Guang-hsu chose two sisters from the Tatala clan-which had close connections to the Yehonala clan-as his concubines. The girls were favorite students of Tutor Weng. Guang-hsu first heard his grand tutor praising them, and then was impressed when he met them. The girls' father was the secretary of the Imperial Board of Justice, a friend of Prince Kung's who was known for his liberal views.
I didn't quite know how to react when Guang-hsu presented the girls to me. The younger one, Zhen, or Pearl, was barely fourteen years old. She was beautiful and acted more like Guang-hsu's younger sister than his concubine. Pearl was curious, bright and vivacious. The elder girl, Chin, or Lustrous, was fifteen. She was rotund with a placid but stiff expression. Guang-hsu seemed happy with his selection and asked for my approval.
Although there were a number of girls who came highly recommended, and who in my opinion were much better qualified in terms of beauty and intelligence, I promised myself not to interfere with Guang-hsu's decisions. I was a little selfish and thought that the less attractive the girls, the safer it would be for my niece Lan. I would be doing Lan a disservice by surrounding her husband with beauties. Despite my prayers that Guang-hsu and Lan would eventually fall in love, I asked myself, what if they don't?
Pearl and Lustrous completed a harmonious package. When I lined them up with Lan, I thought the arrangement ideal: Pearl was young, Lustrous was passive, and Lan was given a chance to shine. My goal was to encourage Guang-hsu to have children with all of them.
The three girls came for tea in beautiful dresses. They reminded me of my youth. I intended to let them know of my regrettable relationship with Alute. The girls didn't expect my frankness and were stunned.
"I am sorry to put you through this," I explained. "If you don't already know the story, you will hear it sooner or later from palace rumors. It's better that I tell you my own version."
I warned them to put aside their expectations of life inside the Forbidden City. "Don't focus on how life should be but how life is." I let Lan know that I was thrilled to share with her a passion for literature and opera, but I cautioned her that poetry and opera are diversions, not serious pursuits.
The girls didn't seem to understand, but each nodded obediently.
"Alute and Tung Chih fell in love the first time they met," I went on. "But Tung Chih abandoned her after a few months for other women." I mentioned how I lost my husband to Chinese concubines. "It takes character, an iron will and endurance to survive inside the Forbidden City." To make my point clear, I emphasized that I would not tolerate another Alute.
While Lan, who already knew the story, listened, Lustrous and Pearl widened their eyes as I spoke of my late daughter-in-law Alute. I had to stop to wipe my tears, for the memory of Tung Chih was unbearable.
Pearl wept when I described Alute's sad end.
"I'd never do what Alute did even if I become disappointed with my life and wish to kill myself," she cried. "Alute was wrong to murder her baby!"
"Pearl," Lustrous interrupted. "Stop, please. Negative emotions will harm the Grand Empress's health."
"Would you say that you have survived and prospered?" Lan asked me at our third tea party.
"Survived, maybe-definitely not prospered" was my reply.
"Everyone in the country believes that your life is a fairy tale," Pearl said. "It's not true?"
"To an extent I suppose it is true," I agreed. "I live in the Forbidden City, thousands cater to my needs, my wardrobe is beyond imagining, but-"
"You are worshiped by millions," Lan interrupted.
"Are you not, Grand Empress?" the sisters followed.
I paused, debating whether I should reveal my true thoughts. "I will say this: I have gained prestige but lost happiness."
Despite her sister's elbow-pushing, Pearl voiced her disbelief and begged me to explain.
"My father was the governor of Wuhu when I was seven years old," I began. "I played with my village friends in the fields, hills and lakes. Our family was financially better off than most of the other townspeople, who relied entirely on the year's crops for survival. My biggest wish was to be able to afford a New Year's present for my best friend, a skinny, long-legged girl nicknamed Grasshopper. Grasshopper said that if I really meant to make her happy, all I had to do was allow her to clean my family's feces pit."
"What?" the Imperial ladies cried. "She wanted your shit?"
I nodded. "To have a steady supply of feces to fertilize his land is every farmer's dream." Sipping the finest tea, I described how Grasshopper and her family came to our house to collect this "gift." How each member carried wooden buckets and a bamboo pole. How they sang songs as they emptied the pit. How Grasshopper worked in the pit on her knees, scraping the sides.
The three delicate ladies were wide-eyed. Pearl looked so taken aback that she held a hand over her mouth, as if afraid of something she might say.
"I will never forget the smile on Grasshopper's face." I drank up my tea. "She made me know what happiness is. I have never known such simple contentment since entering the Forbidden City."
"You sound like you haven't been lucky!" Pearl couldn't help saying.
"No," I sighed.
Guang-hsu and Tutor Weng joined us for dinner. Pearl, in all her innocence and natural charm, begged Guang-hsu to share what he had learned that day. As a student of Tutor Weng herself, they teased each other. Guang-hsu seemed to enjoy Pearl's challenge, and their friendship flourished in front of my eyes.
"I am convinced that China's only hope of salvation is in learning and emulating the science and technology of the Western nations," Guang-hsu said in a high-pitched voice, and Pearl nodded respectfully.
When Pearl asked the Emperor to explain how a clock worked, Guang-hsu sent his eunuch to bring a few items from his collection. Like a performer, he took a clock apart, pointing out its inner workings. She stared in awe of him, their two heads practically glued together as they continued exploring.
I could tell that Lan wished for the chance to talk with the Emperor about poetry and literature. Later, when I was alone with my niece, I asked of her feelings. We were sitting in front of her dressing mirror.
"Guang-hsu paid more attention to his concubines than to his Empress," Lan complained.
I didn't want to be the one to have to tell her this, but believed she ought to prepare herself: "This could be just a beginning, Lan."
My niece raised her small eyes and glanced at herself in the mirror. She was judging herself critically. A moment later she lowered her head and began to weep. "I am ugly."
I put my hands on her shoulders.
"No!" She shook me off. "Look at my teeth. They are crooked!"
"You are beautiful, Lan." I gently stroked her arms. "You remember Nuharoo, don't you? Who was the prettier, she or I? Everyone agreed that she was, including myself, because that was the truth. I was no rival of Nuharoo. But Emperor Hsien Feng abandoned her for me."
My niece raised her tearful eyes.
"It's all in the effort," I encouraged her.
"What does Guang-hsu see in Pearl?"
"Her vibrancy, perhaps…"
"No, it's her looks."
"Lan, listen to me. Guang-hsu was raised with beauties in his backyard. To him they are nothing but walking ornaments. As you know, Tung Chih abandoned three thousand beauties from all over the country for brothel whores."
"I don't know how to be vibrant!" Lan's tears streamed down her cheeks. "The more I think about it, the more nervous I become. I can't even get Guang-hsu to look at me."
As we bid each other goodnight, I told Lan that there was still time if she wanted to cancel the marriage.
"But I want to be the Empress of China," Lan said, her tone surprisingly determined.
It was the first time I discovered her stubbornness.
"I want to be like you," she added.
On February 26, 1889, Guang-hsu's wedding was celebrated by the nation. The Emperor was not yet eighteen. Like Nuharoo, Lan entered from the center gate, the Gate of Celestial Tranquility. Lustrous and Pearl entered from the side, the same gate I had entered thirty-seven years before.
A week later, on March 4, I retired from the regency. It was the second time I had done so. I was fifty-four years old. From then on I was officially called the Dowager Empress. I was happily able to return to the gardens of the Summer Palace, leaving the court's headaches to Guang-hsu and his father, Prince Ch'un.
The Manchu hardliners feared Guang-hsu's commitment to reform, which he demonstrated in his very first decree: "I shall overturn the old order in the Middle Kingdom and sweep away reactionary forces who cannot bring themselves to acknowledge reality. And this means demotion, removal, exile and execution for the stone-minded."
Although I offered no public support to Guang-hsu, my silence spoke for itself.
Despising Emperor Guang-hsu and doubting my resolve to withdraw from power, one of the hardliners' representatives, a provincial judge, submitted a petition insisting that I continue the regency. What amazed me was the number of signatures he collected. People must have thought that I hadn't meant what I said. I learned that the judge had assumed that I was waiting for just such a proposal.
Instead of rewarding the judge with a promotion, I canceled the court's plan to discuss the petition. I called it a waste of time and fired the provincial judge, making sure that it was a permanent dismissal. I explained to the nation, "The regency was never my choice to begin with."
My intention was to let people know that bad ideas grow like weeds in the court.
I marked my retirement by hosting a celebration during which I handed out awards to a great many people. I issued half a dozen edicts to thank everyone, living and dead, who had worked during the regency.
Among the important personages I honored was the Englishman Robert Hart, for his devotion and achievement as the inspector general of China's customs service. The edict was issued despite strong objections from the court's ministers. I granted Hart a most prestigious title, the ancestral rank of First Class of the First Order for Three Generations. It meant that the honor was retroactive, bestowed on his ancestors rather than on his descendants. It might seem whimsical from a foreigner's point of view, but for a Chinese, nothing could be more honorable.
I played mute and deaf when the Clan Council cried, "A foreign devil now outranks most of us and our ancestors!"
I could not argue enough that Robert Hart represented the kind of revolutionary change China desperately needed. Yet the court collectively denied my request to meet with him in person. The minister of the Board of Etiquette threatened to resign as he laid out his records showing that in all of Chinese history a female of my status had never received a foreign male. Thirteen more years would pass before I finally got to meet with Robert Hart.
I never expected that the restoration of my retirement home would become a scandal. It began with a gesture of piety. When I decided to settle in the Summer Palace-originally called Ch'ing I Yuan, Garden of Clear Rippling Waters-it was Prince Ch'un who insisted that it be restored. As chief minister, he spoke on behalf of the Emperor. Ch'un meant to provide me with a comfortable home, which I gratefully accepted.
I did not want to embarrass Prince Ch'un by pointing out that he had resisted the same idea when it was proposed by Tung Chih after he mounted the throne back in 1873. At that time Ch'un claimed that there was a shortage of funds. How, I wondered, would he raise the funds now? I could only conclude that he wanted to keep me strolling in my gardens rather than meddling in state affairs.
I remained passive because it was time for Prince Ch'un to step into my shoes. As the minister of the Board of Admiralty, he had been a roaring tiger, tearing apart Li Hung-chang's effort to modernize China. What surprised me was his unlikely collaborator, Tutor Weng. Weng was a liberal and a strong advocate for reform who had supported Li's initiatives. But when he became Prince Ch'un's new minister of revenue, he discovered that he didn't like sharing power with Li. Prince Ch'un and Tutor Weng had already sent numerous memorandums denouncing Li and my approval of Li's projects. Both men were convinced that they could do a better job if they were given total control.
I had hinted to Li Hung-chang about what would be coming when I retired. It was frustrating to witness how Li was forced to endure humiliation, attacks on his character, even assassination attempts. The only thing I could do was show him how much I valued him. In a message delivered to Li by Yung Lu, his closest ally at court, I wrote, "If it becomes too much, you have my permission to take a leave of absence for any reason." I told him that I would grant any amount of compensation he might claim.
Li Hung-chang assured me that would be unnecessary and that my understanding of his sacrifices was all he needed to carry on. "It is not at all a good time for experimenting or allowing the stubborn-minded Ironhats time for self-discovery," I wrote him, "but that is how things are for me here."
I had lived with my husband in the Summer Palace. It was divided by lakes, called North Sea, South Sea and Middle Sea. Unlike Yuan Ming Yuan, which was a man-made wonder, the Summer Palace was designed to harmonize with nature's ways. The Garden of Clear Rippling Water, surrounding the palace itself, was only a small portion of the greater park area. Across its expanse, airy pavilions sat amid the lush green landscape, and the three large lakes glinted between shallow hills. My memories of the place were more than fond.
It was Guang-hsu who finally convinced me to allow the restoration to take place. He personally read his statement to the court urging the start of construction. "It is the least China can bestow on its Grand Empress, who has suffered so much." I could see that Guang-hsu was attempting to assert his independence, and I felt that I needed to support him.
When loyal ministers wrote to warn me of a "father-and-son plot" that intended to isolate me politically, I wrote on the back of their letters, "If there is a plot, it is one of my own design." I was more concerned about where the money would come from. The first priority of the admiralty and revenue boards was to establish China's navy, and I wanted that priority honored.
In June, Guang-hsu published his decree regarding the restoration of my home: "…I then remembered that in the neighborhood of the Western Park there was a palace. Many of the buildings were in poor condition and required restoration to make them fit for Her Majesty the Grand Empress's use as a place of solace and delight." He conferred a new name on the Garden of Clear Rippling Waters: it would now be known as the Garden for the Cultivation of Harmonious Old Age.
After demurring, I issued an official reply: "I am aware that the Emperor's desire to restore the palace in the west springs from his laudable concern for my welfare, and for that reason I cannot bear to meet his well-meaning petition with a blunt refusal. Moreover, the costs of the construction have all been provided for out of the surplus funds accumulated as a result of rigid economies in the past. The funds under the control of the Board of Revenue will not be touched, and no harm will be done to the national finances."
My statement was meant to mollify those who opposed the plan, but I ended up falling into a trap. Soon I would be locked in two battles, an experience I would barely survive.
The first battle would be started by Tutor Weng. When the scholar-reformer was given the highest power, he encouraged Guang-hsu's already great passion for reform. When he could have played a moderating role, Tutor Weng instead pushed him harder, setting the Emperor on a course that would ultimately prove disastrous both for our family and for China.
The second battle would be my fight against taking the responsibility for China's lost war with Japan. Years later, when all of the men ran away from blame, I would be the one to bear the disgrace. What could I do? I had been fully awake, yet I did not escape the nightmare.
"In the end," one future historian would write, "the Board of Revenue did remain inviolate, but important funds, estimated at thirty thousand taels, were defrauded from the Board of Admiralty for Grand Empress Tzu Hsi-the amount would have doubled the entire fleet, which would have enabled China to defeat its enemy."
Unfortunately, I lived to read this criticism. It was when I was old and dying. I couldn't, didn't and wouldn't yell, "Go and take a look at my home!" The money I was charged with stealing would have built it three times with pure gold.