Yi had never gone on an excursion or met women of such accomplishment or standing. She was apprehensive, Ren was optimistic, and I was anxious. I did my best to make sure Yi would be received positively. I helped her dress in a simple and modest manner, and then I hung on to her shoulders as she walked through the compound.
Just before we stepped into the palanquin to take us to the lake, Ren said, “Don’t be nervous. They will find you charming.”
And they did.
Yi told the women in the Banana Garden Five about her dedication and conviction, and then she read them the poems I’d written and showed them the copy of The Peony Pavilion that held our writings in the margins.
“We feel as if we know Chen Tong,” said Gu Yurei.
“As if we’ve heard her voice before,” added Lin Yining.
The women on the boat even wept for me, the lovesick maiden who didn’t know death was coming.
“Would you be willing to write something that I could include in the pages at the end of our project?” Yi asked.
Gu Yurei smiled, and said, “I would love to write a colophon for you.”
“And so would I,” chimed in Lin Yining.
I was delighted.
Yi and I visited several more times, so the women would have a chance to read and discuss what I’d written with my sister-wives. I didn’t interfere in any way, wanting their interpretation to be purely their own. Finally, there came a day when the women pulled out brushes, ink, and paper.
Gu Yurei looked out across the lake to where the lotus were in bloom, and then she wrote:
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Many readers in the women’s quarters, such as Xiaoqing, have had true insight into The Peony Pavilion. I regret that none of their commentaries have been transmitted to the world. Now we have the combined commentary of three wives of the Wu household. They explain the play so fully that even the meanings hidden between the lines are understood.
Isn’t that a great good fortune? So many women hope to find a community—a sisterhood—of others like themselves. How lucky for these three wives that they found that in their writing.
I drifted over to Lin Yining and saw her write: Even Tang Xianzu himself could not have commented on his play so well.
Responding to those who thought Liniang was improper and sent a bad message to young women, she added:
Thanks to the work of the three wives, Liniang’s name is vindicated. She is within all bounds of propriety, and her elegant legacy lingers.
To those who might not agree, she had harsh words: Those bumpkins will not be worth talking to.
Nor did she have much patience for those who wished to send women back to the inner chambers, where they couldn’t be heard.
Here we have three wives, all talented, who have succeeded one another in making this commentary, which is so monumental that, from now on, anyone in this vast world who wants to perceive wisdom or master literary theories has to begin with this book. This great enterprise will last to eternity.
Imagine how I felt when I read that!
i n th e com i ng weeks, Yi and I took our copy of The Peony Pavilion with the notes in the margins to other women like Li Shu and Hong Zhize.
They too decided to put brush to paper and record their thoughts. Li Shu ( 2 5 9 )
wrote that she shed tears when she read it. Hong Zhize remembered as a small girl sitting on her father’s lap and hearing Ren confess that he hadn’t written the first version of the commentary but that he was trying to save his wives from criticism. She added:
I regret that I was born too late to meet the first two wives.
Now that Yi and I were taking excursions, I saw just how brave and courageous these women writers were to acknowledge and defend our project. The world had changed. Most men had determined that writing was both a threat and an unladylike activity. These days, few families were proud to have their womenfolk publish. But Yi and I were not only pushing ahead, we were bringing in other women to support us.
We found an artist to do woodblock illustrations, and Yi asked Ren to write a preface and a question-and-answer piece about the project in which he told the truth as he saw it. With every word he wrote, I saw that he loved me still. Then Yi copied my poems into the margins of Ren’s text:
I am so touched by these stanzas that I enclose them here, hoping future collectors of women’s writings will benefit from their remaining balm and fragrance.
In this way, Yi put me next to my husband forever, another gift that was so great I didn’t know how I could ever repay her.
By this time, Ren had fully caught our passion for the project. He began to join us when we went to meet with different vendors. What a joy it was for the three of us to be together in this way, but truthfully we didn’t need his help.
“I want finely wrought woodblocks for the text,” Yi told the fifth merchant we visited.
These were shown to us, but I was uncomfortable with the expense. I whispered in Yi’s ear, she nodded, and then asked, “What do you have that’s secondhand that I can use again?”
The merchant gave Yi an appraising look and took us to a back room.
“These woodblocks are practically new,” he stated.
“Good,” Yi said, after she’d inspected them. “We’ll save money without sacrificing quality.” This is what I’d told her to say, but then she added ( 2 6 0 )
something new. “I’m also thinking about durability. I want to make thousands of copies.”
“Madame,” the merchant said, not even trying to hide his condescen-sion, “you probably won’t sell any copies.”
“I’m hoping for many editions with many readers,” she shot back tartly.
The merchant appealed to our husband. “But, sir, there are other important projects that could use these blocks. Wouldn’t it be wiser to save them for your work?”
But Ren wasn’t concerned about his next volume of poetry or the criticism that was coming after that. “Do your job well and we’ll come back for the next edition,” he said. “If you don’t, another firm on the street will help us.”
The negotiation was intense, a good price was reached, and then we went to find a printer, select good inks, and decide on the layout. Everything that had been written in the margins or between the lines was moved to the top of the page, with the text of the opera below. When the setting of the woodblocks was complete, everyone—including Ren’s young son—participated in checking for mistakes. Once everything was sent to the printer, all I had to do was wait.
( 2 6 1 )
The East Wind
“ON THE EAST WIND HEARTBREAK COMES AGAIN,” liniang had sung, and now it came to the Wu family compound. Yi had always been physically frail, and she’d worked hard for many months. Even though I’d watched out for her, and Ren had made sure she ate properly, illness overtook her. She retreated to her room. She accepted no visitors. She lost her appetite, which in turn caused her to lose weight and energy. Very quickly—too quickly—she no longer had the strength to sit in a chair; she now lay in her bed, looking emaciated, worn out, and ex-hausted. It was the middle of summer and very hot.
“Is it lovesickness?” Ren asked, after Doctor Zhao examined his new patient.
“She has a fever and a bad cough,” the doctor intoned grimly. “It might be water-lung sickness. It could be blood-lung disease.”
He cooked an infusion of dried mulberries, which Yi drank. When it did nothing to ease her lungs, he poured powdered sea sparrow down her throat to scare away the yin poisons that lurked there, but Yi continued to fade. I urged her to call on the inner strength that had kept her alive all these years, but the doctor grew increasingly bleak.