Pearl Buck: The Good Earth

“The first peaches of spring—the first peaches! Buy, eat, purge your bowels of the poisons of winter!”

Wang Lung said to himself,

“If she likes them, I will buy her a handful when we return.” He could not realize that when he walked back through the gate there would be a woman walking behind him.

He turned to the right within the gate and after a moment was in the Street of Barbers. There were few before him so early, only some farmers who had carried their produce into the town the night before in order that they might sell their vegetables at the dawn markets and return for the day’s work in the fields. They had slept shivering and crouching over their baskets, the baskets now empty at their feet. Wang Lung avoided them lest some recognize him, for he wanted none of their joking on this day. All down the street in a long line the barbers stood behind their small stalls, and Wang Lung went to the furthest one and sat down upon the stool and motioned to the barber who stood chattering to his neighbor. The barber came at once and began quickly to pour hot water, from a kettle on his pot of charcoal, into his brass basin.

“Shave everything?” he said in a professional tone.

“My head and my face,” replied Wang Lung.

“Ears and nostrils cleaned?” asked the barber.

“How much will that cost extra?” asked Wang Lung cautiously.

“Four pence,” said the barber, beginning to pass a black cloth in and out of the hot water.

“I will give you two,” said Wang Lung.

“Then I will clean one ear and one nostril,” rejoined the barber promptly. “On which side of the face do you wish it done?” He grimaced at the next barber as he spoke and the other burst into a guffaw. Wang Lung perceived that he had fallen into the hands of a joker, and feeling inferior in some unaccountable way, as he always did, to these town dwellers, even though they were only barbers and the lowest of persons, he said quickly,

“As you will—as you will—”

Then he submitted himself to the barber’s soaping and rubbing and shaving, and being after all a generous fellow enough, the barber gave him without extra charge a series of skilful poundings upon his shoulders and back to loosen his muscles. He commented upon Wang Lung as he shaved his upper forehead,

“This would not be a bad-looking farmer if he would cut off his hair. The new fashion is to take off the braid.”

His razor hovered so near the circle of hair upon Wang Lung’s crown that Wang Lung cried out,

“I cannot cut it off without asking my father!” And the barber laughed and skirted the round spot of hair.

When it was finished and the money counted into the barber’s wrinkled, water-soaked hand, Wang Lung had a moment of horror. So much money! But walking down the street again with the wind fresh upon his shaven skin, he said to himself,

“It is only once.”

He went to the market, then, and bought two pounds of pork and watched the butcher as he wrapped it in a dried lotus leaf, and then, hesitating, he bought also six ounces of beef. When all had been bought, even to fresh squares of beancurd, shivering in a jelly upon its leaf, he went to a candlemaker’s shop and there he bought a pair of incense sticks. Then he turned his steps with great shyness toward the House of Hwang.

Once at the gate of the house he was seized with terror. How had he come alone? He should have asked his father—his uncle—even his nearest neighbor, Ching—anyone to come with him. He had never been in a great house before. How could he go in with his wedding feast on his arm, and say, “I have come for a woman?”

He stood at the gate for a long time, looking at it. It was closed fast, two great wooden gates, painted black and bound and studded with iron, closed upon each other. Two lions made of stone stood on guard, one at either side. There was no one else. He turned away. It was impossible.

He felt suddenly faint. He would go first and buy a little food. He had eaten nothing—had forgotten food. He went into a small street restaurant, and putting two pence upon the table, he sat down. A dirty waiting boy with a shiny black apron came near and he called out to him, “Two bowls of noodles!” And when they were come, he ate them down greedily, pushing them into his mouth with his bamboo chopsticks, while the boy stood and spun the coppers between his black thumb and forefinger.

“Will you have more?” asked the boy indifferently.

Wang Lung shook his head. He sat up and looked about. There was no one he knew in the small, dark, crowded room full of tables. Only a few men sat eating or drinking tea. It was a place for poor men, and among them he looked neat and clean and almost well-to-do, so that a beggar, passing, whined at him,

“Have a good heart, teacher, and give me a small cash—I starve!”

Wang Lung had never had a beggar ask of him before, nor had any ever called him teacher. He was pleased and he threw into the beggar’s bowl two small cash, which are one fifth of a penny, and the beggar pulled back with swiftness his black claw of a hand, and grasping the cash, fumbled them within his rags.

Wang Lung sat and the sun climbed upwards. The waiting boy lounged about impatiently. “If you are buying nothing more,” he said at last with much impudence, “you will have to pay rent for the stool.”

Wang Lung was incensed at such impudence and he would have risen except that when he thought of going into the great House of Hwang and of asking there for a woman, sweat broke out over his whole body as though he were working in a field.

“Bring me tea,” he said weakly to the boy. Before he could turn it was there and the small boy demanded sharply,

“Where is the penny?”

And Wang Lung, to his horror, found there was nothing to do but to produce from his girdle yet another penny.

“It is robbery,” he muttered, unwilling. Then he saw entering the shop his neighbor whom he had invited to the feast, and he put the penny hastily upon the table and drank the tea at a gulp and went out quickly by the side door and was once more upon the street.

“It is to be done,” he said to himself desperately, and slowly he turned his way to the great gates.

This time, since it was after high noon, the gates were ajar and the keeper of the gate idled upon the threshold, picking his teeth with a bamboo sliver after his meal. He was a tall fellow with a large mole upon his left cheek, and from the mole hung three long black hairs which had never been cut. When Wang Lung appeared he shouted roughly, thinking from the basket that he had come to sell something.

“Now then, what?”

With great difficulty Wang Lung replied,

“I am Wang Lung, the farmer.”

“Well, and Wang Lung, the farmer, what?” retorted the gateman, who was polite to none except the rich friends of his master and mistress.

“I am come—I am come—” faltered Wang Lung.

“That I see,” said the gateman with elaborate patience, twisting the long hairs of his mole.

“There is a woman,” said Wang Lung, his voice sinking helplessly to a whisper. In the sunshine his face was wet.

The gateman gave a great laugh.

“So you are he!” he roared. “I was told to expect a bridegroom today. But I did not recognize you with a basket on your arm.”

“It is only a few meats,” said Wang Lung apologetically, waiting for the gateman to lead him within. But the gateman did not move. At last Wang Lung said with anxiety,

“Shall I go alone?”

The gateman affected a start of horror. “The Old Lord would kill you!”

Then seeing that Wang Lung was too innocent he said, “A little silver is a good key.”

Wang Lung saw at last that the man wanted money of him.