A Chinese Husband's Lament For His Wife.
Translated From The French Of M. Stanislas Julien,
Professor Of The Chinese Language, Paris.
I.
It was in the fifth watch of the first day of the year, when the winter's cold was most intense, that my tender wife died. Can there be on earth a man more unhappy than I? O my wife! if thou wert still here, I would give thee a new robe for the new year; but woe is me, thou art gone down to the sombre abode where flows the yellow fountain. Would that husband and wife could see one another again! Come to me in the night—come to me in the third watch—let me renew for a little while the sweetness of the past.
II.
In the second moon, when spring has come, and the sun stays each day longer in the sky, every family washes its robes and linen in pure water, and husbands who have still their wives love to adorn them with new garments. But I, who have lost mine, am wasting my life away in grief; I cannot even bear to see the little shoes that enclosed her pretty feet! Sometimes I think that I will take another companion; but where can I find another so beautiful, wise, and kind!
III.
In the third moon, the peach-tree opens its rose-colored blossoms, and the willow is bedecked with green tresses. Husbands who have still their wives go with them to visit the tombs of their fathers and friends. But I who have lost mine go alone to visit her grave, and to wet with my hot tears the spot where her ashes repose. I present funereal offerings to her shade; I burn images of gilded paper in her honor. "Tender wife," I cry with a tearful voice, "where art thou, where art thou?" But she, alas! hears me not. I see the solitary tomb, but I cannot see my wife!
IV.
In the fourth moon, the air is pure and serene, and the sun shines forth in all his splendor. How many ungrateful husbands then give themselves up to pleasure and forget the wife they have lost! Husband and wife are like two birds of the same forest; when the fatal hour arrives, each one flies off a different way. I am like a man, who, beguiled by the sweet fancies of an enchanting dream, seeks, when he awakes, the young beauty that charmed his imagination while he slept, but finds around him only silence and solitude. So much loveliness, so much sweetness vanished in one morning! Why, alas! could not two friends, so dearly united, live and grow gray together!
V.
In the fifth moon, the dragon-headed boats float gaily on the waters. Exquisite wines are heated, and baskets are filled up with delicious fruits. Each year at this season, I delighted to enjoy the pleasures of these simple feasts with my wife and children. But now I am weary and restless, a prey to the bitterest anguish. I weep all day and all night, and my heart seems ready to break. Ah! what do I see at this moment? Pretty children at merry play before my door. Yes, I can understand that they are happy; they have a mother to press them to her bosom. Go away, dear children, your joyous gambols tear my heart.
VI.
In the sixth moon, the burning heat of the day is almost unbearable. The rich and the poor then spread their clothes out to air. I will expose one of my wife's silken robes, and her embroidered shoes to the sun's warm beams. See! here is the dress she used to wear on festal days, here are the elegant little slippers that fitted her pretty feet so well. But where is my wife? Oh! where is the mother of my children? I feel as if a cold steel blade were cutting into my heart.
VII.
In the seventh moon, my eyes overflow with tears; for it is then that Nieaulan visits his wife Tchi-niu in heaven. Once I also had a beautiful wife, but she is lost to me for ever. That fair face, lovelier than the flowers, is constantly before me. Whether in movement or at rest, the remembrance of her that is gone from me never ceases to rack my bosom. What day have I forgotten to think of my tender wife—what night have I not wept till morning?
VIII.
On the fifteenth day of the eighth moon, her disk is seen in its greatest splendor, and men and women then offer to the gods melons and cakes, ball-like in form as the orb of night. Husbands and wives stroll together in the fields and groves, and enjoy the soft moonlight. But the round disk of the moon can only remind me of the wife I have lost. At times, to solace my grief I quaff a cup of generous wine; at times I take my guitar, but my trembling hand can draw forth no sound. Friends and relations invite me to their houses, but my sorrowful heart refuses to share in their pleasures.
IX.
In the ninth moon, the chrysanthemum opens its golden cup, and every garden exhales a balmy odor. I would gather a bunch of newly-blown flowers if I had still a wife whose hair they could adorn! My eyes are weary with weeping—my hands are withered with grief, and I beat a fleshless breast. I enter the tasteful room that was once my wife's; my two children follow me, and come to embrace my knees. They take my hands in theirs, and speak to me with choking voices; but by their tears and sobs I know they ask me for their mother.
X.
On the first day of the tenth moon, both rich and poor present their wives with winter clothing. But to whom shall I offer winter clothing? I, who have no wife! When I think of her who rested her head on my pillow, I weep and burn images of gilded paper. I send them as offerings to her who now dwells beside the yellow fountain. I know not if these funereal gifts will be of use to her shade; but at least her husband will have paid her a tribute of love and regret.
XI.
In the eleventh moon, I salute winter, and again deplore my beautiful wife. Half of the silken counterpane covers an empty place in the cold bed where I dare not stretch out my legs. I sigh and invoke heaven; I pray for pity. At the third watch I rise without having slept, and weep till dawn.
XII.
In the twelfth moon, in the midst of the winter's cold, I called on my sweet wife. "Where art thou," I cried; "I think of thee unceasingly, yet I cannot see thy face!" On the last night of the year she appeared to me in a dream. She pressed my hand in hers; she smiled on me with tearful eyes; she encircled me in her caressing arms, and filled my soul with happiness. "I pray thee," she whispered, "weep no more when thou rememberest me. Henceforth I will come thus each night to visit thee in thy dreams."