A Statesman’s Illness and the Allure of Western Solutions

In the late 19th century, as China grappled with internal decay and external threats, few figures loomed as large as Li Hongzhang. A key architect of the Self-Strengthening Movement, Li’s personal experiences often mirrored the empire’s struggles. His recovery from a serious illness in 1888—first treated unsuccessfully with traditional Chinese medicine before Western doctors provided an effective cure—became a metaphor for his political philosophy. “Ten days confined to bed, unprecedented… rumors outside may exaggerate,” he wrote to associate Zhang Yi, reflecting on the episode. For Li, the swift efficacy of Western medicine reinforced his belief that adopting foreign technology and methods was China’s only path to survival.

This conviction found immediate expression in his push for military modernization. By December 1888, Li oversaw the formal establishment of the Beiyang Navy, Asia’s most formidable fleet at the time. Its structure, modeled on British naval tactics with German influences, prioritized training and discipline. Officers like Ding Ruchang (appointed Admiral) and Lin Taizeng (commander of the ironclad Zhenyuan) symbolized this new era. Even the training vessel Minjie, a repurposed British sailboat, reflected Li’s pragmatism—acquired for 22,000 taels of silver, it embodied cost-effective adaptation.

The Beiyang Navy: Pride and Political Capital

The Beiyang Fleet’s 25 warships were more than a defensive force; they were Li Hongzhang’s personal power base. Unlike earlier Qing military units, this navy operated with relative autonomy under Li’s patronage. Its creation marked a high point of the “Western Affairs Movement” (洋务运动), which sought to blend foreign technology with Chinese institutions. Yet contradictions abounded: while the ships were modern, the fleet remained tethered to old patronage networks. As historian John Rawski notes, “Li’s navy was simultaneously China’s hope and a reminder of the system’s fatal compromises.”

The fleet’s very existence altered regional dynamics. Japan, rapidly modernizing under the Meiji Restoration, viewed its growth with alarm. Meanwhile, Western powers saw opportunities—British firms supplied ships, German advisors trained crews, and American merchants eyed coaling stations. This intersection of interests would soon explode during the First Sino-Japanese War (1894–95), but in 1888, the Beiyang Navy still projected an image of strength.

The Korean Chessboard: Exiles, Assassins, and Yuan Shikai

While building his navy, Li navigated another crisis: the volatile politics of Korea, then a Qing tributary state. Reports from Chinese envoy Li Shuchang detailed the precarious situation of Kim Ok-gyun, a pro-Japanese Korean reformer exiled to Japan’s Bonin Islands. Kim’s transfer to Sapporo in July 1888—amid rumors of assassination plots by Queen Min’s faction—forced Li Hongzhang to weigh intervention.

Kim represented everything Li distrusted: a charismatic reformer who admired Japan’s modernization and opposed Qing influence. Yet assassinating him risked backlash. “Better to let the pro-Japanese faction wither naturally,” Li mused. His calculus revealed a key dilemma—how to maintain Qing suzerainty without provoking Japan or Western powers.

Complicating matters was Yuan Shikai, China’s assertive resident in Seoul. Though criticized for heavy-handedness, Yuan’s tenure (extended by Li despite calls for his recall) exemplified realpolitik. “Yuan has spirit… if sometimes reckless,” Li wrote to the Zongli Yamen, defending his protégé. The episode highlighted Li’s governance style: preferring flawed but decisive actors over cautious bureaucrats.

The Forbidden City’s Shadows: Guangxu’s Troubled Reign

As Li managed external crises, Beijing’s court simmered with intrigue. The 17-year-old Guangxu Emperor, installed by his aunt Empress Dowager Cixi after the suspicious death of the childless Tongzhi Emperor, chafed under her control. Cixi’s “retirement” ahead of Guangxu’s 1889 marriage (to her niece, a political match he resented) was a facade. The emperor’s preference for concubines Zhen and Jin over his empress deepened the rift—a personal drama with national consequences.

This toxic dynamic mirrored broader tensions. Cixi’s factionalism stifled reform, while Guangxu’s later “Hundred Days’ Reform” (1898) would trigger her coup. Li Hongzhang, though sidelined during this period, understood the cost of court dysfunction. His 1888 correspondence reveals no direct criticism of Cixi, but his focus on practical governance—naval expansion, Korean stability—suggests a deliberate distancing from palace feuds.

A General’s Daughter: The Unconventional Marriage of Li Ju’ou

In November 1888, Li’s personal life made waves when he wed his 20-year-old daughter Ju’ou to Zhang Peilun, a 40-year-old twice-widowed scholar. Critics scoffed at the age gap, but Li saw in Zhang an intellectual boldness lacking in his peers. A celebrated “Hanlin Four Censor” known for impeaching corrupt officials, Zhang had been disgraced after the 1884 Fuzhou Naval Disaster but remained unbroken.

Their union—documented in Zhang’s Jianyu Ji with entries like “drank with my wife, much joy” and “played shoutan [go] with my wife, much joy”—became a rare love match among elite marriages. Li’s choice reflected his nuanced worldview: while advocating Western technology, he valued Confucian scholarly ideals in private life. The contrast with Guangxu’s arranged misery underscored Li’s ability to navigate tradition and change.

Legacy: The Limits of Partial Modernization

The year 1888 encapsulated late Qing China’s paradoxes. Li’s Beiyang Navy, though impressive, would be crushed at the Battle of the Yalu River six years later due to underfunding and poor coordination—a testament to half-hearted reform. His reliance on personal networks (like Yuan Shikai) created capable individuals but failed to institutionalize progress. Even his daughter’s happy marriage, while personally fulfilling, couldn’t offset systemic decay.

Yet Li’s pragmatism left enduring marks. By professionalizing military education and engaging with global powers, he laid groundwork for later reformers. As contemporary scholar Wang Rongzu observes, “Li Hongzhang’s 1888 was a year of fragile hope—the last moment when incremental change seemed enough to save the empire.” When that hope faded, the consequences would reshape East Asia for a century.