At another time, he reproved me for certain opinions I had expressed in
the presence of some of his countrymen. “You should not talk like that,”
said he. “They will think you are a bad woman.”
My white blood rose at that, and I answered him in a way which grieves
me to remember. For Kanghi had never meant to insult or hurt me.
Imperious by nature, he often spoke before he thought—and he was so
boyishly anxious for me to appear in the best light possible before his
own people.
There were other things too: a sort of childish jealousy and suspicion
which it was difficult to allay. But a woman can forgive much to a man,
the sincerity and strength of whose love makes her own, though true,
seem slight and mean.
Yes, life with Liu Kanghi was not without its trials and tribulations.
There was the continual uncertainty about his own life here in America,
the constant irritation caused by the assumption of the white men that a
white woman does not love her Chinese husband, and their actions
accordingly; also sneers and offensive remarks. There was also on Liu
Kanghi’s side an acute consciousness that, though belonging to him as
his wife, yet in a sense I was not his, but of the dominant race, which
claimed, even while it professed to despise me. This consciousness
betrayed itself in words and ways which filled me with a passion of pain
and humiliation. “Kanghi,” I would sharply say, for I had to cloak my
tenderness, “do not talk to me like that. You _are_ my superior.... I
would not love you if you were not.”
But in spite of all I could do or say, it was there between us: that
strange, invisible—what? Was it the barrier of race—that consciousness?
Sometimes he would talk about returning to China. The thought filled me
with horror. I had heard rumors of secondary wives. One afternoon the
cousin of Liu Kanghi, with whom I had lived, came to see me, and showed
me a letter which she had received from a little Chinese girl who had
been born and brought up in America until the age of ten. The last
paragraph in the letter read: “Emma and I are very sad and wish we were
back in America.” Kanghi’s cousin explained that the father of the
little girls, having no sons, had taken to himself another wife, and the
new wife lived with the little girls and their mother.
That was before my little boy was born. That evening I told Kanghi that
he need never expect me to go to China with him.
“You see,” I began, “I look upon you as belonging to me.”
He would not let me say more. After a while he said: “It is true that in
China a man may and occasionally does take a secondary wife, but that
custom is custom, not only because sons are denied to the first wife,
but because the first wife is selected by parents and guardians before a
man is hardly a man. If a Chinese marries for love, his life is a
filled-up cup, and he wants no secondary wife. No, not even for sake of
a son. Take, for example, me, your great husband.”
I sometimes commented upon his boyish ways and appearance, which was the
reason why, when he was in high spirits, he would call himself my “great
husband.” He was not boyish always. I have seen him, when shouldering
the troubles of kinfolk, the quarrels of his clan, and other
responsibilities, acting and looking like a man of twice his years.
But for all the strange marriage customs of my husband’s people I
considered them far more moral in their lives than the majority of
Americans. I expressed myself thus to Liu Kanghi, and he replied: “The
American people think higher. If only more of them lived up to what they
thought, the Chinese would not be so confused in trying to follow their
leadership.”
If ever a man rejoiced over the birth of his child, it was Liu Kanghi.
The boy was born with a veil over his face. “A prophet!” cried the old
mulatto Jewess who nursed me. “A prophet has come into the world.”
She told this to his father when he came to look upon him, and he
replied: “He is my son; that is all I care about.” But he was so glad,
and there was feasting and rejoicing with his Chinese friends for over
two weeks. He came in one evening and found me weeping over my poor
little boy. I shall never forget the expression on his face.
“Oh, shame!” he murmured, drawing my head down to his shoulder. “What is
there to weep about? The child is beautiful! The feeling heart, the
understanding mind is his. And we will bring him up to be proud that he
is of Chinese blood; he will fear none and, after him, the name of
half-breed will no longer be one of contempt.”
Kanghi as a youth had attended a school in Hong Kong, and while there
had made the acquaintance of several half Chinese half English lads.
“They were the brightest of all,” he told me, “but they lowered
themselves in the eyes of the Chinese by being ashamed of their Chinese
blood and ignoring it.”
His theory, therefore, was that if his own son was brought up to be
proud instead of ashamed of his Chinese half, the boy would become a
great man.
Perhaps he was right, but he could not see as could I, an American
woman, the conflict before our boy.
After the little Kanghi had passed his first month, and we had found a
reliable woman to look after him, his father began to take me around
with him much more than formerly, and life became very enjoyable. We
dined often at a Chinese restaurant kept by a friend of his, and
afterwards attended theatres, concerts, and other places of
entertainment. We frequently met Americans with whom he had become
acquainted through business, and he would introduce them with great
pride in me shining in his eyes. The little jealousies and suspicions of
the first year seemed no longer to irritate him, and though I had still
cause to shrink from the gaze of strangers, I know that my Chinese
husband was for several years a very happy man.
* * * * *
Now, I have come to the end. He left home one morning, followed to the
gate by the little girl and boy (we had moved to a cottage in the
suburbs).
“Bring me a red ball,” pleaded the little girl.
“And me too,” cried the boy.
“All right, chickens,” he responded, waving his hand to them.
He was brought home at night, shot through the head. There are some
Chinese, just as there are some Americans, who are opposed to all
progress, and who hate with a bitter hatred all who would enlighten or
be enlightened.
But that I have not the heart to dwell upon. I can only remember that
when they brought my Chinese husband home there were two red balls in
his pocket. Such was Liu Kanghi—a man.