Part 13

One official, however, had the full courage of his convictions, and, by the time-honoured expedient of self-destruction, focussed the attention of the nation on the gravity of the question, as no amount of fine writing could have done. Resort to suicide by indignant patriots, as a proof of their sincere distress, is a practice praised and justified alike by historians in China and Japan, and there is no denying that, as an argument against all forms of despotism, it has the crowning merit of finality. It has, moreover, certain qualities of deliberate courage and cultured philosophy that bring irresistibly to mind the Roman patrician at his best, and which fully account for the distinction which such a death confers amongst a people that loves its orthodoxies, as it loves peace, undisturbed.

The name which will go down in Chinese history, as the defender of the national and true faith in connection with the illegal succession of the infant Emperor Kuang-Hsü, is that of the Censor, Wu K’o-tu, an upright and fearless scholar of the best type. For the reasons stated in his farewell Memorial, he waited four years after the death of the Emperor T’ung-Chih, hoping against hope that the widespread dissatisfaction of the _literati_ and officials would take definite form, and lead the Empress Dowager to regulate the future succession, and to placate the disinherited ghost of T’ung-Chih, by the issue of a new Decree. Disappointed in this hope, he seized the classically correct occasion of the late Emperor’s funeral (1879) to commit suicide near his grave, taking care to leave behind him a swan-song which, as he knew, will live long in the memory of scholars and officials throughout the Empire. His death had the immediate effect of convincing Tzŭ Hsi of error. Realising the strength of public opinion underlying the Censor’s protest, she endeavoured at once to placate his accusing spirit by giving the pledges for which he had pleaded, in regard to provision in the future of a successor to T’ung-Chih. Nor was it on this occasion only that the death of Wu K’o-tu influenced her actions and disturbed her superstitious mind. In after years, and especially at the time of the flight to Hsi-an, she recognised his influence, and the punishment of her misdeed, in the disasters which had overtaken the Throne.

As an example of the principles of action, and the calm frame of mind which are the fine flower of the Confucian system of philosophy, and, therefore, worthy of our close and sympathetic study, we give the full story of the death of this patriotic protestant, as well as a translation of his Memorial.

His suicide took place in a small temple at Ma-shen ch’iao, close to the mausoleum of T’ung-Chih. His minutely detailed instructions for the disposal of his remains, with the least possible trouble to his family and friends, bespeak the gentleman and the scholar. To the priest in charge of the shrine, a “bad man,” he addressed the following characteristic letter:—

“Priest Chou, be not afraid. I have no desire to bring evil upon you. I was compelled to borrow the use of your plot of hallowed ground, as a spot appropriate for the death of an honest man. Inform now the Magistrate at once, and see that the Memorial enclosed in my despatch box is forwarded without delay. Buy for me a cheap coffin and have it painted black inside. My clothes are all in order, only the leather soles of my boots require to be cut off before you lay me in your coffin. I have cut my finger slightly, which accounts for the blood stains that you may notice. Twenty taels will be ample for my coffin. I should not think that the Magistrate will need to hold an inquest. Please have a coating of lacquer put on the coffin, to fill up any cracks in the joints, and have it nailed down, pending the Empresses’ decision as to my remains. Then, buy a few feet of ground adjoining the late Emperor’s tomb, and have me buried quickly.[32] There is no need for me to be buried in my ancestral cemetery; any spot is a good enough resting place for a loyal and honest man.

“You will find forty-five taels in my box, of which you may keep the balance after paying for my coffin and burial expenses. As to my watch, and the other articles on my person, it is known at my home exactly what I brought here with me. You must see to it that no one is permitted to insult my corpse, and my son will be deeply grateful to you for performing these last offices for me, in his place. You need not fear that the Magistrate’s underlings will make trouble for you, but be careful not to tamper with the box containing my Memorial to the Empresses.

“You can cut my body down to-morrow morning, and then have it placed in some cool and shady spot. Fearing that possibly you might come in by accident and find me hanging, I have taken a dose of opium, so as to make certain of death. If you should dare to meddle with my private affairs, as you have been trying to do these past few days, it will only lead to your being mixed up in the case, which might bring you to grief.

“All I ask of you is that you notify the Magistrate at once, and that you do not allow women and children to come in and gaze upon my remains. There is nothing strange or abnormal here; death had become an unavoidable duty. Those who understand me, will pity; that is all. The last earnest instructions of Wu K’o-tu.”

Next, to his son, he expressed his dying wishes in a letter which embodies many of the Confucian scholar’s most cherished ideals and beliefs, a document pathetic in its simple dignity, its pride of ancient lineage and duty well done according to his lights.

“Chih-huan, my son, be not alarmed when you hear the news of my death, and on no account allow your grief to disturb the family. Your mother is old, your wife is young, and my poor little grandchildren are but babies. Tell them that I am dead, but bid them not to grieve over my suicide. Our family tree goes back over five hundred years; for two centuries there have been members of our clan among the Imperial concubines, and for three hundred years we have devoted ourselves to husbandry and scholarship. For eighteen generations our family has borne a good name; I, who am now seventy years of age, can claim an unsullied record, although as a lad I was somewhat given to dissipation. No man can truthfully accuse me of having failed to observe the main principles of duty, and it is for this reason that my friends and former pupils have always sought my services as a teacher of the Confucian doctrine. Quite recently I declined the pressing invitation of the Grand Secretary, the Marquis Tso Tsung-t’ang, who wished me to become tutor to his family, because the date was at hand for His late Majesty’s burial, and I desired quietly to await to-day’s event.

“Ever since, at the age of twenty-four, I took my M.A. degree, I have been of prudent conduct, and have observed the proprieties in official life. In the study of history I have ever been deeply touched by examples of patriotism and loyalty to the Sovereign, and the splendid lives of the ancients have moved me, now to tears and again to exuberance of joy.

“Upon the death of the late Emperor, I had determined to memorialise the Empresses Dowager, through the Censorate, and had fully made up my mind to accept my fate for so doing; but an old friend, to whom I showed the draft, begged me not to forward it, not only because I had already been punished for similar rashness on a former occasion, but because he said some of its allusions to current events were not absolutely accurate. Therefore I waited until to-day, but now I can wait no longer. It is my wish to die, in order that the purpose of my life may be fittingly accomplished and a lifetime of loyalty consummated. My death is in no way due to the slanders which have been circulated about me.

“When you receive this letter, come straightway to the Temple of the Threefold Duties at the bridge of the God of Horses, twelve miles to the east of Chi Chou and quite close to the Imperial mausolea. There seek out the Taoist priest, Chou; he knows my burial place, and I have asked him to buy me a coffin and to have it painted black inside. My burial clothes are all in order, but I have asked him to cut off the leather soles from my boots.[33] He is to buy a certain small piece of ground, close to the Imperial tomb, which is to be my grave. This will be far better than having my remains taken to the ancestral burial ground, and there is really no need for me to rest there, as my younger brother already lies beside your grandparents. He, you remember, committed suicide twenty years ago at his house in Peking, because of private troubles, and now I follow his example, because of disorder in the State. People will say, no doubt, that our family burial ground is become a place of evil omen, but pay no heed to them. No doubt you will desire to take home my remains, but do not so. Take instead my photograph, the one I had taken just before I left Peking, and have an enlargement of it hung up in our family hall. Thus shall you observe the old custom which preserves relics of the departed. Why go to the expense and trouble of transporting a coffin over a thousand miles?

“Even though it should happen that the Empresses should cause dire penalties to be inflicted upon my corpse because of my effrontery of language, you may be sure that in this enlightened age, there is no possibility of my offences being visited upon my wife and family. All you need do is to borrow from our friends money enough to take you from Peking, and after that, you must make the best of your way to our family home, begging if necessary. On no account must you remain in Peking, for by so doing you will only attract attention and further endanger your father.[34]

“What I chiefly deprecate in you, my son, is your quick tongue; you must really try to amend your ways in this respect and endeavour to be less hasty. If people tell you that your father was loyal, do not contradict them; if they say he was an honest man, you should agree. Read carefully the advice of Ma Yüan, the great General, to his nephew, and Wang Hou’s admonitions to his sons.

“When your mother married me she had good prospects, as the daughter of an old military family. Since her marriage she has dutifully served my parents, and her reputation for filial devotion is excellent. I regret that I was not destined to bring her happiness and good fortune: she is old now, and you alone are left to her. It is your duty to take her to our home and minister to her old age.

“As regards the few poor acres of land left me by my father, I feel that I cannot reasonably expect you to follow the example of the ancient worthies and to surrender it all to your brothers, but at least I ask that you should allow them to live amicably with you. Your wife is a sensible woman—tell her from me that the happiness of every household depends on the temper of its womenfolk. I knew one woman who feigned death in order to induce her husband to treat his brothers more kindly, but this was a heroic act, far above the moral capacity of your wife.

“As to the forty taels[35] which you will find on my person, you will hand over to the Taoist priest, Chou, any balance there may remain after he has paid for my coffin and burial expenses. On arriving at Chi Chou, go at once and see the Magistrate, to whom I have written; thence proceed to the temple, where you must give them some extra money to compensate them for all the trouble they have had. Thereafter return to Peking, and there await the Empresses’ decision in regard to my case.

“See to it that my small debts are all paid, that my life may end in fitting and harmonious dignity. At a moment like this, I am naturally agitated in mind. It is hard to foretell what the decision of the Empresses may be, but at least my conscience is clear, and what does anything else matter? For your own personal safety, I do not think you need have any fear.

“Present my compliments to Chang Chih-tung: I only wish I could have had more of the old time talks with him. Go also to the Marquis Tso Tsung-t’ang. He has not treated me well of late, but slanders poisoned his sympathy, at which I do not wonder. The memory of his former kindnesses is precious to me, and I know that he will never let you starve.

“Your wife, in giving birth to my grandchildren, has conferred blessings upon me; you must never think of allowing her parents to provide for you. Leave therefore at once for our family home. There must be no delay about this. As to the Taoist priest, it irks me to make use of people in this way. He is a bad man; yet must we bear with him. Tell him that I regret having put his temple to this purpose; he need only spend ten taels on my coffin and a few taels more for the little plot of ground to bury me in. I am a worthless official and deserve nothing better than this.

“Why have I delayed so long? Because I did not wish to disturb the Empresses with the news of my death at this critical time. All the Decrees which have appeared since the Emperor Kuang-Hsü came to the Throne have moved me greatly, and much have I deplored my inability to serve Their Majesties better. In days of old, loyal servants of the State were wont to commit suicide as an act of remonstrance against the degeneracy of their Sovereigns. Not for a moment are the Empresses to be compared to monarchs like Ming Huang of the T’ang Dynasty, who deserted his capital before the invader, or Li Tsung, of the Sungs, whose foolishness led to the Mongol wars. Nevertheless my death is due to the same principles as those which actuated those faithful Councillors.

“Go home now, and teach your children to study. Do not open my Memorial to the Empresses. It is sealed, and I have asked the local Magistrate to forward it for presentation.”

His Memorial to the Throne was, in fact (as the letter to his son plainly indicates), an indictment of the degeneracy of the ruler of the Empire; incidentally, it throws much light on the orthodox point of view in regard to the question of the Imperial succession. Its preamble sets forth the object with which it was written, and in the hope of which the writer died, namely, to induce the Empress Dowager to determine the future succession, providing an heir to the Emperor T’ung-Chih, in accordance with precedent and the laws of the Dynasty. The text of this remarkable document is as follows:—

“I, your worthless servant, have heard that the fact of a nation being well governed does not necessarily preclude all possibility of anarchy, nor does a nation at peace dismiss altogether from mind the chances of violent disturbance; should anarchy and rebellion be regarded as possibilities too remote to merit a thought, it were idle and superfluous to advise the Sovereign of so perfect a State. To ask the Imperial wisdom to see danger where no real peril exists would be simply inviting evil omens.

“On a former occasion I, your guilty servant, wittingly incurred danger of death or imprisonment, because, in the heat of indignation, I dared to remonstrate with the Throne. At that time the Princes and Ministers about your Throne asked permission to subject me to a criminal enquiry, but His late Majesty T’ung-Chih was pleased to spare me, so that I neither suffered death by the headsman’s sword nor imprisonment, nor did I run the risk of further exciting the Imperial wrath by my evidence before a criminal court. Thrice have I deserved, without receiving, the penalty of death. Without desiring my forfeit life, it was granted me, so that my last few years have been, as it were, a boon at the hands of His late Majesty.

“But on the 5th day of the 12th Moon of the 13th year of T’ung-Chih the earth was rent and heaven itself was shaken by the great catastrophe, and on that day their Majesties the Empresses Dowager issued the following Decree: ‘The departed Emperor has mounted the Dragon and is become a guest on high, leaving no heir to the Throne. We are compelled to appoint Tsai T’ien, son of Prince Ch’un, to be heir to His Majesty Hsien-Feng, to enter on the great inheritance as the new Emperor. When to him an heir shall be born, he shall become son by adoption to the late Emperor T’ung-Chih.’

“I, your unworthy servant, wept bitterly as, reverently kneeling, I read this Decree. I cannot but feel, after most careful consideration, that the Empresses Dowager have doubly erred in appointing an heir to the Emperor Hsien-Feng and not to His late Majesty. For thus the new Emperor, being heir to His Majesty Hsien-Feng, enters upon the great heritage not, as he should, by mandate of His late Majesty T’ung-Chih, but by mandate of the Empresses. Hence the future succession must, as a matter of course, revert to the heir of the new Emperor, even though there should be no explicit instructions to that effect. But, as this Decree expressly ordains that this shall be so, it follows that a precedent will be established, whereby the great inheritance may pass by adoption.

“I, your unworthy servant, realise that it is no light matter for a loyal subject to refer to the future death of a Sovereign while that Sovereign is still alive, entitled to all his reverence and devotion. But, for more than two centuries, the ancestral tradition of our House-law has been observed that the Throne shall pass from father to son, and this law should be steadfastly maintained for ten thousand generations amongst those of us who recognise a common descent. Moreover, Prince Ch’un is a loyal statesman, justly revered by all as a virtuous Prince. His Memorial has inspired every one of us with fresh feelings of enthusiastic loyalty. His words are but the mirror of his mind; how could any falseness find therein a place? When I perused his Memorial, tears of joy irrepressible fell from my eyes. If ever the Prince should learn of this my humble Memorial, he may perchance be wroth at my perversity or pity my folly; at all events he will never blame me for endeavouring to stir up vain strife by my words.

“The new Emperor is of gentle disposition; from the Empress Dowager he had received the ‘precious inheritance’ and until his dying day he will naturally be of one mind with the Empresses in this matter. But in the Palace there are sycophants as well as honest men, and many conflicting opinions. To take examples from history: at the beginning of the Sung Dynasty, even that great and good man the Grand Secretary Chao P’u, led the way in obeying the orders of the Empress Dowager Tu. Again, under the Ming Dynasty, a venerable servant of the State, the Grand Secretary Wang Chih, was ashamed that it should be left to a barbarian like Huang Kung (native of an aboriginal tribe in Kuangsi) to memorialise urging the lawful Heir Apparent’s succession to the Emperor Ching-T’ai, when no Chinese official dared to do so. If even virtuous men could act thus, what need to enquire about disloyal subjects? If such be the conduct of old servants, how shall we blame upstarts? To set aside settled ordinances may be bad, but how much worse is our case where no ordinances exist? We should therefore seek if perchance we may find some way out of this double error, whereby we may return to the right way. I therefore beg that the Empresses may be pleased to issue a second Decree explicitly stating that the great inheritance shall hereafter revert to the adopted son of His late Majesty T’ung-Chih, and that no Minister shall be allowed to upset this Decree, even though the new Emperor be blessed with a hundred sons. If, in this way, the succession be rectified and the situation defined, so that further confusion be hereafter impossible, the House-law of the present Dynasty will be observed, which requires that the Throne be handed down from father to son. Thus, to the late Emperor, now childless, an heir will be provided and the Empresses Dowager will no longer be without a grandson. And, for all time, the orderly maintenance of the succession will be ascribed to the Empresses, whose fame will be changeless and unending. This is what I, your guilty servant, mean, when I say that the double error which has been committed may yet serve to bring us back to the right way.

“I, your most unworthy slave, had intended to memorialise on this matter when His Majesty died, and to present the Memorial through the Censorate. But it occurred to me that, since I had lost my post, I was debarred from addressing the Throne. Besides, how grave a matter is this! If advice in such a matter be given by a Prince or a Minister, it is called the sage and far-reaching counsel of a statesman; but if it comes from a small and insignificant official it is called the idle utterance of a wanton babbler. Never could I have believed that the many wise and loyal statesmen of your Court could one and all regard this as a matter of no immediate urgency, dismissing it as a question unprofitable for discussion. I waited, therefore, and the precious moments passed, but none of them have moved in the matter.

“Afterwards, having received renewed marks of the Imperial favour, and being again summoned to audience, I was granted the position of a Board Secretary, and placed on the Board of Appointments. This was more than four years ago; yet all this time apparently not one of all the Ministers of your Court has even given this grave matter a moment’s consideration. The day for His late Majesty’s entombment has now arrived, and I fear that what has happened will gradually pass from the minds of men. The time, therefore, is short, and the reasons which led me to delay hold good no longer. Looking upward, as the divine soul of His Majesty soars heavenward on the Dragon, wistfully I turn my eyes upon the Palace enclosure. Beholding the bows and arrows left behind on the Bridge Mountain,[36] my thoughts turn to the cherished mementoes of my Sovereign. Humbly I offer up these years of life that have been added unto me by His Majesty’s clemency; humbly I lay them down in propitiation of the Empresses Dowager, to implore from them a brief Decree on behalf of the late Emperor.