to retire from public life, retaining his present rank and
titles. As for Li Hung-tsao,[42] who has been a member of the
Council for many years, his narrow views and lack of practical
experience have caused him to fail completely in his duties.
Finally, Ching Lien, the President of the Board of War,
seems to think that his duties are satisfactorily performed
by adherence to a routine of procrastination, the man being
devoid of the first elements of knowledge. Both these officials
are hereby relieved of their posts, to be employed in lower
positions hereafter. Weng T’ung-ho, the President of the Board
of Works, has only recently been appointed a member of the
Council, at a time of serious complications, and has, so far,
taken no active part in its proceedings. He therefore escapes
censure or penalty. As a mark of our consideration we hereby
remove him from his post on the Grand Council, but permit him
to retain his position on the Board of Works, and he will
continue his services as Tutor to the Emperor.”
“For a long time past we have been quietly observing the
behaviour and general tendencies of Prince Kung and his
colleagues, and we are quite convinced in our mind that it is
useless to look to them for any activity or awakening of their
petrified energies. If they were retained in office, we firmly
believe that they would end by incurring severe punishment by
causing some really serious disaster to the State. For this
reason we now content ourselves with mild censure from a sense
of pity, as a measure of precaution. It is not because of any
trivial misdemeanour, or because of the impeachment by Censors
that we thus dismiss from office a Prince of the Blood and
these high Ministers of our Government, nor is our action taken
on any sudden impulse and without full consideration.”
As the result of this Decree, Prince Kung retired from the scene,
to remain in unemployed obscurity until 1894, when, after the first
disasters of the war with Japan, Tzŭ Hsi, older and wiser, turned to him
once more for assistance. He never completely regained the influence
with the Empress which he had enjoyed in the earlier days of the first
Regency, but after his return to office until his death in 1898, his
prestige, especially among foreigners, was great. Tzŭ Hsi, though she
loved him not, was forced to admit that he had accepted and borne his
degradation with dignity.
After the issue of the above Decree, Prince Kung was succeeded in office
by Prince Li, the head of the eight Princely families and a descendant of
a younger son of Nurhachu. With him were associated on the Grand Council,
amongst others, the elder brother of Chang Chih-tung and Sun Yu-wen.[43]
The latter was a bitter enemy of the Imperial Tutor, Weng T’ung-ho. In
appointing him to the Council, Tzŭ Hsi followed her favourite tactics of
creating dissension among her advisers and maintaining the equilibrium of
her own authority as the resultant of their conflicting forces.
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.
[Illustration: INTERIOR OF THE TAI HO TIEN.
This Palace is used only for occasions of high ceremony, such as Imperial
birthday celebrations.
_Photo, Ogawa, Tokio._]
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:—