Explore Chapter 1 of "生死场" with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
The goat chewed the elm bark, sticky froth dripping from its beard. The froth, stirred up, resembled soap bubbles or thick, floating threads. It clung to the goat's legs. The elm tree clearly had sores, bearing large scars. Yet the goat slept in the shade, its belly, like a white sac, rising and falling.
Soon after, a limping farmer appeared in the vegetable field. The color of the cabbage leaves was somewhat similar to the color of the goat.
To the south, adjacent to the vegetable field, stood a forest of sorghum with green tassels. The child burrowed into the sorghum stalks. Many tassels were knocked down, falling on his head. Sometimes they hit his face. The leaves rustled and intertwined, occasionally pricking his skin. It was a world of green sweetness, evidently cooler. Not long after, the child struggled out from the last plant. Immediately, the sun scorched his hair. Quickly, he pulled his hat down.
The high blue sky covered the leaping sun over the vegetable field. Not a cloud in sight. The child tucked a willow twig under his arm. As he walked, his knees were far apart, his toes turned inward, making his legs look like they were holding a basin. The limping farmer had already recognized his child. From afar, he asked entirely with his throat, "Bowlegs, ah! ... Can't find it?"
By the path at the edge of the vegetable field, a small plot was embroidered with wild herbs. Passing this short path, ahead was Er Li Ban's house. In front of his door stood a poplar tree, its leaves swaying. Every day, Er Li Ban would walk under the poplar, listening to how its leaves rustled, watching how they moved. The poplar did this daily, and he stopped daily. Today was the first exception. He forgot everything, only noticing that his limp had deepened. Each step seemed to sink a hole into the ground.
Around the earthen house, a fence made of woven branches. Half the poplar's shadow fell into the yard. Pockmarked Woman washed clothes in the shade. Only silence remained in the fields at noon. Only butterflies fluttered near and far for the flowers, unafraid of the sun burning their wings. Everything had retreated into hiding. A dog also sought a shady spot to sleep. The insects had ceased their chirping.
Sweat on Pockmarked Woman's face, like beads or beans, gradually trickled down each pockmark. Pockmarked Woman was not a butterfly. She could not grow phosphorescent wings. Only the imprinted pockmarks remained.
Two butterflies flew playfully past Pockmarked Woman. She struck them down with her wet hand. One fell into the basin and drowned. Her body continued to bend forward. Sweat flowed to her mouth. She licked a taste of salt. When sweat flowed into her eyes, it stung fiercely. She hastily wiped with her wet hand but kept washing. Her eyes looked as if she had been crying, rubbed into dirty, laughable circles. From a distance, she resembled a clown on stage. Her eyes were terrifyingly large, larger than a cow's, and her face had irregular patterns.
The windows and door of the earthen house looked like holes from a distance. Pockmarked Woman stepped inside. She went to find another piece of clothing to wash. But on the kang, she grabbed at the sunlight, yet could not hold it. She knew her eyes were dizzy. It was like suddenly walking into a night with lights out in the brightness. She rested. It felt very cool. After a while, she pulled out a pair of her own trousers from under the mat. She wiped the sweat from her head with the trousers, then walked back to the shady spot where the basin was, and soaked the trousers in the muddy water.
Smoke from the neighbor's chimney billowed out, scattered by the wind, filling the yard. The smoke stung her eyes. She knew her family would return for meals. Anxious, she used her mud-soaked hands to fetch straw from the corner. She got straw all over her hands. Just like that, she cooked. Her hands were never washed with clean water. Smoke also rose from her chimney. After a while, she came out again to get firewood. Straw in hand, half dragging on the ground, half under her apron, she shuffled along. Hair covered her face. Like that, Pockmarked Woman was a she-bear. A she-bear bringing grass into its den.
Clothes on the fence dripped water, steaming with foul air. The entire village was suffocating in the heat. The noon sun ruled over everything.
When Er Li Ban limped severely, he would lean his buttocks back at a certain angle. He went to pat the straw shed where the goat slept, but where was the goat?
Making Pockmarked Woman speak was like making a pig speak. Perhaps her throat was structured like a pig's. She always made pig-like sounds.
Hearing the goat was lost, she went to turn over the firewood pile. She remembered once the goat had burrowed into it. But that was in winter, for warmth. She didn't think. In June, only a goat as foolish as her would seek warmth in the firewood. She turned it over without thinking. Fine grass sprinkled all over her hair. Her husband wanted to stop her, ask her reason, but she never spoke. She wanted to perform a miracle, so that from then on, people would respect her. To show she wasn't foolish, that her wisdom appeared when necessary. Then, like a dog tired from playing in the firewood, her hand picking grass from her hair, she sat down. She unexpectedly felt her cleverness insufficient. She unexpectedly felt disappointed in herself.
After a while, neighbors set out in all directions under the sun to search for the goat. Pockmarked Woman's cooking pot steamed, but she followed behind.
Yellow, nearly yellow, the wheat field left only short stubble. From afar, the wheat field looked sad. At the edge of the field, by the well, someone was drawing water. Er Li Ban shielded his eyes with one hand, looking east and west. He suddenly decided to go to the well. Looking down the well, nothing. Using the bucket to probe deep into the water, nothing. Finally, he drew up the bucket, bent over to drink from the well. The water gurgled in his throat, like a horse drinking.
A row of brick carts passed through the wooded shade, the cart drivers noisy. The goat woke from its noon nap. It bewilderedly used its horns to groom itself. Reflected by the green leaves, the goat turned pale yellow. A melon seller ate melon by the roadside. The row of brick carts raised dust like waves, moving from the shade onto the main road to the city.
The goat was lonely. The goat finished its nap, finished its meal of tree bark, and headed home. The goat didn't go home. It passed every tall tree, listened to every leaf rustle. Was the goat going to the city? It hurried toward the main road to the city.
Baa... baa, goat calls, not goat calls, but the searchers calling. Er Li Ban called louder than others. It didn't sound like a goat, more like an ox!
Finally, Er Li Ban fought with a neighbor. His hat, like a kite with a broken string, fluttered down, from his head to afar. "You trampled my cabbage! -- You... you..." The tall, red-faced man, like a demon king. Er Li Ban was beaten dizzy. He went to pull up a small tree nearby. The small tree was innocently harmed. That household's woman came out, handed out a rake used for stirring the sauce jar. The rake dripped sauce. Seeing the rake coming, he pulled up a small tree and ran home. His straw hat was left lonely by the well. He had worn that straw hat for many years.
After a while, she went to the rice pot and cried. "My... goat, I fed it day by day... it grew big, I nurtured it to grow!" Pockmarked Woman's nature was not to complain. Whenever she encountered unhappiness, whether her husband scolded her, neighbors quarreled with her, or even children bothered her, she would melt like a lump of wax. Her nature was not to resist or fight. Her heart seemed always to store sorrow, always like a piece of weak white cotton. She sobbed, arbitrarily going outside to bring in the dried clothes, but she had no mind to notice the goat.
Afternoon, Er Li Ban still sat on the kang. "Damn, if the goat is lost, so be it! Keeping it isn't a good omen." But his wife didn't know what bad omen raising a goat could bring. She said, "Hmph! So it's lost for nothing? I'll go find it. I think it must be in the sorghum field." "You still want to find it? Don't look for it! Lost is lost!" "I can find it!" "Ah, looking for the goat might lead to other troubles!" His mind replayed the beating. The hat fluttered down like a kite with a broken string. The rake dripped sauce. Grab the small tree, grab the small tree. Er Li Ban's heart churned with this bad omen.
His wife didn't know about this. She headed toward the sorghum field. Butterflies and other insects were lively. People were working in the fields. She didn't speak to the women in the fields. Passing through the wheat field with stubble, she crawled there like a tiny insect. The sunlight was duller than at noon. More insects chirped. More flew around.
Old Mother Wang's spare time was spent recounting her endless fate. Her teeth often clicked as she spoke, showing her resentment and hidden anger. Under the starlight, her wrinkles looked greener, her eyes bluer. Her eyes were large and round. Sometimes, when she reached exciting parts, her voice became hoarse and monotone. The neighbor children would call her an "owl." She often got angry when children called her an "owl." She wondered how she became such a monster. Like spitting out something, she began to spit.
The children's mothers beat them. The children ran away crying. At this point, Wang Po should stop her story. She crawled into the house through the window hole to sleep. But sometimes she didn't notice the children crying, as if she didn't hear, and continued talking about that year the wheat was good. She bought another ox, the ox gave birth to a calf, what happened to the calf later? Her stories always had ups and downs. About an ox, she could have endless words. What color was the ox? How much grass and water did it need daily? Even how the ox slept.
Inside, like in a cave, snoring sounds rose, spreading sound waves throughout the yard. Small flashes of light flickered at the horizon. Wang Po's story contrasted with the clouds in the sky. "... A child was three years old. I threw her to death. Having a child would make me useless. That morning, let me think. It was morning. I sat her on the haystack. I went to feed the ox. The haystack was behind the house. When I remembered the child, I ran to hold her. I saw no child on the haystack. When I saw the iron plow under the haystack, I knew it was an evil omen. The child fell right by the plow. I thought she was still alive. When I picked her up, ah!"
A flash of lightning tore the sky, clearly showing Wang Po as an excited ghost. The entire wheat field, sorghum field, vegetable garden appeared under the flash. The women were horrified, as if something cold rushed at their faces. After the flash, Wang Po's voice continued. "Ah! I threw her onto the haystack. Blood flowed all over the haystack. Her small hands trembled. Blood steamed from her nose, from her mouth, as if her throat was cut. I listened to her belly. It still made sounds. Like a puppy run over by a cart wheel. I've seen puppies run over with my own eyes. I've seen everything. In this village, whenever someone couldn't deliver a child, I would go with a hook, or maybe that vegetable-digging knife, to stir the child out from the mother's belly. A child's death was nothing. Do you think I would jump and cry? Would I howl? At first, my heart trembled. But when I saw the wheat field before me, I didn't regret at all. I didn't shed a single tear. Later, the wheat harvest was good. I cut the wheat myself. On the threshing ground, I picked up the wheat grains one by one. That year, I didn't stop all autumn, didn't chat, as if I couldn't even catch my breath. Then winter came. In winter, I compared wheat grains with neighbors. My wheat grains were so big. In winter, my back bent severely. Holding the large wheat grains. But the neighbor's child grew up. At that time, I suddenly remembered my Little Bell."
A dog barked wildly in the threshing ground. The cloudy night told nothing. Suddenly a flash. A yellow dog was seen curling its tail and barking at Er Li Ban. After the flash, the yellow dog returned to the wheat pile. Grass stems made subtle sounds.
"Is Third Brother not home?" "He's sleeping." Wang Po returned to her silence. Her reply sounded like from an empty bottle or something hollow. On the pig trough, she remained like a fossil. "Third Brother! Are you quarreling with Third Sister-in-law again? You often quarrel with her. That will ruin peaceful days." Er Li Ban, tolerant of his wife, measured others by his own feelings.
Zhao San lit his tobacco. His red face smiled. "I'm not quarreling with anyone." Er Li Ban untied his tobacco pipe from his waist, calmly said. "My goat is lost. Don't you know? It came back again. Help me find a buyer. Keeping this goat isn't a good omen." Zhao San laughed with a coarse voice, his big hand and red face appearing in the flash. "Ha, ha, not bad. I heard your hat flew to the well, spinning around." Suddenly Er Li Ban saw a small tree beside him. Grab the small tree, grab the small tree. His fantasy ended. He knew the news of his beating had spread. He twisted his tobacco, explained. "That family is unreasonable. How can they not allow searching for a lost goat? He insisted I trampled his cabbage. See, I couldn't fight with him." Shaking his head, he felt dejected as if insulted. He smoked his pipe, keenly feeling the goat was not a good omen. The goat would hurt his face.
A flash came. The tall Zhao San with big hands stood up from the kang edge, wiping his eyes with his palm. He suddenly shouted. "It might rain. Bad! The wheat isn't finished threshing, piled on the ground." Zhao San felt raising oxen and farming insufficient. He must go to the city to develop. He went to the city daily, gradually neglecting the wheat. He dreamed of another promising business. "That wife, why not watch the wheat? The wheat will be washed away by water." Zhao San habitually thought she would sit in the yard. Flashes came more. Thunder, wind. Everything stirred the night village. "I'm here! Go to the shed to get mats, cover the wheat." The shout echoed in the threshing ground with flashes. The sound seemed to hit something, like on water. Wang Po vibrated her throat again. "Faster, useless, sleeping in a stupor! You can't find the door." Zhao San, frightened by the coming storm, didn't argue with her.
The sorghum field seemed about to break. The elm tree at the edge whistled, somewhat metallic. Due to the flashes, the whole village suddenly appeared naked, then was swallowed by darkness. The whole village was like foam floating on the sea. Neighbors and farther neighbors had children crying, adults shouting. Something about the sauce jar not covered. Chasing chicks. Wheat farmers shouting the wheat not finished. Farmhouses were like chicken coops. Throwing fire into a coop, the chickens would be thrown into turmoil.
The yellow dog started making a nest in the grass pile, using legs to paw at the grass, mouth to tug at the grass. Wang Po trembled, holding a rake. "Damn it, the wheat should have been finished today. You went to the city and didn't return. The wheat is such a waste!"
Morning came. Rain hadn't fallen yet. A long rainbow hung in the east. Clouds with a damp smell passed over heads. In the east, above the sorghum, the sun walked behind clouds. Too bright, like red crystal, like a red dream. From afar, sorghum and small woods stood solemn and imposing. Villagers took advantage of the morning coolness, busy in the fields.
In front of Zhao San's door, on the threshing ground, a child led a horse. Since it was a young horse, it pranced and swished its tail, following its young master onto the ground. The young horse liked to nudge the "stone roller" with its mouth. Its front legs stamped several times on the smooth ground. Then it inevitably let out an unpleasant cry, as if demanding something.
Wang Po wore a wide-sleeved short jacket, walking onto the flat ground. Her hair was messy and tangled. The morning red light shone on her. Her hair resembled the tassels of ripe corn in the field, red and wilted.
The horse called its master out. It waited for the "stone roller" to be installed. When the "stone roller" was ready, the young horse wagged its tail, continuously wagged its tail. It was very docile and happy.
Wang Po felt the mat was slightly damp. The mat was pulled aside. The child ran over to help her. Wheat tassels covered the flat ground. Wang Po stood aside with a rake. The child joyfully ran to the center of the ground. The horse began to run in circles. The child also turned at the center point, like a compass drawing a circle. No matter how the horse ran, the child stayed at the center point. Because the colt was running wild. It ran with a flying gait, playing like a child, scattering wheat tassels out of the ground. Wang Po struck the horse with the rake. But after a while, it had played enough and rested, like a playful puppy needing its rest. Wang Po, as if mad, waved the rake again. The horse reared up, ran two circles, dragging the "stone roller" away from the wheat-covered ground. It even chewed some wheat tassels with its mouth. The child holding the reins was scolded. "Ah! You always sneak it onto the ground. Do you think such a horse can thresh wheat? Go die! Don't bother me!" The child led the horse out of the ground's gate, to the trough, to pull the old horse. He tied the young horse securely between poles. The old horse had almost completely shed its sparse hair. The child didn't love it, hitting it with the reins to move, but it remained like a stone or a rooted plant, immovable. The old horse was the young horse's mother. It stopped, nuzzling the young horse's belly where a wound had split open, bleeding. The child, seeing his beloved young horse bleeding, felt a pang of sadness, tears about to fall. But he didn't understand the bond between mother and child, for he hadn't seen his mother. He was a bastard child. The old animal, shedding its sparse hair, was urged away from the colt, nose stained with blood, walked onto the threshing ground.
A train passed the river bridge in front of the village. The train was unseen, only the rumbling sound heard. Wang Po watched the black smoke swirling into the sky. People from the front village drove a cabbage cart to the city. Passing Wang Po's ground, they threw down a few persimmons from the cart, saying, "You don't grow persimmons. These are cheap things, worthless things. Wheat is the way to wealth!" The driving youth, a sturdy man, passed by. The whip cracked.
The horse stood quietly, not even swishing its tail. It didn't touch the "stone roller" with its mouth. It didn't look far with its eyes. It wasn't afraid of work. When work came, it set to it with calm acceptance. When some ropes were fastened onto it, it followed its master's whip. The master's whip rarely fell on its skin and bones. Sometimes it was too exhausted to go on, walking too slowly. The master beat it, with a whip or something else. But it didn't rebel, because all past years had conditioned it.
The wheat tassels on the ground were gradually losing their shape. "Come here! Pull the horse here for a while! Ping'er!" "I don't want to be with the old horse. The old horse seems asleep all day." Ping'er carried persimmons in his pocket and walked aside to eat. Wang Po grumbled angrily. "Good child! I can't manage you. You still have a father!" Ping'er ignored everyone, walked out of the ground, toward the east end where flowers were planted. He looked at the red flowers, eating persimmons as he walked.
Leaves in the early morning! Tree leaves, flower leaves, glistened with dewdrops! The sun was perfectly round and boundless above the sorghum stalks. Nearby households prepared breakfast.
Her nephew, cracking his whip, passed through the shaded path ahead, quietly singing a lonely tune. She was moved by the song. The rake almost stopped. The song still rose from the end of the grove. "Yesterday morning a fine drizzle fell... little girl, wearing a straw raincoat... little girl... went fishing."