by Lao She
Paul’s friends knew he’d been born in China, and Paul felt obliged to play this up a little. Whenever his friends came by, he’d weave a whole concocted tale round the curios: when the Chinese bound their feet and smoked opium, this was the little pot into which they stuffed the opium, and these were the purses that they put the little pots in . . . Fortunately, English people know nothing about China, so he could tell them whatever he liked and it didn’t matter.
‘So this is Paul’s collection then?’ said Ma Wei, turning round to Catherine with a smile.
Miss Ely nodded. She was probably about twenty-six or twenty-seven. Like her father, she wasn’t tall, and she had big eyes. She had as much hair as her mother, and as she wasn’t as tall, that head of hair seemed to weigh down the rest of her, depriving it of frivolity or lightness. But she wasn’t at all unattractive, and, especially when she was seated, with her back very straight and her shimmering tawny hair hanging down behind her, she had quite a lot of that passive, still beauty of Oriental women. When she spoke, there was always the hint of a smile on her lips, but she didn’t often laugh aloud. Her hands were particularly smooth and pretty, and she’d often raise them to sweep back her long hair.
‘Are you all right here in England, Ma Wei?’
‘Of course.’
‘Really?’ She gave a faint smile.
‘I don’t take much notice of English people’s attitudes towards us. But my father’s business, it’s . . . It worries me every time I think of it, Elder Sister.’
When they had been in China together he’d called her this, and found he couldn’t shake the habit.
‘The Chinese tend to look down on businessmen, and my father’s not the slightest bit interested in running a business. But now we rely on the shop for our livelihood, it’s no good his being indifferent. He won’t listen to what I say, and doesn’t go to the shop all day, and when he does go, he’s likely to give a customer something for free if he hears them praising Chinese antiques. We’ve only been here a few months, and already we’ve spent more than two hundred pounds of the money my uncle left us. One day Father’s shouting someone a meal, and the next he’s inviting someone to have a drink on him. People only have to say the Chinese are nice, and he invites them out to dinner. And when they tell him the food’s good, he has to go and invite them out again!
‘Quite apart from all that, whenever anyone asks him a question, he tries too hard to answer them the way they want. English people by and large think the worst of China, and they’re only too delighted to hear confirmation of their suspicions from the lips of a Chinese person. For instance, when people ask him how many wives he’s got, he says, “Five or six”! And if I ask him about it, he gets all hot under the collar and says, “People are convinced the Chinese have a lot of wives. So why shouldn’t I tell them what they want to hear?”
‘And sure enough some old folks have got so fond of him he’s become their proper darling – just because he always tells them what they want to hear.
‘There was the day not long ago when General Gower was giving a lecture on the British troops sent into Shanghai, and he made a point of inviting my father to come along. Halfway through his talk, General Gower pointed at my father, and said, “Would it not be a good thing for the Chinese were British troops to remain permanently stationed in China? Let us put the question to a Chinaman. Mr Ma, what would you say?”
‘And my father stands up and says exactly what’s expected of him: “We welcome the British forces!”
‘Another time, an old lady told him that Chinese clothes were lovely, so the next day he traipsed round the streets in a big silk jacket, and collected a crowd of little children shouting “Chink!” at him. If he’d worn the Chinese clothes because he wanted to, all well and good, but no – he was just wearing them to please that old lady. You know, Elder Sister, my father’s generation’s had the scares put into them by foreigners, and all they need is to hear those same foreigners bestowing faint praise and they feel tremendously honoured. He hasn’t got an atom of national feeling, not an atom!’
Miss Ely sighed, smiling.
‘Nationalism, Elder Sister,’ continued Ma Wei. ‘Nationalism’s the only thing that can save China. Not like the Japanese, manufacturing big guns, aeroplanes and all those lethal weapons, but then again, in this present day and age, guns and aeroplanes are a sign of civilisation. The average English person sneers at us because our military’s no good. If we’re ever going to lift up our heads, we’re just going to have to fight. I know it’s not humane, but if we don’t, we can forget about ever being able to hold our own in the world.’
‘Ma Wei!’ said Catherine, taking his hand. ‘Ma Wei, just stick I know how you suffer, and the irritations you have to put up with. But losing your temper can’t do anything to help China, can it? If your country’s in a shambles, nobody’s going to show you any sympathy. You could go on forever, telling the English, the French or the Japanese, “We’re an ancient land, and it’s not easy for an ancient land to modernise. You ought to show us some sympathy instead of taking advantage of our tribulations”, but it’d be a sheer waste of effort, wouldn’t it? If others see you as weak, they’ll take advantage of you, and if you have a revolution, they’ll mock you. Relations between countries are all about one-upmanship, and unless China becomes stronger without outside help, nobody’s going to respect the Chinese, and nobody’s going to be friendly to you.
‘I’m telling you, Ma Wei: only study and learning can save a country. China isn’t just short of big guns and aeroplanes – it also lacks all kinds of capable people. Unless you can make yourself into someone of ability, you’ve no right to talk about saving your nation! At least you’ve had the chance to come abroad. Take a look at other countries, and take a look at what’s wrong with your own country – we’ve all got our faults, haven’t we? – and then think things over calmly and coolly. You can’t just fly off the handle.
‘The problem here in England is that people don’t study. Look at all these rotten books of Paul’s, hardly any of them ever opened, and my mother has the nerve to tell you to come and look at them. All the same, England’s certainly got a few people who really know their stuff, and it’s those people who make it possible for England to stand her ground in this world. An Englishman discovered a medicine for cholera, and that’s something that benefits people throughout the world. Another invented the telephone, so now the whole world can communicate. No matter what, there will always be those who lead the way, and there’ll always be the ordinary people following in the wake of those few real innovators.
‘It’s the same trouble with the Chinese – they don’t study. But where China falls short of England is that it doesn’t even have one leading light. Don’t get impatient, Ma Wei. Study and learn, that’s the only thing to do, study and learn. What are you studying? Commerce. Right then – when you’ve got a real understanding of commerce, you’ll be able to help China compete with other countries in trade.
‘As for Mr Ma, you and Li Tzu-jung ought to force his hand. I know that it’s hard for you; you want to be the obedient and loving son, as is expected in China, yet at the same time you can see the dangers ahead. But you can’t have your cake and eat it too. As we English see it, slavish obedience is a danger too. I was born in China, and can claim to know a bit about the place. And being English, I can also say I understand England. And if you compare both countries, you can reach some very clear and relevant conclusions. Look, Ma Wei, if you have any problems, come and see me, will you? I may not be able to help, but at least I can suggest some ideas.
‘You see, Ma Wei, I’m not exactly happy in my home life. I don’t get on with my parents, let alone my brother. But I’ve got my own job, and when I’ve finished work and can quietly read in my room, I don’t feel upset about anything. In my view, there are only two really satisfying things in life: using your knowledge and gaining more knowledge.’
At this point, Catherine gave a slight smile. ‘Ma Wei
,’ she continued warmly, ‘I’m still trying to learn Chinese. Why don’t we have an exchange? You teach me Chinese, and I’ll teach you English. But —’ She scooped back her hair with her hands, and thought for a while. ‘Where, though? I wouldn’t like you to have to come here. To be honest, my mother doesn’t like the Chinese. What if I came to your place? Would you —’
‘We’ve got a small study,’ Ma Wei quickly broke in, ‘But surely, asking you to trek all the way there and back again would be —’
‘That wouldn’t matter – I often go to study in the British Museum, and that’s not far from you. Wait a moment. Let me think. Tell you what: wait till I write you a letter, will you?’
While on the subject of English, she mentioned a number of useful books that Ma Wei ought to study, and also explained how to go about borrowing books from the library.
‘Well, Ma Wei, we ought to go and see what’s going on in the drawing room.’
‘Thanks, Elder Sister. I feel a lot more cheerful after our talk together,’ said Ma Wei in a quiet voice.
Catherine said nothing, just gave another faint smile.
V
MRS ELY’S and Mrs Wedderburn’s foreheads were by now almost pressed against each other. Mrs Ely was pointing so vigorously at Mrs Wedderburn that she was nearly slicing off the teeny tip of Mrs Wedderburn’s nose. Mrs Wedderburn had her nose in the air and her pretty mouth open, and her head was following the movements of Mrs Ely’s finger, left, right, up, down, as if she were trying to take a bite out of it. The two of them were chattering away, but about what, none of the others had any idea.
Alexander was sitting on his chair, his legs sprawled out, the cigar in his hand burnt out. Both his eyes were shut, his cheeks were redder than ever and a steady snore was issuing from his mouth. Mr Ma and the Reverend Ely were engaged in quiet conversation, and the Reverend Ely’s spectacles had nearly slipped off the end of his nose.
As Miss Ely and Ma Wei entered, Mrs Ely promptly served Ma Wei some coffee, while Miss Ely sat down next to Mrs Wedderburn and joined in the chat.
Alexander’s snores grew louder and louder till he woke himself up with a start. ‘Whassat?’ he exclaimed loudly, blinking his eyes.
His question made everybody laugh. Even his sister laughed, so heartily that the bird’s nest on her head shook and shuddered. Realising what had happened, Alexander went off into peals of laughter as well, a tone louder than everyone else.
‘I say, Mr Ma, come and have a couple of glasses,’ he said, putting his hand on Mr Ma’s shoulder. ‘You coming too, Reverend Ely?’
The Reverend Ely pushed back his spectacles and looked at Mrs Ely.
‘Reverend Ely still has some business to attend to,’ said Mrs Ely. ‘You pop off with Mr Ma now. But you mustn’t get Mr Ma drunk, do you hear?’
Alexander winked at Mr Ma and made no reply.
Mr Ma gave a little smile and stood up. ‘You go home with Mrs Wedderburn,’ he told Ma Wei. ‘I’m going for a drink. Just one. No more. I’ve never been a drinker.’
Ma Wei said nothing, just shot a glance at Catherine.
Alexander kissed his niece and grabbed Mr Ma by the arm. ‘Off we go then!’
‘Bye-bye,’ said Mrs Ely to her brother, without getting up. Her husband saw them to the door.
‘Sure you won’t come?’ asked Alexander at the door.
‘No, I won’t,’ said the Reverend Ely, and turned to Mr Ma. ‘I’ll see you some day soon. I’ve something I want to discuss with you.’
The pair of them left Lancaster Road, crossed the main highway and followed the iron railing of Hyde Park westwards. Being summer, it still wasn’t very dark and there was a large number of people in the park. Not a single faded leaf was visible amid the tree foliage, and the flowerbeds were blooming with late tulips, like one unbroken strip of golden-red sunset. The tiny white flowers on the ground at the edge of the flowerbeds resembled flakes of newly fallen snow, giving a welcome cooling impression.
Visible in the distance through the grove of trees lay a stretch of water, over which flew a flock of seagulls, soaring and dipping. On the far side of the water, a military band was playing, and through the leaves you caught occasional glimpses of the red uniforms of the musicians. A cool breeze brought the sound of the music in waves to your ears. The sky was cloudless but a faint mist hung over the treetops to the west, in strips of red and white, as cheerful in colour as the hats of the girls in the park.
The hotel opposite the park stood with all its windows open and its awnings down. Under these pink- and green-striped canopies sat bare-armed girls, balancing teacups and enjoying the evening scenery of the park.
Looking between the park and the bright awnings, Mr Ma nodded his head in approval. The scene was very poetic, but Mr Ma, having never composed any poetry before, was unable to produce a single line in his mind.
Alexander marched on straight ahead, giving a sardonic smile now and then in the direction of the park revellers. But when he caught sight of the pub at the far end of Empress Gate, his face really lit up. He licked his lips, signalling with his head to Mr Ma. Mr Ma nodded.
Outside the pub there was a lame man playing the violin and asking for money. Alexander turned his head sharply away, pretending not to have seen him. An old white-whiskered man with a wry look was shouting, ‘Evening paper! Evening paper!’ Alexander bought a paper, and stuck it under his arm.
As they went into the pub, they found the bar crowded with people. One man was holding a glass of beer in his hand, talking and joking as he drank. A red-faced, toothless old lady was pushing through the crowd asking everybody, ‘Have you seen my little child?’ She’d been so engrossed in her drinking that she’d not noticed her child run off. Alexander stood to one side as she came rushing past, then drew Mr Ma further into the pub, to the saloon.
Chairs lined the walls of the saloon, and there was a carpet in the middle, on which stood a glass-topped table and a dark-purple piano. A couple of old men, each hugging a corner of the room, smoked with their eyes shut and a glass in their hand. A tall, fat woman, her eyes red with drink, was rocking her head as she played the piano. At her side stood a ruddy-faced bearded fellow, holding his glass high with his mouth wide open – wherein dwelt a small collection of black and imperilled teeth – and singing soldiers’ songs in a loud voice. His voice was ample and his delivery most expressive, only the tune he sang hadn’t the slightest relationship to that of the piano.
Seeing Mr Ma come in, the face of the woman playing the piano suddenly turned red then white. ‘Cor! Lord love us! A Chink in here!’ she said, hunching up her shoulders. She gave her head a shake, and played on with yet greater frenzy, her fat thighs plonking up and down on the little stool.
Without warning, the singer stopped and took a swig of beer, and the old men in the corners, without opening their eyes, jabbed their pipes in the direction of the piano and chorused, ‘Come on, George. Sing.’ George took another swig of beer, banged the glass down onto the table, and proceeded to sing once more. This tune had no greater relation to that of the piano than the last.
‘What’ll you drink, Mr Ma?’ asked Alexander.
‘Anything you like,’ said Mr Ma, sitting on a chair by the wall, with very proper decorum.
Alexander ordered beer, and, as they drank, he recounted his stories of China. The old men in the corners opened their eyes, glanced at Mr Ma and shut them again.
Alexander’s speaking voice was louder and fuller than George’s singing voice, and, in a fit of exasperation, George stopped singing. The fat woman, likewise frustrated, stopped her playing, and they both listened to Alexander. Mr Ma, taking quick glances all round him, creased his lips into a smile and took a sip of his beer. George came up to join in the conversation, since he knew a bit about China – his brother-in-law had been a soldier in Hong Kong – but Alexander didn’t pause for breath and George couldn’t get a word in. Tightening his lips grimly and snarling menacingly through his sparse black teeth,
he sat down.
‘Have another?’ Alexander asked, at the conclusion of one of his funny stories.
Mr Ma nodded.
‘Have another?’ Alexander asked, at the conclusion of yet another funny story.
Mr Ma nodded again.
As Mr Ma and Alexander drank and drank, the old men, legs like dough-twists, made their swaying way out of the pub. Then the fat woman stuck her hat on her head and staggered out, three teeters per step. George was still waiting for his chance to tell Alexander about China, but Alexander never left him any opening. Looking at his watch, George gave up and skulked silently outside, where he started singing away to himself again.
A young barmaid came in and said with a smile, ‘Sorry, gentlemen. Time, please!’
‘Thank you, miss.’ Alexander still hadn’t drunk his fill, but government regulations required pubs to close at ten o’clock, so there was nothing for it but to leave. ‘Let’s go, Mr Ma.’
The stars in the sky were so closely packed together they seemed on the verge of bumping into one another. The leaves of the trees lining the street were rustling in the cool breeze with a soft, pleasant sound. There wasn’t much traffic, and when every now and then a car did approach, its two big headlights seemed to transform the deserted road into a shimmering glacier. And once the car had hurtled past, the black shadows on either side converged to hide the shiny surface. In the park, the trees were shrouded in darkness, stirring up the scent of flowers and plants and turning the whole place into one sweet, beautiful dreamland.
Holding onto the park railing to keep himself upright, Mr Ma looked into the park. The bushy black trees seemed to have grown legs, and were swaying and rolling wildly back and forth. Not only that, but the trees were surrounded by crazily flying sparks that were there whichever way his eyes turned. He leant against the railing and rubbed his eyes with his hand. The golden stars continued to zoom around in front of him, and all the gas lamps along the street strangely had two flames to each lamp. And some lampposts were bent, like stalks of sorghum blown by the wind. His head refused to obey him, and unless he leant against something, it would jerk forwards, as though trying to visit his feet. If he weren’t careful he would indeed visit his feet at close quarters. As long as he had his hand on the railing, the forward movement of his head wasn’t so violent, but meanwhile, his legs were staging a mutiny. From the knees upwards they were still hanging onto his body, but below they seemed disinclined to obey their superiors – a veritable workers’ revolution!