The Last Empress

by Anchee Min

  But these were difficult times. Conflict swirled around us, coming from within as well as without, and the tensions led to a poisonous atmosphere that pitted faction against faction in the court.

  It started slowly, but it became clear that Kung was frequently going around us when conducting court business. This was just what had happened in Jehol, the manipulative Su Shun insisting that Nuharoo and I need not trouble ourselves with the work of the court, which would be better left to men. In so many ways, Prince Kung made it clear to Nuharoo and me that he wanted us to be sisters-in-law, not political partners.

  "It's true that as females we might lack knowledge of the foreign powers," I argued, "but that doesn't mean our rights should be cast aside."

  Without bothering to confront us, Prince Kung simply continued to go around us.

  I tried to get Nuharoo to protest with me, but she didn't share my concern. She suggested that I forgive Prince Kung and move on. "Preserving harmony is our family duty," she said, smiling.

  Without the daily reports being supplied to me, I had no idea what was going on. I felt blind and deaf when asked to make decisions during audiences. Prince Kung led the foreigners to believe that Nuharoo and I were mere figureheads. Instead of properly addressing Tung Chih in their proposals, the foreign powers addressed Prince Kung.

  Tung Chih was nearly twelve when the Kung situation became intolerable. He would assume his full role as Emperor in a matter of a few years—that is, if there was still a role left for him to fulfill. In audiences he was unaware of the conflict going on just below the surface, but he could sense my own discomfort. The greater strain between us only made him more eager to avoid his duties. While Tung Chih sat tapping his foot or staring off into space until the audiences ended, I could only look out at the assembled ministers, nobles and subjects and feel that I was failing my son.

  I realized that unless I convinced Nuharoo that she had much to lose, she would not offer her support. My son would be Emperor in name only while his uncle would wield the actual power. The reason that Governor Ho's and General Sheng Pao's executions encountered resistance was because the men were Prince Kung's friends. At my insistence the executions were eventually carried out, but now I realized how dear my "bloody debt" was to be.

  Unprepared and often speechless, Nuharoo and I allowed Prince Kung to conduct the audiences as if we did not exist. The disrespect was so obvious that the court soon felt free to openly ignore us. Yung Lu feared that the army would follow suit.

  I knew that I had to stand up for myself and Tung Chih, and it had to be soon. When a low-ranking officer from a northern town sent a letter complaining about Prince Kung, I sensed the moment had arrived.

  Within two hours I had composed an edict that presented the case against Prince Kung. I wrote it carefully and stuck to the facts, avoiding any unnecessary slights to the character of my brother-in-law. Then I did the most difficult thing: I summoned my son and attempted to explain what we were about to do. Tung Chih's face went blank and his eyes widened. He looked so young to me, so unprotected, even in his glorious silk robes emblazoned with the Imperial symbol. I hadn't meant to frighten him, and sorrow filled my heart. Still, I needed him to understand.

  Then, in the name of my son, I sent for Prince Kung.

  A stunned silence settled over the audience as Tung Chih read the edict I had written and placed in his hands. It seemed to take the court by surprise, for no one challenged its claims. The night before, I had managed to persuade Nuharoo to be on my side, although she was absent at the announcement. In the edict I listed the numerous laws Kung had violated. My argument was strong and my evidence solid. My brother-in-law had no choice but to acknowledge that he had committed the wrongdoings.

  I humbled Prince Kung by stripping him of all his posts and titles.

  That same evening I asked Yung Lu to speak privately with him. Yung Lu made Kung understand that to unite with me was his sole option. "As soon as you make a public apology," Yung Lu promised on my behalf, "Her Majesty will grant back all your posts and titles."

  My action was praised by Prince Kung's enemies as "letting go of a dangerous beast." They begged me not to reinstate him. These men had no idea what I wanted from Prince Kung. They couldn't imagine that punishing him was the only way for the two of us to get back together. To be treated as an equal was all I was asking.

  To put an end to the rumor that Prince Kung and I were enemies, I issued another edict, granting Kung permission to do something he had long dreamed of: opening an elite academy, the Royal School of Science and Mathematics.

  Tung Chih complained about a stomachache and was excused from attending the morning audience. I sent An-te-hai to check on him in the afternoon. My son would turn thirteen this year, and he had been Emperor for seven years. I understood why he hated his duties and would run away whenever possible, but still, I was disappointed.

  I couldn't escape my thoughts of Tung Chih as I sat on the throne and listened to Yung Lu reading from Tseng Kuo-fan's letter about the replacements for Governor Ho and Sheng Pao, which still had not been finalized. I had to force myself to concentrate.

  I kept my eyes on the door and hoped to hear the announcement that my son was coming. Finally he arrived. The audience of fifty men got down on their knees and greeted him. Tung Chih went to sit on the throne and didn't bother to nod.

  My handsome boy had shaved for the first time. He had shot up in height lately. His moonlit eyes and gentle voice reminded me of his father's. In front of the court he appeared confident. But I knew that his restlessness had only continued to grow.

  I left Tung Chih alone most of the time because I was ordered to. Nuharoo had made it clear that it was her duty to speak for the Emperor's needs. "Tung Chih must be given a chance to mature on his own terms."

  The court had a hard time controlling Tung Chih's wildness. Eventually Prince Kung's son, Tsai-chen, was brought in to be Tung Chih's study mate. Although I was given no say in the decision, I was impressed by Tsai-chen's good manners and was relieved to see that the two boys became friends right away.

  Tsai-chen was two years older than Tung Chih, and his experience in the outside world fascinated the young Emperor, who was forbidden to step outside the Imperial gates and who would do anything to get a story out of Tsai-chen. The boys also shared an interest in Chinese opera.

  Unlike Tung Chih, Tsai-chen was a robust, well-built boy. Horseback riding was his passion. I hoped that under his friend's influence my son would pick up the Bannerman tradition, the ancient practices of the Manchu warriors who had conquered Han China two centuries before. Our family paintings depicted the Manchu emperors taking part in events through the year: martial arts, horseracing, autumn hunting. For six generations the Manchu emperors carried on the tradition, until my husband Hsien Feng. It would be a dream come true for me to see Tung Chih mount his horse one day.

  "I depart for Wuchang this evening." Yung Lu stood in front of me.

  "What for?" I asked, upset by the suddenness of the news.

  "Warlords in Jiang-hsi province have demanded the right to command private armies."

  "Don't they already do so?"

  "Yes, but they want the formal sanction of the court," Yung Lu replied. "And of course they not only look to avoid taxes, they expect additional funding from the court."

  "It is a buried issue." I turned my head away. "Emperor Hsien Feng rejected the proposal long ago."

  "The warlords mean to challenge Emperor Tung Chih, Your Majesty."

  "What do you mean?"

  "A rebellion is in the making."

  I looked at Yung Lu and understood.

  "Can you leave the matter to Tseng Kuo-fan?" I felt uneasy about letting Yung Lu go to the frontier.

  "The warlords will consider the consequences more seriously if they know they are dealing directly with you."

  "Is this Tseng Kuo-fan's idea?"

  "Yes. The general suggested that you take advantage of your recent victori
es in court."

  "Tseng Kuo-fan wants me to bear more blood," I said. "Yung Lu, General Tseng would pass his 'Head-Chopper' name to me, if that is what you mean by my recent victories. The thought does not appeal to me." I paused and emotion filled my throat. "I want to be liked. Not feared."

  Yung Lu shook his head. "I agree with Tseng. You are the only person the warlords fear today."

  "But you know how I feel."

  "Yes, I do. But think of Tung Chih, Your Majesty." I looked at him and nodded.

  "Let me go and straighten out the matter for Tung Chih," he said.

  "It is not safe for you to go." I became nervous and began to speak fast. "I need your protection here."

  Yung Lu explained that he had already made the arrangements and that I would be safe.

  I couldn't bring myself to say goodbye.

  Without looking at me, he asked for forgiveness and was gone.

  4

  It was the spring of 1868 and rain soaked the soil. Blue winter tulips in my garden began to rot. I was thirty-four years old. My nights were filled with the sound of crickets. The smell of incense fluttered over from the Palace Temple, where the senior concubines lived. It was strange that I still didn't know all of them. Visits were purely ceremonial inside the Forbidden City. The ladies spent their days carving gourds, raising silkworms and doing embroidery. Images of children appeared in their needlework, and I continued to receive clothing made for my son by these women.

  My husband's younger wives, Lady Mei and Lady Hui, were said to have met with a secret curse. They spoke the words of the dead, and they insisted that their heads had been soaked in the rain throughout the season. To prove their point, they took down their headpieces and showed the eunuchs where water had seeped through to the roots of their hair. Lady Mei was said to be fascinated by images of death. She ordered new bed sheets of white silk and spent her days washing them herself. "I want to be wrapped in these sheets when I die," she said in an operatic voice. She drilled her eunuchs in the practice of wrapping her in the sheets.

  I dined alone after the day's audience. I no longer paid attention to the parade of elaborate dishes and ate from the four bowls An-te-hai placed in front of me. They were usually simple greens, bean sprouts, soy chicken and steamed fish. I often took a walk after dinner, but today I went straight to bed. I told An-te-hai to wake me in an hour because I had important work to do.

  The moonlight was bright, and I could see the calligraphy of an eleventh-century poem on the wall:

  How many flurries or squalls can spring stand

  Before it will have to return to its fount?

  One is afraid

  Spring flowers fade too soon.

  They have dropped

  Petals

  Impossible to count.

  Fragrant grass stretches

  As far as the horizon.

  Silent spring leaves only fluff behind.

  Spider webs catch but

  Spring itself would not stay.

  An image of Yung Lu entered my mind, and I wondered where he was and whether he was safe.

  "My lady," came An-te-hai's whisper,"the theater is crowded before the show is even created." Lighting a candle, my eunuch drew near. "Your Majesty's private life has been the talk of teahouses throughout Peking."

  I didn't want to let it bother me. "Go away, An-te-hai."

  "The rumors expose Yung Lu, my lady."

  My heart shuddered, but I couldn't say that I hadn't anticipated this.

  "My spies say it is your son who stirs up the rumors."

  "Nonsense."

  The eunuch backed himself toward the door. "Good night, my lady."

  "Wait." I sat up. "Are you telling me that my son is the source?"

  "It's just a rumor, my lady. Good night."

  "Does Prince Kung have a role in it?"

  "I don't know. I don't think Prince Kung is behind the rumor, yet he hasn't discouraged it either."

  A sudden weakness ran through me.

  "An-te-hai, stay awhile, would you?"

  "Yes, my lady. I'll stay until you are asleep."

  "My son hates me, An-te-hai."

  "It is not you he hates. It is me. More than once His Young Majesty swore that he would order my death."

  "It doesn't mean anything, An-te-hai. Tung Chih is a child."

  "I've told myself that too, my lady. But when I look at him, I know he is serious. I am afraid of him."

  "Me too, and I am his mother."

  "Tung Chih is no longer a boy, my lady. He has already done manly things."

  "Manly things? What do you mean?"

  "I can't say another word, my lady."

  "Please, An-te-hai, continue."

  "I haven't the facts yet."

  "Tell me whatever you know."

  The eunuch insisted that he be allowed to remain silent until he obtained more information. Without wasting a moment, he left.

  All night long I thought about my son. I wondered whether it was Prince Kung who was manipulating Tung Chih in order to get back at me. The word was that after Kung apologized for his behavior, he ended his friendship with Yung Lu. They had split over the case of General Sheng Pao.

  I knew Tung Chih was still bewildered and angry over my treatment of his uncle. Prince Kung was the closest thing to a father he had, and he resented that he had been the one to read the condemning edict before his uncle and the entire court. He might have only barely grasped the import of the words he read, but he could not have missed the look of humiliation in his uncle's eyes as they turned away from him. I knew my son blamed me for this and so much else.

  Tung Chih was spending more and more time with Kung's son, Tsai-chen. I rejoiced that together they could escape from the pressures of the court in each other's company, however briefly. In my mind I joined them on their rides through the palace gardens and in the royal parks beyond. My spirits lifted when they returned, their faces flushed with color. I sensed a greater independence in my son. But I had begun to wonder whether it was true independence or simply his avoidance of me, his mother, whom he associated with the tiresome attendance at audiences, the person who told him to do things he didn't wish to do.

  I didn't know how to quell his anger except to leave him alone and hope that it would pass. Increasingly we saw each other only at audiences, which just deepened my loneliness and made my nights longer. More and more my thoughts returned to the old concubines and widows of the Palace Temple, to wonder if their fate was not more tolerable than my own.

  In order to protect me, Yung Lu had removed himself to a distant corner of the empire. I had been the subject of scorn and misunderstanding since the day I gave birth to Tung Chih, so I was used to it. I didn't expect the rumors and nightmares to stop until Tung Chih had gone through the ceremony of officially mounting the throne.

  My only true wish was to establish a life of my own, a possibility I feared was slipping away. For the sake of my son's future, I could not remove myself from my duties as a regent. But to stay was to be embroiled in conflicts whose resolutions I could not grasp. I wondered what life was like for Yung Lu on the frontier. I had willed myself to stop fantasizing about us as lovers, but my senses continued to betray me. His absence made the audiences unbearable.

  Knowing that I would never be in Yung Lu's arms, I was envious of those whose lips pronounced his name. He was the nation's most desirable bachelor, and his every move was observed. I imagined his doorsill being worn down by matchmakers.

  To avoid frustration I kept busy and cultivated friendships. I reached out to support General Tseng Kuo-fan in his strategy to thwart the Taiping peasant rebels. In my son's name I congratulated his every victory.

  Yesterday I'd granted an audience to a new man of talent, Tseng Kuo-fan's disciple and partner, Li Hung-chang. Li was a tall and handsome Chinese. I had never heard Tseng Kuo-fan praise anyone the way he did Li Hung-chang, calling him "Invincible Li." The moment I detected Li's accent, I asked if he was from Anhwei
, my own province. To my delight, he was. Speaking the provincial dialect, he told me he was from Hefei, a short distance from Wuhu, my hometown. In our conversation I learned that he was a self-made man like his mentor, Tseng.

  I invited Li Hung-chang to attend a Chinese opera at my theater. My true purpose was to find out more about him. Li was a scholar by background, a soldier-turned-general by trade. A smart businessman, he was already among the richest in the country. He let me know that his new field was diplomacy.

  I asked Li what he had done before coming to the Forbidden City. He replied that he was in the middle of building a railway that would someday stretch across China. I promised that I would attend the inauguration of his railroad; in exchange, I asked if he could extend the track all the way to the Forbidden City. He became excited and promised that he would build me a station.

  My making friends outside the royal circle disturbed Prince Kung. The gap between us began to widen again. We both knew that our dispute was not about recruiting talented allies—for he desired them as much as I—but about power itself.

  I didn't mean to be anyone's rival, certainly not Prince Kung's. As confused and frustrated as I was, I realized that our differences were fundamental and impossible to resolve. I understood Kung's concerns, but I couldn't let him run the country his way.

  Prince Kung was no longer the open-minded and big-hearted man that I had first come to know. In the past, he had appointed people for positions based on merit and been among the strongest advocates for embracing the many peoples of China. He promoted not only the Han Chinese but also foreign employees, such as the Englishman Robert Hart, who for years had been in charge of our customs service. But when the Han Chinese filled the majority of the seats at the court, Prince Kung became uneasy and his views changed. My connections with such men as Tseng Kuo-fan and Li Hung-chang only made matters worse.