by Ann Bridge
“It was only a message from Mrs. Grant-Howard,” said Amber: “about M. Leopardi having failed—but perhaps Mr. Benenden has told you himself.”
“Now, now!” said Benenden. “Nugent, don’t you think it’s time she stopped all this Mr. Benenden business? I’m going to call her Amber—I said so.”
“And what did Amber say?” Nugent enquired, changing his spectacles and looking very benevolently at the girl through his other pair.
“She said yes,” said Rupert. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Amber, smiling—the two men were somehow very pleasant, standing there together by the fire and teasing her. “Well then, Mrs. Grant-Howard said that Rupert”—she stressed the word firmly—“would take Monsieur Leopardi’s place. And I’ve seen to the cards. Now I must go and dress.”
“You look very dressed now,” said Nugent.
“Oh no—this was just for Mr. Lin,” said the girl, escaping.
“That’s a very nice child,” said Nugent when she had gone.
“By Jove, she has got a nerve!” said Rupert. “Do you know where she went today?” He retailed the story of Amber’s afternoon—Nugent was delighted with the episode of the cards. “She’s a very odd mixture,” Benenden said at the end: “she has the gift of seeing things, you see, with this extraordinary intensity.”
“Yes, I know—she was like that on the boat,” said Nugent. “You ask her about the coast of Arabia.”
“I will. What about it? Oh well, anyhow!—never mind. I will.” He laughed at himself. “But she’s absurdly silly about people—and uncertain about herself. She’s childish, rather.”
“She’s inexperienced,” said Nugent. “I’m not sure that she’s really as undiscerning as you think. I think she’s lost her nerve.”
“Why?” Rupert pounced.
“Why do young people lose their nerve?” Nugent enquired of the room at large, blowing out smoke. “Muddled it with some young man, I expect. And her mother is a most crushing woman. She’ll get all right.”
“She wastes her enthusiasm on such futile things,” said Rupeit, going back to his own point. “All this fuss about riding, and ponies—here! here in Peking! With all this miraculous stuff to see! And she with a quite outstanding capacity for seeing it! Really, Nugent, you must admit that it’s very absurd—and quite maddening.”
“Let her alone, then,” said Nugent, with deliberately irritating reasonableness. “Leave her to ride her ponies with Joe. They get on very well.” He threw his cigarette into the fire. “Come on, take that stuff across, there’s a good fellow, or you’ll be late. Dinner’s at eight-thirty, and there are no Tuchuns coming, so we shall be punctual.”
“Hang you, Nugent!” said Rupert, and went. But while dressing it occurred to him that he and no one else must show Amber the Temple of Heaven, and get her first reactions. At dinner he sat, maddened by the faintly smutty vacuities of the Chilean Third Secretary on one side—Rupert was at the edge of that arid desert of less important men which occurs at every Peking dinner-table—and equally maddened by Miss Harrison’s quite needless amiability to Mr. Schroff on the other. She was promising to lunch with them, to escort Mrs. Schroff to the next drag-hunt, and heaven knew what else. When at last he could gain her attention, he told her that he wanted to take her to the Temple of Heaven.
“To ride, do you mean?” Amber asked innocently.
“Ride? God help the girl! No, to see it,” Rupert fumed. “My soul in heaven, don’t you want to see it? Can’t you ride somewhere else?”
“Of course I want to see it,” said Amber. “Why are you so cross?” she said, a little irritated in her turn: “people do ride there.”
Rupert apologised. He made himself very amiable, and described the altar and dome in a way that made Amber thirst to see them. Before dinner was over, she had promised to go with Rupert before she went with anyone else, though his urgency in demanding this puzzled and startled her. From the head of the table Nugent, watchful, weary and courteous, between the wives of two Ministers, saw how Rupert was letting Amber alone. He smiled.
Chapter Nine
RATHER surprisingly, in spite of the fact that she had looked forward to it so much, Amber’s visit to the Forbidden City with Rupert was a distinct success. What she remembered most, looking back on it, was something he said as they sat in the sun on the low parapet above the moat, looking across at the little building she called the pleasure-dome. “That’s very nearly comic,” he had burst out abruptly—“and yet it’s perfectly lovely. It’s not a grin, it’s a smile—a smile in architecture. Who else has done that?” And he had gone on to talk—more to himself than to her—about Chinese art: “You’ll begin to see presently how terribly sophisticated it is—so sophisticated that it’s a little amused at itself. There’s that hint of laughter about it nearly all the time—a thing Europe doesn’t really know in art.” She remembered that, it opened such new doors in her mind—that, and his serenity. Not once that afternoon was he prickly or irritable; it was as if those empty ancient places had laid some spell on him of sweetness and peace. She felt that she had caught a glimpse of the poet at last, and she was content.
Their other expedition, to the Temple of Heaven, was delayed by one thing and another. Amber’s activities were absorbed by preparations for the Ladies’ Hunt, in which Hawtrey and Harry Leicester were determined that she should compete. To qualify she rode out twice with the drag-hunt, which was presided over by Major la Touche, the commandant of the Legation Guard, and a rather withered man called Heseltine. Accompanied by Hawtrey, she followed an extraordinarily miscellaneous and incompetent pack of dogs of a variety of breeds, known and unknown, across the dusty brown country; halting in the bitter wind while the scent was lost, cast for, and found again, generally by the agency of one minute animal who appeared to be three-quarters Schip-perke. But even when she had actually qualified, there was much to be done. Bananas had to be trained, in a sequence of gallops, trots, walks and rests; there were anxious consultations in the yard of the Legation stable after breakfast as to his diet, when Hawtrey, Wang and Jamieson stood round with solemn faces, or shouted in Chinese at one another. It seemed to Amber that the simplest consultation in Chinese had always to be carried on at the pitch of the voice, in a series of loud and ferocious yells. From her bathroom window, which overlooked the servants’ compound, she was frequently an observer of the cook’s interviews with the purveyors of various articles. An outburst of shouts and roars of the most threatening description would draw her, wrapped in a towel, to the window, where she would watch, fascinated, the scene in the yard below—the pig-tailed Ch’u-tzŭ, his Roman profile contorted with emotion, screaming with a wealth of threatening gesture at some men in blue, who replied with equal ferocity, while the rest of the household, like Amber, looked on. But she soon learned that it was only an amicable discussion over the price of eggs or “French onions” (leeks); suddenly the storm would subside, the food be carried into the house; some copper money changed hands, and bowing and smiling at one another with the most friendly courtesy, the parties separated.
Rupert looked on all these activities with a slightly sour eye. The poet once more receded out of view, and he was as prickly as ever, making caustic remarks to both Joe and Amber about their “infatuation with horseflesh.” Then, suddenly, he was sent off to Shanghai on business. And so he came to miss Amber’s next adventure.
Dickie had set his heart on going to the Forbidden City. Ever since Amber had told him of what she had seen there, he was determined to go. His daily trots with Miss Carruthers on the Wall or in Central Park no longer satisfied him, and it was “Amber, when will you take me to the Forbidden Cipy?” all day long. Amber had made great friends with the little boy. She helped him with his “forpress” behind the thujas in the upper garden, under the glass-topped wall of the Soviet Embassy; it now comprised a dug-out roofed with kaoliang straw as well as the block-house formed by the barrel. Dickie was meditating an attack on the Embas
sy—by climbing up a small tree he had already succeeded in knocking the glass off quite a stretch of wall, and there was a grandiose project of a tunnel under it, leading from the dug-out. She assisted him in the arrangement of his Chinese City in the corner of the loggia—a town in miniature, made with those enchanting little clay toys which are one of the most engaging by-products of the Chinese mentality. Little bridges, little pagodas, little devil-doors, walls, houses, pai-lous—all most delicately modelled in hard grey clay; and to people them, minute straw dolls, barely an inch high, representing with perfect accuracy the familiar figures of the country-man, the barber, the sweetmeat vendor, the knife-grinder, and so on. The servants brought these from the market at frequent intervals to give pleasure to Small Grandfather. The Chinese as a race simply cannot resist children, and even Joanna, with all her detachment, was rather touched by the evident devotion of Liu and Chang to her small son. Ignorant as the whole party were of China, the idea of danger lurking in these charming little playthings never occurred to any of them, and Liu and the rest made their offerings unhindered.
Soon after Rupert’s departure Amber found herself with a free afternoon, and at once suggested to Miss Carruthers that she should take Dickie off her hands. Miss Carruthers was delighted, and Amber annexed the child. A whisper in his ear set him bouncing and capering at the end of her arm like a ball on a string. Nugent met them as they crossed the compound on their way to the gate, and Amber saw again that sudden illumination in his face as he looked at his son. “For a grape ex-pebishum!” Dickie said triumphantly, in answer to his Father’s “Where are you off to?”
Amber thought there was an unusual crowd about the public entrance to the Forbidden City, but when they had paid their fee and passed in she could hardly believe her eyes. The great open court before the Pavilion of Audience, which had lain so white and empty when she went there with Rupert, was thronged now from side to side with Chinese. Two or three high rostrums or pulpits had been set up in the middle, from which orators were haranguing the multitude. Now and then the crowd made way for some procession to pass up towards the Pavilion—a troop of Boy Scouts, a file of soldiers, nurses in uniform, or Girl Guides with long skirts and swinging black plaits. Bewildered, Amber and Dickie made their way slowly towards the Dragon Throne Room, wondering greatly what it was all about. Passing under one of the walls, they saw that it was plastered with posters of the most blood-curdling description. Chinese, both in uniform and in civilian dress, were crudely but vigorously depicted in various eminently anti-foreign activities: pounding the foreigner with mallets, shooting the foreigner, bayoneting the foreigner, pushing the foreigner into the sea; leading him in chains, jumping on him with both feet. Dickie was enchanted; he wanted to linger and examine these admirable pictures, which were thoroughly to his taste. But Amber hurried him on. She was beginning to be a little doubtful. If there were any connection between the obvious intention of these posters and this enormous gathering, she and Dickie might find themselves in difficulties. They had better just see the Dragon Throne, so as not to disappoint the child, and then leave.
Their progress, however, was slow. The crowd was very dense, and surged vaguely in all directions—now pressing out towards the walls to jabber delightedly at the inflammatory posters, now crowding in towards the rostrums to listen to the speakers. Caught in such a movement, Amber and Dickie were carried close under one of these erections; judging by the gestures and expression of the orator, he was using very forcible language about something. They tried to move on, but now Dickie’s loud observations drew the attention of the crowd. They thronged round Amber and the child, gazing at them with interest and discussing them eagerly and with apparent pleasure; the more enterprising presently patted Dickie on the head, felt his clothing, and even chucked him under the chin. When Dickie grinned at them their faces wreathed into broad and benevolent smiles—more and more Chinese left off listening to the speaker’s imprecations to come and bestow small gentle caresses on the little foreigner. Amber’s doubts vanished; these attentions were embarrassing, but obviously not dangerous; the posters must be intended for some other occasion.
Accompanied wherever they went by admiring groups, they found their way at last into the Pavilion of Audience. The Dragon Throne itself was completely masked by an enormous picture of a famous Chinese democratic leader, wreathed in paper flowers, and the reason for the whole strange assemblage dawned on Amber. It must be some anniversary of this national hero, and these crowds had gathered to do him honour. The press in the throne-room was terrific, and she was glad when they were borne forth again into the sunshine. Slowly, as before, still the centre of much friendly interest, they made their way back across the crowded court. People were passing through the great tent-topped gateway where she had been held up on her first visit, and she decided to go through. In the court beyond a perceptible human stream set in the direction of the thuja avenue; she and Dickie went with it, and passed through doors and enclosures shut before; she quite lost her sense of direction, and was borne along, unheeding, till with a shock of surprise she found herself in the outer Court of the Temple of the Ancestors. But oh, wonder of wonders! The inner door was open now, and the crowd was pouring into those most venerable, most jealously guarded precincts.
Amber’s colour rose with excitement. If only Rupert were here! was her first thought. But the next was a thrill of exultation. Once before, once only, had this place ever been opened to Europeans—and now she and Dickie were there! In they went with the crowd, and she looked eagerly about her, taking stock of everything. The centre of the inner court was occupied by a large building, capped by that long golden roof which was so conspicuous from outside. To the left was another building, smaller, and into the open doors of this the crowd passed, to re-emerge by some further doors higher up. Like everyone else, Dickie and Amber went in. A passage had been roughly railed off along one side; on the other, through the gloom, she could see a whole series of slim golden tablets, raised on what appeared to be altars; each standing on a carved base, and each bearing an inscription. Since her first visit to the Forbidden City Amber had read up everything that she could lay hands on on the subject, borrowing freely from the Chancery Library, and she knew enough to realise that she was looking at the memorial tablets of the Chinese Emperors themselves, at once the symbols of their immortality and the means of its promotion. Before these, in the past, the filial incense was burnt, the devout prayers said, which ensured the happy continuance of a life beyond the grave. She could not escape a touch of awe, feeling herself in the actual presence both of royalty and of death, which has a royalty of its own. If only Henry Leroy had been there, or anyone who could read the inscriptions, to tell her to which each belonged! But there was no one she could ask, and she was borne slowly by that silent and anonymous pageant of the Imperial past, and out into the open air again.
Dickie was by this time frankly bored. He left Amber and ranged about the Court, where the crowd was not quite so dense. Presently he dragged Amber over to see a discovery. On the ground, among dead weeds and marble fragments, lay a little hen in glazed yellow earthenware, with a small headless figure on its back; it had evidently fallen from one of the roofs, where on each angle sat perched a whole row of tileware dogs and dragons, with one of these small figures at the bottom. It was quite unbroken, except for its head—and in a moment Dickie found this too—it had a loose unglazed stem which fitted into a hole in the neck. The child begged to be allowed to take it with him. Amber looked about her. The inevitable crowd of Chinese was gathering round them, smiling and making comments. “I don’t think we can,” she said. “I don’t suppose it’s allowed, and there are all these people about.”
“Boo lep me!” Dickie begged.
“No, Dickie. It’s no good coaxing,” said Amber firmly. “Let’s sit and rest here,” she added, an idea striking her. “I’ll tell you a story.”
They sat down where they were on some pieces of broken marble. The hen lay b
etween them. The circle of Chinese pressed closer, delighted with this opportunity of studying Dickie at close range. As Amber told her story, their eyes followed her every movement.
“The stork lived high up in a tree,” said Amber, pointing upwards, and the circle of faces was lifted to gaze where she pointed. At the same moment, with her other hand she moved the figure a little nearer to her. “And the eagle came flying over like that”—she pointed again, and again the Chinese stared skywards, while Amber twitched the hen nearer still. Now it was under the skirts of her fur coat; still pointing, still improvising, she worked it up inside her coat till it was firmly lodged under her arm. With a little smile of triumph she rose, ending her story only when they reached the outer court. As they got into their ricksha at the main gate Dickie broke into renewed lamentations that he had not been allowed to bring home “the hen”; when Amber let him see it tucked into her coat he nearly wriggled off her knee with rapture. It was a triumphant couple who scrambled out of the ricksha at the steps of the Counsellor’s house, very late for tea.
They had a rather chilling reception, however. Nugent Grant-Howard came out of his study on hearing them in the hall. “Ah—there you are!” The relief in his voice was unmistakeable. “Aren’t you rather late?” he said then, more coldly than Amber had ever heard him speak. Before she could explain Joanna appeared from the drawing-room. “Where in the world have you been?” Her voice was almost sharp—Amber looked from one to the other in astonishment. Nugent was the first to recover himself.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “There’s rather a fuss going on—some form of anti-foreign demonstration in the Forbidden City. I heard of it just after you’d gone out, or I’d have told you you’d better keep in the compound this afternoon. Joanna was rather afraid you might have gone there, when you were so late coming back.”