The Complete Translation Collection of Ba Jin - Volume 6

Author: Galchyn (Russia)/et al
Translator: Ba Jin
Publisher:
Publish Date: 1997-06-01
Features: Excerpt: Red Flowers Commemorate Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev—“I declare on behalf of His Majesty Emperor Peter I that I am inspecting this lunatic asylum!” These words were spoken in a harsh, loud voice. The asylum’s scribe sat at a desk stained with ink, registering the names of patients in an old ledger, and couldn’t help but smile slightly. But the two young men escorting the patient had no smiles: they had just brought the lunatic from the railway here and had been with him for two full days; their legs were almost too tired to stand. On their last stop before arriving here, the patient’s condition had worsened. They had somehow managed to find a tight-fitting garment for him and asked a few train attendants and a police officer to help him put it on. That’s how they brought him into the city and then to the asylum. His appearance was terrifying. His gray clothes had been torn into rags during his, and now he wore a rough canvas tight-fitting garment with a low collar, tightly wrapped around his body. The two long sleeves were tied behind him, forcing his arms to cross tightly against his chest. His pair of wide, swollen red eyes (he hadn’t slept for ten days) glowed with dull, intense light; his lower lip trembled due to nervous spasms. His tangled, curly hair fell like mane over his forehead. He walked quickly yet heavily, pacing from corner to corner in the office, his gaze probing the old file cabinets and chairs covered in paint cloth, occasionally glancing at the two companions who had come with him. “Take him to the ward. Go to the right.” “I know, I know. I came here with you last year. We were inspecting the asylum. I know everything. It’s not easy to fool me,” the patient said. He turned toward the door. The guard opened it for him; he lifted his head high and walked out of the office with the same quick, heavy, and resolute steps, almost running toward the right, toward the ward for the mentally ill. The two men escorting him nearly couldn’t keep up. “Ring the bell! I can’t ring it. You’ve tied my hands.” The doorman opened the door, and the group entered the asylum.
Postscript: Preface by Shu Ji: A few years ago, someone discovered a short story I translated in the Cotang literary monthly published in Chengdu in 1923. It turned out that I had published a story by Galchyn back then. I had only translated one work in Chengdu, from the English translation of A Collection of Russian Short Stories, and I no longer remember where I found the book. I only remember that my cousin had already married and moved to Leshan. That year, I went to Shanghai with my third brother and took a wooden boat past Leshan. After the boat docked, we went ashore to visit my aunt and cousin. It was a ceremonial visit, and we couldn’t stay long. My aunt asked some questions, my brother answered them, and we left in a hurry. My cousin spoke little and seemed melancholic; I felt he was weighed down by family responsibilities. I’ve said before that I often rely on translation to learn. I translated Galchyn’s short story Signal (originally translated as The Flag), and the humanitarianism expressed in his work moved me. Vasily Chudakov, full of resentment, complaining that “wolves don’t eat wolves, but people devour each other,” suffered unfair treatment from his superiors and went to pry the railway tracks with tools. His colleague Xie Ming discovered him. This kind-hearted neighbor ran to the tracks, tore a piece of cotton from his hat to make a small flag, and pulled out a knife from his boot to stab his left arm, staining the flag with his blood and raising it to stop the train. When the locomotive was already visible, he suddenly went blind, the flag was dropped, but it didn’t fall—another person’s hand caught it. The train stopped, and people jumped off, forming a large crowd. Vasily lowered his head and struggled to say, “Tie me up. I pried a section of the tracks.” Beside him lay a man unconscious in a pool of blood. Signal is a story like that. I didn’t keep a draft of this translation and later redone it. That was during the early days of liberation. At the time, Shi Tuo was editing a series for Shanghai Publishing Company and asked me to contribute. I translated a few short stories for him, which resulted in three small volumes. He greatly admired Galchyn. In the 1980s, I compiled them into Red Flowers and handed it to Sanlian Bookstore for publication. I still remember Shi Tuo urging me to finish the manuscript. By the time Red Flowers was published, he was already gone. Shi Tuo was a famous realist novelist who paid great attention to style and was meticulous in his writing. He should have produced more great works, but he didn’t get the chance to develop his talent. He suffered unfair treatment, and his novel History Is Unmerciful was cut short. During the Great Leap Forward, he was further persecuted and died silently. Readers almost forgot him. Recently, I heard that someone wants to reprint his works—I hope it’s true. Shi Tuo’s works will surely endure.
I also translated Oscar Wilde’s fairy tales for the sake of learning, but this was learning how to be a person. What I love most is Wilde’s The Happy Prince. Winter came, and the statue of the Happy Prince, “tall and far-sighted,” saw the suffering of people everywhere. He asked the swallows that were about to fly south to take the treasures from his body and give them to those in need until he had nothing left, and the swallows froze to death at his feet. Wilde was a famous prose master. His fairy tales had a unique style, filled with beautiful language. The Happy Prince died of a broken heart and was later invited to heaven. In both writing and being a person, I had no chance to learn from him. That’s why I didn’t touch Wilde’s fairy tales until 1942. I was traveling alone to Chengdu, with only a copy of Wilde by my side. In my Travel Notes, I wrote, “Because I cherished the bright sunshine, I also translated Wilde’s fairy tale titled The Selfish Giant. That year, I also translated The Happy Prince in Chongqing.” Everything fears a beginning—once you start, it continues. Although I later put the book back on the shelf, these two characters kept me tied. For the giant and the prince, I placed Wilde beside me again. Year after year passed, and when I felt lonely and painful, I turned to Wilde. My translations gradually increased page by page. After a few years, the book was completed, and my understanding of these two characters deepened. This is my learning. Since my youth, I loved reading Storm’s novels, especially Guo Moruo’s translation of Lake of Dreams. In 1925, when I was learning Esperanto, I also memorized the Esperanto translation. I took this book with me when I went to France, but I didn’t expect to drop it into the Indian Ocean by accident while the ship was passing through on its way to India. I was extremely disappointed. A few years later, I saw a copy of The Late-Blooming Rose at a friend’s place in Shanghai. It was a Japanese-published pocket book used as a German self-study textbook, with Japanese annotations. I borrowed the book and kept it in my coat pocket, reading a few passages whenever I had time. I could still recite some of it. I remember in 1933, when I took the train from Tianjin to Beijing to visit Shen Congwen at his home, The Late-Blooming Rose was in my pocket. That’s why I quoted the words of a German novelist in one of my essays, On the Tianjin-Bejing Road. In 1943, I was in Guilin and borrowed Storm’s Summer Story (in German) from my friend Chen Zhanyuan. I took it home and read it casually at times, sometimes translating a few passages, and surprisingly finished translating Lake of Dreams and The Summer Story. Later, I selected three essays, including The Late-Blooming Rose, and compiled them into a small collection, which was published in Guilin. I wrote a postscript to introduce it, saying, “I don’t want to introduce it to the general readers. However, for those weary souls, this elegant prose, simple structure, and sincere emotion may offer some comfort.” This was my thought then, and it still is today. In the Hall is also translated from The Summer Story and was published in a journal edited by my friend Xiong Fuxi, but it wasn’t included in any collection. Since there wasn’t enough time to revise it this time, I’ll include it in this collection.
Now, let’s talk about Six People. This book is neither a novel nor literary criticism; it is still an artistic work. It was serialized in Literary Spring edited by Fan Quan. Later, it was published by Cultural Life Publishing House, and after the Cultural Revolution, it was reprinted by Sanlian Bookstore. About it, I wrote an explanation in the first edition of Cultural Life. It’s been fifty years, but I’d like to borrow it again here and copy it below:
“What is the purpose and meaning of life?” The German revolutionary Rocker borrowed six characters and six answers—six paths—to explain his philosophy of life and clarify his ideal of transforming the world. The six people are his answer to the great question that has troubled countless people.
“Faust seeks the secrets of life in his study, Don Juan indulges in pleasure in his debauchery; doubt corrodes Hamlet’s vitality, Don Quixote’s brave actions lack guidance of the heart; Medardus always thinks only of himself, destroying himself in the process, and Von Auetringen completely sacrifices himself but cannot save others.”
“But in the end, the six people unite as one. Six paths become one.”
“The gates of a new land open. New people tread on new soil. A new sun rises with dazzling brilliance.”
What I saw in my hospital bed was still the same.
Ba Jin, January 12, 1996