It wasn’t canny, hearing all these state secrets and knowing that the speakers regarded me as no more sensate than the chairs they sat on; I wondered if any spy had ever been so fortunately placed before. The irony was that it was of no practical use; with the eunuchs forever on the prowl, and guards within call, I might as well have been in a dungeon. But at least my own position seemed secure enough, so long as I betrayed no understanding; the really dangerous times were when Yehonala and I were in bed together, and her attention close upon me; her confounded playful poodle-talk unnerved me, for as you’ll guess if you’ve ever listened to a woman scratching a kitten’s belly, it consisted mostly of damfool questions which it took presence of mind not to answer.
“So ugly … so ugly,” she would whisper, lying on my chest and brushing her unbound hair across my face. “So ugly as to be almost magnificent … aren’t you? So misshapen and ungraceful, great lumpy muscles … you’re very strong, aren’t you? Strong and stupid, with teeth like a horse. Open … let me see them. Open, I say … Gods, do you have to be shown everything? Ugh, I don’t want to look at them! Horrible … I wonder what your barbarian women are like? Are they repulsive, too? You’ll find them so, after this, won’t you … after the incomparable Yi Concubine? I must look like a goddess to you … do I look like a goddess? Is it possible you might prefer female barbarians, I wonder? I mean, great apes like each other … but you may never see your barbarian women-apes again … not if I keep you. I might, when my son rules, and I’m all-powerful. Would you like that? I could send you now to Jehol, before your friends come … or I could give you back to them. No, I don’t want to lose you yet … and how unhappy you’d be, without me … wouldn’t you? You must think you’re in heaven, poor barbarian. If only you could speak … why can’t you speak … properly, I mean? Suppose you could, what would you say to me? Would you make love to me with words, like the poets? Do you know what poetry is, even? Could you write a poem in praise of my beauty … in butterfly words fluttering crooked up and down the page of my heart? Jung Lu wrote me a poem once, comparing me to a new moon, which was not very original … What would you compare me to, d’you think? Oh, you’re hopeless! You couldn’t love with words … you know only one way, don’t you? … like a great, greedy beast … like this … no, greedy beast, not like that! Be still … like this … slowly, you see? … this is the Fourteenth Gossamer Caress, did you know? There are more than twenty of them, and the last, the Supreme Delirium, can be experienced only once, for during it the lover dies, they say … let us be content with the Fourteenth … for the moment … then we’ll try the Fifteenth, shall we … ?”
It’s desperate work, listening to that kind of drivel with a straight face, never showing a glimmer of comprehension, in constant fear lest a blink of surprise, to say nothing of an ecstatic shriek in the wrong language, means certain and hideous death. For I had no illusions about this sweet young thing – if she so much as suspected I understood, the wire jacket would be the least of it; the more I knew of her, the more I became aware of what I said some time ago, that she was a compound of five of the Deadly Sins – greed, gluttony, lust, pride, and anger, with ruthlessness, cruelty, and treachery thrown in; it was fatally easy to forget it, gazing on that lovely face, and embracing that wonderful body, or listening to her chaffing Little An, or joking like a mischievous schoolgirl with her ladies – for she had a great sense of fun, and true playfulness, and yet in spite of all that, there’s only one word to describe her: she was a monster.
For one thing, she really enjoyed cruelty, and as an authority in the bullying line myself, I don’t speak lightly. Ranavalona of Madagascar has always headed my list of atrocious females, but she was raving mad, and did her abominations almost offhand, without emotion. Yehonala was anything but mad, and if her cruelties seem trivial beside those of my Malagassy Moonbeam, she still inflicted them with the relish of a true sadist. She had a servant following her about with a case of canes and switches, and when anyone displeased her, down came the breeches and lay on with a will, farrier-sergeant. When two of her eunuchs caught some crows and released them with firecrackers tied to their legs so that the birds were blown to bits in mid-air, Yehonala had the culprits’ backsides cut to bloody pulp with bamboo whips, watching the infliction of the full hundred strokes with smiling enjoyment. You may say they deserved a drubbing, but you didn’t see it.
Even crueller, I thought, was her treatment of a maid called Willow, who offended in some trivial way. Yehonala ordered another maid to start slapping Willow’s face, and when she didn’t do it hard enough, made Willow slap her back. In the end she had the two little chits thrashing each other in tears, while she laughed and clapped her hands. Add that it was she who constantly urged the slaughter of prisoners, and sent the suicide cords to unfortunate commanders, and I’d say the cruelty case is proved; for ruthlessness and treachery I’d refer you only to her first conversation in my presence.
As to the Deadly Sins – I saw her in a towering rage only once, with the bird-blowing eunuchs, but I’m told that her anger was legendary, and could be berserk in its fury. She wasn’t a glutton in the ordinary sense, but her pleasure in food was voluptuous, especially in dainties like sugared seeds of various kinds, and every kind of confectionery, which seemed to have no effect on her figure. She enjoyed opium, but thought no one else should have it; she also took snuff, from a hollowed-out pearl with a ruby stopper, and was the prettiest sneezer you ever did see, giving tiny little “cheef!” noises and wrinkling her nose. She was uncommon greedy for precious things, which was astonishing since she had everything a woman could conceivably want; yet she gloated over her jewellery and clothing in a way that was positively indecent, and I doubt (from her conversation) if enough money could have been minted to satisfy her. Hand in hand with her delight in clothing, her transparent robes, her pearl capes, her enormous sleeves, her thousand pairs of shoes, the jewels which she would fondle as though they were alive, went her vanity, which was all-consuming – and she had every reason for it. As to her lust … don’t ask me, how would I know?
Perhaps, on consideration, I’m wrong to call her a monster – unless it’s monstrous to indulge an unbridled appetite without regard for anyone or anything. Yes, I think that’s right; I do, and I’m a monster. With Yehonala, everything was extreme; whatever she did was done with every fibre of her, and enjoyed with sensual intensity – whether it was nibbling a sugared walnut, or half-killing a partner in bed, or flaunting a new dress, or having an offender flogged nearly to death, or watching the sun go down over the Fragrant Hills, or ruling an empire … she would squeeze the last drop of savour out of it, and lick her fingers afterwards. If you could have seen her even walking, with that quick, gliding stride, or pinning one of her five hundred jade butterfly brooches to her dress, or playing “The Eight Fairies Travel Across the Sea” game with her ladies, or spraying glycerine on her face to fix her cosmetics – always the same concentration, the same implacable zeal to do it exactly right, the same ambition for perfection. No wonder she became mistress of all China – or that the Emperor died of her mattress gymnastics. Ten years? It’s a marvel he lasted ten days.
I append these details because, since she became one of the great women of history,a an eye-witness account may be of some interest; perhaps it’ll help some clever biographer to plumb the mystery of her character. I can’t; I knew her as a lover, you see, and Dick Burton assures me I’m a hopeless nympholeptic, which sounds good fun. She ravished my senses, right enough, and scared me to death – which, by the way, is true of the only three women (apart from Elspeth) whom I’ve truly loved: Lola, Lakshmibai, and Yehonala. An empress, a queen, and the greatest courtesan of her time; I dare say I’m just a snob.
However, my little character-sketch will have explained my growing anxiety in case she discovered that she was nourishing a Chinese-speaking British viper in her gorgeous bosom. For every day increased that risk … and still Elgin didn’t move. The British and Fre
nch army seemed to have put down roots at Tang-chao, a mere ten miles from Pekin; I couldn’t fathom Grant’s intentions, with winter coming on, his lines of communication gaping for a hundred miles behind him to the coast, his force still outnumbered at least four to one – if I’d had command of the remaining Tartar cavalry I’d have had him and his army and his bull fiddle bottled on the Peiho yet. The reason, according to Little An, was that the Big Barbarian was scared the prisoners would be murdered if he moved; knowing Elgin, I was sure there must be more to it; in fact, he and Grant were just “makking siccar”, as my wife would say, counting on the very error which I heard Little An making to Yehonala.
“We shall have warning if they move,” says he. “The big guns will sound, the order for the deaths of the barbarian prisoners can be dispatched, and we shall have ample time to retire to Jehol, leaving Sang and Prince I and Sushun and the rest of the reptiles to meet the wrath of the Big Barbarian. Hang-ki has charge of Pa-hsia-li and the other; they can be removed quietly and executed by the jacket whenever you wish. Unless,” he glanced moodily at me, “you will be wise and put that thing away.” Meeting his eye, I smiled amiably and nodded. “What in the name of Yen-lo are you going to do with him, Orchid Lady?”
“Take him to Jehol,” says she. “Why not?”
“Gods! To Jehol – and play the harlot with him while … while the Son of Heaven is dying in the next room?”
“Well, I can hardly play the harlot with the Emperor, in his condition, can I? And you know me, Little An – I have to be playing the harlot with someone, or so you keep telling me.”
“Will you jest, at such a time?” he shrilled. “Oh, little empress, if you have no shame, at least have sense! Prince Kung and the Empress Dowager are lodged only a mile away – in the Ewen-ming-ewen! Suppose word reached them of this beast’s presence? Suppose Sang gets to hear of it? At the moment when you have the prize all but in your grasp – oh, why do I waste time, talking to a lovely idol with an ivory head? How will you hide him in Jehol, or on the road? It’s a full day’s journey!”
“He can travel with the eunuchs. It may be that I’ll keep him as one, eventually. Perhaps make him chief – in place of you. At least he won’t deafen me with impertinence. By the way, we’ll travel to Jehol by night. Have the horse-litters and cavalry escort standing by from tomorrow; the barbarians may come soon now.”
By gad, I hadn’t liked the sound of that. Of course she was just joking – teasing Little An. Wasn’t she? One thing was sure, she wasn’t getting me to Jehol – when those guns sounded, I’d make a run for it, somehow. If I could give my watchdogs the slip, after dark – even if I didn’t get out of the Summer Palace, there were acres of woodland to lie up in … I might even get clear away, and be in time to reach Grant and have him send a flying column slap into the city to rescue Parkes and the others … Probyn or Fane would be in and out before the Chinks knew they’d been. Aye, but I mustn’t run the slightest risk of capture myself – the thought of being dragged back, helpless, to face her fury (they can’t stand being jilted, these autocratic bitches) and Little An’s malice …
“What’s the matter with the filthy brute? He looks as though he’d seen a spirit!” It was Little An’s harsh squeal, and I realised with a thrill of fear that he was staring at me. How I didn’t start round in guilty panic, God knows; I forced myself to sit still – we were in the long ivory saloon of her pavilion, An standing beside her chair while she ate her supper of peaches sliced in honey and wine; myself on a stool about ten feet away. A few of her ladies were playing Go at the other end, laughing and chattering softly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Yehonala had turned to look at me, laying down her spoon. I took a deep breath, pressed my hands to my stomach, and belched gently. She laughed.
“Fried bread dragons. Or love-pangs for his Orchid – eh, Little An?” She returned to her peaches.
“Perhaps.” To my consternation he walked towards me slowly, and I gave him my idiot smile as he paused before me, a thoughtful frown on his pudgy face. “Do you know, Orchid Lady,” says he, watching me, “I have sometimes wondered if this … this stallion of yours … is as senseless as he seems. Once or twice … just now, for instance … I’ve wondered if he doesn’t understand every word we say.”
It was like a douche of cold water, but I daren’t drop my eyes. I could only blink, without interest, and hope the thunder of my heart wasn’t audible.
“What?” Her spoon tinkled into the dish. “Oh, what old wool! Barbarians don’t speak our language, stupid!”
“Pa-hsia-li does. Like a school-master.” His little eyes were bright with suspicion. “So will others. Perhaps this one.”
“And never a word out of him in days? Or any sign of sense? Nonsense! What makes you think so – apart from malice?”
He continued to stare at me. “A look … an expression. A sense.” He shrugged. “I may be wrong … but if I’m not, the tale of your pleasuring him will be the least he can tell.” His eyes narrowed, and I knew what was coming – and began a cavernous yawn to cover the reaction which I knew he was going to startle out of me. Sure enough:
“Look at his thumb!” he squeaked.
Now, I defy anyone in my position not to twitch his thumb, or whatever extremity is mentioned – unless he has set his muscles and begun to yawn, which is a fine suppressor of the guilty start. Hutton, old Pam’s Treasury gun-slinger, taught me that one. I saw the disappointment on Little An’s face, and looked at him serenely.
“If you are right,” says Yehonala, “then he understands us now.”
I glanced at her, reasonably enough, since she’d spoken – and felt sick. She was frowning uncertainly, upright in her chair; she beckoned abruptly, so I got up and went over, meeting her stare with polite interest. After a moment:
“Do you understand me?’ says she sharply, and I smiled hopefully as her eyes stayed steady on mine. Then she pointed at her feet, so I knelt upright in front of her, my face just below the level of her own, about two feet away. She continued to watch me intently, that lovely oval mask expressionless, and then said quietly:
“I don’t know, An … but we must be sure. It’s a pity. Take the sabre from the wall yonder … quietly. When I say ‘Begin’ … strike.”
If it was a bluff, it was bound to work. Even Hope Grant or Rudi Starnberg wouldn’t have been able to repress a flicker when she spoke the fatal word, and my nerves weren’t in the same parish as theirs. I didn’t hear Little An move behind me, but I knew he’d be there, quietly poising that razor-sharp blade, waiting. I could only kneel patiently, praying the sweat wasn’t starting from my brow, meeting her cold gaze with smiling inquiry as I would have done if I’d been innocent, letting my smile fade uncertainly as she didn’t respond. I strove not to gulp, to look easy, knowing it was no go – unless I could think of something I was bound to flinch at the word. In desperation, I lowered my eyes, searching for inspiration … finally letting my glance stray to her bust; she was wearing one of those tight silk Manchoo dresses that button at the throat and are open to the breast-bone, leaving a gap through which appetising curves of Eve’s puddings are to be seen; I stared with rapt interest, moving my head slightly for a better view, moistened my lips, and blew gently at the opening. She flinched, and I glanced up with an insolent suggestive twitch of the brow to let her see how my thoughts were running; there was a shadow of doubt in the dark eyes, so I returned to my leering contemplation of her bouncers with a contented sigh, leaning a little closer and blowing again, a longer sustained breeze this time …
“Begin,” says she softly, and I continued to blow soft and steady, without a tremor, for I knew it was a bluff, and that Little An, far from holding a sabre over my head, was still ten feet away, watching. If you want to play double-dares with Flashy, don’t do it when there’s a polished walnut cabinet reflecting the room behind him.
“Idiot!” snaps Yehonala, and snatching up her spoon she flung it at An’s head. “He doesn’t unders
tand a word! You’re a snivelling old woman … and a spiteful little worm! Now get out, and leave us alone.”
By George, I was glad to see the brute go; he’d had my innards in a rare turmoil for a few minutes, and I knew that now his suspicions were aroused he’d watch me like a lynx. Even in the small hours, when Yehonala had played us both out, I was still too nervous to go to sleep for fear I babbled in Chinese – and next day, to my consternation, I was confined to my room, with the door locked and a Mongol trooper of the Imperial Guards cavalry on sentry, which had never happened before. I glimpsed him when they brought my dinner – a hulking, shaven-headed rascal in a mail coat and yellow sleeves. I demanded in English to be let out, and they slammed the door on me without a word. I ate little dinner, I can tell you, pacing up and down my room with its high, impossibly tiny windows, asking myself if An had been poisoning her mind with suspicions, but as the day wore on my anxieties changed colour – something strange was doing in the Summer Palace. There was distant bustle in Yehonala’s pavilion, voices raised and feet hurrying; outside in the garden, towards evening, there were unmistakable noises of horses going past, and a peremptory voice in Chinese: “I know the litters are there, but the third one’s empty – no cushions or rugs! Why not?” An apologetic mumble, and then: “Well, get them! And stay with the grooms. If anyone wanders off, he’ll walk to Jehol in a cangue!”
So she was going! Was Grant moving at last, then? But there hadn’t been a single cannon-shot, ours or the Chinese; he couldn’t be advancing on Pekin without some hysterical Tartar touching off a field piece, surely? Tang-chao was less than a dozen miles away – the sound of firing would carry easily … but the afternoon light was fading; it wasn’t possible he was coming today, Yehonala’s people must have had a false alarm – and then, far-off, there was the brazen whisper of a Manchoo trumpet, and a drum of approaching hoof-beats, a single rider pounding across the sward, voices calling anxiously at the front of the house, and a hoarse cry of alarm:
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 362