When she had so done twice, the third time Mr. Wu leaned across the corner of the table and said, “I beg you not to rise again, my sons’ mother. I will take your place when the sweet is served.”
Madame Wu bent her head and smiled slightly in thanks, and then she saw that Old Lady had taken too large a piece of fowl and was dripping the broth from it upon her gown. She took her own chopsticks and held the bit until Old Lady could encompass it all in her mouth. As soon as she could speak Old Lady did so with her usual vehemence. “Ying!” she cried loudly.
Ying, waiting always near her own mistress, came near at once. “Ying!” the Old Lady cried, “you tell that piece of fat who is your man that he must cut the fowl smaller. Does he think we have the jaws of lions and tigers?”
“I will tell him, Ancient,” Ying replied.
But Old Lady felt quite happy now, being full of food, and she began to speak to everybody in her loud, flat old voice.
“Foreigners eat huge pieces of meat,” she said, looking around the room. “I have never seen it, but I have heard that the whole leg of a sheep or a lump of cow as large as a small child is set on their tables, and they hack it with knives and cut off pieces from it. They take it up with iron prongs and thrust it into their mouths.”
Everybody laughed. “You are in good spirits, Mother,” Mr. Wu said. He had never tried to correct the mistaken statements of his mother. In the first place, he did not wish to make her unhappy, and in the second place, it made no difference anyway and so was not worth the trouble.
At this moment the sweetened rice with its eight precious fruits came in, which was a sign that the feast was half over, and everyone looked pleased at the sight of the delicacy. At the door Ying saw her husband standing half hidden in order to hear the praises of the guests. Madame Wu saw him, too, and leaned toward Ying.
“Tell him to come here,” she commanded.
Ying’s pride rose in a flush to her plump cheeks, but out of good manners she pretended to belittle her husband.
“Lady, do not trouble yourself with my good-for-nothing,” she said in a loud voice.
“But it is my pleasure,” Madame Wu insisted.
So with false unwillingness Ying beckoned to her husband, and he came in and stood before Madame Wu, smoothing his filthy apron with pride, for no good cook has a clean apron and he knew it.
“I must thank you for this sweet rice and its eight precious fruits,” Madame Wu said in her kind way. “It is always delicious, but today it is better than ever. This I take as a sign of your faithfulness and goodness of heart. I will remember it before the day is over.”
The cook knew that she meant she would give gifts to the servants at the end of the feast, but in good manners he pretended otherwise. “Please do not think it good,” he said. “I do not deserve mention.”
“Go away, oaf!” Ying whispered loudly while her eyes shone with pride. And so he went away, well pleased, and behind his back Ying tried not to look too proud and beyond her station.
And now Mr. Wu must rise to fulfill his promise, and he went to every table and begged the guests to eat heartily of the sweet. Madame Wu followed him thoughtfully with her eyes. Did she imagine that he lingered a moment at Madame Kang’s table where the pretty young third daughter sat beside her mother?
“Pudding, pudding!” Old Lady complained, and Madame Wu put out her slender arm and, holding back her sleeve, she took up a porcelain spoon and dipped the pudding generously into Old Lady’s bowl.
“Spoon — where’s my spoon?” Old Lady muttered, and Madame Wu put a spoon into the old hand.
Then she continued to watch Mr. Wu thoughtfully while everybody at the table was silent in enjoyment of the dish. Mr. Wu was beyond doubt lingering beside Madame Kang’s pretty daughter. The child was modern, too modern, for her hair was cut to her shoulders and curled in the foreign fashion. She had been to school for a year in Shanghai before that city was taken by the enemy. Now she frequently made her mother and father wretched by her discontent in living in this small provincial city.
Madame Wu watched her as she lifted her head and replied pertly to something Mr. Wu had said. Mr. Wu laughed and went on, and Madame Wu took her spoon and dipped up a fragment of the glutinous sweet. When Mr. Wu returned she looked at him with her long clear eyes.
“Thank you, my sons’ father,” she said, and her voice was its usual music.
The feast went on its long pleasant course. The sweet was followed by meats, and then at last by the six bowls. Instead of rice the cook had made long fine noodles, because it was a birthday feast and the long noodles were a symbol of long life. Madame Wu, always delicate at eating, refused the meats, but it was necessary that she eat some of the noodles. They were made even longer than usual by the zealous cook, but she wound them with graceful skill around her chopsticks.
But Old Lady had no such patience. She held the heaped bowl to her mouth with her left hand and pushed the noodles into her mouth with her chopsticks, supping them in like a child. Old Lady ate everything heartily. “I shall be ill tonight,” she said in her penetrating old voice. “But it is worth it, daughter, on your fortieth birthday.”
“Eat to your own content, Mother,” Madame Wu replied.
One by one guests rose with small wine bowls in their hands, and toasts were drunk. To these Madame Wu did not reply. She was a quiet woman, and she looked at Mr. Wu, who rose in her place and accepted the good wishes of all. Only Madame Kang, catching her friend’s eye, silently lifted her bowl, and as silently Madame Wu lifted hers and the two drank together in secret understanding.
By now Old Lady was full of food, and she leaned against the high back of her chair and surveyed her family. “Liangmo looks sick,” she declared.
Everybody looked at Liangmo, who indeed smiled in a very sickish fashion. “I am not ill, Grandmother,” he said hastily.
Meng gazed at him with troubled eyes. “You do look strange,” she murmured. “You have been strange all morning.”
At this, brothers and brothers’ wives all looked at him, and he shook his head. Madame Wu did not speak. She quite understood that Liangmo was still unable to accept what she had told him today. He looked at her at this moment with pleading in his eyes, but she merely smiled a little and looked away.
It was when she turned her head away that she caught the shrewd, too-intelligent gaze of her second daughter-in-law. Tsemo’s wife, Rulan, had not said one word all during the feast, but speech was never necessary for this girl’s comprehension of what was happening about her. Madame Wu perceived that she had seen the son’s pleadings and also the mother’s reply. But Tsemo himself paid no heed to what went on. He was an impatient young man, and he sat back from the table, tapping his foot restlessly. For him the birthday feast had lasted long enough.
Somewhere an overfed child vomited suddenly on the brick floor with a great splatter, and there was a fuss among the servants.
“Call in the dogs,” Madame Kang advised, but Ying, hastening to the scene of the disaster, begged her pardon.
“Our Lady will not allow dogs under the tables,” she explained.
“You see, Mother,” Madame Kang’s pretty third daughter pouted. “I told you nobody does — it’s so old-fashioned. I’m always ashamed when you do it at home.”
“Well, well,” Madame Kang said, “be quiet now about your shame in the presence of others.”
“Too much talk from girls,” Mr. Kang said, but he was fond of this Linyi, because she was the prettiest of all his daughters, and he smiled at her.
Old Lady staggered to her feet. “I am going to bed,” she said. “I must prepare to be ill.”