The bond between a mother and daughter is very strong. It goesdeeperthan words can reach and continues beyond the grave. During life, however, it may not be at all comfortable; there may be battles and misunderstandings, impatience and anger. And if your mother was born in pre-Revolutionary China, and you were born in San Francisco in the 1950s, a child of two widely differing cultures, how do you explain your problems to her? How will she understand your feelings?
Jing-mei, Waverly, Lena, and Rose grow up speaking English and drinking Coca-Cola, free to choosetheir jobs, their life-styles, and their husbands. But they also carry the hopes and expectations of their mothers, who left unspeakable sorrows behind them in China to travel to America, a country where their children will have choices that were denied to them. But it is also a country of change and confusion, a place where the Chinese idea of 'joy luck' does not mean the same to an American-born mind.
Each mother and daughter tells her own story, except for Jing-mei's mother, who has just died. Now Jing-mei nervously takes her mother's place at the Joy Luck Club, sitting at the mah jong table on the East corner, the direction from which the sun rises, where the wind comes from, where things begin . ..
OXFORD BOOKWORMS LIBRARY
Human Interest
The Joy LuckClub
Stage 6 (2500 headwords)
Series Editor: Jennifer Bassett
Founder Editor: Tricia Hedge
Activities Editors: Jennifer Bassett and Christine Lindop
To my mother and the memory of her mother
You asked me once what I would remember. This, and much more.
AMY TAN
The Joy Luck Club
Retold by Clare West
OXFORD
VNIVBB.SITY PB.BSS
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The mothers in this story speak a variety of English that uses nonstandard forms (for example, omitting articles or auxiliary verbs). This feature has been retained in the adaptation as it is a powerful reminder of the cultural transitions in the story, both between countries and also between first- and second-generation Americans.
THE OLD WOMAN remembered a swan she had paid too much for, many years ago in Shanghai. This bird, boasted the market seller, was once a duck that stretched its neck in hopes of becoming something better, and now look! - it is too beautiful to eat.
Then the woman and the swan sailed across an ocean many thousands of miles wide, stretching their necks towards America. On herjourney she whispered to the swan: 'In America I will have a daughter just like me. But over there nobody will say her worth is measured by the loudness of her husband's belch. Over there nobody will look down on her, and she will always be too full to swallow any sorrow! She will know my meaning, because I will give her this swan. '
But when she arrived in the new country, the officials pulled her swan away from her, leaving the woman with only one swan feather for a memory. And then she had to answer so many questions that she forgot why she had come and what she had left behind.
Now the woman was old. And she had a daughter who grew up speaking only English and swallowing more Coca-Cola than sorrow. For a long time now the woman had wanted to give her daughter the single swan feather and tell her, 'This feather may look worthless, but it comes from a long way away and carries with it .,,,!:'· all my good intentions.,
And she waited, year after year, for the day she could h- tell her daughter this in per{ect American English.
JING-MEI WOO
Daughter ofSuyuan Woo
My father has asked me to be the fourth player at the Joy Luck Club. I am replacing my mother, whose seat at the mah jong table has been empty since she died two months ago. My father thinks she was killed by her own thoughts.
'She had a new idea inside her head,' said my father. 'But the thought grew too big and burst. It must have been a very bad idea.'
The doctor said she died because a blood vessel in the brain swelled up and burst. And her friends at theJoy Luck Club said she died just like a rabbit under thewheels of a car: quickly and with unfinished business left behind. My mother was supposed to host the next meeting of the Joy Luck Club.
She had started the San FranciscoJoy Luck Club in 1949, two years before I was born. This was the year my parents left China with one large leathercase filledonly with fine silk dresses. There was no time to pack anything else, my mother had explained to my father after they boarded the boat. Still his hands swam desperately between the slippery silks, looking for his cotton shirts.
When they arrived in San Francisco, my father madeher hide those shiny clothes. She wore the same brown Chinese dress every day, until she was given two second-hand dresses by the white-haired ladies from the local church. Because of these and other gifts, my parents could not refuse the old ladies' invitation to join the church. Nor could they ignore the ladies' practical
advice to improve their English by attending religious study classes on Wednesday nights. This was how my parents met the Hsus, the Jongs, and the St Clairs. My mother could sense that the women ofthese families also had unspeakablesorrows they had left behind in China, and hopes they couldn't begin to express in their broken English. Or at least she recognized the deadness in these women's faces. And shesaw how quickly their eyes moved when she told them her idea for the Joy Luck Club.
Joy Luck was an idea my mother remembered from the days ofher first marriage in a town called Kweilin, before the Japanese invasion. That's why I think ofJoy Luck as her Kweilin story. It was the story she would always tell me when she was bored, when every bowl had been washed and the plastic-covered table had been wiped down twice, when my father sat reading the newspaper and smoking one cigarette after another, a warning not to disturb him. Thenmy motherwouldstart herstory. Over the years, she told me the same story, except for the ending, which grew darker, throwing long shadows into her life, and eventually into mine.
A'I dreamed about Kweilin before I ever saw it,' my mother began, speakingChinese. 'I dreamed ofhigh mountains, surrounded by white mists. If you reached the top, you would be able to see everything and feel such happiness that you would never have worries in your life ever again.
'In China, everybody dreamed about Kweilin. And when I arrived, I realized how thin my dreams were, how poor my thoughts. When I saw the hills, I laughed and trembled at the same time. They were so strange and beautiful that you can't even imagine them.
'But I didn't come to Kweilin to see how beautiful it was. The man who was my husband brought me and our two babies there,
because he thought we would be safe. He was an officer in the army, and after he had found a small room for us, he left us and went off to fight in Chung.king, in the northwest.
'We all knew the Japanese were winning, even when the newspapers said they were not. Every day, every hour, thousands ofpeople poured into Kweilin, trying to escape from the fighting. Rich and poor, Chinese and foreign, religious and political, we were all kinds of people mixed together. Everybody looked down on someone else. It didn't matter that we all lived in the same dirt and had the same illnesses. We all smelt just as bad as each other, but everybody complained that someone else smelt the worst.
'So you can see how quickly Kweilin lost its beauty for me. I no longer said, How lovely these hills are! I only wondered which hills the Japanese had reached. I sat in the dark corners of my house with a baby under each arm, waiting with nervous feet. And when we were warned ofthe approach ofthe bombers, my neighbours and I hurried to the deep caves to hide like wild animals. Butyou can'tstay in thedark for long. You becomelike a starving person, crazy-hungry for light. Can you imagine how it is, to want to be neither inside nor outside, to want to be nowhere and disappear?
'I thought of Joy Luck one unbearably hot summer night. Every place was so crowded and smelly thatthere was no room for fresh air. At all hours of the day and night I heard screams. I didn't know ifthey came from animals or humans. I didn't go to the window to find out. What use would that have been? And that's when I decided I needed something to do.
'My idea was to have a gathering offour women, onefor each corner of my mah jong table. I had a beautiful mah jong table, from my family, made of very fine wood. Each week one of us women would host a party to make us all feel more cheerful. The
hostess had to serve special foods to bring good luck of all kinds - money, good health, the birth of sons, and long life.
'What fine food we allowed ourselves, on so little money! We pretended not to notice that the vegetables were stringy and the fruit was half-eaten by insects. We knew we were luckier than most people. Afterfillingour stomachs, wewould fill a bowl with money, and then we would sit down at the mah jong table. Once we started to play, nobody could speak. We had to concentrate on our game, and think of nothing else but adding to our happiness through winning. But after our game, we would eat again, this time to celebrate our good fortune. And then we would talk into the night until the morning, telling stories - oh, what wonderful stories! - about good times in thepastand good times yet to come.
'People thought we were wrong to serve up these meals every week, when many in Kweilin were starving. Others thought we were wicked, to celebrate when evenwithin our own families we had lost relations, homes and fortunes. Hnnh! How could we laugh? people asked.
'It's not that we had no heart or eyes for pain. We were all afraid. We all had our miseries. But what was worse, we asked ourselves, to sit and wait for our own deaths with proper serious faces? Or to choose our own happiness?
'So we decided to hold parties and pretend each week had become the new year. Each week we could forget past sufferings. We weren't allowed to think a bad thought. We ate, we laughed, we played games, lost and won, we told the best stories. And each week, we could hope to be lucky. That hope wasouronly joy. And that's how we cameto call our little parties Joy Luck.'
My mother always ended the story on a happy note, boasting about her skill at the game. 'I won many times and was so lucky
that the others said I had learnt a clever thief's tricks! I won so much money! But ofcourse I wasn't rich, because by then paper money had become worthless.'
�I never thought my mother's Kweilin story was true, because the endings always changed. Sometimes she said she used her worthless winnings to buy a half-cup of rice; other times it was pig's feet, or eggs, or chickens. The story grew and grew. And then one evening, when I was a teenager, she told me a completely different end to the story.
'An army officer came to my house early one morning and told me to leave Kweilin as soon as possible. I knew theJapanese must be close. But how could I leave? There were no trains. My neighbour was so good to me. She bribed a man to steal a wheelbarrow, and promised to warn my other friends.
'I packed mythings and mytwo babies into this wheelbarrow, and began pushing it towards Chungking. On the fourth day I heard, from people running past me on the road, that the Japanese had marched into Kweilin and killed hundreds of the inhabitants. When I heard this news, I walked faster and faster.
'I went on pushing until my wheel broke. I abandoned my beautiful mah jong table. By then I didn't have enough feeling in my body to cry. I carried a baby tied to each shoulder and a bag in each hand, one with clothes, the other with food. I finally dropped one bag after the other when my hands began to bleed and became too slippery to hold onto anything.
'As I went on, I saw that others had done the same, gradually given up hope. The road was covered with beautiful things that grew in value along the way. By the time I arrived in Chungking I had lost everything except for three fine silk dresses, which I wore one on top of the other.'
'What do you mean by "everything"?' I gasped at the end. I
I didn't have enough feeling m my body to cry.
was shocked to realize the story had been true all the time. 'What happened to the babies?'
She didn't even pause to think. She simply said in a way that made it clear there was no more to the story: 'Your father is not my first husband. You are not those babies.'
AWhen I arrive at the Hsus' house, where the Joy Luck Club is meeting tonight, the first person I see is my father. 'There she is! Never on time!' he announces. And it's true. Everybody's already here, seven family friends in their sixties and seventies. They look up and laugh at me, always late, a child still at thirty-six.
I'm shaking, trying to hold in my feelings. The last time I saw them, atthe funeral, I broke down and cried. They must wonder how someone like me can take my mother's place. A friend once told me that my mother and I were alike. When I shyly told my mother this, she seemed insulted and said, 'You don't even know little percent of me! How can you be me?' And she's right. How can I be my mother at Joy Luck?
'Auntie, Uncle,' I say, nodding to each person there. I have always called these old family friends Auntie and Uncle.
Tonight we are all seated round the dining room table, as Uncle George puts on his glasses and starts reading the minutes:
'In our account we have $24,825. We sold Subaru for a loss at $6000. We bought a hundred shares ofSmith International at $7000. Our thanks to Lindo and TinJong for the meal. The soup was especially delicious. The March meeting had to be canceled. We were sorry to have to say a fond goodbye to our dear friend Suyuan. Our sympathy to the Woo family.'
That's all. I keep thinking the others will start talking about my mother and the wonderful friendship they shared. But they all just nod to approve the minutes. And it seems to me my mother's life has been forgotten, to make way for new business.
Auntie An-mei gets up slowly and walks heavily to the kitchen to prepare the food, while the others discuss financial matters. I follow her to ask why they started buying shares.
'We used to play mah jong, winner take all,' she says. 'But the samepeople were always winning, the same people always losing. You can't have luck when someone else has skill. So, long time ago, we decided to buy and sell shares. No skill in that. Even your mother agreed. Now we can all win and lose equally. And we can play mah jong for fun, winner take all. Loser take home uneaten food! Everyone can have some joy. Smart, huh?'
I watch Auntie An-mei making little parcels of meat and vegetables. She has quick, expert fingers, so she doesn't have to think about what she's doing. That's what my mother used to complain about, that Auntie An-mei never thought about what she was doing. I wonder what Auntie An-mei did to make my mother criticize her so much.
But then, my mother seemed to be displeased with all her friends, with me, and even with myfather. Somethingwas always missing. Something needed improving. Something was not in balance. There was too much of one element, not enough of another. Each person is made of five elements, she told me.
Too much fire and you hada bad temper. That was like my father, whom my mother criticized for smoking andwho always shouted back at her.
Too little wood and you bent too quickly to listen to other people'sideas, unable to stand on your own, like Auntie An-mei. Toomuchwater and you flowed in too many directions, like me. Istarted studying science, then changed to art, then worked as a secretary, later becoming a writer for an advertising agency.
'Time to eat,' Auntie An-mei announces happily. There are piles of heavenly-smelling food on the table, and everybody eats
as if they are starving. After the meal, the men go to another room to play cards, while the women carry the plates and bowls to the kitchen and put them in the sink. Now we walk through the house to the bedroom at the back, which was once shared by all three Hsu girls. We were childhood friends, but now they've all grown up and married, and I'm here to play in their room agam.
Nobody tells me where my mother used to sit. But I can tell, even before everyone sits down. The chair closest to the door has an emptiness to it. But the feeling doesn't really have to do with the chair. Without anyone telling me, I know her corner on the table was the East.
The East is where things begin, my motheronce told me, the direction from which the sun rises, and where the wind comes from.
'Do you win like your mother?' asks Auntie Lindo, sitting opposite me. She is not smiling.
'I only played a little in college with American friends.'
'Hnnh! American mah jong,' she says disgustedly. 'Not the same thing.' This is what my mother said when I once asked her the difference between American and Chinese mah jong.
'Completely differentkind ofplaying,' she said in her English explanation voice. 'American mah jong, they watch only for themselves, play only with their eyes.' Then she switched to Chinese: 'Chinese mah jong, you must play using your head, be very clever.'
This kind ofexplanation made me feel my mother and I spoke two different languages, which we did. I talked to her in English, she talked back in Chinese.
Now we begin to play, in a relaxed, unhurried way. TheJoy Luck aunties make conversation, not really listening to each other.
'Oh, Ihavea story,' says AuntieYingsuddenly. She has always been the strange auntie, someone lost in her own world.
'Police arrested Mrs Emerson's son last weekend,' she says, proud to be the first with the news. 'Too many TV set found in his car. Mrs Chan told me at church.'
Auntie Lindo says quickly, 'Aii-ya, Mrs Emerson good lady,' meaning Mrs Emerson didn't deserve such a terrible son. But now I see this is also forthe benefit ofAuntie An-mei, whoseown son was arrested two years ago for selling stolen stereos.
Auntie Lindo and my mother were best friends and sworn enemies, who spent a lifetime comparingtheir children. I was one month older than Waverly Jong, Auntie Lindo's prized daughter. From thetimewewerebabies, our mothers compared how fast we grew, how thick and dark our hair was, how many shoes we wore out in a year, and later, how smart Waverly was at playing chess, and how many competitions she had won.
I knew my mother hated listeningto Auntie Lindo talk about Waverly when she had nothing to respond with. So at first my mother tried to find my hidden skills. She did housework for a retired piano teacher, who gave me lessons and an old piano to practice on, in exchange. But when I failed to show any musical promise at all, she finally explained that I was a late developer.
'It's getting late,' I say, after the next round, getting up.
'No, no, you must stay!' says Auntie Lindo, pushing me back into the chair. 'We have something important to tell you, from your mother.' The others look uncomfortable, as if this is not how they wanted to break some sort of bad news to me.
I sit down. Auntie An-mei gets up to shut the door. Everybody is quiet, as if nobody knows where to begin.
It is Auntie Ying who finally speaks. 'I thinkyour mother die with important thought on her mind,' she says in broken English. And then in Chinese, calmly and softly, 'Your mother was a very
strong woman, a good mother. She loved you very much, more than her own life. You can understand why a mother like this could never forget her other daughters. She knew they were alive, and before she died she wanted to find her daughters in China.'
The babies in Kweilin, I think. I was not those babies. And now my mother's left me forever, gone back to China to get these babies. I can hardly hear Auntie Ying's voice.
'She had searched for years,' says Auntie Ying. 'And last year she got an address. Aii-ya, what a pity. A lifetime of waiting.'
Auntie An-mei interrupts excitedly: 'Soyour aunties and I, we wrote to this address. And they wrote back to us. They are your sisters, Jing-mei.' My sisters, I repeat to myself, saying these two words together for the first time.
Auntie An-mei is holdingout a sheet ofwritingpaper covered in Chinese handwriting. Auntie Ying is handing me another envelope with a check made out to Jing-mei Woo for $1,200. I can't believe it. 'My sisters are sending me money?'
'No, no,' saysAuntie Lindo. 'Every year we save our mah jong winnings for big dinner at expensive restaurant. We add just a little, so you can go Hong Kong, take train to Shanghai, see your sisters. Besides, we all getting too fat for big dinner.'
'See my sisters,' I repeat stupidly. I know my aunties are lying to mask their generosity. I am crying now, crying and laughing, seeing but not understanding this loyalty to my mother.
'You must tell your sisters about your mother's death,' says Auntie Ying. 'But most important, you musttellthemabouther life. The mother they did not know, they must now know.'
'But what can I tell them about my mother?' I ask. 'I don't know anything about her. She was my mother.'
'Not know your own mother?' cries Auntie An-mei with disbelief. 'How can you say? She is in your bones!' The aunties all join in, desperate to say what should be passed on.
'Tell them about her kindness, her smartness.'
'Tell them her hopes, things that matter to her.'
'Tell them about the excellent dishes she cooked.'
'Imagine, a daughter not knowing her own mother!'
And then I realize they are frightened. In me, they see their own daughters, just as ignorant, just as unmindful of all the truths and hopes they have brought to America. They see daughters who grow impatient when their mothers talk in Chinese, who think they are stupid when they explain things in broken English. They see that joy and luck do not mean the same to their daughters, that to these American-born minds 'joy luck' does not exist.
'I will tell themeverything,' I say simply, and the aunties look at me with doubtful faces. 'I will remember everything about her and tell them,' I say more firmly, and gradually, one by one, they smile, hopeful that what I say will become true. What more can they ask? What more can I promise?
They go back to telling stories among themselves. They are young girls again, dreaming of good times in the past and good times yet to come.
And I am sitting at my mother's place at the mah jong table, on the East, where things begin.
AN-MEI HSU Mother ofRose Hsu Jordan
Scar
When I was a young girl in China, my grandmother, Popo, told me my mother was a ghost. This did not mean my mother was dead. In those days, a ghost was anything we were forbidden to talk about. So I knew Popo wanted me to forget my mother, and that is how I came to remember nothing of her. The life that I knew began in uncle and auntie's large house in Ningpo, where I lived with Popo and my little brother.
But I often heard stories of a ghost who tried to take children away, especially little girls who were disobedient. Many times Popo said aloudto allwhocouldhearthatmy brother and I were eggs laid by a stupid bird, two eggs that nobody wanted, not even good enough to crack over a rice dish. She said this so that the ghostswouldnotsteal us away. So you see, to Popo we were very precious.
All my life, I was afraid of Popo. I became even more afraid when she grew sick. This was in 1923, when I wasnineyearsold. Her illness hadmadeher body swell up, herskin became softand rotten, and she smelt bad. She would call meinto her room with the terrible smell and tell me stories.
'An-mei,' she said, 'listen carefully.' And she told me stories I could not under�tand, like the one about a girl who refused to listen to her family. One day this bad girl shook her head so hard when refusing her auntie's simple request, that a little white ball fell from her ear, and out poured all her brains, as clear as chicken soup.
Just before Popo became so ill that she could no longer speak, she pulled me close and talked to me about my mother. 'Never say her name,' she warned. 'To say her name is to spit on your father's grave.'
The only father I knew was a big painting that hung in the hall. He was a large, unsmiling man, whose restless eyes followed me around the house. Popo said he watched me for any signs of disrespect. Sometimes, if I had been naughty, I would quickly walk by my father with a know-nothing look, and hide in a corner of my room, where he could not see my face.
One hot summer day, we all stoodoutside watching a funeral procession go by. We could see the large, heavy picture of the dead man being carried by his family and friends, but just as it passed our gate, it fell to the ground with a crash. My brother laughed, and Auntie smacked him.
Auntie told him he had no respect for ancestors or family, just like our mother. Auntie had a tongue like hungry scissors eating silk cloth. So when my brother gaveher a sour look, she said our mother was so thoughtless that she had left in a big hurry, without paying respect to my father's grave and those of our ancestors. When my brother accused Auntie of frightening our mother away, Auntie shouted that our mother had married a man called Wu Tsing who already had a wife, two concubines, and other bad children.
And when my brother shouted that Auntie was a talking chicken without a head, she spat in his face.
'You throw strong words at me, butyouarenothing,' she said. 'You are the son of a mother who has betrayed our ancestors. She is so beneath other people that even the devil must look down to see her.'
That is when I began to understand the stories Popo taught me, the lessons I had to learn for my mother. Now I could
imagine my mother, a thoughtless woman who was happy to be free of Popo, her sad husband on the wall, and her two disobedient children. I felt unlucky that she was my mother, and unlucky that she had left us.
&I was sitting at the top of the stairs when she arrived. I knew it was my mother, even though I could not remember seeing her before. My auntie did not call her by name orofferher tea. I tried to keep very still, but my heart felt like a bird trying to escape from a cage. My mother must have heard, because she looked up. And when she did, I saw my own face looking back at me. Eyes that stayed wide open and saw too much.
My mother went straight to Popo's bedside and murmured, 'Come back, stay here. Your daughter is back now.' Popo did not seem to understand. If her mind had been clear, she would have thrown my mother out of the room. With her pretty, pale
My heart felt lzke a bird trying to escape from a cage.
An-mei Hsu (mother of Rose Hsu Jordan) 17
face, my mother appeared to float in the room like a ghost, as she put cool cloths on Popo's swollen body. I watched her carefully, yet it was her voice that confused me, a familiar sound from a forgotten dream.
When I returned to my room later that afternoon, she was there, waiting for me. And because Popo had told me not to say her name, I stood there silently. She took my hand and led me to the sofa, where we sat down together as though we did this every day. She began to brush my hair with long, sweeping movements.
'An-mei, you have been a good daughter?' she asked, smiling a secret look.
I put on my know-nothing face, but inside I was trembling.
'An-mei, you know who I am,' she saidwith a scolding sound in her voice.
She stopped brushing. And then I could feel herlong smooth fingers searching under my chin, finding my scar. As she rubbed it, I becamevery still. And then her hand dropped and she began to cry, sounding so sad. And then I remembered the dream with my mother's voice.
AI was four years old. My chin was just above the dinner table, andI could hear voices praising a steamingdark soup in a large poton the table.
And then thetalkingstopped. Everyone turned to look at the door, where a woman stood. I was the only one who spoke.
'Ma,' I cried, but my auntie smacked my face. Now everyone was standing up and shouting. I heard my mother calling, 'Anmei! An-mei!' Above this noise rose Popo's voice.
'Who is this ghost? Not an honoured widow. Just a number threeconcubine. Ifyoutake your daughter, she will become like you. No face. Never able to lift up her head.'
Still my mother shouted for me to come. I could see herface across the table. Between us stood the soup pot on its heavy stand, rocking slowly from side to side. And then suddenly this dark boiling soup spilled forward and fell all over my neck, as though everyone's anger were pouring all over me.
This was the kind ofpain so terrible that a littlechild should never remember it. But it is still in my skin's memory. I couldnot see because of all the tears that poured out to wash away the pain, but I could hear my mother's crying. Popo and Auntie were shouting. And then my mother's voice went away.
Later that night Popo's voice came to me.
'An-mei, listen carefully. Wehave madeyourdying clothes for you.'
I listened, frightened.
'An-mei, if you die, you will still owe your family a debt.' And then Popo said something that was worse than the burning on my neck. 'Even your mother has used up her tears and left. Ifyou do not get well soon, she will forget you.'
Popo was very smart. I came hurrying back from the other world to find my mother.
Every day a little skin came off, so that, in two years' time, my scar was pale and shiny, and I had no memory of my mother. That is the way it is with a wound. The wound begins to close in on itself, to protect what is hurting so much. And once it is closed, you no longer see what is underneath, what started the pam.
The feeling a daughter has for her mother is so deep that it is in her bones. Pain is nothing. Pain you must forget. Because sometimes that is the only way to remember what is in your bones. You have to get beneath your skin, and that of your mother, and her mother before her. Until there is nothing. No scar, no skin, just bones.
LINDO JONG
Mother ofWaverly jong
I once sacrificed my life to keep my parents' promise. This means nothingto you, Waverly, because to you promises mean nothing. A daughter can promise to come to dinner, but if she has a headache, if she is in a traffic jam, if she wants to watch a favorite movie on TV, she no longer has a promise. I watched this same movie when you did not come. The American soldier promises to come back and marry the girl. She is crying and he says, 'I promise! Sweetheart, my promise is as good as gold.' Then he pushes her onto the bed. But he doesn't come back. His gold is like yours, it is only fourteen carats.
To Chinese people, fourteen carats isn't real gold. Feel my bracelets. They must be twenty-four carats, pure inside and out.
It's too late to change you, but I'm telling you this because I worry about your baby. Some day she may say, 'Thank you, Grandmother, for the gold bracelet. I'll never forget you.' But later she will forget her promise. She will forget she had a grandmother.
In that same movie the American asks another girl to marry him. She loves him, so she says, 'Yes,' and they marry forever. This did not happen to me. Instead, the village matchmaker came to my family when I was just two years old. With her was Huang Taitai, the mother ofthe boy I would be forced to marry. The matchmaker boasted about me and persuaded Huang Taitai thatI would grow up to be a hard worker. That is how I became engaged to Tyan-yu, who I later discovered was just a baby, one
year younger than me, and a spoilt, selfish child. But even ifI had known I was getting such a bad husband, I had no choice. Mothers in country families always chose their sons' wives, ones who would bring up sons properly, care for the old people, and faithfully sweep the family burial grounds.
I didn't see my future husband until I was eightornine, when I noticed him at one of the village ceremonies. He was a fat, babyish boy with a sour look on his face. So I didn't have instant love for him the way you see ontelevisiontoday. I thoughtofhim as an annoying cousin, but I had to learn to be polite to the Huangs and especially to Huang Taitai.
My life changed completely when I was twelve, the summer the heavy rains came. The river which ran through my family's small farm flooded our fields. It destroyed everything we had planted that year and made the land useless for years to come. Even our house became uninhabitable, and we were suddenly very poor. So my father said we had no choice but to move to the south near Shanghai, where my mother's brother had a small business. My father explained that the whole family, except me, would leave immediately. I was old enough to separate from my family and go to live with the Huangs.
Before she left, my mother gave me her most valued necklace. As she put it round my neck, she looked very stern, so I knew she was very sad. 'Obey your family. Do not dishonour us,' she said. 'Act happy when you arrive. Really, you're very lucky.'
&.
The Huangs' house had been untouched by the floods, as it was higher up the valley. I realized they had a much better position than my family, which is why they looked down on us. Their house was large enough for all the Huang great-grandparents, grandparents, parents, children and their servants, and looked
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This hot-lake district was becoming a great sanatorium, and tourists flocked to it from all countries, for the warm water was credited with wonderful healing powers. From this circumstance alone, it was believed that the district had a great future before it. The Maoris thought not a little of the natural wonders of which they were the stewards, and took care to levy blackmail on all their visitors. All this is now at an end, for the wonders have gone, until possibly new ones are gradually developed in their stead.
Much has been written on the subject of mysterious noises, which in most cases, if intelligently inquired into, would be found to have no mystery at all about them. A Professor at Philadelphia recently recorded that at a certain hour each day one of the windows in his house rattled in the most violent manner. On consulting the local railway time-table, he could find no train running at the hour specified. But on examining another table, which included a separate line, he found that a heavy train passed at the time at a distance of several miles from his house. He then referred to the geological formation of the ground between the two points, and at once saw that there was an outcropping ledge of rock which formed a link of connection between the distant railway line and his home. It was the vibration carried by this rock from the passing train that rattled the window.
Dr Marter of Rome has discovered in many of the skulls in the different Roman and Etruscan tombs, as well as in those deposited in the various museums, interesting specimens of ancient dentistry and artificial teeth. These latter are in most cases carved out of the teeth of some large animal. In many instances, these teeth are fastened to the natural ones by bands of gold. No cases of stopped teeth have been discovered, although many cases of decay present themselves where stopping would have been advantageous. The skulls examined date as far back as the sixth century . ., and prove that the art of dentistry and the pains of toothache are by no means modern institutions.
The city of Hernosand, in Sweden, can boast of being the first place in Europe where the streets are lighted entirely by electricity to the exclusion of gas. It has the advantage of plenty of natural water-
power for driving the electric engines, so that the new lights can actually be produced at a cheaper rate than the old ones.
Although many investors have burnt their fingers—metaphorically, we mean—over the electric-lighting question in this country, it seems to be becoming a profitable form of investment in America. A circular addressed by the editor of one of the American papers to the general managers of the lighting Companies has elicited the information that many of them are earning good dividends—in one case as much as eighteen per cent. for the year. As we have before had occasion to remind our readers, the price of gas in this country averages about half what it does in New York, and this fact alone would account for the more flourishing state of transatlantic electric lighting Companies.
At a half-demolished Jesuit College at Vienna, a dog lately fell through a fissure in the pavement. The efforts to rescue the poor animal led to a curious archæological discovery. The dog had, it was found, fallen into a large vault containing ninety coffins. The existence of this underground burial-place had hitherto been quite unsuspected. The inscriptions on the coffins date back to the reign of Maria Theresa, and the bodies are of the monks of that period, and of the nobles who helped to support the monastery.
In an interesting lecture lately delivered before the Royal Institution on ‘Photography as an Aid to Astronomy,’ Mr A. A. Common, who is the principal British labourer in this comparatively new field of research, described his methods of working, and held out sanguine hopes of future things possible by astronomical photography. Speaking of modern dry-plate photography, he said: ‘At a bound, it has gone far beyond anything that was expected of it, and bids fair to overturn a good deal of the practice that has hitherto existed among astronomers. I hope soon to see it recognised as the most potent agent of research and record that has ever been within the reach of the astronomer; so that the records which the future astronomer will use will not be the written impression of dead men’s views, but veritable images of the different objects of the heavens recorded by themselves as they existed.’
Two remarkable and wonderful cases of recovery from bullet-wounds have lately taken place in the metropolis. In one case, that of a girl who was shot by her lover, the bullet is deeply imbedded in the head, too deep to admit of any operation; yet the patient has been discharged from the hospital convalescent. The other case was one of attempted suicide, the sufferer having shot himself in the head with a revolver. In this case, too, the bullet is still in the brain, and in such a position as to prevent the operation of extraction. In spite of this, the patient has been discharged from hospital care, and it is said that he suffers no inconvenience from the consequences of his rash act. A curious coincidence in connection with these cases is that both shots were fired on the same day, the 19th of June, and that both cases were treated at the London Hospital. ‘The times have been,’ says Shakspeare, ‘that, when the brains were out, the man would die.’ The poet puts these words into the mouth of Macbeth, when that wicked king sees the ghost of the murdered Banquo rise before him. In the cases just cited, we have a reality which no poet could equal in romance. People walking about in the flesh with bullets in their brains are certainly far more wonderful things than spectres. These marvellous recoveries from what, a few years ago, would have meant certain death, must be credited to surgical skill and the modern antiseptic method of treating wounds. Magistrates are continually deploring the use of the revolver among the civil community, and hardly a week passes but some terrible accident or crime is credited to the employment of that weapon. That it is a most valuable arm when used in legitimate warfare, the paper lately read before the Royal United Service Institution by Major Kitchener amply proved. According to this paper, every nation but our own seems to consider that the revolver is the most important weapon that cavalry can be armed with. In Russia, for instance, all officers, sergeant-majors, drummers, buglers, and even clerks, carry revolvers. In Germany, again, there is a regular annual course of instruction in the use of the weapon. In our army, however, the revolver seems to be in a great measure ignored, excepting by officers on active foreign service.
A new method of detecting the source of an offensive odour in a room is given by The Sanitarian newspaper. In the room in question, the smell had become so unbearable that the carpet was taken up, and a carpenter was about to rip up the flooring to discover, if possible, the cause. By a happy inspiration, the services of some sanitary inspectors in the shape of a couple of bluebottle flies were first called into requisition. The flies buzzed about in their usual aggravating manner for some minutes, but eventually they settled upon the crack between two boards in the floor. The boards were thereupon taken up, and just underneath them was found the decomposing body of a rat.
The extent to which the trade in frozen meat from distant countries has grown since the introduction, only a few years back, of the system of freezing by the compression and subsequent expansion of air, is indicated by the constant arrival in this country of vast shiploads of carcases from the antipodes. The largest cargo of deadmeat ever received lately arrived in the Thames from the Falkland Islands on board the steamship Selembria. This consisted of thirty thousand frozen carcases of sheep. This ship possesses four engines for preserving and freezing the meat, and the holds are lined with a non-conducting packing of timber and charcoal.
A new system of coating iron or steel with a covering of lead, somewhat similar in practice to the so-called galvanising process with zinc, has been introduced by Messrs Justice & Co. of Chancery Lane, London, the agents for the Ajax Metal Company of Philadelphia. Briefly described, the process consists in charging molten lead with a flux composed of sal ammoniac, arsenic, phosphorus, and borax; after which, properly cleansed iron or steel plates will when dipped therein receive a coating of the lead. The metal so protected will be valuable for roofs, in place of sheet-lead or zinc, for gutters, and for numberless purposes where far less durable materials are at present used with very false economy. It would seem, from the results of some experiments lately conducted on the Dutch state railroads in order to discover the best method of protecting iron from the action of the atmosphere, that red-lead paints are far more durable than those which owe their body
to iron oxide. The test-plates showed also that the paint adhered to the metal with far greater tenacity if the usual scraping and brushing were replaced by pickling—that is, treatment with acid. The best results were obtained when the metal plate was first pickled in spirits of salts (hydrochloric acid) and water, then washed, and finally rubbed with oil before applying the paint.
The latest advance in electric lighting is represented by the introduction of Mr Upward’s primary battery, the novelty in which consists in its being excited by a gas instead of a liquid. The gas employed is chlorine, and the battery cells have to be hermetically sealed, for chlorine is, as every dabbler in chemical experiments knows, a most suffocating and corrosive gas. In practice, this primary battery is connected with an accumulator or secondary battery, so that the electricity generated by it is stored for subsequent use. The invention represents a convenient means of producing the electric light on a small scale for domestic use, where gas-engines and dynamo-machines are not considered desirable additions to the household arrangements. The battery is made by Messrs Woodhouse and Rawson, West Kensington.
Mr Fryer’s Refuse Destructor has now been adopted in several of our large towns. Newcastle is the latest which has taken up the system, and in that town thirty tons of refuse are consumed in the furnaces daily. The residue consists of between seven and eight tons of burnt clinker and dry ashes, which are used for concrete and as a bedding for pavement. There is no actual profit attached to the system, but it affords a convenient method of dealing with some of that unmanageable material which is a necessary product of large communities, and which might otherwise form an accumulation most dangerous to health.
After three years of constant work, the signal station on Ailsa Craig, in the Firth of Clyde, is announced, by the Northern Light Commissioners, to be ready for action. In foggy or snowy weather, the fog-horns which have been placed there will utter their warning blasts to mariners, and will doubtless lead to the prevention of many a shipwreck. The trumpets are of such a powerful description, that in calm weather they will be audible at a distance of nearly twenty miles
from the station; and as the blasts are of a distinctive character, the captain of a ship will be easily able to recognise them, and from them to learn his whereabouts.
Mr Sinclair, the British consul at Foochow, reports that the manufacture of brick tea of varieties of tea-dust by Russian merchants, for export to Siberia, is acquiring considerable importance at Foochow. The cheapness of the tea-dust, the cheapness of manufacture, the low export duties upon it, together with the low import duties in Russia, help to make this trade successful and profitable. The brick is said to be beautifully made, and very portable. Mr Sinclair wonders that the British government does not get its supplies from the port of Foochow, as they would find it less expensive and more wholesome than what is now given the army and the navy. He suggests that a government agent should be employed on the spot to manufacture the brick tea in the same way as adopted by the Russians there and at Hankow.
CYCLING AS A HEALTH-PRODUCT.
T advantages of a fine physical form are under-estimated by a large class of people, who have a half-defined impression that any considerable addition to the muscles and general physique must be at the expense of the mental qualities. This mistaken impression is so prevalent, that many professional literary people avoid any vigorous exercise for fear that it will be a drain upon their whole system, and thus upon their capacity for brain-work. The truth is that such complete physical inertness has the effect of clogging the action of the blood, of retaining the impurities of the system, and of eventually bringing about a host of small nervous disorders that induce in turn mental anxiety—the worst possible drain upon the nervous organisation. When one of these people, after a year of sick-headache and dyspepsia, comes to realise that healthy nerves cannot exist without general physical health and activity, he joins a gymnasium, strains his long-unused muscles on bars and ropes, or by lifting heavy weights. The result usually is that the muscles, so long unaccustomed to use, cannot withstand the sudden strain imposed upon them, and the would-be athlete retires with some severe or perhaps fatal injury.
But occasionally he finds some especial gymnastic exercise suited to him, and weathers the first ordeal. He persists bravely, and is astonished to find that his digestion improves, his weight increases, and his mind becomes clear and brighter. He exercises systematically, and cultivates a few special muscles, perhaps those of the shoulder, to the hindrance of the complex muscles of the neck and throat; or perhaps those of the back and groin, as in rowing, to the detriment of chest, muscle, and development; and although his condition is greatly improved, he is apt to become wearied from a lack of physical exhilaration, or a lack of that sweetening of mental enjoyment which gives cycling such a lasting charm. If a man has no
heart in his exercise, he will not persist in it long enough to get its finest benefits.
In the gentle swinging motion above the wheel, there is nothing to disturb the muscular or nervous system once accustomed to it; indeed, it is the experience of most cyclists that the motion is at first tranquillising to the nerves, and eventually becomes a refreshing stimulus. The man who goes through ten hours’ daily mental fret and worry, will in an hour of pleasant road-riding, in the fresh sweetscented country, throw off all its ill effects, and prepare himself for the effectual accomplishment of another day’s brain-work. The steady and active employment of all the muscles, until they are well heated and healthily tired, clears the blood from the brain, sharpens the appetite, and insures a night’s refreshing sleep.
In propelling the wheel, all the flexor and extensor muscles of the legs are in active motion; while in balancing, the smaller muscles of the legs and feet and the prominent ones of the groin and thighs are brought into play. The wrist and arms are employed in steering; while the whole of the back, neck, and throat muscles are used in pulling up on the handles in a spurt Thus the exertion is distributed more thoroughly over the whole body than in any other exercise. A tired feeling in any one part of the body is generally occasioned by a weakness caused by former disuse of the muscles located there, and this disappears as the rider becomes habituated to the new motions of the wheel. With an experienced cyclist, the sensation of fatigue does not develop itself prominently in any one part of the body, but is so evenly adjusted as to be hardly noticeable.
The wretched habit of cyclists riding with the body inclined forward has produced an habitual bent attitude with several riders, and gives rise to a prejudice against the sport as producing a ‘bicycle back.’
Nearly all oarsmen have this form of back; it has not proved detrimental, but it is ungainly, and the methods by which it is acquired on a bicycle are entirely unnecessary. Erect riding is more graceful, it develops the chest, and adds an exercise to the muscles of the throat and chest that rowing does not.
The exposure to out-of-door air, the constant employment of the mind by the delight of changing scenery or agreeable companionship, add their contribution, and make cycling, to those who have tried practically every other sport, the most enjoyable, healthful, useful exercise ever known. Most cyclers become sound, well-made, evenly balanced, healthy men, and bid fair to leave to their descendants some such heritage of health and vigour as descended from the hardy old Fathers to the men who have made this country what it is.
OCCASIONAL NOTES.
FLAX-CULTURE.
T depressed condition of agriculture, consequent on the low prices obtainable for all kinds of produce, has led the British farmer to turn his attention to the growth of crops hitherto neglected or unthought of. This is exemplified by the interest now taken in the cultivation of tobacco and the inquiries being made regarding it, with a view to its wholesale production in England. It is doubtful, however, if in this case the British farmer will be able to compete successfully with his American rival, the latter being favoured by nature with soil and climate specially suited for the growth of the ‘weed.’
There are other plants, however, which claim our attention, and amongst these the flax plant. This is perfectly hardy and easily cultivated, and is free from the bugbear of American competition. It is grown largely in Ireland, especially in the north, and at the present time is the best paying crop grown in the island. The following figures show the quantity of fibre produced during the year 1885: Ireland, 20,909 tons; Great Britain, 444 tons. As far as the British Islands are concerned, Ireland has practically a monopoly in the production of this valuable article of commerce. It was formerly grown to a large extent in Yorkshire and in some parts of Scotland; but of late years, was given up in favour of other crops. It can now be produced to show much better results than formerly, flax not having fallen in price so much in proportion as other farm produce. Compared with the requirements of the linen manufacturers, the quantity grown in the British Isles is very small, and had to be supplemented by the import from foreign countries, during 1885, of over eighty-three thousand tons, value for three million and a half sterling. Two-thirds of this quantity is imported from Russia, the remainder principally from Holland and Belgium.
The manufacturer will give the preference to home-grown fibre provided that it is equal in all respects to the foreign. We can scarcely hope to compete successfully with Holland and Belgium, as flax-culture has been brought to great perfection there; but we can produce a fibre much superior to Russian, and if we can produce it cheap enough, can beat Russia out of the market. The average price of Irish flax in 1885 was about fifty-two pounds per ton; the yield per acre, where properly treated, would be from five to six hundredweight on an average. In many cases the yield rose far above these figures, reaching ten to twelve hundredweight, and in one instance which came under the writer’s personal observation, to eighteen hundredweight. A new scutching-machine—a French patent—is now being tested in Belfast, and it is stated that by its use the yield of fibre is increased by thirty per cent. Should this apparatus come into general use, it will add greatly to the value of the flax plant as a crop. In continental countries, the seed is saved, and its value contributes largely to the profit of flax-culture there. Any difficulty that might exist in this country with regard to the preparation of the fibre for market might be met by farmers in a district banding together to provide the requisite machines, which can now be had cheaper and better than before.
If flax-culture is profitable in Ireland, it can be made so in Britain; and if only half of the eighty-three thousand tons annually imported could be grown at home, a large sum would be kept in the country which now goes to enrich the foreigner.
THE RIGHTS OF DESERTED WIVES.
A legal correspondent writes to us on this subject as follows:
‘It has long been felt to be a defect in the English law that if a man deserted his wife without any cause or otherwise, she had no direct remedy against him in respect of the expense of her maintenance and the bringing up of the children (if any) of the marriage. In case the wife so deserted could carry on any business, or in any other way acquire the means of livelihood, she could obtain a protection order so early as the year 1858, long before the passing of the first
Married Women’s Property Act. But if she were not so fortunately situated, and had no near relatives to whom she could look for assistance, she must go into the workhouse, and leave the poor-law officers to look after her husband. This has often been productive of great hardship, for it is no light thing for a woman delicately nurtured to become an inmate of the refuge for the destitute. But by an Act passed in the recent session, this defect has been remedied to a considerable extent in an easy and practical way. Thus, if an innocent woman has been deserted by her husband, she may have him summoned before any two justices of the peace in petty sessions or any stipendiary magistrate; and thereupon, if the justices or magistrate should be satisfied that the husband, being able wholly or in part to maintain his wife, or his wife and family, as the case may be, has wilfully refused or neglected so to do, and that he has deserted his wife, they or he may order that the husband pay to his wife such weekly sum not exceeding two pounds as may be considered to be in accordance with his means, taking also into account any means which the wife may have for the support of herself and family, if any. Power is given for the alteration of the order whenever it should appear to be necessary or just, in case of any alteration in the circumstances of the husband or of the wife. And any such order may be discharged on the application of the husband, if it should appear just to do so. Writers in some of the legal journals have expressed the opinion that this change in the law goes too far; but the present writer has long advocated such a change, and it appears to be altogether an improvement upon the previous state of the law in this respect.’
THE GREAT SPHINX.
An interesting work has been going on, under the direction of M. Maspéro, at the great Sphinx of Gizeh, which has been buried, all but the head, for centuries. M. Maspéro, while we write, had got down as far as the paws, on the right of which are a number of Greek inscriptions. The paws appear to be cut out of the solid stone, and afterwards built round with masonry, the surface of which is
painted red with yellow additions. Bryant is of opinion that the Sphinx was originally a vast rock of different strata, which, from a shapeless mass, the Egyptians fashioned into an object of beauty and veneration. Although the excavators have now reached a lower level than Carglia and others, yet much remains to be done before the whole of this wondrous specimen of ancient art is entirely uncovered; for, if we are to believe Pliny’s statements, the head of the Sphinx was one hundred and two feet in circumference, and sixty-two feet high from the belly; whilst the body was one hundred and forty-three feet long, and was, moreover, supposed to be the sepulchre of King Amasis, who died 525 . . But, according to Herodotus, the body of this monarch was buried in the Temple of Sais; and on the defeat and death of his son by the Persians, it was taken from its tomb, brutally mangled, and then publicly burnt, to the horror of the Egyptian people. If the Sphinx is really found to be a solid rock, Pliny’s story of its having been a tomb falls to the ground. M. Maspéro has been working in layers of hard sand which has lain undisturbed for probably eighteen hundred years. This is found to be so close and hard, that it is more like solid stone than sand, and requires a great amount of labour to cut through. The work is, however, progressing with energy and determination, and it is to be hoped that it will not be suffered to stop abruptly for want of funds.
NOVEL USE OF ELECTRICITY.
Electric power has been applied in a very novel manner of late on the estate of the Marquis of Salisbury at Hatfield, where it has been in operation for some time past in various ways and works; but the last is perhaps the most peculiar of all. On one of the farms, ensilage has been stored in large quantities, a farm-building being turned into a silo for this purpose; and it being decided that the green food shall be ‘chaffed’ before placing it in the silo, a chaff-cutter has been erected about twenty feet above the ground. This machine is not only driven by electric power, but the same motor is employed to elevate the grass to the level of the chaff-cutter. This is done so effectually that about four tons of rough grass are raised and cut per
hour A sixteen-light ‘Brush’ machine is the generator, driven by a huge water-wheel, and both are on the banks of the river Lea, a mile and a half distant. The power is transmitted to one of Siemens’ type, specially constructed to work as a motor with the ‘Brush’ machine. Nor is this all, for the same electric power is ingeniously applied to work the ‘lifts’ in use at the many haystacks on the estate.
PICCIOLA.
[Count de Charney, when in prison, was led into a philosophical train of reflections by the sight of a flower which grew up between the flagstones of the prison court.]
O all the flowers that deck the verdant knoll, And lift their snowy petals to the air, One spray has risen in my dungeon bare That breaks the sceptic chain that bound my soul, And makes me feel the might of God’s control. O flower of sweetness! thy frail form so fair Swept from my brow the cankering lines of care, And safe will lead me to the eternal goal. What hand but One could guard thy tender leaves From the fierce fury of the summer sun, When noonday hovers o’er my prison dun?
’Tis He that for my hapless fortune grieves! Blest flower! that drew me to the arms of God, With grateful tears I bathe thy dewy sod.
R W. C .
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*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 139, VOL. III, AUGUST 28, 1886 ***
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