by Anchee Min
The child yanked his arm out of Su Shun’s grip and set himself free. “Papa! Papa!”
Emperor Hsien Feng’s eyes blinked. Slowly, his lips moved. “Tung Chih, my son …”
The court quieted and drew its breath. The Imperial secretary picked up his brush pen.
“Come to me, Tung Chih!” The dying man’s arms reached out from under the coverlet.
“Your Majesty.” I stepped up, taking the chance that I might be punished. “Would you let the court know your successor?”
It was too late for Su Shun to order my removal. Hsien Feng appeared to have heard me. He tried to speak, but there was no voice. After he struggled for a while, his arms dropped. His eyeballs rolled back into his skull, and he began to gasp for air.
“Your Majesty!” I fell to my knees by his side. My hands gripped his yellow satin sheet. “Pity your son, please!”
The Emperor’s mouth opened.
“Papa! Papa! Please wake up!”
I stopped Tung Chih from shaking his father.
Hsien Feng opened his eyes again. Suddenly, he pushed himself and sat up. A second later he crashed back into his pillows and his eyes shut.
“Leave your son with no words, Hsien Feng!” Thinking this was the end, I felt that all my hopes had died. I no longer cared what I said. “Here is your heavenly damned son. Just leave him! Go your way and see us destroyed! I’ll take it as my fate if this is what you want. Tung Chih deserves you. You are an unmerciful father.”
Weeping, Tung Chih buried his face in his father’s chest.
“Tung Chih.” Hsien Feng opened his eyes again. His voice, though weak, was clear. “My son … let me … look at you. How are you? What can I get you?”
“Your Majesty,” I said, “will Tung Chih succeed you to the throne?”
Hsien Feng smiled affectionately. “Yes, of course, Tung Chih will succeed me to the throne.”
“Have you the title for his reign?”
“Ch’i Hsiang,” His Majesty said with the last thread of his breath.
“Well-Omened Happiness,” the Imperial secretary said as he wrote the words down.
Many have said that my initiative at that moment embodied an important principle: for a woman in the Manchu court, survival required audacity. They were right.
Soon after Doctor Sun Pao-tien pronounced His Majesty’s death, Nuharoo and I retreated from the hall. We went to the dressing room and removed our makeup. I was so shaky that my hands wouldn’t hold the washcloth. I wept when recalling Hsien Feng’s final words. The effort he made to deliver them showed that love must have been in his heart.
When Nuharoo and I returned we were dressed in coarse white sackcloth and our hair was wrapped in strips of white cloth. Our changed appearance signaled to all that our nation had entered the first stage of mourning for its Emperor.
Su Shun immediately requested a meeting with Nuharoo and me. It was no use when we said that we preferred to wait until our agitation had subsided. Su Shun insisted that he had to fulfill a promise he had made to our husband.
In the dressing room I had discussed with Nuharoo how we should deal with Su Shun. She had been distraught and told me that she could not think at this point. I knew Su Shun was ready. He would take advantage of the coming confusion to assert control over the court. We were in danger of being swept aside.
When he walked up to me, I spoke plainly and suggested that before anything else we open His Majesty’s will box.
Accustomed only to compliance from women, Su Shun was at a loss for words.
The court agreed with me.
It was close to midnight when the box was opened. Grand Secretary Kuei Liang read the will. It was as confusing as His Majesty’s manner of living. Besides naming Tung Chih as the new Emperor, he had estab-lished a Board of Regents, to be led by Su Shun, to administer the government until Tung Chih came of age. As if lacking confidence in his own decision, or intending to curb the regents’ power, or merely to set up the board as an orthodox regency, Emperor Hsien Feng entrusted Nuharoo and me with a pair of important seals: tungtiao, “a partnership,” and yushang, “Imperial will reflected.” We were given the power to validate Su Shun’s edicts drafted in Tung Chih’s voice. Nuharoo was to stamp the tungtiao seal at the beginning and I the yushang at the end.
Su Shun’s frustration was apparent. With Hsien Feng’s seals in our hands a chain had been put around his neck. Later Su Shun would do everything to ignore the restraint.
What I didn’t expect was that Hsien Feng had excluded all of his brothers, including Prince Kung, from power. This violated historical precedent and horrified the scholars and clansmen. They sat in the corner of the hall, visibly upset as they listened to the will.
I suspected that this was the work of Su Shun. According to Chow Tee, Su Shun had mentioned to His Majesty that Prince Kung was wasting his time dealing with foreigners. Evidently, Su Shun convinced His Majesty that Kung had sold his soul to the barbarians. The evidence offered was that the prince had employed foreigners to train his own personnel in all areas of the Chinese government, including the military and finance. Su Shun showed His Majesty Prince Kung’s reform plan, which was intended to move China’s political system toward Western models of governing.
On the evening of August 22, 1861, Jehol was soaked in mist. The branches outside the Hall of Fantastic Haze beat against the window panels, making disturbing noises.
Tung Chih had fallen asleep in my arms. He didn’t wake up when Doctor Sun Pao-tien removed him so Nuharoo and I could wash our husband’s face with wet silk towels. We touched Hsien Feng gently. He looked relieved in death.
“It is time to dress His Majesty,” Chief Eunuch Shim said. “Better to do it now, before His Majesty’s body hardens.”
The eunuchs came with the eternal robe and we bowed to our husband and then retreated.
An-te-hai carried the sleeping Tung Chih as we walked out of the Hall of Fantastic Haze.
I wept, thinking how terrible it was that Hsien Feng had died at such a young age.
Nuharoo interrupted my thoughts. “You shouldn’t have intruded. You made a fool of me in front of His Majesty.”
“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to,” I said.
“You embarrassed me by not trusting that I would take care of the matter.”
“Tung Chih needed to hear his father’s words, and there was no time.”
“If anyone should speak for Tung Chih, it should be me. Your action was at the very least thoughtless, Lady Yehonala!”
I was irritated but chose not to say anything. I knew I would need Nuharoo to win the war against Su Shun.
I held my son when I went to bed. It must have been hard for Su Shun to live with the fact that I was not only exempt from being buried alive but also granted the power to bar him from his ambition.
I was exhausted but couldn’t relax. My sorrow for Hsien Feng had begun to wash over me. Concern for the safety of my son cut through my melancholy. I recalled Yung Lu’s unannounced rescue. Had he been watching over Tung Chih and me? I must not forget that Su Shun was his superior. Was Yung Lu a part of Su Shun’s conspiracy?
Lying in bed, I went over the list of regents one by one. The men’s faces were clear in my mind. Aside from Su Shun, they were scholars who had earned the highest academic degrees and ministers who had served long in the court, including Tuan Hua, Su Shun’s half-brother, and Prince Yee, a bully who was a first cousin of Emperor Hsien Feng and also the Imperial commissioner. If I knew little of their accomplishments, I knew enough to realize that they were as power-hungry and dangerous as Su Shun.
I examined Prince Yee’s record particularly. He was the only relative to whom Hsien Feng had entrusted power. Su Shun must have whispered into the Emperor’s ear, but why? Prince Yee’s Imperial blood, I thought. Su Shun needed Yee to mask his evil intentions.
The next day, the regents, whom Nuharoo called the “Gang of Eight,” visited the two of us. It was plain that Su Shun held the keys to
the gang’s thinking. At the reception, business was avoided. It seemed that Tung Chih’s schooling and care were enough responsibility for us. The gang proposed to lift our burden by sparing us from the court’s affairs, to which Nuharoo foolishly expressed appreciation.
Su Shun was the last to arrive. He said that he had been extremely busy with events on the frontier. I asked if he had heard anything from Prince Kung. He replied in the negative. He was lying. An-te-hai had re-ported that Prince Kung had sent four urgent documents for approval, none of which received attention.
I confronted Su Shun regarding the documents. He first denied having ever received them. Upon my suggestion that we summon Prince Kung, he admitted that the documents had been misplaced somewhere in his office. He asked me not to bother with matters I had nothing to do with. He emphasized that my interest in the court’s business was “an act of disrespect to the deceased Emperor.”
I reminded Su Shun that no edicts would be valid without the two seals Nuharoo and I possessed. Whether Prince Kung’s requests were granted, denied or held, Nuharoo and I must be informed. I hinted to Su Shun that I was aware of what he had been doing: promoting and demoting provincial governors on his own.
As the days passed, the tension between Su Shun and me grew so intense that we had to avoid each other. I understood only too clearly that this was no way to run the nation. Su Shun had created and spread every rumor he could to paint an evil portrait of me. To isolate me, he tried to win over Nuharoo, and I could see it working. I was frustrated, because I couldn’t convince Nuharoo of Su Shun’s intentions.
Around this time, I noticed that I had been shedding hair. One day An-te-hai picked up some from the floor after the hairdresser had gone, and I became alarmed. Was this a symptom of some disease?
I hadn’t trimmed my hair since entering the Forbidden City, and it was knee-length now. Every morning the hairdresser came, and no matter how hard he brushed, my hair had never fallen out. Now his brush filled with bunches of it, as if he were carding wool. I never considered myself vain, but if this continued, I told myself, I would be bald before long.
An-te-hai suggested that I change hairdressers, and he recommended a talented young eunuch he’d heard about, Li Lien-ying. Li’s original name was Fourteen—his parents had so many children, they gave up on more traditional names. The name Li Lien-ying, meaning “a fine lotus leaf,” was given to him by a Buddhist after he was castrated. Buddhists believed that the lotus leaf was the seat of Kuan Ying, the goddess of mercy, who was originally a man but took the form of a woman. Kuan Ying was a favorite of mine, so I was inclined to like Li Lien-ying from the start.
I ended up keeping him. Like An-te-hai, Li was cheerful and kept his misery to himself. Unlike An-te-hai, he was scrawny and not hand-some. He had a squash-shaped face, bumpy skin, goldfish eyes, a flat nose and sloped mouth. At first I couldn’t tell whether he was smiling or frowning. Despite his unlovely appearance, his sweetness won my heart.
An-te-hai loved to watch Li Lien-ying do my hair. Li knew an incredible number of styles: the goose tail, the tipping bird, the wheeling snake, the climbing vine. When he brushed, his hands were at once firm and gentle. Amazingly enough, I never found hair on the floor after he was through. He had worked wonders. I told An-te-hai I would take him on as an apprentice. An-te-hai taught him proper manners, and Li Lien-ying proved to be a fast learner.
Many years later, Li confessed that he had fooled me. “I hid Your Majesty’s lost hair inside my sleeves,” he said. He did not feel guilty, though; it was for my own good that he’d been deceitful. He thought that my hair loss was due to the stresses of my life and believed that I would heal in time. He was right. He was too young then to understand the risk he took in lying to me. “You could have been beheaded if I found out,” I said. He nodded and smiled. As it turned out, Li Lien-ying became my lifelong favorite after An-te-hai, and he served me for forty-some years.
Twenty
A MESSAGE CAME from Prince Kung asking for permission to be in Jehol for the mourning ceremony. According to tradition, Prince Kung had to make an official request and the throne had to approve it. Although Kung was Tung Chih’s uncle, he was by rank a subordinate. The boy had become Emperor, and Prince Kung was his minister. To my astonishment, Prince Kung’s request was denied.
Household law forbade Hsien Feng’s widows to meet any male relative during the mourning period. Obviously Su Shun was behind this. He must have feared that his own power would be threatened.
Nuharoo and I were practically imprisoned in our quarters. I was not even allowed to take Tung Chih to visit the hot spring. Whenever I did step out, Chief Eunuch Shim followed. I felt that Prince Kung needed to know how things were going.
But Prince Kung simply withdrew his request. He had no choice but to do so. If he insisted on coming, Su Shun had the right to punish him for disobeying the Emperor’s will.
Nevertheless, I was disappointed that Prince Kung gave in so easily. I wouldn’t know until later that he sought another path. Like me, he viewed Su Shun as a danger. His feelings were shared and supported by many—clansmen, Imperial loyalists, reformers, scholars and students—who would rather see power in the hands of the liberal-minded Prince Kung than Su Shun.
• • •
Tung Chih expressed little interest when I told him stories of his ancestors. He couldn’t wait to finish a lesson so that he could be with Nuharoo, which made me jealous. I was becoming a tougher mother after his father’s death. Tung Chih couldn’t read a map of China, couldn’t even remember the names of most provinces. He was already a ruler, but his biggest interests were eating sugar-coated berries and fooling around. He had no idea what the real world was like and didn’t care to learn. Why should he when he was constantly made to feel that he was on top of the universe?
To the public, I promoted my five-year-old son as a genius who would lead the nation out of troubled waters. I had to do so in order to survive. The more people trusted the Emperor, the more stable the society. Hope was our currency. Behind closed doors, however, I pushed Tung Chih to live up to his role. He needed to rule on his own as soon as possible because Su Shun’s power would only continue to grow.
I tried to teach him how to conduct an audience, how to listen, what kinds of questions to ask, and most important, how to make decisions based on collective opinions, criticisms and ideas.
“You must learn from your advisors and ministers,” I warned, “because you are not—”
“Who I think I am.” Tung Chih cut at me. “In your eyes, I’m as good as a wet fart.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or slap his face. I did neither.
“Why do you never say ‘Yes, Your Majesty’ like everyone else?” my son asked.
I noticed that he had stopped calling me Mother. When he had to address me, he called me Huang-ah-pa, a formal name meaning “Imperial Mother.” But he called Nuharoo Mother, in a voice that was full of warmth and affection.
If Tung Chih had accepted my rules, I would have swallowed the insult, because all I desired was for him to be a fit ruler. He could interpret my intentions any way he wanted. My feelings would not be hurt even if he hated me at the beginning. I believed that he would thank me in the future.
But I underestimated the power of the environment. It was as if he were a piece of clay that had been molded and baked before I could touch it. Tung Chih scored poorly on his exams, and he had trouble concentrating. When his tutor shut him inside the library, he sent his eunuchs to Nuharoo, who came to his rescue. The tutor was punished instead of the student. When I protested, Nuharoo reminded me of my lower status.
An-te-hai was the one who pointed out that what was going on had nothing to do with being a parent. “You are dealing with the Emperor of China, not your child, my lady,” he said. “It is the entire culture of the Forbidden City that you are up against.”
I hated the idea of tricking my son. But when honesty failed, what choice did I have left?
&n
bsp; When Tung Chih brought me his unfinished homework, I no longer criticized him. In an even voice I told him that as long as he felt that he had done his best, it would be fine with me. He was relieved and felt less compelled to lie. Gradually Tung Chih became willing to spend time with me. I played “audience,” “court room” and “battles” with him. Carefully, quietly, I tried to influence him. The moment he detected my true motives, he ran away.
“There are people who try to make the Son of Heaven a fool,” Tung Chih once said in the middle of a game.
Nuharoo and the master tutor Chih Ming wanted Tung Chih to learn the exclusive “Emperor’s language.” They also designed the lessons so that Tung Chih would focus on Chinese rhetoric and ancient Tang poetry and Sung verses, “so he can speak elegantly.” When I opposed the idea and wanted to add science, math and basic military strategy, they were upset.
“It is considered prestigious to own a language,” Master Chih Ming explained with passion. “Only an emperor can afford it, and that is the point.”
“Why do you want to deprive our child?” Nuharoo asked me. “Hasn’t Tung Chih, as the Son of Heaven, been deprived enough?”
“It is a waste of time to learn a language that he can’t use to communicate,” I argued. “Tung Chih must be presented immediately with the truth about China! I am not concerned about how well he dresses, eats or says Zhen instead of I.” I suggested that Prince Kung’s letters and the drafts of treaties be Tung Chih’s texts. “The foreign troops will not leave China on their own accord. Tung Chih has to drive them out.”
“It is a terrible idea to do that to a child.” Nuharoo shook her head, making all the ornamental bells on her hair ring. “Tung Chih will be so frightened that he will never want to rule.”
“That’s why we are here to support him,” I said. “We work with him, so that he will learn the art of war by fighting the war.”
Nuharoo gave me a hard stare. “Yehonala, you are not asking me to disobey the rules and to ignore our ancestors’ teachings, are you?”