Empress Orchid (20 page)

It was due to Prince Kung’s encouragement that the Emperor granted General Tseng a private audience.

“Orchid,” Emperor Hsien Feng called as he put on his dragon robe. “Come with me this morning and let me know your impression of Tseng Kuo-fan.” I followed my husband to the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing.

The general rose from his knees and greeted His Majesty. I noticed that he was too nervous to raise his eyes. This was not uncommon during a first Imperial audience. It happened more often among those of Chinese origin. Humble to a fault, they could not believe their ruler was receiving them.

In truth, it was not the Chinese but the Manchus who lacked confidence. Our ancestors may have conquered the mainland by force two centuries before, but we had never mastered the art of ruling. We arrived without the fundamentals, such as Confucian philosophy, which
unified the nation through morality and spirituality, and without a system that effectively centralized power. We also lacked a language that allowed the Emperor to communicate with his people, 80 percent of whom were Chinese.

Wisely, our ancestors had adopted Chinese ways. In my view, this was probably unavoidable. The culture was so gracious and broad that it both accepted and served us. Confucian fundamentals continued to dominate the nation. For myself, my first language was Chinese, my eating habits Chinese, my rough schooling Chinese, and my favorite form of entertainment Peking operas!

I had come to realize that the Manchu sense of superiority had betrayed us. Today’s Manchus were as rotten as termite-infested wood. Manchu men were generally spoiled. They no longer knew how to win battles on horseback. Most had become their own enemies. Beneath their proud exterior, they were lazy and insecure. They created difficulties for my husband whenever he wished to promote someone of true talent who happened to be Chinese.

Sadly, they remained the dominant political force. Their opinions influenced Emperor Hsien Feng. Tseng Kuo-fan was the best general in the empire, yet His Majesty was afraid to promote him. This was typical. Any high-ranking Chinese could easily find himself cut off at a moment’s notice. There was never an explanation.

Prince Kung had repeatedly advised the Emperor to rid his administration of discrimination. Kung’s point was that until His Majesty could demonstrate true justice, he would receive no true loyalty. Tseng Kuo-fan illustrated the point. The renowned general didn’t believe that he was here to be honored. The man broke down when Emperor Hsien Feng attempted a light-hearted joke: “Is ‘Head-Chopper Tseng’ your name?”

Tseng Kuo-fan knocked his forehead on the floor and trembled violently.

I tried not to giggle when I heard Tseng’s jewelry clanking.

The Emperor was charmed. “Why don’t you answer my question?”

“I should be punished and die ten thousand times before I soil Your Majesty’s ears with this name,” the man replied.

“No, I wasn’t upset.” Emperor Hsien Feng smiled. “Rise, please. I like the name Head-Chopper Tseng. Would you explain how you got it?”

Drawing a deep breath, the man replied, “Your Majesty, the name was first created by my enemies, and then my men adopted it.”

“Your men must be very proud to serve under you.”

“Yes, indeed, they are.”

“You have honored me, Tseng Kuo-fan. I wish I had more head-choppers as generals!”

When Emperor Hsien Feng invited Tseng to join him for lunch, the man was moved to tears. He said that he could now die and greet his ancestors with pride, because he had brought them great honor.

After a little liquor, General Tseng became relaxed. When I was introduced as the Emperor’s favorite concubine, Tseng fell to his knees and bowed to me. I was very pleased. Many years later, after the death of my husband, when Tseng Kuo-fan and I were both old, I asked him what he had thought of me when we first met. He flattered me and said that he had been stunned by my beauty and unable to think. He asked if I recalled his drinking down a bowl of dirty water—the one used to wash our fingers during the meal.

I was glad that Emperor Hsien Feng cared to present me to his high-ranking friends. In their eyes I was still just a concubine, albeit a favored one; nevertheless, the exposure was crucial to my political development and maturity. Personally knowing someone like Tseng Kuo-fan would serve me well in the future.

As I listened to the conversation between Emperor Hsien Feng and the general, I was reminded of the sweetest days of my childhood when my father told me stories of China’s past.

“You yourself are a scholar,” Hsien Feng said to Tseng. “I have heard that you prefer to hire officers who are literate.”

“Your Majesty, I believe that anyone who has been taught Confucius’s teachings has a better understanding of loyalty and justice.”

“I have also heard that you don’t recruit former soldiers. Why?”

“Well, in my experience I find that professional soldiers have bad habits. Their first thought when a battle starts is to save their own skin. They desert their posts shamelessly.”

“How do you recruit quality soldiers?”

“I spend taels on recruiting peasants from poor areas and remote mountains. These people have purer characters. I train them myself. I try to cultivate a sense of brotherhood.”

“I have heard that many of them are from Hunan.”

“Yes. I am Hunanese myself. It is easy for them to identify with me and with each other. We speak the same dialect. It is like a big family.”

“And you are the father, of course.”

Tseng Kuo-fan smiled, proud and embarrassed at the same time.

Emperor Hsien Feng nodded. “It has been reported to me that you have equipped your army with superior weapons—better than the Imperial Army’s. Is that true?”

Tseng Kuo-fan got up from his seat and lifted his robe and got down on his knees. “That is true. However, it is important that Your Majesty see that I am part of your Imperial Army. I can’t be seen otherwise.” He bowed and remained on the floor to emphasize his point.

“Rise, please,” Emperor Hsien Feng said. “Let me rephrase my words so there will be no misunderstanding. What I mean is that the Imperial Army, especially those divisions run by Manchu warlords, have become a pot of maggots. They feed on the dynasty’s blood and contribute nothing. That is why I am spending more time learning about you.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Tseng Kuo-fan got up and returned to his seat. “I believe it is important to equip the soldiers’ minds, too.”

“How do you mean?”

“The peasants are not trained to fight before they become soldiers. Like most people, they can’t stand the sight of blood. Punishment won’t change this behavior, but there are other ways. I can’t let my men get used to defeat.”

“I understand. I am used to defeat myself,” the Emperor said with a sarcastic smile.

Both Tseng Kuo-fan and I couldn’t be sure whether His Majesty was mocking or revealing his true feelings. Tseng’s chopsticks froze before his open mouth.

“I bear the unbearable shame,” Emperor Hsien Feng said, as if explaining. “The difference is that I can’t desert.”

The general was affected by the Son of Heaven’s sadness. He again got down on his knees. “I swear with my life to bring back your honor, Your Majesty. My army is ready to die for the Ch’ing Dynasty.”

Emperor Hsien Feng got up from his chair and helped Tseng Kuofan to his feet. “How great is the force under your command?”

“I have thirteen divisions of land forces and thirteen divisions of water forces, plus local Braves. Every division has five hundred men.”

Sitting through audiences like this, I entered the Emperor’s dream. Working together, we became true friends, and lovers, and something more. Bad news continued, but Hsien Feng had become calm enough to face the difficulties. His depression didn’t go away, but his mood swings became less dramatic. He was at his best during this period, however brief. I missed him when business kept him from me.

I HEAR PROMISING BEATS.” Doctor Sun Pao-tien’s voice came through my curtain. “It tells me that you have a
sheemai.
”

“What’s a
sheemai
?” I asked nervously. The curtain separated the doctor and me. Lying on my bed, I couldn’t see the man’s face, only his shadow projected by candlelight on the curtain. I stared at his hand, which was inside the curtain. It rested on my wrist, with its second and middle fingers pressing lightly. It was a delicate-looking hand with amazingly long fingers. The hand carried with it the faint smell of herbal medicines. Since no male but the Emperor was allowed to see the females in the Forbidden City, an Imperial doctor based his diagnosis on the pulse of his patient.

I wondered what he could examine while the curtain blocked his eyes, yet the pulse alone had guided Chinese doctors to detect the body’s problems for thousands of years. Sun Pao-tien was the best physician in the nation. He was from a Chinese family with five generations of doctors. He was known for discovering a peach-pit-sized stone in the gut of the Grand Empress Lady Jin. In terrible pain, the Empress didn’t believe the doctor but trusted him enough to drink the herbal medicine he’d prescribed. Three months later a maid found the stone in Her Majesty’s stool.

Doctor Sun Pao-tien’s voice was soft and gentle. “
Shee
means ‘happiness,’ and
mai
means ‘pulses.’
Sheemai
—happy pulses. Lady Yehonala, you are pregnant.”

Before my mind recognized what he said, Doctor Sun Pao-tien withdrew his hand.

“Excuse me!” I sat up and reached to pull at the curtain. Fortunately An-te-hai had clipped it closed. I was not sure whether I indeed had heard the word “pregnant.” I had been suffering from morning sickness for weeks and didn’t trust my hearing.

“An-te-hai!” I cried. “Get me the hand back!”

After a busy movement on the other side of the curtain, the doctor’s shadow returned. Several eunuchs guided him to the chair and his hand was pushed in. It was obviously displeased. It rested on the edge of my bed with the fingers curled inward like a crawling spider. I could care less. I wanted to hear the word “pregnant” again. I picked up the hand and placed it on my wrist. “Make sure, Doctor,” I pleaded.

“There is success in all fields of your body.” Doctor Sun Pao-tien’s voice was unhurried, each word spoken clearly. “Your veins and arteries are beaming. Beautiful elements blanket your hills and dales …”

“Eh? What does that mean?” I shook the hand.

An-te-hai’s shadow merged with the doctor’s. He translated the doctor’s words for me. The excitement in his voice was unmistakable. “My lady, the dragon seed has sprouted!”

I let go of Sun Pao-tien’s hand. I couldn’t wait for An-te-hai to remove the clips. I thanked Heaven for its blessing. For the rest of the day I ate almost continually. An-te-hai was so overjoyed that he forgot to feed his birds. He went to the Imperial fish farm and asked for a bucket of live fish.

“Let’s celebrate, my lady,” he said when he came back.

We went to the lake with the fish. One by one I freed the fish. The ritual, called
fang sheng,
was a gesture of mercy. With each fish that was given a chance to live, I added to my stock of goodwill.

The next morning I woke up to the sound of music in the late-summer sky. It was from An-te-hai’s pigeons, flying in circles above my roof. The sound of wind pipes took me back to Wuhu, where I had made similar pipes from water reeds, which I tied to my own birds and to kites too. Depending on their thickness, the reeds would produce different sounds. One old villager tied two dozen wind pipes to a large kite. He arranged the pipes in such a way that they produced the melody of a popular folk song.

I got up, went to the garden and was greeted by the peacocks. An-te-hai was busy feeding the parrot, Confucius. The bird tried out a new phrase it had just learned: “Congratulations, my lady!” I was delighted. The orchids around the yard were still in bloom. The flower’s long slender stems bent elegantly. The leaves stood like dancers holding up their
sleeves. White and blue petals stretched outward as if kissing the sunlight. The orchids’ black velvety hearts reminded me of Snow’s eyes.

An-te-hai told me that Doctor Sun Pao-tien had suggested that I keep the news of my pregnancy to myself until the third month. I took his advice. Whenever possible, I indulged myself in the garden. The sweet hours made me miss my family. I ached with the desire to share this news with my mother.

Despite my “secret,” before long the Imperial wives and concubines in every palace learned about my pregnancy. I was showered with flowers, jade carvings and good-wish paper cutouts. Every concubine made an effort to visit me. The ones who were unwell sent their eunuchs with more gifts.

In my room the presents piled up to the ceiling. But behind the smiling faces lay envy and jealousy. Swollen eyes were evidence of crying and sleepless nights. I knew exactly how the rest of the concubines felt. I remembered my own reaction toward Lady Yun’s pregnancy. I hadn’t wished Lady Yun bad luck, but I hadn’t wished her well either. I had been quietly relieved when Nuharoo told me that Lady Yun had given birth to a daughter instead of a son.

I was not looking forward to what was coming. I feared that numerous traps would be set for me. It was only natural that the concubines should hate me.

As my belly began to swell, my fear increased. I now ate little in order to narrow the risk of being poisoned. I dreamt of Snow’s hairless body floating in the well. An-te-hai warned me to be careful every time I drank a bowl of soup or took a walk in the garden. He believed that my rivals had directed their eunuchs to lay loose rocks or dig holes in my path to make me stumble. When I pointed out that he was overreacting, An-te-hai told me a story about a jealous concubine who instructed her eunuch to break a tile on her rival’s roof so that it would slip down and hit the rival on the head, and it did!

Before I got into my palanquin, An-te-hai always checked to see whether there was a needle hidden inside my cushion. He was convinced that my rivals would do anything to shock me into a miscarriage.

I understood the cause of such viciousness, but I wouldn’t be able to forgive anyone who tried to destroy my child. If I delivered safely, my status would be elevated at the expense of the others. My name would go into the Imperial record books. If the child should be a male, I would rise to the rank of Empress, sharing the title with Nuharoo.

• • •

The night was deep, and His Majesty and I lay side by side. He had been cheerful since learning of my pregnancy. We had been spending our nights at the Palace of Concentrated Beauty, north of the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing. I slept better in my palace because no one came to wake us with urgent business. His Majesty had been living in both palaces, depending on how late his work kept him. An-te-hai’s warnings troubled me and I asked His Majesty to increase the night guards at my gate. “Just in case,” I said. “I would feel safer.”

His Majesty sighed. “Orchid, you are ruining a dream of mine.”

I was startled by this and asked him to explain.

“My dreams of building a prosperous China have been repeatedly crushed. Increasingly, I cannot help but doubt my abilities as a ruler. But my power encounters no resistance in the Forbidden City. The concubines and eunuchs are my faithful citizens. There is no confusion here. I expect you to love me and to love one another. I especially desire serenity between you and Nuharoo. The Forbidden City is poetry in its purest form. It is my spiritual garden where I can lie among my flowers and rest.”

But is it possible to love here?
The atmosphere in this garden had long been poisoned.

“That wonderful evening when you and Nuharoo walked together in the garden,” His Majesty said in a dreamy tone. “I remember the day clearly. You carried the light of the setting sun. You were both dressed in spring robes. You had been picking flowers. With armfuls of peonies you walked toward me, smiling and chatting as sweetly as sisters. It made me forget my troubles. All I wanted to do was to kiss the flowers in your hands …”

I wished I could tell him that I was never part of it. His picture of beauty and harmony did not exist. He had woven Nuharoo and me into his fantasy. Nuharoo and I might have loved each other and been friends if our survival hadn’t depended on his affection.

“Nowadays when I see something beautiful I want to freeze it.” Rising from his pillow, His Majesty turned to me and asked, “You and Nuharoo cared for each other before—why not now? Why do you have to ruin it?”

In the third month of my pregnancy the court astrologers were ordered to perform
pa kua.
Wooden, metal and golden sticks were thrown on the marble floor. A bucket containing the blood of several animals was brought in. Water and colored sand were spread onto the walls to create
paintings. In their long, star-patterned black robes, the astrologers squatted on their heels. With their noses almost touching the floor they studied the sticks and interpreted the ghostly images on the walls. Finally they pronounced that the child I carried possessed the proper balance of gold, wood, water, fire and soil.

The ritual continued. Unlike fortunetellers in the countryside, the Imperial astrologers avoided expressing their true views. I noticed that everything said was aimed at pleasing Emperor Hsien Feng, who would issue rewards. Trying to look busy, the astrologers danced around the stained walls all day long. In the evening they sat and rolled their eyeballs in circles. I found excuses and left. To punish me, the astrologers passed on a dire prediction to the Grand Empress: if I didn’t lie absolutely still after sunset, with both of my legs raised, I would lose the child. I was tied to my bed, and stools were placed under my feet. I was upset but could do nothing. My mother-in-law was a strong believer in
pa kua
astrology.

“My lady,” An-te-hai asked, noticing that I was in a sour mood, “since you have time, would you like to learn a bit about
pa kua
? You can find out whether your child is a mountain type or an ocean type.”

As always, An-te-hai sensed just what it was I needed. He brought in an expert, “the most reputable in Peking,” my eunuch said. “He got past the gates because I disguised him as a garbage man.”

With the three of us shut up in my chamber, the man, who had one eye, read the sand paintings that he drew on a tray. What he said confused me and I tried hard to comprehend. “
Pa kua
will not work once it is explained,” he said. “The philosophy is in the senses.” An-te-hai was impatient and asked the man to “cut the fat.” The expert was turned into a village fortuneteller. He told me that there was a very good chance that my child would be a boy.

I lost interest in learning more about
pa kua
after that. The prediction set my heart racing. I managed to sit still and ordered the man to continue.

“I see the child has everything perfect except too much metal, which means he will be stubborn.” The man flipped the rocks and sticks he had spread out on the tray. “The boy’s best quality is that he is likely to pursue his dreams.” At this point the man paused. He raised his chin toward the ceiling and his eyebrows twitched. He squeezed his nose and blinked. Yellowish crust flaked from his empty eye socket. He stopped talking.

An-te-hai moved closer to him. “Here is a reward for your honesty,” my eunuch said, putting a bag of taels into the man’s large sleeve.

“The darkness,” the man immediately resumed, “is that his coming into the world will place a curse on a close family member.”

“Curse? What kind of curse?” An-te-hai asked before I could. “What will happen to this close family member?”

“She will die,” the man replied.

I drew a breath and asked why it was a she. The man had no answer for that and could tell me only that he had read the signs.

I begged him for a clue. “Will the she be me? Will I die in childbirth?”

The man shook his head and said that the picture was unclear at this point. He was unable to tell me more.

After the one-eyed man was gone, I tried to forget about the prediction. I told myself that he couldn’t prove what he had said. Unlike Nuharoo, who was a devoted Buddhist, I was not a religious person and never took superstition seriously. Everyone in the Forbidden City, it seemed, was obsessed with the idea of life after death, investing all their hopes in the next world. The eunuchs talked about coming back “in one piece,” while the concubines looked forward to having a husband and children of their own. The afterlife was part of Nuharoo’s Buddhist study. She was quite knowledgeable about what would happen to us after death. She said that after reaching the underworld, each person would be interrogated and judged. Those whose lives had been stained with sin were sentenced to Hell, where they would be boiled, fried, sawed or chopped to pieces. Those who were considered sinless got to begin a new life on earth. Not everyone came back to live the life he or she desired, however. The lucky were reborn as humans, the unlucky as animals—a dog, a pig, a flea.

The concubines in the Forbidden City, especially the senior ones, were extremely superstitious. Besides making
yoo-hoo-loos
and chanting, they spent their days mastering various kinds of witchcraft. To them, belief in the next life was itself a weapon. They needed the weapon to place curses on their rivals. They were very ingenious about the various fates they wished upon their enemies.

Nuharoo showed me a book called
The Calendar of Chinese Ghosts,
with vivid, bizarre illustrations. I was not unfamiliar with the material. I had heard every story it contained and had seen a hand-copied version in Wuhu. The book was used by storytellers in the countryside.
Nuharoo was especially fascinated by “The Red Embroidered Shoes,” an old tale about a pair of shoes worn by a ghost.

As a child I had seen fortunetellers make false predictions that ruined lives. However, An-te-hai wanted to take no chances. I knew he worried that the ill-fated “she” would turn out to be me.