By Ba Jin 巴金 [1]
Translated by Brian Yuhan Wang
MCLC Resource Center Publication (Copyright August 2024)
Ba Jin (1904-2005).
Everyone called me an orphan.
My parents died young; I don’t even remember clearly what they looked like. I was brought up by my uncle. He had no children of his own, so he treated me like a son.
My aunt had passed away, and I led a lonely life. My uncle was often away from home, leaving only a houseboy and an old nanny to look after me. There was also a middle-aged servant, who often accompanied my uncle on his errands. My home was spacious, and there was a small garden where I could play, but I didn’t have any playmates. The world of the houseboy and nanny was quite different from mine. Though only a child, I often felt lonely.
Back then, I had started studying. My uncle hired an old, stern-looking tutor to keep me disciplined. I had to spend four to five hours in the study every day. While the tutor silently pored over his books, I read out the strange words and verses in books like the Thousand Character Classic over and over in a weary voice, with my mind wandering off into unattainable fantasies. The moment the tutor abruptly announced, “All right, class is over!” in his serious tone, I couldn’t resist laughing as I rushed out of that prison-like study.
I often had dreams at night, and they always featured the tutor’s face, which would transform wildly into various guises. I occasionally had more pleasant dreams, but they were always ruined by thoughts of studying—I even found myself studying in my dreams sometimes. Anyway, the only person I feared was that tutor, who always looked so serious; the only thing I dreaded was studying.
My uncle was a mild-mannered man, and I felt rather comfortable around him. But he was often away from home and, worse, he thought studying was the greatest undertaking, though he himself seldom turned the pages of a book.
What does he do all day? Where does he go? No one told me. It was only later that I learned he loved going to the theater to watch Peking opera, and he even took me once.
“Lin Guan, my young master, you have a new aunt,” the servant told me out of the blue one day, with a hint of jest. He made a face while talking.
“My aunt is dead. How could there be a new one? You must be joking,” I responded, not pleased, because my aunt had been anything but kind. Though raised by her at first, I was never happy in her company. Her actions often made me feel intimidated. I felt so lonely, but the last thing I wanted was another aunt like her in my home. Besides, children are so good at forgetting that they are even prone to forgetting their own loneliness.
The servant’s words soon slipped my mind, and I settled back into my unchanging life. The days dragged on, and the surroundings were endlessly monotonous. The servant’s gaunt, triangular face; the nanny’s wrinkled, aged face; the houseboy’s monkey-like face; the tutor’s face resembling a statue of a god; my uncle’s chubby, smiling face; and the unfamiliar faces of some other relatives—I had no doubt that these were the only faces in the world. It never occurred to me that there could be someone with a charming face so pleasing to the eye.
The houseboy was older than me and knew more than I did, but he did not seem very intelligent. He talked to me a lot and shared many stories with me, but they all revolved around one topic: his mother, whom he called his “dear mother.” His stories were often fragmented but always centered on his mother, whom he saw as more precious than anything else.
The houseboy was very poor, and so was his mother. That was why he had to work in my home and his mother had to work as a maid for another family. She was a middle-aged widow with an even skinnier face and shabbier clothes than her son’s. She regularly visited her son twice a month, taking him to a corner where they could share a few private words. At first, she would smile and caress him, but soon she would cuddle him in her arms and weep. This was how their meetings usually went. Once, I hid nearby and sneaked a peek.
Anyway, meeting with his mother was the houseboy’s greatest joy. That joy made him forget many of his hardships, so he would often declare to me with a hint of complacency, “My dear mother is coming tomorrow.”
The remark did not strike me as odd the first few instances, but over time my feelings changed. Later, I even became envious of him, because he had a lady in his life whom he called “dear mother,” while I did not. After hearing him boast about his mother’s goodness and witnessing with my own eyes how lovingly she caressed him, I realized how sad it is to be without a mother.
Whenever his mother brought him new clothes or snacks, he never failed to smugly show them off. He would either wear his new clothes, telling me that his mother had sewn them by hand, or offer me a taste of his treats. While I would respond to him with an air of vanity, saying, “I have nicer new clothes and tastier snacks,” deep down I was jealous of him. My clothes and snacks were all purchased with money, which my family had too much of. It was too common and too simple to buy things with money.
I started to envy him, feeling that I needed a mother like his. But envy served no purpose, and thinking didn’t help. I couldn’t conjure a mother out of thin air. Even at a young age, I knew that one could only be born once and could only have one mother, and mine had already died.
To my surprise, however, a mother did emerge out of thin air one day. This mother was like no other, but she injected a spark of excitement into my mundane childhood and gave me many heartwarming days.
One day, my uncle took me to a theater to watch a Peking opera, and I went happily. We entered a private box with no one else in it and took our seats. At that moment, a martial play was underway onstage, with many shirtless actors performing somersaults. I leaned over the balustrade and watched in rapt attention.
While I was enjoying the performance, a whisper suddenly came to my ears, asking, “Is this your child?” The voice, so tender, seemed to belong to a woman.
Startled, I turned my head and looked around. How could there be a woman here? I felt a little puzzled. Sitting behind me was a lady in her thirties. She was looking at me with a smile while talking to my uncle. No doubt, the remark had come from her.
I stared at her intently: a melon seed–shaped face, thin eyebrows, tiny red mouth, and pink cheeks.
She chuckled at the sight of my dazed look. Two dimples appeared in her cheeks. She then said a few words to my uncle in hushed tones.
Slightly embarrassed by her laughter and finding it somewhat odd, I pulled my uncle’s coattail and whispered in his ear, “Who is she? How is she related to you?”
My uncle chuckled but made no reply. Instead, he relayed my question to the lady. She too laughed and said to me, “You’re so smart for your age! Come closer. Let me explain.”
My uncle brought me over to her. She lowered her head and caressed my face with her soft hand, then lifted me onto her lap so I could get a better view of the play.
Her embrace was very tender, and there was a delicate scent wafting from her body. At times, she would gently stroke my hair. While I was absorbed in the play, she would distract me occasionally by asking me questions. Later, she stopped peppering me with questions but began elaborating on the action on stage and the various plotlines of the play. She knew the play inside out, which helped me enjoy it with great pleasure.
I found myself really liking her. She often whispered in my ear in a very tender tone. At times, I would turn my head to glance at her. Her face was ruddy, and her eyes emanated a delightful, mellow light.
Sitting beside us, my uncle asked me a few times to get off her lap, but she held onto me and refused to let go. I did not listen to my uncle either and kept watching the play, listening to her explanations and eating the sweets she gave me.
The play ended. We all stood up, ready to leave. The lady suddenly lowered her head and grasped my arms, saying with a smile, “It’s time for you to go home. We’ve been spending so much time together today, but you haven’t called me by name yet. What would you like to call me?”
I stared up at her face with wide eyes, feeling a reluctance to part from such a lovely face so soon. Somehow, feeling a little moved, I blurted out “mom” twice in succession without understanding why. In retrospect, I guess it was probably because I was constantly yearning for a mother who would care about me and treat me with kindness.
“Silly goose, how can you just call someone ‘mom’ like that?” My uncle chuckled beside me.
“Don’t laugh at him! I love that he calls me that. This kid is one smart cookie; look how much he likes me.” She patted me lightly on the head. “Would you like me to be your mother?” she asked, smiling. I suddenly noticed her eyes gleaming with unshed tears.
Feeling a little embarrassed at addressing her in the wrong way, especially in front of my uncle, I lowered my head slightly and mumbled my agreement.
She walked up to my uncle, whispered a few words to him, and he nodded. I stole a glimpse of her and saw her returning to me with a joyful expression. She then took my hand and carved a path through the crowd, walking slowly out of the theater with me.
“I’ve already talked to your uncle. You’re coming over to my place,” she said with a smile, after stepping out of the gateway and seeing a sedan chair awaiting her.
I looked over at my uncle, and he was smiling warmly. Suddenly, I caught a glimpse of the servant behind him making a face at me, but I paid him no mind. The lady I had called “mom” a little while ago helped me into the sedan chair.
Inside, I again sat on her lap. She continued to pepper me with questions, with her face close to my head and her hand occasionally stroking my hair and face. Her hands were so tender, her embrace so soft, and her voice so sweet that I even had a slight feeling I was sitting in the arms of my own mother. She asked how my life was at home, who was in my family, how my uncle treated me, what books I was reading, and if I would like to go with her to her place. I gave my answers to each of her questions. It was clear that these answers pleased her, so she said some nice things about me.
In a short while, the sedan chair stopped. We stepped out into a hall that was not very large. She paid the bearers and sent them off. As I stood in the hall waiting for my uncle, she said, “Your uncle will come in a moment. Let’s go inside first.” Then she led me into a small courtyard on the left. After passing by a small flower bed, we climbed a flight of stone stairs. The walls were covered with a sleek, verdant layer of ivy, and the courtyard was overgrown with flowers and grass. In the middle was a narrow path paved with pebbles. The ivy climbed up to the rooftop, with some branches cascading down the eaves. Beneath the eaves were windows, behind which hung white gauze curtains that veiled the room’s interior.
Just as we were about to enter the house, a houseboy came out and greeted her with a smile. After she gave him a few instructions, he went into another room. She then took me to her bedroom.
It was still early, only about six o’clock. The sky was still bright enough for me to take in the layout of the room. There was not much furniture, but everything was well arranged. Unlike my uncle’s room, this one was remarkably clean and tidy, with a sort of indescribable quality.
“Here, have a seat,” she said, leading me to a rattan chair in front of the bed. She grabbed a handful of sweets from a porcelain jar on a table and put them on a plate. Bringing the plate over, she set it beside me. “Enjoy your sweets and make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back to play with you in a moment,” she said, then added a few more words. She seemed to like me very much.
She walked into a backroom but soon returned to summon the houseboy, who entered the room carrying a kettle.
“Just enjoy your treats. Don’t fret! I’ll be right back. Your uncle will also be here before long,” she comforted me with a smile, as she saw me glancing around. Then she went into the other room again.
Sitting on the rattan chair and eating the sweets, I noticed the houseboy leave the room. Then, I heard her walking around inside, followed by sounds of water and some other noises. She did not come out for quite a while, and I ate up all the sweets. Sitting there alone, I grew a little impatient, so I got to my feet and took a couple of casual steps, looking at the items on the desk and walls.
Hanging on the walls were paintings and calligraphy. It seemed like I had seen them at home before. There was also a flute and a pipa hanging above crookedly. On the desk by the window was a white porcelain statue of a Bodhisattva. It took me by surprise because it was clearly something from my home. It used to stand on my uncle’s desk, and I hadn’t seen it for a long time. Who would have thought it would end up here! My eyes didn’t deceive me. The white robe, red pure-water bottle, green willow branch—I remembered these quite clearly. I was certain I was not mistaken.
Why were my uncle’s possessions brought here? It seemed very strange to me. And I gradually recognized the big, antique, porcelain bottle on the table and the foreign landscape painting in a gilded frame on the wall, among a lot of other items. Some of them had even been used by my aunt in the past, and now they had all been brought here.
What kind of person is she? What’s her relationship with my uncle? I suddenly recalled the servant’s words. Does it mean she is my new aunt? This thought made me so restless I couldn’t bear to wait any longer. Seeing the door wide open and the lamps shining inside, I headed straight to the backroom.
In tight clothes, she was powdering her face in front of a mirrored toiletry case under the glow of lamps. When she saw me come in, she turned her head, smiling faintly, and waved to me, saying, “Getting bored sitting outside? Are you done with the treats? Well, you can also play in here.”
I walked over to her with some timidity. She quickly took hold of my hand, saying with a smile, “Just stand here. Don’t leave. Earlier in the theater, you asked me about your uncle’s relationship with me. Why not take a guess now?”
Staring at her in wonder, I couldn’t utter a single word. With her makeup on, she looked even more stunning than before. Looking at her gorgeous face, I couldn’t help wondering in my heart: Do I really have such a wonderful aunt?
“You got shy? No need for formality in here. I’m like your mother, aren’t I?” she asked comfortingly, noticing my hesitation to speak.
“Come closer, let me fix your hair a bit,” she added, then picked me up and sat me on her lap. She carefully parted my hair, applied a little ointment, and combed it until it was glossy.
The mirror revealed two faces. Her head and mine were closely pressed together. She looked at me with a smile, a very gentle smile.
“Call me mom! Call me mom one more time!” she whispered in my ear, with a tone as sweet as music.
“Mom! . . . Do I really have such a wonderful mom as you?” I said, feeling sentimental.
“My little brother, if I had a son like you, I can’t imagine how happy I’d be! … But today has been such a thrill for me. I haven’t been this happy in years. You might not understand, my little brother, but I’m really excited today.” At this point, her eyes glistened, and I noticed tears nestled in the corners of her eyes.
“Are you crying?” I asked her in surprise. I reached out to wipe away her tears, but she suddenly cupped my face and dropped a series of kisses on my cheeks and mouth. Then, she shifted her face away, now flushed red. My heart was filled with joy.
“Look, you stained my face red.” I said, pointing to the traces of rouge. She smiled faintly and took out a wet towel to wipe them away.
“Okay, let’s go. Your uncle should be here soon,” she said, placing me back on the ground and motioning for me to proceed. She lingered by the toiletry case for a moment, then headed to the wardrobe to take out some clothes. Meanwhile, I went out first.
The room outside was gloomy and grayish. I sat down on the rattan chair, waiting for her. No sooner had she emerged than the lights came on, instantly illuminating the entire room. She was already dressed; the short jacket and trousers matched beautifully.
“He’s still not here! Are you hungry?” she asked as she walked out of the room.
“No,” I replied briefly, standing up.
“Alright, let’s wait a little longer. You’re not used to this place, are you? Don’t worry; it doesn’t matter if you stay a little longer. Your uncle will definitely come to pick you up tonight.” With these words, she took some snacks from another porcelain jar for me.
Holding onto my arm, she took a few slow steps and muttered to herself, “What shall we play?”
“Well, let me play the flute for you.” She set up a stool and took down the flute from the wall. Sitting on a rattan chair and holding the flute, she asked me to rest against her and started playing.
The tune she played was unknown to me, but it carried a touch of sadness. Listening to the flute and gazing at her face, I somehow felt an urge to cry, so I snuggled up to her closely.
When she finished the tune, my uncle still hadn’t come. Keeping her eyes tenderly fixed on my face, she sighed softly and placed the flute across her lap.
“If your uncle can’t pick you up tonight, do you want to stay over? Are you afraid?” she asked me with a smile after a long period of silence.
“I’m not afraid as long as you are around,” I replied frankly.
“How clever of you! You really are like a little brother to me!” She threw her arms tightly around me and stroked my hair. After a good while, she suddenly asked, “Do you want to hear me play the pipa?”
When I looked at the pipa hanging high on the wall, I didn’t want her to stand up again, so I said, “Not tonight! Just tell me a story.” I picked up the flute, toying with it in my hand.
“Tell a story? I haven’t done that in years, not since I was with my little brother the last time—now I’ve forgotten them all.” Her voice gradually changed; then she broke off abruptly and sighed quietly.
“What? You have a younger brother?” I asked in surprise.
“Yes, I do. He was your age at the time and looked a little like you,” she murmured.
“Then, where is he now?”
“I have no clue. I know no more than you do.” Her eyes glistened again.
“What? You don’t know where your brother is?” I was not convinced by her answer, but she looked sincere, with tears running down her face.
“I really don’t know.”
“Is he dead?”
“I have no idea,” she replied in a bitterly sad tone. “Let’s not talk about him for now. I will tell you a story instead.” She paused for a long while as if contemplating something. Then, holding my hand, she launched into her story:
“There was a young man who was sixteen years old. He had a younger brother who was eight years old. Their father died early, leaving them with only their old mother. The mother did needlework in a mansion. The sixteen-year-old son also worked there as a houseboy, and his younger brother lived with him. Even with their hardships, the three still managed to live in peace.
“One day, a valuable item went missing from the mansion. Someone deliberately set up the young man, insisting that he had stolen it. The young man couldn’t manage to defend himself, and was dismissed by the master, causing even his mother to be laid off.
“The three of them had to find a run-down cottage to live in. The mother couldn’t find any work, and neither could her son. Occasionally, the mother made some money by mending clothes, but it barely made a difference. So they pawned and sold anything they could, and the son went out to look for work every day. He was often on the move from morning till night, only to return home without any good news or a single coin.
“One night, he dragged himself back home and found his younger brother lying on the broken bed, groaning—his legs covered in blood. His mother was by his side, crying. He asked what had happened and learned that his brother had been caught stealing two steamed buns from a store that afternoon. His legs were almost broken from the beating he received. His little brother was just a nine-year-old boy. He hadn’t had one square meal in many days, so he had had to turn to stealing. Now, he had been beaten up like this and carried back home.
“His brother’s legs needed immediate treatment, but the family barely had enough money to eat. So the older brother had to go out and scrounge for money. He finally got a chance to sell himself to a theatrical troupe in the provincial capital in exchange for cash to treat his brother and feed his mother. Of course, he was reluctant, but he had found no other way to quickly get his hands on enough money, so he had to join the troupe and travel around with it. After getting the money on his first day, he had to say goodbye to his mother and brother the following day. After that, he never saw them again—not even once.
“After he got to the provincial capital, he was asked to learn Peking opera, specifically the female dan roles, due to his regular features. The life of an actor studying Peking opera was grueling. He didn’t know how many lashes he endured before he could perform like a real woman. He wore women’s clothing, imitated their voices, and even adopted a woman’s gait. . . . Every move he made was acquired after suffering countless lashings and shedding buckets of tears and blood.
“At eighteen, he made his debut on stage. He gradually rose to fame and was soon surrounded by many noblemen and high officials. In order to stand out and make money for the troupe, he often had to mess around with them, sleeping with them and selling his flesh, pretty much like a prostitute. He couldn’t take care of his own body because it had been sold to the troupe.
“He lived like this for over a decade, making a good deal of money for the troupe but building up debt for himself. As he was getting older, he had to step aside for younger and more attractive dan actors. Those noblemen and officials were no longer as eager to support him, choosing instead to fool around with other rising dan actors. He watched helplessly, knowing that in a few years he would follow the same path as many other washed-up actors. However, at one point, he met an official who took an interest in him and managed to buy back his freedom. He was filled with the hope that he could finally put an end to his misery . . .” Her words back then might have been slightly different from this, as I can only recall the bare bones now, but I think it isn’t too far off.
She paused briefly at this point and felt for a square handkerchief from her pocket to wipe away her tears, which were trickling down as she recounted the story.
Her face was shrouded in sorrow, devoid of any trace of joy. Suddenly, she let out a sigh and lamented in a mournful tone, “That was just an empty dream!”
“Tell me, what happened to the dan actor later?” I asked in a hurry, eager to know the end of the story.
Mustering a bitter smile, she cupped my face again, gave me a few brief kisses, and then set me down. In a voice tinged with a sigh, she asked, “Do you think I’m happy with my life now?”
Looking at her in puzzlement, I couldn’t make sense of either her actions or words. “That dan actor . . . I’m asking about the dan actor in your story.”
“That actor is me. Haven’t you figured out what my relationship with your uncle is?” She laughed through her words, but her laughter sounded almost like crying.
I was still a little puzzled, wondering if I had heard her wrong. She was visibly a woman—nothing like a man at all.
“What? You are a man?” I asked him with worry and confusion. “I don’t believe it. You are lying!”
“Yes, I am a man,” she nodded at first but then denied it. “Do I really deserve to be called a man? Only you do. You are lucky! Before I turned sixteen, I was just like you. Though I was only a poor houseboy, I also had great ambitions. . . . But now, they have all come to nothing. I am now fully a woman, just a woman . . . your uncle’s concubine. Yet, he has always treated me fairly well, so I have made up my mind to stay with him, heart and soul. To be honest, what can I do without him? He bought my body back. In the end, staying with him is way better than staying in the troupe. I used to be a plaything for many but now only for him. Anyway, he has been really good to me; my entire livelihood depends on him. See, he bought all this for me.”
Her story completely caught me off guard. Even in my wildest dreams, I could never have imagined that she was a man, let alone that she had such a relationship with my uncle. It does seem somewhat bizarre today, but as a child at that time who did not have much life experience, I couldn’t tell what was normal and what was not. Plus, I didn’t have the time to marvel at her story because at the sight of the gloomy expression on her pretty face and the sparkling tears rolling down her pink cheeks, I felt my whole heart had been taken by her. Seeing her in such grief was more heartbreaking than experiencing sorrow myself. A child is easily overwhelmed by sympathy. Completely forgetting myself, I grabbed the handkerchief from her hand to wipe her tears away. She didn’t say a word and just let me.
“My brother was around your age the last time I saw him, and I remember he looked a little like you,” she continued with a sigh. “But now, another twelve or thirteen years have passed. I don’t know if he is still alive, or if my mother is. . . . I haven’t been back even once since I joined the troupe. I’ve reached out for help numerous times to find out where they are, but I have never heard anything back. Many things have faded from my memory over the past few years. . . . Since I have been with your uncle, I’ve heard him talk about you a lot. I asked him to show me your photo, and it reminded me of my brother. The more I look at it, the more I feel you resemble him. That’s why I begged your uncle to bring you here. It’s been a pleasure to finally meet you today. See, I even have a photo of you on me!” With this, she felt for an oval metal pendant under her clothes. It was attached to a metal chain around her neck and hung down on her bosom. She opened the cover, revealing the photo of a child nestled inside. It was a picture of me, taken with my uncle somewhere last year—I was standing in front of him. It was a nice photo, making me look cuter than I was in real life. The same photo hung on the wall of my room.
I stared at the photo while fiddling with the pendant. A wave of depressing thoughts that I had never had before loomed in my mind. These were not thoughts that a child should have.
“Does it bother you that I compare you to my brother and hang your photo on my chest?” She whispered gently in my ear. A short while later, she lamented in a restrained, mournful voice, “My poor brother! I don’t even have a single photo of him. He didn’t give me anything to remember him by.”
She could bear it no longer and let her grief burst out. She pulled me into a hug and pressed her face against mine, weeping in a low, sorrowful way. Her body trembled as if in a cold shiver.
I cried with her, hugging her tightly and trying to comfort her. Lost for words, I could do nothing but sympathetically murmur “mom.”
Suddenly, she pushed me aside and rose to her feet, as though awakened from a dream. “It looks like your uncle is here,” she said, wiping away my tears with her handkerchief. “Please don’t tell your uncle about what happened just now.”
“I won’t. I promise not to tell anyone,” I replied, nodding my agreement.
“Good. Just sit here and play on your own. Let me go wash my face in the backroom,” she said gently. Now I noticed that her makeup had been smudged.
After she entered the backroom, noise from outside could in fact be heard. Soon after, I heard my uncle’s cough, and a man raised the door curtain and entered. It was indeed my uncle, followed by the servant, who made a secret grimace at me.
“Did you have a good time here?” my uncle asked, wearing a smile.
“Yes!” I stood up and responded curtly, turning away from him and slowly making my way toward the backroom. I was afraid that my uncle might notice the traces of tears on my face.
Once inside the room, I found that she was powdering her face again, but she finished soon enough. She gave me a faint smile and said quietly, “Come here.” Then, she wrung out a wet towel and wiped my face again before taking my hand and leading me out of the room.
She greeted my uncle and asked why he had arrived so late. My uncle explained at length, sounding apologetic. He said that someone had treated him to a meal. Although he had intended to leave after two dishes had been served, the host held him back, and he found he couldn’t leave. That was why he ended up getting here so late. But he hadn’t eaten much there and returned with an empty stomach.
I almost burst out laughing when I saw my uncle, long in the tooth, explaining with so much wariness. The uncle here seemed like a different person from the one I knew back home—this one appeared much more youthful.
The houseboy and servant then came in together. After they laid the table and served the food, we began our dinner.
A small, square table had been placed in the middle of the room. She sat across from my uncle, and I sat on another side, closer to her. While she leisurely drank with my uncle, I ate by myself. Calling me “little brother,” she became more talkative to me and more attentive to my needs. She would often cast affectionate glances at me, and I reciprocated. I saw that she was in a good mood, talking and laughing, so my uncle would not have guessed anything about the earlier episode of telling stories and shedding tears. The sight of her delight even made me feel happier. At that time, I didn’t wonder how she could enjoy her life so much even after complaining about it so bitterly earlier, because it is so common for a child to laugh after crying and cry after laughing. Only looking back now, after many years have passed, I realize that what made her life’s plaything was just her weak character.
It was getting quite late when we finished our meal. My uncle asked the servant to send me back home and told me he would be there shortly. She seemed reluctant to part from me. After helping me into the sedan chair, she whispered tenderly in my ear, asking me not to forget her and inviting me to visit her often. I gave her my word and called her “mom” once more, being reluctant to leave her too.
After I got home, the servant made fun of me. He told me my uncle would not return for the night and that he often spent nights there. But at that moment, it did not strike me as odd anymore, and I did not disclose a single word about what she and I did that day.
From that day on, I had a mother. It was true! I often thought to myself with a sense of pride, “I have a mother too.” I made frequent visits to her place, where she showered me with affection, encouragement, and warmth, along with plenty of sweets. At home, I no longer felt lonely and bored with life, nor was I jealous of that houseboy with his “dear mother.”
Thanks to her, I learned a lot and had many happy days. I basked in her love and care for about two more years, and those experiences contributed a lot to my growth over time.
However, a sudden misfortune struck one day and took her away from me. It was the death of my uncle.
Once he died, relatives soon crawled out of the woodwork to arrange his funeral and manage his inheritance. I found myself under their custody and control, stripped of any freedom. The servant was let go, so there was no one to take me to her place. Even if someone would, I didn’t have the freedom to leave. At that time, I was no more than a boy of ten years old or so. I didn’t know what resistance was, nor was I able to do so.
Many years have passed since then. I have broken free from the shackles of family and now enjoy considerable freedom. And I have grown into a robust young adult. My first thought was to find that mother, bring her back into my life, and live again the happy days we once shared, so I can reciprocate the warmth she once lavished on me. But how could I find her? I can’t remember how many times I wandered around the street where she used to live. Yet that street has been transformed into a broad boulevard, and the mansions there have been replaced with a row of grand Western-style houses. Stores selling foreign goods are opening there, bustling with activity.
The old ways of life have been swept away by new forces. Clearly, people like her would not have any chance to make a living in this day and age. But how is she doing now? Who is she living with? Is she still alive, or has she died?
These questions are not difficult to answer. I’m well aware that a person like her, who had served as others’ plaything and had such a weak character, is not supposed to survive and stands no chance to make it. However, when it comes to the passing of someone who used to be my mother, I cannot stand by without a shred of pity and sorrow. And at the thought of her miserable fate, afflicted by an unfair system for her entire life, I cannot remain aloof without a trace of anger and condemnation.
I know she is not the only one who has resigned herself to such a fate. There have been many like her before, and there will certainly be many more to follow because the unfair system is too cruel, and those with a weak character too many.
I pity those with a weak character; I curse that unfair system.
For this, I must live on.
NOTES:
[1] The original story, “Di’er de muqin” (第二的母親), was written in the autumn of 1932 in Tianjin, and was first published in Ba Jin’s 巴金 (1904-2005) 1933 story collection Mabu ji 抹布集 (Dustcloth collection). This translation is based on a 1936 edition of the story in Ba Jin duanpian xiaoshuo ji: Di’er ji巴金短篇小說集：第二集 (Collected Ba Jin short stories: Volume 2) (Shanghai: Kaiming shudian, 1936), pp. 17-36. The words in the parenthesis, “La dua patrino,” represent the Esperanto translation of the title and were also included in the 1936 edition. The author later redrafted the story, substantially condensing the plot and making numerous alterations to the phrasing and characterizations. The revised version, titled “Muqin” 母親 (Mother), can be found in Ba Jin quanji: Dijiu juan 巴金全集：第九卷 (Complete works of Ba Jin: volume 9) (Beijing: Renmin wenxue, 1989), pp. 450-463.
Note on the author:
Ba Jin 巴金 (1904-2005, pen name of Li Yaotang 李堯棠) is widely regarded as one of the most influential writers of modern Chinese literature. Born in Chengdu, Sichuan province, Ba Jin was exposed to a wide range of Chinese and Western literature and ideas from a young age and became active in the Chinese anarchist movement from the mid-1920s. Ba Jin was deeply committed to promoting democracy and social justice, and his writings often reflected these values. His most famous works include his “Aiqing de sanbuqu” 愛情的三部曲 [Love Trilogy] (which consists of Wu 霧 [1931, Fog], Yu 雨 [1933, Rain], and Dian 電 [1935, Lightning]), “Jiliu sanbuqu” 激流三部曲 [Torrents Trilogy] (Jia 家 [1933, The Family], Chun 春 [1938, Spring], and Qiu 秋 [1940, Autumn]), Qiyuan 憩園 (1944) [A Garden of Repose], and Hanye 寒夜 (1947) [Cold Nights]. His works are best known for their realistic portrayals of everyday life and social struggles in early twentieth century China, and continue to be read, translated, and studied worldwide.