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More Words! In the spirit of Eric's post
By Canaan Morse, published November 25, 7:27p.m.
Ever since Eric posted "Words" and the dark forest came alive, I've been going through the essays and chapters I have already translated from 何其芳 and 老舍 looking for striking or frustrating passages to put up on PR and let everyone have a go at. The last time I posted work I made the mistake of putting up just a piece of translated copy without the Chinese original, which handicapped all possibility of criticism and, thereby, interest. Well, that was a lesson in itself, though I want to test 大家's patience one more time by putting up another complete piece. It's brief, briefer than the previous one, I promise, and it's a chance to get at some very interesting language－some of which, incidentally, can't be found online or in print, since this is copied straight out of the unabridged 1937 original edition of 画梦录. Even the punctuation matches.
《雨前》 何其芳 著
最后的鸽群带着低弱的笛声在微风里划一个圈子后，也消失了。许是误认这灰暗的凄冷的天空为夜色的来袭，或是也预感到风雨的将至，遂过早的飞回它们温暖的木舍。
几天阳光在柳条上撒下的一抹嫩绿，被尘土埋掩得有憔悴色了，是需要一次洗涤。还有干裂的大地和树根也早已期待着雨。雨却迟疑着。
我怀想着故乡的雷声和雨声。那隆隆的有力的搏击，从山谷返响到山谷，仿佛春之芽就从冻土里震动，惊醒，而怒茁出来。细草样柔的雨声又以膏脂和温存之手抚摩它， 使它簇生油绿的枝叶而开出红色的花。这些怀想如乡愁一样萦绕得使我忧郁了。我心里的气候也和这北方大陆一样缺少雨量，一滴温柔的泪在我枯涩的眼里，如迟疑 在这阴沉的天空里的雨点，久不落下。
白色的鸭也似有一点躁烦了，有不洁色的都市的河沟里传出它们焦急的叫声。有的还未厌倦那船一样的徐徐地划行，有的却倒插它们的长颈在水里，红色的蹼趾伸在尾巴后，不停地扑击着水以支持身体的平衡。不知是在寻找沟底的细微食物，抑是贪那深深的水里的寒冷。
有几个已上岸了。在柳树下来回地作绅士的散步，舒息划行的疲劳。然后参差地站着，用嘴细细地抚理它们遍体白色的羽毛，间或又摇动身子或扑展着阔翅，使那 缀在羽毛间的水珠坠落。一个已修饰完毕的，弯曲它的颈到背上，长长的红嘴藏没在翅膀里，静静合上它白色的茸毛间的小黑睛，仿佛准备睡眠。可怜的小动物，你 就是这样做你的梦吗？
我想起故乡放雏鸭的人了。一大群鹅黄色的雏鸭游牧在溪流间，清浅的水，两岸青青的草，一根长长的竿在牧人的手里。他的 小队伍是多么欢欣地发出啾啁声，又多么驯服地随着他的竿头越过一个田野又一个山坡。夜来了，帐幕似的竹篷撑在地上，就是他的家。但这是怎样辽远的想象啊。 在这多尘土的国度里，我仅只希望听见一点树叶上的雨声。一点雨声的幽凉滴到我憔悴的梦，也许会长成一树圆的绿阴来覆荫我自己。
我仰起头。天 空低垂如灰色的雾幕，落下一些寒冷的霏屑到我脸上。一只远来的鹰隼仿佛带着怒愤，对这沉重的天色的怒愤，平张的双翅不动地从天空斜插下，几乎触到河沟对岸 的土阜，而又鼓扑着双翅，作出猛烈的声响腾上了。那样巨大的翅使我惊异，我看见了它两肋间斑白的羽毛。接着听见了它有力的鸣声，如同一个巨大的心的呼号， 或是在黑暗里寻找伴侣的叫唤。
然而雨还是没有来。
一九三三年春天，北京
And the translation:
Before the Rain
The last flock of pigeons, piping softly, traced a circle in the breeze and disappeared. Perhaps they mistook the darkness and chill of the air for the onset of evening, or maybe anticipated the coming of a storm, and so set out early for their cozy wooden apartments.
The tender green that several days of sun had spread over the willow leaves has been paled by layers of dust and needs cleansing. The cracked earth and the trees’ roots have long been waiting for rain. Yet the rain holds off.
The sounds of the thunder and the rain of my old hometown echo in my head. Booming, forceful blast after blast rebounding valley into valley, as if the buds of spring had been rattled awake and were bursting furiously out from the frozen ground. Then come tender lawns of spring rain, reaching down with an unctuous and loving hand to caress them and make them push forth slick green branches and bright red flowers. These images, like thoughts of home itself, linger in my head and weigh on my spirit. My heart’s climate is as dry and in need of rain as this Northern land around me; gentle tears, like the drops of rain hesitating in the dark clouds above, have long been absent from these parched eyes.
Even the ducks seem restless as their anxious voices come up from the discolored city river. Some that aren’t yet tired of swimming continue that easy, boat-like glide through the water. Others upend themselves in the current with their long necks submerged and red webbed feet sticking up behind, endlessly churning the water in an effort to maintain their balance. No telling whether they’re looking for tiny bits of food at the river bottom, or merely after the cool of the deeper water.
Several have already come ashore. They strut like gentlemen leisurely back and forth beneath the willow tree, walking off the exhaustion of paddling. Some sit while others stand, and each carefully preens with its bill the white feathers that cover its entire body, sometimes opening broad wings to beat the air and shake off the beads of water still clinging to the down. One that has finished freshening up twists his long neck behind him, buries the red bill beneath his wing and shuts the black eyes surrounded in white, as if preparing to sleep. Poor little animal, is this how you dream?
I think of the man who herded ducks back near my old home. A great group of golden ducklings swimming along the river, the shallow, crystal water below them, two riverbanks alive with bright grass and the long pole in the herder’s hands. How his little team chittered happily as they floated along, and how well they obeyed the guidance of his pole as they went by field and field and hill and hill! Night came, and the tented awning of his boat propped up on the bank was his home. Oh, but such faraway memories, these! In this dust-stricken country, all I hope is to hear the voice of rain on leaves. Should the cloistered cool of that voice ever fall upon my own miserable dreams, perhaps, it might grow forth a tree’s worth of full, green shade to cover me over.
I raise my head. The sky hangs low like a curtain of fog and a few spitting drops land on my face. A bird of prey arriving from far off tilts to one side and cuts with rigid wings across the sky; it flies as if angry, maybe at the heaviness of heaven. It banks until it seems to almost touch the hill on the opposite side of the river, then with a wild shriek and a beating of wings it rises again. Its enormous wings startle me; I can see the mottled white feathers on its breast.
And again I hear its piercing cry like the wailing of a massive heart, as perhaps it searches through the darkness for a mate.
Yet the rain still hasn’t come.
Spring 1933, Beijing
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