Part 40

In this connection, there is every reason to believe that Tzŭ Hsi’s superstitious nature, and the memory of the prophecies of woe uttered by the Censor Wu K’o-tu at the time of his protesting suicide, had undoubtedly led her to regret the violation of the sacred laws of succession which she committed in selecting Kuang-Hsü for the Throne. On more than one occasion in recent years she had endeavoured to propitiate the shade of the departed Censor, and public opinion, by conferring upon him posthumous honours. Towards the end of her reign, after the humiliations inflicted on China in successive wars by France, Japan and the coalition of the Allies, she was frequently heard to express remorse at having been led into courses of error which had brought down upon her the wrath of Heaven. In 1888, when the Temple of Heaven was struck by lightning, and again, when the chief gate of the Forbidden City took fire and was destroyed, she interpreted these events as marks of the Supreme Being’s disapproval of her actions. The Emperor’s subsequent conspiracy with K’ang Yu-wei and his associates of 1898, became in her eyes another judgment and visitation of Heaven. It may therefore reasonably be assumed that when the Boxer Princes persuaded her of the efficacy of their magic arts and of their ability to drive the foreigner into the sea, she seized upon the hope thus offered as a means of regaining the favour of the gods and atoning for past errors. Although in selecting the son of Prince Tuan to be heir to her son, the Emperor T’ung-Chih (thus passing over Kuang-Hsü), she had once more violated the house-laws of the Dynasty, there is no doubt that she took her risks in the certain hope that further prestige must accrue to her house and to herself, by the fact that the boy Emperor’s father, next to herself in power, would be hailed by the Chinese people as the Heaven-sent deliverer, the conqueror of the hated barbarian, and the saviour of his country. In other words, recognising that the mistakes she had committed had seriously injured her in the eyes of the nation, she determined to endeavour to retrieve them by one last desperate throw. Later, after the return from exile, when she realised that this heroic venture had been as misguided in its inception as any of her former misdeeds, she showed her splendid courage and resource by a swift _volte-face_ in the adoption of those very reform measures which she had formerly opposed, and by annulling the appointment of Prince Tuan’s son as Heir to the Throne. She thus cut herself adrift from all connection with the Boxer leaders as completely and unhesitatingly as she wiped out from the annals of her reign all reference to the Edicts which she had issued in their favour. The present-day result brought about by this change of policy, and of the succession of Prince Chun’s infant son to the Throne, has been to establish more firmly than ever that junior branch of the Imperial family. It is now believed, if not accepted, at Court, that the first Prince Ch’un, the father of Kuang-Hsü and grandfather of the present sovereign, will eventually be canonised with the title of “Ti” or Emperor, which would practically make him, by posthumous right, the founder of a new Dynastic branch. The problem of the direct succession, even in Chinese eyes, is not simple, and it was generally supposed (_e.g._ by the _Times_ correspondent at Peking in October 1908) that the Empress Dowager would nominate Prince P’u Lun to succeed Kuang-Hsü, thus restoring the succession to the senior branch of the family. This would certainly have appealed to orthodox and literary officials throughout the Empire, and, as a means of appeasing the distressed ghost of the protesting Censor, would have been more effective than the course she actually adopted. Doctor Morrison, discussing this question of the succession before the event, expressed the general opinion that the appointment of another infant to succeed the Emperor Kuang-Hsü (involving another long Regency) would be fraught with great danger to the Dynasty. There is no doubt that the present situation, lacking that strong hand which for half a century has held together the chaotic fabric of China’s Government, suffers from the fact that for many years to come the supreme authority must remain in the hands of a Regent, and a Regent whose position is _ab initio_ undermined by the powerful influences brought to bear by the senior branch of the Imperial Clan. Tzŭ Hsi was fully aware of the position which would be created, or rather prolonged, by the selection of Prince Chun’s son, and for this reason, no doubt, the selection of Kuang-Hsü’s successor was postponed until the very day of her death. When, at last, confronted by the imperative necessity for action, she had to make up her mind, there were two things that chiefly weighed with her. These were, firstly, the promise that she had made to Jung Lu, and, secondly, her unconcealed dislike for Prince Ch’ing, who had made himself the chief spokesman for the claims of Prince P’u Lun. It was also only natural that she should wish to leave to her favourite niece (the Consort of Kuang-Hsü) the title and power of Empress Dowager, if only in reward for years of faithful and loyal service to herself. In other words, the claims of the human equation and her own inclinations outweighed, unto the end, the claims of orthodox tradition and the qualms of her conscience.

Throughout the winter of 1907 and the following spring, the Empress enjoyed her usual vigorous health. In April she went, as usual, to the Summer Palace, where she remained all through the hot season. With the heat, however, came a recurrence of her dysenteric trouble and in August she had a slight stroke of paralysis, as the result of which her face, hitherto remarkably youthful for a woman of seventy, took on a drawn and tired appearance. In other respects her health seemed fairly good; certainly her vigour of speech remained unimpaired, and she continued to devote unremitting attention to affairs of State. She was wont frequently to declare her ambition of attaining to the same age as Queen Victoria, a ruler for whom she professed the greatest admiration; she would say that she could trace, in the features of the English Queen, lines of longevity similar to those in her own. The Taoist Abbot, Kao, whom she used to receive in frequent audiences, and who possessed considerable influence over her, had prophesied that she would live longer than any former Empress of the Dynasty; but his prophecy was not fulfilled, for she died younger than three of her predecessors.

In the summer of 1908 the Old Buddha took a keen interest in the impending visit of the Dalai Lama, which had been arranged for the autumn. The chief eunuch, Li, begged her to cancel this visitation on the ground that it was notoriously unlucky for the “Living Buddha” and the Son of Heaven to be resident in one city at the same time. Either the priest or the sovereign would surely die, he said.[126] To this Tzŭ Hsi replied that she had long since decided in her mind that the Emperor’s illness was incurable, and she saw no reason, therefore, to stop the coming of the Dalai Lama. Nevertheless, in July, she summoned certain Chinese physicians, educated abroad, to attend His Majesty, who had become greatly emaciated and very weak. They reported that he was suffering from Bright’s disease. Their examination of the august patient and their diagnosis of his symptoms were necessarily perfunctory, inasmuch as etiquette prevented the application of the proper tests, but they professed to have verified the fact that the action of the heart was very weak. On the other hand, writers in the newspapers of the south did not hesitate to assert that the whole medical performance was a farce and that the death of the Emperor would undoubtedly take place so soon as the powers about the Throne had made up their minds that the Empress Dowager was not likely to live much longer.

According to the general consensus of opinion in the capital, the relations between the Old Buddha and His Majesty were not unfriendly at this period. It was said that shortly before his illness became acute the Empress Dowager had encouraged him to take a more active part in affairs of State, and to select candidates for certain high offices: she certainly renewed the practice of showing him Decrees for the formality of his concurrence. When the reformer Wang Chao returned from flight, and gave himself up to the police, she, who had vowed the death of this man in 1898, invited His Majesty to decide what punishment should now be inflicted upon him. The Emperor, after long reflection, suggested that his life be spared. “By all means,” replied the Old Buddha, “I had fully intended to forgive him, but desired to hear your opinion. Full well I know your sincere hatred of fellows like K’ang Yu-wei and his associates, and I was afraid, therefore, that you might insist on the immediate decapitation of Wang Chao.” She evidently believed that she had completely eradicated from His Majesty’s mind all opposition to her wishes.

As the Emperor’s health grew worse, the eunuchs were instructed not to keep him waiting when calling upon the Empress Dowager and he was also excused at the meetings of the Grand Council from awaiting her arrival and departure on his knees. A Manchu holding a high position at Court testifies to the truth of the following incident. One morning, after perusal of a Censor’s Memorial, which contained several inaccurate statements, His Majesty observed to the Grand Council, “How little of truth there is in common rumour. For instance, I know myself to be really ill, yet here it is denied that there is anything the matter with me.” The Empress Dowager here broke in:—“Who has dared to utter such falsehoods? If caught, he will certainly be beheaded.” Kuang-Hsü then proceeded to say:—“I am really getting weaker every day, and do not see my way to performing the necessary ceremonies on the occasion of Your Majesty’s approaching birthday.” Compassionately the Old Buddha replied: “It is more important to me that you should recover your health than that you should knock your head on the ground in my honour.” The Emperor fell on his knees to thank her for these gracious words, but collapsed in a fainting fit. Prince Ch’ing thereupon advised that a certain doctor, Chü Yung-chiu, trained in Europe, should be called in, but his advice was not followed till later. On the following day His Majesty enquired of the Court physicians in attendance, whose medical training is the same as that which has been handed down since the days of the T’ang Dynasty, whether his disease was likely to be fatal. “The heart of your Emperor is greatly disturbed,” said he. Dr. Lu Yung-pin replied:—“There is nothing in Your Majesty’s present condition to indicate any mortal disease. We beseech Your Majesty to be calm: it is for us, your servants, to be perturbed in spirit.”

After Tzŭ Hsi’s stroke of paralysis, the wildest rumours were circulated as to her condition, so much so that, realising the excited state of provincial opinion, and its relation to the question of the Constitution which was to have been granted, Her Majesty decided to carry out without further delay the promise she made in 1906. On the 1st of the 8th Moon, she therefore promulgated a Decree, showing signs of the same spirit of lofty statesmanship as was displayed by the rulers of Japan, and evidently based on their example, whereby it was promised that a constitutional form of government would be completely established within a period of nine years. At the same time it was decreed that every branch of the government should institute the changes necessary to facilitate the introduction of the new dispensation. On issuing this Decree she expressed her hope of living to witness the convening of the first Chinese Parliament, and added that if Prince Tuan’s son had proved himself worthy, and had remained Heir Apparent, he would by now have been of age to carry on the government after the Emperor’s death. Age was creeping upon her, and she would be glad to retire to the Summer Palace for her declining years. As long as matters remained in their present state, it would be necessary to refer important questions for her decision, but she greatly wished that the period of her Regency should not be indefinitely prolonged.

In September occurred the fiftieth birthday of the ex-Viceroy of Chihli Yüan Shih-k’ai, while the Court was still in residence at the Summer Palace. The Old Buddha showered costly gifts upon her trusted Minister, and almost every high official in Peking attended the birthday ceremonies to present congratulations and gifts. Conspicuous by his absence, however, was the Emperor’s brother, Prince Ch’un (the present Regent), who had applied for short leave in order to avoid being present, and who offered no presents.

A significant incident occurred in connection with the birthday ceremonies. Among the many complimentary scrolls, presented by friends and hanging on the walls, were a pair which attracted much attention, until they were hurriedly removed. One contained the following inscription:—“5th day of the 8th Moon of the Wu Shen year” (this was the date of the crisis of the _coup d’état_ when Yüan Shih-k’ai warned Jung Lu of the plot, and thus brought about the practical dethronement of the Emperor), and on the other were the words:—“May the Emperor live ten thousand years! May Your Excellency live ten thousand years.”

The words “_wan sui_,” meaning “ten thousand years,” are not applicable to any subject of the Throne, and the inner meaning of these words was, therefore, interpreted to be a charge against Yüan of conspiring for the Throne. It was clear that some enemy had sent the scrolls as a reminder of Yüan’s betrayal of his Sovereign ten years before, and that they had been hung up either as the result of connivance or carelessness on the part of Yüan’s people. Four months later, when the great ex-Viceroy fell, this incident was remembered and inevitably connected with Prince Ch’un’s non-appearance at the birthday ceremonies.

In September, the Dalai Lama reached Peking, but owing to a dispute on certain details of ceremonial, his audience was postponed. It was finally arranged that the Pontiff should kowtow to the Throne, and that the Emperor should then rise from his seat and invite the Lama to sit beside him on a cane couch. This ceremonial was most reluctantly accepted, and only after much discussion, by the Dalai Lama, who considered his dignity seriously injured by having to kowtow. He had brought with him much tribute, and was therefore the more disappointed at the Old Buddha’s failure to show him the marks of respect which he had expected. His audience was held early in October, when Her Majesty requested him to offer up prayers regularly for her long life and prosperity.

In October, the foreign Ministers were also received at the Summer Palace, and on the 20th of that month the Court returned to the Lake Palace for the winter. On this, her last State progress, the Empress Dowager approached the city as usual in her State barge, by the canal which joins the Summer Palace Lake with the waters of the Winter Palace, proceeding in it as far as the Temple of Imperial Longevity, which is situated on the banks of this canal. It was observed that as she left the precincts of the Summer Palace she gazed longingly towards the lofty walls that rise from the banks of the lake, and from thence to the hills receding into the far distance. Turning to the “Lustrous” concubine who sat at her feet, she expressed her fears that the critical condition of the Emperor would prevent her from visiting her favourite residence for a long time to come.

The Old Buddha sat in a cane chair on the raised deck of her magnificent barge adorned with carved dragons and phœnixes; she was surrounded by her favourite eunuchs, and half a dozen of the chief ladies of the Court. As she descended from the barge, supported by two eunuchs, and entered the sedan chair which bore her to within the temple precincts, her vivacity and good spirits formed a subject of general comment. She performed the usual sacrifices at the Temple of Imperial Longevity, a shrine which she had liberally endowed; but it was remembered after her death, as an unfortunate omen, that the last stick of incense failed to ignite. Upon leaving the temple she begged the priests to chant daily liturgies and to pray for her longevity, in view of her approaching birthday.

After leaving the temple precincts she proceeded with her ladies-in-waiting to the Botanical and Zoological Gardens, which lie just outside the “West-Straight gate” of the city. On arrival at the gates, she insisted upon descending from her sedan chair, and made the entire round of the gardens on foot. She expressed interest and much pleasure at the sight of animals which she had never seen before, and announced her intention of frequently visiting the place. She asked numerous questions of the keepers, being especially interested in the lions, and created much amusement amongst her immediate entourage by asking the director of the gardens (a Manchu official of the Household) for information as to where the animals came from, a subject on which he was naturally quite uninformed. “You don’t seem to know much about zoology,” she observed, and turned from the crestfallen official to address one of the keepers in a most informal manner. The chief eunuch, Li Lien-ying, wearied by such unwonted exercise, implored Her Majesty not to tire herself, but the Old Buddha took pleasure, clearly malicious, in hurrying him round the grounds. The occasion was unusual and remarkably informal, and the picture brings irresistibly to the English mind memories of another strong-minded Queen and her inspection of another garden, where heads were insecure for gardeners and Cheshire cats. Eye-witnesses of that day’s outing commented freely on their Imperial Mistress’s extraordinary spirits and vitality, predicting for her many years of life.

Her Majesty, whose memory on unexpected subjects was always remarkable, referred on this occasion to the elephant which had been presented to her by Tuan Fang upon his return from Europe, and which, together with several other animals for which she had no fitting accommodation in the Palace grounds, was the first cause and first inmate of the Zoological Gardens. The elephant in question had originally been in charge of the two German keepers who had accompanied it from Hagenbeck’s establishment; these men had frequently but unsuccessfully protested at the insufficient rations provided for the beast by the Mandarin in charge. Eventually the elephant had died of slow starvation, and the keepers had returned to Europe, after obtaining payment of their unexpired contracts, a result which brought down upon the offending official Her Majesty’s severe displeasure. She referred now to this incident, and expressed satisfaction that most of the animals appeared to be well cared for, though the tigers’ attendant received a sharp rebuke.

After Her Majesty’s return to the Winter Palace, everything was given over to preparations for the celebration of her seventy-third birthday on the 3rd of November. The main streets of the city were decorated, and in the Palace itself arrangements were made for a special theatrical performance to last for five days. A special ceremony, quite distinct from the ordinary birthday congratulations of the Court, was arranged for the Dalai Lama, who was to make obeisance before Her Majesty at the head of his following of priests. The health of His Majesty did not permit of his carrying out the prescribed ceremony of prostration before Her Majesty’s Throne in the main Palace of Ceremonial Phœnixes; he therefore deputed a Prince of the Blood to represent him in the performance of this duty, and those who knew its deep significance on such an occasion realised that the condition of his health must indeed be desperate. This impression was confirmed by the fact that he was similarly compelled to abandon his intention of being present at a special banquet to be given to the Dalai Lama in the Palace of Tributary Envoys. The high priest, who had been compelled to kneel outside the banquet hall to await the arrival of His Majesty, was greatly incensed at this occurrence.

At eight in the morning of the birthday His Majesty left his Palace in the “Ocean Terrace” and proceeded to the Throne Hall. His emaciated and woe-begone appearance was such, however, that the Old Buddha took compassion upon him, and bade his attendant eunuchs support him to his palanquin, excusing him from further attendance. Later in the day she issued a special Decree praising the loyalty of the Dalai Lama, and ordering him to return promptly to Thibet, “there to extol the generosity of the Throne of China, and faithfully to obey the commands of the Sovereign power.” The Empress Dowager spent the afternoon of her birthday in the congenial amusement of a masquerade, appearing in the costume of the Goddess of Mercy, attended by a numerous suite of concubines, Imperial Princesses, and eunuchs, all in fancy dress. They picnicked on the lake, and Her Majesty appeared to be in the very highest spirits. Unfortunately, towards evening, she caught a chill, and thereafter, partaking too freely of a mixture of clotted cream and crab apples, she had a return of the dysenteric complaint from which she had suffered all through the summer. On the following day she attended to affairs of State as usual, reading a vast number of Memorials and recording her decision thereon, but on the 5th of November neither she nor the Emperor were sufficiently well to receive the Grand Council, so that all business of government was suspended for two days. Upon hearing of Her Majesty’s illness, the Dalai Lama hastened to present her with an image of Buddha, which, he said, should be despatched forthwith to her mausoleum at the hills, the building of which had just been completed under the supervision of Prince Ch’ing.[127] The high priest urged all haste in transmitting this miracle-working image to her future burial-place; if it were done quickly, he said, her life would be prolonged by many years, because the unlucky conjunction of the stars now affecting her adversely would avail nothing against the magic power of this image. The Old Buddha was greatly reassured by the Dalai Lama’s cheerful prognostications, and next morning held audience as usual. She commanded Prince Ch’ing to proceed without delay to the tombs, and there to deposit the miraculous image on the altar.[128] She ordered him to pay particular attention to the work done at the mausoleum, and to make certain that her detailed instructions had been faithfully carried out. Prince Ch’ing demurred somewhat at these instructions, inquiring whether she really wished him to leave Peking at a time when she herself and the Emperor were both ill. But the Old Buddha would brook no argument, and peremptorily ordered him to proceed as instructed. “I am not likely to die,” she said, “during the next few days; already I am feeling much better. In any case you will do as you are told.” On Monday, November 9th, both the Empress Dowager and the Emperor were present at a meeting of the Grand Council, and a special audience was given to the Educational Commissioner of Chihli province, about to leave for his post. At this audience the Old Buddha spoke with some bitterness of the increasing tendency of the student class to give vent to revolutionary ideas, and she commanded the Commissioner of Education to do all in his power to check their political activities.