Here is a short story I wrote at the end of last semester for English creative writing. It's about the last several days of Guangxu Emperor and Empress Dowager Cixi. Based on basic historical facts, I imagined many details myself. Sometimes it might seem too dramatic, however, I hope it's still an enjoyable reading for I enjoyed reading it myself.
Mother and Son
He stands upon the top platform of the Ocean Terrace, elbows resting on the cold marble railings. It is a beautiful autumn morning, the vermillion walls of the Forbidden City carry on its peculiar purple sheen under the golden beams of the sun. Sparkling wrinkles float upon the lake surface after being blown by a gust of breeze. Autumn is always the best season in Beijing, he murmurs, even a breath of fresh air mitigates his deep sorrows.
He looks across the water to the isle to the north. By this time, SHE must has already woken up but has not yet dressed. Perhaps she is now brushing her teeth in her phoenix-carved mahogany bed with mint paste newly imported from France and is surrounded by a group of maids serving her. That WOMAN who has held him up so high to the dragon throne and then ruthlessly torn him down to the status of prisoner is now in poor health, just like he has always been since his tender childhood. However, he is well aware of the fact that she is 74 years old while he is only 38. I can survive this winter, she cannot, I can definitely survive her, he thinks, and a smile emerges upon his faint lips. Dozens of clocks and watches make the morning alarm in his bedchamber, all at the same time. Seven o’clock. The grandfather clock transmits a ponderous sound in the air while the cuckoo clock sings rapid tunes. Time, what a magical thing it is, and so is the measurement of time---clocks. He still cannot understand why she, his imperial mother, has generously given him all the clocks in the Forbidden City*, from the oldest ones brought by Matteo Ricci to the newest ones sent by President Roosevelt, so that he can study their delicate parts and learn to repair them, as a way of idling away time. It’s time to attend her levee now, he says to himself, tomorrow is her birthday, and the nearer she is to death, the more filial piety I should show towards her, so that she will trust me to rule this Empire after she dies. Do I hate her? He asks himself, no, not really, even though he is looking forward to her death, he doesn’t hate her, he CANNOT hate her; even though she murdered the love of his life, even though she smashed his dreams of reforming China into pieces, even though she has held him like a canary in a golden cage, he cannot hate her, simply because she is his stepmother, and a good son should never hate his mother. I am a devout disciple of Confucius, he says, in whatever circumstances, I cannot disobey its basic principles. He puts down the newly-translated Montesquieu’s ‘The Spirit of Law’, which he has been reading in the mornings for days before the levees, and as usual, calls his servant to accompany him to the palace of the Empress Dowager.
At this time, SHE is actually suffering from toothache and is whining about the pain in bed. She tries several times to support herself up but all fail. In the end, she reluctantly calls her maids and eunuchs to help her up. I am old and I am dying, she confides to her most trusted eunuch as he is massaging her painful muscles. She looks up to him with vacant eyes, she, the most powerful woman in China, the Old Buddha, has never looked so helpless before.
The eunuch immediately kneels down to his knees and wishes the Old Buddha longevity, he exclaims with tears that everyone hopes her to live ten thousand years, all except perhaps one, he adds.
*The Chinese character for ‘clock’ is ‘钟’, with the pronunciation of ‘zhong’ with the first tune, however, another character for ‘zhong’ with the first tune is ‘终’, which can mean the end of one’s life. Here the Old Buddha sends clocks to the emperor indicates that she wishes for his death. That’s why clocks are considered as terrible gifts in China.
Her eyes once again reflect cold shrewdness on hearing his last remark, and she goes on asking the eunuch who is that daring as to wish her to die? The emperor of course, answers the eunuch, the emperor has been quite happy lately all because of her failing health. As if it were not enough to invoke the rage of the Old Buddha, the eunuch goes on with saying that as the Dalai Lama now also resides in Beijing, according to suspicions, not all three can live but that at least one must die.
I CANNOT DIE BEFORE HIM! She articulates each syllable of this sentence with force, as if her suffered no toothache. She orders the eunuch to go and let her alone for a while until she calls him again.
She supports herself on one arm upon the jade pillow, gasping heavily, half from shock and half from rage. Her nephew, the adopted son she raised since he was four, is now looking forward to her death! How I regret not having swiftly killed him 10 years ago, she thinks, I was too soft-hearted then. Such an unfilial son deserves being tortured by the flames from hell. He has always failed her and she has been too generous and indulgent towards such an unworthy child. He almost turned this country upside down one decade ago, if she didn’t interfere in time and extinguish the sparks of unrest. He dared to win favor and sympathy from foreigners and collaborated with them in the plot of condemning her to war criminal. And above all, he failed to produce an heir to the noble lineage of Aisin-Gioro! He has no face to meet our noble ancestors, she murmurs, how can the Mandate of Heaven fall upon such a one like HIM! I must prevent this from happening, and I can prevent it, even it means failing my own sister, for he is the only son of my dear sister, the girl with whom I have grown up, the girl with whom I played and laughed in childhood, the girl to whom I promised to treat her son as if he were mine. But I don’t care about that, I cannot care that much, state importance always prevails over family affection.
The emperor walks through the garden path with maple trees on both sides, it’s mid October, all maple leaves have turned red and many are already darkening and dropping from the branches. Two maple leaves drop upon his sleeve. He holds them in his palms and looks at them closely: one has almost rotten while the other is still bloody red, with drops of dew upon its surface. He throws away the rotten one and gently hides the young one in his sleeve. As he reaches the palace gate of the Old Buddha, a group of imperial guards stop him by promulgating the order that the emperor has been exempted from attending levees due to illness and should return to the Ocean Terrace to rest. He responds to this order with a shiver, apparently shocked and frightened. It’s like 10 years ago, exactly the same scene of 10 years ago, he reflects, 10 years ago, he was forced to ‘repose on the Ocean Terrace’ due to ‘severe illness’, and was more than once offered fur coats in hot months, only that he refused to swallow the golden buckles sewed upon them. He feels his heart sinking, sinking, deeply into an abyss of chill and darkness. Now that he finally knows why his ‘Biological Father’ invited him to watch a ominous Beijing Opera on his 38th birthday.
He doesn’t sleep that night, neither does she. He weeps amidst the pillow, this time, no one can save him, he can do nothing but go and meet his doom. Now and then, he comforts himself by thinking that it’s a path he has chosen to follow, he says, my own life never matters, yet what about my people? Who will care for them after we both die? China has been left in wretchedness and humiliation, he thinks, and the comfort immediately turns into a new burst of tears of sorrow. During intervals, he grasps the only photo left of his beloved consort, who died 8 years ago, and seeks new comfort from the thought that he will soon meet her in another world. He has been feeling for years that she is always calling him at night, her voice hovers above that tiny well yet only the moonlight instead of her beautiful visage is reflected in that small area of water. But is there another world? If there is not, does it mean that they can never meet again? I shall never seek consolation, he finally concludes, as consolation is only for the undamaged, while my soul has been torn to pieces. He gets up at midnight to play at the pianoforte, he plays the sonata of Tchaikovsky which he learnt from Princess Derling, the young daughter of the Ambassador to France.
The Old Buddha hears the music while she is lying in her bed, sleepless. From the melancholy of the tune, she knows that it is her nephew. Weep, weep, that’s all he knows to do! She curses him with relentless words and calls her servant to bring about a pot of fire as well as the last drawer of the wardrobe. When these things are ready, she grasps a token of photos with yellowish margins from the drawer and tears them to pieces, and then throws them into the crimson charcoals. The servant is startled, she tells him not to panic, for she is only burning the photos she has confiscated from the emperor, all of which are photos of him and that favored concubine of his. I don’t want these photos to exist, she exclaims, only photos of ME, of the Old Buddha, can be seen by posterity. Greedily, the red tongues of flame lick the memory of a fairytale into ashes.
The next evening, the emperor is repairing a music box when the favored eunuch of the Old Buddha steps in, holding a ball of some liquid. The Old Buddha orders the emperor to eat up this yoghurt, says the eunuch, bending down before him. The emperor tells him to leave it on the desk, but the eunuch declines and insists that it is the Old Buddha’s will that the emperor must eat it up before a witness. My time has come, the emperor tells himself, his large mournful eyes filled with tears. He knows that he cannot escape, yet he smashes the porcelain ball on the floor with courage coming from nowhere.
The door bursts open and the Old Buddha staggers in. She is in her most splendid dress and wears on her most severe countenance. What an unfilial son you are, she yells at the emperor, have you forgotten that you once swore that you would die in joy if I order you to do so? I did, the emperor replies while kneeling down on his knees. She orders the eunuch to take out another ball and says to the emperor, now I give you the chance to show your filial piety, for there is arsenic in this yoghurt and I order you to eat it NOW!
But my venerable ‘Biological Father’, I am the SON OF HEAVEN, says the emperor, only the supreme god in heaven can take my life away. That’s nonsense, totally nonsense, yells her, without me, you wouldn’t have become the son of heaven. Now eat the yoghurt!
The emperor kowtows to his dear ‘Biological Father’ and whispers out a word of gratitude for the ‘gift’. Then the eunuch steps in and intends to feed the yoghurt into his mouth with a silver spoon. No need of that, says the emperor, I can help myself.
The Old Buddha watches him silently while he eats. As he finishes, she walks up with a silk towel and wipes away the yoghurt left around his mouth. That’s it, whispers her with a gentle smile, that’s my boy. She presses on his faint cheeks with her long fingernails protected by silk caps, with disgust, he withdraws from her; and in an effort to bring him back, she scratches his beautiful, almost transparent cheeks, and blood immediately leaks out. She approaches him again, this time, he doesn’t turn back and watches in awe what she does. Tenderly, she presses her lips upon the scratch and sucks up the crimson blood. I will come back in a couple of hours, she says, I will see you die with my own eyes. Then she leaves with the eunuch, surprisingly, the emperor clearly sees her eyes moistened as she turns away and shuts the door.
Dark clouds pile up in heaven and birds shriek while flying over the lake. Suddenly there is lightening and thunder among the thick clouds. The Old Buddha supports herself up from the armchair on hearing the blast in the sky. I must go to see him now, she whispers, that boy has always been afraid of thunder. It was always me who held him in my arms whenever there was a thunderstorm when he was a child.
She makes her way to the Ocean Terrace with a bundle of clothes carried by her eunuch. As soon as they push the door open, the Old Buddha rushes to his bed and kneels down before it. Her poor nephew, her poor son is convulsing and groaning painfully under the effect of arsenic. What have I done, What have I done, she exclaims, I have murdered the Emperor of China, I have murdered the son of my dear sister! Don’t be afraid, she whispers to him, don’t be afraid, my child, as she holds his head with her hands and softly slides her fingers through his hair. Your mother is here, she says, you don’t have to be afraid of the thunders.
She stays there with him until he struggles no more. She puts her index under his nostrils and there is no breath. A beam of pink light shines in and lightens up his deceased visage. He dies in agony, yet his countenance is as serene as the lake surface after the storm. His lips bend a little upward and it almost seems as if he is smiling. His oval face, his long eyelashes and his delicate features all resemble that of her beautiful sister.
She holds up her head and sees the reflection of her own face in the mirror beside the bed. There are tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks. All of a sudden, she grows furious about herself and smashes the mirror on the floor. I am not a coward, she says to herself, I will not regret anything I did. She opens that bundle and takes out a newly embroidered dragon robe she has prepared for him and violently throws it into his face so that she won’t be reminded of her sister. All that I have seen and done is no more than a Beijing Opera, and I am no more than the greatest director, she tells herself, and a sinister smile emerges upon her face. She calmly returns to her own palace, announces the death of the emperor and appoints a new emperor, who is only 2 years old and is the nephew of the former emperor.
Only 20 hours later, the Old Buddha dies.
Glad to see you back! A very dramatic story, indeed. Thank you for sharing it.
回复删除That's interesting...but then any scene depicting the end of our beloved emperor is very saddening.
回复删除Somehow I believe he looked more like his biological father (Prince Chun Senior).
You really think so? It would be proved if there is a photo of the young Prince Chun Senior!
回复删除Guangxu and Zaifeng looked alike....esp the top half of the face...
回复删除Anyway enjoy the HEAT in Nanjing!!