by Tam King-fai
structural device in xiaopin wen.
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108
A Garden of One’s Own
In My Moments of Dejection (Two Selections) (1929)
I don’t know why, but for the past several years, whenever I’ve written to
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The source of this line seems to be the preface to Mr. Lu Xun’s Outcry.
I enjoy quoting it because I feel that there is something extraordinarily
spellbinding about dejection. Who knows where it comes from, but once
it attaches itself to a person, there’s no way to shake it off. It’s like one
of those large poisonous snakes in the forests of India regarded as both
sacred and demonic.
The scenery in the place where I now live is not bad at all. When
you look through the lush forest, you can see the golden shimmering
surface of the Huangpu River under the bright sun. There are
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glimmering water like clouds blown by the wind across a silvery stream.
The sound of waves crashing on the rocks reverberates, carried by the
wind through the open window. The universe is quiet, but also pulsates
to the rhythm of eternal life, singing its praises. The natural scene that
stretches itself in front of me is so solemn, so beautiful and lovely. But
when I am dejected, this scenery becomes an expanse of grayness. I feel
nothing but indifference to it.
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indeed too painful to dwell on. But when my soul is being corroded by
this feeling of indifference, I would rather return to those painful years,
which, by contrast, invigorated my spirit. But since I do not have the
courage of Akutagawa1 to kill myself, and cannot allow this feeling of
indifference to continue eating away at my soul, I must think of some
way to distract myself from it.
Lonely by nature, I am not too interested in all the entertainment
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do not have friends with whom I can associate. Apart from taking walks
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jotting down on paper whatever comes to mind, or pulling down from
1
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short but productive life. Before killing himself, he published an article in which PMLQ[K][[MLIOZMITMVOPPM[QOVQÅKIVKMWN []QKQLM
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Su Xuelin
109
the shelf and reading whatever book comes to hand. Whenever I come
across things that speak to my heart, I copy them down in a notebook,
which I then open and read at leisure. These can be regarded as my
reading notes.
Besides reading, it also cheers me up sometimes to write to friends,
because in my letters I can talk about everything under the sun.
Although what I say is of no great importance, and for the most part
devoid of any structure, there’s no need for me to strike unnatural poses
or assume affected tones as I would if I were to speak to society at
large. I also don’t need to follow a carefully worked-out plan as I would
in my academic writing. I can say whatever is on my mind—where
my thoughts go, so will my pen. This is nothing less than the natural
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heart. By writing this way, not only do I experience the joy of liberation,
but so does my reader.
Although I do have a few friends, they are all very busy, and when
I write to them, they are obliged to write back. I feel uneasy about
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and then reply, just so that I can dispel this feeling of indifference. So, I
have thought of another way—to write only for myself, and take it as an
exchange between myself and my own soul.
I remember several years ago making the acquaintance of a woman
writer when I was studying in Lyon, France. Her husband was the
chairman of the architecture department at the l’Académie Nationale
des Beaux Arts in Lyon, and had designed the famous Basilique de
Notre-Dame de Fourvière. I often visited her, and learned that all of
the landscape paintings on the walls of her home were the works of her
husband. Because painting was not his specialty, they were naturally not
all that good. But his style was extremely simple and forceful, and was
permeated with a certain freshness and originality. There was a copper
tag on the frames of two of the pictures, on which were engraved the
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Although I would complain every now and then of dejection, I did
not truly appreciate its reality then. After I got to know the architect and
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Was it possible that a great architect, whose white beard commanded
respect and whose mind was so expansive as to encompass that lofty,
towering cathedral, could at times be assailed by dejection? He had
gone so far as to frame these paintings with such care, and hang them
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110
A Garden of One’s Own
in the living room and the study, as though in perpetual memory of the
occasion. Why?
After I returned to China, I was not in touch with the woman writer
for some time. I heard that her husband had passed away, but those
pictures, casually painted in light blue and red, and the words engraved
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My random reading notes and the communications with my friends
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WN Ua PMIZº LMZQ^ML NZWU Ua KI[]IT LWWLTQVO 1V WZLMZ W [PW_ _PI
a deep impression they have left in my mind, I will copy, though out of
context, the words the architect etched onto his paintings and use them
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Buying Yarn
I once went out with Kang for a stroll on the street. Whenever we
came across things we liked, we bought some. We looked around as we
walked. Dazzling electric lights shone from behind glass windows, and
the merchandise, whatever it might be, caught our eye, so lovely it all
appeared in the glittering light. All of a sudden, I turned around and
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buying socks at a stall about twenty feet away from me. I did not want
to walk back to him, and instead waited fo
r him at a dry goods store.
There was a girl of about sixteen or seventeen in the store. She wore
a traditional sheath dress made of simple patterned cloth, and her hair,
as shiny as a black cloud, was cut short. Her black eyes, lustrous and
vivacious, were set off by her round, tender, light-complexioned face.
Though a somewhat ordinary girl, she was quite attractive. Standing
shoulder to shoulder with her was an old woman, wan and gaunt. She
was haggling with the shopkeeper at the counter over the price of a
bundle of yarn. She was undoubtedly the young girl’s mother.
Failing to reach an agreeable price, the old woman did not want
to buy the yarn. The young woman whispered something in her ear,
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the same color elsewhere and that they shouldn’t miss this chance. The
old woman was left with no choice but to reach inside her pocket for
money....
A most ordinary incident, but as I witnessed it, it brought back a
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Su Xuelin
111
memory of ten years before:
One year in early autumn, my mother and I came to the provincial
capital, Anqing, from our home village. I accompanied her one day on
an errand to buy some fabric. I saw in the cloth store a glass medallion,
of which set inside was an extremely beautiful picture of a snowy scene.
I wanted to get it and use it as a paperweight when I drew pictures, so I
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my mother found too expensive. I began to whine, insisting that she buy
it. All the people in the store laughed, and said to my mother:
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I was embarrassed. At the time, though not that tall, I was in fact
eighteen years old. To my mother, however, I was still an eight-year-old,
so no wonder the shopkeepers thought I was a little girl.
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Nevertheless, when we left the store, I had the lovely medallion in my
pocket.
As I watched this mother and her daughter buying yarn that
evening, I remembered that incident between my mother and me. As if
in a dream, I stood at the store, dazed.
After getting his socks, Kang caught up with me. He noticed that
there were tearstains on my face and that my voice was a bit strained.
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With some effort, I came up with this ordinary explanation. I could
not think of anything else to say, so I left the yarn store with Kang and
continued on our walk.
Xiao Xi and the Huizhou Pears
In Huizhou, not far away from our hometown, grows a kind of white-
skinned pear. We call them snow pears. They are as refreshingly cool
as ice and as sweet as honey, far superior to ordinary pears. Even the
famous Tianjin pear cannot compare with them. They are Anhui’s best
product, and it’s a pity that the underdeveloped transportation system
in China makes it impossible to ship them out. The honor of being the
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112
A Garden of One’s Own
best fruit thus goes unchallenged to the arbutus and loquat of Zhejiang,
the lychee of southern Guangdong, and the grapes of the north.
Recently, however, this kind of pear has come to Shanghai. Just the
other day, I saw several baskets of real Huizhou snow pears for sale at
Hu Kaiwen’s Writing Brush Store on North Sichuan Road. The store is
run by people from Huizhou. Perhaps the shopkeepers had brought the
snow pears to Shanghai on returning from their hometown, and that
was why there were not too many of them for sale.
Having seen the Huizhou snow pears during the day, I dreamed of
them at night. In my dream, I saw a big pear tree with a trunk so thick
that only a grown-up could have stretched his arms all the way around
it. Its leaves were luxuriant and the branches were richly studded with
fruit. Xiao Xi was holding a bamboo pole and was beating the top
branches with it, making pears fall down like rain. I picked up a large
white pear and was about to put it in my mouth when I suddenly woke
up.
Xiao Xi was my oldest sister-in-law’s bond-maid, who had
accompanied her when she married into our family. Xiao Xi had died
several years before. I never thought of her, and had no idea why she
had appeared in my dream about the Huizhou pears.
I thought about it for a while, and finally figured it out. The
complex and seamless process by which things come together in dreams
is far beyond the reach of our intellect in our waking life. Sometimes,
two things may be inherently connected to each other, but on the
surface, they often appear unrelated. It never occurs to us that we should
pay attention to the way they are tied together, which is why we never
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clever dreams are!
Xiao Xi was from Shandong, and she was only eight years old when
she came to our home. She was by no means beautiful, just an ordinary-
looking girl. But her tender white skin, typical of people from the north,
and her apple-like cheeks had often won my mother’s admiration. I was
also a mere child at that time, and liked to play with little boys and girls
about my age, including Xiao Xi. She would teach me folk songs from
the north, all of them very delightful. I have forgotten many of them,
except:
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Su Xuelin
113
My First Mistress
My Second Mistress
You pull the bellow and I strike the iron
and:
My father puts on his glass hat
My mother puts on her click-clack shoes
Click-clack, click-clack she goes up
And click-clack, click-clack she comes down.
Even now, I can still recall her limpid voice.
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over my beloved cat. I was older than Xiao Xi by four years, and was
stronger than she was, as well. I remember grabbing her hair and trying
to pin her to the ground. She raised her foot to kick me, but eventually
didn’t have the courage to do so. Instead, she only tried to push me off
with her hands. In the end, the two of us fell down and rolled around
on the ground.... This left me with a very deep impression, which is why
I can s
till remember it clearly. As for other things, I cannot remember
them anymore.
I later went to school in the provincial capital, and went home only
during summer vacations. Xiao Xi had grown up, her skin had grown
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red and lovely.
When I got home one year, I heard Xiao Xi had died. How did she
die? My oldest sister told me that during spring the previous year, Xiao
Xi had suddenly come down with an illness, which left her with a fever
day and night. Ah Tong, a tailor working at our home, felt sorry for
her. Xiao Xi’s bedroom and Ah Tong’s workshop faced each other, and
when the doors were open, one could see from one room into the other.
People from the villages were open with their feelings, and did not give
too much thought to social strictures. Ah Tong often went to Xiao Xi’s
door to enquire about her health, and brought her many large Huizhou
pears to quench her thirst. Although he dared not go inside to comfort
her, his thoughtfulness over her well-being and his loving and solicitous
affection touched Xiao Xi’s heart.
After Xiao Xi recovered from her illness, it became clear to other
people that the two were in love. When my sister-in-law got wind of
this, she became very angry. She was raised in the orthodox way, and
would not allow one of her maids to be involved in such a scandalous
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114
A Garden of One’s Own
affair. But Xiao Xi had already reached the marriageable age, and by
common understanding, my sister-in-law could no longer keep her. So,
she decided to marry Xiao Xi off. Some people suggested she give Xiao
Xi to Ah Tong, but she adamantly refused. She was furious that Xiao Xi
had caused her embarrassment, and was therefore determined to stand
in the way of Xiao Xi’s love affair.
When the lovers learned of my sister-in-law’s intentions, they
eloped. People were dispatched to track them down, and the two went
into hiding in the valley. It was in the second month, when the spring
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deep grass by the stream for a day and a night.
When they were brought back, it was feared they might resort to
suicide, so nothing was done to them. Ah Tong felt that he had lost the
