My Old Home

My Old Home

I braved the bitter cold to return to my hometown, over two thousand li away and more than twenty years since I had left it.

It was already deep winter, and as I drew near my hometown the weather turned gloomy again. The cold wind whistled through the cabin of the boat. Peering out through a crack in the awning, beneath a sallow sky I saw a few desolate villages, scattered near and far, devoid of all sign of life. I could not help feeling a chill inside.

Ah! Was this the hometown I had remembered all these twenty years?

The hometown I remembered was nothing like this. It had been far better. Yet when I tried to recall its beauty and speak of its charms, I had no images, no words. It was, it seemed, just like this. So I explained to myself: my hometown has always been like this—though it may not have advanced, it is probably not as bleak as I felt it. It was simply that my own mood had changed, for I had not come back in a good frame of mind this time.

I had come back this time specifically to take leave of it. The old house where our family had lived for generations had already been sold in common to another clan, and the date for handing over was set for this year, so I had to arrive before the first day of the first lunar month. I was to bid a final farewell to the old house I knew so well and leave the hometown I knew so well, to move to a strange place where I was earning my living.

The next morning I reached the door of my house. The broken stems of withered grass on the roof tiles trembled in the wind, plainly explaining why this old house had inevitably changed hands. Several branches of the family had probably already moved away, for all was very quiet. When I reached the door of my own room, my mother came out to meet me, and then my eight-year-old nephew, Hong'er, came flying out.

My mother was overjoyed, yet there was a great deal of sadness in her expression. She told me to sit down, rest, and drink tea, and did not speak of the move. Hong'er had never seen me before; he stood some distance away, opposite me, just staring.

But eventually we did speak of the move. I told her the lodgings outside had already been rented and several pieces of furniture bought; besides this, all the wooden articles in the house had to be sold, and then more bought. Mother agreed, and said that the luggage had mostly been gathered together, and the larger pieces that could not easily be moved had been half sold, though she had not been able to collect the money.

"You rest a day or two, pay a visit to our relatives and other branches of the family, and then we can leave," said Mother.

"Yes."

"And there's Runtu. Whenever he came here he always asked about you and very much wanted to see you once. I've already told him roughly when you'd be arriving, and he may come any time now."

At this moment, a strange, vivid picture suddenly flashed across my mind: a deep blue sky with a golden full moon hanging in it, and below it a stretch of sandy seashore planted with watermelons, green and stretching as far as the eye could see, and among them a boy of eleven or twelve, wearing a silver necklet and gripping a steel spear, thrusting with all his might at a zha. But the zha twisted its body and fled through the gap between his legs.

This boy was Runtu. I had first known him when I was only ten or so, and that was nearly thirty years ago. At that time my father was still alive, our family was well off, and I was a young master. That year it was our family's turn to be in charge of a great sacrifice. This sacrifice came only once in over thirty years, so it was very solemn. In the first lunar month ancestral images were worshipped, with many offerings and elaborate ritual vessels; many people came to pay their respects, and great care had to be taken that the vessels were not stolen. We had only one busy-month laborer (here we have three kinds of workers: those who work all year for a particular family are called long-term laborers; those who are hired by the day are called short-term laborers; those who farm their own land and work for a particular family only during festivals and at rent-collecting time are called busy-month laborers). When he could not manage, he said to my father that he might ask his son Runtu to look after the ritual vessels.

My father agreed, and I was very pleased, for I had long heard the name Runtu and knew that he was about my age—born in an intercalary month and lacking the element earth in his horoscope, which was why his father had named him Runtu. He was clever at setting snares to catch small birds.

So I looked forward to the New Year day after day, and when the New Year came, Runtu would come too. At last, at the end of the year, one day Mother told me Runtu had arrived, and I ran as fast as I could to see him. He was in the kitchen, with a round, purplish face, wearing a small felt hat and a gleaming silver necklet around his neck. This showed that his father loved him very much and, fearing he might die, had made a vow before the gods and Buddha, and put this ring round him to keep him safe. He was very shy with people, but not with me; when no one else was present he would talk to me, and so in less than half a day we were friends.

At that time I don't know what we talked about; I only remember that Runtu was very happy, and said that after coming to town he had seen many things he had never seen before.

The next day I asked him to catch birds for me.

"You can't," he said. "Not until there's a heavy snow. On our sandy ground, when it snows, I sweep a patch of clear ground, prop up a big bamboo tray with a short stick, scatter some chaff, and when the birds come to eat, I pull the string tied to the stick from far away—and the birds are caught under the tray. There's everything: rice-chickens, horn-chickens, turtle-doves, blue-backs..."

So I longed for snow again.

Runtu said to me:

"It's too cold now — come to us in summer. In the days we'll go to the beach to gather shells, red and green ones, 'ghost-frighteners' and 'Guanyin's hands.' In the evenings I'll go with Father to watch the melon field, and you'll come too."

"Guarding against thieves?"

"No. When travelers are thirsty and pick a melon to eat, that doesn't count as stealing here. What we have to guard against are badgers, hedgehogs, and the *zha*. Under the moonlight, listen — you hear that rustling? The *zha* is biting the melons. Then you take your forked spear and walk up softly..."

I had no idea then what this creature called *zha* actually was — nor do I know even now — I only vaguely felt it was shaped like a small dog but very fierce.

"Doesn't it bite?"

"You have the forked spear. When you get close and see the *zha*, you stab it. The beast is clever — it will rush at you, then dart right through your legs. Its fur is slippery as oil..."

I never knew there were so many marvelous things in the world: that the seashore had such colorful shells, that melons had such dangerous adventures — before, I only knew they were sold in fruit shops.

"In our sandy land, when the tide comes, lots of jumping fish leap about — they have two legs, like frogs..."

Ah! Runtu's heart held endless strange things, all unknown to my usual friends. They didn't know certain things; when Runtu was by the sea, they and I alike had only seen the four-cornered patch of sky above the high-walled courtyard.

But the first month passed, and Runtu had to go home. I wept bitterly, and he hid in the kitchen, crying and refusing to leave, but in the end his father took him away. Later he sent me, through his father, a package of shells and several very fine plumes. I too had given him things once or twice, but after that we never met again.

Now my mother spoke of him, and my childhood memories suddenly revived, flash-like, and it seemed I could see my beautiful homeland. I answered at once:

"Wonderful! And he — how is he...?"

"He?... His circumstances are not very happy either..." Mother said, and glanced toward the door. "Those people have come again. They say they want to buy wooden furniture, and then they just take things as they please. I must go and see."

Mother stood up and went out. There were several women's voices outside. I called Hong'er close and chatted with him — asked if he could write, if he would like to go out.

"Shall we go by train?"

"We'll go by train."

"What about a boat?"

"First we take a boat..."

"Ha! Look at this! Such a long beard!" A sharp, strange voice suddenly shouted.

I started in fright and looked up quickly. Before me stood a woman of about fifty, with prominent cheekbones and thin lips, her hands on her hips, her skirt unbound, her feet apart — exactly like a compass with its thin, spindly legs from a drawing instrument.

I was dumbfounded.

"Don't you recognize me? I carried you as a baby!"

I was even more dumbfounded. Fortunately my mother came in just then and said from the side:

"He's been away for years — he's forgotten everything. You ought to remember," she said to me. "This is Mrs. Yang from the house opposite diagonally... she runs the tofu shop."

Oh, I remembered. When I was a child, there was indeed always a Mrs. Yang sitting in the tofu shop diagonally opposite, and everyone called her "the Tofu Beauty." But she used white powder then, and her cheekbones weren't so high, her lips not so thin. And she sat there all day — I had never seen her in that compass-like posture. People said it was because of her that the tofu shop did such good business. But perhaps because of my age, I hadn't been influenced in the slightest, so I had completely forgotten her. The compass, however, was very displeased and showed a look of contempt, as if sneering that the French didn't know Napoleon or the Americans didn't Washington, and said with a cold smile:

"Forgotten? Truly, great men have lofty eyes..."

"That's not true... I..." I said nervously, standing up.

"Well then, I'll tell you. Brother Xun, you're rich now, and moving is so troublesome — you'll want these old broken pieces of furniture, so let me take them. Our small household can make use of them."

"I'm not rich at all. I need to sell these before I can..."

"Ah-ya-ya! You've become a circuit intendant, and you still say you're not rich? You have three concubines now; you go out in an eight-man sedan chair, and you say you're not rich? Hah — nothing escapes me."

I knew I had nothing more to say, so I closed my mouth and stood silently.

"Ah-ya-ya! Truly, the richer one is, the less one is willing to let go; and the less one is willing to let go, the richer one becomes..." The compass turned away angrily, muttering all the while, slowly walking outward, and on the way slipped a pair of my mother's gloves into her trouser waist and left.

After that, relatives and people from the same clan nearby came to visit me. I made conversation with them and, when I had a spare moment, packed my luggage. In this manner three or four days passed.

One day, on a very cold afternoon, after lunch I sat drinking tea and felt someone come in outside. I turned to look, and was so startled that I hastily stood up and went forward to meet them.

Here came Runtu. Though I knew at once it was Runtu, he was no longer the Runtu of my memory. He had doubled in size; the round, purplish face I remembered had turned ashen and was etched with deep wrinkles. His eyes, like his father's, were swollen and red all around—I knew this was common enough among those who farmed by the sea, exposed all day to the sea wind. On his head was a tattered felt coat; his body was wrapped in an extremely thin cotton jacket, and he shivered all over. In his hands he carried a paper bundle and a long pipe. Those hands were no longer the red, lively, and plump hands I remembered—they were rough, clumsy, and cracked, like the bark of a pine tree.

I was very excited at that moment, but I did not know how to express it. I could only say:

"Ah! Runtu—you've come?..."

After that, so many words crowded into my mind, wanting to pour forth like a string of pearls: the fighting crickets, the hopping fish, the shells, the badger... but somehow they were blocked. They only swirled inside my brain, unable to pass my lips.

He stood still, and on his face appeared an expression of joy and desolation. His lips moved, but he made no sound. His manner finally became respectful, and he called out clearly:

"Master!..."

I felt as though a chill had struck me. I knew then that a wretched, impenetrable barrier had come between us. I, too, could not speak.

He turned and said: "Shuisheng, kowtow to the Master." He pulled forward the child who had been hiding behind him. This was exactly the Runtu of twenty years ago, only thinner and sicker-looking, and without the silver neck ring around his neck. "This is the fifth child. He hasn't seen much of the world yet. He's shy and keeps hiding..."

Mother and Hong'er came downstairs; they must have heard the voice.

"Old Lady. The letter was received long ago. I was so happy I couldn't bear it, knowing the Master had come back..." Runtu said.

"Ah, why so formal now? Didn't you used to call each other brothers? Just keep the old way: Shun'ge'er," Mother said cheerfully.

"Oh dear, Old Lady, really... what kind of manners would that be? We were children then, we didn't know any better..." Runtu said, and called Shuisheng forward to bow. But the child was shy and clung tightly behind him.

"Is this Shuisheng? The fifth one? They're all strangers to him; it's no wonder he's shy. Let Hong'er go with him for a walk," Mother said.

Hong'er, hearing this, came over to beckon to Shuisheng, and Shuisheng went out with him quite at ease. Mother told Runtu to sit down. He hesitated for a moment, then finally sat, leaning the long pipe against the table. He handed over the paper bundle and said:

"There's nothing much in winter. This bit of dried green beans was sun-dried at home. Please, Master..."

I asked him about his circumstances. He only shook his head.

"It's very hard. The sixth child is old enough to help now, but there's never enough to eat... and it's not peaceful... everywhere they want money, no fixed rules... and the harvests are bad. When you grow something and carry it to sell, they levy tax after tax and you lose money; if you don't sell, it just rots..."

He only shook his head. Though many wrinkles were carved into his face, it was completely still, like a stone statue. He probably only felt the bitterness, but could not find words for it. After a silence of a moment, he picked up his pipe and smoked in silence.

Mother asked him about his affairs and learned that he was busy at home and would have to leave the next day. Since he hadn't had lunch, she told him to go to the kitchen himself and fry some rice to eat.

He went out. Mother and I both sighed over his situation: too many children, famine, harsh taxes, soldiers, bandits, officials, gentry—all had ground him down until he was like a wooden puppet. Mother told me that anything that didn't need to be moved could be given to him; he could choose what he wanted himself.

That afternoon, he picked out several things: two long tables, four chairs, a set of incense burners and candlesticks, and a carrying scale. He also wanted all the grass ash (in our part of the country we cooked with rice straw, and the ash could be used as fertilizer for sandy soil). When we set out, he would come by boat to fetch it.

In the evening we chatted again, but only about trivial things. The next morning, he took Shuisheng and left.

Nine more days passed, and then came the date of our departure. Runtu arrived early in the morning. Shuisheng had not come with him—instead, a five-year-old daughter had been left to watch the boat. We were busy all day and had no time for conversation. There were many visitors too—some to see us off, some to collect things, some both. By the evening when we boarded the boat, all the old and broken things, large and small, coarse and fine, had been swept clean out of the old house.

Our boat moved forward. The green hills on both banks, in the dusk, had all turned a deep dark purple, and seemed to retreat together toward the stern of the boat.

Hong'er and I leaned by the window, looking out together at the hazy scenery. He suddenly asked:

"Uncle! When are we coming back?"

"Coming back? How can you be thinking of coming back before you've even left?"

"But Shuisheng has invited me to his house to play..." He opened his large black eyes wide and dreamily thought of it.

My mother and I both felt somewhat disheartened, so we brought up Runtu again. Mother said: That "Tofu Beauty," Sister Yang Er, had been coming every day ever since we began packing our things. The other day she dug out more than ten bowls and dishes from a pile of ashes, and after some discussion, declared they must have been buried by Runtu, who could have carried them home with him when he transported the ashes. Sister Yang, having discovered this, considered it quite a service of hers. Then she seized the "dog-frustrator" (this is a chicken-feeding device here—a wooden tray with a trough inside, covered with a railing so that the chickens can stretch their necks in to peck, but dogs cannot, and can only watch themselves to death) and flew off. It was remarkable that, with her tiny bound feet, she could run so fast.

The old house grew farther and farther from me; the mountains and rivers of my hometown also gradually receded, yet I felt no particular attachment. All I could feel was an invisible high wall on every side, cutting me off from the world and leaving me in utter loneliness. The image of the little hero with the silver necklet on the watermelon field, which had been so clear in my mind, now suddenly blurred, filling me with deep sorrow.

Mother and Hong'er were both asleep.

I lay there, listening to the murmuring of water beneath the boat, knowing that I was on my way. I thought: I have indeed become so utterly cut off from Runtu, but our younger generation still breathes the same air—is not Hong'er thinking of Shuisheng right now? I hoped they would not be like me, living in mutual estrangement again... Yet I did not want them, for the sake of that shared air, to live as I did, in bitter struggle, nor to live as Runtu did, in bitter numbness, nor to live as others did, in bitter self-indulgence. They ought to have a new life, one we have never lived.

The thought of hope suddenly filled me with fear. When Runtu asked for the incense burner and candlesticks, I had secretly laughed at him, thinking he was always worshipping idols, never able to forget them. Now what I call hope—is it not also an idol of my own making? Only his wish was near at hand, while mine was far and hazy.

In a drowsy haze, I saw before me a stretch of emerald-green seashore, and above it, in the deep blue sky, hung a golden full moon. I thought: hope is neither something that exists nor something that does not. It is like roads on the ground—there were no roads to begin with, but when many people walk the same way, a road comes into being.

(January 1921.)