The shouting grew louder in the streets of Peking: "Uphold the great Ch'ing Dynasty!" "Exterminate the barbarians!" The Ironhats used these outcries to force me to take their side. Until reformer Kang Yu-wei's murderous intentions were exposed, I hadn't the chance to ask myself: Who are my real friends?
Kang's repeated calls for international intervention disappointed and disillusioned my son. By the time Kang's seventh hit man was arrested for making an attempt on my life, my son vowed to get even with the "wily fox."
Not one nation responded to Guang-hsu's demand for Kang Yu-wei's arrest. Britain, Russia and Japan refused to offer any information of his whereabouts. Instead, foreign newspapers continued to print Kang's lies that "the Emperor of China is being imprisoned and tortured."
Japan also began to apply military pressure by calling for my "forever disappearance." Guang-hsu was believed to have been "drugged, dragged and tied to his dragon seat" to attend audiences with me. In the world's eyes he had been given a "poisonous breakfast" with "mold as a topping." What the Emperor of China desperately needed, it was said, was an invasion by the Western powers.
The situation drove my son deeper into melancholy. He resumed his solitude and refused contact of any kind, including the affection of his beloved Pearl Concubine.
No words could describe my feelings as I watched my son deteriorate. Every morning before we ascended the throne, I would ask him about his night and brief him about the issues before the court. Once in a while Guang-hsu would answer my questions politely, but it was as if his voice came from a great distance. Usually he would simply utter "fine."
From his eunuchs I learned that he had stopped taking the medicine the Western doctors had prescribed. He ordered his bedroom to be draped with black velvet curtains to seal out the sunlight. He stopped reading newspapers and spent his time tinkering with his clocks. He grew so thin that he looked like a fifteen-year-old. Sitting on the throne, he would drift off to sleep.
When I consulted my astrologer, he requested permission to speak freely.
"Your son's interest in clocks is significant," he told me. "'Clock,' in Mandarin, is pronounced the same as 'zone.' It has the same sound and tone as the character zhong, meaning 'ending.'"
"Do you mean his life… ending?" I asked.
"There is nothing you can do to help, Your Majesty. It is Heaven's will."
I wished that I could tell the astrologer that I had been fighting Heaven's will all my life. My standing alone was proof of my struggle. I had survived what was meant to be my death many times, and I was determined to fight for my son. It was hope that I lived for. When my husband died, Tung Chih became my hope. When Tung Chih died, hope became Guang-hsu.
My hairdo and wigs had never bothered me before, but they did now. I complained to Li Lien-ying that his designs were boring and that the bejeweled ornaments were too heavy. Certain colors that were favorites before irritated me. Washing and dyeing my hair became a burden. Li Lien-ying replaced all his hairdressing tools. Using lightweight wires and clips to pin jewelry onto my fan-shaped hair board, he gave me new height, creating what he called a "three-story umbrella."
This effort to project me as larger than life appeared to succeed-the court seemed humbled by my new look-yet the agony came from within myself. My listlessness grew along with my son's decline. My eyes filled with tears in the middle of a conversation as I remembered the days when Guang-hsu was a loving and courageous child.
I refused to accept the court's conclusion that the Emperor had pushed the country backward. "If Guang-hsu had rocked the ship of state," I reminded the audience, "the ship had long been rudderless, adrift on a chaotic sea and at the mercy of any wind of change."
No one thought about the possibility that Guang-hsu might be suffering a nervous collapse. Given his mother's sad history (Rong's life had been, if anything, more tormented), I should have been the first to understand. But I didn't, or my mind willed me not to. Guang-hsu's focus on the world had shifted downward and settled between his legs-when others stared at him, he grew agitated.
Sitting absent-mindedly, he seemed to hear the audience without following its discussions. The moment he got up from his chair, he would suffer an imagined attack. Maybe he didn't imagine it-in any case, it was real to him and left him shaken. He would excuse himself, sometimes in the middle of an important subject, and would not return.
Perhaps my astrologer was correct in believing that the Emperor "had already chosen disappearance and death." Only I, however, was cruel enough to force him to continue to show his face.
In looking back on the Hundred Days, I concluded that my son's attraction to Kang Yu-wei had to do with the allure of a foreign myth. The scholar peddled his fantasy of the West, and Guang-hsu had no idea what he was buying into. Li Hung-chang was right when he said that it wasn't foreign troops that defeated China, but our own negligence and inability to see the truth amid a sea of lies.
The throne's planned inspection of the navy had been canceled because of the failed reforms. Everyone had been convinced of the rumor that the inspection would mark the day of Guang-hsu's dethroning. Our intelligence showed that the foreign powers were prepared to intervene.
With Li Hung-chang's encouragement, I took a train to meet privately with the governors of key provinces, north and south. I stopped in Tientsin and visited the Great Machine Show, organized by Li Hung-chang's partner, S. S. Huan. I was most impressed by a machine that pulled individual threads out of silk cocoons, a task that had been done painstakingly by hand for centuries. The "flushing ceramic bowl" made me want to install them inside the Forbidden City.
I couldn't believe the written description that said the toilet had been invented by a British prince for his mother. True or not, the story was telling: apparently the royal children of Great Britain were given a practical education. Tung Chih and Guang-hsu were taught the finest Chinese classics, yet both had led ineffectual lives.
My fear increased as I admired all the other foreign inventions. How could China expect to survive when its enemies were so scientifically minded and relentless in their pursuit of progress?
"The way to win a war is to know your enemy so well that you can predict his next move," Sun Tzu wrote in The Art of War. I could hardly predict my own next move, but realized that it would be wise to learn from my enemies. I decided that on my sixty-fourth birthday I would invite a number of foreign ambassadors to Peking. I wanted them to see the "murderess" with their own eyes.
Li Hung-chang was excited by the prospect. "Once it is known by the citizens of China that the Dowager Empress is herself willing to see and entertain foreigners, their own antipathy toward outsiders will be allayed."
As expected, the Manchu Clan Council protested. I wasn't supposed to be seen at all, let alone talk with the barbarians. It was no use arguing that the Queen of England had not only been seen by the world, her face was stamped on every coin.
After long negotiations, I was given the approval to host an all-female party, with the condition that Emperor Guang-hsu join me so that I would be accompanied by an Imperial male. The party was presented as an opportunity to satisfy my fashion curiosity. My guests included the wives of the ministers of Great Britain, Russia, Germany, France, Holland, the United States and Japan.
According to the foreign affairs minister I-kuang, the foreign ministers had insisted that their ladies be received "with every mark of respect." It took six weeks to settle on everything from the style of palanquins to the choice of interpreters. "The foreigners are standing firm on all essential points," I-kuang reported. "I was afraid that I might have to cancel the invitations, but the ladies' curiosity finally proved stronger than their husbands' opposition."
On December 13, 1898, the foreign ladies in all their finery were escorted to the Winter Palace, one of the "sea palaces" next to the Forbidden City. I sat on a dais behind a long, narrow table decorated with fruit and flowers. My golden costume was heavy and my hair board piled dangerously high. My eyes were having a feast.
Aside from the wife of the Japanese ambassador, whose kimono and obi closely resembled our Tang Dynasty costumes, the ladies were dressed like magnificent festival lanterns. They curtsied and bowed to me. As I uttered "rise" to each of them, I was fascinated by the color of their eyes, their hair and curvaceous bodies. They were presented to me as a group, but they demonstrated complete individuality.
I-kuang introduced the wife of the British minister, Lady MacDonald. She led the procession and was a tall, graceful woman in her forties. She wore a beautiful light blue satin dress with a large purplish ribbon tied behind her waist. She had a head full of golden curls, which was complemented by a large oval hat displaying ornaments. Lady Conger was the wife of the American minister. She was a Christian Scientist and was dressed in black fabric from head to toe.
I told I-kuang to speed up his introductions and cut short the interpreter's ceremonial greetings. "Escort the guests to the banquet hall and have them start eating," I said. I was confident in presenting our cuisine, for I remembered something Li Hung-chang had said, that "there is nothing to eat in the West."
I already regretted that I had promised the court not to speak or ask questions. After the meal, when the ladies were brought back so I could present them gifts, I took each by the hand and placed a gold ring in her palm. I let my smile tell them that I wanted us to be friends. I was grateful that they came to see this "calculating woman with a heart of ice."
I was fully aware that I was being observed like an animal in a zoo. I expected a certain arrogance from them. Instead, the ladies showed nothing but warmth. I was overwhelmed by a feeling that if I treated them as my foreign sisters, maybe a conversation would follow. I wanted to ask Lady MacDonald about her life in London, and Lady Conger what it was like to be a Christian Scientist and a mother. Was she happy with the way her children were being raised?
Unfortunately, observing and listening were the only things I was allowed to do. My eyes traveled from the ornaments dangling from the ladies' hats to the beads sewed onto their shoes. I stared at the ladies, and they stared back. My eunuchs turned away their heads when my guests moved with protruded torsos, chests and exposed shoulders. My ladies in waiting, on the other hand, stared wide-eyed. The foreigners' elegance, intelligent speech and respectful responses gave new meaning to the word "barbaric."
When Lady MacDonald delivered a short well-wishing speech, I knew from her sweet voice that this woman had never starved a day in her life. I envied her bright, almost childlike smile.
Guang-hsu hardly raised his eyes during the party. The foreign ladies stared at him in fascination. Though extremely uncomfortable, he kept his promise to stay until the end. He had initially refused to attend, for he knew that these ladies had learned of his medical condition from their husbands. I had promised to end the reception as soon as I could.
I didn't expect any real understanding to come out of the party, but to my great surprise, it did. Later these women, especially Lady MacDonald, gave favorable impressions of me, against the world's opinion. The editor of the London Times published a criticism of the party, calling the ladies' presence there "disgusting, offensive and farcical." In response, Lady MacDonald wrote:
I should say the Dowager Empress was a woman of some strength of character, certainly genial and kindly… This is the opinion of all the ladies who accompanied me. I was fortunate in having as my interpreter the Chinese secretary of our legation, a gentleman of over twenty years' experience of China and the Chinese. Previous to our visit, his opinion of the Dowager Empress was what I may call the generally accepted one. My husband had requested him to take careful note of all that passed, especially with a view of endeavoring to arrive at some estimate of her true character. On his return he reported that all his previously conceived notions had been upset by what he had seen and heard.