The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  At least she is beginning to take an interest in life again. Coward as I am, I gave Nellie the awful task of telling her everything that has happened while she has been ‘out of this world’. The murder of her father. The death of her lover. Boxers and so on. We had the morphine ready to hand in case the anguish overwhelmed her—but there was no need for it. She took the news with surprising calm and resolve, only asking to be led to the window and for the shutters to be opened wide enough for her to see the grave of her father. Then she cried awhile. The strength of the girl, especially after what she has been through, is truly amazing. That night Sister Caterina remained in the room with her but she slept soundly. She tossed and turned, and once or twice she cried out, but altogether she passed a peaceful night, much like any other.

  I do not know why I am writing to you at such length about this. I suppose it is because I cannot unburden my worries to anyone here. As far as our little community is concerned I must be the strong, all-knowing physician and the head of the household, brimming with confidence and authority. I never thought of myself as being a leader yet such is the role I have to play now—but I am concerned, James. Not so much about the Boxers—I believe the danger from that quarter is receding. I am very worried about Helen Frances and Tom. I do not know what to do about them.

  You see, Helen Frances won’t see him. Her calm when Nellie told her about Henry Manners’s death was rather frightening. Unnatural, even. She hardly seemed interested to hear about it. Yet she gets into a hysterical state when I suggest that Tom should visit her. She shakes her head on the pillow. She closes her eyes and clenches her teeth. It is not as if Tom has been showing much desire to see her either. He asks about her politely, but perfunctorily, and appears relieved when I change the subject or leave him to get on with his polishing of the silver. These poor children, each of them so wounded by the cruelties of life. I have been a physician long enough to know that, ultimately, healing of the body can only take place when the mind is also made whole; it does not require a mountebank in Vienna to state that obvious fact. Yet what can I do if they refuse to confront each other?

  This is where the physician reaches the boundaries of his healing powers. And I have no answer. Yet I suspect I will have to do something to make a reconciliation even if it is not their desire. Helen Frances cannot remain bedridden much longer and she will have to find a role in this household, at least while the emergency persists. What will happen to our fragile sense of morale if two of our number will not talk to each other?

  My dear James, I had intended this letter to be reassuring and I fear that instead I have been burdening you with my doubts and fears. This is wrong of me and the circumstances do not even merit it for, as I told you before, I am convinced that the worst is over, and that even now the Mandarin is working for our release. Of course I was disappointed that there was no letter or message from the Mandarin when Major Lin brought the food supplies today. Indeed, Major Lin was his usual cold self and remarkably uncommunicative about anything. He brought the supplies, then he left. But I am not disheartened. Not at all. Adversity teaches patience.

  Oh, she had tried. How she had tried.

  She could remember little of what had happened to her in the days, weeks, months, eternities that she had been incarcerated in this little room. She had an image of herself lying on the bed, a wild trussed animal, struggling, slavering, snarling, straining against the ropes. It was as if she had been separated from her own body and could see herself from above. She saw her own bared teeth and rolling eyes, her own back arching and her legs kicking violently against their bonds. She saw the doctor in his baggy black coat with his little leather bag sitting on a chair by the bed; his eyes were closed but his hands covered his ears and tears ran down his cheeks. She saw her own mouth twisting out hideous words and her eyes burning with hate. And this other floating part of her had felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the poor man, who was only trying to help her. And she had determined that she would help him, and fight this thing on the bed with him.

  And one day she had woken and known that she was herself again, and when the doctor had come in with his tray and his bottles and the syringe, she had weakly brushed it away, and fallen asleep again, and this time there had been no dreams.

  That had been a blessed week. There had been noises outside her little room, drums and shouts, but they had seemed far away and nothing to do with her. She was only aware of her own body, the blood flowing in her arms and legs, the thump of her heart, the rhythm of her breathing, the warmth in her womb where she knew that another life was growing. Sleep, food, sleep, and a feeling of returning strength. No thoughts, but for the returning sensations in her body, and this other life, which she could not yet feel but which was nevertheless there inside her. And sleep without dreams.

  Then Nellie had come in and told her about the deaths of her father and Henry. And with the news of their deaths her own life had begun again. She had not understood the full import at first, not until Nellie had helped her from the bed to the window, and lifted the shutters and shown her the wooden cross in the fenced garden off the lawn where her father lay. And she had wept, silently, and Nellie had probably thought that these were the tears of a dutiful daughter, but really she was crying for herself, because now she could no longer hide from what she had done and what she had become, nor escape the self-hatred for the damage she had caused. Her father and Henry were dead. Seeping up from deep within her, like water bubbling from a poisoned well, came the knowledge, and the guilt, that somehow she herself was to blame.

  She had lain on the bed afterwards, looking at the familiar cracked ceiling, and the broken plaster seemed an emblem of her own ruined life.

  Where was that confident girl from the convent, stepping out into a world of promise, so full of excitement, enthusiasm and joie de vivre? The intelligent girl, top of her class, ‘Helen Frances, you’re a modern young lady now ready for a modern century—but don’t let that famous curiosity of yours get the better of you,’ and giggles from the admiring school hall as she had stepped up to collect her prizes.

  That curiosity—no, that hunger for every sensation life had to offer—had betrayed her, as surely as she herself had betrayed every person who had loved her, or been kind to her. Her father, her simple father, who had wanted the best for her and who had gazed at her in wonder when she had first come to Shishan, a sentimental tear in his eye, and called her his princess. Had he known? Had he sought his own death, blundering into that alley where they had found him, because she had broken his heart? The doctor and Nellie, whose hospitality she had so flagrantly abused. Could she ever make amends? And Tom. How cruelly she had treated Tom.

  Tom. Kind, gentle Tom.

  Stupid, boorish Tom.

  She had never really loved him. He had been a toy, a convenient pastime, when her whole world had been opening up, and passions were waking inside her, which she had lavished on the most convenient male receptacle to hand. She had experimented with his love, indulging it as she was indulging herself with all the other sensations of Asia. Tom, malleable Tom, who had only been another spice in an Oriental banquet of exotic dishes arrayed for her pleasure. Oh, she had pretended to believe it was real at the time. She had fooled herself as much as anyone else. And Tom had been lovable in his way, and her affection for him was certainly no less than that she had felt for the collie she had brought up as a puppy at her aunt’s house—but her tears for that collie had not lasted longer than the week following its death under a cart. And her affection for Tom had not survived the first moment when she had seen Henry galloping his horse to Sir Claude MacDonald’s party. From then on Tom had been only a pleasant habit, an adornment, a nosegay, while she herself was pretending to be brilliant in Shishan’s parochial society.

  How could she have been so wicked?

  But was it wickedness to hunger and yearn for the touch of another man whose very presence fired and transformed her into a selfless vessel of passion? The last thing s
he had felt when she was with Henry was that she was sinning, especially not in the act of love when their limbs had been wound and wet together, and her very soul had felt as one with his. It had only ever been natural and right, as nothing else had ever been right in her life. No, it had felt like a sin when she had broken away from him, because a part of her still cared for what the world and society said or thought.

  She knew what the world thought of Henry. She saw it in the averted eye, she heard it in the unsaid words, whenever Dr Airton or Nellie mentioned her baby. To them he was a ruthless adventurer, a seducer, a bounder. But what did they know? Henry had not seduced her. Hers had been the hunger, she the huntress, and Henry, like helpless Actaeon, had fallen to her hounds. And when they were together, when their bodies were wound round each other, hers had been the primal desire. And she was proud that she had woken desire in him. Had he loved her? She hoped that he had, in a small way. But what right had she to claim him? To tie him down to some domestic parlour where she knitted and he came home for tea? It would have been like trying to tame the wind. He was a free spirit, a creature of the wild, a stag, a stallion. She knew his faults, his unfaithfulness, and loved him for it the more. He was her unfulfilled self. His was the freedom that she as a woman could never have. She knew that he was in Shishan for some important mission, whatever it was, and that she could only ever be a part of his life. She had left him because she did not want to trap him any further. The world would think that it was he who had hurt her but that had never been the case. She had hurt only herself. And now he was dead.

  And she was left, mourning the brilliant, tropical storm that had illuminated her universe and now had faded from the sky, leaving only dark clouds behind it, hanging over a flat, dull sea. A sea in which she could not even drown herself, for she had to go on living.

  For his baby still lived—she owed the doctor for that. And she had her duty.

  Dull, boorish Tom. She shuddered now when she thought of him, but she would marry him if he still wanted her. The doctor had woken her back to life, and she owed life a debt. She had drunk its cup to the full, but now she had to taste its lees. And she was willing to do so as reparation for the damage she had caused.

  Dawn, Friday 21 June

  I write in haste. The Boxers have returned. Fielding and Tom were right and I was wrong. Lin’s pickets have deserted us. We do not know what it portends, but fear the worst.

  I am hiding my letters to you, with some valuables, under one of the floorboards in the dining room. If you should ever read these words think kindly of your brother and his family. I entrust Edmund and Mary to your good care. Bring them up as Christians.

  There is so much to say but the drums are throbbing outside.

  May the Lord protect us all.

  Edward Oh, but it is sad that it should end this way. Jenny and George are so young.

  Friday 21 June 1900

  We have survived a terrible day. This morning I was tempted to utter the words of despair: eli, eli, lama sabachthani? But God has not forsaken us. We are together, we are safe. Providence continues to watch over us and the wings of His mercy enfold us and keep us from harm.

  The Boxers must have returned in the early hours before dawn. They were silent at first and they might have crept up upon the house unnoticed, had it not been for the presence of mind of Mr Bowers, who happened to be up early, as is his habit as a railwayman. He was reading his Bible in the sitting room when he heard a noise. Going to the window he saw shapes sliding through the shadows towards the house. He recalled that in the storeroom there was a box of Chinese firecrackers, which I had once confiscated from George and Jenny. Quickly he retrieved these, and also a toy popgun from the children’s room. He thrust the barrel of this through one of the firing-holes. In the dim light no doubt it resembled a real rifle. He then moved quickly from firing-hole to firing-hole, lighting and hurling out the firecrackers one by one. The household was therefore woken by what sounded exactly like gunfire. This was his intention, of course. It had the right effect on the Boxers, too, for they scurried away in fright. The sight was no doubt comical—the turbaned and pantalooned figures scampering into the gloom like startled children caught playing in the costume wardrobe—but none of us was in the mood for mirth. Nor did we feel any elation at our victory. We were appalled that the Boxers were back. We also knew that firecrackers would not keep them away for long. Shortly after the foiled attack, the drums began to beat, as well as the horrible taunts and chants, the memories of which had filled our nightmares since the last time we were besieged.

  Oh, it is a horrible sound, James. An endless repetition of their slogan ‘Destroy the foreigners and save the Ch’ing’ followed by screams of ‘Sha! Sha! Sha!’ which means, ‘Kill! Kill! Kill!’ with verses of unrepeatable lewdness and insult, describing our supposed crimes. I imagine that the cries of devils in Hell cannot be more fearsome, or revolting.

  What was incomprehensible, and certainly most alarming, was that Lin’s soldiers, our guardians such as they were, were nowhere to be seen. Their makeshift tents were gone, as were their cooking pots and their other litter. It was suddenly clear to us that we were to be abandoned to the Boxers.

  You may imagine our feelings of betrayal.

  We gathered in the sitting room, in our dressing gowns, or with trousers hurriedly pulled up under our nightshirts, as forlorn a group of ragamuffins as you could conceive. The children were extremely frightened, and it was as much as Nellie and Sister Caterina could do to stop their crying. One of the Millward boys was wailing like a siren, as hideous a noise as the yells coming from outside—but I am being uncharitable. I hope I am never to see such frightened white faces again as long as I live. Hurriedly, we men held a council of war. Bowers and Tom were calm, but Fischer was in a bad way, and Fielding was not helpful, criticising me for accepting Major Lin’s terms so easily and surrendering all our weapons. As if we had had any choice at the time.

  I will pass over the acrimonious exchanges. Eventually we determined on a plan, hopeless in my view, but anything was better than nothing in those terrible circumstances. When the Boxers attacked, Bowers and Fielding, as the most able-bodied men, would defend the doors as long as they could with choppers, spades and any makeshift weapons they could come by. This would buy time for Fischer, Millward and myself, with Tom, on his crutches, to break out of the small window at the back of the house. Somehow we would find a way down the steep hill slope taking the women and children with us. Bowers and Fielding would join us when they could get away. No one proffered any suggestions about what we would do after that. The truth is that we had no idea—but there was something repulsive about the idea of waiting passively for the Boxers to break in, and a quick death seemed preferable to the thought of being burned alive. We believed that this would be our most likely fate if we stayed. And who knows? Some, if not all, of us might get away.

  Septimus Millward would have none of our plan. ‘The Lord has placed me here and here I will stay,’ he intoned, in his ringing voice, and I am afraid that we all gazed at him, speechless with astonishment. Burton Fielding rounded on him, telling him that the Lord usually helps those who help themselves, and Tom tried to reason with him, asking him to consider the safety of his wife and children. ‘This is as good a place as any for us to await our passage to Heaven,’ was his answer. ‘Who am I to question His Grand Design?’ He was not to be moved.

  I found myself burning with anger against this obdurate man. I think I called him a silly old fool. There was no way that some of us could seek a way to safety leaving this man’s family to burn with their tyrant of a father. It was unthinkable and, anyway, I was worried about Helen Frances, who was in no condition yet to walk far. Since the other men would be needed to defend our retreat, the only one of us with the strength to carry her was Septimus Millward.

  Our arguments raged back and forth. Millward ignored us, falling on his knees in that ostentatious way of his with his head raised in prayer. It was now
nearly nine o’clock. For some hours it had been light and Mr Bowers, who had positioned himself next to the window, giving us occasional reports of the gathering Boxer strength, now called to us that there were ominous signs of activity on the lawn. No fewer than twenty Boxer Braves were dancing their ritual of possession, which we knew usually preceded an attack.

  In exasperation I rounded on the company: ‘What do we do?’ I asked. ‘Do we fight? Do we run? Do we stay?’ The silence that followed told me it was I who had to make a decision, and quickly. ‘Millward,’ I cried, ‘we will follow our plan. I cannot force you to join us but I plead with you to allow Mrs Millward and the children to come with us to safety.’ Laetitia stood up. She was ashen-faced. ‘The children and I remain with Septimus,’ she whispered. I looked down at the plaintive expressions of her little ones, and heard my own voice, as if coming from afar: ‘Then we will leave without you,’ I said. I think that I added, ‘May God protect you.’ James, that was undoubtedly the most terrible moment I had ever experienced in my life.

  Without a further word, Bowers and Fielding left us to gather their weapons. Nellie, giving me an unfathomable look, hurried off with Sister Caterina to prepare Helen Frances for the journey. I stood by the window, looking out at the Boxers, feeling helpless.

  I do not know what would have happened if the Miracle had not intervened. Truly, it was a desperate plan to which we had committed ourselves. But as I watched the Boxers on the lawn, leaping in more and more frenzied dance, I heard a trumpet blow, long and hard and discordant, from behind their ranks. The drums ceased beating. The chanting stopped. In the strange silence, the dancers froze, then hesitatingly, questioningly, looked behind them, as if embarrassed by being caught in a faux-pas at a country ball. A loud voice shouted a command, and a moment later the twenty figures were loping back to their fellows. And then, strangest of all, the whole host turned, and in silence disappeared. It had taken only a few moments, but where there had been a horde of devils screaming for our blood, now there was no one.