Everyone loves the novel Dream of the Red Chamber for his own reasons. But for me, it sparked the idea of coming to China, though you would ordinarily not expect to meet the characters from the classic 17th Century story on your daily walks down the street.
In the book, Grandmother Chia presides over the household as a gracious matriarch. I first met her double, Lin Yueh-chiung, on my 22nd birthday, a meeting that was perhaps the best birthday present I could have received. Grandmother Lin lives nestled in one of many wings among in numerable residential courtyards shared by members of her extended family—a Red Chamber dream come to life.
Much has already been written of the old Lin family residence, in Wufeng near Taichung, one of the few traditional family mansions still extant in Taiwan. It is an awesome sprawling place. Over 200 years old, its architecture is etched in the traditional low curves of Chinese roofs; its doors and windows feature exquisite lattice work. There is no new paint here: The visitor is steeped in two centuries of serenity.
Amidst this now of history and great structural beauty, Lin Yueh-chiung resides. She is over eighty now—a tiny, perfect lady. That first day I met her she wore those graceful clothes I've since learned are characteristic of her taste—subdued colors, fine fabrics. Subdued, but fine—true nobility.
She was the youngest child in her immediate family, born at Amoy, across the Strait, and brought to Taiwan at the age of four. The Lin family itself had been in Taiwan generations earlier, and established a history of official service as Ching Dynasty magistrates. Her grandfather died in battle fighting for the Emperor; his medals are family heirlooms.
Lin Yueh-chiung's father was a county magistrate and scholar, and she recalls him spending his days, apart from his government duties, studying the Confucian Analects and writing poetry.
At the outset of the Japanese occupation of Taiwan in 1895, the Lins, like all Ching officials, were forced to leave Taiwan. But they returned several years later and were respected by the Japanese as an established Taiwan family of long standing.
All about her are the eloquent associations of a lifestyle become history.
In the entire Lin family compound at the end of the 19th Century, there were over one hundred servants. Her immediate family had twelve: a butler, an accountant, a lady's personal maid, a valet, a watercarrier, a gardener, a laundress, a pantry and marketing maid, two cooks, and two pa sang (nannies) for the children. She was the youngest, the eleventh daughter in the extended family household, and everyone, relatives and servants alike, called her Miss Eleven.
The female children spent their days frolicking in the garden and learning to embroider and to play musical instruments. Their biggest sources of formal entertainments were the performances on the Lin family stage (which still exists, though it has fallen into a state of disrepair in a remote section of the back gardens).
The performances themselves were big events, to which all the neighbors—the entire community—were invited. Puppet shows or operas, the house was always packed, with the public in the stands and the Lin family members secluded in theater boxes above.
Lin Yueh-chiung confides that she does not have bound feet (rather unusual for a Chinese lady of her age and status) "because I had guts, courage." At eight, her feet were bound, but unable to tolerate the pain, she unwrapped them herself a year later. Miss Eleven alone of all her sisters did not have bound feet. Her parents' consent, perhaps, involved that leniency traditionally accorded the youngest child ... perhaps their recognition of changing times.
When she was thirteen, she went back to Amoy in Fukien Province, staying with a cousin who was an official and studying the Manchu language of the Ching Dynasty ... and also her "A, B, C's." She returned to Taiwan for further education at Tamsui, at a girls' high school run by Canadian Catholic sisters.
When at home in Wufeng during her youth, Lin Yueh-chiung was rarely allowed to go out beyond the confines of the Lin family mansion and gardens; and then, usually, for some very special event—an occasional temple ceremony, or maybe to see the Lantern Festival displays. It was simply unseemly, then, for a girl of established family to be seen casually in public.
Her marriage was, of course, arranged via the traditional services of a matchmaker. She and her husband were actually introduced by photographs and, though engaged for four years, met only a few times before their wedding. And each such meeting was just long enough for Lin Yueh-chiung to bow to her future husband, then return to the family's inner quarters.
People all said Miss Eleven was the most outstanding of the Lin family daughters; in any case, her wedding was the most magnificent. She was married in her 24th year to Wu Ching-hui in two ceremonies, one at each of their homes. All major officials and members of the Taiwanese aristocracy attended.
The (Western style) wedding cake was so high that the servants had to stand on ladders to cut its upper tiers. Her wedding dress was of pink silk from Shanghai, its layered skirts embroidered all over in a peacock motif. She still preserves pieces of this gorgeous silk today.
Eight great boxes of dowry (furniture, clothes, etc.) went off with Miss Eleven to the Wu family home. It was a good match, since Wu Ching-hui also came from a long line of government officials and scholars and was, himself, educated and handsome. "Quite a catch, if I must say so myself," says Grandmother Lin.
The young couple then lived ten years in Kyoto, Japan, where Wu studied medicine. "In those days, during WW II, life in Japan was very hard," recalls Grandmother Lin, who became fluent in Japanese. "I felt so proud, after the war, to come back to Taiwan (now returned to China) and find it so lovely, so fertile. "
In Taiwan, her husband became a local-level and then Yunlin County magistrate, and served as chief officer of a hospital in Changhua. Settling down there, Lin Yueh-chiung bore eleven children.
"In those days, Chinese and Japanese women were very much alike refined in manners and character-since we were all brought up to live according to the traditional 'Three Obediences and Four Virtues' of Chinese women, to obey one's father before marriage, one's husband during marriage, and one's sons in widowhood; to practise fidelity, and cultivate physical charm, propriety in speech, and efficiency in needlework.
"Women of my time were more dutiful—perhaps a bit foolish, but good .... Now women know more, but have lost a lot too...Today's women have more opportunities—both good and bad.... But now they have no concept of shanghsia (respecting those above you and keeping a distance from those below).
"Everything has changed, I know. I have seen the changes in my family during the course of my lifetime—my fate. So many changes. My children had six wetnurses, you know. I am an anachronism; I know that too. My sorrows and my joys are all out of date, so I keep the past I yearn for in my heart, since others cannot understand my longings. "
Sometimes old friends and former servants return to visit and pay their respects to Miss Eleven. "There is still so much affection between us, and they still call me Miss Eleven—can you imagine? And we reminisce about old times."
Lin Yueh-chiung is today's glimpse into the old novels, the flesh and blood, graceful proof of people most of us can hardly believe existed.