THE SLAVE-GIRL’S THANKSGIVING
IT was Thanksgiving Eve; but of this fact Pao Chu was entirely ignorant, for how could she know anything of Thanksgiving, or of giving thanks, when she was only a little Chinese slave, and had never been out of her prison in Chinatown?
Quong Lee, the president of the Quong Duck Tong, a highbinder society, was her owner, and she supposed that everybody was like him, and that there was no goodness or happiness in all the world. All the world to Pao Chu meant just the limited area she could see from her iron-barred window—about one foot square. And yes—on one occasion the old hag who guarded her had fallen into a deep opium sleep, and Pao Chu had slipped out on the tiny, flower-decked balcony, and, leaning far over, had gazed with pathetic eagerness down at the swarming crowd of Chinamen below. Her name meant “precious pearl,” but she could see no reason for such a meaning, unless—yes, it must be because she would bring a big price when she was sold again. She had overheard Quong Lee talking to the old hag Suey Gong one night when they had thought she slept, and he had said then that one of his highbinder friends had offered him three thousand dollars for Pao Chu, but he was not going to sell her yet, as he thought he could get five thousand soon, for she was growing more beautiful every day. But the poor little pearl paid dearly for that one little tantalizing glimpse of the Chinese world. It happened to be the night of a Chinese celebration,—the “Moon Festival,”—and the light from the great dragon lanterns swaying above her shone full upon her pretty face. Many glanced upward, and were startled by the lovely apparition. Her face was full of Oriental witchery, and the tender young soul of her shone out in the great velvet eyes, and the pretty mouth glowed like a scarlet rose, while her hair shone in the mystical fairy light of the lanterns.
But alas for Pao Chu, the pure pearl in the mire! As she gazed down at the moving merry crowd, her whole soul in her eyes, and living a whole life in that one moment, two passed beneath the balcony—a fateful two; one the highbinder friend of her master, who saw her face, and forever after wished to gain possession of it for his own, and the other her master, Quong Lee, the great and high—Quong Lee, the demon and arch-fiend. At first he was amazed at the transformation that happiness had made in her face, and then—with one bound he was up the stairs. The poor little slave-girl stood transfixed with horror. She called hysterically on the little squatty god in the corner, but the god stolidly refused to listen,—indeed he always had refused. She could not recall a time when he had ever listened; and now her master strode furiously into the room, and grasped the poor trembling child with his great murderous hands. He shook her violently, and hurled at her all the Chinese profanity at his command. He beat her so that she almost died, and she would so much rather have really died, but he would not kill the goose that laid the golden eggs. Oh, no! this little bit of stubborn womanhood would fill his purse with gold some day, and so—he must not go too far. He must not cripple or maim her or she would be a drug on the market. He would simply beat her and starve her for a few days, and bestow upon her every vile epithet in his category.
He then dragged the old Suey Gong from her hard couch and gave her a beating. Her brain was so deadened with opium that she could not understand why she was being beaten; but then it did not matter why, she had often been beaten, and there must be a reason for it. She would have liked to know, of course, but then it was a woman’s place to be beaten, as the yen, or female principle, was the source of all evil, and must be chastised whenever the male principle should see fit to do so.
From that time on there was no more freedom for the little slave. No fresh air save that which came through the tiny lattice; no glimpse of any human being save the old hag and the highbinder. Nothing to do but just to sit and make cigarettes all day, for her master to sell, and to talk to the old Suey Gong.
It was two years since her fateful visit to the balcony, and the girl was talking in her innocent way to the old woman.
“Suey Gong! do you know when I be sold? Will the new master beat me evly day? What kind of a life will it be? Tell me!” These, and many other questions, but to none of them could the old woman reply. If she had known the answers she would not have dared.
“I no sabe (understand) anything,” she said, “I only know China girl neveh be happy. Bad spirits allee timee stay with her. She must allee timee play (pray) to the gods; she must work for man, he must beat her; she neveh be flee (free). She have heap plenty bad time here; I no know why; I no can tell.”
“But why should I play to god when he neveh hear? Listen! listen!—Suey Gong! I no play to Chinese god any more. Afteh this I play—I play to—’Melican god. Then we see!”