Madame Ezra pressed Leah’s hand and released it and rose. “What is the goal, dear Aunt?” Leah asked, somewhat timidly.
“David’s marriage—and yours,” Madame Ezra replied serenely. “Now is the time. I never saw him so stirred as he was yesterday.”
“Now, dear Aunt?” Leah asked, alarmed.
“Yes, certainly,” Madame Ezra replied.
She moved toward the door as she spoke. She did not want to go more deeply into what Leah might do, or should do. Let the two young creatures be together and God would do His work.
At the door she paused and looked back at Leah. The young girl had not moved. She sat, her long strong hands folded palm to palm between her knees, and her face anxious. “Talk to David about God,” Madame Ezra said abruptly, and so saying she went away.
In a short while, even before Leah had finished pondering these words, Wang Ma appeared at the door.
“Our mistress bids you come to the peach garden,” she said, and stood stolidly waiting while Leah rose, and then led her southward to that place.
The peach garden was David’s favorite spot, as Madame Ezra knew, and thither she had gone when she left Leah. She saw him standing under a blooming peach tree, alone, a puzzled look on his face.
“David, my son,” she said tenderly.
“Yes, Mother?” His reply was ready, but his mind was far away.
Death seemed remote here in the garden. The Sabbath air was quiet. The high wall of the great compound cut off even the noise of the streets. Usually David disliked silence. Not finding Peony here, he would on any other day have hastened out of the gate to find friends or to walk about the streets seeing what new thing had come into the city overnight. The city was halfway between north and south, and travelers stopped here to rest and refresh themselves and to enjoy the good inns. Fakirs and jugglers with all the tricks of India at their finger tips, or troupes of wandering actors from Peking, played at the temple grounds every day or wandered into the teashops to coax the guests.
But this morning he did not wish to see them. He wanted to stay in this house, encircled by walls whose great iron-bound gates were locked at night. How safe it was! Images of dead faces rose to the surface of his mind like drowned men.
“Your father and I have decided that you must begin the study of the Torah, my son,” his mother was saying.
She had said this before and more than once, and he had always protested that he had enough to do. But now he did not protest.
“I am ready, Mother,” he said. Inwardly he was surprised and even awed at the coincidence of his own will with that of his parents, but this he did not tell his mother.
“Today, after we leave the synagogue, I will invite the Rabbi to come here and stay with us for a while,” Madame Ezra went on. “This will make it easier for you. He can attend to his duties quite as well from here.” She looked up at the blossoming trees. “How lovely they are!” she exclaimed. “Leah enjoys them. I shall send for her.”
She was about to say that David was to wait here, and then she did not. Let God bring these two together! She lifted up her heart in secret words: Let my son wait here, O God!
David caught the movement of her spirit without hearing its words. Sensitive and receiving, he felt impelled to stand where he was under the rosy peach trees, and there he stood while his mother, smiling at him, went away, and meeting Wang Ma, commanded her to bid Leah go to the peach garden. Thus David still stood as though his feet had roots into the earth when Leah came with her long swift step to the garden gate.
“Leah!” he said, and went toward her slowly. The morning renewed the magic of yesterday. The sunlight fell upon her, her clear pale skin showed faultless, and her eyes were dark. She had put on white this morning, a white Chinese linen that fell to her feet, and her girdle was gold and so was the band about her hair. She was beautiful, fairer than any lily. At the word he remembered the unfinished poem, and why he had not finished it.
Leah came toward him and put out her hands and he clasped them. “You look like the morning,” he told her.
She lifted her eyes to him and her heart flew as straight as a bird from her bosom and nestled in him. From that moment she loved him altogether and him alone.
God bring his heart to me, Leah prayed. The prayer was so strong and so single that it sang through her body, and all her frame was tuned to it.
He saw her love in her eyes, and sensitive and still receiving, he felt her heart come into him, an overwhelming gift. Even had she been a stranger he would have been moved, and how much more when she was no stranger but one of his own blood and his own kind! They stood alone in the garden. Above them was the soft sky of the spring morning and against it were the tender hues of the peach blossoms and the small new green leaves. Against the memory, too, that Kao Lien had put into them yesterday, the terror of death and the cruelty of persecution, they felt a luxury of safety around them here in the garden.
David wavered, torn between some far past that he did not know and the pleasant childhood he had known. But he was no longer a child. That far past he shared with Leah. They were one in the bond of their people. He dropped her hands and upon the impulse of his blood he put his arms about her and held her to him.
She leaned against him, and bent her head against his breast and closed her eyes. Thus has God answered, she thought in gratitude.
And he, looking down on those dark curling lashes, wondered what he had done on this Sabbath day. Had he made a choice? Somehow he had, but what it meant he did not know.
Then suddenly he heard his mother’s voice. “Children!” So she called.
They sprang apart as she appeared at the gate. “Come and eat before we go to the synagogue together, for it is time. David, your garments for worship—I have laid them upon your bed.”
They followed her in silence, and somehow, to his own bewilderment, he was glad that his mother had come, and glad that the moment was broken in which he had held Leah in his arms. To his mother’s questioning, smiling look he answered a smile, and wondered why he felt himself a liar.
In the house of Kung, while David was at the synagogue, Peony was talking earnestly to Chu Ma, rousing the pride of the old nurse, skillfully playing upon jealousy and anger.
In the night she had determined upon this visit. The evening meal before the Sabbath had been a strange one, silent and full of feeling in which she had no share. Even Ezra had been quiet, eating his food as if he did not care what it was. David and Leah ate little and only Madame Ezra had her appetite. Yet she too had said almost nothing, although she had looked often at David and then at Leah.
Peony, feeling herself excluded, had left the room early, and had spent the evening rewriting and polishing the new poem. She would take it with her tomorrow, as tender of some kind in the bartering she had to do in the house of Kung. Now in the service courtyard in this house she sat on a stool under a cassia tree, talking with Chu Ma.
“I ask to be forgiven,” Peony said gracefully. Thus she began. Then she smoothed the straight fringe of her hair with her delicate fingers. The breeze had disarranged it.
Chu Ma, embroidering a small satin shoe, lifted her eyes from her work. “What wrong have you done?” she asked, and smiled.
“I did not come back yesterday as I hoped,” Peony said. “But hear my excuse, good mother, and then forgive me.”
So saying, she went on to tell Chu Ma how the caravan had come, and with the caravan the evil news that in foreign countries the kinsfolk of her master and mistress were being killed, and how mourning had filled the house and she feared it would be bad luck to the house of Kung for her to come here out of such mourning.
Peony looked sad and she dropped her pearly eyelids and went on, knowing that Chu Ma’s sharp eyes were on her.
“And I fear I spoke too soon yesterday,” she said very softly. “I fear I did not read my young lord’s heart rightly.”
She sighed and Chu Ma said stiffly, “Young woman, I cannot remember w
hat you said.”
Peony knew she remembered and she went on again, “I said my young lord thinks only of your young mistress. I gave her his poem—you remember? But now they have brought the Rabbi’s daughter into our house, and I fear they have used God’s witchery and they have made our young master forget even his love.”
Chu Ma sniffed and got to her feet. She was very fat, and when she struggled upright scissors and thimble and silks tumbled from her. Peony made haste to pick them up.
“Let them lie,” Chu Ma said peevishly. “You had better come with me and undo the damage you have done.”
She went ahead and with her chin she motioned Peony to follow, and so Peony did, feeling that she was entering into a maze whose end she did not know.
The house of Kung was a large one, larger than the house of Ezra, and it was filled with generations of men, women, and children, all of whom drew their life from the same source. The women watched Peony from the corners of their eyes and the children stared, but she passed by them with her head bent modestly. So she came to the court where the young ladies lived who were the daughters of Kung Chen, the head of this great family. There were four daughters, but two of them were already married and away, and Kueilan came third, and after her had been born a child who was not the daughter of the same mother as she but of a young concubine whom Kung Chen took, and then was sorry he did because she fell in love with his head servant. After much pain, he had sent them both away, but his daughter he had kept.
Kueilan was playing cat’s cradle with this little sister when Chu Ma came in with Peony following her. Now Peony had never seen this third young lady, and had only David’s talk to make her know what she was. But she had no more to do than to look at the young lady, which she now did, without knowing that everything David had said was too little and that here indeed was the most beautiful female creature that anyone could imagine. Kueilan was childish in her looks, being only a little taller than the younger sister, whom Chu Ma now sent away.
“Nurse, why do you send Lili away?” Kueilan asked, and Peony heard what a sweet voice she had besides all her other beauties.
Chu Ma had no fear or reverence before her little mistress, and so she asked in a loud voice, not answering the question, “What have you done with the letter I gave you yesterday?”
“Here it is,” Kueilan answered, and she took David’s poem from her wide silk sleeve.
Chu Ma looked at Peony with reproachful eyes. “You see what hurt has been done!” she declared. “The child keeps his letter with her day and night.” She turned to her mistress again. “Give it to me, child,” she commanded. “It is worth nothing. I will throw it away.”
Now Peony’s quick brain had been working, and she saw very well that in this pretty girl she might have a friend and an ally to win David’s heart. There was nothing here that was strong and fearless. No, Kueilan was a kitten of a creature, her little face itself was a kitten’s face, the eyes wide and wondering and tinged with ready mischief, the mouth always ready to laugh. Just now she was looking half fearfully at Chu Ma. She clutched the paper and shook her head.
“I will keep it,” she said willfully. “I will not let you throw it away. I won’t—I won’t!”
Chu Ma looked up to heaven and Peony saw she was preparing to be angry, so she spoke at once. “Young Lady, do not trouble yourself. I have only come for your answer.” And to Chu Ma she said in a low voice, “I see how it is here. Do not be angry, Good Mother. Somehow I will mend the evil I have done.”
So Chu Ma kept silent, only continuing to pout, and Peony went nearer and spoke coaxingly to Kueilan. “Have you written an answer, Little Mistress?” she asked. Kueilan looked down and shook her head.
“Shall I help you?” Peony asked next.
Kueilan looked surprised. “Girl, can you write?” she asked.
“I can,” Peony said smiling. “If you tell me what you wish to say, I will write it down for you.”
“I can write—but I don’t know what to say,” Kueilan faltered.
“Our young lady has never written to a man,” Chu Ma proclaimed virtuously.
Peony was very gentle indeed. “You need not fear my young master,” she said. “Why, he is the kindest and best young man. He never hurts anyone. I have been his slave all my life, and he has never beaten me or let others beat me.”
Kueilan looked at her with surprise. “Even when he is angry?”
“He is never angry,” Peony said smiling.
“Oh!” Kueilan sighed.
Then Peony took from her own bosom the poem she had written and she read it aloud in a soft sweet voice.
“Within the lotus bud the dew drop waited.
At dawn the sun looked down and found her there.
He lifted her and set her on a cloud
And made her queen to rule the skies with him.”
“Give it to me,” Kueilan exclaimed. Her small face was lit with delight and she followed the four lines with the tip of her tiny forefinger. “I wish I had written it,” she said wistfully.
“Lady, I give it to you,” Peony said. “It is yours, as if you had made it.”
“Will you never tell him I did not write it?” the spoiled child asked.
“Never,” Peony promised. “But, Lady, copy it in your own handwriting,” she suggested.
“Chu Ma, fetch my brush and ink and my silk paper,” Kueilan commanded.
She sat in silence like a small reigning queen, allowing Peony to stand. When Chu Ma had brought the brush the young lady with much ado and ceremony made ready to write and then did write, her pink tongue between her lips, until she had copied the poem upon the silken paper, and had folded it intricately. Then she gave it to Peony.
“Take this to him,” she said, and waved her hands in dismissal.
Peony bowed her head, exchanged looks with Chu Ma, and went away.
Now had she gone the way she came she might have passed through this house unseen by any except Kueilan and Chu Ma. But Peony had curiosity as well as wit, and so she did not go as she came. Instead she told herself she would see this famous house while she was here, and especially the great lotus pool that was said to be in the central court. There she went, stopped only now and then by a servant who asked her what she did. She answered coolly that she had brought a message to the young mistress and was looking for the front gate. “This place is so vast I am lost,” she said laughing.
So she went on until she saw a round moon gate, and there she guessed was the central court. She tiptoed to the gate and looked in and saw a most beautiful garden. It was floored with green tiles and in the center was a long pool, and in this pool lotus leaves were pushing up their pointed buds. Around the walls stood peach trees and plums and the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate were in full bloom. Among them bamboos waved their fernlike fronds and little birds flew here and there, and looking up Peony saw far above her, over the high walls, a fine net spread to hold the birds.
She forgot everything, and stepping inside the gate, she walked softly to the pool and gazed into it. The water was clear between the lotus plants and gold and silver fish played among them. In the midst of her pleasure she heard a man’s voice.
“Little Sister, where have you come from?”
Peony was startled and she looked up, and there stood the master of the house, Kung Chen himself. Now she must explain why she was here. She smiled deeply enough to make the two dimples in her cheeks appear and she said, “I was sent from the home of Ezra to fetch a pattern for embroidery, and then, wicked one that I am, I could not resist the temptation to come and see this court, of which I have often heard. Indeed, everyone has heard of it. Please, sir, forgive me.”
Kung Chen stroked his chin and smiled. His face was round and kind and his small eyes were pleasant. He had thick placid lips and a broad flat nose. On this spring day he wore a gray brocaded silk robe, and since he was at ease in his home, he had no jacket or hat. On his feet were white silk socks and black velvet shoe
s. On his two thumbs he wore heavy jade rings and in his left hand he carried a silver water pipe. His eyebrows were scattered and scanty and his face was shaven, and this smoothness gave his full face a bland and open look.
“There is nothing to forgive,” he said kindly. “Enjoy the garden and the pool as long as you like. I come here at this hour every day when I have eaten, so that I may look at my fish.”
He pointed the mouthpiece of his pipe toward the water, and she looked into the clear depths where the fish swam serene and gay.
“How happy they are!” she said plaintively. “Here in your house even they are safe and well fed.”
“Have you fish at your master’s mansion?” he asked.
It seemed an idle question, but Peony recognized it for what it was, the beginning of other questions.
“Oh, yes,” she answered at once, “we have pools and fish and we feed them. We have also Small Dog.”
Kung Chen filled his pipe and took two puffs. “Birds are the best,” he murmured. “They are beautiful to look at, they sing pleasantly, and when one takes them into the bamboo grove, they attract other birds. Every evening at sunset I bring my singing thrush to the bamboos, and after I have fed it fresh meat it sings and other birds gather on the net. I sit so still they think I am a stone.”
“How pleasant!” Peony said.
“It is at such moments that the best of life is lived,” he replied simply.
She waited. Between them was all the distance of their differing sex and age and station. But there was no embarrassment. She felt his ageless simplicity, his complete hard wisdom, and suddenly she trusted him. She said, still gazing into the pool, “I did not tell you the truth, Honored One.”
His small eyes sparkled with laughter but he did not laugh aloud. “I know you did not,” he replied.
She stole a glance at him and laughed with him.
“Tell me now,” he suggested. “After all, you and I—are we not Chinese?”
Peony: A Novel of China Page 11