The crisis of 1900, all the horror of that abomination of desolation in her Capital and the hardships of her wandering in the wilderness, had brought home to the Empress the inherent weakness of her country and the stern necessity for remedial measures. Already, before the issue of the penitential Decree, quoted in an earlier chapter, she had announced to the world, with characteristic decision, her intention to adopt new measures and to break with those hoary traditions of the past which, as she had learned, were the first cause of the rottenness of the State. Her subsequent policy became in fact (though she was careful never to admit it) a justification of those very measures which the Emperor had so enthusiastically inaugurated in 1898, but her methods differed from his in that she omitted no precaution for conciliating the conflicting interests about the Throne and for disarming the opposition of the intransigeants of the provinces.

The first intimation of Her Majesty’s conversion to new ideals of Government was given to the world in an Edict issued at Hsi-an on the 28th January, 1901, in the name of the Emperor. This document, drafted with the assistance of Jung Lu, is a remarkable example of Tzŭ Hsi’s masculine intelligence and statecraft, though somewhat marred by those long-winded repetitions in which Chinese Edicts abound. It was received with enthusiastic delight by the literati throughout the Empire, even in Canton and the southern provinces, where, at the moment, Her Majesty was not personally popular. The vernacular Press claimed it as the most striking Edict in Chinese history. It combined an eloquent appeal to the people to accept the principle of reform together with a masterful justification of China and her people vis-à-vis the outside world. It was most skilfully worded so as to placate all parties in the State and thus to enhance the reputation of the Old Buddha. The “Young China” party was particularly enthusiastic, for by this Decree Her Majesty definitely abandoned the principle of absolute autocracy which had been for centuries the corner-stone of the Chinese system of government. It was realised that so complete a departure from the traditions of the Manchu Dynasty, of the Imperial Clan and of all her previous convictions, could not have been attained but for the bitter lessons of 1900, and, admiration was therefore the more keen for the skill and courage with which, on the verge of old age, she resumed the burden of government in her ravaged capital. It was the ruling passion bravely asserted, and the sympathy of the nation could hardly be withheld from a ruler who thus bore her share in the national humiliation, who so frankly accepted responsibility for past errors and promised new and better methods for the future.

It was, of course, inevitable, in the light of all experience, that many of her subjects, as well as most foreigners, should doubt her sincerity, and should regard this Edict, like many others, as a case of “when the devil was sick.” But gradually, after the return of the Court, as it became clear to her immediate retainers and high officials that this self-confident woman was really in earnest, and as she continued steadily to impress her new policy upon the reluctant Clansmen, her popularity with the people at large, and especially in the south (where it had been much damaged by her fierce suppression of the Cantonese reformers of 1898), was gradually restored. From this time forward to the end of her life, whatever may have been the good or bad faith of her advisers and chief officials, every act of her career is stamped with unmistakable signs of her sincerity in the cause of reform, borne out by her recorded words and deeds.

From the Boxer movement she had learned at a bitter cost the lesson she was now putting into practice, but for all that she remained to the end faithful in her affection for the memory of the Boxer leaders; to the last she never failed to praise their loyalty to her person and the patriotic bravery of their attempt to expel the foreigner. But she had been compelled to learn in the hard school of experience the utter hopelessness of that attempt, and she was forced to the conclusion that, for the future, and until China should be strong enough, all anti-foreign proceedings must be suppressed.

Unflinchingly, therefore, she announced to her people a change of front unparalleled in the history of China. Certain it is (as was fully proved in the case of the Emperor in 1898) that no other ruler of the Dynasty could have proclaimed such drastic changes without causing serious dissensions and possibly civil war. But so masterly were her methods of dealing with the necessities of the situation, and so forcibly did the style and arguments of her Decrees appeal to the literati, that they carried very general conviction. Even the most bigoted Confucianists were won by her subtle suggestions as to what would have been the attitude of the Sage himself if confronted by such problems as the nation had now to face.

The text of the Decree recording her conversion is interesting:—

It will be observed that in this Decree the Emperor is made to renounce and condemn the Reformers of 1898 and all their works. This, however sincerely convinced Her Majesty might be of the necessity for remedial measures, was only natural. For it was never one of the weaknesses of this masterful woman to make direct confession of error for the benefit of her own immediate entourage; not thus is prestige maintained in the atmosphere of an Oriental Court. She was now prepared to adopt many of the reforms which K’ang Yu-wei and his friends had advocated, but for all-important purposes of “face” it must be made quite clear that, in her hands, they were something radically different and superior. In promulgating her new opinions she could not afford to say anything which might be construed as direct justification of that reform movement which she herself had so ruthlessly suppressed. And so the “stupid people” must clearly understand that her present programme was by no means “revolutionary” like that of K’ang Yu-wei and his fellow-“conspirators.” Nevertheless, her proposals for reform went as far as theirs, and, in some cases, even further, the only real difference being that in this case she, the Old Buddha, was a prime mover, where before she had been an opponent.

Looking back on the six years of her life and rule which followed the return from exile, there can be but little doubt of the sincerity of her conversion to reform, although there is no reason to believe that her sentiments towards foreigners had undergone any change for the better. The lesson which had been brought home to her with crushing force in the rise and fall of the Boxer movement and in the capture of Peking, was that national inefficiency means national extinction, a lesson which not all the statesmen of western lands have fully learned. She had realised that the material forces of the western world were not to be met and overthrown by quotations from the classics, and that, if China was to continue to exist as an independent State she must follow the example of Japan and put her house in order with equipment and defences adapted from western models. And with Tzŭ Hsi to realise was to act, a quality which, more than all others, distinguished her from the ruck of her Manchu kinsmen and officials, sunk in their lethargic fatalism and helplessness.

The situation which confronted her at the outset was anything but simple. Apart from the time-honoured privileges of the Imperial clans, whose arrogant ignorance she had come to appreciate at its proper value, she must needs be cautious in handling the susceptibilities of the provincial gentry and literati, the backbone of China’s collective intelligence. At the same time, as far as the foreign Powers were concerned, she must be careful to preserve to the full that dignity on which her prestige with her own people depended, that “l’empire c’est moi” attitude which had been rudely shaken by the events of 1900. Not as the chastened penitent would she appear in their eyes, but as the innocent and injured victim of circumstances beyond her control. There were, in fact, several distinct rôles to be played, and none of them were easy.

The Edict issued from Hsi-an in February 1901 had been warmly applauded by scholars throughout the Empire as a literary feat of the first order, but most of the provincial officials (justified by all tradition and experience) regarded it as merely a classical “obiter dictum,” and proceeded, therefore, in their old way, certain in their minds that the Old Buddha was only amusing herself, as was her wont, by throwing dust in the eyes of the barbarian, and that she would not be displeased if her lieutenants were to proceed slowly in carrying them into effect. Unto the end, even in the face of the earnest exhortations of her valedictory Decree, there were many provincial officials who, for reasons of personal prejudice and self-interest, professed to believe that the Old Buddha had been merely playing a part, but we can find nothing in her official or private record during these six years to justify that belief. Just before her return to Peking she issued an Edict in which her own convictions were very clearly indicated:—

Tzŭ Hsi had not only realised the immense superiority of the material forces of the western world, but she had also been convinced of the immense intellectual and political forces which education and increased means of communication were steadily creating amongst her own subjects, forces with which, as she perceived, the effete and ignorant Manchus would have to reckon sooner or later. It is quite plain from her Edicts on this delicate subject that she realised clearly the dangers which threatened the Manchu rule. She saw that their class privileges, the right to tribute, and all the other benefits of sovereignty which the founders of the Dynasty had won by force of arms and opportunity, had now become an anachronism, and must in the near future involve the Manchus themselves in serious dangers and difficulties, unless, by fusion, means could be found to avert them. Among the rules laid down by the founders of the Dynasty for the maintenance of the pure Manchu stock, was that which forbade intermarriage with Chinese. This law, though frequently violated in the garrisons of the south, had remained generally effective within the Metropolitan province, where it had served its purpose of maintaining the ruling class and its caste. But the Empress had now come to understand that if China was to be preserved as a sovereign State, it must be rather by means of Chinese energy and intelligence grafted on to the Manchu stock, than by the latter’s separate initiative. In January 1902, immediately after her return to Peking, she gave effect to her convictions on this subject in a remarkable Decree whereby she recommended that, for the future, Manchus and Chinese should intermarry. “At the time of the founding of our Dynasty,” she says, “the customs and languages of the two races were greatly different, and this was in itself reason sufficient for prohibiting intermarriage. But at the present day, little or no difference exists between them, and the time has come, therefore, to relax this law for the benefit of the Empire as a whole, and in accordance with the wishes of our people.” In the same Edict Her Majesty deprecated the Chinese custom, which the Manchus had never adopted, of foot-binding, and urged that the educated classes should unite to oppose a custom so injurious to health and inhuman in practice. There was, however, to be no compulsion in this matter. In one respect only did she desire to adhere to the exclusive Manchu traditions, namely, as regards the selection of secondary wives for the Imperial harem, who must continue to be chosen exclusively from Manchu families; she did not desire “to incur any risk of confusion or dissension in the Palace, nor to fall into the error committed by the Ming Dynasty, in the indiscriminate selection of concubines, a matter affecting the direct and legitimate succession to the Throne.” Nor would she expose her kinsmen to the risk of conspiracy against the Dynasty which would certainly occur if the daughters of the great Chinese houses were admitted to the Palace. The law had been laid down once and for all by Nurhachu, and it was binding on every occupant of the Dragon Throne, namely, “no Manchu eunuchs, no Chinese concubines.”

Her next step, in a decree which frankly deplored the hopeless ignorance of her kinsmen, was to authorise the Imperial clansmen and nobles to send their sons to be educated abroad, so that perchance the lump of their inefficiency might yet be leavened. Eligible youths, between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, and of good physique, were to be selected and their expenses would be defrayed by the Government.

This much for the Manchus; but in regard to the whole question of education, which she declared to be the very root of all China’s difficulties, she perceived, after prolonged consultations with Yüan Shih-k’ai and Chang Chih-tung, that so long as the classical system continued, with its strong hold of tradition upon the masses, it must constitute the chief obstacle to any effective reform of the body politic. After much careful deliberation she decided that unless the whole system of classical examinations were abolished, root and branch, no tinkering with western learning could be of any practical use. The ancient system of arguing in a circle, which for over two centuries had characterised the ideal essay and hypnotised the ideal official, must undoubtedly triumph over all other educational methods, so long as it remained part of the official curriculum. Her Majesty took pains to point out by Edict that colleges had undoubtedly existed in the days of that model ruler, the Regent Duke Chou, more than two thousand five hundred years ago, on lines not greatly different from those of the foreign Universities of the present day; she proved also that the classical essay system was, so to speak, quite a recent innovation, having been introduced for the first time under the Ming Dynasty, about A.D. 1390. Eventually, in 1904, upon the advice of Yüan Shih-k’ai, approved by Chang Chih-tung, a Decree was issued finally abolishing the old system of examinations and making graduation at one of the modern colleges the only recognised path to official employment. At the same time, realising that the training of students in Japan, which had been proceeding on a very large scale, had produced a body of revolutionary scholars most undesirable in the eyes of the Government, she gave orders that arrangements should be made for sending more students in future to Europe and America.

This epoch-making announcement was followed by several other important Decrees, notably that which ordered the complete abolition of the opium traffic within a period of ten years, a Decree, which, embodying a sincere and powerful consensus of public opinion, has produced most unexpected results, marvellously creditable to the moral sense and recuperative energies of the Chinese race. The contrast is most striking between the widespread reform effected under this Edict, and the almost complete failure of those which set forth to reform the Metropolitan administration; these, thanks to the steady passive resistance of the mandarin in possession, resulted merely in perpetuating the old abuses under new names. The one new Ministry created at that time, and saluted by foreigners as a sign of genuine progress, was that of Posts and Communications (Yu-Ch’uan pu), which has been a byword for corrupt practices since its establishment, and a laughing stock among the Chinese themselves for inefficiency and extravagance.

After dealing with education, the Old Buddha turned her attention to a question which had frequently figured in recent Memorials of progressive officials, namely, the abolition of torture and other abuses prevalent in the so-called judicial system of the Empire. She realised that if China were ever to obtain the consent of the western Powers to the abolition of the foreigner’s rights of extra-territoriality, she must devise and enforce civil and criminal codes similar to those of civilised countries. Her Edict on this subject, though in form excellent, seems to lack something of the conviction which marks her other Decrees of this period; it is very different, for instance, from those dealing with the abolition of opium and the reform of education. Its principles were obviously contrary to all her previous ideas and practice, and it is only fair to say that its result, in spite of much drafting of codes, has been little or none, as far as the barbarous practices of the provincial Yamêns are concerned. She decreed that, pending the introduction of the criminal code, decapitation should be the extreme penalty of the law; dismemberment and mutilation were to be abolished as barbarous; branding, flogging, and the vicarious punishment of relatives were to cease. These savage penalties, she observed, were originally introduced into China under the Ming Dynasty, and had only been adopted by the Manchus, with other Chinese customs, against their own more merciful instincts.

Finally, in deference to the unmistakable and growing tendencies of public opinion in the south, Tzŭ Hsi took the first steps towards the introduction of constitutional government by sending an Imperial Commission (under Duke Tsai Tsê) to study the various systems in force in foreign countries, and their results. The return of this Mission was followed in the autumn of 1905 by the issue of the famous Decree in which she definitely announced her intention to grant a constitution, which should come into effect sooner or later, according to circumstances and the amount of energy or procrastination displayed by the officials and people in preparing themselves for the change. As an example of subtle argument calculated to appeal to the Chinese mind, the document is a masterpiece in its way. It says:—

It was not to be expected that even Tzŭ Hsi could frame so radical and comprehensive a programme of change without incurring the strongest opposition and criticism of those to whom the established order meant loaves and fishes: at Peking, however, owing to the absence of an outspoken press, the opposition ran beneath the surface, exercised in the time-honoured form of dogged adherence to the ancient methods by the officials and bureaucrats on whose goodwill all reform ultimately depends. Against anyone less masterful and less popular than Tzŭ Hsi the Clansmen would undoubtedly have concerted other and more forcible measures, but they knew their Old Buddha and went in wholesome fear of her wrath. It was only her exceptional position and authority that enabled her to introduce the machinery for the establishment of constitutional government, based on the Japanese model, and there is reason to believe that even at this moment many conservative Manchus do not regard that measure seriously.

But despite the promise of constitutional government, public opinion in the south, never restrained in its utterances by the free-lances of the vernacular press of Hongkong and Shanghai, was outspoken in condemnation of Her Majesty’s new policy, criticising her policy in general on the ground of her undignified truckling to Europeans. Lacking alike her masculine intelligence and courageous recognition of hard facts, making no allowance for the difficulties with which she was encompassed, and animated in many instances by a very real hatred of the Manchu rule, they attacked her in unmeasured terms of abuse; while the foreign press of the Treaty Ports, naturally suspicious of her motives and mindful of her share in the anti-foreign rising, was also generally unsympathetic, if not hostile. In both cases knowledge of the woman’s virility and vitality was lacking. Her critics failed to realise that, like most mortals, the Empress was a mixture of good and bad, of wisdom and error, largely swayed by circumstances and the human equations around her, as well as by an essentially feminine quality of mutability; but withal, and above all, a born leader of men and a politician of the very first order.

The following extracts from articles published in the Shanghai press at that time, throw an instructive light on the spirit of Young China (like that of the Babu of India) as displayed in its anti-Manchu proclivities and bigoted chauvinism. One critic, taking for his text the entertainments given by Her Majesty to the Foreign Legations, wrote:—

Another critic, nearer the truth as we know, doubted whether the Empress Dowager was in reality enamoured of foreign ways, and whether she was not simulating good relations, while preparing some deep-laid scheme of future revenge.

This writer had difficulty, however, in believing that she contemplated another Boxer movement and frankly confessed himself perplexed.

Nevertheless, unheeding of criticism and strong in the wisdom of her own convictions, Tzŭ Hsi continued steadily on the lines which she had laid down as necessary for the future safety of the Empire. It was not to be expected that even her strong personality could overcome in a day the entrenched forces of native prejudice and conservatism within and without the palace. At the time of her death many of the chief strongholds of the ancient system (e.g., the power of the eunuchs and the organised corruption of officials) remained practically uncriticised and untouched; but at her passing she had marked out a rough course by which, if faithfully followed, the ship of State might yet be safely steered through the rocks and shallows of the dangerous seas ahead.