The Last Empress

by Anchee Min

  "Any news?" I asked.

  "We lost our last division of Moslem cavalry." Guang-hsu entered my room and sat down on a chair. "I am forced to disband tens of thousands of soldiers because I have to pay the foreign indemnities. 'Or war,' they say. 'Or war'!"

  "You haven't been eating," I said. "Let's have breakfast."

  "The Japanese have been building roads connecting Manchuria to Tokyo." He stared at me, his big black eyes unblinking. "My downfall will come along with the fall of the Russian tsar."

  "Guang-hsu, enough."

  "The Meiji Emperor will soon be unchallenged in East Asia."

  "Guang-hsu, eat first, please..."

  "Mother, how can I eat? Japan has filled my stomach!"

  26

  The Imperial kitchens tried to find reasons not to cancel my birthday banquets. The same attitude was shared by the court, which saw my retirement as an opportunity for everyone to make money. Li Hung-chang was forced to negotiate additional loans to save the day.

  I concluded that the only way out of my birthday trap would be to address the nation in a public letter:

  The auspicious occasion of my sixtieth birthday was to have been a joyful event, and I understand that officials and many citizens have subscribed funds wherewith to raise triumphal arches—twenty-five percent of your yearly income, I was told—to honor me by decorating the Imperial Waterway along its entire length from Peking to my home ... I was not disposed to be unduly obstinate and to insist on refusing these honors, but I feel that I owe you, above everything else, my true feelings. Since the beginning of the last summer our tributary states have been taken, our fleets destroyed, and we have been forced into hostilities causing great despair. How could I have the heart to delight my senses? Therefore, I decree that the public ceremonies and all preparations be abandoned forthwith.

  I sent my draft directly to the printer without going through a grand councilor. I was afraid that my words would be violated, just as had my wish to cancel my birthday banquets.

  ***

  I would have also liked to share with the nation my regret that our neglect of Li's advice had only stiffened the penalties China had to pay. I could not begin to express my anger that Li Hung-chang, at the age of seventy-two, returned home from Japan only to be called a traitor. People in the streets spat at his palanquin as it passed.

  As a way to show support for Li, I persuaded the court to send him to St. Petersburg not long after the coronation of Tsar Nicholas II.

  Li requested that an empty coffin accompany him on the trip—he wanted to be prepared. He asked me to inscribe his name on the lid, which I did.

  As a result of Li Hung-chang's visit, a secret agreement between Russia and China was negotiated and then signed. Each country agreed to defend the other against aggression from Japan. The price we paid was to accept a clause allowing Russia to extend its Trans-Siberian Railway across Manchuria to Vladivostok. We would also allow the Russians to use the railway to transport troops and war materiel through Chinese territory.

  It was the best Li Hung-chang could achieve under the circumstances. He and I had a gut feeling that Russia could not be trusted. As it turned out, once we gave the Russians the right to harbor their fleet in our ice-free Port Arthur, they refused to leave, even after Japan was expelled.

  Around this time, as Guang-hsu and I were working out the practicalities of a land-leasing program to generate payments for our foreign loans, his wife, my niece Lan, arrived unexpectedly.

  The moment Guang-hsu saw Lan entering, he excused himself and left the room.

  Lan was dressed in a robe embroidered with patterns of roses. Matching ornaments of tiny roses made of ribbon were in her hair. The high collar of her robe forced her chin up and out, making her discomfort palpable. It seemed that she had quit caking her cheeks with white powder; her heartache was visible in her expression. The corners of her mouth drew downward. Tears fell before she could speak.

  Witnessing their troubled marriage was worse than living with the deaths of my husband and son. The deaths of Hsien Feng and Tung Chih cured nothing, but they set the stage for healing. Memory was selective and altered itself over time. I no longer remembered the hard feelings. In my dreams my son loved me, and Hsien Feng was always adoring.

  With Guang-hsu and Lan, misery was like mold growing in a wet season: it started in the corner of an eave and slowly took over the entire palace.

  "I came from the bedside of my mother-in-law." Lan was speaking, of course, about my sister. "Rong is doing poorly."

  My sister had been bedridden and had refused my visits. Rong had insisted that I was the cause of her illness, so I had sent Lan in my place.

  "I know you are not here to talk about my sister," I said to Lan. "All I can tell you is that Guang-hsu is under great pressure."

  Lan shook her head, setting the ornaments in her hair fluttering. "He needs to spend time with me."

  "I can't force him, Lan."

  "Yes, you can, Aunt, if you truly care about me."

  I felt guilty and promised her that I would try again. I moved Lan and her household to a compound right behind Guang-hsu's, using the termite problem as a pretext. My thinking was that the couple could visit each other through a connected archway door. But the very next day, Guang-hsu blocked the passage with furniture. When Lan had the furniture removed, Guang-hsu issued an order for the doorway to be permanently sealed with bricks.

  In the meantime, I could see that Guang-hsu was falling in love with his Pearl Concubine, who had just turned nineteen and was a stunning beauty. Her curiosity and intelligence reminded me of my own youth. I was fond of her because she inspired Guang-hsu to live up to the nation's expectations.

  I felt sorry for Lan when she tried to compete with Pearl. Lan carried too much of my brother's blood. She had ambition but not the will to realize it. When she threatened to commit suicide, Guang-hsu only became more disgusted with her.

  I called Kuei Hsiang for help, but he said, "You are the matchmaker, sister Orchid. You have to fix it."

  I arranged a tea party for just the three of us. When Lan insisted that Guang-hsu taste the peach cake she had made for him, he became fretful and got up to leave. I touched his elbow and said, "Let's take a walk in the garden." I fell in behind them, hoping that they would start a conversation. But Guang-hsu kept his distance, as if his wife carried a disease. Lan held on to her pride and kept silent.

  ***

  "You have to make a choice, Lan," I said after Guang-hsu had left to attend a court function. "You were aware that things might not go as you wished. I did warn you."

  "Yes, you did." My niece wiped her face with a handkerchief. "I believed that my love would change him."

  "Well, he hasn't changed. You must accept that."

  "What am I going to do?"

  "Get busy with your duties as Empress. Conduct ceremonies and pay homage to the ancestors. You can also do what I do: learn about the world and try to be helpful."

  "Will that lead me to the affection of Guang-hsu?"

  "I don't know," I replied. "But you should never deprive yourself of the possibility."

  Lan began her apprenticeship with me. First, I assigned her to read a recent report on the death of Queen Min of Korea.

  "'Led by informers, the Japanese agents forced their way into the palace of the Queen.'" Lan gasped, covering her mouth with her handkerchief.

  "Keep going, Lan," I instructed.

  "'After ... after murdering two of her ladies in waiting, they cornered Queen Min. The minister of the royal household came to her rescue, but the intruders lopped off both his hands with a sword...'" Lan was horrified. "What ... what about her bodyguards? Where were they?"

  "They must have been killed or trapped or bought off," I replied. "Go on and finish, Lan."

  "'Queen Min was stabbed repeatedly and was carried outside...'" Lan went on reading, but her voice was no longer audible. She turned toward me with her head leaning to one side, like a puppet
with a broken string.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "The Japanese set a pile of firewood doused with kerosene outside her courtyard."

  "And then?"

  "They threw her on top of it and lit the torch." Lan's lips trembled.

  I took the report back from her and placed it on my desk.

  Lan sat silently, as if frozen. After a while she rose and walked out like a ghost.

  Lan never again threatened suicide, although she continued to complain about her husband. She believed that she didn't have to learn the court's business, but that did not stop her fantasies of being worshiped by the nation. She never shared the bed of the Emperor or made friends with Pearl. She pursued longevity, cosseted herself and spent time with Pearl's sister, Lustrous Concubine, who was the opposite of Pearl. Lustrous had little interest in much of anything. She loved food and could sit around daintily nibbling all day.

  On June 18, 1896, Rong died. It was after she accused her doctors of poisoning her. Her mental illness became known to the court, so my decision of years before to bar her from visiting Guang-hsu was now understood. The unfortunate thing was that the Emperor was now considered the son of an insane woman, and the Clan Council used this excuse to start thinking about his replacement.

  I was sick of the infighting among the Manchu princes, the brothers and cousins who seemed to share nothing but greed and hatred. When I tried to explain the great affection between Emperor Hsien Feng and Prince Kung, the young Ironhats grew bored. In splendid court robes this generation of royal Manchus fought like a pack of wolves over residences, sinecures and annual stipends.

  I lost my temper at a family gathering during my sister's funeral. It had to do with the fact that I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to Rong—her revenge. And the grousing among Prince Ch'un Junior and his Ironhat gang over their inheritances hit my nerves and I exploded.

  "Your mother's death means that you will no longer be shielded." I spoke in a cold voice. "The next time you offend the throne, I will not hesitate to order your removal, and if you defy me, your execution."

  Ch'un knew that I meant what I said—after all, I had executed Su Shun, the former grand councilor, and his powerful gang.

  My harsh words put a stop to the bickering, and I was left alone.

  Laying my cheek against Rong's coffin, I remembered the two walnuts she placed in my palm the day I departed home for the Forbidden City. I regretted that I hadn't tried harder to care for her. She had succumbed to her illness, but there had been moments of lucidity and affection. I wondered if she knew of the marital troubles of Guang-hsu and Lan. I would never know her feelings. How I missed talking with her when we were girls! I wished I could talk to Kuei Hsiang, commiserate together, but he was not interested. To my brother, Rong's death was a relief.

  Lan and Guang-hsu looked like a harmonious couple at Rong's funeral. After bowing toward the coffin together, they tossed golden grain toward the sky. It made me think that I should not give up hope.

  Throughout our recent troubles, Yung Lu had continued working alongside Li Hung-chang, strengthening the army. During this time we seldom met; he was determined not to breathe life into any rumors about us that might compromise his efforts on the throne's behalf. I had to be satisfied with reports of his whereabouts from Li.

  But one morning Yung Lu came to me to request permission to leave his current position as commander in chief of the army to head up the nation's navy. I granted his wish, knowing that he must have thought through the decision, but I warned him that many would regard his transfer as a demotion.

  "I never live by others' principles" was his response.

  "The navy has been having great difficulty since Li Hung-chang's departure abroad," I reminded him.

  "That's exactly why I want the job."

  "Li had said to me, 'It takes a man of Yung Lu's stature to influence the navy.' Did he suggest your move?"

  "Yes, he did."

  I tried not to think that Yung Lu's new duties would take him even more often away from Peking.

  "Who will be your replacement?" I asked.

  "Yuan Shih-kai. He will report to me directly." I was well aware of Yuan's qualifications, of course. As a young general he had fought the Japanese and succeeded in keeping peace in Korea for ten years.

  "Then you will be working two jobs."

  "Yes, I will." He smiled. "So are you."

  "I won't feel safe with you gone."

  "I'll be in Tientsin."

  "That's hundreds of miles away."

  "Compared to Sinkiang, it is no distance."

  We sat quietly sipping tea. I looked at him, his eyes, nose, mouth and hands.

  27

  Guang-hsu asked me to move with him to Ying-t'ai, the Ocean Terrace Pavilion, which stood on an island in the South Sea lake next to the Summer Palace. The seclusion, he said, would help him concentrate.

  Ying-t'ai was a paradise that had long been unoccupied. Its elegant buildings, which were in need of repair, were linked to the mainland by a narrow causeway and a drawbridge. The pavilion had marble terraces dropping straight into the water, with canals spanned by pretty bridges between them.

  In the summer the surrounding lakes were covered by flotillas of green lotus. By August large pink flowers would shoot up from the green mats. The views were astonishing. When the restoration work started, I was asked to rename the living quarters. I chose the names Hall of Cultivating Elegance, Chamber of Quiet Rest, Study of Reflection on Remote Matters and Chamber of Singleness of Heart.

  I was beginning to realize that there could be dignity without friends. I found myself becoming more attracted to Buddhism. Its promise of peace was appealing, and it did not discriminate against women, as did Confucianism. The Buddhist pantheon included women, prominent among them the goddess of mercy, Kuan-yin, with whom I felt a special affinity. The truth was that I had nowhere else to turn.

  I believed in mercy, but I was losing faith in the people around me. For example, I had thought that my fairness toward house eunuchs would assure their honesty and gain their loyalty, but with a piercing look straight in the eyes I would catch a liar.

  I had asked my eunuch Chow Tee to send a honey-nut cake to Li Lien-ying, who was away on vacation for the first time in twenty-nine years. When Chow Tee reported Li Lien-ying's thanks to me, I asked, "Did you deliver the cake yourself?"

  "I did, of course. I ran, so Chief Li could have the cake while it was still hot."

  "It's raining outside, isn't it?" I asked.

  "Yes."

  "How is it that your clothes are completely dry?"

  In the end, the liar suffered ten strokes of a bamboo stick.

  Trying to calm myself, I looked at the blooming camellia outside my window. The trees were loaded with fat buds. It was hard to believe that Li Lien-ying had turned fifty. He was thirteen when An-te-hai first brought him to me.

  I was now sixty-one and had become suspicious of others and increasingly questioned my own judgment. I repeatedly warned that I would tolerate no liars, but lying had always been a part of the life of the Forbidden City. Since our war with Japan, I had never received a single report of a military loss. The only news the court sent was of victory, for which I foolishly awarded promotions and bonuses.

  On impulse, I would pick a moment to test my eunuchs and ladies in waiting. I felt sick at heart, yet I couldn't act differently. I had to be unpredictable and domineering. I made it a rule to be swift with the rod. This had become my way to survive mentally.

  I tried to let go of small matters. For example, I did not pursue his punishment when Li Lien-ying poked a hole ("to let out the air") in all of my champagne bottles—Li Hung-chang's gifts from France. The eunuch believed that the popping sound would harm me.

  Throughout 1896 I had worked daily with Emperor Guang-hsu and was pleased with his progress. He desperately tried to catch up on the court's business but faced tremendous obstacles, and getting things organized was our first ste
p. I rose early and walked the stone bridges to get my mind ready for the day. I watched the lotus from their early budding to their final blooming. I caught the first flower, which opened on a summer dawn.

  I felt at odds with the tranquility of the setting. As I watched my eunuchs plunging waist-deep in the mire to extract lotus roots for my breakfast, my mind struggled with whether or not I should press the Emperor to approve Li Hung-chang's recent proposal to secure additional loans. We were behind in our current payments, and the foreign banks were threatening. It was clear to us that the foreign powers were after our territories and were looking for any pretext to invade.

  When the stir-fried lotus roots were served, Guang-hsu had no appetite. I sat beside him but had no words to comfort him. By now I had learned that Guang-hsu most often craved to be left alone. I had been worrying about his health, but I dared not utter a question or even encourage him to pick up his chopsticks.

  After finishing my meal, I quickly rinsed my mouth and went into the office to prepare for the morning audiences. Guang-hsu would follow in a few minutes. I would wait for the eunuchs to finish dressing him and we would get into our palanquins.

  Withdrawing from audiences in the afternoon, Guang-hsu and I would continue to discuss the day's issues. Often we had to summon ministers and officials for detailed information. When Guang-hsu saw me begin to yawn, he would beg me to stop and relax. I would ask him for a cigarette, and he would light it for me. I would smoke and continue to work until dark.

  "China has given no offense, has done no wrong, does not wish to fight, and is willing to make sacrifices," Robert Hart's article read. "She is a big 'sick' man, convalescing slowly from the sickening effects of centuries, and is being jumped on when down by this agile, healthy, well-armed Jap—will no one pull him off?"

  Guang-hsu and I hoped that Hart's remarks would help China gain sympathy and support from the rest of the world. Unfortunately, things went in the opposite direction. Our defeat by Japan only encouraged the Western powers to take further advantage of us. "The worm has reduced the stout fabric of China to handfuls of dust"—the remnants were there for anybody to take.