China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “Ah,” said Shi-Rong. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  * * *

  —

  The entrance to the Tsungli Yamen, the Bureau of Foreign Affairs, was just wide enough to allow a carriage through. It resided inconspicuously amongst the larger ministries in the Imperial City. For despite the vigorous advocacy of Prince Gong over a period of a dozen years, many mandarins still saw the bureau as only a temporary department. Many of the officials who worked there also held positions in other parts of the government.

  Some thought otherwise. Young Ru-Hai certainly did. “We’re going to be more important as time goes by,” he told his father. “This could be a quick way to the top.”

  As a good father, Shi-Rong always spoke respectfully of the Tsungli Yamen to anyone who would listen, even if in private he wasn’t so sure his son was right.

  Be that as it may, he’d been delighted when Ru-Hai suggested they meet there. I daresay my son’s proud of his father, he thought. Wants his friends to meet me. It would be interesting to talk to the boy’s colleagues and find out what these young fellows thought.

  He’d woken that morning in a cheerful mood. He almost forgot the humiliation of his meeting with Lacquer Nail. All he remembered was that the eunuch knew how to handle the Dragon Empress, and that soon the salt inspector’s post would be his.

  In centuries to come, his descendants, when they tended the family graves on Ancestors Day, might speak in awe of the achievements of others, even of his own son Ru-Hai perhaps—he certainly hoped so—but at least when they came to his own grave, they’d be able to say: “He was a prefect, he attained the honorable fourth rank, and he left the family richer than it had ever been before.”

  So he arrived at the gateway of the bureau with a smiling face.

  * * *

  —

  One cannot always assume, because one is in a happy mood oneself, that other people will be, too. As his son greeted him and led him towards his office, Shi-Rong noticed that they were passing through the ministry kitchens. Like many such places, they were none too clean.

  “I don’t think much of this, I must say,” he said jovially. “Taking your old father through the kitchens. Who gets to come through the front door?”

  Ru-Hai didn’t smile. “This is the only way in,” he said tensely. “When the bureau was created, they divided up an old building to house us.”

  “You mean you bring foreign ambassadors in through the kitchens?”

  “If they’re having a formal audience, they go to the Imperial Palace. But private meetings between officials take place here in the bureau.” It was clear he was embarrassed. “I daresay we’ll get rehoused one of these days.”

  Shi-Rong frowned. Such lack of ceremony hardly signified that the court thought much of the foreign ambassadors—or of the mandarins they were to meet, for that matter. Personally, he didn’t care about the barbarian ambassadors. But he cared about Ru-Hai’s career. His cheerful mood was somewhat muted, therefore, as he entered his son’s office.

  It was a long, narrow, dusty room with tall windows that looked into a silent yard containing one stone lion and a tree with a broken branch. There were three desks. At the far end, a large map hung on the wall.

  Ru-Hai introduced his two colleagues. Neither of them looked over thirty. The first, a Han Chinese, was a thin, nervous fellow with round eyeglasses. He was called Gao. The other was a short, plump Manchu, whose broad face was puckered as if he were looking into the wind. He didn’t seem to say much. But they both seemed friendly enough and showed proper respect for his rank.

  “We thought you might like to know what we do here,” Ru-Hai said when the pleasantries were over.

  “By all means,” said Shi-Rong.

  They moved down the room towards the map on the wall. The Manchu stood on one side of it with a long pointer. Gao stood on the other. Ru-Hai nodded to him. Evidently this was a routine they’d rehearsed.

  “We are here,” said Gao, “to save the empire.”

  “Well,” said Shi-Rong with a smile, “I suppose somebody’s got to do it.”

  None of the three young men thought this was funny.

  “For centuries,” Gao went on, “the Celestial Empire had little need of anything from beyond its borders. Envoys from other lands came to pay tribute and to learn from us, since our power, our wealth, our civilization, was superior to theirs.” He paused for a moment. “Then came the British pirates from the West, corrupting our people with their opium. We told them to desist. They attacked us. Their ships, cannon, and rifles were superior. And now look where they are.”

  On cue, the Manchu took his long pointer and rapped the map on one place after another, along the coast and on the Yangtze River.

  “Treaty ports where the barbarians live under their own laws. Little kingdoms within our own empire. Why? Because, while we ignored them for two hundred years, they had improved their weapons. The world had changed, but we didn’t know it.”

  “The mission of the Tsungli Yamen,” Ru-Hai said, taking up the theme, “is to contain the barbarians, to learn from them, and to protect our land. But it hasn’t been easy. We find, for instance, that to their credit, they will abide by the treaties they make. Recently therefore we renegotiated the agreements concerning the ports and the trade tariffs. The new treaty was fair to both sides. But when the unhappy British envoy sent it to his own government, they refused to ratify. Whatever we give, they always seem to want more.”

  “They have no respect for our traditions,” said Gao, “and they want everything done their own way.”

  “Ten years ago,” Ru-Hai said to his father, “we tried to buy warships from the West. Yet we still can’t get them. We suspect the British prefer us to be weak.”

  “And whether this is a deliberate policy or not,” Gao continued, “the fact is that other countries still perceive us as defenseless, so they take advantage.”

  “Russia,” announced Ru-Hai. And the Manchu tapped the map on the wall again. “They have Vladivostok. But we know very well that they’re after another huge territory up in Manchuria. They’ve already got troops there. Will we be able to make them withdraw? It remains to be seen.” He turned to the Manchu. “France,” he called out.

  The Manchu tapped the map up and down the long coastline south-west of China’s border. “Tonkin, Annam, Vietnam—call these lands what you like—they have either been part of our empire or paid us tribute for two thousand years. But last year the French moved in and made themselves overlords of the region.”

  “The French despise us,” said Gao. “First they build huge churches to dominate the landscape and convert our people to their religion. Now they’re calmly taking over our tributary kingdoms.”

  “So what are you suggesting we do?” Shi-Rong asked him. “Go to war with the French?”

  “When we’re strong enough, maybe yes,” Gao answered.

  “Here’s the thing, Father,” said Ru-Hai. “A generation ago we underestimated the British Navy. We have come to terms with Britain now, but our own navy is weak and our land forces far behind. Now we’re making the same mistake with all these other barbarian powers. We still haven’t learned our lesson. And there’s one power that is far more dangerous than either the Russians or the French, because it’s right on our doorstep.”

  “Japan!” cried Gao.

  And now the Manchu banged his pointer repeatedly on the country of Japan, so violently that he seemed to be trying to drive Mount Fuji down into the ocean.

  “Twenty-five years ago,” Gao went on, “Japan was closed to the world. Then the American, Commodore Perry, came with modern warships and smashed the Japanese navy. Forced them to open their ports to trade, but with unequal treaties, to America’s advantage. Just like the British did with us. What happened next? The Japanese woke up. They have a new emperor, Meiji, who’s taken power
, and Japan is changing as never before. They’re taking all the knowledge they can from the Western barbarians, developing a new, modern army. Not only that, they know that if they want to defend themselves in the future, they need to expand their control across the seaways.”

  “You mean the Ryukyu Islands,” Shi-Rong cut in. The Ryukyu Islands might be small, but they stretched all the way from the shores of Japan to the island of Formosa, as the barbarians liked to call Taiwan. Three years ago, the Japanese had landed on those little islands and taken them over. He’d been quite shocked. But nothing had been done about it.

  “Of course. Our Ryukyu Islands,” his son responded. “And like the weak fools we are, we let them. Next thing, they’ll want Taiwan, which has been ours for two hundred years.”

  “I suppose I’m a bit out of touch down in Jingdezhen,” said Shi-Rong, “but as far as I could discover, it was the Tsungli Yamen—you fellows here—that let them do it.”

  “Not us,” the three young men cried. “The old idiots that are still in charge and don’t even work here full-time.”

  “I see.” Shi-Rong grimaced. “And Prince Gong?”

  “Prince Gong should never have let this happen,” said Ru-Hai sadly. “But the dowager empress wasn’t listening to him.”

  “And still isn’t now,” said Shi-Rong, remembering the eunuch’s words from the day before, “from what I hear.”

  “In any case,” said Gao, “Japan’s big game isn’t the islands, even Taiwan.”

  “It isn’t?” Shi-Rong frowned. “Then what is?”

  Gao hesitated a moment and glanced at the other two. Ru-Hai nodded. “This is,” said Gao. And the Manchu rapped his pointer on the great peninsula of Korea.

  “Japan hasn’t gone near the peninsula,” said Shi-Rong.

  “They’re going to,” said his son.

  “How do you know?”

  “We know.” Ru-Hai looked seriously at his father. “Any day. They could be there at this very moment, as we speak.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” said Shi-Rong. He paused. “It’s our most important vassal kingdom.”

  “More than that,” said Gao. “For centuries the great peninsula has been like a protective arm, shielding our northern coast, including access to Beijing from the Sea of Japan. The tribute payments and the loyalty of their people have never been in question.”

  “The Japanese would like to change that,” said Ru-Hai.

  “You think they’ll invade?”

  “No, not yet. They’re not ready. But they’ll infiltrate. They’ll tempt them with foreign trade, new ideas. They’ll try to separate them from us.”

  “And what are we supposed to do?”

  “Get back in the game,” said Gao. “We have to do what the Japanese are doing. Engage fully with the Western barbarians. Learn everything possible about not only their arms but also their ships, their factories—everything that makes them strong and leaves us weak if we do not have them.”

  “Just so long as we don’t have their railways,” said Shi-Rong. “They are monstrous. Life would not be worth living with such foul machines.” He said it as though in jest, but he really meant it, and Ru-Hai and his friends knew he did. The young men looked at each other in silence, then politely ignored his remark.

  “Father,” said Ru-Hai very seriously, “we are all proud to be Chinese. But being Chinese alone isn’t enough anymore. Put another way, if we want things to stay the same, we must change. We’ve sent an envoy to the British in London to learn all he can. And a few students have already gone to America to attend the universities there. We used to be ahead, but now we’re deficient in mathematics and engineering and the science of money, all of which they can learn there. And our leaders must understand these things, too.”

  “I’m well aware of all these expeditions,” Shi-Rong replied. “But be careful. We still need mandarins learned in morals and philosophy. You cannot have an empire run by money-grubbers and mechanics.” He paused. “But there is one thing that concerns me.”

  “What’s that?” asked Ru-Hai.

  “Even if I don’t like all of it, I admire you for trying to save the Celestial Empire in this way. Your sincerity and your courage are clear. But it’s also clear that the court and your own superiors are not yet persuaded and—forgive me if I say it—you are very young, too junior to take such a burden upon yourselves.”

  “We know,” said Ru-Hai. “That’s why we’re trying to convert our elders—people like you, Father. If you and others like you speak up for us, then the court will take more notice. The matter is urgent: That’s what the court needs to understand.”

  “I can talk to Peng about it,” said Shi-Rong, “and some others I know—prefects, a few governors, people with influence.”

  “Thank you, Father,” said Ru-Hai. “I suppose you don’t know anyone who has the ear of the Empress Cixi?”

  “Not really.” Shi-Rong was sorry to disappoint his son. He’d like to have cut a more important figure in front of his friends. Then a thought occurred to him. “The only fellow I know who claims to have her ear”—he smiled with amusement at the idea—“is a eunuch who does her nails. I don’t suppose that would be much use to you.”

  His son’s mouth fell open. “You know the eunuch who does her nails?” he cried in amazement.

  “That’s wonderful,” cried Gao in chorus.

  “How do you know him?” Ru-Hai asked eagerly.

  “Mr. Peng knows him, really. This eunuch is also a merchant, and I’m transacting a small piece of business with him.” He didn’t say what. “I daresay I’ll see him quite soon.”

  “Please speak to him, Father. That would be magnificent.”

  “If there’s any further information we can provide for you, sir, please let us know,” said Gao.

  Even the Manchu nodded fervently.

  And Shi-Rong realized with sorrow that in the eyes of his son and his son’s colleagues, he, a prefect of the fourth rank, was a very insignificant person compared with the eunuch who cut and polished the dowager empress’s nails.

  * * *

  —

  He ate at his lodgings with his son that night. It was a handsome hostel, often used by mandarins like himself who were visiting the capital. The servants were attentive, the meal excellent, and by the end of it, Shi-Rong was in quite a good humor. The meeting in the Tsungli Yamen might have damaged his amour propre a little, but not too much. He hadn’t cut such a bad figure. It had certainly been interesting. And now here he was, at the end of a good meal, looking with affection at his boy.

  “You know,” he remarked, “it might be time for you to get married. What do you think?”

  “I’d like to be further along in my career first, Father.”

  “I understand that,” said Shi-Rong. “But the path you’re following in the Tsungli Yamen is quite uncertain.” He saw his son frown. “Don’t misunderstand me. I admire you. And it could lead to great things. But it’s risky.” He paused. “Your grandfather left the estate in pretty good shape. And I’ve been able to save money myself. So as far as marriage is concerned, whatever happens at the bureau, you’re quite a good catch. We can probably find you a rich wife as well, with a bit of luck.”

  Ru-Hai nodded slowly. He seemed to be considering. “Can I ask you something, Father?” he said at last.

  “Of course, my boy.”

  “Why are you meeting with the eunuch? The one who does Cixi’s nails?”

  Shi-Rong hesitated for a second. He didn’t want to mention the salt inspector’s position, even to his son, until the deal was done. Firstly, it was confidential; and secondly, he always felt that announcing things in advance would bring bad luck.

  “Just a piece of private business,” he said firmly, to head him off. But by the look on his son’s face, this wasn’t going to be enough. Ve
ry well, then: irrelevant information, obfuscation. He knew how to do that. “He’s a rather strange fellow,” he said easily. “He had a wife and children of his own before he got chopped. Better pickings in the palace, I suppose. He lives in a merchant’s house. His neighbors don’t even know he’s a eunuch. I never knew it before, but it turns out there are several of these married eunuchs at court.” He hoped that would do the trick. He certainly wasn’t prepared for what came next.

  Ru-Hai was staring down at his food. Suddenly he looked up. “Are you bribing him?”

  That was impertinence. It was also dangerous. “And why would you think that?” Shi-Rong’s voice was cold.

  “People say you accept bribes.”

  “What people? Your colleagues in the office?”

  “No. Other people.”

  “You realize, don’t you, that there’s hardly a public official in the empire who hasn’t been accused of that, at one time or another?”

  “No doubt.”

  Shi-Rong paused for a moment. He was angry, but he kept calm. “When I was about your age,” he said reflectively, “my father made me promise him not to take bribes. He needn’t have worried, as I was going to work for the most incorruptible official ever recorded. I am speaking of course of the great Commissioner Lin.” He nodded. “Lin liked me. He trusted me. He was right to trust me. I am sad that my own son cannot extend me the same courtesy.”

  It was a big rebuke. But Ru-Hai did not bow his head in shame, as he should have. “I only mean that I have no desire to benefit, Father, even indirectly, from any bribes,” he said quietly.

  Shi-Rong was silent. How long had his son been waiting to spring this on him? It was almost a year since they’d spent time with each other, and he’d supposed the boy would be pleased to see him. Indeed, he’d still imagined so in the bureau, just hours ago. Yet apparently not. The lack of respect struck him like a blow.