A Frosty Morning in the Forbidden City

On the twenty-seventh day of the tenth lunar month in the fourth year of the Guangxu Emperor’s reign , the Forbidden City presented a study in contrasts. Outside the Hall of Mental Cultivation, winter had arrived in earnest—the large water vats stood frozen solid to their bottoms, their surfaces glazed with ice that reflected the pale winter light. Yet inside the Eastern Warmth Chamber, an entirely different climate prevailed. Following the death of the Tongzhi Emperor from smallpox in this very chamber, the two empress dowagers had ordered extensive renovations. The windows and doors now fit their frames with perfect precision, excluding the bitter northwest winds that swept across northern China. Four large bronze charcoal braziers glowed with warmth, creating an atmosphere more reminiscent of late autumn than the depths of winter.

This carefully controlled environment served as the stage for weighty matters of state. Here, the imperial court conducted its business with measured deliberation, insulated from both the physical cold outside and the political storms brewing beyond the palace walls. The comfortable surroundings belied the tension that would soon surface during discussions that day—tensions that would reveal much about the fragile balance of power in late nineteenth-century China.

The Unresolved Case of Dongxiang

The day’s proceedings began with Prince Gong, the influential imperial uncle and leading statesman, addressing a long-standing judicial matter. “The Dongxiang case in Sichuan remains unresolved,” he stated, his voice carrying the authority of someone who had navigated court politics for decades. “The reports from Ding Baozhen, Governor of Sichuan, and Li Zongxi, Governor of Yunnan and Guizhou, contain conflicting accounts.”

Prince Gong went on to explain that Li Zongxi had requested that the case be transferred to the Board of Punishments in Beijing, following the precedent set by the famous Yang Naiwu case. However, the prince and his colleagues had determined this approach unsuitable for several reasons. “First, there are numerous witnesses involved in this case. Second, Sichuan is too distant from the capital, and transferring the proceedings to Beijing would place too great a burden on the people. Even convening a joint session of the Six Boards and Nine Ministers would find it difficult to reach a definitive judgment.”

Having laid out these considerations, Prince Gong reached behind him without looking, where his colleague Baojun promptly placed a slip of paper in his hand. This seamless coordination spoke volumes about the well-rehearsed nature of court proceedings. “We therefore request an imperial decree authorizing the dispatch of special imperial commissioners to investigate the matter on site,” Prince Gong concluded.

The proposed commissioners were En Cheng, President of the Board of rites, and Tong Hua, a vice minister. Empress Dowager Cixi, the real power behind the throne, approved the selection but noted with some frustration: “This case has dragged on for too long. I can’t even remember how many edicts we’ve issued about it.”

The answer came from Shen Guifen, another senior official: “Twelve edicts in total, Your Majesty.” The empress dowager, whose sharp hearing had become legendary in court circles, immediately instructed that copies of all twelve edicts, along with the original memorial from Wen Ge, be provided to the investigating commissioners.

The Unexpected Proposal

The discussion then turned to another matter of personnel appointment. Prince Gong reported that according to a previous imperial decree, Li Peijing, Governor of Guizhou, had been summoned to the capital for an audience. “Li Peijing has served in Guizhou since the third year of the Tongzhi reign ,” the prince noted. “He has been there for twelve years. As Guizhou is a particularly impoverished region, perhaps we should consider transferring him to a less challenging post?”

Empress Dowager Cixi agreed that the long-serving official deserved reassignment but proposed handling the matter differently: “Since Li Peijing will likely not return to his post, we should appoint someone to replace him immediately.” Then came the bombshell that would send shockwaves through the court: “Let’s send Shen Guifen to Guizhou!”

The announcement struck those present like a thunderclap on a clear day. Each person mentally repeated the words, hardly believing what they had heard. There was no mistake—the empress dowager had clearly said five words that would upend the political landscape: “Send Shen Guifen to Guizhou!”

A Minister’s Courageous Opposition

Baojun was the first to find his voice, and he used it to mount a vigorous opposition. “We cannot obey this command!” he declared, his words cutting through the stunned silence. “A provincial governor is a second-rank position. Shen Guifen currently serves as Associate Grand Secretary, Minister of War, and Grand Councilor—all first-rank positions. He has served with distinction for years and should not be demoted to a frontier post. This decree, if issued, would shock the capital and the provinces alike. It would affect both the court’s dignity and how we are perceived throughout the empire. I beg the two empress dowagers to reconsider this command.”

Prince Gong quickly added his support to Baojun’s position: “Baojun speaks truthfully. Moreover, the Foreign Affairs Office cannot do without Shen Guifen.” The other officials remained silent—Jing Lian, who had replaced the late Wen Xiang, lacked sufficient seniority to speak up; Wang Wenshao, the newest member of the Grand Council, held only a junior position; and Shen Guifen himself could hardly argue on his own behalf.

The empress dowager initially felt displeased at Baojun’s blunt opposition, particularly his statement that the ministers “could not obey” her command. However, upon reflection, she recognized that her own decision had been rash. She also reconsidered Shen Guifen’s value—his careful and compliant nature made him particularly useful in managing court affairs. Changing her mind, she accepted Baojun’s forthright advice and withdrew the order to send Shen Guifen to Guizhou.

The Political Undercurrents

Though the immediate crisis had passed, the incident left lingering questions and concerns throughout the court. The demotion of a senior statesman like Shen Guifen to a provincial post would have represented a clear sign of imperial disfavor. The fact that such a move had even been contemplated suggested that more than one official’s career might be in jeopardy.

At least three other high-ranking officials watched these developments with particular concern: Dong Xun, Minister of Revenue and official at the Foreign Affairs Office; Wang Wenshao, the junior Grand Councilor; and Weng Tonghe, Left Censor-in-Chief and tutor to two emperors. Each recognized that the political winds might be shifting in dangerous directions.

The anxious Shen Guifen eventually received a visit from Weng Tonghe, who arrived under cover of darkness to avoid attracting attention. The contrast between the two men was striking—Weng maintained his characteristic composure, while the usually deep and reserved Shen Guifen appeared uncharacteristically unsettled.

Their conversation quickly turned to the day’s events. “Have you heard any news?” Shen asked directly. “What are people saying?”

“Opinions vary,” Weng replied, “but most share a similar view: that Li Hongzao is behind this.” He paused briefly before adding, “Many have been dissatisfied ever since Wang Wenshao joined the Grand Council.”

The North-South Divide in Qing Politics

Wang Wenshao’s appointment to the Grand Council earlier that year had indeed caused considerable controversy. He had filled the vacancy left by Li Hongzao, who had left to observe the traditional mourning period after his mother’s death. The Grand Council traditionally maintained a balance between northern and southern Chinese officials—with Prince Gong leading the council, two Manchu and two Han Chinese ministers typically served, with the Han ministers representing northern and southern China respectively.

This regional balance represented more than just geographical representation—it reflected deep cultural, economic, and political differences within China. Southern officials often came from wealthier, more commercialized regions with stronger connections to foreign trade, while northern officials typically represented more agricultural, conservative constituencies. Maintaining this balance ensured that neither region dominated court politics.

Shen Guifen, himself a southern official from Jiangsu province, had disrupted this delicate equilibrium by recommending his fellow southerner Wang Wenshao for the vacant position. This move had naturally drawn opposition from Li Hongzao and other northern officials, who saw it as an attempt to increase southern influence at court.

Yet Shen Guifen remained skeptical that Li Hongzao alone could have engineered such a dramatic move against him. “Li Hongzao is still essentially an upright gentleman,” he mused. “Besides, his mourning period isn’t over yet—he doesn’t need to drive me from the Grand Council at this moment. Even if I were removed, he wouldn’t be the one to replace me—someone else would benefit.”

The Hidden Hand Behind the Throne

Weng Tonghe then offered another theory: “The common opinions don’t quite get to the heart of the matter. In my view, it’s more likely ‘Gaomi’s’ hidden arrow.” The reference was deliberately obscure—”Gaomi” alluded to “Zhonghua” through literary allusion to Deng Yu, a famous general from the Han dynasty who was enfeoffed as Marquis of Gaomi and whose courtesy name was Zhonghua. This was a veiled reference to Ronglu, the powerful Manchu official whose courtesy name shared the same characters.

This interpretation aligned with Shen Guifen’s own suspicions. “Exactly!” he exclaimed, striking his knee. “No one else would conceive such a malicious plan. Even if they had such malicious thoughts, they wouldn’t know how to present them to the throne.”

Ronglu represented a different kind of threat than Li Hongzao. As a Manchu military commander and close associate of the empress dowager, he operated through different channels and wielded different kinds of influence. His potential involvement suggested that the attack on Shen Guifen might be part of broader maneuvering between Manchu and Han Chinese factions at court.

Weng Tonghe, perhaps reconsidering the strength of his assertion, began to backtrack slightly: “However, this is merely speculation without solid evidence…”

Shen Guifen cut him off: “Not so!” After a moment’s hesitation, he made an unusual request: “Could you help me in this matter?”

The Web of Personal Relationships

Weng Tonghe responded with appropriate humility: “How could you ask? I only worry that my influence may be too weak to be of real assistance.”

Shen pressed his case: “This matter requires your considerable capabilities—others would be useless.” Then he lowered his voice to emphasize the sensitivity of what he was about to propose: “You and ‘Gaomi’ are sworn brothers—you could approach him confidentially.”

This request gave Weng Tonghe pause. He understood perfectly what Shen Guifen implied—that he should visit Ronglu and attempt to gather intelligence about whether he indeed stood behind the move to demote Shen. The request surprised him, but after careful consideration, he recognized its logic. The complex web of personal relationships—of sworn brotherhoods, teacher-student connections, and regional affiliations—often proved more important than official channels in Qing politics.

What Shen proposed was essentially espionage within the upper echelons of power, using personal connections to uncover political maneuvers. This reflected how Qing court politics operated through both formal institutions and informal networks, with the latter often proving decisive in matters of political survival.

The Broader Historical Context

The events of that late autumn day in 1878 must be understood within the broader context of Qing politics during the Tongzhi Restoration and other internal crises while responding to increasing foreign pressure.

The Qing government faced enormous challenges: rebuilding devastated regions, modernizing military and economic systems, managing relations with increasingly aggressive foreign powers, and maintaining stability in a changing world. These practical challenges occurred alongside ongoing power struggles between different factions at court—between conservatives and reformers, between Manchu and Han Chinese officials, between those favoring isolation and those advocating engagement with the outside world.

The Dongxiang case itself illustrated the difficulties of maintaining imperial control over distant provinces. Sichuan, located in western China, had a history of local unrest and resistance to central authority. The case involved allegations of official corruption and abuse of power against local taxpayers—precisely the kind of grievance that could escalate into larger rebellions if mishandled. The court’s careful approach reflected awareness of these risks.

Similarly, the proposed transfer of Li Peijing from Guizhou highlighted the challenges of regional governance. Guizhou was one of China’s poorest provinces, with significant non-Han populations and limited infrastructure. Officials assigned to such posts faced tremendous difficulties, and extended service could indeed be considered a hardship worthy of compensation through subsequent preferment.

The Cultural Significance of Court Politics

The events described here reveal much about Qing political culture. The elaborate rituals of court procedure, the precise forms of address, the indirect communication through historical allusion and literary reference—all these elements created a complex political language that required mastery for survival and advancement.

The physical setting itself carried symbolic importance. The Hall of Mental Cultivation had served as the emperor’s residence and office since the Yongzheng reign , making it the true center of power in Qing China. Its division into different chambers—each with specific functions—mirrored the division of responsibilities within the government. The Eastern Warmth Chamber specifically served as where the emperor or empress dowagers met with high officials, making it the setting for many crucial political decisions.

The careful temperature control—keeping the chamber warm while winter raged outside—symbolized the court’s attempt to maintain order and stability in a challenging environment. Just as the braziers and well-fitted windows excluded the cold, the court rituals and procedures aimed to exclude the chaos and uncertainty of the outside world.

Yet as the day’s events demonstrated, political tensions could not be entirely excluded. Personal rivalries, regional biases, and competing policy preferences all found expression within the formal structures of court politics. The fact that these tensions surfaced over what appeared to be routine matters of personnel assignment and case management showed how even seemingly minor decisions could reflect larger power struggles.

Legacy and Historical Significance

The political maneuvering of 1878 would have lasting implications for Qing China. The factions and personal rivalries evident in these events would continue to influence policy decisions in the coming decades, including China’s response to foreign encroachment and domestic reform movements.

Shen Guifen himself would remain an important figure until his death in 1881, continuing to advocate for policies that would strengthen China against foreign threats. His protégé Wang Wenshao would go on to have a long and influential career, serving in numerous high positions including Grand Councilor and Governor-General. The regional tensions between northern and southern officials would continue to shape court politics throughout the late Qing period.

Ronglu, the suspected architect of the move against Shen Guifen, would become increasingly powerful in the coming years. He played a crucial role in suppressing the Boxer Rebellion in 1900 and became one of the most influential Manchu officials in the late Qing court. His rivalry with various Han Chinese officials would continue to influence political developments.

Perhaps most significantly, the events of 1878 revealed the fragile nature of political power in late Qing China. Even highly positioned officials like Shen Guifen could find their careers threatened by palace intrigues and factional politics. This instability at the highest levels of government would hamper China’s ability to respond effectively to the enormous challenges it faced in the final decades of the nineteenth century.

The personal connections and informal networks that proved so crucial in these political maneuvers would continue to characterize Chinese politics long after the Qing dynasty fell in 1912. The complex interplay between formal institutions and informal relationships remains a feature of Chinese political culture to this day.

In the end, the winter day described in our account represents more than just a particular historical moment—it offers a window into the complex world of late imperial Chinese politics, with all its intricate rituals, personal rivalries, and enduring patterns of political behavior. The warmth of the Eastern Warmth Chamber may have kept out the physical cold, but it could not eliminate the political tensions that would ultimately contribute to the Qing dynasty’s downfall.