Pearl Buck - Gods Men

Emory evaded this. William had grown amusingly dictatorial in these past few years. “Why shouldn’t I just telephone them for tomorrow night? After all, it’s family. One needn’t be too formal.”

William reflected, then consented. “Very well. But tell them to be prompt. Will’s wife is always late.”

Emory rose at once and walked with her long lingering step across the floor. “I’ll telephone Henrietta first.”

None of them would think of saying he or she could not come, unless Henrietta declared she had to work in her absurd laboratory. She would tell her that she needn’t dress, at least.

“You mean we aren’t to dress?” Henrietta inquired over the telephone. “But I have a quite decent black gown. I had to get it when Clem was given an award in Dayton — for the citizen who had done the most for the town during the war.”

“Oh, then we’ll dress,” Emory replied. “William always does anyway.”

So she had telephoned to everybody to dress, and therefore it was upon his family in its best trappings that William looked the next evening, after he had said his usual grace before the meal. The dinner was excellent, hearty without being heavy. Emory understood food as Candace never had and she had no qualms about dismissing a careless cook. She never allowed herself to become involved in the domestic situation of any servant, a fault which had been very trying in Candace. They had once endured abominable omelets for nearly three years because the cook had a crippled son. In the end William had dismissed the cook himself one Sunday morning over a piece of yellow leather on his plate.

Tonight the bouillon, the soufflé, the roast pheasant, and the vegetables were all delicious. He did not care for sweets but Emory had a Russian dessert that he had never tasted before, flavored with rum. “It is a pity,” he remarked, “that our relations with the Russians cannot be confined to their sweets.” Everybody laughed and even Emory smiled.

His mother was looking very handsome in a lilac velvet, trimmed at the bosom with a fall of cream-colored lace. No one would dream that she had ever been the wife of a missionary in China. She had kept her stout figure in spite of her age, and her visit in England, prolonged as it had been, had given her an imperial air, enhanced by the pile of white curls on her head, which he liked. He was proud of her and, the dinner over, he led her to the most comfortable chair in the long drawing room.

“You’re looking well, Mother.”

“I am in splendid health, thank God,” she replied in a resonant voice. “I’ve had no chance at you, you naughty boy. Oh, I know you’ve been too busy for your old mother.” She leaned over the edge of her chair while the others were settling themselves. “Now, William, I want you to have a talk with Henrietta. She is living all by herself somewhere way downtown in the most miserable little apartment. It doesn’t look right for your sister.”

“What is she doing?” he asked. He knew vaguely from Emory that Henrietta was still working on one of Clem’s absurd notions and his eyes fell on her as he spoke. She was sitting in her characteristic repose.

“She’s working at some laboratory with an old Jew. I don’t know what she’s doing. Clem was a queer duck, if you ask me.”

At this moment Henrietta raised her dark eyes and smiled at them. She was gentler than she used to be, though even more withdrawn.

“I want a word with you later, Henrietta,” he called.

She nodded and her eyes fell.

Ruth was very pretty in spite of her troubles. He had time now to look at each one of his family. She had gained some weight — eating, probably, to take her mind off Jeremy. Of all of them Ruth looked the most like his father, her features delicate and her bones fine. Yet there was nothing in her face of that spiritual quality which he remembered with reverence as being his father’s habitual expression. Her two daughters were nondescript young matrons, he thought. They looked like all the modern women, flaring blond hair, wide painted mouths, a clatter of thin bracelets and high heels. He supposed they were well enough and certainly they need not worry him now that they had husbands.

He had taken no more relatives into the business, not even his own sons. He wanted to be free to dismiss incompetents like Jeremy. Not that his sons were incompetent in any way. Both of them were successful men, Will a lawyer, Jerry a surgeon. They were married and he had three grandchildren, two of them boys. He did not know his sons’ wives very well and had even been accused of passing them on the street without recognizing them. He had grumbled a good deal when Jerry married an ordinary trained nurse while he was an intern. William had a theory that it would be better for all young people if they were married in the Chinese fashion by their parents, in order that one could be sure of what was coming into the family. When he had said this to Emory she had gone into fits of laughter. “You are the most unrealistic of men,” she had declared. “Don’t you know yet that you are living in modern America?” He did not know what she meant and was too proud to say so.

His sons and Ruth’s daughters seemed on the best of terms with Emory. She sat among them and behind her coffee table, appearing, he thought with self-congratulation, entirely happy. Her darkly regal head was bent while she busied herself with cups. She wore a coral-colored gown of some sort that he did not remember having seen before. The full skirt flowed round her like a calyx, and she had on her diamonds.

It was all very pleasant and he did not remember ever having been quite so happy before. Everything was well with him, and it was dawning upon him that perhaps even the war had been good for him in its own way. The world needed leadership as never before. He must not allow himself to think of retiring, however much Emory hoped for it. Monsignor Lockhart had said to him only last week that the new war in Asia might be the — beginning of mankind’s most titanic struggle. Within the next years—

“William,” Emory said. “Your mother wants to know what you think is going to happen in China. Why don’t you tell us all?”

So he began, sitting in his high-backed armchair. “A very strange new China, not at all what you and I remember, Henrietta, in old Peking. You would like it less than ever, Mother. I don’t suppose Ruth remembers. …”

They listened to his picture of Communist China, no one interrupting him except his mother, who put in small cries of horror and interjections of outrage.

“But how repulsive, William!” And at the end, “I’m glad your father isn’t here to see it. He would want to go straight over there — though as I always said, what one man can do I don’t know. ‘You’re wasting yourself,’ that’s what I always told him.”

“One man can do a great deal,” William said.

She heaved a mighty sigh and shook her head.

“Not any man, of course,” William said, “but one who knows, one who has faith in God, has infinite power.”

His mother looked rebellious. “Your father always thought he knew, too, William. He was always so sure that God told him what was best. I don’t know that there’s any difference between then and now.”

“There is a great deal of difference,” William said gravely. “Now we really do know.”

Emory, scenting the dissension always possible in the presence of her mother-in-law, chose a lighter substance for talk.

“William says the Old Tiger’s wife is very beautiful, though she’s Chinese.”

“So was the Empress Dowager,” Mrs. Lane said promptly. “The Empress was not Chinese exactly — Manchu, of course, but it’s almost the same — and she was very beautiful. I shall never forget her. She had long eyes, very long and brilliant. She had a temper, as any woman worth her salt has. Her mouth was very red — of course she painted. Her skin was wonderful and smooth and white as anybody’s. I never felt it was really her fault that things went as wrong as they did. She was so charming, and always perfectly lovely to me. I took William to see her — do you remember, William?”