Pearl Buck - Pavilion of Women

“My son,” thus he had ended his admonition, “you have chosen woman over man, your mother rather than your father, ease rather than achievement. Let it be so. It now remains for the sake of our house to find you a wife who will give strength to your weakness.”

The boy had been frightened by the gravity of his father’s voice and, as he always did when he was frightened, he had hastened away as quickly as he could to his mother, and in a few minutes he had forgotten his discomfort.

Madame Wu had come to the house soon afterward. On the tenth day after the marriage, Old Gentleman had sent for her to come to his library, and had talked with her thus about his son: “He is what you will make him. Some men make themselves, but he will always be made by women. Yet you must not let him know this. Never reproach him with his own weakness, for then he will become wholly weak. Never let him feel that but for you he would be useless, for then he will indeed become useless. You must search for the few strong threads in him and weave your fabric with those, and where the threads are weak, never trust to them. Supply your own in secret.”

She had been very young then, and her bridegroom was handsome and gay, and she was drunk with marriage. She was afraid of nothing.

“I love him,” she had said simply to Old Gentleman.

He had looked startled, for it was not usual for a woman to speak so boldly. But the voice in which she had uttered these extraordinary words was very soft and pretty, and she had looked so delicate and innocent as she spoke them that he had not the heart to reproach her.

Instead of reproach he had merely inclined his head and said, “Then you have a woman’s sharpest weapon in your hand.”

It had been perhaps ten years before Madame Wu had come to the full comprehension of the man to whom she was married and whom she loved still, with tenderness. So slowly, so gradually that she had not felt the pain of disappointment, she had found all the boundaries of his mind and soul. The space within these boundaries was small. The curiosities and questions which had at first excited her because she had taken them to be stirrings of intelligence, she saw now had no root. They were no more than ways to pass the time. They led to no end. At any moment he might grow weary of a question and cease to pursue it, and then she must discover the way the next wind blew.

It was at this time that she herself had stepped out beyond his boundaries and had let her own spread as far as they would. But this she did not tell him. Indeed, why should she, since he would not have understood what she said? Enough of her remained within his boundaries so that he thought she was still there with him. But she had already begun to dream of her fortieth birthday and to plan for what she would do when the day came.

Now she made up her mind that she must go and tell Mr. Wu herself that Ch’iuming had been found and was ready. He would have heard it from servants, but still she must tell him. There should not be delay, since Fengmo had seen the girl. For a young man to see a young woman might mean nothing, but it might mean much. There is a moment in the tide of youth when any such meeting, however accidental, may be as dangerous as a rendezvous. If Mr. Wu were in the right mind, she would send Ch’iuming to him as quickly as she could get her ready.

Ch’iuming was happy enough on this bright summer morning. Madame Wu had sent Ying to a cloth shop for flowered cotton cloth of good quality and silk of medium quality, and a clerk had brought bolts of such goods. From these Madame Wu now chose enough to make Ch’iuming three separate changes of garments. She wished to please the girl, and so she allowed her to point out which were her favorite colors and patterns, and she was pleased that the girl chose small patterns and mild colors. She was still more pleased when the girl set to work at once to make the garments herself.

Ch’iuming stood at the square table and spread the printed cotton on the table first. Then she paused, the iron scissors uplifted.

“Shall I cut them like your garments, Elder Sister?” she asked. Her own clothes were wide-sleeved and short in the coat as country people’s are.

“Ying will help you to make the proper fashion for this house,” Madame Wu replied.

So Ying had measured and marked with a piece of chalky white stone and then had cut the cloth to fit Ch’iuming’s slender curved body.

And while this was going on the girl stood in a trance of pure pleasure. “In my whole life I have never had a garment from new cloth,” she murmured.

When the pieces were cut she threaded her needle and slipped the brass ring of her thimble over her forefinger and sat down in a dream of joy. Slowly and carefully she stitched, while Ying looked on to examine the stitches for smallness and evenness. Watching Ch’iuming, Madame Wu felt again that strange pang of vague guilt, as though she were about to do this girl a wrong. She decided at once to go and find Mr. Wu and beckoned to Ying to come aside for a moment in the other room. There beyond the hearing of the girl she said:

“You must help her. See that she has a full set of undergarments quickly, and one outer set. I may send her from here tomorrow, depending on what the day shows me.”

“Yes, Lady,” Ying said, guarding her face and her voice against showing pleasure or sadness.

Now Madame Wu went out of her own court for the first time since she had moved here. In duty she stopped to see Old Lady. She found her well, sitting in the sun outside her door, and unusually cheerful while a maid rubbed oil into her feet and ankles which happened that day to be a little swollen.

“It was crabs,” Old Lady said. “Crabs always make my feet swell. But since I am about to descend into the grave at any moment, shall I refuse crabs for this cause? My feet and ankles are little good to me anyway. I drank much wine with the crabs, too, to take away the poison.”

Old Lady seemed to have forgotten entirely that she had been angry with her daughter-in-law about the concubine, and Madame Wu did not remind her. She stopped and examined Old Lady’s swollen feet and bade the maid rub them upward so that the blood would ascend rather than descend. Then she went on her way.

She had expected to find Mr. Wu in her old courts rather than in his, and so there she went. In that court her silver orchids were fading. She stooped to see if there were aphids on the leaves, but there were none. It was at this moment that she saw Mr. Wu sitting inside the room in his easy garments. Because of the heat he wore a pair of white silk trousers loose around the ankles, and a silk jacket unbuttoned over his smooth chest. He was fanning himself with a white silk fan painted with green bamboos, and in his hand was a tea bowl. The empty dishes of his breakfast were on the table. She discerned embarrassment and some sullenness on his well-fed, handsome face, and out of old habit she spoke cheerfully to him, “I think it is time we planted peonies again in this court. What do you say, Father of my sons?”

“I never cared for those little gray orchids,” he replied. “I like something with color.”

“I will have them taken away and peonies planted this very day,” she went on. “If we buy them in pots, they will go on blooming without being disturbed.”

He rose and sauntered out of the room and into the court and stood at her side, looking down at the orchids. “Red and pink peonies,” he said judiciously, “and a white one to each five, say, of the red and pink.”

“A good proportion,” she agreed. “Where is Yenmo?” she asked. Her youngest son was usually somewhere near his father.

“I sent him yesterday to the country,” Mr. Wu said with solemnity. “He is too young for the turmoil in this house.”