In Memory Of Mr. Lu Xun

By Author: pangsiyan
Total Articles: 130
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Mr. Lu Xun had a plant pot in his sitting-room. It looked like the jar Euro-!>ean

women fetched water with, as shown in paintings. It was of a bluish pay with a

couple of ripples naturally embossed with its own glaze. It had a landle on each

side near the top. Planted in it were a few evergreens.

[Tie first time I visited Mr. Lu Xun I asked:

"What is the name of this plant? There is no fire in the room, but it is not

rozen."

:t was toward evening one winter day. The sitting-room downstairs was dim. Mr. Lu

Xun was smoking a cigarette. When he took it away from his lips, raiding it

between his fingers at the corner of his desk, small puffs rose as ligh as the top

of his grayish hair and, further up, they were no longer visible.

"It's called 'evergreen.' It is always like this."He flicked the cigarette ash to

he ashtray next to the pot and the cigarette glowed redder still like a small

lower glimmering two or three inches from the cuff of his sleeve.

'It is not affected by the cold, is it?"I asked another time, not remembering ...
...

acactly when.

'No, it is not," said Mrs. Lu Xun. "It's a tough plant." She held the pot by he

top, shaking it for me to see. I noticed there were some pebbles around he bottom.

Later, as I got to know them better, I went once or twice up to the pot, which ras

placed on a long black table, to examine it more closely. Coming from he cold

north I always wondered why this plant did not wither even in winter.

Phe plant was now still alive. Sometimes it stood on the black table, other imes

in front of Mr. Lu Xun's photograph.

Sut it had been transplanted into a glass pot through which their yellowish roots

could be seen at the bottom.

Mrs.Lu Xun would chat with us while moving from one plant to another, checking if

any of them had turned yellow and which one needed clipping at watering. She

always kept herself busy in her room. Sometimes she examined the evergreens,

sometimes she talked of Mr. Lu Xun, in front of his photograph, as if of someone

of the remote past.

But where is the pot now? It is standing in the graveyard, in the grass, its

bottom missing. The pot, empty, has been there spring through autumn when the

pomegranate at the head of the neighboring tomb has blossomed and borne fruit.

Since the Japanese bombardment of Shanghai, only Mrs. Lu Xun has visited the tomb,

but none of the others. The tomb must have been overgrown with wild grass and the

porcelain bust of Mr. Lu Xun buried up to the chest, not to mention the pot.

As for us over here, there is not much we can do but write memorial articles.

However, who will go and trim the grass on his tomb? We are getting further and

further away from him, but no matter how far away we are, we must always remember

the grass.