The Everlasting Empire (19 page)

IDEOLOGY AND POWER

Critics of the Chinese empire routinely lament the loss of intellectual vigor and élan of the Warring States period in the wake of the imperial unification and the subjugation of the literati to the imperial order. There is no doubt that they have a point. In a land where the emperor’s regulatory functions were supposedly unlimited, it was only natural for the court to try to impose ideological uniformity on its subjects and to silence dissenting literati either through a stick policy, as in the case of Li Si, or with the help of the carrot, as exemplified by Emperor Wu’s reforms. Having monopolized the routes of individual advancement, the court could deploy its power to define what kind of expertise and knowledge was required of an aspiring official, thereby directing the educational efforts of the vast majority of the literati toward desirable ends. In addition, coercive measures could further solidify ideological orthodoxy. Suppression of real or imagined dissenters, occasional proscriptions of a variety of literary, philosophical, and historical writings, and, most notoriously, cases of “literary inquisition,” which peaked in the eighteenth century
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—all those appear as a gloomy by-product of the imperial unification. It is in light of these events that manifold critics of the imperial order argue that behind the Confucian facade, imperial China appears largely to have realized Li Si’s vision of the intellectuals’ subjugation.
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This said, it is important to note immediately how
nontotalitarian
the imperial regime was. In general, traditional China was a far more plural

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istic and intellectually tolerant society than, for instance, almost any traditional monotheistic culture. This quality is clearly evidenced in the ongoing court patronage—at times genuine, at times halfhearted—of Buddhism and Daoism as two major alternative traditions to the mainstream “Confucianism.” More essentially, all of these (and many other) “isms” were in fact syncretic and highly heterogeneous traditions, within each of which a great variety of contradictory doctrines continued to coexist. This quality of Chinese ideologies hindered attempts to impose ideological uniformity, beyond the adoption of certain common symbols and rules of discourse. Although at times the court could intervene in debates over the proper interpretation of a canonical tradition or even of a Buddhist scripture, these interventions were rare and of limited influence on the intellectual life of the empire. Ideological debates, even if less pluralistic than in the Warring States period, continued throughout much of the imperial era.

Two additional factors impeded attempts to impose unity of thought on the literati and on society as a whole. The first was the relative monarchical indifference. Only exceptionally assertive monarchs, such as the Ming founder, Zhu Yuanzhang, actively tried to impose their vision on their subjects;
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most other rulers were less interested in actively pursuing the path of ideological unification. At times, a ruler could endorse one of the competing traditions and try to advance its cause at the expense of other ideologies; but this situation was a rarity.
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It was tacitly understood that an emperor’s unequivocal commitment to a single doctrine would impair his impartiality, arouse unnecessary resentment, and endanger political stability. In any case, radical ideological innovations imposed by a reigning monarch rarely outlived him; for instance, Zhu Yuanzhang’s attempt to ban the teachings of Mengzi or expurgate potentially subversive passages from this text was discontinued under his son, Zhu Di (the Yongle Emperor, r. 1402–1424), who restored Mengzi’s position, trying thereby to mend his troublesome relations with the literati.
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Suppression could work, but only temporarily.

The second, and arguably more important, factor behind the ongoing preservation of relative ideological pluralism under the unified empire was the aversion of most literati to the artificial imposition of ideological purity from above. To be sure, there were many zealots for ideological unity within the educated elite; suffice it to mention the illustrious Han Yu (768–824), who urged the court to suppress Buddhism and Daoism and “burn their books,” since “unless their ways are blocked, our Way will not be implementable.” Such radicalism was a rarity, however, and in the case of Han Yu these harsh phrases should be viewed as rhetorical exaggeration rather than a policy proposal.
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Many literati, especially in the second imperial millennium, actively disseminated their ideological vision throughout society and hoped ultimately to attain unity of

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thought; yet it was tacitly understood that this task should be performed primarily from below, through educational efforts, and not through administrative means. Thus the court’s rare attempts to impose ideological unity were frequently thwarted owing to the officials’ minimal commitment to this goal.

This tendency of the literati to preserve at least relative autonomy in the ideological realm is most evident in the court’s inability to rein in two major avenues of independent ideological activity: the printing industry and private academies. Both began developing in earnest at the beginning of the second millennium CE, in tandem with an increasingly palpable drive toward ideological uniformity, at least within the elite ranks. It is remarkable, then, that despite ongoing suspicion from the court and parts of the officialdom concerning the activities of academies and of publishing houses, and despite occasional efforts to curb these activities, both continued to prosper throughout the imperial period. The failure of the establishment to control these vehicles of ideological activism derived from multiple economic and administrative factors, but perhaps most significantly it reflected the basic reluctance of the scholar-officials to suppress the very kind of activities that were essential to the intellectual life of their stratum.
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It seems therefore that reducing the ideological atmosphere in the unified empire to a refined version of Li Si’s quasi-totalitarian vision is grossly inaccurate. The ideological realm remained, rather, a field of constant negotiation, tension, and compromise between the court (which was staffed, at least partly, by the leading literati) and the bulk of the educated elite. The balance of power between the two differed considerably from one reign to another, but only a few rulers had a significant impact on the ideological course of the realm. The court’s difficulty in imposing a uniform ideology on the literati is particularly evident in the complex history of the imperial examinations, a primary tool for selecting officials in the late imperial period. Despite its potential importance as a control mechanism, the examination system did not turn into an efficient means of imposing the court’s vision of orthodoxy on the elite. Rather, it served as an arena of negotiation of the cultural and ideological modus vivendi between the court and the literati. As Benjamin Elman’s seminal study shows, the court could dictate its rules in the short term, but long-term modifications were not possible without the elite’s consent.
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To illustrate the complexity of intellectual dynamics in the late imperial period, I shall briefly focus on the Song dynasty (960–1279)—arguably the most intellectually vibrant period under the unified empire. Having reunified most of the country after a prolonged age of military disorder, the Song emperors opted to rely on the literati as their major political allies, displaying exceptional respect toward the men of letters

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and adopting a more cooperative attitude toward the intellectuals than was evident in most other dynasties. It was then that the examination system became a major and most prestigious avenue for entering the officialdom, and its sociocultural impact increased tremendously (see also chapter 4).
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Yet this age of increasing affluence, flourishing intellectual life, and radical expansion of educational facilities was also marked by deep cleavages within the intellectual elite, prompted by the competing idealistic visions of the proper functioning of society and the state. As ideological contestation became increasingly acute by the late eleventh century, competing factions began resorting to state power to silence their opponents.
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At one point, victorious supporters of the radical reformer Wang Anshi (1021–1086) tried to impose their uniform ideological vision on all future literati in a very “modern” way: they radically expanded the system of public education, planning to turn it into an exclusive avenue of advancement into officialdom; simultaneously, they imposed unprecedented ideological control over the curriculum. The opponents bitterly complained:

Today, in all prefectures and counties, there are no entrance examina-
tions which test the student’s ability to write. The first thing the exam
iners look for is whether or not a candidate’s essays refer to subjects
currently tabooed. If the language of the candidate’s essays touches on
such tabooed subjects, then no matter how well he has written, they
dare not pass him. It is tabooed to say: “in order to rest the people rest
the military; to make wealth abundant, regulate expenses; eliminate
the service requirements that are not urgent; incorruptably enter offi-
cialdom.” All language like this [is tabooed].
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This account is an interesting testimony to the possible interdependence of public education and thought control; but for the present discussion what matters is that this attempt—like others before and after it— was short-lived, coming to an abrupt end when the reformers lost the emperor’s support. Eventually, a long-term victory in the struggle among manifold intellectual currents of the Song dynasty was achieved by the so-called Neo-Confucians (or “The Learning of the True Way,”
Daoxue
). Their initially marginal transcendent moralistic vision was disseminated not from above but from below, through the proselytizing zeal of their adherents, particularly through private academies, which gradually overshadowed the underfunded public education system. While the court’s initial response to these activities ranged from indifference to enmity, and for a short while it even outlawed the “false learning” of the Neo-Confucians, the ultimate success was theirs. It came very slowly, taking generations, during which more and more sympathetic literati entered civil service and gained influence over the emperor. The triumph was complete in

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the thirteenth century when leading Neo-Confucian thinkers were enshrined in Confucius’s temple, while their interpretation of canonical works was recognized in 1313 as a new orthodoxy and became an essential component of the modified examination system.
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This example of “victory from below,” like Han Emperor Wu’s decision to endorse Confucian learning fifteen centuries earlier, is indicative of the complex pattern of the elite’s interaction with the throne in the ideological sphere. While any emperor at any given moment had the right to redefine the canon, to impose new examination rules, or to ban any ideological current, in practice intellectual life was guided primarily by the literati rather than by the throne. Through a variety of means the literati tried—quite successfully—to preserve their relative autonomy in the realm of ideology. This autonomy, in turn, allowed them to preserve their ideological hegemony as possessors of the True Way. Despite their nominal sagacity, only few emperors were able to redefine successfully the nature of ideological authority. The bifurcation between political and intellectual/moral authority, which was so much evident in the Warring States period, remained intact in the imperial age as well.

It is useful to recall here that the court’s difficulty in controlling intellectual activities derived also from yet another source—the sheer volume of ideological production. The Chinese literati were addicted to writing, and the number of works they produced was huge, increasing over the centuries as the size of the literary elite grew and the market for books expanded accordingly. Printing enabled the wide dissemination of written works, and it was all but impossible for any censor to read them all; even occasional persecutions of publishers, authors, and the readers themselves, as in the case of the literary inquisitions, could not significantly influence this situation.
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The court simply had to accustom itself to its inability to rein in the literati’s production. This voluminous production created a vital sphere in which the intellectuals could preserve their dignity and pride. Its existence, in addition to the fateful decision of the Han and subsequent emperors to endorse the Confucian legacy, with its intrinsic respect for the intellectual, served as a powerful antidote to the overall subjugation of the educated elite by the throne. Having lost the advantages of the interstate market of talent, the imperial literati retained sufficient intellectual resources to prevent their debasement to the position of the ruler’s servile yes-men. It is time now to investigate their relations with the throne under the new conditions.

BETWEEN THE RULER AND THE WAY

The above discussion suggests that the literati as a stratum were able at times to counterbalance the emperor’s power; yet for an individual man

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of letters maintaining dignity vis-à-vis the throne in the unified empire was much more difficult. The change in the literati’s position was already evident during Qin’s persecution of private learning; but even the collapse of Qin and the relaxation of the intellectual atmosphere in the early decades of the Han dynasty did not necessarily improve their standing. Proud literati had to get used to repeated humiliations or even persecution should they anger their imperial patrons: some were forced to commit suicide; some were thrown into the pigpen to fight the pigs; others were relegated to the position of an entertainer, not different from “any singing girl or jester.”
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After Han Emperor Wu’s ascendancy, the situation deteriorated further. Reportedly, when an aide reproached Emperor Wu for his repeated executions of the literati, the emperor laughingly dismissed the criticism: