Empress Orchid - Anchee Min [45]
I asked An-te-hai if those in the royal family were truly knowledgeable or merely enthusiastic fans.
“Most of them, I would say, have been false experts,” he replied, “except Emperor Kang Hsi, Hsien Feng’s great-great-grandfather. According to the book of records, Kang Hsi oversaw scripts and musical scores, and Chien Lung supervised the writing of quite a few librettos. Most people, however, come for the food and the privilege of sitting with His Majesty. Of course it is always important to demonstrate a cultured sensibility. It is fashionable to exhibit one’s taste in a culture of delicacy.”
“Would anyone dare to show off his knowledge with the Emperor present?” I asked.
“There is always one who doesn’t understand that others will consider him a ringdove doing a somersault—showing his fancy behind.”
An-te-hai told a story to give me an example. It took place in the Forbidden City during the reign of Emperor Yung Cheng. The Emperor was enjoying a performance, a story about a small-town governor who overcame his weakness and set his spoiled son straight by punishing him. The actor who played the governor was so accomplished that the Emperor granted him a private audience after the per-formance. The man was rewarded with taels and gifts, and His Majesty was lavish with his praise. The actor got carried away and asked if His Majesty knew the real name of the governor in history.
“‘How dare you ask questions!’” An-te-hai mimicked the Emperor, his right hand giving a flourish to an imaginary dragon robe. “‘Have you forgotten who you are? If I allow myself to be challenged by a beggar like you, how would I run the country?’” An edict was issued and the actor was dragged out and beaten to death in his costume.
The story made me see the true face of the splendid Forbidden City. I doubted that the execution of the foolish actor benefited the image of His Majesty. Such punishment achieved nothing but terror, and terror only increased the distance between the Emperor and the hearts of his people. Terror would bring him the greatest loss in the end. Who would stay with you down the road if all you were known for was instilling fear?
In retrospect, the story must have influenced my actions in a rather minor incident that occurred during my reign, an incident of which I was particularly proud. I was seated in the Grand Changyi Magnificent-Sound Stage celebrating my sixtieth birthday. The opera was called The Yu-Tang Hall. The renowned actor Mr. Chen Yi-chew was playing the character Miss Shoo. He was singing, Coming to the judge’s hall I look up / On both sides stand executioners carrying arm’s-length knives / I am like a sheep finding herself in a lion’s mouth … But at the word “sheep” Chen suddenly stopped. He realized that my birth sign was a sheep, and that if he went on to finish his line, others might think that he was cursing me. Chen tried to swallow the word, but it was too late—everybody had already heard it, for it was a famous opera and the lyrics were well known. The poor man attempted to rescue himself by manipulating the syllable “sheep.” He dragged his voice and held the tail sound until he completely exhausted his breath. The orchestra was confused and the drummers beat their instruments to cover the flaw. Then Chen Yi-chew proved himself to be a veteran of the stage—he came up with a line on the spot, which replaced “a sheep finding herself in a lion’s mouth” with “a fish ending up in the fisherman’s net.”
Before the court had a chance to report that an “accident” had taken place and the actor must be punished, I praised Chen for his brilliance. Of course nobody mentioned the changing of the lyrics. In memory of my kindness,