渭水秋歌 Herbstmelodie am Wei-Fluss (cn | en)

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作者：小羊冰冰

『我正在步行街上演奏二胡《渭水秋歌》，旁边走来了一位德国女人，久久地伫立在那里，一动不动地看着二胡。 我闭上眼，终于将这一个片段拉完了。』

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（一）

我从小在大西北长大，每逢过年的时候，乡政府都要组织秦剧团来村子中央的舞台上唱秦腔，一唱就是好几天，每一场都是人山人海。我是小孩子，个子小，身体灵活，在大人们的胳肢窝底下一钻就进去，一直挤到舞台的前面。

过年正是农闲的时节，村民们没有别的娱乐项目。听说有秦剧团来，个个都争先恐后，早早的拿着小板凳赶到露天剧场，坐在了舞台的前面。更多的人则包围在广场的周围。台上的演员看到这阵势，都卯足了劲，唱的特别卖力。我挤在舞台的前沿，在刺眼的阳光下，可以清晰地看到每一个演员的妆容。那红的，黑的，白的，粉的妆容，被汗水打湿了，形成了一道道的彩沟，挂在演员的脸上。唱到动情之处，台上泪洒舞台，台下哽咽声一片。

有一天夜里唱秦腔，由于人多，我和妈妈不小心被人群挤散了。妈妈手里举着凳子，大声的呼唤我的名字，却始终找不到我。她就焦急地从人群当中穿进去，里面没有我，又从人群当中穿出来。这一进一出，凳子举在肩上，碰到几个观众的头，有的人大声叫骂，有的人则哈哈大笑，夸张地喊道： “快躲开，三叉戟来了。” 为了看秦腔，妈妈丢掉了她心爱的一把椅子，至今想起来都觉得可惜。

秦剧团团员很辛苦，常常唱戏到大半夜。有个扮演武生的，十分招人喜欢，他在台上的一举一动，一招一式都吸引许多人注目观赏。戏唱完了，武生到后台休息，三四个年轻姑娘争先恐后地挤上去，和他搭话，还有几个年轻俊俏的媳妇也围堵在后台的通道里。一个姑娘递给武生一个绣有鸳鸯戏水的红手帕，满眼娇羞地转身走了。一个媳妇则偷偷塞给他一双手工纳的洁白鞋垫，站在旁边，含情脉脉地注视着他。

（二）

我渐渐的长大，对秦腔有了自己的认识。秦腔是发自西北人内心的呐喊，粗犷而悲壮，苍凉而婉转。秦腔如同西北的民风，热烈，直率，执着而饱含深情。曾经年少时，只觉得那高亢嘹亮的唱腔震得耳膜发疼，像是大风从黄土高原上呼啸而来。后来离开家乡，走得远了，心却常常回到那片黄土地，再听秦腔，才明白那不是喧嚣，而是生命在荒凉与厚重之间的搏动，是祖辈在黄河与大漠之间积淀下的悲欢。

去年年底的时候，甘肃平凉的安万秦剧团在西安 举办了“8 天 16 场” 跨年演出，场场爆满。他们的舞台并不华丽，布景也并不繁复，但当锣鼓骤然响起，生旦净丑依次登场，一股浓烈的西北风就刮起来了。只见舞台上演员们用力地唱、用力地跺脚，每一个声腔都像是从胸腔里硬生生吼出，带着粗粝与苍凉，却又在尾音中拖出几分婉转，那是西北人独有的坚韧与柔情。

安万秦剧团的表演有一种朴素的真诚，他们不靠虚饰，不靠繁复的技巧取胜，而是把秦腔当作生活的一部分去演绎。他们的嗓音里有农田的风声，有黄土塬的沉默，也有炊烟升起时的温暖。在他们的表演中，秦腔不仅仅是戏台上的艺术，更是土地与灵魂的呼喊。观众席上，不论是白发苍苍的老人，还是初识秦腔的年轻人，都会被这股力量牵动心弦。

我常常想，秦腔为什么能在岁月的长河中传承下来？或许正因为它不是高高在上的艺术，而是与生活血肉相连的声音。安万秦剧团的演员们，用生命守护着这一腔悲歌与豪情，台上唱的是千古忠义，台下过的是家长里短。他们把自己的平凡人生，融进了台上的一声声“吼”腔里。而那一声声 “吼”腔，像是在天地之间呐喊，诉说着生存的艰辛与命运的无常。秦腔，是西北人的灵魂之声；而安万秦剧团，则是这灵魂最真实的代言者。

然而，西北人藉着秦腔所承载的这一腔悲情和这一声发自灵魂的呐喊，除了让广大观众心有戚戚然之外，到底有谁在用心倾听，又有谁有能力救拔世间的一切不公不义，伸张人心中的冤屈，安慰人心里的悲伤，甚至将这人生的悲歌变成欢快的乐歌呢！

圣经诗篇：
30:10 耶和华阿、求你应允我、怜恤我。耶和华阿、求你帮助我。
30:11 你已将我的哀哭变为跳舞、将我的麻衣脱去、给我披上喜乐．

（三）

我喜欢秦腔，常常会把它和其它剧种相比。北京的京剧是国粹，大气磅礴，天津的河北梆子高亢激越，浙江的越剧清丽婉转，安徽的黄梅戏温婉柔和，还有香港、澳门的粤剧华丽而热闹。秦腔却是特立独行的，它没有京剧的雍容华贵，也没有越剧的轻柔婉约，更不像黄梅戏那样温婉动人。它高亢而又朴实，深情而又自然，是大西北独有的一道文化风景线。

于是，我一直想学一首秦腔二胡曲，来表达西北人特有的蕴藏于内心深处的强烈情感，却一直没有学出来，许多曲子都是一知半解，半途而废了。后来我听到唢呐版的《渭水秋歌》，心里像被击中一般。那旋律既有秦腔特有的粗犷豪放，又暗含一种婉约与压抑的情绪，仿佛是黄土地的长风与江南细雨的交汇，是北方与南方在乐音里的对话。我被深深吸引，终于决定把这首曲子作为自己二胡学习的目标。但是，练习的过程并不容易，一次次拉弓，一次次琢磨，想要把秦腔的高亢苍凉与柔婉细腻同时握在手中，常常练到深夜，窗外一片寂静，只有琴声与心跳相伴。

终于有一天，我把《渭水秋歌》带到德国柏林的步行街。那是一个初夏的午后，微风不时地带着凉意吹过，我们一行人在街头进行音乐布道。我坐在长凳上，拉响了第一个音符，二胡的声音穿透空气，像从遥远的黄土高坡飘逸而来。不知什么时候，身旁走来了一位德国女人，她悄然停在我身边，久久伫立不动，目光专注而沉静地凝望着我的二胡。那一瞬间，我顾不上去看她，只是闭上眼睛，把全部的情感都交给弓弦。音符像流淌的河水，缓缓从我心里涌出，带着故乡的风声、黄土的气息，还有游子心头的思念与呼喊。

我终于将这一段乐曲拉完，琴声渐渐消散在空气里。睁开眼时，看到那位德国女人眼里微微闪烁着泪光，她向我轻轻点头，好像无需言语就已经听懂了我心中的故事。那一刻，我忽然觉得，二胡不仅是属于我个人的孤独表达，更是一种跨越国界的情感传递。我的家乡、我的民族、我的心声，就这样透过《渭水秋歌》，在异国街头被另一颗心灵静静地接住。

(2025年8月30 德国柏林)

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英文翻译版：

An Autumn Melody by the Wei River

Author: Bing Bing Weidemann

I was performing “Autumn Melody of the Wei River” on my erhu along a bustling pedestrian street when a German woman approached. She stood motionless, captivated by the instrument. With my eyes closed, I drew the final notes to a close.

Part I

I grew up in the vast northwest of China. Every New Year, the township government would organize a Qinqiang opera troupe to perform in the village’s central square, staging shows for several consecutive days. Each performance drew massive crowds. As a child, small and nimble, I would weave through the adults, slipping under their arms to reach the front of the stage.

The New Year coincided with the agricultural off-season, leaving villagers with few entertainment options. News of the opera troupe’s arrival would spread quickly, prompting everyone to rush over with small stools to secure spots near the stage. Many more surrounded the square. The performers, energized by the enthusiastic audience, sang with fervor. From my vantage point at the front, under the glaring sun, I could clearly see each actor’s makeup—reds, blacks, whites, and pinks—smeared by sweat into colorful streaks on their faces. At poignant moments, tears flowed on stage, echoed by sobs from the audience.

One evening, during a Qinqiang performance, my mother and I were separated by the crowd. Holding a stool above her head, she called my name loudly, searching in vain. She pushed through the throng, entering and exiting repeatedly. The stool occasionally bumped into other spectators, eliciting both complaints and laughter. In her quest to watch the opera, my mother lost her cherished stool—a loss she still laments to this day.

Part II

As I grew older, I began to form my own understanding of Qinqiang. It is the cry that springs from the very heart of the people of the Northwest—rough and tragic, yet desolate and lyrical. Qinqiang resembles the very character of that land: passionate, direct, persistent, and brimming with emotion. In my youth, I only felt its piercingly high-pitched notes shake my eardrums, like a fierce wind sweeping across the loess plateau. But after leaving home and traveling far, my heart would often return to that yellow earth. Listening to Qinqiang again, I realized it was not mere clamor but the pulse of life beating between desolation and weight, the sorrows and joys of generations accumulated between the Yellow River and the desert.

At the end of last year, the Anwan Qinqiang Opera Troupe from Pingliang, Gansu, held a marathon “Eight Days, Sixteen Performances” series in Xi’an, each show to a packed house. Their stage was not ornate, nor were their sets elaborate, but the moment the gongs and drums thundered, and the sheng, dan, jing, and chou characters appeared, a mighty northwest wind swept through the hall. The actors sang with all their might, their feet stomping fiercely, each voice forced raw from the chest—gritty and harsh, yet trailing off with lingering sweetness. In that resonance was the Northwest spirit: toughness entwined with tenderness.

The Anwan troupe’s performance carried a plain and genuine honesty. They did not rely on ornament or technical sophistication but treated Qinqiang as a part of their daily lives. In their voices were the winds over the fields, the silence of the loess plateau, and the warmth of rising kitchen smoke. On their stage, Qinqiang was not just an art form but the cry of the land and the soul. In the audience, whether aged with white hair or encountering Qinqiang for the first time, hearts were moved by this force.

I often wonder: why has Qinqiang endured through the long river of time? Perhaps because it is never aloof or detached, but bound with life and flesh. The actors of the Anwan troupe guard this tragic yet heroic sound with their very lives. On stage they sing of ancient loyalty and righteousness; off stage they live out ordinary family matters. They pour their plain existence into each guttural hou—that piercing cry which seems to reverberate between heaven and earth, telling of hardship and fate’s unpredictability. Qinqiang is the soul-voice of the Northwest, and the Anwan troupe its most faithful interpreter.

And yet, amid this cry of sorrow, this voice rising from the soul—who truly listens with their heart? Who has the power to right the injustices of the world, to vindicate hidden wrongs, to comfort unspoken grief, and even transform this tragic song of life into a hymn of joy?

Psalm 30:10–11
“O Lord my God, hear me and have mercy on me. O Lord, be my helper!
You turned my wailing into dancing;
You removed my sackcloth and clothed me with joy.”

Part III

I have always loved Qinqiang and often compare it with other forms of Chinese opera. Beijing’s Peking Opera, the national treasure, is grand and majestic. Tianjin’s Hebei Clapper Opera is piercing and forceful. Zhejiang’s Yue Opera is delicate and graceful. Anhui’s Huangmei Opera is gentle and tender. And the Cantonese Opera of Hong Kong and Macau dazzles with its ornate splendor. Qinqiang, however, stands apart. It lacks the regal dignity of Peking Opera, the light elegance of Yue Opera, or the gentle charm of Huangmei Opera. Instead, it is high-pitched yet plain, fervent yet natural—a cultural landscape unique to the vast Northwest.

For a long time, I yearned to learn a Qinqiang-inspired erhu piece that could embody the deep emotions hidden in the Northwest spirit. Yet my attempts faltered—too many melodies were half-learned, abandoned midway. Then I heard the suona rendition of Autumn Song of the Wei River. It struck me like a thunderclap. The melody carried the raw boldness of Qinqiang yet veiled a softness and restraint, as though the northern winds of the loess plateau were meeting the fine drizzle of the Jiangnan south, a dialogue between two landscapes woven in sound. I was captivated, and resolved to make this piece my erhu goal. But the practice was arduous: bow after bow, attempt after attempt, struggling to balance Qinqiang’s rugged power with its hidden tenderness. Often, I practiced late into the night, the world outside silent, only the sound of strings and the beat of my heart keeping company.

At last, one summer afternoon in Berlin, I carried Autumn Melody of the Wei River to the pedestrian streets. We were there for a street-side music ministry. I sat on a bench, drew the first note, and the erhu’s voice cut through the air like a wind blowing from the distant loess highlands. At some point, a German woman approached and quietly stood beside me. She lingered, still and attentive, her eyes fixed upon my instrument. In that moment, I dared not look at her; I closed my eyes, entrusting all my emotions to bow and string. The notes flowed like a river, carrying the wind of my homeland, the breath of yellow earth, the longing and cries of a wanderer’s heart.

When the final phrase faded, silence filled the air. Opening my eyes, I saw tears glistening faintly in the woman’s eyes. She gave a gentle nod, as though words were unnecessary—she had already understood the story I carried within me. At that instant, I realized the erhu was not merely my solitary expression but a bridge of feeling that transcended borders. My homeland, my people, my innermost voice—all had traveled through Autumn Melody of the Wei River, and in a foreign street, found a resting place in another soul.

(Berlin, August 30, 2025)