by Kane, Clare
I had enjoyed many a healthy argument with Nicholas; we had sparred over the relative strengths of Taoism versus Buddhism, I had advocated the paintings of the Dutch Golden Age in the face of his robust defense of China’s school of bird and flower, together we had pondered the future of China, sizing the likelihood of its fate being bound in imperial chains versus its flourishing as the world’s rightful Middle Kingdom. I had stepped away from many such discussions bruised and humbled, awed by Nicholas’ raw intellect and seasoned rhetoric, yet never had I felt the dismay that touched me now, the apprehension that leadened my limbs as I descended the stairs. Nicholas and I rarely entered the realm of the personal; never had I offered judgment upon his decision to raise Nina in an alien land, not once had I questioned his relationship with Pei. My attitude to the Wards’ life in Peking had been one of tacit endorsement because, for the most part, I thought their unconventional arrangement rather a lovely one. Only now, in my first questioning of Nicholas’ wisdom, did I see the tenacity of his stubborn determination, and realize that I must take action where he refused to do so.
Light glowed from the drawing room and I stepped towards its brilliance. The blaze still smoldered outside, and Nina read alone without the aid of a lamp.
“Nina,” I said. “I am most glad to see you.”
She closed the book she read - Far From The Madding Crowd, naturally - and looked up to me. I took a seat at the opposite end of the long chaise upon which she sat.
“How are you?” I asked. “I have been worried for you.”
“You needn’t worry for me,” she said gently. “I am quite all right.”
What then could I say? I am not a man afraid of words, I have my whole life sought to mould and model them to my desires, to make them submit to my dominance, and yet I have always maintained my respect for language, and do not consider it my place to make blunt use of a pointed tool. I took a breath and assembled my list of questions: Who else knows of James Millington’s declaration of love? What has passed between Mr Fairchild and yourself? What did Lillian Price mean when she so triumphantly reported Oscar’s fatigue?
“Nina, what has happened?” My final question, then, was unwieldy and unfocused, a forlorn signpost waved desperately by one entering terrain beyond his ken.
Nina bowed her head and played with the folds of her skirt. Solemnly she collected her breath, met my eye and looked to begin.
“Mr Scott, excuse me. I thought you had already departed.”
Startled, Nina lifted a hand to her lips, her words faltered unspoken. Oscar Fairchild walked the length of the room towards us with easy stride.
“How strange the light is tonight,” he continued. “I suspect we shall all have trouble sleeping. I came only to collect my book. Now, where did I leave it?” Oscar’s gaze swept the room, before settling upon a small painted cabinet a foot from where I sat. “Here it is!”
“Dream Of The Red Mansion,” I read the title as he lifted the volume. “Do you like Chinese literature, Mr Fairchild?”
“One must take an interest in the great novels of one’s host country, do you not think, Mr Scott?” Oscar stood before me, smiling, the book gripped between his fingers.
“Absolutely,” I conceded. “I only thought a man such as yourself might have greater concerns than the machinations of a fictional eighteenth century Chinese family.” I cleared my throat, attempted to dissolve the burgeoning irritation I felt in the face of Fairchild’s agreeable manner. His affable drawing room patter, his mask of amiable chatter, impressed and provoked me. “At a time such as this, at least.”
“And yet a country’s spirit lives in its authors, does it not?” Nina said. “To understand a nation, one must know its myths and fables. The people of Peking and London learn their country’s values and ideals through its novels, just as the villagers of Shantung tell one another stories of the Eight Immortals in the hopes that their neighbors might emulate such giants.”
“Well, yes.” I regarded the Nina and Oscar; they did not speak directly to one another, in fact, both appeared exceedingly careful not to look upon the other. In this conversation ostensibly involving three, I served as the only interlocutor for both Oscar and Nina and this lack of interaction gave me no recourse to assess independently the nature of their relations. “I suppose,” I said, getting to my feet, “that I ought to return home.”
“I shall call a servant to accompany you,” Oscar said.
“Oh, no,” I started, but Fairchild insisted. Placing Dream Of The Red Mansion upon the chaise, he went only as far as the door to summon a servant, and dashed any opportunity I might have had to speak more with Nina. Immediately she opened the book, turned its familiar pages, traced words long ago committed to memory.
“For you are fair as a flower and youth is slipping away like flowing water…Flowers fall, the water flows red, grief is infinite,” Nina read. “Do you ever wish you might read your favourite novel once more for the first time? I wish I might remember how I felt the first time I read those words…”
Observing her in that state so natural to her, and so infectiously joyous, I wished I might take Nina with me, return her to her rightful home, place her in the shade of the magnolia tree, allow her to hear once more the chirping of the swallows in the eaves, let her mind range and wonder with her father and Pei, permit her to spend hazy afternoons at the lake with Chang. I wished only to take her from that magnificent residence in which she had been placed, to remove her from the imperious gaze of the serious portraits upon the walls, to save her from the cruel murmurings of its inhabitants, to rescue her from gracious seduction by the cordial diplomat who stood once again before us. And yet any such rescue was impossible; even if the Boxers posed no threat and the city were secure, Nina was not a young woman to be saved. Her spirit was as majestically proud as her father’s, I regretted, as I followed Fairchild’s servant to the front door. Would Oscar leave her now? I wondered. Or would they remain together, bathed in false illumination, reading one another’s favored tales of lands they could not fathom? Only whisky might lead to me to sleep on that strange, burning night, I thought, and so I turned at a fork in the road towards the Grand.
In the morning I set out for a brief tour of the Boxers’ ruination, taking in the abandoned homes and looted shops, and returned to the unnatural quiet of my neighborhood with dismayed heart. I opened the front door, starting when I saw La Contessa seated proprietorially by my desk, hands poised over my papers.
“I thought you would never come!” She rose and we embraced, but I pulled quickly away.
“Chiara, you shouldn’t be here alone. It is extremely dangerous. Imagine if I were a Boxer! Here you are, entirely defenseless, not even a servant to protect you…”
“I needed to see you,” she said, pressing her lips hurriedly against mine.
“And of course I’m delighted that you came to see me. But how on earth did you come to be here?”
“Mr Lovell stopped by this morning and took Miss Ward, Miss Price and I for a walk. I suppose he meant to allow the girls some fresh air, perhaps even to cheer their spirits. Naturally they were both rather disturbed by the destruction, and Nina seems very concerned about what may have happened to her home.” La Contessa’s fingers made quick work of the ties at the back of her dress as she spoke. “Anyway, the young soldiers guarding the Legation Quarter were most taken with our young friends and I simply slipped away. You are pleased to see me?”
“Naturally.” I kissed her.
This time we retired to my bedroom and the resulting encounter was rather less frantic than the previous. Yes, we struggled against the specter of death, yes, we continued to laugh before fear, but there was a rhythm, a calm, a sense of serene inevitability to our connection.
La Contessa reclined against me, her black hair fanned over my chest.
“What news?” she asked, lifting her head. A few trails of hai
r remained stuck to my chest.
“The Imperial Council meets again today. There is some promise of advancement,” I said, repeating what I had heard that morning on my tour of the Legation Quarter. “The diplomats say that the court officials have finally come to their senses and decided that the Boxers must be somehow… pacified. That means they ought to turn the Imperial troops against them and then…”
“It all ends?”
“Yes,” I said.
La Contessa fell once again to my chest with a great sigh.
“Is it so terrible that I hope it may last a little longer?” she asked. “I wouldn’t complain of spending more days like this.”
“It is terrible,” I said with forgiving laughter. “But I shan’t tell anyone.”
Chiara needn’t have worried. Qing government ministers continued their debates over the following days, wavering in their support for both sides, delaying discussions until we had all but lost hope. The promised breakthrough was ultimately quashed when the Empress Dowager received a document, its contents supposedly signed and endorsed by representatives of every foreign government in Peking. I like to imagine Tz’u Hsi reading each of the demands contained in the forgery, those ludicrous wishes for foreigners to control China’s military and tax matters. The document, most likely written by an anti-foreign hardliner such as Prince Tuan, spurred old Tz’u Hsi to action. War, she decided then, was the only way forward. Her hunch was proved correct when two days later she received word that the foreign powers had attempted to take the Taku forts near Tientsin; in fact allied powers had already seized them, but bad news was always sweetened when presented to the Empress Dowager. This action was perceived tantamount to a declaration of war by the foreigners in Tz’u Hsi’s eyes. None was more surprised to hear of it than us, the citizens of the allied nations. We had received no word from the troops we had hoped would soon liberate us and as a result knew nothing of the events at the Taku forts. Imagine, then, the distasteful shock with which the foreign ministers opened a set of neatly-pressed, carefully addressed red envelopes, each containing a terse request for the nationals of each minister’s jurisdiction to leave Peking within twenty-four hours. Leave peacefully, it instructed, and we shall permit your safe passage.
The ministers assembled in the Spanish Legation, some still holding the red envelopes in their hands, turning them over and over, willing the words printed inside to disappear, or at least to assume a friendlier tone. They agreed to my accompanying them, and I was glad of it, not simply for the news I might be first to tell but also for the opportunity to speak on behalf of the people of the Legation Quarter. Officials, I had learned, had far softer resolve than soldiers. They possessed the scholar’s natural tendency to scramble at the first sniff of war, and those first minutes of dialogue confirmed my belief that panicked men were better employed in silent consideration than in committees of joint discussion. The diplomats’ voices, strained, sharp, higher than usual, sounded a discordant chorus of disagreement. We must leave, the French said. We shall be slaughtered, said Germany’s von Ketteler.
“Remember Cawnpore,” Oscar Fairchild said. “They killed everyone; women, children, after such a promise. The risk is far too great.”
“We must go!” responded an incensed French diplomat. “Do you know when the soldiers might arrive? What do I say to my people?”
“If I may,” I ventured. “As the only civilian present, it falls to me to speak for the men, women and children of no diplomatic status currently resident in Peking, and I say we must wait. I understand the reasoning of those who call for a rapid departure, of course, but we must be wise to the dangers. Even if this invitation does not constitute a plot, who knows what lies beyond Peking’s walls? And what of the native Christians? Are we simply to abandon them to the Boxers? Gentlemen, I implore you. Let us wait a little longer.”
I took a breath, ready to continue, when a terrific explosion sounded behind us. Fire crackled, spluttered and smoke billowed through the air.“By God!” Oscar made for the door.
“Are they here?”
The already-frayed nerves of the officials were shot through by the explosion. The Spanish Minister, Cologan, accompanied Oscar Fairchild to investigate its source. They returned to tell us that the explosion had been caused by nothing more sinister than a nearby fireworks shop catching fire. Another day, we might have laughed, but by then we had rather lost of sense of humour. And so the meeting continued, but no consensus was reached. Attempts at debate were unhelpfully punctuated by the loud peals of self-immolating fireworks launching themselves into the air.
When the meeting concluded, I walked with Oscar to the Fairchild house. He had tried to evade me, talking at great length with one especially infuriated French diplomat, occasionally looking round to see if I had departed. Eventually, he conceded defeat, allowed the Frenchman to walk away and accepted my presence by his side.
“We cannot leave,” I said seriously to him. If Fairchild thought I might openly broach the topic of his relations with Nina, he was mistaken. For one, I was a seasoned enough observer of men to know that one does not expose his intentions so quickly without full knowledge of the situation at hand (one cannot accuse another of a crime not only unproven, but also unspecified), and at that particular moment my concern lay with eventualities far more terrible than a muddied reputation. Lives were at risk, and I would not stand idly by as men of great office and humble intellect led innocents towards a massacre both ghastly and wholly unnecessary.
“Of course not. Every Englishman in India is haunted by tales of the Mutiny. When one is far from home, one must take others’ promises with the appropriate pinch of salt.” Oscar did not turn as we passed the fireworks shop, now completely engulfed by searing flames.
“Do you think the others will agree? It is vital that we present a united front,” I insisted. “If the Chinese knew of the disagreement between these supposed allies…”
“I won’t leave,” Oscar said firmly.
“Quite right,” I said. “If the ministers let their people leave, they shall have blood on their hands.”
A servant opened the door and we stepped into an atmosphere of quiet industriousness. No one read leisurely on the verandah or talked idly in the drawing room. Every guest had retreated to their quarters and was busily packing their belongings. I watched Lillian and Nina from the doorway to their room. The contrast between their approaches was marked. Nina folded clothes slowly, considering each item before resigning it to her small bag. Lillian Price, having recovered some of the color that had once pinked her cheeks, excitedly bundled dresses and blouses into imperfect squares, removing and replacing them in her valise with cheerful hurriedness.
“Mr Scott!” Lillian’s smile was wide, genuine, childlike. “Have you heard? We are leaving! Oh, I cannot wait to go home!” She lifted a blouse, glancing at it quickly before rolling it, sausage-like, into her trunk. “Have you packed your belongings, Mr Scott? We must leave today or tomorrow.”
“We shall not go anywhere,” I said solidly. “No one is to leave the Legation Quarter. It’s too dangerous.”
Lillian’s face fell.
“Oh no, Mr Scott. Mrs Franklin told us so. One of the ministers, French I think he was, went to Su’s palace and told them all that we were to leave.” Her voice was airy, hopeful.
“No. I come from a meeting of ministers and I assure you that no one is leaving. You do not need that valise.”
“Where do you suppose we shall go? Should I take my summer blouses or…?” Lillian continued.
“Miss Price. No one is leaving. Mr Fairchild will tell you the same. We may discuss this further at dinner, but for now I suggest you stop packing.”
Nina nodded.
“It was too good to be true,” she said, pulling a dress back out from her leather bag.
Lillian sank down onto the bed with an accusing look at her useless, bul
ging trunk. She neatly lifted her foot and administered a short, hard kick, causing dresses and skirts to spill over the sides and puddle pathetically on the floor.
“Damn China,” she whispered fiercely.
Under the deep pink skies of dawn, German Minister von Ketteler settled himself in a sedan chair, a book in his lap and a cigar jostling at the corner of his mouth. His destination was the Tsungli Yamen, or Foreign Ministry. Foreign diplomats had yet to reach a consensus on whether to take the official promises at face value and so von Ketteler, who had idled away much of the past few days taking potshots at Chinese from the Legation Quarter walls, decided to take matters into his own hands. Surrounded by a veritable army of interpreters and weapon-bearing guards, he waved us goodbye with a joke about the inefficiency of Chinese bureaucratic practices, saying he might even have finished his book by the time Qing officials deigned to see him. The German’s curled mustache and smug countenance as he drove off quickly disappeared from my thoughts. I had made a fresh arrangement with La Contessa; I knew Edward Samuels of the Grand to be of the utmost discretion (after all, one couldn’t run a hotel on tittle-tattle) and I had decided to take a room, simply telling him that I required a quiet and somewhat secure place in which to work. I hoped a room in the Legation Quarter would permit La Contessa the freedom to slip out to see me without arousing suspicion; it was becoming nigh on impossible for a woman to leave behind the safety of the foreign district and I doubted any of the guards dotted around the walls of the Legation Quarter would allow her to step foolhardy and free into the city of unbridled conflict that lay beyond the perimeter of half-safety the foreign powers had constructed. As Edward had handed me the key, no shade of judgement crossed his face.
