The Last Empress - Anchee Min [99]
Kang Yu-wei's criticism of the "eight-legged essay" was fair, if unoriginal. The essay was a formal composition in eight parts, required of every student who took the civil service examination. A good score was a must for anyone who applied for a government position. The few brilliant minds who did well on the essay were fluent in the arcane works of ancient Chinese literature and usually too bookish to function in daily life. Nevertheless, their high scores would earn them governorships.
Li Hung-chang had long concluded that the shortcomings of our educational system lay behind our sense of backwardness in the world. The court had already added subjects to the Imperial examination, such as math, science, Western medicine and world geography. The conservatives believed that to study the enemies' culture was itself an act of betrayal and an insult to our ancestors. In any case, the majority of the country supported the education reforms.
I spoke before a large audience in support of Guang-hsu's decree to abolish the eight-legged essay. "My son Tung Chih was not able to make good use of himself as Emperor," I began, "and this made me question his education. He spent fifteen years with China's top minds, but he had no idea where our enemies come from, what they are capable of or how to deal with them. The grand tutors are the chief judges of the national examination, and all they know is to recite ancient poems. It is time for them to lose their jobs."
When Guang-hsu's decree became effective, thousands of students protested. "It is not fair to test us on what we haven't been taught," their petition read.
I understood their frustration, especially that of the senior students who had invested their lives in mastering the eight-legged essay. It was harder for families whose hopes had rested on their sons' eventually passing and securing a government position.
As Guang-hsu pushed forward his reform, several senior students hanged themselves in front of the Confucius Temple, not far from the Forbidden City. The Emperor was accused of causing the despair that led to the tragedy. I comforted the families with honorific titles and taels. In the meantime, the throne continued to encourage the younger generation to embrace nontraditional subjects. What we did not expect was that when the government finally made learning possible and free to all, the schools ended up shutting down because of a lack of students.
Reformer Kang Yu-wei sent the throne sixty-three transcripts in three months. Although overwhelmed, I reviewed every one the Emperor sent on to me.
"Most of your high ministers are hidebound conservatives," one read. "If Your Majesty wishes to rely on them for reform, it will be like climbing a tree to catch fish."
Kang suggested that lower-ranking officials (like himself) be promoted to the reform bureau, bypassing the "cranky old boys."
I didn't allow the alarm in the back of my head to ring until I read the following:
KANG YU-WEI: Speed is where Your Majesty should concentrate. It took the Western powers three hundred years to succeed with modernization, and it took Japan thirty years. China is a bigger nation and is capable of generating more manpower. I predict that in three years we shall turn ourselves into a superpower.
GUANG-HSU: It won't be that easy, will it?
KANG YU-WEI: With my strategies and Your Majesty's determination, of course it will be.
I thought about a remark Li Hung-chang had made about Kang Yu-wei's being a zealot and recalled a story Yung Lu had related. It concerned a brief encounter he'd had with Kang outside the audience hall, where both were waiting to be received by the throne. When Yung Lu asked Kang about his plans for dealing with the conservatives, Kang replied, "All it takes is to behead a couple of first-ranking officers"—which of course included Yung Lu