国耻图录（七）

甲午战争中清军劝降日军奇文

甲午战争中清军劝降日军奇文 (转载)

张鸣

檄文本是古来国人开仗的时候，用以给自家壮胆，同时吓唬敌人的小把戏，其实用处不大。但古往今来，喜欢玩的人还真是不少。说某人文武双全，就说他上马杀敌，下马草檄，而且下笔千言，倚马可待。说来也怪，古来流传下来的檄文妙品，往往属于失败者一方，陈琳为袁绍拟的讨曹瞒檄，以及骆宾王的讨武瞾檄，都是可以选入中学课本的佳作，连挨骂的一方见了，都击节赞赏或者惊出一身冷汗，医好了头风病。看来，文章和真刀实枪的干，的确是两码子事。林彪说，枪杆子，笔杆子，夺取政权靠这两杆子，巩固政权还要靠这两杆子。在实际政治中，笔杆子不及枪杆子多矣，往往越是枪杆子不济事，才越要耍笔杆子吓唬人，而笔杆子耍出来的玩意，多半是给人消闲的（包括对手）。

前一阵在香港讲学，闲着无聊，乱翻清人笔记，居然发现了一篇这种吓唬人的妙文。此文简直妙不可言，足以跟讨曹瞒檄和讨武瞾檄鼎足而三，丢下一句都可惜，抄在下面，供同好者欣赏：

为出示晓谕事，本大臣奉命统率湘军五十余营，训练三月之久，现由山海关拔队东征。正、二两月中，必当与日本兵营决一胜负。本大臣讲求枪炮，素有准头，十五、十六两年所练兵勇，均以精枪快炮为前队，堂堂之阵，正正之旗，能进不能退，能胜不能败。湘军子弟，忠义奋发，合数万人为一心。日本以久顿之兵，师老而劳，岂能当此生力军乎？惟本大臣以仁义之师，行忠信之德，素不嗜杀人为贵。念尔日本臣民，各有父母妻子，岂愿以血肉之躯，当吾枪炮之火？迫于将令，远涉重洋，暴怀在外。值此冰天雪地之中，饥寒亦所不免。生死在呼吸之间，昼夜无休息之候，父母悲痛而不知，妻子号泣而不闻。战胜则将之功，战败则兵之祸，拼千万人之性命，以博大岛圭介之喜快。今日本之贤大夫，未必以黩武穷兵为得计。本大臣欲救两国人民之命，自当开诚布公，剀切晓谕：两军交战之时，凡尔日本兵官逃生无路，但见本大臣所设投诚免死牌，即交出枪刀，跪伏牌下，本大臣专派仁慈廉干人员收尔入营，一日两餐，与中国人民一律看待，亦不派做苦工，事平之后，即遣轮船送尔归国。本大臣出此告示，天地鬼神所共鉴，决不食言，致伤阴德。若竟迷而不悟，拼死拒敌，试选精兵利器与本大臣接战三次，胜负不难立见。迨至该兵三战三北之时，本大臣自有七纵七擒之法。请鉴前车，毋贻后悔，特示。（大岛圭介为甲午战时的日本驻朝公使，当时中国舆论认为他是导致中日开战的一个阴谋家。）

这篇檄文出自中日甲午战争期间，湖南巡抚吴大徵之手（很大的可能是他幕僚的手笔），时间是光绪二十年底（1895 年）。当时，北洋水师已在困守刘公岛，离覆没不远。而陆军则从平壤一直退到海城。吴大徵在晚清，也属于比较开明而且务实的“廉干人员”。在危难时率军出征，而且带的是武器装备以及训练都远不及淮军的湘军，居然能够发出如此气壮如牛的檄文，要在战场设立“投诚免死牌”，并要约日军“接战三次”，让人家“三战三北”，自己则可效诸葛亮，有七擒七纵之法。

当然，吴大徵的部队，接战还是真的跟日军接战了，并没有说了不练，只是战绩跟淮军一样，打一仗败一仗，三战三北的不是日本人，而是他老人家自己。开战的时候，我估计什么“投诚免死牌”之类的也没有立起来，投降的日本人，一个都没有，一天管两顿饭，以及用轮船送回自然都谈不上了；倒是被围在刘公岛的北洋水师，全体被俘，被人徒手装在一艘卸除了枪炮的训练舰上，送了回来。

湘淮军也是中国学西方搞军事现代化的产物，中日开战之前，中国的士大夫一致认为，日本军队不及湘淮军远矣。就连世界舆论，也大多看好中国。没想到真的动起手来，如此不中用，两军轮番上阵，结果连一个小胜仗都没有打过。所谓“精枪快炮”，而且“素有准头”，只是嘴上说说而已，手里不比日军差的洋枪洋炮，起的作用，倒更像是过年放的鞭炮（据说吴大徵自己枪法倒是不错，在战前练了许久，不知为何没让带的兵练出来）。

摩西五经英译

• LRB (London Review of Books)
• 23 February 2006

At the tent flap sin crouches

James Wood

• The Five Books of Moses: A Translation with Commentary by Robert Alter
  

In the beginning was not the word, or the deed, but the face. ‘Darkness was upon the face of the deep,’ runs the King James Version in the second verse of the opening of Genesis. ‘And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.’ Two uses of ‘face’ in one verse, and a third implied face, surely: God’s own, hovering over the face of his still uncreated world. The Almighty, looking into the face of his waters, might well be expected to see his face reflected: it is profoundly his world, still uncontaminated by rebellious man.

The committees of translators appointed by James I knew what they were doing. The face of God and the face of the world (or of mankind) will become a running entanglement throughout the five Books of Moses (Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers and Deuteronomy). Man will fear to look upon God’s face, and God will frequently abhor the deeds of the people who live on the face of his world. Once Cain has killed Abel, and has been banished by God, he cries out: ‘Behold thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the earth; and from thy face shall I be hid.’ When the Almighty decides to flood his world, he pledges to destroy every living thing ‘from off the face of the earth’. After wrestling with a divine stranger all night, Jacob ‘called the name of the place Peniel: For I have seen God face to face, and my life is preserved.’ Jacob dies happy that he has seen his son Joseph’s face, and Moses, of course, spoke to God ‘face to face, as a man speaketh unto his friend’. The Book of Numbers contains the little prayer so beloved of the Christian liturgy: ‘The Lord bless thee, and keep thee: The Lord make his face shine upon thee: The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.’ He casts his now kindly face upon ours. The Hebrew word for ‘face’ is the same in all these verses, so the 17th-century translators were being exact; but they were also perhaps telling us something about God’s circular ownership of his creation, his face above and his face below. Perhaps when they chose ‘the face of the waters’ they had in their ears John’s description of the Lord in Revelation: ‘and his voice as the sound of many waters’.

In his remarkable new translation of the Pentateuch, a monument of scholarship, Robert Alter eschews ‘face’ to describe the surface of the world at the start of Genesis, and I miss the cosmic implications, but his first two verses amply compensate with their own originality: ‘When God began to create heaven and earth, and the earth then was welter and waste and darkness over the deep and God’s breath hovering over the waters, God said: “Let there be light.” And there was light.’ The King James Version has ‘without form and void’ for Alter’s Anglo-Saxonish ‘welter and waste’, but Alter, as throughout this massive work, provides a diligent and alert footnote:

The Hebrew tohu wabohu occurs only here and in two later biblical texts that are clearly alluding to this one. The second word of the pair looks like a nonce term coined to rhyme with the first and to reinforce it, an effect I have tried to approximate in English by alliteration. Tohu by itself means ‘emptiness’ or ‘futility’, and in some contexts is associated with the trackless vacancy of the desert.

Alter brings this kind of sensitivity to bear on moment after moment of his translation, and the result greatly refreshes, sometimes productively estranges, words that may now be too familiar to those who grew up with the King James Bible. The Pentateuch, or Torah, contains the great narratives of our monotheistic infancy. It tells the stories of the creation; of Adam and Eve and their children, Cain and Abel; of the Flood and Noah’s escape and God’s promise never to destroy the earth again; of Abraham and God’s covenant with him and his people; of Isaac and his sons Esau and Jacob; of Jacob’s wrestle with God and God’s anointing of Jacob as Israel; the story of Joseph and his brothers; the sojourn of the Israelites in Egypt and their exodus, led by Moses; the handing down of the law from the mountain at Sinai; the elaboration of the law or teaching (torah means ‘teaching’); and finally the death of Moses as his people are on the verge of the promised land.

Biblical style is famous for its stony reticence, for a mimesis that Erich Auerbach called ‘fraught with background’. This reticence is surely not as unique as Auerbach claimed – Herodotus is a great rationer of explanation, for example – but it achieves its best-known form in the family stories of Genesis. The paratactic verses with their repeated ‘and’ move like the hands of those large old railway station clocks that jolted visibly from minute to minute: time is beaten forward, not continuously pursued. Yet it is often the gaps between these verses, or sometimes between the clauses of a single verse, that constitute the text’s ‘realism’, a realism created as much by the needy reader as by the withholding writing itself. For example, after the Flood, Noah starts a new occupation: ‘And Noah began to be an husbandman, and he planted a vineyard. And he drank of the wine, and was drunken; and he was uncovered within his tent.’ Noah is a lush. This is not without crooked humour of a kind, and the gap-filled rapidity of the narration is the reason for the smile it raises.

Likewise, though generating pathos rather than comedy, the laconic report of Joseph’s response to his brothers works by starving us of information. Joseph, installed by Pharaoh as his right-hand man in Egypt, receives in an official capacity his brothers, who have travelled from Canaan in search of food. He recognises them but disguises himself. Three times he weeps, twice turning away from them and a third time openly. The first time, ‘he turned himself about from them, and wept.’ The second time is more agitated: ‘And Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother: and he sought where to weep; and he entered into his chamber, and wept there.’ Finally, after various ruses, he can stand it no longer, and asks his servants to leave him alone while he ‘made himself known unto his brethren. And he wept aloud: and the Egyptians and the house of Pharaoh heard.’ The beauty is that the final episode, the apparent climax, is as terse as the first: secret weeping is no different in this account from public weeping, and revelation is as hidden as disguise. Joseph is no longer hidden from his brothers but he is still hidden from the reader: that surely is the thrust of the narration. And note, too, how our desire to witness this open crying, to bathe in authorial emotion, is reticently, and very movingly, transferred to another, less involved audience: ‘and the Egyptians and the house of Pharaoh heard.’

I quoted from the King James Version here, but Alter’s translation honours both the text’s grave simplicity and its almost novelistic attention to different literary registers. Abraham’s wife, Sarah, is for a long time barren, so she proposes that her maid Hagar sleep with Abraham to provide him with an heir. Hagar conceives, and when she sees that she is pregnant, ‘her mistress was despised in her eyes.’ It is one of those intensely human biblical moments: the servant, proud of her plump fertility, cannot but help look down on her withered mistress. But Alter improves on the King James Version’s ‘despised’: ‘And she saw that she had conceived and her mistress seemed slight in her eyes.’ That ‘slight’, for obvious reasons, is very subtle.

Or take the little adjustment Alter makes to the Jacob and Esau tale. Esau is so hungry for the lentils that his brother has that he sells his birthright for a mess of pottage: ‘And Esau said to Jacob, Feed me, I pray thee, with that same red pottage: for I am faint.’ Alter’s version is more literal, and more natural: ‘And Esau said to Jacob, “Let me gulp down some of this red red stuff, for I am famished.”’ In a footnote, he explains his choice:

Although the Hebrew of the dialogues in the Bible reflects the same level of normative literary language as the surrounding narration, here the writer comes close to assigning substandard Hebrew to the rude Esau. The famished brother cannot even come up with the ordinary Hebrew word for ‘stew’ (nazid) and instead points to the bubbling pot impatiently as (literally) ‘this red red’. The verb he uses for gulping down occurs nowhere else in the Bible, but in rabbinic Hebrew it is reserved for the feeding of animals.

There are many examples like this of choices deeply pondered and painstakingly explained; reading Alter’s scripture is a slow business only because one stops so often to put down into the well of one of his life-giving footnotes.

Though the King James Version is sometimes inaccurate, it is generally thought to be, of all English translations, the one that best captures the quiddity of the Hebrew. Early 17th-century English – and mid-16th-century English, since the KJV stands on the shoulders of Tyndale, Coverdale and Cranmer – was not afraid of anti-sentimental reticence (my favourite is perhaps Exodus 13.17, ‘And Joshua discomfited Amalek and his people with the edge of the sword’); it followed the parataxis of the Hebrew narration, the ‘and’ that so often begins a new verse or clause; it understood, as a literary principle, that to repeat a word can be enrichment not exhaustion, and that repetition subtly changes the sense of the repeated word if not its sound (modern versions, like the flat Revised Standard Version, invariably flee from repetition); and it relished the pungent physicality of Hebrew, which often inheres in the verbs.

Alter’s translation brings delight because it follows the precepts of the committees of King James, but is founded on a greatly deeper conversance with Hebrew than the great 17th-century scholars could summon. (No Jew was involved in the King James committees.) And Alter, who has been at the forefront of the rise of what might be called literary biblical studies, and who has educated two or three generations of students and readers in the art of biblical appreciation, brings to his own English a scholarly comprehension of the capacities of literary usage. In his introduction he rightly says that among the great 20th-century English stylists like Joyce, Woolf, Nabokov, Faulkner – he might have added Lawrence, by far the most biblical writer of 20th-century English – ‘there is not one among them whose use of language, including the deployment of syntax, even vaguely resembles the workaday simplicity and patly consistent orderliness that recent translators of the Bible have posited as the norm of modern English.’ Thus Alter is happy to follow the precedent of the KJV when he feels that it cannot be bettered: his Adam also ‘knew’ Eve, and his Israelites also ‘murmured against’ Moses in the wilderness and lament that they have left behind ‘the fleshpots’ of Egypt. As ever, he usefully defends his reasons. About the ‘fleshpots’, he writes: ‘The Hebrew indicates something like a cauldron in which meat is cooked, but the King James Version’s rendering of “fleshpots” (“flesh” of course meaning “meat” in 17th-century English) has become proverbial in the language and deserves to be retained.’ Well, it became proverbial, but is it still? The word always makes me smile because when I was growing up, albeit in a highly scriptural household, my family used to talk of my grandparents’ house – where I was allowed unlimited sweets – as the ‘fleshpots of Egypt’.

Especially fine is the way Alter seems to dig into the earth of the Hebrew to recover, in English, its fearless tactility. When Pharaoh has his first dream, of seven good ears of corn and seven bad, ‘his heart pounded’, which, Alter informs us in a footnote, follows the Hebrew, whose literal meaning is ‘his spirit pounded.’ (The usually concrete KJV has the softer ‘his spirit was troubled.’) The dream comes to pass, and there are seven fat years and seven lean years. ‘During the seven plenteous years the earth brought forth abundantly,’ runs the Revised Standard Version, itself a wan starveling of the more robust and accurate KJV: ‘And in the seven plenteous years the earth brought forth by handfuls.’ But Alter is more daring, and more literal: ‘And the land in the seven years of plenty made gatherings.’ A footnote girds the apparent oddity of ‘gatherings’:

The Hebrew qematsim elsewhere means ‘handfuls’, and there is scant evidence that it means ‘abundance’, as several modern versions have it. But qomets is a ‘handful’ because it is what the hand gathers in as it closes, and it is phonetically and semantically cognate with wayiqbots, ‘he collected’, the very next verb in the Hebrew text. The likely reference here, then, is not to small quantities (handfuls) but to the process of systematically gathering in the grain, as the next sentence spells out.

Or take the moment at the end of Chapter 2 of Exodus, where the Bible-writer tells us that God began to hear the groaning of the Israelites in their Egyptian bondage: ‘So God looked on the Israelites and was concerned about them,’ says the New International Version. The King James has: ‘And God looked upon the children of Israel, and God had respect unto them.’ Alter has: ‘And God saw the Israelites, and God knew.’ Notice that the New International Version shies away from repeating the word ‘God’, something that fazes neither the KJV nor Alter. But Alter’s reading is at once elegantly emphatic – ‘and God knew’ – and accurate. He informs us that the Hebrew verb has no object, and that Greek translators mistakenly tried to ‘correct’ it. How majestic and indeed divine that objectless ‘knew’ is. And Alter’s version allows one to make new connections with biblical-sounding texts. Saul Bellow, who grew up reading the Hebrew Bible, and whose English was profoundly influenced by both the Tanakh and the King James Version, was very fond of that objectless verb ‘knew’. Tommy Wilhelm, the hero of Seize the Day, is haplessly surrounded by people he fears are the kinds of people who ‘know’ (as opposed to the confused hero): ‘Rubin was the kind of man who knew, and knew and knew,’ Tommy thinks to himself. Mr Sammler’s Planet ends with the eponymous hero reflecting that he has met the terms of his life-contract, those terms ‘that we all know, God, that we know, that we know, we know, we know’. This always sounded biblical to me, but Alter’s translation of the line in Exodus has given me chapter and verse.

…

ISSN 0260-9592 Copyright © LRB Ltd., 1997-2008

“忽悠”的后殖民境界：冷漠之一种

The New York Review of Books

Volume 48, Number 17 · November 1, 2001

The Razor's Edge

By J.M. Coetzee

Half a Life
by V.S. Naipaul
Knopf, 211 pp., $24.00. To be released in early 2002.

…

Chandran the charlatan sadhu and his son the inept lover: they might seem the stuff of comedy, but not in Naipaul's hands. Naipaul is a master of English prose, and the prose of Half a Life is as clean and cold as a knife. The male Chandrans are defective human beings who leave the reader chilled rather than amused; the "backward" wife and Willie's sister, who grows into a smug left-wing fellow traveler, are little better.

Both father and son believe they see through other people. But they detect lies and self-deception all around them only because they are incapable of imagining anyone unlike themselves. Their shrewdness of insight is grounded in nothing but a self-protective reflex of suspicion. Their rule of thumb is always to give the least charitable interpretation. Self-absorption, minginess of spirit, rather than inexperience, are at the root of Willie's failures in love.

As for his father, a measure of his constitutional meanness is his response to books. As a student, he does not "understand" the courses he is taking, and in particular does not "understand" literature. The education he is subjected to, principally English literature taught by rote, is certainly irrelevant to his life. Nevertheless, there is in him a deep impulse not to understand, not to know. He is, strictly speaking, ineducable. His bonfire of the classics is not a healthily critical response to a deadening colonial education. It does not free him for another, better kind of education, for he has no idea of what a good education might be. In fact, he has no ideas at all.

Willie is similarly blank-minded. Arriving in Britain, he is soon made aware of how ignorant he is. But in a typical reflex action he finds someone else to blame, in this case his mother: he is incurious about the world because he is the child of a "backward." Inheritance is character is fate.

College life shows him that Indian etiquette is as irrational and quaint as British etiquette. But this insight does not spell the beginning of self-knowledge. I know about both India and England, he reasons, whereas the English know only about England, therefore I am free to say what I like about my country. He invents a new and less shameful past for himself, turning his mother into a member of an ancient Christian community and his father into the son of a courtier. "He began to re-make himself. It excited him, and began to give him a feeling of power."

Why are this unappealing pair the way they are? What do they reveal about the society that produced them? Here the key word is sacrifice. Willie has been quick to identify the joylessness at the heart of his father's brand of Gandhianism because he knows at first hand what it is like to be given up. One of Willie's schoolboy stories is about a Brahmin who ritually sacrifices "backward" children for the sake of riches, and ends up sacrificing his own two children. It is this story, titled "A Life of Sacrifice," with its not so covert accusation against him, that determines Chandran—a man who makes a living out of what he calls self-sacrifice—to send his son to England: "The boy will poison what remains of my life. I must get him far away from here."

What Willie has detected is that sacrificing your desires means, in practice, not loving the people you ought to love. Chandran reacts to detection by pushing the sacrifice of his son one step further. Behind Chandran's fiction that he has sacrificed a career for the sake of a life of self-mortification lies a Hindu tradition embodied, if not in Gandhi (whom Willie and his mother despise), then in what Indians like Chandran have made of Gandhi in turning him into the holy man of the nation; embodied more generally in a fatalistic philosophy that teaches that best is least, that striving toward self-improvement is ultimately pointless.

…

Copyright © 1963-2008, NYREV, Inc. All rights reserved.

佛教艺术（一）：印度桑奇大塔

印度桑奇大塔 (The Great Stupa of Sanchi)

唐代判文

转载自中山大学中国文体学研究中心网站

唐代判文文体及源流研究

吴承学

……

唐判的兴盛，一方面是受到科举考试的刺激，另一方面当时的社会风尚与价值标准也起推波助澜的作用。在唐人眼中，判的写作是评价一个人能力的重要标准。史书和笔记有许多这方面的记载。《旧唐书》记载杜审言的一段故事：“乾封中，苏味道为天官侍郎，审言预选。试判讫，谓人曰：‘苏味道必死。’人问其故，审言曰：‘见吾判，即自当羞死。’”（卷一九O《文苑传》）杜审言自己判文写得好，就认为足以让苏味道看了“羞死”。他之所以如此狂傲地自负，正从一个侧面说明试判和判文水平在当时人们心目中有非同小可的地位。官场也往往以书判作为评价官员的能力的重要标准。《大唐新语》卷八：

裴琰之弱冠为同州司户，但以行乐为事，略不视案牍。刺史李崇仪怪之，问户佐，户佐对：“司户小儿郎，不娴书判。”……复数日，曹事委积，众议以为琰之不知书，但邀游耳。他日崇仪召入，励而责之。琰之出，问户佐曰：“文案几何？”对曰：“急者二百余道。”琰曰：“有何多？如此逼人。”命每案后连纸十张令五六人供研墨点笔。琰之不上厅，语主案者略言其事意，倚柱而断之，词理纵横，文笔灿烂，手不停缀，落纸如飞。倾州官僚，观者如堵。既而回案于崇仪，崇仪曰：“司户解判耶？”户佐曰：“司户太高手笔。”仍未之奇也，比四五案，崇仪悚怍。召琰之，降阶谢曰：“公词翰若此，何忍藏锋，以成鄙夫之过。”由此名动一州。裴琰不判则已，一判惊人。“倚柱而断之，词理纵横，文笔灿烂，手不停缀，落纸如飞。

思维与写作之敏捷，正是作判的理想境界。

还有一些逸事可以从侧面说明判的重要。《朝野佥载》卷六记载当时吏部侍郎李安期铨选的故事：

吏部侍郎李安期，隋内史德林之孙，安平公百药之子，性好机警……一选人引铨，安期看判曰：“弟书稍弱。”对曰：“昨坠马损足。”安期曰：“损足何废好书？”为读判曰：“向看贤判，非但伤足，兼似内损。”其人惭而去。

这个选人以骑马摔伤脚来作为书写不好的理由，的确可笑。而李安期读了他拙劣的判文， “顺水推舟”地讽刺他不但外伤，而且还内伤。这则著名的笑话原本是以士人拙迂可笑和李安期的机警幽默相映成趣的。通过笑话，可以看出当时铨选对于书判确是相当重视的。

判文兴盛的原因应该放在唐代文学与文化的双重背景来研究。判文本身的功能就是裁定事理，辨明是非，既用于司法，也用于处理公务甚至日常生活琐事。 自六朝以后，骈文兴盛，至唐不衰。虽然唐代古文运动对骈文有所冲击，但骈文的地位并未受到根本的动摇。判文就语体而言，大致应列入骈文一类。所谓判，实际上近似于以骈文写成的短论，判的文学性，也同样表现在用典、辞藻、骈偶等语言形式上。判作为文体，具有特殊的文化意义。一方面，它是文人走向仕途，实现自己价值所必须掌握的基本技艺，另一方面，判体的骈偶形式，非常适合文人表现自己的文学语言能力。也就是说，判文可以反映出士人学问识见、分析能力与语言表达能力，判是兼“立功”与“立言”于一身、应用性与文学性并举的特殊文体。这是其它诸如诗赋类纯文学形式所不具备的文化特性。

……

在历史发展过程中，判文文体内部也发生了一些演变，有两方面的情况值得注意：一是有些判文演变成纯文学文体；一是判文对叙事文学形态的影响。

唐代以后，出现了纯文学性质的判文，这类作品尤盛于明清时代，如清初文学家尤侗写过《吕雉杀戚夫人判》、《曹丕杀甄后判》、《孙秀杀绿珠判》、 《韩擒虎杀张丽华判》、《陈元礼杀杨贵妃判》、《李益杀霍小玉判》等（《西堂全集·西堂杂俎》一集），都是借古人古事，表现自己的思想感情。尤侗还写了一些与自己生活相关的判文如《磔鼠判》：

予舟中所作北征诗，缮写成帙，一夜为鼠窃去。啮食殆尽，予有愤焉，戏为此辞。

制问御史大夫：盖秦亡二世，过首焚书；汉约三章，法严ｑū＠(16)箧。蠢兹剧鼠，篡在轻舟。常作水嬉，已甘木食。何乘昏夜，遂盗新诗。寻章摘句，入尔口中。断简残编，遗我床下。夫子云奇字，覆瓿犹羞；长吉锦囊，投厕为辱。矧遭此厄，更倍前贤。批风切月，只供穿屋之牙；煮鹤焚琴，尽果饮河之腹。 呜呼，羲圣坤乾，龟龙争负；淮南鸿烈，鸡犬同升。不遇凤衔，反逢鸱ｈè＠(17)。天之将丧，虫又何知。顾蠢鱼割裂，且操一字之诛，况鼯鼠并吞，可漏五刑之律？李斯若见，恶甚偷仓；张汤尚存，罪浮窃肉。可付刺奸大将军苗氏，磔杀如律施行。（《西堂全集·西堂杂俎》二集）

这篇判文涉笔成趣，虽为游戏文章，但也有所寄托。这类判文已经超越了实用的功利目的，作者用判文来抒发某种感情，表达某种观点，而语言形式越发精致讲究，而风格往往富有谐趣，所以上举尤侗作品都被雷ｊìｎ＠(18)收录入《古今滑稽文选》之中（注：北京出版社1993年据扫叶山房石印本影印，除上举作品外，还录有绿天翁的《鱼元机讼温璋判》、《神女讼宋玉判》以及其他作者判文多篇，性质与尤侗判也是一样的。）这种判文虚拟则似唐人拟判，诙谐则同唐人花判，但唐人判文文体实用性的特征至此已经完全被消解了。

最后重点讨论一下判文与叙事文学文体（我这里特指小说与戏剧文体）的关系这一问题。提到这个问题，我们也许首先想到在历代许多叙事文学作品中，如 《三言》《两拍》《聊斋志异》乃至《红楼梦》等，都包含了数量极多的判文（注：如《醒世恒言》卷八的《乔太守乱点鸳鸯谱》乔太守的判、《聊斋志异》的《席方平》二郎的判与《胭脂》中施愚山的判，都是名篇美文。）在这些作品中，判文不但是故事情节的有机部分，而且作者也喜欢借此机会表现自己的文采风流，这可以说是人们耳熟能详的文学事实，这里不拟重复。本文所谓判文与叙事文学之关系主要不是指叙事文学中运用了多少判文，而是指在文学形态内部，判文对叙事文学文体产生了某些潜在的影响。

在判文盛行的唐代，判文对叙事文学已经产生某种潜在的影响。现存文献中所能看到的以判案写成叙事文学作品的是敦煌俗赋《燕子赋》，它以民间流传的燕雀争巢、凤凰判决的故事为题材（注：参考周绍良先生主编《敦煌文学作品选》，中华书局1987年11月。）雀儿抢占了燕子新筑的窝巢，燕子上告凤凰， 最初凤凰主持公道，认为雀儿强占燕巢的蛮横行为是不可容忍的，所以作出判决：“雀儿之罪，不得称算，推问根由，仍生拒捍。责情且决五百，枷项禁身推断。” 但是随着故事的发展，凤凰发现雀儿曾立过战功，有过“高勋”，所以又改判决：“雀儿剔突，强夺燕屋。推问根由，元无臣伏。既有上柱国勋，不可久留在狱。宜即释放，勿烦案牍。”这篇作品在形式上非常突出的特点是始终是围绕着凤凰的两道判来展开情节的，判是整篇作品的关键，起着举足轻重的作用。

宋代罗烨《醉翁谈录》首次把判的形式引入小说之中，把“公案”作为小说的一大类型，他所选录的公案小说有“私情公案”与“花判公案”，这两种形态都是在判文基础上发展而来的。从唐代的判文到宋代的公案小说，是判文从实用文体向叙事文体演化的关键一环。《醉翁谈录》中的“私情公案”篇幅较长，只录 《张氏夜奔吕星哥》一篇（甲集卷之二）。写星哥与织女青梅竹马，但织女被许配他人，便与星哥私奔，后被执见官府，一番申辩，最终被判无罪。小说的结构分为三部分：事情简介、织女与星哥二人的供状、官府的判文，其中供状与判文所占份量最大，这种形式已启明清案判体小说的先路。而“花判公案”共为十五则（庚集卷之二），结构更为简单，似乎是衙门的案判记录，只有案情简介与官府判词两部分，而重点是判词。这十五则“花判公案”中，“张魁以词判妓状”“判暨师奴从良状”“判娼妓为妻”“判妓执照状”“富沙守收妓附籍”“子赡判和尚游娼”“判和尚相打”“判妓告行赛愿”八则“花判公案”都涉及妓女，另“大丞相判李淳娘供状”“判夫出改嫁”“黄判院判戴氏论夫”“判楚娘梅嫁村”等也都与男女之间感情纠葛有关。另外还有“断人冒称进士”“判渡子不孝罪”数则也是一些“琐细遗事”，花判公案的重点是判文，这十五则公案的判文大多语带滑稽，形式则不拘一格，或以骈文、或以诗、或以词，以举例说明：

张魁以词判妓状
张魁判潭州日，有妓杨赛赛，讼人负约欠钱，投状于张。时值春雨，赛赛立于厅下，张夫览状，先索纸笔云，花判《踏莎行》云：“凤髻堆鸦，香酥莹腻， 雨中花占街前地，弓鞋湿透立多时，无人为问深深意。眉上新愁，手中文字，如何不倩鳞鸿去。想伊只诉薄情人，官中不管闲公事。”

判娼妓为妻
鄂州张贡士，与一角妓情好日久，后挈而之家，得金与妓父李参军，未偿所欲。一日，讼于府庭。追至，引问情由，供状皆骈辞俪语，知府乃主盟之。
花判云：风流事到底无赃，未免一班半点；是非心于人皆有，也须半索千文。彼既籍于娼流，又且受其币物，辄背前约，遽饰奸词，在理既有亏，于情亦弗顺。良决杖头之数，免收反坐之愆。财礼当还李参军，清娘合归张贡士。为妻为妾，一任安排，作正作偏，从教处置。

判妓执照状
柳耆卿宰华阴日，有不羁子挟仆从游妓，张大声势；妓意其豪家，纵其饮食。仅旬日后，携妓首饰走。妓不平，讼于柳，乞判执照状捕之。柳借古诗句——
花判云：自入桃源路已深，仙郎一去暗伤心，离歌不待清声唱，别酒宁劳素手斟。更没一文酹半宿，聊将十疋当千金。想应只在秋江上，明月芦花何处寻？ （原注：十疋乃走字也。）（注：引文见日本昭和十五年十月文求堂影印观澜阁藏孤本宋椠《醉翁谈录》。）

可以看出，花判之所以传诵，就在于别致诙谐的判词。 《醉翁谈录》花判作品，有不少的判词直标“花判”，如“张魁以词判妓状”在《踏莎行》前标“花判”，所选的作品对于理解“花判公案”一词的内涵是很有帮助的（注：《醉翁谈录》乙集卷一还收入《宪台王刚中花判》，与庚集卷二的“花案公案”文体相同。）《醉翁谈录》所载的花判公案吸引人之处主要不是故事情节而是判文的风趣与文采，本身叙事文学的因素还是很少的，但是判既然是针对一定的事情而作的，事件本身往往就有一定的吸引人之处，而判案关系到人物的命运， 反映了主判者的识见和智慧，从案到判的过程，已潜在具有事件的完整性和叙事文学的因素。判文因为具有一定的叙事因素（尤其是案件）对于后来的判案小说产生了影响。如宋代皇都风月主人编辑的《绿窗新话》中“王尹判道士犯奸”为凌ｍéｎｇ＠(19)初初刻卷一七《西山观设ｌù＠(20)度亡魂开封府备棺追活 命》正文的本事来源，而故事情节在原来简要梗概上进一步地展开。“苏守判和尚犯奸”一文也就是《醉翁谈录》中“子瞻判和尚游娼”，明代西湖渔隐主人把它改编为《欢喜冤家·一宵缘约赴两情人》。

判文对元代戏曲的影响也是不容忽视的。以《元曲选》为例，如《陈州粜米》《ｚｈū＠(21)砂担》《合同文字》《神奴儿》《蝴蝶梦》《勘头巾》 《灰阑记》《魔合罗》《盆儿鬼》《窦娥冤》《生金阁》等都是叙述与案件相关的故事，而且都与判文有直接关系。值得注意的是，其形式颇为相似——在故事的结 尾或即将结局之处，由审案的官员来下一判辞了断公案。而这判辞又多数以官员“听我下断”开始，然后“词曰……”，这些“词”即是判文，它们大体都是讲究骈对文采的。如《陈州粜米》结尾，包公云：

张千，将刘衙内拿下者，听老夫下断。（词云：）为陈州亢旱不收，穷百姓四散飘流。刘衙内原非令器，杨金吾更是油头。奉敕旨陈州粜米，改官价擅自征收；紫金ｃｈｕí(22)屈打良善，声冤处地惨天愁。范学士岂容奸蠢，奏君王不赦亡囚。今日个从公勘问，遣小憋手报亲仇。方才见无私王法，留传与万古千秋。（注：见臧晋叔编《元曲选》第一册。）

这种形式颇似于宋人的花判公案。当然在元曲中，也有一些公案戏结尾的“下断”没有“词曰”而是用比较朴素的口语化语言来下判的。

叙事文学形态中，受判文形式影响最为明显、规模最大的是明代案判小说。在这些案判小说中，最为著名的是《包公案》、《海公案》故事。明代包公案故事甚多。如《包龙图判百家公案》（一名《包公案》）、《龙图公案》（又名《龙图神断公案》《包公七十二件无头奇案》）、《皇明诸司廉明公案》、《皇明诸司公案》、《郭青螺六省听讼录新民公案》、《古今律条公案》、《国朝宪台折狱苏冤神明公案》、《国朝名公神断详情公案》、《国朝名公神断详刑公案》、《名公案断法林灼见》、《明镜公案》等，形式都有相似之处。《龙图公案》是第一部以公案为题材的短篇小说专集。全书十卷，收集包公判案故事100篇，文体上以话本体为主而兼有书判体，其中三十多篇主要以告状人的诉词和包公的判词构成，与宋代书判体公案小说的关系非常密切。海公案小说的情况与之相似，它们是以民间流传的故事传说加工而成的。我们可举《海刚峰先生居官公案传》卷一第十回《勘饶通判夏浴讼》为例。饶于财喝了婢女送的茶被毒死，前妻之子控告继母谋杀。海 瑞在审案过程中，发现婢女放茶之处有蜈蚣，断定饶于财误饮掉进蜈蚣的茶而死，遂洗冤案。该篇由事由、告状、诉状和海公判四部分组成：

事由：淳安县乡官通判饶于财，夏浴空室。夜渴，索茶。小婢持置墙孔，饮之，遂中毒死。其前妻之子谓以继母有奸夫在，故毒杀其父，乃讼之于邑。置狱已久，不决。公当时巡行于郡，各县解犯往郡赴审。其继妻再三称冤，公蹙然思之：“其妇如此称冤，莫非果负冤乎？”径造饶室，详审秘探，阅浴处及置茶处，遂严钥其门，概逐饶通判家口于外，亲与一小门子宿其中，仍以茶置墙所。决早起视，果有蜈蚣堕焉。急命拆墙，遍内皆穴蜈蚣。焚烧移两时方绝，臭不可闻。遂开其妇之罪，冤始得解，妇叩谢而归。

紧接的是饶通判前妻之子告状人饶清的“告继母谋杀亲夫”的状词和被告人姚氏所写的“诉”状。文长不录。而最后部分则是“海公判”：

审得于财之死，非毒药之毒，蜈蚣之毒矣！但无用小婢置茶，胡不持入室而与，何持置墙孔而与之哉！因而中毒，死者亦命已矣。饶清以继母有他奸夫，怒究之姚氏将毒药杀，而清之告亦为父伸冤之故也，但未询其实，陷母置狱，坏名节，是伊为子之过矣。若非经吾睫亲睹，是姚氏偿伊父命者将何以辞焉。非几乎屈陷一命，合拟忤逆罪加。姑且免究，的决惩戒。（注：《古本小说丛刊》第7辑，中华书局1987年影印明代李春芳编万历三十四年金陵万卷楼虚舟先生刊本。）

这篇作品的形态在明清案判小说中是比较典型的。明清案判小说结构形式大同小异，基本是由事由、告状、诉状和判词几部分组成的。在形式上和公牍文案非常相似， 这在小说史上是非常奇特的。案判小说的这种特殊文体，明显是受到判文与公案书籍的影响，如宋人小说《醉翁谈录》的“私情公案”和“花判公案”就是采用这种形态。从叙事文学的角度看，这种判案小说与一般的小说不同，它不注重事件过程的叙述，而在对于事件的分析判断。它们似乎是案判的公文集成，可能需要说书艺人加以演绎加工。这类小说没有产生过非常杰出的艺术作品，可能反映出这种形态的局限性。

从唐代的判到宋代的公案小说、元代的公案戏和明清的案判小说，其间的承传关系隐约可辨。判文原来是一种应用性很强的文体，与叙事文学文体似乎是风马牛不相及的。文学史事实却告诉我们，判文文体曾影响了一些叙事文学文体。值得我们深思的是，在中国古代像判文一样兼应用性和文学性于一身的文体很多，例如诏、册、表、章、露布、奏疏、弹文、檄文等，为什么它们却不能像判文那样对叙事文学产生直接影响呢？从文体的内部来看，判所具有的虚拟性与叙事因素是判文与叙事文学产生联系的内在原因。许多判文所涉及的事件都具有一定的虚拟性，是想象虚构之辞，这是它与叙事文学的共通之处；而且更重要的是判文本身具有一些潜在的、特殊的叙事功能。因为判的前提是某一事件的发生，判文又包含对于事件的叙述和分析，判的结果也便是事件的终结。因此判文具有关于事件由来、发展及结局等简单叙事因素，具有一定的故事性，或者说具备发展成叙事文学的可能性和空间。而在此基础上对这些因素加以渲染、加工和演绎，自然也就成为案判类的叙事文学了，这在中国文体发展史上是非常值得注意的现象。

字库未存字注释：
　　＠①原字或上加两撇
　　＠②原字颖去禾加火
　　＠③原字石加岂
　　＠④原字亻加丕
　　＠⑤原字山加巨
　　＠⑥原字族下加鸟
　　＠⑦原字疒加火
　　＠⑧原字日加丙
　　＠⑨原字面加见
　　＠⑩原字廴内加西
　　＠(11)原字月加兆
　　＠(12)原字擅去扌加饣
　　＠(13)原字氵加睿
　　＠(14)原字王加景
　　＠(15)原字讠加胥
　　＠(16)原字月加去
　　＠(17)原字口加赫
　　＠(18)原字王加晋
　　＠(19)原字氵加蒙
　　＠(20)原字竹下加录的繁体
　　＠(21)原字石下加朱
　　＠(22)原字钅加追

（本文发表于《文学遗产》1999年第六期）