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2008/12/19 钱钟书先生逝世十周年祭The Path Untrodden
In memory of Mr. Qian Zhongshu upon the 10th anniversary of his death
The alley leading to his old-time dwelling is an ordinary spur track of a swarming street. A deep and serene corner is its end, blurry with the dust fanned by the wintry wind and fluttering in the languid afternoon sunshine. The zigzag path, its unevenness and annoying rubbles dotted around usually frustrate the zest of visiting a peaceful soul, resting here ever since the tarnish winter of 1998. There dwells Mr. Qian Zhongshu in the nostalgic courtyard, whose serenity appears rarely congenial with the hustle and bustle of the outside, an earthy world. Renovated several years ago as an attraction of historical charm in Wuxi, the former residence of the Qians has long since dwindled in the interest of the mundane travelers, leaving the sole good of accommodating the homebound heart of a giant intellectual.
The birds chirp and flip upon the branches interweaving above, one inch higher than the engraved eaves of the fine antechamber. The sun encroaches drawlingly upon the dust-ridden windowsill and is about to shine into the tranquil study room. A midafternoon comfort as such is hard to earn in a busy city, hard though, was once the hours of treasure for me as a high school boy, who would snatch this moment of leisure to stay away from the madding crowd and wander aimlessly on and off the elegant gallery in the long-deserted house of the Qians. I rejoiced myself, upon those gilded days, when sauntering through the path untrodden towards my destination. The squeak of pushing the door ajar remained distinct when recalled from the remotest, and the gingerly steps seemed to be evoking a same wispy sound as years ago. Aye, it was time of yore.
For me, the tweets of the birds were everything for the sound of the nature, joined by the chilly breeze’s grave mutter when squeezing itself through the age-old crannies. Recognizing the vigorous characters on the couplets remained the prime pleasure in those wandering hours. Those are the traces of traditions, that of a stern but glorious family of intellectuals. I was jokingly assuming that even the bugs creeping upon the loose wooden couplets were trying to absorb the marrow of the enlightening maxims. Yet I was not able to remember as such, nor could I exhaust the profundity of the refined language. So I turned out to bolt every character in the hope of a belated epiphany. Up till now, no epiphany has managed to sink into my maladroit head.
But I was never alone, in those wandering afternoons. Ben and I would cycle past the centre of the city, round at the neglected crossing and head for this common destination of worship, a plan usually prompted by him. It was an idyllic Saturday afternoon in the early winter of 2003, coinciding with the 5th anniversary of Mr. Qian’s death. Aye, the venerable relic has since then become a symbol of reverence in the hearts of both, yet the place we never managed to visit together again. We were roaming along the gallery without the notions that he would travel afar, and that I would major in English literature as Mr. Qian did at the same age. The deepest impression shared by us is but the eulogy of "Dragon among human beings", the only proper reward for Mr. Qian, which has since then lingered long in my brain and been referred to at times by other fellows.
Yet I ascertain, in retrospect to the adolescent flightiness, that with the remembrance fading away and time ticking by, diminishing is also my ambition, or rather, vanity and arrogance. Cherished in the recollection of five years before, the ancient residence, exquisite and dapper, confined no source of imagination; nevertheless, every square hid under itself an inexhaustible treasure but defied any exploration. But all the memories residual would blur away when I begin to reshape the vague apparition of the winter five years ago.
The reminiscence of the age of bright sunshine (as it termed by Ben) dwindles away as Mr. Qian's former residence has been deserted in my memory after the first and the only pilgrimage. Yet on this very special day, the 10th anniversary of Mr. Qian’s death, I could but offer to pay my tribute to this worthy intellectual, and send my best regards to that dear friend.
 Mr. Qian Zhongshu
1910.11.21~1998.12.19
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