To Begin the World Over Again

by Matthew Lockwood

  It took almost three full days to transfer the presents and baggage of the embassy into 30–40 flat-bottomed junks for the next stage of the journey up the Yellow River to Tianjin. On August 5, with the unloading complete, the embassy left the British fleet behind and sailed upriver accompanied by a cacophony of gongs and drums. By this point, the fleet’s crew had been decimated by disease, and rather than wait for the embassy’s return, sailed south for Zhoushan, where it was hoped much-needed medicine and fresh supplies could be acquired. As the Hindostan disappeared over the horizon, the embassy realized, for the first time, that they were all alone in a foreign land, far from assistance, at the mercy of their reluctant hosts. And though they had been treated impeccably by their Chinese hosts thus far, with none of the stiff, condescending formalism they had been taught to expect, there were inauspicious signs as well. As the motley fleet sailed upriver the British passengers noticed that each of the junks was outfitted with yellow flags decorated with broad black Chinese characters. When the curious Britons asked what the symbols denoted, they were taken aback by the reply. The flags, they were told, labeled each ship as part of the British embassy, “bringing tribute to the Emperor of China.” Already, it seemed, there was a fatal misunderstanding.32

  The scene that confronted the British visitors as they sailed up the Yellow River into the heart of China dispelled their worries, at least for the time being. They were immediately struck by China’s abundance. High-prowed boats in “inconceivable” numbers flitted across the placid river, as wide here “as the Thames at Gravesend,” with neat, thatched roofed houses processing along the low banks, on boat and bank alike a multitude of people, men, women, and children, “weather-beaten, but not ill-featured,” and everywhere the signs of industry, of prosperity, of life. Macartney, not usually one to be stirred to flights of poetic fancy, was so moved by this first immersion in Chinese culture that his normally laconic, business-like diary entries give way to pointed exclamations from Shakespeare.

  “Oh wonder!

  How many goodly creatures are there here!

  How beauteous mankind is! Oh, brave new world

  That has such people in it!”33

  After six days and 80 miles of pleasantly disorienting travel upriver, the embassy finally reached Tianjin. Up to this point the travelers had nothing but praise for China and its people. They had been enthusiastically received at every port of call by generous locals who betrayed nothing of the cold, formal reserve and distrust of outsiders that previous European accounts had led them to expect. The country seemed to be stable, wealthy, and thriving, a perfect partner for Britain’s commercial ambitions. The officials sent to accompany the embassy to Beijing, Wang Wen-hsiung and Ch’iao Jen-Chieh (Wang and Chou, as the British called them), seemed forthright, friendly, and even encouraging. Even the yellow flags that marked the embassy as a mission of tribute could be chalked up to the idiosyncrasies of Asian diplomacy. But beginning with their arrival at Tianjin, the tone of their reception began to shift subtly.34

  The embassy was greeted in sublime fashion by an impressive martial display. Troops lined the riverbank for a full mile, accompanied by “flags, standards and pennants, and by the clangor of various instruments of war-like music.” On shore, the aged local viceroy, whom they had met a few days earlier, and a legate of the emperor were waiting to greet them. Cheng-jui, a Manchu of the Plain White Banner and Salt Administrator of Tientsin, was known to be opinionated, touchy, vain, and stubborn, and Macartney came away from their meeting convinced that the legate opposed the embassy, and was “perverse and unfriendly . . . toward all our concerns.” His cold, suspicious disposition was a marked contrast to that of the viceroy or the much-liked Wang Wen-hsiung and Ch’iao Jen-Chieh. Macartney believed that this disparity was in part a result of a cultural difference between the civilized, urbane Han Chinese and the crude, war-like Manchus, and though this armchair ethnography reveals more about British prejudices than reality, the divisions between Manchu and Han were real enough.35

  Qing China was an empire of conquest. Originally members of the Jurchen Aisin Gioro clan, in the early seventeenth century, the Qing had managed to unify the Jurchen clans into a new group called the Manchus and drive the Ming Chinese out of Manchuria. In 1644, the Qing Emperor Hong Taiji exploited a massive peasant revolt in China to intervene in Ming affairs, eventually defeating both rebels and Ming alike. The conquest of China by the Qing outsiders, which lasted until the reign of Kangxi in the late seventeenth century, led to ethnic divisions between the favored minority of Manchus, and the majority Han Chinese. The Han Chinese filled many roles in the imperial administration, rising to high office in the bureaucracy, however, many of the most important positions in the army and at court were the preserve of the Manchu elite, a fact that caused much resentment and division.

  It was also at Tianjin that one of the thorniest issues facing the embassy first manifested itself. Qing court ritual was complex, and there was concern among the officials that the British might undermine their own dignity, or that of the emperor, with their ignorance of its finer points. Out of sensitivity to the feelings of the embassy, they chose a round-about way of informing the British of the ceremonies they would be required to perform at their imperial audience. On the pretext of examining and admiring the ambassador’s clothing, and contrasting it with their own, an official suggested that the hose, garters, and tight-fitting garments of European attire had one serious drawback when compared to the loose, flowing robes of Chinese officials: it was too close-fitting to allow for the kneeling and prostrating that the ambassador would soon need to execute in the imperial presence. An old diplomatic hand, Macartney quickly grasped the point of the not-so-subtle discussion of comparative couture. To the official’s dismay, however, the ambassador replied that he could not in good conscience offer greater obsequies to a foreign ruler than he gave to his own sovereign. Instead, he offered a compromise. Either he would kneel and kiss the hand of the emperor as he did George III, or he would perform the Chinese bowing ritual on the condition that a Qing official of equal rank prostrate himself in identical fashion before a portrait of the British monarch. They had reached an impasse for the moment, but both sides were as yet sure that a compromise could be found.

  The embassy proceeded with their escort to Tongzhou, arriving on August 16. At Tongzhou they left the Yellow River behind and proceeded to Beijing overland. The 6 miles between the river and the Qing capital were so choked with crowds of curious Chinese, hoping to catch a glimpse of the foreign embassy, that a troop of soldiers brandishing whips was required to clear a path through the throng. Originally the party was housed in quarters outside the city, ostensibly for their comfort but really to make it easier to control their movements and prevent too much mixing with the Chinese population. Both Barrow and Macartney thought the accommodations inadequate, and at the ambassador’s request, the embassy was relocated to new quarters within the city.36

  In Beijing, the British began for the first time to feel that they were being closely watched. The surveillance was constant: Servants and officials were constantly present, their access to the rest of the city tightly restricted, and their mail intercepted and read. Even the disease-ravaged crew of the Lion recuperating in Zhoushan were strictly quarantined, and not simply for reasons of public health. Once more they received a visit from Cheng-jui, as unpleasant as always, but this time accompanied by nine European clerics: French, Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish missionaries living in the Chinese capital where they combined their religious vocation with diplomatic, scientific, and technological service to the emperor. The British were not entirely pleased to see other Europeans. Back in Tianjin, Macartney had received a letter from a French missionary named Joseph de Grammont who offered the embassy any aid he could provide. However, Grammont also offered a warning that the Portuguese contingent, and Joseph-Bernard d’Almeida in particular, could not be trusted. Almeida had risen to a position of some influence within the administ
ration of the Qianlong Emperor, and he and his Portuguese brethren were jealous of their influence and quick to undermine other Europeans who might pose a threat to their position. With potential Portuguese treachery in mind, Macartney asked to be allowed to choose which of the missionaries would serve as the official translator for the upcoming imperial audience, a request that was thankfully granted.37

  The now-familiar issue of the ritual prostration also resurfaced, this time discussed with a more senior Qing official, one of the emperor’s Grand Secretaries. With neither side willing to give an inch, it was decided that Macartney would submit his compromise proposals in writing, which he did in a letter translated and transcribed by the younger George Staunton, who had managed to learn the language well enough on the journey from England to impress the Chinese officials.

  On September 2, with the weather beginning to turn cool, the embassy set out on the last leg of its journey. They still had over 130 miles to travel before their audience with the Qianlong Emperor, and they needed to cover that ground quickly if they were to arrive in time for the emperor’s birthday. Though Beijing was the imperial capital, the emperor was at that moment residing at Jehol (modern Chengde), the summer capital of the Qing in Hebei Province, north-east of Beijing. This last stage would take them through mountainous, romantic countryside, and finally beyond the Great Wall that had once marked the northern border of China. After seven days, they arrived 2 miles outside of Jehol, where preparations for their official entrance were made. Dressed in parade uniforms and especially designed costumes, and organized in a neat procession with mandarins, soldiers, musicians, servants, and embassy officials all leading Lord Macartney’s chariot, the first British embassy to a Chinese ruler marched into the summer capital under the watchful eyes of the Qianlong Emperor.

  13

  THE DAWN OF THE CENTURY

  OF HUMILIATION

  As he watched the strange contingent parade into Jehol, it must have seemed to the Qianlong Emperor as if ominous storm clouds were appearing on the horizon. Though he had long ago ceded most aspects of the day-to-day administration to his Grand Council, and especially to his great favorite Heshen, outwardly he was still the very picture of vigor:

  [A]bout five feet ten inches in height, and of a slender but elegant form; his complexion is comparatively fair, though his eyes are dark; his nose is rather aquiline, and the whole of his countenance presents a perfect regularity of feature, which, by no means, announce the great age he is said to have attained; his person is attractive, and his deportment accompanied by an affability, which, without lessening the dignity of the prince, evinces the amiable character of the man.1

  He still enjoyed an active life. In his younger days he had been a devotee of the bow, and though his routine was now a bit more sedate, it was still full. He generally rose at 3 a.m. for private worship at one of the shrines in the palace and then read dispatches from officials and administrators until breakfast at 7. After a brief relaxation in the palace gardens—he was very proud of his extensive, well maintained grounds—he spent much of the day in business with his chief secretaries and other advisors. At 3 p.m. they broke for dinner, after which he attended the theater or other entertainment before retiring to read before bed at 7 p.m. But just days shy of his 82nd birthday, the emperor was beginning to feel his age. It must have seemed ages ago that he had ascended to the imperial throne at the age of 25. The fourth son of the Emperor Yongzheng, but the favorite son of both father and grandfather, Hongli, as he was then known, had been groomed to rule. He had been included in key rituals and allowed to participate in discussions of military affairs. Still, to avoid the factional strife that so often accompanied the transition between rulers, his father had written the name of his chosen successor on a piece of paper sealed inside a box kept above the throne in the Qianging Palace. When his father died suddenly in 1735, the box was unsealed and the name of Yongzheng’s designated successor revealed to the assembled members of the imperial family and the senior officials of the empire. Hongli chose, rather fittingly if ambitiously, as his era name Qianlong, or “lasting eminence”. But even then he had known that he had enormous shoes to fill.2

  His father and grandfather had set an impossibly high bar. His grandfather, Kangxi, came to the throne at the age of 7 in 1661, the fourth emperor of the Qing Dynasty but only the second to rule China. Over his sixty-one-year reign—the longest in Chinese history—he finally put an end to the years of chaos and instability that characterized the period following the collapse of the Ming Dynasty and the rise of the Qing. Under Kangxi, Qing rule was consolidated internally and externally, the frontier was stabilized, and an era of peace, prosperity, and stability was ushered in to replace the uncertainty and civil wars of the preceding era. It was a golden age, a highpoint of Qing rule and a model for subsequent rulers. When the Kangxi Emperor’s long reign came to an end in 1722, he was succeeded by his son, the Yongzheng Emperor, then in his mid-fifties. The Kangxi reign had been one of stabilization, allowing the Qianlong Emperor’s father to turn his attention toward much-needed internal reforms. The government was reorganized, corruption and waste were rooted out of the administration, and authority was centralized in the hands of the emperor and his newly invented “Grand Council,” which took on the consultative and administrative powers of a privy council.

  Though he would never dare to compare his reign to those of his glorious predecessors, Qianlong had much to be proud of in his fifty-seven years as emperor. Hoping to live up to the example of his illustrious predecessors, he had worked hard to be a conscientious ruler, meeting regularly with his senior officials, reading documents, issuing official edicts, traveling extensively throughout his empire, and even taking a personal role in the planning of his many military campaigns, of which he was extremely proud. His most cherished accomplishment had been to expand and secure his northern and western borders against the predations of the hostile nomads of the Mongolia Steppe. The Zunghar people of Mongolia had long served as a rival source of authority for the Manchus, and since the dawn of the Qing era had posed a constant threat to the integrity of China’s northern and western borders. Between 1755 and 1759, in a series of three violent but victorious campaigns, Qing armies had succeeded in conquering the Zunghar and incorporated their territories into the new province of Xinjiang (meaning “New Territories”), which doubled the size of the empire.

  With the Zunghar pacified and the northern border with Russia secured through a treaty, Qianlong turned to other sources of danger on China’s southern frontier. Campaigns were launched against the rebellious tribal people of Jinchuan in north-west Chengdu and western Sichuan provinces in the 1740s and 1770s, against Burma in the 1760s, and against Tibet in the 1750s. The territories conquered in these wars were too sensitive to be trusted to civilian officials, or to Han Chinese, and so were administered by Manchu military governors with large garrisons. Closed to Chinese migration and settlement, they were maintained as strategic frontier buffer zones, a means of securing the stability of the empire from the perpetual danger of outside attack or incursion.3

  Culturally, Qianlong had attempted to follow the example of his father and grandfather as well. He had always had a keen interest in art and literature, especially calligraphy and poetry, and during his reign had done much to expand the imperial art collection, even going so far as to employ Western artists and architects. He was perhaps most proud of the great work he commissioned, the so-called “Four Treasures,” an encyclopedic compilation of all the most important literary and historical works of Chinese history. Eventually running to an astounding 36,000 volumes, the Four Treasures represented both the cultural clout of the Qianlong reign and also an act of filial piety, a recognition of the great works of Chinese history.

  And yet for all his accomplishments, the weight of maintaining the empire built by his grandfather and his father, the most important act of filial piety, was exhausting. Despite the very real achievements of his reign, his attempts to exp
and and solidify the borders, to make a homogenous, unified whole out of a fractured empire, it was all still so fragile and impermanent. Soon he would officially step down as emperor so as not to reign longer than his revered grandfather’s sixty-one years, one final act of respect for the achievement of his ancestors, but there was yet so much to be done, so many dangers to be faced, so many obstacles to be surmounted, and he was not entirely sure his heirs were equal to the task.

  But for now, he had to focus his attention on the problem in his very midst, the embassy from the King of Great Britain. Though he feigned a superior disinterest in the world outside his empire, he knew enough of Europeans, and of the British in particular, to understand the threat they posed. From the time Qianlong came to the throne, the British had been persistent in their continuous demands for an alteration of their commercial and diplomatic relationship with China, constantly trying to outmaneuver or undermine the customary restrictions placed on foreign traders. But matters began to become even more strained in 1741, when a British ship under Commodore George Anson had attempted to take shelter in Canton harbor after his ship was damaged in a storm. Anson had been sent to Pacific to raid Spanish shipping during the War of Jenkins’ Ear. Anson assumed that Canton abided by the same international laws as European nations, and thus that in entering Canton his ship would be openly welcomed by a neutral power. He was, however, gravely mistaken. He was forbidden to make repairs to his ship and denied an audience with local officials (who studiously ignored his very existence and would only sell him supplies at exorbitant prices).