The Pavilion of Forgotten Concubines

by Wiersinga, Pim;

  But I will no longer dwell on the subject, Your Excellency—even I am not cognizant of his deepest feelings and alas, I can no longer ask him now. Cao Xueqin’s untimely death left me in mourning for a considerable time; the duration of my grief exceeded that of our romance itself. In a way, I mourn for him still. For Xueqin had shown me compassion—me, a budding poet and fledgling prose-writer at best. I became his ardent pupil; my industriousness had nothing to do with washing, ironing, or house-cleaning. I was and will forever remain unskilled in those tasks. Yet the role of housekeeper seemed the ideal guise. You see, in China, ladies of rank are doomed to embroider all day, to gossip, arrange flowers, and sip rivers of tea. If they’re allowed literary indulgences at all, they’re permitted to write the occasional ghost story or sugary poem. My ambitions surpass these limitations, Your Excellency! Are there women in your part of the world who publish novels?

  Lin Daiyu is the heroine’s name in Dream of the Red Chamber, Xueqin’s life work. Daiyu is also my pseudonym;I wield it with pride. Poetry under my own name can be found in anthologies, although much of it has been burned by Imperial Decree.

  I am telling you all this for a reason, Excellency; I don’t expect my literary ambitions to be of interest to you. However, I do perhaps expect you—both as a person and as an official—to concur that theatre, opera, literature, and poetry are the treasure-troves of our dreams. I don’t praise Xueqin’s novel for vanity’s sake! Increasingly, I am of the opinion that all peoples under Heaven should read each other’s books. And I’m not referring to arid tracts or devout exhortations, but to poetic and dramatic highlights! The belles-lettres may carve inroads where diplomacy fails: art overcomes obstacles that proved insurmountable to the most prudent of minds. Beauty is often more compelling than truth and goodness. Westerners’ estimation of China improved markedly when they became acquainted with our fine porcelain.

  No, not porcelain, too trite! Let me offer you a more telling example, Sir, one which bears the hallmark of experience: On Deshima, I became acquainted with the ‘sonnet’, a most exciting poetical form unknown in China. In particular the sonnets of the famous playwright Xekasupiro (Japanese syllabic script fails me here, and I’m not so sure of the English orthography either). I memorized Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? as well as My love is as a fever, longing still—alas, I have forgotten most of it. Whenever I read those lines out loud to Mr Titsingh, my throat constricted and tears would blur my vision: seldom were depths of passion, hatred, and love so poignantly revealed. Don’t ask me how or why, your Excellency, but this poetry from afar seemed to reflect my very own grief!

  And ever since I became aware of Xekasupiro’s poems, I can no longer perceive the British as Red-Haired Devils,despite their refusal to kowtow to the Emperor. Conversely,if China is fond of daydreamer Baoyu, melancholic Lin Daiyu, spicy Wang Xifeng, ‘doting’ Grandmother Jia—in brief all those exquisite characters who inhabit Dream of the Red Chamber, then what would prevent your countrymen from loving these characters and becoming amicably acquainted with us?

  Only the language!

  Your countenance I know not, your Excellency, but your residence is so familiar to me! In my mind’s eye I see you in your home. There is a Japanese interpreter, sitting in at supper in the back room, the one overlooking Nagasaki Bay. A Chief is allowed to receive Japanese interpreters, though the authorities encourage it not—such at least was common practice back in my Deshima days. While your interpreter translates this letter, in a Dutch likely to sound worse than mine (though he might make fewer misspellings), you ask yourself with growing impatience for what reason I am writing to you and why I burden you with this huge and heavy cargo—if it hasn’t been sequestrated by Deshima’s customs, that is.

  Excellency, in order to explain myself fully, I must briefly review recent events at the Imperial Court in Peking. As a poet, a former courtesan, and a ‘language miracle’, I was the one who mediated when envoy Macartney, the Brit who denied our Emperor the kowtow, appeared before the Dragon Throne… I was subsequently accused of having improperly prepared the envoy. The strongman at Court, indeed within the whole of China—Heshen is his name—took me prisoner and confined me to a dungeon. The Emperor intervened on my behalf; I was transferred to the Pavilion of Forgotten Concubines, located in one of the Forbidden City’s far corners.

  What Macartney bungled, Mr Titsingh made up for when appointed envoy in Peking. Despite his self-professed lack of diplomatic skills, he cut a favourable figure at Court. At Mr Titsingh’s insistence—and that of Old Second Concubine, the venerable Chun Xian—I was released at last. Even during my detention, the Court treated me with deference because the Emperor knew Mr Titsingh to be a friend and advocate of mine. Indirectly, his presence in the Capital may have helped alleviate the plight inflicted on the pavilion’s forgotten concubines. And China’s monarch trusted my command of spoken English and Dutch. He even arranged an encounter between Mr Titsingh and myself in a belvedere dedicated to the Literature God. How happy Mr Titsingh and I were that our paths should cross again! The Widower Titsingh even began dreaming of marriage, which had never been a consideration in Deshima—at least, he had never mentioned it. And both of us (you must find this odd) longed to be back on your fan-shaped island.

  Our bliss was short-lived. Court intrigue prevented a lasting reunion. The Qianlong Emperor abdicated, although He still rules from behind the Yellow Curtain. And on the eve of abdication, He made a disastrous decision, thwarting the course of justice by issuing a pardon to one of the most corrupt officials the Celestial Empire has ever known: none other than his strong-man Heshen. Insiders suggest Heshen’s reprieve was instigated by threats from the Chief Censor. Although it was Heshen who had filled his coffers at the expense of all others, this official allegedly argued, the Emperor was a close accomplice, to be prosecuted as soon as his abdication was ratified. The dynasty had lost the Mandate of Heaven, and in China, such a pronouncement, coming from the powerful Censorate, can be fatal to Imperial prestige.

  Alas, the Chief Censor overplayed his hand. Not only did the Emperor revoke Heshen’s death warrant and restore him to his former dignities, He also effectively intimidated any who might oppose or indict Him for this decision. Chief Censor Qian had to flee for dear life.

  Qian is not the only one who has fled the capital. Chinais in turmoil. Wantonness reigns supreme, Your Excellency. Princes of the blood, courtiers of consequence, and high officials fall in and out of favour. The Dutch Embassy has been brutally shut down; its premises are derelict. Its ambassador Mr Titsingh has disappeared. He may have returned to his country, or he may be pining in a dank dungeon for all I know. And I had to flee as well, without further news of his fate. I do know, however, that Heshen is capable of anything, as long as his head remains attached to that plump torso.

  All friendships come to an end, as you need not tell me, your Excellency, although the lack of an opportunity to bid Mr Titsingh farewell pains me still. In the stifling, stagnant, and lawless atmosphere of Peking—where suspicion reigns, where ‘female persons’ are being clubbed out of sight at the gates of official buildings as if they were stray dogs, where personal missives and letters are sniffed through by officials, as disaffected as they are malignant!—in this Peking it is impossible to trace Mr Titsingh or write to him or (here I’ll come to the point) send this box to him, after it had been placed in my hands. I was able to discover only that his embassy had been abandoned on the day I left the capital.

  This was months ago. Perhaps you ask why I did not send word to you sooner?

  Your Excellency, as I said, these are troubled times: all letters, packages, and postal pieces entering or leaving China are under suspicion. I intended to send this package from Nanking, six weeks ago. But given its invaluable contents, it would have been madness to persevere in this plan. Heshen’s own henchmen are intent to upon destroying or confiscating what it contains. Instead, I hauled this he
avy sheaf of paper through mountains, rivers, and plains, by hidden trails and secret paths, all the way south to Macao, where I arrived the other day. Here, safely out of Imperial reach, one can at least rely on regular shipping services to Deshima. I learned to my delight that a monthly caravel delivers postal items to your tiny island.

  I am hoping you have some knowledge of Mr Titsingh’s fate. I would welcome even the slightest rumour, if only to hint he’s alive! Please, my good Sir, in the name of peace, liberty, and beauty, do all that you can to deliver this package into his keeping! Within, you will find a lacquered box which contains the complete Dream of the Red Chamber. Mind you, dear Sir: this is the one and only uncensored, unedited, unsullied, and original version of China’s most famous, most brilliant, most beloved novel. Until recently, this original has been obscured; it is only now that the popular printed version is likely to prove a scam. Xueqin’s true life-work is penned, as you will see, in a calligraphic script, the like of which, due to his bold handwriting and even bolder substance, has never seen the light in China—that is how we treat our Xekasupiroes! The manuscript’s value can’t be defined in silver or gold. May Heaven grant the caravel a safe journey: should the ink be washed away by the salty waters of the sea, all will be lost.

  I suggest you operate outside official channels, dear Sir, so that you can’t be implicated later on. I entreat you to deliver this bulk to Isaac Titsingh, who will take it to friendly translators and publishers in order to disclose this priceless work to the West!

  The cheque I included may be cashed at the Mitsui Bank in Nagasaki; if this location proves inconvenient, there’s an Osaka office which you’ll pass on your way to Edo during your annual court journey. This will recompense you amply for your effort. Should you have to meet additional costs because you have to rely on intermediaries, do not hesitate to notify me through the postal address above and I will happily compensate those costs as well.

  Dear Sir, Your Excellency! You are the vital link. I, Cao Baoqin, also known as Lin Daiyu, shall remain forever in your debt.

  

  Senhora Baoqin Cao, also known as Lin Daiyu,

  Caixa de correio 5219, Macao

  To Isaac Ti Qing, wherever he may be,

  through the current chief of Deshima

  Meet Meilong, Isaac. She is fourteen years of age—hair billowing in the sea-breeze, blushing cheeks, night-black eyes kindled by her zest to win another friendly combat. She is standing opposite proud Chun Xian of ninety and opposite me as well, I who am no match for her, no match at all. We’ve been here only a few days, and already we duel the stars out of heaven, our rapiers glistening under sun and moon, standing on our rooftop bedecked with potted orange trees. We practice the martial art of fencing, believe it or not.

  Who would have thought that Chun Xian, after sixty long and barren years of imprisonment, would be released by the Emperor, only to lead—clad in the honey-hued attire of her new authority as the Yellow Lotus—a secret society against the Manchu Dynasty? And doesn’t it take a second Xueqin to imagine that the frail, melancholic Daiyu in Dream of the Red Chamber should in later life emerge a heroine after all, a woman-warrior in the making? We indulge in pastimes of which we had hardly ever heard: catching butterflies on the hill, boating in the harbour, lazing on the roof of a pavilion without lock or key. I may sing in unison with Meilong, plucking the strings of the eager lute or paddle in the warmth of the South China sunshine. These pleasures will sink like a dream once we close ranks against Imperial platoons, once the fencing becomes real, once the mild eye of Yellow Lotus, colourless with age, no longer watches over us.

  This is Macao. Here the King of Portuguo rules. Here the dynasty forfeiting the Mandate dwindles, like a bad memory; it falls out of existence, save to former Censor Qian Qianlin. He is the owner of our new pavilion and the benefactor of White Lotus, and is now a fellow resident of Macao, where he hides his riches from the eye of the world and the greedy hand of Imperial tax commissioners. Next to the Jesuit monastery on the hill, he’s renting a rickety studio in some attic.

  Early spring is warm over here. Not dusty and hot, like the Peking summers, but refreshing and pleasant: Macao is at the seashore. I love the sea—don’t you, Ti Qing? While night falls and drowsiness settles on rooftops, we hear nothing but the sea, now a gentle rustle like swaying bamboo, then a roar like a storm lashing the kaoliang fields.

  No kaoliang fields here! Here, one finds oranges, rhubarb, palm trees, and rice. This is Macao; this is freedom. Not for the Portuguese and their moribund colony, and certainly not for their dark-skinned slaves. For us. A free China has never been and perhaps it never will be.

  Is China my homeland still? I have few prospects there and no family left; in Peking my life isn’t worth a tael; the once thriving Flower Quarter of Nanking has fallen into ruins. It already was a shambles when I sought refuge there, years ago. That was when I adopted—don’t be shocked, my valiant Ti Qing—a role which allowed me to deny the trite truth, whilst quickening ancient memories: I became a courtesan. With my dragonfly-slim figure, I carried an enchanted male audience away to times of yore—to times when houses of pleasure were yet intact. The music would begin, interspersed with bold, delightful poems. In the ruins I furnished a boudoir with random props: trinkets, anthologies, and the odd silk painting. After a fashion, I kept myself alive, although I merely survived, eking out an existence devoid of meaning. More than a century ago, the Manchu burned Nanking to cinders and ever since, the Flower Quarter had been dying. By now, it is utterly dead. Even the illusion of a Flower Quarter is dead. Heshen was right to call me a harlot. What once represented a vocation, an elegant pastime and a soulful encounter, has since dwindled into a matter of need, greed, and money—thanks to the Manchurian hordes.

  I gloomily realized those things while on my way to an appointment with Censor Qian Qianlin in Nanking. To meet him, I made my way to the Flower Paradise—what a villainous joke it was to set up an encounter at that inn, considering my past as a courtesan in the Flower Quarter! But we did not meet. Already, the former Censor had fled to Macao on horseback, after having bribed the Guards posted round his Nanking residence; I received a message and a manuscript instead. I travelled to Macao after him—to save my life and to rescue the manuscript delivered by the innkeeper of Flower Paradise to Weigong, who accompanied me: the one and only true Dream of the Red Chamber.

  Again the Great Wheel turns, and now it is the proud Manchu overlords whose throne is tottering. Does rebellion provide hope? Will things ever change?

  With you, Isaac, I would talk all through the night about such topics; here, I have nobody. Granted, the former Censor commands the requisite intellectual faculties, but I avoid him, even though I owe my refuge, indeed my life, to him and his faithful shadow Weigong. But Qian is a relic of the old order, his mind permeated by coercion, calling, and duty. For Old Concubine Chun Xian, after her lifelong nightmare, dreaming of liberty suffices. With young Meilong I can’t discuss such things. Mind you, she’s ever so sweet and I am terribly fond of her, she would go to any lengths to offer me solace, provided I don’t require her to think too deeply. And all the others are full of hope, hope for a revolution, hope I have no wish to dampen.

  Rebellion and hope… Dreams are golden, power is leaden. We are devoted to dreams, Peking is devoted to power: after this dynasty, the next one will present itself, sooner or later. Reform never lasts. A changing of guards and guardians, that is all. Perhaps this course of events is inevitable. We never speak of the inevitable, but all of us know. Those who dream of revolution know; even the fourteen-year-old Meilong knows—she, who is the most beautiful dream of us all. Macao truly is a Garden of Wide Perspectives, Isaac, if I may teasingly quote your mistranslation: our roof terrace overlooks an endless sea. As long as we keep dreaming, we don’t need to obey anyone, not even our benefactor Qian Qianlin: he has that stubborn vocation to overthrow the Emperor, not we! The
good Censor confuses vocation with hope: rebellion with the pen as he’s pleased to call it. His eyes follow me all the time; he is scheming to co-opt me for what can only be termed a marriage of opposite goals.

  The Censor is a man of the word and the deed. With words, he could correct an Imperial deed, with one deed he annulled a thousand words by others. The Censor is no Cao Xueqin, to whom words were butterflies. The Censor shapes, chisels, controls the words of the world; he has been a leech on the skin of true scholars and poets. For all his former power and prestige, he is a nobody. Then he turns against his Emperor; and suddenly, he is everybody and speaks for all. But in Macao there is no Emperor. In Macao he falls apart. In Macao, a Censor is nothing, his calling a tumble of poppy dreams, his verbiage quivering air. Qianlin is hungry for words; the more the air quivers, the more contented he is. I, however, am saddled with an overdose of words, words that poison and suffocate me, dear Isaac. How I yearn for the silence Qianlin so strenuously avoids! I sprinkle charming words all over the place, just to rid myself of them, and Qian collects them with an eager scythe without heeding their beauty. Now he barges into our lodge, unannounced, speaking to some of the others but never to me, only to leave soon after—it is a signal, a signal meant for me! I sense his desire, even though he, for all his verbiage, has never put it in words. He desires that I finish my novel in his studio—words, more words! Plans! Aims and actions!

  Then I think of Dream of the Red Chamber, the uncensored original he had deposited into my hands, that bulky package to be sent to Deshima. This letter will go with it.