My Lady of the Chinese Courtyard

by Elizabeth Cooper

A clever bad man is like vile characters scrawled in ink of gold, and
should be thrown aside as fit only for the braziers.
He is handsome in my daughter's eyes; but I say virtue is within the
man, not upon his skin. He fascinates my younger sons with his
philosophy and his tea-house oratory. I do not like philosophy, it is all
marked with the stamp of infidelity and irreligion. It is rarely that a
man devotes himself to it with-out robbing himself of his faith, and
casting off the restraints of his religion; or, if they do not lose it utterly,
they so adulterate it with their philosophy that it is impossible to
separate the false from the true. The reading of philosophic writings,
so full of vain and delusive reasonings, should be forbidden to our
young folk, just as the slippery banks of a river are forbidden to one
who knows not how to swim. I will have none of them in our library,
nor will I allow their father to read them where his sons can see him.
The snake-charmer should not touch the serpents before his child's
eyes, knowing that the child will try to imitate him in all things.
It is "as pouring water in a frog's face" to talk to these, my children,
who think a man, with words upon his lips, a sage. I say a dog is not
a good dog because he is a good barker, nor should a man be
considered a good man because he is a good talker; but I see only
pity in their faces that their mother is so far behind the times. These
boys of ours are so much attracted by the glimpses they have had of
European civilisation, that they look down upon their own nationality.
They have been abroad only long enough to take on the veneer of
Western education; it is a half-and-half knowledge; and it is these
young men who become the discontented ones of China. When they
return they do not find employment immediately, since they have
grown out of touch with their country and their country's customs.
They feel that they should begin at the top of the ladder, instead of
working up slowly, rung by rung, as their fathers did before them.
They must be masters all at once, not realising that, even with their
tiny grains of foreign knowledge, they have not yet experience to
make them leaders of great enterprises or of men; yet they know too
much to think of going back into their father's shop.
I realise that the students who go abroad from China have many
difficulties to overcome. It is hard to receive their information and
instruction in a language not their mother tongue. They have small
chance to finish their education by practical work in bank or shop or
factory. They get a mass of book knowledge and little opportunity to
practise the theories which they learn, and they do not understand
that the text-book knowledge is nearly all foreign to their country and
to the temperament of their race. I often ask, when looking at my son,
what is his gain? I presume it is in securing a newer, broader point of
view, an ability to adjust himself to modern conditions, and a wider
sympathy with the movements of the world.
China has for centuries been lost to the world by reason of her great
exclusion, her self-satisfaction and blind reliance upon the ways
marked out for her by sages of other days. These young men, with
the West in their eyes, are coming back to shock their fathers' land
into new channels. The process may not be pleasant for us of the old
school, but quite likely it is necessary. Yet, I feel deep within me, as I
look at them, that these new Westernised Easterners with their
foreign ways and clever English are not to be the final saviours of
China. They are but the clarion voices that are helping to awake the
slumbering power. China must depend upon the firmer qualities of the
common people, touched with the breath of the West.
It is with great sorrow that we mothers and fathers see our boys and
girls, especially those who return from abroad, neglecting and scoffing
at our modes of education that have endured and done such noble
work for centuries past. I know it is necessary to study things modern
to keep up with the demands of the times; but they can do this and
still reserve some hours for the reading of the classics. Instead of
always quoting Byron, Burns, or Shelley, as do my son and daughter,
let them repeat the beautiful words of Tu Fu, Li Po, Po Chu-i, our
poets of the golden age.
In no country is real learning held in higher esteem than in China. It is
the greatest characteristic of the nation that, in every grade of society,
education is considered above all else. Why, then, should our young
people be ashamed of their country's learning? The Chinese have
devoted themselves to the cultivation of literature for a longer period by
some thousands of years than any existing nation. The people who
lived at the time of our ancestors, the peoples of Egypt, the Greeks,
the Romans, have disappeared ages ago and have left only their
histories writ in book or stone. The Chinese alone have continued to
give to the world their treasures of thought these five thousand years.
To literature and to it alone they look for the rule to guide them in their
conduct. To them all writing is most sacred. The very pens and
papers used in the making of their books have become objects of
veneration. Even our smallest village is provided with a scrap-box into
which every bit of paper containing words or printed matter is carefully
placed, to await a suitable occasion when it may be reverently
burned.
Change is now the order of the day, educationally as well as
politically. We do not hear the children shouting their tasks at the top
of their voices, nor do they learn by heart the thirteen classics, sitting
on their hard benches within the simple rooms with earthen floor,
where the faint light comes straggling through the unglazed windows

on the boy who hopes to gain the prize that will lead him to the great
Halls of Examination at Peking. If, while there, he is favoured by the
God of Learning and passes the examination, he will come back to
his village an honour to his province, and all his world will come and
do him reverence, from the viceroy in his official chair to the meanest
worker in the fields. These old-time examinations are gone, the
degrees which were our pride have been abolished, the subjects of
study in the schools have been completely changed. The privileges
which were once given our scholars, the social and political offices
which were once open to the winner of the highest prize, have been
thrown upon the altar of modernity. They say it is a most wise move
and leads to the greater individualism, which is now the battle-cry of
China. The fault of the old examination, we are told, is the lack of
original ideas which might be expressed by a student. He must give
the usual interpretations of the classics. Now the introduction of free
thought and private opinion has produced in China an upheaval in
men's minds. The new scholars may say what they think wisest, and
they even try to show that Confucius was at heart a staunch
republican, and that Mencius only thinly veiled his sentiments of
modern philosophy.
Perhaps the memory work of the Chinese education was wrong; but it
served its purpose once, if tales are true.
It is said that many hundreds of years ago, the founder of the Chinese
dynasty, the man of pride who styled himself Emperor the First,
conceived the idea of destroying all literature which was before his
reign, so that he might be regarded by posterity as the founder of the
Chinese Empire. It is believed by many Chinese scholars that this
wicked thing was done, and that not a single perfect copy of any book
escaped destruction. He even went so far as to bury alive above five
hundred of the best scholars of the land, that none might remain to
write of his cruel deed. But the classics had been too well learned by
the scholars, and were reproduced from memory to help form the
minds of China for many tens of years. This could be done to-day if a
similar tragedy were enacted. Thousands of boys have committed the
great books to heart, and this storing in the mind of enormous books
has developed in our race a marvellous memory, if, as others say, it
has taken away their power of thinking for themselves.
Which is the best? Only time will tell. But we are told that the literati
of China, the aristocracy of our land, must go. Yet, as of old, it is the
educated men who will move China. Without them, nothing can be
done, for the masses will respect education and the myriads will
blindly follow a leader whom they feel to be a true scholar; and it will
be hard to change the habits of a people who have been taught for
centuries that education is another word for officialdom.
This new education, in my mind, must not be made so general; it
must be made more personal. Three things should be taken into
account: who the boy is, where he is, and where he is going. It is not
meet to educate the son of my gate-keeper the same as my son. He
should be made a good workman, the best of his kind, better to fill the
place to which the Gods have called him. Give our boys the modern
education, if we must, but remember and respect the life work each
may have to follow. Another thing we should remember: the progress
in the boy's worldly knowledge should not make him hard in his revolt
against his Gods, nor should his intelligence be freed without teaching
him self-control. That is fatal for our Eastern race. Let him learn, in his
books and in his laboratories, that he moulds his destiny by his acts
in later life, and thus gain true education, the education of the soul as
well as of the mind.
I have written thee a sermon, but it is a subject on which we mothers
are thinking much. It is before us daily, brought to our courtyards by
our sons and daughters, and we see the good and the evil of trying to
reach at a single bound the place at which other nations have at last
arrived after centuries of weary climbing.
I must go to the women's quarters and stop their chattering. Oh,
Mother mine, why didst thou send to me that priest of thine?

Kwei-li.
18
Dear Mother,
I must introduce thee to thy new daughter-in-law. Yes, I can see thee
start. I will tell thee quickly. Thy son hath not taken to himself another
wife, but it is I, Kwei-li, who should be made known to thee anew.
Kwei-li, the wife of the Governor of Kiang-si, who has become so
foreignised that the mother of her husband would never know her. If
things keep on the path they have gone for these last few moons, I
fully expect thou wilt see me with that band of women who are making
such a great outcry for their rights and freedom. I cannot even explain
them to thee, as thou wouldst not understand.
My last adventure in the ways or the modern woman is in relation to
the courtship of my son. Tang-si, my second son, is in love; and I, his
mother, am aiding and abetting him, and allowing him to see his
sweet-heart in the foreign way. I know thou wilt blush when thou
readest this; but I have been in the hands of the Gods and allowed not
to speak of "custom," or propriety, and when I have tried to reason
with my son and talk to him in regard to what is seemly, he laughs at
me and calls me pet names, and rubs my hair the wrong way and
says I am his little mother. I knew that astounding fact long years
ago, and still I say that is no reason why I should go against all
customs and traditions of my race.
I told him I was taught that men and women should not sit together in
the same room, nor keep their wearing apparel in the same place, nor
even cleanse them in the same utensils. They should not look upon
each other, or hand a thing directly from man to woman hand. I was
taught that it was seemly and showed a maidenly reserve to observe
a certain distance in my relations even with my husband or my
brothers, but I have found that the influence of reason upon love is like
that of a raindrop upon the ocean, "one little mark upon the water's
face and then it disappears."
Now I will tell thee all about it. Tang-si came to me one day, and after
speaking of many things of no importance, he finally said, "Mother,
wilt thou ask Kah-li, Wu Tai-tai's daughter, here to tea?" I said, "Why,
is she a friend of thy sister's?" He said, while looking down upon the
floor, "I do not know, but-- but-- she is a special friend of mine." I
looked at him in amazement. "Thou hast seen her?" "Yes, many
times. I want thee to ask her to the house, where we may have a
chance to talk." I sat back in my chair and looked at him, and said
within myself, "Was ever mother blessed with such children; what
may I next expect?" He gave me a quick look, and came over and
took my hand in his, and said, "Now, Mother, do not get excited, and
don't look as if the Heavens were going to fall. I-- well-- thou makest it
hard to tell thee, but I want to marry Kah-li, and I would like a chance
of seeing her as the foreign men see their wives before they marry
them." I said, quite calmly for me, "Thou meanest thou art choosing
thy wife instead of allowing thy father and mother to choose her?" He
said, "Why, yes; I have to live with her and I ought to choose her." I
said nothing-- what is the use? I have learned that my men-folk have
strong minds, which they certainly must have inherited from thine
honourable family. I said that first I would speak to her mother, and if
she approved of her daughter's seeing my son in this most
unbecoming manner, I would do whatsoever he wished in the matter. I
could not wait, but went at once to the house of Wu Tai-tai. We
discussed the matter over many cups of tea, and we saw that we are
but clouds driven by the winds and we must obey.
She has been here for tea, and I am charmed with her. She is as
pretty as a jewel of pure jade; I do not blame my son. She has
laughter in her dancing eyes and seems as if she would sing her life
away from year to year and see life always through the golden gleam
of happy days. She is respectful and modest, and now I feel she is
one of the family and I ask her to join us in all our feastings. She
came to the feast when we burned the Kitchen God, and joined with
us in prayers as he ascended to the great Spirit to tell him of our
actions in the past year. I am afraid our young people do not believe
o'ermuch in this small God of the Household, who sits so quietly upon
his shelf above the kitchen stove for twelve long months, watching all
that goes on within the home, then gives his message for good or ill to
Him above; but they are too respectful to say ought against it-- in my
hearing. They must respect the old Gods until they find something
better to take their place.
I do not know but that my son is right in this question of his courtship.
It is pretty to see them as they wander through the gardens, while we
mothers sit upon the balconies and gossip. Their love seems to be as
pure as spotless rice and "so long as colour is colour and life is life
will the youth with his sublime folly wait for the meeting of his loved
one." What matter if the winter days will come to them or if "the snow
is always sure to blot out the garden--" to-day is spring, and love is
love and youth is happy.
Thy shameless daughter,
Kwei-li.
19
My Dear Mother,
Thy gifts which came by the hand of Tuang-fang are most welcome.
We have already drunk of the sun-dried tea, and it brings to thought
the sight of the long, laden trays of the fragrant leaves as they lie in
the sun on the mountain-side. The rose wine we will use on occasions
of special rejoicing; and I thank thee again for the garments which will
bring comfort to so many in the coming days of cold. I was glad to
see Tuang-fang, and sorry to hear that he, with his brother, are going
so far away from home in search of labour. Is there not work enough
for our men in the province without going to that land of heat and
sickness?
Our people go far in their passion for labour; in search of it they cross
land and sea. They are the workers of the world, who sell their labour
for a price; and it is only strong men with great self-dependence who
are capable of taking a road that is likely never to join again those
who speak their language and worship their Gods. What is it that has
given these men this marvellous adaptability to all conditions, however
hard they may seem? They can live and work in any climate, they are
at home in the sandy wastes of our great deserts or in the swamps of
the southern countries. They bear the biting cold of northern lands as
readily as they labour under the burning sun of Singapore and Java.
The more I come out from the courtyard and see our people, the more
I admire them; I see the things that are so often lost sight of by those
of other lands who seek to study them. They are a philosophical race
and bear the most dreadful losses and calamities with wonderful
bravery. Nothing daunts them. Behold the family of Tuang-fang: they
saw their home ruined at time of flood and began again on the morrow
to build on the remaining foundations. They saw their fields burned up
by drouth, and took their winter clothing to the pawn-shop to get
money to buy seed for the coming spring. They did not complain so
long as they could get sufficient food to feed their bodies and the
coarse blue cloth with which to clothe them, and when these failed
they sent their three strong sons, the best of the family, to the rubber
plantations of the South.

We hear so much in the papers here of the "Yellow Peril." If there is a
Yellow Peril, it lies in the fact that our men are ready to labour
unceasingly for a wage on which most Europeans would starve, and
on that pittance they manage to save and become rich and
prosperous. They have gone into other lands wherever they have found
an opening, and some of the southern countries, like Singapore and
the Philippines, owe much of their commercial progress to our people.
They are honest and industrious, and until the foreigner began to feel
the pinch of competition, until he found that he must work all day and
not sleep the hours away if he would be in the race with the man from
the Eastern land, he had nothing to say about the character of the
man from China. But so soon as he felt the pressure of want because
of his sloth, he began to find that the "yellow man" was vicious, and
soon his depravity became a by-word. The Chinese were abused
because of their virtues rather than their vices, for things for which all
other nations are applauded-- love of work and economy. It is the
industry of our people that offends, because it competes with the
half-done work of the white man, who dissipates his time and money.
The men from this land have learned their ways of work at home,
where the struggle for existence is hard. Sunrise sees the carpenter
and the smith, the shoemaker and the beater of cotton at their labour,
and the mid-night cry of the watchman often finds them patiently
earning the rice for the morrow's meal. And they have not learned to
disobey when told to go to work. There are no strikes as in the foreign
countries. Our workmen are obedient, although it is said that they
lack in leadership, that nothing is originated within themselves; but
they can be taught, and all who employ Chinese labour testify to their
ability to follow a good master.
I think, from hearing the gossip from thy son's courtyard, that when
China is again peaceful, there will be more chance for the men within
her borders, who can then stay beside their fires and earn their food.
Our land is a land of fertile soil, of rich minerals, and great rivers. It is
said that there are millions and millions of acres on which food or
other products can be grown, and that a great part of China may be
made one vast garden. The German scientist who is trying to get a
coal mine concession from the government told my husband that
there were tens of millions of tons of coal of the best quality in China,
and that the single province of Shansi could supply the entire world for
a thousand years. No wonder the Germans are looking with longing
eyes on China! But we want these riches and this labour for our
people. If it is worth the time of men of other countries to come to this
far-off land in search of what lies beneath our soil, it is worth our while
to guard it and keep it for our own.
We hear news of battles and of secret plottings, and I am worried
about my son, who is in Canton, the province that seems to be the
centre of rebellion and the breeding-place of plots and treachery. I
wonder what will be the outcome of it all; if after all this turmoil and
bloodshed China will really become a different nation? It is hard to
change the habits of a nation, and I think that China will not be
changed by this convulsion. The real Chinese will be the same
passive, quiet, slow-thinking and slow-moving toiler, not knowing or
caring whether his country is a republic or whether he is ruled by the
Son of Heaven. He will be a stable, peaceable, law-abiding citizen or
subject, with respect for his officials so long as they are not too
oppressive; not asking whether the man who rules him is called a
governor or a futai, so long as work is plentiful and rice is cheap.
These patient, plodding men of China have held together for countless
thousands of years, and I am sure that their strength is derived from
qualities capable of bearing great strain; and our government, even the
government which we are trying so hard to overturn and mould on
Western lines, must have suited the country and the people, because
nothing ever persists generation after generation, century after
century, without being suited to its environment and more or less
adapted to the changes which time always brings.
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 any more, nor did she seem any more to
be of their kind. What they loved was their mother: not the body which
contained her, but that which made the body what it was."
That is the way with 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 thee over my dearly loved country
and her people. I know I talk to thee o'ermuch 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 thee, my Mother, because a heart must speak its bitterness,
and here our lips are sealed to all. I dare not even tell thy son, my
husband, all that passes in my mind as I look from out my window at
this fighting, struggling, maddened world that surges round me. We
are more than troubled about our son.
Thy daughter,
Kwei-li.
20
My Dear Mother,
I send to thee some silken wadding for the lining of thy coat, also a
piece of sable to make a scarf for Su-su, and a box of clothing for her
new-born son. The children each have written her a letter, and the
candles have been lighted 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 never
will succeed. My husband was bewailing the fact of the empty
strong-box, 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 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 men enough to agree with 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. Dost
thou 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 which 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 sycee 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 clamouring 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. Canst thou 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 being
able to still the many tongues I have now about me.
We send thee love, and greetings to thy new-born 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 colours rare. 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 colour 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 splendour
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.