Before Leaving
Ye Shengtao文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/10797.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/10797.html
A soft, fine rain was falling as I got off the streetcar. An eddying wind brought the rain swirling over me. The light of the streetlamps was very dim and the black shadow of the train station jutted up from a dark grey emptiness. A row of trees lined the street there, their sighing branches tossing and dancing like hair. Suddenly I thought: undoubtedly this is to make it harder for me to bear, deliberately putting on an autumn face ahead of time! I felt myself become submerged in wretchedness and the wine I had just drunk sat uneasily on my stomach.文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/10797.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/10797.html
This is what I conjecture: to leave on a fine sunny day beats leaving on a chilly, damp and desolate one; to leave early in the morning beats leaving at nightfall. Although no two leave-takings can be compared and although this leave-taking has not yet taken place, I still believe in the main that my proposition holds true. Yet since the steamer for Fuzhou departs at twelve, there is no alternative but to part at nightfall. And, as autumn encroaches in this way, when there is a gust of wind and a flurry of rain such as this and I know what has been arranged for that evening six days hence, does it not seem even more likely that it will be a chilly, damp and desolate leave-taking?文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/10797.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/10797.html
Nothing must be moved: a jumble of volumes, incomplete drafts, containers for ink, inkstones piled up haphazardly…all in their original positions. Not the slightest alteration will be allowed: get up at six, eat breakfast, write a bit, off punctually to the office, home in the evening, chat a while, play with the kids…it’s all life as usual. There is certainly no sense of departure, nothing to give a feeling of urgency. It is as if this event were not soon approaching.文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/10797.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/10797.html
I remember last year when Pingbo went abroad. We were both in the hotel, knowing full well there was less than an hour left before the sharp knife of parting would sever us. And so with every word and gesture I felt as if there were unseen ties pulling me, binding my whole body tight; my chest felt so constricted I could hardly bear it. I did my utmost to shake it off, deliberately adopting a nonchalant air, leaning back in my chair, raising my cup to drink a mouthful of tea and chatting away about this and that. But it was useless, I felt it was only a polite pretence, that I was just being pulled, bound and constricted ever more tightly. And so I thought: the atmosphere of parting has already solidified around us, we must not think any more of shattering it, for it must break us apart.文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/10797.html
文章源自英文巴士-https://www.en84.com/10797.html
This time I will not allow that atmosphere to solidify, hoping thus to avoid all the snares of being pulled, bound and constricted. I have this wish that when the time comes to leave, it will be right in the middle of a deep sleep when the power to think has vanished and therefore there will be nothing of which to think. And yet, on awakening to find oneself a lonely traveller on a lone ship in the midst of the ocean, it will be impossible to avoid feeling a profound melancholy; but the hardest part will already have sped by and the situation will not be the same.
And yet that atmosphere does solidify and accumulate after all. I walk into my home and see the newly washed and mended bedding, shirts, trouser and gowns all piled up on the table. There is no need to ask – these are my travelling companions. “With so much to do and everything already arranged, why couldn’t these have been packed earlier?” I think with slight annoyance. And yet since it is already established that they must be taken away they can be made ready at any time and how can I be heartless enough to be reproachful? In fact, I should not be reproachful but grateful.
And yet I am coming up against that atmosphere, I am smelling its odour which is exactly the same as the one I sensed last year in the hotel, only that was not as thick as this. I know that it will gradually thicken like the evening mist over West Lake; in the end it will possess a great force which will bear down on me so that I cannot leave here freely.
I talk as usual, write, eat, lie in the rattan chair, but it is all a bit different, a bit unnatural.
I had a dream in the night. I dreamed I was on a platform at the railway station. The train arrives in a flash, I quickly lift in my luggage, get on board and the train swiftly departs. I feel as if I have left something on the platform, and as I check I realize it is not things that I have left there but people. The strangest thing is that I did not say a single goodbye, nor did I give them my hand; not only that, when I got on the train I forgot them completely. I am filled with regret – how could I not have said anything or even shaken hands? It is like saying that shaking hands – the more the better – makes a parting complete. “Let me go back and make up for it! Let me go back and make up for it!” But the train ignores me and races on full steam ahead.
My departure in this dream when I completely forget the people on the platform is quite different from my hopeful fancy of leaving in the midst of blissful sleep. The experience of this dream tells me that such a departure would only arouse regrets and is by no means necessarily any better. So why do I have such fancies? And yet, after all, how can parting be easy when one is awake, with just a word and a shaking of hands?
“You should write lots of letters with plenty of detail; even though there’s a gap of three or five days between each steamer, it is always a great delight and comfort to a lonely traveller to pull out a thick wad of letters from a package.”
“I may not be able to write much or in great detail. I haven’t been in that line for quite some time; I’m bombarded with all kinds of things – big, little, thick, thin – and it’s enough dealing with them one at a time, so who knows how much time and energy I’ll have left to sit down and take up a pen!”
If the taste of leaving is bitter, here it is mixed with an acrid flavour.
（Alison Bailey 译）
将离
叶圣陶
跨下电车，便是一阵细且柔的密雨。旋转的风把雨吹着，尽向我身上卷上来。电灯光特别昏暗，火车站的黑影兀立在深灰色的空中。那边一行街树，像魔鬼的头发似的飘散舞动，萧萧作响。我突然想起：难道特地要教我难堪，故意先期做起秋容来么！便觉得全身陷没在凄怆之中，刚才喝下去的一斤酒在胃里也不大安分起来了。
这是我的揣想：天日晴朗的离别胜于风凄雨惨的离别，朝晨午昼的离别胜于傍晚黄昏的离别。虽然一回离别不能二者并试以作比较，虽然这一回的离别还没有来到，我总相信我的揣想是大致不谬的。然而到福州去的轮船照例是十二点光景开的，黄昏的离别是注定的了。像这样入秋渐深， 像这样时候吹一阵风洒一阵雨，又安知六天之后的那一夜，不更是风凄雨惨的离别呢？
一点东西也不要动：散乱的书册，零星的原稿纸，积着墨汁的水盂，歪斜地摆着的砚台……一切保持着原来的位置。一点变更也不让有：早上六点起身，吃了早饭，写了一些字，准时到办事的地方去，到晚回家，随便谈话，与小孩子胡闹……一切都是平淡的生活。全然没有离别的气氛，还有什么东西会迫紧来？好像没有快要到来的这回事了。
记得上年平伯去国，我们一同在一家旅馆里，明知不到一小时，离别的利刃就要把我们分割开来了。于是一启口一举手都觉得有无形的线把我牵着，又似乎把我浑身捆紧；胸口也闷闷的不大好受。我竭力想摆脱，故意做出没有什么的样子，靠在椅背上，举起杯子喝口茶，又东一句西一句地谈着。然而没有用，只觉得十分勉强，只觉得被牵被捆被压得越紧罢了。我于是想：离别的气氛既已凝集，再也别想冲决它，它是非把我们拆开来不可的。
现在我只是不让这气氛凝集，希望免受被牵被捆被压的种种纠缠。我又这么痴想着，到离去的一刻，最好恰在沉酣的睡眠中，既泯能想，自无所想。虽然觉醒之后，已经是大海孤轮中的独客，不免引起深深的惆怅；然而最难堪的一关已成过去，情形便自不同了。
然而这气氛终于会凝集拢来。走进家里，看见才洗而缝好的被袄，衫袴长袍之类也一叠叠地堆在桌子上。这不用问，是我旅程中的同伴了。“偏要这么多事！既已弄了，为什么不早点儿收拾好！”我略微烦躁地想。但是必须带走既属事实，随时预备尤见从容，我何忍说出责备的话呢——实在也不该责备，只该感激。
然而我触着这气氛了，而且嗅着它的味道了，与上年在旅馆里所感到的正是同一的种类，不过还没有这样浓密而已。我知道它将要渐渐地浓密，犹如西湖上晚来的烟雾；直到最后，它具有一种强大的力量，便会把我一挤；我于是不自主地离开这里了。
我依然谈话，写字，吃东西，躺在藤椅子上；但是都有点异样，有点儿不自然。
夜来有梦，梦在车站月台之旁。霎时火车已到，我急忙把行李提上去，身子也就登上，火车便疾驰而去了。似乎还有些东西遗留在月台那边，正在检点，就想到遗留的并不是东西，是几个人。这很奇怪，我竟不曾向他们说一声“别了”，竟不曾伸出手来给他们；不仅如此，登上火车的时候简直把他们忘了。于是深深地悔恨，怎么能不说一声，握一握手呢！假若说了，握了，究竟是个完满的离别，多少是好。“让我回头去补了吧！让我回头去补了吧！”但是火车不睬我，它喘着气只是向前奔。
这梦里的登程，全忘了月台上的几个人，与我所痴心盼望的酣睡时离去，情形正相仿佛。现在梦里的经验告诉我，这只有勾引些悔恨，并不见得会比较好些。那么，我又何必作这种痴想呢？然而清醒地说一声握一握的离别，究竟何尝是好受的！
“信要写得勤，要写得详；虽然一班轮船动辄要隔三五天，而厚厚的—叠信笺从封套里抽出来，总是独客的欣悦与安慰。”
“未必能够写得怎样勤怎样详吧。久已不干这勾当了；大的小的粗的细的种种事情箭一般地射到身上来，逐一对付已经够受了，知道还有多少坐定下来执笔的功夫与精神！”
离别的滋味假若是酸的，这里又搀入一些苦辛的味道了。
Before Leaving
Ye Shengtao
A soft, fine rain was falling as I got off the streetcar. An eddying wind brought the rain swirling over me. The light of the streetlamps was very dim and the black shadow of the train station jutted up from a dark grey emptiness. A row of trees lined the street there, their sighing branches tossing and dancing like hair. Suddenly I thought: undoubtedly this is to make it harder for me to bear, deliberately putting on an autumn face ahead of time! I felt myself become submerged in wretchedness and the wine I had just drunk sat uneasily on my stomach.
This is what I conjecture: to leave on a fine sunny day beats leaving on a chilly, damp and desolate one; to leave early in the morning beats leaving at nightfall. Although no two leave-takings can be compared and although this leave-taking has not yet taken place, I still believe in the main that my proposition holds true. Yet since the steamer for Fuzhou departs at twelve, there is no alternative but to part at nightfall. And, as autumn encroaches in this way, when there is a gust of wind and a flurry of rain such as this and I know what has been arranged for that evening six days hence, does it not seem even more likely that it will be a chilly, damp and desolate leave-taking?
Nothing must be moved: a jumble of volumes, incomplete drafts, containers for ink, inkstones piled up haphazardly…all in their original positions. Not the slightest alteration will be allowed: get up at six, eat breakfast, write a bit, off punctually to the office, home in the evening, chat a while, play with the kids…it’s all life as usual. There is certainly no sense of departure, nothing to give a feeling of urgency. It is as if this event were not soon approaching.
I remember last year when Pingbo went abroad. We were both in the hotel, knowing full well there was less than an hour left before the sharp knife of parting would sever us. And so with every word and gesture I felt as if there were unseen ties pulling me, binding my whole body tight; my chest felt so constricted I could hardly bear it. I did my utmost to shake it off, deliberately adopting a nonchalant air, leaning back in my chair, raising my cup to drink a mouthful of tea and chatting away about this and that. But it was useless, I felt it was only a polite pretence, that I was just being pulled, bound and constricted ever more tightly. And so I thought: the atmosphere of parting has already solidified around us, we must not think any more of shattering it, for it must break us apart.
This time I will not allow that atmosphere to solidify, hoping thus to avoid all the snares of being pulled, bound and constricted. I have this wish that when the time comes to leave, it will be right in the middle of a deep sleep when the power to think has vanished and therefore there will be nothing of which to think. And yet, on awakening to find oneself a lonely traveller on a lone ship in the midst of the ocean, it will be impossible to avoid feeling a profound melancholy; but the hardest part will already have sped by and the situation will not be the same.
And yet that atmosphere does solidify and accumulate after all. I walk into my home and see the newly washed and mended bedding, shirts, trouser and gowns all piled up on the table. There is no need to ask – these are my travelling companions. “With so much to do and everything already arranged, why couldn’t these have been packed earlier?” I think with slight annoyance. And yet since it is already established that they must be taken away they can be made ready at any time and how can I be heartless enough to be reproachful? In fact, I should not be reproachful but grateful.
And yet I am coming up against that atmosphere, I am smelling its odour which is exactly the same as the one I sensed last year in the hotel, only that was not as thick as this. I know that it will gradually thicken like the evening mist over West Lake; in the end it will possess a great force which will bear down on me so that I cannot leave here freely.
I talk as usual, write, eat, lie in the rattan chair, but it is all a bit different, a bit unnatural.
I had a dream in the night. I dreamed I was on a platform at the railway station. The train arrives in a flash, I quickly lift in my luggage, get on board and the train swiftly departs. I feel as if I have left something on the platform, and as I check I realize it is not things that I have left there but people. The strangest thing is that I did not say a single goodbye, nor did I give them my hand; not only that, when I got on the train I forgot them completely. I am filled with regret – how could I not have said anything or even shaken hands? It is like saying that shaking hands – the more the better – makes a parting complete. “Let me go back and make up for it! Let me go back and make up for it!” But the train ignores me and races on full steam ahead.
My departure in this dream when I completely forget the people on the platform is quite different from my hopeful fancy of leaving in the midst of blissful sleep. The experience of this dream tells me that such a departure would only arouse regrets and is by no means necessarily any better. So why do I have such fancies? And yet, after all, how can parting be easy when one is awake, with just a word and a shaking of hands?
“You should write lots of letters with plenty of detail; even though there’s a gap of three or five days between each steamer, it is always a great delight and comfort to a lonely traveller to pull out a thick wad of letters from a package.”
“I may not be able to write much or in great detail. I haven’t been in that line for quite some time; I’m bombarded with all kinds of things – big, little, thick, thin – and it’s enough dealing with them one at a time, so who knows how much time and energy I’ll have left to sit down and take up a pen!”
If the taste of leaving is bitter, here it is mixed with an acrid flavour.
（Alison Bailey 译）
