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.
Thanks to the dead Prince Ch'un, who had been fabricating field reports and then supplying only the good news to me, I had foolishly felt secure enough to begin preparing for my sixtieth birthday party. Thinking that it would be the moment to celebrate my retirement, I had planned to use the occasion to befriend the wives of foreign ambassadors. I hadn't been able to invite any of them until now, when I was considered officially retired. In the eyes of the court, China's pride would not be injured as much. The foreign embassies seemed to share the same ease. Being retired meant that I didn't have to be taken seriously.
Perhaps I had never been taken seriously, on or off the throne. What pride had China left to be injured? As long as I was free to help my son, I didn't care what people thought. If being retired meant having more opportunities to make friends who might be of service to the country, I would not only welcome it, I would enjoy it as well.
As it turned out, Japan's continued aggression forced me to cancel all my plans. This annoyed a great many nobles and functionaries who had been expecting lavish handouts.
I resumed my role as the Imperial arbitrator and was shocked to realize that I had become a target of the court-accused of bankrupting the country. I found out that during my short period of retirement, Tutor Weng mismanaged the already shaky royal treasury. When questioned about his responsibility, he claimed that all funds had been disbursed by the late Prince Ch'un for the restoration of the Summer Palace-my home.
I insisted the court open up all of Tutor Weng's books and records for examination, but no action followed. What I didn't realize was that Tutor Weng, who never personally profited a penny, had fattened so many pockets that he created an extensive network of supporters-a wealth greater than money could buy. Sparing Tutor Weng, the nation began to hold me responsible for its defeats. Rumors of my extravagant style of living, including my sexual appetites, soon spread.
I had trusted Tutor Weng with both of my sons. I would have shared the blame if Tutor Weng had admitted his part. After all, it was to me that the court and the Emperor came for the final word.
While the rumors continued, the conflict between Tutor Weng and me became public. I reminded myself not to lose perspective, but I was determined to pursue Weng's investigation.
Guang-hsu wasn't able to bring himself to take sides. For him, Tutor Weng had long been a moral compass, a personal god. Guang-hsu was frustrated that I refused to change my mind about investigating his mentor.
In order to prove Tutor Weng's innocence, Guang-hsu decided to conduct his own investigation. To everyone's surprise, Tutor Weng was found guilty. The Confucius scholar and the late Prince Ch'un had not only misappropriated naval funds but also used my birthday to request great sums, which soon disappeared. After Guang-hsu obtained all the accounting books and other material evidence, he came to me to apologize. I told him that I was proud of his fairness.
I decided to announce that I would accept no gifts for my birthday. My action exposed Tutor Weng: people converged from all over the country, like fleas to a blood meal, trying to get their money back.
Emperor Guang-hsu confronted his mentor. "You were my faith and my spiritual mighty pillar!" he said, and demanded an explanation. Tutor Weng admitted no wrongdoing. He continued his wise-man attitude and warned Guang-hsu about becoming crooked-minded for listening to "an old lady." In the end, the grand tutor was fired. He was given a week to pack up and leave. He would never enter the Forbidden City again.
Guang-hsu was embarrassed by the fact that he picked Tutor Weng to be the chief architect of the war against Japan. He shut himself in his room while Tutor Weng knelt outside, begging for a chance to explain. When this had no effect, the old man went on a hunger strike.
The Emperor finally opened the door and the two men spent an entire day reconciling. As in their classroom, Guang-hsu listened while Tutor Weng discussed the source of the failures. The conclusion was that Li Hung-chang should be the one to blame.
While I put up with Guang-hsu's sensitivity, I was annoyed by the tutor's ability to sway the thinking of the Emperor. In my eyes nothing would justify Weng's misconduct. And when Weng made Li Hung-chang the scapegoat, I lost all respect for him. I didn't intend to create enemies by openly taking Li's side, but I saw the necessity of speaking my mind to the Emperor.
In my silence to the court's demand for his prosecution, Li Hung-chang challenged the Emperor for the right to prosecute the Manchu princes who supplied the defective ammunition. Li also demanded the right to choose his own commissioners in the future.
At Tutor Weng's suggestion, Guang-hsu summoned Li Hung-chang for an official audit. The Manchu princes were invited to be witnesses.
Li came prepared. His detailed documentation not only advanced his case but also gained him great sympathy from the nation. Letters of support for him poured in from every provincial governor. The pressure mounted. Some began to criticize Guang-hsu himself.
The frustrated Emperor came to me for help. He was humiliated and ridiculed, and he sensed that he was losing the respect of his people. "It is obvious that Li Hung-chang is the one who fits the role of ruler of China," Guang-hsu told me.
The time came when I had to choose between Guang-hsu and Li Hung-chang. I had long sensed my fate, but it was in that moment that I saw the depth of the tragedy. My conscience told me that Li Hung-chang would be good for the people, that he alone could run China. But China was the Manchus' China-I had to go against my principles to save Guang-hsu.
After sleepless nights of weighing my options and gathering my courage, I did the unreasonable and unconscionable thing: I signed the edict denouncing Li Hung-chang. The man was stripped of all his honors. He was charged with mishandling naval funds and for losing the war.
I was ashamed of myself.
I thought I had done enough for Guang-hsu, but this was wishful thinking. Under the influence of his uncle Prince Ts'eng, his cousin Prince Ts'eng Junior and his brother Prince Ch'un Junior, the easily swayed Guang-hsu was persuaded that the punishment already endured by Li Hung-chang was insufficient, that he must be eliminated altogether.
When I was requested to give approval for Li's further prosecution, I could no longer contain my rage. My fierce expression must have scared the Emperor, for he started to stutter and got down on his knees.
The truth was that I was mad at myself. I had allowed Tutor Weng and Prince Ch'un to escape their responsibilities. Why would any clear-headed Chinese be willing to serve his Manchu master after seeing what happened to Li Hung-chang?
I pointed out to Guang-hsu that Li was too valuable to destroy without crippling the government. "He can strike back by seizing power for himself! It would be as easy as flipping his hand. You will find me watching an opera in the Summer Palace when that happens!"
The air in the court was dense and threatening. Suddenly I realized that I was alone and that I could be repudiated by my own clan. All it would take would be to convince Guang-hsu. To protect myself, I negotiated. In exchange for retaining Li Hung-chang's offices, including the viceroyalty of Chihli and the leadership of the Northern Army and the Chinese navy, I suggested that the throne take away Li's prized double-eyed peacock feather and the yellow silk field marshal's riding jacket. "It would cause Li extreme loss of face. However, anything more would be rash and unmerciful."
When Prince Ts'eng accused me of missing the opportunity of a lifetime for the Manchus to bring Li to his knees, I withdrew in the middle of the audience.
I could hear the creek splashing behind the palace garden in the Forbidden City. I got up before dawn and sent my eunuch to summon Li Hung-chang.
Li arrived at sunrise wearing a simple blue cotton robe, which made him look like a different man.
"You have been packing?" I began, knowing that he was leaving Peking.
"Yes," he replied. "My carriage will depart in an hour."
"Where will you go?" I asked. "Chihli? Hunan? Or your hometown, Hefei?"
Unable to answer, Li dropped to his knees.
I reminded him that etiquette allowed us only a brief meeting and I had to speak my mind.
Li nodded, but insisted on remaining on the floor.
I let him and said, "Please understand how awful I feel about what I have done to you. Though hardly a decent excuse, I had no choice."
"I understand, Your Majesty." Li's voice was calm and almost undisturbed. "You did what any mother would do."
My tears came and I broke down.
"If it helps the throne, I am honored," Li said.
"Can you at least let me offer help for your long journey south?"
"There is no need," he said. "I have enough to support my family. My wife understands that if I were charged with treason and found guilty, my life would be forfeited. She only wants me to make sure that our children escape with their lives."
"Has the matter been taken care of?" I wiped my face with a handkerchief.
"Yes, arrangements have been made."
My eunuch came and announced softly, "My lady, the Emperor is waiting."
"Farewell."
Li Hung-chang rose. He took a step back and got down on his knees and kowtowed.
Custom did not allow me to accompany him to the gate, but I decided to ignore it for once.
The door curtain was lifted and we went out to the courtyard. The eunuchs were still doing their morning cleaning. They rushed to get themselves out of sight. Those who crossed our path apologized.
The sky was beginning to brighten. The glazed wing roofs were bathed in golden light. Unlike the Summer Palace, where the air carried the scent of jasmine, Forbidden City mornings were cold and windy.
I heard the sound of my own footsteps, the wooden platform shoes hitting the stone walk. Li Hung-chang and I walked side by side. Behind us, sixteen eunuchs carried my room-sized ceremonial palanquin.
Two weeks later, Prince Kung, who was sixty-five, was called out of retirement. Emperor Guang-hsu issued the decree at my urging. Kung was reluctant at first. For ten years he had nursed grievances against those who had removed him from leadership, including his two half-brothers. I pleaded with him, saying that the death of Prince Ch'un should put the unpleasant past to rest. The twenty-four-year-old Emperor needed him.
Guang-hsu and I met with Prince Kung in his chrysanthemum garden, where the ground was covered with star-shaped purple flowers. Prince Kung picked up a leaf. He laid it flat on his palm and hit it with his other palm, creating a sound like a firecracker.
"The balance of power in Asia has been decisively altered since the Japanese took our fortified harbor at Weihaiwei." Prince Kung's voice had softened over the years, but his passion, perspective and wit remained. "Past misdeeds have bred present impotence. In the world's view, the war is essentially over and China has been defeated."
"But our spirit hasn't!" Guang-hsu's face turned red and his chest swelled. "I refuse to call it a defeat. Our admirals, officers and soldiers committed suicide to show the world that China is not surrendering!"
Prince Kung smiled bitterly. "Our admirals committed suicide to redeem themselves and save their families from death and the confiscation of their estates. You stripped their titles and ranks but allowed them to remain in the field. You told them that they would be beheaded if they lost a battle. Their deaths were not their choice but yours!"
"Your uncle is right," I said. "I am sure the Emperor has also realized that our nation's patriotism hasn't stopped Japan from occupying the Liaotung Peninsula. We understand that Japan is aiming at Port Arthur's sister fortress and taking over all of Korea."
Guang-hsu fell back into his chair. As if having difficulty breathing, he inhaled deeply.
Kung continued to pick up leaves and slap them, making annoying sounds with his palms.
I was glad that Prince Kung addressed the issue of the suicides, for I had argued with Guang-hsu many times over his death orders. I had desperately tried to convince him that devotion couldn't be forced. There would be no loyalty if mercy and kindness were not first assured. But I had to end the conversation because Guang-hsu could not comprehend this-he had been raised to take devotion and loyalty for granted. The first thing he had learned about mankind was his tutor's display of sincerity and dedication. I gave in when Guang-hsu complained that I was interfering with his autonomy.
"Mother, are you all right?" Guang-hsu said gently. I had told him that I had been feeling tired and weak.
Then he said, "I have thrown out the petitions demanding Li Hung-chang's punishment."
I knew by doing this my son meant to please me. But I didn't want to talk about it. Especially not in front of Prince Kung. So I changed the subject. "Have we tried any other option on the Japan front?"
"We have tried through various intermediaries, including the American diplomats," Prince Kung replied. "We tried to reach an accommodation with Japan, but Tokyo has been refusing."
"I don't see any point in wasting time negotiating," Guang-hsu said. As if trying to hold in his emotions, he looked away. "I don't negotiate with savages!" he said through clenched teeth.
"What do you want me to do, then?" Prince Kung was irritated.
"I need your help with defensive preparations," the Emperor said.
"I am not sure I can help," said Prince Kung. "You are wrong to think that I can do better than Li Hung-chang."
I turned to both of them. "Should we not think about walking with both legs? Continuing to seek negotiations with Japan and at the same time preparing our defense?"
Guang-hsu followed Prince Kung's advice and offered to commission foreigners to do the defensive work. A German army engineer who in 1881 had supervised the fortification of Port Arthur was named the chief of China's armies. Guang-hsu hoped that under the leadership of a Western general, he would be able to turn around the situation with Japan.
Both Prince Ts'eng and Prince Ch'un Junior insisted that hiring a past enemy was itself an act of betrayal.
Guang-hsu bore the pressure until the last minute. Then he changed his mind and canceled the commission.
"Had it been done," the disappointed Prince Kung complained later, "China would have been safe and Japan would have eventually paid us an indemnity."
I did not realize it then, but the moment the Emperor changed his mind, his uncle became disheartened. So disheartened that, over the days and weeks to come, Prince Kung would gradually withdraw. I suspected that his pride had been injured but that he would eventually get over it and continue his fight for the dynasty. But Prince Kung's heart retreated to his chrysanthemum garden and he would never come out again.
By the end of January 1895 Guang-hsu realized that he had no other option but to negotiate with Japan. To his further humiliation, Japan refused to discuss the treaty with anyone except the disgraced Li Hung-chang.
On February 13, Guang-hsu relieved Li of his duties as viceroy of Chihli and instructed him to lead the Chinese diplomatic effort. Once again, I was to receive Li Hung-chang in the name of the Emperor.
Li did not want to come to Peking. He begged to be excused from his duty. Believing that the Emperor and the Ironhats would sooner or later make him a scapegoat, he had no confidence that he would survive. He pointed out that things had changed. We had lost our bargaining chip. There was no way to bring Japan to the negotiating table.
"Any man who represents China and signs the treaty will have to sign away parts of China," Li predicted. "It will be a thankless task, and the nation will blame him no matter what the reason for the outcome."
I pleaded with him to think it over, and sent him a personal invitation to have dinner with me.
Li responded, saying in his message that he was not fit for the honor and his advanced age and ill health made travel difficult.
"I wish that I weren't the Empress of China," I wrote back to Li. "The Japanese are on their way to Peking, and I can't bear to even begin to imagine how they will violate the Imperial ancestral grounds."
Perhaps it was my urgent tone, perhaps it was his sense of noblesse oblige-whatever the reason-Li Hung-chang honored me with his presence, and he was quickly appointed as China's chief negotiator. He arrived at Shimonoseki, Japan, on March 19, 1895. About a month later, the negotiations took a startling turn: while leaving one of the sessions with Prime Minister Ito Hirobumi, Li was shot in the face by a Japanese extremist.
"I was almost glad the incident took place," Li replied when I wrote asking after his condition. "The bullet grazed my left cheek. It gained me what I could never get at the negotiating table-the world's sympathy."
The shooting resulted in an international outcry for Japan to moderate its demands on China.
I felt that I had sent Li to die and he survived only by pure luck.
Also in his message Li Hung-chang prepared Emperor Guang-hsu for the most difficult decision: to agree to the negotiated terms, including the cession to Japan in perpetuity of the island of Taiwan, the Pescadores and the Liaotung Peninsula; the opening of seven Chinese ports to Japanese trade; the payment of two hundred million taels, with permission for Japan to occupy Weihaiwei Harbor until this indemnity was cleared; and recognition of the "full and complete autonomy and independence of Korea," which meant relinquishing it to Japan.
Guang-hsu sat on the Dragon Throne and wept. When Li Hung-chang returned to Peking for consultations, he could not get a word out of the Emperor.
It was then that I told Li what I had been thinking: "Give up what China must in the form of money, but not land."
He raised his eyes. "Yes, Your Majesty."
I told him that once we had sanctioned foreign occupation inland, as we had allowed to happen with the Russians in our Ili region, China would forever be lost.
Li understood perfectly and negotiated accordingly.
The image of Li Hung-chang in the audience hall with his forehead touching the ground remained in my mind after he was gone. I sat frozen. The sound of a big clock in the hallway grated on my nerves.
"Korea and Taiwan are gone," Guang-hsu muttered to himself over and over.
He didn't know, of course, that within months we would also lose Nepal, Burma and Indochina.
Another rape. And then another.
Japan had no intention of stopping. Its agents now had spread deep into Manchuria.
The dragon carvings on the palace columns again went unpainted this year. The old paint had started to peel and the golden color turned a parched brown. The Board of the Interior had long run out of money. The danger was not only the visible dry rot, it was the invisible termites.
One morning Chief Eunuch Li Lien-ying ventured to make a formal plea to the throne: "Please, Your Majesty, do something to save the Forbidden City, for it is built with nothing but wood."
"Burn it down!" was Guang-hsu's response.
The audiences went on. In Li Hung-chang's telegrammed updates the Japanese demanded the right to build factories in the treaty ports. "Accept these terms or there will be war," Japan threatened.
Guang-hsu and I understood that if we granted Japan's demands, the same demands would be made by all the other foreign powers.
"The latest concessions also brought up the issue of mineral rights," Li's telegram continued, "and there is little we can do to resist…"
The sun's rays came through the windows of my bedroom, throwing shade like rustling leaves onto the floor and furniture. A large black spider hung on its thread by a carved panel. It swung back and forth in the gentle breeze. This was the first black spider I had seen inside the Forbidden City.
I heard the sound of someone dragging his feet. Then Guang-hsu appeared in the doorframe. His posture was that of an old man with his back hunched.
"Any news?" I asked.
"We lost our last division of Moslem cavalry." Guang-hsu entered my room and sat down on a chair. "I am forced to disband tens of thousands of soldiers because I have to pay the foreign indemnities. 'Or war,' they say. 'Or war'!"
"You haven't been eating," I said. "Let's have breakfast."
"The Japanese have been building roads connecting Manchuria to Tokyo." He stared at me, his big black eyes unblinking. "My downfall will come along with the fall of the Russian tsar."
"Guang-hsu, enough."
"The Meiji Emperor will soon be unchallenged in East Asia."
"Guang-hsu, eat first, please…"
"Mother, how can I eat? Japan has filled my stomach!"