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

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.”

“Keep your hands off me,” the fellow ordered the servants as they grabbed him. “You’ll be sorry for this,” he cried to Guanji as they hustled him out. “More sorry than you dream.”

“I’m sorry already,” said Guanji, and went back to reading his letter.

But the truth was that the interview had shaken him, and he was glad that afternoon when the visit of Mr. Yao and the two ladies obliged him to put it out of his mind.

—

It took Mei-Ling a little while to realize how perfect the general’s house was—and to understand why. It was set on rising ground above the lake. Seen from a distance one might have supposed it was a little monastery with a bell tower in the grounds.

As they arrived at the outer gate, she saw that the main building was essentially a Chinese courtyard house, not unlike her own family’s farmhouse in the south. The courtyard was about the same size, but seemed grander—perhaps because the walls were higher and the central hall taller and more spacious—almost like a mansion in a provincial town.

The general greeted them affably and led them to a doorway on the left side of the yard. Here, in what would normally have been family bedrooms, he had created a single long gallery to house his collection.

Against the wall at one end of the gallery stood a big cabinet. Paintings on silk, in protective frames, hung on the walls. But there was no other furniture or decoration. All the rest of the space was given over to the seals.

She had to admit, he’d done it beautifully. Right at the start, rather than let his little museum grow in a piecemeal fashion, he’d ordered first-rate craftsmen to construct a showcase that ran the entire way down the center of the gallery, with glass doors on either side and two broad shelves between.

“I was lucky,” he explained to them. “A good collection, the life’s work of an old scholar, came up for sale just as I was starting. It contained work from almost every period. So I bought the lot, and that formed what I call the spine of my collection. All I’ve had to do since is take good