The Three Leaps of Wang Lun

by Alfred Doblin

  In the fateful region of Talu swamp were two bands. Hemmed in by their odious persecutors, swept along by a few desperate men they defended themselves, indeed in a blind passion gave veritable battle to the attackers which ended in victory for the sectarians. This was the beginning of a demented pogrom against wandering bands in the region. To the north of Peking, in southeastern Chihli the same thing occurred. Local authorities independently organized attacks on them. Here and there lamaic priests were assaulted.

  Chia-ch’ing, strong princely Chia-ch’ing, did not doubt that his father was mad, befuddled by the insidious Tashi-lama. In his palace, before the eyes of Chao Hui and Song who were visiting him, he tore up a copy of the conciliatory decree. When news came of spreading rebellion his eyes glinted with pleasure. He was urged to declare for a faction. He could count for support on all friends of Confucius, all true patriots who observed with loathing the victory of the yellow gowns at court. He kept his own counsel; but after one such angry exchange he threw the key to his treasury to his head gardener. Now something astonishing happened: the authorities in the provinces abruptly ceased their actions. Thereupon the sect grew as never before, and the adherents seemed seized all together of a tumult of fury, a madness of bloodlust that swept away all meekness in one great wave. The eunuchs in Chia-ch’ing’s service had stealthily caused several thousand demobilized soldiers to be hired in various places, with orders to join the Truly Powerless and await orders from Peking. In a few weeks the sect had undergone a terrible change.

  With great skill two acts of terror were arranged from Peking: an attempt on the life of general Chao Hui’s only son, and an apparent attack on Mukden while the Emperor was in residence. Chao Hui, now in the Emperor’s entourage, was incensed at the disgrace to his house; Lao-hsü recovered only slowly. The general dragged his misfortune along by the Emperor’s side.

  The preoccupied Emperor was an eyewitness to the outrage perpetrated by the sectarians in Mukden. From his garden he saw the tonguing flames that lapped at a pagoda and a memorial arch he himself had erected in honour of his mother. He also heard the death cries of the sectarians—poor soldiers who had been promised large sums of money for their families, and an expensive funeral.

  He left the Manchu tombs, journeyed to Jehol. Reluctantly he opened reports despatched by the Tsungtus: rebellion, open rebellion was in the land.

  Deathly silence in the Imperial residence as the reports were laid before the Son of Heaven. He remained in seclusion. At noon on the following day he climbed alone and bent into the Hall of Ancestors, where he stayed until evening. Ch’ien-lung felt limp and miserable. He feared the approach of death at any moment. That horrible ghostface from the Mongolian town hadn’t altered its features. He couldn’t change it. He couldn’t atone to his ancestors. His life was ending in shame. Heaven had cast this over him. This ending was ordained.

  And during these days when the old Yellow Lord was turned in on himself to wrest an outburst of anger from his soul, he was struck by a blow aimed at him from his own house.

  In a clique that assembled in a house in Peking for the furtherance of gossip, intrigue, the staging of theatrical performances, a leading role was played by a woman named P’ei, whose past was known to few of the distinguished visitors to the house.

  Madam P’ei claimed to be the daughter of a mill owner in the west called P’ei Szu-fu; orphaned at an early age, she’d been packed off to a suburb of Peking where she was adopted and raised by a retired mandarin. This elegant creature certainly had the graces of the educated classes, spoke purest kuan-hua; only now and then committed solecisms in elementary matters, misunderstood literary allusions. This didn’t happen very often, since for the most part she cultivated an extraordinary reserve. No one from the suburb of Peking in which she had in fact been “raised” would have recognized in the striking and clever Madam P’ei the little house slave of a widowed barber Yeh, in whose squalid house she added to the dirt, suffered daily beatings from the barber’s neglected offspring and came close to starving. She ran away, and it seems she worked at first in the kitchens of one of the painted houses along the Canal, then, having picked up the rudiments, took higher vows and was accepted into the society of the mandarin-ducks.

  She did not, however, rise to become a queen of the flowers and willows in her quarter. At the age of eighteen she contracted an eye ailment, and though she donated many gifts to the once reliable Goddess of Eyesight, brought silver spectacles with ivory sidepieces, only the right eye healed, leaving large white spots on the left that greatly reduced Miss P’ei’s market value.

  She used all her refined flirtatiousness to induce a wealthy judicial officer to take her as his concubine. She wanted to escape the painted house. Only two and a half years later she left the judge’s residence, having received a severance payment from his legitimate wife.

  Now Madam P’ei occupied a little house with several servant girls, lived in retirement, now and again received visitors, consorted only with families of distinguished name. In her room she relived her memories. She had not been altogether averse to entertaining gallants in the painted establishment. She set out smoking bowls of incense in which every day she burned amber, the saliva of dragons. Every morning she took her usual bowl of ginger soup. Even her warm wine she drank alone, wine on wine, drunkenness on drunkenness, as the saying goes. The servants had no idea what Madam got up to half the day in her locked room. When they heard her trilling and strumming the yüeh-ch’in, they became curious.

  When Madam clapped to be made up and dressed for her afternoon visits and despite all her dignity was seen to be excitable, happy, restless, they began thinking. Conversations with the neighbours strengthened their suspicions, which amounted to nothing less than that Madam P’ei was a Wu, a sorceress, who cosseted ghosts up in her room.

  The young woman noticed the girls’ timid whispering. A flower woman brought the rumour to her ears, and Madam P’ei grew thoughtful. On an idle caprice she took up the strange augury, went to a renowned Wu, who cawed himself hoarse laughing: so she nurtured soft memories of the flowery lane, and people thought her a practising witch! You could not summon shades with tenderness! She begged him to instruct her in a sorcerer’s invocations and usages, just a little; she only wanted to drive fears from others; she’d be frightened to summon a real shade. Since she put down a hefty deposit the canny Wu accepted the deal, promised he wouldn’t show her the least little shade, only conjure one up in the vicinity.

  And so she learned to name the various kinds of spirits, ghosts, demons, to distinguish their characteristics, their transformations into werewolves, foxes, rat demons, how to capture and unmask them, how to employ ashes, amulets, papers, swords, water.

  Hovering between shudders and caresses she remained the respectable young Madam P’ei, rich enough to indulge her whims. In the circles she frequented she never denied the secret mutterings behind her back. She was patient, waited for the moment to reveal her powers, for she hungered after influence in these spheres.

  Now the ladies’ salon was joined by a Mrs Ying, pretty as a picture, who was in service with an Imperial princess. The trimness of her figure was rivalled only by her lack of brains. Madam P’ei kept her distance, for she became bitter in the presence of beauty. Mrs Ying gaped in astonishment when she found out about her fascinating powers. She pressed herself on the surprised lady, questioned her about it, paid visits to her apartment, woooed the cool P’ei, who played her along and condescended to her.

  But Madam P’ei changed her demeanour at once when Mrs Ying climbed one day delightedly from her sedan chair, embraced her and conveyed an invitation to sip tea with the princess. Now P’ei returned most cordially the impetuous embraces of young Ying, who felt happy and secure in the company of a Wu. This first courtesy visit to the princess was followed by intimate meetings, and the suburban barber’s grubby house slave stood on the threshold of a glittering career.

  She found herself at Court in the Vermili
on City among women and eunuchs who were mired in a swamp of superstitious entanglements. Before long the clever Madam P’ei was the centre of attention. Several princes showed up at the conventicles. Dark séances were held in locked rooms, ladies and gentlemen stood up smartly at the suggestion of this elegant woman with the confident movements, who secretly feared nothing more than that one of her experiments might succeed.

  Ch’ien-lung’s favourite, Prince Pu-wang, was a free and easy daredevil. His sister wanted him to join their circle; he quickly spoiled the clandestine arrangements of Madam P’ei, whose supposedly evil looks he couldn’t abide. He was easily brought to heel: the gentle and timid princess, shocked at his behaviour and pained at the sorceress’ distress, persuaded P’ei to convince the young man with a practical demonstration. She offered to look the other way as the prince was made to fall for a crude trick. And the delighted woman consented half unwillingly to prophesy for the sneering Pu-wang an early morning encounter which the princess, under a sense of obligation to her insulted guest, took care to bring about. The prince’s astonishment was matched by his ensuing humility and ambivalence towards his sister’s protégée.

  In his zeal the young man introduced the renowned Prince Mien-k’o to the magic circle, to which the chief eunuch also belonged. Mien-k’o, broad of shoulder, urgent, always in his general’s uniform with the lion insignia on the breast, a swaggering, boorish fellow, felt extraordinarily honoured to be received into such unusual Company, sat with his overlarge head and open mouth in the upstairs room used for the séances. Ch’ien-lung hated this son, who stood out with his rough character and was kept in the background. When this squat, conceited man became aware of Madam P’ei’s arts he did not, like Pu-wang, reject them but as the company made its way from the salon appeared silent, grimly excited, so that Pu-wang found the woman even more convincing.

  In the warrior’s muddled brain an idea took hold: to conquer Madam P’ei for himself and force her to place her talents at his disposal. Little Mrs Ying, who had been his concubine before her marriage, and chief eunuch Shang were startled to be overhauled by the prince’s runners on the way to Madam P’ei, invited into his own sedan chair and, as they were borne through the streets, informed without preamble that Madam P’ei had offered to serve him and he was going to make use of her occult powers. Mrs Ying and Mr Shang had to help him secure the lady. They wouldn’t lose by it. But the sorceress had better be taken into safekeeping, because it was absolutely essential to guard against betrayal.

  Mr Shang’s protestations that there was nothing to fear as to the sorceress’ willingness were hoarsely dismissed by the prince, who looked at them from swollen bull’s eyes. It had to be done with resolution and force. You couldn’t trust a spirit woman; at which Mrs Ying gave a determined nod.

  And so that afternoon the curious affair took place. Madam P’ei, collected in all her finery by Mr Shang and Mrs Ying, was carried in the sedan Chair of Imperial Prince Mien to a secluded house in the Forbidden City, was led on her arrival to a back room, set upon by the hideous prince, bound and laid on the floor. He took the silk cloth from her mouth when, half choked, she indicated by wild shakes of the head that she wasn’t going to scream. As she sat on the floor in her sumptuous furlined gown, snivelling quietly and fearing for her life, Mien stumped up and down in front of her, swished his ceremonial sabre and declared himself the protector of her life and her safety if only she’d place herself, without any reservations, at his disposal.

  Madam P’ei had to support herself against the wall. She’d thought the dark prince was going to unmask her, and instead—desired her. This abduction was just like his headstrong ways. She pretended confusion, referred to her good family. The solid man propped himself on his weapon and summed up brutally, “Yes or no?” at which, although she found his appearance not especially pleasing, she whispered a tender Yes, cried again quietly and squinted across at him.

  He explained in the same surly tone that she’d live there for a while, leave the house only in a sealed sedan in the company of Mr Shang and Mrs Ying. She didn’t need to conjure spirits, summon shades, cure or cause sickness from a distance; she was just to be at his complete disposal. To which she assented with a sigh.

  Mrs Ying was not a little astonished when she appeared that evening at her friend’s locked room and the latter embraced her laughing. Madam P’ei told her she’d soon grow accustomed to these new circumstances. At first she’d been afraid of the rude prince, but actually it was only his manner that was so frightening. What he wanted of her would of course cost her some spiritual difficulty, but—. And Mrs Ying, pleased, took up the ‘but’, urged her to take everything as it came, calmly and without fuss. The prince swore by her, but everything must stay a secret.

  The next morning found lovehungry P’ei in a difficult position. Enlightened by the prince as to his not in the least amorous intentions, she had to conceal her disappointment and attend to the complexities of his plans. Mien’s evil plot was to have a certain man, at a particular time, by some suitable means, fall ill and not too much later die. At the princess’s apartment, in Mien’s presence, Mrs P’ei had often boasted of such abilities, which every experienced Wu possessed. Now Madam P’ei wept in earnest and wouldn’t be comforted by the prince. She wept for her lost beauty and how horribly everything had turned out. She was close to jumping up, striking the man, who was watching out for it, on the face and screaming out her inability. The whole business showed the prince in a foolish light which disgusted the spoiled woman. She wept on in fury, remembered her childhood in the barber’s house and was slow to calm herself. The prince, who had left her alone, returned two hours later. She begged his forgiveness: a woman’s heart could not easily attach itself to new things. Mien questioned her more closely about the methods one used to bewitch a distant person, bring about his death. She thought the simplest way would be to send him a potion, but this, after some reflection, Mien rejected: it seemed too dangerous. Couldn’t she carry out his intentions without leaving her room? After considering a while Madam P’ei, brightening, declared that she could. She proposed to entice the spirit of the condemned man into a doll, bury the doll at the threshold of the man’s apartments; before long the man would grow mad, kill himself or in some other way die quickly.

  Mien swung his arms: it should be done. He made her repeat her vow to keep mum and gather her powers. If all went well she’d be rewarded with whatever she wanted; nothing would be denied her.

  And so Madam P’ei, ensnared in this manner, was only a little startled when the monstrous man bent towards her, weapons clanking, to whisper in her ear, having pushed aside the string of pearls that dangled from her headdress: it was the Emperor she was to bewitch.

  The trust accorded her in this circle had excited her before now. Now a passion coursed through her head, her eyes were dazzled. She made up her mind to succeed, to hold power.

  In addition to Mrs Ying and the eunuch, who took pains to preserve the secret of P’ei’s whereabouts, a lapidary was brought into the plot, a friend of the eunuch who often worked in the palaces of the Vermilion City. He was given four thousand taels by Prince Mien and a golden amulet representing the God of Longevity. Mrs P’ei commissioned him to carve a jade statue of the Emperor as big as an arm; he was to depict the Emperor lying down, wearing only a linen nightshirt. The further decking out of the doll she’d take care of herself.

  It was more than five weeks later when the lapidary, working of necessity in secret, finished his task and one evening lifted a finely carved and stained booktrunk from his cart and carried it on his shoulder into the house occupied by Madam P’ei.

  The doll of green nephrite was alarmingly like the Son of Heaven. The sleeping head lay on its right side; the mouth breathed slightly open; a flimsy garment flowed down to the bare feet and in restless sleep had slipped from the right shoulder, revealed a strong left ankle; the hands fell thickveined and heavy at either side. The glassy green stone was the image of a
near corpse, and at the same time had an unearthly animation that welled from deep within the stone, almost speaking, fending off death.

  The conspirators stood around the statue. Mien, sure of triumph, embraced the simple young lapidary, who looked proudly over his botched effort and wondered if a fold shouldn’t have been placed a little differently.

  Mrs Ying cried, slunk into a corner where they could hear her sniffling; even Madam P’ei, who at first had stared at the doll in feigned calm, felt unwell. She sobbed, ran in fear from the room and had to be fetched back by Mrs Ying at the prince’s bidding.

  The next stage of the work fell to Madam P’ei. After she had got rid of her guests, it took several days before she was able to approach the doll with equanimity. Then the prince gave her the chance to observe Ch’ien-lung as he strolled among the magnolias and lily ponds of the Forbidden City. And little by little, with incantatory gestures, she absorbed from the man, as he pottered about, some part of his soul; today the spirit of the five viscera: liver, spleen, lungs, heart, kidneys; then the spirit of his eyes, brain. Every time she carried a little object in her closed left hand, the organ whose spirit she was bewitching: liver of blue wood, lungs of white metal, heart of flame-red silk. At home she squeezed the oval of material over the dreaming doll’s body, breast, forehead; incense smouldered, the windows were curtained. Like a sponge the doll absorbed the spirits; the stone began to darken, the figure lost its translucency, brown nodules formed within it from which fine lines and fissures extended like veins into the limbs and sprouted over the skin.

  After Madam P’ei, with one last painful burst of concentration, had brought home the Emperor’s life spirit she locked up for five times five days the trunk in which the statue lay. Towards the end of this period perceptible groans and knocks emanated from within. Dark Prince Mien, the lapidary and pretty Mrs Ying leaned over the box as Madam P’ei, her knees now under control, dressed in a Wu-costume of red flames, tensed her arms and heaved open the lid. Warm vapour with a foul musty smell drifted from the trunk. Over her face Madam P’ei wore a snaketongued gilded godmask; her lively rouged hands grasped the doll, which abruptly, like a wild cat, she pressed to her bosom.