My son turned away when Yung Lu placed a copy of Japan's Kobe Chronicle in front of him. The paper claimed that on October 22 the Oshima was bringing to Japan "a very valuable present."
Japan had reason to celebrate. In exile Kang Yu-wei and Liang Chi-chao were reunited. As the houseguest of Japan's foreign minister, Shig-enobu Okuma, for five months, Kang was well fed and his braided hair, according to one report, had a "healthy, glossy shine." Over the next several years the two men worked together tirelessly. They succeeded in cobbling together a portrait of me as an evil tyrant, confirming everyone's worst suppositions and prejudices.
Kang and Liang achieved the international recognition they craved. The West regarded them as the heroes of China's reform movement. The "moon-faced" Kang Yu-wei was described as "the sage of modern China." His interviews and articles were made into books that sold thousands of copies in many lands. Readers far from China had their first authoritative glimpse of who I was.
But more than my pride was at stake. Kang and Liang's salacious attacks provided opportunities for those who wished war on China. Since "the true leaders of China are begging the country to be saved," what more excuse did anyone need to oust a "corrupt," "besotted," "reptilian" female dictator?
Western audiences that gathered to hear Kang Yu-wei wanted so much to see China transformed into a Christian utopia that they were susceptible to Kang's lies. From Li Hung-chang I learned that Japan had provided funds for Kang Yu-wei to make a separate tour of the United States, where he was lauded by critics and scholars as "the man who would have brought China American-style democracy."
"Heaven gave us this saint to save China," Kang would open his speeches praising my son. "Although His Majesty has been imprisoned and dethroned, luckily he is still with us. Heaven has not yet abandoned China!"
Collecting more than $300,000 from overseas Chinese merchants who wanted to guarantee the goodwill of any new regime, and with the assistance of Japan's Genyosha secret agents who operated from inland China, Kang Yu-wei began to prepare an armed uprising.
The duet of Kang Yu-wei and Liang Chi-chao was picked up by the New York Times, the Chicago Tribune and the London Times. "All Dowager Empress Tzu Hsi knows is a life of pleasure-seeking, and all Yung Lu knows is a lust for power. Has the Empress ever spared a thought for the good of her country? A tortoise cannot grow hair, a rabbit cannot sprout horns, a cockerel cannot lay eggs, and a withered tree cannot produce blossoms, because it is not in her nature to do so—we cannot expect what doesn't exist in her heart!"
37
On top of the reform disaster, 1898 also turned out to be a long and bitter year of flood and famine. First the harvest failed in Shantung and surrounding provinces, then the Yellow River engulfed hundreds of villages in a savage flood. Thousands became homeless, making it impossible to sow the next year's crops. Worse, locusts descended to devour the meager remains. The squatters, the out-of-work, the discontented and the dispossessed longed for a reason, a cause, a scapegoat.
I was kept busy trying to put out the fires. The Ironhats had proposed hanging Pearl Concubine as a means of making the Emperor bear responsibility. Pearl was found guilty of violating numerous palace rules. I rejected the trumped-up charges, offering no explanation.
The anti-foreign riots continued. An English missionary was murdered in the southwest province of Kweichow, and a French priest was tortured and killed in Hupeh. In the provinces where foreigners lived in close quarters with Chinese, grievances fomented unrest, particularly in German-controlled Kiaochow, the birthplace of Confucius. Locals resented Christianity. In the British- and Russian-controlled areas of Weihaiwei and Liaotung violence broke out when the foreigners decided that they, as leaseholders, were entitled to benefit from Chinese taxes.
In the name of protecting me, Prince Ts'eng and his sons called for the Emperor's abdication. Ts'eng's faction was backed by the Manchu Clan Council and General Tung's Moslem army. Though hard for me to continue to support Guang-hsu, I knew the dynasty would fall with Prince Ts'eng in power. All of the industries and international connections Li Hung-chang had built, including our diplomatic relationships with Western countries, would end. A civil war would give the foreign powers a perfect excuse to intervene.
Stability would require Guang-hsu's continuation as Emperor. I granted an alternative plan presented by the conservatives which said I was to resume the regency. Guang-hsu signed his name but wanted nothing more to do with it.
"The affairs of the nation are at present in a difficult position," the edict read, "and everything awaits reform. I, the Emperor, am working day and night with all my powers. But despite my careful toil, I constantly fear being overwhelmed by the press of work. Moved by a deep regard for the welfare of the nation, I have repeatedly implored Her Majesty to be graciously pleased to advise me in government, and have received her assent. This is an assurance of prosperity to the whole nation, its officials and its people."
It was a humiliation for both Guang-hsu and me. It spoke of the Emperor's incompetence as well as my poor judgment in putting him on the throne in the first place.
Shortly after the edict was issued, Guang-hsu fell ill. I had to rush through my audiences in order to be with him. Soon my son was bedridden. All Doctor Sun Pao-tien's efforts failed, his herbal medicines exhausted. The rumor that the Emperor was dying, or had already died, spread. It seemed to prove Kang Yu-wei's earlier assertion that the poison I was said to have been giving Guang-hsu was now "showing its deadly effect."
I-kuang, our minister of foreign affairs, received numerous inquiries regarding the throne's "disappearance." I-kuang was no Prince Kung. All he could say to me was "Invasions have been discussed among the legations."
My son knew that he must show himself in the court, but he could barely get out of bed.
"If you insist that His Majesty attend, he could easily pass out in the middle of an audience," Sun Pao-tien warned.
Yung Lu agreed. "His Majesty's appearance would do more harm than good."
After witnessing a fit of vomiting that left my son wrung out and sobbing, I put out an urgent call to all the provinces for able physicians. No Chinese doctors dared to come forward. Surprisingly, I received a collective request from the foreign legations. From the letter's wording, the legations seemed to give credence to Kang Yu-wei's version of events: "Only a thorough medical examination of His Majesty will clear the air of the corrosive rumors and restore British and international confidence in the regime." The letter offered the assistance of Western doctors.
But the court and Guang-hsu himself declined the offer. To the court, the throne's health was a matter of national pride and his current condition a secret. As for Guang-hsu, he had suffered enough humiliation as Emperor and didn't want to suffer more as a man. He knew his own condition, and didn't want the world to find out why he was childless.
I was reluctant to subject my son and China to further embarrassment, but as a mother I was committed to try everything to save my son's life. A Western doctor might be Guang-hsu's last hope for regaining his health. I might not have been a worldly woman, but I wasn't stupid. I believed that "in a tiny piece of spotted skin one could visualize an entire leopard." My French hair dyes, English clocks and German telescope spoke of the people who created them. The industrial marvels of the West—telegraph, railroad, military armaments—spoke even louder.
I asked delicately if Guang-hsu was willing to reveal the complete truth, meaning mention of his sexual dysfunction. My son gave a positive reply. I was relieved and went to share the good news with my daughters-in-law. We became hopeful, and together we went to the Palace Temple to pray.
In the last week of October, a French physician, Doctor Detheve, was escorted to the Forbidden City and into the Emperor's bedroom. I was present throughout the medical interview. The doctor suspected a kidney ailment and concluded that Guang-hsu suffered a number of secondary symptoms brought on by that illness.
"At first glance," Doctor Det
heve's evaluation read, "His Majesty's state is generally feeble, terribly thin, depressed attitude, pale complexion. The appetite is good, but the digestion is slow ... Vomiting is very frequent. Listening to the lungs with a stethoscope, which His Majesty gladly allowed, did not reveal indications of good health. Circulatory problems are numerous. Pulse feeble and fast, head aching, feelings of heat on the chest, ringing in the ears, dizziness, and stumbling that gives the impression that he is missing a leg. To these symptoms add the overall sensation of cold in the legs and knees, fingers feeling dead, cramps in the calves, itching, slight deafness, failing eyesight, pain in the kidneys. But above all there are the troubles with the urinary apparatus ... His Majesty urinates often, but only a little at a time. In twenty-four hours the amount is less than normal."
Guang-hsu and I were left with a favorable impression of the doctor and looked forward to his treatment. What we didn't expect was that his evaluation would find its way to the public. We had no way of knowing whether it was intentional or not. Nevertheless, the evaluation became the inspiration of gossips in China, Europe and the United States. It was the last blow to Guang-hsu's self-image. From the grinning expressions of the court during audiences I could tell that our ministers had read a translation of Doctor Detheve's opinion.
Chinese provincial newspapers and magazines spread the gossip as news: "His Majesty habitually had his ejaculations at night, followed by voluptuous sensation. Doctor Detheve's evaluation concluded, 'These nocturnal emissions have been followed by the lessening of the faculty to achieve voluntary erections during the day.' It was Detheve's opinion that the Emperor's illness made sexual intercourse impossible. The Emperor could not make love to his Empress or his concubines. And without sex, His Majesty would remain childless, which means that there will be no heir to the throne." Such reports made the Ironhats demand Guang-hsu's replacement.
I witnessed the sacrifice of my son's dignity. Although the French doctor's examination demonstrated that Guang-hsu was alive and that therefore I could not be his murderer, I was devastated.
Although Guang-hsu continued to suffer—high fever, little appetite, his throat and tongue swollen and raw—for the sake of appearances he offered to sit with me during audiences.
For the radical reformers, the image of the two of us sitting side by side served as proof of my being a tyrant. The newspapers published their observations, describing how the victimized Emperor must have felt about his living hell. In a popular version, Guang-hsu was seen "drawing huge pictures of a mighty dragon, his own emblem, and tearing them up in despair."
The Ironhats, on the other hand, found justification in orthodox Chinese thought: Guang-hsu had virtually plotted matricide, and there was no crime in the Confucian canon more heinous than a dereliction of filial piety, especially in an emperor, the moral exemplar of his people.
I was supposed to brandish before Guang-hsu the proper moral righteousness. But I could not ignore his pain. My son was brave enough to face the men he had ordered to resign before the attempted coup. Every day now he sat on a carpet made of a thousand needles. He might continue to have the court's loyalty, but would he have its members' respect?
Given my son's delicate health, I was moved to accept the Ironhats' proposal of considering his replacement. I acted sincerely throughout the debates and in the end pronounced P'u-chun, Prince Ts'eng Junior's adolescent son, my grandnephew, the new heir. However, I insisted that P'u-chun undergo a character evaluation, a test I was sure the spoiled boy would fail. As I predicted, he did fail, miserably, and he was removed from consideration.
Guang-hsu's throne was secure, for the time being at least, but he appeared bored and would slip away from audiences the first chance he got. Afterward, I would find him playing with his clocks. He wouldn't open the door, nor would he talk to me. His sad eyes showed emptiness, and he told me that his mind "wanders like a homeless ghost." The only thing he didn't tire of saying was "I wish I were dead."
I summoned my daughters-in-law. "We must try to help," I said.
"You should leave His Majesty alone," Pearl Concubine was quick to respond.
I asked why I should do so, to which Pearl replied, "Maybe Your Majesty should consider going back to your retirement. The throne is a grown man. He knows how to run his empire."
I asked Pearl if she remembered that it was she who introduced Kang Yu-wei to my son.
The girl was furious. "The reform failed because Guang-hsu was never left alone to run his business. He has been under investigation, imprisoned in his own quarters, separated from me. I am sorry ... this is—I can't think of any other way to put it—a conspiracy against Emperor Guang-hsu."
I didn't know what to make of this wild outburst. Was she really trying to provoke me?
When Pearl asked to attend Guang-hsu, I refused. "Not in your state of mind. My son can take no more harm."
"You are afraid I will tell him the truth."
"I don't think you know what the truth is." I told Pearl that unless she cooperated with me and acknowledged her past wrongdoings, she would not be allowed to see Guang-hsu again.
"His Majesty will ask for me," Pearl protested. "I will not be a prisoner!"
38
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 co
mplained 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.