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 The old palace guards were withdrawn,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.
- The text in this document is from a Korea-related work more than 50 years after the death of the authour and thus has entered the public domain. No modifications should be made to the text as this is the source of the work itself, not a page to be collaboratively worked on and improved.
