The Everlasting Empire (14 page)

Bureaucratic pressures aside, there were other reasons for the rulers to relegate their tasks to underlings. The sheer magnitude of the emperor’s administrative and ceremonial tasks was simply too great to be managed by any save a few exceptionally gifted monarchs. Administratively, the monarch was supposed to make all the important decisions in any imaginable realm: from personnel matters to financial issues, from revision of death verdicts to the promotion of a minor deity, from military and diplomatic affairs to drafting examination questions. This concentration of tasks can be interpreted as a by-product of the emperors’ insatiable quest for power, and this might at times have been the case, but it may also be seen as an astute bureaucratic device. Like Sir Humphrey Appleby from
Yes, Minister
, by overburdening the ruler the bureaucrats were effectively disempowering him. Whether or not the concentration of all administrative responsibilities in the ruler’s hands was a bureaucratic ploy is debatable, but that this was the case with the emperors’ ritual responsibilities is undeniable. The court ritualists persistently multiplied the emperor’s

-64-

ceremonial tasks so that by the late imperial period “even with the best of intentions, it was virtually impossible for an emperor to carry out all the prescribed rituals.”
⁴⁹
In this situation, relegation of power to the ministers and rubber-stamping their proposals was the default choice of the majority of the monarchs.

This observation requires reassessment of what is often identified as a milestone in the evolution of “imperial despotism”: namely, the abolition of the office of chancellor (or “prime minister”) by the Ming founder, Zhu Yuanzhang (1328–1398, r. 1368–1398). Huang Zongxi vehemently censured this step and many scholars echo him, claiming that “the elimination of the prime-minister in the early Ming significantly altered the character of the imperial state,” allowing “fully developed despotism” to be exercised by either the emperors or their surrogates, such as “eunuch dictators.”
⁵⁰
In my eyes this conclusion is premature. Actually, attempts to abolish the position of chancellor and to concentrate all imaginable
real
power in the emperor’s hands preceded Zhu Yuanzhang: they had been undertaken earlier, in the Sui, Tang, and Song dynasties.
⁵¹
Yet history proved time and again that turning an emperor into a full-time administrator was unsustainable in the long term, not least because it demanded almost superhuman abilities on the ruler’s part, allowing him no respite. The Kangxi Emperor (r. 1662–1722), one of the most skilled and most active rulers in Chinese history, bitterly complained at the end of his life:

Whereas the emperor’s responsibilities are terribly heavy, there is no
way he can evade them. How can this be compared with being an of-
ficial? If an official wants to serve, then he serves; if he wants to stop,
then he stops. When he grows old he resigns and returns home, to look
after his sons and play with his grandsons; he still has the chance to
relax and enjoy himself. Whereas the ruler in all his hardworking life
finds no place to rest.
⁵²

Zhu Yuanzhang, to my knowledge, did not publicly express similar sentiments, but his work style, like that of the Kangxi Emperor, could be matched by only a few exceptionally able leaders. None of Zhu Yuanzhang’s descendants was able to emulate his prowess; and the most meaningful bureaucratic result of his consolidation of executive tasks in the emperor’s hands was a shift of power from the executive arm of the government to the emperor’s secretaries and, worse, to his trusted eunuchs. Eventually, late Ming emperors, still acting within the institutional framework bequeathed by the dynastic founder, entered history as extraordinarily weak rulers. As early as “the mid-fifteenth century, the civil bureaucracy had made major inroads in defining the emperor’s job,” dramatically reducing the ruler’s ability to influence policy making, and the emperors’

-65-

real power had further deteriorated in the course of the dynasty’s history.
⁵³
Clearly, the institutional arrangements inherited from the founding emperor were of negligible importance in ensuring the ruler’s actual power.

The decline of the rulers’ individual prowess in the course of the dynasty’s history, evidenced by the Ming example (and by the examples of other dynasties discussed below), has nothing to do with biological degradation of the founder’s progeny, nor should it be related,
pace
traditional historians, to the supposed moral depravity of those who were born after generations of good life in the palace. Rather it appears to me as a built-in mechanism of dynastic life: the “deactivation” of the emperors was generated through the upbringing of future monarchs, who grew up without full understanding of the subtleties of administrative processes. Zhu Yuanzhang was well aware of this danger, warning his descendants that “a ruler born and bred deep within the palace, unfamiliar with the world,” may well lack the necessary qualities to “extend imperial benevolence and authority throughout the realm.”
⁵⁴
This warning notwithstanding, Zhu Yuanzhang failed to prevent his descendants’ eventual loss of power. This failure was not an accident; rather, it was yet another manifestation of the bureaucrats’ long-term success in restraining the monarch.

At first glance, my claim that the emperors’ deactivation was intrinsic to the process of their upbringing may sound surprising. After all, it is well known that almost every dynasty considered the education of an heir apparent, or even of each of the princes, to be a matter of high priority. The emperor-to-be was trained by the best literal minds of the empire; he was introduced to a plethora of historical documents from earlier dynasties and from the immediate past; he was given certain administrative or military assignments; and he was taught moral lessons, usually in the spirit of Confucius’s teachings. It would appear that everything was done to prepare the most qualified candidate for the burdensome task of ruling “All-under-Heaven.”
⁵⁵

But was it really “everything”? Not necessarily. The best training would be to entrust the ruler-to-be with a variety of real administrative and military tasks on a regular basis. In some cases this was done: especially in the early years of each dynasty, including the Ming, the emperors tended to trust their kin and progeny more than outsiders, assigning their sons and brothers important functions in military and civilian administration, or establishing them as rulers on the provincial level. Yet the general tendency of most dynasties was to discontinue active involvement of princes in the government, considering this a latent threat to political stability. It was all too likely that a powerful prince with substantial civilian and military backing would be encouraged by his entourage to act

-66-

rebelliously: either to replace the designated heir apparent, or to make a preemptive strike against potential plotters from among his family, or even to depose his father and immediately ascend the throne. Well-known to any reader of dynastic histories was the example of Li Shimin (599649), the illustrious Tang Taizong (r. 626–649), whose remarkable military and civilian career as a minor prince allowed him to amass sufficient backing to stage a coup against his brothers and force his father to abdicate.
⁵⁶
It was expedient therefore to limit the potential monarch’s involvement in everyday politics: the imperative to preserve dynastic stability far outweighed considerations of the future emperor’s efficiency.

Lacking truly independent administrative experience, most of the new emperors were simply overwhelmed by the magnitude of their tasks and often opted to rely on their experienced courtiers rather than pursue an independent course. This choice was also a direct result of an heir apparent’s training: his tutors, members of the same stratum that took a dim view of the emperor’s activism, did their best to prepare the future ruler for the position of chief arbiter in court disputes but not that of an independent initiator of new policies. The emperor was made to believe that, as an embodiment of impartiality and fairness, he was expected not to initiate policies at all, but rather to approve or disapprove suggestions by his underlings. While an administratively astute ruler could thwart the efforts of his courtiers to turn him into a rubber stamp—either by utilizing his inner court servants, or by finding allies within the bureaucracy itself—few emperors possessed sufficient abilities and determination. For most, performing ceremonial tasks and rubber-stamping the proposals forwarded and approved by their trusted appointees was a much easier way of fulfilling their duties.

Manifold indicators suggest that the dynastic trajectory from assertive and charismatic emperors toward weaklings on the throne was not just an ex post facto historiographie construction, but rather a very real and pervasive tendency—one well reflected, for instance, in the gradual contraction of the geographic scope of the emperor’s undertakings. While early dynastic leaders often personally led or accompanied their armies to the battlefield and crisscrossed the country on tours of inspection or for ritual purposes (e.g., for performing sacrifice at famous mountains), their successors were more often than not confined during most of their career to the precinct of the Forbidden City or to other palaces, emerging only under duress, as when rebellions or invasions impended. This pattern is observable in any major dynasty, including even those established by the nomadic conquerors (see below). The officials’ antipathy to the emperors’ departures from the capital was couched in terms of care for the ruler’s security, of cutting the costs of imperial “tours of inspection,” and of ritual considerations; but behind that smoke screen one can discern a

-67-

desire for a passive and accommodating monarch, “whose body does not work, as he is the most respected,” in Xunzi’s words.
⁵⁷
It is difficult to avoid the feeling that confining the emperor to his palace was an important step toward nullification of his personality.

The bureaucrats’ persistent efforts to “deactivate” the monarch may explain the surprising ease with which they adapted themselves to child emperors. The rule of an infantile (or otherwise significantly impaired) sovereign was never welcomed, because it was feared that he would be manipulated by a ruthless regent, or, worse, by a potential usurper; in practice, however, the imperial administrative apparatus displayed a remarkable ability to run the empire under leaders whose regulatory role was a pure fiction. Insofar as regents acted prudently and did not alienate the officials, the court could maintain an atmosphere of business as usual, effectively distinguishing between the reigning emperor as a symbol of legitimacy and the real power-holder (a regent or a prime minister) as the center of administrative and political processes. In retrospect, the ease with which the empire survived lengthy periods (e.g., much of the second century CE) during which its supreme legislator, executive, military commander, judge, and pontiff was nothing but a nullity is a remarkable testimony to its vitality and also to its minimal need for imperial charisma.

The bureaucracy’s adaptation to child monarchs suggests that, despite its repeatedly declared commitment to the idea of the sage monarch, the officialdom may actually have preferred a weaker monarch to a powerful activist. The emperor’s individual input in political processes appears not to have been of great importance for the overall functioning of the political system over which he presided; insofar as he did not act in a disruptive or erratic way, the empire could be run in his name without his direct intervention. What the courtiers feared most was not a passive but an excessively active ruler; hence, despite the much-hailed ideal of the charismatic and sagacious True Monarch, in reality the empire was usually in no need of gifted sovereigns. Although weak emperors could become a liability at times of acute crisis, as discussed in the epilogue to this chapter, in general the officialdom preferred an inactive leader.

The above analysis calls into question the thesis with which I opened this section, according to which China’s rule became increasingly more “despotic” as centuries passed. This conclusion appears to me to be built on a selective focus on several excessively powerful rulers from the late imperial period, and on misinterpretation of the increasing ritual gap between rulers and ministers as indicative of the overall disempowerment of the ministerial stratum.
⁵⁸
In reality, however, neither the personal prowess of dynastic founders, nor institutional or ritual adjustments aimed at bolstering the emperor’s power, could thwart the bureaucratic logic of the empire, which would sooner or later diminish the emperors’

-68-

activism. To illustrate the pervasiveness of this process, I shall focus now on those rulers who came from the most charisma-oriented political culture—the steppe conquerors of China.

FROM KHAN TO EMPEROR: THE CONQUEST DYNASTIES

Conquest dynasties provide the most interesting case study to test the functioning of the Chinese mode of emperorship in a highly different cultural setting. The nomadic and seminomadic conquerors of China represent a military-oriented political culture that differed in several crucial aspects from that of China proper. To make a rough generalization, it may be said that while the latter was predicated on stability, the former valued the ability of the ruler. The nomads shared the Chinese concept of Heaven’s “Mandate,” but in their view it rested with the ruling clan as a whole, each of whose members could lead the steppe dwellers insofar as he possessed sufficient charisma and martial skills. Moreover, Heaven (Tengri) did not bestow its mandate on every generation; only through military success could a leader demonstrate Heaven’s ongoing support. The role of the leadership was therefore constantly contested: if the ruler failed to deliver victories, he could expect a coup and replacement by a more able candidate. The position of an heir was even more contestable: violent struggles among rival clansmen became such a persistent feature of nomadic life that Joseph Fletcher termed their succession system “bloody tanistry,” that is, violent competition among potential heirs, resulting in the success of the fittest.
⁵⁹
This system ensured the high quality of nomadic leaders, but it also introduced immanent instability in nomadic polities, which were repeatedly torn apart by bloody succession struggles among the closest kin.