‘‘I thought Grace and Billy would enjoy hearing a different kind of story,’’ I said. ‘‘I love stories about foreign countries, myself.’’
Mr. Warner frowned. ‘‘Please let me go on. Folktales are harmless enough. What concerned us more was that you were also discussing Confucianism.’’
I had mentioned Confucius when the children asked me about my own schooling. I had described the classical works I had studied at my family school. ‘‘Master Confucius believed that rulers should be chosen by their virtue, not by their birth or station,’’ I had told Grace and Billy.
I didn’t see what Mr. Warner found objectionable. ‘‘Why shouldn’t the children hear about Confucianism?’’ I asked.
‘‘Confucianism is a heathen religion!’’ said Mr. Warner. His pale eyes were intent. ‘‘I don’t want Grace and Billy—’’
‘‘Confucianism isn’t a religion,’’ I said. ‘‘My teacher said it is really a philosophy.’’
‘‘Don’t interrupt me,’’ snapped Mr. Warner. ‘‘Confucianism involves idolatry. . . .’’
He went on for some time. After a while I stopped listening to him. I felt sick. There was something familiar about Mr. Warner’s tone of voice, except that I had last heard it from someone speaking Chinese: Big Uncle. Neither man would tolerate being interrupted by an impertinent slip of a girl.
After Mr. Warner stopped, I nodded meekly and went upstairs to my room. I took down my dictionary and looked up idolatry. Reading the definition made my head swell with indignation. I had grown up learning about the wisdom of Master Confucius, who believed that a country should be ruled by benevolence, not force. That constituted idolatry?
Grandfather had often said he was a Confucianist, and he was one of the most scholarly men I had ever known. But in Mr. Warner’s opinion, he had been a blind worshiper of something barbaric and unenlightened.
For the first time I understood the price I was paying for my rebellion. I had been exiled from my own people, and I had entered a world that despised what I had been taught to value.
CHAPTER NINE
During my next two years with the Warners, I lived wholly as Eileen, and only rarely did the girl known as Ailin emerge. Miss Gilbertson was my only link with my past. She came to visit the Warners occasionally, and once, she even invited me to a party she was giving for her students. Xueyan was at the party, and meeting her and my former classmates was a bittersweet experience, with the bitter outweighing the sweet. Xueyan and I held hands but found it hard to speak to each other. I never went to another of Miss Gilbertson’s parties.
My family I didn’t see at all. During the first New Year’s Day with the Warners, I almost made up my mind to visit my home. New Year was always a rollicking time for young people, a time when we bowed to our elder relatives, received gifts of money from them, and gorged ourselves on seasonal treats.
But the two elder relatives I loved best were gone, and I couldn’t face the pain of being turned away at the door on Big Uncle’s orders. I stayed away from the Tao family residence.
After half a year, Mr. and Mrs. Warner seemed to have gotten over their fear of harboring a heathen idol-worshiper under their roof. At Sunday dinners, after the grace, I always made a point of saying ‘‘Amen,’’ and this helped to reassure them.
I stopped talking to Grace and Billy about Confucius, although I still told them some of the more exciting Chinese stories I knew—when I was sure their parents were not listening.
By the time I had been with them for a year, the Warners showed clearly that they were happy about the way I managed the children. When Miss Gilbertson came to call on the Warners, they never failed to thank her for recommending me to them.
More than once Mrs. Warner said to me, ‘‘I don’t know how you do it, Eileen, but Billy is much better these days.’’
He had been very difficult after their move to Nanjing. He had left all his friends behind in Shanghai, and boredom and loneliness had driven him into mischief. One of the maids told me, for instance, that Billy would catch cockroaches and put them in the rice pot, but she was afraid to report him to Mr. or Mrs. Warner. I had to stifle a laugh when I heard that, since I still remembered putting earthworms in my amah’s bowl of noodles.
I worked hard at keeping the children busy and interested, so Billy had less time to think up tricks. The servants were grateful to me for making their life easier. The only person still hostile was the houseboy.
After almost two years without major mishaps, I must have earned the trust of Mr. and Mrs. Warner. They proved this one day.
‘‘We are going to be away for two nights, Eileen,’’ Mrs. Warner said. Her tone was cheerful, although there was just a hint of anxiety in her eyes. ‘‘This retreat is important for us.’’
‘‘We have confidence in your capability,’’ Mr. Warner said. ‘‘You’ve shown great skill in handling the children.’’ Mr. Warner was not a person who used flattery, and I knew he was sincere.
Mr. and Mrs. Warner were going away to Suzhou for something they called a ‘‘retreat.’’ I didn’t know what they were retreating from, but I guessed it had something to do with their religion. Mr. Warner said missionaries had regular retreats and always returned to their duties refreshed in spirit.
Mr. Warner’s trust in me wasn’t complete, however. ‘‘Just in case anything happens,’’ he added, ‘‘the houseboy knows what to do. He’s been running things for a long time.’’
After Mr. and Mrs. Warner left, I waited for the two children to test my authority by seeing how far they could go. At least that was what I would have done under the circumstances.
‘‘Our parents are having a vacation, so can we have one, too?’’ asked Grace. ‘‘We can skip lessons for a couple of days.’’
Since this was exactly what I was expecting, I had my answer ready. ‘‘Your parents are not having a vacation. They are having a retreat. That’s quite a different thing.’’
I suspected that the children were as ignorant as I was about what a retreat was. Grace gave only a token struggle, proving that I was right. I waited for further resistance from Billy, always the more obstinate and ingenious of the two. But he surprised me by not raising any objections at all.
The first day passed peacefully enough. I was able to read a passage from a book on English history to Grace without interruption from Billy. When his turn came to work with me, he quietly recited the words he had been assigned to learn. Since he was a quick child, I wasn’t surprised that he had learned the words. What surprised me was his toneless voice as he read them.
The next day began in the same quiet way, without Billy’s usual attempts to disrupt the lessons. At lunchtime, he ate hardly any of the meatballs, usually a favorite of his.
Seeing that he looked tired, I suggested a nap, and to my amazement, he agreed. Even Grace’s mouth dropped open at the sight of her brother going obediently upstairs to his room.
Late in the afternoon, when I tiptoed into his room, he was still asleep. It was not a restful sleep, however. He tossed around and made soft little grunts. I felt his forehead and gasped. Billy was burning with fever.
‘‘He’s sick, isn’t he?’’ whispered Grace, who was standing by the door.
‘‘Yes, we have to do something right away!’’ I replied. But what? I thought of Grandmother and Father, and for an instant I was overcome with panic. I had already lost two people dear to me. I couldn’t let Billy die, too!
At the sight of Grace’s white, frightened face, I forced myself to be calm. Rushing downstairs, I called the houseboy. ‘‘Master Billy is very sick!’’ I took a moment to steady my voice, knowing I couldn’t afford to show panic. ‘‘We need a doctor. Do you know of a good one?’’
The houseboy frowned. ‘‘Mr. and Mrs. Warner always called their own doctor. He’s an American, and I don’t know the name.’’
The houseboy probably couldn’t remember the name even if he had heard it, I thought. Western names were har
d to pronounce, much less recall.
I tried to think what would have been done at my own home. The Tao family doctor was a prominent expert in Chinese medicine, but everyone referred to him as simply Master Physician, and I had never heard his name mentioned.
Shushing Grace, who was gulping and trying to control her sobs, I thought furiously. I could go home and ask Mother for the name of the doctor. I had money that the Warners had paid me, and I could hire a rickshaw. ‘‘I’m going out for a doctor,’’ I told the houseboy. ‘‘Please order a rickshaw for me.’’
The houseboy looked at me for a moment. ‘‘Yes, Miss Tao,’’ he said. ‘‘I will find one right away.’’
It wasn’t until my rickshaw was halfway down the street that I realized the houseboy had addressed me as Miss Tao. But there was no time to savor this small triumph.
Nanjing was not a large city, and the ride from the Warners’ to my home couldn’t have taken more than fifteen minutes. But it felt like hours.
I felt my heart beat faster as the rickshaw turned into the familiar street and drew up at the gate. The rickshaw man knocked on the gate, and I climbed out, my legs feeling weak.
When the grizzled gatekeeper opened the door, I took a deep breath. ‘‘Lao Wang, do you remember me?’’
The gatekeeper gaped at me. ‘‘Miss Three?’’ he said hoarsely.
‘‘I need a doctor, Lao Wang,’’ I said. ‘‘Is my mother home?’’
The gatekeeper shook his head. ‘‘She has gone to visit Miss Two—only I have to remember that she’s Mrs. Chen now. But the master is home. Shall I tell him you’re here?’’
The last thing I wanted was to ask Big Uncle for help. I decided to go to Second Sister’s home, where Mother was. Either Mother or Second Sister would be able to help me.
I had never visited Second Sister’s new home with the Chens. It was only about ten minutes away, but again the ride seemed to take hours.
The rickshaw man drew up at an unfamiliar gate and knocked on the door. When the gatekeeper opened the door and saw me, he glared. I was shocked by the hostility in his eyes. ‘‘We don’t have anything to do with foreigners here!’’ he snarled, and banged the gate in my face.
I was too stunned to move. Finally the rickshaw man coughed. ‘‘Shall we try another place, young miss?’’
Slowly I climbed back into the rickshaw. How could that gatekeeper mistake me for a foreigner? Then I realized that I was dressed entirely in Western clothes. But surely the man could tell from my features that I was Chinese! Perhaps he had never seen a foreigner before and judged only by my clothes.
Suddenly I wanted to cover my face and weep. At the Warners’, I was a Chinese and a heathen. At Second Sister’s home, I was turned away as a foreigner.
I looked at the blank mud-colored walls on both sides of the street, a sight familiar to me since childhood. I had once lived a pampered life inside such walls. Now I was on the outside of the walls.
Again the rickshaw driver coughed. ‘‘Shall I take you back, young miss?’’ he asked.
This was no time for self-pity. Billy was very sick and needed my help. Very well. Since the Chens’ gatekeeper regarded me as a foreigner, I would go to a foreigner for help. I gave the rickshaw man Miss Gilbertson’s address.
School was over for the day, and my old teacher was at home. After one look at my face, she put her arms around me. ‘‘What can I do to help?’’ she asked.
Now that I no longer had to act like an adult, I broke down and cried. ‘‘You must be tired of listening to me cry every time I see you.’’
‘‘You don’t cry all the time,’’ said Miss Gilbertson. ‘‘Sometimes you read English to me, and you read beautifully.’’
As she reached for a handkerchief, I shook my head and brought out her old one from my pocket. ‘‘See, I still have the first one.’’
After wiping my eyes, I told Miss Gilbertson about Billy’s high fever. ‘‘The Warners go to an American doctor,’’ I said. ‘‘Do you know his name?’’
It seemed that Miss Gilbertson and many of the other foreigners in Nanjing went to the same doctor. ‘‘I’ll take you to him right away,’’ she said.
Billy’s illness turned out to be measles, and by the time I arrived back with the doctor, spots had already appeared on his face. The servants at the Warners’ were alarmed by the red spots, thinking they might be a sign of smallpox. After the doctor had made his diagnosis, I reassured them that that was not the case. I had already had measles myself, as had most of the staff.
After the doctor had left, I went up to my room and sank exhausted into a chair. There was a knock on the door.
I opened the door and found the houseboy standing outside, holding a cup of hot tea. ‘‘You must be tired and thirsty, Miss Tao,’’ he said gruffly, and handed me the cup. He turned and hurried downstairs before I could find my voice.
Miss Gilbertson telephoned Mr. and Mrs. Warner about Billy, and they hurried back early from Suzhou. By the time they burst through the door, the house was calm and everything was under control.
Although she was not a demonstrative person, Mrs. Warner hugged me. ‘‘My dear, I’m so impressed by your initiative! We were lucky to have found you for our children.’’
My relationship with the houseboy improved. He was the only adult in the house I could really talk to, since Mr. and Mrs. Warner were busy and away most of the day. Like me, the houseboy often faced the clash of two cultures, and I got a lot of useful advice from him.
I should have been proud and happy. But in the days that followed Billy’s illness, I couldn’t forget the hatred on the face of the Chens’ gatekeeper as he closed the door in my face. I felt like an exile in Nanjing, the city of my birth.
With the deaths of Grandmother and Father, I had lost the only people who gave me support at home. And yet things could have been worse. I had found refuge among the foreigners.
If, by a miracle, Big Uncle ever allowed me to return home, would I be able to regain my position in Chinese society and become a daughter of the Taos again? I didn’t think so.
Once, when I was a small child running away from my amah, I had skipped into the kitchen garden. The cook had shown me a clump of bamboo. Only the tiny tips were showing. ‘‘Look, these shoots are good to eat,’’ he had said, pushing some sand aside and uncovering two small plants. ‘‘They’re still tender.’’
I saw another bunch of bamboo shoots, poking like green spearheads out of the ground. ‘‘What about those shoots over there?’’
‘‘They’re too tough to eat,’’ said the cook. ‘‘They’ve been outside in the air and sun.’’
‘‘What if I cover them with sand?’’ I asked. ‘‘Will that make them tender again?’’
The cook laughed. ‘‘No, it’s too late. Once they’ve become tough, nothing will make them soft again.’’
I realized that I was like a bamboo shoot that had been outside in the air and sun. I could never again be like my sisters and other delicate Chinese girls with bound feet who spent their days in an inner chamber. I was too tough now.
When Mr. Warner called me into his library again, I had a good idea of what he was about to say. From hints dropped by Mrs. Warner and the children, I already knew that the family was going back to America soon. Missionaries received something called a furlough every few years. It was a kind of vacation and allowed them to spend one year in their own home. The Warners would be leaving Nanjing and going back to their home in San Francisco.
I would miss the children very much, for I had grown to love them like family. I knew Billy better than I knew my own little brother, since Billy’s care had been in my hands, whereas Little Brother had had his own amah to look after him.
Now I had to find another job. Perhaps the Warners could recommend me to other Americans. During my three years with them, my English had improved beyond measure. Sometimes visitors, overhearing me speak, took me for an American. I had also grown greatly not only in height,
but also in confidence. I was sure I could cope with the children in another family, however difficult.
But I had guessed wrong about what Mr. Warner was going to say. He folded his hands and looked at me almost nervously. ‘‘Eileen, Mrs. Warner and I have talked things over, and we’d like to make a proposal to you: Would you consider going to America with us?’’
Too surprised to speak, I could only stare at him. When I finally found my voice, the only thing I could think of saying was, ‘‘Is Billy being difficult again?’’
Mr. Warner laughed, and I blushed at the tactlessness of my remark. Then Mr. Warner sobered. ‘‘Actually, there is some truth in what you said. When we told the children that we were going back to America, the first thing they asked was whether you would be coming with us.’’
I was so deeply touched that again I found myself unable to speak. Mr. Warner spared me the need to reply and went on. ‘‘When we return to San Francisco, Grace will be starting third grade and Billy the second. You’re right that he is the one who presents a problem.’’
I rushed to defend Billy. ‘‘I’m sure he’s as well prepared as any of the other children in school. His mind is very quick.’’
‘‘That’s not what worries us,’’ said Mr. Warner. ‘‘Billy has learned his letters and even some words. He’s ahead of other children his age in that respect. The trouble is that he is immature socially. You must know from firsthand experience that he can be obstinate. We think it best to continue teaching him at home until we return to Nanjing.’’
I began to see what Mr. Warner was driving at. ‘‘You want me to come with you and continue to look after him?’’
Mr. Warner nodded. ‘‘Both children will have a lot of adjusting to do after their years in China. Their social life here has been too narrow for them to learn how to behave around other children. Having you with us will make the transition far less painful for them.’’
Ties That Bind, Ties That Break Page 8
