Mr Ma and Son

by Lao She

  Although he was over sixty, the Reverend Ely’s back was as straight as a writing brush. He possessed little hair but what he had was pure white. His cheeks were shaven to a glazed sheen, with no whiskers at all. Indeed, but for the wrinkles, his face would have resembled nothing more than a piece of china. His eyes were large, with a pair of tiny yellowy-brown eyeballs lolling in them, and above them hung two wedges of flesh, where twenty or thirty years earlier eyebrows must once have grown. Under the eyes dangled a little pair of spectacles. Because of his large nose, there was a full two inches between his eyes and the spectacles, which meant he generally looked at things over the top of the frames, rather than through the lenses. His lips were very thin, and dropped slightly at the ends. When he preached, with his eyes aimed unwaveringly across the rims of his glasses and his mouth yanked firmly down, he set the congregation’s hearts trembling without a single word. In general, though, he was exceedingly affable; a missionary who can’t be friendly will never get anywhere in this world. Reaching Museum Street, he veered left, cut across Torrington Square and entered Gordon Street.

  There were quite a few Chinese people living in this street. The Chinese living in London can be divided into two classes: workmen and students. The workmen mostly live in East London, in the Chinatown that brings so much ignominy to who lack the money for a journey to the Orient always nose around Chinatown in quest of material for novels, travelogues or news articles. Chinatown has no outstanding tourist spots; nor is there anything of note to be observed in the behaviour of the workmen living there. The mere fact that And all because China’s a weak nation, every crime under the sun is attributed to this community of hard-working Chinese, who are simply seeking their living in a strange and foreign land. If there were no more than twenty Chinese people dwelling in Chinatown, the accounts of the sensation-seekers would without fail magnify their number to five thousand. And every one of those five thousand yellow-faced demons will smoke opium, smuggle arms, commit murder – hiding the corpses under their bed – rape women – regardless of age – and commit an endless amount of crimes, all deserving, at the very least, gradual dismemberment and death by ten thousand slices of the sword. Authors, playwrights and screenwriters are prompt to base their all who see the play, watch the film or read the novel – the young girls, the old ladies, the little children and the King of England – firmly imprint these quite unfounded pictures upon their memories.

  Thus are the Chinese transformed into the most sinister, most foul, most loathsome and most degraded two-legged beasts on earth. In this twentieth century, people are judged according to their nation. The people of a powerful nation are people; the people of a weak nation are dogs.

  People of China, open your eyes and take a look around. Yes, it’s time you opened your eyes and straightened your backs. Unless, that is, you wish to be dogs forever.

  The fine reputation enjoyed by Chinatown is quite naturally not very beneficial to the Chinese students in London. The bigger hotels, let alone respectable individual householders, just won’t let rooms to Chinese people. Only the homes and small boarding houses behind the British Museum are prepared to. It’s not that the people there have uncommonly kind hearts, I don’t think. Rather, they realise there’s money to be made, and so bring themselves to put on a good face and make the best of dealing with a bunch of yellow-faced monsters. A poultry merchant doesn’t have to be a lover of chickens; when did English people ever let rooms to Chinese people out of a love for the Chinese?

  Number 35, Gordon Street was the widowed Mrs Wedderburn’s house. It wasn’t very big, just a small three-storied building with a row of green railings at the front. Three white stone steps were scrubbed spotless, and the brass knocker on the red-painted door was polished sparkling-bright. On entering the house, you came first to the drawing room, behind which was a small dining room. If you passed through the dining room, took a turn, and descended some stairs, you’d come to a further three small rooms. Upstairs there were just another three rooms: one facing onto the street, and two at the back.

  While still a good way off from the little red door, the Reverend Ely removed his hat. He wiped the perspiration from his face, adjusted his tie, and assured himself that he was all in order, before at last gingerly mounting the steps. He stood for a few moments at the top, then finally, with the delicate touch of a musical maestro playing a note on the piano, gave two or three raps on the door with the knocker.

  A series of sharp, pattering footsteps fussed down hurriedly from upstairs, then the door opened a little gap, and half of Mrs Wedderburn’s face revealed itself.

  ‘Oh, Reverend Ely! How are you?’

  She opened the door a little wider, and stretched out one of her small white hands to lightly brush the minister’s arm. He allowed her to lead him in, hung his hat and overcoat on the hatstand in the hall, and followed her into the drawing room.

  This room was kept very spick and span. Even the little brass nails on which the pictures hung seemed to wear a smile. A green carpet was spread across the centre of the room, bearing two rather narrow armchairs. By the window stood a small table, crowned with a Chinese porcelain vase containing two small white roses. Two oak chairs flanked the table, each set with a green velvet cushion. An oil painting hung on the wall, with a pair of matching plates on either side. Underneath the painting there was a small bookcase holding a few anthologies of poetry, a few novels and the like. Against the opposite wall there was a small piano with two or three photographs on its lid, and on its varnished stool lay a fat white Pekingese dog. As the dog saw the Reverend Ely come in, it swiftly leapt from its perch, and, shaking its head and wagging its tail, bounded wildly around in between the old clergyman’s legs.

  Mrs Wedderburn seated herself on the piano stool, and the little white dog jumped up into her lap. From there, head cocked to one side, it challenged the Reverend Ely to play. He sat down in an armchair, pushed his glasses higher, and launched into praises of the dog. This went on for some time before he at last dared broach the subject of his visit.

  ‘Mrs Wedderburn,’ he began diffidently, ‘are the rooms upstairs still vacant?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ she said, one hand securing the dog, and the other passing an ashtray to her visitor.

  ‘Are you still of a mind to rent them out?’ he asked, filling his pipe.

  ‘Well, yes. But only to the right kind of person,’ she replied in a measured tone.

  ‘I have two friends who urgently require accommodation. I can vouch for their absolute respectability.’ He peered at her over the top of his spectacles, and pronounced the word ‘absolute’ with great clarity and vehemence. Then he paused a while, lowered his voice, and allowed himself a small smile. ‘Two Chinese fellows.’ As he said ‘Chinese’, his voice was barely audible. ‘Two extremely nice Chinese fellows.’

  ‘Chinese?’ said Mrs Wedderburn, her expression suddenly stiffening.

  ‘Extremely nice Chinese,’ he repeated, stealing a glance at her.

  ‘I’m sorr—’

  ‘I vouch for them! If anything goes amiss concerning them, you can refer it directly to me.’ He didn’t give Mrs Wedderburn time to finish, but continued quickly. ‘I simply must find them some rooms, and there’s no one else I can turn to. You must help me, Mrs Wedderburn. It’s a young boy and his father. And the father, you will be glad to know, is a Christian. For the sake of our dear Lord, you must . . .’He deliberately let his words trail short, waiting to see whether the mention of our dear Lord would have any effect.

  ‘But —’ Mrs Wedderburn didn’t seem overly concerned about the Lord, and her face showed signs of impatience.

  Again he granted her no leeway to expand upon her protests. ‘You see, there’s nothing to stop you asking them for a somewhat higher rent. And should you find that they don’t fit in, you can turn them out to look for lodgings elsewhere, and I won’t give a —’ Feeling that he was on the point of adding something not quite in accord with the spirit of the Hol
y Scripture, he took a puff of his pipe, and swallowed his words along with his smoke.

  ‘My dear Reverend Ely,’ said Mrs Wedderburn, rising to her feet, ‘You know my feelings. There are quite a number of people in this street who make their fortunes by renting to foreigners, and I am almost the only one left who would rather earn less than do such a thing. I think I may justifiably feel proud of myself in that respect. Don’t you think you could find a room elsewhere for them?’

  ‘Don’t you think I haven’t looked?’ said the Reverend Ely, looking most distressed. ‘I have asked from door to door in Torrington Square and Gower Street, but none of the accommodation offered was suitable. I feel that your three nice little rooms would be ideal, most adequate for their purposes. Two of the rooms could serve as bedrooms, and the other as their study. It would be an excellent arrangement.’

  She pulled out a dainty handkerchief from her pocket, and, quite unnecessarily, dabbed her lips. ‘You can’t imagine that I would allow two Chinese men to cook rats in my house?’

  ‘The Chinese do not —’ He was on the point of averring that the Chinese don’t eat rats, but realised that to argue the toss would only further upset her, and might well jeopardise his chances of getting the rooms at all. So he hastily changed tack.

  ‘Of course I shall enjoin them not to eat rats. Well, Mrs Wedderburn, I shan’t waste any more of your time. Let us settle the matter like this: rent the rooms to them for a week, and if you don’t approve of the way they conduct themselves, have them out. As for the rent, you charge whatever you deem fit. They couldn’t go to a hotel. You never know with hotel people – most unreliable. You and I are both Christians, and we must fortify ourselves with the true spirit of Christian humility in our efforts to provide some succour for this Chinaman and his son.’

  Mrs Wedderburn stroked the long hair under the little dog’s neck, and said nothing for a long while. In her mind she was feverishly working out exactly how much rent she could charge, or whether she should put her foot down and refuse to accommodate two murderous, fire-raising, rat-eating Chinamen. Anxious not to leave the Reverend Ely just hanging there frozen in silence, she could only prevaricate, ‘And they don’t smoke opium?’

  ‘No, no,’ the Reverend Ely assured her.

  She proceeded to pose countless questions based on the Chinese things she’d learnt from novels, films, plays and missionaries. She left no stone unturned. But when she’d exhausted all her questions, she suddenly regretted ever having asked them. Didn’t her questions show quite clearly that she already intended letting the rooms to them?

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Wedderburn,’ said the Reverend Ely with a smile. ‘We’ll leave it at that then. Four pounds five shillings a week, and you’ll see to their breakfast.’

  ‘I can’t allow them to use my bath.’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ll tell them they must go out for their baths.’

  With these words, and without any further effort to entertain the little dog, the Reverend Ely snatched up his hat and coat, and hastened off. He rushed along the street, and when he found himself in a secluded spot, exclaimed in pent-up tones, ‘Bloody hell! All for two Chinese chaps!’

  II

  MR MA and his son boarded a steamer at Shanghai, and sailed all the way to London in a vague daze. During the forty days they spent at sea, the elder Mr Ma struggled up on deck but once. The moment he stepped out of the cabin door, the ship lurched and he was thrown head over heels. Without a murmur, he steadied himself against the door and went back inside. The second time he came up, the ship was already in London, and completely motionless. Young Mr Ma did much better than his father, and only felt a little seasick as the boat passed Taiwan, experiencing no trouble at all after Hong Kong.

  We’ve already observed young Mr Ma’s appearance. There was a difference on board ship, though: he wasn’t so thin then, and his brow wasn’t so tightly furrowed. It was, moreover, his first trip abroad, and the first on an ocean liner, and everything struck him as fresh and exciting. As he leant on the ship’s rail, with the sea breezes whisking up spray and blowing his face bright red, he felt almost as free as the waters of the ocean.

  The elder Mr Ma was no more than fifty, at the most. But he deliberately conveyed an air of decrepitude, as if he felt that on attaining a certain age one should no longer lift a finger, but should pass the day in sleeping and eating, and eating and sleeping, without taking one more step than was necessary. He was shorter in stature than his son, but his face was much fuller. He had very bushy eyebrows and very rounded cheeks, and on his upper lip there was a little crescent-moon of a moustache, which in the last couple of years had acquired its first strands of white. His eyes were the same as Ma Wei’s: big, bright and pleasant-looking. He always wore large tortoiseshell spectacles, but since he was neither short-sighted nor long-sighted, the sole purpose of the spectacles was to make him appear more dignified and venerable.

  When he was young, Ma Tse-jen – such being the elder Ma’s name – had studied at the Methodist Congregational Mission school. He managed to commit to memory quite a few English words and learn the grammatical rules off pat, but in exams he’d never get a mark of more than thirty-five per cent. Sometimes he would collar a fellow student who’d obtained a hundred per cent and drag him off to some quiet spot, saying, ‘Come on! Let’s do some swotting! You ask me fifty words, and I’ll ask you fifty, so I can learn to be a genius like you, and get a hundred out of a hundred.’

  Then he would proceed to wipe the floor with the hundred-percent hero, and leave him glaring helplessly. With the dictionary tucked under his arm, the hero muttered, ‘A noun is . . .’ and Ma would at one fell swoop obliterate all the humiliation of his thirty-five per cent.

  Mr Ma was a Cantonese, but had lived in Peking since childhood. He would always tell people he was a native of Peking, until Mr Sun Yat-sen’s Three Principles of the People rose in market value and the power of the National government in Canton expanded, whereupon he arranged for the words ‘hailing from Canton’ to be printed upon his visiting card.

  After graduating from the Methodist school, he scrambled around trying to find himself a wife, and succeeded. With a bit of inherited property and Ma’s elder brother helping them out, the couple were able to live a jolly little life in complete harmony together. Ma Tse-jen sat the exam for the Board Of Education several times, but his papers failed to shine, and he was obliged to forgo all hope of a position there. Through a connection, he tried to find work with foreign interests, but his English wasn’t up to it. Someone recommended him for an English-teaching post in a school, but he wasn’t going to pick up the cane and turn himself into a teacher – not him!

  Out of work and at leisure, he would discreetly visit the singsong houses, returning home late, and sometimes the cosy couple would have a minor squabble. But fortunately, as it was night-time, no one else knew of it. On other occasions, he’d take his wife’s gold ring, and slip off to pawn it. But he’d always cheerfully promise to buy her a new one once his elder brother sent some money. Half vexed and half smiling, she would give him a good telling-off. This only put him in even better spirits, and he would narrate the detailed saga of how he’d come to pawn the ring.

  Three years after the marriage, Ma Wei was born. Ma Tse-jen wrote to his elder brother, asking for some money so that he might provide for the customary ceremony when the child reached the age of one month. The elder brother’s money duly arrived, and thus it came about that on the thirtieth day after Ma Wei’s entry into the world, all the family’s relatives and friends partook of a gargantuan feast. Even the neighbour’s pregnant dog came round for a gnaw of some pig’s trotters and fish bones.

  Now the young couple had taken a step up in society, having made the transition from ‘man and wife’ into ‘parents’. Although they had no exact notion of parental duties, they were amply aware of their moral obligation to display their parental status and dignity. So Ma Tse-jen stopped shaving his upper lip, and in two or
three months he had duly grown a small black moustache. As for Mrs Ma, to match her husband’s dapper black moustache she took some of the rouge off her cheeks, leaving them only half as red.

  A most tragic event occurred when Ma Wei was eight years old. Mrs Ma, possibly through overeating or catching a chill, suddenly departed this life. Ma Tse-jen was utterly grief-stricken. To be left with a child of eight and nobody to look after him didn’t matter so much; what was worse was that Ma Tse-jen had been married to his wife all those years and never acquired her any noble titles through his own achievements. He’d let her down, and he felt thoroughly ashamed. He found huge teardrops coursing in one continuous stream down his cheeks, and he wept until his little moustache resembled the tiny sugar brush of the honey-twist vendors.

  All the cost of the funeral was borne by his elder brother. What did it matter whose money it was? You have to give the deceased a decent send-off, after all. The Buddhist rituals of the reception, third requiem and the release of the flame-mouth, and the burial were held, with even more jolly revelry than had accompanied the first-month ceremony for Ma Wei.

  Little by little, Mr Ma’s grief lessened, and his relatives and friends all took it upon themselves to fix him up with another wife. He was himself already well disposed towards the idea, but it was certainly no easy matter to choose the girl. A second marriage isn’t as easy to tackle as the first, and one had to take into account that he was by now somewhat of a connoisseur of women. Pretty ones had to be provided with an upkeep; then again, so did not so pretty ones, so why not have a pretty one? But there are so many pretty girls in this world! This remarrying really was a knotty problem.

  On one occasion it nearly came off, but someone was an interfering gossip and said that Ma Tse-jen was a gluttonous idler without any prospects, and the girl’s side beat a hasty retreat. On another occasion, when Ma was again on the verge of concluding the matter, somebody told him that the girl had three spots on her nose, like the ‘long three’ on a domino. That broke it up again – how could a man marry a girl with a long three on her nose!