My Lady of the Chinese Courtyard

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.