At the Sign of the Velvet Glove: A Study in Autocracy

As if fittingly to celebrate the passing of a year of grace, Citizen Yuan Shih-k’ai, President of the Republic of China, gave forth, in the last days of December, two memorable mandates. Had these decrees been issued to a world at peace, they must have contributed largely to the relief of journalism and the gayety of nations, for both possess in a very marked degree the quality, not uncommon in Chinese state papers, of suggesting a good deal more than at first sight meets the eye. Even in war-time, they deserve the tribute of a sympathetic glance, for in both there is much palatable food for meditation and new cause to admire the flexible inflexibility of China’s system of government, especially now that the Mother of Parliaments, confronted by stern realities, has put away party government with all other childish things.

Indeed, these latest mandates of Citizen Yuan have a very subtle flavor, reminiscent of Brobdingnag. Both deal with matters of the highest national importance (to wit, the Presidential Election Law and the qualifications for membership in Parliament) and handle them with the magisterial solemnity suitable to such weighty questions; but he who reads them can hardly avoid asking himself whether Citizen Yuan, Prince Na Yen-tu, Secretary Liang Shih-yi, and the Board of Censors have not seized a psychological occasion for poking a little patriarchal fun at Europe. In any case, the delicate flavor of irony is there. If it be not the result of deliberate intention on the part of Yuan and his advisers, it must be a spontaneous emanation from the atmosphere of naivete which seems to enfold Chinese officialdom whenever it proceeds to array itself in the garb of European institutions.

The new law for presidential elections puts the finishing touch upon the nicely graduated series of enactments by which, during the past twelve months, President Yuan has relaid the ‘permanent foundations of the New Constitution in China,’ by removing therefrom every vestige of constitutional procedure. The general nature of the present measure was foreshadowed in a mandate issued toward the end of October. This document announced that ‘ the most renowned scholars of East and West are agreed that, in framing a fundamental law, it is essential to bear in mind the condition of the people; no good can possibly come of cutting one’s feet to fit a pair of shoes.’ So the shoes have been made to fit the present understandings; good, comfortable shoes, made on the old dynastic last. The President of the Republic is to hold office for a term of ten years and then to be eligible for reelection. The Election Commission will consist of fifty members from each of the two houses of Parliament, but the constitution of these houses, as at prosent devised, precludes all anxiety as to independent initiative on their part.

Along with other adequate precautions against undesirable revolutionary tendencies, the present presidential law decrees that ‘if at election time the Administrative Council [Tsancheng-yuan] should think it advisable that the President should hold office for another term, two thirds of their votes shall be sufficient for his reelection.’ But as even a president is mortal, it is the duty of a wise administration to make provision for his succession. The Council, ‘having considered the procedure obtaining in the United States and Mexico,’ has done so, and is of the opinion that ‘no expedient can possibly surpass the perfection of the plan now recommended.’ The plan consists in giving the President the right to nominate three persons, from among whom his successor shall be elected. The names of these three he writes on a golden tablet; he encloses the tablet in a golden casket, and locks the casket in a stone strong-room in the presidential palace. This procedure is no new invention: it is copied boldly from that which was laid down by the Manchu Emperor K’ang Hsi, and followed by other sovereigns of that dynasty, with a view to preventing intrigue and strife in the Imperial Clan by keeping the succession a secret. An anonymous Chinese scholar (probably Yen Fu), writing in the Peking Gazette, justifies this procedure on the wei 1-fittingshoe principle; his whole line of argument suggests something more than a casual acquaintance with the workings of the presidential mind. After philosophically discussing the respective merits of the classical Greek and modern American ideals of republicanism, he observes: —

‘Theoretically speaking, the success of an administration may be expected to be ever on the increase, so long as the best man in the country can be secured to hold and control the reins of government. But if we examine more closely into this matter and ask how this condition can be fulfilled, the only answer must be that, as God is always well disposed toward mankind, He will select and place upon the Throne the best man.’

Regarded in this light, the machinery for elect ions might seem to be superfluous. Howbeit, the Constitution provides for them, and the President has sworn to uphold the Constitution. So let them be. At the same time, this scholar apologist for things-as-they-are considers it necessary to explain that the Chinese presidential law is the reverse of t hat which obtains in America, for two reasons: —

‘In America,’ he says, ‘the candidates for the Presidency, usually two or three in number, are nominated by the great political parties, so that the voters, through their representatives, have only the choice of one from among two or three men. But the political parties in China are quite incapable of working on these lines; therefore we are compelled to lay upon the President the burden of nominating candidates.

‘China is now maintaining her national stability by means of military forces. This being so, no man, except he be loved and obeyed by the whole of the army, can possibly control the situation. Therefore it is imperatively necessary that the man whom the army loves should nominate the one whom it loves next to him for the Presidency, so that bickerings and bloodshed may be avoided.’

(In Peking the impression prevails that the first name inscribed on Yuan’s golden tablet will be found to be that of his second son.)

Of the second presidential mandate, it is unnecessary to give any detailed analysis. It is one of those simple, forthright ordinances, with which one meets continually in Chinese history, enacted by the wisdom of the patriarchal system to guard the State against sudden perils of change. Though simple in its wording, it evidently combines an inspiration of political genius with close observation of the causes and effects of unrest in Europe. In response to a memorial by the Censors, President Yuan has been pleased to decree that henceforth ‘no member of any political party shall be eligible for membership of Parliament.’ It may well be that, in recording this decision, Yuan has been influenced by consideration of the greatly increased dignity and efficiency of the British and French Parliaments since they ceased to consist of party men. On this point, the Censors are silent. They base their memorial on the lamentable fact that ‘ China’s recently dissolved Parliament became a laughing-stock, because all its members belonged to political parties. Among them were to be found men who degraded the profession of letters, men who indulged in windy rhetoric, who employed money and even arms to turn the country upside down. The parties used their collective strength to influence elections and usurp power.’

But these sad, bad days are over. By a stroke of the Vermilion Pencil of Presidential Wisdom, the Chinese people may now rest assured that in their purged Parliament, ‘none is for a party and all are for the State.’ And if, by any chance of human frailty, a party should survive, its members will be compelled, as in the days of old, to conspire as secret societies, cut off from all immediate prospect of official loaves and fishes. Henceforth the only party in China must be the party in power.

The light which these presidential decrees throw upon the present political situation at Peking makes them well worthy of serious attention, both in China and abroad. As I have said, they suggest to the init iated a good deal more than meets the eye of the casual observer. The latter mandate, in particular, emphasizes two important facts. First, that there is no immediate prospect of a restoration of the Manchu dynasty, or indeed, of the monarchical symbols of government, and this, for the simple reason that Yuan Shih-k’ai, having attained to the substance of Imperial authority, has also the wisdom to know that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Second, that during the past year, the silent, insidious strategy of the Velvet Glove, giving but little outward sign of all its manifold activities, has effectively succeeded in restoring the undisputed authority of the metropolitan administration over the greater part of the provinces.

Let us examine more closely the significance of this second mandate. It is evident ly intended to be an intimation to all concerned that the professional political agitator of the Sun Yat-sen persuasion is henceforth excluded from Parliament, and that Young China of the foreign-educated student class will be eligible for public employment only on the President’s own terms. Everything in Yuan’s career as Viceroy of Chihli under the Manchus points to his intelligent appreciation of the usefulness of men who have received a sound education abroad, and of his readiness to employ such men for his purposes of progressive administration; but he has never made any secret of his preference for workers, as distinct, from talkers. Provided that they are willing to abandon their exotic theories of republicanism, Young China’s ‘intelligents’ may still hope to find dignified and not unprofitable appointments under the President-autocrat; but those who cling to the ideals and political methods which distinguished the first Parliament of the Republic are clearly warned off. There will always be parties and party warfare at Peking; the struggle for place and power will continue to be waged around the presidential palace as it was around the Dragon Throne, with ample scope for brains and bravery; but the struggle will be, as of old, between provincial and not between political factions, — between North and South, between the Cantonical party and that of Anhui. Except on paper (and chiefly for the edification of the foreigner), it will no longer be a warfare of empty words, concerning vague theories and experiments in the European art of government, but the grim old oriental struggle for the sweets of office and other solid realities. The names and records of the men whom Yuan has gathered together in his cabinet indicate in the clearest possible manner a return to the patriarchal system and a revival of the old balance of power and traditional rivalry between the great provincial factions. The Kuo Min tang, the Chin Pu tang, and other pinchbeck imitations of Europe’s political parties, which sprang into feverish and futile existence with the collapse of constituted authority in 1911, all have now been swept away, with their battle-cries and banners, into the limbo of things well forgotten. Did not Yuan himself solemnly denounce their proposed form of republican government, from the very outset, as utterly impossible, declaring it to mean ‘the instability of a rampant democracy, of dissension and partition’? Yuan has now done for China what Porfirio Diaz did for Mexico: he has established, and is now in a position to proclaim, a benevolent despotism, a despotism strong and supple enough to check the activities of political adventurers, which promises to give security to the people and something approaching stability to the government.

So silently and swiftly has the old machinery of the metropolitan administration been repaired and set to work that, until the issue of these memorable mandates, few observers, even on the spot, had realized how complete had been the restoration. As a correspondent in Peking has well expressed it, ‘Each event has fitted into the next with the polished smoothness of a conjuring performance, the progress of which has been watched with feelings divided between admiration for the aplomb of the conjurer and speculation as to the real sentiments of the apparently highly gratified audience.5

It will be instructive to glance back over the various stages by which the final result was attained. In December, 1913, we find the President convening an Administrative Conference (carefully selected by himself) ‘to remedy the defects in the Provisional Constitution,5 which was framed under the auspices of Young China militant. These ‘defects’ were drastically remedied, by the dissolution of the remnants of Parliament, the abolition of all the nominally representative local assemblies, and the consolidation of the administration at provincial headquarters in the hands of officials who were pledged to support the views and personal authority of Yuan Shih-k’ai.

Having thus replaced the Provisional Constitution by a thinly veiled presidential dictatorship, Yuan proceeded to frame a new Constitution. This work was done in March and April. According to its provisions, the President of the Republic is no longer liable to impeachment by Parliament; all administrative authority is concentrated in his hands, including absolute control of the Treasury, the Army, and the Navy. The substance of representative government having been abolished, its effigy was tactfully replaced by the creation of a model Parliament of two chambers, which is announced to meet some time this year. The qualifications for membership in this Parliament and for the right to vote as electors have been most carefully defined, with the object, first., of excluding Young China, and secondly, of ensuring the election of men acceptable to Yuan Shih-k’ai and to his chief representatives at the provincial capitals. At the same time, the President’s direct control over provincial affairs has been greatly strengthened by once more separating the military from the civil administration. Military authority became concentrated last June in the hands of provincial commanders, holding the old Manchu title of Chiang Chun, selected or approved by Yuan and more or less controlled from Peking by the Ministry of War. The old Taotai system of civil administration has been restored, with slight changes of names and symbols. Needless to say, the men selected to hold these important posts have been selected for their merits, chief of which is unswerving personal loyalty to the head of the State.

The first effects of Yuan’s steadily increasing authority are now beginning to assume definite shape, and their general nature is such as to justify those who believe that only under a benevolent despotism can law and order be evolved out of the social and political conditions actually existing in China. During the period immediately following the abdication of the Manchus, before the Iron Hand in the Velvet Glove had had time to collect the men and money necessary for the restoration of the old machinery of government, the financial situation at Peking and in the provinces seemed almost hopeless. During the chaos of the revolution, the ancient fiscal relations between the capital and the provincial treasuries had perforce fallen into abeyance; the government’s obligations for the service of its foreign debts were rapidly increasing, while its revenues had greatly diminished. In the absence of any strong central authority, the disorganized mandarinatc was busy making provision for itself on the time-honored principle of apres nous le deluge, borrowing money recklessly, anywhere and everywhere, upon the last available securities of local revenues and concessions to foreigners. At the beginning of 1914 it had become perfectly evident that unless Yuan Shih-k’ai could speedily succeed in organizing a provincial administration under his own nominees, to collect and remit regular taxes and duties, through the old channels and upon an increased scale, China would be compelled to make default. The temporary expedient of short-term loans raised from foreign banks could not serve much longer to avert the longprophesied debacle. Those who remembered how, during the last decade of Manchu rule, failure had dogged all the government’s efforts to increase the provinces’ remittances to the Central Treasury saw little reason for hoping that, in the time at his disposal, Yuan would be able to overcome the formidable obstacles in Ins path. Skepticism as to the possibility of a successful reorganization of the salt gabelle revenues was justifiable, in view of Sir Robert Hart’s confessed failure to reorganize the lekin collectorate as security for the loan of 1898.

But in this matter the revolution has proved a real blessing in disguise. Its great upheaval and slaughter removed, or seriously frightened, large numbers of the literati and gentry, who by prescriptive right battened and fattened on the provincial revenues; in many places it made a clean sweep of the locust swarm of Yamen-bred parasites and blood-suckers, ‘expectant’ officials and gentry, who preyed on every branch of productive industry. The frock-coated politicians and khaki’d soldier-students, whose little hour of brief authority followed upon the dislocation of the old regime, possessed neither the materials nor the intelligence to organize a new fiscal administration. They lived on hand-to-mouth expedients and irregular levies. Meanwhile the old machinery, which for centuries had served to provide the Manchu Court and clans with funds sufficient for their needs, lay dislocated and discarded. It required the master hand of Yuan Shih-k’ai to restore it. This he has done, skillfully lubricating its clumsy creaking joints and sweeping from its cogwheels the immemorial dust of precedents outworn. In setting it to work again, under the direction of men of his own choosing, he has had good cause to bless the revolution, the results of which have enabled him to disregard many of those precedents, and have relieved him from the necessity of conciliating many ancient vested interests.

And, strange as it may appear, the war in Europe has also strengthened his hands, by removing from his entourage (and especially from the Ministry of Finance) all immediate prospect of raising new loans from foreign financiers. The practice of paying old debts by fresh borrowings is one which appeals to the Oriental mind, partly because of its extreme simplicity, and partly because there are usually pickings and perquisites to be found in the wake of foreign loans. Compelled to abandon all hope of making ends meet in this way, the Ministry of Finance and the President’s adherents in the provinces have been led, in their own interest, to recognize the necessity of a systematic reform of the country’s fiscal resources, on a basis of largely increased remittances to Peking. Had foreign loans continued to be available, it is extremely probable that Yuan Shih-k’ai and his advisers would have looked with a lenient eye on the perpetuation of many of the provincial ‘ squeezes ’ which, in the past, have swallowed up so large a proportion of the revenues collected. Live and let live is a fundamental principle with the mandarin. But, confronted with the stern necessity of providing, entirely from internal resources, a revenue sufficient to meet the country’s domestic needs and foreign obligations, Yuan Shih-k’ai has been able to bring to bear arguments that have evidently carried the required weight at Peking and in the provinces. The amounts now regularly remitted from the provincial treasuries to the capital have steadily increased during the past year; internal loans (nominally voluntary, but actually forced subscriptions levied upon business houses) have produced sums far larger than anything they were able to collect under this heading.

Finally, the reorganization of the salt gabelle, under the able direction of Sir Richard Dane, has proved conclusively that the President’s statecraft is based on intimate knowledge of men and affairs. Most of his chosen lieutenants at the provincial capitals have been led to take something more than a local view of their responsibilities and to recognize the expediency, on national grounds, of loyally cooperating with Sir Richard Dane and his staff in their work of radical reform. Great credit must be given to this energetic and expert administrator for the changes that he has been able to introduce and for their surprising results; but to the revolution must be ascribed the allimportant fact that the vested interests of the provincial gentry and local officials no longer possess the power of passive resistance which was theirs, by sheer weight of tradition, under the Manchu dynasty. The work which Sir Richard Dane is doing proves (what every one knew) that under an effective-’ ly centralized government, loyally supported by its officials in the provinces, China’s visible revenues might easily be trebled, without adding anything to the taxes actually levied from the people, by the application of business methods and by reduction within reasonable limits of the hungry horde of place-seekers. And if the ancient citadels of the salt gabelle have thus been successfully stormed by the foreign-led forces of reform, if the paramount authority of the President-autocrat has thus been able to secure results which, in the opinion of all the best observers, arc likely to give China financial stability, we may be justified in hoping that the same forces will in due time be able to effect equally important reforms, under expert foreign supervision, in respect to the currency, land-tax, and lekin collectorate.

For the present, it is sufficient to observe that the great-man theory of government has once more been vindicated in China, and that, at a time when all the western world lies under heavy storm-clouds of war, the Celestial Republic shows signs of successfully emerging from some of the most grievous troubles of its internal disorganization. Yuan Shih-k’ai’s recent mandates are an intimation to the world in general, and to Young China in particular, that the ends of autocracy have justified its means, some of which have been undeniably ‘ frightful,’ and that, political agitation being barred as a means of livelihood at Peking, benevolent despotism is in a position to protect the state from the dangers which have so long threatened it.from within. Of those which threaten it from without, this is not the time or place to speak; but, given a solvent exchequer and a little luck, the Velvet Glove should be able to deal with them also.