The Winter Scene in Jiangnan
Yu Dafu

Everyone who has spent winter in the north knows how nice it feels to sit round a stove brewing tea, or eating lamb hotpot, or shelling peanuts, or drinking white spirits.
And though the snow outside may be feet deep and the wind may boom like thunder, if the house has sunken stoves, heated brick beds and such amenities, the two or three months holed up indoors are a period of hibernation more agreeable than any other time of year. Let alone the old folk, even children who love to be active all cherish the winter, because there are lots of eats for them, like dried turnip, yali pears and other fruits, and boisterous celebrations to take part in, as on New Year's Eve, New Year's Day, and the Lantern Festival.
But it is a different state of affairs south of the Yangtze River. The trees, for one thing, are not stripped bare of leaves after the winter solstice. Wintery winds—from the northwest—blow only intermittently, making it cold for no more than one or two days. When the sky clears of clouds, and daybreak brings streets littered with leaves and a frost as white as cold cream on a black girl's face, the sun has only to fall on the house eaves for the birds to twitter again, the earth to steam again, and granddads to take the little ones out to the open lot in front of the house and sit with the sun on their backs chewing the rag and getting on with their outdoor lives. Who could say that the winter scene south of the Yangtze is not also very attractive?
I grew up in Jiangnan, and the impression of Jiangnan winters is deeply etched on my mind. Though as I approach middle age I have fallen in love with late autumn, believing it the most favorable season for reading and writing, I still think the winter scene in Jiangnan has a special feel about it that can match that of summer nights in the north; to put it in a modern way, a kind of clear and luminous ambience.
I have also been in Fujian and Guangdong in the winter. Warm isn't the word for it! Sometimes at the time of the lunar New Year you might have to put on your summer gown. When you go past country gardens you can still see over the fence a jungle of autumn flowers! It's true the temperature drops a few degrees after a storm, but a lined garment is all you'll ever need: fur gowns and padded jackets are definitely out. The climatic abnormality of the extreme south is not what I mean by winter in Jiangnan: it can only be called the eternal spring of the south, or the extension of spring or autumn.
Because the soil in Jiangnan is rich and moist, it retains heat and sustains plant life. Hence in the Jiangnan region, rush catkins stay firm until the winter solstice, and red leaves sometimes stay on the trees for more than three months. The tallow trees along the banks of the Qiantang River are another example: after the red leaves of autumn fall, the branches are still speckled with clusters of snow-white seeds; in a photograph you could easily mistake them for plum blossoms. Grass turns brown at the most, and always stays greenish at the roots; brush fires will not kill it, nor winter winds flatten it. If you go out of town for a walk on your own in winter and the weather is mild and the sky blue, you not only have no sense of blight and deadness, you even feel a mysterious vitality latent in your surroundings. The Jiangnan countryside is the best place for understandings what the poet meant by his famous line, “If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?”
Talking of country walks in winter, they are a special grace and favor bestowed by that season on the inhabitants of Jiangnan. Those who live in the frozen north will never have the chance of enjoying this simple pleasure in their whole lifetime. I do not know how winters in Germany compare with ours in Jiangsu and Zhejiang, but judging by the liking of many German writers for using the word 'Spaziergang' in their compositions I would guess that that in southern Germany the seasons are about the same as ours in Jiangsu. The 19th century rustic poet Peter Rosegger (1843-1918), for example, includes the word for 'walks' in the titles of an exceptional number of his works, and the conditions he describes could well apply to the hill districts of our Jiangsu and Zhejiang.
Jiangnan is a region of rivers and tributaries, and bordering on the sea, abounds in lakes and marshes, hence the air is often humid. In winter you often get drizzling rain, and the winter scene of an out of the way village shrouded in drizzle conveys an inexpressible sense of pastoral peace. If you would just imagine, after the autumn harvest has been gathered in, a small hamlet of four or five homes on a river bank, their doors facing a long narrow bridge, their windows looking out on distant hills, amid thickets of natural forest trees; over this picture of a hibernal hamlet is sprinkled a layer of white rain as fine as powder, and a background is shaded in so faintly that you can hardly detect the ink: wouldn't you say this qualifies as pastoral peace? If you wish to add some features to the scene, then can moor a little boat with a black awning before the dwellings, draw in some tipplers carousing in a thatched hut; then at sunset add a dash of amber to the sky, and paint a halo round the windows to represent the lamplight. Anyone coming upon a scene like this would feel liberated, released from petty cares, and finally forgetful of their own fortunes and their own mortality. No doubt we all recall the Tang poem that begins 'The dark rain sweeps the riverside village'. In this setting, the poet even treated the bandits of the greenwood politely: what was that due to, if not the enchantment of the Jiangnan scene in winter?
Mention of rain inevitably brings thoughts of snow. 'The evening draws in, the sky threatens snow, is there a cup to be had or no?' describes, of course, a snowy evening in Jiangnan. 'Plum trees' shadows on the cold shone path, the fragrance of wine in the snow-sprinkle village' brings together the 'three friends' of a winter's night, snow, moon and plum trees, and tells of flirting with the waitress in a wineshop. 'At the wicket gate the village dogs bark, the traveler returns on a night of wind and snow; describes a snowy night in Jiangnan when all is still. 'The village up ahead is deep in snow, last night a spray of plum blossoms opened'; and the next morning the village boys who like to romp in the snow like dogs come to report on the village happenings. Perhaps not all of the lines I have quoted were written in Jiangnan, and perhaps not all the poets who wrote them were from Jiangnan, but borrowing those lines puts the case in a nutshell, and they are infinitely more beautiful than the prose my clumsy pen can write.
In some years the Jiangnan region might see a winter without rain or snow, and just a slight fall of spring snow at the end of the first month or beginning of the second month of the lunar calendar. Last winter (1934) was like that, and I'm afraid this winter is sure to be like that. Reckoning by the solar terms, the coldest spell should be at the end of February 1936, and it should last seven or eight days at the most. These are what the country people call dry winters. They may be good for the wheat harvest, but they are bed for the population: a prolonged drought makes it easy for diphtheria, influenza and other diseases to get a hold. But those willing to throw caution to the winds and enjoy the Jiangnan winter to the full will still welcome such years, because there are more mild and sunny days, and it follows that there are more opportunities for carefree country walks. Enthusiasts for what the Japanese call Kikeng and the Germans call Spaziergang look forward most to this kind of winter.
The weather outside my window is as fine as a late autumn day's. The crisp air, the cloudless sky, and the flood of sunlight tempt you out of doors. Very well, I must practice what I preach. I shall stop writing this tiresome essay, put up my pen, pick up my stick, and be off to the lakeside for a nice stroll!