Her reason recalled her from such futile questioning. Could anyone change what Heaven had decreed? Heaven, valuing only life, had given seed to man, and earth to woman. Of earth there was plenty, but of what use was earth without seed? The truth was that a man’s need went on even after his bones were chalk and his blood water, and this was because Heaven put the bearing of children above all else lest mankind die. Therefore must the very last seed in a man’s loin be planted, and that this last seed might bear strong fruit, as the man grew old the seed must be planted in better and stronger soil. For any woman, therefore, to cling to a man beyond the time of her fertility was to defy Heaven’s decree.
When she had thus reasoned, the distant large pain melted away in her, and she felt released and calm. She felt, indeed, restored to herself and almost as she had been as a girl. How strange and how pleasant it would be to lie down at night and know that she could sleep until morning, or if she were wakeful that she could be wakeful and not fear waking another! Her body was given back to her. She pushed up her sleeve from her arm and contemplated her flesh. It was as firm and as sound as ever. Nourished and cared for and infused now with new freedom, she would live to be a very old woman. But that she might live happily she must be careful in all her relationships, but most of all with him. She must not allow herself to be cut off from him. Certainly this would not be easy when the tie between them would no longer be of the flesh, but of the mind and the spirit. Then she must consider new ways of his dependence upon her, yet ways which would not in fairness divide him from the newcomer.
“I must somehow do my duty toward all,” she murmured, and pulled the sleeve down again over her pretty arm.
Who was this young woman to be? Madame Wu had thought a great deal about her. Now she began thinking about her again. Clearly she should be someone very different from herself. She must be young, yet not younger than the daughters-in-law, for that would bring trouble into the house. The proper age would be twenty-two. She must not be too well-educated, for Madame Wu herself had learning. She must not be modern, for a modern young woman would not be satisfied to be a concubine and in a short time she would be pushing Madame Wu out of the way and demanding Mr. Wu’s whole time and heart, and this would be shameful in the house before the sons. An older man may take a concubine in dignity, but he must not be possessed by her. Pretty of course she must be, but not so pretty that she would distract young men in the house, or indeed Mr. Wu himself. Pleasantly pretty would be enough. And since Madame Wu’s own beauty had been of one sort, this young woman’s should be of another. That is, she should be plump and rosy, and it would not matter if she were somewhat thick in the bones.
All this, Madame Wu reflected, pointed to a young woman country bred. Moreover, a country woman would have health and no bad habits and would be likely to have sound children. Children, of course, must be had, for no woman is content without children, and where there are none the woman grows peevish and dwells upon herself and fastens her demands upon the man. Mr. Wu must not be made less happy, certainly, by his concubine. “And she must be a little stupid,” Madame Wu reflected, “in order that she will be content with what he gives her, and not wonder what is between him and me.”
She now began to have a clear picture in her mind of this young woman. She saw a healthy, slightly stupid, pretty young woman, one fond of food, one who had not lived before in a rich house so that she would be a little fearful of this house, and one not stubborn or proud, so that she would not seek to overcome her fear by temper and noise.
“There must be many such common young women,” Madame Wu thought cheerfully.
She decided as soon as she had risen and had tended to the duties of the day that she would send for the old woman who had been go-between for Meng. For Madame Wu had employed a go-between even with her friend, lest Madame Kang in her kindness demand too little, and later the marriage would suffer because it had not been just. “This old Liu Ma must be called hither,” Madame Wu thought, “and I will tell her plainly just what is wanted. It is as definite as an order for merchandise.” So she thought and without cynicism.
Then she let her mind drift to these rooms in which she now would live the rest of her life. She would make very few changes here. She had always been fond of the old man who had been her father-in-law. Since he had never had a daughter, he had been good to her and when he found that she was intelligent and learned as well as beautiful, he had been very pleased indeed. He had put aside the convention which forbids an old man to speak to his son’s wife. Many times he had even sent for her that he might read to her something from the old books in his library. She had learned to come to this library herself during his lifetime and read the books. Certain of these books he had put aside as unfitting for a woman, and she had never touched them. Now, however, since the first half of her life was over and she was alone, she could read them all.
It gave her pleasure to think of the library full of books now hers. She had not had time in these middle years of her life to look much into books. Mr. Wu did not enjoy reading, and therefore he did not like to see her with a book in her hand. Today, after years of giving body and mind to others, she felt that she needed to drink deeply at old springs.
These rooms became every moment more her own. Old Gentleman had been so long dead that he had ceased to exist for her as flesh and blood. Today when she thought of him he was a wise old mind, a calm old voice. There was therefore nothing in these rooms which she wanted changed, since she felt no flesh and blood were here. The bed curtains were of a thin dark-blue brocaded silk, speaking neither of passion nor of fecundity. The walls were whitewashed and creamy with age. The beams of the roof were unceiled. Doors and windows, chairs and tables were heavy and smooth and of plain, polished wood dark with Ningpo varnish, that stain and oil which last generations in a house. The floor was of big square gray tiles, so old that they were hollowed beside the bed and at the door into the library. The bedroom was one of the three rooms, and the third was the long sitting room which opened upon a court. Only in the court would she perhaps make a little change. The trees had grown together and did not let enough sun through, and the stones beneath them were slippery with moss.
Someone knocked at the door. “Come!” she called.
Ying came in, looking frightened. “I did not know where you were,” she stammered. “I went everywhere. I went into your old room and waked the master, and he was angry with me.”
“You will find me here now every morning until I die,” Madame Wu said calmly.
The news filtered through the household while the day went on. Son told wife, and one wife told another, and Ying told the cook, and the head cook told his undercook, and so by the end of that day there was not a soul who did not know that Madame Wu had moved into Old Gentleman’s rooms. Through servants the news was taken to Old Lady’s own maid, and so to Old Lady, who would not believe it. Madame Wu had purposely not told Old Lady. She knew that Old Lady would hear it from her maid, and this was well, for then Old Lady’s first temper would be spent on someone who was only a servant. After this was over, Old Lady would be torn by not knowing whether to quarrel first with her son or with her son’s wife. If she came first to Madame Wu, this would mean she blamed her. If she came first to her son, this meant she felt her son was at fault.
Toward noon, when Madame Wu was reckoning the month’s accounts in the sitting room which was now hers, she saw Old Lady’s maid leading her across the court. The trees had already been cut and carried away, and the moss-covered stones were scraped and cleaned of moss. Old Lady paused to see what had been done. She leaned on her maid’s arm with one hand, and in the other hand she held her long dragon-headed staff. The sun poured down into the once shadowy court, and the fish in the central pool, blinded by the light, had dived into the mud, so that the water was empty. But a pair of bright blue dragonflies danced above the water, drunk with the new sun.