China by Edward Rutherfurd (latest novels to read TXT) 📗

He did not really need to consider at all, for he had given this little speech many times. But people like to think they have asked an original question. “When I was an orphaned boy,” he began, “I was told it was my duty to become a warrior like my father, who died a hero. He was a member of the Suwan Guwalgiya clan, whose spirit pole is in Beijing. I am the ninth-generation descendant of Fiongdon, Lord of the Bordered Yellow Banner, close companion of the founder of the Manchu royal house. Fiongdon was made Duke of Unswerving Righteousness, and in the centuries after his death was raised still further, finally becoming a Hereditary Duke, First Class.”

“Outside royalty, there is no higher rank,” said Mr. Yao, with a nod to his wife and her mother, to make sure they understood what a fine guest he had been able to invite to his house.

“My uncle in Hangzhou, who brought me up, was a figure in the literary world. He printed many fine books and often wrote memoirs and dedications. But he impressed upon me that my duty and destiny were to become a great warrior in the service of the emperor. And as he was a man of some fortune he was able to ensure that I had the best horses, arms, and teachers, as well as a good education in both the Manchu and Chinese languages to fit me for such a role. As you know, there are not so many Manchu warriors nowadays who are trained in the old ways, and he hoped I would stand out.”

“Which you surely did,” said Yao politely.

“Up to a point, Mr. Yao. The bannermen treated me as one of their own. They taught me their songs and all the old stories. I rode with them. I shot the bow and arrow. I knew the freedom of the open steppe. I loved it. I also enjoyed my studies at school. But I never wanted to be a scholar. I think I had too much energy and high spirits.” He looked at the two women. “And yet something was missing from my life. I found it in poetry, perhaps. I sensed it on visits to the temple.” He stopped, as if he could not find the words. “I even secretly wondered if I should become a priest. Boys of a certain age often have these feelings, if they are at all sensitive. I felt it was a weakness. I stuck to my duty. I fought against the Taiping. I willingly risked my life, as every soldier must. I rose to command men.” He stopped.

“But your sense that something was missing did not entirely leave you?” Bright Moon asked.

“I was fortunate in my marriage. I often told my dear wife that she was too good for me, but she was kind enough to pretend that she was not.” He gave a self-deprecating smile. “I think I may say that we were both very happy, and I miss her every day. When my dear daughter was ready to marry, we went to great trouble to find her a husband with whom we believed she would be equally happy. And I’m glad to say she is.” He paused a moment. “To answer your question, as long as my wife was living, I felt spiritually complete. But after I lost her, then…I longed for Hangzhou and the West Lake. It is perhaps a weakness for a soldier to admit that he is vulnerable. But I suspect that I may have had more of the character of my uncle than of my father, really.”

“It is not a weakness,” said Bright Moon with feeling.

“Well, you are kind to say so,” Guanji replied. Then he suddenly brightened. “I have two fine sons who’ve been bred to the military life and have no such doubts at all. Handsome young devils.” He turned to Mr. Yao. “They say the Dowager Empress Cixi likes handsome young Manchu warriors and promotes them.” He laughed and gave the merchant a knowing look. “So I have high hopes for their careers!”

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