VII
THE ABDICATION OF YI HYEUNG
The Court party was from the first the strongest opponent of the Japanese. Patriotism, tradition, and selfish interests all combined to intensify the resistance of its members. Some officials found their profits threatened, some mourned for perquisites that were cut off, some were ousted out of their places to make room for Japanese, and most felt a not unnatural anger to see men of another race quietly assume authority over their Emperor and their country. The Emperor led the opposition. Old perils had taught him cunning. He knew a hundred ways to feed the stream of discontent, without himself coming forward. Unfortunately there was a fatal strain of weakness in his character. He would support vigorous action in secret, and then, when men translated his speech into deeds, he would disavow them at the bidding of the Japanese. On one point he never wavered. All attempts to make him formally consent to the treaty of November, 1905, were in vain. "I would sooner die first!" he cried. "I would sooner take poison and end all!" In July, 1906, the Marquis Ito began to exercise stronger constraint on the personal life of the Emperor. One evening a number of Japanese police were brought into the palace. The old palace guards were withdrawn, and the Emperor was made virtually a prisoner. Police officers were posted at each gate, and no one was allowed in or out without a permit from a Japanese-nominated official. At the same time many of the old palace attendants were cleared out. The Resident-General thought that if the Emperor were isolated from his friends, and if he were constantly surrounded by enthusiastic advocates of Japan, he might be coerced or influenced into submission. Yet here Marquis Ito had struck against a vein of obstinacy and determination that he could scarce have reckoned with.
The Emperor had taken every opportunity to send messages abroad protesting against the treaty. He managed, time after time, still to hold communication with his friends, but the Japanese took good care that traitors should come to him and be loudest in their expressions of loyalty. Little that he did but was immediately known to his captors. In the early summer of 1907 the Emperor thought that he saw his chance at last of striking a blow for freedom through the Hague Conference. He was still convinced that if he could only assure the Powers that he had never consented to the treaty robbing Korea of its independence, they would then send their Ministers back to Seoul and cause Japan to relax her hand. Accordingly, amid great secrecy, three Korean delegates of high rank were provided with funds and despatched to the Hague under the guardianship of Mr. Hulbert. They reached the Hague only to be refused a hearing. The Conference would have nothing to say to them.
This action on the part of the Emperor gave the Japanese an excuse they had long been looking for. The formation of the Korean Cabinet had been altered months before in anticipation of such a crisis, and the Cabinet Ministers were now nominated not by the Emperor, but by the Resident-General. The Emperor had been deprived of administrative and executive power. The Marquis Ito had seen to it that the Ministers were wholly his tools. The time had come when his tools were to cut. The Japanese Government assumed an attitude of silent wrath. It could not allow such offences to go unpunished, its friends declared, but what punishment it would inflict it refused to say.
Proceedings were much more cleverly stage-managed than in November, 1905. Nominally, the Japanese had nothing to do with the abdication of the Emperor. Actually the Cabinet Ministers held their gathering at the Residency-General to decide on their policy, and did as they were instructed. They went to the Emperor and demanded that he should abandon the throne to save his country from being swallowed up by Japan. At first he refused, upon which their insistence grew greater. No news of sympathy or help reached him from foreign lands. Knowing the perils surrounding him, he thought that he would trick them all by a simple device. He would make his son, the Crown Prince, temporary Emperor, using a Chinese ideograph for his new title which could scarce be distinguished from the title giving him final and full authority. Here he overreached himself, for, once out, he was out for good. On July 19th, at six o'clock in the morning, after an all-night conference, the Emperor was persuaded to abdicate.
The new Emperor, feeble of intellect, could be little more than a tool in the hands of his advisers. His father, however, intended to remain by his side, and to rule through him. In less than a week the Japanese had prepared a new treaty, providing still more strictly for the absolute control of everything in the country by Japan. The six curt clauses of this measure were as far-reaching as they could possibly be made. No laws were to be acted upon or important measures taken by the Government unless the consent and approval of the Resident-General had been previously given. All officials were to hold their positions at the pleasure of the Resident-General, and the Government of Korea agreed to appoint any Japanese the Resident-General might recommend to any post. Finally, the Government of Korea was to engage no foreigner without the consent of the Japanese head.
A few days later a fresh rescript was issued in the name of the new Emperor, ordering the disbandment of the Korean Army. This was written in the most insulting language possible. "Our existing army which is composed of mercenaries, is unfit for the purposes of national defence," it declared. It was to make way "for the eventual formation of an efficient army." To add to the insult, the Korean Premier, Yi, was ordered to write a request to the Resident-General, begging him to employ the Japanese forces to prevent disturbances when the disbandment took place. It was as though the Japanese, having their heel on the neck of the enemy, slapped his face to show their contempt for him. On the morning of August 1st some of the superior officers of the Korean Army were called to the residence of the Japanese commander, General Hasegawa, and the Order was read to them. They were told that they were to assemble their men next morning, without arms, and to dismiss them after paying them gratuities, while at the same time their weapons would be secured in their absence.
One officer, Major Pak, commander of the smartest and best of the Korean battalions, returned to his barracks in despair, and committed suicide. His men learnt of what had happened and rose in mutiny. They burst upon their Japanese military instructors and nearly killed them. They then forced open the ammunition-room, secured weapons and cartridges, posted themselves behind the windows of their barracks, and fired at every Japanese they saw. News quickly reached the authorities, and Japanese companies of infantry hurried out and surrounded their barracks. One party attacked the front with a machine-gun, and another assaulted from behind. Fighting began at half-past eight in the morning. The Koreans defended themselves until noon, and then were finally overcome by a bayonet charge from the rear. Their gallant defence excited the greatest admiration even among their enemies, and it was notable that for a few days at least the Japanese spoke with more respect of Korea and the Korean people than they had ever done before.
Only one series of incidents disgraced the day. The Japanese soldiers behaved well and treated the wounded well, but that night parties of low-class bullies emerged from the Japanese quarter, seeking victims. They beat, they stabbed and murdered any man they could find whom they suspected of being a rebel. Dozens of them would set on one helpless victim and do him to death. This was stopped as soon as the Residency-General knew what was happening, and a number of offenders were arrested.
Late in August the new Emperor of Korea was crowned amid the sullen silence of a resentful people. Of popular enthusiasm there was none. A few flags were displayed in the streets by the order of the police. In olden times a coronation had been marked by great festivities, lasting many weeks. Now there was gloom, apathy, indifference. News was coming in hourly from the provinces of uprisings and murders. The Il Chin Hoi—they call themselves reformers, but the nation has labelled them traitors—attempted to make a feast, but the people stayed away. "This is the day not for feasting but for the beginning of a year of mourning," men muttered one to the other.
The Japanese authorities who controlled the coronation ceremony did all they could to minimize it and to prevent independent outside publicity. In this they were well advised. No one who looked upon the new Emperor as he entered the hall of state, his shaking frame upborne by two officials, or as he stood later, with open mouth, fallen jaw, indifferent eyes, and face lacking even a flickering gleam of intelligent interest, could doubt that the fewer who saw this the better. Yet the ceremony, even when robbed of much of its ancient pomp and all its dignity, was unique and picturesque.
The main feature of this day was not so much the coronation itself as the cutting of the Emperor's topknot.
On the abdication of the old Emperor, the Cabinet—who were enthusiastic hair-cutters—saw their opportunity. The new Emperor was informed that his hair must be cut. He did not like it. He thought that the operation would be painful, and he was quite satisfied with his hair as it was. Then his Cabinet showed him a brilliant uniform, covered with gold lace. He was henceforth to wear that on ceremonial occasions, and not his old Korean dress. How could he put on the plumed hat of a Generalissimo with a topknot in the way? The Cabinet were determined. A few hours later a proclamation was spread through the land informing all dutiful subjects that the Emperor's topknot was coming off, and urging them to imitate him.
A new Court servant was appointed—the High Imperial Hair-cutter. He displayed his uniform in the streets around the palace, a sight for the gods. He strutted along in white breeches, voluminous white frock-coat, white shoes, and black silk hat, the centre of attention.
Early in the morning there was a great scene in the palace. The Imperial Hair-cutter was in attendance. A group of old Court officials hung around the Emperor. With blanched faces and shaking voices they implored him not to abandon the old ways. The Emperor paused, fearful. What power would be filched from him by the shearing of his locks? But there could be no hesitating now. Resolute men were behind who knew what they were going to see done. A few minutes later the great step was taken.
The Residency-General arranged the coronation ceremony in such a manner as to include as many Japanese and to exclude as many foreigners as possible. There were nearly a hundred Japanese present, including the Mayor of the Japanese settlement and the Buddhist priest. There were only six white men—five Consuls-General and Bishop Turner, chief of the Anglican Church in Korea. The Japanese came arrayed in splendid uniforms. It was part of the new Japanese policy to attire even the most minor officials in sumptuous Court dress, with much gold lace and many orders. This enabled Japan to make a brilliant show in official ceremonies, a thing not without effect in Oriental Courts.
Shortly before ten o'clock the guests assembled in the throne-room of the palace, a modern apartment with a raised dais at one end. There were Koreans to the left and Japanese to the right of the Emperor, with the Cabinet in the front line on one side and the Residency-General officials on the other. The foreigners faced the raised platform.
The new Emperor appeared, borne to the platform by the Lord Chamberlain and the Master of the Household. He was dressed in the ancient costume of his people, a flowing blue garment reaching to the ankles, with a robe of softer cream colour underneath. On his head was a quaint Korean hat, with a circle of Korean ornaments hanging from its high, outstanding horsehair brim. On his chest was a small decorative breastplate. Tall, clumsily built, awkward, and vacant-looking—such was the Emperor.
In ancient days all would have kow-towed before him, and would have beaten their foreheads on the ground. Now no man did more than bow, save one Court herald, who knelt. Weird Korean music started in the background, the beating of drums and the playing of melancholy wind instruments. The Master of Ceremonies struck up a chant, which hidden choristers continued. Amid silence, the Prime Minister, in smart modern attire, advanced and read a paper of welcome. The Emperor stood still, apparently the least interested man in the room. He did not even look bored—simply vacant.
After this there was a pause in the proceedings. The Emperor retired and the guests went into the anterooms. Soon all were recalled, and the Emperor reappeared. There had been a quick change in the meantime. He was now wearing his new modern uniform, as Generalissimo of the Korean Army. Two high decorations—one, if I mistake not, from the Emperor of Japan—hung on his breast. He looked much more manly in his new attire. In front of him was placed his new headdress, a peaked cap with a fine plume sticking up straight in front. The music now was no longer the ancient Korean, but modern airs from the very fine European-trained band attached to the palace. The Korean players had gone, with the old dress and the old life, into limbo.
The Japanese Acting Resident-General and military commander, General Baron Hasegawa, strong and masterful-looking, stepped to the front with a message of welcome from his Emperor. He was followed by the doyen of the Consular Corps, M. Vincart, with the Consular greetings. This Consular message had been very carefully sub-edited, and all expressions implying that the Governments of the different representatives approved of the proceedings had been eliminated. Then the coronation was over.
Two figures were conspicuous by their absence. The ex-Emperor was not present According to the official explanation, he was unable to attend because "his uniform had not been finished in time," Really, as all men knew, he was sitting resentful and protesting within a few score yards of the spot where his son was crowned.
The second absent figure was the Russian Consul-General, M. de Plançon. It was announced that M. de Plançon was late, and so could not attend. Seeing that M. de Plançon lived not ten minutes' walk from the palace, and that the guests had to wait nearly an hour after the time announced before the ceremony began, he must have overslept very much indeed on that particular morning. Oddly enough, M. de Plançon is usually an early riser.