Rubén Darío: The Death of the Empress of China

Exquisite and Lovely, like a human jewel, dwelt the rosy little bride in the house of the blue salon. This diminutive apartment was hung with tapestries, the languorous color of the summer sky, and was the jewel case.

Pray, who might be the owner of this bird-like creature with the black eyes and red mouth, for whom did she sing divinely when Señorita Spring appeared laughing and beautiful, to take her appointed station to the triumphant progress of the sun?

Theis joyous being was called Suzette, and a dreamer, an artist husband, had placed her in a cage of silk and laces. He had married her one morning in May, when the air was filled with light and the roses were opening.

Recaredo, -this was a caprice of his father, for me must not be held guilty of the name Recaredo!-, he had been married one year and a half. The old love song had continued. “Do you love me? I love you, and you?” “With all my soul.” How wonderful the golden marriage day, wherein there was no care! They had gone far away to the fresh countryside, free to love and happy in the pleasure of loving. There the snowdrops and wood violets gave out their fragrance near the rivulet and among the openings of the green leaves the lovers talked softly, his arm about her waist, her arm linked in his, while from the flower of their red lips kisses were continuously passing.

Did I say that Recaredo was a sculptor? Then let me say it now so that you may know it for good.

* * * * *

He was, indeed, a sculptor. The studio in the little house was filled with a profusion of marbles, bronzes and terra cottas. Often the passers in the street heard a song float out from the Venetian blinds, and with it came the sound of a hammer stroke, vibrant and metallic. Suzette, Recaredo, her voice sang to the stroke of his chisel.

The marriage idyll went on unceasingly. What bliss for her to come on tiptoe while he worked and showering him with her hair to kiss him rapidly; and he—quietly, very quietly, he would come while she lay half-asleep on the lunge, her little feet in their black stockings, crossed one above the other. There he placed a kiss upon her lips, a long stifling kiss, which made her eyes open widely, unutterably luminous.

Added to this was the laughter of the mocking bord, a mocking bird which, when Suzette played Chopin, became sad and refused to sing. The laughter of the mocking bird is no trifle. Do you like me? Do you not know it? Do you love me? I adore thee.

The little imp was forever breaking out into shrill laughter. When let out from the cage he would fly around the blue salon, perch himself on the head of an Apollo, or on the antique javelin of dark bronze. Many a time he was insolent and unmannerly in his garrulousness, but he was gentle under Susette’s hand and she caressed him and took his beak between her lips until she made him despair; often she told him in a severe voice, yet trembling with tenderness:

“Mr. Mocking-bird, you are a sad rogue.”

How these two beings loved each other! Recaredo looked upon her as among the stars of God. His love ran the entire scale of passion and now he was content, now tempestuous, again mystical.

He often affirmed than an artist was a theologian who saw his love as something supreme and superhuman, like Rider Haggard’s “Ayesha.”. She breathed froth a fragrance as a flower and shone upon him as a star. When he strained her adorable head to this breast he felt himself a conqueror crowned. And as he studied her quiet profile he could compare it to none other than that on the medal of some Byzantine empress.

* * * * *

Recaredo loved his art, he had a passion for form and made graceful goddesses bloom from the white marble, their eyes serene and without pupils. His studio was peopled with a host of silent statues, metal animals, terrific gargoyles, huge and vivid griffins, grotesque creations inspired perhaps by occultism. Over and above everything the cherished things Japanese and Chinese, in this Recaredo was an original. I do not know what he would have given to speak Chinese or Japanese. He knew the best books on the subject thoroughly, reading even the most exotic, and he adored Loti and Judith Gautier. He made sacrifices to own genuine works from Yokohama, Nagasaki, Kyoto or from Nanking and Peking. Knives pipes, masks, ugly and mysterious, like the phantom of hypnotism itself, dwarf mandarins with paunches watermelon shaped—monsters with huge frog-like mouths, open and toothed, diminutive soldiers from Tartary with wrinkled faces, all these wonders he gathered about him.

“Oh, I hate your witch-house,” Suzette would say; “This terrible studio is a foreign graveyard that robs me of my caresses.”

Then Recaredo would smile, leave his workshop, the shrine of his rich treasure, and running to the little blue salon, would bestow kisses upon his gracious goddess dwelling therein, would listen to her songs, and laugh with the mad and jovial mocking bird.

One morning, when he entered, he found Suzette asleep. Near her was a bowl of roses supported by a tripod. Was she then a sleeping wood-goddess? The sight entirely satisfied his artistic eye, and together with her beauty, her entire being exhaled a soft, feminine fragrance like some delightful princess in one of the love stories beginning:

One upon a time there was a king—

Recaredo broke the spell; he carried a letter in his hand.

“Suzette, I’ve a letter from Robert; the rascal is in China.”

Suzette, a little ruffled, seated herself. Could it be possible for the travelers to reach such a distance? It was wonderful! This Robert was an excellent boy with a mania for wandering; in time he would reach the ends of the Earth. Robert was a great friend; they spoke of him as one of their own family. Two years ago he had departed from San Francisco, and they doubted if ever a scatterbrain like him would be seen again.

Recaredo read the following:

“Hong-Kong, February 18, 1888.

“My good Recaredo:

“I came, I saw, I have not as yet conquered. I heard, in San Francisco of your matrimonial state, and it made me happy. Then I gave and leap and fell into China. I have come as agent for a California house importing silks, lacquers, ivories and other Chinese articles. With this letter you should receive my gift, sent because of your penchant for the things of this yellow country. I hope it will be to the purpose. My greetings to Suzette, and preserve in your memory, your

—Robert.”

This was all, and the lovers laughed—while the mocking bird broke into an explosion of musical cries.

The box arrived, a box of irregular size, cross-marked with numbers and black letters that gave the world to understand its contents as extremely fragile. When the box was opened, the mystery appeared. It was an exquisite porcelain bust, a remarkable bust of a smiling woman, pale and enchanting; on the base were three inscriptions, one in Chinese, one in English, one in French, “The Empress of China.”

What Asiatic hands had modeled those mysterious features? There were the eyes, narrow and lowered, the tightly -drawn hair, the sphinx-like smile and enigmatic face of a celestial princess. Her neck rose from shoulders that were covered by a wave of silk, embroidered with dragons. Every feature was given with the magic of white porcelain in tones of immaculate wax. The Empress of China!

Suzette passed her rosy fingers over the eyes of her gracious majesty, they were a little aslant with curves beneath the pure and noble arch of the forehead. She was contented, for Recaredo was supremely happy in possessing the porcelain. The planned to make a special cabinet for her majesty, where she might dwell alone and apart, as the Venus de milo in the Louvre.

This plan he carried out. One end of the studio he set apart with screens for a background, depicting rice fields and cranes. Yellow was the predominant note, and ran the entire color scale from flame to that pale tint that dies away beneath white. In the midst of this glory rose her smiling and imperial majesty upon a pedestal of black and gold. Around her, Recaredo grouped his entire collection of Chinese and Japanese curiosities, and over her he hung a large Japanese parasol painted with camelias and huge, blood-red roses.

It was laughable to see this dreamer put away his pipe and chisel and take his place before the Empress, his hands crossed upon his breast to make obeisance. One, two, ten, twenty times he came to her, shyly at first. It became a passion with him; every day he placed fresh flowers before her on a lacquer tray. He studied the smallest details, the curve of the ear, the bend of the lips, the fine nostril, the arch of the eyebrow. This famous empress became an idol.

Suzette would call from the distance:

“Recaredo.”

“I am coming.”

Yet he would forget to move, and continued to contemplate his work of art until Suzette came in search of him to drag him out of his studio with blows and kisses.

One day the flowers on the lacquer tray vanished as by magic.

“Who has taken the flowers away? Where are they?” cried the artist from the studio.

“I have taken them away,” shouted a voice, trembling like a leaf.

The voice was Suzette’s, half-withdrawing a curtain, flushed and with lightning in her eyes.

* * * * *

The artist and sculptor, Señor Recaredo, was pondering in the depths of his brain: What ails my little wife? She does not eat, the books lie untouched in the black bookcase, they remain homesick for the rose and white hands.

Señor Recaredo saw that his wife was sad. In fact, this was growing serious. Often he watched her himself unseen, hiding behind the screen. He saw cloudy eyes, humid as though they had shed tears. Yet, when he questioned her, she replied like a child who refuses a sweet.

“What is troubling my little wife?”

“Nothing!” was the answer, although as she spoke her voice was breaking, and between the syllables came tears.

Oh! Señor Recaredo, the trouble is that you yourself are an abominable man. Have you not observed that since this wonder of bust sculpture of an Empress of China has entered your home the tiny blue salon in your house has been saddened, and the mocking girl no longer sings and laughs? Suzette plays Chopin, and draws forth soft and melancholy melodies from the black keys. Have a care, señor Recaredo!

Perhaps Recaredo understood, for one day he spoke to his little wife. They were face to face over the after-dinner coffee cups.

“You are too unjust, Suzette. Is it not true that I love you with all my soul? Are you not able to read my heart?”

Suzette immediately broke out crying. Who loved her? No, already no one loved her, she thought. Those radiant hours had fled and the kisses, they, too, were gone like birds in flight. She had been his very religion, his delight, his dream, his queen, and now she, Suzette had been deserted for that other impostor.

The other! Recaredo leapt to his feet. He was ready to swear to Suzette that she was deceived, and upon even the holy Bible he was ready to swear.

She shook her head. “No…” she replied softly.

Was it the wealthy show-off Gabriella, a lady with long black hair and immaculate white skin whose bust he had just made? Was it that Louise, the little dancer, who had the waist of a wasp, big breasts like a wet nurse, and scintillating eyes like a wild fire and who had recently modelled for him? Or, was it the widow Andrea, with the tip of her tongue forever showing when she wild-laughed among her healthy white teeth, shining like ivory and fiery like a tiger, but who paid him so well for her likeness?

“No, it was none of these.”

Recaredo remained puzzled and clueless, awed at his own ignorance.

“My little one, tell me the trouble. Who is this person who’s making you suffer so?”

There was so much earnestness in these tremulous words that Suzette dried her eyes and raised her gentle head.

“You love me?”

“You know that truly.”

“Then will you allow me to revenge myself on my rival? Her or I, you choose! If you love me truly as you’ve just said, would you wish me to go away out of your life? I must remain the only one, confident in your love. I demand it!”

“So be it!” said Recaredo, and he began sipping his black coffee. Suzette went away, hers untouched on the table.

He had not taken three sips when he heard a terrific crash in his studio. He hurried to the spot and what a sight met his eyes!

The bust of the Empress of China had disappeared from the black and gold pedestal, and among the bits and pieces of broken mandarins and fallen fans was Suzette, heated and dishevelled. Beneath her little shoes she was crushing pieces of porcelain, getting heated and red in the face with her effort.

She kept on murmuring to herself: “I am avenged. Now you are dead, great Empress of China.”

Then in the little blue salon began a happy reconciliation, and in his elegant cage the mocking bird nearly died of laughter.