“See that you stay in Uncle Zheng’s apartments next time. It won’t do for you to go wandering around with so many unmarried girls living here.” Resolving to speak to the gatewomen, she dismisses him with a nod, then continues down the path.
“Just a minute.” He hurries after her. “You call Lord Jia your uncle. Are you Jia Lian’s younger sister?”
She curls her lip scornfully. Anyone but a rube would realize from her clothing that she is a matron, and not an unmarried girl. “If you must know, I’m Lian’s wife.” She imagines how her husband must seem to a young man like this, an official at the start of a promising career, and feels a pang of mortification at being associated with Lian.
“Good Heavens!” He sounds shocked.
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s just that—it’s just that I would never have imagined that Jia Lian could be married to someone like you.”
She looks away, flattered despite herself.
“What I mean is,” he continues, “you don’t look old enough to be married to anyone.”
She cannot help laughing at his blatant flattery, but then she thinks of the sadness of her situation. “But I have been married four years,” she says soberly. She begins to walk down the path again, and he falls into step beside her.
“What is your name?”
“Why should I tell you?” she says. After a moment, though, she blurts it out.
“Wang Xifeng.” He repeats the syllables slowly. “What characters are they?”
“ ‘Xi’ is ‘brilliant,’ and ‘feng’ is ‘phoenix.’ ”
She is used to having people laugh at her name, for it sounds like it belongs to a boy. Her parents had expected her to be a boy, and her father insisted on giving her the name he intended for a son. Jia Yucun does not even smile.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty,” she lies for some reason. She is actually twenty-three.
“Where did you live before coming here?”
“In Chang’an.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“I have two younger brothers.”
“Your parents?”
“They are both dead.”
It has been such a long time since anyone asked her even these simple facts about herself. Even though she has lived at Rongguo for over four years, she does not feel that anyone here knows anything of her history, or who she is. No one imagines that before she was married, she had been as treasured and pampered as Baoyu himself. Although her father had wanted a son, he was soon delighting in her quickness and spirit. Even after her younger brothers were born, she did not lose her place of eminence in the household. A favorite family story concerned a fierce, half-wild dog that somehow found its way into the compound. The seven-year-old Xifeng managed to heave her brothers into the crook of a tree, and was found holding off the cur by throwing stones.
Her father, a retired general, did not believe that girls should learn more than a handful of characters and basic arithmetic, but Xifeng far outshone her brothers in her facility with numbers. While she knew nothing of such “cultured” accomplishments as calligraphy and landscape painting, her sharp eye and nimble fingers enabled her to excel at the feminine arts: weaving, sewing, embroidery, paper cutting, and knotting. She cannot help sighing when she thinks of how different things are now from her childhood days. Her mother first and then her father had died in the last four years. Now no one bothers to send messages all the way from Chang’an. Despite her seemingly high status as manager of the household, her position feels precarious. She is too busy to spend much time cultivating her relationships with the other women, and the servants hate her for her harshness and attempts to save money.
Jia Yucun beside her looks at her more boldly, his eyes traveling up and down her body. His gaze frightens and excites her. It has been so long since someone looked at her like that, not since she was young, and careless about letting men see her. She remembers her wedding night. When Lian took off her veil and undressed her for the first time, his eyes traveled over her face and body, and she had had the distinct impression that he was disappointed. She was not his type, she supposed.
Yucun’s gaze reminds her of the danger of talking to a strange man in the middle of the Garden. Failing to hide behind a screen when a man other than a close relative entered the room would subject her to severe rebuke; how much more so conversing openly with a stranger? Anyone might see her, a maid or a gardener. If they tattle to Granny, no explanations will shield her from blame.
She begins to run.
“Wait.” He grabs her by the arm, but she jerks it away, terrified that he actually has the effrontery to touch her. She runs faster, not stopping until she reaches Lady Jia’s. Her heart is pounding the way it did when he first appeared out of the rosebushes.
4
It is the Lantern Festival, the fifteenth day of the New Year, the last big party of the New Year’s celebrations. All the members of the Jia clan in the Capital have been invited. The large reception hall in the Garden is ablaze with lights: great palace lanterns on carved wooden frames with crimson tassels; lanterns made of horn and glass and gauze; embroidered ones and painted ones, ones patterned with cutouts of paper or silk. All the female guests are sitting inside the reception hall, while the male guests are sitting on the verandah, separated from the inside by carved wooden partitions. At one end of the hall, a covered stage has been erected, and a famous troupe of child actors is performing scenes from popular plays to the accompaniment of strings and flutes.
On the verandah, Jia Zheng makes his way from table to table, making sure that he greets each of his twenty-five or thirty male guests. “Welcome! Welcome! So glad you could come!” As he goes around the tables, refilling his guests’ cups, it strikes him that he barely knows most of them, and has nothing to say but a few polite commonplaces. It used to be that, thanks to the clan school, men from less prosperous branches of the family would pass the Exams as well. Lacking the Rongguo Jias’ close connections to the throne, they would not advance as quickly, often stagnating in the lower middle ranks. Nevertheless, Jia Zheng would see them at Court functions, or run into them in the streets around the Ministries. Now, for some reason, the few men who have made it into the Civil Service are all well into middle age. In the last seven or eight years, none of the young men have managed to pass. He knows that Cousin Rong, who is being raised by his widowed mother, Loushi, is said to be a bright boy; perhaps he will pass in a year or two.
As he struggles to make conversation, he wishes that Baoyu or Lian were with him. But Lian is in the south with Daiyu, and Baoyu has seemed so wan and subdued lately that Lady Jia insisted on having him sit with her on the women’s side. Jia Huan is there, of course, but his manners are so gauche that Jia Zheng avoids drawing attention to him in company.
He pauses near the wooden partition, craning his neck to peep through. All he sees through the cracks in the screen are flashes of brilliant color from the women’s robes. On an impulse he ducks around the partition into the women’s side. He sees Wang Xifeng going from table to table, just as he has been doing, greeting all the female guests. She shows none of the awkwardness that he felt, joking and chatting, leaving every table in uproarious laughter. In the blaze of light from the innumerable lanterns, she is dressed even more gorgeously than usual, wearing a coquettish little headband of red sable fastened with a large pearl brooch. Beneath the headband her face is so beautiful and animated it almost hurts his eyes. He finds her vivacity a little unseemly, and wonders whether to offer a reproof.
Then he reminds himself that it is New Year’s, after all, and that she is the only woman in the family fulfilling her social duties. Granny is half reclining on a carved wooden settle with her legs covered by a fur rug. Beside her, Baoyu is murmuring into her ear, as she caresses his hair with gnarled fingers. Sitting at the same table are Tanchun, Xichun, and Baochai. None of them leaves the table to speak to other guests. Instead they are ch
attering among themselves, and Jia Zheng sees from the slips of paper and ink brushes scattered across the table that they are writing lantern riddles.
Before going to greet his mother, he stops to say a few words to Mrs. Xue, who is conversing quietly with Cousin Rong’s mother, Loushi, at another table, their sober widow’s gowns standing out against the blur of brightness.
“I hope you are enjoying yourselves,” he says.
“Ah, brother Zheng, everything is just perfect,” Mrs. Xue says, her face breaking into a wide smile.
“And now we have something else to celebrate.”
“Yes, indeed! The Xias’ betrothal gifts arrived the day before yesterday.”
“Have you chosen a date for the wedding yet?”
“We’ll send a bridal party down to fetch Miss Xia as soon as the New Year’s celebrations are over.”
“Wonderful. Is Pan going to buy a house in the Capital?”
“Oh, no. The Xias have a very good house here. They will live there.”
It galls Jia Zheng that after escaping scot-free from the troubles of his lawsuit, Pan is now making a match with a family that seems, from all accounts, both exceptionally wealthy and cultured. Taking leave of Mrs. Xue, he approaches his mother’s table. She looks up from what Baoyu is saying to her. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on the other side entertaining the guests?”
It is clear that she finds his presence unwelcome. He forces a smile. “I came over to see whether you were enjoying yourselves.”
“We’re writing lantern riddles to try to cheer Baoyu up.” Xichun points at the square white lantern in the middle of the table stuck with handwritten strips of paper.
Jia Zheng looks sternly at his son. “What do you have to be unhappy about, at New Year’s of all times, Baoyu? I thought you loved parties. Are you ill?”
Baoyu does not answer, looking down. Jia Zheng notices again that he looks pale and dispirited, with dark circles under his eyes.
It is Xichun who answers. “It’s because Cousin Lin went away. He’s been moping ever since.”
“Nonsense,” Baochai interjects quickly. “He just hasn’t been feeling well.”
Although Xichun’s version of events has never occurred to Jia Zheng, it does not surprise him. It accords with his estimation of his son’s self-involved and self-dramatizing character that Baoyu should have brief, violent crushes, imagining himself deeply in love with one girl until his fancy shifted to someone else. Because he does not want to spoil the party, and also because it is inauspicious to scold children at the New Year, he changes the subject. “Well, don’t I get to guess some lantern riddles?” he says, with an attempt at joviality.
There is dead silence. He sees his nieces and daughter looking at one another. Tanchun shyly passes him a slip of paper. “Here’s mine, Father.”
He reads it out loud:
At Grave Sweeping, the little boys look up and stare,
To see me ride so proudly in the air.
My strength all goes when once the thread is parted
And on the wind I drift broken-hearted.
He laughs heartily and pretends to have to think hard, scratching his head and furrowing his brow. At last, he ventures, “A kite?”
The girls all smile. Tanchun claps her hands.
“Who else?” He looks around. No one else volunteers, even though Baoyu seems to have a completed riddle in front of him. To break the awkward pause, Jia Zheng plucks one of the riddles already attached to the lantern. “Let me try this one.” He sees that it is written meticulously in tiny “fly’s-head” characters.
“That one is Baochai’s,” Tanchun tells him. He reads out loud:
My “eyes” cannot see and I’m hollow inside.
When the lotuses surface, I shall be by your side.
When the autumn leaves fall I shall bid you adieu,
For our marriage must end when the summer is through.
He realizes the answer must be a “bamboo wife,” those wicker cylinders that are placed between the bedclothes in summertime to make them cooler. He is struck by the sadness of both the girls’ poems. Both are about loss and parting. Don’t they realize how inauspicious it is to speak about such things at the New Year? And they are both just young girls. What can they know of such things? He looks at their faces. Tanchun is gazing at him with bright eager eyes, wondering if he will guess the riddle correctly. Baochai’s eyes are cast down demurely into her lap, as if she is afraid that by meeting his eyes, she will inadvertently give him a clue.
He shakes his head. “I can’t guess.”
Everyone is delighted by his defeat.
“You’ve got him stumped, Baochai,” Tanchun crows.
Baochai smiles as she tells him the answer, “It’s a bamboo wife.” He is surprised by her air of triumph. She is always so sedate that he did not expect her to become excited about guessing lantern riddles.
Walking back towards the men’s side, he feels even stranger and more out of sorts. He almost bumps into Xifeng, who is whirling from one table to another, a decanter in one hand and a wine cup in the other. “Oh, excuse me!” she exclaims, with a dazzling smile, but she seems scarcely to recognize him. She has clearly had too much to drink. He makes his way back to his seat on the men’s side, feeling too dispirited to greet any more guests.
As he passes Jia Yucun’s table, the young man leaps up. “Lord Jia! Good to see you.”
He forces a smile. “Ah, Yucun. How are you? I heard when the promotions were announced for the year you received quite an elevation.”
“Yes, Under-Secretary to the President of the Board of War.”
“Splendid!” It is quite exceptional for a young official to be promoted so fast. “You must have really impressed someone.”
Now the young man is babbling on about what a wonderful occasion it is. “There is just one thing,” he adds. “I wouldn’t bring it up, except that you’ve been so kind to me.”
“What is it?”
“When you were kind enough to invite me to your ancestral offerings on New Year’s Day, I couldn’t help noticing a pair of gilt lions in the Ancestors Hall.”
“What lions?” Jia Zheng says blankly. He casts his mind over the statues and tripods and scrolls that decorate the Ancestors Hall, many inscribed with the names of their givers. “Oh, yes, the ones from Prince Yinti.”
“Yes. You must get rid of them.” Yucun lowers his voice.
“Why on earth?”
Yucun speaks with the air of someone explaining something obvious to a dimwit. “If another prince becomes Emperor, you don’t want evidence of your ties to Prince Yinti.”
“Good Heavens!” Jia Zheng exclaims, not bothering to lower his voice. “I know you think Prince Yinti may not succeed to the throne, but even if he doesn’t, it’s hardly a crime to receive gifts from him. Get rid of them?” He shakes his head in irritated disbelief.
He sees that Yucun wants to say more, but the evening has already tried his patience. He returns to his own seat, pours himself a cup of wine, and drinks half of it in one gulp. He turns his eyes to the actors, trying to lose himself in the drama onstage.
5
When Daiyu glimpses the stone bridges and canals, fringed with leafless willows, from the window of the sedan carrying her and Lian from the barge, she is filled with a sense of peace and well-being she had almost forgotten. When she left, the city had been abloom with wisteria and crape myrtles. Now, she catches the aroma of wintersweet and jasmine. After the dust and grit of the Capital, the soft air envelops her like a cloud. She breathes it deep into her lungs, reveling in its humidity and scent of greenery.
The instant the sedan is set down in Bottle-Gourd Street, she rushes inside. Her father is sitting in the front room with a book on his lap.
“Daiyu!”
“Father!” She rushes to him and throws her arms around his neck before he can struggle to his feet.
“How are you, Father? How do you feel?” She relea
ses him so she can look at him more closely. He is pale and thin, even thinner than when she left, but his color is good.
He smiles at her. “I’m a bit better. I’ve been seeing a doctor, and he says I’ve been working too hard. So I asked for a leave of absence, and am taking it easy for a while.”
She clasps his hand in both of hers, understanding that his illness is not after all so serious. “Why didn’t you write me?” she says, half laughing, half tearful in her relief. “Didn’t you know how worried I would be? I thought that you couldn’t write more because you were too sick!”
He looks surprised. “I was extremely busy with work this fall, and sending a messenger is so expensive. Besides, I knew that you would be home soon. How did you enjoy your visit?”
She hesitates. “At first I hated it. I hated being away from you, and I hated how cold and formal everything seemed.” She thinks of her conversation with Granny Jia, and decides not to mention it, though he must know the whole bitter history. “But in the end, I grew fond of some of my cousins.”
“Which ones?”
“Xue Baochai, and Baoyu.” She feels herself blushing when she says Baoyu’s name.
“Ah, Baoyu,” her father says with a teasing smile. “Tell me what you thought of him.”
Lian comes in and Daiyu introduces him.
“Jia Lian!” her father says. “The last time I saw you was at Rongguo twenty years ago. You must have been about five years old! I must thank you for coming all this way for Daiyu.”
“It’s no trouble. The truth is, Uncle Zheng wanted me to come south to look at the family estates anyway.”
She goes into the kitchen to make tea. When she enters the familiar room, she is struck by the lowness of the ceiling, the simple rough shapes of the table and cupboards, the dinginess of the paper windows. This must have been how her mother felt when she first arrived from Rongguo. She opens the cupboard and runs her finger along the rim of a familiar blue-and-white bowl, picturing her mother picking it out twenty years ago when she was a new bride. Her mother is gone. From now on she must preside over this kitchen alone.
The Red Chamber Page 16
