by Otto Penzler
“Tchch, tchch!” clucked the latter, impatiently. “Pronounce, then, the words I must write, without regard to the lofty art of rhetoric, from thy untutored heart to Moy Yen’s. I am but thy pen. Proceed. But fail not to speak favorably of me, as thou didst promise.”
“The words thou hast written so far shall stand, Chin Lee,” said the other, to conciliate the Master of Rhetoric, with whom rested the ultimate writing of the letter to Moy Yen—a letter not to be misconstrued for obvious reasons.
IV
Concerning a Vulgar Passion
When the scrivener was ready, Ho Chung dictated his message to the distant Moy Yen in the following terms:
“Beloved!—Soul of my Soul!—Bearing two hearts within thee! thou art blessed and decorated beyond the power of mere speech! But, ere I reach forth into the realms of words to dress thee with the praises that belong to thee, I am fain, first, to extol the good qualities of my Honorable Friend, Chin Lee——”
“Of 7793 Clay Street,” interrupted the scrivener; “and I would add: ‘He can speak thy language, and is famed for his modesty and benevolence.’ ”
“So be it set forth, but interrupt not again,” said Ho Chung, with evident irritation, as he once more resumed his dictation. “Write now only what I shall say,” and Chin Lee, reading Ho Chung’s face aright, was henceforth silent, and wrote as follows:
“Our child?—hath it come, Cherry Blossom? Oh, the weary days until I see it, and hold it in my arms! But the thought that it is part thine and part mine, and that it rests on thy tender bosom, lies on my heart like the dew-pearls on the petals of a new-blown rose. Is it well—oh, it must be well with thee, and Ours! Tell me all that my heart is hungry for, Dawn of Love.
“As for me, I am still in the service of Quen Loy, and my work is in much demand, and holdeth me from early morn till early night;—Quen Loy will not suffer me to work longer lest harm befall mine eyes. My wage is more than passing fair—and even the lottery hath befriended me, so that I am able to send thee, herewith, twenty taels. Two months hence, if my fortune change not, I shall send thee sufficient money to bring thee, and little Thine-and-Mine, to this fair country, where the sun shines more days in the year than elsewhere.
“As for the people of this country, they are not the White Devils as set forth by the ignorant of our kind. The worst that can be said of them is that they obtrude themselves into the houses of our people, and have no reverence for our Gods or our shrines. I am told, too, that their women bare their bosoms and shoulders for the lewd to gaze upon, and that they dance in unseemly fashion in the embrace of men other than their husbands. This I have not seen, for mine eyes are for thy beauty alone, thou Spray of Jessamine!
“But, ah! the thought of thee, and of thy beauty, and of the Blossom—the babe, Thine-and-Mine!—are ever with me. It sustains me in my hours of work,—and then I have thy picture to look at! But it is at night, when the stimulus of work is over, that I feel most keenly that I am a stranger in a far country. Beloved, I awoke trembling last night: methought I was in Pekin with thee, and that I could hear thy gentle breathing; and then I stretched forth my hand; but, alas! thy place beside me was vacant, and I wept amain till the dawn came. Oh, cruel, cruel is the distance between us! and so is the vast wandering sea that separates us, and knows naught of our love, and careth less, and is indifferent to us. But if money can bring thee to me, I will faithfully work for it.
“Farewell, Orange Blossom. I breathe my benediction into the space in which this world spins, knowing that thou art somewhere in it, and that it will find thee.
“These from thy Husband,
“Ho Chung.”
V
The Voice of Travail
To Ho Chung, two months after the despatch of the above letter, came the following reply from Moy Yen, which was thus translated to Ho Chung the next day, after the crafty Chin Lee had conferred with his Manchu agent:
“Best Beloved: Thy babe hath come!—and it is a Man-Child!
“Oh! my Lord, I have walked on a path that is hedged with death on both sides. Pain held my right hand, and Fear my left. The night was dark and clouded, and full of whisperings of mischance. And oft I should have failed and died, but the thought of Ours, and of my husband in a far and strange land toiling for me, sustained me. And then the babe Ho Sung was born, and the light returned.
“But the ever-fresh wonder of thy Man-Child! How may I tell it! Oh! Ho Chung, his hands are like the petals of a rose, and a cunning woman from Hindostan hath taught me how to stain his nails with henna.
“But the greater wonder of his feet, my Might! He kicked himself naked with them last night—and I can hold them both in one palm!
“He is so beautiful that I do not even fear to put him to the breast that is stabbed with a thousand knives when he suckles.
“He hath speech, also, and it is in terms of two simple cries that convey impressions of pleasure and pain: his laughter is like a tiny, happy waterfall; and his wailings are melodious, too, save that they pierce my heart. And he groweth amain—I can scarce sustain him, though my breasts are never empty.
“Beloved, the twenty taels thou didst send me have arrived. It is a thousand years till I get the rest of the moneys that shall take me to thee, and enable me to put Thine-and-Mine, as thou callest him, in thy arms.
“From thine own,
“Moy Yen.”
VI
The Withering of a Bud
“Ho Chung was overcome to the point of death when I read this to him,” said Chin Lee, extending a letter to Quong Lung. “You see, he had knowledge through a previous letter that a notable babe had been born to him; and then came this letter, which, in his grief, he left with me.”
Quong Lung took the paper, and read as follows:
“Best Beloved! Sharer of my joys and sorrows!—A great sorrow hath befallen us.
“But the babe—our babe, Thine-and-Mine!—was ever such a babe!
“How may I tell it!
“Yesterday some miscreant stole it from us. At first my heart filled with hope, because of the milk that flowed into my breasts, for, methought, that was a sign that our little one was still alive, and that I should, surely, suckle it again. But now my heart is full of pain, and my breasts are empty of milk!
“Strength of my Strength! call thy utmost strength to thy aid: thy man-child Ho Sung was stolen from my side as I slept, and to-day his body was found in the canal, and my milk, oh! my Lord, lay on his frozen lips.”
“Thy honorable and aged parent in the Flowery Land is an ‘artist,’ ” said Quong Lung, extending a cigar to Chin Lee.
“But we are ever more favored than our sires, for we reap the harvests sown by them. In fact, Chin Sen, my father, but followed out my directions,” answered Chin Lee, eagerly.
Quong Lung proceeded to read as follows:
“Oh, my Lord, my babe being dead, and thou in a far land, my life droops. Oh, let me come to thee soon, soon, soon!
“From thy grief-stricken wife,
“Moy Yen.”
“See to it that she comes soon,” said Quong Lung, putting five double eagles on the table. “Her beauty will fade if she sorrow too long. Ah! I have it,” he exclaimed. “My agent at Shanghai, Fan Wong, will despatch his next consignment of slave girls to me two months hence under charge of my wife, Suey See, who doth such errands for me. Moy Yen shall return as thy Californian daughter, Chin Lee, in fulfilment of the requirements of the Chinese Exclusion Act. Thy daughter shall have honorable escort.”
“Thou art in merry mood this morning, Compeller. But greater honor would accrue to Moy Yen if she were to come as thy daughter—and no questions would be asked by the authorities on this side.”
“No questions shall be asked in any case,” said Quong Lung.
“Even the White Devils fear thee, Far Reacher! But the man Ho Chung is young and strong—and he might get knowledge of this matter—and my life is still precious to me. ’Twould place me on a dangerous path bordere
d by death, Most Merciful.”
“Therefore do I order it,” said Quong Lung, slowly, regarding Chin Lee with half-closed eyes. “But thou hast done well so far, Chin Lee; passing well. How much dost thou owe me?”
“One hundred and thirty-eight dollars, Fair Dealer;—and the rack of a scrap of paper that fell into thy hands. Consider: I have caused thy shadow to fall on a flower that hindered—and the flower hath withered. Thou wilt let that weigh with thee, Most Merciful.”
“ ’Twas well done; very well done! ’Twas worth not less than the fifty dollars I herewith remit of thy debt to me in money,” and Quong Lung wrote, and gave Chin Lee a receipt for that amount.
“But thou art not appraising the removal of the babe at fair value, Quong Lung.”
“Fair enough, fair enough, when one considers that which was found ten years ago in Ross Alley in the hand of a dead man.”
“Quong Lung, ’twere easier to confess all, than to live under the stress of thy shadow. Yes; to confess all—all!—some of thy misdeeds, too.”
There was a battery connected with the chair on which Chin Lee sat, and, as he clasped its arms in the act of rising, Quong Lung switched on the current by an unperceived movement of his foot.
“The raising of thy voice, Chin Lee, would summon instant death. No man may threaten me, and live.”
He held up a menacing finger, as his victim writhed in the toils of the Demon that Bestows Cramps.
“Call off thy Devil, Quong Lung; call him off! I am forever thy slave,” whined Chin Lee.
“No man may threaten me, and live,” repeated Quong Lung, impressively. “Yet see, I will be magnanimous to thee, for only the hem of my shadow hath fallen on thee this time—and I am mindful, too, of the bud that withered.”
He shut off the current, whilst Chin Lee, almost dead with fear, sank into his chair and wiped the great drops from his forehead.
“Great is Quong Lung, and great are his spells!” he gasped. “I am his slave henceforth.”
“Well spoken, Chin Lee. Now drink, for thou hast received the lesser discipline that I mete out to ingrates, and art in need of the assistance of sam shu,” and Quong Lung set cups and a teapot filled with Chinese gin on the table that was between them.
“Nay, fear not, Chin Lee; the liquor is not poisoned. See,” and Quong Lung filled a cup for himself, and drank its contents. Then, as his guest drank with a shaking hand, Quong Lung went on:
“Thou wert nearer a heavier discipline than that, Chin Lee. Stand a pace to the right of thy chair, and thou shalt see.”
Chin Lee had scarcely complied with his command, when an arrow whizzed past him, and transfixed the chair from which he had just risen.
“Other means have I for subduing the recalcitrant. Never forget that thou art in my hands. And now some more sam shu; and resume thy seat,” said Quong Lung, withdrawing the arrow from the chair.
“Thou wilt write to Moy Yen, in the name of Ho Chung, and direct her to the keeping of my wife Suey See who, also, will seek her with credentials purporting to come from Ho Chung.”
“Thy wishes shall be obeyed, Subduer,” returned the other, meekly. Then, with an air of sycophancy, he went on: “And when Moy Yen sends word of her coming, I will alter the date of her arrival here in the translation of the letter to Ho Chung, so that we may not be interrupted in any way in the taking of our pretty partridge to her cage. Ho, ho!”
“Thou art a worthy son of that worthy artist, thy honorable and aged father; and thy rhetoric shall yet advance thee. Drink once more.”
VII
A Burial by Fire
“The brightness of the day is reflected in thy looks, my young friend,” said Chin Lee with his best professional smile as he unfolded the letter Ho Chung had given him the day before—the third he was to translate and embellish with the flowers of his rhetoric for the young goldsmith.
“Ah, ha!” he went on, as he smoothed out the letter on his table; “I am, indeed, thy Luck. See what it is to have employed a man versed in languages, and who can summon happy words at his will. It is well known that I can pack more meaning into a sentence than Ah Moy, the hungry, can convey in a column. Not for nothing have I culled the flowers that abound in the She king of Confucius,” and he shook his head with a nod of self-approval.
“Great, indeed, O Chin Lee, is the wonder of thy learning——”
“It is spoken of even among the barbarians who live on the borders of Thibet,” interrupted the scrivener. “Even the Mandarins who sway the destinies of our great empire are fain to ease their so great and important functions with recitation of the odes I used to throw off in my idle moments. And when it was told to the Emperor that one Chin Lee, scrivener, prosodian, and rhetorician——”
“But this is barren talk,” interrupted Ho Chung, looking hungrily at the letter in Chin Lee’s hand.
“How headlong is youth!” exclaimed Chin Lee, in a tone of deprecation. “What a glowing sentence didst thou cool with the breath of thy impatience! The beauty of the young day, the expectant love beaming in thy youthful countenance, the news herein contained——”
“Oh, man of many words, is it good news?” once more interrupted Ho Chung, eagerly.
But the other held up his hand in remonstrance, and went on: “And the thought of the great task that the mightiest of Emperors had it in mind once to impose upon me, the task of compiling an encyclopædia that should rival that of Ma Twan-lin—all these had roused me to a height of poetic fervor that would have ended in a climax of rhetoric that should have thundered down the ages! Hast no love for literature? and do not the claims of posterity appeal to thee?”
“I have a passing strong love for Moy Yen, Chin Lee, and my heart knocketh for news of her. Give me the letter and I will go to Ah Moy, and leave thee to nourish thy ‘poetic fervor,’ ” and Ho Chung extended an impatient hand.
“The heedlessness of youth passeth the comprehension of the wise! Well, if thou must obstruct the flow of rhythmic prose of which I feel capable even now, in spite of thy interruptions, I will translate the letter of thy Moy Yen. Sit down beside me, my headlong friend, while I improve the crude sentences wherewith the letter-writer of Moukden hath expressed the love of the beautiful Moy Yen for thee.”
He wiped his spectacles deliberately, and proceeded to read as follows, interpolating and altering as suited the exigencies of the plot in which he was concerned:
“Ho Chung, Deliverer! oh, my hope is fulfilled! Yesterday came twenty other taels from thee! And a kinsman, but lately found—who is an opium merchant, and hath been bereft of children, too—gave me other twenty for the journey, and yet another twenty to put into thy hand. See: before the moon is full again, they tell me I shall look once more upon my Beautiful Lord. The great vessel of iron moved by fire and steam, in which I shall cross the seas that separate us, will leave a month hence (Chin Lee substituted a ‘month’ for ‘two weeks’), and I shall be with my sweet Lord ere the cherry blossoms show. I herewith send thee a paper that tells the name and date of departure of the vessel that shall bring me to thee.
“But, oh, my Lord! how may I leave Thine-and-Mine behind me! Oh, the tender lips that I made, and the miracles of hands and feet; and the soft mouth that clung to me! Oh, Ho Chung, Ho Chung, how may I leave Thine-and-Mine behind me! Thou canst not understand it, my Lord, but the love of a woman for her babe—dead or alive—is beyond the comprehension of men….And, too, a thousand deaths beset me in giving him birth—and then to lose him!
“Hasten, days and nights! Be propitious, seas and stars!—so shall I soon clasp my beloved Lord once more.
“Oh, Ho Chung, I love thee, I love thee!
“From thy wife,
“Moy Yen.”
As Ho Chung sat in rapt meditation over his impending happiness, Chin Lee spoke. “Never speaks heart to heart so sweetly,” he began, “as in a first tender passion; and no one is so fit to interpret its soft utterances as a man of feeling and experience—and that am I. The bald s
entences herein contained had bereft the day of sunlight for thee, but they glowed when they had been passed through the crucible of my fancy, my young goldsmith. Hadst thou followed thy foolish impulse to take the letter to Ah Moy—but why should I defile my mouth by further mention of him: he is a mere peddler of common speech; a coolie in literature! And see, my fond lover, it were better that the memory of my glowing translation should abide with thee than that somebody should expose to thee, in all its naked hideousness, the crude work of the scrivener who wrote this letter for Moy Yen. Let it have burial by fire”; and, before Ho Chung could guess his intention, Chin Lee had thrust the letter, that had to be destroyed, into the brazier at his feet.
“What hast thou done?” said Ho Chung, angrily. “Chin Lee, thou hast exceeded thy functions, and for small excuse I would chastise thee. Moy Yen’s letters are my only comfort in a strange land.”
“Stay thy hand, and repress thy wrath,” said a stout Chinese merchant, regarding Ho Chung over the top of his spectacles. He had arrived in time to witness the burning of the letter by Chin Lee, and to hear Ho Chung’s outbreak. It was Quong Lung, who maintained his evil supremacy by venturing abroad even when the Wars of the Tongs were at their height, although there was a reward on his head. But the See Yups are numerous, and he was practically surrounded by a body-guard of desperate hatchetmen sworn to his service. In the crowd of softly-shod Orientals who surrounded him, and who appeared to be but a part of the shifting crowd that ebbed and flowed along the street, were men ready to slay any one who made a movement that menaced Quong Lung. The house whence came a bullet that passed through his sleeve the preceding week was burnt the same night; and Chinatown laughed at the temerity of the tong whose hired assassin had fired the shot.
“Chin Lee,” he went on, “thy rhetoric must be at fault to have roused the wrath of this worthy sing-song.”