That was Yehonala's house—and there were hundreds like it, palaces, temples, museums, art galleries, libraries, summer houses, and pavilions, all crammed with treasures so opulent that … why, if those Russian Easter eggs that are so admired had found their way into the Summer Palace, I swear they'd have boiled 'em. God knows what it was all worth—or what it was all for. Greed? Vanity? An attempt to create a luxurious paradise on earth, so that the earth could be forgotten? If the last, then it succeeded, for you forgot the world in an instant. It should have seemed just a great, overstuffed bazaar—but it didn't, probably because of this last detail which I shall tell you, and then I'm done with description: every one of the millions of precious things in the Summer Palace, from the forty-foot jade vases in the Hall of Audience, so fragile that you could read print through them, to the tiny gold thimble on a corner shelf in the room of Yehonala's chief seamstress, was labelled with its description, origin, and the exact position which it must occupy in the room. Think of that the next time you drop a book on the table.
Possibly because of recent events, and my new surroundings, my memories of the first two days in that house are all at random. I saw no one but the eunuchs, whose first task was to groom the barbarian and make him fit for human consumption; Little An was early on the scene, scowling sullenly and instructing the lads to see me shaved, scrubbed, and suitably attired—I had to be careful not to understand the shrill directions screamed at me, and to appear to cotton on slowly. I insisted on bathing and shaving myself, and recall sitting in a splendid marble bathing pool, using a jewelled razor on my chest, arms, and legs, and damning (in English) the eyes of the bollockless brigade as they twittered round the brink pouring in the salts and oils to make me smell Chinese. I had a splendid shouting-match with An on the subject of my moustache and whiskers, which he indicated must come off, and which I by Saxon oath and gesture showed I was ready to defend to the last. Finally I removed them—the first time I'd been clean-shaven since I rode as a bronco Apache in Mangus Colorado's spring war party back in '50—but dug in my heels about my top-hair; I'd been bald, when I was Crown Prince of Strackenz, and looked hellish. (Gad, I've suffered in my time.)
Another memory is of sleeping in silk sheets on a bed so soft I had to climb out and camp on the floor. I suppose I ate, and loafed, but it's fairly hazy until the second night, when they took me in a closed sedan chair to the Imperial apartments in the Ewen-ming-ewen.
This was a piece of pure effrontery on Yehonala's part, and showed not only her supreme confidence in her power, but the extent of that power, and the fear she inspired among the minions of the Imperial court. The Emperor was down in the Forbidden City still, with all his retinue of nobles and attendants, while the Concubine Yi lorded it in the Summer Palace alone—but instead of conducting her illicit amours secretly in her own pavilion, damn if she didn't appropriate his majesty's private apartments, serenely sure that not one of the eunuchs or guards or palace servants would dare to betray her. Little An's spy system was so perfect that I doubt if an informer could have got near the Emperor or any of her enemies, but probably her best security was that almost the whole court worshipped the ground she trod on. "I have that power," remember.
I had no inkling of this when they decanted me at the third of the great halls that made up the Emperor's residence, and led me through a circular side-door to a small dressing-room hung with quilted dragon robes in every conceivable colour—it was just like her, you know, to fig me out in her old man's best gear, although I had no suspicion of what was afoot until Little An began puffing musk at me from a giant squirt, and his assistant applied lacquer to my hair to make it lie down. When they tied a flimsy gauze mask over my face, I thought aha!, and then they bundled me into a corridor and along to a great gilt door where a table stood bearing scores of tortoiseshell plaques, each with a different design worked in precious stones. These were the concubines' tablets, with which his majesty indicated his choice for the night; it was then Little An's task to rout out the appropriate houri, wrap her in the silk cloak, carry her to the gilt door, and shoot her in, no doubt with a cry of "Shop!"
He didn't attempt to carry me, just waved me in and closed the door after me. And through the thin mask I saw enough to confirm my growing suspicions.
Directly ahead of me there was a sort of sloping ramp which led up to an alcove entirely filled by a bed large enough to accommodate the King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry and a couple of signallers; it was sheeted in purple silk with gold lamé pillows in case anyone wanted to sleep. To the left of the ramp were low ebony tables covered with the kind of bric-a-bric that Susie Willinck had insisted on taking to California, only more expensive: silver opium pipes and skewers, delicate golden chains and fetters, cords of silk and velvet and plaited leather, a tiny cat-o'-nine-tails with minute gems glinting in its lashes, and a scattering of exquisitely-tinted pictures which they wouldn't have shown at the Royal Academy in a hurry. Hang it, this ain't the billiard room, thinks I, and glanced to my right—and forgot everything else.
Yehonala was sitting on a low stool, dabbing her lower lip with a little brush before a dressing-table mirror. She was wearing a robe of some gauzy, shimmering material that changed colour with every movement—a wasted effect, since it was entirely transparent. But it wasn't only the sudden vision of that flawless ivory body that set me gulping and gloating as I surveyed the slender foot and ankle, the slim tapering legs, the smooth curve of belly and rump, the tiny waist, and the splendid conical breasts standing clear of the robe—well, you can see it wasn't … it was that perfect face in the mirror, so arrestingly lovely that you couldn't believe it was flesh and blood, and not a picture of some impossible ideal. She glanced at my reflection in the mirror, cool up-and-down.
"You look much better in a mask," says she idly, as she might have addressed her pet Pekingese, pouting her lip to examine it in the glass. "Go to the bed, then, and wait." I didn't move, and remembering that I was an uncomprehending barbarian she pointed with a silver finger-nail, flicking her hand impatiently. "To the bed—there! Go on!"
If there's one thing that can make me randier than a badger it's an imperious little dolly-mop giving me orders with her tits out of her dress. "Don't you believe it, my lass!" growls I in English, and she stopped, brush poised, eyes wide in astonishment—I reckon it was a shock to her to hear the noise the animal made. She gasped as I pulled off my mask, and for an instant there was fear in the dark eyes, so I smiled politely, made her my best bow, and came up behind her stool. Her face set in anger, but before she could speak I had applied the fond caress that I use to coax Elspeth when she's sulking—one hand beneath the chin to pull her head back while you chew her ,mouth open, the other kneading her bouncers with passionate ardour. They can't stir, you see, and after a moment they don't want to. Sure enough, she stiffened and tried to struggle, writhing on the stool with smothered noises … and then she began to tremble, her mouth opened under mine, and as I worked away feverishly at her poonts her hands reached up to clasp behind my head. I disengaged instantly, dropped to one knee by her stool, smiled tenderly into the beautiful bewildered face, squeezed her belly fondly, stole a quick kiss on each tit, and swept her up in my arms as I rose.
"Wait … put me down … no, let me go … wait …" But having no Chinese I strode masterfully up the ramp, whistling "Lilliburlero" to soothe her, dropped her head and shoulders on the edge of the bed while holding the rest of her clear with a hand under either buttock, leaned forward in the approved firing position, and piled in, roaring like a Gorgon. I believe she was quite taken aback, for she gave one uncertain wail, gesturing feebly with those dear little white hands, but I'd arranged her artfully in a helpless position, hanging suspended while wicked Harry bulled away mercilessly with his feet on the ground, and what was the poor child to do? I was fairly certain, from the look of the Emperor's bedside tackle, and what I'd heard her tell Little An about Reluctant Shrimps or Galloping Lobsters or whatever it was, that sh
e had never been romped in normal, true British style in her life, but you could see her taking to it, and by the time my knees began to creak—for I spun the business out to the ecstatic uttermost for her benefit—she was in a condition of swoon, as I once heard a French naval officer put it. I was quite breathless myself, and blissfully content, but I knew that wouldn't be the end of it.
She fulfilled, you see, four of the five conditions necessary for what may be called the Australian Ideal—she was an immensely rich, stunningly beautiful, highly-skilled professional amorist with the sexual appetite of a pagan priestess; she did not own a public house. And having spent ten years entertaining a depraved idiot of unspeakable tastes, she was now deter-mined to make the most of Flashy while he lasted, which was until about noon next day, so far as I could judge, and if Little An had offered to carry me away I'd have held out my arms, whimpering weakly. Mind you, it was partly my own fault for being such a susceptible romantic. For it wasn't only her beauty, or passion, or matchless skill in the noble art that were nearly the death of me; it was her pure irresistible charm. When I was ruined beyond redemption, face down and fagged out, thinking, aye well, it's been not a bad life, and who'd ha' thought it would end on the Emperor of China's mattress, in the Chamber of Divine Repose (ha!) on the morning of September 25, 1860? … then that perfumed musical whisper would be in my ear, and I'd turn feebly to meet that angelic face with its little smile that pierced me through, and such a wave of sentimental affection would come over me, and a great longing to lock her in my heart forever, and … well, somehow, before I knew it, it was boots and saddles again.
In a Gazette article entitled "The Fate of the Peiping Captives in the Late War", you may read how Col. Sir H. Flashman "endured a captivity little better than slavery at the hands of his tormentors", who treated him "in the most degrading and insulting manner", and subjected him "to such usage as can seldom have been met with by a British officer in the hands of a savage foreign Power". It's gospel true, and omits only that if the Army had known the circumstances they'd have been lining up to change places with me.
I was fourteen memorable days (and nights) in the Summer Palace of Pekin, held thrall by the notorious Yi Concubine, and since they followed the pattern of the first, you may think I was on velvet, which I was … and silk, satin, gauze, fur, grass, marble (which is perishing cold), yellow jade (even colder), Oriental carpet, leather upholstery, a Black Watch tartan rug (wherever that came from), and the deck of a pleasure barge on the Jade Fountain Lake, which was her most extraordinary choice of all, I think. We'd been cruising about, watching a battle between little model gunboats blazing away at each other with tiny brass cannon, when my lady becomes bored, and consequently amorous, and decided she didn't care to wait till we reached shore—so she made every other soul on board (half a dozen female attendants, two eunuchs, and the entire crew) jump overboard and flounder ashore in ten feet of water, so that I could rattle her undisturbed. Two of the girls were almost drowned.
From this you might suppose that my sojourn was a continuous orgy; not at all. Most of the time I was confined to Yehonala's pavilion, with a couple of the burliest eunuchs on guard, for she was by no means preoccupied with me in those critical times when she was juggling to catch a crown; sometimes I didn't see her for two days on end—early in my captivity, for instance, she went with the Emperor to Jehol, forty miles away, where she tucked him up to die out of harm's way before returning to Pekin for the showdown with Sang and the barbarians. She was plotting and politicking for dear life then, and I was her Wednesday afternoon football match and brandy-and-cigar in the evening, so to speak—and her week-end picnic. A humiliating position which I was mortal glad of after what I'd been through, and I just prayed she wouldn't lose interest in her new toy before Elgin closed his grip on Pekin. For, incredibly, our army was holding off at the last, fearful that a hostile advance might spell the end of us hostages, yet fearing, too, that delay might be equally fatal.
You may wonder how I knew of this; it arose from Yehonala's remarkable attitude towards me. I said before that she spoke to me as though I were a pet poodle—and that was precisely how she treated me. Not wholly surprising, perhaps; with all the arrogance and ignorance of the well-born Manchoo, she thought of foreigners (and I was the first she'd ever seen, remember) as rather less than human, and exercised no more reticence before me than you do before Poll or your tabby. And since, quite apart from coupling, it was her whim to keep me on hand in her leisure hours, when she walked or sat in the gardens, or boated, or played games with her ladies, I learned a deal by sitting quiet with my ears open. I suspect she paraded me chiefly to tease Little An, who was her constant attendant and couldn't abide the sight of me; they'd talk shop by the lily-pond while Fido sunned himself on the grass, the target of apples playfully tossed by her ladies, and took it all in—how Parkes and Loch had been segregated from the other prisoners, and would make ideal candidates for the wire jacket when the time came; yes, the Emperor's signature was already on the vermilion death warrant, which would be forwarded from Jehol to Pekin whenever she wished; the word from the barbarian camp was that they'd rather negotiate than fight, so she had time in hand if she wished; Prince Kung, the Emperor's brother, could be relied on when the final struggle came for imperial power … this was the kind of thing they discussed, never dreaming it was understood.
One vital titbit of information explained why Yehonala, in-stead of staying with the Emperor at Jehol, had returned to the Summer Palace. I gathered that her four-year-old son, Tungchi, to whom she was devoted, was in Pekin, under the care of the Empress Consort Sakota—being heir to the throne, he was far too important to be entrusted to his own mother, who when all was said was only a concubine. This was something that Yehonala, for all her great hidden power, could do nothing about; she could only keep as close to the child as possible, ready to defy protocol by stepping in if he was in any danger, or if the likes of Sang or Prince I tried to get their hands on him. It might come to bloody palace revolution yet, and possession of the infant would be vital—quite apart from her being his doting mama. In the meantime, she could only wait and trust to Sakota, who was her cousin and bosom pal, they having been apprentice concubines together before Sakota was made Empress. (If it seems odd that Yehonala, the Emperor's favourite, hadn't managed to grab the consortship, the answer was that his mother, the canny old Dowager, had spotted her for a driving woman, and had decided that Sakota, an unambitious and indolent nonentity, would make a more manageable Em-press. The two cousins had no jealousy, by the way; Sakota didn't mind being Number Two in bed, and Yehonala preferred the harlot's power to the Imperial title.)
It wasn't canny, hearing all these state secrets and knowing that the speakers regarded me as no more sensate than the chairs they sat on; I wondered if any spy had ever been so fortunately placed before. The irony was that it was of no practical use; with the eunuchs forever on the prowl, and guards within call, I might as well have been in a dungeon. But at least my own position seemed secure enough, so long as I betrayed no understanding; the really dangerous times were when Yehonala and I were in bed together, and her attention close upon me; her confounded playful poodle-talk unnerved me, for as you'll guess if you've ever listened to a woman scratching a kitten's belly, it consisted mostly of damfool questions which it took presence of mind not to answer.
"So ugly … so ugly," she would whisper, lying on my chest and brushing her unbound hair across my face. "So ugly as to be almost magnificent … aren't you? So misshapen and ungraceful, great lumpy muscles … you're very strong, aren't you? Strong and stupid, with teeth like a horse. Open … let me see them. Open, I say … Gods, do you have to be shown everything? Ugh, I don't want to look at them! Horrible … I wonder what your barbarian women are like? Are they repulsive, too? You'll find them so, after this, won't you … after the incomparable Yi Concubine? I must look like a goddess to you … do I look like a goddess? Is it possible you might prefer female barbarians, I
wonder? I mean, great apes like each other … but you may never see your barbarian women-apes again … not if I keep you. I might, when my son rules, and I'm all-powerful. Would you like that? I could send you now to Jehol, before your friends come … or I could give you back to them. No, I don't want to lose you yet … and how unhappy you'd be, without me … wouldn't you? You must think you're in heaven, poor barbarian. If only you could speak … why can't you speak … properly, I mean? Suppose you could, what would you say to me? Would you make love to me with words, like the poets? Do you know what poetry is, even? Could you write a poem in praise of my beauty … in butterfly words fluttering crooked up and down the page of my heart? Jung Lu wrote me a poem once, comparing me to a new moon, which was not very original … What would you compare me to, d'you think? Oh, you're hopeless! You couldn't love with words … you know only one way, don't you? … like a great, greedy beast … like this … no, greedy beast, not like that! Be still … like this … slowly, you see? … this is the Fourteenth Gossamer Caress, did you know? There are more than twenty of them, and the last, the Supreme Delirium, can be experienced only once, for during it the lover dies, they say … let us be content with the Fourteenth … for the moment … then we'll try the Fifteenth, shall we …?"
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