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During the plastic years of childhood and adolescence, family influence upon youth is indeed formative. Bad as well as good habits acquired during this period are difficult to eradicate in later years. On the whole the influence exercised upon me by my family was good and wholesome.
My father was a small landowner and a shareholder in some native banks in Shanghai. My grandfather had left him fairly well off and his mode of living was always simple so that the family never had uneasiness about financial matters. Father was an honest and generous man, respected by the people of the village in particular and surrounding districts generally. He was frugal in private life but very generous toward public affairs, contributing liberally to benevolent organizations.
He would not say anything with intent to deceive and his words were accordingly trusted by those who came in contact with him. He believed in feng-shui, the spirits of wind and water, and in fortunetelling and therefore—with a sort of fatalism—that a man's life was predetermined by supernatural forces. However, he also believed that by virtuous conduct and clean thinking one could make these forces respond by bestowing blessings upon oneself as well as one's family; thus the predetermined course of life would gradually shift its ground to a better course. His moral influence upon me was really great. The only regret I have is that I have fallen far short of his good example.
My mother was a cultured and beautiful woman. My childhood memories of her have become somewhat vague. I recall that she could play the harp and sing to it—one of the songs she loved most still lives in my memory. It was about a buried harp whose owner had deserted her. Clink, clink, clink, the harp sang to herself that her lover had not yet kept his promises to come back to her. She waited and waited in vain. She remembered how happy they had been when they sang together. Now she was buried on the shady side of crumbling walls. The autumn wind was blowing, the grass fading, and the white clouds deepening. A near-by stream flowed under a broken bridge and no one ever passed by that place. Only gloom and loneliness reigned.
Someone remarked that it was an ill omen that such a beautiful young lady as my mother should like to sing such a sad song.
The drawing room where she played her harp looked out under a giant camphor tree. A canal wound its way around the other side of the bamboo grove which served as a fence. A crêpe myrtle, an osmanthus, and an orange tree struggled for such sunlight as the wide spread of the aged camphor could spare. There she could hear birds singing and fish splashing. At sunset the level beams pierced through the grove and cast the shadows of bamboo leaves dancing on the window screens. The walls were hung with landscape paintings and works of well-known calligraphers. Her lacquered harp, inlaid with jade, lay on a long redwood stand with legs carved in the phoenix motif.
The drawing room was kept as it was for many years after her death. A painted likeness of her hung in the middle of the wall. But Mother was no more! The harp, veiled in dark satin velvet, lay alone on the same stand in the same room. How could I help feeling that I was like that buried harp whose song she used to teach me to sing?
My mother died young. I saw her in her coffin in a beautiful embroidered jacket and skirt, wrapped in a long scarlet satin cape down to her feet. There was a hood attached to the cape. Her face alone was exposed. A large pearl shone on her forehead against the red background of the hood.
My stepmother was a very able woman and she was kind to people, but my relation with her was rather unhappy. She did not live long, and Father never married again.
My grandfather had been the manager of a Shanghai bank. During the time of the Taiping Rebellion (1851-1864) he put up a money stand in the native city of Shanghai. This grew later into a small money exchange shop which in turn developed into a native bank—a concern with unlimited liability, making loans on credit. When Mexican silver dollars were introduced into China as auxiliary currency to taels, the foreign money gained popularity among the people. Counterfeit pesos increased in proportion to the widening circulation of the money. By clinking two dollars on their fingers the bankers could tell the bad from the good. But Grandfather beat them all; he could tell by merely glancing at them.
Unfortunately in the prime of life he suffered a leg injury; the leg had to be amputated and he died of blood poisoning. To my father, at the age of twelve or thereabouts, he left some seven thousand taels, at that time considered a big fortune. This helpless orphan was looked after by his future father-in-law, who was a local scholar. By sound investment and careful economy the property grew, in the course of some thirty years, to the value of seventy thousand taels.
This bit of family history will show the reader that some Western influence must in early days have crept into the family.
Father had an inventive mind. He loved to make plans or designs and direct carpenters, blacksmiths, coppersmiths, farmers and basket makers to carry them out according to specifications. He built houses, made experiments in raising silkworms and planting mulberry trees, manufactured guns (of a type already obsolete in the West), and made many other things according to his fancy. Finally he conceived the bright idea of building a "steamboat" without steam. Father occasionally went to Shanghai to look over his business. He took a rowboat from the village to Ningpo, where he boarded a paddle-wheeled steamer for Shanghai. "It took us three days and two nights to Ningpo in a rowboat," he would say, "and only one night from there to Shanghai by the steamer, while the distance is ten times farther." So he made a sketch of how a miniature paddle-wheel boat might be made.
Carpenters and boatbuilders came. The carpenters were instructed to make paddle wheels, the boatbuilders to build a boat according to my father's plan. A month passed and the boat began to take shape. On the day when the tiny "steamer" was to be launched many visitors came and their mouths gaped in admiration for the wonderful invention. Now the boat was on the canal near our house. Two husky fellows were employed to turn the wheels by a wooden handle. The watching crowd stirred with excitement as the boat started to plow slowly through the water. Presently it began to gather momentum and went faster. When it reached approximately the speed of a rowboat, it refused to accelerate further despite the efforts of the crew. The passengers gesticulated as if helping the boat to go faster. Some even lent their arms to the handle and helped to turn the wheels. But the boat was very stubborn and held to the same speed.
Father made several modifications in the paddle wheels, hoping to increase the speed. All attempts failed. The worst of it was that when the boat went for some distance, weeds and water plants gathered on the wheels and at length even the handle refused to pump. "We have to give all credit to the foreigners who made steamboats," said Father with a sigh.
The "steamer" finally reverted to a rowboat. But it was too heavy to row. Years after, we found it rotting on the banks of the canal, the green moss growing thick on its hull. Even when it failed, however, Father never gave up the idea of making a further attempt until he was told the story of Watt and his boiling kettle. Then he began to see that there was something deeper than appeared in the thing itself. From that time on he was heart and soul for giving his boys a modern education which would some day enable them to learn the foreigners' "tricks" in making wonderful things.
This is an example of how China began to venture on the road to westernization. However, in human relations Father never seriously advocated the foreigners' ways. "The foreigners are as honest, reasonable, and hard working as we Chinese," he would say. He never saw anything beyond that. Neither did he see any objection to his boys learning their ways and manners.
My teacher, on the other hand, was opposed to Father's ideas. "The artifice in making clever things," he would say, "would have a degrading influence on morals. Haven't our sages told us so?" He believed that good morals could only be kept on a high level by living a simple life. Uncle King, my mother's brother, held the same view. He wrote his ideals of life on a piece of red paper which he posted on the wall near his desk: "Burn a stick of incense early in the morning. Be thankful to Heaven, Earth, the Sun, the Moon, and Stars. There shall be no traitors to usurp the power of the ruling dynasty, nor disobedient sons to worry their parents. Everywhere there shall be bumper crops of rice. Then why shall I worry even if I am poor?"
Uncle King was an old scholar. He had passed the civil examinations for the First Degree in his early years. He always carried a long pipe, longer than a walking stick, and one heard him constantly knocking its brass bowl on the brick floor. There were no wrinkles on his forehead in his old age, an indication of peace, health, and contentment. He was so gentle that I never saw him in a temper. He spoke slowly but distinctly and never let unkind words cross his lips.