he lasted another
sixteen years he hoped to have four whole paragraphs.
One thing he was sure of. It was a ginseng folk or fairy tale, and it was one of the
oldest known to man.
Ho Wen had no money of his own. In my innocence I assumed that the distinction of his
scholar's rank was worth more than money, but I soon learned otherwise. I suspect that the
rich are the same in every country in that money is their sole standard of value, and was
Ho Wen referred to as Master Ho? Venerable Scholar Ho? Second-Most-Learned-of-Mortals Ho?
Not exactly. He was referred to as Henpecked Ho, and he lived in mortal terror of the
Ancestress, his wife, her seven fat sisters, and his daughter. In a great house a poor
scholar's status is just slightly higher than that of the boy who carries away the night
soil.
There was no resemblance whatsoever between Henpecked Ho and his daughter. My bride-to-be
was a startlingly pretty girl whose name was Fainting Maid. I assumed that the unusual
name came from a line of poetry, but I learned better on our first stroll through the
gardens when we were chaperoned by Li Kao and her father.
“Hark!” cried Fainting Maid, pausing on the path and pointing dramatically. “A cuckoo!”
Well, I am a country boy.
“Nay, my beloved,” I chuckled. “It is a magpie.”
She stamped a pretty foot. “It is a cuckoo!”
“Precious one, the magpie is imitating a cuckoo,” I said, pointing to the magpie that was
imitating a cuckoo.
“It is a
cuckoo!
”
“Light of my life,” I sighed, “it is a magpie.”
Fainting Maid turned red, turned white, reeled, clutched her heart, and screeched, “Oh,
thou hast slain me!” Then she staggered backward, lurched to the left, and gracefully
swooned.
“Two feet back, six to the left,” her father sighed.
“Does she ever vary it?” Li Kao asked with scientific interest.
“Not so much as an inch. Precisely two feet back and six feet to the left. And now, dear
boy, you are required to kneel and bathe her delicate temples and beg her forgiveness for
your intolerable rudeness. My daughter,” said Henpecked Ho, “is never wrong, and I might
add that never in her life has she been denied anything that she wanted.”
Is it possible that among my illustrious readers there may be one or two who are
contemplating marriage for money? I have a very clear memory of a golden afternoon when
the butler was instructing me in the etiquette of a great house, Henpecked Ho's beloved
wife and her seven fat sisters were sipping tea in the Garden of Forty Felicitous
Fragrances, Fainting Maid was insulting the intelligence of her ladies-in-waiting in the
Gallery of Precious Peacocks, and the Ancestress was chiding a servant who had dropped a
cup on the Terrace of Sixty Serenities.
“The cook hands the guest a ladle with an engraved handle and a stand which is placed west
of the tripods,” said the butler. “The guest takes the handle of the ladle with his right
hand, palm inward, and lays the ladle alongside the stand.”
“Off with his head!”
roared the Ancestress.
“Then,” continued the butler, “he faces east, at the west of the tripods, to receive the
food that is his due and that is determined by his attire, beginning with the state
umbrella that is displayed by his servants.”
“Gabble-gabble-gabble-gabble-gabble!”
squawked Henpecked Ho's wife and her seven fat sisters.
“The umbrella of First and Second Rank officials have yellowish-black gauze covers, red
raw silk linings, three tiers, and silver spires, and the umbrellas of the Third and
Fourth Rank officials are the same, except that the spires are red.”
“Forgive me, My Lady! Of course
The Gentlewoman's Guide to Needlepoint
was written by Confucius!”
wailed a lady-in-waiting.
“The umbrellas of the Fifth Rank,” said the butler, “have blue