Old Lady piped up for herself, “I have vomited enough for three pregnancies, and all my bowels are in the nightpot. Fill me up again, daughter-in-law. I am all water inside—water and wind.”
“Can you eat?” Madame Wu inquired.
“I must be filled somehow,” Old Lady declared in a faint but valiant voice.
Thus encouraged, Madame Wu directed that thin rice soup be brought, and she herself grated fresh hot ginger root into it, and took up a spoon and fed the mixture to Old Lady.
Old Lady was always touching when she was ill. Her withered old mouth was as innocent and helpless as a baby’s. Madame Wu looked into it with each spoonful. Not a tooth remained, and the gums were pink and clean. How many words had come from that pink tongue, now shrunk so small! Old Lady had always had a violent temper, and when she was angry she had hurled curses on anyone she saw. That tongue was her weapon. Old Gentleman had been afraid of it. But doubtless he had heard other words from her, too, and Mr. Wu, who had always been the core of Old Lady’s life, had learned childish rhymes and laughter out of this same old mouth.
“I am better,” Old Lady sighed at last. “I need only to be kept filled. At my age the body has no staying power. Life now is like a fire of grass. It burns only when it is fed.”
“Sleep a little,” Madame Wu said soothingly.
Old Lady’s eyes opened very sharply at this. “Why do you keep telling me to sleep?” she demanded. “I shall soon sleep forever.”
Madame Wu was shocked to see tears well into Old Lady’s eyes and dim their sharpness. Old Lady was crying! “Daughter, do you think there is any life after this one?” she muttered.
She put out a claw of a hand and clutched Madame Wu’s hand. The old claw was hot and full of fever. Madame Wu, who had risen, sat down again. Old Lady all her life long had been nothing but a lusty body. She had been a woman, happy enough, dismissing from herself anything she could not understand. Rich, well-clothed, powerful in this great house, what had she lacked? But since she had lived entirely in her flesh, now she was frightened when she saw the flesh wither. Where would she go when the body failed her?
“I hope there is a life beyond this one,” Madame Wu said carefully. She might have deceived Old Lady as one deceives a child, but she could not do it. Old Lady was not a child. She was an old woman, about to die.
“Do you believe that I shall be born again in another body as the priests tell us in the temple?” Old Lady demanded.
Never had Old Lady talked of such things before. Madame Wu searched herself for honest answer. But who could penetrate the shades ahead? “I cannot tell, Mother,” she said at last. “But I believe that life is never lost.”
She did not say more. She did not say what she believed, that those who had lived entirely in the body would die with the body. She could imagine Brother André alive with no body, but not Old Lady.
Old Lady was already falling asleep in spite of all her will to stay awake. Her eyelids, wrinkled as an old bird’s, fell over her eyes, and she began to breathe deeply. Her bony hand fell out of Madame Wu’s soft one. Madame Wu went away, staying only to whisper to the servant, “She will recover this time. But try to keep rich foods out of her sight so that she will not crave them.”
“Our Old Lady is willful,” the servant murmured to defend herself, “and I do not like to make her angry.”
“Obey me,” Madame Wu said sternly.
But as she approached Mr. Wu’s court, she was pleased with this one good thing out of evil, that Old Lady’s illness gave her a reason to come here beyond the real one. She had sent Ying ahead to announce her. When she came to the gate of the court she found Ying waiting for her to tell her that Mr. Wu had gone out on some business and had only just returned. He sent word by Ying to beg her to sit down while he changed his outer garments.
So to wait she went into the familiar court where she had spent so many years of her life. The transplanted peonies were growing there most heartily. The blooms were over, the petals dropped, but the leaves were dark and thick. In the pool someone had planted lotus roots, and the great coral flowers lay open on the surface of the water. In the center of each flower ripe stamens quivered, ready and covered with golden dust. Their fragrance drenched the air of the court, and Madame Wu took out her handkerchief and held it before her face. The scent was too heavy.
She passed through the court into the main room. The furniture was as she had left it, but certain things had been added. There were too many potted trees. Some framed foreign pictures were on the wall. Nothing was quite as clean as it used to be. She was displeased to see dust swept under chairs and into corners. She rose and went to the heavy carved doors, set with lattices, and now wide open. She looked behind one of these doors.
Mr. Wu came in, buttoning his gray silk jacket. “Is there something behind the door, Mother of my sons?” he asked in his hearty voice.
She looked at him and flushed faintly. “Dust,” she said. “I must speak to the steward. This whole room needs cleaning.”
Mr. Wu looked about it as though he saw the room for the first time. “Perhaps it does,” he said. “It needs you,” he said, after another moment. But he said it gaily and with a sort of teasing laughter. She grew grave and did not answer.
They seated themselves. She examined his face without seeming to do so. He looked well fed, and the curves of his mouth were cheerful again. This was what she wanted and what she had planned. Then why did she feel in herself a cruel desire to hurt him?
“Your mother is ill,” she said abruptly. “Have you been to see her?”
He dropped his smile. “Alas, no,” he said. “I should have gone the first thing this morning, but what with one thing and another—”
“She is very ill,” she repeated.
“You don’t mean—” he said.
“No, not this time,” she said. “But the end is not too far off. Her soul is beginning to wonder what is to come next, and she asked me if I believed in another life after this one. Such questions mean that the body is beginning to die and the soul is afraid.”
“What did you tell her?” he asked. His face turned suddenly solemn.
“I said I hope, but how can I know?” she answered.
He was inexplicably angry. “Now, how cruel you are!” he cried. “To an old soul how can you show your doubt?” He unbuttoned his jacket at his full throat and took his fan out of his collar at the back of his neck and began to fan himself with energy.
“What would you have said?” she asked him.
“I would have assured her,” he cried. “I would have told her that nothing but happiness waits for her at the Yellow Springs. I would have said—”
“Perhaps you had better go and say it,” she said. When she was angry she never raised her voice. Instead she poured into it molten silver. Now it flowed and flamed.
But he thrust out his underlip. “I will tell her indeed,” he retorted.
They sat in silence for a moment, each struggling for calm again. She sat perfectly still, her hands limp in her lap, her head drooping a little on her slender neck. He sat solidly motionless except for the fan in his hand which he moved constantly. Each wondered at being angry with the other, and neither knew why it was.
She was the first to speak. “I have another matter to mention.” Her voice was still silvery.
“Speak on,” he said.
She chose straight truth again. “Ch’iuming came to me last night and asked me to tell you that she is pregnant.” Again she used the common word. She did not lift her head nor look at him, but continued to sit, motionless and graceful.
She heard the fan drop and brush against the silk of his garments. He was silent for so long that at last she looked up. He was staring at her, a clownish sheepish smile on his face, and his right hand was rubbing the crown of his head, rubbing round and round in a gesture she perfectly understood. It was a mixture of amusement, shame, and pleasure.
When he met her eyes, he laughed aloud
. “Poison me,” he said. “Put bane into my rice—or ground gold into my wine. I am too shameless. But, Mother of my sons, I was only obedient to you—nothing else.”
Against her will laughter came creeping up out of her belly. The corners of her mouth twitched, and her eyelids trembled. “Don’t pretend you are not pleased,” she said. “You know you are proud of yourself.”
“Alas—I am too potent,” he said.
Their laughter joined as it had so many times before in their life together, and across the bridge of laughter they met again. In that laughter she perceived something. She did not love him! Meichen had been right. She did not love him, had never loved him, and so how now could she hate him? It was as though the last chain fell from her soul. Time and again she had picked up those chains and put them on. But now no more. There was no need. She was wholly free of him.
“Listen to me,” she said when their laughter was over. “You must be kind to her.”
“I am always kind to everybody,” he insisted.
“Please,” she said, “be grave for a moment. It is her first child. Now do not plague her. Stay away from her for as long as she turns her face to the wall.”
He wagged his head at her. “It may be that one concubine is not enough,” he teased, and put the tip of his tongue out to touch his upper lip.
But he could not hurt her or harm her any more. She only smiled. “Now,” she said, “you can go to your mother. And better than talking about her soul, tell her that you are to have another son.”
But Old Lady was not cheered even by the news which her son brought to her. Madame Wu had scarcely reached her own court, she having stopped along her way to play with children, when Ying came running in to call her.
“Old Lady is worse,” she cried. “Old Lady is frightened and is calling for you, Mistress! Our lord is there and he begs you to come.”
Madame Wu turned herself instantly and hastened to Old Lady’s bedside. There Mr. Wu sat stroking his mother’s half-lifeless hand.
“She has made a wrong turn!” he exclaimed when he saw her. “My old mother has chosen a downward path!”
A flicker lighted Old Lady’s glazed eyes, but she could not speak. Instead she opened her mouth and puckered up her face as though she were about to weep. But neither sound nor tears came as she gazed piteously at her daughter-in-law.
Madame Wu understood at once that Old Lady was now more afraid than ever. “Fetch some wine,” she murmured to Ying, who had followed her. “We must warm her—she must feel her body. Fetch the Canton wine. Heat it quickly. And send the gateman to call the doctor.”
Old Lady continued to look at Madame Wu, begging her for help, her face fixed in the piteous mask of weeping.
“Ying will fetch some hot wine,” Madame Wu said in her sweet and soothing voice. “You will feel better and stronger. Do not be afraid, Mother. There is nothing to fear. Everything is as usual around you. The children are playing outdoors in the sunshine. The maids are sewing and tending the house. In the kitchens the cooks are making the evening meal. Life goes on as it has always gone, and as forever it will. Our forefathers built this house, and we have carried on its years, and our children will come after us. Life goes on eternally, Mother.”
Her singing, soothing voice sounded full and rich through the silent room. Old Lady heard it, and slowly the lines of her face softened and changed and the mask of weeping faded. Her lips quivered again and she began to breathe. While the mask had been fixed on her face, her breathing had seemed to stop.
And soon Ying hurried in with the hot wine in a small jug with a long spout, and this spout Madame Wu held to Old Lady’s parted lips and she let the wine drip into Old Lady’s mouth. Once and twice and three times Old Lady swallowed. A faint pleasure came into her eyes. She swallowed again and muttered a few words.
“I can feel—”
Then a look of surprise and anger sprang out of her eyes. Even as she felt the hot wine in her belly, her willful heart stopped beating. She shuddered, the wine rushed up again and stained the quilt, and so Old Lady died.
“Oh, my mother!” Mr. Wu moaned, aghast.
“Take the jug,” Madame Wu commanded Ying sharply. She leaned over and with the fine silk handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve she wiped Old Lady’s lips and she lifted Old Lady’s head with both her hands. But the head was limp, and she laid it down again on the pillow.
“Her soul is gone,” she said.
“Oh, my mother!” Mr. Wu moaned again. He began to weep openly and aloud, and she let him weep. There were certain things which must be done quickly for the dead. In a creature such as Old Lady had been, the seven spirits of the flesh could not be expected to leave the body at once. Old Lady must be exorcised and confined, lest these spirits loosed out of the flesh do harm in the house. Priests must be called. In her innermost heart Madame Wu did not believe in those priests nor in their gods. She stood looking down while Mr. Wu continued to fondle his mother’s hand as he wept. She was surprised to find in herself the urgent wish to call Brother André here and give him the task of exorcising evil from the house. Yet this could scarcely satisfy the family. If even a year from now a child fell ill under this roof there would be blame because Old Lady’s fleshly spirits had not been cared for. No, for the sake of the family, she must follow the old ways.
She turned to Ying. “Call the priests,” she said. “Let the embalmers come in their time.”
“I will attend to everything,” Ying promised and went away.
“Come, Father of my sons,” Madame Wu said. “Let us leave her for a little while. The maids will wash and dress her, and the priests are coming to exorcise her, and the embalmers will do their duty. You must come away.”
He rose obediently, and they went out together. She walked along slowly by his side, and he continued to sob and to wipe his eyes with his sleeves. She sighed without weeping. It had been many years since she had wept, and now, it seemed, her eyes were dry. But when he heard her sigh he put out his hand and took hers, and thus hand in hand they walked to his court. There she sat down with him and let him talk to her of all he remembered about his mother, how she used to save him from his father’s punishment, and how when his father compelled him to study his mother would steal into his room and bring him wine and sweet cakes and nuts, and how on holidays she took him to theaters, and when he was ill she called in jugglers and showmen to amuse him at his bedside, and when he had the toothache she gave him a whiff from an opium pipe.
“A good mother,” he now said, “always gay and making me gay. She taught me to enjoy my life.”
To all this, Madame Wu listened in silence, and she persuaded him to eat and drink and then drink a little more. She despised drunkenness, but there were times when wine had its use to dull the edge of sorrow. So he drank the fine hot wine she ordered, and as he drank his talk grew thicker and he said the same thing over and over again until at last his head dropped on his breast.
Then she rose and on quiet feet went into the room which had once been hers. She peered under the satin curtains of the bed. There, rolled against the inner wall, she saw the back of a dark head, the outline of a slender shoulder.
“Ch’iuming,” she called softly. “Are you sleeping?”
Ch’iuming turned, and Madame Wu saw her eyes staring out of the shadows.
“Ch’iuming, you need not sleep here tonight,” Madame Wu said. “Our Old Lady is gone to the Yellow Springs, and he is drunk with wine and sorrow. Rise, child.”
Ch’iuming came creeping out of the bed, silent, obedient.
“Where shall I go?” she asked humbly.
Madame Wu hesitated. “I suppose you may go to my court,” she said at last. “I myself shall not sleep tonight. I must watch over Old Lady.”
“Oh, let me watch, too,” Ch’iuming whispered. “I do not want to sleep.”
“But you are young, and you ought not, for the sake of what is within you, stay awake all night,” Madame Wu replied.
&
nbsp; “Let me be with you,” Ch’iuming begged.
Madame Wu could not refuse. “Well, then let it be,” she said.
So when she had seen Mr. Wu helped into his bed and had herself drawn the curtains about him, Madame Wu moved to take her place in the house this night. Those who had been sitting in watch now went to bed, but the servants did not sleep, nor the elder cousins. Old Lady was washed and dressed, and Madame Wu stood by to see that all was done as it should be, and Ch’iuming stood near, silent but ready to pick up this and hand her that. The girl had deft hands and quick eyes, and she read a wish before it was spoken. Yet Madame Wu saw clearly enough that Ch’iuming felt no sorrow. For her this was no death. Her face was grave but not sad, and she did not pretend to weep, as another might have done.
“Her heart is not yet here in this house,” Madame Wu thought, watching her. “But when the child comes, he will tie it here.”
So one generation now was fulfilled and passed from the house, and Madame Wu became the head within these compound walls as Mr. Wu was the head outside. Old Lady was not buried at once. When the geomancers were consulted they declared that a day in midautumn was the first fortunate day. Therefore, when the rites were finished and Old Lady slept within her sealed bed of cypress wood, the coffin was carried into the quiet family temple within the walls. No one, not even the children, felt that Old Lady was far away. Often in their play they ran to the temple and looked in.
“Great-grandmother!” they called softly. “Great-grandmother, do you hear us?”
Then they listened. Sometimes they heard nothing. But oftentimes, were the day gusty with wind, they told one another that they did hear Old Lady answer them from her coffin.
“What does she say?” Madame Wu once asked a small girl, the daughter of a first cousin.
The little child looked grave. “She says, ‘Little children, go and play—be happy.’ But, Elder Mother, her voice sounds small and faraway. Is she content in the coffin?”
“Quite content,” Madame Wu assured her. “And now obey her—go and play—be happy, child.”
After Old Lady was gone, for a time stillness seemed to come over the family. It was as though each generation, with her passing, knew itself further on in time and place. With her death life leaped ahead, and so all were nearer to the end. Mr. Wu when he had finished his first mourning and had taken off his garments of sackcloth was not quite what he had been. His full face looked older and more grave. Now sometimes he came to Madame Wu’s court, and together they talked over the family of which they were the two heads. He worried himself because he fancied he had not been so good a son as he should have been. When they had discussed the crops and the evil taxes of overlords and government, and whether they should undertake an expense of one sort or another, and when they had talked over children and grandchildren, then Mr. Wu would fall into brooding about his mother.
Pavilion of Women: A Novel of Life in the Women's Quarters Page 18
