As for her hands, were her hands placed beside my brother’s and their bodies concealed, I would say his were the woman’s hands. His are soft with olive flesh. The bones of her hands protrude beneath the skin, and her wrists are much coarser than mine. When she grasped my hand I felt her palm was knotted and hard against mine. I mentioned it to my husband after breakfast when we were an instant alone. He said it is because of a game called tennis, which these foreign women play with their men—I suppose, to amuse them. How strangely do the foreign women woo love!
Her feet are longer by two inches than my brother’s feet—at least, it so appears. How embarrassing this must be to them both!
As for my brother, he is dressed in western clothes, and he is foreign to me in many ways. He moves quickly, and he is restless. When I look at him I cannot see anywhere the silvery, drooping youth he once was. Now his head is erect, and when he is not speaking his face is unsmiling. He wears no rings or ornaments of any kind, except a plain gold ring upon one hand on the third finger. This ring has not even a jewel of any kind set into it. The rigid dark clothes of the West mark more clearly his pallor.
Even when he sits, it is as foreigners sit, with one knee placed over the other. He speaks without effort the foreign language to my husband and to her, and the words roll from their mouths with a clatter like that of pebbles against a rock.
He is altogether changed. Even his eyes are changed. They are no longer cast down. They are swift and fearless, and they look boldly at the person to whom he speaks. He wears spectacles made curiously of gold and some sort of dark shell, and they make him in appearance older than he is.
But his lips are still the lips of our mother, thin, delicate, pressed together in repose. Only on my brother’s lips there hangs yet a trace of the old childish sullenness that always came when he was refused a desire. By this I knew my brother.
I and my son, we are the only Chinese among us, I think. They stand there in our house, wrapped in their strange dress, talking their strange tongue to each other. I and my son, we do not understand them.
They are to stay at our house until our father and our mother receive them. When it is known to my mother that I have allowed them to dwell here, she will be incensed at my unfilial roof. I tremble. Yet as my husband wishes, so it must be. And after all, is this not my brother, the son of one mother with me?
When we sit down to rice all together, she cannot eat with the chopsticks. I laugh secretly behind my sleeve because she cannot hold them even as well as my son holds them in his tiny hands. She grasps them firmly, and her brows knit themselves in her earnest endeavor to learn. But her hands are unskilled in delicate things. She knows nothing.
Her voice, My Sister, is not like any woman’s voice that I have heard. We like to hear a woman’s voice light and soft, like a small stream of water trickling between two rocks, or like the piping of little birds in the reeds. But her voice is deep and full, and since she speaks but seldom, one pauses to listen to it. It has the rich note of the voice of the harvest thrush in spring, when the rice is waiting to be cut into sheaves. When she speaks, her words fall in rapid phrases to my brother, to my husband. She does not speak to me for we do not understand each other.
Twice she has smiled, a quick, shining smile, springing up out of her eyes like a silver flash of sunshine on a sullen stream. When she smiles I understand her. She says, “Shall we be friends?” We look at each other doubtfully.
Then I answer silently, “When you see my son I shall know whether or not we can be friends.”
I dressed my son in his red silk coat and his green trousers. I placed upon his feet the cherry blossom embroidered shoes. Upon his head I placed his round crownless hat with the circle of tiny gold Buddhas about it, and on his neck I put a silver chain.
When he was garbed thus, he looked a very princeling, and I brought him to her. He stood before her on widespread legs and stared at her astonished. I bade him bow, and he placed his little hands together and bowed, staggering with his effort.
She gazed at him smiling. When he bowed she laughed aloud, a low laugh like a note struck from a deep bell, and then crying a sweet, unknown word, she seized him and held him against her and placed her lips upon his soft neck. His hat dropped off and from over his shaven head she looked at me. Such a look, My Sister! Her eyes said,
“I desire one exactly like him!”
I smiled, saying, “Then we shall be friends!”
I think I begin to see why my brother loves her.
Now the fifth day has passed since their coming. They have not yet presented themselves before my father and my mother. My husband and my brother spend hours together in troubled talk in the foreign tongue. I do not know what they have concluded. Whatever is done must be done slowly. Meanwhile, I watch the foreign one.
If you ask me what I think of her, My Sister, I do not know. Certainly she is not like our women. Every movement of her body is free and unrestrained and full of a rapid grace. Her gaze is direct and unafraid. Her eyes seek the eyes of my brother without shyness. She listens to the men speak, and then she throws into their talk a quick word, and they laugh. She is accustomed to men, as the Fourth Lady was.
And yet there is a difference between them. The Fourth Lady, it seemed to me, beneath the assurance of her beauty in the presence of men yet had fear. I think it was because she was afraid, even at the height of her loveliness, of the moment when it would begin to slip away from her and she would have nothing left wherewith to draw the hearts of men to her.
This foreign one has no fear of anything in her, although she is not beautiful as the Fourth Lady was beautiful. She does not trouble herself. She accepts as her right the interest of men. She makes no effort to win their glances. She seems to say, “This is I. I am as you see me. I do not care to be otherwise.”
I think she is very proud. At least she seems strangely indifferent to the difficulties she has brought into our family. She plays idly with my son, she reads books—she brought with her her many boxes of books—she writes letters. Such letters! I gazed over her shoulder, and the page was covered with large, sprawling marks, hooked each to the other. I could make nothing of any of it. But most of all she likes to sit in the garden dreaming, doing nothing at all. I have not once seen any embroidery in her hands.
One day she and my brother went out together early in the morning and returned at noon, dusty and earth-soiled. I asked my husband in great surprise where they had been to come back in such a condition. He replied,
“They have been for what westerners call ‘hike.’”
“What is this ‘hike’?” I asked, greatly curious. He replied,
“It is a long and rapid walk to some distant spot. To-day they have been to the top of Purple Mountain.”
“Why?” I asked in great surprise.
“They consider this a pleasure,” he answered.
It is very strange. Here even a farm woman would consider it a hardship to walk so far. When I said this to my brother he replied,
“Her life in her own country has been very free. She feels restrained in this little garden behind these high walls.”
I was greatly surprised to hear this. It seems to me this life of ours can certainly be considered wholly modern and independent of old restraints. The garden wall is merely for privacy. It would not be fitting for any vegetable vendor or passing candy seller to peer at us. I thought,
“What will she do in the courtyards, then?”
But I said nothing.
She is frank to show her love for my brother. Last night we sat in the garden to catch the coolness of the night. I sat in my accustomed place upon the porcelain seat, a little apart from the men. She seated herself beside me upon the low brick balustrade that surrounds the terrace, and in her half-smiling manner now when we are together, she pointed out one thing after another in the dim twilight, asking me the name of each and repeating the words after me. She is quick to learn, and she never forgets once she has heard rig
htly. She repeated each syllable over again and again softly, tasting its intonation, laughing a little when I corrected her shyly. Thus we amused ourselves for a space while the two men conversed.
But when the dusk of night fell, and we could no longer distinguish trees and flowers and stones, she became silent and restless. She turned her eyes toward my brother. At last she rose abruptly and went over to him with her swinging gait, the thin white stuff of her gown flying like a mist. She laughed, said something in a low voice to him, and then stopped at his side and reached openly for his hand.
I averted my eyes.
When I glanced again, pretending to feel the direction of the wind, she had curled herself upon the brick floor of the terrace beside his chair and had laid her cheek against his hand! I felt a pang of sympathy for my brother. He must have been ashamed at this open display of passion from a woman. I could not see his face in the dark, but all talk had ceased. There was only the pulsing murmur of summer insects through the garden. I rose and withdrew myself.
When my husband came in a few minutes later I said to him,
“She is indecorous, this foreigner!”
But he only laughed.
“Oh, no—only to you, little porcelain one!”
Indignation pricked me.
“Would you have me then clinging to your hand in public?” I asked, turning to look at him.
He laughed again, his eyes on me.
“No, for if you did such a thing, how truly indecorous it would be!”
I perceived that he was laughing a little at me, and since I did not know why, I said nothing more.
I do not understand this freedom of hers. And yet, most strangely, when I ponder it I do not discern any evil insinuation in it. She avows her love for my brother as simply as a child may seek its playmate. There is nothing hidden or subtle in her. How strange this is! It is not like our women.
She is like the blossom of the wild orange tree, pure and pungent, but without fragrance.
They have agreed together at last what they will do. She is to put on Chinese dress, and together they will approach the honored Old Ones. My brother has taught her the proper way to bow in their presence. I am to go before to prepare the way and to take the gifts.
I cannot sleep at night for thinking of the hour. My lips are dry, and when I would moisten them, my tongue also is dry within my mouth. My husband endeavors to encourage me with laughter and bold words, but when he leaves me again, I am afraid. I am openly taking part against my mother, I who in all my life before have never disputed her will.
Where does the courage come from in me to do this thing? I am a timid creature always, and left to myself I would see nothing but evil in it. I see clearly even now my mother’s heart in the matter. Alone, I would say that she is right according to the customs of our people.
It is my husband who has changed me, so that I dare, in spite of my fear, to speak for love even against my ancestors. But I tremble.
She, the foreigner, is the only calm one among us.
XV
TO-DAY I AM WEARY and spent, My Sister. In my heart it is as though a harp string had been too tightly drawn for many days and then suddenly relaxed, so that music is dead in it.
The hour I have dreaded is over! No, I will not say how it went. I will tell you of the whole matter, and then you may judge of it for yourself. As for me—but I will not tell of the end before the beginning.
We sent the messenger to our parents, bearing our request that we be allowed to present ourselves the next day at noon. He returned saying that our father had left home for Tientsin as soon as he heard of my brother’s arrival. Thus did he avoid the difficult moment—thus has he ever avoided decisions! In his stead our mother appointed the hour of noon when she would receive my brother and me. Of the foreigner no mention was made, but my brother cried, “If I go, my wife will go, also.”
I went first, therefore, the next day, at the hour, and a servant bore gifts before me. My brother had chosen these gifts in foreign countries, and they were all curious and pretty things not often seen in our city—a tiny gilt clock set in the stomach of a gilded child, the whole not more than six inches in height; a watch cunningly embroidered with jewels to wear upon the wrist; a machine which when wound with a handle could speak and shout; a light which renewed itself without fire, however long it shone; and a fan of ostrich plumes, white as a drift of pear blossoms.
I went into her presence with these gifts. Our mother had sent word that she would receive us in the guest-hall, and there she was seated, as I entered, in the heavy dark carved chair of blackwood, at the right of the table under the painting of the Ming Emperor. She was robed in black brocaded satin, and in her hair were ornaments of gold. Upon her hands were many rings of gold, set with rubies and topaz, the stones fitting for the dignity of age. She leaned upon her staff of ebony and silver. I had never beheld her more stately in outward appearance.
But I knew her well, and I scanned her face closely to see how she really was in health, and my heart dropped in fear. The black of her garments but emphasized the transparent thinness of her face. So thin had she become that her lips had taken on the set curves almost of death itself, and her eyes had enlarged themselves, so that they were the sick and sunken eyes of the desperately ill. Upon her fingers the rings hung loosely and clattered against each other with a touch of dim music if she moved her hands. I longed to ask her how she really was, but I dared not, knowing it would annoy her. She had nerved herself to the meeting, and she had need of her strength.
Therefore when she received me without words, I presented the gifts, taking each from the hand of the servant and placing it before her. She acknowledged them with a grave inclination of the head, and without looking at them she motioned to her own servants who stood waiting near her, to remove them to another room. But her acceptance of them encouraged me somewhat. Had she declined them, in the language of gift-giving it would have meant that my brother was already refused. I said therefore,
“My honored mother, your son is here and awaits your pleasure.”
“It has been told me,” she replied coldly.
“He has brought the foreigner,” I ventured faintly, thinking it best to tell the worst at once, and yet having at my heart a sinking of spirit.
She was silent. I could make nothing of her face. It was immovable.
“May they approach?” I asked desperately, not knowing what else to say than what we had planned.
“Let him approach,” she replied in the same voice.
I hesitated, not knowing how to proceed. Was not the foreigner even then upon the very threshold? I went to the door where they stood waiting, and putting aside the curtain, I told my brother what our mother had said, and that he had better come first and alone.
His face darkened with the old look I remembered from his youth when something displeased him. He conversed a moment with that one in her own language. She lifted her eyebrows at his words and shrugged very lightly one shoulder, and stood in calm and careless waiting. Then my brother seized her hand swiftly, and before I could stop them they had entered.
How strange a figure she was to enter the great hall of our ancestors! I stood clinging to the curtain, half-fascinated by the sight. The first of alien blood to cross this threshold! My wonder at the thought held my eyes to her, so that for a second I forgot my mother. Even while I knew half-consciously that my brother’s determination not to enter alone must have stopped in an instant my mother’s inclination toward him and her natural longing to see him again, I could not but marvel at the moment.
My brother had chosen clothing of our country for the foreigner to wear, a coat of dull blue silk, very heavy and soft and embroidered lightly with silver. Her skirt was of black satin, perfectly plain except as it hung in straightly planned folds, and on her feet he had caused to be placed black velvet shoes without embroidery. Above these dark colors her skin was white with the white luster of pearls under the moon, and her hair flared
like yellow flames about her face. Her eyes were of the blue of stormy and thunderous skies, and her lips drooped in proud repose. She entered erect and haughty, her head thrown back. Her eyes met my mother’s eyes without fear or smiling.
Seeing this, I pressed my hands to my mouth to repress a cry. Why had not my brother told her she should enter with downcast eyes before an elder? For his sake I regretted exceedingly her haughty bearing. She entered as the reigning queen might enter the presence of the imperial dowager.
My mother fixed her eyes upon the foreigner. Their eyes met, and instantly they declared themselves enemies. Then my mother turned her eyes haughtily away and gazed into space beyond the open door.
The foreigner said something to my brother in a calm voice. I knew afterwards it was this,
“Am I to kneel now?”
He nodded, and together they knelt before our mother, and my brother began to speak the words he had previously prepared,
“Most Ancient and Honorable, I am returned from foreign countries at your command, to the kind presence of my parents, I your unworthy son. I rejoice that our mother has seen fit to accept our useless gifts. I say ‘our,’ because I have brought with me my wife, of whom I wrote in a letter through the hand of my friend. She comes as the daughter-in-law of my mother. Although in her veins is foreign blood, she wishes me to tell our honorable mother that since she is married to me, her heart has become Chinese. She takes upon herself voluntarily the race and customs of our family. She renounces her own. Her sons will be altogether of our celestial nation, citizens of the Bright Republic, and heirs of the Middle Empire. She gives her homage.”
He turned to the foreign one, who had been waiting quietly as he spoke, and gave her a signal. With surpassing dignity she bowed until her forehead touched the floor at my mother’s feet. Three times did she bow, and then she and my brother bowed together three times more. Then they arose and awaited my mother’s words.
For a long time she said nothing. Her eyes were still fixed, as they had been throughout, upon those open spaces of the courtyard beyond the door. Minutes she remained thus, silent, haughty, erect.
East Wind: West Wind: The Saga of a Chinese Family Page 10
