“Fool!” he said bitterly. “I was only writing an essay about women.”
She looked at him confounded. “Was that all?”
“That was all.”
She turned and tried to pour a bowl of tea, but her hand shook and she gave it up. “You will have to pour your own tea,” she said, beginning to sob.
She made for the door blindly, her handkerchief at her eyes, but he stopped her. “Why did you think I would take a concubine?” he asked. “Have I ever been unfaithful to you?”
She shook her head, her eyes still hidden behind her handkerchief. “Not altogether,” she murmured.
“What do you mean not altogether?” he demanded. “Either I am or am not unfaithful!”
She was very tired. She disliked large parties and she still felt that the Li family had slighted James and through him the Liang family. She was tired of Dr. Liang’s rather windy fame, and she longed for the solid substance of money and American bank accounts. It seemed to her that the Li family had everything. She was so tired that she felt reckless and inclined to tell the truth, even though the children were not here to protect her. So she opened the gates of her being and the truth flowed out. She took away the handkerchief and faced Dr. Liang.
“What is this faithful and unfaithful? It is all in the eyes and the mind. Yes, I am your wife, and that is how I know when you are being unfaithful. Do you think I do not know the look in your eyes and on your mouth when you are being faithful with me? And when I see the same look, when you look at Violet Sung and — and any other such woman — do I not know what you are being? And perhaps when you are being faithful with me, you are in your heart thinking about Violet Sung, so that even when you are being faithful with me you are also being unfaithful with her. You are not a man with a single kind of mind in you. You are like this—” Mrs. Liang’s fingers described in the air contradictory and secret convolutions; unfathomable in their contortions—“winding this way and that way and this way. I know you!”
Upon this she burst into loud sobs, put her handkerchief to her eyes again, and rushed out the door. Tomorrow morning, she told herself, she would empty the wastebasket herself in the kitchen and collect the scraps and piece together the children’s letter.
Dr. Liang heard her stump upstairs and go into the bedroom and lock the door fast. He sat quite still for a moment. Then he got up and poured himself tea and drank it slowly. When this was done he took out his Confucian classics and began to read them. The book fell open of itself at the pages upon which Confucius, more than two thousand years ago, had recited his hatreds. Smug people Confucius hated, rumor mongers he hated, spies he hated, and wily persons who pretended to be honest gentlemen. He hated cockleburs that mix themselves with corn, and dishonest men who mingle with the honest, and he hated glib talkers. He hated also the music of Cheng, because like modern jazz it confused classical music. He hated the color purple because it put to confusion the good color of red, and he hated prigs because they confused themselves with virtuous people. Then Confucius ended the list of his hatreds with these words: “Women and uneducated people are the most difficult to deal with. When I am familiar with them they become impudent, and when I ignore them, they resent it.”
Dr. Liang read these words thoughtfully, smiled, drank a little more tea, and prepared himself to sleep all night upon the couch here in his study.
He took off his coat and shirt and trousers and wrapped himself in a warm old quilted robe which he kept in the closet. He took off his socks and shoes and drew on a pair of knitted bedsocks. A steamer rug lay folded on the couch and this he put over him. A velvet-covered cushion made a good pillow. But when he had laid himself down and had put out the light he found he could not sleep. He felt lonely. That was the worst of going to an evening party. One was deceived by the noise, the glitter, the appearance of friends. The home seemed cold and empty.
Perhaps he had been hasty about sending the children away. Or perhaps, indeed, he and their mother should now think about returning to China. A pleasant home in Peking with a garden, his children there, James a distinguished surgeon, the home a center for scholars and beautiful women, his grandchildren running about the rooms, he and the mother growing old, honored and respected as only in China are the old honored and respected. Perhaps he might even be the president of a university, since he did not want to go into politics. All this flitted through his wakeful mind. He was on the brink of going upstairs to find his wife to tell her impulsively that at last he was about to yield to her wishes and go to China. He hesitated, however. He did not like to seem afraid of her and it was his habit never to allow himself to appear reconciled in less than twenty-four hours. Before that time had passed she was sure to make some small sign of repentance and then he could forgive her generously. He put out his hand therefore to turn on the radio, since he could not sleep, and at the same moment the last news commentator was finishing his summary of the world’s news for the day.
“In Peiping the day was marked by stormy protest from the students. Five thousand university students went on strike against the arrest of twenty-five of their fellows who had been in jail here since yesterday for—”
He winced and turned off the radio. He could live only it safety — that is, in peace. He had better stay where he was. A scholar must have peace. Resolutely he closed his eyes and in a slow murmuring voice began to recite the Book of Songs, written hundreds of centuries ago. It was better than a bromide and in less than a quarter of an hour he was fast asleep.
In the big parlor of the Li apartment Lili was listening to Charlie Ting talk. He had a fluent tongue which spoke an idiomatic American dialect much better than he spoke his own native Shanghai. He sat on the divan beside Lili, his arm thrown behind her. Her mother sat silent and dozing in a distant corner. At the exact moment when her head fell upon her breast he would kiss Lili. He talked on, his eyes upon the dozing figure.
“I wish we were going to Washington instead of London. But everybody says London is fun. I wish the food weren’t so scarce there, but Violet says the black market in Paris is wonderful and of course we can have things sent over. As for that, you and I aren’t diplomats and we can slip over to Paris. What say we get a little apartment there and spend a lot of time in it? Officially of course, we’ll be with the old people, like nice dutiful children, but actually we’ll be on our own. That’ll give them face and give us what we want.”
Mrs. Li’s head fell upon her breast and Charlie pressed his lips to Lili’s soft red mouth. She yielded with entire abandon, throwing back her head and closing her eyes exactly as she had seen movie stars do. She always watched the screen kiss closely in order to learn the American way. Charlie’s head swam a little. He also learned from the movies. It was really the only place to learn modern ways of making love, or perhaps it had better be said, ways of making modern love. There was nothing in China to teach him. He had seen a few motion pictures made in Shanghai and they seldom showed even a kiss. Chinese lovers still only talked, or at most touched hands. He had once read an English translation of an old Chinese book which had been recommended to him as spicy, and it had seemed dull indeed, full of references to flowers and dew, clouds and valleys and wooded mountain-tops, which he had not understood, and where the little feet of women were supposed to be something wonderful.
“Sure you’ve never loved anybody but me?” he inquired jealously of Lili.
She looked at him with large thoughtful eyes and kept silent. She spoke very little, and he was not always sure she understood his English. She did not speak very well herself — cute, of course, the way she talked, but certainly not good American.