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.