The Last Empress - Anchee Min [43]
"My wife thinks our daughter is a beauty, but I told her that Lan is so plain that we will have to give a discount to her marriage suitor." Impressed by his own sense of humor, he laughed.
I offered Lan a cupcake, and my niece thanked me in an almost inaudible voice. She chewed like a mouse and wiped her mouth after every bite. She fixed her eyes on the floor, and I wondered whether she had found something interesting to look at. Teasing, I asked her. "Crumbs," she replied.
I suggested that my brother take Lan to visit Princess Jung, my husband's daughter. The princess had suffered a great misfortune—her mother, Lady Yun, had committed suicide—but had grown into a thoughtful young woman.
"What do you want us to learn from the girl?" Kuei Hsiang asked.
"Ask Jung to tell the story of how she survived," I replied. "It will be the best lesson for Lan. And please, brother, don't belittle your daughter. I think Lan is beautiful."
Hearing my words, Lan raised her eyes. When her father answered, "Yes, Your Majesty," she giggled.
"I know of Princess Jung," Lan said in a small voice. "She studied in Europe, is it not true?"
"She tried but was forced by the court to return home." I sighed. "However, it is her courage that I admire. She has a positive spirit and leads a productive life. You will meet her when she comes to help me in my work."
"But Orchid," my brother protested, "I'd prefer your influence, not the influence of a disgraced concubine's daughter."
"It is my influence, Kuei Hsiang," I said. "Jung lived with me, and she witnessed how many of my dreams went unrealized. The courage to keep dreams alive despite all is what matters."
My brother looked confused.
Guang-hsu cried for hours on end, and I became frustrated. I sang nursery songs until I became sick of their tunes. I compared Guang-hsu's situation with how peasants grew rice. "Roots of rice shoots must be broken in order to encourage splits," the village saying went. I remembered working in rice fields to help break the roots. The tearing sound bothered me at first, for I didn't believe that the rice would survive. I left a small patch untouched, to see what would happen. The torn shoots came back healthier and stronger than those that went untorn.
Guang-hsu's attendants said, "His Young Majesty continues to wet his bed every night and is afraid of darkness and people." My adopted son also had a speech impediment, wore the expression of a prisoner and was sad all the time. After a few months, his weight began to drop.
I summoned Guang-hsu's former wet nurses. They told me that Guang-hsu had been a happy baby when he was born. It was his mother, my sister, who tried to "fix his ill manner" by hitting him every time he tried to eat or laugh.
Nuharoo and I couldn't do enough to make the little boy happy. Guang-hsu quivered and screamed when repairmen pounded nails or sawed wood. The summer's rolling thunder became another problem. On hot days before the rain came, we would keep his door and window shut so the noise wouldn't bother him. Guang-hsu wouldn't venture out on his own. The kitchen was no longer allowed to chop vegetables; the chefs used scissors instead. The maids were instructed to be quiet when washing dishes. Li Lien-ying used a slingshot to scare away the woodpeckers.
To help the Emperor smooth the transition, I ordered one of his former wet nurses to come to the Forbidden City to live with us. I hoped that Guang-hsu would find comfort in her. But Nuharoo sent the wet nurse right back. "Guang-hsu should forget all his former conditions," she insisted. "He ought to and will be treated as palace born."
Tension began to build between Nuharoo and me, something that was all too familiar from when we raised Tung Chih. I feared that I would