FIVE Impeachments
In 1688, Jin Fu and Mingju were two of the most powerful men in China. Guo Xiu was a recently promoted and still relatively obscure newcomer to the court, a censor assigned to audit the capital grain supplies. What prompted Guo to impeach Jin and Mingju, and what did he propose to accomplish by doing so? This chapter argues that Guo Xiu responded both to the call of duty and to the call of his monarch. Duty called powerfully to the recently created censor. Mingju and Jin Fu were very likely guilty, but knowledge of their guilt was hardly new; in Guo’s circles suspicion of these two officials was widespread. But no one had the courage to take them on. New to the court and not yet inured to its corruption, Guo was willing to speak when others remained silent. Guo took his Confucianism seriously, and in the tradition there were many examples, beginning with Confucius himself, of men who spoke truth to power. But Guo was not proceeding from conviction alone; he was also reading signals from the emperor. His impeachment of Jin Fu responded to a call from the emperor for more information than his court was providing about the state of Qing affairs. The impeachment of Mingju responded to a specific signal that a memorial impeaching senior courtiers would be well received.
Signals
A year after Guo Xiu entered the Censorate, the Kangxi emperor engaged in a revealing dialogue with members of his court about the role and need for censors.1 This dialogue was not public, but it resulted in an order publicly changing censorial procedures and was probably widely known. The immediate cause was a memorial that reached the emperor through a rather random sequence of events. There was a drought in the early summer of 1687, and fearing that the acts of his government might be out of harmony with the workings of heaven, the emperor called on officials to inform him of problems they saw in the state. Most of the responses were anodyne assurances that the state was in accord with heavenly principle. One memorial from a junior official in the Court of Astronomy named Dong Hanchen (n.d.) caught the emperor’s attention.2
Most interesting to the emperor was Dong’s claim that the court needed to be more open to suggestions and criticisms from below. For at least several days, the monarch discussed this matter with his courtiers. The emperor worried that “even though the institutions of government have been roughly established, the avenues for airing views seem to be blocked.” Mingju and his colleagues consistently assured the emperor that he need not worry about others’ comments because he listened to their opinions; in effect, he needed no advice but theirs. There was even an attempt to suppress Dong’s memorial, which was blocked by Guo Xiu’s former mentor, Tang Bin.3 The matter was finally allowed to rest when the court left Beijing to escape the heat, going first to the southern lodge and then to Manchuria for the annual autumn hunt.
On his first day back in Beijing, the emperor returned to the topic in an imperial edict:
There have been many cases in which censors indicting corrupt officials have been afraid to speak because they have not personally observed the receipt of bribes. At present there is a law against indictments based only on hearsay (fengwen). But has there ever been a case where the recipient of a bribe has been willing to [say he was bribed and] be impeached? In the past, there has been a regulation allowing indictments based on unattributed sources. But the [Oboi] regents suspended this procedure. Let us restore the procedure. The corrupt fear such a rule. If there are cases of censors’ bearing grudges and on investigation the grudge is proven, then there is a mechanism for reversing the charge. Let this edict be promulgated to the court, the censors and imperial advisers.4
The crucial expression here was the notion of fengwen, or things “heard on the winds.” This expression had been a part of imperial Chinese political vocabulary for most of imperial times, together with the related but somewhat more ominous expression fengyan, meaning “rumors” or “gossip.” During the Six Dynasties period (420–589), censors were encouraged to report “folk songs and street talk that reflected popular opinion of the government.” In later imperial and modern contexts as a legal term, fengwen is best translated as “hearsay evidence.”5 Censors were not required to prove their charges; in fact they were explicitly prohibited from investigating them. But they could be required to provide the names of their sources. With sources named, charges could be more easily investigated and unreliable sources readily eliminated. There was also a perception that when censors were not required to name sources, they could more easily make charges based on their own private grievances rather than harm to the body politic.
The significance of Kangxi’s 1687 edict that more loosely sourced allegations would be entertained was not lost on the imperial favorite. As grand secretary, Mingju was obligated to promulgate the imperial edict, but he made clear that he did not approve:
We have promulgated to the court and to the censors an edict restoring the right of censors to impeach based on unattributed sources, but we respectfully memorialize our opinions.… In ancient times, there was never a rule that censors could impeach based on unattributed sources. It only existed during the late Ming, when there were the several eunuch courts and offices. Worthless characters banded together into factions, attacking each other and exacting revenge. Taking advantage of the right to make accusations based on unattributed sources, they made wild accusations, which led to disasters along the border. Now with the practice of making accusations based on unattributed sources restored, we fear that worthless characters will once again use the pretext of unattributed accusation to stir up trouble and falsehood. Who can tell whether bearing grudges and seeking favors from each other will become general practice? This practice cannot be permitted. The current law [i.e., the prohibition of unattributed sources] should be maintained.
Mingju’s observation that fengwen had never been permitted was in error, but his charge that allowing censors more license could bring about chaos, as had happened in the late Ming, was a potent one in the early Qing context. In almost no respect was the late Ming a positive example in the Qing seventeenth century. Kangxi was, however, prepared to ignore Mingju. He responded, “Noted,” and the audience ended. No change was ordered. Frustrated by the perception that he was being manipulated, the Kangxi emperor signaled to his officialdom that he was willing to receive accusations and would not be troubled by their sources.
Impeaching Jin Fu
With such a signal, it was plausible for a recently appointed censor to imagine that he could productively bring a matter of importance to the emperor’s attention.6 Still, Guo had to be cautious. The monarch had publicly indicated his desire to receive impeachments, but it was impossible to predict how he might respond to specific charges. Guo Xiu was a new censor, as yet unfamiliar to the emperor. Moreover, the emperor was proud of his knowledge of the southern river works, and specific proposals for changes in the plan of repair and maintenance had to be couched carefully. All of these necessary cautions were reflected in an impeachment of Jin Fu that was the shortest and least specific of his three impeachments, 450 characters, as opposed to 800 characters each for the other two impeachments. Unlike the other two impeachments, it did not have a bill of particulars; while it brought broad charges against Jin Fu, it did not offer specific documentable instances of malfeasance. The purpose seemed less to charge Jin Fu with corruption than to remind the emperor that many opposed Jin’s project.
Read today, the impeachment of Jin Fu offers an introduction to the social and political assumptions that surrounded the role of censor. Guo Xiu wrote, “Through the extraordinary favor of the emperor, I was raised to the post of censor in violation of the rules of seniority. Your official is conscious of the extraordinary favor he has received, a favor that can never be repaid. All I can do to fulfill my duty is to report all that I see without fear of others’ resentment. All within the seas is at peace, and communities are settled through the emperor’s labor from dawn to dusk and his abundant care.”7
Elements of this were true. Guo had labored in a low position for seven years and then been raised four ranks by the emperor’s promotion. But humility is not all that was conveyed here. For a Confucian official, the approach to the emperor was qualitatively different from the approach to a bureaucratic superior, as the emperorship represented the possibility of moral and political perfection (regardless of the foibles of any specific emperor). The perfection of the emperorship was established in the impeachment with standard expressions describing the demands of an emperor’s life. This language was not necessary for this emperor, who was rarely susceptible to flattery and found flowery language pretentious and undesirable. It was, however, necessary for Guo to establish his commitment to a Confucian vision as a foundation for his accusations. It was the possibility of perfection that motivated the official to do his best.
Guo Xiu’s criticism of Jin Fu was plainly stated. Guo wrote that in his prosperous era only one group could be thought vulnerable, and these were the landowners of the counties of the Yellow River Delta. Their vulnerability stemmed from the efforts of Jin Fu:
The emperor has appointed Jin Fu as governor-general of river affairs, and Jin has delegated his authority to Chen Huang. If there is flooding, when the waves abate, there is yet another excuse made to the ruler. Today they propose building a dike; tomorrow they propose digging a channel. Millions are spent, but the river is as worrisome as always. Today they propose appointing a river intendant; tomorrow they propose appointing a river sub-magistrate. They take positions and ranks created by the court and award them as acts of private charity. There is no end to their underlings.8
As Jin Fu himself would have pointed out, he is not being accused of anything illegal here. It was fully appropriate for the director-general of river conservancy to request funds to carry out his job, although the amount of Jin’s requests was an extraordinary consequence of how he set about doing his job. Moreover, Qing regulations allowed him to recommend his own subordinates. It was the pattern that Guo was pointing to, in which money was allocated, nominees were confirmed, but nothing was accomplished, and the river was as worrisome as always.
The impeachment thus far appeared to address Jin Fu’s tenure in general, but its specific language pointed to Jin Fu’s activities in 1686. In the early years of his tenure, Jin was concerned to reduce the number of officials involved in controlling the river. The request for massive numbers of subordinates, which Qiao Lai decried, was a product of 1686 and the new demand Jin Fu felt to compete with Yu Chenglong and Sun Zaifeng’s coastal dredging project. The image Guo Xiu projected, of apparently pointless effort at great cost, likely referred to the canal dredging effort in particular, rather than the river director’s effort in general.
Guo Xiu then turned to a discussion of agricultural colonies in Jiangsu. Here he was specifically speaking of the canal dredging effort, as it was in the context of that effort that colonies were proposed. By the time Guo wrote, the process of forming agricultural colonies had actually begun:
They also conspire to seize lands from the people, absurdly referring to this as “creating military colonies,” inappropriately seizing grain for sale outside the borders of their jurisdiction. The emperor has ordered that the lower stretches of the [east-flowing rivers] must be dredged, but Jin Fu has developed a hundred schemes to impede the work. Now orders must be given so that merit prevails; the abuses must be permanently ended. As for the matter of military agricultural colonies, the emperor long ago foresaw that these would harm the people. When they were interviewed, officials also concluded that they would harm the people.9
Instead of undertaking the work the emperor wanted, Jin and Chen deliberately schemed to interfere with the emperor’s orders and engaged in a petty land grab.
The next element in Guo’s impeachment was probably predictable. Private secretaries were ubiquitous in Qing administration, necessary adjuncts to an underfunded and understaffed administration. But they were always suspect as men who had not passed the examinations or undergone the necessary training and moral education to handle administration. In rising to positions of authority, it was feared, they would only scheme to enrich themselves and the officials they served. So it was with Chen Huang: “Chen Huang’s strategies serve to support the plots of Jin Fu alone; they are completely without benefit to the state’s economy or the people.” Guo charged Chen Huang with developing the scheme.
Concluding, Guo referred to both Chen and Huang as “corrupt officials of the state and robbers of the people” (guo zhi chong, min zhi zei ye). The character Guo used for “corrupt officials” means both corrupt officials and a type of worm (chongzi) that consumes books. In English this is humorous, but Guo’s purpose was deadly serious. In applying the term to Jin Fu, Guo meant to bring him down. Guo’s impeachment concluded with the requisite request for imperial action: “I submit this for your imperial judgment, requesting that you issue an order to investigate thoroughly, assign punishments, and appoint honest and effective Manchu and Chinese high officials to set river affairs in order and memorialize about their results. The millions of souls who live north and south of the Yellow River will enjoy the benefits for eternity.”10
REACTION
Guo’s memorial was submitted in a moment of turmoil. The emperor’s beloved grandmother, the grand empress dowager, died on the last days of the Chinese year corresponding to 1687.11 There was usually a period in the first lunar month when the emperor conducted no business; this period was extended in 1688 to nearly the end of February because of the mourning activities. Guo presented his memorial at the Qianqing gate on February 24, 1688, the first day on which the emperor conducted business in the new year that had begun on February 1. Visibly tired and still wearing plain blue mourning clothes, the monarch received Guo’s document and ordered those at court to discuss river matters. The Chinese minister of finance addressed the throne: “We have discussed [Jin’s] proposals. Military agricultural colonies would be a burden to the people and should be stopped. As for building a new dike, we should do as Jin Fu proposes.”12
Then the emperor ordered Guo Xiu and the minister to kneel before the throne and addressed them:
When I was on my southern tour, I personally inspected the canal, 180 li south of the Gao Family Dike, and 180 li north of it. I saw it all and became familiar with the banks of the canal. Now there is a proposal to build a dike to force the water through the Clear Passage and out to sea. If this really were advantageous, why didn’t they build it long ago? The people of the seven counties have experienced extraordinary hardship. I have seen this with my own eyes and felt it in my heart. If we build another dike, the people will be doubly burdened! Military agricultural colonies will bring hardship to the people and profits to courtiers. Everyone knows that Chen Huang is a commoner. As for his idea of military agricultural colonies, there are none among the people of Jiangnan who do not resent it. Don’t you all know this?”13
The monarch turned to the censors and said, “You are censors; you ought to speak directly, hiding nothing. Have you no consciences? You ought to have spoken on this matter in public.” Finally, he turned to Guo Xiu and asked, “Are there details in your memorial?” Guo answered that his memorial was general. Then the monarch asked, “Does your memorial mention officials at court who interfere in river matters?” Guo answered that there was no such discussion.14
The last question was particularly telling. The emperor seemed suspicious that among his inner circle there were officials trying to direct river policy in ways that served their own interests—that there were names to be named. Even more telling in this regard was the emperor’s comment, buried in the longer statement, that military agricultural colonies would benefit courtiers (ting chen). It was likely that the proposal would have benefited Jin Fu and his subordinates, but the suspicion that the circle of beneficiaries reached into the court was striking. Was the emperor looking for another impeachment?
Impeaching Mingju
One can imagine the courtiers holding their collective breath until Guo answered that he hadn’t mentioned the names of any courtiers. Many no doubt hoped the moment would pass, but Guo Xiu was unwilling to let the matter rest. Several days later he produced a full-on attack on Grand Secretary Mingju. Guo’s speedy response suggested that he had an impeachment of Mingju ready. His impeachment of the river director may have been an attempt to test the waters, as it were, when his real aim was to get at Mingju, whom he saw as engaged with Jin Fu in a single corrupt enterprise. Unlike Guo Xiu’s first impeachment, where a pervasive and troubling pattern of events was conveyed with understatement, the second impeachment had to name names, provide details, and prove its case.15 Impeaching an imperial favorite, Guo’s career was on the line, and failure at this point would surely have cost him a great deal, probably his career and perhaps his life. Where his first memorial was marked by rhetorical caution, the second showed argumentative caution. After an introduction stating his purpose, Guo broached the issue of how the emperor could dismiss Mingju after having favored him for so long. Guo then lodged eight charges against the grand secretary. These can be reduced to four categories of offense: (1) malfeasance of office as grand secretary; (2) forming a faction to demand bribes for appointments to territorial posts; (3) skimming the revenues allotted for river repairs; and (4) attempting to control the Censorate.
MALFEASANCE
Guo Xiu began his memorial in straightforward fashion, announcing that his purpose was to charge a great official who had become corrupt. But there was a delicate problem: in impeaching an imperial favorite, one had to avoid impugning the judgment of the ruler who had put him in place. One solution was to offer the ruler a model for changing his views. Fortunately, the classical canon offered a useful precedent of sages changing their view of subordinates. When the mythical sage-king Shun took over the throne from Yao, the Book of Documents recorded that he found several of Yao’s officials to be corrupt and dismissed them. Recounting this example, Guo observed that because Shun was willing to dismiss Yao’s officials, his era became prosperous. The case was not precisely parallel to the situation of the Kangxi emperor and Mingju, but it was close enough to serve Guo’s purpose. If the great Shun was willing to recognize the faults of Yao’s appointees, the Kangxi emperor should be willing to change his own view of Mingju.16
With this issue dispatched, Guo began his first charge, an obvious malfeasance that could be documented. It involved Mingju’s use of his position as grand secretary to change an imperial order and thereby manipulate the corruption case of Governor Zhang Qian (jinshi 1646). Guo Xiu wrote:
All documents drafted by the Grand Council are prepared under Mingju’s direction, regardless of whether they are important or unimportant. Yu Guozhu follows Mingju’s instruction. [Even] if there are errors, his colleagues do not dare make corrections.
There have even been cases when the emperor in his wisdom called for investigation and reprimand and there has been no review or action at all. Chen Zizhi’s (n.d.) impeachment of Zhang Qian requested the punishment of those who had recommended [Zhang for office], and the emperor ordered the nine ministers to punish them all appropriately and consistently. But the draft order did not mention this at all.17
Zhang Qian was a territorial official who specialized in border provinces with significant military garrisons. Extant personnel sources show that he was promoted steadily through mid-level posts, from Shaanxi grain intendant to provincial judge of Yunnan in December 1683, then from Yunnan provincial judge to lieutenant governor of Fujian in the spring of 1685, then from lieutenant governor of Fujian to governor of Huguang in January 1686.18 According to Guo Xiu’s censorial colleague Chen Zizhi, Zhang Qian was busy in his first few months in Huguang. He extorted money from salt merchants, the provincial mint, and along the Yangzi River wharves, and had even begun to shake down Hankow merchants. In Chen’s view, Zhang Qian was so obviously corrupt that those who “recommended him for office at the time [of his appointment] must have taken bribes.” Chen requested that Zhang be investigated and that those who had recommended Zhang for office be remanded for administrative discipline.19
Coming just a few weeks after the emperor’s invitation to censors to memorialize based on words “heard on the wind,” Chen’s impeachment drew attention. The emperor discussed the case at some length in imperial audience and even drew the case to the attention of scholarly advisers in the Southern Study.20 Finding it extraordinary that no one had dared to report Zhang Qian’s corruption, the emperor singled out Chen Zizhi for praise and ordered that he be promoted at the first opportunity.21
On investigation, it was found that Zhang Qian had extorted money from his subordinates in Huguang to make up the deficits in the provincial treasury in Fujian, the post from which he had been promoted to Huguang. During the years when this case took place, the responsibilities of the lieutenant governor in the territorial order were being redefined. In the Ming, two commissioners for the dissemination of government policies (xuanbu zheng shi) were the senior civilian officials in each province. Fiscal review was their responsibility, but their main task was supervising local officials. In the Qing, the two administration commissioners were reduced to one, who came to be regarded as the principal subordinate of the governor, in effect lieutenant governor.22 The lieutenant governor became the main fiscal official at the provincial level. As Liu Fengyun has recently argued, the increasing salience of this regulation in postwar Kangxi China led to some extraordinary machinations among departing lieutenant governors stuck with unexplainable deficits.23 Like all territorial officials, lieutenant governors were required to officially turn over (jiaodai) their treasuries to successors when they left their post. Any deficits had to be accounted for, or they became the responsibility of the incoming official. Zhang Qian, caught with a deficit in his treasury when his promotion from lieutenant governor to governor was announced, filled it by whatever means possible.
Guo’s charge against Mingju in connection with this case was serious. Zhang Qian may well have been Mingju’s protégé, as many provincial governors were. However, Guo Xiu had accused Mingju of an offense more serious than protecting a protégé. The charge was that Mingju had deliberately changed an imperial order as he prepared the written version, in order to prevent punishment of those who had recommended Zhang Qian. Under the provisions of Qing administrative law, such punishment was a real possibility. It was a long-standing principle of Chinese personnel administration that recommenders bore responsibility for a recommendee’s conduct for the entire course of a recommendee’s official career. Changing the emperor’s orders so that Zhang’s recommenders were shielded did nothing to protect Zhang Qian, whose career was toast, but it did serve to protect those at court who had spoken up for him.
FORMING A FACTION
One of the most vivid passages among Guo’s descriptions of Mingju was his portrait of the favorite’s actions as the imperial audience with senior counselors adjourned:
In cases when Mingju receives imperial orders [fengzhi], if they are praised, he tells people, “This is because of my advocacy.” If the orders are not called good, he says, “The Emperor was displeased.24 I had to gently persuade him.” Moreover, he freely exaggerates in order to appear gracious and assert his own importance. By this means he ties many people to him in order to extract bribes [from those wanting favors]. Every day when the court finishes considering memorials, as Manchu and Han officials of the various offices stand to the left of the main gate waiting sincerely and reverently, he reveals secrets, and there are none of the emperor’s thoughts that are not divulged. In any matter affecting even slightly the business of a board, an order must be requested.25
Seen through the horrified, or perhaps fascinated, eyes of a court newcomer like Guo, Mingju circulated among those waiting as an imperial audience ended, bestowing a confidence here and a promise there. It was bad enough that Mingju was revealing matters that should have been kept secret until official imperial orders were issued. Even worse, he was doing it to enhance what we might today call his own brand—that is, he was emphasizing his own role in decision-making to increase the value of his services to those who requested them. Guo’s scene captured Mingju in action as a faction leader, and factionalism was the subject of a substantial part of Guo’s memorial.
“Mingju has formed a faction,” wrote Guo. The Manchu organizer was Foron (d. 1701); the organizer among the Chinese was Yu Guozhu. Both these men had been associated with Mingju before his ascent to the Grand Secretariat. Foron had a multifaceted career: while he profited from his association with Mingju, he proved to be a capable official in his own right and served with some distinction at court. Unlike Mingju, who came from the upper three banners and began service as an imperial bodyguard, Foron belonged to the Plain White Banner and began as a Manchu clerk in the Ministry of War. It was here that he likely met Mingju, who was then minister. In 1676, Foron was assigned to supervise military provisions in wartime Huguang, where he memorialized his concern that as the need to supply the army could drain the local economy, provisions would need to be supplied by merchants from neighboring provinces. In 1680, Foron was appointed to oversee military provisions in Sichuan. After the war, he returned to the capital and rose rapidly in the central administration, serving first as a member of the Ministry of Punishments. In 1684, he served on a high-level committee to review the provincial mints and make recommendations to ensure their solvency. The next year saw him appointed as a member of the Ministry of War, and then promoted to Manchu president of the Censorate. Following his term in the censorate, Foron attained ministerial rank, first as Manchu minister of works and then of punishments. Like Mingju, he was both a capable and corrupt administrator.26
Yu Guozhu was probably a decade older than Foron, having received his jinshi in 1653. From Huguang, he was likely something of an outsider, as most Chinese officials in these years were from the northern Chinese provinces of Henan and Shandong. His first appointment was as department magistrate, after which he returned to the capital, occupying a series of censorial and administrative positions. Between 1676 and 1680, he served as censor responsible for reviewing the Ministries of Finance (1676–78) and Ritual (1678–80). As censor for the Ministry of Finance, he reviewed tax quotas and memorialized about inequalities in an effort to secure funding for the armies in the last stage of the Rebellion of the Three Feudatories. In particular he proposed that provisions for the army during the rebellion be drawn from coastal provinces rather than hard-pressed interior provinces like Shaanxi, Henan, or Shandong. Transferred to be censor for the Ministry of Rites, he memorialized recommending the discipline of territorial officials.27 In 1682, he was appointed governor of Jiangsu, becoming Guo Xiu’s superior and perhaps the Jiangsu governor Guo came to dislike so heartily. On his return from Jiangsu, Yu was appointed grand secretary, where he served alongside Mingju.28 Guo claimed three other Manchu were part of Mingju’s faction: Gesite (n.d.), a censor and, according to Guo, a relative of Mingju’s; Fulata (n.d.), the Manchu minister of works; and Xizhu (n.d.).29
Factions were hardly new at the Qing court in the 1680s, but Mingju’s was held together in a new way. H. Lyman Miller has shown convincingly that competition among factions dominated the politics of the first twenty-five years of Qing rule. The factions Miller described, however, were exclusively Manchu, with each composed of soldiers of the same Manchu banner; there was the White Banner faction, the Bordered Yellow faction, and so on.30 Mingju’s followers were multiethnic and included Manchus from various banners. Instead of ethnicity and banner identity, what Mingju’s followers had in common was their service in military administration during the Rebellion of the Three Feudatories. Both Foron and Yu Guozhu worked to secure the provisioning of the Qing armies during the war, a crucial part of Mingju’s portfolio as minister of war. Successful in war, they came to dominate the peacetime administration of the 1680s.
According to Guo, Mingju and his followers used their power in the 1680s to control policy and extort payments from candidates for appointment. Guo wrote that in meetings and collective recommendations, Manchus led the way, while Chinese like Yu Guozhu concurred. Guo’s descriptions jibe with other accounts of discussions in the imperial presence in which Chinese officials were criticized for their silence and Manchu officials seemed to take the initiative. A second function of Mingju’s faction was to extort money from officials seeking office: “When vacancies such as governor-general, governor, lieutenant governor, and provincial judge open, Yu Guozhu never fails to turn to the sale [of offices] and is not satisfied until his desires are fulfilled. For this reason, governors and governors-general must be stingy in all affairs, and the people are afflicted. The imperial vision sees the people of the empire as his children, but the people suffer from insufficiency; this is all because officials ruinously extort money for their private interests.”31
Guo’s argument against sale of office was not on legal or, in the first instance, moral grounds, but rather practical. Officials who have had to pay for their office had to make up their investment by extorting money from those they governed. No matter how benevolent a monarch intended to be, rapacious officials who had to pay back the bribes they had made to acquire office could undermine his policies. Yu Guozhu, with his long service as censor for the Ministry of Finance and his knowledge of provincial tax quotas, handled the actual negotiation of prices.32
Money may well have also been exchanged when new educational intendants were appointed. Educational intendants were centrally appointed officials who toured the province to which they were assigned, “inspecting schools, certifying students for subsidies in state schools, and selecting candidates for the provincial examinations.” The allegation was that Yu and Mingju skimmed revenues by collecting a fee before appointment: “When the terms of educational intendants came to an end in 1684, all the new candidates for positions went [first] to discuss prices. When the members of the court gathered to select [the new intendants], the discussion should have been public and based on reputation, but in fact the decisions had been made in advance. Because of this the educational intendants have all had to seek many sorts of bribes, and education and culture have been greatly harmed.”33
MINGJU AND JIN FU
One appointment made during Mingju’s term as minister of personnel was of particular interest: the appointment of Jin Fu as director-general of river conservancy. In his impeachment of Mingju, Guo Xiu wrote, “Jin Fu, Mingju, and Yu Guozhu work closely together and divide the revenues [lit., “divide the fat,” (fenfei)] allocated for Yellow River repair among themselves. The officials proposed for appointment in the River Conservancy have all been identified by them and constitute a powerful, secret, protected group. When it was first proposed to open up the course of the lower Yellow River, Jin Fu was the one who had to be appointed, and he was happy to take on the task; the nine ministers approved the appointment without objection.”34
The implications of this charge were huge. By the emperor’s own account, the Yellow River project was the most expensive effort of his reign. If Jin Fu and Mingju were in league, the profits they could have enjoyed were enormous, forming the basis of fortunes that could support generations. Guo’s claims, however, were nuanced and need to be parsed carefully. He was certainly claiming that Jin Fu and Mingju were in league and that they shared bribes that candidates for office paid to receive the director-general’s recommendation for appointment; he also claimed that Mingju and Jin Fu skimmed the revenues appropriated by the central government for river repairs. Had this relationship begun when it was first proposed that the Yellow River be opened up? Here Guo Xiu becomes more cautious, using passive verb forms to suggest malfeasance without actually asserting agency: Jin Fu was the one who “had to be appointed” (bi weiren), and Jin Fu was “delighted to take on the task.” What evidence was there that Jin Fu was Mingju’s protégé?
Jin Fu and Mingju likely met as young men, as both were sons of highly placed families in the Sino-Manchu aristocratic order. Mingju may also have become aware of Jin Fu as minister of war, when the ministry commended Jin for his proposal on communications. At the time of Jin Fu’s appointment, however, Mingju was minister of personnel, and according to Jin’s biographer, Wang Shizhen, Jin’s appointment was a “special” one, made by the emperor himself, rather than a routine one effected through the mechanisms of the Ministry of Personnel. It is possible that Mingju influenced Jin’s appointment, but there is no hard evidence. As the appointment was made before the Diary of Action and Repose adopted the practice of recording the emperor’s political as well as his educational activities, there is no source on advice given about this appointment.
Once the diary began reporting political matters, it became possible to trace the advice Mingju offered on matters affecting Jin Fu. In the first crisis of Jin’s term, floods in the late summer of 1680, Mingju was supportive but not emphatic. In 1682, when Jin Fu came to the capital and requested that the probation which had been imposed on him as administrative punishment after the 1680 floods be lifted, Mingju advised the emperor to wait: “The work on the river has only recently been completed. There is no guarantee that after a while there will not be concerns. The [previous order] left the official at his post. Let’s wait a few months, and if there are no further calamities, he may be forgiven.”35 By 1685, Mingju seems to have been won over to Jin Fu’s side. Late in the autumn, Jin Fu and Yu Chenglong traveled to the capital to plead their respective cases. Jin Fu argued that upriver repairs could solve the problem of flooding in north central Jiangsu, and Yu Chenglong argued that the mouths of the east-flowing rivers had to be dredged. The emperor asked Mingju for his opinion, and he answered, “Although Yu Chenglong is known for his honesty, he has never particularly specialized in river matters. Jin Fu has long held his appointment in river affairs and has achieved many successes. It seems that we should follow his proposals.”36
Mingju not only supported Jin Fu’s proposals in his conflict with Yu Chenglong, but he attempted to facilitate them by offering a means for funding them. Jin Fu’s proposals were, in fact, quite expensive. Mingju studied them and noted to the emperor that the necessary funds could be provided over a three-year period: 300,000 the first year, 500,000 the second year, and 400,000 the third year.37 As grand secretary, Mingju was fully entitled to comment on proposals involving the amounts of money Jin Fu requested in 1685. However, the coincidence of Mingju’s increased interest in how the river project was to be funded at just the point when it was becoming significantly more expensive is striking. Collusion, of course, requires two parties, and it seems likely that in 1685 Jin Fu, faced with the competition of Yu Chenglong’s project on the coast, was looking for an ally at court. This was a role that Mingju was prepared to play, likely for a fee. Foron’s appointment as minister of works in 1686 provided another indication of Mingju’s interest in river politics.
Yu Chenglong’s frustration and Mingju’s support for Jin Fu’s more expensive proposals were at the core of Guo Xiu’s complaint:
Later, the emperor wished to appoint another person, and Yu Chenglong, who was then favored by the throne, was sent to fulfill imperial orders. But Chenglong’s rank was only that of provincial judge, all he could do was agree, and the prerogative of proposing work belonged to Jin Fu. At this point [Jin Fu] did not interfere with [Yu’s] work. When Jin Fu sought to expand his project, Yu Chenglong did not agree with him; [Jin] actively interfered [with the lower river project]. Only because he relied on a powerful official [i.e., Mingju] could Jin Fu dare to act this way.38
The larger Jin Fu’s project became, the more he needed allies, and the closer the relationship with Mingju became.
THE CENSORATE
A group like Mingju’s had to protect itself, and the main institution to fear in the Chinese order was the Censorate. Mingju defended himself against the Censorate by attempting to control its membership, responding swiftly with countercharges when he was attacked and acting to preempt criticism before it arose. His forceful and repeated rejection of the idea that censorial powers needed to be broadened, in the dialogue over Dong Hanchen’s memorial, clearly demonstrated Mingju’s suspicion of empowered censors. Guo Xiu wrote of Mingju’s fear of the Censorate: “What he worries about most are the censorial officials, fearing that they will reveal his evil schemes. When Foron was appointed to the leadership of the Censorate, the censor Li Shiqian repeatedly memorialized requesting a rescript, and censor Wu Jifang impeached [Foron] for creating pretexts to bring about officials’ downfall. All who heard the indictment were frightened.”39
The charges Guo made here cannot be verified today, although there is much evidence suggesting that he was correct. Li Shiqian received his jinshi in 1661 and served as a censor during the 1680s. A collection of his censorial memorials, titled Memorials of Li Shiqian of Our Dynasty (Guochao Li Shiyu zoushu), was published in 1826.40 Wu Jifang, from Hangzhou, received his jinshi degree in 1678. According to his biography, Foron was appointed to the Censorate in 1684, and his appointment as a Manchu without a Chinese civil degree could well have caused concern. His first memorial alleging that censors made accusations because they were paid to do so—in fact an attack on the Censorate itself—would have increased these concerns. The implication that Mingju was behind Foron’s appointment is certainly plausible, for as Meng Zhaoxin has shown, he was behind many of the censorial appointments of the 1680s, including that of Wang Hongxu.41
With many of his own appointees lodged in senior posts in the Censorate, it became possible for Mingju to control appointments and assignments for junior positions: “When there are promotions made to the Censorate, or when censors are sent on investigations, Mingju and Yu Guozhu extort bribes for assigning the tasks. When reviews are conducted to select new censors, they are assigned and coordinated. When censors submit memorials, they must first request review [by Mingju]. In this way, censorial officials are all under his control.”42
Through careful attention to censorial posts, Mingju not only could make money, but he could control the flow of information reaching the emperor. Moreover, in requesting review of censors’ memorials before they reached the emperor, Mingju was interfering in what was one of the most fundamental rights of censors: to communicate directly with the monarch.
In Guo Xiu’s portrayal, Mingju’s tentacles, like those of a malign administrative octopus, extended throughout the Qing bureaucracy. Mingju’s influence was not imposed at a single stroke; rather his powers were likely developed by stages during his decade of service at the emperor’s side. Increasingly vocal on the matter of appointments as he grew more senior as a grand secretary, his personnel recommendations became more valuable. Aware that the court was willing to invest substantial amounts in river repairs, Mingju became more directly involved in financial decisions. As he and his followers became more implicated in corruption, it became more important that his group control the Censorate. Over time, Mingju and his colleagues took advantage of the opportunities afforded by an increasingly prosperous age. While they were unquestionably agents, they were also beneficiaries of a system that was growing to meet the demands of the empire. A huge number of positions had to be filled by an emperor with little practical experience. Financial regulation was loose—enough for Zhang Qian to imagine that Huguang officials could pay back deficits in the Fujian treasury. Officials brought to their service at court a wealth of friendships, associations, and obligations. Mingju could be blamed for taking advantage of these opportunities, but he had not created them. Confronted with Guo Xiu’s impeachment, the emperor faced a choice between blaming the individual or blaming the system.
The Sources
Guo Xiu’s impeachment of Mingju was described by his contemporaries as a thunderclap, and it would eventually lead to dismissals, retirements, and forced leaves throughout the mid-seventeenth-century Qing order. It remains here to consider the question of where Guo had gotten his information and why it was useful to the emperor. The most famous speculator was Li Guangdi (1642–1718), an official and courtier from Fujian. Li alleged in his memoirs that the emperor had in fact drafted the charges against Mingju, giving them to Gao Shiqi in the Southern Study to pass along to Guo. Xiao Yishan (1902–1978) found this implausible, as Gao Shiqi was one of the individuals Guo later charged with corruption.43
There may be somewhat more to Li’s speculation than meets the eye. The emperor did have a role in eliciting the impeachment when he signaled that impeachments based on hearsay would be accepted, and he questioned Guo on whether he meant to impeach anyone at court. But this does not mean the monarch himself drafted the charges. Had the Kangxi emperor been certain of Mingju’s corruption, he could have proceeded in the most efficient way, dismissing the grand secretary. There must still have been doubt in the monarch’s mind—doubt that required confirmation from a source among civil officials. Or the prospect of dislodging an official with so many followers was sufficiently daunting that a paper trail was needed.
Whatever the reason for his uncertainty, it would appear that the emperor had partial but incomplete knowledge of the political world around him. The Kangxi emperor appeared better informed than many of his Ming predecessors. Ray Huang’s classic account of the Wanli emperor (r. 1573–1620) portrayed a monarch surrounded by eunuchs and sycophants who was isolated from the central issues of his day and may have given up trying to find out what they were.44 Like the Wanli emperor, the Kangxi emperor was raised at court, but the Qing had vastly reduced the presence of eunuchs. Instead, the emperor was surrounded by a multiethnic court with many strata of servitors who watched each other closely, and perhaps jealously, anxious to oppose any threat to status or prerogatives in their remarks to the monarch. The reports of these groups were likely not complete. The monarch regularly complained that factional allegiances prevented officials from telling him the truth. Confirmations were necessary, and the long-term history of the Qing monarchy presented many examples of monarchs reaching beyond those around them for information through secret communications.
Responding to the ruler, Guo must have gotten his information somewhere. As a junior censor, he would not have observed Mingju and Yu Guozhu soliciting bribes or been at court to hear the deliberations that led to policy decisions. In his second as well as his first memorial, he was using the censor’s new prerogative of impeaching with unsourced allegations. One possible source of his information was suggested by an anecdote in Gao Shiqi’s biography in The History of the Qing. According to the story, after Yu Chenglong reported Mingju’s malfeasance to the emperor, the monarch asked Gao if the tales were true. Gao said they were, and the emperor then asked why no one had submitted a memorial. Gao responded, “Who doesn’t fear death?”45 There was no mention of Guo Xiu in this story, but there is reason to suspect that Yu was involved. Yu was frustrated that he couldn’t carry out orders to dredge the mouth of the Yellow River, and he had made a career of impeaching corrupt Manchus. Moreover, Guo mentioned Yu’s name positively in his impeachment, expressing sympathy for the predicament he had faced in Jiangnan. This certainly does not prove that Yu wrote the impeachment, but he very well may have been one of Guo’s sources.
One person who credited Guo for writing the impeachment, and did so quite ostentatiously, was the Kangxi emperor, who rewarded him with promotions. In early March 1688, he was promoted from investigating censor to assistant censor-in-chief.46 In mid-April, the additional honorary title of minister of the court of state ceremonial was granted to him.47 In November 1687, he was promoted to academician in the grand secretariat (rank 2b), with additional duties as member of the Ministry of Rites.48 The following April, he was transferred to serve as chancellor of the imperial Hanlin Academy and moved to the Ministry of Personnel, which carried greater prestige.49 In late June 1688, he was promoted to the post of censor-in-chief (zuo duyushi) and given responsibility for overseeing the Classics Mat lecture that occurred in early July. Later that summer, Guo’s deceased father, mother, grandfather, and grandmother were granted posthumous titles, marks of imperial favor granted to high-ranking and especially favored officials.50 Wherever Guo had gotten his information, he had done a service for the monarch and was well rewarded for it.
These rewards were gratefully received, but Guo did not submit his impeachments to earn rewards. Identifying malfeasance was the duty of the Confucian, particularly of the Confucian censor, and reporting it was its own reward. There was a patent sincerity about Guo Xiu’s pronouncements. He may have veiled his purpose to some degree in his impeachment of Jin Fu; the charges he made against the river director were valid, but Guo’s real target was likely Mingju and the corrupt alliance between Mingju and Jin. In his writing about Mingju, however, he was clear and direct and didn’t hide behind literary allusions or oblique references.51 Guo acted alone—“Don’t you have consciences?” the emperor chided the other censors—and bore alone the burden of his attack on the major political figures of his day. In his impeachments Guo was as honest and forthright as he had been along the canals of Wujiang. His convictions and his courage would allow him to do no less.