There had awaited her a
palace attendant skilled with the brush, and there in secrecy and
dire affright, hearing the footsteps of the August Aunt in every
rustle of leafage, and her voice in the call of every crow, did
the Round-Faced Beauty dictate the following composition:-
"Though the sky rain pearls, it cannot equal the beneficence of
the Son of Heaven. Though the sky rain jade it cannot equal his
magnificence. He has commanded his slave to describe the
qualities of the Ideal Man. How should I, a mere woman, do this?
I, who have not seen the Divine Emperor, how should I know what
is virtue? I, who have not seen the glory of his countenance, how
should I know what is beauty? Report speaks of his excellencies,
but I who live in the dark know not. But to the Ideal Woman, the
very vices of her husband are virtues. Should he exalt another,
this is a mark of his superior taste. Should he dismiss his
slave, this is justice. To the Ideal Woman there is but one Ideal
Man - and that is her lord. From the day she crosses his
threshold, to the day when they clothe her in the garments of
Immortality, this is her sole opinion.
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