The year is 1950, and Elizabeth MacLeod stands in the flaming hush of a Vermont autumn, reading a letter from her husband Gerald, stranded, perhaps forever, in Maoist China. “Let me tell you that I love only you,” he writes. That’s always the prelude to catastrophe.
The story spirals from that charred declaration into the heartbreak of a woman who has already lost her husband before losing him. From the hills of Vermont to the vanished courtyards of Peking, Buck orchestrates a slow immolation of love, marriage, race, and identity.
Elizabeth, white, American, and stubbornly loyal, married Gerald, a man of mixed Chinese and American parentage whose elegance “began with his hands” and whose silence carries the weight of dynasties. Their son, Rennie, beautiful and bewildered, inherits not just blood but a borderless confusion that no sugar bush or maple syrup can mask. “Your father and I were not built for walls,” Elizabeth reflects, and yet history locks every door.
In one scene, Elizabeth recalls how Gerald hesitated to marry her because he feared his “Chinese flesh” might revolt her. She silences him with desire, not rhetoric. In another, she faces her mother’s patrician horror - “Oh, Elizabeth - no!” - when learning her daughter would marry a half-Chinese man.
Every recollection in this book is a charged act of self-vindication and confession. Rennie struggles with being a quarter-Chinese in a town that’s suspicious of even his father’s photograph. A maple orchard, a sugaring season, and a room prepared for a grandfather long thought lost all take on the weight of epic milestones.
Buck never raises her voice, but the air bristles. “I shall never get another letter from Gerald,” Elizabeth whispers, sealing the page like a coffin lid. A hundred things happen - wars, affairs, births, exile, and one jaw-dropping letter that implies a betrayal so quiet you might miss it if you blink.
Pearl S. Buck herself was born in West Virginia and raised in China, where she spoke Chinese before English. Her fiction, especially this one, carries the mark of someone perpetually between shores. Letter from Peking is a love song warbled through barbed wire, a book where silence speaks Mandarin and grief is adorned in silk. This is a book about marriages undone by politics, nations undone by race, and identities unraveled by inheritance.
“My mother’s little mouth opened. She looked at me with horror.
'Oh, Elizabeth—no!'
Only my mother called me Elizabeth...
'Gerald’s father lives in Peking. He is American but he married a Chinese lady and so Gerald is half Chinese.'
My mother stared at me. 'I have a dreadful fear that when you have a child it will look Chinese. Children do take after the grandparents.'
…
'How I could bear to have a Chinese grandchild I do not know. I could not explain it in Boston.'”
"...“I’ve been completely happy,” I said. “So happy that I must make sure Rennie will be happy, too. I couldn’t let him marry a girl who merely tolerated his being partly Chinese. She must be glad of it. She must be proud of it. She must understand that he is the richer for it, as a man and a person—yes, even as an American.” She could not follow me. She tried, bless her,..."