¿¿ Vol. 3

Journal of Translation Practice and Research is a platform for translations of the "Shaanxi literature works", classic Chinese literature, and translation studies on Chinese literature. Part of the story is as follows: The melody ended with a protracted sigh, lamenting the brevity of the night. We leaned against the carved railing, as the mist shrouded the reeds, occluding the path to the distant horizon. Left alone with our slender shadows, the moonlight reflected off the coral-colored trees, while the desolate canopy was choired with plaintive fall cicadas and the crisp sound of dropping leaves echoed mournfully. We gazed at each other with tear-beaded eyes, persevering in our sorrow. When would our two hearts, separated by distance, ever be reunited in secret joy?             

 The melodious pan flute played a section entitled Dream Love from The Courtyard Full of Fragrance, which permeated the cool night. The delicate and graceful melodies formed a bulwark against the noise outside, making the world as tranquil as water. In the courtyard, the shadows of the trees danced in the breeze. At first glance, the yard seemed no different from how it had been years ago: the pink wall on the east side of the yard was still standing, and so too was the purple wisteria on the west. The pink wall was riddled with cracks and the purple wisteria grew haphazardly, exposing the undeniable dilapidation under the moonlight.

The light in the reception hall was on, and the sound of the pan flute drifted inside, causing those present to feel as if they had been cut adrift from the outside world for ages. However, the small kitchen, ingeniously rebuilt by the veranda, and the aroma of minced meat and soybean sauce wafting over added a playful note of romance to the tune of The Courtyard Full of Fragrance, which belongs to the melody of Northern Chinese opera. Such tunes are smooth and graceful, featuring few rises and falls. But on that day, the flute was being played obscurely and hurriedly, with the notes all disordered. It sounded like a restless fox and a rabbit and simultaneously had the intermittent and complex character of a rainstorm, only with greater impetuosity.

Carrying my luggage, I walked around the clayey platform that was once covered with peonies but which had been turned into a cesspool, then squeezed through the iron wires hung with drying clothes of all colors, and headed towards the light. The door of the reception room remained ajar, and the long-lost scent seeped through the crack of the door, lingering in every corner of the household. That familiar scent, persistent and stubborn despite the passage of time and the vicissitudes of the world, infused everything and everyone who entered. Even though I was attired in the clothes of 1990s, with the maxims of "building socialism with Chinese characteristics" buzzing through my mind beforehand, the moment I stepped into this courtyard where the flute music mingled with the moonlight, the heat suddenly dissipated, and my tumultuous thoughts seemed to solidify into static symbols. These faded and retreated from my mind to be replaced by a gentle melancholy and a profound solemnity. I marveled at how swiftly my role had shifted, even at how the decades of wandering and returning, returning and wandering, had barely altered me amid the eroding forces of time and the weather ... I stood by the door for a long while, gazing at the flautist seated on the embroidered stool, the vast desk for painting positioned behind him, together with the whitewashed walls, and the purple wisteria vines. When I was a girl, he would play and paint here, and now he remained, just as he always had been. How many years had passed!