As she crosses the courtyard at Lady Jia’s, she hears the clink of china and the chattering voices of the family having breakfast. She steels herself for what everyone will say about her lateness, as she stops to catch her breath outside the door. Straightening her gown and drawing herself up, she passes through the door curtain. Everyone—Lady Jia, Uncle Zheng, Lian, Baoyu, Mrs. Xue, and the Two Springs—is sitting around the table eating. No one even turns their head at her entrance. Standing at the head of the table, behind Lady Jia’s chair, is Baochai, in Xifeng’s usual place. She has just ladled out a second serving of rice porridge for Uncle Zheng, and is now leaning over Lady Jia’s plate, using chopsticks to debone a small smoked fish for her, smiling and chatting with Granny.
A surge of desolation comes over Xifeng: no one seems even to have noticed her absence. Then she is outraged: Who is Baochai to take her place? She, Xifeng, is the senior daughter-in-law. She walks towards Baochai, expecting her to jump guiltily and yield her place. Baochai, however, comes forward to meet her, drawing her a little away from the dining table, speaking in a low voice so that the others will not overhear.
“I thought that you must not be feeling well, so I didn’t send anyone to wake you,” Baochai says. She looks into Xifeng’s face. “No, you don’t look well at all. Do you want me to send for the doctor again?”
Xifeng shakes her head.
“Are you sure? Well, at least go back and lie down. You’re not needed here.”
Xifeng looks at Baochai’s terrible, inscrutable face. Is her concern real or feigned? Is she actually exulting in her chance to supplant Xifeng? How Xifeng both hates and fears that smooth perfection, that glossy surface off which every grief seems to slide! If only she herself were enclosed in that same porcelain armor, which nothing seems to penetrate. Instead, she has become weak, so weak. She is too weak to care what Baochai’s motives are, and too weak to fight for precedence in the household anymore. Silently she turns away and goes back to her room.
3
Baochai sits in the corner of the kang, sewing some blinds for the still bare windows of the new apartment. When the family moved back into Rongguo, Uncle Zheng had allotted to her and Baoyu the apartments that Uncle Jing had occupied before his death. Her mother occupies a room on the other side of the courtyard. It is a large apartment, so large that even after the new furniture from her trousseau had been moved over from Drum Street, it still looked empty. The walls and shelves had been stripped bare during the confiscation, but Baochai is determined to make the place as pleasant as possible. After she had made up the deficiencies in Baoyu’s wardrobe, she set herself to sewing bed hangings and a door curtain. With her mother’s help, she has sewn a backrest and half a dozen pillows and bolsters, which are now scattered about the red Kashmiri rug that covers the kang. Once Baochai has finished the blinds, the place will look quite home-like.
Occasionally, she glances up at Baoyu, sitting at his desk across the room. In the circle of light cast by the lamp on his desk, he is totally immersed in his studies. The table is covered with books and papers. There is a blot of ink on his right middle finger. She always keeps an eye on him when he studies, so that she can attend to his needs before he can be distracted by them. She makes sure there is a cup of tea by his side, dumping it out and pouring fresh tea when it gets cold. If she notices that his ink is almost gone, she grinds more for him. If the lamp sputters, she trims the wick. He cannot afford to be distracted. The Exams are only a month away.
As always since his illness, he works with an almost preternatural stillness and concentration, never brushing back his hair, never fidgeting with his papers or books. Now that he knows the Classics backwards and forwards—she has heard him flawlessly reciting long passages from them—he is concentrating on practice essays. He writes on every conceivable topic, likely or unlikely, consulting thick books of commentary for added insights, polishing his diction and tightening the rhetorical structure. At Baochai’s suggestion, he even asks his father to read the essays and offer advice. This painstaking preparation will enable him to face the Exams, confident that no question will catch him unawares.
It is getting late. She puts away her sewing and takes the bedding out of the armoire, spreading it out on the kang. Then she begins to fold the clothes that she had laundered for him earlier. As she smooths out the creases in his tunics, carefully folding them in exactly the same shape and size, she is aware of a deep contentment. This is the life she is meant to lead: a deep and tranquil domesticity, with Baoyu at last throwing himself into the male world of the Exams and official life, while she excels equally in the women’s sphere of the home. She likes feeling that she is useful, even indispensable, to Baoyu. There is not a single practical task she does not do for him—from organizing his papers and books and clothes to reminding him when to wake, eat, bathe, and sleep. It is hard work, but she does it all, with only a little help from her mother. Perhaps one day soon they will have a maid to help. She knows that when that day comes, she will regret relinquishing part of her responsibilities to someone else.
As she looks at him, his sleek black hair, his angular nose, she feels a frisson of desire. She wants to do something she has never done before, go over and put her arms around him, or sit in his lap, maybe even unbutton her tunic. But she quashes the impulse. The last thing she should do is distract him from his studies. Besides, she tells herself, it is getting late and soon they will go to bed. She cannot articulate or admit to herself how much of her satisfaction in her marriage is due to her physical relations with Baoyu. Night after night since the wedding, she has only to lie in bed for a few minutes before he turns silently towards her, and begins to touch her. A few times, it is true, he seemed to have trouble getting an erection. Then he would swiftly manipulate himself under the covers, before pressing her down beneath him. Naturally, this always makes her feel a little awkward, but otherwise their sexual relations are satisfyingly regular. His desire convinces her that he is not indifferent to her, as she had first feared. He clearly wants to possess her body, and she does not believe he is someone who would want a physical relationship without caring and affection. She begins to believe that she has a power over him that he is reluctant to admit, out of pride or caution. That is why he touches her only under the cover of darkness. That is why he remains so silent during their lovemaking, as if afraid to betray his pleasure by even the faintest sound. She tells herself that Daiyu and he could have been together only a few times at the most. They simply could not have known the intimacy that Baochai now shares with him, deepening with every night they spend together. And her own feelings for Baoyu are growing as well. He is so different from the old Baoyu, who was always chattering, always distracted.
At last he rests his brush on the inkstone. He reaches out his arms, stretching and yawning. This is the usual sign that his work is done for the night, and that she can begin to help him prepare for bed. She bustles over, taking up his inkbrush and inkstone to rinse them out.
“Did you finish the Mencius?” she calls from the basin, the ink clouding the water gray.
He gestures at the paper before him. “Yes, I think this looks pretty good.” He reaches his right arm behind him and massages a spot on his lower back. “I suppose I can go on to the Great Learning tomorrow.”
“That’s good.” She dries the inkstone and the brush, and walks over to his desk to return them to their spots. He is still rubbing his back, looking down at the page in front of him and frowning as if there is a passage that still displeases him.
On an impulse, she decides to give him a hint about what she is starting to suspect. “I’m late, you know,” she says, going around the desk to stand beside his chair.
He is still looking down at the essay. “Late for what?” he says absently.
She feels flustered at being forced to speak more explicitly. “I mean, I’m late,” she repeats, stammering and blushing. “I mean, it’s more than six weeks since my last …” She trails off in embar
rassment.
Baoyu looks up. Suddenly the atmosphere in the room is tense.
“Are you sure?” he asks, at the same moment she blurts out, wishing that she hadn’t said anything, “I—I’m not really sure yet. It could be nothing, after all.”
He interrupts her. “Well, if that’s the case, it’s wonderful news,” he says. But he does not speak as if it is wonderful news. She cannot tell what he feels—she almost thinks that she sees relief in his eyes—but it certainly isn’t happiness. There is an awkward silence, which he breaks by rising from his chair and walking over to the wardrobe. He begins to take off his robe, instead of letting her assist him as she usually does.
She feels like crying, as she had the first night of their marriage, before he had touched her. The confidence and contentment she thought she felt seem fragile as eggshells, so easily crushed by the strangeness of his reaction to her news. She cannot help herself. “Aren’t you happy?” she blurts out.
He shrugs, not looking at her, folding his robe and putting it in the wardrobe. He turns to face her. “Why shouldn’t I be happy?” he says. “A child is always a reason for joy. After all, is there anything more pure and blameless than an infant?”
He is trying to evade her by speaking in generalities. “I was talking about our child, not—not some hypothetical child,” she says sharply.
He ignores her interruption. “In fact, I was just reading and thinking about that passage in Mencius about the ‘heart of a newborn.’ ” He goes back to his desk, opens one of the books, and holds it out for her to see.
She hesitates, deliberating whether to allow herself to show any interest, to be drawn from her own point. Pinching her lips tightly together, she walks over to his desk and looks down at the page. “ ‘Daren zhe bushi qi chizi zhi xin zhe ye,’ ” she reads. “ ‘A noble man is one who does not lose the heart of a newborn.’ ” She looks at him impatiently. “Well, what of it?”
“What do you think it means?”
She ponders, sensing that he is testing her. “Well, he is talking about virtue, of course,” she begins slowly, trying to dredge up what she remembers from long ago lessons. “He doesn’t really mean the heart of an infant, literally. It’s a metaphor for the purity of a sage’s heart, his freedom from selfishness, and desire to help mankind, like Emperor Yao and Emperor Shun, the early sage-kings,” she adds, gaining confidence.
“That’s what people say, but it doesn’t make sense.” He shakes his head vigorously. It is the old Baoyu, animated and opinionated, that she has not seen for so long. “Think about it. Since when does a ‘newborn baby’ want to help mankind? That’s absurd.
“So what does a newborn baby really want?” He leans forward, ticking his points off on his long fingers. “It cries when it’s hungry or sick or when its diaper is wet. That’s all.”
“What’s your point?” she says, a little tartly.
“That’s what Mencius means.” He shuts the book, patting its cover. “A baby has no desires—no ambition, or love, or greed. It is only when we get older that we learn to desire those things—”
She has no idea what he is getting at, but his remarks strike a sudden fear into her heart. “How can you put your own ideas into Mencius’s mouth like that? For a thousand years, other people, far more learned than you, have devoted their entire lives to studying Mencius and figuring out what he means, and here you come along—”
She breaks off, surprised by her own vehemence. It takes her a moment to master herself sufficiently to speak with any semblance of calm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that—”
“No, you’re right. I was just following my own train of thought …”
The mutual dissatisfaction hangs palpable between them. Baoyu moves away from the desk and begins to pour hot water into the basin.
She wants desperately to bridge the distance between them. “Baoyu, you’re studying too hard—”
“Studying too hard?” He smiles ironically. “Since when is it possible for you to think I am studying too hard?”
She hurries on, ignoring his jibe. “It’s making us both tense, short-tempered. Why don’t we do something to relax?”
“Like what?”
She answers at random. “Oh, I don’t know. We could go for a walk … Why don’t we go for a walk in the Garden tomorrow if the weather is fine? It’s overgrown, of course, but the fresh air will do you good—”
“No!” he says, so forcefully that she jumps. After a moment he adds in a calmer voice, “I don’t want to go to the Garden.”
She stares at him, but his face is expressionless. She is even more terrified than before. He begins to ladle cold water from the basin. She goes over to him and takes the ladle from his hand. Instead of ladling the water for him, she does something she has never done before. She stands close to him and tugs his hands so they are touching her body through her clothes. She lets the ladle clatter to the floor. She presses his hands flat against her body, and guides them so they travel over her belly, her hips and buttocks, her breasts. He does not resist her, his hands obedient to the pressure of hers. It is the first time that they have touched each other in the light. She seeks his eyes with her own, wanting to see the desire in them, but he keeps them fixed downwards. She takes him by the chin to tilt his face up, but still his eyes slide away from hers, so she kisses him on the lips instead, boldly, lingeringly. At first his body is rigid, but as she continues to kiss and caress him, she feels him relax. Then she leads him to the bed and for the first time they make love in the glare of the lamps.
4
The night before the Exams, Jia Zheng calls Baoyu and Huan to his study. He remembers how distraught he had been before he took the Exams so many years ago, and how he had longed for a few words of encouragement and comfort. Instead, his father had threatened to beat him if he did not pass. He had not been able to fall asleep the whole night before, and had set out in the morning slightly nauseated from exhaustion. Although he feels awkward in the role of mentor, especially after his experience with Jia Yucun, he decides he must say a few words to his sons before such a momentous occasion.
Huan comes first. The boy fidgets so much that it sets Jia Zheng’s teeth on edge. He encourages Huan to keep calm and pace himself during the Exams. Having read Huan’s practice essays, Jia Zheng feels that his diction is too crude and his transitions too clumsy for him to pass. Unlike Baoyu, Huan is not talented enough to master the materials for the Exams without a teacher or a tutor. After Baoyu passes and starts to make an official salary, they will be able to afford a tutor for Huan. However, since Huan has worked hard and is eager to take the Exams, Jia Zheng does not consider it right to discourage him.
After Huan has excused himself to do some last-minute cramming, Baoyu comes. “Sweeper said you wanted to see me, Father?” he says, standing just inside the door.
Jia Zheng rises from his seat. “Yes.” He smiles. “Have Baochai and the girls gotten all your luggage ready?”
“I think so.”
“With all the fuss they’re making, you’d think you were going for three months, not three days!”
Baoyu forces a smile. He looks pale and wan, and Jia Zheng worries whether he will have the stamina to concentrate for the whole Exams. It is probably just nerves. He puts his arm around Baoyu’s shoulders. “Worried?”
Baoyu shrugs, almost impatiently, his eyes on the ground.
Jia Zheng guesses he is too proud to admit that he is anxious. “You don’t need to worry. You’ve studied hard for so many months. Just do your best.” Feeling how rigid Baoyu’s body is, he wonders whether he has put too much pressure on the boy. “Remember how I told you last spring, when you were sick, that everything depended on you?”
Baoyu looks up into Jia Zheng’s face, his eyes strangely intent. “Of course.”
“Well, things have started looking better since then, haven’t they? I’ve been reinstated, and we’re back at Rongguo. Now that you’re married to Baochai, Pan has been
even more generous. I want you to know”—he looks into his son’s eyes—“you don’t need to worry if you don’t pass the first time.”
Baoyu’s eyes drop. “You don’t really mean that, Father. You’ve always drummed it into my head that everything depended on my passing.”
“I do mean it. I just wanted you to study hard and do your best. And now that you’ve done that, it doesn’t matter so much if you fail. In fact—” He finds himself confessing what he has kept from his son for so many years, for fear that Baoyu would think less of him. “I failed the first time. And the second time, as well.” He still feels the sting of his failure more than thirty years later, and to his amazement, tears film his eyes. He laughs sheepishly to hide them.
“Did you, Father?” Baoyu raises his eyes. Instead of the contempt Jia Zheng had half feared he would see there, Baoyu’s eyes are filled with sympathy and understanding. “You never told me that.”
Jia Zheng can still remember the way he had felt when the list of successful candidates was posted and his own name was not on it. He didn’t want to leave his bedroom, so afraid was he of reading contempt for his failure in everyone’s eyes. He had been filled with jealousy for Min, because she was so much quicker to learn than he. He had hated his schoolmaster, and his mother and father. He had been so taken up by his own despair that for once his father’s scoldings and threats had no power to move or frighten him. He had felt that his whole life was over.
And yet he had picked himself up off the ground and had begun to study again. He had failed another time, it was true, but that time, one of the Examiners, a friend of his father’s, had leaked the information that he had just missed the cutoff. The third time, he had passed respectably. After that he had advanced quickly, earning the respect of his colleagues and superiors, his previous failures apparently forgotten.
The Red Chamber Page 40