Peony in Love (32 page)

Ren pinched his chin thoughtfully and then said, “It still won’t be enough money.”

“Then I’ll pawn my wedding gifts too.”

He tried to talk her out of such an undertaking. He tried to be a strict and forceful husband.

“I don’t want you or any of my wives to be labeled a fame-seeker,” Ren sputtered. “Female talent belongs in the inner chambers.”

Comments like these were not like him, but Yi and I remained unfazed.

“I don’t care if they call me a fame-seeker, because I’m not,” she countered easily. “I’m doing this for my sister-wives. Shouldn’t they be acknowledged?”

“But they never sought fame! Peony left nothing to suggest she wanted to have her words read by outsiders. And Ze absolutely didn’t want to be recognized.” He added, trying to compose himself, “She knew her place as a wife.”

“And how they must regret it now.”

Ren and Yi went back and forth. Yi listened to him patiently but didn’t shift from her position. She was so determined that he finally revealed his real concern.

“The commentary brought Peony and Ze to no-good ends. If something happened to you—”

“You worry too much about me. By now you must see that I’m stronger than I look.”

“But I do worry.”

I understood that and I was concerned for Yi too, but I needed this. And so did Yi. In all the years I’d known her, she’d never asked for anything for herself.

“Please say yes, Husband.”

Ren took Yi’s hands and stared hard into her eyes. At last, he said, “I’ll say yes on two conditions: that you eat properly and get enough sleep. If you start to ail, you must give it up that instant.”

Yi agreed and immediately set to work, copying everything from the Shaoxi edition with Ze’s and Yi’s writing into a new volume of
The Peony Pavilion
to give to the woodblock printers. I insinuated myself into the ink and used my fingers as the hairs of her calligraphy brush as they flowed across the page.

WE FINISHED ONE
evening at the beginning of winter. Yi invited Ren to join her in the Clouds Hall to celebrate. Even with a fire in the brazier, cold pervaded the room. Outside, bamboo snapped in the frozen air and a light sleet began to fall. Yi lit a candle and warmed wine. Then the two of them compared the new pages with the original. This was meticulous work, but I watched—awed and breathless—as Ren turned the pages, stopping here and there to read my words. Several times he smiled. Was he remembering our conversation in the Moon-Viewing Pavilion? More than once his eyes misted. Was he thinking about me alone in my bed, desperate with longing?

He took a breath, lifted his chin, and expanded his chest. His fingers rested on the last words I’d written as a living girl—
When people are alive, they love. When they die, they keep loving
—and he said to Yi, “I’m proud of you for completing this.” When his fingers caressed my words, I knew he’d finally heard me. Gratification at last. Euphoria, elation, ecstasy.

Looking at Ren and Yi, I saw they were as jubilant and blissful as I felt.

A few hours later, Yi said, “It must have started to snow.” She walked to the window. Ren picked up the new copy and joined her. Together they opened the window. Heavy snow cloaked the branches with sparkling powder that looked like pure white jade. Ren whooped, then grabbed his wife and ran with her outside into the flurries, where they danced and laughed and fell into the drifts. I joined in their laughter, pleased to see them so carefree.

Something made me turn just in time to see sparks fly from a candle and fall on the Shaoxi edition.

No!
I flew across the room, but I was too late. The pages ignited. Smoke billowed out of the room. Yi and Ren came running. He grabbed the wine jar and threw the contents on the fire, which only made things worse. I was frantic, horrified. I didn’t know what to do. Yi grabbed a quilt and doused the flames.

The room went dark. Yi and Ren fell to the floor, panting from their exertions, crippled by dismay. Ren wrapped his arms around his sobbing wife. I sank down next to them and curled myself around Ren, needing his comfort and protection too. We stayed that way for several minutes. Then slowly, tentatively, Ren felt around the room, found the candle, and lit it. The lacquered desk was badly charred. Wine flowed in every direction onto the floor. The air was heavy with the odors of alcohol, burnt goosedown, and smoke.

“Could it be that my two sister-wives don’t wish their writing to remain in the human world?” Yi asked, her voice shaking. “Did their spirits bring this about? Is there a demonic creature whose jealousy seeks to destroy this project?”

Husband and wife stared at each other in dismay. For the first time since their marriage, I retreated up to the rafters, where I hung on to a beam and shivered in misery and despair. I had allowed myself to hope, and now I was shattered.

Ren helped Yi to her feet and ushered her to a chair.

“Wait here,” he said, and went back outside.

He returned a moment later with something in his hands. I slipped back down from the rafters to see what it was. He held the new copy of the commentary that Yi had prepared for the printers.

“I dropped this when we saw the fire,” he said, showing it to Yi. She came to him and together we watched anxiously as he brushed the snow from the cover and opened it to make sure it hadn’t been damaged. Yi and I sighed in relief. It was fine.

“Perhaps this fire was a blessing and not a bad omen,” he said. “We lost Peony’s original writings in a fire long ago. And now the volume I bought for Ze has been destroyed. Don’t you see, Yi? Now all three of you will be together in only one book.” He took a breath, and added, “You have all worked so hard. Nothing will stop this from being published now. I’ll make sure of that.”

A hungry ghost’s tears of thanks mingled with those of her sister-wife.

The next morning, Yi ordered a servant to dig a hole under the plum tree. She gathered up the ashes and burnt fragments of the Shaoxi edition, wrapped them in raw silk damask, and buried them under the tree, where they joined with me and served as a reminder of what had happened and how carefully I—
we
—needed to proceed.

I THOUGHT IT
would be a good idea for a few others to read what we’d written before it went out into the larger world. The readers I trusted most—and the only ones I knew—were in the Banana Garden Five. I left the compound, went down to the lake, and joined them for the first time in sixteen years. They were even more famous than when I’d clung to them during my exile. Their interest in the writings of other women had grown with their success. So it wasn’t hard for me to whisper in their ears about a woman who lived on Wushan Mountain who had a unique project she was hoping to publish, or that they would respond with enthusiasm and curiosity. A few days later, an invitation arrived for Yi to join the Banana Garden Five on one of its boating trips.

Yi had never gone on an excursion or met women of such accomplishment or standing. She was apprehensive, Ren was optimistic, and I was anxious. I did my best to make sure Yi would be received positively. I helped her dress in a simple and modest manner, and then I hung on to her shoulders as she walked through the compound.

Just before we stepped into the palanquin to take us to the lake, Ren said, “Don’t be nervous. They will find you charming.”

And they did.

Yi told the women in the Banana Garden Five about her dedication and conviction, and then she read them the poems I’d written and showed them the copy of
The Peony Pavilion
that held our writings in the margins.

“We feel as if we know Chen Tong,” said Gu Yurei.

“As if we’ve heard her voice before,” added Lin Yining.

The women on the boat even wept for me, the lovesick maiden who didn’t know death was coming.

“Would you be willing to write something that I could include in the pages at the end of our project?” Yi asked.

Gu Yurei smiled, and said, “I would love to write a colophon for you.”

“And so would I,” chimed in Lin Yining.

I was delighted.

Yi and I visited several more times, so the women would have a chance to read and discuss what I’d written with my sister-wives. I didn’t interfere in any way, wanting their interpretation to be purely their own. Finally, there came a day when the women pulled out brushes, ink, and paper.

Gu Yurei looked out across the lake to where the lotus were in bloom, and then she wrote:

Many readers in the women’s quarters, such as Xiaoqing, have had true insight into
The Peony Pavilion
. I regret that none of their commentaries have been transmitted to the world. Now we have the combined commentary of three wives of the Wu household. They explain the play so fully that even the meanings hidden between the lines are understood. Isn’t that a great good fortune? So many women hope to find a community—a sisterhood—of others like themselves. How lucky for these three wives that they found that in their writing.

I drifted over to Lin Yining and saw her write:

Even Tang Xianzu himself could not have commented on his play so well.

Responding to those who thought Liniang was improper and sent a bad message to young women, she added:

Thanks to the work of the three wives, Liniang’s name is vindicated. She is within all bounds of propriety, and her elegant legacy lingers.

To those who might not agree, she had harsh words:

Those bumpkins will not be worth talking to.

Nor did she have much patience for those who wished to send women back to the inner chambers, where they couldn’t be heard.

Here we have three wives, all talented, who have succeeded one another in making this commentary, which is so monumental that, from now on, anyone in this vast world who wants to perceive wisdom or master literary theories has to begin with this book. This great enterprise will last to eternity.

Imagine how I felt when I read that!

IN THE COMING
weeks, Yi and I took our copy of
The Peony Pavilion
with the notes in the margins to other women like Li Shu and Hong Zhize. They too decided to put brush to paper and record their thoughts. Li Shu wrote that she shed tears when she read it. Hong Zhize remembered as a small girl sitting on her father’s lap and hearing Ren confess that he hadn’t written the first version of the commentary but that he was trying to save his wives from criticism. She added:

I regret that I was born too late to meet the first two wives.

Now that Yi and I were taking excursions, I saw just how brave and courageous these women writers were to acknowledge and defend our project. The world had changed. Most men had determined that writing was both a threat and an unladylike activity. These days, few families were proud to have their womenfolk publish. But Yi and I were not only pushing ahead, we were bringing in other women to support us.

We found an artist to do woodblock illustrations, and Yi asked Ren to write a preface and a question-and-answer piece about the project in which he told the truth as he saw it. With every word he wrote, I saw that he loved me still. Then Yi copied my poems into the margins of Ren’s text:

I am so touched by these stanzas that I enclose them here, hoping future collectors of women’s writings will benefit from their remaining balm and fragrance.

In this way, Yi put me next to my husband forever, another gift that was so great I didn’t know how I could ever repay her.

By this time, Ren had fully caught our passion for the project. He began to join us when we went to meet with different vendors. What a joy it was for the three of us to be together in this way, but truthfully we didn’t need his help.

“I want finely wrought woodblocks for the text,” Yi told the fifth merchant we visited.

These were shown to us, but I was uncomfortable with the expense. I whispered in Yi’s ear, she nodded, and then asked, “What do you have that’s secondhand that I can use again?”

The merchant gave Yi an appraising look and took us to a back room. “These woodblocks are practically new,” he stated.

“Good,” Yi said, after she’d inspected them. “We’ll save money without sacrificing quality.” This is what I’d told her to say, but then she added something new. “I’m also thinking about durability. I want to make thousands of copies.”

“Madame,” the merchant said, not even trying to hide his condescension, “you probably won’t sell
any
copies.”

“I’m hoping for many editions with many readers,” she shot back tartly.

The merchant appealed to our husband. “But, sir, there are other important projects that could use these blocks. Wouldn’t it be wiser to save them for
your
work?”

But Ren wasn’t concerned about his next volume of poetry or the criticism that was coming after that. “Do your job well and we’ll come back for the next edition,” he said. “If you don’t, another firm on the street will help us.”

The negotiation was intense, a good price was reached, and then we went to find a printer, select good inks, and decide on the layout. Everything that had been written in the margins or between the lines was moved to the top of the page, with the text of the opera below. When the setting of the woodblocks was complete, everyone—including Ren’s young son—participated in checking for mistakes. Once everything was sent to the printer, all I had to do was wait.