The Red Chamber

by Pauline A. Chen

  “Now where is the veil?” Mrs. Xue says, looking around. The music grows suddenly louder as the wedding party enters the courtyard.

  Mrs. Xue unfolds the veil and flings it over Baochai’s head.

  Now she can see nothing but the folds of red silk. She puts out her hand. Her mother catches it and leads her out into the cacophony.

  It is only halfway through the wedding banquet that she notices how strangely Baoyu is acting. At first she had been too caught up in the happiness of the occasion to pay much attention. Pan was so excited that he proposed three toasts to her and Baoyu, despite Jingui’s attempts to restrain him. Even her mother rose and toasted the new couple. Tanchun wrapped her long arms around Baochai, whispering that she had always hoped that Baochai would be her sister. Xifeng made Baochai blush and everyone else laugh by comparing her to the coachman’s wife praised by Yan Ying, who had reproved her husband for his prideful airs. Finally, Jia Zheng had risen to toast the couple, and also to share two pieces of wonderful news: he was to be reinstated to his former post at the Ministry of Works, and Rongguo was to be returned to the family. They would probably be able to move back before the winter. His Highness Emperor Yongzheng seemed to be shaping up as an able administrator, and had turned his attention from purging his enemies to reforming and reorganizing the bureaucracy.

  At first Baochai had basked in the glow of everyone’s praise and congratulations, too shy to do more than glance at Baoyu, whom she has not seen for two months. Now, during dinner, under the cover of the general chatter, she finally takes the opportunity to covertly observe him. He looks magnificent, his tall, slender figure set off by his heavy wedding robes, the scarlet of the silk bringing out the deep gloss of his black hair and the delicacy of his complexion. During the toasts, she heard his voice laughing and thanking everyone for their good wishes, but now it strikes her that the last thing he looks like is a happy bridegroom. He is nodding and smiling, but with a polite, abstracted manner, as if he were a guest at someone else’s wedding.

  She turns away, and goes back to smiling and chattering with the others. She looks at him several times during the rest of the evening, and each time is thrown back upon herself by his air of remoteness. She tells herself that this is only to be expected. She cannot expect him to be overjoyed at marrying her, so soon after Daiyu’s death. It is enough that he is making every effort to be pleasant and polite.

  Still, when she finds herself alone with him in the wedding chamber, she feels deflated, ill at ease. All the excitement that had buoyed her before the wedding has slipped away. The Jias have prepared and furnished a bedroom next door to the old Drum Street apartment as the wedding chamber. This is the first time that she has seen it, and now she walks about admiring the new furnishings: a dressing table with a West Ocean mirror, a handsome desk, and a large armoire with mother-of-pearl-inlaid doors. She pauses before the dressing table, avoiding her own reflection in the mirror, instead examining the elaborately carved rosewood frame. “This is lovely,” she says brightly. “They have made such a nice room. But,” she adds with a laugh, “I guess we won’t be staying here for very long, after all.” She smiles at him. “That’s marvelous news, isn’t it, that we’ll be going back to Rongguo soon?”

  He does not answer. Instead, he approaches the desk, where his books and papers have been arranged neatly. He looks down at them and begins to flip through a sheaf of notes.

  “Surely you’re not going to study tonight,” she says, more sharply than she intends.

  “No, no.” He puts down the papers, a little guiltily, she thinks. “I was just making sure that everything was here.”

  “Well, I suppose I don’t mind if you do study a little bit,” she says, feeling embarrassed at the sharpness with which she had spoken.

  “No, of course I won’t study.” He moves away from the desk towards the kang, already spread with the new satin quilt and pillows that Xifeng and the Two Springs had made for them, embroidered with a pattern of mandarin ducks. He sits down on the edge of the kang and begins to take off his wedding shoes.

  She looks around for his slippers. “I don’t know where anything is here,” she says with a nervous laugh. She goes to the armoire in the corner, and finds it filled with neatly folded stacks of his and her clothing. She finds his slippers and hurries over. Instead of letting her kneel down to put them on his feet, he takes them out of her hands and puts them on himself. He takes off his vest and begins to unfasten his gown.

  At the thought that he is about to undress in front of her, she is filled with a strange, fluttery panic, which she tries to hide. Reaching towards him awkwardly, she says, “Let me help you.”

  He waves her hands aside. “That’s all right,” he says pleasantly.

  She feels at a loss. He is not allowing her to do a proper wife’s duty. It is hard for her not to take his insistence on doing everything for himself as a rejection. She stands there while he takes off his gown, keeping her gaze averted. Her eyes fall on the tray of wine and snacks that has been left for them on a small kang table. “Do you want anything to eat or drink?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.” Wearing only a light tunic and undertrousers, he folds his clothes and puts them in the armoire. “Why don’t you have something?”

  Even if she had an appetite, she could hardly sit there eating and drinking while he got ready for bed himself. “Don’t you want to wash?” She gestures at the basin and kettle on the stove.

  He walks quickly over, before she can get there herself. He pours hot water from the kettle into the basin. Again, when she approaches to help, he waves her off. She supposes that she should begin to prepare for bed herself. She seats herself before the dressing table and begins to pluck the ornaments from her hair. She watches him in the mirror getting a towel from the armoire, and ladling cold water from the bucket to mix with the water in the basin. Slowly, she takes down her hair, and puts it into a lazy knot. She looks in the mirror. Her heavily made-up face no longer strikes her as pretty. Her eyes, drooping with the exhaustion of the long day, look garish with their lining of kohl, and her lips have been smudged from eating and drinking. Still, she feels loath to take off her makeup in front of him. She is being ridiculous, she tells herself. Of course, he has seen her without makeup hundreds of times.

  “Are you ready to go to bed?” he says. He has finished washing and is drying his hands on a towel.

  She nods. Hastily, without looking at him, she scrubs the makeup off her face. She hears him opening the window to toss out the dirty water. Then he rinses out the basin and fills it with fresh water for her, mixing the hot and cold water and testing it with his hand. He gets her a fresh towel from the armoire. As he hands it to her with a courteous smile, she is aware of the yawning distance between them, even though she has known him for so many years.

  “Thanks,” she says, uncomfortably aware of her bare, blotchy face. She quickly washes her face and hands. She wonders whether she should undress, as he has, but feels paralyzed by shyness.

  Probably sensing her nervousness, he offers, “Shall I blow out the lights?”

  “All right.”

  He blows out the two lanterns near the door. Only the small lamp on the kang table remains.

  “Ready?” he says.

  “Go ahead.” She is still standing awkwardly beside the basin.

  He climbs onto the kang and blows the last light out. They are in darkness. She stands there unmoving. Then she hears him getting into bed, the rumpling of the bedclothes.

  She stands there for perhaps a minute. Then, as silently as she can, she walks to the kang and begins to undress. She takes off her vest, fumbling with the fastenings of her gown in the dark. She folds the clothes and places them on the edge of the kang. She slips off her shoes and her socks. Now she is wearing only a short sleeveless tunic and loose undertrousers. She climbs onto the kang and crawls to the side of the bed farthest away from him. Trying to disarrange the quilt as little as possible, she slides her
body underneath it and lays her head on the pillow. For a long time she lies there, trying not to make a sound, flat on her back, as far away from him as possible. Every muscle in her body is tensed, waiting and wondering what he will do. On the one hand, she is scared that he will touch her. At the same time, she is afraid that he will not come near her.

  He makes no move towards her. She hears him gently expelling air through his nostrils. She begins to feel humiliated. It is not enough that her bridegroom has to humiliate her by acting silent and distant at their wedding feast. On top of that, she will lie here alone, untouched, on her wedding night. Even though she reminds herself that she must be patient and tender with Baoyu, she has not imagined that he would not even touch her. Tears fill her eyes as she stares up at the black ceiling. She lets them roll silently down the sides of her face into her hair, afraid he will notice if she wipes her eyes. The mucus is clogging her nose and filling her throat. She tries to control herself, but a single sob escapes her. She hears his head move on his pillow as he turns to look at her.

  There is a silence. Then she hears him move across the bed towards her. She shrinks away, not wanting him to touch her out of pity, but his arms come around her, warm and strong. She resists a little, but then she lets him pull her against him. He holds her tightly. She feels his breath against her hair, warm and sweet. That is what she has always liked about him: he has never seemed dirty and brutish like other men. He is stroking her hair, his other arm holding her against him. He strokes her for a long time, before she begins to relax under his touch. She nestles her head into his shoulder. His touch is so gentle that it is impossible to believe that he does not feel tenderness towards her. He moves his hand from her hair, and traces her eyebrows, touches her eyelids. She begins to grow excited, and turns her body to face his. She flings her arms around him, and puts her face up to be kissed. He kisses her once on the lips, deeply, then buries his face in her neck.

  Now their bodies are pressed against each other. She feels his member hard against her belly through their layers of clothing. So he is not indifferent to her, after all. Perhaps he is simply shy and self-conscious. Perhaps he had just been lying there trying to get up the courage to approach her. His fingers begin to fumble at the fastenings of her tunic. He has them open in a few seconds. Then his warm hands are on her, touching her belly, her breasts.

  “Oh, Baoyu,” she gasps, shaken out of her usual composure. “Oh, Baoyu.”

  She wants to hear his voice, she wants him to say her name. He remains silent, but lets his hands run up and down her body. Then he is fumbling with the drawstring of her trousers.

  She does not resist him. Her mother had told her, years ago, what to expect. She lets him draw her trousers down over her hips. When she feels his hand touching her bare buttocks, she cannot help but flinch in panic. He withdraws his hand immediately.

  At the withdrawal of his touch, she feels even more agitated. She stares at him in the darkness, unable to read his expression. She wants him to say something to encourage her, to reassure her, but he says nothing, just lying there a few inches from her.

  Finally, she says, “That’s all right. I don’t mind.”

  Still, he does nothing. She begins to feel increasingly awkward about his silence. Is he trying to show her that he has the upper hand? She wants him to continue touching her. Impulsively, she takes her trousers off all the way under the quilt. She wraps her bare legs around him.

  At her boldness, his constraint falls away. He puts his arms around her again, pulling her roughly against him. He rolls his weight on top of her so that she is underneath him, pressed against the kang. She looks up at his silhouette above her in the darkness, and pulls his head down so that he will kiss her. Instead, he buries his head in her neck again. He stays like that for a long time, his rough breath exhaling hotly onto her skin slicked with sweat. Then he parts her legs and enters her without a sound.

  2

  Xifeng uses the twig broom to sweep the deep snow covering the stoop. The snow is nearly a foot deep, and it is an effort to drag the heavy broom through it. She has no gloves, and the roughness of the broom’s handle chafes against her bare skin. She pulls the cuffs of her sleeves past her wrists, and uses the material to pad her cold palms against the wooden handle. Again and again, until her arms are aching, she draws the broom back and pushes the growing pile of snow, until she has cleared a narrow band before the apartment. She turns back and begins to clear a second strip. Now, despite the coldness of the day, she is beginning to grow heated beneath her bulky clothes. Her panting breath forms a plume of frost in the air. Why don’t any of the others come out to help her? she thinks. She supposes they are all sitting cozily on the kang while she struggles alone out here in the cold. Perhaps they are all in league against her. Ever since they learned of her illegal loans, everyone has treated her differently. With a gasp, she pushes the heavy pile of accumulated snow to the edge of the road. No, better that she finish the hard job herself, rather than going in and asking for help. Perhaps then they will appreciate how much she does.

  She turns and begins to clear a third strip. Now she can hardly lift her burning arms. How easily she gets tired these days, not like the old days at Rongguo when she could stay up half the night with Qiaojie and be up at six thirty to serve breakfast. Just a few more paces and she’ll be done. She presses down on the broom, driving it into a crack between some crooked cobblestones to scrape the snow out, and hears the click of something hard against the twigs. Something round and white rolls forward from the stroke of her broom, not snow. She stoops down and picks it up, and the instant her fingers close around its cold hardness, she knows it is Baoyu’s jade. She rubs it on her skirt and holds it up. Yes, it is as familiar to her as an old friend: the size of a sparrow’s egg, all streaked with creamy iridescence, showing purples and greens and blues in the winter sunlight. She almost laughs aloud from the wonder of it. How could it get here? Had it been here all along? She turns to go inside to tell everyone. Now, perhaps, the family’s luck will finally change …

  She opens her eyes, blinking. It is still dark. The night air is freezing, and she tucks her two quilts more tightly about her body. She has been dreaming, but her dream was so vivid that she could still almost feel the coldness of her fingers, the heaviness of the broom. How strange that she should be dreaming of the apartment on Drum Street when she is back in her old bedroom at Rongguo. She moves her head on the pillow, looking about her. Even though much of the furniture is gone, the shape and placement of the windows, and the height of the ceiling, with its shadowy carvings, are still familiar. And how strange that she should be dreaming of the jade, of all things. Once she had feared that the loss of the jade foretold the waning of the family fortunes, but even without it, the family fortunes are on the upswing. Jia Zheng has been reinstated, and Baoyu and Huan are both studying diligently, planning to take the Exams in the spring.

  It is only her own fortunes that are declining, she thinks, staring up at the black ceiling. Lian is harsh and forbidding to her. Now that they have moved back to Rongguo, his contempt for her is clear for all to see. He refuses to sleep in the same room, and has moved back across the courtyard to where he and Ping’er lived before Qiaojie’s birth. Last time he lived there it had not bothered her much. This time, she finds herself acutely self-conscious about what the others must be thinking. And she is terribly lonely, far lonelier than she has ever been. Living in the apartment that she used to share with Ping’er and Qiaojie, without even a maid to keep her company, she is haunted by memories of them: of putting her lips to Qiaojie’s downy little head and drinking in her sweet, milky scent; of Ping’er combing her hair two hundred strokes every morning. And she has no work or occupation with which to push away the memories. Uncle Zheng has used his salary to buy a handful of servants; it is no longer necessary for her and the other girls to shop and cook and clean. With their southern estates gone and such simple housekeeping, there are no rents and salaries and expe
nditures for her to keep track of. Despite her loneliness, she is too proud to seek out Baochai or the other girls to chat. Instead she spends her day weaving or sewing in a desultory fashion, or hoping that she will feel more energetic if she takes yet another nap on the kang.

  Her health continues to trouble her. Despite the better food and more comfortable living conditions at Rongguo, she seems to grow weaker and more languid by the day. She sleeps poorly, drifting in and out of a light doze, instead of being able to fall into a deeper, more restorative, slumber. She has no appetite, and feels so cold that she has taken to wearing two pairs of socks. More and more often, she feels sharp pains in her belly. Lian wouldn’t notice even if she collapsed on the floor, but Baochai had sent for Dr. Wang. After a long examination, he had said that a mass was growing in her female organs as a result of a severe stagnation of qi. He prescribed turtle shell, longkui, and oldenlandia. When she asked him how long it would take for her to get better, he said he did not know, and some strange dread had prevented her from questioning him further. She had the prescription filled, and took it dutifully, but did not feel she was getting any stronger.

  Now she feels exhaustion overtaking her, and she shuts her eyes again. She feels the half-sleeping, half-waking state, which has replaced true sleep for her, stealing over her limbs. She is cold, but is too tired to rearrange her blankets. She feels those strange phantom pains burning in her abdomen. She shifts her position, trying to make herself more comfortable, but the pains do not go away. She tries to slip into deeper sleep, but instead her mind skips uneasily over scenes from her past: her childhood with Ping’er at the Wang mansion in Chang’an, the night of Qiaojie’s birth, her fights with Lady Jia at Drum Street.

  She opens her eyes. The room is filled with sunlight. She has overslept. In a panic she leaps out of bed, but the sudden movement makes her dizzy. She clings to the wardrobe to steady herself, and manages to put on some clothes. Barely looking at the mirror, she twists her hair into a rough knot, and sets off across the forecourt towards Granny Jia’s apartments to serve breakfast. She tries to run at first, but it makes her so dizzy that she is forced to slow to a quick walk.