The Last Empress - Anchee Min [142]
45
The welcoming banners on the Forbidden City walls hid the damage done by the foreign artillery. When my palanquin approached my palace I saw that many statues and ornaments had been shattered or stolen. The Sea Palace, where all my valuable possessions had been hidden, was raided. The offices at Ying-t'ai had been burned. The fingers of my white-jade Buddha were broken. The Allies' commander in chief, the German field marshal Count Waldersee, was said to have slept in my bed with the notorious Chinese courtesan named Golden Flower.
Not wanting to be reminded of the shame, I moved to the modest Palace of Serenity, in the northeast corner of the Forbidden City. Its remote location and unkempt appearance made it the only spot the foreigners had not violated.
Three days after the court's return, Guang-hsu and I resumed audiences and received foreign envoys. We tried to put smiles on our faces. Sometimes our emotions slipped and unexpected words would tumble out. As a result, translators kept getting fired. One foreign minister later described my facial expression as "in between crying and smiling"—a kind of twisted grimace that he suspected was the result of a stroke. He also detected "a swelling around Her Majesty's eyes." He was right—I frequently wept at night. Others noticed that I rocked my chin and appeared to have trouble sitting still. They were right too: I was still trying to rid myself of lice.
I forced myself to apologize. With great effort I managed to wish happiness and health to the foreign representatives and dismiss them with a gracious nod.
When Li Hung-chang's name was mentioned at such audiences, which was often, I could not control my tears.
Li Lien-ying kept a close watch over me. He would call for a recess and take me to the back of the hall, where I would fall on my knees and sob. He kept a water basin and a makeup kit behind the curtains. I tried not to rub my eyes so that the swelling would go down.
The daughter of Yung Lu was going to be married, and he asked for my blessing. The groom was Prince Ch'un Junior—my sister's youngest son and Emperor Guang-hsu's brother. I had had my reservations about Ch'un until I'd recently met him again. He had just returned from a trip to Germany to apologize on behalf of the Emperor for the death of Baron von Ketteler. Prince Ch'un was a changed man. He was no longer so overbearing, and he listened more. For the first time, he credited Li Hung-chang and acknowledged and honored Li's diplomatic accomplishments. I offered my blessing not only because Yung Lu had accepted him as a son-in-law, but also because Prince Ch'un was the only hope left in the dynasty's bloodline.
I attended the wedding and found Yung Lu and his wife, Willow, to be happy, although Yung Lu's cough had worsened. None of us could have predicted that he would soon gain a grandson who would become the last Emperor of China.
Instead of having a traditional opera troupe, the guests were entertained with a silent moving picture show of a horserace. The idea came from Yuan Shih-kai, of course, who had borrowed the film from a diplomat friend at one of the legations. It was a grand experience for me. At first I thought what we saw were the images of ghosts. I kept turning my head back and forth between the screen and the film projector.
Yuan Shih-kai took this occasion to ask for my help. He said, "Your Majesty, my police force is having difficulty disciplining the royal princes."
I gave Yuan permission to enforce the law, and I asked him if he in turn could help me take care of a recent scandal.
"Elderly students who are against my abolishing the old civil service exam system have been protesting outside my palace," I said. "They demand that I withdraw my support of Western-style schools. Yesterday, three seventy-year-old students hanged themselves."
Yuan Shih-kai understood his