The Everlasting Empire (18 page)

The King turned to his attendants and changed the subject.
²⁰

Mengzi’s message is clear: the dysfunctional king should be removed like any petty official. The discussion is not merely theoretical: the king understands well that Mengzi’s parable is directed against him. Yet the king refrains from punishing his outspoken adviser, preferring to ignore an unpleasant criticism. We cannot assess the veracity of this and many similar anecdotes scattered through the texts of the Warring States period, nor do we know what the true limits of the ruler’s tolerance were, but it is safe to say that the atmosphere of the courts of the Warring States was exceptionally conducive to the outspokenness of the
shi
.
²¹
This might have further bolstered the intellectuals’ self-confidence and sense of superiority, as reflected in the
Liishi chunqiu
statement cited earlier.

In the multipolar world, the willing attachment of the intellectuals to the ruler-centered political order appears, then, as a well-calculated gamble. Insofar as the demand for their skills outstripped the supply, the interstate market of talent ensured the
shi
a degree of immunity from prosecution, allowing them to maintain their high prestige under the ruler’s patronage despite their obvious economic and political dependence on the rulers. It is ironic, therefore, that the
shi
were the staunchest proponents of the universal monarchy, which, when established, contributed decisively to the demise of the very political system that had allowed

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them to preserve their dignity in the ruler’s service. In the age of the unified empire new rules of the game emerged, and these were markedly less advantageous to the
shi
.

UNDER THE IMPERIAL MONOPOLY

From a modern point of view, the Warring States period’s ideological pluralism, and the esteem in which its intellectuals were held, appear extraordinarily attractive in comparison with the much chillier atmosphere in the imperial courts. Yet in an age when unity and stability were sought by all, pluralism was not a prized goal. While many thinkers of the late Warring States period appear fascinated with the intellectual flowering of their age, in many texts we also find an increasing concern with ideological divisiveness, and, most notably, with the unruliness and haughtiness of the
shi
. Some eminent thinkers began proposing curbs on
shi
activities. Thus a leading follower of Confucius, Xunzi, a staunch supporter of intellectual autonomy for the “superior men,” was nonetheless among the first to call upon the future sage monarch to prohibit “illicit theories” and “illicit knowledge.”
²²
Xunzi’s readiness to utilize the power of the state to quell his intellectual opponents remained somewhat qualified; but his erstwhile disciple and ideological rival, Han Feizi, was far more resolute:

Accordingly, in the country of an enlightened ruler there are no texts
written in books and on bamboo strips, but the law is the teaching;
there are no “speeches” of the former kings, but officials are the teach-
ers; there is no private wielding of swords, but beheading [enemies] is
the valor.
²³

Han Feizi was the first known thinker to envision a total order in which the state controls everything, including ideology, while the intellectual elite becomes coterminous with officialdom. His proposal to “nationalize” learning by “turning officials into teachers” was indeed put forward shortly after the imperial unification. In 213 BCE, another of Xunzi’s erstwhile disciples and the major architect of the unified empire, Li Si (d. 208 BCE), wary of ideological disputes at court, launched an overall assault against independent intellectuals. Having identified ideological pluralism, spurred by “private learning,” with the political disorder of the past, Li Si explained why the unified empire should not tolerate intellectuals’ autonomy and pluralism:

Now that your Majesty has annexed All-under-Heaven, you have sep-
arated black and white and have fixed the single to be respected. But
[adherents of] private learning continue to reject among themselves

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the teaching of the Law. When they hear of orders, each discusses them
according to his [private] learning; when entering [at court], negates
them in heart; when exiting—discusses them in lanes and alleys. They
oppose the sovereign to attain reputation, accept the unusual as lofty,
and lead the multitudes to slander. If they are not banned, the sover-
eign’s power will collapse above and cliques will be formed below. It is
advantageous to prohibit them.
²⁴

Having identified two major maladies brought on by private learning—divisiveness and potential subversion—Li Si made his radical suggestion to eliminate copies of the semicanonical
Poems
and
Documents
, along with the
Speeches of the Hundred Schools
, from private collections, explicitly excluding, however, those in the possession of the court erudites (
boshi
). After enumerating the books to be burned and those to be spared, Li Si concluded, “And those who want to study laws and ordinances, let them take an official as a teacher!”
²⁵

Li Si’s final recommendation, as well as his sparing of the erudites’ collections, indicates the deep motives behind his drastic measures. The suppression of private learning was not primarily an ideological act—Li Si did not suggest any reprisals against his ideological opponents at court— but rather an institutional measure. Much like Han Feizi, Li Si considered the nationalization of learning to be the only way to establish proper relations between the
shi
and the finally solidified ruler-centered polity. The empire was in no need of an unruly stratum of scholars, whose very existence was intrinsically linked to the chaotic legacy of the past. They were to be either suppressed or incorporated into the officialdom. This might have become the grand finale of the process of centralization and abolition of independent loci of authority.

History was not kind to Li Si: he was executed by the notorious Second Emperor (r. 209–207 BCE), the empire he constructed collapsed shortly thereafter, and for generations of literati he became one of the most hated historical personages. Yet the project of redefining the nature of the intellectuals’ relations with the throne in the age of political unity could not be abandoned altogether. While initially the weak Han dynasty tolerated a considerable degree of decentralization and did not strive to establish firm ideological control over its subjects, by the time of the active centralizer Han Emperor Wu (r. 141–87 BCE), the tide was reversed. Emperor Wu acted resolutely to put an end to the remnants of the market of talent that had been partly resurrected under the lenient rule of his predecessors. In 122 BCE he annihilated the rich principality of Huainan, whose ruler, Liu An (d. 122 BCE), patronized the last powerful “think tank” of independent scholars.
²⁶
This was the end of an era. Soon enough,

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other autonomous loci of patronage for traveling thinkers, specifically those established by high ministers, were eliminated as well. With its monopoly on the avenues of advancement reasserted, the imperial court had greatly enhanced its power vis-à-vis the
shi
.

Among Emperor Wu’s manifold innovations two are frequently singled out as most significant institutionally: the establishment of a rudimentary examination system, in which candidates recommended by various localities were examined in the capital before receiving official appointment, and the related establishment of the so-called imperial university, out of which a full-scale imperially sanctioned education system gradually evolved. Although it took more than a millennium before both systems matured under the Northern Song dynasty (960–1127), and although their immediate impact on the Han officialdom should not be exaggerated, both innovations do reflect a new ideological role for the throne. This role was well perceived by Dong Zhongshu (ca. 195–115 BCE), one of the major thinkers of the early imperial period. In his memorial to Emperor Wu, Dong Zhongshu proposed:

Nowadays, the teachers have distinct Ways, the people—distinct theo-
ries, the Hundred Schools—distinct recipes; their directions and inten
tions are different. Hence the ruler has nothing to rely upon in ensur-
ing unity and repeatedly alters laws and regulations; while the
subordinates do not know what [laws] they should observe. I, your
stupid servant, believe that whatever is not included within the Six
Arts and Confucius’s techniques, its ways should be severed, and they
should not be allowed to present themselves altogether. When the per-
verse teachings are destroyed and quelled, it will be possible to unify
governing principles, to clarify laws and measures; and the people will
know what to follow.
²⁷

The rationale of Dong Zhongshu’s proposal is strikingly similar to that of Li Si: the unified empire should tolerate no intellectual pluralism. Yet unlike Li Si, Dong Zhongshu did not envision complete integration of the educated elite into the officialdom; he was primarily concerned to prevent “perverse teachings” from entering into the latter. Hence the Han quest for ideological unity did not involve the drastic measures attributed to Li Si; instead of outlawing “private learning,” the Han rulers simply limited the advancement opportunities of those who did not espouse the officially approved principles. This regulation proved efficient enough: most of the texts associated with the so-called Hundred Schools were relegated to the margins of intellectual discourse, while other texts, associated (justifiably or not) with Confucius and his “school,” attained canonical status, so that their mastery became indispensable for an aspir

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ing official and for an educated person in general.
²⁸
The carrot policy worked better than the stick to instill a degree of ideological cohesiveness in the elite.

A once-popular narrative interpreted Emperor Wu’s elevation of Confucianism as the ultimate “victory” of Confucian teaching over the Hundred Schools of the Warring States age; thenceforth, Confucianism supposedly became the state ideology. This account is somewhat simplistic, as is, in general, the supposition of a “victory” of one “school of thought” over the others; actually, imperial ideology remained quite syncretic, both before and after Emperor Wu. Yet the change in Confucius’s status in the aftermath of Emperor Wu’s reforms is undeniable: he was elevated far above all other preimperial thinkers; soon enough he was deified, and some Han sycophants even treated him as a semidemiurge, semiprophet who had envisioned the coming of the Han dynasty and prepared the institutional setting for the Han ruling house.
²⁹
These latter excesses were of minor historical consequence; but the general elevation of Confucius and the incorporation of his teaching into the state-sponsored education system were of lasting importance.

Why did Emperor Wu decide to promote Confucius above other preimperial thinkers? Ostensibly, this was an odd selection: Emperor Wu’s policy departed radically from what was—and is—usually identified as Confucius’s legacy, and “Confucian” justifications for his centralization and expansion were very shaky.
³⁰
Yet the endorsement of Confucius might have served another purpose: creating a new mode of coexistence between the emperor and the majority of the educated elite (to whom I shall henceforth refer as literati rather than
shi
). Confucius, once identified as “an ancestor” of the literati,
³¹
was the thinker who had decisively shaped the self-image of the “superior men,” imbued them with a sense of mission, and contributed greatly toward their pride. By elevating this thinker and declaratively endorsing his legacy, Emperor Wu signaled to the intellectual elite that they would find his regime more accommodative toward them, not purely intimidating like the Qin. The court offered the literati a deal: absorbing them into officialdom while ostensibly allowing them to preserve their dignity. The offer was duly accepted. Emperor Wu might have benefited from his gamble: while many Han intellectuals lamented their diminishing status and noticed the resemblance of some of Emperor Wu’s policies to those of the First Emperor, Emperor Wu was much more highly esteemed by subsequent historians and thinkers, and was never anathematized like his predecessor.
³²

A sympathetic account would interpret Emperor Wu’s reforms as the beginning of a symbiosis between the court and the literati, a mutually beneficial coexistence between the possessors of cultural prestige and the holders of political power. A more critical view, by contrast, would la

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ment the literati’s loss of professional and intellectual autonomy in the wake of Emperor Wu’s reforms, and the eventual subjugation of the literati to the throne. As is usual with such broad generalizations, each has its stronger and weaker points: the Chinese empire’s long history provides abundant examples pro and contra each of these views. Undeniably, the literati’s freedom of action had been considerably reduced under the imperial monopoly; and while large-scale persecutions were a rarity, they recurred sufficiently frequently, from Qin and Han to Ming and Qing, to suggest that the literati were never invulnerable in their position. Yet it would be unjust to let these gloomy events obscure a broader picture of the educated elite’s ongoing cultural and intellectual hegemony, of the literati’s dominance at the courts of most dynasties, of their persistent ability to offer critical advice to the throne, and of course of their enormous societal prestige. In what follows, by analyzing the limits of intellectual autonomy in the imperial age, and the relations between the literati and the throne, I shall show that despite ongoing persistent tensions with the emperors, the literati’s position in the unified empire was prestigious enough to prevent the throne’s unequivocal dominance.