complete silence. The moment the whip sounded, everyone was expected to get down on his knees. People lined up according to rank. The grand councilors, princes and other royalty would take the first rows. When the Emperor seated himself, everyone was expected to kowtow nine times, forehead touching the floor.
He didn’t like to work in the throne room because the throne was uncomfortable. Its back was a magnificent piece of woodcarving, composed of numerous clusters of dragons. Audiences could take hours, and Hsien Feng would end up with a sore back.
The throne room was like a gallery, with every object on display. The throne sat on a raised stage with staircases on either side. Behind the throne were three sets of carved wood panels, each decorated with golden dragons. The stage enabled the Emperor to meet the eyes of more than a hundred officers. The audience began as the first summoned individual walked up the east staircase and presented the Emperor with a book of printed memos.
Emperor Hsien Feng would not touch the book. His secretary would pick it up and place it on a yellow case near the throne. The Emperor might refer to the book if the need arose. The summoned would then walk away, exiting down the west staircase to return to his mat. He now was permitted to state his business. When the summoned finished his petition, the Emperor would give his comments.
Hsien Feng usually initiated a discussion among the grand councilors, princes and senior clansmen. They would offer their views, each vying to present the best option. Sometimes their words became sharp and their tempers heated. There was one incident in which a minister died of a heart attack in the middle of an argument. The summoned was expected to remain quiet until questioned. Then he would respond accordingly, always deferential and reserved. After a conclusion was reached, Emperor Hsien Feng would be ready to issue a decree. A court scholar of the highest rank would be ordered to draft the decree in both Chinese and Manchu. Then the next in line would be called. The procedure repeated itself until noon.
I was much more interested in learning what was going on in the countryside than in listening to ministers who had never set foot outside Peking. I found most of the discussions boring and the solutions lacking in common sense. I was amazed by the differences among the royal princes, the Manchu clansmen, and the governors and generals, mostly Han Chinese who smelled of gunpowder. I was impressed by the Chinese simply because they injected a note of reality. Officers of Manchu origin loved to argue about ideology. They shouted patriotic slogans like schoolchildren. The Han officers chose to remain silent when there was a conflict in this Manchu court. If they wished to get an idea across, they pressed it dispassionately, providing the Emperor and his court only with facts.
After sitting through a few audiences, I noticed that the Chinese did not attempt to counter the Emperor. If their proposal was turned down, they would accept it humbly. Often they would carry out His Majesty’s order even if they knew it would be ineffective. After thousands of lives were lost, the Chinese would come back with the casualty figures, hoping that the Emperor would reconsider their proposal. When he did, they were so relieved they wept. I was much moved by their loyalty, but wished that Hsien Feng would listen to the Manchu noblemen less and the Chinese more.
Still, I began to see why the Emperor behaved the way he did. More than once he told me that he believed that only a Manchu was capable of pure devotion to the Ch’ing Dynasty. He always leaned toward the Manchu officers when there was a difference of opinion. He honored the ruling race’s privilege, and made it clear to the court that it would be a minister of Manchu origin that he would trust first. For centuries the Chinese ministers had managed to rise above the humiliation. I was in awe of their strength and patience.
Twelve
IN ASSISTING Emperor Hsien Feng, I became familiar with two people who carried great weight in the court and yet whose views were diametrically opposed to it. One was Su Shun, the head of the Grand Council. The other was Prince Kung, the Emperor’s half-brother.
Su Shun was an ambitious and arrogant Manchu in his forties. He was a tall man with a vigorous frame, and his large eyes and thin, slightly hooked nose reminded me of an owl. His bushy eyebrows were uneven, one standing higher than the other. He was known for his wit and explosive temper. He represented the conservative party of the court. My husband called him “a merchant who sells fantastic ideas.” I admired Su Shun’s talent for delivering commanding speeches. He drew examples from history, philosophy, even from classic operas. I often caught myself thinking,
Detail was Su Shun’s specialty, and he was a great storyteller. His sense of drama enhanced the effect. With only his voice to go by, as I sat behind my curtain, I was often won over by his words, even if I disagreed with his politics.
To the court, Su Shun was a living book of five thousand years of China’s civilization. The breadth of his knowledge was unparalleled, and he was the only minister fluent in Manchu, Mandarin and ancient Chinese. Su Shun enjoyed great popularity among the Manchu clans, where his anti-barbarian views received wide support.
As the seventh grandson of a nobleman and as a descendant of the founder of the Ch’ing Dynasty, Nurhachi, Su Shun had connections in high places. His power also rested in his friendship with influential men, many of whom were quietly wealthy Chinese. Since his youth he had traveled extensively. His broad tastes allowed him to communicate effectively with society at large. He was known for having a special interest in antique art. He owned several ancient tombs in Hsian, where the first emperor of China was believed to be buried.
Su Shun was regarded as a man of generosity and loyalty. There was a story about when he first began to work for the court as a lowly official’s assistant: he sold his mother’s jewelry so that he could mount banquets for his friends. Later I learned that Su Shun used these elaborate meals to gather information on all areas of life-from gossip about Peking’s most popular actors to who hid the most gold in his backyard, from military reforms to political marriages.
Su Shun’s recent promotion as Emperor Hsien Feng’s right-hand man had stemmed from His Majesty’s frustration over the court’s bureaucracy. So corrupt was the court that most officials did little but sit on their titles and take their salaries. Many were descendants of royals who had fought under powerful princes; others were society’s wealthy but lowborn Manchus who had purchased their posts with “donations” to provincial governors. Together they formed an elite that ran the court. Over the years they emptied the Imperial treasury. When the country suffered economically, these people continued to thrive. When Emperor Hsien Feng realized the depth of the problem, he promoted Su Shun to “sweep away the debris.”
Su Shun was effective and ruthless. He concentrated on a single, highly visible case of corruption involving the Imperial civil service examination. The exam was given annually and touched the lives of thousands throughout the country. In his report to Emperor Hsien Feng, Su Shun charged five high-ranking judges with accepting bribes. Also in his report he presented ninety-one cases in which test scores had been mishandled, and challenged the past year’s first-place winner. To restore the reputation of the civil service, the Emperor ordered the be-heading of all five judges and the first-place winner. People cheered the action, and Su Shun became a household name.
Another thing Su Shun did brought him even greater honor. He prosecuted bankers who produced fake taels. One of the major counterfeiters happened to be his best friend, Huang Shan-li. Huang had once saved Su Shun from being murdered by an unforgiving creditor, so everyone predicted that Su Shun would find a way to exonerate his friend. But Su Shun showed that his first loyalty was to the Emperor.
The other man whose opinion Emperor Hsien Feng valued was Prince Kung. The Emperor once painfully admitted to me that his own talent was nowhere equal to Prince Kung’s. His other half-brothers, Prince Ts’eng and Prince Ch’un, were no match for Prince Kung either. Ts’eng was known as “a loser who thinks himself a winner,” and Ch’un as “honest but not too bright.”
I disagreed with my husband at first. Prince Kung’s seriousness and argumentative nature could be alienating. But as I got to know Kung, my view of him gradually changed. He thrived on challenges. Emperor Hsien Feng was too delicate, sensitive and, most of all, deeply insecure. Not everyone saw this, though, for he usually hid his fear beneath a mantle of arrogance and decisiveness. When it came to dealing with loss, Hsien Feng’s mind was rooted in fatalism. His brother looked down a more optimistic path.
It was strange spending time with both men. Like millions of other girls in China, I had grown up hearing stories of their private lives. Before Big Sister Fann filled in the details, I knew the general outlines of Empress Chu An’s
