Free Imperial Woman by Pearl S. Buck

her voice stifling in her throat.
    “How can I not love you?” Thus he replied. “To love you is my only life. I draw my breath, my every breath, to love you.”
    “Then—seal me your love!”
    These were the bold words she spoke but in so soft a whisper that he might not have heard them, except she knew he did. She felt him motionless, then he made a sigh. She felt his shoulders shiver and his muscles loosen and his bones yield.
    “If once I am made yours,” she said bravely, “even here I can live.”
    No answer yet! He could not speak. His soul was still not yielded.
    She lifted her head and looked into his face. “What does it matter where I live if I am yours? I know you speak the truth. There is no escape for me except by death. Well, I can choose death. It is easy in a palace—opium to swallow, my gold earrings, a little knife to open my veins—can I be watched day and night? I swear I will die unless you make me yours! If I am yours, I will do what you say—forever and my whole life long. I will be Empress.”
    Her voice was magic, lovely with pleading, deep and soft and gentle, warm and sweet as honey in the summer sun. Was he not a man? He was young and fervent, still virgin because he had loved no one but her whom he now held within his arms. They were prisoners, trapped by old ways of life, jailed within the imperial palace. He was no more free than she was. Yet only she could do what she would. If she said she would be Empress, then none could hold her back. And if she chose death, then she would die. He knew her nature. And would he not devote his life to help her live? And had not Sakota herself imagined some such scene as this when she had bade him come here? At the last moment the Consort had laid her hand on his arm and she bade him do all he could—“whatever Yehonala asks”—those were Sakota’s very words.
    His soul’s voice was stilled, he felt his conscience die and he lifted the beautiful girl in his arms and carried her to the bed.
    …The drums of curfew beat through the courtyards and the corridors of the city of the Son of Heaven. It was the hour of sunset when every man must be gone from within the walls. The ancient command fell upon the ears of lovers hidden deep within the secret rooms and in Yehonala’s bedchamber Jung Lu rose and drew his garments about him while she lay half asleep and smiling.
    He leaned over her. “Are we sworn?” he asked.
    “Sworn,” she put up her arms and drew his face down to hers again. “Forever, forever!”
    The drums died down and he made haste, and she rose quickly and smoothed her robes and brushed back her hair. When her woman coughed at the door she was sitting in her chair.
    “Enter,” she said, and she took her handkerchief and pretended to wipe her eyes.
    “Are you weeping again, lady?” the woman asked.
    Yehonala shook her head. “I am finished weeping,” she said in a small voice. “I know what I must do. My kinsman has made me see my duty.”
    The woman stood, peering and listening, head to one side like a bird’s.
    “Your duty, lady?” she repeated.
    “When the Son of Heaven summons me,” Yehonala said, “I shall go to him. I must do his will.”
    The heat of summer lingered late in the Forbidden City. One brilliant day followed upon another, the palaces stood in the living light of the naked sun and no rains fell. So hot was the stillness of high noon that princesses and Court ladies, eunuchs and concubines, went to the caves in the imperial gardens and there spent the hours of the full heat. These caves were built of river rock, brought from the south upon barges floating up the Grand Canal. The rocks were shaped by men’s hands yet so cunningly contrived that they looked worn by winds and waters. Crouching pine trees hung over the entrances to these caves and inside them hidden fountains dripped down the walls and made pools where goldfish played. In the coolness the ladies did embroidery, heard music, or played