朱自清 荷塘月色

荷塘月色MoonlightovertheLotusPond朱自清ZhuZiqing Ithasbeenratherdisquietingthesedays.Tonight,whenIwassittingintheyardenjoyingthecool,itoccurredtomethattheLotusPond,whichIpassbyeveryday,mustassumequiteadifferentlookinsuchmoonlitnight.Afullmoonwasrisinghighinthesky;thelaughterofchildrenplayingoutsidehaddiedaway;intheroom,mywifewaspattingtheson,Run-er,sleepilyhummingacradlesong.Shruggingonanovercoat,quietly,1mademywayout,closingthedoorbehindme. AlongsidetheLotusPondrunsasmallcinderfootpath.Itispeacefulandsecludedhere,aplacenotfrequentedbypedestrianseveninthedaytime;nowatnight,itlooksmaresolitary,inalush,shadyambienceoftreesallaroundthepond.Onthesidewherethepathis,therearewillows,interlacedwithsomeotherswhosenamesIdonotknow.Thefoliage,which,inamoonlessnight,wouldloomsomewhatfrighteninglydark,looksverynicetonight,althoughthemoonlightisnotmorethanathin,grayishveil. Iamonmyown,strolling,handsbehindmyback.Thisbitoftheuniverseseemsinmypossessionnow;andImyselfseemtohavebeenupliftedfrommyordinaryselfintoanotherworld.1likeasereneandpeacefullife,asmuchasabusyandactiveone;Ilikebeinginsolitude,asmuchasincompany.Asitistonight,baskinginamistymoonshineallbymyself,IfeelIamafreeman,freetothinkofanything,orofnothing.Allthatoneisobligedtodo,ortosay,inthedaytime,canbeverywellcastasidenow.Thatisthebeautyofbeingalone.Forthemoment,justletmeindulgeinthisprofusionofmoonlightandlotusfragrance. Alloverthiswindingstretchofwater,whatmeetstheeyeisasilkenfieldofleaves,reachingratherhighabovethesurface,liketheskirtsofdancinggirlsinalltheirgrace.Hereandthere,layersofleavesaredottedwithwhitelotusblossoms,someindemurebloom,othersinshybud,likescatteringpearls,ortwinklingstars,orbeautiesjustoutofthebath.Abreezestirs,sendingoverbreathsoffragrance,likefaintsingingdriftingfromadistantbuilding.Atthismoment,atinythrillshootsthroughtheleavesandlilies,like,astreakoflightning,straightacrosstheforestoflotuses.Theleaves,whichhavebeenstandingshouldertoshoulder,arecaughtshimmeringinanemeraldheaveofthepond.Underneath,theexquisitewateriscoveredfromview,andnonecantellitscolour;yettheleavesontopprojectthemselvesallthemoreattractively. Themoonshedsherliquidlightsilentlyovertheleavesandflowers,which,inthefloatingtransparencyofabluishhazefromthepond,lookasiftheyhadjustbeenbathedinmilk,orlikeadreamwrappedinagauzyhood.Althoughitisafullmoon,shiningthroughafilmofclouds,thelightisnotatitsbrightest;itis,however,justrightforme-aprofoundsleepisindispensable,vetasnatcheddozealsohasasavourofitsown.Themoonlightisstreamingdownthroughthefoliage,castingbushyshadowsonthegroundfromhighabove,jaggedandcheckered,asgrotesqueasapartyofspectres;whereasthebenignfiguresofthedroopingwillows,hereandthere,lanklikepaintingsonthelotusleaves.Themoonlightisnotspreadevenlyoverthepond,butratherinaharmoniousrhythmoflightandshade,likeafamousmelodyplayedonaviolin. Aroundthepond,farantinear,highandlow,aretrees.Mostofthemarewillows.Onlyonthepathside,cantaroorthreegap;heseenthroughtheheavyfringe,asifspeciallyreservedforthemoon.Theshadowyshapesoftheleafageatfirstsightseemdiffusedintoamassofmist,againstwhich,however,thecharmofthosewillowtreesisstilldiscernible.Overthetreesappearsomedistantmountains,butmerelyinsketchysilhouette.Throughthebranchesarealsoacoupleoflamps,aslistlessassleepyeyes.Themostlivelycreatureshere,forthemoment,musthethecicadasinthetreesandthefrogsinthepond.Butthelivelinessistheirs,Ihavenothing. Suddenly,somethinglikelotus-gatheringcrossesmymind.ItusedtohecelebratedasafolkfestivalintheSouth,probablydatingveryfarhackinhistory,mastpopularintheperiodofSixDynasties.Wecanpickupsomeoutlinesofthisactivityinthepoetry.Itwasyounggirlswhowentgatheringlotuses,insampansandsinginglovesongs.Needlesstosay,therewereagreatnumberofthemdoingthegathering,apartfromthosewhowerewatching.Itwasalivelyseason,brimmingwithvitality,andromance.AbrilliantdescriptioncanbefoundinlotusGatheringwrittenbytheYuanEmperoroftheliangDynasty: Sothosecharmingyoungstersrotetheirsampans,heartbuoyantwithtacitlone,passontoeachothercupsofwirewhiletheirbird-shapedprowsdriftaround.Fromthroetotimetheiroarsarecaughtindanglingalga,andduckweedflowapartthemomenttheirboatsareabouttomoteon.Theirslenderfigures,girdledwithplainsilk,treadwatchfullyonboard.Thisisthetimewhenspringisgratingintosummer,theleavesatendergreenandtheflowersblooming-amongwhichthegirlsaregigglingwhenevadinganout-reachingstem,theirskirtstuckedinforfearthatthesampanmighttilt. Thatisaglimpseofthosemerrymakingscenes.Itmusthavebeenfascinating:butunfortunatelywehavelongbeendeniedsuchadelight.ThenIrecallthoselinesinBalladofXizhouIsland: Gatheringthelotus,IantintheSouthPond,/Theliliesinautumnreachovermyhead;/LoweringmyheadItoywiththelawsseeds./Look,theyareasfreshasthewasterunderneath. Ifthereweresomebodygatheringlotusestonight,shecouldtellthattheliliesherearehighenoughto"reachoverherhead";but,onewouldcertainlymissthesightofthewater.SomymemoriesdriftbacktotheSouthafterall.Deepinmythoughts,Ilookedup,justtofindmyselfatthedoorofmyownhouse.GentlyIpushedthedooropenandwalkedin.Notasoundinside,mywifehadbeenfastasleepforquiteawhile