Mandarin

by Elegant, Robert;

  “Well, my dear,” he finally remarked, “that’s that, isn’t it?”

  “That’s that? Is that all you have to say? All you can say?”

  “What else is there to say, except that I’m sorry?”

  “Sorry!” she finally exploded. “You’re sorry—and that’s all?”

  “I’m afraid so,” he replied with infuriating nonchalance. “What else do you expect?”

  “Expect? An explanation, reason for your vileness, a heartfelt apology. You’ve made a mockery of our marriage … and our love. You’ve lied in every deed and, for all I know, every word you ever said to me. And you’ve wasted … my love.”

  “How so, Fronah?” he asked with mild curiosity. “How have I wasted your love.”

  “You never … never, now I know it … came to me in passion. I’ve wanted you so badly so many times, and you turned away from me, or perfunctorily … I’ve never known with you the joys … yes, the joys of the flesh … the poets, even the Bible, sing about. And now I know why. You’re not just cold! You’re utterly perverted. You wasted on those … those infant harlots … the love and passion you denied me. I feel so soiled … and so empty.”

  “What can I say, Fronah? It’s the way I’m made.”

  “Then you should never have married me.” Her voice was hard and accusing. “And I thought you were such an honorable man. For your sake I’ve given up my plans of accomplishing great deeds … for myself and for China. Against my own will, I’ve made myself into a loving wife—and all for this!”

  He looked down in silence at the muted pattern of the green-and-blue Samarkand rug.

  “Lionel, I had hoped … even after seeing you and those …” she resumed, her tone altered. “I’d hoped you and I could somehow find a way. But I see now that I was mistaken, since you won’t even discuss it with me. You’d better go away … for a while, at least.”

  “Then I’ll see to my packing,” he agreed.

  “Packing? This instant?”

  “It seems only logical, doesn’t it? Actually, I’d planned to go away. I hardly thought you’d want me lounging around here after …”

  “Lionel, you’ve mistaken me—as well as yourself.” She consciously controlled her anger. “I want to help you if I possibly can.”

  “Fronah, I am sorry, desperately sorry.” His mask of insouciance slipped, and he leaned toward her imploringly. “It was a bad day—a catastrophic day—for you when you married me.”

  “Catastrophic?” she repeated slowly. “I suppose so, though there have been a few moments. But must it be catastrophic? Somehow, I still feel I can help you.”

  “You know, Fronah, I’m awed, truly awed. It does you credit—great credit. I thought you’d be furious, but even so …”

  “I am, Lionel. I’m absolutely furious at your behavior, and now at your planning to run away.”

  “… I can’t help the way I’m made.” He ignored her interruption. “Why do you think I’m here in Shanghai at all?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve thought about it, but I really have no idea. You’ve never been candid with me, you know. I should hate you. Your vile …”

  “Because of my … ah … predilections. The family wanted me out of England. They make me an allowance as long as I don’t come back. If I did, there wouldn’t be a penny.”

  “I never dreamed. I thought you were a man of property. And your work for Samuelsons?”

  “A smoke screen, I’m afraid, my dear, a favor from Samuelsons to the family. Actually, I’m what’s called a remittance man. Regular—though not generous—remittances as long as I stay out of England. The family’s dead scared of scandal. Can’t say I blame them.”

  Fronah was stunned by his revelations. She wondered fleetingly why he was determined to paint himself so black.

  “If I’d only kept to the little-girl brothels, it might have been all right. But I couldn’t keep my hands off the gardener’s daughter. A lively little thing she was. They hushed that up. But then little Lady Pamela Snelgrove—she was only eleven, but she loved it as much as I did. More, in fact. She led me on, think of it. I had to leave, then.”

  “Lionel, there must be some way to help you.” Fronah’s sense of duty momentarily subdued her revulsion. “I know I can.”

  “If anyone could, it would be you, my dear. But I’m afraid not. It’s too strong, this … ah … predilection of mine. Besides, that’s not the only … maybe not the chief reason I must go.”

  “What else, Lionel? Dear God, what else can there be?”

  “My debts, Fronah. Not just disgrace, but jail. When those promissory notes I drew on Samuelsons surface, they’ll have me in a cell. I have only one hope.”

  “One hope?” she echoed dully.

  “Your … ah … brother Aaron and I have been talking. He has his reasons, too. Hates the Manchus and his own disgrace. Failing the civil service examination repeatedly. He swears it’s his enemies’ work. He’s been shopped, he says, by the same conservative gentry who persecuted his father. Besides, he wants revenge for the injustice to his father.”

  “I know all that, Lionel. Where are you planning to go, you and Aaron?”

  “You can’t stop us, Fronah. I knew you wouldn’t tell old Saul about my … sins. And you won’t tell him now. We’re going where Aaron can have his revenge and I can amass some of the ready. Then I’ll be back. Perhaps then I can change my … ah … curious ways. Meanwhile, we’re going to the Heavenly Capital.”

  “The Heavenly Capital? How ridiculous!” Her shrill laugh warned Fronah that she was on the verge of hysteria. “With your tastes, Lionel? The Taipings will cut your head off if they catch you.”

  “I’m aware of that, my dear. But I’ve been doing some hard thinking since you … ah … came upon me so unexpectedly. I’m sure the Taipings will welcome me. They’re eager to employ Europeans, and they pay them well. You’ll grant that, won’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve also been thinking about my other troubles. I have a healthy regard for my head, you know. I like it where it is: square on my shoulders. If anything can control my … ah … predilections, it’s knowing my head will pay for any lapse.”

  “Oh, Lionel, I am sorry … so very sorry!” she exclaimed. “But what about me … and Judah? Have you thought for an instant that you’re abandoning us?”

  “I have, but there’s no other way for me. I’ll pack now. No need of a tailcoat, I imagine.”

  Hands locked together, she sat unmoving in the yellow velvet easy chair. He paused between the yellow velvet curtains of the doorway.

  “I’m grieved, Fronah,” he said without bravado. “More grieved than I can possibly tell you. A little grieved for myself, surely, but deeply—profoundly—grieved for what I’ve done to you.”

  “Then go!” she exclaimed. “Go quickly since you must. I don’t think I ever want to see you again. Just go!”

  “I hope you’ll feel differently some day.” The curtains closed, muffling his voice. “But for now, I’ll just say: Till we meet again.”

  Fronah did not take refuge in tears. She had already wept too much for her profligate husband, and weeping was not really her way. She sat quite still under the tented ceiling of the morning room in the villa called the Nest of Joy, which had been dedicated to their mutual love.

  Since that love was a sham, she gradually concluded, she must forget Lionel, as he appeared determined to forget her. She was bitterly unhappy, not least because she had allowed her parents’ urging and his facile charm to persuade her to a marriage she had not really wanted. She had been deluded, and she had not been true to herself.

  In the future she would consider her own desires and her own aspirations. She would be true to herself. She resolved again that she must devote herself to China. Why else had God placed her in Shanghai? She did not know precisely how she would carry out that great purpose, but the Almighty would certainly show her the way. Meanwhile, she would search patiently to learn His will,
while turning her thoughts away from Lionel—and from all men. At least Judah was hers alone, though she was also destined for a higher pursuit.

  CHAPTER 42

  August 21, 1861

  Jehol in Manchuria

  THE IMPERIAL HUNTING PARK

  The scarlet hibiscus flaming beneath the weeping willows on the shores of Fulfillment Lake did not divert Yehenala’s eyes. The slender woman followed by a eunuch and a nursemaid leading a small boy was not moved by the pale-pink water lilies cupped in green-celadon leaves. Though she loved perfumes, she was oblivious to the fragrance of jasmine and wild ginger. The beauty of the subtropical plants flowering in late August in the Valley of Hot Springs in the bleak North did not touch her, who was normally responsive to beauty in any form.

  Yehenala strode unseeing through the Pavilions of the Mist, whose starkness she considered unseemly for an Imperial park. Their cracked roofs were supported only by faded red pillars, as if the builders had been called away before raising the walls.

  Even if she had been happy in the Hill Manor Shunning Heat, she would have found its mock simplicity offensive. Esthetes praised its fidelity to nature, but she longed for the Yüan Ming Yüan, where civilization had imposed its discipline on nature. Yet she would never see the Park of Radiant Perfection again. The Emperor’s pusillanimity and his counselors’ stupidity had allowed the barbarians to destroy that masterwork of Confucian artifice.

  She was herself neither afraid nor foolish. When she ruled the Great Empire, she would be revenged on the barbarians—and she would rebuild the Summer Palaces. She would make the Park of Radiant Perfection more splendid than it had been during the reign of the great Chien Lung Emperor.

  Followed by her meager entourage, Yehenala swept toward the doors of the Palace of Serenity, which was in reality an elongated single-story box capped by gray tiles. She ignored the crossed pikes of the Imperial Guardsmen, who were ordered to keep intruders from the bedside of the failing Hsien Feng Emperor. Her lip curled contemptuously at the rustic banality of the palace, and the sentries, taking her scorn for anger, raised their pikes in salute. No Guardsman would willingly oppose her will. All admired her courage, and all feared her rage.

  When her platformed shoes clicked on the stone floor, eunuchs and courtiers stared in astonishment. Rigid-soled riding boots laid aside, they all shuffled in cloth shoes. The normal clamor of the Court was stilled, the attendants’ voices hushed.

  The Emperor was sleeping after a troubled night, when he had burned with fever and shivered with chills. No man dared disturb his repose or profane the solemnity of the hour with loud talk. Ten thousand years would soon have passed. The Hsien Feng Emperor must soon mount the Heavenly Dragon to be reunited with his Imperial Forefathers.

  Grief tinged Yehenala’s resolution, but she could not give way. All would have been different if the Emperor had possessed courage and intelligence. Her own life would have been wholly different, and she would not have been required to display the abrasive determination her enemies derided as unwomanly. Nor would she have been forced to hazard this last cast of the dice, which would decide not only her own fate and her son’s but the destiny of the Empire. During the next ten minutes she would either grasp decisively at supreme power or she would be disgraced, perhaps imprisoned, conceivably condemned to death. Yehenala had no time for sorrow.

  Sweeping through the anteroom, she already thought of the Emperor as dead. Even his vices, she reflected, had been tawdry. If he had devoted himself to the ladies of the seraglio, the eunuchs would have brought in unbudded virgins to renew his vigor. But he had immured himself in the arms of aging Chinese harlots, as if determined to destroy himself. Because of that perversion, he was rotted with diseases. The little worms of syphilis, the plum-poison sickness, now battled in his blood, driving him to spasms of rage virtually indistinguishable from madness. After a squalid reign, the Hsien Feng Emperor was coming to a squalid end in self-imposed exile from the splendor of the Forbidden City.

  The floor of the bed chamber off the inner courtyard was covered with layers of carpets to deaden footfalls, and the bamboo blinds were lowered against the fierce sun. Princes, Ministers, and Senior Mandarins watched each other jealously, fearful that their rivals might snatch some advantage from the dying monarch. Prince Yee, the collateral Imperial Prince whose wife was the Heir’s governess, sat on a stool beside the alcove filled by the Emperor’s bed. Behind him stood his henchman, a second minor Imperial Prince called Cheng.

  Both were attentive to the words chopped by the knife-blade lips of the Assistant Grand Chancellor Su Shun. Though he was no more than the sixth son of the twelfth generation of descendants of a younger son of the Founding Emperor, Su Shun’s ruthlessness had made him the conspirators’ leader. The unholy triumvirate had almost a year ago convinced the Emperor that he must abandon the Northern Capital. The upstart glared as Yehenala entered the bedchamber, her slight form outlined by the sunlight streaming through the open door.

  Returning that glare, the Virtuous Concubine strode toward the alcove, though the eunuch Little An Hai-teh and the frightened nursemaid lagged behind with her son. Without looking back, she stretched out her hand. Little An led the small Prince Tsai Chün forward. She grasped her son’s shoulder and guided him past the three men beside the Emperor’s bed. Even the Assistant Grand Chancellor Su Shun did not dare stand between the Heir Presumptive and his father the Emperor.

  “Majesty,” Yehenala said softly, “Your slave is deeply grieved by the state in which she finds you.”

  “Kua …” the Emperor quavered. “This Orphan is ill … very ill. We wish only peace. We do not wish to discuss …”

  “Your slave presents Your Majesty’s son.”

  The gentle pressure of his mother’s hand on his shoulder impelled the small Prince to his knees, and he performed the kowtow as she had rehearsed him. Yehenala, too, prostrated herself, touching her forehead to the dusty carpet.

  “Hao!” the Emperor wheezed. “Good! We are glad to see … but We require rest. We do not wish …”

  “Majesty, this is your son … your only son. You must act now—or the Dynasty will be imperiled.” Yehenala ignored the Chancellor’s outraged gasp at the familiar you. “If you do not act, the Imperial Ancestors will be shamed by your unfilial neglect. They will rage, and your spirit will know no peace.”

  “What do you want of Us, Nala?” he panted. “Only leave Us to die in peace. All We ask …”

  “In peace, but not in shame. Your Majesty must proclaim Prince Tsai Chün the Heir Apparent. Only make your son the Crown Prince—and you can die in peace. If you do not, the Dynasty will be torn apart by fratricidal strife. The rivals will destroy each other and the Dynasty. Make Tsai Chün your heir, Majesty. I implore you.”

  “So be it!” The Emperor’s voice was stronger. “We proclaim Our only son Our only heir.”

  “The Imperial clan and the people will bless Your Majesty’s resolution. Your Majesty’s memory will be revered. Your Majesty’s spirit will be worshiped for its wisdom.”

  “Our resolution, Nala?” The Emperor’s purple lips twisted. “Our resolution? You should say your resolution. Is that all you want?”

  “Almost all, Your Majesty.” She crept on her knees to the side of the bed and took his swollen hand in hers. “Majesty, Your slave only wishes to say a word more. Your slave loves you—and blesses you. Farewell, Majesty, farewell!”

  Leaning on Little An’s shoulder, Yehenala withdrew from the death chamber. She trembled, and her sight was blurred by tears. She had attained her first objective, the goal toward which she had striven since the birth of the small Prince. She knew she would attain all her further goals. But, she swore, she would never again allow the struggle to tear her heart with iron claws.

  August 22, 1861

  Jehol in Manchuria

  THE IMPERIAL HUNTING PARK

  “Highness, ten thousand years have passed.” Little An knelt before his mistress. “The Son of Heav
en has mounted the Heavenly Dragon. His Majesty was reunited with his Imperial Forefathers almost an hour ago.”

  Though she had prepared herself for this moment for months, Yehenala was stricken by desolation. The sunlight faded on the marble table, and the outspread wings of the swans on the silver screen lost their luster. Her hands were cold in the heat of summer. Less than twelve double-hours earlier, she had fearlessly faced down the cabal of courtiers. Now her shoulders bowed, and her head drooped.

  She must not, Yehenala warned herself, weep for her Emperor and her youth, both now irretrievably passed. Later there would be time for private grief, but even Little An must not see her weep. His belief in her implacable will was vital to the struggles that lay ahead. She would triumph if all men believed her as impregnable as the Great Wall.

  “I am stricken by sorrow, Little An.” Her voice was level. “However, the Emperor’s spirit soars on the Heavenly Dragon to the throne of the Jade Emperor, the Ruler of Heaven. His spirit now enjoys serene delight.”

  “Beyond question, Highness,” her eunuch replied ritually. “But here on earth the common people will wail for their departed father, and the skies will grow dark with sorrow. However, as Your Highness percipiently points out, His Majesty’s spirit already revels in the transcendent joys of Heaven.”

  “And the Imperial Farewell Decree, Little An?”

  “It is done, Highness. The Prince Tsai Chün is designated Crown Prince and Heir Successor in the Farewell Decree. This slave kowtows in utter abjection before the young Lord of Ten Thousand Years.”

  “Your loyalty, Little An, I shall never forget. Nor will the Emperor ever forget your services.”

  “There is further news, Highness,” the eunuch ventured hesitantly. “I must further report that the Farewell Decree appoints a Council of Regency of eight members to rule until the young Emperor comes of age. Prince Yee is chief of the Council, while both Prince Cheng and the Assistant Grand Chancellor Su Shun are named.”

  “I expected this, Little An. We will deal with them. I did not say the struggle was over, though the crucial victory is won. Prince Kung will …”