Mr Ma and Son

by Lao She

  ‘Then there’s love. Love goes hand in hand with helping each other, with sympathy, with looking out for one another. I can’t love a girl who can’t help me or sympathise with me or look out for me. No matter how pretty she may be, nor how modern her outlook may be . . .’

  ‘And do you think that cooking and washing are all that’s required of a woman?’

  ‘Not half I do, in modern China!’ said Li Tzu-jung, looking at Ma Wei. ‘In China now there are no opportunities for women to work outside the home, because millions of menfolk are out of a job. So better leave the jobs for the men, and let the women help the men by looking after things in the home. You won’t get any improvements in society or quality of life till you’ve got happy and secure homes. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and that’s just the trouble with our students nowadays. Learn a few things, and they casually forget reality. When they’ve skimmed through a couple of romance novels, they go around like crazy, advocating free love. And where does it lead? Always the same old thing: a man and a woman sleep together for a night, full stop. They don’t give any thought to their obligations towards one another, so they’ve no chance of any real happiness. I wouldn’t say I bear them any ill will for it, but myself, I’d rather marry a country bumpkin who can cook and do the washing than have an affair with a girl who’s “acquired a little knowledge” and read one or two novels.’

  ‘All right. Say no more, old Li,’ said Ma Wei smiling. ‘Go and have a chat with my father. He’d be only too glad to hear all that stuff, I can assure you. Needless to say, you haven’t managed to convince me, and I can’t make you understand me, either. So the best thing we can do is talk about something else, otherwise we’ll find ourselves coming to blows . . .’

  ‘I know you look down on me,’ said Li Tzu-jung, ‘and think I’m too common. You think I don’t understand modern ways of viewing the world. I know, old Ma!’

  ‘Apart from the fact that you’re too down-to-earth, there’s no reason for anybody to look down on you, old Li.’

  ‘And apart from the fact that you’re too head-in-the-clouds, there’s no reason for anybody to look down on you, either, old Ma!’

  The young men both burst out laughing.

  ‘So now we understand each other, don’t we?’ asked Li Tzu-jung.

  ‘Yes, as far as the facts are concerned. In our feelings we’re miles away from each other, further than the earth from the sun.’

  ‘But we’ve got to keep on trying to understand each other, eh?’

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  ‘Right then, congratulate me on my forthcoming marriage!’

  Ma Wei stood up and shook hands with Li Tzu-jung, but said nothing.

  ‘Look here, Ma, old lad, I didn’t drop by to chat about the problem of marriage. Honestly I didn’t. I’d completely forgotten the main purpose of my visit,’ said Li Tzu-jung, looking suddenly repentant. ‘I came to invite you out.’

  ‘What? Are you inviting me out to dinner to celebrate your marriage?’ asked Ma Wei.

  ‘No, I’m not! Invite you out to dinner? You wait, and if ever you hear your old pal Li’s become a millionaire, you can start hoping for a free meal off me!’ Li Tzu-jung went off into peals of laughter, feeling uproariously witty.

  ‘Now, it’s like this: Lady Simon’s throwing a party at her house this evening. Dinner, drink, dancing, music – the lot. She’ll be forking out a good few hundred pounds on this one evening alone. I tell you, Ma, old mate, these wealthy foreigners certainly know how to chuck their money about! But what do you think this evening’s party’s for? It’s an appeal for donations to build a hospital. And can you guess what sort of hospital? An animal hospital! They’ve got hospitals for the poor now, so what about the cats and dogs of the poor? What are they going to do when they get ill? That’s how Lady Simon goes on at Lord Simon when she’s got nothing better to do. And Lord Simon told her, well, make an appeal for donations to set up a hospital for animals. See? It’s the man who’s got the ideas again, eh, old Ma? Where’d I got to?’ Li Tzu-jung slapped his forehead and had a think.

  ‘Ah, yes. Lady Simon saw me yesterday, and asked me to find a Chinese fellow for her, to do a few tricks or sing a song. First she’d asked me if I could sing. “Lady Simon,” I told her, “if you’re not afraid of scaring all your guests away, I’m not afraid to sing.” She had a laugh at that, and said she certainly wasn’t going to have her guests frightened off. So then I thought of you. You can sing a couple of passages from K’un-ch’ü opera, can’t you? If you helped her out by singing this evening, you can guarantee she’d be most grateful. In my experience, the English working class are a no-nonsense, sterling lot, and the English aristocracy’s pretty magnanimous. It’s just the middle-class English I’ve no love for. Right, are you coming? Free food and drink for an evening, and you get a look at upper-class English society at the same time. The guests’ll all be wealthy folks. What d’you say?’

  ‘I haven’t got a dinner suit!’ Ma Wei’s reply implied that he’d like to go.

  ‘Got any Chinese clothes?’

  ‘I’ve got a lined silk jacket, and my father’s got a satin suit for formal wear.’

  ‘That’s it! That’ll do! Come to the house with the clothes. I’ll be waiting for you in Lord Simon’s study, and you can change there. Then I’ll take you to Lady Simon. If you put on your Chinese clothes and sing some Chinese arias, she’s bound to be thrilled. Let me tell you something: remember at the end of last year how Lord Simon bought an embroidered Chinese skirt from us? Well, Lady Simon’s going to wear it tonight. And the other day I found her an old squirrel-fur mandarin robe in Piccadilly. So this evening she’ll be dressed from head to toe in Chinese clothes. Foreigners do have a fondness for the exotic. And anyhow, Chinese clothes are beautiful, no denying. When I become president some day, I’ll issue an order forbidding the Chinese from wearing Western clothes. Are there any clothes in the world more grand and elegant, or more beautiful, than Chinese ones?’

  ‘When Chinese wear Western dress, that’s a fondness for the exotic, too!’ objected Ma Wei.

  ‘Yes, but a common, tasteless one. There’s no aesthetic judgement coming into it.’

  ‘A Western suit’s light and convenient,’ protested Ma Wei.

  ‘It’s just as convenient for work to wear a simple hsiao-kua jacket. And a silk smock or linen smock’s lighter than anything. And it looks good!’ countered Li Tzu-jung.

  ‘You’re a stick-in-the-mud diehard, old Li.’

  ‘And you’re a crazy reformist, old Ma.’

  ‘Right. That’s enough. Say no more – we’re about to start a fight again!’

  ‘See you this evening at the Simons’ residence, at seven. No need to have any supper before you come: it’s French cuisine tonight. See you tonight!’ Li Tzu-jung picked up his hat. ‘Get a move on sending off those postcards and catalogues, old Ma. If I see them piled here like this again, there’ll be a fight and no mistake.’

  ‘Shall I send one to the future Lady Li?’ asked Ma Wei.

  ‘Yes, you could do that. She can read a few words.’

  ‘These are in English, old chap!’

  Li Tzu-jung stuck his hat on, gave Ma Wei a punch and hurried out.

  XI

  THE WARM wind turned the fine silky threads of rain soft, leaving them flaccid and feeble, dawdling in the air, instead of coming straight down. In town, the flower-sellers had set out their daffodils and other spring flowers, adorning grey, dark London with colours of hope. The seasonal pantomimes and circuses of Christmas and the new year had all packed up, and people were analysing the forecasts for the football cup finals and the Oxford and Cambridge boat race. The Englishman’s love of gambling and of sport is as deep-rooted as his beef-eating and cigarette-smoking.

  Pearls of water hung from the aged trees in the parks and red buds were already peeping forth on their branches. At the roots of the trees, the moist earth softly breathed in the damp air, and one or two small narciss
uses were poking through the soil, their heads clustered with white buds. The grass was much greener than in summer, and, as the wind blew across it, the blades of grass would gently sway, shaking off their drops of water. London is noisy, bustling and chaotic, but these parks are always calm and beautiful, providing a refuge where people can take a breath of fresh sweet-scented air.

  Hands behind his back, Mr Ma strolled over the grass, with a very light step for fear of trampling the worms that lay hidden underfoot. He hadn’t brought an umbrella, and the brim of his hat was covered with beads of water. His shoes got soaked through, but that didn’t stop him walking. Far from being flustered, he was filled with determination. Keep walking! He walked and walked till he reached the road. On the far side of the street was another stretch of grass, and in the middle of the road stood a memorial to artillerymen who’d died in the war. Mr Ma seemed to remember the memorial, but couldn’t quite recall where he was. He never remembered place names, and didn’t like asking the way either. He thought of crossing the street to the park on the other side, but there was too much traffic. It made his eyes dizzy just to look at it. He scraped the mud off his shoes, and turned back again.

  He found a bench, and sat down for a while. An old woman leading a long-faced, short-necked dog sat down on it too. He looked at her askance, half glared at her dog, stood up and stalked off across the grass.

  What rotten luck! Bang in the middle of the morning I bump into a woman . . . And one trailing a mangy dog around with her too! He spat onto the grass.

  After walking a while, he reached the road again. Another road, though, where there was quite bit of traffic but no memorial. Now what street’s this? he asked himself. On the wall in the distance was a street-sign, but it was beneath him to go over and look at it. The elite are never seen hunting around for the names of places, are they? No! He thought of strolling around the park again, but by now his legs were aching, and the insides of his shoes felt icy-cold. It’d be no joking matter if he caught a cold. Better to go home.

  Go home? What, go home without having solved a single one of the problems that he’d brought out with him that morning? But if he walked round the park for another three days, or three weeks, or even three years, would he be any the wiser? Not necessarily.

  It was difficult – so very, very difficult. If from childhood one’s never suffered any troubles or hardship, and never undergone any form of discipline, how can one have a ready solution to any problem that crops up?

  Go back home. Yes, I’d better go back home. See her, and see how things go.

  He hailed a taxi, and returned home.

  Mrs Wedderburn was just tidying up the study when Mr Ma came in.

  ‘Hello. What was it like out?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, very nice. Very nice,’ he replied. ‘It was fascinating in the park. Tiny flowers no bigger than that.’ He stuck out his little finger to illustrate the size. ‘Just come up out of the soil, they had. Has Mary gone to work? Is she a bit more cheerful today?’

  ‘Oh, she’s on top of the world today,’ Mrs Wedderburn replied, wiping the window and not looking at him. ‘Her Aunt Doll’s died, and left her a hundred pounds. Poor Dolly! The hundred pounds has sent Mary quite scatty. She wants to buy hats, a gramophone and a fur coat, and at the same time she plans on putting the money in the bank so as to earn the interest. But you can’t earn interest if you’ve spent the money. Can’t have your cake and eat it, can you? That girl! She can’t make a decision to save herself!’

  ‘Washington still hasn’t been round?’

  ‘No.’ Mrs Wedderburn shook her head very slowly.

  ‘Young people aren’t reliable. Not reliable at all,’ he said, sighing.

  She turned and looked at him, a hint of a smile twinkling in her eyes.

  Mr Ma continued, ‘No, young folks aren’t reliable. For the young, love’s just the excitement of the moment. They don’t give any thought as to how it’ll continue, and how to build a home and family.’ Never since his birth had Mr Ma uttered such fine words, and what’s more, he spoke them very naturally and sincerely, shaking his head as he finished in a gesture of passionately felt regret. That slow stroll round the park hadn’t been a waste of time; it had certainly given him some poetic inspiration. Then he looked at Mrs Wedderburn with a distinctly beseeching expression.

  She caught the meaning behind his words, but said nothing, just turned back to wipe the windowpane.

  He stepped forwards two paces boldly, saying to himself, Now or never! Do or die!

  ‘Mrs Wedderburn,’ he said, and no more than that. His voice expressed all that he wished to say. He stretched out a hand, with wildly trembling fingers.

  ‘Mr Ma.’ She turned around, resting her hands on the windowsill. ‘Our affair’s over. There’s no need to mention it any more.’

  ‘Just because of those few remarks of the shop assistant when we were going to buy a ring?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, no. There are lots of reasons. That only sparked things off. When we came back, I had a careful think about things. There are lots of reasons, and there’s not one that could make me dare carry on with it. I love you —’

  ‘Love’s enough! What does anything else matter?’ he interrupted.

  ‘Other people! Society! Society’s so good at killing love. We English are equal as far as politics is concerned, but in social relations we’re split into classes. And we’re only free to marry folks of our own class. You can’t talk about marriage unless you meet somebody of the same station in life, and with the same amount of money. That’s the only sort of marriage with any chance of happiness.

  ‘It’s only in fairytales that princes marry village girls. It’s nice reading about things like that, but they can’t happen in real life. And if they did happen, the village girl wouldn’t be happy. The people around her, their way of life, their manners and their speech would all be different. Everything’d be strange to her, so how could she be happy?’

  She paused for breath, absent-mindedly wiping her dainty nose with her duster, then continued.

  ‘As for you and me, there’s no class between us, but we’re different races. That means all sorts of nasty obstacles in our way. Race is even worse than class. I’ve thought about it carefully, and I don’t think we’d better take the risk. You see, Mary’s affair’s as good as done for, and for her sake I just can’t marry you. Some fine upstanding lad might fall in love with her, but if he heard she had a Chinese stepfather he’d run a mile. You can’t get rid of people’s prejudices.

  ‘When you first came here, I thought you were some weird monster or hobgoblin, because everybody speaks so badly about the Chinese. Now I know you’re not so bad at all, but other people don’t know that, and after we married we’d still have to carry on living among them. Their ingrained fear and hatred would probably be the end of us before a couple of days were out.

  ‘English men often have foreign wives. But it’s quite a different kettle of fish for an English woman to marry a foreigner. You know, Mr Ma, the English are such a proud people, and they despise a woman who marries a foreigner. And they can’t stand a foreigner who takes an English woman as his wife. I’ve often heard people say that Eastern women are guarded, kept in the home like a treasure, and their menfolk won’t allow them to show themselves to outsiders, let alone marry anyone from another country. Well, it’s the same with the English, and what they can’t stand above all is having foreigners meddle with their womenfolk!

  ‘Mr Ma, we can’t fight racial prejudice, and it’s not worth trying. You and I can be good friends forever, but we can’t be anything more than that.’

  Mr Ma went numb all over, and he couldn’t get a word out. After a long silence, he said in a quiet voice, ‘Can I carry on living here?’

  ‘Of course you can! We’re still good friends. I told Ma Wei to ask you to move on an impulse, a sudden feeling. If I’d really wanted you to move, I’d have been on your tail making sure you did it in a hurry, wouldn’t I? Yes,
you stay on here – of course you must!’

  He said nothing, just sat down with head bent low.

  ‘I’ll go and get Napoleon to have a little play with you.’ With that excuse, she left the room.

  PART FIVE

  I

  IN THE middle of March, bright blue skies suddenly appeared over London. The trees, with no cloud or fog to obscure them, all at once seemed taller and leaner. The elm branches scattered reddish-yellow scales, and the willow trees, with miraculous speed, acquired a draping of delicate yellow. In bright fanfare, the weeds in the gardens thrust their tender shoots from the moist soil. People’s faces, too, all bore some trace of a smile, and the chubby dogs bounded around joyfully in the streets, barking at the shadows cast by trees. The cars in town looked much more cheery and colourful, nipping around so neat and nimble in the sunshine, with a distinctly blue hue to the smoke that puffed from their exhausts. All the golden signs and various other adornments above the shops shone in splendour, dazzling the eyes and cheering the heart.

  But despite the weather, there were no smiles on the faces of anyone in the Ely family as they held conference in the drawing room. Paul, pipe in mouth, was frowning. The Reverend Ely was resting his head against the back of his chair, and from time to time stealing a glance at Mrs Ely. Her hair had not a hint of springtime, hanging dry and parched round her head like a mass of dead tree-roots. She carried herself, as ever, very stiffly erect, and her eyes held a venomous gleam, while the ditches either side of her nose were as deep and dry as two frozen moats.

  ‘We must go and bring Catherine back! I shall go and fetch her myself. Yes, I shall go in person!’ said Mrs Ely through clenched teeth.

  ‘I want nothing to do with her – so don’t be in any hurry to fetch her back here, Mater!’ said Paul, with a determined air.

  ‘If we don’t bring her back, and Mary sues Washington, it will be the end of us. Yes, the end! Let none of us entertain any doubts on that score! I shall not be able to continue with my church work, nor will you, Paul, be able to carry on at the bank. If she goes to court, we shall be utterly finished, ruined. None of us will be able to bear the publicity. There is nothing else for it – we must bring her back.’ Mrs Ely spoke with great anguish and urgency, stressing her every word.