第三章 (Chapter Three)

Old Master Ma was a gentleman from a not very large city in northern China, well-off but not exceedingly wealthy. His father came from humble origins and lived in constant fear of returning to poverty, so he was exceedingly cautious and diligent in all matters. He had savings of tens of thousands, perhaps not quite a hundred thousand-roughly that amount. Consequently, his method of managing his son was very strict-in fact, it amounted to a single principle: "Money? Forget it."

Moreover, he led by example, rising early and retiring late, and had held a deep faith in Jesus for many years.

Ma Bole paid no heed to these matters. Only when he had to ask his father for money did his father’s stern, interrogative attitude fill him with profound resentment and leave him thoroughly exasperated.

At home, Ma Bole was, by rights, the young master. But because he could never get what he truly wanted, he was content to side with the servants. His demeanor within the household lacked any grandeur or authority; he carried himself without a shred of dignity, slinking about as he went.

Thus, he despised the wealthy, loathed merchants and compradors, and scorned bankers. He took pleasure in mocking the local gentry. He detested his father.

Consequently, he disliked anyone of his father’s ilk.

Ma Bole refused to ride in a rickshaw when going out. "It’s utterly senseless," he said, "for one man to pull another."

"One straining for life in the front, another convalescing in the back." He did not know who had coined these two metaphors, but he found them perfectly apt. The rickshaw puller, running desperately, truly seemed to be straining for life. The passenger, leaning back in his seat, looked exactly like someone convalescing.

Though Ma Bole found the metaphor of the straining puller apt, he always believed the one sitting in the back, the convalescent, was the most fitting.

Because he truly could not stand the sight of his father always coming and going in his private rickshaw.

Ma Bole fundamentally disliked riding in rickshaws; even if he were willing, he could never ride in his father’s rickshaw.

He recalled a time when he had secretly jumped into his father’s rickshaw and ordered the puller to take him.

Flicking his spread-out towel, the puller said to Ma Bole, "I serve the master. I don’t serve you."

He had no choice but to step down quietly from the rickshaw.

But the two polished brass lamps on the rickshaw’s front, gleaming brilliantly, seemed to mock him defiantly.

He was seized with fury and wanted to stamp them to pieces with one kick.

As he left through the main gate, he turned back and glared fiercely at those two brass lamps.

Ma Bole did not care to befriend the wealthy. "Rich people," he declared, "are no good."

"They only recognize money."

"They don’t even recognize their own wives and children."

"In wealthy families, everyone is hard-hearted, from the servants to the children."

"With the wealthy, if you avoid mentioning money, all is joy and harmony. But mention money, and their faces turn on a dime. Even between grandfather and grandson, father and son, it is like this. If even between family members it’s like this, how could a wealthy friend ever look up to a poor one?"

He was thus resolved not to befriend the rich.

Befriending the wealthy meant that, even if you were penniless, you had to pawn your wife’s jewelry to spend. If they invited you to the cinema, you had to invite them back. If they treated you to a meal, you had to return the favor. If they took you to a dance hall, you had to buy dance tickets and hand them over. If they bought you a dozen drinks, you had to buy them a dozen and a half. If they bought you a dozen and a half, you had to buy two dozen. To merely reciprocate a dozen for a dozen would be seen as miserly, and they would promptly look down on you.

But with poor friends, none of this rigmarole was necessary. They were easily satisfied. When you had money, a simple treat of steamed dumplings or sweet glutinous rice balls with date paste would leave them perfectly content.

Thus, in middle school, Ma Bole’s friends were mostly poor. Even now, his circle remained small, largely the same few individuals, all far less well-off than he was.

There was another advantage to having poor friends. If you told them, "My father has assets of seventy or eighty thousand yuan," their eyes would light up without you needing to utter another word.

But say this to a wealthy person, and they wouldn’t even listen, because their father had more money than yours. Telling them such a thing would only make them laugh themselves silly.

Thus, Ma Bole held firmly to his conviction that the wealthy were no good.

However, poor friends had one drawback: they often tried to borrow money from him. Once they saw he had cash, he felt obliged to give them at least a little.

Therefore, when Ma Bole was with poor friends, it was crucial for him to keep his wallet securely stashed away.

To return to the point: Ma Bole’s desire to write was not without reason. Feeling his funds were insufficient, he thought to earn money by writing articles. But the articles never materialized, and all his efforts came to nothing.

Later, realizing that to truly acquire wealth one must engage in trade, he went to Shanghai once more to run a small bookshop.

This time he went with his father’s permission; it was not an escape.

Moreover, his father, sensing his son now intended to go into business and perhaps finally understood the value of money, provided him with a sum of capital.

Mrs. Ma also harbored great expectations for his commercial venture and showed him considerable respect.

On the eve of Ma Bole’s departure, Mrs. Ma went into the kitchen and personally prepared a fish, just as she would for a foreign priest. When foreign priests dined at their home, they followed the Western method: coating the fish in breadcrumbs before frying it in a pan.

Mrs. Ma walked ahead, a servant following behind with the plate. Upon entering the dining room, Mrs. Ma announced, "Bole, you must eat well today. Fish symbolizes abundance and surplus, a sign that your future business will be profitable. Who knows, Bole might even return from Shanghai with a small fortune."

Ma Bole’s mother was also pleased, though she offered a slight correction: "The young master is going to open a bookshop, not engage in common trade."

His father then launched into a lengthy discourse. His father’s glasses were not hooked over his ears but were clipped behind his temples like grasshopper legs. The two large, round lenses, made of transparent stone, were said to date from the Qianlong era.

They were quite fine. Wearing them, his eyes felt cool and refreshed. They were reading glasses, and his father could not manage a day without them.

Yet sometimes they were a nuisance. His father felt they were not foreign-made. Several times, foreign friends from the church had brought him long, rectangular foreign spectacles as gifts from Shanghai or Hong Kong. He had always meant to try them on, if only to wear to church.

But it was simply impossible; he could not wear them. Foreign glasses clipped onto the nose, and Chinese noses were too small to hold them securely.

In the end, he had no choice but to continue wearing these large, dish-like spectacles from the Qing dynasty.

His father raised his eyes and said, "You are no longer a child. One should not fear making mistakes. Lord Jesus said that to recognize one’s error and amend it is not a sin. Take you, for instance... in the past..."

His father sighed here. "Ah! Let’s not speak of that. Your trip south to Shanghai, your trip north to Beijing... Ah! Let’s not speak of that. Who isn’t a little wild in their youth? But as one approaches thirty, one must plant one’s feet firmly and apply oneself earnestly. If not for oneself, then for one’s children and grandchildren... Why did Lord Jesus love His people? Why was He crucified? It was all for His people. One must think of one’s posterity. If I were not thinking of you, with my money, I could gad about everywhere. Why would I cling to it so tightly, like a wretched old miser? Look at your father, from dawn till dusk, now at the church, now at Father Ma’s residence. I know you think it all unnecessary, as if your father kowtows too much to foreigners. But in truth, your father does not wish to do so either; he would rather lounge at home playing the patriarch. Yet that is impossible. Foreigners are superior to us. Their food and clothing, the imposing manner with which they conduct their affairs. Could we Chinese manage without them? True, there was the Eight-Nation Alliance that stormed Beijing and attacked us, but that attack was for our own benefit. Had they not struck, could so many churches have been established in China? Why do they establish churches? For us, the common people. We Chinese fall short of foreigners in every moral virtue. We Chinese lack hygiene, with eight or ten people crammed into a single room. Even in a household like ours, the courtyard is dreadfully noisy, with people scurrying about like arrows all day. At the main gate, now a maid goes out, now a rickshaw puller arrives. Now a melon seller appears, and they all troop out to buy melons. Look at the foreigners, look at the streets where they live-so tranquil and elegant, the houses appear deserted all day long. Foreigners not only have separate rooms for husband and wife, but children do not even sleep with their mothers. They have nurseries specially prepared for the little ones. And what about us Chinese? Just look down our street. Which courtyard is not seething like a pot of ants? A single courtyard might house eight families, each with three children. Foreigners are different. Foreigners are models for us Chinese. Take these glass cups we drink from. Had foreigners not sailed their great ships to bring them to China, we would have to go abroad just to buy a single cup. What a dreadful inconvenience that would be. Why do they do this? Is it not for the convenience of us Chinese?"

Ma Bole found this laughable, but he said nothing. Such was his character: he never voiced his thoughts to anyone’s face. He even nodded in apparent agreement with his father.

His father’s long speech eventually turned mournfully to Ma Bole himself. It was as if to say that a father of such advanced years could only watch over them for a few more years; it was now time for them to make something of themselves.

Mother dared not say a word at the table. But as soon as the meal ended, she knelt before the image of the Virgin Mary and prayed for over half an hour, beseeching Lord Jesus to grant her son boundless courage and make his future business venture prosperous.

"Lord Jesus, have mercy on him. He has always been an honest, good boy, only timid. May the Lord bestow great courage upon him. He has never acted against Your covenant. Lord, Heavenly Father, You have granted him this opportunity to go to Shanghai. You must also grant him boundless experience in commerce. May his business recover its capital within a year, yield profit in two, and fill his halls with gold and jade in three to five. Heavenly Father."

For the first time in his life, Ma Bole was the recipient of such solemn affection and the reverence of his entire household. He began to pace the room with a master’s air, hands behind his back, lips clamped tight. He looked as if he were chewing on something momentous. His gaze was firm. He felt he was on the verge of becoming a master in his own right, that he had every right to live in this world.

He had never believed in Jesus. On this day, whether he had genuinely come to faith or not, when his mother rose from before Mary, he knelt down.

This was unprecedented. Mother was deeply moved. She quickly lifted the door curtain so that his father in the parlour might see.

Usually, his father said Ma Bole was insincere toward the Lord. "He doesn’t even say his evening prayers!"

Mother would then defend him vigorously, saying, "In time, he will surely become sincere."

Now, though it was not even time for evening prayers, he had knelt of his own accord.

As she lifted the curtain, Mother cast a look of deep emotion toward his father.

Seeing this, his father immediately knelt before the sacred image of Jesus in the parlour. He prayed that his son, guided by the spirit of Jesus, had also shown a sincere heart, and he praised Jesus endlessly for His grace.

His father prayed for over half an hour.

Seeing that his father had also knelt, Mother hurried to her daughter-in-law’s room, but the daughter-in-law was not there.

Old Mrs. Ma rushed anxiously back. Walking too hastily, her broad cheeks trembled incessantly.