(1893–1941)
Born in Taiwan, Xu Dishan was an active participant in the May Fourth Movement when he was a student at Yenching University (later Peking University). Along with Mao Dun, Ye Shengtao, and others, he founded the Literary Research Society in 1921 and edited the influential journal Short Story Monthly. He studied philosophy and religion at Columbia University in 1923 and then at Oxford University in 1924. A highly regarded writer, scholar, and translator, Xu died of a heart attack at the age of forty-eight while teaching in Hong Kong. Xu was known for his plain-styled essays, like “The Peanut” and “I Think,” in which the author meditates on philosophical, religious, and ethical themes.
Behind our house there used to be half an acre of empty field. Mom said, “It’s a pity to let it lie fallow. Since you all enjoy peanuts so much, let’s turn it into a peanut patch.” We siblings and the house girls all loved the idea. So we bought the seeds, dug the soil, and watered the field. A few months later, we had a harvest!
Mom said, “We should celebrate our harvest tonight and invite your dad to taste our new peanuts, okay?” We all agreed. Mother went on to make half a dozen peanut dishes. She also told us to hold our celebration at the thatched pavilion in the garden.
The weather wasn’t great that night, but Dad came—how amazing! Dad asked, “Do you all like peanuts?”
“Yes!” we replied eagerly.
“Who can name the virtues of the peanut?”
“Peanuts smell good,” answered elder sister.
“Peanuts give us cooking oil,” said elder brother.
“Everyone, rich or poor, can buy them cheaply and everyone enjoys eating them,” said I. “That is the virtue of the peanut.”
Dad said, “There’re indeed many uses for the peanut, but one of them is the most precious. The tiny bean is not like an apple, peach, or pomegranate, which hangs its fruit on the branches, in bright red or fresh green, drawing attention from admirers. Instead, it buries the fruit underneath the soil, to be dug out only when ripe. If you happen to see a peanut plant curling up above the ground, you can’t tell right away whether it bears any fruit, until you see the whole of it.”
“That’s true,” we all said. Mom also nodded her head, as Dad continued, “So you should all be like a peanut, being a useful thing, but not a mighty one that looks conspicuously pretty.”
I asked, “Does it mean I should try to be a useful person, not one dignified by might?”
“That is indeed my hope for you,” said Dad.
We chatted till late at night. All the peanut dishes were gone, but Dad’s words left an indelible impression on my heart.
What am I thinking?
In my heart there used to be a road leading to the Garden of Paradise, once treaded by a woman. But now she’s gone, and the road is so deserted and overgrown with weeds, wildflowers, thorny brush, and twisted vines that I can hardly see it.
I have long been thinking about that road, which exists not for her alone. Since she’s gone, why can’t I take strolls there by myself?
The weeds and wildflowers are lovely and fragrant; how can I bear to get rid of them? The thorny underbrush and entangled vines are so overflowing and extensive; without any tool in hand, how do I dare touch them? I’ve thought about wandering alone on that road, but haven’t set off.
Days pass, and I begin to forget where the road leads. I can only walk to the edge of the road and sit there quietly by a little pond gazing listlessly, contemplating that grass-covered and vine-locked path.
As a gust of wind blows petals into the water, pond koi rush to the surface to nibble, mistaking flowers for some delicacy. My thoughts also float on water, nibbled and then spat out by the fish like bubbling foams, drifting back into the air.
The fish are still swimming happily. I am not willing to blaze the trail myself, nor would I abandon my thoughts. Alas!
I fix my gaze on the koi bobbing up and down, while my recollections also wander up and down.
Ah, woman! You’ve now turned into the koi in my “pond of memory.” Sometimes you float to the surface, showing yourself to me; sometimes you sink, making me wonder where you are, beneath which fallen leaf, between what rocks and sands.
But where that road leads I have long forgotten. I can only sit by the water every day, waiting for you to emerge from the bottom of the pond.
(Translated by Yunte Huang)