The older child’s wet nurse now came in. “I have offered my milk,” she said, “but it is too old for this child. He vomits it up.” She looked pleased with herself as she spoke. “I have never lost my milk, Elder Lady, so how can I know what should be done?”
“Go away,” Madame Wu ordered her, seeing her vanity and knowing that she was a woman greedy for gifts.
The young wet nurse went on crying, and Madame Wu sat down and folded her hands on her dragonheaded cane and looked at her.
“Your milk has dried because you are sad,” she said. “What is your trouble?”
At first the young woman would not answer. She wiped her eyes on her sleeves and looked down, and when the tears came welling out she wiped them away again.
“It is strange you have water enough for your own tears and not for milk for my son,” Meng said distractedly.
“Hush,” Madame Wu said. “She is a human being. Speak, good soul.”
Thus encouraged, the young woman faltered in a voice so small as scarcely could be heard, “I have not seen my own child. I do not know how she does—I have been here nearly a month. Next week is the full month birthday of this child, and I do not know how my own little one does.”
At this Meng looked exceedingly angry. She pursed her red mouth and opened her black eyes wide. “How can you think of your child and let your milk dry up?” she exclaimed.
“Hush,” Madame Wu said again. “Let her child be brought here.”
“To be nursed with mine?” Meng cried.
“To save your son,” Madame Wu replied.
The young nurse fell on her knees before Madame Wu. “Oh, Elder Lady,” she gasped, “you are not cruel—they told me you were cruel—”
“Who said I was cruel?” Madame Wu asked.
“The steward—on the lands—he said I must not disobey you—that no one dared to disobey you. I did not want to come here, Lady. I have my own little house, my man works on your land, we have our child—a girl, it is true, but our first child. I was so proud of her. I had such a lot of milk. The steward said I must come or he would drive my man away from the land we have rented.”
“He had no command from me to speak so,” Madame Wu said. “I told only him only to find a wet nurse.”
“In the villages he makes us all feel afraid of you,” the young woman went on. “On the lands we all fear you through him, Elder Sister.”
Madame Wu was not a little confounded by these words, but she did not want this servant woman to know her confusion. In a great household those who command must not put themselves at the mercy of those who obey. She inclined her head and said gently, “I will send word today that your child is to be brought here. She may sleep near you, but not in the same room with my grandson.”
“You save a life,” the woman said, and fell on her knees and knocked her forehead on the tiles before Madame Wu.
But the child was wailing again and the woman rose from her knees and took him back. The tears dried on her cheeks, and she held the little boy to her breast. He snatched the nipple again and began to suck, and milk began to flow.
“You held back your milk,” Meng cried. “You refused to let it come down.”
But the woman looked up at her in timid wonder. She was a plain-faced farm woman. “I did not, Lady,” she said. “I do not know where my milk went nor why now it has come back, except that when our Elder Lady said my little girl could come, I felt loosened inside my heart, and so the milk came down.”
But Meng was still angry. “You common soul, you are too stupid!”
Madame Wu rose. “Since your son’s life depends upon her, it is perhaps better for you not to be angry, my daughter,” she said. “And you, woman, when your child comes, do not forget your duty is to my grandson.”
The young woman looked up humbly at Madame Wu. “I will not forget, Elder Lady,” she said in a low voice. “I will always feed him first.”
Something in her look and in her voice stayed Madame Wu’s steps. Underneath the quiet she felt something sullen and strong. But she did not ask what it was. She had never inquired too far into the troubles of those beyond her own family, lest she be somehow entangled in them. So now she spoke to Meng.
“I will give our Old Lady’s courts to my eldest son and you. Then I can be near my grandsons.”
Meng did not looked pleased, and Madame Wu hardened her purpose. “I will send servants to help you move today,” she said and without waiting for Meng to speak she went on to find her son Tsemo.
At this hour Tsemo should have been away from the house and at his business, which was to supervise the markets where they sold their produce. But he was still here. Madame Wu saw him in his court rinsing his mouth as though he had only just eaten.
She entered, and he spat hastily and put aside the cup he held.
“You are early, Mother,” he said.
“I am going my rounds,” she said. “I stopped to say that I shall give Liangmo’s court to you because I give him Old Lady’s rooms in order that my grandsons can be near me.”
“I will tell Rulan,” Tsemo said.
At the name she thought she saw a slight cold shade on his face, and she spoke straightly as her habit was when she saw trouble. “I am told that Rulan cries in the night.”
“Who told you?” he asked shortly.
“The servants,” she replied, “and it is a shameful thing when the troubles of the family become the talk of servants.”
“You were right, Mother,” he said. “I should not have married this woman.”
“Has love ended between you already?” Madame Wu inquired.
But to this he would not say no or yes. He walked about the tiny court, ten steps this way, sixteen steps that. “We have nothing to say to each other without its leading to quarreling,” he replied at last.
“How is it that she is not with child?” Madame Wu asked. “Quarreling always comes between men and women when there is no child.”
“How can I tell?” he replied and shrugged his shoulders. “She does not conceive. It is assuredly not my fault.”
“There can be no conception where there is quarreling,” Madame Wu told him. “Hearts in a roil dry the body’s juices and poison the blood. Between man and woman the stream of life forces must be kept clear.” She looked at this handsome son. “It is always easy for men and women to quarrel,” she went on. “Their natural difference is so great that unless they unite to create the new generation, they fly apart from each other like water and oil. A wife without child is a creature against nature, and she rebels against Heaven and earth, and the man is nothing to her. You must be patient with her until she conceives. Once that comes, you will find her a new woman.”
“Am I nothing to Rulan?” he asked arrogantly.
“She loves you too well,” Madame Wu replied, “and that is why she hates you. Her love comes to no fruit. She is teased by it. She has no defense from you, no refuge. She has no place to hide from you and be herself.”
She could see he was deeply hurt by what she said. “You shall take a journey somewhere,” she went on. “Then when you come back be gentle, not arrogant. Do not remind her that she is older than you or that she sought you first.”
“How do you know she sought me?” he asked. He stopped his pacing to stare at her. “How do you know everything?” he said half laughing, half rueful.
“I can see with my eyes,” she replied. She rested her round chin on her hands folded over the dragonhead of her cane. “She fears you and she hates her fears, and she loves you and she dreads her love. Yes, go away and leave her with me. There is an order between men and women, and you and Rulan have proceeded out of order. Look at Meng—with her all things proceed as Heaven ordains, and what harmony there is in her house! Her sons come one by one, and Liangmo is content with her. Neither of them loves the other too much, and together they create their new generation.”
“Meng is old-fashioned,” Tsemo said impatiently. “Also she is a little stup
id. At least Rulan is not stupid.”
“It is not necessary for a woman to be stupid or not stupid,” Madame Wu replied with patience. “Such things are all in proportion. Man and woman in marriage must be in proportion to each other and so I chose Meng for Liangmo. He is wiser than she, but she is wise enough so that she understands what he says. In your marriage you are too equal and so you contend.”
“You are wiser than my father,” Tsemo said. He threw her a look so hard and bright that she was disturbed by it.
“Ah, I learned my wisdom,” she said quickly. “I am wise enough so that there was never any trouble between your father and me. That is why I sent Ch’iuming into his courts so that he could continue to be happy as he grew old.”
“And you?” Tsemo probed her cruelly.
“I also continue to be happy,” she said tranquilly.
Now Rulan came out of the house, as though she could no longer pretend she did not hear all that was being said in the small court outside her window. Madame Wu knew well enough that she had heard all, but in courtesy she carried on the pretense. “I was telling Tsemo that if you please, my daughter, you may move into Liangmo’s larger court since I move them into the court next mine, where I can watch over my grandsons better.”
“We thank you, Mother,” Rulan said. But no thanks showed in voice or look. She was carelessly dressed in an ugly robe of gray and green squares laid next to each other, and she looked older than she was.
“As soon as Tsemo goes away,” Madame Wu thought, “I will teach her not to look so ugly.” She continued to sit and look thoughtfully at her daughter-in-law, and Tsemo, following this gaze, found new fault with his wife.
“I hate that robe,” he said violently.
“Buy me another,” she said insolently, tossing back her short hair.
Madame Wu rose at once. She would not sit and see the two quarrel lest she be compelled to strive for peace between them. But she could not keep back entirely her displeasure.
“Tsemo is going away for a while,” she told Rulan. “I have given my permission. Be peaceful for these few days until he goes. Busy yourself with moving your goods tomorrow into your new court.”
“If Tsemo goes, I go,” Rulan said.
She stood very straight in the ugly robe, her hands clenched at her side. Madame Wu stood as straight, her hands on her cane.
“You do not go,” she said distinctly. “You will stay here with me. You have much to learn, and I will teach you.”
Again she did not wait for a daughter-in-law to answer. She turned and went out of the court, and not once did she look back.
“Ah, my sons’ wives,” she thought, “how troublesome they are to me! Would that I had early taken little girls into my house and reared them to be sons’ wives and bent them to fit our need! To bring strangers into the house to bear our grandsons is to bring in trouble.”
She found herself longing for evening and for peace, when, with Brother André for guide, she could leave body behind and sally forth, soul bare, into the world.
In the court she had left, Rulan looked at her young husband with surly suffering eyes. “You want to go away and leave me,” she muttered.
“It was wholly my mother’s idea,” Tsemo said lightly. He threw back his head and smoothed his long forelock. She saw those pale hands of his and felt the pull at her heart for which she now hated herself.
“I shall run away,” she said in the same sullen voice.
He laughed. “Not with me—I would not dare to come home again.”
“You are afraid of your mother!” she cried.
“I am, indeed,” he agreed.
This easy agreement was his trick against her. Time and again he yielded the point and left her nothing to grasp for her weapon.
“I would rather have no sons than have them afraid of me,” she declared.
“Well, you have no sons,” he said in his tranquil voice.
Her heart broke at the ancient taunt. Try as she could she could not free herself from its power. “Tsemo, do you really hate me?” she whispered. She came nearer to him as she spoke, and he looked down into her face.
“Why will you tear at me and wound me and give me no peace?” he said between his teeth.
“Peace from me!” she cried.
“No, only peace,” he said, “simple peace.”
“Peace so you can forget me!” she said passionately.
“I know that is why you will have me angry at you,” he retorted. He laughed sourly. “You make me angry so that you can force my mind toward you for that, at least.”
He had plucked truth out of her, truth she hid even from herself. Yes, when he had ceased to think of her day and night, when he grew careless after their marriage, she had forced anger on him to draw him back to her. She wanted suffering from him—pain, even, rather than nothing.
She saw him turn his head away from her, and the sight was dreadful to her. “I must save myself from him,” she thought. “I must rid myself somehow of love. It is too bitter for me.”
It was strange that at this moment when she longed to be free of him she thought of Madame Wu. All impulse as she was, she ran past him and through the courts, and did not stop until she found her sitting in her library smoking her little pipe.
“Mother!” she cried, “let me go free, too!”
Madame Wu heard this cry like an echo of her own soul. But she did not reveal her consternation. She put down the pipe on the table and gazed at her tall daughter-in-law. “Calm yourself,” she said. “Sit down and smooth the hair out of your eyes. While I think of it, let me tell you never to wear that robe again. You ought always to wear gay colors. They will lighten your darkness. Now, how can I let you go free?”
“I want to go out of this house—away from Tsemo,” Rulan said. She did not sit down in obedience to Madame Wu’s motioning hand. She stood, having heard nothing of what Madame Wu had said to her, and the two women looked at each other.
“I told you Tsemo is going away,” Madame Wu said. “Of him you will be free.”
“I want to be free of him forever,” Rulan cried. “I ought never to have married. I hate what I feel for him. I am a slave to it. He has me as he wants me, not as I want to be.”
“Is he to blame for this?” Madame Wu asked.
“Let me go away,” Rulan repeated.
Madame Wu unwillingly began again to like this strange angry girl. “Where will you go?” she asked. “What is there for a woman outside her husband’s house? Even if I free you from this house, can you be free? A woman without a husband—she becomes despised of all. Through man and child only is she made free.”
Rulan looked down at her with horror. “Tell me how to free myself,” she whispered.
Madame Wu felt a great welling pity for her. “Alas, my child,” she said gently, “I cannot tell you, for I do not know.”
“Have you never loved anybody?” the girl urged.
Madame Wu looked down and did not answer. She began to feel that Tsemo had somehow wronged this girl. But how could he know what she meant? He had been only himself, and could he help it if this was not enough for the girl? She began to perceive that she had been fortunate in not allowing herself to love Mr. Wu too well. At one time there had been some danger of it, when she was very young. But her own fastidiousness had been her guard. Rulan was not fastidious.
“If you had a child,” she said at last, “you might be free of him. At least you divide your love. The child demands much, and you are compelled to give it. Or it might be, if you have no child, that you could undertake study, or painting, or some such thing. You must divide yourself, my child. You have allowed all your powers to flow in the deep narrow river. Now dig yourself canals and rivulets and drain off your love here and there.”
“Forced labor,” Rulan said bitterly.
“If need be,” Madame Wu said gently. “But it is your only way to peace. You will surely die otherwise. For he will hate you, I promise you. He is trembli
ng on the verge of hatred now. Therefore have I commanded him to go away from you for a while.”
Rulan wet her pale lips. “Are all men like him?” she whispered.
“Men are as like one another as minnows,” Madame Wu said in her pretty silvery voice. “It is when women discover it that they are free.”
“Then why do I love only Tsemo?” Rulan inquired shrewdly.
“Some trick of his looks,” Madame Wu said in the same pretty voice, “the way his eyebrows move, the turn of his mouth, the set of his shoulders in his coat, his hands—”
“How do you know?” Rulan whispered aghast.
Madame Wu laughed. “Heaven sets a hundred snares to carry on our kind,” she replied. She could not be angry at this girl. What was she but a poor trapped creature? Now that she saw how pitiably well Rulan loved Tsemo, she forgave her everything.
She put out her narrow hand and pulled Rulan’s hands apart and patted them one after the other. “No more unhappiness,” she said coaxingly. “I do not like anyone to be unhappy under our roof. See, I spend my life trying to make you all happy. What do you want, child, to make you happy here?”
Rulan could not but yield to the beautiful coaxing face, the kind and melodious voice. She allowed herself to be pulled along until she stood like a child at Madame Wu’s knees. “Let him go,” Madame Wu said in her soothing way. “Do not weep when he goes. Help him to pack his boxes, and bid him good-by gaily, however your heart weeps. Sleep heartily at night and do not wake. Let him be sleepless, child, not you.”
“But if I am sleepless without him?” Rulan asked naively.
Madame Wu laughed aloud, relishing this frankness. “Get up and take a walk in your court,” she said. “The night air is very cold now, and when you are cold your warm bed will put you to sleep, even though you lie down alone.”
The two women looked steadily into each other’s eyes. Madame Wu discerned the young hot soul, trembling with distress, and all the fountains of her pity broke open. Some loyalty deeper than that to the Wu family reached out and poured its waters of balm upon this soul, who was also a woman.
Pavilion of Women: A Novel of Life in the Women's Quarters Page 23
