命若琴弦

by Shi Tiesheng

  只是到了这时候，纷纭的往事才在我眼前幻现得清晰，母亲的苦难与伟大才在我心中渗透得深彻。上帝的考虑，也许是对的。

  摇着轮椅在园中慢慢走，又是雾罩的清晨，又是骄阳高悬的白昼，我只想着一件事：母亲已经不在了。在老柏树旁停下，在草地上在颓墙边停下，又是处处虫鸣的午后，又是鸟儿归巢的傍晚，我心里只默念着一句话：可是母亲已经不在了。把椅背放倒，躺下，似睡非睡挨到日没，坐起来，心神恍惚，呆呆地直坐到古祭坛上落满黑暗然后再渐渐浮起月光，心里才有点明白，母亲不能再来这园中找我了。

  There were several times I stayed in the temple too long and my mother came to fetch me. But when she found me she would change her mind and wouldn't want to interrupt. She would turn around quietly and go home. Several times I saw her receding back; other times I would see her anxiously looking for me. Her eyesight was failing, so I would often see her first. When I knew she was looking in my direction, I would look away. After a while when I turned to look at her again I would see her receding back. Once I sat in a dense grove and saw her looking for me. I didn't know how long she had been looking for me but still I didn't call her. Instead I let her pass by without seeing me. She was walking in hasty paces. Only today do I realize how foolish I was to have been so stubborn and reserved with my mother. But it's all too late now.

  It is understandable that a son will try to make his mother proud of him; as the idea of becoming a celebrity is not such an ignoble one.

  After the excitement of my award had faded, I began to realize that a successful career in writing might not have been the one Mother would have planned for me. Month after month, year after year I still come to the temple, and I still wonder what she had felt about my future.

  曾有过好多回，我在这园子里呆得太久了，母亲就来找我。她来找我又不想让我发觉，只要见我还好好地在这园子里，她就悄悄转身回去，我看见过几次她的背影。我也看见过几回她四处张望的情景，她视力不好，端着眼镜像在寻找海上的一条船，她没看见我时我已经看见她了，待我看见她也看见我了我就不去看她，过一会儿我再抬头看她就又看见她缓缓离去的背影。我单是无法知道有多少回她没有找到我。有一回我坐在矮树丛中，树丛很密，我看见她没有找到我；她一个人在园子里走，走过我的身旁，走过我经常呆的一些地方，步履茫然又急迫。我不知道她已经找了多久还要找多久，我不知道为什么我决意不喊她—但这绝不是小时候的捉迷藏，这也许是出于长大了的男孩子的倔强或羞涩？但这倔强只留给我痛悔，丝毫也没有骄傲。我真想告诫所有长大了的男孩子，千万不要跟母亲来这套倔强，羞涩就更不必，我已经懂了可我已经来不及了。

  儿子想使母亲骄傲，这心情毕竟是太真实了，以致使“想出名”这一声名狼藉的念头也多少改变了一点形象。这是个复杂的问题，且不去管它了罢。随着小说获奖的激动逐日暗淡，我开始相信，至少有一点我是想错了：我用纸笔在报刊上碰撞开的一条路，并不就是母亲盼望我找到的那条路。年年月月我都到这园子里来，年年月月我都要想，母亲盼望我找到的那条路到底是什么。母亲生前没给我留下过什么隽永的誓言，或要我恪守的教诲，只是在她去世之后，她艰难的命运，坚忍的意志和毫不张扬的爱，随光阴流转，在我的印象中愈加鲜明深刻。

  One October as I was reading in the temple I heard an old couple chatting as they strolled. "I never thought the temple was so big," the old man said to his wife. I put down my book. It must be difficult for Mother to find me in such a large place, I thought to myself. For the first time in many years I suddenly realized that it was not only the tracks of my wheel-chair that covered the Temple of Earth, but also my mother's footprints.

  If the time in a day corresponds to the four seasons, then undoubtedly spring is morning, summer is noon, autumn is dawn, and winter is night. If musical instruments are matched with the four seasons, I surmise that spring should be the trumpet; summer the kettledrum; autumn the violoncello; and winter the horn or flute. What if the sounds in the park are associated with four seasons? Then spring should be the cooing of pigeons hovering above the sacrificial altar; summer should be the persistently tedious and shrill singing of cicadas and the rustling of poplar leaves poking fun at the cicadas' singing; autumn should be the chiming of wind-bells that hang under the eaves of the ancient temple; and winter should be the random sound of wood-peckers echoing in the open air. If the scenes and sights in this park are comparable to the four seasons, then spring is a path that now pales and now darkens and moistens, or poplar catkins dancing in clusters in a sky that shines at one moment and clouds at another; summer puts me in mind of so many stone benches glistening and scorching under the sun, or a shady or mossy stone stairway with fruit peels below it and half a newspaper page, crumpled from being seated on; autumn is a large bronze bell which, deserted in the northwest corner of the park, is as old as the park, with its inscriptions fading under thick layers of patina; and winter brings to mind the few old fluffy-feathered sparrows roaming a clearing in the woods. What are man's emotional responses to the four seasons? Spring is a season for man to be bedridden with disease, otherwise he is unlikely to discover the cruelty and desire of spring. Summer is a time for lovers to be jilted, otherwise they would let love down. With Autumn comes the time to buy potted flowers and bring them to one's long-separated home while opening the windows to let in the sunlight, strolling down the memory lane, and unhurriedly sorting out the mildewed odds and ends. Winter sees man reading by a heating stove and repeatedly making up his mind to write letters that never make it to the mailbox.

  Forms of arts can also be employed to match the four seasons, so that spring is a landscape painting, summer a long novel, autumn a short song or poem, and winter a group of sculptures. What about using dreams as reflections of the four seasons? Spring is a cry from atop a tree. Summer is a drizzle falling amidst that cry. Autumn is a land moistened by the drizzle. Winter is a desolate tobacco-pipe lying on that cleansed land.

  Because of this park, I often feel thankful to my fate.

  Even now I can see clearly how I will miss it when someday I cannot but let go of it forever, how I will hanker after it because I miss it so, and how I will not be able to dream of it because I do not dare to miss it.

  有一年，十月的风又翻动起安详的落叶，我在园中读书，听见两个散步的老人说：“没想到这园子有这么大。”我放下书，想，这么大一座园子，要在其中找到她的儿子，母亲走过了多少焦灼的路。多年来我头一次意识到，这园中不单是处处都有过我的车辙，有过我的车辙的地方也都有过母亲的脚印。

  三

  如果以一天中的时间来对应四季，当然春天是早晨，夏天是中午，秋天是黄昏，冬天是夜晚。如果以乐器来对应四季，我想春天应该是小号，夏天是定音鼓，秋天是大提琴，冬天是圆号和长笛。要是以这园子里的声响来对应四季呢？那么，春天是祭坛上空漂浮着的鸽子的哨音，夏天是冗长的蝉歌和杨树叶子哗啦啦的对蝉歌的取笑，秋天是古殿檐头的风铃响，冬天是啄木鸟随意而空旷的啄木声。以园中的景物对应四季，春天是一径时而苍白时而黑润的小路，时而明朗时而阴晦的天上摇荡着串串杨花；夏天是一条条耀眼而灼人的石凳，或阴凉而爬满了青苔的石阶，阶下有果皮，阶上有半张被坐皱的报纸；秋天是一座青铜的大钟，在园子的西北角上曾丢弃着一座很大的铜钟，铜钟与这园子一般年纪，浑身挂满绿锈，文字已不清晰；冬天，是林中空地上几只羽毛蓬松的老麻雀。以心绪对应四季呢？春天是卧病的季节，否则人们不易发觉春天的残忍与渴望；夏天，情人们应该在这个季节里失�
��，不然就似乎对不起爱情；秋天是从外面买一棵盆花回家的时候，把花搁在阔别了的家中，并且打开窗户把阳光也放进屋里，慢慢回忆慢慢整理一些发过霉的东西；冬天伴着火炉和书，一遍遍坚定不死的决心，写一些并不发出的信。还可以用艺术形式对应四季，这样春天就是一幅画，夏天是一部长篇小说，秋天是一首短歌或诗，冬天是一群雕塑。以梦呢？以梦对应四季呢？春天是树尖上的呼喊，夏天是呼喊中的细雨，秋天是细雨中的土地，冬天是干净的土地上的一只孤零的烟斗。

  因为这园子，我常感恩于自己的命运。

  我甚至现在就能清楚地看见，一旦有一天我不得不长久地离开它，我会怎样想念它，我会怎样想念它并且梦见它，我会怎样因为不敢想念它而梦也梦不到它。

  Who else has frequented the Temple of Earth over the past fifteen years? I remember the old couple.

  Fifteen years ago, they were middle-aged and I still a young man. They would always come to the temple in the evening and I never knew from which direction they would appear. They would usually stroll round in an anti-clockwise direction. The man was tall, with long legs and broad shoulders and, looking straight ahead, would walk very erect. His wife would hold his arm, but she couldn't affect his upright posture. She was short and rather nondescript; somehow I had a feeling that she must have been born into a well-to-do family that had later declined. She looked like a feeble child holding her husband's arm and her eyes would look around fearfully. She would talk to him in a gentle voice and whenever someone walked close to them she would immediately stop. They reminded me of Jean Valjean and Cosette in Victor Hugo's Les Misérables. But of course you could tell at once that they were husband and wife. Their clothes were impeccable though old-fashioned.

  Like me, they came to the temple whatever the weather and, unlike me, they always arrived at the same time each day. I would come into the temple at almost any time but they would only appear at dusk. If it was windy they would wear cream-coloured windbreakers and if it rained they would hold a black umbrella. In summer they wore white shirts and black or cream trousers; in winter they wore heavy black woollen coats. They must like those three colours, I thought. They would walk anticlockwise around the temple, then leave. When they passed me by it was only the man's footsteps I could hear. The woman seemed stuck to her husband and float forward. I'm sure they still remember me though we never tried to approach each other. Over fifteen years they witnessed how a crippled young man joined the ranks of the middle-aged just as I had seen how they, an enviable middle-aged couple, had become old and grey.

  四

  现在让我想想，十五年中坚持到这园子来的人都是谁呢？好像只剩了我和一对老人。

  十五年前，这对老人还只能算是中年夫妇，我则货真价实还是个青年。他们总是在薄暮时分来园中散步，我不大弄得清他们是从哪边的园门进来，一般来说他们是逆时针绕这园子走。男人个子很高，肩宽腿长，走起路来目不斜视，胯以上直至脖颈挺直不动，他的妻子攀了他一条胳膊走，也不能使他的上身稍有松懈。女人个子却矮，也不算漂亮，我无端地相信她必出身于家道中衰的名门富族；她攀在丈夫胳臂上像个娇弱的孩子，她向四周观望似总含着恐惧，她轻声与丈夫谈话，见有人走近就立刻怯怯地收住话头。我有时因为他们而想起冉阿让与柯赛特，但这想法并不巩固，他们一望即知是老夫老妻。两个人的穿着都算得上考究，但由于时代的演进，他们的服饰又可以称为古朴了。他们和我一样，到这园子里来几乎是风雨无阻，不过他们比我守时。我什么时间都可能来，他们则一定是在暮色初临的时候。刮风时他们穿了米色风衣，下雨时他们打了黑色的雨伞，夏天他们的衬衫是白色的裤子是黑色的或米色的，冬天他们的呢子大衣又都是黑色的，想必他们只喜欢这三种颜色。他们逆时针绕这园子一周，然后离去。他们走过我身旁时只有男人的脚步响，女人像是贴在高大的丈夫身上跟着漂移。我相信他们一定对我有印象，但是我们没有说过话，我们互相都没有想要接近的表示。十五年中，他们或许注意到一个小伙子进入了中年，我则看着一对令人羡慕的中年情侣不觉中成了两个老人。

  Then there was the chap who haunted the temple everyday to practise his singing. He practised for years, and then he was gone. About my age, he usually came in the morning and sang for half an hour, sometimes even a whole morning. I guess he had a job to attend to, too. We would often meet on a narrow path in the eastern part of the temple. I knew he practised singing under a high wall in the southeast. He probably thought that I was going to the woods in the northeast.

  After I had stopped and lit a cigarette, I would hear him tentatively begin to train his voice. During the "cultural revolution"he would sing "White clouds floating in the blue, blue sky, under the white clouds horses saunter". After the "cultural revolution" he would sing the popular aria in The Cloth Seller. "Selling cloth, oh! Selling cloth, oh!" the young man would sing lustily. "I am lucky, I am lucky, I sing out of happiness…” Then he would repeat the whole piece again, with equal vigour. He had an excellent voice but the problem was his technique, for he often lost control over some of the key notes.

  Sometimes I would encounter him again at noon in the eastern part of the temple. We would glance at each other and go our separate ways, he to the north and I to the south.

  I felt we both wanted to get to know each other but somehow didn't know how to strike up a conversation. One day after we had nodded to each other, he finally said to me, "How do you do?" and I replied, "How do you do? Going home?" he said and I answered, "Yes. How about you?" "I'll be going home too," he said.

  So we slowed our pace (I, my wheels) in order to talk a little more. But we still found nothing to say until we had passed each other. "Well, then, see you again," he said. "See you," I answered. Then we smiled at each other and parted.

  We never saw each other again. His songs disappeared from the temple. I realized later that he had probably been saying good-bye to me. Maybe he had joined some arts troupe or song and dance ensemble. I wished him luck.

  曾有过一个热爱唱歌的小伙子，他也是每天都到这园中来，来唱歌，唱了好多年，后来不见了。他的年纪与我相仿，他多半是早晨来，唱半小时或整整唱一个上午，估计在另外的时间里他还得上班。我们经常在祭坛东侧的小路上相遇，我知道他是到东南角的高墙下去唱歌，他一定猜想我去东北角的树林里做什么。我找到我的地方，抽几口烟，便听见他谨慎地整理歌喉了。他反反复复唱那么几首歌。“文化大革命”没过去的时候，他唱“蓝蓝的天上白云飘，白云下面马儿跑……”我老也记不住这歌的名字。“文革”后，他唱《货郎与小姐》中那首最为流传的咏叹调。“卖布—卖布嘞，卖布—卖布嘞！”我记得这开头的一句他唱得很有声势，在早晨清澈的空气中，货郎跑遍园中的每一个角落去恭维小姐。“我交了好运气，我交了好运气，我为幸福唱歌曲……”然后他就一遍一遍地唱，不让货郎的激情稍减。依我听来，他的技术不算精到，在关键的地方常出差错，但他的嗓子是相当不坏的，而且唱一个上午也听不出一点疲惫。太阳也不疲惫，把大树的影子缩小成一团，把疏忽大意的蚯蚓晒干在小路上。将近中午，我们又在祭坛东侧相遇，他看一看我，我看一看他，他往北去，我往南去。日子久了，我感到我们都有结识的愿望；但似乎都不知如何开口，于是互相注视一下终又都移开目光擦身而过；这样的次数一多，便更不知如何开口了。终于有一天— 一个丝毫没有特点的日子，我们互相点了一下头，他说：“你好。”我说：“你好。”他说：“回去啦？”我说：“是，你呢？”他说：“我也该回去了。”我们都放慢脚步（其
实我是放慢车速），想再多说几句，但仍然是不知从何说起，这样我们就都走过了对方，又都扭转身子面向对方。他说：“那就再见吧。”我说：“好，再见。”便互相笑笑各走各的路了。但是我们没有再见，那以后，园中再没了他的歌声，我才想到，那天他或许是有意与我道别的，也许他考上了哪家专业的文工团或歌舞团了吧？真希望他如他歌里所唱的那样，交了好

  运气。

  Then there was also the old drinker who always had a flask of wine dangling from his waist. He would often come to spend his afternoons in the temple. He would wander all over the park and always drink alone. He dressed casually and staggered as he walked. He would walk fifty or sixty metres, then stop and, placing one foot on a stone stool or mound of earth or a tree stump, he would have a good look around while undoing his flask from his waist. Then he would quickly take a great gulp and return the flask to his waist. He would think for a while and walk another fifty or sixty metres.

  There was also a bird-catcher. At that time there were few visitors to the temple but many birds. This man would set up a net in the northwest corner of the temple. When the birds hit it, their feathers became entangled in the net and they would be unable to extract themselves. But the man was only interested in one rare kind of bird which he said he had often seen in the past. when he caught other birds he would always set them free. He said he hadn't seen this rare bird for quite a few years and he would wait a little longer and see whether he could catch one or not. So he waited for a few more years.