荷塘月色

这几天心里颇不宁静。今晚在院子里坐着乘凉，忽然想起日日走过的荷塘，在这满月的光里，总该另有一番样子吧。月亮渐渐地升高了，墙外马路上孩子们的欢笑，已经听不见了；妻在屋里拍着闰儿，迷迷糊糊地哼着眠歌。我悄悄地披了大衫，带上门出去。

沿着荷塘，是一条曲折的小煤屑路。这是一条幽僻的路；白天也少人走，夜晚更加寂寞。荷塘四面，长着许多树，蓊蓊郁郁的。路的一旁，是些杨柳，和一些不知道名字的树。没有月光的晚上，这路上阴森森的，有些怕人。今晚却很好，虽然月光也还是淡淡的。

路上只我一个人，背着手踱着。这一片天地好像是我的；我也像超出了平常的自己，到了另一世界里。我爱热闹，也爱冷静；爱群居，也爱独处。像今晚上，一个人在这苍茫的月下，什么都可以想，什么都可以不想，便觉是个自由的人。白天里一定要做的事，一定要说的话，现在都可不理。这是独处的妙处，我且受用这无边的荷香月色好了。

曲曲折折的荷塘上面，弥望的是田田的叶子。叶子出水很高，像亭亭的舞女的裙。层层的叶子中间，零星地点缀着些白花，有袅娜地开着的，有羞涩地打着朵儿的；正如一粒粒的明珠，又如碧天里的星星，又如刚出浴的美人。微风过处，送来缕缕清香，仿佛远处高楼上渺茫的歌声似的。这时候叶子与花也有一丝的颤动，像闪电般，霎时传过荷塘的那边去了。叶子本是肩并肩密密地挨着，这便宛然有了一道凝碧的波痕。叶子底下是脉脉的流水，遮住了，不能见一些颜色；而叶子却更见风致了。

月光如流水一般，静静地泻在这一片叶子和花上。薄薄的青雾浮起在荷塘里。叶子和花仿佛在牛乳中洗过一样；又像笼着轻纱的梦。虽然是满月，天上却有一层淡淡的云，所以不能朗照；但我以为这恰是到了好处——酣眠固不可少，小睡也别有风味的。月光是隔了树照过来的，高处丛生的灌木，落下参差的斑驳的黑影，峭楞楞如鬼一般；弯弯的杨柳的稀疏的倩影，却又像是画在荷叶上。塘中的月色并不均匀；但光与影有着和谐的旋律，如梵婀玲上奏着的名曲。

荷塘的四面，远远近近，高高低低都是树，而杨柳最多。这些树将一片荷塘重重围住；只在小路一旁，漏着几段空隙，像是特为月光留下的。树色一例是阴阴的，乍看像一团烟雾；但杨柳的丰姿，便在烟雾里也辨得出。树梢上隐隐约约的是一带远山，只有些大意罢了。树缝里也漏着一两点路灯光，没精打彩的，是渴睡人的眼。这时候最热闹的，要数树上的蝉声与水里的蛙声；但热闹是它们的，我什么也没有。

忽然想起采莲的事情来了。采莲是江南的旧俗，似乎很早就有，而六朝时为盛；从诗歌里可以约略知道。采莲的是少年的女子，她们是荡着小船，唱着艳歌去的。采莲人不用说很多，还有看采莲的人。那是一个热闹的季节，也是一个风流的季节。梁元帝采莲赋里说得好：

于是妖童媛女，荡舟心许；鹢首徐回，兼传羽杯；櫂将移而藻挂，船欲动而萍开。尔其纤腰束素，迁延顾步；夏始春馀，叶嫩花初，恐沾裳而浅笑，畏倾船而敛裾。

可见当时嬉游的光景了。这真是有趣的事，可惜我们现在早已无福消受了。

于是又记起西洲曲里的句子：

采莲南塘秋，莲花过人头；低头弄莲子，莲子清如水。

今晚若有采莲人，这儿的莲花也算得“过人头”了；只不见一些流水的影子，是不行的。这令我到底惦着江南了。——这样想着，猛一抬头，不觉已是自己的门前；轻轻地推门进去，什么声息也没有，妻已睡熟好久了。

一九二七年，七月，北京清华园。

These past few days my heart has been far from calm. Tonight, sitting in the courtyard to enjoy the cool, I suddenly thought of the lotus pond I pass every day: under this full moon it must look quite different. The moon climbed slowly higher; the laughter of children on the road beyond the wall had died away; in the house my wife was patting Run’er to sleep, humming a lullaby half in a dream. Quietly I put on my long gown and slipped out, pulling the door shut behind me.

Along the pond winds a narrow cinder path. It is a secluded path; few walk it even by day, and at night it is lonelier still. All around the pond grow trees, dense and lush. On one side of the path stand willows, and some trees whose names I do not know. On moonless nights the path is gloomy and a little frightening. But tonight it is fine, though the moonlight is still pale.

I am alone on the path, pacing with my hands behind my back. This stretch of earth and sky seems to be mine; I seem to have stepped outside my ordinary self into another world. I love bustle, and I love stillness; I love company, and I love solitude. On a night like this, alone under the vast, pale moon, I can think of anything or of nothing, and I feel free. The things I must do by day, the words I must say, can all be set aside. This is the gift of solitude; let me simply enjoy this boundless fragrance of lotus and light of the moon.

Over the winding pond, as far as the eye can see, spread the round leaves. They stand high above the water, like the flared skirts of slender dancers. Among the layers of leaves, white flowers are scattered here and there, some open gracefully, some shyly still in bud, like pearls, like stars in a blue sky, like a beauty just risen from her bath. When a breeze passes, it carries wisps of fragrance, like a faint song drifting from a distant tower. Then leaves and flowers tremble slightly, and the tremor passes like lightning to the far side of the pond. The leaves, crowded shoulder to shoulder, now seem to carry a ripple of deep jade. Beneath them flows the quiet water, hidden so that none of its colour shows; and the leaves look all the more graceful for it.

Moonlight, like flowing water, pours quietly over the leaves and flowers. A thin blue mist rises over the pond. Leaves and flowers seem washed in milk, or veiled like a dream in gauze. Though the moon is full, a thin layer of cloud keeps it from shining brightly; but I think this is just right: deep sleep is indispensable, yet a light doze has its own charm. The moonlight comes through the trees; the shrubs growing high above cast jagged, mottled shadows, stark as ghosts, while the sparse, graceful shadows of the bending willows seem painted on the lotus leaves. The moonlight on the pond is uneven, but light and shadow keep a harmonious rhythm, like a famous tune played on a violin.

All around the pond, far and near, high and low, are trees, most of them willows. They enclose the pond layer upon layer; only along the path a few gaps are left, as if on purpose for the moonlight. The trees are all in shade, at first glance a cloud of mist; yet even in the mist the willows’ grace can be made out. Above the treetops, faintly, lies a line of distant hills, no more than an outline. Through the branches leak one or two streetlamps, listless, like the eyes of someone longing for sleep. The liveliest things now are the cicadas in the trees and the frogs in the water; but the liveliness is theirs. I have none of it.

Suddenly I remembered the gathering of lotus. It was an old custom of Jiangnan, south of the Yangtze, which seems to go far back and flourished in the Six Dynasties, as one can gather from the poems. The gatherers were young women who rowed out in small boats, singing love songs. There were many of them, of course, and others who came to watch. It was a lively season, and a romantic one. Emperor Yuan of Liang put it well in his Rhapsody on Gathering Lotus:

And so the charming youths and lovely maidens row out, hearts given in secret; the egret-headed prows turn slowly as wine cups pass from hand to hand; the oars, about to move, catch on waterweed; the boats, about to stir, part the duckweed. Their slender waists bound in white silk, they linger and glance back; it is the start of summer, the end of spring, the leaves are tender, the flowers new; afraid of wetting their skirts they smile faintly, afraid of tipping the boat they gather in their hems.

One can see how they made merry then. It must have been delightful; what a pity we have long lost the fortune to enjoy it.

Then I recalled some lines from the Song of Xizhou:

Gathering lotus at the south pond in autumn, the flowers rise above our heads; bending low to toy with the seeds, the seeds are clear as water.

If there were lotus gatherers here tonight, these flowers too would rise “above their heads”; but without a glimpse of flowing water it would not do. And so, after all, I find myself longing for Jiangnan. Thinking this, I looked up and found myself already at my own gate. I pushed the door gently and went in; there was not a sound. My wife had long been fast asleep.

July 1927, Tsinghua Garden, Beijing.