“We shall feel ourselves highly honored, by your presence, under our roof,” replied the lady; “it seems to me entirely proper, that you should take up your abode here, rather than elsewhere.” She immediately directed some refreshments to be brought, and caused the works of Chuang-tsze to be exhibited, on a large table, together with a copy of the learned Taou-te-King, which had been a present to her late husband, from Laou-keun himself.
The coffin of Chuang-tsze was deposited, in a large hall; and, on one side, was a suite of apartments, opening into it, which was assigned to the visitor. This devoted widow came, very frequently, to weep over the remains of her honored husband; and failed not to say a civil word to the youth, who, notified of her presence, by her audible sobs, never omitted to come forth, and mingle his lamentations with hers. Mutual glances were exchanged, upon such occasions. In short, each, already, was effectually smitten with the other.
One day, the pretty, little widow sent privately for the old domestic, who attended upon the young man, in the capacity of body servant, and inquired, all in a seemingly casual way, if his master was married. “Not yet”—he replied.—“He is very fastidious, I suppose”—said the lady, with an inquiring look.—“It is even so, madam,” replied the servant—“my master is, indeed, not easily suited, in such a matter. His standard is very high. I have heard him say, that he should, probably, never be married, as he despaired of ever finding a female resembling yourself, in every particular.”—“Did he say so?” exclaimed the widow, as the warm blood rushed into her cheeks.—“He certainly did,” replied the other, “and much more, which I do not feel at liberty to repeat.”—“Dear me,” said the widow, “what a bewitching young man he is! go to him, and if he really loves me, as you say, tell him he may open the subject, without fear, for his passion is amply returned, by one, who is willing, if he so wishes, to become his wife.”
The young widow, from day to day, threw herself repeatedly, and as if by accident, into the old servant’s way; and began, at last, to feel surprised, and somewhat nettled, that he brought her no message from his master. At length, she became exceedingly impatient, and asked him directly, if he had spoken to his master on the subject. “Yes, madam,” the old man replied.—“And pray,” asked the widow, eagerly, “what said he?”—“He said, madam, that such an union would place him upon the pinnacle of human happiness; but that there was one fatal objection.”—“And do, for pity’s sake, tell me,” said she, hastily interrupting the old man, “what that objection can be.”—“He said,” rejoined the old domestic, “that, being a disciple of your late husband, such a marriage, he feared, would be considered scandalous.”—“But,” said she, briskly, “there is just nothing in that. He was never a disciple of Chuang-tsze—he only proposed to become one, which is an entirely different thing. If any other frivolous objections arise, I beg you to remove them; and you may count upon being handsomely rewarded.”
Her anxiety caused her to become exceedingly restless. She made frequent visits to the hall, and, when she approached the coffin, her sobs became more audible than ever—but the young disciple came not forth, as usual. Upon one occasion, after dark, as she was standing near the coffin, she was startled, by an unusual noise. “Gracious Heaven!” she exclaimed, “can it be so! Is the old philosopher coming back to life!” The cold sweat came upon her lovely brow, as she started to procure a light. When she returned, the mystery was readily explained. In front of the coffin there was a table, designed as an altar, for the reception of such emblems and presents, as were placed there by visitors. The old servant, had become tipsy, and finding no more convenient place, in which to bestow himself, while waiting his master’s bidding, he had thrown himself, at full length, upon this altar; and, in turning over, had occasioned the noise, which had so much alarmed the young widow. Under other circumstances, the act would have been accounted sacrilegious, and the fellow would have been subjected to the bastinado. But, as matters stood, the widow passed it by, and even suffered the sot to remain undisturbed.
On the morning of the following day, the widow encountered the old domestic, who was passing her, with as much apparent indifference, as though she had never entrusted him, with any important commission. Surprised by his behavior, she called him to her private apartment—“Well,” said she, “have you executed the business, which I gave you in charge?”—“Oh,” said he, with an air of provoking indifference, “that is all over, I believe.”—“How so,” inquired the widow—“did you deliver my message correctly?”—“In your own words,” he replied—“my master would make any sacrifice to make you his wife; and is entirely persuaded, by your arguments, to give up the objection he stated, in regard to his being the disciple of Chuang-tsze; but there are three other objections, which it will be impossible to overcome; and which his sense of delicacy forbids him to exhibit before you.”—“Poh, poh,” said the widow, “let me hear what they are, and we shall then see, whether they are insurmountable or not.”—“Well, madam,” said the old man, “since you command me, I will state them, as nearly as I can, in the words of my young master. The first of these three objections is this——”
No. CXXI.
We were about to exhibit those three objections of the young disciple, to his marriage, with the widow of Chuang-tsze, when we were summoned away, by professional duties. Let us proceed—“The first of my master’s objections,” said the old domestic, “is this—the coffin of Chuang-tsze is still in the hall of ceremony. A sight, so sad and solemnizing, is absolutely inconsistent with the nuptial celebration. The world would cry out upon such inconsistency. In the second place, the fame of your late husband was so great—his love for you so devoted—yours for him so ardent and sincere, and founded, so obviously, upon his learning and wisdom—that my master fears it will be impossible for him, to supply the place of so good, and so great, a man; and that you will, ere long, despise him, for his inferiority; and that your affections will be entirely and unchangeably fixed, on the memory of the great defunct. The third and last objection, named by my master, whose passion for you knows no bounds, is serious indeed. Though of lofty pedigree, he is very poor. He has neither money nor lands; and has not the means of purchasing those marriage gifts, which custom requires him to offer.”
“And are these the only objections?” said she. “There are no others,” he replied; “if it were not for these insurmountable objections, the happiness of my master would be complete, and he would openly manifest that passion, by which he is now secretly consumed.”