by Anchee Min
"My husband can't help but be a man of honesty because his lies are too dumb," my sister used to say. Prince Ch'un was tireless in telling the world about his philosophy of life. He constantly expressed his disgust of power and wealth. Displayed in his living room was a couplet of his own calligraphy warning his children of how wealth would corrupt, destroy and cause disaster. "Without power means without danger," the couplet read. "And without wealth means without disaster." Although Ch'un was a prince, he neither held significant titles nor performed court duties. Nevertheless, he had not been shy about demanding increases in his annual taels. He even criticized Prince Kung, complaining about his brother's compensation for hosting parties for foreign diplomats.
Despite all that, and with Yung Lu working in the background to persuade the clan members, the court gave its approval of Prince Ch'un. Tsai-t'ien was seriously considered and finally chosen. The last remaining obstacle was that Tsai-t'ien was Tung Chih's first cousin and by law could not officiate at Tung Chih's grave. In other words, Tung Chih could not adopt his cousin as a son and heir.
After days of debate, the court decided to have another open vote.
Outside the wind blew, and the lanterns in the hall flickered. The votes were counted: seven men voted for Prince Ts'eng's grandson P'u-lun, three voted for Prince Kung's son Tsai-chen, and fifteen voted for Prince Ch'un's son, my nephew Tsai-t'ien.
While Prince Ch'un told the court that it would be unnecessary to secure the approval of his wife regarding the official adoption of Tsait'ien, I made it clear that the decision would not become valid until the court received Rong's assent.
Knee-high weeds clogged the lawns and ivy covered the pathways. Inside my sister's grand mansion, diapers, food, dishes, bottles, toys and stained pillows were strewn about. Roaches darted across the floor and flies zipped through windows. Rong's eunuchs and maids whispered to Li Lien-ying that their mistress allowed no cleaning.
"Orchid!" Rong came to greet me. She looked as if she had just climbed out of bed. She wore floral-patterned, bright pink pajamas, and on her head was a woolen hat suitable for a snowstorm. Her breath gave off a rotten odor. I asked how she had been and why she wore the hat.
"Strange creatures have invaded my mind," Rong said, guiding me through her cluttered hallway. "I have been having headaches."
We entered the living room and she collapsed into a large armchair. "The creatures have been feeding on me." Pulling over a silver tray filled with cookies, she began to eat. "They love sweets, you see. They leave me alone every time I eat cookies. Tricky creatures, nasty."
My sister was no longer slim and beautiful. Folks back in Wuhu used to say, "When a woman is married and gives birth, she turns from a flower into a tree." Rong was a bear. She was twice as big as her former self. I asked how she felt about her son being selected Emperor.
"I don't know." She made loud chewing sounds. "His father is a con man."
I asked what she meant.
She wiped her mouth and fell back into the chair. Her belly stuck out like a pillow. "I thank Heaven I am not pregnant." She grinned. Bits of cookie clung to her mouth. "But I told my husband otherwise." She leaned over and whispered, "He said that it was impossible, because we haven't done you-know-what for years. I told him this pregnancy was made by the demons." She started to laugh. "That scared a scorpion out of him!"
I didn't know what to say. Something was terribly wrong with my sister.
"Orchid, you are incredibly thin. You look awful. How much do you weigh?"
"A little over a hundred ten," I replied.
"I've missed you since Mother's burial." Instantly Rong broke into tears. "You never care to see me unless there is business."
"You know that is not true, Rong," I said, feeling guilty.
A eunuch came in with tea.
"Didn't I tell you that this house serves no tea?" Rong yelled at the eunuch.
"I thought the guest might like—"
Get out," Rong said.
The eunuch picked up the cups and gave Li Lien-ying a resentful look.
"Idiot pud-nut," Rong said. "Never learns."
I looked at my sister and then said gently, "I came to see Tsai-t'ien."
"The little debt seeker is napping," Rong responded.
We went to the child's room. Tsai-t'ien was sleeping under his covers, curled up like a kitten. He looked a lot like Tung Chih. I reached out to touch him.
"I don't want this child." Rong's voice was strangely clear. "He has given me nothing but trouble and I am sick of him. Truthfully, Orchid, he will be better off without me."
"Stop it, Rong, please."
"You don't understand. I am scared of myself too."
"What is it?"
"I don't feel any love for this child—he is from the underground. He made his three brothers die so that he could have his turn to slide through my body and live. When I was pregnant I wanted him so badly, but after he came out, I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. I dream of my three dead children all the time." Rong began to sob. "Their ghosts have come to tell me to do something about their younger brother."
"You will come around, Rong."
"Orchid, I can't cope anymore. Take my son, will you? You will be doing me a great favor. But you must be extremely careful with his demon-possessed spirit. It will take away your peace. His trick is to cry around the clock. No one here gets any sleep! Orchid, take my trouble. Strangle this son of a demon if you have to!"
"Rong, I won't take him because you want to abandon him. Tsai-t'ien is your son, and he deserves your love. Let me tell you, Rong, the only thing I regret is that I wasn't able to love Tung Chih enough—"
"Oh, Mulan, the heroine!" Rong cried.
Awakened by his mother, Tsai-t'ien opened his eyes. A moment later he broke into a muted cry.
As if disgusted, Rong turned away from him and returned to her chair.
I picked up Tsai-t'ien and held him. Gently I rubbed his back. He smelled of urine.
Rong came and grabbed her son from me. She threw him back onto the bed and said, "See, you offer him a penny, he demands a dollar!"
"Rong, he is only three years old."
"No, he is a three-hundred-year-old! A master of torture. He pretends to be crying but he is having fun."
An overwhelming anger and sadness came over me. I felt that I couldn't stay in that room. I started walking toward the door.
Rong followed behind. "Orchid, wait a minute."
I stopped and looked back.
She gripped the boy's nose with her fingers.
Tsai-t'ien began to scream, struggling for air.
Rong pressed. "Cry, cry, cry! What do you want?"
Tsai-t'ien tried to break away, but his mother wouldn't let go.
"Do you want me to kill you? So that you will shut up? Do you?" Rong put her hands around Tsai-t'ien's neck until he began to choke. She laughed hysterically.
"Rong!" I lost all my restraint and rushed toward her. My nails dug into her wrists.
My sister screamed.
"Let go of Tsai-t'ien!" I said.
Rong struggled but would not release the child.
"Listen, Rong." I squeezed her wrists tighter. "This is Empress Tzu Hsi speaking. I am going to call the guards and you'll be charged for murdering the Emperor of China."
"Good joke, Orchid!" Rong spat.
"Last time, sister, let go of Tsai-t'ien or I'll order your arrest and beheading."
I pushed Rong against the wall and pinned her chin with my right elbow. "From this moment on, whether or not you agree to the adoption, Tsai-t'ien is my son."
14
Under cover of darkness, a detachment of guards led by Yung Lu marched through the streets to the residence of Prince Ch'un and Rong. They gathered up the sleeping Tsai-t'ien and brought him back to the Forbidden City, where he was to spend the rest of his life. The soldiers' feet and their horses' hooves were bound in straw and sacking so that the news of the Emperor's successor would not spre
ad through the city prematurely and provoke riots and disorder, which often accompanied a change of ruler.
It was dawn when Tsai-t'ien arrived at my palace. I had been waiting for him, dressed in my official robe. Barely awake, Tsai-t'ien was presented to me. In the Hall of Ancestors, led by the minister of court etiquette and with other ministers in attendance, we performed the adoption ceremony. I held Tsai-t'ien and got down on my knees. Together we bowed to the portraits on the wall. My adopted son was then dressed in a dragon robe made of silk. I took him to Tung Chih's coffin, where, with the help of the ministers, he completed the ceremony by kowtowing on his own.
I held Tsai-t'ien in my arms as he received his court. We were surrounded by the light of candles and lanterns. Memories of Tung Chih again came to haunt me.
On February 25, 1875, my nephew, now my son, assumed the Dragon Throne. He was proclaimed the Guang-hsu Emperor—the Emperor of Glorious Succession. His name was changed from Tsai-t'ien to Guang-hsu. Peasants in the countryside would start counting the years with this "first year of the Guang-hsu Emperor."
As we had done before, Nuharoo and I announced to the court and the nation that "we look forward to handing over the affairs of the government as soon as the Emperor completes his education." In our decree we also explained the reasons we had been compelled to select Tsai-t'ien for the throne, and why he should become the heir by adoption to his uncle the Emperor Hsien Feng instead of to his cousin Tung Chih. "As soon as Guang-hsu produces a male child," we declared, "the child will be offered to his uncle Tung Chih as an heir by adoption to officiate at his grave."
My opponents challenged the decree. "We are deeply shocked at the blasphemous neglect of Emperor Tung Chih's ancestral rites," they declared. In downtown meeting places and teahouses, vicious slanders and gossip spread. One lie suggested that Guang-hsu was my own son by Yung Lu. Another suggested that he was fathered by An-te-hai. A local judge named Wu K'o-tu dramatically caught the nation's attention: he poisoned himself in protest and called the succession "improper and illegitimate."
In the middle of this chaos, my brother sent me a message saying that I must grant him permission to see me. When Kuei Hsiang arrived dressed in a satin robe embroidered with colorful good-fortune symbols, he had his daughter with him.
"Your niece is four years old," he began, "and she hasn't been granted an Imperial name."
I told him that I had a name picked out. And I apologized, telling him I had been grief-stricken and hadn't seen to many things. "The name is Lan-yu, or simply Lan." The name meant "honorable abundance."
Kuei Hsiang was thrilled.
I took a good look at my niece. She had a bulbous forehead and a small pointed chin. Her narrow face highlighted her protruding upper front teeth. She appeared unsure of herself, which was unsurprising given how she had been raised. My brother was what the Chinese would call "a dragon at home but a worm outside." A typical Manchu, he had little respect for women, regarding his wives and concubines as his property. He wasn't unkind, but he was prone to ridiculing others. I hadn't witnessed his treatment of his daughter, but her behavior offered more than I needed to know.
"My wife thinks our daughter is a beauty, but I told her that Lan is so plain that we will have to give a discount to her marriage suitor." Impressed by his own sense of humor, he laughed.
I offered Lan a cupcake, and my niece thanked me in an almost inaudible voice. She chewed like a mouse and wiped her mouth after every bite. She fixed her eyes on the floor, and I wondered whether she had found something interesting to look at. Teasing, I asked her. "Crumbs," she replied.
I suggested that my brother take Lan to visit Princess Jung, my husband's daughter. The princess had suffered a great misfortune—her mother, Lady Yun, had committed suicide—but had grown into a thoughtful young woman.
"What do you want us to learn from the girl?" Kuei Hsiang asked.
"Ask Jung to tell the story of how she survived," I replied. "It will be the best lesson for Lan. And please, brother, don't belittle your daughter. I think Lan is beautiful."
Hearing my words, Lan raised her eyes. When her father answered, "Yes, Your Majesty," she giggled.
"I know of Princess Jung," Lan said in a small voice. "She studied in Europe, is it not true?"
"She tried but was forced by the court to return home." I sighed. "However, it is her courage that I admire. She has a positive spirit and leads a productive life. You will meet her when she comes to help me in my work."
"But Orchid," my brother protested, "I'd prefer your influence, not the influence of a disgraced concubine's daughter."
"It is my influence, Kuei Hsiang," I said. "Jung lived with me, and she witnessed how many of my dreams went unrealized. The courage to keep dreams alive despite all is what matters."
My brother looked confused.
Guang-hsu cried for hours on end, and I became frustrated. I sang nursery songs until I became sick of their tunes. I compared Guang-hsu's situation with how peasants grew rice. "Roots of rice shoots must be broken in order to encourage splits," the village saying went. I remembered working in rice fields to help break the roots. The tearing sound bothered me at first, for I didn't believe that the rice would survive. I left a small patch untouched, to see what would happen. The torn shoots came back healthier and stronger than those that went untorn.
Guang-hsu's attendants said, "His Young Majesty continues to wet his bed every night and is afraid of darkness and people." My adopted son also had a speech impediment, wore the expression of a prisoner and was sad all the time. After a few months, his weight began to drop.
I summoned Guang-hsu's former wet nurses. They told me that Guang-hsu had been a happy baby when he was born. It was his mother, my sister, who tried to "fix his ill manner" by hitting him every time he tried to eat or laugh.
Nuharoo and I couldn't do enough to make the little boy happy. Guang-hsu quivered and screamed when repairmen pounded nails or sawed wood. The summer's rolling thunder became another problem. On hot days before the rain came, we would keep his door and window shut so the noise wouldn't bother him. Guang-hsu wouldn't venture out on his own. The kitchen was no longer allowed to chop vegetables; the chefs used scissors instead. The maids were instructed to be quiet when washing dishes. Li Lien-ying used a slingshot to scare away the woodpeckers.
To help the Emperor smooth the transition, I ordered one of his former wet nurses to come to the Forbidden City to live with us. I hoped that Guang-hsu would find comfort in her. But Nuharoo sent the wet nurse right back. "Guang-hsu should forget all his former conditions," she insisted. "He ought to and will be treated as palace born."
Tension began to build between Nuharoo and me, something that was all too familiar from when we raised Tung Chih. I feared that I would again be fighting another losing battle.
During an especially heated argument that nearly came to blows, Nuharoo ordered me to go, and I stormed out. She took over Guang-hsu's care, which for her meant leaving the young boy to her eunuchs. Nuharoo wasn't one to devote time and energy to a child. As it happened, her frustrated eunuchs did what Guang-hsu feared most: they locked him inside a closet, then scared him by knocking loudly on the closet door.
When Li Lien-ying learned what had happened, and protested, Nuharoo's chief eunuch responded, "His Young Majesty has fire in his chest. Give him a chance to sing and he will douse it."
For the first time, and without getting permission from Nuharoo, I ordered her chief eunuch whipped. As for the rest of the servants, they got no food for two days. I knew it was not the servants' fault; they were merely doing what they were told. But the beating was necessary to warn Nuharoo that I had reached the limit of my patience.
Nuharoo told Li Lien-ying that in all our years together she had never seen me act with such wild rage. She called me a village shrew and then retreated. Deep down, she must have known that as much as I held myself responsible for Tung Chih's death, I held her responsible as well. Nuharoo's wisdom told her that
it would be foolish to sprinkle salt over my wound.
I wanted to spend as much time with Guang-hsu as possible, but over the next couple of years I felt like an acrobat spinning plates on thin sticks, desperately trying to keep a dozen dishes in the air, knowing that whatever I did, some would come crashing down.
China's economy was collapsing under the weight of forced war compensations. The foreign powers threatened to invade because our payments were late, or so they said. My audiences were devoted to discussions of how best to play the foreigners against each other so we could gain time. News of peasant uprisings and calls for help from local officials arrived daily.
I did not even have time to bathe properly. My hair got so dirty that the roots hurt. I could not wait for elaborate meals to be prepared for me; I usually ate my food cold at my writing table. I kept my promise to always read my son a bedtime story, but I often fell asleep before the end. He would wake me up to finish, and I would kiss him good night and go back to work.
By the time Guang-hsu was seven years old, I had developed chronic insomnia, which was soon followed by a persistent pain in my abdomen. Doctor Sun Pao-tien told me that I suffered from a liver ailment. "Your pulse is telling me that your fluids are not in proper balance. The risk to your system could be dire."
One day I felt too exhausted to work. Nuharoo let me know that she would take over the audiences until I regained my strength.
This made me happy, because I was able to concentrate on what I most desired: raising Guang-hsu. Several times my tongue slipped and I called him Tung Chih. Each time, Guang-hsu would take out his handkerchief and wipe my tears with amazing patience and sympathy. His inborn tenderness touched me. Unlike Tung Chih, Guang-hsu was growing into a sweet and affectionate child. I wondered if it was because he was weak himself, and so understood what it was like to be in pain.