As I followed my Chinese mother into her apartments, I thought of the
benevolent croakings of friends. Their words rattled through my memory
like pebbles shaken in a pail: "She can never be happy with a Chinese
husband!" Later it was, "It is all very well in America, but wait until
she goes to China." When I had happily established myself there, "Heaven
help her," said they, "if she tries to live with her Chinese
mother-in-law!" In Shanghai, foreign friends had predicted, "Oh, yes,
she's lovely in _your_ house, but wait until you try living in _her_
house!"
"This is the last ditch, Margaret," I said to myself. "Take it clear!
Either you are about to make one more argument against intermarriage or
you are going to settle the question for ever so far as your case is
concerned."
Mother and I went in to dinner together, somewhat later than usual. We
attacked our food very bravely, eyes down. I glanced up inadvertently,
and the sight of tears on her cheeks released mine too. I leaned forward
and took her hand and we struggled with a sentence or two. "No tears!" I
said. "Be patient!" she answered.
Next morning after the _amah_ had dressed young Alicia, while the
cheerful child was following me about the room with her eyes and talking
merry baby talk, I took her up and went, earlier than usual, to see
Mother. I found her sitting up in bed. She was dressed for the day, and
the blankets were rolled back against the side of the wall, making a
comfortable couch for her. Thinking of Chan-King, I looked at the row
of little cabinets extending across the back, half-way up towards the
canopy. I remembered Chan-King's telling me of the year when he was
still small enough to stand under these fascinatingly carved cabinets,
where his mother stored her trinkets and toilet articles, embroidery
silks, perfumes and the endless paraphernalia of her quiet life, and of
the pride he felt when he bumped his head one day and found that he must
stoop to be comfortable.
Wilfred was just high enough now to stand easily under the cabinets,
but, in some mysterious fashion, the little image of him presented at
this moment to my fancy became that of the small, far-away Chan-King,
whom I was for ever re-creating in my mind as I went about the house
where he had lived his pleasant youth.
This morning I laid Alicia on the bed near Madame Liang. She bent over
her and made a _moue_ into the rosy face. I was much pleased when
Madame Liang was unusually attentive to Alicia, though my sense of
justice always reminded me that my own Scotch mother would probably have
made more of the boys. But our Alicia was the first daughter in two
generations of my husband's family, and, even though the sons were of
priceless value to the clan, she was loved and cherished tenderly. It
seemed to me at times that the household was more fond of her than of
all the boys together, including Madame Springtime's young Kya-Song, who
filled the left wing of the compound with his shouts of glee as he
played riding-horse on his precarious bamboo stool. I remembered with
amusement the Western idea that daughters are unwelcome, always, in
Chinese families.
While Madame Liang patted the baby, talking to her coaxingly, I asked
what she wished me to do.
She indicated on her dressing-table a box of stereoscopic views, which
I brought to her. They formed a complete story, but had become very much
confused. As I could read the foreign titles, would I kindly arrange the
pictures in proper sequence? The ease and speed with which I
accomplished this task won her instant approbation.
This was merely one of the numberless small things I did for her
thereafter. In my new estate I was in attendance on my mother during
many hours of the day. I walked with her in the garden in fine weather,
I sat with her and sewed, threading needles as for my own mother and
even helping her to make those marvellous small shoes that she fashioned
so carefully to the form of her feet. One day I told her how amazed I
had been when I first learned from Chan-King that Chinese wives made the
family shoes, but how readily I could understand, when I saw the dainty
embroidered foot-wear he referred to, that shoemaking was indeed a
womanly craft.
She and Madame Chau used to take great pride in making for themselves
the most frivolous of shoes. Madame Chau's were the smaller, being
barely two and a half inches long, whereas those of my mother were twice
that length and different in shape. I discovered the reason for this:
Madame Chau clung tenaciously to the old style; but Mother had gradually
let out her bandages and altered their arrangement, keeping pace with
the change that followed the abolition of the old custom.
I became deeply interested in the custom of foot-binding. In Shanghai,
all the pupils of my school and (with certain notable exceptions) the
women of my social world had natural feet, and the majority of them wore
American pumps and Oxfords or English boots. Bound feet, though I saw
them frequently in public, seemed very remote. But now, save the girls
of twelve and under, who had profited by the new order of things, the
women among whom I lived all had bound feet. It may be worth noting,
when one remembers how America, with its own great unwashed, jokes at
the expense of the Chinese of whatever rank or station, that, in
accordance with the fastidious cleanliness of upper-class Chinese, the
bound feet were exquisitely cared for, and the narrow, white, specially
woven bandages were changed every two or three days. As I watched the
daintily shod women of my mother's household, I realized that never
before had I appreciated, in reading the literature of my adopted
country, the aptness of comparing the walk of a woman with bound feet to
the grace of bamboo swaying in the breeze. Never had I suspected the
charm attached to twinkling flashes of embroidery beneath a panelled,
many-plaited skirt. My own number-four feet assumed alarming
proportions. I grew positively ashamed of them. One day as Mother and I
sat together in arm-chairs, with a blackwood tea-table between us, I
placed my feet in line with hers and said, sighing, "Ah, they look very
bad, indeed!" She waved a deprecating hand. "Never mind," she said with
courtesy and truth, "they may not look so well, but they certainly walk
better."
Of course I was glad that the small Alicia belonged to Young China, and
would purchase no golden lilies with a cask of tears, as I had often
read that every woman with bound feet must do. But I now decided that
the cask must have been filled in the years of girlhood. For the women
about me seemed to suffer no pain--only an occasional numbness, relieved
by brisk massage from knee to ankle under the hands of a maid. I was
surprised at the ease and energy with which they got about, merely
balancing with small forward and backward steps when stopping--unless
they had a servant's arm, or a cane, for support.
I thought our mother infinitely superior in the grace and dignity of her
carriage. Madame Springtime, who had slightly enlarged her feet, at the
command of her husband, moved slowly and with a lack of grace
characteristic of the younger generation. Madame Chang moved ponderously
and with difficulty. Madame Chau hurried with quick, fluttering steps.
On occasion she would even run races with Alfred, our merry second son,
now two and a half years old. She would catch his hand, lean forward and
hurry him the length of the hall, the two of them laughing gaily. Now
and then I would fold my hands, balance on my heels and essay a "willow
walk," to the great amusement of Mother and Madame Chau.
Life went on very evenly for me in my Chinese mother's house after my
husband's departure. His father had not come home for his semi-annual
visit, and the second son was away again. Even the quiet-mannered third
son, who looked just like his mother, and who used to bring me roses
from the garden every day, had sailed for the island port to take his
place in the family business. We were under a benevolent matriarchate in
the snug compound among the brown hills now brightening to springtime
green.
Madame Liang was infallibly generous and kind. I never heard her speak
sharply except occasionally to servants who had by their carelessness
caused something to go amiss, impeding the smooth progress of daily
family life. I used to watch her with interest as she directed the
household affairs from the throne of her great bed. She rarely gave her
orders at first hand, but would summon a relative or an upper servant,
who would receive and pass them down to those for whom they were
intended. This imparted to her orders an empress-like finality and
importance. The servants gave her complete allegiance.
She took great pride in conducting me through the complicated structure
where generations of Liangs had lived and died. Extending back from the
main establishment was a series of smaller ones like it, each with its
own courtyard, its main hall containing the family altar, its private
chambers opening on each side. Similar chains of "homes within a home"
extended east and west, at right angles to this central chain. Mother
showed me the rooms she had occupied as a bride, with the chamber where
Chan-King was born, when the older Madame Liang ruled affairs with a
firm yet kindly hand. I felt deeply moved by all this, more than ever a
part of the family.
I made many small mistakes, I know, in my effort to practise the
toleration, industry and courtesy exemplified in that family group, but
Mother, unlike many of the over-sensitive, easily offended Chinese women
of her class, was divinely patient. She never asked of me anything that
she deemed unfitting for me and she showed a wise discrimination in all
the small tasks she assigned. I sometimes accompanied her to the temple,
or to the ancestral graves, but only as a spectator. Her religious
toleration required no compromise. She wanted me to see where
grandparents and great-grandparents were laid to rest. She knew I was
interested and filled with respect. To Madame Springtime fell the task
of caring for the family altar and keeping up the daily devotions before
the sacred shrine.
This young wife was in every way so typical of the old-fashioned Chinese
woman, trained but not educated, disciplined but not broken, that I
found her a continual source of interest. She was naturally shy and
silent, but after a time we talked a little, and one day she showed me
her bridal trunks of white lacquer with red and gold decorations, filled
to the top with her bridal finery, exquisitely folded, and the clothes
for her first child, which had been provided by her parents as a part of
her wedding outfit.
This latter custom of Chan-King's native province appealed to me. It was
typical of the many simplicities I found among my adopted people. Those
small, brilliant-coloured garments of padded silk and brocade and linen
were symbols of hope, good omens for happiness and a fruitful marriage.
Accustomed as I was to falsely Puritanic ideals concerning the important
realities of life--marriage and birth--their frank attitude toward
fundamentals, their unquestioning acceptance of the facts of existence
came as a pleasant surprise to me.
I liked also the curious contrast between their simple view of
elemental things and the formality and rigour of their personal
etiquette. It is the manner of an old and ever cultivated race, who have
long since ceased building at the foundation and are now occupied with
the decorations of life.
Their scheme of daily living is based on the firm belief that the normal
mode of human existence is family life. To this end it must be preserved
at any cost. Life cannot develop in discord. If the amenities are worth
anything at all, they are worth preserving constantly and at whatever
personal sacrifice.
Life behind the arched gate was so pleasant and so filled with small,
daily occupations that I thought little of going about. The village had
no theatre. On festal days performances were given by travelling
troupes, on temporary stages, in temples or private houses. But we
occasionally attended the theatre in the great city near, and, when we
had guests staying with us for several days, they sometimes accompanied
us. We were rather an impressive sight, I fancy, borne at a brisk trot,
in half a dozen sedan-chairs, down the irregular path at dusk, preceded
and followed by menservants carrying lanterns.
The children led a sheltered, happy existence, with servants and young
relatives to amuse them indoors or without, as the weather permitted.
They were liberally supplied, by their indulgent grandmother, with
pocket-money in the form of handfuls of coppers instead of the strings
of cash that sufficed an earlier generation. From passing venders they
bought bows and arrows of brightly painted bamboo, whistling birds and
theatrical figures of coloured earthenware, inflated rubber toys and an
endless variety of rice-flour cakes, sesame-seed confections, peanut
taffy and millet candy. On festal days the choice was wider than ever,
with fluffy bunches of sugar wool (fine-spun syrup) and brittle candy
toys blown from molten taffy with all the glass-blower's art, in the
form of lanterns, birds and fish, mounted on slender sticks. At certain
seasons, there were huge fish made of bamboo frames, paper-covered and
realistically painted, which swam in a breeze with lazy grace, or kites
similarly fashioned to represent birds and dragons which winged upward
in fascinating flight.
There was a limited foreign settlement in this same city and several of
the American and British women came to call on me. Some of them were
frankly curious to know how I had come through the "ordeal by family,"
as one of them expressed it, though of course they were very tactful.
Mother was much interested in these visitors, many of whom--if able to
speak Chinese--I presented to her. When they left, she would often ask
questions as to their nationality, their husbands' occupation, the
number of their children. As for that question, most of them confessed
to one child or, occasionally, two. But I shall never forget the call of
a strikingly handsome, auburn-haired woman and the conversation that
followed her departure. In reply to the usual inquiry, I said, "No
children at all! But she has five _dogs_ and has just bought, in
Shanghai, two more, which are coming down on the next steamer."
"No children at all, and five--_seven dogs_!" said Mother in tones of
horror. And then we burst out laughing. But quickly she grew sober.
"Foreign women do not care for children," she said.
"I do," I protested. "I like many children."
"You," said my mother with a smile, "are a Chinese wife."
But happily my next caller was a sweet-faced American woman, the proud
mother of six, two of whom she brought with her. So our national
reputation was saved.
In these days, I thought a great deal about intermarriage as a problem.
When in Shanghai, a returned student who stayed with us for several days
had said to Chan-King afterward, "I almost married an American girl
while I was in college. I wish now I had been brave enough to do so." At
that time I felt very sorry for the unknown girl who had missed all the
happiness that was coming to me, and now I was more sure than ever of
the true quality of my happiness. There was no doubt at all on that
score. But I realized the many, many ways in which everything might have
been spoiled. Had my husband been less considerate, less sincere and
loyal, had his family been less kindly and broad-minded, had I myself
been capricious and wilful or unable to adapt myself to surroundings, I
might every day have plumbed the depths of misery. I decided that no
rules could be made about intermarriage. It was an individual problem,
as indeed all marriage must be. So, when a young girl from home wrote to
me for advice, believing herself in love with a Chinese classmate, and
concluded, "You, Mrs. Liang, must settle the question for me," I
answered, as I should not have done a year earlier: "That is a question
that you two alone are competent to settle. No one can advise you
safely, for a mistake either way may result in lifelong unhappiness. But
I might venture to suggest that love strong enough to stand the test of
intermarriage does not seek advice. It is sure of itself."
In a household where only my eldest son and I spoke English, my lingual
struggles were unexpectedly mild. Chan-King had left me a list of
everyday phrases, and my ear grew very keen in my constant efforts to
understand the rapid speech going on around me all day long. In a short
while I could understand virtually everything said to me.
During the long conversations that Mother and I had in the quiet of the
evening, we talked much of Chan-King and she displayed treasured relics
of his boyhood: a small jacket of deep red velvet, a worn cap, a silver
toy and the identical schoolbook in which he began the study of English.
I loved them all, loved her the more for cherishing them and was made
supremely happy by being given a photograph of Chan-King at an earlier
age than any he possessed. She was very much interested in all our
photographs too. She was vastly amused at Chan-King arrayed for college
theatricals and, when I brought out pictures of myself at all ages, of
my parents and grandparents, she traced family resemblances with
unerring perception. Sometimes we looked at magazines that Chan-King
sent us from the capital or talked of various foreign customs. I soon
found it very easy to talk with her and with her help I learned also to
read and write simple Chinese characters, for a very liberal-minded
father had given her educational advantages enjoyed by few girls of her
generation.
When the hands of her small ebony clock pointed to twelve, she would
touch my hand gently and say, "Time for you to sleep."
"But first I must write to Chan-King," I would answer.
She would shake her finger at me with kindly caution. "It is too late,"
she would answer. "You must sleep."
I would hold out firmly on this point. "But, my mother, if I do not
write to Chan-King, I cannot sleep!"
She would assent then, and next day I would carry the pages to show her,
for my letters to Chan-King and his voluminous responses were a source
of much amusement to her. I translated these letters to her as
faithfully as my limited Chinese would allow, and in my letters always
added messages dictated by her.
I was learning the romanized method of writing Chinese, which for our
dialect has been remarkably developed and standardized. Mother was much
interested when I showed her how to write familiar words with foreign
letters, and Chan-King always answered these messages in kind, though
his mother and he carried on a regular correspondence in the Chinese
characters.
"Those children write long letters to each other, fifteen and twenty
pages at a time," she often told her friends with manifest delight.
Beyond this personal companionship with my mother, which I enjoyed very
much, there was no restraint put upon me in any way. I was free to walk
out alone, to return calls and to shop in the city.
My own sense of fitness prompted me always to present myself at the door
of my mother's apartment before I left the house, to explain to her the
nature of my errand and to ask for her approval. Accepting the little
formality for the courtesy it was, she never once demurred. She was
accustomed to this respect, and I saw no reason for withholding it. All
the invitations I received from acquaintances, either foreign or
Chinese, I declined or accepted as she advised, because I relied upon
her unfailing knowledge of people and social customs.
Twice during those months of Chan-King's absence death came near. Once
it was a clever young boy, an only son, in whom high hopes had been
centred; and, then, the young girl who had accompanied Mother to
Shanghai. She was no servant in the ordinary sense, but an orphaned
distant relative of Mother's. Madame Liang was always kind and generous
with her, and when, soon after her return from the trip to Shanghai,
which had been a great event in her quiet life, a promising marriage
offer was made, she was sent forth to her new home with a complete
bridal outfit. Hearing at last of our presence in the family home, she
put on her wedding-dress of pale green and came to see me. Her evident
pleasure in the meeting touched me poignantly. With bright eagerness she
told me of her husband, her kind mother-in-law. With pride she described
her tiny son. After a gay hour with the children she left, promising to
come again. But I never saw her afterwards. Death took her abruptly from
her happiness.
I began to think of death as something not so remote after all. Several
times a group of us--children and cousins and friends and servants--made
short chair-trips into the hills. The sight of thousands of graves,
their stones whitening the hillsides for miles in some places, impressed
me more and more with the comparative shortness of life.
Scattered over many of these hills are curious monuments of stone,
called "widow arches," each one standing alone, usually by a roadside,
in commemoration of a faithful wife who, in ancient days, killed herself
at the death of her husband. A widow who wished to make this sacrifice
would, after a short lapse of time, announce her intention of committing
suicide. The members of her family would erect a high stage for her and
invite relatives and friends to attend the ceremony. At the chosen hour,
the lady would hang herself, and a high stone arch would later be
erected as a memorial of her devotion and heroism.
In the Chinese family, the widow who does not remarry receives honour
and veneration second only to the mother-in-law. With age, she acquires
added authority. She is not forbidden to remarry, but the conditions of
second marriage are made difficult enough to discourage any but the
most intrepid. The children of her first husband remain in the house of
his people, and the family of her second husband do not give her any too
cordial a welcome.
One naturally prefers free will in these things. Yet I had a
whole-hearted sympathy with the idea of life-widowhood, long before I
dreamed it was to be my portion. Painful as the sight of the "widow
arches" was to me at first, my convictions made the Chinese view of them
seem not unnatural, though I knew the custom had been forbidden by
imperial edict some two centuries earlier.
Even in the days when Chan-King and I believed that our love would
somehow give us earthly immortality, the idea was strong in me that, to
those who loved truly, death could only extinguish the torch for a
moment to relight it in the clearer flame of eternity. Then, I cherished
this thought in the background of my mind. Now, I live by it.
For this reason, too, I have always found the Chinese attitude towards
the dead very comforting. They never for a moment relinquish hold on
their loved ones. The anniversary of the day of death is as festal an
occasion as the day of birth. The pageant of life marches without a
break, birth to death and beyond, and birth again, the generations
endlessly touching mystical hands, until the individual feels himself to
be part of an endless procession that passes for a moment into a white
light and out again, feels himself touching those who came before and
those who come after--one of a long line, bound together irrevocably.
With all their ethics of personal sacrifice and their preoccupation with
the idea of eternity, the Chinese have no ascetic contempt for the
material world and they earnestly desire and seek length of days. Among
the varied symbols and characters used to express good wishes--as
health, honour, riches--those for "long life" hold pre-eminence. They
are wrought in rings, bracelets, hair ornaments, and are sewed into
bridal garments and upon children's little coats and caps. I always felt
this enormous respect for life in all their daily customs--the preparing
of the baby clothes when the bride left her father's house, the
nurturing and strengthening of the clan with many children, the reverent
regard for the graves of the ancestors to whom the living owed their
grace of existence.
On several occasions I accompanied my mother on her visits to the
ancestral graves. I remember the last time, only a few days before
Chan-King's return, that I walked with her, holding one of her hands,
while with the other she grasped her gold-headed cane. She wore a light
costume--a plaited black skirt and lavender "coat" and lovely black kid
shoes. Servants followed with her baskets of offerings.
We stood at a respectful distance, in silence, while she performed her
rites. All about were placed papers, weighted with small stones. She
knelt and, clasping her hands, devoutly repeated her prayers under her
breath. Then, assisted by a servant, she burned the paper symbols of
refreshment and replenishment for the dead. Fire-crackers were exploded
to clear the air of evil spirits, and the ceremony was over.
As we returned to the village, everywhere people called out to her from
their doorways and she invariably replied with friendly courtesy. In the
outskirts we stopped for rest and a visit to the house of a cousin. When
we left, many of the relatives and friends went with us a little way,
crying out repeatedly, "Good-bye!" and "Come again, come again soon!" I
saw the sunlight on Tiger Mountain; I smelled the saltness of the sea.
As we passed around the great boulders that hid them from our sight, the
modulated cadence of their "Come again, come again soon!" floated to
us. It was the last time I should hear it as I was then, and I did not
even dream that it was so.
For a month I had been expecting the arrival of Chan-King. His letters
were always love-letters, with added paragraphs saying that he was
getting on well with his work and would have much to tell me of it when
he came home. At last a letter told us to expect him by a certain
steamer, on a certain day. But schedules were still in confusion because
of the war. That steamer was delayed, and Chan-King sailed for another
port, meaning to change there. More delays followed. More letters of
explanation. More delays again. Mother and I both became heart-sick with
hope deferred. At last, one morning, worn out with watching, I slept
later than usual, and on that morning Chan-King came home.
Awakened out of a long drowse, I heard a stir in the quiet house, the
clang of a gong, a rush of padded footfalls in the outer hall. Happy
voices mingled in greeting at the door of my mother's apartment. I threw
on my robe, tucked Alicia under my arm and ran across the room, flinging
the door open even as Chan-King had his hand raised to knock at the
panel. I saw him dimly in the wavering light. He was smiling, and behind
him stood his mother, also smiling. Each of us solemnly spoke the
other's name, trying to erase, with a long look, the memory of all those
months of absence. Then he saw the baby. "Li-Sia, my thousand catties of
gold!" he said, in Chinese. Alicia smiled and held out her arms to him.
"She recognizes him!" said Mother, in pleased surprise. We three stood
together a moment, silently, gathered around the child. I felt myself
more deeply absorbed into the clan--a Chinese woman, dedicated anew,
heart and spirit, to my adopted people.
Later, Chan-King explained to me the reason for his home-coming. His
legal service for the Government had been completed and his expected
appointment had come at last. We were to return to America, where he
would be in the Chinese consular service. After a period in this work, a
bright future in the diplomatic field seemed assured. It meant leaving
my beloved China, where I had firmly taken root. But we agreed that the
exile would be for only a few years and that we would return surely to
our Promised Land, there to enjoy our span of "long life with honour."
Now our leisurely existence was broken up to a degree. Almost
immediately we set about preparations for our new life in America.
Chan-King looked forward with absorbing interest to the change, almost
as if he were going home. My instant reaction was one of joy, swiftly
followed by sorrow at giving up things now loved and familiar. I wanted
to appear cheerful, as a duty to those around me. I did not want to
seem too cheerful, lest Mother should think me glad to go.
In this period, at last, I met my Chinese father. One beautiful day in
early autumn, Chan-King and I went down to the city, returning in
mid-afternoon. As our chairs were set down before the entrance, the
gatekeeper announced to Chan-King his father's arrival. I was filled
with swift apprehension. Again chance had decided my costume: I was
wearing, not the conservative Chinese garb in which I had met my mother,
but a frilly American dress of blue and white summer silk, a white lace
hat with black velvet and pink rosebuds and white kid shoes. Chan-King
had on white flannels and a Panama hat. The latter he handed to a
servant, as also his cane. As we entered the main room together, a
figure rose from beside Mother to receive us. I saw an elderly man of
medium height, with grim, smooth-shaven face and grey hair. He was
wearing a long gown of deep blue silk, with a black outer jacket and the
usual round cap of black satin. My husband first greeted him and then
presented me. While I stood uncertain, there was a courteous inclination
of the grey head, the grimness of expression dissolved in a wonderfully
winning smile, and, surprisingly, as Mother had done, my Chinese father
extended his hand. I felt that he was interpreting me in the light of
all she had told him, that his cordial handclasp and kindly words of
welcome were his ratification of her judgment. Then, with a courtly
gesture, he assigned me to his lately occupied chair beside Mother,
while he and Chan-King took seats together opposite us. Mother smiled
into my eyes with her happiest expression. I felt that Chan-King's
background was complete. Long before, I had conceived of it as harsh and
threatening, but I had now proved it to be wholly kind and protecting.
At my recent fear of this last test I wondered and smiled.
Father was much gratified at finding his grandsons able to converse
fluently in his native tongue. He would gather them all about him for an
hour at a time, asking questions to test their practical knowledge, or
telling stories to amuse them. Alicia also delighted him. At simple
Chinese commands, she would now clasp her hands or fold them and bow
profoundly. Mother was very proud of her wee granddaughter and would
often say, "She is just as Chan-King was at her age!" And her husband
would invariably assent with an indulgent smile. There existed between
these two--conservative types though they were--an evidence of mutual
affection and respect, of real companionship, that touched me
profoundly. I was glad that Father was to be with Mother when Chan-King
and I took ourselves and our three children from the home where,
according to the old Chinese custom, we all rightfully belonged.
The question of leaving one or more of our children there for a time was
discussed one afternoon later.
"Under ordinary circumstances," said Father to Chan-King, "you would go
alone, as your brother does, leaving your entire family with us. At the
very least, you would allow one child to remain in your stead. But of
course your mother and I understand that these are not ordinary
circumstances. Your wife is an American. She has been considerate of our
point of view in many ways--more than we expected--and in this matter we
do not fail to consider hers, which is no doubt your own as well. We
understand that according to the American view the children belong with
their parents, always. We cannot, of course, deny your right to this
manner of living. But we want you to feel that, if you can leave even
one child with us, we shall be very happy. You understand what
protection and care will be given it."
For a moment there was silence. My heart was very full, and, even had it
been my place to speak, I should have been unable to do so. Mentally I
pictured Mother's loneliness at losing so many of her children. Vainly I
tried to imagine our home in America with even one small face missing. I
watched my husband, noted the tiny traces of conflict in his face,
impassive perhaps to the casual glance. At last he spoke.
"Father, mother," he began earnestly, "we do indeed appreciate your
great kindness and generosity. You will understand that, just as you
understand most truly our situation. We know that here with you our
children would have many advantages that we, perhaps, cannot give them.
But which one could we leave to enjoy those advantages? Not Wilfred, for
he is our eldest son, on whom we place great dependence. And Alfred--of
us all he seems least fitted for the southern climate. The summer heat
has left him a little pale and listless. He needs the sea voyage. As for
Alicia, she is the baby, and our only daughter. Do not think us
unmindful of all you have done. But I fear we should not know how to
make our home without our children."
After all, it was evidently not unexpected. They shook their heads a
trifle ruefully at each other and then smiled.
"Very well," Father assented. "But this you must promise: that at
intervals, whenever your work permits, you will come back--all of
you--and spend a year with us again. Do not let the children forget us
nor their Chinese speech. In four years, at most, all come back
together."
We promised readily, Mother and I repeating the phrase to each other,
"In four more years, all come back together." Our eyes were full of
tears.