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.
“But, on the point of leaving this world, I feel that my mind
is confused. The text of this, my Memorial, lacks clearness;
there are manifold omissions in it. It has ever been my custom
to revise a draft twice before handing in a Memorial, but
on this occasion I have not been able to make such careful
revision. I, your unworthy servant, am no scholar like to the
men of old; how, then, could I be calm and collected as they
were wont to be? Once there went a man to his death, and he
could not walk erect. A bystander said to him ‘Are you afraid,
sir?’ He replied, ‘I am.’ ‘If you are afraid, why not turn
back?’ He replied, ‘My fear is a private weakness; my death is
a public duty.’ This is the condition in which I find myself
to-day. ‘When a bird is dying its song is sad. When a man is
dying his words are good.’[37] How could I, your worthless
servant, dare to compare myself with the sage Tseng Tzu?
Though I am about to die, yet may my words not be good; but I
trust that the Empresses and the Emperor will pity my last sad
utterance, regarding it neither as an evil omen nor the idle
plaint of one who has no real cause for grief. Thus shall I die
without regret. A statesman of the Sung Dynasty has remarked:
‘To discuss an event before it occurs is foolhardy. But if one
waits until it has occurred, speech is then too late, and,
therefore, superfluous.’ Foolhardiness notwithstanding, it is
well that the Throne should be warned before events occur;
no Minister should ever have to reproach himself with having
spoken too late. Heartily do I wish that my words may prove
untrue, so that posterity may laugh at my folly. I do not
desire that my words may be verified, for posterity to acclaim
my wisdom. May it be my fate to resemble Tu Mu,[38] even though
to imitate him be a transgression of duty. May I be likened,
rather, to Shih Ch’iu, the sight of whose dead body proved, as
he had hoped, an effective rebuke to his erring Prince. Thus
may my foolish but loyal words be justified in the end.
“I pray the Empresses and Emperor to remember the example of
Their Majesties Shun-Chih and K’ang-Hsi, in tempering justice
with mercy: that they may promote peace and prosperity, by
appointing only worthy men to public offices; that they may
refrain from striving for those objects which foreigners hold
dear, for by such striving they will surely jeopardise the
future of our Middle Kingdom; that they may never initiate any
of the innovations disdained by their ancestors, which would
assuredly leave to posterity a heritage of woe. These are my
last words, my last prayer, the end and crown of my life.
POSTSCRIPT.
“Having been a Censor, I venture thus to memorialise the
Throne. But as my present official position does not permit
of my forwarding this direct, I request the high officials
of my Board to present it for me. As my name did not figure
originally in the list of officials to represent my Board at
the ceremonies preparatory to His late Majesty’s burial, I
begged the Grand Secretary Pao Yün to allow me to be included
in the list. Pao Yün could not have foretold my suicide, so
that no blame can attach to him for being my sponsor. Under our
enlightened Dynasty, how could anyone imagine a return to the
ancient and happily obsolete practice of being buried alive
with one’s Sovereign? But my grief is too great and cannot be
restrained; for to-day my Sovereign returns, dragon-borne, to
Heaven, and all the world weeps with me in woe unutterable.
“I have respectfully but fully explained my feelings in this
question of the lawful succession to the Throne, and now, under
the title of your guilty servant, I present this my Memorial.”
X
TZŬ HSI BECOMES SOLE REGENT
The days of mourning for T’ung-Chih being done, his remains disposed of
as auspiciously as the Court of Astronomers could desire, and his ghost
placated, thanks to Wu K’o-tu, by solemn promises on the part of his
mother to provide him with a suitable and legitimate heir in due season,
life in the Forbidden City settled down once more into the old grooves
under the joint Regency of the Empresses of the Eastern and Western
Palaces.
But before long the new Emperor, a nervous and delicate boy, became,
all unconsciously, a thorn in the side of the woman who put him on the
Throne. As he passed from infancy to boyhood, it was a matter of common
knowledge and report in the Palace that he showed a marked preference for
the Empress Tzŭ An, who, by her kind and sympathetic treatment, had won
the child’s heart. In the innocence of his lonely youth he frequented
therefore the Eastern Palace, while Tzŭ Hsi, whose pride could brook no
rivals, even in the heart of a child, was compelled to look on, and to
realise that the forming of the future ruler’s mind was in the hands
of another woman. There were not lacking those who told her that her
colleague, secretly and with ulterior motives, encouraged the boy to
oppose and displease her. Under these conditions, it was inevitable that
the young Emperor should gradually become a cause of increasing jealousy
and friction between the two women.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE I KUN KUNG.
Tzŭ Hsi lived in these Apartments for some time after the death of
T’ung-Chih.
_Photo, Ogawa, Tokio._]
Tzŭ Hsi undoubtedly resented the boy’s predilection as much as her
colleague’s action in encouraging it. At Court, where everyone and
everything is a potential instrument for intrigue and party faction, the
young Emperor’s attitude could not fail to cause her grave concern. She
was well aware that Tzŭ An could never become, of herself, a formidable
rival, but should she hereafter enjoy the Emperor’s confidence and
support, and instigate him to become the centre of a faction against
her (which he did), there might be danger in the situation for herself.
As the Emperor’s minority approached its end, it therefore became the
more necessary for her to take all possible precautions. She had no
intention of sharing the fate of that Empress Consort of Ch’ien Lung
who was banished to the “Cold Palace” and whose honours and titles were
taken from her on charges of “wild extravagance, love of the theatre and
insubordination to the Emperor’s mother.”
A further cause of friction occurred between the two Empresses Regent on
the occasion of the Imperial progress to the Eastern tombs, in 1880, when
the boy Emperor was nine years old. On this occasion, Tzŭ An, evidently
prompted by Prince Kung to assert herself and her rights, insisted on
taking precedence in all the ceremonies of the ancestral sacrifices
at the Imperial Mausolea and at the prostrations which custom decrees
shall be made before each of the “Jewelled Cities,” as the mounds are
called which cover the Imperial grave chambers. When their Majesties
arrived at the grave of Hsien-Feng, there was serious friction. Tzŭ An,
as the senior Consort of the deceased monarch, claimed as her right the
central position, at the same time relegating her colleague to the place
on her right, leaving the place of honour on the left unoccupied. Not
content with this, Tzŭ An went on to remind her Co-Regent that, where
sacrifices to Hsien-Feng were in question, Tzŭ Hsi was entitled only to
claim precedence as a senior concubine, her elevation to the position
of Empress Mother having taken place after his decease. As a concubine,
etiquette required her, during the sacrifice, to take a position on one
side and slightly in the rear, while the vacant place of honour to Tzŭ
An’s left belonged to the shade of Hsien-Feng’s first consort, who had
died before his accession, but had been posthumously raised to the rank
of senior Empress. Tzŭ Hsi, realising that this indignity was put upon
her at the instigation of Prince Kung and the Princes of the Imperial
family, had no intention of submitting, and peremptorily insisted upon
taking the position to which her actual rank and authority entitled her.
The quarrel was sharp but short. Tzŭ Hsi, as might have been expected,
carried the day, but she felt that such a scene before the ancestral
tombs, witnessed by a large entourage, was semi-sacrilegious and from
every point of view unseemly. She had been made to lose face by the
incident—clearly premeditated—and the fact had immediate effect upon her
subsequent actions and her relations with her colleague.[39]
At the time of this progress to the tombs, Jung Lu was in command of the
Metropolitan Gendarmerie, entrusted with the duty of escorting their
Majesties. Shortly after their return to Peking, however, he incurred her
sharp displeasure by reason of conduct which Tzŭ Hsi was not likely to
overlook, even in her chief favourite. Ever since the Jehol days of the
Tsai Yüan conspiracy, and particularly during the crisis that followed
the death of T’ung-Chih, this powerful Manchu had enjoyed her favour and
confidence in an unusual degree, and as Comptroller of her Household,
he had the right of _entrée_ to the Forbidden City at all times. But
in 1880, suffering no doubt from _ennui_ induced by the inactivity of
Court life, he committed the indiscretion of an intrigue with one of the
ladies of the late Emperor’s seraglio. Information of the scandal was
laid before Her Majesty by the Imperial tutor Weng T’ung-ho, between
whom and Jung Lu there was never love lost. It was commonly rumoured at
Court, after the event, that Tzŭ Hsi, leaving nothing to chance, had
herself discovered the culprit in the women’s quarters of the Palace,
a heinous offence. Be this as it may, Jung Lu was summarily, though
quietly, deprived of all his posts, and for the next seven years he lived
in retirement. In this case Tzŭ Hsi vindicated her pride at the expense
of her own comfort and sense of security, and it was not long before she
had reason to regret the absence of her most loyal and trusty adviser.
Amongst her courtiers she found none to replace him; she missed his wise
counsel, courage and fidelity. But having once committed herself to the
step of dismissing him, she was unwilling to lose face with him and with
her Court by changing her mind. His removal, however, undoubtedly led
to increased friction between herself and Tzŭ An, whom she suspected of
being a party to Jung Lu’s _liaison_.
Finally, in March 1881, a serious quarrel took place between the two
Empresses, on the subject of the influence which the Chief Eunuch Li
Lien-ying had come to exercise, and the arrogance of his manner. Tzŭ An
complained that this favourite and confidential servant of her colleague
ignored her, setting her authority at nought, so that she was mocked even
by her own subordinates. She deplored and denounced the existing state of
affairs, commenting unpleasantly on the notorious fact that the eunuch
was openly known by the title of “Lord of nine thousand years,” a title
which implied that he was but one degree lower than the Emperor (Lord of
ten thousand years) and entitled to something approximating to Imperial
honours.[40]
The quarrel on this occasion was exceedingly bitter, nor was any
reconciliation subsequently effected between the Empresses. It is very
generally believed, and was freely stated at the time that, incensed
beyond measure and impatient of any further interference with her
authority, Tzŭ Hsi brought about the death of her colleague, which
was commonly attributed to poison. In the atmosphere of an Oriental
Court such charges are as inevitable as they are incapable of proof or
disproof, and were it not for the unfortunate fact that those who stood
in the way of Tzŭ Hsi’s ambitions, or who incurred her displeasure,
frequently failed to survive it, we should be justified in refusing to
attach importance to the imputations of foul play raised on this and
other occasions. But these occasions are too numerous to be entirely
overlooked or regarded as simple coincidences. In the present instance,
the Empress Tzŭ An fell ill of a sudden and mysterious sickness, and
in the words of the Imperial Decree, she “ascended the fairy chariot
for her distant journey” on the evening of the 10th day of the 3rd
Moon. In accordance with prescribed custom, she drafted just before
her decease a valedictory Decree which, as will be observed, touches
hardly at all on the political questions of the day. These, even at the
moment of her death, she appeared to leave, as by established right, to
her strong-minded colleague. After referring to her position as Senior
Consort of the Emperor Hsien-Feng and recording the fact that during his
minority the young Emperor had done justice to his education (in which
she had always been much interested), the Edict proceeds as follows:—
“In spite of the arduous duties of the State, which have
fully occupied my time, I was naturally of robust constitution
and had therefore fully expected to attain to a good old age
and to enjoy the Emperor’s dutiful ministrations. Yesterday,
however, I was suddenly stricken with a slight illness and His
Majesty thereupon commanded his physician to attend me; later
His Majesty came in person to enquire as to my health. And now,
most unexpectedly, I have had a most dangerous relapse. At 7
P.M. this evening I became completely confused in mind and now
all hope of my recovery appears to be vain. I am forty-five
years of age and for close on twenty years have held the high
position of a Regent of the Empire. Many honorific titles and
ceremonies of congratulation have been bestowed upon me: what
cause have I therefore for regret?”
At her request, and with that modesty which custom prescribes, the period
of Imperial mourning was reduced from twenty-seven months to twenty-seven
days. There is a human touch in the conclusion of this Decree which seems
to preclude the conclusion that Tzŭ Hsi had any hand in its drafting,
for it describes Tzŭ An as having been careful to “set a good example of
thrift and sobriety in the Palace and to have steadily discountenanced
all pomp and vain display in her share of the Court ceremonies.” As most
of the charges levelled for many years against Tzŭ Hsi by Censors and
other high officials referred to her notorious extravagance, this, and
Tzŭ An’s last request for a modest funeral as the fitting conclusion to a
modest life, were a palpable hit.
Tzŭ An was dead. The playmate of her youth, the girl who had faced with
her the solemn mysteries of the Forbidden City, the woman who later,
because of her failure to provide an heir to the Throne, had effaced
herself in favour of the Empress Mother, her poor-spirited rival of many
years—Tzŭ An would trouble her no more. Henceforth, without usurpation
of authority, Tzŭ Hsi was free to direct the ship of State alone, sole
Regent of the Empire.
And with the death of her colleague came the desire to be free from
the restraints of advice given by prescriptive right of long-standing
authority, the ambition to be the only and undisputed controller of the
nation’s destinies, and acknowledged Head of the State. For many years—in
fact, since the decapitation of her favourite eunuch, An Te-hai, by
Prince Kung[41] and her Co-Regent—she had been on bad terms with that
Prince, and jealous of his influence and well-earned reputation for
statesmanship. The manner in which, years before, she had taken from
him his title of Adviser to the Government has already been described.
Unable to dispense with his services, desirous of profiting by his ripe
experience, especially in foreign affairs, she had borne with her Prime
Minister grudgingly and of necessity. In 1884, however, she felt strong
enough to stand alone, and the war with France (caused by the dispute as
to China’s claims to suzerainty over Tongking) gave her an opportunity
and an excuse for getting rid at one stroke of Prince Kung and his
colleagues of the Grand Council.
The immediate pretext for their dismissal was the destruction of the
Chinese fleet of junks by the French in the Min River, but Her Majesty’s
real reason was that she believed that the Prince was intriguing against
her with the young Emperor, and that he was to some extent responsible
for a recent Memorial, in which several Censors had roundly denounced her
for depraved morals and boundless extravagance.
The Decree in which she dismissed this able adviser of the Throne is in
her best manner, displaying many of the qualities which explain this
remarkable woman’s long and successful rule. The facts to which she
refers have a direct and interesting connection with much subsequent
history:—
“Our country has not yet returned to its wonted stability,
and its affairs are still in a critical state. There is chaos
in the Government and a feeling of insecurity amongst the
people. It is, therefore, of the utmost importance that there
should be competent statesmen at the head of affairs, and that
our Grand Council should be an efficient pivot and centre of
administration.
“Prince Kung, at the outset of his career, was wont to
render us most zealous assistance; but this attitude became
modified, as time went by, to one of self-confident and callous
contentment with the sweets of office, and of late he has
become unduly inflated with his pride of place, displaying
nepotism and slothful inefficiency. On occasions when we have
urged the Grand Council to display zeal and single-hearted
devotion to the State, he and his colleagues have ruthlessly
stuck to their preconceived ideas, and have failed to carry
out our orders, for which reason they have more than once been
impeached, either on grounds of obstructiveness or general
uselessness. It has even been said of them that their private
lives are disreputable, and that they have dared to recommend
persons for high office from improper and corrupt motives.
“The House-laws of our Dynasty are most severe, and if there
were any truth in the accusations of treason that have been
made against Prince Kung, we should not hesitate for a single
moment to inflict upon him the extreme penalty of the law. We
do not believe, however, that he can have dared to act in the
manner suggested. We set these aside, therefore, and will deal
only with the other charges to which we have referred, and for
which there would appear to be good foundation. They are in
themselves more than sufficient to cause the gravest injury
to the State, and if we continue to treat the Prince with
leniency, how shall we justify ourselves hereafter in the eyes
of our glorious ancestors? We shall incur no small blame in
the eyes of posterity, and when the day comes for the Emperor
to take over charge of the Government there can be no doubt
that he would be likely to fail, under such conditions, to shed
lustre, by his reign, on the Dynasty.
“If we were to make public even one or two of the accusing
Memorials that have reached us, it would be impossible for us,
on grounds of privilege, to extenuate the Prince’s faults,
and we should be forced to cashier several of our senior
advisers. In the magnanimity of our heart we shrink, however,
from any such drastic steps, being moved to deep compassion
at the thought that Prince Kung and his colleague, the Grand
Secretary, Pao Yün, should have served us so long and now have
come to deserve our stern censure and severe punishment. We are
prompted to leniency by remembrance of the fact that Prince
Kung suffers from a complication of diseases, while Pao Yün
has reached an advanced old age. In recognition of their past
merits we have, therefore, decided that their good fame may
be left to them, and remain unsullied for the rest of their
days. As a mark of our Imperial clemency we have decided to
permit Prince Kung to retain his hereditary Princedom, together
with all the emoluments thereof, but he is hereby deprived of
all his offices, and the double salary which he has hitherto
enjoyed is withdrawn. He is permitted to retire into private
life and attend to the care of his health.