命若琴弦
Page 6
My family has the good fortune to live near the Temple of Earth. More than four hundred years before my birth it was already there. Ever since my grandmother first came to Beijing with my father more than fifty years ago, we have lived near here — we moved a couple of times in all those years, each time getting closer and closer to it. I often feel it must be fate that planned my long liaison with the temple and that the temple has been waiting there specially for me through four hundred years of vicissitude.
It waited for my birth and then, when I was in the prime of youth, my legs suddenly became paralyzed. It was at that time that I began to haunt the temple. One afternoon, fifteen years ago, I rolled my wheel-chair into the temple for the first time. It seemed well prepared for the arrival of this heartbroken young man: Glaze and paint were peeling from the eaves of the once resplendent halls and doorways; sections of the high walls and carved marble balustrades had crumbled; the old cypress trees around the sacrificial altar were time-worn but hardy and weeds thrived and vines sprawled everywhere. The sun moved along its eternal track, becoming larger and redder. In the quietude I saw my own shadow.
一
我在好几篇小说中都提到过一座废弃的古园，实际上就是地坛。许多年前旅游业还没有开展，园子荒芜冷落得如同一片野地，很少被人记起。
地坛离我家很近。或者说我家离地坛很近。总之，只好认为这是缘分。地坛在我出生前四百多年就坐落在那儿了，而自从我的祖母年轻时带着我父亲来到北京，就一直住在离它不远的地方—五十多年间搬过几次家，可搬来搬去总是在它周围，而且是越搬离它越近了。我常觉得这中间有着宿命的味道：仿佛这古园就是为了等我，而历尽沧桑在那儿等待了四百多年。
它等待我出生，然后又等待我活到最狂妄的年龄上忽地残废了双腿。四百多年里，它一面剥蚀了古殿檐头浮夸的琉璃，淡褪了门壁上炫耀的朱红，坍圮了一段段高墙又散落了玉砌雕栏，祭坛四周的老柏树愈见苍幽，到处的野草荒藤也都茂盛得自在坦荡。这时候想必我是该来了。十五年前的一个下午，我摇着轮椅进入园中，它为一个失魂落魄的人把一切都准备好了。那时，太阳循着亘古不变的路途正越来越大，也越红。在满园弥漫的沉静光芒中，一个人更容易看到时间，并看见自己的身影。
Since then I have never left the Temple of Earth for too long. In one of my short stories I wrote, "God seems to have carefully prepared a place of peace in this crowded city."
In the first years of my disability I had neither job nor future. I suddenly felt that there was nothing left in me. So I frequented the Temple of Earth to escape the world around me. I wrote in the same story, "Finding no other place to go, I spent all day in the garden as if it were my place of work. When others left for work in the morning I would roll my wheel-chair into the park." "Nobody took care of the park. People would take short cuts through on their way to work and on their way home. For a while the park would become lively, but soon quietude reigned once again." "I would stop my wheel-chair in the long shadow of the walls. Sometimes I would fold down the back of the chair and lie there, reading or thinking. I would use a twig to shoo away the midges — they must have felt as confused as I as to why we had been brought into this world." "Bees hovered in the air; ants probed and scurried this way and that; ladybirds crawled and, when tired, opened their wings and flew into the sky; a cicada slough perched on the trunk of a tree, like a deserted house; dew drops gathered and accumulated on the grass and then suddenly shattered to the ground from the blade bent under their weight." The Temple of Earth might have been desolate but it was not dead.
自从那个下午我无意中进了这园子，就再没长久地离开过它。我一下子就理解了它的意图。正如我在一篇小说中所说的：“在人口密聚的城市里，有这样一个宁静的去处，像是上帝的苦心安排。”
两条腿残废后的最初几年，我找不到工作，找不到去路，忽然间几乎什么都找不到了，我就摇了轮椅总是到它那儿去，仅为着那儿是可以逃避一个世界的另一个世界。我在那篇小说中写道：“没处可去我便一天到晚耗在这园子里。跟上班下班一样，别人去上班我就摇了轮椅到这儿来。”“园子无人看管，上下班时间有些抄近路的人们从园中穿过，园子里活跃一阵，过后便沉寂下来。”“园墙在金晃晃的空气中斜切下一溜阴凉，我把轮椅开进去，把椅背放倒，坐着或是躺着，看书或者想事，撅一杈树枝左右拍打，驱赶那些和我一样不明白为什么要来这世上的小昆虫。”“蜂儿如一朵小雾稳稳地停在半空；蚂蚁摇头晃脑捋着触须，猛然间想透了什么，转身疾行而去；瓢虫爬得不耐烦了，累了祈祷一回便支开翅膀，忽悠一下升空了；树干上留着一只蝉蜕，寂寞如一间空屋；露水在草叶上滚动，聚集，压弯了草叶轰然坠地摔开万道金光。”“满园子都是草木竞相生长弄出的响动，窸窸窣窣窸窸窣窣片刻不息。”这都是真实的记录，园子荒芜但并不衰败。
Apart from a few halls and the sacrificial altar I cannot reach in my wheel-chair, I have rolled over every square metre of the temple's grassy areas and have stopped beneath every tree. I have been there in every season, in every kind of weather and at every hour of the day. Sometimes I stay just a while, sometimes until the light of the moon has illuminated everything.
I have spent hours in a corner of the temple musing on my birth as well as on death. It has taken me several years to understand that, from the moment one is born, it is meaningless to argue about the question of birth since one's existence has been determined by God; thus death needs not be pursued in haste for it is a day of release that will inevitably arrive. I felt soothed at this thought, as if I were a student who, working late into the night for the next day's final exams, suddenly realizes that a long holiday is awaiting him.
除去几座殿堂我无法进去，除去那座祭坛我不能上去而只能从各个角度张望它，地坛的每一棵树下我都去过，差不多它的每一米草地上都有过我的车轮印。无论是什么季节，什么天气，什么时间，我都在这园子里呆过。有时候呆一会儿就回家，有时候就呆到满地上都亮起月光。记不清都是在它的哪些角落里了，我一连几小时专心致志地想关于死的事，也以同样的耐心和方式想过我为什么要出生。这样想了好几年，最后事情终于弄明白了：一个人，出生了，这就不再是一个可以辩论的问题，而只是上帝交给他的一个事实；上帝在交给我们这件事实的时候，已经顺便保证了它的结果，所以死是一件不必急于求成的事，死是一个必然会降临的节日。这样想过之后我安心多了，眼前的一切不再那么可怕。比如你起早熬夜准备考试的时候，忽然想起有一个长长的假期在前面等待你，你会不会觉得轻松一点？并且庆幸并且感激这样的
安排？
But how can I keep going? This is something that cannot be solved easily. I may have to ponder this question as long as I live, like a life long monster or lover.
For fifteen years I have been rolling my wheel-chair into the old temple to peacefully meditate on my life and soul. For fifteen years unfettered human beings have been reshaping the temple's appearance; but fortunately there is still something that man can never change — the setting sun casting its golden sheen over the stone gate to the altar and illuminating this patch of earth drenched with history; twittering swallows winging swiftly through the air at the most lonely moment of the day; children's footprints on the snow in winter; the ancient cypress trees that stand forever oblivious of the vicissitudes of the human world; the aroma of the soil in different seasons, an aroma that cannot be described but only smelt. Smell brings back one's old memories.
剩下的就是怎样活的问题了。这却不是在某一个瞬间就能完全想透的，不是能够一次性解决的事�
�怕是活多久就要想它多久了，就像是伴你终生的魔鬼或恋人。所以，十五年了，我还是总得到那古园里去，去它的老树下或荒草边或颓墙旁，去默坐，去呆想，去推开耳边的嘈杂理一理纷乱的思绪，去窥看自己的心魂。十五年中，这古园的形体被不能理解它的人肆意雕琢，幸好有些东西是任谁也不能改变它的。譬如祭坛石门中的落日，寂静的光辉平铺的一刻，地上的每一个坎坷都被映照得灿烂；譬如在园中最为落寞的时间，一群雨燕便出来高歌，把天地都叫喊得苍凉；譬如冬天雪地上孩子的脚印，总让人猜想他们是谁，曾在哪儿做过些什么，然后又都到哪儿去了；譬如那些苍黑的古柏，你忧郁的时候它们镇静地站在那儿，你欣喜的时候它们依然镇静地站在那儿，它们没日没夜地站在那儿从你没有出生一直站到这个世界上又没了你的时候；譬如暴雨骤临园中，激起一阵阵灼烈而清纯的草木和泥土的气味，让人想起无数个夏天的事件；譬如秋风忽至，再有一场早霜，落叶或飘摇歌舞或坦然安卧，满园中播散着熨帖而微苦的味道。味道是最说不清楚的，味道不能写只能闻，要你身临其境去闻才能明了。味道甚至是难于记忆的，只有你又闻到它你才能记起它的全部情感和意蕴。所以我常常要到那园子里去。
Only recently did I realize that my frequenting the old temple must have been a big worry for my mother.
She was not one of those Chinese mothers who spoil their children without understanding them. She knew what I was going through, so she never stopped me from going. She knew it wasn't good for me to stay at home all day. Yet she was anxious to know what was on my mind.
Whenever I felt depressed I would rush out to the temple and when I returned I would be as silent as the grave. My mother knew she mustn't ask questions, so she always fought them back and she never knew the answers to them. She also knew I wouldn't want her to go with me, so she never asked. Each time before I left home she would help me into the wheel-chair, then, without a word watch me roll out of the courtyard. I never bothered to think what she was going through.
二
现在我才想到，当年我总是独自跑到地坛去，曾经给母亲出了一个怎样的难题。
她不是那种光会疼爱儿子而不懂得理解儿子的母亲。她知道我心里的苦闷，知道不该阻止我出去走走，知道我要是老呆在家里结果会更糟，但她又担心我一个人在那荒僻的园子里整天都想些什么。我那时脾气坏到极点，经常是发了疯一样地离开家，从那园子里回来又中了魔似的什么话都不说。母亲知道有些事不宜问，便犹犹豫豫地想问而终于不敢问，因为她自己心里也没有答案。她料想我不会愿意她跟我一同去，所以她从未这样要求过，她知道得给我一点独处的时间，得有这样一段过程。她只是不知道这过程得要多久和这过程的尽头究竟是什么。每次我要动身时，她便无言地帮我准备，帮助我上了轮椅车，看着我摇车拐出小院；这以后她会怎样，当年我不曾想过。
On one occasion I suddenly remembered something and came home again. I found my mother still standing there blankly, as if she hadn't moved after I left. When she realized that I was back, she murmured, "It'll do you good to have some exercise or read a book in the temple." Only many years later, after she had left me, did I come to realize that she had actually been praying for me and, at the same time, consoling herself. She must have kept telling herself, "I cannot stop him. He has his own future. If something happens to him there in the temple, I'll bear it."
All those years my mother must have been prepared for the worst. But she never said "think of me" and, in fact, I hardly ever did think about her. I was too young then. Fate had made an emotional wreck of me and I considered myself the most unfortunate person in the world. I never considered that she might feel even more bitter than I, as all mothers suffer more when the son suffers. Illness had deprived her only son of the use of his legs when he was only twenty. She knew that he had to seek happiness, not just simply survive. But who could guarantee her son's future?
有一回我摇车出了小院，想起一件什么事又返身回来，看见母亲仍站在原地，还是送我走时的姿势，望着我拐出小院去的那处墙角，对我的回来竟一时没有反应。待她再次送我出门的时候，她说：“出去活动活动，去地坛看看书，我说这挺好。”许多年以后我才渐渐听出，母亲这话实际上是自我安慰，是暗自的祷告，是给我的提示，是恳求与嘱咐。只是在她猝然去世之后，我才有余暇设想。当我不在家里的那些漫长的时间，她是怎样心神不定坐卧难宁，兼着痛苦与惊恐与一个母亲最低限度的祈求。现在我可以断定，以她的聪慧和坚忍，在那些空落的白天后的黑夜，在那不眠的黑夜后的白天，她思来想去最后准是对自己说：“反正我不能不让他出去，未来的日子是他自己的，如果他真的在那园子里出了什么事，这苦难也只好我来承担。”在那段日子里—那是好几年前的一段日子，我想我一定使母亲作过了最坏的准备了，但她从来没有对我说过：“你为我想想。”事实上我也真的没为她想过。那时她的儿子还太年轻，还来不及为母亲想，他被命运击昏了头，一心以为自己是世上最不幸的一个，不知道儿子的不幸在母亲那儿总是要加倍的。她有一个长到二十岁上忽然截瘫了的儿子，这是她唯一的儿子；她情愿截瘫的是自己而不是儿子，可这事无法代替；她想，只要儿子能活下去哪怕自己去死呢也行，可她又确信一个人不能仅仅是活着，儿子得有一条路走向自己的幸福；而这条路呢，没有谁能保证她的儿子终于能找到。—这样一个母亲，注定是活得最苦的母亲。
Once when chatting with a friend, also a writer, I asked him what had made him take up writing. He pondered the question for a moment and said, "For my mother. I want her to feel proud of me." I was speechless with surprise. Though many things have spurred me on to become a writer, one of my most important motives was just that.
"It's not a very lofty reason, is it?" my friend said.
I shook my head and thinking that although it was certainly not to be held in contempt, it was surely a little naive.
"I really did use to dream of becoming famous quickly so that other people would be envious of my mother," my friend continued.
He was more honest than I, I thought, and luckier too, for his mother was still alive. His mother was luckier than my mother too, for my friend was healthy.
When my first story was published and the first time I received an award, the only thing I wished for was that my mother was still alive. All day long I wandered around the Temple of Earth. I couldn't understand why my mother hadn't lived two years longer. Why did she have to leave so suddenly before I had achieved some success? Had she come to the world only to worry for her son and not share his happiness? Later I was to write this in an article entitled The Silk Tree: "I sat in the quiet woods of the little park and closed my eyes. 'Why has God taken my mother so early?' I thought. After a long time I seemed to hear a reply, 'Her heart was too full of sorrow. God knew she could bear it no longer, so He called her back.' The thought consoled me a little. When I opened my eyes, I saw the wind blowing through the trees." The "little park" was the Temple of Earth.
有一次与一个作家朋友聊天，我问他学写作的最初动机是什么。他想了一会儿说：“为我母亲。为了让她骄傲。”我心里一惊，良久无言。回想自己最初写小说的动机，虽不似这位朋友的那般单纯，但如他一样的愿望我也有，且一经细想，发现这愿望也在全部动机中占了很大比重。这位朋友说：“我的动机太低俗了吧？”我光是摇头，心想低俗并不见得低俗，只怕是这愿望过于天真了。他又说：“我那时真就是想出名，出了名让别人羡慕我母亲。”我想，他比我坦率。我想，他又比我幸福，因为他的母亲还活�
��。而且我想，他的母亲也比我的母亲运气好，他的母亲没有一个双腿残废的儿子，否则事情就不这么简单。
在我的头一篇小说发表的时候，在我的小说第一次获奖的那些日子里，我真是多么希望我的母亲还活着。我便又不能在家里呆了，又整天整天独自跑到地坛去，心里是没头没尾的沉郁和哀怨，走遍整个园子却怎么也想不通：母亲为什么就不能再多活两年？为什么在她儿子就快要碰撞开一条路的时候，她却忽然熬不住了？莫非她来此世上只是为了替儿子担忧，却不该分享我的一点点快乐？她匆匆离我去时才只有四十九岁呀！有那么一会儿，我甚至对世界对上帝充满了仇恨和厌恶。后来我在一篇题为《合欢树》的文章中写道：“我坐在小公园安静的树林里，闭上眼睛，想，上帝为什么早早地召母亲回去呢？很久很久，迷迷糊糊的我听见了回答：‘她心里太苦了，上帝看她受不住了，就召她回去。’我似乎得了一点安慰，睁开眼睛，看见风正从树林里穿过。”小公园，指的也是地坛。
Only at such moments do past events appear before my eyes clear and intact and I understand more completely what a wonderful mother I once had. Maybe God was right.
As I roll my wheel-chair slowly through the Temple of Earth on a misty morning or at noontime under a scorching sun, I have only one thought in my mind: Mother is gone. I stop beside the old cypress tree, on the grass, beneath the crumbling walls in the afternoon when small insects hum all around or in the evening as birds return to their nests. In my heart I still murmur: But Mother is gone. I put the back of my chair down and lie there in a trance until sunset. Then I sit up and remain sitting in a daze until darkness shrouds the ancient altar and it begins to dawn on me that Mother can come to the temple to look for me no more.