In 2009, I was excited to learn that the Changchun Temple still existed in Beijing. Built in the 1590s by the mother of the Ming Wanli emperor, the temple was patronized throughout the seventeenth century by emperors and prominent officials, from the late Ming to the early Qing dynasty. Its famous female donor in the early Qing, a courtesan-turned-concubine named Gu Mei, changed the temple landscape by having a beautiful pavilion built on a hill. I had been studying Gu Mei and her turncoat husband for some time but was struggling with the polarized images of this couple in historical sources and scholarship. To unpack these images as a historian, I felt I needed to build a personal connection with the couple. So I went to visit the temple, accompanied by an old friend who was also fascinated by the deep connection between Beijing temples and imperial political history.
When we got there, the temple complex looked so new and neat that I doubted whether I would find the inspiration I had been looking for. The staff there, mostly government employees, confirmed that much of the complex had been reconstructed recently, although a few objects were originals. My greatest disappointment was that the whole area had been leveled in the past hundred years; the pavilion and the hill where it had stood were long gone. My friend asked the staff whether they had heard of the pavilion. One of them pointed to a high building afar: “Look! That’s the Xuanwu People’s Hospital. It was built where the pavilion used to be.”
As I set my eyes on that hospital, my mind’s eye immediately saw Gu Mei’s Buddhist devotion and philanthropy, her amazing artistic talents, her personal experiences in a time of war and political change, and her generous support for literati friends, many of whom were Ming loyalists who refused to serve the next dynasty, the Qing. Suddenly, I realized that modern hospital had become the bridge between me and the subjects of my study, or what the great Chinese historian Chen Yinke called the “historical sympathy” (lishi zhi tongqing)—a historian’s delicate connection with the past. Had I been able to see the actual pavilion, I might have focused on its face value as a “real” and “relevant” source. But the sight of the hospital, oddly, worked the magic. It compelled me to reach out, on the emotive level, to the historical subjects and then trust the impressions I received from “feeling” the sources written by and about Gu Mei and her husband, Gong Dingzi.
The process of historical research and writing is full of interesting—and even mysterious—moments like this. This study of the political history of the dynastic change from the Ming to the Qing had been a challenging project. I struggled with the images of seventeenthcentury figures, which were greatly polarized as a result of the moralpolitical division among the elite, whose writings constitute the majority of our sources. Ming loyalism, Confucian historiographical tradition, Qing state literary censorship, and modern Chinese nationalism all left deep marks on seventeenth-century archives. Eventually, I chose to make the competing moral images of officials like Gong Dingzi the focus of this book.
This book is not about political figures’ moral images per se but about the social, cultural, and political conditions that generated and perpetuated them. I relied on my own interpretation of many personal writings to reconstruct these political figures’ experiences at the intersection of their public and private lives. The moral images of political actors were such high-stake matters during this eventful century that I had to constantly debate, in my mind, with my sources and their authors about the meanings and implications of their words, art, and actions. My project was transformed from one about “restoring the truth” to one juxtaposing and making sense of competing claims about one’s performance as official, father, son, husband, and friend.
The process of transforming this project was a process of intellectual and personal transformation for me. I hope this book will generate new scholarly conversations. The imperfections are mine, but they should not prevent me from expressing deep gratitude toward my mentors, colleagues, and friends. Without their generous, patient, and kind guidance and support, I would not have been able to build those meaningful connections with my historical subjects and publish my findings.
Chun-Shu Chang, my mentor, not only nurtured my intellectual growth at the University of Michigan but also influenced my understanding of a Chinese historian’s mission and a scholar’s lifelong pursuit of self-cultivation. His erudition, kindness, compassion, and tolerance made it possible for me to become a professional historian and complete this ambitious book.
Over the years during my research and writing, I was extremely fortunate to have had these teachers: Wang Zheng, Dorothy Ko, Hitomi Tonomura, and Dena Goodman. Their passion for feminist scholarship, intellectual sharpness and breadth, and insightful answers to my questions shaped my work and provided consistent, invaluable support in many aspects. The best way for me to express my gratitude toward them is to continue on this path and make meaningful contributions to critical gender history.
I am grateful for the generosity of many colleagues who kindly shared with me their scholarly findings and insights. The comments and suggestions I received from these colleagues on the manuscript during its various stages were immensely helpful: Michael Chang, Siyen Fei, Rivi Handler-Spitzer, Susan Hartmann, Clayton Howard, Martin Huang, Ari D. Levine, Weijing Lu, Toby Meyer-Fong, Harry Miller, Geoffrey Parker, Maria Franca Sibau, Janet Theiss, and Jiang Wu. Steven Conn, Yongtao Du, Andrea Goldman, and Julia Strauss read a long early draft patiently and offered great advice on streamlining it. Cynthia Brokaw, Patricia Sieber, Zhange Ni, and Christopher Reed carefully read the last draft of the manuscript. Their insightful questions and words of encouragement made the final revision an extremely rewarding and productive experience for me. I was also fortunate to have received excellent suggestions from the following scholars when I encountered difficult moments in research and writing: Kai-wing Chow, Beverly Bossler, Miaw-fen Lu, Sato Masayuki, Shang Wei, and Yang Haiying.
During the course of research, many institutions and individuals provided generous assistance: the rare book department at the National Library of China (in particular Dr. Cui Hongming), Shanghai Library, Library of Congress, Harvard-Yenching Library, Anhui Provincial Library, UCLA Library, University of Michigan Library, and The Ohio State University Library; Professor Zhou Zhiyuan at Anhui University, Professor Zhang Sheng at Beijing Normal University, and Dr. Yang Haiying and Dr. Zhuang Xiaoxia at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences.
I am grateful for the immense support from the Department of History at The Ohio State University (OSU) and my colleagues here. This project would not have come to fruition without the resources made available by the Department of History, Office of International Affairs, and the Coca-Cola Critical Difference for Women Grants for Research on Women, Gender, and Gender Equity at OSU. During 2012–13, a fellowship opportunity at the UCLA Center for 17th- and 18th-Century Studies and William Andrews Clark Memorial Library introduced me to the wonderful colleagues there. Stimulating conversations with Andrea Goldman, R. Bin Wong, Richard von Glahn, and other historians at UCLA gave me important ideas when I was conceptualizing this book.
Various parts of this research have been presented at the “Moralism and the Rhetoric of Decline in Eurasia, 1600–1900” workshop at the UCLA Center for 17th- and 18th-Century Studies (2012 and 2015), “History of Filial Piety” workshop (organized by Ellen Cong Zhang) at the University of Virginia, “Li Zhi and 16th-Century China” workshop at the University of Chicago, Association for Asian Studies, Institute of Chinese Studies at OSU, and the Pre-modernist Workshop at OSU. Feedback from fellow participants and audience at these events helped me improve the project immensely. In particular, Greg Anderson, Phil Brown, John Brooke, and Tina Sessa at the OSU Pre-modernist Workshop made it a wonderful space for my intellectual growth. Part of chapter 3 was published as “The Politics and Practice of Moral Rectitude” in Late Imperial China. I am thankful for Toby Meyer-Fong and Janet Theiss for helping me rethink the piece and revise it for publication.
I owe special thanks to Patricia Ebrey. I benefited from her groundbreaking scholarship and her participation in the workshop on the history of filial piety at the University of Virginia. She kindly introduced me to the amazing editorial staff at the University of Washington Press. There, Lorri Hagman’s guidance, advice, and encouragement made this book possible. The two anonymous readers shared extremely helpful comments and suggestions on the manuscript.
I indulged in the love and support of many friends while I was completing the book. Although I cannot mention all of them, I am forever grateful. The Chans embraced me as a family member; the Sieber-Reano family brought me much joy; Theodora Dragostinova took great care of me. Terre Fisher has been my most reliable copy editor. Zhange Ni, an amazing scholar and poet, was always there with her excellent ideas and generous heart. Art, my source of intellectual inspiration and emotional comfort, would not have occupied such an important place in my life without Cindy Davis, my printmaking mentor.
Finally, I hope to thank my parents for supporting my intellectual pursuits with endless love and encouragement. My sister Wei shared my passion as a scholar and commitment to improving this world with our research. To my laoshi Chun-Shu Chang and shimu Shelley Hsueh-lun Chang I dedicate this book. They have influenced and nurtured me no less than my parents.