Famous story: 《故乡》- Hometown by Lu Xun

Hometown

Braving the bitter cold, I returned to my hometown, more than two thousand li away, which I had left over twenty years ago.

It was deep winter; as I drew near my hometown, the weather turned gloomy, and a cold wind blew into the cabin of the boat, howling. Through gaps in the awning, I gazed out: beneath a sallow-yellow sky, several desolate villages lay scattered near and far, lifeless. My heart could not help but sink into sorrow. Ah! Was this not the hometown I had remembered constantly for twenty years?

The hometown I remembered was not at all like this. My hometown had been much better. But when I tried to recall its beauty, to describe its fine qualities, I had no image, no words. It seemed it had always been just like this. So I explained to myself: the hometown had always been this way—although it had not progressed, perhaps it was not as bleak as I felt; it was only my own mood that had changed, for I had come back this time with no good cheer at all.

This time I had come solely to bid it farewell. The old house where our clan had lived together for many years had already been sold to another family by common agreement; the deadline to hand over the house was this very year, so I had to hurry, before the first day of the first lunar month, to bid an eternal farewell to the familiar old house, and to leave far behind the familiar hometown, moving to the strange land where I was making my living.

Early the next morning I arrived at the door of my home. The broken stalks of withered grass on the roof tiles trembled in the wind, explaining why this old house could not avoid changing owners. Several branches of the family had probably already moved away, so it was very quiet. When I reached the room outside my own, my mother had already come out to meet me, followed by my eight-year-old nephew Hong’er, who came flying out.

My mother was very happy, but she also hid much sorrowful feeling. She told me to sit, to rest, to drink tea, and not to speak of the moving for now. Hong’er, who had never seen me, stood facing me from afar, just staring.

But eventually we came to talk about the move. I said the lodgings I had rented outside were already settled, and I had bought a few pieces of furniture; besides that, we needed to sell all the wooden articles in the house and then buy more. Mother agreed, adding that the luggage was nearly all gathered, and the wooden articles too cumbersome to move had already been mostly sold off, but the money was not yet collected.

“Rest for a day or two, go visit the relatives and clan members once, and then we can leave,” Mother said.

“Yes.”

“And there’s Runtu—every time he comes to our house, he always asks about you, very much wanting to see you once. I’ve already informed him of about when you’d arrive home; he may come at any time.”

At this moment, a marvelous picture suddenly flashed in my mind: a golden full moon hung in the deep blue sky, and below was a sandy beach by the sea, all planted with boundless emerald-green watermelons. Among them stood a boy of eleven or twelve, a silver ring around his neck, a steel pitchfork in his hand, thrusting with all his might at a zha. But the zha twisted its body and slipped away from beneath his crotch.

This boy was Runtu. When I first knew him, I was only just over ten years old, and that was now nearly thirty years ago; my father was still alive then, the family was well off, and I was a young master. That year, our family was responsible for hosting a great ancestral sacrifice. This sacrifice, it was said, came round only once in over thirty years, so it was very solemn; in the first month the ancestral portraits were displayed, with many offerings, very fine sacrificial vessels, many worshippers, and the vessels had to be guarded against theft. Our family had only one busy-month worker (here, those who work for others are divided into three kinds: those who work all year for a fixed household are called long-term hands; those hired by the day are short-term hands; and those who farm their own land and only come to work for a fixed household during festivals and rent-collection times are called busy-month workers), who could not manage everything, so he told my father that his son Runtu could be called to look after the sacrificial vessels.

My father agreed; I was very happy too, for I had long heard the name Runtu, and knew that he was about my age, born in an intercalary month, and that since his five elements lacked earth, his father had named him Runtu (“intercalary earth”). He could set traps to catch small birds.

So I longed day after day for the New Year, for when the New Year came, Runtu would come too. With great difficulty the end of the year finally arrived, and one day my mother told me Runtu had come, so I went running to see him. He was in the kitchen, with a purple round face, a small felt cap on his head, and a gleaming silver collar around his neck—showing how dearly his father loved him, so afraid he would die that he had made a vow before the gods and Buddhas and bound him with a ring. He was very shy with people, but not afraid of me; when no one else was around he would talk with me, and so in less than half a day we became familiar.

I don’t remember what we talked about then, only that Runtu was very happy, saying that since coming to the town he had seen many things he had never seen before.

The next day, I asked him to catch birds. He said:

“That won’t do. It must first snow heavily. On our sandy ground, after it snows, I sweep out a patch of clear ground, prop up a big bamboo sieve with a short stick, and scatter some chaff. When I see the birds come to eat, I pull from afar the rope tied to the stick, and the birds are trapped under the sieve. There are all kinds: rice birds, horned pheasants, wood pigeons, blue-backs…”

So I came to long very much for snow.

Runtu also said to me:

“It’s too cold now, but come here in summer. By day we go to the seaside to gather shells—red ones, green ones, all kinds; there are also ‘ghost-frighteners,’ and ‘Guanyin’s hands.’ At night I go with my father to watch the watermelons; you come too.”

“To guard against thieves?”

“No. If a passerby gets thirsty and picks a melon to eat, we don’t count that as stealing. What we watch out for are badgers, hedgehogs, and zha. In the moonlight, you listen—there’s a rustling sound; the zha is biting the melons. Then you grip your pitchfork and walk over softly…”

At that time I did not know what this thing called a zha was—even now I still don’t know—I just somehow felt it was shaped like a small dog and very fierce.

“Doesn’t it bite people?”

“There’s the pitchfork. When you get close and see the zha, you thrust. This creature is very clever; it rushes toward you instead, then darts away beneath your crotch. Its fur is slippery as oil…”

I had never known there were so many novel things in the world: that the seaside had so many colorful shells; that watermelons had such dangerous adventures—I had previously known only that they were sold in fruit shops.

“On our sandy ground, when the tide is about to come, there are many jumping fish that just leap about, all with two legs like a frog’s…”

Ah! Runtu’s heart held endless wondrous things, all unknown to my usual friends. They knew nothing of these things; while Runtu was by the sea, they, like me, saw only the square patch of sky above the high courtyard walls.

Alas, the first month passed, and Runtu had to return home. I cried bitterly in my distress, and he too hid in the kitchen, weeping and refusing to leave, but in the end his father took him away. Afterward he had his father bring me a packet of shells and a few very pretty bird feathers, and I too sent him things once or twice, but from then on we never met again.

Now that my mother had mentioned him, this childhood memory of mine suddenly all revived like lightning, and I seemed to see my beautiful hometown. I answered:

“That’s wonderful! He—how is he? …”

“He? … His circumstances are not at all good either…” Mother said, looking out toward the door. “These people have come again. They say they’re here to buy wooden articles, but they help themselves and take things along too. I’d better go and see.”

Mother stood up and went out. Outside the door were the voices of several women. I beckoned Hong’er to come closer and chatted with him: I asked whether he could write, and whether he wanted to leave.

“Are we going by train?”

“We’re going by train.”

“And the boat?”

“First by boat…”

“Ha! Look at you now! Such a long beard!” A shrill, strange voice suddenly cried out loudly.

I was startled, and hurriedly raised my head, only to see a woman of about fifty with protruding cheekbones and thin lips standing before me, both hands on her hips, wearing no skirt, legs splayed apart—exactly like a thin-legged compass from a drafting set.

I was astonished.

“Don’t recognize me anymore? I even held you in my arms!”

I grew even more astonished. Fortunately my mother came in just then and said from the side:

“He’s been away from home for many years, he’s forgotten everything. You should remember,” she said, turning to me. “This is Second Sister-in-law Yang from across the way, diagonally—she runs the tofu shop.”

Oh, I remembered. When I was a child, there had indeed been a Second Sister-in-law Yang who sat all day long in the tofu shop across the way; people all called her “the Bean-curd Beauty.” But back then she powdered her face, her cheekbones were not so high, her lips not so thin, and though she sat all day, I had never seen this compass-like pose. People said then that because of her, the tofu shop did very good business. But this was probably owing to her age; I myself had not been the least bit affected, so I had completely forgotten her. Yet the compass was very displeased, showing a disdainful expression, as though sneering at a Frenchman for not knowing Napoleon, or an American for not knowing Washington, and said with a cold laugh:

“Forgotten? This really is the haughty eye of a great personage…”

“There’s no such thing… I…” I said in alarm, standing up.

“Then let me tell you, Master Xun. You’ve grown rich, and moving is cumbersome—what do you want with all this broken-down old wooden stuff? Let me take it. We humble folk can make use of it.”

“I haven’t grown rich at all. I have to sell these in order to…”

“Aiyaya, you’ve become an intendant and still say you’re not rich? You now have three concubines; whenever you go out it’s in an eight-bearer sedan chair, and still you say you’re not rich? Hah, nothing can be hidden from me.”

I knew there was nothing to say, so I shut my mouth and stood silently.

“Aiya aiya, truly the more money one has, the less willing one is to loosen a single hair; the less willing to loosen a single hair, the more money one has…” the compass said, indignantly turning around and chattering on, walking slowly toward the door, conveniently stuffing one of my mother’s gloves into the waistband of her trousers as she went out.

After this, more nearby clan members and relatives came to visit me. While I attended to them, I packed some luggage in spare moments, and so three or four days passed.

One very cold afternoon, having finished lunch, I was sitting drinking tea when I sensed someone coming in from outside, and turned my head to look. When I looked, I was greatly startled, hurriedly stood up, and went forward to meet him.

The one who had come was Runtu. Though I knew at a glance it was Runtu, he was no longer the Runtu of my memory. His stature had doubled; his former purple round face had turned ashen-yellow, with deep wrinkles added; his eyes too, like his father’s, were swollen and red all around—this I understood, for those who farm by the sea, blown by sea winds all day long, are mostly like this. On his head was a battered felt cap, on his body only a thin cotton jacket, and his whole frame shivered; in his hand he held a paper packet and a long tobacco pipe. That hand too was not the plump, red, round hand I remembered, but coarse, clumsy, and cracked, like pine bark.

I was very excited then, but did not know how to speak, and could only say:

“Ah! Brother Runtu—you’ve come? …”

I had many words after that, wanting to pour out like a string of pearls: horned pheasants, jumping fish, shells, zha… but I always felt something blocking them, so they only swirled in my head and would not come out of my mouth.

He stood still, his face showing both joy and sorrow; his lips moved, but no sound came. At last his manner became respectful, and he said distinctly:

“Master! …”

I seemed to shudder; I knew then that a lamentably thick barrier had already risen between us. I too could say nothing.

He turned his head and said, “Shuisheng, kowtow to the Master.” Then he pulled out the child who had been hiding behind him—this was exactly the Runtu of twenty years ago, only sallower and thinner, with no silver ring around his neck. “This is my fifth child, he’s never seen the world, so he’s bashful and hides…”

Mother and Hong’er came downstairs; they had probably heard the voices too.

“Old mistress. The letter arrived long ago. I was truly overjoyed, knowing the Master was coming back…” Runtu said.

“Ah, why have you become so formal? Didn’t you two used to call each other brother? Stick to the old way: Master Xun,” Mother said happily.

“Aiya, old mistress, you really are… What sort of propriety would that be? Back then we were children, we didn’t understand things…” Runtu said, calling Shuisheng again to come up and pay his respects, but the child was shy and clung tightly behind him.

“So this is Shuisheng? The fifth? They’re all strangers, no wonder he’s shy of strangers; let Hong’er go off with him.” Mother said.

Hearing this, Hong’er went over to invite Shuisheng, and Shuisheng went off with him easily and freely. Mother told Runtu to sit; he hesitated a while, then finally took a seat, leaned the long pipe against the table, handed over the paper packet, and said:

“In winter there’s nothing much. These few dried green beans I dried myself at home—please, Master…”

I asked him about his circumstances. He only shook his head.

“Very hard. Even my sixth child can help with the work now, but there’s still never enough to eat… And it’s not peaceful either… Everywhere wants money, with no fixed rules… and the harvests are bad too. We grow things, carry them off to sell, and always have to pay several rounds of levies, losing our capital; if we don’t sell them, they just rot…”

He only shook his head; though his face was carved with many wrinkles, none of them moved, as though he were a stone statue. He probably only felt the bitterness but could not put it into words. After a moment’s silence, he picked up his pipe and smoked silently.

Mother questioned him and learned that he had much to do at home and had to return the next day; and since he had not eaten lunch, she told him to go to the kitchen and fry some rice for himself.

He went out; Mother and I both sighed over his circumstances: many children, famine, harsh taxes, soldiers, bandits, officials, gentry—all had made him suffer until he was like a wooden puppet. Mother said to me that whatever we did not need to take away, we could give to him, and let him choose for himself.

That afternoon, he picked out several things: two long tables, four chairs, an incense burner and candlesticks, and a steelyard. He also asked for all the straw ash (here we cook rice by burning rice straw, and the ash can be used as fertilizer for the sandy ground), saying that when we set off he would come by boat to load it away.

That night, we chatted some more, all of it idle talk of no consequence; the next morning he led Shuisheng back home.

Nine more days passed, and it was the day of our departure. Runtu came in the morning; Shuisheng had not come with him, and he had brought only a five-year-old daughter to mind the boat. We were busy all day long, with no more time to chat. There were no few visitors either—some came to see us off, some to take things, some to see us off and take things both. By the time we boarded the boat at dusk, all the old and new, large and small, coarse and fine things in this old house had been swept clean away.

Our boat moved forward; the green hills on both banks, in the twilight, all turned a deep dark-green, and receded one after another toward the stern of the boat.

Hong’er and I leaned against the boat’s window, looking together at the blurred scenery outside, when he suddenly asked:

“Uncle! When will we come back?”

“Come back? Why are you thinking of coming back before we’ve even left?”

“But, Shuisheng invited me to his house to play…” He opened his big black eyes wide, lost in dreamy thought.

Mother and I felt somewhat melancholy too, and so we brought up Runtu again. Mother said that ever since our family had begun packing, that Bean-curd Beauty, Second Sister-in-law Yang, had come every single day without fail. The day before yesterday she had dug more than ten bowls and dishes out of the ash heap, and after some discussion, declared they must have been buried by Runtu, who could carry them home all together when he came to haul away the ash; Second Sister-in-law Yang, having discovered this, considered it a great achievement of her own, and grabbed the “dog-vexer” (this is a device we use for raising chickens here, a wooden tray with a railing on top, with feed inside; chickens can stretch their necks in to peck, but dogs cannot, and can only look on and be vexed to death) and ran off as if flying—remarkable that, with her bound feet, those tiny feet, she could run so fast.

The old house grew ever farther from me; the hills and waters of my hometown also gradually receded from me, yet I felt no particular reluctance to part. I only felt that on all four sides there were invisible high walls, isolating me into solitude and making me terribly stifled; the image of that little hero with the silver collar on the watermelon ground, which I had once seen so clearly, now suddenly blurred, and this made me very sad too.

Mother and Hong’er had both fallen asleep.

I lay there, listening to the gurgling of the water beneath the boat, knowing I was traveling my own road. I thought: I had become estranged from Runtu to such a degree, yet our descendants were still of one heart—was not Hong’er even now thinking of Shuisheng? I hoped they would not become like me, all estranged from one another… Yet I also did not wish that, in order to be of one heart, they should all live a life of bitter drudgery and drifting as I did, nor that they should all live a life of bitter numbness as Runtu did, nor that they should all live a life of bitter dissipation as others did. They ought to have a new life, one we had never lived.

Thinking of hope, I suddenly grew afraid. When Runtu asked for the incense burner and candlesticks, I had secretly laughed at him, thinking he was forever worshipping idols, never forgetting them at any time. Now this thing I called hope—was it not also an idol fashioned by my own hands? It was only that his wish was more immediate, while mine was more distant and vague.

In my drowsiness, there spread before my eyes a stretch of emerald sandy ground by the sea, above which hung, in the deep blue sky, a golden full moon. I thought: hope is essentially something one cannot call existing, nor call non-existent. It is just like the paths on the ground; for actually the ground has no paths to begin with—where many people pass, a path is made.