Read Song of Everlasting Sorrow Online
Authors: Wang Anyi
Song of Everlasting Sorrow (4 page)
On the rooftops are young pigeons; in the bedchambers are the young girls’ hearts. The last rays of the westerly sun that come through the window seem to be singing an elegy, pouring their hearts out in a final display of emotion. On an afternoon bristling with activity, this is the only bit of helplessness. There is something ancient about this helplessness, reminiscent of classical poetry or a plucked zither—but who is there to listen? It cannot even measure up to a floating cloud. Clouds can transform into wind and rain, whereas this can only turn into mist, to be blown away on the wind, leaving no trace behind. Sadly, the vestal bedchamber in the Shanghai
longtang
will sometimes turn into a mirage, a resplendent earthly paradise that vanishes in one fleeting moment.
longtang
will sometimes turn into a mirage, a resplendent earthly paradise that vanishes in one fleeting moment.
This vestal bedchamber has actually undergone a mutation. Drawing whatever it can from its environment, it is always eager to learn, but follows no fixed rules. It builds itself up from scratch on the assumption that everything is up for grabs. Here old Chinese parables like
Tales of Virtuous Women
coexist with Hollywood romances; high-heeled shoes are worn under a
cheongsam
of indigo blue. Elegant verses—“Evening falls over the Xunyang River as I see off my guest, Maple leaves and bamboo reeds rustle in the autumn wind” and such like—are intoned alongside popular song lyrics like “Back when we were young.” Confucian homilies on the segregation of the sexes are discussed in the same breath as women’s liberation. One exalts Ibsen’s Nora as a spiritual leader for having the courage to leave home while deep down inside idolizing Oriole in
The Western Wing,
who finds a strong man she can depend on for the rest of her life.
Tales of Virtuous Women
coexist with Hollywood romances; high-heeled shoes are worn under a
cheongsam
of indigo blue. Elegant verses—“Evening falls over the Xunyang River as I see off my guest, Maple leaves and bamboo reeds rustle in the autumn wind” and such like—are intoned alongside popular song lyrics like “Back when we were young.” Confucian homilies on the segregation of the sexes are discussed in the same breath as women’s liberation. One exalts Ibsen’s Nora as a spiritual leader for having the courage to leave home while deep down inside idolizing Oriole in
The Western Wing,
who finds a strong man she can depend on for the rest of her life.
It is not that there are no rules here, just that these rules are simply too complicated to sort out. In the end, everything is blended together in the bedchamber. You cannot lay a charge of deliberate fraudulence, because the heart remains true and is totally in earnest. Like the farmer who rises with the sun and returns from the fields at dusk, each young lady has also worked diligently on the management of her bedchamber. It is not always easy to distinguish the well-bred ones from the uncouth, or those who are decent from their opposite. The rich girl behind the big black gate at the rear of the
longtang
and the dancing girl in the
tingzijian
next door serve equally as models: sedate and dignified, flirtatious and sensual—it’s up to them to choose between these. Their mothers hope that they will find a good husband, their male teachers challenge them to declare their independence, and their foreign priests incite them to follow the Lord. The fine clothes in the store window call out to them, the famous stars on the silver screen call out to them, even the heroines of their favorite novels call out to them. Their bodies may be sitting in the bedchamber, but their hearts and minds are somewhere else. Countless roads lie before them, but in the end all rivers flow into the sea. With Western dress sizes on their lips, they are thinking about fabrics for their next
cheongsam
. Their hearts are wild; they desire to travel the world, but they couldn’t be more timid and hesitant, always needing the maidservant to see them off and pick them up when they go to the late movie. On their way to and from school, they cross the street only in large groups. They are so bashful they dare not raise their head in the presence of a stranger. The dirty banter of the streetside bum is enough to reduce them to tears. And so you see, it is a bit of a contradiction. In the final analysis, they have only themselves to blame for the trouble they get into.
longtang
and the dancing girl in the
tingzijian
next door serve equally as models: sedate and dignified, flirtatious and sensual—it’s up to them to choose between these. Their mothers hope that they will find a good husband, their male teachers challenge them to declare their independence, and their foreign priests incite them to follow the Lord. The fine clothes in the store window call out to them, the famous stars on the silver screen call out to them, even the heroines of their favorite novels call out to them. Their bodies may be sitting in the bedchamber, but their hearts and minds are somewhere else. Countless roads lie before them, but in the end all rivers flow into the sea. With Western dress sizes on their lips, they are thinking about fabrics for their next
cheongsam
. Their hearts are wild; they desire to travel the world, but they couldn’t be more timid and hesitant, always needing the maidservant to see them off and pick them up when they go to the late movie. On their way to and from school, they cross the street only in large groups. They are so bashful they dare not raise their head in the presence of a stranger. The dirty banter of the streetside bum is enough to reduce them to tears. And so you see, it is a bit of a contradiction. In the final analysis, they have only themselves to blame for the trouble they get into.
The vestal bedchamber could not be more irksome than in the afternoon. During the spring and summer the windows are open and, all at once, the cries of cicadas screeching in the parasol trees, the hubbub of the passing trolley cars, the clapping of the sweets peddler, and the songs on the neighbor’s phonograph force their way inside, disrupting your peace of mind. Most annoying of all are the faint and trivial sounds that are barely noticeable. You cannot tell what they are or where they come from—incessant, insistent, ambiguous, and shady. You can neither catch hold of them nor chase them away. These curious sounds fill up your heart, making these idle afternoons doubly tedious.
In autumn and winter the haze can linger for days on end. The haze of the Jiangnan region around the lower Yangtze valley has a weight to it; it presses down upon your heart. But how quiet it is—even a sigh is gulped down and comes back out as mist. The fire in the charcoal brazier, originally placed there to drive away the mist, flickers as it is choked by the thickness of the enshrouding haze. The alternations of dark and light, warmth and cold in these afternoons unite to perturb you. When you awaken, they assault your eyes and ears. They plague your dreams as you sleep. When you are at your needlework, they pull at your needles and thread, and as you read, they play with the sentences on the page. If two of you are sitting together chatting, they twist and tug at your words. Afternoon comes midway through the day, when all the daily anticipations and hopes are approaching an end, and with that come impatience and despondency. Even hope is a struggling kind of hope. This is the
Götterdammerung
of the bedchamber, when the heart has grown old before life has even begun. Just thinking of this, your heart is rent asunder. But you mustn’t tell a soul—even if you did, there would be no way to explain.
Götterdammerung
of the bedchamber, when the heart has grown old before life has even begun. Just thinking of this, your heart is rent asunder. But you mustn’t tell a soul—even if you did, there would be no way to explain.
It would be cruel to look too closely at the young lady’s bedchamber in the Shanghai
longtang.
Oleanders grow in other families’ courtyards and pink clouds fill their sky; outside her window is a lonely parasol tree. A sea of neon lights dyes the Shanghai skyline a crimson hue, while a single lamp burns in her room. The ticking clock seems to be counting away the years; the years are good, but they won’t stand up to being counted. The afternoons are like an autumn filled with impending catastrophes. There is a panicky kind of energy, like that of a man so hungry he no longer cares what he eats. This leads to ill-considered actions, where one fails to mind the consequences, like a moth throwing itself into the flame without the slightest regret. And so the afternoons lay traps—the more enticing, the more dangerous. The brilliance of the afternoon always has something ominous looming over it, as if it is playing some kind of trick. Tantalized by the wind and the shadows, you let your defenses down. On the phonograph, Zhou Xuan sings her “Song of the Four Seasons,” counting out all the beauties between spring and winter to poison and bewitch your mind—because only the nice things are mentioned. The pigeons are let loose to soar over the rooftops, but what has actually been released is the heart of the vestal bedchamber. Soaring high and looking down into the window with the flowery curtains, it seems to be reciting the ancient verses: “Easier to part than to reunite” and “It is cold and lonely in high places.”
longtang.
Oleanders grow in other families’ courtyards and pink clouds fill their sky; outside her window is a lonely parasol tree. A sea of neon lights dyes the Shanghai skyline a crimson hue, while a single lamp burns in her room. The ticking clock seems to be counting away the years; the years are good, but they won’t stand up to being counted. The afternoons are like an autumn filled with impending catastrophes. There is a panicky kind of energy, like that of a man so hungry he no longer cares what he eats. This leads to ill-considered actions, where one fails to mind the consequences, like a moth throwing itself into the flame without the slightest regret. And so the afternoons lay traps—the more enticing, the more dangerous. The brilliance of the afternoon always has something ominous looming over it, as if it is playing some kind of trick. Tantalized by the wind and the shadows, you let your defenses down. On the phonograph, Zhou Xuan sings her “Song of the Four Seasons,” counting out all the beauties between spring and winter to poison and bewitch your mind—because only the nice things are mentioned. The pigeons are let loose to soar over the rooftops, but what has actually been released is the heart of the vestal bedchamber. Soaring high and looking down into the window with the flowery curtains, it seems to be reciting the ancient verses: “Easier to part than to reunite” and “It is cold and lonely in high places.”
The bedchamber in a Shanghai
longtang
is a place where anything can happen, where even melancholy is noisy and clamorous. When it drizzles, raindrops write the word “melancholy” on the window. The mist in the back
longtang
is melancholic in an ambiguous way—it unaccountably hastens people along. It nibbles away at the patience she needs to be a daughter, eats away at the fortitude she must have to conduct herself as a woman. It tells her that the arrow is on the bowstring, about to fly, that the gold pin is in the box, and all is ready. Every day is more difficult to endure than the last, but, on looking back, one rues the shortness of the time. Consequently, one is at a complete loss. The young lady’s bedchamber embodies the naiveté of the Shanghai
longtang
, passing in a single night’s time from being young and innocent to being worldly and wise, in a never-ending cycle, one generation after another. The vestal bedchamber is but a mirage thrown up by the Shanghai
longtang
. When the clouds open to reveal the rising sun, it turns to smoke and mist. The curtain rises and falls, one act follows another, into eternity.
Pigeonslongtang
is a place where anything can happen, where even melancholy is noisy and clamorous. When it drizzles, raindrops write the word “melancholy” on the window. The mist in the back
longtang
is melancholic in an ambiguous way—it unaccountably hastens people along. It nibbles away at the patience she needs to be a daughter, eats away at the fortitude she must have to conduct herself as a woman. It tells her that the arrow is on the bowstring, about to fly, that the gold pin is in the box, and all is ready. Every day is more difficult to endure than the last, but, on looking back, one rues the shortness of the time. Consequently, one is at a complete loss. The young lady’s bedchamber embodies the naiveté of the Shanghai
longtang
, passing in a single night’s time from being young and innocent to being worldly and wise, in a never-ending cycle, one generation after another. The vestal bedchamber is but a mirage thrown up by the Shanghai
longtang
. When the clouds open to reveal the rising sun, it turns to smoke and mist. The curtain rises and falls, one act follows another, into eternity.
Pigeons are the spirit of this city. Every morning see just how many pigeons soar into the sky over the billowing sea of endless rooftops! They are the only living beings that can look down upon this city. Who can observe this city more clearly and distinctly than they? They are witnesses to unsolved mysteries without number. How many secrets they must hold in their eyes! As they soar above the city with its countless buildings, they gather up the scenes in the windows—these, though only scenes from everyday life, by their sheer mass pile up into a soul-stirring vista. Actually the pigeons are the only ones who can appreciate the true essence of this city. By dint of leaving early and returning late every day, they learn much. On top of this, they all have phenomenal memories and never forget what they see—otherwise how can you explain their ability always to find their way? We cannot ever know just what symbols and landmarks they use to navigate their way through the city. They seem to be as familiar with every dark corner of this city as with the patterned feathers on their own wings. The highest point in the city that we spoke of a little while ago actually refers to their vantage point. Even when human beings climb to the highest summit, our point of view is still no match for that of the pigeons. For in two-legged beasts like us, which cannot move about freely, our hearts too are encumbered—making our horizons so narrow that it is almost pathetic. We live among our own kind and always see the same things, incapable of discerning anything new. Our hearts are empty of curiosity, as if everything is already understood. That is because we fail to see anything that is out of the ordinary. Pigeons are different. Every evening they return home loaded with new knowledge. Imagine how many pairs of eyes like this there are soaring in the sky above the city!
Street scenes are a common sight, replaying day in and day out. They are in part performances, and are therefore formulaic. Though iridescent with color and arresting to the eye, they follow conventional patterns. Everyone goes about on the street wearing a mask, as if attending an outdoor party. Their words and laughter are the politenesses exchanged at a dinner party; their behavior cannot even qualify as conventional, it is but the shell that surrounds convention.
The scenes in the
longtang
neighborhoods are the only real scenes. They are the complete opposite of the street scenes. On the outside they all appear to be the same: the rows of apartment buildings look identical—you can barely tell them apart; like street scenes they seem to be following the same conventional pattern. Look inside, however, and you will discover a world of infinite variety. Each and every one is different, leaving you groping about for the door. Neighbors divided by a single wall may as well be mountains apart; what goes on next door may as well be happening a million miles away. Who can ever know? The world of the
longtang
is rife with unsolved mysteries, one coming hard on the heels of another. These rumors are actually nothing but bluff and bluster; yet serious news does not count—in the end you are still left groping around in the dark. In the
longtang
of Shanghai everyone claims that his version is right and there is never room for arbitration. Even the truth is shrouded in darkness, so rumor becomes an even muddier affair. Thus from the outside the
longtang
appear orderly, but on the inside they are in complete chaos. The people on the other side of the windows—the protagonists—are the most confused of all; as time goes on they grow numb and unfeeling—they may as well be blind.
longtang
neighborhoods are the only real scenes. They are the complete opposite of the street scenes. On the outside they all appear to be the same: the rows of apartment buildings look identical—you can barely tell them apart; like street scenes they seem to be following the same conventional pattern. Look inside, however, and you will discover a world of infinite variety. Each and every one is different, leaving you groping about for the door. Neighbors divided by a single wall may as well be mountains apart; what goes on next door may as well be happening a million miles away. Who can ever know? The world of the
longtang
is rife with unsolved mysteries, one coming hard on the heels of another. These rumors are actually nothing but bluff and bluster; yet serious news does not count—in the end you are still left groping around in the dark. In the
longtang
of Shanghai everyone claims that his version is right and there is never room for arbitration. Even the truth is shrouded in darkness, so rumor becomes an even muddier affair. Thus from the outside the
longtang
appear orderly, but on the inside they are in complete chaos. The people on the other side of the windows—the protagonists—are the most confused of all; as time goes on they grow numb and unfeeling—they may as well be blind.
The only clear-seeing eyes belong to the flying creatures that pierce the clouds and penetrate the mist: there is no place they cannot go—they are truly free! Their freedom taunts men’s hearts. Passing over the street scenes as familiar sights, their sharp eyes focus on the most unusual occurrences. Their vision has the ability to distinguish truth from falsehood—they are masters at capturing meaning. Their senses are extraordinarily acute. Unconstrained by outmoded customs and habits, they are nature’s sole offspring in the city. They circle above the dense rooftops as if circling over the rubble of ancient ruins, the last survivors of a catastrophe. Wheeling back and forth in the sky, their flight is marked with a trace of desperation, and so the sights and colors that enter into their eyes cannot but take on a gloomy tint.
It should be noted that there is another creature in the skies of this city—the sparrow. Sparrows, however, are always fawning obsequiously. They never fly high, but aim only to perch on someone’s balcony or land in someone’s courtyard, pecking at the crumbs that have fallen into the cracks in the cement—they abase themselves to the lowest level. Although they are frequent visitors to the
longtang
neighborhoods, they are never welcome. They let people chase them hither and yon and have no self-respect. They are without wisdom, the most vulgar of the birds. Their powers of observation are even less than ours, because their innate ability is inferior and they lack the benefits of human civilization. One cannot mention them in the same breath as pigeons: pigeons are animals of the spirit, while sparrows are animals of the flesh. Their breed is especially suited to living in the back alleys of Shanghai—the
longtang
are their natural home. Petty and frivolous, they are always entangled in gossip. A part of the close atmosphere that overhangs the alleys, they foster vulgarity and baseness here.
longtang
neighborhoods, they are never welcome. They let people chase them hither and yon and have no self-respect. They are without wisdom, the most vulgar of the birds. Their powers of observation are even less than ours, because their innate ability is inferior and they lack the benefits of human civilization. One cannot mention them in the same breath as pigeons: pigeons are animals of the spirit, while sparrows are animals of the flesh. Their breed is especially suited to living in the back alleys of Shanghai—the
longtang
are their natural home. Petty and frivolous, they are always entangled in gossip. A part of the close atmosphere that overhangs the alleys, they foster vulgarity and baseness here.
Pigeons, by contrast, never linger around the alleys; you will never find them perched on the balconies and windowsills or in the courtyards, trying to ingratiate themselves. They always rise high, the city rooftops at their feet. Flapping their wings as they soar through the sky, they carry with them an expression of disdain. Haughty, but they are not unfeeling—otherwise why would they brave the long flight home? They are humanity’s true friends, not the kind that stick around just to share the loot; their friendship is based on understanding, sympathy, compassion, and love. If you have seen that small red cloth tied to a bamboo stick fluttering in the wind at dusk—the beacon that brings the pigeons home—you would understand. The agreement implied in it is almost childlike. The pigeons have compassion enough for all the secrets they carry deep in their hearts, and their trustworthiness is equal to their compassion. Flocks of pigeons are the most sublime displays of comradeship in this city, and they also make for one of the most beautiful scenes in the Shanghai
longtang
. The rooftop coops people build to shelter them, just so they can see them off in the morning and welcome them back in the evening, represent the affection of the city’s inhabitants—a soft spot in this city’s heart.
longtang
. The rooftop coops people build to shelter them, just so they can see them off in the morning and welcome them back in the evening, represent the affection of the city’s inhabitants—a soft spot in this city’s heart.
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