sense of divine right and firmly believing in her “star,” she savoured
her authority like a rich wine. The pleasure she derived from delivering
homilies to the highest officials in the Empire may be read between
the lines of her Decrees. Already in 1862, that is to say, before she
was twenty-seven years of age, we find her solemnly admonishing the
Grand Council on their duties, urging them to adopt stricter standards
of conduct, and to put a check on their corrupt tendencies. “They are,
of course, not debarred from seeking advice from persons below them
in society, but let them be careful to avoid any attempt at forming
cabals or attracting to themselves troops of followers.” And on another
occasion, when she specially invited the Censors to impeach Prince
Kung, she observed: “In discussing the principles of just government
you should remember the precept of the Confucian school, which is,
‘Be not weary in well-doing: strict rectitude of conduct is the road
royal to good government. Face and overcome your difficulties, and thus
eventually earn the right to ease.’” Tzŭ Hsi could turn out this sort of
thing, which appeals to every Chinese scholar, in good style and large
quantities. She took pride in the manufacture of maxims for the guidance
of the Mandarins, but there was always a suspicion that her tongue was
in her cheek while she carefully penned these copybook platitudes, just
as we know there was when she set herself to display what _The Times_
correspondent at Peking called her “girlish abandon,” in order to regain
the affection of Mrs. Conger and the ladies of the Diplomatic Body.
Of the Empress Dowager’s popularity and prestige with all classes of her
subjects, there is no doubt. At Peking especially, and throughout the
Metropolitan Province, she was the object of a very general and very
sincere affection; seldom is her name spoken except with expressions of
admiration and regard, very similar in effect to the feelings of the
British people for Her Majesty Queen Victoria. Although her share of
responsibility for the Boxer rising and for the consequent sufferings
inflicted on the people was matter of common knowledge, little or no
blame was ever imputed to the Old Buddha. Her subjects loved her for her
very defects, for the foolhardy courage that had staked the Empire on a
throw. Amongst the lower classes it was the general opinion that she
had done her best, and with the best intentions. The scheme itself was
magnificent—to drive the foreigner into the sea—and it appealed to her
people as worthy of their ruler and of a better fate. If it had failed
for this time, it was the will of Heaven, and no doubt at some future
date success would justify her wisdom. If they blamed her at all, it was
for condescending to intimate relations with the hated foreigner after
the Court’s return to Peking; but even in this, she had the sympathy
rather than the censure of her subjects.
To the great mass of her people, who had never seen her, but knew
her only by cumulative weight of common report, the Old Buddha stood
for the embodiment of courage, liberality and kindness of heart. If,
as they knew, she were subject to fierce outbursts of sudden rage,
the fact did her no injury in the eyes of a race which believes that
wrath-matter undischarged is a virulent poison in the system. The
simple Chihli folk made allowance, not without its sense of humour,
for their august sovereign’s capacity to generate wrath-matter, as
for her feminine mutability: To them she was a great ruler and a _bon
enfant_. In a country where merciless officials and torture are part
of the long-accepted order of things, no more stress was laid on her
numerous acts of cold blooded tyranny than, shall we say, was laid on the
beheading of Earls at the close of the fifteenth century in England.
One of the writers had the good fortune once to see the Empress when
proceeding in her palanquin to the Eastern tombs. She had breakfasted
early at the Tung Yueh temple outside the Ch’i Hua gate, and was on
her way to T’ung chou. As her chair passed along a line of kneeling
peasantry, the curtains were open and it was seen that the Old Buddha was
asleep. The good country people were delighted. “Look,” they cried, “the
Old Buddha is sleeping. Really, she has far too much work to do! A rare
woman—what a pleasure to see her thus!”
Tzŭ Hsi was recognised to be above criticism and above the laws which
she rigorously enforced on others. For instance, when, a few weeks after
the issue of a Decree prohibiting corporal punishment and torture in
prisons, she caused the Reformer Shen Chin to be flogged to death (July,
1904), public opinion saw nothing extraordinary in the event. A few days
later, when preparations were being made for the celebration of her
seventieth birthday, she issued another Decree, declining the honorific
title dutifully proffered by the Emperor, together with its emoluments,
on the ground that she had no heart for festivities, “being profoundly
distressed at the thought of the sufferings of my subjects in Manchuria,
owing to the destruction wrought there by the Russian and Japanese
armies. My one desire,” she added, “is that my officials may co-operate
to introduce more humane methods of Government, so that my people may
live to enjoy good old age, resting on couches of comfortable ease. This
is the best way to honour the seventieth anniversary of my birth.” No
doubt the shade of Shen Chin was duly appeased.
Of her vindictive ferocity on occasions there can be no question. As
Ching Shan admits, even her most faithful admirers and servants were
aware that at moments of her wrath it was prudent to be out of her reach,
or, if unavoidably present, to abstain from thwarting her. They knew
that those who dared to question her absolute authority or to criticise
the means by which she gained and retained it, need look for no mercy.
But they knew also that for faithful service and loyalty she had a royal
memory and, like Catherine of Russia, she never forgot her friends.
Her unpopularity in central and southern China, which became marked after
the war with Japan and violent at the time of the _coup d’état_, was
in its origin anti-dynastic and political. It was particularly strong
in Kuangtung, where for years Her Majesty was denounced by agitators
as a monster of unparalleled depravity. The political opinions of the
turbulent and quick-witted Cantonese have generally been expressed in a
lively and somewhat ribald form, and when we bear in mind the popular
tendency (not confined to the Far East) of ascribing gross immorality to
crowned heads, we are justified in refusing to attach undue importance
to the wild accusations levelled against the Empress Dowager in this
quarter. The utterances of the hotspurs and lampooners of southern
China are chiefly interesting in that they reveal something of the vast
possibilities of cleavage inherent in the Chinese Government system, and
prove the Manchu rule to have fallen into something like contempt in that
region where the new forces of education and political activity are most
conspicuous.
One of the doggerel verses current in 1898 fairly describes the
attitude of the Cantonese man in the street towards the Dynasty. Freely
translated, it runs thus:—
“_There are three questions which men must not ask about our
Great Manchu Dynasty:_
“_At what ancestral grave does His Majesty make filial
obeisance?_
“_To what deity does the Empress Dowager sacrifice?_
“_To what husbands are the Imperial Princesses married?_”
The first question is in allusion to the Emperor’s alleged doubtful
parentage, while the second refers to a mythical New Year sacrifice, akin
to those of Moloch, which the scurrilous Cantonese attributed to Tzŭ Hsi
and the ladies of her Court. The last refers to the Manchu clan’s custom
of intermarriage which, in the eyes of the Chinese (who disapprove even
of marriage between persons of the same surname), is illegal and immoral.
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.
[Illustration: THE IMPERIAL DAÏS IN THE CH’IEN CH’ING HALL.
_Photo, Ogawa, Tokio._]
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.