野草 Wild Grass20 / 22

臘葉 The Blighted Leaf

燈下看雁門集，忽然翻出一片壓乾的楓葉來。Reading the Yanmen Collection by lamplight, I suddenly turned up a pressed, dried maple leaf.

灯下看雁门集，忽然翻出一片压干的枫叶来。

這使我記起去年的深秋。This reminded me of late autumn last year.繁霜夜降，木葉多半凋零，庭前的一株小小的楓樹也變成紅色了。Heavy frost fell at night, and most of the leaves on the trees had withered; even the small maple tree in front of the courtyard had turned red.我曾繞樹徘徊，細看葉片的顏色，當他靑蔥的時候是從沒有這麽注意的。I once circled the tree, lingering, looking closely at the colors of its leaves — when it was green and lush I had never paid such attention.他也並非全樹通紅，最多的是淺絳，有幾片則在緋紅地上，還帶着幾團濃綠。Nor was the whole tree entirely red; mostly it was a pale crimson, and on a few leaves, against a ground of deep scarlet, there still lingered a few patches of thick green.一片獨有一點蛀孔，鑲着烏黑的花邊，在紅、黃和綠的斑駁中，明眸似的向人凝視。One leaf alone had a wormhole, rimmed with a black border, and amid the mottling of red, yellow, and green it gazed at me like a pair of bright eyes.我自念：這是病葉呵！I said to myself: this is a sick leaf!便將他摘了下來，夾在剛纔買到的雁門集裏。So I plucked it and pressed it into the Yanmen Collection I had just bought.大概是願使這將墜的被蝕而斑斕的顏色，暫得保存，不卽與羣葉一同飄散罷。I suppose I wished to let those mottled colors — eaten away, about to fall — be preserved a little longer, not to scatter at once together with the rest of the leaves.

这使我记起去年的深秋。繁霜夜降，木叶多半凋零，庭前的一株小小的枫树也变成红色了。我曾绕树徘徊，细看叶片的颜色，当他靑葱的时候是从没有这么注意的。他也并非全树通红，最多的是浅绛，有几片则在绯红地上，还带着几团浓绿。一片独有一点蛀孔，镶着乌黑的花边，在红、黄和绿的斑驳中，明眸似的向人凝视。我自念：这是病叶呵！便将他摘了下来，夹在刚才买到的雁门集里。大概是愿使这将坠的被蚀而斑斓的颜色，暂得保存，不即与群叶一同飘散罢。

但今夜他卻黃蠟似的躺在我的眼前，那眸子也不復似去年一般灼灼。But tonight it lies before my eyes like yellow wax, and those eyes are no longer as bright as they were last year.假使再過幾年，舊時的顏色在我記憶中消去，怕連我也不知道他何以夾在書裏面的原因了，將墜的病葉的斑斕，似乎也只能在極短時中相對，更何況是蔥鬱的呢。Suppose a few more years pass and the old colors fade from my memory — I fear I myself will no longer know why it was pressed into this book; the mottled beauty of a dying, sickly leaf, it seems, can only be faced for the briefest of times, let alone that of a lush, green one.看看窗外，很能耐寒的樹木也早經禿盡了；I look out the window; even the trees best able to withstand the cold have long since been stripped bare.楓樹更何消說得。As for the maple, there is even less to say.當深秋時，想來也許有和這去年的模樣相似的病葉的罷，但可惜我今年竟沒有賞玩秋樹的餘閒。In deep autumn, I suppose there may again be a sick leaf resembling last year's, but unfortunately this year I have had no leisure at all to enjoy the autumn trees.

但今夜他却黄蜡似的躺在我的眼前，那眸子也不复似去年一般灼灼。假使再过几年，旧时的颜色在我记忆中消去，怕连我也不知道他何以夹在书里面的原因了，将坠的病叶的斑斓，似乎也只能在极短时中相对，更何况是葱郁的呢。看看窗外，很能耐寒的树木也早经秃尽了；枫树更何消说得。当深秋时，想来也许有和这去年的模样相似的病叶的罢，但可惜我今年竟没有赏玩秋树的余闲。

（一九二五年十二月二十六日。）(December 26, 1925.)

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What it’s about

A pressed leaf falls out of a book. Reading the 雁門集 by lamplight, Lu Xun turns up a dried maple leaf and remembers the late autumn before: heavy frost coming down at night, most leaves already fallen, and the small maple in the courtyard turned red. He walked round the tree looking closely at the colours of the leaves, which he had never bothered to look at while they were green. The tree was not all red — mostly pale crimson, some crimson with patches of dark green still on them — and one leaf had a single worm-hole in it, rimmed with black, staring out of the mottled red and yellow and green like a bright eye. This is a diseased leaf, he said to himself, and picked it and pressed it in the book he had just bought, meaning to keep that eaten, about-to-fall brilliance a little longer instead of letting it scatter with the rest.

Tonight the leaf lies in front of him like yellow wax, and the eye no longer burns as it did last year. In a few more years, he thinks, when the old colour has gone out of his memory, he may not even remember why it was put in the book: the variegation of a falling diseased leaf can only be looked at for a very short while, and the lush green for less. He looks out of the window, where even the hardy trees have long been bare and the maple more so. There will be diseased leaves like last year's somewhere in this autumn too — but this year he has not had the leisure to go and enjoy the autumn trees, and the piece ends there, with nothing more said about it.

When it was written 背景

Dated 26 December 1925. Lu Xun gave the key himself in his preface to the English translation: 臘葉 was written for the people who love him and want to preserve him — which makes the diseased leaf, picked out for the flaw that made it beautiful and shut in a book to stop it falling, a portrait of the author from the point of view of the people keeping him. It is the quietest page in 野草 and the shortest way to see how the collection works, since nothing is asserted and the whole argument sits inside one object. The Chinese is descriptive and colour-heavy (淺絳, 緋紅, 濃綠, 斑駁), the 雁門集 is the poems of the Yuan poet 薩都剌, and the one hard turn is the last sentence, where the piece steps out of the memory without warning.

Words in this chapter 生词