China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Mr. Yao laughed, too. But it was the two women Guanji was watching. Most women liked a manly man. But a general who showed such respect for his wife, who could admit he was sensitive, even vulnerable…This little speech of his nearly always seemed to interest them.

  Indeed, Bright Moon was looking distinctly thoughtful. Her mother’s face, however, gave nothing away.

  They talked a little more, of recent events at court, of the new railway that had finally, alas, been established at Beijing. They all agreed that such a horror must never come near the West Lake. Then, the tea ritual having been completed, Guanji politely indicated that he should go.

  His hostess graciously hoped he would honor them with another visit before too long, and Guanji was on the point of rising. But it seemed that his host was not quite ready to let him depart.

  “The general has been too discreet to mention the fact,” he said to the two ladies, “but you should know that he is also a notable collector.”

  Clearly the merchant had been making inquiries about him. Guanji bowed his head. “It is true, Mr. Yao,” he answered, “that I collect historical seals—though my collection is very modest.”

  The collection was not old. Before retiring to the West Lake, Guanji had decided that it would be pleasant to secure some sort of position for himself in the culture of the place. He hadn’t the literary attainments to emulate the essays of his Hangzhou uncle. But it had occurred to him that he could become an expert in some not-too-demanding field. “Why don’t you start a collection?” a scholar friend had suggested. “What about seals? They’re not too expensive.”

  It had proved to be an inspired choice. Sealstones, after all, had been in use since the dawn of Chinese civilization. The underside, carved with Chinese characters that were often primitive but always artfully geometric, would be dipped in ink and then used to stamp documents or, as time went by, paintings and works of calligraphy. The stamps of collectors’ seals were considered validation of a work of art and even became considered part of its value as time passed. Sometimes the upper part of the sealstone, which the user held when he applied the stamp, might be a simple rectangular block, or any shape. But in recent centuries especially, the upper part was often carved and polished into a beautiful little sculpture that might rest in the palm of one’s hand—so that the seal became a double work of art.

  What suited Guanji especially was that the art of making sealstones had reached its apogee under the Ming dynasty and continued through the Manchu as well, so that by embracing this art form he, a Manchu, was associating himself both with his own ancestry and also with the Han culture of which he wished to be a part.

  It hadn’t taken him long, with the help of dealers, to build up quite an impressive collection; and by applying his mind, he had soon become expert at explaining the origin of each seal, the historical documents and works of art to which it might have been applied, and thereby seemed far more cultured than he really was. The literati of the West Lake were always glad to visit his house, especially when there was another rare old seal from antiquity to be inspected.

  If this social strategy had worked well, Guanji had augmented the effect by his skill in tactics. For invitations were not so easy to come by. A visitor to the lake who was lucky enough to be introduced to the general needn’t expect to receive one. Only a favored few were so honored. If a new arrival asked to see the collection, the general would not seem to hear him, and he might have to wait a year or two, and become the general’s friend, before an invitation was proffered. Some people were never asked. So the community around the lake was already divided into two classes: those who had seen the seal collection and those who had not.

  “I’m sure,” said Mr. Yao, “that my wife and her mother would be most interested to see the collection, though alas, since she is not here for long, my wife’s mother may not have the chance.”

  Guanji gazed at him. Nice try, he thought. Pushy, but a nice try. “I’m afraid they’d find my collection of musty old sealstones terribly boring,” he countered.

  “I have heard it’s most intriguing,” said Bright Moon. “My mother and I would love to see them.”

  Had the merchant put her up to it? Guanji wondered. Probably. This merchant was a wily adversary. He’s tempting me with the women to make sure he gets to see the collection quicker than anyone else has. Very well, he’d concede the point. “Why don’t all three of you come, if you really think it wouldn’t bore you,” he suggested. “Tomorrow is not good for me, but would you be free the day after?”

  “Most certainly we should,” said Mr. Yao at once.

  * * *

  —

  It was the following afternoon that Mei-Ling and her daughter had a little talk. They were standing in the walled garden. The sky was grey, and the floor of the empty enclosure was a colorless expanse of bare stalks and stripped weeds. The walls looked raw, their unwanted creepers torn away. Was there a chill in the air? Mei-Ling couldn’t tell. It seemed to her that it was neither warm nor cold nor anything. The moon gate stared at them emptily as Mei-Ling spoke: “You were making eyes at the general yesterday. You think nobody noticed, but I saw.”

  “I think it’s you he’s interested in, Mother,” Bright Moon replied.

  “I’ve seen his sort before.”

  “So have I. They usually go after widows. Wives are too much trouble.”

  “You must not even think of being unfaithful.”

  “Who says I have?”

  “You were taken with him.”

  “He’s unusual. He knows how to treat a woman.”

  “He knows how to seduce a woman. All that talk about being a warrior with a sensitive soul. How could you fall for such stuff?”

  “It makes a change from my husband. You brought me up to know a little about the world of cultivated people. You know you did. So you can hardly blame me if I’m attracted to an educated man.”

  “A little culture is expected if you want to make a good marriage.”

  “Like binding one’s feet. You never suffered that. But you forced me to. I still wish I’d kept my feet the way nature made them and married a peasant from the village.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” her mother cried. “You’ve never known…”

  “Never known what?”

  “What it’s like to be powerless, short of money, even short of food. There is no comfort for the soul, no dignity in that, I promise you. Do you think I was happy that my husband had to go all the way to America so he could send us the money we needed? And we were better off than most people in the village.”

  “When a bride is carried in the red-and-gold litter from her parents’ house to the wedding, she has to pretend to weep all the way to show how sorry she is to leave her home. But I wept real tears.”

  “You have children, a family, a beautiful home.” Mei-Ling made a gesture towards the villa. “Your husband’s rich. He’s a good man. Hardly one bride in a thousand gets all that. Surely he doesn’t mistreat you.”

  “No, he doesn’t mistreat me.” Bright Moon made a little gesture of irritation.

  “Then do your duty.” Her mother paused. “Do you understand what will happen to you if you are unfaithful?”

  “Perhaps we can agree to part. The law allows it.”

  “Only if your husband wishes. He can throw you out and keep the children. Think of them. And if he prosecutes you, the law is very clear. You’ll get ninety strokes of the cane.”

  “The wife and her lover are both caned.”

  “Wrong. You forget. As well as his rank, the general has juren status. He’s exempt from corporal punishment. He’d get off, free as a bird. But you’ll be destroyed.” Mei-Ling took a deep breath. “Promise me, my child, you must promise me that you will never, ever be unfaithful. I couldn’t bear to see you destroy yourself. Not after all I’
ve been through.”

  “I don’t know that you’ve been through so much.”

  “There are many things you don’t know,” her mother replied. For although Bright Moon was over thirty and had a family of her own, it seemed to Mei-Ling sometimes that her daughter was still in some ways a child.

  Had she really understood the terrible danger she could be in?

  Bright Moon didn’t respond. She seemed to be pondering. “Mother,” she said at last, “can I ask you a question?”

  “I suppose so. What?”

  “Were you unfaithful to my father?”

  “What a thing to ask your mother!” she cried. “We were a very happy couple.”

  “My husband tells people that my adopted father is my real father. It pleases him to have them think his wife is descended from high-ranking gentry. But I wondered if it might be true.”

  “I met your adoptive father long after I became a widow. He came through our village on his way to Guilin. He caught sight of me, made inquiries, and then he asked me to become his concubine. I said I would go with him for a year or two if he would pay me the money we needed for your training and education. That’s how it happened.” She might have left a small piece of information out, but everything she had just said was true. “You were already a little girl by then. I did it for you and left you with Mother at home, but it wasn’t long before I was back.”

  “So why did he adopt me?”

  “When I parted from him, I asked him to help me by finding you a good husband. His adopting you made that easier. He didn’t tell Yao that you were actually his, but Yao jumped to that conclusion, and there wasn’t much point in having a dispute about it.”

  “So you got me a rich husband under false pretenses.”

  “Nobody ever said it was so. He just chose to believe it. He may not even think it himself, but he probably likes it if others do.”

  “So where does that leave me?”

  “Married to a good husband. Be grateful,” said Mei-Ling firmly. “He’d have married you anyway, you know. And I’m sure he’s very glad he did.”

  “Why does everything have to be a lie?”

  “Your kind husband is not a lie. Your children are not a lie. Your home is not a lie. We must build on all the things that are true in our lives. And you have more to build on than most people. That’s how we go forward.”

  “Perhaps I don’t want to go forward.”

  “You must.”

  Bright Moon didn’t answer.

  Then Mr. Yao appeared at the far gate of the garden, and their conversation ended.

  * * *

  —

  The stranger arrived at the general’s house the following morning. Guanji was in his small library, reading a letter from a collector in Hangzhou, when a servant told him: “There is a man to see you, sir, who says he is your kinsman.”

  “You don’t look very certain about it,” Guanji remarked.

  “No, sir.”

  The Suwan Guwalgiya had grown many branches down the centuries, and as a public man the general always made a point of treating clansmen kindly, even if he wasn’t quite sure who they were. “Show him in, and let’s take a look at him,” he said amiably.

  And almost immediately wished he hadn’t.

  The fellow was about his own age and height—or would have been if he didn’t stoop so much. But there the resemblance ended. His face was sallow. His clothes were not in tatters, but worn through, which was strangely depressing. An opium addict, Guanji guessed.

  “We have something in common, General,” he said.

  “Oh?” said Guanji.

  “You are ninth generation in descent from our great ancestor Fiongdon; and so am I.”

  Was he? Who knew? No doubt he was ready for a detailed rehearsal of their ancestry, but Guanji didn’t want to hear it. “Where do you live?” he asked, hoping it was far away.

  “Xi’an.”

  Xi’an, one of the four ancient capitals of China. Built and rebuilt on nearby sites, carrying other names—Chang’an, Daxing—the place had once been the entrance to the Silk Road to the west. Also a fort with a big garrison of Manchu bannermen.

  And over eight hundred miles away.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I came to visit Beijing, to see the spirit pole of our clan—just once in my life.”

  “A journey in a good cause.”

  “It cost me all I have.” So that was it. He’d come for money.

  “But then you came here.”

  “To see the West Lake. And to call upon you.”

  “I am honored,” Guanji said drily.

  “I have followed your glorious career for many years.”

  And no doubt those of other kinsmen you hope to sponge off, Guanji thought.

  “What do you do for a living?” he mildly inquired.

  “My father was a bannerman, a soldier,” his visitor replied.

  “Mine too. But what about you yourself?”

  “Alas, the emperor employs fewer of us now.”

  “That’s true. Han Chinese troops have often proved themselves better. I have commanded them myself.” Guanji let that sink in. “So you rely upon the rice and silver to which, as hereditary bannermen, we are entitled,” he went on.

  “Which has shamefully been growing less all my life!” the fellow cried indignantly.

  “Don’t be absurd,” Guanji told him. “You know as well as I do, the money’s not there. The Taiping revolt ruined the whole Yangtze valley, and the barbarian reparations exhausted the treasury. Besides, there are more Manchu mouths to feed every generation. You know the empire can’t afford the old stipends.”

  “Then what are we supposed to do?”

  “People sometimes forget, but when the Manchu first conquered China and drove out the Ming, there were huge numbers of bannermen to be looked after. Were they given stipends? No. Most of them were given land and told to farm it, just like the humble Han peasants. They weren’t very good at it, unfortunately, but that was their reward.”

  “But the Suwan Guwalgiya were the chosen few, above the others.”

  “It is true that we and other clans were the chosen bannermen who manned the garrisons in the great cities and who were given stipends to reward us for military service.”

  “And we’re not allowed to do anything else.”

  “At first that was so. But not anymore. Times change. Garrison bannermen are even allowed to engage in commerce now. My esteemed uncle ran a printing press,” Guanji reminded him. “A gentlemanly occupation, but still commerce.” He gazed with distaste at his kinsman—if that’s what this fellow really was. “You think,” he remarked, “that you are entitled to something.”

  “Of course,” came the reply.

  Guanji nodded to himself. He’d seen it all so many times before, seen bannermen beg in the streets of Hangzhou sooner than work, because they thought that work was beneath them. They were worthless, really, these clansmen of his. Secretly, he despised them just as much as the Han Chinese did.

  Only one uncomfortable thought niggled his mind: Was he any better? How much of his own success was thanks to his uncle’s skill in making use of whatever Manchu entitlements were left? Certainly he’d been waved through the imperial examination system and become juren because he was a Manchu. Yes, he’d worked hard and risen by merit. But what if he hadn’t had his uncle behind him? Might he have turned out just like this useless kinsman? He told himself no, a thousand times no. The thought was so infuriating that he suddenly realized he was clenching his hands with rage. And so instead of giving the fellow some money and sending him on his way, he suddenly decided to punish him first.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said. “If I give you money, you’ll only spend it on opium. You’ll have to find someone else to
sponge off.”

  His kinsman looked at him in disbelief. Then his face creased into a look of fury. “Is this how you treat a member of the House of Fiongdon?” he cried.

  “It appears to be,” said Guanji.

  “Screw you!” It was screamed so loudly that the servant looked in from the doorway. “You think you can look down on me? You sit in your fine house and everyone calls you general, and you think you’re better than me? I’m a nobleman. I’ve got a better line of descent from Fiongdon than you have, if you really want to know.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Screw your mother!”

  “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

  “You don’t impress me. Not one little bit.”

  “Be quiet,” said Guanji. The servant was still watching nervously in the doorway. “If you want me to give you money to go home,” Guanji continued calmly, “I think you should be more polite.”

  “Pervert! Bitch!”

  Guanji eyed him impassively, then turned to the servant. “Go and get help,” he said.

  “I demand,” the fellow shouted grandiosely, “to be shown proper respect in this house.”

  “Me too.” Guanji got up, went to a cabinet, opened a drawer, and took out a small bag of coins. He removed some of the coins, put them back in the drawer, returned with the little bag, and sat down again as the servant reappeared with two others.

  Guanji addressed his visitor. “Here is some money. Enough for your journey back. But that is all I can give you. Please do not think that there will ever be any more. There will not.” He handed him the bag. He wondered if his visitor would make a show, flinging the bag and its contents back at him. He noticed, however, that his kinsman’s hand closed over the bag as tight as a hawk’s talons. He turned to the three servants. “Show him out, and never let him in again.”