Explore Chapter 3 of '彷徨' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
To create or not to create lies entirely within one's own will. That work which gushes forth like sunlight from an inexhaustible source, not like a spark struck from flint and iron-that is true art. The author of such a work is a true artist. And I-what am I? … At this thought, he suddenly sprang from his bed.
He had already considered the matter: he must earn a few diao in manuscript fees to support himself. His initial choice for submission was Happiness Monthly, as its payments seemed comparatively generous. But his work must fall within a certain scope; otherwise, it might be rejected. A scope is a scope, after all… What are the major issues occupying the minds of modern youth? … A great many, I suppose-probably many concerning love, marriage, family… Yes, a great many are indeed troubled and debating these matters… Well then, I shall write about family. But how to write it? … Otherwise, it might be rejected… Why bother with outmoded talk? And yet… After jumping off the bed, he reached his desk in four or five steps. He sat down, pulled out a sheet of green-lined paper, and without hesitation, yet with a mix of abandon and self-derision, wrote down the title: A Happy Family.
His pen halted instantly. He threw his head back, glaring at the ceiling as he tried to decide on a location for this 'happy family.' 'Beijing? No good-lifeless, the very air stagnant. If I built a high wall around this family, could I even wall off the air? Absolutely not! Jiangsu and Zhejiang are on the brink of war daily; Fujian goes without saying. Sichuan? Guangdong? Fighting is raging there. Shandong? Henan? Ah, kidnapping-if one were snatched, it would become an unhappy family. Rent is prohibitive in the foreign concessions of Shanghai and Tianjin… Setting it abroad would be ludicrous. Yunnan? Guizhou? I don't know, but transportation is too inconvenient…' He pondered and pondered but could think of no suitable place. He was about to settle on 'A,' but then thought, 'Many nowadays object to using Western letters for place names, saying it dampens the reader's interest. For this submission, perhaps it's safer not to use it. Where, then, would be good? … Hunan is also at war; Dalian's rent remains exorbitant; Chahar, Jilin, Heilongjiang? I hear there are mounted bandits-no good either! …' He pondered again and still found no good place, so he finally resolved to assume the location of this 'happy family' was called A.
'In short, this happy family must be in A-that is non-negotiable. The family naturally consists of a husband and wife, the master and mistress, who married for love. They have drawn up a treaty of over forty clauses, extremely detailed, therefore exquisitely equal and perfectly free. Moreover, they are highly educated, refined and noble… Japanese returned students are no longer in vogue-well then, let them be Western returned students. The master always wears Western clothes, his stiff collar always snowy white; the mistress's fringe is always permed into a fluffy mass like a sparrow's nest, her teeth always gleaming snow-white, but her clothes are of Chinese cut…'
He heard a man's voice outside the window and involuntarily turned to look. The window curtain was drawn, and the sunlight shining through was so bright it dazzled him; his eyes blurred. This was followed by the sound of small wooden pieces scattering on the ground. 'It's nothing,' he thought, turning back. 'What's this “twenty-five catties”? … They are refined and noble, and greatly love literature and art. But because they have grown up in happiness since childhood, they don't care for Russian novels… Russian novels mostly depict the lower orders, which really wouldn't suit such a family. “Twenty-five catties”? Never mind. Well then, what books do they read? … Byron's poetry? Keats's? No, neither is quite steady. … Oh, I have it-they both love reading An Ideal Husband. Though I haven't seen the book myself, since even university professors praise it so, they must surely love it. You read it, I read it-they have one copy each, so there are two copies in this family…' He felt a certain emptiness in his stomach. Laying down his pen, he propped his head on both hands, letting it hang like a globe between two pillars.
'… The two of them are at lunch,' he thought. 'The table is spread with a snow-white cloth. The cook brings in the food-Chinese food. What's this “twenty-five catties”? Never mind. Why Chinese food, though? Westerners say Chinese cuisine is the most advanced, the most delicious, and the most hygienic, so they have adopted it. The first bowl is brought in. But what is this first bowl? …'
'The firewood is all used up. I bought some more today. Last time it was ten catties for two diao and forty coppers; today they want two diao and sixty. I'm thinking of offering two diao and fifty. Is that alright?'
'The weighing is very unfair. He insists on counting it as only twenty-four and a half catties; I'm thinking of settling for twenty-three and a half. Is that alright?'
'Mmm, five fives are twenty-five, three fives are fifteen…' He too could not continue. After a pause, he suddenly, with a burst of energy, grabbed his pen and began doing sums on the green-lined paper bearing the line 'A Happy Family.' He worked for quite a while before finally raising his head and saying, 'Five diao and eighty coppers!'
He pulled open a drawer of his desk, scooped up all the coppers there-no less than twenty or thirty-and placed them on her outstretched palm. He watched her leave the room before turning back to his desk. His head felt terribly swollen, as if crammed full of crisscrossing firewood. Five fives are twenty-five-his cerebral cortex was still imprinted with scattered Arabic numerals. He took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully, as if to expel from his brain the firewood, the 'five fives are twenty-five,' and the Arabic digits. Sure enough, after exhaling, his mind felt somewhat lighter. So he returned to his vague, drifting thoughts.
'What dish? The dish might as well be unusual. Sautéed pork tenderloin or shrimp roe with sea cucumber are too commonplace. I insist they are eating “Dragon and Tiger Stew.” But what is “Dragon and Tiger Stew”? Some say it's a dish of snake and cat, a costly Guangdong specialty served only at grand banquets. But I've seen this name on a Jiangsu restaurant menu-people from Jiangsu probably don't eat snake and cat. Perhaps, as someone said, it's made of frog and eel. Now, where shall I assume this master and mistress are from? Never mind. In any case, no matter where they are from, eating a bowl of snake and cat, or frog and eel, can certainly do no harm to a happy family. In short, this first bowl must be “Dragon and Tiger Stew”-that is non-negotiable.'
'And so a bowl of “Dragon and Tiger Stew” is placed in the center of the table. The two of them simultaneously pick up their chopsticks, point them at the rim of the bowl, and smile at each other, you looking at me, I looking at you…'
'Then they simultaneously lower their chopsticks and simultaneously pick up a piece of snake meat. No, no, snake meat is too strange after all-better say it's eel. So, this bowl of “Dragon and Tiger Stew” is made of frog and eel. They simultaneously pick up a piece of eel, exactly the same size. Five fives are twenty-five, three fives… Never mind. They simultaneously put it into their mouths…' He could not restrain himself from wanting to turn and look, for he felt great commotion behind him-someone had walked past two or three times. But he endured it and went on chaotically thinking, 'This seems a bit mawkish. What family is like this? Alas, how has my train of thought become so tangled? I'm afraid I won't finish this promising subject. Perhaps they needn't be returned students-those educated at home would do. They are both university graduates, noble and refined, noble… The man is a man of letters; the woman is also a man of letters, or a literary enthusiast. Or the woman is a poet; the man is an admirer of poets, a respecter of women. Or else…'
Beside the bookcase behind him, a pile of cabbages had already appeared: three at the bottom, two in the middle, one on top, forming a large letter A directed at him.
'Ai, ai!' he exclaimed in startled dismay. Simultaneously, he felt his face grow suddenly hot, and many needles seemed to prick his spine lightly. 'Whew…' He let out a long sigh, first driving away the needles on his spine, and continued thinking, 'The house of a happy family must be spacious. There should be a storage room for cabbages and such. The master's study is another room-the walls lined with bookcases. Naturally, there must be no cabbage pile beside them. The shelves are filled with Chinese and foreign books; An Ideal Husband is naturally among them-two copies in all. The bedroom is yet another room: a brass bed, or perhaps something simpler, an elm bed from the workshop of the First Prison would suffice. Under the bed should be very clean…' He immediately glanced under his own bed. The firewood was all used up; only a straw rope lay there sluggishly like a dead snake.
'Twenty-three and a half catties…' He felt the firewood was about to enter 'in an endless stream' under his bed. His head began to feel crisscrossed again. He hastily stood up and walked toward the door, intending to close it. But the moment his hands touched the door, he felt it too rash. So he stopped and merely let down the dusty door curtain. He thought to himself that this method avoided the rashness of shutting oneself in and the unease of leaving the door wide open-it was, he told himself, quite in keeping with the Doctrine of the Mean.
'… Therefore, the door of the master's study is forever kept shut.' He walked back, sat down, and thought. 'If someone has business to discuss, they must knock first and obtain permission before entering. This is truly the right method. Now suppose the master is sitting in his study, and the mistress comes to discuss literature and art. She too must knock first. One can rest assured-she certainly won't be carrying cabbages.'
'But what is to be done when the master has no time to discuss literature and art? Then ignore her and let her stand outside knocking persistently? That probably won't do. Or perhaps it's all written in An Ideal Husband. That must indeed be a good novel; when I get my manuscript fee, I must buy a copy to read…'
'A happy family…' He heard the child's sobbing but continued thinking with a stiff back. 'The child was born late-very late. Perhaps it would be better not to have one: the two of them alone, clean and neat. Or perhaps it would be better to live in an inn, where everything is taken care of for you. One person could just…' Hearing the sobs grow louder, he stood up. He passed through the door curtain, thinking, 'Marx wrote Das Kapital amid the cries of his children-that's why he is a great man…' He walked into the outer room, opened the storm door, and caught a whiff of kerosene fumes. The child was lying on the right side of the doorway, face to the ground. The moment she saw him, she burst out wailing.
He turned around holding her and saw the mistress standing on the left side of the door. Her back was also stiff, but with both hands on her hips, glaring furiously as if preparing to start calisthenics.
'Ah, there, there. Don't cry, don't cry.' Putting those trembling words behind him, he carried the child into the room, stroked her head, and said, 'My good child.' Then he set her down, pulled over a chair, sat down, and made her stand between his knees. Raising his hand, he said, 'Stop crying now, good child. Papa will do “the cat washing its face” for you.' At the same time, he stretched out his neck and tongue, licked his palm twice from a distance, and then used that palm to draw circles on his own face.
'Yes, yes, flower.' He drew several more circles before stopping. He saw she was still smiling at him, tears hanging on her face. Suddenly he felt her lovely, innocent face was exactly like her mother's five years ago, especially the crimson lips, only smaller in outline. That was also a clear winter's day. When she heard him say he was determined to oppose all obstacles and sacrifice everything for her, she had also smiled at him like this with tears hanging on her face. He sat there vacantly, as if somewhat intoxicated.
He was also suddenly startled awake. Focusing his eyes, he saw the child still with tears on her face, her crimson lips parted as she looked at him. 'Lips…' He glanced sideways. The firewood was coming in. '… I'm afraid in the future it will also be five fives are twenty-five, nine nines are eighty-one! … And with two such gloomy eyes…' Thinking this, he roughly grabbed the sheet of green-lined paper with the line of title and a pile of calculations. He crumpled it several times, then spread it out to wipe her tears and sniffles. 'Good child, go play by yourself.' As he spoke, he gently pushed her away. At the same time, he crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it forcefully into the wastepaper basket.
But immediately he felt a pang of remorse toward the child. Turning his head again, he watched her go out alone, forlorn. In his ears was the sound of wooden pieces. Wanting to compose himself, he turned his head back, closed his eyes, stilled his random thoughts, and sat quietly. He saw before his eyes a flat, round, black flower float into view, with an orange-yellow center. It drifted from the left corner of his left eye to the right and vanished. Next came a bright green flower with a dark green heart. Then came a pile of six cabbages, standing firm, forming a large letter A directed at him.