In most houses of any consequence, the cook had her special dishes. At Drumlomond, Mrs. Ives was adept at every kind of pastry. Depending on the season she would produce a salmon en croûte or a beef Wellington that guests would remember for years. And at all seasons, both at dinner and after the meat course at lunch, she would bring forth two flans, one fruit and one savory. In Emily’s honor, knowing it was her favorite, the savory flan was mushroom.
There was a cry of pleasure from Emily. Mrs. Ives was summoned forth, beaming, from the kitchen and duly thanked.
Then John Trader finally addressed the matter in hand. “Well, my dear,” he said, “you and Henry have been in London quite a few months before setting forth. Have you had to make a lot of preparations?”
“Quite a lot, Papa, yes.”
“I’m happy to tell you that as well as everything else, Emily has been learning to read Chinese,” said Henry, “and made impressive progress, I may add.”
“Well done, my dear.” Trader gave Emily a nod of approval. He mightn’t have wanted her to marry a missionary, but if you were going to take a thing on, you should do it properly. “Proud of you,” he said. “Tell me, do you and Henry yet know exactly where you’ll be stationed?”
“Not yet, Papa.”
“We go to Hong Kong first, of course,” Henry explained. “We might be sent to Shanghai, which would be quite agreeable. But we might be going to any of the treaty ports, or possibly farther into the interior.”
“I saw some photographs the other day,” Trader remarked. “The caption said they were Protestant missionaries in China. But as far as I could judge, they were dressed as Chinese merchants. Was the caption wrong, or are you going to dress up like that? And if so, why?”
“Ah.” Henry nodded. “The caption was probably correct. As for myself, I’m not sure, but I may dress like a merchant, at least some of the time.”
“Why’s that?”
“Imagine you’re Chinese. Put yourself in their place. Think of what’s happened in the last thirty years: the Opium Wars; the burning of the Summer Palace. Acts of huge disrespect. You might well be suspicious of the British. And of their religion—especially when you remember the appalling death and devastation caused by the Taiping rebels, who, so far as most Chinese understand, worshipped the same deity that we do.” He paused. “You may win a war quickly, but earning trust takes far longer. And one way to make a start is to show respect for local customs—as long as they’re not against our faith. Wearing local dress seems an obvious choice. It’s also well adapted to the climate.”
“Sensible,” Trader agreed. “Gordon used to wear a Chinese uniform.” He paused. “I’m glad it’s safer to be a missionary nowadays than it used to be.”
Henry pursed his lips. “Some things have changed,” he acknowledged cautiously.
“You sound a bit doubtful.”
“One should never discount the possibility of danger,” Henry answered. It was against his nature to lie.
“What concerns you most?” Trader wanted to know.
“Let me assure you first,” Henry said, “before I answer, that this is not religious rivalry, let alone dislike. Their priests include some of the best men I know. But I think the Catholic Church is making a mistake.”
“How so?”
“It’s their churches, really. They keep building these huge churches on important and cherished sites, where they can only give offense. There’s one on the site of an old temple, another in the grounds of a governor’s yamen. Churches that dominate the landscape for miles around.”
“That’s hardly new, is it?” Trader asked. “The church has made a point of building over pagan temples ever since the early centuries of Christianity. It took over the old pagan festivals as well. Midsummer solstice, Halloween…you name it. The Church Triumphant.”
“True, but they usually did something else first. They converted the king. Then his people would follow. For three centuries the Jesuits hoped to convert the Chinese emperors, but they never succeeded. And I certainly can’t see them getting anywhere with the Dowager Empress Cixi. In short, the Catholics don’t have a strong enough hand to be triumphant.”
“So,” Trader summarized, “the alien barbarians beat the Chinese in battle, then they insult them, and then they trumpet their superiority by dominating the landscape in a country they don’t control. Not a good idea.”
“I have complete faith, obviously, or I wouldn’t be there,” Henry continued. “But it’s a question of judgment. I suspect triumphalism is always unwise. It’s asking for trouble. Also I might add, as a Christian, that I think it’s better to be humble.”
“Are there any signs of trouble yet?”
“A few popular tracts and broadsheets have appeared in the streets,” Henry answered. “Aimed at the Catholics, really—though whether ordinary people distinguish Catholic from Protestant is another matter. They accuse the Christians of kidnapping Chinese children and drinking their blood. That sort of thing. Complete nonsense, of course. In fact, it’s exactly what the Christians used to say about the Jews in the Middle Ages. In any case,” Henry went on calmly, “if at some time in the future, God forbid, things got too bad, there should be time to get Emily out quickly, together with any children we might have. Emily and I have already discussed it.”
John Trader was silent. At the far end of the room there was a painting of a Highland sunset. It glowed sadly, like a lament.
“So you could get them out in time?” Trader said slowly. “You’re sure of that?”
“Oh yes,” said Henry, “I think so.”
1875
On the southern bank of the mighty Yangtze River, about a hundred and fifty miles upstream from the ancient city of Nanjing, the great stream was joined by tributaries descending from the hills above. A day’s journey up one of these tributaries, in a spacious, protected valley, lay a town—a peaceful place, though important enough for the prefect to have his residence there.
Yet there was something out of the ordinary about its suburbs. Instead of the usual scattering of workshops with yards and storehouses, there were hundreds of them; and above their roofs, amongst the treetops, a forest of squat brick chimneys could be seen.
For this was Jingdezhen, porcelain capital of China, where the pottery made from local clay was shaped, painted, glazed, and fired in the town’s kilns—of which, if one counted even the smallest, there were more than nine thousand. The potters of Jingdezhen had been making porcelain since the Han dynasty, more than fifteen hundred years ago. There were many varieties, but the most famous was the blue and white.
The finest work was all reserved for the imperial court.
* * *
—
In recent years, most people in Jingdezhen would have agreed, they had been fortunate in the prefect who resided there. For he was a man of unusual probity.
In particular, his administration of justice was impeccable. The poorer folk especially were grateful to him. Woe betide any local magistrate who took a bribe to convict some poor but innocent man. If punishment was called for, he chose leniency. He showed a marked aversion to the use of torture. In short, he was kindly but fair.
And if there were occasions when, in a spirit of understanding and friendship, he was able to help a local business avoid some restriction, and the owner of the business showed him some gratitude, that was a private matter between them. Such arrangements were usually to benefit trade and were therefore welcomed by everyone in Jingdezhen. The only person who might not profit was the emperor. But the emperor was far away, and not so many people cared about him nowadays.
* * *
—
Timing was everything. Shi-Rong looked across the town from the balcony of the prefect’s residence and smiled. A perfect autumn day. Some way down the long street he saw his quarry approaching. He was confident of success.
He had everything planned.
He’d been a widower now for five years. Though he and his wife had hardly been close, he’d been sorry for her nonetheless. The cancer that claimed her had taken its time, and he had suffered with her.
He hadn’t taken another wife after that. Whether he had come to prefer limited engagements, such as the one with Mei-Ling, or whether he had a residual fear that any woman he married might turn into a nagging wife like his first, he hardly knew himself.
He’d parted from his last concubine a few months ago. No doubt he’d take another before long. But not a wife.
A perfect autumn day: the monsoon season past. The heat of the sun in the pale blue sky was moderated by a breeze that dispersed the shimmer from the kilns and the wisps of smoke from their chimneys before it brushed the trees and flowers in the prefect’s garden.
Shi-Rong liked Jingdezhen. Its combination of commerce, art, and quiet peace was pleasing to him.
Some years before he arrived, that peace had been disturbed. The Taiping zealots had come from their Heavenly Kingdom downriver at Nanjing, swarmed up the valley, entered the town, and destroyed the kilns, all nine thousand of them.
Why had they done it? Who could say? As far as he was concerned, for all practical purposes, a zealot and a hooligan were one and the same. But a decade had passed since their Heavenly Kingdom had fallen, and the busy potters and merchants of Jingdezhen had restored the kilns with such skillful speed that one would hardly guess they’d ever been smashed.
All being well, Shi-Rong intended to leave town tomorrow on a visit to Beijing. An interview or two. A bribe to pay, naturally, but he had the money. And after that he could look forward to a few years of semi-retirement, during which, with a bit of luck, he might even double his fortune. Done discreetly, this would be the crowning achievement of his life.
He’d see his son as well, while he was in Beijing. That was a happy prospect. I might not have risen to the greatest heights, he thought, but having a father who’s a prefect isn’t so bad. The lower fourth rank. Not to be sneezed at. The mandarin square on a prefect’s chest depicted a wild goose. He wore a solid blue button on his hat. That was something for the young man’s friends to see.
First, however, there was the girl to look after. Bright Moon. His new daughter.
He’d promised Mei-Ling he’d find the girl a good husband, and today he was going to make good on his promise. He was quite surprised at his own delight in the business.
Now, in the street below him, his quarry had reached the residence gate. Shi-Rong turned and made his way down to greet him.
* * *
—
“I can hardly believe, Mr. Yao,” he said as soon as they were sitting down, “that a whole year has passed since we buried your dear wife.” He sighed. “I know how it feels. It is only a few years since I lost my own.” He nodded sadly. “How are your two daughters?”
“They are well, I thank you, and a great comfort to me,” the merchant replied. “If only my poor little son had not been sickly…His death was a great sadness to me and my wife.”
“I know how devoted you were to each other,” Shi-Rong said.
“She was the only wife I ever had. Most merchants in my position take junior wives, but I never did.”
“You were an exceptional husband,” Shi-Rong agreed. He seemed to hesitate for a moment. “But I wonder—I speak as a friend—if the time might not come when your duty compels you to provide a male heir. You owe it to your ancestors, after all. Who else will tend their graves?”
“It is true. Life must go on.”
According to Shi-Rong’s spies, the life force had already begun to assert itself. During the last three months, Mr. Yao had paid several visits to the best of the local houses of pleasure.
Besides being rich, Yao wasn’t a bad-looking fellow. Still in his forties, he was sturdily built. With his flared nose, his broad mustache turned down at the ends, and his bulbous head thrust slightly forward, he reminded Shi-Rong of a bull about to charge. Certainly not a man to be trifled with. But he’d proved himself a kindly and devoted husband. No question. And he was subtler than he looked.
For instance when, each year, he showed his friendship to Shi-Rong, he always found the most creative ways to do it. Once he’d pointed to an antique vase he’d recently acquired, one of a collection he’d bought, and remarked, “My wife doesn’t like it; I suppose you wouldn’t care to take it off my hands?” And he’d named a trifling sum as a price. Sure enough, when Shi-Rong had shown the vase to a dealer, he’d found that it was worth twenty times what he’d paid. On another occasion, Yao had recommended that Shi-Rong purchase the house of a deceased merchant. “They say the old man hoarded silver in there. I looked around the place, and I couldn’t find any. But who knows, you may be luckier.” And of course, after buying the house, Shi-Rong had discovered a crate of silver dollars most imperfectly concealed under the floor.
Thanks to these discreet favors, Mr. Yao, who owned two of the town’s finest potteries—where production was exclusively reserved for the imperial court—was able to run an illicit business in export porcelain on the side. The profits were large, the gifts in proportion. After taking care of various local officials, Shi-Rong still retained a handsome share for himself.
As it happened, history had done Shi-Rong another favor. Three years after he’d come to Jingdezhen, at the very time when he might have expected to be moved on to another post, a significant event had taken place in the court at Beijing.
For the decade that her son was still a minor, the Dowager Empress Cixi and the late emperor’s widow had continued their rule from behind the throne.
Last year, however, the time had come for the youth to rule in person. And it didn’t go well. The boy took after his useless father. Neither his mother nor the finest tutors nor the wisest counselors could do anything with him. All he knew about his empire and his people was what he’d learned by escaping from the palace into the city whorehouses. He’d been found a suitable wife, but he wasn’t interested in her. He didn’t seem to be interested in anything really, except debauchery—and the fastest way to ruin his health.
And then he died. Was he poisoned? Nobody knew. Did his own mother have a hand in it? Cixi said no. He was her only son, after all. And since his departure was obviously for the best, no one wanted to probe too deeply. So another boy emperor was found.
He was the son of Prince Chun, who’d married Cixi’s sister. Strictly speaking, since he was the same generation as the emperor who’d died, this was breaking the laws of succession. But Cixi wanted it, and she got her way. She adopted the little boy as her own and resumed her role as the imperial mother behind the curtain.
With so many things going on, nobody at court had remembered to move the prefect at Jingdezhen to a new post. Shi-Rong certainly hadn’t reminded them. He just kept his head down and continued to enjoy Mr. Yao’s friendship—as a result of which, by the autumn of 1875, he had considerably increased the modest fortune his father had left him.
“Normally, of course,” Shi-Rong continued, “it is for the family of the bridegroom to find a suitable wife for him, and to put the entire matter in the hands of a matchmaker. But given our friendship, I hope you will not mind if I make a suggestion to you. Should you wish to marry again, my dear Yao, I think I might have a bride for you.”
“Really?” The merchant was interested. “May I ask who?”
“This girl.” Shi-Rong went to a side table, opened a drawer, and took out a framed photograph. “The lady she’s standing beside is her mother.”
He’d gone to a lot of trouble over that picture. The photographer, who’d been trained in Macao, had been sent all the way down to the hamlet. He’d understood his mission perfectly. The picture was taken in the courtyard of the house, which he’d improved with several exotic plants in pots. Both Mei-Ling and the girl
were elegantly dressed and made up like fashionable ladies. The photograph had even been tinted in the latest manner. Cleverly, he’d also taken a photograph of the farmhouse from across the pond. The little footbridge, nowadays beautifully restored, was reflected in a pond pleasantly strewn with patches of water lilies. The whole effect was one of modest provincial wealth.
Mr. Yao examined both photographs carefully. “The girl is beautiful. So is her mother,” he said admiringly. Then he frowned. “The mother’s feet…”
“Are not bound. Her own mother came from a rich Hakka family. Her father’s family did not wish to annoy them by binding their granddaughter’s feet.”
“The Hakka family were important, then.”
“Exactly so,” Shi-Rong lied. “But Bright Moon—that is the girl’s name—has bound feet, as you can see.”
“You have known this family a long time?”
“I have. After the girl’s mother was widowed, she accompanied me down to Guilin and stayed with me there for some time. Despite her feet, she is a most elegant and accomplished lady. She and the prefect’s wife became best friends.”
Mr. Yao was looking at him curiously now. “You take a particular interest in her daughter, it seems.”
“I do. In fact, I have adopted her as my own.” He’d done it just a year ago, explaining to her family that it would help her find a good husband—which indeed was true.
“The mother is beautiful, but there is something finer, perhaps, in the young lady,” Mr. Yao ventured.
Shi-Rong inclined his head slightly, as though accepting a compliment. “She looks very like my late father’s sister, as it happens,” he acknowledged.
“Ah.” The merchant gave him a knowing look, which Shi-Rong pretended to ignore.
It was going exactly as he hoped. He hadn’t actually said that Bright Moon was his own, which of course she wasn’t. But Yao was free to believe it—as he certainly wanted to. For a merchant like Yao, the idea of marrying the daughter, legitimate or not, of a prefect from an old gentry family like Shi-Rong’s was something to boast about.
China Page 77
