Pearl Buck - Letters From Peking

“You went to her parents. You told them.”

“Nothing but the truth,” I said quietly.

“You wouldn’t wait until they knew me!”

Oh, what bitterness in his voice. How hard, how hard to hear it!

“It is better for them to know the truth first,” I said. “If she loves you enough to defy her parents, I will say nothing — I swear I will not.”

“At least you might have warned me,” he cried.

I would not yield to him. “I had to see how they felt, and see it with my own eyes. What they feel cannot be overcome unless your love and hers are equal. I know — I know!”

“She does love me,” he muttered. “She told me so.”

“She loves you all she can, but it is not enough. It will never be enough, because she is small — small, I tell you! I do not blame her. She cannot help what she is born. But you are born big — as big as the world.”

“Damn you,” he whispered.

I looked at him. “Now I am glad your father is not here.”

We stared at each other.

“Some day you will thank me,” I said and wished I had not. It is the common speech of parents. My mother said it to me when she tried to keep me from marrying Gerald. But we had already loved each other, and nothing could keep us apart. I knew, and I defied my mother. “I shall never thank you if you keep us apart,” I told her.

And I was right, not she. Even though the letter is locked in my desk, and though I never see my Gerald’s face again I was right and she was wrong.

I kept looking at my son’s face and his gaze broke, he so young, so proud in such grief.

“Why did you ever give me birth?” he muttered, and then he sobbed once and leaped from the room.

The house is too still. I knew when I opened my eyes this morning that Rennie was gone. It was a grey morning, a soft rain drifting over the trees and misting into my open window. The curtains hung limp. I listened. It was well past dawn and time for milking. By now I should hear Rennie stirring somewhere. I got up and closed the window and stood looking down, the valley half hidden by rain, summoning my courage to go to his room. I tried to think of Gerald but my heart did not call and his did not answer. I could not see his face and when I forced the eyes of my mind toward him, I saw only the stretching miles of land and the terrible grey sea between us.

To Rennie’s room then I went, I opened the door and looked in. The bed was empty, neatly made but empty. All the room was neat and I was frightened by such order. On any other morning his clothes would have been piled up on the armchair, his shoes scattered, his books open on the table. It was only when he left his room that he made it neat, and never neat as it was now. I ran across the room to his closet lest it be empty too. But it was not. Oh, what joy to see his clothes still hanging there! I counted his suits, the brown second best, his work clothes, the jackets and slacks. No, his best dark-blue suit was gone.

Then I saw the book on his desk, closed but with an envelope in it. It was addressed to me. Mother. Mother? Not Mom—

I sat down to read it because I was too weak to stand. “Dear Mother,” Rennie said to me. “I have gone to find Allegra. I have to be alone with her and see for myself why she has changed — if she has. Don’t get in touch with me — don’t telephone, don’t write. See you when I can get home again. Rennie.”

For Allegra’s parents took her away the day after we talked. Rennie has scarcely spoken to me since. Now there is nothing to do but wait. Blessings on old Baba, who is all I have left! I went back to my room and bathed and dressed and descended to the kitchen and made myself breakfast. How curious my life is — how lonely. Loneliness is what I feel here in my own land. Everyone is lonely, pursuing his lonely way. We do not confide, we do not share. The very size of the land divides us. I am as far from Kansas and that shack where Baba was lost, for he was really lost, as I am from Peking — nay, farther, for I have my memories to travel upon across the seas.

And then I was disturbed by plaintive sounds from upstairs, and I heard Baba’s voice. I went upstairs at once. He lay in his bed, the covers drawn tight about his neck, his dark eyes bewildered.

“I can’t get up,” he murmured.

“Are you in pain, Baba?” I asked.

“No pain,” he said indistinctly.

“Lie still,” I said. “I will send for the doctor.”

So I went to the telephone and dialed and it was early and Bruce Spaulden had not left home.

“Yes?” His voice was crisp.

“Bruce, I think Baba has had another stroke.”

“I’ll be over.”

“Shall I do anything?”

“No, just keep him covered and quiet.”

I put up the receiver and went back to Baba and told him that Bruce was coming and then I made the room tidy. Baba is very clean. He is so old that his flesh has no odor. It is ash clean. He lay there, quiet and good, and watched me and I saw his face beginning to draw toward the left. He felt it too and tried to tell me.

“Never mind,” I said. “Bruce will be here soon.”

I do not open Baba’s window at night. There is little warmth in his body and he draws his breath lightly. But this morning was glorious and I opened the window and the sunshine flowed in for a few minutes and the air was enlivened. Then I closed the window again.

Now I heard Bruce’s footsteps in the hall downstairs and he came upstairs and into the room.

“Good morning, Elizabeth,” he said.

It was the first time he had called me by my name and I was startled.

“Good morning,” I said. “Here is my poor Baba, waiting.”

Baba turned piteous eyes toward the doctor.

Bruce sat down by the bed and made his examination. There is something wonderful in the way a good doctor examines his patient, his mind concentrated, his hands sure in exploration. I stood respectful, admiring Bruce. He is very American. I wonder why he has never married. He would make a good husband for a woman of integrity and sensitive enough to understand him. He is lean, as most Vermonters are, tall, and serious when he is grave. It is difficult to remember the color of his eyes — grey, I think, changing toward blue. His hair is brown, an ordinary brown, and straight, and his nose is straight and his mouth is firm. When he smiles his face changes altogether. It is quietly mischievous and almost gay. He is even-tempered, inclined to silence and meditation, all good qualities in a husband. I have absorbed a Chinese curiosity into my being and I wanted to ask him why he was not married. To a Chinese mind, anything can be asked, as between friends.

He covered Baba carefully. “Not too serious,” he said. “There will be more of these little shocks. Let him rest. He’ll sleep a lot. Let him sleep.”

Indeed Baba was already sleeping, breathing softly aloud. We left him there and went downstairs into the living room.

“Have you had breakfast?” I asked.

“No,” Bruce said.

“Nor have I. So let us breakfast together. I’m lonely because Rennie has gone—”

“Gone?”

“For only a few days, I hope, but I don’t know.”

And I told him about Allegra. Bruce smiled rather grimly. “He’ll be back. We always come back to our mothers. Unless the girl is like you, so you aren’t needed!”

“I am sure Allegra is not like me,” I said.

I was busy getting the breakfast on the table. Eggs for him, two to my one, and the hens are laying well and I am glad of that. I dislike hens but I like fresh eggs and one cannot be had without the other. Coffee and toast and fruit — I would have my usual good breakfast, let Rennie do what he would.

When we were sitting at the table, I at the end, since it is my table, and Bruce at the side, I asked my question.