Part 5 (1/2)

In an effort to distract myself, I ordered a performance of a pon-pon opera and invited my inner court to join me. Everyone was shocked because pon-pon opera was considered entertainment for the poor. I had seen such operas performed in villages when I was a young girl. After my father was demoted from his post, my mother had ordered a performance to lighten his mood. I remembered how much I had enjoyed it. After I came to Peking, I longed to see one again, but I was told that such a low form was forbidden in the palace.

The troupe was small, just two women and three men, and had old costumes and pitiful props. They had trouble getting past the gate because the guards didn't believe that I had summoned them. Even Li Lien-ying could not convince the guards, and the troupe was released only when An-te-hai showed up.

Before the opera, I greeted the master performer in private. He was a bone-thin, half-blind man with rheumy eyes. I a.s.sumed that the robe he wore was his best, but it was covered with patches. I thanked him for coming and told my kitchen to feed the actors before they went on-stage.

The set was simple. A plain red curtain was their background. The master sat on a stool. He tuned his erhu, a two-stringed instrument, and began to play. He produced a sound that reminded me of fabric being torn. The music was like a cry of grief, yet it was strangely soothing to my ears.

When the opera had begun, I looked around and noticed that I was the only one left in the audience besides An-te-hai and Li Lien-ying. Everybody else had quietly left. The melody was not quite what I had remembered. The tone sounded like wind riding high in the sky. The universe seemed filled with the fabric-tearing noise. I imagined that this was how spirits being chased would sound. My mind's eye could see stony fields and fir forests gradually being covered by sand.

The music finally faded. The master performer lowered his head to his chest as if falling asleep. The stage was silent. I envisioned the Gate of Heaven opening and closing in darkness.

Two women and a man entered the scene. They were wearing big blue blouses. They each had a bamboo stick and a Chinese chime made of copper. They circled the master performer and beat their chime to the rhythm of his erhu.

As if suddenly awoken, the man started to sing. His neck stuck up like a turkey's and his pitched voice became ear-piercing, like cicadas rattling on the hottest summer day: There is an old lobster Who lives in a hole beneath a giant rock.

It comes out to look at the world And it goes back.

I lift the rock to say h.e.l.lo.

Ever since I have seen it The lobster stays in its hole.Day after day, Year after year, Quietly Wrapped by darkness and water, A confident creature The lobster must be.It hears the earth's sound And witnesses its changes.

The mold on its back is growing Into beautiful green.

Beating their chimes in rhythm, the three others joined the singing: O lobster, Know you I do not.

Where do you come from?

Where is your family?

What made you migrate and hide in this hole?

I wish my son had stayed for the entire performance.

8.

I had begun to read The Romance of the Three Kingdoms, The Romance of the Three Kingdoms, a Chinese emperor's history of the period following the Han Dynasty, encompa.s.sing four hundred years. The six volumes were as thick and heavy as large bricks. The book was a mere chronicle of victories, one following another seemingly without end. I had hoped to get to know the characters' interests, not just their military ventures. I wanted to know why these men fought, how each hero was raised and what role his mother played. a Chinese emperor's history of the period following the Han Dynasty, encompa.s.sing four hundred years. The six volumes were as thick and heavy as large bricks. The book was a mere chronicle of victories, one following another seemingly without end. I had hoped to get to know the characters' interests, not just their military ventures. I wanted to know why these men fought, how each hero was raised and what role his mother played.

After reading the first volume, I came to the conclusion that the book was not going to provide what I was interested in. I could list the names of all the characters, but I still didn't understand the men. The verses and poems about famous battles were exquisite, but I couldn't grasp the reasons they were fought. It didn't make sense to me that men would fight for the sake of fighting. In the end, I comforted myself by thinking that I would be safe-and accomplish great things-as long as I could distinguish the good men from the bad. During what would be my fifty years behind the throne, I would learn that this was not the case. Often the worst plans were presented by my best men, and with the best of intentions.

I learned to trust my instincts more than my judgment. My lack of perspective and experience had made me cautious and alert. On occasion my insecurities would cause me to doubt my instincts, which resulted in decisions that I would come to regret. For example, I expressed reservations when Prince Kung proposed that we hire an English tutor to teach Tung Chih about world affairs. The court was against the idea as well. I agreed with the grand councilors that Tung Chih was at an impressionable age and could easily be manipulated and influenced.

”His Young Majesty is yet to understand what China has suffered,” one councilor argued. ”The notion that England is responsible for the decline of our dynasty has not taken deep enough root in Tung Chih's mind.” Others agreed: ”To allow Tung Chih to be educated by the English means betrayal to our ancestors.”

The memories of how my husband died were still fresh. The smell of the burning of our home-the Grand Round Garden, Yuan Ming Yuan-had not dissipated. I couldn't imagine my son speaking English and befriending his father's enemies.

After several sleepless nights, I made up my mind. I dismissed Prince Kung's proposal and told him that ”His Young Majesty Emperor Tung Chih should understand who he is before anything else.”

I would spend the rest of my life regretting the decision.

If Tung Chih had learned to communicate with the British, or traveled or studied abroad, he could have been a different emperor. He would have been inspired by their example and witnessed their leaders.h.i.+p. He might have developed a forward-looking future for China, or at least been interested in trying.

It was a cloudless afternoon when Nuharoo announced that all was ready for the final selection of Tung Chih's bride. I went along because I felt I had to. In order to ensure Nuharoo's continuing support at court, I needed to maintain harmony between us. I felt unready to see Tung Chih married; I could not get used to the idea that he was a grown man. Wasn't it just yesterday that he was a baby lying in my arms? Never before had I felt so acutely the pain of being robbed of time with my child.

Because of Nuharoo's restrictions and my own court schedule I had hardly been a presence during Tung Chih's childhood. Although I had kept on my doorframe the marks measuring my son's height over the years, I knew few of his favorite things or his thoughts, only that he resented my expectations for him. He couldn't stand when I questioned him, and even my morning greetings made him frown. He told everyone that Nuharoo was much easier to please. The fact that she and I competed for his affection made matters worse. It was understandable that he had little respect for me; I was desperate for his love. Yet the more I begged, the less he wished to be with me.

Now, all of a sudden, he was an adult. My time to be close to him was up.

With a smile on his face, Tung Chih entered the Grand Hall dressed in gold. Unlike his father, he would partic.i.p.ate in the selection. Thousands of fine maidens from all over China were led through the gates of the Forbidden City to pa.s.s before the eyes of the Emperor.

”Tung Chih has never been willing to rise early, but today he was up before the eunuchs,” Nuharoo told me.

I wasn't sure if I should take this as good news. His visits to the brothels haunted me. With Doctor Sun Pao-tien's help, Tung Chih seemed to have brought the disease under control. But no one was sure that he was completely cured.

Tung Chih would be given the liberty to do whatever he liked with his private life now that he had officially ascended to the throne. For him, marriage equaled freedom.

”Tung Chih's mischief is due to his boredom,” Nuharoo said. ”Otherwise, how can you explain his academic achievement?”

I wondered whether Tung Chih's tutors had been telling the truth about his academic progress. Nuharoo would immediately fire a tutor if he dared to report any failure. I had tested the tutors on Tung Chih's real abilities by suggesting that he take the national civil service examination. When the grand tutors became nervous and avoided all further discussion of the subject, I knew the truth.

”Tung Chih needs to be given responsibility in order to mature,” Prince Kung advised.

I felt that that was the only conceivable alternative. Yet I had my concerns. Tung Chih's taking up the throne would mean my giving up power. Although I had long looked forward to my retirement, I suspected that it would not be Tung Chih but the court and Prince Kung who would take over what I now held.

Nuharoo was eager to have me retire too. She said that she longed for my companions.h.i.+p: ”We will have so much to share, especially when the grandchildren arrive.” Would she feel safer after I stepped down? Or had she other intentions? Tung Chih's being in control would mean that Nuharoo would have more influence over his decisions. Hadn't I learned that she was never what she appeared to be?

I decided to comply with the court's proposal, not because I believed that Tung Chih was ready, but because it was time for him to take charge of his life. As Sun Tzu's Art of War Art of War put it, ”One will never know how to fight a war unless one fights a war.” put it, ”One will never know how to fight a war unless one fights a war.”

On August 25, 1872, the selection of Imperial consorts was completed. Tung Chih was barely seventeen years old.

Nuharoo and I celebrated our ”ease into retirement.” We would be called the Grand Dowager Empresses, although she was only thirty-seven and I almost thirty-eight.

The new Empress-select was a cat-eyed eighteen-year-old beauty named Alute. She was the daughter of a Mongol official of the old stamp. Alute's father was related to a prince who was my husband's distant cousin.

Tung Chih was lucky to have such a girl. The court would not have approved of his choice just because she was beautiful. The reason the court consented to Alute was that the marriage would serve to heal the discord between the Manchu throne and her powerful Mongol clan.