Pearl Buck - Kinfolk

Among ivory statues of Kwanyin Violet had grown up to look like one herself, consciously modeling herself upon the goddess. When her father died, leaving no will and no other family, she had continued in the house, except when she traveled with her servants, a married French couple who made her home wherever she was, hiring transient help in whatever country they were. Until she met the Englishman, she had had only one lover, an impetuous, jealous White Russian who had made her wretched and yet who had made it impossible for her to live alone. She had fled from him, and then she had really fallen in love with Ranald in her quiet peculiar way. She liked his subdued heat and his tenacious strength, and she liked his complete self-control. He was restful and he gave her a sense of security. She hoped that she need never have another lover, and that they could keep their relationship steadfast until they grew beyond the need of such things. By that time she hoped she could find something she really enjoyed doing.

This steadfastness she wanted above all else, and she had felt it threatened tonight by the passionate and handsome young Pierre du Bois, whom she had met for the first time. He had immediately told her that he was nobody, only a third secretary to somebody, but he thought she was the most beautiful human being he had ever seen. She had missed something of the Russian in the quiet Englishman and his quiet rather selfish way of making love.

“I quite realize that you and I have no claim on one another,” Ranald was saying, “and I make no claim now.” He was very straight and tall and his pale firm face was distinguished looking. “Nevertheless, I cannot have it said that you allow yourself to be exhibited by a Frenchman or any other man. I demand of my mistress the same good taste I might demand of my wife.”

She leaned forward when he said this and she looked at him earnestly. Her face was molded in soft curves and flat bones, and her body was slender at the waist and more full-breasted than it would have been had her blood been purely Chinese. She smiled somewhat wistfully.

“You needn’t say that to me, Ranald. All my Chinese common sense tells me I shall never find as good a man as you. There are times when you seem a little dull to me, you know, and then Pierre or somebody like him is fun — just for an hour or so. But if you don’t like it, I can easily do without fun. I’d much rather be able to count on you and have you count on me.”

He acknowledged to himself at once that her honesty was equal to his. “Thank you, my dear,” he said with some heartiness and entire sincerity. “So long as we understand one another! All the same, I’d advise not dancing too long with one man — or too often. Or sitting too long, for that matter. You went to the extreme with Dr. Liang the last time. I didn’t say anything, for I felt you couldn’t be interested in him — a wishy-washy sort of man, I thought.”

“Distinguished,” she murmured in her Chinese way. “With us a man does not have to be brutal or strong. Delicacy is also appreciated. Subtlety is admired.”

He was not without his own subtleties. “You are more French than Chinese under that smooth golden skin of yours,” he reminded her.

She laughed. “That is exactly what is the matter with me,” she agreed.

He allowed himself a smile. He was really very fond of her. She knew how to be comfortable as well as passionate. The combination was irresistible.

THE WHOLE THING BEGAN AT the chrysanthemum market on that bright autumn day when James had written the letter which had so disturbed his parents. With some delay they had proceeded with their afternoon’s jaunt. Indeed they were the more impatient to get out of the house and into a change of scene, because they felt helpless. James had written the letter at once and had read it aloud to them, even Chen being there at the demand of everybody except Louise, who had kept silent, and they had waked Peter to listen. The letter was approved. James had made it short but clear.

He had written to his father: “We cannot be sure that Ma has understood you rightly. We think she has not, for we cannot believe that you would take a concubine now when it is illegal by Chinese modern law to do so and would certainly bring disgrace on the family and shame us before all Western peoples, who know your name. Our faith is in you and we hope you will set Ma right on this matter. We are only concerned because she seems unhappy. If, on the other hand, it is we who are wrong, then please let Ma come to us at once, and we will look after her. You can say you have divorced her, and then there will be no public disgrace, at least, since many people in America are divorced.

“We are well and Mary likes her work and Peter to his own surprise enjoys the university—”

Peter had interrupted James to deny this. “I don’t enjoy it,” he said. “But I see there is some sort of a job to be done here. In America the students only have a good time and they do not trouble themselves about other people. But here where the people cannot speak for themselves we have to speak for them. Yesterday, for example, a bunch of us saw a policeman beating a ricksha puller over the head with his club. We stopped and asked him what the man had done, and it seemed he had only let the wheel of his ricksha run by accident over the policeman’s foot. There was no law broken. We made the officer let the miserable fellow go.”

“But that was enjoyable,” Mary said warmly.

“No, it wasn’t,” Peter retorted. “Actually we were more angry at the ricksha coolie than at the policeman. He should have stood up for himself instead of cringing. He hadn’t done anything wrong. We followed him and when he tried to thank us we gave him a couple of whacks over the head ourselves for being such a coward.”

“Peter!” Mary cried. “How wicked of you!”

“It wasn’t,” he insisted. “I get into a rage with our stupid common people, letting themselves be run by anybody with a club or a gun. Why don’t they fight back?”

“Because they have no clubs and guns,” James said quietly. He folded the letter and put it into the stamped envelope, sealed and addressed it. “Come, let us go now to the market and see the chrysanthemums. Mary, you must not spend too much money.”

“What do you call too much?” Mary demanded. “Today a hundred dollars in our paper bills is worth something under ten American cents.”

“I mean you must not pay more than half what the vendors ask,” James replied.

“We’d better get there before they double their prices to get ahead of inflation,” Chen said, laughing still more loudly than the others.

Money had become a joke and yet an inflated paper had to be given for purchases, and so with their pockets stuffed with rolls of bills they had gone to the flower market. Young Wang followed behind them to bring back the flowers. Imperceptibly they had lost their American ways enough so that they yielded to Young Wang’s determination not to allow the members of his master’s household to be seen in public places carrying any load, however pleasant.

They all agreed afterward that there was something peculiar about the day. The air was so still and clear as to seem almost solid. People were magnified by it, faces were sculptured, eyes made bright. Especially beautiful were the faces of old people, for every line seemed drawn with meaning. Since there was not a flutter of wind, the garments the people wore fell in quiet folds, the colors even of faded blues and red were sure and rich, and human flesh looked brown and warm. Smiles and white teeth, the sounds of voices and musical instruments, all were enhanced by the silent magnetic atmosphere.