Several times over the next few months, Hollister sailed away for days at a time. When he did this, Robert had conflicting emotions. On one hand, he envied Hollister for living as he wanted—something he was sure he’d never copy.
However, it bothered him when Hollister left without letting him know, and the empty nights grew longer.
When mornings arrived, it was a treat to have Guan-jiah walk through the gate to start his workday. Robert taught him how to play chess and occasionally managed to get him to stay late for a game.
Since all but one of the missionaries lived across the river and seldom came into Ningpo, days passed where he didn’t see one English soul. He spent his evenings reading the old letters, which turned into a dull ache that took away his energy and enthusiasm for the next day’s work.
He didn’t think he could have felt lonelier if he’d been the last penguin in Antarctica. He reconsidered Patridge’s invitation to spend the summer on Zhoushan Island. The opium merchant’s noxious laugh and endless chatter would be better than this.
One Wednesday before sundown, Me-ta-tae visited looking unhappy. She wore black silk pants and a deep-red, patterned blouse with five bats flying above several lotus blossoms. Her hair was tied back into a bun with a silver metal pin that had dangling crystals hanging from it holding the bun together. This exposed her appealing pixie ears, slender neck and delicate bone structure. Her skin looked pale and as smooth as creamy porcelain.
Robert couldn’t help himself. His fingers tingled with the desire to explore her body.
Intending to cheer her up, he hurried to the consulate garden and cut a dozen dark-red roses.
Her eyes fluttered and she attempted to hide a smile when he presented them to her.
“The weather is perfect for the roses,” he said, seeing this as an opportunity to practice his Mandarin. He also wanted to keep her longer. She was better company than Guan-jiah. “The color contrasts well with your skin.”
She touched one petal. “The dew still clings to it,” she said, and smiled. One drop clung to a fingertip, and she examined it as if it were a precious jewel.
The sight of her doing this reminded Robert of his sister Mary when something made her exceptionally happy such as seeing interesting shapes in the clouds.
“This season brings out the best vegetables they sell in the market,” she said. Her eyes met his. The way she looked at him made his stomach ache. He hid his hands behind his back before he reached for her. He stared at her lips imagining what they would feel like against his, and his thoughts tangled into knots.
“I have seen you walking alone beside the river in the late afternoons,” she said.
“I enjoy those walks.” He managed to get out, knowing exactly why he was feeling nervous. “I miss your cooking.”
He couldn’t think of anything else to say, and his Mandarin was improving but wasn’t good enough for a conversation with depth to it.
He didn’t want her to leave.
“The prices are better this time of year,” she said. Her eyes avoided his. He watched her struggle to keep her shy smile under control. It was obvious she was enjoying this as much as he was.
“The vegetables further south are of a better quality than here,” she said. “Tell me what you want, and I will cook for you. Maybe you do not like walking alone beside the river. Maybe you would like me to join you.”
Robert imagined Me-ta-tae walking beside him and cooking in the kitchen. When she had lived in the consulate with Hollister, she’d done all the cooking. When Hollister had moved out, the good food went with him.
“I’m pleased that you came for a visit,” he said. “How is it on The Dawn with Mr. Hollister?”
Her expression turned sour. Robert regretted driving her smile away.
“I hate it!” she said. “I don’t like living on a boat.”
Robert shifted from foot to foot. “Is there anything the consulate can do for you?” he asked.
She stamped a foot. “I’m bored and lonely.”
“I understand,” he replied, and allowed one hand to escape from behind his back and touched Me-ta-tae’s bare arm above her wrist with his fingertips. Her skin was soft and inviting. He imagined her living in the consulate with him and saw her walking naked through the empty rooms. He blushed at his thoughts and jerked his hand back as if burned.
“Mr. Hollister won’t allow me to entertain my friends on his boat. And when he loses at horses or cards, he yells and hits me. He scares me when he does that.” She pulled up a sleeve to reveal a bruise on her upper arm.
It was difficult for Robert to believe that Hollister had hit her. He was supposed to be a gentleman. Robert was sure that the government did not tolerate such behavior. The bruise must have been from an accident.
When she left, he bitterly felt the isolation and realized that he’d come to China without much thought. That night was full of lusty dreams. In the morning when he awoke, he discovered the blankets twisted around his legs, and he had an enormous erection.
The next day, Robert spent most of the time thinking of his passion, which overpowered reason and conscience. He saw his life as a Christian full of constant warfare, because he had to struggle just to deny lust. However, it was a necessary fight to live soberly, righteously and godly.
That Saturday, Guan-jiah said that Me-ta-tae was back and wanted to see him.
He invited her inside. As night arrived, they sat before the fire in his room and he served jasmine tea. The look on her face told him that something was bothering her. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“I’m worried that Mr. Hollister is going to abandon me,” she said, as tears filler her eyes.
William Lay, who Robert had stayed with while in Shanghai on the way to Ningpo was the assistant to the British Vice-Counsel. Lay had told Robert what happened to women who lived with foreigners.
Hart couldn’t stand the thought of Me-ta-tae becoming a whore for sailors. “Hollister would be stupid to abandon you,” he said. “I’d never do that.”
He regretted his words immediately but said nothing to change their meaning. Instead, he imagined that Hollister would sail away, and she’d be his woman. After all, she wasn’t Hollister’s wife in the Christian way. She was his concubine. He paid for her like buying a hen. It wasn’t like adultery.
“I’d treat you better,” he added, and felt the heat in his face as it turned red. He wondered if he had enough to buy her.
Me-ta-tae’s lower lip trembled.
Without thinking of the consequences, Robert took her into his arms. She looked at him with eyes full of tears.
Hot blood rushed into his head and he kissed her neck. The warm scent of her skin was intoxicating. His hands found their way under her blouse, and he caressed her breasts.
They moved to his bed and their clothing ended on the floor. Robert sensed movement outside his half-open door but ignored it. Touching her naked body excited him beyond his self-control and his resolve to stay abstinent evaporated.
Soon after he entered her, it was over.
Avoiding his eyes, she slipped off the bed and dressed.
“Don’t go.” There was a scratchy, pitiful sound in his voice as if he were begging. He couldn’t stand it. “Tell Hollister I’ll buy you if he doesn’t want you.”
He heard a scuffling noise outside his door as if someone was hurrying away. Then Me-ta-tae left.
He felt confused and empty. It wasn’t as if she were the first woman he’d been with, but that thought didn’t stop him from feeling cheap. With her abrupt departure, he discovered that he had a yearning for something more, but he couldn’t put words to it.
The next morning Guan-jiah came to tell Robert that Hollister was outside asking for him. “He’s angry, Master. I don’t recommend speaking to him. Not after last night.”
He felt terrible. She must have told Hollister what happened. He despised himself. Me-ta-tae had come to him for comfort. He couldn’t deny that she was desira
ble, and he was a bull in heat. It was a mutual act, but it was still a defeat.
He didn’t want to face Hollister, so he said, “Make excuses for me, Guan-jiah. Send him away.”
Robert felt as if he were a coward but what other choice did he have if he wanted to avoid a fight. Jealousy was unpredictable and dangerous, and Hollister had every right.
Guan-jiah nodded and left the room.
“What do you mean he isn’t here?” Hollister yelled. Robert heard every word from where he was hiding behind the door. “Not only does he cheat at chess, but he’s trying to steal my woman too. You tell him I’ll be back.”
Robert was mortified. He never cheated at chess. How could Hollister say such a horrible thing? And he wasn’t stealing his woman. She had come to him willingly, and he wanted to buy her.
Hollister didn’t return to work for a week. Then he quit his job with the consulate and sailed away.
When Me-ta-tae went with him, Robert felt more despondent. The affair left him feeling guilty. The fact that Hollister quit surprised him. The man never had enough money because of his gambling, and he lived beyond his means.
Maybe his reason for leaving was to avoid his creditors. Maybe it had nothing to do with Robert seducing his concubine.
Later, Guan-jiah said, “Master, do not think of that woman. Me-ta-tae is not good. She seduced the previous interpreter, and Master Hollister was angry with him too. They had a big fight. The next day that foreigner was gone. I followed her once and discovered she was having sex with one of the merchants too.”
Robert looked at him sharply and remembered the noise in the hallway. He’d been watching. He started to scold Guan-jiah but fought back his anger. Could it be that his servant was living vicariously through watching others have intercourse, because he couldn’t?
He kept silent out of pity. Despite such depravity, Guan-jiah had a good heart. Robert refused to judge him. What would he have done?
“Master,” Guan-jiah said, “it is best to take life easy and to find your way across the river by searching out stepping-stones hidden just below the surface. Nothing is wrong with falling and getting soaked sometimes.”
By mid-June, Robert could scarcely breathe because of the sultry heat. He spent twelve hours a day studying Chinese, several more hours working at the consulate and a few attempting to sleep. The mosquitoes made it impossible. He recalled Captain Patridge’s invitation and felt it was a good way to escape.
On July fourth in 1855, he received a letter from his friend William Lay in Shanghai informing Robert that he had been nominated to the position of provisional assistant in the consulate with a salary of 270 pounds a year, about twelve hundred Chinese yuan.
Robert determined that whatever his income, one-tenth would go to charitable and religious purposes. It was his way to atone for what had happened between him and Me-ta-tae.
He had now spent enough time in China to earn some vacation time, so he left Ningpo during the hottest part of summer to stay with Captain Patridge not realizing how much that decision was going to change his life.
Chapter 2
When some of the men around the table laughed, it reminded Robert that Patridge’s stories had gone on for what felt like hours.
“We were scared for our lives,” Patridge said. “In 1842, I worked on a ship carrying opium along the coast of China. A monsoon struck, and my ship and another were wrecked on the island of Formosa. The crews consisted of 180 Bengalis and 13 white men. The natives captured us and immediately beheaded the Bengalis. I was terrified watching all those heads hit the ground with my hands tied behind my back.
“The thirteen of us that remained alive felt we were doomed until the ship’s carpenter had a great idea. He said we should kowtow to the governor of Formosa by standing on our heads.” He paused and looked around the table. “And we did.”
“Gentlemen, it worked. This governor was so impressed that he spared our lives and kept us in prison instead. Eventually we gained our freedom. I’m sitting here today telling you about the time I came a chop away from the grave.” He put his hands around his neck, stretched it and crossed his eyes.
Robert had trouble believing the tale, so he allowed his mind to drift to other thoughts. He didn’t enjoy the stories.
However, if he had to put up with this to escape the isolation and stifling heat of Ningpo, he would. It was a small price to pay. On the other hand, if the story was true, he might be able to learn something. It wasn’t that important to listen though. Robert did not expect to be shipwrecked anytime soon.
Patridge’s house was on the western end of Zhoushan Island with the mainland about five miles away. It squatted on a hill close to a hundred feet above sea level. Robert wasn’t the only houseguest. The Maryann’s captain, a man named Roundtree, had come ashore too and was staying in the house with three of his officers.
At dinner the night, Patridge, Captain Roundtree, his officers and Robert sat at a table on the veranda while concubines served food. The first course was a delicious soup made from lily flowers, black mushrooms and sea delicacies. Robert sipped from a glass of red wine and listened to the conversation instead of taking part.
From the veranda, Robert saw the track they had used to reach the house. It looked like a brown string winding its way through thick stands of trees and checkered green farmlands toward the top of the hill. When typhoons roared in from the Pacific, raced across the East China Sea and slammed into the island, the twenty miles of hills slowed the storm’s impact.
Ningpo was about fifty miles to the south. Shanghai was a bit farther to the north. If you sailed west into the bay, you eventually reached the city of Hangzhou. Robert recalled a conversation he and Guan-jiah had. It took place during the trek to the house that morning with the others from the Maryann.
“Guan-jiah,” Robert said, “before I came to China I read The Travels of Marco Polo. Do you know of him?”
“No, Master,” Guan-jiah replied.
“He came to China from Europe more than six hundred years ago and served under Kublai Khan during the Yuan Dynasty. Polo wrote that Hangzhou was the finest and noblest city in the world.”
“Hangzhou was the capital of the Southern Sung Dynasty, Master,” Guan-jiah said. “I’ve heard it is beautiful. Sung philosophy says that we have the power in our minds to overcome our emotions.”
“Marco Polo believed it was God’s will that he came back from China so others in the West might know what he’d seen.” Robert turned to his servant, who was the last in line. “Do you believe in this Sung philosophy, Guan-jiah?”
“The Sung said that if you know yourself and others, you would be able to adjust to the most unfavorable circumstances and prevail over them.”
“That’s admirable, Guan-jiah. You never mentioned you were a scholar. If the Sung Dynasty was that wise, I want to see Hangzhou one day.”
“I am no scholar, Master, but I must believe in the Sung philosophy to survive. I have read and contemplated much literature. However, I am like a peasant and have never mastered calligraphy. It is a skill that has eluded me.”
“How old were you when you studied this philosophy?”
“I was eleven, Master, two years after I was sent to Peking.”
That meant Guan-jiah had been neutered at nine. How unfortunate. Robert didn’t want to offend the eunuch, but he was curious. “Why were you sent to Peking?” he asked.
“To work, Master. My family was starving. It was the only way I could help, but I failed.” He stared at his feet in shame.
“How can you say you failed?” Robert said. “After all, you are paid well compared to most Chinese peasants. Your family does not go hungry, and they have shelter.”
“But they suffered for many years,” Guan-jiah said, “and that is my burden. After I failed in Peking, I went into a Buddhist monastery. One of the older monks spoke English, and he became my teacher. When I was fourteen, I returned to Ningpo and went to work for foreign merchants. Now I work i
n the consulate for you.”
Roundtree’s voice intruded on Robert’s thoughts and brought his focus back to the dinner table. “I heard that you spelled your name differently with another ‘r’ in front of the’t’. If that’s true, why did you change it?”
“What?” Robert asked, thinking the question was directed at him. Then he realized that the question had been directed at Patridge. No one noticed he’d spoken.
“I never changed my name,” Patridge responded. “Why would I?”
“I’ve heard it said a man named Partridge caused some mischief about 1841 back in London. He dropped that first ‘r’ so his name would become Patridge making it harder to be tracked down.”
Patridge shook his head with a look of feigned innocence. “Nothing happened to cause me to change my name. It’s always been Patridge.”
Robert wondered what this was about. Right then the main course arrived, and he was distracted. He was so hungry that he forgot what he’d been thinking. Dinner consisted mainly of a leg of boiled mutton, several roast pheasants, roasted goose and a juicy piece of bacon.
“Here’s another story,” Patridge said, pounding the table for emphasis while laughing.
This was like the food Robert ate at home in Ireland. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much he had missed the taste of food like this. Saliva filled Robert’s mouth. He reached for the platter of meat. As he was spearing the meat with his fork, his eyes searched the table taking in the mashed potatoes and the bowl of brown gravy. His stomach grumbled in anticipation.
After Patridge regained his composure, he said, “We were halfway between Hong Kong and Shanghai becalmed in a small cove. Just a mile from us, but closer to the beach, were the pirates who’d been chasing us.”
“Are you talking about the Iona?” Robert asked.
“Of course,” Patridge said. His eyes opened wider. “You were there too.”
My Splendid Concubine Page 3
