The poet-historian Qian Qianyi

The Poet-historian Qian Qianyi This book is the first English language study of Qian Qianyi (1582–1664)—a poet and lite...

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The Poet-historian Qian Qianyi

This book is the first English language study of Qian Qianyi (1582–1664)—a poet and literary critic during the Ming–Qing dynastic transition. Although Qian’s works constitute some of the greatest achievements in pre-modern Chinese lyric poetry, they have been largely understudied and are poorly understood. Qian was reputed for his own aesthetic that changed the character of late Ming and early Qing poetry. His name, however, was branded with infamy for his disloyalty to the Ming dynasty when it dissolved. Consequently, his works were censored by the Qing court and have been forgotten by most critics until recently. Lawrence C.H. Yim focuses on Qian’s poetic theory and practice, providing a critical study of Qian’s theory of poetic history (shishi) and a group of poems from the Toubi ji. He also examines the role played by history in early Qing verse, rethinking the nature of loyalism and historical memory in seventeenth-century China. Poetry of the Ming–Qing transition is distinguished by its manifest historical consciousness and the effort to give meaning to current historical events, an effort characterized by the pathos of introspection and mourning for the past. This pathos translates into what can be called a poetics of Ming loyalism, exemplified and championed by, intriguingly, the later works of Qian Qianyi himself. Lawrence C.H. Yim received his Ph.D. from Yale University and is now Associate Research Fellow in the Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy at Academia Sinica, and Associate Professor of Chinese Literature, National Tsing Hua University, Taiwan. He has published articles on Ming– Qing poetry and literary theory and criticism.

Academia Sinica on East Asia Published in association with Academia Sinica, Taiwan Series Editor: Dr Ts’ui-jung Liu, Vice-President, Academia Sinica, Taiwan Academia Sinica was founded in Mainland China in 1928. During its early stage of development ten institutes were created, three of which were in the field of humanities and social sciences. Then came the turbulent years and in late 1948 Academia Sinica followed the government move to Taiwan. Only two of its institutes, History & Philology and Mathematics, ever arrived and these were established in Nankang, an eastern suburb of Taipei. From these difficult beginnings Academia Sinica has developed over the years into a prestigious full-scale research institution with 31 institutes and research centers. The fields of humanities and social sciences have eleven institutes and one research center between them and the extensive team of researchers are devoted to the study of archaeology, history, literature, linguistics, philology, philosophy, anthropology, economics, sociology, political science, and law as well as interdisciplinary research. The Academia Sinica on East Asia series will incorporate the Academia’s best research on East Asia from the humanities and social sciences institutes. Edited by Ts’ui-jung Liu, the series will strive to make an important contribution to the field.

Ts’ui-jung Liu Series Editor Taiwan in Japan’s Empire-Building An Institutional Approach to Colonial Engineering Hui-yu Caroline Ts’ai Divine Justice Religion and the Development of Chinese Legal Culture Paul R. Katz The Poet-historian Qian Qianyi Lawrence C.H. Yim

The Poet-historian Qian Qianyi

Lawrence C.H. Yim

First published 2009 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2010. To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk. © 2009 Lawrence C.H Yim All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Yim, Lawrence C. H. The poet-historian Qian Qianyi / Lawrence C.H. Yim. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Qian, Qianyi, 1582–1664—Criticism and interpretation. I. Title. PL2701.Z5Y34 2009 895.1′146–dc22 2008045331 ISBN 0-203-87878-7 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN10: 0–415–49460–5 (hbk) ISBN10: 0–203–87878–7 (ebk) ISBN13: 978–0–415–49460–1 (hbk) ISBN13: 978–0–203–87878–1(ebk)

To my mother Wong For-mui

Contents

Acknowledgements

ix

Introduction

1

PART I

Qian Qianyi’s theory of shishi and historical contexts 1 2

13

Qian Qianyi’s theory of shishi and the poetics of Ming loyalism

15

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times

56

PART II

“Renouncing the pen for the sword”: three readings of Qian Qianyi’s shishi

79

Introduction to Part II: placing Toubi ji in context

81

3

The prophesying poet-historian

84

4

The poet as mentor and strategist

105

5

Loyalty and love at parting

122

Conclusion: Qian Qianyi’s shishi revisited Notes Bibliography Index

147 152 196 213

Acknowledgements

To Professor Kang-i Sun Chang I owe a debt like anyone working in the field, and more, for her mentorship at Yale University and beyond. This book originated from the doctoral dissertation I completed in 1998. I am immensely grateful to the readers of that dissertation, Professors Kang-i Sun Chang, Jonathan Spence, and Charles Laughlin, who provided vital comments and suggestions. My appreciation is expressed to Stephanie Johnson, Elizabeth Jackson, Lorin Stein, Geoffrey Higgins, and Chun-ting Chang, among others, who read and criticized all or portions of the manuscript with great generosity of time and thought. The anonymous readers for the press are acknowledged for their thoughtful and thorough review of the manuscript. This book is dedicated to my mother, Wong For-mui, with my love.

A portrait of Qian Qianyi, from Qingdai xuezhe xiangzhuan.

Introduction

Seventeenth-century China witnessed crises, transformations, and the Ming–Qing dynastic transition. The first two decades of the Qing dynasty (1644–1912) encompassed the end of native Han rule and the establishment of an alien Manchu regime;1 they produced a remarkable body of poetry that has until recently been overlooked in favor of the works of Wang Shizhen 王士禛 (1634–1711) and his school, its immediate successors. Wang’s aesthetic of shenyun 神韻, “spirit resonance,” has at times been counted as the sole contribution of the middle and latter seventeenth century to Chinese verse. Yet in early-Qing poetry we find a very different ethos, one that reaches its most characteristic expression in the works of Qian Qianyi 錢謙益 (1582–1664), this study’s subject.2 The essence of shenyun, described as “metaphysical” by James J. Y. Liu, is “an ineffable personal tone or flavor in one’s poetry,”3 borne out in such manners as “detachment” and “restrained beauty.”4 The ethos of the poetry in the prior twenty years demands, by contrast, a collective, almost fervent effort to record and understand ongoing historical events, an effort often characterized by the pathos of introspection, retrospection, and mourning for the past. This pathos is most clearly expressed in the verse of the survivors of the Ming–Qing political changeover, particularly from those of Ming yimin 明遺民, the Ming loyalists (see below). It translates into what I shall call the poetics of Ming loyalism or the Ming loyalist poetics. This mode of writing develops a public narrative out of the mediated history of the perished Ming and Southern Ming resistance (1644–62) through the power of personal memory in its vicissitudes. Its chief material is the recollection of individual and cultural loss. The poetics of Ming loyalism is at once the sequel of a catastrophic experience and the witness to a strange, new world coming into being. The poetry of the Ming–Qing transition is distinguished by its intense focus on history, its manifest historical consciousness. The preoccupation with historical memory in these decades is phenomenal and owed as much momentum to historical exigencies as to the influences of such creative writers as Qian Qianyi and Wu Weiye 吳偉業 (1609–72). This book has two purposes. It is a critical study of Qian Qianyi’s theory of

2

The poet-historian Qian Qianyi

shishi, poetic-history or poet-historian, and its reception in Qing times, and it explores Qian’s own shishi practice, a group of Qian’s later poems, arguably his most ambitious, that the leader of the literary world composed during the Ming–Qing transition.5 Qian is a poet of great poetic vision and verbal power. This study interprets, evaluates, and introduces to readers a valuable but sadly neglected cluster of early-Qing poetry. It is also an attempt to come to grips with the role of history in early-Qing verse, to understand the power and temptation that history offered these poets, and to see, particularly, how Qian Qianyi engages historical memories intellectually, emotionally, and imaginatively in his poetic expression.

“Ming loyalist” and “Ming loyalist poetics” In word if not consistently in deed, Qian identifies himself as a loyalist of the fallen Ming house. We will read Qian’s poems in the light of the Ming loyalist poetics. This approach demands some justification, since Qian has been scorned by many, since his day and even more in later times, as a traitor to the Ming/Chinese order, and is officially labeled in Qing standard history as an erchen 貳臣 or “twice-serving official” (for a full account of the creation and reception of this image, see Chapter 2 of this book).6 The question naturally arises as to the sincerity of many of his post-Ming writings. There is no denying that his expressed loyalty to the vanished Ming might have come from an act of self-re-edification, as quite a few critics have suggested before. If he could inscribe himself on the monument of the loyalists, posterity would see him in a different, more favorable light. But this is as easy to prove as to disprove, and the question still remains, largely, unanswered or unanswerable. The term “loyalist,” as Jennifer Jay explicates it in her study of loyalism of the Song–Yuan dynastic transition, designates two groups of men: the zhongyi 忠義 (loyal and righteous martyrs) and the yimin (leftover, remnant, or surviving subjects).7 This is largely applicable to later, similar historical situations as well. Qian belongs to neither the zhongyi nor, strictly speaking, the yimin group: he did not die a Ming martyr in either 1644 or 1645 when the Ming capitals fell, and he served the new Manchu court in a high position. How, then, are we to make sense of his post-1644 writings, which are saturated with strong sentiments of Ming loyalism, such as the subject matter of Part II of this study? Yimin, literally “leftover subjects,” refers to the loyalists of a fallen political order. It occurs in such pre-Qin texts as Zuozhuan 左傳 (Zuo Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals) and Mengzi 孟子 (Mencius),8 there describing men who embrace a lingering loyalty to a former state. Yimin, as Lo and Schultz put it, “is primarily a political concept, and only by extension a literary one.”9 Ming loyalist, for want of a better word, translates Ming yimin in most of its occurrences in this study. My use of the term is advised by historian Lynn Struve’s definition:

Introduction

3

The term “Ming loyalist” could apply meaningfully to anyone who pointedly altered his or her life patterns and goals to demonstrate unalterable personal identification with the fallen order. The term need not be restricted to men who worked actively for a Ming revival or who clearly harbored seditious intentions. On the other hand, it should not be used indiscriminately in reference to men who wrote or spoke with enthusiasm or admiration for heroes and martyrs of the Ming demise.10 Thus understood, my association of Qian Qianyi with the Ming loyalists may raise some eyebrows, since he is still an erchen to many. Indeed, the designation of yimin should be reserved for the former Ming subjects—whether officials or not—who chose not to seek or accept official posts from the subjugating Qing empire. The identity of yimin and its antithesis can be readily established should our interest be in checking who did not or who did serve the Qing. In this sense, Qian Qianyi is not a Ming yimin because he served the Ming and then the Qing. Yet the idea of yimin concerns more than a mere political act in dynastic transition: it involves a wide variety of constituent conditions (besides political and historical ones), complex psychologies, behavioral and social performances, and textual and cultural constitutions of the self. A publicly and historically constructed identity and a scattered and textually constituted self of a certain person are at times tautologically equivalent, and at times at odds with one another. And ultimately, when we place a so-called yimin and a non-yimin side by side in the aforementioned contexts and situations, their distinction will, more often than not, begin to blur. Most importantly, if our interests lie in understanding the existential conditions of life, the literature, and the layers and contours of feeling and emotion of the writers of the Ming–Qing transition, we must go beyond what a political-ethical position would allow.11 I suggest the adoption of the notion of Ming loyalist poetics or a poetics of Ming loyalism to characterize the poetry of the Ming–Qing transition that verbalizes loyalty to and memory of the Ming. It includes writers from both the yimin and non-yimin camps (politically defined) to represent its particular praxis and own sense of poetic vocation. I use Ming loyalist poetics to invoke the early-Qing literature that is freighted with the burden of Ming loyalism— nostalgia, indignation, grief, despair, regret, shame, heroism, fantasy. The behavior of the authors should not affect this status: they might variously embrace eremitism, loyalism, or collaboration, to borrow Frederic Wakeman’s terms.12 All of the so-called Three Master Poets of Jiangnan (Jiangzuo sandajia 江左三大家) of the early Qing—Qian Qianyi, Wu Weiye, and Gong Dingzi 龔鼎孳 (1616–96)—served the Qing, yet their works are infused with sentiments of Ming loyalism. As it happens, Wakeman’s behavioral categories are of limited use in portraying the all-important subtleties of political sympathy in the Ming–Qing changeover.13 For instance, we know for a fact that many eremites and loyalists mingled with collaborators. Hongnam Kim

4


recently observed of another erchen and a great scholar-connoisseur of contemporary art, Zhou Lianggong 周亮工 (1612–72), and his circle: No doubt all men of intellect and consciousness who lived through the Manchu conquest, loyalists and collaborators alike, experienced suffering and had misgivings about their chosen response. Collaborators and loyalists had an acute appreciation of each other’s role and the peculiar dilemma each other had to face. In fact, loyalists frequently depended on collaborators for support and protection, while collaborators depended on loyalists to express their heartfelt ideals.14 Or, as Chang and Chang described the playwright Li Yu 李漁 (1611–80) and his friends: The majority of the educated Chinese were survivors of the Ming’s downfall and wanted to continue to be survivors. They might have cherished some pro-Ming sentiments in their hearts, but that was all. Many of them collaborated with the Ch’ing [Qing] government, some whole-heartedly, some half-heartedly. Among Li Yü’s friends, some were loyalists, some collaborators, and many, like Li Yü himself, were neither.15

The private dimension of Ming loyalist writings The Ming loyalist poetics plunges the reader into highly personal autowritings, including eyewitness testaments and fantasies. The act of writing could allow the writer to reflect on the painful and confounding experiences of the political changeover, to confess his shame and guilt, or to reaffirm his integrity, dignity, and belief. The pangs of conscience compelled a generation of eyewitnesses to speak for the deceased, to fix the facts, to reckon and to mourn losses. The writing of poetry, traditionally and generically an act in solidarity with the past, provided a means for the traumatically torn survivors to persevere without giving way to utter despair. It created a fortifying sense of inner continuity even in the midst of imposed, alien values and practices. As Kang-i Sun Chang suggests: “To a large extent, the expressions of feelings in poetry has become, for the [Ming] loyalists, a way of taking action.”16 For some, therefore, loyalist writings were also a measure of resistance. The poet moored himself in a remembering self so as to defeat forgetfulness, to strengthen tenacity and resilience under difficult conditions, and to outlast a hostile regime, if only through literary immortality. For the more criticallyminded, poetry served as a vehicle to render moral judgment, even at peril, on the political and social realities of the day. Above all, in the face of the drastic political changes and the resulting cultural tumult, Chinese poetry provided the writers a make-believe haven of perfectly arranged poetic forms. One found solace, security, and order in the balance of even-and-oblique tones, in the symmetry of couplets, in the intoxicating effects of rhythm and rhyme.

Introduction

5

One sought the shared literary values, ethical virtues, diction, and wisdom of previous generations, too. It was a tiny yet boundless world—one could breathe, live, and die in it. In the words of Qian Qianyi: 不成悲泣不成歌破硯還如墨盾磨拌以餘生供漫興欲將禿筆掃群魔途窮日暮聊為爾髮短心長可奈何賦罷無衣方卒哭百篇號踊未云多

It is not quite like wailing, nor like songs, I grind ink on my broken inkslab as on a shield. My remaining years, I live them as some random musings— Oh, that my sparse brush might sweep the demonhost away! There is no road ahead and the day is waning: I resort to this; My hair is thin, yet my mind loaded; what else can I do? Only when I am through chanting “Wuyi” will I stop crying; One hundred poems, all wailing and stamping— still not enough.17 Toubi ji: 55

This poem was written in 1662 as a reflection on an ongoing literary endeavor, the Toubi ji 投筆集, which will be the focus of Part II of this study. It emphasizes a sense of resistance. Line 2 recalls part of the line from an historical account, “grinding ink on a shield to write a war proclamation” (盾上磨墨作檄文).18 Qian is unambiguous in telling the reader in line 4 that his war proclamation is written against the “demon-host,” by which, as this study will show, he means the Manchus. In line 7, Qian associates his poetry with “Wuyi” 無衣 (Mao no. 133) from the Shijing 詩經 (Book of Odes), emulating Shen Baoxu 申包胥 of the Spring and Autumn period. An official of Chu, Shen went to Qin to cry for help when his state was vanquished by Wu in 506 . He remained standing in the Qin court for seven days on end, all the while wailing and refusing to take any food. In the end Duke Ai of Qin was greatly moved by Shen’s loyalty and stubborn tenacity. To Shen, the duke chanted the poem “Wuyi,” and an army was sent.19

The public dimension of Ming loyalist writings Although it was not uncommon for writers of this period to publish and circulate their works anonymously or under pseudonyms, Ming loyalist writings are often as much a private quest as a public engagement. Ming loyalist writings enjoyed a distinct, large audience. There are two related reasons for this. First, the thriving publishing enterprise on the Yangzi River delta in Jiangnan distributed printed materials widely20—sometimes too widely, as Li Yu’s unpleasant experience attests. When his collection of short stories

6


Wusheng xi erji 無聲戲二集 (Silent Operas, Second Collection) came out in the late 1650s, Li Yu, who was then residing in Nanjing, bitterly complained: To my surprise, my new work had just appeared when the greedy merchants of Suzhou began to cover it. Fortunately, I got wind of their plans ahead of time and pleaded as strongly as I could with . . . the SuzhouSongjiang Intendant. . . . [But] no sooner had the Suzhou plot been snuffed out than I suddenly got a message from home to the effect that a Hangzhou publisher had finished reprinting the book and was going to put it on sale in a few days’ time.21 Loyalist writings may not have attracted an audience as huge as Li Yu’s entertaining, vernacular works did. However, the availability of printing, publishing, and distribution certainly stimulated some Ming loyalists to articulate their thoughts and feelings, for transmission or preservation. (Even when they did not publish their works themselves, their children or students often did for them after they died.) Second, loyalist writings found an immediate, serious reading public in numerous organizations in the form of wenshe 文社 and shishe 詩社, literary and poetry clubs. Beginning in the late Ming with the Fushe 復社 (Revival Society), these organizations had both literary and political bearings; after the demise of the Ming, many Ming loyalists were members or associates of these societies.22 Descriptions of their activities abound; here is one: After the fall of the Ming house, those gentlemen who had become despondent and marginalized but were of lofty ideals and literary talent assembled in poetry clubs. Through such writing activities, they gave expression to their nostalgia for the former country and emperor. Places south of the [Yangzi] River were full of such clubs. 明社既屋, 士之憔悴失職, 高蹈而能文者, 相率結為詩社, 以抒寫其舊國舊君之感, 大江以南, 無地無之.23 In 1653, Wu Weiye convened a meeting of the members of major literary societies in the Jiangnan area. No fewer than two thousand people from ten prefectures attended its three-day activities at Huqiu outside Suzhou.24 Besides spending their time networking, talking, drinking, and settling business, they composed, read, and discussed loyalist writings. Qian Qianyi’s writings were closely followed by readers in Jiangnan. His anxiety over the circulation of his “Gui shang shi” 桂殤詩 (Elegies for Gui) in 1658 shows this. These highly personal elegies were recognized as having strong pro-Ming sentiments embedded in them.25 After their initial release in manuscript form, Qian hastened to stop them from further circulation.26 He wrote this to his student and publisher Mao Jin 毛晉 (1599–1659), the owner of the famous Jiguge 汲古閣 publishing house which undertook most of Qian’s printing jobs:

Introduction

7

The “Elegies for Gui” were caused by the mourning and sorrow, of which I wished I could unburden myself a little bit. . . . However, there are several places in the poems that people have found fault with. This is quite unexpected. I am already in my declining years, and I am afraid that once these poems start to circulate, they will cause a great deal of carping criticism and will bring many troubles on my family. All because I was overwhelmed with grief, I overlooked those places. It is now too late for regrets. But I beg you to withdraw the printing blocks of the poems; under no circumstances should they be published. When we meet in person I will tell you all this matter’s complications. Then you will understand why these poems are really unfit to circulate. 〈桂殤詩〉實哀痛之餘, 假此少遣鬱塞. . . . 而中頗有一二語為傍人指擇者, 殊非意中之事. 然老人暮景, 恐此詩一出, 便有許多葛藤, 卻生家庭中荊棘. 此實一往哀傷, 點檢不到, 悔之莫及. 今乞仁兄為我將此刻收起, 萬勿流布, 待面時一訴委曲, 然後知此詩之不可出也.27 Clearly, the circulation of Ming loyalist writings was more than a possibility: it was a fact. We also see hues of Ming loyalist poetics in the works of younger poets who are not usually considered members of the loyalist circles, or only marginally involved in them. For instance, even the young Wang Shizhen flirted briefly with it before he launched his own “spirit resonance.” His set of four impressionistic poems entitled “Qiuliu” 秋柳 (Autumn Willow) (1657) is generally held to contain certain Ming loyalist symbolism (if not substance), or to “lament the Ming” (diao Ming 弔明), as traditional commentators have put it.28 According to this reading, the first poem in the series alludes to distant events in the first reigns of the Ming dynasty, while the other three revolve around recent historical events involving the Southern Ming Prince of Fu 福王 (the Hongguang 弘光 emperor; r. 1644–5). The number of poets who tried to match Wang’s set is believed to be in the hundreds;29 this immense interest testifies to the currency of Ming loyalist poetics. Observe the following: In the autumn of Dingyou [1657] of the Shunzhi reign, I [Wang] was visiting Ji’nan. It was during the autumn examination period, and all the well-known gentlemen converged on [Da]ming Lake. One day we met at the Shuimian Pavilion to drink. Below the pavilion there were a dozen or so willow trees stroking the water gracefully and appealingly. Their leaves had just turned light yellow, but when bathed in the autumn light, they looked as if they were about to wither. I turned sad and sentimental and composed four poems. On the spot several dozen people wrote rhymes to match mine. Three years later when I went to Guangling [Yangzhou], I found that my four poems had been widely circulated, and that a lot of people on both sides of the [Yangzi] River had tried their hand at

8

The poet-historian Qian Qianyi matching mine. It seems my “Autumn Willow” poems have become a household name in the realm of literature! 順治丁酉秋, 予客濟南. 時正秋賦, 諸名士雲集明湖. 一日會飲水面亭, 亭下楊柳十餘株, 披拂水際, 綽約近人. 葉始微黃, 乍染秋色, 若有搖落之態. 予悵然有感, 賦詩四章, 一時和者數十人. 又三年, 予至廣陵, 則四詩流傳已久, 大江南北和者益眾. 於是〈秋柳詩〉為藝苑口實矣!30

Among Wang’s then more famous contemporaries, such ardent Ming loyalists as Gu Yanwu 顧炎武 (1613–82) and Xu Ye 徐夜 (Yuanshan 元善, Dongchi 東癡; 1613?–86?) matched “Autumn Willow”; so did another famous erchen, the poet-official Cao Rong 曹溶 (1613–85); and aspiring young poets (later Qing poet-officials) like Chen Qinian 陳其年 (1626–82) and Zhu Yizun 朱彝尊 (1629–1709).31 Qian Qianyi, nevertheless, declined to match the set when requested, perhaps because for him, the willow was already a well-worn subject (see Chapter 5).

The public, the private, and the varied images of Qian Qianyi No matter how private and individualistic Ming loyalist verse appears to be, it is still by nature a public, historical construct. Its authors were sensitive to their reception; they wrote both for their contemporaries and for posterity. Among them, the desire to leave behind a calculated, though not necessarily insincere, self-portrait surfaces again and again. As Kang-i Sun Chang suggests: “Such [Ming loyalist] scholars, conscious of their ambiguous position and their alienation from contemporary society, were trying to give new meaning to their cultural mission in history. They were anticipating how future generations would see them and were trying to mold that vision.”32 Qian Qianyi’s urge to shape his own image is particularly intense. Qian exerts himself to inscribe his personal history on the grand Ming loyalist narrative, and to couple personal and public memory. This complicates our understanding of his poetry. He means not only to preserve the past, but also to adapt it to impact the present—his present—and the future. Qian’s conduct at the fall of the Hongguang regime in Nanjing and his service to the Qing shortly after was the ultimate source of his dishonor. Qian has been regarded by historical sources—as well as in the book of morality—as a morally ambivalent, politically opportunistic figure, gaining a certain infamy in the course of the Ming–Qing dynastic changeover. Yet according to him, himself, he lived shamefully under the Manchu rule. Since the self-image that Qian presents is often at odds with the historical image of the poet, we should perhaps begin with a brief historical account.33 Qian Qianyi flourished in the late Ming as a pre-eminent literatus and an aspiring court official; in the latter, he suffered many difficulties and cruel frustrations. He clearly exerted an influence on court politics, but never secured a truly prominent official position, nor ever managed to hold a post

Introduction

9

for a substantial length of time. Qian did, however, become a leader of the Donglin Party 東林黨, the supposedly “pure stream” (qingliu 清流) in politics of the day, which carried him to greater success, but his own political fortunes also rose and sank with those of the Donglin Party in the maddening lateMing partisanism. Every time a Ming ruler considered Qian for an important post, an influential official in the rival camp slandered and ousted him. With the commencement of the last Ming reign in 1628, Qian’s star rose briefly. The Chongzhen 崇禎 emperor (r. 1628–44) made him Vice Minister of the Board of Rites and Reader in the Hanlin Academy, with good prospects of attaining a position in the all-important, prestigious Grand Secretariat, his lifelong ambition. But soon Qian was impeached by rival official Wen Tiren 溫體仁 (1573–1639) that he had a prior involvement in a bribery case. In 1629, Qian was stripped of all of his official titles and duties. He spent the next fifteen years in retirement in his native region, where he established himself as a leader of the literary and learned communities and as one of the most eloquent writers of his day. In 1644, when news of the fall of Beijing reached the southern capital, Nanjing, the senior officials gathered there, Qian included, hastened to form a new imperial court. After a great deal of partisan politics—as was usual in Ming matters of state—they managed to set the legitimate successor to the late Chongzhen, the Prince of Fu, on the throne as the Hongguang emperor. Qian became Minister of the Board of Rites in the new court: this was the highest official position he ever attained. To his misfortune, Hongguang’s reign lasted barely a year. When Nanjing fell, Qian surrendered to the Manchus at the city gate along with other senior officials. He even went so far as to help prepare propaganda for cities in the Jiangnan areas, to urge the populace to welcome the Manchus with open arms—he was believed to have penned the slogan “Heaven favors [the Qing] and the people embrace [the new dynasty]” (tianyu rengui 天與人歸) for the victorious Manchu prince Dodo.34 Thereafter Qian served the new Manchu court at Beijing, holding the position of Vice Minister of the Board of Rites (Libu Shilang 禮部侍郎) with the adjunctive appointment of Vice-supervisor of the Ming History project (Mingshi Fuzongcai 明史副總裁). (Note that serving as a Vice Minister is tantamount to a demotion in Qian’s career trajectory.) For reasons that are not clear to us, Qian begged leave to retire six months later. Many of Qian’s contemporaries criticized his surrender and service to the Qing, brief as it was; later generations scorned even more bitterly. More than one hundred years after his death, Qian aroused the wrath of the Qianlong 乾隆 emperor (r. 1736–95), who ingeniously created a section called “Erchen zhuan” 貳臣傳 (Biographies of the Twice-serving Officials) in the Qing official history—a section devoted, in large part, to condemning Qian’s example and branding him as a traitor to both the Ming and the Qing dynasties. All of Qian’s writings, scholarly and literary, were banned from circulation on orders from Qianlong. Political infamy has tended—even in some

10


contemporary circles—to overshadow Qian’s role as a lasting writer and an important scholar of seventeenth-century China. Legends have it that Qian’s beloved concubine Liu Shi 柳是 (Rushi 如是; 1618–64) implored him to die a martyr’s death when Beijing fell. Had Qian done so, the poems that assured his literary immortality would never have been written. There is no denying that Qian had firmly established himself in the art of poetry and prose even before the fall of the Ming;35 his greatest works, however, deal with the Ming–Qing transition and his own experiences in it. His later verse recalls historical events to illuminate the recently fallen Ming and the new Qing dynasties, and against this backdrop, he verbalizes his own traumas. China’s late-imperial lyrical tradition was enriched by Qian’s treatment of Ming loyalist aesthetics. Qian’s post-1644 poetic writings, his most mature, provide a window on his own particularly troubled mind and on the collective memory of the survivors of the Ming–Qing transition. Part I of this study is divided into two chapters. The first chapter discusses the historical and theoretical contexts which affected the poetics of Ming loyalism in the early Qing period. It examines a poetic theory advanced by Qian which synthesizes the paramount values of both the historiographical and the poetic traditions. This theory revives the critical concept of shishi 詩史, which can mean either the poet who relates history, or the poem in which history is related, and hence the English translation “poet-historian” or “poetic-history,” for want of better phraseology. We will see how Qian, armed with this theory, founds an aesthetic for the surviving Ming subjects. Chapter 2 offers a historical survey of Qian’s reception in Qing and earlyRepublican times. I will conduct a formal discussion of the Qianlong emperor’s extended condemnation of Qian and of Qianlong’s campaign of literary inquisition as part of his attempt to foster an ideal of morality in his officials in the 1770s and 80s. Part II’s three chapters present close readings of three cycles of poems. These are taken from Qian’s last major poetic endeavor, the Toubi ji, a collection of thirteen cycles of poems bearing the title “Hou ‘Qiuxing’ ” 後秋興 or “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’ [By Du Fu].” They will be discussed against the backdrop of the single most important moment of the Ming loyalist revival activities, Zheng Chenggong’s 鄭成功 (1624–62) Yangzi military campaign against the Qing in 1659. The first cycle in the Toubi ji was written when Zheng’s imposing fleet was closing in on Nanjing, and the second and the third resulted from Zheng’s disastrous defeat in the same city. I will use this specific historical context to illustrate Qian’s use of history in poetry and his relation to the cause of Ming restoration. Chapter 3 explores the theme of war in the first cycle of the Toubi ji, and Qian’s fervent response to the revival forces. Ethnic conflicts between the Chinese and the Manchu conquerors inform the idea of legitimate authority in these eight poems. This chapter will also examine the different historical

Introduction

11

personae Qian adopts to justify his surrender to the Qing at the fall of the Ming. Chapter 4 focuses on the second cycle of the Toubi ji, the earliest account of Zheng’s defeat by Manchu forces at Nanjing. By investigating Qian’s rhetoric of admonition and encouragement, I will analyze the poems’ depiction of Qian as a strategist and Zheng’s mentor. Chapter 5 examines the third cycle of the poems, where Qian registers his unswerving faith in the Ming revival movement and in its darkest phase assumes the role of participant. I will show that this cycle expresses Qian’s dedication to the Ming cause as much as his love for Liu Rushi. This chapter also argues against the conjecture that Qian and Zheng met during or shortly after the composition of this cycle. The concluding chapter offers an appraisal of the theory and practice of shishi that Qian put forward.

Part I

Qian Qianyi’s theory of shishi and historical contexts

1

Qian Qianyi’s theory of shishi and the poetics of Ming loyalism

In considering the poetics of the Ming–Qing transition, one may well begin with several fundamental questions: What did the poetic vocation mean to the survivors of the foreign invasion? When a city as rich in history and culture as Yangzhou had been utterly flattened by war in a matter of days, when human lives were as fragile as the morning dew, to use a Chinese metaphor, what did it mean to be a poet? Did the dynamics of tragedy generate a new, distinctive poetics? If so, how did this new mode of lyrical expression differ from the late-Ming verse and its obsession with individuality and strangeness, or from the Qing poetry prevailing towards the close of the seventeenth century and its paradigm of “elegance” and “correctness” (yazheng 雅正)? In this chapter, I address these issues by discussing Qian Qianyi’s vision for the poetics of Ming loyalism formulated after the fall of the Ming house. Qian’s theory of shishi synthesizes paramount values of Chinese historiographical and poetic traditions.1 Although he draws heavily on ancient intellectual and literary precursors, let me suggest at once that his purpose is not to restore the values of antiquity. Qian strives, rather, to demarcate a poetic space for Ming loyalism, a space and value Qian no doubt desires to share with the Ming loyalists; and to devise, for this line of writing, a hermeneutic strategy for his contemporaries and posterity. We will expose elements of this theory in a close reading of Qian’s important essay, “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” 胡致果詩序 (Preface to Hu Zhiguo’s Poetry),2 and an examination of related literary, cultural and historical contexts. Despite its brevity, this essay is of great significance, critically and polemically, in the contexts of Ming poetics and the Ming–Qing dynastic transition. More specifically, it not only reflects the general literary temperament of the Ming remnants, but it also provides a critical apparatus with which to approach the kind of poetry Qian himself labored over in his later years, which became his most celebrated. Although an excellent place to observe the special features of the poetics of the Ming–Qing transition, “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” is no easy read. The entire essay is saturated with historical and topical references and is at the same time highly allusive and lyrical. It demands an extensive commentary.

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Dating of “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” was not dated, but it was most likely composed sometime in the spring of 1656, on Qian’s visit to Nanjing: In his essay, Qian mentions that he met with Hu Zhiguo in Jinling 金陵 (Nanjing). Between 1645 and 1664, his “retirement” from the Manchu court and his death, Qian stayed in Nanjing on four occasions. The first was from 1647 to 1649, when he was arrested and put on trial in Nanjing because of his implication in Ming restoration activities. In early winter 1651, in late 1655 to spring 1656, and in winter 1657, Qian came back for visits. In another undated essay, “Zengbie Hu Jingfu xu” 贈別胡靜夫序 (In Bidding Hu Jingfu Farewell), Qian says that he had written a preface to Hu’s collection of poems on his previous visit to Nanjing, and that seven years later he met with Hu again and composed another preface to Hu’s poetry, the “Zengbie” essay.3 The generic meaning of zengbie 贈別—a word that frequently occurs in the titles of poems or essays dedicated to a departing visitor—indictates a visit that Hu paid Qian and a farewell gesture on the part of Qian. Even though such a visit by Hu to Qian’s home in Changshu 常熟 is not documented, for reasons that we will give shortly, it would be wise to follow historian Chen Yinke’s 陳寅恪 (1890– 1969) suggestion of dating Hu’s trip and Qian’s “Zengbie Hu Jingfu xu” to 1662.4 Chen’s date can be inferred from the contents and circumstances of two poems, one by Qian and another by Hu. During his visit of 1656 to Nanjing, Qian wrote a poem-series named “Bingshen chun jiuyi Qinhuai, yu Ding jia shuige, jia liangyue, linxing zuo jueju sanshi shou liubie liuti, bufu lunci” 丙申春就醫秦淮, 寓丁家水閣, 浹兩月, 臨行作絕句三十首留別留題, 不復論次. Musings on his Nanjing friends and acquaintances comprise the bulk of these thirty poems, no. 18 of which was dedicated to Hu.5 This attests to the fact that the two men met in 1656. In Wu zhi ji 吾炙集, a compilation of poems by contemporary poets collected by Qian mostly between 1656 and the early 1660s (see below), we find three verses by Hu. The one that holds the greatest interest for us is entitled “Yushan gui ge, shang da Zongbo Muzhai fuzi” 虞山檜歌, 上大宗伯牧齋夫子 (Song of the Juniper Tree of Yushan, Presented to Master Muzhai the Grand Minister), in tribute to Qian. Portions of the poem read: 矯矯虞山檜夭挺虬龍姿高柯應北辰清風貫四時 .......... 樵人礪斧曷敢近神物抱節誰能窺我時翹首不得見

Towering is the juniper tree of Yushan, Whose robust stature resembles a coiling dragon. Its tall branches reach up to the North Star, Pure winds blow through the four seasons. The woodcutter’s gleaming axe dares not approach it, This holy creature has an integrity that few comprehend. So many times I raised my head yet failed to gain a glimpse;

Theory of shishi and poetics of Ming loyalism 再拜先生冰雪儀 .......... 七年遙隔杜鵑夢二月重逢楊柳絲花霧霏微舊陵闕白頭喬木兩含悲

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Now I bow, once again, to its pure, awe-inspiring appearance. Seven long years separating the dreams of the cuckoos, In the second month, amid the tender willow strands we meet again— Misty flowers so light by the former mausoleum, Two white-headed tall trees suffused with melancholy.6

The location of the gui 檜 tree, the metaphor adopted by Hu for Qian, is specific—the tree is rooted in the soil of Yushan, Qian’s home area. The tree’s images conjured here are concrete and vivid, too, giving the impression that they came from an actual viewing, not from Hu’s poetic imagination. This lends credence to the idea that Hu did make a trip to Changshu to see Qian. The poem also relates that it was in the second month of the year that he and Qian met again, after a duration of seven years. This matches the time frame of their reunion that Qian cites in the “Zengbie” essay. Both Hu’s “Yushan” poem and Qian’s “Zengbie” essay are likely to have been occasioned by Hu’s visit to Yushan. As a meeting between the two in 1656 is attested by the “Bingshen chun jiuyi Qinhuai” poem, and there is no other mention of their having met except in the two places that we just examined, it is natural for us to assign 1662 for their reunion—between 1656 and 1662 lies a period of roughly seven years—and to assume that seven years before, in Nanjing, Qian had composed “Hu Zhiguo shi xu.” Attributing other dates to “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” is less desirable for the following reasons. From 1647 to 1649, Qian did spend substantial time in Nanjing, but he was in detention; it does not appear to provide conditions under which he could have written “Hu Zhiguo shi xu.” Moreover, Qian begins the “Zengbie” essay with this sentence: “On my previous visit to Nanjing” (wang yu you Jinling 往余游金陵). The word you 游 implies a leisurely visit; the dreadful experience of Qian’s detention and trial would not have allowed the use of the word. One might argue that at the beginning of the trial, the circumstances were very black against Qian—as Qian complains in “He Dongpo ‘Xitai’ shiyun liu shou” 和東坡西臺詩韻六首 (Rhyming with Su Dongpo’s “At the Censorate,” Six Poems), written in 1647 about the event7—but after the first few months, Qian’s situation seems to have improved significantly. Qian could have written “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” in the latter part of his 1647–9 Nanjing stay.8 Indeed, in the collection of his 1648 and 1649 poems, Qian appears to be taking part in some social and literary activities, and by 1649 he had regained enough peace of mind to pen quite a few poems and essays and to consult materials in local libraries for a literary project he was working on. But if “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” had come from this point in time, it would then place the “Zengbie” essay in 1656. However, as

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Hu’s poem reveals, the reunion of the two took place in the second month of that year in Yushan. Yet, from the late winter of 1655 to the spring of 1656, Qian was away from home in Nanjing. This precludes the likelihood that Qian wrote “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” in 1649. Nor does 1651 seem likely to be the year. In around November that year Qian traveled to Nanjing to avoid the birthday fuss. After arriving in Nanjing, he very quickly retreated into a Buddhist monastery for the company of a few monk friends and for discussions of Buddhist doctrines. Very little interaction between Qian and members of the Nanjing literati circle is recorded for this one-month visit. The only other possible date remaining is 1657, when Qian spent the winter in Nanjing. But as there exists no record, or hint, of the two men’s meeting in this particular year, and as all related materials favor 1656 more, we shall leave 1657 out. Who was Hu Zhiguo, for whom Qian Qianyi wrote the particularly rich and nuanced essay “Hu Zhiguo shi xu,” and what was Hu’s motive in visiting Qian in Changshu? About Hu Zhiguo we know precious little, but he was surely not a prominent figure in the Ming–Qing transition. We know neither his dates nor, with any certainty, what he did during his life. The very limited information that we do have gives the impression that he led a reclusive, loyalist life in Nanjing after the demise of the Ming. He won some recognition from his contemporaries for his poetry, but only among fellow Ming loyalists, as we find very little mention of him outside loyalist circles. Hu’s poetry is extant only in part.9 In Qian’s “Bingshen chun jiuyi Qinhuai” poem, Hu Zhiguo is depicted as a reclusive scholar. From “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” and “Zengbie Hu Jingfu xu,” Hu emerges as a serious poet. As my discussions below will show, Qian paints Hu in the colors of a Ming loyalist in “Hu Zhiguo shi xu,” too. Qian’s descriptions of Hu accord more or less with a brief biographical sketch of Hu in Zhuo Erkan’s 卓爾堪 (1653–after 1712)10 Yimin shi 遺民詩 (An Anthology of [Ming] Loyalist Poetry), in which thirteen poems by Hu were included. From Zhuo’s anthology we learn that Hu’s name was Qiyi 其毅, Zhiguo being his zi, and Hu adopted the style name Jingfu 靜夫. Hu was native to Jiangning 江寧 (Nanjing), and he wrote a collection of poetry called Jingzhuozhai gao 靜拙齋稿 (Writings from the Quiet and Artless Studio), which is no longer extant. Zhuo suggests that Hu was a “humble” (qianjin 謙謹) and “self-possessed” (zichi 自持) man, and that Hu’s poetry shows a “limpid and calm” (chongdan 沖淡) quality. Among all of Hu’s existing poems, almost none, in my opinion, match the style that Qian attributes to Hu in “Hu Zhiguo shi xu.”11 There is, of course, the possibility that what Qian had read of Hu was very different from the poems we have of Hu’s today. Even less is known about the reason for Hu’s visit to Yushan, but Chen Yinke has speculated about it. Chen holds that Qian had been a secret leader of the Ming revival movement in Jiangnan, coordinating activities and loyalists; and that Hu went to Changshu to update Qian with the latest information about Nanjing in the wake of Zheng Chenggong’s defeat by the Qing

Theory of shishi and poetics of Ming loyalism

19

forces in 1659. What particularly prompted Hu’s 1662 trip, Chen further asserts, was the recent death of the Qing Shunzhi 順治 emperor (r. 1644–61), which compelled the Ming loyalists to network and evaluate situations at hand.12 Chen’s theory can be supported, at least in part, by further reading of Hu’s “Yushan gui ge” poem. The poem contains this passage: 百草萎霜困鶗鴂羣萌向暖復崴蕤獨此潛根凍壑走依然拔地蒼雲垂

All the plants have withered in the frost, paining the cuckoos; Those sprouts, facing the warming sun, grew into vigorous plants again. Only this tree spreads its hidden roots under the cold ravine; Nonetheless, it thrusts up from the ground into the hanging clouds.

To the initiated reader of Chinese poetry, the images of the first two lines here, of the flowers fallen in the cold and the sprouts gaining strength by embracing the warmth, have echoes of Qu Yuan’s 屈原 melancholic poem, “Li sao” 離騷 (Encountering Sorrow), where the poet uses “fragrant flowers” (fangcao 芳草) to symbolize men of virtue, who are forced out by sycophants in the court of the king. This symbolism is developed by its further association with the image of a cuckoo—which appears here as the tijue 鶗鴂 and above as the dujuan 杜鵑—not in the original “Li sao” context. In the Chinese poetic tradition, the cuckoo invokes nostalgia and sadness for the lost country. This orients “Yushan gui ge” towards the particular political and historical situations of the Ming–Qing changeover and creates the impression that the Ming loyalists are unable to prevail against the evermore-powerful Qing dynasty, and that many people are courting imperial favor and seeking ways to return to official life again. In this connection, the tree in the following two lines appears as one willing to stand even alone for his principles and belief in the face of overwhelming adversity. From the images of its roots hiding yet still spreading, and of its trunk rising sheer from the ground, one might suggest that he has earned admiration and respect from the like-minded community. Another two lines of the poem characterize him as a leader worthy of a place in the history books: 丞相黃冠指南錄尚書赤舄居東期

The Grand Councilor put on a yellow [Daoist] cap, [but he left behind] the book Pointing the Way; The Imperial Secretariat wore red shoes, [and emerged with his ministership after] a long retirement on Eastern Hills.

This is a couplet designed to lionize Qian. Hu Zhiguo compares Qian to Wen Tianxiang 文天祥 (1236–83) of the Southern Song dynasty in the first line,

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and to Xie An 謝安 (320–83) of the Eastern Jin in the second. Author of Zhinan lu (Pointing the Way), Wen was the legendary Song martyr who directed the last Song resistance to the Mongol–Yuan invasion. Wen had since become an icon of steadfast loyalty to the country and many Ming loyalists aspired to his example. Xie An saved the Eastern Jin by orchestrating the defeat of Fu Jian’s conquering army at the famous battle at Feishui. One particular detail of Xie’s life is alluded to here, that Xie was recalled to the imperial court only after a long, forced retirement. The hopeful undertone of this couplet is that, when the time comes, Qian would reemerge as a national leader, honored, for his sterling worth and faithful service, with the most prestigious official post. Clearly, Hu Zhiguo does not look to Qian Qianyi as a mere mentor of literature. The richly nuanced symbols and metaphors and their implications in “Yushan gui ge” unambiguously suggest that Hu and Qian were bonded by the shared Ming loyalist morals, sentiments, and values, if not by their common involvement in a certain Ming revival campaign, as Chen Yinke maintains. Hu’s “Yushan gui ge” provides a window into how some Ming yimin perceived Qian. We thus expect that Qian would reveal certain aspects of Hu’s Ming loyalist experience in “Zengbie Hu Jingfu xu” as well. But unfortunately for us, Qian’s “Zengbie” essay, in contrast, only dwells on Qian and Hu’s friendship and ideas of poetry. Hu appears in the essay as a serious, sensitive, and passionate poet, and that is about all. To know more about Hu, we will have to turn to other places, such as “Hu Zhiguo shi xu,” the main subject matter of this chapter. But even there, where we are shown more of Hu’s thoughts and feelings, not much information about Hu as a historical person is available.13

The classical thesis on the bond between history and poetry: “praise and blame,” “praise and satire,” and rhetoric of “subtlety” Qian Qianyi’s “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” begins as follows: Mencius said: “When songs were left uncollected, the Spring and Autumn Annals was composed.” All the poems written before the Spring and Autumn Annals are histories of states. It was known that Confucius had edited the poems, but not that he meant to construct a history [out of them]. It was known that Confucius had composed the Spring and Autumn Annals, but not that he meant it as a continuation of those poems. The Book of Odes, the Book of Documents, and the Spring and Autumn Annals are one book in sequence, [but people] divided it and made it into three. Since the Three Ages, history concerns itself only with history, and poetry only with poetry, yet it cannot be that the significance of poetry is not drawn from history. 孟子曰: “《詩》亡然後《春秋》作.”《春秋》未作以前之詩,


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皆國史也. 人知夫子之刪詩, 不知其為定史, 人知夫子之作《春秋》, 不知其為續《詩》. 《詩》也,《書》也,《春秋》也, 首尾為一書, 離而三之者也. 三代以降, 史自史, 詩自詩, 而詩之義不能不本于史.14 Theorists, traditional and modern, who maintain that there is a direct link between the Book of Odes and the Spring and Autumn Annals rely on Mencius’ remark: When the sway of the kings was gone, songs were left uncollected. When songs were left uncollected, the Spring and Autumn Annals was composed. The Sheng of Jin, the Taowu of Chu, and the Spring and Autumn Annals of Lu are of the same nature: the chronicled events concern Dukes Huan of Qi and Wen of Jin, and the style belongs to that of historians. Confucius said: “As to the didactic quality therein, I, Qiu, have appropriated it.” 王者之迹熄而詩亡, 詩亡然後春秋作. 晉之《乘》, 楚之《檮杌》, 魯之《春秋》, 一也: 其事則齊桓, 晉文, 其文則史. 孔子曰: “其義則丘竊取之矣.”15 This Qian invokes at the beginning of the essay. According to Mencius, Confucius composed the Spring and Autumn Annals out of immense anxiety: “While the world degenerated and the true way was lost, unorthodox teachings and acts of violence sprang up again: there were cases in which ministers murdered their lords, and sons their parents. Confucius was appalled and composed the Spring and Autumn Annals” (世衰道微, 邪說暴行有作, 臣弒其君者有之, 子弒其父者有之, 孔子懼, 作《春秋》).16 In another passage, Mencius states Confucius’ target of criticism: “When Confucius completed the Spring and Autumn Annals, the disloyal officials and unfilial sons trembled with fear” (孔子成《春秋》而亂臣賊子懼).17 Qian Qianyi’s position—that the Book of Odes, the Book of Documents, and the Spring and Autumn Annals form “one book in sequence”—should not be understood as a mere reiteration of Mencius’ comments. Mencius suggests that there was a causality in the appearance of the Annals after the Odes, and implies that both the Odes and the Annals could help “the sway of the kings.” Mencius also asserts that the Annals is a historical writing. Yet nowhere in the whole book of Mencius does Mencius ever advise that the Odes has a historiographical bearing of its own. Mencius quotes Confucius’ claim to endorse the idea that didacticism plays an important dimension in the Annals, but Mencius does not say that the moral lessons found in the Annals are also observable in the Odes. Qian departs from Mencius by asserting that (1) the Odes, the Documents, and the Annals are of the same nature; (2) Confucius’ editing of the Odes in effect shaped the poems into history; and (3), later in the essay, the critical terms of the Annals’ hermeneutic—“subtlety,” “Deviated Rhetorical Rules,” “subtle words”—may be used with equal validity to discuss the stylistic

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qualities of certain poems in the Book of Odes. Such propositions, we maintain, are significantly facilitated by Han-dynasty (206 –220 ) hermeneutics of the Confucian canon. To the modern reader, among the Five Classics believed to have been handed down from Confucius, the Spring and Autumn Annals stands out for its dullness.18 It is a chronicle of events—accessions, deaths, battles, and unusual natural phenomena—between 722 and 481  concerning Confucius’ native state, Lu. Until perhaps the Gushi bian 古史辨 (Disputing Ancient History) iconoclastic movement of the past century, however, the Spring and Autumn Annals enjoyed a dual identity as history and moral-ethical philosophy among Chinese (and certain Chinese-reading Japanese, Korean and Vietnamese) readers, who combed the dry text for evidence of Confucius’ sagacity, a guide to what is just and what is profane. The Annals, read through the prism of its three canonical commentaries, has exerted tremendous influence over Chinese intellectual traditions.19 Exegeses to the Annals stem from the supposition that there exists a discrepancy between the literal and intended meanings of the Annals: a text and a subtext. It was believed that through “editing” (bixiao 筆削), or the selective presentation of historical accounts, Confucius passed moral and political judgments on political events and personages, either to “praise” or to “blame” (baobian 褒貶) them. Yet, since the convention of the times prevented Confucius from speaking uninhibitedly and the Annals carries judgments on events involving the kings of Zhou and the dukes and officials of the feudal states, whom Confucius was in no position to judge—as Mencius has advised, this should have been the prerogative of the Zhou king—Confucius resorted to a rhetoric of “subtlety” (wei 微).20 The “great significance” (dayi 大義) of the Annals—ethical and political criticism—is embodied in “subtle words” (weiyan 微言 or weici 微辭).21 One of the early commentators of the Annals, Du Yu 杜預 (222–84 ) proposed that five principles guide the Annals’ various rhetorical devices: (1) subtlety that is nevertheless revealing; (2) terse diction; (3) roundabout narrative configuration; (4) exhaustiveness; and (5) condemnation of evil and support of good (微而顯, 志而晦, 婉而成章, 盡而不汙, 懲惡而勸善).22 The first of these five principles, subtlety, which can, to a large extent, describe also the second and the third, is overtly invoked in a passage of Qian’s essay that we will discuss below. Related closely to these five principles is another pair of critical terms of traditional Annals scholarship: the “Rhetorical Principles” (li 例) and the “Deviated Rhetorical Principles” (bianli 變例), the latter of which Qian also cites later in the essay. “Rhetorical Principles” govern the parallel narration of similar events throughout the Annals. “Deviated Rhetorical Principles” govern the anomalies, passages in which subject matter, sequential structure, and, most important, wording abandon this parallelism. Such passages have long been interpretive playgrounds for commentators, who treated their irregularities as evidence of hidden criticism, concealed in the subtlest of


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words. The avowed task of traditional commentators is to spell out the concealed “praise” and “blame” by speculating on the deviations (tui bianli yi zheng baobian 推變例以正褒貶).23 Parallel developments occurred in the interpretation of the Book of Odes during Han times, the heyday of allegoresis. Under the Mao-school (Maoshi 毛詩) exegetical strategies, the verbal expressions of a poetic text in the Book of Odes are always interpreted as references to a nonlinguistic, temporal reality, historical or social. The authorial intention (zhi 志) is amplified, and the moral lesson is taken for granted. The poet is assumed to have a definite didactic purpose in composing a particular poem, either to “encourage” (quan 勸) the ruler or to “remonstrate” (jian 諫) with him by virtue of “praise” (mei 美) or “satire” (ci 刺).24 To yield the best “transformative power” (hua 化) from the text, the poet also “aims for subtle compositions and remonstrates obliquely: he who speaks does not invite trouble, he who hears is sufficiently warned” (主文而譎諫, 言之者無罪, 聞之者足以戒).25 Thus, viewed as an activity of persuasion, poetry is akin to history: both have moral and ethical purposes.26 Rhetorically, “subtlety” in historical writing and “obliquity” in its poetic counterpart both rely on the suggestive, symbolic, signifying powers of the text. It is against the backdrop of this time-honored hermeneutic tradition that Qian muses on the relationship between “subtlety,” “Deviated Rhetorical Principles,” and “subtle words” of the genres of historiographical and poetic writings in the following sections of the essay. “Subtle words,” put simply, represent a system of symbolism constituted in ambiguities, opacity, euphemisms, and circumlocution. As these concepts are of enormous importance to our understanding of the special rhetoric of Ming loyalist poetry Qian invoked below, please indulge me with a necessary digression. I will give two examples from the Annals which manifest the quality of “subtlety” to which Qian refers. First, an entry believed to have been composed according to the “Deviated Rhetorical Principle.” The Annals has it that, in the 27th year of Duke Zhuang of Lu, [The] Cao [people] killed one [?] of their Grand Masters. 曹殺其大夫.27 Kong Yingda 孔穎達 (574–648 ), in his Correct Significance to the Zuo Commentary, refers the reader to a similar entry in the 7th year of Duke Wen of Lu: “The Song people killed [two of ] their Grand Masters” (Song ren sha qi dafu 宋人殺其大夫), on which the Zuo Commentary elaborates: [The Annals] does not mention the killer’s name because it involved more than one person. In addition, [the Annals does not give the names of the victims,] indicating that those killed were innocent. This exhibits the “Deviated Rhetorical Principle” invented by Confucius. 不稱名, 眾也, 且言非其罪也. 是仲尼新意變例也.28 As a rule, the Annals makes known the identity of the victim so as to

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condemn him, in the event that the killing was justified and proper. Deviating from this rule amounts to laying blame on the killer. Yet, in this particular case, the name of the killer is not given because, on the one hand, it involved more than one person, and, on the other, the killers were innocent of the bloody deed, too. The victims were killed by accident in a just revolt. The following exemplifies “subtle words.” The Annals offers a very terse line for the first entry of Duke Ding of Lu: [It was] the first year [of Duke Ding of Lu], in spring; the king [of Zhou’s] 元年. 春, 王29 Almost unintelligible, this line differs from all other entries about the commencement of a duke’s reign. Of eleven other dukes of Lu, on such an occasion, the Annals follows two rules in narration, either [It was] the first year [of Duke X of Lu], in spring; in the king [of Zhou’s] first month, the duke ascended the throne (7 times). 元年. 春, 王正月; 公即位. or [It was] the first year [of Duke X of Lu], in spring; in the king [of Zhou’s] first month (4 times). 元年. 春, 王正月. Duke Ding’s entry does not mention “the king [of Zhou’s] first month” nor the duke’s ascending the throne. The Gongyang Commentary seizes this opportunity to expound on Confucius’ rhetoric of “subtle words”: Why does [the entry for Duke] Ding have no “first month”? [The mention of ] the “first month” is to legitimize [a duke’s] ascending the throne. Ding does not have the “first month” because he ascended the throne on a later date [of the year]. Why did he ascend the throne on a later date? It was because [the coffin of the late] Duke Zhao was still kept outside [the state]. Whether it would be allowed to enter [the state] or not remained a question. Why was it a question? It all depended on [the attitude of] the Ji family [on this matter]. In [the entries about Dukes] Ding and Ai there are many “subtle words.” Even if the rulers had read what was written and inquired about its interpretation, they would not know whether they were charged with crime or not. 定何以無正月? 正月者, 正即位也. 定無正月者, 即位後也. 即位何以後? 昭公在外, 得入, 不得入, 未可知也. 曷為未可知? 在季氏也. 定哀多微辭, 主人習其讀而問其傳, 則未知己之有罪焉爾.30 The first part of the comment gives the impression that Confucius was criti-


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cizing the powerful Ji family of Lu, which controlled the affairs of the state. Yet the second part suggests that this particular entry, which contains some “subtle words,” was directed at the rulers, in this case the dukes of Lu. The Gongyang Commentary, however, does not state what the criticism is about. Kong Yingda, in his Correct Significance to the Gongyang Commentary, presents a viable analysis of these “subtle words.” Kong asserts that this entry was composed to censure Duke Zhao and Duke Ding, and that it reveals the critical political situation of Lu at this time: Generations before Ding’s succession to the ducal seat, the rulers of Lu had been weak and incompetent while the Ji family had gradually come to overpower the ducal house. In 517 , Duke Zhao, himself by no means an able ruler, launched an attack upon the Ji family, hoping to reverse the situation. The attack, however, resulted in Duke Zhao’s own exile. Duke Zhao eventually died abroad in 510 . According to Kong, it was against the rites and custom that a feudal lord should flee his hereditary state: Duke Zhao should have died “on his seat.” With Duke Zhao’s exile, the state of Lu should be viewed as doomed. Duke Ding’s succession to Duke Zhao at the latter’s death was, following Kong’s argument, illegitimate. Consequently, there is no mention of the “first month,” the symbol for legitimacy, in the entry.31 The discussion above of the Han classicists’ hermeneutic of the Spring and Autumn Annals and the Book of Odes retrieves the context and parameters of the canonically-sanctioned interpretive/creative traditions that Qian draws on to conceive of poetry as a specially potent medium to embody history. Qian aims to blur the generic boundaries between poetic and historical writings, joining the time-honored “praise and satire” of poetry to the “praise and blame” of history, and thereby appropriating for poetry the whole panoply of values that goes with history.32 In Qian’s literary vision, great poetry is not only strongly marked by individual talent, it is also empowered, especially in times of national and cultural crisis, by larger historical, social, and cultural energies. Harking back to early intellectual and poetic traditions, and appropriating early values, Qian lays the foundations on which he will advance his proposal for writing and reading poetry of the Ming–Qing transition.

The dual identity of shishi: “poet-historian,” “poetic-history” The Annals and the Odes, though canonical and magisterial in Chinese intellectual and literary traditions, were products of the distant past. To convince the reader that the creative and interpretive approaches derived from these two books are practicable and desirable, Qian Qianyi underpins his argument with some not-so-ancient examples. Having established a link between history and poetry, Qian moves beyond the Han dynasty. In the following passage, Qian presents a genealogy of poetic works from the Six Dynasties (222–589) up to the Tang (618–907). For the Tang period, Qian exalts Du

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Fu’s 杜甫 (712–70) poetry and regards Du Fu’s shishi as the paradigm of this line of poetic development. Qian writes: In Cao [Zhi]’s “Zeng Baima[wang Biao]” [Presented to Biao, the Prince of Baima], Ruan [Ji]’s “Yonghuai [shi]” [Singing of Thoughts], Liu [Kun]’s “Fufeng [ge]” [Fufeng Song], Zhang [Zai]’s “Qi ai [shi]” [Seven Lamentations Poems], we find all sorts of feelings, exclamations, grief and indignation over the rise and fall, flourishing and decline of the thousand ages, and all this is expressed in [the form of ] poetry. Then eventually came Shaoling [Du Fu]; [in him] history is fully embodied in poetry. Everybody under heaven called him shishi. 曹之〈贈白馬〉, 阮之〈咏懷〉, 劉之〈扶風〉, 張之〈七哀〉, 千古之興亡升降, 感歎悲憤, 皆于詩發之. 馴至少陵, 而詩中之史大備, 天下稱之曰詩史.33 Shishi translates either as “poet-historian” or “poetic-history,” depending on context. It was first employed by Meng Qi 孟棨 (fl. 841–86) to designate Du Fu and to characterize Du’s poems, which treat such contemporary political and historical events as the An Lushan Rebellion (755–63): Du [Fu] suffered from the turbulence of the [An] Lushan Rebellion and [was compelled] to wander aimlessly in [the areas of ] Long and Shu. [Du] projected all [his wartime experiences] into poetry. Reading between the lines [of his poems] we will discover the hidden messages; not a single important event has been overlooked. For this reason, [Du’s] contemporaries called him shishi. 杜逢祿山之難, 流離隴蜀, 畢陳於詩, 推見至隱, 殆無遺事, 故當時號為詩史.34 This view is echoed in the biography of Du Fu in Xin Tang shu 新唐書 (New Standard History of the Tang). In invoking shishi, Qian has shifted the chronological focus of his essay from the distant to the more recent past.35 Far more important is the theoretical character of shishi, which Qian exploits for his own purposes. Shishi secures for both the text and its author a dual identity. When shishi is taken to mean the text, it refers to a composition that bears the formal attributes of poetry, but embodies the historical (shi 史) along with the qualities of the poetic (shi 詩). When shishi is taken to mean the author, it refers to a versifier who assumes both the sensitivity of a poet and the authority of a historian. Shishi presupposes a dialogue between the text/author and larger social, political, and historical conditions. It is expected that these nonlinguistic, non-personal elements are reflected in, and therefore can be reconstructed from, the shishi text. This character of shishi owes much to its original association with Du Fu, who wrote with moral, social, political, and historical conscientiousness. Moreover, Du Fu is the classic model of the poet of social conscience, the critic of the ills of his time. In his poetry, Du Fu voices with


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eloquent sincerity the needs, desires, and complaints of the deprived and underprivileged. Shishi has, from the beginning, relied on the contemporary, the immediate, the serious, and the particular, and its developments in late imperial eras have fashioned it into an art form of crisis and witness (see below).36 Qian’s construct of shishi has a more visionary quality. Meng Qi stresses shishi’s topical nature, associating the poetic text with the public sphere; Qian implies that in shishi, personal, private feelings can intermingle with political and historical situations as well. For this reason, the poems of Cao Zhi, Ruan Ji, Liu Kun, and Zhang Zai are cited as Du’s forerunners. Or, put another way: Qian implies that in Du Fu’s shishi—as in those of his predecessors— intense, personal feelings abound, but that Du has expanded the poems’ social, historical and political horizons. In Du Fu’s shishi, rhetoric, moods, and tones are amplified, and versifying is to be taken as a psychological event through which the poet externalizes unrelieved tensions and strivings, and at the same time interweaves the historical, the didactic, and the aesthetic. In this version of shishi, one can see the patterns and particulars of history and the feelings and conditions of men. It seems, then, that shishi is the ideal kind of lyricism for Qian to bring poetry and history together. However, in Qian’s day, commanding shishi for this purpose is no easy task. A brief account of the reception of shishi in Ming times is in order. (We will turn to shishi’s transformation in the Song– Yuan transition in the following section.) After its introduction in the Tang, the concept of shishi was taken up with more enthusiasm than consistency in the Song. According to Song literary critics, Du Fu deserves the praise of shishi for any of the following reasons: (1) his poems reflect or relate contemporary political events; (2) he gives dates, geographical names, and details of the events concerned in his poems; (3) his poems are marked by a descriptive realism; (4) his use of allusion is flawless; (5) the wording of his poems is most precise; (6) he excels in all poetic forms; (7) feelings in his poems are always earnest and sincere; or (8) his poems embody the principle of “praise and blame” from the Spring and Autumn Annals.37 These qualities are not, of course, totally exclusive of one another, but generally speaking, (1) to (3) characterize Du’s choice of subject matter and its related stylistic impressions; (4) to (6) praise Du’s versifying skills; (7) celebrates Du’s sincerity; and (8) states the relationship of Du Fu’s poetry to pre-Tang writing traditions. To be sure, Du Fu was worshiped by Song and Ming poets and critics, but with different foci. The Song poets tended to philosophize (zhuli 主理), to reason (yilun 議論), and to narrate and elaborate (shangshi 尚事): they extolled the descriptive and discoursive aspects of Du Fu. Du Fu’s shishi was considered one of the highest achievements of poetic endeavors. The Ming archaist poets and critics in the second half of the sixteenth century, at the peak of Ming poetry, strove to recreate the intensity of feelings of Tang poetry by imitating the so-called High-Tang (sheng Tang 盛唐) literary

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models. There is no denying that the eighth-century poet Du Fu was still their foremost model, but they did not emulate the narrative and discoursive elements in Du’s verse. The Ming ingredients for poetry now were mainly “feelings” (qing 情), “rhythm” (diao 調), “color” (se 色), and “flavor” (wei 味). Naturally, the Ming poets and critics placed primary importance on the imagistic and metaphorical qualities of Du Fu. As for the metaphysics, argumentation, and narration of Song poetry, the Ming poets kept them at arm’s length.38 Du Fu’s shishi became a subject of assault for Ming critics, even though one feels that the Ming critics’ attack was often directed at Song poetics rather than at the “poet-sage” (shisheng 詩聖), Du Fu. Among the Ming critics, Yang Shen’s 楊慎 (1488–1559) attack on shishi was probably the severest. He argues that it is fundamentally wrong to blur the generic boundaries between poetry and history, and he regards those poems by Du Fu that bear narrative and censorious weight as the most inferior in his oeuvre: Because Du Zimei [Fu] could record contemporary affairs in rhyming words39 the Song critics called him shishi. How vulgar was the spirit of the Song! They were not qualified to discuss poetry. . . . As a matter of fact, restraint and reserve abound in Du Fu’s poetry. However, the Song poets did not emulate these qualities. Regarding [Du’s works which] relate uninhibitedly contemporary affairs, are they not like slander and traducement? Those are Du’s lowest “vehicle” and his least significant “role.” Yet the Song poets picked them up and claimed them as unrecognized gems. They even made up the term shishi to lead latecomers astray. If poetry can incorporate history, both the Book of Documents and the Spring and Autumn Annals can be discarded! 宋人以杜子美能以韻語紀時事, 謂之詩史. 鄙哉宋人之見, 不足以論詩也. . . . 杜詩之含蓄蘊藉者, 蓋亦多矣! 宋人不能學之. 至於直陳時事, 類於訕訐, 乃其下乘末角, 而宋人拾以為己寶, 又撰出詩史二字, 以誤後人. 如詩可兼史, 則《尚書》,《春秋》可以併省.40 Of the “six principles” (liuyi 六義) or “six arts” (liuyi 六藝) of traditional Chinese poetics, we can take, with the inevitable oversimplification, three as concerning compositional technique, namely: “direct presentation” (fu 賦), “analogy” (bi 比), and “stimulus” (xing 興). Fu, bi, and xing as compositional devices and, in turn, interpretive and critical concepts create an issue so complex as to defy any neat definition.41 Suffice it to say, fu is predominantly descriptive and narrative, whereas bi and xing are manifestly imagistic and metaphorical, and potentially allegorical. The Song poets had a leaning toward fu: they exalted it in Du Fu’s poetry and cultivated it in their own. Their passion for fu was central in their advocacy of shishi. The Ming poets championed bi and xing, stressing those qualities in Du Fu’s poetry, and aspiring to them in their own. The Ming poets found shishi’s mingling with fu demeaning to the art of poetry, and distasteful, if not viscerally repugnant.


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In the late Ming, Chen Zilong 陳子龍 (1608–47), another prominent voice in poetics, did try to justify Du Fu’s employment of the fu mode.42 Yet Chen still maintained: “In a gentleman’s rhetoric, . . . the six principles coexist, yet [for the effect of ] profundity [one resorts to] bi and xing” (君子之修辭也 . . . 六義並存, 而莫深於比興之際).43 There is a splendorous beauty in Chen’s own poetic imagery and diction. Despite its artful expression, Chen’s poetry is also marked by themes of social and political realism depicting the challenges facing the country and humanity. Yet, as an adherent of archaist aesthetics, Chen did not suggest the application of too strong a dose of fu in one’s poetic formulations. It was Qian Qianyi who first revived the concept of shishi during the Ming– Qing transition. In the essay under discussion, shishi is once more dignified with a new and significant twist: Qian invests shishi with a lyrical, emphatic dimension, capable of “all sorts of feelings, exclamations, grief and indignation over the rise and fall, flourishing and decline of the thousand ages.” Furthermore, Qian’s attitude toward bi and xing is intimated by his rejection of overtly descriptive and narrative expressions (see below); he is calling for the art of “subtlety.” Bringing the values of “subtlety” into shishi has the effect of emphasizing bi and xing in shishi, to the detriment of the fu element commended by Song poetics. Yet, to steer shishi in the advantageous direction he envisages, Qian has to answer one fundamental question: Is shishi, particularly Du Fu’s shishi, a proper vehicle for the principle of “praise and blame” from the Spring and Autumn Annals? Or, put another way: Can the type of critique found in the Annals be applied to literary works conditioned by different historical settings—in the present case, the historical situation of the Tang? And, by extension, can this critique be applied to other historical contingencies, such as those of Ming–Qing times? We find the answer, in the affirmative, not in the essay under discussion but in one of Qian’s most labored-over scholarly projects: the Qian zhu Dushi 錢注杜詩 (Qian Qianyi’s Annotation and Commentary of Du Fu’s Poetry).44 Qian began this book in his prime, continuing it late into life, and carrying it out even on his deathbed. The results of more than forty years of Qian’s scholarly investment were published posthumously.45 In Qian’s exegeses of Du Fu’s poetry, we find him using critical analyses not unlike those employed in the Annals’ commentaries; didactic intent and rhetorical devices are interpreted in terms of the “writing style of the Spring and Autumn Annals” and “subtle words.” We give a few examples of such applications. In the gloss of the official title “Puye” 僕射 in “Xin’an li” 新安吏 (The Official at Xin’an), Qian speaks of an implicit criticism embedded in subtle wording: After Fenyang [Guo Ziyi 郭子儀; 697–781] was defeated at Jueshui, he presented himself to the imperial court and begged for a demotion.

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi Consequently, he was demoted to the position of Vice Director of the Left [of the Imperial Secretariat]. Not long after, he was appointed to the additional post of Minister of Education, and later was promoted Director of the Secretariat. Here he is still called “Vice Director” in view of his defeat in Xiangzhou. Designating him by the official title he received on his demotion follows the “writing style” of the Spring and Autumn Annals. In “Xi bingma,” he is addressed differently, as “Minister Guo.” 汾陽初敗於潏水, 詣闕請貶. 降為左僕射, 已而加司徒, 進中書令. 此復稱僕射者, 本相州之潰. 舉其初貶之官, 亦春秋之書法也. 〈洗兵馬〉則目之曰郭相.46

In the gloss of “Lü Shang” 呂尚 in “Xi you” 昔遊 (An Outing in the Past), Qian maintains that “subtlety” in the spirit of the Annals is observable in Du’s composition: This probably refers to Master Fang [Guan 房琯; 697–763], who was first removed from his ministry, and afterwards enfeoffed by imperial decree the Duke of Qinghe Prefecture. The suggestion is that when [Fang Guan] was enfeoffed a territory for his own, his career as a high minister was also brought to an end. From “Chushan” onwards, [Du Fu] expresses his disappointment at being overlooked. It is difficult to determine whether the flow of meaning continues or not. This is what we call “[entries about Dukes] Ding and Ai contain many subtle words.” 似指房公罷相後, 冊封清河郡公也. 言國邑雖封, 而相業則已矣. 楚山以下, 自傷其不遇也. 其文意似斷續不可了, 所謂定哀多微詞耳.47 In the commentary on “Dongri Luocheng bei ye Xuanyuanhuangdimiao” 冬日洛城北謁玄元皇帝廟 (On a Winter Day I Traveled to the North of the City of Luoyang to Pay a Visit to the Temple of Emperor Xuanyuan), Qian expounds on Du Fu’s rhetoric of “subtlety” and “praise and blame”: The four lines starting with “pei ji” say that it was improper for the rites pertaining to the Ancestral Temple [of the Imperial House] to be employed at the Xuanyuan Temple. The four lines starting with “bi wa” satirize the fact that the configuration of the temple halls went far beyond the standard rules. The line “shijia yi jiushi” points out that the Records of the Grand Historian does not place [Laozi] in the section of “Hereditary Houses” [where the biography of Confucius is located]. Despite the fact that during the Kaiyuan era, [Laozi] was moved up to head the section of “Biographies” by imperial decree, Laozi still could not be elevated to “Hereditary Houses.” These are [Du Fu’s] “subtle words.” The line “daode fu jinwang” intimates that even though the Xuanzong emperor produced an annotation of the Daode jing, and patronized and promoted Daoism, he may not have known the essence of the Way and Virtue. These are also “subtle words.” The lines following “huashou” describe the paintings [of Laozi in the temple] by Wu [Daozi;


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c. 700–760]: fringes of pearls are placed on the crown, while banners and pennons [around the figure], all designed to dazzle the senses, almost like child-play. The kernel of the “five-thousand-words” from Laozi lies in quietism and inaction, ruling a state or cultivating one’s self. Accordingly, when [Laozi] retreated from the world, the Zhou dynasty degenerated; and when the book of Laozi prevailed, the Han dynasty flourished. Even if [Laozi] had lived [till the Tang], he would have concealed his name and played the fool. He would never agree to be portrayed, at someone’s discretion, as a demon or a deity or whatever, availing himself of the worship of the ruler. The four lines following “shen tui” show most pertinently the criticism of the whole poem. 佩極四句, 言玄元廟用宗廟之禮, 為不經也. 碧瓦四句, 譏其宮殿踰制也. 世家遺舊史, 謂《史記》不列于世家. 開元中勅升為列傳之首, 然不能升之于世家. 蓋微詞也. 道德付今王, 謂玄宗親注《道德經》及置崇玄學, 然未必知道德之意. 亦微詞也. 畫手以下, 記吳生畫圖, 冕旒旌旆, 炫耀耳目, 為近于兒戲也. 老子五千言, 其要在清靜無為, 理國立身, 是故身退則周衰, 經傳則漢盛. 即令不死, 亦當藏名養拙. 安肯憑人降形, 為妖為神, 以博世主之崇奉也. 身退以下四句, 一篇諷諭之意, 總見于此.48 Besides its employment of the Spring and Autumn Annals type of critique in reading Du, Qian zhu Dushi has yet another dimension of shishi that interests us. As has been observed, Qian’s book created a new paradigm in poetry commentary on Du Fu. A score of Qing-dynasty scholars, in its wake, adopted Qian’s model in their exegeses of other poets such as Li Shangyin 李商隱 (813–58) and Su Shi 蘇軾 (1038–1101). In the long and immensely rich tradition of poetic criticism of Du Fu, Qian’s book is distinctive for its erudition and its historicist approach to the poetic texts: Qian historicizes Du’s poetic expressions by anchoring and explicating them in the context and terms of contemporary, Tang-dynasty history and politics; and, conversely, enriches our understanding of Tang times with the details given in Du’s poems. Qian’s commentary and annotation of Du marked a new development in late-imperial Chinese hermeneutics, which has been characterized as “using history to testify to poetry” (yi shi zheng shi 以史證詩) and “using poetry to flesh out history” (yi shi zheng shi 以詩證史). Despite its scholarly character and ambitions, Qian zhu Dushi is also known for its lyrical quality, and, more intriguingly, because certain readings of Du in Qian’s book are believed to be self-serving and self-focused. It has been suggested that Qian took liberties with history—the Tang history contained in Du’s poetry—to criticize the political situation of the late Ming period; and to gloss (or gloss over, if you will) his own experiences during the Ming–Qing changeover. Qian’s younger contemporary and friend, Fang Wen 方文 (Erzhi 爾止; 1612–69), opined: “Yushan’s [Qian’s] commentary of Du came after his debacle in the Secretariat elections. Qian’s commentary is

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peppered with veiled criticism [of contemporary political events and figures]; he purposefully expresses it through Du’s poetry” (虞山箋杜詩, 蓋閣訟之後, 中有指斥, 特借杜詩發之).49 Chen Yinke has put it this way: If you look closely at the longer comments that Muzhai [Qian] produced, you will find that all of them are meant to quietly use the historical events of the Tang dynasty to comment on the contemporary historical events of the Ming. And, what’s more, Qian exerts himself there to give meaning to his own situations against the shifting political currents of the late Ming. His commentary is itself a marvelous literary work that fuses classical and contemporary allusions together. 細繹牧齋所作之長箋, 皆借李唐時事, 以暗指明代時事, 并極其用心抒寫己身在明末政治蛻變中所處之環境. 實為古典今典同用之妙文.50 In this connection, we are to understand, for example, the sympathetic portrayal of Li Mi 李泌 and Fang Guan of the Tang as lamenting his own plight in the late-Ming power struggles, from which Qian often emerged defeated; that criticism of the Xuanzong 玄宗, Suzong 肅宗, and Daizong 代宗 emperors of the Tang house in Du’s poetry is analogously transferable to the rulers of the late Ming, particularly the Chongzhen emperor; that sharp words on Helan Jinming 賀蘭進明 and Li Fuguo 李輔國 of the Tang are meant also to condemn such figures as Wen Tiren 溫體仁 and Zhou Yanru 周延儒, Qian’s political rivals in the Ming imperial court; and that ruminations on the Tang generals’ using foreign troops to save the Tang dynasty from the An Lushan Rebellion are to shed light on the Ming general Wu Sangui’s 吳三桂 alliance with the Manchus in suppressing the rebel forces led by Li Zicheng 李自成. In his commentary on Du’s poem-series “Qiuxing” 秋興 (Autumn Thoughts), Qian exclaims: “This old man does not forget his emperor even though he is becoming very old. A thousand years have since past, but we two can really face each other and weep” (此翁老不忘君, 千歲而下, 可以相泣也).51 Critics have read Qian’s self-identification and undying loyalty to the Ming rulers in these words. The elements of Ming loyalism and self-invention in Qian’s critique of Du have gained much critical attention, but it is not widely known that certain aspects of Qian’s commentary betray a somewhat accommodating and compromising attitude toward the Manchus, as well. In his critique, a cultural, rather than racial, position known as “transforming the barbarians with the Xia [Chinese] civilization” (yong Xia bian yi 用夏變夷) from the Spring and Autumn Annals is intimated.52 All in all, in this textual strategy of “manipulating the past to symbolize the present” (jie gu yu jin 藉古喻今), Qian fuses multiple layers of meaning together in his “creative” criticism of Du. The reader is invited to savor Qian’s comments not unlike a shishi poem. The involved meaning is at least twofold—a literal one based on Du’s original shishi: the history in Du’s poetry and Du’s poetry as history; and a metaphorical, or even allegorical,


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one coming from Qian’s fusing with Du: the shishi of the Tang dynasty drives the shishi of the Ming–Qing transition and Qian’s own life.

National trauma, shishi, yeshi and poetic witnessing in Song loyalist poetry Granted, shishi is practicable and desirable, worthy of the art of poetry, but was there an urgent need for its resurgence? Qian’s next move, which we might take as an answer to this question, is the most decisive thrust of the whole essay. He expounds on the historical imperative in the poetry of the Song–Yuan dynastic transition with a mind to ushering shishi back into the literary world of his own time. He addresses the poets and Ming loyalists among his contemporaries, rather than a general audience, reconceptualizing shishi in a yimin or loyalist context: Poetry of the Tang [style] declined in the Song [960–1279]. When the Song dynasty fell, poetry flourished. [Xie] Gaoyu’s [Ao] “weeping at Xitai,”53 [Lin?] Yuquan’s lament for “Zhuguo,”54 [Wang] Shuiyun’s “drunken songs,”55 and those “chants of Yue” in [the anthology of ] Guyin56 are like severe winter and freezing cold, swift wind, austere air, sorrowful laments, angry howling; all kinds of sounds, hustle and bustle. Poetry of the old and new [styles] all changed at this time, and all flourished at this time. Recently, the new history [composed by Cheng Minzheng] has gained wide circulation, but [in it] the historical events of Kongkeng57 and Yaishan,58 and the [legends of those] survivors and elder statesmen all disappear like ashes, vanish like smoke. However, if we look for them in the poems from those days, those personages are still perceptible, their events told. [Although those writings only survive] in scraps and in moth-eaten pieces, they will ascend to [the positions of the] sun and moon with the “books in the metal chest and the stone building.”59 [If you] say: “Poetry is not able to perpetuate history,” are you not lying? 唐之詩, 入宋而衰. 宋之亡也, 其詩稱盛. 臯羽之慟西臺, 玉泉之悲竺國, 水雲之苕歌,《谷音》之越吟, 如窮冬沍寒, 風高氣慄, 悲噫怒號, 萬籟雜作. 古今之詩莫變于此時, 亦莫盛於此時. 至今新史盛行, 空坑, 厓山之故事, 與遺民舊老, 灰飛煙滅. 考諸當日之詩, 則其人猶存, 其事猶在, 殘篇齧翰, 與金匱石室之書, 並懸日月. 謂詩之不足以續史也, 不亦誣乎?60 Here the idea of shishi is tacitly reoriented in a loyalist poetic tradition. The first part of this passage enumerates several noted poems by eminent Song loyalists, some of which attained the status of shishi in the poet’s lifetime, such as those by Wang Shuiyun 汪水雲 (1241–after 1317), and some of which gained the reputation of “unofficial history” (yeshi 野史) shortly after publication, like those from Guyin 谷音 (Tunes of the Recluse). Stylistically these poems by the Song loyalists are very diverse; some of them are explicit

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and clear in historical references, while others deliberately adopt an allegorical mode in order to be evasive. What they have in common is a historical import relevant to events in the Song–Yuan political, social, and cultural transition, treating a fallen Han-Chinese imperial house and the painful inception of a new, alien regime.61 The dissolution of the country and its culture drove many writers at the Song–Yuan transition to despair and depression. The turbulence they witnessed and experienced was analogous to what Du Fu had experienced during the An Lushan Rebellion. This couplet by Shu Yuexiang 舒岳祥 (1217–98) in “Ti Pan Shaobai shi” 題潘少白詩 (On Pan Shaobai’s Poetry) is vividly telling: 燕騎紛紛塵暗天少陵詩史在眼前

Hordes of horses descend from the north, dust veils the heavens— I see Shaoling’s shishi as it naturally happens.62

And Du’s poetic model of shishi suited their purposes just as well. Shishi, yeshi or poetic witnessing emerged as a major preoccupation among the surviving Song subjects when they committed their thoughts and feelings to paper. All the poems cited in Qian’s passage have this character. Take Wang Shuiyun as an example. Wang Shuiyun’s given name was Yuanliang 元量 (zi Dayou 大有), Shuiyun being his style name. Wang was a court musician-poet for Empress Dowager Xie of the Song. When the Song house fell to the Mongols, he voluntarily accompanied the imperial family to Qubilai’s capital in Dadu (now Beijing), where he spent some ten years. Wang returned in 1288 to Jiangnan, to become a Daoist monk. Thereafter he traveled and bonded with various groups of Song loyalists. Painfully lyrical, often in extended song series, Wang versified many episodes of the destruction of the Song imperial house—the palace intrigues, the experiences of the imperial family on their journey to the Yuan capital, and the condition of the imperial family in Dadu. His contemporaries called his poems shishi, and Wang certainly deserved the credit.63 Wang wrote a nuanced poem entitled “‘Qie boming’ cheng Wenshan daoren” 妾薄命呈文山道人 (“Oh My Miserable Life”: Presented to Master Wenshan [Wen Tianxiang]).64 The persona of this poem is a chaste and loyal wife who urges her husband to fulfill the meaning of loyalty (zhong 忠) by sacrificing his life. She ends the poem by saying: 豈無春秋筆為君紀其功

Don’t think no one possesses the Spring and Autumn brush— Be assured, your great deeds will be chronicled.65

Given that Wang presented the poem to Wen Tianxiang, who was at the time held captive by the Mongols in Dadu, it will not be amiss to consider the wife’s words here as embodying Wang’s emphatic zhi 志 (ambition), that he


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vows to take up the historian’s brush to record the exemplary deeds of loyal officials. In another poem, “Da Lin Shitian” 答林石田 (A Reply to Lin Shitian), Wang presents himself as a writer of yeshi: 我更傷心成野史人看野史更傷心

I hurt so much that I had to write these yeshi, And people hurt more, reading my yeshi.66

While Wang modestly called his works yeshi, his contemporaries, as mentioned above, accorded them the stature of shishi. His friend Li Jue 李珏 (1219–1307) offers this comment in “Shu Wang Shuiyun shi hou” 書汪水雲詩後 (A Postface to Wang Shuiyun’s Poetry): One day, my friend Wang Shuiyun from Wu showed me his [Hushan] leigao, in which he relates the sadness of the demise of the country, the pain of needing to leave the motherland, and the pangs of hardship, melancholy and desolation—all this is expressed in his poems, which are subtle yet distinct, concealing yet revealing, plaintive yet not bitter; his laments illustrate profound grief, resounding even more loudly than bitter wailing, not even the poems from A Collection of Weeping Blood can compare to them. The events of the Tang house were recorded by Caotang [Du Fu], and people of later ages viewed those works by Du as shishi; Shuiyun’s poems are also shishi, of the demise of the Song house, and his poems emulate those of Caotang. Shuiyun’s feelings of melancholy and depression cannot be lightened, even graver than what Caotang had experienced. 一日, 吳友汪水雲出示《類稿》, 紀其亡國之戚, 去國之苦, 艱關愁歎之狀, 備見於詩, 微而顯, 隱而彰, 哀而不怨, 欷歔而悲, 甚於痛哭, 豈《泣血錄》所可並也? 唐之事紀於草堂, 後人以「詩史」目之, 水雲之詩, 亦宋亡之詩史也, 其詩亦鼓吹草堂者也. 其愁思壹鬱, 不可復伸, 則又有甚於草堂者也.67 Ideas and emphases from the commentarial traditions of the Spring and Autumn Annals and the Book of Odes are mustered here to exemplify the features of Wang’s figurative language. Most importantly, “subtle yet distinct” (and, by extension, “concealing yet revealing”) is taken directly from the five rhetorical principles of the Annals that Du Yu formulated (see above). And “plaintive yet not bitter” (ai er bu yuan 哀而不怨) is derived both from “plaintive yet not given to self-injury” (ai er bu shang 哀而不傷) and “bitter yet not indignant” (yuan er bu nu 怨而不怒),68 the time-honored “moral of the Odes” (shijiao 詩教) that recommends the virtue of emotional reserve and verbal cautiousness (see discussion below). What interests us most here is not Li Jue’s discussion of Wang’s literary sensibilities, per se. Rather, it is Li’s almost seamless synthesis of the critical elements from the Annals and Odes hermeneutic in the characterization, accurate or not, of Wang’s shishi. Or, put otherwise, he sees that there is a historical imperative in Wang’s lyricism,

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and the gravity of Wang’s poetry comes from—aside from Wang’s own chequered and unfortunate life—the hidden social commentary and criticism couched in an idiom of restraint. The emphasis on “praise and blame” and the alignment of the values of poetry and history in shishi by the Song loyalist writers made their view very close to Qian Qianyi’s vision of it during the Ming–Qing transition.69 And writers of the Song–Yuan transition were imaginatively innovative in fleshing out the spirit of “praise and blame.” For example, Wen Tianxiang, before he was killed by the Mongols, patched lines from Du Fu (ji Du 集杜) to make his own shishi, centos made entirely of Du’s originals. Wen writes in the self-preface to his Ji Dushi 集杜詩 (Centos Made of Du Fu’s Lines)—also known as Wenshan shishi 文山詩史 (Wen Tianxiang’s Shishi)—a collection of two hundred poems, accentuating the spirit of “praise and blame” in Du’s shishi and in his own “re-creation”:70 . . . What my heart wanted to say, Zimei had said it all before me. . . . Zimei and I were separated by several hundred years, but his words serve my purposes perfectly; it must be that we are akin in feeling and character! People in the past have dubbed him shishi because he employed the language of poetry to chronicle historical events, and what’s more, in his verse messages of disapproval and approval and praise and blame shine brightly, you might even call it history. My patched lines from Du illustrate all the troubles I experienced, as well as the changes of the world and human condition. However, in the beginning I did not aim to produce poetry. Historians in the age to come please take note of this. . . . 凡吾意所欲言者, 子美先為代言之. . . . 子美於吾隔數百年, 而其言語為吾用, 非情性同哉! 昔人評杜詩為詩史, 蓋其以詠歌之辭寓紀載之實, 而抑揚褒貶之意燦然於其中, 雖謂之史可也. 予所集杜詩, 自余顛沛以來, 世變人事, 概見於此矣. 是非有意於為詩者也. 後之良史, 尚庶幾有考焉.71 Wen could have expressed himself more clearly and forcefully were he to adopt Mencius’ famous quote of Confucius on composing the Annals, to this effect: “The original events concern the Tang dynasty, the style belongs to Du Fu, but I have appropriated the didactic quality of praise and blame therein to comment on our times.” Wen’s practice of making centos created a new poetic passion that attracted many followers; “patched lines from Du” became a serious and nuanced part of the literature of the Song–Yuan transition.72 That Du Fu’s voice speaks for others across time and history is testimony to Du’s literary immortality and the fact that Du and the Song loyalists lived through similar historical and human conditions.73 Wang Yuanliang, Wen Tianxiang and many others embraced shishi, in different forms, to give expression to their feelings and emotion and to register their criticism of current affairs.74 Observably, during the Song–Yuan transition many shishi became increasingly symbolic and allegorical, both in content and intention,75 while others


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were marked by an acute sense of historicity, laced with topical references. Whatever their disposition, the tones in which they were expressed are often the same: sorrowful and wounded. Commenting on Lin Jingxi’s 林景熙 (1242–1310) poetry, He Menggui 何夢桂 (1228–?) describes the overall aesthetic of poetry of the period in relation to shishi: I have brooded over the vicissitudes of poetry. Back in those days when we gathered in school we loved to talk in idealistic and hazy terms, . . . we shunned the Mutated Airs and Mutated Elegantiae, let alone those poems from Wei, Jin, Liang, Chen times onwards that are filled with distress and hurt as if spoken by commoners, young men of humble station, travelers, and widows. Then came the past ten years which saw the styles of the scholars’ poetry all changed into a tone of distress and hurt; my dear friend Jishan [Lin Jingxi] is no exception. Alas, is it that the world has abandoned literature, or, is it that literature has abandoned the world? People of the past and present regarded Du Shaoling’s poems as shishi; his poems, long and short, that are truly brilliant and unique resulted from his involuntary travels and wandering and emotional turmoil. I have read only thirty poems by Jishan—the wording and emotion are both delicate and sorrowful, one feels like a remnant from a past age reading them. . . . That is why I am so very touched by Jishan’s poetry, and that is why I am so very touched by the vicissitudes of poetry. 竊於詩之變而有感焉. 方庠序群居, 高談闊論, . . . 變風變雅, 不忍言之矣; 況復齒及魏, 晉, 梁, 陳以下, 窮苦愁怨等語, 如細夫, 窶人, 羈旅, 寡婦之為者! 相望十年間, 而士大夫聲詩率一變而為窮苦愁怨之語, 而吾霽山詩亦若此. 世喪文邪, 文喪世耶? 古今以杜少陵詩為詩史, 至其長篇短章橫騖逸出者, 多在流離奔走失意中得之. 霽山詩僅見三十篇, 其辭意皆婉娩悽惻, 使人讀之如異代遺黎. . . . 吾是以重有感於霽山之詩也, 吾是以重有感於詩之變也.76 This helps elucidate Qian Qianyi’s rather terse comment at the beginning of the passage under discussion, that “poetry of the Tang declined in the Song,” but “when the Song fell, poetry flourished.” He Menggui is understandably apologetic of the late Southern Song poets—he is in their rank—but later literary critics, Qian in particular, are often less merciful. They would endorse the opinion that the outlook of the poets was transformed greatly in the wake of the fall of the Song, but would certainly object to He’s glossing over the poets’ poor performance towards the end of the dynasty, which was remembered to have produced minor poetry, represented by the so-called Yongjia si Ling 永嘉四靈 (Four Lings of Yongjia) and Jianghu shipai 江湖詩派 (Rivers and Lakes Poetry School). The late Southern Song poets showed an “inward,” “everyday” turn, so to speak, submerged in their own miseries and treating often seemingly trivial subject matters (wind, cloud, moon, dew, monk, bamboo, tea, wine, so on and so forth).77 The Song philosopher Zhu

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Xi 朱熹 (1130–1200) once exclaimed in talking about the late Southern Song poetry: “It emits such an aura of sick Qi!” (shi duoshao shuaiqi 是多少衰氣).78 It was the Song–Yuan dynastic changeover that forced the poets to look squarely at the larger world and their role in it. The intensity of thought, feelings and emotion translated into an imperative of poetic witnessing. And that was precisely the anxiety that “the world has abandoned literature” or “literature has abandoned the world”— humanity and civilization, metaphorically—that propelled the poets to transcribe their, and the world’s, experiences upon the pages of poetic writ, to reassure themselves of the meaning of their existence and survival, and to create a testimony and record for posterity. Shishi demands and commands both poetry and history to live up to its calling, and it became one of the most favored modes of poetic expression during the Song–Yuan transition. The political changeover and the ensuing transformation crisis caused widespread suffering, disorder and unrest both in the Song–Yuan and the Ming–Qing transitional epochs. Shishi explored the tragic dynamics and consequences and proved to be most powerful and potent when based on personal experiences. Wang Yuanliang is perhaps the most celebrated shishi writer from the Song–Yuan transition, for his verse is as much historical as it is autobiographical, articulating the public with the private. Qian Qianyi sees the virtue of combining the objective with the subjective in the shishi of the Ming–Qing changeover as well. In the same poem-series of 1656 in which Qian versifies Hu Zhiguo, Qian writes about Qian Chengzhi’s 錢澄之 (1612– 93) poetry: 閩山桂海飽炎霜詩史酸辛錢幼光束筍一編光怪甚夜來山鬼守奚囊

Over the Min hills and the Gui sea you suffered much heat and cold; You endured hardship and toil to produce shishi, Qian Youguang. These many pieces comprise something very bright and peculiar— In the night, a mountain ghost comes down to guard the poetry bag.79

Qian Chengzhi’s poetry occupies a special role in one of Qian Qianyi’s own shishi endeavors. Around 1656, Qian Qianyi started assembling a volume of poetry entitled Wu zhi ji (A Collection of My Own Roast),80 which consists of poems that are especially appealing to him either for their refreshing aesthetic qualities or their particular historical value, or both. Qian Chengzhi’s inclusion, sixty-eight poems in all, in the collection81 is distinctive for its shishi element. Qian Chengzhi joined the Ming revival cause in Jiangnan and South China from 1645 to 1650; his poems in Wu zhi ji represent his suffering and trial in the Southern Ming partisan strife and then his hardship and sorrow while serving the fugitive Southern Ming courts in Guangxi and Guangdong. They also contain much inside information about the Ming resistance and the


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royal family. In a collection containing his poems from 1645 to 1648, the Shenghuan ji 生還集 (Survived), Qian Chengzhi urges the reader to view his poems, if not as shishi, as his “chronological biography” (nianpu 年譜): . . . I named this collection Survived to acknowledge my good fortune. The difficulties that I experienced, the testing course of my travels and travails, as well as the wonders of mountains and rivers, the peculiarities of customs and manners, the vicissitudes of the world and human life are all manifest in these pages. Dear readers of this book, please regard this as my chronological biography; it does not have to be called shishi. . . . 目曰《生還集》, 志幸也. 其間遭遇之坎壈, 行役之崎嶇, 以至山川之勝概, 風俗之殊態, 天時人事之變移, 一覽可見. 披斯集者, 以作予年譜可也, 詩史云乎哉.82 Qian Chengzhi’s intention to shape the poems into personal and national historical memories is obvious. His poems are littered with references to people’s names, place names and dates. To elucidate the events that led to the writing of the poems and to strengthen the expression of his feelings, Qian Chengzhi makes use of long titles and subtitles, explanatory additions and interlinear notes. These devices allow the reader to more readily relate to the poet’s experiences, but, more importantly, allow the poet to preserve information pertaining to the historical contexts.83 Qian Chengzhi’s precedents are apparent in such Song loyalist shishi writers as Wang Yuanliang and Shu Yuexiang.84 Wang Yuanliang would appear to be a good model for the poets of the Ming–Qing transition. However, in Ming times only a fraction of Wang’s verses were available. Much had been lost in the passage of time. It was Qian who accidentally recovered, in 1631, more than two hundred and twenty poems of Wang’s. (Apparently a copy of Wang’s poetry was in Qian’s family collection, and Qian chanced upon it when he was airing his books in the sun.) Qian writes in “Ba Wang Shuiyun shi” 跋汪水雲詩 (A Postface to Wang Shuiyun’s Poetry): “Huzhou ge” [consists of ] ninety-eight pieces, “Yuezhou ge” twenty, and “Zui ge” ten, in which [Wang] relates the events of the demise of the country and the [forced] move north [of the Song imperial family to the Yuan capital]; [the contents of the poems are] elaborate, [and their tones] sad—[Wang’s poems] can be seen as shishi. 〈湖州歌〉九十八首,〈越州歌〉二十首,〈醉歌〉十首, 記國亡北徙之事, 周詳惻愴, 可謂詩史.85 Qian’s opinion of the book is not unlike those of Wang’s contemporaries during the Song–Yuan transition: Qian considers Wang’s successful elaboration of historical events surrounding the disintegration of the Song house and Wang’s deep, sympathetic involvement with his subject to be the two defining features of Wang’s shishi.

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The second part of the passage in “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” under discussion explains why there is the need for a loyalist poetics. Qian asserts that poetry is more enduring and effective than history in times of crisis. To make his case, he critiques Cheng Minzheng’s 程敏政 (1445–99) Song yimin lu 宋遺民錄 (Records of the Song Loyalists).86 The Song yimin lu was a Ming compilation—completed in 1479, first published in 1525—but apparently it only gained wide circulation in the wake of the Manchu conquest. In this book Cheng collected writings and later eulogies of eleven Song loyalists who were not treated in official histories.87 He explained that he was upset by this omission, and hence labored to assemble the Song loyalists’ works for posterity. His book was the first of its kind in subject matter and format, and it covers the same era as do the loyalist poems mentioned above. Qian nevertheless accuses the book of failing to record certain significant personages and events (qiren 其人, qishi 其事), such as the end of the Southern Song and the activities of Song loyalists. Besides the passage under discussion, Qian also complains in an earlier essay, “Ji Yuequanyinshe” 記月泉吟社 (About the Chanting Club of the Moonlit Fountain): Cheng Keqin [Minzheng] of the present dynasty [the Ming] compiled the Song yimin lu, . . . yet only eleven personages are recorded therein. . . . Of the undocumented literature and the barely known events that I have come across in reading, no fewer than several dozen [Song] loyalists from the areas of Wu and Yue [should have been accounted for]. I intend to assemble these materials to make up for the deficiencies of the new history. . . . 本朝程克勤輯《宋遺民錄》 . . . 僅十有一人. 余所見遺民逸事, 吳 , 越間遺民已不啻數十人 , 欲網羅之 , 以補新史之闕. . . .88 Qian contends that these details can be reconstructed from the Song loyalists’ verses. The rhetorical question placed at the very end of the passage recapitulates the whole of Qian’s thesis, that poetry exceeds history.

Historical memory, emotion and creativity: Shishi at the Ming–Qing dynastic changeover Above, we have considered the first half of Qian’s essay in the larger contexts of literary and intellectual traditions; discussed the propensity of shishi to weld the values of history into poetry, as well as the difficulties Qian encountered in advancing his agenda; and observed how Qian reoriented shishi in the historical condition of Song loyalism. In the second half of the essay, Qian brings the idea of shishi home, to the Ming–Qing dynastic changeover, with greater emphasis on historical memory, emotion and creativity. He addresses his contemporaries while musing over the expressive qualities of Hu Zhiguo’s poetry: Since the recent catastrophe, I do not write poems any more. Even when I


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happen to look over someone else’s poem, I feel so heavy-hearted that I can seldom read to the end. I met Hu Zhiguo in Jinling and read his recent works. The thoughts of the poems are somber, and the words melancholy. They are so distressing and sorrowful that I could not help but sigh and sob, as if intoxicated with grief, and pace to and fro, as if at a loss. It was like listening to the lute of Yongmen, the chanting of Zhuang Xi, or feeling myself carried away by Miss Cai’s song. Zhiguo edited his own poems and characterized their spirit with the word “subtlety.” What profound sentiment! He must have known sorrows and troubles! The [Zuo] Commentary [on the Spring and Autumn Annals] says that the Spring and Autumn has “Deviated Rhetorical Principles,” and [the Gongyang Commentary says:] “[The entries about Dukes] Ding and Ai contain many subtle words.” [In this light,] the great import of history also hinges on subtlety. The mutations of the two Elegantiae bring forth [such lines as] “The glorious Zhou capital” and “There is a crow that wishes to land.” The language of poetry has become quite explicit. Nevertheless, explicitness brought about by exposing everything is not necessarily candor, while exercising restraint and subtlety does not necessarily end up in obscurity. Be it explicit or be it subtle, it is mere leaves and branches of rhetoric, it is not the roots and origins in writing poetry. One should broaden one’s learning to enrich one’s sources; nourish Qi to support one’s will; start with a heart that is loyal, filial, and humane; and mold oneself through the lesson of “gentleness and genuineness” [from the Book of Odes]. [Poetry] originates from one’s nature and affections, and learning; but its roots lay in the ultimate subtlety in the mutations of the oppressive Yin and the regenerative Yang forces between heaven and earth. Subtlety! Subtlety! I can speak of poetry only with one who understands this! Zhiguo draws on old traditions and sets his mind firmly on learning: he is earnest and erudite. He cuts and trims, revises and corrects his poems. Those he finds banal or frivolous, he discards. From here he should press on, immerse himself in the art and gain mastery of it. Zhiguo will present an example for those who talk about shishi in the future. They will say: “After the Tianbao era of the Tang dynasty, we find once again, [in Zhiguo], pieces like [Du Fu’s] ‘Zhaoling’ and ‘Beizheng.’ ” Would it not be delightful? I am already in my declining years, but I take heart and wait for Zhiguo’s poetry. 余自刦灰之後, 不復作詩. 見他人詩, 不忍竟讀. 金陵遇胡子致果, 讀其近詩, 穆乎其思也, 悄乎其詞也. 愀乎悠89 乎, 使人為之欷歔煩酲, 屏營徬徨, 如聽雍門之琴, 聆莊舄之吟, 而按蔡女之拍也. 致果自定其詩, 歸其指于微之一字. 思深哉! 其有憂患乎? 傳曰: 《春秋》有 “變例”, “定, 哀多微詞”. 史之大義, 未嘗不主于微也. 二雅之變, 至于 “赫赫宗周”, “瞻烏爰止”,

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi 《詩》之立言, 未嘗不著也. 揚之而著, 非著也; 抑之而微, 非微也. 著與微, 修詞之枝葉, 而非作詩之本原也. 學殖以深其根, 養氣以充其志, 發皇乎忠孝惻怛之心, 陶冶乎溫柔敦厚之教. 其徵兆在性情, 在學問; 而其根柢則在乎天地運世, 陰陽剝復之幾微. 微乎! 微乎! 斯可與言詩也已矣. 胡子汲古力學, 深衷博聞. 其為詩, 翦刻陶洗, 刊落凡近. 過此以往, 深造而自得之, 使後世論詩史者, 謂有唐天寶而後, 復見〈昭陵〉,〈北征〉之篇, 不亦休乎! 余雖老而耄矣, 尚能磨厲以俟之.90

Which expressive qualities in Hu Zhiguo’s poetry elicit such a strong emotional response from Qian? The answer is intimated characteristically in a series of allusions to the lore of music: the particular, classical analogies that Qian draws between Hu’s verse and the legends of Yongmen 雍門, Zhuang Xi 莊舄, and Cai Yan 蔡琰. Yongmen of the Warring States era (403–221 ) was not only well known for his wonderful performance on the lute but also for his relentless criticism of Lord Mengchang, the famous princely patron. When the two men met, Yongmen criticized Mengchang’s indulgence in sensual pleasures and his reckless diplomacy. Yongmen played for the prince, rendering his criticism into a string of soul-stirring musical notes. The prince shed tears, saying: “Your playing of the lute, Sir, makes me feel as if I were a man of a ruined state whose domain is lost” (先生之鼓琴, 令文立若破國亡邑之人也).91 Also of the Warring States era, Zhuang Xi was a native of Yue, but he served the court of Chu in a prominent position. The people of Chu thought he must be content with his life in their state, considering Zhuang’s rather humble origin in Yue. Yet on the occasion when Zhuang fell ill, filled with nostalgia, he could not refrain from chanting the tunes of Yue, expressing yearnings for his homeland.92 Cai Yan (Wenji 文姬; b. c. 178 ), a highborn, talented young widow from the Eastern Han, was abducted by troops during a civil war and became a prisoner, held in detention by the Southern Xiongnu “barbarians.” She was married to one of the Xiongnu leaders and bore him two sons. After living among the Xiongnu for twelve years, she was ransomed back to the Han. Three autobiographical poems traditionally attributed to her tell of her traumatic abduction and her involuntary stay among the Xiongnu.93 Qian alludes to the longest of the three, “Hujia shi ba pai” 胡笳十八拍 (Song of the Barbarian Reed-whistle). Certainly the Ming loyalists would feel for Lord Mengchang, Zhuang Xi, and Cai Yan, for they themselves were now truly subjects of a fallen state, their “homeland” lost and having to live among the “barbarians.” Defeat, nostalgia, and indignation permeate their lyrics.94 The remark “What profound sentiment” (si shen zai 思深哉), seemingly casual in classical Chinese, is actually a line from a famous passage in the Zuo Commentary. Qian is making an implicit reference to yet another piece of


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classical music lore, coupling aesthetics with politics. As the story goes, Prince Zha 公子札 of Wu could intuitively apprehend the particular moral qualities of a certain state by listening to its music. On a ceremonial visit to Duke Xiang of Lu in 543 , the Prince requested that the Duke’s musicians perform the music of Zhou for him. His comment on the music of the Tang95 holds the greatest interest for us, because he said: “What profound sentiment! The Tang inherited some leftover subjects from the tribe of Taotang, didn’t they? Otherwise, how could [their odes] express such deep sorrows? How could they have such odes if they were not the descendants of virtuous ancestors?” (思深哉! 其有陶唐氏之遺民乎? 不然, 何憂之遠也? 非令德之後, 誰能若是).96 Qian effectively appropriates this comment to characterize the survivors of the Manchu conquest—like Hu Zhiguo and himself, they are “leftover subjects” of the fallen country, their “ancestors,” the Ming rulers, were virtuous, and their poetry communicates a strong sense of nostalgia and melancholy.

Anxiety and criticism of the grand master It should be apparent by now that Qian’s discussion of Hu Zhiguo’s poetry revolves around a “fallen state” (wangguo 亡國). Even Qian’s citations from the Book of Odes—“The glorious Zhou capital,” “There is a crow that wishes to land”—return to this theme. Both lines come from the poem “Zhengyue” 正月 (Mao no. 192), the former from the eighth stanza and the latter from the third. At first glance, the quotations might appear to be random, given as examples of a certain type of poem in the Book of Odes. Why, then, does Qian not present the two lines in their original sequence, first the line from the third stanza and then the line from the eighth? After examining the respective stanzas of “Zhengyue” in their entirety, we come to realize that these two lines serve a special purpose. They define the anxiety that plagued a particular group of survivors: the former high officials of the Ming court. “Zhengyue” is narrated through the voice of a Grand Master (Dafu 大夫). (One is reminded that Qian was Minister of Rites of the Southern Ming, a “grand master” himself.) According to tradition, there are two possible dates for this poem: one points to the eve of the destruction of the Western Zhou dynasty, and the other the period shortly after the destruction.97 The third stanza of “Zhengyue” reads: 憂心惸惸念我無祿民之無辜并其臣僕哀我人斯于何從祿瞻烏爰止于誰之屋

My heart is laden with depression and worry, I brood over my ill fortune. These people are innocent, Yet enslaved they will be, their servants along with them. Oh, how miserable I am! Where will I get support from? There is a crow that wishes to land, But on whose house?

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And the eighth stanza reads: 心之憂矣如或結之今茲之正胡然厲矣燎之方揚寧或滅之赫赫宗周褒姒滅之

Alas, my heart is distressed, As if it were knotted up. The rule of the current court— How unruly, harsh it is! The flames are rising, Will there be one to put them out? The glorious Zhou capital Is destroyed by Bao Si!98

According to the “Xiaoxu” 小序 (Minor Preface) to the poem: “In ‘Zhengyue,’ a Grand Master satirizes King You” (正月, 大夫刺幽王也). Traditional commentaries ascribe to the poem two interrelated subjects of criticism: the miseries and decline of the kingdom; and King You’s infatuation with his favorite concubine, Bao Si, a Helen-like temptress whose beauty brought warring and destruction. Anxieties over the fate of the imperial house and its people and criticism of the government are evident in these two stanzas. The “crow” in the third stanza is a fitting symbol for the grieved official facing the impending dissolution of the country. Criticism of Bao Si and, implicitly, King You appears in the eighth stanza, particularly in the last two lines. The initial line of the run-on couplet, which Qian quoted, invokes the second line like a refrain. It is noteworthy that Qian cites these lines out of order, an act that both minimizes the importance of the order of the stanzas and substitutes a mini-narrative of Qian’s own devising: 赫赫宗周褒姒滅之瞻烏爰止于誰之屋

The glorious Zhou capital Is destroyed by Bao Si! There is a crow that wishes to land, But on whose house?

The kingdom has been destroyed, or is on the brink of destruction. The kingdom’s subjects, particularly court officials like the speaker of the poem, are destitute. This cutting-and-pasting not only makes “Zhengyue” conform more snugly with the references to loyalists who long for the lost state, but it also accentuates the poem’s political element. In this connection, more has to be said about “Zhengyue” in relation to the “Daxu” 大序 (Great Preface) to the Book of Odes. The “Great Preface,” elaborating on the suggestive powers of poetry in terms of music, maintains there are three “tones”: (1) “The tones of a turbulent age are bitter and indignant, attesting that its government is chaotic” (亂世之音怨以怒, 其政乖); (2) “The tones of a fallen state are plaintive and contemplative, attesting that its people are in distress” (亡國之音哀以思, 其民困). These two are the opposite of (3), the one heard in times of peace


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and order: “The tones of a peaceful age are calm and joyful, attesting that its government is harmonious” (治世之音安以樂, 其政和).99 Traditionally, poems that represent the “tones of a peaceful age” were idealized as “Orthodox” (zheng 正), whereas those that reflect “a turbulent age” or “a fallen state” are regarded as “Mutated” (bian 變).100 The social realities leading to the appearance of Mutated poems have been accounted for in the “Great Preface” as well. They emerged from historical and social upheaval: When the kingly way declined, rites and righteousness fell into oblivion, and the government lost its sway over people’s minds. As a result, states had different practices and families varied customs. This gave rise to the appearance of Mutated Airs and Mutated Elegantiae. 至於王道衰, 禮義廢, 政教失, 國異政, 家殊俗, 而變風 , 變雅作矣.101 In accordance with traditional criticism, Qian cites “Zhengyue” as an example of Mutated Elegantiae (er ya zhi bian 二雅之變), and revisualizes it as one which exhibits the “tones of a fallen state.”102 In the whole Book of Odes, the Mutated poems contain the most explicit historical and social references, and thus enable the reader to associate the poems with concrete historical events. Critical tradition has always read a didactic intent in the Mutated poems. The exegesis in the Book of Odes of the Han dynasty takes full advantage of the textual evidence of the Mutated poems. (In actuality, in the spirit of allegoresis and historicism, it often takes liberties.) “Zhengyue” is the second poem in a group of ten headed by “Jie Nanshan” 節南山.103 The “Prefaces” advise that eight of these ten poems are composed to satirize King You, who was blamed for the final demise of the Western Zhou dynasty. Among these eight poems, five are narrated in the voice of the Grand Masters, “Zhengyue” being the first. Based on the historical, social, and cultural realities leading to the appearance of the Mutated poems, Zheng Xuan 鄭玄 (127–200 ) of the Eastern Han proposes a chronology of the different sections of the Book of Odes in his Shi pu 詩譜 (Chronological Tables of the Odes). As for the Mutated Airs and the Mutated Elegantiae, Zheng asserts: After [King Yi], there came King Li and King You. Government and teaching became particularly corrupt, and the Zhou house was on the brink of total collapse. Such songs as “Shiyue zhi jiao,” “Min lao,” “Ban,” and “Dang” all appeared at once. The different states were in disorder, and [songs of ] satire and criticism followed upon each other. In the last days of the Five Hegemons, the Son of Heaven and the earls in the regions became equally powerless. Who was there to encourage the good, to condemn the evil? Law and order came to naught. In view of this, Confucius compiled those songs from the eras of King Yi 懿 and King Yi 夷, ending with the poem concerning the licentious affair of

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi Duke Ling of Chen. These poems are known as Mutated Airs and Mutated Elegantiae. 自是 [懿王] 而下, 厲也, 幽也. 政教尤衰, 周室大壞, 〈十月之交〉,〈民勞〉,〈板〉,〈蕩〉勃爾俱作, 眾國紛然, 刺怨相尋. 五霸之末, 上無天子, 下無方伯, 善者誰賞, 惡者誰罰, 紀綱絕矣! 故孔子錄懿王, 夷王時詩, 訖於陳靈公淫亂之事, 謂之變風 , 變雅.104

“Shiyue zhi jiao,” an example of the Mutated Airs and Elegantiae, also belongs to the group of “Jie Nanshan,” and it appears directly after “Zhengyue.”105 Both Zheng Xuan and Qian Qianyi invoke the same group of poems in the Book of Odes to illustrate the characteristics of the Mutated poems. Zheng Xuan’s historicist stance is fully apparent in the manner in which he attributes political and social meanings to the odes. Most importantly, Zheng Xuan maintains that Confucius included the Mutated poems in the anthology to “encourage” (shang 賞) the good and to “condemn” (fa 罰) the evil. Qian taps the powers of didacticism, historicism, and allegoricism in this imposing, long-lasting hermeneutic tradition to formulate a kind of poetry that has the potential to become political and social criticism.106 Although Qian would certainly appreciate the moral-ethical aim behind the act of writing, he would not promote the manner of expression that goes with the Mutated poems, at least not that of “Zhengyue.” In Qian’s vision, as we have discussed above, the purposes of satire and criticism can be achieved by a poetic language much more restrained, symbolic and suggestive. In “Hu Zhiguo shi xu,” Qian is formulating a poetics of “subtlety,” a rhetoric of symbolism and euphemism akin to the one employed by Confucius in his Spring and Autumn Annals, the features of which we have visited above.

Identity crisis and the poetic self It is time to speculate on some of the implications of Qian’s essay for the particular difficulties faced by the survivors of the Ming–Qing political changeover. In word if not in deed, Qian identifies himself as a loyalist of the vanquished Ming empire, and, by extension, as an heir to the tribulations recorded by the Song loyalist poets whom he mentions. The Song and Ming loyalists were faced with analogous situations: they were subjugated by a foreign people, by force of military strength. For the Song it was the Mongols, and for the Ming, the Manchus. Both the Mongol Yuan and the Manchu Qing succeeded in dominating the entire Chinese nation. Never before the Mongols did any non-Chinese ruling group accomplish this enterprise. The fallen Song was remembered by its loyalists as an era of sovereign benevolence and flourishing culture, in spite of its military impotence and political debility. The Mongol conquest shook the Chinese people’s confidence in their cultural and political superiority. The circumstances of the


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Ming loyalists were even more bewildering than those of the Song loyalists. To begin with, the Qing imperial court’s policies caused considerable distress to those eminent Chinese who wished to remain non-committal to the new dynasty. Shao Tingcai 邵廷采 (1648–1711), a sympathetic historian of Southern Ming personages, remarked: Alas! The demise of the Ming is like that of the Song. Are not the Ming loyalists like their counterparts of the Song? I venture to say that they exhibited the same integrity of spirit, but the conditions of their times are somehow different. After the demise of the Song, the former minister Ma Tingluan (1223–89) and his like could still enjoy freedom in the cliffs and valleys for over ten years, no one forced them to come out [and serve the new imperial court]. Besides Xie Fangde (1226–89), who was indeed forced to come out and died as a result of it, I know of no other example. After the demise of the Ming, however, the surviving officials and upright gentlemen often had to seek refuge in the monastery, so as to sustain their will. Those who chose not to sometimes were obliged to accept public office. 於乎! 明之季年, 猶宋之季年也. 明之遺民, 非猶宋之遺民乎. 曰節固一致, 時有不同. 宋之季年, 如故相馬廷鸞等, 悠游岩谷, 竟十餘年, 無強之出者. 其強之出而終死, 謝枋得而外, 未之有聞也. 至明之季年, 故臣莊士, 往往避于浮屠, 以貞厥志, 非是, 則有出仕矣.107 Meanwhile, the ghost of the Ming continued to haunt them, enveloping them in a maze of murky memories and psychology. Zhu Yuanzhang 朱元璋 (r. 1368–98), the Founding Emperor of the Ming, vanquished the Mongols and re-established a strong and, above all, Chinese empire for his subjects. The Ming dynasty was remembered as an age that held promise of Chinese revival and resurgence of culture, and it enjoyed a longevity akin to that of the Song.108 Yet Chongzhen, the last Ming emperor in Beijing, was believed to have spoken these malevolent words before committing suicide: “It is all because the officials have failed me” (jie zhu chen zhi wu zhen ye 皆諸臣之誤朕也).109 Chongzhen laid all the blame for the doom of the empire on his officials. The loyalists who held official positions under the Ming lived in shame and guilt in the Qing, if they chose to live at all, and many took Chongzhen at his word. Of course, some felt misjudged, and turned bitter or even angry. We know, for instance, that some held Chongzhen partly responsible for the country’s demise, faulting his instability of mind and ruling incompetence.110 These loyalists internally resisted Chongzhen’s curse—they nevertheless remained loyal to the Ming, but to the Ming as a political, cultural, or ethnic identity, and not necessarily to Chongzhen (or later, the several ill-starred Southern Ming emperors and princes). Most Ming loyalists, I believe, felt ashamed of living under the Manchu regime; in them we find a strong element of denial and fantasy, a refusal to face the reality that the Ming was gone. In the first two decades of Manchu rule, many

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continued to entertain thoughts of a Ming revival. The Ming loyalists were tormented by senses of loss, shame, remorse, guilt, and bitterness, anger, hope, and fantasy, and their writings are tinged with all these sensations. What compelled them to write was an intense yearning to mourn, to defend, to criticize, or to record. Many articulated their innermost feelings and thoughts through the most ancient yet immediate, deeply personal yet universal, genre: poetry. Nevertheless, the Ming loyalist poets were faced with a dilemma similar to that of Confucius many centuries before—it would appear transgressive and inappropriate for them to openly criticize the former Ming emperors and high officials; and they might invite problems if they bluntly pointed out the evils of the current ruling house, the Qing. The art of subtlety and nuance should hold a special appeal for them. Viewed in this light, Qian’s entire essay can be seen as targeted at the Ming loyalists and their sympathizers, in their day and in the future. A promise to the loyalists and a guide to posterity, the message can be interpreted on three levels. First, it issues an assurance: Qian assures the Ming loyalists that posterity will remember them, through their writings, just as the Ming people remember the Song loyalists. It is meant to impress on every loyalist the urgent necessity to record. Second, there is a summons: Qian urges the Ming loyalists to write shishi, the most effective record of their times. Third, Qian offers a reading strategy for posterity: read between the lines to flesh out the Ming loyalists’ intent as embodied in those “subtle words.” For the loyalists, Qian’s promise is an immortality secured by writing a particular kind of verse, in a time when the loyalists were marginalized and had no authority except in the realm of letters and language. And of course, the writing of “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” might be an act of selfredemption on Qian’s part, too. Qian knew that if he could inscribe his own name on the monument of the loyalists, posterity would form a more favorable impression of him and save him from the disgrace he had to bear in his mortal life.

Propagation and mutation of the shishi idea Qian Qianyi may be shishi’s most eloquent advocate in the early Qing, but he was hardly alone in his persuasion. Shishi was a way of unburdening one’s soul favored by the whole generation of literati who witnessed the dynastic changeover. Wu Weiye (zi Jungong 駿公, hao Meicun 梅村),111 another brilliant poet of the Ming–Qing transition, committed himself to preserving history via poetry no less than Qian. In a preface written in 1660 for a friend’s collection of poetry, Wu expresses a view about the relationship between poetry and history of the remote past very similar to Qian’s: In ancient times, poetry and history were closely related. That is why, when the Son of Heaven collected poems, if the poems reflected the order


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and disorder of the times and the merits and demerits of the present government, even if they were by farmers or idle women, he would still without exception deposit them with the bureau of history. They did not have to be the compositions of officials. When the Grand Scribe submitted poems, if the poems reflected the order and disorder of the times and the merits and demerits of the present government, even if they were by farmers or idle women, he would still without exception present them to the Son of Heaven. They did not have to be about the history of the courts and the states. 古者詩與史通, 故天子採詩, 其有關於世運升降, 時政得失者, 雖野夫游女之詩, 必宣付史館, 不必其為士大夫之詩也. 太史陳詩, 其有關於世運升降, 時政得失者, 雖野夫游女之詩, 必入貢天子, 不必其為朝廷邦國之史也.112 And Wu took pride in his poems such as “Linjiang Cenjun” 臨江參軍 (The Adjutant of Linjiang; 1639?), his elegy for the Ming loyalist and martyr Yang Tinglin 楊廷麟 (?–1646), which he characterized as shishi.113 Qian and Wu were not Ming loyalists in the strict political sense of the word (both served the Qing), but their opinions on the bond between poetry and history were shared by many staunch Ming loyalists, of the same generation or even the much younger one, such as Huang Zongxi 黃宗羲 (1610–95) and Qu Dajun 屈大均 (1630–96). Huang Zongxi writes contentiously in his preface to Wan Tai’s 萬泰 (1598– 1657) collection of poetry: In my opinion, Mr [Wan]’s poetry ought to be published at once and without delay. There are people who commend Du Fu’s poetry, regarding it as shishi; no doubt they are unerring. It is obvious to me that the commentators of Du Fu’s poetry use history to validate Du’s poetry, but to my knowledge none of them uses Du’s poetry to make up for the deficiencies of history. We speak of shishi; of course the raison d’être of history does not come from poetry. But when we reach a time of great devastation, the official historiographers of the East Temple and the Orchid Tower114 only care to record those grand narratives. But if the world is not completely destroyed and orthodox teaching persists, often it is owing to [the efforts of ] the people of a fallen state. Their hearts bleed; their blood dries up like the morning dew. Thereupon history vanishes. It is fortunate that private writings are still composed in remote places; sorrowful words will not easily disappear. All these sensations linger in those moldering sheets and that dim ink, now explicit, now implicit. [These words] are powerful enough to break the ground and make the soil fragrant. These writers must have known that when history comes to an end, poetry ensues. . . . When the Ming house collapsed, . . . it was not uncommon for us to hear distressful and sorrowful words from its officials, who sacrificed their lives; or from its subjects, who wandered dispiritedly amid

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi mountains and lakes. I have chanced to read the works of more than ten such persons: Shizhai [Huang Daozhou 黃道周, 1585–1646], Ciye [?], Jiezi [Huang Yuqi 黃毓祺], Xiazhou [Wu Zhongluan 吳鍾巒, 1577– 1651], Xisheng [Qian Sule 錢肅樂, 1606–48], Cangshui [Zhang Huangyan 張煌言, 1620–64], Mizhi [Fang Yizhi 方以智, 1611–71],115 and others. They were not commissioned to write, but their works ring with [feelings for] the fallen state and cannot but be viewed as history. Mr [Wan] was one of these ten or so people. For the better part of his life he did not write poetry. The poems we now have from [his collections of] Xusaotang, Hansongzhai, and Yue cao were all composed when he was living through his life’s adversities. He hid in places remote and somber, asked for the [stories of the] deceased and sought after the living. He was overwhelmed by turmoil and filled with nostalgia. No matter where he might be, he would collect the neglected stories and record the legends of those recluses. Eventually, Mr [Wan]’s poetry became doleful and gloomy and could not be lightened. . . . In this regard, Mr [Wan]’s poetry is true shishi, the kind of poems even Confucius would not strike from his anthology. 余謂先生之詩, 不可不急行也. 今之稱杜詩者以為詩史, 亦信然矣. 然註杜者, 但見以史證詩, 未聞以詩補史之闕; 雖曰詩史, 史固無藉乎詩也. 逮乎流極之運, 東觀, 蘭臺但記事功, 而天下之所以不毀, 名教之所以僅存者, 多在亡國之人物. 血心流注, 朝露同晞, 史於是而亡矣. 猶幸野制遙傳, 苦語難銷, 此耿耿者明滅於爛紙昏墨之餘, 九原可作, 地起泥香, 庸詎知史亡而後詩作乎?. . . . 明室之亡, . . . 其從亡之士, 章皇草澤之民, 不無危苦之詞. 以余所見者, 石齋, 次野, 介子, 霞舟, 希聲, 蒼水, 密之十餘家, 無關受命之筆, 然故國之鏗爾, 不可不謂之史也. 先生固十餘家之一也. 生平未嘗作詩. 今《續騷堂》, 《寒松齋》,《粵草》, 皆遭亂以來之作也. 避地幽憂, 訪死問生, 驚離吊往, 所至之地, 必拾其遺事, 表其逸民, 而先生之詩, 亦遂淒楚蘊結而不可解矣. . . . 故先生之詩, 真詩史也, 孔子之所不刪者也.116

Qu Dajun maintained: In the past, before the Spring and Autumn Annals was composed, [the Annals’] import resided in songs. When songs were no longer collected, their import was transposed to the Spring and Autumn Annals. In this light, the Spring and Autumn Annals was what Confucius composed to perpetuate the songs. Its import is the same as that of the songs. Without the Spring and Autumn Annals, the import of the songs would have been impenetrable. The songs are the classic, and the Spring and Autumn Annals its commentary. 昔者《春秋》之未作也, 其義在《詩》, 《詩》亡而其義乃在《春秋》. 故《春秋》者,


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夫子所以繼《詩》者也, 其義皆《詩》之義, 無《春秋》則《詩》之義不明.《詩》為經,《春秋》乃其傳也.117 And he urged: In the past Confucius composed the Spring and Autumn Annals to perpetuate [the tradition of ] the songs; although the [influence of the] songs subsided, the Spring and Autumn Annals succeeded. In this light, it was in the Spring and Autumn Annals that the songs found a new life. The Confucian gentlemen who live in an age of crisis and aim to document and compile [history] should first preserve the bygone era and after that what is surviving; if it is not possible by [the mode of ] the Spring and Autumn Annals, then one should preserve them by [the mode of] the Odes. 昔夫子作《春秋》以繼《詩》, 《詩》雖亡而《春秋》不亡. 故《春秋》者, 《詩》之所賴以不亡者也. 士君子生當亂世, 有志纂修, 當先紀亡而後紀存, 不能以《春秋》紀之, 當以《詩》紀之.118 Like Qian Qianyi, both Huang and Qu rely on a link between history and poetry. Huang Zongxi holds that poetry supplements history, and that poetic works possessing a historical potency should be regarded as shishi. Qu Dajun dwells on the affinity between history and poetry, and contends that in a time of crisis, poetry supersedes history. In short, both Huang and Qu assert that poetry is an alternative—and, under certain circumstances, a superior— medium for preserving history and communicating historical truth. What is new in Huang and Qu’s essays is that they launch the argument in a specific time frame, the Ming–Qing transition, and associate shishi directly with the Ming loyalists. While this temporality is implied in Qian’s essay, Qian’s younger contemporaries spell it out. In this sense, the theoretical agenda initiated by Qian is further developed by figures like Huang and Qu. A profound thinker, Huang Zongxi was one of what Chinese scholars call the “Three Great Confucian Scholars” of the early Qing.119 Qian was deeply impressed by the moral courage and scholarship of Huang, with whom he formed a genuine friendship. Huang was also a poet in his own right. Qu Dajun was a native of Panyu (today Canton), far in the south of China proper. When he was eighteen Qu took part in the heroic and tragic resistance against the Manchus. He was an eccentric, brilliant poet-scholar whom Chinese scholars call one of the “Three Masters of Lingnan” of the Ming– Qing transition.120 Yet Qian Qianyi differed from Huang Zongxi and Qu Dajun in that he had more than a theory to offer. Besides what we have pondered above, two of Qian’s post-1644 major literary projects—one editorial and one creative— grew directly out of his imperative for shishi. After the fall of the Ming, Qian compiled the Liechao shiji 列朝詩集 (A Collection of Poems from the Different Reigns [of the Ming Dynasty]), a multi-volume anthology of Ming poetry that students of pre-modern

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Chinese literature and history still find very useful.121 The Liechao shiji, however, was not an attempt to canonize Ming poetry; rather, Qian aspired to make it stand as the Ming’s shishi. The making of the anthology itself bridged the Ming–Qing dynastic changeover. The idea for the compilation grew up in the 1620s between Qian and his dear friend Cheng Jiasui 程嘉燧 (1565–1644).122 With the latter’s death, the project succumbed to the chaos of the time. After the fall of the Ming, Qian returned to the project with a new fervor. In a letter to a friend, Qian accounts for this impetus: After the dynastic changeover, I fear that the poetry of the Ming dynasty will soon be forgotten. I intend to model on Yuan Yishan’s Zhongzhou ji, assembling and editing [Ming poems] into an anthology, so that the spirit of the poets of the [Ming] dynasty can dwell on the pages. This will be a delight in my declining years. 鼎革之後, 恐明朝一代之詩, 遂致淹沒, 欲仿元遺山《中州集》之例, 選定為一集, 使一代詩人之精魂, 留得紙上, 亦晚年一樂事也.123 The anthology saw the light in 1652, and for it Qian composed a particularly impassioned preface: When the printing of the Lichao [Liechao] shiji124 that my student Mao Zijin undertook was complete, I stroked the volumes and sighed sadly. Mao asked: “Master, why did you sigh?” I said: “Did I? If so, I must have been thinking of Mengyang [Cheng Jiasui].” Mao asked: “Master, why did you sigh thinking of Mengyang?” I said: “Do you know where the idea of putting together these volumes of poetry came from? It came from Mengyang’s reading of the Zhongzhou ji. Mengyang had this to say: ‘In Yuan’s compilation, the poems are grouped under the poet, and each poet is given a biographical account. The poetry of the Zhongzhou ji is in effect the history of the Jin dynasty. I want to follow Yuan’s example and compile an anthology [of Ming poetry]. I will assemble the poems, and you will prepare the history—I trust you will find this agreeable.’ ” 毛子子晉刻《歷朝詩集》成, 余撫之, 愾然而歎. 毛子問曰: “夫子何歎?” 予曰: “有歎乎! 予之歎, 蓋歎孟陽 [程嘉燧] 也.” 曰: “夫子何歎乎孟陽也?” 曰: “錄詩何始乎? 自孟陽之讀《中州集》始也. 孟陽之言曰: ‘元氏之集詩也, 以詩繫人, 以人繫傳,《中州》之詩, 亦金源之史也. 吾將倣而為之. 吾以採詩, 子以庀史, 不亦可乎?’ ”125 The Zhongzhou ji 中州集 (Anthology of the Central Plain) is a collection of Jin dynasty (1115–1234) poetry compiled by Yuan Haowen 元好問 (zi Yishan 遺山; 1190–1257), a distinguished poet and scholar who witnessed the changeover from the Jin dynasty to the Yuan.126 The authoritative Siku quanshu zongmu tiyao 四庫全書總目提要 (Annotated Catalogue of the Complete Library of the Four Treasuries) describes the Zhongzhou ji: “This anthology


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assembles poems from all eras of the Jin dynasty. . . . Its organizational principle is that each poet is given a short biographical account, in which activities of the poet are detailed, and comments on his poems offered. . . . Its main purpose is to preserve history through poetry . . . ” (是集錄金一代之詩 . . . 其例每人各為小傳, 詳具始末, 兼評其詩 . . . 大致主於借詩以存史 . . . ).127 Despite Qian’s self-professed claim to be following Yuan, Qian’s anthology differs significantly from Yuan’s in one respect: Qian’s Liechao shiji has an explicit political purpose.128 This is borne out in the anthology’s overall design, which Qian explains metaphorically: Mao asked: “The sections in Yuan’s anthology run from jia to gui; why does ours end with ding?” I said: “Gui means to return. In the hexagram [of the Book of Changes], it symbolizes restraint and concealment. Among the seasons, it designates the winter. When the months reach gui, it is otherwise known as ‘the end.’ Ding on the contrary suggests ripeness. A year represented [by ding] is called ‘the robust and vigorous.’ The myriad things flourish in bing, mature in ding, and exuberant in mao. Among the seasons, it is zhuming [the summer]. In one’s life, forty marks full maturity. [Ding] lies in the hour when the moon has not yet waned and the five stars double their brightness. [With ding] everything is in full blossom, glorious, sufficient, vigorous. [Ding] is the heart of heaven and earth, and with it the blossoming of literature is in full view.” Mao said: “May I ask, why you named it Collection rather than Selections?” I said: “It was my modest aim [to present the anthology as] a reference. The materials I included here reflect the manners and customs [of the people]. I excluded some superfluous and repetitive pieces, but strived to represent less known works and those not readily accessible. It is meant to represent the dispositions of the different reigns of the Ming dynasty and make manifest its literary trends. . . .” 曰: “元氏之集, 自甲訖癸; 今止於丁者何居?” 曰: “癸, 歸也. 於卦為歸藏, 時為冬令. 月在癸曰極丁. 丁, 北 [狀] 成實也. 歲曰疆圉. 萬物盛於丙, 成於丁, 茂於戊, 於時為 [朱明],129 四十強盛之時也. 金鏡未墜, 珠囊重理, 鴻朗莊嚴, 富有日新, 天地之心, 聲文之運也.” “然則何以言集, 而不言選?” 曰: “備典故, 採風謠, 汰冗長, 訪幽仄, 鋪陳明朝,130 發揮才調, 愚竊有志焉. . . .”131 In another place, Qian boldly declares: “I have appropriated [Confucius’] didactic principles to edit the poems [of the Liechao shiji].”132 The wording in the original, yu qie qu shanshi zhi yi 余竊取刪詩之義, alludes to Confucius’ enterprise in editing the Book of Odes (shan shi 刪詩), as well as what Confucius said about his Spring and Autumn Annals: “As to the didactic quality therein, I, Qiu, have appropriated it.” Qian intended to shape this copious corpus of Ming poetry into a living record of the Ming dynasty. The pages of verse are not meant to be specimens of a lost past, but a great well of

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inspiration, its growth continuing. Qian imparted a wish to the Liechao shiji, to breathe new life into the perished Ming.133 The manner in which Qian dated this essay divulges his intention, too. The highly cryptic date reads: “This anthology was completed in the year of Xuanyizhixu, and the preface was written on the thirteenth day of its tenth month” (集之告成, 在玄黓執徐之歲, 而序作於玄月十有三日). Xuanyizhixu 玄黓執徐 is a roundabout way of saying Renchen 壬辰 (1652 by Western reckoning). In the Ganzhi 干支 system, Xuanyi stands for ren 壬, and Zhixu for chen 辰.134 Qian supplants the more conventional expression Renchen with Xuanyizhixu, I believe, for the latter’s markedly malleable literal meaning. Both characters in Xuanyi denote darkness or gloom. In Zhixu, zhi is to be understood as zhi 蟄, hibernating animals, and xu means to stretch out. These four characters thus create a picture of creatures becoming active and agile again after a long, dark hibernation. These roundabout images clearly anticipate a Ming resurgence. The sentence under discussion is expunged from the Youxue ji text. The blank space therein testifies loudly to the fact that Qian’s message is too politically sensitive to risk further exposure. And lastly, between 1659 and 1663, Qian himself produced the largest shishi in regulated verse form that classical Chinese literature had ever seen, or would see: one hundred and eight poems in all (Part 2 of this study will conduct close readings of three cycles of these poems). Collected under the title Toubi ji (Renouncing the Pen), these poems did not see the light until 1910, almost two and a half centuries after Qian’s death. They consist of thirteen cycles of seven-word regulated poems bearing the common title of “Hou ‘Qiuxing’ ” or “After ‘Autumn Thoughts.’ ” Qian was unambiguous in his wish to make these verses shishi. He emulated Du Fu, who in his forced wanderings in Sichuan caused by the An Lushan Rebellion composed the celebrated “Qiuxing” or “Autumn Thoughts,” in a series of eight poems, which he used to contrast the golden era of the Tang with the contemporary disintegration of society and to give expression to his feelings of loneliness and sorrow. The first cycle of Qian’s “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’ ” was dated August 18, 1659, and the last cycle appeared in June of 1663. Two supplementary poems were appended to the twelfth cycle, and another two to the thirteenth, as an afterthought. The year 1659 was all too significant in early Qing history. It was the year when Zheng Chenggong brought his formidable navy into the Yangzi River, vowing to recover China from the Manchu’s yoke. Zheng’s campaign marked the most—and the last—significant Ming-loyalist military resurgence that the Qing house had to face. The details of this historical panorama and Qian’s own feelings and thoughts became the chief materials of the first few cycles of the poems, but the collection did not end there. Qian’s poems continued into 1663, spanning the eventful years from Zheng Chenggong’s Yangzi campaign to Zheng’s death in Taiwan. Qian named the collection Toubi ji, in allusion to the


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expression toubi congrong 投筆從戎, “renouncing the pen for the sword.”135 He died one year after penning the last poem in the collection. No less an authority than Chen Yinke considered this corpus of poetry the shishi of the Ming–Qing transition, surpassing the achievement of Du Fu’s original.136 Qian ended the first cycle of “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’ ” by saying: 孝子忠臣看異代杜陵詩史汗青垂

To make a model for filial sons and loyal officials for posterity, Du Ling’s shishi will be inscribed on the pages of history.137

This bespeaks more Qian’s personal ambition and intended image than it glorifies Du Fu. And, in all fairness, Qian’s Toubi ji must be considered as one of the pinnacles in the history of shishi, of Ming loyalist poetics, and of classical Chinese verse. However, because of its strong anti-Qing sentiments and the Qing censorship of all of Qian’s works in the eighteenth century, the Toubi ji remained unpublished (except for one cycle)138 and in relative obscurity until the dawn of the twentieth century, when, on the brink of the fall of the Qing dynasty, it became one of the spiritual and literary resources for the revolutionaries. Be it accurate or not, the revolutionaries did present Qian Qianyi to modern readers as a model of loyalty and commitment.

2

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times

Qian Qianyi and Wu Weiye as shishi writers As discussed in Chapter 1, although Qian Qianyi may be shishi’s most vocal and eloquent advocate in the early Qing, he was by no means the only poet who essayed and succeeded in it. We have mentioned Wu Weiye and Qian Chengzhi. Like Qian, Wu and Qian Chengzhi committed themselves to preserving history by virtue of shishi. Shishi was the kind of lyricism favored by the whole generation of survivors who witnessed the dynastic changeover to verbalize their feelings and unburden their memories of the Ming. Qian and Wu were good friends and had a great deal in common. Like Qian, Wu was conversant with the Spring and Autumn Annals at an early age.1 Like Qian, Wu passed the jinshi examination in his youth with flying colors and started his official career with the post of Junior Compiler at the Hanlin Academy. (Wu also held the adjunct position of Senior Compiler of the True Records Institute 修纂實錄官.) His early affiliation with official historiography earned him the respectable style-name Taishi 太史, hence Wu Taishi or Grand Historian Wu. After Beijing fell to the Manchus, he also accepted an appointment from the Hongguang court in Nanjing. However, Wu soon resigned his office, sensing that the Hongguang court was doomed. Under the Qing, he chose to lead a reclusive life until 1653, when circumstances compelled him to serve the Manchu court, to become an erchen like Qian—his biography is also placed in the disgraceful “Twice-serving Officials” section of the official Qing history. He eventually rose as high as Chancellor of the National University 國子監祭酒. Wu nevertheless remained a strong presence in literary and scholarly circles and was regarded as “a leader of the virtuous scholars of the country” (hainei xiandafu lingxiu 海內賢大夫領袖).2 A distinguished poet himself, Wu excelled in writing long songs (gexing ti), a form of Old Style poetry. After the Ming’s demise, Wu composed several dozen highly lyrical and expressive poems, in which he remembers his friends and lovers tenderly, impassionedly laments the disintegration of the dynasty, and, with great shame, regrets serving the Manchu court. His style was celebrated as “Meicun ti” 梅村體 or the Style of Meicun. Zhao Yi 趙翼

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times 57 (1727–1814), a historian and literary critic who lived about a century later, had this to say about Wu: Meicun himself witnessed the dynastic changeover, and many of his poems are concerned with major historical events of the time. Works like “Linjiang Cenjun” [The Adjutant of Linjiang] . . . are of enormous import. The stories are memorable themselves, and hence the poems about them are memorable as well. Meicun was obsessed with certain events and he exerted all his strength to compose several dozen poems. Within them he strived for [a literary] immortality. The poet chose subject matter with discernment, showing unusual sensitivity. Bai Xiangshan’s [Juyi] “Changhen ge,” Yuan Weizhi’s [Zhen] “Lianchanggong ci,” and Han Changli’s [Yu] “Yuhe shengde shi” are precedents of the same nature. 梅村身閱鼎革, 其所詠多有關於時事之大者. 如〈臨江參軍〉 . . . 皆極有關係, 事本易傳, 則詩亦易傳. 梅村一眼覷定, 遂用全力結撰此數十篇, 為不朽計, 此亦詩人慧眼, 善於取題處. 白香山〈長恨歌〉, 元微之〈連昌宮詞〉, 韓昌黎〈元和聖德詩〉, 同此意也.3 Zhao Yi succinctly displays the historical value of Wu’s poetry. Although Zhao sounds rather judgmental and disaffected, Wu would nonetheless have endorsed Zhao’s comment. Wu himself explicitly labeled his poems like “Linjiang Cenjun,” an elegy for the Ming loyalist and martyr Yang Tinglin, shishi:4 I knew Jibu [Yang’s zi] most intimately; while he served as an adjutant I stood by him much longer than his other friends. For this reason, what I have expressed in the poem is most genuine, and my account of his activities truly reliable. If you call it shishi I will not feel uncomfortable at all. 余於機部相知最深, 於其為參軍周旋最久, 故於詩最真, 論其事最當, 謂之詩史可勿愧.5 Some critics rank Wu’s accomplishments higher than Qian’s, paying particular attention to Wu’s shishi compositions. For instance, Cheng Muheng 程穆衡 (jinshi 1737), an early commentator on Wu’s collection of poetry, remarked: Of the late-Ming poets, Qian and Wu are often mentioned together as a pair of equals. There are, however, places where Qian simply cannot match Wu. Wu’s superb skill lies in employing the perfect diction to relate the event concerned. In the poem, not a single word lacks topical significance. Wu’s works are worth the epithet of shishi. 明末詩人, 錢吳并稱, 然錢有迥不及吳處. 吳之獨絕者, 徵詞傳事, 篇無虛詠, 詩史之目, 殆曰庶幾.6 Although I do not subscribe to the view that Wu was a finer poet—Cheng is

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comparing apples and oranges, since Qian’s regulated verse and Wu’s Old Style lyrics are made for different ends7—Cheng is nevertheless correct to confer the honor of shishi on Wu. Of all the comments on Wu’s poetry, I find this couplet by Chen Wenshu 陳文述 (1771–1843) to be the most expressive and pertinent characterization of Wu’s post-Ming poetry: 千秋哀怨托騷人一代興亡入詩史

Grief and grievance of a thousand autumns seek expression by this poet, The rise and fall of the [former] dynasty enters his shishi.8

Throughout the Qing dynasty and in our time as well, Wu Weiye met acclamation thanks, in part, to the rich literary merits of his poetry and, in part, to the admiration of the most influential, self-appointed art arbiter of the eighteenth century, the Qianlong emperor.9 After reading Wu’s poetry, the emperor composed this poem: 梅村一卷足風流往復披尋未肯休秋水精神香雪句西昆幽思杜陵愁裁成蜀錦應慚麗細比春蠶好更抽寒夜短檠相對處幾多詩興為君收

This collection of Meicun’s poetry is so rich in enticing charm— Over and over I turn the pages, simply can’t stop. Its spirit is pure as autumn water, and its lines are like fragrant snow; Its sensitivity comes from the Xikun style, its grief recalls that of Du Ling. The beauty of its texture puts even a Shu brocade to shame; So fine, it’s like silkworms in springtime, it reels out further and further. On a cold night by a table lamp, we face one another— I am completely enthralled by your verses.10

Qianlong shows some critical insight in calling attention to the elaborate style of Wu. Neither does the emperor fail to notice the strong sense of melancholy that permeates the poet’s lyrics. Wu had a genius for narration and description, with a vocabulary and meter of melodic and accessible musical appeal. Like Qian and many of his contemporaries, Wu was obsessed with the recent Ming history. But unlike Qian, who spoke of the Ming as if it were still alive, Wu told stories of the Ming as of a lost age, memories, in which Wu himself had a part. Wu and Qian differ even more markedly because Wu’s shishi shies away from sensitive political issues, particularly those concerning the changeover of the imperial authority from the Ming to the Qing.11 Wu’s shishi is devoid of Qian’s subversive powers and his potential threat to the Qing house. Thus, the Qianlong emperor could openly glorify Wu. Moreover, the virtues and values that Wu celebrates in his works resemble those Qianlong demanded of his officials in the 1770s and 80s (see below). For example, Wu ends “Linjiang Cenjun” with praise of Yang’s martyrdom:

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times 59 風雨懷友生江山為社稷生死無媿辭大義照顏色

In all this rain and wind, how I miss you my dear friend— You had fought for the rivers and mountains of the imperial house. Be it life or death, you left no word of regret; Great righteousness glowed on your countenance.12

Yang Tinglin died fighting against the incipient Qing dynasty. His loyalty to the sovereign, held to the death, fulfills the Qianlong emperor’s ideal of an official. As will be shown below, Qianlong’s principle is that an official must be willing to sacrifice himself for his imperial house: Ming officials must die for the Ming, and Qing officials for the Qing, when circumstances demand it. Qianlong found no fault with the poets of the former Ming memorializing the fallen imperial house, as long as the Ming was conjured as a thing of the past, and provided that those poets did not bad-mouth the empire of the present age. This partly explains why Qianlong found Wu particularly charming, and Qian so unbearably hateful.

The Qianlong emperor’s condemnation and censorship of Qian Qianyi In 1770, after reading Qian Qianyi’s collection of pre-Qing writings, the Chuxue ji, the Qianlong emperor composed this emotionally charged poem: 平生談節義兩姓事君王進退都無據文章那有光真堪覆酒甕屢見詠香囊末路逃禪去原為孟八郎

He who spoke all his life about integrity and righteousness Was the same one who served two imperial surnames. What to do and what not to do, no precept told him; How could his compositions shine? Use this drivel to cover the wine jars! In numerous places you see him sing for the perfumed pockets.13 In dire straits, he sought refuge in Chan Buddhism— But who truly was he? A Meng Balang.14

Qianlong’s hatred of Qian was, as we will see, phenomenal, and his wild accusations against Qian fashioned the almost uncontested negative view of the poet that prevailed for the rest of the Qing period, and, to some extent, beyond. When the monarch himself took the effort to disparage Qian, who would bother to rehabilitate him? Qianlong’s great-grandfather, the Shunzhi emperor, looked, in comparison, much more tolerant. In his 1674 (?) preface to the Youxue ji, Zou Zi 鄒鎡 (Shijin 式金) relates: There were some people who tried to frame Mr Qian by finding fault with the [sensitive] words and sentences in his writings. But Shizu [the Shunzhi emperor] had this to say: “If a former Ming official did not miss the Ming, he would not make a loyal official at all.” These were truly

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi great words from a great ruler. Our sage dynasty does not persecute an author for his writings, a great tradition indeed. Readers of Mr Qian’s writings should try to understand his [unfulfilled] ambitions. One might criticize Mr Qian’s unbecoming conduct, but his writings surely compel admiration. 或有以字句過求先生者, 世祖嘗言: “明臣而不思明者, 即非忠臣.” 大哉王言, 聖朝不以文字錮人者久矣. 學者覽先生之文, 即當諒先生之志. 縱或訾先生之人, 不能不服先生之文.15

From the publication of the Youxue ji in 1674 (?)16 until 1761 when Shen Deqian 沈德潛 (1673–1769) presented his anthology of early Qing poetry, the Guochao shi biecai ji 國朝詩別裁集 (A Select Anthology of Poems of the Dynasty), to the Qianlong emperor, Qian suffered no official condemnation.17 Shen Deqian unreservedly praised Qian and started his compilation with a selection of Qian’s poems (mainly pre-Qing ones), saying: The Minister was unusually gifted, and he boasted a vast and profound scholarship. In poetry, he favored Letian [Bai Juyi], Dongpo [Su Shi], and Fangweng [Lu Yu]. Of Ming poets like Li [Mengyang], He [Jingming], Wang [Shizhen], and Li [Panlong] he decried them all. The rest, like the two Yuan brothers [Hongdao and Zongdao], Zhong [Xing] and Tan [Yuanchun], were simply not of Qian’s class. People of Qian’s day all accepted his view with praise and admiration. It has been a hundred years [since his death] now, but his lingering influence is still strong enough to overwhelm our generation. . . . Recalling that Qian was a leader of the [Donglin] Party early in his life but late in his life he sought solace in Chan Buddhism, we readers of his poems should feel sadness. 尚書天資過人, 學殖鴻博. 論詩稱揚樂天 , 東坡, 放翁諸公; 而明代如李, 何, 王, 李概揮斥之; 餘如二袁, 鍾, 譚在不足比數之列. 一時帖耳推服. 百年以後, 流風餘韻, 猶足讋人也. . . . 至前為黨魁, 後逃禪悅, 讀其詩者, 應共悲之.18 Shen states that he included those of Qian’s poems which would bring out the good in the reader: “[I have included Qian’s works which] encourage integrity and moral courage, lament the rise and fall [of the Ming dynasty], concern the mores [of the time] and have transforming powers” (推激氣節, 感慨興亡, 多有關風教者).19 The comments of Zou and Shen give us the impression that Qian’s poetry had been widely read, and his influence strongly felt in the hundred years following his death, regardless of his politically expedient act and disputable moral conduct during the Ming–Qing transition. Shen was a favorite poetscholar of Qianlong, already in his nineties when he submitted his compilation to the monarch, whom he hoped would grace it with an imperial preface. Had Shen’s anthology passed with the monarch’s blessing, Qian would have been canonized, at least in the literary realm, when the Qing dynasty’s political and cultural might reached its apogee. Shen could not have

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times 61 anticipated that Qian would cause him to fall out of the emperor’s favor, yet after reading Shen’s anthology, Qianlong was furious. A preface was written which reserved only slightly harsher censure for Qian than for Shen. For the first time since his death, Qian’s reputation faced official criticism: . . . [Shen] presented his anthology to me and I gave it a cursory read. I found that the poets placed in the front of the book were people like Qian Qianyi. . . . He who lived under our dynasty and yet dared to long for the former Ming dynasty must be considered as a rebellious subject. There exists a national law [punishing this sort of behavior]. Worse yet, Qian was an eminent Ming official, but he was also willing to serve our dynasty. We tolerated that for the time being, because it was during the transition when our dynasty was newly established. However, seriously speaking, Qian cannot be reckoned as a man. [Qian’s] poems have been in circulation, and we shall let that pass. Under no circumstances, however, should he be chosen to lead [the poets] of our dynasty. . . . Consider, what is poetry? Loyalty and filiality, no more and no less. If one departs from loyalty and filiality speaking about poetry, I do not see how that can be poetry at all. As for Qianyi and his ilk, were they loyal? Were they filial? . . . 因進其書而粗觀之, 列前茅者, 則錢謙益諸人也. . . . 夫居本朝而妄思前明者, 亂民也, 有國法存焉. 至身為明朝達官, 而甘心復事本朝者, 雖一時權宜, 草昧締構所不廢. 要知其人則非人類也. 其詩自在, 聽之可也. 選以冠本朝諸人, 則不可. . . . 且詩者何? 忠孝而已耳. 離忠孝而言詩, 吾不知其為詩也. 謙益諸人. 為忠乎? 為孝乎?20 Shen’s anthology was entrusted to other Hanlin scholars for corrections before reissue—thus began Qianlong’s extended indictment of Qian. The bad luck that Qian brought on Shen did not end here. Eight years later, in 1769, Qianlong issued an edict banning Qian’s Chuxue ji and Youxue ji from circulation and demanding that all copies of Qian’s books in private collections be turned over to the court, to be condemned to fire. Since Shen had included Qian’s poems in his anthology, Qianlong believed that Shen must possess copies of Qian’s works. The governor-general of Liang-Jiang was ordered to search Shen’s house and impound any of Qian’s books that Shen might have hidden away. Shen was allowed to see the edict sent to the governor-general. This must have shattered the always docile, obedient ninety-six-year-old. He died a month later. Unexpectedly, the first “victim” of Qian’s writings was Qianlong’s favorite court poet. The governor-general duly reported to the emperor—shortly after Shen’s death—that no trace of Qian’s books was discovered in the old poet’s house. After reviewing the report, the emperor composed an elegy for Shen, remembering him fondly. Qianlong’s 1761 preface to the Guochao shi biecai ji and his 1769 indictment of Qian set a precedent for the contents and tone of a score of other edicts to condemn Qian. The 1769 edict reads in part as follows:

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi Qian Qianyi was a person who had talent but no virtue. From the former Ming dynasty, he had obtained eminent official positions. When our dynasty was newly established, he was one of the first who readily surrendered and was placed, again, among the ranks of officials. Qian deserted his principle; he is not to be classed as a man. On an earlier occasion, when I prefaced the Guochao shi biecai ji compiled by Shen Deqian, I had made a point to castigate the evil behavior of Qian Qianyi and his ilk. I ordered that his poems be expunged from the anthology. My concern was to uphold the infallible principles of the “bonds,” the “virtues” and the proprieties.21 At that time, I had not seen Qian’s complete works. I thought since his poetry was already in circulation, I would let it be. Now, I have examined his Chuxue ji and Youxue ji, writings that are most absurd and improper, abounding with slanders against our dynasty. If Qian Qianyi had remained loyal to the Ming dynasty and sacrificed his life, even if he was given to slanderous utterances in his writings, it would still be within reason. But he defected to serve our dynasty. How could he include such barking fits in his books? What he wanted was to gloss over the shame caused by his dishonorable behavior. How despicable! How shameful! Qian Qianyi is long dead, perished. I shall spare him the charges. His books, however, are too corrupt, too depraved to be allowed to circulate any longer. They must all be destroyed as soon as possible. I hereby charge every governor-general and governor to see to it that the bookstores and private libraries under his jurisdiction hand over their copies of Chuxue ji and Youxue ji. As for the village schools and country bumpkins in far-off mountain nooks and out-of-the-way valleys, one should be conscientious and patient in enlightening them. Two years shall be the time limit for all copies to be confiscated. You shall not let even one copy of Qian’s works remain in private possession. Qian Qianyi was a native of Jiangnan; the woodblocks [of his books] must still be available in that area. Also, the other provinces where his books were reprinted and sold must have woodblocks of his books. You should order that [whoever possesses such woodblocks must] surrender the complete set over to the capital. Not a single page of Qian’s books will be allowed to remain. My edict is issued for the world’s Way and public morality. I mean to denounce and ban his books, not to hold anyone responsible for this matter. All officials in the capital and provinces take notice. 錢謙益本一有才無行之人, 在前明時身躋膴仕, 及本朝定鼎之初, 率先投順, 洊陟列卿. 大節有虧, 實不足齒於人類. 朕從前序沈德潛所選《國朝詩別裁集》曾明斥錢謙益等之非, 黜其詩不錄, 實為千古綱常名教之大關. 彼時未經見其全集, 尚以為其詩自在, 聽之可也. 今閱其所著《初學集》,《有學集》, 荒誕悖謬, 其中詆謗本朝之處, 不一而足. 夫錢謙益果終為明朝守死不變, 即以筆墨騰謗, 尚在情理之中; 而伊既為本朝臣僕, 豈得復以從前狂吠之語, 列入集中? 其意不過欲借此以掩其失節之羞, 尤為可鄙可恥!

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times 63 錢謙益業已身死骨朽, 姑免追究. 但此等書籍, 悖理犯義, 豈可聽其留傳? 必當早為銷毀, 其令各督撫將《初學》, 《有學》集於所屬書肆及藏書之家, 諭令繳出, 至於村塾鄉愚, 僻處山陬荒谷, 並廣為曉諭, 定限二年之內盡行繳出, 無使稍有存留. 錢謙益籍隸江南, 其書板必當尚存, 且別省有翻刻印售者, 俱令將全板一併送京, 勿令留遺片簡. 朕此旨實為世道人心起見, 止欲斥棄其書, 並非欲查究其事. 通諭中外知之.22 In the following year Qianlong wrote a poem about the Chuxue ji, the one that we quoted above. Qianlong does not deny Qian’s talent (what kind of talent Qianlong saw in Qian, however, is not stated). In the beginning, he criticizes Qian on moral grounds: Qian switched his allegiance from the Ming to the Qing house, yet continued to express his longings for the Ming. In view of this, Qian should be considered a “rebellious” subject of the Qing dynasty. At the same time, Qian was a high Ming official, but he served again under the Qing. Therefore, Qian was a man of no principle. These two trespasses, in Qianlong’s eyes, are grave enough to discredit all of Qian’s writings. Qianlong did not, however, censor Qian’s poetry in 1761, but later in 1769. As this edict indicates, the charges against Qian were geared up after an interval of eight years, because the emperor found anti-Manchu comments in both Chuxue ji and Youxue ji. From this point on, the moral charges were coupled with a political one, and it was the latter that compelled Qianlong to ban and destroy Qian’s books. Carrington Goodrich, in his study of Qianlong’s campaign of literary inquisition, underscores two aspects of this edict important to the censorship and suppression of “seditious” books in the next two decades of Qianlong’s reign. First, this edict marked the beginning of serious literary inquisition into anti-Manchu writings.23 Second, the charges against Qian would become the “formula for every author similarly accused, used time and again with ever greater success in the next twenty years.”24 The decade that followed saw Qianlong’s repeated, frenzied indictment of Qian—in 1770, 1775, 1776, 1777, 1778, and 1781 (twice), respectively. These years fall in what is sometimes called the late-Qianlong era, during which the aspiring “philosopher-king” initiated momentous state-sponsored literary and historiographical projects, from the compilation of the monumental bibliographical collection of Siku quanshu 四庫全書 (Complete Library of the Four Treasuries) to the composition of a series of scholarly works on Southern Ming history, and the Manchu language and history.25 Almost every important edict relating to these projects focused severe criticism on Qian Qianyi. To understand its full significance, Qian’s case must be considered against the backdrop of Qianlong’s book suppression campaign, particularly the suppression of seditious anti-Manchu writings, on the one hand; and against Qianlong’s attempts to foster an ideal of morality in his officials, on the other. For the literary inquisition, Qian was a symbol of sedition, and his writings

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“idioms of protest,” to borrow Kent Guy’s words. In tracing the origins of the literary inquisition of the 1770s, Guy perceptively observes: From the point of view of content, the Ch’ien-lung Emperor and those around him seemed like peacetime generals who were determined to fight the last war; they focused not so much on eighteenth-century challenges to Ch’ing rule, as on seventeenth-century idioms of protest. It simply would not do for a secure, legitimate and powerful Chinese ruler to tolerate racist slurs particularly when, as the emperor had every reason to expect, such works could be fairly easily eliminated.26 With respect to Qianlong’s ideal of morality, Qian represented all that was opposed to the emperor: disloyalty not to one but to two ruling houses; the choice to live and serve in disgrace under a new dynasty rather than to die in honor for a former lord; duplicity in writing, and so on and so forth. Qianlong’s obsessive concern with his image and place in history is widely recognized. Immediately following his enthronement in 1736, the emperor established what Crossley has described as “an overt representation of himself as a universal ruler that amounted to an ideological revolution.”27 In his sixty-year-long reign, every campaign that Qianlong launched—political, military, scholarly, literary—was to aggrandize his self-image as “a paragon of multi-literacy, the aesthete of all cultures, and the universal emperor.”28 It has been observed that a shift in Qianlong’s literary and scholarly interests took place in the 1770s, a shift reflected in his patronage of scholarly projects in the same period. During his long reign, the Qianlong emperor commissioned over ninety scholarly works. Among them, fifteen dealt with Manchu language, Manchu history, or the history of the last years of the Ming era. Eleven of these were commissioned between 1772 and 1781, and two which had been commissioned earlier were expanded and reissued in the late 1770s. The result of all these undertakings was a new, officially sanctioned record of the Manchu rise to power and a standardized system for transliterating Manchu and Mongol names into Chinese.29 It is more relevant to our interest, however, that during the same period, a state-sanctioned history of the Southern Ming emperors and officials was produced, and biographical accounts of Manchu and Chinese officials in the preceding reigns ordered. These were also the years of Qianlong’s harshest attacks on Qian. Two reasons can be offered to explain this. First, it was the time when Qianlong was formulating his version of the historical accounts of the Southern Ming and its officials. Qian was, no matter how sinful in Qianlong’s eyes, an indelible figure of the Ming–Qing transition. Second, even though it is difficult to prove, it seems possible, if not probable, that Qianlong found Qian still too imposing an authority in matters of historiography and literature. While Qianlong strived to proclaim himself the supreme judge of these issues, he felt Qian still contesting his hegemony from the grave. I will elaborate on this first, and then proceed to discuss Qianlong’s formal criticism of Qian in the

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times 65 contexts of Qianlong’s literary inquisition and the Southern Ming historiographical projects. There is no denying that the Qianlong emperor came to the throne with a far more sophisticated understanding of Chinese history and the classics than any of his Manchu—and many of his Chinese—predecessors.30 Once he ascended the throne, he commissioned scholars to edit the thirteen classics of the Confucian canon and the twenty-one dynastic histories. His reign embraced official historiography with unparalleled vigor. The 1769 edict reflects Qianlong’s reading of both the Chuxue ji and Youxue ji (about the former Qianlong wrote the 1770 poem). We may assume that Qianlong read Qian’s works over a span of two years. One should not overlook the fact that Qianlong’s reading was done around the same time his scholarly interests turned towards historiography. Qianlong must have found this essay of Qian as engaging as hateful: A guest came to me, asking: “Jigu[ge] printed the ‘classics’ first, and the historical works next. Why so?” I replied: “The ‘classics’ are as the weights [in a steelyard], history books are as the beam, [on which there are different marks] showing what is lighter and what heavier. The ‘classics’ are like a table of measures, and history books a ruler, [on which there are different marks] representing what is longer and what shorter. In the past, scholarship of the ‘six classics’ was divided into different schools, led by different experts. [Students of the ‘six classics’] all adhered to their mentors’ teachings. As a result, regarding the subtle words and profound meaning of the sages and the worthies, their key link was grasped and every detail fell into place, and their structure was made clear whereas their texture was expounded. Only when the weights, the beam, the measures, and the ruler were firmly established in their chests would they engage themselves in the composition of history books. With their weights and rulers, they told the greatness or insipidity of historical figures, showed the historical patterns of a hundred generations, and classified matters of varying importance and different natures. Even if they had to measure the smallest thing, such as a grain of millet, they could do so with complete ease. When they reached this stage of cultivation, they fully understood the principles and were able to put forth practical measures—they were what we regard as great Confucian scholars, the embodiment of heaven, earth, and man. . . .” 客有問於余曰: “汲古之刻, 先經而後史, 何也?” 余曰: “經猶權也, 史則衡之有輕重也. 經猶度也, 史則尺之有長短也. 古者六經之學, 專門名家, 各守師說, 聖賢之微言大義, 綱舉目張, 肌劈理解, 權衡尺度, 鑿鑿乎指定於胸中, 然後出而從事於史, 三才之高下, 百世之往復, 分齊其輕重長短, 取裁於吾之權度, 累黍杪忽, 罄無不宜, 而後可以明體達用, 為通天地人之大儒. . . .”31 Here Qian discusses the ideal progression of Confucian scholarship in the

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classics and historiography. Despite the complexity of his metaphors, his message is rather simple. Qian posits a close relationship between the two fields of knowledge and counsels that only when one is well versed in the classics should one undertake historiography, because the former necessarily informs the latter. He goes on to ridicule those who do not follow this trajectory and to warn of the harm these persons might do to the learned world: Then there is the sort of person who declares: “I know what is heavy and what is light, and I understand what is long and what is short.” When you ask him about weights and measures, he is at a total loss. It is as if this person is blind yet he has his eyes wide open. His fault is that he embarks on history before he is versed in the classics. Then there is the sort of person who says: “I know the weights, I know the measures.” If you ask him which is lighter or heavier, longer or shorter, he is at a total loss as well. . . . His fault is that he is not versed in history but engages himself in the classics. His classics do not relate to his history, and his history does not relate to his classics. Eventually, he will practice his biased, trivial, messy, trifling handicraft and pollute the whole world. For this reason the ancients were very cautious about learning [the classics and history]. The classics were taken as the warp and history as the woof. . . . 有人曰: “我知輕重, 我明長短.” 問之以權度, 茫如也. 此無目而諍目, 不通經而學史之過也. 有人曰: “我知權, 我知度.” 問之以輕重長短, 亦茫然也. . . . 不通史而執經之過也. 經不通史, 史不通經. 誤用其偏詖蒐瑣之學術, 足以殺天下, 是以古人慎之. 經經緯史. . . .32 Hereafter Qian discusses the uses of history in relation to morals and government, and the advantage of a comprehensive mastery of all the dynastic histories: The guest asked: “. . . Why do you recommend [mastering] the complete [dynastic] histories?” I said: “History is like a museum between heaven and earth, trigonometry in mathematics, a handbook for rulers and officials, the boundaries of a country, a mine of underlying truth and principles, a pool of schemes and plots, a haunt of talents, and the garden of literary compositions. If we envision the whole Spiritual Continent as a chessboard, history represents its transcriptions. . . . A good player will always take the whole game into consideration. By the same token, a good reader wishes to read the whole set of history books. This was the way the ancients read history; it was also their methodology of learning.” 客曰: “. . . 何取乎全史也?” 曰: “史者, 天地之淵府, 運數之勾股, 君臣之元龜, 內外之疆索, 道理之窟宅, 智諝之伏藏, 人才之藪澤, 文章之苑圃. 以神州函夏為棋局, 史為其譜. . . . 善奕者取全局, 善讀者取全書. 此古人讀史之法, 亦古人之學範也.”33

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times 67 Qian wrote this essay, “Jiguge Maoshi xinke Shiqi shi xu” 汲古閣毛氏新刻十七史序 (A Preface to the Seventeen Histories, Newly Released by Mao Jin’s Jiguge), in 1656. As I will demonstrate below, Qianlong would readily agree with the first and third passages. The second passage, however, would have incensed him. At a moment of what must be considered as rare modesty, early in his reign, Qianlong shared this with his commissioned historiographers: My talent is far from enough to understand the past fully, and in learning I have not yet reached the stage of being versed in the classics. Now that I have to shoulder the responsibility for upholding the impartial spirit of the historian’s pen, I am afraid I am feeling a bit dazzled. . . . Praise and blame must be strictly carried out through the words. I mean our book to continue in the tradition of the Spring and Autumn Annals, as an aid to the Way. Attentive readers of the book will find it enlightening. Let us, I, the emperor, and you, my officials, encourage one another in our effort. 朕材謝知古, 學未通經. 當此史筆之公, 實恐目光之炫. . . . 予奪嚴乎辭語內. 敢曰繼春秋之翼道, 於此昭來茲之鑒觀. 我君臣其共勉之.34 Coming upon Qian’s second passage, the emperor must have felt ridiculed. Qianlong confesses here that his learning of the classis and history is not great, yet the emperor is supervising a historiographical project to match the Spring and Autumn Annals! Qian would have said: “This person is blind yet he has his eyes wide open.” (The emperor himself admitted: “I am afraid I am feeling a bit dazzled.”) This sentence in Qian’s passage probably galls Qianlong most: “Eventually, he will practice his biased, trivial, messy, trifling handicraft and pollute the whole world” (誤用其偏詖蒐瑣之學術, 足以殺天下). The “world” belongs to none but the Son of Heaven, and he is indeed trying to produce something that would impact on the whole world. In matter of fact, Qianlong’s ideas on historiography are similar to Qian’s in quite a few areas. (This probably irritated Qianlong even more. How could a rascal like Qian come up with ideas as brilliant as those of the sage emperor!) Both of them considered the Confucian classics and the historiographical writings to be consanguineous. Qian wrote: The “six classics” are the origins of history. History runs throughout the “six classics,” not only in the Spring and Autumn Annals and its Three Commentaries. When the “six classics” evolved into the two posts of historian,35 Ban Gu and Sima Qian’s works are what can be regarded as the classics in history. 六經, 史之宗統也. 六經之中皆有史, 不獨《春秋》三傳也. 六經降而為二史, 班 , 馬其史中之經乎!36 Qianlong expressed a similar view: History is what enables the classics to pass down their teachings. The Book of Documents, the Spring and Autumn Annals, and their inner and

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi outer commentaries are supreme examples. Sima Qian created the Annals–Tables–Monographs–Biographies format to structure his Records of the Grand Historian. Ban Gu and later historians emulated Sima Qian’s example. . . . After I ordered the editing and publishing of the critical edition of the Thirteen Classics with Annotations and Commentaries, I considered the fact that history is the necessary complement to the classics, and I was troubled that the [woodblocks of the] National University edition [of the dynastic histories] had become battered. In view of this, I ordered the collating and editing [of the books] for broader reissue. . . . History furnishes examples of encouragement and punishment and makes manifest law and discipline. The reasons for order and disorder, stability and instability in the past several thousand years; the accounts of men of loyalty and virtue, and of wickedness and impropriety; and rights and wrongs, gains and losses can all be found in history books. The reader lives in the present yet he learns from the past; he can review the past and reflect on the future. 史者, 輔經以垂訓者也, 《尚書》,《春秋》, 內外傳, 尚矣! 司馬遷創為紀, 表 , 書, 傳之體, 以成《史記》. 班固以下因之. . . . 朕既命校刊《十三經注疏》定本. 復念史為經翼, 監本亦日漸殘闕, 併敕校讎, 以廣刊布. . . . 夫史以示勸懲, 昭法戒, 上下數千年, 治亂安危之故, 忠賢奸佞之實, 是非得失, 具可考見. 居今而知古, 鑒往以察來.37

This is excerpted from the preface Qianlong wrote for the state-sponsored edition of the complete twenty-one standard histories. The ideological influence of this imperial edition cannot be overlooked. As a National University publication, this edition must have been consulted, and some of its contents committed to memory, by countless degree candidates. Besides its scholarly purpose, the edition was also meant as an extension of imperial authority, shaping the Qing subjects’ intellectual and cultural formation. It must have immensely vexed Qianlong to find that Qian and his student Mao Jin—with the Jiguge publishing house as an institution by itself—had ventured to issue the complete seventeen standard histories before he did, and in his place. Like Qian, Qianlong held that the Spring and Autumn Annals is laden with Confucius’ wisdom, inferable from the book’s political, ethical, and historical judgments: Of all the books from the medieval past, the Spring and Autumn Annals is the greatest. . . . The Great Sage [Confucius], with the critical principle of selective narration, edited the old chronicles of the state of Lu into a model book of praise and blame. 中古之書, 莫大於《春秋》. . . . 大聖人就魯史之舊, 用筆削正褒貶.38 Qianlong vowed to continue this line of historiography, and even declared

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times 69 that no one but the monarch himself was in a position to undertake it. Qianlong’s claim was, of course, based on Mencius’ famous statement (III.B): The Spring and Autumn Annals should have been the prerogative of the Son of Heaven. That is why Confucius said: “There will be people who understand me through the Spring and Autumn Annals! And there will also be people who condemn me because of the Spring and Autumn Annals!” 《春秋》, 天子之事也. 是故孔子曰: “知我者其惟春秋乎! 罪我者其惟春秋乎!” Of all the students of Chinese history through the ages, no one had ever taken Mencius to the word more seriously than Qianlong. Qianlong opined: [Composing a book like] the Spring and Autumn Annals is the prerogative of the Son of Heaven. With all the princes, dukes, and civil and military officials, [in judging] their rights and wrongs, merits and demerits, I strictly adhere to the principles of absolute disinterestedness and supreme justice. . . . [The drafts of their biographies] should be presented to me; I will take the trouble to edit and finalize them myself. I will make sure that praise and blame be fully, strictly carried out in critical, selective narration. 蓋《春秋》者, 天子之事. 朕於本朝王公文武大臣, 是非功過, 一秉大公至正. . . . 候朕親自裁定, 庶幾華袞斧鉞, 凜然共見筆削之嚴也.39 And: I take [composing books in the manner of ] the Spring and Autumn Annals to be the prerogative of the Son of Heaven; [the judgments of ] right and wrong shall be based on justice that can stand for ten thousand ages. 朕以《春秋》天子之事, 是非萬世之公.40 Even early in his rule, Qianlong openly claimed to have the makings of a great historian.41 Later in his life, he placed himself in the ranks of Confucius, Sima Qian, Sima Guang 司馬光 (1019–86), and Zhu Xi.42 In one ecstatic moment, Qianlong exclaimed: 學探司馬治平要書慕文公體例優亦曰此心無予奪敢云我志在春秋

For learning I study the principles of government and pacification set out by Sima [Guang]; As for style I follow the example of Wengong’s [Zhu Xi] superb execution. Like them, I can claim I have no prejudgment in mind; I dare say, I aim to compose another Spring and Autumn Annals.43

Unlike Qian, who always admired and encouraged serious, private

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historiographical endeavors, Qianlong asserts that the composition of historical works like the Spring and Autumn Annals and even, by extension, all historical works is the privilege and duty of the monarch. Qianlong must have considered Qian’s historiographical projects, especially drafting the Ming history, a usurpation of imperial authority. One feels that in the 1761 and 1769 edicts as well as the 1770 poem, Qianlong had said what he was obligated to say. Qian’s case should have been closed. However, Qian proved to be too valuable for Qianlong to discard, and the emperor beat the dead horse again and again. We shall now turn to the second stage of Qianlong’s condemnation of Qian from 1775 to 1781. In 1775, well over a century after the last Southern Ming emperor was captured and killed by the Qing, Qianlong initiated a groundbreaking historiographical practice: recognizing, at least in theoretical terms, the legitimacy of the Southern Ming regimes of Princes Fu, Tang, and Gui. A historical account of their reigns was commissioned.44 Shortly after, Qianlong granted posthumous honorary titles, shihao 諡號, to the Ming martyrs. Each individual’s entry included a brief account of his martyrdom.45 These two projects flew in the face of the general Qing practices of denying the legitimate authority of the Southern Ming, or erasing its history altogether.46 It was when formalizing the Southern Ming history that Qianlong reopened the indictment of Qian after an interlude of five years. Qianlong left absolutely no room for Qian to be associated with those Ming loyalists who were being lionized: My principles are that of absolute disinterestedness and supreme justice. The late-Ming officials who died honorable deaths for their country have my unreserved respect and praise. As for Qian Qianyi who boasted of being one of the incorruptible, but surrendered to our court without blushing, and Jin Bao, Qu Dajun and their ilk who cravenly clung to life rather than braving death, who took orders in the monkhood merely for the sake of survival, they were, without exception, heartless, shameless. These people, if they had laid down their lives for their imperial house, would have received commendation and praise today. But they cared about nothing more than saving their skins. They did not sacrifice themselves and manipulated words and language to conceal their true intentions of dragging out an ignoble existence. For this reason, we should mercilessly decry their misdeeds, so as to punish their crude and unfeeling souls. In our praise and blame, sanction and censure shall be made manifest, so that the whole world and the endless ages to come will know that I count on reason to guide my likes and dislikes. All this is to uphold the infallible and unalterable principles by which we demonstrate our encouragement and condemnation. 朕惟以大公至正為衡, 凡明季殉節諸臣, 既能為國抒忠, 優獎實同一視. 至錢謙益之自詡清流, 靦顏降附, 及金堡, 屈大均輩之倖生畏死, 詭託緇流, 均屬喪心無恥.

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times 71 若輩果能死節, 則今日亦當在予旌之列. 乃既不能捨命, 而猶假語言文字, 以圖掩飾其偷生, 是必當明斥其進退失據之非, 以隱殛其冥漠不靈之魄. 一褒一貶, 袞鉞昭然, 使天下萬世共知予準情理而公好惡, 以是植綱常, 即以是示彰癉.47 At the close of the following year, 1776, another edict, rhetorically similar to the one above, was issued to the Siku Commissioners, who had been energetically collecting books for the Four Treasuries for several years by then. This edict was to ensure that the commissioners would never include Qian’s works in the Four Treasuries. It reads in part as follows: Books from the late-Ming authors, should they contain words violating our dynasty, must of course be put on the list of prohibitions. . . . For example, Qian Qianyi already held a high official post in the Ming dynasty yet later he served also our court. Then there are people like Jin Bao and Qu Dajun who took refuge in monkhood. All of them failed to die honorably for their country, all drew out shameless lives. Nevertheless, they often spoke as if they were still loyal to the former dynasty, and were given to barking fits [against ours]. These people cannot even be reckoned as men. How can we allow their books to remain? [Those officials concerned] should conduct a thorough inquisition of their writings and destroy them all. This is to encourage integrity among the officials and to correct the morals of the people. 明末諸人書集, 詞意抵觸本朝者, 自當在銷毀之列. . . . 如錢謙益在明已居大位, 又復身事本朝, 而金堡, 屈大均, 則又遁跡緇流, 均以不能死節, 靦顏苟活, 乃託名勝國, 妄肆狂狺, 其人實不足齒, 其書豈可復存? 自應逐細查明, 概行毀棄, 以勵臣節, 而正人心.48 This edict can be seen as an outgrowth of Qianlong’s 1774 edict suppressing anti-Manchu literature—the central document of the literary inquisition— and as a continuation of the critique of Qian. It coincided with the uncontrolled growth of the literary inquisition between 1776 and 1782, which went hand in hand with the Siku project’s bibliophile activities.49 If the 1775 imperial project on Ming martyrs was an act of “praise,” the 1777 creation of the “Erchen zhuan” or “Biographies of the Twice-serving Officials” in Qing’s official history must be viewed as an initiative of “blame.” These two undertakings served the emperor’s intention to cultivate an ideal of morality among his officials.50 Simply put, Qianlong demanded unconditional and willing sacrifice from his officials, even of their lives, for one and only one ruling house, the Manchu Qing. Qian was singled out as the most dreadful of all the erchen. Qian’s biography also inspired Qianlong to fine-tune the structure of the “Erchen zhuan.” Two edicts were issued to this end, both displaying Qianlong’s unabated abhorrence of Qian. The first edict was issued in early 1777, to order the creation of the “Erchen zhuan.” The part invoking Qian reads:

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi Qian Qianyi was wavering, covetous, and shameless: he should be put in the “Biographies of the Twice-serving Officials.” One should be particularly candid in recounting his misdeeds in order to render the biography trustworthy and accurate. 錢謙益反側貪鄙, 應入國史 “貳臣傳”, 尤宜據事直書, 以示傳信.51

In the following year, Qianlong charged the director-general of the Historiography Institute 國史館總裁 to improve on the “Erchen zhuan” by establishing two divisions in it, so as to distinguish the erchen who were loyal to the new ruling house, i.e., the Qing, and those who only served half-heartedly. Naturally, the former group of erchen received relatively more lenient treatment. And Qianlong left the compilers of his history in no doubt that Qian must be put in the more disgraceful one: . . . Qian Qianyi was always immoral in character. When the Ming house crumbled, he was among the first to surrender to our mandate. Still, he dared to secretly defame our dynasty in his poems and essays. Qian had no principle governing what to do and what not to do, he cannot even be classed as a man. . . . If he is to be placed on a par with such figures as Hong Chengchou in the “Biographies of Twice-serving Officials,” and the difference between them not shown, how can we make manifest the principle of praise and blame? . . . 錢謙益, 行素不端, 及明祚既移, 率先歸命, 乃敢於詩文陰行詆毀, 是為進退無據, 非復人類. . . . 若與洪承疇等同列 “貳臣傳”, 不示差等, 又何以昭彰癉?52 The 1770s and early 1780s also found Qianlong giving shape to early Manchu history, recording Manchu customs, and standardizing Manchu language with great ardor and determination. Besides their general purposes of revising the historical documents concerning the Manchu people and refreshing cultural memories among the more and more “Sinized” Manchu descendants in China, these projects also further secured the legitimacy of the Manchu rule in China proper. The sequence of works on Manchu history reached its culmination in 1781 when, in a single year, three new studies of Manchu customs were ordered.53 Intriguingly, it was also in this year that Qianlong was moved to criticize Qian twice. The first indictment confirms our view of Qianlong’s intentions in glorifying the Ming martyrs and defaming the erchen: . . . When our dynasty secured control of the country, many late-Ming officials surrendered to us in the face of our imposing prestige. There is no denying that such officials as Hong Chengchou, Zu Dashou, and Li Yongfong were disloyal to their perished dynasty’s emperor; they were, however, officials who exerted themselves for our dynasty. I ordered that they be put in Division A of the “Biographies of the Twice-serving Officials.” As for figures like Qian Qianyi, Gong Dingzi, and Feng Quan,

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times 73 who had no principle governing what to do and what not to do, and who surrendered half-heartedly in order to save their skins, I ordered that they be put in Division B. That was to show impartiality of both praise and blame. . . . 我朝定鼎之初, 明末諸臣, 望風歸附. 如洪承疇, 祖大壽, 李永芳等, 在勝國雖為不忠於主, 在本朝則為宣力之臣. 特命入於 “貳臣傳” 之甲編. 其進退無據, 謬託保身如錢謙益 , 龔鼎孳, 馮銓諸人, 則入乙編, 以昭褒貶之公.54 That same year, Qianlong penned the important essay on legitimate authority, “Ming Guanchen lucun Yang Weizhen ‘Zhengtong bian’ yu” 命館臣錄存楊維楨正統辨諭 (An Edict Ordering Officials of the Historiography Institute to Copy and Archive Yang Weizhen’s “Discourse on Legitimate Authority”). On this occasion, Qianlong found a historical figure even more despicable than Qian: The Spring and Autumn Annals’ doctrine of “Great unification [of domain]” lies in “venerating the [Zhou] king and repelling the hegemons.” By this, [Confucius] meant to lay down an unalterable principle for the unending ages to come: [In assuming legitimate authority] the ruling house must possess a legitimate cause with rightful claim. It rises from a genuine Mandate of Heaven and enjoys clear popular support. . . . [Yang Weizhen in his treatise] proposes to take the Yuan dynasty as the ruling house that legitimately succeeded the Southern Song dynasty, not the Liao or the Jin dynasty. That is indeed a valid thesis. . . . Weizhen was a Yuan official. It is true that he did not serve the new court of the Ming [after the Yuan fell], but he nonetheless responded to the summons of the Founding Emperor of the Ming dynasty. Moreover, he presented [the Ming emperor] with the song “Naoge guchui qu,” in which he flattered the new dynasty and defamed his former country. . . . Weizhen had no principle governing what to do and what not to do. When compared to Qian Qianyi, who at least affected in his writings that he did not forget his former emperor, Weizhen appears even more ignoble. I have already denounced him quite a few times in my poems and essays. Weizhen’s discourse on legitimate authority, however, should not be dismissed because of his person. “Legitimate succession” means succeeding the authority of the former dynasty with a new mandate. . . . Our dynasty avenged the Ming demise and punished the rebels [led by Li Zicheng]. We established our dynasty in China proper and unified the whole country. Our dynasty is the most legitimate ruling house that has existed since times immemorial. Yet, I still allowed one year of the reign of Prince Fu be recorded in the Tongjian jilan. Had he been able to maintain the Southern Capital [Nanjing], he could have inherited the legitimate authority, as did the Southern Song, and continued the [Zhu] imperial house. However, in the face of his inexorable doom, Heaven disowned him and his people shunned him. He courted the destruction of his own

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi imperial house. My view has absolute disinterestedness and supreme justice—everybody will find it agreeable, and it will meet with universal approval in the thousands of ages to come. 《春秋》大一統之義, “尊王黜霸”, 所以立萬世之綱常, 使名正言順, 出於天命人心之正. . . . 其 [楊維楨] 欲以元繼南宋為正統而不及遼, 金, 其論頗正. . . . 夫維楨身為元臣, 入明雖不仕, 而應明太祖之召, 且上〈鐃歌鼓吹曲〉, 頌美新朝, 非刺故國, . . . 其進退無據, 較之錢謙益託言不忘故君者, 鄙倍猶甚, 向於詩文中斥之. 而維楨正統之辨, 則不可以人廢言也. 夫正統者, 繼前統受新命也. . . . 我朝為明復仇討賊, 定鼎中原, 合一海宇, 為自古得天下最正. 然朕猶於《通鑑輯覽》內, 存福王建國之號一年, 使其能保守南都, 未嘗不可如南宋之承統, 綿延不絕, 而奈其當陽九之運, 天弗與, 人弗歸, 自覆其宗社也. 此實大公至正, 天下萬世可以共見共守之論.55

This is not the place for a detailed discussion of Qianlong’s theory of political legitimacy. Suffice it to say that here and in other places, Qianlong endorses most of the traditional criteria of conferring legitimacy—the Mandate of Heaven, political and geographical unification, consanguinity, moral superiority, cultural achievements, etc.—but he departs from traditional discourses on the matter in one significant aspect: Qianlong maintains that when an alien ruling power succeeds in justly establishing unified political control in China proper, it should enjoy a legitimacy equal to that of Han-Chinese dynasties.56 His was a realistic and culturalistic position, opposing the racial attitude that had predominated since the Southern Song era and intensified in the Ming–Qing transition. Qianlong’s wording at the very beginning of the quotation is revealing. When he invokes the doctrine of the Spring and Autumn Annals, Qianlong quietly changes the standard phrase “venerating the [Zhou] king and repelling the barbarians” (zunwang rangyi 尊王攘夷) to “venerating the [Zhou] king and repelling the hegemons” (zunwang chuba 尊王黜霸), thereby eradicating race as a determining factor in legitimate authority and accentuating the supremacy of political and military triumph.57 In Qianlong’s mindset, his Manchu–Qing dynasty has rightfully replaced an imperial house that had lost its sway over China proper; it was hopeless, albeit noble, for any former Ming official or subject to resist this new mandate.58 As Qianlong must have remembered, there are numerous places in Qian’s Youxue ji that diametrically oppose his vision of legitimacy, such as this: It has been a family tradition that the Qians receive training in the Spring and Autumn Annals. When I was small, I studied Hu [Anguo]’s commentary [on the Annals]. Once I grasped the general idea of the book, I started entertaining doubts and making arguments in my mind, but of course I dared not make them known then. When I grew up, I made it a point to investigate the origin and transmission [of Hu’s commentary]. I

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times 75 found that the book served as study material for the emperor’s court lectures; he consulted it as a guide to right and wrong while formulating national policies. Early in the [Ming] dynasty, both [Hu’s] and Zhang Qia’s commentaries were popular, but not long after, Hu’s book predominated. The reason was that Hu’s book underscores the doctrine of “venerating the Zhou [king] and repelling the barbarians.” This helped enhance the Chinese people’s pride, providing a source of inspiration for the needs of the time, and was used to glorify the political reality after the Jin and Yuan dynasties fell and the barbarians were wiped out. It does not mean that [Hu’s commentary] is the only correct interpretation of the classic. . . . I was bedridden in a deserted village, my head covered with a scarf, and all of a sudden I received your elegant words on the Spring and Autumn. I casually opened the book, dim-sighted, my head still swimming. In no time my eyes were blazing, I was wild with joy. It was as though one had lost something and suddenly recovered it at a most unexpected moment. My memory [of the book] is still very fresh. I do not know how to put it, I am simply overjoyed and elated. 僕家世授《春秋》, 兒時習胡《傳》, 粗通句讀則已, 多所擬議, 而未敢明言. 長而深究源委, 知其為經筵進講, 箴砭國論之書. 國初與張洽傳並行, 已而獨行胡氏者, 則以其尊周攘夷, 發抒華夏之氣, 用以斡持世運, 鋪張金, 元已來驅除掃犁之局, 而非以為經義當如是也. . . . 荒村臥病, 冒絮蒙頭, 門下忽以《春秋》大聲擲下, 忽漫開卷, 頭目涔涔然. 俄而目光迸發, 心華怒生, 如向所失物, 取次得之. 記憶宛然, 口不能喻, 惟有歡喜踴躍而已.59 And this: In a bamboo hut with mere paper windows, I was bedridden by a bad cold. Paging through the table of contents of Li Xiaoyou’s Biographies of the Song Loyalists, I found that the book carries a preface by Hebin [Li Kai 李楷, zi Shuze 叔則]. I [turned to it and] came upon these sentences: “China survived as long as the Song dynasty stood. When the Song fell, China perished at that same moment.” I stroked the page and rose to my feet, exclaiming: “This is exactly why on the fall of the Chen dynasty the Yuan jing maintains: ‘Thereupon five countries perished.’ ”60 竹屋紙窗, 中寒彊臥, 繙李小友《宋遺民傳》目錄, 得河濱序文. 至 “宋存而中國存, 宋亡而中國亡”, 撫卷失席曰: “此《元經》陳亡而書五國之旨也.”61 In the first passage, Qian suggests that the driving force behind the Ming scholarship on the Spring and Autumn Annals was a political one, that the Ming court sponsored Hu Anguo’s 胡安國 (1073–1138) commentary, the Chunqiu zhuan 春秋傳 (Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals), to harness its ideological powers. A product of the late Northern Song, Hu’s commentary put emphasis on the Annals’ counsel of “repelling the

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barbarians,” and thus was favored by the Han-Chinese Ming dynasty which recovered China from alien Yuan rule after almost a century. If in the first half of the first passage Qian seems to express some reservations about the quality of Hu’s commentary, in the second half Qian casts off all his scholarly temper of mind. By the “lost” something (shi 失), I believe Qian means the Han-Chinese Ming China that was lost to the alien Manchus. Qian was perhaps not so much excited by a new study of the Spring and Autumn Annals as by the memory of the Ming that this study aroused. In the second passage, Qian endorses Li Kai’s assertion that China vanished when the Song dynasty fell. Qian compares this to the remark of Wang Tong 王通 (584–618) on the demise of the Chen house (557–89) of the Southern Dynasties, that five dynasties had thereby fallen. In Wang’s idea, the Chen represents the Eastern Jin, Song, Qi, and Liang dynasties, an embodiment of Chinese orthodoxy, cultural and racial.62 Historically, these five dynasties all established their capitals in Jiankang (later Nanjing). The Chen dynasty was replaced by the Sui (581–618) that descended from the Northern Dynasties, the first of which was the Northern Wei 北魏 (386–534), founded by the Xianbei tribal people who originated from Liaodong. While Wang Tong saw the fall of China in the doom of the Chen, Li Kai saw the same in the end of the Song. In this, both the Chen and the Song dynasties serve not merely as particular imperial houses, but as China tout court, in cultural and racial terms. Both Wang Tong and Li Kai’s words stir Qian, and between Qian’s lines we might read: China lives as long as the Ming dynasty holds; when the Ming disintegrates, so does China. The Chen–Sui, Song–Yuan, and Ming– Qing experiences are fused into one in this vision. Around 1657, one year after Qian penned the essay under discussion, Gu Yanwu wrote this famous passage: There is a difference between the fall of a country and the end of the world. . . . A change of imperial house and reign name is what is meant by the fall of a country. When humanity and righteousness fail, resulting in beasts eating men and human beings eating one another, that is what is meant by the end of the world. 有亡國, 有亡天下. . . . 易姓改號謂之亡國. 仁義充塞而至於率獸食人, 人將相食, 謂之亡天下.63 Gu and Qian’s understatements are similar.64 For obvious reasons, Qian does not make explicit his view that the Manchu Qing cannot be accepted as Chinese, nor does Gu clearly say he sees beasts in the Manchus. But it can be observed that both Qian and Gu, owing to their cultural upbringings, harbor a deep resentment against the Manchus, who declared themselves legitimate rulers of the Chinese people and the Chinese land. This political position and the challenge it posed to the Qing legitimacy must be considered as one of the major reasons why the Qianlong emperor would not let Qian Qianyi rest in his grave.

Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times 77

The afterlife of Qian Qianyi’s figure and shishi writings The majority of anti-Manchu writings were successfully proscribed, and some destroyed for good, by Qianlong. Fortunately, most of Qian’s works survive to this day. A later reader of the Toubi ji relates: Mengsou’s [Qian’s] Toubi ji was never put into print. The reason was that the net of literary inquisition at that time was cast very wide. The wording of this collection is very subtle, and the criticism [of the Manchus] extremely severe. This collection naturally touches on too many sensitive and taboo issues. As a result, it was kept secretly and never released to the reading public. However, many private libraries in the Jiangnan area owned copies of it. Gentlemen in the Southeast who had a mind to collect historical materials and who still missed the fallen country all had a burning interest in reading it. For this reason the collection was widely copied and circulated. 蒙叟《投筆集》一書, 世未有刊本. 則以當時文網甚密, 而此書微吟深諷, 易觸忌諱, 故秘而未刊. 然江南藏書家多有寫本, 東南人士之留心文獻, 不忘故國者, 恆以一得見其書為快, 故傳鈔殆遍.65 Qian’s works were revived by the revolutionaries towards the close of the Qing dynasty. Under their auspices, Qian’s books were reissued and used as a source of inspiration for the anti-Qing/anti-Manchu revolution and for modern Chinese nationalism. Qian found an enthusiastic promoter in the revolutionary scholar Zhang Binglin 章炳麟 (zi Taiyan 太炎; 1869–1936): [Zheng] Chenggong once studied under him [Qian]. When Chenggong led his navy into the Nanjing area, the prefectures north to Anhui all pledged allegiance to the Ming again. Qianyi was roused to compose “After Du Fu’s ‘Autumn Thoughts,’ ” as songs of triumph, in which he announces that a new Son of Heaven has emerged who will lead the Ming back to its old glory, and that he will lie down on a straw mat to await punishment. At that time, Qianyi believed that the Southern Capital could be recovered in any minute, and he could simply stay home and await the order of recall. However, Chenggong was defeated. Two years later, Wu Sangui murdered the last [Ming] emperor in Yunnan. Qianyi was moved to match the rhyme-scheme of “Autumn Thoughts” again, giving expression to his anguish. The previous and the new poems count almost a hundred pieces, and Qianyi put them together under the title Toubi ji, in which we find laments for the fall of the Central Kingdom and anger at the intrusion of dogs and goats [the Manchus]. Its sadness is felt across time. Qianyi died in the third year of Kangxi’s reign. During the Ming–Qing transition, the twice-serving officials Wu Weiye from Wu and Gong Dingzi from Hefei were both known as distinguished poets. Their poems are charged with intense emotions. Weiye’s words are particularly covert and elusive, and sincerity of his poetry is never a

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi question. Yet, most people think what Qianyi had written were words to blot out his misdeeds, not to reveal his genuine feelings. Consider the range of feelings one can have towards the fallen country: the twiceserving official Chen Mingxia [d. 1654] rose to the position of Grand Secretary [in the Qing court],66 yet he still touched his head and exclaimed: one ought not to cut one’s hair. From this we can infer that Qianyi was not necessarily deceptive and hypocritical. 鄭成功嘗從受學, 既而舉舟師入南京, 皖南諸府皆反正. 謙益則和杜甫〈秋興〉詩為凱歌, 且言新天子中興, 己當席槁待罪. 當是時, 謂留都光復在俾倪間, 方偃臥待歸命. 而成功敗. 後二年, 吳三桂弒末帝於雲南, 謙益復和〈秋興〉詩以告哀. 凡前後所和, 幾百章, 編次為《投筆集》. 其悲中夏之沈淪, 與犬羊之俶擾, 未嘗不有餘哀也. 康熙三年卒. 初, 明之亡, 有合肥龔鼎孳, 吳吳偉業, 皆以降臣, 善歌詩, 時見激憤. 而偉業辭特深隱, 其言近誠. 世多謂謙益所賦, 特以文墨自刻飾, 非其本懷. 以人情思宗國言, 降臣陳名夏至大學士, 猶拊頂言不當去髮. 以此知謙益不盡詭偽矣.67

It is no coincidence that the most extensive, detailed, lyrical—though not always sound in its scholarship—chronological biography of Qian (Jin Hechong’s) was reprinted in the occupied Shanghai during the Sino-Japanese war of the 1930s and 40s, years which saw the Chinese people fending off foreign intruders, again.68 A recent study of the intellectual communities in occupied Shanghai suggests that a “literature of yimin” emerged among the “collaborationist” writers, and that in their lyrical essays they “sought to blend remembrance with penitence and history with remorse, as a personal testimony to human tragedy.”69 These writers compared themselves to the yimin of the Ming–Qing transition, particularly Qian Qianyi and Wu Weiyu.70 Besides a symbol of patriotism and nationalism, Qian’s writings and Qian himself have formed an idiom of unwilling collaboration for later ages.

Part II

“Renouncing the pen for the sword”: three readings of Qian Qianyi’s shishi

Introduction to Part II Placing Toubi ji in context

At age eighty-two in 1663, one year before his death, Qian Qianyi wrote with abandon and anguish: 漫漫長夜獨悲歌孤憤填胸肯自磨敵對災星憑酒伯破除愁壘仗詩魔逢人每道君休矣顧影還呼汝謂何欲共老漁開口笑商量何處水天多百篇學杜擬商歌墨瀋頻將漬淚磨世難相尋如鬼疰國恩未報是心魔射潮霸主吾衰矣觀井仙人奈老何取次長謠向空闊江天雲物為誰多

I sing my sad tunes into the endless night, all alone, Filled with grief and indignation1 that I bring to my own torment. To contend with the star of calamity, one can only count on Uncle Wine; To bring down the fort of sadness, one turns to the Poetry Demon. Whoever runs into me will say, “Sir, you are through!” I eye my shadow, yelling, “What say you?” How I wish I could laugh heartily with the old fisherman, Whom I will ask, “Where can I find a place bountiful in water and sky?” I set a hundred verses emulating Du, to the tune of “The [Fallen] Shang,” So many times I grind ink with my tears. Adversities of the time haunt me like a demon-cancer, Yet the demon inflicting my heart stems from the bounties I owe the state. Withering with age, I no longer shoot the tide like a mighty king,2 Now an old man, I peer into a well the way the ancient immortal did.3 Tenderly one by one, I sing my songs to the void and wilderness; Busy clouds above the river’s sky, to whom are you showing? Toubi ji: 60–1

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The song of “The [Fallen] Shang,” shangge 商歌, is like the lute of Yongmen, the chanting of Zhang Xi, and the song of Miss Cai, a tone from a “fallen state,” whose meaning we have seen in Part I of this book. Jizi 箕子, who wrote the lyrics, was himself a member of the royal family of the Shang dynasty. He witnessed the fall of his own imperial house to the Zhou dynasty. The Grand Historian Sima Qian says: . . . On his way to the Zhou court, Jizi passed by the former city of Yin [of the Shang dynasty]. It greatly disturbed him to see the former palaces in ruins, and to see millet growing on them. So saddened was Jizi that he wanted to cry, but the circumstances would not allow it. To weep would be an act of a woman. He resorted to composing and singing the poem “The Ears of Wheat” to give expression to his sorrows. . . . On hearing the poem, the [remnant] Yin subjects all shed tears. 箕子朝周, 過故殷虛, 感宮室毀壞, 生禾黍, 箕子傷之, 欲哭則不可, 欲泣為其近婦人. 乃作〈麥秀〉之詩以歌詠之. . . . 殷民聞之皆為流涕.4 The two poems above, entitled “Guimao zhongxia liu ri chongti changju er shou” 癸卯中夏六日重題長句二首 (Two More Long Poems Inscribed [on the Toubi ji] on the Sixth Day of the Second Month of Summer of the Year Guimao [June 11, 1663]), are the last two poems of Toubi ji, a collection of thirteen cycles of seven-word regulated poems bearing the title “Hou ‘Qiuxing’ ” or “After ‘Autumn Thoughts.’ ” Qian names Du Fu, a giant in the lyrical tradition and a classical exemplar of shishi, as his model. Around 766 Du wrote “Qiuxing” or “Autumn Thoughts,” a series of eight poems, which he uses to contrast the golden era of the Tang with the contemporary disintegration of society. Du Fu blurs the lines between past and present: the poems move back and forth between Kuizhou, where the disillusioned Du was writing, and Chang’an, the Tang capital before and after the disastrous An Lushan Rebellion. Not only does Du express social and political criticism in the “Autumn Thoughts,” he also defines himself there. Centuries of ill-starred scholar-officials and poets tried to appropriate the image of Du Fu as it appears in the poems—a loyal and committed, yet disfranchised, official. These eight verses are the pearls in the crown of Chinese lyrical tradition, considered by many to be the greatest Recent Style poems ever written.5 The first cycle of Qian’s “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’ ” was dated August 18, 1659, and the last cycle hailed from June of 1663. Two supplementary poems were added to the twelfth cycle, and another two to the thirteenth, as an afterthought. The poems span three eventful years from Zheng Chenggong’s Yangzi campaign in 1659 to Zheng’s death in Taiwan in 1662. Qian Qianyi named this collection of one hundred and eight regulated poems Toubi ji, after the famous words toubi congrong, “renouncing the pen for the sword.”6 Of the thirteen cycles of the Toubi ji, only one—the third, which will be the focus of Chapter 5—was included in the Youxue ji, the

Introduction to Part II 83 standard collection of Qian’s post-1644 literary writings. The Toubi ji was one of Qian’s last major poetic endeavors, and he died one year after completion of the project. As mentioned in Chapter 1, historian Chen Yinke considered the Toubi ji the shishi of the Ming–Qing transition and its achievement greater than Du Fu’s original.7 Yet despite the superb literary quality and invaluable historical value of the Toubi ji, it remained in relative obscurity until the turn of the last century. There are two reasons for this. First, only eight poems from the Toubi ji found their way into Youxue ji, in which the original title of the poems was altered; the rest of the collection did not appear in print until 1910. Fear of censorship from the Manchu government apparently led to the exclusion of the bulk of the Toubi ji from the Youxue ji. In the hundred years following Qian’s death the Toubi ji most likely circulated only in hand-copied form in limited areas. Second, the Qianlong emperor banned all of Qian’s writings in the 1770s out of personal enmity, and the ban was not lifted during Qing times. The extant Toubi ji is based on a handwritten copy recovered in 1910, just two years before the official abdication of the last Qing emperor. In modern times, Chinese scholars in the past century have largely overlooked Qian Qianyi’s works. Qian’s ambivalent political activities during the political changeover and his disreputable erchen status, the unavailability of his works, and his difficult and highly allusive style have all contributed to his obscurity. No monograph on the Toubi ji has so far been published, either in Chinese or in any Western language.8 In Chapter 3, I will discuss the first cycle of “After ‘Autumn Thoughts,’ ” and in the following two chapters, the second and the third. The discussions are sequential because these three cycles of poems address two of the most important phases of Zheng Chenggong’s 1659 Yangzi campaign.9 The first cycle was written when Zheng’s fleet was closing in on Nanjing, the former Ming capital, at the most hopeful moment of Zheng’s campaign. The second and the third cycles were composed directly after Zheng’s defeat in the same city, as the Ming revival campaign fell on hard times. Within this specific historical context, Qian addressed history through poetry, with the ambition of shishi and in the language of “subtlety,” and more importantly, he represented himself as a part of the restoration so as to appear not a “twiceserving official” of the Qing, but a “loyal official” of the Ming.

3

The prophesying poet-historian

Chinese tradition approves of war, provided that the war in question is a “righteous” one (yizhan 義戰). For example, King Wu of Zhou’s punitive campaign against the tyrant King Zhou of Shang in the distant past was celebrated as a righteous war.1 Like King Wu of Zhou’s initiative, Zheng Chenggong’s 1659 campaign against the Manchus was launched on a pretext of righteousness. It made use of a grand narrative of reclamation and wrapped its military operations in cultural symbolism and ritual. When Zheng’s forces reached Jiaoshan 焦山, an island nine li east of Zhenjiang 鎮江, Zheng conducted three days of solemn and elaborate ceremonies, from July 31 through August 2, as a parade and a rally for his warriors. Wearing red armor, they sacrificed to the Heavens on the first day; in black, to Earth on the second; and in white, to the late Chongzhen and Longwu emperors of the Ming on the third.2 So awed were the people who happened to witness the rituals that they dubbed Zheng’s men as “Heavenly Troops,” tianbing 天兵. In keeping with the spirit of the occasion, Zheng penned this verse: “Chushi tao Manyi zi Guazhou zhi Jinling” 出師討滿夷自瓜州至金陵 (Launching a Punitive War Against the Manchu Barbarians, Sailing from Guazhou to Jinling) 縞素臨江誓滅胡 In mourning white we came to the River, our mission to extinguish the Hu; 雄師十萬氣吞吳 Our heroic troops, a hundred thousand strong, awe the Wu area. 試看天塹投鞭渡 Behold, my whip parts the waters of nature’s moat and forth we go; 不信中原不姓朱 The Central Plain, I swear, is still named Zhu.3 About two weeks later, Qian Qianyi embarked on a poetic enterprise similar in spirit to the punitive campaign that Zheng describes. The first cycle of “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’ ” was written on August 18, 1659.4 Other cycles in the Toubi ji were consistently entitled “Hou ‘Qiuxing,’ ” but Qian named this first one “Jinling ‘Qiuxing ba shou’ ci Caotang yun” 金陵秋興八首次草堂韻 (“Autumn Thoughts” for Jingling, Eight Poems, After Caotang’s Rhymes).

The prophesying poet-historian 85 In 1659, Qian was living in seclusion, though not far removed from the theater of war. In his poems he joins the troops, navigating the Yangzi River towards Nanjing with Zheng, summoning the divine armies of Heaven and Earth to their aid. Qian cries with prophesying fervor: 1.15 龍虎新軍舊羽林八公草木氣森森樓船蕩日三江湧石馬嘶風九域陰掃穴金陵還地肺埋胡紫塞慰天心

Dragons! Tigers! new ranks formed by the old imperial guards— The aura of the bushes and trees on Mt Bagong is full of terrible solemnity. The sun quivers behind the turreted warships, the Three Rivers surge; The stone horses rear against the wind whinnying, all Nine Regions dim. Sweep away those dens at Jinling to restore Difei;6 Bury the Hu barbarians on the purple frontiers7 to appease Heaven.

太白樂府云: “懸胡青天上, 埋胡紫塞旁.” A ballad of Li Bo says: “Hang the Hu up in the sky, / Bury the Hu by the purple frontier.”

長干女唱平遼曲萬戶秋聲息擣碪

Changgan ladies will sing the song “Pacifying the Liao”; A myriad families will stop beating clothes in the autumn wind. Toubi ji: 1

In this call to arms, by using geographical images with historical and literary associations, Qian legitimizes the Ming revival and gives mythic properties to its coming battle. The reference to Mt Bagong 八公 in line 2 begins the enlistment of both remote and recent history to serve the present. When Fu Jian 符堅 (338–85) of the Former Qin launched his campaign of conquest against the Eastern Jin, the Eastern Jin Prince of Guiji 會稽王 conducted solemn rituals to supplicate the god of Mt Zhong 鍾山, honoring it with the worldly title of Minister. According to the story, the stratagem worked. When Fu Jian arrived at the city of Shouchun 壽春, he looked north towards Mt Bagong, where to his dismay, “every bush and tree looked like an enemy” (caomu jie bing 草木皆兵). (Note how many “trees,” mu 木, appear in lin 林 and sensen 森森 in Qian’s line.) Soon after, Xie Xuan 謝玄 defeated the panicstricken Fu Jian at the Battle of Feishui.8 The story alone impresses on the reader that Heaven will assist a just cause.9 Mt Bagong also held special, newer associations for the Ming forces. Since it helps form the riverbank of the Huai River in Anhui 安徽 Province, where the Founding Emperor of the Ming was born, and is one of the region’s most important landmarks, it has an emblematic connection to his native town of Zhongli 鍾離. Zhu Yuanzhang was buried at Xiaoling 孝陵, the Xiao

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Mausoleum, to the south of Mt Zhong in Nanjing.10 The Mt Zhong that offered great mercy and magic for the Eastern Jin was also a sacred ancestral site of the Ming house. The aura of the bushes and trees on Mt Bagong is “full of terrible solemnity” as if Mt Bagong honors the Founding Emperor’s ghost and will aid Zheng as it aided the intrepid Prince of Guiji more than a thousand years before. The historical allusions continue in line 4 with the stone horses. Qian envisions war on a national scale. At the Battle at Tongguan, a critical stage of the An Lushan Rebellion, the Tang troops were on the verge of being annihilated when several hundred cavalry rode unexpectedly to their rescue. Although the Tang soldiers could not ascertain the identity or origins of their reinforcements through the dust and din of battle, a memorial presented to the emperor the day after reported that the stone statues of horses and guards at Zhaoling 昭陵, the Zhao Mausoleum where Tang Taizong was buried, bore traces of sweat.11 Qian’s word sends these legendary forces, which intervened once for the Tang, galloping through all “Nine Regions,” jiuyu 九域, of China to help revive the Ming house. Lines 5 through 8 use a historical geography to impose nationalistic, ethnocentric overtones on the war. The term “Hu barbarians” appears in both Zheng Chenggong and Qian’s poems.12 As specified in its title, the “Hu” in Zheng’s poem clearly refers to the Manchus, the Manyi 滿夷. Qian, in his poem, purposely leaves the identity of these “barbarians” vague. Qian places a note after line 6 which quotes a couplet of a Li Bo poem: “Hang the Hu up in the sky / Bury the Hu by the purple frontier.” The expression “purple frontier,” zisai 紫塞, indicates that these Hu have come from the frontier, a clear indication that Qian has the Manchus in mind, one that is reinforced by the poem’s last two lines. Lines 7 and 8 widen the scope of the war beyond China proper into Liaodong 遼東. Changgan 長干, originally a suburb of Nanjing, was, by synecdoche, another name of Nanjing. To understand the implication of “Pacifying the Liao,” we need to know some Manchurian history. Historically, two dynasties originated in Manchuria, the Liao 遼 (907– 1125) and the Jin 金 (1122–1234). The Liao was founded by the Khitan, a group of Mongol princes from Jehol. The Tungus, a frontier people of the Jürchen tribe, founded the Jin. Both dynasties conquered Chinese territory and established economic bases there—the Liao mainly in North China, and the Jin in Chinese Manchuria.13 By references to the historical Liao, Qian creates a picture of the Han Chinese avenging the conquest of Chinese territory by “barbarians.” It is most certain, however, that Qian introduces the Liao region as a hated symbol of the Manchu regime at large. The Manchus were originally tribes of Jürchen stock who lived in the areas now known as Heilongjiang 黑龍江 (Black Dragon River) and Jilin. They were related to the Jin dynasty which replaced the Liao, forced the Song south, and conquered most of North China. After their own defeat by the Mongol Yuan dynasty in 1234, they retreated northward to the Sungari River region. By the late six-

The prophesying poet-historian 87 teenth century the Jürchen had formed three major settlements. Some stayed in the Sungari region and lived by fishing and hunting. Some settled along the northern edge of the Korean border in the region of Changbaishan 長白山 (Long White Mountain). Others migrated to the more fertile, open land east of the Liao River 遼河, where they mingled with Chinese emigrants and practiced a settled, arable agriculture, or thrived as traders in furs, horses, and luxury goods.14 The last region was known as Liaodong 遼東, and the Ming had long regarded it as Chinese territory. Liaoyang 遼陽 in Liaodong fell to the Manchus in 1621 and became the new capital of Nurhaci’s Latter Jin 後金 dynasty.15 Thus, to “pacify” the liao is to vanquish the Manchus tout court. As can be observed in this poem, another salient feature of this cycle is its charged patriotic sentiment. What are we to make of the chauvinism of these lines? As similar “protonationalism” pervades almost every poem discussed in this book, I propose to understand this phenomenon—which has particular Chinese characteristics—through the theory of political legitimacy. Legitimate authority, as Max Weber expounds it, refers to the validity of the authority of all ruling powers over their affiliated or subordinate groups.16 The Chinese notion of zhengtong 正統, “legitimate succession,”17 is an important political and historiographical theory based on a similar concept. Its underpinnings, the criteria of conferring legitimacy, have evolved with the times.18 Its genesis has its roots in the Zhou belief of the “Mandate of Heaven” (tianming 天命). Later, zhengtong is freighted with Confucian moral overtones from the Spring and Autumn Annals. During the Qin and Han eras, the idea of zhengtong became much more programmatic and was affiliated with the Five Elements (wuxing 五行) theory. The claim to a specific agent or “virtue,” either Metal, Wood, Water, Fire or Earth, became a prerequisite for legitimacy. By the Latter Han, royal blood had become the single most important criterion for legitimate authority. After the Han, zhengtong came to designate the “legitimate” or “orthodox” succession of rulership, in a continuous line, according to blood relationship, moral integrity, political unification, and cultural achievement. Zhengtong theory underwent significant reformation during Song times. In the Northern Song, the criteria of legitimacy were shaped by the rational, moralistic philosophies of Neo-Confucianism. As Ouyang Xiu 歐陽修 (1007–72) expounded it, zhengtong consists of two separate elements: zheng, the moral right to succession, and tong, unified political control.19 The Five Elements theory and the notion of continuous succession were called into question. After the Southern Song era, international and racial tensions complicated the concept of zhengtong. It was tinged with a kind of Han protonationalism which drew its inspiration from the Spring and Autumn Annals20 as a heightened sense of racial identity evolved among Chinese intellectuals who lived in the Mongol Yuan dynasty.21 Many zhengtong discourses from the

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Ming and the early Qing periods bespeak the Chinese worldview of that time: “militarism” is more urgently demanded than “pacifism.”22 In the early Yuan, the ardent Song loyalist Zheng Sixiao 鄭思肖 (1239–1316) described the Mongols as a race of “a non-human origin,” comparing them to “dogs and goats.”23 Near the end of the Yuan era, Hu Han 胡翰 (1307–91) followed Zheng Sixiao’s example, urging his countrymen to “repel the barbarians” (rangyi 攘夷). However, it was the early-Ming scholar Fang Xiaoru 方孝孺 (1357–1402), who, under Hu Han’s influence, drew the line between Han and non-Han rules most rigidly. Fang dismissed any claim of non-Han conquerors to legitimate rulership in China proper.24 It was in this—the antiforeign tradition of Zheng Sixiao, Hu Han, and Fang Xiaoru—that Qian Qianyi composed his war poems, a fact which we must consider in order to properly understand their historical context.25 1.2 雜虜橫戈倒載斜

Look! the spears of those bastard bandits! jumbled! deserted! 依然南斗是中華 The Southern Dipper26 is still the Central Kingdom! 金銀舊識秦淮氣 Aura of gold and silver the Qinhuai River knows well; 雲漢新通博望槎 From the Heaven’s River27 newly descends Bowang’s Raft. 黑水游魂啼草地 Wandering goblins from the Black Water wail on the grassland; 白水戰鬼哭胡笳 Battle ghosts from the White Mountain cry hearing the Hu reed-whistle. 十年老眼重磨洗 It’s been ten long years! I shall sharpen my vigilance, 坐看江豚蹴浪花 Sit back and watch river porpoises churn the waves. Toubi ji: 1–2 Poem 1.2, which moves from the “old imperial guards” to their enemies, introduces the use of constellations as historical and political symbols. This symbolism reappears often in the Toubi ji. The “Southern Dipper,” a constellation symbolizing the emperor in the Chinese astronomical and poetical traditions, appears here as a metaphor for the Southern Ming,28 and Zheng Chenggong’s forces now represent the hope of a “Central Kingdom.” The luminous quality of line 2 is developed in lines 3 and 4, filling the first half of the poem with a marvelous glamour. Line 3 derives its lustrous images from legends about Nanjing’s ancient name, Jinling or the Gold Mountain, and about the origin of Jinling’s Qinhuai River. It was said that King Wei of Chu 楚威王 of the Warring States was disturbed when a kingly aura was detected in the area later known as Nanjing: the aura held the threat of an emergent contender for his power. King Wei ordered that gold be buried in that area to suppress it. The Qinhuai 秦淮 River running through Nanjing has a similar story. The Founding Emperor of the Qin dynasty 秦始皇

The prophesying poet-historian 89 supposedly found, on his southern tour, that the area known as Longcangpu 龍藏浦, Estuary of Hidden Dragon, was generating a kingly aura. To disperse this potential rival spirit, the emperor ordered all of the local rivers diverted into one channel, which united with the Yangzi. This channel came to be known as Qinhuai, a compound of qin, for the Qin dynasty, and huai meaning to converge. Whether or not the area around Jinling and Qinhuai was endowed with a kingly aura, later it did become the capital of several imperial houses, and the rise and fall of the Ming dynasty was staged on its shores. While “knows well,” jiu shi 舊識, in line 3 recalls Nanjing’s long, regal history, “newly descends,” xin tong 新通, in line 4 ushers in a history in the making. Still building on the symbolism of constellations, Qian Qianyi chooses a celestial image for the Ming loyalist forces. The Yangzi is imagined as joining Heaven’s River, the Milky Way, and Zheng Chenggong appears as the famous Han dynasty general Zhang Qian 張騫. The story has it that Emperor Wu ordered Zhang Qian to trace the origin of the Yellow River. Zhang boarded a raft and made his way, unwittingly, to the moon. Since Zhang Qian was made Marquis of Bowang, this legend is often referred to as “Bowang’s Raft.” Zhang Qian, of course, did not earn his title for his moonwalk. He was made a marquis for his amazing feats in various expeditions against the Xiongnu barbarians, and his campaign stands as a precursor to Zheng Chenggong’s. In lines 5 and 6, a spiritual realm again surfaces, no longer the ether supporting Bowang’s raft, but the underworld to which Qian damns his Manchu foes. Qian locates two geographical names associated with the Manchus in antithetical positions in the couplet. “Black Water”29 and “White Mountain” are the abbreviations of Black Dragon River and Long White Mountain,30 the homelands of the Manchu conquerors. Monochromatic white and black are by no means auspicious colors in Chinese culture: white is for mourning, and black is associated with the underworld. In Qian’s battlefield, the Manchus from the Black Water and the White Mountain are wailing goblins and ghosts, “wandering” because the land does not belong to them. Popular among the northern tribal peoples, the “Hu reed-whistle,” hujia 胡笳, has been widely used by Chinese musicians since Han times. Qian makes this mention at the Manchus’ expense, since it was Zhang Qian, famous for his punitive expeditions against the barbarians, who introduced the reed-whistle to China. In Qian’s imagination, the Manchu ghosts “cry hearing the Hu reed-whistle” because it recalls Zhang Qian’s triumphs, which set a historical precedent for Zheng’s projected victories. “Ten long years” in line 7 may be the approximate length of time between the demise of the Hongguang court in 1646 and the date of the poem’s composition. A possible, more personal second reading would count the years since 1647, when Qian was indicted by the Manchus for abetting a Ming revival movement.

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi 1.3 大火西流再再31暉金風初逕朔風微溝填羯肉那堪臠竿掛胡頭豈解飛高帝旌旂如在眼長沙子弟肯相違名王俘馘生兵盡敢道秋高牧馬肥

The Fire Star32 moves west, its beams sparkling, The golden breezes33 just descended, the north wind is still weak.34 Fill the gutters with the wethers’ carcasses, no need to slice them up; Hung tight on the bamboo poles—can they fly!— these Hu heads! I can almost see the pennons and flags of the Founding Emperor— Sons and brothers of Changsha will not disappoint him. The famous Hu prince? cut the left ear from his corpse!35 Those wild troops? finish them all! Dare they say, “The autumn is high, and our horses sound!”36 Toubi ji: 2

Half of the poem (lines 3–4 and 7–8) revolves around a certain historical issue: ethnic clashes during Han times and later, between China and its nonChinese neighbors, such as the Xiongnu who lived to the north of China proper. Jie 羯 (line 3) and Hu 胡 (line 4) form the word Jiehu 羯胡, which recurs in Du Fu’poems as a pejorative term for non-Chinese peoples of the North. Drawing out the insult, Qian breaks the term into two and coins two parallel imagistic expressions: jierou 羯肉, “wethers’ carcasses,” and hutou 胡頭, “Hu heads.” It was usually during autumn when the tribal peoples’ horses became most sturdy—having eaten a whole summer’s luxuriant grass—that the tribal peoples descended from the north to make raids on China’s frontier.37 China never truly subjugated them, but there were times when the Chinese got the upper hand in the conflicts. On such occasions, the chieftains of these peoples would agree to pay tribute to the Chinese court, establish trade relations, and perhaps arrange diplomatic marriages. Line 7 glorifies such a moment. From time to time China would employ different strategies to guard against the assault, such as fomenting war among different tribal peoples. In the Latter Han period, the Xianbi 鮮卑 people were amply rewarded by the Han government for each severed Xiongnu head presented.38 We can picture, as does Qian in line 4, a Xianbi man, carrying a bamboo pole with a Xiongnu head tied to its end, approaching a Chinese officer for a reward. Since this cycle is framed in the context of a Manchu–Chinese confrontation, all the demeaning references to the tribal peoples in this poem return to vilify the Manchus by constant reference to their tribal origins. Lines 3–4 and 7–8 recall ancient victories of the Han Chinese against the Hu, and the first and third couplets explicitly link these battles to the campaign of Zheng Chenggong. Qian introduces geographical images with the

The prophesying poet-historian 91 insight of a historian. In the first three weeks of August, a surprising number of representatives had come from the Yangzi delta region to offer allegiance to Zheng Chenggong or his deputy. In lines 5 and 6, Qian refers to the Founding Emperor, a native of Anhui, and the “sons and brothers of Changsha,” suggesting further inland alliances. Anhui borders on Jiangsu 江蘇 and Zhejiang 浙江 in the East. To the west of Anhui lies Hubei 湖北, which joins Hunan 湖南 to the south. The seat of Hunan, Changsha is situated more or less halfway between the northern boundary of Hubei and the southern boundary of Hunan. Lines 5 and 6 draw their power from several sources. First, they are framed within the four lines glorifying a Chinese war against foreign invaders. Likewise, this couplet is replete with militant spirit. Second, by calling upon the Founding Emperor of the Ming to assist the Ming revival (here juxtaposed against old-fashioned Northern incursions), Qian adds a spiritual and historical dimension to the undertaking. By stressing the “sons and brothers of Changsha” alongside the “Founding Emperor,” Qian suggests a collective, family effort. (In traditional Chinese political thought, the state is the extension of the family.) Third, the patriotic dream of uniting the surrounding provinces would have held a special power over Qian’s original audience since, at the time he described it, the dream was sound military policy. Had Zheng Chenggong taken Anhui, Hunan, and Hubei, he would have recovered a significant part of southeastern China. In fact, Zheng’s ally, Zhang Huangyan, reached Wuhu 蕪湖 in Anhui.39 Consider this conversation between Li Guangdi 李光地 (1642–1718), an important Confucian thinker in the early Qing and a powerful official in the court of the Kangxi emperor, and Shi Lang 施琅 (1621–96), a former general of Zheng who defected to the Qing in 1651:40 Li said: “Let’s suppose, during that time, the privates do not lay siege to the city [of Nanjing] but instead sail their fleet north [to Beijing]. The whole country would then have been in grave danger.” Shi said, smiling: “Sure enough, move upwards. But may I ask: Where to? And what route should they take?” ... Li said: “How about moving forward along the [Yangzi] River and the [Huai] River, or heading for Shandong [by land]?” Shi replied: “In that case, they would be finished. Why? If they pressed north, even unhindered all the way, and reached the capital, where the military strength of our dynasty was still formidable, they would have been locked in a deadly battle. . . .” Li was at a total loss and asked: “What should they have done then?” Shi said: “They should forget Nanjing and penetrate into Jingxiang 荊襄 [Hubei]. Given their imposing prestige, their sails would have gotten through anywhere, no one would have dared to engage them. Once they subdued Jingxiang, they could summon and form alliance with the

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi Three-Feudatory rebels in Dian 滇 [Yunnan] and Yue 粵 [Guangdong], and take control of the regions south of the Yangzi to contend with the imperial troops, . . .”.41

Shi Lang’s hindsight was similar to Qian’s foresight, though Qian made his suggestion when the Ming revival movement was only beginning to take shape. 1.4 九州一失算殘棋幅裂區分信可悲局內正當侵劫後人間都道爛柯時住山獅子頻申久起陸龍蛇撇捩遲殺盡羯奴纔斂手推枰何用更尋思

The Nine Regions were lost! Yes, a messy game indeed! Oh how pitiful, it’s like a rent cloth, torn asunder! The chessboard has just met with catastrophe, Yet everyone says even the axe-handle must have turned rotten by now. Lions hiding in the mountain have long been stretching themselves; Dragons and snakes cannot wait to soar up into the sky. Don’t stay your hand until the last of these wether slaves is slain, No need for further thought! Put the chessboard aside! Toubi ji: 2–3

For the first time in the cycle, Qian remembers China’s subjugation by the “wether slaves,” who have “torn asunder” the country.42 It is also the first time that he uses the metaphor of chess game, a favorite image of political crisis in the Toubi ji.43 In this poem, the image of chess is introduced at the end of line 1 and is developed into a dwelling metaphorical situation in the rest of the poem. To understand the specific meaning of the chess game described here, we must recognize the axe-handle in line 4 as an allusion to the tale of Wang Zhi from the Shuyi ji 述異記 (An Account of Strange Stories), a forerunner of the Western Rip Van Winkle. Legend has it that during the Jin dynasty a certain woodcutter, one Wang Zhi, got lost on Mount Shishi 石室. He came to a clearing, where he found a few children playing chess and singing. Wang Zhi listened to their tunes, and one of the children gave Wang Zhi something like a date-stone to chew, which cured him of his hunger. After some time, the boy said to Wang: “Why don’t you go away?” Wang Zhi rose and found the handle of his axe had become rotten. When he reached home, he discovered that all of his generation had found death. In its Chinese telling, the story is somewhat less melancholy and more solemn than its American counterpart. During his enchantment, Wang Zhi had no physical concerns (he did not feel hungry) and was transported by the children’s singing and playing. There is

The prophesying poet-historian 93 much to be said for experiencing the years as minutes. But when Wang Zhi’s story is incorporated in lines 3 through 4, the experience is reversed: only a short length of time has passed, yet it feels like ages. Plagued by adversities and misfortunes, the people “on the chessboard”—as opposed to their imagined spectator—find the passage of time painfully slow. The latter half of the poem takes up the sense of impatience expressed in line 4. The restless lions, dragons, and snakes in lines 5 and 6 cannot wait to jump into action. These “rare creatures” (yishou 異獸) symbolize the Ming loyalists ready to join Zheng Chenggong’s cause, to kill the “wether slaves,” the Manchus. The last word of line 7, lianshou 斂手, and the first expression of line 8, tuiping 推枰, come from the line “tuiping lianshou,” in “Du Yu zhuan” 杜預傳 (Biography of Du Yu) of the Jin shu 晉書. The historical events associated with this line support the theory proposed in the discussion of lines 5 and 6 of Poem 1.3 above. It is related in the Jin shu that Du Yu of the Western Jin dynasty—whom we remember better today for his commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals—kept urging Emperor Wu to launch a campaign against Sun Hao’s 孫皓 Wu 吳 dynasty. Emperor Wu remained undecided. One day, the emperor was playing chess with Zhang Hua 張華, the Secretariat Director, when another memorandum from Du arrived. Du urged the emperor to make a decision at once, arguing that it was an opportune moment for the campaign. Zhang Hua “pushed aside the chessboard, stayed the hand,” and spoke in favor of Du’s proposal (時帝與中書令張華圍棋, 而預表適至. 華推枰斂手曰 . . . ).44 The emperor thus gave his approval. In 280, Du Yu led Jin’s army from the North to assault Wu’s northern frontier. When Jiangling 江陵 was subdued, most of the areas south of the Yuan 沅 and Xiang 湘 Rivers down to Jiaozhou 交州 in the far south pledged allegiance to the Jin. These areas make up most of today’s Hubei, Hunan, and Guangdong Provinces, the regions alluded to in line 6 of Poem 1.3. From Jiangling, the Jin army pressed south, moving through Hubei and Anhui, and subdued Wu’s capital at Jianye 建業 (Nanjing) in Yangzhou 揚州.45 This second stage of the campaign targeted the areas in line 5 of Qian’s Poem 1.3. Qian’s message in these two poems is that any serious attempt to conquer/recover China proper should make sure to secure Jiangnan’s surroundings. 1.5 壁壘參差疊海山天兵照雪下雲間生奴八部憂懸首死虜千秋悔入關

Ramparts strewn along the riverside hills; Dazzling as the snow, the ranks descend from Heaven’s cloudy vale. Those wild slaves from the Eight Divisions fear for their heads; The dreadful bandits! they will rue eternally transgression of the Pass.

偽四王子遺言戒勿入關東人至今傳之. The Fourth Prince of the usurping regime commanded [his people] before his death: “You shall not go east of the Pass!” His words are passed on even now.

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi 箕尾廓清還斗極鶉頭送喜動天顏枕戈席槁孤臣事敢擬逍遙供奉班

Let the Winnowing-basket and the Tail be swept away; the Northern Dipper and North Pole will be restored; Heralding victory, the Quail’s head basks in the Emperor’s countenance. I make a spear my pillow, a straw mat my bed,46 assuming my duty as a lone official, Dreaming of the bliss of returning to the court. Toubi ji: 3

Qian uses this allegorical poem to enthusiastically promote the theory of legitimacy. Geographical and stellar images are employed as political symbols. Such words as “wild slaves,” sheng nu 生奴, “dreadful bandits,” si lu 死虜, and “usurping regime,” wei 偽, readily recall the protonationalism and racism expressed by Zheng Sixiao, Hu Han, and Fang Xiaoru. We will, however, show the language of this poem to be far more sophisticated than this. Lines 1 and 2 give the impression that the Mandate of Heaven, which heralds legitimate authority, still favors the Ming as Heaven sends “heavenly troops” down to assist the restoration. The expression yunjian 雲間 has a wonderful double meaning. It means “among the clouds” literally, and thus Heaven or the sky. One criterion of legitimate authority was that the authority embodies justice and righteousness. Saying that Heaven assists the cause implies that the revival movement possesses such qualities. Furthermore, yunjian is also the name of a place, a variant for the Songjiang 松江 Prefecture, which was one of the most strategically crucial areas for Zheng’s Yangzi campaign (see discussion in Chapter 4). This second meaning immediately locates the poem in the warfare of 1659. In this light, the image “dazzling as the snow,” zhaoxue 照雪, becomes even more poignant, conjuring up the white armor of Zheng’s troops on the last day of the solemn rituals on Jiaoshan island, when they mourned the two late emperors of the Ming house. “Heavenly troops” therefore stands for Zheng’s men, the representation of justice and righteousness. Lines 3 and 4 dwell on the Manchus. The “Eight divisions,” babu 八部, refers to the Manchu “Banner” system (baqi 八旗). Banners had at one time been symbols of the Manchu state, organizing the whole Manchu people in peace as well as in war. Distinguished by color (yellow, red, blue, and white; four plain and four bordered), the banners served to identify squadrons. When the Manchus settled in China proper, garrisons under the various banners were strategically established throughout the country to centralize and control it.47 “Transgression of the Pass,” ruguan 入關, was the single most important historical event of 1644 that took place at the strategic pass that separated China proper and Liaodong, i.e., Shanhaiguan 山海關, where the Great Wall ends at the North China Sea.48 The Manchus entered China through the Shanhai Pass as the last major Ming defender, General Wu

The prophesying poet-historian 95 Sangui turned away from them to fight Li Zicheng’s rebel army.49 The verbs “fear,” you 憂, and “rue,” hui 悔, reveal Qian’s verdict on the Manchu conquest of China. Qian dismisses any claim of non-Han conquerors to legitimate rulership in China. To show how unwise and undesirable was the Manchus’ entrance into China, Qian stirs the rumor that one Manchu prince’s last words warned his people not to transgress into the Chinese territory, and that the Manchus were still disturbed by his words. Obedience to elders is an important virtue in the Confucian ethics, and moral cultivation a prerequisite for legitimate authority. To paraphrase Qian: How could the Manchus, uncultivated, not even heeding the exhortations of their elders, ever rule the Chinese?50 In this poem, constellations show their potency most fully as political symbols. In lines 5 and 6, the “Winnowing-basket” (ji 箕), the “Tail” (wei 尾), the “Northern Dipper” (dou 斗), the “North Pole” (ji 極), and the “Quail’s head” (chuntou 鶉頭) are all constellations in the Chinese astronomical tradition. The Winnowing-basket and the Tail, together with five other constellations not mentioned here, form the Blue Dragon, canglong 蒼龍, in the East. The Blue Dragon is a political metaphor. Cang designates the color of blue or green, qing 青. Canglong and qinglong 青龍 are interchangeable expressions in classical Chinese, and qing 青 and qing 清 are homonyms. Qing with the water radicalシis the name for the Manchu dynasty. This constellation therefore symbolizes the Qing “dragon”—the emperor of the Manchus. The Northern Dipper, dou, and the North Pole, ji, again designate constellations. Dou and ji, used independently or as a compound term, denote the “Celestial Emperor.” In Chinese star-symbology, they serve as emblems for the emperor.51 In many Chinese poems, this constellation represents the Han-Chinese ruler. A paraphrase of line 5 gives us: Sweep away the Manchu impostor and reinstate the Chinese emperor. Line 6 contains yet another star, this time representing the Southern Ming. The “Quail’s head,” chuntou, consists of the Well constellation, jing 井, and the Ghost constellation, gui 鬼, in the Vermilion Bird, zhuniao 朱鳥, of the South.52 It bears this name because the seven constellations of zhuniao resemble a bird. According to the theory of Five Elements, red is symbolically the color of the South, hence zhuniao, in which zhu means vermilion, or red. The Vermilion Bird, zhuniao, and the Ming house are a perfect match. First, zhuniao’s zhu is also the imperial family name of the Ming dynasty, founded by Zhu Yuanzhang. Second, zhuniao is in the South, to which the theory of Five Elements associates with fire. According to the theory of legitimacy (and here we invoke the kind incorporating the theory of Five Elements), the Ming house is endowed with the “virtue” of fire and the symbolic color of red. Zhuniao is a potent metaphor for the Ming in this phase of history, when all Ming strongholds are in the South; indeed, the Ming has virtually been reduced to a southern Ming. The “Emperor’s countenance” belongs to the Southern Ming sovereign. Who “heralds victory” for him? Zheng

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Chenggong, without a doubt. For his loyalty to the Longwu emperor 隆武帝 of the Southern Ming, Zheng was granted the imperial house name, Zhu.53 In this connection, Zheng, or rather, Zhu Chenggong joins the star family even more legitimately. In the last two lines of the poem, Qian portrays himself on the edge of his seat, waiting to leap into action with the Ming forces. The self-portraits where he appears as a Ming loyalist will be in our exploration of the following three poems, Poems 1.6 and 1.7, of which should best be considered together. 1.6 戈船十萬指吳頭太白芒寒八月秋肥水共傳風鶴警臺城無那紙鳶愁白頭應笑皆遼豕黃口誰容作海鷗為報新亭垂淚客卻收殘淚覽神州

1.7 鈴索驚傳航海功秋宵蠟炬井梧中馮夷怒擊前潮鼓颶母誰催後鷁風蛟吐陣煙吹浪黑猩殷袍血射波紅秦淮賣酒唐時女醉倒開元鶴髮翁

One hundred thousand galleons, all pointing at the head of Wu, The Great White,54 clear and cold, shines in the autumnal eighth month. That’s the fear of Feishui’s wind and cranes, everyone says; What resort is there for Taicheng, even the paper kite is in distress? The white-haired ones are pigs from Liao, worthy of scorn; Those yellow beaked chicks! how can they become seagulls? For those of you who have shed tears at the New Pavilion, I hold back my remaining tears, to take a good look at this Divine Land. Toubi ji: 4

When the alarm bell55 announces the startling success of the sea campaign, A candle lights up the Wutong tree in the courtyard, it’s an autumn night. Feng Yi56 strikes the drum with great intensity, and the tide surges forth; The mighty tailwind for the Herons! who has summoned it? The flood dragon57 emits puffs of smoke, blackening the heaving waves; When shot in the breakers, its robe is soaked with blood. The Tang lady who sells wine at the Qinhuai River Has the stuff to intoxicate the white-haired old man from the Kaiyuan reign. Toubi ji: 4

The prophesying poet-historian 97 Qian’s marvelous imaginative powers are at work here. Poem 1.6 opens with the grand image of tens of thousands of warships speeding to Wu 吳 (the area around Jiangsu) under the Great White 太白 star of autumn, which portends killing and war. The first two lines of Poem 1.7 respond to the images at the beginning of Poem 1.6.58 In line 1 people in the area are alarmed and excited by the advent of war. The candle light in Poem 1.7 parallels the autumnal starlight in Poem 1.6, but on a human dimension, which brings the historical event into the courtyard of the speaker. Careful reading reveals that line 2 of Poem 1.7 appropriates a couplet by Du Fu: 清秋幕府井梧寒獨宿江城蠟炬殘

Desolate autumn, the general’s compound, cold Wutong in the courtyard— I sleep all alone in this river city as the candlelight fades.

Qian echoes the title of Du’s poem, “Su fu” 宿府 (Sleeping at the Commanding General’s Compound), and evokes the general conditions in which Du composed the verse.59 Ten years after An Lushan rebelled against the Tang dynasty, Du held a modest position in the secretariat of the warlord Yan Wu. Du’s original dwells on his sorrows, having to serve in a humble capacity, and the sadness of separating from his family. Qian borrows the location and the night scene from Du, implying that he stays up late in an autumn night, to aid the enterprise of a “commanding general.” And line 1 of Poem 1.7 places the poem in Zhang Chenggong’s campaign. Lines 3 through 6 of Poem 1.6 then move on to describe Nanjing’s situation while cursing the Manchus, and lines 3 through 6 of Poem 1.7 present an awe-inspiring picture of Zheng’s men on the Yangzi. Line 3 in Poem 1.6 likens the Manchus to Fu Jian’s troops at the Battle at Feishui: that they will be crushed, and that the retreating Manchus will panic hearing even the sound of the wind and the cry of the cranes (fengsheng heli 風聲鶴唳), mistaken for the pursuit of victorious soldiers. Line 4 identifies the theater of war and predicts the consequences of Zheng’s seizure of Nanjing. Taicheng, originally an imperial enclosure on high ground, forms a strategic point in Nanjing, and here it stands for Nanjing. In one historic siege of Taicheng, the people in the encircled city communicated with relief troops by flying a kite above the city.60 But now, in the face of Zheng’s assault, even the “paper kite is in distress.” No one can save the city from doom. Line 5 is a playful twist of the allusion “pig of Liaodong” (Liaodong shi 遼東豕). The allusion takes its origin from a story that a Liaodong man had a sow which gave birth to a piglet with a white head. Impressed by the piglet’s appearance, which he thought was fine and rare, he decided to present it to the emperor. When he reached China proper, he saw an abundance of similar white-headed pigs. He returned to Liaodong ashamed. The story mocks people who make fools of themselves.61 Qian, however, uses the reference— the words “Liaodong” and “pig”— at face value to refer, disparagingly, to the

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Manchus from Liaodong. Line 6 contains verbal wit of the same spirit. “Yellow beaked” translates huangkou 黃口 in the original, which is short for huangkou xiao’er 黃口小兒, the “yellow beaked chicks.” It describes ignorant youths. Unlike the “seagulls,” these baby birds cannot fly: the Manchus trapped in Nanjing will find no exit. The “seagulls,” those spirited water birds which fly high and fast, in Poem 1.6 prefigure another bird image, the “Herons,” yi 鷁, in line 4 of Poem 1.7. Qian compares Zheng’s warships to herons that are larger than life. The vision conjured here is reminiscent of a maritime poem by Zhang Huangyan: 勒水鞭潮勢自雄此身原不畏蛟龍明朝鷁首還東指禁得誰摶萬里風

The waters halt as I whip the tides, in awe of me, This body fears not the water dragon. Tomorrow the Herons’ heads will point east, Riding on the wind of ten thousand miles.62

Herons signify ships: the figure of a heron was painted on the prow of boats to ward off evil. Zheng’s herons are further assisted by gods and spirits who summon powerful tides and winds in their favor. The water dragon, a mythical creature treacherous to sailors, is imagined meeting a miserable death at the hands of Zheng’s dauntless men. In the last two lines of Poems 1.6 and 1.7, we meet Qian himself. Shortly after the Western Jin in Luoyang was replaced by the Xiongnu regime in 317, a few high officials established a new court, which came to be known as the Eastern Jin, with its capital lying in Jiankang 建康 (later Nanjing). On days of fine weather, they liked to gather at the New Pavilion (Xinting 新亭), for the wine and scenery. On one such occasion, Zhou Yi 周顗 exclaimed: “The scenery is beautiful all the same, yet, alas, the mountain and river are not the ones that we knew!” (風景不殊, 正自有山河之異). Those officials present looked at each other and wept. (From this is derived the famous allusion “Tears at Xinting,” Xinting lei 新亭淚.) Only Wang Dao 王導, the Counselor-in-chief, maintained his composure and, in a stern tone, said: “What we should do is to exert ourselves for the imperial house, to recover the Divine Land; for shame, you reduce yourselves to the level of Chu’s captives, pitying one another!” (當共戮力王室, 克復神州, 何至作楚囚相對).63 Qian’s lines 7 and 8 in Poem 1.6 sound like a reply to Wang Dao’s exhortation. Whereas the embittered high officials who survived the transition from the Western to the Eastern Jin shed tears at the New Pavilion, there was later in the Tang dynasty a nostalgic palace lady who witnessed the zenith and the decline of imperial power during the reign of the Xuanzong emperor (r. 712– 56) and liked to tell stories about the old monarch. From the image of this old lady Qian develops the last two lines of Poem 1.7. We know this palace lady from the Tang poet Yuan Zhen’s 元稹 “Xinggong” 行宮 (The Emperor’s Traveling Lodge):

The prophesying poet-historian 99 寥落古行宮宮花寂寞紅白頭宮女在閑坐說玄宗

How desolate is this old traveling lodge of the emperor— The palace flower grows red, all alone. A white-haired palace lady is still alive, Reclining, she talks about Xuanzong.64

After this appearance, baitou gongnü hua Tianbao dangnian 白頭宮女話天寶當年, “the white-haired palace lady talks about those years of Tianbao,” becomes a stock image for aristocratic nostalgia. Tianbao was the reign name of Xuanzong, who lost his throne during the An Lushan Rebellion towards the close of that reign period. Prior to Tianbao, Xuanzong had adopted the reign name of Kaiyuan 開元. Qian sees himself in the whitehaired palace lady, but he does not invoke that image with the standard expression tianbao. Instead, he uses the word kaiyuan. In a sense, tianbao and kaiyuan can be used interchangeably, both for Xuanzong’s rule. There are practical reasons why Qian may have used kaiyuan in place of tianbao, too. In the fourth position of this line the poet is obliged to fill in a character of an even tone (pingsheng 平聲); yuan in kaiyuan fits in, but bao, an oblique tone (zesheng 仄聲), in tianbao does not. So it may seem natural for Qian to replace tianbao with kaiyuan. But Qian has other considerations as well. Using kaiyuan, he can present himself more directly. Kaiyuan means literally to “begin” (kai 開) a new “reign” (yuan 元) of a certain emperor or dynasty, as it occurs in many historical writings. (One will not fail to recognize that this verb–object construct is parallel to that of maijiu 賣酒, “to sell wine,” in the preceding line.) Was not Qian a high official who helped implement a new reign, that of the Hongguang? This reading compares the white-haired man to such high officials as Wang Dao, who helped found the Eastern Jin. And did not the Hongguang court have its capital in Jinling, the same locale which in Eastern Jin times was known as Jiankang? The images of the New Pavilion officials of the Eastern Jin and the white-haired lady from Xuanzong’s court fit Qian’s status as a former Southern Ming minister, a survivor and witness to the dynastic changeover. Qian does not, however, impart merely the primary senses of the allusions—guilt and shame, desolation, dejection, nostalgia, melancholy—in his lines. In Qian’s poetic adaptation, a more active, heroic voice emerges from these two references. The provocative, stirring tone of a former official of the Southern Ming rings with urgency as the Ming revival forces are on their way to recover the Southern Ming’s capital. In line 7 of Poem 1.7, Qian’s imagination warms with the thought that there is a lady who sells wine at Qinhuai standing by him. He invokes the image of Liu Rushi—who once was a famous courtesan like those in the Qinhuai pleasure quarters—and uses it as a moral support. Indeed, Liu played a very important role in Qian’s engagement with the Ming restoration. This we will explore more fully when we come to the discussions of the third cycle of the Toubi ji in Chapter 5.

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi 1.8 金刀復漢事逶迤黃鵠俄傳反覆陂

Restoring the Han with a gold sword takes a winding course, Just now the yellow cranes say: “Rebel. Recover. Riverbanks.”

鴻源歌謠曰: “反乎覆, 陂當復. 誰言者, 兩黃鵠.” A children song of Hongyuan says: “Now one thing, now another; the marsh is to be recovered. Who say this? The two yellow cranes.”

武庫再歸三尺劍孝陵重長萬年枝天輪只傍丹心轉日駕全憑隻手移孝子忠臣看異代杜陵詩史汗青垂

The three-foot sword will return to the Armory; The ten-thousand-year branches thrive again at the Xiao Mausoleum. The heavenly wheel65 rolls around my red heart;66 I drive the sun chariot67 across the sky myself. To make a model for filial son and loyal official for posterity, Du Ling’s shishi will be inscribed on the pages of history.

少陵詩云: “周宣漢武今王是, 孝子忠臣看異代.” A poem of Shaoling has this: “The present emperor is like King Xuan of Zhou and Emperor Wu of the Han, / Let’s make a model for filial son and loyal official for posterity.”68

Toubi ji: 5 This is a poem of self-definition and self-constitution. Qian invokes Li Ling 李陵 to justify his “betrayal” of the Ming and Wen Tianxiang and Du Fu to spell out his vow of loyalty. Various historical allusions frame this poem in a loyalist context, into which Qian quietly creeps. The reference of “the gold sword,” jindao 金刀, and “restoring the Han,” fu Han 復漢, in line 1 is twofold. First, it is a riddle. The graph liu 劉 consists of three components: mao 卯, jin 金, and dao 刀. The expression jindao contains two of the three, and therefore can be taken as an encryption of Liu, the imperial surname of the Han dynasty.69 Second, it alludes to the story of the Han general Li Ling. In a campaign against the Xiongnu Hun in 99 , Li Ling surrendered to the Shanyu, the Xiongnu chieftain. Emperor Wu 武帝 was outraged, and the court officials all blamed Li Ling. Only Sima Qian, the Grand Historian, spoke enthusiastically on Li Ling’s behalf, arguing: “The fact that he did not choose to die must mean that he hopes sometime to find a way to repay his debt to the Han.” (This bears directly on fu Han, “restoring the Han,” in Qian’s poem.) Emperor Wu, unimpressed by the theory, had the Grand Historian Sima Qian castrated in punishment. Later, when there were rumors that Li Ling was instructing the Shanyu in military matters, the emperor had Li Ling’s family put to death. While fu 復 means “to revive” or “to restore,” it also means “to return” in classical Chinese. This leads us to the second part of Li Ling’s story. When Emperor Zhao came to the throne, the court favored Li Ling and the emperor sent Li Ling’s friend Ren Licheng

The prophesying poet-historian 101 to the Xiongnu to invite Li to return. When Ren arrived, the Shanyu threw a party for him and Li Ling sat in attendance. Ren Licheng could see Li Ling but had no opportunity to speak with him. Ren stared meaningfully at Li Ling from time to time and stroked the ring on the head of his sword and grasped his foot, in this way indicating that the time had come for him to return to the Han.70 “Return” and “sword-ring” are homonyms in Chinese; both read huan. Qian invokes Li Ling to reinstall himself and his reputation, since according to tradition Li Ling was loyal to the Han despite his cooperation with the Xiongnu. By identifying himself with Li Ling, Qian also identifies with Sima Qian’s defense of a “twice-serving” official, so to speak. The Grand Historian’s words weigh heavily in the Chinese tradition. Qian creates the impression that his surrender to the Manchus was an act of dissemblance, made to disguise his true intentions and allow him to join the revival at the most opportune moment. Line 2 alludes to a folk rhyme in “Di Fangjin zhuan” 翟方進傳 (Biography of Di Fangjin) of the Han shu, which Qian interpolates in an interlineal note.71 The song is meant to complain about Di Fangjin’s order to have the marsh Hongxi 鴻隙 filled up, depriving the local people of many yields from the marsh. In Qian’s line, the words fan 反, fu 覆, and pi 陂 form a phrase which actually does not make much sense. As these words are used out of the context of their allusion, we should take them literally. The words then give rise to the meanings of “rebel,” “recover,” and “riverbanks.” This reading brings us to Zheng Chenggong’s Yangzi campaign. Qian imparts a loyalist meaning to line 1 and the suggestion of a recovery to line 2. This bears on the “loyalist” sentiment in lines 3 and 4. The “threefoot sword,” san chi jian 三尺劍, is originally associated with Liu Bang 劉邦, the Founding Emperor of the Han dynasty. The emperor exclaimed shortly before he died: “Wielding a three-foot sword, as a commoner I conquered the world. Was this not the Mandate of Heaven?”72 The “three-foot sword” thus symbolizes the Han’s Mandate of Heaven. In Qian’s verse, this Han relic is infused with a new Ming significance. On another occasion Qian wrote: “In the past, the Founding Emperor of the Ming wielded a three-foot sword and swept away the preceding Yuan” (昔我高廟, 手提三尺劍, 蕩掃前元).73 The Han sword thereby is the rightful inheritance of the Ming. “Will return,” zaigui 再歸, intimates that the game is not over yet, and that the sword—the spirit of its owner, too—cannot sit at rest in the armory. Who then is the “three-foot sword” now fighting against? No longer the “preceding Yuan,” but the alien Manchus. And at this turn, the Ming loyalists are fighting with the spirit of the Founding Emperor. This appears in line 4. “Ten-thousand-year branches,” wannianzhi 萬年枝, is another name for the wintergreen tree, dongqing 冬青, or Chinese ilex.74 The wintergreen tree and the mausoleum recall the “incident of the tombs” involving the Song loyalists of the Song–Yuan transition, which we have mentioned in passing in Chapter 1 (n. 54). In 1278, shortly before the Mongols’ complete conquest of

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China, a Tibetan lama desecrated six Song imperial tombs and the graves of several eminent Song officials in the Shaoxing 紹興 area. Chinese scholars were so offended by this barbaric act that they undertook a heroic operation to save the imperial bones. They were headed by a scholar named Tang Jue 唐珏 (1247–?), who recruited a group of young men, disguised as medicinalherb collectors, to recover the scattered imperial bones. The bones were then reburied at Mt Lanting 蘭亭山. One week after, the same lama monk ordered that whatever imperial remains were found should be mixed with animal bones and buried under a white pagoda in Hangzhou. The Chinese scholars were, again, outraged. Lin Jingxi managed to transplant six wintergreen trees from the original Changchao 長朝 palace of the Song to the burial mounds on Mt Lanting. Lin Jingxi, Tang Jue, and their common friend, Xie Ao, wrote poems about transplanting the trees.75 Thereupon, the wintergreen tree became a symbol of loyalism. Xiaoling, the Xiao mausoleum, was among the tombs that were desecrated. However, according to various sources, the Xiao mausoleum was only one of the six imperial tombs that the Tibetan lama desecrated,76 and its owner, Xiaozong 孝宗 of the Southern Song, was of little historical significance.77 Moreover, Xiaozong’s mausoleum was formally and probably more widely known as Yongfuling 永阜陵.78 Why does Qian highlight Xiaoling in the poem? By doing so, he can inspire Ming loyalists with the heroic acts of Song loyalists. And more importantly, to the Ming Chinese and the “Ming” Chinese in the Qing, Xiaoling represented the mausoleum of the Ming’s Founding Emperor in Nanjing: “Xiaoling” was a reverent address for Zhu Yuanzhang.79 The climax of the whole poem comes in lines 5 through 8, which invoke Wen Tianxiang and Du Fu, and where Qian merges himself into their shadow. Qian places a citation from Du Fu after line 8. The lines quoted come from the second half of the second poem in a series of twelve entitled “Chengwen Hebei zhu dao Jiedu ruchao huanxi kouhao jueju shi er shou” 承聞河北諸道節度入朝歡喜口號絕句十二首 (On Hearing that Military Commissioners of the Hebei and Other Circuits Had Entered the Capital I Was So Overjoyed That I Improvised Twelve Quatrains). The preceding lines read: 社稷蒼生計必安蠻夷雜種錯相干

The plans for the imperial house and the people will be carried out; The savage and the mixed breed made a fatal mistake in causing trouble.

Unreserved “anti-barbarian” sentiment appears in Du Fu’s poem in such derogatory locutions as “savage,” manyi 蠻夷, and “mixed breed,” zazhong 雜種. Du’s poem is believed to have been composed shortly after the suppression of the An Lushan rebellion. In a jubilant tone, Du Fu compares the present emperor to King Xuan of the Zhou dynasty and Emperor Wu of the Han, two strong-minded rulers who launched many campaigns against the

The prophesying poet-historian 103 “barbaric” peoples during their rules. In lines 3 and 4 of the poem, which Qian cites after line 8 of his own, Du Fu encourages the officials and generals to make themselves models of “filial sons,” xiaozi 孝子, and “loyal officials,” zhongchen 忠臣. Envisioning a revival of the fallen Ming led by Zheng Chenggon, Qian does not bother to assimilate the first two lines into his poem. Yet the direct borrowing of the third line of Du’s poem in line 7 and a citation of the third and fourth lines after line 8 would refer initiated readers of Chinese poetry back to Du’s entire poem. As mentioned in the preceding chapters, concern for the state and the common people (youguo aimin 憂國愛民) has long been hailed as a major theme in Du Fu’s oeuvre.80 It is also evident in his works that Du Fu has a strong desire to record the national crises he witnessed, or of which he was informed. It is natural that readers of later ages read his poems as testimonies of history, calling them shishi. By placing “filial son,” “loyal official,” “Du Ling,” and “shishi” in corresponding positions in the two lines—note that these two lines almost form a standard couplet—Qian demands, by virtue of parallelism, that each term serves to define and reinforce the other. The latter halves of the two lines are constructed in like manner. The expressions “make a model . . . for posterity,” kan yidai 看異代 (line 7), and “inscribed on the pages of history,” hanqing chui 汗青垂 (line 8), cry out for understanding and sympathy in readers in the future. Qian’s maneuver does not stop here. As if afraid that the enchanting power of the couplet is not strong enough, Qian frames the last four lines in an even larger and more captivating context, that of the Song martyr Wen Tianxiang. The “red heart,” danxin 丹心 (line 5), and the “pages of history,” hanqing 汗青 (line 8), draw on Wen’s famous lines. In “Guo Lingdingyang” 過零丁洋 (Crossing the Lingding Sea)— written as a final reply to the Mongols’ repeated attempts to make him surrender—Wen declares: 人生自古誰無死留取丹心照汗青

Humans, since antiquity, have all found death; Leave our red hearts to shine in the writ of history.81

Qian begs readers to take him for a figure like Wen Tianxiang, who was executed by the Mongols in Dadu. The words of Wen’s self-composed elegy resound in history: 孔曰成仁孟曰取義惟其義盡所以仁至

Confucius said: “Achieve humaneness,” And Mencius said: “Aspire to righteousness.” Where righteousness is reached, Humaneness follows.82

Qian shed blood as well, but in his poetic imagination. In the last two lines of the poem, which ends this cycle, Qian expresses the intention behind the composition of the “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’ ”—he aims to leave posterity a cycle of poems that bears on the history in the

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making, or, in his vision, made. He also hopes that through these poems, later readers will see him as a loyal official of the Ming dynasty. He regards this set of poems as shishi. In these eight poems, Qian drops no hint that he plans to write more poems under the title “After ‘Autumn Thoughts.’ ” Had history turned out the way he prophesied, he very likely would not have. However, the course of events that took place shortly after he composed this series inspired, or, as a poet might say, “hurt him into”83 the second cycle of “After ‘Autumn Thoughts,’ ” to which we shall now turn.

4

The poet as mentor and strategist

The ninth of September, 1659, proved to be the cruelest day for Zheng Chenggong and his men on the Yangzi River. It happened to fall upon the day following Zheng’s birthday, too (in retrospect, it must have been the most unpleasant one Zheng had ever had). At the first dawn of day, the Qing cavalry and infantry launched a counteroffensive.1 Zheng’s men were unprepared, while the well-disciplined Qing soldiers fought fearlessly, closing ranks instantly when their comrades fell. Scattered in their camps, Zheng’s battalions were unable to regroup. Every moment brought heavier losses as Zheng, abandoning his command post on Mount Guanyin 觀音山, sped to mobilize his navy, hoping to turn the tide. From the vantage point of his ship, however, he saw that his army was on the verge of annihilation and could not offer the protection necessary for a disembarkment and counterattack. He could only pull the surviving infantrymen out, back to the ships. As dusk fell, he ordered a retreat. He learned the next day that several of his most trusted, able generals had sacrificed their lives on the field of battle. Eight days after Zheng’s defeat at Nanjing, Qian Qianyi composed the second cycle of “After ‘Autumn Thoughts,’ ” naming it “Hou ‘Qiuxing ba shou’ zhi er” 後秋興八首之二 and dating it purposefully: “Written on the second day of the eighth month [September 17], on hearing the alarming news” (ba yue chu er wenjing er zuo 八月初二聞警而作).2 In addition to its superb literary appeal, this set of poems is, to the best of my knowledge, the earliest appraisal of Zheng Chenggong’s fiasco, replete with concrete and intimate details. It is indeed puzzling that no historian—save, perhaps, Chen Yinke—has ever taken full advantage of it in related studies. The cycle fluctuates between admonition and encouragement, or, expressed in Chinese terms, jian 諫 and quan 勸, in which Qian assumes the roles of both mentor and strategist. It is reminiscent of the anxious words of the old, wise statesman-poet in the Book of Odes: 於乎小子未知臧否匪手攜之言示之事

Oh! my child, You cannot tell good from bad. Not only must I lead you by the hand, I also show you the correct ways of handling matters.

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi 匪面命之言提其耳

Not only must I chide you directly, I also hold you by the ears.3

As if speaking directly to Zheng Chenggong, his one-time disciple, Qian writes: 2.1 王師橫海陣如林

The imperial troops stretched across the sea4 in a forest-like formation; 士馬奔馳甲仗森 The ranks galloped on, in their awe-inspiring armor. 戎備偶然疏壁下 By accident, the defense slackened outside the city wall; 偏師何竟潰城陰 Unforeseen, one flank of the forces was routed in the city’s north.5 憑將按劍申軍令 What shall be done? Wield your sword to signal the order! 更插韡刀儆士心 What else? Put on your glittering daggers, boost the warriors’ morale! 野老更闌愁不寐 Already the dead of night, yet this rustic old man6 is sleepless from worry, 誤聽刁斗作秋碪 Night watches he mistakes for the pounding of clothes in autumn. Toubu ji: 5–6 The description at the beginning of this poem is by no means hyperbole. For the Yangzi campaign, Zheng assembled one of the largest and most formidable navies that China had ever seen: some 2,000 large battleships, carrying more than 200,000 well-armed, seasoned warriors.7 According to the account of Guan Xiaozhong 管效忠, then Nanjing governor-general, the appearance of the fleet as he solicited help from Beijing was as follows: Ironclad all over the bodies, the sea rovers total some two hundred thousand, on board more than a thousand battleships; arrows cannot shoot through, knives cannot strike through [their protection]. . . . 海師二十υ (餘) 萬, 戰船千餘首, 俱全身是鐵, 箭射不透, 刀斬不入 . . . .8 On August 24—without doubt Zheng remembered that very first day his main forces arrived in Nanjing—Zheng and his generals mounted Yuejianglou 閱江樓, the “tower of viewing the River,” to appreciate the mystical wangqi 王氣, the kingly aura, of the Southern Capital. In high spirits Zheng ordered that his ships line up in straight formation.9 What a magnificent sight! And how heartrending it must have been for Zheng to think that most of the infantrymen he deployed outside Nanjing’s city walls would never return to the vessels. Lines 3 and 4 clearly castigate Zheng. The weight of the word “slackened,”

The poet as mentor and strategist 107 shu 疏, would have made Zheng blush with shame, perhaps with good reason.10 In order to gain time, Lang Tingzuo 郎廷佐, Jiangnan Governorgeneral of the Qing, sent Zheng a duplicitous message: “The law of our dynasty has it that if one manages to fend off attacks for over thirty days, punishment will not be inflicted on his wife and children. Please spare us thirty days” (我朝有例, 守城過三十日, 罪不及妻孥, 乞寬三十日之限).11 Zheng was inclined to grant this period of amnesty to Nanjing. Both Pan Gengzhong 潘庚鍾 and Gan Hui 甘輝, two of Zheng’s most able generals, warned him that the governor’s request was merely a tactic for stalling. Zhang Huangyan wrote words of caution to the same effect.12 Zheng, however, did not heed the nearly unanimous counsel of his advisors. In shame and guilt, he would recall what he had told them: Since the day we hoisted our sails at Zhoushan until now, we have won every single battle, and in each and every attack, we have prevailed. They dare not play the trick of stalling. To attack a city is second important; to attack the mind, the first important. Now they come pledging surrender. If we, however, suppress the city by a pre-emptive attack, how can we win their hearts? 自舟山興師至此, 戰必勝, 攻必取, 彼焉敢緩吾之兵邪! 攻城為下, 攻心為上, 今既來歸, 驟攻之, 何足以服其心哉!13 On September 3, Zheng’s generals urged him, again, to act. Gan Hui spoke on behalf of the others: Our forces have been stationed outside the city for too long. The vitality of our ranks may wane while we accomplish nothing. I also fear that the barbarians’ reinforcements [of Nanjing] may arrive at any time. Then we will have another problem to tend to. Please, give the command to attack the city at once, and without delay. [Once Nanjing is subdued,] we can move on to recover other places. 大師久屯城下, 師老無功, 恐援虜日至, 多費一番功夫, 請即攻拔, 別圖進取.14 Perceiving disquietude among his aides, Zheng was more elaborate in his reply this time: Ever since ancient times, in attacking a city or subduing a territory there have always been huge casualties. I did not order an attack earlier because I want to wait until the barbarians’ relief forces arrive, so we can trap and kill them once and for all in a single battle. Guan Xiaozhong must have divined my plan; he will either surrender or take flight. Consider: the regions in this area are surrendering to us one after another. What choice is there for an isolated city without reinforcements, besides surrender? Moreover, our artillery is not yet in position, and Commander-in-chief Ma [Jinbao on the Qing side] has not confirmed his support from Songjiang. Bearing all this in mind, I have delayed the

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi assault. Generals! Focus on preparation and in the meantime bear with me. Make sure that the weapons are ready for use. Wait for another couple of days, stand by for my order to attack. 自古攻城掠邑, 殺傷必多. 所以未即攻者, 欲待援虜齊集, 必扑一戰, 邀而殺之, 管效忠知我手段, 不降亦走矣. 況屬邑節次歸附, 孤城絕援, 不降何待? 且銃炮未便, 又松江馬提督合約未至, 以故緩攻, 諸將暫磨勵以待, 各備攻具, 候一二日令到即行.15

Six days later, it was the Qing forces, rather than Zheng Chenggong’s, that took the initiative to strike. It is conceivable that a pre-emptive assault would have overwhelmed Nanjing’s defense. The Qing troops stationed at Nanjing were mostly Chinese bannermen, backed by 500 Manchu soldiers. They would have been charged with the extremely trying—and in Zheng’s eyes, totally impossible—task of warding off 85,000 infantrymen.16 Zheng delayed the attack to induce more people on the Qing side to surrender, hoping to increase his reputation and to avoid a costly offensive.17 Idling a good two weeks—from August 24 to September 8—had made Zheng’s men lax. Before the battle, there were reports that some of his soldiers were fishing and drinking. (Except for netting fish for provisions, fishing during operations was strictly prohibited, and drinking was out of the question.)18 Far more fatal, Zheng had neglected to encircle Nanjing completely. Three of the city’s gates remained wide open to receive reinforcements, and to permit the Qing troops to attack. Needless to say, Zheng’s strategy of delay also gave the Qing forces time to rally and to determine a strategy and carry it out. Deliberation and error proved fatal that morning of September 9, when the Qing forces, some thirty thousand strong,19 set upon Zheng’s men. The Qing warriors found Zheng’s heavenly iron troops far less invincible than had been previously anticipated. Before sunset, the Ming’s revivalist infantry was decimated. 2.2 羽檄橫飛建旆斜便應一戰決戎華戈船迅比追風驃戎壘高於貫月槎編戶爭傳歸漢籍死聲早已入胡笳江天夜報南沙火

Feathered dispatches20 winged past, the banners were lowered— Time struck the blow! it’s a war between the barbarians and us Chinese. Our galleons21 are as fast as the Wind-Chasing Steed,22 Ramparts higher than the Moon-Reaching Raft.23 The commoners all declare, “I am a Chinese subject again!” The sound of death has long beset the Hu reedwhistle. People said, “The sky above the south islet has brightened—

The poet as mentor and strategist 109 簇簇銀燈滿盞花

Silver lanterns, cluster after cluster, every lantern a full blossom.” Toubi ji: 6

The first and last two lines of this poem must have reminded Zheng of the day before the catastrophic battle. Around midday on September 8, Qing forces surprised Zheng’s front lines. Before Zheng could send over reinforcements, Qing troops had slaughtered several of Zheng’s generals and the entire corps under their command. The Qing soldiers seized the opportunity to occupy the front of the city. The setback on the front lines forced Zheng to redeploy his forces during the night.24 The brightening up of the river’s firmament in the evening (line 7) is perhaps a description of this night movement. This turn of events was not a complete surprise. On September 7, Zheng’s spies received an official Qing circular, announcing an impending counteroffensive organized by Qing relief forces from nearby localities. This circular must have been one among many “feathered dispatches” that “winged past” (line 1). Indeed, as Qian exclaims, it was “time struck the blow” (line 2). Rather than taking decisive action, Zheng let time become his enemy. By the time Zheng’s main forces arrived in Nanjing on August 24, seven prefectural seats, three sub-prefectural seats and thirty-two districts had surrendered either to him or to his ally, Zhang Huangyan. And, as implied in the vivid lines of 5 and 6, Zheng had most likely won general support among the populace (bianhu 編戶 designates commoners). At least, people were waiting to pledge allegiance to the victorious side, be it the Manchus or the Ming loyalists. One instance in particular reveals the wavering attitude of the public. On September 5, mail from Beijing was intercepted by one of Zheng’s agents. The sender was obviously a Beijing official. It consisted of two letters, one addressed to his family and the other to a colleague in Nanjing. The official’s letter reads: “Official dispatches ceased reaching Beijing almost a month ago. Kindly inform me whether the Southern Capital is now Ming or Qing? (燕都不通文報近一月矣, 南都未知明清).25 And far more revealing is this private letter: News from the Southern Capital has been cut off for a long time. Rumor has it that the iron troops are invincible, and it has been proposed that the capital be moved to a remote place to seek refuge from war. You can sense the overall situation from that. You may encourage our children to make overtures of allegiance to the Imperial Surname [Zheng/Zhu Chenggong], paving the way for my defection to him in the future. 南都音信久絕, 傳聞鐵兵難敵, 有遷都遠避之議, 大事可知. 可令子弟先投國姓, 以為我後來進見地.26 Reading Qian’s poem, Zheng must have regretted not acting a bit faster. Two days—or even one night—faster, and the outcome of the battle would have been completely different.

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi 2.3 龍河漢幟散沈輝萬歲樓邊候火微卷地樓船橫海去射天鳴鏑夾江飛揮戈不分旄頭在反旆其如馬首違嚙指奔逃看靺鞨重收魂魄飽甘肥

Han’s flags27 over the Dragon River fade; Beacon fire by the Ten-thousand-year Tower wanes. Across the river, the turreted warships storm away; From both banks, whistling arrows28 fly up into the sky. They did strike with their spears, but without the marshal’s lead; Their counterattacks in vain, the general’s steed was nowhere to be seen! The time will come when we watch the Mohe run for their lives, gnawing at their fingers— Collect your souls29 and let them be your choicest tidbits!30 Toubi ji: 6–7

This is the most severe and heavy-hearted poem of the entire cycle. Qian criticizes Zheng in trenchant wording. Two cheering lines are placed at the end of the poem, but they could not have heartened Zheng. “Dragon,” long 龍, and “Ten-thousand-year,” wansui 萬歲, embedded in two place names in the first two lines, would have immediately caught Zheng’s eye. The dragon is the symbol of the monarch, and “Ten-thousandyear” the respectful address reserved for him. The full name of the river, Hulonghe 護龍河, or “river of protecting the dragon,” would have reminded Zheng of his avowed mission to revive the Ming house. The word Han further suggests the presence of a Chinese emperor. It is only after Zheng evacuates his navy from Nanjing (lines 3–4) that the Han flags fade and the beacon fire dies out, as if the spirits of the Ming emperors take their leave during his retreat. In lines 5 and 6, Qian critiques Zheng’s performance on September 9. Zheng’s fleet pulled away at Zheng’s command after his infantry had lost the field. A later Qing historian describes what happened that day: On the crest of the victory, the [Qing] imperial troops pounced. The ramparts of the sea rovers were all rocked. Their men looked at the command post, [which had not moved,] they dared not retreat; not given the order, nor dared they save one another. 王師乘勝掩殺, 海師營壘咸搖動, 望山上麾蓋不敢退, 未逢號令, 亦不敢相救援.31 [Zheng] Chenggong watched the battle from the hilltop. Seeing that Cai Lu and others had lost the field, he charged Pan Gengzhong: “Stand here, take over the command. I go to mobilize the navy [to help].” Zheng sailed to the center of the river. Seeing that many of his troops had been crushed, he dashed off. Gengzhong waved his sword to direct [the

The poet as mentor and strategist 111 troops], covering here, protecting there. He fought to the death at his post. . . . 成功在山上觀戰, 見蔡祿等敗, 屬潘庚鍾曰: “爾立蓋下, 代吾指麾, 吾往催水軍也.” 駕船至江心, 望諸軍披靡不堪, 乃飛帆去. 庚鍾揮劍督護衛戰, 至死不去其蓋. . . .32 This, Qian represents in the powerful couplet of lines 5 and 6, which emphatically recall the heroic but scattered counterattacks on the part of Zheng’s men. Indeed, there is no indication, in any available source, that Zheng’s men shrank from battle. During the earlier stage of the combat, Zheng’s troops tenaciously held their line; the Qing forces charged three times, and three times they were held back. The weakness, it seems, was lack of coordination among the various units, a result of Zheng’s ineffective command. On the battlefield, commanders traditionally choreographed the soldiers’ moves. The “marshal’s lead” and “general’s steed” represent the commander. Zheng had ordered his troops not to engage Qing forces without his order. Reportedly, however, Zheng’s hilltop command post could not be seen clearly on the day of the battle.33 In consequence, the different units were left to fend for themselves, deprived of strategic guidance on operations and tactics. They fought, and were killed, independently of one another.34 Later in the combat, Zheng entrusted Pan Gengzhong with the command when he left to bring troops from the ships. Thinking that the command post still stood fast, Zheng’s troops dared not withdraw. While criticizing Zheng, Qian understandably expresses great compassion for Zheng’s men, who fought hard and fell. It was said that many of Zheng’s surviving soldiers reached the riverside, only to find that the navy had deserted them. Under those circumstances, they drowned themselves.35 Considered strictly on a technical level, the two lines at the end of the poem that urge the Mohe’s 靺鞨 extinction are somewhat awkward, especially after the harsh couplet we have just examined. Qian’s intent to rally Zheng’s spirits should be clear to us; art is not his prime concern. Zheng would have followed Qian’s association of the Mohe barbarians with the Manchus (in Chinese historical writings, the Manchus were erroneously thought to have been descended from the tribes of Sushen 肅慎, Yilou 挹婁, Wuji 勿吉, Mohe, or Jurchen 女真 of different historical eras).36 The closure of this poem foreshadows the next three verses of the cycle, in which the main tone of the poet changes from admonition to encouragement. 2.4 由來國手算全棋 In every move, the national champion sees, always, an entire game, 數子拋殘未足悲 It’s not worth crying over a few lost pieces. 小挫我當嚴警候 A small setback should alert us of the danger on the prowl;

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi 驟驕彼是滅亡時中心莫為斜飛動堅壁休論後起遲換步移形須著眼棋于誤後轉堪思

2.5 兩戒關河萬里山京江天塹屹中間金陵要奠南朝鼎鐵甕須爭北顧關應以縷丸臨峻阪肯將傳舍抵孱顏荷鋤父老雙含淚愁見橫江虎旅班

2.6 吳儂看鏡約梳頭野老壺漿潔早秋小隊誰教投刃去胡馬翻為倒戈愁

Puffed up too soon, the enemies meet their doom in no time. The course conceived shall not be altered by [the need to take] an alternate route; Strengthen the line of defense, never say it’s too late. Time for a new formation, you must be on guard Made a wrong move? This gives you a moment to think deep. Toubi ji: 7

Between the Gate and the River37 stretch ten thousand li of mountains; Nature’s moat towers in the middle, where the Yangzi reaches the capital. Should Jinling ever wish to house the Southern Court’s tripod,38 We must conquer the Iron Urn [City] at Mount Beigu.39 Roll the thread ball down the slope,40 Post your lookouts, yes, on even the loftiest ridges. Carrying hoes on shoulders, the elders looked at each other in tears— The tiger-like soldiers41 over the river! how could they bear to see? Toubi ji: 7–8

Wu folks look in the mirror, telling each other, “It’s time to comb our hair.” Tea and wine, so pure in early autumn, the simple old men offer. Who orders the squad to drop its daggers and leave? The Hu horses panic, people are turning the spears against them.

營卒從諸首長, 皆袖網巾氈帽, 未及倒戈而還. Following their captains, the soldiers all hid a hairnet and a felt turban in their sleeves. However, they returned before they could join the revival forces.

爭言殘羯同江鼠

Everybody says, “This wether meat is like the rats in the river!”

萬歷末年, 有北鼠渡江之異, 近皆啣尾而北. Late in the Wanli reign, there occurred an unnatural phenomenon: rats from the North swam across the [Yangzi] River [to the South]. Of late, the rats all swam back to the North, one close behind another.

忍見遺黎逐海鷗

How can you bear to see the remnant subjects run after the seagulls?

The poet as mentor and strategist 113 京口偏師初破竹蕩船木柿下蘇州

When one flank of your forces overwhelmed Jingkou, You should have sailed the fleet down to Suzhou. Toubi ji: 8–9

These three poems may easily be read together, as exhortations to Zheng. Poem 2.4 returns to the image of the chess game, this time for Zheng’s encouragement; the last two lines of Poem 2.5 and most of Poem 2.6 offer a picture of the populace’s general support. Poem 2.6 is a truly wonderful poem. Except for the last two lines, it focuses on small yet vivid details which capture the mood of the people. “Wu folks” reads in the original as wunong 吳儂, nong being a constituent part of pronouns in the Wu dialect of the Jiangsu area.42 As a general practice, Chinese poets avoid using dialectical expressions in formal poetry. Yet not only does this quaint wunong specify the identify of the people, it lends—together with yelao 野老 or “simple old men” in line 2—humble sincerity to the tone. It gives the impression that the supporters of Zheng are free of deceit or guile. These people serve “tea and wine,” hujiang 壺漿, to Zheng’s men, a ritual performed by commoners throughout Chinese history to express gratitude and welcome to friendly troops entering the city.43 (Note that in Poem 2.2 they declare themselves “Chinese subjects,” Hanji 漢籍, and in Poem 2.5 they shed tears, hanlei 含淚, over the deteriorating state of the revival movement.) The reference to the people of Wu combing their hair is to be taken metaphorically; they would not have had much hair to comb. The Manchus had ordered all adult Chinese males to adopt the Manchu hairstyle as a symbol of allegiance to the Qing regime. The Chinese men were obliged to shave their heads, leaving only a small, round patch of hair at the back for a braided queue. (This triggered widespread anti-Qing sentiment, and in some places, uprisings; the Chinese regarded hair as an integral part of their body, a gift from their parents.)44 Men of the Ming period wore a full head of hair, tied back at the crown or allowed to fall freely.45 To “comb” their hair means, more precisely, to grow back their hair, reverting back to the custom of the Ming. The note that Qian places after line 4 relates to another Ming custom of hairstyle. During Zheng’s campaign, Chinese militiamen46 attempted to defect to Zheng’s forces. The hairnets and felt turbans they carried were to be worn as tokens of allegiance to the Ming house. The hairnet is indeed a potent historical and cultural symbol of the Ming. It was none but the Founding Emperor of the Ming who introduced the hairnet to his countrymen: One evening, [Ming] Taizu traveled incognito to Changle Temple, where he saw a Daoist monk weaving a hairnet. Taizu asked the monk: “What is it?” The monk replied: “This is a hairnet. If you wrap your head with it, all your hair will be held in place.” The following day, the monk who had woven the hairnet at Changle Temple was summoned, given a position in

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi the Daoist Offices, and was asked to submit the hairnet. After that, wearing a hairnet became part of the dress code. 太祖一夕微行至長樂觀, 見一道士結網巾. 問曰: “此何物也? ” 對曰: “此網巾也, 用以裹之頭上, 萬髮皆齊矣.” 次日, 有旨召神樂觀結網道士, 命為道官, 仍取其網巾, 遂為定式.47

Before his execution by the Qing government on January 8, 1651, Zhang Tongchang 張同敞, Minister of War of the fugitive Yongli court of the Southern Ming, was recorded making this gesture: he took a white hairnet out of his pocket and declared: “I shall wear this to see the late emperor” ([張] 同敞手出白網巾於懷, 曰: “服此以見先帝”).48 Although not embracing martyrdom at that point (quite a few of them were executed shortly afterwards when the Qing settled accounts), the commoners and militia of Jiangsu made a powerful political statement when they grew their hair or wore a hairnet, thus pledging loyalty to the Ming revival forces. Lines 5 and 6, another perfect couplet, continue to express the sentiment of the people on the one hand, and introduce a political allegory on the other. Wanli 萬曆 was the reign name of Ming’s Shenzong 神宗 emperor who ruled from 1572 to 1620. Later years of Shenzong’s rule saw Nurhaci’s (1559–1626) creation of the Hou Jin, or the Latter Jin, dynasty in 1616 (it was renamed Jin two years after). In the ensuing few years, the Ming lost most of its Manchurian province of Liaodong to Nurhaci.49 Shenzong’s foreign policy had intensified conflict between the Ming and the Manchus, resulting in the latter’s raids on the border and culminating in their attempts to penetrate China proper. The writer of the Ming shi 明史 (Ming History) scathingly criticizes Shenzong: “That is why some maintain that the demise of the Ming house was actually brought about by Shenzong—a perfectly correct judgment” (故論者謂明之亡, 實亡於神宗, 豈不諒歟).50 This is the second level of meaning in line 5 and the note, in which the Manchus are referred to as “wether meat,” can jie 殘羯, and “rats in the river,” jiang shu 江鼠. Here, the former Ming subjects and Zheng Chenggong’s revival forces appear as the “remnant subjects,” yili 遺黎, and the “seagulls,” haiou 海鷗, respectively. This couplet reminds the reader of the one in Poem 1.6 that we discussed above in Chapter 3, which is worth rereading: 白頭應笑皆遼豕黃口誰容作海鷗

The white-haired ones are pigs from Liao, worthy of scorn! Those yellow beaked chicks! how can they become seagulls?

In Poems 2.5 and 2.6, Qian mentions three geographical points, namely Jinling, Jingkou 京口, and Suzhou 蘇州. This cycle was written on September 17. At that time Zheng had just left Zhenjiang (Jingkou) on his way to Chongming 崇明. Because of the historical context, I believe Qian offers

The poet as mentor and strategist 115 important advice to Zheng in those lines. A review of Zheng’s log of those few weeks first: Sept 9—depart for Zhenjiang from Nanjing 10—arrive in Zhenjiang 14—leave Zhenjiang 23—arrive in Chongming 26—attack Chongming; depart for Zhoushan Oct 3—arrive in Zhoushan in Zhejiang; set sail for Simingzhou in Xiamen 廈門51 Qian urges Zheng to stay in the Yangzi area in general, and more urgently in Zhenjiang. Throughout Chinese history, Jingkou,52 otherwise known as Zhenjiang, has been an important strategic point on the Yangzi River. Qian is correct in maintaining, in lines 3 and 4 of Poem 2.5, that if Zheng wishes to establish—or, more precisely, to reestablish—a Southern Dynasty in Nanjing, he must secure Jingkou. Tieweng 鐵甕 stands for Tiewengcheng 鐵甕城, the “iron urn city” nestled before Beigushan 北顧山53 in Zhenjiang. Here both Tieweng and Beigu invoke Zhenjiang. Glancing at the timetable, we see that it took only one day for Zheng to reach Zhenjiang from Nanjing.54 About one month before, on August 10, Zheng vanquished Jingkou. At that point the Qing court began to regard Zheng’s campaign as posing a grave military threat. The importance of Jingkou was spelled out eloquently by Zheng’s aides. After seizing Guazhou 瓜州 on August 4, Gan Hui advised Zheng Chenggong: “Gua[zhou] and Zhen[jiang] mark the strategic passage to both the South and the North, and our troops should be stationed here. If we blockade Guazhou, the [Qing] forces from Shandong cannot descend on us; if we occupy Beigu, the passage between Zhe[dong] and Zhe[xi] is blocked up—the Southern Capital can be secured without the slightest effort!” Chenggong nevertheless did not act on his advice. When they were about to take the offensive, Gan Hui again urged that they advance by land, arguing: “If we take advantage of the situation, one single strike will break through the defense line [of Nanjing], or we can subdue the prefectures and counties nearby so that no reinforcements can be brought in. Once Nanjing is isolated and cut off from help, it will be impossible for it to hold out for long. If we advance by water, and in the case that we are smitten by headwinds, their relief troops from far and near may arrive in [Nanjing before us]. Are we not asking for trouble?” “瓜鎮南北咽喉, 但坐鎮此. 斷瓜州, 則山東之師不得下; 據北固, 則兩浙之路不得通; 南都不勞而定矣!” 成功不聽. 將進兵, 甘輝又請陸路而行, 以為: “乘破竹之勢, 一鼓可下, 或破其附近州縣, 以絕援兵, 則南京勢孤, 自必難守; 若由水路, 恐風信稽遲, 援兵四集, 又費工夫.”55

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Zhang Huangyan held a similar view: After Guazhou was subdued, Chenggong intended to move on to Jinling, but [Zhang] Huangyan wished to take Zhenjiang first. Chenggong argued: “If my forces are stationed in Zhenjiang, reinforcements from Jinling can reach there within a single day. What can I do?” Huangyan said: “I will lead one detachment to close in on Guanyinmen [in Nanjing] by water. Jinling will be busy saving itself. How can it lend any support to other places?” Chenggong approved the plan. Huangyan traveled up the Changjiang [Yangzi]. Fifty li before Yizhen, officials and commoners came to greet and surrender to him. 瓜洲之破也, 成功欲趨金陵, 煌言欲先取鎮江. 成功曰: “我頓兵鎮江, 金陵援騎朝發夕至, 且奈何!” 煌言曰: “我以偏師水道薄觀音門, 金陵自救不暇, 豈能他顧.” 成功然之. 煌言泝長江而上, 未至儀真五十里, 吏民迎降.56 After taking Zhenjiang, Zheng wanted to move on to Nanjing at once. Pan Gengzhong spoke against that: Pan Gengzhong said: “We should not advance rashly. Rather, we should occupy the prefectures in the Huai-Yang area to blockade the passage [between the North and the South]. We can win the hearts of the people, and at the same time wait for the best opportunity to strike. In the Northern Capital [Beijing], there are several million Manchu and Chinese soldiers and commoners—if we blockade the path of their grain transport, internal strife can be expected in a couple of months . . . .” 潘庚鍾曰: “未可驟進, 當據淮陽諸郡, 扼其咽喉, 收拾人心, 觀釁而動, 北都滿漢兵民不下數百萬, 斷其糧道, 兩月之間必生內變, . . . .”57 It is not clear whether Qian knew—when he wrote this cycle of poems—that Zheng Chenggong had left Zhenjiang on September 14. Judging from lines 5– 6 of Poem 2.4, in which he urges Zheng to “strengthen the line of defense,” it seems that he did not. Qian most likely entertained the thought that Zheng’s main forces remained in Zhenjiang. He opined that Zheng should occupy Zhenjiang and continue the campaign against the Qing. This, however, may not have been wise. Although a surprising number of localities surrendered to either Zheng Chenggong or Zhang Huangyan, Zheng formulated no overall policy to recruit the commoners.58 Zhenjiang was the only place which remained heavily occupied when Zheng moved on to Nanjing.59 After the debacle in Nanjing, Zheng found his position too vulnerable to remain in Zhenjiang. In the earlier stage of the campaign, Zheng could indeed have established a base in Zhenjiang while sending troops north or south either by way of the Grand Canal or by land. As Qian writes: “When one flank of your forces overwhelmed Jingkou, / You should have sailed the fleet down to Suzhou” (Poem 2.6, lines 7–8). Zheng, however, seized neither Suzhou nor any other locality

The poet as mentor and strategist 117 in the area. That is the source of criticism in these lines. During the siege and battle on September 8 and 9, aid came to the Qing forces in Nanjing in large part from the general area Qian refers to: Suzhou, Songjiang 松江, Jinshanwei 金山衛, Hangzhou 杭州, and Chongming.60 The most crucial figure on the Qing side who helped bring about the stunning victory over Zheng was Liang Huafeng 梁化鳳 (?–1671), the Su–Song Regional Commander of Naval Forces whose base was in Chongming (see Chapter 5).61 With his navy locked in the Yangzi River without organized support in the surrounding region, Zheng found himself in a difficult situation. After four days in Zhenjiang he sailed down the Yangzi to Chongming. On September 26 he attacked that city, hoping to show his still formidable strength, only to find the city far less assailable than he had expected.62 Directly after Zheng Chenggong withdrew from Zhenjiang, the Shunzhi emperor personally ordered his generals to strengthen the defenses there, stressing the importance of the cooperation of nearby localities, those Qian had recommended that Zheng’s armies suppress: Considering the fact that Jingkou is such a strategic location, I thereby charge you, Liu Zhiyuan, with the care of the seal of the General-inchief of Guarding the Sea. Collaborating with Zhang Yuanxun and Zhou Jixin, both of them Banner Vice Commander-in-chiefs, you shall garrison and safeguard the area of Zhenjiang (Jingkou). The most important task for you is to strengthen the forces and to heighten the sense of discipline. Should the pirates make any raid upon the area, you should supervise and command the generals and troops to exterminate them, to take strict precautions against them; not a single boat shall be allowed to enter the River, nor a single bandit go ashore. Should the coastal areas of Jiangning [Nanjing], Su[zhou], Song[jiang], Chang[zhou], and Zhen[jiang] be in a state of war, and the respective Governor-general and Governor request reinforcements, you should, as you see fit, lend support to suppress the foe. Whatever course you take should be decided in consultation with the Governor-general and Governor, and the Manchu and Chinese Provincial Military Commanders of Jiangning; never on any account should you act rashly or carelessly. 茲以京口重地, 特命爾劉之源掛鎮海大將軍印, 同梅勒章京張元勛, 周繼新等鎮守駐防鎮江京口, 務在整飭兵馬, 申嚴紀律, 如遇海寇侵犯, 即督率兵將力剿嚴防, 毋容片帆入江, 一賊登陸. 江寧蘇松常鎮等處沿海沿江地方有警, 該督撫請兵, 爾等酌量援剿, 凡事會同該督撫即江寧滿漢提督商酌計議而行, 不得輕躁疏虞.63 2.7 十載傾心一旅功御槍原廟夢魂中

For ten years I have been waiting for the feats of this battalion; The Emperor’s spear in the branch-temple enters my dreams.

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi 南內舊存高皇帝手御鐵鎗 In the past, there was kept in the Southern Palace an iron spear that the Founding Emperor used.

每思撒豆添營壘更欲吹毛布雨風淮水氣連天漢白鍾離雲捧帝車紅南宮圖頌丹鉛在辜負秋窗老禿翁

Spread beans to add more ramparts64—a thought I always entertain; Blow hair to conjure up wind and rain—yet one more wish. The aura of the Huai waters merges with Heaven’s River,65 all white; Clouds in Zhongli carry the Emperor’s Chariot,66 a burst of red. On the Heroes portraits in the Southern Palace, the crimson glows— Don’t fail the wish of this old, bald man by the autumn window. Toubi ji: 9

Glorifying the campaign in visionary terms, Qian expresses his steadfast loyalty to the Ming. “This battalion,” yilü 一旅, a seemingly common expression, actually alludes to Li Ao’s 李翱 (772–841) “Youhuai fu” 幽懷賦 (Fu on My Inner Thoughts), in which Li celebrates the achievement of the Founding Emperor of the Tang in these lines: 當高祖之初起兮提一旅之羸師順天而用眾兮竟掃寇而戡隋

Oh when the Founding Emperor first rose— He possessed but one feeble battalion, Obeyed Heaven and made good use of his aides’ talents, At last he swept away the outlaws and vanquished the Sui.67

The founding of the Tang dynasty is associated with the rise of the Ming’s Founding Emperor and obviously with Zheng in the following line, when Qian describes his dreams of Zhu Yuanzhang’s spear. The four ensuing lines partake of this mystical vision. In lines 3 and 4, Qian imagines himself assisting the Ming battalion with magic to fortify its forces. In lines 5 and 6, the Founding Emperor makes his presence felt in the astonishing supernatural phenomena. The Huai River, which runs through the province in which he rose, now merges with Heaven’s River, generating a bright white light. Zhongli was the site of his birth; now its clouds carry the Emperor’s Chariot (the Northern Dipper) and have a sanguine complexion. Note that tianhan 天漢 carries the Han dynasty and Han-Chinese’s han, and that hong 紅, red, is the symbolic color of the Ming. The arresting images in these lines depict the creation or re-creation of a Ming empire. Qian and Zheng, the aging mentor and the student, stand side by side in the last two lines of the poem. In line 7, Qian wishes to place Zheng among the twenty-eight renowned generals of the Latter Han 後漢 dynasty. Of the twenty-eight generals, the most prominent was Deng Yu 鄧禹, who helped

The poet as mentor and strategist 119 the Guangwu 光武 emperor restore the Liu empire, inaugurating the Latter Han. Guangwu’s successor commemorated the contributions of the generals by having their portraits painted in the Yuntai 雲臺, or Cloud Terrace, of the Southern Palace,68 where the former emperor and his generals convened to discuss affairs of state. This comparison finds its basis in Zheng’s assistance to the Southern Ming’s attempts to revive the Zhu empire.69 Had the Southern Ming enjoyed a longer space of time, it might have become a Latter Ming, as the Liu empire found new life in the Latter Han. Southern Palace or Nangong 南宮 denotes the Vermilion Bird constellation,70 which we have already encountered as a symbol of the Southern Ming. By this comparison, Qian inspires Zheng with the prospect that posterity will glorify him for his contribution to the Ming revival, as the Latter Han remembered the twenty-eight generals of the Cloud Terrace. The end of the first and third cycles of the Toubi ji—the former we have discussed in Chapter 3, and the latter we will turn to in Chapter 5—presents Qian as an avowed Ming loyalist official. In the last line of this poem, Qian cuts a very humble figure. He presents himself as an “old, bald man,” one of the ordinary elders of Wu who appear in the preceding poems of the set. It is a sentimental image: an old man’s last dying wish is to see the Ming reborn from ashes. Such a pose of modesty might move Zheng even more, appealing to Zheng’s conscience and reminding him of the concern and hope of the common people. 2.8 艱難恢復勢逶迤蟻穴何當潰澤陂駝馬已臨迤北路砲車猶護向南枝雷驚犀象牙方長雨送蛟龍宅屢遷最喜伏波能整旅封侯印佩許雙垂

The revival is an arduous task, its path winding; How could an ant hole cause the collapse of the marsh shore? Those camels and horses have reached the road stretching to the North, Yet the artillery71 still guards the southern bough. Startled by lightning the rhinoceroses and elephants’ horns and tusks grow; In rains the water dragon often changes its dwelling. Thanks to Fubo, he who raised the morale of the troops— He deserves to be ennobled, with marquis’ seal and pendant at his waist.

是役惟伏波殿後全軍而反 In this battle, thanks to Fubo’s rearguard, the whole navy returned unscathed.72

Toubi ji: 9–10 A larger perspective of the Ming revival movement’s current situation, fitting to bring the cycle to a close, is offered here. Lines 1 and 2 remind us again that Zheng’s campaign had collapsed under strategic errors and successive disasters. Line 3 depicts the Qing forces, symbolized by the “camels and horses” descending from the North. Line 4 warms Zheng with the sympathy of the

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populace, who would cover Zheng’s men, metaphorically, with artillery. The “southern bough,” xiang nan zhi 向南枝, stands for the supportive Jiangnan people and the Southern Ming forces.73 Lines 5 and 6 urge Zheng to remember his mistakes and allow himself to learn from his losses and not be disheartened. Lines 7 and 8 reiterate the exigency of “raising the morale of the troops,” zhenglü 整旅. Although Qian Qianyi never held any military position, he was hailed as one of the few late-Ming officials of literary background who had a genuine understanding of military affairs. Qian himself liked to show off his considerable military acumen, too. In fact, it was only a series of misfortunes that kept him from exercising his talents in an official capacity. In 1643, when Shi Kefa 史可法 (1601–45) tried to assemble an army to “succor the sovereign” (qinwang 勤王), he wrote Qian entreating him to join the cause. In that same year, Qian was recommended to the throne to oversee a special force organizing a fleet in Dengzhou and Laizhou in the Shandong Province.74 Greater recognition came in 1644 when the Chongzhen emperor summoned Qian, intending to appoint him to a military position to direct the naval forces in Jiangsu and Zhejiang. But, to Qian’s misfortune, ten days later the emperor was forced by circumstances to die by his own hand and Qian did not receive the appointment.75 In 1645, when Yangzhou was besieged, Qian begged permission from the Hongguang emperor to lead an army to deliver Shi Kefa from the hands of his Manchu foes.76 Later that same year, Huang Daozhou 黃道周 (1585–1646) wrote Qian, urging him to raise troops in the Jiang-Huai 江淮 areas to recover the North.77 In 1649, the year after his trial in Nanjing, Qian wrote Qu Shisi in Guilin, proposing a detailed plan for military operations and maneuvers against the Qing.78 For various reasons, none of these plans was put into practice. But the high regard that Qian’s contemporaries accorded him—and Qian’s confidence in putting himself forward for these missions—suggests that Qian may have known enough to give Zheng useful strategic and tactical advice. We have already discussed Qian’s view of the battle of September 8 and 9 and the astute advice he offered Zheng Chenggong to save the situation following the Nanjing defeat. His overall comments were largely in agreement with the counsels of Zheng’s most informed aides and the appraisal of later historians, which testifies to Qian’s military aptitude. More interesting to us as students of literature is the rhetorical stance of the poems, taken as a whole. Speaking as a mentor and strategist, Qian strives to rally Zheng Chenggong’s spirits by encouragement and admonition, in words at once affectionate and weighty. Having undertaken to offer moral support in a moment of crisis, Qian also left behind a poetic testament of the joy and pain felt by the Jiangnan people in the autumn of 1659 when Zheng Chenggong brought to the Yangzi River for the last time the symbols of the doomed Ming. When Qian was through penning this cycle of poems, he might have stood before it for a while, consumed with his own thoughts, and then chanted the

The poet as mentor and strategist 121 last stanza of the poem from the Book of Odes that we cited at the beginning of this chapter: 於乎小子告爾舊止聽用我謀庶無大悔天方艱難曰喪厥國取譬不遠昊天不忒回遹其德俾民大棘

Oh! my child, I have told you acts of old. Heed and use my advice, Then you shall be spared of great shame. Heaven is just inflicting catastrophes, To devastate the state. These examples are not far-fetched, And almighty Heaven is resolute. If you continue to sin, You will cause the people great misery.79

5

Loyalty and love at parting

On September 26, 1659, the same day he failed to seize Chongming, Zheng Chenggong led his demoralized warriors out of the waters of the Yangzi. One week later they reached Zhoushan in Zhejiang; from Zhoushan, the navy headed for its base in Simingzhou, Fujian. With Zheng’s fleet southbound, the last significant Ming loyalist military operation against the Qing clearly came also to an end. Zhang Huangyan, left stranded upstream, was defeated by a Qing riverine fleet on September 23. The day before Zheng Chenggong assaulted Chongming, Qian Qianyi composed the third cycle of the Toubi ji. After the title “Hou ‘Qiuxing’ zhi san” 後秋興之三 (The Third Cycle of “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’ ”), Qian added a subtitle, which describes the event that occasioned the verses: “On the tenth day of the eighth month [September 25], at night, [I had to take] a small boat across [the River]. It saddened me to have to part [with my wife], and I composed the following” (八月初十日, 小舟夜渡, 惜別而作).1 Qian does not explain why he and Liu Rushi were forced to part, or where he was going at this critical moment in Zheng Chenggong’s campaign, when everything was going terribly wrong. The grand Ming revival movement had lost both prestige and momentum. Zheng now faced the darkest moment in his campaign. Evidently, since Qian sailed in a small boat, under cover of darkness, he meant to reach his destination unnoticed. It is quite possible that even at his advanced age Qian hoped to join Zheng’s rearguard: the approximately one hundred battleships were anchored near Chongming at the port of Baimao 白茆,2 where Qian and Liu maintained a villa. Whatever Qian’s exact movements may have been, there is no question that his thoughts on the night of September 25, 1659 were with his doomed comrades in the loyalist movement, and the curse he shared with them. These preoccupations grow clear to us, in all their poignancy, when we turn our attention to the poems themselves. This cycle of eight poems has three main themes. Two of these, war and departure, require relatively little comment. Zheng’s campaign, which dominates the first and second cycles, here fades into the background. The exact circumstances surrounding Qian’s mission may remain a mystery until new historical sources are found. The third theme, promise, becomes the most

Loyalty and love at parting 123 notable: Qian fills this cycle with oaths of love, return, and commitment to the cause of revival, spoken verbally between Liu Rushi and himself. 3.1 負載相攜守故林繙經問織意蕭森疏疏竹葉晴窗雨落落梧桐小院陰白露園林中夜淚青燈梵唄六時心憐君應是齊梁女樂府偏能賦槁碪

Carrying provisions, your hand in mine, we came to linger at this old roost;3 Reading sutras, attending to weaving, our minds grow solemn. Bamboo leaves scanty; outside the window: sunburst, then rain; Wutong trees4 sparse; the courtyard little and shady. White dew in the garden; tears in the middle of the night; Green lamp, Buddhist hymns; our minds of the Six Hours.5 My dear one, are you not a Qi-Liang girl?6 When you chant the Music Bureau tunes, why do you pick “Gaozhen”? Toubi ji: 10

This poem initially presents a serene picture of a devoted couple sharing a reclusive life. The expression “carrying provisions,” fuzai 負載, recalls Liu Xiang’s 劉向 Lienü zhuan 列女傳 (Biographies of Exemplary Women), which relates an anecdote about Jie Yu 接輿 and his exemplary wife. In other early philosophical writings Jie Yu is depicted as a wise, eccentric recluse, wholly independent and aloof from secular concerns, but the Lienü zhuan offers a different perspective: The King of Chu summons Jie Yu to fill an office, and Jie Yu is inclined to accept the offer. Here it is Jie Yu’s wife who provides wise council, saying: “I serve you, good sir, in raising our provisions through farming and weaving our own clothes. Our food suffices, and our clothes are warm enough. We act in accord with righteousness. Happiness herein is assured! Now, if you accept someone’s handsome salary, ride someone’s good, solid chariot, and eat someone’s fresh, plump food, what do you think you can expect? We’d better move away.”7 Jie Yu’s wife is the image of the enlightened, far-sighted woman, and Qian celebrates those qualities in Liu Rushi, his beloved concubine turned wife. As our following discussions will show, Liu emerges in this cycle as an intelligent, strong-willed, and supportive mate. “Your hand in mine,” xiangxie 相攜, shows affection and intimacy. In particular, it illustrates the important role that Liu played in Qian’s sunset years, when the couple weathered change, time, and disappointment together. Perhaps Qian only means to charge line 1 with the love and mutual commitment between husband and wife, but the choice of allusion reveals more than that. Qian is comparable to Jie Yu as he appears in the Lienü zhuan: a recluse who entertains visions of glory and is favorably flattered by an office or honor when opportunity comes knocking. This betrays a timid, indecisive

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personality, and sheds light on why Qian always became entangled in messy politics during the Ming–Qing transition. The way of life evoked in the early lines is content and tranquil, simple yet rewarding. “Studying sutras,” fanjing 繙經, and “attending to weaving,” wenzhi 問織, bespeak Qian and Liu’s down-to-earth occupations and sedate spiritual pursuits. Soothing expressions tinge phrase after phrase. The descriptive and musical qualities of the reiteration in shushu 疏疏, “scanty,” and luoluo 落落, “sparse,” in lines 3 and 4 generate a sense of the quiet flow of quiet time. Lines 3–4 form a wonderful couplet, nuanced, tonally flawless, perfectly antithetical. “Outside the window: sunburst, then rain,” qingchuang yu 晴窗雨, captures the sudden joys and unexpected comfort of a restful life. “The courtyard little and shady,” xiaoyuan yin 小院陰, locates the speaker and reader in a miniature realm, placid and well protected. Lines 5–6, however, throw a shadow on this domestic paradise, altering our reading above. “White dew in the garden,” bailu yuanlin 白露園林, and “tears,” lei 淚, form an analogical relationship. The chilly quality of “white dew” effectually becomes “tears” by night, and the feeling of grief darkens the white dew. Coming upon this somber image, the reader is immensely disturbed. Why tears? Whose tears? As if struggling to suppress the outburst of concealed melancholy and to restore tranquility and harmony, line 6 introduces another aspect of their life. It reveals Qian and Liu’s strong Buddhist leanings. Nevertheless, the feeling of desolation and gloominess of the preceding line looms too large to be dispelled. Even though lines 5–6 form a standard couplet no less appealing in its tonal and structural beauty than the preceding one, the melancholy of line 5 weighs heavier than the religious enthrallment in line 6. The “green lamp,” qingdeng 青燈, the “Buddhist hymns,” fanbai 梵唄, and the “minds of the Six Hours,” liushi xin 六時心, create an atmosphere in which the comforting lamplight and soothing Buddhist music should bring peace of mind. However, the placid, tranquil mood around these religious images remains fragile. Because of line 5 a different picture emerges: the troubled heart flickers like the snuff of a lamp and wails in agitation like the chanting of the sutras. The root of Qian and Liu’s sorrow is revealed in the last two lines of the poem—it lies in the sadness of separation. This only appears in the poem’s last two words: gaozhen 槁碪. Literally a pounder, gaozhen alludes to “Gu jueju” 古絕句 (Old Quatrain) in the Yutai xinyong 玉臺新詠 (New Songs from a Jade Terrace). Since this quatrain is crucial for our understanding of the poem under discussion and appears again later in the cycle, it is desirable to introduce it at this point. “Old Quatrain” reads: 槁碪今何在山上復有山何當大刀頭破鏡飛上天

Pounder, where are you now? Over the hill there lies another hill. When will you dagger-hilt? When the broken mirror flies up in the sky.8

Loyalty and love at parting 125 Every line of this little verse is a riddle. According to traditional commentary,9 a question encrypted in line 1 asks where the husband is now. Gaozhen, the pounder, stands for fu 夫, “husband,” in Chinese. Fu and fu 鈇 are homonyms—the latter with the metal radical jin 金 is a kind of axe which was used in executing the death penalty. During executions, the doomed was made to lie prostrate on a gao, a kind of straw mat, placed over the zhen, the pounder, which functioned as a chopping block. Gaozhen and fu were used together in executions, rendering the two terms interchangeable: gaozhen for fu the axe, and by way of pun for fu the husband. Line 2 is a roundabout way of informing the reader the husband is away from home: placing the graph shan 山 on the top of another shan produces the character chu 出, meaning “departed.” Line 3 features another cryptic question, interpreted as: “When will the husband return?” The idea of return is derived from the homonymic relationship of the characters huan 還 and huan 環. Huan with the radical yu 玉 refers to the ornamental ring around the hilt of a sword, the “dagger-hilt.” The answer is provided, suggestively, in the last line: a broken mirror resembles a halfmoon, indicating that the reunion of the couple can be anticipated somewhere around the middle of the month. Reading “Old Quatrain” as an intertext to the poem under discussion reveals that tears are shed by Qian and Liu in line 5, because their separation is imminent. Why does Qian have to leave Liu and the “old roost,” their retreat? For an answer we have to turn to the next poem. 3.2 丹黃狼籍鬢絲斜廿載間關歷歲華取次鐵圍同穴道幾曾銀浦共仙槎吹殘別鶴三聲角迸散棲鴉半夜笳錯記窮秋是春盡漫天離恨攪楊花

Red and yellow ink scattered around; your hair slants on your temples; For twenty rough and erratic years, we’ve been sharing our lives as one. Fencing it up with metal,10 we made a rough vault for ourselves; Have we ever roamed the Heaven’s River together on the fairy raft?11 Repeated cries of the bugle mercilessly sound the “Parting Cranes”;12 Midnight calls of the reed-flageolet tear the rested crows apart. I have mistaken the last of autumn as late spring, when Willow catkins entangled in parting sorrow all over the sky. Toubi ji: 10–11

Like Poem 3.1, the first half of this poem gives the details of an idyllic and secluded conjugal life. Here Qian draws special attention to the extraordinary partnership that he and Liu Rushi have as writers and editors, as suggested in

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the expression “red and yellow ink,” danhuang 丹黃, which stands for the marks or comments that one makes while editing text. Liu is frenzied by her work, her marks “scattered around,” langji 狼籍; so immersed is she that she neglects her appearance, as Qian imagistically conjures in the phrase “hair slants on your temples,” binsi xie 鬢絲斜. It is a sensual, image-rich line, in which Qian’s gaze travels from the pages of the books, the source of intellectual beauty, to Liu Rushi’s temples, her physical beauty. Liu became Qian’s concubine in 1641, but was treated like a wife. The two spent a good deal of time together in the Jiangyunlou 絳雲樓, Crimson Clouds Towers, Qian’s marvelous private library, after its completion in 1643,13 until it was consumed by a monstrous fire in the winter of 1650. Qian and Liu were no ordinary couple; their union is reminiscent of the literary couple of Song times, the great ci poetess Li Qingzhao 李清照 (1084–c. 1151) and her husband Zhao Mingcheng 趙明誠, a bibliophile and art collector. Qian and Liu were literary mates. They enjoyed the intellectual game of writing poems to each other, each striving to surpass the other’s skill. Liu was also an invaluable research assistant to Qian, and on certain projects should be considered as Qian’s collaborator. For instance, when Qian was compiling the Liechao shiji (see Chapter 1), Liu was entrusted with the task of compiling the volumes on women’s poetry. (Her contribution was included in the Liechao shiji in a supplementary section, the Runji 閏集.) However, their nearly twenty years together had not been kind to them. There were many times of difficulty and adversity, as indicated in the expression “rough and erratic,” jianguan 間關, but Liu always lent Qian much-needed moral support. As in Poem 3.1, a threat to this idyllic and peaceful life is suggested in lines 5 and 6 of Poem 3.2. A separated couple is often compared to “parting cranes,” biehe 別鶴 (line 5), in the Chinese lyrical tradition. The “rested crows,” qiya 棲鴉, in the antithetical position in line 6, are no better off than the cranes; their roost is only a temporary and transient reprieve. The “bugle,” jiao 角, and the “reed-flageolet,” jia 笳, sound the call to arms: the advent of war brings the joys of Qian and Liu’s conjugal life and their intellectual pursuits to a halt. The “last of autumn,” qiongqiu 窮秋, in line 7, shows us the season of their parting. The poem ends with an impassioned line. “Willow catkins,” yanghua 楊花, is a synonym for liuxu 柳絮. Both yang and liu allude to Liu Rushi through the symbolism in their names; liu bears the same sound as Liu Rushi’s Liu, and Liu’s original name had been Yang Ai 楊愛.14 Both yang and liu mean willow,15 Liu’s personal symbol that keeps recurring in her poems and the poems addressed to her.16 In Chinese poetic writings, the willow effectively symbolizes the fate of the courtesan who is bound to wander and drift like the willow catkins (before marrying Qian, Liu was a famous courtesan in the Wu areas).17 This reading turns the whole of line 8 into a metaphor for Liu, who is greatly affected by the sorrow of separation. The willow catkins are “all over the sky,” betokening her fits of sadness.

Loyalty and love at parting 127 The bugles and flageolets make it clear that it is war that calls Qian away from Liu. But what sort of service does Qian, a seventy-seven-year-old scholar-poet, hope to render to Zheng? For the answer, we have to turn to the next poem. 3.3 北斗垣牆闇赤暉誰占朱鳥一星微破除服珥裝羅漢

The walls18 of the Northern Dipper mansion dim their red beams; Who could tell even the lone star, the Vermilion Bird, would fade?19 You sold your dresses and earrings to arm the Luohans,20

姚神武有先裝五百羅漢之議, 內子盡橐以資, 始成一軍. Yao Shenwu [Zhizhuo] proposed to arm five hundred Luohans [to start the cause]. My wife exhausted her savings to finance it. [Only then could Yao] raise a troop.

減損虀鹽餉佽飛娘子繡旗營壘倒

Cutting down provisions of vegetables and salt to feed the Cifei.21 The embroidered banners of the lady fell with the ramparts;

張定西謂阮姑娘: “吾當派汝捉刀侍柳夫人.” 阮喜而受命. 舟山之役, 中流矢而殞, 惜哉. Zhang Dingxi [Mingzhen] told Miss Ruan: “I shall order you to carry a sword to wait on Madam Liu.” Miss Ruan gladly received the order. To our great sorrow, she was hit by a stray arrow and sacrificed in the battle of Zhoushan.

將軍鐵槊鼓音違

The iron lance of the general thrusts no more to the beat of the wardrum.

乙未八月神武血戰死崇明城下. In the eighth month of the year of Yiwei [1655], Shenwu fought to the last drop of his blood outside the city of Chongming.

鬚眉男子皆臣子秦越何人視瘠肥

Every man with beard and eyebrows is a subject of the state— Unlike a Qin man looking at a Yue man, be he thin or fat, he doesn’t care!22

夷陵文相國來書云云. Minister Wen from Yiling wrote me of such.

Toubi ji: 11–12 Astronomical constellations in the first two lines of the poem portend the situation faced by the Ming revivalists. As we have seen in Chapter 3, the “Northern Dipper,” beidou 北斗, of line 1 traditionally represents the Chinese emperor.23 “Walls,” yuanqiang 垣牆, belong to the Northern Dipper because the Chinese call the twenty-eight constellations the twenty-eight “Lunar Mansions,” xiu 宿. The Ming emperors, according to the theory of legitimacy, reigned with the “virtue” of fire, and red was their emblematic color. In the dimming of red beams is shown the Ming’s predicament. The “Vermilion Bird” in line 2 represents the Southern Ming, as we have seen in Chapter 3 as well. When its beams “fade,” the prospects of a Ming revival look dim.

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Despite the brilliant versification, lines 3 through 8 can be a commentator’s nightmare. Recognizing their difficulty, Qian appended four explanatory notes to the lines. However helpful these may have been to Qian’s contemporaries, modern readers will find these notes demand plenty of scrutiny and educated guesses in their own right. The notes, once again: 1 Following line 3, Qian explains: “Yao Shenwu [Zhizhuo] proposed to arm five hundred Luohans [to start the cause]. My wife exhausted her savings to finance it. [Only then could Yao] raise a troop.” 2 Following line 5, Qian relates: “Zhang Dingxi [Mingzhen] told Miss Ruan: ‘I shall order you to carry a sword to wait on Madam Liu.’ Miss Ruan gladly received the order. To our great sorrow, she was hit by a stray arrow and sacrificed in the battle of Zhoushan.” 3 Following line 6, Qian adds: “In the eighth month of the year of Yiwei [1655], Shenwu fought to the last drop of his blood outside the city of Chongming.” 4 Following line 8, Qian states: “Minister Wen from Yiling wrote me of such.” Let us try to reconstruct the story from these hints and various other circumstances. According to the third note, Yao Shenwu died in 1655. We can assume the events took place before Yao’s death. Given the size of the regiment that Liu raised, and given that Qian feels no need to specify the way in which she raised the five hundred men, we may assume that the first note refers to the events following the Ming loyalists’ recovery of Guilin 桂林, Guangxi 廣西. One related source claims that after Li Dingguo 李定國 recovered Guilin in August of 1652, he secretly commissioned Qian to organize restoration activities in the Jiangnan area, and that Qian carried out the order expeditiously.24 According to another source, Yao Shenwu 姚神武 and Zhu Quangu 朱全古 met with Qian at Qian’s mansion in the winter of 1652. They decided that Yao and Zhu would travel to Guizhou 貴州 to establish contact with the Yongli emperor, who was then under the protection of the warlord Sun Kewang 孫可望. Yao and Zhu arrived in Yunnan in the summer of the following year, but it is not clear whether they were actually received by Yongli. However, it is known that they managed to present a memorial to the then powerless Yongli at Anlong 安隆. Subsequently, Yao was sent back to the Yangzi delta to organize resurgent activities among Ming loyalists.25 Zhu remained in Sun Kewang’s Yunnan Fu office until early 1655, then returned to Jiangnan, on the advice of Wen Anzhi 文安之. Wen was usually identified with the Yongli court,26 but was also active among other Ming loyalist groups during the 1650s. We know that Yao Shenwu returned to Jiangnan in 1653 and died there in 1655. From the above, we can narrow the time frame of the events referred to in the poem to between 1653 and 1655. Between 1653 and 1654, Zhang Mingzhen’s 張名振 fleet entered the mouth of the Yangzi River three times on Zheng Chenggong’s orders: in

Loyalty and love at parting 129 May of 1653, then again in March and later May of 1654. He remained in the area until July 1654, when he was forced to evacuate. Zhang’s troops held loyalist ceremonies on Jinshan 金山 Island and harassed the Grand Canal traffic. Simultaneously, pirate and bandit groups rose in the Wu-Song 吳淞 circuit, and the Ming loyalist circles in the region began preparations for their own uprisings.27 In 1655, with the military cooperation of Zheng Chenggong, Zhang Mingzhen regained Zhoushan 舟山 Island and took control of the city of Taizhou in Zhejiang. From his base on Zhoushan, he increased the frequency of his raids on the coast during the winter of 1655.28 Zhang Mingzhen, however, died in early 1656 on Zhoushan. His forces were then commanded by his lieutenant, Zhang Huangyan, whose assistance would prove to be important in Zheng Chenggong’s 1659 Yangzi campaign. We have tracked down all the major figures concerned—Yao Shenwu, Zhang Dingxi, and Wen Shangguo—and have outlined what happened during those two years. I propose this: Qian had contacts with Ming loyalists in Guilin and even held direct communication with Guilin’s key figure, Li Dingguo. Receiving instructions from Li, Qian worked together with various Ming loyalist activists in Jiangnan, such as Yao Zhizhuo. Development of their activities resulted in closer contact between Qian and various persons among the higher echelons of the Ming loyalist forces, such as Wen Anzhi, or, perhaps, even the Yongli emperor himself. The Jiangnan Ming loyalists were involved in major restoration enterprises. For example, Liu Rushi financed a troop of five hundred men under Yao Zhizhuo’s command that later teamed up with Zhang Mingzhen. It is likely that Liu Rushi even visited Zhang’s force, which was allied with the most substantial Ming loyalist power in the far south, that of Zheng Chenggong. It follows that during this period the loyalists under Li Dingguo’s banner cooperated with Zheng Chenggong’s, and that Liu Rushi and Qian Qianyi collaborated, not just with small bands of loyalists, but with a large force. It remains to be shown that the poem itself bears out our interpretation of Qian’s notes. The symbolism associated with the stars in lines 1 and 2 grounds the poem in the historical context of the Southern Ming, implying that the Southern Ming is faced with a gloomy moment. Lines 3 and 4 show that Liu Rushi rendered support to warriors, who, we sense, belonged to the Ming restoration. Lines 5 and 6 make us realize that these loyalist forces have been crushed. Up to this point our reading runs rather smoothly. In lines 3 through 6 the narrative progresses from Liu’s financing the warriors to their heroic end. The battle scenes in lines 5 and 6 involving the “lady” and the “general” are especially vivid. Although the poem advances from generalizations to specifics, Qian refers only obliquely to the people and events that he discusses. This obscurity is especially frustrating in the final couplet, where qinyue 秦越 (line 8) indicates regionalism: that, metaphorically, the people of Qin and the people of Yue are apathetic towards one another. But line 8 gives the old idea a hopeful new twist. It conveys the exact opposite meaning,

130 The poet-historian Qian Qianyi that the different regions will not be indifferent to one another’s well-being. The source of their solidarity comes from the persuasion that they are all “subjects of the state,” chenzi 臣子. But who are these people? They are men with “beard and eyebrows,” xumei nanzi 鬚眉男子. Therefore the “lady” in line 5 cannot be one of them. And it takes two persons, at least— say, one from Qin and another from Yue—to form a qinyue reference. Therefore it cannot refer to the “general” in line 6. To make sense of the qinyue allusion, we have to take into account the Luohan and the Cifei in lines 3 and 4. Other questions arise as well: Does the poem imply that there are different forces working towards the Ming revival? And does there exist a certain partisanship among them? On what occasions do they come together and bond for a common goal? All these are unanswerable without recourse to the notes. We have come to realize how indispensable Qian’s notes are to our understanding of the poem. When we approach the poem with the aid of the notes and their historical references, not only do we feel the poem’s nuances, but we also see how potent the metaphor of qinyue proves to be in characterizing the Ming loyalists. The notes form an integral part of the poem, and Qian makes a special effort to impart a certain lyrical quality to the notes so that they do not disrupt the flow of the poem proper. The poem and the notes together offer us an alternative picture of the relationship between the various Ming loyalist forces. It complicates the prevailing view which holds that partisanship and regionalism rendered occasions of wholehearted cooperation among the various forces rare. The last two lines offer an answer to the question we raised at the end of our discussion of the preceding poem. Qian has to part with Liu because the war effort requires service from all “subjects” of the Ming (or, the former Ming); all men with “beard and eyebrows” must render service to this cause. It should also be noted that in this poem Liu’s figure looms larger than that of Qian. This bespeaks Qian’s respect and affection for Liu. In the following poem, Qian continues to write about Liu. 3.4 閨閣心縣海宇棋每於方罫繫歡悲乍傳南國長馳日正是西窗對局時漏點稀憂兵勢老燈花落笑子聲遲還期共覆金山譜

The lady29 takes to heart the chess on the sea— Her mood, happy or sad, changes with the fortunes on the squares. The day the sudden news that the Southern Country’s forces were surging forward arrived We were playing a game of chess by the west window. Drips of the waterclock slowed, we feared the spirit of the ranks would flag; Our laughter died out with the lampwick, the move was not heard. Let’s review the transcription of the Jinshan game once again;

Loyalty and love at parting 131 桴鼓親提慰我思

You beat the wardrum to rally my spirit.30 Toubi ji: 12

This whole poem develops in the game of chess, which is, as we have seen, one of Qian’s favorite metaphors for contemporary politics, and for war in particular. The war between Zheng Chenggong and the Manchus is imagined as “the chess on the sea,” haiyu qi 海宇棋, and the gain or loss of the Ming loyalist forces translate into Liu Rushi’s joy or sorrow. “The Southern Country’s forces were surging forward,” nanguo changchi ri 南國長馳日, represents the time when Zheng’s navies were approaching Nanjing. “Surging forward” befits the sweeping success, the exhilaration and momentum of all the initial victories in the early phase of Zheng’s campaign. “The Southern Country,” nanguo, like the Vermilion Bird in Poem 3.3 and elsewhere, invokes the fugitive Ming regimes and the various loyalist military powers in South China; here it means Zheng’s forces in particular.31 The verbal changchi personifies the Southern Country, fusing the country and Zheng’s men in the hope of a Ming revival. In lines 5 and 6, Qian and Liu pass covert criticism on Zheng Chenggong, that Zheng’s strategy of delay brings about his shameful defeat: “the move was not heard,” zisheng chi 子聲遲, and “the spirit of the ranks would flag,” bingshi lao 兵勢老, are placed in antithetical positions. Zheng’s delay is likened to a belated, fatal move in a chess game. One senses that the situation of the “Southern Country” does not look good. Yet Qian still envisions a miraculous reversal of fortune, as expressed in the last two lines of the poem. In war, as in chess, an upset is always possible. The island of Jinshan in Zhenjiang, a landmark for Chinese patriots, was the stage of the legendary battle where the Southern Song general, Han Shizhong 韓世忠, defeated the Jin invaders. According to legend, General Han’s wife, Liang Hongyu 梁紅玉, beat the battle drum with a vigor that inspired all the soldiers to fight valiantly. They succeeded in repulsing the Jin, and Liang has been celebrated as a national heroine ever since. Of course, Jinshan held a more immediate importance as well, since Zhang Mingzhen conducted loyalist ceremonies on the island during his 1653–4 raids on the Yangzi area. (The strategic importance of Zhenjiang in Zheng Chenggong’s 1659 campaign has been discussed in the last chapter.) These two lines compare Liu Rushi to Liang Hongyu, whose support for her husband was crucial in bringing about the victory over the Jin invaders. In “beat the wardrum,” fugu qinti 桴鼓親提, and “rally my spirit,” wei wosi 慰我思, Liu is admired as both a heroic woman and as a source of inspiration and support for Qian. The appearance of the legends of Liang and, implicitly, Han Shizhong immediately after the critical remarks on Zheng intimates that Qian and Liu might, with their combined leadership, help rescue the loyalist movement. As in Poem 3.3, the last two lines of Poem 3.4 express intense sentiment, but unlike the preceding poem, in which the personal statement is reserved, in

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Poem 3.4, through the legends of Han Shizhong and Liang Hongyu, Qian envisions himself as a national hero. To be a wartime hero, Qian cannot remain at his riverside retreat. This brings him to the next poem in the cycle. 3.5 水擊風摶山外山前期語盡一杯間五更噩夢飛金鏡千疊愁心鎖玉關人以蒼蠅汙白璧天將市虎試朱顏衣朱曳綺留都女羞殺當年翟茀班

Striking water, swirling up with the wind, I fly over mountain after mountain; Drink up this cup, my earlier promise I swear I will keep. Fifth watch,32 the Golden Mirror33 flies away, what a terrifying dream! A thousand layers of sorrow overcast the Yu Pass. Some people are like flies, who like to befoul the white jade;34 Heaven might test you, saying: “Look, there is a tiger in the market!”35 The Liudu lady puts on red clothes with fine silk billowing, Shaming the rank of ladies in feathered chariots of that year. Toubi ji: 12–13

This is an extremely dense and nuanced poem. The first half of the poem looks back at the sorrows of departure and separation. Two of the images from “Old Quatrain” in the New Songs from a Jade Terrace, which we discussed with Poem 3.1, resurface in lines 1 and 3. “Mountain after mountain,” one shan atop another, form chu, indicating departure. Both mirrors, Qian’s golden one and the broken one in “Old Quatrain,” indicate a half moon.36 The mountains and the moon from “Old Quatrain” appear, however, in a new context and a deeper meaning. In line 1, before the mountains, we see ocean and wind: “Striking water, swirling up with the wind,” shui ji feng tuan 水擊風摶. This draws on Zhuangzi’s 莊子 tale of the mythical fish, which Qian has taken as a personal emblem. In the Zhuangzi, “Xiaoyao you” 逍遙遊 (Going Rambling without a Destination) begins with this powerful image: There is a fish [yu 魚] in the North Ocean. . . . It transforms into a bird to be known as Peng. . . . When the ocean is surging, this bird decides to migrate to the South Ocean [Nanming 南冥]. The South Ocean is the Lake of Heaven. . . . Striking the water, it leaves behind a wake of three thousand li; swirling up with the wind, it rises to a height of ninety thousand li. 北冥有魚 . . . 化而為鳥, 其名為鵬 . . . 是鳥也, 海運則將徙於南冥, 南冥者, 天池也. . . . 水擊三千里, 摶扶搖而上者九萬里.37

Loyalty and love at parting 133 From this description, Qian derives a character for himself by virtue of word association. One of Qian’s style names is Yushan laomin 虞山老民, the Senior Citizen of Yushan. Qian’s contemporaries addressed him, politely, as Yushan xiansheng 虞山先生, Master Yushan.38 On some occasions, Qian was called Haiyu Qian Qianyi 海虞錢謙益, Haiyu being a variant of Yushan, Qian’s hometown. Yu the fish in “Xiaoyao you” and the yu in the name of Qian’s home area are homonyms. In line 1, the ocean and the wind are followed by the mountains, shan wai shan 山外山, as the yu in Qian’s style name is followed by shan. As a result, one derives the word yushan, representing Qian Qianyi, and consequently the impression that Qian is going to undertake an epic journey. Qian exploits the allusions of both “Old Quatrain” and “Xiaoyao you” at once. Furthermore, Qian’s villa in Yushan is called Fushuishanzhuang 拂水山莊, meaning “Mountain Villa by the Water.” This name features imagistic qualities similar to those of “Xiaoyao you,” even though the water is calmer here locally. By playing a pun on words, literary associations, and topical references, “Old Quatrain” and “Xiaoyao you” are fused in the seven words of Qian’s line for his own purpose. Qian uses the fish and the Peng bird, both from “Xiaoyao you,” as personal metaphors.39 As the fish that transforms into Peng soars into the sky, above the ocean waves, the recluse Qian parts with Liu for a difficult and grand mission, leaving his Yushan mansion. Ming for ocean and ming for the Ming house carry an identical sound and tone (冥 is the ancient form of 溟; both mean ocean or sea). Peng is bound for the South Ocean, nanming, implying that Qian’s intended destination is Nanming: the Southern Ming. The fugitive Ming regime that Zheng Chenggong represented virtually ruled on water, for Zheng’s was a naval force that had its bases in the southern maritime regions. Was 南明 not a 南冥?40 Here the suggestive powers of the Chinese language and the poetic genius of Qian both reach their heights. In a few words Qian has managed to describe himself and the Southern Ming regime completely in terms of a pre-Qin philosophical text written over two thousand years before.41 Yuguan 玉關 in line 4 stands for Yumenguan 玉門關, the Yumen Pass. It calls to mind the famous couplet from the Tang poet Wang Zhihuan 王之渙 (688–742): 羌笛何須怨楊柳春光不度玉門關

Shepherd flute, blames not the willows; The spring light does not cross the Yumen Pass.42

Wang’s couplet unwittingly contains two names for Liu Rushi in the word “willows,” yangliu 楊柳, Yang and Liu. This surely bears upon Qian’s own line imagining that “a thousand layers of sorrow overcast the Yu[men] Pass” (line 4). This also recalls the final words of Poem 3.2: “Willow catkins entangled in parting sorrow all over the sky” (line 8). At their parting in line 2, Qian and Liu speak of an “earlier promise,” qianqi 前期. Although the contents of this promise are veiled, it seems to have

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something to do with “that year,” dangnian 當年, in the last line of the poem. (Note that these two expressions in their original are constructed in the same manner.) Through dangnian, we can speculate on the implication of this qianqi. Dangnian here is an adverbial qualifier of “the rank of ladies in feathered chariots,” difu ban 翟茀班. This line recalls a poem Qian composed in 1650, no. 17 of “Xihu zagan” 西湖雜感 (Random Feelings at West Lake), in which he writes: 珠衣寶髻燕湖濱翟茀貂蟬一樣新南國元戎皆使相上廳行首作夫人

Pearls on their dresses, jewels on their buns, by the lake they danced; Pheasants’ feathers, marten tails and cicadas, all are new fashion. All of the chief generals of the southern land were made ministers; Their wives turned noble ladies in the rank’s front in the upper hall.43

“Pheasants’ feathers” appears in both poems. In ancient China, the front and rear of the ladies’ carriages were furnished with screens, made, in the case of noble ladies, with pheasant feathers. By synecdoche, “pheasant feathers” has come to signify ladies’ carriages, or the ladies in them. The earliest occurrence of this expression appears in the poem “Shi ren” 碩人 (Mao no. 57) of the Book of Odes: 四牡有驕朱幩鑣鑣翟茀以朝

Her four horses seem arrogantly proud, Their bits in flamboyant red. In a carriage screened by pheasant feathers, she comes to the imperial court.44

In Qian’s “West Lake” poem, the fashion of dress is a political symbol. “Marten tails and cicadas,” diaochan 貂蟬, are ornaments on the hats of military officials, believed to be of foreign origin.45 Yuanyong 元戎 designates chief generals, and the “southern land,” nanguo, most likely belongs to the fallen Southern Ming of Nanjing. Reading “Shi ren” as intertext creates this picture: all the generals become ministers, putting on official hats of a foreign fashion; their wives ride on carriages with pheasant feather screens; and they are proceeding to a new court. When did this happen? Most probably with the political changeover of Nanjing in 1645, when the former Ming officials presented themselves to their new Manchu masters. The following eyewitness account of the changeover helps illuminate this curious reference in Qian’s poem: All the civil and military officials, holding their calling cards, went outside the city wall toward the Altar of Heaven to meet the Prince of Yu [Dodo], and everybody else in the city, including us, went out to watch.

Loyalty and love at parting 135 . . . [The former Ming officials’] calling cards lay in a pile as big as a hillock. . . . The Earl of Xincheng, Zhao Zhilong, met with the prince inside the Qing camp, and the prince favored Zhao with a seat and some tea. . . . During the three days after the emperor left, everything had been held together by the efforts of Zhao Zhilong. . . . When the Prince of Yu had reached the foot of the city wall, Nanjing was handed over without his having to expend one iota of energy. So the next day, when word went around that military officers were to shave their heads, the first one to do so was Earl Zhao—inside the Qing camp. The Prince of Yu conferred on him a white horse with golden saddle, bridle, and stirrups, a Manchu hat and boots, and a white python-robe with a clustered-flower design.46 With all these references made clear, we find that the allusion to “Shi ren” of the Book of Odes—“She comes to the imperial court”—has a hidden bite of satire. Even the title of the poem, “Shi ren,” becomes rich and nuanced. Nanjing was also called Shitoucheng 石頭城, “Stone City.” Shi 碩 and shi 石 are homonyms, and, in some cases, synonyms—Qian may mean shi ren to stand for shi ren 石人, the former officials of the Stone City. As we know, the Manchu court summoned the turncoats, together with their wives, from the Hongguang regime to Beijing. We also know that Liu Rushi refused to go with Qian. For this, Qian celebrates Liu’s integrity in line 7. Liudu 留都 is Nanjing, which functioned as the Ming capital until Beijing was chosen in 1421 as the main capital. Thereafter, Nanjing was maintained as the auxiliary capital with a skeleton staff.47 When Beijing fell in 1644 and the Hongguang court was established, Nanjing briefly regained its importance. By describing Liu Rushi as a “Liudu lady,” liudu nü 留都女, Qian paints Liu in the colors of a Ming loyalist. This Liudu lady puts on “red clothes,” yi zhu 衣朱. Zhu, the imperial family name of the Ming house, also means red, the emblematic color of the Ming, as we have seen in quite a few instances already. In the original, the “Liudu lady” and the “rank of ladies in feathered chariots” are placed in corresponding positions in lines 7 and 8, and both are expressed in three characters, structurally identical. Qian’s intent is to compare the liudu nü with those of the difu ban, praising the virtue of the former and admonishing the latter. Perhaps these two lines contain self-criticism as well. After the fall of Nanjing, Qian traveled to the new Manchu court in Beijing, and like those difu ban ladies, he probably dressed in clothes of the new, outlandish Manchu fashion. 3.6 歸心共折大刀頭別淚闌干誓九秋皮骨久判猶貰死

My yearning for return is bound to the sword’s hilt; Tears stream down at parting, I make my oath in the deep autumn. My skin and bone have long ago met their doom,48 my life on credit;

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The poet-historian Qian Qianyi 丁亥歲有和東坡西臺韻詩. In the year of Dinghai [1647], I wrote several poems rhyming with Su Dongpo’s “At the Censorate.”

容顏減盡但餘愁摩天肯悔雙黃鵠貼水翻輸兩白鷗更有閒情攪腸肚為余輪指算神州

My face has thinned out and what is left is only sadness. Scraping the sky I will not fail the words of those two yellow cranes; Unable to linger at the water, we are worse off than that pair of white gulls. Yet I have your love deep in my heart— Gesturing with your fingers, you conjure a Spiritual Continent to me. Toubi ji: 13–14

The “sword’s hilt,” dadao tou 大刀頭, in line 1 alludes to both Li Ling’s story and “Old Quatrain,” suggesting return, huan or gui 歸. (See the interpretation of Poem 1.8 in Chapter 3 for this meaning.) The desire for return is intensified and dramatized in line 2 by an “oath,” made in tears at parting. Meanwhile, Qian lapses into memories which inform the wonderful couplet of lines 3–4. Qian places a note after line 3, mentioning that he composed a series of poems in 1647 under the title “He Dongpo ‘Xitai’ shiyun.” Early in 1647, Qian was accused of having financed Huang Yuqi’s troops for Ming restoration.49 Qian was put on trial in Nanjing, but released in the following year.50 In “He Dongpo ‘Xitai’ shiyun” (no. 5), Qian recounts the humiliating experience: 六月霜凝倍憯悽骨消皮削首頻低雲林永絕離羅雉砧几相鄰待割雞

In the sixth month the frost congealed, atmosphere turned doubly woeful; My bone had worn, skin pared, I lowered my head most of the time. The cloudy grove I parted for good, a pheasant caught in net I became; The chopping board sat next to me, waiting to butcher the chicken.51

This is the intertext to lines 3 and 4. In fact, had it not been for Huang Yuqi’s most timely death while in custody and the intervention of the governorgeneral of Jiangnan, Ma Guozhu, Qian would certainly have faced execution.52 During Qian’s trial, Liu Rushi became a pillar of support for Qian in his time of need; though very ill herself, she accompanied Qian when he was in custody. It was believed that Liu even traveled to Beijing, at great danger to her own life, to intercede with powerful officials for Qian’s release.53 Qian was so grateful to Liu that when he wrote the retrospective “He Dongpo” verses, he dedicated them to Liu’s thirtieth birthday. Furthermore, Qian requested his friends to offer matching poems in honor of Liu.54 Besides memories, the

Loyalty and love at parting 137 evocation of the dreadful experience of 1647–8 implies that Qian was perhaps involved in some comparably risky business. We can imagine that Liu Rushi gave him unreserved support once again. The image of yellow cranes in line 5 recalls the line in Poem 1.8—“Just now the yellow cranes say: ‘Rebel. Recover. Riverbanks.’ ”—which supports our conjecture. Line 5 also alludes to Du Fu’s “Jiti Jiangwaicaotang” 寄題江外草堂 (Missing My Thatched Cottage by the Brook), in which we find some yellow cranes there as well: 干戈未偃息安得酣歌眠蛟龍無定窟黃鵠摩蒼天

The war has not waned; How can I sing heartily and sleep? The water dragon has no fixed dwelling; The yellow cranes scrape the azure sky.55

The dragon and yellow cranes are comparable to the Peng bird from the Zhuangzi in the preceding poem, signifying people with extraordinary power and outstanding destinies, and Qian would have us believe that he is in their rank. Line 6 laments that he and Liu could not lead a life as untrammeled and carefree as the gulls. Both shuang 雙 and liang 兩, in the original, mean “a pair” and here emphasize the bond between the couple. At their parting, Qian finds in Liu not only an affectionate, loyal ally but also an inspiration: “Gesturing with your fingers, you conjure a Spiritual Continent to me.” As in the last poem, Qian presents Liu as a woman of great courage and wisdom. The Spiritual Continent, Shenzhou 神州, short for the Spiritual Continent of the Red Region, Chixianshenzhou 赤縣神州, designates China in Zhou Yan’s theory of the Five Elements. Needless to say, the color invoked in Chixianshenzhou is also the symbolic color of the Ming. With the Spiritual Continent, Qian invokes an expansive vision, setting a heroic tone for the following poem in the cycle. 3.7 此行期奏濟河功架海梯山抵掌中自許揮戈迴晚日相將把酒賀春風牆頭梅蕊疏窗白甕面葡萄玉盞紅一割忍忘歸隱約少陽原是釣魚翁

On this journey I shall achieve the “crossing of the river,” Putting out to sea, scaling the mountain, all by a clap of my hands. I can strike my spear against the setting sun and send it back away; We will greet the spring breeze with wine cups in hand. Plum buds over the wall shine upon the lattice window; Grape wine from the urn’s top reddens our jade cups. This very strike will not make me forget my promise of seclusion— Shaoyang is, at heart, an old fisherman. Toubi ji: 13–14

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In this poem, the most openly heroic of the cycle, Qian builds on the finale of Poem 3.6 and presents himself as a man of action and unyielding principle. He begins by announcing his mission, to save the people in distress: “crossing of the river,” jihe 濟河, connotes crossing a river to meet a grave national crisis. In “putting out to sea,” jiahai 架海, and “scaling the mountain,” tishan 梯山, Qian states emphatically he is willing to travel far and hard, expressing his determination to overcome obstacles. The image of Qian taking to sea naturally invites the reader to associate Qian’s undertaking with Zheng Chenggong’s Yangzi campaign. This is a poem of vigorous self-identification, too. To define himself, Qian develops on four related personae: Fu Yue 傅說, Duke Luyang 魯陽公, Ban Chao 班超, and Jiang Taigong 姜太公. Jihe is interchangeable with jichuan 濟川: both mean crossing a river. The image comes from the Shu jing 書經 (Book of Documents): In the chapter “Yue Ming” 說命 (The Charge to Yue), King Wuding 武丁 of the Shang dynasty dreams one night that Heaven sends him a sage called Yue. The king recalls the appearance of the sage in minute detail, and a figure is made in the dream figure’s likeness and distributed throughout the kingdom. Royal officers find Yue at Fu Gorge, working as a member of a chain gang, so he is called Fu Yue. When King Wuding makes Fu Yue his minister, he charges: Offer me your advice to assist my virtue day and night. Imagine me as a weapon made of steel, and yourself employed as the whetstone. Imagine me crossing a great river, and yourself employed as a boat and oars. . . . 朝夕納誨, 以輔台德. 若金, 用汝作礪; 若濟巨川, 用汝作舟楫. . . .56 As the story goes, the Shang kingdom enjoys excellent government thanks to Fu Yue. Proclaiming that his desire is to achieve the “crossing of the river,” Qian compares himself to this ancient sage. In line 3, Qian likens himself to Duke Luyang. The expression “strike my spear against the setting sun and send it back away,” huige hui wanri 揮戈迴晚日, comes from a legend about the duke in Huainan zi 淮南子. The chapter “Lanming xun” 覽冥訓 (Peering into the Obscure) relates: “Duke Luyang was engaged in a combat with Han. As the fighting became the most intense, dusk fell. He thrust his spear against the sun, and the sun retreated ninety li for him” (魯陽公與韓搆難, 戰酣日暮, 援戈而撝之, 日為之反三舍).57 In Qian’s line, the setting sun clearly stands for the Ming revival movement, now in decline like the setting sun. Qian’s self-appointed mission is to restore its vitality. “This very strike,” yige 一割, in line 7 alludes to the story of Ban Chao, whom we have already met in the introduction to Part II. When Ban Chao of the Han dynasty initiated an expedition against Kucha (Qiuzi 龜茲) of the Western Regions, he pleaded with the emperor: “In the past, Wei Jiang was only a Grand Master of one state, yet he managed to pacify and unite the various barbaric peoples. Now that your official is blessed with the majesty of

Loyalty and love at parting 139 the great Han, cannot I be used as a lead knife to make a strike?” (昔魏絳列國大夫, 尚能和輯諸戎, 況臣奉大漢之威, 而無鉛刀一割之用乎).58 By identifying himself with Ban Chao, Qian depicts himself leading an expedition against the alien peoples. Shaoyang 少陽 in the last line is both a pun and an allusion. It is the name of Qian Shaoyang of the Tang dynasty, for whom Li Bo wrote a poem entitled “Zeng Qian Zhengjun Shaoyang” 贈錢徵君少陽 (To Qian Shaoyang the Recluse): 秉燭唯須飲投竿也未遲如逢渭水獵猶可帝王師

Sitting by a candle all you should do is drink; It is never too late to fling your fishing rod. If it so happens you come across the Wei River hunt, You will still be made a mentor to the king.59

Qian Shaoyang and Qian Qianyi’s shared surname, Qian, provides a convenient connection. Li Bo compares Qian Shaoyang with Jiang Taigong, the Great Lord Jiang. When Li Bo wrote the poem, Qian Shaoyang was already eighty years old. Jiang Taigong met King Wen of the Zhou dynasty at the advanced age of eighty-two. According to Sima Qian’s Records of the Grand Historian, King Wen met Taigong in the north, or the yang 陽, of the Wei River (the character of yang is also embedded in Qian Shaoyang). Imagining himself as Qian Shaoyang, Qian Qianyi, himself almost eighty years old now, also appropriates the figure of Jiang Taigong, another retired man recalled to office, one who gloriously led a kingdom out of peril. The figure of Jiang Taigong becomes Qian well.60 Before meeting King Wen, Taigong lived as a reclusive fisherman by the Wei River. Like Fu Yue, Taigong was an obscure sage selected mystically to lead the kingdom to great glory.61 Age was no impediment to the tireless Taigong and his military genius when King Wen appointed him chief counselor and entrusted him with the affairs of the state. Taigong aided King Wu, King Wen’s son, in bringing down King Zhou, the tyrant of the Shang dynasty. Thus was born the celebrated Zhou dynasty. In the same chapter of the Huainan zi in which the anecdote of Duke Luyang appears, there is also the story of King Wu’s expedition against King Zhou of Shang. It reads: King Wu launched the campaign against Zhou and crossed the river at Meng Ford. Marquis Yang62 reversed his course and attacked them with his waves. . . . Therefore King Wu held the yellow battle-axe in his left hand, and the white standard in his right; waving them, glaring at the waves, King Wu said: “Here I am! Who under heaven dares challenge my will!” Thereupon, the wind subsided and the waves rested themselves. 武王伐紂, 渡于孟津. 陽侯之波, 逆流而擊. . . . 於是武王左操黃鉞, 右秉白旄, 瞋目而撝之曰: “余任天下, 誰敢害吾意者!” 於是風濟而波罷.63 The crossing of the Meng ford is in keeping with the image of “crossing of the river” in line 1. After presenting these fables, the author of Huainan zi

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spells out their morals. These heroes are paragons of natural wisdom, uncorrupted, unworldly leaders whose sense of statesmanship is visceral: These men had maintained their character, preserved their spirit, and not endangered their bodies. When faced with crises and challenged by difficulties, their essences united with Heaven, as if they never deviated from their innocence. How could there be anything that they would not be able to accomplish? 夫全性保真, 不虧其身, 遭急迫難, 精通于天, 若乃未始出其宗者. 何為而不成?64 It is likely that when Qian draws on the figures of Fu Yue, Duke Luyang, and Jiang Taigong, it is with this message in mind. He strives to reinvent himself within the mold of those legendary leaders and in the last line of the poem does not hesitate to paint himself in their colors: “Shaoyang is, at heart, an old fisherman.” The reclusive type of the “old fisherman” reminds us of the first poem of the cycle, and it serves to bring us to the last. 3.8 臨分執手語逶迤白水旌心視此陂一別正思紅豆子雙棲終向碧梧枝盤周四角言難罄局定中心誓不移趣覲兩宮應慰勞紗燈影裡淚先垂

At parting, I hold your hand in mine, so many more words I want to say— Take a look at that pond, the clear water65 tells of my heart. After leave I will always think of these red beans; In the end we two will make our roost on the emerald Wutong trees.66 My words, from four corners, fail to convey what I feel; I swear, the resolution has been made in my heart, will never alter. Paying homage to the two palaces we will fulfill our wishes; In the shade of the gauze lanterns, our tears roll down before all this. Toubi ji: 14

This is a poem of vows, of love, and of steadfast loyalty, especially to Liu Rushi. After the first line, the moving lines from “Yu linling” 雨霖鈴, the famous parting song by Liu Yong 柳永 (1004–63), come readily to mind: 執手相看淚眼竟無語凝噎

Your hand in mine, we look at one another, tears fill our eyes; Speechless—we are sobbing.

At parting, Qian nevertheless points at a pond to make vows, calling the

Loyalty and love at parting 141 River God to witness. When Qian moves beyond this opening allusion to the sundered lovers, he settles on another allusion pregnant with meaning. The red beans of line 3 bring us to Wang Wei’s 王維 (699–759) lovely little poem “Xiangsi” 相思 (Yearning for You): 紅豆生南國春來發幾枝勸君多採擷此物最相思

Red beans grow on the southern land, In spring they burst on quite a few branches. Oh please pick some more my dear sir, They are the best tokens of shared yearning.67

Red beans are love tokens for the Chinese, but in this poem we can take this image to mean more than a mere vow of love. The image, borrowed from Wang Wei, of red beans growing on the southern land acquires a new political significance during the Ming–Qing transition. Nanguo, literally “southern land,” evokes the Southern Country: the Southern Ming. In a conventional image from the Tang dynasty, Qian ingeniously expresses his love for both Liu Rushi and the Southern Ming. The potential of the image of red beans is not exhausted yet. It also brings us to Qian’s residence at Baimao. Qian’s villa Furongzhuang 芙蓉莊 was also called Biwuhongdouzhuang 碧梧紅豆莊, or “villa of emerald Wutong and red beans.” It was distinguished for its large red bean trees. Qian and Liu settled there in 1656.68 The name of Biwuhongdouzhuang is encrypted in lines 3 and 4 of the poem: 一別正思紅豆子雙棲終向碧梧枝

After leave I will always think of these red beans [hongdou]; In the end we two will make our roost on the emerald Wutong trees [biwu].

Line 4 of course also alludes to Du Fu’s original line: “Emerald Wutong trees, branches for the phoenix’s old roost” (碧梧棲老鳳凰枝).69 Qian’s wish to return and spend the rest of his life with Liu is conveyed by this association and the expressed wish in his own line. Lines 5 and 6 present yet another vow, this time resorting to the metaphor of chess. Words at parting are likened to the moves on a chessboard, which will never be exhaustive. Qian assures Liu that he is like a good chess player who has from the beginning a complete vision informing his maneuvers; his promise, he swears, would not be altered by sudden accident. It is both a vow of love to Liu and a vow of commitment to the Ming restoration. Chen Yinke reads a great deal more in the line “In the end we two will make our roost on the emerald Wutong trees.” He maintains that this line registers Qian’s loyalty to the Yongli emperor of the Southern Ming and sheds light on the reference to the “two palaces” (lianggong 兩宮) in line 7.70 To explain his theory, a few words about Yongli’s origin are in order. In 1645, when the demise of the Hongguang emperor was confirmed, many

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officials in Guangxi felt it was their turn to help continue the Ming empire. A royal prince, Zhu Youai, the eldest surviving son of Zhu Changying 朱常瀛, the recently deceased Prince of Gui 桂王, was in their domain. When Zhang Xianzhong invaded southern Hu-Guang in 1643, Zhu Youai and his father fled the Gui princely estate in Hengzhou 衡州 and eventually took refuge in Wuzhou 梧州. The Prince of Gui died in Cangwu 蒼梧 in 1644, leaving Zhu Youai next in succession to the throne after the Prince of Fu. However, Zhu Youai also died shortly after he was established as the next Prince of Gui. Of Zhu Changying’s progeny, only the youngest, Zhu Youlang 朱由榔, the Prince of Yongming 永明, survived. All of a sudden, Yongming found himself the sole surviving grandson of the Wanli emperor and next in line to the legitimate succession to the throne.71 In mid-November 1645, he was established as Regent at Zhaoqing 肇慶. Late that same month, he departed westward for Wuzhou, where he would receive better protection from more reliable armies. About a year later, in December of 1646, the Regent returned to Zhaoqing to be enthroned as the Yongli emperor. His reign endured until 1662, when he was captured and executed by Wu Sangui.72 Chen Yinke believes that Qian’s word biwu refers to the Yongli emperor, since the Prince of Gui (Zhu Changying) died in Cangwu and the origin of the Yongli regime was closely associated with Wuzhou (both of these two place names contain the character wu).73 The whole of line 4, in his interpretation, is to be read as a political statement, that Qian and Liu would join the Yongli emperor in due course. Chen further asserts that the “two palaces” in line 7 refers to the empress dowager and the empress, née Ma and née Wang, respectively. This interpretation is tenable, given Qian’s long history of flirtations with the Yongli court. However, it seems odd that Qian should invoke Yongli in this place, while the rest of the cycle focuses on Zheng Chenggong and his circle. (Qian would also have been sensible enough to know that Zheng’s allegiance to the Yongli court was only half-hearted.) And why the “two palaces” must mean the empress dowager and the empress also remains to be resolved, if this interpretation is to be accepted on more than faith alone. “Two palaces” in classical Chinese writings, historical and poetic, can mean the empress dowager and the emperor; the supersovereign and the emperor; the empress and the emperor’s chief concubine; or the emperor and the crown prince. Rarely does it refer to the empress dowager and the empress. Furthermore, to my knowledge, the empress dowager and the empress possessed no great merit, at least by this time, worthy of honorable mention.74 I must confess that—because the historical or biographical information about the “two palaces” is too scant to indicate who they really were—I have no better theory than Chen’s to offer, but all the same I feel his might not be conclusive. The fourth cycle of the Toubi ji was written on September 30, 1659, and the fifth on October 4 of the same year. The subtitle of the fourth cycle reads: “There was no moon over the river village on the Mid-Autumn Day [the 15th of the 8th lunar month]; I composed the following” (中秋夜江村無月而作).

Loyalty and love at parting 143 The subtitle of the fifth cycle reveals: “On the nineteenth of mid-autumn I returned to the villa for the time being. I composed the following” (中秋十九日暫回村莊而作). We reckon Qian had spent nine days, from September 25 to October 4, away from home. Chen Yinke maintains that Qian attempted to join Zheng Chenggong by contacting Zheng’s rearguard at Baimao.75 That Qian made contact with this detachment is possible: he had three days to do this. The unit did not evacuate until September 28, and the distance from Baimao to Chongming was negotiable. However, it appears Qian did not manage to join Zheng in Chongming (see discussion below). Chen also suggests that Qian went to Songjiang to persuade a Qing commander there to help salvage the situation. This could have happened, if it had happened at all, only after Zheng’s ships at Baimao had left without Qian. He could afford himself six days to accomplish this mission. Jin Hechong 金鶴沖, the author of the chronological biography of Qian that we have referred to on many occasions, writes that Zheng Chenggong sent Cai Zheng 蔡政 to see Ma Jinbao on September 19.76 Ma was Provincial Military Commander of the Qing based in Songjiang. Apparently, Ma had entered into some kind of deal with Zheng in relation to the latter’s invasion of the Yangzi delta. As it transpired, Ma’s allegiance to Zheng during Zheng’s Yangzi campaign was, however, far from absolute. Cai’s mission now was to urge Ma to intercede for Zheng in reopening negotiations with the Qing court.77 Jin suggests that Qian left Baimao on September 25 to meet with Ma and Cai in Songjiang, and that on Cai’s return to Chongming, Qian may have been in Cai’s company.78 This is unconvincing for two obvious reasons: (1) Although Cai Zheng had returned to Chongming by the evening of September 26,79 Qian did not leave Baimao until the evening of September 25. Even if Qian had traveled expressly to Songjiang after he left Baimao, he would not have found Cai Zheng in Songjiang. (2) It is unthinkable that Qian could have traveled from Baimao to Songjiang, and then from Songjiang to Chongming—a distance of at least two hundred miles—within twenty-four hours. If Qian ever met with Cai Zheng and Ma Jinbao, it could only have occurred between September 27 and October 4. On September 27, Zheng Chenggong sent Cai Zheng back to Songjiang, and from there Cai would proceed to Beijing to negotiate with the Qing court.80 Clearly, Qian communicated frequently with Ma, particularly in the years between 1650 and 1656. As early as 1649, in a letter to Qu Shisi, Qian mentioned that Ma was a Qing military official who could be bought. Three visits that Qian made to Ma in 1650, 1653, and 1656 have been documented.81 In 1651, Qian wrote a letter of introduction for Huang Zongyan 黃宗炎, Huang Zongxi’s brother, when Huang Zongyan was planning a visit to Ma.82 Quite a few poems and essays written for Ma can also be found in Qian’s Youxue ji.83 It is possible that Qian paid Ma another visit to persuade Ma to assist the Ming resurgence. However, neither Chen Yinke, nor Jin Hechong, nor I myself can

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establish the facts of the matter. In the absence of proof, this can only be considered as a possibility. Another theory proposes that Qian had managed to convene with Zheng before Zheng departed from Chongming. Zhou Caiquan 周采泉 maintains that analysis of this cycle (Poem 3.5 in particular) reveals that Qian and Liu traveled together from Baimao to Chongming to meet with Zheng on September 25. Zhou asserts that Poem 3.5 was written by Qian in Chongming to see Zheng off. In Zhou’s reading, “mountain after mountain” in line 1 refers to Fujian, and by extension, Zheng’s naval forces, because Fujian, Zheng’s base, was also known as Sanshan 三山 or the Three Mountains. The “promise” in line 2 is made by Zheng to reassure Qian that he will return. “The Golden Mirror flies away” in line 3 symbolizes Zheng’s defeat at Nanjing. Line 4’s Yumen Pass stands for “the gate to the country.” Qian says it is “overcast,” insinuating that Zheng failed to break through the defense of Nanjing. That the white jade is soiled by flies in line 5 reflects the rumors and scandals that slight Zheng. In line 6, Qian demonstrates his unwavering loyalty to Zheng by turning a deaf ear to rumors like “there is a tiger in the market.” Liudu in line 7 invokes the memory of the perished Ming. Line 8 salutes Liu’s loyalty to the Ming, since she did not join the ranks of the “ladies in feathered chariots.”84 Zhou’s theory is just fanciful thinking and can be dismissed by common sense. The subtitle of the cycle is specific and explicit: it states that Qian left Baimao on the evening of September 25. Evidently, the actual parting of the two persons concerned took place shortly before daybreak (wugeng 五更; from three to five). If Zhou Caiquan’s theory can hold, Qian must go directly from Baimao over the Yangzi to Chongming—a distance separated by thirty miles of water—which is not entirely unfeasible under normal conditions. But that was the eve of Zheng’s assault upon Chongming. Reportedly, Zheng was busy deploying his forces to beset the city well into the night.85 Could Zheng afford the time or the luxury of entertaining Qian? One also expects that the area would have been cordoned off. Would Zheng’s gendarmes have allowed Qian’s boat to move freely? But let’s allow that the meeting was prearranged, so that Qian and Zheng did meet. Still, would Zheng stay up all night, until almost dawn, with Qian, not getting any rest for the following morning’s operation? And would he drink with Qian? (It was recorded that Zheng’s forces started bombarding the city at seven o’clock, on the dot, in the morning.)86 So, suppose that Qian and Zheng did not meet on the night of September 25. How about on September 26? Again, unlikely. Witness this: From seven o’clock in the morning until one o’clock in the afternoon, Zheng’s forces bombarded the city walls. Around one o’clock several feet of the outer wall collapsed at the northwestern corner; thereafter Zheng directed the assault on the city in person. The attack, however, made no headway. Zheng’s side suffered heavy casualties. Eventually, Zheng called off the attack and gathered his aides to assess the situation. Soon dusk fell. That night, it so happened that Cai Zheng and the agent of Ma Jinbao arrived at Chongming

Loyalty and love at parting 145 from Songjiang. It was recorded that Zheng received them and spent some time showing Ma’s agent around, so as to impress him with his still formidable forces. After the meeting Zheng promised to put a stop to the operation.87 (This, in fact, had been decided on between Zheng and his generals before Ma’s agent arrived.) In the next couple of hours, Zheng directed the withdrawal of his men back to the ships from the island. Under cover of gathering darkness, Zheng’s ships sailed out of the waters of Chongming.88 It follows that it was practically impossible for Zheng and Qian to have met that night, or any night thereafter, because Zheng had left Chongming.89 What actually engaged Qian during those nine days may never be known. The only thing we are sure of is that it was an extremely tense and trying experience for a man in his late seventies. The following lines from Qian, written during this interval of time, may shed some light on the nature of his activities: 4.2 穴紙江風吹而斜槿籬門內尚中華蒼涼伍員蘆中客浩蕩張騫漢上槎弦急撞胸懸杵臼火炎衝耳簇簫笳刀尖劍吷懵騰度瞪目猶飛滿眼花

River winds pierced through the window paper, now driving, now slanting; Inside the hibiscus fence, nevertheless, was still a Central Kingdom. As mournful as Wu Yuan, I was a wanderer among reed marshes; Elevated as Zhang Qian, I boarded the raft to Heaven’s River. Nerves taut as a bow, I felt a mortar and pestle pound inside my chest; Flushed, my ears rang as if with the flute and fife. The dagger’s tip and the sword’s point I barely escaped, I didn’t know how; I opened my eyes wide, but all I saw were flying flowers hovering. Toubi ji: 15

Written on September 30, this is the second poem in the fourth cycle of the Toubi ji. The subtitle of this cycle makes it clear that Qian was staying in a river village,90 as, indeed, lines 1 and 2 suggest. In line 3 Qian compares himself to Wu Zixu 伍子胥 (?–484 ), a historical figure from the Spring and Autumn era who traveled from the state of Chu to Wu to avenge his father’s death. The Han general Zhang Qian’s raft (line 4) accidentally wandered onto Heaven’s River. These two lines depict Qian journeying through the watery Wu area (lu zhong ke 蘆中客),91 with a mind to avenge the death of the Ming dynasty. The raft on Heaven’s River (han shang cha 漢上槎) can be taken as a symbol for Zheng’s naval forces. We might imagine that at a certain point in his adventures, Qian managed to board one of Zheng’s warships. This would explain the rather hearty adjective “elevated,” haodang 浩蕩.

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From the latter half of the poem in particular, we figure that Qian encountered some nerve-racking combat. These four lines are truly wonderful; few descriptions in traditional Chinese poetry are equally deft in capturing physical distress (one fears that Qian could have a heart attack any moment). At other times, Qian was hiding, busy writing and sending out secret messages, or stealthily on the move. This is revealed in the following fragment from Poem 4.4: 孤燈削柿丸書夜間道吹簫乞食時雨暗蘆中雙槳急月明江上片帆遲

Some nights by a lone lamp I made persimmons balls to hold messages; There were times on some hidden track I played the flute, to beg for food.92 In dark rain, through the reeds we pulled the two oars in frenzy; When the moon was bright above the river, our lone sail hesitated. Toubi ji: 16

Eventually Qian returned to Baimao, again, on a small boat. Qian writes in the last poem of the fifth cycle of the Toubi ji, dated October 4: 孤蓬信宿且逶迤白水柴門返故陂

On a solitary boat for several nights, taking a slow, winding course, At last I returned to the wicker door by the white water, my old roost. Toubi ji: 23

The day before Qian reached his villa at Baimao, where Liu Rushi would have been waiting anxiously by the “wicker door” for all the stories Qian was to tell her, Zheng Chenggong’s navy arrived in Zhoushan in Zhejiang to prepare to set sail for its strongholds in the far south. Once Zheng and his men left Zhejiang, Qian’s painstakingly prepared wax-coated messages in the form of wanshu 丸書 would not have easily reached the Ming warriors.

Conclusion Qian Qianyi’s shishi revisited

To modern readers, reading Qian Qianyi is a very involved experience and process—aesthetic and intellectual. Qian proved to be one of the strongest poets of seventeenth-century China, perhaps even in the history of the Chinese lyric. His poetry occasions both pleasure and great intellectual investment. At one moment his verses may indulge the reader with sheer imagistic and metrical delights. Yet at another turn, the intricate implications of his verses forestall an instinctive reading and oblige the reader to reconsider the complexity and richness of every detail. The three cycles of “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’ ” that we have discussed in the previous chapters are characterized by their relentless allusiveness. Qian’s penchant for allusions demands the careful reading of a large body of literary, biographical, and historical sources. The boundaries between the figurative and the literal often blur because Qian imbues every expression with new significance. Qian endows conventional allusions with a dual status as symbolic allusion and topical allegory, thus establishing a new immediacy and gravity for them in the Ming–Qing historical context as well as Qian’s own life. This renders any exclusively literary approach to his poetry insufficient, if not naive. Whereas in general practice the use of allusion implicates the relationship between the past and present, Qian often goes further than that. Qian’s allusions are fused, not merely juxtaposed, with other images and symbols in his poems, so they fuse the past into an all-embracing, overwhelming present. Against this rhetorical backdrop, even conventional stock images must be reinterpreted in terms of Ming loyalist poetics. Though many times compelling and evocative, Qian’s verses are rarely effusive. In them, intensity of exhilaration, melancholy, and reflection depend on nuance and suggestion. When the poet loses his restraints, it is usually not for long. So the heroic and abandoned tone of the first cycle soon gives way to introspection and retrospection in the second and third as Zheng Chenggong’s 1659 Ming restoration campaign waxes and wanes. While the first cycle brings to the fore the public sphere of the state and its subjects and the monarch and his officials, the second and the third cycles lead us to Qian’s privately cherished dreams, his unfulfilled ambitions, love for Liu Rushi, and memories of weaknesses and frustrations in the face of crisis. The poems of

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the first cycle are highly charged political proclamations, while the ones in the second and the third betray Qian’s anxieties and express his hopes. Qian’s shishi should not be reduced to a game of literary and historical allusions. His preoccupation was, on the one hand, to remember and preserve, and, on the other, to praise and blame. The Toubi ji was composed as shishi, and Qian meant it to be his testimony. He hoped to convince his contemporaries and posterity—and perhaps subconsciously, even himself— that he was no traitor to the Ming house, that he surrendered to the Manchus unwillingly and made a reluctant accomplice. Striving to appear as a loyal official, Qian identifies himself unreservedly with the Ming loyalists, and imaginatively figures himself in the Ming restoration. With the readings we have conducted in the preceding chapters, we can now evaluate how well shishi serves Qian’s purposes. First, a recapitulation of the salient characteristics of shishi as Qian expounded it: Shishi’s function is to record historical figures and events. Its intention is to praise and blame. Its subject matter bears on recent history and contemporary affairs. Its rhetoric tends toward subtlety, preferring analogy and stimulus (bi and xing) over direct presentation (fu). The most informed, masterful authors of shishi are survivors of political changeover. Shishi aims at an audience of understanding, sympathetic readers in posterity. In addition, Qian asserts that shishi supersedes formal history in times of crisis. As it appears, shishi does effectively valorize and dramatize historical figures and events. Chinese historiographical tradition eulogizes the independent mind and moral courage of historians. History is a powerful cultural and political institution in its own right. As a standard practice, one of the first implementations of a new dynasty was to set up a historiographical bureau, and to commission the best historians and scholars of the day to compose a history of the former ruling house. Although such an agency was supposed to be given freedom of expression, it could not but be influenced by the politicocultural dispositions and attitudes of the new court. It was hard, for example, for the state-sponsored historiographical bureau to assert independence over the sensitive issues of legitimate authority and, if involved, ethnic conflicts. Concerning the yimin of the fallen dynasty, the writing project might be even more thorny. First, most loyalists deliberately kept a low profile in the new dynasty (save loyalist activists, naturally). Chronicling their activities was difficult in itself. Secondly, if the loyalists were involved in some plot against the current dynasty, court historians would be hard put to give an objective account of the activities. (As we have seen above, it obliged the monarch himself, the Qianlong emperor, in the eighteenth century to lay down the principles in recounting the Southern Ming history before the official historians dared to venture into the gray area.) The historical writings of private authors—as we have seen, this kind of literature was categorically labeled yeshi, “unofficial history”—furnished an important alternative source, offering a broader, and sometimes truer, view of the matter. Shishi can be considered a privileged form of yeshi as it results

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from personal experiences and feelings. In this regard, shishi was indeed more becoming and appealing than state-sponsored, state-monitored historiographical products. Qian’s poems fully bear out this advantage. Figures such as Liu Rushi, Yao Zhizhuo, Wen Anzhi, Miss Ruan, and Qian himself are either totally neglected in official history or presented somewhat unjustly. Yet their deeds are intimately related and embellished by Qian’s shishi. Moreover, who knew the loyalists better that the loyalists themselves? If the loyalists wrote about their lives in shishi, such poems could be read, in a sense, as their autobiographies. For these reasons, the shishi poets were in a more advantageous position than bureau historians to pass judgment on sensitive topics and figures. The sovereignty and freedom that the shishi poets enjoyed enabled them to fulfill the time-honored didactic function of history: they had a better chance of attaining the much-admired virtue of “achieving an opinion of one’s own” (cheng yijia zhi yan 成一家之言), in the famous words of the Grand Historian Sima Qian. Of course, freedom from official opinion came with its own biases—one needs a critical distance to be truly objective. The poetry of Qian Qianyi reveals an unyielding stubbornness over the issue of legitimate authority. Qian divided Han and non-Han rules absolutely and resolutely and shied away from the historical contingencies that led to the fall of the Ming and the rise of the Qing. Qian’s shishi engenders strong racial sentiments and serves the political purpose of summoning Han-Chinese to fight against the Manchu aliens, but it falls short of well-reasoned historical arguments (shilun 史論). With respect to conventional historiography and shishi, the issue of textuality is far more complex than matters of function, intention, and attitude. Composing history in the poetic form effortlessly secures a lyrical dimension for the text. It is generically and stylistically given. This is not to suggest that formal historical writings, such as the official dynastic histories, do not have moments of lyricism. It was not uncommon for historians to assume a lyrical tone to express personal opinions. Generally, these are announced with stock head-phrases like “Grand Historian says” (Taishigong yue 太史公曰) or “Official Historian remarks” (Shichen yue 史臣曰). Essays and poems by the personage being narrated would occasionally be pasted into the narrative to add color or detail. And after all, Chinese prose history has its own tropes and narrative structures, all of which may be considered lyrical in a certain light. (The modern writer Lu Xun 魯迅 famously described Sima Qian’s Shiji as “the greatest historical book ever, an ‘Encountering Sorrow’ without rhyme” [史家之絕唱, 無韻之離騷].)1 To formulate history via poetry is a quite different matter. Such a writing act voluntarily submits historicity to poetic representation. (The extent of the contingencies, of course, varies with how much history one tries to pack into a given poem.) In the style of shishi that Qian advocated, the mode of direct presentation is not favored: this reduces the capacity for narration, and close reasoning and elaboration become inconvenient. Chinese historiography,

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however, exalts the narration of events, and we observe that there is surely a narrative dimension, though without an underlying sequential structure, in Qian’s own verses. Qian makes a place for narrative by presenting his poetry in cycles—in the form of lianzhang 連章, as Chinese critics describe it—thus allotting more time and space for events to unfold and develop. Even so, the narrative progression is still hampered by formal discontinuity, from image to image, line to line, poem to poem, cycle to cycle. Closely related to the issue of textuality is that of accountability, a chief requisite for historical writings. To add credibility to the text the historian gives various details. This, however, is not a general practice of poets. With the exception of longer Old Style narrative or autobiographical poems, Chinese poetry prizes suggestiveness and nuance. Most shi poetry forms allow only a short verse. For example, in a standard seven-word regulated poem—the form that Du Fu and Qian Qianyi employed to create their “Autumn Thoughts”—the poet is given fifty-six characters, no more and no less. Within this frame one can express very subtle feelings and set emotive scenes, but cannot furnish particularizing details. It is obvious that Qian was aware of this quandary, since in most of the cycles of “After ‘Autumn Thoughts,’ ” he appends a subtitle giving the exact date of composition, the place where he composed it, and the event that occasioned it. These factual details help historicize the text, but they are rather discursive and limited. Qian also made the effort to insert notes into the poem proper to specify the references of certain lines. These notes in essence appropriate the function of direct presentation. The use of direct presentation alongside analogy and stimulus problematizes the theoretical notation of Qian’s shishi. Of course, if the notes are brief, to the point, and lyrical in themselves, the flow of meaning and reading will not be harmed. Most of Qian’s notes, observably, are successfully infused into the poem proper. Far more complex is the issue of subtlety. Subtle words, images, and allusions are of course the salt of poetry. Subtleties, however, lead toward ambiguity and obscurity, and one feels that some of the obscurities of Qian’s verses are calculated risks. If the poet endeavors to praise or blame—the mission of shishi, according to Qian—the result may not be yielded immediately or effectively. For Qian’s contemporaries, particularly those in the loyalist circles, this probably did not pose much of a problem, since they shared Qian’s common knowledge of the time. But, as Qian claimed, shishi finds an appreciative and understanding audience in posterity. Regrettably, the passage of time and change of idioms have sometimes left the contents of Qian’s poems beyond our ken. The representation of the loyalists’ activities between 1653 and 1654 that appears in the third cycle of “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’ ” is a case in point. The drive toward subtlety compels a shishi poet to use figures of speech, not all of them conventional lyrical or cultural tokens. The association of the Dongqing tree with the incident of the tombs from the Song–Yuan transition requires much explanation, and the connection between the Vermilion Bird and Southern Ming fugitive regimes has not

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lingered in the popular imagination. Their meaning and reference may be elusive. In this case, the aim of shishi—to praise and blame, and to preserve and record—cannot be said to have been met. We have seen that shishi is effective in handling matters of dayi, great principles or significance, such as racial ties, loyalty, and filial piety. Yet the complexities of specific events and individual experiences take a really good poet, such as Qian, to versify well, and even his success is at times mixed.

Notes

Introduction 1 In this study, I use the term Manchu in its general sense for convenience in writing. I am aware that among the conquest elite of the Qing there were Manchus, Chinese, Mongols, Koreans, the Turkic and Tungusic peoples of Manchuria, and Central Asians; and that in the 1640s, the composition of the invading armies included only a small minority of Manchus and increasing numbers of people of Chinese descent or birth. See Pamela Kyle Crossley, “The paradox of the Manchus,” Chapter 1 of her The Manchus, Cambridge, MA: Blackwell Publishers Inc, 1997, pp. 1–13. 2 Qing poetry and poetics have been largely ignored by modern scholarship, East and West, until perhaps as recently as the 1990s. Thereafter, they have gained greater critical attention from Chinese than from Western scholars. Recent publications on this topic from Taiwan and mainland China include: Zhu Zejie 朱則杰, Qingshi shi 清詩史, Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1992; Zhao Yongji 趙永紀, Qingchu shige 清初詩歌, Beijing: Guangming ribao chubanshe, 1993; Huo Youming 霍有明, Qingdai shige fazhanshi 清代詩歌發展史, Xi’an: Shaanxi renmin chubanshe, 1993; rpt. Taipei: Wenjin chubanshe, 1994; Liu Shinan 劉世南, Qingshi liupai shi 清詩流派史, Taipei: Wenjin chubanshe, 1995; rpt. Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 2004; Yan Dichang 嚴迪昌, Qingshi shi 清詩史, Taipei: Wunan tushu chuban gongsi, 1998; rpt. Hangzhou: Zhejiang guji chubanshe, 2002; Zhang Jian 張健, Qingdai shixue yangjiu 清代詩學研究, Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1999; Sun Li 孫立, Mingmo Qingchu shilun yanjiu 明末清初詩論研究, Guangzhou: Guangdong gaodeng jiaoyu chubanshe, 1999; Liu Cheng 劉誠, Zhongguo shixue shi: Qingdai juan 中國詩學史: 清代卷, Xiamen: Lujiang chubanshe, 2002. While most of these books do carry chapters or sections on Qian Qianyi, their discussions are too preliminary and inadequate in character. Sun Li’s book, given its focus is on the theories of poetry of the Ming–Qing transition, is perhaps the only exception. Sun offers a much more substantial and in-depth study of Qian in pp. 238–311 of his book. 3 James J.Y. Liu, Chinese Theories of Literature, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1975, p. 45. 4 See Fang Chao-ying, “Wang Shih-chen,” in Arthur W. Hummel (ed.) Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period (1644–1912), Washington: United States Government Printing Office, 1943–4, p. 832. See also Richard Lynn’s entry for Wang Shizhen in William H. Nienhauser, Jr. (ed.) The Indiana Companion to Traditional Chinese Literature, Taipei: Southern Materials Center, Inc., 1988, pp. 876–7; Richard John Lynn, “Orthodoxy and enlightenment: Wang Shih-chen’s theory of poetry and its antecedents,” in Wm. Theodore de Bary (ed.) The Unfolding of NeoConfucianism, New York: Columbia University Press, 1975, pp. 217–69; Daniel

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6

7 8 9 10

11

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Bryant, “Syntax, sound, and sentiment in old Nanking: Wang Shih-chen’s ‘miscellaneous poems on the Ch’in-huai,’ ” Chinese Literature: essays, article, reviews 14, Dec. 1992, 25–50; Jiang Yin 蔣寅, Wang Yuyang yu Kangxi shitan 王漁洋與康熙詩壇, Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 2001; Kang-i Sun Chang, “Re-creating the canon: Wang Shizhen (1643–1711) and his poetics of shenyun,” in Jason Webb and Roland Greene (eds) Studies of Comparative Literature: essays and translations in honor of Earl Miner (festschrift) (forthcoming). Huang Zongxi 黃宗羲 (1610–95) opens his elegy for Qian—“Qian Zongbo Muzhai” 錢宗伯牧齋 in “Ba ai shi” 八哀詩—with this line: “Within the four seas, you had been a leader [of all writers] for fifty years” (四海宗盟五十年). See Nanlei shi li 南雷詩曆, juan 2, Nanlei shiwenji 南雷詩文集, in Huang Zongxi quanji 黃宗羲全集 (ed.) Shen Shanhong 沈善洪, Hangzhou: Zhejiang guji chubanshe, 1973, vol. 11, p. 261. For a succinct account of Qian’s reception in Qing and modern times, see Kang-i Sun Chang, “Qian Qianyi and his place in history,” in Wilt L. Idema, Wai-yee Li, and Ellen Widmer (eds) Trauma and Transcendence in Early Qing Literature, Cambridge, MA, and London: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006, pp. 199– 218. See Jennifer W. Jay, A Change in Dynasties: loyalism in thirteenth-century China, Bellingham, WA: Western Washington University, 1991, pp. 5–6. The Mencius passage associates it with the poem “Yunhan” 雲漢 (Mao no. 258) in the Book of Odes. Irving Yucheng Lo and William Schultz (eds) Waiting for the Unicorn: poems and lyrics of China’s last dynasty, 1644–1911, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1986, p. 4. Lynn A. Struve, “Ambivalence and action: some frustrated scholars of the K’anghsi period,” in Jonathan D. Spence and John Wills, Jr. (eds) From Ming to Ch’ing: conquest, region, and continuity in seventeenth-century China, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1979, p. 327. For literary and historical representations of Qian in Qing and modern times, see Xie Zhengguang 謝正光 (Andrew Hsieh), “Tanlun Qingchu shiwen dui Qian Muzhai pingjia zhi zhuanbian” 探論清初詩文對錢牧齋評價之轉變, in his Qingchu shiwen yu shiren jiaoyou kao 清初詩文與士人交遊考, Nanjing: Nanjiing daxue chubanshe, 2001, pp. 60–105; Kang-i Sun Chang, “Qian Qianyi and his place in history,” in Wilt Idema, Wai-yee Li, and Ellen Widmer (eds) Trauma and Transcendence in Early Qing Literature, Cambridge MA and London: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006, pp. 199–218. For discussion of the identity of yimin, see Struve, “Ambivalence and action,” p. 327; Jay, A Change in Dynasties, p. 6; Xie Zhengguang, “Qingchu suo jian ‘yimin lu’ zhi bianzhuan yu liuchuan” 清初所見「遺民錄」之編撰與流傳, in his Qingchu shiwen yu shiren jiaoyou kao, pp. 1–31; He Guanbiao 何冠彪 (Ho Koon Piu), “Lun Ming yimin zhi chuchu” 論明遺民之出處, in his Mingmo Qingchu xueshu sixiang yanjiu 明末清初學術思想研究, Taipei: Xuesheng shuju, 1991, pp. 102–5n2; Zhang Bing 張兵, “Yimin yu yiminshi zhi liubian” 遺民與遺民詩之流變, Xibei shida xuebao (shehui kexue ban) 西北師大學報 (社會科學版) 35.4, Jul. 1998, 7–12; Zhao Yuan 趙園, Ming Qing zhiji shidafu yanjiu 明清之際士大夫研究, Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1999, pp. 257–79; Tobie Meyer-Fong, Building Culture in Early Qing Yangzhou, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2003, pp. 33–4; my essay, “Qian Qianyi’s theory of shishi during the Ming–Qing transition,” Occasional Papers, Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy 1, Jul. 2005, 1–68. See Frederic Wakeman, Jr., The Great Enterprise: the Manchu reconstruction of imperial order in seventeenth-century China, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985, pp. 584–604 and 1074–99. As Tom Fisher points out, the term Ming loyalism covers a broad range of “attitudes and lifestyles,” and the

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14 15 16 17

18 19 20

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behavior of individual loyalists living under the Qing rule fell somewhere between the two extremes of “total eremitism” and “abject sycophancy.” See Tom Fisher, “Loyalist alternatives in the early Ch’ing,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 44.1, Jun. 1984, 83–122. For interaction between the yimin and the so-called erchen in early Qing, see Xie Zhengguang’s various studies of Qian Qianyi, Fang Wen 方文, Gu Yanwu 顧炎武, Cao Rong 曹溶, Sun Zhengze 孫承澤, Zhu Yizun 朱彝尊, Wang Shizhen, and others in his Qingchu shiwen yu shiren jiaoyou kao. See also Xie Mingyang’s 謝明陽 observations of Qian Chengzhi’s 錢澄之 life attitude and his social life in his Ming yimin de “yuan” “qun” shixue jingshen—cong Juelang daosheng dao Fang Yizhi, Qian Chengzhi 明遺民的「怨」「群」詩學精神—從覺浪道盛到方以智, 錢澄之, Taipei: Daan chubanshe, 2004, pp. 139–65. Hongnam Kim, The Life of a Patron: Zhou Lianggong (1612–1672) and the painters of seventeenth-century China, New York: China Institute in America, 1996, p. 143. Chun-shu Chang and Shelley Hsuen-lun Chang, Crisis and Transformation in Seventeenth-Century China: society, culture, and modernity in Li Yü’s world, Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1992, p. 326. Kang-i Sun Chang, The Late-Ming Poet Ch’en Tzu-lung: crises of love and loyalism, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1991, p. 7. The second poem in “Yinba ziti changju bomen er shou” 吟罷自題長句撥悶二首, in Pan Zhonggui 潘重規 (ed.) Qian Qianyi Toubi ji jiaoben 錢謙益投筆集校本 [hereafter Toubi ji], Taipei: Wenshizhe chubanshe, 1973, p. 55. All citations of the Toubi ji in this study are from this edition. Another critical edition of the Toubi ji can be found in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Muzhai zazhu 牧齋雜著, in Qian Muzhai quanji 錢牧齋全集 [hereafter Quanji], Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2003, vol. 7, pp. 1–77. For a bibliographical study of the various literary works of Qian, see Zhou Fagao 周法高, “Qian Muzhai shiwenji kao” 錢牧齋詩文集考, in his Qian Muzhai Wu Meicun yanjiu lunwenji 錢牧齋吳梅村研究論文集, Taipei: Guoli bianyiguan, 1995, pp. 1–97. In this book, I provide the Chinese originals along with the translations for the reader’s ready reference; all translations are mine unless otherwise noted. Citations not particularly important for the discussions in the text are placed in the notes, or omitted. “Wenyuan zhuan” 文苑傳 in Bei shi 北史, quoted in Zhou Fagao 周法高 (ed.) Zuben Qian Zeng Muzhai shi zhu 足本錢曾牧齋詩註 [hereafter Muzhai shi zhu], Taipei: Privately printed, 1973, vol. 5, p. 2761. See Zuozhuan, Ding 定 4; Kong Yingda 孔穎達, Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhengyi 春秋左傳正義, in Ruan Yuan 阮元 (ed.) Shisanjing zhushu 十三經注疏 [hereafter Shisanjing], rpt. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1980, p. 2137. During Ming–Qing times, literati printing was concentrated in the cities of the Lower Yangzi, where many of the most active scholar-printers and writers lived. See Evelyn S. Rawski, “Economic and social foundations of late imperial culture,” in David Johnson et al. (eds) Popular Culture in Late Imperial China, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985, pp. 25–6; Qian Hang 錢杭 and Cheng Zai 承載, Shiqishiji Jiangnan shehui shenghuo 十七世紀江南社會生活, Hangzhou: Zhejiang renmin chubanshe, 1996, pp. 129–65; Miao Yonghe 繆咏禾, Mingdai chubanshi gao 明代出版史稿, Nanjing: Jiangsu renmin chubanshe, 2000; Yasushi Oki 大木康, Minmatsu Kounan no syupan bunka 明末江南の出版文化, Tokyo: Kenbun syupan, 2004; Kai-wing Chow, Publishing, Culture, and Power in Early Modern China, Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 2004. From Li Yu’s letter to a friend, quoted and translated in Patrick Hanan, The Invention of Li Yu, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1988, pp. 12–13. Chang and Chang suggest that the Silent Operas and Silent Operas, Second Collection were first printed between 1654 and 1658. See their Crisis and Transformation in Seventeenth-Century China, pp. 62–3, 109n48.

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22 See Xie Guozhen 謝國楨, Ming Qing zhiji dangshe yundong kao 明清之際黨社運動考, Shanghai: Shanghai shudian chubanshe, 2004, pp. 139–74; Qian and Cheng, Shiqishiji Jiangnan shehui shenghuo, pp. 36–90; He Zongmei 何宗美, Mingmo Qingchu wenren jieshe yanjiu 明末清初文人結社研究, Tianjin: Nankai daxue chubanshe, 2003, pp. 285–352. 23 Yang Fengbao 楊鳳苞, “Shu Nanshancaotang yiji” 書南山草堂遺集, Qiu shi ji 秋室集, juan 1, quoted in Xie, Dangshe yundong, p. 138. 24 Feng Qiyong 馮其庸 and Ye Junyuan 葉君遠, Wu Meicun nianpu 吳梅村年譜, Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1990, pp. 251, 256–7 n. 4; Qian and Cheng, Shiqishiji Jiangnan shehui shenghuo, pp. 64–6. 25 Forty-five poems written on the occasion of the death of his eldest grandson make up this extraordinary work. Qian’s grandson was given the infant name Gui 桂 and the Yongli 永曆 emperor (r. 1647–61) of the Southern Ming was originally the Prince of Gui 桂王. One feels that Qian mourns the premature death of his grandson and the wretched lot that befell the Yongli court in the same breath. See Chen Yinke 陳寅恪, Liu Rushi biezhuan 柳如是別傳, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1980, p. 1111. 26 The poems were still included in the Youxue ji 有學集, in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Muzhai Youxue ji 牧齋有學集 [hereafter Youxue ji], Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1996, juan 9, pp. 455–72. The Youxue ji was published shortly after Qian’s death in 1644, but the editing was done by Qian himself in his last days. 27 From one of forty-six letters that Qian wrote Mao, collected in Qian Muzhai xiansheng chidu 錢牧齋先生尺牘, Muzhai zazhu, Quanji, vol. 7, pp. 313–14. 28 See Li Zhaoyuan 李兆元 and Zheng Hong’s 鄭鴻 commentaries on this set, quoted in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Qingshi jishi 清詩紀事, Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1987, pp. 2023–31. 29 Wang Shizhen nianpu 王士禛年譜, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1992, p. 14. 30 “Caigentang shiji xu” 菜根堂詩集序, quoted in ibid. 31 For a study of this extraordinary “matching rhymes” (changhe 唱和) literary event of the early Qing, see Xie Zhengguang, “Jiu ‘Qiuliu’ shi zhi changhe kaolun Gu Yanwu yu Wang Shizhen zhi jiaoyi” 就《秋柳》詩之唱和考論顧炎武與王士禎之交誼, in his Qingchu shiwen yu shiren jiaoyou kao, pp. 392–438. 32 Chang, The Late-Ming Poet Ch’en Tzu-lung, p. 7. 33 In preparing this study, I have consulted, among others, the following biographical sources on Qian Qianyi: Wang Zhonghan 王鍾翰 (ed.) Qing shi liezhuan 清史列傳, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987, 79:6575–8; Quanji pp. 930–52 (Qian Zhonglian’s Quanji also contains some other important biographical material on pp. 930–75); Pengcheng tuishi 彭城退士, Qian Muweng xiansheng nianpu 錢牧翁先生年譜, appended in Muzhai wannian jiacheng wen 牧齋晚年家乘文, Shanghai: Guoxue fulun she 國學扶輪社, 1911; Ge Wanli 葛萬里, Muweng xiansheng nianpu 牧翁先生年譜, in Lei Jin 雷瑨 (comp.) Qingren shuohui er bian 清人說薈二編, Shanghai: Saoyeshanfang 掃葉山房, 1917, pp. 575–89, reprinted in Wang Youli 王有立 (ed.) Zhonghua wenshi congshu 中華文史叢書, Taipei: Huawen shuju, 1969, ser. 11; Hu Wenkai 胡文楷, “Liu Rushi nianpu” 柳如是年譜, Donfang zazhi 東方雜誌 43.3, 37–47, recently included in Fan Jingzhong 范景中 and Zhou Shutian 周書田 (eds) Liu Rushi shiji 柳如是事輯, Hangzhou: Zhongguo meishu xueyuan chubanshe, 2002, pp. 465–500; Chen Yinke’s study of Liu Rushi and Qian Qianyi, Liu Rushi biezhuan; L. Carrington Goodrich and J.C. Yang’s biographical entry “Ch’ien Ch’ien-I [Qian Qianyi],” in Hummel, Eminent Chinese, pp. 148–50. Pei Shijun’s 裴世俊 recent comprehensive biography of Qian, Sihai zongmeng wushi nian: Qian Qianyi zhuan 四海宗盟五十年: 錢謙益傳, Beijing: Dongfang chubanshe, 2001, is convenient to use for major events of Qian’s life and the general historical background. Cai Yingyuan’s 蔡營源 earlier book, Qian Qianyi

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zhi shengping yu zhushu 錢謙益之生平與著述, Miaoli: Privately printed, 1976, is also useful. 34 See Wakeman, The Great Enterprise, pp. 596–7. 35 For a discussion of a group of Qian’s late-Ming poems, see Jonathan Chaves, “The Yellow Mountain poems of Ch’ien Ch’ien-i (1582–1664): poetry as yu-chi,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 48.2, Dec. 1988, 465–92. 1 Qian Qianyi’s theory of shishi and the poetics of Ming loyalism 1 It is not irrelevant to note that Qian was a serious historian, in pursuit of both professional goals and personal gratification. Throughout his long life, Qian committed himself to various historiographical projects. In 1610, Qian earned his jinshi degree and the Wanli emperor appointed him, then aged twenty-nine, to the post of Historiographer (Shiguan 史官). (Qian’s formal position was Junior Compiler in the Hanlin Academy, Hanlinyuan Bianxiu 翰林院編修, with the rank of 7b.) Qian held the office for only a few months, since his father died that same year. Qian requested a leave of absence and went home for the mourning period. As it happens, partisan politics kept him from resuming his position for the next eleven years. Although he held the post for so short a time, in many of his writings Qian continues to style himself “The former Historiographer” (jiu shiguan 舊史官), an indication of his regard for the historian’s vocation. During the short-lived Hongguang reign, Qian asked for permission to compose the Ming history, and suggested that he supervise the project at his private library, the marvelous Jiangyunlou 絳雲樓. The Hongguang emperor, however, did not grant him the honor. During his service with the Qing (1646), besides holding the position of Vice Minister of Rites, Qian was also engaged in the Ming History compilation project as Vice Supervisor. When he resigned from the Qing court, he privately and singlehandedly undertook the Ming history project. It was said that he had already drafted one hundred juan of the Ming history before his library caught fire in the winter of 1650. The manuscript, along with many priceless editions of Song and Yuan books, was, alas, destroyed. For a study of Qian’s book collecting and library, see Jian Xiujuan 簡秀娟, Qian Qianyi cangshu yanjiu 錢謙益藏書研究, Taipei: Hanmei chubanshe, 1991. Qian was often noted by his contemporaries for his dedication and splendid ability as a historical writer. Some even suggested that Qian chose not to die for the Ming in 1645 but survived to serve the Qing because of his desire to compose the Ming history. See Wu Zuxiu’s 吳祖修 poem “Shu Muzhai shi hou” 書牧齋詩後, included in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Qingshi jishi 清詩紀事, Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1987, pp. 934–5, Shen Deqian’s 沈德潛 comment on the poem, quoted in ibid., p. 935; and Ling Fengxiang’s 凌鳳翔 preface to the Youxue ji 有學集, Sibu congkan 四部叢刊 edition, Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1979, “zhengbian” 正編, vol. 79. The high opinion of Qian’s historiographical talent has not been limited to Qian’s contemporaries: some of his works, especially those on the early Ming, are still consulted by modern historians. See Frederick W. Mote’s “Bibliographic Notes” for “The Rise of the Ming Dynasty, 1330–1367,” in Frederick W. Mote and Dennis Twitchett (eds) The Cambridge History of China, Vol. 7, The Ming Dynasty, 1368–1644, Part 1, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988, pp. 783–4. For studies of Qian’s historiography, see Du Weiyun 杜維運, “Qian Qianyi qi ren ji qi shixue” 錢謙益其人及其史學, in his Qingdai shijia yu shixue 清代史家與史學, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1988, pp. 223–33; Yang Jinlong 楊晉龍 (Yang Chin-lung), “Qian Qianyi shixue yanjiu” 錢謙益史學研究, M.A. thesis, Gaoxiong shifan xueyuan 高雄師範學院, 1989; Zhang Yonggui 張永貴 and Li Jianjun 黎建軍, “Qian Qianyi shixue sixiang pingshu” 錢謙益史學思想評述, Shixue yuekan 史學月刊 2000.2, 19–24; Qian Maowei 錢茂偉, Mingdai shixue de licheng 明代史學的歷程, Beijing:

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Shehui kexue wenxian chubanshe, 2003, pp. 326–32; Wang Rongzu 汪榮祖 (Young-tsu Wong), “Qian Muzhai de shibi” 錢牧齋的史筆, Zhongguo wenzhe yanjiu tongxun 中國文哲研究通訊 (Newsletter of the Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy) 14.2, Jun. 2004, 49–61. Youxue ji 有學集, in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Muzhai Youxue ji 牧齋有學集 [hereafter Youxue ji], Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1996, juan 18, pp. 800–1. Ibid., juan 22, pp. 897–9. See Chen Yinke 陳寅恪, Liu Rushi biezhuan 柳如是別傳, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1980, pp. 1087–8. Youxue ji, juan 6, p. 285. Wu zhi ji 吾炙集, 15a, in Zhou Fagao 周法高 (ed.) Zuben Qian Zeng Muzhai shi zhu 足本錢曾牧齋詩註 [hereafter Muzhai shi zhu], Taipei: Privately printed, 1973, vol. 5, p. 2797. Youxue ji, juan 1, pp. 8–13. As I myself did, in my 1998 dissertation for Yale University, where I suggested dating “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” to 1649, and “Zengbie Hu Jingfu xu” to 1656. I must thank Professor Yü Ying-shih 余英時, the reviewer of an earlier version of this chapter, who urges me to reconsider the particular details contained in the literature that I am examining in this section. As he argues convincingly in his reader’s report, Hu Zhiguo’s visit of 1662 to Qian in Changshu should be taken as an actual event, as Chen Yinke has suggested. I am happy to correct myself. Part of Professor Yü’s report was revised and published as “Qian Qianyi ‘shishi’ shuo zhi yangque” 錢謙益「詩史」說之揚榷, in Liu Cuirong 劉翠溶 (Ts’ui-jung Liu) (ed.) Xifenxi lunxueji: qingzhu Li Yuanzhe xiansheng qishi shouchen 四分溪論學集: 慶祝李遠哲先生七十壽辰, Taipei: Yunchen wenhua shiye gufen youxiangongsi, 2006, vol. 1, pp. 105–21. In Qian, Wu zhi ji; Zhuo Erkan 卓爾堪 (comp.) Yimin shi 遺民詩, Shanghai You zheng shuju 有正書局 Mingmo sibaijia yimin shi 明末四百家遺民詩, 1910 edition; Wang Yu 王豫 (comp.) Jiangsu shizheng 江蘇詩徵, 1820 edition; and Zhu Xuzeng 朱緒曾 et al. (comps) Guochao Jinling shizheng 國朝金陵詩徵, 1892 edition. I assembled and edited the texts in Appendix A of my “Qian Qianyi’s theory of shishi during the Ming–Qing transition,” Occasional Papers, Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy 1, Jul. 2005, 69–76. I thank Professor Andrew Hsieh (Xie Zhengguang 謝正光), who later informed me that six other titles of poems by Hu can be found in Shichi 詩持 (in “san ji” 三集) and Guochao shidi 國朝詩的. Both books are included in Siku jinhuishu congkan 四庫禁燬書叢刊 (Beijing: Beijing chubanshe, 2000). The precise dates of Zhuo Erkan’s life were not established until very recently, when Pan Chengyu 潘承玉 published his book on Zhuo. See Pan Chengyu, Qingchu shitan: Zhuo Erkan yu Yimin shi yanjiu 清初詩壇: 卓爾堪與《遺民詩》研究, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2004, pp. 38–108. Pan’s dates, however, differ from the earlier reconstruction of Xie Zhengguang 謝正光 and She Rufeng 佘汝豐, who suggested circa 1655 to after 1705. See Xie and She, Qingchuren xuan Qingshi huikao 清初人選清詩彙考, Nanjing: Nanjing daxue chubanshe, 1998, pp. 261, 266–7. Some forty poems of Hu are extant, see n. 9 above. Taking the major historical events of these few years into consideration, Professor Yü Ying-shih, the reviewer of an earlier version of this chapter, suggests that Chen’s analysis, though viable, can be further fine-tuned: as Zheng’s defeat in Nanjing had occurred in 1659 and there were no momentous happenings associated with Nanjing afterwards, one can instead contextualize Hu’s trip to Changshu with the recent capture (and later execution) of the Yongli 永曆 emperor (r. 1647–61) of the Southern Ming by Wu Sangui 吳三桂 on the Qing

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side, an event that was crushing to the Ming loyalists. Qian makes a clear reference to the rumors surrounding Yongli’s doom in one poem-series of 1663 in his Toubi ji. In this connection, Prof. Yü maintains that it is perhaps more desirable to date Hu’s visit to 1663. His theory deserves further exploration. Dating Hu’s “Yushan” poem and Qian’s “Zengbie” essay to either 1662 or 1663 will not affect the 1656 status of “Hu Zhiguo shi xu,” as the traditional Chinese reckoning of “years” is ordinal, allowing the give or take of one year. I found, a bit to my surprise, that twelve titles of poems by Cao Yin 曹寅 (1658– 1712), Cao Xueqin’s 曹雪芹 grandfather and a very favorite official of the Kangxi emperor, were either devoted to or referred to Hu Zhiguo. Apparently, Cao and Hu were very close friends, notwithstanding their distance in the matters of years and station. In these poems, dated between 1684 and 1706, we find Hu still a fervent poetry writer and book reader, even though by now a very old and feeble man. In one of these poems, “Ti Hu Jingfu xiaozhao” 題胡靜夫小照, Cao refers in a note accompanying the poem to the 1656 quatrain that Qian dedicated to Hu. For Cao’s poems, see Hu Shaotang 胡紹棠 (ed. and annot.) Lianting ji jianzhu 楝亭集箋注, Beijing: Beijing tushuguan chubanshe, 2007, pp. 20, 78, 95, 130, 148, 151, 175, 184, 207, 228, 466, 486. Youxue ji, juan 18, p. 800. Cf. D.C. Lau (trans.) Mencius, IV.B.21, Hong Kong: The Chinese University Press, 1984, p. 165. See Zhu Benyuan 朱本源, “‘Shi wang ranhou Chunqiu zuo’ lun” “《詩》亡然後《春秋》作” 論, Shixue lilun yanjiu 史學理論研究 1992.2, 47–56 and 1992.3, 55–61, 151. Cf. Lau, Mencius, III.B.9, p. 128. Cf. ibid., III.B.9, p. 131. For instance, whatever its merits, Burton Watson complains: “Because of the complete lack of background explanation or detail for the events noted, the historical value of the chronicles is limited, and their literary interest is nil.” See Watson, Early Chinese Literature, New York: Columbia University Press, 1962, p. 37. See Zhu Benyuan 朱本源, “Kongzi lishi zhexue fawei” 孔子歷史哲學發微, Shixue lilun yanjiu 1996.1, 29–37 and 1996.2, 18–27; Chen Qitai 陳其泰, “Jinwen Gongyang xueshuo de duju fengge he lishi mingyun” 今文公羊學說的獨具風格和歷史命運, Beijing daxue xuebao (zhexue shehui kexue ban) 北京大學學報 (哲學社會科學版) 1997.6, 34–43; Gao Jiyi 郜積意, “Lun Gongyangzhuan de chanshi celüe” 論《公羊傳》的闡釋策略, Renwen zazhi 人文雜誌 2000.5, 71–8; Tong Xigang 仝晰綱, “Gongyangxue yu Handai zhengzhi wenhua” 公羊學與漢代政治文化, Liaoning daxue xuebao (zhexue shehui kexue ban) 遼寧大學學報 (哲學社會科學版) 32.1, Jan. 2004, 86–91. Modern scholarship has vigorously questioned the idea of hidden criticism. See discussions by Qian Xuantong 錢玄同 and Gu Jiegang 顧頡剛 in Gushi bian 古史辨, vols 2 and 5, rpt. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1982; Gu Jiegang, Chunqiu sanzhuan ji Guoyu zhi zonghe yanjiu 春秋三傳及國語之綜合研究 (ed.) Liu Qiyu 劉起釪, Chengdu: Ba-Shu shushe, 1988. For discussions in English, see George A. Kennedy, “Interpretation of the Ch’un-ch’iu,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 62.1, 1942, 40–8; Burton Watson, Ssu-ma Ch’ien: grand historian of China, New York: Columbia University Press, 1958, pp. 70–100; P. van der Loon, “The ancient Chinese chronicles and the growth of historical ideals,” in W.G. Beasley and E.G. Pulleyblank (eds) Historians of China and Japan, London: Oxford University Press, 1961, pp. 24–30; E.G. Pulleyblank, “The historiographical tradition,” in Raymond Dawson (ed.) The Legacy of China, London: Oxford University Press, 1964, pp. 143–9. For a recapitulation of the Gongyang school interpretation of the Spring and Autumn Annals and a reappraisal of the Gushi bian iconoclastic agenda, see Ruan Zhisheng 阮芝生, Cong Gongyangxue lun

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Chunqiu de xingzhi 從公羊學論春秋的性質, Taipei: National Taiwan University, 1969. For example, the Han historian Sima Qian, emulating the Gongyang Commentary, writes in the biography of Confucius: “The language [of the Spring and Autumn Annals] is laconic, but the implications are broad. For example, although the rulers of Wu and Chu claimed themselves to be ‘kings,’ the Spring and Autumn Annals belittles them by addressing them as ‘barons.’ Although the king of Zhou was in fact summoned to the meeting at Jiantu, the Spring and Autumn Annals conceals the fact by noting, ‘the Heavenly King went to hunt at Heyang.’ [In the like manner, Confucius] passes judgment on [personages] of his own time. The principle of criticism and condemnation will be praised and promoted by later kings. When the principle of the Spring and Autumn Annals takes effect, all the disloyal officials and unfilial sons in the world must tremble.” “Kongzi shijia” 孔子世家 (Hereditary House of Confucius), Shiji 史記 (Records of the Grand Historian), Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1959, 47.1943. See also Dong Yunting 董運庭, “Lun Shiji ‘sui bei Chunqiu zhi yi’ ” 論《史記》“雖背《春秋》之義”, Xi’nan minzu daxue xuebao (renwen sheke ban) 西南民族大學學報 (人文社科版) 25.3, Mar. 2004, 265–71. For the rhetoric of “subtlety” of the Chunqiu, see Cao Shunqing 曹順慶, “‘Chunqiu bifa’ yu ‘weiyan dayi’—Rujia jingdian de jiedu moshi yu huayu yanshuo fangshi” “《春秋》筆法” 與 “微言大義”—儒家經典的解讀模式與話語言說方式, Beijing daxue xuebao (zhexue shehui kexue ban) 1997.2, 101–4; Wang Chunshu 王春淑, “Lun Kongzi Chunqiu bifa” 論孔子《春秋》筆法, Sichuan shifan daxue xuebao (shehui kexue ban) 四川師範大學學報 (社會科學版) 27.3, Mar. 2000, 76–88; Zhang Yi 張毅, “Lun Chunqiu bifa” 論 “《春秋》筆法”, Wenyi lilun yanjiu 文藝理論研究 2001.4, 49–55; Huang Yongtong 黃永堂 and Ye Xiucheng 葉修成, “Xi ‘Chunqiu bifa’ zai Guoyu zhong de juti yunyong” 析 “春秋筆法” 在《國語》中的具體運用, Guizhou wenshi congkan 貴州文史叢刊 2004.2, 6–10. These are first given in the Zuo Commentary on an entry of Cheng 成 14. See the comment which follows “九月, 僑如以夫人婦姜氏至自齊,” in Kong Yingda 孔穎達, Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhengyi 春秋左傳正義, in Ruan Yuan 阮元 (ed.) Shisanjing zhushu 十三經注疏 [hereafter Shisanjing], rpt. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1980, p. 1913. Du Yu, in his annotation of the Zuo Commentary, singles them out as the five “principles” and substantiates them with examples from the Annals. See Du Yu’s “Chunqiu xu” 春秋序, in Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhengyi, Shisanjing, pp. 1706–7. For a negative critique of Du’s theory, see Chen Enlin 陳恩林, “Ping Du Yu ‘Chunqiu Zuozhuan xu’ de ‘santi wuli’ wenti” 評杜預《春秋左傳序》的 “三體五例” 問題, Shixue jikan 史學集刊 1999.3, 64–9. Du Yu, “Chunqiu xu,” Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhengyi, Shisanjing, p. 1707. The core exegetical works of this hermeneutic tradition are the Maoshi zhuan 毛詩傳 (Commentary on Mao’s Odes) and the Maoshi xu 毛詩序 (Prefaces to Mao’s Odes) of Han times. For an account of the exegetical methodology of this school, see Steven Van Zoeren, Poetry and Personality: reading, exegesis, and hermeneutics in traditional China, Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1991, pp. 80–115. Most modern scholars find the Xu too dogmatic, contaminated by the Han court’s politico-cultural policies, and dismiss its credibility. See the various discussions collected in the Gushi bian, vol. 3; Qu Wanli 屈萬里, “Xian Qin shuoshi de fengshang he Hanru yi shijiao shuoshi de yuqu” 先秦說詩的風尚和漢儒以詩教說詩的迂曲, in Luo Liantian 羅聯添 (ed.) Zhongguo wenxueshi lunwen xuanji 中國文學史論文選集, Taipei: Xuesheng shuju, 1978, pp. 75–98; Shi Shu 施淑, “Handai shehui yu Handai shixue” 漢代社會與漢代詩學, Zhongwai wenxue 中外文學 (Chung-wai literary monthly) 10.10, Mar. 1982, 70–107. For a different view, see Li Jiashu 李家樹 (Lee Karshui), Shijing de lishi gongan 詩經的歷史公案, Taipei: Daan chubanshe, 1990;

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Wong Siu-kit and Lee Kar-shui, “Ideology with a vengeance: the Gushibian interpretation of the Shijing,” Journal of Oriental Studies 31.1, 1993, 28–37. Kong Yingda 孔穎達, Maoshi zhengyi 毛詩正義, Shisanjing, p. 271. See Dong Yunting 董運庭, “Cong ‘liushi’ dao ‘liuyi’ ” 從 “六詩” 到 “六義”, Chongqing shiyuan xuebao (zheshe ban) 重慶師院學報 (哲社版) 2001.4, 31–40. Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhengyi, Shisanjing, p. 1780. Ibid. Kong Yingda 孔穎達, Chunqiu Gongyangzhuan zhushu 春秋公羊傳注疏, Shisanjing, p. 2334. Ibid. Ibid. For a general survey of Chinese literary writings of different genres along this line, see Huang Mengju 黃孟駒, “Cong jingxue yu shixue kan Zhongguo wenxue shang de mei yu ci” 從經學與史學看中國文學上的美與刺, in Chang Zonghao 常宗豪 (Sheung Chung-ho) (ed.) Xian Qin wenxue lunji 先秦文學論集, Hong Kong: Guangjiaojing chubanshe, 1988, pp. 43–83. For a study of the influence of the Annals hermeneutic on the development of different literary critical theories, see Min Ze 敏澤, “Shilun ‘Chunqiu bifa’ duiyu houshi wenxuelilun de yingxiang” 試論 “春秋筆法” 對於後世文學理論的影響, Shehui kexue zhanxian 社會科學戰線 1985.3, 254–62; rpt. Zhongguo gudai jindai wenxue yanjiu 中國古代近代文學研究 1985.20, 114–22. Zhang Gaoping’s 張高評 two recent studies, “Chunqiu shufa yu Songdai shixue” 《春秋》書法與宋代詩學 and “Shijia bifa yu Songdai shixue” 史家筆法與宋代詩學, in his Songshi tese yanjiu 宋詩特色研究, Changchun: Changchun chubanshe, 2002, pp. 44–87 and pp. 88–119, respectively, are also worthy of note. Zhang critically examined a wealth of “talks of poetry” (shihua 詩話) and “miscellaneous notes” (biji 筆記) to draw out elements of the Annals scholarship inherent in the poetic criticism of Song times. Zhang suggested that in the Song culture of synthesis, literary critics were versed in the Annals scholarship, and that poetic criticism often was formulated with terms and ideas from the commentarial tradition of the Annals. Youxue ji, juan 18, p. 800. Benshi shi 本事詩, in Ding Fubao 丁福保 (comp.) Lidai shihua xubian 歷代詩話續編, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1983, p. 15. In Du Fu’s hands, Regulated Verse (lüshi 律詩), one major form of Recent Style poetry (jinti shi 近體詩), reached its maturity. Earlier works that Qian cites, from Cao Zhi’s to Zhang Zai’s, are Old Style poetry (guti shi 古體詩). See Gong Pengcheng’s 龔鵬程 “Lun shishi” 論詩史, Chapter 2 of his Shishi bense yu miaowu 詩史本色與妙悟, Taipei: Xuesheng shuju, 1986, pp. 19–91; Li Xianchen 李賢臣, “Shishi ‘Chunqiu bi’—cong ‘ru wen qi youye’ de wujie tan qi” 詩史 “春秋筆”—從“如聞泣幽咽”的誤解談起”, Henan daxue xuebao (zhexue shehui kexue ban) 河南大學學報 (哲學社會科學版) 1989.2, 47–50; Ma Chengwu 馬承五, “Shisheng, shishi, jidacheng—Dushi piping zhong zhi yucheng shuping” 詩聖.詩史.集大成—杜詩批評中之譽稱述評, Du Fu yanjiu xuekan 杜甫研究學刊 1997.3, 51–8; Zhou Xinglu 周興陸, “‘Shishi’ zhi yu he ‘yishi zhengshi’ ” “詩史” 之譽和 “以史證詩”, Du Fu yanjiu xuekan 1999.1, 8–13; Han Jingtai 韓經太, “Chuantong ‘shishi’ shuo de chanshi yixiang” 傳統 “詩史” 說的闡釋意向, Zhongguo shehui kexue 中國社會科學 1999.3, 169–83; Xu Denan 許德楠, “Lun ‘shishi’ de dingwei” 論 “詩史” 的定位, Zhongguo wenhua yanjiu 中國文化研究 1999.3, 80– 6; Yang Yi 楊義, “Du Fu de ‘shishi’ siwei” 杜甫的 “詩史” 思維, Hangzhou shifan xueyuan xuebao 杭州師範學院學報 2000.1, 35–45 and 2000.2, 35–44; Xie Jianzhong 謝建忠, “Lun Du Fu yu shiguan wenhua” 論杜甫與史官文化, Xi’nan shifan daxue xuebao (renwen shehui kexue ban) 西南師範大學學報 (人文社會科學版) 26.4, Jul. 2000, 103–7; Yin Mantang 殷滿堂, “Shi lun Dushi lishixing xushi de shixue jiazhi” 試論杜詩歷史性敘事的詩學價值, Jingzhou shifan

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xueyuan xuebao (shehui kexue ban) 荊州師範學院學報 (社會科學版) 2000.6, 25– 9. Most recently, Zhang Hui’s 張暉 Shishi 詩史, Taipei: Xuesheng shuju, 2007, represents the first monograph devoted to an historical and theoretical account of shishi. Though not on shishi, D.R. Howland’s discussions of the historiographical use of poetry and historicism in relation to the late-Qing poet Huang Zunxian 黃遵憲 (1848–1905) bear on some of the theoretical issues explored in this study. See Howland, Borders of Chinese Civilization: geography and history at empire’s end, Durham and London: Duke University Press, 1996, pp. 108–56. See Yang Songnian 楊松年, “Songren cheng Dushi wei shishi shuo xiping” 宋人稱杜詩為詩史說析評, in his Zhongguo gudian wenxue piping lunji 中國古典文學批評論集, Hong Kong: Sanlian chubanshe, 1987, pp. 127–62; Zhang Gaoping, “Shijia bifa yu Songdai shixue,” Songshi tese yanjiu, pp. 88–119, especially pp. 93–6 in which a focused discussion of shishi is conducted; Hao Runhua 郝潤華, “Songdai shixue yishi yu ‘shishi’ guannian de chansheng” 宋代史學意識與 “詩史” 觀念的產生, Xibei shida xuebao (shehui kexue ban) 37.2, Mar. 2000, 1–7. For a general survey of Song and Ming poetry, see Yoshikawa Ko¯ jiro¯ ’s two books, An Introduction to Sung Poetry (trans.) Burton Watson, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967, and Five Hundred Years of Chinese Poetry 1150–1650: the Chin, Yuan, and Ming dynasties (trans.) John Timothy Wixted, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1989. For critical studies of the theories of poetry of Ming times, see Chen Shulu 陳書錄, Mingdai shiwen de yanbian 明代詩文的演變, Nanjing: Jiangsu jiaoyu chubanshe, 1996; Chen Wenxin 陳文新, Mingdai shixue 明代詩學, Changsha: Hunan renmin chubanshe, 2000, and Mingdai shixue de luoji jincheng yu zhuyao lilun wenti 明代詩學的邏輯進程與主要理論問題, Wuhan: Wuhan daxue chubanshe, 2007; Deng Xinyue 鄧新躍, Mingdai qianzhongqi shixue bianti lilun yanjiu 明代前中期詩學辨體理論研究, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2007; Huang Zhuoyue 黃卓越, Ming Yongle zhi Jiajing chu shiwenguan yanjiu 明永樂至嘉靖初詩文觀研究, Beijing: Beijing shifan daxue chubanshe, 2001; Liu Huabing 劉化兵, Shifeng yu shifeng de yanjin: Mingdai Chenghua zhi Zhengde qianqi shiren yu shipai yanjiu 士風與詩風的演進: 明代成化至正德前期士人與詩派研究, Beijing: Shehui kexue wenxian chubanshe, 2007; Li Shenghua 李聖華, Wan Ming shige yanjiu 晚明詩歌研究, Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 2002; Chen Guoqiu 陳國球, Tangshi de chuancheng: Mingdai fugu shilun yanjiu 唐詩的傳承: 明代復古詩論研究, Taipei: Xuesheng shuju, 1990, and Mingdai fugupai Tangshilun yanjiu 明代復古派唐詩論研究, Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 2007; Liao Kebin 廖可斌, Mingdai fugu yundong yanjiu 明代復古運動研究, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1994; Huang Yi 黃毅, Mingdai Tang Song pai yanjiu 明代唐宋派研究, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2008; Feng Xiaolu 馮小祿, Mingdai shiwen lunzheng yanjiu 明代詩文論爭研究, Kunming: Yunnan renmin chubanshe, 2006. Yunyu 韻語, in the original, stands for poetry in its general usage. It seems, however, that there is also a touch of satire within the comment, because the Ming critics often ridiculed the Song poets for being capable of churning out “prose with rhymes” (you yun zhi wen 有韻之文) only, not true poetry. Wang Zhongyong 王仲鏞, Sheng’an shihua jianzheng 升庵詩話箋證, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1987, pp. 125–6. For a focused study of Yang Shen’s shishi criticism, see Gao Xiaohui 高小慧, “Yang Shen de ‘shishi’ lun” 楊慎的 “詩史” 論, Beijing daxue xuebao (zhexue shehui kexue ban) 41.1, Jan. 2004, 120–8. For comments on shishi from Ming and Qing times, see Yang Songnian, “Ming Qing shilunzhe yi Dushi wei shishi shuo xiping” 明清詩論者以杜詩為詩史說析評, Zhongguo gudian wenxue, pp. 163–84. For discussions of shishi in the context of Ming poetics, see the section “‘Shishi’ zhi shuo de bianzheng” “詩史” 之說的辨證, in Chen Wenxin, Mingdai shixue, pp. 40–55; Wu Huaidong 吳懷東, “Zai shiren he

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duzhe zhijian—‘shishi,’ ‘shisheng’ shuo yuanliu kaoshu” 在詩人和讀者之間— “詩史”, “詩聖” 說源流考述, Zhangzhou shifan xueyuan xuebao (zhexue shehui kexue ban) 漳州師範學院學報 (哲學社會科學版) 2002.1, 30–5; Sun Zhimei 孫之梅, “Ming Qing ren dui ‘shishi’ guannian de jiantao” 明清人對 “詩史” 觀念的檢討, Wenyi yanjiu 文藝研究 2003.5, 59–65. In the early Qing, shishi found its chief opponent in Wang Fuzhi 王夫之. See Meng Ze 孟澤, “Chuanshan de ‘yingxiong meixue’ ji qi dui shishi de keping” 船山的 “英雄美學” 及其對詩史的苛評, Xiangtan daxue shehui kexue xuebao 湘潭大學社會科學學報 24.5, Oct. 2000, 128–34. The “six principles” are originally associated with the critical tradition of the Book of Odes. They subsequently became the predominant analytical concepts in the Chinese lyrical tradition at large. Here I follow Van Zoeren’s renderings of the terms. See Van Zoeren, Poetry and Personality, pp. 134, 268n24. See his essay “Zuo Bozi gushi xu” 左伯子古詩序, Anyatang gao 安雅堂稿, 3.11b– 12a, in Chen Zilong wenji 陳子龍文集, Shanghai: Huadong shifan daxue, 1988, pp. 82–3. “Wen Yongzhao Yasitang shigao xu” 文用昭雅似堂詩稿序, Anyatang gao, 1.14b– 15a, ibid., pp. 30–1. In a certain sense, this critical disposition foreshadows quite a few significant literary developments in Qing times. Consider: The Changzhou 常州 school was preoccupied with bi, xing, and jituo 寄託—symbolism and allegory—in writing and reading ci poetry. (On the Changzhou ci theory, see Chen Shuiyun 陳水雲, “Changzhou cipai yu jindai cixue zhong de jieshixue sixiang” 常州詞派與近代詞學中的解釋學思想, Qiushi xuekan 求是學刊 29.5, Sept. 2002, 99–104.) In shi poetry, Chen Hang’s 陳沆 Shi bixing jian 詩比興箋 bluntly allegorizes some major poems from Han to Tang times by associating them with bi and xing. In drama, Kong Shangren 孔尚任, in his “Xiaoyin” 小引 (Short Preface) to the Taohua shan 桃花扇 (The Peach Blossom Fan), claims: “[Chuanqi’s] intention points to the telos of Book of Odes, and its principle rests in promulgating the teaching of the Spring and Autumn Annals; its techniques and styles recall those of the Zuo Commentary, the Guoyu and the Grand Historian.” Taohua shan (ed.) Ouyang Guang 歐陽光, Changsha: Yuelu shushe, 2002, p. 1. (See also Jing Weizeng 井維增, “Cong Kongzi zuo Chunqiu kan Kong Shangren chuangzuo Taohua shan” 從孔子作《春秋》看孔尚任創作《桃花扇》, Daizong xuekan 岱宗學刊 1997.2, 17–21.) An attempt has been recently made to relate certain aspects of the Honglou meng 紅樓夢 to the writing styles of the Annals. See Shi Changyu 石昌渝, “Chunqiu bifa yu Honglou meng de xushi fanglüe” 春秋筆法與《紅樓夢》的敘事方略, Honglou meng xuekan 紅樓夢學刊 2004.1, 142–58. In prose, the Tongcheng School’s 桐城派 yifa 義法—a literary theory about the substance and form of kuwen 古文 prose—is arguably inspired, to a certain extent, by the Annals and later historical writings such as the Shiji. See Zhang Gaoping 張高評, “Fang Bao yifa yu Chunqiu shufa” 方苞義法與《春秋》書法, in his Chunqiu shufa yu Zuozhuan xueshi 春秋書法與左傳學史, Taipei: Wunan tushu chubangongsi, 2001, pp. 254–87. See Ji Zhenyi’s 季振宜 preface to Qian’s Qian zhu Dushi, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1958. Substantial studies of Qian’s commentary of Du Fu’s poetry have been done by scholars such as Hong Ye 洪業 (William Hung), Liu Zuomei 柳作梅, Peng Yi 彭毅, Zhang Jipei 張繼沛, Jian Ending 簡恩定 and others. Hasebe Tsuyoshi’s 長谷部剛 Ph.D. dissertation (1996) for Waseda University 早稻田大學 is on Qian zhu Dushi. Some recent studies on this topic include: Hao Runhua 郝潤華, Qian zhu Dushi yu shishihuzheng fangfa 《錢注杜詩》與詩史互證方法, Hefei: Huangshan shushe, 2000; Zhu Yian 朱易安, “Qian zhu Dushi yu ‘shishihuzheng’ de piping fangfa” 《錢注杜詩》與 “詩史互證” 的批評方法, Zhonghua wenshi luncong 中華文史論叢 2001.4, 250–68; Qi Wei 綦維, “Qian Qianyi ‘shishi’ guannian yu

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shijian ji dui zhu Du de yingxiang” 錢謙益 “詩史” 觀念與實踐及對注杜的影響, Guyuan shizhuan xuebao (shehui kexue ban) 固原師專學報 (社會科學版) 22.4, Jul. 2001, 4–8 and “Xiaozi zhongchen kan yidai, Du Ling shishi hanqing chui—shixi Qian zhu Dushi zhong Qian shi yinzhong zhi shufa” 孝子忠臣看異代杜陵詩史汗青垂—試析《錢注杜詩》中錢氏隱衷之抒發, Du Fu yanjiu xuekan 2001.4, 59–66; Wu Guoping 鄔國平, “Yi Dushixue wei shixue—Qian Qianyi de Dushi piping” 以杜詩學為詩學—錢謙益的杜詩批評, Xueshu yuekan 學術月刊 2002.5, 79–85. Qian zhu Dushi, juan 2, p. 75. Ibid., juan 7, p. 219. Ibid., juan 9, p. 278. Fang’s words are cited in Shen Shoumin’s 沈壽民 postface to Zhu Heling’s 朱鶴齡 (1606–83) Du Gongbu shi jizhu 杜工部詩輯注. Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, p. 1000. Qian zhu Dushi, p. 506. Professor Yü Ying-shih directs me to one such example in the Qian zhu Dushi. In the commentary of Du’s “Xiwen daozei fankou zongtui kouhao wu shou” 喜聞盜賊蕃寇總退口號五首 (no. 4), Qian remarks: “少陵之詩, 於羌胡雜種, 長驅犯順, 深憂痛疾, 情見乎詞. 此詩則曰: ‘舊隨漢使’, ‘少答胡王’, 庶幾許其內屬, 優以即序, 不忍以禽獸絕之, 亦《春秋》之法也” (Qian zhu Dushi, p. 536). Qian expresses a stance on racial tolerance towards non-Chinese that is different from the doctrine “revere the [Zhou] king and repel the barbarians” (zunwang rangyi 尊王攘夷) famously associated with the Spring and Autumn Annals. Further exploration of this element in Qian’s works will help shed light on Qian’s very complex psychology towards the alien rule of the Manchus. On the idea of yong Xia bian yi in the late Ming, see Zhang Zhaoyu 張兆裕, “Mingdai de huayi zhi bian” 明代的華夷之辨, included in Zhongguo shehuikexueyuan lishi yanjiushou 中國社會科學院歷史研究所 (ed.) Gushi wencun: Ming Qing juan 古史文存: 明清卷, Beijing: Shehui kexue wenxian chubanshe, 2004, pp. 264–77. A commoner from Fujian, Xie Ao 謝翱 (zi Gaoyu 臯羽) volunteered to follow Wen Tianxiang 文天祥 (1236–82) in resisting the Mongols. After Wen’s capture in 1278, he escaped and spent the rest of his life traveling through Fujian and Zhejiang while bonding with various loyalist groups in Hangzhou, Guiji, and Wuzhou. Xie was best known for conducting a ritual mourning in 1291 at Xitai 西臺 for Wen, which occasioned the famous essay “Xitai tongku ji” 西臺慟哭記 (Record of Weeping at the Western Terrace). Xie and the essay became a prominent symbol for the Ming loyalists. For sources on Xie, see Cheng Minzheng 程敏政 (Keqin 克勤), Song yimin lu 宋遺民錄 (Records of Song Loyalists), juan 2–5, Zhibuzuzhai congshu 知不足齋叢書 edition. Xie’s loyalist activities are discussed in Jennifer W. Jay, A Change in Dynasties: loyalism in thirteenth-century China, Bellingham, WA: Western Washington University, 1991, pp. 157–66. In 1278, the tombs of the Song imperial family near Guiji were dug out by a Lamaist monk named Byan-sprin l Can-skya (Yanglian zhenjia, d. 1292). A group of Song loyalists undertook a heroic mission to retrieve the imperial relics. One of the participants, Lin Jingxi 林景曦 [熙], writes in a commemorative poem, “Mengzhong zuo” 夢中作 (Written in My Dream), this couplet: “一坏自築珠丘土, 雙匣親傳竺國經.” (This is one in a series of four. For the entire text, see Cheng Minzheng, Song yimin lu, 14.15b–16a.) Qian’s reference is to this poem. Zhu 竺 stands for tianzhu 天竺, a transliteration of the ancient name of Indu 印度, the country of India, from where Buddhism was introduced to China. When Lin Jingxi collected the relics of Gaozong and Xiaozong, he put them in two bookcases originally for storing sutras, hence the second line of the couplet. For sources on Lin Jingxi, see Cheng Minzheng, Song yimin lu, juan 14. For an account of this episode, see Ouyang Guang 歐陽光, “Yu Yuanchu yimin shishe

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youguan de yici zhengzhi huodong—Liuling dongqing zhi yi kaoshu” 與元初遺民詩社有關的一次政治活動—六陵冬青之役考述, in his Song Yuan shishe yanjiu conggao 宋元詩社研究叢稿, Guangzhou: Guangdong gaodeng jiaoyu chubanshe, 1996, pp. 137–52. I have not been able to identify the Yuquan 玉泉 mentioned here. Lin Jingxi was first appointed Quanzhou Jiaoshou 泉州教授 in the Song, but I have not come across any mention in the related sources of him being called Yuquan. I am aware that the same poem is variously accredited to Tang Jue 唐珏 (1247–?), another participant in the operation. Tang Jue’s zi was Yuqian 玉潛. Yuqian and Yuquan sound similar, at least in modern Mandarin. Could it be a slip of the tongue on Qian’s part because of the influence of his Jiangsu dialect? I would appreciate further information readers of this study could give me about the identification of Yuquan. Tiaoge 苕歌 in the original should read ming ge 茗歌, as it appears in the Sibu congkan edition of the Youxue ji. “Ming ge” refers to Wang Yuanliang’s “Zui ge” 醉歌: ming 茗 is to be understood as zui 醉, drunken, in the sense of mingding 酩酊, heavily drunk. “Zui ge,” written around 1276, records what Wang witnessed when the Mongols entered the Song capital. For the poems, see Kong Fanli 孔凡禮 (ed. and comp.) Zengding Hushan leigao 增訂湖山類稿, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1984, pp. 13–6. (Kong’s is an excellent expanded edition of Wang’s Hushan leigao.) Basic sources on Wang can be found in Cheng Minzheng, Song yimin lu, juan 11. For a discussion of Wang’s loyalist activities, see Jay, A Change in Dynasties, pp. 143–9. Guyin, compiled by Du Ben 杜本 (1276–1350), is one of the three major poetry anthologies of the Song loyalists (traditional assertion) that still survive today. Guyin contains 101 poems, in two juan, by thirty poets, which Du labored to collect during his extensive travels. For each of the poets in the anthology, save five, a biographical sketch prefacing the poems is provided. Zhang Ju, a friend of Du, writes in the postface to the anthology: “It is entitled Guyin, in the sense of ‘tunes of the recluse’ [shangu zhi yin 山谷之音], [and can be read as] a kind of unofficial history [yeshi]” (dated 1378, early Ming). A facsimile copy of the book is available in Wang Yunwu 王雲五 (ed.) Congshu jicheng chubian 叢書集成初編, Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1936. The other two anthologies are the Yuequanyinshe shi 月泉吟社詩 and Tiandijian ji 天地間集. Yuequanyinshe shi resulted from the activities of the early-Yuan poetry club Yuequanyinshe (Chanting Club of the Moonlit Fountain). A facsimile copy of the book is available in Congshu jicheng chubian. For activities of the club, see Jay, A Change in Dynasties, pp. 162–4. Cf. Qian, “Ji Yuequanyinshe” 記月泉吟社 (About the Chanting Club of the Moonlit Fountain), in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Muzhai Chuxue ji 牧齋初學集 [hereafter Chuxue ji], Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1985, juan 84, pp. 1763–4. A thin volume, Tiandijian ji was believed to have been compiled by Xie Ao; it only survives in fragmentary form. The extant Tiandijian ji is appended to Xie Ao’s Xifa ji 晞髮集. A modern typeset edition of the book is included in Congshu jicheng chubian. Where the last significant Song force was ambushed and wiped out by the Mongols. The battle at Yaishan of 1279 between the Mongols and the Southern Song. The Song fell to the Mongols here with the forced suicide of its last emperor. Referring to the national history or archives, so called because they were safely deposited. Youxue ji, juan 18, pp. 800–1. Our knowledge and understanding of the literature of the Song–Yuan transition are greatly enhanced by several recent publications: Zhang Hongsheng 張宏生, Ganqing de duoyuan xuanze: Song Yuan zhiji zuojia de xinling huodong 感情的多元選擇: 宋元之際作家的心靈活動, Beijing: Xiandai chubanshe, 1990;

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64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71

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Ouyang Guang, Song Yuan shishe; Fang Yong 方勇, Nan Song yimin shiren qunti yanjiu 南宋遺民詩人群體研究, Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 2000; and Wang Cicheng 王次澄, Song Yuan yiminshi luncong 宋元逸民詩論叢, Taipei: Daan chubanshe, 2001. Also very useful is Jay, A Change in Dynasties. Information about the persons and events mentioned in this section can often be found in these books. Langfeng ji 閬風集, 2.4b, Yingyin Wenyuange Siku quanshu 景印文淵閣四庫全書 edition, Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1983, [1187:343]. For a discussion of Shu’s poetry, see Fang Yong, Nan Song yimin shiren, pp. 242–51. See the various prefaces to his collection of poetry, in Kong Lifan, Zengding Hushan leigao. Recent studies of Wang include: Huang Qufei 黃去非, “Wang Yuanliang shi lüelun” 汪元量詩略論, Changde shifan xueyuan xuebao (shehui kexue ban) 常德師範學院學報 (社會科學版) 26.4, Jul. 2001, 23–6; Wang Cicheng, “Wang Yuanliang ji qi shiji zhong de zushi” 汪元量及其詩集中的組詩, in her Song Yuan yiminshi, pp. 171–272; Huang Liyue 黃麗月, Wang Yuanliang shishi yanjiu 汪元量詩史研究, Taipei: Wenjin chubanshe, 2000; Fang Yong, Nan Song yimin shiren, pp. 45–51, 232–42. “Qie boming” is a tune title from the yuefu 樂府 tradition. Kong Fanli, Zengding Hushan leigao, pp. 70–1. Kong suggests that this poem was written between 1280 and 1281. Ibid., p. 26. Kong dates this poem to 1276. Ibid., p. 188. The former from the Lun yu (III.20) on the poem “Guan ju” 關睢 (Mao no. 1) and the latter from Zhu Xi’s 朱熹 gloss of the word yuan, grievance, one of the four purposes of studying the Odes as given in the Lun yu (XVII.9). However, since what Qian read of Wang was from a collection different from Hushan leigao in which Li’s postface is included, we are unsure whether Qian had read Li’s essay, and it is likely that he had not. It is remarked that “it lives up to the name of shishi” (不愧詩史之目) in Yong Rong 永瑢 et al. (eds) Siku quanshu zongmu tiyao 四庫全書總目提要, juan 164, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1965, p. 1408. Wenshan xiansheng quanji 文山先生全集, 16.1a–b, Sibu congkan edition, “zhengbian,” [64:330]. With Wang Yuanliang, Wen made a “Hujia shi ba pai” 胡笳十八拍 (Song of the Barbarian Reed-whistle). Wen prepared the poem with lines culled from Du, and Wang set the lyrics to music. We will return to “Hujia shi ba pai” below, in the discussion of shishi during the Ming–Qing transition. See discussion in Fang Yong, Nan Song yimin shiren, pp. 231–2. Not unexpectedly, Tao Qian 陶潛 (365–427), the gold standard of the reclusive poet, was another favorite poet of the Song–Yuan transition. Tao Qian also lived in a time of dynastic change and his unbending integrity and peace of mind provided much inspiration for the Song loyalists. See discussion in Fang Yong, Nan Song yimin shiren, pp. 223–51. The ci 詞 poems in the Yuefu buti 樂府補題 of the period, for example, use natural objects as subject matter (i.e., written in the yongwu ci 詠物詞 mode). They can be understood as veiled political criticism if one explores the symbolic and allegorical dimension of the texts. See Kang-i Sun Chang, “Symbolic and allegorical meanings in the Yüeh-fu pu-t’i poem-series,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 46.2, 1986, 353–85. For a survey of the yongwu mode in the shi poetry form, see Lin Shuzhen 林淑貞, Zhongguo yongwu shi “tuowu yanzhi” xilun 中國詠物詩「託物言志」析論, Taipei: Wanjuanlou tushu youxiangongsi, 2002. “Yongjia Lin Jishan shi xu” 永嘉林霽山詩序 (1286), Qianzhai wenji 潛齋文集, 5.11d–12b, Yingyin Wenyuange Siku quanshu edition, [1188:444–5]. For a discussion of Lin Jingxi’s poetic theory, see Wang Cicheng, “Lin Jingxi de shixueguan ji qi chengji” 林景熙的詩學觀及其承繼, in her Song Yuan yiminshi, pp. 33–102.

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77 For an introduction to this poetic school, see Zhang Hongsheng 張宏生, Jianghu shipai yanjiu 江湖詩派研究, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1995. 78 Zhuzi yulei 朱子語類, juan 109, in Zhu Jieren 朱傑人 et al. (eds) Zhuzi quanshu 朱子全書, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2002, vol. 17, p. 3542. 79 No. 14 of “Jinling zati jueju er shi wu shou ji Yiwei chun liuti zhi zuo” 金陵雜題絕句二十五首繼乙未春留題之作, Youxue ji, juan 8, p. 419. 80 From the Mencius, VI.A.4: “I enjoyed the roast cooked by a Qin man no less than my own roast” (耆秦人之炙, 無以異於耆吾炙). 81 Wu zhi ji, 7a–15a, in Muzhai shi zhu, vol. 5, pp. 2781–97. They form the second largest group of poems in the collection. Most poets therein are credited with just a few pieces. 82 “Shenghuan ji zixu” 生還集自序 (1649), Cangshange ji wencun 藏山閣集文存, 3.8b, Xuxiu Siku quanshu 續修四庫全書 edition, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995, [1400:638]. The poems of Shenghuan ji are included in Cangshange ji shicun 藏山閣集詩存, juan 4–9, in ibid., [1400: 572–602]. After Qian Chengzhi returned to his native place in 1650, the style of his poetry changed drastically. The once intensely Ming loyalist tone gave way to one of peace and rest, coming to terms with the reality that the Ming was no more. Qian’s post-1650 poems evolved into his Tianjian shiji 田間詩集. For an informed discussion of Qian’s post-1650 writings, see Xie Mingyang 謝明陽, Ming yimin de “yuan” “qun” shixue jingshen— cong Juelang daosheng dao Fang Yizhi, Qian Chengzhi 明遺民的「怨」「群」詩學精神—從覺浪道盛到方以智, 錢澄之, Taipei: Daan chubanshe, 2004, pp. 115–65. See also Yan Dichang 嚴迪昌, Qingshi shi 清詩史, Hangzhou: Zhejiang guji chubanshe, 2002, pp. 201–8; Shimizu Shigeru 清水茂, “Qian Chengzhi de shi” 錢澄之的詩, in his Qingshui Mao Hanxue lunji 清水茂漢學論集 (trans.) Cai Yi 蔡毅, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2003, pp. 100–12. 83 All such practices figure prominently in the poetic expressions of some Ming loyalists. See, for examples: Chen Que’s 陳確 (1603–79) “Ku Liu Niantai shi” 哭劉念臺詩 (Liu Niantai is the Ming martyr Liu Zongzhou 劉宗周), included in Qian Zhonglian, Qingshi jishi, pp. 176–7; Xu Fang’s 徐枋 (1622?–94) “Huaijiupian changju yiqian sibai zi” 懷舊篇長句一千四百字, in ibid., pp. 725–9. See also Chen Bi’s 陳璧 (1605?–after 1660) poems, in Jiang Cun 江村 and Qu Mianliang 瞿冕良 (eds) Chen Bi shiwen cangao jianzheng 陳璧詩文殘稿箋證, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1984. 84 For Song loyalist poetry that bears these features, see discussion in Fong Yong, Nan Song yimin shiren, pp. 248–51. Qian Chengzhi would appear more akin to Shu Yuexiang in poetic formulations; both of them excel in regulated verse. Qian and Wang Yuanliang are comparable in their extensive travel experiences and enthusiasm in furnishing topical information. A meaningful comparison can be made between Wang Yuanliang and Qian Chengzhi’s contemporary poet Wu Weiye. Both Wang and Wu had the mind to create shishi and are remembered for their moving lyrics in the form of songs or ballads (gexing ti 歌行體) (see discussion below). 85 Chuxue ji, juan 84, p. 1764. 86 For a detailed account of the book’s reception and influence, see Xie Zhengguang 謝正光, “Qingchu suo jian ‘yimin lu’ zhi bianzhuan yu liuchuan” 清初所見「遺民錄」之編撰與流傳, in his Qingchu shiwen yu shiren jiaoyou kao 清初詩文與士人交遊考, Nanjing: Nanjiing daxue chubanshe, 2001, pp. 1–31. For a discussion of the book and its implications for later developments in hagiography and historiography, see Jay, A Change in Dynasties, pp. 79–92. The expression xinshi 新史 in Qian’s passage under discussion can be understood in at least two ways. First, Cheng’s book is in fact the first of its kind which formulated a new kind of historiography. When it gained wider circulation in the late Ming and early Qing, it inspired many self-appointed historians, including Qian himself,

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to produce works of a similar nature (see Qian’s “Ba Wang Shuiyun shi,” Chuxue ji, juan 84, p. 1764; “Shu Guang Song yimin lu hou” 書廣宋遺民錄後, Youxue ji, juan 49, pp. 1607–8). Second, as mentioned above, Cheng’s book attracted wide readership only in the early Qing. Therefore, for most readers of the time it was a new book. It is correct for Qian to point out that there is no treatment of the tragic end of the Song dynasty at Yaishan in Cheng’s book. But the criticism may be a bit too harsh, because the event and those Song loyalists involved in it have already been given due attention in many other sources. It was Cheng’s aim to supplement the official histories, not to produce an exhaustive general history of the topic (see Cheng’s preface to the book). One possibility is that Qian found in his research many more people who should have been accounted for in relation to the incident. This leads me to suspect that while Qian is remarking on Cheng’s book in particular, he might have had other works of the same nature in mind. The early-Qing writers invested most of their energy in producing “Records of the Ming loyalists” and the like (see Xie’s study cited above). Qian may have felt that the “Records of the Song loyalists” project had not been completed and should receive more attention. Qian stated on several occasions that he would undertake a project on Song loyalists, but he never delivered. Namely, Wang Yanwu, Xie Ao, Tang Jue, Zhang Yifu, Fang Feng, Wu Siqi, Gong Kai, Wang Yuanliang, Liang Dong, Zheng Sixiao, and Lin Jingxi. Dated 1643, in Chuxue ji, juan 84, pp. 1763–4. Qian, however, did not deliver on his promise. Read you 憂, as in the Sibu congkan text. Youxue ji, juan 18, p. 801. Liu Xiang 劉向, “Shan shuo” 善說, Shuoyuan 說苑, juan 11, in Zhao Shanyi 趙善詒 (ed.) Shuoyuan shuzheng 說苑疏證, Shanghai: Huadong shifan daxue chubanshe, 1985, p. 312. This is related in “Zhang Yi liezhuan” 張儀列傳, Shiji, 70:2301. See Hans H. Frankel, “Cai Yan and the poems attributed to her,” Chinese Literature: essays, articles, reviews 5, 1983, 133–56. Kang-i Sun Chang recently observed that Cai Yan and her works have become a model to be emulated by women writers, such as Wang Duanshu 王端淑 (1621–c. 1706), to verbalize their personal feelings and values and to bear witness to the turbulence of the historical conditions that prevailed in the dynastic transitional period. Chang maintains that these women writers had the inspiration of leaving behind their shishi as testimony and cultural memory, and that certain aspects of their symbolism partake of Ming loyalist sentiments, coupling the private to the public. Chang compares Wang’s power of poetic witnessing with that of Wu Weiye, a towering figure in the literary world and a champion of shishi during the Ming–Qing transition. From Qian’s use of the story of Cai Yan here, we see that the significance of Cai’s experiences was appropriated by male writers of the Ming–Qing transition as well. See Sun Kangyi 孫康宜 (Kang-i Sun Chang), “Modai cainü de ‘luanli’ shi” 末代才女的「亂離」詩, in Li Fengmao 李豐楙 (Lee Fong-mao) (ed.) Disanjie guoji Hanxue huiyi lunwenji: wenxue, wenhua yu shibian 第三屆國際漢學會議論文集: 文學, 文化與世變, Taipei: Zhongyang yanjiuyuan Zhongguo wenzhe yanjiusuo [Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy, Academia Sinica], 2002, pp. 325–49. An ancient tribe known as Taotang 陶唐 headed by the mythico-historical figure Yao 堯. Xiang 襄 29, Chunqiu Zuozhuan zhengyi, Shisanjing, pp. 2006–7. Yimin in the Zuozhuan original should be understood plainly as “descendants,” but when the phrase appears in the context of our discussion, it invokes also the sense of “leftover subjects.” For a discussion of this story in the context of Chinese music tradition, see Kenneth J. DeWoskin, A Song for One or Two: music and the concept

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98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106

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Notes of art in early China, Ann Arbor: Center for Chinese Studies, the University of Michigan, 1982, pp. 21–7. See Chen Zizhan 陳子展, Shisanbai jieti 詩三百解題, Shanghai: Fudan daxue chubanshe, 2001, pp. 728–31. Chen Zizhan opts for the pre-destruction view, whereas Yu Guanying 余冠英 takes the post-destruction one. See Yu Guanying, Shijing xuan 詩經選, Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 2002, p. 182. In translating the fragments of “Zhengyue,” I largely follow Chen’s understanding of the poem. Maoshi zhengyi, Shisanjing, pp. 441–4. The last line of the eighth stanza speaks of a certainty, not a possibility, and hence the translation. Ibid., p. 270. I follow Stephen Owen’s rendering of the term bian. See his Readings in Chinese Literary Thought, Cambridge, MA: Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1992, pp. 584 and 590. In Maoshi zhengyi, Shisanjing, p. 271. In another essay, “Huang Taoan xiansheng quanji xu” 黃陶菴先生全集序, Qian associates “Zhengyue” with the “tones of a fallen state” even more overtly. See Youxue ji, juan 16, p. 741. This group is placed in the “Xiaoya” 小雅 (Lesser Elegantiae) section of the Book of Odes. See Maoshi zhengyi, Shisanjing, pp. 445–57. “Shipu xu” 詩譜序, in ibid., p. 263. The other three poems noted by Zheng appear in the section of “Daya” 大雅 (Greater Elegantiae). The idea of allegory in relation to the Chinese lyrical tradition has attracted much critical attention recently. Some scholars object to the usage of the term to characterize certain Chinese texts because the images in these texts are not connected in a goal-oriented narrative progression, nor do they refer to a philosophical or religious truth. But I agree with Kang-i Sun Chang in her observations of certain political images in the seventeenth-century ci poetry: “. . . [T]hey are nonetheless allegories—imagistic allegories that point to historical truth by means of the associative power of symbolism.” The same can be said of the shi poetry of the same period, particularly that of the Ming loyalists. See Kang-i Sun Chang’s entry for classical Chinese poetry in The New Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993, p. 197. “Ming yimin suozhi zhuan” 明遺民所知傳, Sifutang wenji 思復堂文集, 3.1a, Siku quanshu cunmu congshu 四庫全書存目叢書 edition, Tainan: Zhuangyan wenhua shiye youxiangongsi, 1997, “jibu” 集部, [251: 393]. For instance, the scholar-official Liu Zongzhou (1578–1645), writing in the late Ming, said of the inception of the Ming that “the culture and brilliance [of Zhu Yuanzhang] started a new age, a unique moment in a thousand years” (文明啟運, 千載一時). This is related in Huang Zongxi’s post-Ming Mingru xuean 明儒學案 (The Records of Ming Scholars) (ed. and trans.) Julia Ching with the collaboration of Chaoying Fang, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1987, p. 49. See Tan Qian 談遷, Guo que 國榷, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1988, juan 100, p. 6044. Some Ming loyalist historians, for example, Tan Qian, Xia Yunyi 夏允彝, Zha Jizuo 查繼佐, and Zhang Dai 張岱, are highly critical of Chongzhen in their writings. See Xie Zhengguang 謝正光, “Cong Ming yimin shijia dui Chongzhendi de pingjia kan Qingchu dui junquan de taidu” 從明遺民史家對崇禎帝的評價看清初對君權的態度, Xinya xueshu jikan 新亞學術集刊 (New Asia Academic Bulletin) 2, 1979, 39–48. For Wu, see Arthur W. Hummel (ed.) Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period (1644–1912), Washington DC: United States Government Printing Office, 1943– 44, pp. 882–3. The most detailed source of Wu’s life is Feng Qiyong 馮其庸 and

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Ye Junyuan 葉君遠, Wu Meicun nianpu 吳梅村年譜, Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1990. “Qiepuzhai shigao xu” 且樸齋詩稿序, in Wu Meicun quanji 吳梅村全集, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1990, p. 1205. Shi qianji 詩前集, juan 1, ibid., pp. 2–3. For Wu’s account of Yang’s life in Meicun shihua 梅村詩話, written after 1644, see Wu Meicun quanji , pp. 1136–8. For a recent study of Wu Weiye’s poetry in terms of shishi, see Pei Shijun 裴世俊, Wu Meicun shige chuangzuo tanxi 吳梅村詩歌創作探析, Ningxia: Ningxia renmin chubanshe, 1994, pp. 26–42, 57–88. Chapters 13 and 14, pp. 248–85, of Pei’s book provide a comparison of Qian and Wu’s poetry and a discussion of the literary activities of the erchen poets. See also Kang-i Sun Chang, “The idea of the mask in Wu Wei-yeh (1609–1671),” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 48.2, Dec. 1988, 289–320; Liu Shouan 劉守安, “Yidai shishi Meicun shi” 一代詩史梅村詩, Wenxue pinglun 文學評論 1997.2, 152–9; Xu Jiang 徐江, “Wu Meicun ‘shishi’ lunlüe” 吳梅村 “詩史” 論略, Zhongguo wenhua yanjiu 2000.1, 135–41; Ye Junyuan 葉君遠, Qingdai shitan diyijia—Wu Meicun yanjiu 清代詩壇第一家—吳梅村研究, Beijng: Zhonghua shuju, 2002; Zhang Yusheng 張宇聲, “Lun ‘Meicun ti’ suo shou Li, Du gexing zhi yingxiang” 論 “梅村體” 所受李, 杜歌行之影響, Zibo xueyuan xuebao (shehui kexue ban) 淄博學院學報 (社會科學版) 2004.4, 46–50; Wai-yee Li, “History and memory in Wu Weiye’s poetry,” in Wilt L. Idema, Wai-yee Li, and Ellen Widmer (eds) Trauma and Transcendence in Early Qing Literature, Cambridge, MA, and London: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006, pp. 99–148. Both terms, first associated with the Han historian Ban Gu 班固, stand for court historiographers in general. Here the Sibu congkan edition of the text gives the name Dangui 澹歸 (Jinbao 金堡; 1614–80) instead of Mizhi. See Huang, Zhuanzhang ji 撰杖集, in Sibu congkan, “chubian” 初編, “jibu” 集部, 341:183. I thank Professor Yü Ying-shih for alerting me to this variant. “Wan Lüan xiansheng shi xu” 萬履安先生詩序, Nanlei shiwenji, in Huang Zongxi quanji, vol. 10, pp. 47–8. “Shi yi xu” 詩義序, Wengshan wen wai 翁山文外, in Qu Dajun quanji 屈大均全集 (eds) Ou Chu 歐初 and Wang Guichen 王貴忱, Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1996, vol. 3, p. 37. “Dongguan shiji xu” 東莞詩集序, Wengshan wenchao 翁山文鈔, in Qu Dajun quanji, vol. 3, p. 279. For a biography of Huang, see Hummel, Eminent Chinese, pp. 351–4. For a discussion of his work and life, see Lynn Struve, “Huang Zongxi [Tsung Hsi] in context: a reappraisal of his major writings,” Journal of Asian Studies 47.3, Aug. 1988, 474–502; idem, “The early Ch’ing legacy of Huang Tsung-hsi: a reexamination,” Asia Major 1.1, 3rd ser., 1988, 83–121. For an informed account of Huang’s views on Chinese politics and society, see Wm. Theodore de Bary, Waiting for the Dawn: a plan for the prince: Huang Tsung-hsi’s Ming-i tai fang lu, New York: Columbia University Press, 1993, pp. 1–85. Qian was very impressed by Qu’s poetry and person. Qu visited Qian in 1659. See the entry for 1659 in Wang Zongyan 汪宗衍, Qu Dajun nianpu 屈大均年譜, in Qu Dajun quanji, vol. 8, pp. 1875–6. For a biography of Qu, see Hummel, Eminent Chinese, pp. 201–3. For a discussion of Qu’s poetry in terms of Ming loyalism, see my essay, “Tiwu, jiyi, yu yimin qingjing—Qu Dajun 1659 nian yongmeishi tanjiu” 體物, 記憶與遺民情境—屈大均一六五九年詠梅詩探究 (Objectivity, memory, and loyalist condition—Qu Dajun’s 1659 poems on plum trees), Zhongguo wenzhe yanjiu jikan 中國文哲研究集刊 (Bulletin of the Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy) 21, Sept. 2003, 43–88. For recent discussions of the Liechao shiji, see Sun Zhimei 孫之梅, Qian Qianyi

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Notes yu Mingmo Qingchu wenxue 錢謙益與明末清初文學, Ji’nan: Qi-Lu shushe, 1996, pp. 342–59; Jian Jinsong 簡錦松 (Chien Chin-sung), “Lun Qian Qianyi Liechao shiji xiaozhuan zhi piping lichang” 論錢謙益《列朝詩集小傳》之批評立場, Wenxue xin yue 文學新鑰 2, Jul. 2004, 127–58; my essay, “Qian Qianyi gongpai Jingling Zhong, Tan ceyi” 錢謙益攻排竟陵鍾, 譚側議, Zhongguo wenzhe yanjiu tongxun 14.2, Jun. 2004, 93–119; and Xu Manling 許蔓玲, “Qian Qianyi Liechao shiji wenxueshiguan yanjiu” 錢謙益《列朝詩集》文學史觀研究, M.A. thesis, Tamkang University 淡江大學, 2004. See also n. 125 below. Most modern sources give the date of death of Cheng as 1643, rendering Guiwei 癸未, the year in which Cheng died, to its Western equivalent. However, Cheng died in the twelfth month of Guiwei—as Qian recorded in his biographical entry for Cheng in Liechao shiji—which was already early 1644 in Western reckoning. I concur with Wang Shiqing’s 汪世清 argument in his Yiyuan yinian congtan 藝苑疑年叢談, Beijing: Zijincheng chubanshe, 2002, pp. 131–2, where he suggests the dates of 1565–1644. “Yu Zhou Anqi” 與周安期, Qian Muzhai xiansheng chidu 錢牧齋先生尺牘, in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Muzhai zazhu 牧齋雜著, Qian Muzhai quanji 錢牧齋全集 [hereafter Quanji], Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2003, vol. 7, p. 236. Anqi was Zhou Yongnian’s 周永年 zi. Qian’s letter is undated, but Zhou died in 1647, so Qian’s letter must have been composed sometime between 1646 (the year in which Qian picked up the project again) and 1647. For Zhou, see Anonymous, Huang Ming yimin zhuan 皇明遺民傳, juan 5, quoted in Xie Zhengguang 謝正光 and Fan Jinmin 范金民 (comps) Ming yimin lu huiji 明遺民錄彙輯, Nanjing: Nanjing daxue chubanshe, 1995, p. 377. Recently, Sun Weiguo 孫衛國 made a thorough investigation into the authorship of Huang Ming yimin zhuan and proposed that the book was produced by the Korean scholar Song Hae-ung 成海應. See Sun Weiguo, “Chaoxian Huang Ming yimin zhuan de zuozhe jiqi chengshu” 朝鮮《皇明遺民傳》的作者及其成書, Hanxue yanjiu 漢學研究 20.1, Jun. 2002, 163–88. Qian and Mao originally wanted to name the anthology Guochao shiji 國朝詩集 or A Collection of Poems from the Different Reigns of the Dynasty. Guochao invokes the Ming dynasty directly. They eventually renamed it as Liechao shiji or A Collection of Poems from the Different Reigns, which was less direct. Liechao and Lichao have the same meaning, and Lichao here is perhaps a slip of the pen. See “Yu Mao Zijin” 與毛子晉, Qian Muzhai xiansheng chidu, in Quanji, vol. 7, p. 236. “Liechao shiji xu” 列朝詩集序, Youxue ji, juan 14, p. 678; also appended in Liechao shiji xiaozhuan 列朝詩集小傳, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1983, pp. 819–20. (Note that there are several textual variants between these two texts. Here, for the purpose of consistency I have used the Youxue ji text, but the Liechao shiji xiaozhuan version, in my opinion, is closer to the truth because of its more sensitive wording.) This preface to the anthology is not found in the Liechao shiji in Yale University’s holdings that I consulted. The Yale copy, 81 juan in 37 volumes, carries no additions in front or in back. Its title page states that it is a Jiangyunlou compilation (“Jiangyunlou xuan” 絳雲樓選), and that Jiangyunlou possesses its woodblocks (“benfu zangban” 本府藏板). Because of this I tend to think this copy is from the original 1652 edition, if not from the first impression. (Yet I have to point out one anomaly in this copy: the paper and ink are of poor quality and the woodcut was far from a fair hand. This defies the general good reputation of Mao Jin’s Jiguge.) In the preface, Qian mentions that Cheng Jiasui suggested the idea of this anthology back in the early years of the Ming Tianqi 天啟 reign (1620s). Qian resumed working on the project in 1646, shortly after the fall of the Ming dynasty, and in 1649 finished the final editorial work. Preparations for its formal release ensued (publication of

Notes

126

127 128 129

130 131

132

133

171

portions of it had taken place before 1652). In 1650, Qian’s Jiangyunlou caught fire. The manuscript, which was already entrusted to the care of the publisher, survived. Yuan Haowen, a high official of the Jin dynasty for a brief period of time, refused to serve the Mongol Yuan dynasty after the Jin fell. Besides compiling the Zhongzhou ji, Yuan also strived to preserve the records of the Jin dynasty and drafted its history. He made frequent trips to gather materials for his history both in his home area and North China. At each site he visited, he constructed a Yeshiting 野史亭, “unofficial history pavilion,” as a workstation. Yuan’s work heavily informed the Jinshi 金史 (History of the Jin Dynasty), which was composed in the decades immediately after his death. Yuan is also known for poems lamenting the demise of the Jin and his poetic criticism. See John Timothy Wixted’s entry for Yuan Haowen, in William H. Nienhauser, Jr. (ed.) The Indiana Companion to Traditional Chinese Literature, Taipei: Southern Materials Center, Inc., 1988, pp. 953–5; and idem, Poems on Poetry: literary criticism by Yuan Hao-wen (1190–1257), Taipei: Southern Materials Center, Inc., 1985. Yong Rong, Siku quanshu zongmu tiyao, juan 188, p. 1706. See discussion in Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, pp. 987–93. Note that the two characters zhu ming 朱明 are eradicated from the Sibu congkan edition of the Youxue ji. The reason is obvious: zhu was the imperial family name of the Ming, and ming of course recalls the Ming dynasty. Zhuming is an elegant term for the summer, but I believe Qian uses it here to exploit both its conventional and literal meanings. Qian Zhonglian has restored the word to the sentence in the Youxue ji text. The Liechao shiji xiaozhuan text reads huang Ming 皇明 for Ming chao 明朝; the latter is less suggestive. Youxue ji, juan 14, p. 679. The early twentieth-century publisher and bibliophile Ye Dehui 葉德輝 remarked: “The Mingshi zong was the product of a provincial fool, while the Liechao shi[ji] was the real shishi of a distinguished compiler” (《明詩綜》乃鄉愿之所為, 《列朝詩》乃選家之詩史耳). See Xiyuan dushu zhi 郋園讀書志, Shanghai: Danyuan 澹園, 1928, 16.3b. Ye Dehui noted that the copy he read was from a Guiwei 癸未 edition of the late Ming (1643 by Western reckoning). That is certainly a grave mistake. Qian says in another place: “. . . My compilation of the poems of the different reigns [of the Ming] ends with the section ding. Ding is when the myriad things come to full maturity, in full blossom. I have appropriated [Confucius’] didactic principles to edit the poems [of Liechao shiji], and this is where my anthology and Yishan’s differs” (. . . 余輯列朝詩止于丁, 丁者, 萬物皆丁壯成實, 大盛于丁也. 蓋余竊取刪詩之義, 顧異于遺山者如此). See Qian, “Jiangtian Chenshi jiaji xu” 江田陳氏家集序, Youxue ji, juan 17, pp. 771–2. As a matter of fact, the Liechao shiji does not end with the section ding, because after it is attached a supplementary or “intercalary” (run 閏) section of poetry from less “significant” persons such as women and monks. For a discussion of the run section as an important source of women’s literature of late imperial China, see Kang-i Sun Chang, “Ming and Qing anthologies of women’s poetry and their selection strategies,” in Ellen Widmer and Kang-i Sun Chang (eds) Writing Women in Late Imperial China, Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1997, pp. 153–6. In a letter to his old friend Lin Gudu 林古度 (1580–1666), Qian writes: “. . . [You are just like me,] already decrepit but not dead yet. In pain, our lives linger on. Alas! This world of drastic changes! Have we not seen it all? Now the woodblocks of the collection of your poems are already composed—nothing can be more delightful. The collection will be a Xin shi from the well of our time” (. . . 老而不死, 苦駐人間, 看盡滄桑世界也. 詩集排纘已定, 是大好事, 此今日一部井中《心史》也). See “Fu Lin Maozhi” 復林茂之, Qian Muzhai xiansheng

172

134 135 136 137 138

Notes chidu, in Quanji, vol. 7, p. 253. Pei Shijun quotes this portion of the letter in his study of Qian’s prose writings to illustrate Qian’s intentions in compiling the Liechao shiji. (See Pei, Qian Qianyi guwen shoutan 錢謙益古文首探, Ji’nan: Qi-Lu shushe, 1996, p. 236.) It must be very revealing if indeed Qian compares his anthology to the Song loyalist writing Xin shi. However, it must be noted that Pei misread Qian’s letter. One can tell from the contents of the letter that “the collection” refers to Lin’s new book, not Qian’s anthology. Qian wrote the letter in response to Lin’s request for a preface to the collection. “Shi tian” 釋天 in Erya 爾雅 explains: “[太歲] 在壬曰玄黓,” and: “[太歲] 在辰曰執徐.” Alluding to Ban Chao (32–102) of the Han dynasty, who vowed to make a name for himself by fighting the non-Chinese “barbarians.” See “Ban Chao zhuan” 班超傳, Hou Han shu 後漢書, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1965, 47.1571. See Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, p. 1168. Pan Zhonggui 潘重規 (ed.) Qian Qianyi Toubi ji jiaoben 錢謙益投筆集校本, Taipei: Wenshizhe chubanshe, 1973, p. 5. The third cycle was included in the Youxue ji, juan 10, pp. 517–8.

2 Qian Qianyi’s reception in Qing times 1 At the age of fourteen, Wu was already versed in the Chunqiu, Shiji, Qian Han shu, and Hou Han shu. Wu says in the poem “Ku Zhiyan” 哭志衍 (Crying for Zhiyan [Wu Jishan 吳繼善]): “My family has a tradition of studying the Spring and Autumn Annals, / But I was pained by its far-fetched annotations and commentaries (家世攻春秋, 訓詁苦穿鑿); see Shi qianji 詩前集, juan 1, Wu Meicun quanji 吳梅村全集, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1990, p. 19. 2 While Qian was a leader of the Donglin Party, Wu was closely associated with the Fushe. The latter can be seen as an offspring of the former; both circles took as their mission to purge away the “evil” elements from the court. See Hou Fangyu 侯方域, “Yu Wu Jungong shu” 與吳駿公書, Zhuanghuitang wenji 壯悔堂文集, 3.17a–18b, in Zhuanghuitang ji 壯悔堂集, Sibu beiyao 四部備要 edition. 3 Oubei shihua 甌北詩話, juan 9, Qing shihua xubian 清詩話續編; quoted in “Fulu” 附錄, Wu Meicun quanji, p. 1508. Zhao is known, in addition to his outstanding historical writings, for his poems in the yongshi 詠史 (contemplations of the past) manner. 4 For the poem, see Shi qianji, juan 1, Wu Meicun quanji, pp. 2–3. 5 From Wu’s account of Yang’s life in Meicun shihua 梅村詩話, which was written after 1644, in ibid., pp. 1136–8. 6 See Panshui zhitan 鞶帨卮談, quoted in “Fulu,” ibid., p. 1505. 7 Qian and Wu had the most unreserved admiration for each other’s literary accomplishments and standing in the intelligentsia. See, for example, Qian’s letters to Wu in Qian Muzhai xiansheng chidu 錢牧齋先生尺牘, in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Muzhai zazhu 牧齋雜著, Qian Muzhai quanji 錢牧齋全集 [hereafter Quanji], Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2003, vol. 7, pp. 191–2. 8 Chen Wenshu, “Du Wu Meicun shiji yinti changju” 讀吳梅村詩集因題長句, Yidaotang shixuan 頤道堂詩選, 1.3a, Xuxiu Siku quanshu 續修四庫全書 edition, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995, [1504: 512]. 9 During Qianlong’s hair-raising literary inquisition in the 1770s and 80s, some of Wu’s writings were banned from circulation for a period of time, but no restraint had ever been placed upon his poetry. 10 “Ti Wu Meicun ji” 題吳梅村集, quoted in “Fulu,” Wu Meicun quanji, p. 1506. 11 Wu’s poetry contains social criticism of the early years of the Qing rule, to which Qianlong apparently did not object. The emperor may have interpreted it as Wu’s concern for the well-being of his dynasty. For a discussion of this aspect of

Notes

12 13 14

15

16 17 18

19 20 21

22 23

24 25

173

Wu’s poems, see Pei Shijun 裴世俊, Wu Meicun shige chuangzuo tanxi 吳梅村詩歌創作探析, Ningxia: Ningxia renmin chubanshe, 1994, pp. 89–104. Shi qianji, juan 1, Wu Meicun quanji, p. 3. Writings reminiscent of the sensuous works of the Yutai xin yong. Wang Zhonghan 王鍾翰 (ed.) Qing shi liezhuan 清史列傳, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987, 79: 6577–8. Qianlong criticizes Qian for befriending eunuchs in order to attain prominent positions in the Ming court. See “Zhang Rang zhuan” 張讓傳 in Hou Han shu for the reference. This rare allusion is made clear by Liu Shinan 劉世南 in his Qingshi liupai shi 清詩流派史, Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 2004, p. 65. “Youxue ji xu” 有學集序, Muzhai quanji 牧齋全集, 1910 Suihanzhai 邃漢齋 edition. This passage in the Suihanzhai edition is radically different from that of the Sibu congkan 四部叢刊, Taipei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1979. The Shunzhi emperor’s remark and Zou’s sympathetic words were cut in the Sibu text. The Suihanzhai version seems to be the earlier one. My view concurs with that of Qian Zhonglian, who, based on the Suihanzhai edition, prepared an emended version of Zou Shijin’s text in Quanji, pp. 952–3. Qian Zhonglian also suggested that the preface should have been dated 1674 rather than 1664 as it stands in the text. See ibid., p. 953n5. If Qian Zhonglian’s theory about the dating of Zou Shijin’s preface to the Youxue ji holds good, the first publication of the Youxue ji should have been around 1674. See ibid. For Shen Deqian, see Arthur W. Hummel (ed.) Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period (1644–1912), Washington DC: United States Government Printing Office, 1943–44, pp. 645–6; Qing shi liezhuan, 19:1456–60. Qingshi biecai ji 清詩別裁集 (originally Guochao shi biecai ji), 1760 Jiaozhongtang 教忠堂 edition, rpt. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1975, 1.1a, [p. 7]. At the end of the “Fanli” 凡例, Shen remarks that the book is a corrected edition of the 1758 first edition. What Shen submitted to Qianlong probably came from the 1760 edition. Ibid. Qing shi liezhuan, 19:1457–58. Moral obligations in Confucian teachings. The “three bonds” are the bonds between sovereign and subject, between father and son, and between husband and wife. The “five virtues” refer to charity, duty to one’s neighbor, propriety, wisdom, and truth. Qing shi liezhuan, 79: 6577. Luther Carrington Goodrich writes: “It points the way to an almost house to house canvass throughout the empire for the books in question, accompanied by a demand for their delivery to the capital for burning. It also ends the hit or miss method of stamping out literature regarded as either treasonable to the dynasty or personally insulting to the emperor. From henceforth there is to be a systematized search, organized on a large scale. . . .” See Goodrich, The Literary Inquisition of Ch’ien-lung, rpt. New York: Paragon Book Reprint Corp., 1966, p. 30. While I agree with the first observation, I think the large-scale inquisitional activities described in the second observation may not have started until five years later (see below). At any rate, Qian’s case surely foreshadowed many other similar ones to come. Ibid., p. 26. For recent studies of Qianlong’s historiographical activties, see Qiao Zhizhong 喬志忠, Qingchao guanfang shixue yanjiu 清朝官方史學研究, Taipei: Wenjin chubanshe, 1994; and He Guanbiao’s 何冠彪 several articles included in his Ming Qing renwu yu zhushu 明清人物與著述, Hong Kong: Xianggang jiaoyu tushu gongsi, 1996. My discussion in this section is partly informed by these two authors’ works.

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26 R. Kent Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries: scholars and the state in the late Ch’ien-lung era, Cambridge, MA: The Council on East Asian Studies, Harvard University, 1987, p. 162. 27 Pamela Kyle Crossley, The Manchus, Cambridge, MA: Blackwell Publishers Inc, 1997, p. 111. 28 Ibid., p. 128. 29 Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries, p. 163. 30 A year and a half after Qianlong ascended the throne, he wrote: “Prior to ascending the throne I had thoroughly got by heart the six classics and the various histories. Since assuming the responsibilities of state I have less free time but I have not stopped examining the classics and studying the rites.” Quoted and translated in Harold L. Kahn, Monarchy in the Emperor’s Eyes: image and reality in the Ch’ien-lung reign, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1971, p. 115. For an account of Qianlong’s princely education, see Chapter 7, pp. 115–43, of Kahn’s book. 31 Youxue ji 有學集, in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Muzhai Youxue ji 牧齋有學集 [hereafter Youxue ji], Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1996, juan 14, pp. 679– 80. 32 Ibid., p. 680. 33 Ibid., p. 681. 34 Gaozong Chunhuangdi shilu 高宗純皇帝實錄 in Qing shilu 清實錄, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1985–6, Qianlong 7 [1742], 178: 290–1. Drafts of the Ming shi gangmu 明史綱目 were being presented regularly to Qianlong. Qianlong wrote this note to the compilers. 35 The so-called “left” and “right” historians. The left was responsible for recording the words of the ruler, and the right for his activities. Here, the “two historians” stand for the beginning of the historiographical tradition. 36 “Zaida Canglüe shu” 再答蒼略書 (1649 or after), Youxue ji, juan 38, p. 1310. This is Qian’s second response to Du Canglüe’s letters. Qian’s first letter was dated 1649. He must have composed this second letter not long after the first one. For the first letter, “Da Du Canglüe lunwen shu” 答杜蒼略論文書, see ibid, pp. 1306–8. 37 “Yuzhi chongke Ershiyishi xu” 御製重刻二十一史序, Gaozong shilu, Qianlong 12 [1747], 286: 279. 38 “Yuzhi Chunqiu zhijie xu” 御製春秋直解序, ibid., Qianlong 23 [1758], 569: 211– 12. 39 Ibid., Qianlong 46 [1781], 1142: 293–4. Qianlong wrote to instruct his compilers to expand on the “Liezhuan” section of the official history. 40 Ibid., Qianlong 46 [1781], 1143: 311. Qianlong wrote ordering a correction to the Qidan guozhi 契丹國志. 41 Qianlong proclaimed: “朕於六經諸史, 誦覽研窮, 再三孰復. 義理之精妙, 固樂於探求; 怠荒之覆轍, 亦時凜於炯戒.” In ibid., Qianlong 2 [1737], 58: 949. 42 See discussion in He Guanbiao, “Lun Qing Gaozong ziwo chuixu de lishi panguan xingxiang” 論清高宗自我吹噓的歷史判官形象, in his Ming Qing renwu, pp. 156– 66 and 172–8. 43 “Mingshi gangmu shucheng youshu” 明史綱目書成有述 (1746), included in the frontispiece of the Yuding tongjian gangmu sanbian 御定通鑒綱目三編, quoted in Qiao Zhizhong, Qingchao guanfang shixue, p. 198. Qianlong wrote this poem to celebrate the completion of the Mingshi gangmu. 44 The composition of the history of Southern Ming was occasioned in 1775 by the inclusion of the Yupi tongjian jilan 御批通鑒輯覽, originally published in 1768, in the Siku quanshu. Qianlong ordered an account of the Southern Ming history to be composed and appended to the Tongjian. See discussion of this event in Qiao Zhizhong, Qingchao guanfang shixue, pp. 208–11. I believe, however, that Qianglong would have initiated this project around this time even without such

Notes

45 46 47 48 49

50 51 52 53 54 55 56

57

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a convenient occasion. Qianlong’s edict reads in part as follows: “. . . 前命編纂《通鑑輯覽》, 館臣請不錄福王事實. 因念歷朝嬗代之際, 進退予奪, 繫乎萬世公論. 若前代偏私袒徇之陋習, 以曲筆妄為高下, 朕實鄙之. . . . [福王] . . . 至蕪湖被執, 始大書 “明亡” . . . 務合乎人情天理之公也. . . . 至於唐王, 桂王, 遁跡閩滇, 苟延殘喘, 不復成其為國. . . . 今思二王究為明室宗支, 與異姓僭竊者不同 . . . 且其始末雖無足道, 而奔竄事蹟, 亦多有可攷, 與其聽不知者私相傳述, 轉致失實無稽, 不若為之約舉大凡, 俾知二王窮蹙情形不過如此, 更可以正傳聞之訛舛. 又其下諸臣 . . . 彼在明已合稱 “賊” 稱 “偽”, 自當準《春秋》書 “盜” 之例. . . . 若其他各為其主, 始終不屈, 以致隕首捐軀者, 實不一而足, 較宋末之文天祥, 陸秀夫實相彷彿 . . . 訖今日久, 將遂泯沒. 朕深憫之, 亦宜略為紀錄 . . . 俾讀者咸知朕之大中至正, 未嘗有一毫私意, 偏倚其間. 而崇獎忠貞, 亦足以為世道人心之勸. . . .” Gaozong shilu, Qianlong 40 [1775], 996: 300. Qianlong gave the book the title Shengchao xunjie zhuchen lu 勝朝殉國諸臣錄. For a discussion of this project, see Qiao Zhizhong, Qingchao guanfang shixue, pp. 199–200. See ibid., pp. 207–8. Gaozong shilu, Qianlong 40 [1775], 996: 317–18. In the winter of 1772, Qianlong initiated the compilation of the Siku quanshu. The project took some twenty years to complete. This does not mean that I subscribe to the conventional view which sees the Siku quanshu project as a cover for literary inquisition. I agree with Guy that the literary inquisition and the collection of books for the Siku quanshu were two separate but parallel undertakings. Guy argues: “The Ssu-k’u ch’üan-shu was meant to be a monument to the success of the dynasty and the prosperity of the reign, and a resource for scholars and rulers of ten thousand generations. The censorship was undertaken to expunge from the historical record signs of early Sino-Manchu conflict and Chinese disrespect for Manchu custom, heritage and tradition.” Guy suggests that the censorship and suppression of books developed in three stages: from February 1772 to September 1774, from September 1774 to December 1780, and from December 1780 to the end of Qianlong’s reign in 1796. The inquisitional activities went wild during the second phase, as Guy suggests: “Partly because the nature of sedition was still ill-defined, and partly because the rewards for successful prosecution were great, the effort afforded opportunities for many to advance their interests with hastily formulated indictments and severe enforcements.” See Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries, pp. 157–8, 166. See discussion in Qiao Zhizhong, Qingchao guanfang shixue, pp. 278–80. Qing shi liezhuan, 79: 6578. Gaozong shilu, Qianlong 43 [1778], 1051: 50–1. Goodrich writes: “[Qian] caused a special section of the dynastic history to be drawn up to accommodate just such ‘miscreants’ as he.” See Goodrich, The Literary Inquisition, pp. 25–6. Guy, The Emperor’s Four Treasuries, p. 164. Gaozong shilu, Qianlong 46 [1781], 1142: 293–4. Ibid., Qianlong 46 [1781], 1142: 308–9. See discussion in Qiao Zhizhong, Qingchao guanfang shixue, pp. 273–7. Qianlong’s view can be seen as a development of that of his father, the Yongzhen 雍正 emperor (r. 1723–35), who formulated his view in condemning Lü Liuliang’s 呂留良 anti-Manchu writings. Lü was an ardent Ming loyalist and a friend of Qian Qianyi. For a discussion of the concept of “great unification” and the attitudes towards “barbarians” in the Annals and its commentaries, see Pu Weizhong 浦衛忠, Chunqiu sanzhuan zonghe yanjiu 春秋三傳綜合研究, Taipei: Wenjin chubanshe, 1995, pp. 98–112, 138–50 and 255–6. It seems to me that in the Annals and its commentaries, the “barbarian” is more a cultural than a racial concept.

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58 In another place, Qianlong writes: “When I was small, I had already heard with admiration about the event of my Regent Imperial Prince of Rui [1612–50] sending a letter to the Ming official Shi Kefa. . . . [In the letter, Prince Rui] elaborates on supreme righteousness and persuades Shi with the right principles. Prince Rui draws on examples from the Spring and Autumn Annals to dismiss [Shi’s claim for] a ‘partial’ China. Prince Rui’s argument is solid, and his words are stern. From the bottom of my heart, I think it worthy of praise” (幼年即羨聞我攝政睿親王致書明臣史可法事 . . . 所為揭大義而示正理, 引《春秋》之法, 斥偏安之非, 旨正辭嚴, 心實嘉之). Gaozong shilu, Qianlong 42 [1777], 1035: 867. 59 “Yu Yan Kaizheng shu” 與嚴開正書 (1656), Youxue ji, juan 38, pp. 1316–17. 60 The Yuan jing by Wang Tong 王通 of the Sui dynasty is no longer extant, but the book is believed to have been written in the manner of the Spring and Autumn Annals. This particular line and its intentions are nevertheless related in another of Wang’s works, the “Shushi pian” 述史篇 in Zhong shuo 中說. 61 “Fu Li Shuze shu” 復李叔則書, Youxue ji, juan 39, p. 1343. 62 See discussion in Liu Shinan, Qingshi liupai shi, pp. 63–4. 63 “Zhengshi” 正始, Rizhi lu 日知錄, in Huang Rucheng 黃汝成 (ed.) Rizhi lu jishi 日知錄集釋, 13.5a, Sibu beiyao edition. 64 No direct influence of Qian on Gu, however, should be assumed. Gu was an ardent Ming loyalist who never trusted Qian and refused his friendship, although Qian rendered Gu a great service by saving him from imprisonment in 1655, when Gu was tried for the murder of a family servant. 65 Jimingzi 雞鳴子, “Toubi ji ba” 投筆集跋, quoted in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Qingshi jishi 清詩紀事, Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1987, p. 1270. See also Huang Ren 黃人 and Lian Heng’s 連橫 remarks quoted in ibid., pp. 1270–1, 1274. 66 For Chen, see Hummel, Eminent Chinese, p. 95. 67 Entry 61, “Bielu jia di liushiyi: Yang Yan Qian” 別錄甲第六十一: 楊顏錢, Qiu shu chongdingben 訄書重訂本, in Zhang Taiyan quanji 章太炎全集, Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1984, vol. 3, p. 339. The Qing shi gao 清史稿 produced in the early Republican era offers no fresh account of Qian’s political activities in the Ming and the Qing, but it does try to include Qian in the late-Ming and early-Qing literary canon. Qian appears mainly in two places. In the introduction to the “Wenyuan zhuan” 文苑傳, the author says: “The decay of literature was most severe in the late Ming era! When the Qing dynasty rose, the literary spirit was stirred up as well. Qianyi surrendered and served the Qing court; his poems and essays inspired awe of his day. He deserves credit for having revived the literary scene . . . .” (明末文衰甚矣! 清運既興, 文氣亦隨之一振. 謙益歸命, 以詩文雄於時, 足負起衰之責 . . . .); see Qing shi gao, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1977, 484: 13314–15. In the biography of Qian in the same section, the author observes: “Qianyi’s compositions are extremely erudite, and he was most informed of the history of the [Ming] dynasty. [Of various genres,] poetry was his strongest. In the late Ming period, Wang [Shizhen] and Li [Panlong] spoke of ‘Returning to the Past,’ and the style of literary compositions grew worse and worse. Qianyi rose and strived to correct the situation” (謙益為文博贍, 諳悉朝典, 詩尤擅其勝. 明季王, 李號復古, 文體日下, 謙益起而力振之); ibid., 484: 13324. 68 Jin’s Nianpu was included in Qian Zhonglian’s Quanji, but two original prefaces— one by Zhang Hongjin 張鴻謹 and the other by Qian Wenxuan 錢文選 (zi Shiqing 士青; 1874–1957)—were expunged from the book. From what Zhang and Qian wrote, we gain this impression: Jin’s Nianpu was completed in the late 1920s (Jin’s afterword to the Nianpu was dated 1928). Apparently it started to circulate, and then, in 1932, Zhang Hongjin wrote a preface to the biography (see Qian Muzhai xiansheng nianpu [prefaced 1941 by Qian Wenxuan, n.p., n.d.], 2a–b). It was published in Zhejiang shengli tushuguan guankan 浙江省立圖書館館刊 3.3 (Jun. 1934). Qian Wenxuan reprinted Jin’s work in 1941 in Shanghai, when the city was under

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the protection of Wang Jingwei’s 汪精衛 Nanjing regime, which was controlled by the Japanese. Qian Wenxuan’s preface to the work begins with this sentence: “The whole world is condemning the traitors to the Chinese people, but, alas, there is no such person as traitor to China!” (世詈漢奸, 漢未嘗有奸也) (ibid., 1a–b). The words of Qian Wenxuan seem apologetic for living under Wang’s regime. (The copy of Nianpu that I consulted is in Harvard–Yenching’s holdings, donated by Qian Wenxuan himself.) 69 Poshek Fu, Passivity, Resistance, and Collaboration: intellectual choices in occupied Shanghai, 1937–1945, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1993, p. 127. Fu suggests: “Unlike collaborationist intellectuals in Europe, . . . who glorified the youthful vitality of ‘Homo Fascista’ created by the fascist revolution and sense of community in the ‘New Order,’ literary collaboration in Shanghai was in most cases expressed in the form of nostalgia and in a state of alienation.” 70 Ibid., p. 143. Introduction to Part II 1 The original, gufen 孤憤, is also the title of one of Han Fei’s 韓非 writings, so named because it was a product of grief and indignation. 2 “Shooting the tide” is a story about Qian Liu 錢鏐, King of Wuyue 吳越王 in the tenth century. It was said that when Qian Liu was constructing a dike to give protection against the tides, the tidal waters responded by assaulting the shore day and night. Qian mustered several hundred strong men to shoot arrows at the tides. The tides thereby withdrew. See “Hequ zhi” 河渠志, juan 5, Song shi 宋史. Qian Liu was supposed to be an ancestor of Qian Qianyi. See Qian Qianyi, Muzhai wannian jiacheng wen 牧齋晚年家乘文, Shanghai: Guoxue fulun she 國學扶輪社, 1911, 1a. 3 Related to the legendary figure Peng Zu 彭祖 of antiquity. Legend has it that Peng Zu was extremely cautious in doing things. When he looked into a well, he would first tie himself to a huge tree trunk and place a wheel atop the well. Peng Zu was supposed to be a remote ancestor of Qian, too. See ibid., 2a. 4 “Song Weizi shijia” 宋微子世家, Shiji 史記 (Records of the Grand Historian), Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1959, 38: 1620–1. 5 The modern scholar Ye Jiaying 葉嘉瑩 assembled major commentaries on these eight poems into a volume entitled Du Fu “Qiuxing bashou” jishuo 杜甫秋興八首集說, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1988, which totals almost six hundred pages of modern print. 6 Ban Chao lived in destitution, eking out a livelihood by clerking for officials. Finding the work demoralizing, he stopped in the middle of writing, threw aside the brush and exclaimed: “Even if a man has no other ambitions, he could at least become someone like Fu Jiezi or Zhang Qian who established his merit in a foreign land and achieved the status of marquis. How can I waste my life away in this trade of brush and inkslab!” ( [超] 家貧, 常為官傭書以供養. 久勞苦, 嘗輟業投筆歎曰: 大丈夫無他志略, 猶當效傅介子, 張騫立功異域, 以取封侯, 安能久事筆硯間乎). See “Ban Chao zhuan” 班超傳, Hou Han shu 後漢書, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1965, 47: 1571. 7 Chen Yinke 陳寅恪, Liu Rushi biezhuan 柳如是別傳, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1980, p. 1168. 8 Small selections of Qian’s poems, in English translation, are available in Wu-chi Liu and Irving Yucheng Lo (eds) Sunflower Splendor: three thousand years of Chinese poetry, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1975, pp. 468–71; in Jonathan Chaves (ed. & trans.) The Columbia Book of Later Chinese Poetry: Yüan, Ming, and Ch’ing dynasties (1279–1911), New York: Columbia University Press, 1986, pp. 353–60; and in Irving Yucheng Lo and William Schultz

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(eds) Waiting for the Unicorn: poems and lyrics of China’s last dynasty, 1644–1911, Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1986, pp. 39–44. Recently, Wai-yee Li devoted a section of her paper, “Heroic transformations: women and national trauma in early Qing literature” (in Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 59.2, Dec. 1999, 363–443), to discussing a group of poems by Qian on Liu Rushi. It is particularly encouraging that in recent years some younger scholars of mainland China, Taiwan and Hong Kong have shown revived interest in Qian’s works. On Qian’s literary accomplishments, six monographs have appeared: Pei Shijun 裴世俊, Qian Qianyi shige yanjiu 錢謙益詩歌研究, Ningxia: Ningxia renmin chubanshe, 1991; Hu Youfeng 胡幼峰, Qingchu Yushanpai shilun 清初虞山派詩論, Taipei: Guoli bianyiguan, 1994; Pei Shijun, Qian Qianyi guwen shoutan 錢謙益古文首探, Ji’nan: Qi-Lu shushe, 1996; Sun Zhimei 孫之梅, Qian Qianyi yu Mingmo Qingchu wenxue 錢謙益與明末清初文學, Ji’nan: Qi-Lu shushe, 1996; Ding Gongyi 丁功誼, Qian Qianyi wenxue sixiang yanjiu 錢謙益文學思想研究, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2006; and Yang Lianmin 楊連民, Qian Qianyi shixue yanjiu 錢謙益詩學研究, Beijing: Shehuikexue wenxian chubanshe, 2007. Pei Shijun edited and annotated a selection of 196 poems of Qian in his Qian Qianyi shixuan 錢謙益詩選, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2005. I myself edited a special issue on studies on Qian’s literary writings for Zhongguo wenzhe yanjiu tongxun 中國文哲研究通訊 (Newsletter of the Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy) 14.2, Jun. 2004, 1–133. The issue carries papers, in Chinese, by Wu Hongyi 吳宏一 (Wu Hung-i), Wang Rongzu 汪榮祖 (Young-tsu Wong), Xie Zhengguang 謝正光 (Andrew Hsieh), Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 and Yan Ming 嚴明 (co-authored), and myself. The papers came from a workshop I organized for the Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy in winter 2003. For a select bibliography of recent studies on Qian Qianyi, see Deng Yijing 鄧怡菁 (Teng I-ching) and I (eds.) “Qian Qianyi wenxue yanjiu yaomu” 錢謙益文學研究要目, Zhongguo wenzhe yanjiu tongxun (Newsletter of the Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy) 14.2, Jun. 2004, 121–33. 9 Zheng is better known as Koxinga in Western literature, which is a mistransliteration, or perhaps a Fukinese transliteration, of his honorific title, Guoxingye 國姓爺, “Lord of the Imperial Surname.” 3 The prophesying poet-historian 1 See C.H. Wang, From Ritual to Allegory: seven essays in early Chinese poetry, Hong Kong: The Chinese University Press, 1988, pp. 56–61. 2 Xu Zi 徐鼒, Xiaotian jinian fukao 小腆紀年附考, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1958, p. 747; Lynn A. Struve, The Southern Ming: 1644–1662, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1984, pp. 186–7. 3 Cf. Struve, The Southern Ming, p. 187. The Chinese text is adopted from Yanping erwang yiji 延平二王遺集, in Xuanlantang congshu xuji 玄覽堂叢書續集, vol. 120. The Yanping erwang yiji is attributed to Zheng Chenggong and his son Zheng Jing 鄭經, but it is difficult to ascertain its authenticity. At any rate, the poem under discussion befits the 1659 historical context. Even if it was not from the brush of Zheng himself, it very effectively reflects the epic heroism of the campaign. Two other titles in the collection are also worth notice: “Chun sanyue zhi Yu ye Muzhai shi tong Sunai shixiong you Jianmen” 春三月至虞謁牧齋師同孫愛世兄遊劍門 and “Yue xunri fu yu Sunai xiong you Taoyuanjian” 越旬日復與孫愛兄遊桃源澗 (two poems). Sunai was Qian Qianyi’s son. Two comments are appended at the end of the second set. Qian Qianyi is quoted as saying: “Its tone is pure and lofty, free from vulgar fashions. That a young man can achieve this is indeed the evidence of his talent.” It is believed that Zheng Chenggong studied briefly under Qian Qianyi in around 1644. Also appended is Qu Jishi’s 瞿給事 (Shisi 式耜;

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4 5

6

7 8 9 10

11 12 13 14 15

16 17

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1590–1650) judgment on the vision and style of the two poems. Qu is quoted as saying: “One day [this young man] will become a great person. Congratulations to our master to have found a man [of such promise].” Other editions have it dated Yihai 乙亥, but it must be a misprint of Jihai 已亥. Pan Zhonggui 潘重規 (ed.) Qian Qianyi Toubi ji jiaoben 錢謙益投筆集校本 [hereafter Toubi ji], Taipei: Wenshizhe chubanshe, 1973. In this book, the cycle and poem numbers are indicated before the citation of the Toubi ji (e.g. 1.1 stands for the first poem in the first cycle of the Toubi ji). Another name for Jinling. “Di” 地 (Land) in Hai lu suishi 海錄碎事 says: Jinling is the fertile land of the heavenly abode, the lungs in the earth of Gouqu (金陵者, 洞虛之膏腴, 句曲之地肺). It is called the “fertile land” because its soil is bearing and fine, and it is called the “lungs in the earth” because when water flows across Jinling, it will not dry up (其地肥良, 故曰膏腴; 水至則浮, 故曰地肺). See Ye Tinggui 葉廷珪, Hai lu suishi (ed.) Liu Feng 劉鳳, Taipei: Xinxing shuju, 1969, 3A.3b–4a, [pp. 228–9]. I thank Professor Chow Tse-tsung 周策縱 of the University of Wisconsin at Madison for locating this reference for me (private correspondence, December 9, 1995). From the purplish red color of the earth on the frontiers. See Fu Jian’s biography in Jin shu 晉書, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1974, 114: 2917–18. Fu Jian’s son and most of Fu’s officials advised him that it was undesirable to launch the campaign. About three li northeast of Nanjing. See Liu Junren 劉鈞仁, Zhongguo lishi diming da cidian 中國歷史地名大辭典, Tokyo: Ryo¯ un shobo¯ 凌雲書房, 1980, p. 1972. Many beautiful pictures, paintings, and maps of the Xiao Mausoleum can be found in Wang Qianhua 王前華 (ed.) Shijie wenhua yichan Ming Xiaoling jiuying 世界文化遺產明孝陵舊影, Nanjing: Nanjing chubanshe, 2004. In 2003, Xiaoling was declared by UNESCO a site of world cultural heritage. Yao Runeng 姚汝能, An Lushan shiji 安祿山事蹟, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1983, pp. 32–3. Historically, Hu is an umbrella term referring to different non-Han “barbarians” living to the north and west of China proper. See Franz Michael, The Origin of Manchu Rule in China: frontier and bureaucracy as interacting forces in the Chinese empire, New York: Octagon Books, 1972, pp. 12–24. See Jonathan D. Spence, The Search for Modern China, New York and London: W.W. Norton & Company, 1990, pp. 26–7. See Frederic Wakeman, Jr., The Great Enterprise: the Manchu reconstruction of imperial order in seventeenth-century China, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985, p. 65. The Latter Jin dynasty was established in 1616 by Nurhaci. It has been suggested that at the time of the Liaodong conquest, 1618 to 1621, Nurhaci had already conceived of the possibility of expanding into China and setting up a Manchu dynasty in Beijing. See Gertraude Roth, “The Manchu– Chinese relationship, 1618–1636,” in Jonathan D. Spence and John E. Wills, Jr. (eds) From Ming to Ch’ing: conquest, region, and continuity in seventeenth–century China, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1979, p. 7. Hans H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills (eds) From Max Weber: essays in sociology, New York: Oxford University Press, 1946, pp. 78ff, 294ff. I follow the rendering of this term in Hok-lam Chan’s Legitimation in Imperial China: discussions under the Jurchen-Chin dynasty (1115–1234), Seattle and London: University of Washington Press, 1984. The expression zhengtong 正統 originates from the Gongyangzhuan, in two separate words, zheng and tong; there the importance of moral leadership, abidance by established regulations, and the significance of introducing new institutions and practices at the start of a new

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18 19 20 21 22

23 24

25

26

27 28 29 30 31 32

Notes

reign are underscored. See Chan, Legitimation in Imperial China, p. 26. The term has been variously translated as “legitimate line of succession,” “orthodox succession,” “correct filiation,” and so forth. See ibid., p. 176n8. For Chinese texts on this subject, see Rao Zongyi 饒宗頤, Zhongguo shixue shang zhi zhengtonglun 中國史學上之正統論, Hong Kong: Longmen shudian, 1977, pp. 61–383. Hok-lam Chan, “Chinese historiography at the Yüan court: the composition of the Liao, Chin, and Sung histories,” in John D. Langlois, Jr. (ed.) China under Mongol Rule, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1981, pp. 69–70. See James T.C. Liu, Ou-yang Hsiu: an eleventh-century neo-Confucianist, Stanford, California: Stanford University Press, 1967, p. 111. Mou Runsun 牟潤孫, “Liang Song Chunqiuxue zhi zhuliu” 兩宋春秋學之主流, in his Zhushizhai conggao 注史齋叢稿, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987, pp. 104–61; Rao Zongyi, Zhongguo shixue shang zhi zhengtong lun, p. 57. See Frank Dikötter, The Discourse of Race in Modern China, London: Hurst & Company, 1992, p. 23. It has been suggested that classical Confucian tradition contains two seemingly incompatible attitudes towards “barbarians”: pacifism and militarism. See Lien-sheng Yang, “Historical notes on the Chinese world order,” in John King Fairbank (ed.) The Chinese World Order: traditional China’s foreign relations, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1968, pp. 20–3. As Dikötter aptly points out: “Chinese attitudes towards outsiders were fraught with ambivalence. On the one hand, a claim to cultural universalism led the élite to assert that the barbarian could be ‘sinicized’ or transformed by the beneficial influence of culture and climate. On the other hand, when their sense of cultural superiority was threatened, the élite appealed to categorical differences in nature to repel the barbarian and seal the country off from the perverting influences of the outside world. In both cases, the foreigner was never faced: the myth of his inferiority could be preserved. Absorbed or expelled, he remained a nonidentity.” See Dikötter, The Discourse of Race, p. 29. See Dikötter, The Discourse of Race, p. 24. For Zheng’s reception and influence during the Ming–Qing transition, see Chen Fukang 陳福康, Jing zhong qishu kao 井中奇書考, Shanghai: Shanghai yiwen chubanshe, 2001, pp. 173–239. See John Fincher, “China as a race, culture and nation: notes on Fang Hsiao-ju’s discussion of dynastic legitimacy,” in David C. Buxbaum and Frederick W. Mote (eds) Transition and Permanence, Chinese History and Culture: a festschrift in honour of Dr Hsiao Kung-chüan, Hong Kong: Cathay Press, 1972, p. 59. Resonant with this racist voice, Wang Fuzhi of the Ming–Qing transition made a volatile ethnocentric and anti-foreign presentation of the Manchu ruler. See Ian McMorran, “Wang Fu-chih and the neo-Confucian tradition,” in Wm. Theodore de Bary (ed.) The Unfolding of Neo-Confucianism, New York: Columbia University Press, 1975, p. 438. For translation of Chinese astronomical terms in this book, I generally follow the renderings of Joseph Needham and Wang Ling, Science and Civilisation in China, Vol. 3: mathematics and the sciences of the heavens and the earth, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1959. The Milky Way. The Southern Dipper also stands for South China in Chinese poetical and historical writings. Heilongjiang was known as Heishui 黑水, literally “black water,” in Sui and Tang times. Heishui also refers to Heishui Mohe 黑水靺鞨, the Mohe people in the Heilongjiang area. Known together as Baishan–Heishui 白山黑水. Read 冉冉 for 再再. Or the Fire Constellation. It is identified with Antares (a Scorpii) and with the

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35 36 37 38

39 40

41 42 43

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3rd, 4th and 5th mansions (Di 氐, Fang 房 and Xin 心), central to the eastern palace. Autumnal wind. In the Five Elements theory, autumn is assigned to the West, which is endowed with the virtue of metal or gold. The natural images of the first two lines are associated with early autumn. The Fire Star—Huo 火 or Dahuo 大火—is at its zenith in the sixth and seventh months of the lunar year, as it appears in “Qiyue” 七月 of the Book of Odes: “In the seventh month, the Fire Star passes the meridian” (七月流火). This is consistent with the note that Qian places after the title: “Composed on the first day of the seventh month of the year Jihai [August 18, 1659]” (Jihai qiyue chuyi ri zuo 已亥七月初一日作). The Fire Star passes the meridian sometime in the seventh month, marking the closure of summer. However, this cycle was written on the first day of the seventh month, which might sound a bit too early to report that the Fire Star had already moved west. This can be explained by the fact that there was an intercalary month (runyue 閏月)—an additional third month—in this year. The seventh month was in effect the eighth month. Therefore, the first day of the month was already about ten days past the “Beginning of Autumn” (liqiu 立秋)— the first day of the seventh month of the preceding year, 1658, was still about ten days before the “Beginning of Autumn”—which justifies the title of the cycle, as well as the many autumnal images which figure prominently throughout this cycle of poems, especially in Poem 1.6. Fuguo 俘馘 in the original, in which fu 俘 means captives and guo 馘 the left ear cut from the corpse of the enemy. Fat, sturdy. The tribal peoples of northwestern China were most aggressive in autumn when their horses were strong. One claim was that the tribal peoples needed to herd their horses closer to the Chinese border because the grass in their lands was becoming scarce in autumn. See Yü Ying-shih’s accounts of Han foreign relations, in Denis Twitchett and Michael Loewe (eds) The Cambridge History of China, Vol. 1, the Ch’in and Han Empires, 221 B.C.–A.D. 220, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986, pp. 377–462. He was forced to withdraw to Wuhu because of Zheng Chenggong’s defeat at Nanjing in the second week of September. Shi was the principal architect of Qing plans to conquer Taiwan after Zheng’s death in 1662. See Struve, The Southern Ming, pp. 250–1n42. For Shi’s relationship with Zheng and his role in pacifying Taiwan, see the various studies in Xu Zaiquan 許在全 and Wu Youxiong 吳幼雄 (eds) Shi Lang yanjiu 施琅研究, Beijing: Zhongguo shehui kexue chubanshe, 2001. Related in Huang Jun 黃濬, Huasuirensheng’an zhiyi 花隨人聖盦摭憶, quoted in Chen Yinke 陳寅恪, Liu Rushi biezhuan 柳如是別傳, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1980, pp. 1190–1. The expression jiuzhou fulie 九州幅裂, which Qian skillfully breaks into two phrases, is a recurrent expression in historical writings referring to the demise of an imperial house. One can find at least thirty poems exclusively devoted to this theme in Qian’s Youxue ji 有學集, in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Muzhai Youxue ji 牧齋有學集 [hereafter Youxue ji], Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1996: “Guanqi liu jueju” 觀棋六絕句 and “Hou guanqi liu jueju” 後觀棋六絕句 in Qiu huai shiji 秋槐詩集 (1645–48), Youxue ji, juan l, pp. 30–4; “Jingkou guanqi liu jueju” 京口觀棋六絕句 in Jiangyun yujin shi shang 絳雲餘燼詩上 (1651), ibid., juan 4, pp. 162–5; “Wulin guanqi liu jueju” 武林觀棋六絕句 in Jiangyun yujin xia 絳雲餘燼下 (1654–55), ibid., juan 5, pp. 193–5; and “Hou guanqi liu jueju” 後觀棋六絕句 in Dongjian shiji shang 東澗詩集上 (1662), ibid., juan 12, pp. 607–9. The game of chess was a pregnant metaphor for Qian’s gravest discussion of politics. Gu Ling

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49 50

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顧苓, in his “Dongjian yilao Qiangong biezhuan” 東澗遺老錢公別傳 for Qian, makes it a point to mention that “[Qian] wrote Master Qu the Regent and Grand Guardian in Guangxi, using three games of chess as metaphor to convey secret messages” ([錢] 以隱語作楸枰三局寄廣西留守太保瞿公). See Gu Ling, “Biezhuan,” appended in Jin Hechong 金鶴沖, Qian Muzhai xiansheng nianpu 錢牧齋先生年譜, prefaced 1941 by Qian Wenxuan 錢文選, n.p., n.d., recently included in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Muzhai zazhu 牧齋雜著, in Qian Muzhai quanji 錢牧齋全集, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2003, p. 960. Gu refers to a 1646 letter Qian sent to the ardent Ming loyalist Qu Shisi in Guangxi. Qu was Qian’s student. In the same year, Qu quotes Qian’s letter at length in a memorial presented to the Yongli emperor. See Qu’s “Bao zhongxing jihui shu” 報中興機會疏, in Jiangsu shifan xueyuan lishixi Suzhou difangshi yanjiushi 江蘇師範學院歷史系蘇州地方史研究室 (ed.) Qu Shisi ji 瞿式耜集, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1981, pp. 104–7. For a study of the theme of chess in Qian’s poetry, see Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 and Yan Ming 嚴明, “Qian Qianyi shi zhong de qi yu” 錢謙益詩中的棋喻, Zhongguo wenzhe yanjiu tongxun 中國文哲研究通訊 (Newsletter of the Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy) 14.2, Jun. 2004, 63–91. See “Du Yu zhuan,” Jin shu, 34: 1029. Ibid., 34: 1029–30. Xigao 席槁 in the original. For an official to “sit on a straw mat” was a gesture of asking for punishment from the ruler. See Michael, The Origin of Manchu Rule in China, pp. 62–7 and 117–19; Spence, The Search for Modern China, pp. 27 and 39. With the decline of the weisuo 衛所 military system on the frontier, late-Ming emperors did try a systematic refortification of the Great Wall, which was reinforced in brick and lengthened in spots. See Wakeman, The Great Enterprise, pp. 30–1. See Spence, The Search for Modern China, pp. 31–3. On certain occasions Zhu Yuanzhang had to acknowledge the legitimacy of the Yuan rule, but as Frederic Wakeman points out, his “ethnocentricism” is well known. In 1367 as Zhu marched north, he remarked: “Ever since the ancient times rulers have governed the empire. It has always been a case of China occupying the interior and managing the barbarians and the barbarians being outside and submitting to China. There was no such thing as the barbarians occupying China and governing the empire. . . . Therefore I have led forth the armies to make a clean sweep. My aim is to chase out the Mongol slaves, to do away with anarchy and assure the people of their safety—to cleanse China of shame.” See Yao Guangxiao 姚廣孝 et al. (eds) Ming Shilu 明實錄, Hongwu 洪武 26, 228: 10–11b; translated by Edward L. Farmer, Early Ming Government: the evolution of dual capitals, Cambridge, Massachusetts: East Asian Research Center, Harvard University, 1976, pp. 37–8. See also John Dardess, “Ming T’ai-tsu on the Yüan: an autocrat’s assessment of the Mongol dynasty,” The Bulletin of Sung and Yüan Studies 14, 1978, 6–11. For example, “Tianwen zhi” 天文志 in Jin shu, 11: 290, speaks of the Northern Dipper as “the image of the emperor and the lord of orders” (斗為人君之象, 號令之主也). See “Tianguan shu” 天官書 in Shiji 史記 (Records of the Grand Historian), Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1959, 27: 1299. Zheng Chenggong’s infant name was Zheng Sen 鄭森. The Prince of Tang 唐王, who eventually became the Longwu 隆武 emperor of the Southern Ming, conferred the imperial surname Zhu upon Zheng. Longwu also gave him a new personal name, Chenggong, literally “achievement,” hence the name Zheng Chenggong or Zhu Chenggong. In addition, the emperor also gave Zheng a

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military command of uncertain significance and the title Zhongxiao Bo 忠孝伯, Earl of Loyalty and Filial Piety. This marked the beginning of Zheng’s close personal connection with the Ming cause. See Ralph C. Croizier, Koxinga and Chinese Nationalism: history, myth, and the hero, Cambridge, MA: East Asian Research Center, Harvard University, 1977, pp. 12–13. Venus. Originally used at the Hanlin Academy in Tang times. The Hanlin Academy did not entertain random visitors. In times of urgency, the caller would ring the alarm bell to announce his visit and a messenger would come and deliver his message to the Hanlin scholar concerned. The Earl of the River (He Bo 河伯). He became a river sylph after eating eight stones and is pictured as having a human face and riding two dragons. A mythical creature capable of causing storms and floods. The opening couplets of these two poems are reminiscent of one that Gu Yanwu wrote about Zhang Mingzhen’s 張名振 invasion of the Yangzi region in 1655: “Galleons bestrew the waters of Hudu [Shanghai] / In the Stone City, beacon-fire lit up the Qinhuai River” (海上戈船連滬瀆, 石頭烽火照秦淮). See “Changshu Gui sheng Cheng, Chen sheng Fangji shu lai yi shi da zhi” 常熟歸生晟陳生芳績書來以詩答之, in Wang Quchang 王蘧常 (ed.) Gu Tinglin shiji huizhu 顧亭林詩集彙注, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1983, pp. 443–5. See “Su fu,” in Qian zhu Dushi 錢注杜詩, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1958, p. 461. See Zizhi tongjian 資治通鑑, Liang Wudi 梁武帝, Taiqing 太清 3. See “Zhu Fu zhuan” 朱浮傳 in Hou Han shu 後漢書, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1965. No. 2 in “Zhouxing zufeng kouhao” 舟行阻風口號 (1647?), in Zhang Cangshui ji 張蒼水集, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1985, p. 59. “Yanyu” 言語, in Liu Yiqing 劉義慶, Shi shuo xinyu 世說新語. See Yu Jiaxi 余嘉錫, Shi shuo xinyu jianshu 世說新語箋疏, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1993, p. 92. Yuan Zhen ji 元稹集 (ed.) Ji Qin 冀勤, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1982, p. 169. The moon. A loyal heart. The sun. It also stands for the emperor. The text in Qian zhu Dushi, p. 532, reads hou 後 for yi 異 in the second line of Du’s poem. A gloss provided in “Wang Mang zhuan” 王莽傳, Han shu 漢書, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1962, 99: 4109. See the biography of Li Ling in “Li Guang Su Jian zhuan” 李廣蘇建傳, in ibid., 54: 2458; translated by Burton Watson in his Courtier and Commoner in Ancient China: selections from the history of the Former Han by Pan Ku, New York and London: Columbia University Press, 1974, pp. 24–33. Han shu, 84: 3440. Gu Yanwu also writes in his poem “Jing zhong Xin shi ge” 井中心史歌: “天知世道將反覆, 故出此書示臣鵠.” See Gu Tinglin shiji huizhu, p. 1170. “Gaodi ji” 高帝紀, Han shu, 1: 79. Commoners were compelled to wear plain clothing, and three feet was the common length of a two-edged sword. Three ancient Chinese feet are about 27 inches in length, English measure. See translation and annotation by Homer H. Dubs, “The annals of [the emperor] Kao[Tsu],” The History of the Former Han Dynasty, Baltimore: Waverly Press, Inc., 1938, pp. 142–3. “Du Taowu quanji xu” 杜弢武全集序, Youxue ji, juan 16, p. 738. Lin Jingxi notes under the title of his poem “Dongqing hua” 冬青花: “Dongqing trees, also named Nüzhenmu 女貞木 or Wannianzhi, were first planted in the palaces of the Han dynasty. Later dynasties followed suit. Quite a few were

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planted at the various mausoleums of the Song.” See Li E 厲鶚 (ed.) Songshi jishi 宋詩紀事, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1983, p. 1843. The desecration of the Song imperial tombs occasioned the composition of thirtyseven ci poems in 1279 by fourteen Song loyalists in five secret gatherings. The poems were later collected under the title Yuefu buti. Huang Zhaoxian’s 黃兆顯 (Wong Shiu-hin) Yuefu buti yanjiu ji jianzhu 樂府補題研究及箋注, Hong Kong: Hokman Publications, 1975, is a punctuated, annotated edition of the collection. Materials surrounding the events, including some shi poems about the wintergreen trees not originally in the Yuefu buti, are also included. For a recent study of the poems in the Yuefu buti and about the wintergreen trees, see Kang-i Sun Chang, “Symbolic and allegorical meanings in the Yüeh-fu pu-t’i poem-series,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 46.2, 1986, 353–85. This event involved perhaps more than six imperial mausoleums. For example, Zhou Mi 周密 (1232–98) mentions, among others, the mausoleums of Ningzong 寧宗, Lizong 理宗, Duzong 度宗, Huizong 徽宗, Qinzong 欽宗, Gaozong 高宗, Xiaozong孝宗, and Guangzong 光宗 in his “Zhi Luo Lingshi yishi” 志羅陵使遺事, in Wan Sitong 萬斯同 (1638–1702) (ed.) Nan Song liu ling yishi 南宋六陵遺事, in Zhaodai congshu 昭代叢書, ser. 6 [己集], vol. 7, 11b–14a. For a discussion of the Song loyalist activities in Guiji, see Jennifer Jay, A Change in Dynasties: loyalism in thirteenth-century China, Bellingham, WA: Western Washington University, 1991, pp. 149–56. In the incident, Lizong’s mausoleum was far more ill-fated. It was said that during the operation, Lizong’s skull was found too big to cover up. With little choice, they left the poor skull behind, and it was later taken possession of by the Tibetan lama, who made it a drinking vessel. It was not until the early Ming that the skull was recovered and reburied in its proper place, the Yongmuling 永穆陵 or Muling 穆陵. See “Nan Song zhu ling” 南宋諸陵 in Zhejiang tongzhi 浙江通志, quoted in Nan Song liu ling yishi, 33b–34b. Ibid., 33a. For example, the Ming loyalist Xia Wanchun 夏完淳 (1631–47) writes in the preface to his “Da ai fu” 大哀賦: “昔高廟之馨, 十七世而旁移; 孝陵之澤, 三百年而中斬乎?” In Bai Jian 白堅 (annot.) Xia Wanchun ji jianjiao 夏完淳集箋校, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1991, p. 2. The couplet under discussion takes a particularly poignant note from the association of Xiaoling, in line 4, with Zhu Yuanzhang’s mausoleum. According to this reading, lines 3 and 4 invoke the Founding Emperors of the respective dynasties, as in Xia Wanchun’s lines. Eva Shan Chou aptly sums up this theme of Du Fu’s poetry in the idea of “compassion.” Chou writes: “It [the theme of compassion] surfaces in the many poems and passages in which Tu Fu feelingly describes the sufferings of his countrymen, criticizes the state for its conduct of war, and calls for the redress of injustice done to the people; it is revealed in poems in which he speaks for the people by voicing their desire for lighter taxes and for peace; it is found in poems where he writes warmly and intimately of his wife, children, relatives, and neighbors.” See Chou, Reconsidering Tu Fu: literary greatness and cultural context, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995, p. 62. Kang-i Sun Chang translated Wen’s “Guo Lingdingyang” in her The Late-Ming Poet Ch’en Tzu-lung: crises of love and loyalism, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1991, p. 5. Chang observes that Ming loyalists such as Chen Zilong looked to Wen Tianxiang as “a symbol of undying loyalty to China.” “Guo Lingdingyang” became for Ming loyalists the “best perpetuation of heroic values.” See ibid., pp. 4–6. Cf. Ibid., p. 5. From Wen’s last words, which were inscribed on his belt and discovered after the execution. The verse became known as “Yidai zan” 衣帶贊. For

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the event and the entire text of “Yidai zan,” see “Wen Tianxiang zhuan” 文天祥傳 in Song shi 宋史, juan 418. Chang suggests: “. . . [T]he sacrifice of one’s life for one’s country became the highest form of taking action, transcending personal suffering, and achieving the ultimate morality of jen (humanity) and i (righteousness).” Chang suggests that Wen’s example was responsible for “a new notion of heroism.” See ibid. 83 As Auden’s elegy for Yeats says: “Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.” 4 The poet as mentor and strategist 1 The account of the battle in the text draws on the following sources: Yang Ying 楊英, Xianwang shilu 先王實錄 (ed.) Chen Bisheng 陳碧笙, Fujian: Renmin chubanshe, 1981; Xu Zi 徐鼒, Xiaotian jinian fukao 小腆紀年附考, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1958; Chen Bisheng, “1657–1659 nian Zheng Chenggong sanci beishang Jiangnan zhanyi” 1657–1659 年鄭成功三次北上江南戰役, in his Zheng Chenggong lishi yanjiu 鄭成功歷史研究, Beijing: Jiuzhou chubanshe, 2000, pp. 175–215; Shi Song 史松 and Lin Tiejun 林鐵均 (eds) Qing shi biannian 清史編年, Beijing: Zhongguo renmin daxue chubanshe, 1985; Lynn Struve, The Southern Ming: 1644–1662, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1984; Frederic Wakeman, Jr., The Great Enterprise: the Manchu reconstruction of imperial order in seventeenth-century China, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1985. Xianwang shilu and Xiaotian jinian are used side by side to balance their expressed positions, the former pro-Zheng (Yang was Zheng’s diarist) and the latter pro-Qing. 2 Pan Zhonggui 潘重規 (ed.) Qian Qianyi Toubi ji jiaoben 錢謙益投筆集校本 [hereafter Toubi ji], Taipei: Wenshizhe chubanshe, 1973, p. 5. 3 The poem “Yi” 抑 (Mao no. 256), Kong Yingda 孔穎達, Maoshi zhengyi 毛詩正義, in Ruan Yuan 阮元 (ed.) Shisanjing zhushu 十三經注疏 [hereafter Shisanjing], rpt. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1980, p. 556. This is known as the first poem of admonition in Chinese literature. Cf. James Legge (trans.) The Chinese Classics, Vol. 4, the She King, or the Book of Poetry, rpt. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1960, pp. 516–17. 4 Translating the original henghai 橫海, which also stands for Henghai jiangjun 橫海將軍, a title of certain naval generals in the Han dynasty. 5 More precisely, but less readable should it stand in the translation, the original, yin 陰, refers to the northern part of a city. It should be mentioned that Zheng’s forces were crushed at the northwestern corner of Nanjing city. 6 This image of the “rustic old man” might have come from Du Fu’s “Ai Jiangtou” 哀江頭: “少陵野老吞聲哭, 春日潛行曲江頭.” 7 Lynn A. Struve, “The Southern Ming,” in Frederick W. Mote and Denis Twitchett (eds) The Cambridge History of China, Vol. 7, the Ming Dynasty, 1368–1644, Part 1, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988, p. 720. This number is different from her earlier account in The Southern Ming, p. 186, where she suggests 2,300 ships. 8 From an official dispatch intercepted by Zheng’s agent on August 20. See Yang Ying, Xianwang, p. 208. 9 [鄭] 偕諸將登閱江樓, 望建業王氣, 令諸舟一字列於江東門外. . . . Xu Zi, Xiaotian jinian, p. 751. 10 On August 4 and 10, respectively, Zheng recovered such strategic points as Guazhou and Zhenjiang. After that, he could have disembarked his troops to recover Nanjing by a mass assault. Against the better advice of his aides, Zheng directed his campaign up the Yangzi to beset the former Ming capital. Giving details, Yang Ying informs that they did not advance by land because: (1) most of their men were from the far south, unsteady and unfamiliar with the territory; (2)

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the days around that time were too hot, which made it difficult for them to march that distance in the heat; and (3) because of rains, difficulties created by possible flooding were foreseen. These alleged reasons are, to my mind, flimsy excuses. See Yang Ying, Xianwang, pp. 203–4. Xu Zi, Xiaotian jinian, p. 751. This incident is not dated in Xiaotian jinian, but it makes perfect sense to place it in the early stage of the siege. Ibid. Ibid. Yang Ying, Xianwang, p. 210. Ibid., p. 210. Struve’s count, The Southern Ming, pp. 187, 253n69. Ibid., p. 187. Yang Ying, Xianwang, p. 211; Xu Zi, Xiaotian jinian, p. 751. The actual size of the Qing forces is not clear in all the sources that I consulted. Yang Ying mentions shu wan 數萬, which suggests at least thirty thousand (Yang Ying, Xianwang, p. 215). Still, the Qing troops were outnumbered thrice over by Zheng’s infantrymen. Of course there is always a possibility that Yang Ying inflated the number since he was Zheng’s officer. From the feather attached to the envelope, urging speed. Zuo Si 左思 of the Jin dynasty has these two lines: “邊城苦鳴鏑, 羽檄飛京都.” Gechuan 戈船 in the original, which also stands for Gechuan jiangjun 戈船將軍, a title of naval general. Originally refers to one of the twelve famous horses of Qinshihuangdi 秦始皇帝, the First August Emperor of Qin. A mythical huge raft that glows like the moon and stars at night. Wang Jia 王嘉, Shiyi ji 拾遺記. It was believed that the ocean was somehow connected with the Milky Way. Yang Ying, Xianwang, p. 214; Xu Zi, Xiaotian jinian, pp. 751–2. Yang Ying, Xianwang, pp. 212–13. Ibid., p. 213. Red in color, according to Shiji. Said to be of Xiongnu origin. See “Xiongnu zhuan” 匈奴傳 in Han shu. Hun and po in the original, referring to the two kinds of souls of a human being. A practice of the Xiongnu had it that the able-bodied men would eat the fleshy and fine meat, ganfei 甘肥, and the elderly the remains. See “Xiongnu liezhuan” 匈奴列傳 in Shiji. Xu Zi, Xiaotian jinian, p. 752. Ibid. Because their heavy armor made hearing difficult, Zheng’s men developed a sign language. They would wave red lanterns at the command post to signal attack, and white ones for withdrawal. On September 9, however, visibility was low and probably the lanterns could not be seen clearly. Yang Ying, Xianwang, pp. 189–90. Yang Ying, Xianwang, p. 215; Xu Zi, Xiaotian jinian, p. 752. Xu Zi, Xiaotian jinian, p. 752. Yang Ying writes that when the fleet was pulling out of Nanjing, several thousand wounded soldiers from the battlefield swam to the ships and were saved. He also records that two units of the navy were ordered to stay to await the survivors from land. Yang Ying, Xianwang, p. 215. Shao Tingcai suggests that eventually Zheng managed to bring shu wan of his men away. That would place the number of the survivors at thirty thousand or more, about one third of the total force. However, it is not clear to me whether Shao means that number of the remaining infantry and the marines combined, or just of the infantry. If Shao means the former he is gravely mistaken because Zheng’s navy was largely intact. See Shao, Dongnan jishi 東南紀事, juan 11, rpt. Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 1982, p. 293. I find it difficult to ascertain the amount of

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survivors of Zheng’s infantry, and the battle at Nanjing remains baffling in many ways. Pamela Kyle Crossley, The Manchus, Cambridge, MA: Blackwell Publishers Inc., 1997, pp. 14–24. The Hangu Gate and the Yellow River. See “Tianwen zhi” 天文志 in Xin Tang shu 新唐書. Symbolic of dynastic grandeur. It was said that Yu 禹, founder of the Xia dynasty, gave orders to make nine tripods to represent the nine regions under heaven. Literally, Mount Looking North. Take advantage of the situation. Hubenski 虎賁氏 and Lübenshi 旅賁氏 were imperial bodyguards in the Zhou period. Later writings use their names to refer more generally to imperial guards. In the Wu dialect, the first person pronoun is wunong, and the second person may be qunong 渠儂, genong 個儂, or tanong 他儂. Here wunong represents the Jiangsu people. In the Mencius, I.B, it has: “People offer baskets of rice and bottles of drink to welcome the king’s army” (簞食壺漿以迎王師). The Xiaojing 孝經 (Classic of Filial Piety) says: “The body, the hair and the skin are what I received from my parents, I dare not damage them. Filial piety hereby begins” (身體髮膚, 受之父母, 不敢毀傷, 孝之始也). Struve, The Southern Ming, pp. 60–1, and the illustrations of the Ming and Qing hairstyles following p. 61. The original reads yingzu 營卒. It is not clear whether Qian means the Chinese bannermen (the standing military force) or the local militiamen (the auxiliary local force). He may mean both. Xu Jinling suoshi 續金陵瑣事, quoted in Chen Yinke 陳寅恪, Liu Rushi biezhuan 柳如是別傳, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1980, p. 1146. Xu Zi, Xiaotian jinian, p. 654. Crossley, The Manchus, p. 212. “Shenzong ji er” 神宗紀二, Ming shi 明史, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1974, 21: 295. Yang Ying, Xianwang, pp. 215–22. Now Zhenjiang in Jiangsu Province. Also known as 北固山. In a favorable wind, of course. In the earlier stage of the campaign, because of foul winds, it took Zheng two weeks to sail from Zhenjiang to Nanjing. See Struve, The Southern Ming, p. 187. Xia Lin 夏琳, Minhai jiyao 閩海紀要, Taipei: Taiwan yinhang jingji yanjiushi, 1948, p. 23. Xu Zi, Xiaotian jinian, pp. 749–50. Ibid, p. 750. See Struve, The Southern Ming, pp. 187–8. Yang Ying, Xianwang, pp. 202–3. Struve, The Southern Ming, p. 184, and the map on the same page. Xu Zi, Xiaotian jinian, pp. 751–3; Struve, The Southern Ming, p. 253n72. Liang was promoted to be Jiangnan Provincial Military Commander after this. Zheng intended to occupy Chongming and built a permanent base, laoying 老營, there. Yang Ying, Xianwang, p. 218. Chongming, an island located at the mouth of the Yangzi, was indeed a safe haven for Zheng if he continued to stay in the area. From Chongming, it was feasible for him to advance on into the Yangzi or to withdraw back to his southern base in Simingzhou, Fujian. Shunzhi 16 [1659], Shizu Zhanghuangdi shilu 世祖章皇帝實錄, Qing shilu 清實錄, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1985–86, 127: 987. (The reader is advised that the

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volume numbering of the Zhonghua edition of the Qing shilu is not continuous; each reign begins with a new volume sequence. The citation of this source given in this study refers to the reign year, juan number, and the modern page number in that particular reign in the Zhonghua edition.) Guo Pu 郭璞 spread three pecks of small beans around one person’s house. The next morning this person found the house surrounded by several thousand men in red clothes. When he looked more closely, they all disappeared. See “Guo Pu zhuan” 郭璞傳, Jin shu, cited in Qian Zeng’s gloss of sadou 撒豆, in Zhou Fagao 周法高 (ed.) Zuben Qian Zeng Muzhai shi zhu 足本錢曾牧齋詩註 [hereafter Muzhai shi zhu], Taipei: Privately printed, 1973, vol. 5, p. 2711. The Milky Way. The Northern Dipper, the star of the sovereign. “Tianguan shu” 天官書 in Shiji says: “斗為帝車, 運于中央, 臨制四鄉.” Quoted in Qian Zeng’s gloss of the expression yilü 一旅, in Muzhai shi zhu, vol. 5, p. 2711. This Southern Palace was in Luoyang 洛陽, not to be confused with the one in Nanjing mentioned in Qian’s note following line 2. Nangong also stands for the Ministry of Rites in classical reference. To assign it this meaning is very tempting since Qian was a Minister of Rites of the Hongguang court. Yet I do not adopt this meaning because I feel line 7 to be much more powerful as an invocation of Zheng Chenggong. See “Tianguan shu,” Shiji. The classical reference of paoche 砲車 in the original is some kind of ballista for throwing stones or other missiles. In the seventeenth century, however, cannons and guns were already widely used. In the warfare of this year, both the Ming and the Qing forces had artilleries. For the increasing employment of cannons in the Ming–Qing conflict, see Huang Yinong 黃一農 (Yi-long Huang), “Hongyi dapao yu Ming-Qing zhanzheng—yi huopao cezhun jishu zhi yanbian weili” 紅夷大砲與明清戰爭—以火砲測準技術之演變為例, Qinghua xuebao 清華學報 26.1, Mar 1996, 31–70; and “Hongyi dapao yu Huang Taiji chuangli de baqi Hanjun” 紅夷大砲與皇太極創立的八旗漢軍, Lishi yanjiu 歷史研究 2004.4, 74–105. Chen Yinke maintains that the Fubo 伏波 mentioned in Qian’s note was Ma Xin 馬信. Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, pp. 1172–3. I cannot establish the basis of this theory. This identity is conveniently derived from the designation of Fubo. Fubo jiangjun 伏波將軍 (The General Who Calms the Waves) was the title of the famous Latter Han general Ma Yuan 馬援. Any general surnamed Ma might be referred to as Fubo jiangjun. Among Zheng’s generals, the most famous Ma was Ma Xin. This probably led Chen to believe that Fubo was Ma Xin. However, in the September 9 retreat from Nanjing, Huang An 黃安 and Wu Hao’s 吳豪 forces formed the rearguard. In the retreat from Zhenjiang, Chen Ze 陳澤 and Liu You’s 劉猷 forces served in that capacity. Ma Xin’s role in the Nanjing retreat is not documented, and in the Zhenjiang retreat Ma actually acted as the vanguard. See Yang Ying, Xianwang, pp. 215, 217–18. Xu Zi writes that in the Zhenjiang retreat, Zhou Quanbin 周全斌, Huang Zhao 黃昭, and Wu Hao formed the rearguard (Xu Zi, Xiaotian jinian, p. 753). I have not been able to ascertain the identity of this Fubo. Qian may have very well meant Ma Xin, perhaps having been misinformed of what had happened. Qian Zeng cites Lu Rong’s 陸容 Shuyuan zaji 菽園雜記, in Muzhai shi zhu, vol. 5, p. 2712, relating that before the famous Song general Yue Fei’s 岳飛 grave, the tree branches all faced south. Qian Zeng testifies that he had seen them himself. “Southern bough” or “branches facing south,” xiang nan zhi, became an enduring and potent loyalist symbol.

Notes

189

74 Jin Hechong 金鶴沖, Qian Muzhai xiansheng nianpu 錢牧齋先生年譜, prefaced 1941 by Qian Wenxuan 錢文選, n.p., n.d., recently included in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Muzhai zazhu 牧齋雜著, in Qian Muzhai quanji 錢牧齋全集, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2003, pp. 937–8. 75 Ibid., p. 938. 76 Ibid. 77 Ibid., p. 939. 78 Ibid., pp. 941–2. 79 Maoshi zhengyi, Shisanjing, p. 556. Cf. Legge, The Book of Poetry, p. 518. 5 Loyalty and love at parting 1 Pan Zhonggui 潘重規 (ed.) Qian Qianyi Toubi ji jiaoben 錢謙益投筆集校本 [hereafter Toubi ji], Taipei: Wenshizhe chubanshe, 1973, p. 10. 2 They were not forced out by Qing forces until September 28. See Wu Weiye, “Liang Gongbao Zhuangyou ji” 梁宮保壯猷記, Wu Meicun quanji 吳梅村全集, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1990, juan 25, pp. 638–9; “Jiang Guozhu zhuan” 蔣國柱傳, in Wang Zhonghan 王鍾翰 (ed.) Qing shi liezhuan 清史列傳, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1987, juan 5. Both are cited in Jin Hechong 金鶴沖, Qian Muzhai xiansheng nianpu 錢牧齋先生年譜, prefaced 1941 by Qian Wenxuan 錢文選, n.p., n.d., recently included in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 (ed.) Muzhai zazhu 牧齋雜著, in Qian Muzhai quanji 錢牧齋全集, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2003, p. 747, and Chen Yinke 陳寅恪, Liu Rushi biezhuan 柳如是別傳, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1980, p. 1168. 3 Xie Lingyun 謝靈運 has this couplet in “Wan chu Xishetang” 晚出西射堂: “羈雌戀舊侶, 迷鳥懷故林.” Du Fu in “Jiangting” 江亭 writes: “故林歸未得, 排悶強裁詩.” 4 “Quan e” 卷阿 (Mao no. 252) in the Book of Odes has this stanza: 鳳皇鳴矣于彼高岡梧桐生矣于彼朝陽菶菶萋萋雝雝喈喈

5 6 7

8

Listen—the male and female phoenix are singing, On that high ridge. O the Wutong trees are growing, On that sun-facing slope. The Wutong trees are lush and rich, And the notes melodic and harmonic.

Kong Yingda 孔穎達, Maoshi zhengyi 毛詩正義, in Ruan Yuan 阮元 (ed.) Shisanjing zhushu 十三經注疏 [hereafter Shisanjing], rpt. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1980, p. 547. Cf. James Legge (trans.) The Chinese Classics, vol. 4, the She King, or the Book of Poetry, rpt. Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1960, p. 494. The phoenix and the Wutong trees (dryandras) symbolize marital harmony. Buddhist followers chant hymns before the image of Buddha six times a day: at sunset, at the beginning of the night, in the middle of the night, at the end of the night, in early morning, and at midday. In the Chinese lyrical tradition, works from the Qi and Liang of the Six Dynasties are sometimes regarded as being overly ornate and gaudy. “Qi-Liang girl” also refers to someone from a courtesan background, as was Liu Rushi. In the Lienü zhuan, it says: “The husband carried the cauldron and the rice steamer on his back, and the wife the spinning tools on her head. They changed their family and given names and moved to a place faraway. Nobody knew their whereabouts” (夫負釜甑, 妻戴紝器, 變名易姓而遠徙, 莫知所之). Lienü zhuan jiaozhu 列女傳校注 (annot.) Liang Duan 梁端, 2.8b–9a, Sibu beiyao edition. Translation is adopted from Anne Birrell, New Songs from a Jade Terrace: an anthology of early Chinese love poetry, Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin Books Ltd., 1986, p. 264.

190

Notes

9 Wu Jing 吳競, Yuefu guti yaojie 樂府古題要解, quoted in Qian Zeng’s annotation of the line, in Zhou Fagao 周法高 (ed.) Zuben Qian Zeng Muzhai shi zhu 足本錢曾牧齋詩註 [hereafter Muzhai shi zhu], Taipei: Privately printed, 1973, vol. 5, p. 2713. 10 A Buddhist allusion, referring to a mountain with sides surrounded by huge iron plates, hence Tieweishan 鐵圍山. See Fayuan zhulin 法苑珠林, juan 4. 11 Xiancha 仙槎, a mythical raft traveling between the ocean and the Milky Way. See Zhang Hua 張華, Bowu zhi 博物志, juan 3. 12 Biehe 別鶴 is a tune title, “Biehe cao” 別鶴操, in the Yuefu shiji 樂府詩集. Poems associated with this tune sing of the sorrows of separation of a couple. See Yuefu shiji, juan 58. Bao Zhao 鮑照 writes in “Ni ‘Xinglu nan’ ” 擬行路難: “寧作野中之雙鳧, 不願雲間之別鶴.” 13 Jiangyunlou is said to have been named after Liu Rushi. Qian regarded Liu as Jiangyun xianmu 絳雲仙姥, or Goddess Crimson Clouds, descended from heaven to join him. Qian’s collection of books, among them quite a few rare books from Song times, was a source of envy to other collectors of his day. See Hu Wenkai 胡文楷, “Liu Rushi nianpu” 柳如是年譜, in Fan Jingzhong 范景中 and Zhou Shutian 周書田 (eds) Liu Rushi shiji 柳如是事輯, Hangzhou: Zhongguo meishu xueyuan chubanshe, 2002, pp. 482–3. 14 See ibid., p. 465; Kang-i Sun Chang, The Late-Ming Poet Ch’en Tzu-lung: crises of love and loyalism, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1991, p. 20. 15 They join to form the compound word yangliu, which means willow, too. 16 Kang-i Sun Chang, in her study of Chen Zilong and Liu Rushi’s poetry, aptly calls this rhetorical device a “symbology of names.” See Chang, The Late-Ming Poet Ch’en Tzu-lung, pp. 59–63. 17 See discussion in ibid., p. 60. 18 The original, yuanqiang 垣牆, can also be taken as the Changyuan 長垣 constellation. According to the Xing jing 星經: “長垣四星, 在少微西南, 北列; 主界城域邑牆, 防蠻夷入之, 即今長城是也.” Quoted in Muzhai shi zhu, vol. 5, p. 2714. 19 An 闇, “dim,” in the preceding line, and wei 微, “fade,” here are actually astronomical terms; the former has its long form as anxu 闇虛, and the latter xingwei 星微, which Qian has adopted in this line. Anxu, strictly speaking, refers to a lunar eclipse, and xingwei an occultation. See Joseph Needham and Wang Ling, Science and Civilisation in China, Vol. 3: mathematics and the sciences of the heavens and the earth, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1959, p. 414. 20 Luohan, a Buddhist term, is derived from the Sanskrit arhan or arhat. The Arhats are those who have traveled the Eight-fold Path, have reached enlightenment, and are saved to all eternity. They are also patrons and guardians of Buddhism. In this poem, the Luohans should be taken as those who defend justice and fight for the Ming. 21 Cifei originally refers to a famous swordsman of the Spring and Autumn era. See “Daoying xun” 道應訓 in the Huainan zi 淮南子. In later times, it has become a substitution for brave men or military officers. 22 In the Spring and Autumn era, Qin was in the Northwest, whereas Yue was in the Southeast, separated by a great distance. The expression qinyue 秦越 comes to represent apathy. Yet this is a very rare allusion and I cannot locate the origin of it. Han Yu 韓愈 once used it in his essay “Zhengchen lun” 爭臣論: “[陽子] 視政之得失, 若越人視秦人之肥瘠, 忽焉不加喜戚於其心.” Qian may have had this image in mind. See Qu Shouyuan 屈守元 and Chang Sichun 常思春 (eds) Han Yu quanji jiaozhu 韓愈全集校注, Chengdu: Sichuan daxue chubanshe, 1996, p. 1168. 23 In a 1656 poem, Qian writes: “尊開南斗參旗動, 席俯東溟海氣更.” (“Yunjian zhu junzi siyan hele, xiang yu yu Wujing zhi Gaohuitang. Yinba cangmang, xingan

Notes

24 25

26 27

28 29 30

31

32 33

191

jiaoji, zhefu changju er shou” 雲間諸君子肆筵合樂饗余於武靜之高會堂飲罷蒼茫欣感交集輒賦長句二首, in Gaohuitang shiji 高會堂詩集, Youxue ji 有學集, in Qian Zhonglian 錢仲聯 [ed.] Muzhai Youxue ji 牧齋有學集 [hereafter Youxue ji], Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1996, juan 7, p. 319.) The nandou 南斗 here carries the same significance as the beidou. According to Chen Yinke, these two lines divulge that the political situation was about to change and Zheng Chenggong would soon lead his forces to enter the Yangzi. See Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, p. 1109. The Shen 參 constellation, Orionis, signifies warfare in Chinese star-lore. For example, “Tianwen zhi” in Jin shu says: “參星失色, 軍散敗.” Gu Ling 顧苓, “Dongjian yilao Qiangong biezhuan” 東澗遺老錢公別傳, appended in Jin, Nianpu, in Quanji, p. 961. For information on Yao Zhizhuo, see Shen Jia 沈佳, Cunxin bian 存信編, quoted in Zhu Xizu 朱希祖, Mingji shiliao tiba 明季史料題跋, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1961, pp. 53–4; Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, pp. 1039–40; Wen Ruilin 溫睿臨, Nanjiang yishi 南疆繹史, Taipei: Taiwan yinhang jingji yanjiushi, 1962, juan 28, pp. 401–2. The Nanjiang yishi has Yao’s name read Zhizhuo 志倬 and his posthumous name Renwu 仁武. On Wen Anzhi, see Xu Zi 徐鼒, Xiaotian jizhuan 小腆紀傳, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1958, juan 30, pp. 304–5. Nine poems of Wen are included in Chen Jisheng 陳濟生 (comp.) Tianqi Chongzhen liangchao yishi 天啟崇禛兩朝遺詩, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1958, pp. 533–4. For a general account of the historical events of this period, see Xie Guozhen 謝國楨, Nanming shilüe 南明史略, Shanghai: Shanghai renmin chubanshe, 1957, pp. 178–85; Lynn Struve, The Southern Ming: 1644–1662, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1984, pp. 150–4. Xu Zi, Xiaotian jizhuan, juan 30, pp. 304–5. See Struve, The Southern Ming, p. 162; Frederic Wakeman, Jr., The Great Enterprise: the Manchu reconstruction of imperial order in seventeenth-century China, Berkeley and Los Angeles, California: University of California Press, 1985, p. 993. The exact date of Zhang Mingzhen’s first attack on the Yangzi is controversial. Some sources give the year as 1652 rather than 1653. See discussion in Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, pp. 1036–7. Struve takes Zhang Mingzhen’s recovery of Zhoushan as part of Zheng Chenggong’s northward campaign of 1655–9. See Struve, The Southern Ming, p. 182; Wakeman, The Great Enterprise, pp. 1003–4. In the original, guige 閨閣 refers to the inner chambers of the ladies, hence the translation. Wai-yee Li has translated and discussed this poem and some related materials in her paper, “Heroic transformations: women and national trauma in early Qing literature,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 59.2, Dec. 1999, 394–412. Li discusses Poem 3.4 in the context of “female hero and self-transformation” in early Qing literature, paying particular attention to the contexts and implications of Liu’s transformation from an object of desire into a heroine and Qian’s own projected self-transformation motivated by a mixture of selfreproach and self-justification. I concur with Li in some observations on the text. In “Shu Xiawu ji hou shi Hedongjun” 書夏五集後示河東君 (1650), Qian writes this couplet: “南國今年仍甲子, 西臺昔日亦庚寅.” See Youxue ji, juan 3, p. 111. Using the Ganzhi system to designate year is a way of avoiding the reign name, nianhao 年號, of the current emperor, to symbolically deny the legitimacy of his rule. In this context, nanguo, the Southern Country, remains as the legitimate ruling house. Almost daybreak; see below. The moon.

192

Notes

34 According to traditional commentary, the flies are the slanderers, and the white jade the gentlemen. “Qing ying” 青蠅 (Mao no. 219) of the Book of Odes has this stanza: 營營青蠅止於榛讒人罔極構我二人

Restive are those blue flies, They come to the hazel trees. Those slanderers know no bounds, They wedge a gap between us.

Maoshi zhengyi, Shisanjing, p. 484. Cf. Legge, trans., The Book of Poetry, p. 395. 35 Rumors. A tiger will not show up at a marketplace. From “Neichu shuo” 內儲說 of the Hanfei zi 韓非子. 36 As Qian specifies in the preface to the poems, it was on the evening of the tenth of the month when he left. 37 Guo Qingfan 郭慶藩 (comp.) Zhuangzi jishi 莊子集釋, Zhuzi jicheng 諸子集成 edition, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1954, pp. 1–3. Cf. A.C. Graham (trans.) Chuang-tzu: the seven inner chapters and other writings from the book Chuang-tzu, London: George Allen & Unwin, 1981, p. 43. 38 Jin, Nianpu, in Quanji, p. 931. 39 The Peng bird, often a literary symbol for Qian, as in this poem, figures prominently in Qian’s post-1644 poetry. 40 The South Ocean symbolizes the Ming loyalist force led by Zheng Chenggong not only in Qian’s poetry, but also in many other Ming loyalists’ writings. Examples abound in Gu Yanwu and Qu Dajun’s poems. 41 Images from “Xiaoyao you” recur in Qian’s poems. For example, in “Jian Sheng Jitao ci ta zi yun shi chonghe wu shou” 見盛集陶次他字韻詩重和五首 (no. 3), Qian exclaims: “北徙鵬憂風力少, 南飛鵲恨月明多.” See Youxue ji, juan 1, p. 27. Composed in 1648 directly after his release from jail, and during a time when hopes for a Ming restoration revived, this poem is pregnant with political nuances. See discussion in Jin, Nianpu, in Quanji, p. 941. Early in 1648, two of the former Ming officials upon whom the Qing government had depended to govern the South rebelled. One of the two was Jin Shenghuan 金聲垣, who quickly attracted the support of several leading Southern Ming loyalists, including Jiang Yueguang 姜曰廣 and Qiu Zude 丘祖德. For an account of the events, see Wakeman, The Great Enterprise, pp. 764–7. Around this time, Jiang Yueguang suffered from an eye problem, and Qian sent him some medicine. See Jin, op. cit. The Peng bird from the North is a very fitting symbol for the Ming loyalists in Jiangxi; the prospects of their movement, judging from Qian’s lines, are far from promising. Qian’s verse turned out to be prophetic: the forces in Jiangxi were crushed in the spring of 1649. See Wakeman, The Great Enterprise, p. 767. 42 Yumen Pass was the pass on the Chinese frontier. To the west of it lay the so-called Western Regions, including what is now Xinjiang and parts of Central Asia. Chen Yinke suggests that the Yumen Pass here is an allusion to Li Bo’s “Ziye Wuge” 子夜吳歌, from which we have the lines: “秋風吹不盡, 總是玉關情. 何日平胡虜, 良人罷遠征.” See Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, p. 867. 43 Youxue ji, juan 3, p. 103. 44 Maoshi zhengyi, Shisanjing, p. 322. Cf. Legge, trans., The Book of Poetry, p. 96. 45 See Cui Bao 崔豹, “Yufu” 輿服, in Gujin zhu 古今注, Shang 上.5b, Sibu beiyao edition. 46 This account is from Yao Wenxi’s Mingji riji (Daily Jottings from the End of the Ming). The translation is taken from Lynn A. Struve, Voices from the Ming-Qing Cataclysm: China in tigers’ jaws, New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1993, pp. 63–4. I have not had the opportunity to consult the original of this text. Yao Wenxi, according to Struve, numbered among his paternal uncles the chief minister of the Seals Office of the Hongguang court and was himself the

Notes

47

48 49 50

51 52

53 54 55 56 57 58

59 60 61

193

Magistrate of Dongyang County in Zhejiang Province. Appended to the Tongbian rilu (Daily Record of the Disturbances in Tongcheng) by Jiang Chen, the Miji riji is a rare text extant only in manuscript form, now in the collection of the National Central Library in Taipei. See Struve, op. cit., p. 270n4. Farmer suggests: “The only criterion by which the quasi-capital transcended other great cities of the empire was its symbolic status. The service functions which it performed were by definition not those of primary capital and not essential to the well-being or survival of the dynasty.” See Edward Farmer, Early Ming Government: the evolution of dual capitals, Cambridge, MA: East Asian Research Center, Harvard University, 1976, p. 179. Du Fu writes in “Jiangfu Chengdu caotang tuzhong youzuo xian ji Yan Zhenggong wu shou” 將赴成都草堂途中有作先寄嚴鄭公五首: “三年奔走空皮骨, 信有人間行路難.” It follows that Qian was affiliated with the Ming loyalist circles under the banner of Prince Lu. In his writings, Qian consistently records the arrest as occurring in 1647, whereas most other historical accounts have it dated 1648. Chen Yinke conducted a very thorough investigation into the case and suggested that Qian’s dating of 1647 is indeed more accurate. Here I follow Chen’s theory. See Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, pp. 882–907. Youxue ji, juan 1, p. 12. During these few years, the Manchus particularly suspected the loyalty of certain high-ranking Chinese collaborators. Even Hong Chengchou 洪承疇, one of their most trusted Chinese adherents, was suspected of being in contact with Ming loyalist circles in the South. See Wakeman, The Great Enterprise, pp. 758–64. Wakeman also gives an account of Qian’s case in the context of “Manchu-Han Dyarchy” during the Dorgon Regency, see ibid. pp. 878–81. See Qian’s preface to the poem-series “He Dongpo ‘Xitai’ shiyun liu shou,” Youxue ji, juan 1, p. 9; Hu Wenkai, “Liu Rushi nianpu,” in Fan and Zhou, Liu Rushi shiji, pp. 486–7. One such set by Xie Xiangsan 謝象三 is cited in Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, pp. 893–5. Qiu Zhaoao 仇兆鰲 (ed. & annot.) Dushi xiangzhu 杜詩詳註, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1979, vol. 3, p. 1014. Shangshu zhengyi 尚書正義, Shisanjing, p. 174. Gao You 高誘 (annot.) Huainan zi, Zhuzi jicheng edition, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1954, p. 89. See Ban Chao’s biography in Hou Han shu 後漢書, Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1965, 47: 1575. Under the Latter Han dynasty, military colonies were maintained in parts of the Western Regions. The relationship was disrupted in .. 77 by the northern Xiongnu invasion. It was renewed after Ban Chao’s reconquest of the Western Regions in 91. See Yü Ying-shih, “Han foreign relations,” in Denis Twitchett and Michael Loewe (eds) The Cambridge History of China, vol. I, the Ch’in and Han empires, 221 B.C.–A.D. 220, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1986, pp. 412–15. It is worth noting that when Qian Zeng quoted this passage to gloss the term yige, he (or some later editor) quietly changed the expression da Han 大漢, the great Han, into da guo 大國, the great empire, thus shying away from the thorny ethnic issue of early Qing. See Muzhai shi zhu, vol. 5, p. 2716. Quoted in Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, p. 1176. Chen Yinke interprets this line as betraying Qian’s ambition to be reinstated as a minister of the Ming court, despite his old age. Chen elaborates on this very interesting psychoanalysis in many places in his book. See ibid., p. 1176. See Anne Birrell’s discussions of these two figures in her Chinese Mythology:

194

62 63

64

65

66 67 68

69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Notes

an introduction, Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1993, pp. 196 and 259–62. A local river god. Huainan zi, p. 89. For yu ren tianxia 余任天下, read zai 在 for ren and connect tianxia to the next semantic segment, as reflected in the translation. See Zhang Shuangdi 張雙棣, Huainan zi jiaoshi 淮南子校釋, Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 1997, p. 636n8. Huainan zi, Zhuzi jicheng edition, p. 89. These two anecdotes appear with five other pseudo-historical stories in the opening section of “Peering into the Obscure.” Charles Le Blanc suggests that these seven stories follow the same pattern: (1) Presentation of the hero in a difficult and challenging position; (2) Marvelous solution of the difficulty; and (3) The author’s explanation: the marvelous result was due to the fact that the hero in each case was united with Dao and was therefore in a state of “mutual resonance” (ganying 感應) with the universe as a whole. See Charles Le Blanc, Huai-nan tzu: Philosophical Synthesis in Early Han Thought, Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 1985, pp. 108–14. In the next section of the same chapter, the story of Fu Yue also appears, but with different philosophical import than the “Charge to Yue” that we have introduced above. In the Huainan zi we are only informed that Fu Yue “straddled the Chen and Wei constellations,” as an example of the “mutual response (xiangying 相應) of things belonging to the kindred category (lei 類).” See the discussion in Le Blanc, op. cit., pp. 123–4 and 129–31. It does not mention Fu Yue’s ministership to King Wuding. Zuozhuan, Xi 僖 24: “所不與舅氏同心者, 有如白水.” Bai shui 白水 stands for the Yellow River. The speaker invokes the River God to witness the vow. Liu Xiaobiao 劉孝標 writes in “Guang ‘Juejiao lun’ ” 廣絕交論: “援青松以示心, 指白水以旌信.” Pawlonia trees. Wang Youcheng ji jianzhu 王右丞集箋注 (annot.) Zhao Diancheng 趙殿成, Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1984, p. 273. Pengcheng tuishi 彭城退士, Qian Muweng xiansheng nianpu 錢牧翁先生年譜, appended in Muzhai wannian jiacheng wen 牧齋晚年家乘文, Shanghai: Guoxue fulun she 國學扶輪社, 1911, 6a, and Jin, Nianpu, in Quanji, p. 945; both under the entry for Bingshen 丙申 (1656). Both Jin Hechong and Chen Yinke maintain that Qian moved to Baimao because it was closer to the Yangzi, therefore more convenient for communicating with the Ming loyalist circles. Qiu, Dushi xiangzhu, vol. 4, p. 1497. Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, pp. 1176–7. At this point the sovereign of the Southern Ming was the Longwu 隆武 emperor (r. 1645–6) in Fujian. See Struve, The Southern Ming, pp. 99–101 and 176–8. To go further with this theory, one can suggest that both cangwu and biwu have the same literal meaning: the green or blue Wutong trees. See their biographies in “Yishi zhiyi” 繹史摭遺, juan 1, in Nanjiang yishi, pp. 434–7. Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, p. 1168. Jin, Nianpu, in Quanji, p. 947. This is documented in Yang Ying, Xianwang, p. 218. Jin also suspects that Qian may have gone with Cai to meet Zheng Chenggong in Chongming. This Chen Yinke does not follow. Yang Ying, Xianwang, p. 220. Ibid. See Jin, Nianpu, in Quanji, pp. 943, 944–5. Chen Yinke offers an exhaustive investigation into Qian and Ma’s relationship, and suggests that Qian and several

Notes

82 83 84

85 86 87 88 89

90 91

92

195

other Ming loyalist activists in the area provided liaisons between Ma Jinbao and Zheng Chenggong. See Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, pp. 1014–44. Jin, Nianpu, in Quanji, p. 943. Ma was impeached by several officials immediately after Zheng’s retreat and was executed in late 1660. See “Ma Fengzhi zhuan” 馬逢知傳, in Qing shi gao 清史稿, juan 80, cited in Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan, pp. 1188–9. Zhou Caiquan, Liu Rushi zalun 柳如是雜論, Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1986, pp. 32–5. I feel obliged to advise the reader that Zhou’s allegorical reading of this cycle of poems is too far-fetched and decontextualized to be in any wise near the truth. Besides, Zhou makes some hair-raising mistakes, such as misdating Zheng’s Nanjing offensive to 1658. Yang Ying, Xianwang, p. 219. Ibid. Ibid., p. 220. Ibid., pp. 219–20. It need not be pointed out that had Qian and Zheng indeed met, Yang Ying, Zheng’s official and the diarist of Xianwang shilu, would have created an entry for it, as he usually did, even on occasions when someone of less reputation than Qian made overtures. Jiang in the original jiangcun 江村 may mean either the Yangzi River, or any river. It is hard to tell here whether Qian means the specific or the general. Wu Zixu eventually made it to the Yangzi River in the Wu region, where a boatman, finding Wu Zixu starving, showed some mercy and went to fetch some food for Wu. Wu, not sure of the boatman’s intentions, hid among the reeds to wait. The boatman returned, and, sensing that Wu must be hiding, called out to him: “The one among the reeds! The one among the reeds! Are you not a desperate fellow?” “The one among the reeds,” lu zhong ren 蘆中人, has come to mean Wu Zixu. See Zhao Ye 趙曄, Wu Yue chunqiu 吳越春秋. Besides Wu Zixu’s historic import, it is particularly pertinent for Qian to refer to him here, because Qian was hiding in the same area as Wu Zixu did. This line also alludes to Wu Zixu, who in his most unlucky days on the road played the flute to beg for food.

Conclusion: Qian Qianyi’s shishi revisited 1 Han wenxueshi gangyao 漢文學史綱要, in Lu Xun quanji 魯迅全集, Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1989, vol. 9, p. 420.

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Index

accountability, of historical writings 150 Account of Strange Stories, An 92 “achieving an opinion of one’s own” 149 Adjutant of Linjiang, The 49, 57 “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’ ” 54, 55, 82, 84, 103–4, 147; “Hou ‘Qiuxing ba shou’ zhi er” 105; “Hou ‘Qiuxing’ zhi san” 122 “After Du Fu’s ‘Autumn Thoughts’ ” 77 Ai of Qin, Duke 5 Anhui 91 Anlong 128 An Lushan Rebellion 26, 86, 99 Annotated Catalogue of the Complete Library of the Four Treasures 52 Anthology of Ming Loyalist Poetry, An 18 anti-Manchu writings 63, 77 anxiety/criticism and Qian 43–8 astronomical traditions 95 aura, kingly 88, 89, 106 “Autumn Thoughts” 32, 54, 82 “Autumn Thoughts” for Jinling, Eight Poems, After Caotang’s Rhymes 84 “Autumn Willow” 7, 8 axes 125 babu 94 Bagong, Mt 85, 86 bailu yuanlin 124 Baimao, port of 122, 143, 146 baitou gongnü hua Tianbao dangnian 99 Ban Chao 177(n.6); as persona of Qian 138–9 Banner system, Manchu 94, 152(n.1) Bao Si 44 barbarians 42, 86, 107, 111, 180(n.22), 182(n.50) “Ba Wang Shuiyun shi” 39

“beard and eyebrows” 127, 130 beidou 127 Beijing 9, 135 bi 28, 29, 162(n.44) bian poems 45 biehe 126 bing 53 “Bingshen chun jiuyi Qinhuai, yu Ding jia shuige, jia liangyue, linxing zuo jueju sanshi shou liubie liuti, bufu lunci” 16 binsi xie 126 Biographes of Exemplary Women 123 “Biographies of the Twice-serving Officials” 9, 71, 72 see also “twiceserving officials” Biography of Di Fangjin 101 Biography of Du Yu 93 see also Du Yu birds, imagery of 19, 98, 114, 126, 137 see also Peng Bird; Vermilion Bird biwu 142 Biwuhongdouzhuang, villa 141 Black Dragon River 89 “Black Water” 89 Blue Dragon 95 Book of Documents 21, 138 Book of Odes 121; interpretation of 23; as Mutated poems 45; as part of larger document 21; and Qian’s work 5, 25, 105; Shi ren 134, 135; and Wang 35; and Zhengye 44 books, destruction of Qian’s 62, 63, 173(n.23) Bowang, Marquis 89, 145 “Bowang’s Raft” 89 Buddhist leanings, Qian and Liu 124 “bugle” 126 Cai Lu 110

214

Index

Cai Yan 42 Cai Zheng 143, 144 canglong 95 can jie 114 career of Qian 8–9 carriages, ladies 134 “carrying provisions” 123 “Celestial Emperor” 95 Chang Chun-shu and Chang Shelley Hsuen-lun 4 Chanting Club of the Moonlit Fountain, About the 40 Charge to Yue, The 138 Chen dynasty 76 Chenggong 77 Cheng Jiasui 52 Cheng Minzheng 40 “Chengwen Hebei zhu dao Jiedu ruchao huanxi kouhao jueju shi er shou” 102 cheng yijia zhi yan 149 Chen Wenshu 58 Chen Yinke 16, 18–19, 32, 141, 142, 143 Chen Zilong 29 chess, metaphor of 92, 113, 131, 141 “chess on the sea, the” 131 Chixianshenzhou 137 Chongming 117, 122, 143, 187(n.62) Chongzhen emperor 9, 47, 120 Chu, King of 123 Chunqiu zhuan 75 chuntou 95 Chuxue ji 59, 62, 63 Cloud Terrace 119 clubs, literary/poetry 6 Collection of My Own Roast, A 38 Collection of Poems from the Different Reigns of the Ming Dynasty, A 51–2 Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals 75 Complete Library of the Four Treasuries 63 Confucius 20–1, 22, 46, 50–1, 53 constellations, as symbols 95, 127 Correct Significance to the Gongyang Commentary 25 Correct Significance to the Zuo Commentary 23 cranes, yellow; imagery 137 Crimson Clouds Towers 126 “crossing of the river” 138, 139 Crossing the Lingding Sea 103 cuckoo, imagery of 19 dadao tou 136

“Da Lin Shitian” 35 dangnian 134 danhuang 126 danxin 103 dayi 151 “dazzling as the snow” 94 Deng Yu 118–19 departure, metaphors for 132 desecration of Song imperial tombs 101–2, 184(n.75;76;77) “Deviated Rhetorical Principles” 22, 23 diaochan 134 diao Ming 7 Di Fangjin 101 “Di Fangjin zhuan” 101 difu ban 134, 135 ding 53 Ding of Lu, Duke 24, 25 “direct presentation” 28 Disputing Ancient History 22 Dodo, prince 9, 134 Donglin Party 9 dongqing 101 “Dongri Luocheng bei ye Xuanyuanhuangdimiao” 30 dou 95 “Dragon” 110 Du Fu; anti-barbarian sentiments 102; influence on other writers 36; “Jiti Jiangwaicaotang” 137; and Qian’s work 31, 54, 82, 97; and recording events 103; and shishi 26–8, 49, 82 dujuan 19 Duke Luyang, as persona of Qian 138 “Du Ling” 103 Du Shaoling 37 Du Yu 22, 93 “Du Yu zhuan” 93 Du Zimei see Du Fu “earlier promise” 133 Eastern Jin 20, 85, 86, 99 see also Jin dynasty Edict Ordering Officials of the Historiography Institute to Copy and Archive Yang Weizhen’s “Discourse on Legitimate Authority”, An 73 “Eight divisions” 94 Elegies for Gui 6–7 Emperor’s Chariot 118 Emperor’s Traveling Lodge, The 98–9 Encountering Sorrow 19 erchen see Twice-serving Officials “Erchen zhuan” 9, 71–2

Index

215

Erzhi 31 Estuary of Hidden Dragon 89 executions 125

Gushi bian 22 Gu Yanwu 76, 176(n.64) Guy, Kent 64

“fallen Shang, The” 82 “fallen state” 43–4, 49–50, 82 fangcao 19 Fang Guan 30 Fang Wen 31 Fang Xiaoru 88 Feishui, battle of 20, 85 Fenyang 29–30 “filial son” 103 fish, as metaphor 133 Five Classics, Confucius 22 Five Elements theory 87, 95, 137 Five Hegemons 45 Four Lings of Yongjia 37 Four Treasuries 70 fragrant flowers 19 fu 28, 29; Fu/fu 125 fu Han 100 Fu Jian 20, 85 Fu on My Inner Thoughts 118 Fu, Prince of 7, 9 Furongzhuang, villa 141 Fushe 6 Fushuishanzhuang 133 Fu Yue, a persona of Qian 138 fuzai 123

haiou 114 hairnets 113–14 “hair slants on your temples” 126 hair styles, customs of 113 haiyu qi 131 Han Chinese, victories against the Hu 90 Han dynasty, Latter 119 hanqing 103 hanqing chui 103 han shang cha 145 Han Shizhong 131 Hansongzhai 50 Hearing that Military Commissioners of the Hebei and Other Circuits Had Entered the Capital I Was So Overjoyed That I Improvised Twelve Quatrains, On 102 “Heavenly Troops” 84, 94 Heaven’s River 118, 145 “He Dongpo’s ‘Xitai’ shiyun liu shou” 17 “He Dongpo ‘Xitai’ shiyun” 136 Hengzhou 142 “Herons”, as ships 98 High-Tang 27 historical memory/consciousness 1 history; and the classics, morals and government 66–7; as imperial privilege 70; Manchurian 72, 86–7; official recording of 49, 148–9; and poetry 20–5, 27, 28, 33–4, 48–9, 148–9; superseded by poetry 51 Hongguang court 56 Hongguang emperor 7, 9, 156(n.1) Hongnam Kim 3–4 horses, stone 85, 86 Hou/Latter Jin dynasty 114 “Hou ‘Qiuxing’ ” 54, 82 see also “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’ ” “Hou ‘Qiuxing ba shou’ zhi er” 105 “Hou ‘Qiuxing’ zhi san” 122 Huainan zi 138, 139–40 Huai River 118 Huang Daozhou 120 huangkou 98 Hu Anguo 75 Huang Yuqi 136 Huang Zongxi 49, 51 Huang Zongyan 143 “Hu barbarians” 86

Gan Hui 107, 115 gaozhen 124, 125 Going Rambling without a Destination 132 “gold sword, the” 100 Gong Dingzi 77 Gongyang Commentary 24, 25 Goodrich, Carrington 63 Great White star 97 Guangwu emperor 119 Guan Xiaozhong 106, 107 Guazhou 115, 116 Gui 53 Guilin 128 “Guimao zhongxia liu ri chongti changju er shou” 82 Gui, Prince of 142, 155(n.25) “Gui shang shi” 6 gui tree; Qian as 17 “Gu jueju” 124–5 Guochao shi biecai ji 60, 61–2 “Guo Lingdingyang” 103 Guo Ziyi 29–30

216

Index

Hu Han 88 “Hu heads” 90 huige hui wanri 138 hujiang 113 Hu Jingfu see Hu Zhiguo Hulonghe, river 110 hutou 90 Hu Zhiguo 16–17, 18–19, 20, 40–2 “Hu Zhiguo shi xu” 15; dating of 16–20; and loyalist poetics 40; as self redemption 48 “idioms of protest” 64 imagery, of birds 19, 98, 114, 126, 137 see also Peng Bird; Vermilion Bird In Bidding Hu Jingfu Farewell see “Zengbie Hu Jingfu xu” “incident of the tombs” 101–2 see also desecration of Song imperial tombs “inscribed on the pages of history” 103 “iron urn city” 115 Jay, Jennifer 2 ji 95 jia 126 jiahai 138 Jianghu shipai 37 Jiangnan 93 jiang shu 114 Jiang Taigong 139 jianguan 126 Jiangyunlou 126, 156(n.1), 190(n.13) Jiangzuo sandajia 3 jiao 126 “Jie Nanshan” 45, 46 jierou 90 Jie Yu 123 Ji family of Lu 25 “Jiguge Maoshi xinke Shiqi shi xu” 67 Jiguge, publishing house 6 jihe 138 jindao 100 Jin dynasty 52–3, 86, 93, 114; Eastern 20, 85, 86; Latter Jin 114 Jingkou see Zhenjiang Jingzhuozhai gao 18 Jin Hechong 143 Jinling 89, 116, 179(n.6) “Jinling ‘Qiuxing ba shou’ ci Caotang yun” 84 Jinshan, Island of 129, 131 Jin shu 93 Jin-Yuan transition 52

Jishan see Lin Jingxi “Jiti Jiangwaicaotang” 137 “Ji Yuequanyinshe” 40 Jizi 82 Jürchen, the 87 kaiyuan/Kaiyuan 99 Kang-i Sun Chang 4, 8 kan yidai 103 Khitan, the 86 kingly aura 88, 89, 106 Kong Yingda 23, 25 “ladies in feathered chariots” 144 “lament the Ming” 7 Lang Tingzuo 107 “Lanming xun” 138 Lanting, Mt 102 Laozi 30–1 “last of autumn” 126 Latter Han dynasty 119 “leftover subjects” 2, 43 legitimacy 74, 87, 94 legitimate authority 87, 94 “legitimate succession” 87 lei 124 Liang Hongyu 131 Liang Huafeng 117 lianzhang 150 Li Ao 118 Liaodong 87 Liaodong shi 97 Liao, the 86 Li Bo 86, 139 Li Dingguo 129 Liechao shiji 51–2, 126: political purpose of 53–4 Lienü zhuan 123 Li Guangdi 91 Li Jue 35 Li Kai 76 Li Ling 100–1 “Linjiang Cenjun” 49, 57, 58–9 Lin Jingxi 37, 102 lionization of Qian 19–20 Li Qingzhao 126 “Li sao” 19 Liu Bang, emperor 101 “Liudu lady” 135 Liudu (Nanjing) 135 Liu empire 119 Liu Rushi 126; integrity of 135; as Ming loyalist 10, 144; Qian’s loyalty to 140; Qian’s feelings for 122, 123, 130–1;

Index raising a regiment 128, 129; support of Qian 136–7 Liu Shi see Liu Rushi Liu Xiang 123 liuyi 28 Liu Yong 140 Liu Zhiyuan 117 Li Yu 4, 5–6 Li Zicheng 95 long 110 Longcangpu 89 Long White Mountain 89 love, imagery of 141 “loyal and righteous martyrs” 2 loyalist poetry, Song dynasty 33–40 loyalist writings, as resistance 4 “loyal official” 103 “Lunar Mansions” 127 “Lü Shang” 30 Luyang, Duke; as persona of Qian 138 Lu Xun 149 Ma Guozhu 136 Ma Jinbao 143, 144 “make a model. . . . for posterity” 103 Manchu; Banner system 94; term 152(n.1) Manchu Qing, as Chinese 76 Manchu regime 1, 4, 46, 72, 86, 90; antiManchu writings 4, 63, 77; and Qian 32, 95; records of 64 Manchurian history 86–7 Mandate of Heaven 87, 94, 101 Manyi 86 mao 53 Mao Jin 6 Mao Zijin 52 married life of Qian 123–4, 125–6 “Marten tails and cicadas” 134 Meicun see Wu Weiye “Meicun ti” 56 Mencius 2, 20–1, 69 Mengchang, Lord 42 Menggui 37 Meng Qi 27 Mengyang see Cheng Jiasui Mengzi 2 military affairs, Qian’s expertise in 120 Ming dynasty 27–8, 32, 47, 114 Ming emperors 127 “Ming Guanchen lucun Yang Weizhen ‘Zhengtong bian’ yu” 73 Ming History 114 Ming loyalist poetics; private/public

217

dimension of 4–8; and Qian 2–4, 53–4, 147; shishi 48 Ming loyalists 46–8; Qian as 2–4, 32, 44, 49, 118, 129; shishi 51 Ming martyrs 71 Ming poets 28 Ming regimes, Southern 70, 119 Ming-Qing transition 1, 3, 38, 40–3, 52 Ming resurgence 54 Ming revival movement 18–19, 91, 99, 101, 118, 130; failure of 119–120, 105–8 Ming shi 114 Missing My Thatched Cottage by the Brook 137 Mohe barbarians 111 Mongol Yuan 46–7 “mountain after mountain” 132, 144 “Mountain Villa by the Water” 133 Mutated Airs 45–6 Mutated Elegantiae 45–6 Mutated poems 45, 46 Muzhai see Qian Nangong 119 nanguo 131 Nanguo 141 nanguo changchi ri 131 Nanjing; kingly aura 88–9; other names of 135; Qian in 16, 17; Zheng’s defeat at 9, 97, 105, 107, 116, 117 nationalism, modern Chinese 77, 78 see also protonationalism New Pavilion 98 New Songs from a Jade Terrace 124 New Standard History of the Tang see Xin Tang shu Northern Dipper 95, 118, 127, 182(n.51) Northern dynasties 76 Northern Song and legitimacy 87 Northern Wei 76 “North Pole” 95 Nurhaci 114 Official at Xin’an, The 29 officials, role of 59, 71 “Oh My Miserable Life” 34 Old Quatrain 124–5, 132 “on the nineteenth of mid-autumn I returned to the villa for the time being. I composed the following” 143 “On the tenth day of the eighth month at night, I had to take a small boat across the River. It saddened me to have to

218

Index

part with my wife, and I composed the following” 122 Orthodox poems 45 Outing in the Past, An 30 “Outside the window: sunburst, then rain” 124 Ouyang Xiu 87 “Pacifying the Liao” 86 “pages of history” 103 Pan Gengzhong 110, 111, 116 Pan Shaobai’s Poetry, On 34 “parting cranes” 126 pathos, of poetry 1 Peering into the Obscure 138 Peng bird 132, 133, 137, 192(n.39:41) “Pheasants’ feathers” 134 “pig of Liaodong” 97 poetry; Chinese 150, and history 20–5, 27, 28, 33–4, 48–9, 148–9; and music, tones 44; superseding history 51 poetry clubs 6 Pointing the Way 20 politics, court: and Qian 8–9 Postface to Wang Shuiyun’s Poetry, A 35, 39 “praise and blame” 29, 36 Preface to Hu Zhiguo’s Poetry see “Hu Zhiguo shi Xu” Preface to the Seventeen Histories, Newly Released by Mao Jin’s Jiguge, A 67 printing, 6, 52, 154(n.20) private dimension, of Ming loyalist poetics 4–5 protonationalism 87, 94 see also nationalism, modern Chinese publication; of Ming loyalist writings 5–6; Ming-Qing times 154(n.20) public dimension, of Ming loyalist poetics 5–8 “purple frontier” 86 “putting out to sea” 138 “Puye” 29 Qian Chengzhi 38–9, 166(n.82) Qianlong emperor; and Chuxue ji 63; and condemnation of Qian 9, 59, 60–1, 63–70; and second stage condemnation of Qian 70–6; and Wu 58 qianqi 133 Qian Qianyi; as historian 156(n.1); images of 8–11; other names of 133; poetic style 150; revival of his works 77; self-identification 138, 140

Qian Qianyi’s Annotation and Commentary of Du Fu’s Poetry 29 Qian Shaoyang 139 Qian Shaoyang the Recluse, To 139 Qian zhu Dushi 29, 31 “ ‘Qie boming’ cheng Wenshan daoren” 34 Qin dynasty 88–9 qingchuang yu 124 Qing dynasty 1 Qinhuai River 88–9 qiongqiu 126 “Qiuliu” 7 “Qiuxing” 32, 54, 82 qiya 126 “Quail’s head” 95 Qu Dajun 50, 51 Qu Shisi 120 Qu Yuan 19 Random Feelings at West Lake 134 “rank of ladies in feathered chariots, the” 134 “rare creatures” 93 “rats in the river” 114 Records of the Song Loyalists 40 “red and yellow ink” 126 red beans 141 “red heart” 103 “reed-flageolet” 126 “remnant subjects” 114 Ren Licheng 100–1 Renouncing the Pen see Toubi ji Reply to Lin Shitian, A 35 resistance, loyalist writings as 4 “rested crows” 126 “restoring the Han” 100 return, metaphors for 125, 136 Revival Society 6 “Rhetorical Principles” 22 Rhyming with Su Dongpo’s “At the Censorate,” Six Poems see “He Dongpo’s ‘Xitai’ shiyun liu shou” “river of protecting the dragon” 110 Rivers and Lakes Poetry School 37 “rough and erratic” 126 Ruan, Miss 128 ruguan 94 san chi jian 101 “scaling the mountain” 138 “seagulls” 98, 114 Select Anthology of Poems of the Dynasty, A 60

Index Shang dynasty 138 shangge 82 Shanyu 101 Shao Tingcai 47 Shaoyang 139 Shen Baoxu 5 Shen Deqian 60–1 Shenghuan ji 39 sheng Tang 27 shenyun 1 Shenzhou 137 Shenzong emperor 114, 142 shi 150 Shiji 149 Shijing 5 Shi Kefa 120 Shi Lang 91 Shi pu 45 “Shi ren” 134, 135 shishe 6 shishi; dual identity of 25–33; loyalist context 33; meaning of 10, 26; MingQing transition 40–3; poets 149; propogation/mutation of 48–55; and Qian 15, 51–2, 104, 148, 149; and the Song 34; and Song-Yuan transition 36–7; and Wu Weiye 57, 58 “Shiyue zhi jiao” 46 shui ji feng thuan 132 Shu jing 138 Shunzhi emperor 19, 59, 117 “Shu Wang Shuiyun shi hou” 35 Shuyi ji 92 Shu Yuexiang 34 Siku quanshu 63 Siku quanshu zongmu tiyao 52 Silent Operas, Second Collection 6 Sima Qian 100, 101, 149 “simple old men” 113 Sino-japanese war 78 si shen zai 42 “six arts” 28 “six classics” 67 Six Dynasties 25–6, 189(n.6) “six principles” 28, 162(n.41) Sleeping at the Commanding General’s Compound 97 Song dynasty 27, 28, 33–40, 76 Song imperial tombs, desecration of 101–2, 184(n.75:76:77) Songjiang 143 Song dynasty, Southern 20 Song loyalists 40, 46–7, 101–2 Song of the Juniper Tree of Yushan,

219

Presented to Master Muzhai the Grand Minister 16–17 Song yimin lu 40 Song-Yuan transition 34, 36, 38 “southern bough” 120, 188(n.73) “Southern Country, The” 131 “Southern Dipper” 88, 180(n.28) “southern land” 141 Southern Ming regimes 70, 119 Southern Palace 119 Southern Song dynasty 20 Southern Song poets 37–8 “spirit resonance” 1, 7 Spring and Autumn Annals 21, 22, 29, 35, 50–1, 68–9 “stimulus” 28 “Stone City” (Nanjing) 135 stone horses 85, 86 “strike my spear against the setting sun and send it back away” 138 “Striking water, swirling up with the wind” 132 subtlety 41, 150 “subtle words” 23, 24, 25, 29–31 “Su fu” 97 Sun Kewang, warlord 128 Survived 39 Suzhou 116 “sword’s hilt” 136 symbolism, in Toubi ji 88, 89, 94, 95 see also imagery, of birds “Tail” 95 Taizhou 129 Tang dynasty 25–6, 43, 118 Tang Jue 102 “tea and wine” 113 “tears” 124 “Tears at Xinting” 98 “Ten-thousand-year” 110 “Ten-thousand-year branches” 101 textuality 149–50 “that year” 134 “The courtyard little and shady” 124 “There was no moon over the river village on the Mid-Autumn Day; I composed the following” 142 Third Cycle of “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’, The” 122 “This battalion” 118 “This very strike” 138 “three-foot sword” 101 “Three Great Confucian Scholars” 51 Three Master Poets of Jiangnan 3

220

Index

“Three Masters of Lingnan” 51 Tianbao/tianbao 99 tianbing 84 tianming 87 Tibetal lama, desecration of tombs 102 Tieweng/Tiewengcheng 115 tijue 19 “Ti Pan Shaobai shi” 34 tishan 138 “tones of a fallen state” 45 Tongguan, battle of 86 Toubi ji; cycles in 122, 142–3, 146, 147–8; exclusion of 77, 82–3; poem 1.1 85–8; poem 1.2 88–9; poem 1.3 90–2; poem 1.4 92–3; poem 1.5 93–6; poems 1.6 and 1.7 96–9; poem 1.8 100–4; poem 2.1 105–8; poem 2.2 108–9; poem 2.3 110–11; poems 2.4; 2.5; 2.6 111–17; poem 2.7 117–19; poem 2.8 119–20; poem 3.1 123–5; poem 3.2 125–7; poem 3.3 127–30; poem 3.4 130–1; poem 3.5 132–5, 144; poem 3.6 135–7; poem 3.7 137–40; poem 3.8 140–2; poem 4.2 145–6; poem 4.4 146; and resistance 5; as shishi 54–5; see also “After ‘Autumn Thoughts’ ”; “Hou ‘Qiuxing’ ” “tower of viewing the River” 106 “transforming the barbarians with the Xia Chinese civilization” 32 “Transgression of the Pass” 94 trial/indictment of Qian 136 Tungus, the 86 twenty-one standard histories 68 “twice-serving officials”; Qian as 2, 9, 71–2; Wu Weiye as 56; Zhou Lianggong 4; see also “Biographies of the Twice-serving Officials” Two More Long Poems Inscribed on the Toubi ji on the Sixth Day of the Second Month of Summer of the Year Guimao 82 “two palaces” 141, 142 underworld, in Toubi ji 89 “Vermilion Bird” 95, 119, 127, 131, 150 “villa of emerald Wutong and red beans” 141 Wakeman, Frederic 3 “Walls” 127 Wang Dao 98 wangguo 43

Wang Shizhen 1, 7–8 Wang Shuiyun 34–6 Wang Tong 76 Wang Wei 141 Wang Yuanliang 38, 39 Wang Zhi 92 Wanli emperor 114, 142 wannianzhi 101 wansui 110 Wan Tai 49, 50 war 97, 84, 131 Warring States era 42, 88 warships 98, 106, 122 Wei 95 Wei, Northern Wei, King 88 Weizhen 73 Wen Anzhi 128 Wen, King 139 Wen of Lu, Duke 23 wenshe 6 Wen Tianxiang 19–20, 34, 36, 102, 103, 163(n.53) Wen Tiren 9 Western-Eastern Jin transition 98 Western Zhou dynasty 45 “wether meat” 114 “wethers’ carcasses” 90 “wether slaves” 92, 93 “what profound sentiment” 42, 43 “White dew in the garden” 124 “white-haired palace lady talks about those years of Tianbao, the” 99 “White Mountain” 89 “Willow catkins” 126, 133 “Will return” 101 “Winnowing-basket” 95 Winter Day I Traveled to the North of the City of Luoyang to Pay a Visit to the Temple of Emperor Xuanyuan, On a 30 wintergreen trees 101, 102 Writings from the Quiet and Artless Studio 18 “Written on the second day of the eighth month, on hearing the alarming news” 105 Wuding, King 138 Wu, emperor 89, 93, 100 “Wu folks” 113 Wu, King 139 wunong 113 Wu Sangui 77, 94–5, 142 Wusheng xi erji 6 Wu-Song circuit 129

Index Wu Weiye 6, 48–9, 56, 57–8, 77–8, 172(n.1) wuxing 87 “Wuyi” 5 Wu zhi ji 16, 38 Wuzhou 142 Wu Zixu 145, 195(n.91:92) Xianbi people 90 xiang nan zhi 120 “Xiangsi” 141 xiangxie 123 Xiaoling 102 Xiao mausoleum 102 “Xiaoyao you” 132, 133 xiaoyuan yin 124 xiaozi 103 Xie An 20 Xie Ao 102, 163(n.53) Xie Xuan 85 Xihu zagan 134 “Xin’an li” 29 xing 28, 29, 162(n.44) “Xinggong” 98–9 Xin Tang shu 26 Xinting 98 Xiongnu heads 90 xiu 127 “Xi you” 30 Xuanzong 99 xumei nanzi 130 Xusaotang 50 Yang Ai see Liu Rushi yanghua 126 Yang Shen 28 Yang Tinglin 57, 58–9 Yangzhou, siege of 120 Yangzi campaign 101, 105–8, 117, 122, 128–9 Yangzi, the 89 Yan Wu 97 Yao Shenwu 128 Yao Zhizhuo 129 Yearning for You 141 yelao 113 “yellow beaked” 98 yeshi 35, 148 yi 98 Yi, King 45 yige 138 yili 114 yilü 118 yimin 1, 2, 3, 78, 148, 167(n.96)

221

Yimin shi 18 Yishan see Yuan Haowen yishou 93 yizhan 84 Yongjia si Ling 37 Yongli emperor 128, 141–2, 157–8(n.12) Yongmen 42 Yongming, Prince of 142 yong Xia bian yi 32 You, King 44, 45 “Youhuai fu” 118 “Your hand in mine” 123 Youxue ji 59, 60, 62, 74–5, 82–3 yu 133 Yuan Haowen 52, 171(n.126) Yuanliang see Wang Shuiyun yuanqiang 127 Yuan Zhen 98–9 Yue cao 50 Yuejianglou 106 “Yue Ming” 138 Yuguan 133 “Yu linling” 140 Yumenguan 133 Yumen Pass 133, 144 yunjian 94 Yunnan 128 Yuntai 119 Yu, Prince of see Dodo yu qie shanshi zhi yi 53 Yushan see Qian “Yushan gui ge, shang da Zongbo Muzhai fuzi” 16–17, 19, 20 Yushan laomin (Qian) 133 Yutai xinyong 124 zaigui 101 zengbie 16 “Zengbie Hu Jingfu xu” 16, 17, 20 “Zeng Qian Zhengjun Shaoyang” 139 Zhang Binglin 77 Zhang Dingxi 128 Zhang Huangyan 91, 116, 122, 129 Zhang Mingzhen 128–9, 131 Zhang Qian 89, 145 Zhang Tongchang 114 Zhao, Duke 24, 25 Zhao, emperor 100 Zhaoling 86 Zhao Mingcheng 126 zhaoxue 94 Zhao Yi 56–7 Zhao Zhilong, Earl 135 Zha, Prince 43

222

Index

Zheng Chenggong 54, 89, 96; campaign 1659 84–5, 91, 94, 97, 101, 105; criticism of 131; defeat of 105–20, 122, 144–5, 186(n.35); and Qian 143–4; as Zhang Qian 89, 145 zheng poems 45 Zheng Sixiao 88 zhengtong 87–8, 179(n.17) Zheng Xuan 45, 46 “Zhengyue” 43–4; as Mutated Elegantiae 45 Zhenjiang 114–15, 116, 117 Zhinan lu 20 Zhongli 118 Zhong, Mt 85, 86 zhongyi 2 Zhongzhou ji 52–3 Zhou Caiquan 144 Zhou dynasty 139 Zhoushan 122

Zhoushan Island 129 Zhou Yi 98 Zhuang Xi 42 Zhuangzi 132 Zhu empire 119 zhuming 53 Zhuniao 95 Zhuo Erkan 18 Zhu Quangu 128 Zhu Xi 37–8 Zhu Youai, prince 142 Zhu Youlang, Prince of Yongming 142 Zhu Yuanzhang 47, 85, 182(n.50) zisai 86 zongchen 103 Zou Zi 59 Zuo Commentary 42 Zuo Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals 2 Zuozhuan 2

The poet-historian Qian Qianyi

A Collection of Qian Zhongshu's English Essays

The

The

The Cutie (The Mercenaries)

The Defector [The Delivery]

The Dreamseller: The Calling

The Memnoch the Devil

The Sky's the Limit

The The Awakening

The The Battle Master

The Beyond the Grave

The The Grey King

The The Witching Hour

The Lady, the Lion

The Demon, the City

The The Struggle

The

The

The Defector [The Delivery]

The More the Terrier

The Carpenter, The Fairy

The Temple and the

The Sky's the Limit

The Deader the Better

The The Kingless Land

The The Wizard Heir

The The Shattered Land

The The Omen Machine

The Captive, The Fugitive

The poet-historian Qian Qianyi

A Collection of Qian Zhongshu's English Essays

The

The

The Cutie (The Mercenaries)

The Defector [The Delivery]

The Dreamseller: The Calling

The Memnoch the Devil

The Sky's the Limit

The The Awakening

The The Battle Master

The Beyond the Grave

The The Grey King

The The Witching Hour

The Lady, the Lion

The Demon, the City

The The Struggle

The

The

The Defector [The Delivery]

The More the Terrier

The Carpenter, The Fairy

The Temple and the

The Sky's the Limit

The Deader the Better

The The Kingless Land

The The Wizard Heir

The The Shattered Land

The The Omen Machine

The Captive, The Fugitive

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