A Quiver Full of Arrows (2 page)

“I should be honoured,” said the minister.

“It is I who would be honoured, Your
Excellency,” said the little man who thereupon scampered out of the back door,
nearly falling over a stray dog, and on to an old peasant house a few yards
behind the workshop. The minister and the Mandarin remained in the back room,
for Sir Alexander knew the old man would never have considered inviting an
honoured guest into his humble home until they had known each other for many
years, and only then after he had been invited to Sir Alexander’s home first. A
few minutes passed before the little blue figure came trotting back, pigtail
bouncing up and down on his shoulders.

He was now clinging on to something that
from the very way he held it close to his chest, had to be a treasure. The
craftsman passed the piece over for the minister to study.

Sir Alexander’s mouth opened wide and he
could not hide his excitement. The little statue, no more than six inches in
height, was of the Emperor Kung and as fine an example of Ming as the minister
had seen. Sir Alexander felt confident that the maker was the great Pen Q who
had been patronised by the Emperor, so that the date must have been around the
turn of the fifteenth century. The statue’s only blemish was that the ivory
base on which such pieces usually rest was missing, and a small stick protruded
from the bottom of the imperial robes; but in the eyes of Sir Alexander nothing
could detract from its overall beauty. Although the craftsman’s lips did not
move, his eyes glowed with the pleasure his guest evinced as he studied the
ivory Emperor.

“You think the statue is good?” asked the
craftsman through the interpreter.

“It’s magnificent,” the minister replied.
“Quite magnificent.”

“My own work is not worthy to stand by its
side,” added the craftsman humbly.

“No, no,” said the minister, though in truth
the little craftsman knew the great man was only being kind, for Sir Alexander
was holding the ivory statue in a way that already showed the same love as the
old man had for the piece.

The minister smiled down at the craftsman as
he handed back the Emperor Kung and then he uttered perhaps the only
undiplomatic words he had ever spoken in thirty-five years of serving his Queen
and country.

“How I wish the piece was mine.”

Sir Alexander regretted voicing his thoughts
immediately he heard the Mandarin translate them, because he knew only too well
the old Chinese tradition that if an honoured guest requests something the
giver will grow in the eyes of his fellow men by parting with it.

A sad look came over the face of the little
old craftsman as he handed back the figurine to the minister.

“No, no. I was only joking,” said Sir Alexander,
quickly trying to return the piece to its owner.

“You would dishonour my humble home if you
did not take the Emperor, Your Excellency,” the old man said anxiously and the
Mandarin gravely nodded his agreement.

The minister remained silent for some time.
“I have dishonoured my own home, sir,” he replied, and looked towards the
Mandarin who remained inscrutable.

The little craftsman bowed. “I must fix a
base on the statue,” he said, “or you will not be able to put the piece on
view.”

He went to a corner of the room and opened a
wooden packing chest that must have housed a hundred bases for his own statues.
Rummaging around he picked out a base decorated with small, dark figures that
the minister did not care for but which nevertheless made a perfect fit; the
old man assured Sir Alexander that although he did not know the base’s history,
the piece bore the mark of a good craftsmam The embarrassed minister took the gift
and tried hopelessly to thank the little old man. The craftsman once again
bowed low as Sir Alexander and the expressionless Mandarin left the little
workshop.

As the party travelled back to Peking, the
Mandarin observed the terrible state the minister was in, and
uncharacteristically spoke first:

“Your Excellency is no doubt aware,” she
said, “of the old Chinese custom that when a stranger has been generous, you
must return the kindness within the calendar year.”

Sir Alexander smiled his thanks and thought
carefully about the Mandarin’s words. Once back in his official residence, he
went immediately to the Embassy’s extensive library to see if he could discover
a realistic value for the little masterpiece. After much diligent research, he
came across a drawing of a Ming statue that was almost an exact copy of the one
now in his possession and with the help of the Mandarin he was able to assess
its true worth, a figure that came to almost three years’ emolument for a
servant of the Crown. The minister discussed the problem with Lady Heathcote
and she left her husband in no doubt as to the course of action he must take.

The following week the minister despatched a
letter by private messenger to his bankers, Coutts & Co. in the Strand,
London, requesting that they send a large part of his savings to reach him in
Peking as quickly as possible. When the funds arrived nine weeks later the
minister again approached the Mandarin, who listened to his questions and gave
him the details he had asked for seven days later.

The Mandarin had discovered that the little
craftsman, Yung Lee, came from the old and trusted family of Yung Shau who had for
some five hundred years been craftsmen. Sir Alexander also learned that many of
Yung Lee’s ancestors had examples of their work in the palaces of the Manchu
princes. Yung Lee himself was growing old and wished to retire to the hills
above the village where his ancestors had always died.

His son was ready to take over the workshop
from him and continue the family tradition. The minister thanked the Mandarin
for his diligence and had only one more request of him. The Mandarin listened
sympathetically to the Ambassador from England and returned to the palace to
seek advice.

A few days later the Empress granted Sir
Alexander’s request.

Almost a year to the day the minister,
accompanied by the Mandarin, set out again from Peking for the village of Ha Li
Chuan. When Sir Alexander arrived he immediately dismounted from his horse and
entered the workshop that he remembered so well, the old man was seated at his
bench, his flat hat slightly askew, a piece of uncarved ivory held lovingly
between his fingers. He looked up from his work and shuffled towards the
minister, not recognising his guest immediately until he could almost touch the
foreign giant. Then he bowed low. The minister spoke through the Mandarin:

“I have returned, sir, within the calendar
year to repay my debt.”

“There was no need, Your Excellency.

My family is honoured that the little statue
lives in a great Embassy and may one day be admired by the people of your own
land.”

The minister could think of no words to form
an adequate reply and simply requested that the old man should accompany him on
a short journey.

The craftsman agreed without question and
the three men set out on donkeys towards the north. They travelled for over two
hours up a thin winding path into the hills behind the craftsman’s workshop,
and when they reached the village of Ma Tien they were met by another Mandarin,
who bowed low to the minister and requested Sir Alexander and the craftsman to
continue their journey with him on foot. They walked in silence to the far side
of the village and only stopped when they had reached a hollow in the hill from
which there was a magnificent view of the valley all the way down to Ha Li
Chuan. In the hollow stood a newly completed small white house of the most
perfect proportions. Two stone lion dogs, tongues hanging over their lips,
guarded the front entrance. The little old craftsman who had not spoken since
he had left his workshop remained mystified by the purpose ofthejourney until
the minister turned to him and offered:

“A small, inadequate gift and my feeble
attempt to repay you in kind.”

The craftsman fell to his knees and begged
forgiveness of the Mandarin as he knew it was forbidden for an artisan to
accept gifts from a foreigner. The Mandarin raised the frightened blue figure
from the ground, explaining to his countryman that the Empress herself had sanctioned
the minister’s request. A smile of joy came over the face of the craftsman and
he slowly walked up to the doorway of th beautiful little house unable to
resist running his hand over the carved lion dogs. The three travellers then
spent over an hour admiring the little house before returning in silent mutual
happiness back to the workshop in Ha Li Chuan. The two men thus parted, honour
satisfied, and Sir Alexander rode to his Embassy that night content that his
actions had met with the approval of the Mandarin as well as Lady Heathcote.

The minister completed his tour of duty in
Peking, and the Empress awarded him the Silver Star of China and a grateful
Queen added the K.C.V.O. to his already long list of decorations. After a few
weeks back at the Foreign Office clearing the China desk, Sir Alexander retired
to his native Yorkshire, the only English county whose inhabitants still hope
to be born and die in the same place – not unlike the Chinese. Sir Alexander
spent his final years in the home of his late father with his wife and the
little Ming Emperor. The statue occupied the centre of the mantelpiece in the
drawing room for all to see and admire.

Being an exact man, Sir Alexander wrote a
long and detailed will in which he left precise instructions for the disposal
of his estate, including what was to happen to the little statue after his
death. He bequeathed the Emperor Kung to his first son requesting that he do
the same, in order that the statue might always pass to the first son, or a
daughter if the direct male line faltered. He also made a provision that the
statue was never to be disposed of, unless the family’s honour was at stake.
Sir Alexander Heathcote died at the stroke of midnight on his seventieth year.

His first-born, Major James Heathcote, was
serving his Queen in the Boer War at the time he came into possession of the
Ming Emperor. The Major was a fighting man, commissioned with the Duke of
Wellington’s Regiment, and although he had little interest in culture even he
could see the family heirloom was no ordinary treasure, so he loaned the statue
to the regimental mess at Halifax in order that the Emperor could be displayed
in the dining room for his brother officers to appreciate.

WhenJames Heathcote became Colonel of the
Dukes, the Emperor stood proudly on the table alongside the trophies won at
Waterloo and Sebastopol in the Crimea and Madrid. And there the Ming Statue
remained until the colonel’s retirement to his father’s house in Yorkshire,
when the Emperor returned once again to the drawing room mantelpiece. The
colonel was not a man to disobey his late father, even in death, and he left
clear instructions that the heirloom must always be passed on to the first-born
of the Heathcotes unless the family honour was in jeopardy. Colonel James
Heathcote M.C. did not die a soldier’s death; he simply fell asleep one night
by the fire, the Yorkshire Post on his lap.

The colonel’s first-born, the Reverend
Alexander Heathcote, was at the time presiding over a small flock in the parish
of Much Hadham in Hertfordshire. After burying his father with military
honours, he placed the little Ming Emperor on the mantelpiece of the vicarage.
Few members of the Mothers’ Union appreciated the masterpiece but one or two
old ladies were heard to remark on its delicate carving. And it was not until
the Reverend became the Right Reverend, and the little statue found its way
into the Bishop’s palace, that the Emperor attracted the admiration he deserved.

Many of those who visited the palace and
heard the story of how the Bishop’s grandfather had acquired the Ming statue
were fascinated to learn ofthe disparity between the magnificent statue and its
base. It always made a good after-dinner story.

God takes even his own ambassadors, but He
did not do so before allowing Bishop Heathcote to complete a will leaving the
statue to his son, with his grandfather’s exact instructions carefully
repeated. The Bishop’s son, Captain James Heathcote, was a serving officer in
his grandfather’s regiment, so the Ming statue returned to the mess table in
Halifax. During the Emperor’s absence, the regimental trophies had been
augmented by those struck for Ypres, the Marne and Verdun. The regiment was
once again at war with Germany, and young Captain James Heathcote was killed on
the beaches of Dunkirk and died intestate. Thereafter English law, the known
wishes of his great-grandfather and common sense prevailed, and the little
Emperor came into the possession of the captain’s two-year-old son.

Alex Heathcote was, alas, not of the mettle
of his doughty ancestors and he grew up feeling no desire to serve anyone other
than himself. When Captain James had been so tragically killed, Alexander’s
mother lavished everything on the boy that her meagre income would allow. It
didn’t help, and it was not entirely young Alex’s fault that he grew up to be,
in the words of his grandmother, a selfish, spoiled little brat.

When Alex left school, only a short time
before he would have been expelled, he found he could never hold down a job for
more than a few weeks. It always seemed necessary for him to spend a little
more than he, and finally his mother, could cope with. The good lady, deciding
she could take no more of this life, departed it, to join all the other
Heathcotes, not in Yorkshire, but in heaven.