He had your eyes—he was like you. You will never know your son and mine, my Springtime. Why could they not have left your son for you to see? He was so strong and beautiful, my firstborn.
35
Do not chide me. I cannot write. What do I do? I do not know. I lie long hours and watch the tiny motes that live within the sun’s bright golden rays, and say, “Why could I not exchange my womanhood, which hopes and loves and sorrows, for one of those small dancing spots within the sunbeams? At least they do not feel.”
At night sleep does not touch my eyelids. I lie upon the terrace. I will not go within my chamber, where there is gloom and darkness. I watch the stars, a silver, mocking throng, that twinkle at me coldly, and then I see the moon slowly mount her pathway of the skies. The noises of the night come to me softly, as if they knew my sorrow, and the croaking frogs and the crickets that find lodging by the lotus pool seem to feel my loneliness with me, so plaintive is their cry.
I feel the dawn will never come, as if it were dead or slumbered; but when at last he comes, I watch him touch the hillside, trees, and temples with soft gray fingers, and bring to me a beauty one does not see by day. The night winds pass with sighs among the pine trees, and in passing give a loving touch to bells upon pagodas that bring their faint music to me. The dawn is not the golden door of happiness. It only means another day has come and I must smile and talk and live as if my heart were here.
Oh, man of mine, if but your dream touch would come and bid me slumber, I would obey.
Your Wife
36
They have put a baby in my arms, a child found on the towpath, a beggar child. I felt I could not place another head where our dear boy had lain, and I sat stiff and still, and tried to push away the little body pressing close against me; but at touch of baby mouth and fingers, springs that were dead seemed stirring in my heart again. At last I could not bear it, and I leaned my face against her head and crooned His lullaby:
The gods on the rooftree guard pigeons from harm
And my little pigeon is safe in my arms.
I cannot tell you more. My heart is breaking.
37
I have given this stranger-child, this child left to die upon the towpath, the clothes that were our son’s. She was cold, and your Mother came to me so gently and said, “Kwei-li, have you no clothing for the child that was found by the servants?” I saw her meaning, and I said, “Would you have me put the clothing over which I have wept, and which is now carefully laid away in the camphor-wood box, upon this child?” She said—and you would know your Mother’s voice, her bitter words are only as the rough shell of the lichee nut that covers the sweet meat hidden within—she said, “Why not, dear one? This one needs them, and the hours you pass with them are only filled with saddened memories.” I said to her, “This child is a girl, a beggar’s child. I will not give to her the clothing of my son. Each time I looked upon her it would be a knife plunged in my heart.” She said to me, “Kwei-li, you are not a child, you are a woman. Of what worth is that clothing lying in that box of camphor wood? Does it bring back your son? Someday you will open it, and there will be nothing but dust, which will reproach you. Get them and give them to this child who has come to us out of the night.”
I went to the box and opened it, and they lay there, the little things that had touched his tiny body. I gave them, the trousers of purple, the jackets of red, the embroidered shoes, the caps with the many Buddhas. I gave them all to the beggar child.
I am,
Your Wife
38
I am reproached because I will not go to the temple. It is filled with the sounds of chanting, which come to me faintly as I lie upon the terrace. There are women there, happy women, with their babies in their arms, while mine are empty. There are others there in sorrow, laying their offerings at the feet of Kwan-yin. They do not know that she does not feel, nor care, for womankind. She sits upon her lotus throne and laughs at mothers in despair. How can she feel, how can she know, that thing of gilded wood and plaster?
I stay upon my terrace, I live alone within my court of silent dreams. For me there are no gods.
39
They have brought to me from the marketplace a book of a new god. I would not read it. I said, “There are too many gods—why add a new one? I have no candles or incense to lay before an image.” But—I read and saw within its pages that He gave rest and love and peace. Peace—what the holy man desired, the end of all things—peace. And I, I do not want to lose the gift of memory; I want remembrance, but I want it without pain.
The cherry blossoms have bloomed and passed away. They lingered but a moment’s space, and, like my dream of spring, they died. But, passing, they have left behind the knowledge that we’ll see them once again. There must be something, somewhere, to speak to despairing mothers and say, “Weep not! You will see your own again.”
I do not want a god of temples. I have cried my prayers to Kwan-yin, and they have come back to me like echoes from a deadened wall. I want a god to come to me at nighttime, when I am lying lonely, wide-eyed, staring into darkness, with all my body aching for the touch of tiny hands. I want that god who says, “I give you Peace,” to stand close to my pillow and touch my wearied eyelids and bring me rest.
I have been dead—enclosed within a tomb of sorrow and despair; but now, at words dimly understood, a faint new life seems stirring deep within me. A voice that says, “Come unto Me all ye who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give thee rest.” My longing soul cries out, “Oh, great and unknown God, give me this rest!” I am alone, a woman, helpless, stretching out my arms in darkness, but into my world of gloom has come a faint dim star, a star of hope that says to me, “There is a God.”
Part Two
1
My Dear Mother,
Your son has received his appointment as governor of this province, and we are at last settled in this new and strange abode. We are most proud of the words pronounced by His Excellency Yuan when giving him his power of office. He said:
You, Liu, are an example of that higher patriotism rarely met with in official life, which recognizes its duty to its government, a duty too often forgotten by the members of a great family such as that of which you are the honored head, in the obligation of the clan and the desire to use power for personal advantage. Your personal record has been without stain; and especially your work among the foreigners dwelling in our land has been accomplished with tact and discretion. I am sending you to Shanghai, which is the most difficult post in the republic because of its involved affairs with the foreign nations, knowing that the interests of the republic will always be safe in your hands.
I write you this because I know your mother-heart will rejoice that our president shows such confidence in your son, and that his many years of service to his country have been appreciated.
Shanghai truly is a difficult place at present. There are fifteen nationalities here represented by their consuls, and they are all watching China and each other with jealous eyes, each nation fearing that another will obtain some slight advantage in the present unsettled state of our country. The town is filled with adventurers, both European and Chinese, who are waiting anxiously to see what attitude the new governor takes in regard to the many projects in which they are interested. My husband says nothing and allows them all to wonder. It is better for them, because, like all schemers, if they had nothing to give them anxious nights and troubled dreams, they would not be happy.
We found the Yamen not suitable for our large household, as it did not lend itself readily to the reception of foreigners and the innovations and new customs that seem to be necessary for the fulfillment of the duties of a Chinese official under this new order. As your son was selected governor of this province because of his knowledge of foreign lands and customs, it is necessary for him to live, partly at least, the life of a European; but let me assure you that, so far as I am concerned, and so far as I can influence it, our life behind the scree
ns will always be purely Chinese, and the old, unchanged customs that I love will rule my household. I will surrender no more than necessary to this new tide of Westernism that seems to be sweeping our China from its moorings. But—I must not dwell too much upon that theme, though it is a subject on which I can wax most eloquent, and I know your desire to hear of this house, which would seem so ugly to your eyes.
There are no quiet courtyards, no curving roofs, no softly shaded windows of shell, no rounded archways; but all is square and glaring and imposing, seeming to look coldly from its staring glass windows at the stranger within its gates. It says loudly, “I am rich; it cost many thousands of taels to make my ugliness.” For me, it is indeed a “foreign” house. Yet I will have justice within my heart and tell you that there is much that we might copy with advantage. In place of floors of wide plain boards, and walls of wood with great wide cracks covered with embroideries and rugs, as in the Chinese homes, the floors are made of tiny boards polished until they glisten like the sides of the boats of the teahouse girls, and the walls are plaster, covered, as in our rooms of reception, with silk and satin, and the chairs and couches have silken tapestry to match. This furniture, strange to me, is a great care, as I do not understand its uses; it seems most stiff and formal. I hope someday to know a foreign woman on terms of friendship, and I will ask her to touch the room with her hands of knowledge, and bring each piece into more friendly companionship with its neighbor. Now chairs look coldly at tables, as if to say, “You are an intruder!” and it chills me. This house is much more simple than our homes, because of the many modern instruments that make the work less heavy and allow it to be done by few instead of many, as is our way. It is not necessary to have a man attend solely to the lighting of the lamps. Upon the wall is placed a magic button that, touched even by the hand of ignorance, floods the room with the light of many suns. We see no more the water carrier with his two great wooden buckets swinging from the bamboo as he comes from the river or canal to pour the water into the great kangs standing by the kitchen door. Nor do we need to put the powder in it to make it clear and wholesome. That is all done by men we do not see, and they call it “sanitation.” The cook needs only to turn a small brass handle, and the water comes forth as from a distant spring. It reminds me of the man who came to my father, when he was governor of Wuseh, and wished to install a most unheard-of machine to bring water to the city from the lake upon the hillside. My father listened most respectfully to the long and stupid explanation, and looked at the clear water the foreign man produced to show what could be done, then, shaking his head, said, “Perhaps that water is more healthful, as you say, but it is to me too clear and white. It has no body, and I fear has not the strength of the water from our canals.”
Another thing we do not hear is the rattle of the watchman as he makes his rounds at night, and I miss it. In far Szechwan, on many nights when sleep was distant, I would lie and listen as he struck upon his piece of hollow bamboo telling me that all was well within our compound. Now the city has police that stand outside the gateway. Many are men from India—big black men, with fierce black beards and burning eyes. Our people hate them, and they have good cause. They are most cruel, and ill-treat all who come within their power. But we must tread with catlike steps, as they are employed by the English, who protect them at all times. They are the private army of that nation here within our city, and at every chance their numbers are constantly increased. I do not understand this question of police. There are in thousands of our cities and villages no police, no soldiers, yet there is less lawlessness and vice in a dozen purely Chinese cities than in this great mongrel town that spends many tens of thousands of taels each year upon these guardians of the people’s peace. It seems to me that this should tell the world that the force of China is not a physical force, but the force of the law-abiding instinct of a happy common people, who, although living on the verge of misery and great hunger, live upright lives and do not try to break their country’s laws.
There is a garden within our walls, but not a garden of winding pathways and tiny bridges leading over lotus ponds, nor are there small mounds of rocks with here and there a tiny god or temple peeping from some hidden grotto. All is flat, with long bare stretches of green grass over which are nets, by which my children play a game called tennis. This game is foolish, in my eyes, and consists of much jumping and useless waste of strength, but the English play it, and of course the modern Chinese boy must imitate them. I have made one rule: My daughters shall not play the game. It seems to me most shameful to see a woman run madly, with great boorish strides, in front of men and boys. My daughters pout and say it is played by all the girls in school, and that it makes them strong and well; but I am firm. I have conceded many things, but this to me is vulgar and unseemly.
Need I tell you, Mother of mine, that I am a stranger in this great city, that my heart calls for the hills and the mountainside with its ferns and blossoms? Yesterday at the hour of twilight I drove to the country in the motor (a new form of carrying chair that you would not understand—or like) and I stopped by a field of flowering mustard. The scent brought remembrance to my heart, and tears flowed from beneath my eyelids. The delicate yellow blossoms seemed to speak to me from their golden throats, and I yearned to hold within my arms all this beauty of the earth flowering beneath my feet. We stayed until the darkness came, and up to the blue night rose from all the fields “that great soft, bubbling chorus which seems the very voice of the earth itself—the chant of the frogs.” When we turned back and saw the vulgar houses, with straight red tops and piercing chimneys, I shut my eyes and in a vision saw the blue-gray houses with their curved up-tilted roofs nestling among the groves of bamboo, and I felt that if it were my misfortune to spend many moons in this great alien city, my heart would break with longing for the beautiful home I love.
I felt sympathy with Kang Tang-li, of my father’s province, who heard of a new god in Anhui. He had eaten bitter sorrow and he felt that the old gods had forgotten him and did not hear his call, so he walked two long days’ journey to find this new god who gave joy and peace to those who came to him. He arrived at evening time, the sun was setting in a lake of gold, but even with its glory it could not change the ugly square-built temple, with no curves or grace to mark it as a dwelling place of the gods. Kang walked slowly around this temple, looked long at its staring windows and its tall and ugly spire upon the rooftree, which seemed to force its way into the kindly dark blue sky; then, saddened, sick at heart, he turned homeward, saying deep within him that no god whom he could revere would choose a house so lacking in all beauty for a dwelling place.
Is this a long and tiresome letter, my Honorable Mother? But you are far away, and in your sheltered walls yearn to know what has come to us, your children, in this new and foreign life. It is indeed a new life for me, and I can hardly grasp its meaning. They are trying hard to force us to change our old quiet and peace for the rush and worry of the Western world, and I fear I am too old and settled for such sudden changes.
Tell Mah-li’s daughter that I will send her news of the latest fashions, and tell Li-ti that the hair is dressed quite differently here. I will write her more about it and send her the new ornaments. They are not so pretty, in my eyes, nor are the gowns so graceful, but I will send her patterns that she may choose.
We all give you our greetings and touch your hand with love.
Kwei-li
2
My Dear Mother,
I have not written you for so long, as my days have been filled with strange, new duties. The wives of the foreign officials have called upon me, as that appears to be their custom. It seems to me quite useless and a waste of time; but they come, and I must return the calls. I do not understand why the consuls cannot transact their business with the governor without trying to peer into his inner life. To us a man’s official life and that which lies within his women’s courtyard are as separate as two pathways that never meet.
Th
e foreign woman comes and sits upon the edge of her chair in great discomfort, vainly searching for a subject upon which we may have a common bond. I sit upon the edge of the chair from necessity, as these chairs are far too high for me, and my tiny feet hang helplessly in the air. Although the chairs are not so high or so straight and stiff as are our seats of honor, they have no footstools, and no small tables on which to lean the arm. You would laugh at our poor feeble efforts to be agreeable one to the other. Our conversation is as foolish and as useless as would be the using of a paper lantern for the rice mill. With all desire to be courteous and to put her at ease, I ask about her children, the health of her honorable mother, and the state of her household. I do not ask her age, as I have learned that, contrary to our usage, it is a question not considered quite auspicious, and often causes the flush of great embarrassment to rise to the cheek of a guest. Often she answers in “pidgin” English, a kind of baby talk that is used when addressing servants. These foreign women have rarely seen a Chinese lady, and they are surprised that I speak English; often I have been obliged to explain that when I found that my husband’s office brought him close to foreigners, and that my sons and daughters were learning the new education in which it is necessary to know other than their mother tongue, I would not be left behind within closed doors, so I too learned of English and of French enough to read and speak. I am to them a curiosity. It has not been correct in former times to know a Chinese lady socially; and to these ladies, with their society, their calls, their dinners, and their games of cards, we within the courtyards are people from another world. They think that Chinese women are and always have been closely prisoned slaves of their husbands, idle and ignorant and soulless, with no thoughts above their petty household cares and the strange heathen gods they worship.
Golden Lilies Page 6