When His Majesty realized that he was canceling too many appointments, he rewarded the disappointed with gifts and autographs. Once, when rain poured and those summoned got soaking wet after nights of traveling and their appointments were canceled, Hsien Feng rewarded each with a bolt of silk and satin to make new clothes.
I sat next to His Majesty as he worked. The room was a resting area to the rear of the throne room. It was now called the library because of its wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Above my head was a black tablet engraved with the large Chinese characters upright and above-board. From the outside, it was difficult to gauge the real size of the building. It was much larger than I had imagined. Built in the fifteenth century, it was near the Palace of Benevolent Tranquility but still within the Gate of Imperial Justice, the Gate of Glorious Virtue and the Gate of Preserved Fortune. This last led to a group of large compounds and side buildings that housed the Imperial offices.
The place was also near the office of the Grand Council, which had grown in importance in recent years. From here the Emperor could summon his councilors to discuss matters at any time. His Majesty usually preferred to receive his ministers in the central room of the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing. For reading, writing or receiving senior officials or trusted friends, he would go to the western wing. The eastern wing had been rearranged during the summer and had become our new bedchamber.
To many, being granted an audience with the Emperor was a lifetime honor. Hsien Feng had to live up to their expectations. There was no end of ceremonial detail. The night before an audience, the eunuchs had to clean the palace thoroughly. A buzzing fly would be cause for a beheading. The throne room was scented with fragrance and incense. The kneeling mats had to be laid out properly. Before midnight, guards came and checked every inch of the room. By two in the morning, the summoned ministers or generals would be escorted through the Gate of Celestial Purity. They had to walk quite a distance to reach the Hall of Spiritual Nurturing. Before being led to the throne room, they were received in the western wing’s guest rooms. The court officer of registration would attend them. Only tea would be served. By the time the Emperor mounted his palanquin, the summoned would be notified and told to stand up and face east until His Majesty arrived.
Before Emperor Hsien Feng stepped out of his palanquin, a whip would be snapped three times-the call for complete silence. The moment the whip sounded, everyone was expected to get down on his knees. People lined up according to rank. The grand councilors, princes and other royalty would take the first rows. When the Emperor seated himself, everyone was expected to kowtow nine times, forehead touching the floor.
He didn’t like to work in the throne room because the throne was uncomfortable. Its back was a magnificent piece of woodcarving, composed of numerous clusters of dragons. Audiences could take hours, and Hsien Feng would end up with a sore back.
The throne room was like a gallery, with every object on display. The throne sat on a raised stage with staircases on either side. Behind the throne were three sets of carved wood panels, each decorated with golden dragons. The stage enabled the Emperor to meet the eyes of more than a hundred officers. The audience began as the first summoned individual walked up the east staircase and presented the Emperor with a book of printed memos.
Emperor Hsien Feng would not touch the book. His secretary would pick it up and place it on a yellow case near the throne. The Emperor might refer to the book if the need arose. The summoned would then walk away, exiting down the west staircase to return to his mat. He now was permitted to state his business. When the summoned finished his petition, the Emperor would give his comments.
Hsien Feng usually initiated a discussion among the grand councilors, princes and senior clansmen. They would offer their views, each vying to present the best option. Sometimes their words became sharp and their tempers heated. There was one incident in which a minister died of a heart attack in the middle of an argument. The summoned was expected to remain quiet until questioned. Then he would respond accordingly, always deferential and reserved. After a conclusion was reached, Emperor Hsien Feng would be ready to issue a decree. A court scholar of the highest rank would be ordered to draft the decree in both Chinese and Manchu. Then the next in line would be called. The procedure repeated itself until noon.
I was much more interested in learning what was going on in the countryside than in listening to ministers who had never set foot outside Peking. I found most of the discussions boring and the solutions lacking in common sense. I was amazed by the differences among the royal princes, the Manchu clansmen, and the governors and generals, mostly Han Chinese who smelled of gunpowder. I was impressed by the Chinese simply because they injected a note of reality. Officers of Manchu origin loved to argue about ideology. They shouted patriotic slogans like schoolchildren. The Han officers chose to remain silent when there was a conflict in this Manchu court. If they wished to get an idea across, they pressed it dispassionately, providing the Emperor and his court only with facts.
After sitting through a few audiences, I noticed that the Chinese did not attempt to counter the Emperor. If their proposal was turned down, they would accept it humbly. Often they would carry out His Majesty’s order even if they knew it would be ineffective. After thousands of lives were lost, the Chinese would come back with the casualty figures, hoping that the Emperor would reconsider their proposal. When he did, they were so relieved they wept. I was much moved by their loyalty, but wished that Hsien Feng would listen to the Manchu noblemen less and the Chinese more.
Still, I began to see why the Emperor behaved the way he did. More than once he told me that he believed that only a Manchu was capable of pure devotion to the Ch’ing Dynasty. He always leaned toward the Manchu officers when there was a difference of opinion. He honored the ruling race’s privilege, and made it clear to the court that it would be a minister of Manchu origin that he would trust first. For centuries the Chinese ministers had managed to rise above the humiliation. I was in awe of their strength and patience.
Twelve
IN ASSISTING Emperor Hsien Feng, I became familiar with two people who carried great weight in the court and yet whose views were diametrically opposed to it. One was Su Shun, the head of the Grand Council. The other was Prince Kung, the Emperor’s half-brother.
Su Shun was an ambitious and arrogant Manchu in his forties. He was a tall man with a vigorous frame, and his large eyes and thin, slightly hooked nose reminded me of an owl. His bushy eyebrows were uneven, one standing higher than the other. He was known for his wit and explosive temper. He represented the conservative party of the court. My husband called him “a merchant who sells fantastic ideas.” I admired Su Shun’s talent for delivering commanding speeches. He drew examples from history, philosophy, even from classic operas. I often caught myself thinking, Is there anything this man doesn’t know?
Detail was Su Shun’s specialty, and he was a great storyteller. His sense of drama enhanced the effect. With only his voice to go by, as I sat behind my curtain, I was often won over by his words, even if I disagreed with his politics.