Pearl Buck - Peony

“Naomi!” he cried, and he fumbled for the bed. “What is the matter with you?”

She did not answer and she went on sobbing. He felt his way to the table and lit the candle. The light fell on her distraught face. It was hard for him to believe that this was the handsome woman who had done her duty so bravely at their son’s wedding.

“Naomi, are you ill?” he cried.

“No,” she gasped. “No — but I–I am thinking of — of all that is over! Oh, I wish I were dead! You wish I were dead, too, Ezra — I know! You want to forget everything.”

He sat down on the bed beside her and he took her hand and began to stroke it patiently. He knew somehow that this was but the first of many nights when he must sit beside her in love and patience, waiting for her sorrow to pass.

“Now, Naomi,” he said drowsily, “you know we are going to be so happy. David will have children — think of this house full of our grandchildren.”

She turned her face away, refusing his comfort. “I have always promised myself — that when I died — I would be buried in our promised land.”

“So that is what you are really weeping for this time!” Ezra exclaimed. Then he remembered patience. “Well, dear wife, shall I make you a promise? If you wish, I will promise that when you die, we will take your body to the promised land. I will manage it somehow.”

She lay silent for a while. “But will you stay with me?” she asked.

Ezra sighed. “Ah, Naomi, you want your way, and you will not let me have mine! No, dear soul, I will come home alone and here I will die and be buried — here where my fathers lie, and where my children are.”

Madame Ezra wept again. “But Ezra, you are a Jew!”

“For that very reason,” he answered steadily. “Here even the soil is kind.”

And he continued to stroke her hand in love and patience.

The deepest silence of all was in Peony’s room. She knew when she laid herself upon her bed that she could not sleep. Through this wedding night she would lie wakeful, her spirit in that other room, hovering over David. But she made all her usual preparations for sleep, washing herself carefully, perfuming her body, cleansing her teeth, brushing her hair, and putting on fresh garments for the night. All day she had been unable to eat, and had made the pretense of being too busy. Now, her head upon her satin pillow, she let herself remember every detail. She could think of nothing that went wrong and for this she praised herself without shame. Every dish was hot or cold in its proper way, and the wines were heated to the right degree and no more. Silver and pewter were bright and ivory was clear and wood was clean polished and even behind a door there was no dust. At the exact moment when the little bride was weary she had seen it and had secretly brought her a bowl of hot soup with rice in it and had managed that none see her eat it. This she knew: that her happiness depended on winning the heart of David’s wife. Her new mistress must learn to love her and lean on her. Yes, and far more, she must stand between husband and wife, and bring them together. By no word or deed must she separate them, for in their happiness lay her own safety — in their happiness, and in their need of her.

For this Peony was too shrewd not to see clearly how the future could lie. She knew the measure of the woman, how high, how wide, how small, and she knew David as she knew her own soul. These two would need her often to mend the fabric of their marriage, but she must never let them know she knew their need.

So she lay thinking as the hours passed, thinking and trying to keep herself from seeing with her mind’s eye that other room where consummation was. Not tonight was her care, she told herself — not tonight or the many nights to come, not one act or many acts, but the whole, the lives of all in relation to the one life she held most dear.

This she was able to say to herself for many hours, as she lay and gazed steadfastly into the darkness. Then suddenly she heard the cock crow. The night was over and dawn was near. Her heart let down, and she sighed. Tears crowded under her lids and her throat was full, but she would not let her weeping break.

It is over, she told herself. Now I can sleep.

THE HOUSE OF EZRA woke quietly to its new life. Outwardly the old ways went on. Madame Ezra could weep in the night, but when morning came she rose her usual self, except that she lost her temper less often and she did not speak as quickly as once she had. To her son’s wife she was scrupulously kind and courteous, and the young woman made no complaint of her mother-in-law. This was surprise and pleasure, for Kueilan was afraid of Madame Ezra. All young wives must fear the elder women who are the mothers of their husbands, but Kueilan had feared more than most. She was a lazy, ease-loving little creature, accustomed to being served and spoiled, and she had no mind to subject herself to discipline and duty. But Madame Ezra asked nothing of her, and behaved indeed almost as if Kueilan were not in the house. When they met, Madame Ezra asked Kueilan how she did, and if everything were to her liking, and Kueilan smiled and looked down and replied that she liked everything. When she saw that Madame Ezra was not inclined to command her, a weight left her heart, and as time went on she grew as saucy and careless as she had been in her own home.

At first Peony could not believe that anything could be the same in the house after the marriage. Then day by day she saw that she was wrong, and that the elders made it the same, and then that David made it the same. David, too, had resumed his own life. The talk that he had put off on his wedding night he put off forever. It had not taken many days of marriage to show him that this pretty wife of his could not talk of anything beyond her daily needs and wishes. But she was ready with laughter, and she knew many games, and their happiest hours together were spent over these games that she taught him, laughing much while she did so. When she won she was as excited as a child, and she clapped her hands and tripped about the room on her little bound feet. These feet were David’s pity. He had never seen a girl’s feet before so bound, for in this Jewish house Peony’s feet had been left free. Kueilan’s little feet in their silken shoes he could hold together in the palm of his hand, and one night he did so, exclaiming in sorrow that it could be.

“Little Thing,” he said, for so he now called his wife, “how could you let them maim you?”

To his surprise she began to cry, half in anger and half in answer to his pity, and she drew her feet away and hid them under her skirt. “You don’t like them!” she wept.

“They make me sad,” he replied gently. “How they must have pained you!”

“They don’t pain me now,” she declared.

“Why not let them free?” he asked.

“I don’t want them big,” she said petulantly. “Why should I waste all my trouble?”

“Let me see what can be done,” he begged, divining her pride and shyness.

“No — no — no!” she screamed. And then she fell to sobbing again and she cried out for Peony so loudly that Peony came running.

At the sight of her Kueilan put out her hands while the tears ran down her face. “He wants to see my feet!” she sobbed, and nothing must do but for Peony to sit down on the bed beside her and soothe her hands and cover her feet in the silken quilt.

“Hush — hush — he did not mean it.” So Peony comforted the sobbing girl.

David stood by the bed and looked at the two. “Tell her I want only to help her,” he said to Peony. “And it is true that I do not like feet so crippled.” With this he walked out of the room and Kueilan clung to Peony and wept mightily and Peony let her weep. When the sobs began to quiet she spoke gently and firmly.