They crowd around me and say, “Tell us more,” just as I did with my old amah when she quieted me with the tales of the gods. Yesterday, one small boy, the son of the chief steward, begged for a story of the sun. I had to tell him that my wisdom did not touch the sun, although I, in my foolish heart, think it a great god because it gives us warmth and we can feel its kindly rays. I said, “You have seen the coolies tracking on the towpath with their heavy, wadded clothing wet with rain. If it were not for the kindly sun that dries them, how could they toil and work and drag the great rice boats up to the watergate? Is he not a god to them?”
I told them also of Chang-ngo, the great, great beauty who drank the cup of life eternal. She went to the moon, where the jealous gods turned her into a great black toad. She is there, forever thinking, mourning over her lost beauty, and when we see the soft haze come over the face of the moon, we know that she is weeping and filling the space with her tears.
I perhaps am wrong to tell the foolish tales to the children, but they grow so tired of the hard benches and Chang-tai, the teacher, who glares at them so fiercely when they don’t speak quickly enough to please him.
There has been much gossip from the valley over the mountainside. It seems an iron bridge is being put across the river, and strange men come and peer at the countryside through witch glasses. It has made the good spirits of the air draw apart from the valley, and the cattle have died and the rice not ripened, and much sorrow has been broadcast. The river overflowed, because they desecrated the dragon’s back by digging down into the sacred earth. I know nothing except what is brought from the marketplace, and, as it does not concern us here on the mountainside, I listen only with my ears, not with my mind.
The nights are long and cold. The moon casts silver shimmering lights over the valley below. We cannot stand long on the terrace but must stay close within our rooms near to the charcoal braziers. The wind sweeps over the rooftree with the wailing voice of a woman.
Oh, Soul of Mine, with weary heart the creeping days I’m counting.
Your Wife
14
My Dear One,
We have had a serious sickness come to all the countryside; rich and poor, peasant and merchant have suffered from a fever that will not abate. It raged for more than a moon before its cause was known. Do you remember Kwan-lin Pagoda? Its ruin has long been a standing shame to the people of the province, and finally the gods have resented their neglect and sent them this great illness. Over all the city the yellow edicts of the priests have been places so as to meet the eye of all who travel. They are in the marketplaces, at the entrance of the teahouses, standing on great boards at the doorways of the temples, in front of the watergates, and at each city postern. They state that the gods are angry and send to each manor household that will not give three days’ work to the pagoda the fever that leaves one weak and ailing. They demand the labor of the city; and if it is not given freely, toil is sent the people in their sleep and they waken weary, and must so remain until the work is finished.
We did not hearken to the summons until Chih-peh, your brother, fell ill with the sickness. He grew worse each day, until Li-ti and your Honorable Mother were panic-stricken. At last the chairs were ordered, and your Mother and I went to the monastery on the hillside to consult with the old abbot, who is most full of wisdom. Your Honorable Mother told him of the illness that had assailed her son, and begged him to tell her if it were the illness of the pagoda. He meditated long and seriously, then he said, “My daughter, the gods are no respecter of persons; they wish service from your son.” “But,” your Honorable Mother objected, “he is no workman. He cannot labor upon the pagoda.” The abbot said, “There are more ways of giving service than the labor of the hands. The gods will allow him to contribute his wealth and buy the toil of other men, and thus he may cancel his obligation.” The August One satisfied the greedy heart of the priest, and then he told her to go and make her obeisance to the God of Light, the great Buddha, and see what message he had for her.
She took the hollow bamboo filled with the numbered slices of wood and, prostrating herself three times before the Great One, shook it slowly until one detached itself from its brothers and fell to the floor. The abbot then handed her a slip of paper that read:
Wisdom sits by the Western Gate
And gives health and happiness to those who wait.
These words meant nothing to your Honorable Mother; and after giving the abbot more silver, he said, “Beside the Western Gate sits the owl of wisdom, the great doctor Chow-fong. His father and his father’s father were wise; their study was mankind, and to him has come all their stores of knowledge. He has books of wonderful age, which tell him the secret of the world. Go to him; he will give you the plan of healing.”
We started for the Western Gate, and I, in my wicked heart, spoke thoughts that should have been closely locked within my breast. I said, “Perhaps the doctor and the priest have formed a combination most profitable to the two. If we had gone to the doctor first, we might have been sent to the abbot.” It was a great mistake to mention such a dreadful thing, and I realized it instantly; as you know, the Elder One, your mother, has a tongue of eloquence, and I was indeed glad that her bearers carried her at least ten paces from my bearers—and the way was long.
Even your Honorable Mother was awed at the solemn looks of this great man of medicine who, in his dim room with dried bats hanging from the ceiling beams and a dragon’s egg close by his hand, glared at her through his great goggles like a wise old owl. She apologized for disturbing so great a man at his studies, but she was the bearer of a message from the abbot. He read it carefully, then took down a monstrous book entitled The Golden Mirror of Medical Practice, and solemnly pored over its pages. At last he wrote upon a paper, then chanted:
In a building tall, by the city wall,
In the street of the Tower of Gold,
Is the plant of health, long life and wealth,
In the claws of the Dragon bold.
The August One took the paper, laid some silver upon the table, and we hurried from his doorway, glad to be free from his fearful presence. When we entered the chairs and looked to the paper for directions to give the bearers, the characters were meaningless to us. I repeated his chant, and the head bearer said, “There is a shop of drugs in the street of the Tower of Gold, and the sign of the place is a Golden Dragon’s Claw.”
We soon were there, and waited in our chairs while the bearer took the paper into the maker of medicines. We waited long, and your Honorable Mother would have been impatient if sleep had not kindly made her forget the waiting hours. I, sitting in my chair, could look through the archways into the big covered courtyards where blind men were grinding herbs. They were harnessed to great stones, and went round and round all day, like buffalo at the waterwheel. I wondered why the gods had put them at this service. What sins had they committed in their other life, to be compelled to work like beasts, grinding the herbs that would bring health and life to others, while they lived on in darkness? Often I would hear the soft call of the deer as they moved restlessly in their tiny cells. I know their horns, when powdered fine with beetles’ wings, are the cure for fevers and all ailments of the blood, but why could not the wise ones of the earth have found some herb or weed to take their place and give these wild ones of the woods their freedom? Finally, the bearer came with a tiny jar, too small, it seemed, to take such time in mixing, and we returned to the waiting Li-ti.
The medicine was black and nasty and smelled not sweetly, which proved its strength. Chih-peh slowly got better, and the world again looked fair to Li-ti, and the song came to her lips. The flowers were put in her hair, the gay dresses were brought out of their boxes, and she was, as of old, our butterfly.
We laughed at her for her fright, but I thought, if it had been you who was ill, and I did not know the cure! Oh, dear one, do you understand that, to a woman who loves, her husband is more than Heaven, more than herself? All that she is
not, all that she lacks, all that she desires to be, is her beloved. His breath alone can bring peace to her heart. And it is he alone who teaches her the depth of passionate joy there is in love and life and all things beautiful.
I am your wife
15
My Dear One,
Your Honorable Mother is beset by the desire of marrying. No, do not start; it is not of herself she is thinking. She will go to the River of Souls mourning your Honorable Father, and a pailo [decorative archway] will be erected in her honor. It is of her household she is thinking. She says our rooftree is too small to shelter four women, three of whom have little brains—and that includes your humble, loving wife—but why she should wish to exchange Mah-li, whom she knows, for a strange woman she does not know, passes my understanding. She seems not overfond of daughters-in-law, if one can judge from chance remarks.
First, before I speak of Mah-li, I must tell you of your brother. Your Honorable Mother is right—it were better that he marry and have a heel rope that leads him homeward. He is unruly and passes overmuch time at the Golden Lotus Teahouse. He is not bad or wicked. He lives but for the moment, and the moment is often wine flushed. He will not work or study, and many times at night I send away the gatekeeper and leave my amah at the outer archway, so your Mother will not know the hour he enters. He is young, and has chosen friends not equal to himself, and they have set his feet in the pathway that slopes downward.
He does not wish to marry. We have told him that marriage is a will of the gods and must be obeyed. “Man does not attain the one-winged birds of our childhood’s tale, they must rise together.” It is useless to talk to him. A spark of fire will not kindle wood that is still too green, and I fear he is in love with life, and youth, and freedom.
I do not wish to doubt the wisdom of the August One, but I think she made a mistake in her choice of a bride for your brother, Chih-mo. She chose Tai-lo, the daughter of the Prefect of Chih-li. The arrangements were nearly made, the dowry had even been discussed, but when the astrologer cast their horoscopes to see if they could pass their life in peace together, it was found that the ruler of Chih-mo’s life was a lion, and that of the bride’s, a swallow—so it was clearly seen they could not share one rooftree. I fear (I would not have this come to the ears of your Honorable Mother) that some silver was left upon the doorstep of the astrologer. Chih-mo asked of me the loan of a hundred taels, and I saw the wife of the reader of the stars pass by with a new gown of red-and-gold brocade.
I think Chih-mo had seen Tai-lo. Report gives her small beauty. Yet, as the Elder One says, “Musk is known by its perfume, and not by the druggist’s label.” Quite likely she would have made a good wife; and—we have one beauty in the household—it is enough.
There is much wailing in the courtyards. The gardener and the bearer and the watchman are having the feet of their small daughters bound. The saying “For every pair of golden lilies there is a kang [barrel] of tears” is true. I am sorry for them. Just when they want to run and play, they must sit all day with aching feet. My amah wished to put on the heavy bindings, but I would not permit it. I said, “Do you want little eyes to fill with tears each time they see you coming across the courtyard? If their grandmothers do not come, let some old women from the village do the cruel thing.”
The happy rains of the spring are here. It is not the cold, dreary rain of autumn, but dancing, laughing rain that comes sweeping across the valley, touching the rice fields lovingly, and bringing forth the young green leaves of the mulberry. I hear it patter upon the roof at nighttime, and in the morning all the earth seems cleansed and new; fresh colors greet my eyes when I throw back my casement.
When will you come to me, keeper of my heart?
Your Wife
16
Dear One,
He whose faults are never told him
Doubtless deems the angels mold him.
That cannot be said of three women of your household.
It is Mah-li this time on whom the wrath descends. She and Li-ti were embroidering in the western room where they could get the last rays of the sun. Perhaps they were speaking on forbidden subjects—I do not know; but your Honorable Mother entered quietly and reproved them, and (even when I write it I blush for her) Mah-li said to her Honorable Mother, “Only cats and cranes and thieves walk silently.” Your Mother was speechless with anger, and justly so, and now it is decided that Mah-li must be married. She needs a stronger hand than a woman’s. Is it not ridiculous, little Mah-li needing a strong hand?
At first the August One considered Meng-wheh, the prefect at Sung-dong. He is old and cross, but when I remonstrated, I was told that he was rich. His many tens of thousands of cycee are supposed to weigh more than youth and love. I said, “Though he bar with gold his silver door,” a man cannot keep the wife who loves him not. Your Honorable Mother thought more wisely, and after many days of consideration entered into consultation with the family of Sheng Ta-jen in regard to his son. It seems Mah-li is doomed to marriage soon, and she does not know whether she is happy or sorrowful. She is turned this way and that, as the seed of the cotton tree is swayed by the coming and going of the wind. Today she laughs, tomorrow she weeps. Your Mother has lost all patience with her, and, as she always does when her own words fail her, I heard her quoting the Sage: “Just as ducks’ legs though short cannot be lengthened without pain, nor cranes’ legs though long be shortened without misery to the crane, neither can sense be added to a silly woman’s head.”
I feel that your Honorable Mother is unkind to Mah-li. She is a flower, a flower that has her place in life the same as the morning glory, which is loved just as fondly by the gods as the pine tree that stands so stately upon the hillside. She is light and pure and dainty as the fragrance of perfumed air, and I do not want to see her go to a family who will not understand her youth and love of play.
Mah-li has asked me of money, and with it bought a great candle for each day, which she sends down the mountainside to be placed before Kwan-yin. I asked her to tell me her prayer, which needed so large an offering. The unfilial girl said she prayed, “Kwan-yin, send me a husband with no family.”
Such a lot of petty gossip I pour into your ears, yet you would know the happenings of your household. Of the world outside, your brother writes you. My world is here within these walls.
Your Wife
17
My Dear One,
Your house is a house of intrigue. Deep, dark intrigue and plotting. Your wife has lent herself to a most unwomanly thing, and doubtless you will tell her so, but Mah-li begged so prettily, I could refuse her nothing. I told you in my last letter that your Honorable Mother had been regarding the family of Sheng Ta-jen with a view to his son as husband of Mah-li. It is settled, and Mah-li leaves us in the autumn. None of us except Chih-peh has seen the young man, and Mah-li did a most immodest thing the other day. She came to me and asked me to find out from Chih-peh if he were handsome, if he were young—all the questions that burn the tongue of a young girl, but that she must keep within tightly closed lips if she would not be thought unmaidenly. I asked your brother; but his reply did not answer the questions Mah-li wished to know. So we arranged a plan that caused me many nights of sleeplessness. It was carried out and—still the sky is blue, the stars are bright at night, and the moon shines just as softly on the valley.
The first part of the plan was for Li-ti. She tried to persuade Chih-peh to ask Shen-go to spend the day with him at the Fir Tree Monastery. When he knew the meaning of the invitation, he refused. He was shocked, and properly; as it was a thing unheard of. He could not understand why Mah-li would not be content with her mother’s choice. Li-ti brought all her little ways to bear—and Chih-peh can refuse her nothing. At the Feast of the Moon your brother asked three friends to join him at the monastery and stroll amongst the groves.
The rest of the plan was for me to carry out; and I, your wife, displayed a talent for diplomacy. I noticed that the cheeks of our Honorable Moth
er were pale, that she seemed listless, that her step was wearied. I said doubtless she was tired of being shut within the compound walls with three aimless, foolish women, and proposed a feast or pilgrimage. I mentioned the Goldfish Pond, knowing she was tired of it; spoke of the Pagoda on the Hills, knowing full well that she did not like the priests therein; then, by chance, read from a book the story of the two kings. It is the tale of the King of Hangchow and the King of Soochow who, in the olden time, divided our great valley between them. The King of Hangchow was an old man, and the cares of state fell heavily upon his shoulders. The King of Soochow was a young man, eaten up with mad ambitions. He began to tread upon the lands of the old king, taking now a farmhouse, now a village, and at last a city, until the poor old king was threatened at his very gateway by the army of the young man. The young king had strength, but the old king had guile, so he made a peace with his enemy for one year. He sent him presents, costly silks and teas, and pearls and jade and ginseng, and, last and best, a beautiful slave girl, the most beautiful in the province. The young king was delighted, and forgot his warring, passing all his days within the women’s quarters.
As the winter waned and the spring came, the slave girl sickened, said she panted for the hillsides, and she pointed to the mountain outside the city walls. He was a foolish king, and he built a palace for her, and she moved there with her women. The king was lonely in the city, and he passed his days with the women in the palace on the mountain. While living there in pleasure, and his army in the city, the old King of Hangchow sent his soldiers; and soon there was no King of Soochow, only a slave girl decked with many jewels, who was taken back with honor to the old king’s city.
I read all this to your Honorable Mother, and told her we could see the ruins of the fish pond, of the palace, see the fallen marbles from the teahouse, and—the chairs were ordered, and we went. We wandered over deserted pathways, saw the lotus pools once filled with goldfish, picked our way through lonely courtyards, climbed the sunken steps of terraces that had once been gay with flowers. It all was melancholy, this place built for pleasure, now a mass of crumbling ruins, and it saddened us. We sat upon the king’s bench that overlooked the plain, and from it I pointed out the Fir Tree Monastery in the distance. I spoke of their famous tea, sun dried with the flowers of jessamine, and said it might bring cheer and take away the gloom caused by the sight of death and vanished grandeur now around us.
Golden Lilies Page 4