The Last Empress (16 page)

My trust of Li Hung-chang was based on my sense of him as a man of Confucian values. He trusted me because I had proven to him that I would never take his loyalty for granted. In my view, the only thing the throne could offer was the return of trust and loyalty. I believed that a rebel would be less likely to start an uprising if he was given a province to own. I not only gave Li free rein, but also made him want to serve me.

It was a good business for both of us. Li's profits were one of China's major sources of tax revenue. By 1875 our government was completely dependent on Li Hung-chang. For example, while Li's soldiers supervised the shipment of salt to Peking, which allowed him to oversee the salt monopoly, I received revenue from him to keep China running.

Li Hung-chang never asked the throne to fund his army. This didn't mean that he paid the soldiers from his own coffers. As a smart businessman, he used his own provincial treasury. I was sure that he spent a fortune bribing the Manchu princes who otherwise would have stood in his way. Li also provided so much employment for the nation that if he were to collapse, the country's economy would soon follow. Convinced that China should make widespread improvements, Li built weapons factories, shipyards, coal plants and railways. With my approval and support he also funded China's first postal and telegraph services, its first schools of technology and schools for foreign-language interpreters.

I was unable to push through Li's proposal to establish China's first navy because most court members refused to adopt his sense of urgency. "Too costly" was the official excuse. Li Hung-chang was accused of scaring the nation in order to get his personal armed force funded by the government.

Letters of complaint from conservatives, especially the Manchu Iron-hats, kept coming in. Nothing Li Hung-chang did could please them. The Ironhats grumbled that he was taking their share of the profits, and they threatened revenge. If Li Hung-chang had not cloaked all his deals in secrecy and had his loyalists planted everywhere, he could easily have been assassinated. Still, he was blackmailed for taking kickbacks from commercial contracts and bribes from foreign traders. The conservatives warned me that it was only a matter of time before Li would stage a coup and put himself on the throne.

Li Hung-chang had his own way of fighting the court. He lived outside Peking and came to the capital only when seeking permission to expand his businesses. When he realized that he needed a political voice at court, he created partnerships with his powerful friends, Manchu and Han Chinese alike. Besides Prince Kung, Li had friendly governors in key provinces. His most important partnership was with the governor of Canton, Chang Chih-tung, who built China's largest modern iron foundry. Li made a deal with the Canton governor: instead of ordering the material for his railway from foreign companies, he got it from Canton. The two men were described as "the Northern Li and the Southern Chang."

I received both men in private audiences. Both deserved the honor, but I also realized the importance of staying involved. There had been enough incidents when I had ended up being the last to know.

Every governor was aware that my approval at the court carried
weight, and winning me over had become a vital part of court politics. As a result, people wished to impress me, which led to flattery and dishonesty. Although outrageous lies would not pass my peasant's common sense, I couldn't avoid being fooled sometimes.

"People change," I told my adopted son during an intermission at the court. "Manchu royal decadence is a perfect living example."

Guang-hsu was learning fast. One day he asked why Li Hung-chang bought me gifts, like the cases of French champagne that had recently been delivered.

"To secure his relationship with the throne," I replied. "He needs protection."

"Are you pleased with the gifts?" Guang-hsu asked. "What about the English toothbrush and toothpaste he sent? Wouldn't you have preferred an antique Han vase or some other beautiful object? Most ladies would."

"I am more pleased with the toothbrush and paste," I replied. "And I especially liked Li's handwritten how-to manual. Now I get to protect my teeth from falling out and can also contemplate how to prevent the country from its own decay."

I insisted that Guang-hsu attend my private audiences with Li Hung-chang and Chang Chih-tung. My son learned that it was I who had picked Chang to be the governor of Canton after he had won first place in the civil service examination as a young man.

Guang-hsu asked Chang, "Did you study as hard as I do?"

The governor cleared his throat and looked to me for help.

"If you want to know the truth, Guang-hsu," I said, smiling, "you see, he had to compete with millions of students to win, while you—"

"While I won without sweat." Guang-hsu understood. "I can tell my tutor what grade I want and he'll give it to me."

"Well, Your Majesty deserves the privilege." The governor bowed.

"You know your good grades are not real," I couldn't help but respond to my son.

"That's not totally correct, Mother," Guang-hsu argued. "I sweat differently. Other children can afford to play, because they don't have to bear the responsibility of a nation."

"That's exactly right, Your Majesty." Both governors nodded and smiled.

By the time Guang-hsu was nine, he demonstrated an admirable
dedication to the role of Emperor. He even asked to be given less water to drink in the morning so that he wouldn't have to go to the chamber pot during an audience. He didn't want to miss anything.

His education included Western studies. For the first time in palace history, two tutors in their twenties were hired. They were from Peking's foreign-language school and were here to help teach the throne English.

I enjoyed listening to Guang-hsu practice his lessons. The young tutors tried to keep a straight face when he mispronounced words. Playfulness seemed to be the best encouragement. I remembered how Tung Chih's tutors took the fun out of learning by disciplining him too much. When Prince Kung had attempted to introduce Tung Chih to Western culture, one senior tutor had resigned in protest and another threatened suicide.

My dream for Tung Chih was being realized through Guang-hsu. Tutor Weng was introducing him to the idea of the universe, and Li Hung-chang and Chang Chih-tung were offering him their knowledge of the world, gained through experience.

Li Hung-chang also sent Guang-hsu Western books in translation, which Chang also relished, telling the young Emperor stories of his dealings with foreign merchants, diplomats, missionaries and sailors in Canton.

I disagreed with Tutor Weng's emphasis on classic Chinese literature. The classics dwelled too much on fiction and fatalism. "Guang-hsu must learn the true makeup of his people," I insisted.

I felt so blessed with Guang-hsu's progress that I invited peony and chrysanthemum growers to come to the palace to check the soil in my garden. I couldn't wait for the time I would be able to spend my days thinking of nothing but growing flowers.

When Guang-hsu repeatedly expressed his desire to devote his life to Nuharoo and me, I felt uneasy. Nuharoo believed that it had nothing to do with his early trauma. "He was taught piety by his tutors, that is all," she said.

My instinct told me that my sister had broken something inside the boy, something we were yet to discover. I suspected my own role in the matter. How much was Guang-hsu affected when he was wrenched from the family nest? However terrible it had been, it was his nest. The palace offered him a meaningful existence, but at the price of tremendous pressure. I never stopped questioning myself. Left alone, would
Guang-hsu have fallen into reckless dissipation like the rest of the Manchu royals? What right did I have to determine the course of the boy's life?

Around the age of forty-five I had become uncertain of the life I had chosen for myself. When I first entered the Forbidden City, I never doubted my aspirations to live there. Now I felt even more strongly about what I had missed and what had been taken away from me—the freedom to wander, the right to love and, most of all, the right to be myself.

I would never forget Chinese New Year's celebrations in Wuhu. I had enjoyed the harvest, the fresh rice, salted and roasted soybeans and picked vegetables. All the girls gathered together with their treats and watched local opera performances. I missed visiting relatives and friends. Although I had every luxury and my duties were often rewarding, Imperial glory also meant loneliness and living in constant fear of rebellion and assassination.

Tung Chih's death had changed my perspective toward life. I didn't miss his being the Emperor, I missed holding his tiny feet in my palms when he was born, missed the first time he smiled his toothless smile. I missed taking him to gardens and watching him run free. His favorite thing to do was to fashion willow branches into play horsewhips. Nothing was about being Emperor, but being with each other.

Tung Chih's death had robbed me of happiness, and I was determined to prevent Guang-hsu from being robbed of the same. I avoided anything that would cause regret and remorse, or so I thought. I wasn't sure that I was escaping it.

I wanted to see Guang-hsu become the Emperor on his own terms, not mine. I wished to see him become a man before a ruler. I knew Chinese teachings wouldn't do much to help that, but I hoped that the Western studies might give him that chance.

My attendance at the audiences and Nuharoo's preoccupation with her religious ceremonies often left Guang-hsu at the mercy of the eunuchs after his schooling. I would later discover that several of Guang-hsu's attendants had been extraordinarily malicious. I expected that An-te-hai's death would agitate the eunuch population, causing insecurity and even rage. But I never expected this expression of revenge.

Behind my back, the eunuchs wrapped the nine-year-old Guang-hsu in a heavy blanket and rolled him in the snow. The blanket made him sweat profusely, but his uncovered limbs were exposed to the cold.
When I became suspicious about his chronic coughing, the eunuchs withheld information until I investigated and found out the truth.

His health remained delicate, and the eunuchs continued to torment the boy over An-te-hai's murder. Not all the eunuchs intended to torture Guang-hsu, but their superstitions and antiquated traditions affected how they cared for him. For example, they sincerely believed that starvation and dehydration were acceptable methods of medical treatment.

What I couldn't forgive were those who failed to provide Guang-hsu with a chamber pot in time, and who laughed and humiliated him when he wet his pants. These fiends I punished severely.

Unfortunately, the most vicious acts were committed as if they were nothing out of the ordinary. Then it was I who was called abusive and cruel.

I could not forgive myself even after the eunuchs were punished. Guang-hsu's suffering pained me. I began to doubt my making him Emperor. The irony was that the Manchu princes constantly wished for fate to put their sons in Guang-hsu's shoes.

Future critics, historians and scholars would insist that Guang-hsu had led a normal life until I, his aunt, wrecked him. Guang-hsu's life in the Forbidden City was described as "deprived." He was constantly "tormented by the evil murderess" and, it was said, he lived like "a virtual prisoner until he died."

Although it was true that I did not adopt Guang-hsu out of love, I grew to love him. I could not explain how it had happened, nor did I feel the need to. Salvation was what I found in the little boy. Anyone who was once a mother or who had the misfortune to lose a child would understand what happened between Guang-hsu and me.

I remembered that Guang-hsu was too young to detect my intentions as I taught by example that ruling our vast country was a balancing act. I hinted that placing trust in his ministers would not be good enough to secure his position as the one and only ruler of China. It was people like Li Hung-chang and Chang Chih-tung who could float or sink his "boat." I let Guang-hsu watch how I played both men against each other as I turned the court into a real-life stage.

During one October audience Li Hung-chang got carried away with his proposal to demolish the ancient Chinese school system and replace it with a Western model. As a counterweight to his enthusiasm, I used Chang Chih-tung. As a product of the traditional Chinese
system, Chang preached the importance of "educating the soul before its body."

At this audience, as I had predicted to Guang-hsu, Li suddenly felt he was under attack. "It is my way to lead him to reconsider his approach," I explained to Guang-hsu later. "My calling for Chang served to remind Li Hung-chang that he is not the only one the throne depends on."

Such tactics of manipulation were not something I wished to teach my son, but they were necessary to his survival as Emperor. Guang-hsu had inherited Tung Chih's vulnerable empire, and I saw it as my duty to prepare him for the worst. As the saying went, "The devil that can hurt you is the devil you don't know." The damage would be even worse if the child were to be betrayed by his parent or guardian—a lesson I learned with Tung Chih's death.

The temperature suddenly dropped and water in the giant jar in the courtyard outside the audience hall glazed over with ice. Inside, the wood-burning heaters glowed red in the four corners. Nuharoo and I were glad that we had had the windows repaired. The gaps had been sealed to stop the whistle of the northwest wind. The eunuchs also changed the draperies. The thin silk curtains were replaced by thick velvet.

As soon as Guang-hsu was able, I talked with Tutor Weng and made the audiences his classroom. It was not easy for my son. His tutor would help him digest what he saw and heard. Often the matters were too complicated for a child to grasp. To make it work, I took time preparing Guang-hsu for the upcoming discussion.

"Was it Russia's business to protect Sinkiang?" Guang-hsu asked about the situation back in 1871, when tsarist forces had moved into our far western wilderness of Sinkiang, a region called Ili, after its river.