says the French philosopher, “_c’est tout pardonner_.” To understand the
life and personality of the Empress Dowager, it is before everything
essential to divest our minds of racial prejudice and to endeavour to
appreciate something of the environment and traditions to which she was
born. In the words of the thoughtful article in the _Spectator_, already
quoted, “she lived and worked and ruled in a setting which is apart from
all western modes of thought and standards of action, and the first step
in the historian’s task is to see that she is judged by her own standards
and not wholly by ours.” Judged by the rough test of public opinion and
accumulating evidence in her own country, Tzŭ Hsi’s name will go down to
history in China as that of a genius in statecraft and a born ruler, a
woman “with all the courage of a man, and more than the ordinary man’s
intelligence.”[131]
Pending that reform and liberty of the press which is still the distant
dream of “Young China,” no useful record of the life and times of the
Empress Dowager is to be expected from any Chinese writer. Despite
the mass of information which exists in the diaries and archives of
metropolitan officials and the personal reminiscences of those who knew
her well, nothing of any human interest or value has been published on
the subject in China. From the official and orthodox point of view, a
truthful biography of the Empress would be sacrilege. It is true that
in the vernacular newspapers under European protection at the Treaty
Ports, as well as in Hongkong and Singapore, Cantonese writers have
given impressions of Her Majesty’s personality and brief accounts of
her life, but these are so hopelessly biassed and distorted by hatred
of the Manchus as to be almost worthless for historical purposes, as
worthless as the dry chronicles of the Dynastic annals. Reference has
already been made to the best known of these publications, a series of
letters originally published in a Singapore newspaper and republished
under the title of “The Chinese Crisis from within,”[132] by a writer
who, under the _nom-de-plume_ of “Wen Ching,” concealed the identity of
one of K’ang Yu-wei’s most ardent disciples. His work is remarkable for
sustained invective and reckless inaccuracy, clearly intended to create
an atmosphere of hatred against the Manchus (for the ultimate benefit
of the Cantonese) in the minds of his countrymen, and to dissuade the
foreign Powers from allowing the Empress to return to Peking. Drawing on
a typically Babu store of “western learning,” this writer compares the
Empress to Circe, Semiramis, Catherine de Medici, Messalina, Fulvia, and
Julia Agrippina; quoting Dante and Rossetti to enforce his arguments, and
leavening his vituperation with a modicum of verifiable facts sufficient
to give to his narrative something of _vraisemblance_. But his judgment
is emphatically sweeping. He ignores alike Tzŭ Hsi’s undeniable good
qualities and her extenuating circumstances, the defects of her education
and the difficulties of her position, so that his work is almost
valueless.
Equally valueless, for purposes of historical accuracy, are most of the
accounts and impressions of the Empress recorded by those Europeans
(especially the ladies of the Diplomatic Body and their friends) who
saw her personality and purposes reflected in the false light which
beats upon the Dragon Throne on ceremonial occasions, or who came under
the influence of the deliberate artifices and charm of manner which she
assumed so well. Had the etiquette of her Court and people permitted
intercourse with European diplomats and distinguished visitors of
the male sex, she would certainly have acquired, and exercised over
them also, that direct personal influence which emanated from her
extraordinary vitality and will-power, influence such as the western
world has learned to associate with the names of the Emperor William of
Germany and Mr. Roosevelt. Restricted as she was to social relations with
her own sex amongst foreigners, she exerted herself, and never failed,
to produce on them an impression of womanly grace and gentleness of
disposition, which qualities we find accordingly praised by nearly all
who came in contact with her after the return of the Court, aye, even by
those who had undergone the horrors of the siege under the very walls
of her Palace. The glamour of her mysterious Court, the rarity of the
visions vouchsafed, the real charm of her manner, and the apparently
artless _bonhomie_ of her bearing, all combined to create in the minds
of the European ladies who saw her an impression as favourable as it
was opposed to every dictate of common sense and experience. In certain
notable instances, the effect of this impression reacted visibly on the
course of the Peace Protocol negotiations.
From the diary of Ching Shan we obtain an estimate of Tzŭ Hsi’s
character, formed by one who had enjoyed for years continual
opportunities of studying her at close quarters—an estimate which
was, and is, confirmed by the popular verdict, the common report of
the tea-houses and market places of the capital. Despite her swiftly
changing and uncontrolled moods, her childish lack of moral sense, her
unscrupulous love of power, her fierce passions and revenges, Tzŭ Hsi
was no more the savage monster described by “Wen Ching,” than she was
the benevolent, fashion-plate Lady Bountiful of the American magazines.
She was simply a woman of unusual courage and vitality, of strong will
and unbounded ambition, a woman and an Oriental, living out her life by
such lights as she knew, and in accordance with the traditions of her
race and caste. Says Ching Shan in the Diary: “_The nature of the Empress
is peace-loving: she has seen many springs and autumns. I myself know
well her refined and gentle tastes, her love of painting, poetry and
the theatre. When in a good mood she is the most amiable and tractable
of women, but at times her rage is awful to witness._” Here we have
the woman drawn from life, without _arrière pensée_, by a just but
sympathetic observer, the woman who could win, and hold, the affectionate
loyalty of the greatest men of her time, not to speak of that of her
retainers and serving maids; the woman whose human interest and sympathy
in everything around her, were not withered by age nor staled by custom;
yet who, at a word, could send the fierce leaders of the Boxers cowering
from her presence. _Souvent femme varie._ Tzŭ Hsi, her own mistress and
virtual ruler of the Empire at the age of twenty-four, had not had much
occasion to learn to control either her moods or her passions. Hers,
from the first, was the trick and temper of autocracy. Trained in the
traditions of a Court where human lives count for little, where power
maintains itself by pitiless and brutal methods, where treason and
foul deeds lie in waiting for the first signs of the ruler’s weakness,
how should she learn to put away from the Forbidden City the hideous
barbarities of its ways?
Let us remember her time and place. Consider the woman’s environment and
training, her marriage to a dissolute puppet, her subsequent life in that
gilded prison of the Imperial City, with its endless formalities, base
intrigues and artificial sins. Prior to the establishment of China’s
first diplomatic relations with European nations, the Court of Peking
and its ways bore a strong resemblance to those of Medieval Europe;
nor have successive routs and invasions since that date changed any of
its cherished traditions and methods. In the words of a recent writer
on medieval history, the life of the Peking Palace, like that of our
fourteenth century, “was one of profound learning and crass stupidity,
of infantile gaiety and sudden tragedy, of flashing fortunes and swift
dooms. There is a certain innocence about the very sinners of the
thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Many of their problems, indeed,
arose from the fact that this same childlike candour was allied to the
unworn forces of full manhood.” Whatever crimes of cruelty and vengeance
Tzŭ Hsi committed—and they were many—be it said to her credit that she
had, as a rule, the courage of her convictions and position, and sinned
_coram publico_. Beneath the fierceness without which an Oriental ruler
cannot hope to remain effective, there certainly beat a heart which could
be kind, if the conditions were propitious, and a rough sense of humour,
which is a common and pleasing trait of the Manchus.
Let us also remember that in the East to-day (as it was with us of Europe
before the growth of that humanitarianism which now shows signs of
unhealthy exaggeration) pain and death are part of the common, every-day
risks of life, risks lightly incurred by the average Oriental in the
great game of ambitions, loves and hates that is for ever played around
the Throne. Tzŭ Hsi played her royal part in the great game, but it is
not recorded of her that she ever took life from sheer cruelty or love of
killing. When she sent a man to death, it was because he stood between
her and the full and safe gratification of her love of power. When her
fierce rage was turned against the insolence of the foreigner, she had
no scruple in consigning every European in China to the executioner;
when the Emperor’s favourite concubine disputed her Imperial authority,
she had no hesitation in ordering her to immediate death; but in every
recorded instance, except one, her methods were swift, clean, and,
from the Oriental point of view, not unmerciful. She had no liking for
tortures, or the lingering death. In all her Decrees of vengeance, we
find the same unhesitating firmness in removing human obstacles from her
path, combined with a complete absence of that unnecessary cruelty which
is so frequently associated with despotism. Her methods, in fact, were
Elizabethan rather than Florentine.
If Tzŭ Hsi developed self-reliance early in life, the fact is not to
be wondered at, for it was little help that she had to look for in her
entourage of Court officials. Amongst the effete classical scholars, the
fat-paunched Falstaffs, the opium sots, doddering fatalists and corrupt
parasites of the Imperial Clans, she seems, indeed, to have been an
anachronism, a “cast-back” to the virility and energy that won China for
her sturdy ancestors. She appeared to be the born and inevitable ruler
of the degenerate Dynasty, and if she became a law unto herself, it was
largely because there were few about her fit to lead or to command.
Imbued with a very feminine love of luxury, addicted to pleasure, and at
one period of her life undoubtedly licentious after the manner of her
Court’s traditions, she combined these qualities with a shrewd common
sense and a marked penchant for acquiring and amassing personal property.
To use her own phrase, she endeavoured in all things to observe the
principle of the “happy mean,” and seldom allowed her love of pleasure to
obscure her vision or to hinder her purposes in the serious businesses of
life.
Like many great rulers of the imperious and militant type, she was
remarkably superstitious, a punctilious observer of the rites prescribed
for averting omens and conciliating the myriad gods and demons of
the several religions of China, a liberal supporter of priests and
soothsayers. Nevertheless, as with Elizabeth of England, her secular
instincts were _au fond_ stronger than all her superstitions. That sturdy
common sense, which played so successfully upon the weaknesses and the
passions of her corrupt entourage, never allowed any consideration for
the powers unseen to interfere seriously with her masterful handling of
things visible, or to curb her ruling passion for unquestioned authority.
The qualities which made up the remarkable personality of the Empress
were many and complex, but of those which chiefly contributed to her
popularity and power we would place, first, her courage, and next, a
certain simplicity and directness—both qualities that stand out in strong
relief against the timorous and tortuous tendencies of the average
Manchu. Of her courage there could be no doubt; even amidst the chaos
of the days of the Boxer terror it never failed her, and Ching Shan is
only one of many who bear witness to her unconquerable spirit and _sang
froid_. Amidst scenes of desolation and destruction that might well shake
the courage of the bravest men, we see her calmly painting bamboos on
silk, or giving orders to stop the bombardment of the Legations to allow
of her excursion on the Lake. How powerful is the dramatic quality of
that scene where she attacks and dominates the truculent Boxer leaders
at her very doors; or again when, on the morning of the flight, she
alone preserves presence of mind, and gives her orders as coolly as if
starting on a picnic! At such moments all the defects of her training
and temperament are forgotten in the irresistible appeal of her nobler
qualities.
Of those qualities, and of her divine right to rule, Tzŭ Hsi herself was
fully convinced, and no less determined than His Majesty of Germany, to
insist upon proper recognition and respect for herself and her commanding
place in the scheme of the universe. Her belief in her own supreme
importance, and her superstitious habit of thought were both strikingly
displayed on the occasion when her portrait, painted by Miss Carl for
the St. Louis Exposition, was taken from the Waiwupu on its departure to
the United States. She regarded this presentment of her august person as
entitled, in all seriousness of ceremonial, to the same reverence as
herself and gave orders for the construction of a miniature railway, to
be built through the streets of the capital for its special benefit. By
this means the “sacred countenance” was carried upright, under its canopy
of yellow silk, and Her Majesty was spared the thought of being borne in
effigy on the shoulders of coolies—a form of progress too suggestively
ill-omened to be endured. Before the portrait left the Palace, the
Emperor was summoned to prostrate himself before it, and at its passing
through the city, and along the railway line, the people humbly knelt, as
if it had been the Old Buddha of flesh and blood. Incidents of this kind
emphasise the impossibility of fairly judging the Empress by European
standards of conduct and ideas. To get something of the proper atmosphere
and perspective, we must go back to the early days of the Tudors.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF THE EMPRESS DOWAGER.
Painted from life by Miss Catharine A. Carl for the St. Louis Exposition,
and now the property of the American Nation.
(_Reproduced by permission of the Artist._)]
Blunt of speech herself, she was quick to detect and resent flattery.
Those who rose highest in her affection and regard were essentially
strong men, blunt outspoken officials of the type of Jung Lu, Tseng
Kuo-fan, and Tso Tsung-t’ang; for those who would win her favour by
sycophancy she had a profound contempt, which she was at no pains to
conceal, though in certain instances (_e.g._, Chang Chih-tung) she
overlooked the offence because of ripe scholarship or courage. An amusing
example of this trait in her character occurred on one occasion when,
after perusing the examination papers for the selection of successful
candidates for the Hanlin Literary degrees, she expressed herself in the
following trenchant Decree:—
“A certain candidate in the Hanlin examination, named Yen Chen,
has handed in some verses, the style of which is excellent,
but their subject matter contains a number of allusions
laudatory of the present Dynasty. This person has evidently
gone out of his way to refer to the present rulers of the
Empire, and has even seen fit to display gross flattery, for
his essay contains, amongst others, a sentence to the effect
that ‘we have now upon the Throne a female embodiment of Yao
and Shun.’[133] Now, the Throne defines merit in candidates
to-day on the same principles as those which were in force
under former Dynasties, its object being to form a correct
idea of the moral standards of candidates by perusal of their
essays and lyrical compositions. But this effort of Yen Chen
is nothing more than a laudatory ode, entirely lacking in high
seriousness. This is a grave matter: the question involved
is one closely affecting character and moral training; such
conduct cannot possibly be permitted to continue. The examiners
have placed Yen Chen at the top of the list in the First Class;
he is hereby relegated to the last place in that class. Let our
examiners for the future take more care in scrutinising the
papers submitted.”
As was only natural, Tzŭ Hsi was not above favouring her own people, the
Manchus, but one great secret of the solidity of her rule undoubtedly
lay in her broad impartiality and the nice balance which she maintained
between Chinese and Manchus in all departments of the Government. She
had realised that the brains and energy of the country must come from
the Chinese, and that if the Manchus were to retain their power and
sinecure positions, it must be with the good will of the Chinese and the
loyalty of the Mandarin class in the provinces. From the commencement
of her rule, down to the day when she handed over her Boxer kinsmen to
the executioner, she never hesitated to inflict impartial punishment on
Manchus, when public opinion was against them. A case in point occurred
in 1863, in connection with one of her favourite generals, named Sheng
Pao, who had gained her sincere gratitude by his share in the war
against the British and French invaders in 1860, and who, by luck and
the ignorance of the Court, had been credited with having stopped the
advance of the Allies to Jehol. For these alleged services she had
awarded him special thanks and high honour. In 1863, however, he was
engaged in Shensi, fighting the Taipings, and, following a custom not
unusual amongst Chinese military commanders, had asked leave to win over
one of the rebel leaders by giving him an important official position.
Tzŭ Hsi, who had had ample opportunities to learn something of the
danger of this procedure, declined to sanction his request, pointing out
the objections thereto. Sheng Pao ventured to suppress her Decree, and
gave the rebel the position in question. Success might have justified
him, but the ex-bandit justified Tzŭ Hsi by going back on his word.
Awaiting a good opportunity, he raised once more the standard of revolt,
massacred a number of officials, and captured several important towns.
General Sheng Pao was arrested and brought in custody to Peking; under
cross-examination he confessed, amongst other misdemeanours, that he had
permitted women to accompany the troops during this campaign, which, by
Chinese military law, is a capital offence. Other charges against him,
however, he denied, and, preserving an insolent attitude, demanded to
be confronted with his accusers. Tzŭ Hsi issued a characteristically
vigorous Decree in which she declared that the proper punishment for his
offence was decapitation, but inasmuch as he had acquired merit by good
work against the Taipings, as well as against the British and French
invaders, she graciously granted him the privilege of committing suicide,
of which he promptly availed himself.
Tzŭ Hsi, as we have said, was extremely superstitious; nor is this matter
for wonder when we bear in mind the medieval atmosphere of wizardous
necromancy and familiar spirits which she had perforce absorbed with her
earliest education. Following the precepts of Confucius, she preserved
always a broad and tolerant attitude on all questions of religion, but,
while reluctant to discuss things appertaining to the unknown gods,
she was always prepared to conciliate them, and to allow her actions
in everyday affairs to be guided by the words of her wise men and
astrologers—“by dreams, and by Urim and by prophets.” Thus we find her
in the first year of the Regency of her son’s minority (1861) issuing, in
his name, a Decree, which carries back the mind irresistibly to Babylon
and those days when the magicians and soothsayers were high personages in
the State.
“During the night of the 15th of the 7th Moon,” it begins,
“there occurred a flight of shooting stars in the southern
hemisphere; ten days later, a comet appeared twice in the sky
to the north-west. Heaven sends not these warnings in vain. For
the last month Peking has been visited by a grievous epidemic,
whereof the continued severity fills us with sore dismay.
The Empresses Dowager have now warned us that these portents
of Heaven are sent because of serious wrong in our system of
government, of errors unreformed and grievances unredressed,”
and the Decree ends by exhorting all concerned “to put away
frivolous things, so that Heaven, perceiving our reverend
attitude, may relent.”
In previous chapters we have shown with what punctilious attention she
consulted her astrologers in regard to the propitious day for re-entering
her capital on the Court’s return from exile, her anxiety for scrupulous
observance of their advice being manifestly sincere. In her concern for
omens and portents she seemed, like Napoleon, to obey instincts external
and superior to another and very practical side of her nature, which,
however, asserted itself unmistakably whenever vital issues were at
stake and her supreme authority threatened. She was at all times anxious
to secure the goodwill of the ancestral spirits, whose presence she
apprehended as a living reality, but even with these, when it came to
a direct issue between her own despotic authority and their claims to
consideration, she never hesitated to relegate the mighty dead to the
background, content to appease them in due season by suitable expressions
of reverence and regret. The most notable instance of this kind occurred
when, disregarding the Dynastic laws of succession, she deprived
her son, the Emperor T’ung-Chih, of the rites of ancestral worship,
committing thus a crime which, as she well knew, was heinous in the eyes
of the Chinese people.
Her superstitious tendencies were most remarkably displayed in the
matter of the selection of the site of her tomb, and its building,
an occasion of which the Court geomancers took full advantage. When
T’ung-Chih reached his majority in 1873, his first duty was to escort the
Empresses Dowager to the Eastern Mausolea, where, with much solemnity,
two auspicious sites, encircled by hills and watered by streams, were
selected and exorcised of all evil influences. Further ceremonies and
mystic calculations were required to determine the auspicious dates for
the commencement of building operations; in these, and the adornment of
the tomb, Tzŭ Hsi continued to take the keenest interest until the day
of her death. In order to secure scrupulous regard for its construction
in accordance with the requirements of her horoscope, and to make her
sepulchre a fitting and all-hallowed resting-place, she entrusted its
chief supervision to Jung Lu, who thus secured a permanent post highly
coveted by Manchu officials, in which huge “squeezes” were a matter of
precedent. The geomantic conditions of these burial places gave unusual
trouble, the tomb of the Empress Tzŭ An having eventually to be shifted
fifteen feet two inches northwards, and four feet seven and a half inches
westwards, before the spirits of her ancestors were perfectly satisfied,
while that of Tzŭ Hsi was removed seven feet four inches to the north and
eight inches to the eastward.