Arranged Companions: Marriage and Intimacy in Qing China 0295749113, 9780295749112

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Arranged Companions: Marriage and Intimacy in Qing China
 0295749113, 9780295749112

Table of contents :
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Chapter One. Competing Meanings of Marriage
Chapter Two. Fashioning Companionate Love
Chapter Three. Building the Marital Bond
Chapter Four. Managing Familial and Marital Relationships
Chapter Five. Practicing Polygyny
Chapter Six. Growing Old Together
Conclusions
Chinese Character Glossary
Notes
Bibliography
Index
A
B
C
D
E
F
G
H
I
J
K
L
M
N
O
P
Q
R
S
T
V
W
X
Y
Z

Citation preview

Arranged Companions

Arranged Companions Marriage and Intimacy in Qing China

Weijing Lu

U niversity of Washington Pr ess Seattle

Copyright © 2021 by the University of Washington Press Composed in Minion Pro, typeface designed by Robert Slimbach 25 24 23 22 21  5 4 3 2 1 Printed and bound in the United States of Amer­i­ca All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. u n iversity of washington pr ess uwapress​.­uw​.­edu Chapter epigraphs from pages 1, 2, 7–8, 12–13, 29, and 55–56 of Shen Fu, Six Rec­ords of a Life Adrift, translated by Graham Sanders (Hackett 2011). Reprinted by permission of Hackett Publishing Com­pany, Inc. All rights reserved. libr ary of congr ess cataloging-­i n-­p ublication data Names: Lu, Weijing, author. Title: Arranged companions : marriage and intimacy in Qing China / Weijing Lu. Description: Seattle : University of Washington Press, [2021] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: lccn 2020056570 (print) | lccn 2020056571 (ebook) | isbn 9780295749112 (hardcover) | isbn 9780295749129 (paperback) | isbn 9780295749136 (ebook) Subjects: lcsh: Arranged marriage—­China—­History. | China—­History—­Qing dynasty, 1644–1912 Classification: lcc HQ802 .L89 2021 (print) | lcc HQ802 (ebook) | ddc 392.50951—­dc23 lc rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2020056570 lc ebook rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2020056571 The paper used in this publication is acid f­ ree and meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—­Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, a nsi z39. 48–1984 .∞

To my parents Lu Ximing 盧熙明 (1926–1999) Si Chaxiang 斯茶香 (1931–)

Contents

Acknowl­edgments 

ix

Introduction 3 Chapter One. Competing Meanings of Marriage 23 Chapter Two. Fashioning Companionate Love  48 Chapter Three. Building the Marital Bond 79 Chapter Four. Managing Familial and Marital Relationships 107 Chapter Five. Practicing Polygyny 133 Chapter Six. Growing Old Together 158 Conclusions 189 Chinese Character Glossary  193 Notes  199 Bibliography  227 Index  243

Acknowl­edgments

Years ago, while a doctoral student taking a course on the Chinese f­ amily at the University of California, Davis, I received an unexpected call. It was from my professor, G. William Skinner, who wanted to come meet me immediately at my student apartment and discuss a research paper that I  had just submitted for the class. That conversation eventually led to the publication of “Uxorilocal Marriage among Qing Literati,” my first work on marriage. I had no idea at the time that this conversation would also set the direction of my academic journey. For the past two de­cades, my research has only occasionally veered from the subject of ­family and marriage. A wonderful community of mentors, friends, and colleagues have accompanied me during this journey. Over the years that I worked on Arranged Companions, I continuously received the kind of support that Professor Skinner exemplified. The guidance of my teacher, Susan Mann, has been vital in helping me think through some of the major issues of this book. I am also deeply indebted to Beverly Bossler, who has provided invaluable advice, and to Dorothy Ko, whose encouragement has been a g­ reat source of inspiration. Many ­people aided me in my research. Chen Xi (UC San Diego Library), Zhaohui Xue (Stanford University Library), and Wu Ge (Fudan University Library) answered my ­every call for assistance. Zhang Yan in the Zhejiang Provincial Department of Culture provided support during my research trips. Cao Qing from the Nanjing Museum introduced me to paintings by ­women from the Qing period, some of which are featured in this book. Cathy Kudlick, Hasan Kayali, and Rebecca Plant helped direct me to readings on ­women and marriage outside of China. ix

x

Acknowledgments

I also greatly benefited from conversations with and vari­ous kinds of support from Cong Ellen Zhang, Cynthia Brokow, and Suzanne Cahill, among ­others. Feedback from the audiences at the conferences and talks in which I participated was also invaluable. I am indebted to Guotong Li, Ying Zhang, Cong Zhang, Luo Jianjiu, Ping Yao, Clara Wing-­chung Ho (Liu Yongcong), Binbin Yang, Yi Jolan, Xiaorong Li, Jeremy Murray, and Sarah Schneewind for the opportunities to discuss my work at California State University (Long Beach), Ohio State University, University of ­Virginia, Chinese Social Science Acad­emy, California State University (Los Angeles), Hong Kong Baptist University, University of Hong Kong, National Taiwan University, University of California (Santa Barbara), California State University (San Bernardino), and my home university, University of California, San Diego. I thank the students in a colloquium that I taught at UC San Diego. The delightful conversations with them on Shen Fu’s Six Rec­ords of a Life Adrift will remain part of the fine memories I have about this book. The following fellowships and grants provided the financial support that enabled me to devote time to research and writing: UC San Diego Academic Senate research grants, a National Endowment for the Humanities fellowship, a UC President’s Fellowship in the Humanities, and an ACLS Frederick Burkhardt Residential Fellowship for Recently Tenured Scholars, which allowed me to spend a year at the Huntington Library in San Marino, California. A grant from the UC San Diego Institute of Arts and Humanities supplied partial funds for the book’s indexing. In fall 2015, I was honored to be a University Fellow at Hong Kong Baptist University, where Clara Wing-­chung Ho and Zhang Hongsheng, along with the faculty and staff of the Department of History, hosted me with the utmost hospitality. From fall 2017 to spring 2018, a membership at the Institute for Advanced Study in Prince­ton, funded by the Starr Foundation East Asian Studies Endowment Fund, provided me with the time to draft half of the book’s chapters in the most ideal environment imaginable for a historian. I thank Nicola Di Cosmo and the East Asian and Early Modern colleagues, in par­tic­u­lar Marta Hanson, Ying Zhang, Susan Naquin, and Bryna Goodman, for stimulating my thinking with their questions and suggestions about the chapters that I presented at the institute. I was privileged to have Susan Mann, in her retirement, read, edit, and comment on the first complete draft of the manuscript. I also owe a ­great debt to Martin Huang and another anonymous reviewer for the University of Washington Press; Beverly Bossler, who read the entire manuscript; and Tobie

Acknowledgments

xi

Meyer-­Fong, who read the introduction. All of their expert comments and suggestions helped improve the book’s quality. I thank Harrison Car­ter for editing the early draft and Kang Weiyue for compiling the bibliography and glossary. I also wish to thank Lorri Hagman and her colleagues at the University of Washington Press and copyeditor Christopher Pitts for meticulously preparing this book for publication. I made the final revisions to the manuscript in the summer of 2020 when the Covid-19 crisis complicated lives in ways big and small. Friendship made it pos­si­ble for me to remain focused. I am grateful to Kong Yilang, Xu Lili, Ping Yao, Cong Zhang, Xiaojian Zhao, Hongwei Lu, and my academic s­ isters from our UC Davis lineage—­Guotong Li, Yulian Wu, and Wang Yan—­for their support in vari­ous ways. My ­family, in particular my husband, Ye Baomin, has patiently stood by my side during ­these long years. I dedicate this book to my parents. They belonged to the last generation in China to experience arranged marriages and they held dear to the values of filial devotion and self-­sacrifice. I witnessed how they shouldered the responsibilities of supporting my grandparents and their siblings. During the Cultural Revolution, when schooling was erratic, my ­father taught me and my ­brother ­after a long day of work, believing that college entrance examinations would one day resume and we would have a chance to receive a higher education. My parents did not have a comfortable life, yet their dedication, love, and marital bonding w ­ ere the strongest that I have ever observed.

Arranged Companions

Introduction The heat indoors was stifling in July. Luckily, our home was next to the Pavilion of Azure Waves, just west of the Lotus Lover’s Abode. . . . ​I was able to get permission from my m ­ other to take Yun t­ here to while away the hot summer days. It was too hot for Yun to do her needlework, so she kept me com­pany instead while I studied my books. We did nothing more than discuss the ancient times and talk about “the moon and flowers.” Yun was not a big drinker, but if I coaxed her she would have a few cups, so I taught her how to play a drinking game involving poetry. We felt that no one e­ lse’s delight in this world could surpass ours. Shen Fu, Six Rec­o rds of a Life Adrift

In 1781, Shen Fu (1763–­?) and his wife, Chen Yu n, spent a ­jubilant summer together thinking they ­were the happiest c­ ouple on earth. ­Little did they know that less than a ­century and half ­later, Chinese youth would be up in arms denouncing the kind of marriage they relished. When a fierce outcry against arranged marriage swept across the country in the early twentieth ­century, some ­women ­were even willing to take their lives in order to reject the marriages their parents had arranged. Xie Bingying (1906– 2000), for example, escaped from her home on three separate occasions and also attempted suicide so that she would not have to marry her chosen fiancé. She chronicled the ordeal in her autobiography A ­Woman Soldier’s Own Story, a popu­lar reader in college.1 That generation’s fervent denouncement of arranged marriage was part of the early twentieth-­century New Culture Movement (1915–24), which targeted Confucian patriarchy and traditional institutions and practices, including footbinding, concubinage, filial piety, and female chastity. Amid China’s deepening national crisis, radical Chinese intellectuals blamed Confucianism for 3

4

Introduction

the country’s plight while idolizing the “enlightened” West. For the remainder of the twentieth ­century, as this outcry was translated into governmental reform policies, notions about the deplorable practice of arranged marriage became deeply entrenched in a narrative about China’s “backward” past. Consequently, what was originally a cultural critique—­a product of the iconoclastic cultural upheaval and national crisis of the early twentieth ­century—­became accepted as a historical fact. Only in recent de­cades has a revisionist scholarship begun to engage with this narrative.2 The central prob­lem with this understanding of arranged marriage is that it holds up modern Western cultural premises as universal truths. When arranged marriage is viewed through the lens of backwardness and oppression and talked about exclusively in the tradition/modernity framework, all the richness, complexity, and change in marital practice during China’s long history are reduced to a singular judgment about patriarchal repression. Arranged marriage became nothing more than an evil, monolithic, and timeless institution that precluded any possibility of affection and love in a conjugal relationship. However, as Shen Fu’s story suggests, such assertions do not stand up to the historical evidence. The striking contrast between Shen Fu’s and Xie Bingying’s accounts of arranged marriage underscores the dramatic cultural rift that marked China’s transition to modernity. Embracing the Western idea of “love marriage,” Xie and her generation assumed that a marriage could only be happy when it was initiated by the c­ ouples themselves and preceded by courtship, but Shen Fu and Yun held no such assumptions. Their ideas about happiness and misery ­were informed by China’s own history; they fashioned their marital life ­after China’s own tradition. In this book, I therefore ask what married c­ ouples in the Qing dynasty (1644–1911) perceived as happiness, where they drew inspiration, and how they forged marital bonds. More generally, I seek to deconstruct ahistorical assumptions about arranged marriage, as well as to delineate the cultural, social, and economic constructs of Qing marital life. This book considers questions about how marital be­hav­iors w ­ ere informed by rich, complex cultural traditions and mediated by the historical conditions of the Qing. It chronicles marital relationships as pro­cesses of gendered personal experiences that w ­ ere s­ haped by aspirations, responsibilities, and moral convictions that gave rise to varied forms of companionship. The Qing represented a unique historical moment when long-­ cherished cultural ideas about marital companionship came to fruition.

Introduction

5

Educated men and ­women recognized marital affection as a basic ingredient of an ideal marriage, even as Confucian ritual and patriarchal ideologies remained largely intact. This book chronicles marriage and marital relationships in the two centuries that spanned the early Qing (from 1644 to the end of the seventeenth ­century) and the High Qing (from the eigh­teenth through the early nineteenth centuries).3 The dates are somewhat arbitrary ­because the changes discussed had no fixed starting or ending points. Nonetheless, they serve to indicate that this was a relatively coherent era so far as the subject is concerned. The distinct culture surrounding wife-­mourning in the early Qing inaugurated a long pro­cess of transformative change that took place in the cultural, social, economic, and intellectual contexts of the dynasty at large. ­These contexts began to disintegrate in the mid-­nineteenth ­century in the midst of foreign aggression and Western cultural influence, even though the established modes of expression of conjugal affection continued to resonate with the educated for de­cades to come.4 One framework that scholars have used to analyze love and emotion in late imperial China is what literary scholar Haiyan Lee calls the “Confucian structure of feelings,” which encompasses “discourses of qing from the fifteenth to early twentieth ­century.” Recognizing the counterdiscourse of the cult of qing movement, this argument nevertheless stresses that “for all its effort to legitimize the affective and the individual, it is still committed to patrilineal continuity, ritual propriety, and the social order.”5 The “Confucian structure of feelings” emphasizes the irreconcilable differences between Confucian orthodox and modern (Western-­inspired) sentiments of love.6 This study attempts to move away from such a dichotomy because a sweeping characterization of all kinds of qing (emotion, feeling, love) as Confucian may serve to obscure rich, complex, and intricate sentiments and the ways they played out in daily life. More importantly, as historian Susan Mann points out, to frame historical questions using the West as a mea­sure­ment for China’s pro­ gress is to invite us to “imagine that temporal change is not only linear but convergent” in the sense that China would eventually be just like the West.7 While the Western notion of romantic love is problematic when employed to gauge the “progressiveness” of the Chinese practice, marriage and conjugal relationships in Qing China can be made clearer when analyzed in a cross-­ cultural context.8 ­Here, my approach is informed by the scholarship of the history of emotions. Research has shown that the emotion of love as

6

Introduction

experienced by a ­couple can be better understood by distinguishing it into two kinds: romantic love, referring to the passionate and intense feeling of falling in love, and companionate love, which denotes a calmer and more comfortable state of emotional attachment nurtured over a long period of time. Scholars used to assume that romantic love is “a mark of cultural refinement” exclusive to Western socie­ties or to the upper classes in non-­Western socie­ties. Such theories have largely been discredited, as works by anthropologists, historians, sociologists, and scientists demonstrate that romantic love is in fact universal, while it is also mediated by specific social conditions and cultural values.9 Joining this cross-­cultural conversation, this book considers questions such as how love acquired its forms of expression and what ­were its cultural, social, and personal meanings. I am also interested in the relationship between romantic love, which was associated with courtship, and arranged marriage in Qing China, where norms of propriety prohibited premarital contact. Contrary to the conventional wisdom about the incompatibility between the two, evidence suggests that romantic love did have a place in Qing arranged marriage and that the Qing conceptualization of qing in marriage bore a remarkable resemblance to romantic love in nineteenth-­ century North Amer­i­ca.10 But the contrast was just as apparent. While “the romantic self” was perceived as “something of an essence” to personal identity in the United States, in China it was less essential for personal identity and more intimately woven into one’s social roles.11

Shen Fu and His Time Shen Fu was born in 1763 into a well-­off ­family in Suzhou, a city located in the center of the Lower Yangzi region, the economic and cultural heartland of the Qing empire. Like all educated men of his day, he spent much of his early life preparing for the civil examinations. However, following his ­father’s instructions, he gave up his studies in order to learn the practical skills of working as a private secretary in a government office. Besides his work as a secretary, Shen Fu tried vari­ous ways to make a living, including teaching, selling his paintings, and trading goods, but he lived in poverty for most of his married life. He married Yun, a maternal cousin, when they ­were both seventeen (according to Chinese counting).12 The newlyweds lived comfortably with his parents and ­brother ­until the relationship with the extended ­family soured, causing them to be twice expelled from the ­family. Although

Introduction

7

lacking financial security, the c­ ouple formed a deeply committed and joyful relationship, which Shen Fu detailed in his memoir Six Rec­ords of a Life Adrift (Fusheng liu ji), written ­after Yun’s death in 1803. Shen Fu and Yun would have vanished without a trace if Shen’s memoir had not caught the attention of a curious reader at a street bookseller in 1875 who purchased the memoir and then published it. How the manuscript ended up at a book market in Suzhou is a mystery, and we have no idea what Shen Fu’s original intentions were for his work, but he certainly never would have ­imagined that it would go on to be read by millions around the world a c­ entury ­later.13 A key ­factor in the memoir’s extraordinary success seems to be that it reveals something few would have ­imagined: deep marital love was pos­si­ble in imperial China. ­Today, Shen Fu has inadvertently become the best-­k nown narrator of marital life in his era, even though he was a totally obscure figure in his own time. His accounts, however, show striking similarities with t­ hose told by many o ­ thers from the Qing era with regard to perspective, sentiment, and experience. What Shen appreciated about his wife, what he enjoyed in their relationship, and what he felt was regrettable about their marriage w ­ ere details echoed by other writers of varying social and economic standing. This sharing was deeply rooted in their common upbringing, the cultural environment, and the socioeconomic realities of their time. Qing rule had reached its pinnacle during the de­cades in which Shen Fu and Chen Yun lived. The Manchus brutally conquered the Ming dynasty in 1644, but economic recovery followed the ruins of war, ushering in a prolonged period of growth in the eigh­teenth ­century. The High Qing revived the rapid commercialization and urbanization that had begun in the late Ming and built a vast and prosperous multiethnic empire. The Qing population doubled in size over the course of the eigh­teenth ­century, reaching nearly three hundred million by the time Shen Fu and Yun w ­ ere married. However, the empire was also ­under increasing stress; overpopulation and the intensifying competition for resources fueled economic dislocation and migration. Signs surfaced that the government was ill equipped to deal effectively with the challenges. Poverty dragged the most unfortunate to the bottom of society, where they became rootless drifters or had to turn to unorthodox marital practices to form a ­family.14 For the Han literati, the Qing era presented unpre­ce­dented promises and unique challenges. Serving in the Manchu government may not have seemed

8

Introduction

like an ideal choice, but the Qing court proved to be solidly Confucian and thus worth serving. Qing literati largely steered clear of the type of fierce factional po­liti­cal engagement that was deemed responsible for the Ming’s downfall.15 Inside and outside the government and in various capacities—as government administrators, heads of lineage and local community, or simply as writers—they supported the state by performing their roles as guardians of morality and enforcers of social and familial order. One of their major undertakings was promoting Confucian female morality. During the Qing, female chastity was upheld as the defining virtue for ­women. Among the upper classes, w ­ idow remarriage all but dis­appeared.16 Po­liti­cal stability and economic growth injected energy into social, cultural, and intellectual lives. Interregional market networks improved the circulation of knowledge as well as goods. Advanced printing technology made books cheaper and the publication of personal writings more affordable.17 In keeping with literati tradition, educated men engaged in the study of Confucian classics and literary and scholarly proj­ects. But unlike their pre­de­ces­sors in the late Ming, Qing literati abandoned radical and unorthodox cultural pursuits, such as the obsessive glorification of emotion and desire. The intellectual movement also took a new direction: while the metaphysical approach to classical studies continued, the brightest minds in the High Qing found passion in evidential scholarship (kaozheng), which revolutionized classical studies with its new methodology of “verification with evidence.” Taking a philological instead of a philosophical approach, evidential scholars immersed themselves in locating the original meanings of the classics; this included renewed attention to Confucian rituals that regarded the husband-­a nd-­w ife relationship as the foundation of civilization.18 Regardless of ­whether or not they ­were scholars, educated men in the Qing strove for success in the civil ser­v ice examinations, virtually the only desirable route to achieve or maintain social status. Sons shouldered their families’ earnest hopes, but the path to upward social mobility grew increasingly bleak over time.19 Population growth and improved educational opportunities dramatically expanded the pool of examination candidates, yet a rigid quota system failed to accommodate this expansion. The lowest of the three degrees (shengyuan) had lost much of its status, while earning a higher degree did not guarantee an immediate appointment to a government post.20 Although this daunting situation discouraged some, it pushed ­others to try

Introduction

9

even harder. Relocating (often temporarily) to a less competitive county to take the examinations, for example, was one strategy to increase the odds of success.21 The intense competition for prestige produced a stark social stratification among the educated. Despite undergoing a similar literary training, a huge gap separated ­those who succeeded and ­those who did not. Of Shen Fu’s many childhood friends, for example, only Shi Yunyu (1756–1837) gained the jinshi degree (the highest of the three degrees awarded ­after passing the metropolitan and palace examinations) and, subsequently, a series of impor­tant government positions. Shi would become Shen’s benefactor and employer ­later in Shen’s life. The vast majority of men whose examination ­career stalled strug­gled to find employment and a stable income. Two common professions ­were private secretary and teacher, but the short-­term nature of such jobs forced employment-­based itinerancy. Sojourning for employment became a necessity, and this was just one of a host of circumstances that made conjugal separation a widespread phenomenon in the Qing. As seen in chapter 6, the search for opportunities to better one’s life or merely to eke out a means of survival forced many to leave home, often for months or years on end. This socioeconomic climate had far-­reaching implications for marriage and marital relations. Investing in a son’s education for the civil examinations was not enough; finding a promising son-­in-­law was the next best strategy. In the Lower Yangzi region where the competition was fiercest, families actively searched for bright young boys to be f­ uture sons-­in-­law while their d ­ aughters ­were still young. Some parents preferred a par­tic­u­lar type of uxorilocal marriage (in which the son-­in-­law married into the f­ amily temporarily), so they could be personally in charge of the young man’s education. As seen in chapter 3, the anxiety over the volatility of status and wealth, it appears, also drove the time-­honored practices of marriage between cousins or between the ­children of close friends to become even more popu­lar in order to strengthen existing relationships. ­These vari­ous marital practices affected husband-­wife relationships in dif­ fer­ent ways, but the upshot was that the bride and groom w ­ ere not necessarily total strangers, as is widely assumed by critics. Although in theory the groom and the bride had no say in their match, some could have certainly influenced the pro­cess and might have even had a chance to meet one another. Mutual attraction could exist before marriage.

10

Introduction

But another f­ actor proved far more crucial than familiarity and attraction between groom and bride in forging marital bonds. What mattered most was sharing life’s ups and downs. Especially for a literati husband—­who was ­under g­ reat pressure to succeed or was struggling to make a living—­a caring, capable, and intelligent wife made it pos­si­ble for him to stay the course. She was not just an excellent domestic helper, but also a confidante and counselor. Life’s vicissitudes shone a light on a wife’s tenacity, fortitude, and acumen that a husband was other­wise unable to see; it also created opportunities for mutual understanding and appreciation. While the close collaboration needed for a f­ amily to survive and prosper added strain to some marriages, it nurtured marital companionship for ­others.

­Women’s Education, Writing, and Changing Ideas of Marital Relationships So far as marital relations in the literati class are concerned, the most consequential change in the Qing period was, arguably, ­women’s literary achievements. Advanced literary education for ­women transformed the ways in which husband and wife understood one another and interacted. For the first time in Chinese history, writing between husbands and wives to express, communicate, and commemorate emotions toward each other became popu­lar. Self-­consciousness about companionship resulted in the preservation of innumerable conjugal poems and other textual and visual forms of commemoration of mutual affection. The Qing saw an unpre­ce­dented rise in the number of highly educated ­women—­called “talented ­women” (cainü) or “cultivated ladies” (guixiu)—­and an accompanying cele­bration of female literary and artistic talent. Set in motion during the late Ming, ­these trends continued into the Qing amid economic prosperity and a thriving print culture.22 ­Women’s education, to be sure, remained out of reach for the lower social classes. Even among the affluent, the extent to which w ­ omen received education is difficult to determine. However, it is reasonable to infer that w ­ omen from the educated class who had some level of literacy ­were not a minority in affluent regions such as the Lower Yangzi. Chen Yun, Shen Fu’s wife, is a case in point. She did not have a chance to study with a f­ amily member or a tutor. Yet, growing up in an environment that encouraged female literacy, she was motivated to learn on her own. Her level of literacy, though not outstanding enough to make a name for

Introduction

11

herself, was adequate to converse intelligently and exchange poems with her husband. Talented ­women transformed the gender composition of the educated as increasing numbers gained a reputation as poets, writers, scholars, literary critics, and compliers of ­women’s anthologies. The writings of over three thousand Qing ­women ­were published by their families. Poetic talent in p ­ ar­tic­u­lar defined a w ­ oman’s intellectual distinction. A gifted d ­ aughter, wife, m ­ other, or ­sister who composed beautiful stanzas was a source of ­family pride. Leading male poets enthusiastically circulated w ­ omen’s poetry. In places such as Changzhou (Jiangsu), dense “­human networks and relationships” that included both familial networks and “intellectual and personal friendships” created a fertile environment for female talents to thrive.23 The vogue of ­women writing poetry grew so power­f ul that it set off a fierce debate about the purpose of female learning in the late eigh­teenth ­century. A sense of proper gender roles and female modesty kept some w ­ omen from preserving their own writings or caused them to abandon their intellectual pursuits a­ fter marriage. But neither criticism targeting w ­ omen’s literary pursuits nor their self-­effacing actions appear to have curbed the cultural glorification of talented ­women.24 Unable to take part in the civil ser­vice examinations, educated ­women ­were nonetheless prized family assets. Literacy enabled them to perform familial roles more effectively. At a time of hypercompetitive examinations, for example, an educated ­mother could provide early childhood education for her sons and personally supervise their studies ­after they started school. A ­daughter’s literacy brought emotional and intellectual rewards as well, for it made it ­pos­si­ble for her to converse with male relatives on learned subjects. Reports of families enjoying literary activities that brought everyone together—­ parents, sons, ­daughters, ­brothers, ­sisters, daughters-­in-­law, concubines, and so forth—­grew increasingly common, drawing admiration and praise in literati communities. In Fuzhou (Fujian), for example, w ­ omen not only brought glory to their natal families with their own literary achievements, but also grew to be an impor­tant force in transmitting local literary traditions, forging intellectual and social networks through marriage and ensuring the social and po­ liti­ cal distinction of their prominent families generation ­ a fter 25 generation. Among the forces driving ­women’s literary learning was a newfound cultural premium placed on the literary expression of marital love (fufu zhi qing). Never before had education as a component of marriage been as valued

12

Introduction

it was during the Qing. As discussed in chapter 1, the idea that literary compatibility created a strong marital bond had long been enshrined in Chinese cultural discourse, and was exemplified in the celebrated marriages of Qin Jia and Xu Shu, and Li Qingzhao and Zhao Mingcheng. The late Ming saw this subdued cultural tradition become more pronounced, when the marriages of intellectually compatible c­ ouples such as Ye Shaoyuan (1590–1635) and Shen Yixiu (1589–1648), Qi Biaojia (1603–1645) and Shang Jinglan (1605– 1676), and Chen Zhilin (1605–1666) and Xu Can (1618–1698)—­all from the Lower Yangzi region—­came to be widely celebrated.26 However, it was during the Qing that the time-­honored ideal significantly transformed marital practices. The image of husband and wife composing poetry together came to define the “perfect mate” or “perfect match in marriage” (jia’ou), and in places like Suzhou, even someone as undistinguished as Shen Fu was caught up in the vogue. While the Lower Yangzi boasted the largest number of perfect-­ match marriages, the fash­ion­able new practice spread to other regions as well. The relationship between ­women’s education and the perfect-­match marriage was mutually enabling and reinforcing. W ­ omen’s education made it pos­si­ble for ­couples to engage in literary activities together, and the idealization of companionship fueled the culture of w ­ omen’s education. It must be pointed out, however, that the ability to engage in literary activities was not the only effect of education on marital relationships. Not all educated husbands and wives engaged in writing poetry, but a shared education allowed for conversations on sophisticated subjects beyond daily ­house management, thereby forging a stronger relationship. The thriving intellectual companionship in marriage secured the Qing a special place in the history of marriage in China. However, I have refrained from adopting the term companionate marriage to describe perfect-­match marriages. A concept originating in Western historiography, companionate marriage is characterized by “affection, equality, and mutuality.”27 It indeed shared some key features with Qing perfect-­match marriages. This comparison appears even more fascinating ­because of the near perfect temporal parallel: the companionate marriage emerged in the seventeenth ­century in Northern Eu­rope and took root t­ here and in the United States over the course of the eigh­teenth and nineteenth centuries.28 By the early nineteenth c­ entury in the United States, according to historian Anya Jabour, “many w ­ omen and men had placed a new value on affectionate ties between f­ amily members, particularly within the immediate f­ amily, whose nucleus was a married ­couple

Introduction

13

joined by romantic love. This new desire for intimacy and companionship displaced a domestic patriarchy in which men wielded authority over the other members of the immediate and extended ­family and in which an emphasis on harmony and order ­limited the open expression of affection.”29 The perfect-­match marriage that blossomed from the seventeenth c­ entury onward in Chinese literati circles resembled the Anglo-­American companionate marriage ideal in the sense that affection, and even romantic love, played an impor­tant role in the husband-­wife relationship. However, while in companionate marriage, romantic love was a “necessary condition for marriage” and “the most significant circumstance in bridging the gender gap in Victorian Amer­i­ca,” this was not the case in Qing China.30 In further contrast between the two, the emergence of the companionate marriage ideal in the West was associated with the rise of modern f­amily (nuclear f­amily), but in Qing China, as Dorothy Ko has pointed out, the embrace of companionship in marriage led neither to the breakdown of the patriarchal ­family structure nor to changes in gender roles.31 ­Women’s literary ability to articulate, communicate, and commemorate emotions exerted an equalizing effect on marriage, but only to an extent. Qing social norms regarding marriages, in fact, also bore some resemblance to t­ hose of the companionable marriage in sixteenth-­century Reformation Eu­rope. Protestants upheld the idea that husband and wife should love and re­spect each other and share domestic responsibilities. A wife was required to be deferential to her husband, but the latter was not to tyrannize the ­house­hold. “He was the ‘­father of the h ­ ouse’ and she was the ‘­mother of the ­house,’ a position of high authority and equal re­spect.”32 The love between husband and wife, which was impor­tant but not essential for marriage, grew out of “a mutual willingness to make sacrifices for one another, hence, a duty that developed within marriage.”33 Similarly, Qing moral teaching upheld mutual re­spect as the guiding princi­ple for husband-­w ife relationships. The ideal ­house­hold was one of shared responsibility between husband and wife and conjugal attachment was deemed to be the result of a shared journey of overcoming hardships. The comparison between the two socie­ties, as superficial as it is, also points to the striking differences in the impact of their respective cultural traditions. For example, in Reformation Eu­rope the religious culture of virginity and celibacy resulted in a low marriage rate, but in Qing China, the idea that men and ­women ­were born to be married was unchallenged. Rather than causing

14

Introduction

a crisis for marriage, religious faith in the Qing often helped sustain the institution of marriage by offering spiritual escape and solace to ­women suffering in difficult u ­ nions. The cultural reverence for education and learning was a more critical force than religion in shaping the literati perceptions and practices of marriage. The interplay of the longstanding cultural ideas and the historical forces of the Qing gave rise to specific ways of practicing marital relations during that era.

Companionship in Practice The history of ideas of marriage in imperial China can, in a sense, be understood in terms of the competing influence of two conflicting traditions: the Confucian ritual teaching that emphasized hierarchy and the cultural cele­ bration of marital companionship. For much of imperial history, the latter developed ­under the shadow of the former. As the Confucian ritual ideal that stressed husband-­wife hierarchy set the codes of moral conduct, expression of intimacy and marital love was l­ imited to certain arenas in the textual tradition and denied a central platform. Only in the Qing did the companionate ideal take center stage. During this time, it was widely embraced by educated men and ­women and exerted a broad influence on their marriage practices. In the Confucian moral universe, h ­ uman civilization began with marriage. The husband-­w ife relationship was one of the cardinal h ­ uman rela34 tionships and it was foundational to an orderly society. Drawing on yin-­yang theory, the Confucian classics prescribed the roles of husband and wife as complementary and their relationship as one that must be differentiated and separated (bie). A wife was an equal in ritual terms but other­w ise inferior; her duty was to obey her husband and serve her in-­laws. The classical prescriptions viewed sexual intimacy as a grave threat to proper husband-­w ife relations while having nothing to say about conjugal emotions. However, although dominant, Confucian ritual teachings did not have a mono­poly on shaping ideas about marriage. In literary and historical texts, repre­sen­ta­t ions of marriage concentrated on vari­ous types of companionship, from moral, intellectual, and emotional to sexual. A rich array of language, images, tropes, and tales created a full repertoire of literary tools for expressing emotions and attachment. A pair of birds—­the ultimate symbol of marital companionship—­captured a dif­fer­ent conceptualization of the marital relationship. Marriage was, in essence, about a

Introduction

15

husband and wife who ­were bound by affection and shared a common destiny. Two points are worth stressing. First, the pre­sen­ta­tion of love and companionship in marriage originated in The Classic of Poetry (Shijing), one of the five Confucian classics. Confucian views on marital relationships, therefore, w ­ ere not monolithic. If we take a dif­fer­ent perspective, the relationship between The Classic of Poetry and Confucian ritual texts may be understood as complementary. Poetry offered a much-­needed outlet for emotional expression within a Confucian moral system that was built upon the foundation of ritual princi­ples. Second, despite the dominance of the ritual rules that stressed hierarchy, the prevailing moral discourse regarding marital relationships throughout imperial Chinese history was more nuanced. Didactic texts, for example, routinely advocated wifely obedience and ser­v ice alongside mutual re­spect, which carried an undertone of equality. It is also impor­tant to point out what this huge body of textual knowledge about marriage meant for the education of youth in Qing times. Understandably, not all texts w ­ ere treated equally in the curriculum. In formal education, the Confucian classics w ­ ere placed at the top b ­ ecause success in the examinations relied on one’s knowledge of them. However, this may not have been the preferred ranking among students. Lit­er­a­ture, history, and religious texts ­were all popu­lar reading materials b ­ ecause of personal curiosity and a key awareness that a wide range of knowledge outside the classics was vital for any respected literatus. Such knowledge was especially indispensable for writing poetry, an essential social skill, which relied on established allusions and tropes for conveying meaning.35 How this inclusive literary training ­shaped a youth’s knowledge can be illustrated by Shen Fu’s case. Shen had ­little success in the examinations, but his memoir displays a wide scope of learning beyond the classics. It was this culture of diverse education that enabled the competing discourses outside the Confucian classics to persist through the ages, inspiring alternative thinking about the meaning of marriage and supplying men and ­women with concepts, symbols, and references for self-­expression. If we ­were to identify one practice that most dramatically set the Qing literati apart from their e­ arlier counter­parts, then it would be the open display and public glorification of conjugal emotions. As seen in chapter 2, exhibiting marital affection in the pre­sen­ta­t ion of one’s own marriage permeated many kinds of Qing personal writings, and a companionable marriage became

16

Introduction

not just acceptable but also desirable. Marital affection was observable in elegiac writings for wives in early times, but u ­ ntil the Late Ming, wife-­mourning was kept in the private domain.36 By contrast, during the early Qing, wife-­ mourning events grew so spectacular that sometimes the entire imperial elite participated. This dramatic fashion would give way to calmer modes of expression in the High Qing, but a wife-­mourning culture was firmly incorporated into literati social life. The stunning trend of spousal mourning was just one sign of the changing culture embracing displays of marital emotion. Arguably, a better gauge of this change is not how a spouse was mourned, but how husband and wife interacted during their marriage and how the public perceived expressions of conjugal emotions in action. During the Qing, the space for intimate marital interaction was much expanded, and expressing, communicating, and commemorating conjugal affection in vari­ous ways was integral to literati marital life. Cele­bration of the Double Seven Festival (Qixi), which honored marital and social love, was universal. Literati c­ ouples also made works of art to ­commemorate their relationship. Poetry, the genre for expressing feelings, naturally became the most popu­lar medium for emotional communication. Poetry exchange for some ­couples literally began at their own wedding and continued throughout their lives, and poems w ­ ere compiled into anthologies in commemoration of a happy marriage. ­These conjugal poems ­were to be appreciated not only by the c­ ouples themselves but also by friends, and they became a subject of critique for the aesthetics and depth of conjugal emotion they presented. The extraordinary phenomenon of celebrating conjugal relations indicates the changing conceptualization of the meaning of marriage. Procreation and fulfilling f­ amily duties remained the primary objectives of marriage, but educated men and ­women now placed unpre­ce­dented importance on emotional satisfaction and personal happiness in marriage. Was this trend associated only with the educated or was it indicative of a cultural shift across social classes? Did it, moreover, signify a changing understanding of marriage and marital relationships in society at large? Studies have shown that conjugal affection (sometimes i­magined) influenced the decisions of w ­ idows and faithful maidens, who came from a wide spectrum of society, to remain faithful to their deceased husbands or fiancés or even to follow them in death, even though the female chastity cult was grounded by and large on a keen moral sense of female sexual purity.37 According to historian Janet

Introduction

17

Theiss, Qing judges granted the husband or the wife, rather than the parents or in-­laws, the authority to deal with property and adultery cases, signaling a recognition of the significance of marriage for the conjugal unit.38 Other scholars credited evidential scholars for “elevat[ing] the status of [the marital] relationship” or argued that the intellectual discourse on marriage in the eigh­teenth and nineteenth centuries came to define the husband-­wife relationship as “the primary ­human relation” of the five ­human cardinal relationships.39 However, so far as intellectual discourses are concerned, t­here did not appear to have been a unified voice. As suggested in the sharp disagreement between Qian Daxin and Jiao Xun (chapter 1), views about the relative position between husband and wife and ­father and son (and ­brothers) diverged considerably.40 While it is too early to draw any meaningful conclusions as to ­whether or not a new appreciation of marital affection took root in society at large, it is clear that the literati’s public embrace of affection had a significant effect on ­family relationships. In recent years, the emotive ­family relationship in Chinese history has emerged as an impor­tant subject. In addition to the long-­ established interest in the ­mother and son relationship, historians have taken up other impor­tant bonds—­those between ­father and d ­ aughter, husband and concubine, and dif­fer­ent siblings, in addition to marital relationships—­ revealing the complex emotional fabric of the extended ­family and demonstrating that it was far from emotionally bleak.41 According to literary scholar Maram Epstein, the extent of the valorization of au­then­tic emotional expression was such that even stern moralists tried to negotiate “ritual codes to reflect their emotional priorities.” 42 Calling filial piety an au­then­tic emotion, not mere ritual (or moral) per­for­mance, Epstein also argues that filial love was a more impor­tant bond for the late imperial multigenerational ­family than conjugal love. This was ­because “romantic love never lost its overtones of transgression.” 43 To be sure, the threat of conjugal love to the harmony of the extended ­family was both a perennial rhe­toric of the moralists and a real­ity in some h ­ ouse­holds. It is worth noting, however, that the substantial number of literati who wrote about affectionate conjugal relationships did not perceive it as ­running ­counter to Confucian ritual princi­ples or as interfering with responsibilities to parents and relatives. The changing culture embracing marital love gave rise to many affectionate c­ ouples in the Qing. It also created complex dynamics that shaped marital relationships and their repre­sen­ta­tions in other ways. As perfect-­match ­couples

18

Introduction

carved out new spaces for marital intimacy, unhappy marriages w ­ ere portrayed in terms of unsuitable intellectual and emotional dispositions. Educated wives in ill-­matched marriages who suffered from disappointment and misery became the subjects of heartfelt sympathy. As seen in chapter 4, the power of this cultural shift also left its mark in the ways it changed marital practices among men with rigid moral standards. Some high-­minded moralists, such as Li Gong, ­were determined to defend orthodox values to the extent of acting abusively t­ oward their wives; o ­ thers, such as Fang Bao, tried hard to reject conjugal affection, yet w ­ ere unable to deny their attraction to their spouses. Still ­others, such as Fang Dongshu, developed deep emotional connections with their wives despite their strong commitment to orthodox rules. ­These varied reactions resulted in dif­fer­ent types of marital relationships as well as varying shades of marital affection. While romantic love may have only been experienced by perfect-­match newlyweds, compassionate love—­ the affection that grew out of sharing the vicissitudes of life—­gave joy to many other ­couples. ­These changing cultural values affected the extended f­amily in complex ways. As conjugal affection came to assume a major role in marriage, it drew intensified attention to an age-­old prob­lem: the conflict between married ­brothers and their wives. At the core of the prob­lem was the conviction that conjugal love would inevitably tear apart fraternal unity. A new sense of urgency led some high-­minded moralists to employ innovative means to manage their conjugal relationships, causing profound psychological pain on their wives. At the same time, the rise of talented w ­ omen alongside the popularization of the marital companionship ideal re­oriented polygynous practice. In the late Ming, the ­union between a talented courtesan-­turned-­concubine and a leading literatus made a splash, even as marriages between w ­ omen and men of high social and literary stature also captured the imagination. During the High Qing, however, few literati-­concubine ­unions claimed the kind of attention that they garnered in the late Ming. As the perfect match came to be defined as within the bounds of marriage and educated wives increasingly took control of their marital relationships, the once idolized literati–­talented concubine u ­ nion lost its luster.44 Still, polygyny persisted even as the idea of male fidelity gained attraction, leaving an educated wife in a delicate position: she had to strike a balance between defending her dignity and avoiding being seen as jealous.45

Introduction

19

Personal Rec­ords of the Qing In a sense, main questions raised in this book stem from my reading of personal rec­ords. The Qing was a magnificent era for popu­lar lit­er­a­ture, and writers produced a wealth of fiction and drama, which all serve as rich sources for the study of the repre­sen­ta­tions of emotions, gender, and sexuality, as demonstrated by the prolific works literary scholars have produced in recent de­cades. The materials for this book, however, come exclusively from personal rec­ords, ­because they pre­sent our only opportunity to unlock Qing intimate life as lived experiences. To comprehend t­ hese rec­ords, it is vital to contextualize them within the writers’ personal histories, the cultural traditions and conventions of the genres in which they wrote, and the socioeconomic environment in which they lived. The scholarship on ­women’s and gender history in imperial China is an invaluable source for contextualization. Readers of this book w ­ ill recognize the influence of pathbreaking research by late imperial historians on the workings of the gender system in the Qing, Qing ­family and marriage practices, late Ming print culture and the cult of qing, ­women’s literary culture and self-­representation, and emotive ­family relationships. The book also builds on the pioneering works on marital relationships that w ­ ere the first to call into question the New Cultural narrative about loveless marriage in imperial China. Historian Patricia Ebrey writes that in the Song, “submission was far from the only t­ hing characterizing the bond between husbands and wives. Love, affection, hatred, bitterness, disappointment, and jealousy are all depicted as common ele­ments of marital relations.” 46 This remark can be easily applied to the Qing period, but the Song also serves as an impor­tant contrast. Although all of t­hese emotions are observable in Qing marriage, the c­ auses, the expressions, and the ways that they played out in marital life ­were often dif­fer­ent thanks to the changing environment in which married ­couples lived. To illustrate this point in another way: all the resources for expressing intellectual companionship—­language, symbols, and tales—­were available to the literati of ­earlier times, but only a few intellectually companionable ­couples became well known in the long imperial history prior to the seventeenth ­century. The comparison may not be completely fair, for far fewer written sources survived from ­earlier periods. But by all indications, the Qing was in a league of its own. How to make sense of the transformative change? Dorothy Ko, whose work is the foundation for the study of literati marriage in

20

Introduction

Chinese history, shows the seventeenth ­century as the genesis for this change ­because of the spread of print culture and ­women’s education.47 This book looks at what became of the late Ming momentum and the broad implications of the cultural shift it ignited within marriage conventions. Fueled by prosperity, the spread of education, the intensification of socioeconomic competition due to an exploding population, and a conservative turn that buttressed Confucian orthodoxy, the continuous cultural shift in the Qing pushed the “perfect match” to the center stage for imagining and practicing a happy marriage. In his study of the elegiac biographies men wrote of their late wives, Martin Huang has explored the intimate voices of bereaved husbands as a way of dissecting the male construction of womenhood and male self-representation.48 I tap into the same types of mourning writing in order to interpret ­t hese sources for answers as to how “intimate memory” embodies changing ideas about marital relationships. This book is an individual-­centered study of marital emotions and intimacy. As such, it prioritizes personal rec­ords written by real historical ­figures over more mediated sources such as plays and fiction. By personal rec­ords, I refer to the written texts created by men and ­women in the context of personal expression, communication, and commemoration.49 Being a Qing historian means access to an abundance of such materials, written by men and ­women, which are widely available both in print and digitally. Admittedly, ­t here are far fewer works by ­women than by men, and, of the preserved works by w ­ omen, an overwhelming majority are poetry. ­These constraints are evident in this book in ­those places where I discuss men more thoroughly than w ­ omen, precisely b ­ ecause of the lack of sources. Still, having access to w ­ omen’s own voices makes a world of difference in any attempt to reconstruct marital life as a personal, intimate, and gendered experience. The Qing literati left ­behind copious personal rec­ords in vari­ous genres, including poetry, elegiac texts, chronological biographies (nianpu), letters, and memoirs. Fragmentary personal rec­ords ­were also scattered across other forms of writing, such as travel diaries and anecdotal notes. Qing c­ ouples regularly wrote letters when they lived apart, but only in rare cases w ­ ere conjugal letters preserved.50 The most copious of the personal rec­ords are in two genres: elegiac biographies and poetry. Composed for burial rituals, elegiac biographies appear in two forms. The “rec­ord of conduct” was written by a

Introduction

21

f­ amily member, providing general information about the life and deeds of the deceased. The tomb inscription, or epitaph, was written by e­ ither a f­ amily member or a commissioned writer, based on the “rec­ord of conduct.” Husbands routinely assumed the authorship of the “rec­ord of conduct” of a late wife and, less frequently, of her epitaph.51 As a formal commemoration, elegiac biographies for a late wife are exceptionally useful materials for unearthing values and attitudes of the time, but as researches have increasingly shown, despite their formulaic and orthodox nature, expressions of emotions ­were far from self-­censored in ­t hese texts, even in e­ arlier periods. The tendency to display emotion became increasingly common following the late Ming.52 This development makes the Qing elegiac biographies particularly useful, but their usefulness is also what limits them. Elegiac biographies w ­ ere constructed for memory and legacy. By contrast, conjugal poetry (except for mourning poetry) “functioned in a way similar to keeping a diary or personal journal,” as literary historian Grace Fong puts it.53 This “recording” (or autobiographical) feature of Chinese poetry is enhanced by certain “self-­ contextualizing” conventions: poetry titles indicate time and place as well as subject ­matter; poems sometimes include prose prefaces that explain the background of the subject; and explanatory notes are inserted in poems that clarify references to par­tic­u­lar incidents that a reader would not have been able to decipher. A major change in the Qing with regard to poetry was the proliferation of conjugal poems: poems created in the context of marriage by husbands and wives. As writing poetry became a signifier of marital intimacy, the practice of husband and wife composing poems spread far and wide. A large number of conjugal poems extant ­today ­were written in three modes: harmonizing each other’s poems (changhe or changchou); “sending [a poem] to a husband/ wife” (ji wai/ji nei) when a c­ ouple was separated; and mourning the passing of a spouse (daowang). ­These poems have the most to offer about intimate interactions that a ­couple would not write about in any other genre, and about vari­ous emotions including romantic longing, joy, plea­sure, jealousy, frustration, indignation, sadness, and despair. Of all the types of personal rec­ords, memoirs, or “words of remembrance” (yiyu), ­were the newest, having only been created during the early Qing. Mao Xiang (1611–1693) was the first to write in this style, commemorating his relationship with his courtesan-­turned-­concubine, Dong Xiaowan.54

22

Introduction

Using prose to narrate an intimate personal experience had few pre­ce­dents in Chinese history. This may explain why memoir as a genre was slow to gain appeal. Six Rec­ords of a Life Adrift was the first memoir—­and one of the only known examples and the most complete—­t hat commemorated a conjugal relationship. The mid-­nineteenth-­century memoir by Jiang Tan, Fragments of Memory u ­nder the Autumn Lamps (Qiudeng suoyi), although also acclaimed, is fragmentary and often lacks context.55 Its unique value as a historical source aside, Six Rec­ords of a Life Adrift is indispensable in another way: the details Shen described help elucidate terse or opaque references in poetry and biographic sources. For example, a huge number of Double Seven cele­bration poems survived, but only in Six Rec­ords do we have a detailed account of how a married ­couple celebrated the festival. ­Every type of historical source has its innate limitations thanks to the genre’s conventions. It can make noise on certain subjects but be s­ ilent on ­others, and it may often be fragmentary and lacking clear context.56 I have used several methods to address ­t hese prob­lems. For example, I read an individual writer’s entire body of work, instead of selective pieces, to gain the context of a given source; I also read works by husbands and wives side by side whenever pos­si­ble. Their “live” interactions often provide a better gauge of the state of their relationship than what was self-­proclaimed or portrayed by ­others. This book is ­limited in scope. It focuses on literati—­Han literati to be precise. I have not been able to include the lower social classes in this study, for such a study would require an entirely dif­fer­ent approach ­because of the rarity of personal rec­ords on their marital relationships. The book also does not discuss ethnic groups such as the Manchu, primarily ­because I have yet to familiarize myself with Manchu language and culture.57 ­These limits have left impor­tant questions unanswered concerning cross-­cultural influence as well as cultural divisions and unities in marital practice between the educated and the uneducated and between the Han and the Manchu and other ethnic minorities, but I hope that my study ­will be of use to other historians who may pursue ­t hose subjects.

Chapter One

Competing Meanings of Marriage On December 26, 1763, in the twenty-­eighth year of the Qianlong reign, I was born during a time of g­ reat peace and prosperity into a scholar ­family living by the Pavilion of Azure Waves in the city of Suzhou, so one might say that Heaven has been very generous to me. As the poet Su Shi once wrote, “The past is like a spring dream that fades without a trace.” So if I do not rec­ord my story with brush and ink, then truly I would be turning my back on Azure Heaven’s generosity. The three hundred verses of The Classic of Poetry begin with a song called “The Ospreys Cry,” so I ­will begin my book with my marriage and proceed from t­ here. Shen Fu, Six Rec­o rds of a Life Adrift

Alluding to the Song dy nasty poet Su Shi (1037–1101) and The Classic of Poetry, Shen Fu opened his memoir with the chapter “The Delight of the Boudoir.” As his words illustrate, Qing literati had a deep relationship with the past, which informed their expressions and understanding of life. Classical education supplied them with an extensive vocabulary, innumerable references, and varied frameworks for speaking about and communicating emotions. Interpretations of received knowledge also provided them with platforms for articulating new ideas and positions. Core moral discourses and cultural references concerning marital relationships that filled the pages of Qing literati writings can be traced to Confucian classics, history, and lit­er­a­ture that ­were produced over a span of three millennia. ­These ideas, motifs, and references ­were woven into the complex cultural fabric of Qing literati marital life. Amid the conflicts and compromises 23

24

Chapter 1

between the ritual rules stressing gender hierarchy in marriage and the cultural motif of presenting husband and wife as companions, the latter paved the way for the companionate love that flourished among Qing educated men and ­women.

The Confucian Classics on Marital Relations: Ritual and Poetry The Confucian canon defined the significance of marriage in relation to civilized society. Marriage represented the beginning of all h ­ uman relations; it signified the arrival of the age of civilization. Only when marriage is established do all other h ­ uman relations fall into place and a civilized world takes shape through the regulation of ritual. The Classic of Changes (Yijing) notes: When Heaven and Earth ­were created, all ­t hings came to exist. When all ­things came to exist, men and w ­ omen came into being. When men and w ­ omen came into being, husband and wife followed. When husband and wife came into being, ­father and son followed. When f­ather and son came into being, ruler and subject followed. When ruler and subject came into being, differentiation between t­ hose of higher and lower status followed. When differentiation between higher and lower status came into being, rituals had a place to function. It is imperative that the way of husband and wife endure, and therefore it is represented in [the hexagram] heng [permanent].1

Within this g­ rand scheme of the formation of ­human civilization, marriage held the sacred key to the perpetuation of humanity into eternity. “Marriage ritual is to join the two surnames,” The Book of Rites (Liji) states. “It serves the ­temples of ancestors before them; it carries on descent lines ­after them. Therefore, gentlemen regard it as impor­tant.”2 Marriage ensured the preservation of ancestral sacrifice and procreation. Wives, like husbands, played a key role in the rites of ancestral worship and in carry­ing on the ­family line. Rectifying the husband-­w ife relationship began with proper grooming, particularly of young ­women. The ritual stipulated that three months before a wedding, a ceremony should be held to instruct the bride-­to-be about “­womanly virtue, womanly words, womanly bearing, and womanly work” (known as the “four womanly attributes,” si de) as well as “wifely obedience.”3 In another ceremony, “Becoming a wife/daughter-­in-­law” (cheng fu), which was

Competing Meanings of Marriage

25

held the morning following the wedding, the bride was taught to “understand wifely and daughter-­in-­law obedience and the [responsibility] of generational continuity.” 4 ­Here the word fu could mean wife or daughter-­in-­law. This linguistic ambiguity captured the dual identity the bride assumed. The Confucian cannon cast the husband-­and-­wife bond as one of the “five relationships” (wu lun), essential for establishing an orderly and harmonious society. The doctrine summarized codes of conduct for each individual in accordance to their roles. The husband and wife must be differentiated or separated (fufu you bie). The former should be “upright” and the latter “obedient.” Their relationship was hierarchal, but they ­were also mutually reliant and complementary like “the sun and the moon and yin and yang.” Yang (the husband) governs the outer sphere and yin (the wife) governs the inner sphere. Only then, “in the outer and inner spheres, does harmony and stability prevail, and the country is orderly.”5 Husband and wife occupied hierarchal positions in the ­family and society. Paradoxically, however, a special kind of equality was innate to the husband-­ wife relationship. According to The Book of Rites, immediately before the bride’s arrival at the groom’s home for the wedding, “[The groom] waits outside the entrance. When the bride arrives, he bows to her and invites her to enter. The groom and the bride eat the meat from the same sacrificial animal and drink together using [the nuptial cups made by] halves of the same gourd. This is to signify their bodily unity, equal status, and his affection t­ oward her.” 6 The hallmark of the husband-­wife relationship was physical intimacy. Their “joining of the bodies,” associated with its reproductive role, set their relationship apart from all ­others. ­Here, the husband was presented as the initiator of endearing acts while the wife was on the receiving end of his affection. But they w ­ ere, in essence, of the same status. The bride was deemed an equal ­because she was as responsible as he for carry­ing out ancestral sacrifice and carry­ing on the ­family line. While physical intimacy was understood to be an essential aspect of the husband-­w ife relationship, it was also deemed a grave source of boundary transgression. The Book of Rites put forth strict rules to maintain the “differentiation” or “separation” (bie) between husband and wife. A wife “cannot hang her clothing on the same rack that her husband uses, nor store her clothing in the same drawer he uses, nor share the same bathroom with him.”7 Intimate articles such as clothing must be put away lest they stir sexual impulses. While the wife was responsible for guarding her be­hav­ior so as not

26

Chapter 1

to attract her husband’s improper attention, the husband was instructed to be “respectful, vigilant, solemn, and upright” in acting intimately ­toward his wife. Only then can “male-­female difference or separation and the husband-­ wife duties be established.”8 Actions and expressions of intimacy must be regulated in accordance with the bounds of propriety. This rigid and unemotive delineation of the marital relationship, however, was not the only discourse the Confucian classics espoused. Whereas the rituals precluded intimacy in the prescription for marital relations, The Classic of Poetry was a fountain of sentimental voices about courtship and marital love. Traditionally believed to have been compiled by Confucius, with a total of 305 poems dating from the eleventh through the sixth centuries BCE, the anthology depicts longing, lovesickness, rejoicing, happiness, resentment, and despair. The repre­sen­ta­tion of emotions is so extensive that even “seductive” poems have a place in this classic.9 Inhabiting the dual identities of Confucian classic and the earliest poetry anthology in Chinese history, The Classic of Poetry was arguably the most commonly read work in the Confucian canon. It was often the first classic young c­ hildren ­were introduced to and a common reader for girls preparing for marriage. Poetry was subject to interpretation. From the beginning, the Han period (206 BCE–202 CE) Mao Commentary on The Classic of Poetry set the cornerstone for an allegorical reading that dominated scholarship.10 This commentary framed the meaning of the poems through the lens of morality by aligning expressed emotions with the prescribed ritual teachings. “The Ospreys Cry,” the first work in the anthology, reads, “Guan! Guan!” cry the ospreys, On the islet in the river. The lovely maiden, Is the perfect bride for the lord. Short and long, t­ here grows the duckweed, On left and right, one gathers it. The lovely maiden, Day and night, he sought her. Sought her, but unable to get her, He longed for her, awake or asleep.

Competing Meanings of Marriage

27

Long and constant thoughts, He tossed and turned. Short and long, t­ here grows the duckweed, From left and right, one picks it. The lovely maiden, He befriends her with qin and se [stringed instruments]. Short and long, t­ here grows the duckweed, From left and right, one plucks it. The lovely maiden, He delights her with bells and drums.11

­ ittle is known about this poem’s authorship or context, except what is self-­ L evident in the work: it portrays a man’s longing for a w ­ oman he hopes to marry. The orthodox commentaries, however, assert that it “celebrates the virtue of the consort” of King Wen of the Zhou dynasty.12 In their reading, the image of the ospreys calling to each other signified deep devotion and consciousness of maintaining difference or separation. As birds of fidelity, ospreys “mate for life and do not play around; they swim side by side and yet do not engage in inappropriate intimacy.”13 The consort’s virtue, embodied in the be­hav­ior of the female bird, was summarized as “gentle and relaxed, chaste and quiet” (you xian zhen jing). She was, therefore, a fitting bride of the lord and worthy of performing the solemn duty of ancestral sacrifice.14 According to the Mao Commentary, ­these moral messages ­were so vital to the establishment of the foundation to society that “The Ospreys Cry” was placed at the beginning of the anthology. It was to “transform the [social customs] of all u ­ nder Heaven and to set rules for the husband-­wife relationship.”15 This allegorical interpretation may be forced, but the poem did appear to hold a special place for Confucius. It was the only poem in the anthology on which he made a comment (in The Analects [Lunyu]): “­There is joy without wantonness, and sorrow without self-­injury.”16 The poem, in other words, exemplified the ways emotions should be managed. Emotion, a subject strictly regulated in The Book of Rites, was central to the pre­sen­ta­tion of love and marriage in The Classic of Poetry. The Mao Commentary extolled the “au­t hen­tic spontaneity” of the poems, noting, “When emotion stirs within, it takes form in words.”17 All poems in The Classic of Poetry, love songs included, expressed

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genuine feelings. To use Confucius’s words, they “can be summed up in one phrase, ‘swerving not from the right path.’ ”18 This authenticity of emotions and their mea­sured expression gave them the power to resonate, making them effective tools for moral education. The Mao Commentary summarized their transformative impact: they “set rules for husband and wife relations, establish filial piety and re­spect, nurture ­human relationships, improve educational transformation [of ­people], and change social customs.”19 The Classic of Poetry created a discourse on marital relations that was dif­ fer­ent from, yet not in opposition to, the ritual discourse on marriage. The two discourses, in fact, represent two complementary dimensions of Confucian teaching, with one emphasizing social and ­family duties and the other emotional and personal needs. Acknowledging the authenticity of ­human feelings, The Classic of Poetry softened the rigid edges of the ritual delineation of husband-­w ife relations. In the Qing, generally speaking, the two strands in Confucian thought exerted their influence in two arenas: the former in the official and didactic domains and the latter in literary and private realms. Although the boundary separating the two was pliable and the private life of the elite was subject to ritual regulations, this complementary duality nonetheless produced a unique elastic space for ideas, attitudes, and practices that gave rise to a spectrum of positions with high-­minded moralists and sentimental poets standing on the opposite ends. Positions and voices, moreover, w ­ ere easily modified or even reversed by a change in genre or in the role a writer assumed. This flexibility led to a sort of dual personality in some authors where they w ­ ere inflexible when crafting moral treaties and commentaries but affectionate when writing poetry.

Marital Companionship: Motifs and Archetypes Educated youth in the Qing stood at the receiving end of a vast body of textual knowledge, of which the Confucian classics w ­ ere only a part. Writings of men and w ­ omen indicate that their fluency with the conventions of marital love drew from a wide range of literary, historical, and philosophical sources outside the classics. The motifs, symbols, imagery, allusions, anecdotes, and archetypes of marital love varied widely in shapes and forms, but a common thread ran through all repre­sen­ta­tions: companionship is the essence of marriage and devotion is the essential virtue for marital relations.

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Some of the classic expressions of marital companionship in the Qing derived from none other than The Classic of Poetry. For example, the poem “The Lady Says the Cock Has Crowed” was associated with three iconic expressions of marital love. The poem depicts an early morning conversation between a ­couple in which the wife urges her hunter husband to get up, but he demurs wanting to sleep some more. As if to entice him to get up and go to work, she tells him that when he returns from hunting they ­will enjoy a good meal and m ­ usic. When you shoot the birds, Iw ­ ill dress them for you. Iw ­ ill drink with you, And I w ­ ill grow old together with you. Playing qin and se, All is peaceful and congenial [jing hao].20

The ­simple delight of married life that the poem narrates captured the imagination of the literati. It came to be encapsulated in three terms that w ­ ere in wide use in Qing times. Jing hao represents a state of tranquil existence that is harmonious and joyous; yu zi xie lao (grow old together with you) combines the significance of a wedding vow with the epitome of wedding congratulations;21 qin se ­were zither-­like string instruments commonly played at festivities during Zhou times (ca. 1100–256 BCE). The vivid imagery of qin and se playing together symbolizes, like jing hao, the perfect state of a marital relationship. The prevailing “pairing motif ” in poetry bespoke the deeply cherished notion that marriage was fundamentally about companionship. A pair of birds calling to each other or swimming side by side represented unbroken marital devotion and rejoicing. The paired birds that ­were the ultimate symbol of this ­were mandarin ducks, which ­people believed mated for life (fig. 1.1).22 First appearing in The Classic of Poetry, the pairing motif proliferated during the mid-­imperial period. In New Songs from a Jade Terrace (Yutai xin yong), a major sixth-­century poetry anthology, trees and flowers grow in symmetrical pairs, two butterflies flit about side by side, flounders grow both eyes on one side, and the mythical beast qiongqiong never leaves its companion, the juxu. Paired birds—­the most popu­lar of all symbols of

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marital companionship—­are portrayed flying together, perching on the same branch, playing side by side in a pond, resting with their necks crossed, and calling out to each other when separated.23 Conversely, losing a mate or forced parting is always depicted with heart-­wrenching sorrow.24 While all of t­hese phrases, motifs, and symbols w ­ ere enshrined on the cultural altar of marital companionship, they also gave birth to new expressions. From qin se, for example, grew the imagery of “a broken string” and “a lone string,” which w ­ ere meta­ phors for losing a beloved spouse; from paired birds developed the imagery of “singing in harmony” (heming) or, conversely, “a separated phoenix” (li luan) or “a lone phoenix” (gu luan). Such motifs epitomized the joy of companionship or the privation of loss. The pairing motif was prevalent not only in lit­er­a­ture but also in painting. It became a fixture in material culture as well, as carvings, drawings, and embroidery produced for weddings ­were replete with images of paired birds, butterflies, flowers, and two symmetrical branches that grew from one root, all symbols of companionate love. 1.1. Li Yin, Lotus Flowers and a The overarching theme of companionPair of Mandarin Ducks, 1681, ship also dominated the historical accounts hanging scroll. (Courtesy of and anecdotes that became standard referNanjing Museum.) ences about marriage in Qing works. The references took all kinds of shapes and forms, but the under­ lying idea was quite coherent: marriage was, at its core,  about companionship. Generally, ­these references to companionship can be  grouped into three types: moral, emotional/intellectual, and

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sensual/intimate. In the first type, husband and wife w ­ ere both presented as virtuous, their manner of interactions exemplifying Confucian ideals. For example, the story of “pulling a deer cart together” tells of Bao Xuan and his wife, Huan Shaojun. According to The History of the ­Later Han, Bao was a poor, upright student whose teacher chose him to marry his d ­ aughter, Shaojun. At the wedding, she brought a generous dowry only to find that Bao was not pleased. He told her, “You w ­ ere born wealthy and privileged and are used to beautiful decorations. But I am poor and ­humble, and I do not dare to accept this.” Shaojun immediately returned all her servants, luxurious clothes, and ornaments, and donned a commoner’s outfit. Pulling a deer cart together, the ­couple returned to his village.25 The story of Liang Hong and his wife Meng Guang was arguably the best known of the moral companion type. Like Bao Xuan, Liang Hong was also a poor scholar known for his integrity. He declined marriage proposals from power­ful families and chose instead to marry the thirty-­year-­old, plain-­ looking Miss Meng when he heard that she would only marry someone as virtuous as himself. At the wedding, Liang Hong was displeased to see her wearing a fancy dress and refused to acknowledge her for seven days. She then confessed that she was only testing his moral character and that she had prepared clothes befitting the wife of a recluse. She immediately rearranged her hair in a s­ imple bun, put on hemp garments, and began to work. At Meng Guang’s urging, the c­ ouple moved to a mountain where he toiled in the fields and she wove cloth; they entertained themselves by chanting the classics and playing the zither. ­Later they relocated to Wu (in present-­day southern Jiangsu) and dwelled outside a ­house that belonged to the ­grand clan of Gao Botong where Liang Hong worked as a hired laborer. “­Every eve­ning when Liang Hong returned home, his wife prepared and served him food. She did not dare to look up to him, and would raise the food tray to the height of her eyebrows. Gao Botong took notice and found this intriguing, saying [to himself], ‘He is just a hired laborer, yet he can command this kind of re­spect from his wife. He is not an ordinary man.’ He therefore invited the c­ ouple to live in his home. Liang Hong quietly shielded himself from other ­people and wrote more than ten treatises.”26 This episode gave rise to the famous expression “raising the food tray to the height of the eyebrows” (ju an qi mei). Along with “pulling a deer cart together,” t­ hese bodily images put the ideals of Confucian marital relations on visual display.

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It is worth noting that, although both of ­t hese stories are moralistic, the messages they delivered did not completely align with the doctrines of differentiation and obedient wifely ser­v ice. The wives w ­ ere capable of making their own judgments (particularly in Meng Guang’s case) and possessed in­de­ pen­dent moral fortitude. The hierarchy separating husband and wife was leveled by the ­women’s moral excellence and the companionship between the ­couples. They ­were each examples of “respecting [each other] like a guest” (xiang jing ru bin). This par­tic­u­lar reference came from a passage in The Zuo Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals: while an aristocrat named Jique weeded his fields, his wife brought and served him food. The ­couple “respected one another as if entertaining a guest.”27 A minor note in a major classic, it nonetheless came to embody the ideal husband-­and-­wife relationship for the rest of Chinese history. In contrast to ­t hese moral models, ­t here was another type of companionship that favored deep personal attachment and intellectual connections between a husband and wife. In this type, literary talent, while celebrated in itself, also served as a means of communicating affection. The most captivating emblem for Qing writers was the story of Qin Jia and his wife, Xu Shu. Qin was a minor government official from Longxi Prefecture (in present-­day Gansu) during the reign of Emperor Huandi (147–167) in the Eastern Han dynasty. At some point, Qin had to travel to the capital Luoyang, about six hundred miles from home, while the ailing Xu Shu stayed ­behind in her natal home. Four of their poems ­were included in New Songs from a Jade Terrace, all written at the moment of their farewell or during the subsequent separation. The famous literary critic Zhong Rong (468?–518?) suggested that the resonating power of their poetry lay both in their sad lives and in their sentimental writing style.28 Qin Jia’s first poem described his misery at seeing the carriage he sent to fetch his wife: “empty it went, and empty it returned.” I study your letter and feel disheartened, At meals I cannot eat, Sitting alone in our empty bedroom, Who is ­t here to console and encourage me? In this long night I cannot fall asleep; Leaning on my pillow, I toss and turn, so lonely.29

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As tokens of love, he sent her four farewell pre­sents: a jeweled hairpin, a mirror, some aromatic herbs, and a plain zither. Xu Shu replied with a poem of her own that evoked the imagery of a pair of birds: You depart for the long journey, Further away from me each day. I regret that I have no feathered wings, to fly up high to follow you. Reciting the poems, I sigh long sighs; tears fall and soak my blouse.30

While their life stories and moving poems struck a chord with sympathetic readers across the ages, in the Qing they ­were especially famous for two reasons: the common occurrence of male travel and consequent conjugal separation and the coming of age of literary ­women who, like Xu Shu, ­were capable of expressing their emotions in an elegant manner. The intersection of t­ hese two historical trends resulted in the increasing popularity of conjugal poetry, particularly the genre called “send to my wife/husband” (ji nei/ji wai). Qin and Xu’s ability to use poetry as a way to express marital affection turned them into the idealized perfect match for ­later generations. The marriage of Li Qingzhao (1084–1155) and Zhao Mingcheng (1081–1129) of the Song dynasty offers another model of intellectual companionship. One of the most acclaimed female poets in Chinese history, Li married Zhao when he was an imperial university student. The c­ ouple shared a passion for collecting books, works of art, ancient bronze and stone inscriptions, and other antiques. Their happy marriage, however, was cut short by the foreign invasion that brought down the Northern Song. Zhao died amid the chaos and nearly all of their precious collections ­were lost in its wake.31 Li briefly remarried ­after fleeing to southeastern China. Although their story was lauded for centuries, the ­couple’s illustrious image was eclipsed in the Qing b ­ ecause of the changing of social attitudes t­ oward ­widow remarriage.32 Remarriage for ­widows, which was socially acceptable in the Song, became stigmatized in ­later dynasties, and Li Qingzhao’s brief remarriage disqualified her as a worthy idol for some, even as o ­ thers sympathized with her misfortune and continued to hold her first marriage in high esteem.33 As this once perfect icon of intellectual companionship dimmed, the Yuan dynasty ­couple Zhao Mengfu (1254–1322) and Guan Daosheng (1262–1319) gained attraction. This multitalented ­couple, revered as exceptional calligraphers, paint­ers, and poets, ­were a perfect match in artistic

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achievement. They lived a privileged life thanks to Zhao’s successful government ­career and the special ­favors the Mongol court bestowed upon them. The relationship between morality and ideal marriage become complicated in the third type of companionship, which thrived on intimacy and sensuality. ­Here morality and shared intellectual interest took a back seat as love and plea­sure claimed centrality. One husband, Gao Rou (174–263), was said to have grown indifferent to government ser­vice b ­ ecause of his “fondness” (ai wan) for his wife. He built a home in Fuchuan and planned to live a life of retirement with her, but he ended up reluctantly accepting another position. Parting from her proved so agonizing that he sent her “elegant, tender, and sad” poems and letters.34 Gao’s story consequently led to the coining of the phrases “taking plea­sure in a wonderful wife” (ai wan xian qi) or “loving a wife” (ai fu).35 In another story, the Han-­dynasty court official Zhang Chang became known for his excellent technique when drawing his wife’s eyebrows (i.e., applying her makeup). This resulted in a scandal, causing a colleague to call for his impeachment and an inquiry by the emperor. Zhang defended himself by saying that “­t here are more [intimate] ­t hings that a husband and wife do in their bedroom.”36 Zhang’s c­ areer was stalled, but the allusion “Zhang Chang drawing eyebrows” (or simply “drawing eyebrows”) enshrined him as an icon for “wife lovers.” Of all the famous wife lovers, Xun Can (209–238) stands out. Xun was an eccentric prodigy who opined that a w ­ oman should be judged by her beauty, not her intellect or talent. One time his wife developed a high fever during a bitterly cold winter. To bring down her temperature, Xun chilled his own body outdoors and then lay down on top of her. When she died, Xun “did not cry, but his spirit was damaged.” He lamented that it would be difficult to find another equally beautiful w ­ oman; he died of grief a year l­ater.37 Xun Can was not without his critics, who deemed his actions “unfitting for a person of ­great virtue.” The New Account of the Tales of the World (Shishuo xinyu), in which Xun’s story was recorded, placed it in a section titled “Indulgence.”38 From a ritual point of view, Xun Can represented the antithesis of the moral husband-­wife relationship. Completely ignoring gender hierarchy and his husbandly role, he lowered himself to be of ser­vice to his wife and allowed himself to be consumed by unchecked passion. His act of relieving her fever using his own body as a medical instrument was also construed as erotic. In the Qing, in contrast, the criticism leveled at Xun amounted to ­little more than occasional scorn.39 His story came to be expressed in the phrase

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1.2. Fang Xueyi (fl. late 17th–­early 18th c.), Drawing the Eyebrows, ­a lbum leaf. (Reprinted by permission of the Palace Museum, Beijing.)

“Fengqian’s [his literary name] spirit is damaged” (Fengqian shang shen). It became a favorite trope of male and female writers alike to express grief over the deaths of their own spouses or to console bereaved friends. For Qing writers, Xun’s story was associated not with sensuality or indulgence, but intimate love and conjugal dedication. He personified the g­ reat virtue of qing, rather than moral de­cadence, in the husband-­wife relationship. It should be noted that t­ hese categories of companionship—­the moral, the emotional and intellectual, and the intimate and sensual—­are analytic rather than faithfully descriptive of what Qing writers perceived. That is, Qing writers could be oblivious to the differences in their application of ­t hese stories. For instance, a reference to Meng Guang could appear alongside an allusion to Xun Can. The original qualities associated with t­ hese archetypes could be

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somewhat detached, or the stories might be “decontextualized.” Decontextualization removed the constraints imposed by the original meanings of the stories and enabled the Qing literati to work a range of attributes into their vision of an ideal marriage, from moral and intellectual compatibility and emotional resonance to intimacy and plea­sure.

Didactic Advice on “Improper Intimacy” While their education exposed Qing literati youth to t­ hese rich and diverse repre­sen­ta­tions of marital companionship, they w ­ ere also being groomed to be a proper husband and wife according to ritual princi­ples. A major vehicle for teaching moral be­hav­ior was didactic lit­er­a­ture, which boasted a long history that can be traced back to Eastern Zhou times (770–221 BCE).40 Consisting mainly of “instructions for w ­ omen” and lineage and f­amily directives, some didactic writings ­were public sermons or homilies; ­others ­were personal instructions to offspring. In Qing China, the didactic genre boomed amid the advancement of printing technology and the expansion of book markets, which together increased accessibility. Old texts w ­ ere reprinted and new ones ­were circulated. The core moral messages aligned closely with Confucian ritual teaching. Although didactic writings w ­ ere not entirely cohesive, they all served to uphold the orthodox ideals of f­amily and social relationships. The marital relationship was one of the major subjects in t­ hese texts and was seen as being vulnerable to the threat of “improper” conjugal intimacy. Thus, didactic advice fixated on how to keep that threat at bay. But parental concerns over married children’s well-being also played a part. Written nearly two millennia e­ arlier, Exhortations for My ­Daughters (Nüjie; commonly translated as Instructions for ­Women) by Ban Zhao (45?–117?) remained the most highly revered didactic classic for ­women in the Qing. Widely perceived as a general instructional text, it was, in fact, concerned ­primarily with a young bride’s relationship with her husband. Of its seven ­chapters, the first and the fourth speak generally about proper wifely conduct, while the remaining five chapters—­“Husband and wife,” “Re­spect and vigilance,” “Whole-­hearted (ser­vice to one’s husband),” “Unconditional obedience (to one’s parents-­in-­law),” and “Harmony with a husband’s siblings”—­ revolve around the husband-­wife relationship. Ban Zhao wrote, for example, that even though a wife is loved by her husband, if she cannot win the love of his parents, their relationship ­will fall apart. The same reasoning applied to

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winning praise from her husband’s siblings. A bride needed to learn to live in harmony with her husband’s siblings by behaving modestly and amenably, because they exercised enormous influence over her husband’s attitude ­ ­toward her.41 The ritual princi­ples of separation or differentiation ­were front and center in Ban Zhao’s advice. While characterizing the husband-­and-­wife relationship as “managing the wife” and “serving the husband,” she emphasized the importance of moral integrity for both. She wrote, “If the husband is not virtuous, then he w ­ ill have nothing [i.e., no moral authority] to manage his wife; if the wife is not virtuous, then she w ­ ill not have what it takes to serve her husband.” 42 How should a ­woman serve her husband? Serving begins with her vigilance about her own manner and bodily conduct. She should be “solemn in appearance,” “dignified in conduct,” and “­wholehearted in devotion” (zheng se, duan cao, zhuan xin). She must be “respectful and vigilant” (jing shen) and avoid be­hav­ior that may seem “loose,” such as listening to gossip or looking at improper t­ hings, leaning in doorways to look outside, dressing ostentatiously, wearing unkempt hair, or g­ oing out in an affectedly attractive manner. She must be constantly patrolling her own manners and actions.43 The manner in which husband and wife interacted had serious consequences for their relationship. The bedroom was an especially vulnerable site where the marital relationship could sour. “The affection between husband and wife is such that they can never be estranged. If husband and wife constantly stay together in their room, they w ­ ill develop improper intimacy and casual be­hav ­ior [xiedu]. In that situation, improper words w ­ ill be spoken, which ­will lead to unrestrained actions. Out of unrestrained actions ­will arise thoughts insulting to the husband. All this comes from not knowing when to stop and be satisfied,” noted Ban Zhao. She went on to reason that arguments between husband and wife would lead to disputes and anger saying, “This is ­because she does not know to be ­humble and yielding. If she insults her husband and does not control herself, [his] scolding and chastisement ­w ill follow; when anger is not ­stopped, [his] beating w ­ ill follow.” 44 ­Here Ban Zhao describes a scenario where, in the privacy of the inner quarters, a marital relationship descends into chaos. The progression begins with the habit of husband and wife staying together, feeling overly familiar, and taking liberties with one another. The term xiedu implies not just an indecorous and disrespectful act, but an act with intimate, sexual connotations. When a ­couple stays together too much, “improper intimacy” ­w ill

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cause them to let their guard down, leading to interactions that transgress the husband-­w ife boundary. Improper intimacy, therefore, is the cause of a marriage collapsing. Ban Zhao did not delegitimize or trivialize the affection between husband and wife. In fact, she considered it vital for the marital relationship. “For husband and wife, yi [honor-­bound duty] is to enhance endearment, and en [affection, love] is to forge congeniality. Should a­ ctual blows be dealt, how could yi be preserved? Should sharp words be spoken, how could en exist? If both en and yi are gone, husband and wife are estranged.” 45 Yi and en ­were essential for the preservation of the marital relationship. Yi, in this context, denotes a sense of duty attached to marriage. En, in contrast, implies a sense of indebtedness or gratitude associated with the intense joy that physical intimacy engendered. For Ban Zhao, the combined importance of en and yi was the precise reason why a c­ ouple should refrain from becoming too comfortable with one another. Being too close in a physical sense was a r­ ecipe for disaster. Conjugal affection could only be achieved and preserved through the virtuous conduct of both husband and wife and by keeping an appropriate distance between them. By the seventeenth ­century, Ban Zhao’s insight into the perils of “improper intimacy” between husband and wife had become a staple of advice. “Nowadays husband and wife fight with one another ­because they are overly intimate. Too much intimacy ­will lead to disrespect, and disrespect ­will lead to all kinds of unpredictable prob­lems,” wrote Yu Chenglong (1617–1684) in ­Family Rules.46 Writing to pass on life wisdom to his son, the Changzhou writer Zhao Huaiyu (1747–1823) noted, “Between husband and wife, it is all about being genial and respectful. When they are genial, scolding and cursing ­will not arise; when they are respectful, t­ here w ­ ill not be improper casu47 alness and intimacy.”  In didactic writing, conjugal intimacy was virtually always spoken about with degrading phrases such as xia and xiedu, which implied foolishness, immorality, or lust. Few authors w ­ ere explicit as to what counted as proper or improper be­hav­ior, but all ­were unambiguous in their advice: re­spect was the correct path for forging and maintaining marital harmony. Husband and wife should treat each other as if the spouse was a guest. The paragons of such a relationship w ­ ere none other than Liang Hong and Meng Guang, the Han icons of moral companionship. Being respectful and resisting improper conjugal intimacy for some Qing moralist writers was not only a way to prevent marital discord, but it also stood

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as the key to the management of the ­family and the preservation of fundamental ­human relationships. Lan Dingyuan (1680–1733), for example, noted, “[A gentleman] should not be disrespectful even in his bedroom. Improper intimacy is not the way to cultivate virtue and bring the ­family to order. He should be respectful in all circumstances, and his showing of re­spect to his wife is not just for the sake of showing re­spect to her; it is to set an example for her and their c­ hildren.” 48 When it comes to one’s own conduct in the f­ amily and his attitude t­ oward his wife, Lan stressed, a gentleman needed to act as if the f­amily w ­ ere the imperial court and his wife an esteemed guest. That way, no one in the ­family would dare to be negligent or arrogant.49 Being respectful was understood through the prism of male moral self-­cultivation, with the objective of rectifying the family. A man needed to be especially vigilant about his be­hav­ior with his wife ­because only she was able to discern his slightest shortcomings. For this reason, she must be treated not only as if she ­were just a guest but “a guest of high status” (da bin) or “an esteemed guest” (yan bin).50 Lan’s contemporaries Yan Yuan (1635–1704) and Li Gong (1659–1733), the found­ers of the Yan-­Li School (known for its dismissal of “useless” discourse and textual study, and an emphasis on practice), deemed the rejection of marital intimacy vital for practicing the Confucian ideal of husband-­wife “differentiation” or “separation,” even though emotions held a legitimate place in their ritual per­for­mance with regard to other ­family relationships.51 The failure of the husband and wife to remain differentiated in the bedroom was the root cause of the collapse of the conjugal relationship.52 So then what did an exemplary husband-­wife relationship look like? One ­couple was said to have never argued once in their sixty years of marriage. “From youth to old age, they did not play or laugh, even in bed,” alleged the account.53 Li Gong located another exemplar in a ­woman surnamed Li. Miss Li’s relationship with her husband was as harmonious as “qin and se” and as respectful as if they w ­ ere “guests.” When she had a hard time getting pregnant, she urged her husband to take a concubine. Afterward, when her husband showed sexual interest in her, she would solemnly tell him to stop, b ­ ecause having sex with her no longer served the purpose of procreation and would only harm his health. Li Gong sighed, “Alas! ­Isn’t she a person who the ancients said ‘has deep feeling but maintains separation?’ ” This astounding virtue, Li Gong noted, was what motivated him to write a biography for her.54 Sexual desire must be controlled and the task rested primarily with the husband. Control

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of sexual desire, according to Yan Yuan, was the greatest test of male m ­ ental 55 strength. But when a man faltered, his wife was expected to be the guardian of Confucian sexual morality. It should be noted that even as Qing moral discourse was wary of the grave danger of “improper” conjugal intimacy, it did, somewhat contradictorily, recognize the validity of sexual desire, for both men and ­women. Sexual intercourse manifested the cosmic forces of the universe and was in accordance with the “heavenly princi­ple.” As with the craving for food, the desire for sex was part of ­human nature. The argument was typically made in the context of denouncing the Buddhist practice of celibacy and confirming of the sacredness of h ­ uman procreation. While it was not meant to promote sexual enjoyment, it underscores the complex nature of the issue.56 Some Qing thinkers also justified marital intimacy from the standpoint of qing. Tang Zhen (1630– 1704), the early Qing thinker, wrote, “As far as I can see, that husband and wife are good to one another is entirely ­because they indulge in qing [ni qing]. That they indulge in qing is entirely ­because of physical attraction [hao se]. Without it, they are inevitably distanced or even alienated [guai li].”57 Dai Zhen (1724–1777), the preeminent High Qing scholar, took a more moderate stance. He called for striking a balance between indulging sexual desire and repressing it, stressing that desire should neither be indulged nor rejected. Rather, people should “have it but regulate it so that it ­will be neither excessive nor inadequate in terms of qing.”58 What is equally impor­tant to bear in mind is that the didactic advice against marital intimacy, seemingly dominant, was only one of the influential discourses on marital intimacy. ­There is no denying that the moralist preaching of didactic writing, representing Confucian orthodox teaching, was power­ ful and its influence far-­reaching. But if we broaden our scope of investigation, alternative stances and positions come into view. Popu­lar theater and lit­er­a­ture, for instance, ­were replete with scenes of “improper” intimacy. Allusions to bedroom intimacy, such as “[Zhang Chang] drawing eyebrows [for his wife]” and “[Xun Can] chilling his body in the courtyard [to bring down his wife’s temperature]” ­were commonplace in poems written by both men and ­women. ­There, degrading phrases for intimacy, such as xia and xiedu, ­were replaced with words of positive connotation for intimate love, such as the “intimacy of the boudoir” (guifang yanni) and vari­ous “spring” meta­phors.59 ­There was no lack of straightforward vocabularies for conjugal love e­ ither.

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Qing writers interchangeably used words such as ai, en, and qing to convey marital intimacy. ­These references and vocabulary, part of the repertoire of the cultural cele­bration of marital companionship in Chinese history, provided a counterbalancing repre­sen­ta­tion to the rigid moralist discourse and a venue for expressing conjugal intimacy.

Debating the Husband and Wife Relationship As the orthodox teaching of the Qing state, Confucian ritual princi­ples regarding the husband-­and-­wife relationship w ­ ere beyond challenge, but voices of skepticism and dissent, if not direct challenge, ­were raised on issues such as the status difference between husband and wife, the meaning of “separation [differentiation],” the position of the wife vis-­à-­vis that of the daughter-­in-­law, and even the seemingly agreed-­upon rule against conjugal intimacy. ­These voices w ­ ere inspired, on one hand, by late Ming intellectual and cultural trends affirming h ­ uman desire and celebrating qing and, on the other hand, by high Qing evidential scholarship that sought to reexamine received knowledge about the classics. At a deeper level, the revisiting of orthodox norms and rituals was driven by changing ideas and practices concerning marriage. The discussions and debates, therefore, ­were not only reflective of the intellectual movements of the time but also indicative of shifting marital fashions in the literati world. Tang Zhen, the radical early Qing thinker, argued that the dominance of husband over wife was not what the classics intended, and that the classics in fact called on a husband to lower himself to his wife. His cited as evidence a comment by Zheng Xuan (127–220), the authority on the classics, on the poem “Mandarin Ducks” (The Classic of Poetry) and the statements in the xian and tai hexagrams (The Classic of Changes). According to Zheng, the female duck put her left wing over the right wing, and the male duck put his right wing over the left. This, Tang exerted, demonstrated “the princi­ple of male and female mutually lowering the self t­ oward the other.” Similarly, the xian and tai hexagrams showed “a male lowering himself ­under a female” and “Heaven lowering itself ­under Earth,” which demonstrated that “husband and wife each lowering the self ­toward the other is the constant way.” 60 Tang did not challenge the superior position of Heaven over Earth or men over w ­ omen but rationalized that positioning was about “status,” while the

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husband and wife “mutually lowering” was about “virtue.” “Status and virtue do not block one another,” Tang argued. “If Heaven is arrogant, then natu­ral disasters ­w ill strike; if a ruler is arrogant, then ministers w ­ ill not do their utmost to be loyal and ordinary ­people ­will not love their superiors; if a husband is arrogant, then the f­ amily w ­ ill be in disarray and not flourish.” Therefore, the perfect husband-­wife relationship, like qin and se harmonizing with each other, was “respectful and congenial.” He called abusive husbands “the worst type of men,” and instructed men to read poems from The Classic of Poetry to reform their be­hav­ior.61 Tang located love for a wife squarely in the notion of “the way of ­human beings,” or the naturalness of ­human feelings. While he reiterated that fraternal relationships should be placed before marital relations, he went on to say that loving a wife more than anyone ­else was only natu­ral, even for a sage. He elaborated, listing reasons why that was the case, from a man’s attraction to his young bride’s physical beauty, the sexual intimacy he enjoyed with her, the work she performed around the ­house, and the assistance she provided to her role in supervising ­children and teaching the next generation of ­women in her old age.62 Tang Zhen fully endorsed conjugal intimacy, but his argument became complicated when it touched on the issue of hao nei. The term literally means “love for one’s wife” but implies that the love was excessive. While discouraging this be­hav­ior, Tang insisted in the same breath that hao nei should not be condemned indiscriminately. Hao nei would be wrong if a man carried it out for self-­interest (si) ­because then it would harm his relations with his parents and b ­ rothers. However, hao nei would not be a prob­lem if he carried it out to improve conjugal bonds.63 Tang’s provocative stance had all the traits of the late Ming intellectual and cultural legacy of affirming h ­ uman desires and feelings. By contrast, the evidential scholars of the high Qing era ­were preoccupied with rectifying what they considered ambiguous or dubious ritual rules espoused in the Confucian classics. While their questions and arguments ­were framed as academic queries, their ­actual concern lay with the implications of ­t hese rules for practice. In other words, the scholarly discourse functioned as a platform for addressing real-­life issues. When the literati world embraced “love between husband and wife,” the rituals that restricted a man’s ability to express his affection t­ oward his wife and demeaned her w ­ ere no longer seen as justified.

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One issue concerned the ritual of mourning. In mourning a wife, should a husband use a cane (when walking) if his ­mother was still alive? Using a cane represented a higher level of mourning, but a husband may have to forgo it if his ­mother was alive as show of reverence for her. To answer this inquiry from a man looking for advice, Lu Wenchao (1717–1795) went to g­ reat lengths to examine texts from the classics to their commentaries and interpretations as well as customary practices at the time. The classics offered no straightforward instructions, concluded Lu, but it could be inferred that mourning a wife with a cane, as a man would in mourning his m ­ other, “should not be considered excessive” ­because of the wife’s sacred role in carry­ing out the ancestral sacrifices and continuing the line of descent.64 Another contentious issue involved the ritual prescription that a widowed husband should not remarry for three years out of consideration for his son’s emotions. Rituals prescribed that a wife mourn her husband for “three years” (twenty-­five or twenty-­seven months; first-­grade mourning) and a husband mourn his wife for one year (second-­g rade mourning). A widower could remarry once the mourning period ended. However, if he was concerned that his son might not be ready, he should put off remarriage for an extra period to allow his son to fulfill his “filial wishes.” Zhao Huaiyu was skeptical of this reasoning. He argued that the mourning ritual for a wife was a particularly weighty one. If a wife had performed her duties perfectly, then her husband’s refraining from remarriage should not be rationalized just on the basis of his son’s wishes but also his own. It is “appropriate for a husband to show ‘the three-­year gratitude’ to bring his conjugal obligation to closure.” 65 Ritual was intended to express feelings (qing) in accordance with one’s identity (fen), Zhao noted. A virtuous wife deserved to be honored by her husband out of his own gratitude, not out of consideration for his son’s feelings.66 In other words, a husband’s feelings, not a son’s wishes, should be recognized as the rationale for his decision to refrain from marriage for a longer period. Hao Yixing (1757–1825) made the same point. He also took issue with another ritual rule that a man should mourn his eldest son at a higher grade (first grade) than he does his wife (second grade): “­People say this is ­because the son carries on the ancestral sacrifice, [but] a wife also carries on ancestral sacrifice and continues the ­family line. Why ­shouldn’t she receive the same recognition?” As with Zhao Huaiyu, what Hao found problematic with both ritual rules was that they trivialized a wife’s contribution and dismissed

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the significance of conjugal bonds. The ritual rule simply did “not resonate with ­human feelings.” Pointing to a historical account from antiquity showing that a wife was in fact mourned “three years” instead of one, he suspected that this dubious rule only existed b ­ ecause the Han compilers of the ritual texts pieced together old materials to imitate the classics. But “when judged by reasoning, they may not be in accordance with the [teachings] of the sages.” 67 Whereas Zhao Huaiyu and Hao Yixing called into question the validity of mourning rules that failed to accord wives the honor they deserved, Shi Yunyu, the childhood friend of Shen Fu who became a high-­ranking official, spoke directly to the core Confucian princi­ple that “husband and wife must be differentiated [separated]”: “ ‘A man and ­woman living together is an impor­tant ­human relationship.’68 Once they are named husband and wife, they eat the same piece of sacrificial meat and drink wine using opposite halves of the same gourd; while alive they live in the same room and when they die they are buried in the same grave. The ancients say, inside the bedroom ­t here are t­ hings that are more intimate than drawing the eyebrows for one’s wife. Where is the differentiation [separation]?” 69 But what about ­t hose rules about men and ­women not sitting together, using the same rack for clothes, or sharing the same towel? Th ­ ese w ­ ere directed ­toward men and ­women in general, not a married ­couple, Shi argued. His argument rests upon the passage from The Classic of Changes (cited in the beginning of this chapter). Civilization began with marriage. Before sages created the institution of marriage, p ­ eople lived like beasts; only when marriage was put into practice and the husband-­wife relationship came into existence ­were other relationships and the social order of the entire universe established. If the unity of husband and wife created civilization, then it made no sense to speak of differentiation or separation between them. What, then, did “ fufu you bie” mean? Shi believed that it meant that “­every man has his own wife and e­ very ­woman has her own husband and this boundary cannot be crossed.”70 It is impor­tant, however, not to overstate the scope and nature of t­ hese dissenting voices of the High Qing scholars. While they represented new awareness about the flaws in the rituals, they did not amount to a uniform challenge against Confucian ritual tenents as a ­whole. Moreover, views concerning similar issues w ­ ere far from settled. For example, the positioning of husband and wife relations vis-­à-­vis other familial relations was a central point of

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contention in a debate regarding divorce that involved Qian Daxin (1728– 1804) and Jiao Xun (1763–1820), two preeminent evidential scholars. The clash in opinion began with a treatise on divorce written by Qian Daxin in which he argued that a wife should be divorced if she stood in the way of father-­son and brother-­brother relationships. “The father-­son and brother-­brother relationships are heavenly bonds, while the husband-­w ife relationship is a ­human bond,” Qian wrote. “Between Heaven and Earth, one cannot escape from a Heaven-­bond relationship, but a human-­bond relationship can be cut off by social rules of separation. The Way of [the sage kings of] Yao and Shun was all about being filial and brotherly, and the decline of filial and brotherly relationships begin with men favoring their wives.” To a ­woman, her husband is originally a stranger, and she extends her feelings to his relatives only at marriage. His parents, ­brothers, and their wives are all strangers to her and for them she has “no feeling of love for a single day.” Therefore, “if [husband and wife] get along in their relationship according to princi­ples, she can stay; but other­wise she can be divorced.”71 When a wife became a liability for harmonious father-­son and brother-­ brother relationships, in Qian’s view, she should be sent away even if she is not at fault and divorce would put her in a terrible position for remarriage. The bottom line, Qian continued, is that “it is a small m ­ atter to protect a ­woman’s reputation; it is a grave ­matter to cause offense to parents and ­brothers.” Qian lamented the ineffectual enforcement of the ancient “divorcing a wife on seven grounds” rule, which resulted in degraded social practices, such as a man tolerating a wife’s dominance and not daring to divorce her even when his ­family was ruined or ­t here was no chance for offspring. Officials, too, ­were responsible for this ­because they failed to uphold the rule of divorce out of fear of pushing the w ­ oman into a second marriage.72 Jiao Xun’s rebuttal to Qian focused on elaborating a passage from The Classic of Changes. Citing ancient texts to construct the phases of the evolution of the h ­ uman world, he concluded: “Although father-­son and brother-­brother are Heaven-­bond relationships, their roots rest on the establishment of the way of husband and wife,” and “only when the husband-­wife relationship is established are the relationships between ruler-­subject and father-­son established.”73 Precisely ­because of this vital role, the husband-­w ife relationship should be maintained. If ­because of a slight disagreement men send away their wives and wives divorce their husbands, then society would be as unsettled as a game of chess. Ending his essay with a list of rhetorical questions, Jiao

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did not try to contain his emotion in defense of the wrongly divorced wife: “If a man divorces his wife, does he send her back to her m ­ other’s home, or does he marry her to someone e­ lse in the same locality? When remarrying her, should it be her husband’s f­ amily that takes charge, [the wife] herself, or government officials? Or should she be married in secret? If she is remarried in the same locality and her new husband turns out to be a bad person, should she be remarried again and again?”74 Such a passionate tone was aty­pi­cal in academic discourse, particularly considering Jiao’s self-­professed admiration for Qian’s scholarship. His emotion, it appears, had to do with a f­ amily tragedy he was experiencing at the time.75 His s­ ister, a smart, gentle w ­ oman whom his parents cherished, was slandered viciously by someone in her marital f­ amily. The incident was so malicious that it caused their ­mother to fall ill. Even though the mother-­in-­ law was fond of her, the ­sister then died and was expelled from her marital home, her corpse left unburied in a field. An outraged Jiao Xun and his ­brothers brought her back and buried her on the outskirts of their village. For twelve years, he would visit her grave “when the sun came out a­ fter a rainstorm or when a ray of the setting sun shone on the trees,” remembering the times they talked and laughed together.76 Jiao Xun did not reveal the incident in its entirety, which makes it difficult to determine the cause of the incident. His ­sister’s husband did not remarry ­after her death and lived out his life in a Buddhist ­temple, indicating that he might have been expelled from the ­family as well. Judging by the power the attacker held, he was likely a se­nior male such as an elder b ­ rother. The injustice Jiao’s ­sister suffered, one can surmise, loomed large in his decision to voice his dissent from Qian Daxin. The tragedy was a heart-­ wrenching testimony to the peril an innocent ­woman could face when she and her marital relationship ­were deemed to be disposable. Jiao’s disagreement with Qian, then, might not have had much to do with academic “evidence.” It was guided as much by indignation and a sense of personal and moral duty as it was by textual scholarship. That personal life could shape an intellectual stance is also evident in the writings of o ­ thers who questioned the validity of rituals that trivialized marital bonds discussed above. Coming of age when new marital ideas valorizing conjugal love captured the literati imagination, Zhao Huaiyu, Hao Yixing, and Shi Yunyu all embraced the new ideals and fully enjoyed companionship in marriage. For this generation of educated youth, ritual norms

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failed to give validation to conjugal emotions. In the case of Zhao Huaiyu, he had just lost his beloved wife of nine years. Struggling to reconcile his own emotional needs with the ritual that ignored a husband’s feelings, he wrote to Hong Liangji claiming to seek Hong’s advice. Zhao was, in fact, making a case for his choice of action. He would go on to observe a three-­year mourning as an act of conjugal devotion, not as a response to the wishes of a son, as the ritual prescribed. Zhao would do this again when his second wife died.77 Questioning the rituals, therefore, was not simply a way to demonstrate intellectual acumen, but also a way to seek justification for actions that the rituals did not approve. In so ­doing, these young scholars advocated for the way of life they themselves had fashioned.

Chapter Two

Fashioning Companionate Love On August 6, 1780, during the Double Seven Festival, Yun set up a small altar with incense sticks and pieces of melon and fruit in My Choice Hall, where we paid our re­spects to the Weaving Maid star. I carved two square seals with the words “May we be together now and forever as husband and wife.” I took the seal carved in relief and gave Yun the incised seal so that we might use them to stamp our letters to one another. That night the moonlight was particularly lovely and we turned our eyes down to the river, where we saw the light shimmer upon the waves like fine white silk. We sat t­ here together in that small win­dow overlooking the ­water, dressed in summer robes, fanning ourselves ­gently. Then we raised our eyes to see scudding clouds break into countless shapes as they crossed the sky. Shen Fu, Six Rec­o rds of a Life Adrift

Marital companionship, the deep-­s eated cultur al ideal, remained an undercurrent prior to the late Ming. It only came to the surface occasionally through iconic marriages that captured the literati imagination. During the Qing, the shift that began in the late Ming blossomed into a splendid literati movement that celebrated marital companionship. Even though the new cultural trend did not confront the orthodoxy that prescribed f­ amily duties over personal emotions, companionate love was understood as a defining quality for a happy marriage. From the early Qing’s dramatic wife-­ mourning to the “perfect match” marriages in the eigh­teenth and early 48

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nineteenth centuries, this shift left unique imprints on the repre­sen­ta­tion and practice of the marital relationship, as aspiring ­couples like Shen Fu and Yun created new conjugal spaces and fashioned new means of communicating, celebrating, and commemorating marital affection.

The Early Qing Vogue of Wife-­Mourning In the fall of 1678, You Tong (1618–1704) arrived in Beijing to take the Broad Learning and Magnificent Words (Boxue Hongci) examination. Emperor Kangxi who had yet to consolidate the Manchu rule, held this special examination in an effort to attract the brightest minds from across the empire to serve in his government. At age sixty-­one, You stressed that he was reluctant to accept the court’s invitation. His wife, Cao Ling, was fifty-­eight and had been sick on and off again, but she appeared to be fine when he left. ­Little did he know that she would die only two months l­ ater.1 The grief-­stricken You Tong failed to obtain permission to return home for her funeral, but he was able to mobilize the social and po­liti­cal elites of the empire to mourn with him. His self-­compiled chronological biography details the events: “I dispatched my son, Zhen, to go home to mourn immediately. With ink mixed with falling tears, I drafted an elegy to be delivered at the sacrificial ritual, a ‘Rec­ord of Conduct [of My Late Wife],’ along with several mourning [daowang] poems. The gentlemen in the capital saw them and felt sad for me, so they all wrote elegiac works to console me.”2 The “Rec­ ord of Conduct” he sent to the “gentlemen in the capital” contained a heartfelt plea: “I am overwhelmed by my private feelings, and so I steeled myself to tarnish your eyes with the intimate words between a man and a ­woman [ernü zhi yan]. Additionally, I hope you ­will take pity on this sojourner who has no one to speak to [about his sadness] and sympathize with my young son who weeps looking at our hometown far away. If you could bestow on me a few words to grace her tomb, it would be as if my wife w ­ ere alive even though 3 she is dead.” You Tong’s solicitation was a huge success. The memorial volume that he compiled a year l­ ater, Grieving Strings (Aixian ji), contained se­lections of the condolences he had received.4 They ­were divided into five categories: over forty “elegiac verse” (by thirty-­eight authors), nine “elegiac song lyr­ics,” two “elegiac verses in Sao style,” one piece of “elegiac prose,” and seven “sacrificial litanies.” The status of the contributors made it even more impressive than

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the number of the condolences. They consisted exclusively of high-­ranking officials of the imperial court, among them g­ rand secretaries, presidents and deputy presidents of the Six Boards, and officials of other major government bodies, as well as distinguished Broad Learning and Magnificent Words examinees from across the Qing empire. Additionally, a public sacrificial offering was held in You Tong’s wife’s honor. Grieving Strings included “Public Sacrificial Prayers” representing three groups: “the gentlemen of the capital,” which listed over one hundred names of court officials; “the fellow gentlemen who w ­ ere recommended for the Boxue Hongci examination,” which listed ninety-­two names; and “hometown relatives and friends” of Changzhou. No specific names ­were given in this group, presumably ­because they w ­ ere too numerous or insignificant to do so.5 It is unclear how the sacrificial offering was conducted or w ­ hether t­ hose whose names appear on the sacrificial prayers actually attended the ceremony. But just having their official titles pre­sent at the ceremony would bring im­mense glory to You Tong’s late wife. This was arguably the most spectacular example of wife-­mourning in history for a literatus, but it was not the first of its kind. Just eight years ­earlier in 1670, in Guangdong, the writer and Ming loyalist Qu Dajun (1630–1696) memorialized his wife, Wang Huajiang, with tributes from over forty prominent men across the land, including a few who would also appear on the list of You Tong’s contributors. Members of his famous lineage—­t he Qus ­were the descendants of the ­great poet Qu Yuan (or so they claimed)—­showed solidarity with the grieving widower with their own tributes. Qu compiled the contributions into a volume titled Mourning for My Companion (Daoli ji) and symbolically delivered it to Huajiang by burning a copy at her tomb.6 Qu himself wrote profusely to mourn his late wife and created other new forms of mourning along the way. For example, when the lychee season arrived, he held a sacrificial ceremony to offer the famous southern delicacy to Huajiang’s spirit, something that she, a northerner, had always desired to taste. He also entrusted a friend to erect a “garment and hairpin tomb” (yi ji zhong) in which some of her personal items ­were buried at Mount Hua in Shaanxi, the place where they had dreamed of making a home. He planned to construct a “literary tomb” ­t here for himself, so that when he died they would face one another as if they w ­ ere “sharing one tomb.”7 In early Qing literati circles, mourning a beloved wife’s passing was no longer a private and mundane affair that involved only relatives and friends. It

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took on the striking trait of public per­for­mance and became what Martin Huang has termed “a communal act.”8 Few matched the scale of events put forth by You Tong and Qu Dajun, but soliciting commemorative writings from friends, colleagues, and acquaintances, and answering t­ hose calls, became a regular feature of social life. The prevalence of the practice was illustrated by the fact that even young boys learned to write mourning verse. At fourteen years of age, for example, Hong Sheng (1645–1704) wrote a daowang poem on behalf of another man.9 Bereaved husbands vied to distinguish themselves as mourners. Gao Shiqi (1645–1704), Emperor Kangxi’s favorite courtier, challenged the convention of wife-­mourning in yet another fashion. ­After losing his wife at age forty-­ eight, Gao proceeded to observe a full twenty-­seven-­months of mourning, even though the Confucian ritual only required one year. In fact, the twenty-­ seven-­month mourning period, the so-­called three years of mourning, was prescribed to a ­widow, not a widower. In t­ hose long months of solitary mourning, Gao wrote grieving poems so profusely that, when coming out of mourning, he had accumulated several hundred daowang poems. He chronologically or­ga­nized them into a volume called Alone till Dawn (Dudan ji), taking the title from a poem from The Classic of Poetry that featured a feminine voice: “My love is dead in this place; with whom could I be? [I endure the night] alone till dawn.”10 One of the writers invited to grace the volume with a preface was You Tong.11 What­ever the manners of mourning, the bereaved husband was praised for the essential quality of sentimentality. He was capable of deep devotion and affection, so much that literary conventions of expressing feelings w ­ ere a limitation and new forms w ­ ere created to fill the need. Writing, the medium for expressing emotion, underwent a significant make­over during the early Qing. Daowang, the traditional poetry genre for spousal mourning, became more popu­lar and “more narrative oriented” in the late seventeenth ­century.12 Pioneered by Pan An (247–300) of the Jin dynasty, daowang developed into a signature form of tribute to a late wife through the elegant works of such e­ arlier literary ­giants as Yuan Zhen (779–831) and Su Shi (1037–1101). But the early Qing writers ­were in a league of their own. The elaborate features of daowang during this time w ­ ere made pos­si­ble by two changes: the compiling of long sets and the prolonging of the pro­cess of writing. ­These changes transformed daowang from a one-­t ime event into a continuous proj­ect. You Tong, Qu Dajun, and Gao Shiqi, for example, respectively composed sets of sixty, one

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hundred, and one hundred daowang poems in the early days of mourning. In the months and years that followed, they continued to write shorter sets and pieces on dates of significance—­t he deceased wife’s birthday, the Double Seven Festival, the anniversary of her passing—or at random moments triggered by grief. With long sets, writers w ­ ere able to weave into their work vignettes and flashbacks to create a chronological rec­ord of their married life. The following poem, the first of Gao Shiqi’s set of one hundred, begins with the early days of their marriage: The time we pledged our love [dingqing] was when a pair of swallows made their nest, Together they flew, swiftly over the tips of the cardamom flowers.13 From winter to summer, [the season] has changed thirty times, How could you, in the ­middle of our lives, abandon me?14

In the rest of the long set, similarly suggestive references to tender moments in their relationship continued, creating an air of unending lament. Sentimentality was normally conveyed with a gentle release of feelings, but at times, t­ here were outbursts of emotion. Qu Dajun, for example, repeatedly declared that he had nothing left to live for, and that he desired to follow her into death. Regret, that I d ­ idn’t follow you in death, To the night terrace I look for joy. Your shade and shadow linger in the empty bedroom, Your spirit arrives in bright day. Birds stir the leaves in the eve­ning wind, Autumn insects cry on moss wet with dew. All is finished in this world, Where is my fairyland?15

Following a spouse in death was the signature act of a chaste ­widow, a widespread practice at the time. But ­here Qu ­adopted the female role to manifest his utter despair. The mark of female virtue was turned into a mark of husbandly devotion. Similarly, Gao Shiqi performed a twenty-­seven-­month mourning period and chose to name his poetry anthology ­after a poem

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allegedly written by a ­woman. Self-­conscious about his actions of gender reversal, Gao defended himself by saying that “men and ­women are dif­fer­ent, but their emotions [qing] are the same.”16 In a broad trend of what Martin Huang terms the “secularization” of memorial writings in late imperial China, eulogizers depicted a larger array of ordinary p ­ eople and subjects and w ­ ere less constrained by Confucian 17 moral precepts. Depictions of a deceased wife became mundane and privatized and included not just virtuous deeds but also “small and trivial ­things.”18 What is particularly noteworthy in this new development was a concerted endeavor by the husband to make use of “small, trivial t­ hings” to portray the deceased wife as his companion. The biographical narrative constructed by the grieving husbands, as seen in the following cases of You Tong and Qu Dajun, was often framed not just in terms of familial duties and roles but also in terms of their personal connectedness. You Tong’s elaborate “Rec­ords of the Conduct of My Late Wife” hit the familiar marks of wifely virtue and accomplishment that the genre called for. He depicted Lady Cao as resourceful, prudent, and skilled at putting t­ hings in perfect order, and credited her with major decisions concerning their ­house­hold and beyond. Most striking in You’s account, in a genre of serious nature, ­were the tender, personal details he included. In the early years of their marriage, living with an extended ­family, he and his wife did not have private monetary accounts. But she was smart and spared no effort to make him happy. For example, she managed to treat him to delicacies from the market on special occasions, such as ­a fter an exam (presumably using her dowry money). At night, he studied and she did embroidery by his side “with fragrant herbs burning in the censer and tea brewing.” “Sometimes she begged me to teach her Tang poetry, ci lyr­ics in short or long verses. [­These t­ hings] gave us laughter and joy.”19 They had planned to take a ten-­day trip to visit several scenic sites, but ­after her death he abandoned ­t hese dreams. He went to ­great lengths to describe her illness, stating that not knowing how she died was the most devastating part of the tragedy. The marriage of Qu Dajun and Wang Huajiang was somewhat unconventional. While sojourning in northwestern China, a trip some say was related to his anti-Qing activities, Qu made a visit to the famous Mount Hua and composed a long poem. The poem won him such admiration that an influential local literatus, Li Yindu (1632–1692), presented Qu with a marriage proposal on behalf of the extended ­family of the twenty-­one-­year-­old Miss

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Wang, the orphaned d ­ aughter of a martyred Ming loyalist general. Following a spectacular wedding that local officials arranged, the newlyweds spent several comfortable years before embarking on a strenuous year-­long cross-­ country trip to Qu’s home in Guangdong. B ­ ecause of the brevity of their marriage, Qu Dajun had fewer materials to draw on for the “rec­ord of conduct.” Nonetheless, he painstakingly constructed a virtuous image of his bride. He stressed how the trip returning to his home came at her suggestion (even though it was actually his idea), how she was able to win his m ­ other’s love despite the language barrier, and how she quickly adjusted to ­humble living and never complained. But the hot and humid climate of southern China, in addition to pregnancy, took a toll on her health, and barely a year had passed before she became ill and died following a miscarriage. While Qu carefully portrayed his late wife in a moral light, the narrative was also personal, unveiling a genuine attraction. Their marriage was on a special footing from the outset b ­ ecause she shared his anti-­Qing po­liti­cal stance and understood his moral commitment. He renamed her Huajiang—­ the Lady of Mount Hua—­and gave himself a new literary name, Huafu—­t he Man of Mount Hua—to mark their special companionship. But Qu was apparently attracted to her for her other defeminized, warriorlike qualities as well. Huajiang was an unusual beauty who rode h ­ orses, hunted, and excelled at playing a type of ball game and swinging on swings.20 Their brief marriage left enchanting memories. While residing at the ancient Yanmen Pass, Qu recalled, Huajiang played the pipa (a four-­stringed lute), and their maids served them with special wine and dishes made with sand pheasant. “Before we finished eating, the crisp sound of the Tartar pipe suddenly arose and the military ­horses neighed. Listening to the melancholy sounds, we ­couldn’t fall asleep,” Qu wrote. They ascended to the top of the tower, looking out at the ancient Hutuo River before them and Mount Juzhu ­behind and feeling so delighted that they did not go to sleep u ­ ntil midnight.21 In t­ hese accounts, You Tong and Qu Dajun negotiate the conventions of the elegiac biographical genre to incorporate personal memories. Their wives are presented as p ­ eople who understood them and with whom they had deep emotional and spiritual connections. Writing about the w ­ omen’s good deeds became inseparable from writing about the marital relationship that they had relished. Or, to put it differently, the c­ ouple’s affectionate relationship testified to the wife’s character and virtue. You Tong, in fact, explic­itly characterized his “rec­ords of conduct” as “the intimate words between a man and a

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­ oman.” His work was, in essence, a commemoration of their bond and comw panionship more than anything e­ lse.

Kangli zhi qing: “The Love between Husband and Wife” The practices introduced in this chapter lay bare the radical nature of the early Qing literati culture of wife-­mourning. A lavish show of feelings ­toward a deceased wife was the antithesis of moral teachings against marital intimacy, but traditional rules retreated in the face of the cultural wave that put the husband-­wife relationship at the center of emotional life. Th ­ ere was even a proud sense of history being made in ­doing so. Speaking of his Mourning for My Companion, Qu Dajun emphasized that ­t here had never been a book like it and that even his famous ancestor Qu Yuan, who was known for his “abundance of qing” (duo qing), never mentioned anything about his wife.22 Responding to the criticism that he mourned his wife excessively, You Tong argued that incessant mourning ­shouldn’t be considered “inappropriate” or “excessive,” for the expression of qing would only “come to an end when it satisfies the reason [that brought about the qing].”23 Qing was so “sweet and tender, yet strong and weighty” that it was beyond one’s ability to understand it.24 Qu Dajun explained his decision to compile the memorial volume Mourning for My Companion by writing, “I myself speak about it [the sadness], but feel it’s still inadequate, so I reached out to ­people across the country to speak about it. Alas! I could not help it ­because I was forced by qing and driven by yi [duty].”25 The force of qing was such that it could not be curbed, and its uncontrollability gave sanction to “excessive” mourning for a beloved wife. Qing justified their unconventional be­hav­ior. ­Here the connection between early Qing wife-­mourning and the late Ming cult of qing is clear. A power­ful literary theme and cultural phenomenon, the cult of qing represented an “alternative cultural ideology” or even “a countercultural movement” against Confucian orthodox teaching and ritualism.26 The degree of its radicalness may be debatable, but the sensualist discourse that “emphasized the romantic love between a man and a ­woman and the physical aspects of desire” put a new focus on the primacy of conjugal relationships.27 If the early Qing vogue of wife-­mourning carried the stamp of late Ming trends, it also developed its own character. The late Ming discourse on qing was often “couched in philosophical jargon.”28 By contrast, early Qing men ­were proud of speaking of qing in almost hyper-­personal terms. The intensity

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of their public pre­sen­ta­tion of conjugal love and the scale of participation in wife-­mourning events eclipsed any rec­ords of conjugal love in history. The energy paved the way for the continuous, albeit less sensational, change to come. Merging into other Qing historical forces, it helped produce a wide range of practices, transforming the Qing into a unique era in the history of marriage in imperial China. What might have propelled this shift? The dramatic Ming-­Qing transition—­a foreign conquest marked by dislocation, suffering, and bloodshed—­ provided an impor­tant context for understanding the sentimentality of the wife-­mourners. The trauma of the transition placed a special group of women—concubines and courtesans—in the foreground of early Qing writers’ nostalgia, retrospection, and self-­representation, as Wai-­yee Li’s recent study shows.29 When lamenting a lost world of plea­sure, a wife did not hold the same kind of symbolic power as a concubine or courtesan. The spectacular wife-­mourning vogue that developed at the same time, one may argue, represents a dif­fer­ent type of commemoration of this traumatic era. A shared moral and po­liti­cal destiny tied Qu Dajun to Wang Huajiang and furthered their personal resonance. But in most other cases memories of a deceased wife did not have much to do with a po­liti­cal cause, but rather with the physical and psychological hardships they endured together. Zhu Yizun, for example, recalled he and his wife often hid “in the thick bamboo groves at night and wandered from place to place in despair.”30 During this time of destruction, qing represented a source of relief and comfort, or a psychological haven for both men and ­women, when turmoil and hardship drew husband and wife closer together. The qing that inspired early Qing wife-­mourning culture must also be understood in another context: the long-­celebrated and enduring idea of conjugal love that originated in The Classic of Poetry and which was enshrined in the cultural repre­sen­ta­tion of marriage. Early Qing wife-­mourners conscientiously framed their actions in this tradition. Qu Dajun, for example, wrote: “I used to read Qin Jia’s poem ‘To My Wife’ and his wife’s reply. E ­ very time I felt such lingering sorrow that I was completely overcome by emotion. When I get to the daowang poem by Pan Yue, ‘Coming Out of Mourning’ by Sun Jing, and ‘My Wife Eternally Lies in a Tomb’ by Jiang Yan, I put them aside and do not dare to read. . . . ​Such is the devastation of losing a wife that ­t here is no place to escape to in this world.”31

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The authenticity of ­human emotions granted qing a rightful place for expression in poetry and a social role in transforming ­human be­hav­ior. Differing from the qing of the late Ming—­which glorified passion, desire, and even illicit relationships (adultery, elopements)—­marital love that was part of the time-­honored culture of qing was a poetic aesthetic, a properly controlled emotion, a moral concept securely lodged in Confucian f­ amily structure and social order. In a sense, the early Qing phenomenon of wife-­mourning represented the merging of two forces: it can be understood as a par­tic­u­lar product that was grounded deeply in the cultural affirmation of conjugal love but ­shaped by drastic late Ming cultural torrents glorifying qing. The extraordinary energy put into grieving the passing of a loved wife subsided as the end of the seventeenth ­century drew near. As the seventeenth ­century retreated further into the distance, spectacles comparable to ­t hose orchestrated by You Tong, Qu Dajun, and Gao Shiqi faded. The High Qing remaking of literati culture took place in a continuously shifting po­liti­cal, social, and intellectual environment. The firm restoration of the dominance of the Zhu Xi Confucian school and the consolidation of the Manchu state that was committed to social control ushered in a new age of “familistic moralism” that empowered learned w ­ omen and vested in them authority as “moral wives.” Courtesans ­were marginalized, and the state actively pursued policies that sought to create a “uniform marital order” through regulating sexuality by law.32 As shown in chapter  1, tension and disagreements marked the Qing ­didactic discourses on marital relationships and intimacy and the High Qing scholarly discussion of ritual with regard to marital relationships. Amid all the incoherence, qing in High Qing remained a cherished cultural ideal. The ways it was manifested and understood, however, differed from the late Ming. While qing continued to be interpreted as an all-­powerful mysterious force, ­couples who pursued a happy marriage denied its destabilizing features and instead articulated qing within the orthodox moral teaching. Wang Zhaoyuan and Hao Yixing, the renowned scholarly c­ ouple from Shandong, for example, hailed qing as an all-­empowering force, remarking that attraction between men and ­women is a manifestation of the cosmic yin-­yang power that lies beyond the control of ­human beings. At the same time, they infused allusions of qing with classical referends and, in so d ­ oing, redefined qing as a 33 proper and ritually sanctioned emotion.

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As if to compensate for the intensity of the early Qing era, wife-­mourning in High Qing times became less hurried and more diversified in form. Solicitation of commemorative writings, for example, often took a long time. The solicitor would continuously make requests to create a memorial a­ lbum (ce).34 The practice of compiling memorial volumes, as was done by You Tong and Qu Dajun, appears to have declined.35 Tributes inscribed on a poetry collection of the deceased or on a commemorative portrait or painting, in contrast, grew increasingly popu­lar.36 Literati in this era developed a par­tic­ u­lar liking for visuality in commemorating events and emotions. Spousal mourning was one of the usual occasions that called for a painting. In addition to writing a set of one hundred daowang poems, for example, the husband of the erudite Huang Zhouyu also created a painting in her memory.37 Another man sent condolences to a friend who had just lost a wife in the form of a painting. It depicted a trip the friend and his late wife took to the famous Cold Mountain ­Temple in Suzhou, where they had dreamed of living one day.38 ­After the poet Wang Caiwei’s (1753–1776) death, her husband Sun Xingyan (1753–1818) commissioned a commemorative painting, on which his best friend Hong Liangji inscribed an elegy.39 Not surprisingly, with the popularization of the “talented ­woman,” female authorship of elegiac biographies and daowang verses increased in the eigh­ teenth and nineteenth centuries. Like male literati, ­women wrote both as grieving w ­ idows and in response to requests. The practice of a wife mourning her late husband with daowang verses became vis­i­ble in the late Ming.40 By the nineteenth ­century, according to the female literary critic Shen Shanbao (1808–1862), it had grown quite common.41 The works authored by grieving wives indicate that they tended to be less elaborate in style, but w ­ ere instead imbued with a distinctive air of feminine sentimentality. One year on New Year’s Eve, Zhang Yuzhen (1757–­after 1802) gazed at a portrait of her late husband and, feeling deeply depressed, wrote: Unrolling the portrait [of my late husband], alone and sad, I cannot hold back my tears. Facing his image I unexpectedly feel I am “holding the tray” again. In our next life, w ­ ill we be wife and husband [“to the height of eyebrow”] once more? My appearance must have changed ­because of my abundant sorrow,

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My love [qing] is so earnest that I often resent that, in my dreams, I ­don’t see you fast enough.42

Sorrow is the universal theme for daowang poems by men and ­women, but the ways bereaved wives expressed sorrow had more of an inner direction. They spoke as if to console their own souls that ­were trapped in unescapable and unfathomable despair. For w ­ omen, writing mourning verses was more a practical means for releasing emotion than a form of self-­imaging. Or, to put it differently, the grief ­women felt was of a dif­fer­ent kind ­because of the gendered expectations. A grieving husband could move on with his life and remarry even as he professed love for his late wife, but a grieving wife faced the hardship of widowhood for the remainder of her life. This made the sorrow much more profound, particularly for a young w ­ idow like Zhang Yuzhen. Qing literati viewed keeping the memory of a deceased wife alive as a key quality of a husband’s devotion. How a man mourned his wife—­t he quality of his writing and the length of widowerhood—­were taken as mea­sure­ments of the authenticity of his love. Noting the daowang poems in someone’s anthology, the Jiangxi poet and playwright Jiang Shiquan (1725–1784) praised the man as someone who “concentrated love on his wife” (du kangli).43 Reading the daowang poems a remarried friend had written for his late wife, the well-­k nown poet Sun Yuanxiang (1760–1829) sighed: “So deep is his love for this wife [kangli zhi qing]!” 44 A major legacy of the early Qing culture of wife-­ mourning appears to be that it paved the way for a steady shift in social attitudes about the role of affection in marital relations. An admirable marriage was increasingly spoken about through the prism of the emotional connectedness between husband and wife, indirectly or implied. Terms such as du kangli, kangli zhi qing, kangli zhi ai (love between husband and wife) became staples in the language about marriage in literary circles. The manners of mourning ­were signifiers of the depth of one’s love for the deceased spouse, but the manifestation of conjugal love grew far beyond the act of mourning.

Jia’ou: The Perfect Match The term jia’ou, meaning “a perfect mate” or “a perfect match,” existed long before the Qing. What was considered a perfect match varied from one historical period to another and among social groups. In the seventeenth ­century,

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as Dorothy Ko has documented, u ­ nions “between an intellectually compatible ­couple who treat each other with mutual re­spect and affection” took the literati world by storm.45 Bearing resemblance to historical icons like Qin Jia and Xu Shu or Zhao Mingcheng and Li Qingzhao, this type of ­union foregrounded literary talent and emotional intimacy more than any other criteria. In High Qing times, the intellectual perfect match was widely diffused in the sense that it became an ideal to which c­ ouples of lesser literary standing aspired. It also spread geo­graph­i­cally. The Lower Yangzi produced the largest number of perfect-­match marriages, but its monopolistic stature disappeared. The glowing praise from leading literary figures portrayed brides and grooms as having matching intellect, literary and artistic skills, and appearance. Yuan Mei (1716–1798), the famous poet of the High Qing, wrote in the preface to the poetry anthology by Bao Zhihui and her husband: “Before they ­were married, their talents w ­ ere well known in their hometown; ­after they ­were married, ­music filled their bedroom. The bride is beautiful and the groom handsome. Sometimes they play duets and make splendidly beautiful ­music; other times, they argue fiercely over the meaning of a single word. When writing calligraphy, two brushes [each hold one] move like clouds flying; when creating ‘linked verse’ poems, the lines are like flowers blooming in pairs. Having discussed [their works] on their pillow, they grow old together in the com­pany of poetry.” 46 The ornate preface painted the talented ­couple in a partner-­like relationship in perfect coordination and harmony. Th ­ ere was a hint of competitiveness as well—­they found enjoyment in arguing over “the meaning of just one word.” This was, of course, to highlight the bride’s erudition and confidence. She was as learned as her husband and as adamant in her views—­a far cry from a gentle and yielding wife. In such depictions, the interconnectedness between the talented-­woman ideal and the perfect match was made clear by the fact that the perfect match stories w ­ ere often located in the context of commentaries on w ­ omen’s literary and artistic talents. Describing his female disciple Chen Shulan’s marriage, Yuan Mei notes, “When a goddess is born in the h ­ uman world, the biggest concern is that she might not have an ideal match.” Luckily, Chen married an outstanding man who deserved her, and the two had a happy life that would have made her the envy of all talented wives throughout history. Such sentiments rarely appeared in commentaries on talented men though. While having a perfect match entailed the promise of a happy life for ­women, having an intellectual companion was less crucial in the making of a happy life for men.

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This gendered implication seems to point to an under­lying consciousness that marital happiness carried more significance for ­women than for men. A man who failed to find happiness in marriage could still take a concubine or pursue extramarital companionship, but a w ­ oman did not have this leeway. The late eigh­teenth and the early nineteenth centuries produced large clusters of perfect marriages in the Lower Yangzi region and elsewhere. Some of the most famous perfect-­match ­couples, including Sun Xingyan and Wang Caiwei, Hao Yixing and Wang Zhaoyuan, Sun Yuanxiang and Xi Peilan (1760–­after 1829), Wang Qisun (1755–1817) and Cao Zhenxiu (1762–­?), Wang Tan (1760–1817) and Jin Liying, Luo Pin (1733–1799) and Fang Wanyi (1732–1799), came from this era. Perhaps not incidentally, Shen Fu and Chen Yun, then ­little known, lived at this time as well. Two forces appeared to be at work that brought the perfect-­match practice to a peak: the coming of age of an exceptionally bright cohort of young female poets and the enthusiastic promotion of the perfect-­match ideal by male advocates for female poets like Yuan Mei, Hong Liangji, and Chen Wenshu. ­These two ­factors enhanced one another. Leading literati taking up mentoring roles for female poets helped spread the ­women’s reputation empire-­wide, and their praise cast the limelight on the perfect-­match marriages of ­t hese w ­ omen, or the lack thereof, which in turn generated continuous energy feeding the perfect-­match craze. Works critiquing poetry and art, by male and female authors alike, constituted regular venues that celebrated, circulated, and showcased the new perfect-­match marriages. An Account of a Con­temporary Ink Grove (Mo lin jin hua), for example, was scattered with anecdotes and commentaries about such perfect matches. In her Remarks on the Poetry of Notable W ­ omen (Ming yuan shihua), Shen Shanbao singled out a stanza Chen Shulan wrote: “Rolling up his sleeves, my husband ­gently pulls back my hair and does my makeup.” “One can imagine how much in love they w ­ ere!” she remarked exuberantly.47 Yun Zhu (1771–1833), compiler of The Correct Beginnings (Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji), sang the praises of Pan Zengying (1808–1878) and his wife, Lu Yunmei: “They matched perfectly as if they ­were a pair of immortals, and won high acclaim from ­people.” 48 Given the widespread practice of child betrothal, prefect-­match marriages proved to be elusive. When marriage arrangements ­were made when a child was grown, the possibility was much improved. A widower looking for a wife was especially well positioned to find a perfect match. Wang Qisun and Wang Tan are two cases in point. ­After losing their first wives, both men searched

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earnestly for someone special to marry. Years passed before Wang Qisun got exciting information about a young maiden. Waiting to be betrothed at a tender age, she is like a fragrant plant in spring, Her moving poetry I’ve already heard about. Books on her embroidered couch are neatly stacked, Calligraphy workbooks are well kept with the insect repellent herb. Living deep inside the boudoir, She has all the skills: reading, painting, playing the zither and chess. Her short poems fit the Tang and the Song styles, Her exquisite small-­character calligraphy imitates the Ou [Yangxun] style, not that of Zhao [Mengfu]. In imitating the Ou or the Zhao styles, she has yet to reach perfection. Yet some already call her a “female scholar.” 49

So lovely was this maiden, according to this jubilant poem Wang wrote, “who does not want to be chosen as her husband?” Luckily, she was not interested in the power­f ul and wealthy, but instead set her heart on him, a self-­ described “poor and sickly” poet who had demonstrated outstanding talent and enjoyed a ­great reputation even though a prestigious examination degree had thus far eluded him. Titled “Milky Way,” Wang’s romantic poem alluded to the folktale of the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid. Elated about the prospect of having a perfect match and presumably also proud of his poetic skills, Wang circulated the poem, which resulted in responses of congratulatory inscriptions from twelve friends and acquaintances, including Shi Yunyu.50 His bride, Cao Zhenxiu, would become one of the most renowned female calligraphers of the Qing (fig. 2.1). The ­couple actively advertised their perfect-­match reputation and turned it into a mechanism for building new relationships by using their collaborative works of calligraphy and poems as elegant gifts. When looking to remarry, the eccentric and arrogant Wang Tan claimed that many wealthy and power­ful families approached him with marriage proposals. He did not reject them outright, but, he wrote, “in my heart, I was waiting for someone.”51 This “someone” was Jin Liying, who hailed from a distinguished ­family in Shaoxing. It appeared that he had already known her for some time. At thirteen, Jin had copied one of his famous essays, which, Wang jokingly noted, would turn out to be his first “betrothal gift.” They w ­ ere

2.1. Zhou Li and Cao Zhenxiu, Portrait of Cao Zhenxiu, hanging scroll. (Reprinted by permission of the Palace Museum, Beijing.)

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married uxorilocally at Jin’s parents’ residence, but he took leave of his bride just a few days l­ ater to sit for the metropolitan examination, which he failed. His dream of accomplishing this outstanding feat would never materialize, as he soon suffered a major c­ areer setback.52 In contrast to Wang Qisun and Cao Zhenxiu, who enjoyed their perfect match through social interactions, Wang Tan and Jin Liying derived satisfaction from a more private life. While living by West Lake in Hangzhou, the c­ ouple reportedly hung a calligraphy couplet at the entrance of their home that read: “A ­couple taking up residence by the emerald ­water and the scarlet mountain—­the wife is very smart and the husband strange. / All four sides are surrounded by green phosphorescent light and white bones—so few are ­people and so many are ghosts.”53 The story about the unique ­couple who created a life in an otherworldly place of their own captured the imagination of their contemporaries. Jin Liying died of illness at age thirty-­six. The lengthy epitaph Wang Tan wrote was unique for the genre, as it was adorned with “parallel prose” (pianti) style and dense allusions. This unique style was fitting, though, for an extraordinarily gifted ­woman and the somewhat eccentric life they led. The ­couple sometimes socialized extravagantly, which was made pos­si­ble by generous gifts from Wang’s patrons. At other times, they lived in solitude. At one point, they rented a beautiful h ­ ouse in Suzhou and settled down for four years. Th ­ ere, Jin worked on three major proj­ects: editing previous rec­ords about ­women and combining them into a book; compiling an anthology of w ­ omen’s writings that was modeled ­after Se­lections of Refined Lit­er­a­ture (Wenxuan) by Xiao Tong (501–531); and writing a book of commentary on The Classic of Poetry that brought together the four major schools of interpretation. She was as much a scholar as an accomplished artist. For instance, the Buddhist portraits she painted ­were so well-­k nown in Japan that a daimyo commissioned her to paint a scroll on a special type of paper that he supplied (fig. 2.2). Her artistic insights ­were outstanding. Wang quoted her as saying, “The spring mountain looks as if it is jubilant, the summer mountain looks as if it is in competition, the autumn mountain looks as if it is ill, and the winter mountain looks as if it is at peace. . . . ​Learning from a teacher is not as good as learning from nature and traveling in the mountains one is sure to encounter magnificent views.”54 Not surprisingly, as Wang Tan put his focus on their intellectually fulfilled and joyful life, he was completely ­silent on Jin’s domestic role. Nothing in the epitaph touched upon the usual subjects of management of the ­house­hold or other conventional wifely duties.

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Woven into this narrative of intellectual companionship was a theme of plea­sure and intimacy. One year they planted three thousand peach trees around their residence. ­ After learning from a neighbor that plum trees would live much longer, they bought a thousand of them from Gaoting, a town famous for its plum blossoms. Using the phrase yun ti hua mei (press one’s own body [onto his wife’s] and draw eyebrows [on her]), Wang hinted at his physical attraction to Jin. As w ­ ill be recalled, the phrase alludes to the two iconic tales of conjugal love: Xun Chan, who used his own cooled body to bring down his wife’s temperature during a fever, and Zhang Chang, who applied his wife’s makeup. Both ­were common allusions in Qing writing, but referring to them in an epitaph, the most solemn form of any biography, marked a new level of assertiveness in the pre­ sen­ ta­ tion of marital love. Wang was purposefully making their love a cornerstone of the epitaph. In fact, he opened the epitaph with this 2.2. Jin Liying, Portrait of Guanyin, line: “If one regards love [qing ai] as hanging scroll. (Zhejiang Museum; barnyard grass or a piece of broken reprinted with permission from Cao Qing, tile, then a goddess or a beauty would Xiang gui zhui zhen, 55.) be like a mere skin bag.”55 The declaration made crystal clear Wang’s intent to pre­sent his late wife as an intimate partner as well as intellectual companion. His epitaph was a tribute to their relationship. It is worth pointing out that in Wang’s portrayal, Jin was an artist and scholar in her own right. They had separate and overlapping intellectual

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interests; in no shape or form did she need to rely on him. In the late eigh­ teenth and early nineteenth centuries it appears that ­women ­were able to make such an impression that even famously arrogant men ­were willing to show their awe or acknowledge their wives’ superiority.56 In their intellectual relationship, men did not lead; a wife and husband ­were equal partners. Hao Yixing and Wang Zhaoyuan represented another partner-­like relationship in a perfect-­match marriage. Extremely intelligent and competitive, Wang had high hopes for Hao’s ­career. But despite his jinshi degree, Hao’s ­career stalled with a rather unsatisfactory and low-­paid position in the court. Nonetheless, the ­couple found fulfillment in their shared academic pursuits, which earned them a glowing reputation as a scholarly ­couple. They mutually assisted one another’s work and, presumably through her husband, Wang became well connected to the nearly all-­ male academic circles in the capital.57 Such a high level of intellectual and aesthetic sharing was aty­pi­cal even in perfect-­match marriages, but all perfect-­match ­couples rejoiced in one literary activity: composing poetry. Writing poems served to communicate emotions while husband and wife ­were living apart, a topic covered in chapter 6. But composing poetry together (lianyin) was a dif­fer­ent ­matter.58 ­There ­were two popu­lar forms of lianyin: lianju (“linked verse,” where a poem is written while taking turns to chant each line) and changhe or changchou (replying to or harmonizing with one another’s poems). In the former, a poem was written through the collaboration of two or more ­people; in the latter, one person wrote a poem and the other(s) matched it using the same structure and rhythm pattern. Both forms of writing poetry had an ele­ment of playfulness, which could be enhanced by putting in place rules, such as finishing a piece within the time that it took for an incense stick to burn out or for a pot of rice wine to heat up. Adding gameplay to a married ­couple’s intellectual hobbies seemed to be the creation of Li Qingzhao and Zhao Mingcheng. Recalling their marital life ­after her husband’s death, Li noted a hobby the c­ ouple had relished: they would brew a pot of tea while searching for a par­tic­u­lar reference in their book collection. The person who succeeded would be the first to drink the tea.59 As changhe activities became a focal point of conjugal enjoyment and a symbol of intellectual companionship, playfulness became a regular feature of the writing pro­cess in general.60 Shortly ­after their wedding, for example, Wang Zhaoyuan invited Hao Yixing to write four poems on the titles she had

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chosen while a pot of wine was being heated up. He would be allowed to drink only if he completed the poems before the wine was warm.61 Terms such as fufu changchou (a husband and wife writing and replying in poetry), fufu lianyin (a husband and wife writing poems together), and guifang changhe (writing and replying in poetry from the boudoir) ­were ubiquitous in female biographical materials, literary criticism, and tribute inscriptions, illustrating both the wives’ talent and a blissful marriage made pos­si­ble by the matching literary capacities of husband and wife.62 Such was the zeal for lianyin that it became a lifelong pastime for one ­couple from Hunan: Guo Shengyu (1797–1838) and her husband, Li Xinyuan (courtesy name Shiwu, 1797–1851). The literary critic Shen Shanbao compared the ­couple with Qin Jia and Xu Shu.63 Guo, a booklover, was the driving force. Li described how, while accompanying him to official posts, “she managed ­family ­matters in an orderly fashion, wrote poems from time to time, and always urged me to harmonize with her. I was dealing with tedious administrative duties and I almost wished I could hide from her.” 64 In 1837, the ­couple compiled their changhe poems, written over the course of their twenty-­year marriage, in a two-­volume anthology. They called it Harmonizing Poems from the House of Wusheng (Wushengguan lianyin chuji), taking the characters wu and sheng from their names (wu from Li’s courtesy name Shiwu and sheng from Guo’s given name Shengyu). They hoped to publish their ­later works in additional volumes, but the plan was shattered by Guo’s sudden death a year ­later at age forty-­two.65 Originating in the early Qing in the Lower Yangzi region, the practice of publishing coauthored poetry anthologies by married ­couples spread in High Qing times.66 Naming one’s own poetry anthology also came to be associated with the commemoration of a good marriage. Female poets seemed to be particularly taken with the idea. Titles of poetry anthologies such as Changchou, Heming, Tongsheng, Jinghao, and Changsui captured the delight of an intellectually and emotionally fulfilled marital life. The circulation of and response to conjugal poetry generated social occasions of cele­bration and created a site of interaction for like-­minded educated men and ­women. When Ren Zhaoling (fl. 1781) and his wife, Zhang Zilan, printed their changhe poems, poets in the region, including over ten ­women, “harmonized when they heard about it.” 67 The changhe anthology by Guo Shenyu and Li Xinyuan was published with an appendix of congratulatory poems from fourteen of Li’s prominent friends and colleagues. Conjugal poetry writing has a “communal aspect”

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similar to the public wife-mourning fashion in the early Qing, but they differed in that one commemorated conjugal love in a moment of enjoyment while the other did so during a time of grief. This difference was crucial. Conjugal affection did not have to wait to be acknowledged ­until ­after the loss of a spouse, nor did it have to be framed in terms of grief. The con­spic­u­ous way of celebrating conjugal relationships was now part of the living demonstration of love, socially permissible and culturally fash­ion­able.

Commemorating Companionate Love In the High Qing, celebrating a happy marital relationship in the moment, as opposed to in the past, became a common practice among the literati. ­Couples who enjoyed a happy marriage ­were keen to preserve their cherished memories and commemorate their affection. To be sure, spousal mourning remained the pinnacle of displaying conjugal affection, but High Qing ­couples took unpre­ce­dented interest in professing their happy lives, ­either privately and in their own way or publicly, joined by communities that relished being part of the cele­bration. The episode described by Shen Fu, cited in the beginning of this chapter, shines a light on a private moment of marriage celebration. It occurred on the night of the popu­lar Double Seven Festival, which invoked the popu­lar tale of the Weaving Maid and the Cowherd.68 The Weaving Maid, who was from the celestial palace in Heaven, fell in love with the Cowherd, a h ­ uman, and secretly descended to Earth to marry him. But soon ­after, she was forced to return to the celestial palace. The Cowherd gave a frantic chase, but just as he was about to catch up with her, he was s­ topped by the mighty Milky Way. The ­couple was forever separated, but once a year on the seventh night of the seventh lunar month they are allowed to re­unite. As the moon rises, magpies gather to form a bridge across the Milky Way so that the lovers can meet. The festival celebrated w ­ omen’s needlework skills as well as marital devotion, and during the High Qing, the allure of the Double Seven Festival had grown to such an extent that even men would get together to drink and compose poetry u ­ nder the moonlight.69 For happily married ­couples, the Double Seven Festival was a moment to reflect upon their relationship and renew vows of devotion. To mark the occasion, Shen Fu and Yun made a pair of matching seals and chose their favorite

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location, the My Choice Hall, to build an altar to make offerings to the “two stars” (the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid) and pray for their marriage to continue in the next life. It is perhaps significant that Double Seven is the only festival in Chinese history that celebrates a ­human relationship. This certainly speaks to the awesome power of love as timeless and universal. In Chinese history, however, the enduring appeal of the Double Seven Festival might also have been ­because of the very moral system that demanded control over marital love. The festival offered a sanctioned channel for celebrating conjugal emotions, and ­limited public outlets for such expression made it even more captivating. In the Qing, the widespread practice of males having to travel and the resulting conjugal separation formed a backdrop for the sentimental interpretations of the meaning of Double Seven. Married c­ ouples could not take for granted that they would be able to spend the Double Seven Festival together year ­after year. Forced separation, like that of the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid, was an unshakable real­ity. When they w ­ ere able to spend the night together on the Double Seven, the moment became all the more significant. ­Couples enduring separation communicated their feelings through poems, and some contemplated what it meant to be faithful. “For twelve million years, they have loved one another forever, / no one has ever heard the Cowherd reject the Weaving Maid for being too old. / If ­human hearts ­were like ­those of the Cowherd and Weaving Maid, / ­t here would be no need for the ‘Lament of the White Hair,’ ” wrote Sun Yuanxiang.70 From afar, a husband and wife felt a connection by admiring the same moon and by writing and sending poems. “Night of the Double Seven” was arguably the most popu­lar title for poetry of male and female authors alike. The ubiquitous presence of the title in collected works of literati suggests the sheer power of the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid tale. While the legend had always inspired emotion, for Qing literati the new ideal of companionship made it resonate even more. Fittingly, for educated men and w ­ omen, some of the most elegant fashions for celebrating their relationships ­were works of art. Making a seal, as shown in Shen Fu’s account, became a cultured way to mark a cherished relationship. Zhang Dan and Lu Hui (fl. mid-19th c.) engraved two matching phrases—­ “soulmates of literary composition” (wenzhang zhiji) and “husband and wife who have endured hardships” (huannan fuqi)—­a longside their names on a “joint seal” (heyin).71 Painting emerged as an even more popu­lar medium for

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the commemoration of marital love. Circulating paintings and adding inscriptions constituted some of the most regular and exciting events for social interactions.72 But unlike traditional literati painting or the “vernacular paintings” produced by city studio artists, this type of painting was valued neither in terms of connoisseurship nor for practical use.73 It was distinctively personal as well as social: paintings ­were created to preserve memories, commemorate relationships, and share joy within social circles. Several episodes Shen Fu described in his memoir shed light on this popu­ lar practice. On one occasion, Shen Fu and Yun chatted about marrying one another again in the next lifetime. Yun suggested that they get help from the Old Man beneath the Moon, the folk deity in charge of arranging marriages. They asked a painter to draw a picture of the Old Man and had Shi Yunyu write an inscription on the painting. Shen Fu wrote, “I hung it in our room and on the first and fifteenth day of each month, Yun and I, as husband and wife, would burn incense and pray before the altar.”74 Another time, a friend drew a small portrait of them against the backdrop of flowers. The Flower-­ Loaded Sketch was so well done that, at a gathering in a garden on a moonlight night, another friend offered to draw “flower shadows” for them. That sketch turned out to be another charming work that Yun adored.75 ­Little would have been known about what happened to ­t hese sketches if it had not been for a note in Remnants from Lighting A Candle (Ran zhi yu yun), a collection of anecdotes and critiques of w ­ omen’s writings compiled by Wang Yunzhang (1884–1942) in 1914. An entry describes how Shi Yunyu wrote a poem (possibly an inscription) on a painting that Shen owned, titled The Moon High in the Sky, Loading Flowers to Go Home ­a fter Yun’s death.76 That painting might have been The Flower-­Loaded Sketch. It could also have been a new painting that was created ­a fter Yun’s passing by combining the two sketches that Yun loved. The sketches had recorded their happy times, and with Yun’s death, they w ­ ere transformed into objects of mourning and remembrance. The portrait and sketches no longer exist t­ oday. A similar fate befell many visual works that Qing c­ ouples created or commissioned, but some did survive and are now h ­ oused (and occasionally exhibited) in museums in China.77 However, the titles of some paintings and the poems inscribed on them survived in poetry collections, leaving b ­ ehind traces of what t­ hese paintings depicted and the circumstances u ­ nder which they w ­ ere painted. Cele­bration

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2.3. Shen Guanguan (fl. late 17th c.), Chinese Flowering Apple and a Pair of White-­Headed Birds, embroidery scroll. You Tong’s inscription praises the artist’s embroidery skills. (Courtesy of Nanjing Museum.)

and commemoration of joyful and significant events constituted the typical context for the production of paintings. For example, Chanting Poems in Concert (Lianyin tu) was painted by a friend when Guo Shenyu and her husband planned to publish their changhe anthology.78 Given the limitations placed on ­women’s physical mobility, ­it is little won­der that trips and outings featured regularly in commemorative paintings. Together, Floating by Boat over Waves (Yanbo gong fan tu) was produced by Bao Zhihui and Zhang Xuan ­after the pair visited “the beautiful mountains and ­waters of the Wu and Yue”

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on a boat trip, allegedly taking with them their books and her dressing case.79 The Jiangxi poet Wu Songliang (1766–1834) and his bride Jiang Wei commemorated an excursion to the scenic Taoran Pavilion on a snowy day with a painting titled Watching Snow in a Pavilion by the Yangzi River (Jiang ting tiao xue tu).80 Plum-­blossom viewing inspired Miss Jiang, wife of Shi Yunyu, to draw a sketch a­ fter the c­ ouple’s daytrip to Mount Dengwei, the famous site for viewing plum blossoms near Suzhou. Shi took the sketch with him when he went to Beijing to sit for the jinshi examination, and he was able to get Cao Zhenxiu, the female calligrapher who was starting to gain a reputation in the capital, to inscribe six poems on it.81 Paintings w ­ ere also created to commemorate a happy marriage. Xu Diansheng and his wife had a painting titled Zhao [Menghu] and Guan [Daosheng] Singing in Harmony in Brush and Ink (Zhao Guan hanmo heming tu). It featured a ­couple making a painting against the backdrop of an enchanting ­house nestled in lotus blossoms. The image was a not-­so-­subtle hint that the ­couple compared themselves to the famous Yuan c­ ouple Zhao Mengfu and Guan Daosheng.82 Another painting, Growing Old Together (Tong dao baitou tu), depicted a pair of white-­headed birds perched on a wutong tree, meant to represent an old ­couple chanting poems together (similar to the painting in fig. 2.3). Tong, which refers to the wutong tree, is a homophone of a dif­fer­ent character meaning “together.” The painting belonged to a friend of Qian Weiqiao (1739–1806), and Qian was approached to write a poetic inscription on it. The poem that Qian composed, which he sent to his wife, was both an answer to the request and a moving tribute to his wife, whom he called a “soulmate” (zhiyin).83

Varying Shades of Companionship The perfect-­match ideal thrived in the Qing. However, even though it gained ­great popularity, it was neither uniformly endorsed nor universally practiced among the educated. Whereas it was celebrated in literary and artistic circles, it was frowned upon by ­those with rigid moral mindsets. However, their criticism centered not on the perfect match itself but on the legitimacy of female literary pursuits. The critics associated w ­ omen’s literary aspiration with female arrogance, vanity, and even a reversal of gender roles in ­house­hold responsibility.84 Zhang Wenhu, for example, loathed what he saw as the deleterious effect of w ­ omen’s literary endeavors on their husbands.

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Men ­were burdened enough having to make money away from home, but their wives’ actions left them with no choice but to also take care of “rice, salt, and all kinds of m ­ atters” themselves.85 Somewhat surprisingly, Zhang Wenhu made ­these unflattering comments in a preface to a poetry collection by a w ­ oman poet, Liu Yin (1806–1832).86 But it was not completely out of the ordinary for a person who was expected to be a supporter of ­women’s lit­er­a­ture to turn out to be a critic. Qian Weiqiao, the ­uncle of Qian Mengdian, one of the Qing’s most celebrated female poets and an impor­tant figure in the social circle promoting perfect-­match marriage (he was a close friend of Hong Liangji), explic­itly argued that “talent should not be a ­woman’s aspiration.” He rejected the perfect-­match ideal in his own life. When his second wife wanted him to teach her to write poetry, he refused.87 To be fair to Zhang Wenhu, he prob­ably did not intend to attack all w ­ omen’s literary endeavors. Rather, he tried to advocate for a dif­fer­ent type of marriage: where an educated w ­ oman would prioritize her familial duties over her own intellectual interests. Liu Yin, for whose poetry collection he made ­t hese comments, was an exemplar in this regard. Liu was trained in poetry. In fact, poetry played a decisive role in her marriage. When she was a young girl, her grand­father intended to have her engaged to the twelve-­year-­old Miao Zhenjia, who stood out in school examinations. However, he hesitated b ­ ecause Miao’s f­amily was poor. Some years ­later, his ­daughter received a marriage proposal from a wealthy f­ amily. However, Liu Yin presented her grand­father with a poem “to express her feeling” and was able to convince him to send the Miao ­family betrothal gifts to seal the engagement. In their six years of marriage, Miao was constantly away from home on teaching jobs. The young ­couple corresponded though poems and letters, but their lives bore l­ittle resemblance to the perfect-­match marriages the educated c­ ouples from prosperous families relished. She spun and wove even during cold winter nights to help earn income, while encouraging him to soldier on.88 Once Miao came home for the Lunar New Year only to find debt collectors at the door, so Liu Yin pawned her dowry to send the men away. One day, she was mending a winter coat for him when she fainted and died. At her passing Miao lamented, “­there is no longer a soulmate in this world.”89 To Zhang Wenhu, Liu Yan was the model wife who refused to let her education get in the way of fulfilling her primary duties. The irony was that the ­couple might have enjoyed the perfect-­match life had they not been so financially constrained.

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Poverty, however, was not the reason that Qian Weiqiao chose to forego intellectual companionate marriage. His accounts of his two late wives suggest that conventional marriage offered him a more satisfactory model of conjugal relationship. Both w ­ omen ­were exemplary in fulfilling “womanly duties” (fuzhi) by putting ­every bit of their energy into taking care of the ­house­hold.90 His first wife was frugal, industrious, and resourceful. She personally wove alongside a maid and made her own clothes out of his used ones. She managed to save enough money from their inheritance to buy land, and she took charge of the ­family ­matters ­because she wanted him to focus on his studies. She died in their f­ourteenth year of marriage as a result of physical exhaustion and the emotional trauma of losing four c­ hildren. Lying in bed in her final days, she refused to take medicine, saying she d ­ idn’t want 91 him to waste money. Qian’s second wife had a gentler and more reserved personality, but she was kind and equally dutiful. She looked a­ fter her in-­laws and stepchildren with ­great care and would personally hold the urine pot for her ailing mother-­in-­law. She even licked the eyes of her stepdaughter when she heard the method would cure the child’s eye ailment. She was thorough and meticulous in dealing with t­ hings, which contributed to her own decline in health and her untimely death at the age of forty-­one.92 In a marriage with this kind of companionship, intellectual compatibility had no significant role to play, and as Allen H. Barr characterizes, the relationship was built instead around “consultation and shared decision-­making.”93 Barr associates this type of marriage with ­couples of lesser social standing and the turbulence of the Ming-­Qing dynastic transition.94 But in High Qing cases, neither f­actor seems to be relevant. The coexistence of perfect-­match and conventional marriages indicates the existence of a highly flexible cultural space that allowed a spectrum of relationships to thrive. The spectrum spanned from intellectual companionship at one end to strict orthodox marriage at the other. In between lay a majority of more or less conventional marriages that thrived on bonds nurtured primarily through working together to fulfill familial responsibilities. Marital companionship, in other words, came in vari­ous shapes and forms. Regardless of the position on the spectrum, a set of core qualities marks all personal accounts of close marital relations: mutual understanding, devotion, and affection. A quality that always struck an emotional chord with men was a wife’s understanding in the face of hardship. She stood by her husband steadfastly and never complained or argued over financial hardships or a lack of

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success. In the wake of Yun’s death, the first words Shen Fu uttered ­were that though “­t here was never enough, she never once complained.”95 Understanding and fortitude ­under all circumstances expressed true devotion on the part of a wife and ­were perceived to be rare qualities. When praising his deceased wife, one man claimed that “not even one in a thousand” ­women could live in peace with a poor scholar husband.96 Such a claim must be treated with a grain of salt and it no doubt reveals male stress and anxiety. In an increasingly challenging world, they needed more than ever a partner who was both understanding and tolerant of hardships. Ultimately, for Qing literati, an ideal wife was “a good friend in the boudoir” (gui zhong liang you) or “one who knows me,” a soulmate (zhiji, zhiyin). The terms w ­ ere not new, but for the Qing man who constantly faced challenges, they w ­ ere endowed with additional meaning. The notion of “wife-­friend” speaks of a dif­fer­ent conception of the wife-­husband relationship, as traditionally the relationship between spouses and friends ­were guided by dif­fer­ent princi­ples and entailed dif­fer­ent codes of be­hav­ior. The former was hierarchal while the latter was based on equality (theoretically, at least). Comparing a wife to a friend deemphasized the hierarchical nature of the marital relationship. Friendship in Qing society generally meant homosocial relations, ­because the social norm of separation of male and female rendered heterosocial relationships very difficult, if not impossible.97 The convergence of the role of wife with that of a friend transgressed a gendered boundary. It allowed a wife to occupy the dual identities of spouse and friend, and hence added a par­tic­u­lar kind of companionship to the husband-­wife relationship beyond domestic terms. “A good friend in the boudoir” was foremost a critic and advisor. Wives offering advice to correct a husband’s shortcomings appear frequently in husbands’ memories. Learning was not a necessary qualification. Shen Deqian’s wife had no education, but she was principled, sharp, and able to make excellent judgments; b ­ ecause of her, Shen stressed, he was able to avoid being “tarnished by unrigh­teous ­t hings.”98 Qin Ying (1743–1821) said of his wife, “My wife is frank and straightforward. When confronted with issues, she is farsighted. In the beginning, I ­wouldn’t say if I agreed with her. Afterward, however, I was convinced that she was right.” One such instance involved a case that lay outside of the domestic realm. While Qin was serving as acting surveillance commissioner of Zhejiang, he was assigned to deal with a m ­ atter involving Fujianese pirates in the Wenzhou area. One night, as he was

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recording the cases of the accused, his wife said to him, “I heard that the Fujian dialect is hard to understand; moreover, ­t here is no evidence of any trea­sure. ­A ren’t ­t hese cases suspicious?” It indeed turned out that a number of the accused pirates ­were refugees.99 This episode was noted in Qin’s official biography in Draft Qing history (Qingshi gao), a testimony of his accomplishments as a local administrator.100 It was in the same vein that men highlighted their wives’ intellectual capacity. Being able to converse about subjects outside ­family ­matters was a key credential of a wife-­friend. Education put her on the same terms as her husband and enabled ­couples to engage in subjects that ­were normally only suitable for male friends. Zhu Yun (1729–1781) described a student and the student’s wife: “During times of private leisure, they treat one another as if they w ­ ere a host and a guest; when they discussed [the classics], they ­were like good friends.” The husband was said to be fond of using The Analects to explain ­matters of their ­family. His wife would calmly raise questions and the two would go back and forth.101 The satisfaction and plea­sure derived from such conversations aside, a discerning wife was an invaluable asset for a husband serving in government posts. A wife-­friend was often described in masculine terms, suggesting that, in her capacity as friend, a ­woman could escape the implied hierarchy associated with her gender. Qian Weiqiao noted of his first wife, “My wife was firm and straight, and had the disposition of a man. She understood princi­ples and spoke her views with confidence. She could criticize p ­ eople right to their face. 102 She would show it if she w ­ ere offended.” In the wake of Yun’s passing, Shen Fu lamented how “[Yun] had all the breadth of mind, ability, and talent of a man but was born a woman.”103 Fang Dongshu, a conservative scholar from Tongcheng, recalled how, when coming back from his travels, he enjoyed discussions with his wife about other p ­ eople and con­temporary events as if he was “in the com­pany of a close friend,” for she “was always able to think deeply on any ­matter.” He wrote, “Her disposition was firm, straightforward, and solemn; she was reserved and did not reveal happiness or anger on her face. Even in an urgent situation, she did not lose her composure. She did not look worried or speak sadly despite our poverty. She did not moan or call on her parents or Heaven even when she was in g­ reat physical pain.”104 The comments contrasted with the usual dismissive and degrading characterization of females as weak, selfish, and stupid. Coming from a stark moralist,

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they elucidate how marital companionship changed male perceptions about ­women. “A good friend in the boudoir” was not just any good friend. Marriage transcended friendship in that the comfort and intimacy a couple enjoyed w ­ ere special and exclusive. A wife understood her husband in such a way that no words w ­ ere needed to communicate. As Shen Fu said of Yun, “She was able to discern my thoughts in my eyes and understand the language of my brows; she understood my every move and every expression, and everything she did was appropriate.”105 Such a sentiment, appearing nearly always in male writing, carried a gendered implication that being caring was part of wifely role. But the following text suggests a conceptual change that might have taken place ­later in the dynasty. In a sacrificial litany, Yi Tuan wrote of her late husband, You loved [ai] me as earnestly as Heaven; you loved me as deeply as the Earth . . . When the weather was a ­little cold, you put clothes on me; When the day was a ­little hot, you brought me cool air. When I felt hungry, you brought me food; When I felt thirsty, you brought me tea. ­There are nurturing ­mothers in this world, but none are as ­great as you.106

Yi’s portrayal completely rejected normative gender roles that put a husband at the receiving end of care and ser­v ice. H ­ ere, the roles w ­ ere reversed, and the wife took the husband’s place as the recipient of gentle and meticulous care. This description was unusually bold; what is also noteworthy is that she framed the husband’s caring in terms of love. It was with the force of love that her husband performed a typically wifely role of being a nurturing spouse. In fact, her husband’s love was so ­great that it exceeded that of a ­mother’s. This trope would certainly be deemed inappropriate, given the paramount value society attached to filial piety. That Yi Tuan ignored its unsuitability seems to indicate that the cultural affirmation of conjugal love had such an impact that some ­were brave enough to implicitly challenge the dominant norms. This case may be unique and radical. Nonetheless, tender and intimate bonds ­were clearly being integrated into the core of ideal marriage. Conjugal emotional bonds w ­ ere celebrated most enthusiastically and publicly in the

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literary circles that advocated for a perfect match. Moreover, a broad appreciation of spousal support and understanding was increasingly described in personal terms, even as it was presented both as an exemplary per­for­mance of social roles and with a genuine enjoyment of personal attachment. Indeed, the ideal that a good marriage was meant to be joyful led to self-­doubt among men like Fang Bao (1668–1749), the famed essayist and staunch moralist who sought to safeguard the erosion of orthodox morality in ­family life through the rigid practice of ritual. Fang was attracted to his wife, but he doggedly managed to suppress his feelings for her. Then, ­after she died, he felt a profound sadness and regret for all the happy moments he had missed. He wrote in her eulogy, citing her words: “From the time I married you, you w ­ ere usually off somewhere [­else] on our birthdays, festivals, and beautiful fall and spring days. When we ­were together you did not come to our room for vari­ ous reasons. We often looked at each other from afar and ­were not able to enjoy the happiness of holding hands and smiling. Is it ­because our love was [destined to be] so thin?”107 It’s revealing that Fang Bao would make this one of the main focuses of his eulogy. Apparently, he felt compelled to confess his regret for having failed to appreciate his wife owing to his excessive adherence to moral teachings. An ardent defender of orthodox marital relationships, he nonetheless experienced a soul-­searching moment. Affection had risen to become such a defining criterion for ideal marriage that even a high-­minded moralist was not immune to its impact, even as he tried to adhere doggedly to the traditional model of marriage.

Chapter Three

Building the Marital Bond When I was thirteen, my ­mother took me to visit Yun’s natal ­family. Yun and I got along very well and I was able to see some of the poems she wrote. I sighed over her talent, but I secretly worried that she may not have good fortune in life. Even so, I could not get her out of my mind and declared to my ­mother, “If you would choose a wife for me, let it be ­Sister Shuzhen [i.e., Yun] or I ­will not marry at all.” My ­mother was also fond of her gentle manner, so she promptly took a gold ring from her own fin­ger [and presented it to Yun’s ­family] as a betrothal gift. Shen Fu, Six Rec­o rds of a Life Adrift

A widely perpetuated claim in the twentieth ­century, that a groom and bride would only meet for the first time at their wedding, epitomized the perceived inhumanity of arranged marriage: how could two ­people who ­were completely cut off from the decision-­making pro­cess for their own relationship, be forced into intimacy and expected to spend the rest of their lives together? However, Shen Fu’s account reminds us that arranged marriage did not necessarily mean marrying a stranger. ­There ­were a wide range of marital arrangements in the Qing, and they impacted the emotional lives of newlyweds in dif­fer­ent ways. Although Confucian ritual rules prohibited courtship, some popu­lar forms of betrothal, like cousin marriage, made premarital connections a possibility for a c­ ouple, thus helping to alleviate their anxiety and unease. In literary circles, the wedding marked the beginning of the “postmarital courtship.” The rise of talented 79

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­ omen and the perfect-­match ideal engendered distinctive kinds of marital w interaction, as newlyweds sought to expand intimate marital spaces within the patriarchal ­family structure. Coping with challenges specific to that phase of life also nurtured conjugal bonds in the early years of marriage.

“Strangers” and Arranged Marriage Arranged marriage in the Qing period encompassed an array of practices. Some allowed varying degrees of involvement by young men and ­women. Although parents made the decisions, at times they listened to their ­children’s opinions, as seen with Shen Fu. In another example, one ­mother wanted to end her ­daughter’s betrothal ­because she thought the fiancé—a cousin—was too skinny. Her ­daughter insisted that his thin build belied his intelligence and predicted that he would make a name for himself. “The m ­ other knew what her ­daughter wanted” and abandoned the idea of ending the betrothal. The marriage turned out to be a perfect match.1 The story was told so that ­others could marvel at the girl’s foresight, but one won­ders if she already knew the young man and was fond of him. To understand the implications of arranged marriage for conjugal relationships, it is imperative that we examine the vari­ous forms of marriage that existed. Qing marital practice was quite fluid. Class, economic conditions, and local traditions gave rise to many kinds of marriage patterns and arrangements. At the bottom of the social hierarchy, the impoverished (and disabled) had recourse to a spectrum of strategies, including polyandry, in which a man moved in with a married ­couple as the wife’s second husband—­who could then contribute to supporting the ­family—­and selling one’s wife to another man, which gave the husband access to cash and the wife a new opportunity with a less destitute husband.2 Across social strata, marriage between cousins, marriage between c­ hildren of friends, l­ittle daughter-­in-­law marriage, uxorilocal marriage, and a long interval between betrothal and marriage ­were all common. A l­ ittle daughter-­in-­law marriage—­t hat is, sending a preadolescent girl (sometimes as young as a few years old) to live in her prospective marital home alongside her f­uture husband—­was believed to be an eco­nom­ical way to marry for both families and was therefore popu­lar among the poor. But examples of this type of marriage among wealthy and upper-­ class families raise questions about this assumption.3 ­Little daughter-­in-­law

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marriage was condemned in the twentieth-­century on the basis that young girls ­were exploited for ­labor and ­were mistreated by their mothers-­in-­law, yet anthropologists also noted that ­there was a psychological upside to the practice. They observed that growing up in a prospective marital home would allow a mother-­in-­law to mold the girl’s character and thus help to smooth out their relationship. On the downside, this type of arrangement might also lead to incestuous feelings between the young c­ ouple.4 However, evidence suggests that young ­couples growing up together in the same h ­ ouse­hold could develop true attraction.5 Marriages between relatives and friends w ­ ere historically popu­lar, and both ­were widely practiced in Qing times.6 Called “building a relationship upon an existing relationship,” marriage between cousins (except cousins whose ­fathers ­were siblings) served to preserve and renew ­family ties. Similar reasons underlay the popularity of arranging marriages between the ­children of friends. In a sense, the best type of friendship needed to be cemented by turning it into a kin relationship. Arrangements ­were sometimes made when a relative or friend was in crisis, underscoring the idea that offering one’s child in marriage was the ultimate show of solidarity and support.7 A modern reader may be quick to point out that ­t hese marriages primarily fulfilled the desires of the parents, not the ­children. But parents in the Qing did not see the conflict between their noble gesture and their interest in a child’s well-­being. Rather, the trust and familiarity that came with the existing relationship served as the best guarantee for a strong, trouble-­free marriage for their ­children. In both types of marriage, the young c­ ouple would have had some knowledge of their ­future spouse. Male or female, young cousins played together.8 In Jiang Tan’s memoir Fragments of Memory ­under the Autumn Lamp, he recalled how someone jokingly called him and his f­ uture wife Guan Ying “a cute l­ ittle c­ ouple” during a f­ amily visit when he was but a child. This led Jiang’s ­father to entertain the idea of making a betrothal.9 Contact and familiarity ­were also likely for Lu Wenchao and his wife, whose ­fathers ­were close friends; Lu was taught by his ­future father-­in-­law.10 The interactions between the betrothed in ­these circumstances varied. For instance, Jiang Tan s­ topped seeing Guan Ying ­after their engagement, leaving him to guess if the beautiful girl he caught a glimpse of during f­ amily visits was his fiancé.11 Shen Fu, in contrast, continued to visit and even enjoyed private time together with Yun.

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Child Betrothal and Self-­Identity Given the importance of ­family perpetuation and conflict-­free relations as well as the need to shore up ­family fortune and social status, it comes as no surprise that literati h ­ ouse­holds ­were prudent in preparing their c­ hildren for marriage. The High Qing, the last prosperous age of imperial China, was also marked by shrinking opportunities for upward mobility for the literati class as the population exploded and commercialization continued to erode status barriers. Fierce social competition drove elite families to invest in their ­daughters’ moral education as a class marker, while pressing sons to study extra hard.12 When selecting ­f uture spouses for ­children, the reputation of the ­family of the prospective son or daughter-­in-­law was all impor­tant, as it gave the best indication of the child’s upbringing. Haste in making arrangements was considered unwise and careful scrutiny was recommended. ­Family instructions warned against making choices based on financial considerations, noting that fortunes could fluctuate. While comparable social status, or “matching doors,” was a time-­honored princi­ple, families also favored hypergamy (­women marrying up). The advice that “when marrying off a d ­ aughter, the f­ amily should be better than my f­amily” (jia nü bixu sheng wu jia) and “when taking in a daughter-­in-­law, the ­family should be worse than my ­family” (qufu bixu bu ruo wu jia), attributed to Hu Yuan of the Song dynasty, was rationalized on the belief that this type of difference in ­family status would ensure the young ­woman’s re­spect and humility t­oward her parents-­in-­law.13 But it is easy to see how this strategy could appeal to the ­family that married off a d ­ aughter in another sense: marrying her into a wealthier f­ amily reassured them of her ­future well-­being. When choosing a daughter-­in-­law, her capacity to manage a h ­ ouse­hold and her education w ­ ere considered to be the most desirable traits. Writing about his own marriage, Cheng Jinfang (1718–1784), the classical scholar from a rich salt merchant’s ­family in Yangzhou, recalled that ­because he suffered from poor health but loved to study, his ­mother wanted to find him a wife who was “smart and capable.” She considered hundreds of proposals before settling on a cousin’s ­daughter.14 When Chen Ershi (1785–1821), at age four, was betrothed to Qian Yiji (1783–1850), her grand­father promised that she would be sent to the ­family school in a few years b ­ ecause “she has to know how to read books” to be a worthy daughter-­in-­law.15 Chen grew up to be an orthodox moralist writer and poet. Education became a top criterion for a wife, for she was the

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key to laying a solid foundation for her own ­children’s literacy and moral growth. A bride’s education was also recognized by some for its value in enabling her to express emotions appropriately to her f­ amily and her husband. As Lu Jilu (1772–1834) wrote, if a wife did not know how to write poetry, how could a ­woman communicate her gratitude ­toward her parents and her love for her husband?16 Forming social alliances has always been an impor­tant aspect of marriage, but strategies evolved during the Qing. While government officials and local elites continued to marry their c­ hildren to one another, many also cast a wider net in the search for a particularly bright son-­in-­law. ­Here, the main criterion was not f­amily standing but potential for success in the examinations. The search for such a promising son-­in-­law was an ongoing pro­cess, starting as soon as a d ­ aughter was born. Wang Caiwei’s ­father, a believer in divination, was on the lookout for a boy who was destined to succeed. During one social gathering, he came across Sun Xingyan’s birth information (i.e., year, month, day, and time of birth), which convinced him of Sun’s g­ reat potential. Both ­children ­were six years old when they ­were engaged.17 Other parents ­were more discreet and waited for evidence before making a decision. “When I was twelve or thirteen years old,” wrote Qin Ying, “I was known for my literary ability in the neighborhood. Ruren [his ­f uture mother-­in-­law] knew about it and betrothed her ­daughter to me.”18 During a birthday party in a relative’s home, someone challenged the eight-­year-­old Jiao Xun to pronounce two difficult characters on the wall. He not only pronounced them correctly but also cited Verses of the South (Chuci) to explain his pronunciation. Greatly impressed, his f­ uture father-­in-­law proposed marrying his second d ­ aughter 19 to him. As seen in ­t hese cases, child betrothal was common. The long interval between an engagement and a wedding had profound psychological consequences for betrothed ­children, something scholars at the time recognized. Writing about the betrothal ritual, the preeminent classical scholar and poet Zhu Yizun (1629–1709) noted, “A man and a ­woman living in dif­fer­ent homes are like fire and ­water separated from one another. Then through the words of a matchmaker and instructions of the parents, through the rituals of presenting a goose and accepting pure silk, their mutual feelings become deep, just as the energies of mountain and ­water become connected. Therefore, we call them ‘a man and a w ­ oman who are separated but whose thoughts are con20 nected.’ ” In the Qing, betrothal rituals followed the directives given in Zhu

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Xi’s ­Family Rituals (and its vari­ous editions), which specified four steps: “negotiating the marriage,” “presenting the betrothal gift,” “presenting the valuables,” and “welcoming in person.”21 ­These w ­ ere much simplified from the classic “six rituals” (liu li) of betrothal. But betrothal rituals ­were only one part of ­family interactions. Mutual visits ­were fairly routine for holidays and social occasions such as birthdays, weddings, and funerals. ­Family interactions gave the betrothed ­children time to become familiar with the idea of marriage and to mentally prepare as they grew into adolescence and adulthood. During this long period, a boy’s pro­gress in his studies was watched closely by his f­uture in-­law’s f­amily and good news would be shared with them. A confident young man might even send his ­future in-­ laws a work of art he created, such as a painting, a subtle but effective way of showing off his talent.22 Girls had a dif­fer­ent set of duties to attend to. They wove, embroidered, and made clothes, ribbons, shoes, pillows, and quilts in preparation for their own wedding. ­These dowry items ­were typically brightly colored and decorated with matrimonial symbols such as paired birds, butterflies, and flowers. All ­t hese activities taking place over the years, as well as the understanding that marriage was sealed at betrothal rather than at the wedding, set a young girl on a long transition from child fiancée to bride-­ to-be. They facilitated a gradual and subconscious development of a new identity and a sense of belonging. One girl, for example, was jokingly called by her neighbors “the Chen’s thin wine,” referring to her thin build and the name of her fiancé’s f­ amily, which owned a wine shop. When her fiancé unexpectedly died, she committed suicide, saying that she had grown accustomed to the nickname and thought of herself as belonging to the Chen ­family and that she would never marry a dif­fer­ent man. She was one of thousands of “faithful maidens,” young girls who lost their fiancés yet refused a second betrothal or committed suicide to follow a fiancé into death. Of the complex range of ­factors that ­shaped this extreme and controversial choice was a psychological and emotional attachment to a fiancé whom they may not have ever seen.23

The Uxorilocal Marriage of Literati ­Couples Marriage, a moment of happiness and cele­bration, was historically also recognized as emotionally draining for the bride and her natal f­ amily. According to The Book of Rites, when a ­family married off a d ­ aughter, they kept

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candles lit for three nights to express the sadness of her departure.24 That custom had long ceased by Qing times, but separation remained a traumatizing experience for the bride and her family, even though the distance between natal and marital homes was in general much shorter thanks to the growing population density and the increasingly popu­lar practice of local marriage.25 In both the “bridal laments” of the lower class and in the poems of educated young w ­ omen, the same anguish of separation resonated. Even brides with a perfect match shared a similar emotional experience. For example, Xi Peilan wrote, “I remember when I was just married, I thought of my parents and cried day and night. / I went back ten days each month, and slept by my m ­ other’s side.”26 Qing literati parents had several strategies to minimize their ­daughters’ emotional pain. One was marrying locally. Even though it did not eliminate the misery of separation, as suggested in Xi’s poem, a bride could visit her natal home relatively easily. Qu Dajun, who was disappointed that the c­ hildren born to his wife and concubines ­were all ­daughters, still found the ­little girls delightful. Thinking ahead to their engagements, he planned on choosing local families so that the girls would not be “sad for being married afar and longing in vain for loved ones.”27 Uxorilocal marriage, in which the groom moved in with his wife’s ­family, was another strategy. Long believed to be a practice only for the lower classes, this was in fact widely practiced across all social classes, including the elite, and served a range of social, economic, and sentimental objectives. Among commoners, uxorilocal marriage was lifelong and frequently involved changes of surnames. By contrast, uxorilocal arrangements among the elite ­were temporary and did not involve changing the husband’s surname. This type of male hypergamy—­bringing in a promising young man from a lesser f­ amily and investing in his education—­was frequently used as a strategy to maximize the probability of success in the hyper-­competitive civil examinations for both families, as in the case of Qian Daxin. A ­ fter being spotted by his ­future father-­in-­law, Qian married uxorilocally and studied with his brother-­ in-­law Wang Mingsheng (1722–1798). The two earned their jinshi degrees the same year, served in high positions in the government, and ­rose to be the Qing period’s most influential scholars.28 The commonplace examples of high-­ranking officials and leading literati who sent their sons to take up uxorilocal residence reveal other considerations as well. Some kind of understanding that the father-­in-­law, rather than the

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f­ather, was better suited to supervise a young man’s study may explain why Yuan Mei married his only son, born late in his life, uxorilocally.29 It could also be considered a cost-­effective way to get a son or d ­ aughter married. Zhao Yi (1727–1814), the renowned poet with a successful government ­c areer, brought a son-­in-­law home for his d ­ aughter and sent a son to join his bride’s f­ amily. Writing on his son’s wedding, he jokingly noted that it was his “poverty” that led to the arrangement, but that he was delighted his daughter-­in-­law was as outstanding as Xie Daoyun, the icon of female literary talent.30 In no sense could Zhao be considered poor, but saving money may have been among his considerations. As for his in-­law’s f­amily, which had raised a t­ alented ­daughter, preference for a uxorilocal marriage was likely not economic. In many cases, uxorilocal marriage also served a sentimental purpose: to allow a ­daughter to stay at home for a period of time following her wedding.31 Having a ­daughter married at home spared both parents and ­daughters the emotional anguish of separation, at least temporarily. It eased her transition from the role of ­daughter to that of wife and daughter-­in-­law and enabled her to concentrate on developing a marital bond with her new husband ­under the protection of her parents. She would leave to join his f­amily in a few years’ time, but by that point her increased maturity and the bond she had created with her husband would help to ease the transition. It was not incidental that uxorilocal marriage was particularly common in Changzhou in southern Jiangsu, where d ­ aughters enjoyed a higher status than in other places.32 While uxorilocal marriage obviously benefited the bride and her ­family, it also offered advantages for the literati groom and his ­family. He was expected to continue to focus on his studies. His relationship with his in-­laws might not always be smooth but would seldom grow contentious. Speaking of Sun Xingyan, his father-­in-­law subtly hinted of his disapproval of Sun’s “unrestrained conduct”: “Proud of his talent, he was not interested in being an examination student [who only knew to recite the classics]. Sometimes he drank excessively and sang loudly.”33 However, he did not try to control Sun. Even if a father-­in-­law had the authority to do so, he would likely refrain from taking action, for, among other reasons, the son-­in-­law was a “guest” who would eventually leave. Uxorilocally married grooms regularly reported amiable and warm relationships with their in-­laws. Qin Ying recalled fondly his mother-­in-­law, a ­woman with a graceful disposition who loved to recite Tang poetry and compose poems in her spare time. ­After her death, Qin compiled

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her poetry manuscript into a volume.34 ­After fi­nally earning his juren degree (the second highest of the three civil examination degrees, conferred when passing the provincial examination), which was many years ­after his wife’s death and his remarriage, Zhao Huaiyu paid his former mother-­in-­law a visit and stayed with her for several months.35 A smooth relationship between a groom and his in-­laws was crucially impor­tant in creating a positive bond with his bride. It eliminated external sources of disruption and tension in their relationship, ensuring a positive environment for the c­ ouple in the first phase of a lifetime journey.

The “Art” of Postmarital Courtship ­ hether married into the husband’s or the wife’s f­amily, Qing c­ ouples did W not go through a period of courtship. Confucian ritual prohibited any form of contact between a ­couple before marriage. The notion of courtship was alien among the Chinese u ­ ntil the turn of the twentieth c­ entury. Indeed, if the Western idea of courtship had been championed in Qing times, it likely would have been greeted with shock and disgust by men and w ­ omen who had been brought up with an entirely dif­fer­ent sense of moral decency. In comparison, courtship became an essential ritual during the same period in Northern Eu­rope and the United States. With the popularization of companionate marriage, the exchange of letters, visits, the pre­sen­ta­tion of gifts, and outings ­were all commonly practiced as young ­couples saw “the time before marriage as a necessary period for assessing the suitable qualities of and compatibility with a f­ uture mate.”36 For Qing educated c­ ouples, such courtship practices w ­ ere out of the question. However, they appeared to have made a conscious effort for what can be called “postmarital courtship” that served a similar goal. Like their counter­ parts in nineteenth-­century Amer­i­ca, young men and ­women in the Qing desired a loving relationship. The difference, of course, was that in the United States courtship was a pro­cess of selecting an ideal mate, whereas for Qing youth, courtship only happened ­after marriage.37 Nonetheless, the two types of courtships converged on one point: both aimed to foster a deeper understanding of the two ­people in the relationship. Marriage in Qing China, in other words, was not the end of courtship but the beginning. Bride and groom anxiously looked forward to engaging with their new spouse, knowing that a good beginning to their relationship was

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crucial for lifelong happiness. Moods varied, depending on, among other ­factors, prior knowledge of their partner. Some c­ ouples appear to have experienced what scholars of emotions define as “romantic love,” a unique feeling that is intensive, ecstatic, and passionate, and involves “the idealization of the other within an erotic context.”38 Dif­fer­ent from companionate love, which is a gentler emotional state marked by care, re­spect, and affection tied to a long-­term relationship, romantic love occurred in the short time typically associated with courtship and falling in love.39 It has long been assumed that, in the absence of courtship and ­free choice, romantic love is impossible in an arranged marriage.40 But the passionate voices of some Qing newlyweds suggest that it was entirely pos­si­ble. Hao Yixing and Wang Zhaoyuan, for example, declared that their “deep love” was “unexplainable” and their ­union a “miracle.” In fact, Zhaoyuan was in such an euphoric emotional state that she felt their love “in her dreams” and saw it “affirmed in ­t hings” even before they ­were wed.41 The ­newlywed couple compiled a volume of poetry titled Singing in Harmony (Heming ji) in commemoration of their love (qing). Hong Sheng, the playwright from Hangzhou, was set to wed his cousin, Wang Lanci, who was in Beijing at the time where her father served in office. Hong described impatiently waiting for his “perfect companion” to return for their wedding: The bright moon eclipses and grows full, The stars are scattered. Alas, the pair of mandarin ducks! Why are they separated for so long? ­There is the quilt of love, but I sleep alone—­for whom is it laid on the bed? Gazing northward, my heart is filled with melancholy. Pacing incessantly, I wait for the returning chariot.42

Note the sexual overtone of Hong’s imagination. If the trope about mandarin ducks was subtle, the image of the love quilt and the bed without the bride by his side convey his sexual longing more directly. He has been waiting for too long and is restless. This was a young man consumed by intense attraction and desire. Once his fiancé returned, their wedding followed shortly thereafter. “It soothes my heart that has been so thirsty and hungry,” Hong wrote. The consummation of the marriage furthered their love: “We love as if we are soulmates who just got to know each other.” It was an experience of

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such ecstasy that he declared, “The spring flowers ­will not come back, let’s enjoy this moment of ­great bliss.” 43 Young w ­ omen, too, could describe a similar emotional state, as seen in the romantic idealization in the following poem by Shen Huiyu, titled “Same Sound Song” (Tongsheng ge). Her marriage to Ni Xuehang was called a perfect match by their contemporaries.44 From a young age I lived in a deep boudoir, [Now] I am feeling your tender love. You betrothed me with a bright Moon Pearl, And came to fetch me with a gold-saddled horse. To­night, we wed, Pledging eternal love. Crossing the autumn river to pluck orchids,45 Gathering watercress for a magnificent banquet.46 The quilt is made with a joint-­love pattern, The instruments’ strings are made with vermilion threads. Although [the flower] does not have the appearance of an orchid, ­Toward the sun, it displays its fragrance and beauty. My body is all yours, My ­little heart is filled with love. What can I do to repay the love you bestowed on me? I can serve at the ritual offerings [i.e., playing the role of wife]. Up in the sky, do not be like a cloud, For when rain falls, it can’t return to the sky. Down on the earth, do not be like a shadow, For as nightfall approaches, it fears abandonment. Preserve our steady, tender affection, Like the “shoulder-­to-­shoulder c­ ouple” [bijian ren], we’ll take e­ very step together.47

Shen’s poem was an innovative imitation of the work of the same title by the Han dynasty writer (and scientist) Zhang Heng (78–139). Zhang’s poem narrates, in the voice of a bride, her gratitude for the love she experiences and her pledge to selflessly serve him. It was noted for a sexually suggestive scene depicting the newlyweds together looking at pictures of bedroom “techniques.” 48 By comparison, Shen’s persona is more assertive, and her poem

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anchored less on the sexual and more on the emotional. The elegant references to the Confucian classics also served to proj­ect the protagonist’s proper learning and moral character; possibly for this very reason, the poem was included in a number of major ­Qing women’s anthologies, and a commentator even lauded it as a “supplement” to Ban Zhao’s Exhortations for My D ­ aughter.49 We cannot be certain if the poem was an ­actual account of her emotional experience or a work of literary exercise. But w ­ hether it expressed i­ magined or real feelings, the poem reveals what some young w ­ omen yearned for and what their emotional state was like at the time of their wedding. By all indications, Shen Huiyu was a high-­minded ­woman of strong moral conviction. When her mother-­in-­law died, she wanted to follow her in death, and she strug­gled with ­mental illness when she was unable to do so. She ­later died of grief over her own ­mother’s death.50 Another poem, titled “Self-­ Exhortation,” carries an air of erudition and orthodoxy. Shen cited Meng Guang as her role model for the wife-­husband relationship in that poem. Following the influential Mao Commentary on the Classic of Poetry, she stated “gentle, relaxed, chaste, and quiet” as the ideal qualities for the spouse of a gentleman.51 The poem’s stern tone is a far cry from the romantic voice in the “Same Sound Song.” But apparently for Shen Huiyu and her con­ temporary readers, who extolled both poems, no discrepancy separated the two poems. Rejoicing in intimacy and in high-­minded moral self-­discipline in daily conduct was complementary rather than contradictory. A wedding marked the beginning of postmarital courtship, and literati men and ­women had a special set of tools to help break the ice: writing brush and paper, chess, musical instruments, tea, and wine. In the following passage, Yuan Mei describes the wedding of Chen Zhushi and Jin Yi, one of his favorite female disciples. As the guests gathered to celebrate, a young maid suddenly came to look for the groom with a flower-­patterned paper in her hand. [She said,] “The bride is waiting for a cuizhuang [hastening the bride’s toilette] poem.” Chen was astounded. Luckily, he was used to [writing poems]. He immediately answered the bride’s request and asked for a reply from the bride [with a poem of the same tune]. Thereafter, [the relationship of the two was like] qin and se harmonizing with each other. Next to her vari­ous dowry items, ink [i.e., papers and books] spread. In less than a few days, their bedroom was transformed into a study.52

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Part of wedding festivities, the practice of congratulating the newlyweds with cuizhuang and queshan poems (“removing the fan [that covers the bride’s face])” originated in the Tang dynasty (618–906) at the latest. Although wedding guests w ­ ere supposed to write such poems, during the Qing it became fash­ion­able for grooms and brides to undertake the authorship role, as a kind of gameplay at their own weddings. Zhong Zhenkui recorded a nearly identical event to the one just described at his wedding.53 In yet another case, Zhao Yi noted, perhaps jokingly, that a bride requested a hundred cuizhuang poems from her groom.54 Wedding poems would be carefully preserved as Yuan Tang, Yuan Mei’s cousin, did with t­hose from her wedding. Titled “Cuizhuang,” her a­ lbum had an exquisite cover decorated with butterflies.55 The literati wedding fashion may suggest an interplay between fiction and real life: a bride testing her groom’s literary talent was often featured in late imperial fiction and popu­lar lit­er­a­ture.56 What did the composition of t­ hese poems mean to accomplish? The following cuizhuang poems, by Hao Yixing and Wang Zhaoyuan, respectively, give us some clues.57 Heaven grants the joining of our auspicious u ­ nion, ­People witness the moment of happy marriage. The two stars [the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid] hang over the decorated [wedding] chamber, The two leaves reflect the new poems. How luxuriant is the peach blossom!58 The beautiful flower waits for the groom to pick her [for the wedding].59 She dreamed the dreams of candles repeatedly making “snuff flowers,” 60 The ­union of one hundred years is long predestined. Heaven brings us together, ­Today, we wed. In happiness, we write the lines of “fitting for the ­family.” 61 In our beautiful residence, we compose poems. Reciting the words “admiring the high mountain,” 62 Filling our ears is the song of “Zhu,” 63 My ­mother is joyous, [seeing that] we are respectful and deferential; I foresee that I ­w ill grow old together with you.64

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Full of auspicious symbolism, the poems conveyed a message of warm wishes for a happy ­union. But the groom and bride had something ­else in mind: to impress one another. Both poems made heavy references to The Classic of Poetry, which the bride had studied closely. Hao was signaling his acknowledgment of his bride’s education and displaying his own credentials; Wang was demonstrating and asserting her intellectual range.65 Classic wedding poems w ­ ere now written not only to congratulate someone ­else’s ­union but ­were also emblematic of the effect of ­women’s education and the changing ideas of marriage. The appropriation of the poetic form by bride and groom as a means of self-­congratulation and self-­expression suggests a new ideal, one that underscored the significance of marriage for the self rather than the ­family. Ideologically, the High Qing saw ­little movement questioning the orthodoxy that marriage was primarily for the ­family rather than the individual, and newlyweds like Hao and Wang did not conscientiously intend to change that. Yet making their wedding an event about themselves drew their own thinking away from core orthodox norms that trivialized personal happiness, thus indicating a subtle yet impor­tant shift in their understanding of the meaning of marriage. It is worth pointing out that the groom did not always assume a leading part in the initial interactions with the bride. The fact that the bride was the one who initiated the “game” of requesting wedding poems signified her newfound confidence and assertiveness. The gesture was a sharp departure from the supposed lowly and moderate role expected of a bride. An account by Sun Xingyan of his own uxorilocal marriage (written many years l­ater) provides another look at delicate interactions led by the bride. Both Sun and his bride, Wang Caiwei, ­were nineteen at the time of the wedding. Sun was developing a soaring literary reputation, but his arrogance was challenged when he realized just how capable his bride was. My wife and her s­ isters w ­ ere all literate and good at calligraphy. A few days into our wedding, she asked me to compose song lyric [ci] poetry and play chess with her. I had learned neither how to write ci nor play chess, and felt rather ashamed. I thereupon studied the ci composition in order to answer her invitation, but I never succeeded in learning how to play chess with her. All day long she held a book in her hand and taught her younger ­sister in their room. From time to time she practiced calligraphy by lintie [imitating a model script], and she especially loved the Yu Shinan style. She copied for me my

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poems [in the Yu style], some of which are still kept in my chest. She once said that ci poems from the Tang and the Five Dynasties period could all be played with flute and panpipe according to their tune and rhythm. On a quiet night in late spring, she would play flute to the tune of Li Yu’s song lyric, “Outside the Curtains the Rain is Murmuring,” and ask me to listen to it carefully. At the stanza “Spring is gone like blossoms fallen on flowing w ­ ater, my paradise too,” every­one was moved to tears. ­Later on I made a posthumous painting of her, entitling it Fallen Blossoms and Flowing W ­ ater. That was why.66

In the comfort of her own home, Wang Caiwei calmly engaged with her groom. We can see the hint of a test as well as an air of confidence on her part, believing that she had the ability to win over his re­spect and affection. Writing poems together was a central part of newlywed cele­brations. In his memoir, Shen Fu describes an episode of playing the game of lianju with Yun on a moonlit night during the Ghost Festival: I caught sight of fireflies flickering like countless points of light on the far bank, weaving their way through the willow fronds and wild grasses on the island in the river. So I started up a game of linked verse with Yuan to chase away our bad mood. A ­ fter just two turns, we already found ourselves feeling more relaxed with each new couplet and even got a ­little carried away, calling out what­ever silly ­t hings came to mind. Yun nearly choked with laughter, and tears ­were streaming down her face as she laughed her way right into my arms, unable to get another word out. The rich fragrance of jasmine-­scented hair oil ­rose to my nostrils as I patted her on the back and spoke of something ­else to help her calm down.67

The level of detail that Shen Fu reveals takes us beyond the embellished and suggestive poetic references that often obscure ­these kinds of interactions, giving us a clearer idea of the context and atmosphere that made ­these events so alluring to newlyweds. Writing poetry was often spontaneous and intimate, involving witty conversation, wine or tea, and touching and caressing. Describing a trip with his bride, Cao Zhenxiu, Wang Qisun wrote in typically adorned fashion: “Having removed the candle snuff, [we sat] at the same ­table; an enormous inkstone lay mixed with bracelets and rings. / [We] chanted poetry and discussed paintings, as the morning spring breeze lifted up her hair.” 68 Readers could fill in the descriptive sketch with their own imagination: laughter,

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teasing, an amusing conversation, and perhaps the aroma of wine or tea. Wang, no doubt, enjoyed t­ hese moments not just for the intellectual stimulation but for the sensual plea­sure as well, as he gazed at the graceful movement of his wife’s hands (“bracelet and rings”) and her beautiful hair.

The Boudoir and Beyond: Conjugal Spaces With books, music instruments, chess, and calligraphy acting as their media, newlyweds interacted, treading carefully on the new territory of married life. A series of poems by the twenty-­one-­year-­old bride Ji Lanyun (1793–1848) projected an image of euphoria. Her romantic repre­sen­ta­tion notwithstanding, readers can learn about the range of activities in which she and her husband delighted: looking up references in books, copying calligraphy, playing the zither, preparing herbal medicine, discussing poems, washing inkstones, making tea, and arranging flowers.69 The spatial center of their exuberant interaction was the boudoir (gui, guige). It was both a social and literary concept and a physical space. Located deep inside the ­house (for the wealthy), it marked the “social boundary for the roles and place of w ­ omen,” and it had long served as the focus of literary imagination about “feminine beauty and pathos.”70 What distinguished a Qing boudoir was that it was also called a studio or study. Some families might have a separate study for a ­daughter, but the boudoir, or the bedroom, was actually where many c­ ouples engaged in intellectual and artistic activities.71 Giving the boudoir a poetic or scholarly sounding name with a postfix such as guan, ge, xuan, shi, or lou (which can be translated as “study,” “pavilion,” “chamber,” and “tower”) conspicuously projected a new identity for the occupant—­ she was a cultivated w ­ oman as much as a lady of domesticity. By High Qing times, this convention had grown so popu­lar that even Shen Fu and Yun ­adopted it. Yun’s boudoir was called “the Pavilion of the Fragrant Guest” (Binxiang Ge), taking its meaning from Yun’s name (rue, a fragrant plant) and from the classical ideal of a conjugal relationship where husband and wife treated one another as guests.72 In the eigh­teenth ­century, the boudoir represented “a timeless realm shielded from the cares and evils of this world, a retreat to which overstressed men might escape or retire.”73 It is in a related sense that the boudoir evolved to be a space of conjugal bonding. It was a sort of blending of the feminine sitting room and the masculine study, portrayed at once as leisurely,

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sensually pleasing, and artistically and intellectually stimulating. Artfully decorated and filled with books, paper, inkstones, and writing brushes, the boudoir-­study was permeated with the aromas of incense, tea, wine, the textures of silk and paper, and the sound of ­music. In this enchantingly intimate space, newlyweds w ­ ere described as amusing themselves by reading, writing poems, practicing calligraphy or painting, and conversing. In comparison with this romanticized pre­sen­ta­tion, Shen Fu’s account gives us a more earthy and contextualized glimpse into the relationship between conjugal spaces and activities for perfect-­match ­couples: Shen Fu studied and Yun embroidered, and the two drank, played games, and engaged in witty conversations about history, literature, and trivial subjects like the taste of a dish. Once Yun put tea leaves inside a lotus flower before it closed its petals in the eve­ning and took out the leaves in the morning to make tea with natu­ral spring ­water.74 This was their idyllic world. The importance of this space for Shen Fu and Yun can be inferred from the g­ reat care they took to make it fit their ideal of stylish living, even ­under financial strain. Yun once made a movable screen out of living flowers when living in her childhood friend’s home. And when their rented ­house was “too open and exposed” Yun crafted a visually pleasing win­dow cover out of a used bamboo blinds and some cloth.75 Shen Fu and Yun drew enormous plea­sure from their home-­making proj­ ects. They w ­ ere natu­ral artists who found ­great satisfaction in d ­ oing what they loved most. But that delight was only part of what t­ hese proj­ects afforded them. Through such activities, they w ­ ere constructing a way of life that was private, f­ ree from parental control and a rival b ­ rother’s meddling. It is worth noting that in the chapter titled “Pleasures of Leisure,” where some of t­ hese accounts appeared, Shen Fu mentioned no one but himself, Yun, and friends. This world was an escape from his f­ amily. In the High Qing, educated c­ ouples w ­ ere increasingly aware of the spatial constraints imposed by gender norms that required w ­ omen to stay in the inner quarters. “It’s a shame that you have to hide away at home as a woman,” Shen tells Yun. “If only you could transform yourself into a man, we could visit famous mountains and seek out magnificent ruins.”76 Travel for literati ­women was not entirely forbidden. From the seventeenth ­century on, they took increasing interest in writing about their travel experiences in poetry.77 They could move about for socially and culturally sanctioned reasons, such as traveling with ­family to a f­ ather’s, husband’s, or son’s job posting, visiting natal ­family, ­going on a pilgrimage, visiting friends (even attending “poetry

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club” gatherings), or seeking medical care. A ­w idow traveling to bring a deceased husband’s body home for burial was lauded as an act of wifely devotion. In the High Qing, some even raised questions about w ­ omen’s 78 seclusion. Still, it was not considered appropriate for a young ­couple to travel for the plea­sure of seeing the world. Since choices ­were ­limited, young ­couples seized ­every opportunity to leave the ­house. Intensely religious, Jiang Tan and Guan Ying, whose marriage was chronicled in Fragments of Memory u ­ nder the Autumn Lamp, frequented Buddhist ­temples.79 During one trip, Sun Xingyan and Wang Caiwei ­stopped their boat on the mighty Yangzi River near Zhenjiang. They held hands and took a long stroll along the bank ­under the moonlight, taking in the tranquil scenery and dreaming of “making a home on the floating ­water.” Afterward, both wrote a poem to commemorate the delight of the event.80 Traveling together as a ­couple (xie you) became an obsession and a new marker of conjugal joy and companionship. Anecdotal writings painted buoyant pictures of perfect-­match ­couples on the road, portraying their travels as  a kind of public display of companionship. Their traveling vehicles and boats, too, ­were portrayed as the “boudoir-­study” in motion. Wang Meiqian and Chen Zhushi (married ­after the latter lost his first wife, the poet Jin Yin), and Bao Zhihiu and Zhang Xuan traveled (separately) in the Wu Yue region (southern Jiangsu and Zhejiang), taking along their zithers, dressing cases, and books.81 Another c­ ouple, Wang Zhifu and Wu Wantao (Yiyun) “brought along their books, painted whenever they felt inspired, and composed and inscribed poems for one another.”82 Xu Dayuan and Wu Qiongxian voyaged “to Mount Taiping and inscribed their poems on the steep cliff.”83 Without exception, ­t hese trips ­were said to have created a ­g reat sensation, causing amazed spectators to hail them as “immortal ­couples” (xian ou). It is telling that the trips ­were viewed through the prism of the ­imagined life of the super­natural. The fantasized portrayals seem to have related to the tale about the immortal ­couple Liu Gang and Lady Fan, but for  the Qing literati, perhaps they represented an escape from the normal duties required of a c­ ouple and a sort of freedom to pursue their heart’s desires.84 Indeed, the “boudoir-­study” space and the travels w ­ ere partially fantasy. The writers ­were consciously s­ ilent on the ­t hings they had no desire to speak about; for example, the pressure to succeed in the examinations, the duties of serving in-­laws, ­family tensions, forced separations, and financial trou­bles (Shen Fu saved ­t hose for a separate chapter, “Sorrows of Hardship”). For all

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young c­ ouples, with or without perfect-­match marriages, coping with challenges in life had a deep effect on their emotional connection in the initial years of marriage.

“Weeping ­under the Cow Coat” Evidence suggests that the cultural valorization of a wife’s literary talent was changing attitudes about w ­ omen’s roles in some ­house­holds. In the epitaph for his uxorilocally married ­daughter An, the early nineteenth-­century statesman Ruan Yuan (1764–1849) stated explic­itly that she had studied painting and poetry but did not do needlework.85 Sun Xingyan made the same remark about his wife, Wang Caiwei, when the ­couple lived with his f­ amily.86 But generally speaking, reading and writing w ­ ere markers of a leisured life for unmarried girls. For young wives, the wedding signified the beginning of the end of that leisure, as they took on tedious and demanding new responsibilities or as they faced spouses or parents-­in-­law who disapproved of their literary interests.87 Lady Bian, Jiao Xun’s great-­grandmother, had to abandon her intellectual interests b ­ ecause of the precarious situation she had to deal with a­ fter marriage. A beloved only child, Lady Bian had been trained in poetry and painting, excelling at “mountain and w ­ ater paintings.”88 Her husband, however, “had been weak since a child,” and his three older ­brothers and their wives, jealous of Lady Bian’s sizeable dowry, pressed for h ­ ouse­hold division, leaving the young c­ ouple with infertile land and all the f­ amily debts. As debt collectors came to their door daily, Lady Bian “sold her dowry to pay off the debts, burned her poetry and painting, and concentrated solely on managing the land.” She became critical of ­women’s literary learning, saying it was a waste of time b ­ ecause it had taught her nothing about ­house­hold management. None of her poetry or paintings survived.89 Lady Bian would have continued to write and paint ­were it not for the position in which she found herself. Jiao Xun remembered seeing a poem written in gold-­colored ink on a door of a wardrobe when he was a child. It was said to be Lady Bian’s poem in her own handwriting. Many years l­ater, Jiao discovered that the poem was a modified version of a Song dynasty poem, but “its elegancy surpasses the original.”90 Despite her critical views, Lady Bian did not remove the poem, leaving one to won­der if the handwritten poem remained a nostalgic emblem of a life she once dreamed of having.

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Brides had to adjust their expectations and adapt to their new roles quickly, and marital bonding was ­shaped accordingly. It was not only shared intellectual interests but also the shared experience of navigating the difficulties of daily life that brought young c­ ouples closer to each other. W ­ hether poor or rich, young wives worked with their hands, performing tasks that included cooking, washing, sewing, embroidering, and spinning and weaving. Manual ­labor often went beyond ­t hese common duties. Wang Chang (1725–1806), a scholar who also had distinguished military ­career, recalled that soon ­after he and his twenty-­year-­old bride ­were married, his f­ ather died and the w ­ hole ­family was afflicted by severe illness. His wife served her two mothers-­in-­law (presumably one was a concubine) and worked diligently. Th ­ ere ­were two big oak trees by their h ­ ouse, and in the fall, leaves piled up by the wall. She made a broom herself and gathered the leaves for cooking fuel. In b ­ itter cold winter when every­t hing was frozen, she got up at daybreak and made a hole in the ice to fetch ­water for breakfast. In her spare time, she spun cotton into yarn for weaving.91 ­Unless—­and ­until—­the husband passed the ultra-­competitive jinshi examinations and earned a decent and well-­paid government position, economic security was elusive for young ­couples. Husbands often had to spend years as “working professionals” in teaching or secretarial jobs while chasing the dream of success in the examination hall. In some cases, men began working while teen­agers. Shen Deqian “taught in place of his ­father” at the age of eleven.92 When his f­ ather died, the fifteen-­year-­old Zhao Yi (1727–1814) carried on his ­father’s teaching position and became the sole breadwinner for his ­family. ­Because of his poverty, matchmakers shunned him ­until he earned his shengyuan degree. At age twenty-­t hree, having lost his teaching job, Zhao traveled to Beijing to seek help from a relative while his wife stayed ­behind with his m ­ other and c­ hildren “eating dregs and husks in poverty” for ten 93 years. Young men from better-­off families w ­ ere spared such dreadful situations, but not the prob­lems of income. ­Because he handed all earnings from his teaching job to his f­ ather, Shen Deqian tells us, he did not have “private savings.” When a friend asked for help with an emergency, his wife pawned one of her two hairpins, but they w ­ ere unable to redeem it, leaving him with 94 a lasting regret. In Qing times, a ­woman’s dowry was of crucial importance as a financial resource.95 Rich or poor, a ­daughter was entitled to varying sizes of dowry, and she was customarily the sole owner and in charge of its spending.96 How

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a wife tapped into her dowry to help her marital f­ amily during times of financial strain was a fixture in w ­ omen’s biographies—­a focal point of performing female virtue. Husbands regularly noted how wives spent their dowries on their social needs and personal hobbies. Shen Shushan (1736–1803) recalled, “When I was a county student, I ­didn’t pay much attention to livelihood. I loved buying books, entertaining guests, and helping ­others in need. My wife generously assisted me, splitting off her head ornaments and pawning her hairpin and earrings.”97 Young husbands appreciated such acts by their wives ­because, at that stage of life, they did not have many financial resources. You Tong noted he did not dare to ask his parents for money to host a literary club he and friends had founded, but his wife “took off her hairpin and comb [to pawn] and got every­t hing ready in a flash.”98 The You ­house­hold at that point consisted of his grand­father, parents, and six ­brothers and some of their families. The grand­father, extremely strict and hot-­tempered, held a tight grip on the ­family’s finances. Helping the husband entertain was a recurring subject in men’s writing about their wives, suggesting its special place in conjugal bonding.99 Such unselfish deeds on the part of the young wife created tremendous goodwill from her husband, paving the way for a close conjugal bond for years to come. For ­t hese young husbands, the greatest pressure was the duty to earn civil examination degrees. This duty set ambitious families and their sons on a strenuous quest that started in the teenage years. As time passed, the pressure for success intensified. Each failed attempt brought psychological torment to their wives as well as to the men themselves.100 Cheng Enze (1785–1837) recalled his ­father, who failed many times even as his literary reputation was rising. The pressure from Cheng’s grand­father, a terrifying figure, was so overwhelming that Cheng’s ­father would cry each time he failed. Cheng wrote, “My ­mother in the beginning tried to comfort him and then the two would cry together. Eventually she had a ­mental breakdown and almost died.”101 Writing years l­ ater a­ fter they had achieved success, men recalled the misery they suffered in ­t hose trying times, remembering their suffering as one of t­ hose distinctive experiences they endured with no one but their wives. You Tong recalled, “I made five attempts at the [provincial] examinations and did not pass. My wife and I faced each other, sad and hopeless. We shed tears in ­middle of the night; ­every time we wet the pillows and mat with our tears.”102 The ­couple had to control their emotions in public, but in the m ­ iddle of the night, they could retreat to grieve. In their private room, they had one another

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to lean on for comfort and support. Experiencing ­those traumatic times together transformed their relationship from a c­ ouple brought together by marriage to trusted companions, deepening their emotional connection and mutual dependence. ­These personal accounts provided the context for the rise of a popu­lar allusion about Wang Zhang and his wife, who lived during the Han dynasty. While he was a student studying in the capital Chang’an, Wang nearly died of illness and poverty, and “with only a cow coat [made of grass or hemp to protect cows from cold] to cover his body, he wept and bid his farewell to his wife.” She reprimanded him: “Zhongqin [his courtesy name]! Of the nobles in the capital and in the court, who is better than you? Now you are sick and poor, yet you do not exhort yourself; instead you cry. How despicable!” Thanks to his wife’s exhortation, he strove to become a righ­teous court official, but his life was l­ater ruined when he failed to take his wife’s advice.103 The story praised Wang Zhang’s wife’s fortitude and foresightedness, but in the Qing, it was not the wife’s foresightedness but rather her sharing of hardship that struck a chord with educated men. The reference, coined as “weeping ­under the cow coat,” appeared regularly in memorial writings by husbands. With its striking visual effect, “weeping ­under the cow coat” conveys the misery of an aspiring young man whose hope for success seems to have come to an end, but it was not a trial he faced alone. His wife endured it with him.104 A similarly popu­lar term, ban du (studying in [a wife’s] com­pany) or zuo du (studying with [a wife’s] assistance), captured the same sentiment and referenced a particularly power­f ul form of marital bonding for young c­ ouples. Shen Shushan recalled their small living space, which was divided in two. In the front they placed a spinning wheel and books; in the back ­were items for the kitchen and bath. At night, ­after the ­children ­were sound asleep, his wife would light the lamp, sitting by his side ­doing needlework as he studied past midnight. If the lamp oil ran out, she continued her work in the dark using her fin­gers as a guide.105 At the age of eighty, You Tong commissioned a series of sixteen drawings to rec­ord his life, each accompanied by a poem. The first was titled Reading on a Cold Night in the Com­pany [of My Wife] (Han xiao ban du; fig. 3.2). The poem reads, I have loved reading since the age of fifteen, In a small room I sat by myself, quiet. At twenty, I was married and had a companion;

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Carrying my books I returned to our room in the eve­ning. My wife came to light the lamp, sitting by my side. She often brought me brushes and ink, and tidied up the desk. ­Doing embroidery, she accompanied me while I studied hard. Listening to the sound of my reciting, she smiled joyfully. My mouth often felt dry late at night, We called our maid to boil w ­ ater and make tea. Dong! Dong! came the night watchman’s drumming; tired, I wanted to go to sleep. My wife said to me, “Do not falter.” Not ­until the neighbor’s rooster crowed three times did we go to bed. We sighed as she comforted me in t­ hose “cow coat” days . . .​106

It is significant that You Tong, who held a monumental public display of mourning in his deceased wife’s honor (discussed in chapter 2), chose to represent their relationship through this par­tic­u­lar motif. Studying in his wife’s com­pany was perhaps one of the most routine ­t hings in a scholar’s life, but it

3.1. Monk Kaishi, Portrait of You Tong, woodblock print. You Tong was seventy-­ six years old at the time of the portrait. (From You Tong, Hui’an nianpu, 73:629.)

3.2. Reading on a Cold Night in the Com­pany [of My Wife], woodblock print. (From You Tong, Hui’an nianpu, 73:631.)

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was also when they ­were emotionally closest. With each ­doing his or her own part, the young ­couple worked together for the glory of f­ uture success, even though such a ­future was elusive. But a wife was not only ­t here to be a companion. Like Cao Ling, she took upon herself the responsibility of supervising a husband who might lack self-­ discipline. Qian Weiqiao admitted that his wife was the person who pushed him to study: “When I was young, I liked to make lofty arguments and did not study for the examinations. ­Every eve­ning, my wife would light the lamp to encourage me, and she accompanied me in my study while d ­ oing her needlework. I was moved and I began to study [for the examinations].”107 In a gentle manner, his wife shepherded him into studying, using her own presence as a way to make certain that he remained focused. Keeping her husband com­pany was a strategy on the part of a wife who had high hopes for her husband. “To study in a wife’s com­pany” encapsulated the wife’s crucial role in her husband’s pursuit of success. Examination success was a joint effort of husband and wife. She was his assistant, his psychological counselor, his comforter, and his companion. The popu­ lar phrase bespoke a husband’s appreciation for the companionship his wife provided and for the trust she placed in him. Such companionship was only pos­si­ble with a dedicated wife. The h ­ umble days of hardship and strug­gle, combined with the psychological distress from repeated disappointments, brought them together in ways few other conditions could have produced.

Bedroom Intimacy In keeping with orthodox teachings and social norms that frowned upon “improper intimacy” in marriage, marital sex was a self-­censored subject in personal writings. Moral discourse viewed physical closeness as the antithesis of husband-­a nd-­w ife re­spect and a major source of marital disharmony. Any public show of intimacy ran the risk of being seen as unseemly or indecent. That same controlled silence, in contrast, is hardly evidence for indifference to the role sex played in marriage. Sexual desire was understood to be natu­ral for men and ­women. As the product of yin-­yang cosmological forces beyond ­human control, sexual needs had to be met and managed properly.108 This thinking was the foundation for the public wisdom stressing the importance of the timely marriage for young men and ­women, for failure to do so

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could lead to unwanted consequences. The suppression of sexual energy could lead to a yin-­yang imbalance that harmed one’s health, or, if a youth sought to satisfy his or her needs through illicit sex—­such as having an affair or, for men, making unwanted sexual advances—it could bring disgrace to one’s f­amily. Timely marriage provided a legitimate channel for satisfying sexual needs.109 Sexual harmony was understood to be an impor­tant aspect of marital harmony. Magistrates presiding over courtrooms knew this best, as they regularly had to h ­ andle cases of adultery, vio­lence, and murder resulting from sexual dissatisfaction in marriage.110 Despite ­these concerns, mentally preparing for marital sex did not include any prescribed ave­nues of education for young ­people, and access to knowledge about sex differed along gender and class lines. The social system prohibiting the intermingling of men and ­women (especially young men and ­women) presented a major obstacle for each to learn about the other, and the reigning values of female seclusion and sexual purity particularly disadvantaged w ­ omen in terms of exposure to such knowledge. This left some young ­women afraid and confused. One young wife, whose husband had left home and then died while she was pregnant, was said to have never had a good look at him and did not remember what he looked like.111 Purity was a preeminent asset for a young wife, and the shy and bashful bride was praised in her biography. ­There ­were, however, ways through which young ­people gained knowledge and experience about sex. Sex was not an embarrassing topic for jokes and teasing among the lower classes, where orthodox social and gender rules ­were more relaxed compared with the upper class. Upper-­class men had plenty of ways to learn about sex.112 Possibilities included parties that featured female entertainers; visits to the entertainment quarters; sex toys; and pornography, erotic prints, medical treatises, and Daoist texts. Popu­lar theater and vernacular stories, in which love affairs and other sexual encounters ­were perennial plots, could perform a similar function. For example, the famous plays Romance of the Western Chamber and Peony Pavilion both contained suggestive depictions of lovemaking. Upper-­class girls did not have the same exposure as boys, yet they could access some of the same materials their ­brothers read with the help of maids, who could also transmit knowledge about sex to their mistresses.113 At home, a bride-­to-be might get a private talk on this awkward subject from her m ­ other, aunt or sister-­in-­law. If a m ­ other or sister-­in-­ law was too uncomfortable to raise the subject directly, she could purchase a

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copy of a pornographic painting or an illustrative porcelain toy and place it at the bottom of a dowry chest for the newlyweds to look at together on the night of their wedding.114 In his memoir, Shen Fu described how, on his wedding night, he returned to the bedroom to find his bride Yun “bent intently over a book.” It turned out to be The Romance of the Western Chamber, which she found on the bookcase in the bedroom.115 It may not be far-­fetched to conjecture that it was placed t­ here intentionally for them to read. The scarcity of information on the subject of marital sexual relationships made Shen Fu’s account particularly informative. Following his discovery of Yun reading the Romance of the Western Chamber, he wrote, The old servant ­woman interrupted to suggest that we go to sleep, but I told her to leave and shut the door b ­ ehind her. Then Yun and I sat down next to each other on the bed, our shoulders touching, laughing and teasing each other like old friends newly re­united. I playfully reached for her breast and felt that her heart was thumping as wildly as my own, so I bent close to her ear and whispered, “­Sister, why is your heart pounding so quickly?” She glanced up at me and smiled in a way that sent a jolt of passion into my very soul. I took her in my arms and we went b ­ ehind the bed curtains, where we stayed oblivious to the brightening sky in the east.116

Shen Fu did not shy away from making this encounter part of his rec­ords, but a suggestive account was the most he could manage. What did Shen Fu and Yun think of their first moment of sexual intimacy that night? If this account tells us anything, it seems that they w ­ ere anticipating it ner­vously and excitedly, and they may have purposely discussed the Romance of the Western Chamber and made jokes to ease their ner­vous­ness. As expected, Shen Fu assumed the lead, a role in which he seemed to be at ease. In poems, especially song lyr­ics (ci) where the subject of sensual plea­sure is deemed somewhat acceptable, ways of depicting bedroom intimacy come in a range of hues. Qu Dajun, for example, noted how he and Huajiang grew comfortable sexually, but he made clear that enjoying lovemaking was not for plea­sure but for fulfilling the sacred responsibility of producing an heir.117 Shi Yunyu, in contrast, bordered on the erotic when describing his dreams with his wife in the “mandarin duck bed” while away from home and his worries that he might call out for her in his sleep. O ­ thers opted for a more suggestive mode of expression. You Tong used the line “an abundance of spring breezes

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r­ ose from the side of our pillows” to depict ecstasy in the “spring boudoir.”118 Hong Liangji recalled g­ ently caressing his bride’s hair a­ fter returning from a trip a c­ ouple of days into their marriage. She was still incredibly shy and was utterly embarrassed when ­people spoke to her, trying to hide herself “­behind the silk screen.”119 Such subtly sensual accounts w ­ ere often composed ­after the death of a wife, as if old age and a wife’s passing removed the social barrier that marred the revelation of intimate feelings. Death seemed to give widowers the permission to open up the subject of sexual attraction a little within the institution of marriage. The fact that husbands brought up t­ hose moments of sexual enjoyment from their deep memories is revealing of the prime importance of sex in forging a good marriage, and, indeed, such attraction could occasionally escape self-censorship and appear in writing at the time. One phenomenon especially worth noting is the educated wife who, defying prescribed gender norms, found her voice communicating intimate and even sexual love with her husband. If speaking of marital intimacy was problematic for men, it was that much more so for w ­ omen. However, with sophisticated literary training, educated wives ­were able to apply the same language, meta­phors, wit, and modes of expression to speak of their experiences and desire. In her poem, “Thinking of My Husband,” Lin Yining masterfully wove in the classic expression “dreaming of clouds and rain,” a meta­phor for sexual intercourse: “I have not tired of reading your new poem even ­after I have recited it a hundred times; in my deepest dreams ­t here is not a single wisp of cloud,” alluding to their long separation.120 For artistically gifted wives, mastering sophisticated male modes of expression helped them to forge intimate relationships with their husbands while asserting a sense of equality. Educated wives appear to have deliberately deployed playfulness to convey sexual feelings. It was a subtle strategy for spicing up marital pleasure without appearing “improperly intimate.” One summer night, Xi Peilan waited for her husband, Sun Yuanxiang, to come to bed but was afraid of disturbing him while he was so deeply absorbed in reading. Unexpectedly, the breeze came to her aid: “As if understanding my feeling, it brew out the reading candle by the window.” Sexual consent was even more clear in another poem written on the Double Seven Festival—­t he day for separated lovers to meet—Xi described how, in their bedroom filled with fragrant incense and with an emerald-­ colored quilt lying on the bed, she composed her letter. As he was away from

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home, she told him to read it carefully: “Hidden in the riddle is a deep message; do not carelessly misread it.”121 Considering the occasion (the night of the Double Seven Festival) and the setting (the sensual bedroom), it was likely a covert sexual message. Another time, she sent him her own fingernails, along with a poem, to which he responded with another poem.122 In Sun’s rendering, however, Peilan was not a romantic type: “She was solemn in daily life and kept a strict distance from improper intimate be­hav­ iors; she had strong convictions, and despised the feelings of man and ­woman.”123 Yet the morally conscious Xi could obviously be playful at times, and we can assume that she believed her unique ways of revealing her intimate feelings w ­ ere within the bound­aries of propriety. Perhaps for her, the way the message was composed and delivered was crucial. When it was skillfully put together and artistically presented, it was “purified” and legitimized. Her actions could be read in another way: understanding the importance of sexual intimacy in a good relationship (particularly given Sun’s penchant for romantic love, as seen in chapter 5), she was willing to compromise her rigid “conviction” and adjust her demeanor for the sake of marital harmony.

Chapter Four

Managing Familial and Marital Relationships In 1785, the fiftieth year of the Qianlong reign, I was away working ­under my ­father in the Haining administrative offices. Yun used to slip in a small note to me among the letters from home, so my ­father said, “As your wife is so a­ dept with brush and ink, you can let her h ­ andle your m ­ other’s letters too.” Soon afterward though, ­t here was some gossip in the ­house­hold. My ­mother suspected Yun of relaying something inappropriate and ­stopped dictating letters for her to write. When my f­ ather saw that the letters ­were no longer in Yun’s hand, he asked, “Is your wife ill?” I wrote a quick note to see what was wrong, but Yun never responded. A ­ fter a while, my f­ ather grew furious and said, “I won­der if your wife thinks that writing letters for us is beneath her?” It was only when I got back home that I found out the full story. I wanted to explain ­t hings ­gently to my ­father, but Yun rushed to stop me, saying, “I would rather shoulder the blame from my father-­in-­law than risk losing the f­ avor of my mother-­in-­law.” She never did explain herself to him. Shen Fu, Six Rec­o rds of a Life Adrift

This episode, which took place in the early years of Shen Fu and Yun’s marriage, was just one of several conflicts that would eventually lead to them being expelled from home—­not once, but twice. The prob­ lems w ­ ere rooted not just in personal misunderstandings but also in the basic structure of the extended ­family and se­niority. When serving her 107

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in-­laws, a virtuous daughter-­in-­law was expected to keep ­silent even if she ­were wronged, just as Yun did. Likewise, when self-­interest and fraternal conflict pitted one ­brother against another, it was the wives who ­were made into scapegoats. For Shen Fu and Yun, however, the core of their prob­lem was that they prioritized their happiness to the point of neglecting social norms. New cultural trends—­the perfect-­match ideal, an increasing focus on affection as a foundation for marriage, and the flourishing of w ­ omen’s education—­ did not have a uniform effect on conjugal and familial relationships, but they did change the dynamics of t­ hese relationships in vari­ous ways. While t­ here was no shortage of ­couples who loved their spouses and managed to maintain good relations with their extended ­family, this was not the case for Shen Fu and Yun. The estranged relationship with Shen’s f­ amily was the price they ended up paying. ­Couples who did not love each other, in contrast, faced a dif­fer­ent kind of suffering. The system of patrilineal, generational, and gender hierarchies was a major source of under­lying tension and spousal abuse. Divorce remained stigmatized and was rarely used to solve marital issues. However, both wife and husband had certain means, including writing and religious faith, to confront injustice or alleviate tension.

The Suspect “New C ­ ouple” Even as families w ­ holeheartedly celebrated marriage, they w ­ ere wary of the potential prob­lems that the ­union could bring into a home. A bride entering a new ­house­hold and the formation of the new conjugal unit could easily upset the status quo. A disobedient or selfish bride would disturb the peace and throw the ­family into chaos; similarly, a son’s attraction to his wife (and, eventually, the love for his ­children) could also weaken his allegiance to his parents and the extended ­family. ­These worries ­were not unfounded. Take Shen Fu and Yun as an example. The ­couple ran into trou­ble with his ­family not long ­a fter their marriage. According to Shen, Yun was an exemplary daughter-­in-­law, and the rift between the ­couple and the extended ­family was due to unfortunate circumstances. His f­ ather, while traveling, wanted to take a concubine from his hometown to look a­fter him. Yun was assigned to find one without her mother-­in-­law’s knowledge, but the plot was exposed. Ill w ­ ill brewed between Yun and her in-­laws, which was then compounded by issues involving Shen’s ­brother. ­These ­were certainly not the only reasons for friction. It’s likely that

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Shen and Yun’s open happiness and public displays of affection ­were seen as offensive and a threat to patriarchal authority and ­family order. A young wife had to act judiciously to establish good relationships with her husband’s ­family members, especially the ­women with whom she would regularly interact. A talented bride could bond quickly with a sister-­in-­law who shared her interests. Conversely, her show of literary skill might be construed as mockery if the sister-­in-­law was less accomplished. This could be the reason why Wu Qiongxian, an acclaimed eighteenth-­century poetess, never spoke about poetry but only needlework with the ­women in her marital ­family.1 A wife’s relationship with her husband’s ­sister was dif­fer­ent from her relationship with his ­brother’s wife. Her husband’s ­sister eventually would be married off, so she was not r­ eally a rival. The relationship with her husband’s ­brother’s wife, in contrast, was lifelong and more consequential ­because of their similar positions and roles in the ­family. Tensions could arise from ­simple day-­to-­day disagreements to more significant issues involving competing access to ­family resources. For all the challenges a wife faced in her marital home, establishing a close relationship with her in-laws, especially with her mother-­in-­law, was the most daunting—­but also the most crucial. The ritual idea that a ­woman was married foremost to serve her in-­laws was alive and well in Qing moral discourse. This is clear, for example, in the centrality of a daughter-­in-­law’s ser­ vice in descriptions of a ­woman’s virtue in biographical writing. The effort to please ­in-­laws and secure goodwill began with the wedding. The dowry items a bride took to her marital home included gifts she had made specifically for them. Some brides would go even further to give a good first impression. You Tong’s wife, for example, received monetary gifts from relatives totaling several dozen ounces of silver at the wedding, but rather than keep it, she handed the money over to her in-­laws.2 A mother-­in-­law was beyond challenge, which gave birth to the notorious ste­reo­type of the tyrannical matriarch. It was a vicious cycle: a daughter-­in-­law would eventually become a mother-­in-­law, her be­hav­ior often modeled on the very person who once abused her. At the same time, while a mother-­in-­law’s authority was a given, she was expected to be wise in using her authority to smooth out relationships between the young ­couple and the f­ amily. The historical role model was Mencius’s ­mother, the icon of motherly wisdom. In a widely known story, when Mencius and his wife had an argument, instead of taking her son’s side, she defended the daughter-­in-­law and reprimanded her son.3

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The ste­reo­t ype of the cruel mother-­in-­law may have helped mold the contrasting image: the ideal mother-­in-­law whose highest quality was her kindness. This was the attribute that w ­ omen praised about their own mothers-­in-­law most frequently. Calling her mother-­in-­law a “loving m ­ other” (cimu), Chai Jingyi recalled how, living in a hut (prob­ably referring to the tumultuous time following the mid-­seventeenth-­century dynastic transition), her mother-­in-­ law always kept her by her side.4 The standard praise for a mother-­in-­law was that she treated a daughter-­in-­law as if she ­were her own ­daughter. Lu Jilu’s wife, who lost her own ­mother at a young age, noted that she had not experienced a ­mother’s love ­until marriage when her caring mother-­in-­law paid attention to her food, clothing, and so forth.5 A close relationship was mutually beneficial. Miss Yu, who was a successor wife, for example, won the heart of her mother-­in-­law by showing kindness to her stepchildren (i.e., the ­children of the deceased first wife). Her mother-­in-­law became so dependent on Yu that she would not go anywhere u ­ nless Yu accompanied her. When Yu died at the untimely age of forty-­two, her mother-­in-­law “wailed so bitterly that it was as if she did not want to live.” 6 This expression was ordinarily used to describe a filial child’s reaction to the death of a parent. In educated h ­ ouse­holds, literary activities offset the structural rigidity separating a mother-­in-­law and daughter-­in-­law, to some extent, by providing unconventional venues for interaction and tools for emotional connection. Some educated mothers-­in-­law took it upon themselves to teach young wives poetry.7 Chai Jingyi, who enjoyed a warm relationship with her mother-­in-­ law, would l­ ater form a close bond with her own daughter-­in-­law, Zhu Rouze. Chai wrote poems to commend Zhu’s exemplary per­for­mance as a daughter-­ in-­law and comforted her as she coped with her husband’s absence. She made a par­tic­u­lar point of the plea­sure she got out of their mutual love for poetry and calligraphy.8 Biographies tactfully avoided speaking of a tyrannical mother-­in-­law directly, and instead chose coded terms such as “having a severe personality.” One such mother-­in-­law happened to be the a­ dopted m ­ other of Sun Yuanxiang’s younger ­brother. Although Miss Li, the ­brother’s wife, was caring and obedient, the older ­woman was often displeased, and Li had to kneel before her to plead for forgiveness. As if determined to torment her, the mother-­in-­law refused to be served by o ­ thers and would not eat if Li had not prepared the food. Once, when an ulcer formed on her head, she was unable to sleep ­unless using Miss Li’s arm as her pillow.9

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Zhu Yun reported on a similarly abusive mother-­in-­law who was extremely fond of a d ­ aughter’s son. At one point, her own son Wang, who was the boy’s tutor, angered his m ­ other by attempting to discipline his student. The old ­woman was so outraged that she refused to eat. Too frightened to beg his ­mother for forgiveness, Wang sent his wife, Lady Gao, instead. Still angry, the old ­woman slapped Lady Gao on the face, but Lady Gao ­didn’t dare to leave u ­ ntil the old lady took a few bites.10 The incident took place when Lady Gao was fifty years of age. One can only imagine what her life had been like for the duration of her marriage up to that point. In an even more extreme case, one mother-­in-­law drove her daughter-­in-­ law to kill herself. The young wife, Xu Quan (Yiying), was known to be a prodigy; her husband, Cui Mo, went on to become a jinshi-­degree holder. But unfortunately for the ­couple, Cui’s stepmother and stepbrother made a peaceful existence impossible. In the first ten years of marriage, Cui traveled ­constantly, likely in part to avoid tensions at home. Yiying gave birth to three boys, which theoretically should have enhanced her stature in the f­ amily, but this provided no protection from her relentlessly abusive mother-­in-­law. Poems she wrote during ­those years struck a note of hopelessness and despair, where she described her life as endless “bitterness of all kinds.” In the end, she hanged herself with a red sash the day before a planned visit to her widowed ­mother. The “countless wrongs” she endured had crushed her w ­ ill to live.11 Cui Mo did not escape condemnation; at least one female poet, Chen Shulan, asked, “if he truly loved her, how could she have been driven to kill herself?”12 Five years a­ fter her death, Cui compiled her poems into a volume in which he did not conceal the cause of her untimely death. However, biographical sketches of Yiying that appeared in major anthologies, including the Beginnings, Selected Poetry of Cultivated Ladies (Guochao guixiu shichao), and Selected Song Lyr­ics by Cultivated Ladies (Guixiu cichao), made no mention of it. Being driven to suicide by one’s mother-­in-­law sometimes elicited sympathy, but it was still a taboo subject.13 The toll that such personal abuse took on a marriage was rarely exposed in Qing personal writings, but certainly the consequences could be dire. In one case, a mother-­in-­law’s intense dislike of her daughter-­in-­law resulted in the son divorcing her. The husband in this case was none other than Wang Zhong (1744–1794), the reputed eccentric scholar. Although his wife was a talented poet, it was said she was “not engaged in ­house­hold ­matters,” which caused a tense relationship with her mother-­in-­law. Even though the ­couple

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had no prob­lems of their own, Wang, a famously filial son, dutifully followed the ritual instruction to divorce a wife if she was disliked by an in-­law.14 We know ­little of her life afterward, and as expected of an educated ­woman, she did not appear to have remarried.15 Such cases ­were rare, nonetheless, for Qing society frowned upon divorce.

Marital Love versus Fraternal Love Marriage represented a potential turning point during which a man shifted his loyalty away from his parents and f­amily t­oward his wife and c­ hildren. While concerns over the relationship between parents and son ­were earnest, equally worrisome was the relationship between b ­ rothers. When b ­ rothers tended to the affairs of their wives and c­ hildren and ­stopped caring for one another, moralists stressed, the ­family would fall apart, and any chance of ­family prosperity would be doomed. According to this view, the root of the prob­lem was the young wife. Despite her lower status, she was perceived to be in possession of the destructive power to pull her husband away from his ­brothers and thereby disrupt f­ amily unity. The moralists’ logic was twofold. First, fraternal love was a natu­ral bond; if it ­were not for wives, ­brothers would remain forever loyal to one another. Second, men ­were vulnerable to the sexual power of a wife and to their love for their ­children. As one writer put it, “When he is married, ­t here is a lot of love in his bedroom, and then ­there is a growing distance between him and his parents. When a son is born, ­t here is additional love in front of him, and the distance between him and his parents grows wider.” The wife, if not virtuous, would criticize her in-­laws and complain about their partiality. Her whispered criticisms would accumulate over time; instead of believing his parents, a man would eventually grow to fault them instead.16 The conviction that a wife was responsible for f­amily rifts gave rise to a central piece of advice: a husband should not listen to her opinions. The influential thinker Gu Yanwu (1613–1682), when commenting on the saying “when it comes to generations living together in unity, t­ here is only one rule—­one should not listen to w ­ omen,” noted, “­t hese are words of utmost truth. [If one follows this advice] it is pos­si­ble [for a f­amily] to last forever.”17 The ­Family Rules by Yu Chenglong placed “love for one’s b ­ rothers” at the very beginning, only a­ fter “filial piety,” and promised punishing consequences if a violation occurred.18 Resisting a wife’s words was also framed in terms of Confucian

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masculinity. One man wrote, “Listening to a wife’s words and causing a bad relationship among b ­ rothers, is that [the be­hav­ior] of a man?”19 Some advised, however, that not listening to a wife’s words only partially addressed the ­prob­lem. A man also had to be proactive and teach his wife to act respectfully. According to Wang Huizu (1731–1807), the famed secretary-­turned-­ administrator, w ­ omen ­were naturally unintelligent and biased; therefore it was the husbands’ responsibility to teach and g­ ently guide them.20 ­These perceptions—­and advice—­were not unique to the Qing, but didactic writers judged the prob­lem to be dire and sounded the alarm. Apprehension about deteriorating fraternal relationships grew increasingly intense with the cele­bration of perfect-­match marriages and the broader trend of placing value on conjugal companionship. The cult of ­widow fidelity, which produced the spectacular phenomenon of chaste suicides of ­widows and faithful maidens, impressed Confucian moralists but also reinforced their concerns. For example, one writer pointed out that of the five fundamental relationships, wives taking their own lives for their husbands ­were most numerous. Next came filial sons, then loyal friends. Sadly, only a small number of men practiced brotherly love.21 The urgent need to halt the perceived decline of fraternal relationships relative to the increasing importance of conjugal relationships was the backdrop for Qian Daxin’s argument, which Jiao Xun rebutted (see chapter 1). This urgency was also what prompted Li Gong to commend the “virtuous deeds” of a man who let his own wife and ­children starve in order to help his ­brother. The man, a native of Hebei, went to Liaodong and earned several taels of silver. When traveling home by way of Beijing, he learned that his ­brother had fallen into debt, so he immediately paid it off. Someone said to him, “Your wife and c­ hildren are home starving, why d ­ on’t you leave a l­ ittle for your ­family?” He replied, “My wife and ­children are unlucky; I ­won’t be supporting them this year. My wife and c­ hildren are mine, [whereas] my ­brother is the son of my ­father. Abandoning one’s ­father’s son to look ­after one’s wife and ­children is not the be­hav­ior of a ­human being.”22 Ignoring one’s own wife and ­children was an essential foil against which brotherly love was demonstrated. In another case, a groom went out of his way to ensure that his marriage would not get in the way of his duties as a son and ­brother. Following the advice that it was a husband’s responsibility to teach his wife and that the optimal time to do so was when she first arrived, the twenty-­year-­old Zang Litang composed an admonitory verse and had the bridal party memorize it.

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Immediately a­ fter his bride stepped out of her sedan chair, Zang instructed her to listen to the bridal party reciting aloud his admonitions. He was said to have resolutely rejected any “private intimacy” (sini zhi ai) with his wife lest it complicate ­family relationships. Once, when his wife displeased his ­mother, Zang ­stopped ­going to their bedroom as punishment, telling her that they could still be husband and wife but only if she committed no additional ­mistakes for three years. He was forced to abandon his resolve when his younger ­brother threatened to refrain from consummating his own marriage if Zang did not return to share a bed with his wife. The case received more attention than it other­wise would have thanks to Zang Litang’s well-­connected ­brother Zang Yong (1767–1811), a renowned scholar, who solicited at least five fellow scholars to write a biography for Litang. Interestingly, however, not all chose to include this “admonishing the new bride” episode, suggesting that such extreme be­hav­ior might not have been universally admired.23 Even as high-­minded men embraced the idea of safeguarding brotherly relationships by rejecting marital attraction, putting it into practice proved to be more easily said than done. Fang Bao’s determination to adhere to the idea of brotherly love and his self-­reflection about its excessiveness was a case in point. An ardent practitioner of ritual rules, Fang Bao made observance of ritual central to his practice of brotherly love. His younger ­brother died of illness in the same year that Fang Bao was to be married. According to ritual, mourning for a b ­ rother lasted for three months, during which marriage ­ceremonies ­were postponed. Fang Bao, however, was reluctant to wed even three months l­ater. When he was fi­nally pressed by relatives to marry, he refused to consummate the event, instead sleeping separately from his bride for more than ten days. This caused the relatives of both families to “burst into an uproar.” He reluctantly gave in to the pressure, “but all his life he regretted it.”24 To punish himself for not having mourned his younger ­brother adequately (by his own standards), Fang Bao gave instructions that, after his death, his left arm should be exposed when they put him into his coffin.25 According to Fang, tensions erupted between his wife and his older ­brother’s wife. The latter was skilled at domestic work, but his wife, who was educated, was not.26 The tension grew, and neither ­woman wanted to live in the same home. His older ­brother told them, “It does not ­matter if you two squabble, mess up each other’s hair, or beat your chests ten times a day. If you want us b ­ rothers to live separately and divide f­ amily property, you w ­ ill never

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have your way.”27 Fang Bao, like his older b ­ rother, had no consideration for what the men’s decision not to split the h ­ ouse­hold would put the two w ­ omen through, and, by his own admission, he never appreciated what his wife had done for him and his f­amily u ­ ntil a­ fter her death at thirty-­six. He wrote self-­reflectively, I have a blunt personality and my wife was also stubborn. I did not consider her as virtuous when she was alive. ­A fter her death, I reflected on the circumstances; then I understood the difficulties that she had endured. I read in The Doctrine of Mean when I was young that sages examined themselves in four [relationships; i.e., father-­son, ruler-­subject, brother-­brother, and friend-­ friend], but the wife is not one of them. I thought what it meant was that nothing is more impor­tant than to avoid indulging in affection [­toward one’s wife]. My excessive adherence to this princi­ple has turned out to be the cause for many regrets.28

By his own admission, while he had faithfully observed four of the five ­human relationships in accordance with the sages’ teaching, he had failed to pay attention to the husband-­wife relationship and had taken for granted his wife’s sacrifices. When it came to men writing about the tensions between their marriage and the extended f­ amily, most spoke of their wives with genuine affection and acknowledged their contributions. Qian Daxin, who called ­women “greedy and stingy by nature, and soft-­yet cold-­hearted” and advocated divorcing a wife even if she was not at fault in order to preserve f­amily harmony, commented extensively on his wife’s “virtue.”29 Similarly, while preaching the idea that “when men are not led astray by their wives’ words then their relations [with b ­ rothers] ­will be in harmony,” Shen Shushan also authored an exceedingly detailed account of his wife.30 He extolled her exemplary deeds, including how she looked ­after his ­brother and sister-­in-­law, helped him arrange marriages for three younger siblings, and brought up two small ­children by a deceased s­ ister as if they w ­ ere her own c­ hildren.31 Even Fang Bao had to admit that a wife, rather than a b ­ rother or u ­ ncle, was oftentimes the savior of a ­family in trou­ble. He noted, “I have seen some of my relatives hit by a serious crisis, leaving ­behind orphans. The ­family’s ancestral offerings and its reputation w ­ ere solely upheld by the w ­ omen, while the ­uncles and b ­ rothers 32 had l­ ittle to do with it.”

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The stark contradiction between “wife-­bashing” and “wife-­praising” in ­these men’s accounts is another example of the complex and ambiguous meanings of marriage in a patriarchal society. In their assessment of the wife’s place in the ­family, Qing writers ­were relatively united in their moral voice, but they ­were pulled in dif­fer­ent directions by other threads and the circumstances in which each individual wrote. Even the most determined defenders of patriarchal princi­ples had moments of self-­doubt over their pursuit of absolutism. Clearly, the dif­fer­ent functions of the genres of didactic and memorial writing were a kind of compromise. Writing didactic or formal treatises allowed a man to assume patriarchal authority and act as a moral guardian. But that sense of authority and moral guardianship was kept in check when he assumed the role of a husband in commemorative writing, especially as marital affection grew to be a prominent value. Writing in dif­fer­ent genres, therefore, meant a shift in perspective from ideological to emotional. The contradiction could also be understood as a conscious strategic choice: the former allowed the writer to occupy an orthodox moral high ground; the latter gave him the space to express his inner emotions.

Mismatched Marriages: The Sorrow of Xie Daoyun Incompatibility between husband and wife in temperament, value, intellect, physical attractiveness, or education, to name but a few examples, could all cause mismatches. ­These mismatches found colorful meta­phors in Qing writings, such as “a beautiful phoenix follows a crow” (cai feng sui ya) and “a smart wife often accompanies a stupid husband to bed” (qiaoqi chang ban zuofu mian).33 With few exceptions, ­t hese expressions took a female perspective, speaking to the perception that w ­ omen ­were more likely to have to marry a spouse of inferior quality. By far the most well-­k nown expression about an ill-­matched marriage in Qing times alluded to the story of Xie Daoyun, the icon of female literary prodigies from the Eastern Jin dynasty (317–420).34 Xie married into the prestigious Wang ­family only to discover that her husband Ninzhi, son of the famous calligrapher Wang Xizhi, was not worthy of the f­ amily name. Speaking to her ­uncle, Xie expressed her dismay by pointing to the other men that the distinguished Wang ­family had produced: “Never did I expect that between Heaven and Earth t­ here could be a man like Wanglang [i.e., son of the Wang ­family, ­here referring to her husband]!”35 The phrase “Between Heaven and

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Earth ­t here is a Wanglang” (tianrang Wanglang) came to encapsulate the resentment of a talented ­woman who married a mediocre husband. This par­tic­u­lar type of ill-­matched pair embodied what was seen as a major cause for unhappy relationships, to the extent that concerned ­family elders advised parents to be cautious when selecting a f­ uture daughter-­in-­law. Wang Huizu, for example, emphasized that parents must honestly evaluate their son’s intellect and level of education when searching for a daughter-­in-­law. If he ­were not as talented as his wife and she was not virtuous, then she would feel resentful, look down upon her husband, and eventually cause calamity within the ­family.36 While Wang Hui was worried about the impact such a mismatch would have on the husband and his ­family, other writers w ­ ere more sympathetic ­toward the young ­woman and the suffering she had to endure. This anguish was naturally most keenly felt by the ­woman’s close relatives. Female poet Zhao Jianxia (?–1807) described the sorrowful marriages of her two well-­educated sisters-­in-­law, Xiangyun and Zhiyun. The three of them ­were very close: “By the bright win­dow and a tidy t­ able, we made tea and burned incense, read poems and chanted songs, and harmonized with one another’s work.” Then, Xiangyun was married off. From morning to eve­ning, slander never left her alone. Three years ­later, Zhiyun also left for marriage. Her “wild and windy” [zhong feng] and “cloudy and rainy” [yin yu] sorrow was even more endless.37 Alas, girls whose beautiful disposition was unmatched in this world never met the men who would appreciate them. Day in and day out, submerged in a sea of sorrow. How sad this is! Moreover, they died young and childless. How could Heaven treat them with such calamities?38

Considering that Zhao Jianxia herself had a perfect match, the terrible fate that befell her two sisters-­in-­law seemed especially cruel and unjust. ­These types of accounts provided the context for the rise of a widely echoed sentiment: intelligent girls ­were destined to suffer unlucky fates.39 The mismatched gifted wife and unworthy husband was a phenomenon that began to gain attention in the late Ming and became increasingly common during the High Qing.40 Leading literary figures like Yuan Mei and Wang Chang, who tutored some of the most aspiring female poets, w ­ ere witness to “ill-­fated” ­women. Xu Yuying, Wang Chang’s disciple, died of depression before reaching thirty years of age.41 Sun Yunfeng, Yuan Mei’s student, married a man who

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“would get angry whenever he saw a calligraphy brush or an inkstone.” Sun returned to her natal home and died ­t here.42 One groom saw Ren Chunqi’s calligraphy brushes, inkstones, and painting materials in her dowry on their wedding night. He flew into a rage and threw all of them away. Less than a year ­after marrying, Ren succumbed to depression and died.43 A twenty-­six-­year-­old ­woman left ­behind ­these lines before her death, shedding light on her state of utter disappointment and despair: “For whom did I embroider the phoenix? All this talk about the ‘eyebrow-­drawing’ husband and ‘dragon-­riding son-­in-­law’ is in vain!” 44 In the face of hopelessness, young ­women blamed fate for their suffering and questioned ­whether their education had brought them unhappiness.45 Ill-­matched interests and intellect w ­ ere sometimes compounded by other issues. The husband of Zhiyun, one of Zhao Jianxia’s sisters-­in-­law, was a gambler. ­After just a few years, the c­ ouple was deeply in debt. In order to flee from debt collectors, she returned to her m ­ other’s home while sending him to live with her ­father, who was serving as the president of the Bailu Acad­emy. Her ­father died soon ­after, and the ­family fortune took a sharp turn for the worse. Her husband continued to g­ amble u ­ ntil he had nothing left to pawn. In the meantime, Zhiyun suffered from heart disease and joint pain that was so severe that she c­ ouldn’t even put on her clothing or tie a knot. Life became so unbearable that she died shortly ­a fter.46 A somewhat similar tragedy befell Yuan Mei’s beautiful and well-­educated s­ ister Yuan Ji. Her husband, also a gambler, “would pinch her, kick her, and inflict upon her all manner of abuse, including burning.” He was g­ oing to sell her to pay off his gambling debts, at which point her ­father filed for divorce on her behalf and brought her back home to safety.47 Compared with Xie Daoyun’s story, the Qing examples of mismatched marriages w ­ ere more emotionally charged and tense. Daoyun’s mismatch did not cause her despair and misery, but unhappy marriages drove many Qing ­women into depression and early death. Holding dear to the ideal of a perfect match, young ­women in the Qing had a much harder time coping with the disappointment that came with an ill-­suited marriage. It was an ideal some ­were willing to defend with their lives, and indeed, one ­woman hanged herself before her wedding.48 Another (Jin Liying’s s­ ister) managed to avoid consummating the marriage and l­ ater committed suicide.49 The uncompromising attitude of Qing w ­ omen suggests a dif­fer­ent understanding of the significance of marriage when compared with Xie Daoyun. The lack of companionship

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was not essential for Xie’s emotional and intellectual satisfaction. But for many literate Qing w ­ omen, companionship was the cornerstone of a meaningful life. The valorization of the perfect-­match ideal, therefore, was a double-­edged sword. It raised expectations for a marriage that promised happiness, but it also led to shattered hopes when an ideal collided with harsh real­ity. Having been brought up in the era that glorified perfect matches, strong-­willed young w ­ omen in the eigh­teenth and nineteenth centuries aspired to a meaningful relationship and would not ­settle for anything less, but high hopes sometimes only set the stage for crushing disappointment. The ascendency of the perfect-­match ideal created dif­fer­ent kinds of prob­ lems for men. It threatened the manhood of t­ hose who w ­ ere less intelligent and less educated than their wives. Their socially prescribed superior stature would no longer secure unquestioned re­spect. Such anxiety and insecurity may well have been what drove grooms to destroy their brides’ writing materials. In one case, the pressure to meet the bride’s expectations even drove a groom to fake his work. When his bride asked about his studies on the wedding night, he showed her a poem by his ­father. He pretended that it was his,  only to be told that it was mediocre. This honest judgment not only embarrassed her new husband but also ruined the relationship with her father-­in-­law. As their relationship became more estranged, her husband took a concubine and treated the concubine as if she was his wife. His wife fought hard to retain her rightful position in the ­family, but failed to secure support from ­either her father-­in-­law or her husband’s lineage. Choosing dignity over humiliation, in the end she shaved her head and entered a Buddhist t­ emple where she lived out the rest of her life as a nun.50

The Self-­Righteous Husband While the historic rise of talented ­women and the popularity of the perfect match engendered a distinctive form of marital discord and abuse, a dif­fer­ ent type of marital tension developed among the high-­minded moralist households. Here, it was the self-­righteous husband who deployed a par­tic­u­lar scheme to exert punishment on a largely defenseless wife. For example, Du Ao’s wife reportedly opposed marrying their ­daughter to Du Ao’s student on the grounds that the latter was poor. When he disregarded her opinion, she became angry with him. B ­ ecause of their argument, “Mr. Du s­ topped having a relationship with her for twenty years.”51 The self-­righteous Du felt justified

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in his indignation ­because he believed his wife’s actions w ­ ere inexcusable: she valued financial security above all other criteria (presumably literary and moral qualities) and had disobeyed her husband. The exact meaning of “not having a relationship” was not explained. It appears to be a tactic similar to that used by Zhang Litang on his young wife to punish her for offending his ­mother (discussed ­earlier). Exactly what this style of punishment consisted of becomes clearer in Li Gong’s case. It meant that a husband would sever all social and sexual interactions with his wife without ending the marriage. Li faulted his wife for violating the “womanly way.” He told his friend Fang Bao that she was “talkative and disobedient” and that he had tolerated her for some time. Then, when their ­daughter was widowed, his wife wanted her to remarry. “I cannot bear to see this, and therefore I had her live in a separate place. ­Later on we went back to living together, but in private I severed relations with her” (yin jue). What do “live together” and “severance of relations” mean? Fang Bao explained that “living together” meant sharing the same ­house, providing clothing and food, and giving his wife a burial ­after her death, while “severance” meant sleeping in separate rooms and being buried in separate graves. “This is the rule of the ancients [about dealing with a wife] who ­ought to be divorced but is not.”52 Left untold in this account is the fact that at the same time Li Gong abandoned his older wife, he had an exceptionally tender and loving relationship with a young concubine.53 Fang Bao had his own set of marital prob­lems. He faced a difficult decision about what to do with his successor wife, who deserved to be divorced. ­After losing his first wife at thirty-­seven, Fang Bao received a number of proposals and de­cided to marry Miss Xu. This was likely ­because she came from a less prestigious ­family and thus would make a better daughter-­in-­law for his m ­ other. Four years l­ ater, Fang Bao was indicted in the Nanshanji literary inquisition case and sentenced to death, a penalty ­later reduced to exile. It was during this crisis that the prob­lem with Xu and her f­amily emerged. Xu’s parents ­were said to have “behaved outrageously,” causing Fang Bao’s ­mother to become so anxious that she became seriously ill. Fang Bao was not aware of this u ­ ntil a­ fter his m ­ other’s death. The revelation of his wife’s “guilt” prompted him to consider divorcing her. That act, however, was prevented by the “vulgar opinions” of his relatives and friends.54 For the rest of his life, Fang Bao blamed himself for his indecisiveness. Although he never divorced Xu, she did not appear anywhere ­else in Fang Bao’s writings, and the two did not

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have ­children together. One can assume that she got the “severance of the relationship in private” treatment from Fang Bao. “Severance of the relationship in private” appears to be a common weapon that a self-­proclaimed righ­teous man wielded against a wife whom he came to despise. This weapon served to exert masculine dominance and proj­ect an image of uncompromising integrity. Under­lying this approach was, of course, the orthodox tenet of marital relationships: husbands control their wives and wives obey their husbands. The princi­ple was to be upheld at all cost. The Yan­Li school, of which Li Gong was a cofounder and Fang Bao an impor­tant member, distinguished itself from the dominant Zhu-­Xi and Wang Yangming Neo-­Confucian schools of thought in its focus on practice rather than discourse. Rectifying society began with the home and the individual; the marital relationship was a crucial aspect of that moral agenda. But one can won­der if the school’s radical and uncompromising attitude may also represent a reaction to the increasing social valorization of marital devotion. It was a way to shore up the moral order that was ­under threat. It is impor­tant to point out that, although Li Gong and Fang Bao wanted to get rid of their wives through divorce, they never actually did so, instead bowing to pressure from relatives and public opinion. Li Gong’s self-­righteous act of removing his wife from home was met with strong disapproval in the local community. They accused him of mistreatment, saying, “She is sonless, and yet he makes her live separately.” Li ultimately did not divorce her and chose to “sever the relationship in private.”55 When the marital bond was viewed as so central to the fabric of ­family and society, even the most self-­righteous men had to make some concessions.

Spousal Incompatibility and Abuse Headstrong moralists, mediocre husbands, and tyrannical mothers-­in-­law ­were not the only threats to a marital relationship—­conflicting temperaments could also bring about unhappiness. One man noted that he and his wife had completely dif­fer­ent personalities; consequently, they did not have much to do with one another. He recalled that his wife once said to him, “I married you at eigh­teen and we have been together for forty years. I am so sick and we do not have many days left together. Why do you sit outside all day long and not pay attention to me?” She began to cry and would not stop.56 That he chose to include this episode in her biography is revealing. It indicates a kind of self-­ reflection, sadness, and maybe even guilt.

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Inclusion of such episodes in biographies and epitaphs suggests an understanding on the part of the author that marital conflict of this kind was understood to be a normal, although regrettable, aspect of marriage. It serves to authenticate the rec­ord. It does no harm to the images of e­ ither the protagonist (wife) or the author (husband), and helps instead to humanize their relationship and further the husband’s capacity for self-­reflection. Truly abusive relationships, in contrast, w ­ ere much less commonly reported and w ­ omen remained ­silent victims. Noticeably, a w ­ oman’s cruel treatment at the hands of her husband appears most often in the accounts of close relatives. The mother-­son bond, in par­tic­ u­lar, turned c­hildren into sensitive witnesses of emotional and physical abuse in elite h ­ ouse­holds. Fang Dongshu described how his hot-­tempered ­father would blame and curse his stepmother when he ­couldn’t deal with debt collectors. This went on for thirty years ­until his death.57 Fang Bao’s f­ather “was strict and rigid” and “­didn’t do anything to make a living” (si su bu zhi), but he still indulged in his habit of entertaining guests even though the ­family ­couldn’t afford it. “­After the guests left,” wrote Fang Bao, “he always scolded my ­mother with no mercy. My ­mother only became more diligent and careful. ­There was ­little expression [of distress] on her face.”58 ­Children who observed severe abuse with no power to intervene on their ­mothers’ behalf sometimes developed serious ­mental prob­lems. Xu Yisun was one of Fang Bao’s best friends. When he visited Fang and stayed overnight, he would cry out loud ­after drinking or in his sleep, but he would not tell Fang why. Fang Bao ­later learned from villa­gers that Xu’s ­father neglected his ­mother in f­ avor of his concubine, which drove his m ­ other insane. When her illness worsened, his ­father would tie her up, and “Yisun cried and followed his m ­ other day and night.” He strug­gled with m ­ ental illness, and one night 59 threw himself into a creek and drowned. Parental discord was the most difficult ­thing to face even for a sage, Fang argued. Xu desperately wanted to protect his defenseless ­mother, but he could not confront his f­ather. Yet d ­ oing nothing to relieve his ­mother’s suffering tormented his conscience and filial emotion.60 ­There was no way out of the dilemma, so Xu kept the ordeal to himself lest it bring shame to his parents and ruin the ­family name.61 Fang Bao knew this kind of emotional torment well. The parents of his mentor, Gao Yi, had l­ittle in common. Gao’s f­ather was unrestrained, but his m ­ other was a careful observer of rules. They never reconciled even in their old age. ­Because of this, Gao was sad despite his wealth and status. “Like a poor man who had

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no place to go,” Gao did the only ­t hing he could: whenever pos­si­ble he would spend time by his ­mother’s side to cheer her up.62 ­Children and relatives w ­ ere largely powerless to intervene, and telling the ­women’s stories in order to recognize their suffering could at least convey a feeling of justice and solace to the writer. Sun Yuanxiang observed, somewhat shockingly, how his younger b ­ rother routinely had his wife, Miss Li (who, as ­will be recalled, was severely mistreated by her mother-­in-­law), personally prepare his bath and wait upon him holding his clothes, cursing her if he was even slightly displeased. When the ­family fortunes declined, he went to see one of her relatives who was an official in order to ask for help, but wound up ­dying while away. Miss Li was left to take care of the ­children, her husband’s burial, and the impoverished h ­ ouse­hold. When she became ill at the age of fifty-­eight, she refused medicine saying that her illness ­couldn’t be treated.63 A similar fate befell Pan Lei’s cousin. Her husband was involved with another ­woman whom he l­ ater took as a concubine, and the two “wore beautiful clothes and ate good food” while Pan’s cousin “ate coarse food, had only worn-­out clothing to wear, and did physical ­labor.” Pan found his cousin’s misfortune “most horrific,” noting, “She had virtue, yet her husband did not admire it; she was beautiful, yet he did not enjoy it. Having a husband as if she did not—­she was all alone; she was not dead but was dead in essence—­her spirit was damaged and she had only sorrow to swallow.” 64 ­These heart-­w renching stories illustrate that even when parents had a ­daughter’s best interest in mind, marriage could end up being disastrous. The mechanism of cousin marriage failed to yield protection in this case. A similar example, but with an even worse outcome, involved the ­daughter of Zhang Lüxiang (1611–1674), one of the seventeenth ­century’s most revered moral prac­ ti­tion­ers. You Jiexi, his son-­in-­law, came from a wealthy landlord ­family. He was said to be quite bright and Zhang took him in and personally directed his study for three years before his marriage. When Zhang’s ­daughter was eigh­teen, the ­couple was married at You’s f­ amily residence a few miles away. You Jiexi soon became involved in vari­ous extramarital affairs. Zhang attributed his son-­in-­law’s change of character to the bad influence of You’s b ­ rother (or cousin), who had recently passed the metropolitan examination and had since “indulged in alcohol and ­women.” 65 Jiexi’s abusive be­hav­ior t­ oward his wife escalated four years ­later when he bought home a prostitute from Hangzhou to be his concubine. According to Zhang, “Jiexi and the concubine stayed upstairs day and night, and my ­daughter cooked and served them

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food and wine. He cursed and scolded my d ­ aughter whenever he was slightly displeased. One day, my ­daughter copied the poem ‘Xiangshu’ and left it on the ­table. Jiexi burst into a rage and beat her with a whip.” A poem from The Classic of Poetry, “Xiangshu” criticizes the violation of ritual propriety. This was prob­ably the only way the educated young wife knew how to fight back, but her misery only worsened with the incident. In the You ­family she had sympathizers, but no protectors. You’s relatives ­were initially outraged by Jiexi’s be­hav­ior, and they even managed to force his concubine to leave. However, the temporary relief only led to intensified abuse when the concubine returned, bringing her ­mother and b ­ rothers as well. As Jiexi took control of the situation, the protests from the lineage gave way to tacit consent. The concubine even charmed Jiexi’s sister-­in-­law into giving one of her sons to the concubine for adoption. This act was particularly hurtful b ­ ecause only a wife, not a concubine, had the ritual authority to adopt with her husband.66 Two days before her death, Zhang Lüxiang sent a boat for his d ­ aughter, but she was murdered just before she was able to leave. She was only twenty-­ three years old. You Jiexi claimed she died of illness despite all signs pointing to murder by poison. For the next two years, Zhang fought hard to avenge his ­daughter through the l­egal system. But the Yous used all kinds of tactics to hinder the lawsuit: they bribed officials, threatened Zhang with physical harm, refused to appear in court, and persuaded Zhang’s elder b ­ rother to discourage Zhang from pursuing the case. In the end, justice was only partially served. Zhang had wanted to try Jiexi and his concubine in accordance with the laws of “husband murdering his wife” and a “concubine killing a wife,” which carried a death sentence, but You Jiexi was merely stripped of his shengyuan title and the concubine was expelled. Jiexi died soon a­ fter.67 It is reported that in the wake of this event, driven by profound guilt over his misjudgment in choosing a son-­in-­law, Zhang wrote a text titled Lessons of Recent Times (Jin jian) to pass on what he had learned.68 Zhang was a staunch defender of the Confucian social order, and he lamented what he called “the broken husband-­wife relationship” that allowed a wife to take control of her husband. He criticized parents in his time whom he said rarely “guided their ­daughters with the princi­ple of [wifely] obedience and uprightness.” 69 The irony was that his d ­ aughter behaved exactly as he taught her, yet she wound up being emotionally abused and then murdered by her husband—­t he man whom Zhang had personally chosen and mentored.

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Remedying Marital Prob­lems Given the importance of preserving ­family harmony for the sake of prosperity, elders would do all they could to bring marital discord ­under control. For a seriously troubled marriage that involved a concubine, one solution was to arrange for the wife to live separately while leaving the husband and his concubine in the main ­house, a practice that had already existed in the Ming.70 The wife’s domicile would be supported by the immediate f­ amily of the husband if not the husband himself. In Zhang Lüxiang’s ­daughter’s case, both sides had considered the idea and she agreed to “move out to live in a separate room,” but it did not work out.71 Although the marital ­family had the most to lose when prob­lems escalated, the husband’s relatives w ­ ere often unable, disinterested, or in­effec­tive in addressing conflicts. Some ­didn’t have the ability to intervene, and jealous or selfish relatives would not want to. And relatives could be biased, as seen in Zhang’s ­daughter’s case. ­Those who believed that fraternal relationships took pre­ce­dence over husband-­w ife relationships might not do every­t hing they could to help. A relationship crisis exposed a deep fissure between a married ­woman’s identity and her emotional status with her marital ­family. The patrilineal princi­ple tied a married w ­ oman firmly to her husband and his lineage. Upon marriage, she became a full member of her marital ­family, a ritual equal to her husband, and an ancestor of the ­family upon death. Nevertheless, that identity did not necessarily guarantee respectable treatment, especially for young wives. If a marital crisis revealed a weak link between a married ­woman and her marital ­family, it also demonstrated a married ­daughter’s unbroken ties with her natal home.72 The natal ­family could be a reliable safe haven for an unhappily married d ­ aughter so long as it had the means to support her. Distraught young wives enduring many kinds of hardships and crises—­sickness, widowhood, poverty, or abuse—­could return to their parents for some time. To give another example, Fang Bao’s married s­ ister returned b ­ ecause of poverty and looked ­after their ailing ­mother. Fang would give grain to her husband and concubine monthly to help their livelihood.73 Natal families not only took in married ­daughters in distress, some even accepted an abusive son-­in-­law into their homes or made arrangements for him, as we have seen in some of the cases mentioned e­ arlier. The customary practice of a married d ­ aughter relying on her natal ­family for support in times of need sheds an impor­tant

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light on the workings of the patrilineal system, which would have had a hard time sustaining itself without help from affinal kin. According to the Qing law, divorce could be granted if “husband and wife are disharmonious and both agree to be separated,” and divorce must be enforced if ­either husband or wife committed a crime involving beating or killing the relatives of the other party. The law also incorporated the ritual prescriptions for divorcing a wife and for protecting her from being divorced, the so-­called qichu and san buqu. The former permitted a man to divorce his wife on any of the seven offenses: failure to bear a son, licentious be­hav­ior, failure to serve parents-­in-­law, talkativeness, theft, jealousy, and repellent and incurable disease (which made her unfit for performing sacrificial rituals). The three conditions of the san buqu forbid a wife’s expulsion: having no natal ­family to return to, having observed a three-­year mourning period for a parent-­in-­law, or having endured poverty with a husband who l­ater became rich and power­ful. Noticeably, the law did not punish a husband who failed to divorce a wife who had committed qichu offences; instead, it punished him if he wrongfully divorced her.74 ­Under this system, ­women who ­were trapped in an abusive relationship had l­ ittle chance to escape by means of the l­ egal system. And while men could divorce a wife, among the educated, few actually relied on the law to solve their marital trou­bles, out of fear of ruining a f­ amily’s reputation. The structural limitations and disapproving cultural attitudes regarding divorce could provide strong incentives to work out difficulties through negotiation and compromise, with or without intervention or aid from a natal ­family. Religion also offered a remedy or escape from a troubled relationship. Wang Peihua officially ­adopted the Buddhist name Ciyuan ­after giving birth to a son four years into her marriage. She had already given her maid to her husband as a concubine, who also bore him a son. Her father-­in-­law claimed that her decision to become a lay Buddhist was influenced by his ­mother, but ­t here are indications that Wang did not have a good marriage and had carefully planned a way out of it.75 The births of two sons freed her from her reproductive role. U ­ nder the cover of Buddhism, she was able to accomplish her dual goals: a de facto dissolution of marriage and the pursuit of her religious beliefs.76 The marriage of Chen Wenshu (1771–1843), a renowned poet and mentor to female poets, provides a glimpse into the role religion played in reducing tensions in a marriage while still allowing it to maintain some functionality.

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He and his wife, Gong Yuchen, a cousin, seemed to have enjoyed a brief perfect-­ match marriage, but their intellectual pursuits soon stalled.77 She diligently took care of the ­house­hold chores, but had, according to Chen, “a stern personality and did not speak or smile easily.”78 Chen was cheerful, romantic, and prob­ably a bit talkative, judging by the elaborative style of his poems and essays. Of course, a difference in personality did not necessarily lead to a dysfunctional marriage. For Chen and Gong, f­ amily tragedies prob­ably complicated their relationship. Their youn­gest child, a son, died at age six. ­Later the ­couple would lose their only surviving son, Chen Peizhi (1794–1826), husband of the literary scholar Wang Duan (1793–1839). He died during the prime of his life. Additionally, of the two grand­sons born to Wang Duan and Peizhi, one died in infancy and the other became mentally ill at fourteen. The Chens had been a Daoist ­house­hold for generations, and Chen Wenshu attributed his wife’s embrace of Daoism to her sorrow over the death of her younger son. She became very ill for a year, lay in bed, and s­ topped eating grain. The f­ amily consulted a spirit who said that if she drank rice wine and ate ejiao (donkey-­ hide gelatin) as her regular meal, she would live another thirty years. Thereafter, Gong transformed herself from a hardworking wife into a “wine immortal” who “drank and lay in bed” all year long.79 If we reconstruct the circumstances ­under which Gong indulged in drinking, however, it becomes clear that Chen neglected to mention something ­else. Gong turned to alcohol not at age forty-­one, but a few years ­earlier, before the boy’s death.80 ­Those w ­ ere the years when Chen, in his mid-­t hirties, took his first concubine Guan Yun, an event that was so blissful that he claimed it wiped out “all the unhappiness” in his life.81 Chen took her along on his travels, taught her the arts of poetry and calligraphy, and compared her with the famous calligrapher and painter Guan Daoshen (the two w ­ omen 82 shared the same surname). He would go on to take several more concubines in his lifetime, the youn­gest of whom was about the same age as his grand­ daughter.83 In his poetry, he lavished praise on them and detailed the sensual, sexual, and intellectual pleasures of their com­pany. No explicit rec­ords existed to show how Gong reacted to Chen’s life of indulgence with concubines, but we know for certain that she did not treat Guan Yun well and that she prevented another of Chen’s favorite concubines, the poet and painter Wen Xiangxia, from entering the f­ amily for fourteen years u ­ ntil right before 84 her own death.

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Chen and Gong ­were married for forty-­eight years, and Gong was on a nongrain diet and lived the life of a “wine immortal” for “over thirty years.”85 “She was often sick in her old age,” Chen wrote, and “if she drank too much or if she was displeased, she would scold harshly, which terrified p ­ eople. Yet 86 she would forget it afterward.” Their marriage never thrived. However, if we consider the circumstances, this could be viewed as a success in that they avoided the catastrophic situations that plagued other dysfunctional marriages. They w ­ ere able to maintain a basic level of cooperation on major ­family m ­ atters by giving each other space. According to Chen, Gong remained engaged with major h ­ ouse­hold affairs even a­ fter she started drinking. She managed to perform her roles for major occasions (such as the marriages of her ­children), perhaps ­because she understood such engagements would allow her to maintain control in the ­house­hold. When massive debts and unpaid government taxes posed serious threats to the f­amily’s survival, Gong willingly followed her b ­ rother’s suggestion and granted Guan Yun the authority to deal with the prob­lem. Further, when Guan successfully resolved the financial crisis three years ­later, she appropriately showed her gratitude by treating Guan as her ritual equal (she instructed her to observe “three years of mourning” for Chen’s ­mother, a ritual for the daughter-­in-­law of the deceased). Gong and Chen seemed to have worked out an agreement: Gong tolerated Chen’s flamboyant lifestyle and left him alone to do what he desired, and Chen made no attempt to confront or control Gong even when the h ­ ouse­hold was slipping into disarray. Chen appeared to be keen to keep her happy. For her fiftieth birthday, he commissioned a painting with the title A Boat in a Sea of Flowers (Hua hai bianzhou) and inscribed a long poem on it as a birthday pre­sent. He composed another long poem when she received a sequel of the painting from a friend. The paintings’ motif is constructed around a Daoist recluse residing in an otherworldly realm enjoying wine surrounded by blossoms. In this otherworldly realm, Chen cast himself as her companion in reclusion. For Gong’s sixtieth birthday, he sent her a poem that was two thousand words long.87 The ­couple’s religious devotion helped sustain their relationship. The ­house­hold was devoutly Daoist, and their lives revolved around practicing Daoist rituals “such as ritual healing, scriptural recitations, and worship of local deities at the Chen h ­ ouse­hold and at local spirit-­w riting altars.”88 In pursuing their religious interests, they found common ground that enabled them to transcend their marital friction. It is not far-­fetched to suggest that,

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for Gong, the conversion to Daoism may well have been a deliberate strategy that enabled her to withdraw from her daily duties. ­Under the cover of a Daoist “wine immortal” lifestyle, she was able to shed the responsibilities of managing daily ­house­hold chores and for all intents and purposes left her poor marriage. A ­ fter all, she deserved some plea­sure as well, and she found it in alcohol. Her drinking might have been a way to escape a painful marriage or to protest against her husband’s pleasure-­seeking lifestyle. Gong’s avoidance of a wifely role would other­wise have been seen as irresponsible, but her religious piety provided legitimacy—at least in Chen’s eyes—­for her actions.

A Failed Perfect Match: The Indignation of a Guixiu Wife A poor match between a well-­educated ­woman and an intellectually inferior man was a sure precursor to a life of misery for an idealistic w ­ oman, but even a perfect match did not guarantee that the initial happiness would last for a lifetime, especially if the man turned out to be a philanderer. This was what befell Chen Yunlian (1796–1874), an acclaimed painter and poet.89 In the wake of the breakdown of her relationship with her husband, she painted a set of eight autographical paintings with poignant inscriptions on each to chronicle the vicissitudes of her marriage and sacrifice. Her case illustrates the assertive practice among Qing literati ­women who used writing and painting for self-­ expression and to construct their own biographies.90 As a rare case of a self-­ narrated failed perfect marriage, Chen’s story was noteworthy in two ways. First, it shows a starkly dif­fer­ent approach to misfortune in marriage. Rather than wallowing in self-­pity, as was often the case, Chen opted to expose her husband’s faults. Second, it illustrates the strong impact of the perfect-­match ideal. Chen’s agony and resentment would not have been so profound had she not been so attached to her romantic vision. Her bold reaction was sharpened by a particularly strong sense of betrayal. She fought doggedly to cling to an ideal of marital love, even as she grew to increasingly despise her husband. Chen married Zuo Chen at the age of twenty-­one at his ­father’s official residence in Hunan. She recalled t­ hose early years with fondness: “Banana trees and lush flowers grew freely in the courtyard of the official residence. My husband and I often sat ­under the banana trees to discuss poetry and write. Truly nothing could be happier than that.”91 ­After moving back to Zuo’s native home in Changzhou upon his ­father’s retirement, they continued to enjoy a perfect-­match relationship, which inspired Yunlian to create a painting titled

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Harmonious Singing in Brush and Ink (Hanmo heming tu). Of the two, Chen Yunlian was the more talented, but that did not seem to bother Zuo Chen, who often sought her help editing his work.92 ­Little is known about Zuo’s ­career beyond what is revealed in Chen Yunlian’s collection Poetry Drafts from the Pavilion of True Fragrance (Xinfangge shicao). It appears that he did not succeed in the civil ser­v ice examinations and worked at some low governmental positions in the salt administration in Tianjian before purchasing a title in his forties or fifties.93 As his earnings w ­ ere not enough to support the f­ amily, Chen became the primary breadwinner by selling her paintings and poetry. In 1842, both came down with serious diseases. To save her husband’s life, the extremely feeble Yunlian used a knife to cut a piece of flesh from her own thigh and make medicinal soup. Four years ­later he became ill again, suffering from often fatal carbuncles that lasted more than half a year. She did her upmost to nurture him back to health.94 When their financial situation improved through her tireless work, she purchased a concubine for him, most likely in the hopes of getting an heir.95 She was delighted that “a longtime wish was fulfilled” and noted that her husband could hardly contain his excitement.96 Orthodox, confident, and strong-­willed, Chen Yunlian believed in her husband’s ability to eventually accomplish g­ reat deeds. She encouraged him saying that setbacks and poverty w ­ ere not to be worried about.97 Taking as models the relationships of Meng Guang and Liang Hong and Guang Daosheng and Zhao Menghu, she steadfastly pursued ideal companionship and produced a substantial number of conjugal poems.98 A youthful energy ran through t­ hese works, and, even in her forties, she often assumed a romantic voice more typical of a young wife. In one poem titled “Sitting in Melancholy,” for example, she described how in the wake of her husband’s departure she could not help but cry at night, neglect her appearance, have trou­ble sleeping, and lose her motivation to draw.99 Such strong emotional attachment only made the breakdown of their relationship that much more difficult to cope with. Beginning in the fall of 1851, when she was fifty-­two, their marital relationship began to collapse.100 It was other­wise a year worth celebrating. She was about to publish her poetry collection, for which he wrote an exuberant postscript lavishly praising Yunlian’s talent and many contributions.101 But as he was drafting the postscript, he became involved with other w ­ omen.102 This sudden turn of events most likely had something to do with the improvement of his ­career and finances. He no longer wrote Yunlian letters or poems, even

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on the Double Seven Festival, which the c­ ouple traditionally celebrated with offerings to the Weaving Maid and the Cowherd, composing poetry, and renewing their vow of love.103 Yunlian’s poems from this point onward ­were filled with disbelief, bitterness, and despair. She compared herself to Xie Daoyun, who had married a mediocre man, and to the abandoned wife who wrote heartbroken laments.104 Yunlian had always been aware of her husband’s womanizing prob­lem. Whenever he traveled, she would pray to Heaven for his protection and to lengthen his life.105 Occasionally, she sent him a poem with gentle complaint, for example, “The bird by the river, alerted by dew, cannot sleep in peace; / the wild egret lying in fragrance is having a sweet dream.”106 With subtle imagery, she contrasts her loyalty (the bird that ­can’t fall asleep) with his infidelity (the wild egret enjoying a sweet dream). ­After their relationship soured, she vented her anger using the same imagery: A wild egret and a female owl sing their love songs, Secretly making themselves a pair and casting glances at one another, endlessly. They forget the black worm (that eats their nest), as if all is fine, Inevitably, they ­w ill be worried, when caught by Heaven’s net.107

Remarkably, Yunlian continued to pray for her husband’s safety during his travels, while contemptuously calling him a “wild mandarin duck.”108 It appears that she had ­great difficulty breaking off her attachment.109 Such feelings betray a complicated love-­hate relationship that was deeply entangled in the many years of life they had shared and in her fantasies that s­ haped that life. Deep in her heart, Chen Yunlian still held onto the hope that their relationship could recover. ­There are signs of attempted reconciliation. At one point, Zuo Chen sent a boat to bring her to Tianjian, but their relationship remained estranged, at least ­until Yunlian’s five-­volume anthology was completed in 1859, at the age of sixty-­one. The last entry in her anthology, “Self-­Inscriptions on Eight Paintings,” explains the eight moments of their marriage that she had depicted in the autographical painting, capturing a painful journey of love, sacrifice, betrayal, sadness, and anger. It symbolically began with “qin and se playing in harmony” and ended with “wind blowing and snow falling by the autumn win­dow.” She concluded the inscriptions with this note: “The above eight

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paintings [show my life] from the time of my marriage to the pre­sent day. Contemplating the pre­sent and recalling the past, I am filled with emotion. I therefore mounted them and put them in a chest to give to my descendants as a small way to leave a rec­ord of my life experiences and to show that I did not fail to make contributions to the Zuo f­ amily.”110 Yunlian had come to terms with the fact that their relationship was unlikely to recover. As painful as it was to revisit their past, she refused to bury her memories and instead turned them into a public rec­ord and part of the ­family history. This was the ultimate way to obtain justice and preserve her dignity in the eyes of their descendants and the rest of the Zuo f­amily. This rec­ord ensured her contributions would not be forgotten and her virtue would be known to posterity. The cost of ­doing it, of course, was her husband’s reputation, but she did not care. Her anthology was published without her husband’s poems.111 It did include his postscript, which was perhaps another way to expose his hy­poc­risy and ingratitude.

Chapter Five

Practicing Polygyny In August, 1794, in the fifty-­ninth year of the Qianlong reign, I returned from Guangdong with my traveling companion—my cousin’s husband, Su Xiufeng—­who brought a concubine back with him. He sang the praises of his new ­woman’s beauty to every­one and invited Yun to come meet her. ­Later, Yun mentioned to Xiufeng, “She may be beautiful, but she ­isn’t very charming.” “Ah, so if your husband w ­ ere to take a concubine, she would have to be both beautiful and charming?” Xiufeng retorted. “Of course,” Yun said. From that point on, Yun became obsessed with finding a beautiful ­woman [for me], even though we ­were so short of money. Shen Fu, Six Rec­o rds of a Life Adrift

Liter ati constituted one of the major social groups that practiced polygyny in Chinese history. During the Qing, having one or more concubines remained a way of life for many of the educated, and even ­those with ­limited economic resources like Shen Fu could not resist the temptation. In Shen Fu’s case, Yun eventually found a courtesan whom she deemed ideal, but her efforts fell short and the w ­ oman was instead purchased by a power­ful man. Shen Fu claimed his wife was the driving force b ­ ehind the idea and portrayed himself as a reluctant follower. Their story may not be typical in this regard, but it nonetheless illustrates something confirmed in Qing sources: marital love was not a deterrent to taking a concubine.1 133

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The orthodox norms sanctioned concubine-­taking on the basis of producing an heir. In real­ity, a concubine served other purposes as well, even though she was feared for her capacity to ruin f­ amily harmony. She was despised for her low status, yet desired for her reproductive capacities and sexual appeal. But even as a concubine’s membership in her master’s f­amily became more secure, concurrent historical trends that placed increased value on marital companionship further complicated the relationships between husband, wife, and concubine.

Shifting Didactic Advice The social and ­legal status of a concubine was ambiguous: she might be treated as if she ­were a wife, but she might also be considered as no more than a servant. However, from the ­middle to the late imperial period, her overall status improved, and she was increasingly integrated into the kinship system.2 The following survey of didactic advice on the subject of concubinage suggests a corresponding change in social attitudes, from disapproval to advocating ac­cep­tance. The topic of concubines and jealous wives was not as common in didactic texts before the late imperial period. Exhortations for My ­Daughters (Nüjie), for example, was completely s­ ilent on the subject. Nor was it included in the influential Analects for ­Women (Nü Lunyu) from the Tang. The Book of Filial Piety for ­Women (Nü Xiaojing) of the same period warned broadly against jealousy but with no specific reference to concubinage.3 ­Family instructions through the mid-­Ming cautioned against the acquisition of concubines. They reiterated the rule that taking a concubine was permissible only for men who had reached forty years of age without an heir. The exemplary Jiang ­house­hold, which maintained its unity for ten generations, set the following rules: “The descendant who has a wife and son should not get a concubine and disturb the status difference between t­ hose above and ­t hose below. Violators should be reprimanded. If he is forty years old and has no son, then he is permitted to have one concubine. However, she should not be allowed to sit in the public hall.” 4 Similar directives w ­ ere given by another instruction book from the sixteenth ­century: “Taking a concubine is for the purpose of producing an heir. It should be done only when absolutely necessary.”5 The main concern b ­ ehind ­t hese instructions was the potential threat to ­family harmony caused by the presence of concubines. Fighting between

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a wife and concubine—­and between their c­ hildren—­was perceived to be an inevitable prob­lem that could cause the collapse of the ­house­hold.6 In the seventeenth ­century, didactic advice a­ dopted a softened, if not outright dismissive, stance. Desire for a concubine was natu­ral for a talented man, argued Lu Qi (1614–­?) in his Bridal Guides (Xinfu pu), which he claimed to have written as a wedding gift for his d ­ aughter. He wrote: “A man of unrestrained personality and talent, aided by his young age [lit., “unsettled blood and energy,” or xueqi wei ding], often takes an interest in brothels and purchases concubines and maids. So long as he is able to study and compose essays, [what he does] is the act of a talented man and should not be considered as a blemish [bu zu wei lei].”7 The thinker Chen Que (1604–1677) advised a more modest revision to the e­ arlier rules. If a wife did not give birth to a son several years into her marriage, then “she should encourage her husband to get a concubine as soon as pos­si­ble, or she should dress up her maid to pre­ sent to her husband. If she has already had a son, but her husband wants to purchase a concubine to produce more offspring, then she should happily accept the idea b ­ ecause the concubine, ­after all, l­ abors in her place.”8 Similar views became mainstream in the eigh­teenth and the nineteenth centuries even as some remained committed to the orthodox rules. One book included in Bequeathed Guidelines for Instructing W ­ omen (Jiaonü yigui), compiled by the respected local official Chen Hongmou (1696–1771), stated that wanting to take a concubine ­after the wife has given birth to several sons is a ­thing even “a virtuous man cannot avoid ­doing.”9 Another urged that ten marital years should be the benchmark, ­because if the wife failed to give birth in ten years her infertility was assured.10 In the meantime, the subject of jealousy ­rose to the forefront of w ­ omen’s moral instruction and was prominently featured in didactic texts. New sections such as “Treating Maids and Concubines” (Dai bi qie) and “The Ways of Wife and Concubine” (Di qie zhi dao) urged wives to accept concubines and to refrain from jealous conduct.11 ­Women writers ­were just as fervent advocates as their male counter­parts. Xu Yezhao (1729–­?) penned two separate sections in a didactic treatise titled “The Way of the Principal Wife” and “The Way of the Concubine,” respectively.12 Similarly, Neixun advised, “­Women’s conduct is valued for broadmindedness and benevolence, and is despised for jealousy. If the moon shines along with the stars, ­will its light be blocked by the latter? Pine trees and orchids grow in the same fields, and t­ here is no question of both being beautiful.”13 A “­little star” was a meta­phor for concubines originating in The Classic of Poetry.

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Didactic authors also faulted husbands and concubines (and maids) in response to cases in which a wife became the victim. They criticized men who neglected their wives and concubines and maids who transgressed status bound­aries, particularly a­ fter the latter gave birth to a son. “The husband-­ wife relation is the first of the five h ­ uman relations, and the wife is chosen by parents for the task of carry­ing on the ancestral line,” one wrote, stressing that it was only b ­ ecause of ill fate that she had to assist her husband in getting 14 a concubine. ­Here, the husband was faulted not only for acting ­counter to ritual princi­ples but also for being ungrateful and coldhearted. Such voices of sympathy, however, w ­ ere in the minority amid the sea of advice and reprimands directed at wives.

Early Qing Condemnation of the Jealous Wife The shifting attitudes about concubinage reached beyond didactic writing. In theatrical fictional pre­sen­ta­tions, polygynous lifestyles supplied a prominent storyline.15 Early Qing playwright Hong Sheng’s revised story of Su Hui, an icon of female brilliance, is particularly illuminating. According to The History of the Jin Dynasty (Jinshu), the talented Su Hui wove exquisite palindrome poems into a brocade and sent them to her husband in exile to express her sadness.16 That image of talent and devotion, however, was transformed into that of a jealous wife in the ninth c­ entury, thanks to a fictional account attributed to Empress Wu of the Tang dynasty.17 It added a dancer, Yangtai, whom Su Hui’s husband Dou Tao secretly took as a concubine. Su Hui became fiercely jealous, which led Dou to take Yangtai along when he was appointed a military commander, cutting off his contact with Su. Sad and regretful, Su Hui sent the palindrome brocade to her husband, who was so moved that he sent Yangtai away and re­united with Su. The story was written “to describe Ruolan’s [Su Hui’s] talent and to praise Dou’s repentance [for his act of abandonment].”18 The theme resonated with the renowned Song literatus Huang Tingjian (1045–1105). Huang penned a humorous poem that reads, “Weaving a thousand poems into the brocade palindrome, what can the seductive Yangtai do about it?19 / Th ­ ere are hands as intelligent and clever as Ruolan’s, but t­ here is no repentant Lianbo [Dou Tao]!” Huang was poking fun at ­t hose who failed to appreciate intelligent wives and let their concubines interfere with their marriage.

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Hong Sheng, however, believed that Su Hui “grossly v­ iolated the wifely way.”20 To rectify the misconstrued message in the story, he created his own rendition of it in a play called Weaving a Brocade (Zhi jing ji). In it, Yangtai assumed a large and entirely positive role. Her becoming Dou’s concubine was portrayed as predestined, and she excelled in both “art and military [affairs].” She defeated a rebellion and saved Su Hui’s life, which moved the latter to repent. In the end, Dou reaped the love of both ­women, who “loved one another as if they w ­ ere s­ isters.”21 It is worth noting the personal context of Hong’s play. As mentioned in chapter 3, Hong was deeply attracted to his wife. But even though the ­couple already had a son, he also desired a concubine; unfortunately, ­because the ­family lacked money, he was unable to realize his wish. Then, at the age of thirty-­nine, he received a handsome monetary gift from the governor of Jiangsu and immediately purchased a seventeen-­year-­old courtesan from Suzhou.22 Given that his play was written a ­couple of years a­ fter he brought the concubine home, it is not far-­fetched to assume that it was an act of self-­ justification as well as an attempt to advocate on behalf of like-­minded men. Taking a concubine for plea­sure was a lifestyle that he believed he was entitled to. The defense of polygyny in the seventeenth c­ entury grew in tandem with the denouncement of the jealous wife and the victimization of concubines. The story of the ill-­fated Xiaoqing, a beautiful and intelligent concubine who died of a broken heart following a wife’s mistreatment, captured the literati sentiment.23 Another widely publicized story involved Mao Qiling (1623–1716). While in Beijing to take the special Broad Learning and Magnificent Words examination, he received a concubine named Manshu as a gift from an official. The eighteen-­year-­old ­daughter of a florist, Manshu was sweet and smart. A ­ fter spending several blissful years together during which Mao taught her calligraphy and ­music, his wife de­cided to visit her husband in the capital. Since he had never told her that he had taken a concubine, he planned to hide the girl in another residence. Manshu vowed she would rather die than leave his side, and she eventually perished at the age of twenty-­four following the emotional trauma that surrounded the incident. Mao praised Manshu’s devotion and lamented her tragic fate, commemorating her death with both his own writings and ­t hose of o ­ thers, which he solicited widely.24 In turning his concubine into a martyr of devotion, Mao Qiling effectively cast his wife as being extremely jealous and petty. Even though it appears she never met

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Manshu, in the eyes of Mao’s contemporaries, she was held as being responsible for the tragedy. She was characterized as a virago who would not stop ridiculing and cursing her husband even when he was teaching students in the next room.25 Perhaps the most telling sign of the era’s nearly obsessive interest in the jealous wife was Laws on Jealousy (Du lü), a satirical text authored by Chen Yuanlong (1652–1736). The book purported to tackle the prevalent prob­lem of jealousy. Since men had thus far failed to come up with any effective mea­ sures to deal with hysterical wives, the text claimed that “laws” w ­ ere neces26 sary to punish such ­women. The text listed a total of 109 “offenses”; each offense was assigned a “punishment” that drew on the ­actual Qing ­legal code, with the exception of capital punishment, which the author claimed to have withheld in a show of leniency. The number one offense and its corresponding punishment read, “While the wife is combing her hair in the mirror, she claims that she sees her husband flirting with the maid with his eyes. She therefore gets upset and savagely curses the maid; she then extends her curses to her husband. It is recommended that this offense be punished according to the law ‘the verdict does not correspond with the code.’ [The wife should be] flogged seventy times and exiled for a year and a half.” The author then rendered an elaborate “verdict commentary” that consisted entirely of literary tropes and references to baseless suspicions (such as mistaking the reflection of an arrow in a wine cup for a snake) and impulsive jealous acts.27 Educated readers might find the witty references entertaining, but the allure of the book rested with the cutting descriptions of a wife’s “­jealous acts.” Unreasonable suspicion was just one of the punishable offenses. Other offenses involved relentless schemes to prevent a husband from sleeping with a concubine or maid. For example, a wife agrees to let her husband sleep with his concubine, but then she keeps the concubine busy ­doing needlework ­until late at night. Or she sets the condition that a husband can take a concubine, but only if he returns to her side by nine ­o’clock ­every night. Or she takes her husband’s favorite concubine as a companion whenever she goes to visit her parents or leaves on a pilgrimage.28 We do not know how the author came up with the elaborate list. Some of the tactics may be fictional, but other material was likely drawn from literati gossip. A man’s relationship with his concubine or maid, a­ fter all, was a juicy subject for conversation. The shifting social attitude ­toward concubinage may have played a part in a change in imperial law. In 1740, it appears that the court eliminated the

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clause limiting concubine acquisition to sonless men over the age of forty.29 It thus officially abandoned the orthodox position on this issue and gave all men equal ­legal access to concubinage, regardless of age or rationale. The change in law, in a sense, put an end to an in­effec­tive code while recognizing a practice that had been existent all along. It also underscored the extent of the impact of commercialization and con­ spic­u­ous consumption on shaping the history of concubinage. The monetized economy and the growth of literati entertainment had long been key sources powering the spread of concubinage in Song and Yuan times.30 In the late Ming, the accumulation of wealth among the well-­to-do fueled con­spic­u­ous consumption and the commodification of the female body and sexuality. Plea­sure quarters thrived in urban centers of the Lower Yangzi region where literati patronage produced a splendid courtesan culture. Educated men sought companionship in literary and artistically gifted courtesans. On the marriage market, as Dorothy Ko points out, the desirability of companionate wives “supplemented, instead of displacing, the demand for soulmates in the plea­sure quarters.”31 This helped produce a par­tic­u­lar type of concubine—­ the courtesan-­turned-­concubine. Historically, female entertainers had provided a steady supply of concubines, but the late Ming was particularly known for its idolization of the u ­ nion between leading literatus and illustrious courtesan-turned-concubines, among them Qian Qianyi and Liu Rushi, Gong Dingzhi (1615–1673) and Gu Mei (1619–1664), Mao Xiang and Dong Xiaowan, and Ge Zhengqi (?–1645) and Li Yin (1616–1685). Geng and Li, for example, cultivated the perfect-­match image around poetry composition, painting, and extensive travels to his official posts (Li’s work Lotus Flowers and a Pair of Mandarin Ducks features in chapter 1 of this book).32 By the High Qing, however, late Ming cultural glorification of courtesans had dissipated, and the much idolized literati-­concubine u ­ nion dis­appeared. Educated courtesans and concubines ­were much less able to compete for the limelight with educated wives. A strong commercial economy ensured widespread social ac­cep­tance of concubines; yet, her lower status continued to subject her to mistreatment, particularly ­a fter a husband died. Assuming the role of the moral guardian at home and as marital companions to their husbands, wives forcefully guarded their status.33 But the impact of concubinage on the marital relationship was ever-present. The presence of the concubine in literati ­house­holds forced all involved—­husband, wife, and the concubine herself—to deploy strategies to cope or cooperate in ways that

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would avoid scandals and rifts in the marriage and also serve their individual and collective interests.

Polygyny and Male Fidelity Qing literati concubine-­acquisition encompassed a range of beliefs and desires. The advice that a man should not take concubine u ­ ntil the age of forty, and only then if he had no heir, clearly had an effect. Adherence to that princi­ple demonstrated one’s moral character. Zhang Lüxiang lost his sons while they ­were infants, but still waited ­until he reached the age of forty to take a concubine.34 Qu Dajun took his first concubine at forty (while his beloved bride Huajiang was still alive), although in his case, the ideal of happiness as defined by a harmonious f­ amily that contained multiple spouses and many c­ hildren also appears to be a key f­actor in his decision. His desire for plea­sure and enhancing his vitality through the arts of the bedchamber played a part as well. Qu took six concubines over the course of his life, and he generally had three at the same time.35 Concubine acquisition frequently occurred around ­middle age, a­ fter a man had earned a high examination degree or a government position, indicating that the possession of concubines was a sign of power and status.36 It was also a kind of reward for achieving a major c­ areer breakthrough. A ­ fter years of hard work, a man could fi­nally enjoy his success. Concubines provided more than intimate plea­sure; they w ­ ere also a favorite subject in men’s social circles. Whereas the wife of a friend was off limits save for respectful comments, less self-­restraint was shown when it came to speaking about one’s concubine. With the word tiao (tease) in their titles, poems congratulating the acquisition of a concubine typically took a playful tone. Wang Yunren (1784–1850), whose infatuation with a concubine who died young captured the imagination of literati circles for years, was given the nickname “Cocoon” by his friends, which he delightedly went along with the joke and ­adopted as his courtesy name. His friends then composed a biography of the concubine and made one painting for each of the thirty poems that he had written to commemorate his love.37 When Tao Yuanzao (1716–1801) purchased a concubine, Liang Shanzhou (1723–1825) sent a poem of congratulations that included this line: “Hold your brush steady when drawing her eyebrows; do not let your white hair catch her makeup.”38 “Drawing eyebrows” for a wife, a symbol of conjugal intimacy, was turned into good natured mockery about the age difference between Tao and his concubine.

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Age was a point of division for older men in relation to concubines. Some considered that having a young concubine was damaging to a man’s moral image. Wang Lianying, a seventy-­year-­old widower, burst into a rage when his son presented him with a beautiful young w ­ oman, saying that taking a young concubine at his age would defame him for “violating moral princi­ ples” (bu dao).39 The g­ reat thinker Gu Yanwu was against taking concubines during old age as well but on dif­fer­ent grounds. He took his youn­gest concubine in his fifties with the hope of getting a son. However, barely two years had gone by when he “was afflicted by many kinds of illness.” He then recalled Dong Zhongshu’s advice and sent the concubine away, arranging to adopt a nephew as his heir.40 Dong Zhongshu (179–104 BCE), who transformed Confucianism into a cosmologically oriented philosophy, had linked the cosmological princi­ples to a schedule of intercourse for men. Gu wrote, elaborating on Dong’s idea, “A gentleman values qi [energy] and is careful about his sexual intercourse. The newly married and the young should have sex ­every ten days. The middle-­aged halve the frequency of newlyweds and the young; ­those beginning to age halve the frequency of the middle-­aged; t­ hose further aged halve the frequency as ­those beginning to age; and ­those severely aged should [follow the same schedule, but] replace the days for the young with months. Then he is on the same rhythm as that of Heaven and Earth.” 41 The essence of Dong’s formula was self-­regulated moderation based on the course of life; restraint was the secret to healthy aging for men. One of the vari­ous considerations that made men hesitant to take a concubine appears to be the rising ideal of male fidelity. This was not a new concept, but the Qing witnessed an increased consciousness about it, not on account of morality or bodily wellbeing but on account of loyalty to a deceased wife.42 You Tong, for instance, unequivocally rejected concubines as a gesture of love for his wife Cao. “She was my ‘dreg-­husk’ wife [i.e., a wife who endured hardships with her husband in his h ­ umble days],” wrote You, “and ­because of that I do not have a concubine.” 43 He frowned on wealthy men who lost their wives in the morning and remarried in the eve­ning and took many concubines. In his understanding, the hardships a ­couple endured together would naturally lead the widower to restrain himself from indulging in plea­sure with other ­women.44 That male fidelity gained newfound appreciation in the Qing is also suggested in the rising prominence of yifu, a man who lost his wife in his prime but did not remarry. The meaning of yifu (righ­teous man) underwent a

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significant change over the course of Chinese history. In e­ arlier imperial periods, the term was applied to men who accomplished extraordinary social deeds. Beginning in the Ming, yifu increasingly began to refer to the widower who rejected remarriage as a show of fidelity, a male counterpart to the growing cult of ­widow chastity.45 Wei Xi (1624–1680), for example, explic­ itly used the chaste ­widow as a frame of reference in his praise of two old men who lost their wives in their twenties and never remarried.46 But unlike the chaste ­widow, whose husband’s be­hav­ior had no bearing on her actions, an yifu often refused remarriage as a result of his feeling of indebtedness t­ oward his late wife. A dramatic yifu case involved Li Yumei (1778–1840), an official known for his achievements in managing the Yellow River. According to an anecdotal account, Li’s teacher intended to marry his ­daughter to Li. The young w ­ oman was secretly in love with Li, but at the same time was also being pursued by another student. The latter plotted to kill Li but inadvertently murdered the teacher’s son instead. Li was implicated and imprisoned, and the killer succeeded in marrying the young ­woman. The crime was only discovered when the murderer accidentally confessed to his wife who, ­after reporting the case to the court, took her own life. Li never married, and for the rest of his life, he wore a spirit tablet made of jade to honor her memory.47 A sign of the yifu’s firm elevation to state-­supported cultural ideal came in the early nineteenth ­century when the Qing established yifu as a regular category of court testimonial (jingbiao).48 To be eligible for the award, a man had to lose his wife before the age of thirty and, ­unless he had no son, could not remarry or take a concubine before the age of sixty. He also had to demonstrate filial and brotherly conduct and honesty.49 By comparison, to be qualified for the chaste ­widow award, a ­woman had to be widowed before the age of thirty and remain widowed u ­ ntil the age of fifty. Awards conferred on yifu, however, ­were sporadic and the number was negligible. From 1802 to 1871, for instance, the court recognized a total of sixty-­t hree yifu; in comparison, the court recognized tens of thousands of chaste ­widows during the same time period. What was significant was the fact that yifu, like chaste ­widows, ­were regularly recognized by the state as moral exemplars, signifying a striking reconfiguration of the concept of fidelity. Fidelity was no longer only a female virtue but a male virtue as well. What propelled the state to make this change has yet to be studied, but it does not seem accidental that it came at the peak of the ­widow chastity cult and amid the steady cultural change that celebrated conjugal companionship.

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When taking a concubine for plea­sure was seen as a breach of conjugal devotion, it began to have a constraining effect on some husbands. For example, when Mao Xiang’s ­father earned his jinshi degree at age fifty, he made a vow in writing: “I pledge not to take a concubine in order to repay my debt to my ‘dreg-­husk’ wife.” His wife “smiled” (presumably she knew her husband could not adhere to such a pledge) and went ahead and arranged for him to take two concubines. Mao Xiang’s ­father “failed to decline” both times.50 The marriage of Sun Yuanxiang and Xi Peilan, one of the most lauded perfect-­match c­ ouples of the Qing, offers an example of how the popularization of conjugal fidelity may have encouraged men to decline concubinage, but not without inner strug­gles. Take, for example, Sun Yuanxiang’s poetry anthology, which included an “external volume” (wai ji). Except for a few poems that seem to be written in reference to love for his wife, the contents are erotic and ­mysterious: some describe elusive love trysts, o ­ thers secret admiration. Putting t­hese works in an external volume suggests that he intentionally trivialized their importance, but that they w ­ ere also impor­tant rec­ords of his intimate life that he did not want to discard. ­There are clues as to what ­t hese poems might have meant. Sun Yuanxiang acknowledged, somewhat apologetically, that he had a reputation for writing sensual and romantic (ceyan) poems, comparing himself to Li Shangyin (813?– 858?) and Li He (790?–817?), Tang poets famous for their veiled accounts of romantic encounters. He explained that he could not change his be­hav­ior, writing, “The lotus root cannot get rid of its joints even if it wants to; the mottled bamboo would not have spots if it had no regrets.”51 He was a man trapped in qing. Of the “seven emotions” (qiqing), he noted, love (ai) was the most difficult for a person to cut himself off from, comparing himself to a silkworm bound by its own cocoon.52 In a set of seven poems titled “Maxims on Qing” (Qing zhen), he again used the imagery of a hopeless silkworm imprisoned in a cocoon.53 A poem Xi wrote in response to Sun’s “Maxims on Qing” gives us a way to contextualize the latter’s mysterious writings. Titled “Maxims on Qing, for My Husband,” it directly addressed Sun’s inner strug­gles. “Pure qing” (zhen qing) was as immutable as the metal and stone that withstood the change of time, she argued. But the emotions that attracted Sun w ­ ere unreal: Flowers look gorgeous in a mirror. Utterly beautiful and most charming,

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But one cannot trust [such a person] with one’s heart. Like throwing an ant’s nest into a big lake,54 The ­water is drained when the nest is lifted up. If you pull up a seedling to help the crop grow, How could you expect an autumn harvest? An insect flies into the spider’s web, It is tied up by the web’s threads. It is better for it to turn around, To escape from the restraints, transcendently. Even a severe illness is curable, [If] one is not afraid of strong medicine.55

­Here, Xi was not offering general advice. She implied that Sun was involved with a w ­ oman (likely a courtesan) who in her eyes was fake and untrustworthy. She warned that he should not continue to indulge his feelings ­toward this individual and that he needed to take strong “medicine” to cure his “sickness” and escape from the relationship. As if to mock Sun’s self-­comparison with a silkworm bound in a cocoon, she compared him to “an insect that flies into the spider’s web.” Sun Yuanxiang indicated that he had a dif­fer­ent attitude ­toward plea­sure and intimacy than his wife. Xi was rigid and did not care much about the “feelings between a man and a w ­ oman.” He noted, “Ever since we tied our hair [a meta­phor for marriage], we have respected each other and have not been lax and inappropriately intimate.”56 Given Sun’s declaration of being enthralled with romantic sentiment, ­t hese words of praise may in fact hint at a sense of dissatisfaction about their other­wise strong relationship. However, he never did take a concubine, perhaps not wanting to jeopardize his marriage.

Wives and Concubines Having a highly talented w ­ oman as a wife generated enough self-­discipline for some men to pursue the ideal of husbandly fidelity. But for ­others, it hardly decreased the desire to seek companionship in concubines. The Jiangxi poet Wu Songliang’s (1766–1834) marriage to Liu Shu was praised by his contemporaries as a perfect match.57 Then, at age forty-­one, Wu took a fifteen-­year-­ old concubine and trained her in poetry and painting. He compared his newfound love for her with that of Mao Qiling for Manshu.58 When she died

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four years l­ ater, Wu built the Waiting for the Moon Pavilion, for a spirit writing revealed that she would be reborn as the Moon Girl.59 All this time, his wife Liu Shu fulfilled her duties as a wife, ­mother, and daughter-­in-­law. Wu was prob­ably genuine when he called Liu “a good friend” (liangyou) and “a wife of one heart” (tongxing fu), but his attraction to her was gone.60 ­Having endured hardships for many years, in his eyes she looked like “a withered orchid that had lost its beauty.” 61 Wu Songliang did go on to compile his wife’s poems in a volume. Unfortunately, no known copy exists, so we have no idea of how she felt about Wu’s be­hav­ior. Wives in literati ­house­holds would be expected to be prudent in dealing with such situations, however. The manner in which they lived with concubines was a standard reference for wifely virtue. Pan Lei commended a certain Madam Cheng for having a pleasant demeanor despite living in a ­house full of concubines.62 Feeling at ease was also what the female poet Chai Jingyi praised in a friend: “In the hall is the mother-­in-­law; in the bedroom is the concubine(s). Spring breeze permeates—it is fitting everywhere.” 63 Such was the ­mental state of an elite wife ­free of “jealousy.” She ­rose above the discord that doomed other polygynous families and presided over her ­house­hold with a sense of authority and control. A wife of an elite ­house­hold would be at ease so long as she was in charge. ­After all, her status was legally protected by imperial law, which prohibited the promotion of a concubine to the status of wife. Sources are l­imited with regard to the interpersonal dynamics of wife-­ husband-­concubine relationships. In fiction and plays, juicy plots of competition, rage, and vio­lence incited by so-­called female jealousy dominated the pre­sen­ta­tion of such relationships. Biographical materials ­were innately biased ­because literati guarded their ­family reputations and ­were careful not to speak about the scandalous prob­lems of “the inner quarters.” Close reading between lines and across dif­fer­ent types of personal rec­ords, however, can yield traces of emotional drama, tension, and negotiation in polygynous ­house­holds. The difficult situation in which a talented wife hoped for romantic love that was not reciprocated was exemplified in the case of Liang Desheng (1771–1847), who excelled in poetry and tanci (storytelling with songs). Her husband, Xu Zongyan (1768–1819), was a scholar and prolific poet. However, despite their reputation as a perfect match, the ­couple wrote few conjugal poems. Liang’s poetry collection, Draft Poems from the Pavilion of Ancient Spring (Guchunxuan shichao), contains only four conjugal exchange poems out of a total of

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180 works. Xu Zongyan had a nine-­volume poetry collection, but only included several conjugal exchange poems total.64 ­Earlier in their marriage, Liang sent her husband an elaborate poem expressing her misery enduring “three departures in five years.” The long and elaborate work ends with ­t hese lines: The road is long and has no feelings, The fragrant season is gone quickly without being noticed. How I wish I could raise my wing and fly high, Everywhere you go I go; we ­w ill never part.65

Xu Zongyan’s reply is short and terse, a striking contrast with Desheng’s in both length and tone. I urge you not to fall into the confusing clouds, ­Don’t you see the Cowherd and the Weaving Maid? Separated by the Milky Way that is eighteen-­t housand li long, They look at each other in silence and cannot talk.66

Xu’s coldness t­ oward his wife is not an indication of a lack of sentimentality on his part. He was exceptionally affectionate with Miss Wu, one of his concubines.67 He wrote a series of ten poems to mourn her premature death in which he described the illness that cut her life short, the loving memories of her waiting upon him in his study, and imagining the return of her spirit.68 In another ci poem, Xu opines that the reason she came to see him in his dreams, despite the obstacles along the roads that separated the two, was her awareness of his misery in longing for her (xiangsi ku).69 The poem was composed in his early thirties, which means that Miss Wu became his concubine, or more likely his maid, at fourteen, possibly before his marriage to Liang Desheng.70 Xu would have been in his ­later teens or early twenties. This situation is reminiscent of Baoyu’s relationship with his personal maids (one of whom would become his concubine) in The Dream of the Red Chamber. A somewhat similar case is that of Qian Yiji (1783–1850). His relationship with Yanzhen, the ­daughter of a female servant, began when she arrived in Qian’s ­house­hold at the age of nine. Not long ­after they met, it was agreed that she would become Yiji’s concubine, but her ­mother l­ ater wavered about that decision, believing that marrying Yanzhen off as a wife was a

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better option. Yanzhen protested fiercely and was eventually able to fulfill her wish to become Qian’s concubine at age seventeen, only to die of illness just one month l­ater. Qian wrote two sentimental accounts of her, comparing their relationship to Mao Qiling and Manshu.71 ­These cases point to the importance of differentiating the emotional implications of the master-­concubine relationship. While it was always starkly hierarchal, the emotions derived from it w ­ ere variable. When an older man purchased a much younger ­woman for plea­sure or reproduction, their relationship from the start was commodified. In contrast, if their relationship began while both ­were teen­agers, the youthful innocence on both sides could nurture romantic intimacy and companionship within the hierarchical structure. The relationships between wife and concubine w ­ ere based on the rigid structure of status difference and complicated by personal dynamics, yet they ­were not only about power, competition, and control. Collaboration and genuine appreciation also came into play. Raising a son borne to a concubine when the wife was sonless could bring the two ­women closer to one another. The story of Wang Huizu’s principal ­mother and biological ­mother (a concubine) both raising him through hardship was widely known in the High Qing, thanks to his efforts to solicit biographies to honor them. Like Wang Huizu, Jiao Xun was also born to a concubine. Lady Xie, Jiao Xun’s principal ­mother (dimu), twice asked her husband to take a concubine, first upon her father-­in-­law’s death and then when her mother-­in-­law turned sixty. Both occasions called for the presence of a grand­son, and her mother-­in-­law was said to be strict and waiting impatiently.72 Her husband initially declined but eventually agreed the second time around when Lady Xie was thirty-­four years of age. Two concubines w ­ ere acquired at the same time, following the criterion of “likeliness to produce sons.” One of them, Miss Yin, gave birth to Jiao Xun and his four younger siblings. When Jiao was three years old, Lady Xie said to Yin, “I ­will raise the boy for you, and you w ­ ill manage the h ­ ouse­hold for me.”73 For the next twelve years, Lady Xie taught Jiao to read, write, count, and recite The Classic of Poetry, and also told him historical tales. In the meantime, Yin took charge of ­running the ­house­hold.74 This arrangement was mutually beneficial: it elevated Yin’s authority and status, and it released Xie from a tedious burden. Xie also reaped the most significant benefit—­t he love of the child. Jiao was attached to both her and his birth m ­ other. He wrote “brief accounts” for each

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a­ fter their passing, calling Yin “my m ­ other” and Xie ruren, a respectful term to address a married woman of some status.75 This case gives us a chance to consider the argument of a wife strategizing to avoid childbirth by shifting reproductive responsibilities onto the concubine and then taking over the role of m ­ other by raising the concubine’s child as her own. “For an elite wife, giving birth was the least impor­tant part of motherhood: the heart of the emotional bond between m ­ other and son was 76 the pro­cess of upbringing,” wrote one scholar. However, few wives raised the child of a concubine as the result of a calculated strategy. Rather, as the case of Lady Xie shows, it was a consequence of her inability to give birth to a son. Producing an heir was the primary function of the wife. Its significance was perhaps most clearly epitomized by the fact that the first of the seven grounds ­under which a w ­ oman could be divorced was being “sonless.” The wife was expected to give birth to as many dizi (a son born to the principal wife) as pos­si­ble.77 A wife might want to stop giving birth a­ fter several ­children and have the concubine take up her sexual and reproductive roles, but not before she had given birth to at least one son. Reproduction was, in fact, an ingrained self-­understanding of wifely duty and identity. Wives saw the failure to produce a biological child as true misfortune. Reflecting on the lives of his three wives, Zhao Huaiyu noted that his first wife was often unhappy ­because she never gave birth to a son. However, he considered his second wife to be the least fortunate, for she had no c­ hildren at all.78 Concubines raising their own ­children appeared to be the social norm rather than an exception.79 Zhang Lüxiang’s wife gave birth to two sons but both died. This gave him no choice but to take a concubine. A son was born, but Zhang never s­ topped feeling anxious about the child’s character. In his assessment, nine out of ten sons born to concubines turned out badly for two reasons: the f­ ather’s indulgence and the concubine’s inability to educate them.80 Evidently, he would not have worried if his wife could take over the responsibility of child-­rearing. Even if they did not wish to avoid childbirth, wives had plenty of other reasons to accept concubines. Not having an heir to continue the ­family line was a real concern for the wife as well as the husband. A concerned wife would also acquire a concubine to look ­after a husband while he was traveling, as Hong Jiangji’s wife did; her own poor health prevented her from accompanying Hong to his post.81 The rhe­toric that a concubine served the wife as well as the master conveyed a s­ imple truth. Aside from the fact that a concubine

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could be a helper in managing the h ­ ouse and d ­ oing the chores, she could also serve as the wife’s primary caregiver. When Lady Xie became ill and emaciated, Jiao Xun tells us, Yin supported Xie’s body with her hands for a month, causing them to swell.82 The case of Wang Duan provides a close look at some of the considerations ­behind the decision of a wife in a perfect-­match marriage to accept a concubine into her home.83 When she was eigh­teen, Wang married the prodigy Chen Peizhi, the son of Chen Wenshu. A ­ fter giving birth to her second son (the first son died in infancy), Wang’s health declined. At the time, her father-­in-­law was also seriously ill. Wang began observing the rules of a lay Buddhist to pray for his recovery, and she and her husband abstained from sex for four years. As she continued to suffer from poor health and severe insomnia, she pleaded with her in-­laws to marry her husband to another ­woman who would bear more grand­sons and perform the expected duties of a daughter-­in-­law.84 The f­amily purchased a concubine, Wang Zixiang, who exceeded the ­family’s wildest expectations with regard to demeanor, intelligence, and beauty. Her untimely death at twenty-­two prompted Chen Peizhi to compose the sentimental memoir Words of Remembrance from the Xiangwan Pavilion (Xiangwanlou yiyu). It was a conscious imitation of the seventeenth-­century memoir Words of Remembrance from the Yingmei Nunnery (Yingmei’an yiyu), written by Mao Xiang in commemoration of his courtesan-­turned-­concubine Dong Xiaowan. A difference between the two memoirs was that while Mao’s wife was a marginal figure in his account, Wang Duan figured prominently in the story. She was presented as a loving mistress and the architect of the purchase of Zixiang. While such praise should be taken with a grain of salt, ­t here can be l­ittle doubt that Wang Duan encouraged Zixiang’s acquisition. Zixiang’s arrival liberated her from the reproductive, sexual, and social duties that w ­ ere demanded of her. It freed her from any sense of inadequacy and guilt she felt for not being able to perform t­ hese duties, while allowing her to devote herself fully to the t­ hings she enjoyed pursuing. Even though some concubines ­were educated, few wrote down their experiences; moreover, even if they did, their rec­ords w ­ ere less likely to be preserved, thus posing a challenge to recovering their perspectives and agency.85 The ­limited writings that do exist, however, reveal that, their marginal social position notwithstanding, educated concubines ­were able to “create and maintain a degree of autonomy and productivity.”86 Male rec­ords about concubines,

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although mediated, could be informative in this regard. Unlike a wife, who had no way out of an unhappy marriage, concubines could take the initiative to ­free themselves. Shi Yunyu had five concubines, two taken ­after earning his jinshi degree (at the ages of thirty-­six and thirty-­seven), and three ­after his wife’s death (at the ages of forty-­four, fifty, and fifty-­one). At some point, his first and fourth concubines requested to leave him. The circumstances are unclear, but an allegorical poem Shi composed at the time alludes to the departure of one concubine, Miss Cao.87 The poem, titled “A Swallow Perching on a Beam,” takes the form of a conversation between the master and a bird. The swallow was dwelling contentedly in her master’s gorgeous home with her baby: “She drinks and eats, enjoying plenty of happiness; / Living with her master, she has neither suspicions nor worries.”88 All of a sudden, she became overcome with autumn’s sadness and wanted to fly away. The master tried to discourage her by pointing out that the end of year was approaching and that the flowers ­were all falling. “Why d ­ on’t you stay in this old h ­ ouse and live to an old age in peace?” The swallow does not look back, and replies, “How bookish you are, my master! ­Don’t you see flowers have fallen in the glove, leaving only empty calyxes? Together or apart—­a ll t­ hings have their destiny; When destiny has run its course, they go separate ways. When the spirits [of two beings] are separated, the appearance of harmony cannot be preserved. Why take the trou­ble to hold fast to empty conventions?”89

The allegorical conversation reveals that it was Cao who initiated the separation; her mind was set. What triggered her action was their deteriorating relationship. Their emotional bond had faded; she did not want to cling to the false appearance of harmony. What had happened? One pos­si­ble explanation was Shi’s shifting affections. As Shi’s first concubine, Cao had been with Shi for thirteen years and had given birth to one son (who might have died).90 Four years before she departed, Shi acquired his youngest—­a nd favorite—­concubine, who was only sixteen. Rather than enduring humiliating neglect, one may surmise, Cao chose dignity over material comfort and an unfulfilling relationship.

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Writing Dis­plea­sure Raised in polygynous ­house­holds and groomed to be virtuous wives, educated ­women would have anticipated the likelihood of having to live alongside concubines or maids. Still, that upbringing did not necessarily prepare them for certain challenges, such as a husband who had an insatiable appetite for attractive w ­ omen or a concubine who transgressed her status. Th ­ ese w ­ ere emotionally draining but delicate challenges, and dealing with them required skills befitting a wife’s status. She had to carefully manage the bound­a ries that defined wifely respectability, incompetence, or “jealousy” so as not to inflict damage on her relationship with her husband and his concubine(s). Fortunately, poetic training came in handy in a wife’s negotiation of relationships. The poetics established in The Classic of Poetry that prized mea­sured and ­gentle expression over excessive displays of emotion served well in ­these situations. With what might be called a “poetic strategy,” wives in the Qing skillfully manipulated poetry as a gentle mechanism of self-­expression, intervention, and negotiation. Theirs was a mix of teasing, complaint, and reproach that avoided outright provocation or irritation. Xu Deying was a case in point. Praised by Yuan Mei as the most talented poet of her generation, Xu Deying (1681–­?) married Xu Yingnian (literary name Lisheng), a prodigy who earned his jinshi at a young age.91 They w ­ ere compared to the legendary c­ ouple Qin Jia and Xu Shu.92 Deying’s poetry collection, Lüjingxuan shichao, was published in her twenties and filled with conjugal poems. However, their marriage seems to have been complicated by one prob­lem: Xu Yingnian’s interest in other ­women. Deying described one incident in a poem, “Writing what I saw, harmonizing with Lisheng’s poem ‘Spring Outing.’ ” At the center of the spring excursion was a certain beauty who caught a “sightseer’s” attention. In an animated style, Deying elaborately paints the w ­ oman’s hairdo, posture, and dress. Her sardonic narrative turns into blunt ridicule in the end, as if to awaken the “sightseer” and bring him back to real­ity: “Do not frequently stop your h ­ orse and do not excessively raise your golden whip [to spur the h ­ orse]. No inquiry has been made about her surname ­because she might be a neighbor.”93 Placing this poem in the context of Deying’s other work, it appears that she was describing her husband. The following poem in her collection was a work titled “Sent to My Husband, Written Spontaneously.” In it, Deying confronted him for his lack of devotion in their relationship:

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My heart is like a ­giant rock, Your intent is like floating clouds. Countless sorrowful ­t hings, Have used up a white silk robe for writing.94

A “­giant rock” is a conventional meta­phor for unwavering wifely devotion and a contrast to the “floating intent”—­t he lack of concentration—on the part of her husband. “Countless sorrowful ­t hings” expose Deying’s frustration that was a long time in the making.95 Sometime ­later, Xu Yingnian unsuccessfully pursued a singsong girl for a concubine; this event became the subject of another of Deying’s poems. Consisting of four short stanzas, the poem was preceded by an elaborate narrative written in a stylish fu (rhapsody) genre with dense allusions and tropes.96 Its tone was witty and playful. The Wu girl from Suzhou, she described, was endowed with unmatched beauty: “Falling for her city-­collapsing beauty, my husband sent a matchmaker to deliver his message, and he hurriedly went to visit her reclusive residence. Across the half-­blocked cloud screen, her enchanting eyes met his; her lotus feet stepped back as if she w ­ ere reluctant [to accept the proposal], but her heart already consented.” The acquisition fell apart, however, ­because a wealthy general purchased the girl instead. “How can one not take pity on this devastating situation and voice a sigh of sympathy?” Deying continued teasingly, “Therefore, I appropriate Du Mu’s (803–852?) sentence of “looking for spring” to open my poem; and I imitate the words of ‘The Rhapsody of Regrets’ by Jiang Yan (444–505) and put together this short song. I am sending it to the p ­ eople who share my feeling so that we all can beat our chests [to express our sympathy and sadness].” Deying’s poem contained four separate stanzas, each starting with the sentence “­because it is a bit late to look for spring.” All ­were filled with romantic stories of “regret.” The second stanza, for example, reads: ­Because it is a bit late to look for spring, Lovesickness is tied to a weeping willow in vain. The mulan boat brings back sadness, Most pitiful is the first flower of spring.

Each of the three lines following the first contains a tale of heartfelt love. The “weeping willow” tells of the Tang poet Han Hong (719–788), whose

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concubine, Willow, was snapped up by a general. “The mulan boat” allusion derived from the story of the famous Jin dynasty calligrapher Wang Xianzhi (344–386) and his favorite concubine, “Peach Leaf,” who was afraid of crossing the Qinhuai river by boat. To relieve her fear, Wang sent her a poem promising to fetch her in person. ­Here Deying turned the allusion around to mock her husband for his failure to bring the Wu girl home. “The first flower of spring” referred to a poem by another Tang poet, Cui Hu (772–846). During a spring trip, Cui s­ topped in a village for ­water and met a lovely girl standing by a peach tree. Cui went back to look for her the following year only to be greeted by an empty ­house and peach blossoms “smiling” in the spring breeze. The story became a meta­phor for short-­lived romance that ­causes lingering regrets. The witty and amusing tone of the poem harbored traces of Deying’s feelings, but it was also a coping mechanism. She had l­imited control over the situation, yet was unable to remain s­ ilent. A satirical poem fit the bill perfectly. It allowed her to express her emotions without appearing jealous, providing a cover for her dis­plea­sure. In this par­tic­u­lar case, of course, she was enjoying her husband’s misfortune. More noteworthy still is Deying’s declaration at the end of the preface that the poem was written to be sent to t­ hose who shared her feelings. This way, they all could express their “sympathy and sadness.” Was this meant only to be a tease? Poetry was a popu­lar form of communication between female friends, so it wouldn’t be entirely out of the norm for Deying to share her poem with friends. W ­ hether or not she ended up ­doing so is unknown, but she did include the work in her anthology. This action suggests that such a moment in conjugal relations, as well as her feeling of dis­plea­sure, was not unusual for w ­ omen of her class, and that publicizing it would cause neither embarrassment nor damage to ­either her reputation or her husband’s. It was one t­ hing to deal with a husband whose heart was like “floating clouds”; it was quite another to live with a concubine who was pampered by a husband. Wives ­were taught to keep their jealousy ­under control and to treat a concubine as if she w ­ ere her own ­daughter or s­ ister (depending on their age difference). Some genuinely endeavored to fulfill such roles, but they also had to tactfully set bound­a ries to protect their standing in the ­house­hold while still maintaining marital harmony. This seems to be what happened in the case of Peng Zhenyin. Well educated and from a prestigious f­ amily, Peng Zhenyin (Yuqian) married Lu Xuan (1761–­?), a wealthy man who loved collecting books and artwork.

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She left b ­ ehind one small volume of song lyr­ics. A much more substantial collection—­fourteen juan—­was published by Shen Cai, Lu’s young concubine. For a female author, Shen’s anthology is outstanding in its size and diversity of genre. According to Lu Xuan’s preface, he acquired her when she was thirteen, and his wife took on the role of her teacher. She was groomed to be a connoisseur and was entrusted with Lu’s library and extensive art collection.97 To get a sense of Lu Xuan’s affection for Shen Cai, one needs only to look at his explanation for how he arrived at the decision to publish her writing. He noted that following the orthodox teaching that w ­ omen’s words w ­ ere not supposed to be known outside the inner chamber, he initially did not release them to outsiders. But, now that she had given birth to ­children and had interacted with good friends, it was no longer pos­si­ble to “hide her [talents].” At first, he cautiously released a few of her pieces, and her poems and calligraphy quickly reached the imperial capital and “the ocean’s end.” He therefore instructed her to edit and compile her writings for publication so that literati circles would know her talent.98 Shen Cai wrote with a proud and somewhat self-­celebratory voice, consciously advertising her refinement and leisurely life. Her relationship with Lu was presented with a hint of sensuality, as seen in scenes such as the c­ ouple drinking together on the Double Seven Festival or playing a flute-­and-­qin duet on a moonlit night.99 Skilled in the “boudoir-­erotic” poetry style, she regularly used sensual and sexually suggestive tropes and references, such as “tender love” (rouqing), “lovemaking in a dream” (mengzhong chunshi), and “enchanting dreams” (you meng).100 By all indications, Yuqian played her prescribed role, serving as a supporting and generous wife. Judging by her conjugal poems, she was quite attached to her husband. She engaged in changhe and lianju activities with Lu and Shen and characterized their relationships as having “no suspicion between the ­couple and among the three.”101 While Peng accepted polygyny and guarded her virtuous image carefully, she also took extra care to keep a clear boundary between herself and Shen Cai. She “did not speak or laugh casually,” her husband noted.102 Her poetry proj­ects an image of a moral, dignified, and transcendent ­woman who had no intention of competing with a concubine for her husband’s affection. Yuqian’s rigid moral posture even put pressure on Shen Cai to tone down her sensuality. In one instance, Shen described how she was distracted by a rousing springtime scene and ­stopped reading The

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Classic of Poetry. She wanted to write a “love poem” (chun ci), but had to be careful so that the “principal wife” ­wouldn’t know her “dissolute” words.103 ­Behind Yuqian’s carefully managed image, in contrast, ­were intense emotions that occasionally erupted. When Lu Xuan and Shen Cai appeared to have transgressed status demarcations, she responded swiftly. One such moment was captured in a series of five harmonizing song lyr­ics the three of them composed. Lu Xuan initiated the verse with an explic­itly sensual first piece that described a late-­night bedroom scene in spring. Reading by lamplight while his “beauty” was sound asleep, the poet suddenly heard her murmuring a word of love (xiangsi) in a voice that resembled a songbird’s. Overcome with qing, he teasingly asked, “Who can dispel this feeling?” Shen Cai’s harmonizing piece built on Lu’s sensual motif to include more vividly amorous images: in the beauty’s dream of love, “the mandarin duck quilt t­ rembles slightly.” She was riding a phoenix through the sky with her lover, playing a flute as if they ­were the legendary ­couple Xiaoshi and Nongyu in the land of the immortals. “Please do not compare me with Xiaohong [a famous courtesan from the Tang period]!” the beauty ­gently scolds her lover.104 In her harmonizing piece, Yuqian also constructed an exquisite bedroom scene but with a starkly contrasting motif: a w ­ oman neglected by her husband was enduring the long night alone. While he was enjoying intimacy with his lover, she was left to drown in sorrow. Love melts into w ­ ater; it dissolves into spring’s traces and cannot be gathered. Plum blossoms are about to open, the cuckoo cries at night. The red candle burns to its end; tears fill the holder. No incense remains [in the burner], fragrance fades from the quilt. In no mood to remove her makeup, she falls asleep with her clothes on.

The poem goes on to describe how the poet used to be “love crazed,” sending her love poems. Now the faded pages resembled a “history of sorrow” (chou shi). “If Heaven has feelings, it would be as sorrowful as this!” she lamented. This ending sentence invoked the famous line by Tang poet Li He (“If heaven has feelings it would grow old [­because of sorrow]”) to suggest the depth of her sadness.105 It would be difficult to treat ­these exchanges as a pure literary exercise. But even if Yuqian wrote her piece offhandedly, her choice of constructing an

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image of a deserted wife was still telling. Wounded by the insensitive and self-­ indulgent tone that her husband and his beloved concubine had created, Yuqian seems to have lost her composure and allowed her unhappiness to burst forth.106 The personal nature of the poems becomes even more clear in the next two harmonizing poems she and her husband exchanged. Yuqian’s poignant response should have deterred Lu from writing further, but it did not. He appeared to be quite pleased to have two w ­ omen competing for his ­favor. He responded with another poem alluding to the two s­ isters who became consorts of the legendary Emperor Shun while imagining the “cold and long night” Yuqian described. “So wonderful when I contemplate this; I should write an account of love,” he playfully declared.107 His ill-­conceived poem set Yuqian off. While she veiled her emotions using the voice of a lonely ­woman in her first poem, in this round, she a­ dopted a blunt style, addressing her husband directly. My heart is like ­water in a well, Where do I have spare emotions to make waves? ­Don’t be frivolous and cause a dog to bark! When the spring breeze arrives, Budding peaches and amiable apricots all receive f­ avor. I allow you to sleep by the side of my bed. “­Don’t disobey your husband,” said Mencius. This saying has its meaning. I expect to be repaid with “re­spect like a guest,” leaving a name in history. The words of the bedroom do not spread beyond the door, They should be burned to ash. [Like] traces of a swan’s footsteps in the snow, Why should they be kept?108

The poem delivered her message through a combination of allusions and straightforward admonition. The “dried-up well that makes no waves” was a popu­lar symbol of a chaste w ­ idow who no longer felt sexual desire. Yuqian implied that her life was not much dif­fer­ent from a ­widow’s. She warned her husband to watch out for his be­hav­ior, citing the image of a barking dog in a love-­tryst scene described in The Classic of Poetry.109 Not allowing someone to sleep at one’s bedside is a coded expression for barring someone from

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encroaching on one’s space and sharing power.110 Applying the symbolism in reverse, Yuqian reminded her husband that he had crossed the line of ritual propriety, but she had tolerated it. In the second half, Yuqian gives him a straightforward lecture. She let him know that she had done what was expected of her as a wife, and she was thoroughly disappointed that he failed to show her due re­spect. Fi­nally, responding to his declaration to “write an account of love,” she told him to destroy ­t hese poems with a nod to orthodox Confucian teaching. Yuqian’s burst of anger sheds light on the emotional ­trials some elite ­women faced living in polygynous ­house­holds, and the negotiations that needed to be made in order for a wife, husband, and concubine(s) to live together. It is unlikely that this was an isolated incident. Her unhappiness had been brewing for some time. Lu’s relationship with a favored concubine put stress on their conjugal bond, but her upbringing and sense of moral propriety prevented her from making her dis­plea­sure public. When the limits of propriety ­were crossed and her dignity threatened, she made it clear that she would not tolerate such be­hav­ior. Her literary skills served her well, allowing her to deliver her message with composure and authority. Such unpleasant moments ­were crucial in marking the bound­aries, making it pos­ si­ble for parties with conflicting interests to maintain their relationships.

Chapter Six

Growing Old Together [Yun and I] w ­ ere to live together as devoted husband and wife for three and twenty years, and our feelings for one another grew more intimate as time passed. . . . ​I have always found it odd that older ­couples look upon each other as sworn enemies and have never understood the thinking ­behind it. Some ­people say, “If they ­didn’t act like that, how could they grow old together?” I won­der if this is ­really true. Shen Fu, Six Rec­o rds of a Life Adrift

Marriage was often fr agile. Husband and wife could become estranged if they ­were a poor match, and the possibility of a spouse’s untimely death was ever pre­sent, as the ubiquitous presence of chaste ­widows revealed. As remarriage was out of the question for a ­woman of the literati class, she would suffer “­bitter widowhood” for the rest of her life if she lost her husband. Reaching old age together was deemed such an improbable blessing, it was said an el­derly ­couple could not have lived in harmony, for too much happiness was bound to invite disaster. Growing old together did not ensure a lasting marital bond. But if a c­ ouple survived with their relationship intact, the meaning of companionship was greatly enhanced. For the Qing literati, “growing old together” meant a shared journey of fulfilling responsibilities essential for maintaining and expanding the f­ amily. A c­ ouple would have had to cope with adversity and crises, such as chronic spousal separation and the deaths of ­family members. Th ­ ose experiences produced deep appreciation and mutual attachment, cementing 158

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particularly strong companionate love. Old age also brought rewards in a society that valued filial piety: leisure and rest, and being served and honored by offspring. The death of a spouse ushered in a flurry of activity meant to preserve the memory of the deceased and to prepare for reunion in the next life.

The Dreg-­Husk Wife Prolonged peace and economic growth made the Qing a time of dramatic population growth and improved life expectancy; as a result, the marriage rate during this period likely increased.1 Historians have estimated that the average age of marriage in the Qing was twenty for men and seventeen for ­women; among the upper class, it was perhaps one to two years older.2 My own anecdotal evidence from vari­ous types of biographies for the educated class suggest a shift in the age of marriage as well. In the seventeenth ­century, marrying in the mid-­teens appeared common for both men and w ­ omen, but in the eigh­ teenth and nineteenth centuries marriage happened at a ­later age. What p ­ eople considered to be a long marriage is difficult to quantify, but cultural signifiers of a c­ ouple who had grown old together included marrying off all their ­children, passing on the ­house­hold management to the next generation, and the beginning of “big birthday” cele­brations starting at age fifty. The pro­cess of aging played its own role in shaping marital relationships with divergent effects. Some ­couples who had had a perfect marriage to begin with grew apart over time. Youthful romantic passion waned with the physical changes of aging, while increased family responsibilities introduced new sources of complication and added strain to their relationship. Constant separation also added strain. It did not help that the male privilege of taking concubines caused some marriages to fall apart. Qing personal writings are generally ­silent on this aspect of marriage, but clues are not difficult to find. Wives dis­appeared in written rec­ords of their husbands, and a few conjugal poems were exchanged later in their lives. Wang Qisun, who idolized his bride, Cao Zhenxiu, depicted her in a rather unflattering light in a poem he wrote at the age of sixty, comparing her to the Maitreya Buddha, whose chubby image projected benevolence. Clearly, Cao had gained weight and lost her attractiveness in his eyes.3 Losing physical attraction did not necessarily mean emotional estrangement. Companionate love, as opposed to romantic love, took hold in a relationship precisely ­because of the c­ ouple’s shared life journey. Older men often

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referred to their wives as “an old wife,” “an old companion,” “an old friend of the boudoir,” or “a dreg-­husk wife.” 4 ­These phrases projected a special kind of affection with shades of familiarity, trust, dependence, and comfort. The term “dreg-­husk wife” (zaokang zi qi) was derived from a story about the widowed ­sister of Emperor Guangwu of the Eastern Han (25–220). While searching for a new husband, she took an interest in the official Song Hong, who was already married. Unsure of Song’s interest, the emperor de­cided to have a chat with him. He said to Song, “­There is a common saying that when a man obtains high status, he changes his friends; when he becomes rich, he changes his wife. ­Isn’t this the way of h ­ uman beings?” Song replied, “I heard that friendship formed in ­humble days should not be forgotten, and a wife who has eaten dreg and husk with her husband should not be deserted.”5 Thereafter, a “dreg-­husk wife” became a synonym for a w ­ oman who had endured poverty with her husband, with the connotation that abandoning such a wife ­after the husband’s lot in life had improved was unethical. You Tong, whose marriage lasted for forty years, argued that true conjugal love could only be born from sharing life’s ups and downs. He rationalized his marital fidelity based on the hardships he and his wife had endured. Wealthy widowers would remarry immediately, he commented, but “how can [­t hese widowers] be like ­t hose [who] have married a ‘dreg and husk wife’? Together husband and wife tasted bitterness in life, parted as they grew to old age, and [­after the wife’s death, the husband] lived the rest of his life in solidarity.” 6 By most standards, You’s life could hardly be characterized as ­bitter. But bitterness could be defined in other ways besides financial hardship.7 For the literati class, “bitterness in life” encompassed a wide array of circumstances and events: exhaustion from having to manage a large ­house­hold, examination and ­career setbacks, the illness and death of ­family members, debt and other financial trou­bles, perils of travel, ­family tensions, and the perennial separation of husband and wife. A ­woman who was able to withstand bitterness was also referred to as “a strong wife who held up the h ­ ouse­hold” (jian fu chi menhu), a term that originated in a Han yuefu poem.8 Such a wife was a resourceful and resilient ­house­hold man­ag­er, placed in a position of responsibility ­because of her husband’s absence. In Qing writings, however, a wife could still play this role even if her husband lived at home. Zhu Yizun (1629–1709), who married uxorilocally when he was seventeen and his wife fifteen, recalled how his wife “doggedly held up the h ­ ouse­hold” w ­ hether he was around or not. Their nearly fifty

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years of marriage crossed half a ­century that began with the fall of the Ming and ended with the Qing entering its golden years. He wrote, While young we encountered chaos, and she often hid with me in the thick bamboo groves at night. Wandering from place to place in despair, we moved eleven times before fi­nally settling down. She arranged marriages for two brothers-­i n-­law [i.e., Zhu’s younger b ­ rothers], a son, four d ­ aughters, and a grand­son. She managed the burials of two fathers-­in-­law [Zhu’s a­ dopted f­ ather and biological ­father] and her ­mother Madam Hu, and she also dealt with all kinds of hardship. Moreover, she traveled back and forth [between Beijing, where Zhu served at court, and their hometown] by river and road, and t­ here was never a time that she was not in a hurry. All her life she was worried and anxious, and she never lived at ease for a single day.9

Two points need explanation. First, of the “four d ­ aughters” his wife married off, two ­were his cousin’s ­daughters. Zhu and his wife took the girls in when their ­father passed away. In upper-­class families, helping raise orphaned ­children of close relatives or inviting needy relatives to live with them was part of the responsibility of “holding up the ­house­hold.” Second, Zhu Yizun credited his wife for taking care of all the marriages and burials, even though he was also involved. Zhu returned home for the funeral, for example, when his ­father died.10 Presumably, giving full credit to his wife served to underscore her accomplishments and his gratitude. ­There can be another explanation too: between the two of them, she performed more than her share of the tasks. Frequent travels or indifference to ­house­hold operations would have left some men with inadequate skills to perform t­ hese major duties.11 ­Others who wanted to perform ­these tasks might not have had the time to do so. Qin Ying, for example, noted that he had to get up to leave for the court at the crack of dawn and would return home in pitch dark when serving in posts that included the ­Grand Council during the Qing military campaigns in Taiwan and Annan. As a result, he “had no time to enquire about ­family m ­ atters.”12 The notion of “­family m ­ atters” raises the question of what the gender dichotomy of “inner and outer” denoted with regard to ­house­hold operations. Conceptually, this Confucian gender princi­ple organ­izing familial and social responsibilities left l­ ittle room for ambiguity: ­women took charge of inner ­matters and men took charge of the outer affairs. But when we examine the  makeup of ­family m ­ atters, they do not align neatly with a gendered

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inner-­outer scheme. In practice, while the wife took care of “rice and salt”—­ the daily management of feeding the household—­both wife and husband ­were responsible for their ­children’s education and marriage, for the burial of deceased f­ amily members, and for financial decisions.13 In other words, an amorphous grey area lay between the two spheres, where married ­couples collaborated and where wives stepped into positions of commanding authority. Of all ­t hese f­ amily m ­ atters, burial and marriage ­were the most impor­tant responsibilities. Both events w ­ ere of enormous significance in terms of Confucian ancestral rituals and ­family perpetuation, and how they ­were carried out had a crucial bearing on a ­family’s reputation. But they also became grave responsibilities ­because of their financial implications: both operations w ­ ere hugely costly. The funds required for a proper burial—­which included locating and purchasing an auspicious site, building the tomb, commissioning an epitaph and having it engraved on a piece of stone, arranging a pro­cession and a feast, hiring Buddhist or Daoist monks for religious ceremonies, and accommodating relatives and friends—­was so enormous that some families ­were forced to leave the deceased in a coffin or in a temporary burial place for years before the formal burial could be carried out. Costs for marriage ­were also notoriously high. Qing society was dominated by a culture that attached ­great importance to material wealth in marriage negotiations, so the size of betrothal gifts and dowries often became issues of contention. At the same time, commercialization and rising incomes generated competition for con­ spic­u­ous wedding displays. Families, rich and poor alike, would spend more than they could afford, sometimes ruining their finances.14 The difficulties a f­amily faced when money became an issue in fulfilling burial and marriage responsibilities are illustrated in Zhou Xifu’s case. Both of Zhou’s parents died when the government was pressing him to pay back a debt his ­father owed. He had to choose between giving his parents respectful burials and paying back the debt. His wife urged him to carry out the burials first, advice he followed and for which he was im­mensely grateful ­because it spared him from the “terrible crime” of failing in his filial duty.15 Not long ­after, he faced another predicament. A younger b ­ rother who lived with them in Beijing was coming of age for marriage. However, they could not afford the wedding; additionally, they had no one to accompany the ­brother back to their hometown of Changsha where the wedding would take place. Eventually, his wife offered to go. They borrowed two hundred taels of silver, but

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before they set off, half of that money had been used for other expenses. Zhou’s wife departed nonetheless, taking along their second son, and managed to borrow more money ­after arriving in Changsha. She used this money not only to give her brother-­in-­law a proper wedding but also to marry off their second son. According to his colleague Qin Qing, Zhou and his wife did not have an especially congenial relationship, but her death triggered an outpouring of grief from Zhou. As so often happened, men who traveled far from home left the responsibility for ­family burials to their wives. Fang Dongshu described how his wife, Lady Sun, carried out the burials for his late ­father and grand­mother in accordance with Confucian ritual, even when the ­family had few resources: “­These two major deaths occurred within two years. An unfilial son, far away, I avoided my responsibility and placed it all on my wife. This is why I felt so sad and ashamed that I could not utter a word.”16 As the eldest son, Fang was expected to preside over the burial rituals. His failure to perform ­t hese duties left him with profound psychological and emotional scars. At the same time, it created heartfelt indebtedness to his wife. Managing an event as serious as burial while short of money was itself an incredible feat, but t­ here was an additional reason that Fang was moved: at the time Lady Sun was suffering from debilitating paralysis. Her ailment was said to be caused by their ­house’s damp location. Initially she was able to move around with a cane; then, she was completely disabled for eigh­teen years, starting at the age of forty-­four.17 “She had someone carry her to sit on a couch e­ very morning and carry her back to lie down in her bed late at night. This was her routine. . . . ​­Matters ­were brought to her continuously, ranging from rice and salt for daily needs to government demands for taxes and ser­v ices, supplies for burials and sacrifices, and the visits of friends and relatives. With her single mouth and single heart, she managed every ­t hing.”18 Most Qing literati wives did not have to overcome such extraordinary physical challenges while managing their h ­ ouse­holds, but taking charge of f­ amily ­matters was an exhausting task nonetheless. The twenty-­seven letters Chen Ershi sent to her husband Qian Yiji—­a rare set of materials that happen to be preserved in her collections of writings—­a llow a glimpse of the daily life of an upper-­class h ­ ouse­hold. The letters ­were written between the summers of 1817 and 1818, when Qian Yiji escorted his ­mother’s coffin back to his hometown in Jiaxing, Zhejiang. Although written while Chen was ­running the  ­house­hold by herself, the letters vividly reveal the interactions and

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collaborations between wife and husband. The following letter was sent two months ­after Qian left: Since your departure, not a single day has gone by that I did not think of you. What I am worried about most is your hemorrhoids. This is ­because [a person] having this ailment must not be worried or exhausted from laboring, but at this moment how could [you] not worry and be exhausted from laboring? I received your letter dated the nineteenth and twenty-­first of the eighth month and learned your hemorrhoids had indeed returned. I am extremely concerned. We are short of money, and so it appears that the trip to Jinan cannot happen. ­There has been theft at night from time to time in our residence. That has left me with no choice but to hire a watchman for eight hundred wen a month. [The book] Jinshi cui bian has been returned. I have sold my pearl hair ornaments for sixty taels of silver. If the striking clock can be sold too, t­ here ­w ill be no need to send money to Beijing to pay off the debt owed to Older ­Brother. The ulcers that ­were growing on the ­children are all gradually getting better, so you can rest assured. [Our oldest son] Ying has not familiarized himself with the Zuo Commentary; he is more familiar with The Classic of Changes, The Book of History, The Classic of Poetry, Zhou Guan, The Book of Etiquette and Ceremonial, the first half of The Book of Rites, The Erya, and the Four Books. ­Every day he studies twenty to forty or fifty pages of the Zuo Commentary to become familiar with it, while [also] reviewing the books he has [already] studied. I instructed him to write an essay imitating “The Letter from Zichang to Hanxuan Zi” before I went out on the fourth of the month. Although I do not understand ancient prose, I can tell his essay is fairly or­ga­ nized. I asked Mr. Wuting to evaluate it, and [his evaluation remarks] are to the point, detailed, and clear. ­Here I’m presenting you with the marked essay so that you ­w ill know Ying is not slacking off in his studies. The ninth month has had a lot of expenses, and ­t here is not enough left to cover daily needs. Yesterday, I pawned a hairpin for eight thousand and five hundred wen to help cover the ­house­hold expenses. ­There are still fifteen thousand wen in Benzhi’s place, and I plan to get some more money to make it a hundred thousand wen and put it in Wu’s place; I’m g­ oing to have Benzhi ask Songwen to temporarily loan us one hundred thousand wen. I ­w ill send ­t hese two sums of money south [to Qian in Jiaxing]. Shichu w ­ ill return to Hunan by the end of the year. This morning Yulou had someone deliver 18.6 taels of waijuan sliver [to our residence], which can support one month’s expenses. On the tenth I received

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the letter you sent from Dongguang. In it you said you planned to stay in our hometown for two months and then come back to Beijing by land. Although my private wish is that you come home early, that plan w ­ on’t be appropriate given your health conditions. Perhaps you could spend the summer in the south and return to Beijing in early fall. That could work, and I won­der what you think about it.19

Chen opened her letter with an earnest inquiry about her traveling husband’s health but soon shifted to her responsibilities to ensure the smooth functioning of her household, which included six ­children, a concubine, and another person.20 ­The mundane details she described brought to life the range of matters she attended to on a regular basis, particularly the children’s health and the elder son’s education. Handling the f­ amily’s finances was one of Chen’s most consuming responsibilities. She spoke about receiving money, borrowing money, paying off debts, and sending money to her husband. She noted a ­couple times that someone delivered to her some “waijuan silver,” which appears to refer to a type of supplemental income that officials received that was related to the government program of selling offices.21 Although theirs was an official f­amily, she was dealing with a shortage of money and had to juggle t­ hings around to make ends meet, including selling or pawning her dowry items, the “­source of credit and currency that ­women used at their discretion to meet the needs of the f­amily on many fronts.”22 Elsewhere we learn that she had received a cash gift of over two thousand taels of silver from her m ­ other soon a­ fter she was married to be used for purchasing books for her husband; by this time, however, none of it remained as she had used the last five hundred taels to pay for her mother-­in-­law’s move to Beijing.23 The reasons for the shortage of money in Qian’s h ­ ouse­hold are unclear, but complaining about poverty was normal for Qing court officials living in the capital. Salaries for high-­ranking officials ­were decent but not enough to maintain the lifestyle appropriate to their status, according to one analy­sis. ­There ­were many types of expenses, including tips to servants sent to deliver ­t hings by their superiors, gifts for social events such as weddings and funerals, commuting costs (riding in sedan chairs), costs for clothes and ornaments befitting their status, the monthly rent, and costs for purchasing concubines, maintaining servants, entertainment, hosting banquets, and so forth.24

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In her letters, Chen Ershi consulted her husband and solicited his opinions while informing him of her h ­ andling of all kinds of m ­ atters. It is conceivable that Chen handled t­ hese issues even if her husband was at home. Based on Chen’s letters, we know that on one occasion, he sent a list of fifteen ­t hings for her to take care of and that he regularly filled her in on ­t hings that happened on his end, including news about her natal ­family and even gossip. In all her letters, Chen constantly inquired about his health and deferentially addressed him as “master” (zhuren). All in all, the letters suggest a partner-­ like relationship, even though the two ­were not equals. During the one-­year period when Chen “held up the h ­ ouse­hold,” it appears she and her husband had a smooth relationship. This, however, was not always the case. In a “Brief Account” of his wife that Qian wrote twenty-­two years ­after Chen’s death at thirty-­seven, he noted that he was quick tempered and would blame his wife when t­ hings did not go his way; in turn, she would not hesitate to argue with him in order to justify her actions. One day she told him that she would stop quarreling ­because she remembered her ailing ­mother’s wish that they get along. Apparently, Chen was unhappy enough to reveal their prob­lems to her ­mother. “I felt sad and ­couldn’t finish my words,” Qian recalled as saying at the time.25 When both husband and wife ­were engaged in ­house­hold management, differences in opinions and arguments ­were inevitable. Speaking about ­t hose incidents long ­after the fact, Qian was reflecting on his own flaws as if to offer an apology. He recalled his wife’s outstanding womanly virtues and accomplishments, and instructed his sons to place the “Brief Account” along with an autobiography of himself in the wall of the “tomb house” by their co-burial tomb a­ fter his death, so that f­uture generations could read them when they visited.26

Coping with Separation Male sojourning and migration occurred throughout imperial history. In the eigh­teenth and nineteenth centuries, however, it became part of a normal rhythm of life. Throughout the empire, men of all classes ­were constantly on the move. Expanded imperial territory, regional integration, and a vibrant commercialized economy, coupled with increased competition thanks to the demographic explosion, drove men to leave their native places in order to seek opportunities elsewhere. The literati called their travel you. A concept established in early Confucian tradition, you was associated with the exploration

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of knowledge for self-­improvement. But in the Qing, the uplifting term you glossed over the fact that travel was often not a choice but a necessity. Literati took to the road for all kinds of reasons: studying at academies and government schools, taking civil examinations, assuming government posts (if successful), seeking employment opportunities, working as physicians, trying their hand at a trade, asking for assistance from relatives and friends, and network building for self-­promotion. While men traveled, wives and ­children often remained ­behind. The home was the “still point” amid the hustle and bustle of the world, where the husband returned periodically and the wife steadily “upheld the ­house­hold.”27 But sometimes, travel was a euphemism for abandonment. In one case, a man left to “travel” a­ fter gaining his juren degree and never returned to visit his parents, wife, or child, causing his heartbroken wife to lose her eyesight.28 A number of f­ actors seem to have influenced the decision as to w ­ hether or not a man took his wife and c­ hildren along. The needs of the extended ­family at home loomed large over such deliberations. Aging or ailing parents relied on the support of their daughter-­in-­law, especially if they had no other c­ hildren to turn to. The wife also might need to stay to take care of their c­ hildren’s marriages. In the meantime, supporting a f­amily in a city like Beijing was costly. Wang Niansun (1744–1832) did not bring his f­ amily to Beijing for over twenty years out of concern for the high cost of living. Only at sixty-­three did his wife fi­nally join him ­after he was appointed as head of the Waterways Cir­ cuit of Shandong, but she soon died of illness related to the change in climate.29 Adjusting to new environments could be a deadly challenge, and a long trip could be unnerving. Travelers might encounter bad weather, illnesses, capsized boats, and highway robbery. In addition, a man could not afford to have a wife and ­children living with him while he needed to concentrate on study or work. Not surprisingly, spousal separation typically ended with the husband earning a top degree and securing a government position. Such separation could occur at any time, including immediately a­ fter the wedding. The wedding gave the groom a short break from study or work. One month seems to have been the norm, although some believed it was not long enough for the newlyweds to get to know each other, which would allow the groom to provide more support for his bride as she learned how to serve her mother-­in-­law and run ­family ­matters.30 For Zhang Yuzhen and her husband, the separation that began five years into their marriage turned into an ­eternal  farewell. A ­ fter her father-­in-­law took him to Beijing, where the

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father-­in-­law waited for a government assignment and her husband studied at the imperial university, she never saw him again. Both men died five years ­later: her father-­in-­law from illness and her husband from excessive mourning for his ­father.31 One consequence of conjugal separation in the early years of marriage was a delay in procreation. The fertility rate in late imperial China was lower than premodern Eu­rope, and the low birthrate has been attributed to the practice of chaste widowhood, poverty, and deliberate birth control.32 It seems reasonable to suggest that chronic spousal separation, which often began shortly ­after the wedding, led to longer than usual birth intervals. Given the importance of securing a male heir, one would expect that families prioritized that goal above other objectives. But socioeconomic realities seem to have forced families to place ­career establishment above having ­children. Reproduction was nevertheless always on every­one’s mind. ­A fter ten years of separation, Zhao Yi welcomed his wife to join him in the capital with the hope that a son would be born the following year.33 By the same token, since no effective birth control methods existed in the Qing, spousal separation could serve as a de facto method of birth control.34 Some ­couples may have consciously deployed it as a tool to limit c­ hildren. One w ­ oman gave birth to nine c­ hildren by the age of thirty-­seven, and when her husband was appointed a court official, she stayed b ­ ehind. The separation turned out to be a long one indeed. They met once in the following eigh­teen years that followed, and he passed away two years a­ fter their short reunion.35 This may be an extreme case, but separations that went on for years on end ­were nothing out of the ordinary. Sun Xingyan’s ­father set off for the examinations in Beijing, leaving b ­ ehind his widowed ­mother, wife, and a young son (Xiangyan). He passed his provincial examination in three years but did not return for another six years while he fruitlessly tried to pass the metropolitan examination.36 Jiang Shiquan’s ­father, in his forties, left his young wife and two-­year-­old son b ­ ehind for a five-­year-­long trip, sending them to live with her natal f­ amily. He returned, but would leave again in a year. This time, his wife was able to persuade him to take the ­family along.37 As for Jiang himself, he and his wife lived apart for half of their twenty-­year marriage.38 The ubiquity of spousal separation did not make it any easier for ­couples to bid farewell. Qing writers often described the heart-­wrenching sadness of separation. On the eve of Yang Luan’s trip from Tongguan, Shaanxi to Beijing to sit for the metropolitan examination, friends and relatives gathered to

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see him off. He said to his wife, “You and I have deep feelings for one another [qing du], but we are often separated. Now I w ­ ill travel to a faraway place once again.” He asked her to let him take the jade bracelet that she was given at the miaojian ritual (a ritual introducing the new bride to the groom’s ancestors) and said, “having its pure luster near me, a thousand li ­will not feel far.”39 In the biography of Tang Yinxian, Ji Dong (1625–1676) tells how separation led to the tragic deaths of a c­ ouple who w ­ ere deeply in love. Tang was an exceptionally gifted and learned ­woman who also specialized in writing and solving a par­tic­u­lar kind of riddle called zhuge guyin. Her husband, a student of Ji’s ­father, was “not very smart but was good and honest.” They lived in a village a few miles away from Ji, and each time before the husband came to Ji’s ­house to study for ten or fifteen days, the c­ ouple “would weep for quite a while.” ­Later, Ji’s ­father took a teaching job in Suzhou and took Tang’s husband along. Tang sent him a letter, which she hid in a sock, along with a riddle that contained the clue to locate the letter. Her husband, however, failed to solve the riddle and consequently failed to find the letter. Depressed, he became ill and died four months l­ ater. Tang then starved herself to death, leaving ­behind two young ­children.40 Like their counter­parts in early modern Eu­rope and North Amer­i­ca, married ­couples in the Qing corresponded through letters. Depending on the location of the husband and delivery availability, c­ ouples could exchange anywhere from one to three letters per month.41 Waiting for a letter to arrive was an excruciating experience. Li Xinyuan described the thrill of receiving his wife’s letter a­ fter a longer than usual wait that made him feel like “a fish in a dry ditch.” He was so happy that he forgot to ask who delivered it. Hastily opening it, he wondered why it was sealed so tightly. His wife reported in the letter that his m ­ other was healthy and their baby d ­ aughter loved jujube cake. The words ­were so dear that he wanted to wear them as if they w ­ ere jade.42 Qing c­ ouples attached g­ reat sentimental values to spousal letters. They kept copies of both the letters they received and the letters they sent.43 When Ji Lanyun’s husband died a­ fter a mere two years of marriage, she made the letters they wrote to each other a focal point of mourning and remembrance: she placed her own letters to him in his coffin, compiled his into an ­album, and solicited memorial writings from friends.44 Even as conjugal letters ­were cherished, they ­were rarely included in collected works. This was a stark ­contrast from social letters between friends, which, when written by men, ­were commonly preserved in collected works as a significant part of their

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intellectual legacy and, when written by ­women, ­were sometimes published commercially and circulated for aesthetic values.45 The mystery of the lack of circulation of conjugal letters may have a ­simple explanation: they ­were not the preferred way of expressing feelings. ­There was an indication of a growing appeal of conjugal letters, however. A letter attributed to a ­woman named Yunzhen captured the imagination of the literati from the late eighteenth-­century onward. The letter, purportedly sent to her husband in exile, describes how she endured hardships and unfailingly performed her duties of managing the h ­ ouse and educating a son and a ­daughter, while also confronting financial strain and coping with abuse from a stepmother-­in-­law.46 What emerged was the image of a ­woman with perfect wifely virtue and exceptional literary talent, who was able to elegantly and eloquently tell an intimate story of marital love and devotion. The letter was prob­ably a creative work based on a set of real letters, but readers did not appear to question its authenticity. Its becoming an object for cultural consumption was not coincidental. The letter resonated with readers b ­ ecause it touched upon prevailing issues that educated men and ­women faced when forced to live apart. Its popularity was also a barometer for how the High Qing culture made companionate love a widely embraced sentiment.47 Even as the Yunzhen letter gained fame, conjugal letters in general remained overshadowed by conjugal poetry as a genre for the expression of conjugal feelings. During the Qing, the popularization of the “sending to my husband/ wife” (ji wai/ji nei) subgenre attests to the power of poetry. It ­rose to be a staple in literati writing, appearing ubiquitously in voluminous collections by men and ­women. The following was written by the female poet Zhang Yuzhen: My body has many illnesses, and it is hard to feel comfortable, It is lonely living in the deep boudoir. I recall the short poems we frequently sent to one another during the three years since your departure, And now I am anxious, for no letter has arrived for five months. Spider­webs have grown on the zither that hangs on the wall, Bookworms are crawling on the books on the shelf. I do not anticipate having wings [that allow me to fly] to the faraway place, What can be done when one is bound by the pursuit of fame and wealth?48

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A gifted poet, Zhang skillfully wove layers of meaning into the poem. The opening lines indicate that the separation has taken a toll on her health, and she is enduring unbearable loneliness. At this point, she is waiting in vain for his letter and poems to arrive, which had been a source of comfort in the three years of separation. She uses the tropes of spider­webs and bookworms to remind him of the happy times they shared and to imply her misery: she has ­stopped playing ­music and reading books. In the last two stanzas, she ­gently expressed her resentment that chasing fame and wealth comes at the cost of happiness. According to Zhang’s ­brother, she and her husband had a blissful relationship. “­Every single day they wrote changhe poems,” recalled her ­brother. “My ­sister had the most leisure time during this period and wrote poems most profusely.” 49 Writing to one another offered some solace and allowed a ­couple to keep emotionally connected. Like Zhang’s, her husband’s letters and poems w ­ ere also filled with sadness.50 In a sense, the Qing literati created a mechanism for coping with their separation in the innovative letter-­poem form of communication. The letters ­were for practical f­amily ­matters and the poems—­which often ­were sent together with letters in the same envelop—­served their own emotional needs. This compartmentalization of the two functions enabled c­ ouples to have a ­culturally appropriate form to communicate intimate feelings while also fulfilling their social and familial roles. Melancholy, of course, was not the only emotion c­ ouples conveyed in their poems. Hope, encouragement (when a husband failed an examination), and even sexual longing found their place in some “send to” poems. The conflicting needs of conjugal emotional happiness and familial responsibility did not have an easy solution, and without exception, conjugal happiness was sacrificed. Even as conjugal affection gained unpre­ce­dented attention, the physical and emotional needs of a married ­couple, including cohabitation, sexual satisfaction, and being with one’s ­children, ­were deemed secondary. A wife’s duty remained primarily t­ oward the extended ­family. Sacrifice of the comforts of conjugal life was a necessary price to pay for securing the long-­term benefit of the ­family. The impact of separation was gendered: a man was in an easier position than his wife. He could find new companionship in a concubine or a courtesan. Long separation could take a toll on marriage, as discussed in Chen Yunlian’s case in chapter 4. As traumatic as it was, separation proved to be a power­ful force shaping marital relationships. Its positive effects ­were multilayered. For ­couples who

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did not get along in the first place, separation freed them from the suffering of daily life together. Living apart could also reduce or eliminate the sources of marital friction caused by ­running a h ­ ouse­hold together. In the absence of her husband, the wife was able to exercise greater autonomy as man­ag­er of the ­house­hold, which in turn generated a sense of indebtedness and appreciation on the part of the husband, thus bringing them closer. More importantly, frequent and prolonged separations brought new perspectives on the meaning of companionship. Separation made the time a c­ ouple spent together that much more precious. Writing letters and poems to each other, replying, and anticipating reunions, as emotionally draining as they w ­ ere, ­were transformed into a positive force nurturing the conjugal relationship. Being physically apart, in other words, could strengthen a marriage.

Parenthood It appears that in Qing times the perfect-­match ideal began to affect the pre­ sen­ta­tion of parent-­child relationships. Readers of Shen Fu’s memoir, for example, often express surprise that his two c­ hildren do not appear anywhere in the first two chapters where he recounts his happy marriage and leisurely enjoyments. The ­children appear only in the chapter “Sorrows of Misfortune,” when the ­couple is being expelled from the ­family. Shen Fu and Yun had to hurriedly engage their fifteen-­year-­old d ­ aughter to a friend’s son and arrange for their twelve-­year-­old son to be an apprentice in a shop. Yun never saw her ­children again, as she died not long ­after. This chapter is among the most moving in the memoir, but the omission of the c­ hildren in ­earlier parts of the story makes readers won­der what role they played in a marital relationship. It seems that Shen Fu’s account was not an exception among the perfect-­match ­couples who left ­behind written rec­ords of their relationship. Sun Xingyan and Wang Caiwei, for example, did not mention their two c­ hildren who died in infancy. A similar silence is also seen in Hao Yixing and Wang Zhaoyuan’s poetry volume, Heming ji, which includes poems from the first few years of their marriage. Except for a hint in one poem, readers of the collection would have had no idea that the ­couple had a child.51 The con­spic­u­ous silence on ­children in ­t hese cases may suggest some sort of tension between parental roles and conjugal love. The new ideal of the perfect match constructed a happy marriage around artistic and intellectual life, meaning that domestic duties—­including the role of parenting—­may have

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been viewed with more ambivalence. In other words, the expansion of ­intellectual space may have marginalized more conventional roles in self-­ representations. It is certainly conceivable that a deeply intellectual ­woman, such as Wang Caiwei, or a highly ambitious young wife, such as Wang Zhaoyuan, was not particularly interested in presenting herself as a h ­ ouse­wife or ­mother.52 That said, t­ here is no evidence suggesting the parent-­child relationship became less central to married ­couples’ lives. Motherhood remained the cornerstone of a ­woman’s identity.53 Parenthood affected ­women’s lives in complicated and intimate ways. A bride was expected to bear a child immediately ­after the wedding. The anxiety over the failure to conceive was so crushing that Qin Ying’s daughter-­in-­law (who was his ­sister’s d ­ aughter) actually died as a result. She did not give birth for several years and “consequently became depressed and got sick easily.” She died childless at thirty-­t hree.54 A fertile ­woman, in contrast, could suffer from complications in childbirth. You Tong’s wife give birth eight times and had six miscarriages; each time she lost consciousness.55 The worst fear was losing one’s life during or ­because of childbirth; the poet Yuan Mei experienced such a tragedy when his cousin perished at thirty-­eight while giving birth.56 ­These circumstances gave special meaning to the birth of a child, particularly a son, and added to the significance of raising a child to adulthood and marriage (fig. 6.1).57 The letters of Chen Ershi to her husband shed light on a m ­ other’s daily tasks involving childrearing in an early nineteenth-­century upper-class ­house­hold. One letter written in the tenth month of 1817 describes preparation for the coming winter in Beijing: It’s not very cold in the capital this year, and I have not lit the fireplaces. He [the baby boy] takes the room that f­ aces [our bedroom], Ying [eldest son] stays in the inner room, and ­Little Three and ­Little Four stay in the west room. They are all in front of my eyes, and so it is con­ve­nient to look a­ fter them. The room for the two girls is small and f­ aces south and so t­ here is no need to light the fireplace. Xiongjing came over on the sixteenth, and the six pieces of small sheep fur from Linqing ­were received ­a fter inspection. The ­children’s winter clothes have all been prepared, and [­t hese fur items] are for next year’s coats.58

Getting ready for seasonal changes was relatively easy compared with education, which could begin as early as three or four years old. This was an area

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where husband and wife collaborated. Educated wives taught literacy to young ­children, and husbands, if they w ­ ere at home, taught older sons and occasionally d ­aughters with more advanced texts, although that task could always be taken over by their wives or other ­family members. Sons (and to a lesser degree, ­daughters) could also study with a tutor and/or go to f­amily or lineage schools, and their ­mothers would help them review their lessons when they returned home.59 Chen Ershi’s letters give us a glimpse of a child’s homeschooling. The oldest son, Ying, who was in his early or 6.1. Lotus-­Producing Precious Seeds, mid-­teens and the son of a concuQing dynasty, New Year woodblock bine, was obviously Chen’s main print (nianhua). Lotus seeds symbolized responsibility. She described in fertility. (Courtesy of Nanjing Museum.) ­great detail his study regimen, the pro­gress he made, and the prob­ lems she detected. Chen also supervised their d ­ aughters’ study. Her letters show a delightful learning environment that the ­children themselves created. The two girls ­were “naughty,” Ershi told her husband, but they loved to study. By their own arrangement, they took lessons on the Erya from their older ­brother Ying. The eldest ­daughter, Yi, was especially energetic. In addition to learning new lessons e­ very day, she proudly took on the role of teacher for her younger s­ ister.60 Qing writers consider the education of ­children as a serious parental task. What is to be noted is the long-­term impact of interactions surrounding learning on the parent-­child bond. A popu­lar subgenre of painting called kedu (or kezi), meaning “supervising a child’s study,” captured the special emotional connection that was nurtured in ­t hose childhood experiences. Most of ­t hese paintings ­were commissioned by adult c­ hildren in honor of the ­family members who supervised their study.61 According to Wing-­chung Clara Ho, the relationships presented in the paintings ranged from mother-­son, father-­son,

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6.2. Sha Fu, Sound of the Loom while Weaving at Night, 1879, handscroll. A depiction of a ­mother weaving (center) while her son studies (right). (Courtesy of Nanjing Museum.)

father-­daughter, and mother-­daughter to ­sister–­younger b ­ rother. The most common type, however, was ­mother and son, depicted in the symbolic scene of a son reading by his m ­ other while she worked on her spinning or weaving 62 (fig. 6.2). This special mother-­son bond, evidently, was enabled by the spread of w ­ omen’s literacy during the Qing. It also suggests the impact of the widespread practice of male travel on the literati class. The Qing pre­sen­ta­tion of the parental role in education underscored the gender and cultural norms of the ­mother as nurturer and the ­father as disciplinarian. Real-­life stories, however, reveal varied dynamics in the parent-­ child relationship. Having no chance to take part in the examinations themselves, ­women placed their earnest hope on their husbands and sons, which turned many of them into strict disciplinary figures. You Tong wrote that his sons w ­ ere more afraid of their m ­ other than him. His wife would “secretly send a maid to peek in the study, and reward them with tea and snacks if they w ­ ere studying, and scold them if they w ­ ere not.” She would get 63 angry each time they did poorly in the tests. ­Fathers and d ­ aughters, in contrast, had fond memories of teaching and learning. F ­ ree from the practical purpose of preparing for the examinations, teaching a d ­ aughter was pure joy and a welcome break from the intense regimen of teaching a son.64 At the same time, having a smart ­daughter could trigger conflicting emotions. “A ­family that has smart d ­ aughters and dull sons ­will most likely decline,” Qian

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Weicheng (1720–1772) wrote in the preface to his d ­ aughter Mengdian’s poetry 65 collection. He warned his two sons not to let his worry become a real­ity. Even at such a celebratory moment, he would not let go of his disappointment in his sons’ lack of progress.66 Chen Ershi’s role in “guarding ­family health” has been closely examined in recent studies.67 As Binbin Yang shows, easier access to medical books thanks to the spread of commercial printing “allowed literate w ­ omen to 68 develop medical knowledge as a domestic skill.”  In elegiac biographies, men took pains to point out ­women’s medical knowledge. Cheng Enze wrote that his ­mother had a liking of medical books and was “better than professional doctors at distinguishing cold from hot and false from truth.” 69 In Qian Yiji’s ­house­hold, c­ hildren ­were always ill. Ulcers w ­ ere one of the most common ailments; they grew on the head, neck, and ears. Bloating, measles, fever, and chronic eye prob­lems w ­ ere also frequently mentioned.70 Chen went into detail when informing her husband of the treatments she used, updated him on the ­children’s recovery, and occasionally asked her husband if certain medicines ­were safe to use. Evidently, like his fellow educated men in the Qing period, Qian had also studied medical texts and was well versed in medicine.71 According to Qian, Chen began to study medicine ­after she lost two of her three biological ­children. Whenever a child got sick, she would examine the illness carefully and inform doctors of her observations. ­Because of this, the treatments always worked. A ­ fter Chen died, the c­ hildren in the h ­ ouse­hold once 72 again began to die from illness. Losing ­children to illness, unfortunately, was very common. The rec­ords of multiple deaths in a ­family indicates a high mortality rate even among the well-­to-do. Cheng Jinfang “lost ten ­children” over thirty years.73 Xi Peilan and Sun Yuanxiang lost two sons, aged six and three, successively.74 ­Children ­were prone to many kinds of disease, but they w ­ ere particularly defenseless against smallpox. Fang Dongshu lost his b ­ rother, s­ ister, and two d ­ aughters to smallpox within a month.75 An even greater tragedy befell Wang Mingsheng and his wife who, within a mere ten days, lost all five of their c­ hildren, aged from three to ten, to smallpox. The tragedy struck barely a year a­ fter the f­ amily’s reunion in Beijing. Wang had just obtained the jinshi degree and a highly desirable post in the Hanlin Acad­emy when their oldest son and d ­ aughter died on the same day. Next was their infant son, who died two days l­ ater, followed by their twin d ­ aughters who died five days apart.

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­ ese sudden deaths triggered intense self-­reproach. Wang wondered what Th he could have done to save their lives. He had heard of effective preventative prescriptions and a new treatment called vaccination that was popu­lar in southern Jiangsu and Zhejiang, but he was too preoccupied with other responsibilities to pay attention to his ­children. Looking to place blame elsewhere, he complained about Beijing’s hot and dry weather, his wicked servants, the mediocre doctor, and a Heaven that “blesses the rich and power­ful with many ­children and takes away the ­little that the unfortunate have.”76 The deaths of his c­ hildren gave Wang Mingsheng a new perspective on how much his ­family meant to him. He resented the constant traveling that denied him the joy of seeing his c­ hildren grow older. He loathed the fact that, being poor, he was unable to provide basic material comforts, and he remembered his beloved eldest son being urged to get up to go to school in Beijing’s ­bitter cold winter wearing only a short coat, worn-­out shoes, and no socks.77 He regarded “staying together” as a basic ele­ment of ­family life, yet it was a luxury he could not afford. How might such tragedies have complicated conjugal relationships? By all indications, Wang Mingsheng and his wife, Lady Li, ­were able to pick up the pieces and move on. In the following three years, Lady Li gave birth to three more ­children. For Wang Mingsheng, the tragedy brought a new appreciation for his wife’s tenacity. Living in a strange place, they ­were unable to ask for help from neighbors or relatives. Wang wrote, “Every­t hing relied on my ailing wife, whose hair was disheveled and who had exhausted e­ very bit of her ­mental and physical strength.”78 He noted the toll the tragedy took on her health: she grew thin, suffered from insomnia, and was often sick. She held  herself together, steadfastly performing her duties and engaging in manual l­abor, “not a bit like the wife of an official of the prestigious Hanlin Acad­emy.”79 But even though their lives seemed to have returned to normalcy, she was profoundly changed. She turned to her Daoist faith to cope with crisis, like many o ­ thers who sought spiritual salvation.80 A few years ­later, Wang would take a poet as a concubine.81

Xie Yin and the Enjoyment of Old Companionship Wang Mingsheng and Lady Li ­were married when Wang was twenty-­one.82 His affection for her generated a number of conjugal poems over the years,

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although at times he wished she had a higher level of education so that they could “discuss poetry together.”83 Wang’s poems described the tender and romantic moments they shared: holding hands looking at the moon on a boat, chatting ­until dawn, listening to the sound of rain pattering on the leaves of a wutong tree while lying in bed, and awakening to the fragrance of her hair. Having a cup of wine with her was more enjoyable than talking with an undistinguished guest, Mingsheng declared.84 Their years of hardship deepened his affection for her. He wrote in a poem, Enduring hardship, the d ­ aughter from the Xie ­family married Qinlou,85 She vowed for years to grow old together with me. In our cold bedroom, she accompanied me while I studied, and I watched her do embroidery, Sipping tea together in the small boat, we chatted, feeling the melancholy of autumn. The trauma of ­children’s deaths has hastened your aging, When our lives are like drifting duckweed, you shared my worries. Sooner or ­later, we’ll return to good times on the blue mountain, Pulling the deer cart and raising the mortar [for husking rice], our wishes ­w ill be fulfilled.86

When Wang Mingsheng wrote that he and his wife would “pull the [deer] cart and raise the mortar” to retire to the “blue mountain,” he was in his mid-­t hirties and had just started an impressive ­career several years before. Hailed as a prodigy, he earned his juren at twenty-­six and jinshi at thirty-­ four, ranking in second place at the palace examination. He was immediately appointed as a ju­nior compiler at the Hanlin Acad­emy, promoted to the post of vice-­minister of the Board of Rites, and then reappointed as a chief minister of the Court of Imperial Entertainments following a demotion. But his decision to retire in the m ­ iddle of his c­ areer was years in the making. Despite distinction at a relatively young age, Wang did not seem to relish his success. He was loath to travel, resentful of poverty, and called the year he spent in Beijing preparing for the jinshi examination “extremely lonely and boring.”87 The sudden deaths of his c­ hildren only intensified the distaste he felt for an official’s life. When he was forty-­two, his ­mother died. Wang returned to his home in Jiading, Zhejiang to observe the mourning ritual; he never again sought office. Qian Daxin, his brother-­in-­law, wrote, “He did not possess

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pleas­ur­able ­t hings, and had no ­music and beautiful ­women at his ser­v ice. He sat happily in a room with books on both sides, and read as if he was someone with no means.” He did not pay visits to local officials, nor did he interact with the power­ful at the court.88 Wang Mingsheng was one of ­t hose educated men disillusioned by the “aggressive competition, overwhelming debt, and physical indulgences” of his time.89 His state of mind seemed to reflect the psychological impact of the intense pressure men like him had had to endure from childhood on. Their entire life was oriented ­toward mastering the secrets of the civil examinations. But by the time they fi­nally got to experience success, they may have already succumbed to exhaustion and demoralization; in the pro­cess, they developed a dif­fer­ent perspective on life. Wang was somewhat unusual in his decision to retire during the early phase of his ­career, but his longing to withdraw was a common sentiment for literati officials. Qian Daxin, for example, began to entertain the idea of retirement at age forty. He was pressed by his f­ ather to remain in office, but he permanently retired at fifty ­after his f­ ather died.90 Like his brother-­in-­law, he spent the rest of his time writing, teaching, and serving as the president at vari­ous academies, t­ hings he truly enjoyed. Both men went on to enjoy a reputation as distinguished and prolific scholars. Withdrawing from a government c­ areer was called yin (to live in reclusion), a concept rooted in both Daoist philosophy and Confucian ethics. The yin ideal held a special place in the literati imagination regarding their duties, morality, and personal happiness. It offered them a justifiable alternative to government ser­vice. Confucian teaching encouraged social responsibility and public engagement, but it permitted men to leave public ser­vice on the grounds of moral integrity when they deemed the po­liti­cal world as too corrupt. In the Qing, the appeal of the yin ideal grew in the context of the relentless pressure to succeed amid unpre­ce­dented competition and its consequences for ­family life. For the literati, yin meant not just withdrawing from the pursuit of glory and wealth but also returning to a life in which they could pursue their intellectual interests while enjoying the com­pany of families and friends. This provides an impor­tant key to the popularization of the idea of xie yin. Qing literati spoke not only about yin; they spoke frequently about xie yin, that is, “to live the life of a recluse with someone.” This “someone” was none other than a spouse. A spouse was indispensable in the pursuit of the recluse ideal—so much so that some men lamented a wife’s sickness or death on the ground that it shattered their dreams of living such a life.91 The xie yin ideal

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was inspired by iconic ­couples such as Liang Hong and Meng Guan, and Bao Xuan and Huan Shaojun, but in the Qing it was glorified as a sort of collective obsession of the literati, men and w ­ omen alike. “How could obtaining a government position be compared with living in reclusion with you?” Wang Mingsheng wrote, speaking to his wife.92 His idyllic world was a “three-­room hut by a winding stone creek, where wife and ­children strolled leisurely.”93 Tang Yaoqing, the talented m ­ other of the Zhang f­ amily of Changzhou, echoed that sentiment, imagining “building a hut” with her husband and lamenting the elusiveness of the goal.94 Yu Lang depicted this ideal in a painting titled A Floating Boat on Peach Blossom Creek (Taoyuan chun fan tu), which included this inscription written by her husband, Fang Xie, From the thick peach blossoms rises the sound of paddling and chanting, A road winds far into rivers and mountains. Beyond this point lies the world of the immortals, Dressed in clothes from her bridal days, she comes. In the clouds, together we listen to barking dogs and clucking chickens, ­Under the moonlight, our two beds face one another, We grow rice on thirty qin of land, By the win­dow I draw her eyebrows and we chat about the times of Xihuang [a legendary ruler].95

A rendition of the famous utopia i­ magined by the Jin dynasty recluse Tao Yuanming (352?–427), the poem draws on the idealistic portrayal of the original but with one noticeable difference. H ­ ere, the ideal world is inhabited not by an entire lineage, but by an affectionate married c­ ouple. A life of simplicity in the com­pany of a spouse was seen as the antithesis of the burdensome, chaotic, and unstable real­ity of literati c­ areer paths. But for most Qing literati, xie yin remained a mere fantasy. They soldiered on ­until their failing health forced them to retire. Their social and scholarly life continued in retirement, when visiting friends, holding and attending parties, and compiling their writing took up much of their time. Compiling a lifetime’s work into an anthology for publication was arguably their ultimate ambition. W ­ omen writers also compiled their poems into anthologies. However, for women, gaining recognition was not necessarily their goal; instead, it was to preserve a rec­ord of marital harmony, or “the sounds of ‘peace and congenial’ [jing hao] and qin se.”96

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Like their husbands, wives also looked forward to retirement. Advanced age brought the promises of, as Susan Mann puts it, “the end of childbearing, a retreat from h ­ ouse­hold responsibilities, and spiritual renewal.”97 Cao Ling, You Tong’s wife, for example, grew increasingly “tired and ­bitter about having to manage the home.” She said to her husband, “I have finished marrying our sons and ­daughters, and I want to have no more responsibilities. Why are you still making me an old kitchen maid?”98 The self-­deprecating meta­ phor “old kitchen maid” captured the mood of upper-­class wives who grew tired of the tedious routine of ­running a home. They ­were ready to pass on their responsibilities to the next generation and enjoy leisure or pursue their religious interests. Buddhism and Daoism ­were very popu­lar among ­women, and old age fi­nally afforded them the time to look a­ fter their own spiritual well-­being.99 With advanced age and relieved of responsibilities that required collaboration, even ­couples who ­were never close could afford to keep their distance and enjoy life in separate ways. You Tong’s parents, for example, had l­ ittle interaction with each other thanks to their dif­fer­ent personalities. She was an introvert who seldom left the home. A devout Buddhist laywoman, she sat among Buddhist statues all day. Her husband was easygoing and loved ­socializing, entertainment, and travel, and he was a fixture in the local community. He would say to her, laughing, “You do your t­hing and I w ­ ill do mine.”100 You Tong’s parents, however, hardly represented the ideal of happiness in old age. The envy of Qing p ­ eople was a c­ ouple whose companionship lasted to the end, surrounded by a h ­ ouse­ful of grandchildren and great-­grandchildren. Their leisurely life in old age was represented by, among other activities, drinking, visiting famous monasteries and scenic mountains, and appreciating gardens in one another’s com­pany. They ­were making up for the plea­sure they missed in their younger years.101 Wei Xiangshu (1617–1687) noted that his ­sister and her husband loved each other so deeply that he refused to get a concubine, even when his wife urged him to so that he might have a son. “My brother-­in-­law’s love for my s­ ister became even more concentrated in old age,” Wei wrote. “­W hether g­ oing out or coming back, they respected one another like honored guests. When flowers bloomed and fruits ripened in their garden, they always held hands to appreciate them, looking at each other smiling, very much like the recluses of Lumen [i.e., Bao Xuan and Huan Shaojun].”102 Holding hands to admire flowers was highly symbolic of an ideal life that was

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tranquil, intimate, and carefree. Having toiled all their lives for the interest of the ­family, they could fi­nally live a relaxed and comfortable life. ­These years ­were marked not only by hard-­earned leisure but also the plea­ sure of being revered and served by the younger generations. The Confucian ethic of filial piety and a ­couple’s lifetime of l­ abor for the f­ amily secured their prominent positions in the ­house­hold and ensured that their well-­being was carefully looked a­ fter. Sons and daughters-­in-­law w ­ ere expected to obey their ­every wish and command. As a gesture of filial devotion, a son whose success landed him a government post was expected to invite his parents to join him in his official residence. He also earned the privilege of honoring his parents with honorary titles from the imperial court. Th ­ ose titles would be displayed in funeral pro­cessions and highlighted in their tomb inscriptions. Few events honoring an aged parent ­were more spectacular than the landmark birthday cele­brations (fiftieth, sixtieth, and so on). Th ­ ese gave c­ hildren a public platform to honor a parent while displaying their own moral character. Wealthy families invited relatives and friends to elaborate banquets and hired opera troupes to perform. One distinct form of honoring a parent was to commission a man of social status and literary reputation for a tribute called the “birthday eulogy” (shouxu). ­Today, this par­tic­u­lar kind of text is scattered throughout the collected works of eminent Qing literati, reminiscent of a time when they held ­g reat appeal in the prevailing culture of celebrating filial devotion. Celebrating a spouse’s “big birthday” represented a special moment to reflect on a ­couple’s shared journey. Some husbands authored birthday eulogies to honor their wives, but more often a poem or painting made an elegant birthday gift. One man painted a scroll for his wife’s fiftieth birthday, titled Urging You to Drink with A Lotus-­leaf Wine Cup (Bitong quan ying tu), and it was widely cheered as a tasteful gift.103 For his wife’s seventieth birthday, the seventy-­five-­year-­old Fang Shiju (1675–1759), a literary scholar from Tongcheng, wrote a long and elaborate poetic account of the tumultuous life they shared as a heartfelt tribute to her extraordinary contributions to the ­family. Implicated in the infamous Nanshan literary inquisition case in 1711, Fang was exiled to Manchuria for over ten years. But even before that misfortune struck, his ­family was in decline. Driven by poverty, Fang left home to make money. What he managed to send back was never enough. Then, during one particularly hot summer, his ­father died. Fang had returned home just one month prior and was at his wit’s end, not knowing that to do.

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His wife, Lady Ye, “wiped dry her tears and immediately went to work and took care of every­t hing flawlessly.”104 She joined him in exile following the literary inquisition incident, but was able to return to their home to take care of his ­mother. Fang ­later returned ­after receiving an imperial ­pardon. Their fortune then took a turn for the better. Even though Fang still d ­ idn’t have a son at age fifty, Heaven went on to bless them with many c­ hildren and grandchildren (presumably he took a concubine). Having gone through so much, Lady Ye ­couldn’t have cared less about an extravagant birthday cele­bration. Instead, she went out to enjoy the flowers and listen to birds calling in the com­pany of her husband.105

Surviving a Spouse: The Remembrance On a winter’s day in 1833, the sixty-­t wo-­year-­old Fang Dongshu left home again, his mind wandering and his steps unsteady. He was about to board a cart when he saw a dead body nearby. His heart sank, for this was a bad omen. He sought divination by vari­ous means, first though milfoil stalks and then using dreams, both of which showed inauspicious readings. Fi­nally, he prayed to the spirit of Yu Qian (1398–1457; a famous loyal official of the Ming), who also gave him an inauspicious message. That day he received a letter saying his wife was gravely ill. A few days l­ater, he prayed to the god Wenchang (Wenchang Dijun), and the result was again inauspicious. Another letter arrived the same day with the news that his wife had died half a month ­earlier.106 Fang Dongshu’s account of his wife’s death reveals the psychological torment a traveling husband experienced knowing his aging wife could die any day. Not being able to stay at home deprived a man of the chance to bid a final farewell to his beloved spouse. This special kind of sorrow was expressed by You Tong, who was also away from home when his wife died: “If I ­don’t know how my wife died, how could I know how she lived?”107 This intense sentiment, one may argue, was a cultural product rooted in the long cherished ideal of marital companionship. Husband and wife ­were meant to be together ­until the very end of their lives. Being unable to bid a final farewell left a deep psychological wound. At least, Fang Dongshu could take comfort in thinking that he had done two t­ hings to prepare for his wife’s death: he had obtained a good-­quality coffin for her and he had written a “living epitaph.” The latter breached the convention that an epitaph should be written a­ fter the person’s death, but Fang wanted her to read it before she died.108

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Even if the husband or wife was pre­sent when a spouse passed away, it did not make coping much easier. Sadness could strike at any moment. “The ­whole ­family gathered as before, the lonely widower shed his tears,” wrote Zhao Yi ­a fter his wife’s death.109 Dreaming of a wife and g­ oing to bed alone at night, “quiet and cold,” w ­ ere moments of deep melancholy for Hong Liangji.110 Two years a­ fter he lost his wife, Qin Ying wrote in a daowang poem, Fully understanding our separation is forever, I cannot forget that you shared with me t­ hose times when we w ­ ere h ­ umble and poor, In the mirror [I see] I am getting even older, To whom can I talk to about my sadness and hardships?111

­ fter dreaming of his late wife, Qin wrote, “Few ­people understand me; lonely A I hold my qin [zither].”112 The passing of a spouse in old age marked the end of their life together, but it was not the end of their companionship. The flurry of activities the surviving ­family members undertook served not only to preserve the memory and legacy of the deceased, but also to prepare the ­couple for reunion in the next life. In anticipation of the inevitable, families customarily made early preparations. A coffin was made when one was still healthy. A quality coffin was more than a practical object. It was an object imbued with gratitude and affection. Fang Dongshu, for example, asked his wife Lady Sun not to die ­until he had the money to purchase wood for a coffin. ­After ten years, his finances still had not improved. Fi­nally, Fang wrote, “I spurred myself to action, determined to get it done. I borrowed money to purchase lumber and had a carpenter make [a coffin]. D ­ oing this has made me feel a l­ ittle better.”113 As death approached, families would also hire a painter to make a portrait and then inscribe eulogies upon it. Viewing the portrait of the deceased spouse helped with the grieving pro­cess, and in time it would become a f­ amily heirloom.114 If the deceased had works of writing left ­behind, then preserving them became a weighty mission for the surviving spouse. A ­ fter her husband Hao Yixing’s death, Wang Zhaoyuan relocated her f­ amily back to their hometown of Qixia, Shandong, where she spent the rest of her life ­going through the enormous trove of manuscripts Hao left b ­ ehind. The task was completed in 1884 by their offspring with the publication of a substantial collection titled The Bequeathed Writings of Hao Yixing (Haoshi yishu), which also included

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Wang Zhaoyuan’s works.115 A grieving husband who did not have a successful government ­career compiled a late wife’s work for publication not just to leave a literary legacy but also to compensate for something that she deserved but he had failed to deliver. One of the regrets that husbands frequently expressed was their failure to grant imperially bestowed titles to their wives, which was a privilege only government officials enjoyed.116 Publishing the wife’s writing, before or a­ fter her death, would not fully made up for that failure, but it would alleviate their sense of inadequacy and guilty. Zhong Zhenkui enjoyed an ideal marriage with his “cherished spouse” (zhen ou), Zhao Jianxia. But their twenty-­eight years of life together ­were marred by disappointment and misfortune. Zhao’s earnest hope to earn a higher examination degree never came true, and having no son, they loved their only ­daughter especially dearly. However, she died a few years ­after her marriage. Fearing that his own death might be near, Zhong compiled his wife’s manuscript along with their d ­ aughter’s poems for publication.117 Writing was central to the pro­cess of mourning a beloved wife. While the husband customarily drafted the “rec­ord of conduct,” the official epitaph was usually written by a noted writer. This ensured not only the quality of the writing but also the preservation of her name in history, for the epitaph was likely to be included in the author’s collected works that he would l­ ater publish. Some men, however, argued that the husband was better suited to compose his wife’s epitaph. Qin Ying, who wrote his late wife’s epitaph, stated that he chose to do so b ­ ecause his wife’s conduct should be told straightforwardly, implying that a commissioned piece that tended to exaggerate would reduce the credibility of her rec­ord.118 Xu Yezhao, one of the few ­women to compose a tomb inscription for a late husband, also took pains to point out untruthful repre­ sen­ta­tions in commissioned writings and declared that the “rec­ord of conduct” she composed for her late husband included only the facts that could be verified.119 The epitaph was more than a form of commemoration and grieving for the living; it also served a religious function for the deceased. It “meant to help the tomb occupant’s transition from this life to the underworld, to ensure his or her well-­being in the afterlife, and to pronounce to the spirits his or her identity and status.”120 To this end, the ­family of the deceased would have a local artisan engrave the epitaph on a piece of stone and place it inside the tomb during the burial. Confucian mourning ritual constituted the normative way of honoring and remembering a deceased ­family member. The ritual

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served to direct the emotions of the bereaved into remembrance of the deceased by requiring them to follow rigid rules of conduct, including abstaining from fine food, clothing, wine, entertainment, and sex for varying durations, depending on the gender of the deceased and the relationship between the dead and the mourner. A wife, for example, mourned her husband for “three years” and a husband mourned his wife for one year.121 Such rules ­were questioned by some (see chapter 1), but ­there was ­little evidence that suggests all mourning rituals ­were strictly followed beyond the small number of the social elite. At the same time, religious rites appear to have been a popu­lar venue for mourning. In contrast to the Confucian ritual that focused on solemn remembrance of the deceased, religious rituals addressed the mourner’s psychological need to connect with the deceased. In his memoir, Shen Fu described how he ventured to meet the spirit of Yun, who had died a short time before. According to local custom, Yun’s spirit would return to her room to visit on that night, but to avoid being harmed by her ghost, no one was to remain in the room. However, Shen’s desire to catch a glimpse of Yun was so intense that he ignored a friend’s repeated persuasion to leave. He described the scene: I took a lantern into the room and saw every­t hing laid out just as it had been when Yun was alive; only the sight and sound of her w ­ ere missing, and I could not stop crying from the heartache. My eyes w ­ ere so bleary that I was afraid that I might not see her, so I held back my tears and opened my eyes wide as I sat on the bed to await her. I caressed the clothes that she left b ­ ehind, inhaled the lingering fragrance of her perfumed hair oil and before I knew it I was drifting off into the darkness of heartrending sorrow. But then I remembered I was h ­ ere to wait for her spirit; how could I let myself go to sleep so easily? I opened my eyes and looked around. A pair of candles on the t­ able guttered with blue flames that w ­ ere no larger than beans. My hair stood on end and my entire body started shuddering all over. I rubbed my hands together, wiped my forehead, and kept a close watch on the candles. The pair of flames started to grow ­until they ­were over a foot tall, and the paper covering the ceiling was almost singed. I took the chance to look around in the brightness, but suddenly the flames shrunk down to their former size.122

Shen had no doubt that he felt the presence of Yun’s spirit, which was manifested in the dramatic be­hav­ior of the candles’ flames. The mysterious night

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allowed him to transcend the divide that forever separated him from his beloved wife; in believing that her spirit was with him brought him some comfort. A broken man at the time of Yun’s death, Shen Fu c­ ouldn’t afford elaborate religious rituals. You Tong, in contrast, was able to enlist the ser­v ices of famous Daoists in the capital. While mobilizing the Beijing elite to mourn his wife, he also invited a certain Master Du to his residence for a spirit writing (fuji), a popu­lar form of communicating with spirits. He desperately wanted to know his late wife’s whereabouts in the underworld. Following Master Du’s advice, You prayed to Purely Radiant Trea­sured Commandments (Qinghua baogao) daily to earn merit for her happiness ­t here. ­After a period, he received word by way of the spirit writing that his wife had been given a golden pass and was sent to the Palace of the Heavenly Goddess (Tianfei Gong) to practice Pure Land Buddhism. The message was confirmed by a friend’s dream in which she appeared as a Buddhist nun.123 Another message from a Daoist deity l­ ater on showed that his wife was so moved by his devotion that she vowed not to be reborn (so that she would not become someone e­ lse’s wife).124 Of all the rituals associated with the passing of a spouse, few ­were more solemn than the burial. The pro­cess began by locating an auspicious site for the tomb, and it climaxed with the funeral pro­cession. The desire to honor a late wife with a spectacular burial would drive a husband to go to ­great lengths to solicit assistance, as shown in the case of Zheng Huwen (1714–1784). Soon ­after his wife died in 1771 ­after forty-­two years of marriage, Zheng sent a letter to Wu Yulun, who had earned his jinshi degree when Zheng served as the chief examiner, along with copies of the obituary, a list of names of ­t hose he wanted Wu to contact, and some personal letters. At the time, Wu was a high-­ ranking official at the court. Zheng asked for his help to announce the news of his wife’s passing to Zheng’s former colleagues, students, and old friends in the capital. The exhaustiveness of the list can be gleaned from his additional instructions for Wu to locate two men outside the capital whose location he did not know. “I do not do this for financial gain,” Zheng explained. He wanted their names and official titles not to obtain donations for the funeral, but so that he could display them on tablets, couplets, or ornamental scrolls and flags for the funeral pro­cession to “grace [her funeral] and honor her.”125 In the meantime, Zheng entrusted a friend who was a feng shui master to look for a burial site. An auspicious plot on a mountain was selected, and its

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se­lection was confirmed by another feng shui specialist. For that specific location to be effective, Zheng was told, the burial must be carried out during the hours from si (9am to 11am) to hai (9pm to 11pm) on the seventh day of the seventh month in 1783. To Zheng Fuwen’s ­g reat relief, the rains that had plagued the days leading up to the burial abated and, as the burial begam, the sun peeked through clouds. By the time it ended, a bright moon had risen in the sky. The cost of the tomb and the burial rites ­were beyond his means, but he received donations from about thirty court officials and field administrators, who, we can assume, ­were among ­t hose Zheng entrusted Wu Yulun to contact regarding his wife’s passing two years e­ arlier.126 This major undertaking also fulfilled Zheng’s last wish to have a permanent resting place for his reunion with his late wife upon his own death. It was a coburial tomb, and he had built his own burial chamber (“a live chamber,” shengkuang) to the left of his wife’s. He would join her “with a smile” when his own time was up.127 Coburial of a husband and wife in the same tomb (hezang) finds no mention in Confucian ritual, but the tradition had been established for over a millennia and was firmly incorporated into Qing burial practice.128 Men like Zheng Huwen made certain coburial would take place, executing the plan themselves or instructing their sons to carry it out. If the husband married more than once, both wives would be buried in the same tomb; if one wife gave birth to a child and the other did not, the former would be privileged over the o ­ thers.129 The coburial practice was psychologically significant for a married ­couple. The tomb was where their eternal companionate journey would resume ­after a brief separation. The belief that they would be re­united ­after death alleviated the devastation over the loss of a beloved spouse. Life continued in the next life; so would their companionship.

Conclusions

“When a boy is born, (his parents) wish that he may find a wife, and when a girl is born, (her parents) wish that she may find a husband.” So wrote Mencius, the ­great Confucian thinker of the fourth ­century BCE.1 By Qing times, ­these words had become ingrained in both popu­lar wisdom and orthodox thought. Marriage was expected of e­ very man and ­woman, even though in real­ity marriage was far from universal for men. Confucian teaching defines marriage as the beginning of civilization, and the marital relationship is deemed as the foundation of h ­ uman society. The paramount importance of marriage ensured its central place in moral discourse and literary repre­sen­ta­tions; it also generated an abundance of self-­ expressive and reflective personal rec­ords among the educated. Relying on personal writings as its core source, this book revisits widely held assumptions about arranged marriage in Chinese history and seeks to cast marriage and marital relations as dynamic, gendered, and personal pro­ cesses profoundly s­ haped by China’s own cultural history and the Qing socioeconomic conditions. It is broadly concerned with questions of how marital relationships ­were culturally and socially constructed and how marital intimacy manifested and was contested in the lives of men and ­women in the Qing. Denounced in modern times as an inhuman institution that deprived young men and w ­ omen of marital happiness, arranged marriage in Qing China was, in fact, neither monolithic nor static. It constituted a complex array of ideas and practices in which affection was of central importance; even intimate romantic love had a place. Two conflicting yet complementary discourses laid the foundation for understanding and practicing marriage in Chinese history: the Confucian ritual teaching that emphasized the “differentiation” between husband and wife, and an enduring cultural tradition that celebrated marriage as a moral, 189

190

Conclusions

intellectual, emotional, and intimate companionship. While the former dominated official arenas of discourse, the latter served as a wellspring from which educated men and w ­ omen drew inspiration for communicating with one another and expressing personal emotions. During the Qing, when conjugal affection was widely celebrated and passionately pursued in the most influential literati circles, marriage as companionship between husband and wife gained unpre­ce­dented stature. Educated men and ­women found multiple ways of communicating affection, including through sexual love, despite the disapproval of orthodox ritual norms. This change was produced by the unique positioning of the Qing at a pivotal moment of history. First was the late Ming glorification of feelings—­t he cult of qing—identified emotional gratification as a basis of ­human happiness. But as the Qing state established a more orthodox way of managing society, the cele­bration of qing came to be firmly lodged in the structure of the ­family, propelling “the love between husband and wife” (kangli zhi qing) into the spotlight. And second, the peace and prosperity of the High Qing and a thriving print culture created ideal conditions for the expansion of ­women’s education among literati families. A wife’s literary, artistic, and classical learning opened new spaces for marital interaction outside the conventional domain of ­house­hold management. In par­tic­u­lar, the ability for a ­couple to write complementary poems became emblematic of the perfect-­ match marriage. A broad shift that put a high premium on marital companionship was directly correlated with the intensification of status competition and other challenges literati men and ­women faced. A recurrent sentiment across men’s personal writings was that a wife was not just someone who served patriarchal f­amily needs—­although this remained impor­tant—­she was also as a companion. Qing husbands often referred to their wives as “the one who knows me” and “an old friend in the boudoir.” They described their wives as mentally strong, intellectually competent, morally upright, industrious, and caring—all time-­honored wifely qualities. From the perfect-­match ­unions to more conventional marriages in which companionate love was forged less on shared literary interests and more on a shared journey overcoming hardships, the ability for husband and wife to communicate on subjects beyond domesticity played an increasingly impor­tant role in conjugal bonding. Emotion assumed a much more significant part in marriage than ever before.

Conclusions

191

Marriage, in other words, was not only about fulfilling reproductive and other patriarchal f­amily responsibilities, it was a deep, personal companionship. This new recognition did not shake the cardinal ritual princi­ples regulating marriage, but it did crack the rigid system of conjugal hierarchy in some sense. It changed how marital relationships ­were understood and practiced, which set the Qing apart from previous eras. Where this cultural trend would have led if the po­liti­cal trajectory of the late nineteenth c­ entury had turned out differently is a question no one can answer, but maybe this book ­will provide a platform from which to imagine other possibilities. I end this study in the mid-­nineteenth ­century, at a watershed moment in Chinese history. China’s defeat in the Opium War (1839–1842), and the subsequent influence of Western imperialist powers, ushered in a new era that fundamentally changed the direction of Chinese imperial history. The late Qing saw the gradual spread of Western ideas and practices in major port cities. As national sovereignty went into decline, so too did the assessment of traditional Chinese culture. This led to outright rejection during the New Culture Movement in the early twentieth ­century. Rich marital practices ­were denounced as backward and viewed to be obstacles on China’s march to modernity. What became of the prefect-­match ideal and the companionate ideas that literati men and ­women held dear in the late Qing and beyond? Such complicated historical questions merit a separate study, but it is clear that even as the New Culture Movement “championed a more iconoclastic ­free love, calling for a radically autonomous form of individual personhood that broke with the authoritarian f­ amily and arranged marriages,” the moral and cultural values foundational to Qing marital relationships ­were still alive and well among t­ hese youth who w ­ ere attracted to new ideas.2 As demonstrated in the study of a set of letters by two petty urbanites who pursued a love marriage in 1920s Shanghai, which ended with the suicide of the w ­ oman involved, ritual propriety, female chastity, and male fidelity (yifu) ­were also presented as part of their moral identity. Qing modes of forging conjugal relationships, such as a ­couple enduring hardship together, remained popu­lar, and poetry remained the favored means for expressing, communicating, and commemorating conjugal love.3 Readers who savored the long sets of mourning poems by Yu Yue (1821– 1907) and his grand­son Yu Biyun (1868–1950) would recognize the striking similarity—in style, motif, imagination, language, and trope—­with the poetry

192

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of You Tong and Qu Dajun from two centuries e­ arlier.4 The enduring allure of this literati mode of expression survived the New Culture Movement well into the twentieth c­ entury. Poetry exchanges, for example, featured prominently in the love letters a Shanghai ­couple wrote in the 1920s.5 One iconic ­couple of the twentieth ­century was Cheng Qianfan (1913–2000) and Shen Zufen (1909–1977), both experts in classical Chinese lit­er­a­ture. Dubbed a modern-­day “Zhao Mingcheng and Li Qingzhao,” the c­ ouple favored classical poetry, with the same symbols, vocabulary, and allusions as t­ hose that filled the pages that educated men and ­women wrote in commemoration of their conjugal love during the Qing.6 Obviously, such connections with the past are much easier to discern than the complex and often invisible roles that the past played in shaping the modern-­day practice of marital love. No longer taught t­ oday, t­ hese classical literary forms of expression may eventually dis­appear. But another form of the commemoration of conjugal love popu­lar in the Qing has unexpectedly found new life in the twenty-­first ­century. The Double Seven Festival (Qixi), now called Chinese Valentine’s Day, is a testimony to the fusion of tradition and Western culture. Even with all the criticisms of “backward” traditions over a century, this ancient festival has an enthusiastic following in China ­today. The Chinese youth who celebrate it in modern times prob­ably have ­little knowledge of how married ­couples like Shen Fu and Chen Yun commemorated it two centuries ­earlier. But I hope that such a phenomenon, as well as the stories of ­t hose such as Chen Qianfan and Shen Zufen, ­will encourage historians to think hard about the meaning of modernity and the role of tradition in the making of the free-­love ideal of the twentieth c­ entury.

Chinese Character Glossary

ai ​愛 ai fu ​愛婦 ai wan ​愛玩 ai wan xian qi ​愛玩賢妻 Aixian ji ​哀弦集 Bailu ​白鹿 ban du ​伴讀 Ban Zhao ​班昭 Bao Xuan ​鮑宣 Bao Zhihui (Chaixiang) ​鮑之蕙 (茝香) bi ​必 bie ​別 Binxiang Ge ​賓香閣 Bitong quan ying tu ​碧筒勸飲圖 Boxue Hongci ​博學宏詞 bu dao ​不道 bu zu wei lei ​不足為累 cai feng sui ya ​彩鳳隨鴉 cainü ​才女 Cao Zhenxiu ​曹貞秀 ceyan ​側艷 Chai Jingyi ​柴靜儀 Changchou ​唱酬

changhe ​倡和 changlü ​長律 Changsui ​唱随 chanmian gujie ​纏綿固結 Chen Duansheng ​陳端生 Chen Peizhi ​陈裴之 Chen Que ​陳確 Chen Shulan ​陳淑蘭 Chen Zhushi ​陳竹士 cheng fu ​成婦 Cheng Qianfan ​程千帆 Chidu xinyu ​尺牘新語 chou shi ​愁史 Chuci ​楚辞 chun ci ​春詞 cimu ​慈母 Cui Hu ​崔護 cuizhuang ​催妝 da bin ​大賓 dai biqie ​待婢妾 Dai Zhen ​戴震 Daoli ji ​悼儷集 daowang ​悼亡 Dengwei Shan ​鄧尉山 di qie zhi dao ​嫡妾之道 193

194

Chinese Character Glossary

dimu ​嫡母 dingqing ​定情 dizi ​嫡子 Dong Xiaowan ​董小宛 Dong Zhongshu ​董仲舒 du kangli ​篤伉儷 Dudan ji ​獨旦集 duo nian de xifu ao cheng po ​多年的媳 婦熬成婆 duo qing ​多情

guifang yanni ​閨房燕昵 guige ​閨閣 guixiu ​閨秀 Guixiu cichao ​閨秀詞鈔 Guochao guixiu shichao  ​國朝閨秀詩鈔

Fang Xie ​方燮 fen ​分 fengshui ​風水 Fenqian shang shen ​奉倩傷神 fufu changchou ​夫婦倡酬 fufu lianyin ​夫婦聯吟 fufu you bie ​夫婦有別 fufu zhi ai ​夫婦之愛 fufu zhi qing ​夫婦之情 fuji ​扶乩 Fusheng liu ji ​浮生六記 fuzhi ​婦職

hai ​亥 hai zou ​海陬 Han Hong ​韓翃 Hanmo heming tu ​翰墨和鳴圖 hao nei ​好内 hao se ​好色 he ​和 Heming ​和鳴 heng ​恒 heyin ​合印 hezang ​合葬 Honglou kunfan ​鴻樓閫範 Hua hai bianzhou huajuan ​花海扁舟 画卷 Huafu ​華夫 Huajiang ​華姜 Huan Shaojun ​桓少君 Huang Peilie ​黄丕烈 Huang Shouyu ​黄壽玉 Huang Tingjian ​黄庭堅 huannan fuqi ​患難夫妻

Gao Rou ​高柔 ge ​閣 Ge Zhengqi ​葛徵奇 Gong Dingzhi ​龔鼎孳 Gong Yuchen ​龔玉晨 gongtang ​公堂 gu luan ​孤鸞 Gu Mei ​顧媚 guai li ​乖离 guan ​館 Guan Daoshen ​管道生 Guan Yuan ​管筠 gui ​閨 gui zhong liang you ​閨中良友 guifang changhe ​閨房倡和

ji nei ​寄內 ji wai ​寄外 jia’ou ​佳偶 jian fu chi wenfu ​健婦持門戶 Jiang ting tiao xue tu ​ 江亭聎雪圖 Jiang Wei ​蔣嶶 Jiang Yan ​江淹 Jin jian ​近鑑 Jin Liying ​金禮贏 jing shen ​敬慎 Jing yi pian ​旌義篇 jingbiao ​旌表 Jinghao ​静好 Jinshi cui bian ​金石粹編

ejiao ​阿膠 en ​恩 ernü zhi yan ​兒女之言 Erya ​爾雅

Chinese Character Glossary

“Jinshilu hou xu” ​金石錄後序 ju an qi mei ​舉案齊眉 juxu ​距虛 kangli zhi ai ​伉儷之愛 kangli zhi qing ​伉俪之情 kedu ​課讀 kezi ​課子 li luan ​離鸞 Li Qingzhao ​李清照 Li Yin ​李因 Li Yindu ​李因篤 Li Yumei ​栗毓美 Liang Shanzhou ​梁山舟 lianju ​聯句 Lianyin tu ​聯吟圖 lintie ​臨帖 Liu Rushi ​柳如是 Liu Shu ​劉淑 liuli ​六禮 lou ​樓 Lu Hui ​陸惠 Lu Yunmei ​陸韻梅 Manshu ​曼殊 Mei lian can yue tu ​眉奩殘月圖 Meng Guang ​孟光 Meng Wei ​孟微 mengzhong chunshi ​夢中春事 Ming yuan chidu ​名媛尺牘 Ming yuan shihua ​名媛詩話 Neixun ​内訓 ni qing ​暱情 nianpu ​年谱 Nongyu ​弄玉 Nü fan jie lu ​女範捷錄 Nü Lunyu ​女論語 Nü Xiaojing ​女孝經 Nüjie ​女誡 Pan An ​潘安 Pan Zengying ​潘曾瑩

Peng Zhenyin (Yuqian) ​彭貞隱(玉嵌) pianti ​駢體 Qian Mengdian ​錢孟鈿 Qian Qianyi ​錢謙益 qiaoqi chang ban zuofu mian ​巧妻常 伴拙夫眠 qichu ​七出 Qin Jia ​秦嘉 qin se ​琴瑟 qing ​情 qing ai ​情愛 qing du ​情篤 qing zhen ​情箴 Qinghua baogao ​清華寶誥 qiongqiong ​蛩蛩 qiqing ​七情 Qixi ​七夕 queshan ​卻扇 Ran zhi yu yun ​燃脂餘韻 Ren Chunqi ​任春琪 Ren Zhaoling ​任兆麟 rou qing ​柔情 ruren ​孺人 Shandong Yunhe Dao ​山東運河道 Shen Cai ​沈彩 Shen Zufen ​沈祖棻 shengkuang ​生壙 shengyuan ​生員 shi ​室 Shiwu ​石梧 Shouxu ​壽序 shu shi jin ​數十金 si ​巳 ​(time of day; 9 am to 11 am) si ​私 ​(private) si de ​四德 si su bu zhi ​丝粟不治 sini zhi ai ​私暱之愛 Song Hong ​宋弘 Su Hui ​蘇蕙 Su Shi ​蘇軾 Sun Yunfeng ​孫雲鳳

195

196

Chinese Character Glossary

tai ​泰 Tang Yaoqing ​湯瑤卿 Tao Yuanming ​陶淵明 Tao Yuanzao ​陶元藻 Taoyuan chunfan tu ​ 桃源春泛圖 Tianfei Gong ​天妃宫 Tianrang Wanglang ​天壤王郎 tiao ​調 Tong dao baitou tu ​同到白頭圖 Tongsheng ​同聲 tongxing fu ​同心婦 wai ji ​外集 waijuan ​外捐 Wang Meiqian ​王梅卿 Wang Xianzhi ​王獻之 Wang Yunren ​汪雲任 Wang Yunzhang ​王蕴章 Wang Zhifu ​王之孚 Wang Zixiang ​王紫湘 Wen Xiangxia ​文湘霞 Wenchang Dijun ​文昌帝君 Wenhualou yigao ​問花樓遺稿 Wenxuan ​文選 wenzhang zhiji ​文章知己 wu lun ​五倫 Wu Wantao (Yiyun) ​吳椀桃 (倚云) xia ​狎 xian ​咸 xiang jing ru bin ​相敬如賓 xiangsi ku ​相思苦 xiao le ​笑樂 Xiaoshi ​簫史 xie yin ​偕隱 xie you ​偕遊 xiedu ​媟黷 xie lao ​偕老 Xinfangge shicao ​信芳閣詩草 Xu Quan (Yiying) ​許權 (宜媖) Xu Shu ​徐淑 xuan ​軒

Xue Diansheng ​许滇生 xueqi wei ding ​血氣未定 Xun Can ​荀粲 yan ​嚴賓 Yan bo gong fan tu ​煙波共泛圖 Yan Yuan ​顏元 Yang Ruan ​楊鸞 Yanzhen ​硯貞 yi ​義 yi ji zhong ​衣笄冢 Yi Tuan ​易嫥 yin ​隱 yin jue ​陰絕 yin yu ​陰雨 Yiying ​宜媖 yiyu ​憶語 you ​遊 you meng ​幽夢 you xian zhen jing ​幽閒貞靜 you yu fang ​游于房 Yu Biyun ​俞陛雲 Yu Lang ​虞朗 Yu Yue ​俞樾 yu zi xie lao ​與子偕老 Yuan Zhen ​元稹 Yue Yun ​岳筠 yun ti hua mei ​熨体畫眉 Yunzhen ​雲貞 Zai sheng yuan ​再生緣 Zang Litang ​臧禮堂 zaokang zi qi ​糟糠之妻 Zhang Chang ​張敞 Zhang Dan ​張澹 Zhang Xuan ​張鉉 Zhang Zilan ​張滋蘭 Zhao Guan hanmo heming tu ​趙管翰 墨和鸣图 Zhao Jianxia ​趙箋霞 Zhao Mengfu ​趙孟頫 Zhao Mingcheng ​趙明誠 zhen ou ​珍偶

Chinese Character Glossary

zheng se, duan cao, zhuan xin ​正色, 端 操, 專心 zhiji ​知己 zhiyin ​知音 “zhong feng” ​終風

Zhong Rong ​鍾嶸 Zhou Guan ​周官 Zhu Rouze ​朱柔則 zhuge guyin ​諸葛鼓音 zhuren ​主人

197

Notes

Introduction “The moon and flowers” was a meta­phor for leisurely conversation. The epigraph source is SR, 7–8. Translation modified by the author. 1. B. Xie, A ­Woman Soldier’s Own Story. 2. Exploring ­women’s agency and subjectivity instead of focusing on victimhood, scholarship on Chinese ­women in the past three de­cades has to a large extent taken aim at this discourse of the New Culture Movement (also called the May Fourth Movement). For a critical analy­sis of the impact of this discourse on the research of gender and ­women’s history, see Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers, “Introduction”; Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 8; Ko, Cinderella’s ­Sisters, 1–37; and Epstein, Orthodox Passions, 43–45. 3. This periodization differs slightly from the conventional dates, in which the early Qing ended (and High Qing began) in 1683, when Emperor Kangxi defeated the last Ming loyalists. 4. See, for example, Huntington, Ink and Tears. 5. Lee, Revolution of the Heart, 37–38. 6. Commenting on the late Ming cult of qing, Hanyan Lee argues, for example, “For all its effort to legitimize the affective and the individual, it is still committed to patrilineal continuity, ritual propriety, and the social order. The supremacy of ritual is rarely questioned and sexuality is rarely affirmed on the ground of the plea­sure princi­ple.” Lee, Revolution of the Heart, 38. 7. Mann, Gender and Sexuality, xvi. 8. For a comparison of China and Eu­rope regarding marital practices, see Waltner, “Les Noces Chinoises,” 28. 9. Jankowiak, Romantic Passion, 1–4; Pinto, “Researching Romantic Love.” In the China field, anthropologist Yunxiang Yan gives a brilliant account of love 199

200

Notes to Introduction

and intimacy among village youth in China in the second half of the twentieth c­ entury. Yan, Private Life u ­ nder Socialism, chaps. 3 and 4. 10. Karen Lystra writes that “romantic love was accepted as an essentially uncontrollable consequence of inexplicable forces of attraction.” Lystra, Searching the Heart, 192. Similarly, Wang Zhaoyuan and Hao Yixing declared in the preface to their poetry collection that love as they experienced it was inexplicable—­w ith the exception of the yin-­yang theory—­and uncontrollable. See chap. 3. 11. Lystra, Searching the Heart, 30. 12. All ages in this book are given as they appear in the original Chinese source. Since the Chinese traditionally mea­sured age as beginning at conception, an infant was considered to be one year old (sui) at birth. He or she then gained another year a­ fter the Chinese New Year. For example, someone who was born the day before Chinese New Year would already be two the very next day. 13. The book has been translated into over ten languages, including En­glish, for which t­ here are four versions. They are: Six Chapters of a Floating Life, translated by Lin Yutang (Beijing: Foreign Language Teaching and Research, 1999; 1st ed. 1935); Chapters from a Floating Life: The Autobiography of a Chinese Artist, translated by Shirley Black (London: Oxford University Press, 1960); Six Rec­ords of a Floating Life, translated by Leonard Pratt and Su-­hui Chiang (New York: Penguin, 1983); and Six Rec­ords of a Life Adrift, translated by Graham Sanders (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2011). See F. Lu, “The Afterlife of Six Chapters of a Floating Life.” 14. A widespread hysteria caused by homeless men roaming rural China in 1768, which Philip A. Kuhn reconstructed, was one telling sign of the economic dislocation and social anxiety Chinese society experienced at the peak of the Qing. See Kuhn, Soulstealers; Matthew Sommer’s ­legal archive–­based study narrates vari­ous socially disdained forms of marital arrangements among the destitute, which offers another win­dow into the extend of the economic conditions of the dynasty in decline. See Sommer, Polyandry and Wife-­Selling. 15. For an account of the heated late Ming partisan politics and its lingering legacy in the early Qing, see Y. Zhang, Confucian Image Politics. Although the early Qing court was not f­ ree from factional strug­gle, its intensity was much reduced. 16. Major works on female chastity include Bossler, Courtesans; Theiss, Disgraceful ­Matters; W. Lu, True to Their Word. 17. Compared with the late Ming, commercial publication in the Qing was much more dispersed. By the late nineteenth c­ entury, “all parts of China proper ­were integrated into a comprehensive hierarchy of book-­producing centers and bookselling markets and distribution routes.” The development of commercial publication in the late imperial period was facilitated by the

Notes to Introduction

dominant woodblock print technology, which made printing simpler and less expensive. Brokaw, Commerce in Culture: 12–13. 18. Elman, From Philosophy to Philology. 19. During the Qing, about two million men took the county-­level examinations held twice e­ very three years and only 30,000 (1.5 ­percent) earned the shengyuan degree, which granted eligibility to compete for the juren degree. Of the eligible juren candidates from seventeen provinces before 1850, only 1,300 (1.5 ­percent) passed. Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Examinations, 143. 20. According to one study, even the men who passed the palace examination—­ the last phase of the grueling examinations—­“ had to wait years to gain an appointment as a magistrate or prefect if they passed in the bottom tier.” Elman, Civil Examination and Meritocracy, 149. 21. One such case is detailed in Miles, Upriver Journeys, chap. 2. 22. ­Women’s writings as a source for research on w ­ omen’s and gender history has received sustained scholarly attention. For selected monographs, see Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers; Susan Mann, Precious Rec­ords (chap. 4); Widmer and Chang, Writing ­Women in Late Imperial China; Widmer, The Beauty and the Book; Mann, The Talented W ­ omen of the Zhang F ­ amily; Fong, Herself an Author; X. Li, ­Women’s Poetry of Late Imperial China; W. Li, ­Women and National Trauma, chap. 2; B. Yang, Heroines of the Qing; H. Yang, ­Women’s Poetry and Poetics. 23. Mann, Talented ­Women, 181–82. 24. Mann, “Fuxue,” 40–62. 25. N. Qian, Politics, Poetics, and Gender, 31–44. 26. For Ye Shaoyuan and Shen Yixiu, and Qi Biaojia and Shang Jinglan, see Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers, 187–90, 227; for Chen Zhilin and Xu Can, see Li X. “Singing in Dis/Harmony in Times of Chaos.” 27. Jabour, Marriage in the Early Republic, 3. 28. Stone, The F ­ amily, Sex, and Marriage; Shorter, The Making of the Modern ­Family. 29. Jabour, Marriage in the Early Republic, 2. 30. Lystra, Searching the Heart, 28, 42. 31. Dorothy Ko stresses that the change served to accentuate “the demarcation of gender roles.” Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers, 183. 32. Ozment, When ­Father Ruled, 54. 33. Ozment, When ­Father Ruled, 59. 34. However, although the husband-­w ife relationship was considered the foundation of society, the Confucian classics w ­ ere not consistent in their ordering of the five cardinal h ­ uman relations (husband and wife, f­ ather and son, ruler and subject, older ­brother and younger ­brother, and friends). For example, in The Book of Rites, the five (sometimes four) relationships appeared eight times, and it placed father-­son at the top twice (in chapters

201

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35.

36. 37. 38. 39.

40. 41.

42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49.

50.

51.

“Wang zhi” and “Li yun”), ruler-­subject at the top four times (in chapters “Liyun,” “Jitong,” and “Zhongyong”) and husband-­w ife at the top twice (in chapters “Aigong wen” and “Hunyi”). Qing writers often noted that when they w ­ ere students they ­were more interested in learning to write poetry than in studying for the examinations. For an example, see Qian W., Zhuchu wenchao, 1460:269. For cases from the Song, see Bossler, “Terms of Endearment.” See Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers, 185–87; Theiss, “Love in a Confucian Climate,” 204–6; W. Lu, True to Their Word, 152–56. Theiss, “Love in a Confucian Climate,” 204–6. S. Xu, “Domesticating Romantic Love,” 246; Chang S., “Shiba, shijiu shiji,” 44. Xu takes the case of Wang Zhaoyuan and Hao Yixing as an example of evidential scholars’ embrace of conjugal love. However, the preface and poems in which they celebrated their love ­were written while they w ­ ere newlyweds when they had yet to embark on evidential research. W. Lu, “Writing Love.” This disagreement is discussed in chap. 1. On ­father and d ­ aughter, see W. Lu, Pearl in the Palm; on husband and concubine (or wife), see M. Huang, Intimate Memory, chap. 6, and W. Lu, “Qu Dajun and His Polygynous Relationships”; on siblings, see M. Huang, Intimate Memory, chap. 8; and on men’s relationships with ­mothers, ­sisters, and ­daughters, see Carlitz, “Mourning, Personality, Display.” For accounts of vari­ous types of f­ amily relationships based on funerary biographies, see chaps. 5, 6, 11, 13, 18, 21, and 22, in Ebrey, Yao, and Zhang, Chinese Funerary Biographies; for filial piety as an emotion, see Epstein, Orthodox Passions. Epstein, “Writing Emotions,” 194. Epstein, “Writing emotions,” 164; Orthodox Passions, introduction. See S. Xu, “Domesticating Romantic Love.” This is discussed in detail in chap. 5. Ebrey, The Inner Quarters, 152. Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers. Huang, Intimate Memory. Not all personal rec­ords come as written texts; Some w ­ ere in visual forms, such as self-­portraits and autobiographical paintings. B. Yang, Heroines of the Qing. Studying love letters in China and Eu­rope, Bonnie S. McDougall notes the paucity of such works in Chinese history and suggests that it might have something to do with the “traditional avoidance in Chinese prose writing of what is highly personal and subjective.” McDougall, Infinite Variations, 547. As w ­ ill be discussed in chapter 6 of this book, married ­couples communicated through both letters and poetry, but the two genres served dif­fer­ent functions. A husband assuming the authorship of a funeral biography for his wife was considered inappropriate, and Qing writers who did so sometimes felt compelled to justify their actions.

Notes to Chapter 1

52. Examples from the Tang and Song periods can be found in P. Yao, “­Women’s Epitaphs in Tang China”; Ebrey, “The ­Women in Liu Kezhuang’s F ­ amily”; and Bossler, “Terms of Endearment.” 53. Fong, Herself an Author, 10. 54. The term yiyu is also used by modern scholars to denote this par­tic­u ­lar type of genre commemorating a late wife or concubine. 55. Besides Six Rec­ords of A Life Adrift and Jiang Tan’s less-­structured Qiudeng suoyi, other works of the yiyu genre w ­ ere mostly produced in the late Qing and early Republican period. See Luo Zipeng, “Qian tan Min chu ‘yiyu ti.’ ” 56. Mann, “Biographical Sources and Silences”; Hershatter, “Bad Transmission.” 57. I extend my gratitude to Sophia Lee for raising this issue.

Chapter One. Competing Meanings of Marriage SR, 1. Translation modified by the author. 1. Ji D., Zhouyi jijie zhuan shu, 724. 2. Zhu B., Liji xun zhuan, 877. 3. Zhu B., Liji xun zhuan, 880. 4. Zhu B., Liji xun zhuan, 879–80. 5. Zhu B., Liji xun zhuan, 881. 6. Zhu B., Liji xun zhuan, 878. 7. Zhu B., Liji xun zhuan, 434. 8. Zhu B., Liji xun zhuan, 434. 9. Referring to some pieces from the Zheng and Wei states. 10. For a review of the scholarship on The Classic of Poetry, see Allen, “Postface,” 346–62. 11. Zhu X., Shi ji zhuan, 1–2. 12. Ma R., Maoshi zhuan, 29. 13. Zhu X., Shi ji zhuan, 1. 14. Ma R., Maoshi zhuan, 29. 15. Ruan Y., comp., Shisanjing zhushu, 269. 16. Lau, trans., The Analects, 70. 17. Allen, “Postface,” 365. For the original text, see Ruan Y., Shisanjing zhushu, 270. 18. The Analects, 63. 19. Ruan Y., Shisanjing zhushu, 270. 20. Waley, trans., The Book of Songs, 69. Translation modified by the author. 21. This phrase also appears in “They Beat Their Drums” (Ji gu), which describes a soldier’s longing to return home to be with his wife. 22. Cui B., Gujin zhu, 12. 23. Xu L., Yutai xin yong, 55–56, 64, 71, 72, 77. 24. Xu L., Yutai xin yong, 15–16, 85. 25. Fan Y., Hou Han shu, 2781–82. 26. Fan Y., Hou Han shu, 2766–68.

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27. Ruan Y., Shisanjing zhushu, 1833. 28. Cao X., Shipin jizhu, 197. Besides the poems, remnants of two letters believed to be exchanged between Qin Jia and Xu Shu w ­ ere preserved in, among other sources, the Dunhuang manuscripts. See Liu Jingyun, “Hou Han Qin Jia Xu Shu shiwen kao.” 29. L. Xu, New Songs from a Jade Terrace, 45. Translation modified by the author. 30. L. Xu, New Songs from a Jade Terrace, 32. 31. Li Q., “Jinshilu hou xu,” 176–82. 32. For Li Qingzhao’s life and the changing reception of her story, see Egan, The Burden of Female Talent. 33. The Late Qing scholar Li Ciming (1830–1894) left a handwritten note on “Jin Song Shu gu ba,” a postscript that Wang Zhaoyuan wrote describing how she assisted her husband Hao Yixing on a history proj­ect, comparing Wang’s text to Li Qingzhao’s famed “Jinshilu hou xu.” The copy is ­housed in the Central Library of China in Beijing. 34. Xu Z., Shishuo xinyu, 447–48. 35. For example, see Guan Ying’s preface to Cuiluoge shi ci gao, in JNB, sanbian 867. 36. Ban G., Han shu, 3222. 37. Xu Z., Shishuo xinyu, 489–90. 38. Xu Z., Shishuo xinyu, 490. 39. For criticism, see Peng S., Songguitang quanji, 1317:302. 40. Milburn, “Instructions to W ­ omen.” 41. Zhang F., comp., Nüjie, 3–4. 42. Zhang F., Nüjie, 2, “Fufu di er.” 43. Zhang F., Nüjie, 1–3, “Bei ruo di yi” and “Zhuan xin di wu.” 44. Zhang F., Nüjie, 2, “Jing shen di san.” 45. Zhang F., Nüjie, 2, “Jing shen di san.” 46. Zhang C., comp., Ruxian xunyao, 10:4b. 47. Zhao H., Yiyoushengzhai ji, 1469:148. 48. Lan D., Mianyang xuezhun, 195. 49. Lan D., Mianyang xuezhun, 194. 50. Lan D., Mianyang xuezhun, 194; Yan Y., Yan Xizhai nianpu, 83:18. 51. Epstein, “Writing Emotions.” According to this study, neither man had much to say about their wives in their nianpu. 52. Li G., Shugu houji, 1420:56, “Lishi zhuan.” 53. Zhang F., Nüjie, 64. 54. Li G., Shugu houji, 1420:56. 55. Lü M., Chengsheng, 281. 56. Lü M., Chengsheng, 264–81. 57. Tang Z., Qianshu, 246. 58. Cited in Lü M., Chengsheng, 277. 59. For an example of guifang yanni, see Qian W., Yingwu mei, 396:349.

Notes to Chapter 2

60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75.

76. 77.

Tang Z., Qianshu, 238. Tang Z., Qianshu, 238–40. Tang Z., Qianshu, 234–35. Tang Z., Qianshu, 246. Lu W., Baojingtang wenji, 1432:724. Zhao H., Yiyoushenzhai ji, 1470:131–32. Zhao H., Yiyoushenzhai ji, 1470:132. Hao Y., Shaishutang ji, 1481:603. This is a quotation from Mencius, 139. Shi Y., Duxuelu yugao, 1467:126–27. Shi Y., Duxuelu yugao, 1467:126–27. Jiao X., Diaogu ji, 1489:169. For Qian Daxin’s original treatise, see Jiading Qian Daxin Xiansheng quanji, 9:106–7. Jiao X., Diaogu ji, 1489:169–70. Jiao X., Diaogu ji, 1489:170. Jian X., Diaogu ji, 1489:170–71. According to his “Ji Huangshi mei wen,” his ­sister died in 1807 and was ­later buried with her husband in 1819. As stated in the beginning of his essay, Jiao wrote it ten years ­a fter Qian Daxin passed away, which would place the date of the essay at 1814. Jiao X., Diaogu ji, 1489:366. Zhao did not remarry ­until the fourth year a­ fter the death of each wife. See Zhao H., Shou’an jushi, vol. 117.

Chapter Two. Fashioning Companionate Love SR, 12–13. Translation modified by the author. 1. You T., Hui’an nianpu, 74:55–56. 2. You T., Hui’an nianpu, 74:56–57. 3. XTWJ, 1406:486. 4. That the volume was compiled in the second year a­ fter the event can be inferred from the fact that all of the included poems w ­ ere written in the first year. You T., Xitang shiji, 1407:47–71. 5. You T., Xitang shiji, 1407:67–71. 6. Ou and Wang, Qu Dajun quanji, 3:220–21. 7. Ou and Wang, Qu Dajun quanji, 3:150–51; W. Lu, “Qu Dajun and His Polygynous Relationships,” 88–89. 8. M. Huang, Intimate Memory, 142. 9. Zhang P., Hong Sheng nianpu, 42. 10. Gao S., Dudan ji, 7ji, 26:735. 11. Gao S., Dudan ji, 7ji, 26:733. 12. M. Huang, Intimate Memory, 30. 13. Cardamon (doukuo) is a meta­phor for a youthful girl. 14. Gao S., Dudan ji, 7ji, 26:736.

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15. Ou and Wang, Qu Dajun quanji, 1:369. Also see 1:22–25, “Ai neizi Wang Huajiang,” no. 1, 7. 16. Gao S., Dudan ji, 7ji, 26:735. 17. M. Huang, Intimate Memory, chap. 1. 18. M. Huang, Intimate Memory, 20. 19. XTWJ, 1406:466. 20. Ou and Wang, Qu Dajun quanji, 3:116. 21. Ou and Wang, Qu Dajun quanji, 3:116. 22. Qu D., Wenshan wenwai, jibu, 184:170–71. 23. You T., Xitang shiji, 1407:46. 24. XTWJ, 1406:427. 25. Qu D., Wengshan wenwai, jibu, 184:171. 26. See X. Li, Poetics and Politics, 13–15. 27. X. Li, Poetics and Politics, 14–15. While all recognize that qing represented a countercultural trend, scholars differ on what it meant in relation to the dominant Confucian ideology. Haiyan Lee, for example, argues that “[for] all its effort to legitimize the affective and the individual, it is still committed to patrilineal continuity, ritual propriety, and the social order.” Lee, Revolution of the Heart, 38. Similarly, Paolo Santangelo notes that the new trend in late Ming to mid-­Qing writing “identified emotions with princi­ples and morality, thus cannot be considered as a revolutionary attitude contrasted with an orthodox Neo-­Confucian rigour and diffidence t­ oward passions.” Santangelo, “Evaluation of Emotions in Eu­ro­pean and Chinese Traditions,” 415. 28. Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers, 79. 29. W. Li, ­Women and National Trauma, chap. 4. 30. Y. Zhu, Pushuting ji, 1318:529. 31. Ou and Wang, Qu Dajun quanji, 3:73–74. 32. See Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 22; Sommer, Sex, Law, and Society, 5. 33. S. Xu, “Domesticating Romantic Love,” 237–48; W. Lu, “Writing Love.” 88–93. The “domestication” of qing captures the fact that during the High Qing it had become integral to the marriages of educated men and ­women. However, it is impor­tant to bear in mind that qing was already situated in the domestic realm in the late Ming, for all perfect-­match marriages or ­unions took place at home, between highly educated men and their equally intelligent wives or concubines. 34. ­There ­were two ways to create a memorial a­ lbum: one was to have contributors write directly on the a­ lbum; the other was to solicit individual pieces and compile them into an a­ lbum afterward. 35. I have come across only a few cases of a husband compiling a memorial volume in commemoration of a late wife in the eigh­teenth and nineteenth centuries. One such case is Cheng Xianglong (1701–1755) who compiled Guanyu ji (Cheng, Chengtan shanfang, 293:607). In another case, a grieving husband “solicited over a hundred poems across the country” and planned to publish them. See Ke Y., Shuo Hai, 7:2234. 36. For examples, see Jiang S., Zhongyatang ji, 457, 463, 1490, 1912.

Notes to Chapter 2

37. 38. 39. 40.

41. 42. 43. 44. 45.

46. 47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58.

59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64.

65. 66.

Wang Y., Ran zhi yu yun, 653. Fei and Xue, Songling nüzi shizheng, 7/ 11a, and buyi 1a. Hong L., Hong Liangji ji, 318, “Changlige yixiang zan.” Idema, “The Biographical and the Autobiographical,” 230–45; McLaren, “Lamenting the Dead: ­Women’s Per­for­mance of Grief in Late Imperial China,” 67–75. Shen S., Mingyuan shihua, 396. JNB, sibian, 444. Jiang S., Zhongyatang ji, 2021. Sun Y., Tianzhenge ji, 1488:378. Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chamber, 179. In the late Ming, a perfect-­match could be a u ­ nion with a concubine. For example, Mao Xiang and his famous courtesan-­turned-­concubine Dong Xiaowan. Wang Y., Qingdai guixiu, 1:154. Wang Y., Qingdai guixiu, 410. Yun Z., Guochao guixiu, 20.13b. Wang Q., Yuanyatang quanji, 1480:418. Wang Q., Yuanyatang quanji, 1480:419–20. Wang T., Yanxiawangulou wenji, 1483:532. Wang’s patron was implicated in the He Shen case; as a result, Wang’s ­career stalled. Shu W., Pingshuizhai shiji, 1487:60. Wang T., Yanxiawangulou wenji, 1483:533. Wang T., Yanxiawangulou wenji, 1483:532. A “skin bag” (that holds blood) was a meta­phor for the ­human body in Buddhism. For Sun Xingyan, see chap. 3. W. Lu, “Writing Love.” The term lianyin was interchangeable with lianju, but it could also mean changhe, as seen in the Guo Shengyu and Li Xinyuan example: although their poetry anthology was titled lianyin, all w ­ ere changhe poems. Li Q., “Jinshilu hou xu,” 176. For two early Qing changhe cases, see X. Li, “Singing in Dis/Harmony” and “Fu Chang Fu Sui.” Hao and Wang, Heming ji, 4a-­b. Such games ­were not l­ imited to married ­couples, but w ­ ere also popu­lar in social settings. For examples, see Fu Y., Ming Qing Anhui, 25, 244, 269, 307, 389, 485, 497. Wang Y., Qingdai guixiu, 463. Li X., Li Wengonggong ji, 1525:184. Li served as an examiner, governor, governor-­general, and imperial commissioner, among other positions, before his death fighting the Taiping Rebellion. Li and Guo, Wushengguan, preface. For examples of coauthored poetry anthologies mentioned in Qing rec­ords, see Hu Wenyi and Zhang Cuoyun, Qinlou hegao, in Shi Yushan xiansheng xueyu wenji, by Shi R., 67:46; and, in Wang Y., Qingdai guixiu: Li Yuanding

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67. 68. 69.

70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77.

78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88.

89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99.

Notes to Chapter 2

and Zhu Zhongmei, Wenjiang changchou ji, 1:36; Bao Zhihui and Zhang Xuan, Qingyuge ji, 1:120; and Yu Qiru and Jin Xiaojue, Yulianhuan cao, 1:545. Pan Y., Sansongtang ji, 1461:83. Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 170–73. Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 170–73. Zhao Huaiyu, Yao Nai, and Sun Yuanxiang all described such gatherings. See Zhao, Yiyoushengzhai ji, 1469:504; Yao, Xibaoxuan shiji, 1453:232; Sun, Tianzhenge ji, 1487:631. Sun Y., Tianzhenge ji, 1487: 631. Wang Y., Ran zhi yu yun, 812. How ­woman poets enjoyed such activities are described in a study by Zhong Huiling. See Zhong, Qingdai nüshiren yanjiu, 271. On Qing paintings for practical use, see Cahill, Pictures for Use and Plea­sure. SR, 22. SR, 48. Wang Y., Ran zhi yu yun, 645. Cao Qing, the curator of the Nanjing Museum, discusses some of the surviving paintings by perfect-­match c­ ouples in her book, Xiang guo zhui zhen, 97–106. Li and Guo, Wushengguan, preface, 1b. Jiang and Jiang, Mo lin jin hua, 073:263, 221. Also see Wu X., Youzhengweizhai, 1469:124. Wu S., Xiangsushanguan, 1490:243. Cao Z., Xieyunlou xiaogao, 1.4b–1.5a. Wu S., Xiangsushanguan, 1490:89. Qian W., Zhuchu shichao, 1460:61. Yu J., Qiushi xue gu lu, 1460:289. Preface to Liu Yin, Mengchanlou yigao, in JNB, chubian 821. On Liu’s life and poetry, see Yang B., Heroines of the Qing, 17–32. Qian W., Zhuchu wenchao, 1460:271. In a poem sent to her husband, Liu Yin told him “my hope is not just to have enough to eat and to wear; a man’s role is to achieve a feat and earn a name.” JNB, chubian 839. JNB, chubian 839. Qian W., Zhuchu wenchao, 1460:271. Qian W., Zhuchu wenchao, 1460:269–70. Qian W., Zhuchu wenchao, 1460:270. Barr, “Marriage and Mourning,” 138. Barr, “Marriage and Mourning,” 137–39. SR, 89. Cheng X., Chengtan shanfang, 293:607, preface to “Daowang shi.” Huang, “Male Friendship,” 5–6; Mann, “The Male Bond,” 1601. Shen D., Shen Guiyu shiwen quanji, 235:101. Qin Y., Xiaoxian shanren wenji, 1465:255–56.

Notes to Chapter 3

100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107.

209

Zhao E., Qingshi gao, 11293. Zhu Y., Sihe wenji, 1440:320. Qian W., Zhuchu wenchao, 1460:269. SR, 73. Ebrey, Yao, and Zhang, Chinese Funerary Biographies, 255. SR, 20–21. Translation modified by the author. Wang Y., Ran zhi yu yun, 857. FBJ, 504.

Chapter Thr ee. Building the Marital Bond SR, 2. Translation modified by the author. 1. Wang Y., Qingdai guixiu, 1:649–50. A similar story featured the female poet Fang Fangpei (1728–1809), see Wang Y., Qingdai guixiu, 1:782. 2. Sommer, Polyandry and Wife-­Selling. 3. For example, Zhao Yi, a famous poet and scholar, took a l­ ittle daughter-­in-­law for his son. Another ­little daughter-­in-­law, the grand­mother of Qin Ying, had a dowry containing three hundred mu of land and two female servants. Oubei Xiansheng Nianpu, 105:384; Qin Y., Xiaoxian shanren wenji, 1465:214. 4. Wolf and Huang, Marriage and Adoption in China. 5. W. Lu, True to Their Word, 154. 6. For cases in the Tang and Song periods, see P. Yao, “Cousin Marriages”; Ebrey, Inner Quarters, 65–71. 7. For instance, when his best friend died, You Tong took in the friend’s orphaned son and betrothed him to his own ­daughter. You, Hui’an Nianpu, 74:9. When Hong Liangji was exiled to Xinjiang as a result of his memorial to impeach Heshen, Qian Weiqiao proposed marrying their c­ hildren. Qian W., Zhuchu shichao, 1460:7–8. 8. Hong Liangji, who married his maternal u ­ ncle’s ­daughter, lived in his maternal grand­mother’s extended ­house­hold. His playmates included both male and female cousins. See Hong L., Waijia jiwen. 9. Jiang T., Qiu deng suo yi, 225. 10. Liu Y., Lu Baojing Xiansheng Nianpu, 53, 58. 11. Jiang T., Qiu deng suo yi, 225. 12. Mann, “Grooming a ­Daughter.” 13. It appears that Zhu Xi was the first to rec­ord this saying. See Zhu X., Xiaoxue, 181. Zhu Xi indicated that t­ hese ­were the words of Hu Yuan of Anding. Qing writers, however, often erroneously attributed it to “Mr. Hu Anding” (Hu Anguo) or Yan Zhitui (author of Yanshi jiaxun). See, for example, Liang S., Liangban qiuyu’an, 244; Wang S., “Wang Shijin zonggui,” 65. 14. Cheng J., Mianxingtang wenji, 1433:358. 15. Qian Y., Kanshizhai jishi xugao, 1509:220. 16. In Qian H., Wuzhenge yingao, preface. 17. Sun Yuanru Xiansheng Nianpu, 119:448.

210

Notes to Chapter 3

18. Qin Y., Xiaoxian shanren wenji, 1465:255. In Ming-­Qing times, ruren was an honorific title the imperial court bestowed on the m ­ other or wife of an official of the seventh rank. It was also a respectful way to address a ­woman. 19. Jiao Litang Xiansheng Nianpu, 127:5–6. 20. Zhu Y., Pushuting ji, 58:12b. 21. Ebrey, Chu Hsi’s F ­ amily Rituals, 48. 22. For example, at age sixteen, Qu Songman sent his ­f uture mother-­in-­law a fan he made on which he painted a picture, “Lotus Seeds Are Ripe.” Ji L., Chuwuange ji, 2.10b. 23. Some w ­ omen claimed to have seen their fiancés in dreams; another believed a bird calling at midnight from the rooftop was her fiancé’s spirit. W. Lu, True to Their Word, 151, 156. For general discussion, see chap. 5. 24. Zhu B., Ljji xun zhuan, 296. 25. According to Guo Songyi, during the Qing p ­ eople typically moved no further than several dozen li when marrying, and a ­daughter could travel between her marital and natal home within a day. Guo, Lunli Yu Sheng­huo, 144. 26. Xi P., Changzhenge ji, 1.6a. 27. Ou and Wang, Qu Dajun quanji, 1:655. 28. W. Lu, “Uxorilocal Marriage, 77–78.” 29. Yuan M., Yuan Mei quanji, 22, 23. 30. Zhao Y., Oubei ji, 432, 686–87. 31. W. Lu, “ ‘A Pearl in the Palm,’ ” 73–77. 32. Mann, Talented ­Woman. The Zhang f­ amily had two ­daughters married at home and their husbands and ­children remained part of the Zhang h ­ ouse­hold even ­a fter the parents’ deaths. 33. Wang C., Changlige ji, “xiaozhuan” 1b. 34. Qin Y., Xiaoxian shanren wenji, 1465:171. 35. Zhao H., Shou’an jushi zixu nianpu lue, 117:236. 36. Adams-­Campbell, New World Courtships, 3. 37. For courtship in nineteenth-­century Amer­i­ca, see Lystra, Searching the Heart; Jabour, Marriage in the Early Republic. 38. Pinto, “Researching Romantic Love,” 571. 39. Pinto, “Researching Romantic Love,” 569. 40. Jankowiak, Romantic Passion, 11; Jankowiak and Fischer, “Cross-­Cultural Perspective,” 153. 41. Hao and Wang, Heming ji, 1a–­b. 42. Hong S., Hong Sheng ji, 18. 43. Hong S., Hong Sheng ji, 18. 44. Cai, Guochao guige shichao, 4.34a. 45. A reference drawn from “Qin wei” in The Classic of Poetry, this is an expression of mutual attraction. Ma R., Maoshi zhuan jian, 287–91. 46. Referencing a remark in The Zuo Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals, “gathering watercress” is a symbol of sincerity.

Notes to Chapter 3

211

47. Yun, Guochao guixiu, 1.7b–1.8a. The “shoulder-­to-­shoulder c­ ouple” refers to a story from Ren Fang’s Shu yi ji. It describes a man who was so in love with his wife that he rarely left her side, which earned them the nickname “bijian ren” (shoulder-­to-­shoulder ­couple). Li F., Taiping guangji, 3103. 48. Xu L., Yutai xinyong. 29. 49. Chen Y., Xiaodaixuan lun shi shi, shang 11b. This poem appeared in Yun Z., Guochao guixiu, 1.7b; Cai, Guochao guige shichao, 4.34a; Fei and Xue, Songling nuzi shizheng, 3.10b. 50. Shen S., Mingyuan shihua, 3.7a. 51. Yun, Guochao guixiu, 1.6b–1.7b. 52. Yuan, Yuan Mei quanji, 2:587. 53. JNB, sibian, 317. 54. Zhao Y., Oubei ji, 60. 55. Yuan Mei’s ­sister, Yuan Shu, inscribed a poem on the ­a lbum ­a fter her tragic death from childbirth. JNB, sibian, 137. 56. One such story depicting a bride testing the literary skills of her groom featured the famous Song poet Su Shi and an in­ven­ted ­sister and another well-­k nown Song poet, Qin Guang. See “Su Xiaomei san nan xinlang,” in Feng M., San Yan, 217–29. 57. On their poems, marriage, and scholarly life, see W. Lu, Writing Love. 58. A meta­phor for the bride. This line alludes to “Tao yao” from The Classic of Poetry, a poem celebrating the marriage of a young w ­ oman. 59. This line alludes to “Zhu” from The Classic of Poetry, which describes the scene of the groom fetching the bride on the day of the wedding. 60. ­Here Hao Yixing alluded to a dream that his bride had before the wedding in which candles repeatedly turned into snuff, an auspicious sign that their marriage would be harmonious and happy. 61. This is cited from “Tao yao” from The Classic of Poetry. 62. This alludes to “Che xia” from The Classic of Poetry. The poem describes a man longing to marry a beautiful girl. 63. This line is from the poem “Zhu” from The Classic of Poetry. 64. Heming Ji, in Haoshi Yishu. 65. Two other wedding poems by Hao and Wang, titled queshan, ­were also based on praising each other’s talent. W. Lu, Writing Love. This appeared to be a fashionable choice for wedding poems. 66. JNB, erbian, 381. 67. SR, 13–14. 68. Wang Q., Yuanyatang wenji, 1480:426. 69. The romantic portrayal of preparing herbal medicine seems to be related to the aestheticization of female illness, which Grace Fong discussed in “Writing and Illness: A Feminine Condition in ­Women’s Poetry of the Ming and Qing.” Fong and Widmer, The Inner Quarters and Beyond, 30–33. Ji L., Chuwange ji, 2.7a–2.8b. 70. X. Li, ­Women’s Poetry, 5.

212

Notes to Chapter 3

71. For example, Ruan Yuan’s ­daughter, Yuan An, and her husband had separate studies in their uxorilocal residence. Ruan, Yanjingshi ji, erji, 6.33a-­b. 72. SR, 22. Translation revised by the author. 73. Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 49. 74. SR, 51. 75. SR, 44–45, 51. 76. SR, 21. Translation revised by the author. 77. Fong, Herself an Author, chap. 3. 78. Mann, “The Virtue of Travel.” 79. Jiang T., Qiu deng suo yi, 218–26. 80. Wang C., Changlige ji, 9a-­b. 81. Jiang and Jiang, Mo lin jin hua, 073–263, 221. 82. Jiang and Jiang, Mo lin jin hua, 073–347. 83. Fei and Xue, Songling nuzi shizheng, 5:26b. 84. The legend of the immortal ­couple Liu Gang and Lady Fan, recorded in Shenxian zhuan by Ge Hong of the Jin dynasty, features competitions in which Lady Fan typically outperforms her husband. 85. See Ruan Y., Yanjingtang wenji, 6.33a-­b. 86. Wang C., Changlige ji, “shizhuan,”1b. 87. Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 77–78. 88. Jiao X., Yishu, 89:301. 89. Jiao X., Yishu, 89:301; Jiao X., Diao gu ji, 1489:352. 90. Jiao X., Yishu, 89:302. 91. Wang C., Chunrongtang ji, 1438:247. 92. Shen D., Shen Guiyu ziding nianpu, 91:135. 93. Zhao Y., Oubei ji, 105. 94. Shen D., Shen Guiyu shiwen quanji, 235:101. 95. Mann, “Dowry Wealth”; Mao L., “Qingdai de jiazhuang” and “Qingdai funü.” 96. They would lose the right to their dowry, however, if they remarried. 97. Shen S., Yicaitang wenji, 1458:522. 98. XTWJ, 1406:466. 99. For more examples, see Qian W., Zhuchu wenchao, 1460:269. 100. On the emotional and psychological impacts of the examinations, see Elman, Civil Examinations, 146–210. 101. Cheng E., Cheng Shilang yiji, 1511:313. 102. You, Xitang wenji, 1406:466. 103. Ban G., Han shu, 3238–39. 104. Qian W., Zhuchu wenchao, 1460:61, also see Wu X., Youzhengweizhai shiji, 1468:560. 105. Shen S., Yicaitang wenji, 1458:520. Also see, Jiang S., Zhongyatang ji jianjiao, 90; Liu S., Jiuwan guwen, 304:290. 106. You T., Hui’an nianpu, 632. 107. Qian W., Zhuchu wenchao, 269. 108. Susan Mann, Gender and Sexuality, 31–34.

Notes to Chapter 4

109. See, for example, Liu Dakui’s discussion on this subject. Liu, Haifeng wenji, 1427:315. 110. Sommer, Polyandry and Wife-­Selling. 111. Li G., Shugu houji, 1420:67. 112. Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 52. 113. For example, in The Story of the Stone, even Lin Daiyu, who was sequestered inside the Jia f­ amily mansion, got a hold of a copy of Romance of the Western Chamber. See chap. 23 and 26. 114. For a general discussion this subject, see Mann, Talented ­Women of the Zhang ­Family, 15–16; Liu D., Zhongguo xingshi tujian, 404–5. Song Z., Zhongguo shengyu xinyang, 331–36. 115. SR, 5. 116. SR, 5–6. 117. Qu D., Wengshan shiwai (Xuxiu siku quanshu edition), 269. 118. You T., Xitang shiji, 50. 119. Hong L., Hong Liangji ji, 2117. 120. Lin Y., Mozhuang shichao, 1.33a. 121. Xi, Changzhenge ji, 1.9b. 122. Xi, Changzhenge ji, 2.8b, 3.8b; Sun Y., Tianzhenge ji, 1488:445. For fingernails as a symbol of intimacy, also see The Story of the Stone (chap. 77). Baoyu’s beloved maid Qingwen was expelled from the f­ amily, she gives him her fingernails to keep. 123. Sun Y., Tianzhenge ji, 1488:9.

Chapter Four. Managing Familial and Marital R elationships SR, 55–56. 1. Fei and Xue, Songling nüzi shizheng, 5:26b. 2. XTWJ, 1406:466. 3. Kinney, Exemplary W ­ omen of Early China, 19. 4. Hu, Benchao mingyuan, 1.2b. 5. Qian H., Wuzhenge yingao xu, preface. 6. Wang W., Songxi wenji, “jibu” 10 ji, 28:172. 7. Guo Shengyu is one example. Li X., Li Wengonggong ji, 1525:184. 8. Hu, Benchao mingyuan, 6.2b–6.3a, 1.12a. 9. Sun Y., Tianzhenge ji, 1488:384. 10. Zhu Y., Sihe wenji, 1440:249–50. 11. Cui M., Guangyuan yushi, 89:766–74, “Daowan shi,” nos. 26, 27, 63. 12. This line was written by Chen Shulan, a female disciple of Yuan Mei. Wang Y., Qingdai guixiu, 1:65–66. 13. For example, while his disciple Chen Shulan sympathized with Yiying, Yuan Mei did not, saying that killing oneself b ­ ecause of one’s mother-­in-­law was “lighter than a piece of swan’s down.” Yuan M., Suiyuan shihua, 66.

213

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Notes to Chapter 4

14. Luo J., “Wang Zhong li su guannian,” 14. 15. Luo J., “Wang Zhong li su guannian,” 14nn11. 16. Shi C., Chuanjiabao quanji, 2. 17. Huang T., Jia gui sheng kuo, 3ji 21:638. 18. Zhang C., Ruxian xun yao, juan 10:1b. 19. Zhang C., Ruxian xun yao, juan 9:1b. 20. Wang H., Shuangjietang yongxun, 27. 21. FBJ, 241. 22. Li G., Shugu houji, 1420:134. 23. Duan Y., Jingyunlou ji, 1435:103; Jiao X., Diao gu ji, 1489:347; Yao N., Xibaoxuan wen houji, 1453:166–67; Wang Y., Wang Wenjiangong wenji, 1490:402; Weng F., Fuchuzhai wenji, 1455:483. Of t­ hese five authors, Wang Yingzhi did not mention the incident. 24. FBJ, 479–80. 25. The symbolism of this act is not clear. 26. FBJ, 502, 504. 27. FBJ, 477–78. 28. FBJ, 504. 29. Jiao X., Diao gu ji, 169; Qian D., Jiading Qian Daxin, 830. 30. Shen S., Yicaitang wenji, 1458:466. 31. Shen S., Yicaitang wenji, 1458:520–22. 32. FBJ, 209. 33. Wang Y., Qingdai guixiu, 84, 527. 34. Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 83. 35. Xu Z., Shishou xinyu jiao jian, 377. 36. Wang H., Shuangjitang yongxun, 37. 37. “Zhongfeng” is the title of a poem from The Classic of Poetry; yin yu is a phrase from another poem, “Gufeng,” from The Classic of Poetry. Both take the voice of a wife abandoned by an ungrateful and violent husband. 38. Zhao J., Pichenxuan shichao, in JNB, sibian, 285. 39. Wang Y., Qingdai guixiu, 2000. 40. Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers, 91. 41. Wang C., Chunrongtang ji, 1438:134. 42. Jiang and Jiang, Mo lin jin hua, 073–317. Also see Chai, Guochao guige shichao, 7.18a. 43. Jiang and Jiang, Mo lin jin hua, 073–318. 44. Shen S., Mingyuan shihua, 497. ”Dragon-riding son-in-law” is a metaphor for an ideal son-in-law. 45. JNB, sibian, 311. 46. JNB, sibian, 314. 47. Yuan M., Yuan Mei quanji, 7:133. Also see W. Lu, True to Their Word, 242–44. 48. Jiang and Jiang, Mo lin jin hua, 073–350. 49. Wang T., Yanxiawangu lou wenji, 1483:534–35. 50. Wang Y., Ran zhi yu yun, 768.

Notes to Chapter 4

51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68.

69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80.

81. 82. 83. 84.

Wang W., Songxi wenji, 28:164. FBJ, 519–20. Ko, “Thinking about Copulating”; Epstein, “Writing Emotions,” 193–94. FBJ, 774. FBJ, 519–20. Zou F., Dayatang xugao, 10ji, 26:402–3. Fang D., Kaopanji wenlu, 1497:438. FBJ, 494. FBJ, 453, 634. On filial piety and emotion, see Epstein’s “Writing Emotions” and Orthodox Passions. FBJ, 635. FBJ, 402. Sun Y., Tianzhenge ji, 1488:384. Pan L., Suichutang wenji, 1418:27. Yao and Chen, Yangyuan xiansheng nianpu, 70:90. Zhang L., Yangyuan xiansheng shiwenji, 36:436. Yao and Chen, Yangyuan xiansheng nianpu, 70:90. This is according to his biography. See Yao and Chen, Yangyuan xiansheng nianpu, 70:90. The preface to Jin jian is preserved in Yangyuan xiansheng shiwenji, 36:556, but it does not give an indication that the work was related to his d ­ aughter’s murder. Zhang L., Yangyuan xiansheng shiwenji, 36:321. A similar arrangement was made in Yang Jisheng’s ­house­hold in the Ming. See Mann and Cheng, ­Under Confucian Eyes. Zhang L., Yangyuan xiansheng shiwenji, 36:437. See Bossler, “A ­Daughter Is a D ­ aughter All Her Life.” FBJ, 501–2. Ma and Yang, Da Qing lüli, 453–53. She did not mention her husband in her writing except in the passing note about his concubine. Wang P., Yuanxiangshi biji, zhuan.1a. They ­were engaged in writing conjugal poems. Chen W., Yidaotang wenchao, 1506:114 Chen W., Yidaotang wenchao, 1506:115. For example, Chen stated that Gong had “abstained from eating grain” for over thirty years by the time of her death at age sixty-­nine. In a poem celebrating her fiftieth birthday, he again noted that she had been on “a no-­grain diet” for over ten years, which would place the starting date in her late thirties. Chen W., Yidaotang shixuan, 1504:640. Chen W., Yidaotang shixuan, 1505:272. The number of concubines Chen took is unclear, but based on the information that he left in his collective works, it might have been five or six. Chen W., Yidaotang wenchao, 1506:117.

215

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Notes to Chapter 4

85. Chen W., Yidaotang wenchao, 1506:118. Abstaining from eating grain was commonly associated with Daoism as an act of nourishing health and prolonging life. In this case, Gong seemed to be using the Daoist act to veil her withdrawal from familial roles. 86. Chen W., Yidaotang wenchao, 1506:116. 87. Chen W., Yidaotang wenchao, 1506:115. 88. The ­family’s devotion to Daoism is described in an article on Wang Duan. X. Liu, “Of Poems,” 44. 89. B. Yang, Heroines of the Qing, 54–55. 90. Her autobiographical painting is the subject of a close reading in Binbin Yang’s Heroines of the Qing, 54–62. 91. JNB, sanbian, 505. 92. JNB, sanbian, 505. 93. No rec­ords about him can be found anywhere, including in the local history of Changzhou. Chen Yunlian mentioned that he went to Nanjing for the examinations, but ­t here is not a single reference indicating his examination success. The purchase of a title was mentioned in a poem. JNB, sanbian, 497, 505. 94. JNB, sanbian, 505–6. 95. The ­couple had a talented d ­ aughter who died young. B. Yang, Heroines of the Qing, 54. Only in one place did Chen mentioned a “daughter-­in-­law.” JNB, sanbian 493. No rec­ords indicate that she and her husband had a son together. The son was likely born to the concubine. 96. JNB, sanbian, 466. 97. For example, see JNB, sanbian, 427, 430, 460. 98. This point was repeatedly made in her poems. For examples, see JNB, sanbian, 418, 427, 428. 99. My dating of the poem is based on the order in which it appears in the collection, which is arranged chronologically. Her ­daughter had already been married by the time she wrote the poem. JNB, sanbian, 454–55. 100. She only began to write about the trou­bles in their relationship in volume five of her poetry anthology. Zuo Chen contributed a postscript to the initial collection that included the first four volumes. The postscript was date 1851, when Chen Yunlian was fifty-­t wo years old. JNB, sanbian, 506. 101. JNB, sanbian, 510. 102. The postscript was dated the end of 1851. According to Yunlian, he began his “wanton” life in the fall of the same year. See Yunlian, “Qiu c­ huan feng yu,” in JNB, sanbian, 506. 103. JNB, sanbian, 477, 485, 483. 104. JNB, sanbian, 485, 486, 487, 493, 495. 105. JNB, sanbian, 505. 106. JNB, sanbian, 407. 107. JNB, sanbian, 493. 108. JNB, sanbian, 497.

Notes to Chapter 5

1 09. JNB, sanbian, 492. 110. JNB, sanbian, 507. 111. Only one of his poems is pre­sent in the anthology.

Chapter Five. Pr acticing Polygy n y SR, 29. Translation modified by the author. 1. Yun’s interest in obtaining a concubine for Shen Fu is interpreted by some scholars as reflecting her own lesbian and bisexual desires. Ropp, “Between Two Worlds,” 112–18. 2. Ann Waltner, “Kinship between the Lines,” 70–73; Neil Ennis Katkov, “The Domestication of Concubinage”; Kathryn Bernhardt, ­Women and Property, 163–78; Bossler, Courtesans, Concubines. 3. Zhang F., Nüjie, 10. 4. Zhou X. et al., Zhongguo lidai, shang 284. 5. Zhou X. et al., Zhongguo lidai, 335, 394. 6. Lü K., Guifan, 951:94; “Pengshi jiaxun,” in Zhou X. et al., Zhongguo lidai, 335. 7. Lu Q., Xinfu pu (Xiangyan congshu edition), 2:178. 8. Zhang F., Nüjie, 112. 9. Chen H., Jiao nü yi gui, 951:101. Also see Zhang F., Nüjie, 206. 10. Zhang F., Nüjie, 270. 11. Zhang F., Nüjie, 112, 81, 124–25. 12. Xu Y., Zhisizhai xuewen gao. http://­digital​.­library​.­mcgill​.­ca​/­mingqing​/­search​ /­details​-­work​.­php​?­workID​=­124&language​=­ch. 13. Zhang F., Nüjie, 31. Also see “Nüfan jielu,” in Zhang F., Nüjie, 39. 14. Zhang F., Nüjie, 142; Chen H., Jiao nü yi gui, 951:102. 15. For example, literary scholar Keith McMahon’s seminal Misers, Shrews, and Polygamists has made use of the eighteenth-­century novel to uncover rich repre­sen­ta­tions of gender and sexuality. 16. Fang X. et al., Jin Shu, 2523. 17. Q. Tang, “From Talented Poet to Jealous Wife.” 18. Wu Z., “Sushi zhi jing guiwen ji,”1006. 19. Liu S., Huang Tingjian shi ji zhu, 436. The original sentence can be ­literally translated as “what could the eve­ning rain on Yangtai [Sunny Terrace] do about it,” which alludes to an ancient story about a sexual encounter between a king of Chu and a goddess by the Wu Gorges on the Yangzi River. 20. Hong S., “Zhi jin ji zi xu,” in Zhang P., Hong Shen nianpu, 236–37. 21. Zhang P., Hong Sheng nianpu, 237–38. 22. Zhang P., Hong Sheng nianpu, 219–22nn2–4. 23. Widmer, “Xiaoqing’s Literary Legacy”; Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers, 91–96. 24. For poems on Manshu by Mao Qiling and his friends, see Mao’s Xihe wenji, 182, 778, 1121–28, 2524, 2888, 3188. Also see Wang Yuan, “Manshu muming ba”

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218

25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36.

37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48.

49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59.

Notes to Chapter 5

(Congshu jicheng xinbian edition), 76:563. For a detailed account of this episode and an analy­sis of it as a form of male self-­presentation, see Huang, Intimate Memory, 144–46. Ruan Y., Liang Zhe youxuan lu, 1683:290. Chen Y., Du lü, 97:343. Chen Y., Du lü, 97:344. Chen Y., Du lü, 344, 345, 346. Wu K., Da Qing lüli genyuan, 456. Bossler, Courtesans, Concubines. Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers, 181. Fong, Herself an Author, 108–19. Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 53. Su C., Zhang Yangyuan xiansheng nianpu, 70:269–70. W. Lu, “Qu Dajun and His Polygynous Relationships.” Shi Runzhang took a concubine at twenty-­seven a­ fter he earned his juren degree. Shi Yushan xianshen xueyu wenji, 212. Shi Yunyu took two concubines ­a fter he earned the jinshi degree, the first at age thirty-­six and the second at age thirty-­seven. Yao Y., Zhuyeting zaiji, 1139:420. Ruan Y., Liang Zhe youxian lu, 1683:713. Wang Y., Juyetang wenji, 1418:271. Gu Y., Gu Tinglin shiwenji, 137. Gu Y., Gu Tinglin shiwenji, 136–37. Bret, “Emotional Underpinning.” XTWJ, 1406:468. XTWJ, 1046:427–28. Yi R., “Shi bu geng qu,” 68–69; Na X., “Ming Qing shiqi de ‘yifu’ jingbiao,” 51–65. Wei X., Wei Shuzi wenji, 1409:48. Li Y., Chunbingshi yesheng, 60:113–15. Sporadic court awards conferred on yifu started in the mid-­sixteenth c­ entury; three men received such honor before the end of the dynasty. Na X., “Ming Qing shiqi de ‘yifu’ jingbiao.” Na X., “Ming Qing shiqi de ‘yifu’ jingbiao,” 57. Mao X., Chaomin wenji, 53:656. Sun Y., Tianzhenge ji, 1488:9. Sun Y., Tianzhenge ji, 1488:91. Sun Y., Tianzhenge ji, 1488:69. This meta­phor alludes to Zhuangzi, “Qiushui.” Xi P., Changzhenge ji, 3.13a-­b. Sun Y., Tianzhenge ji, 1488:181. Yun Z., Guochao guixiu, 18:17b. Wu S., Xiangsu shanguan shiji, 1490:204, 205. Wu S., Xiangsu shanguan shiji, 1490:312.

Notes to Chapter 5

60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67.

68. 69. 70.

71. 72.

73. 74. 75. 76. 77.

78. 79.

80.

Wu S., Xiangsu shanguan shiji, 1490:47, 173. Wu S., Xiangsu shanguan shiji, 1490:47. Pan Y., Shuichutang wenji, 1418:13. Hu X., Benchao mingyuan shichao, 2:3a. The other is a song lyric titled “Sitting with Chusheng [Desheng] at night.” Xu Z., Jianzhishuizhai ji, 1492:393. Liang D., Guchunxuan shichao, shang 4b–6a. Xu Z., Jianzhishuizhai ji, 1492:320. Xu Z., Jianzhishuizhai ji, 1492:328–29. The poems do not reveal the name of the concubine, but poem number six indicates she had given birth to several sons. Xu Zongyan’s tomb inscription by Chen Shouqi noted that his concubine Miss Wu bore him three sons and another concubine bore him a ­daughter. See Qian Y., Beizhuan ji, 109:430–31. Xu Z., Jianzhishuizhai ji, 1492:328. Xu Z., Jianzhishuizhai ji, 1492:384. The poem includes a reference to Chang’an, indicating he was in the capital at the time. Xu Zongyan earned his jinshi in 1799. ­A fter serving in the court for two months, he retired permanently and spent the rest of his life researching and writing. This would place him in his early thirties when the event took place. For Wu’s age, see Xu Z., Jianzhishuizhai ji, 1492:328. Qian Y., Kanshizhai jishi xugao, 1509:37, 38. This was suggested in Jiao Xun’s accounts; Jiao X., Diaogu ji, 356. According to ritual, a grand­son should be performing a chengfu rite at a man’s burial ceremony. Jiao X., Diaogu ji, 1489:357. Jiao X., Diaogu ji, 1489:357. Jiao X., Diaogu ji, 1489:356–58. Bray, Technology and Gender, 364. The Qing court and society maintained a clear and strict difference between a dizi (a son born to a wife) and a shuzi (a son born to a concubine). The inheritance of government positions, for example, was based on the birth order of the wife’s sons. See Guo Songyi, “Qingdai de na qie zhidu.” Qing biographical rec­ords and f­ amily genealogies customarily recorded the biological ­mothers of all c­ hildren to rule out any confusion regarding their status. According to Huang Zongxi, tomb inscriptions before the Yuan period listed a son born to a concubine u ­ nder the wife. That rule was abandoned from the Yuan onward. Huang, Nanlei wending (Congshu jicheng xinbian edition), 76:265. For the practice in genealogy, see Cheng Y., “Zhongguo xuqie xisu,” 96. Zhao H., Yiyoushengzhai ji, 1470:149. Qu Dajun’s writings on his concubines and c­ hildren suggest an emphasis on the biological mother-­child relationship. W. Lu, “Qu Dajun and His Polygynous Relationships,” 102–6. Zhang L., Yangyuan xiansheng shiwenji, 36:540.

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Notes to Chapter 5

81. Lü P. et al., Hong Beijiang xiansheng nianpu, 116:411. 82. Jiao X., Diaogu ji, 1489:357. 83. For a study of Wang’s life with a focus on her Daoist faith, see X. Liu, “Of Poems, Gods, and Spirit-­Writing Altars.” 84. See Gong Yucheng’s “Ziji xiaozhuan,” in Chen P., Xiangyin xiaolu, 6:349. 85. For example, over four thousand ­women writers appeared in Hu Wenkai’s cata­log, Lidai funu zhuzuo kao, but fewer than eighty w ­ ere concubines. Fong, Herself An Author, 62–63. 86. Fong, Herself An Author, 67. 87. Qi J., Shi Yunyu nianpu, 78. 88. Shi Y., Duxuelu yugao, 1466:407. 89. Shi Y., Duxuelu yugao, 1466:407. 90. Shi Yunyu nianpu (60, 78) notes that Cai gave birth to a son, but it l­ ater states that she was sonless when she asked to leave. 91. JNB, chubian, 123. 92. Li H., Guochao qixian leizheng chubian, 151:433. 93. JNB, chubian, 23. 94. JNB, chubian, 23. “White silk robe” (bai lian quan) alludes to a story about calligraphy (see Nanshi, “Biography of Yan Xin”). ­Here, it is a meta­phor for paper. 95. This is indicated in another poem titled “Qianbi.” It portrays a scene in which her husband was having an intimate conversation with a newly purchased maid. Xu D., Lüjingxuan shichao. In JNB, chubian 22. 96. JNB, chubian, 49–50. “The Fu of Regrets” portrays famous historical figures whose lives w ­ ere impacted by vari­ous kinds of unfulfilled wishes. “Look for spring” refers to the poet Du Mu, who was in search of the perfect beauty. He fi­nally found a girl who was too young to marry. He returned to look for her fourteen years ­later, only to find that she was already married with two ­children. Greatly disappointed, Du wrote, “I look for spring a bit too late, but ­t here is no reason to feel lost and resentful of the spring time. The gusty wind downs dark red flowers, the green tree grows a canopy laden with fruit.” See Wang D., Tang yu lin, 624. 97. Shen Cai’s anthology and Lu’s preface can be located in JNB, sanbian. On Lu Xuan and Shen Cai’s works, see Fong, Herself and Author, 69–84. 98. JNB, sanbian, 6. 99. JNB, sanbian, 19, 47. 100. For an analy­sis of Shen’s erotic and feminine writing, see Fong, Herself An Author, 75–83. JNB, sanbian, 16, 17, 54. 101. JNB, sanbian, 38. 102. Peng Z., Keng’er ci, preface. The copy is ­housed in Zhejiang Provincial Library. 103. JNB, sanbian, 74. 104. JNB, sanbian, 74. 105. JNB, sanbian, 75.

Notes to Chapter 6

106. A similar theme appeared in her other works. For example, she described the memories of bygone days when “the male phoenix pursued the female phoenix” that dis­appeared like a dream. JNB, sanbian, 78. 107. JNB, sanbian, 75. 108. JNB, sanbian, 75. 109. “In the Wilds Is a Dead Doe”; see Arthur Waley, trans., The Book of Songs, 20. The poem depicts a love tryst in which the lady tells her lover not to touch her handkerchief, a line that the Mao Commentary interprets as having a moral message: if the man did not act according to the ritual, the dog would bark. 110. The meta­phor “not allowing someone to sleep at one’s bedside” originated in a story about Taizu, the founding emperor of the Song. During the unification campaign against the Southern Tang, Taizu declared that although the Southern Tang was not guilty of any crime, he would not allow someone e­ lse to sleep at his bedside. Wang C., Dongdu shilue, 7:101.

Chapter Six. Growing Old Together SR, 12. 1. Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 33. 2. Guo S., Lunli yu sheng­huo, 202; Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 244. 3. Wang Q., Yuanyatang quanji, 1480:600. 4. For example, see Zhao Y., Oubei ji, 1277; Shen D., Shen Guiyu shiwen, 235:102; Zheng H., Tunsongge ji, 10ji, 14:164; Fang S., Chunjitang san ji, 10ji, 26:704. 5. Fan Y., Hou Han shu, 905. 6. XTWJ, 1406:427–28. 7. Wang Shizhen is another example. Wang called his wife “a dreg-­husk wife” even though they encountered ­little financial hardship in their married life. Wang, Daijingtang ji, 1414:408. 8. “Longxi xing,” in Guo M., Yuefu shiiji, 543. 9. Zhu Y., Pushujing ji, 1318:529. 10. Zhu Y., Pushujing ji, 1318:528. 11. For an example of men’s lack of interest in ­house­hold ­matters, see Pan L., Suichutang wenji, 1417:693, 695. 12. Qin Y., Xiaoxian shanren wenji, 1465:255. 13. For discussion on “rice and salt,” see Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 65–66. 14. Guo S., Lunli yu sheng­huo, 100–115. 15. Qin Y., Xiaoxian shanren wenji, 1465:353. 16. Ebrey, Yao, and Zhang, Chinese Funerary Biographies, 254–55. 17. Ebrey, Yao, and Zhang, Chinese Funerary Biographies, 254, 252. 18. Ebrey, Yao, and Zhang, Chinese Funerary Biographies, 255. 19. JNB, chubian 601. 20. Chen mentioned a woman she called “Yitaitai.” JNB, chubian, 602. 21. According to one study, during the reign of the Xianfeng emperor, the court allowed a portion of the fund collected from selling government posts to be

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22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30.

31. 32.

33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41.

Notes to Chapter 6

distributed among court officials from the same provinces as the persons who purchased the posts. It was an irregular but impor­tant source of income for officials. “Waijuan yin” in Chen Ershi’s letters may refer to a similar type of supplemental salary, although this was during the Jiaqing reign. See Zhang D., Qing ji yi ge jingguan, 46–52. Zhang’s study is based on Li Ciming’s diary. Mann, “Dowry Wealth and Wifely Virtue,” 65–66. Qian Y., Kanshizhai jishi gao, 1509:221. Zhang D., Qing ji yi ge jingguan, 52–54. Qian Y., Kanshizhai jishi gao, 1509:221. Qian Y., Kanshizhai jishi gao, 1509:221. Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 36. Yun J., Dayunshanfang quanji, 4:20. Wang N., Wang Shiqu xiansheng yiwen, 1466: 67. Shen Fu, for example, had to leave to study with his tutor at his ­father’s place of sojourning merely one month ­a fter his wedding. SR, 6. Also see Tang, Qianshu jiaoshi, 110. However, Tang Zhen, the early Qing thinker, argued that three months was more appropriate, as this would help the newlyweds get to know each other better. Zhang Y., Wanjuxiang shichao, in JNB, sibian 414. Chinese ­women gave birth seven to eight times on average, and the number was higher for w ­ omen from rich families. Wolf, “Is ­There Evidence of Birth Control?,” 137–39. On ­w idow chastity as a cause of lower birthrates, see T. Liu, “The Demography of Two Chinese Clans,” and Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 62. Scholars are sharply divided on w ­ hether married c­ ouples deliberately practiced birth control and if effective birth-­control methods existed during late imperial times. See Wang, Lee, and Campbell, “Marital Fertility Control”; Wolf, “Is Th ­ ere Evidence of Birth Control?”; and Sommer, “Abortion in Late Imperial China.” Zhao Y., Oubei ji, 105. They had c­ hildren at the time, but it appears all ­were ­daughters. Sommer, “Abortion in Late Imperial China.” Yao N., Xibaoxuan wen houji, 1453:193 “Xu Taigongren jiushi shengchen shilue,” in Sun X., Sun Yuanru shiwen ji, 2:28b–19a. Jiang S., Zhongyatang ji, 2270–73. Jiang S., Zhongyatang ji, 1129. Liu S., Jiuwan guwen, 304:291. Ji D., Gaiting wenji, 1408:257. As discussed ­earlier, Chen Ershi sent twenty-­seven letters to her husband in one year. ­After his wife Jin Liying’s death, Wang Tan found over one hundred of his letters that she had kept. They w ­ ere separated for six or seven years, which suggests that he sent her on average more than one letter each month. See Wang T., Yanxiawangu lou wenji, 1483:592. Li Xinyuan stated that he received several letters each month from his wife. Li X., Li Wengonggong ji, 1525:197.

Notes to Chapter 6

42. Li X., Li Wengonggong ji, 1525:197. 43. For an additional example, see Zhang Y., Wangxiangju shichao, in JNB, sibian 433; Wang T., Yanxiawangu lou wen ji, 1483:592. 44. Ji L., Chuwange ji; Sun Y., Tianzhenge ji, 1488:161. 45. Two such collections of w ­ omen’s social letters, Chidu xinyu (Modern letters) of the seventeenth ­century and Ming yuan chidu of the nineteenth ­century, have been studied by Ellen Widmer and Yu-­Ying Cheng. See Widmer, “The Epistolary World,” 1–43; Y. Cheng, “Letters by W ­ omen of the Ming-­Qing Period,” in Mann and Cheng, eds., ­Under Confucian Eyes, 169–77. Model letters between husband and wife w ­ ere also published in letter-­w riting guides and ­house­hold encyclopedias of the late imperil period, but not for an educated audience. See Kathryn Lowry, “Personal Letters in Seventeenth-­ Century Epistolary Guides.” In Mann and Cheng, eds., ­Under Confucian Eyes, 155–67. 46. Miao G., Wenzhang youxi cubian, 3/24b. 47. W. Lu, “Mystery and History: Yunzhen’s Letter to Her Husband” (forthcoming). 48. Zhang Y., Wang Xiangju shichao, in JNB, sibian, 430. 49. Zhang Y., Wang Xiangju shichao, in JNB, sibian, 414. 50. Zhang Y., Wang Xiangju shichao, in JNB, sibian, 428, 433. 51. See “Qu wen,” the second poem. Hao and Wang, Heming ji, 8b. 52. W. Lu, “Writing Love.” 53. The mother-­son relationship, in par­tic­u ­lar, held a special place in the Chinese ­family system. Based on her fieldwork in rural Taiwan in the 1970s, anthropologist Margery Wolf demonstrated that within the patriarchal f­ amily the mother-­son bonding formed an emotional unit called the “uterine f­ amily.” See Wolf, ­Women and the ­Family in Rural Taiwan; also see Hsiung, “Constructed Emotions,” 87–117. 54. Qin Y., Xiaoxian shanren wenji, 1465:274. 55. XTWJ, 467. 56. Wang Y., Qingdai guixiu, 1:147. 57. Such tragedies apparently ­were not far removed from the minds of medical professionals. The issues surrounding fertility, childbirth, and postpartum recovery ­were of central importance to ­women’s medicine, driving the proliferation of medical lit­er­a­ture and innovation in approaches to childbirth during this time. See Y. Wu, Reproducing ­Women. 58. Chen, Tingsonglou yigao, in JNB, chubian, 603. 59. Ruan Yuan, for example, stuttered when he was a child, and it was his mother who helped him overcome his stuttering. For more discussion, see W. Lu, “Personal Writings,” 415–18. 60. Chen, Tingsonglou yigao, in JNB, chubian, 209, 603. 61. A small number of ke du paintings ­were commissioned by parents to preserve the memory of their l­ abor toward ­children’s education. See Liu Y., Cai de xiang hui, 180.

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62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80.

81. 82. 83. 84. 85.

86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96.

Notes to Chapter 6

Liu Y., Cai de xiang hui, 158. XTWJ, 467. W. Lu, “ ‘A Pearl in the Palm.’ ” Weicheng was Weiqiao’s famous ­brother. He ­rose to high a position in the Qianlong court. Qian Weicheng, “preface.” In JNB, chubian 222. B. Yang, Heroines of the Qing, 118–26; Y. Zhang, House­hold Healing. B. Yang, Heroines of the Qing, 117. Cheng E., Cheng Shilang yiji, 1511:313. Cheng E., Cheng Shilang yiji, 1511:122–23. For a discussion of the late imperial phenomenon of literati medicine, see Mann, Talented ­Women of the Zhang F ­ amily, 54–58. Qian Y., Kanshizhai jishi xugao, 1509:221. Cheng J., Mianxingtang shiji, 1433:219. Xi, Tianzhenge ji, 2.7b–2.8b. Ebrey, Yao, and Zhang, Chinese Funerary Biographies, 254. Wang M., Xizhuang shicun gao, 1434:334. Wang M., Xizhuang shicun gao, 1434:112. Wang M., Xizhuang shicun gao, 1434:111. Wang M., Xizhuang shicun gao, 1434:135. Her turning to Daoism was suggested in a poem Wang Mingsheng wrote that portrays her in Daoist garments and paying homage to Daoist deities. Chen W., Jiading Wang Mingsheng quanji, 11:208. For Wang’s concubine, Chen Yu, see Fu Y., Ming Qing Anhui funü, 507. Also see Chen W., Jiading Wang Mingsheng quanji, 11:275. Wang W., Qing Xizhuang xiansheng nianpu, in Chen W., Jiading Wang Mingsheng quanji, 11:514. Chen W., Jiading Wang Mingsheng quanji, 11:124. Chen W., Jiading Wang Mingsheng quanji, 11:124. “The ­daughter of the Xie f­ amily” alludes to the wife of Yuan Zhen, surnamed Xie. A set of mourning poems that Yuan wrote are classical mourning poems in Chinese history. Qianlou was a poor recluse whose virtuous wife endured poverty with him. See Liu Xiang, Lienü zhuan. “You yi,” in Chen W., Jiading Wang Mingsheng quanji, 11:208. Wang M., Xizhuang shicun gao, 1434:117. Chen W., Jiading Wang Mingsheng quanji, 11:564. Mann, Previous Rec­ords, 49. Qian D., Qian Xinmei xiansheng nianpu, 105:508. Li W., Lingnan shiji, 1449:34; Cao R., Wanweishanfang ji, 1449:114. Chen W., Jiading Wang Mingsheng quanji, 11:206. Chen W., Jiading Wang Mingsheng quanji, 11:202. Shen S., Mingyuan shihua, 486. Jiang and Jiang, Mo lin jin hua, 073:198–99. Ji Q., Jinyueting shigao, 1a-­b, preface.

Notes to Chapter 6

97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113. 1 14. 115. 116.

117. 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125. 126. 127. 128.

129.

Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 45, 68. XTWJ, 1406:467. Mann, Precious Rec­ords, 69–75. XTWJ, 1406:471. You Tong, for example, had planned such a visit with his wife. XTWJ, 1406:467. Wei X., Hansongtang quanji, 557. Jiang and Jiang, Mo lin jin hua, 073:366. This distinctive way of consuming wine used a lotus leaf that was s­ haped as a cone. Fang S., Chunjitang sanji, 10ji, 26:704. Fang S., Chunjitang sanji, 10ji, 26:705. Fang D., Kaopanji wenlu, 1497:441. See M. Huang, Intimate Memory. Ebrey, Yao, and Zhang, Chinese Funerary Biographies, 254. Zhao Y., Oubei ji, 1305. “Bashing ganzhou,” “Xiaochongshan,” “Shuidiao getou” in Hong L., Hong Liangji ji, see 2115, 2116, 2120. Qin Y., Xiaoxian shanren shiwenji, 1464:616. Qin Y., Xiaoxian shanren shiwenji, 1464:686. Lu, “A Wife’s Sacrifices,” in Chinese Funerary Biographies, ed. Ebrey, Yao, and Zhang, 256–57. For example, see Zheng H., Tunsongge ji, 10ji, 14:289. The works included in the Haoshi yishu ­were printed in dif­fer­ent years; the last ones ­were published in 1884. See, for example, “Preface to Zhao Jianxia,” Pichenxuan shichao, in JNB, sibian 317. Shi R., Shi Yushan xiansheng xueyu wenji, 202, 212–13; Lu Jilu’s preface to Qian H., Wuzhenge yingao xu, 2a. JNB, sibian 317. Qin Y., Xiaoxian shanren shiwenji, 1464:248. Xu Y., Zhisizhai xuewengao, 1.27a–1.29a. Ebrey, Yao, and Zhang, Chinese Funerary Biographies, 7. W. Lu, “Abstaining from Sex.” SR, 74. You T., Hui’an nianpu, 56–57. XTWJ, 1407:53. Wu Y., Xiangting wengao, 10ji, 24:166. Zheng H., Tunsongge ji, 10ji, 14:289, 348. Zheng H., Tunsongge ji, 10ji, 14:289. The significance of the husband-­w ife coburial practice can be inferred from the enduring scholarly discussion in the Ming-­Qing period on the ­correct ways to title coburial tomb inscriptions. See Yi J., “Ming Qing fufu.” For example, see Wang Y., Wang Wenjiangong wenji, 1490:402; Fang D., Kaopanji wenlu, 1497:437–38.

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Notes to Conclusions

Conclusions 1. Lau, Mencius, 108. 2. Goodman, “ ‘Words of Blood and Tears,’ ” 272. 3. ­Women’s poetry volumes published in the late Qing show l­ ittle change in style, motif, language, or symbolism when touching on the subject of marriage. Zeng Yi (1853–1927) and her husband, for example, modeled their life on that of Li Qingzhao and Zhao Mingcheng and enjoyed searching for and studying stone inscriptions. Zeng Y., Guhuanshi shiji, preface 1b. 4. See Huntington, Ink and Tears, chaps. 1 and 3. 5. Goodman, “ ‘Words of Blood and Tears,’ ” 280–84. 6. This was a comment made by Shen Yinmo (1883–1971), a famous calligrapher and scholar. Shen Y., Shen Yinmo shou shu, 188. For an anecdotal description of the c­ ouple’s lives, see Xu Y., “Wenzhang zhiji Huannan fuqi,” https://­read01​ .­com​/­R nn23eM​.­html.

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241

Index

aging, 141, 159, 167, 178, 183 Analects, The (Lunyu), 27, 76 Ban Zhao, 36–38 Bao Xuan and Huan Shaojun, 31, 180–81 “becoming a wife/daughter-­in-­law” (cheng fu), 24 Bequeathed Guidelines for Instructing ­Women (Jiaonü yigui), 135 betrothal: gifts, 62, 73, 79, 162; child, 61, 82–84; contact and familiarity, 80–81; and cousin marriage, 79; ritual, 83–84 biographies, 110, 122, 129, 159; chronological (nianpu), 20; elegiac/funeral, 20–21, 58, 176, 202n41; solicitation of, 147; ­women’s, 99 Book of Etiquette and Ceremonial, The, 164 Book of Rites, The (Liji), 24–28, 84–85, 201n34 boudoir, 62, 89, 170; “boudoir-­erotic” poetry, 154; and conjugal spaces, 94–97; “The Delight of the Boudoir,” 23; “a good friend in the boudoir” (gui zhong liang you), 75, 77; “intimacy of boudoir” (guifang yanni), 40; “an old

friend in the boudoir,” 160, 190; “spring boudoir,” 105; writing and replying in poetry from the boudoir (guifang changhe), 67 Bridal Guides (xinfu pu), 135 brides, 85, 91, 98, 109, 119, 167, 173, 211n56 brother-­brother relations, 18, 45–46, 112–15 Buddhism, 40, 46, 64, 96, 119, 126, 149, 162, 181, 187 Chai Jingyi, 110, 145 Changzhou (Jiangsu), 11, 38, 50, 86, 129, 180, 216n93 Chen Jinfang, 82, 176 Chen Peizhi and Wang Duan, 127, 149 Chen Shulan, 60–61, 111, 213n13 Chen Wenshu and Gong Yuchen, 61, 126–29, 149 Chen Yunlian, 129–32, 171, 216n93 Cheng Enze, 99, 176 Chen Ershi and Qian Yiji, 82–83, 146–47, 163–166, 173–74, 176, 222n21 child mortality, 176–77 childbirth, 148, 168, 173, 223n57; wives avoiding, 148–49 243

244

Index

­children’s education, 11, 82–83, 162, 173–76, 223n61 civil examinations, 167, 201n20; failure on, 130; importance of, 8–9, 15, 83, 85; jinshi 9, 66, 72, 78, 85, 98, 111, 143, 150, 151, 176, 178, 187, 218n36; juren, 78, 87, 167, 178, 201n19, 218n36; preparing for, 6; pressure to succeed on, 96, 99, 124, 201n19; shengyuan, 8, 98, 124, 201n19; wife’s role in supporting a husband for, 102, 175 Classic of Changes, The (Yijing), 24, 44–45 Classic of Poetry, The (Shijing): discourse around, 26–29, 203n10; as a literary source, 92, 135, 151, 156; Mao commentary on, 26–28, 90, 221n109; pre­sen­ta­tion of love and marriage in, 15; social influence of, 42, 56, 124 commemorative works, 116; painting, 71; seals, 69; solicitation of, 50–51, 58; writings, 116. See also biographies companionate love, 6, 24, 30, 48–49, 68, 88, 159, 170, 190 concubinage: courtesan-­turned-­ concubine, 18, 21–22, 139, 149, 207n45; didactic debates around, 134–36; master-­concubine relationship, 147; men’s decision to take, 140–44; raising their own c­ hildren, 148–49; taking at a wife’s urging, 39; wives and concubines, 136–40, 144–50, 153–57 Confucian teachings: classical sources of, 26–28; influence on ­family relations, 109–12; influence on husband-­w ife relations, 41–42, 46–47, 136; influence on mourning, 51; as opposed to qing, 5, 14–17, 36–38, 189–91 conjugal separation, 9, 33, 69, 166–72 courtesan: courtesan-­turned-­concubine, 18, 21, 139, 149, 207n45; culture, 56–57, 133, 137, 139–40, 144, 171

courtship, 4–6, 26, 79, 87–90 “Cowherd and the Weaving Maid, The,” 62, 68–69, 91, 131, 146 Cui Mo and Xu Quan, 111 Daoism, 103, 127–29, 162, 177, 179, 181, 187, 216n85, 216n88, 220n83, 224n80 differentiation (bie), 24–26, 32, 37, 39, 41–44, 189–90 divorce, 108, 111–12, 118–21, 148; debate regarding, 45–46; ­legal and ritual prescriptions for, 126; qichu and san buqu, 126 Dong Zhongshu, 141 Double Seven Festival (Qixi): accounts of, 22, 154; cele­bration of, 16, 131; history and significance of, 68–69, 192; writing for, 52, 105 dowries: makeup of, 31, 84, 109, 162, 165, 209n3; wives making use of, 53, 73, 97–99 Draft Poems from the Pavilion of Ancient Spring (Guchunxuan shichao), 145–46 Dream of the Red Chamber, The, 146, 213n113, 213n122 “dreg-­husk” wife (zaokang zi qi), 141, 143, 159–66, 221n7 Eu­ro­pean and North Amer­i­ca comparisons, 12–14, 87, 169, 202n50 evidential scholarship, 8, 17, 41–47 Exhortations for My ­Daughters (Nüjie), 36, 90, 134 Erya, The, 164, 174 faithful maidens. See female chastity ­family instructions, 82, 134 ­family ­matters, 67, 74, 76, 128, 161–66, 167–72 Fang Bao, 18, 78, 114–15, 120–22, 125 Fang Dongshu, 18, 76, 163, 176, 183–84 Fang Shiju, 182–83

Index father-­daughter relations, 17, 123–24, 175 female chastity, 3, 8, 16, 142, 191, 200n16, 222n32 fertility, 168, 174, 222–23 filial piety, 3, 17, 28, 77, 112, 134, 159, 215n60; honoring parents, 182–83 Four Books, 164 “four womanly attributes” (si de), 24 Fragments of Memory ­under the Autumn Lamp, 22, 81, 96 Gao Shiqi, 51–53, 57 grooms, 86, 91, 119 Growing Old Together (Tong dao baitou tu), 72 gu luan “a lone phoenix,” 30 Gan Yanwu, 112, 141 Hao Yixing, 43–44, 46 Hao Yixing and Wang Zhaoyuan, 57, 61, 66–67, 88, 91–92, 172–73, 184–85, 200n10, 202n39, 204n33, 211n60 History of the Jin Dynasty, The (Jinshu), 136 Hong Liangji, 47, 58, 61, 73, 105, 184, 209nn7–8 Hong Sheng, 51, 88–89, 137 husband-­w ife relations: debates regarding, 41–47; grow old together (yu zi xie lao), 29, 60, 92, 158–59, 178; incompatibility, 116, 121–23; kangli zhi qing (the love between husband and wife), 55–68; ritual/moral princi­ples regarding, 14, 24–26, 34, 36–39; self-­righteous husbands, 119–21; surviving a spouse, 183–88; writing dis­plea­sure, 151–57. See also marital companionship intimacy: The Book of Rites on, 25–26; desire for, 13; expressions of, 14, 26, 105–6; improper, 27, 36–39, 102–3; intimacy and pressure, 34, 36, 65, 144; marital intimacy, 18, 20, 25,

245 38–42, 55, 57, 60, 79, 90, 105, 155, 189; moral advice on, 36–40; private intimacy, 114; romantic, 147, 200n9; sexual (bedroom), 14, 40, 42, 102–6; spaces for, 18; Tang Zhen on, 41–42

jealousy, 19, 21, 126, 134–35, 136–40, 145, 151, 153 Ji Lanyun, 94, 169 Jiang Shiquan, 59, 168 Jiang Tan and Guan Ying, 23, 81, 96, 203n55 Jiao Xun, 17, 45–46, 83, 97, 113, 147–49, 219n72 Jin Yi and Chen Zhushi, 90, 96 jing hao, 29, 180 Jinghao (book title), 67 jinshi cui bian, 164 kedu/kezi (supervising a child’s study) painting, 174 Lan Dingyuan, 39 Laws on Jealousy (Du lü), 138 letters, 87, 105–6, 130, 169, 172, 183, 187, 191–92, 202n50; conjugal, 169–70; frequency of writing, 169, 221n41; as a genre, 20; husband-­w ife model letters, 223n45; mentioned in poems, 32, 170; mentioned in Six Rec­ords of a Life Adrift, 48, 107; poems and, 34, 73, 171, 202n50; by Qin Jia and Xu Shu, 204n28; social letters, 169, 223n45; written by Chen Ershi, 163–66, 173–74, 222n21; Yunzhen, 170. See also poetry: letter-­poem form of communication Li Gong, 18, 39, 113, 120–21 li luan “a separated phoenix,” 30 Li Qingzhao and Zhao Mingcheng, 12, 33, 60, 66, 226n3; modern poets compared to, 192 Li Xinyuan and Guo Shengyu, 67–68, 71, 169, 207n58

246 Liang Desheng and Xu Zongyan, 145–47, 219n67 Liang Hong and Meng Guang, 31–32, 38, 90, 130, 180 Liu Yin, 73, 208n88 Lu Jilu, 83, 110 Lu Wenchao, 43, 81 Lu Xuan, 153–55, 220n97 Lüjingxuan shichao, 151 maids, 54, 103, 135–36, 146, 151 Mao Qiling, 137–38, 144, 147 Mao Xiang and Dong Xiaowan, 21, 139, 149, 207n45 male sojourning, 9, 49, 52–54, 222n30; concept of you, 166–67 Manchus, 7–8, 22, 57 marriage: companionable, 13, 15; companionate, 12–13, 87; cousin marriage, 6–7, 9, 79, 80–82, 88, 123, 127; mismatched, 116–19; patterns of, 80–81; remarriage (female), 8, 33, 158; remarriage (male), 43–45, 47, 73, 87, 142; role of religion in, 13–14; spousal abuse in, 108, 118, 119–20, 121–25; uxorilocal, 9, 80, 84–86. See also perfect match (jia’ou) marital companionship: in The Classic of Poetry, 29; commemorating love in the High Qing, 68–72; through conjugal letters, 20, 87, 105–6, 164–66, 169–72, 173, 202n50, 222n41; emotional/intellectual type, 32–34; as a “good friend”/wife-­friend, 75–77, 145; kangli zhi qing (the love between husband and wife), 55–68; in old age, 181–83; sensual/intimate type, 34–36; symbols of, 28–31, 34–36. See also husband-­w ife relations; poetry matchmaker, 83, 152 memorial volumes for deceased wives: Alone till Dawn (Dudan ji), 51; Grieving Strings (Aixian ji), 49–50; Mourning for My Companion (Daoli ji), 50–55

Index mother-­in-­law, 46, 74, 81, 86–87, 90, 107–11, 123, 145, 147, 165, 167, 170, 210n22, 213n13 motherhood, 148, 173 Mourning and Remembrance: daowang poetry, 21, 51–52, 58–59, 184; elegiac biography, 20–21, 49–55, 58–59, 64–65, 176, 183–86; wife-­mourning, 5, 16, 48–59. See also yiyu (words of remembrance) natal ­family, 11, 84–85, 125–26, 210n25 New Account of the Tales of the World, The (Shishuo xinyu), 34 New Culture Movement, 3–4, 191–92, 199 New Songs from a Jade Terrace (Yutai xin yong), 29, 32 “Ospreys Cry, The,” 23, 26–27 Pan Lei, 123, 145 parent-­child relations, 172–77 patriarchy, 3–5, 13, 80, 109, 116, 190–91, 223n53 Peng Zhenyin (Yuqian), 153–57 perfect match (jia’ou), 18, 59, 60–68, 78, 80, 85, 89, 127, 190, 206n33, 207n45; activities of, 66, 95, 190; and aging, 159; comparison with companionate marriage, 12–13; and concubinage, 139, 143–47, 149; and conventional marriages, 74, 190; coping with mismatched marriages, 116–19; criticism of, 72; early models of, 12, 33; a failed case, 129–32; and family/ fraternal relationships, 108, 113; in the High Qing, 60–68; in the late Ming, 12; and parent-­child relations, 172–73; regionality of, 12; rejection of, 73; and the talented ­woman ideal, 60; and travel, 96 “poetic strategy,” 151 poetry: changhe/changchou (harmonizing each other’s poems), 21, 66–68,

Index 71, 154, 171, 207n58; conjugal, 12, 21, 32–33, 66–68, 93–94, 191–92; as an emotional outlet, 15–16, 57, 130–31, 151–55; ji wai/ji nei (sending to my husband/sending to my wife), 21, 33, 170; letter-­poem form of communication, 171; lianju (“linked verse”), 66, 93, 154, 207n58; lianyin (composing poetry together), 66–67, 207n58 polygyny. See concubinage “pulling a deer cart together,” 31 Qian Daxin, 17, 45–46, 85, 113, 115, 178–79 Qian Weiqiao, 72–74, 76, 102, 209n7 Qin Jia and Xu Shu, 12, 32–33, 56, 60, 67, 151, 204n28 qin se (string instruments, symbol of marital harmony), 27, 29, 30, 90, 131, 180 Qin Ying, 75–76, 83, 86–87, 161, 173, 184–85, 209n3 qing (emotion, feeling, love), 55–57, 143, 190; cult of qing, 5, 19, 55, 190, 199n6; discourse about, 5–6, 40–41, 206n27 Qu Dajun, 50–58, 85, 104, 140, 192, 219n79 Qu Dajun and Wang Huajiang, 50–56, 104, 140 “raising the food tray to the height of the eyebrows” (ju an qi mei), 31 religion, 14, 126–29 Remnants from Lighting A Candle (Ran zhi yu yun), 70 Ren Zhaoling and Zhang Zilan, 67 reproduction, 147, 148, 168 “respecting [each other] like a guest” (xiang jing ru bin), 32 ritual: betrothal, 83–84; marriage, 24–25, 87, 169; mourning, 43–44, 51, 114, 128, 185–86. See also Confucian teachings Romance of the Western Chamber, The, 104 romantic love, 5–6, 13, 17–18, 55, 88, 106, 145–46, 159–60, 189, 200n10 Ruan Yuan, 97, 212n71, 223n59

second wife. See marriage: remarriage (male) Se­lections of Refined Lit­er­a­ture (Wenxuan), 64 sex, 39–40, 102–5, 141, 149, 186 sexual desire, 39–40, 102–3, 156 sexual intimacy, 14, 42, 104, 106 sexual longing, 88, 171 sexuality, 19, 57, 139, 199n6 Shen Cai, 154–55, 220n97 Shen Deqian, 75, 98 Shen Fu and Chen Yun: on arranged marriage, 3–4, 79–81; background and education, 6–7, 10–11, 15; communicating emotion, 23; on concubinage, 217n1; conjugal spaces and activities, 68–69, 70, 93–95; on familial conflict, 107–9; on mourning, 75–77, 186–87; on parenthood, 172; as a perfect match exemplar, 49, 61; on sojourning, 222n30; use of Six Rec­ords of a Life Adrift, 22 Shen Huiyu, 89–90 Shen Shanbao, 58, 61, 67 Shen Shushan, 99, 100, 115 Shi Yunyu, 9, 44, 46, 62, 70, 72, 104, 150, 218n36 “singing in harmony” (heming), 30 sister-­in-­law, 103, 109, 115, 124 Six Rec­ords of a Life Adrift (Fusheng liu ji), 3, 7, 22, 23, 48, 79, 107, 133, 158, 200n13 “six rituals” (liu li) of betrothal, 84 social mobility, 8, 82 soulmate (zhiyin, zhiji), 72, 73, 75; of literary composition (wenzhang zhiji), 69, 226n6 “a strong wife who held up the ­house­hold” (jian fu chi menhu), 160, 166 Su Hui, 136–37 suicide, 3, 84, 111, 118, 191 Sun Xingyan, 83, 86, 168 Sun Xingyan and Wang Caiwei, 58, 61, 92, 96, 97, 172

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Index

Sun Yuanxiang, 59, 69, 110, 123, 208n69 Sun Yuanxiang and Xi Peilan, 61, 105–6, 143–44, 176 talented ­women(an)/cultivated ladies, 10–11, 18, 58–60, 94, 117, 144 Tang Zhen, 40–42 “tianrang Wanglang,” 116–17 travel, 96, 166–67, 175, 178, 181; for w ­ omen, 95–96; writing about, 169, 183 Verses of the South (Chuci), 83 Wang Chang, 98, 117 Wang Duan, 149 Wang Huizu, 113, 117, 147 Wang Mingsheng, 85, 176–77, 177–80, 224n80 Wang Qisun and Cao Zhenxiu, 61–64, 84, 93–94, 159 Wang Tan and Jin Liying, 61–66, 118, 222n41 Wang Zhong, 111–12 Watching Snow in a Pavilion by the Yangzi River (Jiang ting tiao xue tu), 72 Weaving Brocade (Zhi jing ji), 137 widowers, 105, 160 ­w idows, 16, 33, 58, 113, 142, 158. See also female chastity ­women’s education: level of, 10; literary, 12; moral, 82; and print culture, 20; relationship with perfect match marriage, 12, 92, 108 ­women’s writing, 11, 59, 64, 70, 201n22 Words of Remembrance from the Xiangwan Pavilion (Xiangwanlou yiyu), 149 Words of Remembrance from the Yingmei Nunnery (Yingmei’an yiyu), 149 Wu Qiongxian, 96, 109 Wu Songliang, 144–45; and Jiangwei, 72

Xi Peilan, 85, 105. See also Sun Yuanxiang and Xi Peilan Xie Bingying, 3–4 Xie Daoyun, 86, 116–19, 131 xie yin, 176–80 xie you, 96–97 Xu Deying and Xu Yingnian, 151–53 Xu Yezhao, 135, 185 Xun Can, 34–35, 40, 65 Yan Yuan, 39–40 yifu (male fidelity), 141–42, 191, 218n48 yin jue (sever relations with a wife in private), 120 yiyu (words of remembrance), 21–22, 149, 203nn54–55 you (travel). See travel youth, 3, 39; education of, 15, 28, 36; and marriage, 46, 87, 147, 159, 191, 192, 200n9; and sex, 103 You Tong, 99, 100, 101, 141, 160, 192, 209n7, 225n101; and bedroom intimacy, 104; and Cao Ling (wife), 53, 101, 109, 173, 175, 181; and his parents, 181; wife mourning, 49–50, 51, 53–54, 57–58, 183, 187 yu zi xie lao (grow old together with you). See husband-­w ife relations Yuan Mei, 60–61, 86, 90–91, 117–18, 151, 173, 213n13 Zhang Chang drawing eyebrows/“drawing eyebrows,” 34, 40, 140 Zhang Dan and Lu Hui, 69 Zhang Heng, 89 Zhang Lüxiang, 123–24, 125, 140 Zhang Xuan and Bao Zhihui, 60, 71–72 Zhang Yuzhen, 58–59, 167–68, 170–71 Zhao Huaiyu, 38, 43–44, 46–47, 87, 148 Zhao Mengfu and Guan Daosheng, 33–34, 72 Zhao [Menghu] and Guan [Daosheng] Singing in Harmony in Brush and Ink (Zhao Guan hanmo heming tu), 72

Index Zhao Yi, 86, 91, 98, 168, 184, 209n3 Zheng Huwen, 187–88 Zhong Zhenkui and Zhao Jianxia, 91, 117–18, 185 Zhou Guan, 164

Zhu Yizun, 56, 83, 160–61 Zhu Yun, 76, 111 Zuo Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals, The, 32, 164, 210n46

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