about Shelley . . . She always smiled and nodded, her eyes filled with the light of childish curiosity. On the wall was tacked a half-length portrait of Shelley in half-tone, cut from a magazine, the best portrait of the poet. When I pointed it out to her, she cast only a brief glance at it and then lowered her head as if embarrassed. In these things Tzu-chun did not quite free herself from the fetters of traditional thinking. Afterwards I thought of taking the portrait down and hanging in its place the picture showing Shelley after his drowning in the sea, or a picture of Ibsen, but I never got around to it, and now even the magazine print of Shelley has disappeared.
"I belong to myself and none of them has any right to interfere!"
This was what she said, clearly and with quiet determination, following a moment of silence when, after we had known each other for about half a year, we happened to bring up again the subject of her uncle, with whom she was staying, and her father, who was living in her native village. By that time I had told her all about myself and my opinions and faults; I held back nothing and she seemed to have understood everything. These brave, determined words of hers stirred my soul and echoed in my ears for many days thereafter. I was filled with an indescribable happiness, for I felt certain then that the outlook for Chinese womanhood was not as hopeless as the pessimists made it out to be and that in the near future we should see the bright dawn.
When I escorted Tzu-chun to the gate, we invariably kept about ten steps apart, for the face of the disgusting old man with the catfish moustache was always glued close to his dirty window, his nose flattened against the pane, while in the outer compound the face of that foppish ape, thickly
