The Last Empress

by Anchee Min

  "Last time? What do you mean? This has happened before?"

  "Yes. The first time was when my lady was twenty-six years old, and then again when she was thirty-three. This time I am afraid she will not survive."

  When I rushed to Nuharoo's palace, sounds of crying filled the air. The courtyard was packed with people. Seeing me, the crowd made way. I arrived at Nuharoo's bedside and found her practically buried in fresh gardenias. Doctor Sun Pao-tien was at her side.

  It shocked me how illness had changed her appearance. Her eyebrows were in the shape of a big knot and her mouth sagged to one side. Her breathing was labored and there was a gurgling noise in her throat.

  "Take away the flowers," I ordered.

  None of the attendants moved.

  "How can she breathe with the flowers weighing on her chest?"

  The eunuchs threw themselves down. "It is what Her Majesty wanted."

  "Nuharoo," I whispered.

  "She can't hear you," said the doctor.

  "How can this be? For years she was not ill for even a day!"

  "Her duties at court have worn her out," the doctor explained. "She may not last the night."

  A few minutes later Nuharoo opened her eyes. "You came in time, Yehonala," she said. "I get to say goodbye."

  "Nonsense, Nuharoo." I bent down. When I touched her pale, thin shoulder, my tears came.

  "Bury me with my gardenias," she said. "The court will want to bury me their way. You make sure that I don't get bullied in death."

  "Whatever you say, Nuharoo. But you are not going to die."

  "My way is the only way, Yehonala."

  "Oh, my dear Nuharoo, you promised that you wouldn't drive yourself so."

  "I didn't." She closed her eyes. A eunuch wiped her face with a towel. "I didn't quit because I didn't want to embarrass myself."

  "What is there to be embarrassed about?"

  "I wanted to show ... that I was as good as you."

  "But you are, Nuharoo."

  "That's a lousy lie, Yehonala. You are happy because I am going to be out of your way for good."

  "Please, Nuharoo..."

  "You can order the eunuchs to get rid of their brooms now."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You can collect the fall leaves, pile them as high as you want in the courtyards. The hell with stains on the marble."

  I listened and wept.

  "Buddha is on the other side waiting for me."

  "Nuharoo..."

  She raised her hand. "Stop, Yehonala. Death is ugly. I've got nothing left."

  I held her hand. It was cold, and her fingers felt like a bundle of chopsticks.

  "There is honor, Nuharoo."

  "You would think I care."

  "You have saved up plenty of virtue, Nuharoo. Your next life will be a splendid one."

  "I have been living inside these walls..." Her voice drifted. "Only the dusty winds of the desert penetrated..." She turned slowly to face the ceiling. "Two and a half miles of walls and the two hundred and fifty acres enclosed have been my world and yours, Yehonala. I will not call you Orchid. I promised myself."

  "Of course not, Nuharoo."

  "No more rehearsing the protocols ... the endless comedy of manners..." She paused to catch her breath. "Only a practiced ear could detect the real meaning of a word wrapped in filigree ... the idea hidden in amber."

  "Oh, yes, Empress Nuharoo."

  A half hour later, Nuharoo ordered that she be left alone with me.

  When the room was cleared, I pulled over two thick pillows and sat her up. Her neck, her hair and her inner robe were sweat-soaked.

  "Will you," she began, "forgive me?"

  "For what?"

  "For ... for driving Hsien Feng out of your bed."

  I asked if she meant the concubines whom she had brought in to seduce Hsien Feng during my pregnancy.

  She nodded.

  I told her not to worry. "It was only a matter of time until Hsien Feng abandoned me."

  "I will be punished in my next life if you don't forgive me, Lady Yehonala."

  "All right, Nuharoo, I forgive you."

  "Also, I plotted your miscarriage." She wouldn't stop.

  "I knew. You didn't succeed, though."

  A tear streamed down from the corner of her eye. "You are kind, Yehonala."

  "No more, please, Nuharoo."

  "But there is more I'd like to confess."

  "I don't want to hear it."

  "I must, Yehonala."

  "Tomorrow, Nuharoo."

  "I might not ... have the chance."

  "I promise to come tomorrow morning."

  She decided to go ahead anyway. "I ... gave permission for An-te-hai's murder."

  Her voice was almost inaudible, but it hit me.

  "Tell me you hate me, Yehonala."

  I did, I hated her, but I couldn't say it.

  Her lips trembled. "I need to depart with a clear conscience."

  She squeezed my fingers. Her expression was sad and helpless. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

  "Offer your mercy, Yehonala."

  I was not sure I had the right to forgive. I took my hand out of hers. "Get some rest, Nuharoo. I will see you tomorrow."

  Using all her might she yelled, "My departure is irreversible!"

  I pulled away and headed toward the door.

  "You have wished my disappearance, Lady Yehonala, I know you have."

  I stopped and turned around. "Yes, but I changed my mind. We haven't been the best partners, but I cannot imagine having no partner at all. I am used to you. You are the most wretched fucking demon I know!"

  A faint smile crossed Nuharoo's face, and she murmured, "I hate you, Yehonala."

  Nuharoo died the next morning. She was forty-four years old. Her last words to me were "He didn't touch me." I was stunned because I was sure she meant that Emperor Hsien Feng did not make love to her on their wedding night.

  I followed Nuharoo's burial instructions and covered her with gardenias. Her coffin was carried to the royal tomb site and she was laid next to our husband. Luckily, it was April, the season for gardenias. I had no trouble shipping tons of flowers from the south. The farewell ceremony was held in a sea of gardenias in the Hall of Buddha Worshiping, attended by thousands. Hundreds of wreaths in all shapes and sizes arrived from around the country. The eunuchs piled them up, filling the hall.

  Nuharoo's passion for gardenias was new to me. The plant was not native to Peking; it was popular in southern China. From her eunuchs I learned that Nuharoo had never seen gardenias before her final illness. She had requested that gardenias be planted around her tomb, only to be told that they wouldn't survive the harsh northern weather. And the desert soil was unsuitable for them.

  Nuharoo had surprised me with her feelings after all. I remembered how content she was when I first met her at sixteen. She believed that the world outside was a shabby thing compared to the "Great Within." I could only wonder how excited she would have been if she had traveled to the south and saw with her own eyes the green fertile plain—the land of gardenias.

  Two thousand Buddhist monks attended the burial ceremony. They chanted around the clock. Guang-hsu and I stayed up late for the "soul ceremony," when Nuharoo's spirit was said to ascend to Heaven. Eunuchs placed the candles in folded-paper boats and floated them on Kun Ming Lake. Guang-hsu ran along the shore, following the drifting candles.

  I sat on a flat boulder by the lake. Quietly I read a poem to wish Nuharoo a good journey to Heaven.

  Gardenias fill the courtyard free from dust

  By climbing the trumpet vine, its fragrance reinforced;

  Softly they heighten the fresh green of spring,

  Gently they trail their perfume, ring on ring.

  A light mist hides the winding path from view,

  From covered walks drips chill and verdant dew.

  But who will celebrate the pool in song?

  Lost in a dr
eam, at peace, the poet sleeps long.

  The foreign press described Nuharoo's death as "mysterious" and "suspicious" and speculated that I was the murderer. "It is generally believed that Tzu Hsi brought about the death of her colleague," a reputable English newspaper stated. "She made up her mind to kill because she was discovered by Nuharoo in bed with a leading man of the opera."

  I was able to remain detached until Tung Chih was brought into the stories. "She Did It Again: Yehonala Sacrificed Her Own Child on the Altar of Her Ambition!" shouted one headline in the British press, and the story was picked up by the Chinese papers. The article stated, "When Emperor Tung Chih was critically ill, his mother, far from providing him with the proper medical care, allowed the disease to wreak havoc with his delicate constitution. Should we have any reason to doubt that she had not allowed the same to happen to her coregent?" Another paper echoed, "Yehonala seemed intent on orchestrating the early death of her son and that of Nuharoo. Everyone at court knew that Tung Chih and Nuharoo would not live to see old age."

  I felt defenseless. To justify further foreign encroachments in China, I had to be made into a monster.

  "It is inconceivable that Yehonala did not know of the shameful exploits of her son and Nuharoo," one Chinese translation read, "and the fatal consequences of such adventures. It was within her power to forbid these revels, yet she did nothing to prevent them."

  Day after day, slanderers from around the world poured their venom: "We see how complete was the Dowager Empress's estrangement from her son and how total her lust for power."

  "For the young girl from the poorest province in China, no price is too high to maintain her despotic grip on the Celestial Empire."

  I dreamed that Yung Lu would come back to defend me. I cried at Tung Chih's altar and walked back in the middle of the night through the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing like a ghost. During the day's audiences, I would break down and weep like a schoolgirl. Guang-hsu kept passing me handkerchiefs until he started to weep himself.

  20

  The powerful strategist and businessman Li Hung-chang told me that not only was China facing an unavoidable war, but we were already deeply into it. For a week the court had discussed nothing but France's ambitions in our southern border provinces, including Vietnam, which China had long ago ruled before the Vietnamese gained a quasi-independence in the tenth century.

  Soon after my husband's death in 1862, France colonized southern Vietnam, or Cochin China. Like the British, the French were hungrily drawn to trade in our southwestern provinces and had set their sights on control of the navigable Red River in northern Vietnam. In 1874 France forced the King of Vietnam to accept a treaty giving it the privileges of overlordship that China had traditionally enjoyed. Much to France's irritation, the King continued to send tribute to my son in exchange for protection.

  To help hold the Vietnamese territory in the south, I granted freedom to a former Taiping rebel leader and sent him to repel the French. The rebel had been born in the area and considered it his homeland. He fought valiantly and succeeded in keeping the French at bay. But when the King died, the French negotiated another treaty with his successor, which stated, "Vietnam recognizes and accepts the protectorate of France."

  In response to our court's ultimatum, the French launched a surprise military attack. Since we hadn't expected to go to war, our southwestern borders were neither strengthened nor prepared. By March of 1884 Li Hung-chang came to report that all of the major cities in Vietnam had fallen into French hands.

  My court was divided over the crisis. Publicly, the dispute was over how best to deal with French aggression. Beneath the surface, however, was a widening gap between two political factions: the conservative Manchu Ironhats and the progressives, led by Prince Kung and Li Hung-chang.

  I asked Guang-hsu, who had just turned fourteen, how he felt about the situation, and he replied, "As yet I do not know."

  I wasn't sure whether or not my son meant to be humble. Months of sitting through court audiences seemed to have worn the boy down. He looked bored and listless. He had told me half jokingly that he would prefer a game of chess over attending an audience. When I told him that he must do what duty dictated, Guang-hsu responded, "I'm trying to glue myself to the dragon chair."

  I tried to encourage him. "You are saving the nation, Guang-hsu."

  "I haven't achieved anything. I just listen to the same arguments, day in and day out."

  It was then that I discovered that Guang-hsu had skipped his audiences during the entire time I was making preparations for Nuharoo's funeral. This upset me more than receiving the news of cities falling in Vietnam.

  I didn't know what else I could do to inject a sense of urgency into the young Emperor. One day during lunch I illustrated our position on a napkin, drawing a triangle representing the divided court with the Emperor caught in the middle.

  I tried not to push too hard. I remembered how Tung Chih ran away while appearing obedient. I remembered his resentment and the irritation that had come into his voice. I told myself to make life Guang-hsu's game instead of mine.

  The first thing I did was waive Guang-hsu's duty to officiate at the Confucian rites. Although I agreed with the court that Tung Chih's spirit required the performance of time-honored prayers and rituals for the comfort and security of his departed soul, I believed that Guang-hsu needed a break.

  I didn't want Guang-hsu to live in Tung Chih's shadow. However, the court regarded his ascent to the throne as nothing but that. Without Nuharoo's supervision I began to bend the rules. A few ministers questioned my actions, but most court members understood it when I said, "Only when Guang-hsu has succeeded will Tung Chih's soul truly be at rest."

  "Uncle Prince Ts'eng threatened suicide when I agreed to allow foreigners to live and trade in China," Guang-hsu reported. "He has asked my father to join him in funding the Boxers."

  I was all too aware of the Boxers, a peasant movement with deep roots in traditional Chinese culture—or so their leaders claimed. Their numbers were growing rapidly.

  "Unfortunately," I informed my son, "the Boxers' mission is to murder foreigners."

  "Are you on Prince Kung's side, then?" Guang-hsu asked.

  I let out a sigh.

  "My father is full of nonsense," Guang-hsu went on. "His poems and calligraphy are exhibited everywhere."

  "Prince Ch'un wants China to stay closed. What are your thoughts?"

  "I agree with Uncle Kung," Guang-hsu replied. Then, looking me straight in the eye, he said, "I don't understand why you tell me to cease when I try to let the court know my opinion."

  "The Emperor's job is to unite the court," I gently pointed out.

  "Yes, Mother," Guang-hsu said obediently.

  "I heard that you want to inspect the new navy."

  Guang-hsu nodded. "Yes, very much. Li Hung-chang is ready, but the court won't give me permission to receive him. My father thinks he is the real Emperor, though I wear the clothes."

  "What do you think of Prince I-kuang's handling of the Board of Foreign Affairs?"

  "He seems to be more capable than the rest. But I don't really like him, or my other uncles." Guang-hsu paused for a moment and then continued. "To tell you the truth, Mother, I have been establishing contacts with people outside the court circle. Thinkers and reformers, people who know how to really help me."

  "Make sure you understand what reform means in practice." I didn't want to admit that I had little idea myself.

  "I do, Mother. I have been working up a reform plan."

  "What would be your first edict?"

  "It would be to remove privileges from those who enjoy government salaries while contributing nothing."

  "Are you aware of the size of this group?"

  "I know there are hundreds of royal pests who are paid for their princeships and governorships. My father, uncles, brothers and cousins are their patrons."

  "Your younger brother, Prince Ch'un Junior, has become the new star of the I
ronhats," I warned him. "His gang vowed to destroy anyone who supports Prince Kung and Li Hung-chang."

  "I'll be issuing the edicts, not Prince Ch'un Junior."

  "Support Prince Kung and Li Hung-chang and maintain good relations with the conservative party," I advised.

  "I am prepared to abandon them," Guang-hsu said in a calm voice. His determination pleased me, although I knew I couldn't afford to encourage him further.

  "You should not abandon them, Guang-hsu."

  The Emperor pivoted his head toward me and stared.

  "They are the heart of the Manchu ruling class," I explained. "You must not turn blood relatives into enemies."

  "Why?"

  "They can use the family law to overthrow you."

  Guang-hsu seemed unsure. He got off his chair and paced the hall.

  "Funding the Boxers is one of the Ironhats' strategies," I said, taking a sip of tea. "They are backed by our friend the Canton governor, Chang Chih-tung."

  "I know, I know, they are the influential leaders and are resentful if not hostile toward all foreigners." Guang-hsu went back to his chair and sat down. He let out a heavy sigh.

  I rose to add hot water to his teacup.

  "Should I trust Li Hung-chang?" Guang-hsu asked. "He seems to be the most successful dealmaker with the foreign powers."

  "Trust him," I replied. "However, keep in mind that your brother Ch'un cares about the Manchu Dynasty no less than Li Hung-chang."

  The spring air was gritty with sand blown by the strong desert wind. It wasn't until April that the wind softened to a breeze. Under the warm sun the eunuchs let go of their brown winter robes that made them look like bears. The Imperial backyard concubines slipped into their ankle-length chipaos, dresses of Manchu design that cleverly complimented the female figure.

  I missed strolling the streets of Peking under the sunshine. It had been over a quarter of a century since I'd had the pleasure. Images of the city came to me only in my dreams. I missed looking into lanes and courtyards where fermiana trees were in bud and loquat trees bloomed in bunches. I missed the baskets of the peony sellers by the busy crossroads. I remembered the scent of their freshly cut flowers and the sweet smell of date trees.