Autumn
Night
Lu Xun
Through the window I can see two
trees in my backyard. The one is a date tree, the other is also a date tree.
The night sky above is a strange
and distant. Never in my life have I seen such a strange and distant sky. He
seems intent on forsaking the world and staying out of people’s sight. But now
he is winking—with eyes of a few dozen stars, utterly blue, and cold. A smile
hovers around his mouth, seeming to him to be very profound, and thereupon he
begins to spread frost on the wild flowers and wild grass in my courtyard.
I do not know the names of these
flowers and grasses, or what people call them. I remember a plant that put
forth a tiny flower—the flower is still in bloom, but she is even tiner,
trembling in the cold, dreaming. She dreams of the coming of spring, of autumn,
of a skinny poet wiping his tears on her last petal, telling her that autumn
may come, winter may come, but eventually spring will come, when butterflies
will fly gaily about, and the bees will sing their spring song. Thereupon she
smiles, although she has turned red in the piercing cold and remains curled up.
The date trees have shed all
their leaves. Some time ago, a boy or two still came to beat them for the dates
that others had left behind. Now, not a single one is left; even the leaves
have all fallen. The date tree understands the dream of the tiny pink flower,
that after autumn spring will come; he also knows the dream of the fallen
leaves, that after spring there is still autumn.
He has shed all his foliage,
leaving only the trunk; he is relieved from bending under his load of leaves
and fruit, and now enjoys stretching himself. But a few boughs are still
hanging down, nursing the wounds caused by the poles that struck him for his
dates, while the longest and straightest of his boughs are like iron, silently
piercing the strange and distant sky, making him wink his wicked eyes; piercing
the full moon in the sky, making her go pale with embarrassment.
The wickedly winking sky turns an
even deeper, perturbed blue. He seems intent on escaping from men, on avoiding
the date tree, leaving only the moon behind. But the moon has secretly hid
herself in the east. Only the naked trunk is still like iron, silently piercing
the strange and distant sky, determined to pierce it to death, regardless of
how and how often he winks his seductive eyes.
With a sharp shriek, a vicious
bird of the night flies past.
I suddenly hear a slight
tittering in the middle of the night, so soft that it seems not to want to
awaken those who are asleep, though the titter echoes across the surroundings
air. In the dead of night, there is no one about. I instantly recognize that
this laughter is coming from my own mouth. Put to flight by the sound, I go
back into my room and immediately raise the wick of my lamp.
The glass pane of the back window
rattles; many insects are still blindly battering against it. Shortly
afterward, a few squeeze in, probably through the holes in the paper covering.
Once inside, they knock against the glass lampshade, making yet more rattling
sounds. One plunges in from above, and runs into the flame. It is a real flame,
I think. But two or three rest panting on the paper lampshade. The lampshade
was replaced only last night, its snow-white paper folded in a wavelike
pattern, with a sprig of scarlet jasmine painted in one corner.
When the scarlet jasmine
blossoms, the date tree will again dream the dream of the tiny pink flower; it
will grow lushly and bend in an arc. I hear again the midnight laughter, and
immediately cut the train of my thought. I look at these little insects still
resting on the snow-white paper—their heads big and tails small, like sunflower
seeds, only half the size of a grain of wheat. How lovely and pitiable they are
in their emerald hue.
I yawn, and light a cigarette,
puffing out the smoke. I stare at the lamp and pay silent tribute to these
dainty heroes in emerald green.
（Ng Mau-sang 译） |
