Read Online Peony: A Novel of China by Pearl S. Buck - Free Book Online
Authors: Pearl S. Buck
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opened the drawer of the table and drew out a fresh sheet of paper.
“Now quickly help me with the last line,” he commanded her.
“Let’s not have any flowers,” she suggested. “Flowers are so common.”
“No flowers,” he said eagerly. “What would she like instead?”
“If it were I,” Peony said, “I would like to remind someone—the one I loved—of—of a fragrance—caught upon the winds of night—or dew at sunrise—”
“Dew at sunrise,” he decided.
He settled to his paper and brush, and she touched his cheek with her palm.
“While you write,” she said tenderly, “I will go and do something your mother bade me to do.”
He did not hear her, or know that she had left him alone. At the door she looked back. When she saw him absorbed, her red lips grew firm and her eyes sparkled like black jewels, and she went away to fulfill the task of preparing Leah’s rooms.
How hard she was upon the two small undermaids she summoned to help her! Nothing she did herself, until the last corner under the bed was swept, until the silken bed curtains were shaken free of dust, and the bed spread with soft quilts, the carved blackwood table dusted. Then she waved the wearied maids away, and she sat down and considered Leah.
It was in her heart to leave these rooms as they were, clean but bare. Why should she put forth her hand to more? Then she sighed. She knew herself too merciful to blame Leah, who was good. She rose, unwillingly, and went about other rooms in the house and chose from one and another pretty things, a pair of many-flowered vases, a lacquered box, a pair of scrolls, each with its painted verse beneath flying birds, a footstool made of golden bamboo, a bowl of blooming bulbs, and these she took to Leah’s rooms and placed them well.
When all was done, she stood looking about her; then, feeling duty done, she closed the doors. Outside these closed doors she paused in the court and considered. David would have his poem finished now, doubtless. Should she return to him to know his will? She went silent-footed through the courts again to David’s schoolroom and looked in. He was not there.
“David?” she called softly, but there was no answer. She tiptoed to the desk. Upon the sheet of paper he had written only a single line.
Within the lotus bud the dewdrop waited.
Then he had flung down his brush. She felt its tip—the camel’s hair was dry! Where had he gone and where had he stayed all these hours?
She looked about the empty, book-lined room, and all her perceptions, too sensitive, searched the air. Confusion—what confusion had seized him? She longed to run out, to look for him, to find him. But her life had taught her patience. She stood, controlled and still. Then she took up the brush, put on its brass cover, and laid it in its box; she covered the ink box, too, and set the slab of dried ink in its place. This done, she stood a second more, than took the paper with its unfinished poem, folded it delicately, put it in the bosom of her robe, and returned to her own room and found her embroidery. There the whole afternoon she sewed, and none came near, even to ask her if she were hungry or thirsty.
III
W HEN MADAME EZRA HAD G one, the Rabbi and his children stood in the small flowerless court. Leah turned to her father, her face imploring. But he was blind and could not see her. She turned to her brother.
“Aaron,” she said tremulously.
But he was staring at the broken stone flags beneath his feet. “What luck you have!” he muttered. “To be getting out of this!”
The Rabbi listened intently, but his hearing was not sharp enough to catch the words. “What did you say, my son?” he inquired anxiously.
“I said, we shall miss Leah,” Aaron replied, raising his voice.
“Ah, how shall we live without her?” the Rabbi said. He lifted his blind eyes to the sunshine that poured down warmly into the court. “Except we do the will of the Lord,”
“Now quickly help me with the last line,” he commanded her.
“Let’s not have any flowers,” she suggested. “Flowers are so common.”
“No flowers,” he said eagerly. “What would she like instead?”
“If it were I,” Peony said, “I would like to remind someone—the one I loved—of—of a fragrance—caught upon the winds of night—or dew at sunrise—”
“Dew at sunrise,” he decided.
He settled to his paper and brush, and she touched his cheek with her palm.
“While you write,” she said tenderly, “I will go and do something your mother bade me to do.”
He did not hear her, or know that she had left him alone. At the door she looked back. When she saw him absorbed, her red lips grew firm and her eyes sparkled like black jewels, and she went away to fulfill the task of preparing Leah’s rooms.
How hard she was upon the two small undermaids she summoned to help her! Nothing she did herself, until the last corner under the bed was swept, until the silken bed curtains were shaken free of dust, and the bed spread with soft quilts, the carved blackwood table dusted. Then she waved the wearied maids away, and she sat down and considered Leah.
It was in her heart to leave these rooms as they were, clean but bare. Why should she put forth her hand to more? Then she sighed. She knew herself too merciful to blame Leah, who was good. She rose, unwillingly, and went about other rooms in the house and chose from one and another pretty things, a pair of many-flowered vases, a lacquered box, a pair of scrolls, each with its painted verse beneath flying birds, a footstool made of golden bamboo, a bowl of blooming bulbs, and these she took to Leah’s rooms and placed them well.
When all was done, she stood looking about her; then, feeling duty done, she closed the doors. Outside these closed doors she paused in the court and considered. David would have his poem finished now, doubtless. Should she return to him to know his will? She went silent-footed through the courts again to David’s schoolroom and looked in. He was not there.
“David?” she called softly, but there was no answer. She tiptoed to the desk. Upon the sheet of paper he had written only a single line.
Within the lotus bud the dewdrop waited.
Then he had flung down his brush. She felt its tip—the camel’s hair was dry! Where had he gone and where had he stayed all these hours?
She looked about the empty, book-lined room, and all her perceptions, too sensitive, searched the air. Confusion—what confusion had seized him? She longed to run out, to look for him, to find him. But her life had taught her patience. She stood, controlled and still. Then she took up the brush, put on its brass cover, and laid it in its box; she covered the ink box, too, and set the slab of dried ink in its place. This done, she stood a second more, than took the paper with its unfinished poem, folded it delicately, put it in the bosom of her robe, and returned to her own room and found her embroidery. There the whole afternoon she sewed, and none came near, even to ask her if she were hungry or thirsty.
III
W HEN MADAME EZRA HAD G one, the Rabbi and his children stood in the small flowerless court. Leah turned to her father, her face imploring. But he was blind and could not see her. She turned to her brother.
“Aaron,” she said tremulously.
But he was staring at the broken stone flags beneath his feet. “What luck you have!” he muttered. “To be getting out of this!”
The Rabbi listened intently, but his hearing was not sharp enough to catch the words. “What did you say, my son?” he inquired anxiously.
“I said, we shall miss Leah,” Aaron replied, raising his voice.
“Ah, how shall we live without her?” the Rabbi said. He lifted his blind eyes to the sunshine that poured down warmly into the court. “Except we do the will of the Lord,”
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