Part 15

Her Majesty’s next step aroused a storm of opposition and criticism. She decreed that in all matters of urgency, the Grand Council, before advising the Throne, should confer with the Emperor’s father, Prince Ch’un, but added that upon the Emperor’s attaining his majority, she would issue further instructions on this subject. This was not only an entirely new and irregular departure, since it made the Emperor’s father _de facto_ head of the executive, but it implied the possibility of violation of the solemn pledges given to the nation in 1875, as to the provision of an heir to the Emperor T’ung-Chih. Fears were once more aroused in an acute form that Prince Ch’un might hereafter persuade his son to ignore the ancestral claims of the late Emperor, and thus constitute the house of Ch’un founders of a new line. The Prince would have great inducement to adopt this policy, as it would confer upon him and upon his wife (Tzŭ Hsi’s sister) Imperial rank during their lives and Imperial honours after their death. The reign of T’ung-Chih would in that case be practically expunged, going down to posterity dishonoured as the ignominious end of the senior branch of the Ta Ching Dynasty, and the Yehonala clan would become of paramount influence. A wide field would thus be left for future dissensions, treasons, stratagems and Court intrigues. In fact the position thus created would be somewhat similar to that which arose from the rivalry of the Houses of York and Lancaster in English history.

An Imperial Clansman, named Sheng Yü, and other scholars, memorialised in the most urgent terms praying the Empress to cancel this appointment and suggesting that if Prince Ch’un’s advice were really needed, it should be given to herself direct and not to the Grand Council. The writers advanced numerous arguments, all calculated to save the face of Prince Ch’un while preventing him from accepting the position. They doubted whether his health would stand the strain, and whether the duties of the post were consistent with his high calling; at the same time they foresaw that a post which practically conferred the powers of a Dictator must undoubtedly make him unpopular, a result which Her Majesty herself would be the first to deplore.

Besides, had not the Emperor Chia-Ch’ing declared (in 1799) that Princes of the Blood were not eligible for service on the Grand Council, except in cases of urgent and exceptional emergency?

“The truth is,” they concluded, “that a Prince of the Blood, by virtue of his position, cannot be liable to the same punishments as ordinary subjects, and for this reason he should not hold a Government office. Prince Kung has held this high post, it is true, but this was merely temporary, and in any case, the power conferred upon him was much less than that which it is now proposed to confer upon Prince Ch’un. We therefore respectfully invite Your Majesty reverently to conform to the laws of the Dynasty, and to cancel the Decree conferring these functions upon Prince Ch’un.”

As final objections, the Memorialists observed that the Prince could not be expected to attend every morning at the Palace, nor could he usurp the Imperial prerogative by expecting the Grand Council to meet at his residence; and it would be irregular for the Censors to denounce any errors committed by a Prince of the Blood as head of the Council.

The Censor Chao Erh-hsün (an upright official who has since held office as Viceroy in Manchuria and in Ssŭ-Ch’uan) memorialised in the same sense, observing that the Grand Council would be superfluous if everything had to be referred to Prince Ch’un, whose position as father of the Emperor made him impossible for this post. “Why,” said he, “could not Her Majesty command the Prince to attend before her, whenever she needed his advice, and let him expound his views to her in person? There could be no objections to this course.”

To these remonstrances Tzŭ Hsi replied:

“There is no doubt that the sage decisions of former Emperors deserve to be treated with every consideration and respect, but it is to be observed that, ever since I assumed the Regency, I have been by circumstances compelled to confer regularly on confidential business with a Prince of the Blood. You must all be aware that this situation has been forced upon me owing to the exigencies of the times, and was none of my seeking. The Decree in which, some days ago, I appointed Prince Ch’un to be Adviser to the Council, had no reference to ordinary routine business, with which he has no concern, but only to urgent matters of State. I had not, and have not, any intention of giving him a definite appointment, and he himself was most reluctant to accept at my hands even this advisory position; it was because of his repeated entreaties that I promised to issue further instructions in the matter upon the Emperor’s reaching his majority. The present arrangement is of a purely temporary nature. You cannot possibly realise how great and numerous are the problems with which I have to deal single-handed. As to the Grand Council, let them beware of making Prince Ch’un’s position an excuse for shirking their responsibilities. In conclusion, I wish that my Ministers would for the future pay more respect to the motives with actuate their Sovereign’s actions, and abstain from troubling me with their querulous criticisms. The Memorialists’ requests are hereby refused.”

Rescripts of this kind are curiously suggestive of Queen Elizabeth, and her manner of dealing with similar petitions from her loyal and dutiful subjects.

XI

TZŬ HSI “EN RETRAITE”

In 1887 Kuang-Hsü completed his seventeenth year, and Tzŭ Hsi saw herself confronted by the necessity of surrendering to him the outward and visible signs of sovereignty. The change was naturally viewed with apprehension by those of her courtiers and kinsmen who for the last ten years had basked in the sunshine of her unfettered authority and patronage, whose places and privileges might well be endangered by a new _régime_. When, therefore, as in duty bound, she expressed a desire to retire from public life, it was not surprising that urgent petitions and remonstrances poured in, begging her to continue yet a little while in control of affairs, nor that she should finally allow herself to be persuaded. It was not until February 1889 that she definitely handed over the reins of government to the Emperor, on the occasion of his marriage to the daughter of her brother, Duke Kuei Hsiang.

Tzŭ Hsi was now fifty-five years of age. For nearly thirty years she had been _de facto_ ruler of the Celestial Empire. She had tasted the sweets of autocracy, had satisfied all her instincts of dominion, and it seemed as if she were not unwilling to enjoy the fruit of her labours and to exchange the formal routine of the Forbidden City for the pleasures and comparative freedom of life at the Summer Palace, which was now in course of reconstruction. Always avid of movement and change, weary of the increasing toil of audiences and Rescripts, apprehensive, too, of the steadily increasing pressure of the earth-hungry Powers on China’s frontiers, she could not fail to be attracted by the prospect of a life of gilded leisure and recreation. Nor could she have remained on the Throne, Kuang-Hsü being alive, without an overt and flagrant act of usurpation for which, until he had been tried and found wanting, there was no possible justification. Certain writers, foreign and Chinese, have imputed to her at this period a policy of _reculer pour mieux sauter_, suggesting that her hand, though hidden, was never really withdrawn from the affairs of the Forbidden City. To some extent the suggestion is justifiable; but Tzŭ Hsi’s retirement in the I-Ho Yüan lasted, roughly speaking, for ten years, during a considerable portion of which period she undoubtedly ceased to concern herself with affairs of State, other than those which directly affected the replenishing of her privy purse.

But while divesting herself of the outward and visible signs of rulership, Tzŭ Hsi had no intention of becoming a negligible quantity, or of losing touch with current events. From her luxurious retreat at the foot of the hills which shelter Peking, she could keep close watch on the doings of the Emperor, and protect the interests of her personal adherents in the capital and the provinces. Her power of appointing and dismissing officials, which drew much of its inspiration from the Chief Eunuch, was never surrendered.

In marrying the Emperor to her favourite niece, Tzŭ Hsi intended to avoid a repetition of the mistake which she had committed in the case of her son, the Emperor T’ung-Chih, whose marriage with the virtuous and courageous A-lu-te had resulted in dangerous intrigues against herself, until death had removed the offenders. Warned by this experience, she made her selection in the present instance less with a view to the Emperor’s felicity than to the furtherance of her own purposes, which necessitated the presence by his side of someone who would watch over, and report on, his proceedings and proclivities. This part her niece played to perfection. In appearance she was unattractive, and in disposition and temper unsympathetic, but she possessed a considerable share of the Yehonala intelligence and strength of will. From the very first she was on bad terms with the Emperor. It was no secret at Court that they indulged in fierce and protracted quarrels, in which the young Empress generally came off victorious. As a natural result, Kuang-Hsü developed and showed a marked preference for the society of his two senior concubines, known respectively as the “Pearl” and “Lustrous” consorts.

Upon the Emperor’s assumption of rulership, there was shown a strong feeling amongst the senior members of the Yehonala clan that the opportunity should be taken to consolidate its position and power by conferring on the Emperor’s father rank in the hierarchy higher than that which he had hitherto held, with a view to his ultimate canonisation as Emperor. The manner in which this proposal was put forward, and Tzŭ Hsi’s refusal to act upon it—while giving all possible “face” to Prince Ch’un—throw light upon one of the undercurrents of China’s dynastic affairs which are so difficult for Europeans to follow.

The views of Prince Chun’s adherents were voiced in a Memorial addressed to the Empress Dowager by Wu Ta-ch’eng, formerly Vice-President of the Censorate, who at that time held the post of Director of the Yellow River Conservancy. This Memorial, after referring to the services rendered by Prince Ch’un as head of the Admiralty, and praising his patriotism, zeal and extreme modesty, proceeded to observe that he was, after all, the Emperor’s own father, and, as such, entitled to higher respect in a Dynasty which “won the Empire by virtue of its respect for filial piety.” The Memorialist further recommended that the Son of Heaven should be authorised to grant special recognition and honour to his parent, on the principle laid down by Mencius that “the main principle underlying all ceremonies is that satisfaction should be felt by those concerned.” As usual, the Memorialist strengthened his request with reference to historical precedents, and quoted a case, referred to by the Emperor Ch’ien Lung in his edition of Chu Hsi’s famous historical work, where two parties in the State under the Sung Dynasty disagreed as to the title to be accorded to the father of the Emperor (A.D. 1050). In that instance the opinion of His Majesty Ch’ien-Lung (as a commentator) was opposed to that of the historians, for he supported the contention that the Emperor’s father, as a simple matter of filial piety, is entitled to special honour. He quoted a case where, under the Ming Dynasty (1525), the Emperor desired to have his father raised to the rank of Emperor, although he also had been born only to princely rank; in other words, the Emperor Ch’ien Lung, who is justly regarded as the highest authority on precedents produced by the present Dynasty, placed the blood-tie between father and son above all the theories and conventions that might be raised by courtiers as to their official relationship. The Memorialist concluded by recommending that the title of “Imperial father” be given to Prince Ch’un, and that the Empress Dowager should announce this as the last act of her rule, so that His Majesty’s filial piety might be fittingly displayed.

There is every reason to believe that the above Memorial was inspired in the high quarters immediately concerned, so as to afford Her Majesty an opportunity for putting on record her own views, while bestowing great honour on the house of Ch’un. After praising the Prince and his unswerving loyalty, she continues:—

“Whenever I have wished to bestow any special honour upon him, he has refused it with tears in his eyes. On one occasion I granted him permission to ride in a sedan chair with curtains of apricot yellow[44] silk, but not once has he ventured to avail himself of this honour. He has thus displayed his loyalty and unselfish modesty, already well known to my people as well as to myself.

“Years ago, in the first month of the present reign, the Prince put in a secret Memorial, in which, after reciting numerous precedents, he expressed a fear that the very example which has now been cited by the present Memoralist (Wu Ta-ch’eng) might be used by sycophants and other evil persons to advance improper proposals on his behalf. For this reason he handed in his secret Memorial in advance, with a request that, when the Emperor should attain his majority, no change whatsoever should be made in his own rank and titles. Never was there a more brilliant example of devoted service by a Minister of the Crown, and, while heartily praising him, I yielded reluctantly to his request. Now that I am about to hand over the reins of Government, the very thing that Prince Ch’un feared has come to pass, and I therefore feel bound to take this occasion to publish to the world his original Memorial, so that none may hope to work mischief by any further proposals of a similar kind, and that this worthy Prince’s sincerity, thus manifested, may become an example for all to follow.”

Prince Ch’un’s original Memorial, dated 1875, is of no particular interest except in that it reveals, even at that date, a sense of the dangers arising from the confusion of the Imperial succession and considerable anxiety as to the future adjustment of the situation. His own object in declining further honours was clearly stated to be that he wished to prevent sycophants and persons of doubtful loyalty from establishing claims upon him or forming a party in the Forbidden City, which (it may be observed) has actually come to pass. He deplored the possibility that when His Majesty the Emperor begins to rule in person, “officials of obscure origin may be led to think that, by artful and treasonable suggestions, they may delude His Majesty and thus rise to high office by creating opportunities of dissension.”

The rank of the Emperor’s father therefore remained that of an hereditary Prince, but there is no doubt that the matter is by no means disposed of, and may possibly be revived upon the conclusion of the present Regent’s term of office.[45]

Shortly after Tzŭ Hsi’s retirement from public affairs the Emperor’s father, Prince Ch’un, fell ill of a sickness which increased until, on 1st January 1891, he died. In 1890, the Censorate, deeply concerned for a strict observance of the laws and ceremonial etiquette of filial piety, took occasion, in a Memorial of remonstrance, to draw Her Majesty’s attention to her duty, and that of the Emperor, of visiting the invalid. Tzŭ Hsi’s reply took the form of a rebuke to the Censors, whom she bluntly directed to mind their own business, in a manner which forcibly brings to mind Queen Elizabeth’s methods of dealing with similar remonstrances. Nevertheless she took the hint and thenceforward, throughout the summer of 1890, she paid repeated visits to Prince Ch’un’s bedside.

This Prince had always been a favourite with Tzŭ Hsi, who greatly preferred him to his elder brothers; she regretted his death and felt the loss of his wise and fearless counsel, which had often guided her policy. He was a staunch Manchu, jealous of the power and privileges of the Clans, and will long be remembered in Chinese history for the remark which he made at a meeting of the Council after the campaign in Tongking. “It were better,” said he, “to hand over the Empire to the foreign devils, than to surrender it at the dictation of these Chinese rebels,” a remark which was prompted by the growing discontent of the province of Canton against the Manchus and their rule.

In her Decree recording the Prince’s death and praising his eminent services as Chamberlain of the Palace, Head of the Navy[46] and Commander of the Manchu Field Force, Tzŭ Hsi gave detailed instructions for the mourning and funeral ceremonies, donating in her own name a Tibetan prayer coverlet for the body. She conferred upon him the somewhat obvious (but according to Chinese ideas, highly honourable) title of “deceased father of the Emperor” and ordered that the funeral should be upon a scale “which shall simultaneously display His Majesty’s favour and his sense of filial piety,” due care being taken at the same time not to outrage the deceased’s conspicuous modesty. By these means, which were in accordance with her guiding principle of the “happy mean,” she hoped to set at rest all question of “usurping tendencies” and to reassure the Aisin Gioros as to their fears of the undue ambition of the house of Ch’un. Finally, in accordance with the precedent established by the Emperor Ch’ien-Lung, she decreed that the late Prince’s residence should be divided into two portions, one to be set aside as his own ancestral Hall and the other as a shrine (it being the birthplace) of his Majesty Kuang-Hsü.

In 1894 the Empress Dowager reached her sixtieth year, which, according to Chinese ideas, is an event calling for special thanksgiving and honour. Secure in her great and increasing popularity, safely entrenched in her prestige and influence, the Old Buddha had expected to devote her leisure at the Summer Palace to preparations for celebrating this anniversary on a scale of unparalleled magnificence. The I-Ho Yüan, as the Summer Palace is called,[47] had been entirely rebuilt, by the Emperor’s orders, with funds taken from the Navy Department and other Government Boards since 1889, and had just been completed. Most of the high provincial authorities had been summoned to the capital to take part in these festivities (and, incidentally, to help to pay for them), and amongst them the faithful Jung Lu returned once more to his mistress’s side, in high favour, as General in command of the Forces at Peking. (For the last three years he had been at Hsi-an, holding the sinecure post of Tartar General.) Every high official in the Empire had been “invited” to contribute twenty-five per cent. of his salary as a birthday gift to Her Majesty, and the total amount of these offerings must have amounted to several millions of taels. Everything pointed to festivities of great splendour; orders had already been given for the erection of triumphal arches in her honour throughout the whole five miles of the Imperial highway between Peking and the Summer Palace, when the continued disasters which overtook China’s forces, immediately after the outbreak of the war with Japan, caused Her Majesty to reconsider the situation, and eventually to cancel all arrangements for the celebration. In the Emperor’s name she issued the following somewhat pathetic Decree:—

“The auspicious occasion of my sixtieth birthday, occurring in the 10th Moon of this year, was to have been a joyful event, in which the whole nation would unite in paying to me loyal and dutiful homage. It had been intended that His Majesty the Emperor, accompanied by the whole Court, should proceed to offer congratulations to me, and make obeisance at the Summer Palace, and my officials and people have subscribed funds wherewith to raise triumphal arches, and to decorate the Imperial highway throughout its entire length from Peking to the I-Ho Yüan; high altars have been erected where Buddhist Sutras were to have been recited in my honour. I was not disposed to be unduly obstinate and to insist on refusing these honours, because, at the time that the celebration was planned, my people were enjoying peace and prosperity; moreover, there is precedent for such displays of pageantry and rejoicing in the occasions on which the Emperors K’ang-Hsi and Ch’ien-Lung celebrated their sixtieth birthdays. I, therefore, consented to His Majesty’s filial request, and decided to receive birthday congratulations at the Summer Palace. Who would ever have anticipated that the Japanese (literally, ‘dwarf men’) would have dared to force us into hostilities, and that since the beginning of the summer they have invaded our tributary State (Corea) and destroyed our fleet? We had no alternative but to draw the sword and to commence a punitive campaign; at this moment our armies are pressing to the front. The people of both nations (China and Corea) are now involved in all the horrors of war, and I am continually haunted by the thought of their distress; therefore, I have issued a grant of three million taels from my privy purse for the maintenance and relief of our troops at the front.

“Although the date of my birthday is drawing close, how could I have the heart, at such a time, to delight my senses with revelries, or to receive from my subjects congratulations which could only be sincere if we had won a glorious victory? I therefore decree that the ceremonies to be observed on my birthday shall be performed at the Palace in Peking, and all preparations at the Summer Palace shall be abandoned forthwith. The words of the Empress.”

To which the Emperor adds the filial remark on his own account: “That Her Majesty had acted in accordance with the admirable virtue which always distinguished her, and that, in spite of his own wishes, he was bound reverently to obey her orders in the matter.”

China’s complete and ignominious defeat by the Japanese forces undoubtedly inflicted no small loss of prestige on the Manchu Dynasty, and was a direct cause of the violent agitation of the Southern Provinces for reform, which led in turn to the _coup d’état_ and to the Boxer rising. It is doubtful whether war could have been avoided without even greater sacrifices and humiliation, and the Empress Dowager showed her usual sagacity therefore in refraining from expressing any opinion or taking any share of responsibility in the decision taken by the Emperor. She knew, moreover, that, by the action and advice of her Chief Eunuch, the Navy had for years been starved in order to provide her with funds to rebuild and decorate the Summer Palace, a fact of which some of China’s most distinguished advisers were at that time unaware.