Empress Orchid - Anchee Min [77]
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.
Before the summer ended, we left Yuan Ming Yuan and moved back to the Forbidden City. With my persistence, Emperor Hsien Feng was able to rise before dawn