The Last Empress

by Anchee Min

  Together, student and teacher read: "'I hope you have the mercy to make use of them. As for myself, Your Majesty, I have been given trust and friendship by your father. To devote my life to his son, until the day I die, would be my pleasure and happiness."

  It started to happen in my sleep. I could hear the cracking of my thought-jammed skull. I could feel it while dressing or when I sat down to eat. Having "dead thoughts," or being "sick of having the same thoughts," was how I expressed the feeling. It was getting to me. The doctors said that it had to do with approaching old age.

  When I was younger, I was used to my dark thoughts. They came and went like companions. I wasn't afraid of them. Often I let myself sink deep into the ocean bed of my mind and explore the murky terrain. Nuharoo said that she had the same experiences and the same sinking feelings. It was why she had turned to Buddhism. It was to save her from falling.

  I called myself a Buddhist and even claimed to be able to see the Buddha beyond the wooden statue. In truth, however, I could not. "It doesn't cost much to offer food and animals to every altar in the palace," An-te-hai used to advise. "My lady, worshiping many gods will ensure an abundance of luck."

  "Insincerity will be your true misfortune," Nuharoo predicted. "Lady Yehonala, you will never find peace of mind."

  I didn't doubt that she was right, so I tried to help myself. Yet often it wasn't Buddha's voice but An-te-hai's that I would hear. "It is the dealing of the inner life cycle, my lady. It is death and birth. You are alive if you are aware of your dealings. But if you feel that you have given up, that is the beginning of the end."

  I had always been afraid of spiritual death, so I sought meaning in everyday existence. Tung Chih, Yung Lu and An-te-hai were my elements. Fighting hopelessness had been my existence. I found myself achieving balance and harmony along the way, though I never questioned how I achieved it or whether I was only fooling myself.

  I hadn't opened any doors since becoming an empress. In a dream I opened a door. I was surprised to see that red and pink flowers covered my entire courtyard. A heavy rain had fallen. The flowers were whipped down, but they still appeared full of vitality. Their wet heads drank the water from puddles. One by one the flowers began to rise like court officials. Their fragrance was strong, a mixture of gardenias and rotten vegetables.

  Li Lien-ying brought in a dream interpreter, who asked what else I had seen in my dream. I told him that I had seen windows.

  "What is inside the windows?" the interpreter asked.

  "Red- and pink-faced women," I replied. "They squeezed into the windows like a bunch of poison poppies competing for sunshine. Every one of them had an extraordinarily long and thin neck."

  The interpreter's hand moved quickly in the air as if taking notes on an invisible pad.

  "Whose window was it?" The interpreter closed his eyes.

  "I don't remember."

  "I am getting to the bottom of it. I am ready to unlock the meaning of your dream, but you must provide that last detail. Let me ask you again: whose window was it?"

  "It is my husband's window, I think."

  "Where is it located?"

  "At the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing."

  "That's it! And then you summoned a fruit picker."

  Shocked, I said that he was right.

  "And with that fruit picker you took down the poppy heads one by one."

  "Yes, I did."

  "You then gathered those poppy heads in a basket, put them in a grinder and made soup."

  I admitted that it all happened as he described.

  "The problem is the soup. You should not have drunk it."

  "But it was only a dream."

  "It interprets truth."

  "What truth?"

  The man paused.

  Quickly Li Lien-ying placed a bag of taels in his hand. The interpreter resumed, asking whether it was safe to utter what he knew.

  Li Lien-ying assured him. The man drew in a breath and said, exhaling, "My lady, you have been poisoned by your own sickness."

  I asked what kind of sickness. The man was reluctant to answer, but said that it contained elements of jealousy, resentment and secret yearnings for intimacy.

  It was then that I asked him to stop.

  "What would you advise?" Li Lien-ying said, grabbing the man's sleeve.

  The interpreter said that he knew of no effective treatment. "We'll try anything," Li Lien-ying begged.

  "Wait until autumn is deep. Leave Her Majesty's door open from evening until dawn. The purpose is to invite crickets in. The crickets will do the labor of suffering for her—they will sing themselves to death."

  "How many crickets should I invite?" Li Lien-ying asked.

  "As many as you can. There is a trick to luring them. You must place fresh grass and shelled soybeans in the room. Also lay wet bricks in each corner. The crickets will come to eat and then look for mating partners. They will sing throughout the night. Consider your treatment a success if you find dead crickets under your bed the following morning."

  By the time I got used to the singing of crickets and waking up to find their dead bodies in my shoes, my dreams began to change. They became less frightening, more about my being tired and trying to escape.

  I was again able to appreciate the beauty of the turning seasons. Walking along the garden paths had never meant so much to me. I would watch a worm-damaged plant swing in the wind and marvel at its way of surviving. I would feel the force of life and experience rapture at the simple sight of insects sucking nectar from flower hearts. I would find myself breathing freely, and I would feel the spirit of Tung Chih and An-te-hai.

  I still missed Yung Lu terribly, but had the strength to bear it.

  17

  I had been sitting in front of the mirror since three in the morning. I opened my eyes and saw that the wide board that held my hair made my head look like a giant mushroom.

  "How do you like it, my lady?" Li Lien-ying asked.

  "It's fine. Let's finish as quickly as possible." I rose so that he could get me into the heavily layered court robe.

  I hardly paid attention to how I looked these days. My mind had been dealing with Russia to the north, British India to the west, French Indochina to the south, and Japan to the east.

  A number of countries and territories—including Korea, the Ryu-kyu Islands, Annam and Burma—that had sent representatives and tribute to us during Tung Chih's reign, sent them less frequently, and soon not at all. The fact that China was unable to claim back its privileges showed that our standing was diminishing. With every defection, our outer defenses were further weakened.

  I now wished that Tutor Weng would quit his pointless displays of sincerity and get on with preparing Guang-hsu for the business of rule. Lacking flexibility and cunning, Nuharoo and I were unable to adopt a line of conduct when problems threatened to overwhelm us. No one seemed to understand that our country had been heading downhill for centuries. China was like a diseased and dying person, only now the rot of the body had become visible.

  Like a hungry tiger, Japan had been hiding in the bushes, waiting for the moment to attack. In the past we underestimated the degree of its hunger. We had been too kind to our small and resource-poor neighbor from ancient times. Had I known that Japan's Meiji Emperor had stirred up his nation to swoop down and rob us, I would have encouraged the court to concentrate solely on defense.

  Ten years earlier, in 1868, while I was concentrating my energy on establishing elementary schools in the countryside, Japan's Emperor had set in motion a full-scale reform, transforming its feudal system into a powerful modern capitalistic society. China had no idea what it meant when Japan began pressing to expand in a bracelet extending from its main islands in the north to Formosa in the south. Formosa, which the Mandarins called Taiwan, had been an island state paying tribute to the Chinese throne for centuries. In 1871, when some sailors from the Ryukyu Islands were murdered there by what most likely were local bandits, the Japanese seized
on the incident as an excuse to interfere.

  The Imperial bureaucracy and our own naiveté led us to fall for Japan's conspiracy. At first we tried to clarify that we were not to blame. Our Board of Foreign Affairs offered a carelessly worded response to Japan's demand for reparations: "We cannot be responsible for the actions of savages beyond the pale of civilization." This was interpreted by the Japanese as an invitation to take over the island state.

  Without warning, the Japanese army invaded, claiming revenge on behalf of the people of the Ryukyu Islands.

  It was too late when our provincial governor there realized that he had not only let the Japanese supplant us in the Ryukyus, but also relinquished our authority over the 250-mile-long, vitally important island of Taiwan.

  After days of discussion and delay, our court concluded that China could not take on the new military power of Japan. We ended up paying 500,000 taels to Japan as an indemnity, only to receive more bad news six years later, when Japan "accepted" the Ryukyu Islands' official "surrender."

  The British were also determined to extract all they could from any incident. In 1875 a British interpreter, A. R. Margary, was murdered in our southwestern Yunnan province. Margary was accompanying an expedition to reconnoiter trade routes from Burma into the mountains of Yunnan, Kweichow and Szechuan, provinces rich in minerals and ore. The foreigners paid no attention to warning signs of danger from Moslem rebels. The interpreter was ambushed and killed by either bandits or the rebels.

  The British representative Sir Thomas Wade forced China's hand over a new treaty, to which I sent Li Hung-chang, then the viceroy of Chihli province, to negotiate. The Chefoo Convention was signed, by which several more ports were opened for trade with Western nations, including my hometown of Wuhu, on the Yangtze River.

  With his hair smoothly braided in the back, the fifty-five-year-old Li Hung-chang came to beg for forgiveness. He was in his black court robe, embroidered with the brown and red symbols of bravery and luck. Although thin-framed, Li's posture was erect and his expression solemn. He had a southerner's fair skin, and his small, single-lidded eyes glowed with intelligence. His nose looked long on his chiseled face, and his lips were hidden behind a neatly trimmed beard.

  "The British are trying to send another expedition from India through Burma, to delineate the Burmese-Chinese frontier," Li Hung-chang reported while on his knees.

  "Are you implying that Burma has been annexed by Britain?"

  "Precisely, Your Majesty."

  I believed that if I had the viceroy's devotion, I would have China's stability. Against the court's advice, I continued Li Hung-chang's appointment as China's most important provincial official. Li would hold the same post in Chihli for twenty-three years.

  I purposely ignored the fact that Li was overdue for rotation to another part of the empire. It was my intention to allow him to increase his wealth, connections and power. I was behind Li's reorganization and modernization of the northern military forces, under the name of the "New Army," which wags called the Li family army. I was fully aware that the field commanders were directly beholden to Li Hung-chang rather than to the throne.

  My trust of Li Hung-chang was based on my sense of him as a man of Confucian values. He trusted me because I had proven to him that I would never take his loyalty for granted. In my view, the only thing the throne could offer was the return of trust and loyalty. I believed that a rebel would be less likely to start an uprising if he was given a province to own. I not only gave Li free rein, but also made him want to serve me.

  It was a good business for both of us. Li's profits were one of China's major sources of tax revenue. By 1875 our government was completely dependent on Li Hung-chang. For example, while Li's soldiers supervised the shipment of salt to Peking, which allowed him to oversee the salt monopoly, I received revenue from him to keep China running.

  Li Hung-chang never asked the throne to fund his army. This didn't mean that he paid the soldiers from his own coffers. As a smart businessman, he used his own provincial treasury. I was sure that he spent a fortune bribing the Manchu princes who otherwise would have stood in his way. Li also provided so much employment for the nation that if he were to collapse, the country's economy would soon follow. Convinced that China should make widespread improvements, Li built weapons factories, shipyards, coal plants and railways. With my approval and support he also funded China's first postal and telegraph services, its first schools of technology and schools for foreign-language interpreters.

  I was unable to push through Li's proposal to establish China's first navy because most court members refused to adopt his sense of urgency. "Too costly" was the official excuse. Li Hung-chang was accused of scaring the nation in order to get his personal armed force funded by the government.

  Letters of complaint from conservatives, especially the Manchu Iron-hats, kept coming in. Nothing Li Hung-chang did could please them. The Ironhats grumbled that he was taking their share of the profits, and they threatened revenge. If Li Hung-chang had not cloaked all his deals in secrecy and had his loyalists planted everywhere, he could easily have been assassinated. Still, he was blackmailed for taking kickbacks from commercial contracts and bribes from foreign traders. The conservatives warned me that it was only a matter of time before Li would stage a coup and put himself on the throne.

  Li Hung-chang had his own way of fighting the court. He lived outside Peking and came to the capital only when seeking permission to expand his businesses. When he realized that he needed a political voice at court, he created partnerships with his powerful friends, Manchu and Han Chinese alike. Besides Prince Kung, Li had friendly governors in key provinces. His most important partnership was with the governor of Canton, Chang Chih-tung, who built China's largest modern iron foundry. Li made a deal with the Canton governor: instead of ordering the material for his railway from foreign companies, he got it from Canton. The two men were described as "the Northern Li and the Southern Chang."

  I received both men in private audiences. Both deserved the honor, but I also realized the importance of staying involved. There had been enough incidents when I had ended up being the last to know.

  Every governor was aware that my approval at the court carried weight, and winning me over had become a vital part of court politics. As a result, people wished to impress me, which led to flattery and dishonesty. Although outrageous lies would not pass my peasant's common sense, I couldn't avoid being fooled sometimes.

  "People change," I told my adopted son during an intermission at the court. "Manchu royal decadence is a perfect living example."

  Guang-hsu was learning fast. One day he asked why Li Hung-chang bought me gifts, like the cases of French champagne that had recently been delivered.

  "To secure his relationship with the throne," I replied. "He needs protection."

  "Are you pleased with the gifts?" Guang-hsu asked. "What about the English toothbrush and toothpaste he sent? Wouldn't you have preferred an antique Han vase or some other beautiful object? Most ladies would."

  "I am more pleased with the toothbrush and paste," I replied. "And I especially liked Li's handwritten how-to manual. Now I get to protect my teeth from falling out and can also contemplate how to prevent the country from its own decay."

  I insisted that Guang-hsu attend my private audiences with Li Hung-chang and Chang Chih-tung. My son learned that it was I who had picked Chang to be the governor of Canton after he had won first place in the civil service examination as a young man.

  Guang-hsu asked Chang, "Did you study as hard as I do?"

  The governor cleared his throat and looked to me for help.

  "If you want to know the truth, Guang-hsu," I said, smiling, "you see, he had to compete with millions of students to win, while you—"

  "While I won without sweat." Guang-hsu understood. "I can tell my tutor what grade I want and he'll give it to me."

  "Well, Your Majesty deserves the privilege." The governor bowed.

  "Y
ou know your good grades are not real," I couldn't help but respond to my son.

  "That's not totally correct, Mother," Guang-hsu argued. "I sweat differently. Other children can afford to play, because they don't have to bear the responsibility of a nation."

  "That's exactly right, Your Majesty." Both governors nodded and smiled.

  By the time Guang-hsu was nine, he demonstrated an admirable dedication to the role of Emperor. He even asked to be given less water to drink in the morning so that he wouldn't have to go to the chamber pot during an audience. He didn't want to miss anything.

  His education included Western studies. For the first time in palace history, two tutors in their twenties were hired. They were from Peking's foreign-language school and were here to help teach the throne English.

  I enjoyed listening to Guang-hsu practice his lessons. The young tutors tried to keep a straight face when he mispronounced words. Playfulness seemed to be the best encouragement. I remembered how Tung Chih's tutors took the fun out of learning by disciplining him too much. When Prince Kung had attempted to introduce Tung Chih to Western culture, one senior tutor had resigned in protest and another threatened suicide.

  My dream for Tung Chih was being realized through Guang-hsu. Tutor Weng was introducing him to the idea of the universe, and Li Hung-chang and Chang Chih-tung were offering him their knowledge of the world, gained through experience.

  Li Hung-chang also sent Guang-hsu Western books in translation, which Chang also relished, telling the young Emperor stories of his dealings with foreign merchants, diplomats, missionaries and sailors in Canton.

  I disagreed with Tutor Weng's emphasis on classic Chinese literature. The classics dwelled too much on fiction and fatalism. "Guang-hsu must learn the true makeup of his people," I insisted.