Forbidden City

By Muriel Molland Jernigan

A fictionalized account of the Empress Dowager of China, Tsu Hsi, last of the Manchus.

She was one who “ate life,” one for whom all the power of the Dragon throne could not give her what she sought. This is the story of Nala, born to luxury, who was sent at sixteen to the Summer Palace, to be the Emperor’s concubine, and who lived to wrest the throne from the dying monarch. It is the story of Jung Lu, the Manchu Lord who gave her the only love she was ever to know, and whose quiet and wise counsel gave her the wisdom to rule. It is the story of a country, a people, a way of life, and a hatred born of misunderstanding which carried tragic consequences. For nothing Jung Lu could say or do could soothe her hatred of the “foreign devils” and their woman ruler who dared to call herself by a name that meant “victorious.” For the first time the full picture of the Empress Dowager of China, Tsu His, last of the Manchus, is drawn to life.

From her seat on the Dragon throne she commanded an Empire. The decisions she made still leave their mark on the world. Few women in history have held as much power. Yet the days were never long enough for all she wanted to do.

Mrs. Jernigan tells the strange story of Tsu His’s love for her Prime Minister, which defied tradition, with smooth-paced narrative power, in an absorbing novel, full of pageantry and turbulence. FORBIDDEN CITY is a vivid portrait of one of the least-known but one of the most remarkable figures of history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valmy Publishing
• Release date: Jan 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781787208803

Muriel Molland Jernigan

Muriel Molland Jernigan was an English author. She was born and raised in China, later married an American man, and moved to North Carolina. In addition to “Forbidden City” (1954), she was also the author of “The Two Lives of An-Marie: A Novel,” published in 1957.

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Text originally published in 1954 under the same title.

© Valmy Publishing 2017, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

FORBIDDEN CITY

BY

MURIEL MOLLAND JERNIGAN

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

DEDICATION 4

FORBIDDEN CITY 5

1 7

2 16

3 25

4 38

5 48

6 58

7 70

8 83

9 95

10 104

11 112

12 116

13 128

14 141

15 147

16 154

17 164

18 171

19 181

20 188

21 196

22 206

23 215

24 226

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 235

DEDICATION

To my Pauls, the living—and the living

FORBIDDEN CITY

AN EMPRESS sat upon her throne, the Dragon Throne that ruled four hundred million souls. The audience hall was vast, shadowed and dim. A dankness mixed with the misted smoke of incense hung over the courtiers kneeling in rows before the Jadelike Presence. The Empress shifted slightly, restlessly, and a movement of unease went over the kneeling courtiers like wind over the reeds of the Winter Palace lake.

So brocade-bound and jewel-encrusted was the slight figure of the Empress that it was a marvel the slender body could sit erect or the small neck support the towering headdress from which blazed jewel-hearted, nodding flowers and tassels. The small figure was flat-chested, for according to custom her breasts were bound close to her body. Over her proud shoulders hung a cape made entirely of great pearls. Among those pearls, if one looked closely, could be seen a strange anachronism: pinned to her breast, where it lay snugly, primly, was an Occidental watch.

Her face was impassive. It was unthinkable that the ruler of the Middle Kingdom, hence of the world, would show by the slightest raising of an eyebrow what hot-tempered thoughts whirled under the elaborately dressed hair which was itself her crown. But the hands, the hands were signals, and many a courtier, gorgeous in his brocades with the embroidered plaques denoting rank, trembled as he knelt on his mat when he saw that the tapering, expressive hands of the Empress, glittering with their long jade and gold nail-guards, beat impatiently on the dragon arms of the throne. When those hands rested quietly, as the great viceroy Li Hung Chang expressed it, When the Imperial Lotus Petals rest as though floating on the palace lake, I breathe like a man. But when they flutter as though a dust wind from the Gobi Desert was among them, my heart flutters in accord. For well I know that before night someone’s head will roll in that same dust. And who am I to say it will not be mine?

He spoke truth, did the viceroy. Heads rolled these days, many of them. And he for one had a deep sympathy for the brave and upright man who knelt in danger of his life today, the most admired, most sought-after and envied of them all.

The definite distance between his kneeling mat and those of the other courtiers was noticeable. Just now it was wisest not to be too friendly with the Empress’ chief adviser, Jung Lu. There were many, including the important chief eunuch, who would rejoice to have this arrogant adviser lose his head. But who could tell? He had been highly favored, supremely powerful. If one stood by him now, might it not pay when he came back, if he came back? The Empress was known to be vengeful of slights to her favorites. Yet no one knelt too near.

Aie, it was coming now. How would he take it?

As Jung Lu knelt, it was evident that instead of the customary animal-like posture in which the long sleeves simulating horses’ hooves rested on the ground, and the eyes never lifted above the ground, his was the easy posture of a man who has knelt much but not too humbly. It was known that he had been the favorite of the Empress. It was whispered that he had been her lover.

Puzzled, the kneeling throng wondered what could have happened to cause a man, a shrewd and wise man, to throw away limitless power. Here he had stood supreme, the accepted first adviser and the unadmitted lover of the woman who was half god and whole ruler of the world. Wealth he had, unlimited. Prestige, too. He was not venal. His ambition seemed sated. What could have been the cause?

The exquisite hands beat on the arms of the throne. Those in audience moved nervously and would, had they dared, have stared at the cause of their anxiety. For this was a grave occasion, a serious charge. Calmest of them all, Jung Lu lifted his eyes.

1

A YOUNG GIRL STOOD GAZING into a massive hand mirror. What she saw could not have been encouraging, for she frowned deeply. Then, as she heard the scuff of cloth shoes behind her, she threw up her head like a startled Manchu pony and dropped the mirror.

Too late. An old voice cackled, Aie yah! Look at small Foxface admiring her celestial beauty! Preparing for the day, no doubt, when it will bring her a great man for a husband!

Don’t be so harsh, Po-po, a younger, kinder voice interrupted. What has a woman but her comeliness to offer? Truly it is said that a woman’s face casts her destiny.

Is it so? the old woman answered. Is it so indeed? Well, it was not your face that got you the job of wet nurse to the youngest lord of the household, but that pair of fine large udders you carry so proudly before you.

True, said the younger woman, grinning broadly and showing an expanse of magnificent blue-white teeth. True, but I still think you are harsh to the girl-child.

Harsh she is not! The girl, who had eyed the two serving-women with much the air of a connoisseur at a cockfight spoke up. Harsh she is not, because she dare not be, to me. The old cow-buffalo! And she stamped her foot and clenched her hands.

Well, chuckled the old woman as she shambled toward the door, one thing you do possess, Nala, is a fine lusty temper. No one can deny that. You will have that at least to take as dowry to the unfortunate who weds you. And, cackling, she stepped out into the courtyard.

Nala let go her composure then, and angry tears rained down her face.

Don’t cry, guniang, said the young wet nurse, not much more than a girl herself. Po-po is old. The years have made her like soured milk. She talks much and says nothing. See here. She picked up the brass mirror from the floor. Look in here with me and see that Yehonala is not an ill-favored maiden. See how fine and delicate are your features compared with my fat country face. Look. You have a high nose, while mine is almost as flat as a water buffalo’s. It might even have a ring in it and do no harm.

The two girls laughed and Nala’s tears dried.

But if I am not so ugly, she said, how is it that my brother Dee-dee is always favored above me? Why can he always have his way? Why must I give in to him? I’m older than he, and Mama says we must always defer to our elders.

Oh, that’s because he’s a boy, exclaimed the young nurse in a tone of finality.

But why? What’s the difference? Are boys better than girls? I’m just as good as he is, am I not?

Aie yah! What’s the difference? the nurse giggled. You’ll soon learn. And you might as well get into your head that girls and women are nothing, nothing at all. Boys and men, they rule the universe. My own baby, she said, looking wistfully out of the window, my baby was only a girl and they wouldn’t let me keep her. They took her away and brought me here to feed the young lord.

They? Who were they? asked the younger girl. What did they do with your little baby? Where did they—

Naimah, shrilled the voice of old Po-po, the young lord cries. Hurry you, come earn the five fine silver dollars you receive a month.

Left alone, Nala pondered. Yes, the nurse must be right. Look how important her three brothers were, although two were younger than she. They were undoubtedly lords of creation and could, almost, do what they liked. Whereas she—well, she had little more to say than the youngest of all. In fact, their treatment of her was cavalier and hard to be borne.

Another problem furrowed a forehead otherwise childishly smooth: that business of the nose. There Naimah had touched a sore spot, for Nala’s nose was different. It had a proud little arch, an inheritance from her Manchu ancestors. Whereas Big Sister Sakota had a beautiful Chinese nose, nice and flat, which hugged her face prettily. Nala did wish she had a nose like that instead of her own, which at times occasioned such hurtful teasing names as Ta Biza, Big Nose. She knew what that meant. It meant her brothers and sisters thought she looked like the horrible barbarians, the foreign devils, the outcasts. And it roused in her an intense desire once, just once, to catch a glimpse of these monsters to see if she did resemble them.

All her life she had known that there were mysterious creatures in Peking. From Po-po she had learned a great deal about their barbarity. And because they, too, had high-bridged noses, her curiosity about them was insatiable. Some of them had penetrated to the heart of the Middle Kingdom, where they were barely tolerated. Others had been killed, but that did not make them leave Peking. They persisted in living where they were scorned for their venality, and they were willing to accept insults, even death, to further their outlandish religion and their trade.

The tales Po-po told of their habits, morals and appearance were hair-raising. Everyday ordinary manners and etiquette were unknown to them. It was common knowledge that in the city the women actually preceded the men, who walked humbly behind them like servants. It was said that the women all knew how to read and that they took part in the general conversation as freely and as shamelessly as though they were men.

Then there was the matter of clothing. Po-po had this firsthand because a relative of hers had descended so low as to become a servant in one of their households. The women wore clothes of woolen stuffs which dragged the dusty ground, instead of the graceful silk gowns that civilized Manchu women wore. Their heels were at the end of their shoes instead of in the center where even the simplest-minded knew a heel belonged. And they were indecent because they did not bind their breasts tightly, as modesty demanded. Then there was the matter of their hair, which was horrible fuzzy stuff, sometimes fox-red, which clearly indicated their kinship to evil spirits. Po-po’s niece said the women neither oiled their hair nor built it up over a proper framework decorated with tassels and flowers. They carelessly ran a comb through it, or even a brush like that used on horses, pinned it up and considered it done.

Their eating habits were disgusting. Instead of using civilized chop-sticks, they speared their meat with pronged instruments and actually were rude enough to cut with knives at table. Also, and this was incredible, they began a meal with soup instead of ending with it.

Po-po’s niece whispered of another thing. It was very evil and she did not like to talk about it much. Besides she had never actually seen it in use, only cast aside upon a chair, once at night when she had been greatly daring. It was a sort of frame, or torture instrument, made in two parts and laced together at the back. She had an idea how it was used because one day, curiosity overcoming her, she had peeked through a crack in the door and watched her mistress clamp this inhuman machine upon her body and begin to lace it up. Aie yah, just then she heard the master’s step in the hall. However, she had reason to believe, strong reason to believe, that this horrible frame was used to pull in and narrow the middles of these wild women. How else account for their hideous pinched in look? Aie, indeed. Po-po had agreed with her niece that this vice was far worse than breaking, bending and binding the foot to make it small, a habit practiced by the Chinese but scorned by the Manchu women.

Another thing. Po-po lowered her voice when she mentioned this. Another thing, they smell bad, very bad. They lack the fragrance of us Chinese and they smell like—well, a little like—mutton. It was also rumored that they bathed every day, although it seemed doubtful that even they could be so foolhardy. But perhaps the poor creatures could not bear their own odor.

Then Po-po’s eyes gleamed and a salacious look came over her face. And coming close to Nala, so close that she could whisper in her ear, she said, There is one more thing about the barbarians that I will tell the Shao-chieh if she vows not to tell her elders, for verily, if it got about that I had told you this evil, I would lose my honored position in this great household.

Of course I will not tell, Po-po, said Nala, hoping it was something that would shock Sakota.

It is said, whispered Po-po, but I will not guarantee that anything so incredible could be true, that the foreign devils can by some witch-craft or incantation control the number of children their women are to bear—as if any sane woman could wish anything to interfere with her privilege of bearing a child, preferably a son, to her husband each year. I tell you this for what it is worth, Nala. Truthfully, I do not believe it myself.

Nala had wrinkled her nose at all this nastiness. She had been a little skeptical all along and now she told Po-po she was a tale-bearing old woman and must have made half of it up.

When they called her bossy, Nala was unruffled. There was, indeed, one member of the family who obeyed her, and, as always, at the thought of him, her stormy little face cleared. Jung Lu, her betrothed, the handsome debonair Jung Lu whom she would one day marry—was that his voice in the courtyard, above the chattering of the other children?

She stepped out into the dazzling October sunshine and joined the large group of children who addressed one another as Go-go, Elder Brother; Dee-dee, Younger Brother; Chieh-chieh, Elder Sister; and Mei-mei, Younger Sister. There were several of each, suggesting extreme fecundity; however, only three of the boys were Nala’s true brothers. The other boys and all the girls were her cousins, except Jung Lu, and he, too, was her kinsman.

Jung Lu stood out from the others. He was a splendid young lordling with flashing almond-long eyes, sensual but beautifully cut lips and the tall, strong Manchu physique. He and Nala were distinguished from the others by a vitality and imperiousness all their own.

Nala had entered the home of her kinsman Lord Muyanga when she was not yet five years old. Her father had been a captain in the Eight Banner Corps, the powerful Imperial clan which had always caused friction at court and been a threat to the Imperial house. On the death of her father, Hui Cheng, Nala’s mother, the Lady Niuhulu, and her five children were absorbed into the Muyanga household in the sublimely fraternal manner practiced only by the Chinese and the Manchus. Henceforth, Lord Muyanga’s children were their brothers and sisters and his kinsman’s wife became his younger sister. Never during his lifetime did he treat them any differently from his own family, whether in education, in money, or in the everyday affairs of family life.

Here, in the informal and easy-going big household in Pewter Lane, Nala lived as a Manchu maiden of quality. And here, unlike most protected patrician maidens, Nala, the impetuous, grabbed at life—as the Chinese say, she ate life, and in large mouthfuls. The days were never long enough for all she meant to do, and at night she fought valiantly to be allowed to stay up. As in all Chinese or Manchu households, bedtime was flexible, and the young mostly went when they were too sleepy and tired to sit up. But if allowed, Nala would never have slept, or so old Po-po claimed.

In the mornings she did not dawdle or sulk as did her sisters, but after a none too thorough toilet, was ready to dash out with the boys to inspect the dogs, ponies, pigeons and the goldfish k’ongs. As Po-po said, it was as difficult to catch her for study hours as it was to put the red felt bridle on Shung the pony. Nay, more so. The pony could be caught by offering him a turnip—when that lazy misbegotten groom would take the trouble to fetch a turnip—but Nala couldn’t be bribed even with sugared peanuts or roseleaf jelly. The only way to catch her was to tell her that the Lhassa bitch had littered, or there was a new hatching of pigeons. And woe betide an old serving-woman if she lied about such matters. Remembering the sting of Nala’s hand, she would not try again.

And this associating with one’s betrothed. Who ever heard of such goings-on? Once Po-po had dared remonstrate. Nala had answered, with a mock-demure expression, "Do you mean my kinsman, Jung Lu? Would you like to discuss this matter with him yourself, Po-po?"

Nay, shuddered the old nurse. That she would not!

Few servants in the great Muyanga household had not at one time felt the wrath of the handsome youth, strong-willed and open-handed. Those not bound to his service by fear were bound by bribery. And what could an old woman do but keep silent, watch, and hope to see virtue rewarded in the heavy form of Sakota, and wrong punished in the flashing form of Nala. May the fox spirit haunt her—and may a hard-working, faithful old serving-woman be there to see.

The children played in the main courtyard of the women’s quarters. Like all Peking houses, the one on Hsi-la Hutung, Pewter Lane, was not literally a house at all but a series of buildings, each with its own court-yard.

At the great red-lacquered gate, studded with round brass knobs and guarded by a pair of ancient elms, blows upon the brass-clawed knocker were answered by an ancient gateman who hopped about like a wet sparrow. He would fling wide the gate and bow the visitor into an entrance courtyard. To ward off evil, the gate faced a blank wall, since the spirits of wind and water, feng-shui, cannot turn corners. On a wooden trestle, a long porcelain k’ong filled with grass orchids was placed where their shadow upon the wall in the glittering northern sunshine would make a picture to gladden the heart of the waiting guest.

If the visitor came to see the master of the household, the servant would lead him down a long vermilion-lacquered colonnade, through a series of tiled and severely furnished reception rooms, to the Lord Muyanga’s private study, a room of dignity and great peace, well toward the back in its own spacious courtyard.

To see the master’s numerous offspring, real or adopted, one would be led to a side entrance through a moon gate whose circle framed a picture of children, brightly clad in sapphire and emerald silks. They played to the accompaniment of loud cries. The scolding of blue-clad amahs, the clatter of machang tiles and the babble of women’s voices from the surrounding apartments, the barking of Lhassa dogs and the shrieks of small boys as they clung to the heavy vines of a three-hundred-year-old wisteria made a bedlam of sound.

Apart, at one side, a quartet of the older children argued heatedly. Besides Jung Lu and Nala, there was Nala’s elder brother Go-go, sturdy but somewhat coarse-featured, and Sakota, or Chieh-chieh, Nala’s cousin and the true daughter of Lord Muyanga. Sakota was Nala’s opposite in every way—a heavy girl, flat-featured, slow of manner, good-natured and stupid.

I would fear greatly, said Sakota. What pleasure can there be in riding a horse like a man?

Of course you would fear, stormed Nala. You’re a coward, a true woman, fit only to sit and sew and gossip in the women’s quarters. Of course you’d fear!

Chieh-chieh is right though, said Go-go. ’Tis unseemly for a girl to do as you do, Nala. And if we are ever caught, it is not pleasant to think how our uncle might punish us.

Unseemly or not, said Jung Lu, Nala is coming with us and there’s no reason why the Lord Muyanga need ever hear of it. I lined the servants’ palms. He rubbed finger and thumb together to indicate the clinking of silver. His eyes flashed and a defiant smile touched his lips. I could find it in my heart to pity the servant who tells. Go and prepare yourself, Nala. After you have plaited your hair into a man’s queue down your back and put on Go-go’s clothes, be sure to push your hat well down to hide as much of your face as you can. Then wait for us at the low wall at the back. Go-go and I will be on our ponies and we’ll have Dee-dee’s pony ready for you. Lucky for you he doesn’t like riding.

None of the dignified inhabitants of Peking saw anything strange in the very usual sight of three young lords leaving the gungwang, official residence of Lord Muyanga, for their ride, accompanied by a shouting mafoo who rode to one side. The young lords, as was proper, took the center of the street while the mafoo, his whip held out stiffly, shouted, Wei! Wei! to clear a passage for his masters.

The three were a colorful part of the Peking picture as they rode their short-legged, long-barrelled Mongolian ponies down the Ha-ta-men street this autumn day, when the air was so keen it splintered into their lungs. Each wore a long gown of heavy silk under a short jacket of a darker shade of medallioned satin. On their feet were buccaneer-like black velvet boots with startlingly white felt soles. Upon their heads sat the official round fur hats with a button on top and a feather behind to denote the rank of the wearer.

Their horses’ bridles, reins and cruppers were of red felt trimmed with large red tassels. Around each neck was a collar of brass bells which jingled merrily when the horse trotted. The saddles were deep-seated, almost impossible to be thrown from. They were covered in black velvet, with pearl-studded saddle horns. Saddle flaps of stiff leather, oiled and painted, made a most satisfactory noise when kicked by the rider, a noise which made the ponies speed up. The chief cause of the many spills which Nala and the boys sustained was the stumbling of the ponies, who were crudely shod. But often a saddle girth broke, since these were of poorly cured rawhide and would snap from the mere puffing out of a pony’s belly when he took a deep breath. The ponies, shaggy half-broken little animals from the Mongolian plains, were accustomed to bite and kick. A long mane and a tail that touched the ground were considered more important than good conformation, and a groom who could shepherd three such dashing steeds was a proud mafoo indeed.

Nala’s pony, really Dee-dee’s, was a particularly mean creature called Shung—Fierce. He gave her no little trouble by plunging his head down to unseat her and by trying to buck her out of the saddle. But Nala handled him with such concentrated, red-faced determination that she drew forth exclamations of Hao, Hao—Good from Jung Lu, an excellent horseman himself, and grudging admiration from Go-go, who knew pluck when he saw it and was forced to admire it even in his sister.

Today’s excursion was to the far side of the Chien-men city gate. To prolong the joy of riding in this tingling weather, they first turned down the wide Ha-ta-men road with its fine large open-fronted shops. As they joined the traffic of mule-carts, sedan-chairs and camel trains, the foot-deep desert dust whirled about them, and Nala cursed it as she rode. It settled into the long thick plait hanging down her back. Tonight when old Po-po rubbed it with a cloth wrung out in boiling water, then combed and oiled it, there would be cackling about the risks a maiden ran to her beauty and her future if she allowed herself to get smothered in dust like a man. And she was sure the hated pot of almond milk would be brought out to be smoothed on her face. Later, when the youthfulness of her complexion became a legend, she should have been grateful to Po-po, but being Nala, she was not.

On reaching the Ha-ta-men city gate, having safely avoided the heels and teeth of trains of ill-smelling pack camels, the riders and their mafoo turned at a right angle due west across the near section of the city, then headed south again toward the Chien-men city gate. The Muyanga gungwang in Pewter Lane lay in the Manchu, or Tartar, City, the third of the cities enclosing the heart of Peking which contained the Imperial palaces and was rightly called the Forbidden City. Outside its yellow-tiled palaces was the rose-walled Imperial City, beyond this the Tartar City, and southward of the Chien-men, in the poorest part of Peking, was the amusement center, in the so-called Chinese City. It was to this unsavory part—a place definitely out of bounds for the sons of the household, to say nothing of its daughters—that Nala, Jung Lu and Go-go were headed today.

Outside the great Chien-men gate there was squalor, with mud huts, tawdry fairs and mat playhouses crowded together. Hawkers shouted their wares and grinning touts called from the meaner fur shops.

But the three with their shouting, whip-flourishing mafoo pushed their way through the crowd. Once Jung Lu, calling to them to go ahead, turned his pony down an alley to reappear in a moment with a brightly wrapped package of roseleaf confection, Nala’s favorite. He waved the red package and she smiled. Then she shuddered as they rode over the Tien Chao, the Heavenly Bridge, past the city’s execution ground. Beyond it was the race course, a straight track along which the competitors urged their heavy pacers—horses deliberately fattened so that their saddle girths could hang two to three inches below their bellies to allow for the roll and swing of their gait. These races were run singly and the result judged by time elapsed.

Today there was no horse racing, but they pulled up their ponies to watch the retrieving birds. These birds, about the size of a waxwing, were so trained that when their owners blew a dried pea into the air through a bamboo pea-shooter, they fluttered off their perches into the pale Peking sky, with a sudden dart caught and swallowed the pea, and returned. Betting was brisk and the boys made a few bets for themselves and the mafoo, then bought a bird for little Dee-dee’s birthday.

At last, beyond the noise of fairs, they fastened their eyes on the glories of the Temple of Heaven. As it was an Imperial temple they could not enter its parkways, but from a suitable distance they could enjoy the beauty of the tree-filled space and the glory of the three-tiered, misty lapis blue-tiled roof.

Aie, how I wish we could enter, Nala sighed as they turned toward, home. But let’s return by way of the Imperial City—I do love the rose-red walls.

You do more than that, Go-go teased. "I believe every time we pass this way you imagine yourself living inside"

Stop plaguing her, Jung Lu commanded. You know your sister has more sense than that.

I don’t know, said the girl.

Look out, Nala, Jung Lu warned her, laughing. You’ve made your lips into the two vermilion cords I so dislike.

"Well, I don’t know, she persisted. No one knows. Who can tell? Stranger things have happened." Then, her temper flaring, she kicked her saddle flaps vigorously, leading the way home at a fast trot.

Wait, Nala, wait! Jung Lu called.

Always humoring her. Let her go, grumbled Go-go. You give in to her too much. That’s no way to treat a woman.

It’s the way to treat Nala.

She heard him, and although she pretended to ride on, she slowed Shung down to a walk.

What I want to do is this, Nala—I want to try out this horse I’m riding to see if it’s true that a black is never any good. Instead of riding home now, let’s go out to the Princess’ Tomb and have a race on the flat plain.

Nala’s eyes shone. This was what she wanted, too, and a scheming look came into her face, a look which Jung Lu well knew. Had he not been so intent on testing his new horse, it would have warned him. For that look meant that something innocent and harmless might have for her a hidden purpose, be part of a scheme as large as the stone elephants of the Ming tombs.

Nala indeed had heard from Po-po that at times the foreign devils, who also rode horseback, rode out to the Princess’ Tomb. Now she hoped today might be one of those times. Her eyes shone, and Jung Lu thought it was at the idea of competition, which always pleased her.

As they watched Jung Lu put the black through preliminary paces, they heard loud voices, one more raucous and higher-pitched than the rest. They looked up to see coming toward them a queer procession, two male barbarians on horseback accompanied by what must be a female barbarian. The men looked strange enough, clad in tight trousers, like servants, instead of the dignified long gowns of gentlemen. But the woman!

Nala would long feel scorn at the thought of her. She was a palefaced creature wearing an indecently tight upper garment, which exhibited the actual contour of her bosom, and a long flowing skirt, with a thing like a black pot on her head. But what puzzled Nala and the boys, and what they later discussed for days, was the fact that this weird creature did not sit on her horse, but in some mysterious manner was attached to the side of it with both legs—if she really possessed two legs. They debated the matter at length, and they all agreed that there definitely was no leg hanging over the other side of the horse. That was certain. Perhaps she had only one leg.

The two groups stared at each other. The only poised people were the two grooms, who exchanged friendly grins. Then, in one brief thunderclap of sound, the female barbarian threw back her head and laughed, laughed long and loud.

To their dying day, Nala and the two boys would never know that the laughter of Mrs. Hinton of the American Legation was caused by sheer delight at the colorful picture they made and at their startled and out-raged expressions. Mrs. Hinton, in fact, could hardly wait to get home to describe them in the book she was writing.

Before the sound of that ill-timed laughter had died away, Nala jerked up her reins, violently kicked her surprised pony, and red-faced and furious, led the boys away at a gallop.

What did that hideous hoot of laughter mean? Could it be that the female devil-dog was laughing because she, Nala, had a nose something like hers?

At the very idea, Nala’s nostrils stung with sudden angry tears. It was unthinkable that she should cry, so she rode faster not to betray herself. Go-go noticed nothing, but the observant Jung Lu came pounding after her.

Do not waste anger on the female barbarian, Nala, he told her. She knows no better. No doubt she thinks of us as children. She does not know that it is rude to laugh, even at children.

It is more than rude, it is foolish, said Nala through her teeth. Children grow up and remember.

Her lips were as Jung Lu had seen them before, narrowed to a thin red line. And what she said was no platitude. It was a threat.

2

TODAY, as Nala sat at work in the great beamed room, the sunshine poured in all along the glassed upper wall of the south side and made it hard to concentrate. Her mind kept slipping out through the chinks in the paper windows to the tingling desert air. It soared with the flight of the pigeons which she could hear Go-go and Jung Lu driving off the tiled roofs with their long bamboo sticks dangling colored rags.

The old and trusted tutor whose duty it was to fill the girls’ minds with the classics—without which no one could claim the rudiments of education—sat opposite Nala and Sakota as they memorized the vertical lines of characters. He swung his foot in a mesmeric manner and dozed as the girls swayed from side to side, intoning in singsong voices. From time to time he rapped sharply with the flat of his hand on the square blackwood table before him. This rapping was not so much a reprimand to the half-hypnotized pupils as the gesture of a conductor wishing to increase the tempo of his chorus. The girls did not falter but swayed a little faster and intoned a little louder. The tutor looked pleased because he was encouraging their labor, and also it helped him wake up.

Mr. Cheng was a man of middle age and of impeccable character. He would need to be, to be in the