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贾平凹 《月迹》
我们这些孩子，什么都觉得新鲜，常常又什么都觉得不满足；中秋的夜里，我们在院子里盼着月亮，好久却不见出来，便坐回中堂里，放了竹窗帘儿闷着，缠奶奶说故事。奶奶是会说故事的；说了一个，还要再说一个……奶奶突然说：“月亮进来了！”
我们看时，那竹窗帘儿里，果然有了月亮，款款地，悄没声儿地溜进来，出现在窗前的穿衣镜上了：原来月亮是长了腿的，爬着那竹帘格儿，先是一个白道儿，再是半圆，渐渐地爬得高了，穿衣镜上的圆便满盈了。我们都高兴起来，又都屏气儿不出，生怕那是个尘影儿变的，会一口气吹跑呢。月亮还在竹帘儿上爬，那满圆却慢慢儿又亏了，缺了；末了，便全没了踪迹，只留下一个空镜，一个失望。奶奶说：“它走了，它是多多的；你们快出去寻月吧。”
我们就都跑出门去，它果然就在院子里，但再也不是那么一个满满的圆了，进院了的白光，是玉玉的，银银的，灯光也没有这般儿亮的。院子中央处，是那棵粗粗的桂树，疏疏的枝，疏疏的叶，桂花还没有开，却有了累累的骨朵儿了。我们都走近去，不知道那个满圆儿去哪儿了。却疑心这骨朵儿是繁星儿变的；抬头看着天空，星儿似乎就比平日少了许多。月亮正在头顶，明显大多了，也圆多了，清清晰晰看见里边有了什么东西。
“奶奶，那月上是什么呢？”我问。
“是树，孩子。”奶奶说。
“什么树呢？”
“桂树。”
我们都面面相觑了，倏忽间，哪儿好像有了一种气息，就在我们身后袅袅，到了头发梢儿上，添了一种淡淡的痒痒的感觉；似乎我们已在了月里，那月桂分明就是我们身后的这一棵了。
奶奶瞧着我们，就笑了：
“傻孩子，那里边已经有人了呢。”
“谁？”我们都吃惊了。
“嫦娥。”奶奶说。
“嫦娥是谁？”
“一个女子。”哦，一个女子。我想。月亮里，地该是银铺的，墙该是玉砌的：那么好个地方，配住的一定是十分漂亮的女子了。
“有三妹漂亮吗？”
“和三妹一样漂亮的。”
三妹就乐了：
“啊啊，月亮是属于我的了！”
三妹是我们中最漂亮的，我们都羡慕起来。看着她的狂样儿，心里却有了一股儿的嫉妒。
我们便争执了起来，每个人都说月亮是属于自己的。奶奶从屋里端了一壶甜酒出来，给我们每人倒了一小杯儿，说：“孩子们，你们瞧瞧你们的酒杯，你们都有一个月亮哩！”
我们都看着那杯酒，果真里边就浮起一个小小的月亮的满圆。捧着，一动不动的，手刚一动，它便酥酥地颤，使人可怜儿的样子。大家都喝下肚去，月亮就在每一个人的心里了。奶奶说：“月亮是每个人的，它并没有走，你们再去找吧。”
我们越发觉得奇了，便在院里找起来。妙极了，它真没有走去，我们很快不在葡萄叶儿上，磁花盆儿上，爷爷的锨刃儿上发现了。我们来了兴趣，竟寻出了院门。
院门外，便是一条小河。河水细细的，却漫着一大片的净沙；全没白日那么的粗糙，灿灿地闪着银光，柔柔和和地像水面了。我们从沙滩上跑过去，弟弟刚站到河的上湾，就大呼小叫了：
“月亮在这儿！”
妹妹几乎同时在下湾喊道：“月亮在这儿！”
我两处去看了，两处的水里都有月亮，沿着河沿跑，而且哪一处的水里都有月亮了。我们都看起天上，我突然又在弟弟妹妹的眼睛里看见了小小的月亮。我想，我的眼睛里也一定是会有的。噢，月亮竟是这么多的：只要你愿意，它就有了哩。
我们就坐在沙滩上，掬着沙儿，瞧那光辉，我说：
“你们说，月亮是个什么呢？”
“月亮是我所要的。”弟弟说。
“月亮是个好。”妹妹说。
我同意他们的话。正像奶奶说的那样：它是属于我们的，每个人的。我们就又仰起头来看那天上的月亮，月亮白光光的，在天空上。我突然觉得，我们有了月亮，那无边无际的天空也是我们的了：那月亮不是我们按在天空上的印章吗？大家都觉得满足了，身子也来了困意，就坐在沙滩上，相依相偎地甜甜地睡了一会儿。
作品译文
After the Moon
We kids find everything new and novel, but often not to our contentment; on Mid-autumn night, we sit in the courtyard, expecting the moon to come up but, after a long while of waiting, it isn’t. We move back to the middle room of the house and, drawing the bamboo curtain down, plead with Grandma to tell stories. Grandma is a good story-teller; she tells one and we want another … and suddenly, she says:
“The moon is coming in.”
We turn to look and, sure enough, it has climbed into the bamboo curtain. Slowly and quietly, it is slipping in and showing up in the full-length mirror in front of the window: it turns out that the moon has legs, walking up to the checked curtain, presenting itself first in a whitish line, then in a crescent and, as it is climbing further on in the mirror, it becomes a full circle. We are all delighted, but hold our breath for fear that it might be the shadow of dust and get blown away with a slight breath. Along the curtain the moon is still climbing, losing its fullness bit by bit, until it is gone altogether, leaving the blank mirror standing there and a disappointment in our hearts.
Grandma says:
“It’s gone, because it’ s in a hurry; go and look for it outside.”
We come swarming out and find it right in the yard, but it is no longer a full circle. The yard is flooded with whitish light, like jade, like silver, outshining lantern light. In the middle of the yard stands that thick laurel, with well-spaced branches and leaves. Though it is not in blossom, it is laden with buds. Not knowing where the full circle has gone, we move up to the laurel, wondering if its buds are not metamorphosed from stars; looking upward, we find there are fewer stars than usual in the sky. But the moon overhead is much larger and rounder, and in it there is something very clear that catches our eye.
“Grandma, what is it that is up there in the moon?”
I inquire.
“A tree, my child.” Grandma answers.
“What tree?”
“A laurel.”
We look at one another and soon we sense as if a waft of something in the air is pulsing just behind us and, when it reaches the top of our hair, we begin to have a barely perceptible itchy feeling; we seem already in the moon and no doubt the laurel in it is the one standing in the yard.
Grandma looks at us, smiling:
“My silly children, you know, there is someone living up there.”
“Who?” We are amazed.
“Change.” Grandma says.
“And who is Chang’e?”
“A girl.”
Oh, a girl. In the moon the ground must be paved with silver and the walls laid with jade, I guess. The one worthy of living in such a wonderful place must he a beautiful girl.
“Can she compare with my third sister?”
“She is just as beautiful as your sister.”
My sister’s eyes gleam with a smile.
“Ah, the moon is mine!”
Third Sister is the most beautiful of us all and our admiration for her is called forth. Seeing her excited with high glee, we are possessed by a sense of envy. We begin quarreling, each claiming that the moon is his or hers.
Grandma comes out from the room with a pot of sweet wine and, filling a small cup for each of us, says:
“Children, look into your wine cups and you have each got a moon in it.”
We look into our cups and indeed there is a small full moon quivering in it. We hold it in our hands, trying to keep it still. A slight stir of the fingers will set it quavering like ripples disturbed, evoking compassion on our part. We drink it up and the moon has now gone down to our hearts.
Grandma says:
“The moon belongs to every one of you. It hasn’t left yet. Go and look for it again.”
We become more curious about it and start looking for it around the yard. Oh, how incredible! It hasn’t left, indeed. We find it in the grape leaves, on the porcelain plant pots and on the edge of Grandpa’s spade. Our interest aroused, we go on looking for it outside the yard. Outside there is a small stream, its clear water running over a large stretch of clean sand. The sand under water, not as coarse as it looks during the day, glitters with silver. We run across the sandy beach to the edge of the stream. My brother, running to the upper bend, cries with delight:”The moon is here!”
Almost at the same moment my sister cries at the lower bend:”The moon is here!”
I am drawn to both places and in both places I find the moon in the water. Running from the upper bend to the lower one, I see the moon in the water along the whole length of it. When we look up toward the sky, I happen to see the tiny moon in the eyes of my brother and sister. Then it must be in my own eyes also, I guess. Ah, there are so many moons in so many places: so long as you wish to see it, it comes for you to see.
We sit on the sandy beach and, scooping up the fine sand with our hands and intrigued by the silvery reflections of the moon, I ask:
“Can you tell me what the moon is?”
“The moon is the thing I ask for.” My brother says.
“The moon is something good.” My sister says.
I agree with them. Just as Grandma says, it belongs to us, every one of us. Then again we look up at the moon. It is shedding whitish light, up in the sky. Suddenly it occurs to me that, since the moon is ours, the vast expanse of the sky is also ours: isn’t the moon the seal mark we’ve just impressed in the sky?
We feel fulfilled in our search for the moon.
And then drowsiness seems to be taking effect on us; seated on the sand nestling against each other, we sleep a short sweet sleep.
