A Fractured Imperial Relationship

The relationship between Emperor Tongzhi and his mother, Empress Dowager Cixi, was never harmonious. From the moment Tongzhi ascended the throne as a child, Cixi orchestrated a coup to secure her position as regent, ruling from behind a screen with an iron grip. Power became her obsession, and clashes between mother and son were frequent. The imperial court watched with bated breath, wondering if the two would ever find common ground.

When Tongzhi finally assumed full imperial authority in 1873, forcing Cixi to “roll up the screen” and retire, many feared an imminent power struggle. Yet, to everyone’s surprise, reports emerged of an unprecedented harmony between them. The reason? A shared ambition: the reconstruction of the Yuanmingyuan, the Old Summer Palace.

The Glory and Tragedy of the Yuanmingyuan

The Yuanmingyuan was no ordinary palace—it was a masterpiece of Chinese imperial grandeur. Constructed over a century by the Kangxi, Yongzheng, and Qianlong emperors, this “Garden of Gardens” represented the zenith of Qing dynasty artistry and power. Its sprawling landscapes, European-inspired Baroque pavilions, and vast collections of art made it a symbol of imperial prestige.

But in October 1860, during the Second Opium War, British and French troops looted and burned the palace to the ground. The destruction was a national humiliation, a wound that festered in the Qing court’s collective memory. Now, over a decade later, Cixi and Tongzhi saw its reconstruction as more than a vanity project—it was a chance to restore lost glory.

Cixi’s Hidden Motives

For Cixi, the Yuanmingyuan represented more than nostalgia. At just under 40 years old, her forced retirement left her restless. The Forbidden City’s stifling protocols and the austere confines of the Dowager’s residence, the Ci Ning Palace, held little appeal. She longed for a grander stage—somewhere she could maintain influence while enjoying the luxuries of imperial life.

Her first attempt to secure a retirement in the Qianqing Palace, the emperor’s traditional residence, was swiftly blocked by Prince Gong, who invoked ancestral prohibitions. Undeterred, Cixi turned to the ruined Yuanmingyuan. Convincing her co-regent, Empress Dowager Ci’an, was easy—Ci’an saw it as a retreat from court politics. But would Tongzhi agree?

Tongzhi’s Calculated Support

To everyone’s shock, the young emperor not only endorsed the plan but championed it with fervor. In an edict to the court, he framed the reconstruction as an act of filial piety, praising his mothers’ years of diligent rule and expressing a desire to honor them with a restored imperial retreat.

Beneath the rhetoric, however, lay shrewd political calculus. By relocating Cixi to the Yuanmingyuan, Tongzhi could distance her from the Forbidden City, reducing her meddling in state affairs. Moreover, supporting the project allowed him to publicly demonstrate Confucian virtue, countering rumors of their discord. It was a masterstroke: he could weaken his mother’s grip while appearing dutiful.

The Ambitious Reconstruction Plan

With both emperors and dowagers aligned, the project began in earnest. Tongzhi took personal charge, poring over architectural archives and consulting the Lei family—the famed “Yangshi Lei” draftsmen who had designed the original gardens. For the first time in his life, he immersed himself in meticulous planning, even sketching designs alongside Cixi.

The scope was staggering. The initial phase aimed to restore two-thirds of the destroyed structures—over 3,000 rooms—divided into six major sections, including halls for state functions, living quarters for the dowagers, and ancestral shrines. The deadline was tight: all beams had to be raised by January 1874 to celebrate Cixi’s 40th birthday.

The Financial Quagmire

The project’s most insurmountable hurdle was funding. Rebuilding the Yuanmingyuan required millions of taels of silver, far beyond the Imperial Household Department’s annual budget of 600,000 taels. When officials balked at the cost, Tongzhi resorted to a controversial solution: mandatory “donations” from nobles and bureaucrats.

The decree sparked outrage. Forced contributions strained an already depleted treasury, and many saw the project as a reckless extravagance. Yet Tongzhi, emboldened by his newfound authority, pressed on.

The Legacy of a Doomed Project

In the end, the Yuanmingyuan was never rebuilt. Financial shortages, bureaucratic resistance, and Tongzhi’s sudden death in 1875 halted construction indefinitely. The ruins remained a haunting monument to Qing decline.

Yet the episode reveals much about late imperial politics. For Cixi, it was a failed bid to retain relevance; for Tongzhi, a fleeting grasp at autonomy. Their brief alliance, built on mutual manipulation, underscores the Qing court’s dysfunction—a realm where personal ambitions eclipsed national recovery. Today, the Yuanmingyuan’s scattered stones serve as a reminder: even the grandest designs can crumble under the weight of power struggles.