The Last Empress

by Anchee Min

  I put my hands on her shoulders.

  "No!" She shook me off. "Look at my teeth. They are crooked!"

  "You are beautiful, Lan." I gently stroked her arms. "You remember Nuharoo, don't you? Who was the prettier, she or I? Everyone agreed that she was, including myself, because that was the truth. I was no rival of Nuharoo. But Emperor Hsien Feng abandoned her for me."

  My niece raised her tearful eyes.

  "It's all in the effort," I encouraged her.

  "What does Guang-hsu see in Pearl?"

  "Her vibrancy, perhaps..."

  "No, it's her looks."

  "Lan, listen to me. Guang-hsu was raised with beauties in his backyard. To him they are nothing but walking ornaments. As you know, Tung Chih abandoned three thousand beauties from all over the country for brothel whores."

  "I don't know how to be vibrant!" Lan's tears streamed down her cheeks. "The more I think about it, the more nervous I become. I can't even get Guang-hsu to look at me."

  As we bid each other goodnight, I told Lan that there was still time if she wanted to cancel the marriage.

  "But I want to be the Empress of China," Lan said, her tone surprisingly determined.

  It was the first time I discovered her stubbornness.

  "I want to be like you," she added.

  On February 26, 1889, Guang-hsu's wedding was celebrated by the nation. The Emperor was not yet eighteen. Like Nuharoo, Lan entered from the center gate, the Gate of Celestial Tranquility. Lustrous and Pearl entered from the side, the same gate I had entered thirty-seven years before.

  A week later, on March 4, I retired from the regency. It was the second time I had done so. I was fifty-four years old. From then on I was officially called the Dowager Empress. I was happily able to return to the gardens of the Summer Palace, leaving the court's headaches to Guang-hsu and his father, Prince Ch'un.

  The Manchu hardliners feared Guang-hsu's commitment to reform, which he demonstrated in his very first decree: "I shall overturn the old order in the Middle Kingdom and sweep away reactionary forces who cannot bring themselves to acknowledge reality. And this means demotion, removal, exile and execution for the stone-minded."

  Although I offered no public support to Guang-hsu, my silence spoke for itself.

  Despising Emperor Guang-hsu and doubting my resolve to withdraw from power, one of the hardliners' representatives, a provincial judge, submitted a petition insisting that I continue the regency. What amazed me was the number of signatures he collected. People must have thought that I hadn't meant what I said. I learned that the judge had assumed that I was waiting for just such a proposal.

  Instead of rewarding the judge with a promotion, I canceled the court's plan to discuss the petition. I called it a waste of time and fired the provincial judge, making sure that it was a permanent dismissal. I explained to the nation, "The regency was never my choice to begin with."

  My intention was to let people know that bad ideas grow like weeds in the court.

  I marked my retirement by hosting a celebration during which I handed out awards to a great many people. I issued half a dozen edicts to thank everyone, living and dead, who had worked during the regency.

  Among the important personages I honored was the Englishman Robert Hart, for his devotion and achievement as the inspector general of China's customs service. The edict was issued despite strong objections from the court's ministers. I granted Hart a most prestigious title, the ancestral rank of First Class of the First Order for Three Generations. It meant that the honor was retroactive, bestowed on his ancestors rather than on his descendants. It might seem whimsical from a foreigner's point of view, but for a Chinese, nothing could be more honorable.

  I played mute and deaf when the Clan Council cried, "A foreign devil now outranks most of us and our ancestors!"

  I could not argue enough that Robert Hart represented the kind of revolutionary change China desperately needed. Yet the court collectively denied my request to meet with him in person. The minister of the Board of Etiquette threatened to resign as he laid out his records showing that in all of Chinese history a female of my status had never received a foreign male. Thirteen more years would pass before I finally got to meet with Robert Hart.

  I never expected that the restoration of my retirement home would become a scandal. It began with a gesture of piety. When I decided to settle in the Summer Palace—originally called Ch'ing I Yuan, Garden of Clear Rippling Waters—it was Prince Ch'un who insisted that it be restored. As chief minister, he spoke on behalf of the Emperor. Ch'un meant to provide me with a comfortable home, which I gratefully accepted.

  I did not want to embarrass Prince Ch'un by pointing out that he had resisted the same idea when it was proposed by Tung Chih after he mounted the throne back in 1873. At that time Ch'un claimed that there was a shortage of funds. How, I wondered, would he raise the funds now? I could only conclude that he wanted to keep me strolling in my gardens rather than meddling in state affairs.

  I remained passive because it was time for Prince Ch'un to step into my shoes. As the minister of the Board of Admiralty, he had been a roaring tiger, tearing apart Li Hung-chang's effort to modernize China. What surprised me was his unlikely collaborator, Tutor Weng. Weng was a liberal and a strong advocate for reform who had supported Li's initiatives. But when he became Prince Ch'un's new minister of revenue, he discovered that he didn't like sharing power with Li. Prince Ch'un and Tutor Weng had already sent numerous memorandums denouncing Li and my approval of Li's projects. Both men were convinced that they could do a better job if they were given total control.

  I had hinted to Li Hung-chang about what would be coming when I retired. It was frustrating to witness how Li was forced to endure humiliation, attacks on his character, even assassination attempts. The only thing I could do was show him how much I valued him. In a message delivered to Li by Yung Lu, his closest ally at court, I wrote, "If it becomes too much, you have my permission to take a leave of absence for any reason." I told him that I would grant any amount of compensation he might claim.

  Li Hung-chang assured me that would be unnecessary and that my understanding of his sacrifices was all he needed to carry on. "It is not at all a good time for experimenting or allowing the stubborn-minded Ironhats time for self-discovery," I wrote him, "but that is how things are for me here."

  I had lived with my husband in the Summer Palace. It was divided by lakes, called North Sea, South Sea and Middle Sea. Unlike Yuan Ming Yuan, which was a man-made wonder, the Summer Palace was designed to harmonize with nature's ways. The Garden of Clear Rippling Water, surrounding the palace itself, was only a small portion of the greater park area. Across its expanse, airy pavilions sat amid the lush green landscape, and the three large lakes glinted between shallow hills. My memories of the place were more than fond.

  It was Guang-hsu who finally convinced me to allow the restoration to take place. He personally read his statement to the court urging the start of construction. "It is the least China can bestow on its Grand Empress, who has suffered so much." I could see that Guang-hsu was attempting to assert his independence, and I felt that I needed to support him.

  When loyal ministers wrote to warn me of a "father-and-son plot" that intended to isolate me politically, I wrote on the back of their letters, "If there is a plot, it is one of my own design." I was more concerned about where the money would come from. The first priority of the admiralty and revenue boards was to establish China's navy, and I wanted that priority honored.

  In June, Guang-hsu published his decree regarding the restoration of my home: "...I then remembered that in the neighborhood of the Western Park there was a palace. Many of the buildings were in poor condition and required restoration to make them fit for Her Majesty the Grand Empress's use as a place of solace and delight." He conferred a new name on the Garden of Clear Rippling Waters: it would now be known as the Garden for the Cultivation of Harmonious Old Age.

  After demurring, I issue
d an official reply: "I am aware that the Emperor's desire to restore the palace in the west springs from his laudable concern for my welfare, and for that reason I cannot bear to meet his well-meaning petition with a blunt refusal. Moreover, the costs of the construction have all been provided for out of the surplus funds accumulated as a result of rigid economies in the past. The funds under the control of the Board of Revenue will not be touched, and no harm will be done to the national finances."

  My statement was meant to mollify those who opposed the plan, but I ended up falling into a trap. Soon I would be locked in two battles, an experience I would barely survive.

  The first battle would be started by Tutor Weng. When the scholar-reformer was given the highest power, he encouraged Guang-hsu's already great passion for reform. When he could have played a moderating role, Tutor Weng instead pushed him harder, setting the Emperor on a course that would ultimately prove disastrous both for our family and for China.

  The second battle would be my fight against taking the responsibility for China's lost war with Japan. Years later, when all of the men ran away from blame, I would be the one to bear the disgrace. What could I do? I had been fully awake, yet I did not escape the nightmare.

  "In the end," one future historian would write, "the Board of Revenue did remain inviolate, but important funds, estimated at thirty thousand taels, were defrauded from the Board of Admiralty for Grand Empress Tzu Hsi—the amount would have doubled the entire fleet, which would have enabled China to defeat its enemy."

  Unfortunately, I lived to read this criticism. It was when I was old and dying. I couldn't, didn't and wouldn't yell, "Go and take a look at my home!" The money I was charged with stealing would have built it three times with pure gold.

  24

  Our troubles with Japan over Korea had been going on for a decade. When Queen Min of Korea called for help, I sent Li Hung-chang. The Queen was under the threat of Japanese-backed mobs. I took the matter personally. I knew that I would seek the same help if such a thing should ever happen to me.

  It took two years for Li Hung-chang to work out an agreement with Japan's prime minister, Ito Hirobumi. Li convinced me that the agreement would prevent the escalation of the Korean situation into a full-scale Sino-Japanese military confrontation.

  I frantically did what I could to get Li's draft agreement approved. The Manchu Clan Council hated the very existence of Li Hung-chang and did their best to block his effort. Prince Ch'un and Prince Ts'eng said that my living in the Forbidden City for so long had warped my sense of reality, and that my trust in Li Hung-chang was misplaced. My instinct told me, however, that I would end up with Queen Min's own troubles if I relied on the Manchu royals instead of Li Hung-chang.

  As a result of my advocacy, the Li-Ito Convention was signed. China and Japan kept peace for a while. The Manchus stopped their campaign for Li Hung-chang's beheading.

  But in March of 1893 Li sought an emergency audience with me at the Summer Palace. I was up before dawn to greet him. Outside in the garden, the air was crisp and cold, but the camellias were blossoming. I served Li hot green tea, for he had been traveling all night.

  "Your Majesty." Li Hung-chang's voice was tense. "How have you been?"

  I sensed unease and asked him to come to the point.

  He knocked his forehead on the ground before letting out his words. "Queen Min has been deposed, Your Majesty."

  I was stunned. "How ... how could that happen?"

  "I don't have all the information yet." Li Hung-chang rose. "I only know that the Queen's ministers were brutally murdered. As of this moment, Korea's radicals are staging a coup."

  "Does Japan have a role in it?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty. Japan's secret agents infiltrated Queen Min's palace disguised as Korean security guards."

  Li Hung-chang convinced me that there was nothing I could do to help Queen Min. Even if we could mount a rescue mission, we didn't know where the Queen was being held or even if she was still alive. Japan was determined to swallow Korea. The conspiracy had been kept alive for over ten years. China had been taking turns with Japan in backing rival factions in Seoul.

  "I am afraid that China alone can no longer stop Japan's military aggression," Li said.

  The next weeks were tense, my days harried, my nights sleepless. Exhausted, I tried to supplant the worries of the moment by returning to something even more potent, replaying my earliest memories of my hometown of Wuhu.

  Staring at the golden dragon ceiling above my bed, I recalled the last time I was with my best friend Grasshopper. She was kicking the dirt with her feet, her legs as thin as bamboo stalks.

  "I have never gone to Hefei," she said. "Have you, Orchid?"

  "No," I replied. "My father told me that it's bigger than Wuhu."

  Grasshopper's eyes lit up. "I might get lucky there." She lifted her blouse to reveal her belly. "I am sick of eating clay."

  Her belly was huge, like a bottom-up cooking pot.

  "I haven't been able to shit," she said.

  I felt extremely guilty. As the daughter of the local governor, I had never known hunger.

  "I am going to die, Orchid." Grasshopper's tone was flat. "I will be eaten by a tableful of people. Will you miss me?"

  Before I could answer, she went on. "My younger brother died last night. My parents sold him this morning. I wonder which family is eating him."

  Suddenly my knees gave way and I collapsed.

  "I am leaving for Hefei, Orchid."

  The last thing I remembered was Grasshopper thanking me for the feces from my family's manure pit.

  The giant trees surrounding my palace made a wave-like sound. I lay in the dark, still unable to sleep. Leaving the past, I stumbled again into the present and thought about Li Hung-chang, the man from He-fei. Hefei, in fact, was his nickname. He too, I assumed, knew the hunger of peasants, and this had much to do with our mutual understanding and ambition to bring change to the government. It had come to bind us. I both looked forward to and dreaded audiences with Li. I didn't know what additional bad news he had to bring me. The only sure thing was that it would come.

  Li Hung-chang was a man of courtesy and elegance. He brought me gifts, exotic and practical; once he presented me with reading glasses. The gifts always came with a story, about the place of their making or the cultural influences behind their design. It was not hard to imagine why he enjoyed great popularity. Besides Prince Kung, Li was the only government official that foreigners trusted.

  I still could not sleep. I had a feeling that Li Hung-chang was on his way again. I imagined his carriage rambling through the dark streets of Peking. The Forbidden City's gates opening for him, one after another. The guards' whispers. Li being escorted through the mile-long entrance, along hallways and garden corridors and into the inner court.

  I heard the temple's bell strike four times. My mind was clear but I was tired, and my cheeks were burning hot, my limbs cold. I sat up and pulled on my clothes. I heard the sound of footsteps, recognized the shuffle of soft soles and knew it was my eunuch. In the shadow of the moon Li Lien-ying came in. He lifted my curtain, a candle in his right hand. "My lady," he called.

  "Is it Li Hung-chang?" I asked.

  Li knelt before me wearing his prized double-eyed peacock-feather hat and yellow silk field marshal's riding jacket. I was afraid of what he would say. It seemed only a short while since he had brought me the terrible news of Korea's Queen Min.

  He stayed on his knees until I asked him to speak.

  "China and Japan are at war" was what he told me.

  Although not surprised, I was still shaken. For the past few days the throne had ordered troops, under the leadership of Yung Lu, moved north to help Korea contain its revolt. Guang-hsu's edict read, "Japan has poured an army into Korea, trying to extinguish what they call a fire that they themselves have lit."

  I had little confidence in our military might. The court wasn't wrong in describing me as one who "got bitten by a sna
ke ten years ago and has since been afraid of straw ropes."

  I lost my husband and almost my own life during the 1860 Opium War. If England and its allies were superior then, I could only imagine them now, more than thirty years later. The possibility that I would not survive was real to me. Ever since his return from Sinkiang, Yung Lu had been working quietly with Li Hung-chang on strengthening our forces, but I knew they had far to go. My thoughts were with Yung Lu and his troops as they made their way north.

  Li was in favor of allowing time for the joint efforts of England, Russia and Germany, who, under Li's repeated pleading for support, had agreed to persuade Japan to "put out the war torch."

  "His Majesty Emperor Guang-hsu is convinced that he must act," Li said. "The Japanese fired two broadsides and a torpedo, sinking the troopship Kowshing, which was sailing out of Port Arthur with our soldiers on board. Those who did not drown were machine-gunned. I understand His Majesty's rage, but we can't afford to act on emotion."

  "What do you expect me to do, Li Hung-chang?"

  "Please ask the Emperor to be patient, for I am waiting for England, Russia and Germany to respond. I am afraid any wrong move on our part will lose us international support."

  I called Li Lien-ying.

  "Yes, my lady."

  "Carriage, to the Forbidden City!"

  Li Hung-chang and I had no idea that Japan had obtained England's promise not to interfere and that Russia had followed suit. We blistered our lips trying to persuade the enraged Guang-hsu to allow more time before issuing a war decree.

  As the weeks passed, Japan became more aggressive. China's waiting showed no promise of being rewarded. I was accused of allowing Li Hung-chang to squander the precious time needed to mount a successful defense. I continued to trust Li, but I also realized that I needed to pay attention to the pro-war faction—the War Party—now led by Emperor Guang-hsu himself.