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高维晞 《妻子的手》
我又伏案奋笔疾书了。
决心已定，我要用生命的泉水，培育好散文这朵俊美的花儿。我把它当诗来写，工作之余，总是起早带晚，饱蘸满腔热血，不停地挥笔涂抹！
“哎吻！”妻子惊叫了一声，案板不响了。
我放下笔，三步两步奔到厨房。妻子右手棋着左手的食指，闭嘴，皱眉看着它，一股殷红的鲜血，从指尖上汩汩溢出，已经顺着手背滴到水泥地上了。
啊！妻子切菜割破了手！
啊！割破了手的妻子吓傻了！
“不要害怕！把手指摸紧些，抬高一点，我来找药！”我喊道。
于是，一阵手忙脚乱，从抽屉里找出酒精、红药水、脱脂棉、绷带，给她悉心包扎起来。
一切弄好，我牵着妻子的手走回卧室，坐在床上。我把她的手稳稳实实放在自己宽大的手掌里，捧在胸口上，温柔的抚摩着，抚摩着，似乎要抚去它多年的辛劳，抚平它刚刚的切肤之痛。直待看到妻子的脸上，双眉展开，嘴角上引，漾出了微微的笑意，我皱巴巴的心，才一下子舒展开来。
可是，我还是不停地摩挲着，摩挲着。忽然，我好象发现了新大陆：咦？这双原来十指尖尖、细细、柔软的手，怎么这般粗糙了？呀！指头肚儿发紫，皮肤也是松塌塌的，完全失去了往日的弹性。我举到眼前细看：肤色苍白，皱纹密布，青筋突起，更让我惊讶的是，那手背上竟生出了儿时在父辈的肌肤上常常看到的那种淤血一样的老斑。岁月夺去了它的青春，劳累造成了它过早的衰颓。一阵心潮涌动，我眼窝湿润了，晶亮了，漫漫凝聚成粒粒水珠，啪嗒，啪嗒，滴到妻子的手背上。
妻子扭头看看，用肩膀抗我一下，柔声说：“你看你，一把年纪了，还发傻！”说着，像年轻时那样，却把腮儿靠上我的肩头。
往事如似雾，带点甜美、苦涩味儿，一齐涌上了我的心头。
一支轻快的华尔兹舞曲响起，我鼓足勇气，走到她跟前，弯腰施礼，手儿一招，作个邀请的姿态。她羞涩地一笑，很快起立应邀。就这样，我历史性地第一次摸着这双手，带她翩翩起舞了。
我总是学着优雅的样子，很有礼貌地用左手的拇指和另外三个指头，轻轻捏着她并拢的四根手指，用右手掌微微抵住她的后背。可我初学乍练，脚下的节拍太让我分神，不知不觉间，就把她的手儿满把摸紧了，右手也是牢牢实实地用力揽上她的腰。这样，一曲下来，往往是把手儿都摸得汗挽挽的。我只好向她领首，说声“请原谅，我不会跳”，表示十分的歉意。她呢？回之以宽容的一笑，各自找座位坐下。
学校里经常举办舞会。后来，我跳熟练了，人也跳熟识了，可能是在发展到初恋阶段的时候吧，一次，我忽然觉得，她的手竟是那样柔软，像温热的面团儿似的，我甚至想到用古典刁锐里见到的“软玉温香”四个字来形容。后来呢？事情又有发展，我竟可以大模大样，拿过来，放在膝上仔细欣赏了。这时候，我才认真发现未来妻子的手，竟是那样细腻、白嫩、纤长，那样充满着青春的活力。
“啊，真是纤纤擢素手啊！”我赞叹道。
“女孩子的手，不都这样吗？”她娇声娇气地说。
“想来是这样。可我没有仔细比较过。”说完，我暗自笑了，为自己无意中说出一句俏皮话而得意。
她撅起小嘴，瞟了我一眼：“还说呢，才和我跳舞的时候，净使劲捏我的手啦！”
“什么？我捏你的手？啊呀，真是冤枉！”我叫道，“那时候刚学剐舞，只注意脚下的步子，怕别怀对，怕踩着你，浑身紧张，手上的感觉完全是麻木的，哪里注意过怎样摸了你的手啊！”
“那，有什么证据吗？”她调皮地说，有意激我一下。
“证据？那，那，你说我现在还那样吗？”
“现在？”她侧过脸，眼里闪过明亮的一瞬，“现在随便你怎么摸吧！”于是，她把一只娇嫩的手使劲伸到我胸前。
我乐颠颠地顺势把它举到唇边……
当年，这双手，做笔记，写文章，笔尖亲吻着白纸，沙沙沙，像蚕儿吃桑叶，极富音乐感。我惊叹，为什么它竟比自己力大无穷的大手，还要灵巧，聪颖呢？
它还会给我洗衣、缝被、织毛活……没结婚它就开始包办一切了。我曾想，这也许是世界上最美丽，最贤惠的一双手了。
后来，结婚了，谁还注意妻子的手呢？
谁知，二十多年过去了，好象一瞬间，这双手竟变成这般模样……
然而，漫长的岁月证明，这确实是一双勤劳的手，创造奇迹的手！多年来，它坚持工作，为社会创造财富，为人民提供优质的精神食粮。在家里，作为妻子的手，它几乎主宰着一切。它掌管着家庭的财政收支；它带大了一双可爱的儿女；它操持着繁重、琐碎的家务，下班后采购、烹调、洗涮、缝补，空里还要舞文弄墨一番，往往一直忙到深夜。结果是，把一个经济拮据的家庭，管理得井井有条，其乐融融。
岁月的磨砺，这双手也越来越能干了。一块碎花布，在这双手里比比照照，用剪刀三铰两铰，用机器扎扎，跟变戏法似的，很快就成为小女儿的一件裙衣，穿在身上，合体、淡雅、文静，美丽极了。小女儿高兴得发狂，一头扑在妈妈的怀里，狠劲亲吻那双亲爱的手。几个大白菜叶儿，它喳喳喳，切成小条，放在滚油锅里，加上一小撮海米，乒乓一炒，再倒上一些牛奶、团粉等佐料，稍一翻弄，盛出来就是一盘色香味俱美的佳肴。看，盘子里一片白里泛青，上面还点缀着几十颗红色的“星星”。她给它取了个雅致的名字，叫“一天云锦”，客人们吃过，无不交口称道主妇心灵手巧，而一篇初学写作者的两三千字的文稿，经她手增删一过，就成为立意新颖，文字流畅的佳作。作者们满意地称赞说：某编辑妙手著春，起死回生……
妻子是坚贞的。她很满意我严谨的生活态度：事业上积极进取；对爱情贞忠不二；生活俭朴；待人谦和。她更支持我把这些融化到我的文学作品里去。可是有人批评我生活和文学观念陈旧。我一气之下写了一封长长的辩白信。妻子看后，嫣然一笑，用她那记录着艰苦生活的手，提笔勾画一遍，最后几乎只剩下俩字：“谢谢！”
心胸开阔，待人应该宽厚、大度、容忍，不争一时一事之短长。我对妻子无限感激，抚摩着她的手，相视而笑了。
我觉得，它唯一的缺点就是，干了许多额外的活儿。说好，要注意培养孩子自力更生、艰苦勤劳的良好习惯，他们年龄大了，各人的衣服各人洗。可是，哪一位如果撒个娇，那双手便敛一敛，统统搓洗干净。刷碗，按规定是小儿子的事，可他一做憨态，那双手很快就把碗筷收拢起来，洗净擦干。是啊！那双手是妻子的手，同时又是母亲的手。世界上做母亲的，哪一个不溺爱孩子？哪一个不是宽宏大量的？做起活来怎能分“额内”额外？
有人说，妻子老了，比我老得要快，言下之意是不如以前般配了。不！有她这双创造家庭，创造生活，创造幸福的手，她是永远年轻，永远美丽的！
此刻，我抚摩着这双现出老态的粗糙的手，心里不可遏止地涌起一股初恋时的柔情，那冲动劲儿不似当年，胜似当年……
我情不自禁地又把这双手捧上了唇边……
爱吧！永远爱你的妻子吧！如果何时出现一丝儿杂念，那就请你看一看她那双终日操劳不息，和你风雨同舟，共同创造幸福生活的手。
我无限深情，所以我无限欢乐地爱抚着它——
我热爱劳动，所以我热爱妻子的手！
我崇拜创造，所以我崇拜妻子的手！
我歌颂真、善、美，所以我要歌颂妻子的手！
我有一个心愿，使建树了人间不朽功绩的妻子的手永垂青史。为此，我决心写好一篇散文，题目就叫《妻子的手》！
作品译文
My Wife’s Hands
I found myself busy writing at the desk again. I had made up my mind to water, with my life, this beautiful flower of literary prose. I treated it with the care of poetry; my fountain pen, soaked in enthusiasm, inked out words, page by page. I rose early and retired late, devoting all my spare time to writing.
“Ouch!” my wife cried. Her chopping board became silent.
Dropping my pen, I dashed into the kitchen, only to find her pressing her left forefinger with her right hand. Her mouth closed, she frowned at the wounded finger. Blood was oozing from its tip, then running along the back of her hand before it dripped onto the cement floor.
“Gosh! My wife got a cut when she was chopping her vegetables,” I said to myself “Gosh! My wife, who’s got a cut, is scared!”
“Easy!” I shouted. “Press it harder and raise it a little higher up. I’ll find the medicine for you.”
After a quick, frantic search in the drawer, I found the ethyl alcohol, mercurochrome, cotton balls and bandages. I lost no time in bandaging up her finger with tender care.
When all was taken care of, I held up her hand and led her into the bedroom. We sat on the bed. I safely put her hand over my large palm, placed it against my chest and started to fondle it. I kept fondling it as if to soothe the long years of hardship it had gone through, as if to pacify the pain of the cut. Only when my wife’s face lit up with a faint smile at the corner of her mouth did my tight, wrinkled heart start to expand to its own shape. Yet I did not stop fondling her hand.
All of a sudden, I seemed to discover a new continent: how had her once tender, smooth hands become so rough? Where were her ten small, slender forgers now? My! The pads of her fingers had turned purple, the bottoms covered with button-like calluses. Her skin had also become very loose, no longer as springy and tight as it used to be.
I raised her hands for a close look and found them pale and covered with wrinkles, her veins bulging out under her skin. I was even more shocked at seeing the spots, like bruises, on the back of her hands, which I had seen as a child on the skin of the older generation. Age had eaten up its youth; hard work had aged it too early. Feeling a surge in my heart, I found moisture in my eyes; it flickered in the light, then slowly turned into tears, falling onto the back of her hands.
Seeing what was happening as she turned around, she gave me a gentle stroke with her shoulder and said in a soft voice, “Now there! Aren’t you being silly! You are not a child anymore.” With this she put her chin over my shoulder as she used to do when we were young…
Memories of the misty past, somewhat bitter-sweet, welled up in my mind. When I heard a light waltz, I summoned my courage, walked up to her with a courteous bow, making a gesture of invitation. She smiled shyly but accepted my invitation at once. Thus, for the first time in my life, I was holding her hands, dancing merrily around.
I tried to be graceful throughout the dance, politely holding her four closed fingers with my left thumb and three other fingers, while my right hand gently rested on her back. However, being a greenhorn, I was really distracted by the beat under my feet. Before I knew it, I was clutching her entire hand, my right hand forcefully clasping her back into my arm fast and close. Thus, each dance would see me release her hand soaked with sweat. I could only lower my head and apologize earnestly: “Do excuse me, I am no dancer.” But she answered me with a forgiving smile. Then we each found a seat and sat down.
There were plenty of dances in the university, and practice made me a good dancer. As we danced, we became more and more familiar with each other. Perhaps it was during one of the early dates that I suddenly found her hands so tender and soft, just like a little mass of warm dough. I almost wanted to call them “as fair as jade,” a phrase often used in classic novels. Later on, our relationship took a leap forward, and I could, without restraint, bring her hands over to my knees and enjoy viewing them closely. Only then did I discover that my wife-to-be’s hands were so charming–smooth, slender and youthfully energetic.
“My, aren’t they neat and delicate hands?” I said in admiration.
“Aren’t all girls’ hands like these?” she replied in a soft, sweet voice.
“Perhaps they are, but I’ve never found out.” Then I started to laugh, proud of the witty reply I had carelessly uttered.
She pouted, throwing a glance at me. “And there, when you were first dancing with me, you squeezed my hands so hard.”
“What? Me squeezing your hands? Oh, that’s unfair!” I protested. “I was just learning to dance. I was concentrated on my steps. I took care not to step on your feet. I was afraid of making mistakes and was nervous all over. Honestly, my hands were numb, and I never knew I was squeezing yours!”
“But—what proof do you have?” she naughtily provoked me.
“Proof? There, there. But am I still doing that now?”
“Now?” She turned sideways as a sparkle flashed in her eyes.”Now you can have them any way you like.” With this she thrust up her tender hand toward my chest.
Happy but nervous, I simply led it up toward my lips and…
In those days, her hands were engaged in note-taking and writing. The tip of her pen kissing the blank paper rustled like a silkworm feeding on mulberry leaves-it was melodious. I was surprised that her hands were even more nimble and more clever than my much larger and stronger hands.
Her hands also took over the duties of my washing, sewing, knitting, everything, even before we got married. I thought that hers must be the most beautiful and most clever hands in the world.
Later on, after we got married, I simply forgot about her hands.
Unbelievably, more than twenty years have passed as if in the twinkling of an eye, and her hands have become so rough.
Nonetheless, the long years have witnessed that she possesses a pair of hard-working hands that can do wonders. Throughout the years, at work, they have been a social asset, producing high-quality food for the minds of numerous readers. At home, these two hands run almost everything, from household financial matters to raising a lovely son and daughter to doing tedious household chores as well as grocery shopping, cooking, cleaning, clothes mending and sewing. These hands even spare time for writing, often until midnight. The result is that a family which is pretty hard up has been operating in an orderly way, with all its members happy and harmonious.
Hardened by the years of life, her hands have become more and more clever. Now by taking some rough measurements and through a few cuts by the scissors, then by pressing through the sewing machine, they magically turn an oddment of cotton print into a dress for our little daughter. A perfect fit, simple but elegant, it makes the girl look gracefully quiet just beautiful! Our girl was once so excited that she threw herself into her mother’s arms, dropping kisses on her lovely hands.
Several cabbage leaves, chopped into threads, poured into the hot vegetable oil in the heated wok, then stirred with a handful of dry shrimps, some milk powder, cooking starch and other ingredients rapidly turn into a fine dish that not only looks tempting and smells savory, but also tastes delicious. There, the dish looks bluish white, dotted with dozens of red stars; she has named it “Clouds Over the Sky.” Every visitor who tastes it praises the hostess for her creative mind and clever hands.
Once leaving her hands, an article of two or three thousand words written by an inexperienced writer would have its theme clearly sharpened in a carefully crafted structure whose language would flow like water. That is why writers have comments like, “That editor has miraculous skills that turn hopeless manuscripts into print.”
She is a faithful, devoted wife who appreciates my rigorous attitude to life: I am a hard-working professional who never rests on his achievements, a husband who devotes all of himself to his wife, a modest and amiable man who lives a simple life. She encourages me to incorporate this in my literary works, contrasting herself with those who criticize me for my outdated way of life and literary concepts. Indignant at such criticism, I once even wrote a lengthy letter to defend myself Seeing what I had written, she gave a win-some smile, and with a pen in her clever hand that had borne long years of hardship, she crossed out the unneeded words for me, finally keeping almost nothing except “Thanks!”
Open-minded, patient, modest, generous and forgiving—that is her all over. She will not fight over trifles, right or wrong. The guiding principles she follows in dealing with herself and others often enlighten me. Heartfelt thanks emerging from the bottom of my heart, I keep fondling her hands as we smile at each other.
The only disappointment I feel is that her hands have handled too much extra work. As we originally agreed, we have to bring up our children to be self-reliant and hard working, and that they should wash their own clothes as they grew up. Yet whenever one of them, like a spoiled child refuses to do it, she takes over-these hands of hers busily finish it up for them instantly. According to our agreement, our little son is in charge of dishwashing, but once he shows signs of disliking it, that pair of hands immediately gets involved again-picking up the bowls and chopsticks, washing and drying them on his behalf. Yes, those are my wife’s hands, a mother’s hands. Indeed, every mother loves her children. Every mother is generous and forgiving toward her children. How could she possibly distinguish her work from her children’s?
I have been told that my wife is getting old quickly, more quickly than I am, suggesting that she is no longer a perfect match for me. No way! With such a pair of hands, which have brought about a happy life and family for me, she is forever young, forever beautiful!
At this moment, as I am fondling her now old-looking, rough hands, an insuppressible feeling of virgin love is surging all over me. That drive is just like that of a young lover’s, or even stronger…
I cannot but hold up her hands toward my lips again..,
“Love your wife, love your wife forever! Do look at your wife’s hands should distracting thoughts ever bother you. Hers are a diligent pair that has been working day and night, creating a happy life together with you, through thick and thin!”
I am in boundless love, so I am fondling her hands with boundless joy.
I love work, so I love my wife’s hands.
I worship creativity, so I worship my wife’s hands.
I praise the true, the good and the beautiful, so I praise my wife’s hands.
I have a wish: may my wife’s hands, which have contributed greatly to humanity, never be forgotten! For this purpose, I have decided to write a fine piece of prose, and to entitle it “My Wife’s Hands”!
