Authors: Anchee Min
"Russia went on behalf of our court, to prevent Ili from becoming an independent Moslem state," I replied. "We didn't invite the Russians, though."
"You mean the Russians invited themselves in?"
"Yes."
Guang-hsu tried to comprehend. "But ... weren't the Moslem uprisings swept away?" He pointed at the map and his finger traced the places. "Why are the Russians still here? Why didn't they return to where they came from?"
"We don't know," I said.
"Yung Lu is in Sinkiang, isn't he?" the child persisted.
I nodded.
"Has he done something to drive the Russians away?"
"Yes, he has asked our charitable Russian neighbors for the return of Ili."
"And?"
"They refused."
"Why?"
I told Guang-hsu that I wished I could explain. Unlike Tung Chih, at least Guang-hsu understood that China did not hold a strong hand at the bargaining table. Guang-hsu tried hard to fathom the decisions he was forced to make, but often it was impossible. The child couldn't perceive why China had to carry on long and exhaustive diplomatic negotiations with Russia only to have to yield in the end. He would never understand why a treaty in his name he had just signed, in February of 1881, imposed a payment of nine million rubles to Russia for China's own territories.
I began to see how Guang-hsu was reacting to the audiences. He was under constant pressure and suffered terribly. When he heard bad news, I could feel his nervousness and saw fear written on his face. I was guilty of joining the ministers who grumbled impatiently about when Guang-hsu would catch up by growing up.
Soon it was no longer simply a learning experience for Guang-hsu. Shocked on a daily basis, his mood and health were adversely affected. Yet my choice was either to shelter him or to let him live the truth. Either way it was cruel. When we summoned the minister of agriculture to give his prediction on the next year's crops, Guang-hsu broke down. He felt personally responsible when the minister forecasted drastic harvest shortfalls resulting from flood and drought.
Now an adolescent, Guang-hsu did show determination and self-discipline. I was relieved when he exhibited no desire to cavort with the eunuchs and no interest in slipping out of the palace to carouse. He seemed to prefer solitude. He would eat his meals alone and was uneasy around company. When dining with Nuharoo and me, he sat quietly and ate whatever was put on his plate. My sadness over the loss of Tung Chih affected him so profoundly that Guang-hsu made sure that his behavior would please me.
I wished that I could tell the difference between his seriousness in study and his encroaching melancholy. Even though my experience
told me that daily audiences could be a tremendous strain, I didn't realize that to a child they could be poison.
Eager to bring him to maturity, I denied the possibility that I could be robbing him of his childhood. Guang-hsu's pleasant appearance fooled me. Only later would he confess that he feared that he wasn't living up to my expectations.
I didn't tell Guang-hsu that losing was simply a way of learning how to win. I was afraid of repeating my mistakes with Tung Chih. Spoiling and pampering were in part what had killed my son. Tung Chih rebelled because he knew that he didn't have to worry about losing my affection.
Guang-hsu followed strict protocol and etiquette. Tutor Weng took every measure to prevent him from the possibility of abusing his privileges. Thus Guang-hsu was turned into a palace hostage. Only later would I learn that each and every time the ministers addressed their problems to the child, he would consider them his own. He became ashamed of himself for his inability to solve the problems of the empire.
Around 1881 my health declined. I lost my normal cycle and again had trouble sleeping. I ignored my fatigue and sudden flushes of heat and hoped they would go away. By the time the country celebrated my forty-sixth birthday in November, I was seriously ill. It took me longer to rise and dress, and I had to drink ginseng tea to keep up my strength. Nevertheless, I continued to attend audiences and supervise Guang-hsu's study. I encouraged Tutor Weng to introduce the Emperor to people from outside the capital.
Guang-hsu granted the governors of twenty-three provinces private audiences. The senior governors that had been appointed by my husband, Emperor Hsien Feng, were especially grateful. I attended each audience and was glad to meet with my old friends. We often had to pause to dry our tears.
By the onset of winter I was completely exhausted. My chest was congested and sore, and I had terrible diarrhea. One morning I passed out during an audience.
Dressed in her golden court robe, Nuharoo visited me the next morning. It was the first time I saw her hair wrapped on a black board in the shape of a V, rich with jewelry and ornaments. I complimented her and asked if she would conduct the audiences. Nuharoo agreed, then added, "But don't expect me to be a slave."
***
I hadn't had the leisure of waking up to daylight for years. As winter became spring, my energy slowly returned. Spending the day in the sunshine, I worked in my gardens. I thought of Yung Lu and wondered how he was doing in the distant Moslem state. I had written to him but received no response.
Guang-hsu stopped by after audiences and brought me dinner. He had grown taller and was sweet and gentle. He kindly placed a piece of roasted chicken on my plate and asked if I was enjoying the new blooming camellias.
I asked Guang-hsu if he wondered about life outside the Forbidden City, and also if he missed his parents. "Mother and Father are permitted to visit me at any time," he replied. "But they haven't come."
"Maybe you should invite them."
He looked at me for a moment and then shook his head. I couldn't tell if he had no desire to meet them or was afraid of offending me. My past comments about my sister must have influenced his attitude. Although I had never intentionally disparaged Rong, I hadn't had good things to say about her either.
I asked Guang-hsu if he remembered the death of his cousin Tung Chih, and how he felt about being chosen to succeed him.
"I don't remember much about Tung Chih," Guang-hsu said. Regarding the night of his departure from home, he recalled being held in Yung Lu's arms.
"I remember his dark face and the decorative buttons on his uniform. The buttons were cold against my skin. I felt strange. I remember that it was pitch-dark." He looked at me intently and added, "I enjoyed riding with the Bannerman."
"You are being kind, Guang-hsu," I said, comforted but still feeling guilty. "It must have been terrible to be pulled away from your warm bed and a deep sleep. I am sorry to have put you through it."
"There was a purpose in my chaotic beginning," the boy said in an old man's tone.
I sighed, again impressed by his sensitivity.
"Good living needs no reasoning, convincing or explaining, while bad requires plenty." Guang-hsu smiled. "Three of my brothers died by my mother's hand. I would have been next if you hadn't adopted me."
He rose and offered me his right arm. We stepped into the garden. He came up to my eyebrows and looked thin in his yellow satin robe. His movements recalled his cousin's.
"I am sure my sister didn't mean harm," I said.
"Mother is very ill. My father said that he's given up."
"Prince Kung's wife told Nuharoo that your father has moved out and is living with his fifth concubine. Is it true?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Will Rong be all right?"
"Mother fell from her bed and broke her hip last month. She blamed the doctors for her pain. I shouldn't have sent Doctor Sun Paotien."
"Why not? What happened?"
"She hit him." After a pause, Guang-hsu added, "She hits everybody who tries to help her. Sometimes I wish she was dead."
"I am sorry."
Guang-hsu went quiet and wiped his eyes.
"I wasn't thinking of your welfare when I adopted you," I confessed. "The welfare of the dynasty was the only thing on my mind. Tung Chih had a tragic end. I still can't forgive myself. I let him down ... and I am afraid to let you down, Guang-hsu."
The young man dropped to his knees and kowtowed. "Mother, I beg you to stop thinking about Tung Chih. I am here, alive, and I love you."
In April, the news that Nuharoo had collapsed swept through the Forbidden City.
"Her Majesty has been feeling ill since last week," Nuharoo's chief eunuch reported at court. His skinny neck protruded forward, making him look like an overripe squash hanging from a vine. "She had no appetite. She went to bed before we had a chance to warm her sheets. The next day she insisted on getting up, but couldn't. I helped her dress and noticed that her clothes were damp with cold sweat. She put her weight on my shoulders while we did her hair and makeup. She made it to the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing in the palanquin, but she fell unconscious before the audience was called."
"Why didn't you inform Doctor Sun Pao-tien earlier?" I asked.
"Her Majesty wouldn't let me," the eunuch replied.
"It was four in the afternoon and I gave Her Majesty some medicine to dissipate her ailment," Sun Pao-tien stepped up and reported.
"What is wrong with her?" I asked.
"We don't know for sure yet," the doctor said. "It could be her liver or the grippe."
"Her Majesty insisted on keeping her condition a secret," the chief eunuch said. "After five days she dismissed the doctors. My lady had a seizure last night. She knotted up on the floor. Her eyes rolled back and foam came out of her mouth. Before the doctors arrived Her Majesty lost control of her body. I must complain that Doctor Sun Pao-tien was not helping."
"The eunuchs kept rolling my patient up and down and around as if she were an acrobat," the doctor protested.
"It was the only way we could keep her dry!" Nuharoo's eunuch shot back.
"My patient was having a seizure!" The gentle doctor lost his patience.
"We should have gone first to the priest at the temple." The eunuch battered his head with his fists. "His prayers are known for making the dying sit up and walk."
I stopped the eunuch and asked Sun Pao-tien to continue.
"My colleague and I found out that Her Majesty's breathing has been constricted by phlegm. We have been trying to find a way to suck it out."
"It was not working!" all the eunuchs cried in unison.
I asked why I hadn't been informed.
"My lady didn't want the court, and especially you, to be told. She believed that she would be fine in no time."
"Have you any proof?"
"Here." The eunuch fumbled in his pockets and produced a piece of wrinkled paper. "My lady signed the instructions." Tears and mucus had gathered at the tip of the eunuch's nose and dripped. "She came back miraculously last time. So we thought she would get over this attack."
"
Last time?
What do you mean? This has happened before?"
"Yes. The first time was when my lady was twenty-six years old, and then again when she was thirty-three. This time I am afraid she will not survive."
When I rushed to Nuharoo's palace, sounds of crying filled the air. The courtyard was packed with people. Seeing me, the crowd made way. I arrived at Nuharoo's bedside and found her practically buried in fresh gardenias. Doctor Sun Pao-tien was at her side.
It shocked me how illness had changed her appearance. Her eyebrows were in the shape of a big knot and her mouth sagged to one side. Her breathing was labored and there was a gurgling noise in her throat.
"Take away the flowers," I ordered.
None of the attendants moved.
"How can she breathe with the flowers weighing on her chest?"
The eunuchs threw themselves down. "It is what Her Majesty wanted."
"Nuharoo," I whispered.
"She can't hear you," said the doctor.
"How can this be? For years she was not ill for even a day!"
"Her duties at court have worn her out," the doctor explained. "She may not last the night."
A few minutes later Nuharoo opened her eyes. "You came in time, Yehonala," she said. "I get to say goodbye."
"Nonsense, Nuharoo." I bent down. When I touched her pale, thin shoulder, my tears came.
"Bury me with my gardenias," she said. "The court will want to bury me their way. You make sure that I don't get bullied in death."
"Whatever you say, Nuharoo. But you are not going to die."
"My way is the only way, Yehonala."
"Oh, my dear Nuharoo, you promised that you wouldn't drive yourself so."
"I didn't." She closed her eyes. A eunuch wiped her face with a towel. "I didn't quit because I didn't want to embarrass myself."
"What is there to be embarrassed about?"
"I wanted to show ... that I was as good as you."
"But you are, Nuharoo."
"That's a lousy lie, Yehonala. You are happy because I am going to be out of your way for good."
"Please, Nuharoo..."
"You can order the eunuchs to get rid of their brooms now."
"What are you talking about?"
"You can collect the fall leaves, pile them as high as you want in the courtyards. The hell with stains on the marble."
I listened and wept.
"Buddha is on the other side waiting for me."
"Nuharoo..."
She raised her hand. "Stop, Yehonala. Death is ugly. I've got nothing left."
I held her hand. It was cold, and her fingers felt like a bundle of chopsticks.
"There is honor, Nuharoo."
"You would think I care."
"You have saved up plenty of virtue, Nuharoo. Your next life will be a splendid one."
"I have been living inside these walls..." Her voice drifted. "Only
the dusty winds of the desert penetrated..." She turned slowly to face the ceiling. "Two and a half miles of walls and the two hundred and fifty acres enclosed have been my world and yours, Yehonala. I will not call you Orchid. I promised myself."
"Of course not, Nuharoo."
"No more rehearsing the protocols ... the endless comedy of manners..." She paused to catch her breath. "Only a practiced ear could detect the real meaning of a word wrapped in filigree ... the idea hidden in amber."