I will not have Sakota mothering my son, she told herself. Sakota, who could give birth to nothing but a feebleminded girl!
And, strengthened as always by her anger, she clapped her hands and summoned her eunuch and sent him for Li Lien-ying, the Chief Eunuch, and within an hour she had given commands for the parade of maidens, what day it was to be, where it must take place, and what the tests were for admittance. No maid outside the Imperial Manchu clans could be considered, and no plain-faced maiden and none older than the Emperor by more than two years. A year or so, yes, that was wise, for the wife then could lead and guide, but not so old that any bloom was lost.
The Chief Eunuch listened and said yes, yes, he knew what the young Emperor liked, and begged six months or so to do his best in. But the Empress Mother refused so long a time, and gave him three, and dismissed him from her presence.
When she had thus decided for her son, she set her mind again to those affairs of the realm from which she had no peace. They were both small and great, and now the most troublesome was the continuing stubbornness of the Western invaders who demanded the right to send emissaries to the Dragon Throne, yet refused to obey the laws of courtesy and submission, whereby they must prostrate themselves in the presence of the Emperor. She had lost patience again and again when such demands were presented to her as Regent.
“And how,” she had inquired, “can we receive emissaries who will not kneel? Shall we degrade the Dragon Throne by allowing our inferiors to stand before us?”
As usual she had ignored what she could not solve, and when a certain member of the Board of Censors, Wu K’o-tu by name, begged to memorialize the Throne in favor of the foreign envoys, she refused to accept his memorial, saying that this matter of the foreign envoys was no new one, and could not be solved in a moment. She observed from her reading of history that two hundred years earlier an envoy from Russia had demanded the right to stand instead of kneel before the Dragon Throne and this demand had been refused and the envoy had returned to Russia without seeing, face to face, the Emperor, then ruling. True, an envoy from Holland had once submitted to the imperial custom and had knelt while he addressed the Throne, but other Western envoys did still refuse to follow this precedent. True again, the English mission under an English lord, McCartney, was allowed to come into the presence of the Ancestor Ch’ien Lung, with deep bows instead of kneeling head to earth, but this meeting had taken place in a tent in the imperial park at Jehol, and not in the palace proper. And only twenty-three years later another English lord, Amherst, failed in his mission because the Emperor Chia Ch’ing, then ruling, had insisted upon the proper obeisance to the Throne. For the same reason, the Empress Mother herself pointed out, in answer to the Censor Wu, the Emperor T’ao Kuang and the late Emperor Hsien Feng had never received a Western emissary, and how could she, therefore, dare to do what they had not thought right to do? A bare fifteen years ago, she further reminded this Censor, who was always too ready to allow privileges to foreigners, Prince Kung’s own father-in-law, the honored nobleman Kwei Liang, had argued with the American minister Ward that he himself, were he an emissary from China to the United States, would be entirely ready to burn incense before the President of the United States, since any ruler of a great people must be given the same respect that one gives to the gods themselves. But the American would not agree, and therefore was not received.
“I will allow no one to approach the Dragon Throne who will not show due respect,” she steadfastly declared, “since to do so would be to encourage rebels.”
In her heart she determined never to allow a foreigner to cross the threshold of the Forbidden City, for indeed these foreigners were becoming daily more troublesome in the realm. She recalled that her great general, Tseng Kuo-fan, now dead, had told her how the people of the city of Yangchow, on the Yangtse River, had risen against the foreign priests in that city, destroying their houses and temples and driving them from the city because they taught that the young should not obey their parents or the gods but should only obey the one foreign god whom they preached. And she recalled how deeply offended were the people of Tientsin when French emissaries made a temple into a consulate, removing the gods and casting them upon a dung heap as though they were refuse.
These matters, which at the time the Empress Mother had considered small affairs and scarcely worth more than a day’s attention, she now knew were but a sign of the greatest danger in her realm, which was the invasion by the Christians, those men who went where they willed, teaching and preaching and proclaiming their god the one true god. And the Christian women were scarcely less dangerous than the men, for they did not stay within the gates of their homes, but walked freely abroad, even into the presence of men, and behaved as only women of ill repute behave. Never before had there been such persons as these who declared their religion the only one. For hundreds of years the followers of Confucius and Buddha and Lao Tse had lived together in peace and courtesy, each honoring the other’s gods and teachings. Not so these Christians, who would cast out all gods except their own. And by now all knew that where the Christians first went, then traders and warships soon would follow.
To Prince Kung, when such rumors came to the Throne, the Empress Mother one day declared herself in these words:
“Sooner or later, we shall have to rid ourselves of foreigners, and first of all we must be rid of these Christians.”
But Prince Kung, always easily alarmed when she spoke of ridding the realm of foreigners, again cautioned her, saying, “Majesty, remember, if you please, that they possess weapons of which we know nothing. Let me, with your permission, draw up a set of rules to govern the behavior of the Christians, so that our people may not be troubled.”
She gave him that permission, and he presented a memorial soon after, containing eight rules. They met in her private audience hall, she upon her throne, and after receiving his obeisance and hearing what he brought, she said:
“Today my head aches. Tell me what you have written and spare my eyes.”
So saying, she closed her eyes to listen, and he began:
“Majesty, since the rising of the Tientsin Chinese against the French nuns, I say that Christians may not take into their orphanages any save the children of their own converts.” She nodded in approval, her eyes still closed.
“I also ask,” Prince Kung went on, his head bowed before the Empress Mother, “that Chinese women shall not be allowed to sit in the foreign temples in the presence of men. This is against our custom and tradition.”
“It is propriety,” the Empress Mother observed.
“Moreover,” Prince Kung went on, “I have asked that foreign missionaries shall not go beyond the bounds of their calling—that is, they shall not protect their converts from the laws of our land if these converts commit a crime. That is, foreign priests shall not interfere, as they do now, in the affairs of their converts when these are brought before magistrates.”
“Entirely reasonable,” the Empress Mother said, approving.
“I have asked,” Prince Kung continued, “that missionaries do not assume the privileges of officials and emissaries from their nations.”
“Certainly not,” the Empress Mother agreed.
“And evil characters,” Prince Kung went on, “must not be received into their churches as a means of escape from just punishment.”
“Justice must be free to work,” the Empress Mother declared.
“These requests I have made to the foreign emissaries resident here in our capital,” Prince Kung then said.
“Surely these are mild requests,” the Empress observed.
“Majesty,” Prince Kung replied, his grave face more grave, “I grieve to say that the foreign envoys do not accept them. They insist that all foreigners here shall remain entirely free to roam where they wish and do what they like, without censure or arrest. Worse than this, they refuse so much as to read my document, though sent to their legation with due courtesy. There is one exception. The mi
nister from the United States alone has replied, not with agreement but at least with courtesy.”
The Empress Mother could not restrain her feelings at such monstrous offense. She opened wide her eyes, she struck her hands together, and rising from her throne she paced the floor, muttering and murmuring angry words.
Suddenly she paused and looked back at Prince Kung. “Have you told them that they build a foreign state within our state? Nay, they build many states, for each sect of their various religions makes its own laws on our land, without regard to our state and our laws.”
Prince Kung said with mournful patience. “Majesty, I have so spoken to the ministers of all nations here resident.”
“And have you asked them,” the Empress Mother cried, “what they would do to us were we to go to their countries and so conduct ourselves, refusing to obey their laws and insisting upon our own freedom as though all belonged to us?”
“I have so asked,” Prince Kung said.
“And that is their reply?” she demanded. Fire flew from her eyes, and her cheeks were scarlet.
“They say there is no comparison between their civilizations and ours, that our laws are inferior to theirs, and therefore they must protect their own citizens.”
She ground her white teeth together. “Yet they live here, they insist upon staying here, they will not leave us!”
“No, Majesty,” Prince Kung said.
She sank upon her throne. “I see they will not be satisfied until they possess our land as they have already possessed other lands—India and Burma, the Philippines and Java and the islands of the sea.”
To this Prince Kung did not reply, for indeed he could not. He, too, feared it was true.
She lifted her head, her lovely face gone pale and stern.
“I tell you, we must rid ourselves of foreigners!”
“But how?” he asked.
“Somehow,” she said, “anyhow! And to this I shall give my whole mind and heart from now until I die.”
She drew herself up straight and cold, and did not speak for a matter of minutes, and he knew himself dismissed.
Thereafter in all the Empress Mother did, in work or pleasure, she kept within her mind and heart this one question—how could she rid her realm of foreigners?
In the autumn of the sixteenth year of the young Emperor T’ung Chih, the Empress Mother decided that he should take his consort, and having decided she consulted with the Grand Council and those clansmen and princes who must agree with her. Upon the day prescribed by the Board of Astrologers, therefore, six hundred beautiful maidens were called, of whom one hundred and one were chosen by the Chief Eunuch, Li Lien-ying, to pass before the young Emperor and his imperial mother.
It was autumn, a day of brilliant sunshine, and courtyards and terraces blazed with chrysanthemums. The Empress and her co-Regent sat in the Palace of Eternal Spring to view the maidens. This hall was a favorite of the Empress Mother, for the wall paintings in the verandas surrounding the courtyard were from The Dream of the Red Chamber, a book she loved to read, and so skillfully had the artist done his work that the paintings seemed to open the walls to scenes beyond.
In the middle of this place of beauty were set three thrones, and on the central one, higher than the rest, the Emperor sat, while his mother and his foster mother, as Regents, sat on either side. The young Emperor wore his imperial-yellow dragon robes, his round hat on his head and upon it the sacred peacock feather fastened by a button of red jade. He held his shoulders straight and his head high, but his mother knew that he was excited and pleased. His cheeks were scarlet and his great black eyes were bright. Surely he was the most beautiful young man under Heaven, she thought, and she was proud to know him hers. Yet she was divided between pride and love, jealous lest one of the maidens be too beautiful and take him from her, yet longing to make him happy by giving him the most beautiful.
A golden trumpet now blew three blasts to signify that the procession was about to begin. The Chief Eunuch prepared to read the names of the maidens as they passed, each to pause for an instant before the Throne, to bow deeply, then to lift her face. One by one they came into the far end of the hall, too distant yet to be seen beyond the bright and many-colored garments that they wore, their headdresses sparkling and twinkling in the light from the great doors thrown open to the morning sun.
Again the trumpet blew its golden notes, and listening, her head not turning, her eyes fixed upon the flowers on the wide terrace outside the hall, the Empress Mother recalled that day, a lifetime ago, it seemed, and yet less than twenty years, when she herself was one of the maidens who stood before the Emperor.
Ah, but what a difference between that Emperor and this handsome son of hers! How her heart had dropped disconsolate when she looked at the wizened figure, the pallid cheeks of that Emperor, but what maiden could fail to love her son? Her eyes slid toward him, but he was stealing looks at the far end of the hall. The maidens were coming one by one, tripping over the smooth tiles of the floor, a moving, glittering line of beauties. And here was the first one, her name—but it was impossible to remember their names. The Empress Mother looked at the record which a eunuch had placed beside her on a small table, the name, the age, the pedigree—no, not this one! The girl passed, her head drooping.
One by one they came, some tall, some small, some proud, some childlike, some dainty in prettiness, some as handsome as boys. The young Emperor stared at each one and made no sign. The morning crept past, the sun rose high and the broad beams bright upon the floor grew narrow and disappeared. A soft gray light filled the hall and the chrysanthemums, still sunlit, glowed like running flame along the terraces. The last maiden passed late in the afternoon and the trumpet blew again, three concluding notes. The Empress Mother spoke.
“Did you see one you like, my son?”
The Emperor turned the sheets of the written records he held and he put his finger on a name.
“This one,” he said.
His mother read the description of the maiden.
“Alute, aged sixteen, daughter of Duke Chung Yi, who is one of the first Bannermen and a scholar of high learning. Although he is Manchu, the family being Manchu without mixture, their history recorded for three hundred and sixty years, yet this Duke studied the Chinese classics and attained the noble scholastic rank of Han Lin. The maiden herself has the pure requirements of absolute beauty. Her measurements are correct, her body is sound, her breath is sweet. Moreover, she also is learned in the books and in the arts. She is of good repute, her name being unknown outside her family. Her temper is mild and she is inclined to silence rather than to speech. This is the result of her natural modesty.”
The Empress Mother read these favorable words.
“Alas, my son,” she said, “I do not remember this one among the many others. Let her be brought before us again.”
The Emperor turned to the Empress Dowager at his left. “Foster Mother, do you remember her?”
To the surprise of all, the Dowager replied, “I do remember her. She has a kind face, without pride.”
The Empress Mother was secretly displeased to think that she had failed where the other had not, but she showed only courtesy in her reply.
“How much better are your eyes than mine, Sister! It is I then who must see the maiden again.”
So saying she beckoned to a eunuch who relayed her command to the Chief Eunuch and Alute was returned to the viewing place. She entered once more, and the Imperial Three stared at her as she crossed the long distance between the door and the Throne. She walked gracefully, a slight young girl, seeming to drift toward them, her head drooping and her hands half hidden in her sleeves.
“Come nearer to me, child,” the Empress Mother commanded.
Without diffidence but with exquisite modesty the young girl obeyed. The Empress Mother put out her hand then and took the maiden’s hand and pressed it gently. It was soft but firm and cool without being cold. The palm was dry, the nails were smooth and cle
ar. Still holding the narrow young hand, the Empress Mother next examined the girl’s face. It was oval, smoothly rounded, the eyes large, and the black lashes long and straight. She was pale, but the pallor was not sallow and the skin was lucent with health. The mouth was not too small, the lips delicately cut and the corners deep and sweet. The brow was broad and neither too high nor too low. The head was set upon a neck somewhat long but graceful and not too slender. Proportion was the beauty here, each feature in good proportion to all, and the figure was neither tall nor short, it was slender but not thin.
“Is this a suitable choice?” the Empress Mother inquired in doubt.
She continued to stare at the girl. Was there a hint of firmness about the chin? The lips were lovely but not childish. Indeed, the face was wiser than the face of one only sixteen years of age.
“If I read this face aright,” she went on, “it signifies a stubborn nature. I like to see a soft-faced maiden, not one so thin as this one. Even for a common man an obedient wife is best, and the consort of an Emperor must above all be submissive.”
Alute continued to stand, her head lifted, her eyes downcast.
“She looks clever, Sister,” the co-Regent ventured.
“I do not wish my son cursed with a clever wife,” the Empress Mother said.
“But you are clever enough for us all, Mother,” the young Emperor said, laughing.
The Empress Mother could not keep from smiling at such retort, and willing to be good-natured and even generous on such a day she said, “Well, choose this maiden, then, my son, and do not blame me if she is willful.”
The maiden knelt again and put her head upon her hands folded on the floor. Three times she bowed her head to the Empress Mother, three times to the Emperor now her lord, and three times to the Empress co-Regent. Then rising, she walked away as she had come, with the same drifting, graceful gait, and so disappeared from their sight.
“‘Alute,’” the Empress Mother mused. “It is a pleasant name—”