Peony: A Novel of China

by Pearl S. Buck

  Thus thinking, David loosed the cords that had bound his heart and he welcomed his marriage day.

  Never had Peony found him so fanciful and so willful. He rose early and he washed himself in three baths, the last perfumed, and he was dissatisfied with the way his hair curled, and she must brush it as straight as she could with scented oils. He had wanted every garment new, and these new garments had been made of a clear yellow silk, and now he wished them pale green. The yellow, he said, made him look too dark.

  Peony lost her patience at last. “But you yourself ordered the yellow!” she cried.

  “You should have advised me against it,” he said in great discontent.

  “Be still,” she urged. “There is no time to make others.”

  So he put on the yellow, and then he was pleased with it after all, for his Chinese robes were of bright blue, and the yellow under-linings were pleasant enough. Over the brocaded blue satin he wore a black velvet jacket buttoned down the front with jade buttons. That his little bride be not frightened, David had chosen to wear Chinese garments altogether for this day, and upon his head he put a round black satin cap and on its top was a round red button.

  When all was finished he stood up before Peony for her inspection, and when she saw him there, tall and smiling, his head high, his feet together, the tears swam up into her eyes.

  He stepped forward quickly and put his arm around her. “Peony!” he cried softly. “Why do you weep?”

  She leaned her cheek for one moment against him. Then she laughed and slipped out of his arm. “You are too beautiful!” she declared. She made herself very busy. “Let me put your collar straight. Have you rubbed musk on your palms as I bade you? David, you will be very happy—I know it—I feel it in my heart!”

  “But are you happy?” he insisted.

  She turned grave then and she took his hand and put it to her cheek. “I am happy,” she said softly. “Now I know that I shall live in this house—forever and forever, until I die.”

  With these words she fled as swiftly as a swallow. But he took her words and considered them. Did she indeed so love him? He was most tender, thinking of her. Peony would demand nothing of him. She could live quite happily here, content with what her life gave her and asking for no stretch of heart or spirit, or for anything that was beyond right and proportion to what she was. He would look after her welfare and keep her with him so long as they lived, not quite his sister, but something more than servant. He would be good to her.

  And now his father and mother were coming. He saw them enter the gate, side by side, dressed in their wedding garments. Each had bought new robes, and Ezra’s was of brown satin and Madame Ezra’s was the deep color of purple grapes edged with gold. Ezra had left off his small cap, and Madame Ezra’s gray hair was bare. They came with measured steps, in silence, and he went to meet them and bowed before them. He saw his mother had been weeping, for her eyes were swollen and her lips still quivered, but she did not speak. It was Ezra who said what must be said.

  “Are you content, my son?” Ezra asked.

  “Well content,” David replied steadily.

  He bowed and they bowed to him and then he went with them to the great hall, and there they waited.

  Now in another room Wang Ma and Peony waited, too, for the bride. Whispering and peeping at every corner and window were the women servants and the undermaids, and all were expectant and excited. Was the new bride pretty and would she be good to them? Rumors were that she was the prettiest girl in the city, but these were usual rumors before a bride was seen.

  At noon, exactly, the bride’s sedan, covered with red satin curtains, arrived at the great gate and a small sedan for Chu Ma and with them panoplied mule carts bringing the bride’s family and their attendants. The sedan was carried into the courts and thence into the place where Peony and Wang Ma waited. Chu Ma came out of her sedan first. But Peony herself, with a begging word, opened the curtains of the bride’s sedan and offered her arm to the bride.

  From all around the court sighs and exclamations rose into the air.

  “Ah, she is very pretty!”

  “Ah, it is all true!”

  “Look at her great eyes!”

  “Her little feet—”

  If the bride heard, she made no sign. She stepped daintily into the doorway, one hand on Peony’s arm and the other on Chu Ma’s.

  “Carefully, my mistress!” Chu Ma said in a loud voice. She considered it beneath her to notice any other servants, and she went ahead to smooth the cushion on the chair set for the bride and to feel if it were soft enough and she called imperiously, “Where is the tea? Is it the best? My mistress drinks only what is brewed from the leaves plucked before the rains!”

  But Peony had all prepared, and after the little bride had sat a while she grew curious, and since only women were there she put aside her veil. She looked about the room with her big black eyes. “Is this to be my room?” she inquired in her high sweet voice.

  “Hush!” Chu Ma said. She pursed her lips. “Brides are not to speak—I told you, you naughty child!”

  “I will speak,” the little bride said willfully. “Besides, you said only if there was a man in the room.”

  Everyone laughed at this and she laughed, too. Then she saw Peony standing near. “I am glad you are in this house!” she exclaimed. “You are no older than I, are you?”

  “I am eighteen, my lady,” Peony said.

  “So am I,” the bride said, and clapped her hands, and everybody laughed again. Then she leaned forward to Peony. “Tell me—is his mother very strange?”

  Peony shook her head and put her hand over her mouth to hide her smiles.

  “But she is foreign?” Kueilan insisted.

  “Yes—but not as much as she was,” Peony said.

  Madame Ezra had indeed changed very much. She had grown silent and she did not always put her will first. When Leah died, something died in her, too. This all had perceived, without understanding what it was. But Peony knew.

  Now there were footsteps in the court. They looked up and there stood David. At once there was confusion, for this was not the time for him to appear.

  Chu Ma cried out in alarm, “Your veil, little one!”

  But Kueilan did not put up her hand to her veil. Instead she looked at David and he at her. All in the room were astounded at what they saw was happening and they took it to be a foreign custom.

  “I know I do what may be considered wrong,” David said to Kueilan very gently. He looked at her without shame, and indeed with the greatest pleasure. She did not reply but she gazed back at him as though she forgot that she should drop her eyes. They looked at each other, and then she said in a small breathless voice, “I think it is not wrong!”

  “Then we agree,” David answered, and after a long look more, he bowed and went away. When he was gone Kueilan sat smiling like a little goddess and heard not one word of Chu Ma’s scolding or the smothered laughter from the walls. She let Chu Ma drop her veil and she sat behind it, her eyes bright and her mouth demure.

  But Chu Ma continued to scold and she said in distraction, “It is not well for the man to see the woman too early—it brings ill luck to the marriage.”

  No one gave her heed, for Peony now hastened the wedding. “Let me lead you to the great hall,” she said to the bride, and the little figure in the stiff embroidered robes of scarlet satin rose and leaned on her arm and Chu Ma went on the other side, and all followed. In the great hall Kung Chen waited with his wife and his sons by his side. Across the room Ezra and Madame Ezra and Kao Lien stood alone. There had been some talk of the Rabbi’s being present, but this morning when Ezra went to see the old man in the rooms where he lived in this house, he found him so dazed and befuddled that he feared to bring him out before guests, and he had left him there under the care of Old Eli, who had been brought here as his servant. As for that Aaron, none had heard of him yet.

  The family of Kung missed neither the Rabbi nor his so
n. They watched the entrance of their child with feelings various and natural to them. The sons were dubious for their sister, but the younger son especially so. The eldest son shared with his father the prudence of business and unity within the nation. Through this little sister the House of Ezra ceased by so much to be foreign, and since Ezra was known as a kind good man, and very rich besides, it was enough. Madame Kung was serene, never exerting herself to worry or overmuch thought, and she saw that the child looked as she should and thought that the marriage was good enough for a third daughter, although she was secretly pleased that the two elder girls were well married to wealthy Chinese families. She held back a yawn, stared at Madame Ezra, and pitied her for being so tall and having so high a nose.

  Only Kung Chen held within himself the feelings of love and doubt and tenderness that made him a father. His Little Three! She had grown up in his house and he had paid her no more heed than he had any of his daughters, but now as she tripped with tiny slow steps into the room, he remembered how rosy and laughing she had been as a baby, and how seldom she had cried, and how when she began to walk she had tremendous little tantrums, stamping her feet and clenching her fists, and how he always laughed at her until she gave up being so angry. He remembered that once she had fallen into the fish pond and he had lifted her out and let her cry against his shoulder, wetting him through from her dripping clothes, and how he had bought her a stick of candied crab apples to cheer her again and she came back with fresh dry clothes.

  “How came you to be in my fish pond?” he had asked, laughing.

  “The fish pulled me in,” she had insisted, and he had laughed again.

  A small endearing creature, a butterfly mind and a kitten soul, but the slender round body was beautiful. He hoped that the young man would be kind and patient, and his eyes stole to look at him. David stood, his eyes now properly turned away from the bride, and Kung Chen searched his face. Handsome, high-spirited, intelligent—yes, and for a young man, perhaps, very kind, he told himself. Then he sighed. Let it be hoped that the young man did not weary of butterflies and kittens! His mind wandered backward to his own wedding day and the pleasure and the hope and then the long slow disappointment. But he had had children, and he had learned to understand that life is made up of everything and not of a single love. It was enough, perhaps, if the man was kind and the woman pretty.

  Now Kao Lien stepped forward as the common friend who was to conduct the wedding, and he called the directions to the young couple. Under his command they bowed in turn to the two families and then to the script upon the wall that took the place in this house of ancestral tablets, and they drank the mingled wine and broke the single loaf. The rites were mixed, based upon the Chinese, but compromised, and like no others.

  They were short and soon done, and then the bride was set in her seat where she could be seen, and where all could remark on her, but she must not look up or speak or seem to heed anyone. Nor could David in decency heed her, but he did look at her secretly and his blood began to rise. She was very beautiful indeed. Behind the strands of her bead veil the lines of her little face were soft and lovely, and her mouth was red. He pitied her that she must sit so long under the heavy headdress, laden with gold and silver ornaments, and he promised himself that tonight when he lifted it off he would soothe her and ask if her head ached. Then others saw his looks and began to tease him for impatience and he was ashamed to look any more and he let himself be led away to games of wine drinking and to the eating of many delicacies.

  The great gates were thrown open to the streets and all who wished could come in and be fed at the tables that were set up in every court, and hundreds came in to eat greedily and with loud professions of thanks. Ezra, coming and going, saw big bowls of pork meats among the fish and beef and fowl, but he said nothing. There was mutton, too, for the Mohammedans, and let each, he told himself, eat according to his own religion.

  So went that wedding day with feasting and music and laughter. Kung Chen and Ezra pledged themselves and their grandsons in wine again and again, and Madame Ezra invited Madame Kung. These two ladies met today for the first time and each found the other strange and hard to talk with, and yet each was determined to do her best. Madame Kung thought privately that Madame Ezra was too firm for a woman and she hoped that her temper was not high. But she granted that Madame Ezra tried very much to be pleasant to her, and although the day was tedious for these two ladies, somehow it passed.

  When night was come and the young pair had been ushered to their door, then all farewells were said and the house grew quiet again. It was very quiet everywhere. The servants were weary and full of feast food and they fell asleep quickly. Wang Ma groaned once or twice on her bed. When Old Wang asked her if she suffered somewhere she said, “Only in my belly. I ate three times too much of that sweet and sour carp.”

  “As for me, I eat as much as I like and I dare my belly to say anything,” Old Wang replied.

  “Oh, doubtless you are wonderful,” Wang Ma retorted bitterly. But Old Wang was already asleep.

  Peony’s room was very quiet. She had left the company early and had gone into the marriage chamber. She had already put there all the last small touches, the flowers in the vases, the fresh candles and the silver water pipes, a dish of little cakes, hot tea, a plate of late autumn peaches, rosy yellow. She had perfumed the curtains of the bed with musk and had laid a velvet mat upon the footstool before the high bed. Now when she could think of nothing more, she lit the candles and stood looking about the room. There was no repining in her heart. No, she knew what her fate was and what she was born to be, and she was grateful that her life was here, and that into this room she could come every day, though it was only to serve.

  Silence stayed in the room when she was gone. Chu Ma broke it for a few minutes when, puffing and anxious, she brought in the little bride. But it was not proper for her to stay, for the bridegroom was coming.

  “Sit down, little one,” she whispered gustily to the bride. “When he comes in do not look up. Let him lift the veil, but do not look up. When he bids you look up, or he puts his hand under your chin, or if he stands waiting, then look up slowly—as I taught you. The eyelashes are to be raised last, and very slowly, little one. Oh, Heaven help my child!”

  Chu Ma began to sob and wipe her eyes on her sleeves. But the bride would have none of this. She stamped her foot and gave her old nurse a push. “Go away, stupid,” she said too clearly, and Chu Ma’s tears dried at once, and her pity went with them.

  “You naughty little one!” she cried under her breath. “I hope he has the strength to beat you.” And rolling her eyes and pursing her lips, she bustled away.

  Silent the room was when David came in. He waited until the last peal of laughter had become only an echo behind the closed door. Then he turned to his little bride. She sat upon the bed between the parted curtains, her feet together on the footstool, her hands clasped upon her lap, and the veil still hung over her face. Slowly and in silence he crossed the room and lifted the headdress from her head and set it on the table. He stood beside her hesitating, his heart beating fast.

  “Does your head ache?” he asked gently.

  She did not lift her face. “Yes—a little.” Her voice was small and sweet.

  He stood, and she waited, steadfastly looking down at his feet. Now that she was alone she was frightened, after all, and she obeyed Chu Ma carefully. But if he did not touch her or speak to bid her look up, had she courage enough of her own to lift her head? And when, if she did, should she look at him?

  Before she could answer herself, he stooped and took her face between his hands.

  “Let us not talk tonight,” he said. “There will be time for talk tomorrow—and in all the days to come.”

  “Yes,” she murmured. He felt her cheeks glow warm between his palms.

  “We will be happy,” he whispered.

  “We will be happy,” she echoed.

  The night went on in silence until afte
r midnight. Then Ezra was wakened by the sound of someone sobbing. He had eaten so much and had drunk so well that he had dropped into bottomless sleep the moment he laid himself in his bed. Now it seemed to him that he was being drawn up out of peace by something sorrowful and full of pain. He woke groaning and was not able for a moment to know what he heard. Then he knew the sound. Naomi was sobbing! To comfort her he had slept near her that night. He staggered out of his bed and went into the next room, where her bed was. The darkness was throbbing with the sound of her low sobs.

  “Naomi!” he cried, and he fumbled for the bed. “What is the matter with you?”

  She did not answer and she went on sobbing. He felt his way to the table and lit the candle. The light fell on her distraught face. It was hard for him to believe that this was the handsome woman who had done her duty so bravely at their son’s wedding.

  “Naomi, are you ill?” he cried.

  “No,” she gasped. “No—but I—I am thinking of—of all that is over! Oh, I wish I were dead! You wish I were dead, too, Ezra—I know! You want to forget everything.”

  He sat down on the bed beside her and he took her hand and began to stroke it patiently. He knew somehow that this was but the first of many nights when he must sit beside her in love and patience, waiting for her sorrow to pass.

  “Now, Naomi,” he said drowsily, “you know we are going to be so happy. David will have children—think of this house full of our grandchildren.”

  She turned her face away, refusing his comfort. “I have always promised myself—that when I died—I would be buried in our promised land.”

  “So that is what you are really weeping for this time!” Ezra exclaimed. Then he remembered patience. “Well, dear wife, shall I make you a promise? If you wish, I will promise that when you die, we will take your body to the promised land. I will manage it somehow.”

  She lay silent for a while. “But will you stay with me?” she asked.