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CHAPTER 1
Mother's eyes were closed when she died. But a moment later they cracked open and remained open.
"Your Majesty, please hold the eyelids and try your best to close them," Doctor Sun Pao-tien instructed. My hands trembled as I tried.
Rong, my sister, said that Mother meant to close her eyes. She had waited for me for too long. Mother did not want to interrupt my audience.
"Try not to trouble people" was Mother's philosophy. She would have been disappointed to know that she needed help to close her eyes. I wished that I could disregard Nuharoo's order and bring my son to bid a final goodbye. "It shouldn't matter that Tung Chih is the Emperor of China," I would have argued. "He is my mother's grandson first."
I turned to my brother, Kuei Hsiang, and asked if Mother had left any words for me.
"Yes." Kuei Hsiang nodded, stepping back to stand on the other side of Mother's bed. "'All is well.'"
My tears came.
"What kind of burial ceremony do you have in mind for Mother?" Rong asked.
"I can't think right now," I replied. "We will discuss it later."
"No, Orchid," Rong protested. "It will be impossible to reach you once you leave here. I would like to know your intentions. Mother deserves the same honor as Grand Empress Lady Jin."
"I wish that I could simply say yes, but I can't. Rong, we are watched by millions. We must set an example."
"Orchid," Rong burst out, "you are the ruler of China!"
"Rong, please. I believe Mother would understand."
"No, she wouldn't, because I can't. You are a terrible daughter, selfish and heartless!"
"Excuse me," Doctor Sun Pao-tien interrupted. "Your Majesty, may I have you concentrate on your fingers? Your mother's eyes will remain forever open if you stop pressing."
"Yes, Doctor."
"Harder, and steady," the doctor instructed. "Now hold it. You are almost there. Don't move."
My sister helped to hold my arms.
Mother's face in repose was deep and distant.
"It's Orchid, Mother," I whispered, weeping.
I couldn't believe she was dead. My fingers caressed her smooth and still-warm skin. I had missed touching her. Ever since I had entered the Forbidden City, Mother was forced to get down on her knees to greet me when she visited. She insisted on following the etiquette. "It is the respect you deserve as the Empress of China," she said.
We rarely had privacy. Eunuchs and ladies in waiting surrounded me constantly. I doubted Mother could hear me from where she had to sit, ten feet away from me. It didn't seem to bother her, though. She pretended that she could hear. She would answer questions I hadn't asked.
"Gently, release the eyelids," Doctor Sun Pao-tien said. Mother's eyes remained closed. Her wrinkles seemed to have disappeared, and her expression was restful.
I am the mountain behind you. Mother's voice came to my mind:
Like a singing river You break out to flow freely. Happily I watch you, The memory of us Full and sweet.
I had to be strong for my son. Although Tung Chih, who was seven, had been Emperor for two years, since ascending the throne in 1861, his regime had been chaotic. Foreign powers continued to gain leverage in China, especially in the coastal ports; at home, peasant rebels called Taipings had spread through the interior and overrun province after province. I had struggled to find a way to raise Tung Chih properly. Yet he seemed to be so terribly shattered by his father's early death. I could only wish to raise him the way my parents had raised me.
"I am a lucky woman," Mother used to say. I believed her when she said that she had no regrets in life. She had achieved a dream: two daughters married into royal families and a son who was a highranking Imperial minister. "We were practically beggars back in 1852," Mother often reminded her children. "I will never forget that afternoon at the Grand Canal when the footmen deserted your father's coffin."
The heat of that day and the smell of rot that came from my father's corpse stayed with me as well. The expression on Mother's face when she was forced to sell her last possession, a jade hairpin that was a wedding gift from our father, was the saddest I had ever seen.
As Emperor Hsien Feng's senior wife, Empress Nuharoo attended my mother's funeral. It was considered a great honor for my family. As a devout Buddhist, Nuharoo disregarded tradition in accepting my invitation.
Dressed in white silk like a tall ice-tree, Nuharoo was the picture of grace. I walked behind her, careful not to step on the long train of her robe. Chanting Tibetan lamas and Taoist and Buddhist priests followed us. Making our way through the Forbidden City, we stopped to perform one ritual after another, passing through gate after gate and hall after hall.
Standing next to Nuharoo, I marveled that we had finally found some measure of harmony. The differences between us had been clear from the moment we entered the Forbidden City as young girls. She — elegant, confident, of the royal bloodline — was chosen as the Emperor's senior wife, the Empress; I — from a good family and no more, from the country and unsure — was a concubine of the fourth rank. Our differences became conflicts as I found a way into Hsien Feng's heart and bore my son, his only male child and heir. My elevation in rank had only made matters worse. But in the chaos of the foreigners' invasion, our husband's death during our exile at the ancient hunting retreat of Jehol, and the crisis of the coup, we had been forced to find ways to work together.
All these years later, my relationship with Nuharoo was best expressed in the saying "The water in the well does not disturb the water in the river." To survive, it had been necessary for us to watch out for each other. At times this seemed impossible, especially regarding Tung Chih. Nuharoo's status as senior wife gave her authority over his upbringing and education, something that rankled me. Our fight over how to raise Tung Chih had stopped after he ascended the throne, but my bitterness over how ill prepared the boy had been continued to poison our relationship.
Nuharoo pursued contentment in Buddhism while my own discontentment followed me like a shadow. My spirit kept escaping my will. I read the book Nuharoo had sent me, The Proper Conduct of an Imperial Widow, but it did little to bring me peace. After all, I was from Wuhu, "the lake of luxurious weeds." I couldn't be who I was not, although I spent my life trying.
"Learn to be the soft kind of wood, Orchid," Mother taught me when I was a young girl. "The soft blocks are carved into statues of Buddha and goddesses. The hard ones are made into coffin boards."
I had a drawing table in my room, with ink, freshly mixed paint, brushes and rice paper. After each day's audience I came here to work.
My paintings were for my son — they were given as gifts in his name. They served as his ambassadors and spoke for him whenever a situation became too humiliating. China was forced to beg for extensions on payments of so-called war compensation, imposed on us by foreign powers.
The paintings also helped to ease the resentment toward my son over land taxes. The governors of several states had been sending messages that their people were poor and couldn't afford to pay.
"The Imperial tael storehouse has long been empty," I cried in decrees issued in my son's name. "The taxes we have collected have gone to the foreign powers so that their fleets will not set anchor in our waters."
My brother-in-law Prince Kung, complained that his new Board of Foreign Affairs had run out of space in which to store the debt seekers' dunning letters. "The foreign fleets have repeatedly threatened to reenter our waters," he warned.
It was my eunuch An-te-hai's idea to use my paintings as gifts, to buy time, money and understanding.
An-te-hai had served me since my first day in the Forbidden City, when, as a boy of just thirteen, he'd surreptitiously offered me a drink of water for my parched throat. It was a brave act, and he had my loyalty and trust ever since.
His idea for the paintings was brilliant, and I couldn't paint fast enough.
I sent one as a birthday gift to General Tseng Kuo-fan, the biggest warlord in China, who dominated the country's military. I wanted the general to know that I appreciated him, although I recently demoted him in my son's name, under pressure from the court's pro-Manchu conservatives, who called themselves Ironhats. The Ironhats could not stand the fact that the Han Chinese, through hard work, were gaining power. I wanted General Tseng to know that I meant him no harm and that I was aware that I had wronged him. "My son Tung Chih could not rule without you" was the message my painting sent.
I often wondered what kept General Tseng Kuo-fan from rebelling. A coup wouldn't be hard — he had the money and the army. I used to think that it was just a matter of time. "Enough is enough," I could imagine Tseng saying one day, and my son would be out of luck.
I signed my name in fine calligraphy. Above it I put my signature stamp in red ink. I had stone stamps of different sizes and shapes. Besides the stamp, which was given to me by my husband, the rest described my titles: "Empress of China," "Empress of Holy Kindness," "Empress of the Western Palace." "Empress Tzu Hsi" was the one I used most often. These stamps were important to collectors. To make the artwork easier to sell later, I would leave out the name in my dedication, unless otherwise requested.
Yesterday An-te-hai reported that my paintings had risen in value. The news brought me little joy. I would much rather spend time with Tung Chih than feel forced to paint.
Anyone who examined my paintings could see their flaws. My brushstrokes showed that I lacked practice, if not talent. My handling of ink revealed that I was merely a beginner. The nature of rice-paper painting allowed no mistakes, which meant that I could be spending hours on a piece, work late into the night, and one lousy stroke would ruin the entire thing. After months of working on my own, I hired an artist-tutor whose job was to cover my flaws.
Landscapes and flowers were my subjects. I also painted birds, usually in pairs. I would place them in the center of the frame. They would perch on the same or separate branches, as if having a chat. In vertical compositions, one bird would sit on the top branch and look down, and the other would be on the bottom branch looking up.
I spent the most time on feathers. Pink, orange and lime green were my favorite feather colors. The tone was always warm and cheerful. An-te-hai suggested that I paint peonies, lotus blossoms and chrysanthemums. He said that I was good at painting these, but I knew he meant they were easier to sell.
A tip I learned from my artist-tutor was that the stamps could be used to cover flaws. Since I had flaws everywhere, I applied a number of stamps to each painting. When I was dissatisfied and wanted to start over again An-te-hai reminded me that quantity should be my objective. He helped to make the stampings look interesting. When I felt there was nothing I could do to save a work, my tutor would take over.
My tutor worked mostly on backgrounds. She would add leaves and branches to cover my bad parts and would add accents to my birds and flowers. One would think that her fine strokes would make mine an embarrassment, but she applied her skill only to "harmonize the music." Her artistry saved my worst paintings. It was amusing to watch her painstakingly try to match my amateur strokes.
My mind often wandered to my son while I was painting. At night it became difficult to concentrate. I would imagine Tung Chih's face as he lay in bed and wonder what he was dreaming. When my desire to be with him became desperate, I would put down my brush and run to Tung Chih's palace, four courtyards from my own. Too impatient to wait for Ante-hai to light the lanterns, I would rush through the darkness, bumping and bruising myself on walls and arches until I arrived at my child's bedside. There beside my sleeping son, I would check his breathing and stroke his head with my ink-stained hand. When the servant lit the candles I would take one and hold it close to my son's face. My eyes would trace his lovely forehead, eyelids, nose and lips. I would bend over and kiss him. My eyes would grow moist as I saw his father's likeness. I would remember when Emperor Hsien Feng and I were in love. My favorite moment was still the time when I sweetly tortured him by demanding that he memorize my name. I wouldn't leave Tung Chih until An-te-hai found me, his long procession of eunuchs trailing behind him, each carrying a giant red lantern.
"My tutor can paint for me," I would say to An-te-hai. "Nobody will know that I didn't apply the stamps myself."
"But you would know, my lady," the eunuch would reply quietly, and he would escort me back to my palace.
CHAPTER 2
Instead of reading a book to Tung Chih in the cool shade of my courtyard, I signed an edict issuing death sentences to two important men. It was August 31, 1863. I dreaded the moment because I couldn't escape the thought of what my signature would bring to their families.
The first person was Ho Kui-ching, the governor of Chekiang province. Ho had been a longtime friend of my husband's. I first met him as a young man when he won the top rank at the national civil service examination. I attended the ceremony with my husband, who honored him with the title of Jin-shih, Man of Supreme Achievement.
In my memory, Ho was a humble man. He had deep-set eyes and protruding teeth. My husband was impressed with his broad knowledge of philosophy and history, and he appointed Ho first as mayor of the important southern city of Hangchow, and a few years later as governor of Chekiang. By the time he was fifty, he was the senior governor in charge of all the provinces of central China. Ho was granted military powers as well. He was the commander in chief of the Imperial forces in southern China.
Ho's file showed that he had been charged with neglecting his duties, resulting in the loss of several provinces during the ongoing Taiping uprisings. He had ordered his men to open fire on locals while making his own escape. I resisted his request to reconsider his case. He seemed to feel neither remorse nor guilt over the death and suffering of the thousands of families he had abandoned.
Ho and his friends in the court denied the fact that my husband had personally ordered Ho's beheading before his death. The strong opposition I later encountered made me realize my vulnerability. I took Ho's request as a direct challenge to my son as ruler of China. Prince Kung was one of the few who stood by me, although he kept reminding me that I didn't have the support of the court's majority.
I did not expect that my disagreement with the court would turn into a crisis for the survival of my son and myself. I was aware that Ho's behavior mirrored that of the governors of many other provinces. I would be inviting endless trouble if I failed to proceed with the prosecution.
Within weeks, I received a petition requesting that I reconsider the case. Signed by seventeen high-ranking ministers, governors and generals, the petition claimed Ho's innocence and asked His Young Majesty Tung Chih to dismiss the charges.
I asked Prince Kung to help me investigate each petitioner's background. The information Kung soon brought me showed that without exception the petitioners had been either personally promoted or recommended to their posts by Governor Ho.
The argument ran back and forth as Tung Chih and I sat through the audiences. My son was tired, and he squirmed and fidgeted on his large throne. I sat behind him, slightly to the left, and had to keep reminding him to sit up straight. In order for Tung Chih to make eye contact with the more than one hundred ministers on the floor before him, his throne had been placed on a platform. He could see everyone, and he, in turn, could be seen by all. The Son of Heaven was not an easy image for his subjects to look upon. I tried to rush the audiences so my son would be able to go out and play. They were torture for a seven-year-old child, even if he was the Son of Heaven.
The collective voice asserted that Ho's dereliction was not what it seemed — the governor was not responsible. The minister of revenue in Jiangsu province spoke as a witness: "I asked Governor Ho to come to help guard my state. Instead of being called a deserter, he should be regarded as a hero."
Tung Chih looked confused and pleaded to leave.
I excused my son and carried on myself. I remained firm, especially after learning that Ho had attempted to destroy evidence and harass witnesses.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Last Empress"
by .
Copyright © 2007 Anchee Min.
Excerpted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
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