♚M

a letter to my wife (by revolutionary martyr lin juemin)

To my darling wife Yiying:

I am writing this letter to you today to part with you forever. At the time of my writing, I am yet a man in this world; at the time of your reading, I shall already be a ghost in the afterworld. Writing this letter, my tears mix with the ink as they fall, and I feel I cannot finish, and desire to put down my pen. Yet also I fear that you will not know my heart, that you will think that I am so cruel that I can bear to die and leave you behind, that you will think that I do not know that you do not want me to die, and so I must bear my sorrow to write these words to you.

I love you most dearly!  And it is due to the remembrance of this love that I have the courage to face death. Since I have met you, I have often wished for all lovers to be able to live happily ever after. Yet everywhere now, the smell of blood is so thick it congeals into clouds, the dogs and the jackals of our government fill the streets. To be happy, to be content––how many families can do such a thing? Like Bai Juyi when he wept upon hearing the pipa of a lonely concubine, I cannot learn to be like those cultivated sages and forget my heart. The proverb goes, those who are benevolent will “treat your elders like elders so you may treat others like your elders, treat your youth like youths so you may treat others like your youth.” Because I am full of love for you, I wish to help all the world love that which they love, so I dare to die before you, to no longer take care of you. If you understand this sentiment, I hope that after you have cried your full, you will take the people into consideration and think on their behalf, and take the sacrifice of my body and your well-being as a form of joy, so that we may plan for the eternal fortune of all. You mustn’t be sad!

Do you remember some evening four or five years ago? I often said to you, “Rather than my dying before you, it would be better if you died before me.” When you first heard this, you were furious, but after I explained it gently to you, though you could not say that I was right, you had no words in reply, either. My meaning was that because you are so delicate, you certainly would not have been able to withstand the pain of losing me. I could not have withstood the thought of dying first and leaving the burden of pain to you, and so I would rather beg of you to die first that I may shoulder that burden. Alas! Who would have known that in the end, I would be the one to die before you!

I truly cannot forget you. I remember the house on the back street, the corridor by the door, past the front and back parlours, through three or four turns, there was a smaller sitting room, and by the sitting room there was a set of rooms that were yours and mine to live in. Three or four months after we first married, around the winter solstice, the moonlight sifted through the sparse plum blossoms outside the window, the shadows blurring in the contrast between dark and light. You and I stood side by side, hand in hand, murmuring softly. Of what matters did we not speak, of what things we did not comment! Thinking back upon then, I am left with nothing but tearstains.

I also think of six or seven years ago, when I ran away from home and, upon my return, you cried and said to me, “I hope that after today, if you have any long journey to undertake, you must tell me. I am willing to go where you go.” I have already agreed to this. Some days ago when I visited home, I had prepared to speak of this next journey to you. But when I saw you face to face, I could not find it in me to open my mouth. In addition, you were already expecting, so I feared you would not be able to stand it. For that reason, every day I tried to drown my woe in drink. Oh! The sorrow that overtook my heart is impossible for a pen to describe.

I do really want to stay with you until death, but looking at the state of things today––one may die of natural disaster, one may die due to bandits and thieves, one may die from the partition of China by foreigners, one may die of the abuse of civilians by traitorous ministers and corrupt officials. In the China of our generation, there is no place and no time that we may not die. When that time comes, to ask of me to watch you die with my own eyes, or to ask of you to watch me die with your own eyes––how can this be done? 

Even if we didn’t die, but were separated without hope of meeting, to ask of us to wait hopelessly until our eyes wore out and our bones became fossil––since ancient times how many times have we seen broken looking glasses made whole[1] again? Then how painful is death compared to this? What are we to do? Today, we are lucky to both be healthy; so numerous are the people in the world who die who should not die, who must leave who wish not to leave, that they cannot be counted. Loving as we love, how can we bear this? This is why I dare to so willfully die without consideration for you. Today, I can die without regret, for whether our revolt is successful or not, there will always exist those with my same aspirations. Yixin is already five years of age. In the blink of an eye, he will be a man. You must raise him well, so that he takes after me. As for the one in your stomach, I suspect she is a girl. If she is, she must take after you, and for that my heart will be much consoled. Or if he is a boy, you must raise him with the aspirations of his father, so that after I die there will still be two of me around, how fortunate! Our family in future will likely be very poor, but there is no grief in that, only the quietude of getting by.

I have no more words for you! I live below the Nine Springs[2]. From far away I can hear the sound of your weeping, and I ought to reply with tears of my own. I don’t normally believe in ghosts, yet today I’d rather believe there truly is such a thing. Nowadays there are also people who say there is such a thing as telepathy, and I also hope that what they are saying is real, so that after I part, my spirit can stay by your side, so that you will not have to be without a partner.

I have never spoken to you about my ideals; this is my fault. Yet if I were to speak, I fear that you would constantly worry for me. For me to sacrifice myself a hundred times is nothing, but to make you worried is not something I could bear even once. I love you to the furthest extent of my being, so I only fear that I have not thought of everything on your behalf. You are fortunate to have married me, yet why do you have the misfortune to have been born into today’s China? I am fortunate to have married you, yet why do I have the misfortune to have been born into today’s China? Why could I not have been content only cultivating myself? Alas! The handkerchief is short, yet our feelings are long, and there is so much that I cannot say, which you can draft yourself based on what I’ve already written. That I cannot see you one last time! If you cannot bear to leave me, from time to time please search for me in your dreams.

written at the fourth drum (around 2am) of the 26th night of the third month (april 24) of the xinhai year (1911), yidong’s[3] personal hand

P.S. The aunts at home are all literate, so if there is anything you don’t understand, I want you to ask them for help, for I hope that you will fully understand my meaning.

[1] i.e. reunion after separation, 破镜 is a common metaphor for a broken marriage

[2] the underworld