"Not yet, Your Majesty." Alute stopped me. "Until Tung Chih returns to me, I am not sure I will have the strength to carry the pregnancy."
"Tung Chih is…" I tried to find words to comfort her. "It hurts when you know that he is with other ladies. Believe me, Alute, I know how that feels."
"I hate what you are saying." Alute began to cry.
"Well," I said, feeling guilty, "be glad that you have Tung Chih's child."
"It's not up to you or me to decide whether the child will come into the world. My body and soul are in so much pain that I can feel it seeking revenge. I am afraid that something unexpected is going to happen."
"It is Heaven's will that you have been given a child, Alute. The dragon seed will survive no matter what."
Without asking permission, Alute walked to the window and stood with her back to me. Outside, the giant oak trees were bare.
"The oak nuts have been dropping everywhere," Alute said, shaking her head. "It's hard to walk without stepping on them. It is a bad omen. What am I going to do? I am not made to bear misery."
"Alute," I said gently, "I am sure nothing is wrong. You are just tired, that's all."
She ignored me, continuing to face the window. Her voice grew thin and distant. "It gets louder. I hear the sound of nuts dropping and cracking on the ground day and night."
I stared at the back of my daughter-in-law. Her silky black hair was elaborately braided and fastened onto a plate. Pink floral hairpins studded with diamonds glinted in the light. Suddenly I understood why she was Tung Chih's first choice: like him, she had her own mind.
It was on a morning in early winter that Doctor Sun Pao-tien broke the news that my son was not going to live.
I trembled in front of the doctor like a young tree in a storm. My mind's eye saw red lanterns floating down from the ceiling.
I tried to understand the doctor, but I couldn't. He was explaining Tung Chih's condition, but it sounded as if he were speaking a foreign language. Then I must have passed out. When I came to, Li Lien-ying was in front of me. He was following the doctor's instructions, pressing his thumb between my nose and the top of my upper lip. I tried to push him away, but I had no strength.
"Tung Chih has been visited by the heavenly flowers," I finally heard him say.
"Tell Doctor Sun Pao-tien"-I drew in my breath and cried-"if there is any mistake, I won't hesitate to punish him!"
After lunch the doctor came again. Getting down on his knees, he began his report. "His Majesty's condition is complicated. I can't be sure which entered his body first, smallpox or venereal disease. At any rate, it's a deadly situation, beyond my power to cure or even control it."
The doctor confessed that it had been a struggle for him to come forward with the truth. His medical team had been accused of bringing His Majesty bad luck. Everyone had been trying to keep Tung Chih's sickness a secret.
I asked the doctor to forgive me and promised that I would control my emotions.
An effort was made to stabilize Tung Chih's condition. In December of 1874, the spots on his body dried out and his fever abated. The palaces celebrated the signs of recovery. But it was premature. A few days later, Tung Chih's fever returned, and it persisted.
I can't recall how I passed my days. My mind was capable of only one thought: to save my son. I refused to believe that Tung Chih would die. Sun Pao-tien suggested that I seek out Western doctors for a second opinion. "They have the tools to take His Majesty's body fluid and blood samples," he whispered, knowing that he was not supposed to make the suggestion. "However, I doubt their diagnosis will be different."
The court rejected my request for Western doctors, fearing that foreigners would take advantage of Tung Chih's condition and see an opportunity to invade.
I lay beside my feverish son. I listened to the sound of his labored breathing. His cheeks burned. In his waking hours he quietly whimpered and moaned.
Tung Chih requested that Nuharoo and I resume the regency. I refused at first, because I knew I wouldn't be able to concentrate on court matters. But Tung Chih insisted. When I read his decree to the nation, I realized what my help would mean to him.
The ink handwriting on rice paper was my son's last calligraphy. Of all things, I was saddened by the fact that my grandchild would never see the way his father held the brush pen.
"I beg the two Empresses to have pity on my state and allow me to take care of myself," Tung Chih's edict read. "In looking after the affairs of state for a time, the Empresses will crown their great goodness toward me and I will show them everlasting gratitude."
Every day after an audience, I went to sit with Tung Chih. I spoke with Doctor Sun Pao-tien and Tung Chih's attendants. I examined the growing pustules on my son's skin and wished that they were on my own body. I begged for Heaven's mercy and prayed: "Please do not be too cruel to a mother."
I ordered that no one was to disturb Tung Chih's rest, but the doctor advised that I let my son see anyone he wished. "His Majesty might never have the chance again."
I complied. I sat by my son and made sure no one would exhaust him.
Alute refused to come when Tung Chih sent for her. She said that she would not enter the room unless I wasn't there.
I yielded.
It was two in the morning when my son opened his eyes. Although his cheeks were still hot, he was in good spirits. He asked me to sit by his side. I helped prop him up against the pillows. I begged him to let me feed him a little porridge. He shook his head.
"Let's have some fun together before I die." He managed a bright smile.
I broke down and told him that I didn't know what fun he was talking about. As far as I was concerned, my happiness would end if he died.
Tung Chih held my hand and squeezed it. "I miss the moon," he said. "Would you help me get out to the courtyard?"
I wrapped a blanket over his shoulders and helped him out of bed. Just getting dressed was an effort and he was soon out of breath.
With an arm on my shoulders, he stepped into the courtyard.
"What a beautiful night," he sighed.
"It's too cold, Tung Chih!" I said. "Let's go back in."
"Stay for just a moment, Mother. I am enjoying myself."
With a moonlit background the trees and bushes looked like black paper cutouts.
I looked at my son and wept. The moonlight bleached his face, making him look like a stone sculpture.
"Remember the time when you tried to teach me poetry, Mother? I was hopeless."
"Yes, of course. It was too much for you. It would be too much for any child."
"The truth is that I was not inspired. My teachers said I had to feel it first and then describe it." Tung Chih laughed a weak laugh. "I was writing but wasn't feeling anything. Believe it or not, since my days are numbered, I have been full of inspiration."
"Stop it, Tung Chih."
"Mother, I have a poem for you, right here." He pointed at his head. "May I recite?"
"I don't want to hear it."
"Mother, you will like it. It is called 'To a Love.'"
"No, I won't listen."
Softly, Tung Chih began:
Parting but to journey back in lingering dreams
Along the winding corridor of filigree and the curving balustrade,
In the courtyard only the spring moon is full of sympathy,
For we who parted shining still upon the fallen flowers.
12
On the morning of January 12, 1875, my son died.
The Hall of Spiritual Nurturing was filled with freshly cut winter plum flowers, their waxy little petals and bare stems standing elegantly in vases. The flowers were Tung Chih's favorite. He had once dreamed of picking them in the snow, something he was never allowed to do. I was in my mourning gown, embroidered with the same winter plum flowers, which I had stayed up stitching late into the night. Tung Chih's face was turned toward the south, and he was arrayed in robes patterned with the symbols of longevity. He was nineteen years old and had been Emperor since 1861. He had ruled for under two years.