I’ve got a treat for you today. This is Lu Xun’s autobiographical short story《故乡》 (Hometown), written in 1921, about a man who returns to his childhood village after twenty years away, only to find that everything he remembered — the landscape, the people, the feeling of belonging — has changed beyond recognition. The story is partly a meditation on memory and loss, and partly a quiet portrait of what poverty and social convention do to people over time. If you’ve ever returned home after many years of absence to find that everyone you used to know has stagnated, and you have changed and grown more than you thought, this is the read for you.
The writer of this piece, the one and only Lu Xun (鲁迅, 1881–1936), is the towering figure of modern Chinese literature, the writer that every other Chinese writer since has had to reckon with. He is one of the true greats, a founder of China’s modern literary tradition. He originally trained as a doctor in Japan, but abandoned medicine after concluding that what China needed was not doctors for the body but doctors for the mind and spirit. Lu Xun turned to writing as a form of cultural surgery, using fiction and essays to diagnose what he saw as the sickness of Chinese society after the downfall of the Qing Dynasty, criticizing its passivity, its superstition, its cruelty disguised as tradition, its tendency to crush the individual.
A couple years ago, I posted a letter that Lu Xun wrote to a friend, but I have never posted his narrative writing until now. It is really his narrative writing that displays his skill best. One of his most famous works, 《狂人日记》(Diary of a Madman), published in 1918, was the first major work of modern Chinese fiction written in vernacular Mandarin rather than classical Chinese, and it changed the course of Chinese literature overnight. He also wrote《阿Q正传》(The Real Story of Ah Q), another famous work of sharp social criticism. Those are both too long to post in their entirety, though I may post part of them later.
I read The Real Story of Ah Q in Chinese a few years ago, and found it extremely difficult – I needed quite a bit of help to make it through. 《故乡》is quite a bit easier to approach and shorter, but still advanced. I am posting the full text below, not a part of it, so it’s quite long – you’ll have to sit down and give it some attention, but I find it moving and worth the effort.
Key vocab
悲凉 – bēi liáng – sorrowful and bleak; desolate
萧索 – xiāo suǒ – desolate, bleak
愕然 – è rán – astonished, stunned
恭敬 – gōng jìng – respectful, deferential
障壁 – zhàng bì – barrier, wall (of separation)
隔膜 – gé mó – estrangement, distance between people
皱纹 – zhòu wén – wrinkles
偶像 – ǒu xiàng – idol
希望 – xī wàng – hope
故乡
我冒了严寒，回到相隔二千余里，别了二十余年的故乡去。
时候既然是深冬；渐近故乡时，天气又阴晦了，冷风吹进船舱中，呜呜的响，从蓬隙向外一望，苍黄的天底下，远近横着几个萧索的荒村，没有一些活气。我的心禁不住悲凉起来了。阿！这不是我二十年来时时记得的故乡？
我所记得的故乡全不如此。我的故乡好得多了。但要我记起他的美丽，说出他的佳处来，却又没有影像，没有言辞了。仿佛也就如此。于是我自己解释说：故乡本也如此，——虽然没有进步，也未必有如我所感的悲凉，这只是我自己心情的改变罢了，因为我这次回乡，本没有什么好心绪。
我这次是专为了别他而来的。我们多年聚族而居的老屋，已经公同卖给别姓了，交屋的期限，只在本年，所以必须赶在正月初一以前，永别了熟识的老屋，而且远离了熟识的故乡，搬家到我在谋食的异地去。
第二日清早晨我到了我家的门口了。瓦楞上许多枯草的断茎当风抖着，正在说明这老屋难免易主的原因。几房的本家大约已经搬走了，所以很寂静。我到了自家的房外，我的母亲早已迎着出来了，接着便飞出了八岁的侄儿宏儿。
我的母亲很高兴，但也藏着许多凄凉的神情，教我坐下，歇息，喝茶，且不谈搬家的事。宏儿没有见过我，远远的对面站着只是看。
但我们终于谈到搬家的事。我说外间的寓所已经租定了，又买了几件家具，此外须将家里所有的木器卖去，再去增添。母亲也说好，而且行李也略已齐集，木器不便搬运的，也小半卖去了，只是收不起钱来。
“你休息一两天，去拜望亲戚本家一回，我们便可以走了。”母亲说。
“是的。”
“还有闰土，他每到我家来时，总问起你，很想见你一回面。我已经将你到家的大约日期通知他，他也许就要来了。”
这时候，我的脑里忽然闪出一幅神异的图画来：深蓝的天空中挂着一轮金黄的圆月，下面是海边的沙地，都种着一望无际的碧绿的西瓜，其间有一个十一二岁的少年，项带银圈，手捏一柄钢叉，向一匹猹尽力的刺去，那猹却将身一扭，反从他的胯下逃走了。
这少年便是闰土。我认识他时，也不过十多岁，离现在将有三十年了；那时我的父亲还在世，家景也好，我正是一个少爷。那一年，我家是一件大祭祀的值年。这祭祀，说是三十多年才能轮到一回，所以很郑重；正月里供祖像，供品很多，祭器很讲究，拜的人也很多，祭器也很要防偷去。我家只有一个忙月（我们这里给人做工的分三种：整年给一定人家做工的叫长工；按日给人做工的叫短工；自己也种地，只在过年过节以及收租时候来给一定人家做工的称忙月），忙不过来，他便对父亲说，可以叫他的儿子闰土来管祭器的。
我的父亲允许了；我也很高兴，因为我早听到闰土这名字，而且知道他和我仿佛年纪，闰月生的，五行缺土，所以他的父亲叫他闰土。他是能装〔弓京〕捉小鸟雀的。
我于是日日盼望新年，新年到，闰土也就到了。好容易到了年末，有一日，母亲告诉我，闰土来了，我便飞跑的去看。他正在厨房里，紫色的圆脸，头戴一顶小毡帽，颈上套一个明晃晃的银项圈，这可见他的父亲十分爱他，怕他死去，所以在神佛面前许下愿心，用圈子将他套住了。他见人很怕羞，只是不怕我，没有旁人的时候，便和我说话，于是不到半日，我们便熟识了。
我们那时候不知道谈些什么，只记得闰土很高兴，说是上城之后，见了许多没有见过的东西。
第二日，我便要他捕鸟。他说：
“这不能。须大雪下了才好。我们沙地上，下了雪，我扫出一块空地来，用短棒支起一个大竹匾，撒下秕谷，看鸟雀来吃时，我远远地将缚在棒上的绳子只一拉，那鸟雀就罩在竹匾下了。什么都有：稻鸡，角鸡，鹁鸪，蓝背……”
我于是又很盼望下雪。
闰土又对我说：
“现在太冷，你夏天到我们这里来。我们日里到海边捡贝壳去，红的绿的都有，鬼见怕也有，观音手也有。晚上我和爹管西瓜去，你也去。”
“管贼么？”
“不是。走路的人口渴了摘一个瓜吃，我们这里是不算偷的。要管的是獾猪，刺猬，猹。月亮底下，你听，啦啦的响了，猹在咬瓜了。你便捏了胡叉，轻轻地走去……”
我那时并不知道这所谓猹的是怎么一件东西——便是现在也没有知道——只是无端的觉得状如小狗而很凶猛。
“他不咬人么？”
“有胡叉呢。走到了，看见猹了，你便刺。这畜生很伶俐，倒向你奔来，反从胯下窜了。他的皮毛是油一般的滑……”
我素不知道天下有这许多新鲜事：海边有如许五色的贝壳；西瓜有这样危险的经历，我先前单知道他在水果电里出卖罢了。
“我们沙地里，潮汛要来的时候，就有许多跳鱼儿只是跳，都有青蛙似的两个脚……”
阿！闰土的心里有无穷无尽的希奇的事，都是我往常的朋友所不知道的。他们不知道一些事，闰土在海边时，他们都和我一样只看见院子里高墙上的四角的天空。
可惜正月过去了，闰土须回家里去，我急得大哭，他也躲到厨房里，哭着不肯出门，但终于被他父亲带走了。他后来还托他的父亲带给我一包贝壳和几支很好看的鸟毛，我也曾送他一两次东西，但从此没有再见面。
现在我的母亲提起了他，我这儿时的记忆，忽而全都闪电似的苏生过来，似乎看到了我的美丽的故乡了。我应声说：
“这好极！他，——怎样？……”
“他？……他景况也很不如意……”母亲说着，便向房外看，“这些人又来了。说是买木器，顺手也就随便拿走的，我得去看看。”
母亲站起身，出去了。门外有几个女人的声音。我便招宏儿走近面前，和他闲话：问他可会写字，可愿意出门。
“我们坐火车去么？”
“我们坐火车去。”
“船呢？”
“先坐船，……”
“哈！这模样了！胡子这么长了！”一种尖利的怪声突然大叫起来。
我吃了一吓，赶忙抬起头，却见一个凸颧骨，薄嘴唇，五十岁上下的女人站在我面前，两手搭在髀间，没有系裙，张着两脚，正像一个画图仪器里细脚伶仃的圆规。
我愕然了。
“不认识了么？我还抱过你咧！”
我愈加愕然了。幸而我的母亲也就进来，从旁说：
“他多年出门，统忘却了。你该记得罢，”便向着我说，“这是斜对门的杨二嫂，……开豆腐店的。”
哦，我记得了。我孩子时候，在斜对门的豆腐店里确乎终日坐着一个杨二嫂，人都叫伊“豆腐西施”。但是擦着白粉，颧骨没有这么高，嘴唇也没有这么薄，而且终日坐着，我也从没有见过这圆规式的姿势。那时人说：因为伊，这豆腐店的买卖非常好。但这大约因为年龄的关系，我却并未蒙着一毫感化，所以竟完全忘却了。然而圆规很不平，显出鄙夷的神色，仿佛嗤笑法国人不知道拿破仑，美国人不知道华盛顿似的，冷笑说：
“忘了？这真是贵人眼高……”
“那有这事……我……”我惶恐着，站起来说。
“那么，我对你说。迅哥儿，你阔了，搬动又笨重，你还要什么这些破烂木器，让我拿去罢。我们小户人家，用得着。”
“我并没有阔哩。我须卖了这些，再去……”
“阿呀呀，你放了道台了，还说不阔？你现在有三房姨太太；出门便是八抬的大轿，还说不阔？吓，什么都瞒不过我。”
我知道无话可说了，便闭了口，默默的站着。
“阿呀阿呀，真是愈有钱，便愈是一毫不肯放松，愈是一毫不肯放松，便愈有钱……”圆规一面愤愤的回转身，一面絮絮的说，慢慢向外走，顺便将我母亲的一副手套塞在裤腰里，出去了。
此后又有近处的本家和亲戚来访问我。我一面应酬，偷空便收拾些行李，这样的过了三四天。
一日是天气很冷的午后，我吃过午饭，坐着喝茶，觉得外面有人进来了，便回头去看。我看时，不由的非常出惊，慌忙站起身，迎着走去。
这来的便是闰土。虽然我一见便知道是闰土，但又不是我这记忆上的闰土了。他身材增加了一倍；先前的紫色的圆脸，已经变作灰黄，而且加上了很深的皱纹；眼睛也像他父亲一样，周围都肿得通红，这我知道，在海边种地的人，终日吹着海风，大抵是这样的。他头上是一顶破毡帽，身上只一件极薄的棉衣，浑身瑟索着；手里提着一个纸包和一支长烟管，那手也不是我所记得的红活圆实的手，却又粗又笨而且开裂，像是松树皮了。
我这时很兴奋，但不知道怎么说才好，只是说：
“阿！闰土哥，——你来了？……”
我接着便有许多话，想要连珠一般涌出：角鸡，跳鱼儿，贝壳，猹，……但又总觉得被什么挡着似的，单在脑里面回旋，吐不出口外去。
他站住了，脸上现出欢喜和凄凉的神情；动着嘴唇，却没有作声。他的态度终于恭敬起来了，分明的叫道：
“老爷！……”
我似乎打了一个寒噤；我就知道，我们之间已经隔了一层可悲的厚障壁了。我也说不出话。
他回过头去说，“水生，给老爷磕头。”便拖出躲在背后的孩子来，这正是一个廿年前的闰土，只是黄瘦些，颈子上没有银圈罢了。“这是第五个孩子，没有见过世面，躲躲闪闪……”
母亲和宏儿下楼来了，他们大约也听到了声音。
“老太太。信是早收到了。我实在喜欢的不得了，知道老爷回来……”闰土说。
“阿，你怎的这样客气起来。你们先前不是哥弟称呼么？还是照旧：迅哥儿。”母亲高兴的说。
“阿呀，老太太真是……这成什么规矩。那时是孩子，不懂事……”闰土说着，又叫水生上来打拱，那孩子却害羞，紧紧的只贴在他背后。
“他就是水生？第五个？都是生人，怕生也难怪的；还是宏儿和他去走走。”母亲说。
宏儿听得这话，便来招水生，水生却松松爽爽同他一路出去了。母亲叫闰土坐，他迟疑了一回，终于就了坐，将长烟管靠在桌旁，递过纸包来，说：
“冬天没有什么东西了。这一点干青豆倒是自家晒在那里的，请老爷……”
我问问他的景况。他只是摇头。
“非常难。第六个孩子也会帮忙了，却总是吃不够……又不太平……什么地方都要钱，没有规定……收成又坏。种出东西来，挑去卖，总要捐几回钱，折了本；不去卖，又只能烂掉……”
他只是摇头；脸上虽然刻着许多皱纹，却全然不动，仿佛石像一般。他大约只是觉得苦，却又形容不出，沉默了片时，便拿起烟管来默默的吸烟了。
母亲问他，知道他的家里事务忙，明天便得回去；又没有吃过午饭，便叫他自己到厨下炒饭吃去。
他出去了；母亲和我都叹息他的景况：多子，饥荒，苛税，兵，匪，官，绅，都苦得他像一个木偶人了。母亲对我说，凡是不必搬走的东西，尽可以送他，可以听他自己去拣择。
下午，他拣好了几件东西：两条长桌，四个椅子，一副香炉和烛台，一杆抬秤。他又要所有的草灰（我们这里煮饭是烧稻草的，那灰，可以做沙地的肥料），待我们启程的时候，他用船来载去。
夜间，我们又谈些闲天，都是无关紧要的话；第二天早晨，他就领了水生回去了。
又过了九日，是我们启程的日期。闰土早晨便到了，水生没有同来，却只带着一个五岁的女儿管船只。我们终日很忙碌，再没有谈天的工夫。来客也不少，有送行的，有拿东西的，有送行兼拿东西的。待到傍晚我们上船的时候，这老屋里的所有破旧大小粗细东西，已经一扫而空了。
我们的船向前走，两岸的青山在黄昏中，都装成了深黛颜色，连着退向船后梢去。
宏儿和我靠着船窗，同看外面模糊的风景，他忽然问道：
“大伯！我们什么时候回来？”
“回来？你怎么还没有走就想回来了。”
“可是，水生约我到他家玩去咧……”他睁着大的黑眼睛，痴痴的想。
我和母亲也都有些惘然，于是又提起闰土来。母亲说，那豆腐西施的杨二嫂，自从我家收拾行李以来，本是每日必到的，前天伊在灰堆里，掏出十多个碗碟来，议论之后，便定说是闰土埋着的，他可以在运灰的时候，一齐搬回家里去；杨二嫂发见了这件事，自己很以为功，便拿了那狗气杀（这是我们这里养鸡的器具，木盘上面有着栅栏，内盛食料，鸡可以伸进颈子去啄，狗却不能，只能看着气死），飞也似的跑了，亏伊装着这么高低的小脚，竟跑得这样快。
老屋离我愈远了；故乡的山水也都渐渐远离了我，但我却并不感到怎样的留恋。我只觉得我四面有看不见的高墙，将我隔成孤身，使我非常气闷；那西瓜地上的银项圈的小英雄的影像，我本来十分清楚，现在却忽地模糊了，又使我非常的悲哀。
母亲和宏儿都睡着了。
我躺着，听船底潺潺的水声，知道我在走我的路。我想：我竟与闰土隔绝到这地步了，但我们的后辈还是一气，宏儿不是正在想念水生么。我希望他们不再像我，又大家隔膜起来……然而我又不愿意他们因为要一气，都如我的辛苦展转而生活，也不愿意他们都如闰土的辛苦麻木而生活，也不愿意都如别人的辛苦恣睢而生活。他们应该有新的生活，为我们所未经生活过的。
我想到希望，忽然害怕起来了。闰土要香炉和烛台的时候，我还暗*乩镄λ*以为他总是崇拜偶像，什么时候都不忘却。现在我所谓希望，不也是我自己手制的偶像么？只是他的愿望切近，我的愿望茫远罢了。
我在朦胧中，眼前展开一片海边碧绿的沙地来，上面深蓝的天空中挂着一轮金黄的圆月。我想：希望本是无所谓有，无所谓无的。这正如地上的路；其实地上本没有路，走的人多了，也便成了路。
Hometown
Braving the bitter cold, I returned to my hometown, more than two thousand li away, which I had left over twenty years ago.
It was deep winter; as I drew near my hometown, the weather turned gloomy, and a cold wind blew into the cabin of the boat, howling. Through gaps in the awning, I gazed out: beneath a sallow-yellow sky, several desolate villages lay scattered near and far, lifeless. My heart could not help but sink into sorrow. Ah! Was this not the hometown I had remembered constantly for twenty years?
The hometown I remembered was not at all like this. My hometown had been much better. But when I tried to recall its beauty, to describe its fine qualities, I had no image, no words. It seemed it had always been just like this. So I explained to myself: the hometown had always been this way—although it had not progressed, perhaps it was not as bleak as I felt; it was only my own mood that had changed, for I had come back this time with no good cheer at all.
This time I had come solely to bid it farewell. The old house where our clan had lived together for many years had already been sold to another family by common agreement; the deadline to hand over the house was this very year, so I had to hurry, before the first day of the first lunar month, to bid an eternal farewell to the familiar old house, and to leave far behind the familiar hometown, moving to the strange land where I was making my living.
Early the next morning I arrived at the door of my home. The broken stalks of withered grass on the roof tiles trembled in the wind, explaining why this old house could not avoid changing owners. Several branches of the family had probably already moved away, so it was very quiet. When I reached the room outside my own, my mother had already come out to meet me, followed by my eight-year-old nephew Hong’er, who came flying out.
My mother was very happy, but she also hid much sorrowful feeling. She told me to sit, to rest, to drink tea, and not to speak of the moving for now. Hong’er, who had never seen me, stood facing me from afar, just staring.
But eventually we came to talk about the move. I said the lodgings I had rented outside were already settled, and I had bought a few pieces of furniture; besides that, we needed to sell all the wooden articles in the house and then buy more. Mother agreed, adding that the luggage was nearly all gathered, and the wooden articles too cumbersome to move had already been mostly sold off, but the money was not yet collected.
“Rest for a day or two, go visit the relatives and clan members once, and then we can leave,” Mother said.
“Yes.”
“And there’s Runtu—every time he comes to our house, he always asks about you, very much wanting to see you once. I’ve already informed him of about when you’d arrive home; he may come at any time.”
At this moment, a marvelous picture suddenly flashed in my mind: a golden full moon hung in the deep blue sky, and below was a sandy beach by the sea, all planted with boundless emerald-green watermelons. Among them stood a boy of eleven or twelve, a silver ring around his neck, a steel pitchfork in his hand, thrusting with all his might at a zha. But the zha twisted its body and slipped away from beneath his crotch.
This boy was Runtu. When I first knew him, I was only just over ten years old, and that was now nearly thirty years ago; my father was still alive then, the family was well off, and I was a young master. That year, our family was responsible for hosting a great ancestral sacrifice. This sacrifice, it was said, came round only once in over thirty years, so it was very solemn; in the first month the ancestral portraits were displayed, with many offerings, very fine sacrificial vessels, many worshippers, and the vessels had to be guarded against theft. Our family had only one busy-month worker (here, those who work for others are divided into three kinds: those who work all year for a fixed household are called long-term hands; those hired by the day are short-term hands; and those who farm their own land and only come to work for a fixed household during festivals and rent-collection times are called busy-month workers), who could not manage everything, so he told my father that his son Runtu could be called to look after the sacrificial vessels.
My father agreed; I was very happy too, for I had long heard the name Runtu, and knew that he was about my age, born in an intercalary month, and that since his five elements lacked earth, his father had named him Runtu (“intercalary earth”). He could set traps to catch small birds.
So I longed day after day for the New Year, for when the New Year came, Runtu would come too. With great difficulty the end of the year finally arrived, and one day my mother told me Runtu had come, so I went running to see him. He was in the kitchen, with a purple round face, a small felt cap on his head, and a gleaming silver collar around his neck—showing how dearly his father loved him, so afraid he would die that he had made a vow before the gods and Buddhas and bound him with a ring. He was very shy with people, but not afraid of me; when no one else was around he would talk with me, and so in less than half a day we became familiar.
I don’t remember what we talked about then, only that Runtu was very happy, saying that since coming to the town he had seen many things he had never seen before.
The next day, I asked him to catch birds. He said:
“That won’t do. It must first snow heavily. On our sandy ground, after it snows, I sweep out a patch of clear ground, prop up a big bamboo sieve with a short stick, and scatter some chaff. When I see the birds come to eat, I pull from afar the rope tied to the stick, and the birds are trapped under the sieve. There are all kinds: rice birds, horned pheasants, wood pigeons, blue-backs…”
So I came to long very much for snow.
Runtu also said to me:
“It’s too cold now, but come here in summer. By day we go to the seaside to gather shells—red ones, green ones, all kinds; there are also ‘ghost-frighteners,’ and ‘Guanyin’s hands.’ At night I go with my father to watch the watermelons; you come too.”
“To guard against thieves?”
“No. If a passerby gets thirsty and picks a melon to eat, we don’t count that as stealing. What we watch out for are badgers, hedgehogs, and zha. In the moonlight, you listen—there’s a rustling sound; the zha is biting the melons. Then you grip your pitchfork and walk over softly…”
At that time I did not know what this thing called a zha was—even now I still don’t know—I just somehow felt it was shaped like a small dog and very fierce.
“Doesn’t it bite people?”
“There’s the pitchfork. When you get close and see the zha, you thrust. This creature is very clever; it rushes toward you instead, then darts away beneath your crotch. Its fur is slippery as oil…”
I had never known there were so many novel things in the world: that the seaside had so many colorful shells; that watermelons had such dangerous adventures—I had previously known only that they were sold in fruit shops.
“On our sandy ground, when the tide is about to come, there are many jumping fish that just leap about, all with two legs like a frog’s…”
Ah! Runtu’s heart held endless wondrous things, all unknown to my usual friends. They knew nothing of these things; while Runtu was by the sea, they, like me, saw only the square patch of sky above the high courtyard walls.
Alas, the first month passed, and Runtu had to return home. I cried bitterly in my distress, and he too hid in the kitchen, weeping and refusing to leave, but in the end his father took him away. Afterward he had his father bring me a packet of shells and a few very pretty bird feathers, and I too sent him things once or twice, but from then on we never met again.
Now that my mother had mentioned him, this childhood memory of mine suddenly all revived like lightning, and I seemed to see my beautiful hometown. I answered:
“That’s wonderful! He—how is he? …”
“He? … His circumstances are not at all good either…” Mother said, looking out toward the door. “These people have come again. They say they’re here to buy wooden articles, but they help themselves and take things along too. I’d better go and see.”
Mother stood up and went out. Outside the door were the voices of several women. I beckoned Hong’er to come closer and chatted with him: I asked whether he could write, and whether he wanted to leave.
“Are we going by train?”
“We’re going by train.”
“And the boat?”
“First by boat…”
“Ha! Look at you now! Such a long beard!” A shrill, strange voice suddenly cried out loudly.
I was startled, and hurriedly raised my head, only to see a woman of about fifty with protruding cheekbones and thin lips standing before me, both hands on her hips, wearing no skirt, legs splayed apart—exactly like a thin-legged compass from a drafting set.
I was astonished.
“Don’t recognize me anymore? I even held you in my arms!”
I grew even more astonished. Fortunately my mother came in just then and said from the side:
“He’s been away from home for many years, he’s forgotten everything. You should remember,” she said, turning to me. “This is Second Sister-in-law Yang from across the way, diagonally—she runs the tofu shop.”
Oh, I remembered. When I was a child, there had indeed been a Second Sister-in-law Yang who sat all day long in the tofu shop across the way; people all called her “the Bean-curd Beauty.” But back then she powdered her face, her cheekbones were not so high, her lips not so thin, and though she sat all day, I had never seen this compass-like pose. People said then that because of her, the tofu shop did very good business. But this was probably owing to her age; I myself had not been the least bit affected, so I had completely forgotten her. Yet the compass was very displeased, showing a disdainful expression, as though sneering at a Frenchman for not knowing Napoleon, or an American for not knowing Washington, and said with a cold laugh:
“Forgotten? This really is the haughty eye of a great personage…”
“There’s no such thing… I…” I said in alarm, standing up.
“Then let me tell you, Master Xun. You’ve grown rich, and moving is cumbersome—what do you want with all this broken-down old wooden stuff? Let me take it. We humble folk can make use of it.”
“I haven’t grown rich at all. I have to sell these in order to…”
“Aiyaya, you’ve become an intendant and still say you’re not rich? You now have three concubines; whenever you go out it’s in an eight-bearer sedan chair, and still you say you’re not rich? Hah, nothing can be hidden from me.”
I knew there was nothing to say, so I shut my mouth and stood silently.
“Aiya aiya, truly the more money one has, the less willing one is to loosen a single hair; the less willing to loosen a single hair, the more money one has…” the compass said, indignantly turning around and chattering on, walking slowly toward the door, conveniently stuffing one of my mother’s gloves into the waistband of her trousers as she went out.
After this, more nearby clan members and relatives came to visit me. While I attended to them, I packed some luggage in spare moments, and so three or four days passed.
One very cold afternoon, having finished lunch, I was sitting drinking tea when I sensed someone coming in from outside, and turned my head to look. When I looked, I was greatly startled, hurriedly stood up, and went forward to meet him.
The one who had come was Runtu. Though I knew at a glance it was Runtu, he was no longer the Runtu of my memory. His stature had doubled; his former purple round face had turned ashen-yellow, with deep wrinkles added; his eyes too, like his father’s, were swollen and red all around—this I understood, for those who farm by the sea, blown by sea winds all day long, are mostly like this. On his head was a battered felt cap, on his body only a thin cotton jacket, and his whole frame shivered; in his hand he held a paper packet and a long tobacco pipe. That hand too was not the plump, red, round hand I remembered, but coarse, clumsy, and cracked, like pine bark.
I was very excited then, but did not know how to speak, and could only say:
“Ah! Brother Runtu—you’ve come? …”
I had many words after that, wanting to pour out like a string of pearls: horned pheasants, jumping fish, shells, zha… but I always felt something blocking them, so they only swirled in my head and would not come out of my mouth.
He stood still, his face showing both joy and sorrow; his lips moved, but no sound came. At last his manner became respectful, and he said distinctly:
“Master! …”
I seemed to shudder; I knew then that a lamentably thick barrier had already risen between us. I too could say nothing.
He turned his head and said, “Shuisheng, kowtow to the Master.” Then he pulled out the child who had been hiding behind him—this was exactly the Runtu of twenty years ago, only sallower and thinner, with no silver ring around his neck. “This is my fifth child, he’s never seen the world, so he’s bashful and hides…”
Mother and Hong’er came downstairs; they had probably heard the voices too.
“Old mistress. The letter arrived long ago. I was truly overjoyed, knowing the Master was coming back…” Runtu said.
“Ah, why have you become so formal? Didn’t you two used to call each other brother? Stick to the old way: Master Xun,” Mother said happily.
“Aiya, old mistress, you really are… What sort of propriety would that be? Back then we were children, we didn’t understand things…” Runtu said, calling Shuisheng again to come up and pay his respects, but the child was shy and clung tightly behind him.
“So this is Shuisheng? The fifth? They’re all strangers, no wonder he’s shy of strangers; let Hong’er go off with him.” Mother said.
Hearing this, Hong’er went over to invite Shuisheng, and Shuisheng went off with him easily and freely. Mother told Runtu to sit; he hesitated a while, then finally took a seat, leaned the long pipe against the table, handed over the paper packet, and said:
“In winter there’s nothing much. These few dried green beans I dried myself at home—please, Master…”
I asked him about his circumstances. He only shook his head.
“Very hard. Even my sixth child can help with the work now, but there’s still never enough to eat… And it’s not peaceful either… Everywhere wants money, with no fixed rules… and the harvests are bad too. We grow things, carry them off to sell, and always have to pay several rounds of levies, losing our capital; if we don’t sell them, they just rot…”
He only shook his head; though his face was carved with many wrinkles, none of them moved, as though he were a stone statue. He probably only felt the bitterness but could not put it into words. After a moment’s silence, he picked up his pipe and smoked silently.
Mother questioned him and learned that he had much to do at home and had to return the next day; and since he had not eaten lunch, she told him to go to the kitchen and fry some rice for himself.
He went out; Mother and I both sighed over his circumstances: many children, famine, harsh taxes, soldiers, bandits, officials, gentry—all had made him suffer until he was like a wooden puppet. Mother said to me that whatever we did not need to take away, we could give to him, and let him choose for himself.
That afternoon, he picked out several things: two long tables, four chairs, an incense burner and candlesticks, and a steelyard. He also asked for all the straw ash (here we cook rice by burning rice straw, and the ash can be used as fertilizer for the sandy ground), saying that when we set off he would come by boat to load it away.
That night, we chatted some more, all of it idle talk of no consequence; the next morning he led Shuisheng back home.
Nine more days passed, and it was the day of our departure. Runtu came in the morning; Shuisheng had not come with him, and he had brought only a five-year-old daughter to mind the boat. We were busy all day long, with no more time to chat. There were no few visitors either—some came to see us off, some to take things, some to see us off and take things both. By the time we boarded the boat at dusk, all the old and new, large and small, coarse and fine things in this old house had been swept clean away.
Our boat moved forward; the green hills on both banks, in the twilight, all turned a deep dark-green, and receded one after another toward the stern of the boat.
Hong’er and I leaned against the boat’s window, looking together at the blurred scenery outside, when he suddenly asked:
“Uncle! When will we come back?”
“Come back? Why are you thinking of coming back before we’ve even left?”
“But, Shuisheng invited me to his house to play…” He opened his big black eyes wide, lost in dreamy thought.
Mother and I felt somewhat melancholy too, and so we brought up Runtu again. Mother said that ever since our family had begun packing, that Bean-curd Beauty, Second Sister-in-law Yang, had come every single day without fail. The day before yesterday she had dug more than ten bowls and dishes out of the ash heap, and after some discussion, declared they must have been buried by Runtu, who could carry them home all together when he came to haul away the ash; Second Sister-in-law Yang, having discovered this, considered it a great achievement of her own, and grabbed the “dog-vexer” (this is a device we use for raising chickens here, a wooden tray with a railing on top, with feed inside; chickens can stretch their necks in to peck, but dogs cannot, and can only look on and be vexed to death) and ran off as if flying—remarkable that, with her bound feet, those tiny feet, she could run so fast.
The old house grew ever farther from me; the hills and waters of my hometown also gradually receded from me, yet I felt no particular reluctance to part. I only felt that on all four sides there were invisible high walls, isolating me into solitude and making me terribly stifled; the image of that little hero with the silver collar on the watermelon ground, which I had once seen so clearly, now suddenly blurred, and this made me very sad too.
Mother and Hong’er had both fallen asleep.
I lay there, listening to the gurgling of the water beneath the boat, knowing I was traveling my own road. I thought: I had become estranged from Runtu to such a degree, yet our descendants were still of one heart—was not Hong’er even now thinking of Shuisheng? I hoped they would not become like me, all estranged from one another… Yet I also did not wish that, in order to be of one heart, they should all live a life of bitter drudgery and drifting as I did, nor that they should all live a life of bitter numbness as Runtu did, nor that they should all live a life of bitter dissipation as others did. They ought to have a new life, one we had never lived.
Thinking of hope, I suddenly grew afraid. When Runtu asked for the incense burner and candlesticks, I had secretly laughed at him, thinking he was forever worshipping idols, never forgetting them at any time. Now this thing I called hope—was it not also an idol fashioned by my own hands? It was only that his wish was more immediate, while mine was more distant and vague.
In my drowsiness, there spread before my eyes a stretch of emerald sandy ground by the sea, above which hung, in the deep blue sky, a golden full moon. I thought: hope is essentially something one cannot call existing, nor call non-existent. It is just like the paths on the ground; for actually the ground has no paths to begin with—where many people pass, a path is made.
