作品原文

宗璞 《好一朵木槿花》

又是一年秋来，洁白的玉簪花夹着凉意，先透出冰雪的消息。美人蕉也在这时开放了。红的黄的花，耸立在阔大的绿叶上，一点也不在乎秋的肃杀。以前我有“美人蕉不美”的说法，现在很想收回。接下来该是紫薇和木槿。在我家这以草为主的小园中，它们就偶然地生长起来。紫薇似娇气些，始终未见花。木槿则已两度花发了。

木槿以前给我的印象是平庸。“文革”中许多花木惨遭摧残，它却是全性命，陪伴着显赫一时的文冠果，免得那钦定植物太孤单。据说 原因是它的花可食用，大概总比草根树皮好些吧。学生浴室边的路上，两行树挺立着，花开有紫、红、白等色，我从未仔细看过。

近两年木槿在这小园中两度花发，不同凡响。

前年秋至，我家刚从死别的悲痛中缓过气来不久，又面临了少年人的生之困惑。我们不知道下一分钟会发生什么事，陷入极端惶恐中。我坐立不安时，只好到草园中踱步。那时园中荒草没膝，除我们的基本队伍亲爱的玉簪花外，只有两树忍冬，结了小红果子，玛瑙扣子似的，一簇簇挂着。我没有指望还能看见别的什么颜色。

忽然在绿草间，闪出一点紫色，亮亮的，轻轻的，在眼前转了几转。我忙拨开草丛走过去，见一朵紫色的花缀在不高的绿枝上。

这是木槿。木槿开花了，而且是紫色的。

木槿花的三种颜色，以紫色最好。那红色极不正，好象颜料没有调好；白色的花，有老伙伴玉簪已经够了。最愿见到的是紫色，好和早春的二月兰、初夏的藤萝相呼应，让紫色的幻想充满在小园中，让风吹走悲伤，让梦留着。

惊喜之余，我小心地除去它周围的杂草，作出一个浅坑，浇上水。水很快渗下去了。一阵风过，草面漾出绿色的波浪，薄如蝉翼的娇嫩的紫花在一片绿波中歪着头，带点调皮，却丝毫不知道自己显得很奇特。

去年，月圆过四五次后，几经洗劫的小园又一次遭受磨难。园旁小兴土木，盖一座大有用途的小楼。泥土、砖块、钢筋、木条全堆在园里，像是零乱地长出一座座小山，把植物全压在底下。我已习惯了这类景象，知道毁去了以后，总会有新的开始。尽管等的时间会很长。

没想到秋来时，一次走在这崎岖山路上，忽见土山一侧，透过砖块钢筋伸出几条绿枝，绿枝上，一朵紫色的花正在颤颤地开放！

我的心也震颤起来，一种悲壮的感觉攫住了我。土埋大半截了，还开花！

土埋大半截了，还开花！

我跨过障碍，走近去看这朵从重压下挣扎出来的花。仍是娇嫩的薄如蝉翼的花瓣，略有皱折，似乎在花蒂处有一根带子束住，却又舒展自得，它不觉得环境的艰难，更不觉得自己的奇特。

忽然觉得这是一朵童话中的花，拿着它，任何愿望都会实现，因为持有的，是面对一切苦难的勇气。

紫色的流光抛散开来，笼罩了凌乱的工地。那朵花冉冉升起，倚着明亮的紫霞，微笑地俯看着我。

今年果然又有一个开始。小园经过整治，不再以草为主，所以有了对美人蕉的新认识。那株木槿高了许多，枝蘩叶茂，只是重阳已届，仍不见花。

我常在它身旁徘徊，期待着震撼了我的那朵花。

它不再来。

即使再有花开，也不是去年的那一朵了。也许需要纪念碑，纪念那逝去了的，昔日的悲壮？

作品译文

What a Fine Rose-of-Sharon

Another fall. A plaintain lily, with its chilly air, is sending out signals of snow and ice. The canna lily comes into bloom at this time, too. Its red and yellow flowers tower aloft the broad green leaves, not minding at all the deadly acrimony of fall. I used to denigrate the canna lily, denying its beauty, but now I’m ready to take back my words. Then follows the crape myrtle and the Rose-of-Sharon. In my little garden mainly of grass, they are immigrants. A few branches I got by chance were stuck in the soil, and unexpectedly they began to grow. The crape myrtle seems a little fragile, it has not flowered yet, whereas the Rose-of-Sharon had bloomed twice.

In the past, the Rose-of-Sharon looked commonplace to me. Many trees and flowers were tragically destroyed during the Cultural Revolution, but this one survived to accompany the ever so famous “royal” yellowhorn of the times, supposedly because its flowers were edible. The blossoms of the Rose-of-Sharon stood in two rows alongside the road. They had purple, red and white flower. I had never looked at them closely. But the fact that it had blossomed twice in this tiny garden in the past two year is very unusual.

When fall arrived the year before last, we were recovering from a death in the family. In those days of the Cultural Revolution, we did not have the slightest idea what would happen from moment to moment. Extremely uneasy, I took a stroll in the garden. At the time, the garden was full of knee-high weeds. Except for the two plaintain lilies, our endearing support in those times, there were two honeysuckle vines, whose little red seeds, like agate beads, hung in clusters. I had not expected to see any other color.

But all of a sudden, in the green grass, a spot of purple. I walked closer. And right there, a purple flower adorned a low green branch. It was the Rose-of-Sharon. It had bloomed, and the flower was purple.
Of the flower’s three colors, purple is the finest. Its red is not precise enouth, and the white appears redundant. What I had always longed for was the purple ones, to match the February orchid of early spring as well as the Chinese wisteria of early summer. It would fill my little garden with violet fantasies, invite breezes to blow away miseries, and allow dreams to stay.

Elated, I carefully weeded out the surrounding grass and watered it. The soil absorbed the water quickly. In the breeze, the delicate purple flower, its petals thin as cicada wings, tilted mischievously over the green wave of the grass. It was not at all aware of its own uniqueness.

Then during the past year, after four or five full moons, the little garden, which had been looted several times during the Cultural Revolution, began to suffer another ordeal. Clay, bricks, reinforced steel bars and wood were piled pell mell, and crushed all the plants under them. I had grown accustomed to such scenes, knowing there must be new beginnings after destruction. Only the waiting would be very long. And then unexpectedly in early fall, when walking near the pile of construction material, I suddenly noted a little purple flower in bloom.

My heart trembled. A solemn feeling gripped me. Half buried it still blossomed, the Rose-of-Sharon.
Half-buried, it still blossomed!

I cut across the barriers and approached to examine the little flower struggling out of the garguantian heap, its delicate petals still as thin as the wings of a cicada. It was slightly wrinkled, as if its petals had been tied up, and then had broken out again. It remained unaware of its harsh surroundings, unaware of its own uniqueness.

It appeared like the flower in a fable; holding it in the hand, one’s wishes could come true, because what one is holding is the courage to face all adversities.

The purple radiance suffused the messy construction site. The flower, bathed in a bright purple luster, rose gracefully and looked down at me with a smile.

Sure enough, now is a new beginning. This year, my little garden, after restoration, is no longer dominated by wild grass. That is how I had achieved a new appreciation of the canna lily. That stalk the Rose-of-Sharon has sprung up, and its leaves are luxuriant. But even as late as the Double Nine Festival in the fall, the Rose-of-Sharon still did not flower.

I often wander around the bush, anticipating the little flower that had once overwhelmed me.

But it never flowered again.

But even if it had, it would not be the same. Perhaps it is just as well that it remain a memory of the sorrowful days gone by.