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.