Pavilion of Women: A Novel of Life in the Women's Quarters (23 page)

“What did you tell her?” he asked. His face turned suddenly solemn.

“I said I hope, but how can I know?” she answered.

He was inexplicably angry. “Now, how cruel you are!” he cried. “To an old soul how can you show your doubt?” He unbuttoned his jacket at his full throat and took his fan out of his collar at the back of his neck and began to fan himself with energy.

“What would you have said?” she asked him.

“I would have assured her,” he cried. “I would have told her that nothing but happiness waits for her at the Yellow Springs. I would have said—”

“Perhaps you had better go and say it,” she said. When she was angry she never raised her voice. Instead she poured into it molten silver. Now it flowed and flamed.

But he thrust out his underlip. “I will tell her indeed,” he retorted.

They sat in silence for a moment, each struggling for calm again. She sat perfectly still, her hands limp in her lap, her head drooping a little on her slender neck. He sat solidly motionless except for the fan in his hand which he moved constantly. Each wondered at being angry with the other, and neither knew why it was.

She was the first to speak. “I have another matter to mention.” Her voice was still silvery.

“Speak on,” he said.

She chose straight truth again. “Ch’iuming came to me last night and asked me to tell you that she is pregnant.” Again she used the common word. She did not lift her head nor look at him, but continued to sit, motionless and graceful.

She heard the fan drop and brush against the silk of his garments. He was silent for so long that at last she looked up. He was staring at her, a clownish sheepish smile on his face, and his right hand was rubbing the crown of his head, rubbing round and round in a gesture she perfectly understood. It was a mixture of amusement, shame, and pleasure.

When he met her eyes, he laughed aloud. “Poison me,” he said. “Put bane into my rice—or ground gold into my wine. I am too shameless. But, Mother of my sons, I was only obedient to you—nothing else.”

Against her will laughter came creeping up out of her belly. The corners of her mouth twitched, and her eyelids trembled. “Don’t pretend you are not pleased,” she said. “You know you are proud of yourself.”

“Alas—I am too potent,” he said.

Their laughter joined as it had so many times before in their life together, and across the bridge of laughter they met again. In that laughter she perceived something. She did not love him! Meichen had been right. She did not love him, had never loved him, and so how now could she hate him? It was as though the last chain fell from her soul. Time and again she had picked up those chains and put them on. But now no more. There was no need. She was wholly free of him.

“Listen to me,” she said when their laughter was over. “You must be kind to her.”

“I am always kind to everybody,” he insisted.

“Please,” she said, “be grave for a moment. It is her first child. Now do not plague her. Stay away from her for as long as she turns her face to the wall.”

He wagged his head at her. “It may be that one concubine is not enough,” he teased, and put the tip of his tongue out to touch his upper lip.

But he could not hurt her or harm her any more. She only smiled. “Now,” she said, “you can go to your mother. And better than talking about her soul, tell her that you are to have another son.”

But Old Lady was not cheered even by the news which her son brought to her. Madame Wu had scarcely reached her own court, she having stopped along her way to play with children, when Ying came running in to call her.

“Old Lady is worse,” she cried. “Old Lady is frightened and is calling for you, Mistress! Our lord is there and he begs you to come.”

Madame Wu turned herself instantly and hastened to Old Lady’s bedside. There Mr. Wu sat stroking his mother’s half-lifeless hand.

“She has made a wrong turn!” he exclaimed when he saw her. “My old mother has chosen a downward path!”

A flicker lighted Old Lady’s glazed eyes, but she could not speak. Instead she opened her mouth and puckered up her face as though she were about to weep. But neither sound nor tears came as she gazed piteously at her daughter-in-law.

Madame Wu understood at once that Old Lady was now more afraid than ever. “Fetch some wine,” she murmured to Ying, who had followed her. “We must warm her—she must feel her body. Fetch the Canton wine. Heat it quickly. And send the gateman to call the doctor.”

Old Lady continued to look at Madame Wu, begging her for help, her face fixed in the piteous mask of weeping.

“Ying will fetch some hot wine,” Madame Wu said in her sweet and soothing voice. “You will feel better and stronger. Do not be afraid, Mother. There is nothing to fear. Everything is as usual around you. The children are playing outdoors in the sunshine. The maids are sewing and tending the house. In the kitchens the cooks are making the evening meal. Life goes on as it has always gone, and as forever it will. Our forefathers built this house, and we have carried on its years, and our children will come after us. Life goes on eternally, Mother.”

Her singing, soothing voice sounded full and rich through the silent room. Old Lady heard it, and slowly the lines of her face softened and changed and the mask of weeping faded. Her lips quivered again and she began to breathe. While the mask had been fixed on her face, her breathing had seemed to stop.

And soon Ying hurried in with the hot wine in a small jug with a long spout, and this spout Madame Wu held to Old Lady’s parted lips and she let the wine drip into Old Lady’s mouth. Once and twice and three times Old Lady swallowed. A faint pleasure came into her eyes. She swallowed again and muttered a few words.

“I can feel—”

Then a look of surprise and anger sprang out of her eyes. Even as she felt the hot wine in her belly, her willful heart stopped beating. She shuddered, the wine rushed up again and stained the quilt, and so Old Lady died.

“Oh, my mother!” Mr. Wu moaned, aghast.

“Take the jug,” Madame Wu commanded Ying sharply. She leaned over and with the fine silk handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve she wiped Old Lady’s lips and she lifted Old Lady’s head with both her hands. But the head was limp, and she laid it down again on the pillow.

“Her soul is gone,” she said.

“Oh, my mother!” Mr. Wu moaned again. He began to weep openly and aloud, and she let him weep. There were certain things which must be done quickly for the dead. In a creature such as Old Lady had been, the seven spirits of the flesh could not be expected to leave the body at once. Old Lady must be exorcised and confined, lest these spirits loosed out of the flesh do harm in the house. Priests must be called. In her innermost heart Madame Wu did not believe in those priests nor in their gods. She stood looking down while Mr. Wu continued to fondle his mother’s hand as he wept. She was surprised to find in herself the urgent wish to call Brother André here and give him the task of exorcising evil from the house. Yet this could scarcely satisfy the family. If even a year from now a child fell ill under this roof there would be blame because Old Lady’s fleshly spirits had not been cared for. No, for the sake of the family, she must follow the old ways.

She turned to Ying. “Call the priests,” she said. “Let the embalmers come in their time.”

“I will attend to everything,” Ying promised and went away.

“Come, Father of my sons,” Madame Wu said. “Let us leave her for a little while. The maids will wash and dress her, and the priests are coming to exorcise her, and the embalmers will do their duty. You must come away.”

He rose obediently, and they went out together. She walked along slowly by his side, and he continued to sob and to wipe his eyes with his sleeves. She sighed without weeping. It had been many years since she had wept, and now, it seemed, her eyes were dry. But when he heard her sigh he put out his hand and took hers, and thus hand in hand they walked to his court. There she sat down with him and let him talk to her of all he remembered about his mother, how she used to save him from his father’s punishment, and how when his father compelled him to study his mother would steal into his room and bring him wine and sweet cakes and nuts, and how on holidays she took him to theaters, and when he was ill she called in jugglers and showmen to amuse him at his bedside, and when he had the toothache she gave him a whiff from an opium pipe.

“A good mother,” he now said, “always gay and making me gay. She taught me to enjoy my life.”

To all this, Madame Wu listened in silence, and she persuaded him to eat and drink and then drink a little more. She despised drunkenness, but there were times when wine had its use to dull the edge of sorrow. So he drank the fine hot wine she ordered, and as he drank his talk grew thicker and he said the same thing over and over again until at last his head dropped on his breast.

Then she rose and on quiet feet went into the room which had once been hers. She peered under the satin curtains of the bed. There, rolled against the inner wall, she saw the back of a dark head, the outline of a slender shoulder.

“Ch’iuming,” she called softly. “Are you sleeping?”

Ch’iuming turned, and Madame Wu saw her eyes staring out of the shadows.

“Ch’iuming, you need not sleep here tonight,” Madame Wu said. “Our Old Lady is gone to the Yellow Springs, and he is drunk with wine and sorrow. Rise, child.”

Ch’iuming came creeping out of the bed, silent, obedient.

“Where shall I go?” she asked humbly.

Madame Wu hesitated. “I suppose you may go to my court,” she said at last. “I myself shall not sleep tonight. I must watch over Old Lady.”

“Oh, let me watch, too,” Ch’iuming whispered. “I do not want to sleep.”

“But you are young, and you ought not, for the sake of what is within you, stay awake all night,” Madame Wu replied.

“Let me be with you,” Ch’iuming begged.

Madame Wu could not refuse. “Well, then let it be,” she said.

So when she had seen Mr. Wu helped into his bed and had herself drawn the curtains about him, Madame Wu moved to take her place in the house this night. Those who had been sitting in watch now went to bed, but the servants did not sleep, nor the elder cousins. Old Lady was washed and dressed, and Madame Wu stood by to see that all was done as it should be, and Ch’iuming stood near, silent but ready to pick up this and hand her that. The girl had deft hands and quick eyes, and she read a wish before it was spoken. Yet Madame Wu saw clearly enough that Ch’iuming felt no sorrow. For her this was no death. Her face was grave but not sad, and she did not pretend to weep, as another might have done.

“Her heart is not yet here in this house,” Madame Wu thought, watching her. “But when the child comes, he will tie it here.”

So one generation now was fulfilled and passed from the house, and Madame Wu became the head within these compound walls as Mr. Wu was the head outside. Old Lady was not buried at once. When the geomancers were consulted they declared that a day in midautumn was the first fortunate day. Therefore, when the rites were finished and Old Lady slept within her sealed bed of cypress wood, the coffin was carried into the quiet family temple within the walls. No one, not even the children, felt that Old Lady was far away. Often in their play they ran to the temple and looked in.

“Great-grandmother!” they called softly. “Great-grandmother, do you hear us?”

Then they listened. Sometimes they heard nothing. But oftentimes, were the day gusty with wind, they told one another that they did hear Old Lady answer them from her coffin.

“What does she say?” Madame Wu once asked a small girl, the daughter of a first cousin.

The little child looked grave. “She says, ‘Little children, go and play—be happy.’ But, Elder Mother, her voice sounds small and faraway. Is she content in the coffin?”

“Quite content,” Madame Wu assured her. “And now obey her—go and play—be happy, child.”

After Old Lady was gone, for a time stillness seemed to come over the family. It was as though each generation, with her passing, knew itself further on in time and place. With her death life leaped ahead, and so all were nearer to the end. Mr. Wu when he had finished his first mourning and had taken off his garments of sackcloth was not quite what he had been. His full face looked older and more grave. Now sometimes he came to Madame Wu’s court, and together they talked over the family of which they were the two heads. He worried himself because he fancied he had not been so good a son as he should have been. When they had discussed the crops and the evil taxes of overlords and government, and whether they should undertake an expense of one sort or another, and when they had talked over children and grandchildren, then Mr. Wu would fall into brooding about his mother.

“You were good to her always,” he said to Madame Wu. “But I forgot her much of the time.”

Then to comfort him Madame Wu answered thus: “How can a man forget his mother? She gave you breath, and when you breathe it is to remember her. She gave you body, and when you eat and drink and sleep and however you use your body, it is to remember her. I do not ask of my sons that they come running always to me to cry, ‘Ah, Mother, this,’ and ‘Ah, Mother, that.’ I am rewarded enough when they live and are healthy and when they marry and are happy and when they have sons. My life is complete in them. So is it with our Old Lady. She lives in you and in your sons.”

“Do you think so?” he said when he had listened, and he was always comforted so that he went away again and left her.

She, left alone, pondered on many things. Now more than ever her life was divided into two—that part which was lived in the house and that part which was lived inside herself. Sometimes one prevailed and sometimes the other. When the household was at peace she lived happily alone. When there was trouble of some sort she went into it and mended it as she could.

About the middle of that autumn she saw a little trouble begin in the house which she knew would swell big if she did not pinch it off, like an unruly gall bud on a young tree. Linyi and Fengmo began to quarrel. She saw their ill-temper one day by chance when she made her inspection of the house. For all her pert beauty, Linyi was slatternly in her own court. At first Madame Wu had not wanted to speak of this, because Linyi was her friend’s daughter and she knew that Madame Kang, with her great family, could not keep to constant neatness and cleanliness. It could only be expected that her daughters also might be less careful than Madame Wu was herself.