The Reluctant Retreat of a Reigning Empress
In 1887, the 17-year-old Guangxu Emperor reached the age at which Empress Dowager Cixi was expected to relinquish her regency. For nearly three decades, Cixi had wielded unparalleled authority as the de facto ruler of the Qing Empire, creating a network of eunuchs and Manchu nobility who thrived under her patronage. The prospect of Guangxu’s ascendance threatened their privileges, triggering a flood of petitions urging Cixi to retain power. Though she publicly professed a desire to retire—a gesture expected by Confucian tradition—her reluctance was evident. It was not until 1889, during the emperor’s marriage to her niece (the daughter of her brother Guiliang), that Cixi formally “transferred” governance to Guangxu.
At 55, Cixi had grown weary of the relentless pressures of rule. Foreign powers encroached upon China’s sovereignty, while internal dissent simmered. Yet power, once tasted, was not easily surrendered. Though she retreated to the reconstructed Summer Palace, her influence lingered like a shadow over the Forbidden City. She maintained control over key appointments, often acting on recommendations from her chief eunuch, Li Lianying. The emperor’s every move was monitored, his autonomy carefully circumscribed.
A Marriage of Control, Not Love
Cixi’s selection of Guangxu’s bride was a calculated move to avoid past mistakes. Her own son, the Tongzhi Emperor, had defied her by marrying the strong-willed Alute, leading to a bitter feud. Determined to prevent history from repeating, Cixi arranged Guangxu’s union with her niece—a woman of plain appearance but sharp intellect, bred from the same Yehenara clan that had produced Cixi herself. The marriage was disastrous. Guangxu openly favored his concubines, Consorts Zhen and Jin, while his empress became a symbol of Cixi’s meddling. Courtiers whispered of their frequent quarrels, with the empress often emerging victorious through sheer force of will.
The Phantom Regency: Power Behind the Curtain
Despite her retirement, Cixi’s grip on governance never truly loosened. When factions within the Yehenara clan pushed to elevate Guangxu’s father, Prince Chun, to the title of “Imperial Father,” Cixi intervened. She publicly praised Prince Chun’s humility, citing his refusal of honors (including sharing her imperial palanquin) as proof of his loyalty. Yet archival evidence reveals Prince Chun’s private fears: as early as 1875, he had preemptively petitioned against any posthumous elevation, wary of accusations of overreach. His death in 1891 marked the loss of Cixi’s most trusted advisor—a staunch conservative who famously declared, “Better to hand power to foreign devils than to Han rebels.”
The Aborted Jubilee and the Scapegoat of War
In 1894, as Cixi prepared for her lavish 60th birthday celebrations—funded by diverted naval budgets and provincial tributes—the Sino-Japanese War erupted. China’s humiliating defeat forced the cancellation of her festivities, a blow she resented. In a rare edict, Guangxu framed the austerity as Cixi’s selfless choice: “How can We celebrate when Our soldiers suffer?” Yet behind the scenes, blame was shifting. Cixi, furious at Guangxu’s unauthorized declaration of war, began viewing him as a political liability.
The war’s aftermath exposed deeper fractures. Reformist censors like An Weijun accused Cixi and Li Hongzhang (the negotiator of the unfavorable Treaty of Shimonoseki) of treason, even implicating Li Lianying in backroom diplomacy. An’s fiery memorial—which dared to ask, “How can the Emperor face the ancestors if the Dowager still rules?”—earned him exile. Cixi’s rebuttal was swift: she framed dissent as disloyalty, shielding Li Hongzhang while privately seething over the loss of face.
The Unraveling: From Rift to Revolution
The war’s fallout poisoned relations between Cixi and Guangxu irreparably. By 1898, their conflict would erupt into the Hundred Days’ Reform and its brutal suppression. Yet the roots of this schism lay in the 1889 transition—a transfer of power in name only. Cixi’s “retirement” had been a mirage, her shadow government undermining Guangxu at every turn. Even her architectural choices reflected this duality: the Summer Palace, rebuilt with naval funds, stood as both a retreat and a watchtower overlooking Beijing.
Historians debate whether Cixi’s clinging to power hastened the Qing’s collapse. What is undeniable is that the 1889 transition—a masterclass in political theater—revealed the dynasty’s fatal flaw: an empire unable to reform without unraveling, trapped between an empress who wouldn’t let go and an emperor who couldn’t break free. The echoes of this struggle would reverberate through the Boxer Rebellion, the 1911 Revolution, and beyond.