Our troubles with Japan over Korea had been going on for a decade. When Queen Min of Korea called for help, I sent Li Hung-chang. The Queen was under the threat of Japanese-backed mobs. I took the matter personally. I knew that I would seek the same help if such a thing should ever happen to me.
It took two years for Li Hung-chang to work out an agreement with Japan's prime minister, Ito Hirobumi. Li convinced me that the agreement would prevent the escalation of the Korean situation into a full-scale Sino-Japanese military confrontation.
I frantically did what I could to get Li's draft agreement approved. The Manchu Clan Council hated the very existence of Li Hung-chang and did their best to block his effort. Prince Ch'un and Prince Ts'eng said that my living in the Forbidden City for so long had warped my sense of reality, and that my trust in Li Hung-chang was misplaced. My instinct told me, however, that I would end up with Queen Min's own troubles if I relied on the Manchu royals instead of Li Hung-chang.
As a result of my advocacy, the Li-Ito Convention was signed. China and Japan kept peace for a while. The Manchus stopped their campaign for Li Hung-chang's beheading.
But in March of 1893 Li sought an emergency audience with me at the Summer Palace. I was up before dawn to greet him. Outside in the garden, the air was crisp and cold, but the camellias were blossoming. I served Li hot green tea, for he had been traveling all night.
"Your Majesty." Li Hung-chang's voice was tense. "How have you been?"
I sensed unease and asked him to come to the point.
He knocked his forehead on the ground before letting out his words. "Queen Min has been deposed, Your Majesty."
I was stunned. "How… how could that happen?"
"I don't have all the information yet." Li Hung-chang rose. "I only know that the Queen's ministers were brutally murdered. As of this moment, Korea's radicals are staging a coup."
"Does Japan have a role in it?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. Japan's secret agents infiltrated Queen Min's palace disguised as Korean security guards."
Li Hung-chang convinced me that there was nothing I could do to help Queen Min. Even if we could mount a rescue mission, we didn't know where the Queen was being held or even if she was still alive. Japan was determined to swallow Korea. The conspiracy had been kept alive for over ten years. China had been taking turns with Japan in backing rival factions in Seoul.
"I am afraid that China alone can no longer stop Japan's military aggression," Li said.
The next weeks were tense, my days harried, my nights sleepless. Exhausted, I tried to supplant the worries of the moment by returning to something even more potent, replaying my earliest memories of my hometown of Wuhu.
Staring at the golden dragon ceiling above my bed, I recalled the last time I was with my best friend Grasshopper. She was kicking the dirt with her feet, her legs as thin as bamboo stalks.
"I have never gone to Hefei," she said. "Have you, Orchid?"
"No," I replied. "My father told me that it's bigger than Wuhu."
Grasshopper's eyes lit up. "I might get lucky there." She lifted her blouse to reveal her belly. "I am sick of eating clay."
Her belly was huge, like a bottom-up cooking pot.
"I haven't been able to shit," she said.
I felt extremely guilty. As the daughter of the local governor, I had never known hunger.
"I am going to die, Orchid." Grasshopper's tone was flat. "I will be eaten by a tableful of people. Will you miss me?"
Before I could answer, she went on. "My younger brother died last night. My parents sold him this morning. I wonder which family is eating him."
Suddenly my knees gave way and I collapsed.
"I am leaving for Hefei, Orchid."
The last thing I remembered was Grasshopper thanking me for the feces from my family's manure pit.
The giant trees surrounding my palace made a wave-like sound. I lay in the dark, still unable to sleep. Leaving the past, I stumbled again into the present and thought about Li Hung-chang, the man from He-fei. Hefei, in fact, was his nickname. He too, I assumed, knew the hunger of peasants, and this had much to do with our mutual understanding and ambition to bring change to the government. It had come to bind us. I both looked forward to and dreaded audiences with Li. I didn't know what additional bad news he had to bring me. The only sure thing was that it would come.
Li Hung-chang was a man of courtesy and elegance. He brought me gifts, exotic and practical; once he presented me with reading glasses. The gifts always came with a story, about the place of their making or the cultural influences behind their design. It was not hard to imagine why he enjoyed great popularity. Besides Prince Kung, Li was the only government official that foreigners trusted.
I still could not sleep. I had a feeling that Li Hung-chang was on his way again. I imagined his carriage rambling through the dark streets of Peking. The Forbidden City's gates opening for him, one after another. The guards' whispers. Li being escorted through the mile-long entrance, along hallways and garden corridors and into the inner court.
I heard the temple's bell strike four times. My mind was clear but I was tired, and my cheeks were burning hot, my limbs cold. I sat up and pulled on my clothes. I heard the sound of footsteps, recognized the shuffle of soft soles and knew it was my eunuch. In the shadow of the moon Li Lien-ying came in. He lifted my curtain, a candle in his right hand. "My lady," he called.
"Is it Li Hung-chang?" I asked.
Li knelt before me wearing his prized double-eyed peacock-feather hat and yellow silk field marshal's riding jacket. I was afraid of what he would say. It seemed only a short while since he had brought me the terrible news of Korea's Queen Min.
He stayed on his knees until I asked him to speak.
"China and Japan are at war" was what he told me.
Although not surprised, I was still shaken. For the past few days the throne had ordered troops, under the leadership of Yung Lu, moved north to help Korea contain its revolt. Guang-hsu's edict read, "Japan has poured an army into Korea, trying to extinguish what they call a fire that they themselves have lit."
I had little confidence in our military might. The court wasn't wrong in describing me as one who "got bitten by a snake ten years ago and has since been afraid of straw ropes."
I lost my husband and almost my own life during the 1860 Opium War. If England and its allies were superior then, I could only imagine them now, more than thirty years later. The possibility that I would not survive was real to me. Ever since his return from Sinkiang, Yung Lu had been working quietly with Li Hung-chang on strengthening our forces, but I knew they had far to go. My thoughts were with Yung Lu and his troops as they made their way north.
Li was in favor of allowing time for the joint efforts of England, Russia and Germany, who, under Li's repeated pleading for support, had agreed to persuade Japan to "put out the war torch."
"His Majesty Emperor Guang-hsu is convinced that he must act," Li said. "The Japanese fired two broadsides and a torpedo, sinking the troopship Kowshing, which was sailing out of Port Arthur with our soldiers on board. Those who did not drown were machine-gunned. I understand His Majesty's rage, but we can't afford to act on emotion."
"What do you expect me to do, Li Hung-chang?"
"Please ask the Emperor to be patient, for I am waiting for England, Russia and Germany to respond. I am afraid any wrong move on our part will lose us international support."
I called Li Lien-ying.
"Yes, my lady."
"Carriage, to the Forbidden City!"
Li Hung-chang and I had no idea that Japan had obtained England's promise not to interfere and that Russia had followed suit. We blistered our lips trying to persuade the enraged Guang-hsu to allow more time before issuing a war decree.
As the weeks passed, Japan became more aggressive. China's waiting showed no promise of being rewarded. I was accused of allowing Li Hung-chang to squander the precious time needed to mount a successful defense. I continued to trust Li, but I also realized that I needed to pay attention to the pro-war faction-the War Party-now led by Emperor Guang-hsu himself.
Once again I moved back to my old palace in the Forbidden City. I needed to attend the audiences and be available to the Emperor. Although I praised the Ironhats for their patriotism, I was reluctant to commit my support, for I remembered that thirty years ago they were certain they could defeat England.
Those who were against war, the Peace Party, led by Li Hung-chang, worried that I would withdraw my support.
"Japan has been modeling itself after Western cultures and has become more civilized," Li tried to convince the court. "International laws should act as a brake to any intended violence."
"It takes an idiot to believe that a wolf would give up preying on sheep!" Tutor Weng, now the war councilor, spoke amid great applause. "China can and will defeat Japan by sheer force of numbers."
It took me a while to figure out Tutor Weng's character. On the one hand, he encouraged Guang-hsu to model China after Japan, but on the other, he despised Japanese culture. He felt superior to the Japanese and believed that "China should educate Japan, as she has throughout history." He also believed that Japan "owes China a debt for its language, art, religion and even fashion." Tutor Weng was what Yung Lu would have described as "good at commanding an army on paper." What was worse, the scholar told the nation that China's reform program would be like "sticking a bamboo in the sun-a shadow will be produced instantly."
Although he had never run a government, Tutor Weng was confident in his own ability. His liberal views inspired so many people that he was regarded as a national hero. I had trouble communicating with him, for he advocated war but avoided facing the mountain of decisions required to prosecute it. He advised me to "pay attention to the picture on an embroidery instead of the stitches." Discussing strategy was his passion. He lectured the court during audiences and would go on for hours. In the end, he would smile and say, "Let's leave the tactics to generals and officers."
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.