Anchee Min - Empress Orchid

Emperor Hsien Feng nodded. “According to my father, the burning pit was as large as a lake. What a hero Lin was!”

Suddenly short of breath, His Majesty hammered on his chest and coughed and fell onto his pillow. His eyes closed. When he opened them again, he asked, “Has something happened to the rooster? Shim told me that yesterday the guards had seen weasels.”

I called in An-te-hai and was shocked to learn that the rooster had vanished.

“A weasel got it, my lady. I saw it myself this morning. A fat weasel the size of a baby pig.”

I told His Majesty about the rooster, and his expression grew dark. “Heaven’s signs are all here. The touch of a finger will put the dynasty out of existence.” He bit his lower lip so hard that it began to bleed. There was a hissing sound in his lungs.

“Come, Orchid,” he said. “I want to tell you something.”

I sat down by him quietly.

“You must remember the things I have told you,” he said. “If we should have a son, I expect you to pass on my words to him.”

“Yes, I will.” I held His Majesty’s feet and kissed them. “If we should have a son.”

“Tell him this.” He struggled to push the sentences out of his chest. “After Commissioner Lin’s action, the barbarians declared war against China. They crossed the oceans with sixteen armed ships along with four thousand soldiers.”

I didn’t want him to go on, so I told him that I was aware of all this. When he didn’t believe me, I decided to prove myself. “The foreign ships entered the mouth of the Pearl River and fired at our guards at Canton,” I said, remembering what my father had told me.

His Majesty’s eyes stared into space. His pupils were fixed on the sculpted dragon head that hung from the ceiling. “July twenty-seventh… was the saddest day in my father’s life,” he uttered. “It was the day… when the barbarians destroyed our navy and took Kowloon.” The Emperor drew in his shoulders and coughed uncontrollably.

“Please rest, Your Majesty.”

“Let me finish, Orchid. Our child must know this… In the next few months the barbarians took the ports of Amoy, Chou Shan, Ningpo, and Tinghai… Without stopping…”

I finished it for him. “Without stopping, the barbarians headed north toward Tientsin and took the city.”

Emperor Hsien Feng nodded. “You have managed the facts very well, Orchid, but I want to tell you a bit more about my father. He was in his sixties. He had been in good health, but the bad news destroyed him as no disease ever could. His tears had no chance to dry… My father didn’t close his eyes when he died. I am a son of little piety and I have brought him nothing but more shame…”

“It is late, Your Majesty.” I rose from the bed, trying to get him to stop.

“Orchid, I’m afraid we might not have another chance.” He grasped my hands and placed them on his chest. “You must believe me when I tell you that I am halfway in my grave. I see my father more than ever lately. His eyes are red and swollen, as big as peach pits. He comes to remind me of my obligations… Ever since I was a boy, my father took me with him when he conducted audiences. I remember messengers coming in with their robes wet with sweat. The horses they rode died of exhaustion. So much bad news. I remember the echoing sound the messengers made. They yelled the sentence as if it were the last one of their lives: ‘Pao Shan has fallen!’ ‘Shanghai has fallen!’ ‘Chiang Nin has fallen!’‘Hangchow has fallen!’

“As a child, I made up a poem with lines that rhymed with ‘fallen.’ My father could only smile bitterly. When he couldn’t bear it any longer, he would withdraw in the middle of an audience. For days on end he would kneel before the portrait of my grandfather. He gathered us, all his children, wives and concubines, in the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing. He then admitted his shame. That was the moment after he had signed the treaty, which included China’s first war reparations to Great Britain. The amount was twenty-one million taels. The British also demanded ownership of Hong Kong for a hundred years. From that time on, foreign merchants came and went at will. My father died on the morning of January 5, 1850. Lady Jin had difficulty closing his eyelids. A monk told me that my father’s soul was disturbed, and unless I got even with his enemy, he would never rest in peace.”

Half asleep, my husband continued his sad story. He talked about the Taiping uprising, which started a month after he was crowned. He described it as a wildfire that jumped from province to province, crossing the country and reaching as far as Chihli. “A nasty wound that wouldn’t heal. This is what I inherited from my father. A nasty wound. I can’t remember how many battles I ordered and how many generals I beheaded for their inability to bring me victory.”

All night long my husband tossed and shouted, “Help me, Heaven!”

I had little sleep and was afraid of being sent away. I had been living with His Majesty for months and had been his only company. He made our bedroom his office and drafted letters and edicts at all hours. I ground the ink for him and made sure his tea was hot. He was so weak that he would doze off in the middle of writing. When I saw his chin drop, I removed the brush from his hand so that he wouldn’t ruin the document. Sometimes I came to the rescue too late, and there would be a spreading ink blot on the rice paper. To save the lost work, I would fetch a clean sheet and recopy his words. I imitated his style of calligraphy and eventually became very good. When he woke, he wouldn’t notice that the page on his desk was not the original. He wouldn’t believe me until I showed him the writing that he had ruined.

We succeeded in sharing intimacy, and he was attentive and engaged. But once our lovemaking was over he would become frustrated again. He said not one bit of good news had come to his court for an entire year. He grew bitter. No matter how hard he would work, he be-lieved China was beyond saving. “Doomed by fate,” he said. He began to cancel audiences. Retreating into himself, he spent more and more time imagining himself as an emperor of a different time. A wistful, dreamy look clouded his eyes when he described his reveries.

I became nervous when I saw urgent documents piling up. I couldn’t enjoy his attention when I knew that ministers and generals were waiting for his instructions. I feared that I would be held responsible-a concubine who had seduced the Emperor. I begged Hsien Feng to resume his duties.

When my efforts failed, I picked up the documents and started to read to him. I read the questions from the letters aloud. Hsien Feng had to think of a reply. When he did, I wrote the answers down on the decree in his style, using a red brush. Lan in the third tone meant “I have reviewed.” Chi-tao-le meant “It’s clear to me.” Kai-pu-chih-tao meant “I am clear about this part.” And Yi-yi meant “You have my permission to go ahead.” He would review what I wrote and put his signature on top of it.

He came to enjoy this. He praised my ability and quick wit. In a few weeks I became Emperor Hsien Feng’s unofficial secretary. I reviewed everything that passed across his desk. I became familiar with his way of thinking and his style of debating. Eventually I managed to draft letters sounding so much like him that even he couldn’t tell the difference.

During summer days it was difficult for me to avoid the “walk-in” ministers, since we left the door open to let in cool air. To avoid suspicion, Hsien Feng told me to disguise myself as an ink boy.

I hid my long hair under a hat and dressed in a plain robe, pretending to be the eunuch who ground the ink. No one paid attention to me; indeed, the ministers’ minds were preoccupied, so they easily ignored me.