The Pavilion of Forgotten Concubines

by Wiersinga, Pim;

  Your Majesty, allow me to express my gratitude! One hour before Your litter-bearers arrived I was clad in full regalia, my hair meticulously done since sun-up, overjoyed that I, a humble interpreter, had been granted the privilege to appear before the Imperial Countenance. The extreme cold—exceptionally early this year—did not diminish the thrill! Even my gloom in regard to Lady Chun’s fate—no word of her execution has reached our quarters yet—was dispersed by the prospect of an audience. How could I have dreamed that my wish would be fulfilled so soon?

  Your Majesty chose to have me brought to the Summer Palace, just beyond the outer city walls, in that exquisite pavilion consecrated to the God of Literature. I could not believe my good fortune.

  Also, I am deeply indebted to Your Majesty that He saw fit to require my services whenever something needed to be translated to enlighten the Dutch ambassador. It was as I feared, Oh Son of Heaven! Ti Qing’s proficiency in our tongue is less than satisfactory, nor does he always grasp what others say—a flaw that even his keen intellect is unable to conceal. Not that my Dutch is perfect, but it is better than Ti Qing’s Mandarin. And if mutual language barriers hinder proceedings at times, our congeniality of spirit will prompt the desired outcome.

  Which is why it grieves me more than words can say that I incurred Your wrath by speaking before my turn, in so uncouth a manner that it shames me to think of it!

  May the Son of Heaven find it in Him to forgive His unworthy subject her ignoble conduct. Placing my trust in His Majesty’s benevolence as well as His mercy, I shall await His orders.

  

  Cao Baoqin

  to her predecessor in the

  Pavilion of Forgotten Concubines,

  Lady Chun Xian

  Dear, dear friend,

  Never will I shed my sorrow over your arrest by the Palace Guards. Each new day finds me weeping. Are you still among the living? I miss you so. We all miss you. Gloom has descended upon us since we were bereft of your beloved presence, and nothing can dispel it. The writing utensils I inherited from you remind me of our terrible loss, and whenever I prepare the ink-stone, a mist of tears blinds my eyes. Subsequently, I am hardly able to commit one word to paper.

  And I seem unable to take your place, as you asked me to. Where are you, dear friend? What has become of you? Are you dead? Not one word of your execution has reached our quarters, which doesn’t count for much, seeing that the walls of our pavilion are well-nigh impregnable.

  To my utter surprise, the Emperor granted me an audience in the Summer Palace, just the other day. Intent on pleading your case, Lady Chun, I was ready when the Imperial palanquin came to take me thither.

  It had been a while since I had left the Forbidden City—it was sheer joy, even in the seclusion of the litter, to smell the fragrance of spices and fried meat exhaled by the various stalls, shops, eateries, and butchers, while my ears surrendered to the music of the Peking markets. Despite my former rank, this was the very first time that I had been admitted to the seclusion of the Summer Palace—one more reason to be grateful, or so I told myself while frantically preparing my plea.

  You, dear Lady, must have been there often in years bygone, when you basked in the late Yongzheng Emperor’s favour. But even you never laid eyes on the pagoda the current Ruler erected in honour of the God of Literature. It is hauntingly beautiful! Said belvedere looks upon a frozen pond, more elegant than any water feature I ever beheld; even my beloved West Lake is naught compared to its splendour.

  The Emperor looked crestfallen, and amidst a swarm of high-born ladies, eunuchs, and courtiers, I noticed Heshen to be absent. I proceeded to kowtow, with more haste than grace, as the hall was full of dignitaries; they were on weighty errands and in no mood for distraction of any kind. I durst not ask permission to speak; I awaited the moment of my audience.

  It never came. Oh, I regret my shyness now! And my awkwardness, moments later, which prompted me to speak before my turn.

  One of the officials who conferred with the Ruler remarked that the Chief Censor had resigned, as I could not help overhearing, because the Censor had permitted an unseemly article to be printed in the Court Gazette, an article about some concubine or other visiting Heshen. This, Lady, was about me, and the article was authored by me as well. For Heshen had summoned me to his residence and commissioned me to report our conversation in the Court Gazette of Peking.

  I was shocked out of my wits, so much so that I lost sight of protocol and exclaimed: ‘A Censor, who has the power to chide Imperial Decrees, surely may erase whatever displeases?’ It was beyond understanding that my humble scribblings should have inflicted trouble on the Censor, the only man in China who wields the authority to denounce an Emperor, if not an entire dynasty: I had described Heshen’s conduct in the mildest of terms, omitting at least one of his outbursts while harping on issues concerning Cao Xueqin’s manuscript.

  The Majesty looked in my direction and replied: ‘For words that flow from your pen, your Ladyship, you alone are responsible!’ Whereupon he addressed a third party with, ‘And she dares call herself a writer!’

  ‘I remained faithful to the truth, Oh Son of Heaven!’

  I suppressed my anger; the Emperor’s derision of my literary gift seemed to spring from some uneasiness on His part, an impression corroborated by his ensuing remark, ‘Does the truth require innuendo about alleged lewd dealings betwixt Heshen and Our Imperial Person? All and sundry know to what “secret” you alluded!’

  My voice was drowned out by a resounding gong, which was fortunate, for any repartee would have been ill-advised. But let me not dwell upon misery and tell you what happened next!

  As the chime of the brass faded, the youthful eunuch Weigong, who once relayed an Imperial message to me, announced the ambassador of The Netherlands—Ti Qing! Ere I knew it, the envoy himself passed by, three or four arm-lengths away. Since Deshima he seemed scarcely older. I knew at once he had seen me too. How vexing is the need to observe protocol under all circumstances! And yet, how pleasing was the sight of Ti Qing kowtowing in front of the Majesty, nimbly and perfectly at ease, as if he had never done anything else. While he graciously prostrated himself, the Imperial Countenance lit up; such a relief after the British brute!

  Further proceedings suggested that Ti Qing’s indubitably moderate requests were met, and if I am not mistaken, he seemed to win His Majesty’s affection. Now and then a word had to be clarified or explained, at which point the Emperor was so kind as to beckon me near and demand translation, and I conferred my heartfelt gratitude to Him, trembling with fear that I should once again relapse into unseemly conduct.

  Have I fallen out of Grace or no? Will the Son of Heaven grant me another audience, a real one, and permit me to plead your innocence? Oh my dear Lady, sorely do we miss your wisdom in these matters.

  Meanwhile, we are ignorant of your fate; when I attempted to bribe one of the Summer Palace guards into divulging intelligence in regard to your fate, he took my coin while his lips remained sealed. I do not know whether you are dead or alive, nor in what dungeon you pine if you are still among the living, let alone where I am to send this letter. You seem to have vanished from the face of the earth.

  Rest assured that you will never vanish in the mournful memories of me and the Forgotten Concubines.

  

  Isaac Titsingh

  to Cao Baoqin,

  also known as Lin Daiyu

  Believe me, Lady Cao, I would fain have flung my arms around your neck as soon as I—to my surprise, I may add—caught sight of you, but in the Imperial Presence, protocol (the Rites, as they’re called at this end of the world) is to be observed at all times. Well, even without those Rites I might have lapsed into silence: no tongue could begin to express how shaken I was when I spied, amidst all the marble, your frail and yet so feminine shape.

  To my horror you seemed unwell. Hopefull
y I’m wrong. I often am, as I am sure you remember, which can be consoling at times.

  Lady! You will laugh when I say that since Deshima no day—and no night—has passed that my thoughts did not linger with you. And yet it is true.

  After a great deal of toil, I more or less succeeded in reading those eighty chapters of the Dream of the Red Chamber. I had to make do with a handwritten copy of dubious origin, soiled with asides in red: exclamations in the vein of I was there! or Alas, said library went up in flames! What reader could benefit from such trivia?

  I must say it has cost this reader years of his life to take it all in. If truth be told, the absence of those final chapters, anything remotely suggestive of an ending, came as a relief, Baoqin, even though it grieved me that I remained in the dark about the denouement that had whetted my curiosity for so long.

  Yet now I am told that the published novel is not what the late author had in mind and I must admit that my relief defeats disappointment. You see, ‘reading’ isn’t the right phrase, really. I had been plodding from one line to the next, deciphering characters and attempting to connect them properly: a hellish effort, barring imaginative entrance to those gallant lives of Baoyu and his female companions in the Garden of Wide Perspectives—if that is the correct translation. But then your Emperor has offered me a Lexicon of Ten Thousand Words as a gift: a valuable gift, for ‘Practice engenders craft’, according to a time-honoured Dutch proverb. Indeed, I ended up purchasing Gao E’s printed edition, rumoured to be a sham, or a poor imitation of the original at best. Even so, it is the only complete version available in Peking, one with an ending this time, so there may be a slight chance I’ll reach full understanding of the intrigue by the time I exhale my last breath.

  What does make reading easier is that you are its heroine,her original at least. You yourself told me, years ago: do you recall? You are in vogue, Lady! In street performances Daiyu is featured, your alias according to a tea-vendor, and her name seems a buzzword in Peking theatre-houses. As for me, I hardly recognize Daiyu’s fierce mood-swings in the gentle Lady Cao. Perhaps our brief spell in Deshima was yet insufficient for me to garner a complete understanding of your character? And in view of propriety—not to mention the gossipy staff—we maintained a distance, did we not? Even during sleepless nights when we were full of zest. Well, maybe we kept our distance to keep loneliness at bay.

  After Deshima I was transferred to Ceylon, and from Ceylon to Batavia, our capital in the East. Having made myself useful in the civil service there for a number of years, the honour of being sent to the Peking Court as ambassador in the Celestial Empire was conferred upon me. No conclusion to a career such as mine could be as reputable, in the eyes of officialdom at least, and I imagined myself to be the happiest man on earth. Until, that is, I set eyes on you, only yesterday, in a belvedere devoted to the Literature God, no less! All of a sudden my career—if I may misquote the charming Baoyu character—was as insignificant as dung.

  My compatriots believe all Chinese look alike; how dull-witted can they be? My dawdling eye rapidly detected you amidst hordes of maids and ladies-in-waiting. I used to think of Deshima as a lonesome place, and no wonder(if I may stoop to complaint): the islet is more akin to a prison than to a trading post, since we were allowed to leave it only when embarking on that tedious, months- long court-journey to Edo. But now that I’ve reached the pinnacle of my career, Baoqin, I do miss Deshima’s cosy seclusion. I miss those long nights and delightful conversations with you. And when I cut out the middle part of the previous line, it reads: I miss you. And by my soul, it’s true. I missed you when my erstwhile Ceylon mistress foisted herself upon me, invaded the sanctity of my home and wreaked havoc in my marriage, but as a man of honour I couldn’t refuse to accommodate her; she said her child was mine as well. I missed you in Batavia, where I was reunited at last with my ailing wife, who after a long and lingering illness passed away. And I look back in remorse, for I enhanced her grief. Even so, I never withheld my affection from her! And yet, amidst myriad worries concerning the colony, the endless bickering of the importunate mistress and her young brat, and the intolerable suffering of my dear wife—all under my roof!—I perceived you in my mind’s eye, a luminous apparition, and fatigue seemed to slip off my shoulders as if it were but a heavy mantle. That your apparition hid love (a yearning for such a love as I have never known!) I only dared confess to myself the other day—yesterday’s glorious wintry morning when I again set eyes on you. Alas! The hours we spent on Deshima shan’t be granted us in Peking—not without giving offense high and low. Unless—

  Unless, dear Lady, you would say yes to my deepest desire. Lady Cao, or Lin Daiyu if it so pleases you: do not think I have lost my wits! We are both no longer young, though you still look it. The better part of our lives lies behind us. If I am correctly informed, you will spend the remainder of your days in a pavilion where concubines and courtesans of the Court are stashed away and forgotten. I was shocked to learn of it, and the shock is lingering, despite the fact that all and sundry assure me your abode is less drab than I would expect it to be and that you have forged mutual ties of affection with your fellow inmates, which is undoubtedly due to your merit and the radiant warmth of your person. However, you don’t belong there. For me, you shall never be a forgotten woman. For me, you were the motive and the profoundest source of joy when I applied for this post, even though neither empiricism nor logic suggested that I would ever find you in the human anthill that is Peking, where thousands of unnoticed lives, especially the lives of women, are played out in courtyards, hutongs, or behind walls.

  I have, my dearest Baoqin, considered offering you a post in the Dutch embassy: Chief Secretary, or head of the household perhaps—posts still worthy of your intellect, but that would allow pastime for poetry, calligraphy, correspondence and books, pleasurable company and visits to the opera…

  Discreetly, I sounded out China’s strongman Heshen to learn if, and under what conditions, foreign envoys were permitted to offer Court Ladies a post beyond its walls—without, of course, alluding to name or circumstance. I parted from a fortune in silverlings to have doors opened that led into the Councillor’s office—to little avail, I fear. The man was either lethally ill or weary of life—I don’t know which; he wasn’t accommodating at all. Though he claimed he was in no position to stop a foreign envoy, his raised eyebrow predicted little good would come of it; his sullen emphasis on the word envoy suggested that the ramifications at your end might be less favourable.

  I still maintain, my dear Baoqin, that manners and customs of one country are no better or worse than those of any other, any more than one tongue can be said to be superior to other tongues. Nevertheless, I cherish few illusions. In this country, containing such a wealth of treasures, displaying so much beauty and refinement, such exquisite poetry, art, porcelain, and practical devices, and possessing such a glorious past…in this country freedom seems an unknown article, as it was on my continent until recently. I cringe at the thought that the envelope containing this letter shall be opened by palace staff, by men who at the notion of traffic between the Embassy and your pavilion will raise more than one eyebrow. So be it! How else can I lay bare my heart to you?

  I will now abandon phraseology and in a European, straightforward and energetic manner, speak plainly. I refrain from offering you the post at my embassy! Instead, I will ask for your hand. Dearest Lady, it is my desire, as it is my longing, to be united with you, in order to enliven the remainder of the years granted us in mutual companionship that in no way excludes passion. I am

  Affectionately yours,

  Isaac Titsingh, also known as Ti Qing

  

  Baoqin, also known as Lin Daiyu,

  to the ghost of her

  secret lover—and creator

  Cao Xueqin! You were my first lover, yes, you, who out of love recreated my image in the unforgettable Lin Daiyu, more whimsical, i
f also far more endearing, than the original will ever be! Was she really I, or did you shape a heroine out of secret dreams and desires?

  In despair I address this letter to you, who abandoned your body thirty years ago. But the heart knows nothing of time; for the heart, thirty years means not a thing. If I have ever savoured the bittersweet depths of love, it was with you. With you, near you, for you. And no one was to know it.

  Xueqin, allowing his jolly bachelor life to be ruined by a woman: how he must hate it! From whisperings such as these, my resentment was born, but only after the fact. I can’t explain why. At the time I rather enjoyed our secret. It amused me mightily, the way you hid our romance and kept it hidden during those precious few years allotted us. However, some of your relatives must have suspected a thing or two. And of course Favourite Cousin Tianyou noticed that your interest in him dwindled, even more than it already had. The disputes about the Dream and its progress were his pretext to keep an eye on you.

  On you and me rather: After all these years, the memory is still vivid. Ever so casually Tianyou would remark that Lin Daiyu evidently resembled a girl so-and-so in the past, but that—and at this juncture Tianyou’s eyes would ‘accidentally’ brush mine—this cute girl has never uttered a line of poetry, and you would reply, pokerfaced and unperturbed: ‘I am blessed, my friend: the girl grants me the honour! Am I merely Memory’s pen-pushing slave?’

  Whereupon Tianyou, better known as Ink-Stone of Rouge, would mutter: ‘If it’s memories we’re speaking of, Xueqin! Oh do confide in me, dear cousin, and tell me: who’s making your head spin this time?’

  Then you would come up with one of your jests,followed by laughter and merry-making, chatter within pleasurable bounds, never lapsing into the painful exposure that was lurking nevertheless. Meanwhile I, masquerading as your house-maid, poured tea, attempting to keep calm the trembling of my hand, or served delicacies we could barely pay for.