Xifeng hesitates. “I would like to give her a new outfit, but we don’t have anything made up. The only one of you who has gotten new clothes lately is Daiyu …”
She looks questioningly at Daiyu. Baochai sees the horror on Daiyu’s face that her clothes are to be used for so inauspicious a purpose, so she says quickly, “I have some new outfits I have never worn. Why don’t you use those?”
“Aren’t you superstitious?” Xifeng asks.
“You know I have never believed in that sort of thing.” It occurs to her how upset Granny Jia and Baoyu will be at the news. “The more important question, I suppose, is whether or not to tell Lady Jia about any of this when she comes home.” As usual, she does not allow Baoyu’s name to pass her lips.
Xifeng looks at her, surprised. “Don’t you think we should tell her?”
In turn, Baochai is surprised that it has not occurred to Xifeng to keep the news a secret. “Why should we? It would only upset her, and she might blame herself for dismissing Silver.”
“Do you really think we can keep it from her?”
“Why not? If none of us mentions it, no one else will ever know.”
Xifeng thinks a moment, frowning. “I suppose you’re right.” She looks at the other girls. “Did you hear that, all of you? No one is to say a word of this to Granny. Snowgoose, you won’t say a word either.”
“No, Mrs. Lian,” Snowgoose agrees, but Baochai thinks that the carefully expressionless look on her face hides disapproval.
After Snowgoose goes, there is a long silence.
“Poor Silver,” Tanchun says at last.
Xifeng gives a harsh laugh. “Do you think so? I think she was saved a lot of trouble by dying young!”
Baochai looks at her. “What on earth do you mean?”
“Do you think her fate was really worse than most women’s?” Xifeng’s voice and look are challenging.
This time it is Tanchun who asks, frowning, “Why, what do you mean?”
“Just what I said,” Xifeng answers. “Do you think her fate is any worse than most women’s?” The wine or the shock of Silver’s death seems to have loosened Xifeng’s tongue. Her gay smile is gone. Without it, there are hard lines at the corners of her mouth. “A woman doesn’t have any choices in life. Even from a good family like ours, she has to marry whomever her parents choose for her. If, by a stroke of luck, he is a decent fellow, then she might be fortunate. But if he is a bad man, as is far more likely, she will suffer.” Xifeng tosses off another cupful of wine. “How much more so in a poor family like Silver’s, where girls are usually sold off as maids and concubines to the highest bidders?”
Xichun looks shocked and a little scared. “But don’t Granny and Uncle have our best interests at heart? Can’t we trust them to make us good matches?”
“They might wish to, but what can they really know of a man’s character?”
“They can choose someone from a good family,” Tanchun says. “That way, they’ll know he’s been properly raised.”
Xifeng gives another harsh laugh. “There’s no way of really knowing. Think of Lian and Zhu. They were from the same family, first cousins who grew up together, but they couldn’t have been more different. Look at Jingui. The Xias are a perfectly respectable family—” Xifeng sees Baochai’s face, and then shuts her mouth. She resumes after a moment. “But my point is, a woman has no choice. What is she going to do? Go out and find someone to marry herself? What can she do but accept what her parents choose for her, good or bad?”
“Yes, I think Xifeng is right,” Daiyu speaks up. “A girl has no choice, over anything in her life. If her parents choose to let her learn a few characters, she may be lucky enough to be able to read and educate herself. But she can’t do anything with that education.”
Xifeng nods. “We’ve all been lucky that our parents decided not to leave us in total ignorance—but how often have we all heard that old saying: ‘A virtuous woman is an uneducated woman’?”
The pessimism of Xifeng and Daiyu’s vision disturbs Baochai. Although she dislikes debates or arguments of any kind, and had not meant to join in the conversation, she says reprovingly, “You are wrong to say that a woman cannot do anything with her education. She can use it to teach her children and run her household. Surely that’s the best use of a woman’s education.”
“But a woman can’t take the Exams,” Daiyu says. “Or even make a living as a teacher.”
“She doesn’t need to,” Baochai says.
“But then,” Daiyu points out, “because she cannot support herself, she has no choice but to marry when someone else chooses for her, good or bad. Xifeng is right. Women have no choices at all.”
For some reason, Baochai feels a need to refute this argument. Daiyu and Xifeng’s insistence that women have no choices makes her feel that by doing her duty, she is somehow trapped and helpless; whereas she has always thought that in doing her duty, she would find contentment and freedom. “Perhaps you think you are being very insightful and profound,” she says, forcing a laugh. “But actually, your vision is rather narrow. What about a man? If he is born in a poor family, he has to do hard labor for a living. In a good family, then he studies for the Exams. What choice does he have, either?
“Perhaps it doesn’t make sense to talk about choices,” she continues. “Perhaps it’d be wiser to say that men and women have different responsibilities and duties.”
Xifeng gives a scornful snort, pouring herself another cup of wine. “Let’s see how you feel about it after you are married.”
Baochai feels her face growing hot, believing that Xifeng is not making a general statement, but is referring to her betrothal.
Xichun pipes up, “There is one choice that everyone can make. Each person can choose to become a nun or a monk, and to renounce the ‘red dust.’ ”
Xifeng looks irritated. “I don’t understand you—always dreaming about becoming a nun, as if that would solve any problems.”
“Don’t you know that all the problems that human beings suffer are caused by attachment to the material world? If only we could give up our attachments—”
“Spare us the sermon,” Xifeng interrupts.
Xichun, abashed, falls silent.
After a little while, Tanchun says, gazing around the pavilion, “When we’re older and married and have children of our own, how do you think we’ll look back on the time we’ve spent here?” She looks at the others. “Do you suppose we’ll think this was the happiest time of our lives?”
“There’s not a doubt of it.” Xifeng laughs unpleasantly. Daiyu turns away, but not before Baochai sees tears glistening on her cheeks.
Baochai looks around at the Garden where she has spent so much of her girlhood: at the moss-green mountain, the tangle of roses over the pergola, the willow and wutong trees fringing the far shore. If she carries any nostalgia, it is for her childhood in Nanjing, when her father was still alive. But, yes, with the exception of her worries over Pan, her time at Rongguo has been happy, and she believes that she will look back on it with fondness.
Out of the corner of her eye, she notices a napkin hung over the railing begin to flutter. “Look, the wind is picking up. Shall we send for our kites?”
Everyone springs up, calling to the maids to fetch their kites, eager, it seems, to put an end to the painful conversation. Only Daiyu does not move, still sitting on her stool looking out at the water. She does not have a kite, Baochai knows, so she sends a maid to fetch two of hers.
The maid reappears with the two kites, a many-jointed centipede and a butterfly with long streamers. Baochai takes the kites to Daiyu. Everyone else has already gone to the bank to launch their kites. “Which one do you want?” she asks.
Daiyu shakes her head, forcing a smile, but does not rise from her seat. “No, thank you, Baochai. That’s kind of you, but I don’t feel like it.”
There is a squeal from Tanchun as the wind snatches the kite from her hands and flings it high into the air.
“No, I insist,” Baochai says. “It’s good luck to fly kites, today of all days.” She pulls Daiyu to her feet. “You fly the butterfly,” she says. “And when it’s high in the air, we’ll cut the string, and send away your bad luck and sadness.”
Now there are several kites high in the air above the lake, a scarlet bat, and a “beautiful lady.” Even Ping’er, sitting on a stool that someone has brought for her, is holding the string of a crab-shaped kite.
Daiyu nods. Together, they walk down the bridge to the bank. Baochai throws the butterfly into the air, while Daiyu holds the spool of string. Instead of rising in the breeze, however, the butterfly loops crazily a few times before crashing to the ground.
They retrieve it, and Daiyu rewinds the string.
“Perhaps it’s a little top-heavy,” Daiyu says. “I’ll try running with it.”
This time, as Baochai tosses it up as hard as she can, Daiyu sets off running down the path beside the lake. It stays aloft as long as she is running full speed, but plummets from the air the moment that she slows. Again and again, the two of them try to launch the kite, even retying the strings to correct the balance. Daiyu runs and runs, until her usually pale cheeks are suffused with color. Still, the kite refuses to fly.
5
After the kite flying, Xifeng walks back from the lake to her own apartments. She feels obliged to make a pretense of walking with Ping’er, but the sight of Ping’er waddling along so irritates her that she cannot watch, and walks ahead. Then, after she has gone fifteen paces or so, she feels guilty and stops to let Ping’er catch up, listening to Ping’er’s noisy puffing behind her. After Ping’er catches up, Xifeng walks ahead again. So it continues until they are about halfway to the apartments, when Xifeng notices that Ping’er has fallen silent. She turns to see Ping’er sink to her knees.
“What is it?” She hurries back and stoops beside Ping’er.
Ping’er’s hand presses her side. She gives hoarse, gasping breaths. “I think—the baby’s coming.”
Even though Xifeng has been anticipating this moment for months, and had stayed home for fear that Ping’er would give birth while she was gone, she feels a rush of excitement. “Can you walk?”
Ping’er does not answer. She grasps Xifeng’s hands, so hard that Xifeng almost cries out. For about the time it takes to count to thirty, Ping’er holds on, her lips pulled back from her teeth, her face contorted unrecognizably into an animal expression of pain. Then she relaxes, beginning to breathe again. Xifeng pulls her hand away and massages it.
“It’s better now,” Ping’er gasps.
“We’d better get back to the apartment.”
Xifeng wedges her shoulder under Ping’er’s armpit, and somehow gets Ping’er to her feet. Supporting what feels like most of Ping’er’s weight, she staggers forward. Once, when they were children, the two of them had run away to the servants’ quarters behind the Wang mansion. She still remembers the rabbit warren of alleys, the people bathing their babies and brushing their teeth on their doorsteps, dumping the water into a ditch of greenish-brown sludge that snaked along the main avenue. The two of them had run along hand in hand, laughing and shouting from sheer excitement. But then Ping’er had twisted her ankle on a loose stone, and Xifeng had had to half carry, half support her home, just as she is doing now.
They have almost made it to the apartment by the next contraction. Xifeng tries to detach Ping’er’s hands. “Stay here. I’ll get help.”
“Don’t leave me.”
Xifeng tries to tug away. “I have to send for the midwife.” She is terrified by the thought that Ping’er might give birth before the midwife comes, with only her, Xifeng, in attendance.
“Help me.” Ping’er turns pleading eyes to Xifeng.
“What can I do?”
Ping’er does not answer, crushing Xifeng’s fingers again, lost in the throes of another contraction.
When this one ends, Xifeng half drags her across the courtyard, shouting frantically for Autumn. She has pulled Ping’er onto the kang in her own bedroom when Autumn shows up.
“Send for Old Woman Ma,” she barks, scrambling to get pillows and blankets to prop Ping’er up. For once Autumn does not dawdle and rushes out of the room.
By the time the midwife arrives, Xifeng has, between contractions, helped Ping’er undress, stoked up the fire, and set a pot of water to boil. She is leaning over Ping’er on the kang, wiping her brow with a wet towel. Already, she can hardly move her hand after the way that Ping’er had gripped it during the contractions. When Old Woman Ma walks in, Xifeng yells at her to hurry and wash her hands, believing that, with contractions so intense, the birth is minutes away.
After the midwife examines Ping’er, she laughs and says that the baby is still a long way from coming. “It is her first time, don’t forget,” she says, rolling her sleeves back down. “You’d be surprised at how long these first births can take.”
“How long do you think it will be?”
Old Woman Ma tilts her head consideringly. “I would be surprised if the baby came before midnight.”
“That’s more than eight hours!”
“It might not even be here by then.”
Given that it will be so long and that she will have to stay up late, Xifeng decides to lie down in the front room to rest. As she moves towards the doorway, Ping’er says, “Don’t leave me.”
“You don’t have to worry now. The midwife is here.”
Yet, as another contraction begins, Ping’er reaches out her hands piteously to Xifeng. Xifeng climbs back on the kang to let Ping’er hold on to her. Again, Ping’er crushes her hands mercilessly, seemingly aware of nothing but her own pain.
“That won’t do,” the midwife says, noticing Xifeng wincing. “If you go on like that you won’t even be able to hold a pair of chopsticks.” She knots and twists an old sheet, loops the middle around the leg of a table, ties the ends, and gives the big knot to Ping’er to hold. The next contraction, Ping’er pounces on and kneads and tears at the knotted sheet like a jungle cat.
At the end of the contraction, Ping’er turns bloodshot eyes to Xifeng. “Can’t you stay with me?”
“I was just going to rest a little. I’ll come back later. I can call Autumn to stay with you now.”
Ping’er shakes her head against the pillow, already darkened with sweat. “I don’t want Autumn. Can’t you stay?”
Sighing audibly, Xifeng climbs back onto the kang. Though she acts as if she is being put upon, she feels a strange satisfaction that in Ping’er’s hour of need, she, Xifeng, is still indispensable. She tells herself that it would serve Ping’er right if she were to leave, yet she feels little inclination to go.
Her satisfaction only increases when Lian and the others arrive back from the burial grounds near dinnertime. Lian seems put off by the sight of Ping’er’s swollen body half-naked under the soaking sheet. He pats her hand awkwardly, and makes an excuse to leave the room before Ping’er has had even one contraction. Now Ping’er can see for herself how much Lian is to be depended on, Xifeng thinks, but Ping’er, asking Xifeng for a drink of water, hardly seems to notice his departure.
The hours drag by, broken only by Autumn and Snowgoose coming in to ask about the progress of the labor. Xifeng has left the room only once, at about ten o’clock, to go to the bathroom and to send a message to the wet nurse to wait in the other bedroom. Mercifully, Ping’er falls into an uneasy doze about an hour after midnight. Xifeng lies down beside her on the kang and falls asleep immediately. She awakens to the sound of Ping’er moaning. Ping’er’s eyes are shut, but she is clearly awake. She looks terrible, with huge bluish hollows under her eyes, her bottom lip bloody and torn.
Watching Ping’er, she senses a change in the rhythm of the contractions. They come more frequently, longer and more intense than before. Ping’er begins to whimper and groan out loud. Xifeng sees beads of sweat pop out on her upper lip. When Ping’er sees Xifeng is awake, she gasps, “I
can’t bear it any longer.”
She takes Ping’er’s hand. Ping’er’s fingers, cold and clammy, cling to hers.
“I think it’s almost over,” she says. She scrambles off the kang to where the midwife is dozing near the stove, and shakes the old woman by the shoulder. “Don’t you think it’s almost time now?”
Old Woman Ma shakes herself awake, startled. Rubbing her eyes, she goes to Ping’er and stoops to examine her beneath the sheet. “You’re all the way open. Push!”
Time seems to take on a different rhythm. Ping’er strains as if trying to shift some crushing weight. Her face is tomato red, the veins in her temples bulging darkly. Old Woman Ma kneels on the kang pressing Ping’er’s knees wide apart. She alternately shouts at Ping’er to push and allows her to catch her breath for a few seconds, before beginning to shout again. Xifeng leans over, expecting to see the baby’s head emerging, but does not see anything different from before. Ping’er strains and strains, almost crying, but it doesn’t seem to do any good.
Suddenly Old Woman Ma shouts. Xifeng sees a round blackish circle about the size of a mushroom cap between the reddish folds.
“Push! Push! Push!” Old Woman Ma shouts.
The circle gets larger, about the size of a goose egg. Then, quite suddenly, the whole head is through, and Old Woman Ma kneels there guiding the tiny slime-covered shoulders and elbows out of Ping’er’s body, until the whole baby lies there in her hands, as Ping’er moans and shudders with pain.
Xifeng leans over and sees there is no penis between the skinny, feebly twitching legs. She can hardly believe it is a girl after all these months of suspense. Exhausted, she stumbles to a chair. She had been possessed by a bitter certainty that the baby would be a boy, who would permanently cement Ping’er’s place in Lian’s affections and in the household.
“It’s all right,” the midwife says, pressing Ping’er back down onto the kang. “You can rest now.”
Ping’er lifts her head. “Is it a boy?”
“No. It’s a nice little guixiu.” Old Woman Ma uses the euphemistic term “beauty of the Inner Chambers,” instead of the word “girl.”
The Red Chamber Page 24
