Explore Chapter 1 of 'Spring Wind Intoxicated Evening' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
The sky was a vast expanse of clear blue, without a single cloud. The eternal sun, ever new, continued its perpetual journey along its course, moving steadily onward. A gentle breeze from the south, like a fine, sobering nectar, carried a fragrance that brushed against his face in waves. In the midst of yellowish, unripe rice fields, on a winding country road pale as a thread, he walked alone, holding a six-inch-long collection of Wordsworth's poems. Across the great plain, there was not a soul in sight. From somewhere unknown, the faint barks of dogs, one or two at a time, drifted melodiously to his ears. He lifted his eyes from the book and, as if in a dream, gazed toward the direction of the barking. All he saw was a thicket of scrubby trees, a few dwellings, and on the fish-scale-like roof tiles, a thin, gauzy shimmer of mirage-like a phantom tower-floating above them.
He stared blankly for a long time. Suddenly, he felt a breath of violet-tinged air brush against his back. With a rustling sound, a small blade of grass by the roadside shattered his dream. Turning his head, he saw the blade still trembling. A gentle breeze carrying the scent of violets wafted against his pale face. In this clear and mild early autumn world, in this transparent void, his body felt as if intoxicated, limp and soft. It was as if he were sleeping in the embrace of a loving mother, as if he were dreaming of the Peach Blossom Spring, or as if he were on the coast of Southern Europe, dozing in a lover's lap.
He looked around and felt as if every plant and tree were offering him a smile. Gazing at the endless sky, he sensed the eternal universe giving a slight, knowing nod. After staring motionlessly at the sky for a while, he saw a group of celestial spirits in the sky, with wings on their backs and bows and arrows on their shoulders, dancing there. He felt supremely happy. Unconsciously, he opened his mouth and spoke to himself:
"Here is your sanctuary. The mediocre crowd out there envies you, mocks you, plays you for a fool. Only this nature, this eternally new sky and bright sun, this late summer breeze, this early autumn freshness, remain your friends, your loving mother, your lover. You need not return to the world to mingle with those frivolous men and women. Stay here in the embrace of nature, in this simple countryside, and live out your days."
"Behold her, single in the field, You solitary Highland lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; Oh, listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound."
After reading this stanza, he suddenly turned the page and, without thinking, looked at the third stanza.
"Will no one tell me what she sings?-- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been and may be again?"
This was another habit he had developed lately: reading books without any order. With tomes of hundreds of pages, it went without saying; even pamphlets of a few dozen pages, such as Emerson's On Nature or Thoreau's Excursions, he had never finished one from start to end. When he first opened a book, after reading four or five lines or a page or two, he would often be so moved that he wished to devour it in one breath. But after three or four pages, a sense of pity would arise, and he seemed to say to himself:
Though such thoughts crossed his mind, in truth he had already grown somewhat weary. At such times, he would put the book aside and read no further. After a few days or hours, with the same fervor as when first reading a book, he would start another. The book that had moved him so deeply days or hours before would inevitably be forgotten.
After reading aloud the two stanzas by Wordsworth, he suddenly conceived the idea of translating this poem into Chinese.
"The Solitary Reaper" - he pondered. "The Solitary Reaper - the title could only be translated thus."
"Look at that girl, all alone in the fields. That Highland lass over there-so solitary, so forlorn! She reaps and sings without cease; now she pauses, now moves on, her figure light and delicate... Alone, she cuts and binds the sheaves; the song she sings is tinged with melancholy. Listen, oh listen! This deep valley is overflowing with the clear sound of her voice."
…
"Can anyone tell what she is singing?- Perhaps her countless tender words are songs of sorrows from ages past, or battles of bygone dynasties: thousands upon thousands of soldiers and horses. Or perhaps they are common tunes from the streets, mere idle chatter of the present day. Or perhaps they are natural sorrows, inevitable losses, inherent griefs. Though these things are but echoes of the past, surely in the future someone will speak of them."
"What is this, anyway? As dull as a church hymn. English poetry is English, Chinese poetry is Chinese. What's the point of all this translating back and forth?"
After saying this, he unconsciously smiled slightly. Looking around, he saw the sun was already slanting. On the other side of the great plain, on the western horizon, a high mountain floated there, bathed in the day's lingering glow. Around the mountain, a hazy mist had gathered, reflecting a color that was neither purple nor red.