My Lady of the Chinese Courtyard

My Dear One,

The house on the mountain-top has lost its soul. It is nothing but a

palace with empty windows. I go upon the terrace and look over the

valley where the sun sinks a golden red ball, casting long purple

shadows on the plain. Then I remember that thou art not coming from

the city to me, and I stay to myself that there can be no dawn that I

care to see, and no sunset to gladden my eyes, unless I share it with

thee.

But do not think I am unhappy. I do everything the same as if thou

wert here, and in everything I say, "Would this please my master?"

Meh-ki wished to put thy long chair away, as she said it was too big;

but I did not permit. It must rest where I can look at it and imagine I

see thee lying it, smoking thy water pipe; and the small table is

always near by, where thou canst reach out thy hand for thy papers

and the drink thou lovest. Meh-ki also brought out the dwarf pine-tree

and put it on the terrace, but I remembered thou saidst it looked like

an old man who had been beaten in his childhood, and I gave it to her

for one of the inner courtyards. She thinks it very beautiful, and so I

did once; but I have learned to see with thine eyes, and I know now

that a tree made straight and beautiful and tall by the Gods is more to

be regarded than one that has been bent and twisted by man.

Such a long letter I am writing thee. I am so glad that though madest

me promise to write thee every seventh day, and to tell thee all that

passes within my household and my heart. Thine Honourable Mother

says it is not seemly to send communication from mine hand to thine.

She says it was a thing unheard of in her girlhood, and that we

younger generations have passed the limits of all modesty and

womanliness. She wishes me to have the writer or thy brother send

thee the news of thine household; but that I will not permit. It must

come from me, thy wife. Each one of these strokes will come to thee

bearing my message. Thou wilt not tear the covering roughly as thou

didst those great official letters; nor wilt thou crush the papers quickly

in thy hand, because it is the written word of Kwei-li, who sends with

each stroke of brush a part of her heart.