The Last Empress

by Anchee Min

  Ball-like willow catkins chased each other inside the Forbidden City. They flew over the inner walls and through the windows and landed on my desk while I outlined what I had read in reports from overseas.

  Guang-hsu sat beside me. "Li Hung-chang says he has sent reinforcements to the trouble spot, but from others I hear different," Guang-hsu said, cupping his hands together under his chin.

  No one else was in the room. We could hear the echoes of our own voices. I reminded the Emperor of the possibility that people would say anything to discredit Li.

  "It is difficult to know who's telling the truth," Guang-hsu agreed.

  I wished that there were others whom I could depend on for information. Li Hung-chang was the only one who had established his credibility beyond the shadow of a doubt. I liked him, although never his news. Whenever I heard my eunuch's voice announcing Li's arrival, my insides would stir. I had to make an effort to sit up straight so that I could hold the bad news in my stomach.

  On August 22, 1885, the French opened fire without warning, yet they refused to call it a war. The message from Li Hung-chang read, "Our junks and numerous ships were set ablaze and they sank within minutes."

  Guang-hsu's hands shook slightly as he turned the pages. "Our supplies are strangled now that the French navy blockades the straits between Taiwan and Fukien. Where is Li Hung-chang's Northern Army?"

  "You sent him to deal with Japan over the issue of Korea," I reminded him. "Li's army must remain in the north."

  With both hands Guang-hsu held his head.

  "Have some tea, Guang-hsu" was all I could say.

  Pressing his eyes with his fingers, he said, "We can't afford not to deal with Japan."

  I agreed. "To Japan, Korea is the point of access to Pechili Bay and then to Peking itself."

  Guang-hsu rose and went to read the court's memorandum. "What else can the court advise me? 'Exercise restraint ... Do not arouse conflict with Japan while at war with the French...'"

  "The court had hoped that Japan would be grateful after we let them have Taiwan."

  "Tutor Weng said that our kindness and sense of self-restraint should not be regarded as an invitation for invasion."

  "He's not wrong, but—"

  "Mother," Guang-hsu interrupted me, "do you know that the week the Americans signed the treaty with Korea, Tutor Weng became constipated? He tried to punish himself by eating nothing but breadsticks."

  I sighed and tried to concentrate. "America's involvement only complicates matters."

  Guang-hsu held himself with both of his arms and sat down again.

  We stared at each other.

  "Mother, is the United States implying that Korea is now an equal among nations and independent of China?" I nodded.

  "I don't feel well, Mother. My body wants to desert me."

  I wanted to say "Shame and self-punishment don't inspire courage," but instead I turned my head away and began to weep.

  As Emperors, both of my sons had no way to escape. Guang-hsu had to continue to live Tung Chih's nightmare. I felt like the ghost who came to snatch a substitute so the dead son's soul could be given a new life. I felt that it was my hands that were pulling and tightening the rope around Guang-hsu's neck.

  "Who else is on the way to invade us?" Guang-hsu asked in a panicked tone. "I am sick of being told after the battle is lost and the treaty drafted!"

  "It's not your fault that we lost Taiwan, Vietnam and Korea," I managed to say. "Since 1861 China has been like a mulberry tree nipped away at by worms. Your frustration is no different from my husband's."

  My words of understanding didn't comfort Guang-hsu. He began to lose his playfulness. In the months to come, the distress would claim him. Unlike Tung Chih, who chose to escape, Guang-hsu did nothing but endure the bad news.

  Li Hung-chang negotiated with the French, and Prince Kung invited Robert Hart of our customs service to conduct diplomacy on our behalf. We were lucky, because in the end Hart proved to be a true friend of China.

  Before the end of summer, we had unceremoniously ceded Vietnam to France. Li Hung-chang volunteered his disgrace in order for the throne to save face.

  A painful moment came when Guang-hsu realized that after protracted war, long suffering, capricious decision-making and the tragic death of thousands, China had obtained only the abolition of the original indemnity to France.

  In the meantime, Korea, financed by Japan, began Western-style reforms and proclaimed independence.

  "Korea is the thumb of China's hand!" Guang-hsu shouted during an audience.

  "Yes, Your Majesty," the court echoed.

  "We are weakened, but not shattered!" The Emperor waved his fist.

  Everyone's attitude was "Let the boy blow off steam." In the end, Guang-hsu consented to the resolution of the Sino-French War in order to concentrate our defenses in the north, against Japan.

  Often, by the time news reached the throne, the moment for action would have already passed. It was written clearly in the dynastic laws that authority was to be fully respected and etiquette strictly followed, but I was forced to adapt the laws to changing situations. Greater autonomy had brought efficiency and successful outcomes on a number of occasions. Many times the initiative was Li Hung-chang's, who was doing all he could to hold back the Japanese.

  With the force Li Hung-chang sent into Korea went a man who would soon be playing an important role on China's political stage. His name was Yuan Shih-kai, a stocky twenty-three-year-old who was ambitious and courageous. When the pro-Japanese faction had attempted a coup in December 1884 at a ceremonial banquet in Seoul, Yuan, the chief of staff of the garrison, took the King of Korea hostage after a fierce struggle in the palace's very courtyard and silenced the Japanese and their Korean disciples.

  Yuan Shih-kai's prompt and confident military action averted the fall of Korea to Japan. For this Guang-hsu rewarded him. Besides a rank-jumping promotion, Yuan was made the Chinese Resident in Seoul.

  The treaty Li Hung-chang negotiated with Japan in 1885 stated that both countries would withdraw their troops from Korea. It stipulated that a third power would organize reforms in Korea, and that China and Japan could intervene with military assistance only after notifying each other. Five years later Korean envoys would come to Peking and kowtow like vassals before Guang-hsu. It brought my son great relief, although both he and I knew it was only a matter of time before we would lose control again.

  In the meantime, I advised Guang-hsu to accept Li Hung-chang's proposal to upgrade Taiwan's status from that of a prefecture of Fujian to a full-fledged province. If it was inevitable that we would lose the island, at least the gesture might gain us honor. Guang-hsu's 1887 edict declared that Taiwan would be "the twentieth province in the country, with its capital at Taipei," and that Taiwan's modernization drive would "include the building of the first railroad and the beginning of a postal service." We fooled no one but ourselves.

  21

  It snowed last night. Although it was not heavy, it continued until dawn. It had been a tough week. My head felt battered and swollen. Tutor Weng had given the Emperor and me an intensive introduction to Japan's transformation through political reform. Tutor Weng elaborated on the importance of freedom of expression.

  "The general view regarding scholars as subversives must be changed." The grand tutor's gray beard hung in front of his chest like a curtain, making him look like a kitchen god. "We must follow the Japanese model."

  "First I'll ban the practice of prosecuting heretics." Guang-hsu was excited.

  "But how will you convince the court?" I asked him. "We must keep in mind that the Manchu Dynasty was founded on military power. Our ancestors secured their position by purging and slaughtering all subversives."

  "Mother." My son turned to me. "You are the senior member of the royal clan and have earned great authority. The court can say no to me, but it will have difficulty saying no to you."

  I promised to help. In front of the court, I granted p
ermission to Tutor Weng's proposal, which would introduce Japanese-style reforms. However, behind the Forbidden City gates I expressed my private concern to Tutor Weng. I told him that I lacked confidence in the intelligence of our scholars, especially the group who named themselves Ming-shih, "men of wisdom." By reputation they were inclined to petty chatter and self-indulgence. As a young girl back in Wuhu, I remembered such men as my father's friends. They spent their days reciting poetry, discussing philosophy, singing operas and drinking. They were known to frequent playhouses and "flower boats"—floating brothels.

  I was more concerned about Japan's growing aggression and encouraged the Emperor to work with Li Hung-chang in setting up an admiralty board to oversee naval affairs. I asked Guang-hsu to personally see to the Imperial funding of vessels and munitions of war.

  My biggest challenge had been the outrage expressed by the Manchu royals over cuts in their annual taels. To quiet them, I appointed Prince Ch'un as the comptroller of the new board. The man was not the equal of his brother the brilliant Prince Kung, whom I would have preferred to work with. But Prince Kung had made a fatal mistake, which put him on the sidelines. Prince Ch'un was ineffective in all things, but he was the father of the Emperor and I had no other candidate. Aware of his shortcomings, I appointed Li Hung-chang and Tseng Chi-tse, son of Tseng Kuo-fan, as his advisors, knowing that they would more than fulfill their roles.

  Future historians would describe Prince Ch'un's appointment as my revenge against Prince Kung and as another example of my thirst for power. The truth was that Kung was a victim of Manchu inner-court politics. His liberal views made him a target not only of the Iron-hats but also of his own jealous brothers, including Prince Ch'un and Prince Ts'eng.

  During the conflict with France, the Ironhats advocated that China go immediately to war. Prince Ch'un was encouraged to claim his authority in his son's government. By the time I became involved, Prince Kung's trouble with the court's majority was out of control. Believing that China should do everything to avoid a war, Kung worked independently with envoys whom he sent to Paris to negotiate. With Robert Hart's assessment of the situation, Prince Kung brought France to a compromise settlement, and Li Hung-chang was dispatched to formalize the agreement.

  When Li's settlement turned Indochina into a joint protectorate of China and France, the nation's emotions were stirred. Prince Kung and Li Hung-chang were attacked as traitors. Letters denouncing the two piled up on my desk.

  Although I supported Prince Kung, I couldn't ignore the growing dissension in the court. Emperor Guang-hsu was being pushed around by his hot-blooded brother and Ironhat leader Prince Ch'un Junior.

  I realized that the only way to get Prince Kung out of trouble was to fire him for relatively benign reasons: arrogance, nepotism and inefficiency. I convinced my brother-in-law that an edict of dismissal would clear him of the charge of treason.

  In anger and disappointment, Kung offered his resignation, and it was granted.

  Li Hung-chang was left vulnerable. To save his own skin, he switched sides—a move I could not criticize and for which I could offer only sympathy. Then Prince Ch'un replaced Prince Kung as the chief minister.

  The nation suffered the consequences of the departure of Prince Kung, a man I had depended on for security for so many years. With both Yung Lu and Prince Kung gone, I became nervous. China was now almost solely in the hands of the Manchu hardliners—a notoriously grasping, villainous and uneducated group that numbered in the thousands.

  The Manchu ancestors had set up a system of rotating appointments every two or three years to prevent officials from establishing private interests. The rotation often meant that a new governor would fall into the grip of his clerks and underlings, who knew their area well. I was suspicious of the new governors who came to tell the Emperor of "recent achievements."

  According to Li Hung-chang, thirty percent of the nation's annual revenue was siphoned off through extortion, fraud and corruption. Our government was bedeviled by the lack of competent and honest men. And, above all, by a shortage of funds and the means to generate them.

  Guang-hsu had been talking about remitting land taxes. I pleaded with him to stay his hand. Past summers had brought ruin to half of China. In the poorest provinces families exchanged their children—parents could not bear to watch their own die and then be forced to eat them. In the meantime, our exports lagged perilously behind imports. Even the tea trade, which we had virtually monopolized in 1876, had been stolen by British-run India. We now supplied only a quarter of the world's consumption of tea.

  My room was stuffed with papers. Brushes, paint, ink stones and signature stamps cluttered every surface. My walls were covered with paintings in progress. My subjects continued to be floral studies and landscapes, but my strokes revealed my increasing anxiety.

  I sent my painting instructor away because I was driving her crazy. She could not understand why I couldn't paint the way I used to. She was terrified by my mad brushstrokes. Her eyebrows were like two peaks and her mouth gaped with silent shock as she fixed my strokes. She dotted the black ink everywhere until the painting dripped and my rose turned into a zebra.

  Li Lien-ying told me that my paintings were not selling because the collectors believed that they were not mine.

  "The new pieces lack elegance and calmness," my eunuch said.

  I told him that the beauty of the Imperial parks no longer inspired me. "Hostile and inhuman, the pavilions stand there only to help rally oppression!"

  "But my lady, we who inhabit the Forbidden City live like bats in caves. Darkness is our mean."

  I threw my brush across the room. "I am sick of looking at the shady courtyards and the long, dark, narrow stone paths! The identical Forbidden City apartments whisper murder in my ears!"

  "It's a sickness of the mind, my lady. I'll make arrangements to hang a large mirror by the entrance. It will help deflect the intruding evil spirits."

  The day Li Lien-ying hung the new mirror, I dreamed of journeying to a Buddhist temple high in the mountains. The upward path by a cliff was less than a foot wide. Hundreds of feet below was a mirror-like lake. It sat in a valley between two hills. In my dream the donkey I rode refused to move. Its legs were shaking.

  I woke remembering a summer holiday, traveling on a river with my family. Our boat was infested with fleas. They didn't seem to bother anyone but me. In the evening, when I brushed the dirt off my sheet to get ready for sleep, the dirt jumped right back and covered the sheet again. It was then that I discovered that it was not dirt but fleas.

  Drifting on the water, I could hear the boatmen sing songs to keep each other in rhythm. I remembered reaching out and dipping my hands in the dark green river. The sunset was red, then gray, and then instantly the sky was black. The water flowed through my fingers, warm and smooth.

  Yung Lu had been visiting me in my dreams. He always stood on top of a fortress in the middle of a desert. Many years later, when I described to him what my mind's eye saw, he was surprised by its accuracy. His skin was weatherbeaten and he wore a Bannerman's uniform. His posture was as erect as the stone guards made for tomb burial.

  In the middle of the night I heard something hit my roof. A rotted branch had dropped from an old tree. I followed my astrologer's advice to avoid omens and moved from the Palace of Concentrated Beauty to the Palace of Peaceful Longevity, which was on the far east side of the Forbidden City. The new palace was quieter, and its greater distance from the audience hall encouraged Guang-hsu's independence, for now it was less convenient for him to consult me.

  At the age of fifty-one, I realized how much I wanted Yung Lu back. Not only for personal reasons: his presence would calm Guang-hsu and the court. I needed him to perform the same function Prince Kung did for the young Emperor.

  In a letter to Yung Lu, I reported Nuharoo's death, Guang-hsu's upcoming ceremony of mounting the throne and Prince Kung's resignation. I made no mention of how I had survived the seven long years without h
im. To ensure his return, I enclosed a copy of a petition signed by the ministers at the court demanding Li Hung-chang's beheading.

  I had never expected that this would be the scene of our reunion: Yung Lu wolfing down dumplings in my dining room, his hunger giving me an opportunity to observe him. Wrinkles now crossed his face like valleys and rivers. The biggest change I noticed, though, was that he was no longer stiffly formal.

  Time, distance and marriage seemed to have calmed him. I didn't experience the anxiety I had anticipated. I had visualized his return so many times—like variations of the same scene in an opera, he would enter again and again but in different settings and in different costumes, offering me different words.

  "Willow asked me to apologize." Yung Lu pushed away the empty dish and wiped his mouth. "She is still unpacking."

  I did not think Yung Lu understood his wife's sacrifice. Or he pretended not to understand.

  Yung Lu continued, "Guang-hsu demands independence, and I wonder if you think him ready."

  "You are the throne's last standing advisor," I said.

  "If the court wants Li's beheading," he said slowly, "then Emperor Guang-hsu has a long way to go."

  I agreed. "I hope I get to retire before I die."

  22

  I no longer celebrated the Chinese New Year after Tung Chih died. I found myself living more in the past than the present. I dreaded the moment when I would hear the sound of distant fireworks, because I couldn't help but keep count of Tung Chih's age, as if he had lived. He would be twenty-six. Ever so vivid, Tung Chih would appear in my mind's eye.

  My son would look pale. His sad eyes would say, "I didn't mean to abandon you, Mother," his expression full of remorse.

  I would freeze until Tung Chih's image evaporated, then get down on my knees, facing where he had stood, and weep.