Court Life in China, Isaac Taylor Headland [an ebook reader .txt] 📗

great bronze incense-burner, from which many sticks of incense sent out their fragrant odour on the air. As each guest passed through the court, she took a stick from the pile, lit it, and, with a word of prayer, added it to the number.

After the guests had all arrived a princess—sister of the hostess—accompanied by two of the leading guests, descended into the paved court and took her place before the altar. Deep-toned bells were touched by small boys whose shaven heads and priestly robes denoted that they, like little Samuel, were being brought up within the courts of the temple. The Princess took a great bunch of incense in her two hands, one of her attendants lit it with a torch prepared for that purpose, the flame and smoke ascended amid the deep tones of the bells, as she prostrated herself before the goddess. She looked like a beautiful fairy herself as she stood with the flaming bunch of incense held high above her head. Three times she prostrated herself and nine times she bent forward, fulfilling all the requirements of the law.

At the close of this ceremony the ladies were invited to partake of a feast prepared wholly of vegetables and vegetable oils. It requires much more skill to prepare such a feast than when meat and animal oils are used. The food furnished interesting topics for discussion. Most of it was prepared by various temples, each being celebrated for some particular dish, which it was asked to provide for the occasion.

It is not uncommon for a Chinese lady to take upon herself a vow in which she promises the gods to observe certain days of each month as fast days, on condition that they restore to health a mother, father, husband or child. No matter what banquet she attends she need only mention to her hostess that she has a vow and she is made the chief guest, helping others but eating nothing herself. After this full month feast the baby was seen, its presents admired, the last cup of tea drunk, the farewells said, and we all returned home.

XVII

The Chinese Ladies—Their Ills

My home is girdled by a limpid stream, And there in summer days life’s movements pause, Save where some swallow flits from beam to beam, And the wild sea-gull near and nearer draws.

The good wife rules a paper board for chess; The children beat a fish-hook out of wire; My ailments call for physic more or less, What else should this poor frame of mine require? —“Tu Fu,” Translated.

XVII

THE CHINESE LADIES—THEIR ILLS[4]

[4] Taken from Mrs. Headland’s note-book.

One day a eunuch dashed into the back gate of our compound in Peking, rode up to the door of the library, dismounted from his horse, and handed a letter in a red envelope to the house servant who met him on the steps.

“What is the matter?” asked the boy.

“The Princess is ill,” replied the servant.

“What Princess?” further inquired the boy.

“Our Princess,” was the reply.

“Oh, you are from the palace near the west gate?”

“Yes,” and the boy and the servant continued their conversation until the former had learned all that the letter contained, whereupon he brought me the message.

I opened the letter, written in the Chinese ideographs, and called the messenger in.

“Is the Princess very ill?” I inquired.

“Not very,” he answered, “but she has been indisposed for several days.”

“When does she want me to go?” I inquired, for I had long ago learned that a few inquiries often brought out interesting and valuable information.

“At once,” he answered; “the cart will be here in a few minutes.”

By the time I had made ready my medical outfit the cart had arrived. It was very much like a great Saratoga trunk on two wheels. It was without seat and without springs, but filled with thick cushions, and as I had learned to sit tailor fashion it was not entirely uncomfortable to ride in. It had gauze curtains in summer, and was lined with quilted silk or fur in winter, and was a comfortable conveyance.

When I reached the palace I was met by the head eunuch, who conducted me at once to the apartments of the Princess. Her reception room was handsomely furnished with rich, carved, teak-wood furniture after the Manchu fashion, with one or two large, comfortable, leather-covered easy chairs of foreign make. Clocks sat upon the tables and window-sills, and fine Swiss watches hung on the walls. Beautiful jade and other rich Chinese ornaments were arranged in a tasteful way about the room. On the wall hung a picture painted by the Empress Dowager, a gift to the Prince on his birthday.

After a moment’s waiting the Princess appeared attended by her women and slave girls.

“I beg your pardon for not having my hair properly dressed,” she said, as she took my hands in hers, the custom of these Manchu princesses and even the Empress Dowager herself, in greeting foreign ladies. “I welcome you back to Peking after your summer vacation.”

When the usual salutations had been passed she told me her trouble and I gave her the proper medicine, with minute instructions as to how to take it, which I also repeated to her women.

“The cause of my illness,” she explained, “is over-fatigue. I had to be present at court on the eighth of the eighth month and I became very tired from standing all day.”

“But could you not sit down?” I asked.

“Not in the presence of the Empress Dowager,” she replied.

“Of course, I know you could not sit down in the presence of Her Majesty, but could you not withdraw and rest a while?” I inquired.

“Not that day. It was a busy and tiresome day for us all,” she replied.

While we were talking the young Princess, her son’s wife, came in and greeted her mother-in-law in a formal but kindly way, and gave her hands to me just as the Princess had done. She remained standing all the time she was in the room, as did four of the secondary princesses or wives of her husband. They were all beautifully dressed, but they are beneath the Princess in rank, and so must stand in her presence. If the Prince’s mother had come in, as she often did when I was there, the Princess would have to stand and wait on her. All Manchu families are very particular in this respect.

“You will be interested,” said the Princess, “in one phase of our visit to the palace.” Then turning to one of her women she said: “Bring me those two pairs of shoes.”

“These,” she explained, “are like some made by my mother-in-law and myself as presents for the Empress Dowager. On the eighth of the eighth month we have a feast, when the ladies of the royal household are invited into the palace, and our custom is for each of us to present Her Majesty with a pair of shoes.”

The shoes were daintily embroidered, though not so pretty as some I have seen the Empress Dowager wear. Some of her shoes are decorated with beautiful pearls and others are covered with precious stones.

“The Empress Dowager,” continued the Princess, “is very vain of her small feet; though,” she continued, as she put her own foot out, encased in the daintiest little embroidered slipper of light-blue satin, “it is not so small as my own.”

It seemed very human to hear this delicate little Princess make a remark of this kind. Of course, both she and the Empress Dowager have natural feet.

It was late in the afternoon, some months after my visit to the Princess, that a very different call came for my services.

The boy came in and told me that a man wanted me to go to see his wife, who lived in the southern city outside the Ha-ta gate. It has always been my custom never to refuse any one whether they be rich or poor, and so I told him to call a cart.

It was in midwinter and a bitter cold night, the room was without fire and yet there was a child of three or four toddling about upon the kang or brick bed whose only garment was a long coat.

“You should put a pair of trousers on that child,” I said, “or it will catch cold and I will soon have to come again.”

“Yes,” they said, “we will put trousers on it.”

“You had better do it at once,” I insisted.

“Yes,” they continued, “we will see that it is dressed.”

After attending to the woman, and again urging them to dress the child, I wrapped my warm cloak around me and started home, though I could not forget the child.

“It is a cold night,” I said to the driver as we started on our way.

“Yes,” he answered, “there will be some uncomfortable people in the city to-night.”

“In that house we just left,” I continued, for I could not banish the child from my thoughts, “there was a little child playing on the bed without a shred of trousers on.”

“Quite right,” said he; “they pawned the trousers of that child to get money to pay me for taking you to see the sick woman.”

“To pay you!” said I, with indignation, and yet with admiration for the character of the people for whom I was giving my services—“to pay you! Then drive right back and give them their money and tell them to go and redeem those trousers and put them on the child!”

“The city gate will be closed before we can reach it if I return,” said he, “and we will not be able to get in to-night.”

“No matter about that,” I insisted, “go back and give them the money.”

He turned around with many mutterings, lashed up his mule at the top of his speed, gave them the money, and then started on a gallop for the city gate. It was a rough ride in that springless cart over the rutty roads. But my house seemed warmer that night and my bed seemed softer after I had paid the carter myself.

Among my friends and patients none are more interesting than the Misses Hsu. They are very intelligent, and after I had become well acquainted with them I said to them one day:

“How is it that you have done such wide reading?”

“You know, of course,” they said, “that our father is a chuang yuan.”

I asked them the meaning of a chuang yuan. Then I learned that under the Chinese system a great many students enter the examinations, and those who secure their degree are called hsiu tsai; a year or two later these are examined again, and those who pass are given the degree of chu jen; once more these latter are examined and the successful candidates are called chin shih, and are then ready for official position. They continue to study, however, and are allowed to go into the palace, where they are examined in the presence of the Emperor, and those who pass are called han lin, or forest of pencils. Once in three years these han lins are examined and one is allowed to obtain a degree—he is a chuang yuan.

Out of four hundred million people but one is allowed this degree once in three years.

“Your father must be a very great scholar,” I remarked.

“He has always been a diligent student,” they answered, modestly.

“What is his given name?” I inquired, one day.

“If you will give me a pencil I will write it for you; we never speak the given name of our father in China,” said the eldest, and she wrote it down.

“How many sisters are there in your family—eight, are there not?”

“Yes. You know,