EIGHT Second Acts
In the long run, Guo Xiu’s impeachments posed a significant dilemma for the emperor. The charges were serious and could not be ignored, but those he attacked were too important to the emperor personally, or to the state politically, to be abandoned. Eventually these two realities needed to be reconciled, and the histories of the convicted officials after their prosecution, related below, demonstrate how this occurred. None of the officials charged was permanently dismissed, except Jin Fu’s secretary, Chen Huang. Some were restored to office and others sent to new posts after a greater or lesser length of time, depending on abilities and circumstances. Guo Xiu’s personal fate was also at stake. He made enemies with his charges, and they counterattacked following his third impeachment. In his case, a decision had to be made about his long-term viability as a Qing official.
The Accused
A characteristic of the jurisprudence of official punishment in the Qing is relevant to this process. Historians of corruption and its prosecution in China have often grown frustrated that those who were cashiered from office didn’t remain cashiered. They often found their way back into office, sometimes enjoying long post-prosecution careers. This was neither a failure of justice nor evidence of hypocrisy among Qing prosecutors; it was built into the laws of the dynasty.1 In the Qing, as in many complex administrative orders, the decision that a malfeasant official required discipline was qualitatively different from the decision that a given servant was no longer useful to the dynasty. Being cashiered from office (gezhi) had a place in both systems. Cashiering could end a career, if that was the emperor’s wish, or it could represent a disciplinary action, a punishment that could be redeemed in a variety of ways.2 In such a flexible system, it was possible to engineer different outcomes based on individual abilities, personnel vacancies, or needs of state. The problem for the dismissed official was discerning how valuable he was perceived to be and how long it might be before restoration was possible. The particular fates of the officials dismissed as a result of Guo Xiu’s impeachments—Jin Fu, Mingju, Gao Shiqi, Chen Yuanlong, and Wang Hongxu—were telling of their personal strengths and the social elements they represented.
JIN FU AND CHEN HUANG
The only irreparable damage from Guo’s impeachments involved Chen Huang, who was condemned to be beaten and imprisoned, and died in prison. Unlike the holders of civil service degrees, Chen had no protection against corporal punishment. Chen was not the only non–degree holder among the victims. Jin Fu and Gao Shiqi both lacked degrees but were punished far more leniently than Chen. Both Jin and Gao were known personally to the emperor and fit into very specific niches in the dynastic order. Chen Huang’s case easily fit into the stereotype of a commoner who usurped authority. Such an official was dispensable, and his punishment demonstrated to the Jiangnan elite that the court did not endorse his plans.
Although charges of inefficacy and corruption were made against Jin Fu, he had substantial accomplishments. During his term the Grand Canal had been restored, grain flowed to the capital, and flood damage was repaired in timely fashion. As early as his first southern tour, the emperor encouraged Jin to devote himself to the task of recording the experience and knowledge he had gained on the riverbank. In retirement, Jin produced a work eventually titled On Managing the River (Zhihe fanglüe), which was presented to the throne in 1689, the year after his impeachment. The work is divided into four sections. The first provides accounts of the river, the grain transport system, major floods, and the riverbeds. The second lists the officials whose duty it was to maintain infrastructure and provides accounts of the levees and necessary maintenance. A third section is composed of Jin Fu’s memorials, together with the central government responses to them, and the fourth provides a schedule of necessary tasks for preserving the system. Chen Huang’s catechism is appended at the end of the book.3
When the emperor began to plan a second southern tour in the autumn of 1689, he ordered that both Jin Fu and Yu Chenglong accompany him. On this tour Kangxi saw the Central Canal (Zhong He), one of Jin Fu’s last additions to the river infrastructure. This was a three-hundred-li canal that began close to the point where the Grand Canal joined the Yellow River and extended as far as Suqian District. Dividing the waters of the river, the canal facilitated the transport of grain boats along the portion of the route north that utilized the river. Once the emperor actually saw the canal, he recognized its importance, noting that merchants especially valued the new link, which saved time and expense in shipments. When the imperial party returned to Beijing, the emperor restored Jin Fu’s rank. Three times over the next three years, the monarch ordered Jin to inspect the southern river works.
In 1692, Jin Fu was reappointed as director-general of the River Conservancy, a full restoration of his previous rank and authority. Jin responded with a thousand-word memorial describing the contributions his secretary and friend Chen Huang had made to their common enterprise: “Now that I have received the imperial grace and been reappointed as river director, how could the one who provided me with utter devotion [not be here]?4 … Since Chen Huang has tragically died, were I to remain silent and hold my resentment, living while he died, I would be turning my back on my friend.”5 There followed an extensive list of the occasions on which Chen Huang made suggestions that Jin had followed in his work. Jin Fu was clearly determined to use the platform provided by his reappointment to publicize the achievements of his friend and former secretary.
After being reappointed, Jin was confronted with an unusual task. Responding to reports of a famine in Shanxi, the emperor ordered that a portion of the tribute grain, usually shipped from the southeast to the capital, be diverted and shipped instead to Shanxi. He ordered Jin Fu to oversee the shipment. This meant after the grain had been transported up the Grand Canal, it was to continue up the Yellow River, through the Sanmen Gorges, then to Puzhou in Shanxi, where it would be distributed as relief grain. The travel was difficult and uncomfortable, and the emperor provided Jin with an imperial barge to ride in. In this instance, it was not so much a test of Jin’s specific river expertise as his competence to manage a complex logistic feat.
The transfer of grain was successfully completed, but time was catching up with Jin Fu, who was sixty years old. Already at the time of his reappointment Jin had protested that his health was failing. Retirement for civil officials involved a fairly delicate and perhaps routinized dance, in which the official pleaded that his health did not permit him to serve the state, but the monarch rejected his pleas, urging that his service was still necessary.6 After his return from Shanxi, Jin Fu twice memorialized the emperor requesting retirement. Both times the emperor ordered Jin Fu’s son, Jin Zhiyu, to visit his father. In his last months in office, Jin wrote a valedictory edict, setting forth work that remained to be done on the southern rivers. According to Wang Shizhen, in what may have been a narrative flourish, Jin Fu died just as an order was received from the emperor permitting his retirement. His remains were returned to Beijing and taken to his home in a grand funeral procession. “The emperor sighed fondly on reading his posthumous memorial, and ordered his remains returned to the capital and brought through the official city before being returned to his home. Before this time, [such a ritual] had not occurred. The emperor ordered that all the great officials and guardsmen [gather to] offer wine and tea. He ordered the Ministry of Rites to recommend a posthumous name and granted [Jin] the name Wenxiang.… His funeral rites were without parallel.7
In death, Jin’s achievements in Jiangnan were allowed to outshine his mistakes in judgment in 1687 and 1688, as they probably should have. He had established the foundation for successful river control for more than a century, repairing an infrastructure that was decayed and dysfunctional.
MINGJU
Mingju suffered less than might have been expected for one guilty of the profound corruption with which he was charged. Just how seriously he was punished is a matter of some dispute. The public sources suggest a period of significantly reduced influence, followed by partial reinstatement. On dismissal, according to the Veritable Records, he was reassigned to the Imperial Household Department.8 For the remainder of his life, he served as senior assistant chamberlain in the imperial household. He occasionally presided over sacrifices and religious rituals but held no postings in the Qing civil service. War brought Mingju back into the imperial presence. In 1690, he was ordered to accompany as military adviser to the emperor’s elder brother Fuquan (1653–1703) on a campaign against the Mongol leader Galdan. Fuquan defeated Galdan, but he did not pursue the Mongol into the steppe, and the engagement was judged indecisive at best. For his failure to advise Fuquan adequately, Mingju was again disciplined.9 In 1696, when the emperor personally led armies into the steppe, Mingju was ordered to oversee food provisions for the west-route army, presiding over the thousand carts that carried grain north. In 1697, when the emperor led a second campaign, Mingju accompanied him again, with special responsibility for the transport of grain supplies.10 The death of Galdan during the 1697 campaign was taken as a great victory for the Qing. To celebrate, all ranks that had been reduced as administrative discipline, including Mingju’s, were restored. Mingju lived for twelve years after the conquest, dying in the spring of 1708.
Wang Hongxu’s long-buried epitaph is compatible with this account but suggests a very different reality. According to Wang, a “certain censor,” meaning Guo Xiu, impeached Jin Fu, and the charges implicated Mingju. This may have been an attempt on Wang’s part to minimize the charges against Mingju, but Wang may not have known the specific charges, which weren’t revealed until the eighteenth century. In Wang’s account, Mingju remained in a position of influence, as “one of the Deliberative Council of the Great Princes [Yizheng Dachen].” Before the Manchu conquest, this had been a high-level advisory body for Manchu rulers. It may have continued to exist after the conquest, as there were scattered references to it through the dynasty, but it was never formally incorporated into Chinese accounts of Qing political structure. Details of Mingju’s service in the group may never be known—it is unlikely that Wang Hongxu knew them either. Wang’s assertion was essentially that Mingju continued to have influence in the Manchu order behind the scenes. According to Wang, Mingju’s trip to Mongolia in Fuquan’s entourage was a mission to secure strategic information for the emperor, as was his travel with the emperor in 1696. Wang concluded his account with a very impressive list of gifts the emperor presented to Mingju after the Mongolian campaigns, including the right to ride a horse in the Forbidden City.11
No attempt was ever made to recover the corrupt revenues Mingju was said to have garnered during his service as grand secretary. According to a later account, after he was dismissed Mingju devoted himself to restoring the family name and managing the family wealth. He bought land and began to treat his household slaves in exemplary fashion. His slaves were said to remark, “If one couldn’t live in Mingju’s household, where could one live?” Mingju hired an overseer who made sure the household slaves were never involved in illegal activity and was authorized to beat them if they were. The illicit activity of slaves was a concern of many great families in the Qing; there always remained the possibility that an owner could be charged with being involved in his slaves’ misdeeds.12 Mingju’s money supported the family’s involvement in one of the most troublesome issues of the later Kangxi reign: the question of which of his sons would succeed him. During the Rebellion of the Three Feudatories, partly as a concession to Chinese practice, the emperor designated his oldest surviving son as heir apparent. Primogeniture was not, however, the Manchu practice, and as this son reached adulthood in 1708, the emperor became dissatisfied and deposed him. After the deposition, Kangxi called upon those at court to deliberate and recommend which of his other sons should be heir. The Chinese scholarly community strongly supported the emperor’s eighth son, Yinsi (1681–1726), who was particularly favorable to Chinese scholarly interests.13 Mingju supported Yinsi when he was alive but died before the crisis came to a head. According to an edict issued in 1724, Mingju’s son Kuixu not only supported Yinsi but used his father’s fortune to bankroll an unsuccessful campaign for him. Although Mingju’s money was unavailing and Kuixu ’s intervention a failure, the Yongzheng emperor (r. 1723–1736), Kangxi’s fourth son and successor, condemned Kuixu for his attempted intervention. Kuixu had been dead for seven years by this time, but the Yongzheng emperor decreed that Kuixu’s tombstone be reinscribed: “This is the tomb of Kuixu, the disloyal, the unfilial, the underhanded, and the treacherous.”14
Mingju’s descendants no longer had influence at the Qing court, but at least they had their money. They remained one of the wealthiest Manchu families throughout much of the eighteenth century, at least until the time of Heshen (1750–1799), the notoriously corrupt minister of the Qianlong emperor. According to the Manchu historian Zhaolian, in the last quarter of the eighteenth century, “Heshen’s family and Mingju’s descendants feuded, the descendants of Mingju faced legal charges, and their property was expropriated.” The text did not say that Heshen seized Mingju’s family’s property, but that is certainly one plausible reading of his account. Zhaolian, who seemed torn between his admiration for the great figures of Manchu history and disgust at Mingju’s family’s corruption, concluded with the reflection that “it is always sad to see a great family lose its property, but the more corrupt a family is, the longer it will be able to preserve its wealth.”15
Unlike Jin Fu, Mingju was not indispensable. But the great Manchu families enrolled in the Plain Yellow Banner were. The founding order of the Qing rested on the banner system, and as Mark Elliott has argued, the banner order remained central to the Qing throughout the dynasty. High Manchus could be executed—indeed, that happened to several, including the alcoholic Bambursan, when the Kangxi emperor took power in 1671—but those killed were perceived as having challenged the power of the throne. Mingju was not guilty of such a crime. He had made use of his position to accumulate wealth, but he had also guided the Qing order through its most troubled period during and immediately after the Rebellion of the Three Feudatories. Under these circumstances, Mingju was allowed to enjoy the privilege that all Manchus had, of returning to their banner status and living out their days.
GAO SHIQI
Guo Xiu’s impeachment of Gao Shiqi was particularly sharp, but the emperor was clearly very devoted to Gao. Although Gao was cashiered twice, once for corruption in the Zhang Qian case and once in response to Guo Xiu’s charges, the Kangxi emperor was unwilling to let him go. In 1694, six years after his impeachment, Gao was invited back to the palace and the Southern Study. Two years later, he accompanied the emperor on his expedition against Galdan. Of what use would a formerly disgraced poetry tutor be on a military expedition? Not much, apparently; the short account that Gao left of the trip, Accompanying the Voyage (Hucong jicheng) mostly related history and historical geography. On their return to the capital, Gao received word that his mother was ill and requested permission to return to Zhejiang to care for her. The emperor offered him regular positions in the civil service to lure him back to the capital, but Gao Shiqi stayed at home.16
While in retirement Gao produced, in addition to many collections of poetry, two projects characteristic of his cast of mind: a list of 222 plants he found in the garden of his estate and two catalogs of paintings in his collection. Lists of the phenomena of nature were not unusual in China; the catalog of the imperial library records nearly fifty lists of plants, trees, birds, animals, insects, and fish. One suspects Gao derived much satisfaction out of writing hundreds of related characters in his list, as well as from advertising the diversity and fruitfulness of the new estate he had built for himself in Zhejiang.17 Both art catalogs have attracted attention from art historians because of their detail and historical accuracy. The second catalog is also interesting for its organization. Its categories include: lists of paintings to be presented to a superior (part 1); lists of paintings to be presented to a superior (part 2); lists of paintings to be given away; and handscrolls with Gao’s colophon to be kept and appreciated. Clearly Gao intended his painting collection to represent an entrée into various social settings. In the early twentieth century, Luo Zhenyu (1868–1940) criticized Gao for including in his list for presentation to a superior, by which Gao may have meant the emperor, paintings that were fakes and of lesser quality. Art historian Amy Shumei Huang argues that under early Qing standards of art criticism and authenticity, some of these works might have been considered of high value. Nonetheless it was clear that Gao was, in what Huang calls his “artful networking,” offering to trade his cultural capital for social status.18
In 1702, Gao greeted the imperial carriage during the emperor’s southern tour and was invited to the capital one last time. Gao left an account of this, perhaps sentimental, visit, recording the emperor’s grateful remark that Gao had opened his eyes to the Chinese classical tradition: “Even though he never won any battles, I have honored him because his contribution to my education has been so great.” Gao died on his estate in the south in 1704. The emperor took the unusual step of awarding Gao a posthumous name, Wenke. Emperors often dispensed praiseful posthumous names but usually only to very successful military or civil officials.19
Kangxi’s naming of Gao Shiqi, as well as his implicit comparison of Gao to a general, suggests his reverence for the poet-calligrapher. The twentieth-century editors of Qingshi group Gao’s biography with that of Wang Hongxu and Xu Qianxue. Noting that all were dismissed and then recalled to the court, the editors argue that Wang and Xu were recalled for their literary ability; Gao’s recall, they claim, was a matter of sheer luck.20 But luck was not all there was to it. The relationship between Gao and the emperor was personal. Gao’s wit and other gifts were certainly part of his appeal; he may also have served as a representative of the Chinese arts of civilization who had no political axe to grind, a Chinese scholar in whose company the monarch could relax.
CHEN YUANLONG
Chen Yuanlong was dismissed along with Gao Shiqi and Wang Hongxu, but in fact, the case against him was somewhat thin: Guo Xiu offered no particulars of Chen’s corrupt behavior, and the burden of his accusation was that Chen and Gao Shiqi called each other “uncle” and “nephew,” which may have been something of an in-joke between them. Moreover, Chen’s family was one of the most celebrated in seventeenth-century China; it would ill behoove a monarch who sought the allegiance of the literate elite to dismiss Chen lightly. It was true that two of Chen’s ancestors had been exiled and killed by the Qing, but these occurred in different times, when the monarchy was not so strongly committed to the Chinese cultural world. Of the three scholars impeached in Guo Xiu’s third memorial, Chen was the first to return to office.
Chen’s was also the only family that had the cultural clout to push back against the charges against Yuanlong. According to Chen Yuanlong’s nineteenth-century descendant Chen Qiyuan (1811–1881), the Chens were originally surnamed Gao. At some point during the Song Dynasty, a Gao ancestor, while crossing a bridge in a southern city, observed a young man falling into a canal and dove in to save him. This so impressed a bean curd seller named Chen, who had a stand nearby, that he adopted young Gao into his family and married him to his only daughter. The descendants of this match became the Chens of Haining. Theoretically Chen Yuanlong could have been related, very distantly, to a Gao from Zhejiang.21 In recognition of this possibility, but more likely as a gesture of friendship and sociability, Chen Yuanlong referred to Gao Shiqi as “cousin,” and Gao reciprocated. The emperor accepted this explanation, and Chen’s service in the capital was not interrupted.
He was in fact promoted to the post of reader (shidu xueshi) in the Hanlin Academy, a post he held for fifteen years. During his service, he frequently was called into the imperial presence to demonstrate his calligraphy. At one point the emperor offered to execute in his own hand calligraphy naming a studio in the home of Hanlin members. Chen Yuanlong requested that the name of his eighty-year-old father’s studio, the Hall of Daily Pleasure (Ai Ri Tang), be written by the emperor. In 1702, Chen was again promoted to be supervisor of the household of the heir apparent (zhanshi), a post he had to resign to honor a mourning obligation for his parents.22
When he returned to the capital in 1710, the emperor had in mind a different sort of posting for Chen. After several months as a member of the Ministry of Personnel, Chen was appointed governor of Guangxi. Such a territorial appointment seems unusual for one whose service had been exclusively in literary positions at the capital but may reflect the court’s faith in the omnicompetence of trained Confucians. The emperor offered a curiously ambiguous send-off: “Guangxi is a province where you must bring together scholars and soldiers, and rule the people and the armies harmoniously. It requires unusual competence and experience. You have served many years in the Hanlin. Now I am going to especially try you out in a frontier post to see if you are able to devote yourself and work hard in the job.” Had the emperor become cynical about the administrative abilities of talented Confucians?23
There was a further mystery associated with this appointment. Tales of infants switched at birth are always fascinating, particularly when one of the infants becomes emperor. Because of the continuing interest in matters of Chinese culture manifested by Qing emperors, legends have long existed that one or another of the Qing emperors was in fact Chinese, switched at birth with a Manchu. This was particularly true of the Qianlong emperor, who lavishly patronized Chinese arts and letters. Speculation has centered on the Chen family. The Chens were visited twice by the Qianlong emperor on his southern tour; two pieces of imperial calligraphy graced their home; and the emperor seemed consistently concerned with the seawalls in Zhejiang that protected their property. Most intriguing, the Qianlong emperor was born just five days after the sudden and unexpected appointment of Chen Yuanlong, an appointment to which his wife strenuously objected. Had the Chens left a baby behind? Was the Qianlong emperor in fact a descendant of one of the most famous gentry families of the Qing? Twentieth-century historian Meng Shen offers an emphatic no in a brief essay titled “The Chen Family of Haining” (Haining Chen jia). Meng argues that the prince who would become the Yongzheng emperor already had a male heir, the Chens’ examination success long predated the Qianlong reign, and the seawalls were a necessary concern of the state. Yuanlong’s wife objected to the appointment because she was worried about the education of her children. Most telling, Meng asks why a proud and successful Manchu emperor would want to turn over his state to the Chinese. Chen Yuanlong didn’t last long in Guangxi; the Yongzheng emperor recalled him to Beijing shortly after his ascension to the throne.24 The fact that a legend like this could circulate demonstrates the enormous prestige of the Chen family and suggests why the Kangxi emperor could not allow Chen Yuanlong to slouch off into oblivion when Guo Xiu accused him.
WANG HONGXU
For some in every age, the temptation to meddle in politics is almost irresistible. Wang Hongxu seemed to be one of these people, and his career followed a pattern: his undeniable literary talents brought him to court, where he seemed to prosper; then, like a Chinese Icarus, he flew too close to the court and was ordered with singed wings to return home. When he returned home after Guo Xiu impeached him, Wang was in for a rude shock. The magistrate of his home county, on trial in another matter, revealed that he had bribed Wang Hongxu. Although the emperor had not chosen to comment on Guo’s impeachment of Wang, he fulminated at some length on this new evidence, condemning Chinese officials who formed factions. Wang was sent home in disgrace.25
In 1694, Wang’s talents once again earned him a place at court, and once again he rose to a high post. Wang’s initial appointment was as minister of works. In that capacity he supervised, for a time, the lower Yellow River and the reconstruction of the Gao Family Dike. There was some concern about how money was spent during Wang’s time as minister, but Wang survived the charges. He also served as a Classics Mat lecturer and imperial diarist, and was transferred from the Ministry of Works to the Ministry of Finance. What brought him down a second time were his efforts in behalf of Yinsi, the emperor’s eighth son. The emperor would not tolerate the interference, and Wang went home again.26
In 1714, grand secretaries Wang Xi and Zhang Yushu memorialized the emperor, noting that not much progress had been made on the Ming History project started in the late 1670s. To reenergize the effort, they recommended that Wang Hongxu be recalled and set to work. This time, however, Wang brought with him a partial draft of the biography section of the Ming History. While at home, Wang had invited Wan Sitong (1638–1702), the most accomplished and knowledgeable historian of the Ming, to live at the Wang family estate in the capital, and together they finished the Ming History biographies. In 1714, Wang petitioned the throne for permission to return to present the completed Ming History biographies. The emperor agreed and ordered that the other members of the Ming History Commission review the draft. In 1724, the year after the Kangxi emperor’s death, the Ming History was approved and officially promulgated. It would seem that Wang Hongxu had made his mark on Ming and Qing history. Twentieth-century historians have, however, not appreciated Wang’s efforts, pointing out that he made inappropriate and unnecessary changes to Wan Sitong’s text. They also criticize Wang Hongxu for privately publishing the Ming History as his own work.27
Wang’s last official service was a literary commission to prepare an official edition of the Classic of Poetry for the emperor, and in pursuit of this commission he sought out rare commentaries and incorporated them into his text. It seemed that he had finally found a secure niche at court befitting his talents and education. And yet, early in the twentieth century, a series of thirty-three secret reports from Wang to the emperor conveying political intelligence were found in the Qing archives. It seems that in his last years Wang had added spying to the many roles he played for the emperor. For all his literary talent, he simply could not stay away from politics.28
Guo Xiu
Guo Xiu’s fate was probably predictable. In the intensely competitive world of an early modern court, any change in status earned attention; as the emperor became more aware of an individual, so did the court, for better or worse. Guo Xiu’s impeachments were powerful, often compared to the earthquakes that struck the capital city during the Kangxi reign. Guo’s first two impeachments earned him the favor, and perhaps the gratitude, of the monarch, which was expressed in a rapid increase in rank and responsibility. His third impeachment was not directly commended, though the monarch did take quick action to remedy the problem to which Guo had pointed. At this point, according to Guo’s Nianpu, those at court began to cast “sidelong glances” (cemu) at the newly powerful censor, and Guo was impeached for using his new power inappropriately. This was followed by two further charges that were outright efforts at revenge. The charges posed a dilemma for the emperor: how far was he willing to defend Guo Xiu against his colleagues? In the answer lay Guo’s fate and the direction of his subsequent career.
The first charge against Guo was a curious one. It had some merit, but it was certainly meant to serve other purposes and combined elements of jealousy and opportunism. The charge came from the governor of Guo’s native Shandong province, Qian Jue (jinshi 1677, d. 1703).29 During the autumn of 1688, the investigating censor for Shandong impeached Qian for corruption; the emperor sent the impeachment to Qian for comment. Qian responded, predictably, that the charge was without merit, and went on to claim that the charge came about because he had declined to follow Guo Xiu’s recommendation, conveyed in a private letter, in some personnel matters in the province. Specifically, Qian alleged that Guo had recommended that the magistrate of Jimo District and two local educational officials were men of ability who should be promoted. Because he did not act on this recommendation, Qian alleged, the censor-in-chief had pressed his subordinate to impeach the governor. On receipt of Qian’s response, the emperor assigned Guo’s colleague, the Manchu censor-in-chief Maci, to investigate. Maci had long been an associate of the emperor’s and had been promoted to Manchu censor-in-chief as a reward for his successful investigation of the Zhang Qian case.30
Maci had to investigate two elements of Qian’s charge. Did Guo Xiu write a private letter to Qian? Was Qian impeached because he failed to follow Guo’s recommendation? The first question was answered easily: Guo readily admitted that he had signed the letter. If the account in Guo’s Nianpu may be taken as his defense, the letter was signed by four officials, three of whom were natives of Shandong.31 The letter conveyed what must have been a consensus in the capital about which local officials were most promising. On the other hand, Guo was the most senior of the four officials, and because he was censor-in-chief, the letter could easily be read as an attempt to throw his weight around. A suggestion from the censor-in-chief was not to be taken lightly in imperial China. Guo denied emphatically that he had pressed the investigating censor to impeach Qian. As he put the matter to the emperor, “I am censor-in-chief. Why would I not have impeached the governor myself?”32 Anyone familiar with Guo’s career would know that he was not one to evade responsibility or hide behind others. The investigating censor confirmed that Guo had not pressed him to impeach Qian.33
When these findings were sent to the emperor, he referred them to the Ministry of Personnel for review. The ministry decided that the authors of the private letter had indeed been out of line and recommended that the junior signatories be cashiered from office. They recommended that Guo, the senior member of the group, be punished more severely. He was ordered beaten but was to be allowed the civil official’s prerogative of redeeming his punishment with a cash payment.34 Asserting that Guo “was blunt and direct, and dares to speak [the truth], so let us be lenient,” the emperor reduced Guo’s punishment to demotion by five ranks, and Guo was ordered to remain in the capital while awaiting a new assignment. Guo’s accuser, Qian Jue, did not escape scot-free. The emperor judged that when Qian received the inappropriate private letter, he should have memorialized immediately and not waited until he had himself been impeached before calling the matter to the court’s attention. Qian was relieved of his responsibilities in Shandong, pending investigation of the charge of corruption. When the charges were proven in 1691, Qian was cashiered from office, ending his career.
The seeds for Guo’s second impeachment were planted with the conclusion of the first. Qian Jue’s relief meant that a new governor had to be appointed in Shandong. Because of its proximity to the capital, high tax quota, and the fact that it sat astride the main route from the capital to the wealthy southeast, Shandong had always seen governors with close ties to the capital.35 Qian Jue had been mayor of the capital city and assistant censor-in-chief before his appointment in Shandong. It was to be expected that the emperor would turn to someone he trusted to take up the post. During the spring of 1688, when the emperor dismissed most of those involved in the river project, he had excepted Foron: “Foron must be considered a careful and able official. Let him return to work in the banner armies with his original rank.” Five days after relieving Qian Jue, the emperor appointed Foron to replace him.36 This was bad news for Guo Xiu, for it meant that one of the men he had impeached, a henchman of Mingju, was now in charge of his native province.
In the spring of 1690, Foron charged that Guo Xiu had concealed the fact that he was the son of the rebel Guo Erbiao, who had attacked Jimo and carried out anti-Manchu activities in 1643–44. There was some truth here. Guo Xiu and Guo Erbiao belonged to the same lineage. But as Guo Xiu would state in interrogation with tears in his eyes, his grandfather had so suffered during Erbiao’s rebellion that he had moved the family to the tip of the Shandong Peninsula for four years. Erbiao’s relationship to Guo Xiu cannot today be established. The first character of Erbiao’s given name was the same as the first character in his grandfather Eryin’s name, suggesting that they were of the same generation. In his testimony, Guo Xiu would only acknowledge that they were “distant relations” (yuan zu). Foron’s mistake in identifying Guo Erbiao as Guo Xiu’s father was not an innocent one, from Guo Xiu’s point of view; the charges were “cooked up” (luo zhi; lit., “the strings were laid out”) by a governor bent on revenge.37 There was irony in the fact that Guo probably did have an anti-Manchu ancestor in Guo Shangyou. If Foron had known of this connection, his attack might have been more successful.
The emperor was inclined to accept Guo Xiu’s explanation. But this second accusation served to highlight the animosity Guo had created with his impeachments. Qing emperors controlled many aspects of the impeachment process, but they could hardly prevent accusations and still preserve the powers of the Censorate, one of the oldest and most hallowed institutions of the Chinese order. The only way to prevent further charges against the former censor was to remove him from court, and this the emperor did in a fairly gentle way by suggesting to Guo in an imperial audience that he retire to his native Jimo.38
Even removing Guo from the court did not stop the attacks. As Guo was preparing to return home in the summer of 1691, the governor of Jiangsu made a new charge that Guo had left a deficit in the treasury of Wujiang District when he moved to Beijing. The energy behind this accusation came from Gao Chengjue (1651–1709) the lieutenant governor of the province. Guo Xiu knew that Gao Chengjue bore him ill will, but he was not sure why; he speculated that this man was one of Mingju’s henchmen or that he came from the same lineage as Gao Shiqi.39 Both of these were possible, but it was more likely that Gao Chengjue, a Hanjun bannerman, was acting on behalf of fellow bannerman Jin Fu, who had recommended his appointment.40 Guo Xiu was ordered to travel to Jiangsu to answer the charges. The order to go to Jiangsu was conveyed through Foron, the governor of Guo’s native province. However, when Foron received the order, Guo had not yet returned to Shandong. Foron found this suspicious and accused Guo Xiu of lingering in the capital to found a faction and stir up trouble. Guo declared that he had no such intent; he had sent his servants back to Shandong to arrange for his move and had been delayed only by a spell of rains and intense summer heat.
At the beginning of the seventh lunar month Guo Xiu set out from the capital, noting to the emperor that his departure was well within the five-month deadline allowed for officials to finish up their affairs and depart from their posts. As Guo passed through Shandong, soldiers from Foron’s garrison joined Guo’s party to ensure his arrival in Jiangsu. Despite the haste and concern about Guo’s arrival in Jiangnan, he was held in house arrest for a month before the lieutenant governor arrived to interrogate him about the deficit. Early in the interrogation Guo established the cause of the deficit. During his term, assistant magistrate Zhao Jiong (n.d.), after having issued certificates proving receipt of all grain due, in fact removed some of the contents of the granary, falsely claiming that it was required for payment of river repairs. Gao Chengjue came to the interrogation determined to prove that Guo Xiu was at fault and spent four days interrogating Wujiang District underlings searching for proof. A crowd gathered to observe the proceedings, and when Gao Chengjue found no proof, he became abusive. When the deficit was first reported, Zhao Jiong fled and was at the time of the interrogation nowhere to be found. Gao Chengjue had not pursued him when he fled; now the lieutenant governor claimed that Guo Xiu and Zhao were in league, and Zhao had fled to preserve their ill-gotten gains. Guo Xiu responded with three points. First, all the evidence and testimony pointed to the assistant magistrate as the source of the deficit. Second, when he had first heard of the deficit, while he was still in Beijing, Guo had sent a servant to Wu to buy grain to make the district treasury whole. Third, under the new procedure implemented by the Qing, once an official had turned over (jiaodai) his post, deficits remaining in the treasury became the responsibility of his successor. As the treasury was no longer in deficit, and there was no evidence of his corruption, Guo was at length exonerated and allowed to return to Jimo. Gao Chengjue attempted one final indignity, arguing that since Guo had arrived in Jiangsu escorted by Shandong troops, he should return to Shandong escorted by Jiangsu troops. The Jiangsu governor, Gao’s superior, vetoed this on the ground that Guo was innocent, and Guo returned to Jimo unaccompanied.41
Once in Jimo, Guo submitted a memorial to the emperor describing how he had been subjected by capital factions to trumped-up charges:
I am a humble Confucian, from a family honest for generations. After eight years as magistrate, the emperor especially ordered that I be appointed to the Censorate and then promoted me several times, which I received with tears of gratitude. Observing that the emperor labored unceasingly to govern, sought to differentiate the virtuous from the evil and establish order at court and in the provinces, I determined to reward imperial virtue with my service. Not thinking of myself, I submitted three memorials in succession for imperial review, despising the behavior I uncovered. I was sure of my sources, but various people gnashed their teeth in anger. In the past year, there has been nit-picking on all sides. Not finding any offenses, they have proceeded to cook up charges. They didn’t realize that I am not a greedy man and have not taken corrupt money, and there were no bribes that they could point to. They did not realize that I keep my household in order, and there were no incidents of my family or servants harming the neighborhoods where I lived.42
The memorial proceeded to describe Guo’s treatment and his response to each of the charges made against him.43 Guo’s claims that his impeachments had earned him enemies and that his honesty made it impossible to lodge charges against him reflected perhaps a measure of self-pity but were not implausible. More significant, the statement did not reflect any sense of mistreatment by the emperor. Guo Xiu had spoken his truth and paid his price; neither Xiu himself nor the son who edited his Nianpu expressed bitterness, nor did any of the various men who wrote prefaces for the Nianpu or his collected state papers.
Guo’s return home must have had a melancholy feel, but five years after his return tragedy struck. Guo’s wife of many years died in 1694. The long-married partners were childless, but his wife’s final illness and death prompted Guo to adopt his brother’s five-year-old son as his own, naming him Guo Tingyi. Leaving nothing to chance, Guo took two wives—simultaneously—and both of his wives produced sons, so Guo found himself at sixty sui the father of a young family. In 1700 Guo decided to test the waters to see whether and how the emperor remembered him, and whether he might be considered for a new post. This he did by traveling to eastern Shandong to greet the imperial party as it passed through the province on its way south for a southern tour. The emperor did recall Guo Xiu and praised his service as magistrate but made no mention of his time in the Censorate or the impeachments. Guo was invited to Beijing to wait for official appointment.
Guo’s appointment, when it came, was a surprise; he was appointed governor-general of Huguang. In point of rank, the position was appropriate for Guo Xiu, but it seemed ill suited to him in many other regards. Huguang was a troubled jurisdiction in the early eighteenth century. Barely a generation earlier, Huguang had been a battleground in the Rebellion of the Three Feudatories. A frontier region, it incorporated both productive agricultural land and border areas inhabited by Miao people, ethnically different from the Chinese. Bisected by the Yangzi River, the province was also the site of an important pass between the middle and upper Yangzi regions, which both the Ming and the Qing found prudent to protect with military force. Many of the governors-general of Huguang and the governors of its two subordinate provinces, Huguang and Pianyuan (renamed Hunan and Hubei during the Yongzheng reign), were Chinese martial bannerman. Guo Xiu had had no administrative experience since his time in Wujiang, and his relationships with military representatives there were not good.44
In Wujiang the most important problem had been inequities in taxation, and when Guo Xiu found himself in Huguang, taxation was the first issue he addressed, proposing a number of tax remissions and reorganizations shortly after his arrival.45 In January 1700, Guo was allowed the privilege of traveling from Wuchang, the Huguang provincial capital, to Beijing for an imperial audience. When the emperor asked him to speak about Foron, Guo took the opportunity to clear the family name by reviewing his genealogy and wondering where Foron had gotten his incorrect information. The audience then moved on to a discussion of Huguang. Guo requested that the court undertake a full cadastral survey in Huguang. Noting that the process would take some time, Guo also a warned the emperor that a new survey might result in a reduction of tax revenues. When the emperor asked how much, Guo responded that it could be as great as 30 percent. The emperor allowed that this would be all right, provided that the people were not unduly burdened. Following the audience, Kangxi commended Guo’s administration. In one exchange the emperor told a governor that Guo Xiu and Zhang Penghe (1649–1725) were the two best territorial administrators in the empire.46
When Guo returned to Wuchang, things began to go awry. The lieutenant governor of Huguang was impeached; it appeared that he had claimed illness to linger in his private apartments when in fact he was quite well. Guo Xiu’s subordinate, Governor Nian Xialing (1643–1727), tried to protect him, and Guo and Nian, who served in the same city, were both reprimanded.47 After Guo recommended a number of what he thought were postwar reconstruction projects in the realm of the pacified Miao, the Miao carried out a raid, continuing their war. An official Guo had sent to a district with substantial tax arrears was arrested and tied up by the local populace. Guo, who was in his early sixties, reported that his health was failing and requested to be allowed to resign. As more complaints came in to the court, Kangxi sent a group of three officials to check up on Guo. Ironically, one of these officials was Zhao Shenqiao, a former governor of Huguang, who had lost out to Guo Xiu in the 1686 censorial examinations. In 1703, Guo Xiu reported that the cadastral survey was complete and once again complained that his health no longer permitted him to administer affairs in Huguang. The emperor responded with an edict noting that in imperial audience Guo had remarked that governing Huguang was easy. The monarch also complained about how long the cadastral survey had taken and listed all of the various charges against Guo. Guo Xiu replied that he was old, sick, and no longer able to manage affairs; he acknowledged his guilt and requested punishment. In the spring of 1703, Guo was formally cashiered and returned to Shandong once again, this time for good. He lived twelve more years, dying in 1715.48
Needs of State
Confronted with the dilemma of what to do with those Guo Xiu had impeached, the Kangxi emperor effected a compromise: Confucian imperatives dictated the dismissal of those impeached in 1688–89, while social and political realities led to their reappointment in the 1690s. This compromise was not necessarily conscious; more likely it was enforced by circumstances. Pragmatism and economic necessity dictated Jin Fu’s appointment and continuing service on the river; Manchu social realities underlay Mingju’s retention as counselor; educational and ideological needs compelled the appointment of Chinese scholars to the Southern Study. The realities behind these arrangements could not be denied, nor could the officials who had occupied these posts be abandoned.
The case of Guo Xiu himself was more complex. His actions made enemies with a long reach. Agitation at court was fierce. Moreover, there was some substance to the charges against him. It was likely improper for a senior capital official to try to influence local appointments, there were arrears in his Wujiang District, and there was anti-Manchuism in his family. The emperor could have, and from a modern point of view should have, intervened to protect Guo Xiu, whose impeachment had been so important in ridding the court of Mingju. But given the attention Guo Xiu had brought on himself and the cutthroat competition of the court, it is likely that attacks would have continued after an imperial intervention. The emperor may have done Guo a favor in suggesting that he quietly resign. The modern reader would want Kangxi to have protected his appointee longer at the end of his final term in office, or at least granted him the retirement for ill health that he repeatedly sought. But as attacks piled up and Guo stumbled, the monarch felt he could no longer risk failing in the region where Wu Sangui had been the strongest. The needs of state prevailed over the needs of any single official.