The Red Chamber (15 page)

“It’s about time,” Auntie Zhao says. “Can’t they even let you go home at a decent hour the night before a holiday?”

He does not bother to explain that no one had made him stay at the Ministry; in fact, he had been the only one there. “Is there anything to eat?”

“No. What they sent me was hardly fit to eat in the first place.” Auntie Zhao is always complaining about the rudeness of the servants, how she gets the worst of everything. “Why don’t you order something from the kitchens?”

“I’m sure they’ve already closed up for the night.”

“What does that matter? It’s not like they have anything better to do,” she says. This is the attitude that makes her so unpopular in the household.

“No. I don’t need to force them to make up their fires again at this time of night. Why don’t you just make me some of the noodles that Huan is having?”

At the mention of his name, Huan, who has continued to eat steadily, looks up from his food.

“And what are you doing here anyway?” Jia Zheng says, annoyed that the boy continues gorging himself when his father stands by hungry.

Auntie Zhao answers for her son, banging the pots and pans pettishly as she prepares to boil more noodles. “It’s a holiday, isn’t it? Can’t he take a break to see his mother?”

“See that you’re back to work the day after tomorrow.” As he unbuttons his gown, he thinks of the question he meant to ask before he was distracted by his hunger. “What was that you were saying when I came in? Who has been crying all day, and won’t eat or drink?”

Mother and son exchange a quick glance.

“Oh, that was nothing,” Auntie Zhao says, shrugging; but he has the distinct impression that she wants him to pursue the matter.

He repeats his question.

“It’s just Silver,” she answers at last.

It takes him a moment to remember who Silver is. “Oh! Mother’s maid,” he says, relieved that it is something so trivial. He takes off his gown. “What happened to her?”

He senses another exchange of glances.

This time Huan answers, “My brother Baoyu tried to force his attentions on her. She resisted him, and he took it out on her by complaining to Lady Jia. Then Lady Jia dismissed her …”

“How do you know this?” he says quickly.

“My mother went to pay a visit to Silver’s mother today, to say how sorry she was that Silver was dismissed. Silver’s mother told her.”

Jia Zheng turns to Auntie Zhao. “Is this true?”

“Yes, it is,” Auntie Zhao says. “It’s what Mrs. Bai told me. She told me that now Silver is at home crying her eyes out about how unfairly she’s been treated. Lady Jia wouldn’t listen to a word she said. This shows you what Baoyu really is, even though everyone treats him like a living Buddha—”

Jia Zheng throws his robe back on, fumbling with the fastenings. He rushes out of his apartment, shouting, “Send Baoyu to me in my study!” He realizes, even in his fury, that if he beats Baoyu in the Inner Quarters, someone will report to his mother, who will try to stop him. Arriving breathless in his study, he finds the bamboo switch in the corner, half hidden by the bookshelf. He paces the room, rehearsing what he will say. He is formulating a line about how the Jias have always been renowned for their kindness to their servants, and how base it is to take advantage of those under one’s protection, when he turns and sees that Baoyu has entered the room silently.

At the sight of his son standing there warily, he forgets his prepared speech, overcome by disgust at Baoyu’s falseness, the disparity between his noble appearance and his vile behavior. He grabs the bamboo. “You act like an animal, so I see that I will have to treat you like one.”

Baoyu is quiet for a moment before he says, as if reasoning with a madman, “Will you kindly tell me what you’re talking about?”

“I am talking about what you did to Silver.” Jia Zheng cannot bring himself to use a more specific word. He pictures Baoyu pressing Silver down on the
kang
beneath him, and her fluttering helplessly against him in her panic. He tries to block out the image, frightened by its bestiality. His own father had been a high-tempered man, brutal to his sons while doting on his daughter. As a boy, Jia Zheng never had a thought beyond studying hard and passing the Exams. Yet his father had beaten him on a regular basis. He never understood what he had done to incur his father’s rage. At the time, he could only assume it was his own stupidity: he was not a bad student, but even the schoolmaster, who was kind to him, called him “slow.”

When his own sons were born, he had resolved not to be the fearsome tyrant his father had been. With Zhu, this had been easy. Though Zhu was one of the brightest students in the clan school, he never lost his diligence and humility, his fear of making a mistake, which he expressed in the quick inquiring glances he directed at Jia Zheng for reassurance or guidance, even after he had passed the Exams. With Baoyu it had been otherwise. From almost the moment of Baoyu’s birth, because of the jade, both Jia Zheng’s mother and wife had united in spoiling him, and interpreting his every utterance and act as a sign of latent brilliance. Jia Zheng by nature regarded all that was uncanny or unusual with deep suspicion; and the jade filled him with distrust. He could see with his own eyes how the jade warped everyone’s treatment of the boy. Was it any wonder that Baoyu was lazy and filled with a ridiculously inflated vision of his own importance and ability? Thus it had fallen upon Jia Zheng alone to instill in him some sense of discipline and duty.

At the mention of Silver, Baoyu looks down. “You’re right. What I did to Silver was unforgivable.”

At Baoyu’s admission of wrongdoing, Jia Zheng’s anger fades a little despite himself. “Huan told me what happened.”

“What did he say?” Baoyu asks quickly.

“I don’t want to go through it again.”

“But obviously you know everything because Huan told you.”

At Baoyu’s sarcasm, Jia Zheng’s anger starts to rise again. “What does it matter what he said? You’re not denying it.”

Again, Baoyu pauses and looks down before answering. “No.”

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” Jia Zheng’s hand grasps the
switch convulsively. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I could hardly believe that a son of mine could be guilty of such a thing, taking advantage of an innocent girl—”

Baoyu looks up. “No, of course Zhu would never have done such a thing.”

Jia Zheng is taken aback. Baoyu almost never mentions Zhu. “What does he have to do with this?”

“I’m sorry I disappoint you. I’m sorry I’m not as perfect as Zhu.”

“What are you saying? Are you saying anything against your older brother?”

“How could anyone say anything against Zhu?” Baoyu’s eyes are lowered again, but he speaks with a sort of suppressed intensity. “Besides, you wouldn’t listen to me. Yet you listen to what Huan says about me.”

“What are you bringing up Huan and Zhu for? This has nothing to do with them. We are talking about the shameful thing that you did!”

Baoyu looks up again. “Yes, I deserve to be punished.”

This time, Baoyu’s seeming submission galls him. It is as if he is determined to take the authority of punishment away from Jia Zheng.

“Take off your robe!” Jia Zheng rolls up his right sleeve.

Baoyu takes off his robe, folds it neatly, and places it on a chair. Jia Zheng had hoped he would make excuses or plead. He should have known that Baoyu was too proud, too convinced of his own superiority, to ever give his father that satisfaction.

“Turn around!”

Baoyu stands with his back to Jia Zheng, his arms hanging by his sides, in only a light tunic and trousers.

Jia Zheng beats him. He puts his whole arm into the strokes, careless about whether he strikes Baoyu’s back or buttocks. Again and again the switch snaps smartly against Baoyu’s body, the only sound in the room. He had thought that beating Baoyu would relieve his anger, but the more he hits Baoyu the angrier he gets. He is angry that Baoyu forces him to become the sort of brutal, vindictive father he himself fears and despises. He is angry because he is certain the beating will have no effect. He is tempted to yell at Baoyu some more, but he knows that Baoyu does not respect or listen to him, and that he will just make himself more ridiculous in his son’s eyes. All he can do is continue to swing the switch, even though his arm is beginning to ache.

Now he is running out of breath, and can hear the rasp of his own lungs between the blows of the switch. Why doesn’t Baoyu moan or cry
out? If he did, Jia Zheng could end the beating. Even by his silence he defies Jia Zheng, refusing to acknowledge the effect of the blows, and so Jia Zheng must go on beating him. Only by the unevenness of his breathing, and the awkward stance of his body, does he reveal that he is in pain. It is Baoyu’s fatal weakness that his stubbornness is spent on being recalcitrant, never for any worthwhile purpose.

With a sort of clinical distance, Jia Zheng sees blood soaking through the seat of Baoyu’s pants, the thin material clinging where the skin has broken underneath. His right arm aches. He switches the bamboo to his left hand. It feels awkward, but he keeps on hitting, though he feels his strength is reaching its limit. He swings more and more wildly, pausing only to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

By now, he wishes desperately that the boy will cry out. Even though the fabric of his clothes is worn through in places, and the switch strikes raw, bloody skin, he still will not make a sound. Jia Zheng’s heart feels overwhelmed by despair that Baoyu will never change, and it is this despair that drives his blows. His heart is pounding. His arm is on fire. The sweat pours off him.

A tiny whimper escapes Baoyu. Jia Zheng lets the switch fall from his hand as Baoyu crumples to the ground.

16

Daiyu walks down the shore of the lake towards Baoyu’s apartments. That morning when she and Baochai arrived at Lady Jia’s for breakfast, they found the household in disarray over Baoyu’s beating. Neither Granny nor Uncle Zheng had appeared. Xifeng had supervised the serving of breakfast as usual, but seemed distracted, in momentary expectation of the doctor’s arrival. Mrs. Xue had sat silently, barely eating or raising her eyes from her bowl, as if to make her presence as unobtrusive as possible. Only by overhearing the Two Springs whispering did Daiyu understand the vague outlines of what had happened: Uncle Zheng had given Baoyu a terrible beating, so bad that he had passed out.

She hesitates at the bamboo trellis before Baoyu’s front gate, wondering whether it is too forward to go to Baoyu’s apartments uninvited. Still, she crosses the forecourt planted with plantains and crab apples, her breath, quick from shyness, forming a plume in the cold air.

The front room is empty except for Baoyu, who is lying awkwardly on his stomach under a quilt on the
kang
, and his body servant Pearl. His head is turned to the side so that it faces the door. His eyes are shut, but they open at her entrance. He is almost unrecognizable, his once radiant face deathly pale, with dark circles under his eyes. She is surprised by the sting of tears in her own eyes. She blinks them away. “Are you all right?”

“I’m not too bad.” His voice sounds weak.

“Does it hurt very badly?”

“A little.”

She thinks he is lying. “I don’t want to disturb you. I just wanted to see how you were, and to tell you how—how sorry I am. What does the doctor say?”

“He says there isn’t any lasting damage. Only”—he musters a smile—“it will be impossible for me to go back to school until my backside heals enough for me to sit down.”

“Did he give you any medicine?”

“He gave me a decongestant to disperse the bad blood, and something for pain so I can sleep better.”

“I thought you said it didn’t hurt much.”

“Just a little, when I’m trying to fall asleep.”

“I’m sure you must be tired, so I won’t disturb you any longer.”

His mouth curves again in a ghost of his old smile. “Do you suppose I’m going to let you go now that I’ve finally gotten you to visit again? Stay and talk to me.”

“You can’t possibly want to make the effort to talk at a time like this.”

“You’re wrong. It takes me away from my aches and pains to have you to talk to.” He shifts his head slightly so that he can direct his words to his maid sewing on the
kang
. “Pearl, why don’t you go to the bedroom and rest? You barely slept last night. My cousin is here to keep me company.”

Daiyu suspects he is sending the maid away so the two of them can talk in private. Her suspicion is confirmed by the slightly offended air with which Pearl puts away her sewing and crawls off the
kang
. “Be sure not to talk too long. Master Baoyu needs his rest,” she says, sniffing a little.

“Come and sit beside me,” Baoyu says.

Realizing that it will strain his neck and voice more if she sits farther away, she climbs onto the
kang
beside him. “Can I get you anything? Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

“No, just talk to me.”

“Why did your father beat you like that?”

His face darkens. “It was something to do with Granny’s maid Silver. Huan told him something that wasn’t true, and my father chose to believe it.”

“Didn’t you tell him the truth, then?”

His eyes meet hers challengingly. “I refused to tell him what really happened. He should trust me. If he chooses to think the worst of me …”

“But how can he know if you don’t explain?”

“What good would that do? Do you think he would believe me?” His eyes blaze with anger and despair, before shifting away from her gaze. “Besides, I had done something wrong. I deserved to be punished.” He falls silent, his face somber and remote.

She looks at him doubtfully, wondering what exactly he had done. She is indignant on his behalf, and at the same time pained by the hostility and distrust between Baoyu and his father. Uncle Zheng has always struck her as kindly beneath his reserve. It is hard for her to imagine him losing all control over his temper. She remembers, however, the
sardonic edge in his voice when he talks to Baoyu. She is beginning to understand why he is so frustrated with his son. Baoyu cares nothing for state affairs, the isms and ideologies that govern other men, including her father. Instead he follows his own chivalric code, as intricate and fine as old brocade.