My Old Home

I braved the bitter cold to return to my old home, from which I had been separated by over two thousand li and more than twenty years.

It was already deep winter, and as I approached my old home, the weather turned gloomy. A cold wind blew into the boat cabin with a whimpering sound. Looking out through the gaps in the canopy, under the pale yellow sky stretched several desolate villages in the distance, showing no signs of life. My heart could not help but feel melancholy.

Ah! Is this not the old home I had remembered for twenty years?

The old home I remembered was nothing like this. My old home was much better. But when I tried to recall its beauty and speak of its virtues, I found no clear images or words. It seemed it was just like this after all. So I consoled myself by saying: my old home was originally like this—though it had not progressed, it need not be as melancholy as I felt. This was merely a change in my own mood, for this time I was returning home with no particularly good feelings.

I had come this time specifically to bid farewell. The old house we had lived in for many years had already been sold to another family, and the deadline for handing it over was at the end of the year. I had to hurry back before the first day of the New Year to bid farewell to the familiar old house and move our family far away to the foreign place where I made my living.

On the morning of the second day, I arrived at the door of my old home. The broken stems of many withered grasses on the roof tiles were trembling in the wind, clearly explaining why this old house could not avoid the fate of changing owners. Several members of our own family had probably already moved away, so it was extraordinarily quiet. When I reached our house, my mother had already come out to welcome me, followed by my eight-year-old nephew, Honger, who flew out.

Though my mother was delighted, there was also something like a sad expression, and she taught me to sit down, rest, and have some tea, without mentioning the matter of moving. Honger, whom I had never met before, stood at a distance just watching me.

But we finally had to talk about moving. I said that I had already rented a house outside, bought some furniture, and that the rest would have to be sold, then we could set off. Mother agreed, saying that the luggage was already mostly packed, and some furniture that was not easily movable had been sold. Only the deciding was rather difficult.

“You rest for a day or two and visit your relatives, then we can leave,” said Mother.

“Yes.”

“And there’s Runtu. Every time he comes to my place, he always asks about you and says he wants to see you very much. I have already told him the approximate date of your return home, and he may be coming any time.”

At this point, a strange picture suddenly flashed in my mind: a golden full moon hanging in a deep blue sky, and beneath it, by the seaside, was an endless stretch of green watermelon fields. In the midst of them sat an eleven or twelve-year-old boy with a silver ring around his neck, holding a steel pitchfork, thrusting with all his might at a cha that was running toward him. The cha, however, twisted its body and escaped between his legs.

This boy was Runtu. When I met him thirty years ago, I was just over ten years old. At that time my father was still alive, and our family was well off, so I was a little master. That year, it was decided that my family would handle a big sacrifice, which happened only once in thirty years, so it was very solemn. In the first month, we needed someone to watch our sacrificial vessels, but the regular worker was not enough—we needed someone to manage the sacrificial vessels while also being able to catch birds and beasts for offerings. So my father agreed to let his son Runtu come to help with the work for a month.

When I heard the name Runtu, I seemed to see this strange picture immediately, and I knew we would get along well. He could catch birds.

I thus looked forward daily to the New Year, for when the New Year came, so would Runtu. Finally, when the end of the year came, one day Mother told me that Runtu had arrived, and I flew to see him.

He was standing in the kitchen. He had a round, ruddy face and was not very tall; he wore a small felt cap on his head and a gleaming silver ring around his neck. This showed that his father loved him very much and, fearing he might die, had made a vow with the gods and Buddhas, using the ring as a tether. He was very shy and would only speak to me when there was no one else around, but within half a day we were familiar with each other.

We didn’t know at that time what this “friendship” was called, but we felt we had to be together every day.

He told me many things I had never heard of: there were so many shells of different kinds by the seashore, all with lovely names: razor clam, buddha’s hand… There were also various watermelons, some as green as jade, some strung together like beads.

“When you come to our place in summer, we’ll go to the seashore every day to pick up shells, red ones and green ones, and there are even scary ‘Buddha’s hands.’ My father and I will also take care of the watermelons for you, with tiny sparrows and cha coming to steal them…”

“Is the cha very fierce?”

“It’s not fierce, but very clever. When it runs, it goes straight forward. You must rush ahead of it and call to it. It will turn its head toward you, and that’s when you can catch it with your pitchfork.”

I treasured the hope of going to the seashore to pick up shells and watch Runtu manage the watermelon fields. But summer never came, and Mother often spoke of Runtu, so I knew that our separation was close at hand. One day he wept as he prepared to go home.

Later, I brought him bird netting, and we agreed to write letters. But we never wrote, because one could not write and the other didn’t want to.

Now that Mother mentioned him, all my memories of the past came flooding back like lightning, and I seemed to see my beautiful homeland. So I answered:

“How wonderful! He—how is he doing?”

“He… he’s not doing very well either.” Mother said, looking out the door. “Here he comes.”

I looked out and saw a man standing outside. He wore a tattered felt cap and just one very thin cotton garment on his whole body. He was carrying a paper package and a long pipe in his hand, but it was not the red, round face I remembered, but yellow and deeply wrinkled, like withered leather; his eyes had sunk deep into their sockets. I knew this was Runtu, but it was not the Runtu I remembered. Moreover, when he saw me, he seemed very excited, opened his mouth as if to call out, but then held back.

“Ah, is this Runtu?” I asked.

“Yes, this is Runtu,” Mother said quickly, “go ahead and greet him.”

Then I understood the distance that had grown between us. I wanted to call out: “Ah, Runtu—you’ve come?…” But I found I could not speak these words.

He stood still, his face showing joy and sadness, his lips moving but not speaking. Finally, he took a respectful posture and said clearly:

“Master!…”

I felt a shiver run through me; I knew that between him and me there had arisen a lamentably thick barrier. I could not speak either.

He turned to Mother and said: “The old lady, the letter… Honger has grown so big…”

Then he asked Honger: “Do you recognize me? You were not even born when I left.”

Mother told Honger to come and bow, but he hid behind her back, unwilling to come out. She had to pull him out to bow, but he still hid behind her.

“Ah, what a good boy, forgets when he gets rich. Very noble…” Mother laughed.

Then they began to talk about household matters: Mother said the winter had been cold, business was bad, there was no money to buy rice; Runtu said there had been many children, much cold, many years of poor harvest, heavy taxes… he didn’t make a sound, just kept puffing on his long pipe.

Mother asked him to sit down, and he hesitated before sitting on the edge of a stool. His attitude became very respectful again, and he said clearly:

“The winter has been much too cold for business, and everyone is struggling. You know how it is, Master, there are too many children in my family, and there’s no work… so I came to ask… to ask…”

He was quiet for a while, took his long pipe, and puffed silently.

Mother then asked: “What do you want, just tell us.”

“Well…” He took his hat off and held it with both hands, “there are some tables and chairs in this house that you’re not using…”

“Our things have already been sold, you can take whatever you can carry,” Mother said quickly.

“Ah, thank you very much, old lady.”

He was very happy, but immediately his face clouded over again, he straightened up and said: “I have something else… I wanted to ask for… this…”

“Let’s hear it.”

“The incense burner and the two candlesticks that were used for worship… if you don’t want them anymore…”

I understood: he wanted the things for worship. But I remember that we didn’t have any incense burners; we only had two candlesticks on the table before the ancestral tablet, which were made of foreign metal and not worth much. I asked:

“The incense burner? I don’t remember having one. Oh, two candlesticks? But they’ve already been sold…”

He showed a disappointed expression and said:

“Then… the candlesticks…”

“Let me ask my mother.” I said.

“Oh, the candlesticks?” Mother thought for a moment, “those were taken by Tofu Chen as collateral, weren’t they? He never returned them.”

“He took them?”

“There’s this Yang Er-sao, a very difficult woman,” Mother looked at Runtu and explained to me, “She comes here all the time, takes bowls, dishes, and everything else, even claims that she was supposed to move the table and chairs. When I argued with her, she said she had the right because she was working in our house for so many years…”

“We were relatives…” Runtu said timidly.

“What relative? You were both just servants,” Mother said angrily.

This was something I had never known. I knew there was a Yang Er-sao at the tofu shop, who was known for her swift hands and feet and sharp tongue, but I hadn’t known that she had such a history. Nor did I know that she and Runtu had been “relatives.”

“I must be getting back,” Runtu said.

“Come again when you have time, don’t let that Yang Er-sao take away all our things.”

Runtu agreed, asked Honger to come over, and gave him a packet of pine nuts that he had brought, but Honger hid behind Mother and wouldn’t come out until Runtu was gone.

Mother and I sighed together over Runtu’s situation: many children, famines, taxes, soldiers, bandits, officials, and gentry had made him like a wooden puppet. Mother said that everyone in the country was like this, and not just him; then she told me all the sad news from our family: many deaths and many difficulties.

She hoped I would leave soon.

“Such neighbors, such friends, what’s the use of staying here longer?” she said.

The next day, Yang Er-sao really did come to “collect things.” She was about forty, a woman with prominent cheekbones and thin lips. She stood with her hands on her hips, wearing no skirt, and her feet, shaped like compasses, stood planted in the middle of our house.

I was packing books. She looked at me for a while and said:

“Ah, you’ve gotten rich, grown a mustache. But you don’t want to recognize me anymore?”

I knew she was addressing me, but I didn’t know how to respond, so I just said:

“Oh…”

“Oh? You still act so proud! Didn’t we pull your pants down when we were kids? Even now you may be the master, but we…”

My brain suddenly felt as if struck by lightning; this was incredibly strange. I had never known such a thing had happened, nor was Yang Er-sao a child when I was a child: she was nearly twenty then. But since everyone was laughing behind me, I also felt uncomfortable, and hurriedly said:

“Well… I have to pack…”

“Aiyo, you have grown into a rich man and can’t remember us small people! I have come specially to congratulate you today…”

“I’m not rich, I must sell these and move…”

“Ah, you’ve become modest! You have three houses in the city, and dozens of servants, but you still say you’re not rich? Now that you’re an official…”

I knew it was useless to continue talking with her, so I turned my back on her and continued packing books.

“Kong Yiji-style scholar, the more you study, the more foolish you become!” Yang Er-sao said contemptuously, then turned around and moved slowly on her compass-like feet, and picked up a pair of Mother’s gloves that were on the table. She saw a few of my books and asked:

“How much are these worth?”

“Nothing much.”

“Perhaps some people want to buy them? I’ll take them.” She took a few books and was about to leave.

I hastily said: “I don’t want to sell them.”

“What? Now that you’re rich, you still try to hold back? I take them and you get nothing, but if others take them, you’d still get nothing. These things shouldn’t be left for you!” She said angrily.

I felt that if I argued with her any longer, there might be trouble, so I kept silent and let her take the books away.

She was satisfied now and walked out slowly again on her compass feet, and after a while came back for an incense burner, saying: “This was left by your family, and you can’t use it when you get to the city. Let me take it home. You won’t need it anyway.”

I watched her take the bronze incense burner and walk away. I also noticed that several sticks of incense were stuffed in the sleeves of her jacket.

After this encounter, neighbors and relatives came in an unending stream, mostly asking for anything they could take away, and some brought children to look at me as if I were an oddity or a plaything. In about four or five days, we sold what we could sell, gave away what we could give away, and we were ready to leave.

On our last day, Mother, Honger, and I sat on a rickety boat, looking at the familiar old trees and hills gradually receding, and I thought: I was saying goodbye to my beautiful old home forever. Moreover, the very concept of my old home had become strange and distant to me over the years, but somehow I didn’t feel the sadness I thought I would.

I only felt that all around me there was an invisible high wall, separating me from everybody else, and I felt very lonely.

The image of Runtu with the silver ring around his neck, holding the pitchfork and watching over the watermelons gradually became unclear, and I felt sad.

Mother and Honger fell asleep.

I lay down listening to the water lapping beneath the boat and knew that I was on my way to a place where I had lived for many years. When I woke up, it was already bright; when I went out on the deck, I saw unfamiliar mountains and trees along both banks. Our boat was traveling toward my “old home.”

I thought: I hope Honger will not be like me, that there will be no invisible barriers separating him from Runtu’s children. But I don’t want them to live like Runtu, nor do I want them to live like my own busy and careless life, nor do I want them to live like others, busy and careless. They should have a new life, one that we have never lived.

I suddenly thought of hope. Hope cannot be said to exist, nor can it be said not to exist. It is just like roads upon the earth. For actually the earth had no roads to begin with, but when many men pass one way, a road is made.