WU CHO-LIU

(1900-1976)

Wu Cho-liu (pen name of Wu Chien-t’ien) was a graduate of Taipei Normal School in the Japanese system. For this reason, he was among those veteran writers, such as Yang Kuei and Lung Ying-tsung, who had to reeducate themselves in modern Chinese in order to resume their literary career after Taiwan was returned to China in 1945. His first story, “The Moon in the Water” (1936), was written in Japanese (the Chinese translation, “Shui yüeh,” appeared in 1961). His Japanese training, however, has not blunted his nationalistic propensities, as can be seen in the present selection, “The Doctor’s Mother.” Author of a number of stories, novellas, and essays, Wu is best known for a novel he surreptitiously began in 1943, when the island was still under Japanese rule. First published in Japanese in 1946, and later translated into Chinese in 1962, The Orphan of Asia (Ya-hsi-ya ti ku-erh) is one of the most ambitious attempts in Taiwan fiction to offer a kaleidoscopic view of the island under Japanese occupation. In his own words: “All the dregs of society, be they Japanese or Chinese, are represented in this novel: school teachers, government officials, doctors, businessmen, ordinary citizens, community security heads, ‘model youths,’ running dogs and what not” (quoted in Huang, Brief Biographies, p. 45). After the war, Wu worked for some time as a reporter for Hsin-sheng Daily, and in 1964 he founded the literary journal Taiwan Wen-i. Wu Cho-liu tso-p’in-chi (Taipei, 1977) contains his major works, in six volumes.

The Doctor’s Mother

Translated by Jane Parish Yang

The door to the back gate creaked open. Out came a respectable-looking old woman wearing tiny pointed shoes. Behind her, her maid carried a bamboo basket filled with meat, gold and silver paper, and joss sticks for the sacrifices.

The old beggar outside the gate stretched out his neck to look around, secretly surveying the activity within the gate and awaiting the old woman’s arrival. He knew that she went to the temple to offer sacrifices on the fifteenth of every month. His greatest fear was that his fellow beggars would find this out, so he had taken great pains to keep this fact a secret. On the same day every month, he furtively made his way to this back gate to wait for her exit. He had done so for the past ten years without fail.

As soon as the lady was in sight, he approached her respectfully, as if meeting a living immortal. His white hair was in disarray, his clothing was patched and ragged; only his bamboo cane had a brilliant sheen to it. He walked up to her, calling in a pitiful voice: “Venerable Madam, have mercy! Have mercy on this old beggar.”

The old woman responded by handing the beggar’s sack over to the maid with these instructions: “Bring him two pecks of rice.”

The maid hesitated and didn’t move. Growing impatient, the old woman raised her voice: “What are you afraid of? Isn’t Ch’ien Hsin-fa my son? Such a trifling matter, there’s nothing to fear. Just go on now, and hurry up!”

“Madame is right, of course, but I don’t have the courage. Every time I see the master, I’m scared speechless.”

The maid crept back into the house as she spoke. Seeing no one around, she quickly opened the rice bin and measured the rice out into the sack, then dashed out of the kitchen and ran over to the old lady. She rubbed her hand over her chest to calm her thumping heart. The kitchen was next to Ch’ien Hsin-fa’s room. If he caught her taking the rice out, he would be sure to scold her. Whenever he cursed someone, he would do it to his heart’s content, never giving any thought to another’s self-respect.

Once when the maid was measuring out the rice, Ch’ien Hsin-fa suddenly came charging in. He flew into a rage, screaming at her: “You’re the real culprit! If you didn’t do it, how would the beggar get anything? If the old lady says a peck, just give him one-tenth of it. Do you understand?”

The maid had no choice but to follow his order. When the old lady found this out, she shouted angrily: “That idiot!” Grabbing the beggar’s staff, she rushed inside in a savage mood.

“What nonsense!” her son fumed. “The most a beggar should ever get is a cupful of rice, never one, not to mention two pecks!”

The old woman overheard what he said, and, without warning, she lashed out at him with the beggar’s staff, roundly cursing him: “Hsin-fa! Your rent from the fields is more than three thousand bushels, but you aren’t willing to part with even one single peck to the poor. You despise the poor, but if some district magistrate or section chief comes around, you busy yourself preparing meat and liquor. You wouldn’t wince at spending a thousand ounces of gold on entertaining them. You’re not human. You’re just a running dog for the Japanese masters.”

As she cursed him she took up the beggar’s staff and beat Ch’ien Hsinfa. The family was thrown into chaos. Finally, she was pacified and calmed down. Ch ien Hsin-fa was angry but dared not talk back to his mother; he could only swallow his rage, blaming everything on the maid. But it was hard for the maid to act correctly. On the one hand, she didn’t dare go against the old woman’s orders. On the other, she couldn’t afford to offend her master. Thus, on the fifteenth day of every month, she would stealthily measure out the rice to give to the beggar.

Later, when the war situation worsened, grain, including rice, was rationed, so the old lady could not give out any more rice even if she wanted to. Money was used as a substitute. Not until then was the maid’s anxiety over the fifteenth of every month relieved.

Ch’ien Hsin-fa was the public health physician for K Street. He liked to be seen in his uniform whenever he went out, whether it was on business or at a funeral. His neighbors had never seen him in casual clothes. His uniform was always pressed neatly like that of a high-ranking government official, for his uniform represented his prestige. There was nothing unusual about his medical skill, yet his reputation was known far and wide. The simple reason was that he was good at putting on a show of concern and friendliness toward his patients. The people in his area were all honest, simple folk, and they had no way of knowing his hidden motive. They all misjudged him. Thus the good word about him spread from one patient to another, and his reputation was established. Fame contributed to his wealth, and before fourteen or fifteen years had passed, he had accumulated a fortune worth more than three thousand piculs.

Ch’ien Hsin-fa came from a poor family. When he was a student, his school uniform had been patched and mended again and again. The students all jeered at him, saying that what he wore was not a uniform but a judo outfit. The truth was that his uniform had been patched to such an extent that it did look like a judo outfit. This kind of ridicule made him so angry and ashamed that he was unable to answer. But there was nothing he could do about it, so he had to take things as they came. During his school years, his family could afford his tuition only because his father worked as a laborer during the day and his mother knitted hats at night. He passed the five years to graduation in extreme hardship.

Ch’ien Hsin-fa married a rich man’s daughter and, with the assistance of her uncles, opened a private clinic. When it first opened, he again relied on the influence of his wife’s uncles to hold a huge reception for the officials, gentry, merchants, and prominent local figures, hoping that they would help advertise his medical skills. And he received unexpectedly good results. From then on he became even more cautious, treating all his patients warmheartedly, unlike most practicing physicians who merely treated them in a routine way. When the patients came in, he would chat with them on various subjects. Though this kind of idle talk was unrelated to their illnesses, the patients were always pleased with his concern. When rural folk came in, he tried to flatter them by praising their children.

“Your son is so well-behaved and cultivated. He’ll surely grow up to be an official.”

He often used flattery. But sometimes he would adopt a considerate and understanding pose, such as: “This illness may be hard to cure. I’m afraid he’s contracted pneumonia. I think I should give him shots. But they’re expensive, and I don’t dare make the decision without first consulting you. What is your opinion?” He discussed the problem so sweetly and agreeably that when country folk heard that their child’s illness was serious, they were willing to empty their pockets to pay for the shots, no matter how expensive.

This wasn’t Ch’ien Hsin-fa’s only public relations scheme. Whenever he made house calls, he bowed politely to whomever he met, child or adult. Whenever he was traveling by sedan chair and came across rough mountainous terrain, he would get out and walk. This also won him the goodwill of the sedan chair bearers and rural folk.

In his leisure time at home, he would make use of fortune-tellers and friendly busybodies for his propanganda purposes. And his self-advertising was not limited to this. If he went out on private business, he did not neglect to advertise—he would certainly take his doctor’s briefcase as a reminder of his prestige. Thus, his business flourished.

And what did Ch’ien Hsin-fa care about most? His bank book. His balance rose from one thousand to two thousand dollars, then, without his realizing it, from two thousand to three thousand dollars. His wealth increased daily. His pulse quickened as he counted with his fingers the time it would take for his account to reach ten thousand. After making this calculation, he worked even harder, giving more patients more shots. When he reached ten thousand dollars, he went to a broker to buy land and property. He continued to do this almost every year, and finally he became one of the richest men in town.

Perhaps because Ch’ien Hsin-fa had experienced poverty in his youth, he had developed a kind of obsession with money, above and beyond the virtue of frugality. His interference with his mother’s rice-giving was perhaps a symptom of this obsession. Yet he also had a generous side to him. He would donate money without second thoughts to almost any cause concerned with his reputation and status. Although this kind of donation was merely for the sake of his practice and never for the sake of charity, he nevertheless won the approval of the people and became an influential member of the local gentry. He almost monopolized the ranks of local celebrities. He was public health physician, and concurrently chairman of the Social Reformation Society, member of the Coordination Council, and chairman of the local Elders Society. In short, his name appeared among the membership of every reputable organization, and he thus became a leading force on K Street. Because of his initiative and personal example, the local officials also came to trust him. He was a leader in the movement to have Japanese spoken at home and to have Chinese names changed to Japanese.

But he was never satisfied with his mother and often counseled her: “Mother, those who understand the times become the rulers of others. In times like these, shouldn’t you learn to speak Japanese?”

His mother ignored him, and so he went on: “I’ll get Chin-ying to teach you. How does that sound?”

“Fool! I’m old enough. Don’t worry about me, I won’t live much longer and won’t be a bother to you.”

Ch’ien Hsin-fa could only let the subject drop, for he did not dare risk speaking up again. He merely became more upset.

His concern was not just about this one thing. When his mother saw guests coming, she always came out to greet them in the parlor. Wearing Taiwanese dress, speaking nothing but Taiwanese in a loud high-pitched voice, she was the quintessential country hick. Whether it was the district magistrate or the administrative head of the local district, she treated them all alike. Every time a guest of some importance came to visit and was treated by his mother in this way, Ch’ien Hsin-fa became nervous, surreptitiously begging her, “Don’t say anything, just hurry up and go back to your room.” But the old woman would pay no attention to him. She would still chat away with the guest loudly in Taiwanese. Ch’ien Hsin-fa would get so angry that he could hardly speak, but since she was his mother, there was nothing he could do but keep his anguish to himself. The Ch iens were a Japanese-speaking family—except for his mother, who did not understand Japanese and had no one to talk to at home. When Taiwanese friends or relatives came to visit, they didn’t dare ignore her, so they would chat with her in Taiwanese, making her as happy as a child. When Japanese came to visit, they would speak to her politely and she would smile and respond in Taiwanese. Every time Ch’ien Hsin-fa saw his mother act this way, he was distressed, for he was afraid that he might lose his social prestige because of this, or that his Japanese friends would think lightly of him. Besides, he was also annoyed at his mother for wearing Taiwanese dress.

One day Ch’ien Hsin-fa said in the presence of his guests, “Mother, the guests have arrived. Will you please go inside?” When his mother heard that, she immediately flared up and shouted, “What kind of talk is this? ‘The guests have come! The guests have come!’ Am I such a pain in the neck? Go inside where? Isn’t this my home too?”

She cursed him, making him feel so ashamed that he could not face anyone, his face blushing and paling in rapid succession. If a hole opened up in the ground, he would have crawled right into it. After that, he never attempted to stop his mother from coming into the parlor again. Nevertheless, his anxiety about losing face because of his mother never subsided.

When Japanese was being promoted as the “all-family” language, Ch’ien Hsin-fa lied to the investigators that his mother was able to handle at least some conversational Japanese. For this reason, the Ch’iens met the requirements for the “all-Japanese” family, and he considered this the highest honor ever bestowed on him. He immediately remodeled his house in Japanese style, installing new tatami mats and rice paper sliding doors. The lighting was good and everyone who saw it expressed approval. But before ten days had passed, this kind of genuine Japanese style of living had made his mother angry. She didn’t like Japanese miso soup for breakfast for one thing, and she couldn’t bear the pain of sitting cross-legged on the straw mats. When his mother ate her meals, she had to force her stiffened legs to bend to sit down. In less than ten minutes, her legs became so numb that not only wasn’t she able to swallow her food, she couldn’t even stand up.

The old woman had a midday nap habit for years. In Japanese style houses, one had to hang up mosquito nets. This became extremely troublesome for her, since she had to put hers up and down twice a day. On the ninth day of their all-Japanese family life, the old woman took more time than usual to eat her dinner and her legs became too numb to move. Even massaging them had no effect. Her son had no choice but to change his mother’s room and the dining area back to the way they had been. He was extremely upset about this, but as usual, he could only sigh to himself, even though the very thought of his mother clouded his mind. He had hoped to put his views into practice, but could find no way of avoiding conflict with his own mother. A very stubborn old woman, she wouldn’t change her ways for his sake, no matter how haggard or restless he looked. Whenever he tried to force a change, he invariably became the object of his mother’s curses.

But, for his part, he did not want to give up so easily either. He always did his best to do whatever was within his power so as not to fall behind other all-Japanese families. For example, when the Taiwanese were allowed by the Japanese authorities to adopt Japanese names, he was among the first to apply and changed his name to Kanai Shinsuke. After putting up a new office sign bearing his new name, the next thing he did was to order his family to wear kimonos, the traditional Japanese clothing. To set a good example, he even gave up his public health department uniform, which he had been so fond of wearing for so long. At the same time, he built a new house in strict accordance to Japanese style house requirements. When it was finished, he was ecstatic and wanted to have a photograph taken to commemorate the occasion. The only disappointment was that his mother refused to wear a kimono; she wore what she had always worn—Taiwanese dress. The regret Kanai Shinsuke felt was comparable to the feeling one has upon seeing jade and stone displayed on the same shelf. But, as usual, frustrated as he was, he didn’t dare protest openly. After the photograph was taken, the old woman hacked the kimono which had been prepared for her into pieces with a cleaver. All the friends and acquaintances who had come for the occasion were shocked, thinking the old woman had gone insane.

“If I don’t destroy it now, they’ll put it on me when I die. And if I were to wear this kind of thing, I wouldn’t have the face to meet my ancestors.” She hacked away at the garment as she spoke, slashing it to ribbons. The bystanders then began to understand the old woman’s feelings, and were moved by her outspokenness.

Besides Kanai Shinsuke, there was only one other Taiwanese who immediately took advantage of the new law and adopted a Japanese name. He was Ōyama Kinkichi, who was as influential as he was wealthy. The two often got together to study the Japanese style of living and practice the Japanese spirit. Ōyama Kinkichi had no parents to stand in his way, so he did everything he wanted. Seeing Ōyama improving so rapidly, Kanai Shinsuke was afraid he would fall behind, and he became very anxious. He thought of his mother’s stubbornness and became upset again.

The second time the authorities announced the list of those who had been permitted to change their name, he found five families from his district on the list. But they were all families of less prominence in terms of wealth and influence in the community. When Kanai Shinsuke saw the news, he nearly fainted, feeling deprived of his self-esteem and his sense of superiority. He hurriedly contacted his colleague by phone. Before long, Ōyama Kinkichi appeared in the parlor wearing a newly sewn kimono, a yellow persimmon wood cane in hand, paulownia wooden sandals on his feet.

“Mr. Ōyama, have you seen the news?”

“No, what’s the news?”

“Bizarre! Lai Lang-ma changed his name. What qualifications do they have?”

“What nonsense! Hsu Fa-hsin, Kuan Chung-shan, Lai Lang-ma, blah, they’re all rats. Fancy those kind of monkeys and rats wanting to copy people!”

Kanai Shinsuke suddenly thumped the table in anger, shouting, “It doesn’t matter if they can copy people or not. In the first place, well, they don’t even have a tatami, not to mention a Japanese bath.”

“Let me tell you frankly: no matter what they do, they’re still cheap counterfeits!”

“Humph!”

“The authorities are just too insensitive.”

But they were unable to dispel their anger by just airing their opinions. A painful silence followed. Kanai Shinsuke, unable to stop himself, smoked one cigarette after another, exhaling the smoke along with his sighs. Ōyama played with his cane, and couldn’t help saying in sad self-mockery, “Oh well, let’s drop the subject.”

“I bought another tea cabinet, made entirely out of black sandalwood. I don’t think even the Japanese in the countryside have such a thing.”

“I’d like to see it sometime. I also bought a Japanese koto harp made from an old paulownia tree five or six hundred years old. Guess how much it cost? Twelve hundred dollars!”

When Ōyama heard this, he went over to take a look at the koto that was used in decorating the bedroom area. He picked it up and played it.

When the district magistrate’s post was handed over to a new official, the new magistrate came to the area for inspection. It happened that the administrative head of the local district was absent, so an assistant took over his job and reported on local activities and developments. When the welcoming ceremonies were over, the new magistrate chatted with the gentry. Kanai Shinsuke was also present. He wore a new kimono made of brocade from Ōshima. His bearing was so impressive that no one could tell by just looking that he was Taiwanese. The new magistrate was a loquacious but courteous person who liked to ask questions. At this time the assistant introduced each of the gentry to him and unwittingly called Kanai Shinsuke by his old name. Shinsuke immediately changed color. He cursed the assistant in his heart, “You bastard!” His hatred boiled inside him, but none of the gentry seated with him had any idea of what was going through his mind. He did his best to control his emotions, reasoning that a fight with the assistant would do his business no good. It was better to laugh it off, he concluded. Having so decided, he acted humbly as he spoke, with a broad grin on his face. Though the assistant also brought up Kanai’s good points, it was still difficult to soothe his hurt feelings.

The third time name changes were announced, he became even more upset than before. Not only had the number increased considerably, but the social positions of those people were even more inferior than those of the earlier ones. Though indignant, he managed to keep his mouth shut. But by the time the fourth list was published, Kanai Shinsuke could hold it no longer. He walked outside and found himself heading toward Ōyama’s house. As soon as Ōyama was in sight, Kanai shouted, “Mr. Ōyama, the strangest thing has happened. There’s never been anything like it. Even the barber has changed his name!”

Ōyama took a look at Kanai’s newspaper and choked, unable to speak. Finally, he managed to utter a heavy sigh. Kanai Shinsuke responded by cursing in Taiwanese: “I just can’t believe it. Even scum are allowed to change names.’’ He thought that changing one’s name was the highest honor for a Taiwanese, as the household was then no different from that of a Japanese. Yet the barber, the shoe repairman, and the roving flute musician were all permitted to change their names! The effort he had expended up to now had vanished like a bubble. He felt his status had dropped drastically, as if he had fallen into a muddy swamp with no way to pull himself out. He mulled over this a long time, then said to Ōyama contemptuously:

“It’s going downhill. You can’t count on anything. If I had known this earlier, I . . .” His true feelings unconsciously slipped out. His heart was like a social gathering place for the gentry which had been stormed by disheveled beggars.

One day, in the yard of the elementary school, Kanai Ryōkichi and Ishida Saburō were running too quickly and bumped against each other. Ryōkichi immediately clenched his fists and without finding out the cause, began punching Saburō. Saburō yelled:

“You simpleton! My family’s changed its name, too. We’re not afraid of you.” As he yelled, he advanced to exchange blows.

Ryōkichi retorted: “The name you’ve changed to is phoney!”

Saburō kept to his place and cursed Ryōkichi: “Yours is the one that’s phoney.”

Having cursed at each other by turn, they began to exchange blows again.

Saburō was the stronger of the two, and in no time he had Ryōkichi sprawled on the ground. Saburō straddled him and kept on hitting. At that moment some sixth grade students happened to see them. They yelled at them, “You’re not supposed to fight in school!” and pulled the two apart. Ryōkichi cried and screamed at Saburō: “You stupid ass! Your family isn’t equipped with a Japanese bath and you took a Japanese name. What a phoney!”

“Let’s see if you’ve got the guts to try again!”

The two continued to curse each other, eyes gleaming with hatred. Then they made a fresh start and rushed at each other, but were held back by the sixth graders. Still fuming, Ryōkichi shouted: “My father said that a barber is the scum of society. Trash, simple pure trash!” After this, he walked away.

Kanai Ryōkichi was the youngest son of the public health physician. Ishida Saburō was the barber’s son. The two were third-grade classmates at the elementary school. Two or three days after the incident, the barber’s wife made a secret visit to see Kanai Shinsuke’s mother.

“Venerable Madam, I have to tell you something. When your grandson is at school, he curses whenever he opens his mouth, calling my son ‘trash’ this and that. Because of this, my son no longer has the courage to face other people. Venerable Madam, would you put in a good word with your son for our sake?” The barber’s wife spoke humbly and took leave.

After dinner, when the family customarily met together, the household centered on Kanai Shinsuke and his wife. In addition to the immediate members of the family, which included a son and a daughter, there were also a nurse and a pharmacist who were often seen in their company. It was usually during this “family hour” that Kanai Shinsuke would preach his understanding of the Japanese spirit—from how they washed their face, drank tea, and walked, to how they conducted their social activities. He would spare no details, in each case giving a demonstration from beginning to end with the express intent of instructing his family on how to act Japanese. After he spoke, his wife would then begin to praise the beauty of koto music and dwell on the difficulty of perfecting the art of flower arrangement. Of course, in the end she wouldn’t forget to mention her own accomplishments in these fields. The pharmacist was a movie fan, and would often relate some amusing episodes from the movies for their entertainment. Their oldest son, a college graduate, had learned a little English and would occasionally drop a few phrases which he barely understood himself. After everyone had played his or her part, the daughter would then pick up the koto and start to play, strumming away vigorously. The evening would usually conclude with a chorus of Japanese folk songs. Among the singers, the highest pitched voice belonged to the nurse. This kind of entertainment went on without fail every evening.

Only the old woman refused to join them. After dinner she would just stay in her room by herself. In the summer, she had to suffer mosquito bites; in the winter, she had to endure the cold in her unheated room by staying in bed, covering her feet with blankets. Sometimes she would venture into the family to take a look, but since everyone was speaking in Japanese, she couldn’t work up enough interest to join them. The activities they were engaged in were for her more like pandemonium than a family get-together.

But this evening she didn’t go back to her room after dinner. She waited till everyone had gathered together before she spoke up harshly:

“Hsin-fa, why did you teach Ryōkichi to call the barber trash?”

Shinsuke sputtered and tried his best to explain himself, but his mother shook her head in disbelief. As proof, she told him about the fighting between Ryōkichi and the barber’s son at school. After pointing this out she upbraided him: “You don’t have any idea about how things were with us in the past, do you? Let me tell you, your father had worked both as a coolie and a sedan carrier. If a barber is ‘trash’ to you, then what is a coolie and a sedan carrier?”

At this, Shinsuke appeared a bit contrite, and he nodded his head frequently as if admitting his fault. But after only a few days, his earlier sentiments returned to claim him.

On the morning of the fifteenth, the old woman had a cough, but did not want to give up her habit of going to the temple to offer sacrifices. The old beggar was waiting as usual at the back gate. When he saw her, he was somewhat taken aback by her appearance. He asked hastily: “Madam, you seem to have lost your vitality. Aren’t you feeling well?”

The old woman casually dismissed his question, saying: “I’m just showing my age, that’s all.” She then took out some money to give to the beggar.

The next day, however, the old woman was feeling very sick, and her condition worsened day by day. Signs of improvement would appear one day, only to be followed by more serious relapses the next day. Her illness was beyond cure. The old beggar did not know about any of this, so on the fifteenth of the next month he waited as usual at the back gate. But no one came out. He became more and more anxious, finally craning his neck to take a look inside. It wasn’t until almost noon that the maid came out.

“The old woman has taken ill and forgot today was the fifteenth. She remembered just now and asked me to bring this to you.”

The maid gave the beggar twenty dollars and turned to leave. When the beggar took the money and saw how much it was, he suddenly realized that the old woman’s illness must be very serious, because she normally gave him five dollars. He immediately approached the maid and begged her to let him inside to see the old woman. The maid was moved by his concern and secretly took him in. Once inside the old woman’s room, he stood respectfully at the foot of her bed. The old woman was delighted to see him and strained all her energy to sit up.

“You’ve come just in time, for I don’t think I will be able to see you again!”

She greeted him and invited him to sit down. The beggar, however, was too conscious of his position and ragged clothes to dare sit on the shiny lacquered stool. After he declined several times, the old woman finally ordered him to take a seat, for only then would she feel relaxed enough to chat with him. She talked happily and uninhibitedly, as if she had accidentally run into an old friend. At the end of their conversation, she told the beggar:

“Old friend, my days in this world are numbered. I don’t want anything in particular right now, but I’d really like to have a taste of some yu-t’iao¹ again before I die.”

The old woman recalled the fragrance of the yu-t’iao she had eaten when she was poor, and she longed to eat one again. She had asked her son to buy some for her but he refused because his was a Japanese household. They drank miso soup, and did not eat yu-t’iao.

The next day the beggar bought some yu-t’iao for her. She ate happily, chewing with gusto and praising the flavor. “Old friend,” she said with a long sigh, “you know that I used to be very poor. My husband worked as a coolie and every night I knitted hats until midnight to help make ends meet. There were days when we ate nothing but sweet potato greens. But I think I was happier then. What’s the use of money? What’s the use of having a son, a college-educated son, if he can’t make his mother happy?”

The old beggar was deeply affected by her story. The desolation and loneliness of her later years filled her heart and she broke into tears. Doing his best to comfort her, the beggar said: “Madam, don’t take it so hard. You’ll get well in no time.”

“I won’t get well, because there’s no point in getting well.” The old woman muttered bitterly to herself, then searched under her pillow for some more money to give to the beggar. After he left, she had Shinsuke come to her and gave him instructions for her funeral.

“I don’t understand Japanese, so don’t hire Japanese monks for my funeral.” Those were her last words.

On the third day she took a turn for the worse and breathed her last. But since Shinsuke was chairman of the Social Reformation Society, he couldn’t afford to obey his mother’s dying wish. The funeral was held in Japanese style. Many people came to the funeral, including the county magistrate, the administrative head of the local district, and other distinguished figures from the area. Yet at this pompous funeral, there was no one who truly mourned for the old woman, not even her own son. The funeral was only a formality. But there was one exception: the beggar. On the day of the funeral, not daring to get close to the coffin, he stood far away from the crowd and cried. Afterwards, on the fifteenth of every month, the old beggar never failed to prepare some joss sticks to burn in front of the old woman’s grave. Watching the smoke floating over the grave, in tears he would tell his friend: “Madam, now you’re as lonely as I am.”

NOTE

1. Deep-fried fritters of twisted dough.