My Lady of the Chinese Courtyard

by Elizabeth Cooper

With her dainty gowns, her tiny shoes, her smooth black hair, she is
a breath from another world, and my sons and daughters regard her
as if she were a stray butterfly, blown hither by some wind too strong
for her slight wings. She is as graceful as the slender willow, her
youthful charm is like the cherry-tree in bloom, and the sweet
thoughts natural to youth and the springtime of life, flow from her heart
as pure as the snow-white blossoms of the plum-tree. She does not
belong to this, our modern world; she should be bending with iris
grace above goldfish in the ponds, or straying in gardens where there
are lakes of shimmering water murmuring beneath great lotus flowers
that would speak to her of love.
We are all more than charmed, and gather to the sunshine she has
brought. As they knelt before us for our blessing, I thought what a
happy thing is youth and love. "Kings in their palaces grow old, but
youth dwells forever at contentment's side."
But I must tell thee of the marriage. Instead of the red chair of
marriage, my new daughter-in-law was brought from the house of her
uncle in that most modern thing, a motor-car. I insisted that it should
be covered with red satin, the colour of rejoicing; and great rosettes
trailed from the corners to the ground. The feasting was elaborate and
caused me much care in its preparation, as not only had been
provided the many different kinds of food for our Chinese friends, but
foreigners, who came also, were served with dishes made expressly
for them, and with foreign wines, of which they took most liberally.
The Europeans, men and women, ate and drank together with a
freedom that to me is most unseemly, and I cannot understand the
men who have no pride in their women's modesty but allow them to sit
at table with strange men close by their side. Behind the archway, we
Chinese women "of the old school," as my daughter calls us, feasted
and laughed our fill, just as happy as if parading our new gowns before
the eyes of stranger-men.
Li-ti is delighted with thy gift, the chain of pearls. It is a most
appropriate present, for "pearls belong of right to her whose soul
reflects the colour of youth's purity"; and I, I am so happy in this new
life that has come to dwell beneath our rooftree. I had many fears that
she would not be to my liking, that she would be a modern Chinese
woman; and another one, oh, Mother mine, would fill to overflowing my
bowl of small vexations; but the place is perfumed by her scent, the
scent of sandalwood, which represents the China that I love, and
flowers of jessamine and purple hyacinths and lilies-of-the-valley,
which speak to us of youth and spring and love and hope.
Thy daughter, who gives the messages from all thy family, who touch
thy hand with deep respect.
12
My Dear Mother,
I am sorry that thou hast been troubled by news of the fighting within
the province. All is well with us, as we sent thee word by telegraph. If
anything happens that touches any of thy household, we will send
thee word at once.
This town is a hotbed of rebellion, and it is all because the rebels have
been enabled to perfect their plans through the existence of the
foreign settlements. How I dislike these foreigner adventurers! I wish
they would take their gilded dust, their yellow gold, and leave us to
our peace; but they walk our streets as lords and masters, and allow
the plotting traitors to make their plans, and we are helpless. If I were
China's ruler and for one day had power, there would not be one white
man left within the borders of my country. We hear each day of
friends who give their lives on the field of battle, these battles and this
conflict which would not be present with us were it not for the foreign
powers, who within these settlements, protect the low-browed ruffians
who are plotting China's ruin.
Did I say I disliked these foreigners? How mild a word! Thou, in
Sezchuan, far from the touch of the alien life, hast never seen these
people who cause us so much trouble. How can I describe them to
thee so that thou wilt understand? They are like unto the dragons of
the earth, for ugliness. Men have enormous stature and mighty
strength, and stride with fierce and lordly steps. Their faces have great
noses between deep-set eyes, and protruding brows, and ponderous
jaws like animals-- symbols of brute force which needs but to be seen
to frighten children in the dark. We are the gentler race, and we feel
instinctively the dominating power of these men from over the seas,
who all, American, Russian, German, English, seem to be cast in the
same brutal mould. Their women have long, horse-like faces, showing
the marks of passion and discontent, which they try to cover with the
contents of the powder-jar and with rouge; they are utterly unlike the
women of our race, who are taught to express no hate, no love, nor
anything save perfect repose and gentleness, as befits true ladyhood.
One has but to see a Chinese gentleman, with his easy manners,
composed, self-contained, with a natural dignity, to know that we are
better trained than the people from the West. It is because we are
true idealists. We show it in our grading of society. With us the
scholar is honoured and put first, the farmer second, the artisan third,
and the merchant and the soldier last. With them, these worshippers
of the dollar, the merchant is put first, and the man to guard that dollar
is made his equal! That is a standard for a nation! The barterer and the
murderer; let others follow where they lead.
These foreigners rate China low, who have never met a Chinese
gentleman, never read a line of Chinese literature, and who look at
you in ignorance if you mention the names of our sages. They see no
Chinese except their servants, and they judge the world about them
from that low point of view. I know a lady here who is a leader in their
society, a woman who has lived within our land for many tens of
years; when asked to meet a prince of our house Imperial, she
declined, saying she never associated with Chinese. A prince to her
was no more than any other yellow man; she said she would as soon
think of meeting her gate coolie at a social tea. How can there be a
common meeting-ground between our people and the average
European, of whom this woman is a representative and who is not
alone in her estimation of the people amongst whom she lives but
whom she never sees. They get their knowledge of China from
servants, from missionaries who work among the lower classes, and
from newspaper reports that are always to the disadvantage of our
people.
More and more the West must see that the East and West may meet
but never can they mingle. Foreigners can never enter our inner
chamber; the door is never wholly opened, the curtain never drawn
aside between Chinese and European. The foreign man is a
materialist, a mere worshipper of things seen. With us "the taste of
the tea is not so important as the aroma." When Chinese gentlemen
meet for pleasure, they talk of poetry and the wisdom of the sages, of
rare jade and porcelains and brass. They show each other treasures,
they handle with loving fingers the contents of their cherished boxes,
and search for stores of beauty that are brought to light only for those
who understand. But when with foreigners, the talk must be of tea, its
prices, the weight of cotton piece goods, the local gossip of the town
in which they live. Their private lives are passed within a world apart,
and there is between these men from different lands a greater bar than
that of language-- the bar of mutual misunderstanding and lack of
sympathy with the other race.
Poor China! She is first clubbed on the head and then stroked on the
back by these foreigners, her dear friends. Friends! It is only when the
cold season comes that we know the pine-tree and the cypress to be
evergreens, and friends are known in adversity. The foreigners who
profess to be our friends are waiting and hoping for adversity to come
upon us, that they may profit by it. They want our untouched wealth,
our mines of coal and iron and gold, and it is upon them they have
cast their eyes of greed.
The foreigners have brought dishonesty in business dealings to our
merchants. At first, the trader from the foreign land found that he
could rely on old-time customs and the word of the merchant to bind a
bargain; but what did the Chinese find? There are no old-time customs
to bind a foreigner, except those of bond and written document. He
has no traditions of honour, he can be held by nothing except a court
of law. For years the word "China" has meant to the adventurers of
other lands a place for exploitation, a place where silver was to be
obtained by the man with fluent tongue and winning ways. Even
foreign officials did not scruple to use their influence to enter trade.
An old case has recently come before the Governor. It has been
brought many times to the ears of the officials, but they have said
nothing, for fear of offending the Great Government whose
representative is involved in the not too pleasant transaction. One of
our great inland cities had no water nearer than the river, several miles
away. A foreign official with a machine of foreign invention digged deep
into the earth and found pure, clear water. Then he thought, "If there is
ater here for me, why not for all this great city of many tens of
thousands?" Which was a worthy thought, and he saw for himself
great gains in bringing to the doors of rich and poor alike the water
from the wells. He told the Taotai that he would go to his country and
bring back machines that would make the water come forth as from
living springs. The official met his friends and the plan was discussed
and many thousands of taels were provided and given into the hands
of the official from over the seas. The friends of the Taotai felt no fear
for their money, as the official signed a contract to produce water from
the earth, and he signed, not as a simple citizen but as the
representative of his government, with the great seal of that
government attached to the paper. Of course our simple people
thought that the great nation was behind the project; and they were
amazed and startled when, after a trip to his home land and a return
with only one machine, a few holes were made but no water found,
and the official announced that he was sorry but there was nothing
more that he could do. He did not offer to return the money, and in his
position he could not be haled into a court of law; there was nothing
for his dupes to do but to gaze sadly into the great holes that had
taken so much money, and remember that wisdom comes with
experience.
"When a man has been burned once with hot soup he forever after
blows upon cold rice"; so these same men of China will think o'erlong
before trusting again a foreigner with their silver.
Thy son has been trying to settle another case. Some men from
America went to Ningpo, and talked long and loud of the darkness of
the city, its streets dangerous in the night-time, its continual fires
caused by the flickering lamps of oil that are being so constantly
overturned by the many children. They told the officials that the times
were changing, that to walk the streets with a lighted lantern in the
hand is to lose step with the march of progress. They showed the
benefits of the large lights of electricity blazing like a sun on each
corner of the great city, making it impossible for robbers and
evil-doers to carry on their work in darkness. They promised to turn
night-time into day, to put white lights in Yamen, office, and
house-hold. There should be a light beneath each rooftree, at no
greater expense than the bean-oil lamp. They were most plausible,
and many thousands of silver dollars were brought forth and given to
the men as contract money. They left us to buy machinery; the years
have passed; they never have returned. Ningpo still has streets of
darkness, men still walk abroad with lighted lanterns, the bean-oil
lamp is seen within the cottage and-- will be until the hills shall fade,
so far as the officials are concerned, who once dreamed dreams of a
city lit by the light as of myriad suns.
How can the missionaries have the face to come here with their
religion, when the dissolute white man is in every port manifesting a
lust and greed and brutality which Chinese are accustomed to
associate with the citizenship and religion attributed to Christianity.
No wonder it is hard for them to make converts among the people who
have business dealings with these men from Christian nations.
But China will not forever bear the ill-treatment of men from Western
lands. She is awake to all the insults; she has learned in the bitter
halls of experience. She sleeps no longer; she will rise in self-defense
and fight aggression; and the nations who have misused her must
remember that when she moves it will be the movement of a mighty
people aroused by the thought of their great wrongs. She is peaceful
and long-suffering, but she is different from the old-time China. She
has now a national spirit that has been brought about by better means
of communication between provinces. In the olden time it was difficult
for one part or the Empire to know the conditions in another. But now
the telegraph and the daily newspaper come to all the smallest
villages. I am sure that the watchman by thy outer gate reads as he
guards thy household, and learns in far Sezchuan what has happened
to-day in Peking, or the Southern city of Canton, and the news is
discussed in the tea-shops and on corners by men from farm and
shop and office.
The foreigners are mistaken in their belief that China can never be
united. She has been one for centuries, in beliefs, in morals, in
education, and in religion, and now she will be more united in her
stand against the hated white man who covets her treasures. She
may quarrel with her brothers within her borders; but that is nothing
but a family feud, and in time of danger from outside, like all families,
she will unite to fight for her own until the last red lantern fades and
the morning star is shining. Enough of politics and bitterness! I hear
thy son, who is coming for his evening cup of tea.
Thy daughter,
Kwei-li.
13
My Dear Mother,
The times here are very bad; people are fleeing from the inland cities
and coming to Shanghai by the thousands. The place is crowded to
suffocation.

Wu Ting-fang was here and talked long into the night with my
husband. My son, who, I am afraid, does not think too highly of this
great man, says that he is with the party that is "on top," that he
spends most of his time sitting on the fence-- whatever that may
mean. I drove past his house the other day and did not see him sitting
on the fence, but on his veranda, calmly drinking tea.
Sun Yat-sen has violated his word of honour and has joined the
Southern forces. We feel he has acted most dishonourably and (my
son again) should have "staid bought." Gossips say he received many
millions of taels, presumably for the railroads, but that was only an
excuse to slip the money into his wide and hungry pockets.
It is decided to send my son to Canton, into the office of the governor
of that province. We are glad to get him away from Shanghai, which is
a nest of adders and vipers, conspiring and raising their poisonous
heads in the dark. One does not know whom to trust, or who may
prove to be a traitor.
Li-ti, his wife, wishes to go with him, and weeps the whole day
through because we will not permit it. She is not well, and we tell her
she will not be really separated from her husband, because, as the
poets tell us, people who love, though at a distance from each other,
are like two lutes tuned in harmony and placed in adjoining rooms.
When you strike the kung note on one, the kung note on the other will
answer, and when you strike the cho note on the one the cho note on
the other will give the same sound. They are both tuned to the same
pitch, when the influence of the key-note, love, is present.
I took my son apart the other night and said, "I am thy mother and I
want to speak words to thee straight from the heart. Thou art to have
the joy of work, and remember the pride of work lies in the thought,
'For me alone is the task.'" I tried to make him understand that praise,
glory, and honours are good, but they do not make for long life, and
especially in these times it is better to work quietly without attracting
too much attention. It is more safe, for "he who raises himself on
tiptoe cannot stand, and he who stretches his legs wide apart cannot
walk."
His father was especially anxious that he be not pierced with the
arrow of treachery that poisons the blood and finds the weak spot in
the armour of so many of our young men. He told him to keep himself
above suspicion, to avoid those entangled in the nets of double
dealing of whom one is uncertain, because "the red glow of the
morning sun seems to stain even the pure whiteness of the new-fallen
snow."
Why, Mother-mine, didst thou send the old priest from the temple
down here? He abides in the courtyard, squatting on his heels,
serving the spirits neither of Heaven nor of earth, but he sits and talks
and talks and talks with the women of the courtyards. There are some
of them I would fain send to a far-off province, especially Fang Tai, the
mother of our gateman.
"A woman with a long tongue is a flight of steps leading to calamity."
This priest of thine has been quarrelling with her now over the question
of the son of Wong Tai, who is accused of being on too friendly terms
with some of the leaders of the rebellion. He made the unfortunate
remark that perhaps the man was innocent but "one does not arrange
his head-dress under an apricot-tree, nor his foot-gear in a melon
patch, if he wishes to be above suspicion," and this simple remark
has called down upon his priestly head the wrath of all the women. I
think he will go to the monastery within the city to pass the night-- at
least if he has wisdom equal to his years.
Yesterday I thought that I might make some use of him, and I felt
when he was working he would not be stirring up the courtyards. I
bade him write the Sage's words upon a scroll of satin for my boy to
take with him to his new home. He did it very beautifully, as he is a
real artist with the brush. This is the reading of the scroll:
"There are three things for a man to guard against:
The lusts of the flesh in early years,
The spirit of combativeness in middle-age,
And ambition as the years go on.
There are three things to command your reverence:
The ordinances of Heaven,
Great men, and the words of the sages.
There are three times three things to be remembered:
To be clear in vision,
Quick in hearing,
Kindly in expression,
Respectful in demeanour,
True in word,
Serious in duty,
Inquiring in doubt,
Self-controlled in anger,
And just and fair when the chair of success is before your door."
I made a roll of it and placed it upon his desk, and when he opened it
he found within another scroll of silk, the same in colour, size, and
finish, written by his most unfilial sisters, which read:
"Remember that thou art young.
What thou dost know is not to be compared,
With what thou dost not know."
It made him angry at first, but I do not know but that the shorter scroll
contains the greater wisdom.
I am anxious for this boy of mine, who is starting to sail his ship of
manhood across the Broad River of Life in these most perilous times.
I think he is strong enough to conquer all, but I have lighted candles
and bought fine incense to persuade the Gods to temper winds to
untried hands.
Thy daughter,
Kwei-li.
14
My Dear Mother,
I have not written thee for several days. We are in Nanking, where my
husband is presiding at a meeting of the officials in order to discuss
the question of a compromise, or to try in some way to settle the
questions that are causing this dreadful rebellion, without more loss of
life. He is also acting as judge in the case of some of the men who
have been caught pillaging and destroying the homes of the innocent
people. It is hard for him to act with strict justice, remembering the
many friends he has lost, and it is necessary to see things without
their individuality in order to be wise in all judgments. I came,
ostensibly to see the friends of my childhood, but really to take care
of thy son and see that he eats with regularity and takes his rest. He
is working far too hard. He gives himself to whatever task arrives,
greedy for the work, like one who lusts in the delight of seeing tasks
accomplished. But he is trusted by all, both sides agreeing to rest on
his decisions, all realising that personal feeling is put far into the
background of his mind when the interests of new China are at stake.
We are in the Yamen where I lived as a young girl, but now all is
changed. Instead of the old guard of honour, with their great flapping
hats, their gaily decorated jackets, baggy trousers tucked into velvet
boots, pennants flying from their spear-points as their small ponies
dashed madly in front of the official carriage, we were met by a body
of foreign-dressed soldiers who conducted us with military precision
quite different from the old-time dash and lack of discipline.
Inside the Yamen, also, things are different. Everything is orderly and
moves with a machine-like regularity that seems totally foreign to an
Eastern official's residence. There is not the democracy of other days;
the man from the street, the merchant or the coolie with his burden on
his shoulders, did not follow us into the courtyards to see what was
being done, nor were there crowds of idle men gazing with mild
curiosity at the visitors to their city.
We hear much of the old-time power of the officials; but things are not
nearly so democratic under this new government as in former times,
when, it is true, the governor had power of life and death, but still was
obliged to deal leniently with his people. A little larger demand for
tribute, a case of rank injustice, and he became the object of the
people's wrath and would quite likely see his Yamen in a blaze, or
pay with his life for his greed. The masses held real power within their
hands. If their officials did not deal justly with them, they caused a
riot, and if the frightened official could not still it within a certain time,
he was told that he evidently could not control his people and so was
removed.
My husband inspected the regiments stationed here. I saw them from
a veranda in the Yamen where we women were unseen. Fifteen
thousand men marched past him; and they were a sight for one who
loves his country. They were all young men, no one seeming to be
over twenty-five, and as they marched my heart was filled with pride
and hope in them. I thought, it is of just such men, such sons of
peasants and working people, that Japan made her army that gained
a victory over one of the greatest nations in the Western world. Why
cannot we, with our unlimited numbers, make an army that will cause
our country to be respected and take its place among the powers of
the world? We have the men, myriads and myriads of them; men who
are used to hardship and privation in their daily life, who, on a bowl of
rice, a morsel of dried fish, can fight the whole day through. Our men
are not accustomed to the luxuries of the foreigners, who, even in
times of war, carry great stores of what seems to Eastern nations,
unnecessary baggage. With them their endless string of wagons is
their greatest pitfall, and with us these latter could be reduced to the
smallest count.
Yet we hear on every hand that the courage of the Chinese soldier is
held at low value. But why? When sent unarmed, or with guns for
which there were no bullets, into the Japanese war, against troops
with the latest inventions in weapons to kill, the only thing to be done
was to retreat. But when they are paid, fed, and armed, and have
leaders who will go to the front with them, instead of saying, "There is
the enemy. Charge! I will go back to the hills and await your hour of
glory," they are found to be courageous to the verge of fanaticism.
Under trusted leaders there is no forlorn hope or desperate service for
which they would not volunteer. Let them have confidence in their new
generals, and, even though not understanding the cause, they will
make the best soldiers in the world.
But I must not talk to thee of war; we want not more bloodshed and
the fatherless homes and lean years that follow in the track of great
armies. Yet, if we cannot be without it, let it serve war's ends-- the
ultimate safety of our people, and bring them peace and tranquillity,
their heart's desire.
I visited the ruined homes of friends of mine, who are no more. It made
me feel that life is nothing but a mirage, a phantom, or as foam, and
"even as all earthly vessels made on the potter's wheel must end by
being broken, so end the lives of men." I went out to the home of
Yuan Tai-tai, who, to my childish mind was the great lady of my
dreams. I can close my eyes and see her still, like a brilliant
butter-fly, dressed in her gay brocades, her hair twined with jewels of
pearl and jade; with hand in mine she wandered o'er her garden,
bending over goldfish ponds, or clipping fading flowers from off their
stems. There reigned a heavy silence in her palace, with its
memories, that seemed full of sadness and a vague regret, reminding
me of an old blue China bowl which a hand of other days had filled
with roses. The flowers trying to struggle from beneath the thorns and
brambles that always come where troops are quartered, seemed to
say, "Behold, they are not here who once have cared for us and
cherished us, but the gardens breathe of them and we are fragrant for
their sakes." I picked a branch of cherry-blossoms, and swiftly fell the
perfumed petals to the ground-- symbols of the dainty lives that
bloomed so short a time in this fair garden of my lady. Liu Che, the
poet of the olden time, seems to have been speaking of this, my
friend, when he says:

"The sound of rustling silk is stilled,
With dust the marble courtyard filled;
No footfalls echo on the floor,
Fallen leaves in heaps block up the door...
For she, my pride, my lovely one is lost."
We went from Yuan's palace to the Temple of Kwan-yin, which I often
visited as a child. It also was a ruin, but it spoke to me of the dead
thousands of weary feet that had climbed the steps leading to its
shrines; of the buried mothers who touched the floor before its altars
with reverent heads and asked blessings on their children's lives; of
their children, taught to murmur prayers to the Mother of all Mercies,
who held close within her loving heart the sorrows, hopes, and fears of
woman's world. Ghosts of these spirits seemed to follow as we
wandered through deserted courtyards, and an odour as of old
incense perfumed the air. I went out and stood upon the tortoise that
is left to guard the ruined temple; the great stone tortoise that is the
symbol of longevity of our country, that even armies in their wrath
cannot destroy.
From the gateway we could see the river, a gleaming thread of silver,
and the hillsides, tree clad, flower wreathed, painted with the colours
that the Gods give to the spring-- the spring that "thrills the warm
blood into wine." But I miss the natural songs that should float upward
from the valley, and down the reed-strewn banks of the canals, where
labourers in olden days were happy in their toil.

Even as we left the place the pattering rain-drops came as rice grains
falling upon the threshing-floor, and the hills seemed "folding veils of
sorrow round their brows." It was brought to our remembrance that we
must return to a city where war and famine may come thundering at
her gates, and we must stand with helpless hands.
Dear Mother mine, stay upon thy flower-scented balustrade, and drink
great draughts of that wine of spring, the vintage of the wise, that the
Gods give to thee freely in thy mountain home, and leave to younger
hands the battles with the world. Thou must not come; write no more
that thou wouldst be amongst us. We love thee dearly, but we would
cherish thee and keep thee from all care.
Kwei-li.
15
My Dear Mother,
I have had a most interesting day, and I hasten to tell thee all about it.
I have just returned from opening a home for motherless children,
given by a mission of a foreign land. It is a beautiful thought, and a
kindly one, to give a home to these poor waifs of an alien land, all in
the name of their Saviour of the World. I saw for the first time a picture
of this Christ, with little children around Him. The message I read
within His eyes seemed to be: "I will be father and mother, father and
mother and playmate to all little children." The words of the Japanese
poet describe Him: "He was caressing them kindly, folding His
shining robes round them; lifting the smallest and frailest into His
bosom, and holding His staff for the tumblers to clutch. To His long
gown clung the infants, smiling in response to His smile, glad in His
beauteous compassion."
I looked at the picture and at the people around me on the platform,
and wondered why in all the Christian world that claims this loving
Master there should be such exceeding bitterness between His
followers. How can they expect us to believe in this great Teacher
when they themselves are doubtful of his message, and criticise quite
openly their Holy Book? If it is true, should education and science
make its teaching less authentic? We do not want a religion that is
uncertain to its own people, yet we take with many thanks what it can
give us, the things we understand, such as their schools and
hospitals. Where there is pain or ignorance, there is no distinction in
the God that brings relief. We may not believe in the doctrines that we
are taught in the waiting-rooms of their hospitals, but we do believe in
the healing power of the medicines that are brought by religious zeal
from over the seas.
If their teaching has not as yet made many converts, the effect has
been great in the spread of higher ideals of education, and much of
the credit for the progress of our modern life must be given to the
mission schools, which, directly or indirectly, have opened new
pathways in the field of education for our country, and caused the
youth of China to demand a higher learning throughout the land. This
aggressive religion from the West, coupled with the education that
seems to go hand in hand with it, is bound to raise the religious plane
of China by forcing our dying faiths to reassume higher and higher
forms in order to survive.
But I believe that these teachers from the foreign lands should
understand better the religions they are so anxious to displace, and
instead of always looking for the point of difference or weakness in our
faith, should search more anxiously for the common ground, the spark
of the true light that may still be blown to flame, finding the altar that
may be dedicated afresh to the true God.
Every religion, however imperfect, has something that ought to be held
sacred, for there is in all religions a secret yearning after the unknown
God. This thought of God "is an elixir made to destroy death in the
world, an unfailing treasure to relieve the poverty of mankind, a balm
to allay his sickness, a tree under which may rest all creatures
wearied with wanderings over life's pathways. It is a bridge for passing
over hard ways, open to all wayfarers, a moon of thought arising to
cool the fever of the world's sin, and whatever name His followers may
call Him, he is the one True God of all mankind."
Whether we see the coolie bowing his head before the image of the
Lord of Light, the Buddha, or the peasant woman with her paper
money alight in the brazier at the feet of Kwan-yin, we ought to feel
that the place where he who worships stands, is holy ground. We
hear it said that he is worshipping an image, an idol, a thing of stone
or wood or clay. It is not so; he is thinking far beyond the statue, he is
seeing God. He looks upwards towards the sky and asks what
supports that cup of blue. He hears the winds and asks them whence
they come and where they go. He rises for his toil at break of day and
sees the morning sun start on his golden journey. And Him who is the
cause of all these wonders, he calls his Life, his Breath, his Lord of
All. He does not believe that the idol is his God. "'Tis to the light
which Thy splendour lends to the idol's face, that the worshipper
bends."

The difference between us all lies not in the real teaching of our Holy
Men, Confucius, Buddha, Lao Tze, or Christ, but in the narrowness of
the structure which their followers have built upon their words. Those
sages reared a broad foundation on which might have been built,
stone by stone, a mighty pagoda reaching to the skies. There could
have been separate rooms, but no closed doors, and from out the
pointed roofs might have pealed the deep-toned bells caught by every
wandering breeze to tell the world that here spoke the Truth or the
One Great God. But, instead, what have they done? The followers
have each built separately over that portion which was the work of
their own Master. The stories have grown narrower and narrower with
the years; each bell rings out with its own peculiar tone, and there is
no accord or harmony.
I do not dispute with those who have found a healing for themselves.
To us our religion is something quite inseparable from ourselves,
something that cannot be compared with anything else, or replaced
ith anything else. It is like our bodies. In its form it may be like other
bodies, but in its relation to ourselves it stands alone and admits of no
rival; yet the remedy that has cured us should not be forced upon a
people, irrespective of their place, their environment or their
temperament.
We of the East "have sounded depth on depth only to find still deeper
depths unfathomed and profound," and we have learned to say that no
sect or religion can claim to be in possession of all the Truth. Let the
teachers from other countries learn of our doctrines. Let them learn of
Buddha. To one who reads his pure teaching, nothing so beautiful,
nothing so high, has been heard in all the world. We admit that, little
by little, changes have come, simplicity has been lost, and with every
addition something departed from its purity and it became stained.
Yet I believe that much of the kindliness, much of the gentleness now
so marked in Chinese nature, may be traced to the teaching of this
great apostle of peace and quietude.
That other great religion, the religion of the Way, has become steeped
in superstition and has been made a reproach in all our land. Yet Lao
Tze had noble sentiments and lofty thoughts that have helped
generations of mankind in many struggles.
Confucius, it is said, presented high ideals without the breath of spirit;
his system was for the head and did not feed the heart; yet he taught
that, from the highest in the land to the lowest worker in the field,
personal virtue, cleanness of heart and hands, is to be held the thing
of greatest value. Men are urged to cherish all that is of good in them,
to avoid evil living, to cultivate right feeling, and to be true and faithful
to their tasks.
We should not value the teaching of our religion "as a miser values his
pearls and jade, thinking their value lessened if pearls and jade are
found in other parts of the world." But the searcher after Truth will
welcome any true doctrine, and believe it no less precious because it
was spoken by Buddha, Lao Tze, Confucius or Christ. We should not
peer too closely to learn what the temple may enshrine, but "feel the
influence of things Divine and pray, because by winding paths we all
may reach the same great Ocean's shore." We all are searchers for
the Way. Whence do I come; where do I go? In this passage from the
unknown to the unknown, this pilgrimage of life, which is the straight
path, which the true road-- if indeed there be a Way? Such are the
questions that all the world is asking. What is the true answer; where
may we find it? Whose holy book holds the key that will open wide
the door?
All have a hunger of the soul for something beside life's meat and
drink; all want a remedy for the sorrows of the world. The Buddhists
believe that it can be found in the destruction of desire, by renouncing
the world and following the noble path of peace until death shall open
the portals of the unknowable, everlasting stillness from which there is
no return. The Confucianists say the remedy is found within the world
by fulfilling all its duties and leaving to a greater Justice the future and
its rewards. The Christians give a whispered message of hope to the
lonely soul beating against the bars of the world about him, and say
that a life of love and joy and peace is the gift of their great
Messenger, and when the years have passed that He stands within
an archway to welcome those, His chosen, to a land of bliss where
we shall meet all who have loved us and whom we have loved in life,
and gaze upon His face.
Which is the Way, which path to God is broad enough for all the
world?
Kwei-li.
16
My Dear Mother,
I received thy letter which was full of reproaches most unjust. I have
not broken my word, given to thee so long ago. I opened the home for
friendless children, not because it belonged to a mission of a foreign
religion, but because I think it a most worthy cause. There are many
homeless little ones in this great city, and these people give them
food and clothing and loving care, and because it is given in the name
of a God not found within our temples, is that a reason for withholding
our encouragement?
Thou hast made my heart most heavy. Twenty-five years ago, when
my first-born son was taken from me, I turned from Gods who gave no
comfort in my time of need: all alone with hungry winds of bitterness
gnawing the lute strings of my desolate mother-heart, I stood upon my
terrace, and fought despair. My days were without hope and my
nights were long hours filled with sorrow, when sleep went trailing
softly by and left me to the old dull pain of memory. I called in anguish
upon Kwan-yin, and she did not hear my prayer. The painted smile
upon her lips but mocked me, and in despair I said, "There are no
Gods," and in my lonely court of silent dreams I lost the thread of
worldly care until my tiny bark of life was nearly drifting out upon the
unknown sea.
Thou rememberest that the servants brought to me from out the
market-place the book of the foreign God, and in its pages I woke to
life again. I looked once more from out my curtained window, and saw
the rosy glow of dawn instead of grey, wan twilights of the hopeless
days before me; and, as on a bridge half seen in shadows dim, I
returned to the living world about me. Thou saidst nothing until it had
brought its healing, then thou tookest the book and kept it from me.
Thou toldst me with tears that it would bring thine head in sorrow to
thy resting-place upon the hillside if I left the Gods of my ancestors
and took unto my heart the words and teachings of the God of an
alien race. I promised thee that I would not cause thee grief, and I
have kept my word.
In my ignorance I have longed for knowledge, for some one to explain
the teaching that rolled away for me the rush of troubled waters that
flooded all my soul; but as I looked about me and saw the many
warring factions that follow the great Teacher of love and peace, I did
not know which way to turn, which had the truth to give me; and I
wanted all, not part. I have this book, and have not sought for wisdom
from outside, but only search its pages to find its messages to me.
Thou must not say I have deserted China's Gods, nor is it just to write
that my children are wandering from the Way. I have observed the
feasts and fastings; each morn the Household God has rice and tea
before him; the Kitchen God has gone with celebrations at springtime
to the spirit up above. The candles have been lighted and the smoke
of incense has ascended to propitiate the God of Light, Lord Buddha,
and Kwan-yin, and my children have been taught their prayers and
holy precepts. It is not my fault, nor shouldst thou blame it to my
teaching if rites and symbols have lost their meaning, and if the Gods
of China are no longer strong enough to hold our young.
Oh, Mother mine, thou knowest I would not cause thee sorrow, and
thou hast hurt me sorely with thy letter of bitterness and reproach. If
thou couldst have seen within my heart these many ears, and known
the longing for this light that came to me in darkness, then thou
wouldst not have burned the book that brought me hope and life again
when all seemed gone.
Thou askest me to promise thee anew that I will not trouble thy last
few years with thoughts that seem to thee a sacrilege and a
desecration of thy Gods. Thou art the mother of my husband, and 'tis
to thee I owe all loyalty and obedience. I promise thee, but-- that
which is deep within my heart-- is mine.
Thy daughter,
Kwei-li.
17
My Dear Mother,
I, thy son's wife, have been guilty of the sin of anger, one of the seven
deadly sins-- and great indeed has been my anger. Ting-fang has
been bringing home with him lately the son of Wong Kai-kia, a young
man who has been educated abroad, I think in Germany. I have never
liked him, have looked upon his aping of the foreign manners, his
half-long hair which looks as if he had started again a queue and then
stopped, his stream of words without beginning and without end, as a
foolish boy's small vanities that would pass as the years and wisdom
came. But now-- how can I tell thee-- he asks to have my daughter as
his wife, my Luh-meh, my flower. If he had asked for Man-li, who
wishes to become a doctor, I might have restrained my anger; but, no,
he wants the beauty of our house-hold, and for full a space of ten
breaths' breathing-time, I withheld my indignation, for I was
speechless. Then I fear I talked, and only stopped for lack of words.
My son is most indignant, and says I have insulted his dear friend.
His dear friend indeed! He is so veiled in self-conceit that he can be
insulted by no one; and as for being a friend, he does not know the
word unless he sees in it something to further his own particular
interests.
I told my son that he is a man who leads a life of idleness and worse.
The tea-house knows him better than his rooftree. He is most learned
and has passed safely many examinations, and writes letters at the
end of his name, and has made an especial study of the philosophers
of the present time; and because of this vast amount of book learning
and his supposedly great intelligence he is entitled to indulgence,
says my son, and should not be judged by the standards that rule
ordinary people, who live upon a lower plane. I say that his knowledge
and greater intelligence (which latter I very much doubt) increase his
responsibilities and should make of him an example for the better
living of men.