“Is it necessary for you to bear a child?” he retorted.
“It is always possible,” she replied. “I should like to be spared the fear of embarrassing you.”
He spoke of friends and she of shame. They had not yet come together. She must dig into his heart and pull her roots out of him, unless they were too deep.
He looked at her. “Have you ceased altogether to love me?” he asked.
She leaned forward toward him. This now was heart to heart. “I love you as well as ever,” she said in her beautiful voice. “I want nothing but your happiness.”
“How can this be my happiness?” he asked sadly.
“You know that I have always held your happiness in my hands,” she replied. She lifted her two hands as though they held a heart. “I have held it like this, ever since the moment I first saw your face on our wedding day. I shall hold it like this until I die.”
“My happiness would be buried with you if you should die before me,” he said.
“No, for before I die, I will put it into other hands, the hands which I will prepare for it,” she said.
She saw her power over him gaining its way. He sat motionless, his eyes on her hands. “Trust me,” she whispered, still holding her hands like a cup.
“I have always trusted you,” he said.
She let her hands fall.
He went on doggedly, “I do not promise, I cannot, so quickly—”
“You need not promise anything,” she said. “I shall not force you even if I could. When was force ever my way? No, we will put this aside now. Go back into the bed and let me cover you. The night is growing cool because it is so near dawn. You must sleep and do not wake early.”
She guided him by quick soft pressures on his shoulders, on his arms and hands. He obeyed her unwillingly, and yet he did obey her. “Mind you that I have promised you nothing,” he kept saying.
“Nothing,” she agreed, “nothing!” And she drew the covers over him and put back one curtain for air and let down the other against the morning light when it came.
But he held her hand fast. “Where will you sleep?” he demanded.
“Oh—I have my bed ready,” she said, half-playfully. “Tomorrow we will meet. Nothing will be changed in the house. We will be friends, I promise you, not separated by fears and shames—”
He let her go, lulled by her promising, beautiful voice. She could always lull him. He never believed the fullness of all she meant.
And when he had dropped into sleep she went away and walked softly and alone through the courts to the court next Old Lady’s. By her order it had been kept clean and ready through the years since Old Gentleman had died, and only a few days ago she had seen to it that fresh bedding was laid ready upon the mattress of the bed. Into this new bedding she now crept. It felt chill and too new, and she trembled for a moment with the chill and with a strange sudden deathlike fatigue. Then, as though it were a sort of death into which she had come, dreamlessly she fell asleep.
II
BUT IT IS MORNING which sets the seal upon what the night has made. Right or wrong is clear only by the sun. Madame Wu woke on this day after her fortieth birthday with a new feeling of lightness. Her eyes fell upon the known but unfamiliar room. This room was very different from the one in which she had slept for years. That one had been decorated for a young woman, a woman who was wed to a man and was expected to bear him children. The embroideries upon the curtains of that bed were of fruits and signs of fecundity. That room she had left last night was just as it had been when Old Lady had sent her into it as a bride for her only son. Old Lady had bought such strong satins and such fast-colored silks for the embroidered canopy that there was still no excuse after twenty-four years to buy a new one. The only object which Madame Wu had added to the room was the picture of the human creature struggling up the mountain. She missed this picture now. Today she must have it brought here with her clothes and her toilet articles. Beyond that, her old room would be very suitable for a new young concubine. Let the fruits and fecund signs be for that one!
Madame Wu lay in her new bed alone. It was an even vaster bed than the one she had left, and as she lay in it she delicately probed her heart. Did she suffer to think that another would lie under the rose-fed satin covers of her marriage bed? She did feel some sort of faint, distant pain, but it was neither close nor personal. It was a large pain, the pain which one must suffer when Heaven in its impenetrable wisdom decrees against the single soul. Thus she knew it would have been ineffably good and comforting to her had it been possible for Mr. Wu to have been ready to enter into the latter half of life with her. It would have been a miracle of content for her if out of his own fulfillment, and without sacrifice, he could have reached the same point of life that she had at the same time that she did.
She pondered for a long time. Why had Heaven not made women twice as long-lived as men, so that their beauty and fertility might last as long as man lived and fade only with the generation? Why should a man’s need to plant his seed continue too long for fulfillment in one woman?
“Women,” she thought, “must therefore be more lonely than men. Part of their life must be spent alone, and so Heaven has prepared them.”
Her reason recalled her from such futile questioning. Could anyone change what Heaven had decreed? Heaven, valuing only life, had given seed to man, and earth to woman. Of earth there was plenty, but of what use was earth without seed? The truth was that a man’s need went on even after his bones were chalk and his blood water, and this was because Heaven put the bearing of children above all else lest mankind die. Therefore must the very last seed in a man’s loin be planted, and that this last seed might bear strong fruit, as the man grew old the seed must be planted in better and stronger soil. For any woman, therefore, to cling to a man beyond the time of her fertility was to defy Heaven’s decree.
When she had thus reasoned, the distant large pain melted away in her, and she felt released and calm. She felt, indeed, restored to herself and almost as she had been as a girl. How strange and how pleasant it would be to lie down at night and know that she could sleep until morning, or if she were wakeful that she could be wakeful and not fear waking another! Her body was given back to her. She pushed up her sleeve from her arm and contemplated her flesh. It was as firm and as sound as ever. Nourished and cared for and infused now with new freedom, she would live to be a very old woman. But that she might live happily she must be careful in all her relationships, but most of all with him. She must not allow herself to be cut off from him. Certainly this would not be easy when the tie between them would no longer be of the flesh, but of the mind and the spirit. Then she must consider new ways of his dependence upon her, yet ways which would not in fairness divide him from the newcomer.
“I must somehow do my duty toward all,” she murmured, and pulled the sleeve down again over her pretty arm.
Who was this young woman to be? Madame Wu had thought a great deal about her. Now she began thinking about her again. Clearly she should be someone very different from herself. She must be young, yet not younger than the daughters-in-law, for that would bring trouble into the house. The proper age would be twenty-two. She must not be too well-educated, for Madame Wu herself had learning. She must not be modern, for a modern young woman would not be satisfied to be a concubine and in a short time she would be pushing Madame Wu out of the way and demanding Mr. Wu’s whole time and heart, and this would be shameful in the house before the sons. An older man may take a concubine in dignity, but he must not be possessed by her. Pretty of course she must be, but not so pretty that she would distract young men in the house, or indeed Mr. Wu himself. Pleasantly pretty would be enough. And since Madame Wu’s own beauty had been of one sort, this young woman’s should be of another. That is, she should be plump and rosy, and it would not matter if she were somewhat thick in the bones.
All this, Madame Wu reflected, pointed to a young woman country bred. Moreover, a country woman would hav
e health and no bad habits and would be likely to have sound children. Children, of course, must be had, for no woman is content without children, and where there are none the woman grows peevish and dwells upon herself and fastens her demands upon the man. Mr. Wu must not be made less happy, certainly, by his concubine. “And she must be a little stupid,” Madame Wu reflected, “in order that she will be content with what he gives her, and not wonder what is between him and me.”
She now began to have a clear picture in her mind of this young woman. She saw a healthy, slightly stupid, pretty young woman, one fond of food, one who had not lived before in a rich house so that she would be a little fearful of this house, and one not stubborn or proud, so that she would not seek to overcome her fear by temper and noise.
“There must be many such common young women,” Madame Wu thought cheerfully.
She decided as soon as she had risen and had tended to the duties of the day that she would send for the old woman who had been go-between for Meng. For Madame Wu had employed a go-between even with her friend, lest Madame Kang in her kindness demand too little, and later the marriage would suffer because it had not been just. “This old Liu Ma must be called hither,” Madame Wu thought, “and I will tell her plainly just what is wanted. It is as definite as an order for merchandise.” So she thought and without cynicism.
Then she let her mind drift to these rooms in which she now would live the rest of her life. She would make very few changes here. She had always been fond of the old man who had been her father-in-law. Since he had never had a daughter, he had been good to her and when he found that she was intelligent and learned as well as beautiful, he had been very pleased indeed. He had put aside the convention which forbids an old man to speak to his son’s wife. Many times he had even sent for her that he might read to her something from the old books in his library. She had learned to come to this library herself during his lifetime and read the books. Certain of these books he had put aside as unfitting for a woman, and she had never touched them. Now, however, since the first half of her life was over and she was alone, she could read them all.
It gave her pleasure to think of the library full of books now hers. She had not had time in these middle years of her life to look much into books. Mr. Wu did not enjoy reading, and therefore he did not like to see her with a book in her hand. Today, after years of giving body and mind to others, she felt that she needed to drink deeply at old springs.
These rooms became every moment more her own. Old Gentleman had been so long dead that he had ceased to exist for her as flesh and blood. Today when she thought of him he was a wise old mind, a calm old voice. There was therefore nothing in these rooms which she wanted changed, since she felt no flesh and blood were here. The bed curtains were of a thin dark-blue brocaded silk, speaking neither of passion nor of fecundity. The walls were whitewashed and creamy with age. The beams of the roof were unceiled. Doors and windows, chairs and tables were heavy and smooth and of plain, polished wood dark with Ningpo varnish, that stain and oil which last generations in a house. The floor was of big square gray tiles, so old that they were hollowed beside the bed and at the door into the library. The bedroom was one of the three rooms, and the third was the long sitting room which opened upon a court. Only in the court would she perhaps make a little change. The trees had grown together and did not let enough sun through, and the stones beneath them were slippery with moss.
Someone knocked at the door. “Come!” she called.
Ying came in, looking frightened. “I did not know where you were,” she stammered. “I went everywhere. I went into your old room and waked the master, and he was angry with me.”
“You will find me here now every morning until I die,” Madame Wu said calmly.
The news filtered through the household while the day went on. Son told wife, and one wife told another, and Ying told the cook, and the head cook told his undercook, and so by the end of that day there was not a soul who did not know that Madame Wu had moved into Old Gentleman’s rooms. Through servants the news was taken to Old Lady’s own maid, and so to Old Lady, who would not believe it. Madame Wu had purposely not told Old Lady. She knew that Old Lady would hear it from her maid, and this was well, for then Old Lady’s first temper would be spent on someone who was only a servant. After this was over, Old Lady would be torn by not knowing whether to quarrel first with her son or with her son’s wife. If she came first to Madame Wu, this would mean she blamed her. If she came first to her son, this meant she felt her son was at fault.
Toward noon, when Madame Wu was reckoning the month’s accounts in the sitting room which was now hers, she saw Old Lady’s maid leading her across the court. The trees had already been cut and carried away, and the moss-covered stones were scraped and cleaned of moss. Old Lady paused to see what had been done. She leaned on her maid’s arm with one hand, and in the other hand she held her long dragon-headed staff. The sun poured down into the once shadowy court, and the fish in the central pool, blinded by the light, had dived into the mud, so that the water was empty. But a pair of bright blue dragonflies danced above the water, drunk with the new sun.
“You have cut down the Pride of China tree,” Old Lady said accusingly.
Madame Wu, who had risen and come to her side, smiled. “Those trees spring up so easily,” she said, “and they grow so quickly. This one was not planted. It had only pushed itself up between two stones.”
Old Lady sighed and walked on toward the door. When Madame Wu took her elbow she pushed her half spitefully. “Don’t touch me,” she said peevishly. “I am very angry with you.”
Madame Wu did not answer. She followed Old Lady into the sitting room. “You didn’t tell me you were moving in here,” Old Lady said in her harsh high old voice. “I am never told anything in this house.” She sat down as she spoke.
“I should have told you,” Madame Wu agreed. “It was very wrong of me. I must ask you to forgive me.”
Old Lady grunted. “Have you quarreled with my son?” she asked severely.
“Not at all,” Madame Wu replied. “Indeed, we never quarrel.”
“Do not make words for me,” Old Lady commanded. “I am able to hear the truth.”
“I will not make words, Mother,” Madame Wu replied. “Yesterday I was forty years old. I had long made up my mind that when that day came I would retire from my duties as a female and find someone for my lord who is young. He is only forty-five years old. He has many years left him yet.”
Old Lady sat with her lean hands crossed on the dragon’s head and peered at her son’s wife. “Does he love someone else?” she demanded. “If he has been playing in flower houses, I will—I will—”
“No, there is no other woman,” Madame Wu replied. “Your son is the best of men, and he has been nothing but good to me. I am selfish enough to want to keep fresh between us the good love we have had. This cannot be if I am ridden with fear of a belated child, and surely it cannot be if my own fires slacken while his burn on.”
“People will say he has played the fool and you have revenged yourself,” Old Lady said sternly. “Who will believe you have of your own will withdrawn yourself—unless indeed you have ceased to love him?”
“I have not ceased to love him,” Madame Wu said.
“What is love between a man and woman if they don’t go to bed together?” Old Lady inquired.
Madame Wu paused for a long moment before she answered this. “I do not know,” she replied at last. “I have always wondered, and perhaps now I shall find out.”
Old Lady snorted. “I hope that we will not all suffer from this,” she said loudly. “I hope that a new trouble-maker will not come into this house!”
“That must be my care,” Madame Wu admitted. “I should blame myself entirely were such a thing to happen.”
“Where is this new woman?” Old Lady demanded. She was still aggrieved, but she felt anger melting out of her against her will. It was true that no woman wanted to conceive aft
er she was forty. She herself had had this misfortune, but luckily the child had died at birth. Yet she remembered with clarity, as though it were yesterday instead of more than thirty years ago, her deep shame when she knew that at such an age she was pregnant. She had longed for more children until then, and yet when she was forty she wanted no more, and she had quarreled with her husband through all those months of discontented waiting.
“Go and find yourself a whore,” she had told the distressed man. “Go and find yourself some young girl who is always ready!”
Old Gentleman had been deeply pained at such remarks, and he had never come near her again. But he had never loved her so well again, either. She had often been teased by his reticence, for he was gentle and shy as too many books can make a man, but after that he became almost totally silent toward her. Yet she knew that the whole thing had been only an accident, and that he wanted a child of her no more than she did of him. Even now when she remembered her anger against him she felt a vague guilt. What had happened had been merely an act of nature, no more, and why should she have blamed her good old man?
Old Lady sighed. “Where is this woman?” she demanded again, forgetting that she had already asked this.
“I have not found her yet,” Madame Wu said.
The bondmaid was listening to everything while she pretended to serve her old mistress by now pouring tea and now fanning her and now moving a screen so that the sun did not fall on her. But Madame Wu had considered this and had told herself that it was well that all the servants should know everything from the source,
“She will be hard to find,” Old Lady said stubbornly.
“I think not,” Madame Wu replied. “I know exactly what she should be. It remains only not to take any other.”
“Nevertheless,” Old Lady went on, “I still feel I should blame my son.”
“Please do not,” Madame Wu begged her. “To blame him for anything would make him feel he is at fault in some way, and indeed there is no fault in him. He must not be made to feel self-reproach merely because I am forty years old. It would be most unjust.”