“I have not seen you for so long,” Little Sister Hsia said in her rapid broken way. Madame Wu had learned to understand her meaning without understanding the words, for Little Sister Hsia controlled neither breath nor tongue. The sounds tumbled out, dull where they should have been sharp and sharp where they should have been dull, and the rise and fall of her voice had nothing to do with the words.
“Have you been ill, Little Sister?” Madame Wu inquired.
“No,” Little Sister replied, “but somehow—the last time—I felt perhaps I intruded.”
“Can you intrude?” Madame Wu murmured politely.
“You are so kind,” Little Sister said. In her innocence she accepted the politeness. “Today I have come for something so special. Dear Madame, please, I have a plan and if you approve—”
“What is this plan?” she inquired.
“You know that priest?” Little Sister inquired.
“My son’s tutor,” Madame Wu murmured.
“He has a foundling home,” Little Sister said. “I have long felt that a woman should have some oversight of the girls there. He has only an old servant. But they should be taught, Madame. Do you not think so? I was wondering if you would ask him—that is, perhaps, I would like with your approval to offer my services as a teacher.”
“Why do you not ask him yourself?” Madame Wu inquired.
“You must know,” Little Sister Hsia said earnestly. “His religion is not mine.”
“How many religions have the foreigners?” Madame Wu inquired. “I am always hearing of a new one.”
“There is only one true God,” Little Sister Hsia said solemnly.
“Do you believe in this God?” Madame Wu asked.
Little Sister Hsia opened her pale blue eyes. She lifted her hand and brushed a lock of pale yellow hair from her cheek. “Why else do you think I left my home and my country to come to this strange land?”
“Is ours a strange land?” Madame Wu asked in some surprise.
“To me it is strange,” Little Sister Hsia said.
“Did your God tell you to come?” Madame Wu asked again.
“He did,” Little Sister Hsia replied.
“Did you hear His voice?” Madame Wu asked.
Little Sister Hsia blushed. She placed her long pale hands upon her breast.
“I felt it—I heard it here,” she said.
Madame Wu gazed at her. “But did your parents never try to betroth you?” she asked.
Little Sister Hsia clasped her bosom more closely. “In my country parents do not arrange marriages. Men and women marry for love.”
“Did you ever love?” Madame Wu asked in her calm voice.
Little Sister Hsia’s hands dropped into her gray cotton lap.
“Of course,” she said simply.
“But you did not wed?” Madame Wu asked.
“In my country,” Little Sister Hsia said painfully, “the man must ask the woman.”
Now Madame Wu was silent. She could easily have asked the next question, but she was too kind to do so. She knew that no man had asked Little Sister Hsia to marry him.
Little Sister Hsia lifted her eyes again bravely, although they were misted. “God had other plans for me,” she said. Her voice was bright.
Madame Wu smiled kindly at her and said, “Do I not know you well!”
She took up her tiny silver-bound pipe and lit it and smoked two puffs and put it down again. “Here in my country,” she said, “we do not leave so important a matter as marriage to men and women or God. Marriage is like food and drink and shelter. It must be arranged for, or some will have too much and others will starve. In my house I plan meals for all, even for the servants. Each has the right to his share. Some foods, of course, are liked better than others. But if I left foods to their choice, the children would eat nothing but sweets. My son’s father would eat nothing but crabs and fats. Some of the servants are greedy and would eat too much and leave nothing to the more timid ones, who would hunger. To each servant I allot a certain quantity, to each member of the family I allot a certain quality. Thus all are fed under my care.”
Little Sister Hsia’s fingers were knotting themselves. “I do not know how we came to talk about all this,” she said. “I came here to ask you something—really, I’ve forgotten what it was, now.”
“You have forgotten because it was not what was really in your mind,” Madame Wu said kindly. “I will answer you. No, Little Sister Hsia, you must leave Brother André alone. I assure you he is like a great high rock, hard because it is high. You must not beat yourself against that cliff. You will be wounded, your flesh will be torn, your heart will bleed, and your brains will be spilled like curds, but he will not know it. Occupy yourself with your own God—I advise it.”
Little Sister Hsia was now pale to the lips. “I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered. “Sometimes I think you are a very wicked woman. You think thoughts—you put thoughts into me—I don’t have such thoughts—”
“Do not be ashamed of your thoughts,” Madame Wu said kindly. “They are good thoughts, for you are a good woman; but you are very lonely. You do not want to be lonely. But you must be lonely. It is your doom. Life has not provided for you. Yours is the strange cruel country. Not even your parents provided for you when life did not. Little Sister Hsia, I would myself arrange a marriage for you were it possible. But there is no man of your kind here.”
Little Sister Hsia listened to her. Now her mouth opened and shut, she gasped, and suddenly she burst into tears of anger. “You are hateful!” she cried to Madame Wu. “You—you—I’m not like that—you’re all alike, you Chinese—just thinking of such—awful things.”
Madame Wu was deeply astonished. “Little Sister,” she said, “I speak of life, the life of man, the life of woman. I pity you, I would help you if I could—”
“I don’t want your help,” Little Sister Hsia sobbed. “I want only to serve God.”
“Poor soul,” Madame Wu murmured, “then go and serve your God.”
She rose and with a tender hand she took Little Sister’s hand and led her to the door and bade her farewell. She resolved never to see her again. Serenely she sat down, her eyes still full of brooding pity, when Ying came running in.
“The First Young Lord, his wife is beginning travail,” she cried.
“Ah,” Madame Wu said, “send for her own mother. Meanwhile I will go to her at once.” She rose and went into her bedroom and washed her hands thoroughly and changed her silk coat for one of clean blue linen. Then, perfuming her hands and cheeks, she went into Liangmo’s court.
She welcomed the news. Nothing was so exciting in a house as the birth of a child. She had not enjoyed the act of birth for herself, and yet each time she had given birth she had felt purged and renewed. She had no fears today for Meng. Meng was young and healthy and made for children.
It was the day of women, as all days of birth are. The main room of her eldest son’s court was full of excited women servants and female cousins and relatives. Even the children were excited and laughing as they tried to help carry pails of water and pots of tea. The great house was crowded enough and yet all welcomed the coming of another child. Moreover, since Meng was the wife of the eldest son, there was added dignity to this birth.
“Another son would be best,” an elderly cousin was saying when Madame Wu entered the court. “Then if something happens to the first one, here is the second. A house with many sons is always secure.”
At this moment Madame Wu entered and all rose. The highest seat had been kept for her, and she took it. Murmured greetings came from the suddenly silenced room. Rulan as the second daughter-in-law rose and poured tea. Even she was silent.
“Ah, Rulan,” Madame Wu said.
She looked with a sharp, swift gaze at the girl. Pale—she was looking pale. She never saw Rulan without remembering that once in the night she had wept aloud. Then Madame Wu saw Linyi sitting somewhat apart. She was cracking dried watermelon seed
s between her teeth and blowing the shells on the floor. Madame Wu restrained a rebuke. In a few minutes Madame Kang would be here, and it was better not to disturb Linyi. The girl stood when she saw Madame Wu’s eyes on her.
“Ah, Linyi,” Madame Wu said.
Then she took up the affair of the birth. “How are matters?” she inquired of the midwife who had come running out of the bedroom when she heard the commotion of Madame Wu’s arrival.
“All is well,” the stout woman replied. She was a loud, coarse, hearty soul who performed her task everywhere, but who welcomed a birth in a rich house because her gifts would be rich, too, especially if she delivered the child whole and alive and if it were a boy.
“It is surely a boy,” she said. Her broad face beamed. “Our First Son’s Lady carried him high.”
But Meng’s voice raised in sudden screams now was clearly heard, and the midwife ran out of the room. In less than half an hour Madame Kang came hurrying in. She herself was already shapeless, although she had put on loose robes. Silence fell as she crossed the threshold. Curiosity and pity made the silence. She felt it and covered her shame with words.
“Sisters!” she exclaimed, “here you all are. How good you are to care for my child!”
Then she spoke to Madame Wu. “And you, Eldest Sister, how is she?”
“I have waited for your coming,” Madame Wu said. “Let us go in together.”
Together they went into the room where Meng lay upon a narrow couch. Sweat poured down her cheeks and wet her long hair. The two ladies went to her, one on either side, and held her hands.
“Mother,” Meng gasped, “Mother—it’s worse than last time.”
“Truly it is not,” Madame Kang comforted her. “It will be much quicker.”
“Do not talk!” Madame Wu commanded them both. “Now is the time for effort.”
To Madame Wu’s cool thin hand, to Madame Kang’s plump warm one, Meng clung. She longed to lean her head on her mother’s breast and weep, but she did not dare because it would not have been dutiful to her husband’s mother. The reek of hot blood filled the room. The midwife was suddenly very busy.
“He comes, the little lord of life!” she cried. “I see his crown.”
Meng shuddered and screamed and twisted the two hands she held. Neither flinched. She bent her head and bit her own hand that her mother held, and Madame Kang seized her hand and put it tightly against her bosom.
“Why wound yourself?” she exclaimed.
But Meng flung herself straight and made her body an arch of pain. She opened her mouth wide and put out a great groan that rose into a final scream. Madame Kang dropped her hand, pushed the midwife aside, and put out both hands and caught the child.
“Another boy,” she said reverently. As though he heard her, the child who had drawn in his breath now let it out with a yell.
Madame Wu smiled down into the small wrinkled, furious face. “Are you angry that you are born?” she asked the child in a tender teasing. “Hear him, Meng, he is blaming us all.” But Meng did not answer. She was released from pain and, her eyes closed, she lay like a flower beaten upon the earth after rain.
That night Madame Wu and Madame Kang sat together. All was well in the house. The child was sound. The young mother slept. In mutual content the two friends now sat. Madame Wu, to spare her friend pain, had not spoken all day of Madame Kang’s own shamefully swelling body. While they sat and talked of family matters and many small things and wove these in with memories of their youth, a long shadow fell across the open door. It was Brother André coming to give Fengmo his lesson as usual.
“The foreign priest?” Madame Kang asked.
“He comes here still to teach Fengmo,” Madame Wu said. It seemed very long to her since last night when her soul had climbed out of the walls of the house. Now tonight it was fast again, caught and tied afresh by this new child born today. This was another mouth, another mind for which she was responsible.
“I do no more understand a priest or nun than I understand a foreign language,” Madame Kang said.
Madame Wu smiled at her. “You,” she said, “you—”
Madame Kang laughed roguishly and patted her full belly. “When I am alone,” she confessed, “I am happy. I am glad to have one more child.”
In Madame Kang’s rosy face so far from youth Madame Wu saw to her amazement something of the same divine content which she had seen last night on Brother André’s face. This friendship had been always upon the level of their common womanhood. Madame Wu knew that her friend had never so much as learned to read. Indeed, Madame Kang would have thought it a waste of time to read when she could bear a child.
“Meichen,” Madame Wu said, half smiling, half tender, “you are insatiable. You are not willing to leave children to the young women. You are as good as bearing your own grandchild. Will you never leave off?”
“Alas,” Madame Kang sighed with mock shame, “I find such pleasure in it!”
“Do you truly never wish for anything else than what your life is?” Madame Wu asked curiously.
“Never,” Madame Kang replied. “If I could just keep on bearing a child every year—of what use am I if I cease bearing this fruit?”
The thin and graceful shadow of Fengmo crossed the threshold. Madame Wu glanced at its passing.
“Fengmo is come for his lesson,” she said.
Both ladies watched his slanting shadow move away.
“Linyi—” They both began and stopped, each waiting for the other.
“Go on,” Madame Kang said.
“No, you are her mother, you proceed,” Madame Wu insisted.
“No, I will not,” Madame Kang said.
“Well, then,” Madame Wu said after an instant, “I will proceed. Fengmo is not happy with your daughter, Meichen. It is a pity you did not teach her how to make him happy.”
“Fengmo!” Madame Kang exclaimed. Madame Wu was surprised at the tone of her voice. “Fengmo not happy!” Madame Kang repeated with some scorn. “Ailien, let me tell you, it is Linyi who is not happy!”
“Meichen,” Madame Wu said in her most silvery voice, “recall yourself.”
“Yes,” Madame Kang declared, “you think you have taught Fengmo well. But Linyi is not happy with him. In a marriage there must be two. Can there be hand-clapping with only one hand? You have not taught Fengmo his part in marriage.”
“I?” Madame Wu said sharply.
‘Yes,” Madame Kang said. “Liangmo is like his father. He is a man by instinct, and so Meng is happy with him. But Fengmo is like you.”
“That is to say, he demands something a little above the common,” Madame Wu said bitterly.
Madame Kang wagged her head. “Then let him find it outside,” she said. “Let him take up his book learning and let him find a work to soak up his discontent. It has nothing to do with Linyi.”
“Meichen, you affront me!” Madame Wu exclaimed.
“Linyi had better come home for a while,” Madame Kang replied. “You and Fengmo, you can study your books and do without her until you see her value.”
Madame Wu saw this friendship, deeply dear, tremble and crack. “Meichen, do we quarrel?” she exclaimed.
Madame Kang replied with passion, “I have been a good friend to you always, and I have never judged you even though I saw you thinking thoughts above a woman. But I have always known that you were too wise, too clever for happiness. I told your sons’ father so—”
“Have you two talked of me?” Madame Wu asked. Her voice was too quiet,
“Only for your sake,” Madame Kang replied. She rose as she spoke and gathered her loose robes about her and walked sturdily away from Madame Wu.
Late that night when Madame Wu was in her bed Ying said, “Do you know that Madame Kang took your third son’s wife home with her tonight, Lady?”
“I know,” Madame Wu said.
She closed her eyes as though for sleep. But she did not sleep. She had not believed that Madame Kang would r
each into this house and take back her daughter, as though Linyi still belonged to her. She lay still, and she could scarcely sleep for anger all that night.
Had Madame Wu been a lesser woman she would merely have been angry with her friend and sure of herself, but she was not such a woman. She blamed herself for carelessness in her own behavior. She had always known that her friendship with Madame Kang was of house and family, earth and clay. Why had she not been content with this instead of opening a door which frightened her friend? Every soul is frightened when it is forced beyond its level. Now out of her carelessness the rift between Fengmo and Linyi was widened. For surely it is very grave when a young wife is taken out of her husband’s house and home again to the childhood shelter. Fengmo must go and bring her back. She sent for Fengmo.
He came in looking pale but quiet.
“Son,” she said, “I have sent for you to confess my own fault. Linyi’s mother and I quarreled. Like stupid women, each of us declared for her own child, and she took her daughter home again. I have to tell you this so that you will know it was not Linyi’s fault. Now we must invite her to come back to us.”
To her horror Fengmo shook his head. “I will not invite her. Mother,” he declared. “Let it be as it is. Linyi and I are not suited.”
“How can you say that?” Madame Wu asked. Her heart was beating so quickly that she could feel it throb against the thick satin of her coat. The morning was cold, and she had put on a lined garment. “Any man and any woman, with intelligence, can suit each other. Marriage is a family matter, Fengmo. It is a discipline. One may not consider himself only.”
“Mother, I know that is what you have been taught,” Fengmo replied. “And it is what you have taught us. Were I your only son, I might in duty accept it. But I have two brothers ahead of me. Mother, let me go free.”
Madame Wu leaned forward in her chair, her hands clasped together. “Fengmo,” she said, “tell me what happened between you and Linyi. I am your mother.”