China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  She got up and went into the hall, to find the tall, only slightly bent figure of her father, smiling down at her.

  * * *

  —

  Trader was in rather a good mood. He stooped to kiss her. “I stopped at the British legation to get directions,” he said. “You’re not far away.”

  “Quite near,” said Emily. “You look very well, Papa.”

  “They told me there’s a party this evening. Queen’s birthday. Hope we’re going.”

  “If you’re not feeling too tired.”

  “Why should I be tired? I’ve only been sitting on a ship for the last three months. Wouldn’t miss the party for worlds. Catch up on news, and so forth.”

  “Talking of news,” said Emily, “did you see any signs of trouble on your way up from the coast?”

  “I suppose you mean these Boxer fellows. Didn’t see any of them. We saw a lot of troops as we got near Peking, but I was told they were Kansu.”

  “Really?” Emily smiled. “That’s good news. Those troops are part of the regular imperial army. They don’t like the Boxers much.”

  And Trader might have questioned her about the Boxers more if a slim, handsome boy with dark, tousled hair hadn’t suddenly appeared.

  “Here’s Tom,” said Emily. “Your grandson.” And she smiled as her father stared in surprise. “He looks exactly like you.”

  “So he does,” said Trader. “Is he moody?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I don’t seem to have passed that on to anyone, then.” Trader smiled and shook the boy’s hand. “Glad to have met you at last.”

  Young Tom looked at him appraisingly. “Grandfather?” he asked hopefully. “Do you play cricket?”

  * * *

  —

  The British legation party obeyed the traditional protocol: a formal dinner for the great and good, followed by a reception with dancing for a larger company.

  “I’m afraid Henry and I don’t quite make the cut for the dinner,” Emily explained to her father, “but we go along afterwards.”

  Her father had come well prepared. No gentleman of the Victorian age traveled without a good supply of formal evening clothes, and Trader’s were pressed tight in the great-ribbed trunk that two servants had staggered to bring into the mission. With his tall frame, black eye patch, perfectly cut evening dress, and courtly manners, he made a distinguished figure. Indeed, he might have been taken for a former ambassador himself. So Emily felt rather proud to introduce him to Sir Claude and Lady MacDonald as they received their later guests.

  “You are Emily’s father?” Lady MacDonald couldn’t quite conceal her surprise. “I heard you’d arrived today.”

  “I did,” Trader said, with a slight bow and a charming smile.

  “Did you come from far?” Sir Claude wanted to know.

  “Galloway. Quite a way south of MacDonald country, of course,” Trader added pleasantly. For the lands of that great clan lay in the Highlands and on the Isle of Skye.

  “I wonder if you know some people called Lomond down there,” Sir Claude ventured, seeing if he could gauge Trader’s position in the scheme of things.

  “My wife’s family,” Trader replied easily. “Our place is called Drumlomond.”

  “Pity you didn’t get here earlier in the month,” said MacDonald in the most friendly way. “We set up a little racecourse just outside the city. It all went like clockwork, but the season ended three weeks ago.”

  “I thought I noticed some good-looking ponies on my way into the legation,” Trader remarked.

  “Well, we’re so delighted you’ve come,” said Lady MacDonald warmly. “I do hope we shall be seeing more of you.” And it was hardly five minutes before she was at Emily’s side. “We didn’t know your mother was a Lomond. I suppose we just associated you with the Anglican mission.”

  “Well, I am part of the mission,” said Emily. “Henry’s a cousin of ours, you know.”

  “Oh. And does your family farm the land at Drumlomond…?”

  “We keep some in hand. But most of the farms are tenanted. It’s not huge. A few thousand acres.”

  “Ah,” said Lady MacDonald. “My husband and I were wondering if your father would let us give a dinner party in his honor while he’s here. Do you think he’d like it, and would you and your husband bring him?”

  “How very kind of you, Lady MacDonald,” said Emily. “I’m sure he would.”

  “I’m so glad,” said her hostess, and touched Emily’s arm before she swept away.

  * * *

  —

  The Legation Quarter lay just inside the Imperial City walls, a little to the east of the central Tiananmen Gate. The British compound was the largest. There was a handsome residence with stables and numerous other buildings, including a theater, which had been used for the dinner that night, spacious lawns, tall trees to provide graceful shade, and even a tennis court.

  While Emily had her encounter with their hostess, Trader and Henry stood under a tree and surveyed the scene.

  “Those are mostly diplomats from the other colonial powers,” Henry observed, indicating a group of gentlemen chatting amongst themselves. “French, Germans, Austrians, Russians, Japanese.” He nodded. “You might think they were here to learn everything they can about China. But in fact they spend their entire time watching one another, making sure no one’s getting more out of China than they are. Same story in Africa, of course. Every European nation trying to grab as much as they can.”

  “You left out the Americans.”

  “They’re a bit different. See the young man with a face like a Roman general over there? That’s Herbert Hoover. American. Just married a nice girl, by the way. She’s called Lou.”

  “I hear he’s prospecting for minerals.”

  “He’s found anthracite. Hoover will do a deal with the Chinese. But that’s all. Strictly business. He’s not a colonist—though the Americans do have missionaries.”

  “Who are the best people to talk to, if one wants to find out what’s really going on in China?” Trader asked him.

  “The missionaries, generally, because we spend our lives with the ordinary people. You have to know someone pretty well to convert them.” Henry looked around, then smiled to himself. “I see a couple of fellows over there who might interest you: Morrison of the London Times and a man called Backhouse, who speaks Chinese. I’d better warn you that Backhouse is a bit of an odd fish. Full of gossip. Would you like to meet them?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Morrison looked exactly what he was: an intelligent, widely traveled Australian Scot, nearing forty, a professional observer who meant business. Backhouse, still in his late twenties, looked eccentric. Might he be a little mad?

  “Unusual name,” Trader remarked. “I believe you pronounce it Bacchus. Isn’t there a Backhouse baronetcy?”

  “My father, sir.”

  That made sense, Trader thought. Young Backhouse might not be a mad baronet yet; but no doubt he would be, given time.

  Having had his own conversation interrupted, to talk to an ancient visitor he’d never heard of, the Times man couldn’t have been overjoyed. But he greeted Trader politely. “Your first time in China, sir?” he inquired.

  “Not exactly.” Trader smiled amiably. “I was in Canton during the first Opium War—caught in the siege, as a matter of fact.”

  “Really?” Morrison’s face completely changed. “Are you staying here awhile? May I come and talk to you? I’d love to hear your story.”

  “Whenever you like.”

  “Sir Claude’s going to speak,” Henry broke in. Sir Claude MacDonald’s tall figure was moving towards a low grassy bank on one side of the lawn.

  “Do you know how MacDonald got his appointment here?” Backhouse whispered to Trader. “It is said that he had unimp
eachable evidence that Lord Salisbury—in his private life, as we might say—was none other than Jack the Ripper. Confronted the great man and told him the price of his silence was to be made minister to Peking.”

  The idea of Britain’s massively respectable prime minister as the infamous serial killer was certainly preposterous. “Are your stories always so improbable?” Trader inquired.

  A glass was loudly tapped. Britain’s envoy began to speak. “Excellencies, ladies and gentlemen, we are delighted to welcome you on this happy occasion. But before I propose the loyal toast, I would like to say a word about the situation here in Peking.

  “We have all learned with deep shock of the recent atrocities committed against missions and their Chinese converts. Our thoughts go out to all those who have suffered.

  “I must stress, however, that there is no indication that these Boxer outrages have spread beyond a few northern provinces. In South China, the Boxers are unknown. The Chinese government, through the Tsungli Yamen, has given us assurances that an edict is being issued for the total suppression of the Boxers. The leaders of all the legations have met, and we have told the Chinese that if they do not at once make good on their promise, we shall summon our troops from the coast, where we already have warships in place. I have every reason to believe, therefore, that this regrettable business will soon be put behind us.”

  There was applause. And then came the loyal toast to Victoria, Britain’s queen and India’s empress, on the joyous occasion of her eighty-first birthday, sixty-three years on the throne with, God willing, many more to come. Long may she reign. And the British all cheered, and everyone clapped, on the legation’s broad and sunlit lawn.

  “So what do you really think?” said John Trader to Morrison.

  “The Boxers may not be so easy to stop. It’s not really surprising if nationalist groups resent the foreigners who keep humiliating them. And I’m afraid…”—Morrison glanced at Henry—“our missionaries, though they mean for the best, may not have helped.”

  “For example?” Trader asked

  “Telling the Chinese they shouldn’t worship their ancestors. Theologically correct, but perhaps not wise. Venerating the dead is central to the Confucian idea of moral family life.”

  Trader nodded. “On Scottish hills,” he remarked, “they still build cairns of stones for the dead. Pagan practice, old as time. But nobody thinks there’s any harm in it.” He gave Henry a mischievous look. “Perhaps my children will do it for me.”

  “I’ll add a stone to your cairn,” Henry replied cheerfully. “And Christians tend family graves in every churchyard. Just don’t ask me to worship you or think you can send me help from the afterlife.” He turned to Morrison. “I don’t make an issue of all this myself. If I can bring my converts the spiritual benefit of Christianity, they’ll gradually understand that everything comes from God and pray to Him for the souls of their ancestors. But it’s true that some Chinese claim we’re attacking their traditions.”

  Emily returned, bringing the two Hoovers with her, and introduced them to her father.

  “Morrison was just telling us what we missionaries have done to offend the Chinese,” Henry explained. “Go on, Morrison. What else?”

  “In recent years, our attempts to discourage foot-binding.”

  “But it’s such a terrible custom,” cried Lou Hoover.

  “And very painful,” said Emily. “All the women tell me that.”

  “I can never see,” said Lou Hoover, “why people would do such a thing.” She turned. “What do you think, Mr. Trader?”

  “Strange, isn’t it,” he replied, “how all over the world, people want to distort the bodies God gave them. In some parts of Africa, I’ve been told, the women stretch their necks with metal rings so that if you took the rings away, their necks could no longer support their heads. The ancient Maya in Central America used to lengthen babies’ skulls by squeezing them between two boards. But you could argue that the worst custom of all is our very own—on both sides of the Atlantic, I may say.”

  “What’s that?” asked Hoover.

  “To lace our women into whalebone corsets so tight that, doctors assure us, it damages their health far more than if we bound their feet like the Chinese.” He shook his head. “As for why human beings do these things, I have no idea.”

  “What does the Chinese government say about foot-binding?” Hoover asked.

  “The ruling Manchu don’t bind their women’s feet,” Morrison answered. “So I don’t think they care much one way or the other. It’s a Han Chinese custom. There’s social prestige involved, and naturally, they don’t like it when outsiders tell them how to live.”

  “You’ve left one thing out,” Backhouse butted in. “It’s a fetish. The men get excited by the tiny feet, like little hooves, in silk and satin slippers.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “I’m afraid it’s true,” said Emily.

  “No need to say it,” growled her father.

  “None at all,” said Mr. Hoover very firmly, giving Backhouse a furious look.

  “The other thing the Boxers have going for them,” Morrison went on, “is their mystique. They’ve persuaded themselves and many of the people that they have magical powers. You know how superstitious the Chinese can be. I mean, we’ve had telegraph wires here for some years now, but many Chinese still think it’s some kind of black magic.”

  “Henry’s got a telescope at the mission,” said Emily with a smile. “You know, on a tripod. Most of the converts won’t go near it because they think it’s a magical weapon of some kind.”

  “You’ll find almost as much superstition in Gaelic Scotland, actually,” Trader reminded them. “And when you consider all the horrors we’ve brought here—like the iron gun ship in the Opium War, which they’d never seen before—if I were Chinese and I saw a barbarian with a strange tube on a tripod, I daresay I’d be pretty leery of it.”

  “Chinese superstition may help us, strangely enough,” Morrison continued. “I was talking to Sir Robert Hart—who’s run the Chinese customs for forty years and knows more than anyone—and he told me that according to Chinese folklore, there’s a day coming up this September when cataclysms are supposed to occur. If the Boxers are going to stage something big, he says, that’s the day they’ll choose—which gives us nearly four months to prepare.”

  “So, sir, are you reassured?” Trader asked Hoover.

  “Not really. I’ve pulled my fellows out. Can’t risk their lives. The anthracite will have to wait. Lou and I leave for the coast tomorrow.”

  “MacDonald says he’s had assurances from the Tsungli Yamen,” Trader said. “But here’s my question. Who makes the final decisions in China now?”

  “The old lady. The dowager empress,” Morrison replied.

  “Cixi,” Backhouse echoed. “The Old Buddha.”

  “And where does she stand on the Boxers?”

  “She may love them. She may fear them. Hard to know,” said Morrison.

  “Oh no, it isn’t,” Backhouse cried. “Cixi has hated the West ever since the Opium Wars. She’s always wanted to kick us out, but she’s never been able to do it, for fear of the West’s reprisals. But if the Boxers rise and do her dirty work for her, she’d be delighted.”

  “How do you know?” Hoover demanded.

  “Because she told me so,” said Backhouse with a little smile of triumph. “I happen to be a friend of hers.”

  “I don’t believe a word of this,” said the American.

  “You are quite wrong, sir. First, I speak Chinese. Second, I made the acquaintance of Lacquer Nail, one of the palace eunuchs who is close to her. Third, I am neither a missionary nor an employee of the British government. Fourth, my eunuch friend knows the empress is curious about foreigners and thought I might amuse her. As a result, I have already spoken with her on
numerous occasions.”

  “I always heard only eunuchs could get into the palace,” said Trader.

  “Generally you are correct, though foreigners, princes, and ministers have always been received there for audiences. But for years now, Cixi has pretty much done what she wants. Especially out at the Summer Palace, where she likes to reside.”

  “But we destroyed the Summer Palace,” said Trader.

  “Cixi always wanted to restore it, but there were never the funds. Finally they rebuilt one of the smaller parks, and they constructed a huge pleasure boat in the lake. At least it looks like a boat, though it’s actually made of stone. Cixi loves to have festive parties on that stone boat—very festive.”

  “I imagined the Dragon Empress was rather severe,” Trader remarked.

  “Not in private. In fact, her most trusted eunuchs are allowed to take intimate liberties that might astonish you. And so am I.”

  “You are preposterous,” said Hoover in disgust. “Let’s go, Lou.” And they left. Mercifully, a moment later, Lady MacDonald appeared.

  “The dancing is beginning. I just suggested to Sir Robert Hart that he should claim the first dance, and he says he’s too old. So I have come to you, Mr. Trader.”

  “But, Lady MacDonald, I’m much older than he is,” Trader pointed out.

  “Don’t you think we should show him up?” she rejoined.

  Trader grinned. “Absolutely,” he said.

  So to the general pleasure, the oldest man present led his hostess onto the dance floor, namely the tennis court, where they gave a very good account of themselves, and everybody clapped. They even took a second turn. Emily felt so proud. And though Henry invited her to dance, she asked him to wait until the next, so that she could watch them because, as she said to Henry, she’d like to remember her father this way.

  Meanwhile, Trader and his partner were chatting pleasantly.

  “You really should stay with your daughter for as long as you can,” Lady MacDonald said. “We’re so fond of her. We like to have a tennis tournament here for the people who are still in Peking during the summer,” she went on blithely.