The Pavilion of Forgotten Concubines

by Wiersinga, Pim;

  And yet I did. I am in a quandary, my dear Isaac! How am I to honour kindred souls without saying yes to our betrothal and no to you!

  It’s past midnight. I can’t sleep. I am—I do not know where. Somewhere in Shandong province, famed for its silks.

  I am writing by the light of a wavering lamp; soon its oil will be spent. Outside, the world is frozen. Through the rice paper window, the stench of a dung-pit invades the room. The future is as murky as the night outside, as sad as the leafless mulberry trees surrounding this inn. And yet, about myself I worry not: I worry about you. Are you on your way to your homeland? To Batavia? Do they keep you in a dingy dungeon? Where are you, Isaac? What happened to you? Worries vex me during the day and rob me of my sleep at night. I fear you have fallen out of safety; I contemplate your proposal so as not to reflect on your predicament. But then I worry because I am attached to you, even prone to believe that I belong to you, and though you never reiterated your proposal, I cannot renounce the yoke.

  Don’t cherish hopes, my dear friend. I am bound to disappoint you.

  The inn is drowned in silence. Drinking buddies, regulars, travellers, and friends for life have left. Outside, fat and fluffy snowflakes whirl. I can see them whenever I push the rice paper aside with one finger and the stench redoubles. The storm has subsided. Chicken and pigs are still. Even the watchdogs are silenced by sleep. Why doesn’t the silence fell me? The roar under my skull never ceases.

  The oil lamp splutters. My life is the sum of all the things I missed. I even miss the pavilion routine. I am heading into the unknown, and there is no road back. Yes, there is one way to soothe the missing of things and people, one way only. The reed-pen. But I have left my novel alone for too long; besides, this travelling renders me restless. And who would want to read this life of mine—merely a miasma of sadness?

  How many days separate us from Flower Paradise? Soon, another night will be over, and as always we shall rise at daybreak.

  

  Censor Qian Qianlin

  To Lady Cao,

  Flower Paradise, Nanking,

  through Eunuch Weigong

  Ere dawn breaks they’re banging on the gate: In the Name of our Emperor, open up! For centuries on end it has been like this. Successions entail confiscations; dignitaries fall in or out of favour; heads roll. I have been granted the privilege of taking my life. A year ago I might have complied. Not now! My true calling, Censorship, being attuned to the distinction of truth from falsehood, of the desirable from the risible, wielding the sieve rather than the bludgeon, requires that I stay alive: all else leaves me unmoved. Descendants I have not. My coffers are safe; Heshen can’t lay his greedy hands on them.

  I had expected his lackeys, and I was ready for them: bribery works wonders. I rescued this jasmine-scented box from their clutches. I know, Lady Cao, that I’m saddling you with a burden. But this burden—unfortunately perhaps—is lawfully yours: the papers in this box were handed to me by a grandson of Cao Xueqin or of cousin Tianyou—anyway, by a young man who mentioned you as its sole inheritor; your entitlement is confirmed on paper.

  Forgive me, dear Lady: I cannot act otherwise. Soon they shall find me, for now they know that one single original of Dream of the Red Chamber—indeed the entire manuscript, in which the author did not conceal his Ming-loyalism—is in my care. Heshen knows it; he is intent on either destroying the seditious original or locking it away in the Great Within,safely out of reach of those who might be inordinately attracted to it. In order to obtain Xueqin’s novel, he’s after me; the chance that I will reach the border before his henchmen swarm all over the empire is slight. But you will rescue it! How? I myself can be of no help. But Weigong handles part of my money; it is at your disposal, which is all I can do, my dear Lady, much as I wish I could rush to your rescue. Perhaps the envoy Ti Qing could be of help?

  Better still: smuggle it into Macao! White Lotus resides there and will be of aid! The good Weigong will guide you through China’s mountainous interior, away from major roads; he shall see to it that you obtain the proper papers to enter Portuguese territory. Yes! Our uprising will be like waves rolling over the land, washing away all that is rotten! In Macao it will commence; those morose Portuguese merchants need not concern us. Meanwhile, the hair on my forehead is growing; and the queue, exemplifying our subjugation to Manchus, has been unravelled at last. This dynasty commands no awe, no loyalty, Lady; our Emperor is lost. It will be a long battle. Weapons won’t suffice; how pointless to replace old tyrants with new ones! What we need is the pen, dear Lady Cao, and what China needs is true civilisation—not gaudy porcelain, catering to the taste of foreign devils! Censor and author: what a perfect union of opposites! May your calling and mine coalesce like yin and yang.

  Given my current circumstance, I will be unable to meet you at Flower Paradise in person, dear Lady. I beseech forgiveness for my absence.

  Until we meet in Macao! May Heaven illuminate your path.

  

  Senhora Baoqin Cao, also known as Lin Daiyu,

  Caixa de correio 5219, Macao,

  to the Chief of Deshima, Nagasaki, Japan

  Your Excellency! You do not know me, and I know naught of you. I couldn’t even find your name here in Macao, the public nature of your office notwithstanding. My request to you concerns the accompanying piece of mail intended for the esteemed Mr Isaac Titsingh, a name I trust will be familiar to you.

  I humbly apologize for my infringement on your time. For a Deshima Chief time is a precious commodity indeed, as I can tell from experience: once I lived in the mansion where you reside now. I am a citizen of the Empire of Heaven, but was fortunate in that for a while my Chinese master detached me to the former Chief of Deshima. You, Excellency, are my last, nay my only hope that this box and its contents will find their intended recipient—no other than the aforesaid Mr I. Titsingh, your predecessor in Deshima, and recently the Dutch envoy in Peking. Alas, his embassy was shut down at the behest of the new Emperor, even before he actually ascended the throne.

  The envoy has vanished without a trace. I’m at a loss, fiercely hoping that you know or will be able to find out Mr Titsingh’s present whereabouts. To him, I owe my knowledge of Dutch, even though I address Your Excellency in Japanese. I fear my orthography to be such that my message would inspire no trust were it cast in your language, whereas you are surrounded by skilled—and hopefully discreet—interpreters. Who knows? One day Fate may grant us the privilege of conversing in your tongue.

  Both Mr Titsingh and I were of a literary bent; soon we became the best of friends. I assume you differ from those Westerners who frown upon the intermingling of races—a proclivity they share with many a compatriot of mine. Often I would sing ballads for Mr Titsingh culled from our operas or would quote specimens of our poetry; he in turn dug up motifs from literature he was acquainted with, some of which made quite an impression on me. We soon felt at home in each other’s languages and we philosophized together as if we’d done so all our lives.

  ‘I think I know,’ said Mr Titsingh (in Japanese, on thesecond eve I spent in his—now your—residence), ‘why your Chinese master, uh... has lent you out to me. What interest is served thereby.’

  ‘What interest could there be?’ I replied curtly. ‘Trade betwixt Deshima and the Chinese post is strictly prohibited by the Shogun!’

  ‘As if Nagasaki’s the world!’ Mr Titsingh scoffed. ‘Your master and I both know the Dutch and Chinese meet in a variety of places—Macao, Canton, Batavia, you name it. So I had better not forfeit your favours, lady, else I miss out on all sorts of contracts with your countrymen!’

  I can laugh about his jest now, even while recalling the wrath this Dutch official kindled in me for stating my position of dependence so bluntly. In fact, I could hardly bear it. And besides, in these parts of the world, as you well know, the slightest quip may induce a loss of face. Apparently
, my Chinese master had commissioned me to the Deshima Chief with secret intentions, to curry favour with him or to oblige him in some manner, not merely to economize on his household! Of his motives, he had left me ignorant: I was the pawn in a game others were playing, subservient to their interests. At the same time, that cheeky Dutchman turned my world upside-down by subjecting himself in one breath to my grace. It’s one or the other, I thought. Either he mocks me, or he makes me complicit in a hidden plot—which is it?

  ‘It won’t be easy to gain your favour,’ Mr Titsingh went on lightly. ‘You’re not just anyone, even I can tell that much. Eh…Cao was the name?’

  He turned up the lamp, pressed the pincenez on the bridge of his nose, and inspected my papers. Our ideograms seemed to hold few secrets for him. I remember being impressed with the fluency with which this foreign devil intoned my clan name.

  ‘Ah, here it is…Cao Baoqin! Do I pronounce it correctly?’ ‘You do, good sir,’ I replied, and then I said no more. All of a sudden I knew—don’t ask me why, Excellency—that this man was innocent and trustworthy, that he bore me no ill-will. His sincerity triumphed over suspicions on my end; indeed, Mr Titsingh reminded me that there still was such a thing as sincerity in this world. And if I discerned a twang of yearning in his facial expression, zeal maybe, I nevertheless felt at ease. Let me state right away that your colleague conducted himself correctly at all times. Rarely if ever have I met such a civilised exemplar of the male species.

  As a diplomat, he made no claim to talent: the strength of his convictions barred his ability to dissemble. But whatever his worth as a diplomat, he excelled as a governor in foreign lands because of those very convictions. Surely you are aware, your Excellency, how quickly misunderstandings may arise between people who, once embroiled in a dispute, apply incompatible standards of fairness. Nevertheless, the road to understanding can be surprisingly short if all parties wish to resolve knotty issues. I am speaking as a witness, your Excellency. Mr Titsingh was gracious, witty, intelligent, and, like myself, eager to learn. I merely refer to our initial misunderstandings so that you will know my character and understand how he and I became friends.

  You may have read in one of your gazettes (‘newspapers’,I believe they’re called) that our Emperor dismissed a British delegation unrewarded after the envoy refused to kneel down before the Throne. The British regarded the kowtow as an affront; likewise, I perceived Mr Titsingh’s innocent remark about my humble position as a defamation. And I was utterly wrong, as Mr Titsingh soon showed me by his alluring frankness. Isn’t that food for thought? Being the Emperor’s subject, I ought, amidst a chorus of eunuchs, sycophants, and various ladies-in-waiting, to ‘weep with the wolves in the woods’ (one of those lovely expressions in your tongue) and display outrage at the sight of Macartney insulting the Throne and defying the time-honoured prostration. Indeed, the ease with which Mr Titsingh addressed the Imperial Court, kowtow and all, even seems to justify the courtiers’ outrage: if that foreigner could comply with palace customs, what excuse could the obdurate Macartney plead for being so utterly stubborn? By the same token, one might regard the Emperor and his howling wolf-pack as a narrow-minded lot, adhering to empty ritual above all. So who was right, the Chinese or the Brits? What under heaven could be the criterion here?

  Suddenly I’m thinking of a better example, your Excellency: a plight you are enduring on a daily basis. For two centuries, Christians in Deshima have been barred from performing their Rites; it is even forbidden to peruse their holy book in their own quarters.

  Desecration! thwarted worshippers murmur under their breath.

  Contempt for our mores! the Shogunate asserts in turn.

  On what grounds could this dispute be decided? War is diplomacy by other means, as Western lore has it. Titsingh jocularly invented a variation: Diplomacy is war by peaceful means. I couldn’t help laughing when he said this, and for once, Titsingh took offence at my mirth: to him, the mutual understanding of various peoples was serious business indeed! By smoothing over differences and obstacles, he meant, diplomats may ease the path to mutual under-standing; this is to what they devote their lives. Yet they rarely succeed in removing all causes of war: the hidden roots of violence are as ramified and subtle as its outburst is brutal.

  Rigidity runs deep, as do distrust and superstition. Even an astute official like Mr Titsingh, held in esteem by all parties, could never prompt the Powers that Be to ‘toleration’ in matters religious, and if he was looked uponfavourably by the Japanese and helped loosen lesser strictures on foreigners in Deshima, he wisely never championed the perusal of Bibles.

  Excellency! I could devote reams of paper to the subject, intertwined as it is with the reasons I’m addressing you, but you are a very busy man. I have no wish to arouse resentment by reminiscing about your predecessor, let alone to hold him up as an example (as if you would need one!). Yet to me—if I may speak frankly—Mr Titsingh was precisely this: an example, a guide. Mr Titsingh taught me thoughts are free: this idea in itself was a wellspring of courage and one of his greatest gifts to me.

  Deshima’s Chief hired me for household chores, but left me ample time to read, exert myself in calligraphy,and learn his language. In exchange for this carefree life,he gave me a princely salary. I began to feel a little awkward with this arrangement, particularly because the other retainers were eyeing me with envy. One day, one of them scolded me for amassing riches just like a high-class whore—money in exchange for pleasure only.

  I complained about this reproof to Mr Titsingh, and then he (another wonderful Dutch expression) ‘shot out of his slipper’. ‘It’s always the money!’ he shouted. ‘How I despise it! Does it satisfy my curiosity? My zest for life’s wonders? No!’

  Rarely had I seen him so upset—unhinged almost. Utterly baffled, I stared at him, at a loss for words.

  ‘Excuse me, dear Lady; I let myself go.’

  Again, I knew not what to say.

  ‘Let us understand one another well, Baoqin,’ Mr Titsingh went on, while regaining his composure. ‘To me, a woman is a man’s equal: aren’t they both human beings? But in the eye of the world, you are the servant and I am the master; it can’t be helped. So pro forma I sometimes let you knock dust out of doormats, lest people start talking.’ He smiled; his face altered into that of a charming rascal. ‘We do want to avoid rumours, don’t we?’

  Your Excellency, I merely dwell on these memories to inform you that friendship and curiosity alone bound me to Mr Titsingh. I was not his mistress and was only nominally part of the personnel. Kindred spirits in a distant land: thus I described to myself our mutual attachment.

  I will presently explain why I am saddling you with the bulky pack that goes with this letter, but permit me to ask you something first. Are you a literary man? In your ears this question may sound rude (I am aware of Westerners’ touchiness in these matters), but frankly, it eludes me how I could phrase this in a way you would consider polite. To my ears, the question is harmless. You see, I am ignorant of how Westerners prepare officials for service and a life-long loyalty to the State. In China, it’s simple. Dignitaries are by definition literati: an honour accorded to them after passing the Imperial Exams. To be sure, they must be knowledgeable in the main principles of statecraft, warfare, agriculture, geography, and geomancy, but above all, an official must acquire literacy and read the ancestors—sages, poets, historians, and statesmen; he must be conversant with famous sections in operas and plays and elaborate upon these with witty commentary; he must recite poems by heart and compose them too—oh, and be thoroughly conversant with Confucius of course: I almost forgot. During exams, officials-to-be must compose a so-called eight-legged essay according to complex requirements, a stumbling-block too heavy for many a promising youngster!

  But your dignitaries, what about them? My time at Deshima did little to unravel the mystery. I know Mr Titsingh to be inquisitive, witty, extravagant,
certainly of a poetic and philosophical bent, but is this a fortunate combination of characteristics that pertains to his person alone or does he embody the best of Western bureaucratic virtues? Anyway, I hope you do enjoy a good read, your Excellency, else your Deshima term is bound to be dreary.

  

  Cao Xueqin was China’s greatest writer, and I, Your Excellency, was his last mistress. The heroine in Xueqin’s lifework, Dream of the Red Chamber, was sculpted after me, yet our love evolved in the vaults of secrecy. Nobody was to know of it—particularly not Xueqin’s cousins, uncles, and brothers. Our difference of class alone might have unleashed scandal, and our being distant relatives would have aggravated it. Add to this the fact that Xueqin could easily have been my father; we had well-nigh thirty years between us. When he died at age forty-eight, I was under twenty.

  Now, such extravagant romances occur with us often; they aren’t all that startling. Yet I persisted in playing the housekeeper. You see, our arrangement was forged in honour of those companion ate marriages popular in the Ming Era. We lived on equal footing, which was feasible only if we kept our love hidden. Yes, our feet were literally equal: mine weren’t broken, since my dear young mother couldn’t bring herself to bind them.

  Oh, these unbound feet of mine: to the neglect of such futilities my countryman take offence, and it was for this reason I masqueraded as a juvenile damsel-in-waiting to an elderly author. No one could chide a female servant for having big feet, while they would be shocked if the same person were his high-class consort. Come to think of it, Xueqin’s deeper motives for this elaborate masquerading may in part have been of an aesthetic hue, pertaining to some obscure contrast betwixt, or interplay between,reality and illusion. To him, reality was illusion, and illusion a kind of reality: the foundational notion of his unparalleled novel…