Golden Lilies Read online

  Confucius said, “When I was on a mission to Ch’u State, I saw a litter of young pigs nestling close to their dead mother. After a while they looked at her, then all left the dead body and went off. For their mother did not look at them anymore, nor did she seem anymore to be of their kind. What they loved was their mother: not the body that contained her, but that which made the body what it was.”

  That is the way of our country. She may leave the dead forms of her old government, perhaps it will be her misfortune to leave her religion, but the spirit of her government and the spirit of her religion she will always love.

  But I must not gossip more with you over my dearly loved country and her people. I know I talk to you too much of politics and the greedy eyes of foreigners, which are fixed upon our land, but one cannot live in Shanghai, even behind the women’s archway, without hearing, night and day, the things that move this, our world, so strongly. Even my small children play at war, shoot their rebels, build their fortresses, and drive the foreigners from off their piles of sand.

  I cry to you, my Mother, because a heart must speak its bitterness, and here our lips are sealed to all. I dare not even tell your son, my husband, all that passes in my mind as I look from out my window at this fighting, struggling, maddened world that surges around me.

  We are more troubled about our son.

  Your daughter,

  Kwei-li

  20

  My Dear Mother,

  I send to you some silken wadding for the lining of your coat, also, a piece of sable to make a scarf for Su-su, and a box of clothing for her newborn son. The children each have written her a letter before Kwan-yin, to show our joy.

  We have a guest, old General Wang, who is on his way to visit with my father. He is of the old, old China, and wags his head most dolefully over the troubles of his country, and says a republic will never succeed. My husband was bewailing the fact of the empty strongbox, and Wang said, “Why don’t you do what I did when I was in command of the troops? When money was scarce, I simply stopped a dollar a month from each man’s pay, and, lo, there was the money.” He was quite shameless in regard to the old-time “squeeze” and said that it was necessary. When he was general he received the salary of an ill-paid servant and was expected to keep up the state of a small king. But there were many ways to fill the empty pockets. When a high official was sent to inspect his troops, men were compelled to come from the fields, the coolies to lay down their burdens, the beggar to leave his begging bowl, and all to stand straight as soldiers with guns within their hands. But when the officer was gone each went his way with a small present in his hand and did not appear again until the frightened official was compelled to sweep the highways and byways to find enough men to agree with his lists paid by the government.

  But those times are past, and these old-time officials find it safer to retire to homes within their provinces.

  He told us of Chung-tai, who was Taotai of our city at one time. Do you remember him? He made many millions in the exportation of rice at time of famine. He was asked to go to Peking, and promised a high position. He sent as answer the story of Chung Tzu the philosopher, who was fishing in the Piu when the Prince of Ch’u sent high officials to ask him to take charge of the state. Chung went on fishing and without turning his head said: “I have heard that in Ch’u there is a sacred tortoise that has been dead now some three thousand years, and that the prince keeps this tortoise carefully enclosed in a chest on the altar of the sacred temple. Now would this tortoise rather be dead and have its remains venerated, or be alive and wagging its tail in the mud?” “It would rather be alive and wagging its tail in the mud,” said the officials. “Begone,” said Chung. “The tortoise is a symbol of longevity and great wisdom. It would not befit me to aspire to greater wisdom than the tortoise. I too prefer the mud.”

  Chung spoke bravely in sending this reply to Peking; but no sooner was it sent than he gathered his family and his cycee and departed for Shanghai, where he feels more sure of the protection of the foreign settlements than he does of the kindly intentions of His Excellency Yuan toward his dollars.

  The children have come home and are clamoring for their supper. They are growing rougher and noisier each day, and, I fear, are spending far too many hours in the servants’ courtyard, where they hear of things not seemly for young ears. Can you send me Wong-si for a few months? She might be able to keep some order in my household, although I doubt a person of a nature not divine would be able to still the many tongues I have now about me.

  We send you love, and greetings to your newborn great-grandson.

  Kwei-li

  21

  My Dear Mother,

  I have been in the country with my friend Ang Ti-ti. It was the time of pilgrimage to the graves of her family at the temple near Wu-seh. My household gave me many worries, and my husband said it was a time of rest for me, so we took a boat, with only a few servants, as I am tired of chattering women, and spent three long happy days amongst the hills. We sat upon the deck as the boat was slowly drawn along the canal, and watched the valley that autumn now is covering with her rare colors. All the green of the fields is changed. All the gay foliage of the trees upon the hillsides will soon be dead and crumbling. These withered leaves that once waved gaily in the air are lying now in clustered heaps, or fluttering softly to the ground like dull, brown butterflies who are tired with flight. The only touch of color is on the maple trees, which still cling with jealous hands to coverings of red and gold. The autumn winds wailed sadly around our cabin windows, and every gust brought desolation to tree and shrub and waving grass. Far away the setting sun turned golden trees to flame, and now and then on the sluggish waters of the canal would drift in lonely splendor a shining leaf that autumn winds had touched and made into a thing of more than beauty.

  We anchored the first night by a marshy bank girdled with tall yellow reeds and dwarf bamboo, and from our quiet cabin listened to the rainy gusts that swept the valley. Out of the inky clouds the lightning flashed and lighted up each branch and stem and swaying leaf, revealing to our half-blinded eyes the rain-swept valley; then darkness came with her thick mantle and covered all again.

  We discussed the past, the present, and the future; and then, as always when mothers meet, the talk would turn to children. How moved we are by our children! We are like unto the Goddess of the Pine Tree. She came out from her rugged covering and bore a man-child for her husband’s house, and then one day the overlord of all that land sent to cut down the pine tree, that its great trunk might form the rooftree of his temple. At the first blow of the axe the soul glided back into its hiding place, and the woman was no more. And when it fell, three hundred men could not move it from its place of falling; but her baby came and, putting out his hand, said, “Come,” and it followed him quite quietly, gliding to the very doorway of the temple. So do our children lead us with their hands of love.

  The second day we went to the temple to offer incense at the family shrine of An Ti-ti. We Chinese ladies love these pilgrimages to the shrines of our ancestors, and it is we who keep up the family worship. We believe that it is from the past that we must learn, and “the past is a pathway that spirits have trodden and made luminous.” It is true, as Lafcadio Hearn has written, “We should be haunted by the dead men and women of our race, the ancestors that count in the making of our souls and have their silent say in every action, thought, and impulse of our life. Are not our ancestors in very truth our souls? ...

  “In this worship that we give the dead they are made divine. And the thought of this tender reverence will temper with consolation the melancholy that comes with age to all of us. Never in our China are the dead too quickly forgotten; by the simple faith they are still thought to dwell among their beloved, and their place within the home remains holy. When we pass to the land of shadows we know that loving lips will nightly murmur our names before the family shrine, that our faithful ones will beseech us in their pain and bless us in their
joy. We will not be left alone upon the hillsides, but loving hands will place before our tablet the fruits and flowers and dainty food that we were wont to like, and will pour for us the fragrant cups of tea or amber rice wine.

  “Strange changes are coming upon this land, old customs are vanishing, old beliefs are weakening, the thoughts of today will not be the thoughts of tomorrow; but of all of this we will know nothing. We dream that for us as for our mothers the little lamp will burn on through the generations; we see in fancy the yet unborn, the children, bowing their tiny heads and making the filial obeisance before the tablets that bear our family name.”

  This is our comfort, we who feel that “this world is not a place of rest, but where we may now take our little ease, until the landlord whom we never see, gives our apartment to another guest.”

  As I said to you, it is the women who are the preservers of the family worship and who are trying hard to cling to old loved customs. Perhaps it is because we suffer from lack of facility in adapting ourselves to new conditions. We are as fixed as the star in its orbit. Not so much the men of China but we women of the inner courtyards seem to our younger generation to stand like an immovable mountain in the pathway of their freedom from the old traditions.

  In this course we are only following woman nature. An instinct more powerful than reason seems to tell us that we must preserve the thing we know. Change we fear. We see in the new ideas that our daughters bring from school, disturbers only of our life’s ideals. Yet the new thoughts are gathering about our retreats, beating at our doorways, creeping in at the closely shuttered windows, even winning our husbands and our children from our arms. The enclosing walls and the jealously guarded doors of our courtyards are impotent. While we stand a foe of this so-called progress, a guardian of what to us seems womanhood and modesty, the world around us is moving, feeling the impulse of a larger life, broadening its outlook and clothing itself in new expression that we hardly understand. We feel that we cannot keep up with this generation; and, seeing ourselves left behind with our dead gods, we cry out against the change that is coming to our daughters with the advent of this new education and the knowledge of the outside world. But—

  All happy days must end, and we floated back to the busy life again. As we came down the canal in the soft moonlight it recalled those other nights to me upon the mountainside, and as I saw the lights of the city before us I remembered the old poem of Chang Chih Lo:

  The Lady Moon is my lover,

  My friends are the Oceans four,

  The Heavens have roofed me over,

  And the Dawn is my golden door.

  I would rather follow a condor,

  Or the sea gull soaring from ken,

  Than bury my Godhead yonder

  In the dust and whirl of men.

  Your daughter,

  Kwei-li

  22

  My Dear Mother,

  I have not written you for many days. I came back from my happy country trip to find clouds of sorrow wrapping our home in close embrace. We hear Ting-fang is in deep trouble, and we cannot understand it. He is accused of being in league with the southern forces. Of course we do not believe it, my son is not a traitor; but black forebodings rise from deeps unknown, and the cold trail of fear creeps round my heart.

  But I cannot brood upon my fears alone; this world seems full of sorrow. Just now I have stopped my letter to see a woman who was brought to the Yamen for trying to kill her baby daughter. She is alone, has no one to help her in her time of desolation, no rice for crying children, and nothing before her except to sell her daughter to the teahouse. She gave her sleep; and who can blame her?

  Mother, send me all that you can spare from out of your plenty. I would I could give more. I would be a lamp for those who need a lamp, a bed for those who need a bed; but I am helpless. O, He who hears the wretched when they cry, deign to hear these mothers in their sorrow!

  Your daughter,

  Kwei-li

  23

  I know that you have heard the news, as it is in all the papers. Ting-fang is accused of throwing the bomb that killed General Chang. I write to reassure you that it cannot be true. I know my son. You know your family. No Liu could do so foul a deed.

  Do not worry; we will send you all the news. The morrows tidings will be well, so rest in peace.

  Kwei-li

  24

  I thank you from my heart for the ten thousand taels telegraphed for the use of our son. Father has sent fifty thousand taels to be used in obtaining his freedom. I am sure it will not be needed, as my son is not the culprit. And if he were, it is not the olden time when a life could be bought for a few thousand ounces of silver, no matter how great the crime. We will not bribe the courts of law, even for our son.

  But I am sure it will pass with the night’s darkness, and we will wake to find it all a dream. I know, my mother’s heart assures me, that my boy is innocent.

  Do not speak or think of coming down. We will let you know at once all the news.

  Kwei-li

  [ Telegram ]

  WE ARE LEAVING TONIGHT FOR CANTON.

  25

  We are entering Canton. The night denies me sleep, and my brain seems beating like the tireless shuttles upon a weaving loom. I cannot rest, but walk the deck till the moon fades from the dawn’s pale sky, and the sun shines rose-colored against the morning’s gray. Across the river a temple shines faintly through its ring of swaying bamboo, and the faint light glistens on the water dripping from the oars that bring the black-sailed junks with stores of vegetables for all that greedy city of living people. The mists cling lovingly to the hilltops, while leaves from giant banyan trees sway idly in the morning wind, and billows of smoke, like dull, gray spirits, roll upward and fade into a mist of clouded jade, touched with the golden fingers of the rising sun.

  I see it all with eyes that do not see, because the creeping hours I count until I find my son.

  26

  Ting-fang has been tried and found guilty. The runners have brought me hour by hour the news; and even his father can see nothing that speaks in favor of his innocence. It is known and he confesses to having been with the men who are the plotters in this uprising. He was with the disloyal officers only a few hours before the bomb was thrown, but of the actual deed he insists that he knows nothing. All evidence points to his guilt. Even the official who sentenced him, a lifelong friend of ours, said in the open court that it hurt him sorely to condemn a man bearing the great name of Liu, because of what his father and his father’s father had been to China, but in times such as these an example must be made; and all the world is now looking on to see what will be done.

  I will write to you and telegraph you further news; I can say no more at the present; my heart is breaking.

  Kwei-li

  27

  A man came to us secretly last night and offered to effect my son’s escape for fifty thousand taels. He said that arrangements could be made to get him out of the country—and we have refused! We told him we could give no answer until the morning, and I walked the floor the long night through, trying to find the just pathway.

  We cannot do it. China is at the parting of the ways; and if we, her first officials, who are taking the stand upon the side of justice and new ideas of honor, do not remain firm in hours of great temptation, what lesson have we to give to them who follow where we lead? It must not be said that our first acts were those of bribery and corruption. If my son is a traitor, we must let him pay. He must give his life upon the altar of the new China. We cannot buy his life. We are of the house of Liu, and our name must stand, so that, through the years to come, it will inspire those who follow us to live and die for China, the country that we love.

  28

  My Mother,

  From the red dawn until the dense night fell, and all the hours of darkness through, have my weary feet stumbled on in hopeless misery, waiting, listening for the guns that will tell to me that my son is gone. At sunset a whispere
d message of hope was brought, then vanished again, and I have walked the lengthened reach of the great courtyard, watching as, one by one, the lanterns die and the world is turning into gray. Far away toward the rice fields the circling gulls rise, flight on flight, and hover in the blue, then fly away to life and happiness in the great world beyond. In the distance, faint blue smoke curls from a thousand dwellings of people who are rising and will greet their sons, while mine lies dead. Oh, I thought that tears were human only, yet I see each blade of shining grass weighed down with dewdrop tears that glimmer in the air. Even the grass would seem all sorrow-filled as my heart.

  The whole night through the only sound has been the long-drawn note of the bamboo flute, as the seller passes by, and the wind that wailed and whistled and seemed to bring with it spirits of the other world who came and taunted me that I did not save my son. Why, why did I not save him! What is honor, what is this country, what is our fame, in comparison to his dear life? Why did we not accept the offer of escape! It was ours to give or take; we gave, and I repent—O God, how I repent! My boy, my boy! I will be looking for his face in all my dreams and find despair.

  Do you remember how he came to me in answer to the Towers of Prayer I raised when my firstborn slept so deep a sleep he could not be awakened even by the voice of his mother? But that sorrow passed and I rose to meet a face whose name is memory. At last I knew it was not kindness to mourn so for my dead. Over the River of Tears is their silent road, and when mothers weep too long, the flood of that river rises, and their souls cannot pass but must wander to and fro. But to those whom they leave with empty arms they are never utterly gone. They sleep in the darkest cells of tired hearts and busy brains, to come at echo of a voice that recalls the past.