Of all the essays Chinese students read in school, this might be the one they remember longest. 《背影》, or My Father’s Back, is barely 1,500 characters, and almost nothing happens in it. A young man is leaving his hometown after his grandmother’s funeral. His father insists on seeing him off at the train station. That’s the essay. But the author describes the scene in a simple, beautiful way that encapsulates a father’s love for his son.
The author, Zhu Ziqing (朱自清, 1898–1948), was 27 when he wrote it. By then he’d already done a lot of living: he’d grown up in Yangzhou in a declining literati family, watched his father lose his official post, studied philosophy at Peking University during the upheaval of the May Fourth Movement, and just taken a professorship at Tsinghua. He would later become known as one of the great prose stylists of his generation. But none of that fame had happened yet when he sat down to write about his father.
A quick note on what kind of writing this is. The genre is called 散文 (sǎnwén), which gets translated as “prose” or “essay” but is really its own thing in Chinese literature. Sanwen isn’t quite the personal essay you’d find in The New Yorker, and it isn’t memoir or criticism either. It’s a loose, lyrical form. Sometimes it’s a memory, sometimes a description of a place, sometimes a meditation, but in each case, the writer’s voice and feeling matter more than argument or plot. Sanwen has roots going all the way back to classical Chinese prose, but in the early 20th century writers like Zhu Ziqing reinvented it, making it intimate and modern. It’s the genre Chinese readers turn to when they want something short, beautiful, and heartfelt.
Beiying was written in 1925, smack in the middle of one of the most interesting linguistic moments in Chinese history. The May Fourth Movement of 1919 had pushed writers to abandon classical Chinese (文言文) and write in the spoken vernacular (白话文) instead — the language ordinary people actually used. It was a real revolution, where the younger generation pulled writing out of the hands of the rarified elite, and made it accessible for everyone. But the shift didn’t happen overnight, and writers of Zhu’s generation grew up steeped in classical texts even as they were inventing modern prose. So, in a lot of works published around 1919-1940, you get this fascinating in-between texture where a lot of the words are modern Chinese, but some of the words are classical still. The first novel I ever read start-to-finish in Chinese, 《边城》 by Shen Congwen, was written around this time, and I chose that novel without realizing it – I learned quite a lot. In Beiying, most of the essay is clean, simple modern Chinese, but it’s salted with classical phrases, and a whole letter from the father quoted in classical Chinese near the end. For an advanced learner, this is part of what makes the essay so worth reading.
One phrase in there I find worth pointing out: 天无绝人之路 translates directly as “Heaven never bars a man’s way”, but I would perhaps more directly translate this as some mix of “there’s always a way through a difficulty” and “God never gives you more than you can handle.”
Key vocab
祸不单行 – huò bù dān xíng – misfortunes never come alone
狼藉 – lángjí – in disorder, in a mess
踌躇 – chóuchú – to hesitate, to be indecisive
蹒跚 – pánshān – to stagger, to shuffle along
迂 – yū – old-fashioned, pedantic
颓唐 – tuítáng – dejected, dispirited, declining
情不能自已 – qíng bù néng zì yǐ – unable to control one’s emotions
惦记 – diànjì – to think of, to be concerned about
晶莹 – jīngyíng – sparkling, glistening
背影
我与父亲不相见已二年余了，我最不能忘记的是他的背影。
那年冬天，祖母死了，父亲的差使也交卸了，正是祸不单行的日子。我从北京到徐州，打算跟着父亲奔丧回家。到徐州见着父亲，看见满院狼藉的东西，又想起祖母，不禁簌簌地流下眼泪。父亲说：“事已如此，不必难过，好在天无绝人之路！”
回家变卖典质，父亲还了亏空；又借钱办了丧事。这些日子，家中光景很是惨澹，一半为了丧事，一半为了父亲赋闲。丧事完毕，父亲要到南京谋事，我也要回北京念书，我们便同行。
到南京时，有朋友约去游逛，勾留了一日；第二日上午便须渡江到浦口，下午上车北去。父亲因为事忙，本已说定不送我，叫旅馆里一个熟识的茶房陪我同去。他再三嘱咐茶房，甚是仔细。但他终于不放心，怕茶房不妥帖；颇踌躇了一会。其实我那年已二十岁，北京已来往过两三次，是没有什么要紧的了。他踌躇了一会，终于决定还是自己送我去。我再三劝他不必去；他只说：“不要紧，他们去不好！”
我们过了江，进了车站。我买票，他忙着照看行李。行李太多了，得向脚夫行些小费才可过去。他便又忙着和他们讲价钱。我那时真是聪明过分，总觉他说话不大漂亮，非自己插嘴不可，但他终于讲定了价钱；就送我上车。他给我拣定了靠车门的一张椅子；我将他给我做的紫毛大衣铺好座位。他嘱我路上小心，夜里要警醒些，不要受凉。又嘱托茶房好好照应我。我心里暗笑他的迂；他们只认得钱，托他们只是白托！而且我这样大年纪的人，难道还不能料理自己么？我现在想想，我那时真是太聪明了。
我说道：“爸爸，你走吧。”他往车外看了看，说：“我买几个橘子去。你就在此地，不要走动。”我看那边月台的栅栏外有几个卖东西的等着顾客。走到那边月台，须穿过铁道，须跳下去又爬上去。父亲是一个胖子，走过去自然要费事些。我本来要去的，他不肯，只好让他去。我看见他戴着黑布小帽，穿着黑布大马褂，深青布棉袍，蹒跚地走到铁道边，慢慢探身下去，尚不大难。可是他穿过铁道，要爬上那边月台，就不容易了。他用两手攀着上面，两脚再向上缩；他肥胖的身子向左微倾，显出努力的样子。这时我看见他的背影，我的泪很快地流下来了。我赶紧拭干了泪。怕他看见，也怕别人看见。我再向外看时，他已抱了朱红的橘子往回走了。过铁道时，他先将橘子散放在地上，自己慢慢爬下，再抱起橘子走。到这边时，我赶紧去搀他。他和我走到车上，将橘子一股脑儿放在我的皮大衣上。于是扑扑衣上的泥土，心里很轻松似的。过一会儿说：“我走了，到那边来信！”我望着他走出去。他走了几步，回过头看见我，说：“进去吧，里边没人。”等他的背影混入来来往往的人里，再找不着了，我便进来坐下，我的眼泪又来了。
近几年来，父亲和我都是东奔西走，家中光景是一日不如一日。他少年出外谋生，独力支持，做了许多大事。哪知老境却如此颓唐！他触目伤怀，自然情不能自已。情郁于中，自然要发之于外；家庭琐屑便往往触他之怒。他待我渐渐不同往日。但最近两年不见，他终于忘却我的不好，只是惦记着我，惦记着我的儿子。我北来后，他写了一信给我，信中说道：“我身体平安，惟膀子疼痛厉害，举箸提笔，诸多不便，大约大去之期不远矣。”我读到此处，在晶莹的泪光中，又看见那肥胖的、青布棉袍黑布马褂的背影。唉！我不知何时再能与他相见！
The Back View
It has been more than two years since I last saw my father. What I can never forget is the sight of his back.
That winter, my grandmother passed away, and my father also lost his job – truly a time when misfortunes never come alone. I traveled from Beijing to Xuzhou, planning to accompany my father home for the funeral. When I arrived in Xuzhou and saw my father, seeing the courtyard in complete disarray, and thinking of my grandmother, I couldn’t help but shed tears. My father said: ‘What’s done is done, no need to be sad. Fortunately, there’s always a path through!’
Back home, we sold and pawned our belongings so father could pay off the debts; we also borrowed money to cover the funeral expenses. During those days, our family circumstances were quite bleak – half due to the funeral, half due to father being out of work. After the funeral was over, father had to go to Nanjing to seek employment, and I also needed to return to Beijing for my studies, so we traveled together.
When we arrived in Nanjing, some friends invited me out sightseeing, so I stayed an extra day. On the morning of the second day, I had to cross the river to Pukou, and in the afternoon, board the train heading north. Because father was busy with matters, he had initially decided not to see me off, and asked a waiter at the hotel whom he knew to accompany me. He repeatedly instructed the waiter, being very thorough. But in the end, he was still worried, afraid the waiter wouldn’t be reliable; he hesitated for quite a while. Actually, I was already twenty years old that year and had traveled to and from Beijing two or three times – there was really nothing to worry about. After hesitating for a while, he finally decided to see me off himself. I repeatedly urged him not to bother; he simply said: ‘It’s alright, it wouldn’t be proper for them to go!’
We crossed the river and entered the station. I bought the tickets while he busied himself looking after the luggage. There was too much luggage, and we had to tip the porters to get through. He then busied himself bargaining with them. At that time, I was really too clever for my own good, always feeling his way of speaking wasn’t quite refined, and I had to interject. But he eventually settled on a price and saw me onto the train. He chose a seat for me by the door; I spread out the purple fur coat he had made for me on the seat. He reminded me to be careful on the journey, to stay alert at night, and not to catch cold. He also asked the attendant to take good care of me. I secretly laughed at his old-fashioned ways; those people only care about money, asking them was asking in vain! Besides, at my age, couldn’t I take care of myself? Thinking about it now, I was really too clever back then.
I said: ‘Dad, you should go now.’ He looked outside the train and said: ‘I’ll go buy some oranges. Stay right here, don’t move around.’ I saw there were several vendors waiting for customers outside the fence of the platform over there. To get to that platform, one had to cross the railway tracks, jumping down and then climbing back up. Father was a heavy man, so it would naturally be more difficult for him. I wanted to go myself, but he wouldn’t let me, so I had to let him go. I watched him wearing his black cloth cap, dressed in a black cloth jacket and a dark blue padded gown, shuffling toward the edge of the tracks. He slowly lowered himself down, which wasn’t too difficult. But when he crossed the tracks and had to climb up onto the other platform, it wasn’t easy. He gripped the platform with both hands while drawing his feet up; his heavy body leaned slightly to the left, showing his effort. At that moment, seeing his back, my tears quickly flowed down. I hurriedly wiped them dry, afraid he would see, and afraid others would see too. When I looked out again, he was already walking back carrying the bright red oranges. Crossing the tracks, he first set the oranges on the ground, slowly climbed down himself, then picked up the oranges and walked over. When he reached this side, I quickly went to help him. He walked with me onto the train and placed all the oranges on my leather coat. Then he brushed the dust off his clothes, as if feeling relieved. After a while he said: ‘I’m going now. Write to me when you get there!’ I watched him walk out. After a few steps, he turned his head and saw me, saying: ‘Go inside, there’s no one watching your things.’ I waited until his back had merged into the crowd of people coming and going and I could no longer find him, then I went in and sat down. My tears came again.
In recent years, my father and I have both been wandering here and there, and our family’s circumstances have grown worse by the day. He left home as a young man to make his own way in the world, supporting himself by his own efforts, and accomplished a great many things. Who could have known that his later years would turn out so bleak! Everything he saw stirred up sorrow, and naturally he could not hold his feelings in. When emotions build up inside, they have to come out — and the small troubles of household life would often set off his temper. He began to treat me differently than he once had. But these last two years that we haven’t seen each other, he has, in the end, forgotten my faults, and only thinks of me, and thinks of my son. After I came north, he wrote me a letter, in which he said: “My health is well, only that my arm hurts badly — lifting my chopsticks or my brush is quite inconvenient. I suppose the day of my departure from this world is not far off.” When I read those words, through the glittering blur of my tears, I saw once again that heavyset figure in the dark blue cotton gown and the black cloth jacket — that back, walking away. Ah! I do not know when I will be able to see him again.
