Imperial Woman (14 page)

The Emperor murmured something and Prince Kung spoke for him.

“The Son of Heaven inquires the meaning of the word
flag,”
he said in a loud clear voice.

“A flag, Most High,” the Viceroy replied, not lifting his eyes, “is only a banner.”

The Emperor murmured again, and again Prince Kung repeated what he said in the same loud clear voice.

“Why should the Englishmen be angry over what is nothing more, after all, than a piece of cloth and therefore easily replaced?”

“Most High,” the Viceroy explained, still not lifting his eyes, “the English are a superstitious people. They are not men of learning and so they attach magic qualities to an oblong cloth, designed in colors of red, white and blue. It is a symbol for them, sacred to some god they worship. They will not tolerate lack of reverence for this piece of cloth. Wherever they place it, it designates possession. In this case, it was attached to a pole on the rear of a small trading vessel, carrying Chinese pirates. Now these Chinese pirates have been the curse of generations past in our southern provinces. They sleep by day and by night they attack vessels at anchor and even coastal villages. The captain of this small boat had paid a sum of money to the Englishmen to allow them the flag, thinking that I, the Viceroy, would then not dare to command them to cease their evil trade. But I, the Viceroy, unworthy servant of the Most High, did not fear. I arrested the vessel and put the captain in chains. Then I commanded the flag to be taken down. When the Englishman, John Bowring, the Commissioner of Trade for the British in Canton, heard of this, he declared that I had insulted the sacred symbol, and he demanded that I apologize on behalf of the Throne.”

Horror rushed over the entire assembly. Even the Emperor was aroused.

The Emperor sat up in his Throne and spoke for himself. “Apologize? For what?”

“Most High,” the Viceroy said, “those were my words.”

“Stand,” the Emperor commanded.

“Stand, the Dragon Emperor commands you,” Prince Kung repeated. It was unusual, but the Viceroy obeyed. He was a tall aging man, a native of the northern provinces and a Chinese, but loyal, as all scholars were, to the Manchu Throne, since the Throne favored Chinese scholars and when they had passed the imperial examinations with honor, employed them as administrators of government. Thus were the interests of such Chinese cemented to the dynasty in rule, and so it had been for many centuries.

“Did you apologize?” the Emperor asked, again speaking not through his brother but directly, to signify his deep concern.

The Viceroy replied. “Most High, how could I apologize when I, however lowly, am the appointed of the Dragon Throne? I sent the pirate captain and his crew to apologize to the Englishmen. Yet this did not satisfy that haughty and ignorant Bowring. He sent the Chinese back to me, declaring that it was I and not they whom he wanted. Whereupon, in extreme vexation, I had them all beheaded for causing confusion.”

“Did this not satisfy the Englishman Bowring?” the Emperor inquired.

“It did not, Most High,” the Viceroy replied. “Nothing will satisfy him. He wishes trouble, so that he may have an excuse to make another war and seize still more of our land and our treasure. This Bowring enlarges every cause for quarrel. Thus, although it is against the law to bring opium from India across our borders, he encourages smuggling, saying that as long as any Chinese trader smuggles, Englishmen and Indians and even Americans may be allowed to smuggle the vile weed to demoralize and weaken our people. More than that, guns also are now being smuggled in to sell to the southern Chinese rebels and when the white men from Portugal kidnapped Chinese for the coolie trade, Bowring declared that he would uphold the Portuguese. Moreover, he continues to insist that the English are not satisfied with the land we have allowed them to build their houses upon. No, Most High, now they insist, these Englishmen, that the gates of Canton itself must be opened to them and to their families, so that they may walk upon our streets and mingle with our people, the white males gazing at our women, and the white females, who have no modesty, coming and going as freely as the males. And what is granted to one white tribe will be demanded by all the others as they have done in the past. Is this not to destroy our traditions and corrupt the people?”

The Emperor agreed. “We cannot indeed allow strangers from other countries the freedom of our streets.”

“Most High, I did forbid it, but I fear the English will make whatever I forbid an excuse for yet another war, and, small man that I am, I cannot take responsibility.”

This is what Tzu Hsi heard behind the screen and she longed to cry out against the interlopers. But she was a woman and must keep silence.

The Emperor spoke. “Have you yourself represented our opinion to this Bowring Englishman?”

He was now so roused that he raised his voice to a feeble shout and this alarmed the Viceroy, for he had never heard the imperial voice raised before, and he turned his head toward Prince Kung, not lifting his face to the Throne.

“Most High,” he said. “I cannot receive Bowring because he insists that he be allowed to call upon me as an equal. Yet how can he be my equal when I am the appointed of the Dragon Throne? This would be to insult the Throne itself. I have replied that I will only receive him as I do others from tributary states. He must approach me on his knees as they do. This he will not.”

“You are correct,” the Emperor said with puny anger.

Thus encouraged, the Viceroy proceeded to further revelation. “Moreover, O Most High, this Bowring insists that I forbid the people of Canton to print wall papers denouncing the white strangers. These papers, Most High, the Chinese paste upon the walls of the city and upon the city gates and Bowring is angry because they call his tribe barbarian and because they demand that all invaders leave our shores.”

“They are right,” the Emperor exclaimed.

“Entirely right, Most High,” the Viceroy agreed. “And how can I forbid the people? It has been their ancient privilege and custom to say what they think and to make known their wishes to their rulers by public protest. Am I now to say that the people may not speak? Is this not to invite fresh rebellion? They were cowed last year when I ordered the provincial armies to kill all rebels. At that time eighty thousand rebels were killed, as I reported to the Dragon Throne, but if one rebel is left alive, ten thousand spring up like weeds. Is it not to put power into the hands of Chinese rebels who continually think that they should be ruled by Chinese and not by Manchus?”

His point struck home. The Emperor raised his right hand to his mouth that he might hide the trembling of his lips. He feared the Chinese he ruled even more than the white men who pressed upon him. His voice faded.

“Certainly the people must not be restrained,” he muttered.

Instantly Prince Kung took up the words and repeated them as was his duty. “Certainly the people must not be restrained,” he said in his loud clear voice. Over the kneeling multitude of ministers and princes approval rose in a subdued roar.

“I will send down my command tomorrow,” the Emperor said to the Viceroy when silence had fallen again.

The Viceroy bowed his head nine times to the floor and gave way to the next minister. But all knew why the Emperor delayed.

That night when she was summoned, Tzu Hsi knew what she must say. All day she had remained alone and in thought, and she did not even send for her son. Her struggle was with her own anger. Could she have yielded to her anger she would have the Emperor send his armies to attack the foreigners and force them from the shores of China, to the last and youngest child, never to return. But her hour was not yet. She understood well that she must first rule herself if she would rule others, for had she not read in the
Analects
those very words? “When a ruler’s conduct is correct, his government is effective without issuing orders. If his personal conduct be not correct, he may issue orders, but they will not be followed.” And if such words were true for a male ruler, how much were they true for one who was a woman! How doubly rigorous must she be! Ah, that she had been born a man! She would herself have led the Imperial Armies against the invaders. What sins had she committed in some former life that she was born female in these times when strong men were wanted? She brooded upon the eternal question, sending mind and memory far back into her deepest being. She could not pierce beyond the womb. She was what she was born, and she must do with what she had, a man’s mind in a woman’s body. Man’s mind and woman’s body she would combine to do what must be done.

That night when the Emperor received her she found him too frightened for his habitual lust, a desire made fierce because his body could no more obey his mind. He received her eagerly and in his eagerness she read his fear. While he held her right hand in both his hands he caressed her palm, and asked her the question that he had waited to put to her.

“What shall we do with this Bowring Englishman? Does he not deserve to die?”

“He does,” she said gently, “as any man deserves to die who insults the Son of Heaven. But you know, my lord, that when one strikes a viper, the head must be severed at the first blow, else the creature will turn and attack. Therefore your weapon must be sharp and certain. We do not know what the weapon should be, but we know this serpent is both wily and strong. Therefore I beg you delay and make excuse, never yielding but never refusing, until the way is clear.”

He listened, his sallow face wrinkling with anxiety, and every word she spoke he received as though he heard it from Heaven. Indeed, when she had finished he said very fervently:

“You are Kuan Yin herself, Goddess of Mercy, sent to me by Heaven at this dreadful moment to guide and support me.”

He had spoken many words of love to her, he had called her his heart and his liver, but what he now said pleased her beyond anything she had ever heard.

“Kuan Yin is my own favorite among the heavenly beings,” she replied, and her voice, sweet and powerful as it was by nature, at this moment was also tender.

The Emperor sat up in his bed with sudden energy. “Bid the Chief Eunuch call my brother,” he exclaimed. Like all weak men, he was impatient when a decision was made and overquick to act.

Tzu Hsi obeyed, nevertheless. In a few minutes Prince Kung came in, and she felt again as she looked at his grave and handsome face, that this man she could trust. Theirs was a common destiny.

“Sit down—sit down,” the Emperor said impatiently to this younger brother.

“Allow me to stand,” Prince Kung replied in courtesy, and he remained standing while the Emperor spoke in his high voice, nervous, stammering, seeking for words.

“We have—I have—decided not to attack the white strangers with one blow. They deserve immediate death. But when one steps on a viper—that is to say, a viper should be killed instantly, you understand, his head crushed, or cut off—the question being—”

“I do understand, Most High,” Prince Kung said. “It is better not to attack unless we can be sure of destroying the enemy instantly and forever.”

“It is what I am saying,” the Emperor said peevishly. “Some day, of course, it is what we must do. Meanwhile delay, you comprehend, not yielding, but not refusing.”

“Ignoring the white men?” Prince Kung inquired.

“Exactly,” the Emperor said wearily. He lay back on his yellow satin cushions.

Prince Kung reflected. Had his brother made such decisions alone, he might have believed that it was from his habitual dread of trouble, the constant lethargy which stayed action. But he knew that this was Tzu Hsi’s advice. He heard it, knowing very well the powerful and reasoning brain that was hidden inside the beautiful and shapely head. Yet she was very young—and a woman! Could this be wisdom?

“Most High,” he began patiently.

But the Emperor refused to hear him. “I have spoken!” Thus he cried in a high and angry voice.

Prince Kung bowed his head. “Let it be so, Most High. I will myself take your commands to the Viceroy Yeh.”

The brittle peace continued. Upon a winter’s morning in the last month of the old moon year and the first month of the new solar year, when her son was nine months old, Tzu Hsi woke and, waking, breathed a mighty sigh. Again and again in the night her unsleeping mind had struggled through to consciousness. She felt a loneliness so heavy that it seemed some monstrous and unseen danger from which she could not escape. No more did she waken in the morning as she had once waked at her home in Pewter Lane, her eyes opening on the calm morning sun shining through the latticed windows. Her bed there, shared with her sister, was a refuge to which there was no return, her mother a shelter that was hers no more. Who in this vast tangle of walled passages and courtyards and palaces cared whether she lived or died? Even the Emperor had his many concubines.

“Ah, my mother,” she moaned softly into her satin pillows.

No voice answered. She lifted her head and saw the gray light of late dawn steal over the high walls of the courtyard outside her window. Snow had fallen in the night and it lay thickly upon the walls and over the tiled garden. The round pool was hidden beneath snow and the pine trees were bent under its load.

I am too sad, she thought. I feel the very marrow in my bones cold with sadness.

Yet she was not ill. Her arms, lying under the quilts, were warm and strong. Her blood flowed, her mind was clear. She was only heartsick.

If I could see my mother, she thought. If I could see the one who bore me—

She remembered her mother’s face, sensible and good, cheerful and shrewd, and she longed to return to her mother and tell her that she was afraid and alone in the palaces. In her uncle’s house in Pewter Lane there was no fear or foreboding, no ominous future. The morning dawned only to the simple necessities of food and the day’s work. There was no splendor nor demand for greatness.

“Ah, my mother,” she sighed again, and she felt the yearning of a child for its own. Oh, that she could return to her source!

The need pervaded her, she rose with it in her heart, and all day she was sad. A sad day indeed, the gray light struggling through the white fall of the snow so that even at noon the lanterns were still lit in the rooms. She went nowhere except into her own library, a place she had taken for herself in a small adjoining palace long unused. Here she had commanded eunuchs to gather the books she liked best and the scrolls she liked to open and to ponder upon. But books did not speak to her today and she sat the hours through with her scrolls, unrolling one after another slowly, until she found the one she sought, a hand scroll, seventeen feet long, painted by the artist Chao Meng-fu in the Mongol dynasty of Yüan. This scroll, five hundred years old and more, had been inspired by her favorite, the great Wang Wei, master of landscape art, who had painted the scenes from his own home, where he lived for thirty years before he died. Now behind the palace walls on this winter’s day, where she could see only sky and falling snow, Tzu Hsi gazed upon the green landscapes of continuing spring. One landscape melted into another as slowly she unrolled the scroll, so that she might dwell upon every detail of tree and brook and distant hillside. So did she, in imagination, pass beyond the high walls which enclosed her, and she traveled through a delectable country, beside flowing brooks and spreading lakes, and following the ever-flowing river she crossed over wooden bridges and climbed the stony pathways upon a high mountainside and thence looked down a gorge to see a torrent fed by still higher springs, and breaking into waterfalls as it traveled toward the plains. Down from the mountain again she came, past small villages nestling in pine forests and into the warmer valleys among bamboo grooves, and she paused in a poet’s pavilion, and so reached at last the shore where the river lost itself in a bay. There among the reeds a fisherman’s boat rose and fell upon the rising tide. Here the river ended, its horizon the open sea and the misted mountains of infinity. This scroll, Lady Miao had once told her, was the artist’s picture of the human soul, passing through the pleasant scenes of earth to the last view of the unknown future, far beyond.