The Last Empress - Anchee Min [72]
A week later, on March 4, I retired from the regency. It was the second time I had done so. I was fifty-four years old. From then on I was officially called the Dowager Empress. I was happily able to return to the gardens of the Summer Palace, leaving the court's headaches to Guang-hsu and his father, Prince Ch'un.
The Manchu hardliners feared Guang-hsu's commitment to reform, which he demonstrated in his very first decree: "I shall overturn the old order in the Middle Kingdom and sweep away reactionary forces who cannot bring themselves to acknowledge reality. And this means demotion, removal, exile and execution for the stone-minded."
Although I offered no public support to Guang-hsu, my silence spoke for itself.
Despising Emperor Guang-hsu and doubting my resolve to withdraw from power, one of the hardliners' representatives, a provincial judge, submitted a petition insisting that I continue the regency. What amazed me was the number of signatures he collected. People must have thought that I hadn't meant what I said. I learned that the judge had assumed that I was waiting for just such a proposal.
Instead of rewarding the judge with a promotion, I canceled the court's plan to discuss the petition. I called it a waste of time and fired the provincial judge, making sure that it was a permanent dismissal. I explained to the nation, "The regency was never my choice to begin with."
My intention was to let people know that bad ideas grow like weeds in the court.
I marked my retirement by hosting a celebration during which I handed out awards to a great many people. I issued half a dozen edicts to thank everyone, living and dead, who had worked during the regency.
Among the important personages I honored was the Englishman Robert Hart, for his devotion and achievement as the inspector general of China's customs service. The edict was issued despite strong objections from the court's ministers. I granted Hart a most prestigious title, the ancestral rank of First Class of the First Order for Three Generations. It meant that the honor was retroactive, bestowed on his ancestors rather than on his descendants. It might seem whimsical from a foreigner's point of view, but for a Chinese, nothing could be more honorable.
I played mute and deaf when the Clan Council cried, "A foreign devil now outranks most of us and our ancestors!"
I could not argue enough that Robert Hart represented the kind of revolutionary change China desperately needed. Yet the court collectively denied my request to meet with him in person. The minister of the Board of Etiquette threatened to resign as he laid out his records showing that in all of Chinese history a female of my status had never received a foreign male. Thirteen more years would pass before I finally got to meet with Robert Hart.
I never expected that the restoration of my retirement home would become a scandal. It began with a gesture of piety. When I decided to settle in the Summer Palace—originally called Ch'ing I Yuan, Garden of Clear Rippling Waters—it was Prince Ch'un who insisted that it be restored. As chief minister, he spoke on behalf of the Emperor. Ch'un meant to provide me with a comfortable home, which I gratefully accepted.
I did not want to embarrass Prince Ch'un by pointing out that he had resisted the same idea when it was proposed by Tung Chih after he mounted the throne back in 1873. At that time Ch'un claimed that there was a shortage of funds. How, I wondered, would he raise the funds now? I could only conclude that he wanted to keep me strolling in my gardens rather than meddling in state affairs.
I remained passive because it was time for Prince Ch'un to step into my shoes. As the minister of the Board of Admiralty, he had been a roaring tiger, tearing apart Li Hung-chang's effort to modernize China. What surprised me was his unlikely collaborator, Tutor Weng. Weng was a liberal and a strong advocate for reform who had supported Li's initiatives. But when he became Prince Ch'un's new minister of revenue,