Of the two young wives, Meng was the more silent. She was too happy in her own life to quarrel with anyone for anything. Liangmo she held to be the handsomest and best of men, and she wondered continually that she had been so fortunate as to be given him for life. There was nothing in him which was not to her taste. His strong young body, his good temper, the sweetness of his ways, his endless kindness, his patience, his ready laughter, the way his lips met each other, the flatness of his cheeks, the heavy smoothness of his black hair, the firm softness of his hands, his dry cool palms—she knew and rejoiced in all. She found no fault in him. She was lost in him and content to be lost. She wanted no being of her own. To be his, to lie in his arms at night, to serve him by day, to fold his garments, to bring his food herself, to pour his tea and light his pipe, to listen to his every word, to busy herself with healing any slight headache, to test the flavor of a dish or the heat of the wine, these were her joys and her occupations. But above all was the bearing of his children. To bear him many children was her sole desire. She was his instrument for immortality.
Now as always when he was present she thought of him and heard the voices of others through the golden haze of her joy in him. That his father might take a concubine only made Liangmo more perfect in her eyes. There was no one like Liangmo. He was better than his father, wiser, more faithful. And Liangmo was content with her.
While Rulan talked, Meng listened, thinking of Liangmo. When Rulan demanded of her, “Meng, you are the eldest son’s wife—what do you think?” then Meng turned to Liangmo to know what she thought.
Be sure Rulan knew this and was contemptuous of Meng for having no mind of her own. She, too, loved her young husband, and she declared to Tsemo often enough when they were alone that she loved him more for not being a fool as Liangmo was. Secretly she grieved because Tsemo was not the elder son. He was stronger than Liangmo, keener, quicker, thin and sharp-tongued. Liangmo was like his father, but Tsemo was like his mother. Even while she quarreled with him she loved him well. But quarrel with him she did very often, hating herself for it while she did it. Every quarrel ended in her stormy repentance, and this repentance came from her constant secret fear, hidden even from herself, because she was older than Tsemo and because she knew that she had loved him before he loved her. Yes, this was her secret shame—that she had set her heart upon him in the school where they had met, and her heart had compelled her to seek him out with ill-concealed excuses of books she could not understand and lecture notes she had lost, and anything she could devise to bring him to her. Hers had been the first offer of friendship, and hers the hand first put out to touch his.
All this she had excused boldly to herself and to him because, she said, she was a new woman, not old-fashioned, not fearful of men, but believing, she said, that men and women were the same. But she knew, all the time, that Tsemo was the younger and that he had never known a woman before, and that he was hard-pressed by her love and had yielded to it, but not with his whole being. “You are afraid of your old-fashioned mother!” she had cried.
To this he had made answer, thoughtfully, “I am afraid of her because she is always right.”
“No one is always right,” Rulan had declared.
“You do not know my mother,” Tsemo had replied, laughing. “Even when I wish her wrong, I know she is right. She is the wisest woman in the world.”
These words he had said innocently, but with them he had thrust a dagger into Rulan’s heart, and there it stayed. She came to the Wu house ready to hate Tsemo’s mother and be jealous of her, and was angry because she could neither hate nor be jealous. For Madame Wu’s cool kindness to all alike gave no handle. If she felt Rulan’s hatred she did not show it, and the young woman soon saw that Madame Wu cared neither for love nor hate.
Nor could the young wife be jealous. In one of their quarrels she had flung this back at Tsemo, “Why do you love your mother so much? She does not love you so much.”
To this Tsemo replied with his usual coolness, “I do not want to be loved too much.”
Thus he flung the barb back again at Rulan and left it in her quivering flesh. But she was easily wounded, her heart always open and ready for hurt, and her pride quivering.
“I suppose you think I love you too much!” she had burst out at Tsemo then.
But this he would not answer. He was of a debonair figure, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow. All the sons were handsome except Yenmo, who was too fat yet, but Tsemo had a certain look more noble than them all. This noble look tortured Rulan. Was it a sign of his soul or only a trick of bones fitted together in his skull and covered with fine flesh and smooth golden skin? She did not know, and he hid the truth from her, or she thought he did.
“Tell me what you are thinking,” she demanded of him often.
Sometimes he told her, sometimes he would not. “Leave me a little privacy,” he said harshly then.
“You do not love me!” she cried too often.
“Do I not?” he would reply, and she cursed her nagging tearing tongue. Yet there were times when he did love her with all the kindness she demanded, and how was she to know what were those times? Alone she raged against his cheerfulness and put herself at the mercy of her own love and longed to be free of it because it made her less than he and dependent on him. But how could she be free of chains she had put upon herself? Her soul was all tempest. The dreams she had once had of her life were dead. She was in prison in the house. And yet who was her jailer except herself?
In this tempest she lived as secretly as she could, but she could not hide it all. Her temper was quick and her scorn hot. She blamed servants easily, and they were not used to discourtesy in this house and so they served her less well than the others in the family and laughed at her in the kitchens, and be sure one always told her of this laughter. And she was peevish often and thought everything inconvenient and old.
“In Shanghai we had self-come water and self-come light,” she would say, and complained against baths bucket-filled and against candles and oil lamps. But who heeded her? She was only one among sixty-odd souls under the Wu roof, and she had not even borne a child yet.
When, therefore, she complained too long this night against his father, Tsemo grew weary of her. He yawned and stretched himself and burst out laughing.
“Our poor father!” he said cheerfully. “After all, it is he whom we must pity, if we are to listen to you, Rulan. We will only see the woman in passing, but he must have her as his burden day and night. Come, girl, it is midnight. Go to bed and rest yourself—and give me rest.”
He rose, shook himself, rubbed his hands through his hair, whistled to her as though she were his dog, and went away. What could she do but follow him to their own court?
III
IN THE MORNING, AFTER a full night’s sleep, Madame Wu woke. This was one of her blessings, that after sleep and when she waked, before her eyes she saw the path like moonlight upon a dark sea, the path she chose to walk. It lay clear before her now.
“I must choose the woman at once,” she told herself. The household could not be at ease in this waiting. She would therefore today send for the old woman go-between and inquire what young women, country bred, might be suitable. She had already brought to her own memory all others that she knew, but there was not one whom she wanted. All were either too high or too low, the daughters of the rich, who would be proud and troublesome, or so foreign-taught that they might even want her put away. Or they were the daughters of the poor who would be equally proud and troublesome. No, she must find some young woman who had neither too much nor too little, so that she might be free from fear and envy. And it would be better, she reflected, if the young woman were wholly a stranger, and her family strangers, too, and if possible, distant, so that when she came into the house she would take up all her roots and bring them here and strike them down afresh.
When Ying came in with the morning’s tea and sweetmeats she said after greeting, “As soon as I have eaten I wil
l talk with that old Liu Ma.”
“Yes, Lady,” Ying said sadly.
In silence she helped Madame Wu to rise and dress. She brushed the long satin-smooth hair and coiled it, and then she went away and came back with Madame Wu’s breakfast. All this time she did not speak a word, nor did Madame Wu speak either. She let herself be dressed, her thin beautiful body as limp as a doll’s in Ying’s hands. But she ate well and felt content.
She had scarcely finished the last sup of tea when Ying brought Liu Ma. Be sure Liu Ma knew already why she had been called. She had her paid spies in every rich household to tell her when discontent rose between men and women. Her flat broad nose had as delicate a scent for mating man and woman as a hound’s has for wild flesh. Thus she knew that a concubine was to be found for Mr. Wu. But she was too knowing to let Madame Wu see that she had any such knowledge. Instead she pretended that of course the reason for this meeting was that Madame Wu must want to betroth Fengmo, her third son.
But Madame Wu was wise also in the ways of human beings, and she was sure that Liu Ma knew everything from servant’s mouth to servant’s ear, and so she allowed Liu Ma to think she was deceiving.
“You are early, Lady,” Liu Ma panted as she came in. She was a short fat woman who in her girlhood had been in a flower house. But she grew fat very early and found that she could earn more money by bringing other women to men than herself, and so she had married a small shopkeeper, giving him for dowry the money she had saved, and she took up the profession of go-between for good families.
“I like the early morning,” Madame Wu replied gently.
She did not rise since Liu Ma was her inferior, but she motioned the old woman kindly to a seat, and Ying poured tea for her and went away.
Liu Ma supped her tea loudly. She made no remark on Madame Wu’s having moved to this court. Instead she said in her hoarse voice, “You are more beautiful than ever. Your lord is very lucky.”
This she said by way of introducing the subject of concubines. For now, she thought, Madame Wu would sigh and say, alas, that her beauty stood her in no stead. But Madame Wu only thanked her.
Liu Ma took out a square of white cotton cloth and coughed into it. She knew better than to spit on the floor in this house. Everyone knew that Madame Wu was as particular as a foreigner in such matters. Then she began again.
“I thought that you might be wanting a fine young girl for your third son, and so I brought some pictures with me.”
She had on her knees an oblong package tied up in a blue cotton kerchief. This she untied. Inside was an old foreign magazine which had pictures of motion picture actresses. She opened this and took out some photographs.
“I have now three young girls, all very good bargains,” she said.
“Only three?” Madame Wu murmured, smiling.
This old Liu Ma always roused her secret laughter. Her merchandise was the passion between men and women, and she bartered it as frankly as though it were rice and eggs and cabbage.
“I do not mean to say three is all I have,” Liu Ma made haste to reply. “Surely I have as good clients as any other go-between in the city. But these are my very best. These three young girls have good families who are able to give money and the finest furniture and wedding garments.”
“Let me see that foreign book,” Madame Wu said. Now that the moment had come to choose a woman to take her place she felt half-frightened. Perhaps she had undertaken more than she knew.
“None of those young women are mine,” Liu Ma said. “They are only the electric shadow of women in America.”
“I know that,” Madame Wu said, laughing her soft laughter. “I am only curious to see what the foreigners think is beautiful in a woman.”
She took from Liu Ma the paper book she held out. It was soiled but not wrinkled, for Liu Ma prized it. Neither of them could read the foreigners’ language and so the names were unknown to them.
Madame Wu turned the pages and gazed at one gay face after another. “They all look alike,” she murmured, “but then all foreigners do look alike, of course.”
Liu Ma laughed loudly. “Certainly Little Sister Hsia does not look like these,” she said. “I could marry off these, but not Little Sister Hsia!” Everybody in the city knew Little Sister Hsia, and jokes about her were told over counters, in shops, and in courtyards and teashops. All declared her good at heart, but they relished their laughter nevertheless. Only her one servant, an old man, defended her.
“Do not tell me you can understand what she says,” a fish man at the market had teased the old man, while he weighed a small fish for Little Sister’s noon meal.
“I can,” the old man had sworn. “If I know what she is going to say, I can even understand her easily.”
“Little Sister Hsia is a nun,” Madame Wu replied to Liu Ma. “A foreign nun. Nuns are not women. Where did you get such a book as this?”
“I bought it,” Liu Ma said proudly. “A friend was going to Shanghai some five or six years ago, and I said I wanted such a book and he brought it back. I paid five dollars for it.”
“Why did you want a book of foreign women?” Madame Wu inquired.
“Some men like to look at such faces,” Liu Ma explained. “It rouses their desire and gives me business. Then also there are the new men who want modern women, and they point to one of these and say ‘I want one like this.’ I find a girl somewhere who will make herself look as near as she can to the one chosen.”
Madame Wu closed the book quickly and gave it back to Liu Ma. “Let me see the three photographs,” she said.
She took them without touching Liu Ma’s dirty old hand and looked at them, one by one.
“But these three faces also look alike,” she objected.
“Do not all young girls look alike?” Liu Ma retorted. “Bright eyes, shining hair, little noses and red lips—and if you take off their clothes what difference is there between one woman and another?” Her belly shook with laughter under her loose coat of shoddy silk. “But we must not tell the men that, my precious, else my business will be gone. We must make them think that each young girl is as different from another as jade is from pearls—all jewels, of course!” Her belly rumbled with her laughter.
Madame Wu smiled slightly and put the photographs down on the table. The young faces, all pretty, all set in smooth black hair, looked up at her. She turned them over, faces down.
“Have you any girls whose families live at a distance?” she asked.
“Tell me exactly what you want,” Liu Ma said. She felt now that they were coming to the heart of this hour, and she put her entire shrewd mind upon the matter.
“I seem to see the woman I want,” Madame Wu said, half-hesitating.
“Then she is as good as found,” Liu Ma said eagerly, “if she is on the earth and not already gone to Heaven.”
“A young woman,” Madame Wu said, still in the same half-hesitating voice. She had not faltered at all before her family in speaking of the young woman, but before this hard old soul who dealt in men and women as her trade, she knew she could hide nothing.
Liu Ma waited, her sharp small eyes fixed on Madame Wu’s face. Madame Wu turned her head away and gazed into the court. It was a fine morning, and the sun lay on the newly cleaned stones, and they showed faint colors of pink and blue and yellow.
“A pretty woman,” Madame Wu said faintly, “very pretty but not beautiful. A girl—a woman, that is—about twenty-two years old, round-cheeked and young and soft as a child, ready in her affection to love anybody and not just one man—someone who does not, indeed, love too deeply any man, and who will, for a new coat or a sweet, forget a trouble—who loves children, of course, good-tempered—and whose family is far away so that she will not be always crying for home—”
“I have exactly what you want,” Liu Ma said in triumph. Then her round face grew solemn. “Alas,” she said, “no, the girl is an orphan. You would not want one of your sons to marry an orphan who does not know what her paren
ts were. No, no, that would be to bring wild blood into the house.”
Madame Wu brought back her gaze from the court and let it fall on Liu Ma’s face. “I do not want the girl for Fengmo,” she said calmly. “For him I have other plans. No, this girl is to be a small wife for my own lord.”
Liu Ma pretended horror and surprise. She pursed her thick lips and took out the square of cotton again and held it over her eyes.
“Alas,” she muttered, “alas, even he!”
Madame Wu shook her head. “Do not misjudge him,” she said. “It is entirely my own thought. He is very unwilling. It is I who insist.”
Liu Ma took down the cloth from her eyes and thrust it into her large bosom again. “In that case,” she said briskly, “perhaps the orphan is the very thing. She is strong and useful.”
“I do not want a servant for myself,” Madame Wu interrupted her. “I have plenty of servants for the house, and Ying has always taken care of me and would poison another. No, if she is a servant she will not do.”
“She is not a servant,” Liu Ma said in alarm. “What I mean is only that she is so willing, so soft, so gentle—”
“But she must be quite hearty and healthy,” Madame Wu insisted.
“That she is,” Liu Ma replied. “In fact, also, she is quite pretty and had she not been an orphan I could have married her off long months before this. But you know how it is, Lady. Good families do not want wild blood for their sons, and those who are willing to have her are somewhat too low for her. She is strong, but still she is not low. In fact, Lady, I had thought of putting her in a flower house for a while for the very purpose of finding some older man who might want her for a small wife. But Heaven must have been watching over her, that at this very moment when she is at her best you should be looking for just such a one as she is.”
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