Imperial Woman (43 page)

He rose and drew from his robe a folded paper in a long narrow envelope and, kneeling before her, he presented it with both hands, remaining on his knees while she read it quickly. She knew the handwriting. It was that of Wu K’o-tu, the same member of the Board of Imperial Censors who had earlier wished to memorialize the Throne concerning the receiving of foreigners, and whom she had refused. This present memorial was addressed to the Emperor, her son.

“I, most humble slave, do now present this secret memorial beseeching the Throne to end official conflict by granting permission to ministers of foreign governments to stand instead of kneel before the Dragon Throne, and by this permission to show imperial magnanimity and the prestige of the Superior Man. Until this time nothing has been accomplished by insistence upon tradition, and the foreign ministers are only alienated.”

The Empress Mother felt old fury stir in her breast. Was her will again to be disputed? Was her own son to be roused against her? If the Dragon Throne were no longer venerated, what honor was left?

Her eyes hurried down the lines and caught a quotation from the ancient sage. “As Mencius has written, ‘Why should the Superior Man engage himself in quarrels with the lower order of birds and beasts?’”

She cried out passionately, “This cursed Censor twists even the ancient words of a great sage to his own ends!” Nevertheless she read on to discover what Wu K’o-tu had written.

“I hear that the rulers of foreign nations are deposed by their subjects as though they were puppets. Is this not because these rulers are merely men, and not one of them a Son of Heaven? With my own eyes I have seen foreign men walking in the streets of Peking like servants and without shame, their females walking ahead of them or even riding in sedan chairs. In all the treaties these foreigners have made with us, there is not one word concerning reverence for parents and elders or respect for the nine canons of virtues. There is no mention of the four principles, namely, the observance of ceremony, the individual’s duty to other human beings, integrity of character and a sense of shame. Instead, they speak only and always of commercial profit. Such men do not know the meaning of duty and ceremony, wisdom and good faith. Yet we expect them to behave as civilized men. They do not know the meaning of the five relationships, the first of which is that between sovereign and subject, and yet we expect them to behave as though they did know. We might as well bring pigs and dogs into the Audience Hall and expect beasts to prostrate themselves before the Dragon Throne. If we insist upon such men kneeling, how can it increase the luster of the Throne?

“Moreover, these foreigners even dare to say that their absurd rulers, whom they presume to call emperors, are to be placed on a level with His Sacred Majesty. If we can overlook such shame as this, why do we trouble ourselves about their envoys refusing to kneel? And again, two years ago, when Russian barbarians pressed upon China from Ili and all the northwest and seized vast stretches of our land, carrying on an aggression never before known in history, our statesmen showed no shame. Why then do we cry out about the humiliation of foreigners refusing to kneel before the Dragon Throne? And, as a fact, how can we force them to kneel when they will not? Have we the armies and the weapons to compel them? This, too, must be considered. The master sage, Confucius, when asked in what lay the art of government, replied that there are three requisites, plenty of food, plenty of armies, and the confidence of the people. Asked which of these could be dispensed with in time of necessity, the master replied, ‘Dispense first with the troops, next with the food supply.’ If therefore our imperial government is not able to compel the foreigners to its will, it is better to act the part of generosity rather than to rouse the doubts of the people.

“It seems, therefore, that the Throne should issue a decree excusing the foreign envoys from performing the ceremonies of the Court and if in the future these foreigners commit offensive acts because of their ignorance, such should be overlooked, for it is unworthy to dispute with these foreigners. At the same time, it should be explained to the foreigners, and to the people, that this decree is an act of clemency and in no wise a precedent. Let us proceed to develop our strength, biding our time.

“I, the writer of this worthless memorial, am but an ignorant inhabitant of a wild and remote district and know nothing of affairs of State. Greatly daring and of rash utterance, I present this my memorial, knowing the while that in so doing I risk the penalty of death.”

In her natural anger against the audacity of the foreign envoys, to which was now added such advice as the Censor had proposed, the Empress Mother’s hands itched to tear the memorial into a thousand pieces and fling them away to be lost, but she was too prudent to yield even to herself. This Wu K’o-tu was a wise man, a man of years and of high honor. He did more than preach the duties and the ceremonies. He practiced them most rigorously and without excusing himself from one ounce of burden. Thus when the Court fled to Jehol and the foreigners had seized the capital, Wu K’o-tu had remained in the city with his aged mother in her last illness. Risking his life, he had stayed at her side, meanwhile ordering as fine a coffin as could be made in such duress. When she died he closed her eyes and saw to it that she was placed comfortably into the coffin. Even then he was not willing to leave her, but hired a cart at great cost and accompanied her to a temple in another city where she could lie in peace and safety until such time as her funeral could take place.

The Empress Mother knew that such righteousness was rare indeed and she restrained her wrath and, folding the memorial, she returned it to the Chief Eunuch.

“Replace this where you found it,” she said, and not deigning to reveal to him what her thoughts were, she dismissed him from her presence.

But the mood of pleasure was gone. She could take no more joy that day in the theater. She sat brooding while the actors performed their parts and she did not lift her head to see what they did or listen to their most seductive songs. In the midst of the last scene, a glorious display of the entire cast, dressed all as Heavenly Beings, singing and gathered about the Queen of Heaven, while at their feet clustered a score of small monkeys, alive but trained to play the parts of devils who had yielded to her kindly power, the Empress Mother rose without a word and walked away so swiftly that her ladies, bemused by the play, did not see her until she was all but gone. Then in haste and confusion they followed. Nevertheless, she kept them at a distance by an imperious gesture and alone she returned to her palace. Only then did she speak and it was to send a eunuch for Li Lien-ying again.

The Chief Eunuch came with gigantic strides, and he appeared before her as she sat in the great carved chair in her library, but not reading, and indeed as motionless as a goddess. Her face was pale and her great eyes bright and cold.

“Bid my son attend me,” she said when she saw the eunuch. Her voice was cold, too, as cold as silver.

He made obeisance and retired and she waited. When a lady opened the door, she waved her away, and the door closed again.

The minutes passed and the Chief Eunuch did not return. The minutes crept into an hour and still he did not come, nor was there a message from the Emperor. The Empress Mother sat on while the light of afternoon faded from the courtyards and twilight crept into the vast library. Still she waited. The serving eunuchs came in on noiseless feet to light the candles in the hanging lanterns and she let them do so, not speaking until the last was lit.

Then she said in her silver-cold voice:

“Where is the Chief Eunuch?”

“Majesty,” a eunuch replied, making obeisance, “he stands outside in the Waiting Pavilion.”

“Why does he not enter?” she asked.

“Majesty, he is afraid.” The eunuch’s voice trembled.

“Send him to me,” she commanded.

She waited and in a moment Li Lien-ying came stealing like a tall shadow from the darkening garden. He flung himself upon the floor before her and she looked down on his crouching shape.

“Where is my son?” she asked without anger, it seemed, except for the silvery coldness of her voice.

“Majesty, I dare not—” he stammered and paused.

“Dare not bring me his answer?” she asked.

“Majesty, he sent word that he is indisposed.” His voice was muffled by his hands as big as plates over his face.

“And is he indisposed?” she inquired. The cool voice seemed careless.

“Majesty—Majesty—”

“He is not indisposed,” she said.

She rose, a figure controlled and graceful. “If he will not come to me, I must go to him,” she said, and walked away so swiftly that the eunuch must scramble from his knees to follow her. She paid him no heed, she did not look back, and since she had commanded her ladies to leave her, none knew that she was gone except the Chief Eunuch and the lesser serving eunuchs who stood at their posts in pavilion, corridor and gateway. Yet none of them dared to move, though each turned to look at each other after she had passed. For the Empress Mother walked as though winged, her face set straight ahead, her eyes burning black in her pale face. And behind her came Li Lien-ying, not daring to stop to explain to anyone what was amiss, for even his long strides could not keep him close to that swift imperial figure in brilliant robes of blue and gold.

Straight she went to the Emperor’s palace, and when she reached the splendid courtyard she mounted the marble steps to the marble terrace. The doors were closed but light streamed through the panes of silken gauze and she looked in. There sat her son, lounging in a great cushioned chair, and leaning over him was Alute. The young Consort held a cluster of cherries to the Emperor’s lips, the early cherries that come from the south, such as he loved, and he was reaching for them, his head thrown back, laughing as the Empress Mother had never seen him laugh. Around him were his eunuchs and the ladies of the young Empress, and they were all laughing like children.

She wrenched the door open and stood there, bright as a goddess against the darkness of the night. The light of a thousand candles fell upon her glittering robes and headdress and upon her beautiful furious face. Her long eyes, enormous and shining, swept looks to right and left upon them all, until she brought them upon her son and Alute.

“My son, I hear that you are ill,” she said in her sweet, cruel voice. “I am come to see how you are.”

He sprang to his feet while Alute stood like a statue, motionless, the cherries still hanging in her hand.

“I see you are indeed very ill,” the Empress Mother said, not moving her eyes from her son’s face. “I shall command the Court physicians to attend you immediately.”

He could not speak. He gazed at his mother, his eyes sick indeed with fear.

“And you, Alute,” the Empress Mother said, carving her every word as cold and clear as icicles, “I wonder that you do not consider your lord’s health. He should not eat fresh fruit when he is ill. You are too careless of your duties to the Son of Heaven. I will have you punished.”

The Emperor closed his hanging jaw and swallowed. “Mother,” he stammered, “I beg you, nothing is Alute’s fault. I was weary—the audience lasted all day—very nearly. I did feel ill.”

She put her terrible gaze upon him again and felt the heat of her own eyes in their sockets. She took three steps forward. “Down on your knees,” she cried. “Do you think because you are Emperor you are not my son?”

All this while Alute did not move. She stood straight and tall, her delicate face proud and her eyes not afraid. Now she dropped the cherries she had forgotten to put down, and she seized the Emperor’s arm.

“No,” she cried in a low soft voice. “No, you shall not kneel.”

The Empress Mother took two more steps forward. She thrust forth her right hand, the forefinger pointed to the floor.

“Kneel!” she commanded.

For a long instant the young Emperor wavered. Then he loosed his arm from Alute’s hand.

“It is my duty,” he said and fell to his knees.

The Empress Mother bent her look upon him in another dreadful silence. Her right hand fell slowly to her side.

“It is well that you remember your duty to your elder. Even the Emperor is no more than a child before his mother, so long as she lives.”

She raised her head then and sent her gaze searching over eunuchs and ladies.

“Away with you all,” she cried. “Leave me alone with my son.”

One by one they crept away until only Alute was left.

“You, also,” the Empress Mother insisted, unrelenting.

Alute hesitated, then with a mournful look, she, too, went away, her feet silent in their satin shoes.

When all were gone, the Empress Mother changed as suddenly as day in spring. She smiled and went to her son and passed her smooth scented palm over his cheek.

“Get up, my son,” she said gently. “Let us sit down and reason together.” But she took the thronelike chair which was his, and he sat upon Alute’s lower chair. He was trembling, she could see his quivering lips, his nervous hands.

“Even in a palace there must be order,” she said. She made her voice calm and friendly. “It was necessary for me to establish the order of the generations before the eunuchs and in the presence of the Consort. To me she is only my son’s wife.”

He did not answer, but his stealthy tongue slipped out between his teeth to wet his dry lips.

“Now, my son,” she went on, “I am told that you plan in secret to defy my will. Is it true that you will receive the foreign ministers without obeisance?”

He summoned all his pride. “I am so advised,” he said, “and even by my uncle, Prince Kung.”

“And you will do it?” she inquired. Who better than he could catch the edge of her lovely voice, silver and dangerous?

“I will do it,” he said.

“I am your mother,” she said. “I forbid you.”

Her heart grew soft against her will while she gazed at his young, handsome face, the mouth too tender, the eyes large and liquid, and in spite of his willfulness and his stubborn ways, she discerned now, as she had when he was a child, his secret fear of her. A pang of sadness passed through her heart. She would have him so strong that even her he would not fear, for any fear is weakness. If he were afraid of her, he would also be afraid of Alute, yielding to her, so that some day she, the wife, would be the stronger. Had he not often gone for comfort to Sakota, and in secret? So now perhaps he escaped to Alute because he was afraid of her who was his mother, and who loved him better than a girl could know how to love. She had given up all her womanhood for him, she had made his destiny her own.