Empress Orchid

by Anchee Min

  I looked at my husband day in and day out when he studied the treaties. Each sentence caused him anguish. His facial muscles twitched, as did his fingers, and he pressed his stomach with his hands as if he wished to pull his guts out. He asked me to heat up his tea to the boiling point. He poured the scalding water down his throat.

  “You are cooking yourself!” I cried.

  “It helps,” he said with a tired look in his eyes.

  I hid in the chamber-pot room and wept whenever I boiled Hsien Feng’s tea. I saw his pain return the moment he went back to work.

  “What am I going to do with this mess of mine?” he said every night before bed.

  “Tomorrow morning the rooster will sing again and the sunlight will make a difference.” I helped him into the sheets.

  “I can’t bear the rooster’s singing anymore,” he said. “Actually, I haven’t heard it for quite a while. I hear the sound of my body shutting down. I hear my neck squeak when it turns. My toes and fingers feel like wood. The holes in my lungs must be getting bigger. It feels like there are slugs parked there.”

  Yet we had to carry on the façade of nobility. As long as Emperor Hsien Feng was alive, he had to attend the audiences. I skipped meals and sleep in order to read the documents and offer him a summary. I wanted to be his neck, his heart and his lungs. I wanted him to hear the rooster sing again and feel the warmth of the sunlight. When I was with His Majesty and he happened to be well rested, I would ask questions.

  I asked about the origin of opium. It seemed to me that the decline of the Ch’ing Dynasty had started with the importation of it. I knew parts of the story well, others not at all.

  His Majesty explained that the infestation started during the sixteenth year of the reign of his father, Tao Kuang. “Although my father banned opium, the corrupt ministers and merchants managed to carry on a secret business. By 1840, the situation had become so out of control that half of the court were either addicts themselves or the supporters of a policy that legalized opium. Or both. In a rage my father ordered an end to opium once and for all. He summoned his most trusted minister to take up the matter …” Pausing, His Majesty looked at me. “Do you know his name?”

  “Commissioner Lin?”

  His Majesty looked at me with adoration when I told him my favorite part of Lin Tse-shu’s story, which was when he arrested hundreds of opium dealers and confiscated more than a hundred thousand pounds of contraband. It was not that His Majesty was ignorant of such details. I simply sensed that it would bring him pleasure to experience the moment again. “In the name of the Emperor, Lin set a deadline and ordered all foreign merchants to turn over their opium.” My voice was as clear as a professional storyteller’s. “But he was ignored. Refusing to give in, Commissioner Lin collected the opium by force. On April 22, 1840, Lin set fire to twenty thousand cases of opium. He announced that China would stop trading with Great Britain.”

  Emperor Hsien Feng nodded. “According to my father, the burning pit was as large as a lake. What a hero Lin was!”

  Suddenly short of breath, His Majesty hammered on his chest and coughed and fell onto his pillow. His eyes closed. When he opened them again, he asked, “Has something happened to the rooster? Shim told me that yesterday the guards had seen weasels.”

  I called in An-te-hai and was shocked to learn that the rooster had vanished.

  “A weasel got it, my lady. I saw it myself this morning. A fat weasel the size of a baby pig.”

  I told His Majesty about the rooster, and his expression grew dark. “Heaven’s signs are all here. The touch of a finger will put the dynasty out of existence.” He bit his lower lip so hard that it began to bleed. There was a hissing sound in his lungs.

  “Come, Orchid,” he said. “I want to tell you something.”

  I sat down by him quietly.

  “You must remember the things I have told you,” he said. “If we should have a son, I expect you to pass on my words to him.”

  “Yes, I will.” I held His Majesty’s feet and kissed them. “If we should have a son.”

  “Tell him this.” He struggled to push the sentences out of his chest. “After Commissioner Lin’s action, the barbarians declared war against China. They crossed the oceans with sixteen armed ships along with four thousand soldiers.”

  I didn’t want him to go on, so I told him that I was aware of all this. When he didn’t believe me, I decided to prove myself. “The foreign ships entered the mouth of the Pearl River and fired at our guards at Canton,” I said, remembering what my father had told me.

  His Majesty’s eyes stared into space. His pupils were fixed on the sculpted dragon head that hung from the ceiling. “July twenty-seventh … was the saddest day in my father’s life,” he uttered. “It was the day … when the barbarians destroyed our navy and took Kowloon.” The Emperor drew in his shoulders and coughed uncontrollably.

  “Please rest, Your Majesty.”

  “Let me finish, Orchid. Our child must know this … In the next few months the barbarians took the ports of Amoy, Chou Shan, Ningpo, and Tinghai … Without stopping …”

  I finished it for him. “Without stopping, the barbarians headed north toward Tientsin and took the city.”

  Emperor Hsien Feng nodded. “You have managed the facts very well, Orchid, but I want to tell you a bit more about my father. He was in his sixties. He had been in good health, but the bad news destroyed him as no disease ever could. His tears had no chance to dry … My father didn’t close his eyes when he died. I am a son of little piety and I have brought him nothing but more shame …”

  “It is late, Your Majesty.” I rose from the bed, trying to get him to stop.

  “Orchid, I’m afraid we might not have another chance.” He grasped my hands and placed them on his chest. “You must believe me when I tell you that I am halfway in my grave. I see my father more than ever lately. His eyes are red and swollen, as big as peach pits. He comes to remind me of my obligations … Ever since I was a boy, my father took me with him when he conducted audiences. I remember messengers coming in with their robes wet with sweat. The horses they rode died of exhaustion. So much bad news. I remember the echoing sound the messengers made. They yelled the sentence as if it were the last one of their lives: ‘Pao Shan has fallen!’ ‘Shanghai has fallen!’ ‘Chiang Nin has fallen!’‘Hangchow has fallen!’

  “As a child, I made up a poem with lines that rhymed with ‘fallen.’ My father could only smile bitterly. When he couldn’t bear it any longer, he would withdraw in the middle of an audience. For days on end he would kneel before the portrait of my grandfather. He gathered us, all his children, wives and concubines, in the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing. He then admitted his shame. That was the moment after he had signed the treaty, which included China’s first war reparations to Great Britain. The amount was twenty-one million taels. The British also demanded ownership of Hong Kong for a hundred years. From that time on, foreign merchants came and went at will. My father died on the morning of January 5, 1850. Lady Jin had difficulty closing his eyelids. A monk told me that my father’s soul was disturbed, and unless I got even with his enemy, he would never rest in peace.”

  Half asleep, my husband continued his sad story. He talked about the Taiping uprising, which started a month after he was crowned. He described it as a wildfire that jumped from province to province, crossing the country and reaching as far as Chihli. “A nasty wound that wouldn’t heal. This is what I inherited from my father. A nasty wound. I can’t remember how many battles I ordered and how many generals I beheaded for their inability to bring me victory.”

  All night long my husband tossed and shouted, “Help me, Heaven!”

  I had little sleep and was afraid of being sent away. I had been living with His Majesty for months and had been his only company. He made our bedroom his office and drafted letters and edicts at all hours. I ground the ink for him and made sure his tea was hot. He was so weak that he would doze off in the middle of writing
. When I saw his chin drop, I removed the brush from his hand so that he wouldn’t ruin the document. Sometimes I came to the rescue too late, and there would be a spreading ink blot on the rice paper. To save the lost work, I would fetch a clean sheet and recopy his words. I imitated his style of calligraphy and eventually became very good. When he woke, he wouldn’t notice that the page on his desk was not the original. He wouldn’t believe me until I showed him the writing that he had ruined.

  We succeeded in sharing intimacy, and he was attentive and engaged. But once our lovemaking was over he would become frustrated again. He said not one bit of good news had come to his court for an entire year. He grew bitter. No matter how hard he would work, he be-lieved China was beyond saving. “Doomed by fate,” he said. He began to cancel audiences. Retreating into himself, he spent more and more time imagining himself as an emperor of a different time. A wistful, dreamy look clouded his eyes when he described his reveries.

  I became nervous when I saw urgent documents piling up. I couldn’t enjoy his attention when I knew that ministers and generals were waiting for his instructions. I feared that I would be held responsible—a concubine who had seduced the Emperor. I begged Hsien Feng to resume his duties.

  When my efforts failed, I picked up the documents and started to read to him. I read the questions from the letters aloud. Hsien Feng had to think of a reply. When he did, I wrote the answers down on the decree in his style, using a red brush. Lan in the third tone meant “I have reviewed.” Chi-tao-le meant “It’s clear to me.” Kai-pu-chih-tao meant “I am clear about this part.” And Yi-yi meant “You have my permission to go ahead.” He would review what I wrote and put his signature on top of it.

  He came to enjoy this. He praised my ability and quick wit. In a few weeks I became Emperor Hsien Feng’s unofficial secretary. I reviewed everything that passed across his desk. I became familiar with his way of thinking and his style of debating. Eventually I managed to draft letters sounding so much like him that even he couldn’t tell the difference.

  During summer days it was difficult for me to avoid the “walk-in” ministers, since we left the door open to let in cool air. To avoid suspicion, Hsien Feng told me to disguise myself as an ink boy.

  I hid my long hair under a hat and dressed in a plain robe, pretending to be the eunuch who ground the ink. No one paid attention to me; indeed, the ministers’ minds were preoccupied, so they easily ignored me.

  Before the summer ended, we left Yuan Ming Yuan and moved back to the Forbidden City. With my persistence, Emperor Hsien Feng was able to rise before dawn again. After washing and dressing, we would have a cup of tea and a bowl of porridge made of red beans, sesame and lotus seeds. We then rode in separate palanquins to the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing. The court had realized the seriousness of Hsien Feng’s illness—they knew his heart and lungs were weak, and that his black moods drained his strength—and accepted his proposal that I accompany him to work.

  It was only a half-minute walk from our bedroom to the office, but etiquette must be followed—an Emperor didn’t walk on his own legs. To me it was a waste of time, but I soon understood how important ritual was in the minds of our ministers and countrymen. Based on the idea that distance creates myth, and myth evokes power, the effect was to separate the nobles from the masses.

  Like his father, Hsien Feng was strict about his ministers’ punctuality, but not about his own. The notion that everyone in the Forbidden City lived to attend his needs had been continually reinforced since he was a child. He expected devotion and had little sensitivity to the needs of others. He would schedule his appearances at dawn, forgetting or not caring that the summoned would have to travel through the night. Never was a promise given concerning the exact time of the meetings. The fact was that not every appointment was kept. When matters got complicated and the original schedules were pushed back or canceled, officials were left in the dark and had to wait endlessly. Some waited for weeks, only to be told to return home.

  When His Majesty realized that he was canceling too many appointments, he rewarded the disappointed with gifts and autographs. Once, when rain poured and those summoned got soaking wet after nights of traveling and their appointments were canceled, Hsien Feng rewarded each with a bolt of silk and satin to make new clothes.

  I sat next to His Majesty as he worked. The room was a resting area to the rear of the throne room. It was now called the library because of its wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Above my head was a black tablet engraved with the large Chinese characters upright and above-board. From the outside, it was difficult to gauge the real size of the building. It was much larger than I had imagined. Built in the fifteenth century, it was near the Palace of Benevolent Tranquility but still within the Gate of Imperial Justice, the Gate of Glorious Virtue and the Gate of Preserved Fortune. This last led to a group of large compounds and side buildings that housed the Imperial offices.

  The place was also near the office of the Grand Council, which had grown in importance in recent years. From here the Emperor could summon his councilors to discuss matters at any time. His Majesty usually preferred to receive his ministers in the central room of the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing. For reading, writing or receiving senior officials or trusted friends, he would go to the western wing. The eastern wing had been rearranged during the summer and had become our new bedchamber.

  To many, being granted an audience with the Emperor was a lifetime honor. Hsien Feng had to live up to their expectations. There was no end of ceremonial detail. The night before an audience, the eunuchs had to clean the palace thoroughly. A buzzing fly would be cause for a beheading. The throne room was scented with fragrance and incense. The kneeling mats had to be laid out properly. Before midnight, guards came and checked every inch of the room. By two in the morning, the summoned ministers or generals would be escorted through the Gate of Celestial Purity. They had to walk quite a distance to reach the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing. Before being led to the throne room, they were received in the western wing’s guest rooms. The court officer of registration would attend them. Only tea would be served. By the time the Emperor mounted his palanquin, the summoned would be notified and told to stand up and face east until His Majesty arrived.

  Before Emperor Hsien Feng stepped out of his palanquin, a whip would be snapped three times—the call for complete silence. The moment the whip sounded, everyone was expected to get down on his knees. People lined up according to rank. The grand councilors, princes and other royalty would take the first rows. When the Emperor seated himself, everyone was expected to kowtow nine times, forehead touching the floor.

  He didn’t like to work in the throne room because the throne was uncomfortable. Its back was a magnificent piece of woodcarving, composed of numerous clusters of dragons. Audiences could take hours, and Hsien Feng would end up with a sore back.

  The throne room was like a gallery, with every object on display. The throne sat on a raised stage with staircases on either side. Behind the throne were three sets of carved wood panels, each decorated with golden dragons. The stage enabled the Emperor to meet the eyes of more than a hundred officers. The audience began as the first summoned individual walked up the east staircase and presented the Emperor with a book of printed memos.

  Emperor Hsien Feng would not touch the book. His secretary would pick it up and place it on a yellow case near the throne. The Emperor might refer to the book if the need arose. The summoned would then walk away, exiting down the west staircase to return to his mat. He now was permitted to state his business. When the summoned finished his petition, the Emperor would give his comments.

  Hsien Feng usually initiated a discussion among the grand councilors, princes and senior clansmen. They would offer their views, each vying to present the best option. Sometimes their words became sharp and their tempers heated. There was one incident in which a minister died of a heart attack in the middle of an argument. The summoned was expected to remain quiet until question
ed. Then he would respond accordingly, always deferential and reserved. After a conclusion was reached, Emperor Hsien Feng would be ready to issue a decree. A court scholar of the highest rank would be ordered to draft the decree in both Chinese and Manchu. Then the next in line would be called. The procedure repeated itself until noon.

  I was much more interested in learning what was going on in the countryside than in listening to ministers who had never set foot outside Peking. I found most of the discussions boring and the solutions lacking in common sense. I was amazed by the differences among the royal princes, the Manchu clansmen, and the governors and generals, mostly Han Chinese who smelled of gunpowder. I was impressed by the Chinese simply because they injected a note of reality. Officers of Manchu origin loved to argue about ideology. They shouted patriotic slogans like schoolchildren. The Han officers chose to remain silent when there was a conflict in this Manchu court. If they wished to get an idea across, they pressed it dispassionately, providing the Emperor and his court only with facts.

  After sitting through a few audiences, I noticed that the Chinese did not attempt to counter the Emperor. If their proposal was turned down, they would accept it humbly. Often they would carry out His Majesty’s order even if they knew it would be ineffective. After thousands of lives were lost, the Chinese would come back with the casualty figures, hoping that the Emperor would reconsider their proposal. When he did, they were so relieved they wept. I was much moved by their loyalty, but wished that Hsien Feng would listen to the Manchu noblemen less and the Chinese more.

  Still, I began to see why the Emperor behaved the way he did. More than once he told me that he believed that only a Manchu was capable of pure devotion to the Ch’ing Dynasty. He always leaned toward the Manchu officers when there was a difference of opinion. He honored the ruling race’s privilege, and made it clear to the court that it would be a minister of Manchu origin that he would trust first. For centuries the Chinese ministers had managed to rise above the humiliation. I was in awe of their strength and patience.