A new and unfamiliar tension settled over the Emperor's chambers. It was not the overt menace of an assassin in the garden or the political pressure of a deadlocked council. It was something more subtle, more insidious. Cixi, having been thwarted in her attempts at direct political and covert control, had devised a new line of attack, one that came cloaked in the guise of compassion.
She made a surprise visit one morning, sweeping into the study with Li Lianying and a small retinue. She was all smiles and saccharine concern, a mother hen fussing over a sickly chick. Ying Zheng, who was in the middle of a tedious recitation of the Book of Odes with his tutor Wo Ren, knew immediately that this was a declaration of a new kind of war.
"Zaitian," she began, her voice dripping with pity as she gently touched his forehead, a gesture of checking for a fever that was really an assertion of her authority over his very body. "This Empress's heart aches to see you so troubled. Your new tutors are wise, yet your spirit remains in disharmony. Your headaches persist, and your nights are filled with disturbing dreams and visions."
She shook her head with a theatrical sigh. "The traditional remedies of Dr. Zhuang and the other imperial physicians have not cured you. They speak of imbalances in your qi, of a deficiency in your spirit. But perhaps the problem requires a different kind of eye." She paused, letting her announcement land with maximum effect. "This Empress has decided that we must explore all avenues of healing. We will consult with a physician from the West."
The statement was a quiet thunderclap. In the deeply xenophobic and tradition-bound court, to bring in a 'foreign devil' to treat the Son of Heaven was a shocking, almost sacrilegious act. But Cixi was a pragmatist. She saw the rising prestige of Western science as a tool, a weapon to be wielded. She was leveraging the foreigners' reputation for cold, empirical "logic" to attack the very foundation of Ying Zheng's recent influence: his perceived supernatural insight. If a Western doctor, a man of science, declared his visions to be a sickness of the mind, it would invalidate everything.
Dr. Zhuang, the elderly head imperial physician who had been summoned to observe, turned pale. This was a direct insult to his authority and to the entire tradition of Chinese medicine.
A few minutes later, the foreign doctor was shown in. His name was Dr. Lenoir, a physician from the French Legation in Beijing. He was a tall man in his forties, dressed in a severe, dark Western suit that looked utterly alien amidst the silk robes of the court. He had a sharp, angular face, a neatly trimmed beard, and arrogant, skeptical eyes that took in the opulent surroundings with an air of clinical disdain. He bowed stiffly, a gesture that was more a nod of condescension than a show of respect.
He spoke through a nervous Chinese translator. "Her Imperial Majesty has requested my consultation regarding the young Emperor's… condition," he said, his French crisp and dismissive. He immediately turned to Dr. Zhuang. "I have reviewed your notes. Talk of 'stagnant life-force' and 'imbalance of the five elements' is poetic, but it is not medicine. It is superstitious folklore."
Dr. Zhuang's face tightened with fury, but he was powerless to object.
This was Cixi's weapon. A man who saw no spirits, no omens, no Mandate of Heaven. A man who would see a prophetic dream not as a sign from the gods, but as a symptom of a diseased brain.
Dr. Lenoir approached Ying Zheng. He was brusque, his movements efficient and devoid of the deference Ying Zheng was accustomed to. He did not ask for permission. He simply took out a strange device, a stethoscope, and placed the cold, metal disc against Ying Zheng's chest, listening intently. He then produced another instrument, a small tube with a light at the end, and peered into Ying Zheng's eyes, his ears, his throat.
Ying Zheng sat perfectly still, his mind racing. He was, for the first time since awakening in this era, truly on the back foot. He was an ancient emperor, a master of warfare, politics, bureaucracy, and intrigue. But he had no context for this. This was a new form of interrogation, a clinical assault that his usual tactics could not counter. Feigning weakness would only confirm a diagnosis of frailty. Speaking with cryptic, ancient authority would be seen as proof of delusion.
The physical examination complete, Dr. Lenoir began his questions. They were direct, sharp, and deeply unsettling.
"Translate this precisely," he commanded his interpreter. He looked at Ying Zheng. "Does the patient often experience waking dreams? Times when he is unsure what is real and what is imagined?"
"No," Ying Zheng replied, his voice a simple, childish negative.
"Does he hear voices that others do not?" the doctor pressed on. "Does he believe he has special knowledge that could not be obtained through normal means? Does he feel he has a special destiny or purpose that elevates him above others?"
The questions were a series of perfectly designed traps. The last one was particularly insidious. Of course he had delusions of grandeur—he was Qin Shi Huang, the First Emperor of all under Heaven. But to admit it would be to admit to the core symptom of madness in the Western view.
"Does he have episodes of great excitement or energy, followed by periods of deep melancholy or fatigue?"
Cixi and Li Lianying watched, their faces grim masks of concern, but their eyes were alight with triumph. Their plan was working perfectly. The foreign doctor was methodically building a case, not for a spiritual imbalance, but for a sickness of the mind—hysteria, perhaps, or a form of juvenile mania.
A diagnosis of mental unfitness from a Western physician would be a weapon of unimaginable power for Cixi. She could use it to declare him incompetent to rule, now or ever. She could invalidate every "dream" and "insight" he had ever had, recasting them as the ravings of a sick mind. She could justify placing him in complete, permanent isolation, "for his own health," severing his connections to Prince Gong, Ci'an, and his entire burgeoning network.
Ying Zheng understood the full gravity of the situation. His empire, the one he was painstakingly trying to rebuild from the shadows, was on the verge of being lost, not to a rebellion or an invading army, but to a medical diagnosis he did not understand. He had to adapt, and he had to do it now.