Mr Ma and Son

by Lao She

  The Reverend Ely had met her in Tientsin. In those days, the furrows on either side of her nose were already deep but her bun didn’t quite look like kapok. He’d been very impatient to have a family, and she’d no objection to having a husband, so they agreed to marry each other. Her elder brother, Alexander, hadn’t been very happy about the match. Being a merchant, he naturally had little regard for a petty, moralising pastor of poor financial prospects. But he’d said nothing.

  Lucky to get married at all, he’d told himself, as he looked at the furrows on her face and that nondescript head of hair. So who cares if it’s a clergyman? Another few years, and those ditches on her face’ll be bloody riverbeds, and she won’t be able to snag herself even a clergyman.

  This thought had sent him off into fits of private laughter. He’d said nothing to his sister, though, and on the day of the wedding he even bought her a pair of Fukien lacquer vases.

  What good taste and discernment my brother has, Mrs Ely would think whenever she looked at that pair of vases. They must surely be worth at least five or six pounds.

  Oh, and besides the vases, Alexander had given his little sister a cheque for forty pounds as a wedding present.

  The Elys’ children – the perfect combination, one daughter and one son – were both born in China, but neither could speak Chinese. Mrs Ely’s fundamental pedagogic principle dictated that inferior languages bred an inferior mind. If children learnt languages such as Chinese and Hindi from the moment they opened their mouths, you could be certain they wouldn’t grow up with a good character. (But if, for instance, a Chinese child spoke English from infancy, it could never grow up to be as loathsome as the average Chinese person.) If you watered English tomatoes with Chinese water they’d never grow big and juicy, would they? On no account would Mrs Ely permit her children to play with Chinese children, and she only allowed them to speak the absolute minimum of indispensable Chinese words, such as those for ‘Bring tea!’, ‘Go!’, ‘One chicken!’, with the exclamation mark denoting the imperative of every such command.

  The Reverend Ely didn’t exactly favour this approach. With his traditional English utilitarianism, he was very willing for his children to learn a bit of Chinese. When some day they returned to England, it might provide them with the means to earn some money. But he didn’t dare openly challenge his wife. In any case, Mrs Ely was well versed in the value of utilitarianism. It’s true she wouldn’t let her children learn Chinese, but she’d no objections to their learning French. Not that she’d ever thought highly of French, either – what finer language was there in the world than English? But even English aristocrats and scholars had to learn French, so she wasn’t going to be outdone in that respect.

  Her son was called Paul, and her daughter Catherine. When Paul had reached the age of twelve, he’d gone back to England for his schooling, and, once in England, had forgotten any scraps of Chinese he’d learnt, except for a few swearwords. Catherine, however, had gone to an international school in China, and had learnt a fair amount of Chinese behind her mother’s back. She was even able, with the help of a dictionary, to read easy Chinese books.

  ‘Kay!’ commanded Mrs Ely from the kitchen, ‘Prepare a rice pudding. The Chinese are fond of rice.’

  ‘But they’re not fond of having it with milk and sugar, Mum,’ said Miss Catherine.

  ‘What do you know about China? Do you know more than I do?’ said Mrs Ely, holding her head stiffly erect. She didn’t believe there was anyone else in the world who knew as much about China as she did. No British ambassador to China, no English professor of Chinese would show her up. She’d often say to the Reverend Ely – to others she might have expressed it rather less bluntly – ‘What does Mr Manning the ambassador understand about such things! Or Professor Price either? Perhaps they know a few bits and pieces about China, but it is only we who are truly able to understand the Chinese, the Chinese soul!’

  Aware of her mother’s disposition, Catherine said nothing, just lowered her head and went off to prepare the rice pudding.

  Mrs Ely’s elder brother arrived. ‘What? The two Chinamen not here yet?’ Alexander found a small space between his sister’s haywire hair and her nose, and gave her a kiss.

  ‘No. Go in and sit down, will you?’ said Mrs Ely, and went back to the kitchen to keep preparing the food.

  The object of Alexander’s visit was a free meal, and certainly not a chat with the Reverend Ely. There was nothing you could talk about with a missionary.

  The Reverend Ely passed his tobacco pouch to Alexander in silence.

  ‘No, thanks. Got some.’ Alexander pulled out a six-inch gold case, selected a Manila cigar and handed it to the Reverend Ely. Then he took one himself, stuck it in his mouth, smartly struck a match, sucked his cheeks in and inhaled a mouthful as he lit it. Then, with an almighty puff of his cheeks, he sent smoke shooting out into the distance. He contemplated the smoke with a smile, and in the same casual way tossed the matchstick into the ashtray.

  Alexander was as tall as his sister, broad-shouldered, bullnecked, bald-headed and with a mouthful of false teeth. His cheeks were forever bright crimson, as if he’d just been on the wrong end of two violent slaps. He dressed very smartly and was invariably immaculate from head to toe.

  Cigar in one hand, the other pressed against his forehead, he seemed to be thinking something over. ‘I say,’ he said after quite some time, ‘what was the name of that Chinaman? That commercial traveller from the Handsome Profit Company in Tientsin. A dumb-looking little fellow. Know who I mean?’

  ‘Chang Yüan.’ The Reverend Ely was still holding the unlit cigar. He didn’t feel he could put it down, for fear of disclosing his ineptitude in smoking cigars.

  ‘That’s him. Chang Yüan. I was fond of the little beggar. Tell you what, though,’ Alexander inhaled another mouthful of smoke, and made a magnificent show of it as he puffed it out, ‘don’t think he was a fool! Oh, no, he was sharp. You see, my Chinese wasn’t up to much, and he hadn’t a word of English, but businesswise we got on like a house on fire. He’d come and say, in Chinese, “Two thousand dollars.” I’d nod, and he’d pass me the invoice for the goods straight away. Then I’d say in Chinese, “Write name?” He’d nod his head, and I’d sign the invoice. See, all tied up, neat as you like!’

  And having said this, Alexander clutched his belly and roared with laughter. Countless layers of ash from his cigar dropped onto the carpet as he went on and on, his scalp soon matching his cheeks for redness, before he finally stopped, in a high state of hilarity.

  The Reverend Ely, unable to detect anything that merited laughter, pushed his spectacles up, and, grim-lipped, stared at the ash on the carpet.

  The two Mas arrived with Mrs Wedderburn. She wore a taupe dress and a broad-brimmed straw hat, and the instant she set foot in the house, the cigar set her coughing. Mr Ma was clasping a black trilby, at a loss as to where to deposit it. Ma Wei took it and hung it on the hatstand, much to Mr Ma’s relief.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Wedderburn!’ exclaimed Alexander in gruff, hearty tones, standing up with cigar at the ready. ‘Haven’t seen you for years. Mr Wedderburn all right? What’s his line these days?’

  At that point Mrs Ely came in with Catherine and hastily interrupted her brother. ‘Alec! Mr Wedderburn is no longer with us. I’m so glad you’ve come, Mrs Wedderburn. Where’s Miss Wedderburn?’

  ‘Hello, Mr Ma!’ Ignoring his sister, Alexander pounced on the elder Ma and shook his hand. ‘Often heard my sister talk of you. From Shanghai, aren’t you? How’s trade in Shanghai? Been a lot of trouble there lately, eh? Has old Chang still got Peking firmly in hand? There’s a splendid chap for you, now! I tell you, if he’d been in charge of Manchuria all these years, there’d never have been any trouble. I can tell you that when I was in Tientsin, we never had a spot of bother with —’

  ‘Alec! Dinner’s ready. Will you all please come into the dining room?’ shouted Mrs Ely at the top of her voice, knowing that otherwise she’d n
ever make herself heard over her brother.

  ‘Eh? What? Dinner ready? Got any drink?’ Alexander threw his cigar down and followed everyone out of the drawing room.

  ‘Ginger beer,’ replied Mrs Ely, stiff-necked. She was somewhat in awe of her brother, otherwise she wouldn’t even have provided ginger beer.

  Once all were seated, Alexander renewed his bellowing. ‘We ought to at least have a bottle of champagne!’

  The English actually give a great deal of attention to manners, and as a young man Alexander had possessed flawless manners and etiquette. But when he went to China, he felt that being polite to the Chinese wasn’t worth the bother, and was forever bawling and glaring at the Chinese working under him, with the result that he was now past changing even if he’d wanted to. Because of his wild bellowing and general rudeness, many of his former friends had cut him off, which accounted for his having agreed to come to dinner at the Reverend Ely’s house. Had he had plenty of friends, his brother-in-law, the Mas and the ginger beer could all go and jump in a lake.

  ‘Where’s Paul, Mrs Ely?’ asked Mrs Wedderburn.

  ‘He’s not yet back from a trip to the countryside,’ said Mrs Ely, then, aiming her nose in her husband’s direction, added, ‘Reverend Ely, say grace!’

  The Reverend Ely had up to this point suffered Alexander in silence, but now he had the chance, he began an interminable prayer, perfectly aware that this irked Alexander, and deliberately letting him go hungry for as long as he could.

  Alexander kept on opening his eyes to look at the ginger beer on the table, inwardly cursing the Reverend Ely. The moment the clergyman had uttered his ‘Amen’, Alec grabbed a bottle and began pouring it out for everyone.

  ‘How do you like England?’ he asked Mr Ma as he did so.

  ‘Most beautiful!’ Of late, Mr Ma had been learning with Mrs Wedderburn to answer every question with a ‘Splendid!’, ‘Most beautiful!’ or ‘You’re absolutely right!’

  ‘What d’you mean, “beautiful”?’ Alexander looked somewhat bemused, unable to comprehend the meaning of the word unless he knew how much “beauty” was worth per pound. He knew that the big coloured vases in the antiques shops were beautiful, and that the paintings in the art exhibitions were beautiful, because they all had price tags on them.

  ‘Er . . .’ Not knowing what to say, Mr Ma just rolled his eyes helplessly.

  ‘Alec!’ said Mrs Ely. ‘Pass the salt to Mrs Wedderburn.’

  Alexander grabbed the salt shaker and handed it to Mrs Wedderburn, knocking over the pepper pot in the process.

  ‘Do you like fat or lean meat, Ma Wei?’ asked Miss Ely.

  Giving Ma Wei no time to reply, Mrs Ely jerked her head up stiffly and declared, ‘The Chinese always prefer the fat!’ Then, securing the meat with a fork in one hand, she carved with the knife in her other. Her lips were pursed grimly and one eyebrow was cocked, her expression implying that she was about to kill someone.

  ‘Splendid!’ Mr Ma suddenly put Mrs Wedderburn’s term to use. Nobody knew why he’d said it.

  When they’d eaten the beef, the rice pudding was brought out.

  ‘Can you eat this?’ Miss Ely asked Ma Wei.

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said Ma Wei, giving her a smile.

  ‘All Chinese like rice. Is that not so, Mr Ma?’ asked Mrs Ely, of Mr Ma but looking straight at Catherine.

  ‘You’re absolutely right!’ said Mr Ma, nodding his head.

  Alexander went off into hoots of laughter until his cheeks were purple. No one took the slightest notice of him, not even his sister, and he carried on laughing till his mouth ached, at which point he automatically ground to a halt.

  Ma Wei took a spoonful of rice pudding and brought it to his lips, not daring for ages to put it into his mouth. The elder Mr Ma swallowed a mouthful of the pudding and stiffened at the neck, his eyes fixed and frozen for a long while, as if he were about to pass out.

  ‘Would you like some water?’ Miss Ely asked Ma Wei.

  Ma Wei nodded.

  ‘Would you like some water, too?’ Mrs Wedderburn inquired warmly of Mr Ma.

  Mr Ma’s neck was still craned rigidly forwards, and the smile he gave Mrs Wedderburn was strained. Alexander went off into peals of laughter once more.

  ‘Alec! Another helping of pudding?’ asked Mrs Ely, shooting him a sidelong glare.

  The Reverend Ely said nothing, but slowly poured two glasses of water for the two Mas. By combining a mouthful of rice pudding with a mouthful of cold water, they more or less managed to survive the dessert.

  ‘I’ll tell you a funny story!’ said Alexander, addressing all and sundry, totally unconcerned as to whether anybody wanted to hear one. Mrs Wedderburn gave a light clap with her dainty hands in anticipation. Seeing her applaud, Mr Ma quickly uttered a series of ‘Splendid!’s.

  ‘It was the year I went to Peking.’ Alexander stuck his thumb in his waistcoat pocket, stretched out his legs and positioned his spine squarely against the back of his chair. ‘It’s a poverty-stricken hole is Peking, I can tell you. Not a single big store, not a single factory, and the streets are filthy. Someone had told me Peking was an attractive place. Saw no signs of that. Filth and charm don’t go hand in hand, what!’

  ‘Kay!’ said Mrs Ely hastily, noticing that Ma Wei’s face was reddening somewhat. ‘Take Ma Wei to have a look round your study, and when you come back, we’ll be having coffee in the drawing room.’ To Ma Wei she said, ‘Paul has collected a good number of books, and his study is really quite the little library. You go and have a look with Catherine.’

  ‘Listen to me!’ Alexander looked a bit disgruntled. ‘I was staying in the Peking Hotel. Now that’s what you’d call a decent place. You can have a drink, play billiards, dance or gamble. If you wanted, you could do the lot. And do you know, there’s only one good hotel like that in the whole of Peking. Well, when I’d finished my dinner, and had nothing else to do, I went downstairs for a round of billiards. There was an old chappy with black whiskers standing in the billiard room – a Chinaman. One of the old school of Chinamen. That’s the sort I like, the old-school type, what! As I started playing, he curved up his moustache in a smile. Interesting old chappy, I thought to myself. When I’d finished the game, he was still standing there, so I went over and asked him, in Chinese, “He-chiu pu-he?” Would you like a drink?’

  As Alexander pronounced the four words of Chinese, he did so with his face turned to the ceiling, his fist resting on his hip and his eyes closed, mumbling in a stifled wheezing voice, imitating a Chinese person.

  While her brother was preoccupied with his Chinaman impersonations, Mrs Ely hastily said to her guests, ‘Please come and sit in the drawing room.’

  The Reverend Ely stood up with alacrity to open the door. Alexander made a beeline for Mr Ma, intent on continuing his funny story. Mrs Wedderburn, very eager to hear someone who’d actually been to China talk about the country, said to him, ‘Tell us when we’re in the drawing room, so that we all can hear.’

  ‘Mrs Wedderburn! Your dress is quite gorgeous!’ Mrs Ely was trying her level best to interrupt Alexander’s tale.

  ‘Most pretty!’ added Mr Ma.

  When they were all in the drawing room, Mrs Ely poured them coffee. The Reverend Ely smiled at Mrs Wedderburn. ‘Shall we listen to the gramophone?’ he asked her. ‘Which record would you like to hear?’

  ‘Lovely! But let’s ask Mr Lanmore to finish his funny story first.’

  His efforts falling flat, all the Reverend Ely could do was pick up his coffee and sit down. Alexander said ‘Ahem!’, and proceeded with his story, now in a thoroughly merry mood.

  ‘Well, Mrs Wedderburn. You see, when I asked him if he would have a drink, he nodded his head and smiled again. I forged on to the bar, with him tagging behind me like an old dog —’

  ‘Alec, pass Mrs Wedderburn a – Mrs Wedderburn, would you like an apple or a banana?’

  Alexander passed the fruit bowl and carried on speaking, not for a moment
breaking his stride. ‘“What are you drinking?” I said. “What’ll you drink?” he said. “I’ll have a whisky,” I said. “I’ll join you,” he said. So the pair of us got drinking. Fine chappy, that old fellow. Drank five with me. Never flinched.’

  ‘Ha ha! Oh Mr Lanmore, do you mean to tell me that when you were in China you actually taught Chinese people to drink whisky?’ asked Mrs Wedderburn, laughing.

  The Reverend and Mrs Ely both opened their mouths to try to interrupt Alexander’s anecdote, but as both of them started up simultaneously, nobody heard what either of them said, and Alexander grabbed his chance, and carried on.

  ‘What was even more extraordinary, when we finished drinking the old chappy paid for the drinks. Settled the bill. Then he really opened up – asked me how he could buy a betting ticket for the Shanghai horseraces. You Chinamen are all for gambling, eh?’ he asked Mr Ma.

  Mr Ma nodded.

  Mrs Wedderburn, chewing a piece of banana in her mouth, murmured, ‘Teaching people to go horseracing and bet, and then you say they’re —’

  Before she’d finished whatever it was she was going to say, the Reverend Ely cut in quickly, ‘Mrs Wedderburn, is the Reverend Chamberlain still —’

  Mrs Ely opened her mouth, too: ‘Mr Ma, which church do you go to for Sunday service?’

  Alexander slurped noisily at his coffee. The more he thought about it, the funnier his story seemed, so that he ended up going off into great guffaws of laughter once more.

  IV

  IN PAUL’S study, Miss Ely sat on her brother’s swivel chair, and Ma Wei stood in front of the shelves, looking at the books. There were probably twenty or thirty of them, of which a complete collection of Shakespeare’s works accounted for half. On the walls hung three or four coloured prints of famous paintings, all bought by Paul in the market for sixpence each. On the small table next to the bookshelves lay an opium pipe, a new pair of shoes usually worn by Chinese women with tiny bound feet, a shabby snuff bottle, and a pair of old embroidered purses.