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to her at this period a policy of reculer pour mieux sauter, suggesting that her hand, though hidden, was never really withdrawn from the affairs of the Forbidden City.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:—

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.

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:—

To which the Emperor adds the filial remark on his own account: “That Her Majesty had acted in accordance with the admirable virtue which always distinguished her, and that, in spite of his own wishes, he was bound reverently to obey her orders in the matter.”

China’s complete and ignominious defeat by the Japanese forces undoubtedly inflicted no small loss of prestige on the Manchu Dynasty, and was a direct cause of the violent agitation of the Southern Provinces for reform, which led in turn to the coup d’état and to the Boxer rising. It is doubtful whether war could have been avoided without even greater sacrifices and humiliation, and the Empress Dowager showed her usual sagacity therefore in refraining from expressing any opinion or taking any share of responsibility in the decision taken by the Emperor. She knew, moreover, that, by the action and advice of her Chief Eunuch, the Navy had for years been starved in order to provide her with funds to rebuild and decorate the Summer Palace, a fact of which some of China’s most distinguished advisers were at that time unaware.

As Viceroy of the Metropolitan Province, Li Hung-chang was generally blamed for advising the Court to maintain China’s suzerainty over Corea by force of arms, but, speaking from personal knowledge of this subject, we may state that, like many other Ministers similarly situated, he hesitated until the very last moment before taking risks which he knew to be enormous in both directions. The documents upon which history might have been written with full knowledge of the facts were unfortunately destroyed in the Viceroy’s Yamên at Tientsin and in the Inspector-General of Customs’ quarters at Peking, in 1900, so that the immediate causes of that disastrous war will probably never be established with complete accuracy. Li Hung-chang was aware that twice already Japan had been bought off from a war of aggression against China, the first time (in 1874) by payment of an indemnity, and again (in 1885) by admitting her to a share in the control of Corea, a concession which had led directly to the present crisis. He realised that even had he been willing to surrender China’s rights over Corea (which were of no real advantage to the Chinese Government) the concession might have purchased peace for the time being, but it would certainly have led before long to the loss of the Manchurian Provinces; just as certainly, in fact, as the doom of those provinces was sealed in 1905, on the day that China acquiesced in the terms of the Portsmouth Treaty. Japan’s attack on China’s positions was diplomatically as unjustifiable as the methods which she adopted in commencing hostilities. Li Hung-chang was fully aware of the preparations that Japan had been making for years, and equally aware of the disorganised state of his own naval and military resources, but he was surrounded by officials who, like the Manchus in 1900, were convinced of China’s immense superiority, and he was assured by the Chinese Resident in Corea (Yüan Shih-k’ai) that help would be forthcoming from England in the event of Japan’s commencing hostilities. There was no doubt of the British Government’s sympathy, which was clearly reflected in the attitude and actions of the Consul-General at Seoul.[48]

Chinese historians have openly accused Li Hung-chang of instigating the Court and the Emperor to a war of aggression, and the accusation has been generally credited abroad. The truth is, that while Li was originally all in favour of sending a Chinese force to suppress the Corean insurrection, he became opposed to taking any steps that might lead to war with Japan, as soon as he realised that war was Japan’s object; nevertheless, it is certain that, in the last instance, he was persuaded against his better judgment by the military enthusiasm of his German advisers, and that the sending of the ill-fated “Kow-hsing” and her doomed crew to Corea was a step which he authorised only after consultation with Peking and in full knowledge of the fact that it meant war. No sooner had the “Kow-hsing” been sunk, and the first military disasters of the campaign reported, than he naturally endeavoured to minimise his own share of responsibility in the matter.

Foreigners blamed him for making war on Japan, while his own countrymen attacked him for betraying China to the Japanese, as they subsequently attacked him for selling Manchuria to Russia. Tzŭ Hsi had no great love for the Viceroy, although she admired his remarkable intelligence and adroit methods: but when, after the war, he was fiercely attacked by several of the Censors, and when she found her own name associated with the blame imputed to him, she loyally defended him, as was her wont. In 1895, a Censor named An Wei-chün boldly blamed Her Majesty and the Viceroy for the disasters which had overtaken China. He said:—

In reply to this outspoken document, the Emperor issued the following Decree, which bears unmistakable signs of Tzŭ Hsi’s hand. The attack upon her favourite, Li Lien-ying, was in itself sufficient to bring her to the front, and there is no doubt that at the time she was keeping very close watch on the Emperor’s proceedings, and regularly perusing all State papers.

Tzŭ Hsi felt deeply the humiliation of her country’s defeat by the Japanese, a race which, as Chinese historians never fail to remind themselves, took its first lessons in civilisation and culture from Chinese scholars and artists. Anxious at all costs to avoid another invasion of Chihli by the conquerors, she approved the Treaty of Peace, especially when assured by Li Hung-chang that Russia and her Continental allies would not allow Japan to annex any portion of the Manchurian Provinces. As above stated, she declined to permit Li to be made a scapegoat either by her chagrined Manchu kinsmen or by his fierce critics in the south, for she recognised the difficulty of his position, and the fact that he was not directly responsible for the deplorable condition of China’s defences. But, woman-like, she had to blame someone for the disasters that had deprived her and her capital of festivities whose splendour should have gone down, making her name glorious, to all posterity; and it was not surprising, therefore, if she heaped reproaches on the Emperor for entering upon so disastrous a war without her full knowledge and consent. It was at this time that began the estrangement which thenceforward gradually grew into the open hostility and secret plottings of 1898, the long bitterness between Tzŭ Hsi and her nephew which was to divide the Palace into camps of strife, and to cease only with their death. From this time also, as they aver who were in close touch with the life of the Court, the Emperor’s Consort,[51] Tzŭ Hsi’s niece, became openly alienated from him, and their relations grew more severely strained as his reform tendencies developed and took shape. From 1894 to 1896 there was no noticeable change in the attitude of the Emperor to his august aunt, nor any diminution of his respectful attentions, but the man in the street knew well, as he always knows in China, of the rift in the lute, and when, in 1896, the Emperor’s mother (Tzŭ’s sister) died, it was realised that the last bond of amity and possible reconciliation between Kuang-Hsü and the Empress Dowager had been severed.