Profiles from China | Page 3

an one my
son will burn for me.
For I am old, and half my life already dwells
among
the dead."
And, as he speaks, behind him in the shop I feel the

presence of a hovering host, the myriads of the
immortal dead, the
rulers of the spirit in this
land....
For in this kingdom of the dead they who are living
cling with fevered hands to the torn fringes of the
mighty past. And if
they fail a little, compromise....
The dead I think will understand.
Soochow
My Servant
The feet of my servant thump on the floor. Thump,
they go, and thump--dully, deformedly.
My servant has shown me her
feet.
The instep has been broken upward into a bony cushion.
The big toe is pointed as an awl. The small
toes are folded under the
cushioned instep. Only
the heel is untouched.
The thing is white
and bloodless with the pallor of
dead flesh.
But my servant is quite contented.
She smiles toothlessly and shows
me how small are her
feet, her "golden lilies."
Thump_, they go, and _thump!
Wusih
The Feast
So this is the wedding feast!
The room is not large, but it is heavily
crowded, filled

with small tables, filled with many human bodies.
About the walls are
paintings and banners in sharp
colors; above our heads hang innumerable gaudy
lanterns of wood
and paper. We sit in furs,
shivering with the cold.
The food passes
endlessly, droll combinations in brown
gravies--roses, sugar, and lard--duck and
bamboo--lotus, chestnuts,
and fish-eggs--an
"eight-precious pudding."
They tempt curiosity;
my chop-sticks are busy. The
warm rice-wine trickles sparingly.
The groom is invisible somewhere, but the bride
martyrs among us. She is clad in scarlet satin,
heavily embroidered
with gold. On her head is
an edifice of scarlet and pearls.
For weeks,
I know, she has wept in protest.
The feast-mother leads her in to us
with sacrificial
rites. Her eyes are closed, hidden behind her
curtain of strung beads;
for three days she will
not open them. She has never seen the
bridegroom.
At the feast she sits like her own effigy. She neither
eats nor speaks.
Opposite her, across the narrow table, is a wall of
curious faces, lookers-on--children and half-grown
boys, beggars and
what-not--the gleanings
of the streets.
They are quiet but they watch
hungrily.
To-night, when the bridegroom draws the scarlet curtains
of the bed, they will still be watching
hungrily....
Strange, formless memories out of books struggle upward
in my consciousness. This is the marriage
at Cana.... I am feasting

with the Caliph
at Bagdad.... I am the wedding guest who
beat his
breast....
My heart is troubled.
What shall be said of
blood-brotherhood between man
and man?
Wusih
The Beggar
_Christ! What is that--that--Thing?
Only a beggar, professionally
maimed, I think._
Across the narrow street it lies, the street where little
children are.
It is rocking its body back and forth, back and forth,
ingratiatingly, in the noisome filth.
Beside the body are stretched two
naked stumps of
flesh, on one the remnant of a foot. The wounds
are not new wounds,
but they are open and they
fester. There are flies on them.
The
Thing is whining, shrilly, hideously.
Professionally maimed, I think.
Christ!
Hwai Yuen
Interlude
It is going to be hot here.
Already the sun is treacherous and a dull
mugginess is
in the air. I note that winter clothes are shedding
one by one.
In the market-place sits a coolie, expanding in the
warmth.
He has opened his ragged upper garments and his

bronze body is naked to the belt.
He is examining it minutely,
occasionally picking at
something with the dainty hand of the Orient.
If he had ever seen a
zoological garden I should say
he was imitating the monkeys there.
As he has not, I dare say the
taste is ingrained.
At all events it is going to be hot here.
The Village of the Mud Idols
The City Wall
About the city where I dwell, guarding it close, runs
an embattled wall.
It was not new I think when Arthur was a king,
and
plumèd knights before a British wall made brave
clangor of trumpets,
that Launcelot came forth.
It was not new I think, and now not it but
chivalry is
old.
Without, the wall is brick, with slots for firing, and it
drops straightway into the evil moat, where offal
floats and nameless
things are thrown.
Within, the wall is earth; it slants more gently
down,
covered with grass and stubbly with cut weeds.
Below it in straw lairs
the beggars herd, patiently
whining, stretching out their sores.
And
on the top a path runs.
As I walk, lifted above the squalor and the dirt, the

timeless miracle of sunset mantles in the west,
The blue dusk gathers
close
And beauty moves immortal through the land.
And I walk
quickly, praying in my heart that beauty
will defend me, will heal up the too great wounds
of China.
I will not look--to-night I will not look--where at
my feet the little coffins are,
The boxes where the beggar children lie,
unburied
and unwatched.
I will not look again, for once