Part 44

These, however, are but local manifestations, and they lost much of their inspiration after the _coup d’état_. The anti-dynastic tendencies noticeable in the vernacular press of Shanghai, many of which assumed the form of personal hostility to the Empress, were also little more than the local result of Young China’s vague aspirations and desire for change, and reflected little weight of serious opinion. The official class and the _literati_ as a whole were loyal to Her Majesty and regarded her with respect. They do not fail to express admiration of her wisdom and statecraft, which kept the Empire together under circumstances of great difficulty. To her selection and support of Tseng Kuo-fan they generally attribute China’s recovery from the disasters of the Taiping rebellion, and to her sagacity in 1898 they ascribe the country’s escape from dangers of sudden revolution. They admit that had it not been for her masterly handling of the Tsai Yüan conspiracy (1860-61), it is doubtful whether the Dynasty could have held together for a decade, and they realise, now that her strong hand no longer grasps the helm, that the ship of State is likely to drift into dangerous waters.

The everyday routine of Tzŭ Hsi’s life has been well described in Miss Carl’s accurate and picturesque account of the Palace ceremonial and amusements,[134] the first authoritative picture of _la vie intime_ of the Chinese Court. Apart from a keen natural aptitude for State affairs (similar to that of Queen Victoria, whom she greatly admired from afar), Tzŭ Hsi maintained to the end of her days a lively interest in literature and art, together with a healthy and catholic appetite for amusement. She had an inveterate love for the theatre, for masques and pageants, which she indulged at all times and places, taking a professional interest in the players and giving much advice about the performances, which she selected daily from a list submitted to her. It was a matter of comment, and some hostile criticism by Censors, that even during the sojourn of the Court in the provincial wilderness at Hsi-an, she summoned actors to follow the Court and perform as usual.

Her private life had, no doubt, its phases. Of its details we know but little prior to the period of the restoration of the Summer Palace in the early nineties. In middle age, however, when she had assimilated the philosophy and practice of the “happy mean,” her tastes became simple and her habits regular. She was passionately fond of the Summer Palace, of its gardens and the lake amongst the hills, and towards the end of her life went as seldom as possible into the city. She loved the freedom of the I-ho Yüan, its absence of formal etiquette, her water-picnics and the familiar intercourse of her favourite ladies, with whom she would discuss the day’s news and the gossip of the Imperial Clans. With these, especially with the wife of Jung Lu and the Princess Imperial, she would talk endlessly of old times and make plans for the future.

Her love of literature and profound knowledge of history did much to win for her the respect of the Mandarin class, with whom the classics are a religion. In her reading she was, however, broad-minded, not to say omnivorous; it was her custom to spend a certain time daily in having ancient and modern authors read aloud by eunuchs specially trained in elocution. She believed thoroughly in education, though realising clearly the danger of putting new wine into old skins; and she perceived towards the end of her life that the rapidly changing conditions of the Empire had rendered the wisdom of China’s Sages of little practical value as a basis of administration. Her clearness of perception on this point, contrasted with her action in 1898, is indeed remarkable, but it should be remembered that much of her opposition to the Emperor’s policy of reform was the result of personal pique and outraged dignity, as in the case of her decision to become a Boxer leader in 1900. As far back as 1876, at the time of the establishment of the T’ung Wen College at Peking for the teaching of languages and science, we find her publicly rebuking a Censor who had declared that mathematics was a subject suitable only for the Court of Astronomers.

“The Throne has established this College,” she observed, “because it is incumbent on our scholars to learn the rudiments of mathematics and astronomy. These are not to be regarded, as the Memorialist suggests, as cunning and mechanical branches of knowledge. Let our officials study them earnestly, and they will soon acquire proficiency; at the same time let them avoid that undesirable specialisation which comes from concentrated study of the classics. We are now borrowing educational methods from foreign countries with a view to broadening our own and increasing its accuracy, but we have no intention of abandoning the teachings of the Sages. How, then, can our action prove detrimental to the minds of scholars?”

Frequent reference has been made in previous chapters to the extravagance and licentious display of Tzŭ Hsi’s Court during the years of the first Regency. The remonstrances of the Censors on the subject were so numerous and outspoken, so circumstantial in their charges, as to leave little room for doubt that the Empress deserved their indignant condemnation. All the records of that period, and particularly from 1862 to 1869, point to the evil and steadily-increasing influence of the eunuchs, whose corruption and encouragement of lavish expenditure resulted in continual demands on the provincial exchequers. But even at the height of what may fairly be called her riotous living, Tzŭ Hsi always had the good grace to concur publicly in the virtuous suggestions of her monitors, and to conciliate public opinion by professions of a strong desire for economy. She would have her Imperial way, her splendid pageants and garnered wealth of tribute, but the Censors should have their “face.” On the occasion of the Emperor T’ung-Chih’s wedding in 1869, when the Grand Council had solemnly deprecated any increase in her Palace expenditure because of the impoverished state of the people brought about by the Taiping rebellion, she issued a Decree stating that, “so great was her perturbation of mind at the prevalent sufferings of her people, that she grudged even the money spent on the inferior raiment she was wearing, and the humble fare that was served at her Palace table.” She was, in fact, as lavish of good principles as of the public funds. But it is to be remembered that a large proportion of the vast sums spent on her Palaces, on the building of her tomb, and on her Court festivities, represents the squeezes of officials and eunuchs, which, however solemnly the Grand Council might denounce extravagance, are in practice universally recognised as inseparable from the Celestial system of government. Tzŭ Hsi was fully aware that much of the enormous expenditure charged to her Privy Purse went in “squeeze,” but she good-humouredly acquiesced in a custom as deeply ingrained in the Chinese as ancestral worship, and from which she herself derived no small profit. At her receptions to the ladies of the Diplomatic Body she would frequently enquire as to the market prices of household commodities, in order, as she cheerfully explained, to be able to show her Chief Eunuch that she was aware of his monstrous over-charges.

Combined, however, with her love of sumptuous display and occasional fits of Imperial munificence, Tzŭ Hsi possessed a certain housewifely instinct of thrift which, with advancing age, verged on parsimony. The Privy Purse of China’s ruler is not dependent upon any well-defined civil list, but rather upon the exigencies of the day, upon the harvests and trade of the Empire, whence, through percentages of squeezes levied by the provincial authorities, come the funds required to defray the expenses of the Court.[135] The uncertainty of these remittances partly explains the Empress Dowager’s hoarding tendencies, that squirrel instinct which impelled her to bury large sums in the vaults of the Palace, and to accumulate a vast store of silks, medicines, clocks, and all manner of valuables in the Forbidden City. At the time of her death her private fortune, including a large number of gold Buddhas and sacrificial vessels stored in the Palace vaults, was estimated by a high official of the Court at about sixteen millions sterling. The estimate is necessarily a loose one, being Chinese, but it was known with tolerable certainty that the hoard of gold[136] buried in the Ning-Shou Palace at the time of the Court’s flight in 1900, amounted to sixty millions of taels (say, eight millions sterling), and the “tribute” paid by the provinces to the Court at T’ai-yüan and Hsi-an would amount to as much more.

Tzŭ Hsi was proud of her personal appearance, and justly so, for she retained until advanced old age a clear complexion and youthful features. (To an artist who painted her portrait not long before her death she expressed a wish that her wrinkles should be left out.) By no means free from feminine vanity, she devoted a considerable amount of time each day to her toilet, and was particularly careful about the dressing of her hair. At the supreme moment of the Court’s flight from the Palace, in 1900, she was heard to complain bitterly at being compelled to adopt the Chinese fashion of head-dress.

Her good health and vitality were always extraordinary. She herself attributed them chiefly to early rising, regular habits, and the frequent consumption of milk, which she usually took curdled, in the form of a kind of rennet. She ate frugally but well, being an epicure at heart and delighting in dainty and _recherché_ menus. Opium, like other luxuries, she took in strict moderation, but greatly enjoyed her pipe after the business of the day was done. It was her practice then to rest for an hour, smoking at intervals, a _siesta_ which the Court knew better than to disturb. She fully realised the evils wrought by abuse of the insidious drug, and approved of the laws, introduced by the initiative of T’ang Shao-yi and other high officials, for its abolition. But her fellow-feeling for those who, like herself, could use it in moderation, and her experience of its soothing and stimulating effect on the mind, led her to insist that the Abolition Decree (November 22nd, 1906) should not deprive persons over sixty years of age of their accustomed solace. She was, in fact, willing to decree prohibition for the masses, but lenient to herself and to those who had sufficiently proved their capacity to follow the path of the happy mean.

Such was Tzŭ Hsi, a woman whose wonderful personality and career cannot fail to secure for her a place amongst the rulers who have become the standards and pivots of greatness in the world’s history. The marvellous success of her career and the passionate devotion of her partisans are not to be easily explained by any ordinary process of analysis or comparison; but there is no doubt that they were chiefly due to that mysterious and indefinable quality which is called charm, a quality apparently independent alike of morals, ethics, education, and what we call civilisation; universal in its appeal, irresistible in its effect upon the great majority of mankind. It was this personal charm of the woman, combined with her intense vitality and accessibility, that won for her respect, and often affection, even from those who had good reason to deplore her methods and deny her principles. This personal charm, this subtle and magnetic emanation, was undoubtedly the secret of that stupendous power with which, for good or evil, she ruled for half a century a third of the population of the earth; that charm it was that won to her side the bravest and best of China’s picked men, and it is the lingering memory and tradition of that charm which already invest the name of the Old Buddha with attributes of legendary virtue and superhuman wisdom.

Europeans, studying the many complex and unexpected phases of her extraordinary personality from the point of view of western moralities, have usually emphasised and denounced her cold-blooded ferocity and homicidal rage. Without denying the facts, or extenuating her guilt, it must, nevertheless, be admitted that it would be unjust to expect from her compliance with standards of morals and conduct of which she was perforce ignorant, and that, judged by the standards of her own predecessors and contemporaries, and by the verdict of her subjects, she is not to be reckoned a wicked woman. Let it be remembered also that within comparatively recent periods of English history, death was dealt out with no niggard or gentle hand to further the alleged interests of the State; men were hanged, drawn and quartered in the days of Elizabeth and Mary Stuart, gentle ladies both, and averse to the spilling of blood, for the greater glory of Thrones, and in defence of the Christian religion.

Tzŭ Hsi died as she had lived, keen to the last, impatient of the bonds of sickness that kept her from the new day’s work, hopeful ever for the future. Unto the last her thoughts were of the Empire, of that new plan of Constitutional Government wherein she had come to see visions of a new and glorious era for China and for herself. And when the end came, she faced it, as she had faced life, with a stout heart and brave words, going out to meet the Unknown as if she were but starting for a summer picnic. Reluctantly she bade farewell to the world of men, to the life she had lived with so keen a zest; but, unlike England’s Tudor Queen, she bowed gracefully to the inevitable, leaving the scene with steadfast and Imperial dignity, confident in her high destinies to come.

FINIS.

APPENDIX

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES ON CHANG CHIH-TUNG, TSO TSUNG-T’ANG, SUN CHIA-NAI, AND TUAN FANG

CHANG CHIH-TUNG

Her Majesty was never on terms of any great intimacy with Chang Chih-tung, but she respected him on account of his brilliant literary style and profound knowledge of the classics. The career of this official strikingly illustrates the power of the pen in China. He first came to be known by a critical Memorial in reference to the funeral ceremonies of the Emperor T’ung-Chih, in 1879; his subsequent rapid advancement was due to the Memorial in which he denounced the cession of Ili to Russia by the Manchu Ambassador, Ch’ung Hou, in 1880. At this time Chang was still a poor scholar, earning a precarious livelihood by composing Memorials for certain wealthy Censors. He spoke the Mandarin dialect badly, having been brought up by his father (a Taotai) in the province of Kueichou. By patient study, a splendid memory and a natural talent for historical research and criticism, he became at an early age a recognised authority on all questions of State precedents and historical records, so that his pen found no lack of work in the drafting of official patents of rank, Imperial inscriptions and similar documents. Nevertheless, Tzŭ Hsi never cared for the man, realising that this brilliant scholar was by nature an opportunist, and that his opinion was rarely based on sincere conviction. Her estimate of him was amply justified on more than one occasion, for he frequently changed his views to meet the exigencies of party politics at the capital; it is indeed somewhat remarkable, since this estimate of his character was shared by most of his colleagues, that he should have retained her good will and risen to the highest position in the Government. His successful career[137] is explained by the fact that even men like Jung Lu and Li Hung-chang, who disliked him thoroughly, were unable to deny his claims as an unrivalled scholar.

As an illustration of his historical knowledge and methods, it is interesting to recall the main features of his Memorial against the Treaty of Livadia with Russia. By this Treaty, negotiated by Ch’ung Hou under the direct instructions of the Empress Dowager, Ili was to be retroceded to China upon payment of five million roubles, Russia securing Kuldja in exchange, with the right to open Consulates at certain places in the New Territory and on the Kansu frontier. Russian goods were also to be free of duty in Chinese Turkestan, and a new trade route was to be opened up through Central China, viâ Hsi-an in Shensi. When the terms of the Treaty became known, a storm of angry criticism was directed against the Manchu Ambassador: Tzŭ Hsi promptly ordered him to be cashiered and arrested for disregard of her instructions. The whole matter was referred to the Grand Council, who were directed to consult with Prince Ch’un and the various Government Boards. Chang Chih-tung, who was at this time a junior official in the Department of Public Instruction, drew attention to himself and practically decided the course of events by the advice given in his lengthy Memorial on the subject. The result of the advice therein submitted was, that a son of Tseng Kuo-fan was sent to Russia to negotiate a new Treaty, in which the objectionable clauses were eventually abandoned. Ch’ung Hou considered himself lucky that, as the result of Russia’s diplomatic intervention on his behalf, he escaped with his life.

Chang’s famous Memorial is typical of the mental processes and puerile naïveté of the _literati_. It began by showing that if the Treaty of Livadia were ratified, the whole of China would be open to Russian troops, who would enter the country as merchants accompanying caravans (since the Treaty expressly provided for merchants carrying fire-arms), and that the retrocession of Ili would prove valueless to China in course of time, inasmuch as Russia would remain in command of all strategic points. Chang urged that China could repudiate the Treaty without danger to herself, for several good reasons; the first being the Imperial prerogative and the unpopularity of the Treaty, whereby the martial spirit of the Chinese people would be aroused, and the second, that the future security of the Empire justified the adoption of right and reasonable precautions. He recommended that, in order to show that the displeasure of the Sovereign was sincere, Ch’ung Hou should be decapitated forthwith; this would be a clear intimation that his negotiations were disavowed; an excellent precedent existed in the case of Ch’i Ying,[138] who had been permitted to commit suicide under similar circumstances by the Emperor Hsien Feng.

As regards Russia’s position in the matter, he was of opinion that China had earned the contempt of the whole world by allowing herself to be so easily intimidated. The Russian Minister at Peking might talk as loudly as he liked about hauling down his flag, but this was only bluff, and if he really desired to take his departure he should be allowed to do so. China should then address an identical Note to all the Powers protesting against Russia’s action, which Note would be published throughout the civilised world. Russia had been weakened by her war with Turkey, and the life of her Sovereign was daily threatened by Nihilists. He was therefore of opinion that she could by no means fight a successful war against China.

Russia’s position in the neighbourhood of Ili by this Treaty would eventually involve China in the loss of the New Territory. Now China had not yet taken over Ili, and the Treaty had not been ratified by the Sovereign, so that Russia could have no good ground for insisting upon its terms; if, however, Russia were intent on compelling China to yield or fight, it would be necessary to look to the defences of the Empire in three directions, namely Turkestan, Kirin and Tientsin. As regards Turkestan, Tso Tsung-t’ang’s victorious armies, which had just succeeded in suppressing the Mahomedan rebellion after a campaign of several years, would be quite capable of dealing with Russia’s forces were she to attempt an invasion. As for Manchuria, it was too far from Russia’s base of operations to render success even possible, while the stalwart natives of the Eastern Provinces might be relied upon to dislodge her should she eventually succeed in establishing a foothold. A few months would certainly witness her irrevocable defeat. As to invading China by sea, Russia’s Navy was not to be compared to that of other Powers, and if the huge amount which had been spent by Li Hung-chang on armaments for the Army and Navy were ever to be turned to any good account, now was the time to do it. If at this juncture Li Hung-chang proved incapable of dealing with the situation, he was for ever useless. The Throne should direct him to prepare for war, and he should equip his troops with the latest pattern of French artillery. If victorious, a Dukedom should be his reward, and if defeated, his head should pay the penalty. The money which would be saved by not carrying out the Treaty, might very well be devoted to the equipment of the military forces.

Russia’s designs in Turkestan, he continued, threatened England no less than China. If Li Hung-chang could persuade the British Minister that England’s interests were identical with those of China, surely the British Government’s assistance might be forthcoming? China possessed, moreover, several distinguished generals, who should forthwith be summoned to the capital, and given command of troops at different points between Peking and Manchuria. It was high time that China’s prestige should be made manifest and re-established. And in his peroration he says:—

“I am not indulging in empty resounding phrases, or asking Your Majesties to risk the Empire upon a single throw of the dice, but the crisis daily increases in seriousness: Europe is interfering in our sovereign rights, while even Japan threatens to take territory from us. If now we submit to the arbitrary proceedings of Russia, all the other Powers will imitate her action, and we shall be compelled sooner or later to take up arms in self-defence. The present, therefore, is the moment for a decisive campaign; we have good chances of victory, and even should we meet with defeat in the New Territory it would not serve Russia greatly, for she could scarcely hope to penetrate beyond the Great Wall, or to cross the border into Kansu, so that, even if victorious, she would be severely embarrassed. If we postpone action for a few years Tso Tsung-t’ang will be too old to conduct military operations, and Li Hung-chang will be also advancing in years. Russia will hem us in on all sides, and our courage will suffer from our very inaction. It is better to fight Russia to-day on our furthermost frontier, than to wait until we have to give battle at the gates of Peking: it will then be too late for repentance. We must fight sooner or later, and in any case, we cannot consent to the retrocession of Ili. Come what may, Ch’ung Hou must be beheaded. This is not merely my private opinion, but the unanimous decision of all your leading Statesmen. The provinces may work together to prepare for war, all your servants may set an example of courage. Our Foreign Office may clearly express and insist upon our rights, but in the last instance the decision of affairs rests with Your Majesty the Empress Dowager, to whom we must needs look for a firm and consistent policy.”