The Forbidden Kingdom

by Jan Jacob Slauerhoff

  The procession halted in front of the stand. Only the envoys were allowed to bid farewell to their wives, which they did in a peremptory and forced fashion; the wives leant over the balustrade and embraced their spouses, who would be gone for a year or for ever. This did not take long, and after a few horn blasts everyone resumed their seats. Now Campos and Metelho exchanged formal greetings and the latter received his sealed orders. A priest blessed the five envoys, and sprinkled holy water on the chests full of gifts. The soldiers were not included in these ceremonies, and the rearmost ranks could only just see the stand. Camões stood among them and stared straight ahead, making an effort not to see anything. He was longing only for the moment, many days hence, when he would be beyond the gravitational pull of Macao, when everything would be over for ever and a yellow emptiness would lie ahead of him.

  The sign to move out was given, and the whole column advanced, and he passed the stand with head bowed. But as he passed the central section, he could not stop himself and in the second row saw Pilar, pale and dressed in white, beside Ronquilho, red and fat, in ceremonial uniform. They looked at each other. He wanted to shout, “I didn’t betray you,” but immediately felt: actually I did betray you. He bowed his head and left things as they were. He marched past.

  The very first march exhausted him, but it was five days before the exhaustion of his body and the pain in his injured feet were bad enough to extinguish the pain in his brain. After several days he had marched beyond tiredness, his step became lighter, and he felt the attraction of the unknown ahead of him and the compelling thrill of the long journey through a country where no one of his race had penetrated before him.

  After the very first stretch they marched at night by the light of the full moon, beneath which the countryside extended colourless and gently undulating. A few narrow villages, spindly bamboo groves and crumbling graves lay strangely and shrilly in this emptiness. Marching order soon disintegrated by itself: after all, they could see each other hours away. Later, when the country became more densely populated, the terrain hillier and the interests of safety required them to stay in a close-knit formation, discipline had already become far too slack; Metelho lacked sufficient authority over the soldiers. Many men were suffering from dysentery, and two of the Chinese guides had already died. Metelho, seeing the danger of finding themselves without guides in the strange, deep, hostile interior, tried to recruit new ones, but in vain; everywhere their reluctance to venture into the alien north was so great, that even large sums of money could not awaken their enthusiasm. The third Chinese guide also fell sick. So that in case of emergency we would at least be able to find the way back, Metelho had a stone erected each afternoon, on which was carved: “The first non-tributary Portuguese embassy passed by here”, followed by the date and the position of the sun. It was difficult to find volunteers for this hot work, and Camões was always pressed into service. The population was not hostile, just fearful, but that made it difficult to make contact with them and obtain food. When the procession had gone, they surrounded the stones with boulders in order to deprive the stones of their power.

  The company increasingly disintegrated and everyone marched in no particular order. Only Metelho and a learned Jesuit, who was travelling with them in order to visit the court in Beijing and introduce the principles of both astronomy and of religion, always had their litters carried side by side and conversed en route.

  Once a day Metelho summoned Camões to walk alongside his litter, and asked, scarcely raising his head above the edge, if he had any complaints. Camões replied that, like the other soldiers, he had nothing to complain about, except for the inadequate food, and he knew as well as the rest that this was not Metelho’s fault. Then Metelho would try a more familiar tone and find out something of Camões’s past, and adopting the tone of an equal, asked him about conditions at court, which he had frequented a few years before Camões. But Camões pretended to have forgotten everything. Then Metelho, in the same haughty tone with which the conversation had begun, would tell him to rejoin his troop. Once Metelho had ordered them to sing to help them march in time. But the languid tone of Portuguese folk song lowered the men’s morale and made them long for home. And the Europeans could not keep time with Chinese singing, confused and cacophonous. After one day the attempt was abandoned and they continued in a silence more oppressive than before; the countryside was also quieter, no gongs sounded like dull thunder in the distance and no more did they happen upon noisy funerals.

  Still, the villages grew larger and more numerous, and had often grown together; one day there was no end to the houses, there was no longer any sign of the plain and finally the last remaining Chinese guide admitted that they had found their way into a town where he no longer knew the way. Behind the houses they saw a high black embankment, where the walled city must be. But how were they to find their way round it? In a kind of square Metelho gave the order to stop and sounded the assembly, but the trumpets were drowned by blaring and wailing flutes being blown inside the houses. Coelho, the commander of the embassy guard, had the ten musketeers he still had with him fire a few salvos in the air, expecting that the stragglers would hear and the people who were crowding in from every alley issuing into the square would rapidly retreat.

  But from all sides this was met with explosions more violent than cannon fire, of which it at first reminded them; in panic they sought cover behind in the rubbish heaps which made the clay square a hilly terrain. But no one was hit and they saw that they had dirtied themselves for nothing, and were a laughing-stock for the population. Thousands of grinning faces and high-pitched screaming showed that the white barbarians’ fear had been noticed and that the fireworks, which would not have troubled a child of two, had terrified them. The furious Coelho now wanted to have his men fire into the crowd, but fortunately Metelho stopped him in time.

  They stood indecisively bunched together: neither Metelho nor Coelho had any idea what to do. Camões yelled at them to advance into the widest of the streets, and later they could get their bearings with the compass. Coelho ordered him to be quiet, but Metelho seized on his advice: anything was better than standing still, and they advanced. The Chinese let them leave in silence, without attempting to surround them. The fireworks also stopped. They had been taken for demons and their departure was imagined to be the outcome of the wailing flutes and fireworks and who knows how many prayers. All windows and doors were closed, and only the smell of rotting food and large numbers of bodies squashed together proved that they were not passing through a city of the dead.

  After three hours they encountered the high black rampart that they had seen in the distance a while ago. A deep dry moat went round it. At long intervals semicircular watchtowers protruded from the smooth wall; it was as if they were standing in front of one of their own castles, only ten times higher and infinitely larger. They halted by a group of bare trees. Twelve men were missing, four of whom returned in the course of the day; one told how he had been tortured, another that he had been pulled into a house by a woman, who had only released him after he had possessed her, while the other two were completely blank.

  The next morning he wanted to set out and skirt the city, but the Chinese guide prevented him, saying that the city was vast and that he should send an embassy to the Mandarin and ask his permission to pass through it. The guide gestured towards one of the watchtowers, and a narrow gate opened above the bank of the moat. Coelho and two soldiers bravely went in. One of the chests of presents for the Emperor was unloaded.

  It was three days before the wall opened again and the messengers were let out. The Mandarin’s answer was that the embassy would be escorted by Hu Nan as far as the shores of Lake Dongting, which was as far as his jurisdiction extended. But first the banner with its arrogant declaration must be lowered, since there were no countries that were not tributaries and subjects of the Emperor. Then the barbarians would be conducted through the streets, but they were unworthy to behold the glory of t
he eternal Hantan and would be led blindfolded through its streets and past its palaces. Otherwise they would have to go around the walls, which would take many, many days.

  They held a council. The disaster cancelled out rank, and each man gave his opinion. In order to shorten the journey, most of them wanted to give in and allow themselves to be taken through the city, although this was humiliating. But Metelho and Camões and a few others stood firm; better remain outside the city than put yourself in their power blindfolded. Once within the walls, who could guarantee that they would ever re-emerge?

  The minority won the day and the next day they proceeded slowly, preceded by four guides and followed by a large troop of soldiers along the wall. The distance between the towers was sometimes half a mile, sometimes a hundred metres. The wall was high everywhere, but at a place where it had half collapsed, they had a view of the city, which extended inwards as far as the eye could see.

  Night fell, but they did not rest. The Portuguese hoped to be out in the plain by daybreak. Lanterns were alight on the tower and the commotion in the city did not die out even for an hour. As dawn rose the view was the same: on the one side scattered groups of houses, on the other the dry moat, the wall and the towers. Dazed and down-hearted, the Portuguese marched on; a flock caught between the mute guides ahead and the military escort behind. Suddenly Camões, now walking beside Metelho’s litter, stopped and let out a cry and picked up a scrap of cloth to which he had tied a stone. “Halt!” Metelho poked his head out of the litter, and then stood up.

  “We’ll never get out of here. It’s as I thought. Last night in the dark, I threw this stone attached to this cloth down. We are being led round and round the city, in order to be impressed by its size. Take the guides hostage.”

  The soldiers seized the guides, and the troop of Chinese charged to their rescue, but a few shots kept them at a distance; a full battle did not ensue.

  Under threat of death, with a musket at their ear, the guides led them away from the city. The banner was unfurled again. They did not look back, and went faster and faster. Not until afternoon were they allowed to rest, since no one could go any further. The city, which had seemed so insurmountably huge and high, now lay on the horizon low and insignificant in the setting sun, and a large cloud could cover it all.

  They now made directly towards the north; often there were no roads and they went straight across rocky plains, straight across soggy rice fields, at first a delicious feeling for battered feet, but soon unbearable when they had to pull their feet out of the mud at every step. Finally they reached a narrow river, which according to the guides was a tributary of the Yangtze, while others thought it flowed into Lake Dongting, but at any rate they could follow it. They set up camp; while the sick were allowed to rest, the others went in search of boats. After a week they returned with four narrow hulls, with room for no more than half the company. The rest marched along the banks. At first the boats made slow progress, because of the winding course and the slow flow, and those on foot had been at their camp for hours before they arrived. But soon the river became fast and straighter, the boats disappeared from sight and often it was the middle of the night before those on land caught up with them. Finally one night Camões and the ten soldiers on foot lost sight of the boats completely, even the next morning. Left to their fate, they stood on the bank of a huge yellow expanse of water. The other side could not be seen and there was no sign of the boats. They waited and waited. Had the boats crossed or capsized? Then they saw something black in the distance that drifted closer, and towards evening one of the soldiers swam out to it. It was one of the boats. Lost or left behind?

  Again there was a dispute. Half of the soldiers embarked in order to find the embassy. They did not return. Camões felt a longing stir that he thought was dead. Again he was a free agent in the great kingdom. He could go where he wished. And he went back, taking a few others with him, either to reach Macao again, or to die in some distant desolate plain.

  And the day came when Camões, without companions, but with a little water and food left, sat in front of one of the stones he had helped to erect on the outward journey. He now had the whole expanse of heaven and earth to himself alone, not a soul came to disturb or torment him. Lisbon and Macao seemed as distant as burnt-out stars, and equally far in the past.

  And yet this was another kind of imprisonment.

  Yet he didn’t worry, but remained calmly sitting with his back against the stone. When at noon the sun became too fierce and too dangerous, he dragged himself towards a bamboo grove. From there he ambushed a passing peasant, beat him unconscious, robbed him of his supply of food and water and put on his clothes. All this he did calmly. He had come to China as a soldier, but it did not worry him that his first action there was that of a footpad. In a daze he made his way south. As dawn broke he glanced back; the bamboo grave and the stone seemed to be still close. He quickened his step, no longer looked round, but had the feeling that someone could soon take his place there by the stone, and that he himself would be lost in the desert.

  CHAPTER 8

  I

  THIS LIFE CONTINUED FOR YEARS, and I scarcely went ashore any more; I lost touch with the earth, like so many who go to sea. Now and then I picked up messages: war between Bolivia and Paraguay; a receiver embezzles £10,000 from a council’s coffers; the third daughter of the Earl of Middlesbrough and the third son of Lord Leverhulme marry. Do you think these reports made me feel any attachment to that life over there? The others, however, loved reading them and talked about them for hours.

  There were still two places where I occasionally went ashore. Near Taishan a yellow beach stretched for hours along the sea shore; a vertical slate cliff hid the hinterland. Here along this shore I walked for hours, just to exhaust myself, so that for days afterwards I could find some comfort in lying on the narrow bunk in the cabin. And then there was Dingshan, a peninsula where, unlike everywhere else in China, the trees had not been uprooted. Those there had reached an advanced age and shed mild light and shadow on the gardens far below. I walked the deserted paths there, and as I passed the heavy trunks and great funeral urns met no one; I forgot my life and penetrated an ancient China, well protected by its walls, where no ships had yet brought strangers from afar.

  In the garden of Tsung El, at the water’s edge, I felt good soil beneath my feet, and in that of Ho Kam Yong I forgot the sea; I must have been in that of Jou Shuan Wang, in the middle of the island, before, because I never lost my way in the labyrinth there, and all the paths were familiar to me.

  Yes, it was in that garden that I was first overtaken by the feeling of having been here before, when once, instead of walking towards the house, I took a side path, and past huddled bushes came round the back way and stopped at a summerhouse, the windows of which were covered in a green film. One pane was broken, but this did not make it any lighter inside. I stopped. I need take only one more step, and time would split in two, I would become someone else, with a different face, different hands, eyes, blood, still myself, but having forgotten myself. I was seized by fear, like becoming dizzy and jumping off a tower onto the ground which receded as you fell; I shrank back and walked along the path, as if across the deck of a sinking ship. I fled from the garden, went straight to the landing, had them row me aboard and only came to myself back in my cabin. Strange that I had to have taken leave of the world in order to feel sure of myself again.

  Myself. I’m not old, and I’ve already forgotten how to live. I wanted to remain in solitude and I have come into contact with all the filth the world produces.

  I feel grey and clammy, and can never wash the sediment off me. Will I ever again be able to drink of life without disgust, in a wind not infected by the miasma of a rotting ship or a people-spawning city, coming from the pure atmosphere, and feel it brush my skin like a caress? And walk through a pinewood, accompanied only by my shadow? To let a cold brook flow round me, let myself be instructed by flowers…

  Neve
r again. I have become contaminated by contact with many people who have allowed their lives to become sullied and have also besmirched mine. I can only save myself in a different life. It is waiting, it is as shapeless as a robe long unworn, it is waiting to receive me and make me invisible to my contemporaries. But I do not dare let go of this old torn one. There is one other person in this present life who can save me. But she is unattainable for me. When I arrive in a harbour she leaves, when I walk round this island and turn round in order to meet her, she also turns round, and if I cross the centre of the island she evades me. Let me jump into the boat, row away and live as I have become, no longer as I was. And think only that she lives there in the distance, imperishable and unattainable!

  But the next morning everything was back to normal: I lay in my narrow bunk that was too short for me, tired out from the hot night, drowsy from the previous day, and drank the lukewarm coffee the boy brought me.

  II

  A FEW MONTHS LATER we were again moored off Dungshan. An oppressive heat hung over the harbour, the sea and the land, a heat so overwhelming as can only persist in China. Yet men were working at all the hatches and everyone (there were not many crew on this ship) was involved with the cargo. I was the only one who did nothing, since recently I have made repeated mistakes in tallying and they preferred to do without me, as I had been informed scornfully. I did not regret this, but on this occasion I would rather have helped and tired myself out standing by the hatch. Like this it was unbearable on board. Heat, noise, stench and idleness drove me from the ship: I did not want to go ashore, but the urge was too strong.