Chapter 14 Selected Poems of Ai Qing-My Father

one Lately I have often dreamed of my father-- His face looked more "kind" than ever, Showing "forgiveness" to me, His words are so gentle, As if all his painstaking intentions, All to protect his son. He wrote me several times last spring, Wishing me to go back with pity, He wants to charge me with some important words, Some words about land and property: But I rebelled against his wish, Didn't set off for home, I'm afraid of the responsibilities a family entrusts to me, Would ruin my young life. On a day when the pomegranate blossoms in May, He left the world disappointed.

two I am his first son, He was twenty-one when he gave birth to me, It was the last year of the Qing Dynasty, Study in a middle school. He was gentle and faithful, Wearing a gown and braids, Fat body, red-brown complexion, The eyes are round and protruding, With the ears attached to the back of the cheeks, People say this is "Fu Xiang", So he has to "keep his law in order". Satisfied with my own "horoscope", Live an ordinary and mediocre life, Smoking hookah, drinking rice wine, Lying on the bamboo bed and watching, Tell the story of the banshee and the fox.

My grandfather died when he was sixteen; My grandmother was a child bride, Often bullied by my grandfather's concubine; My uncle was an opium smoker, Presided over the "Flower Fair" and played with women; But he, my father, But learn life from "self-cultivation" and "style"-- Became a good son to his mother, A good husband to his wife. Accepting Liang Qichao's thought, Know that "the progress of the world has a limit". Became a follower of the "Reformist", In that poor little village, Initially cut off the jet black braids.

Readers of Oriental Magazine, Registered account of "Declaration", Members of "Wan Guo Savings Association", There is a chime bell in front of the hall, Mobil lamps were burning in the room. There's a shop left by my great-grandfather in town-- Beijing goods, foreign goods, food, wine, "everything is available", It furnishes our house with cloth, Daily necessities and refreshments for drinking tea, Take all things at will according to the book; Thirty-nine shop assistants have been busy for three hundred and sixty days, When the New Year arrives, the master takes all the profits.

There are hundreds of acres of land in the village, Dozens of tenants surrounded him, There are four farm laborers in the family every year, A maid, an old woman, All this tells of his ease.No frenzy!Don't take any chances! According to the taste of their own interests, To start a "new family", sent her daughter to missionary school, Urge my son to read English. Bound children with cheeks and whips, He became the tyrant of the family, Frugality is the dogma he gave us, Xu Cong is the classic he gave us, Besides, if we want us to study hard, pay close attention to our scores,

He knows that knowledge is a useful thing-- One can decorate the facade, Two can defend property. These are his VIPs: Retired Army Major General, A Chinese language teacher at a provincial middle school, students of the Faculty of Law and Economics of the University, and the town sergeant, And the county magistrate. Frequently look at the world map, study meteorology, observe the stars, It is known from the "Evolution Theory" that monkeys are the ancestors of human beings; But at the time of worship, But the same pretended to be pious, He knew very well: To those who pay him taxes,

The statue of Yama, Vidal's doctrine is more useful. Hopelessly expecting "progress", Greeting the "revolution" indifferently, He knows it's a "trend", I avoid the impulse, Standing in a distant place and watching. ． ． ． ． ． 1926 The National Revolutionary Army set out from the South through my hometown, At that time, I wanted to apply for "Whampoa", But he was silent, His eyes were cloudy and he didn't answer. Revolutions come and go like a storm. Countless young and brave men, All made the libation offerings of the age, After all horror and sorrow,

My heart is like a ship without its sails Floating in a sea of ​​restlessness and confusion. ． ． ． ． ． Landlords all hope that their sons can get rich and become officials, They want their son to study economics and law: And I dipped my paintbrush in color, to paint a landscape, and a hardworking farmer. The fantasies and passions of youth, Often encourages me to leave home: To go to a far country and city, I have used countless utilitarian words, To trick my father into sympathy. One night he came from under the floor, He took out a thousand-dollar Eagle Ocean, With trembling hands and a gloomy countenance,

While counting the money, exhort: "You'll be back in a few years, Don’t be too happy to leave!” And when I was leaving, He took me to the edge of the village, I dare not use my brain to think about it He gave me and the weight of hope, My heart just urges myself: "Get out of here-- this poor field, this humble village, to wander alone, Go wander freely! " three Years later, a melancholy shadow Back to that old village, Empty hands, nothing-- Besides those rebellions and books, and those fanatical frames, and a colonial people's Profound and shameful and hateful.

in july i was thrown in jail In August, I was sentenced to prison; out of desperation for his son My father used to cry all night until dawn. In those dark years, He kept on with gentle letters, Want me to be a "model" for my younger siblings, Complying with the "wish of the family", And with old words, lingering feelings, and arranged happiness, Come and capture my heart. When I'm free again, He eagerly looks forward to my return, he sent me Just enough for the trip home He repeated to me the words of others, (God knows where he got it from!) Said that there is no bourgeoisie in China,

There is no American-style big business, He said, "I tell you guys, Never oppressed, That is, they really wanted a revolution, What will happen to me? " So he spread out his tent, Spread out a thick rent book, Eyes look kindly and smile while fingering the abacus with a low voice Urge me to pay attention to the future of my brothers and sisters. But, finally, he got angry-- Frowning, biting his lower lip with his teeth, Looked very sad, Knuckles banged on the table, He resented his son's indifference, --bring your own family, as an inn for travel and rest; With the eyes of filth, Look at the legacy of the ancestors. To save myself from the ruins, In pursuit of a perfect ideal, I left my village again, Even though my heels are dripping with blood, I will not stop moving forward. ． ． ． ． ． my father is dead, He died of bloating; From now on he will never blame me again, What can I say? He is a most mediocre man; Because of timidity and self-discipline, In the most turbulent times, Lived the most peaceful life, Like countless Chinese landlords: moderate, conservative, miserly, complacent, Take that poor little village, as an eternal kingdom; received from his ancestors, and leave it to his descendants, It neither decreases nor increases! That's it-- That's why I have to pity him. Now my father, Already lying quietly in the earth at his funeral, I didn't raise the soul banner for him nor dissatisfied with a garment of sackcloth; I was singing hoarsely, Running in the war of liberation and fireworks. ． ． ． ． ． My mother sent me a letter telling me to go, Ask me to deal with the aftermath of the family, I don't want to bury myself, cruelly violated her wishes, I am grateful for the encouragement that the war gave me, I go in the opposite direction from home -- Because of me, since I know There are better ideals in this world, My allegiance is not to my own home, but that which belongs to all a holy faith. August 1941