so the cocoon can be unwound. The water is kept hot by foreign electricity and so our hands are like this.”
He could say nothing more, feeling sick at the sight of the raw swollen flesh. That first day he went home having done nothing. When he entered his home he thought, “There is one smell worse than the opium in this house—it is the smell of the silk mill.”
And that night he had said to Peony, “Let me smell that scent of yours.”
She brushed her scented palm across his cheeks and his eyes.
“It is sweet, after all,” he murmured.
She put her palm upon his lips, and for a moment he did not move. Her small clean fragrant hand was grateful to him.
“It’s like a flower—your hand—” he murmured.
He did not love Peony at all. He knew now he did not love her, and would never love her, but hers was a girl’s hand, delicate and sweet, and its fragrance and softness stood to him for a moment for some delicacy and sweetness to come sometime to him, as to all young men, though from another hand than Peony’s. He longed for it a moment vaguely, then put the thought away from him. There was no place for any girl even in his mind. He must use his mind only for the people.
But how could Peony know this, and how could he tell her?
She leaned against him delicately and he allowed it, and he felt her heart beat against his shoulder as he sat at his desk with his books. And in a moment he was not thinking of her, nor of anything except again the people he had seen for the first time that afternoon. They were more real to him than any girl’s hand, even than Peony’s.
“You are not going to bed yet?” Peony asked him. Since the night when he had locked her out of his room she had come in early with his tea, and gone away again. He shook his head.
“Don’t sit up,” she coaxed him. “You work so hard—and you don’t need to work. You aren’t a poor man’s son.”
“I can’t sleep,” he said. He thought, “That is why I can’t sleep—because I am a rich man’s son.” He wished it were tomorrow, so that he could go again and somehow help those people.
“Go away,” he told Peony, “I must work.”
She went away then, sighing, not teasing him as she usually did. At the door she waited. But he did not look at her, and so she left him. When she was gone, he pushed his books aside and went to the window and stood a long time staring out into the night-filled garden. He knew every foot of the garden. It was a place famous for its beauty. His grandfather and his father had put much money into its making. Huge rocks from the far north beyond Peking had been brought to it, strange and fantastic, and colored pebbles from the hill of the Blue Porcelain Pagoda near Nanking were scattered over winding paths between them. There were streams and bridges and a lake, summerhouses and small boats. And around it all was a wall so high that even from his window he could not see over it. There was no gate from the garden except a small postern gate for the gardener, who lived just outside. He kept it locked and he only carried the key.
“That’s the way I’ve lived,” I-wan thought, “in the garden with the wall around.”
And gazing into that silent darkness he determined that he would put away all thought of anything for himself and learn only of the people in the mill.
Soon there was nothing he did not know about the life of these mill workers. From all over China they had drained down to Shanghai. Out of famine and poverty and civil war, they had come here. Their lot was no better except that now they barely escaped starvation and there were at least no soldiers to maraud them. They lived, somehow, in their huts.
How to help these people now became I-wan’s chief life. At school he studied barely enough to escape reproof, and at home he took care to do quickly what he must in order to escape without notice. Everything was becoming a dream except these people.
He could do very little for them,
He could say nothing more, feeling sick at the sight of the raw swollen flesh. That first day he went home having done nothing. When he entered his home he thought, “There is one smell worse than the opium in this house—it is the smell of the silk mill.”
And that night he had said to Peony, “Let me smell that scent of yours.”
She brushed her scented palm across his cheeks and his eyes.
“It is sweet, after all,” he murmured.
She put her palm upon his lips, and for a moment he did not move. Her small clean fragrant hand was grateful to him.
“It’s like a flower—your hand—” he murmured.
He did not love Peony at all. He knew now he did not love her, and would never love her, but hers was a girl’s hand, delicate and sweet, and its fragrance and softness stood to him for a moment for some delicacy and sweetness to come sometime to him, as to all young men, though from another hand than Peony’s. He longed for it a moment vaguely, then put the thought away from him. There was no place for any girl even in his mind. He must use his mind only for the people.
But how could Peony know this, and how could he tell her?
She leaned against him delicately and he allowed it, and he felt her heart beat against his shoulder as he sat at his desk with his books. And in a moment he was not thinking of her, nor of anything except again the people he had seen for the first time that afternoon. They were more real to him than any girl’s hand, even than Peony’s.
“You are not going to bed yet?” Peony asked him. Since the night when he had locked her out of his room she had come in early with his tea, and gone away again. He shook his head.
“Don’t sit up,” she coaxed him. “You work so hard—and you don’t need to work. You aren’t a poor man’s son.”
“I can’t sleep,” he said. He thought, “That is why I can’t sleep—because I am a rich man’s son.” He wished it were tomorrow, so that he could go again and somehow help those people.
“Go away,” he told Peony, “I must work.”
She went away then, sighing, not teasing him as she usually did. At the door she waited. But he did not look at her, and so she left him. When she was gone, he pushed his books aside and went to the window and stood a long time staring out into the night-filled garden. He knew every foot of the garden. It was a place famous for its beauty. His grandfather and his father had put much money into its making. Huge rocks from the far north beyond Peking had been brought to it, strange and fantastic, and colored pebbles from the hill of the Blue Porcelain Pagoda near Nanking were scattered over winding paths between them. There were streams and bridges and a lake, summerhouses and small boats. And around it all was a wall so high that even from his window he could not see over it. There was no gate from the garden except a small postern gate for the gardener, who lived just outside. He kept it locked and he only carried the key.
“That’s the way I’ve lived,” I-wan thought, “in the garden with the wall around.”
And gazing into that silent darkness he determined that he would put away all thought of anything for himself and learn only of the people in the mill.
Soon there was nothing he did not know about the life of these mill workers. From all over China they had drained down to Shanghai. Out of famine and poverty and civil war, they had come here. Their lot was no better except that now they barely escaped starvation and there were at least no soldiers to maraud them. They lived, somehow, in their huts.
How to help these people now became I-wan’s chief life. At school he studied barely enough to escape reproof, and at home he took care to do quickly what he must in order to escape without notice. Everything was becoming a dream except these people.
He could do very little for them,
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