Picking up fallen leaves collection

Author: Huang Chang
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: In the late years of the Cultural Revolution, Huang Yongyu came to Shanghai, and I accompanied him to visit Ba Jin. Yongyu brought greetings from Shen Congwen. Xiao Shan was no longer there, and I only heard the sad news much later. Ba Jin’s hair had turned completely white, which surprised me. There were many things I wanted to say, but I found myself speechless. This meeting was constrained and lonely. How many times Ba Jin had come to West Lake, perhaps even he himself couldn’t remember clearly. In the early 1980s, he would always come to Hangzhou to stay for a period each year. He mostly stayed at the Xiling Hotel by the lakeside. From his window, he could see the misty view of West Lake. He once asked me if the small island in the distance was Ruangong Dūn. At that time, his mobility was limited, and the outdoor balcony was filled with rainwater, making it impossible to cross. Every afternoon, he would often sit in the lounge downstairs, watching the bustling foreign tourists coming and going, sitting for half the day. He never gave up the opportunity to observe people. In the autumn of 1983, I accompanied him to Hangzhou again, and we also visited Shaoxing together. Huang Huaqing (Yuan) joined us on the trip. He had long dreamed of visiting the hometown of Lu Xun, and this time, his wish finally came true. We visited Lu Xun’s former residence and took a photograph in Baicao Garden. We received a gift of "Golden Unreplaceable" ink brushes, which were Lu Xun’s favorite. Sitting in front of the hall of the former residence, he inscribed a message for the memorial hall. We then went to the opposite side of the former residence, crossed the small bridge in front of the house, and entered "Three Flavor Study." He squeezed into the narrow desk where Lu Xun had studied in his childhood, smiled happily, and fit himself in. During lunch, the host brought out Shaoxing wine that had been stored for decades. There was only a small bottle, but each of us received a small cup. It was indeed a rare aged wine, now amber in color. After lunch, we went to the Tomb of Yu the Great. Although he didn’t climb the long, high steps in front of the main hall, he did walk up to the stele pavilion with the red characters on it. In Hangzhou, his interactions with friends—from old friends like Huang Yuan and Xia Yan to the monks of Lingyin Temple and the young writers—showed the joy he found in friendship. He drew strength and happiness from the friendship of friends and readers. He had walked through the ninety-plus years of a non-peaceful life, protected by his readers. He had fervently hoped that Bing Xin and Cao Yu would come to Hangzhou for a joyful reunion, but it never happened. As he passed by Baiye Bridge, he recalled the passing of Fang Lingru. Every mountain, every water, every blade of grass, and every tree in Hangzhou was connected to his friends. Hangzhou has many famous landmarks, but he didn’t visit them all. He was particularly determined to visit Yue’s Tomb. Among the many steles left in Yue’s Temple, he lingered for a long time before the inscription by Wen Zhengming. Over the years, there had been countless inscriptions at Yue’s Tomb, as if a large symposium had been held with poets and scholars from hundreds of years, but none of them dared to broaden their perspective beyond blaming Qin Hetao and the other four villains. It was Wen Zhengming who exposed the truth, "Laughing at the petty, one Hui could not do it, meeting their desires," and brought the high-responsible Song Gaozong to light. Ba Lao’s visit to Yue’s Temple was in the early 1980s, not long after the Cultural Revolution. In his Random Thoughts, he left behind essays like West Lake and Thoughts on the Way, pointing out that as long as one followed the line of thought and overcame obstacles, the right conclusions would naturally follow. It seemed that this was an important lesson he had learned from the lake. Since the new era, I have once again become a guest in his home and have fully enjoyed the joy of chatting. Over the past decade, his main work had been writing Random Thoughts. In a small essay, I described it as a tragic book, and later, he acknowledged this. Every time we met, he would say the same thing: "I hope you write more." This always startled me. For sixty years, ever since he had published a collection of my works, he had been saying this. From him, I felt the warm, heartfelt concern of an elder, as if I was still the young man of that day, happily working and living under the shade of the old tree.