That evening, Madame Wu broached the subject of a new wife with her son. He did not object. After that, she called in the best matchmaker in the city.
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Several girls were mentioned. I made sure they were all rejected.
“The girls in Hangzhou are too precocious and spoiled,” I whispered in Madame Wu’s ear. “You had someone like that once before in your household and it didn’t suit you.”
“You must go farther away,” Madame Wu instructed the matchmaker.
“Look for someone who has simple tastes and can keep me company in my old age. I don’t have many years left.”
The matchmaker got in her palanquin and traveled to the countryside.
A few rocks pushed here and there on the road caused her bearers to follow my directions to Gudang. The matchmaker made inquiries and was shown to the Qian house, where two literate, bound-footed women lived.
Madame Qian was remarkably composed and answered all questions about her daughter truthfully. She pulled out a card that recorded Yi’s ma-trilineal ancestors for three generations, including her grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s titles.
“What has the girl learned?” the matchmaker asked.
Madame Qian listed her daughter’s accomplishments, and then added,
“I’ve taught her that a husband is the sun; a wife is the moon. The sun does not change in its fullness, but a woman waxes and wanes. Men act on their wills; women act on their feelings. Men initiate and women endure.
This is why men visit the outside realm, while women remain inside.”
The matchmaker nodded thoughtfully and then asked to see Yi. During the time it took for a single candle to burn down, Yi was brought in and inspected, a dowry was negotiated, and a possible bride-price discussed. Master Qian was willing to give five percent of his silk crop for five years, plus one mou of land. In addition, the girl would go to her new home with several trunks of bed linens, shoes, clothes, and other embroideries—all silk, all made by the bride.
How could the matchmaker not be impressed?
“It is often better for a wife to come from less standing and wealth so that she will more easily adjust to her new position as daughter-in-law in her husband’s home,” she observed.
When the matchmaker returned to Hangzhou, she went directly to the Wu compound. “I have found a wife for your son,” she announced to Madame Wu. “Only a man who has already lost two wives would be willing to take her.” The two women studied the times of birth for Ren and Yi and compared their horoscopes, making sure the Eight Characters were well matched. They discussed what a bride-price might be, considering that the father was only a farmer. Then the matchmaker went back to Gu-
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dang. She delivered silver, jewelry, four jars of wine, two bolts of cloth, some tea, and a leg of mutton to seal the agreement.
Ren and Qian Yi married in the twenty-sixth year of Emperor Kangxi’s reign. Yi’s father was relieved to be rid of his unwanted and useless daughter; her mother smiled at the reversal of fortune for her natal family line.
I had many words of advice I wanted to give Yi, but at the moment of parting I let her mother do the talking.
“Be respectful and cautious,” she advised. “Be diligent. Go to bed late and wake up early as you’ve always done. Make tea for your mother-in-law and treat her kindly. If they have domestic animals, feed them. Take good care of your feet, arrange your clothes, and comb your hair. Never be angry. If you do these things, you will have a good name.”
She held her daughter in her arms.
“One more thing,” she said gently. “This has happened very fast and we can’t be sure the matchmaker has been completely forthright. If your husband turns out to be poor, don’t blame him. If he has a clubfoot or is sim-pleminded, don’t complain, become disloyal, or change your heart. You now have no one to rely on but him. The water is spilled and you can’t take it back. Contentment is just a matter of chance.” Tears streamed down her face. “You’ve been a good daughter. Try not to forget us entirely.”
Then she pulled the opaque red veil down over Yi’s face and helped her into the palanquin. A small band played, and the local feng shui man tossed grains, beans, small fruit, and copper cash to propitiate baleful spirits. But I could see there were none of those, only me, happy, and village children who scrambled for the corporeal treats to take home. Yi, who had no choice in any of this, left her home village. She had little expectation of love or affection, but she carried her mother’s bravery in her heart.
Ren’s mother greeted the palanquin at the front gate. She couldn’t see the girl’s face, but she inspected her feet and found them more than adequate. The two of them swayed together through the compound to the bedchamber. Here, Madame Wu placed the confidential book in her daughter-in-law’s hands. “Read this. It will tell you what you need to do tonight. I look forward to a grandson in nine months.”
Hours later, Ren arrived. I watched him lift Yi’s veil and smile at the beautiful girl. He was pleased. I wished for them the Three Abundances—
good fortune, long life, and sons—and then I left.
I wasn’t going to make the same mistakes I’d made with Ze. I wouldn’t live in Ren and Yi’s bedchamber, where I might be tempted to interfere in ways I had in the past. I remembered how Liniang had been drawn to the ( 2 2 9 )
plum tree she’d seen in the garden: I should count it a great good fortune to be buried beside it when I die. There she thought she might marshal her fragrant spirit through the dark rains of summer and keep company with the tree’s roots. When she died, her parents honored her wishes. Later, Sister Stone put a sprig of flowering plum in a vase and placed it on Liniang’s altar.
Liniang’s ghost had responded by sending a shower of plum petals. I went to the Wus’ plum tree, which hadn’t bloomed or borne fruit since I died.
Its neglect suited me. I made a home for myself beneath the moss-covered rocks that surrounded the tree’s trunk. From here, I’d be able to watch over Yi and Ren without intruding too much.
y i adap te d qu i c k ly to being a wife. She had more wealth now than she ever could have imagined, but she showed no signs of extravagance.
From childhood she’d sought inner calm, not outer beauty. Now, as a wife, she strove to be much more than just a pretty dress. Her charm was completely her own: Her skin was smoother than jade, each step she took with her lily feet was so dainty it seemed to cause other flowers to bloom, and her swaying gait was so soft that her skirts swirled about her like mist.
She never complained, not even when loneliness for her mother overpowered her. At those times—instead of crying, yelling at the servants, or throwing a cup—she spent the day sitting at a northern window, practicing being quiet, with nothing but a single incense burner—and me—to keep her company.
She learned to love Ren and respect Madame Wu. There were no conflicts in the women’s rooms, because Yi did all possible things to make her mother-in-law happy. Nor did Yi complain about the women who had preceded her. She didn’t taunt us for dying so young. She didn’t try to hurt the dignity of our memories. She preferred instead to entertain her husband and mother-in-law with her singing, dancing, and zither playing, and they enjoyed her innocence and lively manner. Her heart was like a great road with room for everyone. She treated the servants well, always had kind words for the cook, and dealt with tradesmen as though they were her kinsmen. For all this, she was appreciated by her mother-in-law and doted on by her husband. She had good food to eat, embroidered clothes to wear, and a much better house in which to live. However, she was not yet educated enough for this household. Now that I had access to Ren’s library, I could teach her properly. But I was not alone in my efforts.