Dawn Blossoms Plucked at Dusk

by Lu Xun

  My recollection is none too clear, but this must have gone on for a month or two before, one day, I suddenly felt as lonely “as if bereft of something.” My mouse was always in my sight running about on the table or on the floor. But today I hadn't seen it for hours. It didn't even come after the midday meal, a time when it normally always put in an appearance. I waited and waited all the rest of the day—still no sign of my mouse.

  Mama Chang, my nurse, may have thought this waiting too upsetting for me, for she padded over to whisper something to me which plunged me into a fit of rage and grief and made me vow eternal hatred to cats. She told me that my mouse had been eaten the night before by the cat.

  When I lose something I love, it leaves a gap in my heart which I have to fill in with thirst for revenge.

  I set about my vengeance with our tabby, extending it gradually to all cats who crossed my path. To start with I just chased and beat them, later I refined on this and learned to hit them on the head with my sling or lure them into an empty room and beat them until they were thoroughly chastened. This feud continued for a very long time until finally it seemed no cats came near me. But triumphing over cats most likely does not make a hero of me; moreover there cannot be too many people in China who keep up a lifelong feud with cats; there I will pass over all my stratagems and exploits.

  However, many days later, possibly even more than six months later, I happened to receive some unexpected news. My mouse had not been eaten by a cat—it had been trampled to death by Mama Chang when it tried to run up her leg.

  This possibility had never occurred to me. I no longer remember my immediate reaction, but I was never reconciled to cats. After I came to Peking, the havoc wreaked among my small rabbits by a cat added to my former animosity, and I took sterner measures of reprisal. That gave a handle to those who all call me a cat-hater. But today these are all things of the past and my attitude to cats has changed to one of extreme politeness. If forced to it I simply drive them away, never beating or hurting them let alone killing them. This is a mark of my progress in recent years. Accumulated experience led me to the sudden realization that nine persons out of ten are naturally disgusted by the way cats steal fish and meat, carry off chickens, or caterwaul late at night, and this disgust is centred on the cats. Should I attempt to rid men of this disgust by beating or killing cats, these would instantly become objects of pity while that disgust would be transferred to me. Accordingly my present method is: whenever I find cats making a nuisance of themselves, I step to my doorway and shout, “Hey! Scram!” When things quieten down a little I return to my study. In this way I preserve my capacity of safeguarding our home against foreign aggression. Actually this method is one commonly practised by officers and soldiers in China, who prefer not to wipe out all brigands or exterminate the enemy completely, for if they did so they would cease to be highly regarded and might even lose their function and their posts. To my mind, if I can get more people to use this tactic, I can hope to become one of the “elders responsible for guiding the youth.” But I have not yet decided whether or not to put this into practice. I am still studying and pondering the matter.

  February 21, 1926

  ■ Ah Chang and the Book of Hills and Seas

  Mama Chang, as I have said elsewhere, was the maid who brought me up or—to give her a grander title—my nanny. That is what my mother and many others called her, for this sounded a little more polite. Only my grandmother call her “Ah Chang.” I usually called her “Amah” without even adding the “Chang.” But when I was angry with her—upon learnig that she was the one who had killed my mouse, for example—then I also called her “Ah Chang.”

  We had no one in our parts with the surname Chang; and since she was swarthy, plump and short, “Chang” (long) was not used descriptively either. Nor was it her personal name. I remember she told me her name was Something Girl. What the epithet was I have forgotten, but it certainly was not “Long.” And I never knew her surname. I recall her once telling me how she came by the name. Many, many years ago, our family had a very tall maidservant who was the real Ah Chang. Later on, when she left, this Something Girl of mine came to take her place; but because everyone was used to the name and did not want to change it, from that time on she became Mama Chang too.

  Although it is bad to tell tales behind people's backs, if you want me to speak frankly I must admit I did not think much of her. What I most disliked was her habit of gossiping: she would whisper something in people's ears, saw the air with her forefinger, or point to the tip of her hearer's nose or her own. Whenever a minor storm blew up in the house, I could not help suspecting that her tittle-tattle had something to do with it. She restricted my movements too. If I pulled up a weed or turned over a stone, she would say I was naughty and threaten to tell my mother. And in bed during the summer she would stretch out her arms and legs like a huge character 大(da), squeezing me so that I had no room to turn over, and my corner of the matting became hot after much lying on. But I could neither push her over, nor could I wake her by shouting.

  “You're so plump, Mama Chang, you must find the heat very trying. Isn't that an awkward position for sleeping in?”

  My mother put this question after hearing me complaining many times. And I knew it was a hint to my nanny to leave me more space. Ah Chang did not say anything. But that night when the heat woke me up, there was still a big character 大 spread-eagled over the bed, and one of her arms was thrown across my neck. It seemed to me there was really no way out.

  She was most conventional in many ways, however, though most of her customs made me lose patience. The happiest time of the year was naturally New Year's Eve. After seeing the old year out, I put by my pillow the money wrapped in red paper which the grown-ups had given me. The next morning I could spend it as I pleased. I lay on my pillow eyeing the red packages, thinking of the small drum, the weapons, the clay figures and the sugar Buddha that I would buy tomorrow. Then she came in and put a Good-Luck Orange at the head of the bed.

  “Remember this carefully, son!” she told me earnestly. “Tomorrow's the first day of the first month. When you open your eyes in the morning the first thing you must say is: ‘Good luck, Amah!’ Remember? You must remember, because this decides the whole year's luck. Don't say anything else, mind! And after you've said that, you must eat a piece of Good-Luck Orange.” She picked up the orange and flourished it in front of me. “Then—

  The whole year through

  Luck will follow you!”

  Even in my dreams I remembered it was New Year, and the next morning I woke specially early. As soon as I opened my eyes, I wanted to sit up. But at once she put out an arm to stop me. I looked at her in surprise, and saw her gazing at me anxiously.

  Appealingly, as it were, she shook my shoulder. And suddenly I remembered.

  “Good luck, Amah.”

  “Good luck! Good luck to us every one! Clever boy! Good luck!” Absolutely delighted, she laughed as she stuffed something icy cold into my mouth. When I had recovered from the shock, I realized that this must be the Good-Luck Orange. Now that all the ordeals to usher in New Year's Day were safely over, I could get up and play.

  She taught me much other lore as well. For instance, if someone died, you should not say he was dead but “he has passed away.” You should not enter a room where someone had died or a child had been born. If a grain of rice fell to the ground, you should pick it up, and the best thing was to eat it. On no account must you walk under the bamboo pole on which trousers or pants were hanging out to dry.... There was more, but I have forgotten most of it; and what I remember most clearly are the strange New Year rites. In short, these were all such niggling trifles that the thought of them today still makes me lose patience.

  On one occasion, though, I felt an unprecedented respect for her. She often told me stories about the Long Hairs. And the Long Hairs she described were not only Hong Xiuquan troops but appeared to include all later bandits and rebels as well, with the except
ion of the modern revolutionaries, who did not exist then. She described the Long Hairs as most fearful beings who talked in a way that no one could understand. According to her, when the Long Hairs entered our city all my family fled to the seaside, leaving just a gatekeeper and an old woman who did the cooking to look after the property. Then, sure enough, a Long Hair came to our house. The old woman called him “Great King”—it seems this was the way to address the Long Hairs—and complained that she was starving.

  “In that case,” said the Long Hair with a grin, “you can have this to eat!” And he tossed over something round with a small queue still attached to it—it was the gatekeeper's head! The old woman's nerves were never the same again. Whenever people spoke of this later, she would turn the colour of earth and beat her breast. “Aiya!” she would whimper. “It gave me such a turn! Such a turn it gave me....”

  I was not afraid, for I felt all this had nothing to do with me—I was not a gatekeeper. But Ah Chang must have guessed my thoughts, for she said:

  “The Long Hairs would carry off little boys like you as well, to make little Long Hairs out of them. They carried off pretty girls too.”

  “Well, you'd be all right anyway.”

  I was sure she would have been quite safe, for she was neither a gatekeeper, nor a little boy, nor pretty. In fact, she had several scars on her neck where sores had been cauterized.

  “How can you say such a thing?” she demanded sternly. “Were we no use to them then? They would carry us off as well. When government troops came to attack the city, the Long Hairs would make us take off our trousers and stand in a line on the city wall, for then the army's cannon could not be fired. If they fired then, the cannon would burst!”

  This was certainly beyond my wildest dreams. I could not but be amazed. I had thought of her as nothing but a repository of irksome conventions, never guessing she had this tremendous spiritual power. After this I felt a special respect for her, for surely she was too deep for me to fathom. If she stretched out her arms and legs at night and occupied the whole bed that was quite understandable. I ought to make room for her.

  Although this kind of respect for her wore off by degrees, I believe it did not disappear completely till I discovered it was she who had killed my mouse. I cross-examined her sternly on that occasion, and called her “Ah Chang” to her face. Since I was not a little Long Hair and would not attack a city or let off a cannon, I need not be afraid of the cannon exploding—so why, thought I, need I be afraid of her?

  But while mourning for my mouse and avenging him, I was also longing for an illustrated copy of the Book of Hills and Seas. This longing had been aroused by a distant great-uncle of ours. A fat and kindly old man, he liked to grow plants such as chloranthus, and the rare silk-tree said to have come from the north. His wife was just the reverse: she was an ignoramus as regards flowers. Once she broke a branch of chloranthus by propping the bamboo for hanging our clothes on it; but her only reaction was to swear at the branch for breaking. The old man was a lonely soul with no one to talk to, so he liked children's company and often even called us his “young friends.” In the compound where several branches of our clan lived, he was the only one with many books, and unusual ones at that. He had volumes of the essays and poems written for the examinations, of course; but his was the only study where I could find Lu Ji's Commentaries on the Flora and Fauna in the “Book of Songs,” and many other strange titles. My favourite in those days was The Mirror of Flowers with all its illustrations. He told me there was an illustrated edition of the Book of Hills and Seas with pictures of man-faced beasts, nine-headed snakes, three-footed birds, winged men, and headless monsters who used their teats as eyes.... Unfortunately he happened to have mislaid it.

  Eager as I was to look at pictures of this kind, I did not like to press him to find the book for me. He was very indolent. And none of the people I asked would give me a truthful answer. I had several hundred coppers of New Year money, but no opportunity to buy that book. The main street where books were sold was a long way from our house, and the New Year holiday was the only time in the year when I was able to go there to look around; but during that period the doors of both bookshops were firmly closed.

  As long as I was playing it was not so bad, but the moment I sat down I remembered the illustrated Book of Hills and Seas.

  Probably because I harped on the subject so much, even Ah Chang started asking what this Book of Hills and Seas was. I had never mentioned it to her, for I knew she was no scholar, so telling her would serve no purpose. Since she asked me, however, I told her.

  About a fortnight or a month later, as I remember, four or five days after she had gone home or leave, she came back wearing a new blue cloth jacket. The moment she saw me she handed me a package.

  “Here, son!” she said cheerfully. “I've bought you that Book of Holy Seas with pictures.”

  This was like a thunderbolt. I was struck all of a heap. I hastened to take the package and unwrap the paper. There were four small volumes and, sure enough, when I flipped through the pages, the man-faced beast, the nine-headed snake... all of them were there.

  This inspired me with a new respect. What others would not or could not do, she had been able to accomplish. She really did have tremendous spiritual power. My resentment against her for killing my mouse vanished for good and all.

  These four volumes were the first I ever possessed, and my most treasured book.

  I can still see them today. But now it seems to me that both the printing and the engraving were extremely crude. The paper was yellow and the drawings very poor, consisting almost entirely of straight lines joined together—even the animals'eyes were oblong. Nevertheless this was my most treasured book. There you could really find the man-faced beast, the nine-headed snake, the one-footed ox, the sack-like monster Di Jiang, Xing Tian who had no head but “used his teats as eyes and his navel as mouth” and “danced with spear and shield!”

  After this I began seriously collecting illustrated books. I acquired the Phonetics and Illustrations for “Erh Ya” and Illustrations to the “Book of Songs.” I also had the Paintings Collected by Dianshizhai and A Shipload of Painting and Poetry. I bought another lithographed edition of the Book of Hills and Seas too, with illustrations and concluding verses to each chapter. The pictures were green and the characters red—much more handsome than my woodblock edition—and I had this book till the year before last. It was a small edition with Hao Yixing's commentary. As for the woodblock edition, I cannot remember now when that was lost.

  My nurse, Mama Chang or Ah Chang, must have departed this life a good thirty years ago. I never found out her name or history. All I know is that she had an adopted son, so she was probably left a widow very early.

  Dark, kindly Mother Earth, may her spirit ever rest peacefully in your bosom!

  March 10

  ■ The Picture-Book of Twenty-Four Acts of Filial Piety

  I shall never cease to search far and wide, high and low, for the blackest, blackest, curses for all who oppose and sabotage the use of the vernacular in writing. Even if men's spirits live on after death and I am sent to Hell for such viciousness, I shall certainly not repent but never cease to curse all those who oppose and sabotage the vernacular.

  Ever since the so-called “literary revolution,” though children's books in China are still most pathetic compared with those in Europe, America and Japan, at least there have been illustrations to go with the text, and as long as children can read they can understand them. However, some people with ulterior motives are doing their utmost to ban these books, in an attempt to make the world of children devoid of every vestige of enjoyment. In Peking today, the term Ma Huzi is often used to frighten children. Some say this refers to Ma Shumou who supervised the digging of Grand Canal for Emperor Yang Di of Sui and who, according to the Record of the Construction of the Canal, used to steam children alive; therefore, properly speaking, the term should mean Ma the Hun. But whether Ma was a Hun or n
ot, there must have been a limit to his eating of children—it must have been confined to his own lifetime. Those, however, who sabotage the use of the vernacular are worse than floods or wild beasts; their pernicious influence is so widespread and so lasting, it can turn the whole of China into a Ma the Hun devouring all children in his murderous maw.

  Death to all who conspire to murder the vernacular!

  Of course, gentlemen are liable to stop their ears on hearing this, for these are the words of one who “leaps into midair and tears others limb from limb—never ceasing his railing.” Men of letters are bound to condemn him too for his flagrant breach of “literary conventions” and consequent loss of “human dignity.” For is it not said “Words express what is in the heart”? Of course, “literary style” and “human dignity” are interrelated, although in this world wonders never cease and there is a particular species of professor who “cannot respect” a writer's human dignity yet “has to admit that he writes good short stories.” However, this does not worry me, for luckily I have not yet climbed up to any “ivory tower” and therefore need not be on my guard. If by any chance I had scrambled on to one, I should promptly fall off. But in falling, while hurtling to the ground, I would still repeat: