Chapter 4 No.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.

I am thy wife who longs for thee.