The Last Empress (23 page)

The generals and officers on the frontier were confused by Tutor Weng's instructions. "'We are what we believe' is not the kind of advice we can tell our men to follow," they complained. Yung Lu, in a personal letter to me from the front, was especially contemptuous of Weng. But my hands were tied.

"Understanding the moral behind the war will win us the war," the grand tutor responded. "There is no better instruction than Confu-cius's teaching: 'The man of virtue will not seek to live at the expense of humanity.'"

When I suggested that he at least listen to Li Hung-chang, Tutor
Weng simply said, "If we fail to react in a timely fashion, Japan will enter Peking and burn down the Forbidden City, the same way England burned down Yuan Ming Yuan."

The Emperor's father, Prince Ch'un, echoed, "There is no betrayal worse than forgetting what the foreigners have done to us."

I left Tutor Weng alone but insisted that a new Board of Admiralty for war be set up under Prince Ch'un, Prince Ts'eng and Li Hung-chang. Six years earlier, Li had contracted with foreign firms to build fortified harbors, including major bases at Port Arthur in Manchuria and Wei-haiwei on the Shantung Peninsula. Ships were purchased from England and Germany. By now we had twenty-five warships. No one seemed to want to hear it when Li said, "The navy is far from ready for war. The naval academy has just finished drafting its curriculum and hiring its instructors. The first generation of student officers is only in training."

"China is equipped!" Prince Ch'un convinced himself. "All we need is to put our people on board."

Li Hung-chang warned, "Modern warships are useless in the wrong hands."

I couldn't stop the court from shouting patriotic slogans in response to Li.

Emperor Guang-hsu said he was all set to go to war: "I have waited long enough."

I prayed that my son would do what his great ancestors had done, rise to the occasion and put his enemies to flight. Yet deep in my heart, fear sank in. For all Guang-hsu's admirable qualities, I knew he was incapable of playing a dominant role. He had been trying hard, but he lacked a dynamic strategy and the necessary ruthlessness. A secret I kept from the public was Guang-hsu's medical and emotional problems. I just couldn't see him controlling his ill-tempered half-brothers, the leaders of the Ironhats. And I couldn't see him winning over the Manchu Clan Council either. I wished that Guang-hsu would tell me I was wrong, that despite his shortcomings he would be lucky and win the day.

I resented myself for not ending Guang-hsu's dependence. He continued to seek my approval and support. I kept silent when the entire Clan Council suggested that I resume daily supervision of the nation. I meant to provoke my son. I wanted him to challenge me, and I wanted to see him explode in rage. I was giving him a chance to stand up and speak for himself. I told him that he could overrule the council if he
felt he should take power into his own hands. That was the case with the dynasty's most successful emperors, such as Kang Hsi, Yung Cheng and his great-grandfather Chien Lung.

But it was not to be. Guang-hsu was too gentle, too timid. He would hesitate, fall into conflict with himself and in the end give up.

Maybe I already sensed Guang-hsu's tragedy. I had begun suffering his fear. I felt that I was failing him. I got angry when his half-brother and cousin, Prince Ch'un Junior and Prince Ts'eng Junior, took advantage of him. They spoke to Guang-hsu as if he were below them. Sick of hearing my own voice, I continued to tell my son to act like an emperor.

I must have confused Guang-hsu. In retrospect, I could see that the monarch was not acting himself. It was I who demanded that he be someone he was not. He wanted so much to make me happy.

I returned to the Summer Palace, tired of the endless bickering between the War Party and the Peace Party. The burden of arbitration was left solely to me, not because I had any special competence but because nobody else could do any better.

Behind my back and in the midst of the national crisis, Prince Ch'un requisitioned the funds Li Hung-chang had borrowed for the naval academy. Ch'un built motor launches for the amusement of the court at the lake palaces in Peking and on Kun Ming Lake, near where I lived.

Later on, Li Hung-chang would confess, "The Emperor's father was in a position to demand money from me at any time. I let him have his way in exchange for not interfering with my business affairs."

Other admiralty funds were used by Prince Ch'un and Prince Ts'eng to shower gifts on me, underwriting lavish and unnecessary projects in order to win my support. The repair of the Marble Barge was an example.

Enraged, I confronted Prince Ch'un: "What pleasure would the costly damn barge bring me?"

"We thought Your Majesty would enjoy going out on the water without wetting her shoes," my brother-in-law said. He further explained that the Marble Barge was originally built by Emperor Chien Lung for his mother, who was afraid of water.

"But I love the water!" I yelled. "I would swim in the lake if I were only allowed to!"

Prince Ch'un promised to stop the project, but he lied. It was hard
for him to quit—he had already dispersed most of the funds, and he needed an ongoing excuse to push Li for additional money.

Li Hung-chang parried with Prince Ch'un. Instead of going to foreign banks for loans, Li launched a "Navy Defense Fund Drive." He made no effort to hide the fact that the money he raised would actually benefit "the Dowager Empress's sixtieth birthday party." Li meant to shoot down Prince Ch'un, but I was being used as collateral. Li Hung-chang must have believed that I deserved this treatment because I was responsible for teaming him up with Prince Ch'un in the first place.

Guang-hsu declared war on Japan, but he had little confidence in overseeing it. He relied on Tutor Weng, who knew wars only through books. I had yet to learn how conflicted Guang-hsu was as a man. Lan let me know that her husband was a romantic at heart, but was afraid of women.

"We have been married for five years." Lan's lips trembled and she broke down. "We slept together only once, and now he wants a separation."

I promised to help. The result was that the couple agreed to continue to live together in the same compound. What saddened me was that Guang-hsu had built a wall around his apartment in order to block Lan's entrance.

When I talked with Guang-hsu, he explained that his neglect of Lan was out of self-defense. "She told me that I owe her a child."

He described Lan's midnight intrusions. "She scared my eunuchs, who thought that her shadow was that of an assassin."

When I tried to make Guang-hsu understand that Lan had her wifely rights, he said that he didn't think he was able to perform his duty as a husband.

"I haven't been cured yet," he said, meaning his involuntary ejaculations. "I don't think I ever will be."

Guang-hsu had bravely mentioned his condition to me before, but I had hoped things would improve with greater experience in love.

I was unable to overcome the feeling that I had created a tragedy. It made me feel even worse to know that Lan believed I could force Guang-hsu to love her.

During the day, Guang-hsu and I conducted audiences dealing with the war against Japan; in the evening, we buried ourselves in documents and drafts of edicts. The only time we could relax a bit was during late-
night breaks. I tried to talk casually about Lan, but Guang-hsu knew my intention.

"I am sure Lan doesn't deserve me," Guang-hsu said. The regret in his eyes was sincere. He held himself responsible for not being able to produce an heir, and said that for some time he had been feeling weak and tired. "I am not asking you to forgive me." He made an effort to push back his tears. "I let you down..." He began to weep. "I am beyond shame as an Imperial man. Soon the world will know."

"Your condition will remain a secret until we find a cure." I tried to comfort him, but now I saw that beyond being despondent he might be truly ill.

"What about Lan?" Guang-hsu raised his tearful eyes. "I am afraid there will come a day when she will publicly attack me."

"Leave her to me."

Lan refused to accept my explanation of Guang-hsu's medical condition. Stubbornly she believed that her husband meant to reject her. "He is listless with me, but he is full of spirit when with his other concubines, especially Pearl."

I made sure that Lan would not let her feelings of frustration run away with her. "We are the ladies of masks," I told her. "Cloaking ourselves in divine glory and sacrifice is our destiny."

I was grateful that Guang-hsu allowed me to bring in doctors to examine him, and he answered their most intimate questions. He had borne so much pain and humiliation. I admired him for being above himself in conquering his personal sufferings.

The diagnosis was delivered, and it broke my heart: Guang-hsu had a lung condition. He had contracted bronchitis, and was vulnerable to tuberculosis. The image of Tung Chih lying on his bed came back to me. I held Guang-hsu in my arms and wept.

The city of Peking ran out of firewood during the New Year of 1894. The wood we did receive was green and damp and produced thick smoke. We coughed and hacked while conducting audiences. The minister of the Board of the Interior was summoned and questioned. He kept apologizing and promising that the next load would be smoke free. According to Yung Lu, the northern section of the railroad responsible for transporting the wood had been destroyed by desperate peasant rebels. The tracks were dislodged and the wooden ties were sold for burning. The troops Yung Lu sent could not fix the problem fast enough.

Early on the morning of New Year's Day, an urgent message woke me: Prince Ch'un had died. "The Emperor's father had a stroke while inspecting naval installations," the message read.

Doctor Sun Pao-tien said that exhaustion had claimed Prince Ch'un's life. The prince had been determined to show his readiness to launch a counterattack against Japan. He had denounced his brother Prince Kung and Viceroy Li Hung-chang. He bragged about his ability to get the job done, "the way a Mongolian plays jump-rope without breaking a sweat."

Prince Ch'un wouldn't consult with Kung or Li. He was not about to "pick up a rock and smash his own toes with it"—he refused to "insult" himself. I had seen the same self-defeating behavior in the rest of the Imperial family. Prince Ch'un might have covered his home with calligraphed maxims about pursuing the simple life, but power meant everything to him.

I remembered being concerned about the discoloration of Prince Ch'un's lips. He believed that his dizziness was just a part of his morning-after hangover. He continued to throw banquets, believing that small talk and private deals were the way to get things done.

Guang-hsu was grief-stricken. He was much closer to his father than his mother, of course. Kneeling between his uncles, he couldn't bring himself to finish the death announcement at the morning audience.

Later, at the reception before the burial, my sister made a show of demanding that her younger son, Prince Ch'un Junior, be given his father's position.

When I denied her request, Rong turned to Guang-hsu and said, "Let's hear what the Emperor has to say."

Guang-hsu stared blankly at his mother as if not understanding her.

"It's my birthright!" Prince Ch'un Junior claimed. He towered over Guang-hsu by half a head. As the leader of the new Manchu generation, the young Ch'un was a man of neither modesty nor patience. His eyes were bloodshot and his breath thick with alcohol. He reminded me of a bull in the mood for a fight.

"Discipline your younger son," I said to my sister.

"Guang-hsu is nothing but an embroidered pillowcase stuffed with straw," Rong said. "Ch'un Junior should have been the one for the throne!"

I could hardly believe my sister. I turned to look at Guang-hsu, who was visibly distraught. Then I nodded at Li Lien-ying, who then yelled, "Her Majesty's and His Majesty's palanquins!"

While riding back to the palace, I realized I had witnessed in our family the decay of the whole royal class. It didn't occur to young Prince Ch'un that he could fail just as his father did.

Rong and I had grown so far apart that even seeing each other became unbearable. It worried me that Prince Ch'un Junior could be next in line if something should happen to Guang-hsu. Ch'un Junior had the physical stature but little in the way of a mind. Although I had been encouraging the young Manchus to pursue the path of their ancestors and had been rewarding them with promotions, I was disappointed in my nephew. I insisted that he take an apprenticeship under either Prince Kung or Li Hung-chang. Since the boy refused to follow my instructions, his position in court remained insignificant.

For the next few weeks, while Guang-hsu conducted audiences, I sat in one royal temple or another receiving guests who came to mourn Prince Ch'un. Surrounded by beating drums, loud music and chanting lamas, I performed rituals and gave my approval to various requests regarding the prince's funeral: the number of banquets and guests, the style and scent of candles, the color of the dead's wrapping sheets and the carvings on the dead's decorative buttons. No one seemed to care about the ongoing war. The daily death toll from the frontier didn't seem to bother Ch'un Junior or his Ironhat friends. They drank to excess and fought over prostitutes.

I was feeling my age. My bleak view of the future made me sick to my stomach.

"That's because you are not drinking scorpion soup, my lady," Li Lien-ying said.

I told him, "You look like you have a smile mask sewn on your face."

Li Lien-ying ignored me and continued with his advice. "The theory behind the scorpion soup is that it takes poison to fight poison."

On September 17, 1894, at the mouth of the Yalu River, the Japanese destroyed half of our navy in a single afternoon, and not a single ship of theirs was seriously damaged. The coast was now literally clear, and Japan could land men and arms and march on Peking.

On November 16, Li Hung-chang reported that the Manchu princes, whom he was forced to do business with, had profited from the war by supplying our troops with defective ammunition. Only one month into the fighting, Port Arthur had been captured. Rather than surrender, Li Hung-chang's field commanders led their soldiers to commit suicide.