Pavilion of Women: A Novel of Life in the Women's Quarters (26 page)

She rose immediately and with severity to herself. She called Ying to account sharply for several small faults. She pointed to dust swept behind a big chair which was seldom moved and to a cobweb which hung from a polished beam. After her meal she took accounts with the cook and directed him concerning the foods for many days ahead. “Now that winter is not too far away,” she said, “it is time you ceased to give us melon soups and cucumbers and such cooling things. It is time to brown pork and to stir-fry beef and beans and to put meats in the vegetables.”

He opened his little eyes widely at this. “Where have you been eating, Lady, that you have not seen that I have already begun to do these things? After these years, do I need to be told of the seasons?”

He was surprised by Madame Wu’s sharpness since, being so excellent a cook, he had his place in the house sure, and he was impudent when he liked, which was often, for he had the hot temper of all good cooks. But Madame Wu did not lessen her sharpness. “Go away,” she said. “Do not tell me what you do and do not do.”

She took no time for herself this day. No sooner was one gone than another came. She had not calmed herself from the cook when she saw Mr. Wu entering her court at a time earlier than he usually rose.

“Come in, Father of my sons,” she said. “I have been taking accounts with the cook. Sometimes I think we should change him. He grows too loose in the tongue.”

“But he is the only cook who makes crabs as I like them,” Mr. Wu said in alarm. “You know how I searched in seven and eight cities before I found him, and then I married him to your maid to secure him.”

“Ying is impudent, too,” Madame Wu said.

This was such unusual talk from her that Mr. Wu was more than a little disturbed. He sat down and drew out his pipe from his sleeve and filled it and lit it. “Now, Mother of my sons,” he said, “you do not feel well this morning. Your eyes are shadowy.”

“I am well,” Madame Wu insisted.

Mr. Wu took two puffs and put down his pipe. “Ailien,” he said in a low voice, first looking right and left to see that no one heard him, “you do very wrong to separate yourself from me. Truly, male and female have no health apart from each other. It is not only a matter of offspring. It is a matter of balance. Come, see yourself as you are. You are not toothless, your hair is still as black as it ever was, your flesh is firm, your blood quick. Have you forgotten how well we—”

“Cease there,” she said firmly. “You know I am not a changeable woman. I have arranged my life. Have you discontent in you that you come here and speak to me so?”

“Indeed I would welcome you,” he said frankly, “for I love you better than any other and must until I die, but I am not thinking of myself.”

“You need not think of me,” she insisted.

“I must think of you,” he declared. For a moment he had the monstrous thought that perhaps she had by some strange twist of nature become attached, through the soul, to the foreign priest. But he was ashamed to put forth this thought to her. He knew her fastidiousness in all matters. Aside from his priesthood the man was foreign. Even when Mr. Wu was young and impatient, he knew that it was better for him if he held his impatience and bathed himself and sweetened his breath and his body before he came near her. But foreigners were rank from the bone because of the coarseness of their flesh, the profuseness of their sweat, and the thickness of their woolly hair. He put his monstrous thought aside, lest with her magic instinct she divine it and accuse him.

He had recourse, therefore, to the one thing which he knew would always command her attention. He put on peevishness and complained that he himself did not feel well.

“Ah, you are right. I am old, too,” he sighed. “My belly rumbles, I wake up two and three times in the night. In the morning I am tired.”

But she was still cruel. “Eat only a little broth for supper—and sleep alone for a few nights.”

He gave up then and sat with his underlip thrust out, and she tapped her foot on the stone floor and sighed. Then she rose to pour tea for him. He saw her thin fingers tremble as she held the lid of the pot, but he said nothing. He drank tea, and she drank also from a bowl she poured for herself, and then he rose and went away. He had not reached the door when she called to him in that clear pure voice of hers which was as hard as silver, “You have forgotten your pipe yet again!”

He turned and his face was crimson. “Truly, I did forget it,” he said.

But she stood there on the threshold and pointed at it as though it were a filthy thing, and he went back like a beaten boy and snatched it up, and then he strode past her, his lips pursed and his cheeks red. For a moment she stood looking after him, and in her breast there was a spot which ached as though a blow had fallen there.

But before she could heed it, who then should come in but Little Sister Hsia? Of all mornings it seemed to Madame Wu that this was the last one on which this poor pale woman was welcome, but what could she do except to invite her to come in and sit down?

“I have not seen you for so long,” Little Sister Hsia said in her rapid broken way. Madame Wu had learned to understand her meaning without understanding the words, for Little Sister Hsia controlled neither breath nor tongue. The sounds tumbled out, dull where they should have been sharp and sharp where they should have been dull, and the rise and fall of her voice had nothing to do with the words.

“Have you been ill, Little Sister?” Madame Wu inquired.

“No,” Little Sister replied, “but somehow—the last time—I felt perhaps I intruded.”

“Can you intrude?” Madame Wu murmured politely.

“You are so kind,” Little Sister said. In her innocence she accepted the politeness. “Today I have come for something so special. Dear Madame, please, I have a plan and if you approve—”

“What is this plan?” she inquired.

“You know that priest?” Little Sister inquired.

“My son’s tutor,” Madame Wu murmured.

“He has a foundling home,” Little Sister said. “I have long felt that a woman should have some oversight of the girls there. He has only an old servant. But they should be taught, Madame. Do you not think so? I was wondering if you would ask him—that is, perhaps, I would like with your approval to offer my services as a teacher.”

“Why do you not ask him yourself?” Madame Wu inquired.

“You must know,” Little Sister Hsia said earnestly. “His religion is not mine.”

“How many religions have the foreigners?” Madame Wu inquired. “I am always hearing of a new one.”

“There is only one true God,” Little Sister Hsia said solemnly.

“Do you believe in this God?” Madame Wu asked.

Little Sister Hsia opened her pale blue eyes. She lifted her hand and brushed a lock of pale yellow hair from her cheek. “Why else do you think I left my home and my country to come to this strange land?”

“Is ours a strange land?” Madame Wu asked in some surprise.

“To me it is strange,” Little Sister Hsia said.

“Did your God tell you to come?” Madame Wu asked again.

“He did,” Little Sister Hsia replied.

“Did you hear His voice?” Madame Wu asked.

Little Sister Hsia blushed. She placed her long pale hands upon her breast.

“I felt it—I heard it here,” she said.

Madame Wu gazed at her. “But did your parents never try to betroth you?” she asked.

Little Sister Hsia clasped her bosom more closely. “In my country parents do not arrange marriages. Men and women marry for love.”

“Did you ever love?” Madame Wu asked in her calm voice.

Little Sister Hsia’s hands dropped into her gray cotton lap.

“Of course,” she said simply.

“But you did not wed?” Madame Wu asked.

“In my country,” Little Sister Hsia said painfully, “the man must ask the woman.”

Now Madame Wu was silent. She could easily have asked the next question, but she was too kind to do so. She knew that no man had asked Little Sister Hsia to marry him.

Little Sister Hsia lifted her eyes again bravely, although they were misted. “God had other plans for me,” she said. Her voice was bright.

Madame Wu smiled kindly at her and said, “Do I not know you well!”

She took up her tiny silver-bound pipe and lit it and smoked two puffs and put it down again. “Here in my country,” she said, “we do not leave so important a matter as marriage to men and women or God. Marriage is like food and drink and shelter. It must be arranged for, or some will have too much and others will starve. In my house I plan meals for all, even for the servants. Each has the right to his share. Some foods, of course, are liked better than others. But if I left foods to their choice, the children would eat nothing but sweets. My son’s father would eat nothing but crabs and fats. Some of the servants are greedy and would eat too much and leave nothing to the more timid ones, who would hunger. To each servant I allot a certain quantity, to each member of the family I allot a certain quality. Thus all are fed under my care.”

Little Sister Hsia’s fingers were knotting themselves. “I do not know how we came to talk about all this,” she said. “I came here to ask you something—really, I’ve forgotten what it was, now.”

“You have forgotten because it was not what was really in your mind,” Madame Wu said kindly. “I will answer you. No, Little Sister Hsia, you must leave Brother André alone. I assure you he is like a great high rock, hard because it is high. You must not beat yourself against that cliff. You will be wounded, your flesh will be torn, your heart will bleed, and your brains will be spilled like curds, but he will not know it. Occupy yourself with your own God—I advise it.”

Little Sister Hsia was now pale to the lips. “I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered. “Sometimes I think you are a very wicked woman. You think thoughts—you put thoughts into me—I don’t have such thoughts—”

“Do not be ashamed of your thoughts,” Madame Wu said kindly. “They are good thoughts, for you are a good woman; but you are very lonely. You do not want to be lonely. But you must be lonely. It is your doom. Life has not provided for you. Yours is the strange cruel country. Not even your parents provided for you when life did not. Little Sister Hsia, I would myself arrange a marriage for you were it possible. But there is no man of your kind here.”

Little Sister Hsia listened to her. Now her mouth opened and shut, she gasped, and suddenly she burst into tears of anger. “You are hateful!” she cried to Madame Wu. “You—you—I’m not like that—you’re all alike, you Chinese—just thinking of such—awful things.”

Madame Wu was deeply astonished. “Little Sister,” she said, “I speak of life, the life of man, the life of woman. I pity you, I would help you if I could—”

“I don’t want your help,” Little Sister Hsia sobbed. “I want only to serve God.”

“Poor soul,” Madame Wu murmured, “then go and serve your God.”

She rose and with a tender hand she took Little Sister’s hand and led her to the door and bade her farewell. She resolved never to see her again. Serenely she sat down, her eyes still full of brooding pity, when Ying came running in.

“The First Young Lord, his wife is beginning travail,” she cried.

“Ah,” Madame Wu said, “send for her own mother. Meanwhile I will go to her at once.” She rose and went into her bedroom and washed her hands thoroughly and changed her silk coat for one of clean blue linen. Then, perfuming her hands and cheeks, she went into Liangmo’s court.

She welcomed the news. Nothing was so exciting in a house as the birth of a child. She had not enjoyed the act of birth for herself, and yet each time she had given birth she had felt purged and renewed. She had no fears today for Meng. Meng was young and healthy and made for children.

It was the day of women, as all days of birth are. The main room of her eldest son’s court was full of excited women servants and female cousins and relatives. Even the children were excited and laughing as they tried to help carry pails of water and pots of tea. The great house was crowded enough and yet all welcomed the coming of another child. Moreover, since Meng was the wife of the eldest son, there was added dignity to this birth.

“Another son would be best,” an elderly cousin was saying when Madame Wu entered the court. “Then if something happens to the first one, here is the second. A house with many sons is always secure.”

At this moment Madame Wu entered and all rose. The highest seat had been kept for her, and she took it. Murmured greetings came from the suddenly silenced room. Rulan as the second daughter-in-law rose and poured tea. Even she was silent.

“Ah, Rulan,” Madame Wu said.

She looked with a sharp, swift gaze at the girl. Pale—she was looking pale. She never saw Rulan without remembering that once in the night she had wept aloud. Then Madame Wu saw Linyi sitting somewhat apart. She was cracking dried watermelon seeds between her teeth and blowing the shells on the floor. Madame Wu restrained a rebuke. In a few minutes Madame Kang would be here, and it was better not to disturb Linyi. The girl stood when she saw Madame Wu’s eyes on her.

“Ah, Linyi,” Madame Wu said.

Then she took up the affair of the birth. “How are matters?” she inquired of the midwife who had come running out of the bedroom when she heard the commotion of Madame Wu’s arrival.

“All is well,” the stout woman replied. She was a loud, coarse, hearty soul who performed her task everywhere, but who welcomed a birth in a rich house because her gifts would be rich, too, especially if she delivered the child whole and alive and if it were a boy.

“It is surely a boy,” she said. Her broad face beamed. “Our First Son’s Lady carried him high.”

But Meng’s voice raised in sudden screams now was clearly heard, and the midwife ran out of the room. In less than half an hour Madame Kang came hurrying in. She herself was already shapeless, although she had put on loose robes. Silence fell as she crossed the threshold. Curiosity and pity made the silence. She felt it and covered her shame with words.

“Sisters!” she exclaimed, “here you all are. How good you are to care for my child!”

Then she spoke to Madame Wu. “And you, Eldest Sister, how is she?”