Cao Yu's The Thunderstorm - Triceratops Home

Fanyi Why would your brother be worried I was ill?
Chong Mom!
Ping Are you better?
Fanyi Thank you, I just came downstairs.
Ping Oh, I was going to leave for the mine tomorrow.
Fanyi Oh. (stops) That's very nice. —When will you be returning?
Ping It's not certain, maybe two years, maybe three. Oh, how is this room so
muggy?
Chong The window's already open. —I think, there's probably going to be a big
rainstorm coming.
Fanyi (stops a moment) What will you do at the mine?
Chong Mom, you forgot, Brother specialized in mining science.
Fanyi Is that the reason, Ping?
Ping (takes the newspaper and reads it, covering himself) I couldn't say, it seems
like I've lived in this house too long. I'm getting really bothered by it.
Fanyi (smiles) I'm afraid it might be because you're a coward.
Ping What do you mean?
Fanyi This room was haunted, you've forgotten.
Ping I didn't forget. But I've come to loathe living here.
Fanyi (laughs) If I were you, I would loathe everyone here, and I would leave this
dead place, too.
Chong Mom, I don't want you to talk like that.
Ping (sullenly) Hah, I don't even hate myself enough, so I how should hate other
people? —(sighs) Little brother, you should go to your room. (stands)
[The study door opens.
Chong Don't go, this is probably Dad coming.
[Sounds from inside: (the study door is half open, Zhou Puyuan enters, says
with half his body hanging inside the door) I mean we should do it like this,
no problem, great, goodbye, I won't see you out.
[The door opens, and Zhou Puyuan enters. He is about 50 or 60, his temples
already whitening, and he wears oval, gold-framed glasses, and a pair of
black, hawk-like eyes flash beneath them. Like all characters that started their
own business, his dignity before his descendents seems particularly
formidable. The clothing he wears is still the new clothing from twenty years
ago: a large, official-style cotton jacket, beneath which is a white silk shirt.
The collar of the long gown is loosely buttoned, exposing the flesh of his
neck. His clothing smoothly fits his body, and is tidy, without dirt. He is a
little fat, and his back is slightly bent. His face is pale, his jowls sag, and his
eye sockets are a little sunken. His pupils have brilliance flashing within them,
yet he often shuts his eyes in exhaustion. His face brings many years of
worldly experience and weariness. There is a kind of cold, threatening light in
his eyes, and an occasional cold smile on the corners of his lips, and you can
see his everyday imperiousness, self-conceitedness, and stubbornness. The
arrogance and rashness from his youth have already been covered by the deep
wrinkles on his face, and not a single trace of them can be found. Only his
salt-and-pepper hair still preserves the elegance of bygone days, shiny and