Pearl Buck - Letters From Peking

Today Rennie is full of joy. He thinks he has clarified his relationship to me. He is free, he thinks, and he came downstairs this morning all life and cheer, his beautiful face aglow, his eyes shining with love. He kissed me briskly on the cheek, careful now never to touch my lips, and sat down at the table to eat a breakfast to match the day.

“I must begin cleaning the brush from the high sugar bush,” he said, his voice loud and clear. “Matt can help me when he has done the barn. The manure should go on the far pasture.”

“I suppose so,” I said.

He was off then, very busy — and I washed the dishes and tended the house. Rennie thinks I should have a dishwasher but I will not. I like the quiet reflective moments after a meal, my hands in the hot soapy water and the view from the kitchen window before my eyes. Then, too, I love my dishes. Some I brought with me from the house in Peking, and the rest are my mother’s and ones that I used as a child, I do not understand women who complain about their houses and their children and their husbands. This is our dear daily work. And I do not like new things. It takes time to become acquainted with possessions, and they should not change. Whenever a dish is lost or broken, something of life goes with it. This morning I used for porringers the blue Chinese bowls lined with yellow porcelain. Alas, when I washed mine, it slipped from my fingers and fell against the sink and broke to pieces. I could not keep the tears from rushing to my eyes. Nor could I bear to throw the bits of lovely pottery into the garbage pail. I carried them outside and buried them under the old apple tree by the front door.

When I came back into the kitchen Baba was there, waiting to be fed. He is growing very old now, and childish. I tucked the napkin in his collar but he would not lift his hand to his spoon, and I fed him. He ate then quite patiently, in silence, his eyes fixed vaguely on the window. He will wear only his Chinese robes these days, and when he speaks it is nearly always in Chinese.

“I go back to my bed,” he said when the dish was empty.

“Sit on the terrace a while in the sun,” I suggested.

He shook his head and I had to coax him. “Do you not remember how the grandfathers in Peking always sit against the wall of the houses where the sun shines? They do not get out of bed and eat and go back to bed again. They like the sun, and the air is warm today and without wind.”

He rose obediently after this and I wrapped a scarf about his neck and led him by the hand to the terrace and sat him down on the bench against the wall. He sat there without moving, his eyes closed as though he slept, and I forgot him. At noon, ashamed, I hurried out to find him still there, panting somewhat with the heat, his cheeks pink and his blue eyes open in reproach.

“Shall I go to bed now?” he inquired.

“Indeed you shall,” I said, “after you have had some tea and a boiled egg with your rice.”

He ate without demur, relishing the Chinese tea, and I took him up to bed, and pulled the shades and left him fast asleep. The sun and air did him good, but how could I forget him? How selfish to let my mind dwell only upon my son!

Yet the hours of thought while I tended my house have cleared my mind. There is no better time to think and ponder than in the hours when a woman sweeps and dusts and makes beds. The physical activity sends blood coursing through her frame and the brain awakes. Yes, I shall go to see Allegra’s mother. I do not know how much she can comprehend of what I wish to say. And when I come back I shall tell Rennie what I did. I will have no secrets. And I shall maintain that it is my right to be free to act — if his, then mine.

Mrs. Woods was sitting on the porch of her house when I opened the gate. The house is a pleasant one, white painted and the shutters green, a conventional house even to the flower beds and the walk between them. She was sewing needlepoint, an art my mother tried to teach me, but I never cared for it and forgot what I was taught.

Mrs. Woods rose when I came to the steps. She is a plump, middle-aged woman, not fat, a round friendly face, curled hair, the sort of woman to be seen on any porch anywhere, a good woman, somewhat timid, as American women often are, and I do not know why they are. Chinese women may be shy or pretend they are, and it is nine-tenths pretense, because they think women should be shy, or because men like them shy, but they are never timid.

“Come in,” Mrs. Woods said, seeming flustered.

“I am Mrs. Gerald MacLeod,” I said, “and I live up the road.”

“I know your boy Rennie,” she said. “Come along in. We’d best sit inside, I think, because the mites are bad today. I was just about to move.”

We went inside a narrow hall with a red carpet, the straight stairs leading to the second floor. To the right was a neat dining room and to the left a largish living room, furnished as most living rooms are. It was pleasant and comfortable. There were a few magazines on the table beside the couch but no books. How could Rennie live in a house without books?

“Take that chair,” Mrs. Woods said. “It’s my husband’s, and so it’s the most comfortable.”

There was suddenly a mild twinkle in her grey eyes that I liked. I sat down and came to the point at once.

“I’m sure you know that Rennie and Allegra are going together. I want to know what you think about it. They’re so young, and there aren’t any other young people very near.”

Her round face grew concerned. She has a round little mouth and round eyes and her nose turns up enough to show her two round nostrils. It is a sweet childish face. She must have been a pretty baby. Allegra is much prettier. The father, perhaps, has straightened the lines of her face. But she has her mother’s curved figure, rounded hips and full breasts, enchanting now but not forever. Mrs. Woods is tightly corseted. These foolish details swarmed in my mind while I waited for her to speak.

“They are young,” she agreed. “Mr. Woods and I have been worried some. Of course we want Allegra to feel free. But she’s only a senior in high school next year. We live in Passaic, New Jersey. The schools are good there. We wouldn’t want Allegra to think she didn’t want to finish high school.”

“Heavens, no,” I said in horror. “And Rennie will have to go to college — it’s Harvard, where his father and grandfather went — and after that he will have still more years somewhere, perhaps in Europe, or perhaps in China, where his father is.”

Real horror broke over my neighbor’s face. “China? Nobody can go there, can they?”

“Not now,” I said, “but hopefully Rennie may join his father there some day, when the world is better.”

“Is his father — a Chinese?” Mrs. Woods spoke the word apologetically.

“No,” I said, “at least, not altogether, or my name wouldn’t be MacLeod. His father, Rennie’s grandfather, is American. He lives with us. He’s old — and he’s not well. He never leaves home.”

I had said so much that she waited for me to say more, and I went on. “My husband is president of a great university in Peking. We had hoped that he could join us here, but he feels it his duty to stay by his work.”

“Isn’t China communist?” Her voice was vaguely reproachful.

“Yes,” I said, “and my husband is not communist, I can assure you. But he still feels he must stay by his work and do it the best he can.” Then the truth forced itself from me. “You see, his mother was Chinese — and so—”

“She was?” Mrs. Woods’ voice was an exclamation. “Then that’s why Rennie — we thought maybe he had Indian blood.”

“Didn’t Rennie tell Allegra?”

“No, no, I’m sure he didn’t. Allegra tells me everything. I know she’d have told me.”