The Last Empress

by Anchee Min

  Before the opera, I greeted the master performer in private. He was a bone-thin, half-blind man with rheumy eyes. I assumed that the robe he wore was his best, but it was covered with patches. I thanked him for coming and told my kitchen to feed the actors before they went on-stage.

  The set was simple. A plain red curtain was their background. The master sat on a stool. He tuned his erhu, a two-stringed instrument, and began to play. He produced a sound that reminded me of fabric being torn. The music was like a cry of grief, yet it was strangely soothing to my ears.

  When the opera had begun, I looked around and noticed that I was the only one left in the audience besides An-te-hai and Li Lien-ying. Everybody else had quietly left. The melody was not quite what I had remembered. The tone sounded like wind riding high in the sky. The universe seemed filled with the fabric-tearing noise. I imagined that this was how spirits being chased would sound. My mind's eye could see stony fields and fir forests gradually being covered by sand.

  The music finally faded. The master performer lowered his head to his chest as if falling asleep. The stage was silent. I envisioned the Gate of Heaven opening and closing in darkness.

  Two women and a man entered the scene. They were wearing big blue blouses. They each had a bamboo stick and a Chinese chime made of copper. They circled the master performer and beat their chime to the rhythm of his erhu.

  As if suddenly awoken, the man started to sing. His neck stuck up like a turkey's and his pitched voice became ear-piercing, like cicadas rattling on the hottest summer day:

  There is an old lobster

  Who lives in a hole beneath a giant rock.

  It comes out to look at the world

  And it goes back.

  I lift the rock to say hello.

  Ever since I have seen it

  The lobster stays in its hole.

  Day after day,

  Year after year,

  Quietly

  Wrapped by darkness and water,

  A confident creature

  The lobster must be.

  It hears the earth's sound

  And witnesses its changes.

  The mold on its back is growing

  Into beautiful green.

  Beating their chimes in rhythm, the three others joined the singing:

  O lobster,

  Know you I do not.

  Where do you come from?

  Where is your family?

  What made you migrate and hide in this hole?

  I wish my son had stayed for the entire performance.

  8

  I had begun to read The Romance of the Three Kingdoms, a Chinese emperor's history of the period following the Han Dynasty, encompassing four hundred years. The six volumes were as thick and heavy as large bricks. The book was a mere chronicle of victories, one following another seemingly without end. I had hoped to get to know the characters' interests, not just their military ventures. I wanted to know why these men fought, how each hero was raised and what role his mother played.

  After reading the first volume, I came to the conclusion that the book was not going to provide what I was interested in. I could list the names of all the characters, but I still didn't understand the men. The verses and poems about famous battles were exquisite, but I couldn't grasp the reasons they were fought. It didn't make sense to me that men would fight for the sake of fighting. In the end, I comforted myself by thinking that I would be safe—and accomplish great things—as long as I could distinguish the good men from the bad. During what would be my fifty years behind the throne, I would learn that this was not the case. Often the worst plans were presented by my best men, and with the best of intentions.

  I learned to trust my instincts more than my judgment. My lack of perspective and experience had made me cautious and alert. On occasion my insecurities would cause me to doubt my instincts, which resulted in decisions that I would come to regret. For example, I expressed reservations when Prince Kung proposed that we hire an English tutor to teach Tung Chih about world affairs. The court was against the idea as well. I agreed with the grand councilors that Tung Chih was at an impressionable age and could easily be manipulated and influenced.

  "His Young Majesty is yet to understand what China has suffered," one councilor argued. "The notion that England is responsible for the decline of our dynasty has not taken deep enough root in Tung Chih's mind." Others agreed: "To allow Tung Chih to be educated by the English means betrayal to our ancestors."

  The memories of how my husband died were still fresh. The smell of the burning of our home—the Grand Round Garden, Yuan Ming Yuan—had not dissipated. I couldn't imagine my son speaking English and befriending his father's enemies.

  After several sleepless nights, I made up my mind. I dismissed Prince Kung's proposal and told him that "His Young Majesty Emperor Tung Chih should understand who he is before anything else."

  I would spend the rest of my life regretting the decision.

  If Tung Chih had learned to communicate with the British, or traveled or studied abroad, he could have been a different emperor. He would have been inspired by their example and witnessed their leadership. He might have developed a forward-looking future for China, or at least been interested in trying.

  It was a cloudless afternoon when Nuharoo announced that all was ready for the final selection of Tung Chih's bride. I went along because I felt I had to. In order to ensure Nuharoo's continuing support at court, I needed to maintain harmony between us. I felt unready to see Tung Chih married; I could not get used to the idea that he was a grown man. Wasn't it just yesterday that he was a baby lying in my arms? Never before had I felt so acutely the pain of being robbed of time with my child.

  Because of Nuharoo's restrictions and my own court schedule I had hardly been a presence during Tung Chih's childhood. Although I had kept on my doorframe the marks measuring my son's height over the years, I knew few of his favorite things or his thoughts, only that he resented my expectations for him. He couldn't stand when I questioned him, and even my morning greetings made him frown. He told everyone that Nuharoo was much easier to please. The fact that she and I competed for his affection made matters worse. It was understandable that he had little respect for me; I was desperate for his love. Yet the more I begged, the less he wished to be with me.

  Now, all of a sudden, he was an adult. My time to be close to him was up.

  With a smile on his face, Tung Chih entered the Grand Hall dressed in gold. Unlike his father, he would participate in the selection. Thousands of fine maidens from all over China were led through the gates of the Forbidden City to pass before the eyes of the Emperor.

  "Tung Chih has never been willing to rise early, but today he was up before the eunuchs," Nuharoo told me.

  I wasn't sure if I should take this as good news. His visits to the brothels haunted me. With Doctor Sun Pao-tien's help, Tung Chih seemed to have brought the disease under control. But no one was sure that he was completely cured.

  Tung Chih would be given the liberty to do whatever he liked with his private life now that he had officially ascended to the throne. For him, marriage equaled freedom.

  "Tung Chih's mischief is due to his boredom," Nuharoo said. "Otherwise, how can you explain his academic achievement?"

  I wondered whether Tung Chih's tutors had been telling the truth about his academic progress. Nuharoo would immediately fire a tutor if he dared to report any failure. I had tested the tutors on Tung Chih's real abilities by suggesting that he take the national civil service examination. When the grand tutors became nervous and avoided all further discussion of the subject, I knew the truth.

  "Tung Chih needs to be given responsibility in order to mature," Prince Kung advised.

  I felt that that was the only conceivable alternative. Yet I had my concerns. Tung Chih's taking up the throne would mean my giving up power. Although I had long looked forward to my retirement, I suspected that it would not be Tung Chih but the court and Prince Kung wh
o would take over what I now held.

  Nuharoo was eager to have me retire too. She said that she longed for my companionship: "We will have so much to share, especially when the grandchildren arrive." Would she feel safer after I stepped down? Or had she other intentions? Tung Chih's being in control would mean that Nuharoo would have more influence over his decisions. Hadn't I learned that she was never what she appeared to be?

  I decided to comply with the court's proposal, not because I believed that Tung Chih was ready, but because it was time for him to take charge of his life. As Sun Tzu's Art of War put it, "One will never know how to fight a war unless one fights a war."

  On August 25, 1872, the selection of Imperial consorts was completed. Tung Chih was barely seventeen years old.

  Nuharoo and I celebrated our "ease into retirement." We would be called the Grand Dowager Empresses, although she was only thirty-seven and I almost thirty-eight.

  The new Empress-select was a cat-eyed eighteen-year-old beauty named Alute. She was the daughter of a Mongol official of the old stamp. Alute's father was related to a prince who was my husband's distant cousin.

  Tung Chih was lucky to have such a girl. The court would not have approved of his choice just because she was beautiful. The reason the court consented to Alute was that the marriage would serve to heal the discord between the Manchu throne and her powerful Mongol clan.

  "Although Alute is a Mongolian, she was never allowed to play under the sun or ride horses," Nuharoo said proudly, since Alute was her choice. "That is why her skin is so fair and her features delicate."

  I was not overly impressed by Alute. She was shy to the point of being mute. When we were given time to spend together, conversation faltered. She would agree with whatever I said, so I had little sense of who she really was. Nuharoo said that I was being picky. "As long as our daughter-in-law does what we say, what's the point of learning her thoughts?"

  My preference was a seventeen-year-old bright-eyed girl named Foo-cha. While less exotic-looking than Alute, Foo-cha was also highly qualified. She had an oval face, quarter-moon-shaped eyes, and sun-bronzed skin. She was the daughter of a provincial governor and had been privately educated in literature and poetry, which was unusual. Foo-cha was sweet but spirited. When Nuharoo and I asked what she would do if her husband spent too much time dallying with her and ignored his official business, Foo-cha replied, "I don't know."

  "She should have answered that she would persuade her husband to perform his duty, not his pleasure." Nuharoo picked up her pen and crossed off Foo-cha's name.

  "But isn't honesty what we are looking for?" I argued, knowing that Nuharoo could not be swayed to change her mind.

  Tung Chih seemed interested in Foo-cha, but he fell helplessly in love with Alute.

  I didn't insist that Tung Chih make Foo-cha his Empress. Foo-cha would become Tung Chih's second wife.

  The Imperial wedding was set for October 16. The preparations, especially the purchase of all the ceremonial goods and materials, began under Nuharoo's supervision. As a way of placating me, Nuharoo allowed me to decide on the theme of the wedding and suggested that An-te-hai be in charge of the shopping.

  When I told my eunuch of Nuharoo's decision, he was excited. But I warned him, "It will be an exhausting journey over a great distance in a short period of time."

  "Don't worry, my lady. I will take the Grand Canal."

  I was intrigued by An-te-hai's idea. The Grand Canal was the ancient, eight-hundred-mile-long engineering marvel that linked Tung-chow, near the capital, with Hangchow in the south.

  "How far will you travel by the canal?" I asked.

  "To its end, Hangchow," An-te-hai replied. "It will be a dream come true! The amount I am being asked to purchase will require a fleet of ships, perhaps as grand as Cheng Ho's! The chief eunuch of the celestial Ch'ing Dynasty will get to be the Grand Navigator! Oh, I can't even begin to imagine the trip! I'll stop at Nanking to shop for the best silk. I will pay my respects at Cheng Ho's burial site. My lady, you have just made me the happiest man on earth!"

  I had no idea that my favorite would never return.

  The events surrounding An-te-hai's death would remain a mystery. But clearly it was my enemies' revenge. My only comfort was that for one moment An-te-hai had been completely happy. I didn't realize how much I loved and needed him until he was gone. Many years later I would conclude that maybe it was not all bad for him. Although he had my blessing and great wealth, he was sick of living in a eunuch's body.

  9

  In the mornings I found myself looking forward to the sound of An-te-hai's footsteps in the courtyard, and then his delightful face appearing in my mirror. In the evenings I expected his shadow on my mosquito net and his voice humming the tunes of my favorite opera.

  No one told me how my favorite died. The report, dated two weeks before I received it, was sent by Governor Ting of Shantung province and stated that An-te-hai was arrested and prosecuted for violating provincial law. In the report Ting asked for permission to discipline the eunuch, but did not mention the measures he would take.

  I requested that An-te-hai be sent back to Peking for me to discipline. But Governor Ting claimed that my messenger didn't reach him in time.

  There was no doubt in my mind that Governor Ting knew An-te-hai's background. Ting must have had powerful backing or he wouldn't have had the courage to challenge me.

  As it turned out, all evidence pointed to three people: Prince Kung, Nuharoo and Tung Chih.

  The day An-te-hai died, I gave up on Tung Chih, for I realized the depth of my son's disaffection toward me.

  I was expected to forget An-te-hai. "After all, he was only a eunuch," everyone said. If I were a dog, I would have barked at Prince Kung, who sent me invitations to banquets held by foreign embassies; at Nuharoo, who pleaded with me to join her at operas; and at my son, who sent me a basket of fruit picked with his own hands in the Imperial fruit garden.

  My heart was shattered, and the pieces were pickled in sadness. When I lay in bed, the darkness was impossible to penetrate. I would picture white pigeons circling my roof and An-te-hai's voice gently calling me.

  During my own investigation, I tried to find evidence that would exonerate Tung Chih. When I could not deny the facts, I only hoped that my son had been manipulated by others and so was not truly culpable.

  "I want to know exactly where, when and how my favorite died," I told Li Lien-ying, now An-te-hai's successor. "I want to know An-te-hai's side of the story and his last wishes."

  No one was willing to come forward. "No one in the palace or the court will speak for An-te-hai, and no one is willing to serve as his witness," Li Lien-ying reported.

  I sent for Yung Lu, who came as fast as he could from the northern provinces. When he entered the hall of my palace, I ran to him and almost fell on my knees.

  He helped me to a chair and waited until I stopped weeping. He gently asked if I was sure that An-te-hai was blameless. I asked Yung Lu what he meant. He replied that during the voyage south An-te-hai's behavior was, if not criminal, certainly out of the ordinary.

  "Why are you siding with my enemies?"

  "I judge only based on facts, Your Majesty." Yung Lu stood firm. "If you want me to find out the truth, you have to be willing to accept it."

  I took a deep breath and said, "I am listening."

  "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but An-te-hai might not have been the person you thought you knew."

  "You have no right to..." Again I began to cry. "You didn't know An-te-hai, Yung Lu! He might have been a eunuch, but he was a true man at heart. I have never known a person who loved life more than An-te-hai did. If you had known his stories, his dreams, his poems, his love of opera, his suffering, you would have understood the man."

  Yung Lu looked skeptical.

  "An-te-hai was an expert in court etiquette and dynastic laws," I continued. "He would never have violated them. He knew the consequences. Are you telling me that he asked to die?
"

  "Look at the facts, please, and then ask how they tell otherwise," Yung Lu said quietly. "An-te-hai did something he shouldn't have. I am sure you're right that he knew the consequences. In fact, he must have contemplated the result of his action before committing himself to it. This makes the case complicated. You can't deny that An-te-hai offered his enemy a chance to eliminate him." Yung Lu looked intensely at me. "Why did he make himself a target?"

  I felt lost and shook my head.

  Yung Lu requested permission to assemble a team of professional investigators. Within a month, a detailed report was presented to me. Besides Governor Ting, the witnesses included An-te-hai's fellow eunuchs, boatmen, shop owners, dressmakers, local artists and prostitutes.

  The weather had been favorable when An-te-hai sailed down the Grand Canal. The eunuch accomplished his mission at the factories in Nanking, where the silks and brocades were woven for the upcoming Imperial wedding. An-te-hai also inspected the progress of the gowns Nuharoo and I had ordered, as well as those for Tung Chih and his new wives and concubines. An-te-hai then visited the grave of his hero, the Ming navigator Cheng Ho. I could only imagine his excitement.

  I vividly remembered the moment An-te-hai came to bid me farewell. He was dressed in a splendid floor-length green satin robe with a pattern of ocean waves. He looked handsome and full of energy. I had great hope that this might be a new beginning for him.

  Only a few months before, An-te-hai had gotten married. It was the talk of Peking. For the eunuch population, An-te-hai set an example of hope that they, too, might be redeemed from their status. Mentally, marriage might somehow reinstate their manhood and bring them peace. But things had not gone well.