野草 Wild Grass18 / 22

這樣的戰士 Such a Fighter

要有這樣的一種戰士！Let there be such a fighter!

要有这样的一种战士！

已不是蒙昧如非洲土人而背着雪亮的毛瑟鎗的；No longer one as benighted as an African native who carries a gleaming Mauser rifle on his back;也並不疲憊如中國綠營兵而卻佩着盒子礮。nor one as worn out as a soldier of China's Green Standard Army, yet girded with a Mauser pistol.他毫無乞靈於牛皮和廢鐵的甲胄；He has utterly no armor of cowhide and scrap iron from which to beg supernatural aid;他只有自己，但拏着蠻人所用的，脫手一擲的投槍。He has only himself, but holds the javelin used by savages, hurled by a cast of the hand.

已不是蒙昧如非洲土人而背着雪亮的毛瑟鎗的；也并不疲惫如中国绿营兵而却佩着盒子礮。他毫无乞灵于牛皮和废铁的甲胄；他只有自己，但拏着蛮人所用的，脱手一掷的投枪。

他走進無物之陣，所遇見的都對他一式點頭。He strides into the battle array of Nothingness, and all he meets nod at him in the very same way.他知道這點頭就是敵人的武器，是殺人不見血的武器，許多戰士都在此滅亡，正如礮彈一般，使猛士無所用其力。He knows that this nod is the enemy's weapon, a weapon that kills without drawing blood, by which many fighters have perished, just as by cannon-shells, leaving the fierce warrior no place to spend his strength.

他走进无物之阵，所遇见的都对他一式点头。他知道这点头就是敌人的武器，是杀人不见血的武器，许多战士都在此灭亡，正如礮弹一般，使猛士无所用其力。

那些頭上有各種旗幟，繡出各樣好名稱：慈善家、學者、文士、長者、靑年、雅人、君子……。On their heads are banners of every kind, embroidered with fine titles of every kind: philanthropist, scholar, man of letters, elder, youth, man of refinement, gentleman……頭下有各樣外套，繡出各式好花樣：學問、道德、國粹、民意、邏輯、公義、東方文明……。Beneath their heads are overcoats of every kind, embroidered with fine patterns of every kind: learning, morality, national essence, public opinion, logic, justice, Eastern civilization……

那些头上有各种旗帜，绣出各样好名称：慈善家、学者、文士、长者、靑年、雅人、君子……。头下有各样外套，绣出各式好花样：学问、道德、国粹、民意、逻辑、公义、东方文明……。

但他舉起了投槍。But he raises his javelin.

但他举起了投枪。

他們都同聲立了誓來講說，他們的心都在胸膛的中央，和別的偏心的人類兩樣。They all swear in one voice, declaring that their hearts lie in the very center of their chests, unlike other human beings whose hearts are off to one side.他們都在胸前放着護心鏡，就爲自己也深信在胸膛中央的事作證。They all wear heart-guarding mirrors upon their chests, precisely to bear witness to the very thing they themselves so deeply believe—that their hearts sit in the center of their chests.

他们都同声立了誓来讲说，他们的心都在胸膛的中央，和别的偏心的人类两样。他们都在胸前放着护心镜，就为自己也深信在胸膛中央的事作证。

但他舉起了投槍。But he raises his javelin.

但他举起了投枪。

他微笑，偏側一擲，卻正中了他們的心窩。He smiles, and with a sideways cast, strikes true at the pit of their hearts.

他微笑，偏侧一掷，却正中了他们的心窝。

一切都頹然倒地；——然而只有一件外套，其中無物。Everything collapses and topples to the ground;——yet it is only an overcoat, with nothing inside it.無物之物已經脫走，得了勝利，因爲他這時成了戕害慈善家等類的罪人。The thing that is nothing has already slipped away and won the victory, for he has now become a criminal who has struck down philanthropists and the like.

一切都颓然倒地；——然而只有一件外套，其中无物。无物之物已经脱走，得了胜利，因为他这时成了戕害慈善家等类的罪人。

但他舉起了投槍。But he raises his javelin.

但他举起了投枪。

他在無物之陣中大踏步走，再見一式的點頭，各種的旗幟，各樣的外套……。He strides on through the battle array of Nothingness, meeting again the same nodding, the banners of every kind, the overcoats of every kind……

他在无物之阵中大踏步走，再见一式的点头，各种的旗帜，各样的外套……。

但他舉起了投槍。But he raises his javelin.

但他举起了投枪。

他終于在無物之陣中老衰，壽終。In the end he grows old within the battle array of Nothingness, and his life comes to its close.他終于不是戰士，但無物之物則是勝者。In the end he is no longer a fighter, yet the thing that is nothing is the victor.

他终于在无物之阵中老衰，寿终。他终于不是战士，但无物之物则是胜者。

在這樣的境地裏，誰也不聞戰叫：太平。In such a state, no one hears any battle cry: all is peace.

在这样的境地里，谁也不闻战叫：太平。

太平……。Peace……

但他舉起了投槍！But he raises his javelin!

但他举起了投枪！

（一九二五年十二月十四日。）(December 14, 1925.)

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What it’s about

There ought to be a fighter like this. Not an ignorant tribesman with a shiny Mauser rifle, and not a worn-out Chinese garrison soldier with a Mauser pistol at his belt; no armour of cowhide and scrap iron, nothing but himself and the throwing spear that savages use, the kind you let go of. He walks into the 無物之陣, the array of nothing at all, where everything he meets nods at him in exactly the same way — and he knows that the nod is the enemy's weapon, the kind that kills without drawing blood, and that plenty of fighters have been finished off by it, since a shell leaves a brave man nothing to use his strength on.

Above the heads are banners embroidered with fine names: philanthropist, scholar, man of letters, elder, youth, man of taste, gentleman. Below the heads are coats embroidered with fine patterns: learning, morality, national essence, the will of the people, logic, public justice, Eastern civilisation. But he lifts his spear. They swear in one voice that their hearts sit in the middle of their chests, not off to one side like other people's, and wear heart-protecting mirrors to prove it to themselves. But he lifts his spear. He smiles, throws sideways, and hits them exactly in the heart — and everything falls, and there is only a coat with nothing inside it. The nothing has got away, and has won, because he is now a man who murders philanthropists. But he lifts his spear. He grows old in the array of nothing and dies of old age in it; in the end he is not a fighter, and the nothing is the victor. In such a place no battle cry is ever heard: peace. Peace. But he lifts his spear.

When it was written 背景

Dated 14 December 1925 and written, Lu Xun says in his preface to the English translation, out of what he felt watching writers and scholars make themselves useful to warlords. It is the most quoted piece in the book after 希望, largely for 無物之陣 — an enemy with no body, only banners and coats and agreeable nods, which describes what he spent his life fighting better than any of his polemics manage. For a learner it is short, incantatory and easy to hold in the head, since 但他舉起了投槍 comes back five times as a refrain, and the two lists of embroidered words are worth learning as a set: they are the vocabulary of respectability in 1925 China. Read it with 聰明人和儍子和奴才.

Words in this chapter 生词