The Last Empress Read online

  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 An-te-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.

  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 Taip-ing 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.

  Prince Kung quit the proceedings after days of dreadful argument, excusing himself by saying that he preferred to leave the matter in my hands. I continued to fight the court, who now demanded "a more credible investigator."

  I felt as if I were playing a game whose rules I failed to understand. And there was no time to learn them. In my son's name I summoned General Tseng Kuo-fan, who had been Governor Ho's temporary replacement. I let him know that I was desperately looking for people who would tell nothing but the truth. I asked him to be in charge of the new investigation.

  I explained to Tung Chih that his father and I had always had great faith in General Tseng's integrity. In an effort to keep my son interested, I told him the story of Tseng's first meeting with Emperor Hsien Feng and how the hero-warlord was terrified when the Emperor asked him to explain why he was nicknamed "Head-Chopper Tseng."

  Tung Chih was entertained by tales of Tseng's exploits and asked whether the general was a Manchu. "No, he is Han Chinese." I took the opportunity to drive my point home. "You will see how the court discriminates against the Han."

  "As long as he can fight and win for me," my son responded, "I don't care what race he is."

  I was proud of him and said, "That is why you are the Emperor."

  The court accepted my appointment of Tseng Kuo-fan, which made me think that someone must believe that Tseng was corrupt. I made it a condition that Tseng's findings would be part of the public record.

  Within a month, Tseng delivered his findings before the assembled court, which pleased me greatly:

  Although there were no paper documents left for my investigators to obtain, since the governor's mansion was burned down by the Taipings, the fact remains that Governor Ho Kui-ching failed in his duty to guard his provinces. Beheading would not be an inappropriate treatment, as it is the law of the Imperial government. Whether it was true or not that he was persuaded by his subordinates to desert is, in my opinion, rather irrelevant.

  The hall was silent after Tseng Kuo-fan's statement was announced. And I knew I had won.

  I resented the fact that it was I who had to give the final word for the execution. I may not have been as devout a Buddhist as Nuharoo, but I believed in the Buddha's teaching that "to kill is to decrease one's virtue." Such an awesome act would throw off one's inner balance and diminish one's longevity. Unfortunately, I was unable to avoid carrying out the sentence.

  The second man to be prosecuted was General Sheng Pao, who was not only my friend but had also made significant contributions to the dynasty. I lost sleep over his case, although I never doubted my actions.

  The trees outside my windows tossed violently in a sudden storm, like bare arms crying for help. Rain-soaked and wind-battered branches broke and fell on the yellow roof tiles of my palace. The large magnolia tree in the yard had started budding early this year, and the storm would surely ruin its blooming.

  It was midnight and Sheng Pao was on my mind as I stared at the raindrops streaming down the windowpanes. There was no way to prepare myself. My thoughts couldn't silence an inner voice: Orchid, without Sheng Pao you wo
uld not have lived.

  Sheng Pao was a fearless Manchu Bannerman, a fearless soldier, who grew up in poverty and was a self-made man. He had been the commander in chief of the northern Imperial forces for many years and had great influence in the court. He was feared by his enemies, so much so that his name alone could make any Taiping rebel shudder. The general loved his soldiers and hated war, for he knew the cost. Choosing to negotiate with rebel leaders, he had been able to take back many provinces without the use of force.

  Sheng Pao had sided with me in my action against the former grand councilor Su Shun back in 1861. The coup that had occurred after my husband's death was a defining moment for me, and Sheng Pao had been the only military man to come to my aid.

  The problems with Sheng Pao began after our return from Jehol, the Imperial hunting ground, to Peking with the body of my husband, Emperor Hsien Feng. As a reward for his service, I had promoted the general, securing for him unrivaled power and wealth. Before long, however, complaints of Sheng Pao's abuses were sent from all parts of the country. The letters were first delivered to the Board of War. No one dared to challenge Sheng Pao himself.

  Prince Kung ignored the complaints and hoped that Sheng Pao would control himself. It was wishful thinking. It was even suggested that I turn a blind eye as well because Sheng Pao was too important.

  I tried my best to be patient, but it reached a point where my son's authority as ruler was being questioned. I went to Prince Kung and asked him to sue Sheng Pao for justice.

  Prince Kung's investigators discovered that the general had inflated casualty figures in order to receive additional compensation. He also claimed false victories to secure promotions for his officers. Sheng Pao demanded that the court grant all his requests. Raising local taxes for his personal use had become common practice for him. It was known that he indulged in excessive drinking and prostitution.

  Other governors had started to follow Sheng Pao's example. Some of them stopped paying Imperial taxes. The soldiers were drilled to be loyal to the governors instead of to Emperor Tung Chih. A mocking slogan was becoming popular on the streets of Peking: "It is not Tung Chih but Sheng Pao who is the Emperor of China."

  The extravagance of Sheng Pao's wedding became the latest news. And the fact that his bride was the former wife of a known Taiping rebel leader.

  Shortly after sunrise, the sun broke through the clouds, but the rain hadn't stopped. A mist rose in the yard, climbing the trees like white smoke.

  I was sitting in my chair, already dressed, when my eunuch An-te-hai entered, and with excitement in his voice he announced, "My lady, Yung Lu is here."

  My breath halted at the sight of him.

  Looking tall and strong in his Bannerman's uniform, Yung Lu entered the chamber.

  I tried to get up to greet him but my legs felt weak, so I remained seated.

  An-te-hai came between us with a yellow velvet mat. Taking his time, he put the mat down a few feet away from my chair. This was part of the ritual required for anyone meeting the Imperial widow in the second year after her mourning period. The etiquette felt ridiculous, because Yung Lu and I had seen each other many times at audiences, although we were forced to act like strangers. The purpose of the ritual was to remind us of the distance between Imperial men and women.

  By now my eunuchs, servants and ladies in waiting stood against the walls with their hands folded. They stared at An-te-hai as he put on his show. Over the years, he had become a master of illusion. With Yung Lu and me as his actors, he staged a clever drama of distraction.

  Yung Lu threw himself on the mat and knocked his forehead lightly on the ground and wished me good health.

  I uttered, "Rise."

  As Yung Lu stood, An-te-hai slowly pulled away the mat, attracting all the attention to himself while Yung Lu and I exchanged glances.

  Tea was served while we sat like two vases. We began to talk about the aftermath of the prosecution of Governor Ho and exchanged opinions on the pending Sheng Pao case. Yung Lu assured me that my decisions had been sound.

  My mind leapt as I sat beside my love. I could not forget what had happened four years before, when the two of us shared our only private moment, inside the tomb of Hsien Feng. I longed to know if Yung Lu remembered the event as I did. I could find no evidence as I looked at him. A few days earlier, when he took a seat at an audience and looked straight in my direction, I questioned whether our shared passion had ever taken place. As Emperor Hsien Feng's widow, I would have no future with any man. Yet my heart refused to stay in its tomb.

  Yung Lu's position as the commander of the Bannermen constantly took him away from the capital. With or without his troops he moved where he was needed, making sure China's armies were fulfilling their duty to the empire. As a man of action, it was a life that suited him; he was a soldier who preferred the company of other soldiers over the ministers at court.

  Yung Lu's frequent absences made my longing easier to bear. Only with his return would I realize the depth of my feeling. Suddenly he would be in my presence, reporting on some urgent matter or offering counsel at a critical moment. He might stay in the capital for weeks or months, and during those times would dutifully attend court. Only during these periods could I say that I looked forward to the daily audience.

  Outside the audiences, Yung Lu avoided me. It was his way of protecting me from rumor and gossip. Whenever I expressed a desire to see him privately, he would decline. I kept sending An-te-hai anyway. I wanted Yung Lu to know that the eunuch was available to lead him through the back door of the audience hall to my chamber.

  Although Yung Lu had reassured me of the rightness of my decision regarding Sheng Pao, I still worried. True, the evidence against him was damning, but the general had many allies in court, among them Prince Kung, who I'd noticed was keeping his distance. When Sheng Pao was finally escorted to Peking, my brother-in-law suddenly reappeared in my presence, insisting that Sheng Pao be sent into exile instead of being executed. I reminded Kung again that the original order for Sheng Pao's execution had been issued by Emperor Hsien Feng. Prince Kung didn't budge. He saw my insistence as a kind of declaration of war.

  I felt vulnerable and scared when petitions for Sheng Pao's release arrived from the far corners of China. Once again Yung Lu came to my defense and steadied my hand. He gave me courage and the composure to think. Very few knew that Yung Lu had his own reasons to see Sheng Pao to his end: Yung Lu took offense when Sheng Pao slaughtered wounded soldiers. To Yung Lu, it was a matter of principle.

  My strategy was simple: I assured Sheng Pao's subordinates that I would not behead Sheng Pao if a majority of them believed that he deserved to live. I also changed the rules so that those in Sheng Pao's clan would not be punished along with their leader. Relieved, the people could now vote with their hearts, and they wished Sheng Pao dead.

  Sheng Pao was sent to the Board of Punishment, where he was put to a quick end. A sense of sadness and failure washed over me. For days I had the same dream: My father was standing on a stool at the end of a dark hall surrounded by steep walls. In his gray cotton pajamas he tried to hammer a nail into the wall. He was terribly thin, his skin clinging to his bones. The stool he stood on was shaky and one of its legs was missing. I called to him and he turned, stiff-necked. His left arm reached toward me and he opened his palm. In it was a fistful of rusty nails.

  I dared not have the dream interpreted, because in Chinese mythology rusty nails represented remorse and regret.

  I couldn't have done what I did without the support of Yung Lu. My feelings for him would deepen over time, but our physical love would remain a thing of dreams. Every day I felt the absence of a man in my life. I worried more, however, about my son. Almost ten years before, I had lost a husband, but my son had lost his father. It was doubly tragic to my mind. It meant that Tung Chih would have to assume the full responsibilities of his position and so miss out on childhood. The joys of carefree days were not to be. Already, young as he was, I coul
d detect a restlessness about him that occasionally broke out in hot flashes of temper.

  Tung Chih needed a male hand to guide him. That was the second part of the tragedy. He was not only being hurried to assume a difficult role before his time, he also had no one on whom to model his character and behavior. In a court riven by political tension there were few father figures who did not also bring with them some hidden agenda.

  Yung Lu and Prince Kung were the two men I had hoped would fulfill the role. But the conflict over Sheng Pao had made that difficult. Yung Lu had enjoyed great popularity until he took my side. Now his influence was in question. And I would soon begin to sense how deeply resentful Prince Kung was at my outmaneuvering him to claim the life of his old ally.

  3

  If I had expected to fight Governor Ho Kui-ching and General Sheng Pao, I never expected to have to fight my brother-in-law Prince Kung. Our histories had been so intertwined for so long that an unraveling of our relationship was not something I was prepared for. Since the crisis that followed my husband's death in Jehol, we had been important, even essential, allies. Kung had remained behind in Peking as the court fled the approaching foreign armies and had the humiliating task of negotiating with the occupying invaders. When Grand Councilor Su Shun attempted to seize power in the exiled court beyond the Great Wall, Kung was still in Peking and free to organize a countercoup. More than any other man, he had saved Nuharoo, myself, and young Tung Chih.

  And we were friends—or at least I felt affection for him and believed I understood what motivated him. He had genuine talent and was, I'd always thought, more capable than his brother, who ended up on the throne. More reserved and more disciplined than Hsien Feng, Prince Kung could seem cold, but at least he didn't let bitterness infect him. For this he had my respect, and that of much of the court. I had always felt that he acted for the good of China and not for his own selfish purposes.