OU-YANG TZU

(1939–    )

Poor eyesight has prevented Ou-yang Tzu (pen name of Hung Chih-hui) from concentrated reading and writing in recent years. Accordingly, she is forced to give up a writing career dating back to her undergraduate years at National Taiwan University, when she published one exquisite story after another in noted journals. But no reader seriously interested in Taiwan fiction of the late fifties and early sixties could fail to recognize her gift as a writer who finds thwarted passions and ungovernable irrationality a rewarding subject for proper study. Although she is often assailed by didactic critics for her nonchalance toward social or political causes, the value of her art asserts itself by baring the truth about the limit of reason, by charting the psychic forces that paralyze the mind and the will. Selected for this anthology, “The Net” is a powerful reminder of the plain fact that neither religion nor ethics can hope to resolve the dilemmas of the human heart in conflict with itself. Ou-yang Tzu holds a B.A. (1961) in English from National Taiwan University, and an M.F.A. (1964) from the Writers’ Workshop of the University of Iowa. Though she is restrained by her health from engaging in creative writing, occasionally she delights us with an essay or a translation, which she finds less strenuous. Her first collection of stories is That Long-Haired Girl (Na ch’ang-t’ou-fa ti nü-haitzu, Taipei, 1967). Later she revised seven pieces in that volume and reissued them together with her new writing under the title Autumn Leaves (Ch’iu-yeh, Taipei, 1971). An early version of “The Net” in English is included in Lucien Wus New Chinese Writing (Taipei, 1962). The present translation, however, is based on the new edition and for this reason represents not only a change in content but in language as well. Ou-yang Tzu now lives with her family in Austin, Texas.

The Net

Translated by the author

Her bag in one hand and a baby bottle in the other, Yü Wen-chin stepped out of a drugstore on Heng-yang Road in downtown Taipei. A wave of hot air assaulted her as soon as she was outside the air-conditioned store.

It certainly was clumsy of the maid, she thought, to drop the bottle and break it while feeding Pao-pao.¹ She wished the maid would be more careful in the future. How she would have liked to stay home on a hot humid afternoon like this, instead of coming downtown to buy a baby bottle!

Slowly she walked along the street toward the bus station. She stopped now and then to do some window shopping. Although Wen-chin never did enjoy coming to this part of the city, she found it not at all unpleasant now that she was here to look around a little.

“Yü Wen-chin!”

Hearing her name called, she halted in the middle of a step. A look of surprise flitted across her face. Yet she did not turn around at once. For a few seconds she stood completely still, not moving a muscle. Then suddenly she flushed.

“Yü Wen-chin!”

She turned around. A young man about her age, twenty-five or so, in a clean white shirt and a pair of dark brown pants, was elbowing his way through the crowd and coming toward her. He was tall and good looking, although a little on the thin side.

“Ah, Tang P’ei-chih!” she uttered. Joy appeared on her face. She literally beamed.

The man came up to her and stopped. He too was smiling happily. For a minute they just stood facing each other on the crowded street, smiling, rejoicing, speechless with exultation.

“But when—when did you come to Taipei?” Wen-chin asked, looking at her friend tenderly.

The man seemed surprised at her words. His smile faded somewhat, and he eyed her with an uncertain look upon his face.

“About two weeks ago,” he said.

“Visiting your sister?”

“Yes.”

With watery eyes Wen-chin looked him up and down several times. She was beside herself with joy.

“It’s been three years,” she said, laughing a little, “and you haven’t changed a bit!”

“Neither have you,” T ang P’ei-chih said.

At this moment Wen-chin remembered she was holding the baby bottle in her hand. She moved the hand a little toward her back. As she was doing so, she had a feeling that T’ang P’ei-chih had already noticed the bottle.

“Why don’t we go to some place where we can sit down and talk,” he suggested.

“Yes, of course,” she said.

They started to move on. Wen-chin slipped the bottle into her bag when she thought T’ang P’ei-chih wasn’t looking.

They entered an ice cream shop and each ordered a glass of fruit juice. Wen-chin felt effervescent, bubbling over with happiness. She just couldn’t keep from smiling.

“You’ve been in Taipei for two weeks,” she said, “and you didn’t even let me know!”

“But I did!” he exclaimed.

“You did?” She was surprised. “How?”

Again, an uncertain expression came upon his face. Then he smiled, faintly, self-consciously.

“Why, don’t you remember?” he said, not looking at her. “I did write you a letter.”

“A letter? When?” she asked, puzzled. “Why, I didn’t—”

“And you answered my letter,” he cut in, hastily, as if for some reason he did not want her to finish her sentence. Then all of a sudden he reddened. “You did answer my letter, didn’t you? You told me you couldn’t make it because it was—it was—your—”

He faltered, stopped, and looked down. Wen-chin grew pale. For a few minutes they sat silent, stiffly, awkwardly.

“Yes, maybe—” she said softly, as if murmuring to herself. “I did receive your letter—”

Then words failed her. She said no more. All the while T ang P’ei-chih kept his eyes lowered, a forced smile upon his face.

Five minutes later Wen-chin picked up her bag.

“It’s getting late,” she said and stood up. “I’d better go now.”

Suddenly T’ang P’ei-chih raised his eyes and looked at her, painfully, appealingly. It seemed as though he wanted to say something, to plead with her about something. Yet he said nothing. Wen-chin saw suffering on his face.

He did not offer to take her home.

Wen-chin was exhausted when she finally reached home. She closed the front door and leaned against it for a while, resting, trying not to think. Then she went to the kitchen, took the bottle from her bag, and put it in the cabinet where the maid stored Pao-pao’s things. She then left the kitchen and went to the bedroom.

At the bedroom door she paused, and stood eyeing the neatly made double bed as if seeing it for the first time in her two years of marriage. But soon she looked away and stepped quietly to the far end of the room where a crib was standing. Carefully she raised the mosquito net and peeked inside the crib. Pao-pao was sound asleep, his tiny mouth half open.

Staring at the baby, Wen-chin wondered why she would much rather T’ang Pei-chih didn’t know she was now a mother. She was almost sure though that he had seen the bottle. It was surprising that despite her marriage to Ting Shih-chung, and the fact that they hadn’t seen each other for three years, things had remained the same between her and T’ang P’ei-chih. The bond was still there, tying them together. And then, in spite of themselves, they still couldn’t help hurting each other because both of them were so highly sensitive and understanding.

Wen-chin had often imagined what it would be like if instead of Ting Shih-chung she had married T’ang P’ei-chih. She did not think it would have worked, because they knew each other too well and they had too much in common. Strange though it might sound, they were simply too close to be able to live together as husband and wife.

With Ting Shih-chung it was quite different. He had really made her happy by taking her for granted, and by willingly accepting all her sacrifices. She felt secure with him, and was sure of herself as long as she could cling to him. Since their marriage two years ago, she had given herself up to him, offering him everything—her body, her mind, her will. Ting Shih-chung had never hesitated to accept these offerings, taking them as though they were his inborn right. Wen-chin found contentment in her surrender, and drew immense gratification from the realization that she had lost herself for the sake of someone she loved.

This kind of contentment and gratification was exactly what T’ang P’eichih was unable to give her. Never, never could she be at ease with T’ang P’ei-chih, because each of them was so eager to sacrifice for the other but at the same time would refuse to accept the slightest sacrifice in return. Wen-chin remembered how, because T’ang P’ei-chih loved music, she would go on talking about Beethoven and Mozart. On the other hand, knowing she loved literature, T’ang P’ei-chih would try hard to change the subject to Tolstoy or Romain Rolland. They just could not quite fit together in this manner; the easiest way for them was to do or to talk about something that did not really concern either of them. They would choose words carefully in conversation, and take great pains to decide whether they should do this or do that. “Would I hurt him by so doing?” “Wouldn’t he feel bad if I said this?” She remembered burdening herself with such questions all the time.

And yet, those had been in many ways the most wonderful days of her life—the days when they were together as college students. On entering the classroom every morning, she would always meet his gentle smile. His eyes would glow tenderly at the sight of her, as if saying to her, “Oh, friend, my friend, here I am.” And then she would feel happy all day long, even without exchanging a single word with him.

Her married life had gone smoothly enough. She loved Ting Shihchung dearly and felt she could not live without him. And yet the shadow of her intimacy with T’ang P’ei-chih was there, always there, deep down in her soul. It had never occurred to her that she was being spiritually unfaithful to her husband. They were so different, these two men; they could not be compared. Besides, she scarcely looked upon T’ang P’ei-chih as a man. It could have been the same if he were a woman. Although it might not be honest to say that she never desired him, she had sensed from the start that things would not turn out that way between them. And then he never had actually asked her to marry him anyway.

Daylight was beginning to fade and the room grew darker. Wen-chin heard a mosquito buzzing around. She closed the mosquito net over the crib. The clock struck half past six. It was time for Ting Shih-chung to return.

She was dimly conscious of something awakening within her. For two years she did not seem to have really existed. She had not been living her own life, because Ting Shih-chung, ever full of energy and eager to protect her, would consider and arrange everything for her. He loved her tenderly and possessed her completely. And she had been pleased to give herself up like this, thinking it a great privilege to be so wanted by a man.

But now, after two years’ hibernation, her will was suddenly stirring, awakening. How T’ang P’ei-chih had avoided looking at her! What a painful expression he had upon his face! She knew very well that he was suffering from the realization that he had hurt her. Words had never been of much use between them; they understood each other without the need for talk.

From outside the house came the noise of a motorcycle, and she knew that her husband was back. A minute later the front door opened.

“Wen-chin!” His voice was clear and cheerful.

She did not move, nor did she reply.

“Wen-chin!”

Still she did not answer. The steps drew nearer; Ting Shih-chung appeared at the bedroom door.

“Are you there?” he said, coming into the room. “It’s dark here. Why didn’t you turn on the light?” He switched the light on. Wen-chin shielded her eyes against the dazzling light. She did not look in his direction.

“Oh, I wasn’t aware it was dark,” she said nonchalantly. “Pao-pao is asleep.” She still did not look at him.

“How is our little one today?” he asked, toning down his voice so he would not wake the baby. “He has been a good boy, hasn’t he?” He came over and put his arm around her. Then he walked with her closer to the crib, raised the mosquito net, and peered complacently at the baby.

“Look how beautiful he is,” he said, squeezing her. “I have never seen a baby like him.”

She was silent.

“I mean it,” he said. “This baby is different. He is just different!”

Wen-chin felt like crying. She loved Ting Shih-chung so much. She would die without him. And yet, at the same time, her newly awakened self was asserting itself, wanting to be set free.

After supper, they sat around as usual in the living room. Shih-chung was in his armchair, reading the evening paper. Now and then, however, he would raise his head and talk to Wen-chin. He told her how he had outwitted a colleague with whom he was competing for a promotion. He told her how his boss was impressed with the way he handled a fastidious client. Wen-chin sat quietly across from him on the sofa, not paying much attention to him. Shih-chung either did not notice or thought nothing of her unusual silence.

“Shih-chung,” she said, at last.

“Yes?” He raised his head.

“I want to ask you something.”

“What is it?”

“I’ve been wondering if you opened a letter addressed to me.”

“Which letter?” he said, surprised. “You know I open your mail. I didn’t think you minded.”

“It was from a friend of mine, T’ang P’ei-chih.”

“Who is T’ang P’ei-chih?” Shih-chung asked. He made a face and pretended to be jealous. “Is it he, or she? A secret admirer?”

Wen-chin took a hard look at him.

“And you answered the letter, didn’t you?” she said.

“Oh, that one!” he said. “Now I remember. Sure, the name was T’ang. It was last Saturday, I believe. You weren’t home when the postman delivered the letter. So of course I opened it, and then answered it to spare you some trouble.”

“You should at least have told me!” Wen-chin felt dryness coming into her voice. “Where is the letter?”

“The letter? What do you need it for?” he said. “Of course I threw it away.”

Threw it away! Of course he threw it away! Wen-chin was at once overcome with bitterness. How easy it is for him to say so! And how light hearted he appears! Yet I have to suffer for it. T’ang P’ei-chih, too, has to suffer for it . . .

“But don’t worry, I remember what it said,” Shih-chung assured her. “It wasn’t long, just a page, saying that he had come to Taipei from Pingtung, to visit a sister or a brother. By the way, why didn’t you ever tell me you have friends living that far down in the south? Anyway, he asked if you would meet him on Monday, at his sister’s or brother’s home. This friend of yours—he’s kind of rude, isn’t he? He should have come to see us at our home, instead of ordering you around. Now, of course you remember last Monday happened to be our second anniversary. So I answered in your name that you couldn’t make it, but just might drop in to see him some other time.”

“And you signed my name,” she said, frostily.

“Certainly,” he said. “Why, anything wrong?”

She made no reply. Poor, poor friend, she thought. Surely T’ang P’eichih could tell it was not her handwriting; he must have guessed who had written the letter. What he hadn’t dreamed of was that after nearly a week she could still be ignorant of the whole matter. If he had thought of such a possibility, she was sure he wouldn’t have said a word about having written to her. It was too late when he realized she knew absolutely nothing, and he saw that he had hurt her. And so, in desperation T’ang P’ei-chih tried to conceal his perception of the truth; he would rather sacrifice himself by pretending not to understand her, not to have even noticed that the letter wasn’t written by her, than let her know that he had guessed how her husband had been dominating her. Poor, poor P’eichih. How he must be feeling sorry for her!

Wen-chin raised her eyes. Shih-chung was again absorbed in the evening paper. The cigarette in his hand was burning close to its butt. Suddenly she felt he was strange to her, almost as if she had never had anything to do with him. Yet in reality they were in love; she did not know how she could live without him. How very odd it was. He was now leaning forward to reach the ashtray. He looked so handsome; big eyes, dark brows, firm lips. And he had such self-assurance. Oh, how she would love to rest in his strong, protective arms. He was more precious than life. She could always count on him to take good care of her. There was no need, no need whatsoever, for her to bother about anything at all. Whereas T’ang P’ei-chih could only make her suffer. She, too, could only make him suffer. Always suffering, fearful that the other might be hurt. And they’d get hurt anyway.

“What else did he say?” she asked.

“What? Oh.” Shih-chung frowned a little. “Can’t remember any more.” Then he seemed to have thought of something. “Ah, yes. He did ask if you are happy.”

“If—I am happy?”

“Yes. And so I answered him, ‘My dear friend, I am the happiest woman in the world. We just had our first baby, a boy. He is so cute, looks just like my husband. If only you knew how happy we are!’ ”

Wen-chin winced. Oh my goodness, she thought, so P’ei-chih knew about Pao-pao all the time! She felt sick and disgusted.

“Well, what do you think?” Shih-chung lifted his brows proudly and smiled. “Wouldn’t you have written the same yourself? You see, I know you perfectly. I can read your mind.”

Can you? she thought. An ironical smile came to her lips. For two years she had never once tried to analyze herself. She had no thoughts of her own. She had come to rely on Shih-chung so much, and had let him do all the thinking for her. Now she didn’t even know whether she herself was happy. Oh, how unfair, how very unfair it was!

Poor dear P’ei-chih! she thought. How could you ask me if I am happy? How could you ask me a question so difficult to answer? Wen-chin was sure, though, that she would have replied just the same, in the affirmative. But what right had Shih-chung to speak for her? What right had he to decide for her whether she was happy or not?

Wen-chin leaned back in the sofa and closed her eyes. She felt very unhappy. Shih-chung was her support; she certainly could not afford to lose him. But that other face, so strained with pain and full of sadness, haunted her. She cared for P’ei-chih just as she cared for herself. Yet it was to Shih-chung that she owed all she had. For two long years she had allowed Shih-chung to do anything he liked with her, and now it was as if she had also left P’ei-chih at his mercy. Yet P’ei-chih was proud—he had always been. This was the essential cause of his suffering.

Then it occurred to her that she was being very selfish, for to think about P’ei-chih was to think about herself. How could I expect to be paid for my sacrifices? she thought with self-reproach. Then there was the fact that she loved her husband. She loved Shih-chung very much indeed, and was eager to dedicate her whole self to him. But I can’t help it, I just can’t help it, she thought in agony. Oh, dear P’ei-chih, my poor, poor friend . . .

In the ecstasy of their reunion, after three years’ separation, she had had to leave him abruptly without even concealing the pain he had caused her. Oh, poor, poor friend! Shouldn’t I go see him? Yes, I must see him, I must. But what’s the use? He’d just look at me, and I at him. Then I’d say, “Oh, my friend, I am awakened! Now I know I love myself more than my husband!’’ And how would he take it? What would he think? “Here she comes again to sacrifice herself, poor friend! But I won’t have it, I won’t have it!” What more could I do? What more could I say?

“Wen-chin.”

She opened her eyes. Shih-chung was smiling at her. He had on his face the kind of tender look that she knew only too well. He rose from the armchair and came to sit down with her. He put his arm around her, squeezed her, and started to kiss her. Wen-chin jerked her body and tried to stand up.

“Wen-chin,” he whispered, “let’s go to bed.”

“No, not now,” she said, pushing him away a little. “It’s feeding time again.”

“But the maid just fed him,” he said, not letting her go. “I saw her feeding him.”

He pushed her down a little and started again to kiss her, passionately. He was holding her so tight she could hardly breathe. Still she struggled.

“No, don’t, please, don’t, not tonight,” she protested. “I was just thinking—just thinking—”

Shih-chung pretended not to hear her. Still kissing her, he managed to unzip her gown, unclasp her brassiere, and began to caress her breasts. Then suddenly he was up on his feet and, carrying her in his arms, he started for the bedroom.

Wen-chin struggled harder.

“Let—me—go!” she screamed.

Shih-chung was taken aback. He loosened his grasp, let go of her, and looked at her in amazement.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“I was just thinking—” she uttered sobbing, “it might be better for us to separate—for a few days, I mean—”

“What? To separate!” Shih-chung was astonished. “What do you mean, to separate?”

Wen-chin kept on sobbing, unable to say a word.

A look of annoyance came over his face. Suddenly he was cold toward her.

“I think I know what you mean, all right,” he said, shrugging. “You mean you don’t love me any more, right? So you don’t love me any more. But what does that matter? It’s all right with me; you may do as you please.”

He turned away and strode heavily into the bedroom. A moment later he came out with a pillow and a blanket in his arms. He unloaded them on the sofa without so much as a glance at her.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll sleep here on the sofa tonight. Lock the door if you like.”

No sooner had he finished these words than a frightened expression seized her face. She stopped sobbing at once. For a minute she stared at him, mouth half open, eyes full of panic. Then she moaned. Holding out her hands and rushing toward him, she fell all at once on her knees.

“Oh, Shih-chung,” she cried, panting, clutching his legs. “Don’t—don’t forsake me, please, don’t—don’t leave me—”

Again tears streamed down her face, and she was shuddering all over with sobs. Nearly on all fours on the floor, she began to press her face desperately against his feet. Her body kept writhing inside her unzipped gown, and her hair, long and dishevelled, was all over the place.

For a moment Shih-chung stood petrified, then he bent down, took her gently in his arms and helped her to her feet. She rested her full weight upon him and put her arms around his body. “Don’t, please, don’t forsake me—” she repeated, again and again, and wept miserably. Shih-chung patted her lovingly on the back.

“Now, Wen-chin, don’t be silly,” he said tenderly. “How could I ever forsake you, you silly child?” He put his cheek against hers.

She felt very weak, and stayed paralyzed in his arms.

“It was rude of me, Wen-chin,” he said kindly. “Frankly, I am very ashamed of myself. You look so pale. Are you sure you’re all right? Not sick or anything? You must be awfully tired. I’ll let you have a good night’s sleep, this I can promise you. I should have been more considerate—”

“Oh, please, Shih-chung, please!” Wen-chin hugged him with all her might, and burst out in another flood of tears. “No, Shih-chung, I’m not sick at all. Not tired either. Don’t you see? I’m just fine, just fine. Please, Shih-chung, please love me. It was selfish of me, please forgive me, please. But I do love you. Don’t you see? I really do love you. Don’t leave me alone, please. Don’t forsake me. I was just testing myself. To find out if I could live without you. No, I can’t. I can’t live without you. I knew it all along. So please don’t leave me, please. There is no me, but you and me. I am nothing, I do not exist—” She panted for breath, totally exhausted.

“Now, now, my love,” Shih-chung said, “of course I know you love me. I wouldn’t want to leave you for the world.” He patted her on the back, as if comforting a little girl who had hurt herself by accident.

“What a child,” he murmured.

By and by she calmed down. She ceased weeping, closed her eyes, and rested her head on his shoulder.

“You know, Shih-chung,” she said feebly, “it’s just that I was a little jealous of you. I felt I love you more than myself.”

Shih-chung seemed amused and laughed a little. Then he squeezed her and planted a kiss on her forehead.

“But now, I don’t feel jealous of you any more,” she continued murmuring. “I am very happy. I am glad that I love you more than myself.” She was smiling. At the same time, one more tear fell down her cheek.

“Now, my dear wife,” he said, softly. “Why don’t we do the talking tomorrow. Let’s go to bed.”

Wen-chin opened her eyes wide.

“And you, with me?” she asked.

“Certainly,” Shih-chung said, smiling.

He held her by the waist and they went together to the bedroom. Wenchin was weak and could hardly stand on her feet. But she had told him the truth. She was truly happy.

NOTE

1. “Pao-pao” literally means “precious,” a common form of address for Chinese babies. Here it is used as a proper name.