Mr Ma and Son Read Online Free PDF Page A

commit murder – hiding the corpses under their bed – rape women – regardless of age – and commit an endless amount of crimes, all deserving, at the very least, gradual dismemberment and death by ten thousand slices of the sword. Authors, playwrights and screenwriters are prompt to base their all who see the play, watch the film or read the novel – the young girls, the old ladies, the little children and the King of England – firmly imprint these quite unfounded pictures upon their memories.
    Thus are the Chinese transformed into the most sinister, most foul, most loathsome and most degraded two-legged beasts on earth. In this twentieth century, people are judged according to their nation. The people of a powerful nation are people; the people of a weak nation are dogs.
    People of China, open your eyes and take a look around. Yes, it’s time you opened your eyes and straightened your backs. Unless, that is, you wish to be dogs forever.
    The fine reputation enjoyed by Chinatown is quite naturally not very beneficial to the Chinese students in London. The bigger hotels, let alone respectable individual householders, just won’t let rooms to Chinese people. Only the homes and small boarding houses behind the British Museum are prepared to. It’s not that the people there have uncommonly kind hearts, I don’t think. Rather, they realise there’s money to be made, and so bring themselves to put on a good face and make the best of dealing with a bunch of yellow-faced monsters. A poultry merchant doesn’t have to be a lover of chickens; when did English people ever let rooms to Chinese people out of a love for the Chinese?
    Number 35, Gordon Street was the widowed Mrs Wedderburn’s house. It wasn’t very big, just a small three-storied building with a row of green railings at the front. Three white stone steps were scrubbed spotless, and the brass knocker on the red-painted door was polished sparkling-bright. On entering the house, you came first to the drawing room, behind which was a small dining room. If you passed through the dining room, took a turn, and descended some stairs, you’d come to a further three small rooms. Upstairs there were just another three rooms: one facing onto the street, and two at the back.
    While still a good way off from the little red door, the Reverend Ely removed his hat. He wiped the perspiration from his face, adjusted his tie, and assured himself that he was all in order, before at last gingerly mounting the steps. He stood for a few moments at the top, then finally, with the delicate touch of a musical maestro playing a note on the piano, gave two or three raps on the door with the knocker.
    A series of sharp, pattering footsteps fussed down hurriedly from upstairs, then the door opened a little gap, and half of Mrs Wedderburn’s face revealed itself.
    ‘Oh, Reverend Ely! How are you?’
    She opened the door a little wider, and stretched out one of her small white hands to lightly brush the minister’s arm. He allowed her to lead him in, hung his hat and overcoat on the hatstand in the hall, and followed her into the drawing room.
    This room was kept very spick and span. Even the little brass nails on which the pictures hung seemed to wear a smile. A green carpet was spread across the centre of the room, bearing two rather narrow armchairs. By the window stood a small table, crowned with a Chinese porcelain vase containing two small white roses. Two oak chairs flanked the table, each set with a green velvet cushion. An oil painting hung on the wall, with a pair of matching plates on either side. Underneath the painting there was a small bookcase holding a few anthologies of poetry, a few novels and the like. Against the opposite wall there was a small piano with two or three photographs on its lid, and on its varnished stool lay a fat white Pekingese dog. As the dog saw the Reverend Ely come in, it swiftly leapt from its perch, and, shaking its head and wagging its tail,