Kinfolk

by Pearl S. Buck

  When he left her thus abruptly, Louise had looked after him thoughtfully. She had waited daily for a letter from Philip, or even from Estelle. To Estelle she had poured out her hatred of everything in this medieval city and all her longing for New York. To Philip she had written six heartbroken pages. Neither had answered. When the days began to slip into weeks something hard appeared in her heart. She had refused to go to school and on the pretext of keeping house she had stayed at home, idling her days away. There was nothing to do. Little Dog and his mother under the supervision of Young Wang kept everything smoothly running. The house was comfortable in its fashion, while the weather was still warm. She slept a great deal, and she borrowed books from the English library at the hospital and read novels. There was a motion-picture theater and she went there sometimes, although always with Little Dog’s mother as chaperone. Chen had spoken to James about that.

  Now, leaning back in the wicker chaise longue in which she spent so many hours, she toyed with the idea of making Chen love her. Then she frowned restlessly. What was the use of it? He would only want to marry her, and she did not want him. She was so cold to him for a few days that he felt relieved.

  In the hospital as at home Mary was almost completely happy. That she was not altogether so was because of her sincere anger whenever one of the doctors failed to be as careful of the children under her care as she thought he should be. Dr. Kang especially she heartily hated and she quarreled with him often. He evaded her laughingly, secretly angered that she was not a nurse whom he could simply dismiss.

  “Can I help it that I prefer adults to children?” he demanded one day.

  “But a child!” she breathed at him hotly, her eyes filled with fury.

  “I am a hardhearted wretch,” he agreed. “I am all that is hateful. But I do not like children.”

  She retorted by never calling on him, and by insisting on James as the surgeon. It was her habit to dismiss from her thought and her life all whom she disliked.

  One Saturday morning, as she was preparing to go home for the midday meal, she stopped at the hospital post office to fetch the mail, and there she found her mother’s letter. She took it out with warm pleasure. It was thick and it would be full of news, and they could read it aloud at the table together. She did not open it, therefore, thinking that to do so would be selfish. She tucked it into the bib of her apron, and later, it their noontime dinner, when their first hunger was over, he drew the letter out.

  Saturday was always a pleasant day, for they did not hurry back to the hospital and Peter had a holiday from the college. This afternoon they had planned to walk to the chrysanthemum market. James had been a little late, and she waited for him to finish his first bowl of rice. Then she said, “Here is a letter from Ma.”

  “Good!” James exclaimed. “I was secretly beginning to worry, for Pa has not written at all, although he promised he would.”

  Chen rose. “I will go away,” he said politely.

  James pressed him down, his hand upon Chen’s shoulder. “Sit down, sit down,” he said. “Now you are our brother.”

  “There is no telling what is in Ma’s letters,” Peter said with mischief.

  “I will go,” Chen said, starting to get up again.

  “Stay,” James insisted, putting out his hand again.

  Louise had taken no part in this. She continued to eat, her large discontented eyes downcast.

  So Mary began to read. Every now and then she paused and turned the letter this way and that, for their mother’s writing was entirely individual and she went by sound rather than by the correct way of shaping a character. Upon this Peter gave some advice. “You make a mistake to examine Ma’s writing,” he said. “Take a deep breath as though you were about to run a race, and then go as fast as you can, by sense only, and not by sight.”

  They laughed and Mary, in fun, did what Peter had told her to do. Thus she rushed straight into the part of Mr. Liang’s letter where she told of the possibility of a concubine and her determination to leave the house in such case. There Mary stopped. They looked at one another aghast. Even Louise was startled and put down her chopsticks.

  “I told you I should not be here,” Chen said.

  “Why not?” demanded Mary. “If Pa has been so foolish—”

  “I do not believe it,” James said severely, but in his head he was dismayed to find that he was not sure that his father could not be foolish.

  Peter turned to Louise. “You know Pa better than any of us,” he said. “Can you think of anyone who seemed—special to him?”

  Louise looked thoughtful. It was painful to remember the gaiety of those days in New York in comparison with the dullness of her present life, but she forced herself to do so. “It is hard to think of anyone,” she said at last. “You know how women are about Pa. They gather in a circle so close to him—to hear what he says.”

  “Louise!” Mary cried. “That is not Pa’s fault.”

  Peter grinned. “Pa never pushes them away,” he remarked.

  “Pa never puts his hand out to touch anybody,” Mary retorted.

  Louise continued to look thoughtful. “I do think that Pa used to talk more to Violet Sung than to any of the others,” she said.

  Peter groaned loudly. “Oh—that female!”

  “Hush!” James said. “Who is Violet Sung?”

  Louise cast a sidelong look at her brother. “She is a friend of Lili’s,” she said.

  James compelled his face not to change. He had only once spoken to Mary of Lili. There had been but a few words. “Is—Lili married yet?” So he had asked Mary.

  “No, she is not,” Mary had replied. “And please do not ask me about her. I never saw her except that once after you left.”

  Since Lili had not written him one letter, it seemed folly to speak more of her. Yet he had wanted to talk about her, perhaps to heal his own heart. “I know that she and I could never marry,” he had said. “We would make each other very unhappy.”

  “I am glad you see that,” Mary had said. Her round pretty face had looked so severe that he had said no more.

  Now that he heard her name on Louise’s lips, however, it occurred to him that Louise was the one to whom he should have spoken. But this was not the time or the place. He put on his most elderly brother look and he said quietly, “In any case I feel sure that Pa will do no such thing. Give me the letter, Mary. I will finish it in private, and then I will write to him for us all. Of course if we are wrong about Pa, it is quite true that Ma must come to live with us.”

  “Then I will go and take care of Pa,” Louise said eagerly. “I am sure Violet will not be a good housekeeper. She is very beautiful, in that French sort of way—she has always lived in Paris. And you know how Pa is—he’s very intellectual, but at the same time he’s used to the way Ma looks after him, and Violet would never put a hot-water bottle in his bed or see that his ties are cleaned and his shoes brushed.” Her face was eager and her eyes shone and they all pitied her, for they knew that it was not to their father that she wished to return. “Louise,” James said, “I wish to speak with you alone.” He rose and went into the other room, and Louise, pouting, followed him.

  The others left behind ate what they wished for the remainder of the meal. Mary’s appetite was gone, and Chen, feeling sorry for her, had not the heart to seem hungry. With his chopsticks he picked a bit of meat here and a strip of vegetable there. When she put down her chopsticks he put down his and taking the tea bowl he went out into the court and rinsed his mouth thoroughly and spat behind the pine tree. Only Peter ate another full bowl of rice, and to him Mary talked in subdued angry tones.

  “If I thought Pa really were so wicked, I would declare myself not his daughter,” she said. Every day in the newspapers in Peking daughters and sons declared themselves free of their parents, because, they said, these parents were too old-fashioned and did not have the interest of the nation at heart.

  “Pa is very deep,” Peter said. “He is full of Co
nfucianism and all that rotten old stuff. You should hear the fellows here at college talk about Confucius. Why, Confucius was a reactionary, and he kept the old traditions alive that have made the nation weak and the people slaves.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Mary said impatiently. “You know the people here are not slaves. Everyone does as he wishes. In the hospital we have signs everywhere that there is to be no spitting but everybody spits just the same wherever he likes.”

  “That, too, is because of Confucianism,” Peter declared, with his mouth full of steamed duck. “Hygiene and science are equally unknown here, because Confucius has held back our people.”

  “I don’t see what this has to do with Pa!” Mary cried.

  “It has everything to do with him,” Peter said, filling his bowl with rice again. “Pa is a reactionary, too. That’s why he doesn’t dare come back to China. He is afraid someone will stab him in the back in a dark alley.”

  He said this terrifying thing so solemnly that Mary held her tongue for a half minute. Seeing the impression he had made, Peter went on. “I have already learned a lot at the college. I never knew before how much the fellows here hate Pa. Everybody knows him and everybody hates him. They say he is an old-fashioned intellectual, that he wants to be considered a scholar of the old school, and those old scholars are in league with the warlords, the landlords, and the government to oppress the people.”

  “Peter!” Mary cried. “Take care how you speak.”

  “I’m only saying what I hear,” Peter said doggedly. “It is not pleasant to be Pa’s son, I can tell you. I have to say openly that I don’t agree with him.”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Mary said warmly. “Your own father!”

  “Yours too,” Peter said. “It was only a minute ago that you were talking about being independent of him.”

  Thus caught, Mary lost her temper. “Oh, shut up!” she said in English, and feeling the tears come to her eyes she rose and went into the court to be alone.

  Chen, however, was still there. He had sat down on the bench under the great pine to pick his teeth and to consider how he could be useful. When he saw Mary he hid the toothpick in his hand and rose politely. With her he was always formal.

  “Do not get up,” Mary said. “I am only passing through the court.”

  “Please,” Chen said, “sit down for a moment. I have been thinking about the letter. My conclusion is that your mother has made some mistake. If your father were really considering such a step he could not take it in America, where a concubine is not a recognized person. Whatever he did must be secret there. Since he is so famous, it would be difficult to keep anything secret. Moreover, I have discovered that intellectuals seldom carry on a genuine love affair. They do not have the physical strength for it. Take the doctors in our hospital—they talk a great deal about love and women when we are alone together. Actually I do not know of one who does more than talk. For them love is entirely theoretical. Your father is no longer young. He is the less likely then to undertake a love affair in practical terms. Please write to your mother and tell her that she is probably mistaken.”

  Mary had listened to this somewhat long speech without removing her eyes from Chen’s face. Never before had she looked at him so steadily. As he stood there under the pine tree with the sunlight falling through the branches she saw as if for the first time that he had a broad honest face, a square big mouth, a large strong nose, and fine eyes. The look in his eyes was good, friendly, and true. She spoke with involuntary thanks. “Chen, you are very kind to say this to me. I think you are right. I think it is Ma who is old-fashioned and suspects Pa. I shall tell her so.”

  Chen smiled somewhat timidly. “Do you think with all this trouble that we must give up our walk to the chrysanthemum market?” he asked.

  She had forgotten it, but now when he spoke of chrysanthemums it seemed to her that this visit to the famous market where she could choose pots of her favorite flowers and bring them home would comfort her more than anything. “I don’t see why we should not go,” she exclaimed. “I will go and find James.”

  “Wait,” Chen exclaimed. “Listen!”

  They stood and listened. They could hear the murmur of James’s voice, and then Louise’s, in earnest conversation.

  “They are still in the stream of talk,” Chen said. “Let us give them a little longer.”

  “Where is Peter?” Mary asked.

  Chen smiled and pointed his forefinger toward the open door. Peter, filled with rice and duck, had thrown himself down on the wicker couch that stood against the wall and was sound asleep lying on his back, his hands folded under his head.

  “Come and rest under the pine tree,” Chen said to Mary. “The air is cool and fragrant. You need not talk. Let us just sit in quietness.”

  In the other room, a small room which they had made into a study and library, James was listening to Louise, asking a question now and then, guiding her to talk, but saying little himself. This sister of his with whom he had lived in one house for nearly all the seventeen years of her life, he now realized had been a stranger to him. He knew how she looked, and he could even remember how she had looked as a baby and a little girl. In those years she had been for the family a toy and a plaything. Mary had been serious and impetuous, always a person, but Louise had seemed to have no life except as she drew it from others. She had always sat on somebody’s lap until only a year or two ago, when suddenly she had stopped of her own accord, and yet none of them had noticed it. Imperceptibly she had ceased to be a little girl and had become a young woman, and they had not noticed this, either. She had done well enough in school, but it had not mattered that she did no better. None of them expected or indeed wanted Louise to be bookish or brilliant. She had seemed always gracefully unselfish, because she was the one who brought Pa’s slippers, or filled his pipe; she was the one to fetch a book somebody wanted or to bring in the dishes from the kitchen and take them out again. No one noticed that she never did any real work, even to make her own bed. Behind the facade of prettiness and graceful unselfishness she had grown into someone quite different, a small hard separate woman, James now perceived as he let her reveal herself. How had they let her grow up without heeding what she was?

  “I hate it here,” Louise was saying. “You may think these crumbling old palaces are wonderful, Jim, but they repel me. I don’t like living in a country where everything is falling to pieces and all that is worth talking about is the past.”

  “But, Louise, you are wrong. Something wonderful and new is taking place here.”

  “What is it?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I feel it. We have finished with one age and we are about to begin another. I stay here because of the future, not the past. I know Pa is always dwelling on the past, but I do not.”

  “It happens that I don’t like anything here!” she said passionately. “I don’t like the young men. I don’t like the people on the street. The children are filthy. Jim, I wish I hadn’t been born a Chinese. I wish I could stop being a Chinese. Oh, Jim!”

  Here she broke down into tears and he let her cry.

  “All this,” he said after a moment, “is because you have let yourself fall in love with an American. At your age love shapes the universe.”

  She continued to sob, and he went on gently. “I know, too, what it is to love someone. I think I loved Lili with all my heart. Even now, when I know we shall never marry, when I think of her, or someone speaks her name, the world trembles. But it does not crash about me. I know that there is a life that must be lived happily without Lili. Just now I feel as though for me it would always be lived alone. But I know this is only feeling. I shall marry and have children. I want to marry here and have my children here. And I shall never let them leave our country. They must stay here until there is no possible danger in their going away, because however far they go, they will always come back, and wherever they are they will dream of com
ing back and whatever they do it will be for our people. And they must marry here, too, and their children must be born here. So much I have decided.”

  Louise stopped crying and looked at him half angrily. “You are very old-fashioned, Jim.”

  “There is something here that I want,” he said. “I don’t know what it is, but I shall find it. And I shall find it not with this—” he tapped his brain cap—“I shall find it by my blind roots pushing down and down.”

  She was not stupid and she listened to him. “You are a man,” she complained, “and you can do what you like.”

  “Now it is you who are old-fashioned,” he said heartily. “A woman can do what she likes too, nowadays, even in China. You must change what you want most. Instead of grieving for Philip, who does not want you, you must keep saying that you do not want him. And after a while it will be true. Then you will be free to find what you really want.”

  She did not answer and he could not tell how much she believed. He gazed somewhat wistfully and with great tenderness at her lovely and still childlike face, and it crossed his mind with a sort of wondering shyness, that of all of them, only this child knew what the mystery of the flesh was. And yet she did not really know, for she had not crossed the valley and slowly climbed the hill of life to the forts of happiness. Instead, like a child she had rushed up that hill and had beaten at the gates and clamored until they opened. She did not know anything about love and its true consummation. He felt a great pity for her, because what she had done could never be undone, and whenever the true consummation came, if ever it did, it would be spoiled.