The paintings also helped to ease the resentment toward my son over land taxes. The governors of several states had been sending messages that their people were poor and couldn't afford to pay.

"The Imperial tael storehouse has long been empty," I cried in decrees issued in my son's name. "The taxes we have collected have gone to the foreign powers so that their fleets will not set anchor in our waters."

My brother-in-law Prince Kung, complained that his new Board of Foreign Affairs had run out of space in which to store the debt seekers' dunning letters. "The foreign fleets have repeatedly threatened to reenter our waters," he warned.

It was my eunuch An-te-hai's idea to use my paintings as gifts, to buy time, money and understanding.

An-te-hai had served me since my first day in the Forbidden City, when, as a boy of just thirteen, he'd surreptitiously offered me a drink of water for my parched throat. It was a brave act, and he had my loyalty and trust ever since.

His idea for the paintings was brilliant, and I couldn't paint fast enough.

I sent one as a birthday gift to General Tseng Kuo-fan, the biggest warlord in China, who dominated the country's military. I wanted the general to know that I appreciated him, although I recently demoted him in my son's name, under pressure from the court's pro-Manchu conservatives, who called themselves Ironhats. The Ironhats could not stand the fact that the Han Chinese, through hard work, were gaining power. I wanted General Tseng to know that I meant him no harm and that I was aware that I had wronged him. "My son Tung Chih could not rule without you" was the message my painting sent.

I often wondered what kept General Tseng Kuo-fan from rebelling. A coup wouldn't be hard-he had the money and the army. I used to think that it was just a matter of time. "Enough is enough," I could imagine Tseng saying one day, and my son would be out of luck.