The Last Empress

by Anchee Min

  Kang Yu-wei challenged the texts traditionally used in Chinese schools. He refused to see that in the states where Li Hung-chang governed, industrial techniques were already being taught in schools. Talented Chinese writers learned to become translators and journalists. In the newspapers Li controlled—the Canton Daily and the Shanghai Daily, among others—China's political concerns were addressed and foreign ideas introduced.

  I kept reading Kang's conversation with the Emperor in the hope of finding something surprising and valuable.

  Kang Yu-wei, I came to realize, was not suggesting reform but a revolution. He asked the Emperor to set up an overarching "Bureau of Institutions," which Kang would head. "It will handle reforms in all fields of China." When the Emperor hesitated, Kang tried to convince him that "determination conquers all."

  Guang-hsu was uneasy and emboldened at the same time. In Kang Yu-wei my son felt an absolute force, which he had long desired for himself. A force that would stop at nothing, acknowledge no boundary. A force that could transform a weak man into a powerful one.

  I began to understand why Guang-hsu thought of Kang Yu-wei as his "like-mind." I didn't know Kang personally, but I had raised Guang-hsu. I was responsible for cultivating his ambition. I was aware that my boy had been tortured by self-doubt, which had stayed with him like a lingering disease.

  As a boy, Guang-hsu took up clock repair. Soon his room filled up with clocks. Gears and springs and escape wheels and pendulums were strewn all over his room, and the eunuchs complained that they couldn't clean the place. But taking clocks apart and putting them together again improved his concentration and problem-solving skills. Doing something he could succeed at reassured him. But his doubts always returned.

  Kang Yu-wei's criticism of the "eight-legged essay" was fair, if unoriginal. The essay was a formal composition in eight parts, required of every student who took the civil service examination. A good score was a must for anyone who applied for a government position. The few brilliant minds who did well on the essay were fluent in the arcane works of ancient Chinese literature and usually too bookish to function in daily life. Nevertheless, their high scores would earn them governorships.

  Li Hung-chang had long concluded that the shortcomings of our educational system lay behind our sense of backwardness in the world. The court had already added subjects to the Imperial examination, such as math, science, Western medicine and world geography. The conservatives believed that to study the enemies' culture was itself an act of betrayal and an insult to our ancestors. In any case, the majority of the country supported the education reforms.

  I spoke before a large audience in support of Guang-hsu's decree to abolish the eight-legged essay. "My son Tung Chih was not able to make good use of himself as Emperor," I began, "and this made me question his education. He spent fifteen years with China's top minds, but he had no idea where our enemies come from, what they are capable of or how to deal with them. The grand tutors are the chief judges of the national examination, and all they know is to recite ancient poems. It is time for them to lose their jobs."

  When Guang-hsu's decree became effective, thousands of students protested. "It is not fair to test us on what we haven't been taught," their petition read.

  I understood their frustration, especially that of the senior students who had invested their lives in mastering the eight-legged essay. It was harder for families whose hopes had rested on their sons' eventually passing and securing a government position.

  As Guang-hsu pushed forward his reform, several senior students hanged themselves in front of the Confucius Temple, not far from the Forbidden City. The Emperor was accused of causing the despair that led to the tragedy. I comforted the families with honorific titles and taels. In the meantime, the throne continued to encourage the younger generation to embrace nontraditional subjects. What we did not expect was that when the government finally made learning possible and free to all, the schools ended up shutting down because of a lack of students.

  Reformer Kang Yu-wei sent the throne sixty-three transcripts in three months. Although overwhelmed, I reviewed every one the Emperor sent on to me.

  "Most of your high ministers are hidebound conservatives," one read. "If Your Majesty wishes to rely on them for reform, it will be like climbing a tree to catch fish."

  Kang suggested that lower-ranking officials (like himself) be promoted to the reform bureau, bypassing the "cranky old boys."

  I didn't allow the alarm in the back of my head to ring until I read the following:

  KANG YU-WEI: Speed is where Your Majesty should concentrate. It took the Western powers three hundred years to succeed with modernization, and it took Japan thirty years. China is a bigger nation and is capable of generating more manpower. I predict that in three years we shall turn ourselves into a superpower.

  GUANG-HSU: It won't be that easy, will it?

  KANG YU-WEI: With my strategies and Your Majesty's determination, of course it will be.

  I thought about a remark Li Hung-chang had made about Kang Yu-wei's being a zealot and recalled a story Yung Lu had related. It concerned a brief encounter he'd had with Kang outside the audience hall, where both were waiting to be received by the throne. When Yung Lu asked Kang about his plans for dealing with the conservatives, Kang replied, "All it takes is to behead a couple of first-ranking officers"—which of course included Yung Lu himself.

  Though it was easy to be skeptical of Kang, I tried to stay neutral. I reminded myself that I might be blinded by my own limitations. China had a deserved reputation for being self-righteous and inflexible—opposed to change of any kind. I knew we had to change, but was unsure of the way. I tried to hold my tongue.

  The throne was caught in the middle when the court broke into two factions: the reformers versus the conservatives. Kang Yu-wei's friends claimed that they represented the Emperor and had the support of the public, while the Manchu Ironhats, led by Prince Ts'eng, his son Prince Ts'eng Junior and the Emperor's brother Prince Ch'un Junior, called their counterparts "bogus experts in reform and Western matters." The conservatives labeled Kang Yu-wei "the Wild Fox" and "the Bigmouth."

  The Ironhats played right into Kang's hands. Overnight, their attacks raised the failed Cantonese scholar from relative obscurity to national renown—"the throne's leading advisor on reform."

  The moderates at court were in a bind. The reforms Yung Lu and Li Hung-chang had set in motion were swept aside by Kang's more radical plans, and now they themselves were being pushed to choose sides. Making matters worse, Kang Yu-wei boasted to foreign journalists that he knew the Emperor intimately.

  On September 5, 1898, Guang-hsu issued a new decree stating that he had "ceased to be concerned with pruning branches"—Kang Yu-wei's language—and was "looking to rip out the rotten roots."

  A few days later the Emperor dismissed the Imperial councilors along with the governors of Canton, Yunnan and Hupeh provinces. My palace gate was blocked because the governors and their families had come to Peking seeking my support. They begged for me to control the Emperor.

  My office was filled with memorandums sent by Guang-hsu and his opponents. I concentrated on learning about my son's new friends. Touched by their patriotism, I was concerned about their political naiveté. Kang Yu-wei's radical views seemed to have changed my son's way of thinking. Guang-hsu now believed that he could achieve reform overnight if he pushed hard enough.

  As the leaves took on autumn colors, it became more difficult to restrain myself—I was sorely tempted to interfere with my son.

  In the midst of the turmoil, Li Hung-chang returned from a trip to Europe. He requested a private audience and I was pleased to receive him. Bringing me a German telescope and a cake from Spain, Li described his trip as an eye-opening experience. He even looked different; he'd left his beard untrimmed. Replying to his suggestion that I should travel myself, I could only lament that the court had already rejected the idea; Guang-hsu had worried that I might also be shot. The court
believed that I might be taken hostage and that the price of my release would be China's sovereignty.

  I assumed Li Hung-chang had let his beard grow fuller to hide the scars of his wound. I asked if his jaw still bothered him, and he assured me that it was no longer painful. I asked him to show me how to use the telescope. He pointed out the eyepiece and how to focus and told me that at night I could see distant planets and stars.

  "The Emperor would love this," I marveled.

  "I did try to bring one to His Majesty," Li said, "but I was denied entrance."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "His Majesty dismissed me on September 7." Li Hung-chang spoke matter-of-factly. "I am jobless and titleless."

  "Dismissed you?" I could hardly believe what I heard.

  "Yes."

  "But ... my son didn't inform me."

  "He will soon, I am sure."

  "What ... what are you going to do?" I didn't know what else to say. I felt terrible.

  "With your permission, I would like to leave Peking. I want to move to Canton."

  "Is that why you came, Li Hung-chang?" I asked. "To inform me?"

  "Yes, I come to bid farewell, Your Majesty. My close associate S. S. Huan is prepared to serve you in all matters. However, it would be best to keep him away from royal politics."

  I asked Li Hung-chang who would replace him on the diplomatic front. Li replied, "Prince I-kuang has been the court's choice as far as I understand."

  I felt desolated.

  Li nodded slightly and smiled. He looked frail and resigned to his fate.

  We sat staring at the exotic cake in front of us.

  After watching my friend disappear down a long corridor, I sat in my room for the rest of the afternoon.

  Just before dusk I heard loud noises at my front gate. Li Lien-ying entered with a message from Yung Lu, who had joined the crowd outside begging me to stop the Emperor.

  "Kang Yu-wei has talked His Majesty into issuing death warrants for the officers who refused their dismissals," Yung Lu's message read. "I have been ordered to arrest Li Hung-chang, who the reformers believe has been the major roadblock. I am sure it won't be long before I receive the order for my own execution."

  Should I open the gate? Things seemed to be falling apart. How could the dynasty survive without Li Hung-chang and Yung Lu?

  "The newly dismissed ministers and officers have come to kneel in front of the palace gate." Li Lien-ying looked overwhelmed.

  I went out and crossed the courtyard and looked through the gate. Casting long shadows in the dying sunlight, the crowd was on its knees.

  "Open it," I said to Li Lien-ying.

  Two of my eunuchs pushed the gate open.

  The crowd turned silent the moment I appeared on the terrace.

  I was expected to speak, and I had to bite my tongue in order to swallow the words.

  I remembered my promise to Guang-hsu. My son was only exercising his rights as Emperor, I told myself. He deserved complete independence.

  The crowd stayed on its knees. It hurt me to see that people were filled with hope in me.

  I turned around and told Li Lien-ying to shut the gate.

  Behind me the crowd stirred, rising to its feet and muttering louder and louder.

  Later I would learn that Yung Lu had other reasons to join the dismissed officials. While working on building the navy, he kept an eye on foreign governments to make sure they were not connected with subversive elements in China. However, intelligence showed that British and American missionaries and English adventurers with military backgrounds were secretly agitating in favor of a constitutional monarchy. Although Yung Lu's true purpose was to avoid being forced to crack down on reform, which by then had turned into a country-wide movement, he was especially alarmed by the high level of subversive activity going on at the Japanese legation. The suspected agents were members of the Genyosha Society, ultranationalists who were responsible for Queen Min's assassination in Korea.

  Prince Ts'eng, his son and Prince Ch'un Junior were convinced that Kang Yu-wei was supported by the foreign powers as a cover for an armed coup.

  Yung Lu said in a message to me, "The Emperor's trust in Kang Yu-wei has made my work impossible."

  "I have no option but to support the throne," I wrote back to Yung Lu. "It is up to you to block any uprising."

  31

  Early one morning Yung Lu appeared unannounced at my palace. "Ito Hirobumi is on his way to Peking." Ito was the architect of Japan's Meiji Restoration and had served as prime minister during our recent war. He had played a leading role in the murder of Queen Min.

  "Is ... Ito not afraid?" I asked. "Guang-hsu could order his beheading for what Japan has done to China."

  Yung Lu paused a moment and then replied, "Your Majesty, Ito comes as the Emperor's guest."

  "My son invited him?"

  "Ito claims that he has retired from politics and is now a private citizen."

  "Does Li Hung-chang know about this?"

  "Yes. In fact, he sent me. While Li feels that it is no longer his role to offer the throne advice, he didn't want you to get the news from the Ironhats."

  "His enemies accuse him of being self-serving, but our friend has always embodied what is most kind and wise in the Chinese character."

  Yung Lu agreed. "Li refuses to offer the Ironhats an opportunity to jeopardize the Emperor's reform plans."

  According to my son, Ito's visit was initiated by Kang Yu-wei and arranged by his disciple, a twenty-three-year-old scholar-adventurer named Tan Shih-tung. I remembered Tan had written an extraordinary analytical essay on Japan, and knew his father, who was the governor of Hupeh.

  Like his master Kang Yu-wei, Tan had also failed the national civil service examination. He was quoted as having called the government post his father once offered him "a beggar's livelihood." Together with Kang Yu-wei, Tan became known for publishing letters condemning the Imperial examination system. He was second in command in the Emperor's new council.

  In my view, Tan's belief in Ito as China's savior was naive and dangerous. I did not doubt Ito's ability to manipulate the Emperor, so it would be pointless for me to try to persuade my son to dismiss Ito.

  "You'd be a fool to invite yourself," Yung Lu offered as we discussed Guang-hsu's meeting with the Japanese. "They would just shut up and look for another opportunity to meet privately."

  Over the next few days Yung Lu and I sought Li Hung-chang's advice.

  "The Japanese intelligentsia have already become part of the fiber of our society, as they had done in Korea," Li warned in a letter. "Ito's move will further Japan's penetration."

  I begged Li Hung-chang to travel north to help. "You must personally receive Ito so he knows that my son is not alone."

  Li did not respond to this plea, so I officially summoned him. I felt I needed his advice in person. There was no telling what might happen, especially as my son had not said a word to me about his plans.

  After Yung Lu left at the end of each day, my frustration would overwhelm me. Li Hung-chang still hadn't responded, and I was worn out by the mere mention of Ito's name. I understood my son's fascination with the man. But if they met, Ito would quickly discover all the shortcomings of the Emperor of China.

  I feared that my son would hastily move to replace China's feudal power blocs with Japanese sympathizers. In fact, he had already begun doing so. The pro-Japan scholar Tan's appointment as emissary between Ito and Guang-hsu was but a prelude. The Emperor fancied China as a power broker among modern industrial nations—but Japan would be calling the shots. And my son would be none the wiser.

  On September 11, 1898, Yung Lu welcomed Ito Hirobumi to China. The former prime minister was received in Tientsin. A few days later, on his arrival in Peking by train, Li Hung-chang met with him.

  Yung Lu had few words to describe the guest. It was as if he wished to forget the experience as soon as possible. "I have received five messages from the throne asking me to bring Ito to the
Forbidden City," Yung Lu said. Although he told me he was uncomfortable throughout the reception, he did his best to show hospitality.

  "Ito must have sensed that our welcome was not heartfelt," Yung Lu remarked. "I don't know how he managed to maintain his poise and offer his gratitude."

  It was from Li Hung-chang that I learned more details. "Ito carries himself in the style of a samurai," Li said. In his opinion, Ito was a genius. Li envied him his service to the Japanese Emperor and his success in reforming his country. Li would never forget the humiliation he had suffered before Ito at the negotiating table. "Ito was shameless, virtue-less and ruthless. He was also the hero of his country."

  I remembered the nights when Li negotiated the Shimonoseki Treaty. I counted every tael of war compensation paid, every hectare of land we were forced to part with. Li Hung-chang's telegrams came like a snow squall in January. My eunuch wore out his shoes shuttling messages between Li Hung-chang and me.

  It had been like talking to the Great Wall when I tried to make Guang-hsu appreciate Li's negotiating efforts. "You should at least acknowledge that Li Hung-chang has been bearing the blame that should have been ours."

  "Li Hung-chang deserves nothing but our loathing," Guang-hsu had responded.

  Under the influence of Kang Yu-wei, my son ignored the telegrams Li sent concerning Ito's visit.

  I was upset and said to my son, "You don't get tired because Li is the one carrying the heavy load."