Explore Chapter 7 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 crescent moon pierced the treetops like a curved blade. Mother Wang loosened her hair and walked to the woodshed behind the house, where she gently opened the wicker gate. Outside the shed, the darkness lay deep and sweetly still; the breeze dared not stir this painting of the black night. Cucumbers climbed the trellis! The corn rustled with broad, vigorous leaves. No frogs croaked, and few insects chirped.
At the disorderly graves, the living dug pits for the dead. The pit was deep. Er Li Ban fell in first. Damp earth from below was tossed to the side. The pit grew deeper! Wider! Several men jumped down, shovels turning the earth ceaselessly. The pit buried them to their waists. The piled soil outside rose above their heads.
The disorderly graves were land the landlords granted to poor peasants for their dwellings after death. But the living peasants were often driven out by those same landlords, forced to carry their bundles and their children from dilapidated houses into even more broken ones. Sometimes they were chased to seek shelter in stables. Children wailed for their mothers in the horse stalls.
Zhao San went into the city. The sudden events had struck him, rendering him utterly frail. He encountered a cart from Fishing Village selling vegetables in the city. The driver rambled on: ‘Vegetable prices are low, money’s worthless, grain isn’t worth much either.’ Cracking his whip, the carter added: ‘Only cloth is dear, salt is dear. Slowly, a family can’t even afford salt! Rent keeps rising. How are we old farmers supposed to live?’ Zhao San jumped onto the cart and sat hunched at the rear by the shaft, his weary legs hung forlornly, swaying with the cart’s motion. The wheels clattered noisily along the rutted road.
Zhao San saw nothing. It was as if the street held no people! As if the street were empty. But a child trailed behind him: ‘It’s the festival! Buy one to take home for the kids to play with!’ Zhao San did not hear. The gourd-selling child, as if he were not a child but a grown man, pursued him. ‘It’s the festival! Buy one to take home for the kids!’ The many-colored gourds on willow branches seemed like tethered butterflies fluttering after Zhao San.
The window was opened to let the dead glimpse the last sunlight. Mother Wang’s chest heaved faintly, a trace of breath remaining. Bright light fell upon her plain attire. She had been changed into black cotton trousers and a light-colored short shirt. Aside from her purple face, she showed no strange signs in her dying state. People clamored: ‘Lift her! Lift her now!’ She still had a faint breath, a trickle of white foam at her mouth. By then, she was being lifted. Outside, Ping’er cried urgently: ‘Feng’s girl is here! Feng’s girl!’ Mother and daughter met too late! They would never, never meet again! The child, carrying a small bundle, walked slowly, slowly to her mother. She peered closely. Just as her face was about to touch her mother’s, a wave of clear, explosive sobs tore through the air. Her small bundle tumbled and rolled to the ground.
Those standing around felt their eyes and noses sting with sourness and dampness. Who could hold back the unbearable ache stirred by this little girl and not weep? People with no connection to her wept alongside the girl for her mother.
The women inquired about Mother Wang’s former life. They were moved by her story. The widow spoke again: ‘Why doesn’t your brother come? Go home and fetch him to see your mother!’ The girl with the white headcloth turned her face to the wall, tears crawling down her small face again. She tried to bite her lips, but they parted against her will, and she opened her mouth and wept! The women’s kindness emboldened her. She walked close to her mother, gripping the icy fingers tightly, and with her hand wiped the foam from her mother’s lips. Her small heart was troubled solely by her mother. The bundle she had brought was trampled underfoot. The women urged: ‘Go home and get your brother to see your mother!’ At the mention of her brother, she nearly broke into sobs but held back. The widow asked: ‘Is your brother not at home?’ Finally, she covered her face with the white headcloth and wailed. Seizing the moment of crying, she dared to speak of her brother: ‘Brother died the day before yesterday: the authorities caught him and shot him.’ She tore the headcloth off. The lonely child thrashed like one possessed, beating her head against her mother’s breast and wailing: ‘Mother… Mother…’ She could utter nothing more. She was still too young!
The women whispered among themselves: ‘When did her brother die? How come we didn’t hear…’ Zhao San’s tobacco pipe appeared at the doorway. He heard them discussing Mother Wang’s son. Zhao San knew that lad was a ‘redbeard’. How he died-wasn’t it said Mother Wang took poison only after hearing her son was executed? Only Zhao San knew. He did not want others to know his wife’s suicide was linked to some bandit case. He felt being a bandit was, in any case, somewhat dishonorable.
He shook his tobacco pipe. His stiff, hollow voice rang out. Using the pipe to prod the girl, he said: ‘You’d best go! She’s dead! Nothing to see here. Hurry back to your own home!’ The girl, abandoned by her father, her brother executed, had brought her bundle to live with her mother. Now her mother was dead. With her mother gone, with whom could she live?
Because Zhao San was old, he judged the young in his heart: ‘To dally with women is fine if you have money, but how can you do it without? Never seen that. When the festival came, that slut had no way to celebrate, so she made him steal. That’s how young people lose their lives.’ When he saw his own wife also about to lose her life, he felt a bitter hatred for that executed lad. Recalling last winter when Mother Wang borrowed the old Foreign gun, he felt a surge of admiration: ‘Been a bandit long! Never lets himself be bullied!’
The women lit the firewood. Steam gradually rose from the pot. Zhao San twirled his tobacco pipe, pacing back and forth. After a while, he saw Mother Wang still had a faint thread of breath, not yet snapped. As if grown impatient waiting for her death, he felt weary and dozed off against the wall.
After a long time, the terror of death no longer felt terrifying. People gathered to eat and drink. Then Mother Wang made a sound from the ground. Her purple face seemed to turn pale purple. People set down their cups, wondering if she was reviving. But no. Suddenly, black blood flowed from the corner of her mouth. Her lips seemed to stir. Finally, she roared twice. People stared, saying she was about to breathe her last! As many eyes fixed upon her, she stirred, trying to rise! People panicked. Women fled outside the window! Men ran to fetch the shoulder poles for carrying water. They said her corpse had returned to life.
Zhao San, emboldened by drink, declared: ‘If she gets up, she’ll clutch a child and die, or clutch a tree-she has the strength to clutch even a grown man.’ Zhao San swiftly pressed the shoulder pole down with his large red hands. It cut into Mother Wang’s waist like a solid knife. Her belly and chest suddenly swelled, like a fish’s swim bladder. Her eyes instantly rounded, as if emitting an electric glare. Her black lips moved as if to speak, yet no words came. Blood spurted straight from her mouth, drenching Zhao San’s shirt. Zhao San ordered the man: ‘Press lightly! Don’t get covered in blood.’ Mother Wang finally had not a breath left. She was placed into the coffin waiting at the door.
Before the temple at the village’s rear, two homeless old men from the village, one carrying a red lantern, the other a water pot, led Ping’er to report the death at the temple. They circled the temple three times, then returned along the faint footpath. The old man recited a set of ritual phrases. Accompanied by the red lantern and the white cloth on the child’s head, they went home. Ping’er did not cry at all. He only remembered: wasn’t it just like this when his own mother died that year?
News of Mother Wang’s death spread through the whole village. The women sat by the coffin and raised a great wail! They wiped their noses, howling: some wept for children, some for husbands, some for their own bitter fates. In short, all grievances were brought here to be sent off! Whenever an elderly person died in the village, they, the bands of women, did just this.
It was Dragon Boat Festival. Every household hung gourds on their doors. In Er Li Ban’s foolish wife’s house, a child cried, yet she squatted at the doorway brushing the sheep’s wool with an iron horse brush.
Er Li Ban limped along. The festival filled him with profound delight. In the cabbage field, he saw several cabbages eaten down by insects. On ordinary days, he would curse the insects in short phrases, or kick the cabbages in anger. But now it was the festival. He felt entirely joyful, convinced he deserved to be happy. Walking by the field’s edge, he saw the persimmons were not yet red. He thought to pick a few green ones for the children to eat. It was the festival!
Did the tiny child, sleeping among so many dead, feel no fear? Her mother had gone far away! Her mother’s sobs could no longer be heard!
In the days before Dragon Boat Festival, Chengye was always running back and forth to the city. He returned home to quarrel and fight with his wife. He said: ‘The rice price has fallen! Selling the rice bought in March now would mean losing nearly half. Selling it won’t clear the debts, but not selling, how are we to celebrate the festival?’ Gradually, he grew to dislike little Jinzhi. When the child woke him at night, he said: ‘Struggle then! Die making noise!’ The day before the festival, his home had prepared nothing, not even a pound of flour. When cooking time came, the soybean oil jar yielded nothing.
Chengye returned home angrily, seeing no dishes prepared. He shouted harshly: ‘Ah! Someone like me… should starve to death, with no rice even to eat… I’ll go to the city… I’ll go to the city.’ The child nursed at Jinzhi’s breast. He added: ‘Do I still have good days? You burden me down, you won’t even give me a chance to turn bandit.’
Chengye looked at the pickled vegetables and gruel on the table. He thought a moment and kept on: ‘Cry then! Family ruiners, I’ll sell you off to pay debts.’ The child kept crying. The mother was in the kitchen, perhaps sweeping, perhaps tidying the firewood. The father flared up: ‘Sell the lot of you! What use are you noisy household demons…’
The mother in the kitchen ignited like kindling: ‘What are you, anyway? Coming back to quarrel and fight. I’m not your sworn enemy. Go ahead and sell, see if you can sell!’ The father flung the rice bowl. The mother leaped up in a fury. ‘Sell? I’ll dash her to death!… What am I selling!’ Thus, the little life was strangled!
After three days, the young mother went to the disorderly graves to look for her child. But what could she see? Dogs had torn everything apart.