And for the prescribed time I lay in my pretty room--all my senses
deeply responsive to the life going on in a Chinese household: the clang
of small gongs that summoned the servants; much laughter coming in
faintly or clearly as my doors were opened or shut; the tap of lily feet
along the passage; the glimmer of Madame Springtime's radiant pink or
blue robes as she entered to inquire after my welfare or bring some new
delicacy that had been procured for me; the smoke of incense from the
altar floating into the room at intervals, with a pungent sweetness that
roused vague memories and emotions. Everything in the house--hangings,
clothes, furnishings--was saturated with this aroma. Mingled with a
bitter smell, which is distilled by immense age, and touched with the
irritative quality of dust, this odour now means China to me and it is
more precious than all other perfumes in the world.
"But, Chan-King, life is nothing but food!" I protested, about the third
day, when my fourth meal had been served to me early in the afternoon.
"But the quantities are small," he answered. "Much better way, don't you
think, than taking great meals many hours apart?"
Early in the morning, the young maid assigned to me would bring in a
bowl of hot milk and biscuit. In our apartment, at half-past eight, she
would serve breakfast, consisting of soft-boiled rice--congee--with
various kinds of salty, sweet and sour preparations. At eleven o'clock
there was turtle soup or chicken broth. At noon came tiffin, which
consisted of substantial meat and vegetable dishes, fish and soup, and
dry-boiled rice. Our mid-afternoon refreshment was noodles of wheat or
bean-flour, or perhaps a variety of fancy cakes. Tea, kept hot by a
basket-cosy, was always on hand in every room. At seven the family
dined, and, after the two weeks were up, I joined them, sitting at the
first table with Mother and my husband. Dinner was an elaborate meal, in
courses, with rice at the close. At bedtime came hot milk again, or
sweet congee or perhaps tea, brewed from lotus-seed or almonds. I was
continually nibbling. I thought Chinese food delicious, particularly in
my husband's province, noted for its delicious "crunchy" fried things.
But Chan-King had yearnings for American dishes. I gave the head cook
minute instructions for preparing fricasseed chicken, fresh salads,
beefsteak with Spanish sauce--even American hot cakes, and he enjoyed
the American canned goods, with butter, cheese, jams and bread, which
were brought in frequently from the port.
An episode that caused much merriment was Chan-King's initiation of his
family into the mystery--and history--of chop suey. The rich joke of
that "made-in-America" Chinese dish is penetrating to every household
where the returned student is found. In Shanghai we had heard with
amusement how the bewildered _chef_ of the Y.M.C.A. café had gone down
to one of the great trans-Pacific liners lying in port, to learn from
the head cook on board just what this "chop suey," which all his
returned student patrons were demanding, might be. Now, with memories of
old college club activities prompting us, and with a skilful cook to
carry out our directions, Chan-King and I introduced into the ancestral
home that most misunderstood dish in all the world. The family agreed
that, though vaguely familiar, it was unlike anything they had ever
tried before, and they decided without dissenting vote that it was
superior to fricasseed chicken, Spanish steak or hot cakes.
At this time, my husband's brother, Lin-King, came home for a brief
stay. I decided from photographs that he resembled his father, who was
still away. Lin-King and Madame Springtime seemed well-suited to each
other and happy, although the marriage had been arranged by their
families and they had never seen each other before the ceremony. I
decided that the old custom had much merit, after all--for other
people--and said so to my husband, adding, "When our children are
grown, we must have them all marry Chinese." Chan-King looked at me long
in silence and then, sighing humorously, he asked, "What of their
father's example my dear?"
Since my Chinese was still bookish and unpractised in the all-important
matters of tone and local idiom, I could not converse with the family,
and at the dinner-table and in my mother's apartment I was as silent and
meek and pleasant of manner as Madame Springtime herself. Madame
Springtime served formal tea to our many guests in absolute silence,
with a sweet, fixed smile at the corners of her red mouth. I watched her
with consuming interest, for she was acting as first daughter-in-law in
my stead.
The machinery of life ran with the smoothness of long habit and complete
discipline. The meals were served, the apartments kept in exquisite
order and the children cared for by a corps of servants trained in
minutiæ by an exacting mistress, who knew precisely what she wanted. Our
days were left free for the practice of small courtesies, the exchange
of pretty attentions and the care of the ancestral altar.
From the ceremonies that took place before this altar at various times,
my husband kept himself, his wife and children sedulously aloof. It was
neither asked nor expected that he would do otherwise, just as our
attendance at the little mission church was accepted without question.
At other times, however, I had ample opportunity to study the altar and
to enjoy the beauty of its massive carvings, its elaborate
incense-burners and candlesticks, its exquisitely wrought embroideries.
A porcelain image of the Buddhistic Goddess of Mercy in her character of
Son-Giver, set within a large glass case, fascinated me by its
remarkable resemblance to certain Catholic images. But the ancestral
tablets interested me more, and the respect that I have always accorded
objects sacred to others was in this instance mingled with profoundly
personal feelings: the inter-blended characteristics of those men and
women so many years dead and gone lived on in the man who was my
husband; their life currents pulsed warmly in the veins of my children;
perhaps some deep insight gained beyond the grave enabled them to know
how truly I acknowledged my debt to them, how earnestly I hoped those
children might not prove unworthy of their heritage.
With the help of Chan-King's coaching and my personal observations, I
soon learned the gracious routine of the house. At ten o'clock every
morning I presented myself at the door of Madame Liang's apartment and
sat with her for several hours, often over tiffin, even till tea-time,
if she signified a desire for my company. If the weather was fair, we
would walk in the garden, she leaning lightly on my arm, her cane
tapping on the flagstones. At times, also, tea was served here, with the
small children joining us for hot milk and sweet cakes.
I was several days in getting the members of the household identified in
their proper relations, for there were thirty persons gathered in that
big, low-roofed, rambling compound behind the high, enveloping wall.
They were nearly all women, and two-thirds of them servants. The quiet,
soft-mannered woman relatives spent nearly all of their time in their
own apartments. Madame Liang's powerful personality, silent and
compelling, paled the colours of nearly all the temperaments around her.
Her friend, Madame Chau, was immensely comforting to her, for she could
not be persuaded to take anything very seriously. Madame Liang laughed
with her more than with anyone else. While they busily embroidered, they
gossiped, and I listened to their musical speech with its soft southern
accents and chiming, many-toned cadences.
I used to think, as I sat in a deep-cushioned chair, nursing the small
Alicia, with a pot of tea at my elbow, that Madame Liang, in her
gorgeous, heavily carved, black-and-orange bed, enclosed on three sides
by panels of painted silk and draped over the front with silk curtains
held back by tasselled brocaded bands, was a link in the Chain of
Everlasting Things. She had come into the house exactly as "new women"
had done century after century, and she had lived out her life
unquestioningly according to their precepts and example. There was a
monumental, timeless dignity about her as she sewed and talked of simple
matters. In her presence, I felt young and facile and terribly
unanchored.
I talked these things over with Chan-King in the dark of the night, when
all the household was silent. He was interested in my reactions,
knowing they were the outcome of a profound personal love for his family
and sympathy with everybody in it. Spiritually, Chan-King also was in
sympathy with his family. Practically--well, as I have said, there were
moments when he longed for American food, and his first deed in the
house was to order the bed curtains removed from our apartment.
They were removed, and nothing was said. A wonderful spirit of courtesy
and toleration prevailed in the family life, with a complete absence of
that criss-cross of personal criticism that our Western freedom of
speech permits. Not that there were not undercurrents, intimate
antagonisms here and there, personal sacrifices and sorrows. But they
were not recognized, for in Chinese life individual claims are eternally
relinquished in the interest of clan peace and well-being. There was one
authority, and it was vested in Madame Liang. Such a system makes for
harmony and preserves the institution of the family, on which all China
is founded.
Making no conscious effort, I myself yet became so imbued with this
spirit that, when the Government summons came for Chan-King to report in
Peking early in the new year, I choked down my anguish and said, "How
splendid for us all, Chan-King! When are you going?"
We were in the last week of the old year, and at Madame Liang's earnest
entreaty my husband delayed his departure (as the summons permitted),
that, in the midst of his family, he might celebrate the most delightful
of all holidays. Delicious cooking odours now drifted about everywhere,
new clothes for every one were made ready, and faces took on a shining
happiness.
One evening after a visit to his mother, Chan-King came to me, laughing
heartily. "Mother reminds me," he said, "that for three days it is
customary for the maids, when sweeping the floor, to pile the dust
carefully in a corner instead of throwing it out, lest the family good
fortune should be thrown out with it. But she says of course it is only
an old superstition and if you like you may tell the maid to remove the
sweepings as usual." I laughed too. Then I said, "Tell Mother we shall
do our part towards keeping good fortune in the family." "For three
days, also," continued Chan-King, "no harsh or scolding word is to be
spoken by anyone. And therefore," he went on sonorously, "your
tyrannical Chinese husband will cease to lecture his American wife--who
is certain to need it, though." I looked into his eyes, bright with
irrepressible gaiety, and suddenly I kissed them shut, my own eyes
misty. "Oh, my dearest," I whispered, "you are just a little boy at home
again, in spite of the silver threads." And I smoothed the black locks,
already sprinkled with grey. "Chan, I love the Chinese New Year!" I
said.
Even now I see it all again. My husband was wearing a long, dignified
gown of dark green satin--unfigured, as is customary for officials--dark
green trousers, short brown jacket, lined with soft fur, black satin cap
and black boots. Wilfred was quite a young gentleman in long gown of
blue-green silk, braid-trimmed jacket of dark green, blue trousers and
red-tufted cap. Chubby Alfred was dressed in lavender jacket, scarlet
trousers, a tiger-face apron of red, white and black, embroidered shoes
and a gay little knitted cap. Alicia, whom the whole family loved best
in her frilled white American dresses, added now a pink silk jacket and
an adorable little pink and black cap, which gave an Oriental grace to
her features. I wore my latest Shanghai creation, in pale
lilac-and-black figured satin. Guests came and went incessantly, and we
made our calls in the village. The air was filled with odours of spice,
molasses, roasted meats, seed-cakes and millet candy and with sounds of
fire-crackers, gongs and happy voices.
But it was over at last. The time for my husband's departure had come.
With silent expertness, Ah Ching set about packing. In three days
Chan-King was ready to go. He was coaching me in the household phrases I
should need most in making myself understood without his help. Madame
Liang decided that, during my husband's absence, I should assume my
position as first daughter-in-law. I had no apprehension in regard to
the minute, exacting duties that would devolve upon me as a right-hand
companion to my husband's mother, for I loved her, but I was not sure of
my tact or my deftness, and I felt strung up painfully at the thought of
my immediate future.
After the hourly companionship of months, parting from Chan-King was
very terrible indeed. He was in and out of our apartment, moving about
the house with restless energy, arranging final details. At last he came
and stood beside me. "Say good-bye now, dearest," he whispered.
"Afterwards--out there--we shall have no opportunity." He drew me close
and we kissed with deep feeling, the tears in my eyes refusing to be
suppressed any longer.
"Don't cry," he begged, with unaccustomed emotion. "Don't cry, or I
can't leave you!" Then he held my face up and dried my tears with his
handkerchief and said solemnly, "Smile at me!" And I smiled.
We went across to his mother's apartment, and she came out, the tears on
her cheeks not stanched. Joined by the rest of the family, we
accompanied him to the entrance and then to the gate, which stood open,
almost blocked by the waiting sedan-chair. Chan-King was in Chinese
dress, and as he stood there--profile towards me--among the group of
servants, giving his final directions, he seemed more Oriental, more
absorbed into his country, than I remembered ever to have seen him.
He made a profound bow to his mother, with formal words of leave-taking,
and gave me a grave little nod. Then, without looking back, he stepped
into the chair, the curtains were drawn, and the coolies trotted off
down the steep path, followed a little way by the bounding black dogs.
Mother and I stood together, after the others had gone, and watched his
chair jostling down the narrow, paved way. Then we turned and looked at
each other--rueful smiles on our mouths, tears in our eyes. We shook our
heads at each other. I half raised a hand to my heart, then let it fall.
I think both of us found our lack of mutual language a welcome excuse
for silence.
Madame Liang turned toward the house. The gates closed behind us. I
gave her my arm in support until we reached the doorway; then I stepped
a pace behind her as she entered. Without speaking, I waited until she
had knelt at the altar, and the incense was rising in clouds before the
imperturbable images under their glass cases. Then I attended her to her
own apartment. My life as a real Chinese daughter-in-law had begun.