CHAPTER XV
The visits of Hai t'ai-t'ai were always occasions of intense importance to the family, and the woman, growing frankly elderly at the early age of thirty, played her part with such pomp and independence of manner as effectively to inspire awe in the hearts of her needier relations. Much largess depended upon her smile, and all except her old mother, who reigned haughtily like an autocrat now that her father was dead, crowded round the t'ai-t'ai with many questions of concern for her welfare and the health of her body.
The headquarters of the family were in a town some miles south of Peking, a place of dust and sand, with streets worn far below the level of the doors. Like all these villages on the flat plains of Chihli, it was subject to relentless alternation of flood and drought, so that the people were perennially close neighbors to starvation. They took the fortunes of the weather philosophically, sowed crops of millet, beans, sorghum, and wheat against the gamble of rain, gossiped over the salt water they drew from alkali-tainted wells, and congratulated themselves if famine seemed no nearer than a year away.
Into this land, making a doomed resistance against the desert which the winds each year brought closer and closer, the t'ai-t'ai went gladly. She did not sigh for the extravagance of mountains, even with tempting glimpses of the Western Hills shimmering above the mirage of the horizon. She sat with utter contentment in the dirty hallways of a huge ramshackle home, all decay and discomfort behind pretentious walls, and thought nothing strange of reducing Nancy to this, giving her pigs and chickens, mangy dogs, slovenly women, sprawling brats for lifelong society, courtyards reeking with the stench of manure for her window upon the joys of the world.
Her news caused great excitement. Fifteen thousand taels was a large sum; remarkable was the crop of prodigies who sprang up to claim it. No one, of course, suggested his own sons. In a land where smallpox and typhus and cholera were the normal hazards of the day, five sons were not too great an insurance against being left without heirs; even the likeliest boys died suddenly: one day, active and grimy good health, the next day, a stomach ache and the coffin. An indiscreet fondness for melons could mow down whole harvests of children. No one quite took it upon himself to offer up even the youngest of his sons as a husband for Nancy. They were all sure to claim their share of the fifteen thousand taels, no matter whose son secured it; the ingenious communism of a Chinese family guaranteed this hope. Why be too forward in sacrifice? Every father regretted the stupidity of his own offspring, extolled unselfishly the superior talents of his nephews and cousins.
Finally the t'ai-t'ai lost patience.
"Bah! if you found lumps of gold in your fields you would complain about the rockiness of the soil."
Prodded by her vigorous scorn, they stumbled upon the happy thought of asking her to suggest Nancy's suitor.
The next few days were busy ones. The t'ai-t'ai visited all branches of the family and hauled up the sheepish youths to answer her questions. Seldom in her life had the t'ai-t'ai been in such fine fettle; she was as racy, as outspoken as a dowager of twice her winters and paid back arrears of jealousy and spite in the sarcasm she poured out so freely upon the offspring of the relations who once used to slight her. There was not a likely candidate, she vowed, not one whom Hai Lao-ye could not quash with a single stern glance from above his tortoise-rimmed spectacles. What stupid optimism their parents showed to bring up this generation to be gentlemen. They would gape open-mouthed at a ricksha and fall headlong from the windows of a railway carriage when the fire-wagon lurched forward. Better, far better, to teach them to curse mules and make them competent donkey-drivers; how could a full stomach go with an empty head, long nails with an open mouth?
The t'ai-t'ai's abuse was accepted without resentment. It was so impartially distributed that everyone had the chance to grin at the discomfiture of his neighbor. Her sarcasm was the privilege of success. The woman held the whip hand over her kinsfolk in her right to dispose of fifteen thousand taels. There was none among them who would not have asked the same interest from his capital. At the bottom of it all, they knew she was observing and when she decided they were ready to acclaim her decision for the t'ai-t'ai, after much sifting and searching, gave her choice to a boy who was undeniably the ornament of the family.
He was the son of an older brother and had surmounted the handicaps of a mother untaught, a home ignorant of hygiene, a family in which no one hesitated to trespass on the privacy of others. As though these were the conditions necessary to producing his type, he had grown up, like so many Chinese youths bred in the same unpromising way, a tall, sturdy, clear-complexioned boy, with quick, intelligent eyes, high forehead, slender, masterful hands.
She had the lad suitably clothed, brought him to Peking with his father, installed them both in a hotel, and then informed her husband that Nancy's match had been found. The account she gave of his talents would have done credit to the ablest scholar of the Han-lin.
"He must be a relative of yours," sniffed Herrick skeptically.
"He is," acknowledged his wife. "Why should I prefer the treasure whose value I have known only by hearsay when I can bring the treasure I have tested in my own home? He is my nephew, so I can vouch for him."
"Well, I am content to look at this paragon, though I heard of no unicorn being present at his birth. Your father was a man of great parts; perhaps it's not impossible some of his ability may have strained through to his grandson."
Herrick waited for the father of the youth to call. The visit was promising. Herrick had known the t'ai-t'ai's brother in days past and was pleased to see him ripened into a dignified, well-spoken man with the easiness of manner which characterized training of the old school. In due time the son himself was produced. Herrick noted his face and his bearing, summoned every resource of his own knowledge to examine him as to what he had learned of the classics, made him write characters, interpret scrolls. The boy stood the ordeal well. Every question that was put to him he answered in a quiet, collected voice. He looked soberly handsome in his dark green jacket and long green gown. He did not shift from foot to foot or twist his hands or venture to stare at his inquisitor.
"I am glad to see that he has been taught the proprieties," Herrick said—the first mark of satisfaction he had shown.
The engagement of course was not settled in a day. It was too grave a business for such haste. The birthday cards had been exchanged and the eight characters on each of them compared, to make sure that the year, month, day, and hour of Nancy's birth matched those of Ming-te, the t'ai-t'ai's nephew. The t'ai-t'ai was too wily a contriver to be balked by a little detail of soothsaying: the making of Nancy's card was in her own hands. So well she managed it that Chou Hsien-sheng, the father of the boy, was astonished at a mating the stars themselves seemed to have predestined.
Yet Herrick was loath to bind himself to the final bargain. He was satisfied with Ming-te, quite confident that no better Chinese husband could be found for his daughter; nevertheless, the businesslike dryness of arranging betrothal for a girl so instinct with delicate imaginings disheartened the father, made him sore in spirit. He had specified that Nancy should not be married for four years, a point he had some trouble winning, for the fifteen thousand taels were not to be paid till the wedding; to gain his will here, Herrick had to concede one third of Nancy's dowry at her engagement. But after all the terms had been talked out, the amount and number of betrothal presents decided, every obstacle cleared, Herrick still hung back, for he knew when the red cards were exchanged he should have given up irrevocably his claims upon his daughter.
"I wish Nancy could see the boy for herself," he told the t'ai-t'ai. "I know my own judgment is better than hers and that I ought to do this without a qualm—yet my heart does not feel quite right about it."
For once in her life the t'ai-t'ai could not control a vivid expression of her feelings. She was appalled by her husband's vacillating temper. After all the concessions she had made as matchmaker, after allowing Herrick not only to see the father of the boy but the unprecedented privilege of seeing the boy himself, her patience was outraged by the mere suggestion of his turning back.
"Of course she can't see him. How can she see him? When has that ever been done?" she demanded.
Herrick agreed sadly. It was another case of his own inheritance betraying him. He had fancied Nancy and Ming-te left by themselves for a space, till the gentle influence of the garden should help them realize their own community of soul. Alas, it was the fond picture of an old man. He needed only a minute's attention to his wife's protests to know that neither Nancy nor Ming-te would see the advantage of such a meeting. They would stand awkward, tongue-tied, wondering who should release them from this agony of embarrassment.
"Very well," he said, "the matter is settled. Call a fortune-teller and choose a lucky day. I am ready to make the engagement."
The t'ai-t'ai secured a lucky day close at hand. It was cheaper, after all, to buy a lucky day than to pay the hotel bills of her brother and her nephew.
Herrick, meanwhile, had not dared consult Nancy about his negotiations. The t'ai-t'ai naturally told nothing. It was in her interest to be secretive, especially about the matter of the fifteen thousand taels, which every concubine would resent as robbing her of her chance, no matter how remote, to plunder the family wealth. Yet the news of the intended engagement leaked out. Every last woman of the household knew who Nancy's husband was to be. The nurse was angry, yet afraid to make matters worse by protesting, afraid lest she be parted from her foster children and pensioned back to her southern home, a summary fate she knew the t'ai-t'ai had hinted and might have influence enough to effect by making Herrick believe he was doing a kindness to an old and loyal family servant.
Kuei-lien too was perturbed. So great was her admiration for the shrewdness of the t'ai-t'ai that she could not rest comfortably till she had uncovered all the inward reasons for this engagement. The t'ai-t'ai was not the person to give away a favorite nephew without compensation, not the one to argue her family into a profitless bargain. She suspected money behind the agreement, but could get no proof; it was certainly what she would have claimed, had she been in the t'ai-t'ai's place. Yet she, no more than the amah, could presume to act against the mistress of the household, to act openly. The t'ai-t'ai was her patron; had lifted her up, might yet cast her down.
Kuei-lien determined to provoke resistance from Nancy herself.
"Do you remember when you suggested to your father that I was an enemy?" she began, with engaging frankness. "I want to prove to you that I am no enemy, but a friend."
Nancy, who was quite unable to fathom the purpose of the concubine, chose the prudence of keeping quiet.
"I suppose you know your father is seeking but a husband for you," she continued. "He tried Mr. Nasmith; they couldn't come to terms. So now your father thinks it is cheaper to get a Chinese husband."
"Who told you all this?" Nancy asked angrily.
"Ah, my dear, the very walls have ears."
"I don't want to hear the tattle of the walls."
"Come, there's no profit in being angry. Let me finish what I have to say. Now your father has found a suitable person. He is the nephew of the t'ai-t'ai. Why do you think the t'ai-t'ai has offered her nephew for the place? Because she is fond of you? Nonsense; it is because her family is poor and needs the money your father is willing to pay."
At this moment the nurse herself appeared; Kuei-lien had contrived it so.
"Now," went on the concubine, "perhaps you dislike me too much to believe me, though I am not the enemy you think,"—her smile truly was disarming,—"but you surely will believe your old amah, and you will see that she agrees with every word when I say we Chinese do not like marriage with foreigners just as your own people look down upon marriage with Chinese. Isn't that so?"
"Yes, yes, very true words," assented the nurse.
"Why did you marry a foreigner?" asked Nancy.
"I am not a wife. I am only your father's mistress. I was poor. I had no choice."
Kuei-lien, flinging back Nancy's own words, had shamed the girl into silence.
"The family of your husband won't welcome you," persisted the concubine; "they will receive you, only because of the money you have brought, but they will hate you, hate you; no matter how talented or how beautiful you may be, they will hate you because you are different, they will hate you even more because you are talented, because you are beautiful. What do you suppose your ignorant mother-in-law will care about your talents? Faugh! she cannot read a word or write a character. She will never rest happy till you have forgotten every sentence you know, till you too are like the other cattle of the house."
"Suppose all this is true," said Nancy calmly, "what is the good of telling me? My father makes the decisions."
"We tell you because we can do nothing with your father. The t'ai-t'ai would send us away if we opened our mouths to protest. But you have your father's ear. The t'ai-t'ai cannot harm you. If you make your father understand what this engagement means, he would love you too much to bring such shame upon his daughter. Go and see him. According to your Western custom you have the right to speak about these things."
"I know nothing about Western customs," Nancy replied, "but I do know this: my father hasn't sent for me and he hasn't asked my advice. There is nothing I can say till he asks me."
As soon as she had made the two women realize that she was not going to lift the littlest finger against a fate which was not yet real to her mind, Nancy escaped to join Edward and Li-an in the garden. October sunshine glowed lazily through the trees, striking silky lights from the cobwebs. Nancy sat down in the little summer house which seemed to brood with her on the coming loneliness of winter; she kicked her feet through the crinkly leaves and looked at the bright borders of the chrysanthemums which tossed their curled petals like a rainbow of flame around her. She had wanted to stay like this forever—forever—yet now had come this new, unwanted intrusion to prove the rightness of her father's words.
"What is the matter, Nancy?" asked Edward, as he and Li-an came in and stood beside her. "Why don't you come and play?"
"I am going to be engaged."
"So am I," Li-an joined in proudly. "Just as soon as you're betrothed, mother's going to find a fiancé for me."
"Yes, we all have to be engaged," Edward agreed, "it's nothing to cry about. Perhaps they'll have a feast."
"Why do you say such stupid things, Edward? You never think about anything but your stomach. Do you think I have to be engaged just so you can stuff yourself? I hate you."
"Don't you really want to?" asked Edward with concern.
"No, of course not."
The boy was taken aback by his sister's willingness to forgo an occasion of such promising excitement. But Nancy got rid of Li-an and told her brother all the dreadful prophecies Kuei-lien had made. Edward had never thought of an engagement in this light.
"I'll go see father," declared the boy. "I'll tell him you aren't ready to be engaged."
Nancy, despite herself, smiled at his unconventional daring, but she did not stop him. It was an act Edward never before had thought of doing, to go thus uninvited to his father's room. Yet no prudence deterred him, no thought of hesitation even came into his mind.
"And what do you wish, Edward?" asked Herrick, who was sitting at his desk. He always derived tender amusement from the animated, serious ways of his son.
"Does Nancy have to be engaged now?" asked the boy, plunging into his subject with an Occidental directness for which there was no explanation except the blood in his veins, loyally Western despite all the sages of China. "She doesn't want to be engaged."
"I don't want her to be engaged either," replied the father sadly, "but time takes these affairs out of my hands."
As if to prove the truth of his statement there came suddenly the long blast of a trumpet, the lilt of wind instruments like the festival sprightliness of bagpipes, then a tremendous explosion of firecrackers, long strings of them bursting with redoubled noise in the confines of the hallway.
"You hear," indicated Herrick with a weary gesture. Time had indeed taken the affair out of his hands.
The father paced restlessly up and down the room while the noise continued. Edward's curiosity impelled the boy to join the crowd of women and servants gathered in the courtyard. The t'ai-t'ai had kept her secret so well that only the father had been prepared for the coming of the betrothal gifts, only the father had been allowed to see the trays of return gifts got ready in an outer room of the house.
Amid the smoke and turmoil of crackers six pairs of coolies entered, each pair carrying between them a red wooden tray laden with bales of silk and cotton, with rice, with round pears and balls of steamed bread, and with dried poultry on which had been pasted double characters cut out of red paper to represent the word for happiness; there were eggs too, dyed red, and slippers of silver paper. The overslung handles of the trays had been festooned with garlands of red cloth.
All the middle doors had been flung open so that the coolies could bring their hampers into the inner courtyards, while people from the street mixed with people of the household, thronging the pavements despite the belaboring curses of the gatemen. The t'ai-t'ai, who wore resplendently a skirt of scarlet brocaded satin, stood beaming with importance, ready to receive the gifts and to dispatch Nancy's in return. The consummation of arduous diplomacy was symbolized by her sedate manner, the dignity which no Chinese woman is too humble to reserve for the few great public moments of her life.
But she had to share the haughty fruits of the occasion. A gasp from the women standing round caused her to turn and to see Nancy, who of all people in the world had no business to be there. Already, in noisy undertones, the women were commenting upon Nancy's immodest presumption in coming out so brazenly to receive her betrothal gifts when she ought to be hiding in some adjacent room, pretending ignorance of the festive proceedings. Nancy did not hear them, did not seem to mind the asperity of the t'ai-t'ai's voice, when the reason for her being there was demanded.
"This is my betrothal, is it?" the girl asked.
"Yes."
"And these are my betrothal gifts?"
"Yes."
Nancy stooped and looked at the contents of the trays. There was no limit to her unmaidenly boldness.
"Very nice things they are," she commented, "and where are the things I am to send?"
The t'ai-t'ai could not speak; she merely indicated with her chin the other trays which had been brought from the gate. The girl walked round them slowly, looked with a meditative gaze on the articles which had been heaped upon them, then very deliberately took two of the large golden chrysanthemums she was carrying and placed them on top of the foremost tray.
"I want one gift to come from me," she said.