In the middle of a soliloquy he stopped short. It was only then that I realized what he had murmured a moment ago.
‘I know some of your work, Lady. You’re a remarkable poet.’
To show my gratitude I performed the kowtow with all the grace I could muster. Although you have given me scant occasion to think it, I do at times fear that you, with your freedom-loving disposition, will despise us for being so utterly obsequious, dear Isaac; but I was intent on keeping the Emperor good-humoured, even if I would have to abase myself. Suppose he might, in a sudden fit of anger, take away the concubines’ new privilege! And after this token of subjection, I was not above drenching my tongue in honey, an act Europeans find as obscene as unveiling their private parts, if not more so.
‘I am most eager to learn Your poetic verdict, Oh Son of Heaven! Pray do not hesitate to chastise my flaws. I know You to be a connoisseur!’
‘A connoisseur? Modesty befits me, Lady! My judgment of you rests on one poem only—and its value depends upon the value of the poem itself. Moon over Deshima it’s called, and it is about qing—feeling, passion.’
You, a Dutchman, cannot possibly know that we regard gestures, words, expressions of humility, not to mention hues and shades of formal speech, as pawns in an invisible game. A game even Emperors are subjected to. It’s a game that is in our blood, at which we are so thoroughly adept that we are unable to play it once we are forced to reflect on its rules…
It was my turn now.
‘To the best of my knowledge, Oh Exalted One, Moon over Deshima remains silent on passion.’ I had to talk him out of his misbegotten notion, even if I risked the Imperial wrath.
Do you understand this at all, my valiant Ti Qing? Can you guess at my reasons to deny the poem’s qing? First the Court almost forced us into wedlock, and then the Emperor forbade it! And during these vexing procedures, you and I aren’t even allowed an encounter! In my mind’s eye, I could see where this was leading: my poem was to yield incriminating evidence of my tender feelings for a barbarian.
Well, there was a grain of truth in this. I composed Moon over Deshima long ago, when I fancied myself a poet, and secretly dedicated it to you! Good thing I never penned your name on it, else we would have been compromised indeed, and the Emperor would not have deigned to recite it in full.
The moon in the bay
Bites in the tail of a cat
Deshima sleeps
Then the moon ripples
The cat slips away and I—
Forlorn in the night
‘Your Majesty cites me flawlessly!’ I cheerfully praised him. ‘By heart!’
He nodded, and mused out loud: ‘In it, I hear abandoned love: moon and cat—such compelling symbols of passion! The reflection of the moon rather. You know, I personally copied your poem before the flames devoured it.’
‘Thank You, Your Majesty.’
‘Thank me—why? It is almost a gem! Too foreign, alas; I could not rescue it from the fire. In two dozen words three civilisations merge! Those influences are too manifold to reflect prudence and good taste and they ruin your accomplished style, Cao Baoqin. To be sure, qing is a theme that appears in Chinese poetry too—did appear at least, in the aftermath of that doomed Ming dynasty—qing which prompts us to mindlessness, disrupts Heavenly harmony and troubles us in our sleep, so that we (that is to say you, a woman alone!) go out at the oddest of nightly hours and see cats wander in moonlight. Yes, qing destroys all measure and moderation! Think of the poem by the peasant girl Shuangqing. By uttering passion in this world I err…’
‘Again these welling tears, which I perforce restrain,’ I step in. ‘And oh, my hand is clutching a dead flower… How striking, Oh Majesty, that You should quote peasant-girl Shuangqing! You truly are a connoisseur! Precisely this stanza went through my mind while composing Moon over Deshima. But foreign influences? No, I humbly fail to see those.’
‘Lady,’ the Emperor went on, his voice acquiring a villainous edge, ‘We are delighted that you should deign to agree on the theme with Us. But do you claim to be ignorant of those Japanese forms you imitate so flawlessly?’
‘A sublime genre!’ I hastened to concur. ‘Though I am not the first in China to practice it; that is why the Japanese ancestry momentarily escaped my notice. Doesn’t that in itself prove the force of this form—unveiling unfathomable mysteries, quick as a lightning flash?’
‘It should have three lines,’ the Emperor grumbled, ‘not six. And those Japanese poets never refer to themselves as “I”!’
‘Your Majesty, I beg to differ! Moon over Deshima is—if experts speak the truth—a senryu, a double haiku, albeit less exalted in mysticism and scope.’
The Emperor looked at me good-naturedly. ‘How captivating!’ he exclaimed, eager to display his poetic expertise. ‘Pray tell me more about the origin of this poem, Lady. Take me with you to that night in Deshima, to the moon which shone upon your sleepless wanderings.’
‘Oh Son of Heaven, it has been such a long time.’
The manner in which I sketch these goings-on to you, Ti Qing, is sure to evoke reminiscences—fantasies—of noble poetry-lovers benignly entertaining one another, occluding the prying hidden in the Emperor’s words. If it weren’t so amusing, I would curse that credulity of yours! How could such a conversation be peaceful! The Emperor disposes of life and death; his benign countenance masks a terrible power; his deportment merely indicates that those Hanlin scholars, archivists, and custodians of the Imperial Library are too mean-spirited to follow Him in his soaring flight of lofty musings.
Ever since Heshen prevailed in the Forbidden City, Court life has soured, so much so that the Emperor bore with my pinpricks, although I still perceived a threat, however hazy;it would never subside entirely. By wrapping me in a cloud of confidentiality, the Emperor sought to humour me, to lure me into the idea that he and I are kindred spirits. Perhaps he hoped to elicit awkward confessions when he inquired: ‘What was it that kept you sleepless?’
There we go.
‘On Deshima, I became acutely aware of my mortality, Your Majesty.’
This is a stylized truth at best, Isaac. On Deshima, living under your hospitable roof, it dawned on me that I was likely to remain childless forever, a prospect that had never worried me before. And during that conversation with the Emperor this well-nigh forgotten wish came back to me, the deep-seated desire to give birth—although I am past the age now. Weightless like dandelion fluff I am, blown over a grey and endless sea, an unnoticed nothing in a raging storm. My life has ended in loss—loss and remorse and regret. Since a very young age, I had missed my mother;later I missed my prematurely deceased master Cao Xueqin. After that the clientele of courtesan days in Nanking, colourful, prominent, and then—yes, I even missed my illiterate compatriots of the Chinese trading post, at less than a mile’s distance from Deshima. I missed my unborn children and I missed missing those children. I pulled myself out of gloomy musings. I am happy, or should be: Chun Xian’s still alive!
‘Deshima,’ I continued, and in the presence of the Emperor I picked my words with care, ‘is a miracle. You can’t go anywhere; the gate is bolted day and night. It’s ever so tiny: ten Deshimas easily fit within the moat of the Forbidden City, if not twenty, or fifty for all I know. Compared to the Celestial Empire, Deshima is minuscule, no more than a blot on the wall. Yes, Your Majesty, here is an apt simile: on Deshima, one finds oneself trapped in an ink drawing. What lies beyond it seems a void. Time has come to a standstill—there is no today, nor a yesterday, nor are there distinct days in the past. The future stares at you in monochromes, no matter how fortunate you are with your master…’
The Emperor was all ears; I had him under my spell.
‘At night, you toss and turn in an empty bed. You get up, wrap yourself in a fluffy robe without lining. It’s one of those hot summer nights, sultry and humid. There is n
o wind. You walk on the quay—where else?—and hope you won’t run into a bunch of inebriated Dutchmen: the alcohol reduces them to a pack of pawing brutes. But it’s past midnight; there’s nobody about. On a smooth, dark surface the disc of the moon is reflected like a silver lantern, and in its rays, perched on a parapet or shack, you discern a cat. Look, a Siamese, you whisper to yourself, not one of the island’s cats; even these things become noticed over time. The sight renders you rapt with delight. Oh, to preserve that beauty, to keep it forever! Just then there’s a wisp of wind. The moon is shattered by a shivering ripple in the nightly waters. The cat slips away, as cats are wont to do. Deshima sleeps. The poetess is alone. Even that memory of evanescent beauty she cannot preserve—save in a poem, gauzy like the dreams insomnia denies her.’
What I am concealing, Isaac, is that I cobbled this trifle together to practice short verse, flimsier than the clothes on my body while wandering those quays—I can’t comprehend that these meagre lines of verse should have found their way to the Great Within. You had no part in it, I hope? To the Great Within, no less! The Forbidden City itself—where an innocuous rhyme should fall victim to a book burning! A simple, innocent senryu!
‘Still, the moon and cat are erotic symbols,’ the decrepit Emperor persists, ‘and We fully approve. But that the moon should bite a cat’s tail is coarse. Un-Chinese too. Typical of languages with sound marks; the figure of speech has an unhinged logic to it, blurring the purity of the image. And this puts Us on track to yet another influence, does it not? The track leading up to Red-Haired Devils. Did you know, Baoqin, that Ming Emperors, who lent their ears to Jesuits, considered replacing our characters with Western scribblings?’
‘Your servant is ignorant of these things, Oh Son of Heaven. I merely elaborated on the verse of peasant girl Shuangqing (who was utterly Chinese as far as I know), on her complaint that qing cannot be uttered—not even under the Qing dynasty!’
The Imperial Countenance clouded at once, Ti Qing, lending credibility to your assertion that nothing is so typical of tyrants as wanton whim. ‘If you persist in such remarks,Lady,’ said the Emperor, ‘you shouldn’t be surprised when one day soon you find yourself accused of Ming-loyalism!’
Unceremoniously, without so much as a farewell, without so much as a backward glance, the Emperor hurried back to the main pavilion and ascended the palanquin, bedecked with dragons of gold. Thus, our “amicable conversation” brutally came to an end.
Yes, you may laugh, Ti Qing! I quit laughing long ago. I know I inflicted loss of face upon all concerned, like the acrobat who, bedazzled by audacity, tumbles in an abyss and loses face to the detriment of his entire troupe. I had to resist the urge to slap the old toad on the cheek! I fail to see why a trifle like three poetic influences deserves the Imperial wrath. More than anything I fervently wish I had stayed away from the Ruler, had never spoken to Him. Now we’re all in peril.
Freedom is, it seems, to live without fear. Freedom means that a woman, true to the spirit of Sepinosa, may thrive and blossom and, like all living things under the sun, aspire to greatness!
You have no idea of this land, Isaac. You can’t rescue me; put it out of your head! Heshen’s power may be broken, but tyranny goes on: never will an Emperor allow subjects to marry barbarians. His subjects crave freedom—a freedom he refuses to acknowledge. Not one word did that self-appointed poet spill over my desire to complete a novel, though I told him so in more than one request… You are likely to have missed most of the Emperor’s allusions, but I did not. That conversation wasn’t about poetry at all: it was about you. The Emperor hates you, Isaac, as he hates all that comes from afar, though as a young man he seemed to have amused himself with foreign clocks and waterworks. Your embassy will be short-lived, I’m afraid.
How do I forward this letter to you? Not send it at all? Then I’ll never be in touch with you again. Horrible thought!
Chun Xian’s personal messenger—yes, she could have been of help, if only she were here! But since her mistress left, she has never been sighted in our quarters. She’s either being held in custody or has gone with the old mistress herself.
That eunuch Weigong! No, utter nonsense; how could he and I ever be in touch? Weigong belongs to the Emperor’s closest retinue.
Afraid—who said I was afraid? Desperate!
Part III
White Lotus
白 蓮 花
Imperial Decree 29.119
The Qianlong Emperor to Lady Cao,
Mistress of Forgotten Concubines,
re: Verdicts on Heshen; the Dutch embassy
We, the lawful Emperor during the last month of the Qianlong reign, will now definitively attach Our name and endorsement to the execution of the verdict concerning former Grand Councillor Heshen. To Our regret We failed pitifully to foresee the corrosive effect Our former Councillor would have on the Court. It would have been desirable if We had kept this villain on a leash instead of placing Our full trust in him.
Heshen has been found guilty of corruption, extortion, and the forgery of edicts carrying Our name. Indeed, so numerous are Heshen’s perfidies that he has forfeited a gentleman’s right to take his own life. Being the bandit that he is, he will, hands and neck through the block, be marched off to the Square of Heavenly Peace, where he is to be decapitated for all the world to behold.
The Forgotten Concubines will witness the beheading as they were notified to do: too often have they been the helpless victims of the tribulations inflicted on them by said Heshen. During New Moon Night in the second winter month they will ready themselves to be led thither, one hour prior to sun-up.
Once again We have come to realize that it is Our late Grandfather the Kangxi Emperor who deserves to enter the Annals as the wisest, best, and longest-serving Emperor of Our glorious dynasty. In accordance with that indisputable fact, We, who do not begrudge Our deceased forebear his claim to superiority, shall abdicate on the day of Heshen’s decapitation and inaugurate the Emperor of the Jiaqing era. And so as not to tax Our successor with needless sequels to a troubled past, We will benevolently permit Ti Qing to shut down the Dutch embassy and send him and his staff home, thanking him profusely for his services to the Dragon Throne, the hub of All-Under-Heaven.
As the Mandate of Heaven is indubitably in force, it follows that befitting honours are due to both the ascending Ruler and the renouncing One. The latter will, by way of recompense for all the good He has accomplished for His subjects, enjoy a peaceful old age in the seclusion of the Great Within.
Obey these commands!
Chun Xian,
Second Concubine of the late Yongzheng Emperor,
also known as Yellow Lotus,
White Lotus encampment
of various localities;
to her successor,
Her Ladyship Cao Baoqin,
also known as Lin Daiyu
Cao Baoqin! My letter will reach you—provided all goes well—after a chain of bribery; many shall have risked dear life for it. Read these lines carefully. Commit them to memory, then cast this letter into the fire-barrel.
Eight days or so will pass ere Heshen will undergo his deserved punishment. I, having spent a lifetime behind walls, am a stranger to the thrill these beheadings evoke in the common mob; even so, I do believe that Heshen should have been brought to justice years ago. If he will be punished at all…
I know the Emperor inside out, my dear. He’s bound to dawdle, delay, devise devious ways to spare his trusted and beloved Councillor: the prospect of Heshen’s death turns his enfeebled brain into a quivering mass.
On the appointed day, Hongli (his boy’s name; I used to address him by that name when we were young) will renounce the Dragon Throne. Officially, that is. In actuality,his son the Jiaqing Emperor will be a mere puppet, with Hongli continuing to rule behind the scenes. What els
e is the Emperor to do: languish like a wreck? But in order to rule the Celestial Empire, He requires prudence, wit, and an astute mind. An Emperor must see to it that All-Under-Heaven remain in harmony: how is he to accomplish this monumental task without his trusted helper? Will not the Emperor’s burden be overbearing when He can no longer rely on Heshen? What is more, the opium-eater worships the hand that bestows bliss; Hongli worships the man who takes all discomforts away, who even offers such pleasures as the Tao intended for women: to be possessed by another man—the man he now sends to his doom. If Hongli persists in the execution, the one most dear to him will be gone. If he waives the verdict, however, he loses such popular support as he still commands. Notwithstanding the stupor to which the poppy condemned him, or because of it, Hongli is acutely aware that he’s rapidly losing favour among court cliques as well as amidst the untold masses.
In brief: how will he act? Will he have Heshen’s head chopped off or will he not?
Do not get me wrong, my dear. I cherish no personal rancour, much as I abhor Heshen’s misdemeanours. For us, the White Lotus Women Warriors, his beheading even spells disaster! Once we are rid of the villain, we shall have to forgo rebellion. The meek guardians of kaoliang, rice, and beans, who have rallied behind us at last, will be most grateful to their Emperor for having put an end to Heshen’s extortions, as if those were China’s sole affliction. Terror will be over; they will have survived; and they will be quick to withdraw their support of us, since they are in fear of Imperial reprisals.
The Pavilion of Forgotten Concubines Page 10