The Last Empress - Anchee Min [104]
When the minister of the royal cemetery requested my presence for an inspection, I used it as a pretext to escape the Forbidden City. Li Lien-ying hired a carpenter to make an adjustable seat for my horse carriage so I could ride in a reclining position. I bounced and dozed through the three-day journey covering 125 kilometers from Peking to Hupeh province.
By the time I arrived at the cemetery it was early morning. The sky was overcast and a fine mist fell over the blue rivers. White bridges, golden roofs, red walls and cypress trees formed breathtaking views.
The cemetery minister greeted me at the Grand Sacred Way. An elderly man who was hard of hearing, he apologized for the dirt and mud and said that Nuharoo's tomb was being repaired.
"Wild animals dug up the ground and damaged the drainage system," the minister explained. "A few of the tombs, including Empress Nuharoo's, flooded during the last storm."
I thought about how Nuharoo would have hated the flood and asked, "How soon will the repairs be completed?"
"I am embarrassed to say that I can't give you an exact date," he replied. "The work has been sporadic. Sometimes we have to stand idle for weeks while we appeal for more funds."
I was led to my own tomb, which seemed well maintained.
"It flooded too, but I gave the repair work top priority." The minister was not humble about claiming credit.
My tomb stood next to Nuharoo's like a twin sister. When Tung Chih ascended the throne in 1862, he ordered construction to begin on our tombs. It took thirteen years to complete the outer tomb and another five years to finish the interior.
Having reached the age of sixty-three, I had become familiar with the process of death. I continued to attend sacrificial ceremonies whenever I could. I honored the gods of all religions, not just Buddha. I believed in paying attention to the force of energy inside me. Not everyone would be lucky enough to achieve the Great Void, but I understood that the point was to try. I struggled to balance yin and yang, however difficult it seemed to be.
While the nation applauded Guang-hsu's dismissal of so-called corrupt officials, few of the throne's edicts had been executed, which meant no significant progress in reform had taken place. Guang-hsu expected to harvest his reforms by the end of the year, but the only thing that seemed to be coming was war with Japan.
"Young women in Japan are offering their virginity to soldiers willing to volunteer for service in China," one Peking newspaper reported.
Guang-hsu kept his door closed and worked with his reformer friends in the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing until "the wild geese flew across the dawn sky," according to the eunuchs. The country was on the brink of chaos. The ministers and officers who were fired continued to kneel at my front gate while the Ironhats trained their Moslem troops.
I looked at myself in the mirror and a saying came to mind: "The ship sinks when a female goes on board." I had never believed it before. On the contrary, I had intended to offer myself as proof that it wasn't true. But the thought persisted: Hsien Feng's ship sank! Tung Chih's ship sank! And now Guang-hsu's—all with you on board!
When I recounted my recent trip to the royal cemetery, Guang-hsu showed little interest. It was time to begin construction on his own tomb, but I had been told that funds were unavailable. When I implored my son to find a way to fund the project, he replied, "There were Manchu emperors who were not buried at the royal cemetery."
"It was circumstance, not their choice." I told Guang-hsu that it hurt me to think that he would be excluded from the family cemetery. "If I raise any money, it will go toward reform," Guang-hsu said.
Through the transparent curtain I observed Ito Hirobumi.