I turned to my brother, Kuei Hsiang, and asked if Mother had left any words for me.
'Yes.' Kuei Hsiang nodded, stepping back to stand on the other side of Mother's bed. ''All is well.''
My tears came.
'What kind of burial ceremony do you have in mind for Mother?' Rong asked.
'I can't think right now,' I replied. 'We will discuss it later.'
'No, Orchid,' Rong protested. 'It will be impossible to reach you once you leave here. I would like to know your intentions. Mother deserves the same honor as Grand Empress Lady Jin.'
'I wish that I could simply say yes, but I can't. Rong, we are watched by millions. We must set an example.'
'Orchid,' Rong burst out, 'you are the ruler of China!'
'Rong, please. I believe Mother would understand.'
'No, she wouldn't, because I can't. You are a terrible daughter, selfish and heartless!'
'Excuse me,' Doctor Sun Pao-tien interrupted. 'Your Majesty, may I have you concentrate on your fingers? Your mother's eyes will remain forever open if you stop pressing.'
'Yes, Doctor.'
'Harder, and steady,' the doctor instructed. 'Now hold it. You are almost there. Don't move.'
My sister helped to hold my arms.
Mother's face in repose was deep and distant.
'It's Orchid, Mother,' I whispered, weeping.
I couldn't believe she was dead. My fingers caressed her smooth and still-warm skin. I had missed touching her. Ever since I had entered the Forbidden City, Mother was forced to get down on her knees to greet me when she visited. She insisted on following the etiquette. 'It is the respect you deserve as the Empress of China,' she said.
We rarely had privacy. Eunuchs and ladies in waiting surrounded me constantly. I doubted Mother could hear me from where she had to sit, ten feet away from me. It didn't seem to bother her, though. She pretended that she could hear. She would answer questions I hadn't asked.
'Gently, release the eyelids,' Doctor Sun Pao-tien said. Mother's eyes remained closed. Her wrinkles seemed to have disappeared, and her expression was restful.
I had to be strong for my son. Although Tung Chih, who was seven, had been Emperor for two years, since ascending the throne in 1861, his regime had been chaotic. Foreign powers continued to gain leverage in China, especially in the coastal ports; at home, peasant rebels called Taipings had spread through the interior and overrun province after province. I had struggled to find a way to raise Tung Chih properly. Yet he seemed to be so terribly shattered by his father's early death. I could only wish to raise him the way my parents had raised me.
'I am a lucky woman,' Mother used to say. I believed her when she said that she had no regrets in life. She had achieved a dream: two daughters married into royal families and a son who was a highranking Imperial minister. 'We were practically beggars back in 1852,' Mother often reminded her children. 'I will never forget that afternoon at the Grand Canal when the footmen deserted your father's coffin.'
The heat of that day and the smell of rot that came from my father's corpse stayed with me as well. The expression on Mother's face when she was forced to sell her last possession, a jade hairpin that was a wedding gift from our father, was the saddest I had ever seen.
As Emperor Hsien Feng's senior wife, Empress Nuharoo attended my mother's funeral. It was considered a great honor for my family. As a devout Buddhist, Nuharoo disregarded tradition in accepting my invitation.
Dressed in white silk like a tall ice-tree, Nuharoo was the picture of grace. I walked behind her, careful not to step on the long train of her robe. Chanting Tibetan lamas and Taoist and Buddhist priests followed us. Making our way through the Forbidden City, we stopped to perform one ritual after another, passing through gate after gate and hall after hall.
Standing next to Nuharoo, I marveled that we had finally found some measure of harmony. The differences between us had been clear from the moment we entered the Forbidden City as young girls. She-elegant, confident, of the royal bloodline-was chosen as the Emperor's senior wife, the Empress; I-from a good family and no more, from the country and unsure-was a concubine of the fourth rank. Our differences became conflicts as I found a way into Hsien Feng's heart and bore my son, his only male child and heir. My elevation in rank had only made matters worse. But in the chaos of the foreigners' invasion, our husband's death during our exile at the ancient hunting retreat of Jehol, and the crisis of the coup, we had been forced to find ways to work together.
All these years later, my relationship with Nuharoo was best expressed in the saying 'The water in the well does not disturb the water in the river.' To survive, it had been necessary for us to watch out for each other. At times this seemed impossible, especially regarding Tung Chih. Nuharoo's status as senior wife gave her authority over his upbringing and education, something that rankled me. Our fight over how to raise Tung Chih had stopped after he ascended the throne, but my bitterness over how ill prepared the boy had been continued to poison our relationship.
Nuharoo pursued contentment in Buddhism while my own discontentment followed me like a shadow. My spirit kept escaping my will. I read the book Nuharoo had sent me,
'Learn to be the soft kind of wood, Orchid,' Mother taught me when I was a young girl. 'The soft blocks are carved into statues of Buddha and goddesses. The hard ones are made into coffin boards.'
I had a drawing table in my room, with ink, freshly mixed paint, brushes and rice paper. After each day's audience I came here to work.
My paintings were for my son-they were given as gifts in his name. They served as his ambassadors and spoke for him whenever a situation became too humiliating. China was forced to beg for extensions on payments of so- called war compensation, imposed on us by foreign powers.
The paintings also helped to ease the resentment toward my son over land taxes. The governors of several states had been sending messages that their people were poor and couldn't afford to pay.
'The Imperial tael storehouse has long been empty,' I cried in decrees issued in my son's name. 'The taxes we have collected have gone to the foreign powers so that their fleets will not set anchor in our waters.'
My brother-in-law Prince Kung, complained that his new Board of Foreign Affairs had run out of space in which to store the debt seekers' dunning letters. 'The foreign fleets have repeatedly threatened to reenter our waters,' he warned.
It was my eunuch An-te-hai's idea to use my paintings as gifts, to buy time, money and understanding.
An-te-hai had served me since my first day in the Forbidden City, when, as a boy of just thirteen, he'd surreptitiously offered me a drink of water for my parched throat. It was a brave act, and he had my loyalty and trust ever since.
His idea for the paintings was brilliant, and I couldn't paint fast enough.
I sent one as a birthday gift to General Tseng Kuo-fan, the biggest warlord in China, who dominated the country's military. I wanted the general to know that I appreciated him, although I recently demoted him in my son's name, under pressure from the court's pro-Manchu conservatives, who called themselves Ironhats. The Ironhats could not stand the fact that the Han Chinese, through hard work, were gaining power. I wanted General Tseng to know that I meant him no harm and that I was aware that I had wronged him. 'My son Tung Chih could not rule without you' was the message my painting sent.
I often wondered what kept General Tseng Kuo-fan from rebelling. A coup wouldn't be hard-he had the money and the army. I used to think that it was just a matter of time. 'Enough is enough,' I could imagine Tseng saying one day, and my son would be out of luck.
