The Last Empress (2 page)

"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 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.

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 would 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.