Mrs. Spring Fragrance
tenderness, “do not talk to me like that. You _are_ my superior.... I
would not love you if you were not.”
But in spite of all I could do or say, it was there between us: that
strange, invisible—what? Was it the barrier of race—that consciousness?
Sometimes he would talk about returning to China. The thought filled me
with horror. I had heard rumors of secondary wives. One afternoon the
cousin of Liu Kanghi, with whom I had lived, came to see me, and showed
me a letter which she had received from a little Chinese girl who had
been born and brought up in America until the age of ten. The last
paragraph in the letter read: “Emma and I are very sad and wish we were
back in America.” Kanghi’s cousin explained that the father of the
little girls, having no sons, had taken to himself another wife, and the
new wife lived with the little girls and their mother.
That was before my little boy was born. That evening I told Kanghi that
he need never expect me to go to China with him.
“You see,” I began, “I look upon you as belonging to me.”
He would not let me say more. After a while he said: “It is true that in
China a man may and occasionally does take a secondary wife, but that
custom is custom, not only because sons are denied to the first wife,
but because the first wife is selected by parents and guardians before a
man is hardly a man. If a Chinese marries for love, his life is a
filled-up cup, and he wants no secondary wife. No, not even for sake of
a son. Take, for example, me, your great husband.”
I sometimes commented upon his boyish ways and appearance, which was the
reason why, when he was in high spirits, he would call himself my “great
husband.” He was not boyish always. I have seen him, when shouldering
the troubles of kinfolk, the quarrels of his clan, and other
responsibilities, acting and looking like a man of twice his years.
But for all the strange marriage customs of my husband’s people I
considered them far more moral in their lives than the majority of
Americans. I expressed myself thus to Liu Kanghi, and he replied: “The
American people think higher. If only more of them lived up to what they
thought, the Chinese would not be so confused in trying to follow their
leadership.”
If ever a man rejoiced over the birth of his child, it was Liu Kanghi.
The boy was born with a veil over his face. “A prophet!” cried the old
mulatto Jewess who nursed me. “A prophet has come into the world.”
She told this to his father when he came to look upon him, and he
replied: “He is my son; that is all I care about.” But he was so glad,
and there was feasting and rejoicing with his Chinese friends for over
two weeks. He came in one evening and found me weeping over my poor
little boy. I shall never forget the expression on his face.
“Oh, shame!” he murmured, drawing my head down to his shoulder. “What is
there to weep about? The child is beautiful! The feeling heart, the
understanding mind is his. And we will bring him up to be proud that he
is of Chinese blood; he will fear none and, after him, the name of
half-breed will no longer be one of contempt.”
Kanghi as a youth had attended a school in Hong Kong, and while there
had made the acquaintance of several half Chinese half English lads.
“They were the brightest of all,” he told me, “but they lowered
themselves in the eyes of the Chinese by being ashamed of their Chinese
blood and ignoring it.”
His theory, therefore, was that if his own son was brought up to be
proud instead of ashamed of his Chinese half, the boy would become a
great man.
Perhaps he was right, but he could not see as could I, an American
woman, the conflict before our boy.
After the little Kanghi had passed his first month, and we had found a
reliable woman to look after him, his father began to take me around
with him much more than formerly, and life became very enjoyable. We
dined often at a Chinese restaurant kept by a friend of his, and
afterwards attended theatres, concerts, and other places of
entertainment. We frequently met Americans with whom he had become
acquainted through business, and he would introduce them with great
pride in me shining in his eyes. The little jealousies and suspicions of
the first year seemed no longer to irritate him, and though I had still
cause to shrink from the gaze of strangers, I know that my Chinese
husband was for several years a very happy man.
* * * * *
Now, I have come to the end. He left home one morning, followed to the
gate by the little girl and boy (we had moved to a cottage in the
suburbs).
“Bring me a red ball,” pleaded the little girl.
“And me too,” cried the boy.
“All right, chickens,” he responded, waving his hand to them.
He was brought home at night, shot through the head. There are some
Chinese, just as there are some Americans, who are opposed to all
progress, and who hate with a bitter hatred all who would enlighten or
be enlightened.
But that I have not the heart to dwell upon. I can only remember that
when they brought my Chinese husband home there were two red balls in
his pocket. Such was Liu Kanghi—a man.
THE AMERICANIZING OF PAU TSU
I
When Wan Hom Hing came to Seattle to start a branch of the merchant
business which his firm carried on so successfully in the different
ports of China, he brought with him his nephew, Wan Lin Fo, then
eighteen years of age. Wan Lin Fo was a well-educated Chinese youth,
with bright eyes and keen ears. In a few years’ time he knew as much
about the business as did any of the senior partners. Moreover, he
learned to speak and write the American language with such fluency that
he was never at a loss for an answer, when the white man, as was
sometimes the case, sought to pose him. “All work and no play,” however,
is as much against the principles of a Chinese youth as it is against
those of a young American, and now and again Lin Fo would while away an
evening at the Chinese Literary Club, above the Chinese restaurant,
discussing with some chosen companions the works and merits of Chinese
sages—and some other things. New Year’s Day, or rather, Week, would also
see him, business forgotten, arrayed in national costume of finest silk,
and color “the blue of the sky after rain,” visiting with his friends,
both Chinese and American, and scattering silver and gold coin amongst
the youngsters of the families visited.
It was on the occasion of one of these New Year’s visits that Wan Lin Fo
first made known to the family of his firm’s silent American partner,
Thomas Raymond, that he was betrothed. It came about in this wise: One
of the young ladies of the house, who was fair and frank of face and
friendly and cheery in manner, observing as she handed him a cup of tea
that Lin Fo’s eyes wore a rather wistful expression, questioned him as
to the wherefore:
“Miss Adah,” replied Lin Fo, “may I tell you something?”
“Certainly, Mr. Wan,” replied the girl. “You know how I enjoy hearing
your tales.”
“But this is no tale. Miss Adah, you have inspired in me a love—”
Adah Raymond started. Wan Lin Fo spake slowly.
“For the little girl in China to whom I am betrothed.”
“Oh, Mr. Wan! That is good news. But what have I to do with it?”
“This, Miss Adah! Every time I come to this house, I see you, so good
and so beautiful, dispensing tea and happiness to all around, and I
think, could I have in my home and ever by my side one who is also both
good and beautiful, what a felicitious life mine would be!”
“You must not flatter me, Mr. Wan!”
“All that I say is founded on my heart. But I will speak not of you. I
will speak of Pau Tsu.”
“Pau Tsu?”
“Yes. That is the name of my future wife. It means a pearl.”
“How pretty! Tell me all about her!”
“I was betrothed to Pau Tsu before leaving China. My parents adopted her
to be my wife. As I remember, she had shining eyes and the good-luck
color was on her cheek. Her mouth was like a red vine leaf, and her
eyebrows most exquisitely arched. As slender as a willow was her form,
and when she spoke, her voice lilted from note to note in the sweetest
melody.”
Adah Raymond softly clapped her hands.
“Ah! You were even then in love with her.”
“No,” replied Lin Fo thoughtfully. “I was too young to be in
love—sixteen years of age. Pau Tsu was thirteen. But, as I have
confessed, you have caused me to remember and love her.”
Adah Raymond was not a self-conscious girl, but for the life of her she
could think of no reply to Lin Fo’s speech.
“I am twenty-two years old now,” he continued. “Pau Tsu is eighteen.
Tomorrow I will write to my parents and persuade them to send her to me
at the time of the spring festival. My elder brother was married last
year, and his wife is now under my parents’ roof, so that Pau Tsu, who
has been the daughter of the house for so many years, can now be spared
to me.”
“What a sweet little thing she must be,” commented Adah Raymond.
“You will say that when you see her,” proudly responded Lin Fo. “My
parents say she is always happy. There is not a bird or flower or
dewdrop in which she does not find some glad meaning.”
“I shall be so glad to know her. Can she speak English?”
Lin Fo’s face fell.
“No,” he replied, “but,”—brightening—“when she comes I will have her
learn to speak like you—and be like you.”
II
Pau Tsu came with the spring, and Wan Lin Fo was one of the happiest and
proudest of bridegrooms. The tiny bride was really very pretty—even to
American eyes. In her peach and plum colored robes, her little arms and
hands sparkling with jewels, and her shiny black head decorated with
wonderful combs and pins, she appeared a bit of Eastern coloring amidst
the Western lights and shades.
Lin Fo had not been forgotten, and her eyes under their downcast lids
discovered him at once, as he stood awaiting her amongst a group of
young Chinese merchants on the deck of the vessel.
The apartments he had prepared for her were furnished in American style,
and her birdlike little figure in Oriental dress seemed rather out of
place at first. It was not long, however, before she brought forth from
the great box, which she had brought over seas, screens and fans, vases,
panels, Chinese matting, artificial flowers and birds, and a number of
exquisite carvings and pieces of antique porcelain. With these she
transformed the American flat into an Oriental bower, even setting up in
her sleeping-room a little chapel, enshrined in which was an image of
the Goddess of Mercy, two ancestral tablets, and other emblems of her
faith in the Gods of her fathers.
The Misses Raymond called upon her soon after arrival, and she smiled
and looked pleased. She shyly presented each girl with a Chinese cup and
saucer, also a couple of antique vases, covered with whimsical pictures,
which Lin Fo tried his best to explain.
The girls were delighted with the gifts, and having fallen, as they
expressed themselves, in love with the little bride, invited her through
her husband to attend a launch party, which they intended giving the
following Wednesday on Lake Washington.
Lin Fo accepted the invitation in behalf of himself and wife. He was
quite at home with the Americans and, being a young man, enjoyed their
rather effusive appreciation of him as an educated Chinaman. Moreover,
he was of the opinion that the society of the American young ladies
would benefit Pau Tsu in helping her to acquire the ways and language of
the land in which he hoped to make a fortune.
Wan Lin Fo was a true son of the Middle Kingdom and secretly pitied all
those who were born far away from its influences; but there was much