My Lady of the Chinese Courtyard by Elizabeth Cooper.
[Illustration: Mylady01.]
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My Lady of the Chinese Courtyard by Elizabeth Cooper.
Author of "Sayonara," etc.
With Thirty-One Illustrations In Duotone From Photographs.
Dedicated,
To My Husband.
Author's Note.
In these letters I have drawn quite freely and sometimes literally from
the excellent and authoritative translations of Chinese classics by
Professor Giles in his "Chinese Literature" and from "The Lute of
Jude" and "The Mastersingers of Japan," two books in the "Wisdom of
the East" series edited by L. Cranmer-Byng and S. A. Kapadia (E. P.
Dutton and Company). These translators have loved the songs of the
ancient poets of China and Japan and caught with sympathetic
appreciation, in their translations, the spirit of the East.
I wish to thank them for their help in making it possible to render into
English the imagery and poetry used by "My Lady of the Chinese
Courtyard."
Acknowledgment is also made to Mr. Donald Mennie of Shanghai,
China, who took most of the photographs from which the illustrations
have been made.
--Elizabeth Cooper.
Part 1.
-Preface_.
A writer on things Chinese was asked why one found so little writing
upon the subject of the women of China. He stopped, looked puzzled
for a moment, then said, "The woman of China! One never hears about
them. I believe no one ever thinks about them, except perhaps that
they are the mothers of the Chinese men!"
Such is the usual attitude taken in regard to the woman of the flowery
Republic. She is practically unknown, she hides herself behind her
husband and her sons, yet, because of that filial piety, that almost
religious veneration in which all men of Eastern races hold their
parents, she really exerts an untold influence upon the deeds of the
men of her race.
Less is known about Chinese women than about any other women of
Oriental lands. Their home life is a sealed book to the average person
visiting China. Books about China deal mainly with the lower-class
Chinese, as it is chiefly with that class that the average visitor or
missionary comes into contact. The tourists see only the coolie
woman bearing burdens in the street, trotting along with a couple of
heavy baskets swung from her shoulders, or they stop to stare at the
neatly dressed mothers sitting on their low stools in the narrow
alleyways, patching clothing or fondling their children. They see and
hear the boat-women, the women who have the most freedom of any
in all China, as they weave their sampans in and out of the crowded
traffic on the canals. These same tourists visit the tea-houses and
see the gaily dressed "sing-song" girls, or catch a glimpse of a
gaudily painted face, as a lady is hurried along in her sedan-chair,
carried on the shoulders of her chanting bearers. But the real Chinese
woman, with her hopes, her fears, her romances, her children, and her
religion, is still undiscovered.
I hope that this book, based on letters shown me many years after
they were written, will give a faint idea of the life of a Chinese lady.
The story is told in two series of letters conceived to be written by
Kwei-li, the wife of a very high Chinese official, to her husband when
he accompanied his master, Prince Chung, on his trip around the
world.
She was the daughter of a viceroy of Chih-li, a man most advanced for
his time, who was one of the forerunners of the present educational
movement in China, a movement which has caused her youth to rise
and demand Western methods and Western enterprise in place of the
obsolete traditions and customs of their ancestors. To show his belief
in the new spirit that was breaking over his country, he educated his
daughter along with his sons. She was given as tutor Ling-Wing-pu, a
famous poet of his province, who doubtless taught her the imagery
and beauty of expression which is so truly Eastern.
Within the beautiful ancestral home of her husband, high on the
mountains-side outside of the city of Su-Chau, she lived the quite,
sequestered life of the high-class Chinese woman, attending to the
household duties, which are not light in these patriarchal homes,
where an incredible number of people live under the same rooftree.
The sons bring their wives to their father's house instead of
establishing separate homes for themselves, and they are all under
the watchful eye of the mother, who can make a veritable prison or a
palace for her daughters-in-law. In China the mother reigns supreme.
The mother-in-law of Kwei-li was an old-time conservative Chinese
lady, the woman who cannot adapt herself to the changing conditions,
who resents change of methods, new interpretations and fresh
expressions of life. She sees in the new ideas that her sons bring
from the foreign schools disturbers only of her life's ideals. She
instinctively feels that they are gathering about her retreat, beating at
her doors, creeping in at her closely shuttered windows, even winning
her sons from her arms. She stands an implacable foe of progress
and she will not admit that the world is moving on, broadening its
outlook and clothing itself in a new expression. She feels that she is
being left behind with her dead gods, and she cries out against the
change which is surely but slowly coming to China, and especially to
Chinese women, with the advent of education and the knowledge of
the outside world.
In a household in China a daughter-in-law is of very little importance
until she is the mother of a son. Then, from being practically a servant
of her husband's mother, she rises to place of equality and is looked
upon with respect. She has fulfilled her once great duty, the thing for
which she was created: she has given her husband a son to worship
at his grave and at the graves of his ancestors. The great prayer which
rises from the heart of all Chinese women, rich and poor, peasant and
princess, is to Kwan-yin, for the inestimable blessing of sons. "Sons!
Give me sons!" is heard in every temple. To be childless is the
greatest sorrow that can come to Chinese women, as she fully
realizes that for this cause her husband is justified in putting her away
for another wife, and she may not complain or cry out, except in
secret, to her Goddess of Mercy, who has not answered her prayers.
Understanding this, we can dimly realise the joy of Kwei-li upon the
birth of her son, and her despair upon his death.
At this time, when she was in very depths of despondency, when she
had turned from the gods of her people, when it was feared that her
sorrow, near to madness, she would take the little round ball of
sleep-- opium-- that was brought rest to so many despairing women in
China, her servants brought her the Gospel of St. John, which they
bought of an itinerant colporteur in the market-place, hoping that it
might interest her. In the long nights when sleep would not come to
her, she read it-- and found the peace she sought.
1
My Dear One,
The house on the mountain-top has lost its soul. It is nothing but a
palace with empty windows. I go upon the terrace and look over the
valley where the sun sinks a golden red ball, casting long purple
shadows on the plain. Then I remember that thou art not coming from
the city to me, and I stay to myself that there can be no dawn that I
care to see, and no sunset to gladden my eyes, unless I share it with
thee.
[Illustration: Mylady02.]
But do not think I am unhappy. I do everything the same as if thou
wert here, and in everything I say, "Would this please my master?"
Meh-ki wished to put thy long chair away, as she said it was too big;
but I did not permit. It must rest where I can look at it and imagine I
see thee lying it, smoking thy water pipe; and the small table is
always near by, where thou canst reach out thy hand for thy papers
and the drink thou lovest. Meh-ki also brought out the dwarf pine-tree
and put it on the terrace, but I remembered thou saidst it looked like
an old man who had been beaten in his childhood, and I gave it to her
for one of the inner courtyards. She thinks it very beautiful, and so I
did once; but I have learned to see with thine eyes, and I know now
that a tree made straight and beautiful and tall by the Gods is more to
be regarded than one that has been bent and twisted by man.
Such a long letter I am writing thee. I am so glad that though madest
me promise to write thee every seventh day, and to tell thee all that
passes within my household and my heart. Thine Honourable Mother
says it is not seemly to send communication from mine hand to thine.
She says it was a thing unheard of in her girlhood, and that we
younger generations have passed the limits of all modesty and
womanliness. She wishes me to have the writer or thy brother send
thee the news of thine household; but that I will not permit. It must
come from me, thy wife. Each one of these strokes will come to thee
bearing my message. Thou wilt not tear the covering roughly as thou
didst those great official letters; nor wilt thou crush the papers quickly
in thy hand, because it is the written word of Kwei-li, who sends with
each stroke of brush a part of her heart.
2
My Dear One,
My first letter to thee was full of sadness and longing because thou
wert newly gone from me. Now a week has passed, the sadness is
still in my heart, but it is buried deep for only me to know. I have my
duties which must be done, my daily tasks that only I can do since
thine Honourable Mother has handed me the keys of the rice-bin. I
realise the great honour she does me, and that at last she trusts me
and believes me no child as she did when I first entered her
household.
Can I ever forget that day when I came to my husband's people? I had
the one great consolation of a bride, my parents had not sent me
away empty-handed. The procession was almost a li in length and I
watched with a swelling heart the many tens of coolies carrying my
household goods. There were the silken coverlets for the beds, and
they were folded to show their richness and carried on red lacquered
tables of great value. There were the household utensils of many
kinds, the vegetable dishes, the baskets, the camphor-wood baskets
containing my clothing, tens upon tens of them; and I said within my
heart as they passed me by, "Enter my new home before me. Help
me find a loving welcome." Then at the end of the chanting procession
I came in my red chair of marriage, so closely covered I could barely
breathe. My trembling feet could scarce support me as they helped
me from the chair, and my hand shook with fear as I was being led
into my new household. She stood bravely before you, that little girl
dressed in red and gold, her hair twined with pearls and jade, her
arms tiny finger, but with all her bravery she was
frightened-- frightened. She was away from her parents for the first
time, away from all who love her, and she knew if she did not meet
with approval in her new home her rice-bowl would be full of bitterness
for many moons to come.
After the obeisance to the ancestral tablet and we had fallen upon our
knees before thine Honourable Parent, I then saw for the first time the
face of my husband. Dost thou remember when first thou raised my
veil and looked long into my eyes? I was thinking, "Will he find me
beautiful?" and in fear I could look but for a moment, then my eyes fell
and I would not raise then to thine again. But in that moment I saw
that thou wert tall and beautiful, that thine eyes were truly almond,
that thy skin was clear and thy teeth like pearls. I was secretly glad
within my heart, because I have known of brides who, when they saw
their husbands for the first time, wished to scream in terror, as they
were old or ugly. I thought to myself that I could be happy with this
tall, strong young man if I found favour in his sight, and I said a little
prayer to Kwan-yin. Because she has answered that prayer, each day
I place a candle at her feet to show my gratitude.
I think thine Honourable Mother has passed me the keys of the
household to take my mind from my loss. She says a heart that is
busy cannot mourn, and my days are full of duties. I arise in the
morning early, and after seeing that my hair is tidy, I take a cup of tea
to the Aged One and make my obeisance; then I place the rice and
water in their dishes before the God of the Kitchen, and light a tiny
stick of incense for his altar, so that our day may begin auspiciously.
After the morning meal I consult with the cook and steward. The
vegetables must be regarded carefully and the fish inspected, and I
must ask the price that has been paid, because often a hireling is
hurried and forgets that a bargain is not made with a breath.
I carry the great keys and feel much pride when I open the door of the
storeroom. Why, I do not know, unless it is because of the realisation
that I am the head of this large household. If the servants or their
children are ill, they come to me instead of to thine Honourable
Mother, as they be too rare or heavy for one of my mind and
experience.
Then I go with the gardener to the terrace and help him arrange the
flowers for the day. I love the stone-flagged terrace, with its low marble
balustrade, resting close against the mountain to which it seems to
cling.
I always stop a moment and look over the valley, because it was from
here I watched thee when thou went to the city in the morning, and
here I waited thy return. Because of my love for it and the rope of
remembrance with which it binds me, I keep it beautiful with rugs and
flowers.
It speaks to me of happiness and brings back memories of summer
days spent idling in a quite so still that we could hear the rustle of the
bamboo grasses on the hillside down below; or, still more dear, the
evenings passed close by thy side, watching the brightened into jade
each door and archway as it passed.
I long for thee, I love thee, I am thine.
Thy Wife.
3
My Dear One,
The hours of one day are as like each other as are twin blossoms
from the pear-tree. There is no news to tell thee. The mornings are
passed in the duties that come to all women who have the care of a
household, and the afternoons I am on the terrace with thy sister. But
first of all, thine August Mother must be made comfortable for her
sleep, and then the peace indeed is wonderful.
Mah-li and I take our embroidery and sit upon the terrace, where we
pass long hours watching the people in the valley below. The faint
blue smoke curls from a thousand dwellings, and we try to imagine
the lives of those who dwell beneath the rooftrees. We see the
peasants in their rice-fields; watch them dragging the rich mud from
the bottoms of the canal for fertilizing; hear the shrill whistle of the
duck man as, with long bamboo, he drives the great flock of ducks
homeward or sends them over the fields to search for insects. We see
the wedding procession far below, and can but faintly follow the great
covered chair of the bride and the train of servants carrying the
possessions to the new home. Often the wailing of the mourners in a
funeral comes to our ears, and we lean far over the balcony to watch
the coolie scatter the spirit money that will pay the dead man's way to
land of the Gods. But yesterday we saw the procession carrying the
merchant Wong to his resting-place of sycee spent upon his funeral.
Thy brothers tell me his sons made great boast that no man has been
buried with such pomp in all the province. But it only brings more
clearly the remembrance that he began this life a sampan coolie and
ended it with many millions. But his millions did not bring him
happiness. He laboured without ceasing, and then without living to
enjoy the fruit, worn out, departed, one knows not whither.
[Illustration: Mylady03.]
[Illustration: Mylady04.]
Yesterday we heard the clang-clang of a gong and saw the Taotai
pass by, his men carrying the boards and banners with his official
rank and virtues written upon them, and we counted the red umbrellas
and wondered if some poor peasant was in deep trouble.
It is beautiful here now. The hillside is purple with the autumn bloom
and air is filled with a golden haze. The red leaves drift slowly down
the canal and tell me that soon the winter winds will come. Outside
the walls the insects sing sleepily in grass, seeming to know that
their brief life is nearly spent. The wild geese on their southward flight
carry my thoughts to thee. All is sad, and sad as the clouded moon
my longing face, and my eyes are filled with tears. Not at twilight nor
at grey of dawn can I find happiness without thee, my lord, mine own,
and "endless are the days as trailing creepers."
Thy Wife.
4
My Dear One,
I have much to tell thee. My last letter was unhappy, and these little
slips of paper must bring to thee joy, not sorrow, else why the written
word?
First, I must tell thee that thy brother Chih-peh will soon be married.
Thou knowest he has long been betrothed to Li-ti, the daughter of the
Governor of Chih-li, and soon the bride will be here. We have been
arranging her apartments. We do not know how many home servants
she will bring, and we are praying the Gods to grant her discretion,
because with servants from a different province there are sure to be
jealousies and the retailing of small tales that disturb the harmony of
a household.
Many tales have been brought us of her great beauty, and we hear
she has much education. Thine August Mother is much disturbed over
the latter, as she says, and justly too, that over-learning is not good
for women. It is not meet to give them books in which to store their
embroidery silks. But I-- I am secretly delighted, and Mah-li, thy
sister, is transported with joy. I think within our hearts, although we
would not even whisper it to the night wind, we are glad that there will
be three instead of two to bear the burden of the discourses of thine
Honourable Mother. Not that she talks too much, thou understandest,
nor that her speech is not stored full of wisdom, but-- she talks-- and
we must listen.
We have other news. A new slave-girl has come into our household.
As thou knowest, there has been a great famine to the north of us,
and the boats, who follow all disaster, have been anchored in our
canal. I do not know why August One desired to add one more to take
of rice beneath our rooftree; but she is here. She was brought before
me, a little peasant girl, dressed in faded blue trousers and a jacket
that had been many times to the washing pool. Her black hair was
coiled in the girlhood knot at the side of the head, and in it she had
stuck a pumpkin blossom. She was such a pretty little country flower,
and looked so helpless, I drew her to me and questioned her. She told
me there were many within their compound wall: grandmother, father,
mother, brothers, sisters, uncles and cousins. The rice was gone, the
heavy clothing and all of value in the pawn-shop. Death was all around
them, and they watched each day as he drew nearer-- nearer. Then
came the buyers of girls. They had money that would buy rice for the
winter and mean life to all. But the mother would not listen. She was
told over and over that the price of one would save the many. Her
nights were spent in weeping and her days in fearful watching. At last,
worn out, despairing, she went to a far-off temple to ask Kwan-yin, the
Mother of Mercies, for help in her great trouble. While she was gone,
Ho-tai was taken to the women in the boat at the water-gate, and
many pieces of silver were paid the father. When the stomach is
empty, pride is not strong, and there were many small bodies crying
for rice that could only be bought with the sacrifice of one. That night,
as they started down the canal, they saw on the tow-path a peasant
women, her dress open far below her throat, her hair loose and flying,
her eyes swollen and dry from over-weeping, moaning pitifully,
stumbling on in the darkness, searching for the boat that had been
anchored at the water-gate; but it was gone. Poor little Ho-tai! She
said, "It was my mother!" and as she told me, he face was wet with
bitter rain. I soothed her and told her we would make her happy, and I
made a little vow in my heart that I would find that mother and bring
peace to her heart again.
The summer wanes and autumn is upon us with all its mists and
shadows of purple and grey. The camphor-trees look from the
distance like great balls of fire, and the eucalyptus-tree, in its dress of
brilliant yellow, is a gaily painted court lady. If one short glimpse of
thee my heart could gladden, then all my soul would be filled with the
beauty of this time, these days of red and gold. But now I seek thee
the long night through, and turn to make my arm thy pillow-- but thou
art gone.