CHAPTER I

THE DICTATOR-PRESIDENT OF CHINA

"My opponents are disloyal. They would pull down my government." He who spoke was cordial in his manner as he thus off handedly epitomized his theory of government.

Yuan Shih-kai, President of the Chinese Republic, was short of stature and thickset; but his expressive face, his quick gestures, his powerful neck and bullet head, gave him the appearance of great energy. His eyes, which were fine and clear, alive with interest and mobile, were always brightly alert. They fixed themselves on the visitor with keen penetration, yet never seemed hostile; they were full always of keen interest. These eyes of his revealed how readily he followed--or usually anticipated--the trend of the conversation, though he listened with close attention, seemingly bringing his judgment to bear on each new detail. Frenchmen saw in him a resemblance to Clemenceau; and this is born out by his portrait which appears on the Chinese dollar. In stature, facial expression, shape of head, contour of features as well as in the manner of wearing his moustache, he did greatly resemble the Tiger.

I had noted these things when I was first presented to the President, and I had felt also the almost ruthless power of the man. Republican in title he was, but an autocrat at heart. All the old glittering trappings of the empire he had preserved. Even the Chief of the Military Department of the President's household, General Yin Chang, whom Yuan had sent to fetch me in Imperial splendour, is a Manchu and former Imperial commander. His one foreign language significantly enough was German which he acquired when he was minister in Berlin. I had passed between files of the huge guardsmen of Yuan Shih-kai, who had Frederick the Great's fondness for tall men; and I found him in the showy palace of the great Empress Dowager, standing in the main throne hall to receive me. He was flanked by thirty generals of his household, extended in wings at both sides of him, and their uniforms made it a most impressive scene.

But that was an occasion of state. Later, at a more informal interview, accompanied only by Mr. Williams, secretary of the legation and Mr. Peck, the Chinese secretary, observed Yuan's character more fully. He had just expelled from parliament the democratic party (Kuo Min Tang); then he had summarily dismissed the Parliament itself. Feeling, perhaps, a possible loss of American goodwill he had sent for me to explain his action.

"It was not a good parliament, for it was made up largely of inexperienced theorists and young politicians," he began. "They wished to meddle with the Government as well as to legislate on all matters. Their real function was to adopt a permanent constitution for the Republic, but they made no headway with that." And with much truth he added: "Our traditions are very different from your Western ones and our affairs are very complex. We cannot safely apply your abstract ideas of policy."

Of his own work of stirring up, through emissaries, internal and partisan controversies which prevented the new parliament from effectively organizing, Yuan of course omitted to speak. Moreover, he said little of the possibility of more closely coördinating the executive and the legislative branches; so while he avowed his desire to have a constitution forthwith, and to reconstitute Parliament by more careful selections under a new electoral law, I found myself thinking of his own career. His personal rule, his unscrupulous advancement to power, with the incidental corruption and cold-blooded executions that marked it, and his bitter personal feeling against all political opponents--these were not qualities that make for stable parliamentary government, which depends on allowing other people frankly to advocate their opinions in the effort to gain adherents enough to succeed in turn to political power. The failure to understand this basic principle of democracy is the vice of Chinese politics.

"As you see," Yuan beamed eagerly, "the Chinese Republic is a very young baby. It must be nursed and kept from taking strong meat or potent medicines like those prescribed by foreign doctors." This metaphor he repeated with relish, his eyes sparkling as they sought mine and those of the other listeners to get their expressions of assent or reserve.

A young baby indeed and childishly cared for! Here, for example, is a decree published by Yuan Shih-kai on March 8, 1915. It indicates how faith in his republicanism was penetrating to remote regions, and how such faith was rewarded by him:

"Ihsihaishun, Prince of the Koersin Banner, reported through the Board for Mongolia and Tibet that Kuanchuk-chuaimupal, Hutukhtu of the Banner, has led his followers to support the cause of the Republic and requested that the said Hutukhtu be rewarded for his good sentiments. The said Hutukhtu led his followers and vowed allegiance to the Republic, which action shows that he clearly understands the good cause. He is hereby allowed to ride in a yellow canopied carriage to show our appreciation."

This rather naïve emphasis on externals and on display is born of the old imperialism, a more significant feature of Chinese political life than it may seem. It colours most of the public ceremonies in China. The state carriage which the President had sent to convey me to his official residence in the Imperial City for the presentation of my credentials, on November 17th, was highly ornate, enamelled in blue with gold decorations. It was drawn by eight horses, with a cavalry escort sent by the President and my own guard of mounted marines; the legation staff of secretaries and attachés accompanied me in other carriages.

Thus in an old Imperial barouche and with an ex-Imperial military officer, General Yin, at my side, I rolled on toward the abode of the republican chief magistrate. We alighted at the monumental gate of an enclosure that surrounds the lovely South Lake in the western part of the Imperial City. On an island within this lake arose, tier above tier, and roofed with bright tiles of blue and yellow, the palace assigned by the Empress Dowager to Emperor Kwang Hsu; for long years, until death took him, it was his abode in semi-captivity. This palace was now the home of President Yuan.

The remote origin of its buildings, their exquisite forms and brilliant colouring, as contrasted with the sombreness of the lake at that season, and the stirring events of which they have been the scene, cannot fail to impress the visitor as he slowly glides across the Imperial lake in the old-fashioned boat, with its formal little cabin, curtained and upholstered, and with its lateral planks, up and down which pass the men who propel the boat with long poles.

Arrived at the palace, everything recalled the colourful court life so recently departed. I was greeted by the master of ceremonies, Mr. Lu Cheng-hsiang, and his associate, Mr. Alfred Sze, later Chinese minister at London and Washington. The former soon after became Minister for Foreign Affairs, while Mr. Sze was originally sent as minister to England. These gentlemen escorted me through a series of courts and halls, all spacious and impressive, until we reached the old Imperial library, a very jewel of architecture in this remarkable Eastern world of beauty. The library faces on a clear and deep pool round which are grouped the court theatre and various throne rooms and festival halls; all quiet and secluded--a charming place for distinguished entertainments. The rustle of heavy silks, the play of iridescent colour, the echoes of song and lute from the theatre--all that exquisite oriental refinement still seems to linger.

The library itself is the choicest of all these apartments. The perfect sense of proportion expressed in the architecture, the quiet reserve in all its decorations, the living literary reminiscence in the verses written on the paper panels by the Imperial hand, all testify to a most fastidious taste.

Here we rested for a few minutes while word was carried to the President, who was to receive my credentials. Then followed our walk between the files of the huge guardsmen, our entrance to the large audience chamber in the pretentious modern structure erected by the Empress Dowager, and the presentation to Yuan Shih-kai, as he stood in the centre, flanked by his generals.

I was formally presented to the President by Mr. Sun Pao-chi, Minister of Foreign Affairs; and Dr. Wellington Koo translated my brief address and the President's reply.

A military dictatorship had succeeded the old imperialism, that was all. Yuan had made his reputation and gained his power as a military commander. Yet there was about him nothing of the adventurer, nor any suggestion of the field of battle. He seemed now to be an administrator rather than a military captain. Certainly he had won power through infinite patience, great knowledge of men, political insight, and, above all, through playing always a safe if unscrupulous game.

What is meant by governing in a republic he could not know. Without high literary culture, although with a mind trained and well informed, he had not seen foreign countries, nor had he any knowledge of foreign languages. Therefore, he could have only a remote and vague notion of the foreign institutions which China at this time was beginning to imitate. He had no real knowledge or conception of the commonwealth principle of government, nor of the true use and function of a parliament, and particularly of a parliamentary opposition. He merely accepted these as necessary evils to be held within as narrow limits as possible.

During the two and a half years from my coming to Peking until the time of his death, Yuan Shih-kai left the enclosure of his palace only twice. This reminds me of the American, with an introduction from the State Department, who wired me from Shanghai asking me to arrange for him to take a moving picture of Yuan "proceeding from his White House to his Capitol." This enterprising Yankee would have had plenty of time to meditate on the difference between oriental political customs and our own if he had waited for Yuan Shih-kai to "proceed" from his political hermitage. The President's seclusion was usually attributed to fear of assassination, but if such fear was present in his mind, as well it might have been, there was undoubtedly also the idea, taken over from the Empire, that the holder of the highest political power should not appear in public except on very unusual occasions.

When he received me informally, he doffed the uniform of state and always wore a long Chinese coat. He had retained the distinction and refinement of Chinese manners, with a few additions from the West, such as shaking hands. His cue he had abandoned in 1912, when he decided to become President of the Republic. In the building which is now the Foreign Office and where he was then residing, Yuan asked Admiral Tsai Ting-kan whether his entry into the new era should not be outwardly expressed by shedding the traditional adornment of the head which though once a sign of bondage had become an emblem of nationality. When Admiral Tsai advised strongly in favour of it, Yuan sent for a big pair of scissors, and said to him: "It is your advice. You carry it out." The Admiral, with a vigorous clip, transformed Yuan into a modern man.

But inwardly Yuan Shih-kai was not much changed thereby.