Every part of the Sea Palaces was enriched with such legends, and the Empress Mother knew them all from her much reading of many books. No part of that pleasure place did she love better than the pavilion by the South Sea, called the Pavilion of the Thoughts of Home. This pavilion was two-storied, built thus by Ch’ien Lung, so that his favorite, the Fragrant Concubine, whose name was Hsiang Fei, because the sweat from her delicate body was sweet as perfume, could look toward her lost land. This Fragrant Concubine had been taken from her husband and her home in Turkestan, where she was a princess of Kashgaria. Booty of war she was, for Ch’ien Lung had heard of her magic beauty and especially of the softness of her white skin, and he commanded his generals to bring her to him, by force if they must. But she was faithful to her husband and she would not leave her home for any reason, and so a war began for her sake. When her husband was defeated and took his own life, then this princess had no defense and she was compelled to come to the Emperor of China. Yet she would not yield herself to him, and although he loved her at first sight, he would not take her by force, desiring the full and subtle pleasure of her yielding. Therefore he built the pavilion from whose tower she could look toward her lost home and he waited patiently until she would have him, and this he did against the advice of the Empress Dowager, his mother, who in anger bade her son send back the beautiful and invincible woman to Turkestan again. For the Fragrant Concubine would not tolerate so much as the approach of the Emperor to her side, saying that if he touched his palm to her hand she would kill herself and him.
One winter’s day, when it was his duty to worship at the Altar of Heaven on behalf of his people, his mother, the Empress Dowager, sent for the Fragrant Concubine and commanded her either to yield to the Emperor or take her own life. The princess chose to take her life, and when the Empress Dowager heard the choice, she commanded her to be led to an empty building and given a silken rope, and there the lonely lady hung herself. A faithful eunuch took the news in secret to the Emperor, who, though he was fasting in the Hall of Abstinence to purify himself for the sacred sacrifice, forgot his duty and hastened to his palace. He was too late. His beloved had escaped him and forever. Such was the legend.
For her own the Empress Mother now chose the many halls and courtyards, the pools and flower gardens of the Palace of Compassion, which stands near the Middle Sea. She loved especially the rock gardens, and though she allowed herself no parties or gay gatherings, such as she had used to make at the Summer Palace of Yüan Ming Yüan, where she and her ladies wore costumes of goddesses and fairies, as her playful mood enjoyed, yet now for the first time since the death of the Emperor, her late lord, she did allow herself to look at plays, not large plays or merry ones, but sad quiet plays, portraying the wisdom of the soul. For this purpose she caused to be opened a gate from her rock gardens into an unused courtyard beside a closed hall, and she ordered those eunuchs who were carpenters and painters and masons to make a great stage near a pleasant space where she and her ladies could sit in secluded comfort and watch the actors. Her royal box was as large as a room, and she had it raised beyond a narrow brook which ran through the courtyard, and this flowing water softened the voices of the actors and made music of their words. A marble bridge, no wider than a footpath, spanned the brook.
To this place one day, when she felt her secret plans were ripe, the Empress Mother commanded Jung Lu to be summoned. It was her way never to tie two deeds too close, so that none could say, “First she did this, and then she did that,” and so comprehend by chance her private mind. No, she let a full two months pass by after she had made Prince Kung’s daughter her adopted child before she took the next step and sent for Jung Lu as though upon today’s whim, she who was too wise for whims.
The play was going on before her eyes, the actors all eunuchs, for since the time of the Ancestor Ch’ien Lung no female could play a part upon the stage because his own mother had been an actress, and to honor her he allowed no woman to be like her. The play that day was one well known, The Orphan of the Clan of Ch’ao, and the Empress had seen it many times and her ears grew weary with the singing. Yet she did not wish to wound the actors and so while she sat listening and delicately tasting sweetmeats, her mind went to her secrets. So, she thought, why not summon Jung Lu here, where all were assembled, and while the play went on, make known to him her will? She must hear his own willingness to take Su Shun’s place, before she could reward him in public.
She beckoned Li Lien-ying to her side. “Bid my kinsman to come hither. I have a command.”
He grinned and made obeisance and went away cracking his knuckles, and the Empress Mother turned her head to the stage and seemed absorbed again in the play. Her ladies sat in their places around her. Did any see her eyes fall upon her, then that one would rise. In a few minutes, therefore, Lady Mei, always watchful of her sovereign, felt a gaze upon her and looking from the play she saw that the Empress Mother was looking at her with long and thoughtful eyes. She rose at once and bowed. The Empress Mother beckoned with her down-turned hand and half timidly the lovely girl went to her.
“Lean your ear to me,” the Empress Mother commanded. The singing on the stage silenced her voice to all but the lady herself, who leaned her head and in her ear she heard her sovereign say these words:
“I have not forgot my promise to you, child. This day I will fulfill it.”
Lady Mei continued to stand, her head bowed to hide her blushing face.
The Empress Mother smiled. “I see you know what promise.”
“Can I forget a promise that Majesty has made?” This was Lady Mei’s reply.
The Empress Mother touched her cheek. “Prettily said, child! Well, you shall see—”
By this time Jung Lu was walking to the royal box. The afternoon sun shone down upon his tall figure and upright head. He wore his uniform, dark blue in mourning for the dead Emperor, and from his belt hung his broad sword, the silver scabbard glittering. With firm steps he approached the dais and made obeisance. The Empress Mother inclined her head and motioned to a seat near her low throne. He hesitated and sat down.
For a while she seemed not to heed him. The star of the play came on the stage to sing his most famous song and all eyes were upon him, and so were hers. Suddenly she began to speak, not turning her eyes from the stage.
“Kinsman, I have had in mind all this while a good reward for your service to me and to the young Emperor.”
“Majesty,” Jung Lu said, “indeed, I did no more than my duty.”
“You know you saved our lives,” she said.
“That was my duty,” he insisted.
“Do you think I forget?” she asked in reply. “I forget nothing then or now. I shall reward you, whether or no, and it is my will that you take the place left empty by the traitor Su Shun.”
“Majesty—” he began impetuously, but she put up her hand to silence him.
“You must accept,” she said, still gazing at the stage. “I need you near me. Whom can I trust? Prince Kung, yes—I know his name is on your lips. Well, I trust him! But does he love me? Or—do I love him?”
“You must not speak so,” he muttered.
The voice upon the stage soared high, the drums beat, the ladies cried out their praises and threw flowers and sweets to the singing eunuch.
“I love you always,” she said.
He did not turn his head.
“You know that you love me,” she said.
Still he was silent.
She turned her eyes to him then.
“Do you not?” she asked clearly.
He muttered, staring at the stage, “I will not have you fall from where you have risen and because of me.”
She smiled and though she turned her head away again her great eyes shone. “When you are Grand Councilor, I may summon you as often as need be, for the burden of the realm will fall upon you, too. The Regents lean upon the Princes, the Grand Councilors and ministers.”
“I shall not obey such summ
ons save in company with all councilors.”
“Yes, you shall,” she said willfully.
“And spoil your name?”
“I’ll save my own name and by this means—you shall wed a lady whom I choose. If you have a wife young and beautiful, who can speak evil?”
“I will wed no one!” His voice was bitter between his teeth.
Upon the stage the famous actor made his last bow and sat down. The property man ran forward to bring a bowl of tea. The actor took off his weighty many-colored helmet and wiped his sweat away with a silk kerchief. In the small theater the serving eunuchs wrung soft towels from basins of perfumed water steaming hot and tossed them here and there where hands were raised to catch them. The eunuch Li Lien-ying brought a hot perfumed towel on a gold salver to the Empress Mother. She took it and touched it delicately first to her temples and then to her palms, and when the eunuch was gone again, she spoke low and sharply.
“I do command you to wed Lady Mei. No, you shall not speak. She is the gentlest woman in our Court, the truest soul, and she loves you.”
“Can you command my heart?” he cried beneath his breath.
“You need not love her,” she said cruelly.
“If she is what you say, then I would do her such injustice as is against my nature,” he retorted.
“Not if she knows you do not love her and still longs to be your wife.”
He pondered this awhile. Upon the stage a new young actor stood and sang his best, while serving eunuchs brought trays of sweetmeats, hot and cold, to feed the throng. Since the actor was unknown, he was not heeded, and eyes crept toward the Empress Mother. She felt them on her, and she knew she must dismiss Jung Lu.
She spoke between her set teeth. “You may not disobey me. It is decreed that you shall accept this marriage, and on the same day you shall take your seat among the Councilors. And now retire!”
He rose and made his deep obeisance. His silence gave assent. She inclined her head. With careful grace she lifted her head again and seemed intent upon the stage.
In the night, when she was alone, the scene returned to her. She could not remember what story the actors played upon the stage when he was gone, nor what songs they sang. She had sat fanning herself slowly, the stage a blur before her eyes, and then, her whole body tense in agony, she had folded the fan and stayed motionless, gazing at the stage while pain pervaded all her being. She loved one only and she would love him until she died. He was the lover whom she craved, the husband she denied herself.
And as her mind fluttered here and there like a caged bird against the bars, she thought of a queen, an English queen, Victoria, of whom Prince Kung had told her. Ah, fortunate queen, who was allowed to wed a man she loved! But then Victoria was not concubine or widow to an emperor. She was born to her throne and she could lift up the man she loved to sit beside her. But no woman could be born to sit upon the Dragon Throne, and she could only seize it for herself.
And thus am I, the Empress Mother said to herself, so much the stronger than that English Queen. I have seized my throne—
But is strength comfort for a woman?
She lay in her great bed, still wakeful, though the watchman struck his brass gong twice to signify that midnight was two hours past. She lay motionless while pain ran through her very blood and her breath caught deep and hard inside her bosom. And why was she not all woman? Why could she not be content to yield the throne and be his wife whom she so loved ? What pride possessed her to rise to yet higher power? How did it serve her, a woman, if a dynasty held or fell?
She saw herself at last, a woman in her secret need and longing, yet not a woman in her lust for more than love. Place and power, the pride of being above all—these too were her necessity. But surely she was woman in her love for her son? Her relentless self replied that though he to her was all child, and she to him all mother, yet beyond the closeness of their blood-bond was another bond. He was the Emperor and she the Empress Mother. The common boons of womanhood were not enough. Oh, cursed woman to be born with such a heart and brain!
She turned upon her pillow and wept with pity for herself. I cannot love, she thought. I cannot love enough to make me willing to yield myself to love. And why? Because I know myself too well. Were I to cramp myself into my love, my heart would die, and having given all, I would have nothing left but hatred for him. And yet I love him!
The watchman beat his bronze gong again and called his cry. “Three hours past midnight!”
She pondered then awhile on love, weeping when thought grew too sorrowful. Suppose, when Jung Lu was wed to Lady Mei, that she could persuade him to meet her in some secret room of a forgotten palace. Her eunuch could be watchman, she would pay him well and did she suspect his loyalty, a word would put a dagger in his heart. If, once or twice, a few times, say, in her life years, she could meet her love as only woman, then she could be happy, having so much, if not all. Did she not hold his heart?
Ah, but could she hold his heart? While she sat upon her throne another woman would lie in his bed. He being man, could he remember always that it was the Empress whom he loved and not the woman in his arms?
Her tears burned dry in sudden jealousy. She rose in her bed and threw aside her silken coverlet and drawing up her knees she laid her forehead down and bit her lips and sobbed silently, lest her woman hear.
The watchman beat his gong again and called, “Four hours past midnight!”
When she was spent with bitter weeping she lay down once more, exhausted. She was born what she was, a woman and more than a woman. The very weight of genius was her destruction. Tears trembled on her eyelids again.
And then from somewhere in herself an alien strength welled up. Destruction? If she allowed herself to be destroyed by her own love and jealousy, then call it true destruction, because she was not great enough to use the size of her own nature.
Yet how strong I am, she muttered. Yes, she would make of strength a comfort. The tears dried on her eyelids and through her veins came the old powerful faith in what she was. She reckoned up her thoughts and separated true from false. Madness, folly, vain dreaming, to imagine a secret room in some forgotten palace! He would never take such yielding. If she would not give up all for love, he would be too proud to be her private lover. Once—yes, once, but only once, when he was still a boy on that past day—and she had found him virgin. Well, she had that first fruit, a memory to keep, yet not to think about but put away, forever unforgotten. He would not yield again.
And now there came a thought to her so new that she was struck with wonder. Grant that she could not love any man enough to forsake all and follow after love. Let it be so, for so she was born. Yet was it not a gift for him if she let him love her with all his heart and pour his love into her service?
It may be that I love him best, she thought, when I accept his love for me and let it be my refuge.
With this wisdom a strange peace came flowing gently through her veins and stilled her restless heart. She closed her eyes.
The watchman’s gong beat once again. She heard his morning call.
“Dawn,” he sang, “and all is well!”
She set the wedding day early. Let it be soon, that it might be the sooner irrevocable! Yet Lady Mei could not be married from the imperial palaces, though she had no other home.
“Summon the Chief Eunuch,” the Empress Mother commanded.
Li Lien-ying, standing silent in his usual place by the door of the Imperial Library, where the Empress had now spent four days without speaking to anyone except to give commands, went with all speed to obey. The Chief Eunuch was in his own rooms, taking his midmorning breakfast, a meal of various meats, which he ate slowly and with relish. Since the death of his late sovereign he had comforted himself with pleasures, but now he hastened to obey the summons.
The Empress Mother looked up from her book when he appeared before her and when she saw him she spoke with much distaste.
“You, An Teh-hai, do you dare t
o let yourself become so smug? I swear you’ve put on fat even in these days of mourning.”
He tried a look of sadness. “Venerable, I am full of water. Prick me and liquid flows. I am ill, your Majesty, not fat.”
She heard this with her usual look of sternness when she felt it necessary to reproach one beneath her. Nothing escaped her notice, and though her mind and heart were occupied with her own secret woes, she could, as usual, turn her thought for the moment to so small a matter as the Chief Eunuch’s waxing fat.
“I know how you eat and drink,” she said. “You grow rich, you know you do. Take care that you do not grow too rich. Remember that my eyes are on you.”
The Chief Eunuch made humble reply. “Majesty, we all know your eyes are everywhere at once.”
She continued to look at him severely for a moment, her immense eyes burning upon him, and though he could not in proper courtesy lift his eyes to her face, nevertheless he felt her look and began to sweat. Then she smiled.
“You are too handsome to grow fat,” she said. “And how can you play the hero on the stage if your belt does not meet around your middle?”
He laughed. It was true he loved to act a hero in court plays. “Majesty,” he promised, “I’ll starve myself to please you.”
In good humor then she said, “I did not call you here to talk about you, but to say it is my will that you arrange for the marriage of Lady Mei to Jung Lu, Commander of the Guard. You know he is to wed her?”
“Yes, Majesty,” the Chief Eunuch said.
He knew of the marriage as he knew everything within the palace walls. Li Lien-ying told him all that he heard, and so did every eunuch and serving woman, and the Empress Mother knew this.
“The lady has no parents,” she continued. “I must therefore stand in the place of parent to her. Yet as Regent I stand also in the place of the young Emperor and it would not be fitting to give her the appearance of a princess by my presence at her marriage. You are to take her to my nephew’s house, the Duke of Hui. Let her be accompanied with all honor and ceremony. From that house my kinsman, the Commander, will receive her.”