he had entirely forgotten what it tasted like; before him lay only an empty plate. Beside him stood his father on one side and his mother on the other; the gaze of both seemed to be trying to inject something into his body and at the same time draw something out. His heart began to pound; he pressed his hands to his chest, and another fit of coughing seized him.
"Sleep a little — and you'll be better."
Little Shuan did as his mother said and fell asleep, coughing. Mrs. Hua waited until his breathing was calm, then gently covered him with the much-patched quilt.
IV
The ground outside the West Gate, along the base of the city wall, was public land. Down the middle ran a crooked narrow path, beaten into existence by the soles of those who took shortcuts, but it had become a natural boundary. To the left of the path were buried the executed and those who had died in prison; to the right lay the paupers' graves. Both sides were piled layer upon layer, like the mantou heaped up at a rich man's birthday feast.
The Qingming Festival that year was unusually cold; the willows had barely put out buds half the size of a grain of rice. Shortly after daybreak, Mrs. Hua was already kneeling before a fresh grave on the right side, having set out four dishes of food and a bowl of rice, and wept for a while. After burning paper money, she sat on the ground in a daze, as though waiting for something — but she could not have said what. A light breeze rose and stirred her short hair, which was unmistakably whiter than the year before.
Along the path came another woman, also with half-white hair, in tattered clothes. She carried a worn, red-lacquered round basket with a string of paper ingots hanging from it, and stopped to rest every few steps. When she suddenly noticed Mrs. Hua sitting on the ground looking at her, she hesitated; on her deathly pale face appeared a look of shame. But she finally steeled herself, walked to a grave on the left side, and set down her basket.
That grave and Little Shuan's were in a row, separated only by the narrow path. Mrs. Hua watched her arrange four dishes and a bowl of rice, weep standing up, and burn paper ingots. Secretly she thought, "The one in that grave was a son, too." The old woman looked around for a while, then suddenly her hands and feet began to tremble; she staggered back a few steps and stared blankly ahead.
Mrs. Hua, fearing she might lose her mind with grief, could not help but rise, step across the path, and say to her softly: "Don't grieve so, grandmother — let's go home."
The woman nodded, her eyes still staring upward, and stammered in a low voice: "Look — look at this, what is it?"
Mrs. Hua followed her pointing finger to the grave in front: the grass on the mound had not yet fully joined, leaving patches of bare yellow earth — an ugly sight. But when she looked more carefully at the top, she too could not help but start — clearly visible was a ring of red and white flowers encircling the pointed crest of the mound.
Both their eyes had been farsighted for many years, yet they could still clearly make out the red and white blossoms. There were not many; they were arranged in a neat circle, not very vigorous, but orderly. Mrs. Hua quickly looked at her son's grave and the others — on them bloomed only a few cold-hardy, pale greenish-white flowers, scattered sparsely. She felt a sudden pang of emptiness and inadequacy, which she did not wish to examine. The old woman walked a few steps closer, looked carefully, and muttered to herself: "These have no roots — they didn't grow here on their own. Who would come to this place? Children wouldn't play here; relatives stopped coming long ago. What does it mean?" She thought and thought, then suddenly tears streamed down again and she cried out loud:
"Yu'er, they wronged you, but you still cannot forget, it breaks your heart. Have you shown a sign today, just so I would know?" She looked around and saw only a crow perched on a leafless tree. She continued: "I understand now. — Yu'er, those poor wretches betrayed you, but they will have their reckoning one day — Heaven knows. Close your eyes and rest in peace. — If you are truly here and hear my words — then make this crow fly to the top of your grave, so that I may see."
The breeze had long since died away; the dead grass stood bolt upright, like copper wire. A trembling sound quivered in the air, growing finer and finer until it vanished — and all around was silent as death. The two women stood among the dead grass, faces upturned toward the crow. The crow, too, perched among the straight bare branches, its head drawn in, standing as still as if cast in iron.
A long time passed; the number of grave visitors gradually grew, a few old and young moving among the earthen mounds.
Mrs. Hua, without knowing why, felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from her shoulders, and thought of leaving. She said encouragingly: "Let's go home."
The old woman sighed, listlessly gathered up her food, hesitated another moment, and at last walked slowly away, muttering to herself: "What does it mean?…"
They had not gone more than twenty or thirty paces when behind them there suddenly came a loud cry — "Caw!" Both started and turned their heads: the crow had spread its wings, launched itself, and shot straight toward the distant sky like an arrow.
(April 1919.)