“Why on earth?”
Silver falls on her knees before Snowgoose, begging her to intercede with Granny on her behalf.
As Silver tells what passed between her and Baoyu, what seemed innocent and playful now seems dirty, and he is overcome by shame. He tries to defend Silver one last time. “Please, Granny. We didn’t mean any harm. Please don’t dismiss Silver.”
“You stay out of it,” Granny says. There is no mistaking her hostility.
Now Granny is calling Silver names again, while Snowgoose tries to reason with her. He slips out of the room, unable to bear the shrill voices and tears. He blames himself, but does not know how to fix the situation.
Lian had told Ping’er that he would be having dinner with friends, but would return afterwards. As soon as dinner at Lady Jia’s is cleared, Xifeng hurries to her own apartments to prepare for his return. She rubs coarse salt on her teeth, and chews a clove to sweeten her breath. She scrubs her face and redoes her makeup with a lighter hand, rubbing her lips with almond oil to make them look soft and full. Finally, she goes to her bedroom and strips off her clothes. She stands in front of the wardrobe, puzzling over what to wear. In the end she chooses a tight peach-pink sleeveless tunic with a low-cut neckline in the shape of a pipa guitar, and a pair of loose trousers in ivy-green brocade.
She trips out to the front room, her feet thrust into a pair of high-heeled slippers. The food she has ordered from the kitchens has arrived. She opens the food boxes. All Lian’s favorites are there—pine-nut rolls, goose-fat dumplings, tiny sesame-seed cakes fried in the shapes of flowers—as well as ordinary drinking snacks: roasted melon seeds, dried plums, anise-scented beans. Two kinds of wine are warming on the brazier. She is just blowing out a lamp when she hears Lian’s footsteps outside. She pours out a full cup of samshoo and greets him.
“Where’s Ping’er?” he asks.
“Have some samshoo.” She ignores his question. “This is the ‘Red Dew’ samshoo that the Countess of Xining sent us from Shaoxing last year. I decided to open the cask.”
She holds the cup to his lips. He swallows a mouthful.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“Mmm.” He nods. “Where’s Ping’er?” he asks again.
“Out,” she says over her shoulder as she climbs onto the kang. She nips a pine-nut roll onto a plate and offers it to him.
Instead of using the chopsticks, he takes it between his thumb and index finger and bites into it. He has always had a weakness for deep-fried foods.
“It’s late for her to be out,” he says with his mouth full.
“She’s a big girl. She’s allowed to be out late if she wants to.” She points to his oil-slicked fingers laughingly. “At least sit down and use chopsticks!”
He perches on the edge of the kang instead of climbing up and settling himself on the cushions. She kneels beside the food boxes and puts a selection of the snacks on a plate.
“Just one more.” He grabs a goose-fat dumpling with his fingers and washes it down with the rest of the samshoo. He gets up and walks towards Ping’er’s bedroom.
“Aren’t you going to have any more?”
“I don’t want to eat too much,” he says over his shoulder. “It’s ‘Fatty’ Jin’s birthday, and I told him I’d stop by.”
She climbs off the kang and hurries after him. He is already unwinding his sash before the open door of the wardrobe. It surprises her to see how full the wardrobe is, how many of his clothes have imperceptibly migrated from her own bedroom to this one, where Ping’er keeps them immaculately laundered and pressed. He selects a peacock-blue sash and puts it around his waist.
“Here, let me do that for you.” Standing behind him, she wraps her arms about his waist, smoothing the heavy silk against his torso. She presses her body against his back and lets one hand travel from his belly to his chest, while the other slides downward towards his groin.
“I can do it myself.” He takes the two ends of the sash, but she holds on to him, her hand slipping under his gown and sliding over his thigh, in its thin trouser. She rubs his thigh and his buttock, her fingers splayed over his bulging muscles. Then she trails her fingers down the inside of his leg towards his crotch.
“I’d better go.” This time he steps firmly out of her grasp.
“It’s still early. They won’t expect you for another hour or two at Jin’s house,” she says, a little breathlessly, steadying herself on the door of the wardrobe.
“You know the saying: ‘Go out early and come home early.’ ” He ties the sash without looking at her.
“This wine is a lot better than anything you’ll get there. Why don’t you have another cup?”
“No, thank you.” His politeness chills her. He straightens his gown beneath the sash and moves towards the bedroom door.
She cannot help herself. “Can’t even spend an evening at home with your wife—” she begins, her voice shriller than she intended, following him out to the front room. She stops herself. It will not help for her to seem like a nag. He strides out without a backward glance.
She is alone. Suddenly she feels how cold she is in her thin clothes, with her arms and neck uncovered. She wraps her arms around herself. She wants Ping’er to come back, so she has someone to complain to about Lian. It is not even ten o’clock, and Ping’er had said that she would try to stay out as late as possible. She wraps a robe about her shoulders, looking around the empty room: the decanters and cups arranged on a tray, the kettles of wine still steaming on the brazier. Most of the food boxes have not been touched.
It comforts her to pretend to herself that she has ordered all these things for her own enjoyment, that she is pleased that she will get them all to herself. “Mmm,” she murmurs in the silent room, opening the boxes. She is fond of wine, but never gets to drink much, for fear of what people would say. Now is her chance to drink all she wants. She kicks off her uncomfortable shoes, climbing onto the kang. She rearranges the cushions, and settles herself beside the table of food.
She pours a full cup of samshoo for herself. She sips it. It is hot and sweet and burns her throat. She takes a bigger mouthful, and grabs a handful of sesame cakes, letting the crumbs shower onto the red Kashmiri rug covering the kang. She takes a flat black melon seed and cracks it open between her front teeth. When she was a little girl, she had developed a slight gap between her front teeth from eating so many of them. She still finds it deeply relaxing: positioning the shell perfectly, biting down with just enough force to split the two halves apart, and then nibbling the tiny flat kernel; but now she never has time to sit still for so long. She eyes a goose-fat dumpling. She never eats foods like that for fear of pimples, but decides that one can’t hurt. The dumpling’s meaty juices ooze in her mouth. She finishes her wine, and pours herself another cup. Even though her head now feels unpleasantly warm, at the same time she feels strangely comfortable, as if her body is melting into the cushions beneath her. It really is good wine, she thinks, letting it play over her tongue. Rich and complex, not like that yellow rotgut that Lian drinks.
She picks up the kettle to pour herself more samshoo. To her surprise, it is almost empty. She pours herself a cup from the other kettle. When she tastes this, she is a little surprised by how strong it is. It is different from the samshoo. Not as rich, as soft in her mouth, but somehow cleaner and sharper. She drinks a little, then eats a few melon seeds. She drinks a little more. Because this wine is so much stronger, she must eat more to get it down. She reaches for another goose-fat dumpling. Lian won’t look at her anyway. After the second bite, she becomes aware of a slight queasiness. She puts the cup down, thinking that she must take a rest. Her head spinning, she has to reach a hand out to stop herself from toppling forward onto her face. She eases herself down among the cushions.
She opens her eyes, startled out of a heavy sleep. Something is pressing against her face. She raises her head, and sees that she is lying facedown on the kang, with a porcelain spoon against her cheek. Her head
is pounding, her mouth dry. With a groan she pushes herself to a sitting position amid the jumble of pillows and dirty dishes. She turns her stiff neck painfully and rubs her eyes. Though the lamp is still burning, she can see the faint dawn light through the paper windows.
She looks around vaguely, wondering what woke her, and then hears a cough, followed by retching and a muffled gurgle. Someone is vomiting. Despite how awful she feels, she almost laughs out loud. So Lian has drunk himself sick somewhere and has come crawling home at sunrise. So much for “Go out early and come home early!” She listens to him gasp for breath, and then begin to retch again. She raises herself off the kang to make some jibe. He is squatting in the corner of the room, doubled over the chamber pot.
Suddenly she realizes that it is Ping’er, not Lian. Ping’er retches again, and then turns her face halfway towards Xifeng. She looks like a wild animal crouching there, her hair hanging about her white face in damp strands. Ping’er grips the chamber pot and vomits again, and Xifeng understands.
15
By the time Jia Zheng arrives home from the Ministry, it is almost nine o’clock. After his long day, he does not feel equal to seeing his mother, and goes straight to his own apartments, hoping that his concubine Auntie Zhao has had the sense to set aside something for him to eat. He finds her on the kang talking to Huan.
“She wouldn’t stop crying and defending herself, and she hasn’t had a bite to eat or drink since she came home …” she says. Huan is seated at a small kang table, bending over to slurp from a big bowl of noodles. The spicy smell of the noodles reaches Jia Zheng’s nose, making his mouth water.
“It’s about time,” Auntie Zhao says. “Can’t they even let you go home at a decent hour the night before a holiday?”
He does not bother to explain that no one had made him stay at the Ministry; in fact, he had been the only one there. “Is there anything to eat?”
“No. What they sent me was hardly fit to eat in the first place.” Auntie Zhao is always complaining about the rudeness of the servants, how she gets the worst of everything. “Why don’t you order something from the kitchens?”
“I’m sure they’ve already closed up for the night.”
“What does that matter? It’s not like they have anything better to do,” she says. This is the attitude that makes her so unpopular in the household.
“No. I don’t need to force them to make up their fires again at this time of night. Why don’t you just make me some of the noodles that Huan is having?”
At the mention of his name, Huan, who has continued to eat steadily, looks up from his food.
“And what are you doing here anyway?” Jia Zheng says, annoyed that the boy continues gorging himself when his father stands by hungry.
Auntie Zhao answers for her son, banging the pots and pans pettishly as she prepares to boil more noodles. “It’s a holiday, isn’t it? Can’t he take a break to see his mother?”
“See that you’re back to work the day after tomorrow.” As he unbuttons his gown, he thinks of the question he meant to ask before he was distracted by his hunger. “What was that you were saying when I came in? Who has been crying all day, and won’t eat or drink?”
Mother and son exchange a quick glance.
“Oh, that was nothing,” Auntie Zhao says, shrugging; but he has the distinct impression that she wants him to pursue the matter.
He repeats his question.
“It’s just Silver,” she answers at last.
It takes him a moment to remember who Silver is. “Oh! Mother’s maid,” he says, relieved that it is something so trivial. He takes off his gown. “What happened to her?”
He senses another exchange of glances.
This time Huan answers, “My brother Baoyu tried to force his attentions on her. She resisted him, and he took it out on her by complaining to Lady Jia. Then Lady Jia dismissed her …”
“How do you know this?” he says quickly.
“My mother went to pay a visit to Silver’s mother today, to say how sorry she was that Silver was dismissed. Silver’s mother told her.”
Jia Zheng turns to Auntie Zhao. “Is this true?”
“Yes, it is,” Auntie Zhao says. “It’s what Mrs. Bai told me. She told me that now Silver is at home crying her eyes out about how unfairly she’s been treated. Lady Jia wouldn’t listen to a word she said. This shows you what Baoyu really is, even though everyone treats him like a living Buddha—”
Jia Zheng throws his robe back on, fumbling with the fastenings. He rushes out of his apartment, shouting, “Send Baoyu to me in my study!” He realizes, even in his fury, that if he beats Baoyu in the Inner Quarters, someone will report to his mother, who will try to stop him. Arriving breathless in his study, he finds the bamboo switch in the corner, half hidden by the bookshelf. He paces the room, rehearsing what he will say. He is formulating a line about how the Jias have always been renowned for their kindness to their servants, and how base it is to take advantage of those under one’s protection, when he turns and sees that Baoyu has entered the room silently.
At the sight of his son standing there warily, he forgets his prepared speech, overcome by disgust at Baoyu’s falseness, the disparity between his noble appearance and his vile behavior. He grabs the bamboo. “You act like an animal, so I see that I will have to treat you like one.”
Baoyu is quiet for a moment before he says, as if reasoning with a madman, “Will you kindly tell me what you’re talking about?”
“I am talking about what you did to Silver.” Jia Zheng cannot bring himself to use a more specific word. He pictures Baoyu pressing Silver down on the kang beneath him, and her fluttering helplessly against him in her panic. He tries to block out the image, frightened by its bestiality. His own father had been a high-tempered man, brutal to his sons while doting on his daughter. As a boy, Jia Zheng never had a thought beyond studying hard and passing the Exams. Yet his father had beaten him on a regular basis. He never understood what he had done to incur his father’s rage. At the time, he could only assume it was his own stupidity: he was not a bad student, but even the schoolmaster, who was kind to him, called him “slow.”
When his own sons were born, he had resolved not to be the fearsome tyrant his father had been. With Zhu, this had been easy. Though Zhu was one of the brightest students in the clan school, he never lost his diligence and humility, his fear of making a mistake, which he expressed in the quick inquiring glances he directed at Jia Zheng for reassurance or guidance, even after he had passed the Exams. With Baoyu it had been otherwise. From almost the moment of Baoyu’s birth, because of the jade, both Jia Zheng’s mother and wife had united in spoiling him, and interpreting his every utterance and act as a sign of latent brilliance. Jia Zheng by nature regarded all that was uncanny or unusual with deep suspicion; and the jade filled him with distrust. He could see with his own eyes how the jade warped everyone’s treatment of the boy. Was it any wonder that Baoyu was lazy and filled with a ridiculously inflated vision of his own importance and ability? Thus it had fallen upon Jia Zheng alone to instill in him some sense of discipline and duty.
At the mention of Silver, Baoyu looks down. “You’re right. What I did to Silver was unforgivable.”
At Baoyu’s admission of wrongdoing, Jia Zheng’s anger fades a little despite himself. “Huan told me what happened.”
“What did he say?” Baoyu asks quickly.
“I don’t want to go through it again.”
“But obviously you know everything because Huan told you.”
At Baoyu’s sarcasm, Jia Zheng’s anger starts to rise again. “What does it matter what he said? You’re not denying it.”
Again, Baoyu pauses and looks down before answering. “No.”
“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” Jia Zheng’s hand grasps the switch convulsively. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I could hardly believe that a son of mine could be guilty of such a thing, taking advantage of an innocent girl—”
Jia Zheng is taken aback. Baoyu almost never mentions Zhu. “What does he have to do with this?”
“I’m sorry I disappoint you. I’m sorry I’m not as perfect as Zhu.”
“What are you saying? Are you saying anything against your older brother?”
“How could anyone say anything against Zhu?” Baoyu’s eyes are lowered again, but he speaks with a sort of suppressed intensity. “Besides, you wouldn’t listen to me. Yet you listen to what Huan says about me.”
“What are you bringing up Huan and Zhu for? This has nothing to do with them. We are talking about the shameful thing that you did!”
Baoyu looks up again. “Yes, I deserve to be punished.”
This time, Baoyu’s seeming submission galls him. It is as if he is determined to take the authority of punishment away from Jia Zheng.
“Take off your robe!” Jia Zheng rolls up his right sleeve.
Baoyu takes off his robe, folds it neatly, and places it on a chair. Jia Zheng had hoped he would make excuses or plead. He should have known that Baoyu was too proud, too convinced of his own superiority, to ever give his father that satisfaction.
“Turn around!”
Baoyu stands with his back to Jia Zheng, his arms hanging by his sides, in only a light tunic and trousers.
Jia Zheng beats him. He puts his whole arm into the strokes, careless about whether he strikes Baoyu’s back or buttocks. Again and again the switch snaps smartly against Baoyu’s body, the only sound in the room. He had thought that beating Baoyu would relieve his anger, but the more he hits Baoyu the angrier he gets. He is angry that Baoyu forces him to become the sort of brutal, vindictive father he himself fears and despises. He is angry because he is certain the beating will have no effect. He is tempted to yell at Baoyu some more, but he knows that Baoyu does not respect or listen to him, and that he will just make himself more ridiculous in his son’s eyes. All he can do is continue to swing the switch, even though his arm is beginning to ache.
The Red Chamber Page 11
