The Last Empress - Anchee Min [13]
Prince Kung was no longer the open-minded and big-hearted man that I had first come to know. In the past, he had appointed people for positions based on merit and been among the strongest advocates for embracing the many peoples of China. He promoted not only the Han Chinese but also foreign employees, such as the Englishman Robert Hart, who for years had been in charge of our customs service. But when the Han Chinese filled the majority of the seats at the court, Prince Kung became uneasy and his views changed. My connections with such men as Tseng Kuo-fan and Li Hung-chang only made matters worse.
Prince Kung and I also had differences regarding Tung Chih. I didn't know how Prince Kung raised his children, but I realized—all too well—that Tung Chih was still an immature boy. On the one hand, I wished Prince Kung would be firm so that Tung Chih could benefit from having a father figure. On the other hand, I wanted the prince to stop ridiculing my son in front of the court. "Tung Chih might be weak in character," I said to my brother-in-law, "but he was born to be the Emperor of China."
Prince Kung officially proposed to have the court limit my power. "Crossing the male-female line" was the name of my crime. I was able to quash the move, but it became increasingly difficult to offer posts to non-Manchus. Prince Kung's anti-Han attitude began to have a negative impact.
The Han Chinese ministers understood my hardship and did their best to help, including swallowing insults from their Manchu colleagues. The disrespect I witnessed on a daily basis devastated me.
When Prince Kung insisted in an audience that I hire back the Manchu officers who had failed in their duties, I walked out. "The Manchus are like defective firecrackers that won't pop!" was what people remembered my saying. And now that phrase was being used against my son.
The consequences were mine to bear: I lost my son's affection. "You've made Uncle Prince Kung a victim!" my son yelled.
I prayed to Heaven to make me strong, for I believed in what I was doing. Let Prince Kung be shaken by the fact that he was not able to stop me. I told myself that I had nothing to fear. I had been running the nation without him and would move forward as I must.
5
My son's era was described as "the Glorious Tung Chih Renaissance," although Tung Chih had done nothing to deserve the praise. General Tseng Kuo-fan was the man who brought the glory. He had been battling the Taiping forces since 1864. By 1868 he had succeeded in wiping out most of the rebels. Since Tseng was my choice, the inner court nicknamed me "the Old Buddha" for being wise.
Grateful to General Tseng, I rewarded him with a promotion. To my surprise, he turned it down.
"It is not that I wouldn't be honored," Tseng explained in his letter to me. "I am more than honored. What I don't want is to be seen by my peers as a symbol of power. I fear that my rise in rank would feed the greed for power in the government. I would like to make every general around me feel comfortable and equal. I want my soldiers to know that I am one of them, fighting for a cause, not for power or prestige."
In my reply I wrote: "As coregents, all Nuharoo and I desire to see is order and peace, and this goal simply cannot be achieved without your being in charge. Until you accept the promotion, we won't be able to rest our conscience."
Tseng Kuo-fan reluctantly complied.
As the senior governor in charge of the provinces of Jiangsu, Jiang-hsi, and Anhwei, Tseng Kuo-fan became the first Han Chinese whose rank was equal to that of Yung Lu and Prince Kung.
Tseng worked tirelessly yet continued to be what others would describe as overcautious. He kept his distance from the throne. His suspicion was a classic one. In countless instances over China's long history, even as a powerful general was honored, plans were made for his murder. This was especially so when the ruler