Mr Ma and Son

by Lao She

‘Li, old lad, we’ll do whatever you say. We’ll pin all our hopes on this move, come what may. Oh, my father’s waiting at the Top Graduate for us if you’d like a meal. Are you coming?’

  ‘No, thanks. Same old reason: eat one meal like that, and I’ll want another. Too expensive a habit, I couldn’t afford it. Look here, Ma, old lad, you ought to go for a week’s holiday in the countryside, have a spot of leisure and relaxation. Luckily I’m still here for a few days, so there’s nothing to stop you going.’

  ‘Where to?’ asked Ma Wei.

  ‘There’s loads of places! Go to the station and ask for a travel brochure, pick yourself a place and go and stay there a week. It’ll do your health good. Right, old Ma, off you go and have your meal, and give Mr Ma my thanks. And eat a bit more now!’ Li Tzu-jung started laughing.

  As Ma Wei went off, alone, Li Tzu-jung was still laughing.

  PART FOUR

  I

  FROM THE onset of autumn right through to winter, there are all kinds of things going on in London. Once the theatres have shown all their best plays, the shops start their autumn sales, and straight after that come the preparations for Christmas. Wealthy men and women go to London to see the plays, to throw parties and to buy their Christmas presents. Hard-up men and women likewise go to London, to do things that cost no money, such as watching the Lord Mayor’s Show and watching the King open the Houses of Parliament. And even if they’ve got no more than a shilling in their pocket, they’ll put it on a horse, or make a bet on some football team. A large part of the evening paper is devoted to horseracing and football results, and these people buy a copy – at nine o’clock in the morning – to check whether they’ve won or not. When they see they’ve lost, they purse their lips and read a bit of the anti-foreign news to make themselves feel better.

  As well as all that there are ice-skating rinks, circuses, dog shows, chrysanthemum shows, cat shows, leg shows, car races, grand contests and special competitions, one after the other, providing people with plenty to see all the time, plenty to talk about and plenty to entertain them. The English could never have a revolution. With so much to do and talk about, who’s got the time for inciting revolution?

  Mrs Ely, too, was very busy, collecting charity for the poor so that people with nothing to eat might have a good dinner on Christmas Day. The untidy kapok on top of her head was more dishevelled than ever, and increasingly threatened to fly completely out of control. The Reverend Ely was terribly busy as well. Day after day, a little dictionary clutched in his hand, he’d be reading Chinese books, all the time encountering more and more Chinese characters that he didn’t know.

  It’s difficult to describe the way in which Paul was busy. He was fully capable of standing for three hours in the rain waiting for a glimpse of the Prince of Wales, and when he got back home, he’d stand in front of the mirror with a slight smirk on his face, because someone had said his nose was the image of the Prince’s. When the Prince of Wales gave a broadcast on the radio, asking for contributions to charity for unemployed workers, Paul at once donated two pounds. If the Prince hadn’t told him that the workers were suffering great hardships, such a gesture would never in his life have entered his head. In fact he sometimes even ridiculed his mother for dashing round so wildly on behalf of the poor. As for himself, come wind come rain, he would go and watch football or hockey, or see an anti-Chinese film.

  Miss Catherine continued as serene as ever, but she too was busy, doing things for the YWCA. Despite this her hair wasn’t in the slightest unkempt, and hung, still as long, lightly covering her snow-white neck.

  Mrs Wedderburn and daughter were likewise busy. The mother was stoking fires upstairs and downstairs from morn till night, leaving a perpetual smut of black on the tip of her nose. There weren’t many days left to Christmas, and she had to snatch whatever opportunities she could to go Christmas shopping in town. And she bought a lot now, because you can save money by buying your presents a little early. Also, the Christmas cake had to be made more than a month before Christmas.

  Mary was busy with her eyes, so busy her eyes almost couldn’t cope. Every shop in town was decorated with cheer and colour, and everywhere you looked was so pretty. Each week she’d put by a few shillings, and, after some fifteen or sixteen hours’ research on the matter, she’d buy a nice little something, bring it home and secretly stow it away in her suitcase as a present to give at Christmas time.

  She also wanted to buy a new hat for herself, and that was no easy matter. Savings booklet in hand, she’d do sums night and day, but, try as she might, she could never manage to find herself any extra. In secret, she bet a shilling on a horse, hoping to win some money that way. As it turned out, her horse got halfway round the course then tumbled head over heels, and she lost the shilling. The less money you’ve got, the more you lose. They ought to get rid of money, or else they’ll never solve the problem. In her anger, she almost turned socialist.

  Even the weather in London grew busier. It was either windy or raining, and if it was neither of those, there was a fog. Sometimes, to keep people on their toes, it’d be both rainy and foggy. London fog’s fascinating. Just take its colours, for instance – it may be several all at once. In some parts it’s light grey, and you can still see things within a range of forty or fifty feet. In other parts, it’s such a dark grey that there’s no difference between night and day. In some places it’s greyish yellow, as if the whole of London city is burning damp wood. In yet other places, it’s a reddish brown, and when the fog is this colour you can forget about being able to see anything any more. All you can spot if you’re standing indoors, looking out the windowpane, is the reddish brown colour.

  If you walk in the fog, it’s dark grey just ahead of you, and it’s not until you raise your head and make an actual effort to pick out a lamp shining somewhere, that you can see the faintest yellow tinge to it. That sort of fog doesn’t come in wisps, but in one whole mass, and blocks out the world. As you walk, the fog follows you. You can’t see anything, and nobody can see you. You don’t even know where you are. Only the fiercest-burning gas lamps penetrate the gloom, and all you can distinguish are the wisps of steam from your own breath before your lips. The rest is hazy and unidentifiable.

  The cars crawl along slowly, one foot at a time, declaring their presence only by the sounds of their horns. If not for those horns, you might feel really afraid, wondering whether the whole world had been suffocated by the fog. You’re conscious that there are things to the right and left of you, and in front and behind, but you simply can’t pluck up the courage to move in any of these directions. That object in front of you may be a horse, a car or perhaps a tree, but unless you put your hands on it, you won’t know which one it is.

  Mr Ma was London’s leading man of leisure. When it was rainy, he didn’t go out. When it was windy, he didn’t go out. And when it was foggy, he stayed at home. He’d stick his pipe in his mouth, stoke up the fire till it was burning brightly, and through the windowpane minutely savour the beauty of the rain, fog and wind.

  Wherever they may be, the Chinese can always discern the beauty in things. Beauty, in any case, is a living phenomenon, a combination of emotion and scenery, something that radiates from the aesthetic force of the individual’s mind. The homeward boat ’mid the mists and rain! Treading o’er the snow in quest of plum blossoms! And amid the mists and rain and snow there’s always a skinny bloke with a smile on his face. This gaffer’s the Chinese god of beauty. Not a god who dwells in heaven, but one who dwells in the mind of the individual. Hence the gentle smile that would unconsciously appear on Mr Ma’s face as the cars made their way through the fine silk strands of rain; as the young ladies’ umbrellas were blown askew by the wind; it was all beautiful. As a ray of lamplight wafted in the fog, it was like fireflies on an autumn night; beautiful.

  Pipe in mouth, Mr Ma stared out the window, then looked a while at the flames in the fireplace, and forgot all sorrow and care. All that was missing was wine. �
�Must get half a catty of vintage Shao-hsing, eh?’ he muttered to himself. But you can’t buy Shao-hsing wine in London. Oh dear! he thought. Really ought to be getting back to China.

  The elder Ma could never forget about returning to China, to that place where everybody is capable of treading o’er the snow in quest of plum blossoms and the homeward boats ’mid mist and rain. If the Chinese could keep both ‘beauty’ and ‘China’ forever in mind, and allow both to fully prosper, then China might yet know a golden age some day in the future. If science and beauty could be blended together, and if loyal sentiments towards the motherland could be fostered by incorrupt and enlightened politics, things would be very hopeful for China.

  It was a pity that the elder Ma, a representative of China, possessed no more than some muddled intuitive appreciation of beauty, without the vital common sense and knowledge. It was a pity that the elder Ma merely desired to return to his country, and had no understanding of the meaning of country. A pity that the elder Ma had the urge to become a government official, and yet no knowledge of the duties and responsibilities that being a government official entailed. A pity that the elder Ma loved his son without having any notion of how to educate him. A pity that . . .

  As Christmas approached, yes, even Mr Ma grew a little busier. He was delighted to hear that the English gave one another presents at Christmas. What a good opportunity for making friends! Naturally, the four Elys, Mrs Wedderburn and daughter, and Alexander would all have to be given presents. He couldn’t forget even Li Tzu-jung either. Common, that young fellow, no taste . . . I’ll give him a vulgar present. That’s it – a pair of shoes. Ill-bred people like to receive useful things. Who else was there, now? The manager of the Top Graduate. Washington . . . That’s right, have to give him something. He carried me into the taxi that day I got drunk . . . The young chap’s bought a new motorbike recently. Bound to come off it and kill himself sooner or later. Hey, now, better stop that – putting curses on people! But motorbikes are extremely dangerous. I hope he doesn’t come off and get killed, but if he does, there’s nothing I can do about it, anyway. The elder Ma twitched up his lips and scrappy moustache into a smile.

  How many’s that now? Mr Ma bent up his fingers as he counted. ‘Four plus three makes seven, plus Li Tzu-jung, the manager of the Top Graduate and Washington, makes ten. Who else is there? Wang Ming-ch’uan. If a chap gets my wares for me, I can scarcely avoid giving him a little something or other. Eleven. Let’s leave it at eleven for the moment. If any more come to me, we’ll see. Shall I buy Mrs Wedderburn a new hat?’

  Here, Mr Ma stopped mumbling to himself, closed his eyes, and embarked upon a deliberation as to what kind of hat would further enhance Mrs Wedderburn’s charms. He thought for ages, but all that came to mind was the tip of her little nose, her dear brown eyes and her rather long face. For the life of him, he couldn’t work out what kind of hat would make her face look not quite so long. No, he just didn’t know. Leave it at that then, and see when the time comes. Ah, and there’s Napoleon, too!

  Mr Ma utterly worshipped Napoleon – Napoleon being Her dog. That’s tricky, though. A present for a dog? Never given a dog a present before, to tell the truth. Aha – I’ve got it! I’ve got it! In his triumph, he knocked the tobacco from his newly filled pipe out into the fire.

  Get a bit of coloured paper, and wrap up seven shillings and sixpence in a parcel. Tie some ribbon round it and hand it to Mrs Wedderburn. Heard her say the other day that she’d have to buy a new annual licence for Napoleon after the new year, and it’d cost her seven and six. Well, I’ll be paying for it for her! Ho-ho! There’s a marvellous idea for you, eh? Bloody hell, though – seven and six every year, all for one little dog. The things the foreign devils get up to. Anyway, it’ll be me paying for it, so you can bet it’ll make her . . . make her . . . Yes, that’s it!

  He was highly pleased, and indeed for him to have actually managed to think up such an ingenious idea by himself was no small feat.

  It was nearly lunchtime, but the fog outside was still very thick. He thought about asking Mrs Wedderburn to make a meal, but he strongly objected to eating cold meat. Then he thought of going to have a look at the shop, but was afraid he might get run over by a car. Anyway, he’d simply not dared show his face in the shop this last month. Ever since Li Tzu-jung had suggested organising a massive Christmas sale, Ma Wei and Li Tzu-jung – who was snatching some time each day to come and help – had been so busy they’d been run off their feet, but they wouldn’t let the elder Ma lift a finger to help them.

  One day, Mr Ma had wanted to take a small vase home to put flowers in. Without so much as a word, Li Tzu-jung had forcibly snatched the vase from his hands. And what’s more, Ma Wei’s face had gone all stern, and he’d given him, his father, a telling-off.

  Another time, when both Ma Wei and Li Tzu-jung were out of the shop somewhere, Mr Ma had taken down all the gaudy notices and posters from the window, feeling they were in poor taste. And that had earnt him another dressing-down from Ma Wei.

  It was no good. If even your own son didn’t side with you, what could you do? What on earth had made him come to this foreign-devil country? There’s nowhere here you can lay a charge of ‘obstreperousness and unfiliality’ against your child! I’ll just have to put up with it. Of course, Ma Wei does it because he’s trying to get ahead and make some money. But trying to get ahead doesn’t mean you can entirely ignore the requirements of face. I’m your father, I’ll have you realise!

  He’s a good boy, Ma Wei. Wants to make a go of things. Mr Ma nodded his head and sighed in approbation. But all the same, stick to making a go of things, and don’t forget I’m your dad.

  The dense fog outside the window turned from grey to dark grey, to brown and to red. The houses were now invisible. Lights were on everywhere, but seemed to be half out, which lent an uneasy, unsettled feel to the scene. A coalman in the street called out in a hoarse, choked voice, his voice seeming to come from immediately outside the window, but he himself and his coal cart were in some other world.

  That’s settled it. Mr Ma sat down by the fire again. I’ll only get told off if I go to the shop. So I think I’ll stay here, and patiently while away the time.

  Yes, Mr Ma was London’s leading man of leisure.

  II

  NO MATTER whether you’re an important person or an insignificant one, you can accomplish something if you strive onwards with the utmost resolution. Although the magnitude of these accomplishments varies, they’re alike in the force of spiritual determination behind them, and in their success, for which they deserve our respect.

  But merely waving flags and shouting battle cries without really doing anything is disgraceful. Only people lacking in ideals, only people devoid of constructive ideas or those who delight in vainglory, wave flags and shout battle cries. Such things are not only doomed to fruitlessness, not only undeserving of respect, but they can’t even raise a laugh in others.

  When did any of those foreigners in China, the foreign devils with their big guns, their aeroplanes and their science, their knowledge and their financial resources, ever laugh at all those students waving paper flags, shouting about justice, vying to become president of their students’ union and neglecting to study? Laugh? It wasn’t worth a single laugh. The less they study, the better. As long as they fail to study, the foreign devils’ knowledge will remain superior to theirs. And their paper flags, come what may, will never overcome the foreign devils’ artillery. If those students had a go at the foreign devils’ big guns with some little guns, the devils might perhaps manage a laugh. But if they merely clutched a little stick with a bit of red paper pasted on it, and tried to repel the cannons with that scrap of paper, they could hardly expect the foreign devils to crack a smile. No, that’s not the way people who truly care for their country set about things.

  Love. What a terrible thing love is. At its altar, life and wealth may both be sacrificed, sacrificed for the sake of a woman. Even love, however, m
ay be overcome by firm resolution. Life’s a complex, many-sided thing, and besides love it involves ambition, duty, vocation . . . Those who are fortunate may proceed from the fulfilment of their love to the attainment of their duty, and the accomplishment of their vocation. The unfortunate can only acknowledge their bad luck, and turn their attentions to their ambition, duty and vocation.

  If someone abandons all his sacred ambition, duty and vocation, gratuitously discards his golden life simply because he can’t kiss someone’s cherry-sweet lips – such a person is a fit hero for a novel, but a social criminal. Real society and novels are two quite different things. To drop the paper flags to study and work, and to quiet one’s sad wails of disappointed love and take a look at one’s ambition, duty and vocation; those would be two salutary doses of medicine for the youth of China, of shattered China, decrepit but charming China.

  When in China, Ma Wei had held up a paper flag and shouted battle cries along with the rest of them. But now he’d come to realise that the strength and prosperity of England was in large measure due to the fact that the English don’t shout battle cries, but put their heads down and get on with it. The English are passionately committed to freedom, but oddly enough their university students have no right of free speech with regards to their school authorities. The English are passionately committed to liberty, but oddly enough there’s order everywhere. When several million workers went on strike, it could be done without the firing of a rifle, and without the death of a single person. Order and discipline are the secrets of a strong country, as Ma Wei now realised.

  In his heart, he couldn’t forget Mary, but he also realised that if he went to pieces over her, he and his father would starve to death, without question. And he would be unable to render the slightest service to his motherland.

  Ma Wei was no fool. He was one of the new youth, and the new youth’s highest aspiration was to achieve something for their nation and society. Such a duty was more important than anything else. To lose your life for old China would be a million times more noble than dying for a beautiful woman. Sacrificing yourself for love would be to add one more flower to the garland of poetry, but sacrificing yourself for the nation would be to add a most splendid page to the history of China. Ma Wei realised that now.