Pearl Buck - Letters From Peking

How selfishly Gerald and I lived on in the house in Peking in those perilous prewar days! We knew we were selfish, and yet we clutched, every doomed hour of happiness. Yet it is also true that we believed anyone who reached America had reached heaven. We thought of Baba as safe merely because he had left the troubled provinces of China. We had a few letters from him, placid letters, saying that he was comfortable and we were not to worry about him, that he had found friends. And beset with our own worries, in wars and dangers, we simply forgot him.

Baba was looking at Rennie and I stepped back.

“You remember your grandson,” I said.

He put out his hand, a frail big hand, and I nodded to Rennie to bid him come forward and he obeyed shyly.

“Gerald’s son?” the old man inquired.

“Of course,” I said. How much does he remember and how much is forgotten? Rennie was a child of six when he saw him last.

“Yes, yes,” the grandfather murmured. “Sit down, sit down.”

There were not two other seats and Rennie sat on the edge of the table and I upon a stool.

“Baba, how do you live?” I asked.

“I live,” he said vaguely. “They bring me food, a woman cleans my house and washes my clothes. I don’t need money. People are kind here.”

He does not know where he is. He simply got off the train when his money gave out and somebody let him have this house. It belongs, I can guess, to a larger house a half mile or so up the road.

“I have money,” he was saying. He opened the drawer in the table and took out a small parcel wrapped in a piece of yellow Chinese silk and opening it he showed me five one-dollar bills. Then he wrapped it up again and put it in the drawer.

Rennie and I looked at each other. If we had any doubts they were gone. We agreed, without words. We must take Baba home with us, and without delay. There was one train east and one train west each day.

“Have you had your luncheon, Baba?” I asked. If we made haste we could still catch the eastward train.

“I think so,” he replied.

“What did you eat?”

He got up slowly and went to an old-fashioned icebox in the corner and opened it. I looked inside and saw a half-empty bottle of milk, a pat of butter, three eggs and a small meat pie, a wedge of which had been cut out.

Then we sat down again. Rennie was standing in the door now, looking over the rising plains.

“Let’s get going,” he said.

I turned to Baba. “Will you come and live with us?”

He was sitting by the table again and now he carefully closed the cloth-bound Chinese book.

“Do you wish me to come and live with you?” he inquired.

“More than anything,” I said.

“Where is Gerald?” he asked.

“He is still in Peking.”

“Will he return?”

“I — hope so.”

“Someone is coming,” Rennie said.

The someone was a man. He was walking toward us in long strides and in a moment was at the door, a man past youth and not yet middle-aged, tall and square shouldered, sandy-haired, his skin the color of his hair, a windblown western face.

“I came down to see what was going on,” he said in a hearty voice. “I keep an eye on my old neighbor.”

“Are you the owner of this shack?” I asked.

“Yes — it’s on my farm. My father raised sheep and this was the herder’s shack.”

“It was good of you to take my father-in-law into shelter,” I said.

“I don’t know what to think of folks who let an old man wander around alone,” he said severely.

“We had no idea—” I began and stopped. How could I explain to this forthright man how it was that an old man could arrive alone in an unknown place and stay there? How could I explain Peking, or even China? As well try to explain a distant planet!

“Now that we have found him,” I said, “we will take him home.” Then I remembered. “I am Mrs. Gerald MacLeod. This is my son, Rennie.”

“I’m Sam Blaine,” he said. But he was looking at Rennie. He was thinking that Rennie looked “different.” Who, he was thinking, are these people?

“Where do you come from?” he asked.

“We live in Vermont,” I said.

“Where’s your husband?”

I hesitated. It would be easier to say that Gerald was dead than to explain where he was and why. To say that he wanted to stay in Communist China would be to bring down suspicion upon us all.

“He is abroad,” I said.

Sam Blaine leaned against the door and looked us over thoughtfully. Then he spoke to Baba.

“Old friend, you recognize this lady and the boy?”

Baba nodded peacefully. “She is my son’s wife. The boy is Gerald’s son.”

“You want to go with them?”

“I’ll go with them.”

“Not unless you want to — I’ll look after you if you want to stay.”

“I will go,” Baba said,

“Well—” The tall American was doubtful. “If you say so—”

“If we hurry we can still catch the afternoon train,” I said.

“I’ll fetch my car,” he said. “He hasn’t much to pack. Where is your luggage?”

“We had left it at the station,” Rennie told him.

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes,” Sam Blaine said and strode off.

I saw now that Rennie was in distress. He was looking at his grandfather and making up his mind whether to speak.

“Well?” I inquired.

“Are you going to take him on the train wearing that Chinese gown?” my son demanded.

Baba surveyed himself. “It’s a very nice gown,” he observed. “I bought it in Peking. The silk is still good. It is warm and soft.”

“Mother!” Rennie cried.

“Baba, we will take the gown with us,” I said. “But perhaps it will be best if we find your coat. Americans are not used to people who look different.”

The gentle old man said nothing to this and Rennie was already reaching behind a curtain which hang against the wall and served as a closet. He produced the dark-grey suit in which Baba had left Peking, and the dark overcoat Gerald had bought him at the English tailor shop in the old Legation Quarter. They looked very little worn. Evidently Baba had lived in the Chinese silk gowns he had folded so carefully into his suitcase. He let Rennie help him into the grey suit and we put on his overcoat and found his black homburg hat and he stood quite beautiful and patient under our appraisal. Nothing disturbs him. He is gentle, he is obedient. Has something gone wrong with his mind? I cannot tell. I was not sure he knew what was happening to him. He simply gave himself into our hands.

Dust and noise outside the door announced that Sam Blaine had returned. I had packed the suitcase and Rennie led his grandfather to the car. Sam Blaine leaped out, his long legs curiously dexterous, and in a half minute we were in the car, the dust flying behind us. The car itself was monstrous, red and chrome, enormous in size and as comfortable as a bed.

“I have never seen such a car,” I said. For I was in the front seat, and Rennie and Baba were behind.

“Made to order,” Sam Blaine said. “My order.”

He drove fast and I stopped talking. I shall never grow used to speed. Years of riding in rickshaws and mule carts have reduced my tempo permanently, perhaps. We reached the station in time for the train, and Baba, supported by Rennie and Sam Blaine, was lifted up the steps.

“Goodbye, ma’am,” Sam Blaine said, and wrenched my hand. “You might write me, and tell me how the old man makes it.”

“I will,” I promised.

The train was already moving and the porter pulled me into the door and locked it. We settled ourselves into the compartment, Baba, Rennie and I. Then I was conscious of pain somewhere and it was in my hand, the one Sam Blaine had held in his crushing grip.