This is a translation of Yu Dafu's “A Silver-Gray Death,” a story about a young man drinking himself to death in Tokyo, spending his money on girls, and pining for his dear, dead wife
▣ This is an entry about Yu Dafu. It is possible that I have written about him here before. Still, I feel I need to sketch his biography.1 He was born in Zhejiang in 1896. After a short time at a local university, he joined the procession of young Chinese intellectuals headed to Japan. He returned to China in 1922. He mixed with all the names that you would recognize from that period. He went in the late 1930s to edit a Chinese-language newspaper in Singapore. The circumstances surrounding his death in Sumatra around 1945 are obscure; he was liquidated for unrecorded reasons by the Japanese military. He wrote many things—poetry, memoir, fiction, reportage—but is remembered now mostly for his stories about young men in Japan, sometimes for his writing about Southeast Asia, and rarely for his literary diaries. ▭ Among writers of his generation, although not obscure, he has not been celebrated, whether by bureaucrat-writers after Liberation, or by Sinologists—people that shaped canons on either side of the ideological divide—with the same enthusiasm accorded his peers. For the former category—the literary bureaucrats—his conflicts with his contemporaries were not forgotten, and the writing that could be tolerated politically did not measure up to his best work—accounts of decadent, dissipated, lonely men—which was too individualistic, distasteful, and explicit to be propagated; for the latter category—the Sinologists—he could be covered briefly—yet another self-loathing Republican-era intellectual plumbing the depths of psychonational despair, then, a second-rate hack—with less than a handful of texts deemed worthy of translation. ▣ ▲ ▣ This is an entry about a story by Yu Dafu called, “A Silver-Gray Death.” It was written in 1920 and serialized in a Shanghai journal in 1921. It’s about a young man living in Tokyo in that year. ▭ I read it fifteen or more years ago, as an assignment for an undergraduate Chinese literature course taught by Christopher Rea. In the process of destroying my first marriage, on the verge of escaping for the second time an undergraduate education, living in a rented room in a carved-up house in Richmond, obsessed with ■■■ ■■■■■■ ■■ ■■■ ■■■■■■■■■ ■■■■■■■■■■■■■■, and in love with a ■■■■ ■■■■■ Safeway cashier ■■■■ ■■■■■■■ ■■■■■ ■■ ■■■■■■■, I could understand the young man in this story in particular—throwing his life away, spending his money on girls and second-hand books, confused, and unable to see a way out of his loneliness. I’m sure, back then, I submitted an essay on its sociopolitical meaning, or its significance to contemporary literature—the desolation of the Chinese intellectual in exile, the radical meaning of self-loathing, the influence of Japanese literature…—but that was not what delivered the sting. ▭ I read it again earlier this week. I’m not sure why. It no longer touched me in the same way. I am glad of that. But it story still impressed me. The writing is beautiful, I realize. ▭ I am simple: I like that it describes places I know now. I can imagine a rooming house in Ueno. I have been to Shinobazu Pond. ▭ I should say more about it. ▣ ▲ ▣ This story, in the century or so since its publication, must have been translated many times into English, but I can’t find any evidence that a translation was ever published. ▭ I will make my own translation and send it to you. It will not be perfect, but it is better than nothing. ▣
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[A SILVER-GRAY DEATH]
上上上上上上上上上上上上上上
it was winter in tokyo a season more lively than others when even the winds blowing down from fuji could fail to cool the passions of the men and the women of the city. the date was fast approaching for the reappearance of the star that floated in the sky over bethlehem a thousand nine hundred and twenty years before. the stores down every lane and alley were done up like new brides vying for customers trying to close out the year in the black. it was a time when both rich and poor alike were busy. it was a time of sadness for those in exile.
one building stood apart from the chaotic rows of rooming houses near shinobazu. its windows were tightly shut as if trying to keep out the frenzy of the season. its windows were tightly shut as if nobody inside partook in the frenzy of the season. the golden sun had risen above ueno and hung high in the blue sky smirking down at the affairs of men.
a shaft of light finally pierced the shutters and crept across his pillow. he opened his dark brown eyes to the light. he was about twenty-four or twenty-five. illuminated by the ray that pierced the darkened room his face was pale and the effect of his sunken eyes and sharp cheekbones severe. he yawned and glanced at the clock on the table. both hands pointed at x. he was not yet fully awake and still unaware that he was the protagonist in a grand tragedy. he drifted back to sleep and rose at eleven.
his life had changed: for the two months previous starting around the end of october he had adopted the habit of sleeping the clock around spending his nights drinking in one or another of tokyo's many taverns. he knew that the girls they were usually in their late teens working at these bars were only willing to spend time with him to make merry with him in return for cash but it seemed preferable to staying in his room. when the sun sank in the east he found himself propelled out to the bars. he tried sometimes to break the wicked habit going to the library and burying himself in his favorite books. but when the sun set he heard a desolate tune in his ears. his nostrils were filled with the fragrance of cosmetics and liquor and bubbling pots and cigarettes. from between the lines of his book a pretty face would float with its mouth parting like the budding of a rose to reveal a row of white teeth. when his eyes slid shut he saw the girls under the red lights reaching out with hands as white as snow. he had no choice but to extend his own hand. he staggered away as if sleepwalking. it was not until he felt the warmth of a stranger’s body that he realized that he was no longer in the library.
the night before he had stumbled out of one of those taverns early in the morning. his mind was not clear. he stumbled around for a while. nobody was around. all of the windows and doors of the town were sealed shut. there were no lights except for those that hanged every here and there over a doorway throwing yellow light into the shadows. the tram lines running down the center of the street were two strips of phosphorescent flame. he leaned back against the fence that ran around the university tilted back his head and looked up at the moon which floated like a silver coin in the pale green sky. when he looked around again he saw that everything the tram lines the electricity poles the telephone lines the houses were coated in moonlight that glittered like frost. he was cold and a alone like a captain drifting on a ruined ship toward the north pole. he leaned back on the wall and looked at the moon again. after a moment two tears slipped from his eyes soft and tired like an old dog’s eyes. like lantern slides the scenes of his wedding the summer before flashed before his eyes.
the mountains rose on three sides and a plain opened below them. on the hillside along the edge of the plain among the trees and along the stream were scattered a few homes. passion and the summer heat had kept him and his bride in bed during the day. they rose in the evening and went to the window to look out on the stream and to feel the cool air. all the lamps had been blown out and moonlight came in through the window. he leaned back in his rattan chair and watched the moonlight play on his bride's cheeks. her face looked like one of the white stone carvings he had seen in dali. the effect unnerved him so that he finally had to reach out to stroke her cheek.
why is your face so cold?
speak softly. it's nearly dawn. don't wake anyone up.
but i want to know. ah. why has all the color gone out of your cheeks?
it means i don't have long.
his eyes felt hot. he wasn't sure why but he reached out and took her in his arms. when his lips reached her cheeks he could feel the tears running like two springs from her eyes. they held each other and wept. after a while he felt as if the pain in his heart had passed. he looked around. the moonlight had lit up everything. he tilted his head up and saw pale rivulets hanging in the graying sky.
the milky way...
that little star at the edge. that one is mine the astrologers say.
what is the name of it?
the weaver girl.
they found nothing else to say so they sat in silence for a time. he looked up at the star again and said to her in a low voice: next year i may not be able to come back. you will suffer even worse than the weaver girl.
under the moon that night leaned against the fence he thought about all that had happened. when he remembered what he had said to her that night he could not stop himself from crying. the tears ran down his cheeks just like the stream on the plain that night. he could see it and he could see the lacquer table below the window. he could see the woman just twenty year that year lit by the guttering flame of a kerosene lamp. he could see her pale cheeks her wide eyes the delicate curve of her ashen lips. he shook his head. he told himself: she died. she is dead. october twenty-eighth. that was when the telegram came. she moaned my name spitting up blood until the end. that was what the letter said.
still weeping he began to walk. the haze of the wine had already lifted and he began to feel cold but he did not want to return to his hellish room. he was letting the place from his friend. he lived upstairs. there was no stove waiting for him. there was no comfort to be expected. there were only the old books under the yellow-gray light of the lamp. he thought about going to ueno station. he knew that in japan people would spend all night in the waiting room. he wanted to sit in front of the stove.
he did not see anyone on the way to the station. he went inside into a long hallway lit with bright yellow lights. a few women sat yawning behind the ticket counters. he went into the second-class waiting room. he sat for two hours never quite asleep never quite awake staring at the low flame in the stove. occasionally there would be the sound of trains and men in uniforms would race by. a train from tohoku arrived at the station and it came to life with voices and the footfalls of passengers disembarking. he joined them filing out of the station. he looked up into the sky. millions of stars glowed in the pale blue sky. a breeze came down from the north and chilled him through. the moon had already slipped behind the mountains. a few men were already going about their labor dragging carts. he walked toward the west side of ueno park. he sighed. a few yellow leaves blew from the shadows that the hazy lamps couldn't touch. the naked trees seemed suddenly to come to life. he stood for a time without moving. there was no sound but a distant rumble of wheels. they seemed far away as if coming to him from a dream. he finally realized it was only the sound of the leaves blowing. as he went across the kangetsu bridge two rows of lights still on in the sleeping city mocked him. when he got back to his room the sky in the east was beginning to lighten.
中中中中中中中中中中中中中中
on another sunny day in early winter he rose at eleven scrubbed his face slipped on his shoes and rushed out the door.
he walked aimlessly under the soft sunshine for an hour or so then began to feel hungry. he felt for his wallet. he had five yen left from the hundred and sixty he had earned pawning the diamond ring that he had bought for his wife. the money had barely lasted two weeks. my dear dead wife he said i beg you don't curse me.
he was struck again by sadness then shame and then his stomach growled and reminded him of more urgent matters. he knew that he couldn't afford to drink in one of the better taverns but he knew a place a place to go.
it was a bar near the botanical gardens. the landlord was a widow in her fifties. she did not employ a cook but had learned a few things while working in the kitchen of a western restaurant so she could turn out a meal. her daughter worked the bar. her name was jing'er just turned twenty and a plain girl but with clear eyes and a tall nose like a white woman. jing'er was kind to him. even when they knew he was broke her mother let him drink on credit. he got drunk at their place and wept about his dear dead wife. he told jing'er about how he had loved her how she had cried out for him even as the consumption took her and she coughed up blood. jing'er wept with him sometimes. they had become friends. she told him: everyone needs a friend to tell their secrets to or someone to confide in what hurts them someone to talk to. that was who jing'er became for him.
a month prior he had heard that jing'er was going to get married. he had decided not to ask her whether or not that was true and instead decided to observe her closely. he had become convinced that she was treating him differently. one night as they drank together she suddenly excused herself when a man in his thirties entered. she tossed him aside. she went to talk to the man. he made smalltalk with her mother but kept watch on jing'er and the man. half an hour went by and they were still talking so he rose and left staggering out like a wounded beast. he had not returned since. it had been two weeks. he drank even more. he thought more often about his dear dead wife.
when he thought about his wife this is how he concluded: where can i find a friend someone i can share my pain with?
sometimes his wife's face and jing'er's merged in his imagination. after he stopped talking to jing'er he felt even more sad and even more lonely.
he contemplated the five yen as he walked toward jing'er's bar. he thought about wolfram von eschenbach from tannhäuser. he sang a couplet to himself: thus vanishes for this life / my every gleam of hope!
i should go he told himself i should go there. if my forefathers loved their women this way then why shouldn't i?
he was alone but spoke as if he was arguing against someone's advice.
when he got there jing'er and her mother had just risen. jing'er smiled at him and asked: why haven't we seen you in so long?
he wanted to say: you should be able to figure that out! but her gentle smile dissuaded him. he said instead: i've been busy.
jing'er's mother scolded him: busy? you aren't fool anyone! jing'er's fiancé says you're in his place every night!
jing'er seemed embarrassed by her mother's remark. mother she protested.
he saw the way things were going. he asked: who is jing'er's fiancé?
he runs the tavern near the university gate. you didn't hear?
he turned to jing'er. he said: congratulations! have you set the date yet. may you give birth to a son and have many happy years together!
when jing'er glanced at him she seemed on the verge of tears. she asked: do you want a drink?
he thought he heard a trembling in her voice. he felt the desolation washing over him. he felt seasick a feeling bubbling up from his belly. he felt as if he could not speak. he nodded indicating that he wanted a drink. they exchanged another glance. she rushed away to get him something to eat with his liquor.
jing'er returned and handed the ingredients to her mother who went to the kitchen to cook. before she was done the liquor was already hot. jing'er took her usual seat across from him and poured his drink. they both kept their heads lowered not daring to risk their eyes making contact. he drank in silence. a moment later jing'er's mother called out: it's ready. come and get it.
jing'er did not move. unconsciously his gaze went to her eyes. she seemed again to be about to cry.
he bolted down a few cups of liquor and picked at the food then went for the door. the lane outside was crowded. he turned down a clear road. he went for a time west up a slope watching the sunshine coming down. he turned and saw the tips of the trees in the botanical garden stained violet-yellow. he wasn't sure why but he felt as if he was bidding farewell to the mountains on the western horizon and to the setting sun on the rooftop tiles that ran out to them. he gaped at them for a while then turned bearing the last light of the day on his shoulders and headed east up the slope.
staggering as if sleepwalking he arrived at the university gate. he heard a voice: y kun! where are you off to? are you staying in tokyo for the new year?
it was one of his classmates. he had a fresh haircut a new suit and a wicker suitcase. he was prepared to return home to pass the new year. he smiled at his classmate. hurriedly he said: that's right. i don't have anywhere else to go. are you going back for the new year?
that's right. i'm on my way back.
pass along my best wishes for the season to your wife.
sure. she said she’s worried i'm going to miss you over there.
come on now. have a safe trip. i'll see you soon.
see you soon. ha!
it was dusk. he stood alone in the campus for a long time then turned to go back to his room. he said to himself: they're all going back home. they've all got families to return to. oh! home! sweet home!
back in his room he sat for a while under the lamp. what he had heard at the bar floated into his muddled mind. he said to himself: well that's just fine. jing'er will be getting married in the first month of a new year.
he thought for a moment then stood and bundled up some of his old books. he carried them to a second-hand book dealer near the university. nine yen that's all those brilliant thoughts earned him. the shopkeeper refused to come to a fair price for a book of poetry in english so he kept it for himself.
he felt a bit ashamed that those great books were judged to be worth a mere nine yen but he knew it was enough to get him drunk and leave a little left over to buy a gift for jing'er. that was fine.
he walked from the bookstore out into the world of dusk. he found a store selling women's ornaments and things went inside and bought a hairpin decorated with ribbon and two bottles of violet perfume and rushed to jing’er’s bar.
jing'er was not there and her mother sat across from a customer. she seemed unhappy to see him again. what brings you here again? she asked.
where is jing'er?
she went to take a bath.
he approached jing’er’s mother and pressed the ribbon hairpin and perfume into her hands. he said: please give these to her for me. call them a wedding present.
jing'er's mother forced a smile. thank you very much she said. i will ask her to thank you personally when she can.
he saw that it was growing dark outside so he asked jing'er's mother for liquor and food. he was halfway through his second bottle when jing'er returned. she froze for a moment watching him at the counter. finally she mumbled: oh you're here again?
she retreated to the kitchen and exchanged a few words with her mother in hushed tones before emerging again. he thought she would thank him but instead she sat down wordlessly across from him and refilled his cup. when he called desperately for another bottle she looked up at him with tearful eyes. she said: please don't drink anymore. haven't you had enough?
that only made him want to drink more. sorrow overwhelmed him. he had to drink. he was not sure if it was because he wanted to hurt jing'er or if he wanted to blot out the memory of his dear dead wife.
he was dumped eventually in jing'er's bed to sleep it off. he came to at around two in the morning and staggered out. the streets were quiet. everywhere was covered in silver-gray moonlight. except for barking dogs in the distance the entire world was so silent that it seemed that it seemed dead. he stumbled eventually to a nightclub. he felt in his wallet and found four or five fifty sen bills. he went inside and got drunk again. back outside he felt as if the world was spinning around him. for two hours he staggered across the city then came at least to a wide open space. the cool shadows of the moonlight and the dark shadows of various things were mixed together.
he thought to himself: i must be at the women's medical college!
his mind cleared. his brain spasmed. a scene from a few days earlier played like a film in front of him.
he was in front of ueno seiyoken under a sky full of dark clouds scudding north waiting for the guests of his hometown club's party to welcome ms. w. among the crowd on the street he saw suddenly a girl of sixteen or seventeen wearing the uniform of the women's medical college. she was unhurriedly walking up to the restaurant's door. for a moment he was stunned. he regained his senses as she approached and he told her: i can take your hat and coat for you.
the party lasted for two hours. it was around five o'clock. the front door was crowded with guests picking up their hats and coats. he saw the girl again. she did not have her coat yet. he asked if he could get it for her.
sure.
give me your coat check ticket. i'll go get it for you.
thank you.
the glimpse of her teeth in the pale night thrilled his heart. he handed her the coat and hat then slipped behind her to help her on with them. he began to move back around her but she was already headed out the door. he followed for a few steps then watched her slim silhouette disappear into the shadows.
please wait a moment he called.
he staggered forward. his skinny body failed him. he crashed to the ground.
the moonlight flooded the yard in front of the women's college. another dark shadow appeared. it was quiet. the silver-gray moonlight purified the world.
下下下下下下下下下下下下下下
on the twenty-sixth day of the twelfth month the sun rose and shone down on a signboard in front of ushigome kuyakusho where an elderly worker was hanging a notice that read:
The body of a man was found at 21:00 yesterday, approximately four hours postmortem, on the green in front of the Wakamatsucho Women's Medical College. The deceased’s identity is unknown. He is estimated to be about twenty-four or twenty-five years of age, with short hair, prominent cheekbones, and a yellow complexion. The deceased was wearing a dark suit whose pockets contained one copy of The Poems and Prose of Ernest Dowson, a fifty sen banknote, and a woman's handkerchief bearing the initials S.S. He wore yellow leather shoes, heavily worn. The cause of death has been ruled cerebral hemorrhage. The ward government will bear the costs of cremation.
I could say that I’m drawing on the first chapter on Yu Dafu in Leo Ou-fan Lee's The Romantic Generation of Modern Chinese Writers, but I am barely doing even that.