Chapter 63 Mourning Mao Gong

In the morning, I heard the broadcast of Mao Gong's death on the bed, "This news finally came", I thought so, and tears fell on my pillow. About half a month ago, I was on the phone with Comrade Yang Hansheng who lived in Beijing Hospital. He said to me: "Mr. Mao is hospitalized. He is on the first floor. He is kept on oxygen. His condition is not very good." I remembered Mr. Mao was five years older than me, and he was also eighty-five years old. I felt bad in my heart. I just said, "When you go to visit him, please greet him for me. I can't go by myself for a while."

I got to know Mr. Mao through Comrade Zhenduo. First, after my article "Superman" was published in "Novel Monthly" in 1921, Zhenduo said, "Guess that Ms. Dongfen who wrote the commentary is Who? It's our Shen Yanbing!" In 1936, when I went abroad for the second time, I passed by Shanghai, and I met Mao Gong for the first time at the farewell banquet given by Zhenduo.At the end of 1938, Mr. Mao went to Xinjiang, passed through Kunming, and had a meal at our house.In the future, I am afraid that after liberation, we can always meet at various literary gatherings.I remember that in the 1950s, I once accompanied Comrade Jin Jin to Mao Gong’s home and asked him to write articles for children’s literature, and he readily agreed.

Later, in the early 1960s, we joined a delegation to Cairo and came back to rest in Conghua, Guangdong. Mr. Guo, Mr. Mao, and Comrade Xia Yan wanted to score "100%" and asked me to make up the number. Mr. Mao humorously called me "the old lady".In the middle of this, we made a bet on one thing. I forgot what it was. He lost to me a banner written by himself. The handwriting was very beautiful. Before I had time to frame it, it was copied during the ten-year catastrophe. , has not been whereabouts! From Maogong, I thought of many friends, such as Guo Lao, Lao She, Zhenduo... They were all rare flowers blooming in the literary world at that time. After the flowers faded to red, they bore huge dark red fruits. When the stems fall, they contribute themselves one by one, and their fruit cores are buried in the land of the motherland again, sprouting, blooming, and bearing fruit, from generation to generation!

This is how I feel right now. I feel very peaceful in my heart. The crimson fruit left to us by Mr. Mao is incomparably large and fragrant. The eighty-five years of Mr. Mao have not been in vain! March 28, 1981 at 10 a.m.