The lamp flame slowly dwindled, signalling a depletion of paraffin; which, being of not the best
quality, had given the lamp shade a drowsier hue. Crackers exploded in the proximity, cigarette
smoke hung about: It was a dull, dark night.
I closed my eyes and leant back, my back against the chair, my hand, which held A Beginner’s
Notebook, was against my knee.
And in this daze, I saw a good story.
The story was lovely, elegant, enchanting. Many beautiful people and beautiful things
interwoven as the clouds’ brocade iridescent, flying past as a myriad of shooting stars, yet soon
dispersing, stretched into infinity.
I seemed to remember rowing a boat through a shaded stream. On both banks: old tallows,
young rice, flowers, fowl, dogs, trees flourishing and withering, cottages, pagodas, monasteries,
farmers, village girls, drying clothes, monks, straw woven rain capes and paddy hats, the sky,
the cloud, the bamboo… all reflected in the jade stream. With every stroke of the oar, each
caught slivers of twinkling sunlight, and swayed along the fish and weeds underwater. All
reflections and their origins: all scattered, swaying, expanding, merging; yet they shrivelled as
soon as they merged, and again retreated to their original forms. Their edges flayed like a
summer cloud’s fringe, which, trimmed by sunlight, emitted flames of mercury. Such were the
rivers I passed.
And such was the story I now saw. The sky lay itself into the water, upon which all things
mingled, weaving a story forever alive, forever unfolding and without an end.
Beneath the withered willows were some sparse hollyhocks, which must have been planted by
the village girls. Their big, red or spotted blossoms, scattering on a whim on water, stretching
defined threads of blush. Floating too were the cottages, dogs, pagodas, village girls, clouds…
The flowers elongated, now racing red belts of silk. Silk wove into dogs, dogs wove into clouds,
clouds wove into village girls… In an instant they would contract again. Yet the crimson blossom
had shattered itself, reaching towards the pagoda, village girls, dogs, cottages, towards and into
the clouds.
Now the story I saw grew clearer, more lovely, elegant, enchanting and elucidated. The sky held
countless beautiful people and beautiful things, I saw them all, I understood them all.
I was about to gaze deeper into them…
When I was about to gaze deeper into them, I startled and opened my eyes, when the sky’s
brocade had grown wrinkled, as if someone had thrown a big rock into water, making it leap and
tear the story to shreds. I gripped at my falling notes, before my eyes lingered those shattered,
rainbow coloured reflection.
I adored this good story, while the fragments remained I would catch them, perfect them,
preserve them. I tossed aside my notes and reached for my pen. But where lied even a sliver of
that reflecion. All I could see was the drowsy lamp, I am no longer in the boat.
But I often remembered seeing this good story, on a dull, dark night…
1925.2.24
Lu Xun
