Inscribing Death: Burials, Representations, and Remembrance in Tang China 9780824893224

Table of contents :
Contents
Acknowledgments
Conventions, Translations, and Abbreviations
Dynastic Chronology
Tang Dynasty Rulers and Reign-Periods
Introduction
1. The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial
2. Spousal Joint- and Disjoint-Burials
3. Burial Divinations
4. The Hun-Summoning Burial
Epilogue. The Speakers for the Dead
Appendix: The Muzhiming of the Late [Lady] Zhangsun
Notes
References
Index
About the Author

Citation preview

INSCRIBING DEATH

INSCRIBING DEATH Burials, Representations, and Remembrance in Tang China Jessey J. C. Choo

University of Hawai‘i Press Honolulu

© 2022 University of Hawai‘i Press All rights reserved Printed in the United States of America First printing, 2022 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Choo, Jessey J. C., author. Title: Inscribing death : burials, representations, and remembrance in Tang China / Jessey J. C. Choo. Description: Honolulu : University of Hawai‘i Press, 2022. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2022024999 | ISBN 9780824877330 (hardback) | ISBN 9780824893224 (pdf) | ISBN 9780824893217 (epub) | ISBN 9780824893200 (kindle edition) Subjects: LCSH: Burial—China—History—To 1500. | Funeral rites and ceremonies—China—History—To 1500. | Mourning customs—China—History—To 1500. | Collective memory—China—History—To 1500. Classification: LCC GT3283.A2 C45 2022 | DDC 393/.10951—dc23/eng/20220623 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022024999 Cover art: Old Man Enters the Tomb from Yulin Cave 25. Photograph by Wu Jian. Copyright Dunhuang Academy China. University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources.

To my parents and grandparents

Contents

Acknowledgments ix

Conventions, Translations, and Abbreviations xiii

Dynastic Chronology xix

Tang Dynasty Rulers and Reign-Periods xxi

Introduction 1

chapter one The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 24

Chapter Two Spousal Joint- and Disjoint-Burials 70

chapter Three Burial Divinations 119

vii

viii Contents

Chapter Four The Hun-Summoning Burial 152

Epilogue The Speakers for the Dead 194

Appendix: The Muzhiming of the Late [Lady] Zhangsun  197 Notes  203 References  241 Index  263

Acknowledgments

It takes a community to complete a book. This one has been blessed with the support from many individuals and institutions, and I hope it amply reflects their generosity in its strengths. Whatever faults remain are mine alone. I owe a great debt to my teachers, Stephen (Buzzy) Teiser and Jacqueline Stone, who first ignited my interest in the medieval death rituals and showed me ways to examine them. Gary Ebersole inspired me to approach mourning rituals with an eye on motivations, performance, and outcomes. Yang Lu introduced me to entombed epitaphs and shared with me his penetrating insights into medieval China. I could ask for no better mentor than James Benn, who patiently read multiple iterations of the manuscript, offering encouragement and many thoughtful suggestions. Wendy Swartz supplied food both for thought and for the stomach with her shrewd advice and delicious home cooking. Alexei Ditter never failed to point out the strengths and weaknesses of my arguments and deliver them in his ever so cheerful style. Timothy Davis went over the manuscript numerous times, identifying errors and working to improve the quality of my prose. The ongoing and in-depth conversations I have had with Alexei and Tim on entombed epitaphs and memory practices in medieval China are the DNA of this book. I have benefited from the wisdom of my many elders, especially Stephen Bokenkamp, Martin Collcutt, Terry Kleeman, Paul Kroll, David McMullen, Willard Peterson, Toby Peterson, Ying-shih Yu, and Monica Yu. I have also been fortunate in having supportive colleagues in the Departments of History of the University of Missouri–Kansas City and Asian Languages and Culture at Rutgers University–New Brunswick. ix

x Acknowledgments

Many friends and fellow travelers in the pursuit of knowledge—Wendi Adamek, Anna Andreeva, Sarah M. Allen, Megan Bryson, Liang Cai, Robert (Rob) F. Campany, Jack Chen, Michael Como, Paul Copp, Jennifer Eichman, Meow-Hui Goh, Natasha Heller, April Hughes, Tao Jiang, Xiaofei Kang, Keith Knapp, Hsueh-yi Lin, Lori Meeks, Mark Meulenbeld, Gil Raz, Asuka Sango, Anna Shields, Anna Sun, Thomas Wilson, Elena Valussi, Lanjun Xu, Ping Yao, Stuart Young, and Zhiru—deserve a great deal of gratitude for their conversations and comradeship. Over the years, I have presented much of the material included in this book at various venues. I appreciate the graciousness of my hosts (Anna Andreeva, Liang Cai, Michael Como, Paul Copp, Liu Yuan-ju, and Manling Luo), as well as the questions and suggestions from the discussants (Mark Halperin, David Knechtges, Li Feng-mao, and Stephen West), my co-panelists, and the audiences. The participants in the two China Humanities Seminars at Rutgers—“Death Ritual, Ancestor Worship, and Memory in Medieval China” in 2013, and “Buying and Selling Memory in Late Medieval China” in 2014—were most instructive. For this, I thank the support of the China Research Project and the Department of Asian Languages and Cultures at Rutgers University. The excellent and stimulating comments from participants in the New Frontiers in the Study of Medieval China workshops at Rutgers (2015), Reed College (2016 and 2018), and Peking University (2017) have also been a wellspring of inspiration. The ongoing annual New Frontiers workshop series could not have thrived without the vision and hard work of my co-organizers, Alexei Ditter and Yang Lu, and the continuous and generous support from the Tang Research Foundation. The time away from teaching provided by UMKC and Rutgers, as well as the assistance of the Academia Sinica and Center for Chinese Studies (CCS) in Taiwan, was instrumental in my research. I am deeply grateful to my generous Taiwanese hosts: Liu Shu-fen, Lin Fu-Shih, Wang Fen-shen, Huang Chin-ching and his wife Christine, Lee Jen-der, Cheng Ya-ju, and Liao Yi-fang at the Institute of History and Philology; Liu Yuan-ju, Li Feng-mao, and Liu Chiung-yun at the Institute of Chinese Literature and Philosophy; and Jane Liau and Keng Li-chun at the Center for Chinese Studies. The librarians of Peking University (Shi Rui), Princeton University (Martin Heijdra), Rutgers University (Tao Yang), and UMKC (Patrick M. Bicker) were most helpful. I received much assistance in the production of the book. Li Biyan, Zhang Xinmin, and Luo Kai created maps steeped in knowledge of the geographical and political landscape of medieval China. Stephanie Chun and Grace Wen at the University of Hawai‘i Press have indulged me with

Acknowledgments xi

their infinite patience and support. The two anonymous reviewers’ comments were most constructive and thoughtful. It would be derelict of me not to mention Dr. Jan Ryder, my copyeditor and a friend for more than a decade, who has never failed to share her invaluable insights as a fellow scholar of medieval religious practices and make sure that my works speak to a broader audience. I am most grateful to the Tang Research Foundation for stepping in to provide the much-needed subvention for additional copyediting and imaging services. My family has been extraordinarily understanding and patient with my general inattentiveness and prolonged absence. My parents have been joking that my rebirth into a normal life would take place only after I finished this book on death and memory. They remain oblivious to the fact that the subject of my next book is on blood and hell. My partner, Yang Lu, a fellow medieval China scholar, has had an uncanny ability to be present at appropriate moments in our personal and professional lives. My siblings Jeff and Joanne have always offered good cheer and food, and my in-laws have always stuffed me with delicious meals and desserts whenever I visit them. As to why my family and friends keep insisting I need a good feeding is beyond me, but I am not complaining. Finally, through Fu Fu’s and Yi Yi’s general crankiness and stubborn adherence to routines, I gained my daily dose of exercising, toy fetching, house cleaning, and so forth. They had prevented me from getting lost in medieval memories; for this, they deserve a special mention.

Conventions, Translations, and Abbreviations

Names Chinese names are rendered in their native order, the surname first and the personal name last. Chinese rulers are referred to by their temple names. Contemporaneous rulers with the same temple name are referred to by their personal names. The temple name of Li Chen 李忱 (810–859), the nineteenth Tang monarch, is rendered Xiuanzong to distinguish him from that of Li Longji 李隆基 (685–762), the seventh monarch. A ruler often promulgated several reign-periods (nianhao 年號) during his rule. The names of reign-periods are romanized but not translated. In most cases, I follow Charles Hucker’s Dictionary of Official Titles in Imperial China (1985) when rendering government posts and institutions. Dates Dates that follow a personal name are those of birth and death. If only the death date is known, it is indicated with “d.” Dates following a ruler’s temple name are the first and last years of his reign, indicated with “r.” Dates follow a reign-period or era are the years it began and concluded. For the readability of muzhiming in translation, the precise dates of death and burial are sometimes winnowed down to the month and year when they have little or no bearing on the subject under discussion. Age I translate sui into the corresponding age (for example, nineteen sui becomes eighteen years old). xiii

xiv Conventions

Local Administrative Divisions The translations are standardized as follows: township (xiang 鄉), district (xian 縣), commandery (jun 郡), prefecture (zhou 州), circuit (dao 道), and garrison (fu 府). Distance The terms for medieval Chinese measures are romanized. The conversion to modern measures: cun 寸 = 1.2 inches chi 尺 = ten cun (one foot) bu 步 = five chi (five feet) zhang 丈 = ten chi (ten feet) li 里 = 360 bu or 1,800 chi (roughly one third of a mile) The distance between any two locations listed in this book is the shortest route by modern highway based on Google Maps. It is to provide modern readers with a sense of how far medieval people traveled. It is by no means an accurate measure of the route they took. Ranks Tang ranks comprised nine ranks divided into thirty grades. The highest three ranks, the first to third (1–3), were each subdivided into the principal class (a) and secondary class (b). From the fourth to the ninth rank (4–9), each class was further subdivided into the upper grade (1) and lower (2) grade. Accordingly, I render the fifth rank principal class first grade, for example, as 5a1 (for additional information, see Kroll 1987; Ts’en Chung-Mien and Herbert 1987). Titles Late medieval titles and privileges were complex. The imperial titles are rendered as follows: Emperor (huangdi 皇帝), Empress-consort (huanghou 皇后), Empress-dowager (huangtaihou 皇太后), Great Empressdowager (taihuang taihou 太皇太后). Because Wu Zetian had been an empress-consort, empress-dowager, and empress-regnant, she would be referred to as Empress Wu Zetian or Empress-regnant Wu Zetian when such distinction is crucial. Tang noble titles were limited to the top five ranks and distinguished by the size of land grant into nine grades (Yu Lunian 1992, 1624). For men, in descending order of precedence, they are:

Conventions xv

1. Prince of State (qinwang 親王) ranked 1a and granted ten thousand households 2. Commandery Prince (junwang 郡王) ranked 1b and granted five thousand households 3. State Founding Duke (kaiguogong 開國公) ranked 1b and granted three thousand households 4. State Founding Commandery Duke (kaiguo jungong 開國郡公) ranked 2a and granted two thousand households 5. State Founding District Duke (kaiguo xiangong 開國縣公) ranked 2b and granted one thousand five hundred households) 6. State Founding District Marquis (kaiguo hou 開國縣侯) ranked 3b and granted one thousand households 7. State Founding District Earl (kaiguo xianbo 開國縣伯) ranked 4a and granted seven hundred households 8. State Founding District Viscount (kaiguo xianzi 開國縣子) ranked 5a and granted five hundred households 9. State Founding District Baron (kaiguo xian’nan 開國縣男) 5b and granted three hundred households Women could hold noble titles suo jure, by merit or marriage, or through their children. In descending order of precedence, they are: Princess (gongzhu 公主; 1a), Commandery Princess (junzhu 郡主; 1b), District Princess (xianzhu 縣主; 2a), Duchess of State (guofuren 國夫人; 1b), Commandery Duchess, District Duchess, District Marchioness (all three carried the title of junfuren 郡夫人, but ranked 2a, 2b, and 3b, respectively), Commandery Countess (junjun 郡君; 4a1), District Viscountess (xianjun 縣君; 5a1) and Township Baroness (xiangjun 鄉君; 5b1). Noble titles that women received by merits sometimes carried a separate rank (JTS, 43.1821). Appellations Within and Outside Muzhiming I strictly follow the premodern practice and the source texts. All men are referred to by their personal names if given. I call the deceased men Lord (gong 公) or late Master (fujun 府君) based on the appellation given in the muzhiming heading. I render the term chushi 處士, an appellation used for those who were untitled and never held office, as Gentleman. Maiden name (shi 氏) is used for all women, married or unmarried, titled or untitled, following the premodern Chinese custom. Titled married women, deceased or alive, are referred to as Lady (furen 夫人) to highlight their ranks unless the muzhiming heading indicates otherwise. I use Madame

xvi Conventions

as the appellation for untitled married women and Miss for untitled and unmarried women. Because the term furen was sometimes used as the honorific for a married woman in relation to their husband, I render it as Wife. Royals are referred to by their investitures, such as Prince Jin 晉王 and Princess Anle 安樂公主. The titles of nonroyal nobles always came with the name of their fief, such as District Baron of Anping 安平縣男 and Commandery Duchess of Hejian 河間郡夫人. Chinese Characters

The character ■ indicates a lacuna; ☐ marks an illegible character in the original text. Abbreviations All thirteen classics are referred to by their original titles without any commentary (for example, Zhouli 周禮 for Zhouli zhengyi 周禮正義). The exceptions are Zuozhuan for Chunqiu Zuozhuan Zhengyi 春秋左傳正義, Gongyangzhuan for Chunqiu Gongyangzhuan zhushu 春秋公羊傳注疏, and Guliangzhuan for Chunqiu Guliangzhuan zhushu 春秋穀梁傳注疏. BXMH CFYG CT CZ DZ DZZJ HHS JS JTS LLMH QTW QTS QTWBY QTWBYX SGZ SJZ T TD THY TLSY

Xi’an beilin bowuguan xincang muzhi huibian 西安碑林博物館新藏 墓誌彙編 Cefu yuangui 冊府元龜 Zhengtong Daozang 正統道藏 Chuci zhangju shuzheng 楚辭章句疏證 Daozang 道藏 Dunhuang xieben zhaijing zangshu jiaozhu 敦煌寫本宅經葬書校注 Hou Han shu 後漢書 Jin shu 晉書 Jiu Tang shu 舊唐書 Luoyang liusan Tangdai muzhi huibian 洛陽流散唐代墓誌彙編 Quan Tang wen 全唐文 Quan Tang shi 全唐詩 Quan Tang wen buyi 全唐文补遗 Quan Tangwen buyi-Qian Tangzhi zhai xincang zhuangji 全唐文補遺 千唐誌齋新藏專輯 Sanguo zhi 三國志 Shuijing zhu jiaoshi 水經注校釋 Taishō shinshū daizōkyō 大正新脩大藏經 Tong Dian 通典 Tang huiyao 唐會要 Tanglü shuyi jianjie 唐律疏議箋解

Conventions xvii TMH TMHX TPGJ TPYL WS WYYH XSMZ XTS XWMS ZZTJ

Tangdai muzhi huibian 唐代墓誌彙編 Tangdai muzhi huibian xuji 唐代墓誌彙編續集 Taiping guang ji 太平廣記 Taiping yulan 太平御覽 Wei shu 魏書 Wenyuan yinghua 文苑英華 Da Tang xishi bowuguancang muzhi 大唐西市博物館藏墓誌 Xin Tang shu 新唐書 Xinchu Wei-Jin-Nanbeichao muzhi shuzheng 新出魏晋南北朝墓志疏证 Zizhi tongjian 資治通鑑

Dynastic Chronology

Qin (221–201 BCE) Western Han (206 BCE–9 CE) Xin (9–23) Eastern Han (25–220) Cao-Wei (220–264) Western Jin (266–317) Eastern Jin (317–420) Later Zhao (319–351) Formal Qin (351–394) Liu-Song (420–479) Northern Wei (386–535) Southern Qi (479–502) Southern Liang (502–557) Western Wei (535–577) Southern Chen (557–589) Northern Zhou (557–581) Sui Dynasty (582–618) Tang Dynasty (618–907) Five Dynasties (907–960)

Former Yan (337–370) Western Yan (384–394) Latter Yan (384–409)

Eastern Wei (534–550) Northern Qi (550–577)

xix

Tang Dynasty Rulers and Reign-Periods

Emperor

Reign

Reign-Period

Emperor Gaozu 高祖 Emperor Taizong 太宗 Emperor Gaozong 高宗

r. 618–626 r. 626–649 r. 649–683

Emperor Zhongzong 中宗 Emperor Ruizong 睿宗 Empress-dowager Wu Zetian 武則天皇太后

r. 684–684 r. 684–690

Wude 武德 Zhenguan 貞觀 Yonghui 永徽 Xianqing 顯慶 Longshuo 龍朔 Linde 麟德 Qianfeng 乾封 Zongzhang 總章 Xianheng 咸亨 Shangyuan 上元 Yifeng 儀鳳 Tiaolu 調露 Yonglong 永隆 Kaiyao 開耀 Yongchun 永淳 Hongdao 弘道 Sisheng 嗣聖 Wenming 文明 Guangzhai 光宅

618–627 627–650 650–656 656–661 661–664 664–666 666–668 668–670 670–674 674–676 676–679 679–680 680–681 681–682 682–683 683–684 684 684 684–685

Chuigong 垂拱 Yongchang 永昌 Zaichu 載初

685–689 689 689–690

xxi

xxii Rulers Wu-Zhou Dynasty (690–705) Empress-regnant r. 690–705 Wu Zeitian 武則天

Tang Restoration Emperor Zhongzong 中宗

r. 705–710

Emperor Shang 殤帝 Emperor Ruizong 睿宗

r. 710 r. 710–712

Emperor Xuanzong 玄宗

r. 712–756

Emperor Suzong 肅宗

r. 756–762

Emperor Daizong 代宗

r. 762–779

Emperor Dezong 德宗

r. 779–805

Emperor Shunzong 順宗 Emperor Xianzong 憲宗 Emperor Muzong 穆宗

r. 805 r. 805–820 r. 820–824

Tianshou 天授

690–692

Ruyi 如意 Changshou 長壽 Yanzai 延載 Zhengsheng 證聖 Tiance wansui 天冊 萬歲 Wansui dengfeng 萬 歲登峰 Wansui Tongtian 萬歲通天 Shengong 神功 Shengli 聖曆 Jiushi 久視 Dazu 大足 Chang’an 長安 Shenlong 神龍

692 692–694 694 694–695 695–696

Shenlong 神龍 Jinglong 景龍 Tanglong 唐隆 Jingyun 景雲 Taiji 太極 Yanhe 延和 Xiantian 先天 Kaiyuan 開元 Tainbao 天寶 Zhide 至德 Qianyuan 乾元 Shangyuan 上元 Baoying 寶應 Guangde 廣德 Yongtai 永泰 Dali 大曆 Jianzhong 建中 Xingyuan 興元 Zhenyuan 貞元 Yongzhen 永貞 Yuanhe 元和 Changqing 長慶

705–707 707–710 710 710–712 712 712 712–713 713–742 742–756 756–758 758–760 760–761 762–763 763–765 765–766 766–779 780–784 784–785 785–805 805–806 806–821 821–825

696 696–697 697 697–700 700–701 701 701–705 705

Rulers xxiii Emperor Jingzong 敬宗 Emperor Wenzong 文宗

r. 824–827 r. 827–840

Emperor Wuzong 武宗 Emperor Xuānzong 宣宗 Emperor Yizong 懿宗 Emperor Xizong 僖宗

r. 840–846 r. 847–859 r. 859–873 r. 873–888

Emperor Zhaozong 昭宗

r. 888–904

Emperor Ai 哀帝

r. 904–907

Baoli 寶曆 Taihe 太和 Kaicheng 開成 Huichang 會昌 Dazhong 大中 Xiantong 咸通 Qianfu 乾符 Guangming 廣明 Zhonghe 中和 Guangqi 光啟 Wende 文德 Longji 龍紀 Dashun 大順 Jingfu 景福 Qian’ning 乾寧 Guanghua 光化 Tianfu 天復 Tianyou 天祐 Tianyou 天祐

825–827 827–836 836–841 841–847 847–860 860–874 874–880 880–881 881–885 885–888 888–889 889–890 890–892 892–894 894–898 898–901 901–904 904 904–907

Map 1  Tang Territorial Administrative Divisions (741)

Figure 1  The Classical Five Styles of Mourning Attires for Paternal Kin Note: Parentheticals are degrees of kinship. An unmarried woman follows her brother.

maternal grandparents 外祖父母 dagong 9 months maternal aunts 姨母 xiaogong 5 months

mother 母 zicui 3 years or zicui with staff 1 year

maternal uncles 舅父 xiaogong 5 months

maternal 1st cousins 姨之子 sima 3 months

EGO (male)

maternal 1st cousins 舅之子 sima 3 months

Figure 2  The Classical Five Styles of Mourning Attires for Maternal Kin Note: Parentheticals are degrees of kinship. An unmarried woman follows her brother.

married married aunts female dagong 1st cousins 9 months once removed sima 3 months married married female female 1st 2nd cousins cousins dagong sima 9 months 3 months married female 1st cousins once removed sima 3 months

great-greatgrandfather zicui 3 months greatgrandfather zicui 5 months grandfather zicui without staff 1 year parents zicui without staff 1 year

married sisters dagong 9 months

married nieces dagong 9 months

EGO (female)

great uncles sima 3 months 1st uncles and unmarried cousins once aunt removed dagong 9 months xiaogong 5 months

2nd brothers 1st cousins cousins (4th) and (6th) dagong unmarried sima 9 months sisters 3 (2nd) months dagong 9 months nephews 1st cousins once and nieces removed dagong xiaogong 9 months 5 months

Figure 3  The Classical Five Styles of Mourning Attires of Married Women for Paternal Kin

Introduction

In the year 701, the Wang family of Taiyuan 太原王氏 found itself in a bind. The family’s matriarch, Lady Zhangsun 長孫氏, had passed away, leaving a set of specific instructions for her burial.1 Eschewing the normative practice of sharing a grave with her predeceased spouse in his family cemetery, she instructed her family to leave her naked corpse in the wilderness near a Buddhist monastery as food for insects and wild animals.2 Even postmortem, exposing oneself offended against common decency and desecrating the body violated the fundamental principle of filial piety.3 Although Lady Zhangsun was free to concern herself with the afterlife, her children were expected to maintain social respectability by adhering to the classical stipulations on mourning and burial. What were they to do? Defying her wishes could adversely affect her afterlife and chance at Buddhist salvation; obeying her would make her appear degenerate or deranged to the punctilious classicists. Neither outcome was desirable. Her children would appear unfilial either way. The lady’s eldest son, Wang Xin 王昕, vividly describes the distress in her entombed epitaph (muzhi 墓 誌): “Were we to obey her command, the situation would be unbearable; were we to go against her instructions, our hearts would be harrowed.”4 Over the three-year mourning period, Lady Zhangsun’s children deliberated. They finally resolved to implement her instructions with some modifications. They carved a niche on a cliff overlooking a monastery on Mount Longmen 龍門山 and laid her naked corpse inside.5 The arrangement at once observed her instructions to be exposed and concealed her nakedness from the public gaze, thereby shielding her and the family from public censure. Wang Xin defends her request, insisting that 1

2 Introduction

“her past cultivation enabled her to obtain the fundamentals [of Buddhist teaching] thoroughly penetrating the gate of dharma; her detachment from worldly entanglements led her to escape from the net of desire.”6 He moreover portrays her refusal to join her husband in burial as a practice in harmony with the Rites, for she justified it by quoting from the Liji 禮記—“Spousal joint-burial was not an ancient practice” 合葬非古.7 Accordingly, she did not reject classical mores. The implementation celebrated her religious attainment and affirmed the family’s morality. Wang Xin goes on to describe the engineering feat of constructing the mortuary niche in detail. Lady Zhangsun’s entombed epitaph illuminates the immense pressure felt by loved ones to satisfy the (often conflicting) demands of the deceased, expectations of society and the family’s ingenuity in meeting such challenges. Lady Zhangsun’s case was neither as rare nor especially as fraught in the late medieval period (c. 600–1000) as it would have been in earlier times.8 It arose in the wake of the transformations in the culture of remembrance that had taken place between the third and sixth centuries; namely, the emergence of new actions, concepts, objects, and institutions that allowed people to define present practices by relating them to past, create meaning from loss, and thereby projecting desire, identity, and memory into the future.9 The view of individual identity as the summation of biological and social categories (such as age, sex, parentage, and class) remained unchanged in medieval China. The people continued to recognize the inevitable and intricate connections between perception, representation, and remembrance in shaping present and future identity. What separated medieval Chinese from their predecessors was their acute awareness of the fluidity of memory and the possibilities for manipulation it afforded. They welcomed this fluidity as they endeavored to find new opportunities, tools, strategies, and tactics to establish or resist modifications that threatened the desired identity and its perpetuity. This relentless search amid pervasive and prolonged social and political instability transformed the culture of remembrance and was intensified by it in turn. This book examines these processes of manipulation and transformation and their consolidation. The following chapters first illuminate how people constructed and transcribed the preferred present and future (namely, the remembered) identities by examining mourning, burial, and commemorative practices in medieval China. Specifically, these chapters detail the growing emphasis on the burial as an expression of filial piety and a focal point of ancestral sacrifices. I first review the sociopolitical developments whose convergence provided a fertile ground within which changes to the

Introduction 3

culture of remembrance take root. These developments include the strain on the classical ritual system, widespread acceptance of Buddhism, normalization of non- or semi-canonical burial practices, and the invention and popularization of entombed epitaph inscriptions (muzhiming 墓誌銘). These developments followed in the wake of the decline and fall of the Han dynasty and the disruption of the cultural and political uniformity the dynasty had brought about. THE STRAIN ON THE CLASSICAL RITUAL SYSTEM Classicism, commonly referred to as Confucianism or Ru-ism in English scholarship, is an idealized reimagination of the ritual system, sociopolitical order, and moral philosophy of the Western Zhou (c. 1122–770 BCE).10 These purportedly classical institutions are explicated in the Classics: the Odes (Shi 詩), Documents (Shu 書), Changes (Yi 易), Rites (Li 禮; i.e., Records of Rites [Liji 禮記], Ceremonies and Etiquette [Yili 儀禮], and Rites of Zhou [Zhouli 周禮], collectively), Spring and Autumn Annals (Chunqiu 春 秋) with its three commentaries (the Zuo zhuan 左傳, Gongyang zhuan 公羊 傳, and Guliang zhuan 穀梁傳), Analects (Lunyu 論語), and Classic of Filial Piety (Xiao jing 孝經). All these works were collections of ancient texts that were edited, collated, canonized, and copiously annotated during the Han.11 Classicism provided a framework in which to establish personal relationships and social networks, and a way to actualize and maintain sociopolitical order. Five cogenerative pairs of social identities—ruler and subjects (junchen 君臣), father and child (fuzi 父子), husband and wife (fufu 夫婦), elder sibling and younger sibling (xiongdi 兄弟), and friend and companion (pengyou 朋友)—formed the basis of personal relationships (renlun 人倫). Each pair of individuals are bound by their obligations to the other, which for classicists constituted the “personal obligations” (renyi 人義). What, then, are these personal obligations? Liji explains: A father being affectionate toward his children; a child being filial to the parents; an older sibling being companionable toward the younger siblings; a younger sibling being respectful toward the older siblings; a husband being reliable for his wife: a wife being submissive to her husband; a superior being charitable toward the inferior; and an inferior being deferential to the superior; a ruler being benevolent toward his subjects; and a subject being loyal to the ruler.12

These are the obligations the obligator has a duty to perform and the obligee the right to receive. In this sense, the cogenerated social identities are

4 Introduction

not given—they must be claimed by performing mutual obligations. One could not truly be considered a father, child, brother, husband, wife, superior, inferior, ruler, or subject without fulfilling them.13 Liji further connects social identities to the ritual performance of obligations: Generally, that which makes a person a person are the rites and obligations. The commencement of rites and obligations involves correcting one’s comportment, composing one’s countenance, and following the liturgical commands. Once the comportment is correct, the countenance is composed, and liturgical commands are observed, the rites and obligations are readied; with which, one could ratify [the roles of] the ruler and subject, bring affection to the father and child, harmonize the superior and inferior. When the [relationship between] the ruler and subjects are rectified, the father and child are affectionate, and the superior and inferior are harmonious, the rites and obligations are then established.14

Accordingly, ritual performances, or rites (li 禮), were crucial to establishing social identity. The classical rituals are divided into eight categories: capping (guan 冠), nuptials (hun 婚), death rituals (sang 喪), sacrifices (ji 祭), court audience (chao 朝), official appointment (ping 聘), local functions (xiang 鄉), and archery (she 射).15 Among these standardized rituals were gestures of respect that reaffirm existing social identities, formal ceremonies that transform them or establish new ones,16 and sacrifices that allow men to engage supernatural powers. Liji, moreover, moralized rites, identity, and obligations, making ritual performance the foundation of sociopolitical order: The Way, Virtue, Humaneness, and Obligation could not be accomplished without the rites. Instruction and explication regarding propriety and vulgarity could not be completed without the rites. Competing disputes and counter accusations could not be resolved without the rites. The [identities of] ruler and subject, the superior and inferior, the elder sibling and younger sibling could not be rectified without the rites. The student who learns to serve and the teacher who is waited upon would not bond without the rites. Holding court, training the army, assuming office, and implementing the law could not authoritatively proceed without the rites. The supplication, sacrifices, and presentations to ghosts and spirits would not be sincere or solemn without the rites. Accordingly, a gentleman is respectful, restrained, and yielding when embodying the rites. Although parrots can speak, they are no different from flying birds. Although apes can speak, they are no different from birds and beasts. Now, one being a man and yet observing no rites, although able to speak, doesn’t he have the heart of a bird or beast? In any case, only birds and beasts lack rites, thus the father and son mate with the same female. This is the reason

Introduction 5 sages created the rites, with which to instruct people. And the people, because they observe the rites, comprehend that they themselves are different from birds and beasts.17

The Liji thus binds rituals, personal relationship, mutual obligations, social identity, and humanity tightly together.18 Because social identity is “performed,” its creation, affixation, and transformation require an audience. Liji, ever useful, provides the standard for judging the performance—“manifesting sincerity and eliminating falsehood are the principles of rites.”19 In short, a ritual is only efficacious in forming and reforming social identity when it is performed with observable sincerity. Failure to observe classical stipulations with visible mindfulness could introduce chaos that reverberates across the interlocking social networks and ultimately undermine the sociopolitical order.20 Of the described categories of classical rites, those revolving around death are the most important. Death rituals not only reestablished the web of social networks that would otherwise unravel by the permanent removal of the deceased but also transformed them into an ancestor.21 Because the correctness and sincerity of the performance reaffirmed social identities, they were moralized and politicized through the discourse of filial piety (xiao 孝). Filial piety originally referred to the ritual feeding of the ancestor by living descendants to propitiate and solicit blessings. The act of filial piety gradually widened in scope to include caring, obeying, and reverencing the dead and living parents.22 Xiaojing 孝經, popular among rulers and elite throughout the Eastern Han and medieval period, further links filial piety to personal conduct, loyalty to one’s lord, and the ability to govern. Confucius reportedly told his disciple Zengzi 曾子 (505–435 BCE) that “filial piety begins with serving one’s parents, continues with serving one’s lord, and is completed with establishing one’s own self.”23 He further expounded that A gentleman who serves his parents with filial piety can redirect this loyalty to [serving] his lord. He who serves his elder brother with fraternal respect can redirect this obedience to [serving] his elders. He who manages his household with principles can, in turn, apply this regimen to his office. Therefore, when his conduct is consummated in the private sphere, his reputation is set for a later time.24

The Xiaojing compilers thus argue that rulers could identify competent and loyal ministers from among those who displayed filial piety, and those who did so could, in turn, find themselves occupying governing

6 Introduction

posts. What remained was for people to find an effective way of externalizing that quality. The Eastern Han and Early Medieval elite favored flashy display such as excessive mourning, ostentatious funerals, and lavish burials. As Miranda Brown notes, the Eastern Han elite, more than their Western Han predecessors, were interested in extending and fulfilling mourning obligations.25 This period saw the standardization of the ritual dress code, known as the Five Styles of Mourning Apparel, or wufu 五服, which determines the clothing for and duration of mourning based on the consanguinity. The mourning apparel thus externalizes the respective identities and delimits the boundary of kinship.26 Abiding by the dress code, moreover, indicates proper mourning behavior. Performing mourning, funeral, and burial to the extent far exceeded the classical stipulations (yu li 逾禮), ruining one’s health or finances (or both) in the process, projected sincerity and invited laudation.27 Such excessiveness is effective not only because it is conspicuous but also because it transgressed the classical stipulations for the sake of filial piety, thus exhibiting greater moral character and potential to govern.28 Clearly demonstrating knowledge of and a willingness to transgress the classical stipulations became a mark of proficient learning, exemplary morality, fitness for office, social class, and even racial identity.29 Indeed, Eastern Han and Early Medieval regimes promoted or demoted officials based on their expressed filial piety. Any perceived remiss would adversely affect the social respectability and political career of the offending individual as well as their family.30 Classical rituals thus were the warp and weft of society and a civilizing principle of statecraft. The interminable and voluminous discussions on mourning and interment in the Classics of Rites and their exegeses show that the classical ritual system continued to evolve during the medieval period. Although it endured as the framework in which personal relationships, social identity and network, and sociopolitical order were actualized and maintained, the so-called classical rituals practiced during Lady Zhangsun’s time were different from those practiced during the Han dynasty. The differences were the byproducts of the political fragmentation, social upheavals, frequent and large-scale population migrations, and waves of “barbarian invasions” following the fall of the Han dynasty. One after another, nomads and semi-nomadic peoples conquered the traditional Chinese heartland in the Yellow River basin, sending many of the occupants fleeing to the remote hinterlands south of the Yangzi River. The injection of foreign customs and rapid regime changes introduced situations, for which the Classics provided little or no guidance. For instances:

Introduction 7

How should one mourn a parent who was missing and presumed dead? Should one put on the mourning apparels again when burying the deceased after the mourning period as in Lady Zhangsun’s case? How to give the deceased a proper burial when the corpse could not be recovered? Learned classicists, drawing from the Classics, debated these issues.31 Medieval courts supported these debates to show their commitment to reestablish the classical mores and sociopolitical order, thereby bolstering their claim to be the legitimate political heir of the Han dynasty. The resulting numerous and ever-evolving adaptations engendered new “classical” rituals and standards for assessing ritual performance and filial devotion. It is thus ironic that the classical death rituals only became widely practiced (or attempted) amid political fragmentation.32 In other words, what made the improvisations “classical” was not the fidelity to the Classics but instead the treatment of the Classics as the repository of concepts, practices, and institutions when shaping social identity, memory, and political legitimacy. The adaptations hence reflected the vitality rather than the decline of Classicism in the early medieval period. Although adaptable, Classicism faced significant challenges from other cohesive ritual systems and religious traditions, the most important among which were Buddhism and organized Daoism.33 They offered alternative statecrafts and worldviews, methods for shaping identity and memory, assessments of behavior, and motivations.34 Questions such as who should be remembered, why, by whom, and how were all opened to debate. Moral standards against which someone’s life (and death) could be measured also proliferated. The classical rituals, with their emphasis on establishing and maintaining social identity and order, ignored individual circumstances and the emotional attachment between the deceased and a specific mourner. For instance, the classical mourning rituals privileged the father over the mother, stipulating that a son should don the heaviest mourning apparel (zhancui 斬衰) for three years when his father dies.35 How he should mourn his mother depended on whether his father was still living. If his father was dead, the son should wear the second heaviest mourning apparel (zicui 齊衰) for three years. If his father was still alive, the son then should wear the same apparel and carry a staff but only for one year (zicui zhangqi 齊衰杖期).36 Particular emotional attachments between the child and the parent find no public expression. The classical rituals also favored the lineage father (from whom a man inherited the rank, title, property, and corresponding privileges and responsibilities) over his biological father and the lineage mother (dimu 嫡母, the official wife of the lineage father) over his birth mother.37 The gradation of mourning, as Patricia

8 Introduction

Ebrey astutely points out, “provides a structure for feelings to make them correspond to the authority structure of the family.”38 It inevitably led to a misalignment between the ritual performance and emotional response to the loss. The intense demand for a public showing of filial piety led to a moral tension between ritual propriety and human affection that persisted as a perennial topic of debate throughout the medieval period and beyond.39 Classicism compared even less favorably with the other religious traditions in addressing otherworldly concerns. The belief that the ghosts and spirits could affect the living and that ritual sacrifices were an effective way of appeasement and supplication had existed since time immemorial. Despite the apparent obsession with the correct performance of sacrifices, Classicism inexplicably offered no coherent view on the afterlife or spirit realms.40 The exclusion of those who died prematurely, unmarried, or childless from ancestral sacrifices only increased the anxiety over unwanted, otherworldly interference, which worsened as the interactions between indigenous and foreign cultures, and between rival religious traditions, intensified. Haunting resulting from a want of sacrifices continued to prey on popular imagination in the medieval period.41 Semi-canonical and noncanonical rituals proliferated, claiming ever greater efficacy in promoting the well-being of the dead and thus could better express the depth of one’s filial devotion. Lady Zhangsun’s Buddhist burial requests and the resulting pushback epitomize the extent to which Classicism and the culture of remembrance had changed in the previous five centuries. Although Classicism was taxed to the utmost under the combined weight of foreign influences, social upheavals, and political fragmentation, the repeated references to the Classics in her muzhiming show that it had retained the authority to legitimize the manipulated individual and collective identities and memories. Having this authority, however, did not mean that Classicism remained the only way to generate identity, define legacy, and articulate emotional attachment and filial devotion. WIDESPREAD ACCEPTANCE OF BUDDHISM Originating in the greater Indian cultural sphere around 500 BCE, Buddhism was already a sophisticated religious tradition with well-developed doctrines and diverse ritual programs when it reached China in the first century CE.42 It became a viable alternative to Classicism, offering new ways to construct and maintain individual identity, personal relationships, and social networks, and to fulfill personal obligations. It presented

Introduction 9

a dramatically different worldview and a theological premise that could lend political legitimacy to medieval rulers, especially those without Han heritage. As the highly regulated and predictable, classical sociopolitical order broke down, Buddhism brought solace in times of uncertainty, promising a future without chaos and suffering. It filled voids left by Classicism and gained converts from all walks of life. It transformed and was transformed by existing social mores and was eventually integrated into everyday life. Indeed, the impact of Buddhism was so profound that the cultural and physical landscapes of sixth-century China would be unrecognizable to those living in the third century.43 Specifically, Buddhism reconceptualized kinship, filial piety, and ancestor worship. The concepts of karma, rebirth (Skt. saṃsāra), and merit (Skt. puṇya) complicate how personal relationships could be generated and sustained. Karma determined not only blood and marriage but also one’s biological and social identities as well as life experience. One’s parents, spouses, and children, one’s career and social status, and even one’s happiness and health were all products of one’s past. Nothing in life is random, even if the events appear senseless. Rebirth expands the kinship circle to include one’s family in past lives, making past parents the subjects of filial piety and ancestral sacrifices as well. The inclusivity offered those who were denied classical ancestral sacrifices a reservoir of exdescendants from whom they could receive ritual offerings or even deliverance from endless rebirth. Merit (gongde 功德), a spiritual currency generated by acts promoting Buddhism, such as reproducing sutras, feasting monks, and making images, helped the faithful comprehend the working of karma.44 An individual could divide or apply what merits they had accumulated to serve a variety of this-worldly and otherworldly purposes, such as treating illness, securing safety and prosperity, aiding deceased parents in achieving a superior rebirth. The countless Buddhist statues, temples, and stupas that dotted the landscape, innumerable sutras chanted and copied, promotional literature produced to proclaim the efficacy of these or those practices, and the immense wealth spent on these activities are all testimonies to the popularity of Buddhist concepts and practices.45 Buddhist impacts on mourning and ancestral sacrifices were greater still. The introduction of new beings (for example, hungry ghosts and bodhisattvas), planes of existence (for example, hells and the Pure Land), and lives after this one (for example, transmigration and nirvana) collectively contributed to the transformation of the Chinese worldview and rendered classical rituals insufficient. Buddhist-influenced death rituals grew exponentially in number and variety. The novel mourning calendar—the Seven

10 Introduction

Sevenths (qiqi 七七) that tracks the dead’s journey through purgatory to rebirth—is a good example of how Buddhist rites enabled people to mourn according to affection and resources.46 For instance, upon his mother’s passing, Di Fengda 翟奉達 produced one copy of the Sutra of Impermanence Preached by the Buddha 佛說無常經 (T. 801), commissioned one painting of the Bejeweled Topknot Thus Come One (baoji rulai 寶髻如來), and feasted monks to secure for her a superior rebirth. He repeated these activities every seven days for the next forty-nine days, as well as on the one hundredth day, and the first and the third anniversaries of her death.47 Buddhist death rituals allowed people to express their particular emotional connection to the deceased, and thus became another measure of filial piety.48 Novel rituals like the Seven Sevenths met the emotional and soteriological needs that the classical rites could not, but did not necessarily replace them. More often than not, these rituals were programmatic modules the dying and the loved ones could assemble to generate a specific identity and memory. The tailoring allowed a greater degree of precision and flexibility unmatched by the classical rituals. Lady Zhangsun’s Buddhist burial and its representation in the entombed epitaph is a good example of how such tailoring could actualize her new Buddhist identity without offending classical mores. It also underlined the diversification of representations and reinterpretations of the deceased’s life, death, and legacy. The Buddhist transformation of kinship and death rituals, thus fractured the rigid classical framework, allowing multiple and numerous social identities and memories to coexist. NORMALIZATION OF NON- OR SEMI-CANONICAL BURIAL PRACTICES Mourning rituals are transient and their performance has a limited duration. The social identity and network they reestablish cannot outlast the human power to recollect and need constant reinforcement. In contrast, burial creates an enduring material representation of the deceased. How, where, and with whom the deceased was interred could permanently reassign the social identities of the deceased and those buried nearby, even reconfiguring the social network to which they once belonged. Thus burial provides an important opportunity to reshape individual and collective identities.49 Many novel burial practices became commonplace and normalized during the centuries plagued by social upheavals and large-scale population migrations. These practices included familial joint-burial (fuzang 祔葬

Introduction 11

or fu-burial), spousal joint-burial (fuqi hezang 夫妻合葬 or he-burial), provisional burial (quanzang 權葬 or quan-burial), burial relocation (qianzang 遷 葬), burial modification (gaizang 改葬), and burial of the summoned soul (zhaohunzang 招魂葬 or zhaohun-burial). They lack canonicity, for they either deviated from classical stipulations or were never discussed or explicitly prohibited in the Classics. Their emergence and normalization are the subjects of this study because they reflect the key changes in the medieval culture of remembrance. As chapter 1 discusses in detail, the medieval familial joint-burial—an assemblage of multiple generations of an extended family, regardless of age, gender, and marital status, in one tomb or graveyard—was the most fundamental and significant new commemorative institution. It was distinct from the classical joint-burial that delineated the succession following the rule of primogeniture to include only first-born legitimate sons and projected political authority by reproducing in burial the inferior positions of the vassals and ministers to that of the rulers. In contrast, the medieval familial joint-burial propagated desired individual and collective identities and memories by including or excluding selected members. It commemorated those who were buried and those who buried them, expressing emotional attachment, filial piety, familial devotion, thus demonstrated moral values. That the site of the familial joint-burial was at the family home base, away from the royal tombs, signified the family’s socioeconomic status independent of state authority. Hence the medieval familial joint-burial thrived as an effective way to reproduce and preserve the desired individual and collective identities in an era of rapid cultural and religious change and sociopolitical turmoil. The growing popularity of familial joint-burial normalized the other burial practices and was normalized because of them in turn. The semicanonical spousal joint-burial united a married couple in burial and was the linchpin of the medieval familial joint-burial because the husband and wife were the foundation of a household (the basic unit of taxable economic production). The general political instability and large-scale population migrations often presented logistical challenges that hampered a family’s efforts in performing familial joint-burial. In response, people resorted to temporarily “storing” the remains—leaving the casket in a makeshift shrine (bing 殯) or in a spare room at home or a Buddhist or Daoist temple (ting 停 or cuo 厝), or interring the casket in a temporary grave (quanzang 權葬)—until the familial joint-burial became possible, even when doing so disrupted the prescribed timetable for burying people of different ranks and the synchronization of classical mourning, burial, and commemorative rituals.50 The eventual transitioning to

12 Introduction

familial joint-burial necessitated burial relocation—transferring a temporarily “stored” body to a new location—and, in some cases, modification of the original grave (such as expansion or reconfiguration) for receiving additional occupants.51 Neither was permitted by the Classics except when the original grave was endangered or destroyed. In addition, the remains of many deceased were irrecoverable for familial joint-burial due to war or similar circumstances. In these cases, soul-summoning burial allowed the deceased to reunite with the family through a burial in spirit. The practice not only propitiated those who suffered a violent death but also enabled the inclusion of those who would otherwise not be represented in the cemetery and graveside family rites of remembrance. Because filial piety was the cardinal virtue underlining political legitimacy, early medieval courts had little choice but to allow these practices even when their canonicity was in question. The existence of these practices, in turn, made the extent to which the family persisted with familial joint-burial despite adversities, a new measure of moral worth and qualification for receiving political offices. Here we must also consider the commemorative ritual practice that became inseparable from the medieval familial joint-burial—the performance of routine ancestral sacrifices at the grave (muji 墓祭, jimu 祭墓, or dianmu 奠墓). A familial joint-burial could only be effective as a way for reproducing desired identity and memory when it was conspicuous. The Rites stipulate the height of the mound (qiufeng zhidu 丘封之度) and the number of trees (shushu 樹數) planted on top in the descending order of court ranks. Low-ranking officials could only erect such physical markers at a negligible scale. Commoners could not even have a grave mound or any trees planted on top their graves (bufeng bushu 不封不樹).52 The lack of visibility means that the deceased and location of the grave often faded from memory within a generation or two.53 With the attempts of successive regimes to clamp down when grave construction exceeded one’s station, gravesite ancestral sacrifices emerged as a way to stave off the inevitable forgetting. Furthermore, this commemorative ritual practice was noncanonical, because the Rites dictate that all sacrifices at the gravesite must cease at the end of the mourning period. The subsequent ancestral sacrifices were to be performed at the ancestral temple (zumiao 祖廟 or zongmiao 宗廟). The number of shrines that one could establish, hence the number of generations one could commemorate, decreased in the descending order of court ranks. Commoners were not allowed any. As I explain in more detail in chapter 1, those who did not have an ancestral shrine given their rank and those who could not or choose not to make use of it for social or

Introduction 13

political reasons performed the routine ancestral sacrifices at the gravesite instead. Interring family members at one place removed the necessity of visiting multiple graves, and routine visits, in turn, amplified the familial joint-burial’s effectiveness in propagating desired identity and memory and prolonged its lifespan as a site of memory.54 Eventually, gravesite ancestral sacrifices became an integral part of the annual Cold Food (hanshi 寒食) Festival around the spring equinox. The Tang court, recognizing gravesite ancestral sacrifices as an expression of filial piety, declared the festival as a national holiday and gave officials leave to visit family cemeteries.55 Consequently, the late medieval families had to perform the ancestral gravesite sacrifices at regular intervals under the watchful eyes of the community and state. As with the performance of familial jointburial, the extent to which a family devoted itself to maintaining the gravesite and performing routine ancestral sacrifices became a demonstration of filial piety, social respectability, and later the qualification to continue holding political offices. Given the effectiveness of familial joint-burial in propagating the desired individual and collective identities and memories, it is only natural that the dying, the family (not a monolithic group), and the state competed for the control of the arrangement. Lady Zhangsun’s case is illuminating. She attempted to ensure the implementation of her desired burial arrangement by leaving specific instructions, trusting that social expectation of filial piety and prevalent religious beliefs to be the enforcers. By virtue of being the ones who buried her and represented their action in the muzhiming, her children exercised considerable control over the burial arrangement, even as the explicit instructions, social expectations, and religious beliefs curtailed their maneuverability. A state could prescribe or prohibit specific types of burial, thereby limit the construction and perpetuation of private identity and memory that could challenge its representation of the past and thereby political authority. Early medieval elite families found the familial joint-burial a powerful way of propagating their desired social identity without reference to the current ruling regime and allowing them to maintain or even strengthen their influence and prestige despite political vicissitudes. In contrast, their late medieval counterparts found the practice essential to maintaining their class identity and qualification for office, being the subjects of a unified and highly centralized state that could wield it like a whip. Even if the dying, the loved ones, or the state were able to have the burial arrangement they desired implemented, none of them could be certain that those visiting the grave received the intended message. On the one hand, what a grave signified was mostly viewer generated, as were all

14 Introduction

objects and texts. Interpretations are as numerous as visitors, including those who had participated in its execution. It is not unlikely that the identity and memory one thought a particular burial arrangement transmitted were misunderstood.56 The following chapters show relative openness of interpretation was not necessarily a handicap because it increased the likelihood that the final arrangement satisfying multiple (and sometimes competing) commemorative agendas and expectations, as Lady Zhangsun’s case demonstrated. The available burial arrangements, along with the variant identities and memories they evoked, were conditioned by social practices and institutions. Nonetheless, significant changes such as those taking place in the early medieval period could expand the discursive field (beyond the classical ritual system in this case) over time as individuals and collectives exercising their agency, consciously or unconsciously, in addressing everyday challenges that had arisen.57 The rise and normalization of familial joint-burial and associated practices owed as much to the transformation of society in the early medieval period as to the expectation of conspicuous display of filial piety and familial devotion. The medieval classicists were keenly aware of the noncanonicity of these practices, but acquiesced on moral ground, benefited from performing them, and ultimately normalized these practices. EMERGENCE AND POPULARIZATION OF ENTOMBED EPITAPH INSCRIPTIONS The emergence and popularization of muzhiming are arguably the most significant contributors and products of the transformation of the culture of remembrance in the medieval period. The term muzhiming, translated here as entombed (mu 墓) epitaph (zhi 誌) inscription (ming 銘), refers to both the entombed stone object inscribed with the epitaph of the deceased and to the text of the epitaph itself. The late medieval (or standard) material muzhiming consisted of two discrete components. One was the epitaph stone (zhishi 誌石), the square stone slab on which the epitaph text (zhiwen 誌文) was engraved. The other was the trapezoidal epitaph cover (zhigai 誌蓋) of matching dimensions and material with an abbreviated appellation of the deceased engraved on its top plane. The epitaph cover sat above the surface bearing the epitaph text, often separated by a piece of silk, informing the viewers of the deceased’s identity while protecting the inscription. Line images of auspicious flora and fauna, constellations and the zodiac, or mythical creatures were carved onto the four sides of the epitaph stone as well as the four slopes of the epitaph cover. Rubbings were made from the object on its completion. The material muzhiming

Introduction 15

itself was on display before its entombment. Once inside the tomb, it was placed either in front of the coffin (in single-chamber tombs) or at the gate of the burial chamber (in multichamber tombs) of the deceased.58 The late medieval epitaph text averages eight hundred characters in length and consists of three distinct sections: the peritext, prose preface (xu 序), and rhymed elegy (ming 銘). The peritext includes the heading (ti 題) and ending (ba 跋), enclosing the preface and elegy. One finds the deceased’s surname, choronym, rank, title, and office (if any), as well as those of the author or authors and their connection or connections with the deceased (such as a son, nephew, or colleague) in the heading. The same information of the calligrapher or calligraphers for the inscriptions and, occasionally, the name of the carver are listed in the ending. As for a woman, if married, her surname, chrononym, and title (if any), plus her husband’s surname, chrononym, rank, title, and office (if any), would be mentioned in the heading; if unmarried, the same information of her father would be listed before identifying her as his daughter. The preface, written in plain, parallel prose, or a mixture of the two styles, contains much information on the deceased and their family. Typically, it starts with the deceased’s given name, courtesy name (zi 字), religious name (if any), and place of origin, before giving an account of the family’s ancestry and most recent male ancestors up to five generations. This is followed by a description of the deceased’s character, deportment, career (if a man), family life (if a woman), and religious practices (if any). The author often elaborates on some particular aspects of the deceased’s life by including a few anecdotes. Most significant to this study is that the preface reports on the death (date, place, cause, death scene, and last words) and burial (divination, date, place, situation, and circumstance leading to the particular arrangement). In cases of provisional burial, it would include instructions for reburial as well. Giving the growing importance of familial joint-burial, one often finds an account of the endeavors, especially those putting the family through much hardship. The preface finishes by providing an update on the current status of the spouse and children (deceased or living, married or unmarried, and officeholding or lack of officeholding). When the marriage alliance was of particular import to the family, the preface would also include information on the in-laws. It is conventional to describe the manner in which the survivors mourned the deceased, and to express hope that the material muzhiming, made of stone, and entombed, would withstand the passage of time and preserve the memory of the deceased. The elegy, written in rhymed tetra- or heptasyllabic lines, reiterates the preface’s contents and expresses the sorrows of those left behind. It is

16 Introduction

invariably loaded with allusions and metaphors drawn from the Classics, Histories, Masters, and the established literary canon (as are those prefaces written in parallel prose). Comprehending the elegy requires familiarity with these works. In contrast to the general straightforwardness of the preface, the elegy could transmit messages that complicate or subtly contradict the narrative in the preface. The epitaph text, once finalized, is written out in handsome calligraphy on paper, which would then be transposed to the surface of the epitaph stone and carved. Thus it could be circulated via handwritten manuscripts and rubbings of the inscription. Many muzhiming, especially those belonging to or written or calligraphed by noted personages, have been collected for their historical or artistic significance.59 Consequently, the textual muzhiming could be preserved and remain in circulation long after the material muzhiming was buried or lost. No scholarly consensus has been established on whence the muzhiming emerged.60 The lack of a consensus is due to the teleological fallacy that most modern scholars suffer. They assume that the standard, selfidentified, late medieval muzhiming has a single, linear, and unidirectional evolution and that its origin can be pinpointed by simply reversing the course of development. Many similar funerary texts are not inscribed on stone or are inscribed on steles erected aboveground near the tomb. The teleological fallacy is further exacerbated by East Asian scholars’ practice of labeling different kinds of early medieval funerary epigraphy as muzhi 墓誌 that do not refer to themselves as such. These include funerary epigraphy that self-identified as “tomb inscription” (muming 墓銘), “tomb record” (muji 墓記), and “tomb memorial” (mubiao 墓表). Consequently, the muzhi label ubiquitous in modern anthologies is not always a helpful characterization of the material object or the textual content.61 At present, Timothy Davis offers the most sophisticated and convincing history of muzhiming. In his view, the practice of muzhiming emerged as the early medieval elites responding to the sociopolitical challenges and uncertainty they faced. It became a popular way to define their family identity, enhance their influence and social rank, and maintain intergenerational memory because it gave them control over the material form and textual content without reference to the current, and often short-lived regime. Davis sees three distinct but intersecting developments. He argues that the muzhiming as epigraphy embodied the canonical epigraphic tradition associated with ancestral sacrifices (such as the bronze inscriptions and mortuary stelae); as an entombed object, it absorbed the functions of religious inscriptions found in many Eastern Han and early medieval tombs, namely, inventories of grave goods (qingce 清冊), burial plot

Introduction 17

purchase contracts (maidiquan 買地券), and tomb-stabilizing writs (zhenmuwen 鎮墓文); and finally, as a literary text, it combined various commemorative genres, specifically the biography (zhuan 傳), dirges (lei 誄), and eulogies (song 頌). The literati participation in the textual production turned muzhiming into a well-respected commemorative genre and viable historiographical alternative, enlarging its social functions. Davis further notes that the practice of muzhiming likely started shortly before the midfifth century as the earliest known self-identified muzhiming belonging to Liu Huaimin 劉懷民 (410–463) was produced at that time. That many selfidentified muzhiming from the second half of the fifth century were different from one another and missing one or more defining physical or textual attributes of the late medieval standard muzhiming suggest that the definition of the term was still fluid at this time.62 Regrettably, Davis’s hypothesis does not fully explain how the material form and practice of muzhiming became standardized. This study does not engage the debate on the origin of muzhiming. Instead, it highlights the connections between the emergence of muzhiming, filial piety, familial joint-burial, and the new emphasis on the individual over collective memory, as well as their roles in transforming the culture of remembrance. The oft-cited opinion of Wang Jian 王儉 (452–489), the esteemed ritual expert serving the Liu-Song state, is worth considering in the first respect. He noted in his treatise “On Death Ritual” 喪禮: The [practice of] placing a stone epitaph (shizhi 石誌) inside the grave does not come from the Classics of Rites. The Palace Attendant of the [Cao-]Wei 曹魏 dynasty (220–264) named Miao Xi 繆襲 (186–245) reburied his parents. He composed the text inscribed on the slab entombed [with his parents] underground. His original goal was his hope that, through [the stone epitaph], many thousand years afterward, when the hills and valleys had shifted or changed, the later people could get to know [them].63

Wang Jian eagerly pointed out that the practice, although new and noncanonical, was motivated by Miao Xi’s desire to preserve the memory of his parents. The production of the stone epitaph was thus fundamentally an act of filial piety. The practice also seemed to stem from resignation to the inevitable destruction of all graves and recognition of the opportunity it presents for reintroducing the deceased to later generations. The unceasing turmoil during this period likely intensified the sense of inevitability and urgency. Expressions such as “The hills and valleys could shift; the grave mound does not last. We engraved this dark stone to mark his somber chamber” were commonplace if not yet ubiquitous as in the late medieval period.64

18 Introduction

In addition to the preservation of parental identity and memory, the emergence of muzhiming coincided with the normalization of familial joint-burial. Davis notes that early muzhiming accompanied the reburials caused by delays or damages to the original graves. They are also common in situations when a change occurred in family succession or burial (rearrangement) demanded an explanation.65 Because persisting unrest and migration made the practice of familial joint-burial a complicated and protracted process, muzhiming acquired the function of record-keeping. They were particularly indispensable for identifying the deceased and boundaries of the burial plot in situ. In this regard, the mentioned desire to reintroduce the deceased to those who unearthed the grave is understandable. As the practice of familial joint-burial gradually became a demonstration of filial piety and familial devotion, muzhiming were recognized as an effective medium for reporting and commemorating the family’s determination to reunite the deceased with other bygone relatives. By the seventh century, the main commemorative subjects often included the devoted loved ones in addition to the deceased. This is especially true when the obstacles were (represented as) exceedingly difficult to overcome, or the life of the deceased had faded from the family’s collective memory in the intervening years between the original burial and reinterment. Last, the emergence of muzhiming reveals the shifting dynamic between individual and family memories. The dead were increasingly defined by their conduct and achievements rather than by their lineage and marriage. The muzhiming of Yang Zhi 羊祉 (d. 516) amply captures this new trend. More than three-quarters of its two thousand plus characters narrate his illustrious career, repeating what was already stated in the court-commissioned prayer read at his burial. The family rationalized it this way: “[Whereas] paintings and books (i.e., dynastic histories) could easily fall into oblivion; [stones] and inscriptions would never perish. We have borrowed this limited space to use for narrating his great virtues and contributions.”66 Hence, just as Yang Zhi’s reputation and accomplishments defined his memory, his memory defined the social identity and justified the continuing political dominance of his relatives. Put differently, the family gained more from commemorating him as an individual and by highlighting their connections to him than by imposing its collective memory on him. This does not mean that lineage and marriage had diminished in importance—quite the contrary. The importance of lineage in late medieval China came from its being an indicator of the potential social, political, and material benefits. Marriages were often contracted on the basis of such potentials.67

Introduction 19

RECONSTRUCTING THE LATE MEDIEVAL CULTURE OF REMEMBRANCE This study examines the late medieval culture of remembrance by analyzing burial practices as represented in muzhiming and other primary sources. Such an approach is possible thanks to the sheer number of muzhiming excavated recently. It is valuable because (not in spite) of the genre’s complexity. Reading muzhiming is challenging because they are a mixture of literary genres (including biography, genealogy, and poetry), linguistic registers (ornate and plain), and literary styles (such as parallel prose, free prose, and rhymed verse). The seemingly prosaic description of the deceased life often includes technical terminology referring to medieval social and political institutions (civil service examination, bureaucracy, and court life) and specific lifecycle or religious rituals (coming of age, marriage, mourning, burial, ancestral sacrifices, divination, and Buddhist/Daoist communal rituals). Muzhiming, moreover, constantly recontextualize their contents against the specific cultural and historical milieus within which they were produced. Further, they reflect the needs of various motivated parties and are often directed at multiple audiences. As a result, muzhiming are a cross section of the culture of remembrance. The popularity of muzhiming as a medium for constructing, promoting, and preserving desired memory, lies in their multiplicity. It fueled and was fueled by a growing scope and duration of circulation. Being both a material object and text, muzhiming could store and transmit more information for a longer duration than any conventional media of the time. Even in the early stage of development, muzhiming already addressed multiple audiences, including those from within the family (the deceased, ancestors, living family members, and future descendants), outside the family (friends, colleagues, historians, and current and later admirers of the author and the calligrapher), and beyond this world (ghosts, spirits, and functionaries in the otherworld bureaucracies).68 The audience, circulation, and durability grew over time, attracting more individuals to partake in the production process; their participation in turn created additional agendas and social functions. The late medieval muzhiming producers included but were not limited to the dying individual, immediate relatives, author or authors, calligrapher or calligraphers, and the imperial court. The groups of producers and the commemorative subjects were not mutually exclusive. Lady Zhangsun’s son, Wang Xin, who authored her muzhiming, enshrined his filial piety and that of his siblings by highlighting the thoughtful and

20 Introduction

challenging implementation of her instructions.69 Most medieval people were keenly aware of how a well-crafted muzhiming could advance their commemorative agendas. The size and quality of the stone, depending on the commissioners, showed off the family’s filial devotion, resources, and status, or imperial favor. Authors, calligraphers, even carvers used muzhiming to bolster their reputation and attract patrons because producing muzhiming was a lucrative business. Accordingly, hiring famous (and thus expensive) writers or artists became yet another conspicuous display of filial piety, in that their renown would increase the scope and duration of circulation.70 Often, the dying individuals and families sought to control the narrative of their lives and assessment of their legacies by selecting the writer or penning the muzhiming themselves.71 The imperial court delineated the deceased’s merits and demerits to the dynasty while depriving the family of a chance at self-representation or challenging the existing sociopolitical status quo, by taking over the production of a muzhiming. Indeed, muzhiming generate an ecology in which the diversification and numbers of the producers, audiences, and social and commemorative functions grew side by side. Thus they were both the tool and the outcome of memory-making.72 Modern scholars have rarely treated muzhiming with the sensitivity worthy of their multiplicity and complexity. Scholarly attitudes toward them ranged from being outright dismissive (muzhiming are formulaic and meaningless eulogies containing only tired tropes and undeserving praises) to taking them at face value. It is essential to recognize that although muzhiming vary in the degree of reliability, they are nonetheless useful. The multiplicity ensures the relative reliability of the information. Much information, such as the identity of immediate ancestors and relatives, employment history, rank and title, the time and place of death and burial, and the overseers of the funeral, were part of family and government records. Gross exaggeration or falsehood would be checked by not only the contemporary readers but also, conceivably, by the deceased and otherworldly entities. The better known the subjects or producers, the more truthful the biographical data would have to be. This does not mean that facts are never manipulated but instead that the manipulations are subtle and sometimes audience specific. “Processed” information is present in every muzhiming, such as characterization and evaluation of an individual or event. Yet the processing is itself revealing. Astute readers of muzhiming attune to what information is included or omitted; how the information is presented, and how detailed that information might be; the order in which information appears in the text and its position on the stone; the dictions, tones, and overall styles of the preface and elegy; the

Introduction 21

chosen literary tropes and allusions; and even the calligraphic style. However formulaic or embellished muzhiming might appear, they are judiciously crafted in response to the perceived present identities and public images. As such, they capture in relief the discursive field in which memory was produced.73 Although muzhiming, like all other media, do not reproduce reality but instead construct an image through selective representation, they nonetheless are reavealing of the everyday life in which they were situated than many scholars currently assume. At the heart of muzhiming are human stories, populated by individuals struggling to secure their desired identity in this life and the hereafter. Among them were people who beat impossible odds to give their loved ones a familial joint-burial, parents who arranged posthumous marriages for their deceased children, women who resolutely refused to be buried with their spouse or in-laws, and children who were caught between conflicting parental demands and social expectations. Muzhiming are, moreover, filled with vivid accounts of religious beliefs and practices and problems caused by newly introduced concepts and burial practices. By turns intriguing and moving, these stories were written for the dead and the living aiming to construct a particular memory and manage public perception. The artifice does not make the everyday experience portrayed therein any less true. I am mindful that what I examine are the written representations of burials in textual muzhiming that, of course, are already texts.74 Both the burial and the muzhiming representing it are the products of collaborations, confrontations, and negotiations between various invested parties. No burial can avoid multiple interpretations. No individual involved in its planning and executions could be certain that the identity or memory they wish to convey would prevail. The muzhiming, moreover, presents a negotiated version of the burial arrangement, contextualizing the latter in a bid to limit the range of possible interpretations.75 The burial and muzhiming of Lady Zhangsun are again a good example. Her muzhiming informs us of her request, the family’s initial hesitation, and the final decision. It further describes in detail how her burial was implemented. Her muzhiming thus reports on the process that produced it. The muzhiming is therefore both an insider and outsider, capturing competing voices and internal contradictions. Astute readers no doubt recognize that my approach is shaped by the historiographical tradition known as microhistory and the views of its critics.76 The lived experiences of medieval people and their everyday negotiations in mourning, burying, and commemorating loved ones are my primary interests and source materials. It is the stories that

22 Introduction

encapsulate how individuals and collectives, each in their own way, acted to produce and consume memories. Muzhiming bring to light many stories and the efforts invested in their crafting, illustrating the pressing concerns of lesser-known elites, including many women. While most individuals feature in the present study, like Lady Zhangsunn and her children, were not commoners, they would have been similarly lost to history were it not for the muzhiming. In studying what identity and memory they wish to convey and preserve and the mediums they used to achieve this goal, my reconstruction of the medieval culture of remembrance is from the bottom up rather than from the top down that statistically minded scholars favor. THE STRUCTURE OF THIS BOOK In a critical examination of thousands of muzhiming, this book reconstructs the late medieval culture of remembrance. It analyzes the carefully crafted representations of the burial practices that became normative during the period, paying close attention to the dynamic between the producers and readers of burial and muzhiming and between how the commemorative acts were represented and interpreted. Both chapter 1 and chapter 2 center on the practice of familial joint-burials in medieval China. Chapter 1 traces the development and eventual normalization of the practice in concert with gravesite ancestral sacrifices. It also details the many hardships endured and measures carried out to accomplish a familial joint-burial. Two questions this chapter seeks to address are how the practice became a conspicuous display of filial piety and familial devotion, and what would be the consequence if the familial joint-burial failed to materialize? Accordingly, the chapter reviews the representations in the muzhiming that accompanied successful endeavors, as well as those that failed, and illustrates the attempts at controlling the interpretations of the outcome. It also demonstrates how the state took advantage of the tension to limit the ability of the dying individuals and families to project and preserve their desired images and memories. Chapter 2 further explores the negotiations among the invested parties regarding the burial arrangement and its representation by focusing on the normative yet contentious form of familial joint-burials—that conducted for spouses. Here I consider how a spousal joint-burial or the lack thereof could affect the identity and memory of the couple and their children. Because women refused to be buried with their spouses more often than men, spousal joint-burials and their representations reveal the gender and generational dynamics that other forms of familial joint-burial

Introduction 23

could not. The chapter analyzes, in depth, women’s strategies for securing their desired burial and the family’s tactics to countermand or implement their wishes, which are often seen in muzhiming and especially in those that contain inconsistencies. These two chapters thus illuminate some discursive and performative characteristics of the medieval culture of remembrance. Chapter 3 zooms in on one of the most difficult, if not impossible, challenges to overcome when executing the familial joint-burial—prohibitive divination oracles. It explores both the canonical and noncanonical forms of burial divination, discussing their different purposes and public perceptions. The forms of canonical burial divinations are front and center in this chapter because they have not received sufficient scholarly attention, although their performances were mandated by the state and their oracles exerted an authority that could not be circumvented without dire social and perceived supernatural consequences. The forms of canonical burial divination thus offer an important avenue for examining the latitudes of agency that the dying individual had over the family, and that which the family had against the specific instructions on burial arrangement left by the dead. With the addition of a supernatural dimension, this chapter exposes how the dynamic between individual and collective developed as the tension heightened. The fourth and last chapter highlights the correlation between the rise and popularity of noncanonical hun-summoning (or soul-summoning) burials and the construction and exercise of political authority in late medieval China. A hun-summoning burial was only performed when the remains could not be recovered or the death toll was massive; a close examination of the practice reveals the extreme importance of body, burial, and ancestral sacrifice in constructing identities and memories. The winding road that led medieval regimes to accept soul summoning as proper, further illuminates the growing sophistication in their uses of violent deaths and burials to serve political aims. Agency once again is a key question—just how much agency did the dead and family have over the burial arrangement and its interpretation when the state was heavily involved? Hence the chapter highlights the tension between private memory and public memory and how they shaped present and future individual and collective identities.

C H A P T E R

O N E

The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial

Map 2  The Routes of Madame Wen Yuan’s Burial Repatriation of Wei Xun (Mostly by Water) and Wei Ji’s Burial Repatriation of Liu Mao (by Land)

In 836, Madame Wen Yuan 溫瑗 (d. 846) lost her husband, Wei Xun 韋塤. At the time, the couple and their eight children were living in Mingzhou 明州, where he had just become the prefect (mu 牧) several months earlier.1 24



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 25

Her subsequent endeavor to return to Luoyang with the children and his casket was nothing short of Herculean. The distance between Mingzhou and Luoyang was about 716 miles (1,153 kilometers).2 Remembering Wei Xun’s dearest wish to rebury his parents in Luoyang, Madame Wen made a further detour of about 190 miles (305 kilometers) to retrieve their caskets from Changzhou 常州 before continuing.3 Her muzhiming vividly depicts the grueling voyage through the Great Canal: In the middle of the great river [the Yangzi], the furious waves pillared the sky. Alone by herself, there were no relatives nearby. Chopping through the torrents, she traveled for days to exhume the Vice Censor-in-chief’s parents [her in-laws] returning with all three coffins. She traversed ten thousand li over rivers and mountains, nearly dying several times. Those travelers on the road who had heard [her story] were sympathetic and in awe of her.4

One cannot help but share the feeling of these travelers. Her younger brother, Wen Guan 溫琯, who composed the muzhiming, might have exaggerated the dangers and hardships she faced. However, the fact remains that it would not be easy for a widow to travel such a distance with eight children and three coffins in mid-ninth-century China. Progress would have taken months. Any accidents, diseases, or robbery could claim their lives. That Wen Guan presented the successful completion of this grim task as her most significant achievement in life should not be surprising. The burial that Madame Wen gave her husband and in-laws is referred to as fuzang 祔葬 in the medieval period; I call the practice familial jointburial or simply fu-burial. Briefly discussed in the introduction, fu-burial was the practice of interring the cognatic kin in the same tomb or family cemetery. Despite being noncanonical, for the Classics of Rites prescribe no such practice, it was normalized between the third and fifth centuries. That countless accounts are similar to those of Madame Wen raises questions: When and why did the practice emerge and become normalized? How was it practiced? How did it transform the culture of remembrance? To answer these questions, we must begin with the term fuzang itself. CLASSICAL VS. MEDIEVAL FAMILIAL JOINT-BURIAL The term fuzang consists of two Chinese characters—fu 祔 and zang 葬. The primary meaning of fu is “to join” 合 (he), and that of zang is “to conceal” 藏 (cang).5 The two oldest dictionaries, Er’ya 爾雅 (completed in the first century BCE) and Shuowen jiezi 說文解字 (completed in 94 CE), link the fu character to the classical fu-rite. During this ritual, the deceased’s

26

Chapter One

spirit tablet (zhu 主) is installed on the ancestral altar so that he is able to join his agnatic ancestors (as a married woman could join the wives of her husband’s agnatic ancestors) in receiving regular ancestral sacrifices (heshi 合食).6 Accordingly, the term fuzang designates the burial of the deceased with their agnatic ancestors so that they could receive regular ancestral sacrifices with them. The fu-rite and fu-burial thus are conceptual counterparts. The altar parallels the burial, making the reception of ancestral sacrifices at the altar the same as at the grave. Although the character fu does not itself connote a specific type of burial, it does appear in the Liji three times in association with joint-burial and, specifically, that of spouses. I delve into the details of spousal jointburials in chapter 2. Here, suffice it to say, two interchangeable terms for spousal joint-burial existed in the ritual classics: fu-zang (or simply fu) and he-zang 合葬 (to join in burial). Shortly after the compilation and canonicalization of the Classics, the term hezang came to refer to spousal jointburial exclusively and fuzang to any familial joint-burial. The change highlights that the spousal joint-burial was considered a form of familial joint-burial, but the medieval familial joint-burial did not always include a spousal joint-burial. The Classics do prescribe a burial practice involving burying family members in close proximity. The practice is known as zuzang 族葬, linealburial, which inters only the firstborn legitimate males of one patrilineage at a state-designated area with their graves arranged in a specific spatial formation called zhaomu 昭穆.7 What the Classics meant as a lineage was a patrilineage whose members could trace their descents from an apical ancestor. Members, by birth or marriage, owe mourning obligations to one another. Each individual wears a specific mourning attire for a specific duration based on the degree of consanguinity with the deceased. This system of gradation is called the Five Styles of Mourning Apparel (wufu 五服). Any individuals five degrees removed from the deceased do not need to wear mourning, and those six degrees removed and beyond are no longer considered members of the same patriline.8 Further, the classical rule of male primogeniture distinguishes the sons born to the legal wife (dizi 嫡子) from those who were not (shuzi 庶子), and the main branch (dazong 大宗) from the cadet branches (xiaozong 小宗) in the patriline (see figure 1).9 In a lineal-burial, the apical ancestor is at the center with his firstborn legitimate son (second generation) on his left (zhao 昭) and firstborn legitimate grandson (third generation) on his right (mu 穆). The firstborn legitimate males of the subsequent even-number generations are buried on the farther left and even-number generations on the farther right.10 Given that the zhaomu formation concerns only the firstborn



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 27

Figure 1.1  The Classical Zhaomu Formation

legitimate sons of the main branch, the lineal-burial is the material embodiment of primogeniture.11 Regarding the burial ground, the Zhouli stipulates that the state should establish two types of cemeteries—the royal cemetery (gongmu 公 墓) and state cemetery (bangmu 邦墓). Only the rulers and principal vassals and ministers could be laid to rest in the royal cemetery. The graves of the dynasts should occupy the central location, arranged in zhaomu formation. The area to the front, left, and right of each ruler is assigned to his principal vassals, and the area behind to his chief councilors. The graves of these men, too, are arranged in zhaomu formation.12 Consequently, the royal cemetery reconstitutes the state through these burials, clarifying the line of succession, reinforcing crucial alliances, reaffirming social hierarchy, and propagating the political legitimacy and power of the dynasty. Lower-ranking officials and commoners are relegated to the state cemetery. The state allocates each patriline a separate area to bury their dead, again, in zhaomu formation. Although the different branches of the same patriline were buried in the same cemetery, they were separated from one another. Regardless of legitimacy, male children who died before reaching their majority, and female children were excluded altogether from the cemetery.13 The classical lineal-burial thus indicated an individual’s position in the patriline and a patriline’s position in the state. It does not identify an individual beyond his node in the

28

Chapter One

warp and weft of the decent group. It moreover suppresses the memory of anyone who is not an adult firstborn legitimate son. The medieval fu-burial is decidedly different from the classical linealburial in many aspects: it ignored the rule of primogeniture and the order of succession and was unconcerned with shoring up the political legitimacy of the ruling house. The members of an extended family were all interred in the same family plot regardless of age, birth order, gender, and marital status. Most married couples were buried together and surrounded by their children, including those who died young and sometimes even married daughters. These family plots, referred to as either the old cemetery (jiuying 舊塋 or guying 故塋) or ancestral cemetery (xianying 先塋) in transmitted sources, were located near the ancestral seat or economic base of the family rather than in the state-designated area.14 Finally, the classical and medieval joint-burials were also dissimilar in grave configuration, spatial arrangement, and burial implementation. In both classical and medieval familial-burials, members were interred in the same cemetery. However, owing to a major change in mortuary architecture, how the dead shared space differed; namely, the gradual shift from timber-casket graves (muguo mu 木槨墓) to chamber graves (dongshi mu 洞室墓) in Western Han.15 A timber-casket grave consists of inner and outer coffins. An inner coffin (guan 棺) is a rectangular box used to store the corpse.16 Depending on the court rank, some individuals have multiple inner coffins of various materials and thicknesses, nested like the Russian matryoshka dolls. The Rites stipulated the following for a ruler, moving from the innermost coffin outward: one three-cun thick coffin made of water buffalo hide (shuge guan 水革棺), one three-cun thick rhinoceros hide (sige guan 兕革棺), one four-cun thick poplar (biguan 椑棺), one six-cun catalpa (shuguan 屬棺), and one eight-cun thick catalpa (daguan 大棺). The number, thickness, and quality of materials decreased with the court rank. Ordinary officers (shi 士) and commoners could only have one inner coffin made of catalpa of six-cun and four-cun, respectively. The outer coffin (guo 槨) of the timber-casket grave is a square wooden frame built inside the grave pit before the interment. Like the bento box ubiquitous in Japanese restaurants, the frame is partitioned into small compartments for storing the inner coffin or coffins and grave goods. Court rank determined its complexity, material, and size.17 Art historian Wu Hung perceptively characterizes timber-casket graves as “object-oriented” because they are essentially a partitioned storage box.18 The only access to a timber-casket grave is from above, and the contents are lowered into it. Modern scholars often call it the vertical-pit grave (shuxue mu 豎穴墓). Once the outer coffin was sealed and the pit filled in, a timber-casket



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 29

grave could not be reopened without significant excavation. Multi-occupancy is possible only by placing the dead in the outer coffin at the same time, either sharing the same inner coffin (tongguan 同棺) or each occupying a separate inner coffin (yiguan 異棺). In contrast, chamber graves are like houses. They have a roof, four walls (sometimes with windows), one or more chambers, and a front door. Modern scholars often call chamber graves the horizontal-pit grave (hengxue mu 橫穴墓) because the coffins and grave goods entered it through a pathway (tomb tunnel) leading to the “front door” as they would a dwelling.19 The contents are displayed in the designated chambers rather than being stored away; hence Wu Hung regards chamber graves as “space-oriented.”20 The architecture of chamber graves allows easy access for depositing additional bodies. Shared chamber tombs (fuzangmu 祔葬墓 or fuzang-tombs) were configured according to the needs of each particular family. Some had only one chamber with the coffins and grave goods of multiple occupants in it (tongxue 同穴 or tongshi 同 室). The fuzang-tombs belonging to well-off families often had multiple chambers, each designated for specific individuals or purposes (tongmu yixue 同墓異穴 or tongmu yishi 同墓異室). It was not uncommon for a family to keep depositing more members until no space remained. At a such time, the family could either enlarge or repurpose the existing chamber or chambers, build additional chambers, or construct a new fuzang-tomb in the same cemetery. Accordingly, the longer a fuzang-tomb remains in use, the more likely it would need to be augmented or reconfigured.21 In contrast to those in the classical royal or state cemeteries, graves in medieval family cemeteries were not organized according to the zhaomu scheme. These private cemeteries were clearly demarcated, if not fully enclosed, separating them from the surrounding landscape. The spatial organization varied from cemetery to cemetery. In some cases, the graves of the parents and sons were backed against each other, facing opposite directions. In others, the apical ancestor would occupy the center and each subsequent generation was lined up horizontally before the previous generation. Families often aligned the graves along an east-west or northsouth axis. Some placed the apical ancestor on one end of the row made up of the other family members in the order of burial.22 In all cases, the zhaomu formation, and the rule of primogeniture it signified, were ignored. Certainly, the size and terrain of the burial ground and geomantic considerations had some bearing on the arrangement. The longer a family cemetery remained in use, the more likely its spatial arrangement would change as the area filled up. However, even as it changed, these family cemeteries continued to define membership and project collective identity.23

30

Chapter One

In short, the configuration of the fuzang-tomb and spatial arrangement in the family cemetery expressed the relationships between the occupants and encapsulated how they were perceived over time. Any alteration to an individual’s location vis-à-vis the other occupants could affect the perception of their relationships.24 WHEN DID THE PRACTICE OF FU-BURIALS EMERGE? According to both transmitted and excavated sources, the practice of founding a cemetery for the extended family on family land appeared around the turn of the second century CE. An early example is the cemetery established by the family of Empress-consort Song 宋皇后 (d. 178), the wife of Han Emperor Ling 漢靈帝 (r. 168–189). After the empress-consort was executed on a false charge, along with her parents and siblings, their remains were said to be buried in their ancestral cemetery.25 This cemetery was evidently one that included cognates of both genders and different branches. The Songs’ contemporaries, the Caos 曹, also founded a family cemetery in the southern suburb of the family seat, Qiao district 譙縣 (in modern Anhui 安徽 Province). The cemetery must have been quite imposing. Texts from the sixth-century report that the memorial shrine as well as graves and commemorative steles of five individuals—Cao Teng 曹騰 (d. 159), his sons Cao Song 曹嵩 (d. 194), an individual whose name was illegible (d. 166), and the latter’s two sons Cao Zhi 曹熾 and Cao Ying 曹胤 (both buried in 177), were still standing among the ruins.26 Cao Teng served four Eastern Han emperors with distinctions, and Cao Song was a chief minister of Emperor Ling. That they were the grandfather and father of the famed warlord Cao Cao 曹操 (155–220), whose son Cao Pi 曹丕 (187–226) founded the Cao-Wei dynasty (220–265) during the Three Kingdoms period, must have contributed to the physical and textual preservation of the cemetery. Although the mausoleums of Cao Cao and the subsequent Wei rulers were elsewhere and each in a different part of the realm, other cognates had kept this ancestral cemetery in use for at least another decade after Cao Cao died.27 In 1959, archaeologists excavated the ancestral cemetery of the Yang 楊 family of Hongnong commandery 弘農郡, contemporaries and sociopolitical equals to the Songs and Caos. They unearthed the graves belonging to Yang Zhen 楊震 (54–124), Yang Mu 楊牧, Yang Rang 楊讓, Yang Tong 楊統 (d. 168), Yang Zhu 楊著 (d. 168), Yang Fu 楊馥, and Yang Biao 楊彪 (142– 225).28 The excavated and transmitted evidence shows that cognates from at least four generations, including some of the most distinguished among



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 31

them, were buried here. Yang Zhen, the apical ancestor, was the prime minister (taiwei 太尉) of Han Emperor An 漢安帝 (r. 106–125). He had four sons—Mu 牧, Rang 讓, Bing 秉 (92–165), and Feng 奉. Yang Tong was Yang Mu’s son. Yang Zhu was Yang Rang’s son. Yang Bing was the prime minister to Emperor Huan; his son, Yang Ci 楊賜 (d. 185), was the prime minister to Emperor Ling 靈帝; Yang Ci’s son Yang Biao was the prime minister to Emperor Xian 獻帝 (r. 189–220). The family thus produced one prime minister per generation. Three of these four men were buried or purportedly buried at this location. The graves were moreover arranged in a row along an east-west axis, eschewing the zhaomu formation.29 The family cemeteries of the Songs, Caos, and Yangs substantiate the differences between the lineal-burial and fu-burial in the commemorative objective. None of them appeared to have discriminated against cognates on the basis of their gender or branch. Many occupants were remembered as unique individuals who were defined by their achievements rather than designations within the lineage.30 Most significantly, the Songs, Caos, and Yangs all chose to establish the ancestral graveyard at their home base, away from the mausoleums of their rulers. Even as they perpetuated their prominence through state service, the move disassociated them from the emperors whom they served and removed them from the sociopolitical hierarchy imposed by the state. The impressive graves and commemorative monuments dominating the local landscape bespoke the family’s economic and political strengths and further amplified its presence in the area. The conspicuous family cemetery thus reflected the family’s rather than the state’s collective glory, signaling its autonomy. In this sense, the emergence of the fu-burial mirrored the growing political decentralization, land privatization, and the rise of the great clans as the Eastern Han dynasty steadily disintegrated.31 WHY DID THE PRACTICE EMERGE? Several interrelated and nebulous developments contributed to the rise and normalization of the fu-burial. Chief among them were the everevolving views of the family, the soul, and the afterlife, as well as the growing importance of graves in ancestor worship. None of these developments commenced suddenly or only after the Han Dynasty’s collapse. Instead, they emerged, converged, and were transformed over time. Household 戶 vs. Family 家 One important development that precipitated the rise of the medieval fuburial was the change in the concept of family. How a government taxed

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its population determined how households and families were conceived and organized. The Han government regularly conducted censuses and based on the data it collected, allocated farmlands, levied taxes, and conscripted labor and military services. The census produced household registers containing the name, age, gender, rank, and even the physical characteristics of everyone living in the household, as well as a list of household assets.32 The Western Han government collected poll tax (suanfu 算賦), field tax (tianfu 田賦), and property tax (hufu 戶賦) in addition to labor and military services. Everyone between six and fifty-nine years old was subjected to the poll tax. To foster population growth and expand the tax base, unmarried women between fourteen and twenty-nine were taxed five times the standard rate for the poll tax while new mothers were exempted. The Western Han government offered lands to all adult free men and set the field tax between one-thirtieth and one-fifteenth of the estimated annual crop yield based on the acreage.33 Further, any household with two or more adult males (excluding slaves) on the register was subjected to a higher rate and banned from receiving additional land. Men were thus motivated to set up their own households when they reached adulthood (bieji yicai 別籍異財). Because of the tax system, most Han households were nuclear families consisting of five members (that is, a married couple with their underage children).34 Emperor Wu of the Western Han 漢武帝 (r. 141–87 BCE) further instituted a property tax, based on the total value of household assets, which had serious unintended social and economic consequences. First, it motivated parents to divide their assets among their sons while they were still living (shengfen 生分). The practice often left the elderly, infirmed, and widows with underage children helpless, unable to meet the tax responsibilities.35 Second, because mercantile profits were taxed at twice the rate of land, merchants were eager to convert their liquid assets into lands, leading to the creation of extensive landed estates. Finally, Emperor Wu’s policy of collecting tax payments in cash placed an outsized financial burden on households with limited resources. Raising cash for these households was difficult during a good harvest because the grain price would fall, and a bad harvest would leave them little to sell. Cash-strapped households were often forced to sell their lands and become wage laborers or tenant farmers, disappearing as taxpayers altogether.36 However, households who remained in the same area and maintained close ties to extended family could significantly reduce their risk exposure. The closeness shielded the weaker members from financial vicissitudes and placed the extended family in a position to amass lands and other resources.



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 33

Consequently, lands were increasingly concentrated among a small number of well-positioned families who could easily acquire and convert their financial capital to cultural and sociopolitical capital.37 As filial piety became increasingly moralized and politicized, the Eastern Han government attempted to halt elder abandonment and keep the land under cultivation by forbidding any households with a senior member sixty-nine years and older from dividing their assets. While society lauded those who took in their parents and other relatives in need, only the resourceful could meet the tax burden resulted from caregiving.38 The new policy gave affluent extended families the moral justification for absorbing member households and consolidating assets. It also provided them with the opportunity to enhance their social prestige, converting it into government posts or court ranks.39 The promotion of filial piety and familial devotion thus enabled the already well-off and sizable extended families to become even more wealthy and influential. The shared interests of the members of these great clans (daxing 大姓 and menfa 門閥) both enhanced the familial solidarity that might otherwise dissipate after a couple of generations and generated a strong collective identity. The choronym that indicated the clan’s economic base also became a significant part of individual identity.40 In short, the rise of fu-burial tracked the shift from the household to family in economic production and identity reproduction. The practice reunited the members of an extended family in death thereby perpetuating both individual and collective identities and memories. As lesser families started to adopt fu-burial, emulating the moral example set by the affluent and prestigious, the practice became mandatory for the office-holding families to maintain their class identity in the medieval period. The case of Wu Da 吳達 who lived during Eastern Jin is a good example. Wu Da lost all his loved ones—parents, elder brother and sister-in-law, and all the children in the family—in a famine. Destitute, he and his wife wrapped the bodies in everyday clothes and buried them in a shoddy grave lined with reeds. They worked as menials during the day and baked bricks and gathered firewood for sale at night to earn enough to rebury them. Allegedly, Wu Da’s devotion so moved Heaven that tigers would merely walk pass him in the forest. Only after many years had passed did the couple manage to build seven graves to inter their twelve loved ones. Their unwavering dedication earned tremendous praise. On hearing the story, the governor promptly offered Wu Da an official post, which Wu Da humbly turned down.41 With the normalization of fu-burial and expedient measures, such as provisional burial and burial relocation, medieval society expected the office-holding (or previously office-holding) family to demonstrate filial

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devotion through considerable effort. Endeavors like Madame Wen’s would still be lauded, but no matter how heroic, no tale of divine intervention or social advancement awaited one at the end. In other words, performing fu-burial for a loved one (especially a parent or grandparent) had become a duty. It was the degree of deprivation and commitment that separated the extraordinary from the ordinary. As a result, late medieval muzhiming routinely recount the act of sacrifice, focusing more on the effort rather than the outcome. After all, who would criticize someone who had tried to complete the fu-burial at great personal cost? Concepts of the Soul and Afterlife The changing conceptualization of the soul and afterlife also precipitated the rise of fu-burial. The belief in a soul—the spiritual essence of an individual—was enduring and widespread. Numerous and frequently conflicting views regarding its nature and immortality had coexisted since time immemorial. The nebulousness of the prevailing beliefs is reflected in the many and often interchangeable terms for “soul” in the Classics and other texts dated to Eastern Han. These terms include, but are not limited to, hun 魂, po 魄, hunpo 魂魄, hunqi 魂氣, hunshen 魂神, jing 精, jingshen 精神, jingqi 精氣, xingpo 形魄, gui 鬼, shen 神, and guishen 鬼神. Although views on the soul and definitions of these terms were subject to perennial debate, some ideas were widely accepted. First, it was assumed that people lived when the soul was in their body and died when it left. Second, departed souls need ritual offerings to survive in the afterlife. Third, neglecting, starving, or forgetting the dead led to haunting. Consequently, regular and perpetual ancestral sacrifices are necessary to mollify and sustain the soul and to receive its blessings. Because the scholarship on the beliefs regarding the soul is already quite sizable, I confine my discussion to the views that were influential and discernably linked to the emergence of fu-burial.42 The Classics contain multiple views of soul, several of which were reportedly held by Confucius. Liji records that he once explained to Zaiwo 宰我: Qi 氣 is the plethora of the spirit [shen 神]; po 魄 is the plethora of the ghost [gui 鬼]. Uniting the ghost and spirit is the ultimate goal of the teaching. All living things must die, and once dead must return to the soil, that which remains is called the “ghost.” Flesh and bone rot below ground and are hidden [beneath] the uncultivated land; the qi [of the dead and buried] manifests high above and becoming bright and luminous. It rises like aroma and falls like rain and frost. It is the quintessence [jing 精] of the hundred beings and what distinguishes the spirit.43



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 35

In this passage, qi was synonymous with jing and shen, and po was synonymous with gui. Once departed from the body, the spirit rises heavenward while the ghost descends into the earth. Elsewhere in the Liji, Confucius expounded that, at the ancestral sacrifice, one entices “the spirit above to descend 以降上神” with the offering of liquor, minced meat, animal victims and music and thereby “conveying [the offerings] to his ancestors 與其先祖.”44 Here, the spirit is the only recipient of the ancestral sacrifice. Specifically, the officiant calls upon the spirit of the most recently deceased to deliver the ritual offerings to the more remote ancestors. In yet another passage, Confucius specified the site of ancestral sacrifices and role of the ghost in the ritual: The hun-qi [the hun and the spirit] returns to Heaven, and the xing-po [the form and ghost] returns to Earth. Thus, the purpose of sacrifices is to supplicate the yin [earth-bound] and yang [heaven-bound] souls.45

Hence both the spirit and ghost receive ritual offerings even as they head in opposite directions. These statements, allegedly made by Confucius, reflect on the assumption of dual souls, and privilege the ascending soul in the classical ritual contexts. The Classics and their Eastern Han exegeses also use the terms shen, jing, and xing when discussing the spiritual essences presented at the first of the three Sacrifices of Repose (yuji 虞祭; also termed the yu-sacrifices in this volume) and the fu-rite that immediately follows it. The Gongyang Commentary of the Chunqiu states that the purpose of the yu-sacrifices is to settle the spirit (anshen 安神) of the deceased.46 It takes place after the bereaved has buried the deceased and returned home; the process is often described as “sending the form [the corpse] to [the grave]” 送形而往 followed by “welcoming the quintessence to return [home]” 迎精而反.47 Why does the spirit of the deceased need settling? Eastern Han classicist Zheng Xuan 鄭玄 (127–200) elaborates: “the yu-sacrifice settles [the spirit],” and it is performed because the jingqi would wander off otherwise.48 For support, he cites the anecdote of Ji Zha 季札 (c. 576–484 BCE) in which the latter cried out to the hun of his son, who died while accompanying him on a diplomatic mission, in the hope of leading it home. He shouted, “The restoration of the bones and flesh to Earth is fate; as for the ethereal hun (hunqi) there is nowhere it cannot reach, nowhere it cannot reach.”49 Why is the first yu-sacrifice performed with such a sense of urgency? The Liji claims it is because the bereaved “cannot bear to be separated [from the deceased] for a day” 弗忍一日離. Why must the fu-rite take place the morning after the burial? It is because the bereaved “cannot bear [that the

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deceased] has no place to belong [even only] for a day” 不忍一日末有所 歸也.50 These statements contradict that of Confucius. Despite being able to travel freely, the deceased’s spirit returns home after the burial and attaches itself to the spirit tablet on the ancestral altar. Rather than ascending to Heaven, it dwells at home and receives ritual offerings at the ancestral altar. As such, the Classics are themselves inconsistent on many aspects of the soul and ancestral sacrifices, engendered endless debates at medieval courts. Transmitted and excavated sources also reveal many contemporaneous and noncanonical views on the soul; most of which assume that each individual has but one soul that could travel freely. In his Lunheng 論衡, the Eastern Han scholar Wang Chong 王充 (27–97 CE) criticizes many “erroneous” but pervasive ideas on the soul, common burial practices, and the performance of ancestral sacrifice.51 Concerning the term “ghost,” he lists the following definitions: the quintessence and spirit (jingshen 精 神), the qi that coagulates and causes illness, the quintessence of ancient objects (laowu jing 老物精), that which becomes human at birth, the spirit of jia 甲 and yi 乙 (the first two of the ten Heavenly Branches anthropomorphized), one of the countless demons (yao 妖),52 and dead people (siren 死人).53 It was also the view of his contemporaries that people remain conscious and become ghosts after death. As such, they could harm the living and appear physically or in dreams. Wang Chong specifically ridicules the ideas that the dead would cry if left unburied, linger if they harbored grudges or regrets, gain strength after receiving sacrifices, avenge any slights or wrongs done to them, reside in the grave, appear before those soon to die, or seek sustenance, company, and comfort from the living. He further argues that these views contribute to lavish burials and other noncanonical practices, as well as grave robberies.54 Wang Cong’s criticism underlines two enduring and widespread assumptions—the dead have the same emotional and physical needs as the living and remained near their corpse. Ironically, he was no less beholden to these assumptions he ridiculed. When explaining the rationale behind the custom of barring those who had been mutilated by corporal punishment from attending the funerals and visiting the graves of their parents, he comments, Confucius said: “the body, hair, and skin are what one received from one’s father and mother; how could one dare to harm them?” A filial individual should be fearful of placing himself in a situation leading to punishment or rebuke. The cuts and marks on his body and the loss and damage to his hair and skin were caused by his lack of virtue and dissipated conduct, and from acting without restraint or prudence. He is ashamed of being



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 37 humiliated by punishment and must harshly and severely censure himself; for this reason, he ought not to visit the graves of their ancestors or offer sacrifice to them.55

What concerns Wang Chong is the misunderstanding of why convicts are excluded from the funeral and ancestral sacrifices at the graves. He moreover equates the grave with the residence of the living, retorting, “How could the residence and the grave be different?”56 before he continues, The ancient rite is to worship at the ancestral temple; the present custom is to sacrifice at the grave, which is the reason why [the maimed individuals ought] not visit the grave [for they should be] ashamed of disappointing the ancestors.57

He further elaborates, The grave is where the ghost and spirit are and the location for worship and sacrifice. When worshiping and sacrificing, abstinence, temperance, cleanliness, and rectitude are of ultimate import. It is not appropriate for the individuals who have been punished and thus mutilated to be handling the ritual offerings or to serve [them] to their ancestors. . . Because the ancestors’ thought, when seeing a descendant had been corporally punished, would pity the disconsolate [descendant] and be heartbroken for the injuries. It is the [family’s] fear that when [a mutilated descendant] approaches the sacrifice, [the ancestors] could not bring themselves to enjoy the offerings. Therefore, [a mutilated individual] does not visit the grave.58

Wang Chong’s comments demonstrate how deeply rooted these assumptions were during this period.59 They also reveal the prevalence of sacrificing to the ancestors at the gravesite, a subject to which we return shortly. Regarding these assumptions, the excavated materials concur with the transmitted texts. The documents, collectively known as the Declarations to Earth (gaodi ce 告地策), which were often buried with the deceased during the third and fourth centuries, are a good example. The Declarations to Earth, which include the contract for the purchasing of the burial plot (maidi juan 買地券), the inventory of burial goods (yiwu shu 衣物疏 or qingce 清冊), and the tomb-quelling writ (zhengmu wen 鎮墓文), announce the arrival of the deceased to the appropriate netherworld officials. The first two documents establish property ownership, thereby securing the legal protection against human or supernatural incursions. The last document enters the deceased’s name in the netherworld household register, signifying its removal from the one in this world. It also absolving the dead of

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past obligations and preventing the living family members from becoming liable for the dead’s transgressions. These documents aimed to integrate the dead into the netherworld and to discourage them from contacting the living. Indeed, phrases such as “the dead and the living go separate ways” 死生異路, “the dead and the living reside in different realms” 死生異域, and “in joy, do not miss us; in sorrow, do not think of us” 樂勿相念, 苦勿相思 regularly show up in tomb-quelling writs.60 The Declarations to Earth also demonstrate the extent to which the household registration system shaped the concept of family. The fu-burial essentially reconstitutes the family by interring those who had once lived under the same roof at the same location, and by replicating the household registers commonly used among the living for use in the netherworld. Notably, filial piety and familial devotion seldom triumphed over the fear of the dead. The ostentatious burials, which provide company and creature comforts for the deceased, should also be understood in this context.61 The Growing Importance of Gravesite Sacrifices The prevailing views that the dead remain conscious and close to their corpses encouraged people to sacrifice to them regularly at the gravesite and bury family members in one place. The clustering simplified the logistics, making sure that no one was needlessly forgotten while amplifying the desired collective identity and reinforcing familial solidarity. As for the question of when the practice first arose, opinions fall into two camps—”the ancients did not sacrifice at the grave” 古不墓祭 and “the ancients did sacrifice at the grave” 古有墓祭. Eastern Han scholars are the main proponents of the first camp. Wang Chong, as shown earlier, maintains that the graves are the residences of the dead, and that gravesite ancestral sacrifices were a recent but widespread practice. Cai Yong 蔡邕 (132–192) and Ying Shao 應劭 (140–206) went a step further, attributing the invention of the practice to the First Emperor of the Qin 秦始皇 (r. 221–206 BCE), hence placing its origin in the late second century BCE.62 In contrast, the scholars in the second camp, all of whom are from later periods, point to the precedents in the Classics and Sima Qian’s (c. 145–86 BCE) Shiji, and recent archaeological finds, date its existence to the Spring and Autumn period at the latest. To some modern scholars, myself included, the disagreement seemed to have stemmed from a lack of clarification on the period referred to as ancient and on the commemorative subjects and purposes of the gravesite sacrifices. Archaeologists proffer a wide range of interpretations (often contradictory) of the structural remains once constructed near or above the graves of elites. The habit of identifying material finds bases on



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 39

transmitted records further impedes the study of these structures’ function, frequency and duration of use, and even who was thought to receive the sacrifices.63 Additionally, many scholars also assumed that sacrifice was always performed when visiting a grave. On reexamining both textual and material sources, I found that the most convincing opinions are the ones that align with the Eastern Han scholars. Four distinct types of grave visits are described in the Classics and the Shiji. They each served a different commemorative subject and purpose and did not always involve sacrifices. The first type was the sacrifices performed at the gravesite immediately after the interment. The Zhouli refers to these as the “worship at the grave for using the area” 祭墓為位. The passage instructs the chief mourner to present ritual offerings to the Spirit of Earth who oversees the area, seeking protection for the deceased.64 The second type of gravesite sacrifices, known as “open-air sacrifice” 露祭, was dedicated to a deceased friend, teacher, local worthy, or sage. Although some of these were performed regularly, their commemorative subjects were not the worshipers’ ancestors. Moreover, their commemorative objectives ranged from paying respects and reminiscing about personal relationships to celebrating the achievements of a great personage.65 The third type of grave visit, termed “weeping at the grave” 哭于墓, was addressed to the ancestors but took place only when an individual was departing on a journey. When a younger or illegitimate son reported to his deceased ancestors that he had taken over the sacrificial duties in the absence of the eldest surviving legitimate son, it was termed “reporting at the grave” 吿于墓. Such visits were rare and did not necessarily include sacrifices.66 The last type took place when the fall of one’s house or state was imminent. Although communication was also addressed to the ancestors, it was unlikely to include a sacrifice given the grim circumstances or to occur again.67 None of these gravesite sacrifices were devoted to the worshipers’ ancestors and performed regularly for generations as the gravesite ancestral sacrifices that the Eastern Han scholars described. Indeed, as Cai Yong and Ying Shao pointed out, the Western Han rulers, following the Qin precedent, ordered sacrifices to be made regularly at imperial mausoleums (ling 陵). The ancestral sacrifices were performed at three locations within the landscaped park surrounding the mausoleum (lingyuan 陵園). They were the hall of repose (qin 寢), a commemorative structure that resembled the deceased’s residential hall and furnished with their personal effects; the hall of leisure (biandian 便殿), replicating the hall where the emperor or empress engaged in recreational activities; and the mausoleum temple (lingmiao 陵廟), a construction paralleled in appearance and function to the ancestral temple in the capital.68 Ritual

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offerings of varying scales of sumptuousness were presented four times daily in the hall of repose, twice monthly on the first and fifteenth in the mausoleum temple, seasonally in the hall of leisure. Additionally, the deceased’s ceremonial caps and robes were taken out of the hall of repose every month and carried in procession to a feast laid out at the mausoleum temple; the ritual was referred to as “touring the gowns and caps” 遊衣冠.69 These activities, collectively called “mausoleum sacrifices” 陵祭 took place at every imperial mausoleum. It is difficult to establish the origin and popularization of gravesite ancestral sacrifices. Modern scholars have also been divided on whether the upper class or lower class initiated the practice. Wang Chong’s comments suggest that gravesite ancestral sacrifices were common among all classes in his time. Both excavated and transmitted sources also show that Han elites established grave shrines (zhong citing 冢祠堂), at which they sacrificed to the ancestors each season and on special occasions.70 Some scholars maintain that the grave becoming equal to the temple as a locus of ancestral sacrifice was a result of the changing view of the soul and afterlife. Specifically, the dual souls, once neatly corresponding to the dual loci (grave and temple) ancestral sacrifices, now merged into one that primarily resides in and receives sacrifices at the grave. The parallel developments in mortuary architecture, which absorbed many elements of ancestral temples, supports this argument.71 The reality was no doubt more complicated. Despite being openly practiced by the Western Han rulers, the gravesite ancestral sacrifices are noncanonical. The Rites stipulate that all sacrifices to the deceased shall take place at the ancestral temple after the interment. However, not everyone could establish an ancestral temple. The allotted number decreases in the descending order of court rank. A ruler could maintain up to seven ancestral temples located inside the palace precinct. Dukes could maintain up to five, ministers three, ordinary officers one, and commoners none.72 To complicate the matter further, the Rites stipulate that the seven ancestral temples maintained by the monarch consist: one for the imperial lineage’s primogenitor (zu 祖), who received Heaven’s Mandate and founded the dynasty; one for an exemplary former dynastic monarch (zong 宗) who greatly contributed to the dynasty’s welfare but might not be among the reigning monarch’s five-degree kin; and the rest five for former monarchs who were the reigning monarch’s immediate direct forefathers who had ruled. Thus the classical stipulation of the imperial ancestral temple reinforces the primogeniture principle. Moreover, the Rites stipulate that except for the zu and zong temples, the reigning monarch should



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 41

demolish the temples of former monarchs who are more than five degrees removed from him and relocate their spirit tablets to the zu temple.73 To follow the classical stipulations would mean that those who did not inherit the throne from their father would face a “temple crisis.” The mausoleum sacrifices were a good substitute for temple sacrifices. They enabled a reigning monarch to worship those who could not have an ancestral temple: former monarchs whose temples were demolished, the current monarch’s direct and immediate forefathers who had never reigned, and birthmother who was not the empress-consort. The Western Han routinization of mausoleum sacrifices effectively rendered the imperial mausoleums a locus of ancestor worship. The mausoleum sacrifices moreover challenged the classical expression of filial sentiment and political legitimacy. As a ritual site and stage of pageantry, mausoleum sacrifices also offered an alternative political legitimization. The temple sacrifices were impersonal and highly scripted, conducted to demonstrate the dynasty’s political authority. In contrast, the mausoleum sacrifices were personal, dedicated to a specific individual, and performed at the final resting place. They emphasized the personal connection between the current monarch and the individual he worships rather than their kinship role and respective positions in the line of succession. Being noncanonical, the institutionalization of mausoleum sacrifices was by no means inevitable. The Western Han classicists fiercely resisted the idea. In 40 BCE, Emperor Yuan of Han 漢元帝 (r. 48–33 BCE) was persuaded by his court to demolish the “superfluous” ancestral temples and abolished mausoleum sacrifices. Shortly afterward, Han Emperor Gaozu ga 漢高祖, Liu Bang (zu) and Han Emperor Wen 漢文帝 (zong) appeared in the current monarch’s dream, raging against the actions. A fearful Emperor Yuan soon fell ill. He wanted to reverse his decision but was dissuaded by his ministers. When he did not regain his health, renowned classicist and the chief minister, Kuang Heng 匡衡 (n.d.), personally supplicated Emperor Gaozu’s and Emperor Wen’s spirits at their temples. Both former emperors died before Classicism became the dynasty’s state ideology. Kuang Heng explained the classical stipulations and imploring the spirits to direct their wrath at him instead of Emperor Yuan. His plea fell on deaf ears. Kuang Heng made further appeals to the spirits of all deceased Han emperors and empress-consorts whose temples were demolished and mausoleum sacrifices ceased to no avail. Emperor Yuan still suffered from poor health, repealed the policy in 34 BCE. Unfortunately, he never recovered and died in the following year.74 Emperor Yuan’s case illuminates the entrenched belief that ancestors would plague their descendants when sacrifices were not forthcoming. It also shows

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that maintaining ancestral sacrifices at the imperial temples and mausoleum temples had become equally important by this time. The perceived consequence of Emperor Yuan’s action likely deterred any subsequent Han rulers from attempting something similar. Mausoleum sacrifices continued in Eastern Han. The dynastic founder Liu Xiu 劉秀 (r. 25–57 CE) likely conducted and expanded mausoleum sacrifices because of his negligible consanguinity to his immediate Western Han predecessors. Liu Xiu was of a cadet branch of the imperial lineage too far removed from the main branch to be considered kin. The most recent direct ancestor he shared with the last legitimate Western Han ruler Liu Kan 劉衎 (r. 1 BCE–6 CE) was Emperor Jing 景帝 (r. 157–141 BCE). Liu Xiu was Emperor Jing’s sixth-generation descendant and Liu Kan his seventh, making the two emperors fifth cousins once removed. To resolve the temple crisis, Liu Xiu had Liu Kan’s grandfather, Emperor Yuan, adopted him posthumously, thereby co-opting the ancestral temples of his Western Han predecessors. He worshiped his direct forefathers at their tombs because he could not establish a separate set of ancestral temples for them.75 Because the Eastern Han succession did not follow the primogeniture principle, temple sacrifices were less effective than mausoleum sacrifices in strengthening the claim to the throne.76 Subsequent Eastern Han monarchs transferred the performance of many state rituals from the court to their immediate predecessor’s mausoleum. The most important among these so-called Rites of Visiting the Mausoleum (shangling li 上陵禮) was the New Year Ceremony on the fifth day of the first month of each year. On this occasion, the reigning emperor convened the court in the hall of repose at the mausoleum. He and the court officials would make obeisance before the late emperor’s spirit seat (shenzuo 神坐). Afterward, the accounting clerks (jili 計吏) from each commandery in the realm would report to both emperors (living and dead) on the grain price and commoners’ living conditions.77 The Rites of Visiting the Mausoleum thus signified continuity and the reigning monarch’s legitimacy. Even though mausoleum sacrifices were a powerful tool for political legitimation, not all early medieval dynasties practiced them. The medieval dynasties had different concerns and priorities. For instance, neither Cao Cao nor his son Cao Pi was entombed in a colossal mausoleum with elaborated commemorative structures and an extensive funerary park. Social unrest and frugality, a virtue they heavily promoted, was the professed reason. Cao Pi further rejected the gravesite ancestral sacrifices, citing its lack of antiquity, despite having previously conducted ancestral sacrifices at the family cemetery in Qiao district.78



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 43

The subsequent Western Jin dynasty maintained the Cao-Wei stance on temple versus mausoleum sacrifices. But the issue resurfaced when the Eastern Jin founder Sima Rui 司馬睿 (r. 318–323) ascended the throne. He, like Liu Xiu, was from a cadet branch of the Western Jin imperial lineage.79 Although mausoleum sacrifices could support his claim, those of his predecessors were in the territories now occupied by the invaders. Any mention of mausoleum sacrifices would only remind his subjects of the lands he had so far failed to recover. His situation was further complicated by the newly arisen practice of hun-summoning burial, which enabled families to inter the dead without actually having their remains, thereby constructing a new locus of ancestral sacrifices. This new practice, suffice it to say, could allow his kinsmen to strengthen their claims and amplify their legitimacy. Sima Rui ultimately had himself adopted into the main branch to continue the temple sacrifices to the Western Jin rulers and banned hun-summoning burials.80 The interdiction did nothing to dampen the popularity of the new burial practice and gravesite ancestral sacrifices. Tang monarchs encouraged and formalized the practice of gravesite ancestral sacrifices and mausoleum sacrifices over the objection of many classicists, arguing that the practices expressed the depth of filial piety. The motivation behind this move was highly political. The confrontation between Emperor Zhongzong 中宗 (r. 705–710) and Peng Jingzhi 彭景直 (fl. early eighth century), the Erudite of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices (taichang boshi 太常博士), is particularly revealing. The emperor ordered the daily presentation of ritual offerings to his parents and paternal grandparents at their respective halls of repose. He was incensed when the erudite denounced it due to its noncanonicity. He scolded the erudite: “The rites could remain unchanged but could also be modified depending on the situation; why must you revere bygone precedents and deride what you witness?” The emperor persisted and paid for the daily mausoleum sacrifices from his personal coffer.81 Emperor Zhongzong was yet another ruler who was compelled to confront the temple-vs.-mausoleum dilemma, but his reason was different from that of Liu Xiu and Sima Rui. Rather than being a distant relation, Emperor Zhongzong was the heir to the thrones of his father Emperor Gaozong 高宗 (r. 649–683), as well as his mother Empress Wu Zetian 武則天 (r. 690–705) who usurped the Tang dynasty and founded her own. When Emperor Zhongzong restored the Tang dynasty, he was left with his parents’ respective ancestral temples— those of his father’s (hence his) direct lineal ancestors and those of his mother’s (hence his maternal grandfather’s). He could neither demolish his mother’s ancestral temples without being perceived as unfilial nor

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leave them to his maternal cousins because it would invite challenges to his claim to the throne.82 As detailed in chapter 2, Emperor Zhongzong resolved the issue by entombing his mother in his father’s mausoleum—a feat he achieved after facing down resistance from multiple quarters—he was not about to let a punctilious erudite stand in his way. The gravesite ancestral sacrifices were ultimately institutionalized by Emperor Xuanzong 玄宗 (r. 712–756), another politically savvy and legitimacy-challenged Tang ruler plagued by the issue of temple versus mausoleum.83 He ordered the inclusion of the gravesite ancestral sacrifices in the Da Tang Kaiyuan li 大唐開元禮 (Ritual Code of the Kaiyuan Era of the Great Tang), or Kaiyuan li: The visit to the graves during the Cold Food Festival is not written in the Classics of Rites. It has recently been passed on from generation to generation, permeating the populace and becoming a custom. [Because] it is inappropriate for the ordinary officers and commoners to establish a lineage temple at which to make ritual offerings, where could they express the filial sentiment? It is [only] appropriate to permit visiting the graves to worship [the ancestors] and sweep [the graves].84

The code thus was designed with those who could not sacrifice at the ancestral temple in mind—daughters, illegitimate sons, officials of the sixth rank or lower, and commoners.85 The codification reflects the normalization of the practice as an act of filial piety and as a means to generate moral capital regardless of its non-canonicity. The Kaiyuan li also includes a section titled “The Rite of Sacrifice and Sweeping” (the grave) (baisao li 拜掃禮) pertaining to the proper performance of gravesite ancestral sacrifices based on the rank and occasion.86 Tang officials were required to conduct the rite once every season, during the Cold Food Festival each year, when leaving the capital on state business (jingguan yuanxing 京官遠行), and on returning to their provincial posts after a leave of absence (waiguan jiaman 外官假滿).87 To promote the practice (and thereby filial piety), the Tang court gave officials four days off for conducing the seasonal and Cold Food Festival sacrifices, which was later extended to five and then seven days. Additionally, it came to subsidize those officials whose family cemetery was in another prefecture by provisioning and lodging them at government post stations during travel.88 These regulations show that both gravesite ancestral sacrifices and fu-burials had been thoroughly moralized and had become a way to maintain political control. The fu-burial lessened the logistical challenges that routinized grave­ site ancestral sacrifices necessitated. Repeated regularly and persistently,



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 45

gravesite ancestral sacrifices also amplified and prolonged the identity and memory desired by the deceased and the family. These two practices carried out in concert created a powerful site of memory, offering alternative narratives that could challenge the prevailing account of the past and threaten the status quo. The elevation of the gravesite over the ancestral temple as a locus of ancestor worship, in particular, added a powerful way to generate political legitimacy. Little wonder, then, that late medieval rulers would co-opt these practices for political gains. The building blocks of fu-burial—new mortuary architecture, concepts of family, the soul, and the afterlife, as well as a changed locus for conducting ancestral sacrifices, and a new way of identity and memory formation—came together in late Eastern Han. Its subsequent normalization and popularization were in step with the cultural, political, and social upheavals and transformations that took place during the early medieval period. PERFORMING FU-BURIALS IN LATE MEDIEVAL CHINA The dead cannot bury themselves. Interment provides the dead and those who bury them a chance to define identity and memory. A material fuburial reconstitutes the family in death and influences how they will be collectively viewed and remembered. Who should be included in the family graveyard and who excluded? If included, how shall the dead be laid to rest and with whom? How should the graves be spatially arranged? As long as the graveyard was frequented and remained visible, the answers to these questions contributed to the expression of a family’s selfidentity. The routine ancestral sacrifices at the gravesite prolonged the viability of the family cemetery, reinforcing and lengthening family solidarity and collective memory. Fu-burial also has a material component. As we have seen in the case of Madame Wen and Wu Da, how one performs fu-burial was a display of conspicuous filial piety and familial devotion. Intrinsic to these developments is the emergence and popularization of muzhiming—commemorative texts that are also inscribed burial objects. Muzhiming were products of the growing complexity and importance of fu-burial in that they helped to communicate the desired identity and memory. Specifically, muzhiming enhanced the effect of fu-burial by documenting the life of the deceased and the circumstances of the burial. As long as the muzhiming remained in circulation, it provided the context for assigning meaning to the funeral and burial arrangement. In other words, muzhiming constitute a virtual fu-burial, projecting an identity or memory that might be absent or

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different from what can be inferred from the physical aspects of the family graveyard. They also allowed the family to express filial piety and familial devotion, especially when the burial process was unusually prolonged. Much of what I examine in this volume consists of close readings of virtual fu-burials. The efficacy of the approach depends on identifying rhetorical aims and deciphering competing narratives and representations despite apparent congruity. In muzhiming and other medieval sources, the fu-burial expressed commitment to serving one’s parents and grandparents in death, thus demonstrating moral fortitude. Representations in muzhiming of a desire to carry out a fu-burial were often laced with profound emotional attachment between children and parents, and between the living and the dead, thus seem more genuine. The deathbed request of a teenage girl, Wei Meimei 韋美美 (d. 732), was particularly poignant. Her father, Wei Xunru 韋恂 如, described how she pleaded with her last breath for burial with her beloved grandmother: As she was dying, she repeated these last words; the core of the message was none other than the way of filial piety: “After I die, I want to be there in the ancestral graveyard. Grandma’s loving-kindness I have yet to repay.” She kept turning to look at me, wanting once again to express her sentiment. Before she could fully articulate her sentiment, her breathing suddenly stopped.

One can hardly remain unmoved by the depth of Wei Meimei’s devotion to her grandmother or of Wei Xunru’s pain of losing a child. Wei Xunru indeed buried his daughter in the family cemetery as she wished (cong zhi yuan yi 從之願矣).89 The muzhiming of Lady Wei 韋夫人 (d. 711), Commandery Countess of Fuyang, also professed a strong desire to perform filial duties in death via fu-burial. Rather than being interred with her husband and in-laws as was the norm, the countess wanted to be interred with her parents. Before her death, the countess instructed her sons, Filial piety is the embodiment of Heaven’s principle. The sorrow [of losing one’s parents] twined around the windblown trees. While living, I was unable to fulfill [my desire to] stay in a thatched hut next to [my parents’] tomb; in death, I want to accompany them in burial.90

Living in a thatched hut by the grave of one’s recently deceased parents (lumu 廬墓) was a mourning practice prescribed in Liji for sons only. The Eastern Han court encouraged it and the Tang court revived the



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 47

practice.91 The Liji explicitly forbids married women from performing it in mourning their own parents.92 However, among the exemplary women whose biographies were collected in Tang dynastic histories was Madame Xiahou 夏侯氏, who lived during the Zhenguan era 貞觀 (627–649). She divorced her husband, Liu Ji 劉寂, to look after her parents. Moreover, she was said to carry the soil that became the grave mound and stayed in a thatched hut next to the tomb for years. The Tang court publicized her filial conduct and rewarded her grain and silk.93 Madame Xiahou was celebrated precisely because her transgressions were both filial and intentional. The countess followed this recognized model of conspicuous filial piety for married women in attempting to join her parents in burial. Her absence from her husband’s family cemetery would be problematic for her children and marital relations because she would later be remembered as a member of her natal family rather than theirs. If implemented, her request would amount to a posthumous divorce.94 Noticeably, her instructions and their inclusion in the muzhiming shrewdly linked the filial piety she hoped to realize by posthumously serving her parents to expectations that her sons demonstrate filial piety to her: if her sons ignore her request, they would not only be unfilial to her but also make her unfilial to her parents. The rhetorical strategy underscores how a fuburial could materially and posthumously transform an individual’s social identity. It also illustrates how a fu-burial could serve as a measure of moral fortitude via stones, timbers, words, and deeds. That the fu-burial was not an easy feat to pull off even in the best of times only enhanced its conspicuousness and the rewards it could generate as a result. The effectiveness of fu-burial in asserting social identity and memory can be seen in the amount of family resource committed to it, the depth of the anxiety over consequences resulting from nonperformance, and the great rewards for achieving it despite challenges. It would become even more apparent on examining the codification and weaponization of the practices at the hands of the late medieval rulers. Many factors could impede the immediate execution of fu-burials. The distance that one was sometimes required to travel and the costliness of the enterprise often complicated the process. The vicissitude of a family’s fortune, the outbreak of epidemic or war, and hemerology could all derail the best-laid plans. Disputes among family members over fairness in contribution and disagreements over how best to proceed were also known to happen from time to time. Even the throne could hinder the implementation of a fu-burial should it so desire. Because these challenges tested a family’s resolve, their deprivation and perseverance became a conspicuous display of filial piety and a yardstick of moral worth. A completed

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fu-burial was more esteemed than an ostentatious funeral and lavish burial in the late medieval period; although the latter did not diminish in importance, it was considered somewhat vulgar. Impediments and Rewards The travel distance that beset the completion of fu-burials was a result of increased population mobility in early medieval China brought on by the changes in taxation, sociopolitical unrest, expansion of long-distance trade, and the changing perception of sojourning. Because the Han government depended heavily on poll, field, and property taxes, it had strong motivations for limiting people’s movement.95 The incessant military conflicts and sociopolitical chaos following its demise created waves of massive population deracination. Prolonged political decentralization and instability made it difficult for any regime to tax its subjects in ways that could effectively tie them to their lands. People thus grew more used to leaving their native county. After political reunification and restoration of peace in the early seventh century, many also ventured out of the family estate to pursue careers in government or commerce.96 Among members of the late medieval elite, for whom the practice of fu-burial and the production of muzhiming were synonymous with class identity, the most common long-distance travel revolved around government service. Each year, the allure of officialdom drew hundreds of ambitious men from all corners of the realm to Chang’an to prepare for or participate in the civil service examinations. Whether or not one passed the examinations, more travel followed. Those who were unsuccessful would eventually return home or seek their fortune elsewhere. Those who were successful had to travel to their new posts. As most of the entrylevel positions were in districts of far-flung prefectures, the new appointees would have some distance to cover. These assignments were fixed term. Only those individuals with connections, a good evaluation, and luck would land a new appointment in or near the two capitals. The rest would be back on the road heading to yet another provincial post.97 The rule of avoidance—which aimed at preventing local entrenchment by forbidding anyone from being assigned to his native prefecture or any prefecture in which he had previously served—also kept officials moving from place to place. This zigzagging between the center and periphery of the realm would continue even after one reached high office.98 Many officials brought their loved ones to their provincial post given the prospect of a long separation and laws forbidding anyone from establishing a separate household or possessing personal property (bieji yicai 別 籍異財) while parents or grandparents were still living.99 Members of



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 49

office-holding families, including women and children, were therefore acquainted with frequent relocation and long-distance travel.100 Indeed, an overwhelming number of literary works produced in this period centered on parting from or reuniting with family and friends, leaving and returning to the comfortable and sophisticated life of the capitals, or encountering dangers or something extraordinary during the journey. These works vividly capture the anxieties, frustration, and resignation about the inevitable meeting and parting. Death was no stranger and could visit at any moment. It was only a matter of time before a family member died away from home. Repatriating remains to the family cemetery, referred to as guizang 歸葬 or guifu 歸祔 in medieval texts and burial repatriation in this volume, was therefore not an exception but an eventuality.101 The case of Wei Ji 韋濟 (d. 754) and Liu Mao 劉茂 (d. 733) is an excellent example of the burial repatriation of a loved one lost while stationed in a far-flung prefecture (see map 2). It illustrates the logistical challenges, the stopgap measures required, and the careful representation of the arrangement in the muzhiming, all of which underlined fu-burial’s social importance and effectiveness in self-fashioning. Wei Ji lost his beloved wife Liu Mao, District Viscountess of Pengcheng 彭城縣君, to a sudden and possibly childbirth-related illness. She accompanied him while he served as the adjutant of the Commander-in-chief of the Superior Area Command (da dudu fu sima 大都督府司馬) in distant Youzhou 幽州 (the seat of which is modern-day Beijing). Wei Ji revealed his grief in the muzhiming he composed for her several years later: I cried out for a long while on the northern frontier; I reminisced in anguish through the night. Our innocent newborn son wailed over this immense trauma; whom could he lean on when he had no mother? Whom could I rely on when I had no wife? Heaven, the azure one, how could you bear to bestow [this fate] on us?102

Her death had dealt him a heavy blow. Three months later, when he was appointed prefect (cishi 刺史) of Hengzhou 恆州 (the seat of which is Zhending 真定, modern-day Shijiazhuang 石家莊 in Hebei Province), he traveled to his new post with her coffin. Three years afterward, when recalled to Chang’an to serve as Deputy Mayor (jing shaoyin 京少尹), he returned with it. Wei Ji described his attachment to his wife: “I brought her coffin to wherever I was posted so that we could return [home] together.”103 In 736, Wei Ji finally laid her to rest in a grave behind his late father’s in the family cemetery. He concluded the muzhiming preface with these words: “Wielding the brush I am disconsolate, sharing the same [grave] pit is my wish.”104 Indeed, when he died twenty-one years later, he

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was interred with her.105 So poignant were his words, they moved us to appreciate his devotion and grief thirteen centuries later, how much more so would they affect his contemporaries? This muzhiming illustrates the mobility of the elites and the delay of fu-burial due to distance and duties. The distance Wei Ji had to travel for his jobs—roughly 675 miles (1,085 kilometers) from Chang’an to Beijing, 172 miles (277 kilometers) from Beijing to Zhending, and 500 miles (805 kilometers) from Zhending back to Chang’an—is astounding but not uncommon in late medieval China (see map 2). What set him apart was his refusal to bury his wife away from home even temporarily, as many people in the same situation would have done. Wei Ji also took it upon himself to personally compose the muzhiming, something most bereaved husbands of similar literary renown would not have done. Furthermore, his direct expression of profound attachment to his wife when most men in his class would shrink from this for reasons of propriety is remarkable. Wei Ji flaunted his efforts to assure peace for her in the afterlife and expressed anticipation of their reunion in burial. In both words and deeds, he created a lasting tribute to his beloved wife, commemorating her by illuminating the devotion she inspired in him, at the same time inserting himself into the narrative of how she would be remembered. Thus Lady Liu’s fu-burial and muzhiming were as much about him as they were about her. It clarifies how the attempts in fu-burial exhibited moral worth and fashioned memory. Financial limitations often hindered a family’s ability to conduct fuburial. Funerals and burials were costly affairs under the best circumstances. Medieval texts amply document how they could impoverish families. Most medieval states tried to rein in the scale and spending thereby shoring up their own moral and political authority while preventing their subjects from doing the same. The rulers relied on moral persuasion (such as emphasizing frugality and filial piety) and sumptuary law. This edict issued by Emperor Xuanzong exemplifies this approach: Since ancient times, rulers have admonished against lavish burial as it brings no benefit to the dead but harms the livelihood [of the living]. In recent times, everyone engages in extravagance, copying one another, [the practice thus] percolates, becoming a custom. [People] exhaust family resources [because of it], often to the extent of destitution. However, the [deceased’s] soul [hunpo 魂魄] returns to Heaven; clearly, his rarefied essence [jingcheng 精誠] is far gone. Divining the location for the residence [zhai 宅; namely, the grave] was to respect the remains. The ancients did not erect gravemounds; it was not because they lacked the means. Besides, the tomb is a true residence; it has space for the deceased to do as they



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 51 please. Nowadays, [people] build a distinct funerary park ostensibly for the low canopy.106 As for various burial objects, families all compete against each other and take pride in lavishness. They lose the sense of propriety and violate the law, neither of which is appropriate. Damages to corpses or exposures of skeletons [owing to tomb robberies] are indeed caused by [this custom]. Although injunctions are already in place, the department in charge has never explicated them, leaving bereaved families with no rules to follow. It is appropriate to command the department in charge to check publicly [the funeral and burial] against [the deceased’s] court rank and office. The various burial objects shall conform to the stipulated type, number, length, and size. Funerary parks and low canopies shall all be banned and eliminated. The graves and cemeteries must observe [the principle of] simplicity and frugality. No implements for use in the sending-off can be decorated with gold and silver. Any violators will be caned a minimum of one hundred strokes. Any prefectural or district officials who fail to report or investigate [such violations] will also be demoted and given remote posts.107

Apparently, the existing sumptuary law had not been enforced. This edict, too, fell on deaf ears. Muzhiming, memorials, and edicts from later periods all show ostentatious funerals and burials persisted even under the threats of corporal punishment, demotion, and banishment.108 Nearly a century later, the muzhiming of one Lady Dugu 獨孤 (d. 806), District Viscountess of Henai 河內縣君, states that her children have “abundantly supported [her] while she lived and aggrandized [her burial] after she died. [They] mortgaged or sold [properties] to raise funds to furnish the inauspicious arrangements [i.e., funeral and burial].”109 That the author, the father-in-law of Lady Dugu and grandfather of her children, boasted about the efforts demonstrates that the family largely supported the liquidation. One Madame Lu 盧 was also said to have “exhausted the family’s resources and performed the death rituals following the protocol” when interring her husband Zhang Wei 張惟 (d. 803) with his first wife (d. 789) in the family cemetery and was praised by neighbors in the muzhiming composed on this occasion.110 In 823, Li Deyu 李德裕 (787–850), then the Civil Surveillance Commissioner of Zhexi 浙西觀察使, described in a dispatch that “because the custom [of ostentatious funeral and burial] is the norm, none dares to be the one who ignores it.” 111 The persistence of the custom reveals the continuous importance of conspicuous filial piety in the acquisition or maintenance of social respectability. The fu-burial requiring long-distance travel would be even more financially devastating, leaving the impoverished families no choice but to delay it. Many families never managed to complete it.112 When Pei Shi 裴適 (d. 779), a former district magistrate, died while waiting for his next

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assignment, his widow and children were unable to repatriate his remains for burial in the family cemetery. His muzhiming explains that the family’s “property is meager, and its mettle is to be principled in poverty. Hence the dressing [of the corpse], mourning, funeral, and sacrifice were all respectfully and frugally done.”113 It further explains that “they buried him provisionally because they planned to return him to Qin [i.e., Chang’an].”114 The family appeared to have done their best to preserve his dignity under difficult circumstances. One Madame Yin’s 尹 (d. 814) repatriation for burial was similarly plagued by distance and poverty. Like Wei Ji’s wife, she died in the distant prefecture where her husband was stationed; however, unlike Wei Ji’s wife, her remains were left there, provisionally buried, when her husband returned home. Her muzhiming commissioned by her siblings explains: “the location was remote and the family poor; [thus] repatriating her remains for burial was not yet possible.”115 Sadly, given that neither Pei Shi’s nor Madame Yin’s muzhiming were amended, the repatriation never took place. Both families explain the delays and promise that the situation was only temporary. Neither the predicaments nor rhetoric strategies were unusual, for they show up in many muzhiming from late medieval China. The Peis’ emphasis on how their treatment of the deceased did not deviate from the family’s moral principle suggests that the lack of an ostentatious funeral and fu-burial was problematic for members of their class. Social unrest and natural disasters would be difficult obstacles to overcome even for families who did not have to contend with distance or finance. Often, the families themselves were fleeing the affected area and had no option but to delay the fu-burial. To locate the remains of a loved one hastily buried amid chaos could prove challenging. Hun-summoning burials, discussed in depth in chapter 4, provided a solution. Understandably, anyone who undertook the task of conducting a fu-burial during social unrest was celebrated. Lady Yang Yun 楊雲 (d. 774), the District Viscountess of Hongnong 弘農縣君, was such an example. She left Chang’an at the height of the An Lushan Rebellion 安祿山之亂 (756–763) and brought her husband’s remains from his post in Guozhou 虢州 to the family’s cemetery on Mount Longmen (roughly 482 miles or 776 kilometers by modern highway). Her nephew, Cui Zhuo 崔倬, (n.d.) who composed her muzhiming, vividly describes her endeavor: Then, all under Heaven was in turmoil. People dared not protect their bone and flesh [i.e., children], ate nothing but vegetables to eke out their existence, and sought shelter in the wilderness to hide their forms. And yet, she was able to set up the spirit seat in the erected funerary tent and



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 53 presented offerings under the numinous canopy. Grieving, [she] forgot to eat; distressed, [she] ▢▢. She would be a rarity in any time period. Then, from procuring timber to make into a coffin to figuring hemp into mourning clothes, [she worked] day and night to complete everything, leaving no death rituals amiss. After the rebels were vanquished, and the roads became passable, [she led] the hearse ▢▢▢ the thicket and trekked through dangers. [She departed] from Guo[zhou] to arrive at Luo[yang] and buried [him] in the northern piedmont of Mount Longmen, following his last instruction.116

She was “a rarity in any time period” indeed. It would be difficult to exaggerate the obstacles she overcame as so many people had lost loved ones in the rebellion, and the devastation that had been seared into the collective memory. The shared experience and social reality could only enhance contemporary readers’ appreciation of her accomplishment. Besides, the fu-burial was not even her most daring act. She successfully evacuated her family to safety when the rebels sacked Chang’an and recovered the family’s residence from occupying soldiers after the imperial army recaptured the city. The same resourcefulness and tenacity were evident in all these actions. It is difficult to imagine anyone questioning the account of the fu-burial or her other very public and material contributions to her family. Naturally, some people did not survive the journey repatriating the remains for fu-burial given the risks involved. Those who died attempting it were deservedly praised, and their stories, in turn, elevated the social expectation of extreme filial piety and familial devotion. Du Nian 杜輦 (d. 837), who died from exhaustion, is a case in point. His muzhiming claimed that “his strength was weak and the hardship extreme, he traveled and wailed for two thousand li” to convey the coffins of his mother and two siblings from the family’s residence in Jiangling 江陵 (modern-day Nanjing in Jiangsu Province) to the ancestral cemetery near Luoyang. Although “two thousand li” might seem a figure of speech, Du Nian traveled roughly 750 miles (1,207 kilometers) each way.117 Once the fu-burial was completed, he headed home to Jiangling with the spirit tablets. However, after arriving at home, but before the yu-sacrifice was finished (that is, on the second day), he collapsed. Soon Du Nian was on the road again, this time in a coffin. His distant cousin retraced his steps to the family cemetery and interred him with the loved ones he only just buried. His muzhiming declares, As his conduct merited praise, his temperament was amicable, and his aspiration lofty, he should have established a name for eternity. How could he have no fortune, no longevity, and no descendant? Does the Way

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The impassioned responses to his death were no doubt an exaggeration, but the expectation of rewards from accomplishing a demanding fuburial was not. Du Nian’s case highlights two other important aspects of the practice of fu-burial. First, some families continued to use the same cemetery even though they had permanently relocated to another area. Second, “wailing” was a ritual essential to any funeral and burial. The special mention of his diligence indicates the difficulty for one to keep up the performance during a long journey, a subject we turn to shortly. When compounded, these impediments could easily delay a fu-burial for years or even decades. Persistence itself became a conspicuous display of filial piety and familial devotion, demonstrating moral fortitude even after the memory of the deceased had all but faded. As the responsibility was passed from one generation to the next, the plans and attempts of completing a fu-burial became the glue that held the extended family together. The case of Lu Ping 盧泙 (d. 768) is an example. When the muzhiming of Lu Ping’s wife, Madame Zheng 鄭 (d. 780), was composed, attempts to provide him with a fu-burial had already spanned eight decades and three generations (figure 1.2).119 The process had been plagued by every obstacle imaginable—distance, poverty, social unrest, hemerology, and additional deaths in the family. It began when Lu Ping died while serving as the assistant magistrate (zhubu 主簿, ranked 9b1) of Yuancheng District in Weizhou 魏州元城縣 (in modern-day Hebei Province). His son Lu Yin 盧殷 was at the time only a toddler. Madame Zheng, having no means to return home, buried him provisionally. Weizhou was

Figure 1.2  The Family Tree of Lu Ping



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one of the three northwestern provinces that had been semi-autonomous since the An Lushan Rebellion and whose relations with the Tang court were tumultuous. Fearful of the area’s political volatility, she relocated the family to Lingbao District 靈寶縣, some 331 miles (533 kilometers) away. Her muzhiming gives no rationale for her choice of location, saying only that she died in a Daoist abbey there a decade later and was provisionally buried.120 The distance between the Lingbao District and the Lu ancestral cemetery on Mount Wan’an 萬安山 outside Luoyang was roughly 131 miles (212 kilometers), which was a comparatively short distance. The reason given for the delay was hemerology. Lu Yin entered the officialdom following in his father’s footsteps. He similarly died in office and was buried provisionally. Madame Zheng’s muzhiming gives no information on the circumstances of his death and burial other than mentioning that he was the District Defender (xianwei 縣尉; ranked 9a2) of Pinglu in Shaanzhou 陜州平陸縣 (in modern-day Henan Province) when he died. Lu Yin was survived by his wife, three sons, and a daughter. Hoping that his sons would shoulder the responsibility to repatriate his parents’ remains for reburial in the family cemetery, Lu Yin included the character hui 回 (to return), in the names of all his sons: Fanghui 方回 (the means to return); Jinghui 敬回 (the reverence for return), and Wanghui 望回 (the hope of return). The brothers all continued the family tradition of serving in the government. They put aside their meager salaries for this purpose except for what they provided their mother, who, in turn, also set aside some of it by running the household frugally. Unfortunately, events overtook them. First, the situation in Weizhou deteriorated, and travel in contested territories became extremely dangerous for Tang officials. Then their mother died, which added to the family’s financial woes because the brothers had to resign their posts and observe mourning per government regulation.121 At this juncture, Lu Yin’s daughter, Commandery Duchess of Hejian 河間郡夫人, provided the needed funds. Her husband Cui Xuan 崔鉉 (d. 868?), who was then a chief minister of Emperor Xiuanzong 宣宗 (r. 847– 859), likely helped out in some fashion.122 The brothers divided up the labor. Fanghui secured the burial plots and successfully retrieved his father’s remains from Shaanzhou. Jinghui went to Lingbao and returned with his grandmother’s coffin. Wanghui stayed home to oversee the preparations. In 850, the family finally laid to rest Madame Zheng as well as Lu Yin and his wife in the family cemetery. Because the following year was hemerologically auspicious for reburying their grandparents together, the brothers vowed to retrieve their grandfather’s remains from Weizhou. Their determination, however, apparently came to nothing

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because Madame Zheng’s muzhiming has no amendment. Lu Ping was still in his temporary grave separated from his ancestors and loved ones eighty-three years after his death. Such a lengthy delay might seem extreme, but it was by no means unique. Madame Zheng’s muzhiming was written by her great-grandson, Cui Hang 崔沆 (d. 881), the son of the duchess, who later became a chief minister of Emperor Xizong 僖宗 (r. 873–888).123 Of its nearly 900 characters, roughly 650 were devoted to chronicling the saga, explaining the delays, and identifying those individuals who had contributed to the endeavor. The emphasis might be unavoidable given that neither Cui Hang nor his mother and uncles knew his great-grandparents. Other than her pedigree, relocation after her husband’s death, and the circumstance of her own death, the muzhiming sheds no light on her as a person. The memory of her must have faded by then given that the account of her life was entirely crowded out by that of her husband’s long-delayed fu-burial. Moreover, Lu Ping’s pending fu-burial appears to have taken on a life of its own. In the interceding year, the center of filial devotion had shifted from him to his fu-burial. His grandchildren pressed on, they claimed, because it was their parents’ wish. They did accomplish more than the previous generations despite having to repatriate an ever-increasing number of deceased family members. Cui Hang understandably gave his mother and uncles the limelight and replaced the memory of the long-lost kin with their struggles. That it was he, son of a chief minister and a member of the Cui family, rather than someone from the Lu family, who composed the muzhiming is significant. The Cuis’ superior sociopolitical standing could better magnify the reputation of the Lus, and their support of the Lus’ endeavor enhanced theirs in return. In short, although Lu Ping’s and Madame Zheng’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren had no particular attachment to them, the fu-burial (still in progress) brought the extended family together in solidarity. Not every fu-burial brought out the best of the family. The muzhiming of one Late Master Li 李府君 (d. 820) accuses relatives of refusing to help. The late master, formerly an investigating censor 監察御史, was demoted to the lowly post of district defender and banished to the remote southwestern district Yichun 宜春 (in modern-day Jiangxi 江西 Province). His exile was the result of his superior’s rebellion against the court in which he took no part. Like so many officials sent to distant corners of the realm, he soon fell ill and died at his new post. His wife and two sons headed back to Luoyang with his casket but ran out of funds halfway. With some 350 miles (roughly 600 kilometers) still to go, they “pinned their hope on the assistance from kin and friends.”124 Help never came, and Madame



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Zheng died in despair. Wang Xuantong 王玄同, the author of the muzhiming and her son-in-law, explains the cause of her death as follows: Her sorrow drove her body to exhaustion, Her anguish deepened her spirit’s desolation; Her profound anger was not acknowledged; Thus she was struck down by a malicious disease.

哀迫形瘁; 感深神傷; 幽憤莫伸; 由此遘厲.

Wang Xuantong deplored the unfeeling relatives: “when travelers on the road heard, even they lamented and sighed; how much more so should it have moved the loved ones’ heart?” The brothers finally reached home and buried their parents in the family cemetery later that year. Wang Xuantong, then Prefect of Zhongzhou 忠州刺史, was probably their sole benefactor.125 After shaming the heartless relatives, Wang Xuantong complained to the throne and bemoaned the “unjust treatment” that Late Master Li received, stating the “high-ranking officials at court all knew he was extremely wronged.”126 Such a bold display of grievances in muzhiming was not unusual. Late medieval muzhiming did not focus only on highlighting the positive; they also often comment on the deceased’s poor judgment, expose family discord, or even criticize the government or society. Here, Wang Xuantong turned the muzhiming into a courtroom of public opinion and prosecuted relatives and emperors alike, all nuances of the circumstance ignored. This case demonstrates the consequence for withholding assistance from relatives who were conducting fu-burial, and muzhiming’s perceived reach and effectiveness in influencing public opinion and reshaping memory. Private and Public Triumphs The feat of completing a demanding fu-burial could be more than a conspicuous display of filial piety and familial devotion. It could enable a family to create a new identity separated from other houses within the same lineage. The family cemetery outside Luoyang that Cui Youfu 崔祐 甫 (721–780) established in 778 was a fu-burial that dwarfed all those discussed in difficulty and grandeur.127 The process was extremely complicated, involving the retrieval of the remains of ten family members spanning three generations—his grandparents, parents, uncle and his wife, several siblings and first cousins, and their wives—from their temporary graves in different parts of the realm.128 Cui Youfu belonged to a cadet branch of the illustrious Cui lineage of Boling Commandery 博陵崔氏 and had held the baronetcy of Anping District (安平縣開國男). The Boling Cuis were one of the most ancient and

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Figure 1.3  The Family Tree of Cui Youfu

preeminent clans of the Shandong aristocracy, reaching back to the Eastern Han period. In the early medieval period, the Anping house was renowned for its erudition, moral fortitude, and tenuous hold on high offices. Many members were technocrats essential to governance regardless of which dynasty was ruling. They gradually moved from their ancestral lands to the capital region to amass new resources.129 Like those who branched out from a great house of a prominent lineage, Cui Youfu’s family continued to use the ancestral choronym (the Anping District of the Boling Commandery), linking itself to the memory of its glorious ancestors. At the same time, it sought to distinguish itself from the rest of the Anping house, which was what this spectacular fu-burial meant to accomplish. Indeed, Cui Youfu’s family had achieved great status and sufficient prestige to warrant a new and independent identity. Cui Youfu’s grandfather Cui Ai 崔皚 (d. 705), father Cui Mian 崔沔 (d. 739), and uncle Cui Hun 崔渾 (d. 706) were all high-ranking officials at the Tang court.130 The family had held the baronetcy since Emperor Zhongzong reclaimed the throne from Empress Wu Zetian. Cui Youfu himself, at the time of the fu-burial, was a Secretariat Drafter (zhongshu sheren 中書舍人) and trusted advisor of Emperor Daizong 代宗 (r. 762–779). Evidence that the cemetery was designed to signal the start of new family identity is explicit in his amendment to his grandfather’s muzhiming: At first, Lord Anping’s [Cui Ai’s] great-grandfather, the Prefect of Liangzhou, defied Ge Rong [?–528] and his rebellion to serve the Western Wei [535–557] and [then] entered [the service of the Northern] Zhou [557–581]



The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial 59 founded by the Yuwen clan. Since the Prefect of Liangzhou, the two following generations were buried in the northern plain of the capital city Xianyang. Lord Anping served His Majesty [Tang Emperor Gaozong], who was often in Luoyang. Thus the family moved farther east. During the turmoil in the Shenlong era [707–709, during which Empress Wu was dethroned], the Investigating Censor [Cui Hun] and Vice Director of the Department of the State Affairs 僕射 [Cui Mian], owing to the decrepitude of old age of their mother, the District Duchess of Anping [Cui Ai’s wife], other pressing affairs, and the family’s poverty, provisionally entombed [Lord Anping] on Mount Mang. Since then, the following generations have resided in Luoyang by the Chan River. Down to Lord Anping’s great-grandsons, it had been four generations. Furthermore, it was [a time] of wars, and the roads were full of mishaps; even now, we are unable to relocate [the dead] westward [to Xianyang]. [The situation] was no more serious than when [our forefathers were] serving the [Northern] Zhou and thereby unable to return north [to Liangzhou] to be buried. Learned scholars said that “the rites were neither sent down from Heaven nor issued forth from Earth but were [based on] human circumstances.” If this is not such a circumstance, then what would be the circumstance?131

Cui Youfu stated, matter-of-factly, that this was not the first time that the family had established a separate cemetery. This one was pardonable given the exceptional hardship caused by the An Lushan Rebellion. In a letter addressed to his superior, he described the calamity that had befallen his family: [I], Youfu, together with ten cousins and siblings, were in the midst [of the An Lushan Rebellion]. Each day we faced dangers and provocations, scarcely knowing whether we would survive or perish. That we could look after one another was owning to my older brothers and sisters. Then, as the Central Xia [i.e., the Chinese heartland] fell to the enemy, the entire family moved south. The blood and marital relations followed, one after another, numbering more than one hundred. My eldest brother [Chengfu 成甫], who was the magistrate of Fengcheng, died prematurely of illness a year later [in 758]. My second eldest sister [Yanai 嚴愛] who stayed in Jizhou [with me] for one whole year died next in childbirth [in 759]. My wailing orphaned nephew remained sickly even after the three-year mourning period. My older cousin [Zhongfu 眾甫], the [Assistant] Editorial Director, came to the Wu area from the Shu area, traveling ten thousand li to return [to his family]. [After] days of sojourning alone, I was hoping to lean on him. How could I have anticipated that Heaven would not protect a person who had accumulated [great] merits? My family had suffered one misfortune after another; mountains had crumbled, and crossbeams had broken off. Now, at the end of this summer [in 762], my

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Cui Zhongfu’s family was not alone in suffering great loss during the rebellion, needing decades to recover from the devastation and rebury the dead. The primaries of this cemetery were the barons of the Anping District, namely Youfu’s grandfather Cui Ai (the first baron), Youfu’s uncle Cui Hun (the second baron), first cousin Zhongfu (his uncle’s heir and the third baron), and, almost two decades later, Qichen 契臣 (d. 799; his cousin once removed and the last baron). True to the form of medieval familial joint-burial, Youfu’s father Cui Mian and cousin Yifu 夷甫 (d. 756), both younger sons who did not inherit the title, were among the occupants as well. Noticeably absent from the family cemetery were Youfu’s cousin Mengsun 孟孫 (d. 758) and brother Chengfu 成甫 (d. 758); both were the eldest but they were born to concubines. Even though they could not be buried with those born to a legal wife, their living children all participated in completing the fu-burial. Youfu, being the first District Viscount of Changshan 常山縣開國子, was the last of his line entombed in this cemetery. His heir Cui Zhi 崔植 (772–829), whom he adopted from his younger half-brother Yingfu 嬰甫, and later a chief minister of Emperor Muzong 穆宗 (r. 820–24), established a new cemetery for himself and his descendants.133 The cemetery Cui Youfu founded highlighted the baronetcy, thus distinguishing the family from others in the same house. It further separated the wives’ and concubines’ children by excluding the latter. Cui Youfu thus went against the more expansive view of family held by his father and uncle when they incorporated the character fu 甫 in the given name of all their sons, except Mengsun. Cui Youfu also used this large scale and high profile fu-burial to advance his political career. With this ambitious project, he cemented his reputation as the preeminent classicist and ritual expert of his generation and enhanced his authority at court considerably. It played well in Emperor Dezong’s effort to regain political capital against recalcitrant warlords through reforming court rituals.134 Cui Youfu spearheaded the reform and prevailed on the conservative faction who resisted it. His preeminence in all matters ritual is on display in his famous confrontation with his longtime nemesis and chief minister Chang Gun 常袞 (726–783). In what one modern scholar describes as a “hot-blooded squabble,” Cui Youfu openly censured Chang Gun for violating the ritual protocol when mourning



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Emperor Dezong’s late father, Emperor Daizong 代宗 (r. 762–779). At first, a furious Chang Gun succeeded in getting Cui Youfu demoted to Deputy Mayor of Luoyang 河南少尹. However, as soon as the other two chief ministers alerted the emperor, Chang Gun was demoted to this post instead, and Cui Youfu took his place as a chief minister.135 While this fu-burial was only one of many factors that launched Cui Youfu into the highest office in the government, the political capital it generated should not be underestimated. The Fu-burial as a Political Tool Cui Youfu’s case demonstrates that an individual or a family could use fu-burial to achieve political aims. Because the Tang court was mainly made up of men from his social class, it was not blind to the political potential of the practice. Tang monarchs also recognized the benefits of promoting it. For centuries, rulers rewarded those who had rendered great services with a state funeral and burial aggrandizement and punished those who committed treason by destroying their corpses and tombs. As an enduring and public monument to filial piety, the fu-burial was more potent still. By codifying the practice, Tang rulers dictated the standard against which the performance was evaluated. They made specific individuals and families unfilial by forbidding them to carry out fuburial, thereby depriving them of the opportunity to assert their desired identity and memory. Emperor Xuanzong, perhaps the shrewdest monarch in terms of leveraging filial piety for political gains, ordered the codification of reburial. Inside the Kaiyuan li was the step-by-step instruction calibrated according to the rank of the deceased.136 The apparent assumption was that the reburial would take place after the mourning period because mourning attire was not required beyond the initial stage of the reburial. The provisional measures remained unstandardized likely because flexibility was essential to accommodate various circumstances. The prescribed reburial proceeding was complicated, consisting of seventeen steps, which could be divided into five stages. The following was prescribed for officials holding positions of the sixth rank and lower; most individuals discussed in this volume belong to this group. The first stage takes place at the new burial plot, attended by the extended family. The first step is to conduct the “canonical divination of burial site” (buzhai 卜宅) for ascertaining whether the location is appropriate. Burial-related divination will be discussed in depth in chapter 3. Once confirmed, the extended family proceeds to the “Initial Supplication” (qiqing 啟請), performing ritual wailing to fully express their sorrow.

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The second stage is exhumation; the steps are carried out with professional help. The “Excavating the [Original] Grave” 開墳 began with the professional officiant (zhu 祝) announcing to the deceased the rationale of the reburial. The family members present wail. The undertakers (zhangshi zhe 掌事者) excavated the grave, after which the family members wail again. As the undertakers “Raise the Casket” 舉柩 from the burial pit and place it on a straw mat, the family members take their designated seats around it. The initial “Sacrifice” 奠 starts after the officiant has wiped the surface of the casket clean and set out food and drink for the deceased. The chief mourner, usually the eldest living son of the deceased, washes his hands and then offers libation. After the ritual offerings are cleared away, the undertakers “Load the Casket into the Hearse” (sheng jiuche 升 柩車), transporting it to the inauspicious tent (xiongwei 凶帷) where they will move the corpse to a screened-off bed for “Dressing” 斂. The family members assume their designated seats in the tent and wail again. The undertakers proceed to redress the corpse. Once the family members stop wailing, the undertakers return the corpse to the casket and close the lid. The family wails again as the deceased’s children drape a coverlet over it. The second “Sacrifice” follows. The officiant and undertakers set out food and drink. The chief mourner offers libation after washing his hands. The family members wail again. The officiate then “Sets Up the Spirit Feast” 設靈筵 in a separate auspicious tent (jiwei 吉帷) that is furnished like living quarters. Until the embarkation, the deceased will be served daily meals here. The third stage is the embarkation. The night before, the undertakers “Bring Forth the Hearse” 進引 to the inauspicious tent. Various music instruments and implements for the funerary procession, such as the ropes attached to the bier (fu 绋), ornaments for the coffin (sha 翣), banners (dao 纛), and pennants bearing the name of the deceased (mingjing 銘旌), are checked by their handlers. The family members wail. This is followed by the officiant who goes before the spirit seat to “Inform [the deceased of] the [impending] Departure” 告遷. The undertakers then load the casket into the hearse. Next, the family members, standing at their designated locations, “Wail at the Hearse” 哭柩車位. A simple “Departing Sacrifice” 設遷奠 is offered. The chief mourner performs libation as the family members continue to wail. The journey is the fourth stage. After the ritual offerings have been cleared away “The Hearse Moves Out” 轜車發. The officiant rides with the casket in the hearse; the cortege follows carrying the implements and playing the funerary tunes. The family members who will stay take their leave, while those who will travel with the hearse, ride or walk behind it,



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wailing incessantly. When the party “Stops for the Night” 宿止, the undertakers set up the spirit seat in the auspicious tent and repeat the Second Sacrifice. They park the hearse, still loaded with the casket, in the inauspicious tent where the family members take turns to wail throughout the night. The next morning, the party moves on after the officiant presents the “Departing Sacrifice.” The final stage begins when the party “Arrives at the Gravesite” 到墓. The spirit seat is once again set up in the auspicious tent, and minced meat and liquor are presented. The hearse comes to a stop before the tomb tunnel, and the casket is unloaded onto a straw mat. The family members present take turns to briefly touch the casket with their hands and then return to their designated location and wail. The undertakers then place the casket, grave goods, pennants, and muzhiming inside the tomb. Once the door of the tomb is locked, the undertakers fill the tunnel and cover the tomb with soil. The family members then sacrifice to the Spirit of the Earth (houto 后土) as with a regular burial. The whole proceeding of reburial ends with the “Sacrifice for Repose” (yu-sacrifice) that the undertakers would set up before the spirit seat. After the chief mourner washes and offers libation, he recites the final prayer, kneeling: On X era, X year, X month, X date, the filial son X dares to declare to his late father, [fill in the office and title], that the rites for moving to another dark residence are to end with the final yu-sacrifice. I clamber and cry incessantly but am unable to reach you. Respectfully, a pure sacrificial hog, delicious offerings of cooked millet, unhusked millet, and aged liquor are being presented on the occasion of Yu[-sacrifice] for the late father [fill in the office and title]. Please partake of this sacrifice.137

This overview of the codified proceeding of reburial should offer some perspectives on the financial and physical costs of performing a fuburial that requires long-distance travel. Thus neither Lady Yang Yun’s success in completing her husband’s fu-burial amid the An Lushan Rebellion nor Du Nian’s death from exhaustion should be dismissed as mere hyperbole. The codification of reburial, like that of gravesite ancestral sacrifice, kept the fu-burial prominent in the collective consciousness. In addition to being a public demonstration of moral fortitude, strict adherence to the state ritual code confirms one’s rank and qualification for political office. Promoting fu-burial hence gave the state control over the private construction of identity and memory. Permitting some disgraced families to repatriate their dead for fu-burial showed its authority and magnanimity. For instance, Emperor Xiuanzong 宣宗 (r. 847–859) decreed in 849 that

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Chapter One When a convict who had been banished and demoted dies at the place of his demotion, if the offense was not parricide, [the family] could freely petition the Ministry of Justice for permission to repatriate [the remains] for fu-burial. Should the place [of death] be extremely remote, [the local administration] will also have the discretion, based on the circumstance, to provide a simple coffin.138

Clearly, such convicts are previously ranking officials. The decree demonstrates how the state could give or take away an individual’s or family’s ability to perpetuate desired identity and memory through fu-burial. When the state bars a convict from a reburial in the family cemetery, it bars them from expressing filial piety. The need to secure permission from the state indicates that filial piety and loyalty to the state were, more than ever, inseparably linked.139 No case demonstrated the full extent of the political weaponization of fu-burial more than that of Li Deyu, a chief minister of Tang Emperors Wenzong 文宗 (r. 827–840) and Wuzong 武宗 (r. 840–846). Li Deyu and his archnemesis Niu Cengru 牛僧孺 (779–848) were locked in a bitter, threedecade-long political struggle known as Niu-Li Factional Strife 牛李黨爭.140 The animosity between them crippled the dynasty and kept the wheel of fortune turning for all those involved. Li Deyu, Niu Cengru, and their followers had each been banished, recalled, demoted, and promoted in turn. Niu Cengru’s death in 848 and Li Deyu’s in 850 finally drew the strife to a close. But lingering acrimony and the Niu faction’s dominance at court made repatriating Li Deyu’s remains from his place of banishment in Aizhou 崖州 of the furthest southeastern reach of the empire (modern-day Hainan 海南) for fu-burial an opportunity for retaliation. Although modern scholars, especially Chen Yinke 陳寅恪 and Fu Xuancong 傅璇琮, have examined Li Deyu’s burial repatriation in great detail,141 they have not paid attention to its lingering presence in the public imagination. Two interwoven accounts exist about Li Deyu’s burial repatriation. In the first, Li Deyu appeared to Linghu Tao 令狐綯 (d. 859), a member of the Niu faction and a chief minister of Emperor Xiuanzong, in a dream. The former asked the latter to supplicate the emperor on his behalf for permission to be repatriated for fu-burial. Linghu Tao told his son about the dream but was cautioned that bringing it up with the emperor might infuriate those colleagues who were Li Deyu’s enemies (and previous victims). Shortly afterward, the night before the emperor was to hold court, Li Deyu again appeared in Linghu Tao’s dream. This time, Linghu Tao told his son that he feared Li Deyu’s potent spirit would cause them harm if he remained silent. He petitioned the emperor forthwith and secured permission for Li Deyu’s remains to be brought back from Aizhou and



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interred in the Li family cemetery. This is an account not from a collection of supernatural tales but reported in Dongguan zouji 東觀奏記 (The Memorials from the Eastern Watchtower) by court historian Pei Tingyu 裴庭裕 (fl. late-ninth century), it is also found in the New Tang History.142 This version is sympathetic to Li Deyu, implicitly protesting his innocence and accusing the Niu faction of cruelty. Compiled by historians, this record has largely been taken as historical, it underlines the extent to which burial repatriation and fu-burial had shaped the popular imagination and influenced official historiography—and, thereby, could sometimes be a double-edged sword for the throne. The second account comes mainly from the three muzhiming belonging to Li Deyu’s concubine of forty-one years Madame Liu Zhiruo 劉致柔 (d. 849), his heir Li Ye 李燁 (d. 860), and Li Ye’s wife Madame Zheng 鄭 (d. 855).143 When Li Deyu was banished to Chaozhou 潮州 and then Aizhou in 848, Madame Liu, his eldest daughter, and his sons Li Hun 李渾 and Li Ju 李鉅 accompanied him. When Madame Liu died within a few months of their arrival, Li Deyu was beside himself with grief. He composed her muzhiming, blaming himself for her death, and stating that “on X year, X month, and X day, she was repatriated and buried at Yulin near the graves of [their] two [predeceased] sons and one daughter” 以某年某月某日返葬 於洛陽榆林近二男一女之墓.144 Yulin, located near the Zhang village in Jinggu township 金谷鄉 outside Luoyang, was where Li Deyu’s grandfather Li Xiyun 李栖筠 (719–776), an influential statesman during the reign of Emperor Daizong 代宗 (r. 762–779), and his father Li Jifu 李吉甫 (758– 814), a chief minister of Emperor Xianzong 憲宗 (r. 805–820), were laid to rest. Li Deyu left the time of her repatriated burial blank, clearly expecting to be recalled and return with her remains. Unfortunately, he outlived her only by about four months. Li Ye, who was demoted to district defender and banished to Lishan 立山 in Mengzhou 蒙州 (in modern-day Guangxi 廣西 Province) following his father’s downfall, received the news of his mother’s passing two months later. But his superior swiftly rejected his petition for a leave of absence to repatriate his mother’s remains for fu-burial. It was not until 852 that Emperor Xiuanzong granted him a special pardon to do so. Li Ye’s muzhiming and other historical records suggest that the emperor was brought around not by Linghu Tao’s petition but by the realization that his military offense against the invading Tangut people would have failed without Li Deyu’s prescient financial planning.145 Li Ye departed from Aizhou in the third month of that year, taking with him the caskets of his parents, siblings, and several servants, arrived in Luoyang in the tenth month, and completed the fu-burial in the twelfth

Map 3  The Route of Le Ye’s Burial Repatriation of Li Deyu (mostly by water)



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month. He described his journey in the postscript of Madame Liu’s muzhiming explaining how he had negotiated “rugged terrains of river and land, repeatedly experienced dangers and difficulties, traveled for three seasons, and traversed ten thousand li.” Given the distance (1,270 miles or 2,050 kilometers) and the ritual protocol that he was obligated to follow under watchful eyes, this statement probably does not exaggerate much.146 After repatriating his parent’s remains, Li Ye returned to his post in Mengzhou. In 855, his wife died and was provisionally buried. After Emperor Xiuanzong’s passing in 859, the newly enthroned Emperor Yizong 懿宗 (r. 859–873) recalled Li Ye from exile; only then was he able to finally inter his wife in the family graveyard.147 The new emperor also restored to Li Deyu his rank of Junior Guardian of the Heir Apparent (taizi shaobao 太子少保, rank 2a) and the title of the Duke of Wei State (Wei guogong 衞國公, rank 3a), and granted him the posthumous office of the Left Vice Director of the Department of the State Affairs (shangshu zuo puye 尚書左僕射, rank 2b).148 All these came too late for Li Ye. He died at his new post near Xianyang just four months before the family regained the rank, title, and properties. His sons laid him to rest in the family cemetery, where their little sister Xuanli 懸黎 would join him ten years later.149 The saga of Li Deyu and his family’s burial repatriation finally came to an end. Lin Hutao’s fear underscores the belief that the dead would find no rest until their remains were interred with their ancestors. The reporting of it demonstrates that because fu-burial was now part of the public psyche, it was ripe for political weaponizing. Emperor Xiuanzong’s initial refusal was harsh because it prevented Li Deyu from serving his ancestors in the underworld and deprived the family the opportunity to offer an alternative history. Once the Tang rulers started wielding fuburial as a weapon, it crossed from the discursive field of filial piety into that of loyalty to the state. DID THE DEAD HAVE AGENCY? Li Deyu’s specter raises the interesting question of whether the dead had agency in dictating burial arrangements and, by extension, identity and memory. The fact that Tang court historians reported Linghu Tao’s nightmares as the reason behind Li Deyu’s formal pardon is telling. It shows that fear carried real currency. Such fear generated stories like “Tale of Li Huan” 李澣 in which the namesake character’s ghost returns home and frightens his children into burying his second wife rather than his first with him. He threatens, “Should you go against my words, the way of the

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spirits demands your death!”150 The fear of ghosts fueled the perceived need for a fu-burial that reunited the dead with specific loved ones and kept them content. It further boosted the dying individuals’ bargaining power when denying them a fu-burial was to prevent them from fulfilling their filial duties in the afterlife. The wrath coming from the dead and their ancestors would strengthen their power over the living. Fear commanded even higher purchasing power when the dead were not just numinous but also loquacious. Both Li Deyu and Li Huan were vocal about what they desired. There is no shortage of loquacious almost-dead who dictated the funeral and burial arrangements from the deathbed in late medieval muzhiming. Wei Meimei, who had pleaded to be buried next to her beloved grandmother, and the Commandery Countess of Fuyang, who demanded being interred with her parents, are further examples in this regard. However, once we consider that these last words were “re-presented” in muzhiming whose nature was already complex, the voice of loquacious dying persons and the agency their loquaciousness explicated become suspect. On the one hand, last words appeared to be binding for a number of reasons—fear, affection, filial piety, witnesses, and social expectation; on the other, they were selected for inclusion in the inscription and possibly edited to address dissension. Noticeably, the most loquacious dying persons were often those who desired a nonnormative funeral and burial. In his muzhiming, Yuan Gao 源杲 (d. 722) reportedly said to his children, As I have reached the position of Regional Earl [Prefect], I have been distinguished; as my years exceed eighty, I have lived a long life. To live and die is the eternal principle. Why would I have any regret? Although I will be separated from you, I cannot let go of my affection. If I can but get to serve my ancestors in the underworld, it indeed will be a blessing.151

The author then inserts his own comment—“This was undoubtedly [a sign of] his thorough understanding of his lot and holding fast to filial piety”—before proceeding to Yuan Gao’s second request, namely, not to be buried with his wife.152 Yuan Gao purportedly explained, “The way of the spirits is to travel far and unobstructed; besides, [our graves] will not be very far apart.”153 Yuan Gao’s wisdom and filial piety therefore rendered his choice of a nonnormative arrangement acceptable and deflected any potential criticisms of the family. After all, it was he and not his children who rejected the customarily spousal joint-burial. Whether these words were indeed his last, their inclusion provided the family some



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cover for violating burial norms. His last words secured a measure of agency for him. The greater his perceived agency, the more latitude his family received as they carried out a nonnormative practice.154 Ironically, it was the last words of those loquacious dying persons, who refused a fu-burial, that fully substantiated the importance of the practice and the perceived power of the dead’s agency. The muzhiming of Madame Hong 洪 (d. 841) described her deathbed scene. She reportedly said to her two sons, In the past, I heard a folk saying that where one dies is fated. At first, I did not really believe it. Besides, my and your families for generations have lived in the Wu area. Now I am gravely ill in Luoyang, how could fate be dodged? Thus, I understand that after I die, I must be buried north of Luoyang.155

Madame Hong seemingly believed that the locations of her death and burial were inescapable. It was said that her sons “reverently followed the former command as it was filial [to do so].”156 Because her decision did not appear to be coming from profound wisdom or moral conviction, it is probably relatively trustworthy. Her sons’ obedience underscores her agency, which, in turn, enhanced theirs vis-à-vis social expectations. The respective agencies of the dead and the living were hence cogenerated, reinforcing each other. Should we be surprised that the muzhiming author was Madame Hong’s eldest son? Both the dying and their loved ones needed the dead to have agency to further propagate and preserve their desired identity and memory. It strengthened their respective control over the arrangement of funeral and burial details and deflected any potential criticisms. When the last words were combined with moral conviction, agency became a force that could overwhelm many objections. The general public was no less invested in specific dead having agency. Let us not forget that those who performed fu-burials and produced muzhiming detailing the burial arrangements were the same people—members of office-holding families—who authored, collected, or read the accounts of Li Deyu and Li Huan. The supposedly historical accounts on Linghu Tao’s nightmares show that the numinous and loquacious dead could sometimes even check imperial authority. In the next chapter, I examine further how a fu-burial (and spousal joint-burial specifically) or the lack of it could alter social identity and the rhetorical ways individuals could challenge social norms.

C H A P T E R

T W O

Spousal Joint- and Disjoint-Burials

In 853, Madame Wang 王 took ill and passed away while traveling with her husband Sun Qiu 孫絿. The latter admitted in the muzhiming that he was a poor husband to her, being a drunk and a slacker. Despite crediting her for his recent sobriety and preparation for the civil service examination, Sun confessed to disappointing her when arranging her burial. Madame Wang specifically told him, “My father was interred in Chang’an. When I die, I wish to return there and be buried next to him. If I could look after him along the dark path, then I will have no regret.”1 Sun Qiu praised her filial devotion but interred her in his family cemetery, claiming, It could be said that your conduct as a daughter is without deficiency. However, there are such things that cannot be permitted. You have a son named Jingnu and a daughter named Yinu. Considering that one day, when offering feast and sacrifice, they forget about your grave, then how could their way of being children be without regrets?2

He then stressed that her choice might expose their children to the criticism of being unfilial. A moral blemish such as this should concern her because “Being ignorant and simple, I could not spread your excellent reputation, therefore, the glorification of your virtue and illumination of your conduct will depend on your son, Jingnu.”3 Sun Qiu’s message is plain enough. Because he was unable to distinguish himself, if she wishes to protect and promote her reputation and that of their son, she should forgo expressing her filiality so that their son could express his. Sun Qiu thus quoted his wife’s request in her muzhiming and then 70



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deliberately defied it. Here is a case of the loquacious dead being outargued by the living. Sun Qiu’s insistence that his wife’s fu-burial with her natal family could be detrimental to their children’s future is noteworthy. The unusual length he went to “convince” her also deserves attention. Shielding their children from the potential criticism of being unfilial seemed a feeble excuse to deny her virtuous request. Why could they not sacrifice to her at the gravesite of their maternal kin? His concern was more likely what her absence from his family graveyard might indicate as it would change her posthumous identity. To fully understand Sun Qiu’s concern, one must begin with the basic questions: What was spousal joint-burial (hezang 合 葬, or he-burial)? What was spousal disjoint-burial (fenzang 分葬, or fenburial)? As a fu-burial (familial joint-burial) declared the deceased’s family membership and lack thereof cast doubts on the deceased’s and the family’s filial piety and familial devotion, what then might a fen-burial signify? Spousal joint-burial is a fu-burial on a smaller scale. It involves two individuals who became family by rites and law (lifa 禮法). The social bond between husband and wife is therefore weaker than that between blood relations. Although he-burial inters a married couple together and fen-burial inters them apart, the reality was far messier because what qualifies as together was subjective. How close must the husband and wife be interred to be considered together? The answers ranged from merely being buried in the same general area to sharing the inner coffin. Between these two extremes were cases where the term he-burial was used to describe a couple that shared the same tomb chamber, or the same tomb (in separate chambers), or who were buried in different tombs under the same grave mound, or who were merely buried within the same graveyard. The answers to what distance the couple must be separated to qualify as apart are just as subjective. Every arrangement except placing the couple’s remains inside one coffin had been considered a fen-burial by some. Therefore, unlike fu-burial, what was he-burial to one person could be fen-burial to someone else, what was labeled he-burial in one part of the muzhiming could be referred to as fen-burial in another, and what was labeled he-burial in the muzhiming might not align with the couple’s actual interments. Studies on medieval he-burial are numerous. Scholars typically examine burial arrangements by dividing the dead into various categories based on their gender, social class, marital status, and religious practice and then look for trends and patterns.4 Although this approach has yielded valuable insights into the factors contributing to the choices of

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burial arrangements, it has several shortcomings. Methodologically, the most common and perilous ones are taking the terms hezang and fenzang at face value and assuming these labels were applied consistently in each and across all muzhiming. Studies that concern mostly with what is called hard data (such as age, dates, locations, names, and pedigrees) are particularly affected because they neglect the selection and presentation of such data. Inconsistencies between information and representations that appear in different parts of a muzhiming text are overlooked because most researchers ignore the muzhiming elegy. The overlaps of he-burial and fenburial, and the discrepancy between the representation and reality have often gone unnoticed. The constructedness of and contesting voices in muzhiming are rarely explored. The enduring presupposition that Confucian ideology determined every aspect of women’s lives obscures their agency in burial arrangement.5 These shortcomings have compromised the sociohistorical studies relying on statistical models. It is encouraging to see that recent scholarship has moved beyond numbers and patterns and situates burial arrangements in medieval discourses and practices.6 This chapter adds to this scholarship by focusing on the negotiation, implementation, representation, and interpretation of burial arrangements. The chapter traces the changing concept and significance of spousal he-burial and fen-burial. It further scrutinizes the rhetorical devices for or against he-burial, illuminating the negotiation among the stakeholders over representation and meaning. It also shows that he-burial served as a signifier of marriage, an extension of marriage, or sometimes the nuptial itself. As medieval people under the influence of Buddhism increasingly considered that marital bonds end at death and must be reinforced by joint-burial, a he-burial symbolically (re)married the couple, whereas a fen-burial dissolved a couple’s union. The anxiety over the change in identity and memory led to conflated labeling and engendered numerous tactics to steer the interpretation of burial arrangements in the desired direction. Ultimately, this chapter illuminates the perimeter within which each stakeholder could assert agency in shaping and promoting desired identity and memory. THE CONCEPT AND TERMINOLOGY OF HEZANG The primary meaning of the character he 合 is “to join” and of the character zang 葬 “to conceal.”7 Accordingly, the term fundamentally refers to the condition of “being concealed together” without specifying the subjects. The definition and application of the term hezang, however, are



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inconsistent in transmitted sources, including the Classics and their exegesis. Some modern scholars are aware of the inconsistency in the transmitted sources, but they nonetheless use the term indiscriminately in their own works. Some treat any joint-burials of multiple people in the same grave or graveyard as hezang whereas others apply the term only to spousal joint-burial. As of yet, however, no one has reflected on how the inconsistency complicated the classical and medieval burial practices and interpretations or the methodological problems their varying usages introduced. While building on the existing scholarship, I find that the inconsistency actually captures the various ways in which the concept and practice of spousal joint-burial evolved over time. The changes and continuities illuminate the role that spousal joint-burial increasingly played in constructing the identities and memories of the dead and the people who buried them. The term hezang appears three times in the Classics and all three occasions appear in the Liji. The first is a comment made by Ji Wuzi 季武子 (d. 535 BCE). In this case, the Lu ruler reportedly permitted the Du clan 杜氏 to conduct a hezang in his palace that was built on their ancestral burial ground. When the Dus arrived, they dared not perform the prescribed ritual wailing as it breached palace protocol. Whereupon Ji Wuzi told them, Hezang is not an ancient practice. It began with the Duke of Zhou (d. 1033 BCE) and has since remained unchanged. Why would I permit the more serious [violation, that is, hezang] and not permit the less serious [ritual wailing]?

He commanded them to wail.8 The account concludes without specifying the relationship and number of people buried on this occasion. Many later scholars treated hezang here as spousal joint-burial, but the text itself indicates that this was a joint-burial of kin; whether the buried were spouses is debatable. Later exegeses of this passage do not provide any clarification on the definition of hezang but are nonetheless illuminating. Han classicist Zheng Xuan limits his comments to Ji Wuzi’s assertion of hezang’s recent origin and sees it as the Lu ruler “being self-conscious about having leveled other people’s graves when building his palace, and wanting to hide the transgression with beautiful words” (wenguo 文過).9 Tang classicist Kong Yingda goes further, claiming that Ji Wuzi found no need to steer clear of the Du clan’s burial ground when he was building the palace because the burial ground was founded before hezang was in practice. Ji Wuzi

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therefore “refused to submit to reason and hid the transgression with beautiful words.”10 That Zheng Xuan and Kong Yingda both treat Ji Wuzi’s statement as sophistry puts the trustworthiness of his claim in question. Elsewhere, Liji explains the sage king Shun’s 舜 (d. 2185 BCE?) solitary burial using Ji Wuzi’s assertion but does not mention the term hezang. After Shun passed away while touring his realm, he was interred in the wilderness of Cangwu 蒼梧, and “allegedly, his three consorts did not follow” (cong 從).11 What the character cong (to follow) refers to in this case is ambiguous. It could be that the consorts did not accompany him on tour, or that they accompanied him but did not follow him in death (as human sacrifice), or that they were not buried with him after their deaths. In any case, Liji adds, “Ji Wuzi said ‘the Duke of Zhou allegedly initiated [the practice of] fu[-burial] 祔.’ ”12 This passage implies that interring the three consorts with the Shun would constitute a fu-burial. Zheng Xuan notes here that “fu was hezang; and hezang began with the Duke of Zhou,” thereby stressing that fu and hezang were two labels referring to the same Zhou practice.13 Zheng Xuan is silent on the practice itself. Kong Yingda explains that “fu is ‘to join (he 合),’ ” which means “the recently deceased joining the previously deceased.”14 His emphasis is on the time elapsed between the burials instead of the relationship between the buried. Kong Yingda is also intrigued by the scribe’s reference to Ji Wuzi. He reasons that the close temporal proximity between the Lu ruler and the Duke of Zhou, must have lent authority to Ji Wuzi’s claim.15 Kong’s speculation underscores his reservation about the claim that the practice of jointburial was invented by the Duke of Zhou. This reservation, as it would become clear, was shared by those who questioned the canonicity of spousal joint-burial. The term hezang also appears twice in association with the joint-burial of Confucius’s parents. Liji states that Kongzi was orphaned when he was young and did not know [the location of] his father’s grave. [After his mother died, he] setup the casket shrine [bin 殯] by the Five Fathers Lane. Those who saw it all thought [the stopping] was for the [upcoming] burial [because], allegedly, the pall was for viewing and receiving mourners [shen 慎]. [Confucius] asked the mother of Manfu of Zou [about his father’s grave] and thus was able to inter [his parents] together [hezang 合葬] at [Mount] Fang 防.16

The phrase, “interred together at [Mount] Fang,” 合葬於防 appears once more in the Liji in the context of the collapse of his parents’ newly erected grave mound (to be discussed shortly).17 In both cases, hezang clearly means burying a man and a woman together. However, the continuous



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debate over the validity of Confucius parents’ marriage raises the question, was this joint-burial spousal? This account of Confucius interring his parents together gets more eventful and detailed with each retelling. Sima Qian’s account in the Shiji mostly follows the Liji but adds several details crucial to our discussion. First, he maintains Confucius was a child of his parents’ casual liaison or, in his words, “getting together in the wilderness” 野合. Second, Confucius did not know the grave’s location because his father, Shulianghe 叔梁 紇 (623–549 BCE), died shortly after his birth and was buried far away at Mount Fang. Third, as a child, Confucius often played at offering sacrifices to his deceased father. Fourth, when Confucius asked his mother about his father’s burial, she refused to speak of it (weizhi 諱之). Sima Qian’s remarks set off a centuries-long debate on whether Confucius’s parents were ever married, whether Confucius knew anything about his father’s grave, and why his mother refused to tell him about it?18 The answers to these questions reveal the changing meaning of the term hezang and the growing importance of gravesite ancestral sacrifices. Zheng Xuan adds his own spin in the exegesis to the Liji passage. He notes that Confucius’s parents were not married, hence his mother Yan Zheng 顏徵 was too embarrassed to tell him the grave’s location. As Confucius wanted to bury her near his father (jiu 就), he used the wrong pall as a ruse to get someone to reveal the information, which Yan Zheng’s good friend, the mother of Manfu, obliged.19 Thus, Zheng Xuan agrees with Sima Qian that Confucius was born out of wedlock and was the one who wanted a joint-burial for his parents. The hezang in this case was not spousal. Whereas Sima Qian thought the original reason for Confucius’s ignorance of the grave’s location was the distance, Zheng Xuan attributes it entirely to Yan Zheng’s embarrassment (chi 恥). Sima Qian does not explain the use of the wrong pall; Zheng Xuan characterizes it as intentional. We must consider the differences between Sima Qian’s and Zheng Xuan’s opinions in light of the Council of the White Tiger Hall in 79 CE, at which Eastern Han classicists gathered to deliberate on the versions and interpretations of the Five Classics. These scholars defined hezang as a burial that “parallels the way of husband and wife [in life].”20 They connected the term to a line from the poem “Da Ju 大車” (The Great Carriage) in the Shijing: “in life, a couple stays in different rooms; in death, they share the same grave-pit” and referenced the Liji passages on the Western Zhou origin of the practice.21 Interestingly, when reading without the prudish lens of the Mao tradition popularized in the Western Han, the poem itself appears to be a proposal for elopement (i.e., to get together in

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wilderness).22 The line is part of the persuader’s vow to the genuineness of his feelings. It is easy to see how Sima Qian, who died a century before the council, might have concluded that Confucius was a love child. In contrast, Zheng Xuan, born five decades after the council and schooled in the Mao tradition of the Shijing, insists that Yan Zheng found her situation embarrassing. That the term hezang was discussed at the Council of the White Tiger Hall indicates the existence of competing views and spousal joint-burial was only one of them. Early medieval classicists apparently feel the great sage’s ignorance of his father’s burial and usage of the wrong pall at his mother’s funeral call for explanation. Tang classicist Du You’s 杜佑 (735–812) Tong dian 通典 includes four representative opinions regarding the nature of the jointburial of Confucius’s parents. The renown Cao-Wei classicist Wang Su 王肅 (195–256) argues this way: “That [Confucius], being a sage but did not know whether his father was dead or alive, neither sought to look after [Shulianghe] when [he was] living, nor making sacrifices [to Shulianghe after he] died, was because [Confucius] did not know his father.”23 Clearly, Confucius’s filial piety had been considered by some to be lacking, and his parents’ unmarried state was not a mitigating circumstance. Jin classicist Cai Mo 蔡謨 (281–359) does not think Wang Su needed to defend Confucius quite as fiercely given that many anecdotes in the Classics show that the sage was not perfect. As for the grave’s location, he believes what Confucius did not know was its exact location “inside the cemetery” (zhaoyu zhijian 兆域之間).24 In contrast, Cai Mo’s contemporary Fan Xuan 范宣 (?–?) defends Confucius more forcefully than Wang Su: What happened before [his] birth, we cannot blame it on the Master. When he was older, [he] visited the grave, thus knew its exterior. But, when his mother did not tell [him] about the interior, he could not force her. However, fu-burial required details, hence [he had to] ask [around]. Therefore, when the Shiji states that [Confucius] did not know [his father’s] grave, it does not mean [he] knew nothing [about it].25

Fan Xuan reasons that Confucius bore no responsibility for being born out of wedlock. He also categorizes the joint-burial of Confucius’s parents as a fu-burial rather than a he-burial. It implies that the term hezang only applied to the joint-burial of husband and wife; the interment of an unmarried couple together was treated as a familial joint-burial. Put differently, all he-burials are fu-burials but not all fu-burials are he-burial. Confucius’s legitimacy and knowledge of his father’s grave remained a sore subject during the Southern Qi, when the revered classcist Zhang Rong 張融 (444–497) declared,



Spousal Joint- and Disjoint-Burials 77 [Liji states that] “Master Kong thereby was able to inter [his parents] together at [Mount] Fang.” From the word “thereby” [jide 既得], it is clear that before the burial, Confucius did not know the grave’s location. According to Zhongyou, Master Kong also did not know about [his father’s] grave. If [Yan] Zheng had went through the ping-rite 娉, she would have told [Confucius] about the grave. [Otherwise,] how could Master Kong not know about the grave?26

The ping-rite refers to the rite of “inquiring the name” (wenming 問名), the second of the six rites of betrothal. Zhang Rong clearly shared Zheng Xuan’s opinion that Confucius’s parents never married, which was why Yan Zheng did not tell Confucius about his father’s grave. Collectively, these opinions show the marital status of Confucius’s parents, his ignorance of his father’s grave, and his nonperformance of gravesite ancestral sacrifice continued to bother early medieval classicists. Their opinions also reveal that hezang had become the label for spousal joint-burial specifically and gravesite ancestral sacrifice a required expression of filial piety. When Kong Yingda comments on the Liji account in the Early Tang, he refutes the earlier conclusions that Confucius was of illegitimate birth and did not perform gravesite ancestral sacrifices. He relies heavily on Kongzi jiayu 孔子家語 (The School Saying of Confucius). It recounts an old and heirless Shulianghe who sought a wife from the Yan clan. Yan Zheng married him because her father desired the match. After completing the nuptial rite known as the “presentation at the ancestral shrine” (miaojian 廟見), in which the in-laws presented the new bride to the ancestors and formally accepted her into the family (chengfu 成婦), she prayed secretly to Mount Niqiu 尼丘 and conceived Confucius. When Confucius was three, Shulianghe died and was buried at Mount Fang.27 In short, Kongzi jiayu claims Confucius was the legitimate son and heir of his father. It must be noted that, although the Kongzi jiayu collects many alleged anecdotes and sayings of Confucius passed down by Confucius’s descendants and students, Wang Su annotated and augmented the work to such an extent that renowned classicist and Kong Yingda’s contemporary, Yan Shigu 顏師古 (581–645), questioned its authenticity.28 In any case, Kong Yingda argues what Sima Qian meant by “getting together in the wilderness” was that Confucius’s parents had not “completed the [marriage] ceremony” (bubei yuli 不備於禮). Refuting Zheng Xuan, Kong Yingda maintains that what embarrassed Yan Zheng was not the illicit affair but the unfinished ceremony, for which he blames Shulianghe’s decrepitude as a seventy-year-old man. Like Cai Mo and Fan Xuan, Kong Yingda asserts the precise location of his

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father’s coffin inside the grave was what Confucius did not know because the sage would have performed graveside ancestral sacrifices regularly—even Kong Yingda has to admit—albeit remotely.29 Kong Yingda’s insistence on Confucius’s legitimate birth again highlights the post-Han presupposition that hezang is only for married couples, and husband and wife should be buried together. If the couple did not have a he-burial, their children’s legitimacy would be challenged.30 It further underlines the importance of joint-burial as a site of memory, promoting the family’s desired identity, and is reinforced by the regular ancestral sacrifices expected of the children as an expression of filial piety. Curiously, these scholars collectively ignored that Yan Zheng did not wish to be buried with her son’s father. None of these issues would arise if the great sage had honored his mother’s wish. DEATH, MARRIAGE, AND SPOUSAL JOINT-BURIAL The medieval classicists’ anxiety over Confucius’s handling of his parents’ joint-burial demonstrates that a he-burial affirmed a couple’s marriage and supported their children’s claims to legitimacy and inheritance. Following the Council of White Tiger Hall, hezang came to refer exclusively to spousal joint-burial. This development allows us to more easily trace how he-burials continued to evolve in concept and practice, and especially how they transformed from being an extension of marriage to constituting the nuptial itself. Reviewing acrimonious court debates over the right and refusal to a he-burial illuminates the ramifications for both the buried and the buriers in this world and in the afterlife. Although the examples selected might seem extraordinary, they render the medieval axiom visible to those unfamiliar with China in this period. Indeed, the ways that spouses, parents, and children conceived of and negotiated a he-burial or fen-burial illustrate the difference between medieval identity and memory construction and the eras that came before or after. Marriage and Spousal Joint-Burial The long and bitter fight over which of his two wives with whom the eminent Western Jin statesman Jia Chong 賈充 (217–282) should live and be buried demonstrates that he-burial was imperative as an affirmation of matrimony. Jia Chong’s marriage to his first wife, Lady Li 李氏, was dissolved when she and her family were exiled following her father’s execution for treason. Jin Emperor Wu 晉武帝 (r. 266–290) later pardoned and summoned Lady Li back to court, reinstating her as Jia Chong’s primary wife (yuanpei 元配). By then, Jia Chong had married Lady Guo 郭氏



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(237–296) and the latter was understandably furious. She forced her husband to decline the emperor’s special dispensation for bigamy and refused to let Lady Li set foot in the family residence. Fearing Lady Guo’s wrath, Jia Chong installed Lady Li in another house and refrained from visiting her. To ensure that he did not steal away to meet Lady Li in secret, Lady Guo even planted servants in his entourage to spy on him. Jia Chong’s and Lady Li’s eldest daughter, the consort of Prince Qi 齊王 妃, complained to other prominent nobles about Lady Guo’s behavior, hoping to pressure her father into divorcing her stepmother, but to no avail. It only deepened the animosity between the two ladies and their children. When Jia Nanfeng 賈南風 (257–300), Jia Chong’s and Lady Guo’s eldest daughter, became the empress-consort to Emperor Hui 惠帝 (r. 290–301), she had her husband forbid Lady Li from being buried with Jia Chong. Only after the empress-consort was deposed did Lady Li join her husband in his grave.31 Lady Guo’s jealousy was the often-cited cause of this battle over the position of primary wife. The Tang authors of Jin shu recount this sordid affair at length in Jia Chong’s official biography, presenting Lady Guo and Jia Nanfeng as examples of vicious women.32 They also accuse the empress-consort of causing the Rebellion of the Eight Princes 八王之亂, which lasted from 291 to 306 and crippled the Western Jin dynasty. Because the Classics maintain that a man must first cultivate virtues and harmonize his household before he could govern the state,33 by drawing attention to the family rancor, the Tang historians portray Jia Chong as an unfit advisor to the ruler. Thus the he-burial of a husband and his rightful wife was used to symbolize moral cultivation and, by extension, the proper order of family and the realm. Tang court had its share of high-profile disputes over he-burial, one of which involved a thrice-married princess. Princess Ding’an 定安公主 (d. 733), a daughter of Emperor Zhongzong 中宗 (r. 684 and 705–710), was a pawn in multiple political struggles.34 Her marriage to Wang Tongjiao 王同皎 (d. 706) was annulled when he was executed for his failed attempt to shore up the Tang rule against Wu Sansi 武三思 (d. 707), the most senior member of Wu Zetian’s natal family, and Empress-consort Wei 韋后 (d. 710), Emperor Zhongzong’s traitorous wife.35 As a spoil-of-war, the princess was married off to the empress-consort’s cousin, Wei Di 韋濯 (d. 710) as a way for the Wei family to consolidate their power at court. In time, Wei Di was executed for his role in the empress-consort’s failed coup to seize the throne.36 Emperor Ruizong 睿宗 (r. 684–690 and 710–712), the princess’s uncle and the winner of this round of the game of thrones, gave her in marriage to Cui Xi 崔銑 (?–?) whose first cousin Chief Minister Cui

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Xuanwei 崔玄暐 (639–706) died in banishment for opposing Wu Sansi and Empress-consort Wei.37 When the princess died in 733, her son from the first marriage, Wang Yao 王繇 (?–?), petitioned Emperor Ruizong’s son, Emperor Xuanzong 玄宗 (r. 712–756), to bury her with his father.38 A fierce debate erupted at court over whether such a he-burial would be appropriate considering her subsequent marriages.39 Tong dian records two precedents of a remarried woman being buried with her first husband, which would support Wang Yao’s position. They also provide an important perspective on how mourning, he-burial, and social identity intertwined in medieval China. The first case, which Du You named “Opinions on How A Stepson Should Dress for Mourning A Stepmother Who after His Father’s Death Returned to Her Natural Children from a Previous Marriage” 父卒繼母還 前親子家繼子為服議, centers on a woman who remarried after losing contact with her husband and children following a famine. After she reconnected with her own children, she asked her second husband for permission to return to them after his death, which he granted. She left after having mourned him according to the classical stipulation for a primary wife.40 When she took leave of her stepson, she declared, “This is the end of my relationship with you; when I die, I will not join your family in burial.”41 After she was dead and buried with her first husband, the stepson asked the court for guidance on the specific attire and duration he should wear to mourn her. All court ritualists agreed he should not mourn her as his father’s widow because she had left on such terms and was buried with another man. As to how she should be mourned, they were at an impasse. Whether her marriage to her second husband was legitimate was the sticking point. It is inappropriate for the stepson to wear the second heaviest mourning for three years (zicui san’nian 齊衰三年) as prescribed for mourning the stepmother after one’s father died because she had left and pointedly refused to be buried with his father. However, it is equally inappropriate for the stepson to wear the second heaviest mourning with a cane for one year (zicui zhangqi 齊衰杖期) prescribed for mourning a remarried stepmother because her return to her own children was not a remarriage.42 Some classicists even argue that the stepson needs not mourn her at all because [The woman] already had a plan to leave [to rejoin her former family] and vowed never to return for burial. When she lived, [the stepson] did not [have the chance to] support her [as his stepmother]; when she died, she did not share the same burial pit with his father. Thus, she was not married to his father and should be treated as the dismissed mother [去母].43



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A dismissed mother was a woman who was divorced by one’s father. Her departure from her second family and separate burial from her second husband hence qualified as a divorce. As the stepson was his father’s heir, the Classics dictate, he owed no mourning obligation to his father’s ex-wife. Post-Jin classicists took a different view. The renowned classical ritualist Yu Weizhi 庾蔚之 of the Liu Song 劉宋 period (420– 479) argue that “Because the stepmother left after she had completed mourning for his father, [her departure] cannot be referred to as having been dismissed. The stepson should equate her to a stepmother who remarried, which befits this situation.” Thus the stepson must reciprocate (bao 報) the mourning she observed for his father and treat her as his father’s remarried widow. This opinion seemed to end the debate on this issue before the mid-Tang period because it was the last one Du You included.44 The second case, which Du You titles the “Opinions on How a Stepson Should Mourn a Stepmother Who After His Father’s Death, Returned to the Household of Her Former Stepson” 父卒繼母還前繼子家後繼子為服議, describes another woman who went to live with her former family after the death of her second husband. Wang Shi’s 王式 stepmother married his father in widowhood. When Wang Shi’s father was on his deathbed, she asked and received permission to return to her stepson from her former marriage. After her current husband died, she mourned him as his primary wife following the classical stipulation. After she died and was buried with her former husband, Wang Shi belatedly put on the second heaviest mourning with a cane for one year (zicui zhangqi 齊衰杖期) and was reported to court for violating the Rites. Unlike in the previous case, the issue was not the legality of the woman’s second marriage, but how Wang Shi recognized and mourned her. Again, opinions were divided. One held that Wang Shi should have treated her as his father’s ex-wife because his father had granted her request to leave. Being his father’s heir, Wang Shi did not owe his father’s ex-wife any mourning obligation. Consequently, Wang Shi transgressed by mourning her excessively. The other opinion maintained that because his father did not divorce her and she fulfilled her mourning obligation as the primary wife, Wang Shi should acknowledge her as his stepmother and wear the second heaviest mourning for three years (zicui san’nian 齊衰三年). Wang Shi thus transgressed by mourning her insufficiently. Moreover, had Wang Shi treated her as his father’s ex-wife, it “would be no different from a son dismissed his own mother!” The Jin court sided with the latter opinion and stripped Wang Shi of his office and reduced his rank for being unfilial.45 The postJin classicists upheld the court’s opinion. Given that the woman went to

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her stepson from her first marriage and was buried with her first husband, Yu Weizhi states, [The woman] made and wore the mourning attire [for his father] following the Rites and returned [his] home after the burial [to perform the yusacrifices]. Only after several years had passed did she go to the son of her former family. Isn’t it appropriate to equate her to a stepmother who remarried?46

Debating which mourning attire to wear might seem trivial to modern readers; however, the manner in which an individual was mourned and buried determined the identities, rights, and obligations of both the dead and the mourners in medieval China. Incorrect performance of mourning or separate burials of a couple could destabilize an individual’s identity, reverberating through kinship webs and family ties. Most important, these cases show that, by the fifth century, a he-burial effectuated a (re-) marriage, whereas a fen-burial ended matrimonial ties. Regarding the case of Princess Ding’an, Wang Yao could have buried his twice-remarried mother with his father based on these precedents alone. He was also well positioned to do so, being her eldest son. The princess also had a son from her second marriage, Wei Hui 韋會 (d. 750).47 Although both men could maintain the sacrifices to her, Wang Yao—the son of a loyal martyr—could continue the sacrifices to her and protector of her memory better than his half-brother, the son of a traitor executed by order of the current monarch. Moreover, Wang Yao was wedded to his third cousin and Emperor Xuanzong’s favorite daughter, Princess Yongmu 永穆公主. It is likely that Princess Ding’an’s he-burial with Wang Yao’s father was a way to further strengthen his standing at court and the alliance between the Wangs and the royal house. His request might have had the emperor’s blessing before it was made public. All these considerations were somehow lost to Xiahou Gua 夏侯銛, a Supervising Secretary 給事中 (ranked 5a1) and remonstrance official 諫官 at court. Ha protested the he-burial: When [the princess] was alive, her obligation to her former husband was terminated (yijue 義絕).48 After [she] died, she ought to follow her last husband in burial according to the Rites. If [Your Majesty] grants [Wang] Yao’s request to bury her with her old marital relations, [your humble servant] is afraid that, if the hun [of the dead] have consciousness, Wang [Tong]jiao will not receive her in his tomb; and if the dead can act, Cui Xi will surely lodge an official complaint with August Heaven.49

Note that Xiahou Gua fails to mention the princess’s second husband. Note also that his argument rests not on mourning obligations or the



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marital status but on the everyday beliefs in ghosts and spirits. This strategy suggests that this specific he-burial was not as improper or unpopular at the time as later classicists and historians assume. It further suggests that he-burials reflected not only the dead couple’s matrimony but also living relatives’ present circumstance. Emperor Xuanzong forwarded the matter to the Court of Imperial Sacrifices (taichang si 太常寺) for deliberation. The controversy ended with the he-burial of the princess and Wang Tongjiao in the funerary park of Emperor Zhongzong, and the demotion and transfer of Xiahou Gua to a provincial post.50 Xiahou Gua did not lose the argument because of his talk of the supernatural. His reasoning was well within the discursive field in which he-burial and fen-burial were arranged and interpreted. The “Tale of Tang Xuan” 唐晅 is demonstrative in this regard. It recounts the brief visit the author received from his beloved wife several years after her death. Over the space of one night, they conversed on topics including the afterlife, marriage, and religion before a bittersweet parting. Several parts of their conversation opine that marriage ends at death while questioning the benefits of he-burial and gravesite sacrifices to the dead. For example, Tang Xuan’s wife told him, After one dies, one’s hun and po souls go to separate places, and each is registered [with the respective local otherworld government]. They are removed from and no longer connected with the corpse. Do you not experience this in your dreams? Can you remember [the location of] your body? After I died, I couldn’t recall at all when I died, and moreover, had no knowledge of where I was buried. Whenever you send money and servants, I would know. But as to my body, I really do not give it much thought.51

To her (and Tang Xuan), the location of sacrifices does not affect the conveying of ritual offerings and thereby challenged the primacy of gravesite ancestral sacrifices. When Tang Xuan expressed the desire for a he-burial with her, she informed him that they were no longer married: “I’ve heard that the rite of he-burial is in fact [just] a meeting of corpses. As for the spirits, they really do not see each other [at the tomb]. Why bother talking about such things?”

An alarmed Tang Xuan pressed, “After women were buried, do not they also remarry?” To which she responded, “After my death, my elders wished to rob me of my commitment [to you] and marry me to Mingyuan, the nephew of Zheng Qianguan, the ­Governor-general of the Northern Court. I swore that my commitment was true. The old and young [in the family] took pity [on me] and I was able to avoid it.”52

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When Tang Xuan heard this, he was both moved and ashamed, for she stayed faithful to him but he had already remarried. As deeply attached as Tang Xuan and his deceased wife were to each other, their matrimony could not survive the crossing from one realm to the next; both were free to marry other people. The “Tale of Tang Xuan” not only proffers marriages end at death but also ponders on who stands to benefit from a heburial if it has no bearing on the dead’s marital status in the underworld. Both Xiahou Gua and Tang Xuan assumed the dead are conscious and that they have an opinion on their burials. The former imagined Princess Ding’an’s two predeceased husbands squabbling over her he-burial, suggesting that a deceased husband is entitled to have his primary wife in life buried with him. The latter objected to he-burial based on the information his dead wife allegedly provided. Even as Xiahou Gua and Tang Xuan speak in the voice of the dead, they unwittingly reveal that the living were the ones who desired the he-burial and that the dead found the arrangement troubling or pointless. Xiahou Gua lost the debate over Prince Ding’an’s he-burial with Wang Tongjiao not because the dead willed it, but because powerful living relatives wanted it. Before we delve deeper into the significance of he-burials or the lack thereof, we should note that medieval men and women did not have to wait for death to end a marriage. A husband could divorce his wife for childlessness, adultery, being unfilial to his parents, scandalmongering, thievery, jealousy, and severe illness, which are known collectively as the seven grounds for dismissal (qichu 七出). However, he could not set aside a wife who had mourned his parents and overseen their funerals, married him before he rose to prominence, or had no family to which to return, which are known collectively as the three conditions of retainment (sanbuqu 三不去). Furthermore, Tang Code automatically invalidates any marriages contracted illegally, under duress, and without parental consent, in addition to the “termination of spousal obligations.” However, Tang Code also permitted mutually agreed-upon divorce of a couple. Such divorces are termed heli 和離, literally, “amicable divorce.” Judging from the extant templates for drafting divorce settlement, this type of divorce seemed relatively common.53 The dying divorcees might have more freedom than their married friends to arrange their burial in order to effect the creation of a desired identity and memory. The case of Lady Wang Wan 王婉 (d. 746) is that of a remarried divorcee who chose a solitary burial. Her muzhiming reveals she first married Guo Hui 郭誨. The couple, though, found themselves incompatible. She then married Shao Chengding 邵承鼎 and became his widow. When she died, it was her two married daughters by Guo Hui



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who presided over her burial. Lady Wang instructed, “ ‘hezang was not an ancient practice,’ after my death, you can settle my spirits by divining for a place not used for farming. Do you understand [my wish]?” Her daughters duly followed the instruction. The author of Lady Wang’s muzhiming makes no effort to conceal her divorce from her first husband while presenting her as a model wife to her second. It thus implies that her divorce was accepted by both families and that her burial apart from Shao Chengding was likely due to their childlessness (hence the reliance on her daughters by Guo Hui for burial arrangement and gravesite ancestral sacrifices). Her invocation of Ji Wuzi also shows that she anticipated resistance to her choice from some quarters. She ultimately received the burial of her choosing and a muzhiming under her own noble title, “Lady Wang of Langye, the Commandery Countess of Yishui,” without reference to either of her marriages. In other words, she was buried and referred to as a single woman, not married to either man.54 The name and meaning of spousal joint-burial changed over time. Hezang at first referred to joint-burial and was interchangeable with fuzang. Only after the discussion held in the White Tiger Hall in 79 CE did it become a consistent and exclusive label for spousal joint-burial. We might never learn what prompted this change. Nonetheless, the cases just described demonstrate how he-burial came to signify matrimony and fenburial engendered a ritual and identity crisis. We also see how the mourning code was capable of affirming and dissolving identity. Any uncritical applications of the hezang label or decoupling of the practice of spousal joint-burial from legal and ritual discourses of the time, risk flattening the complexity of the very subject under study, reducing individual exercises of choice to unreliable statistics. Spousal Joint-Burial and Posthumous Marriage In medieval times, he-burial was also used to formalize the posthumous marriage of a couple. Known most commonly as minghun 冥婚 (netherworld marriage), the practice joins two individuals in posthumous matrimony who were not betrothed or married to each other in life.55 It has assumed many forms and names over the centuries. The practice emerged no later than Western Zhou, for we know from the Zhouli that two types of posthumous marriages were banned. The first is termed qianzang 遷葬 (transferal burial). The meaning and application of this term, like that of hezang and fuzang, changed over time. Zheng Xuan identifies qianzang as the practice of marrying a man and a woman by moving them into the same grave. Tang classicist Jia Gongyan 賈公彥 specifies that the term applies only to “widowed adults” 成人鰥寡, confirming the contemporary

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treatment of such he-burial as remarriage. Accordingly, this type of qianzang should not be confused with the practice of the same name that moves a provisionally buried family member to the location for fu-burial. The second type of posthumous marriage is referred to as jiashang 嫁殤. Zheng Xuan glosses it as a practice of marrying off a young woman who died before reaching the age of nineteen. Jia Gongyan elaborates that the family “exhumes the deceased young woman and brings her to the man” 舉女殤男.56 In the context of the medieval practice of fu-burial, it was to inter her with her new husband and in-laws. Although the Zhouli does not provide the reason behind the ban, Zheng Xuan supplies his own. He sees posthumous marriage as a disruption to human relations (renlun 人倫) because “[the woman] is not accepted into the [man’s family] through the performance of proper nuptial rites in life, but was buried together with [the man] in death.”57 In other words, the joint-burial of a man and a woman is reserved for married couples. His main objection to posthumous marriage is therefore the replacement of classical nuptial rites with joint-burial. To him, the netherworld union is moreover pointless, for it produces no offspring to carry on ancestral sacrifices.58 Accordingly, that Zheng Xuan does not find Confucius’s insistence on his parents’ joint-burial all that alarming indicates that those who had children together, even out of wedlock, are in a different conceptual category. In such a case, the primary concern was the living children. Judging from both transmitted and excavated sources, posthumous marriage persisted in the Han. The classical qianzang was then referred to as huizang 會葬; but the latter term had at least three separate but concurrent usages. First, in the Shiji, huizang is yet another term for spousal jointburial.59 Second, in the Classics, huizang is the practice of retainers coming from all over to attend their fief-lord’s funeral. In other Han sources, huizang is broadened to include inferiors attending the funeral of their superior and students attending that of their teacher. The term huizang in this usage therefore could be understood as “meeting at the burial.”60 Finally, Ban Gu 班固 (32–92), the Han shu author, applies the term to Princess Guantao’s 館陶公主 (d. 116? BCE) scandalous joint-burial with her predeceased young lover Dong Yan 董偃. He further alleges that the princess’s action inspired a great many noblewomen to follow suit.61 The term, used as such, could be construed as “meeting in burial.” The multiple and ever shifting meanings of the terms fuzang, hezang, qianzang, and huizang reflects the changes in burial practices that occurred in the Eastern Han and early medieval periods, for the old labels were being haphazardly applied to new practices. The rough equivalent practice of jiashang was quhui 娶會 (taking a deceased woman as wife) or huihun 嬒婚 (nuptial with a deceased



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woman).62 The term quhui suggests that a dead man’s family could propose posthumous marriage, for it includes the character qu, meaning “taking a wife.” Excavated materials supply several examples of this kind of posthumous marriage and the form it took. In a Han tomb discovered in the 1990s, the remains of Xusu A’tong 許蘇阿銅 and Xing Xian nü 刑憲 女 (or Xing Xian’s daughter) were found in the same casket, and the tomb quelling writ indicates the young couple was married to each other only after their deaths.63 The stele inscription for Xia Kan 夏堪, a young junior scribe, states that his family “betrothed and united [him] with Woman Xie, joining their spirits and placing [their remains] in one casket.” The Xia family clearly anticipated criticism from classicists, for they declared “As the practice is an ancient ordinance [guming 古命], why should Zhongni [Confucius] frown on it?”64 Because they did not identify which specific ancient ordinance, it was possibly well known to contemporary readers. The practice of uniting deceased men and women in matrimony through joint-burial continued unabated in the early medieval period. Most posthumous marriages seemed to have been arranged by parents for beloved children who died young. Often, the families of the deceased couple were already related by blood or marriage and were of the same social or political standing. Differently put, these parents chose spouses for deceased children from the same pool of families as for living children. Many early medieval royal houses conducted posthumous marriages. The Cao-Wei royal house seemed particularly enthusiastic, despite contemporary classicists’ strong objections. Cao Cao proposed a posthumous union between his beloved son Cao Chong 曹沖 (196–208) and Bing Yuan’s 邴原 (158–212?) daughter. The renowned scholar turned it down on the ground that “hezang was not a [proper] rite” 合葬, 非禮也. His rejection thus follows Zheng Xuan’s reasoning. Cao Cao then appealed to the Zhen 甄 family, who was already a marital relation, and successfully secured for his son a bride.65 Cao Cao’s grandson Cao Rui 曹叡 (r. 226–239) was likewise inconsolable after the death of his infant daughter, Cao Shu 曹淑. He held a funeral (against the remonstration of his advisors) and interred her with his wife’s young cousin, Zhen Huang 甄黃, in posthumous marriage.66 The circumstance in which the Northern Wei Princess Shiping 始 平公主 was buried with Mu Pingcheng 穆平城 in posthumous marriage was similar. Her netherworld husband’s father and grandfather were both consorts to princesses.67 The examples from early medieval royal houses indicate that such a union was engendered by a profound attachment between the father and a particular child, and not necessarily the child’s lack of marriage when passing (Cao Shu was just a baby!) Moreover, selecting a netherworld

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spouse for one’s child from among marital kin probably reduced resistance and reinforced the existing alliance. It does not mean, however, that fear was not a motivation behind some posthumous marriages. A contemporaneous tomb quelling writ excavated from the grave of a netherworld couple, for example, includes information from the prenuptial divination concerning their compatibility and expresses the hope that conjugal bliss will keep them away from living relatives. The absence of fear in the transmitted accounts of posthumous royal marriage could be resulting from a difference in the social class (royal versus common) of the couples and genre (dynastic history versus tomb quelling writ) of the sources.68 Tang royal house performed no fewer than five posthumous marriages, all of which were for young kinsmen who suffered a violent death, suggesting additional motivations. Four of the five cases were held during Emperor Zhongzong’s second reign (705–710). The emperor and empress-consort, Lady Wei, entombed Pei Cui’s 裴粹 deceased daughter with their eldest son Li Chongrun 李重潤 (682–701) in posthumous marriage. Known as Crown Prince Yide 懿德太子 after death, the beloved prince committed suicide on his grandmother Empress Wu Zetian’s order for criticizing her personal life. When archaeologists excavated his tomb in 1971, they found the young couple’s remains in the same sarcophagus.69 Lady Wei also arranged posthumous marriages for at least three of her four younger brothers, who were slain together with their mother while in exile.70 Wei Xun 韋洵 (673–692) married a daughter of Xiao Zhizhong 蕭 至忠 (d. 713),71 Wei Dong 韋洞 (d. 692) a daughter of Cui Daoyou 崔道猷,72 and Wei Zi 韋泚 (d. 692) a daughter of Zheng Ruisi 鄭銳思.73 All four fathers-in-law were from prominent families and held court positions. Xiao Zhizhong, in particular, was the chief minister to Emperor Zhongzong at the time of the nuptial. The couples were not related by blood or marriage but were instead brought together to form political alliances. Of course, these posthumous marriages were never referred to as such in the Wei brothers’ muzhiming. Wei Dong’s muzhiming, for instance, explains the reason for these posthumous marriages: Since the prince died before reaching the marriageable age and his numinous casket stood alone. [Her Majesty] sought a gentle po-soul from the prominent families to form an esteemed union. When [the prince] marries a fragrant spirit in the dark night, [he will] know peace when sharing the same grave-pit [with her].

The heartrending sentiment, similar to that of Cao Cao and Cao Rui, permeates the passage.



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Like the stele inscription for Xia Kan, Wei Dong’s muzhiming maintains that posthumous marriage is a rite that “survives from the ancient times” 蓋古之遺禮也.74 However, the rite it alludes to is recent, for his brother Wei Xun’s muzhiming states that the emperor and empress-consort “sought precedents from Han [princely] establishment and obtained them from dust left inside the Wei palace.”75 This passage alludes to the heburials performed for Han Princess Guantao and the Cao-Wei prince and princess discussed earlier. Wei Xun’s posthumous marriage is still more illuminating. After the regicidal empress-consort was deposed and the once politically advantageous alliance with her family became a liability, Xiao Zhizhong retrieved his daughter’s casket from Wei Xun’s tomb, effectively ending their union.76 Clearly, the remains of posthumously married couples were not always placed in one casket; otherwise, the divorce proceeding—the opening of the casket and retrieval of comingled remains—could get very messy. Half a century later, the Tang royal house arranged a posthumous marriage between Prince Jian’ning 建寧王 Li Tan 李倓 (?–757) and his cousin Lady Zhang 張氏. The young prince had ably and fiercely defended his father, Emperor Suzong, and older brother, the later Emperor Daizong, against rebels during the An Lushan rebellion 安祿山之亂 (755–763). Yet his father was manipulated into having the prince executed for treason. When Emperor Daizong succeeded the throne, he bestowed upon his beloved brother the posthumous title of Emperor Chengtian 承天皇帝. As the latter’s hearse passed by the city gate on its way to the newly constructed mausoleum, it rooted to the spot and would not move. Sensing it was a sign of his brother’s resentment, the emperor ordered the singing of two specially composed dirges commemorating his gallantry and lamenting his wrongful death. Only then did the hearse start moving again. That Xin Tang shu records this seemingly supernatural incident underscores the seriousness of imperial posthumous marriages and its perceived effectiveness in appeasing a young prince whose life was violently and unjustly cut short.77 Note that all these Tang imperial posthumous marriages occurred after dynastic restoration—Wu Zetian’s usurpation and An Lushan’s rebellion. These very public cases, like hun-summoning burials for war dead (discussed in chapter 4), at once commemorated and propitiated the deceased and signaled the end of the conflict. They symbolized the neutralization of dangerous forces from this world and beyond. They were thus rather different from the posthumous marriages by joint-burial conducted by the early medieval royal houses despite apparently sharing the same sentiment.

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Medieval manuals of letters and ceremonies (shuyi 書儀) from Dunhuang, tales of the supernatural, and muzhiming preserve ample cases of posthumous marriage from late medieval China.78 The manuals are particularly informative on the negotiation of nuptial rites. Being practical guides for conducting everyday rituals, they provide easy-to-follow instructions on procedure and templates for composing required texts, such as announcements, seasonal greetings, prayers, and contracts. Zheng Yuqing 鄭餘慶 (748–820), a renowned classicist and chief minister to Tang Emperor Dezong 德宗 (r. 779–805), explains the need for such manuals in the preface of his Newly Established Letters and Ceremonies for Auspicious and Inauspicious Occasions of the Great Tang (Da-Tang xinding jixiong shuyi 大 唐新定吉凶書儀; S. 6537v): Because the Classics of Rites are convoluted and voluminous, it is difficult to locate [pertinent information] therein. Therefore, wise gentlemen composed and compiled essential letters and ceremonies for auspicious and inauspicious occasions, circulating [them] for the world to use.79

The inclusion of posthumous marriage in these manuals therefore reflects the practice’s pervasiveness and late medieval classicists’ efforts in devising (or standardizing) related rites and texts. The Letters and Ceremonies for Auspicious and Inauspicious Occasions of the Great Tang (Da-Tang jixiong shuyi 大唐吉凶書儀; S. 1725) compiled by an unknown author presents the late medieval view of posthumous marriage: Question: What is the so-called hui-hun 嬒婚 (or “wedding a deceased woman”)? Answer: When a man and a woman die young and have not yet gotten engaged or married, the man then lives alone in the underground chamber and the woman sleeps by herself in the hall of springs. The living [loved ones] find them a good matchmaker who is then sent to convey [messages and gifts] between the two [families of different] surnames. Once the families agree and promise [the dead in posthumous match], they then put the bones [of the couple] in the same coffin and inter them together in a tomb. This is the procedure of wedding a deceased woman. Another name [for it] is minghun [netherworld marriage].80

The answer reflects the enduring concern of the living over the deceased’s loneliness and a desire to rectify the situation whether out of affection, sympathy, fear, or political exigency. It also illustrates that the process of arranging a posthumous marriage mirrors that of a regular marriage, albeit in an abridged form. This perhaps was a response to Zheng Xuan’s



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criticism that joint-burial itself is not enough to alter a woman’s family membership and share of ancestral sacrifices.81 The letter templates in the Newly Established Mirror of Letters and Ceremonies (Xinding shuyijing 新定書儀鏡; P. 3637) supply additional procedural details. The process begins when the deceased young man’s father sends a letter proposing marriage to the father of a potential bride via a matchmaker. The woman’s father must give a written reply for the matchmaker to take back.82 Once the families reach the agreement, they exhume the remains of the bride and groom from their respective places of rest in preparation for the he-burial. Da-Tang jixiong shuyi includes the templates for announcements (gaowen 吿文) and sacrificial prayers (jiwen 祭文) that would be read aloud at the exhumation and interment. The former is for a father to notify his son or daughter of the impending nuptial following the exhumation. After the remains of the young couple are “joined together in one casket” and buried, the groom’s father would say a sacrificial prayer to his son and new daughter-in-law: You were young in age and had no marital match. Calamity struck unexpectedly to which [you] quickly succumbed. The new bride passed away early before having been betrothed. You each slept in the springs [the netherworld] and lived in the earthly chambers [the grave] by yourself. Presently, the two [families of different] surnames agreed on the good [match] and contracted the posthumous marriage via appropriate rites. [Your] white bones share the same casket. [Your] spirits are joined together. [Your] numinous consciousnesses match each other. How is [this] different from the living? The auspicious [moment] is today. Hence, we moved [you] to this elevated grave-pit. The blood kin and marital relatives are sorrowful, [emotions] fill their chests. I set up the sacrifices on the left side of the grave. You should enjoy the feast.83

The prayer stresses to the newlyweds that they could enjoy the same connubiality in death as a couple would enjoy in life. The couple’s sharing one casket also seemed to be an imitation of physical consummation of marriage. Reading such a prayer aloud moreover announces the formal acceptance of the young woman into her new family after the he-burial and publicly acknowledges the formal alliance that now exists between the two families. Collectively, these manuals attest to the transformative effect of he-burial and possibility of gaining new family members and alliances even if untimely death had not allowed such relationships to be established prior to a child’s demise. Many posthumous marriages documented in muzhiming seemed to follow a procedure similar to that prescribed in these manuals of letters

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and ceremonies. It appears to be common for the groom’s family to initiate marriage negotiation when planning the final interment. After twentytwo-year-old national university (taixue 太學) student Jia Jiqing 賈季卿 died, his brother managed to select a gravesite and a bride for him in one month. The speed with which this posthumous marriage by joint-burial was carried out, besides admirable efficiency, demonstrates that such actions were common and possible matches were not in short supply. This does not mean that the practice was without critics. Jia Jiqing’s muzhiming, like Wei Dong’s, maintains that this nuptial “followed ancient stipulations” 遵古制 without specifying which, implying that both the acceptance of and resistance to the practice were persistent.84 Bo Juyi 白居易 (772–846), for example, once composed a legal judgment in preparation for the civil service selection on whether one could file a complaint with the magistrate against a neighbor performing posthumous marriage. He adhered to Zheng Xuan’s opinion, arguing that posthumous marriages violate the Rites. Such a disagreement among neighbors could not have been rare if the aspiring young scholar included it among his sample essays.85 Many posthumous marriages documented in muzhiming also conform to the classical principle concerning consanguinity of the couple and comply with the legal stipulation of class endogamy (tongse weihun 同色為 婚) as did regular marriages. The joint-muzhiming of Lu Guangxiu 陸廣秀 (d. 687) and Miss Sun 孫 (d. 688) documents the process of their posthumous marriage by he-burial. The groom’s family began the inquiry while planning his fu-burial in 694, stating, “Presently, we are about to bury him in accordance with the Rites; hence we contract a netherworld marriage [for him].”86 They did not have to venture far to find a match. Miss Sun was Lu Guangxiu’s cousin. Her father was a high-ranking provincial governor and so was his. Theirs were prominent office-holding families of similar ranks. The social context of this posthumous marriage thus resembles those of early medieval royals. The effectiveness of posthumous marriage in changing social identity and memory in late medieval China might have been well beyond Zheng Xuan’s imagination, which was likely resulting from the normalization of fu-burial. Guo Zhishi’s 郭知什 (d. 681) posthumous marriage was carried out as a part of the larger fu-burial in which his grandparents and father were also relocated and reburied. The bride therefore immediately received gravesite sacrifices with her new husband and in-laws after interment.87 Being included in the fu-burial of her new husband’s deceased forebears hence paralleled the classical nuptial rite known as the “presentation at the ancestral shrine” and formalized her acceptance into the



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family. The simultaneousness of the posthumous marriage and fu-burial would render the change of her social identity particularly public and irreversible. It thus follows that a regular he-burial in the family cemetery was an equivalent of the nuptial presentation in which the deceased woman became the wedded wife of her predeceased husband again. Moreover, because the Rites stipulate that any bride who dies before the nuptial presentation must be returned to her family for burial, which effectively terminates the marriage, a fen-burial (especially when the wife is interred with her kin) would have the same effect.88 Consequently, a he-burial actualized matrimony in late medieval China regardless of the couple’s relationship and marital status. When the spouses had a he-burial, they renewed the union. When a couple in joint-burial was exhumed and separated, such as when Xiao Zhizhong removing his daughter’s casket from her netherworld husband’s tomb, they were divorced. When spouses chose to be buried apart, they wanted death to dissolve their matrimony and the passage of time to wash away the memory of that union. Naturally, the end of matrimony and resulting change of social identities were of great concern to the living, especially the couple’s children. What motivated Sun Qiu, the unworthy husband introduced at the beginning of the chapter, to reject his wife’s request for a burial in her family cemetery should now be apparent. Although he confessed he did not deserve her, he could not abide being divorced by her, hence he repeatedly implored her to consider what it would do to their children. Notably, it is the unmarried children’s loneliness in the netherworld, rather than their want for ancestral sacrifices, that constitutes the most persistent concern in the portrayals of posthumous marriage in the various sources discussed earlier. The same is true in medieval tales of the supernatural. The “Tale of Lu Chong” 盧充 was an account of a posthumous marriage. The namesake protagonist happened upon a courtier and his young daughter while hunting. Lu Chong married the woman after being shown a letter of betrothal request from his late father by the courtier. Three blissful days later, the courtier sent him home. Only then did Lu Chong become fully aware that his father-in-law and wife had died long ago, and the house where he stayed was actually their tomb. Some four years passed, he ran into the courtier and his daughter again and found she had borne him a son. He took the child home. His ghost wife’s living relatives intimated how her death had devastated her parents and expressed their relief that she at last found a match in him. As for the child, he not only inherited his parents’ handsome features but also reached high office like his grandfathers.89 In this tale, not only were the

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living parents worried about their deceased children’s marriage but the deceased parents were as well. Although Lu Chong was alive, it was his late father who negotiated his (netherworld) marriage. Interestingly, both parental concern and consent are prominent in Lu Chong’s netherworld marriage. The rather poignant muzhiming of Miss Li 李 (d. 808) is similar in this regard. When she died at age seventeen, her mother and brother buried her near her maternal cousin rather than her late father, as was the custom. Her muzhiming stresses that this was not a prearranged posthumous marriage even though the young persons were buried next to each other. The concerned loved ones felt quite strongly that: If their spirits could get to know each other, then her hun-soul would rely upon [i.e., marry] him. As [our] two families are marital relations in life, why should it be different in death? It is unnecessary [to emulate] Lu Chong in contracting a posthumous marriage.90

This is a consent given in advance and in an abundance of love. Miss Li’s mother and brothers let her decide whether to marry her cousin. That the family felt the proximity of their graves could be mistaken as a he-burial of posthumous marriage is significant, as the rest of the chapter explains. BURIAL CONFIGURATIONS AND REPRESENTATIONS A medieval he-burial was essentially the fu-burial of a married couple. Thus hezang-tombs and fuzang-tombs shared many interior configurations and exterior appearances, except that he-burial also included “sharing one casket” among possible interior configurations. Hezang-tombs are integrated into the spatial organization of the family cemetery and therefore contributed to the overall expression of individual relationships and familial identity. Because marriage was the linchpin of family, and heburial the final affirmation of matrimony, the placement of a married couple vis-à-vis each other and the physical distance between the spouses were subjects of intense scrutiny. As archaeological surveys demonstrate, three forms of spousal jointburials were common in medieval China: “sharing one tomb chamber,” “sharing one tomb but not chamber,” and “in adjacent graves.”91 Muzhiming and other textual evidence, however, point to a far more complex picture. Sometimes what appears as a he-burial, or is described as one, could be seen or interpreted as a fen-burial. The differences between the grave’s interior configuration and exterior appearance, the physical burial and its textual representation, and the interpretations of the interment and the



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muzhiming could all cause the conflation. Where previous sections examine the multiple and changing definitions and applications of the term hezang, those that follow explore the implementations of he-burial and the interpretive latitude regarding the outcomes. (Mis-)Reading the Classical Ideal As medieval people always invoked the Classics to justify their implementation and interpretation of a particular burial, our investigation into the configurations and interpretations of he-burial must also begin with them. Confucius has discussed two forms of joint-burial. In the Liji, the great sage reportedly comments, “Wei people’s fu-burial separates the dead. Lu people’s fu-burial joins the dead, isn’t it beautiful?”92 The Kongzi jiayu uses the joint-burial of Shulianghe and Yan Zheng as the context for this more elaborate utterance: The ancients did not practice fu-burial because they could not bear to behold the predeceased again. The Shijing states: “In death [husband and wife] share the same grave-pit,” and fu-burial had only been practiced since the Duke of Zhou. Thus, I have heard that Wei people’s fu-burial separates the couple. The Lu people’s fu-burial joins them; isn’t it beautiful? I follow the Lu practice.93

In both passages, Confucius used the term fu rather than hezang to refer to joint-burials, indicating that the two overlapped. Most pertinently, Kongzi jiayu claims that people did not practice fu-burial before the Western Zhou because to do so would require reopening the grave. Classicists offered different opinions on what Confucius meant by “separate” and “joint” in the Liji passage. Zheng Xuan explains that the Wei people separated the couple by placing their coffins in different compartments of the outer coffin of a timber-casket grave.94 As for the Lu practice, he comments only that “fu-burial brings [the couple] together.”95 It would seem either sharing the same inner coffin or sharing the same compartment of the outer coffin could mean “joint.” In contrast, the Kongzi jiayu passage implies that “joint” means placing the remains of both spouses in the same casket (as with most he-burial in the posthumous marriage). Otherwise, how could people see the previously buried deceased when implementing the joint-burial? However, the construction of timber-casket graves would have made sharing one grave challenging because it involves excavating the predeceased and interring him or her with the recently deceased in a new grave. Neither the Wei style nor Lu style joint-burial as Zheng Xuan and Wang Su describes would have been common before chamber-graves

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emerged. Indeed, archaeological evidence shows that from Western Zhou until late Western Han, a pair of deceased individuals of opposite sexes typically occupied separate graves near each other. Arrangements such as two standalone graves in one cemetery and two individual grave-pits or timber-casket graves under one grave mound were the norm.96 Joint-burial, as recommended by Confucius, would have been costly and labor intensive, thus serving as a status symbol in more ways than one. Little wonder that having just located the grave of his father with great difficulty, Confucius would erect a four-chi tall grave mound to mark the place of the joint-burial. Unfortunately, the grave mound promptly collapsed in the torrent of the ensuing storm. Liji reports that Confucius, on hearing it from his disciples, wept and said: “the ancients did not erect grave mounds” 古不脩墓. Kong Yingda, never one to shy from over interpretation, comments: “[Confucius] was remorseful about erecting a grave mound against the ancient custom [as the violation] led to the collapse.”97 Medieval classicists agreed that what the Shijing describes as “sharing one grave-pit” is the ideal form of spousal joint-burial. However, as chamber-graves superseded timber-casket graves in prevalence, the configurations of spousal joint-burial and interpretations of the Liji and Kongzi jiayu passages changed. Material evidence show that “sharing one grave-pit” could be in any of these configurations: one casket per chamber in a dualchamber tomb, two caskets in a divided single-chamber tomb (tongxue keliang 同穴隔梁), or two caskets in an undivided single-chamber tomb.98 Textual evidence reveal that medieval classicists visualized the interior configuration in varying ways as well. Fan Xuan thought that Confucius would not be able to plan the joint-burial without knowing the layout of his father’s grave.99 Kong Yingda theorized that the Wei and Lu peoples, though both inherited the fu practice from the Zhou court, differed in their interpretations of the Shijing verse—”in life, a couple stays in different rooms; in death, they share the same grave-pit.” The Wei people divided the couple by placing “an object between their coffins” 物隔兩棺 之中, for they took the line to mean that the husband and wife should each have his and her own space as they were in the same house in life. The Lu people, in contrast, brought together the couple by placing their coffins side by side “without an object separating them” 無別物隔之 because they took the verse to mean that the couple occupies the same space in death despite having had separate rooms in life.100 Accordingly, a Wei style joint-burial could be either two coffins in one divided chamber, two coffins in separated chambers within one tomb, or two separated graves under one grave mound in configuration. By the same token, a Lu style



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joint-burial would cover the configurations of sharing one casket and two individual caskets in one undivided chamber. Configurations such as two caskets in two chambers whose common wall has an opening and two standalone graves connected by an underground tunnel could go either way.101 The various configurations and interpretative ambiguity thus opened many constructional and rhetorical possibilities when implementing he-burial in medieval China. Implementations of He-Burial Whereas the primary concern with other types of fu-burial was to inter the deceased family members at one location, that of he-burial was the distance between the spouses in burial. Being a form of fu-burial, the implementation of the desired he-burial had to contend with the same challenges, such as cost, distance, divination, and social unrest. Because of the intimate nature of the connubial relationship, the deceased’s expressed preference often played a larger role than logistical considerations in determining the final interior configuration and exterior appearance of a he-burial. Owing to the importance of a couple’s burial in affirming kinship and family ties and legitimizing birth and inheritance, medieval people were especially sensitive to how such burials were perceived. The sensitivity intensified the competition between the dying and the family over the control of representation and interpretation. Consequently, when logistical challenges limited material options, it became even more important for the family to explain the intent and outcome. Some individuals planned well ahead of their deaths, which often led to a smooth (and faithful) implementation of their expressed wishes. Li Wenzheng 李問政 (d. 720) was such a planner. When his wife Madame Wang 王 passed away in 704, he personally divined (zibu 自卜) several mu of land in the back of the family cemetery and instructed his children to bury him with her. According to his muzhiming, his sons faithfully carried out the instruction.102 Gongsun Xiaoqian 公孫孝遷 (d. 735) was another man who was interred with his late wife, Madame Wang 王, as planned. His son conveyed his remains over a distance of roughly 433 miles (or 697 kilometers) from Datong Garrison 大同府, where he served as a military commander, to his late wife’s tomb outside Luoyang. Her tomb had been designed with the eventual he-burial in mind as the muzhiming describes: Both funerary coverlets were lifted [from their caskets] The two chambers were sealed at the same time103

雙衾並舉 二室同封

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The tomb thus had two chambers, one for each spouse. Madame Wang’s chamber was left open after her interment. The mentioning of the lifting of two funerary coverlets indicates that she was re-dressed and placed in a new casket when the he-burial took place (a practice not discussed in the Classics and which could have only come to existence after reburial was the norm). Now that both husband and wife occupied their rightful places, the chambers were sealed. Li Wenzheng and Gongsun Xiaoqian had designed their spouses’ graves in anticipation of joining them there. Their muzhiming suggest that their plans went off smoothly. Without planning, interring the newly deceased in the tomb of the predeceased spouse did not necessarily simplify the implementation of a he-burial. The he-burial of Lady Heba 賀拔夫人 (d. 586), the Commandery Countess of Changcheng 昌城郡君, was rather complicated. The muzhiming preface states that she was buried with her husband Shiyun Kan 是雲偘 (d. 567) in his family cemetery. The muzhiming elegy reveals that the arrangement involved “opening a new pathway to [enter] the existing tomb” 埏開舊墳.104 A fair number of families opted to construct a new tomb chamber or tomb to accommodate the he-burial. The grandson of Madame Lan 蘭氏 (d. 837) interred her in a “newly constructed dark hall” 新創玄堂 in the eastern corner of the family graveyard. Her muzhiming does not mention how her grave was situated vis-à-vis her late husband’s. It does comment that the arrangement “faithfully followed the ceremony of burying [spouses] in the same grave-pit and reverently adhered to the rite of reuniting the deceased with the ancestors.”105 In other words, her burial was a he-burial although she was in a separate grave and a fu-burial because she was in the family graveyard. Li Zhu’s 李杼 (d. 850) he-burial, in contrast, involved moving him from the family graveyard to a new tomb located elsewhere. As the addendum to his muzhiming recounts, the he-burial took place when his widow died three decades after his initial interment. It describes the process of exhuming and re-dressing Li Zhi’s remains. Interestingly, although the addendum does not explain why it was necessary to rebury him away from his family cemetery, it does state, “[the arrangement] meant to signify [the couple’s marriage]” 意其有徵.106 Unforeseen events could force some families to abandon the planned configuration or the he-burial altogether. Muzhiming customarily explain the newly arisen situation. The circumstance causing the family to abort Zheng Qian’s 鄭虔 (691–759) original plan is fascinating. The renowned artist and statesman interred his wife Madame Wang 王 (d. 727) in Luoyang’s southern suburb. He remained devoted to her and never remarried.



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When he died thirty-three years later, he was first provisionally buried in his place of exile, Jinling 金陵. It was not until 769, after the An Lushan rebellion, that his children were able to repatriate his remains to Luoyang. On the appointed day when the family opened his wife’s tomb to retrieve her casket, they found that The main path was opened, and the dark hall appeared solemn [i.e, undisturbed]. There were vines wound around the columns signifying that the spirit had found peace; tendrils twined around the coffin were said to be the response to sincere dedication. The blue crow [the diviner] said, “When a location is auspicious, the grasses and trees flourish. When the spirits rest in peace, they bring fortune to descendants. This is one such situation. [The tomb] must not be disturbed.” [Everyone] concurred and said, “These are the evergreen vines of ten thousand generations; no one should recklessly alter [the tomb]!” . . . Thus, on the twenty-fifth day of the eighth month in the fourth year of the Dali era, [we] interred [him] on his wife’s burial ground. [This arrangement] respected the Classics of Rites and the agreement that [her tomb] should remain unaltered.

In short, the children resealed Madame Wang’s tomb and built a separate one for Zheng Qian in the same graveyard.107 Like Madame Lan’s muzhiming, Zheng Qian’s emphasized that this arrangement is a he-burial as it followed the classical stipulation and was the family’s joint decision. Some families reburied a couple separately or delayed the planned heburial multiple times. It seemed unfair that Madame Qin’s 秦氏 he-burial was delayed indefinitely after two provisional burials that took place over three decades. She died in 794 in a Daoist monastery and was then temporarily interred near a Buddhist temple. For an unspecified reason, her family did not repatriate her remains to Luoyang until after her husband, Master Wei, and several of their children had died. Her surviving children placed her in the same graveyard as their father. Unlike Madame Lan’s and Zheng Qian’s muzhiming, hers does not call this arrangement a he-burial. The expressed cause of the present delay was that the children could not locate the grave of their father’s first wife, Madame Cen 岑, who had died long ago. Her muzhiming declares that the family would continue the search for Madame Cen’s grave. Once they found it, they would then exhume both women at the same time (qiju 齊舉) for burial with their father in his tombs.108 Why the children persisted in burying their father with his two wives is a mystery. Many people in the same predicament would have given up, especially when Madame Can was neither their birthmother nor had any surviving children.109 It is likely that their father left specific instructions or Madame Can’s natal family insisted.

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These cases illustrate common factors affecting the implementation of he-burial and provide examples of the interpretative latitude inherent in some burial configurations. Individuals or families, such as Li Wenzheng and Gongsun Xiaoqian, devised a plan for implementing the he-burial when their wives passed away, which simplified the logistics of interment or preempted objections. The lack of a plan could introduce flexibility and uncertainty. It often necessitated new constructions (e.g., a new grave in a different part of the same cemetery) or led to more drastic measures (e.g., burrowing into an existing grave). Li Zhu’s removal from his family graveyard for reburial with his widow to highlight their matrimony show that a newly erected hezang-tomb could remake identity and memory long after one spouse had died. When hindrance forced the families to find workarounds, they frequently took advantage of the lack of clear division between spousal joint-burial and disjoint-burials. Both Zheng Qian and Madame Qin were interred near their spouses in the same graveyard. Whereas the Zheng family referred to his burial as a he-burial, Madame Qin’s family did not label hers as such. It appears that when the outcome did not match the intent, the producers of muzhiming were eager to direct the readers to their desired interpretation. Nonetheless, for the characterization to be convincing, the textual representation of a he-burial cannot be totally divorced from physical reality as we will observe shortly. RHETORICAL DEVICES AND ARGUMENTS FOR AND AGAINST SPOUSAL JOINT-BURIAL Most late medieval muzhiming that comment on the deceased’s burial arrangement are products of contentious negotiation among parties with vested interests. The efficacy of he-burial or the lack of one in refashioning identity and memory made them a frequent subject of contentious discussion. This is evident in the numerous muzhiming reporting the professed desire for or rejection of he-burial despite the practice being the norm in medieval times. In contentious cases, the dying and their loved ones often adopted a range of rhetorical devices to justify their preference. The most common among these devices in late medieval muzhiming were Ji Wuzi’s assertion of the Western Zhou origin of hezang, Ji Zha’s opinion on hunsoul’s freedom of movement after death, the notion that the dead are conscious, and the adherence to religious precepts. These rhetorical devices could be utilized individually or in combination, arguing for or against he-burial. Sometimes, people even adopted the same rhetorical devices to argue against each other in the same muzhiming. These rhetorical devices were hence double-edged swords. The question of why people would rely



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on these rhetorical devices when they could be turned against them is as fascinating as it is baffling. “Hezang Was Not an Ancient Practice” When Ji Wuzi said, “hezang was not an ancient practice; it began with the Duke of Zhou” 合葬非古, 周公以來, he could not possibly have known the many changes the term hezang would undergo as concept and practice or how far his view on it being a serious ritual violation would reverberate over the centuries. In late medieval muzhiming, Ji Wuzi’s assertion was frequently invoked to justify both spousal joint-burial and disjoint-burials. Hezang, being the Duke of Zhou’s invention, was infused with both his authority and ritual impropriety, making it a useful rhetorical device in a variety of circumstances. Muzhiming that reference Ji Wuzi’s comment to support a he-burial often rely on Duke of Zhou’s authority. The elegy of Hu Ke’s 胡恪 (d. 700) and Madame Zhang’s (d. 726) joint-muzhiming insists that “hezang is not an ancient practice, it was instituted by the Duke of Zhou.”110 That of Zuo Shi 左適 (d. 730) uses a common variation: “hezang is not an ancient practice, it has been preserved since the Duke of Zhou.”111 Both muzhiming elegies declare the practice legitimate because the great sage was its inventor. Li You’s 李祐 (d. 784) muzhiming has gone further, explaining in the preface that “[we] reverently followed the way of the Duke of Zhou and thus extended to [our parents] the ceremony of joint-burial.” The elegy reiterates that “ ‘Hezang was not an ancient practice,’ it began in the Zhou [dynasty].”112 That these muzhiming do not mention the wishes of the dead but instead focus on justifying the he-burial implies a resistance to these burial arrangements in particular and to Ji Wuzi’s assertion more generally. Some mentions of hezang’s invention went beyond merely legitimizing the he-burial. When the Early Tang poet Chen Zi’ang 陳子昂 (661–702) explains another Madame Zhang’s 張氏 interment in her late husband’s grave in 690, he maintains that: [Her children’s] sorrow had devastated their weakened bodies, and their thoughts had been fixed on revering their mother. They always sought the ceremony of “sharing the same pit,” and reverently adhered to the norm of “returning for joint-burial.” On the first day of the second month in the second year of the Tianshou era [January 5, 691], [they] relocated and buried her in joint-burial in the old grave of the late Master Yuanzhou [their father] according to the Rites. [Although] hezang was not an ancient practice, [they] adhered to the ceremony [invented by] the Duke of Zhou; [although they] erected a grave mound, [they] honored the admonition of Confucius.113

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In short, the he-burial Madame Zhang received and the aggrandizement of her husband’s tomb, which recategorized it as a hezang-tomb from a fenzang-tomb, reinforced their matrimony and the identities it lent to their offspring. Chen Zi’ang invokes Ji Wuzi’s comment on hezang’s origin and the anecdote of Confucius raising a mound atop his parents’ grave. The heburial and grave aggrandizement were appropriate because the Duke of Zhou established the former, and Confucius carried out the latter (the immediate crumbling of the grave mound notwithstanding). To question the ritual validity of these actions is to question the sages’ propriety. Interestingly, this muzhiming was composed for Madame Zhang alone on the occasion of this reburial. It neither provides her late husband’s name nor conceals her children’s desire to give her a he-burial. The grave aggrandizement moreover monumentalizes the children’s filial devotion to her and amplifies the identity that their parents’ co-occupancy signifies. Thus the reference to the joint-burial of Confucius’ parents is quite fitting, demonstrating again that seemingly dull tropes in muzhiming are chosen carefully to convey a specific message. That Chen Zi’ang devotes most of the space in the muzhiming to elaborate on Madam Zhang’s wifely virtues in widowhood and employs the discussed rhetorical strategy to defend the he-burial also indicates a contention over her unbroken bond to her late husband. Her dedication to performing wifely duties, like the mourning obligations fulfilled by the stepmothers mentioned earlier, was held up to quell doubts of the matrimony solemnized through the heburial. Muzhiming like Madame Zhang’s that extol the dead and those who buried them are not unusual; neither are the representations of he-burial as a symbol of filial piety and moral superiority. Some families went as far as to present the he-burial and themselves as exemplary. For example, the declaration in Shi Daibin’s 史待賓 (buried 730) muzhiming is explicit: “[Although] ‘hezang was not an ancient practice,’ [his] will serve as a model for future [generations].”114 Some muzhiming authors, knowing that the recent origin of hezang could expose them to criticism, point out that people had been practicing it for quite some time. Madame Yu’s 尉氏 (d. 603) muzhiming reads, “Although ‘hezang was not an ancient practice,’ ‘sharing the same graveyard’ has been in practice since long ago.”115 Madame Li’s 李 (d. 751) muzhiming similarly states, “Although ‘hezang was not an ancient practice,’ one often hears of ‘sharing the same pit.’ ”116 That both muzhiming are rather defensive suggests Ji Wuzi’s comment was cited against their decision.



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Ji Wuzi’s utterance is typically used in combination with other rationales when opposing he-burial. Madame Lu’s 盧 (d. 734) muzhiming references two Liji passages—“hezang was not an ancient practice; [Shun’s burial] at Cangwu was unaccompanied”—to justify her solitary burial.117 The phrase “hezang was not an ancient practice” is one of the three reasons for a different Madame Cen’s 岑 (d. 698) fen-burial; the other two reasons are that her late husband died far away and long ago, and her adherence to Buddhist precepts.118 The argument in the muzhiming of another Madame Zheng 鄭 (d. 726) is more complex. She was provisionally interred on the side of the family cemetery as those involved in the discussion (yizhe 議者) thought the timing was not yet hemerologically auspicious for he-burial and “hezang was not an ancient practice.” The muzhiming moreover maintains that the family had “examined the past [precedents] and adopted from various [classical] rites.” Her son, who was the author, emphasizes the consensus and references Shun’s solitary burial. That he mentions his more recently deceased father only in passing is equally conspicuous. It is not until the readers reach the last line of the elegy—“Once the dark hall [the tomb] was sealed, [we] will forever be separated from her”—would they realize that both the inauspicious timing and Ji Wuzi’s assertion are a smokescreen. The line betrays that the children had no intention of reopening her tomb thus precluding the possibility of he-burial.119 Together, Madame Zhang’s fenzang-grave and dedicated muzhiming highlight her memory without reference to her husband and subtly convey new, alternative, identities. That Ji Wuzi’s utterance could be a rhetorical device to either legitimize or delegitimize hezang is the result of its purported invention by the Duke of Zhou. Those who wished to overcome resistance and quiet criticism could invoke his authority; those who objected to the practice could fault its Western Zhou origin. That it could be used to lend credibility to those on opposing sides of an argument underscores the persistent centrality of the Classics in medieval culture of remembrance and the interpretative flexibility that resulted from hermeneutical inconsistencies and convolutedness. Classicism was not so monolithic or all imposing that it could not be co-opted to undermine the norm. The same is true in the conflicting usages of this next rhetorical device. “The Hun-Soul Has Nowhere It Cannot Reach” Like Ji Wuzi’s assertion on the recent origin of hezang, Ji Zha’s statement that the hun-soul could travel unimpeded was another common rhetorical device drawn from the Liji. Ji Zha 季札 (c. 576–484 BCE), a prince and emissary of the Wu state 吳國, lost his eldest son while returning home

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from the Qi state 齊國. Rather than taking the remains with him, Ji Zha buried his son en route. Confucius claimed that he attended the funeral and observed how it was conducted by this renowned ritual expert. What is of interest here is not the burial itself but what allegedly happened at the end. Baring his left arm, Ji Zha cried out thrice, “The restoration of the bones and flesh to earth is fate; as for the hun-soul (hunqi 魂氣) there is nowhere it cannot reach, nowhere it cannot reach.”120 The reason Ji Zha could bear leaving his son behind in a grave far away from home was that the hun-soul was not bound to a particular place but could travel freely— Ji Zha and the hun-soul of his son could still return home together. Ji Zha’s heartrending cry struck a chord with those unable to reunite their loved ones in fu-burial. The lack of a hemerologically suitable date derailed the original plan to bury one Madame Zhang 張氏 (d. 748) with her husband, Dugu Weizhi 獨狐褘之. The family built her a new grave some four li (roughly 0.8 miles, or 1.2 kilometers) away from his. Her muzhiming defends the arrangement by stacking together in succession Ji Zha’s and Ji Wuzi’s utterances. In the muzhiming preface, the author states, “As the hun-soul roams far and wide, there is nowhere it cannot reach.” In the muzhiming elegy, he insists, “[Although] ‘hezang was not an ancient practice,’ being near [her husband’s] gravesite she joins [him still].” Hence the separation upheld the pre-Zhou custom, and the hun-soul’s mobility negates the distance between the graves rendering them “joined.” Moreover, the hun-souls of Madame Zhang and her late husband would be drawn to each other, because Even the Swords of Longquan, gained contentment in male and female pairing; How much more so, the horseshoe-shaped graves the new and old long to behold each other?121

將龍泉之劍 置自得於雄雌 況馬鬛之封 緬相望於新故

These lines allude to the story of the fabled swords, Longquan 龍泉 and Tai’a 太阿, wherein when one sword was taken to the river ford where the other had sunk years ago, they transformed into a pair of dragons and flew off together.122 Here, Ji Zha’s cry helps argue that the distance between the graves was no impediment to reuniting the couple’s spirits. Besides, four li was not far if they could “see” each other from their respective graves. Couched in the romance of sword lore, the muzhiming further cultivates an impression that the fen-burials forced on them by an unforeseen circumstance did not affect their status as a married couple. Through rhetorical finesse, the family presents the burials as seemingly disjoint but arguably joint and the arrangement as appropriate given that it violated no ritual stipulation.



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Yet, as with Ji Wuzi’s assertion, Ji Zha’s cry could also be adapted to support he-burial. Zhao Ruoqiu’s 趙若丘 (663–729) muzhiming adopts it to justify the family’s decision to bury him with his two wives together. His first wife, Madame Shi 史氏 (669–700) died and was buried outside Luoyang. She bore him his eldest son and heir. His second wife, Madame Yuan 元氏, died in Jinshui District 金水縣 in Jianzhou 簡州 (modern-day Jianyang 簡陽 in Sichuan Province) when he was the magistrate there. She also had a son. When Zhao Ruoqiu himself passed away in Jianzhou, his sons exhumed their respective mothers and interred them with him in a new tomb in Chang’an. The muzhiming, written by their cousin, seemed at first to object to the he-burial. The author asks, because “the bones and flesh were both restored to the earth, whether they were in Qin [Chang’an] or Luo[yang] made no difference; if there is nowhere the hun-soul cannot reach, what need is there to share the same grave or coffin?” Be that as it may, the half-brothers reunited their parents in joint-burial. Jia Zha’s cry is therefore a foil against which the author demonstrates their determination precisely because the hun-soul’s mobility renders the he-burial unnecessary. The author further argues that “although the Rites record that [Shun’s grave was] unaccompanied, the Duke of Zhou still [implemented] the spousal joint-burial.” Put differently, even though the hun-soul could travel freely and a hezang burial lacked ritual propriety, the half-brothers rejected disjoint-burial because the Duke of Zhou had also rejected it. Ji Zha may not have commanded the same authority as the Duke of Zhou, but his cry is nonetheless a useful rhetorical device even for those who supported he-burial.123 “If the Hun-Soul Has Consciousness” To people on the two opposing sides, volition directs a hun-souls’ movement. Whether the dead have consciousness had been debated since the Spring and Autumn period at the latest. Generally, and in peril of oversimplification, Mozi’s followers maintained that the dead have consciousness and would avenge wrongs. In contrast, the opinions of Confucius and his followers varied, ranging from the assertion that the dead have no consciousness to the belief that the dead have consciousness but do not actively engage in human affairs. A purported conversation between Confucius and his student Zigong 子貢 (520–446 BCE) recounted in Kongzi jiayu seemed to be an attempt at reconciliation: Zigong asked Confucius, saying, “Do the dead have consciousness or do they not have consciousness?” Confucius said, “If I say that the dead have consciousness, I fear that filial children and obedient grandchildren would hamper their livelihood

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to send off the dead. If I say that the dead have no consciousness, I fear that unfilial children would abandon their parents and not bury them. Ci [Zigong], you wish to know whether the dead have or have no consciousness. [The question] is not presently urgent. Later [after death], you will know the answer yourself.”124

Here Confucius was curiously confident about his own influence. He did not answer the question, choosing to explain his reluctance instead. Because no one knows what happens after death, the phrase “whether the dead have consciousness” serves as a rhetorical device that could support or oppose he-burial. Kou Qian 寇鐈 left an explicit instruction for a solitary burial, saying, “living and dying are the eternal principles; separating and meeting are the constant conditions [of life]. If the two hun-souls have consciousness, then why would being in two burial-pits be a bother?” His nephew, who conducted his burial and wrote the muzhiming, countered, Young children mature and take their places [in society] as the seasons change. [However,] to let [them] always took flight alone, I cannot bear it. In this matter, a wise man would understand changes [in the circumstance] and a benevolent man would be sensitive [to the others’ needs]; is [he-burial] not a moral obligation? Therefore, we followed the Duke of Zhou’s institution and opened Duke Teng’s hall [i.e., the tomb]. On the sixth day of the third month, we interred them in he-burial in the ancestral cemetery, aligning [to the spatial configuration], in the Jingu plain.125

Here we see the same rhetorical device used to support both sides of the argument in the same muzhiming. Kou Qian and his nephew agreed that the hun-souls are conscious. Kou Qian found it renders he-burial unnecessary. His nephew insisted, precisely because the hun-souls are conscious, that the dead would understand why their children need them to have a he-burial. The muzhiming of Lady Wang Wan 王婉 (d. 696), the Dowager ­Commandery Countess of Langye 琅耶太郡君, reiterates her complex argument against he-burial and reports on the subsequent burial arrangement. Lady Wang came from the esteemed Wang clan of Langye. She married Wei Siqian 韋思謙 (611–689), later the chief minister to Emperor Ruizong (1st reign, 684–690) and Empress-regnant Wu Zetian, after his first wife died. She raised his children by his first wife and steered the large extended family through years of financial difficulties. Her stepson Wei Chengqing 韋承慶 (640–706) and son Wei Sili 韋嗣立 (660–719), future chief-ministers of Empress-regnant Wu Zetian and Emperor Zhongzong



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(2nd reign, 705–710), adored her. They and the family repeatedly tried to convince her to accept a he-burial with her late husband. She refused, saying, Those who live will surely die, which is the most fundamental [aspect] of being human. To bury [the corpse] is to conceal it, which is the lasting institution of the Rites. If the hun-souls have consciousness, where could they not go? Whether [they] are conscious or unconscious, what benefit would there be to have a he-burial? Besides, “hezang was not an ancient practice,” said the former sages. My late husband’s first wife already had a separate grave. How could I be at ease if I were to “share the same gravepit” [with him]? When my remaining life ends, and I lift my hands to return to wholeness [i.e., die], [you] should pick a convenient spot in the old graveyard, burrowing a separate dark hall [i.e., grave] to inter my remains. [You,] my relatives, children, and grandchildren do not go against my wish.126

Skillfully deploying multiple rhetorical devices, Lady Wang could not express her wish any more clearly. Her complex reasoning and stern warning reflect her anticipation of defiance. The family did obey her in their own way. Wei Chengqing authors the muzhiming and reports, We dared not disrespect [her] last command. Reverently conveying the venerated spirit, on the twenty-fourth day in the first month of the second year of the Wansui tongtian era [December 23, 696], we returned [her remains] to the old cemetery on the Tongren Plain. But there were two graves on the burial ground, no space was left. Thus, [we] interred [her] in a grave-pit on the side of the larger grave of my late father, Lord Bochang. Although the two paulownia gates [of the graves] are not far apart, they are separated [by the distance of] about eight-tenths of one zhang; the wormwood tunnels [extending from the graves] secretly intercepted each other underground, together [they] form a dark path.127

The family anxiously pointed out that the countess and her late husband were in two separate graves, which were roughly eight feet (2.45 meters) apart above ground but connected by an underground tunnel. The mention of wormwood tunnels (haosui 蒿隧) is particularly noteworthy. The character hao 蒿, here translated as wormwood, when combined with the character li 里, referred to the community of dead—the cemetery. Wei Chengqing thus alludes to the anecdote of Duke Zhuang of Zheng 鄭莊公 (757–701 BCE) in the Zuozhuan. The filial Duke regretted having sworn to never see his treasonous mother, who plotted against him, until they were both in the underworld. He later adopted his minister’s advice to meet her

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in an underground tunnel to preserve his credibility. The son and mother subsequently repaired their relationship.128 By adopting Duke Zhuang’s method, the Wei family, technically, neither violated Lady Wang’s command nor went back on their promise given that she visibly had her desired burial. However, they also got the he-burial they wanted for her by connecting the two graves where it was invisible to passersby. Being a fen-burial aboveground and a he-burial belowground, the arrangement fulfilled her expectation and reconciled the conflicting desires. The most elaborate and political use of these rhetorical devices appear in Yan Shansi’s 嚴善思 (645–729) memorial opposing the he-burial of Emperor Gaozong and Empress-regnant Wu Zetian.129 The empress usurped her late husband’s throne and founded her own dynasty. Her last decree, however, was to “receive sacrifice at the ancestral temple of her husband’s house, return to her husband’s side in his mausoleum, relinquish her title as the emperor, and after her death to be styled the ‘Heaven Regulating and Augustly Sagacious Empress[-consort].’ ”130 After a lengthy debate on who should be in charge of her worship, she chose to receive ancestral sacrifices with her late husband and from their descendants in the end.131 To Emperor Zhongzong, his parents’ he-burial was politically and personally expedient, for their mausoleum would serve as a site of memory and unite the two dynasties under his rule. However, he faced fierce resistance from officials who argued that Wu Zetian’s being a usurper did not deserve such honor. Ironically, many objectors, Yan Shansi included, were appointed to high office during the empress’s reign and now claimed to have remained loyal to the ruling house of Tang dynasty. Yan Shansi’s tour de force memorial, voicing the collective opposition, should be considered in this context. He demonstrates how a skillful writer could blend these rhetorical devices to form a nuanced and sophisticated argument against a he-burial. Giving the virtuosity and significance in reshaping the public memory of the empress (and Yan’s own) I translate here the memorial in full:132 Your Majesty’s servant carefully examines the Burial Methods Recorded in the Room of Heavenly Prime, which states, “[if] someone of superior status was already interred, to open [the tomb] later and introduce an inferior is inappropriate.” The Heaven Regulating Empress was inferior in status to the Heavenly August and Magnificent Emperor [Gaozong]. The present desire to open the Qian Mausoleum for he-burial is to allow the inferior to disturb the superior. Such an act is noncanonical and might not bring peace and security.133 Your Majesty’s servant has also heard that the gate of the dark palace inside the Qian Mausoleum was sealed with stones and the cracks in



Spousal Joint- and Disjoint-Burials 109 stones were filled in with molten iron. Now, were [we to] open the mausoleum, [we] must drill through [the secured gate]. For the likes of spirits and divinities, their bodies prefer solitude and darkness. Now, as we mobilize the multitude [of people] to join the work, I genuinely worry it will greatly alarm and offend [His late Majesty]. Alternatively, if we excavate a separate gateway to enter the dark palace when the spirit seat was previously installed at the time of last interment, to change it now will cause even more harm.134 Furthermore, since constructing the Qian Mausoleum, the realm has often been visited by calamities. It culminated in Dowager-Empress Zetian exercising control over ten thousand matters for twenty-some years. This calamity [of her usurpation] was only just pacified. Now, were we to carry out further construction, I cower in worry that more calamities will arise [from it]. Yet, “hezang was not an ancient practice,” as is written in the Classic of Rites; its application depends on the situation, so there is no fixed rule. Besides, presently, the affairs of [the realm] remain unsettled. How could we repeat this precedent?135 I humbly submit that most empress-consorts were not interred with [the emperors] in the same mausoleums during the Han period. Only since the Wei and Jin [periods], were there cases of [imperial] he-burial. The combined years of both Han rules were over four hundred years, and the Wei, Jin, and subsequent [regimes] whose rules were all short. Although [their demises] corresponded to the command they received [from Heaven], [the he-burial] gave cause for Heaven to bring about [change]. Of course, the enjoyment of power follows the opportunity based on Heaven’s timing. Nonetheless, the place where mausoleums or tombs settle must be auspicious, so that the competent heirs of later generations can rely upon that spirit foundation. If [the mausoleum is] unsettled, future heirs could not long enjoy [power]. I prostrate myself and hope Your Majesty will follow the Han Dynasty precedence and reform the Wei’s and Jin’s lapses in discipline, choose another auspicious site next to the Qian Mausoleum, and erect a separate mausoleum using the method of creating a premortem tomb. [This way] not only do we get to adhere to the ceremony of accompanying in burial but also achieve the enterprise of securing the foundation [of the dynasty].136 Your Majesty’s servant humbly thinks the practice of joint-burial originates from people’s private feelings, whereas the practice of disjointburial follows the ancient precedent. If the likes of spirits have consciousness, [they will] get to meet along the dark path. If those who are dead have no consciousness, what benefit is there to bury them together? As quintessential qi of mountains and rivers rises, it becomes constellatory signs. If the burial is situated at a proper location, then the spirit will be at peace and descendants prosper; if the burial misses the signs of suitability, then the spirit will be perilous and descendants diminished. Thus, the sages of old left models that are detailed in the Classic of Burial in the hope that the world of the living would always be peaceful and the spirits

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of the dead eternally tranquil. I humbly hope Your Majesty’s will concentrate less on Heavenly relations [i.e., the imperial family] and condescend to read [your] servant’s words, and that Your Majesty will act in accordance with the clear precepts of the ancients and excise adoration and longing that are Your Majesty’s private feelings. It will allow shrines of the Earth god and the Grain god to receive sacrifices for a long time to come, and all-under-heaven will remain in order and peace. And all those who embrace life would rejoice in their fortune.137

Yan Shansi combines all three of the rhetorical devices discussed to argue against the he-burial of the two sovereigns. He presents his argument in five parts. First, he defers to the authority of a now lost burial manual, maintaining that reopening the grave belonging to an individual of superior rank with the aim of interring his subordinate in joint-burial would be inappropriate. He states plainly that the empress, being the emperor’s wife and subject, was not of the same rank. Yan Shansi turns to the design of the mausoleum next. When she built it, Wu Zetian clearly did not intend to join her husband. His mausoleum has only one burial chamber protected by an impregnable gate. To reopen it, they would have to drill through the gate or excavate a new path into the burial chamber, both of which would upset the spirit of the emperor.138 Yan Shansi makes his most nuanced and politically risky argument, brandishing his knowledge of divination, namely, that the emperor’s mausoleum was geomantically problematic to the imperial house and had contributed to the empress’s usurpation. It will only exacerbate the situation if the mausoleum is reopened for the he-burial. He contends that, because “hezang was not an ancient practice,” it lacks ritual propriety. Moreover, past dynasties that did not practice he-burial reigned for a long time, whereas those that did, lose their mandate quickly.139 By interring his parents together, Emperor Zhongzong would endanger the dynasty. It is best to build the empress a separate mausoleum nearby. Yan Shansi reasons, “if the dead have consciousness,” the emperor and empress will meet again in the afterlife. He concludes by reminding Emperor Zhongzong that a ruler’s primary loyalty is to the dynasty and the realm. A he-burial would only satisfy his filial devotion, but a fen-burial would publicly demonstrate responsible rulership and respect to ancient precedent. Despite Yan Shansi’s eloquence and sophisticated use of rhetorical devices, Emperor Zhongzong rejected his proposal and went ahead with the he-burial. Shortly afterward, the emperor would debate with Peng Jingzhi concerning his parents’ mausoleum sacrifices, discussed in chapter 1. Clearly, to the emperor, political consolidation far outweighed any concerns Yan Shansi and Peng Jingzhi raised. If he allowed her mother’s



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clan a locus of commemoration, he would risk challenges to his throne. The intense political struggles that plagued his reign are a complicated subject intensely studied and debated by modern historians. It has very limited bearing on present discussion. More important is that Yan Shansi’s opinion was an outlier. Almost all Tang emperors, starting with Emperor Zhongzong’s grandfather, Emperor Taizong, were entombed with the mother of his successor, regardless of whether she carried the title of empress in life.140 Although Emperor Zhongzong was not remembered for his filial piety, Yan Shansi received praises for this bold memorial, which survives in numerous versions, including in the dynastic histories. RELIGIOUS FAITH AND SPOUSAL DISJOINT-BURIAL Many people requested burial apart from their spouses as a way of expressing religious devotion. Their muzhiming often preface the fenburial by describing their spiritual cultivation and the families’ attitude toward it. Although some religion-inspired fen-burials were celebrated as a sign of the deceased’s spiritual attainment, others engendered noticeable anxiety because of their impact on social identities and their transgression against the norm. Two fen-burials, those for Madame Yun 雲氏 (d. 777) and Lady Kudi 厙狄氏 (d. 717), exemplify open acceptance. The children of Madame Yun went above and beyond what their mother requested. Her muzhiming depicts her religious attainment thus: “Temporarily residing in this dusty world, she truly surmounted the obstacles of the Five Defilements; without removing the secular clothing, she had cut off all conditions of the three realms [of existence].”141 Her manifested doctrinal learning and practice (and that of the muzhiming’s author) seems fairly advanced. On her deathbed, she reportedly said to her sons, I have heard that spousal and familial joint-burials are not ancient practices [hence you] cannot adhere [to them]. I have crossed into the gate of emptiness long ago, and my mind has embraced the Pure Land. After I die, place [my cremated remains] in a stupa overlooking cloisters. Thus, at dawn and dusk, I can hear the sounds of bells and sutra chanting, and even in death, I can have refuge.142

Her instruction was very specific—she wants no spousal or familial burial. Instead, her remains were to be cremated and stored in a stupa, and her stupa should be erected near a Buddhist monastery. Her sons are said to have “reverently obeyed her last command and dared not overturn or

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overstep it.” They erected her a stupa in a location surrounded by four monasteries.143 No one reading this muzhiming could misinterpret her choice or her sons’ determination to honor her request and memory. Nonetheless, the blending of her last words with their conspicuous filial devotion could be an attempt at quieting opposition, real or imagined, to cremation in particular and Buddhist burial in general. What could filial children do but follow their parents’ instructions, however unreasonable such instructions might appear? The Tang court openly celebrated the religion-inspired fen-burials of Lady Kudi, the Duchess of Jin State 晉國夫人, likely for political reasons. Zhang Yue 張說 (667–730), then the chief minister to Emperor Xuanzong, recounts her political career, Buddhist faith, and burial arrangement in the spirit-path stele (shendaobei 神道碑) leading to her husband’s tomb. Lady Kudi was the second wife of renowned General Pei Xingjian 裴行儉 (619–682) and a close advisor and rescript writer to Wu Zetian when the latter ruled.144 In the section dedicated to her, Zhang Yue equates her to past women of great virtue, literary skills, and classical learning. He commends her retirement from court following the restoration of the Tang dynasty. Highlighting her participation in the Three-Level Movement (Sanjie jiao 三階教), he presents her fen-burial as the natural outcome of someone who was deeply religious: When His Majesty [Emperor Zhongzong] ascended the throne, he sought everywhere for female aides [in state affairs]. He repeatedly sent [her] elegant words, hoping to retain [her] as a court advisor. The lady guarded herself sternly against fame and complacency and deeply comprehended the skillful means [i.e., Mahayana teaching]. Thus [she] firmly declined [his solicitation], [citing] frailty and exhaustion, and further withdrew from the dusty and vulgar [i.e., the secular world]. Whenever [she] read the collected works of Dhyana Master Xinxing, [she] unceasingly hoped to venerate and follow [him]. On the second day of the fourth month in the fifth year of the Kaiyuan era, she passed away at the capital. In the eighth month of that year, [her remains] were relocated to and buried at Chimingdui on Mt. Zhongnan behind Dhyana Master Xinxing’s spirit stupa. As the ancients did not practice hezang and the hun-souls have nowhere they cannot reach, [this arrangement] fulfilled her last aspiration.145

Here Zheng Yue hints that Lady Kudi’s devotion to Dhyana Master Xinxing’s teaching, relinquishing all worldly possessions, reinforced her resolve to leave court. Although he praises her accomplishment and character, he also implies that religious practice is a more proper undertaking for women than governance. He emphasizes her Buddhist faith yet relies on classical rhetorical devices to justify her fen-burial. Notably, the very



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rhetorical devices Zhang Yue adopts to defend Pei Xingjian’s and Lady Kudi’s fen-burial were the same ones that Yan Shansi used to oppose Emperor Gaozong’s and Wu Zetian’s he-burial. Because shendaobei was an honor and privilege that only the highest-ranking nobles and statesmen could receive,146 this skillfully composed section on Lady Kudi at once demonstrates the Emperor Xuanzong’s appreciation of her contribution to the state, offering her retirement as a model for politically ambitious court ladies to emulate. Thus it represents the official stance on women’s involvement in state affairs and religion-inspired fen-burials. Lady Kudi’s section further reveals the tension between an individual’s secular and religious identities and the futility of high-profile individuals to assert their burial preference and desired memory. Even when Lady’s Kudi was buried far away and in a Buddhist manner, neither the Pei family nor the court was willing to pass the opportunity presented by the installation of her husband’s shendaobei to define her memory. Consequently, even when Ladi Kudi’s body was absent from Pei Xingjian’s tomb, her memory is visibly present. In some muzhiming, the support for religion-inspired fen-burial was more muted. The burial arrangements of Madame Pei 裴 (d. 742) and Madame Jia 賈 (d. 711) underscore the conflicting expectations between Buddhists and those who do not share their faith while illuminating the loved ones’ ingenuity in finding a compromise. The author of Madame Pei’s muzhiming vividly depicts her faith: “She cleansed her heart by studying Buddhist texts and washed away her worries by practicing meditation. She put away the pillow made of rhinoceros horn in a bag for bows and instead offered flowers to Buddhist temples.” In short, she relinquished her privileged life and devoted herself to spiritual pursuits. Madame Pei’s family interred her in a separate grave next to her husband’s and insisted that it was an appropriate (yi 宜) arrangement. Her muzhiming claims, “Respecting the Ru-ist [practice of] fu-burial, [we] therefore united them in the ancestral cemetery; revering the Buddhist precepts, [we] hence sealed them in different burial-pits.”147 The family exploited the inconsistent usage of the terms fuzang and hezang in the Classics. If the reader considers the interments in the same graveyard as hezang, then Madame Pei’s was a spousal joint-burial. However, if only co-occupying the same grave qualifies as a spousal joint-burial, then hers was a fen-burial complying with her adherence to the Buddhist precepts. Thus her family found a compromise by exploiting ambiguity regarding the practice of he-burial. Madame Jia’s loved ones are no less ingenious in resolving conflicting expectations. She appears to have come from a family of Pure Land Buddhists. Her given name was Sansheng 三勝 (the three Saints of the

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West—Amitābha Buddha, Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva, and Mahā­ sthāmaprāpta Bodhisattva—who convey the faithful to the Pure Land). Her courtesy name was Zhengnian 正念 (the correct and focused thought summoning the three Saints of the West at the moment of one’s death). The muzhiming notes her dedicated practices, including maintaining a vegetarian diet, copying sutras, making Buddhist icons, and releasing animals and bondservants. It describes her death and the auspicious signs accompanying it in depth, highlighting her prescience of death, her instantaneous passing without illness, and her incorruptible remains. Her family laid her to rest inside her husband’s grave, reasoning, “Though they share the same grave, the rites [performed] and forms [of the burials] were distinct from each other. [This arrangement] is not the hezang that the Duke of Zhou [invented], but a prayer in the Buddhist tradition for the rebirth in the Pure Land.”148 The muzhiming does not explain what the “distinct form” was. However, the arrangement must have been nonnormative and controversial. The significant space in the muzhiming devoted to the signs of her rebirth in the Pure Land offers the justification. The muzhiming author thus emphasizes that hers was a fen-burial below ground despite the grave’s appearance above­ ground. Consequently, the arrangement invites those passersby who had not read the muzhiming to view hers as a he-burial. By argumentative virtuosity, the family ascribed two identities and memories to Madame Jia; one is secular for being a wife and mother and the other religious for being a devotee who obtained salvation. Notably, Madame Pei’s and Madame Jia’s muzhiming include descriptions of their religious practices but not their burial instructions. It might be that they did not leave any, or that they and their loved ones were in agreement. Some muzhiming not only record the deceased’s expressed wishes but also the family’s attempt to circumvent them. Madame Cui Da 崔達 (d. 837?) turned to Buddhism for solace in her widowhood. Her muzhiming states, “Madame, in her later years, practiced meditation and sutra chanting; [she] did not eat animal flesh or blood.” It further reports her instruction on the burial: “The spirits in principle prefer quietude and ‘hezang is not an ancient practice.’ ”149 Thus she argued against he-burial by adopting two classical rhetoric devices that Yan Shansi had also used (and which likewise accomplished little). Madame Cui’s children built her a new grave to the north of her husband’s in the family graveyard. The muzhiming insists, “this is the joint-burial of the Wei people, separating [the couple] just a little, is it not?” The muzhiming author reemphasizes in the elegy that by burying the couple “slightly apart in the graveyard, [the family] unrelentingly respects the deceased’s intent.”150 The family took what Cui



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Da referred to as hezang to mean co-occupancy of the same grave. As she had her own grave, this arrangement satisfied her request. The muzhiming author further asserts that the Wei style spousal joint-burial was interring the couple in two nearby graves. Because Cui Da’s and her husband’s graves were in the same graveyard, her fen-burial was also a he-burial. In other words, the family resolved competing desires by exploiting the debate over the difference between Lu style and Wei style spousal jointburial. Ambiguity and technicality are not the only tactics available to families caught between conflicting expectations. In some cases, the families fulfilled conflicting demands by presenting varying accounts of the burial arrangement in different parts of the muzhiming. Madame Zhang Ruofan’s 張柔範 (d. 726) last words are reported in the preface, with her family’s reactions in its elegy. As with all muzhiming previously examined in this section, hers highlights her advanced level of Buddhist practice. It states, “She did not eat meat or wear fine clothes made of silk; she was constantly attending to the Four Meditations and never ceased to expound the Six Types of Mindfulness.”151 On her deathbed, she told her daughter and son-in-law, “If the dead have consciousness, how would being in separate grave-pits be an impediment? If the dead have no consciousness, what is the benefit of burying us together at [Mount] Fang? After I die, do not inter me in the ancestral graveyard.”152 Hence Zhang Ruofan repudiated he-burial like the one Confucius gave to his parents by invoking his ambivalence about whether the dead are conscious. Moreover, by refusing a fu-burial in the ancestral graveyard, she was determined to disassociate her posthumous identity from her husband’s entire family. Her daughter and son-in-law built her a new grave to the left of the ancestral graveyard (yingzuo 塋左) and declared they had followed her last command (cong yiming 從遺命). However, the elegy presents the burial arrangement differently: “[We] acquired these male and female phoenix graves, because [our parents] flew as a pair in the past; the dragons are in each other’s company at last, they returned together today.”153 In short, these graves were side by side, next to the ancestral graveyard, and newly constructed perhaps for the specific purpose of accomplishing a fu-burial. If hezang required the couple to share one grave, Zhang Ruofan appeared to have the fen-burial she desired. However, the muzhiming author uses terms such as male and female phoenixes (fenghuang 鳳凰) and a pair of dragons (long’ou 龍偶) to heighten the sense of “togetherness,” encouraging the reader to view this arrangement as a he-burial. Thus, whereas the muzhiming preface explicates her faith and intent, the elegy subtly conveys the family’s resistance.

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Notably, both Cui Da’s and Zhang Roufan’s muzhiming quoted their final instructions even as their families attempted to circumvent their objections to he-burial. At first glance, it would seem that the dead had no say over their burial despite their eloquence and appeal to filiality. Yet the commands’ inclusion and the length to which the families endeavored to follow the instructions of the dying, whether in words or deeds, suggest otherwise. Even as Cui Da’s and Zhang Ruofan’s children found ways to present the desired fen-burial as a he-burial, they could not leave the compromise unexplained. These maneuvers illuminate the agency of dying individuals in determining how they shall be identified and remembered. Once again, these cases underscore that even when the dead could not bury themselves, they had the agency to limit the parameters in which the loved ones could maneuver. Moreover, quoting the last words allows the family to justify the deceased’s nonnormative choice to the world based not only on filial piety or familial devotion but also on the dead’s agency. Thus the dying individual’s loquaciousness could dampen resistance from loved ones while assisting the family to overcome external opposition. Of course, the family could argue with the loquacious dead, as Sun Qiu’s and Kou Qian’s cases demonstrate. The argument itself could even be a tactic to preserve controversial memories. Few muzhiming capture the forces that pulled the family in opposing directions than that prepared for Madame Su 蘇 (d. 844). Unlike the other cases discussed here, her muzhiming, written and calligraphed by her nephews, did not mention her Buddhist faith. It was she who spoke of it when refusing he-burial and demanding cremation. Her muzhiming referred to her instruction as the last command (yiling 遺令) and her utterance as a decree (chi 敕). It quoted her saying, “I follow the teaching of purity and wish to end various karmic hindrance. After I die, you must reduce my body to ash.” Because Madame Su had no living children, her nephews were in charge of her burial. They followed her instruction selectively, neither cremating her nor burying her with her late husband. They did, however, inter her near her predeceased son. The muzhiming explains, “Given the nephews’ affection [for her], how would they have the heart to watch [her burn]. They did not follow her deranged command (luanming 亂命) or violate the Classics of Rites.”154 By using words such as “command,” “decree,” and “affection” (qing 情) in the muzhiming, they stressed that the desire for cremation and the severing all familial ties was hers. They hence present themselves as the preservers of the family ties from which Madame Su wanted to extricate herself. Their selective implementation further indicates that Buddhist burial was more controversial than a posthumous divorce. The cremation of Madame Yun and



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Madame Jia’s burial in “distinct form” should also be evaluated within this context. Yet, like Zhang Ruofan’s muzhiming, the account of Madame Su’s last moments, as described in the muzhiming preface, differs from that expressed in the elegy. Whereas her nephews label her final instruction as deranged in the preface, she appears clear-headed and self-possessed at death’s door in the elegy. For example, the elegy states that “She committed to and revered the inner decree [i.e., Buddhist precepts], which surely brought about the blessed outcome. When she suddenly became gravely ill, her vigorous spirit remained undisturbed.”155 Although luan means disordered and deranged, her last command (if the elegy account is to be believed) was apparently not a product of a delirious mind. Her nephews furthermore suggest her composure as the result of her religious cultivation. The contrast between the two accounts could not be more striking. We will never know which portrayal of Madame Su’s last moment is closer to the truth. However, there is no mistaking the intense anxiety her requests for fen-burial and cremation engendered, or the apprehension her loved-ones felt about omitting (or misrepresenting) her Buddhist faith. The contradictory portrayals illuminate her nephews’ delicate dance between competing religious worldviews (i.e., classical ancestral worship and Buddhist enlightenment), personal agency and societal expectations, as well as familial devotion and inevitable compromise. One might wonder whether the dying individuals and the families were self-aware of the strategic manipulation of their identity and memory via burial arrangements and muzhiming writing. Considering both were expensive, public, labor-intensive, and time-consuming undertakings, it would be difficult for them to remain oblivious producers. Moreover, the individuals who demanded or executed a particular burial arrangement or who produced muzhiming, belonged to the office-holding class whose social advancement and respectability depended as much on their accomplishments as their image and reputation. Hence medieval people were keenly aware of the manipulation, even when they did not profess how they wished to be remembered or adopt these tactics with the same ease. A good analogy is our awareness of our appearance, despite not applying the same amount of effort or having the same ability to improve or maintain it.   The court debates, rhetorical devices, and implementation tactics described in this chapter illuminate the consequence of spousal jointburial in late medieval China. Seemingly routine, the practice and its role in determining identity and memory are far more complicated than what

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scholars have assumed. The term “hezang” has a complex history and gradually became an exclusive label of the practice. Not only did its functions expand over time, but its material and textual expressions had also been varied and open to interpretation. What was a he-burial to one individual could easily be a fen-burial to someone else. Although the ambiguity was problematic to some, it was a tactic that many exploited to their advantage. Yet what makes spousal joint-burial an integral part of the late medieval culture of remembrance was not its normalization but the posthumous divorce that its absence brought to pass. Implicitly understood by medieval people, yet long invisible to us, posthumous divorce, actual or potential, motivated individuals from Sun Qiu to Madame Su’s nephews to produce the memories that inspire this study. We have thus come full circle. Historical knowledge might be elusive and transitory, but the myriad emotions that he-burial and fen-burial engendered still linger, inscribed on chaste stones.  

C H A P T E R

T H R E E

Burial Divinations

In the year 823, Madame Cui’s 崔氏 (770–806) family laid her to rest in the grave of her predeceased husband Zheng Gao 鄭高 (d. 805). It was a spousal joint-burial (he-burial) that had been delayed for seventeen years.1 Her younger brother Cui Qun 崔群 (772–832) explains the reason for the postponement in the muzhiming he composed for her provisional burial: Earlier, the family divined with plastromancy. The divinatory result for the burial site was unfavorable; thus, the burial was delayed. And, she could not join [her husband] in burial, having to wait for a time of Facilitations.2

The inability to secure a favorable burial site and date had been the apparent roadblock. Cui Qun describes his anguish following the plastromancy: The second younger brother Qun was deeply afflicted because of our shared breath [being siblings] and suffered a pain that was acute and piercing. Wielding the brush as I sobbed, I reverently committed to the inscription this brief account to be placed in the dark tunnel [of her grave].3

The unfavorable oracle left him inconsolable. However, at the end of the preface, he expresses a renewed sense of commitment and determination: If and when the oracle is favorable next time, I vow to exhume [her casket] and bury it with [her husband’s], thus bringing closure to [my] orphaned nephew’s intention. [Otherwise] for the rest of my humble life, I will not remove the gong mourning clothes [gongcui 功縗].4

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Cui Qun vowed to remain in mourning, beyond the prescribed duration of nine months, until her he-burial was realized.5 As observed in earlier chapters, a spousal disjoint-burial (fen-burial) could have serious ramifications for the deceased and loved ones, and a familial joint-burial (fu-burial) could drag on for years for many reasons, from a prohibitive cost or vast distance to social unrest. The seriousness of Madame Cui’s postponed he-burial is evident in the muzhiming, but Cui Qun’s reaction to the unfavorable oracle and the resulting delay seemed extreme. If her he-burial was so important, why did he wait? Could he not ignore the negative oracle or try divining again? That Cui Qun was a noted classicist who would become a chief minister to Emperor Xianzong in 817 (seven years before Madame Cui’s reburial) makes his willingness to be bound by divination and hemerology even more baffling.6 He certainly had the means, power, and status to make the he-burial happen. As insurmountable as some of the logistical challenges discussed in the earlier chapters might appear, the muzhiming reflect a conviction that human endeavors alone could complete the task. Here, Cui Qun’s helplessness shows that an unfavorable oracle was not a roadblock he could easily shove aside. He might be one of the most powerful individuals to contend with such a setback, but he could find plenty of company in such misery.7 Divinations were an essential part of all burial arrangements in this period. They fell into two groups, the canonical and noncanonical, depending on whether they were sanctioned in the Classics of Rites and dynastic ritual codes. Most burial arrangements involved both types of divination. The canonical ones were expected of current and previous office-holding families. The canonical divinations were uniform and clearly delineated. The Confucian ideal of bringing order to all under heaven through rites accorded them a relative degree of stability. The constant debates among classicists on whether and how to adapt classical rituals to meet the everchanging social reality, and the copious exegeses they generated, also contributed to the preservation of canonical divinations. Yet the persistent adherence to classical forms and methods does not mean that the perception of their efficacy and significance remained static. As families increasingly reported the results of canonical divination in muzhiming, the representation of the oracles and their response to them became an opportunity to construct and promote desired identity and memory. Cui Qun’s effort in blaming the oracles for Madame Cui’s fen-burial is one example. In contrast, noncanonical burial divinations were elective. A family could engage as many methods for as many purposes as they liked. The information on these practices survives only in fragments. The occult nature and ever-shifting perceptions of efficacy likely contributed to their



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poor state of preservation. Frequent attacks, real or polemical, from classicists and other opponents no doubt exacerbated the problem. Our knowledge of them comes mostly from the polemics against them and fragments of medieval divination manuals discovered in Dunhuang. Individual methods could fall in or out of favor over time; meanwhile, underlying assumptions and principles regarding them remained remarkably consistent and homogeneous. As competition for patrons often promoted imitations, such consistency and homogeneity could be misleading. Nonetheless, a study of common theories and practices could shed light on the everyday decision-making process in medieval China. Most modern scholars do not distinguish between canonical and noncanonical divinations. If they do, they pay little attention to the canonical ones, focusing on noncanonical ones instead. While their studies have expanded our knowledge of medieval divinatory methods in general, the persistent influence of divinations over the arrangement, interpretation, and representation of a burial remained largely unexplored.8 This chapter aims to illustrate the discursive field in which burial divinations were performed, interpreted, and found efficacious. It will lead to a greater appreciation of the social (rather than supernatural) benefits that made them an integral part of burials and thereby contributed to constructing and promoting desired identities and memories. Three sets of questions are of particular import for this purpose. The first set addresses the fundamental nature and performance of burial divinations: What are canonical divinations? How are they different from noncanonical ones? How were the oracles interpreted? The second set attends to the consumption of the practice: Why and to what extent did families arrange burials according to the results? If the results required them to go against the classical prescriptions, cultural norms, or the deceased’s instructions, how did they respond? What might happen to them, socially, if they do not respect the results? The third set of questions directly engages the central theme of this book: Whence came the authority of the divinatory results? How did families represent the results and their response to them in muzhiming, and to what end? Finally, in what ways, and to what extent, could canonical burial divinations help shape or reshape identity and memory? CANONICAL DIVINATIONS REGARDING THE BURIAL SITE Burial divinations can be further divided into those for the burial site and those for the burial date. The methods and purposes of canonical burial divinations differ from those that were non-canonical. The procedures for

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carrying out the canonical divinations are laid out in the Yili and dynastic ritual codes, most comprehensively in Da Tang Kaiyuan li (Kaiyuan li). Regarding the stipulations, the number and complexity of steps vary depending on the deceased’s court rank. As always, higher rank requires more elaborate practices. Whereas the classical stipulations distinguish five or seven rank-groups, the Kaiyuan li distinguishes only three: the third rank and above, the fourth and fifth ranks, and the sixth and lower ranks. It moreover presents the instructions for each ranked-group in separate chapters, indicating the importance of canonical burial divination in affirming social status. Concerning the methods of canonical burial divinations, for individuals of the third rank and above, both plastromancy (bu 卜; divination by reading heat-induced cracks produced on a tortoiseshell) and achilleomancy (shi 筮; also known as milfoil divination, or divination by complex manipulation of yarrow stalks) are used, the fourth or fifth ranks only plastromancy, and for the sixth rank and lower only achilleomancy.9 The stipulation did not necessarily prevent families from using both methods because the Kaiyuan li deviates from the classical stipulations in this case. The proceedings for the last two rank-groups to which the majority of men and women with court rank belongs are described as follows. The purpose of canonical divinations for the gravesite (bu [shi] zhaizhao 卜[筮]宅兆) differ from that of the noncanonical practices, such as siting or orienting the grave (kanyu 堪輿 or zedi 擇地).10 It is to verify rather than to choose a gravesite. The chief mourner (zhuren 主人), generally the heir of the deceased, initiates the canonical divination after the family has finished preparing the corpse for burial. He sets off with kinsmen to the chosen site and, once there, ropes it off. After assuming his ritual position on the south side of the site, facing north, the divination commences with a simple charge: “The orphaned son X, on behalf of his father who held [X post and X rank], inquires about this particular dark residence, will it suffer any difficulties later?” 11 In his exegesis to the Yili, Zheng Xuan glosses “difficulties” 艱 as “unusual destruction” of the grave.12 After receiving his charge from the chief mourner, the plastromantic diviner (buzhe 卜者) or the achilleomantic diviner (shizhe 筮者) repeats it to the tortoise or yarrow stalks then commands: “Through thou, O Great Tortoise, let there be a lasting judgment!” 假爾泰龜有常, or “Through thou, O Great Stalks, let there be a lasting judgment!” 假爾泰筮有常. If the divinatory result is favorable—namely, the prognostication is affirmative (zhan yue cong 占曰 從, proceed)—the family moves on to the divination of the burial date.13 If the prognostication is negative (bucong 不從, do not proceed), the family must find another gravesite and repeat the divinations.14



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The correct interpretation of the divination result is of utmost importance because it verifies the suitability of the burial site. The copiousness of medieval anecdotes and tales about diviners’ abilities is hardly surprising. It is often when a grave was disturbed or destroyed that a diviner’s prescience comes to light. Li Daoyuan 酈道元 (470–527) reported that the famed poet Xie Lingyun 謝靈運 (385–433) once came upon a brick of an ancient tomb that had fallen into the Jian River 漸江. It bore the following inscription: “The milfoil [foretold] auspiciousness; the tortoise [foretold] inauspiciousness. Eight hundred years hence, the tomb will fall into the river.” After close examination, Xie Lingyun found the tomb dated to the Warring States period (475–221 BCE) and was indeed eight hundred years old.15 Aside from the nameless diviner’s remarkable ability, the anecdote reveals three important facets of canonical divination: the achilleomantic and plastromantic results could contradict each other; the prognostication is more sophisticated than simple binaries (such as auspicious versus inauspicious or affirmative versus negative); and the concept that how long a grave could endure is predictable. All these facets warrant closer examination. How could the achilleomantic and plastromantic results contradict each other? Depending on the significance of the matter at hand, either achilleomancy or plastromancy could be performed first in canonical divinations. Regardless of the order of performance, each method could only be performed a maximum of three times in one setting. The result would be considered affirmative when two of the three oracles were positive. If the first two oracles of the first method were both positive or negative, the diviner could immediately advance to the second method. Otherwise, the diviner had to obtain all three oracles before advancing. The proceeding of the second method mirrors the first. When the first two oracles of the second method were both positive or negative, the divination was completed. Otherwise, the diviner must acquire all three oracles before stopping. Accordingly, the proceeding is referred to as “divining with tortoise and yarrow stalks no more than thrice each” 卜筮不過三.16 As for the results, canonical divinations yielded four possibilities: both achilleomantic and plastromantic results are affirmative (guishi xiangcong 龜筮相從), the plan proceeds; one is affirmative and the other negative (guicong shini 龜從筮逆 or guini shicong 龜逆筮從), whether to move forward depending on a combination of factors (e.g., the nature and specifics of the plan, and which method is positive and which is negative); if the results from both methods are negative (guishi gongwei 龜筮共違), the plan must be aborted. Moreover, if the results from the two methods contradict each other, or if both are negative, one cannot immediately

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start over; this is referred to as “the plastromancy and achilleomancy cannot continue one after another” 卜筮不相襲.17 Consequently, one could receive contradictory results, leading to uncertainty. How could a diviner prognosticate with contradicting results? The Rites themselves are rather vague on this issue. The Zuo Tradition offers an anecdote. Duke Xian of Jin 晉獻公 (d. 651 BCE) had divinations performed to determine whether he should make Lady Li 孋姬 (d. 651 BCE) his ­consort. The plastromantic result was negative but the achilleomantic result was affirmative. Duke Xian declared that he is going to follow the latter. His diviner objected, saying, “The milfoil is short and the tortoise is long; [therefore] give precedence to the long one.”18 In other words, the plastromantic result should be given more weight. This opinion appears nowhere else in the Classics, which has not deterred later scholars from debating the meanings of the “long” and the “short” in this context. That the debate continued for centuries afterward implies that this principle was often considered when resolving divinatory contradictions. The earliest known explanation was offered by Han Jian 韓簡 (fl. the second half of the sixth century BCE) to Duke Xian’s son Duke Hui 惠公 (d. 637 BCE): “The plastromantic oracles are Images (xiang 象); the achilleomantic oracles are Numbers (shu 數). Only after the birth of all things are there Images, only after the birth of Image are there Multiplications (zi 滋), only after Multiplications are there Numbers.”19 According to Han Jian, because crack making was invented first and therefore had a “longer” history, its results should be privileged. In contrast, Han scholar Liu Xiang 劉向 (77–6 BCE) had a much simpler explanation: “Tortoises become numinous after reaching one thousand years of age, and milfoils turn preternatural after living one hundred years; because of their long life, thus they can distinguish what is auspicious from inauspicious.”20 Accordingly, tortoises were a better divination instrument than milfoils because spiritual potency came with age. Another classicist who was referred to simply as the master (shi 師) pointed out, “That which is bu 卜 means to turn over; one examines what is auspicious or inauspicious by turning it over [in his mind]. That which is shi 筮 means to deliberate; one settles a question by deliberation.”21 So, each method has its own purpose. Whereas plastromancy reexamines the oracles, achilleomancy addresses the charge. Consequently, plastromantic oracle takes precedence. Finally, Tang classicist Kong Yingda was of the opinion that tortoises and milfoils are equally efficacious as divination instruments, for the Classics stipulate the use of both side by side on most occasions. He even inferred that Duke Xian’s diviner made up the explanation to stop him from making Lady Li his consort.22 Given the



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numerous interpretations, a universal solution to oracular contradictions likely did not exist. It is entirely possible that the deceased’s family in the anecdote took Duke Xian’s view and disregarded the negative plastromantic result. Ultimately, Lady Li killed Duke Xian’s heir apparent, put her own son on the throne, and provoked a coup d’etat in which both she and her son lost their lives. The grave Xie Lingyun discovered suffered the misfortune of tumbling into the water just like Duke Xian’s union with Lady Li brought only disasters.23 Taiping guangji collects several anecdotes of prophecies on the endurance of the grave that are even more colorful. One that first appears in Zhang Du’s 張讀 (jinshi in the 850s) in Xuanshi zhi 宣室志 (The Records from the Chamber of Dissemination) is particularly revealing: In the Kaiyuan era (713–742), an attending censor named Wu Zai 鄔載 was sent by the court to inspect flood damage in the Jiangnan region and came across an ancient tomb that had collapsed into the water. When relocating the corpse to a higher plain, he discovered a stone inscription of twenty characters that turned out to be the oracular verse from the burial divination. It read, “One thousand years henceforth, this place will turn into springs. Fortunately, I shall meet the Attending Censor Wu, who will move me to a higher plain.” Examining its date, Wu Zai found that indeed one thousand years had passed.24

Thus this nameless diviner foretold how and when the tomb would be opened and who would rebury the deceased. Zhang Du and his readers must have been impressed with the diviner’s ability. The veracity of anecdotes like this one notwithstanding, their collection and preservation reflect contemporary concerns and divinatory practices. Indeed, such predictions are not unknown in late medieval muzhiming.25 The muzhiming of Wang Jie 王節 (buried in 595) and Liu Shantao 柳山濤 (d. 665) are particularly illuminating when read together.26 Wang Jie’s muzhiming had a single hexagram Qian 謙 engraved on one side of the cover and an inscription engraved on the other side that reads One thousand eight hundred years henceforth, Wu Nuzi will unearth [this grave]. The admonition to him: one who lavishly reburies the deceased will receive blessings for many generations.27

The engraving indicates the prognostication was derived from the achilleomantic result. Although the oracular statement was meant to be a warning, the tone is solicitous—it promises Wu Nuzi generations of blessing if he richly refurbishes the grave. In contrast, Liu Shantao’s

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muzhiming states the use of achilleomancy but does not reveal the resulting hexagram: The Yi divination forecasts that “one thousand three hundred years after the burial, [the grave] will be excavated by a yellow head.” To its excavator, you should properly rebury and conceal [the grave]. If you do not properly rebury and conceal it, you will meet calamity within a year.28

Instead of being solicitous, this oracular statement threatens the intruder with a curse. Whether it was carrot or stick that the families reached for, two things are clear. First, the canonical divination of the gravesite, and achilleomancy specifically, prognosticate the endurance and security of the grave. The results are not simple binaries and involve numerical calculation. Second, given that the oracular statement in these two muzhiming share the same sentence structure—X number of years from now, a catastrophe will occur, X action must be performed, then X outcome will follow. The formula implies that these diviners were following the same interpretive process.29 Although we may never know which method of calculations that prognosticate dooms, an anecdote about Zheng Qinyue 鄭欽悅 (n.d.) solving complex oracular puzzles offers us some clues.30 Zheng was a court academician active during the Tianbao era (742–756). Once, he deciphered a burial inscription that had baffled medieval scholars for two centuries. The inscription, which does not readily lend itself to a translation without incorporating his interpretation, reads The tortoise denotes Earth [i.e., Wu 戊 and Ji 己 from the Heavenly Stems]; the milfoils denotes Water [i.e., Zi 子 and Hai 亥 from Earthly Branches]. Within the dianfu 甸服 region [i.e., the area extending five hundred li in each direction from the capital city], the tomb was erected in the eleventh month [i.e., the eleventh of twelve pitch-notes huangzhong 黃鍾]. The interment took place on the Gan 庚 [day] in the first [ten-day week] of the third [month]. The tomb will fall on the Si 巳 [day] in the second [ten-day week] of the seventh [month]. Six thousand three hundred and twelve months shall it pass and two nines [eighteen], double threes [six] and four hundred days [186,400 days in total] later shall it collapse.31

From the Earth element, Zheng Qinyue deduced that the inscription was excavated in the fourth year of the Datong 大同 era of Liang Dynasty (538), a Wu-Wu 戊午 year. The dianfu region is a metonymy for five hundred. Huangzhung is the eleventh of twelve pitch-notes, thus stands for eleven. Hence, 511 was the number of years between interment and destruction. He further calculated that the interment took place in the



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Figure 3.1  Heavenly Stems and Earthly Branches

Figure 3.2  The Sexagenary Cycle

fourth year of the Jianwu 建武 era (28 CE) of Eastern Han, which was a Wu-Zi 戊子 year, thus matching the Water element. The interment took place at Mt. Zhong 鍾山 on the Gan day in the first ten-day week of the third month (April 3, 28 CE), because the third month of that Wu-Zi year was a Xin-Si 辛巳 month and the Gen day in the first ten-day week of that month was a Gen-Yin 庚寅 day (thus the tenth day of that month. The grave’s collapse on the Si day in the second ten-day week of the seventh month (August 22, 538), as the seventh month of that Wu-Wu 戊午 year

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was a Wu-Wu 戊午 month and the Si day of that month was a Ji-Si 己巳 day (thus the twelfth day of that month). Between the times of interment and collapse was 186,400 days, or 6,312 months. Zheng Qinyue explained his calculation in a letter to Ren Shengzhi 任昇之, the collector of the burial inscription.32 In time, this and other cases he solved reached renowned polymath, Li Jifu 李吉甫 (758–814), who also dabbled in numerological divination. Li wrote a brief discourse (lun 論) as the preface to his collection of Zheng’s cases, reflecting on the inexplicable links between fate and divination, which many historical figures, Confucius included, misunderstood at their peril. No one could ever be certain of their fate no matter how good they were at divination. Zheng Qingyue’s skills, for one, never brought him political prominence.33 The question remains, why would a family knowingly bury their dead in a doomed grave if the goal was making sure the grave stays intact and undisturbed forever? The pervasive belief in the impermanence of all things is a likely reason. Late medieval muzhiming often show a keen awareness of the gradual and inevitable ruin of the grave. Phrases on the same theme, such as “Trees have grown around it as years go by; the grave is in ruin with the passage of time” or “The divine cranes have not returned while weeds grow daily, making desolate the tomb passage” are ubiquitous.34 Almost all late medieval muzhiming end the preface with passages, such as “we fear the hills and valleys [i.e., the grave] will alter and hope the inscribed stone will not decay” or “we are afraid that the mulberry fields will turn into the sea and the hills and valleys will change and alter; thus we carve this dark inscription, so that [the memory of the deceased] will not decay.”35 Thus muzhiming are not a talisman to ward off the grave’s destruction but the dead’s oblivion. The impending doom could be an acceptable trade-off when it allows long-buried memories to resurface. Another and perhaps the most common reason for neglecting future doom was the hope of bringing descendants immediate benefits. Because the canonical divinations did not choose but instead simply verify the suitability of a burial plot, the families often consulted noncanonical divinations in the selection process. Lü Cai 呂才 (600–655)—an Early Tang erudite of divination and classical rituals—criticized his contemporaries for believing that “wealth, influence, office, and rank all result from the place of burial [of one’s ancestors]; the length or brevity of one’s lifespan is beckoned by [the location of] the gravesite.”36 Instead, he pointed out, The Classic of Filial Piety states, “Divine the gravesite and thereby rest [the deceased] in peace.” As [the dead] had parented [their children], [where they rest] will long be the site of remembrance; once the funerary rite ends, it will forever be the residence of their spirits (hun shen 魂神). Courts



Burial Divinations 129 and markets move and change. How can one predict what is to come? The springs and stones breach [the grave] in turn. How can one foresee what is to take place underground? Thus, we go to the extent of consulting the tortoises and the milfoils, ensuring that the gravesite will suffer no future difficulty. This practice is about being thorough with the rites of death; it has never had the meaning of bringing fortune or misfortune.37

In other words, selecting and divining for a gravesite were expressions of filial piety and a way to create a lasting site of memory. The purpose of consulting noncanonical methods was to perform due diligence rather than to improve the family’s prospects. Therefore, Lü Cai did not oppose noncanonical divinations as long as they were performed in the spirit of filial piety. He was particularly critical of excesses fueled by fearmongering and unscrupulous diviners: In recent generations, however, various yin-yang methods for burial have been added [to the funerary program]. [They help with] either selecting auspicious times or measuring the near or far of gravesites and farm fields. [It is as if] any mishap could cause calamity to both the dead and the living. The wu-shamans profit from the goods and fees; every one of them arbitrarily increases the number of prohibitions. Thus, of books on burial, there are one hundred and twenty; each proposes auspicious and inauspicious [choices] and obstinately multiplies taboos.38

Here he could barely conceal his disdain for the greedy and gullible. These passages are excerpts from the Yinyang shu 陰陽書 (Book of Yinyang) that Lü Cai compiled and later expanded under the auspices of Tang Emperor Taizong 唐太宗 (r. 626–649). The book collected many noncanonical divinations, including several associated with siting. Its professed aim was to weed out the false and preserve the useful.39 With an additional fifty-seven fascicles, the court-proclaimed version was more than twice the original size. The expansion suggests the pervasiveness of divinations in everyday life. The book was soon neglected, however, surviving now only in fragments. The dynastic histories offered different reasons for its lack of popularity. The Jiu Tang shu, compiled during the Latter Jin dynasty 後晉 (936–946), praised it for being “very much in keeping with the meaning of the Classics” 頗合經義, but also “criticized by diviners” 為術者所短 for wanting efficacy.40 The Tang monarchs’ (ultimately futile) endeavors to balance classical teaching against everyday reality is evident. In contrast, the Xin Tang shu, compiled during the Northern Song 北宋 (960–1127), maintained that the neglect was largely due to the persistent popularity in noncanonical fortune-telling for selfish gains.41

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Whether or not burial divinations improved the family fortune, they were useful in promoting desired identity and memory. This aspect is particularly evident when a family declared that a reburial of their dead was necessary because the original gravesite was problematic. In the “San fen ji” 三墳記 (Account of the Three Graves) and “Xi xianying ji” 栖先塋記 (Account of Resituating My Late Parents’ Grave), Li Jiqing 李季卿 (d. 767), a well-respected classicist at the courts of Emperors Suzong 肅宗 (r. 756– 762) and Daizong 代宗 (r. 762–779) chronicled the reburial of his parents and three brothers. He maintained that he only took this drastic step after the family had suffered a great deal of misfortune.42 His father Li Shi 李適 (d. 711) had instructed, “the plain of Baling has the western prospect of the capital, I prefer it; you may build my tomb there and plant ten pine trees.”43 The “Xi xianying ji” reports the family carved a niche (zaoken 鑿龕) on the cliff by the bank of Ba River, indicating that they had given him an “exposing the corpse burial” (lushizang 露屍葬) per his request. But after Li Jiqing’s three learned elder brothers died within a few years of each other, someone advised him that “Heaven bestowed on the sons of the Li family its talent but not its lifespan; why not go to the extent of consulting the tortoises and the milfoils [as well as] consulting the ghosts and spirits?”44 While the idea was planted in his mind, Li Jiqing did not act on this advice until 766, likely because of to the An Lushan Rebellion. He hired a diviner named Shao Quan 邵權 to assess the situation. The diviner found the gravel covering Li Shi’s niche had eroded, exposing the contents to the elements, and the subsequent burials of the three brothers had also paid no heed to various geomantic prohibitions. He helped Li Jiqing select a new burial site using the methods allegedly developed by the legendary geomancers Guan Lu 管輅 (209–256) and Guo Pu 郭璞 (276–324).45 Their search began with identifying a general area—the Fengxi plain 鳳栖原 in the southern suburb of Chang’an—and then narrowing down the possibilities with achilleomancy. The Sun 損 hexagram led them to a more precise location near Yicheng 邰城 between the Chan 滻 and Fan 樊 Rivers, which the canonical burial divinations later approved. Li Jiqing described that the new location was on a gentle hill of a mountain range and that the burial pit was dug on the incline.46 On hearing about the story behind these reburials, an amazed Emperor Daizong promoted Li Shi posthumously to the post of Vice Director of the Chancellery (huangmen shilang 黃門侍郎) and appointed Li Jiqing as Minister of the Ministry of Rites (libu shangshu 禮部尚書), whose job was to oversee all imperial and court ceremonies and sacrifices, codify rituals, and monitor religious communities. Ironically, while the reburials might have brought Li Jiqing fame and promotion, they did not lengthen



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his lifespan. According to his Xin Tang shu biography, he died in a few months before he could assume the new office.47 This case highlights several important facets of the late medieval culture of remembrance, especially the intersection between Buddhism, filial piety, and geomancy. The perception of Buddhist, hence nonnormative, burials had changed over time. The burial of exposing naked corpse that was popular among the followers of the Three Levels Movement (such as Li Shi and Lady Zhangsun, discussed in the introduction of this volume) during the seventh and early eighth century faded with the movement. Li Shi’s religious affiliation became problematic after the movement was repeatedly banned. His normative reburial with his wife and three sons at a new location erased the Buddhist identity that his original burial had maintained. The perceived harm his burial niche brought to the family, which included the premature deaths of his sons (thus a potential end of ancestral sacrifices), were justification enough for the rearrangement. Li Jiqing’s expurgation of Buddhist elements from the family identity went still further. He aligned his brothers’ graves based on seniority from the southeast (i.e., the position for the superiors) to the northwest (i.e., the position for the inferiors) according to classical cosmology, demonstrating the family’s adherence to the classical construction of human relationships. The consultation of noncanonical divinations (suggested by someone else) and the resulting burial were justified based on the perceived misfortune following the original burial. The circumstance of reburial thus presented Li Jiqing with an opportunity to reshape identity and memory. Even as he disregarded his father’s wish, his action was not only deemed filial but also exemplary, judging from his immediate promotion at court. Li Jiqing’s subsequent actions also deserve attention. He composed the “San fen ji” and “Xi xianying ji” to document the course of events and hired Li Yangbin 李陽冰 (fl. mid-eighth century), one of the most celebrated calligraphers of his generation, to provide the brushwork for the engraving. He then erected the stone steles inscribed with these texts in the family graveyard. These steps were to ensure the perpetual commemoration of his loved ones (in the identities of his reshaping) and of his commitment to his family.48 These steles were a conspicuous display of filial devotion par excellence. Li Jiqing was no doubt aware that Li Yangbin’s calligraphy would widen the circulation of the inscription and thus help promote his image as a devoted son and brother. Indeed, the longevity of these inscriptions likely exceeded even his wildest expectations. Generations of connoisseurs have collected the rubbings of both steles to this date, as the stele of “San fen ji” in particular has been considered Li Yangbin’s finest work.49 Yet we must recognize that these steles could only

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project Li Jiqing’s virtue inside a specific interpretive framework where classical values, social norms, and geomancy held sway and the willingness to embrace noncanonical divinations was a yardstick of filial devotion. This discursive field of the late medieval culture of remembrance are obscured, for as broadly as the inscriptions have been disseminated, countless viewers have been focusing on the calligraphy rather than the content. Li Jiqing’s case was certainly high profile, but not unique. Cui Shu’s 崔 鉥 lengthy addendum to his father Cui Wenzhi’s 崔温之 (d. 875) muzhiming recounting the successive deaths within the family and subsequent reburials is similarly illuminating. Cui Shu lost several loved ones in the span of seven years, starting with his mother in 870. His elder brother died just a year later, followed by his father in 875 and younger brother in 877. As Cui Shu stated, As I was suddenly singled out to suffer the loss of my mother, before the end of the mourning period, the pain of cutting off one’s hand [i.e., the death of a sibling] abruptly visited me via my eldest brother. After three years, this unfilial one [i.e., Cui Shu’s self-deprecating reference] invited calamity and [as a result] went into mourning for my late father. After another two years, my younger fourth brother precipitately passed away. My bitterness and sorrow reached the extreme, and passersby were all saddened by [my losses]. Hence my natal and marital relations all came to visit and console [me]. [One of them] hung back and said to me, “The Classic of Filial Piety states: ‘Divine the gravesite then rest [the parent] in peace.’ You had lost both your parents, and your elder and younger brothers had both died, could it not be that the cypress and pine trees [i.e., the grave] have sunk into a vile place? There is someone named Yang Jun who lives in Dongping. If you can pay him a visit, you sure will profit from it.” I respectfully agree [to go]. Soon Scholar Yang arrived at Ru Prefecture and beheld the graveyard of my father. He told [me], Shu: Your surname is of the Jue 角 note. The trigram Gen 艮 [Mountain] brings meritorious blessings; hence, the burial ground should not be low; the trigram Kun 坤 [Earth] brings demonic harms; therefore, the terrain should not be steep. The places of these graves all oppose the classics [of burial]. You must seek another location to divine. I hear that on Mount Mang you could rest your ancestors’ spirits. The place is called Yicun and the township is called Jingu. In the north, it is back into the Chan River; in the east, it connects to the Wei Mausoleum. It is under the jurisdiction of the Henan District of the Capital Prefecture of Luoyang. If those on the spirit path [i.e., the dead] attain peace, you too will be at peace. [I,] Shu, responded: “I am afraid of the extinction of the family line. How dare I wish [only] for [my personal] peace?” [Yang Jun’s] instruction I



Burial Divinations 133 respectfully followed and swiftly ascertained a gravesite. Then, on the twenty-sixth day of the third month in the fourth year of the Qianfu era [May 12, 877], from the Liang District of Ru Prefecture, I embarked on guarding [and transporting] my late parents’ [remains]. [The date] of the burial here was the second day of the fourth month [May 18, 877]. My eldest brother, named Zhu, was previously jointly buried in the Ru [Prefecture] tomb. Now [he] too [has been moved] to another divined location that is seventy-seven paces from the great graveyard [where our parents’ grave is located] in the southeast. My deceased younger brother whose name was Xin, had wanted to compose his own [mu]zhiming. I briefly chronicle the rites of relocation, because [I] worry about the changes to the gravesites. The deceased’s name and the family tradition were thoroughly presented in the previous muzhiming. My sins affront the Azure Heaven. This unfilial one sincerely records.50

Cui Shu’s account would not be out of place in any collection of extraordinary anecdotes and tales. It has a cast of interesting characters, including a wise relative, a gifted geomancer, and Cui Shu himself, the hapless chief mourner. It moreover contains a copious amount of dialogue, which is rare for the muzhiming genre. Regardless of their authenticity, these conversations helped Cui Shu shape his own memory by highlighting his filial piety. After his relative quoted to him the oft-cited passage from the Xiaojing, he consulted the recommended diviner. His willingness to go so far as to use noncanonical siting itself was a means to demonstrate his thoroughness with the burial arrangement demanded in the Classics. Cui Shu further stressed that his wholesale acceptance of Yang Jun’s recommendations was motivated solely by his desire to preserve the family line rather than to benefit himself personally. By following the advice, he also shifted most of the responsibility to his relative and the diviner should the changes fail to stop the family’s misfortune. These conversations thus offered him a cover as he arranged the reburials of his parents and elder brother, redefining the family identity and membership in the process. That he interred his elder brother separately outside the family graveyard and failed to mention where he had buried his younger brother despite the fact that it was his recent death that had set in motion the reburials suggests that they were not full-blooded brothers. In short, he could better express his filial devotion and justify his actions with these conversations than without them. The addendum was an elaborate scheme that courted blessing and praise from the living while silencing any objections. Its goal was to put Cui Shu beyond reproach. Muzhiming describing the topography of the gravesite as Cui Shu did in the addendum are numerous; some even boast the geomantic

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superiority of the chosen site. The preface of Liu Renrui’s 劉仁叡 (d. 705) muzhiming is a fine example: [The site] glances sideway at Mount Guoshi [in Henan District] as white cranes circle in the air; facing the south toward Luoyang, the grave will forever be impregnable. The terrain rises and falls, consisting of many rare convergences of fire and water; the river flows and penetrates, gathering [illegible character] of mists and clouds. The site on which the grave was built has no peer in the present or past.

The family seemingly feared that such description would not be enough to convince readers of the gravesite’s great merit so they again stressed it in the elegy: “The tortoises speak of [the site’s] auspiciousness; the cranes signal [the grave’s] concealment.”51 Even the canonical divination concurred. The emphasis on the location’s superiority and the family’s ability to procure it underlines that a well-chosen and verified gravesite itself projected filial piety. The importance of finding a gravesite that would secure the family’s prosperity and thereby the continuation of ancestral sacrifice was paramount. Such consideration may yet be another reason a family would knowingly bury a particular deceased member in a doomed grave. After all, what the latter might suffer could ensure the family’s continuation. What better way for the dead to express unceasing devotion to the ancestors by contributing to the descendants’ longevity and prosperity? Cui Shu’s addendum mentions one of the most enduring and popular semi-canonical beliefs—that the location of the gravesite and orientation of the grave must match the musical note of the family’s surname. Known as wuxing 五姓 (Five Surnames) or wuyin 五音 (Five Notes), the belief appeared no later than the Han dynasty and had grown sophisticated over the centuries.52 Indeed, muzhiming aplenty attest to its pervasive presence in choosing a gravesite. One Madame Yuan’s (d. 738) muzhiming, for example, vividly depicts a grave siting in progress based on this belief: “A practitioner of the Way [a Daoist priest] approaches the gravesite, drawing the Five Notes to fix [the location of] the pit; a scholar chooses the [location of the grave], arranging the hexagrams to commence excavation.”53 Lü Cai explained the basic principle of the Five Surnames in the “Preface to the Book of Residence” 敍宅經: The so-called Five Surnames maintains that, to [the musical notes] Gong, Shang, Jue, Zhi, and Yu, the myriad things under Heaven are all paired according to their natures. The [determination of] auspiciousness and inauspiciousness of an action follows this principle.54



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Figure 3.3  The Five Notes Resonance with Five Phases, Five Directions, Ten Heavenly Stems and Earthly Branches

This principle correlates the pronunciation of a surname with a musical note on the pentatonic scale. Each note further resonates with one of the Five Phases, the Five Directions, the Heavenly Stems, and the Earthly Branches (see figure 3.3). Lü Cai complained that the correlations between the musical notes and the surnames were inconsistent. Sometimes they were based on rhyming, such as Zhang 張 and Wang 王 resonating with the Shang-note and Wu 武 and Yu 庾 with the Yu note, yet other times they were not, such as correlating Liu 柳 with the Gong note and Zhao 趙 with the Jue note. What irritated him most were cases where one surname was said to resonate with multiple notes, or a compound surname correlated with only one note, even though each character, he thought, should be given its own note. Lü Cai then pointed out that only a handful of surnames were in use when the Yellow Emperor sought instruction from Tianlao 天老, his wisest minister, on the principles of kanyu (the Ways of Heaven and Earth). Because most people were descended from these ancient lineages and later adopted their offices, fiefs, domiciles, or even birth stars as their surnames, or had one bestowed on them by their rulers as a form of recognition, he failed to see how one’s fortune could be tied to such a tenuous connection.55 Lü Cai’s criticisms, and even how he expressed them, were nothing new; the Eastern Han scholars Wang Chong 王充 (27–97) and Wang Fu 王符 (83–170) had already done so in their works.56 His contemporary diviners may have even shared his frustration. Some divination manuals from Dunhuang (such as P. 2615 and P. 3647), including those that scholars suspect to be fragments of Lü Cai’s Yinyang shu, took pains to provide a list of the pairing for surnames that were non-Chinese, or Chinese surnames adopted by non-Chinese families, or that consisted of multiple characters, or that were awarded by the emperor, or that belonged to the adoptees from another clan.57

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Interestingly, Lü Cai did not mention that the preeminent Eastern Han classicists gathered at the White Tiger Hall 白虎觀 (79 CE) had deemed the Five Surname principle orthodox. Their explanation reads, Why are there a hundred surnames? Our view is that ancient sages blew [twelve] pitch-pipes to fix the surnames and with which to note down their clans. Man contains the Five Constants [i.e., Five Phases] and thus comes into being. His voice has Five Notes—Gong, Shang, Jue, Zhi, and Yu—transposing and mixing. Five times five equals twenty-five, one thing gives rise to another over the four seasons, hence there are a hundred different [surnames]. Their breaths varied and their sounds comprehensive, these are what distinguish the hundred [surnames].58

The passage clearly indicates that mainstream Han classicists believed the correlation between surnames and the musical notes to be ancient and correct. This fact therefore complicates our reading of Lü Cai’s subsequent comment: Nowadays, the auspiciousness or inauspiciousness of a burial is based on what is appropriate according to the Five Surnames. Burials of the ancients were all located north of the state capital. As the burial grounds and graves had a designated location, from whence is the meaning of matching the surname with the grave taken? The burials of the Zhao clans were all located at Jiuyuan; the mausoleums of the Han [rulers] were scattered about various places. “Upper Facilitation” and “Lower Facilitation,” they despised and did not discuss them. “Great Tomb” and “Small Tomb,” upon what does the meaning rest? To the extent that their children and grandchildren [enjoyed] unceasing fortune and prestige—some of whom either [possessed] the mores of the Three Dynasties or divided into the Six States and ruled them. If this is the meaning of the Five Surnames, there are no ancient examples. As for the principles of auspiciousness and inauspiciousness, from whence did they originate?59

Upper Utility, Lower Utility, Great Tomb, and Small Tomb were among the Thirty-Eight Divine Commanders (sanshiba shenjiang 三十八神將), astral deities who were common characteristics of anthropomorphized terrains. Thus, rather than spreading bullets, Lü Cai had one specific target—the method of siting that paired the Five Surnames with the these deities.60 He criticized the method for having no ancient precedents; neither the Zhao clan, the hereditary nobility of the Jin state (ca. 1033–376 BCE) nor the Han court had paid any attention to them when burying their dead. That the scholars at the White Tiger Hall considered Five Surnames orthodox suggests that the dynastic histories might have taken Lü Cai’s objection out of context.



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Figure 3.4  The Five Notes Resonance with Terrains (P. 3492 and P. 2615)

Many simpler methods founded on Five Surnames were in circulation in Lü Cai’s time. The divination manual from Dunhuang manuscript P. 3492 (figure 3.4) is a fine example of a work pairing Five Surnames with specific terrains. No professional geomancer was needed. Anyone could identify a suitable location based on these guidelines.61 The belief that the dead continuously, if not actively, affected living descendants fueled the growth of burial divinations. Whether canonical or not, these practices were socially accepted, and even expected, as a way to demonstrate thoroughness and thereby express filial piety. One would be derelict in one’s duty if one did not perform due diligence by engaging in noncanonical divinations. Thus, a family could draw authority from both canonical and noncanonical divinations to reaffirm or readjust existing identities and memories, especially when a reburial was deemed necessary. Neither Li Jiqing nor Cui Shu would have had the opportunity to redefine family identity without reburying their kin. Their actions (and the commemoration of those actions) hence (re)produced a discursive field where fortune and misfortune were explained, filial piety was expressed and evaluated, and burial divinations maintained respectability and validity. This is the culture of remembrance that the late medieval Chinese people instinctively understood, but which is often invisible to modern scholars. As we proceed to examine the divination practices associated with selecting or verifying a burial date, it is crucial to stress again that the selective preservation and representation of Lü Cai’s polemics in the dynastic histories is misleading. Lü Cai was himself a renowned practitioner of the occult, which is what made him Erudite of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices 太常博士 in the first place. He did not condemn categorically

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the principle of the Five Surnames and noncanonical geomancy. Otherwise, what was filling his voluminous Yinyang shu? DIVINATIONS REGARDING THE BURIAL DATE Once the family has established the burial site, they perform the canonical divinations for determining the date of burial (bu [shi] zangri 卜[筮]葬 日). Like the canonical divinations for verifying a gravesite, these only assessed the selection. The Kaiyuan li provides step-by-step instructions for each ranked-group following the Yili.62 The proceedings mirror those of the canonical gravesite divination. The following description is of the proceedings for individuals from the fourth to the ninth ranks. The chief mourner and his male kin exit the hall or room where the encoffined deceased is being kept and stand outside by the door. The mistress of the house (i.e., the deceased’s wife, or if she is no longer living, the chief mourner’s wife) also stands by the door but on the inside. The formal proceeding commences in the courtyard once everyone has assumed his or her proper positions. The chief mourner issues a simple charge: “The orphaned son X divines the coming date X on which to bury his father [fill in office and rank], will the kao-jiang 考降 come near any regrets?” After receiving the charge, the plastromantic or achilleomantic diviner repeats it to the tortoises or yarrow stalks then commands: “Through thou, O Great Tortoises, let there be a lasting judgment!” or “Through thou, O Great Stalks, let there be a lasting judgment!” The prognostication for the burial date is the same as those for the gravesite. If the outcome is affirmative, the family moves on to the next stage of burial preparation. If negative, they must pick and divine a new date.63 Despite the similarities, the structural differences between the two canonical burial divinations are important. Whereas the divination for confirming the gravesite is an all-male event, that for determining the burial date included the mistress of the house, which may have to do with the locations of the divinations—one occurs at the burial site, the other near the corpse. Also, the divinatory result of the burial site is not announced to family and friends; that of the burial date is. That the canonical divinations of the burial date occur only after that of the burial site accords them with particular significance—even if the proposed gravesite receives approval, the burial could not proceed until the proposed date is confirmed. It follows that the canonical divination of the burial date is the last opportunity to assess the burial arrangement. This makes the next difference between the two canonical divinations extremely important. Whereas the divinatory charge of burial site does



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not identify the entity from whom the diviner seeks instructions, that of the burial date is plainly addressed to kao-jiang. Who then, is this entity with authority to support or overturn a burial arrangement? The identity of kao-jiang can be established two ways. First, we could follow Eastern Han classicist Zheng Xuan, who glossed kao as ascend and jiang as descend. To him, the charge means “to divine the date for burial in order to learn whether the hun-shen, either ascending or descending, could avoid being near any afflictions or regrets.”64 Tang classicist Jia Gongyan asserts that Zheng Xuan’s use of hun-shen refers to all spirits and not just the spirit of the deceased.65 However, when the term appears in contemporary texts (including one of Lü Cai’s statements cited earlier), it always points to the soul of the deceased. Kong Yingda, for instance, maintains that a close personal attendant is the one who summons the soul of his lord “hoping the lord’s hun-shen would come and attach to [the clothes used for summoning]” when explaining the fu-summon 復 (the classical hun-summoning rite).66 Even Jia Gongyan himself when commenting on the fu-summon states, “the Qi 氣 that enters and departs [from the body] is called hun, the alertness of ears and eyes is called po; when dying, the hun-shen departs and separates from the po, hence [the loved ones] want to summon the hun and return it to the po.”67 Again, when explicating the yu-sacrifice, he writes, “When the chief mourner and filial sons bury [the deceased], they send the form [xing 形; the corpse] to [the grave] and welcome the hun to return; fearing that the hun-shen is not at peace, they perform the three Yu-sacrifices to comfort it.”68 There is no reason to assume kao-jiang, being hun-shen, does not refer to the deceased. We can reach the same conclusion by considering the definition of the characters kao and jiang. The Liji states without any ambiguity that “When living, call [the father] fu 父, [the mother] mu 母, and [the wife] qi 妻, when deceased, call [the father] kao 考, [the mother] pi 妣, and [the wife] pin 嬪.”69 Thus, the character kao refers to the deceased father in mortuary rituals and ancestral sacrifices. Meanwhile, the character jiang means to descend and to lower in any context. Specifically, when performing ancestral sacrifices, one offers food, drink, music, and prayers to entice “the shen to descend from above” 以降上神.70 Therefore, kao-jiang is the deceased and the addressee of the charge. The result of the canonical divination for verifying the burial date thus represents the will of the deceased. Understandably, a negative result introduced emotional and logistical burdens. Wan Yuan’s 萬愿 (d. 673) he-burial with his predeceased wives Madame Ma 馬氏 (d. 649) and Madame Zhang 張氏 (d. 668) had to be suspended because “the milfoils and tortoises were clashing, and the

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achilleomantic and the plastromantic oracles were quarreling.” The family subsequently suffered more deaths and could not complete the heburial until forty years later.71 Fang Chengxian’s 房承先 (d. 715) muzhiming vividly depicts the emotional cost a divination-induced delay for the loved ones: “The consulted tortoises and milfoils were not yet in agreement, having to walk on frost and dew only added to [a son’s] grief.” His son was unable to complete the task for another thirty-six years.72 Many families similarly hung in suspense for years if not decades unable to complete the burial. In muzhiming, representations of such delays almost always emphasize the depth of grief rather than the efforts to overcome adversity. It might be due to a feeling of impotence that the implementation of the desired burial might be beyond mere mortals. Some families made a point of reporting positive oracles as if breathing a sigh of relief. For instance, the provisional burial of Cui Huang 崔鍠 had been the “result of the tortoise rejecting the plan.” When his children were finally able to rebury him with his wife in the family cemetery, the muzhiming author gleefully declared that the very first plastromantic oracle they received was auspicious (deyu yuangui 得於元龜).73 The canonical divinations of burial date thus gave the deceased the power to rein in the family. The social expectation of filial piety and the fear of otherworldly punishments ascribed no small amount of (imagined) agency to the deceased. In this sense, the result of the canonical divinations of burial date was more authoritative and binding than the deceased’s deathbed instruction. The exercise, strength, and limitation of this agency are most visible when the oracle confirmed a requested nonnormative burial, contradicted the original instruction, or rejected the current arrangement altogether. The case of one Madame Zhang’s 張 (d. 803) burial is quite illuminating in this regard. When on her deathbed, she told her children their father’s (d. 801) last command: “To exhume and join together [in burial a married couple] was not an ancient practice; it was transmitted by the Duke of Zhou. When you, my wife, die, our graves shall be leaning on each other. Please prevent [the children from] seeing me.” I dare not violate your late father’s command. Do you understand?74

Madame Zhang’s husband, if he had indeed uttered such command, made his case using the usual rhetoric device against he-burial. He moreover implied that what he requested is essentially a Wei-style he-burial because it shields the predeceased from view. We can infer, because no evidence indicates otherwise, that the canonical burial divinations must



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have confirmed his request. Madame Zhang predicated her request on her husband’s and made her continuous performance of her wifely duties her children’s responsibility. The family subsequently interred her in a separate grave next to her husband’s as specified. The muzhiming states that the tortoises and milfoil stalks favored both her burial site and date, hence thrice validating the couple’s not quite joint or disjoint-spousal burial—the divination of burial date for him confirming his last command, and the divination of burial date for her approving the arrangement in toto. That Madame Zhang’s muzhiming was loaded with justifications and validations suggests significant pressure on her or her loved ones to go one way or the other. The agency Madame Zhang attributed to her deceased husband also increased her freedom as a dying person to craft her identity and memory vis-à-vis the family. The perceived power of canonical burial divination ascribed to the couple prevented the others from willfully pushing their own agendas. The living thus did not hold all the cards. But if they obeyed (or appeared to obey) the oracles, it enhanced their agency in maintaining and refashioning identities and memories vis-à-vis other people (within or outside the family) and institutions (such as the state). Li Jiqing, for one, would not be able to rebury his father and thereby refashion his identity if the canonical divinatory results were negative. Thus these results in general and that of the canonical divinations of burial date in particular were essentially deathbed instructions greatly enhanced, for the ones who uttered it had now shed their limitations as mortals. Their power was such that the Tang classicist Kong Yingda once observed, “As for burial, if the divination of date receives an auspicious reply, it can be known that the remaining matters will all be auspicious.”75 One last difference between the canonical divinations of the burial site and those of the burial date bear mention. The Rites offer no guidance on how to choose a gravesite; they do help narrowing down possible dates by the property of integers, and then by the process of divination. Each Chinese week (xun 旬) has ten days, each Chinese month three weeks, and each Chinese year twelve months, all of which are reckoned using the sexagenary cycle.76 The odd-numbered days (qiri 奇日) are the hard days (gangri 剛日; Jia 甲, Bing 丙, Wu 戊, Geng 庚, Ren 壬 days), the evennumbered days (ouri 偶日) the soft days (rouri 柔日; Yi 乙, Ding 丁, Ji 己, Xin 辛, and Gui 癸 days) (figure 3.5). The Liji advises using a hard day for conducting affairs taking place outside the city limits, and a soft day for those performed within.77 Consequently, a burial must fall on a hard day, reducing the number of possible dates in a year by half. The Liji further dictates that only one day could be chosen from each week, limiting the selection

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to just thirty-six dates per year. It goes on to specify the order by which one should divine these dates. The first week in the month is termed the Upper Xun (shangxun 上旬), the second the Middle Xun (zhongxun 中旬), and the last the Lower Xun (xiaxun 下旬). The days in the Upper Xun are known as “nearer days” 近日, those in the Lower Xun “further days” 遠日. The Liji stipulates that the divination of “burial matters begins with the further days” 喪事先遠日.78 Accordingly, the divination for the burial date must start with a day chosen from the Lower Xun, then the Middle Xun, and finally the Upper Xun of the same month. When combined, these stipulations leave the loved one just few options. What the Classics prescribed is not strictly speaking a hemerology given that it does not filter dates based on their auspiciousness or inauspiciousness, as Lü Cai stressed repeatedly. It offers no instruction in identifying a precise date within the parameters. Excavated day books (rishu 日 書 or rijin zhishu 日禁之書) show that noncanonical hemerology had been filling the void since the late Warring States period.79 Wang Chong describes, and repeatedly ridicules, various hemerological beliefs in Lunheng. He mentions in particular a popular Burial Calendar (zangli 葬曆), which instructs that “The date for interment must avoid the Nine Spaces and Earthly Ladle, and attend to the hardness and softness of each weekday and the odd number and even number of the months.” What the Nine Spaces and Earthly Ladle were have long since passed from our knowledge.80 Lü Cai’s polemic, however, confirms that the harmony of the hard and soft (ganrou xiangde 剛柔相得) and the balance of the odd and even (ji’ou xiangying 奇偶相應) of the death and burial dates, remained important considerations in the late medieval period.81 The fragments of divination manuals from Dunhuang and the Dili xinshu 地理新書 (New Book of the Earthly Principles), the Northern Song dynasty counterpart to Lü Cau’s Yinyang shu, include many late medieval hemerological methods. Some are simple and needed no professional assistance to apply; others are much more involved and required knowledge of complex calendrical calculations. For our purpose—examining the impacts of burial divinations on promoting desired identity and memory—knowing the basics will suffice. The following methods were the most frequently reported in muzhiming. The proper sequence of selecting a burial date began with the year, month, and then day. “The Five Surnames Using the Taboo Years and Months of the Five Dragon-Fetuses” 五姓用五龍胎忌年月 (figure 3.6), for example, lists universally inauspicious years and months. More advanced amateurs could select appropriate timing by consulting the “Quick and Comprehensive Method of Selecting a Burial Year Based on the Five



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Figure 3.5  The Hard and Soft Days Resonance

Figure 3.6  “The Five Surnames Utilizing the Five Dragon-Fetuses to Determine Taboo Years and Months” 五姓用五龍胎忌年月 (Dili xinshu, 10.285)

Surnames” 擇葬年五姓傍通立成法 (figure 3.7) and the “Quick and Comprehensive Method of Selecting a Burial Month Based on the Five Surnames” 擇葬月五姓傍通立成法 (figure 3.8) to select dates.82 These latter two reference charts identified the auspicious and inauspicious years and months according to the movements of various astral deities. They also listed the taboo years and months for specific types of he-burial. The existence of these quick reference guides demonstrates just how essential noncanonical hemerology was in arranging burials.83 It also suggests that self-practice could have been a cause of the inauspicious outcomes in some of the burials discussed earlier. A bit more complex but extremely popular method for selecting the year and month involved charting the movements of the Year Star (Suixing 歲星; the planet Jupiter) and its evil twin, the Anti-Year Star (Taisui 太 歲; the Counter-Orbital Jupiter). These astral bodies had been used to reckon time and for divination since the early Western Zhou at the latest. In theory, the Year Star completes one rotation around the earth (from the ancient perspective, but around the sun from a modern perspective) every twelve years. Ancient astronomers divided its progress across the sky at the celestial equator evenly into twelve corresponding spatial segments on earth called stations (ci 次), each denoting a year running from winter solstice to winter solstice. They moreover paired these stations with the twelve Earthly Branches and the directions to which the handle of the Big

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Figure 3.7  The “Quick and Comprehensive Method of Selecting a Burial Year Based on the Five Surnames” 擇葬年五姓傍通立成法 (Dili xinshu, 10.285–286)

Dipper points. As the Year Star passes from one station to the next, from the West-Left to the East-Right, to observers it appears to travel in reverse order to the direction in which the Big Dipper’s handle is pointing. Taisui is the imaginary counterpart of the Year Star, which circumambulated the earth. Ancient astronomers further divided the supposed progress of Taisui on earth evenly into twelve corresponding spatial segments in the sky called constellations (chen 辰), which they also matched with the twelve Earthly Branches and the directions they denoted. As Taisui walks from the East-Right to the West-Left, its passage from one constellation to the next progresses in the same order of direction to which the handle of the Big Dipper pointed (figure 3.9). But while the Year Star was an actual observable planet (characterized as yang), Taisui was a theoretical and invisible planet (characterized as yin), and so one could only establish the position of Taisui using that of the Year Star.84 Taisui was thought to bring harm to events that occurred under the same constellation it occupied and the people involved (suixia 歲下) or



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Figure 3.8  The “Quick and Comprehensive Method of Selecting a Burial Month Based on the Five Surnames” 擇葬月五姓傍通立成法 (Dili xinshu, 10.286)

Figure 3.9  The Year Star Stations vs. Taisui Stations

that situated under the directly opposite constellation (suipo 歲破). For example, if Taisui occupied the Zi 子 (north) constellation, events that were to take place in the corresponding lands would not turn out well. In principle, the years when Taisui occupied the Zi, Wu 午 (south), Mao 卯 (east), or You 酉 (west) constellations—that is, the Great Facilitation (datong 大通)—were the most auspicious for burial; those when Taisui occupied the Si 巳 (southeast by south), Shen 申 (southwest by west), Yin 寅 (northeast by east), or Hai 亥 (northwest by north) constellations—or the Small Facilitations (xiaotong 小通)—were the next auspicious. A year of Great and Small Facilitation occurred only once every six years, and only two months in each were auspicious. Moreover, these years and months

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Figure 3.10  Taisui Stations and the Years and Months of Great Facilitation (Dili xinshu, 10.281–282)

Figure 3.11  Taisui Stations and the Years and Months of Small Facilitation (Dili xinshu, 10.281–282)

benefited some surnames more than others depending on the corresponding musical note (see figures 3.10 and 3.11). This particular form of hemerology appeared quite frequently in muzhiming, although to practice it along with the classical prescription was challenging because it severely reduced the number of auspicious dates. How far, then, were late medieval families willing to go to include both approaches in their decision making? The long-delayed fu-burial performed by Quan Deyu 權德輿 (759–818), an eminent statesman and a chief minister of Emperor Xianzong, for his grandmother and parents is most illuminating.85 His stubborn observance of this hemerological method based on Taisui’s movements added to the already daunting list of impediments—war, plague, distance, lack of resources, more family deaths, and, to top it all, officialdom—that the family had to face.86 The long and tortuous process was documented in several commemorative pieces. They are, in the order of the date of the composition: his father’s tomb memorial written by Li Hua 李華 (715-c. 778), his mother’s muzhiming composed by Liang Su 梁肅 (752–793), his grandmother’s muzhiming, the memorial to the spirits of his parents, and the announcement to his late father, all of which he authored personally.87 Quan Deyu’s grandmother Madame Yang 楊 died in 757 when the family was in Hangzhou fleeing the An Lushan Rebellion. At that time, it was impossible to bury her with her husband, who had been laid to rest outside Luoyang, as the war raged in the central plain in the North and a plague swept through where the family was in the South. She was therefore provisionally buried in Fuyang 富陽 (in modern-day Zhejiang Province). Hemerological considerations were also in play, as Quan Deyu explained in her muzhiming: “To those who [know] the yin and yang, the favorites are the Mao 卯 and You 酉 [years]” (see figure 3.10).88 These were the years of Great



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Facilitation for those surnames of the Shang-note to which Yang belonged.89 The next auspicious year, Gui-Mao 癸卯 (763), was impossible because the rebellion had only begun to wind down. The death of his father in 767, when Quan Deyu was only seven years old, rendered the following three years of Great Facilitation—Ji-You 己酉 (769), Gui-You 癸酉 (773), and Xin-You 辛酉 (781)—unviable. The year of Ding-Mao 丁卯 (787), the first one after he came of age, was logistically difficult because his nascent career had by then taken him and his mother to the distant Jiangxi region. When his mother, Madame Li, died there in 788, he interred her in his father’s provisional grave located in Dantu 丹徙, although the date of her burial was omitted in the version of her muzhiming preserved in Liang Su’s collected works. But if Quan Deyu followed the same hemerological schedule, his mother’s burial would have taken place in 790, the Geng-Wu 庚午 year, which was one of the Great Facilitation for her Zhi-note surname90 (see figure 3.10); neither was it a taboo year for interring a woman inside her husband’s tomb (see figure 3.7). Quan Deyu had to miss the next year of Great Facilitation for his grandmother, the Gui-You 癸酉 year (793), because he was traveling to Chang’an to take up a new post at the court. He then became the most relied upon rescript writer of Emperor Dezong, who often kept his most trusted officials close and for extended periods, and so he was unable to extricate himself from his duties for more than a decade. Hence he had to give up the subsequent year of Great Facilitation, Ji-Mao 己卯 (799), as well. Then came the Yi-You 乙酉 year (805), which would have been auspicious for Quan Deyu to bury his grandmother, but was also calamitous for the court. In the first month of that year Emperor Dezong died, passing his throne to his gravely ill son Emperor Shunzong, who had suffered a stroke a few months previously, leaving him paralyzed and unable to speak. Consequently, chaos reigned, and the court lurched from crisis to crisis. Not until the Crown Prince (later Emperor Xianzong) began to rule as regent did the situation stabilize.91 Quan Deyu, as a high-ranking official of the realm, thus had no alternative but to remain at court monitoring the developing situation. He therefore set his eyes on the next year of Great Facilitation, Xin-Mao 辛卯 (811). But the year before that he was made Chief Minister, and the responsibilities that came with the office prevented him yet again from implementing the fu-burial. Only after he left the court to govern the Shan’nan West Circuit 山南西道 in 816, was he finally able to take advantage of the upcoming year of the Great Facilitation, Ding-You 丁酉 (817) and complete the task that had so long consumed him. By then, his grandmother had been provisionally buried for sixty years and his parents for twenty-eight. Quan Deyu himself died just one year later.92

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The extent to which Quan Deyu went to observe hemerology is astounding. He could have long ago given his grandmother and parents the desired fu-burial and freed himself from its constraints. Instead, he lamented in his grandmother’s muzhiming and his parents’ spirit memorial that “auspicious dates were hard to come by, and things were difficult more often than not.” He further reported in the latter text that he nearly gave up hope of ever completing the fu-burial in his lifetime, adding that he often tearfully forbad his son to bury him in the family graveyard or accept a posthumous title from the throne on his behalf if he failed to accomplish the task.93 Given the relatively detailed information he included in these texts, this stubborn adherence to the hemerology might have had other motivations. Quan Deyu was not one to ignore the canonical prescriptions in favor of noncanonical practices. Like Li Jiqing, he was a leading classical ritualist of his generation, first summoned to the court as the Erudite of the Rites 禮官博士, and afterward he served on and off (more on than off) in various high positions in the Ministry of Rites. In fact, Quan Deyu was reappointed head of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices and the minister of the Ministry of Rites multiple times.94 A lengthy delay in completing fu-burial was also not befitting a person of his repute and status. This long and repeatedly frustrated endeavor to complete the fu-burial in an auspicious year was likely a result of his parents’ wishes and, therefore, a show of filial devotion. The Taisui based hemerology he practiced, as noncanonical it might be, was not in any sense on the fringe. Other hemerological practices were also popular. The family of one Madame Suo 索, who died in the eighth month of the Geng-Zi 庚子 year (700), used a method that followed the transposition of astronomical objects, namely, a cycle of the twelve constellations (Jian-Chu shi’er chen 建除十二辰), each paired with one earthly branch and gave rise to a particular action on the corresponding day. For example, the Jian constellation was paired with Yin 寅 and indicated construction, whereas the Chu constellation was Mao 卯 and indicated dismantlement. In contrast to Taisui, which was used to determine auspicious years and months, the Jian-Chu constellations selected suitable days. The twelve Jian-Chu constellations cycled from day to day over twelve months and suited the action in the day to which they each corresponded (see figures 3.12 and 3.13).95 The muzhiming of Madame Suo 索 (d. 700) states, The Jian day of the You month in the Mao year is the occasion for congress. Among the inauspicious rituals is the rite of joining in burial; to Shang-note clans, this is a year of facilitation and auspiciousness. The socalled coming upon a fine moment and sharing the same burial pit is this [joint-burial].96



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Figure 3.12  The Actions and the Corresponding Earthly Branches

Figure 3.13 The jian-chu Constellations and the Corresponding Days in Each Month

In other words, the family chose the Gui-Mao 癸卯 year (703), one of the Great Facilitation years, and the Xin-You 辛酉 (eighth) month, one of the two Great Facilitation months of that year. Neither the year nor the month was taboo for he-burial, and it so happened that the first day of the month was a Jian 建 day. The waiting period for Madame Suo’s he-burial hence was relatively short. Such an amenable date was, however, exceedingly difficult to find. The rarity of such not infrequently served as a justification for a fen-burial. The muzhiming of one Madame Zheng 鄭, who died in 755, explained her fen-burial: Those who were involved in the discussion thought that the year and the month were not yet ones of the [Great or Small] Facilitations; besides,

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spousal joint-burial was not an ancient practice. Therefore, on the fifteenth day of the eighth month in the present year, we laid her to rest by the old graveyard. Examining the ancient precedents, this [arrangement] is appropriate under the circumstance, for it draws from several rites.97

The year of her death, Yi-Wei 乙未, was of neither the Great nor Small Facilitation for her Zhi-note surname.98 It was, moreover, a taboo year for interring a wife in her husband’s grave. That being the case, the family suggested, while quoting Ji Wuzi’s oft-cited statement on the Zhou origin of the practice, that the current arrangement was only until a year good for conducting a he-burial arrived. Under such circumstances a “temporary” arrangement might not be so “temporary” after all. The challenge of finding a suitable date for the he-burial seemed to be a good excuse for not having one. After all, the canonical divinations could not proceed, if there is no date to be divined. In closing, I must address the question of why divinations could affect burial arrangements and thereby identities and memories of the dead and their family. Late medieval families did not engage in canonical and noncanonical divinations only to improve their fortune. They instinctively understood that burial divinations, with both of its this- and otherworldly dimensions, were a source of agency and social capital. To begin with, the correct performance of canonical burial divinations and the adherence to their results signified social status. The submission to the result of the canonical divinations of burial date was particularly crucial to maintaining social respectability (if not the deceased’s blessing). Because it represented the deceased’s final command, one that superseded all that came before, a disapproving result could leave the family little room to maneuver and inject uncertainty into an already complex process. Given that a new selection must be made and validated but the canonical divinations could not be repeated immediately, the logistic challenge alone could be beyond human ability to overcome. Yet, in the medieval discursive field dominated by ancestral sacrifices and filial piety, to engage in noncanonical burial divinations was to perform due diligence, ensuring the peace and security of the gravesite. Learned scholars might criticize specific methods, but they never categorically opposed noncanonical burial divinations as a way to perform due diligence. Indeed, they considered the practice a thorough, vigilant, and therefore filial approach to burial arrangement. The impact of burial divination on identity and memory construction would not have become this visible without commemorative inscriptions,



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such as muzhiming and steles. These media enabled families to record and represent the process and result of burial divinations in greater detail and thereby better control the interpretations of the oracles and the representation of their response. We have observed many families describing their anguish and attempts at overcoming the challenges that burial divinations introduced. These media were particularly informative when a family needed to document and explain a new round of divinatory consultation and modification to the burial, such as when a series of unfortunate events occurred and necessitated a reburial. Those who implemented the changes produced narratives that portrayed their actions as an effort to secure the family’s longevity and prosperity and thereby the continuation of ancestral sacrifice. Although their intention might be largely altruistic, in this discursive field, burial divinations offered them an opportunity to redefine individual and collective identity and realign social relationships. However, the same discursive field also empowered the dead. The canonical divinations for determining the burial date specifically sought the deceased’s approval of the burial arrangement. The result, being the deceased’s ultimate command, could not be swept aside or overruled. It carried an authority based on filial piety and a belief in the dead’s numinosity. In fact, whether the dying person or the family members themselves believed in the supernatural or the information the dead passed on via divinations is beside the point. The dead had a voice because the living needed them to have it. The more authority the living could ascribe to the dead, the more authority they could claim in return to promote the desired identity and memory (especially when their own death was near). As true of the deathbed instructions, the more closely the living appeared to have followed the will of the oracle, the more this-worldly capital, both social and moral, they could accrue and apply to present demands. In this sense, the result of the canonical divination of the burial date was that of extremely loquacious dead. Neither burial divinations nor the (perceived) agency of the dead could prevail upon one entity—namely, the state. This was especially the case when the dead left no physical remains. The dead could not have a burial without a body. And without a grave the family would also have no site of memory to rely upon to keep the dead from oblivion. As we saw in chapter 1, the state could easily block a fu-burial and assert its authority in defining its subjects. In the next chapter, we see how the state could similarly silence or give voice to particular subjects by withholding or granting permission to conduct the hun-summoning burial.

C H A P T E R

F O U R

The Hun-Summoning Burial

On September 12, 819, a local military leader, Yang Zhanqing 楊湛清 (d. 820), mutinied against the Tang dynasty. The rebels sacked the seat of An’nan Protectorate (an’nan duhufu 安南都護府), what is now Hanoi, Vietnam, and slaughtered thousands of its residents, including the governorgeneral, Li Xiang’gu 李象古, and his family. Yang Zhanqing’s rebellion added to the series of challenges Emperor Xianzong’s 憲宗 (r. 805–820) court had already been facing—the semi-autonomous military governors in the northeast and southwest, insubordinate indigenous peoples at the Pearl River delta in the southeast, and marauding Tibetan forces on the western border. Standard histories recount that this event unfolded in this southmost corner of the empire in varying degrees of details. Early reports are hazy as dispatches would take months to reach the capital.1 With the discoveries of the muzhiming of Li Xiang’gu and his nephew Li Huichang 李會昌, we have a more clear and chilly picture of what transpired that day. Li Xiang’gu’s muzhiming reveals that he, his wife, their five children were all killed at once (戕於一刻之間) and their remains tossed into the river.2 Li Huichang’s muzhiming vividly captures the confusion and desperate resistance against the rebels at the governor’s mansion. The author, Li Feng 李縫, who was Li Xiang’gu’s nephew and Li Huichang’s first cousin, narrates: Early on, when the arrows struck the house, the guards and clerks dared not be the first [to fight]. Young [cousin], filial and resolute was his heart, courageously sought permission [to lead the defense]. He drew the

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barbarians in in order to attack them at the gate, charged forth with strength and rage. As his subordinates did not keep up with him, he was cut down by the rebels’ blades. It was then the nineteenth day of the eighth month in the fourteenth year of the Yuanhe era [September 12, 819]. As the imperial edict ordered [their] eradication, the traitors were suspicious and fearful, they thus dumped the stiffened corpses into the rolling waves.3

Only after the Tang forces had quelled the rebellion and reclaimed the area several months later did Li Feng’s eldest brother Li Jiang 李絳 reach where they had perished. He presented ritual offerings on the riverbank and summoned their hun using silk brocades. When Huichang’s name was called, his spirit “seemed to have arrived” 髣髴而至. Li Jiang led the hun back to Luoyang for burial. On December 7, 821, the family committed the hun of Li Xiang’gu, his wife, children, and Li Huichang to the ancestral burial ground.4 What the Li family performed for their slain members was called hun-summoning burial (zhaohun-zang 招魂葬, or zhaohun-burial in this volume). It was a way to inter someone who leaves no remains. Like the burial practices discussed in earlier chapters, zhaohun-burial was noncanonical. It seemed to have emerged during the Han dynasty and became mainstream during the medieval period, along with gravesite ancestral sacrifice and familial joint-burial. The practice enabled the loved ones to give the deceased a familial joint-burial, allowing them to receive regular ritual offerings with ancestors and creating a physical representation that encapsulated and promoted the dead’s and the family’s desired identity and memory. However, these functions alone do not fully explain why the summoned hun became a substitute for the absent body at this particular period. After all, the corpse had been essential for a proper burial since the classical period. The Han dynasty was not alone in suffering many natural disasters or social unrest during which corpses or burial sites became lost or inaccessible. Unlike gravesite ancestral sacrifice and fu-burial, however, zhaohunburial had been persistently controversial yet simultaneously embraced. It was a frequent subject debated at medieval courts and one point even banned. How did it become normalized? Finally, how was it practiced? Li Xiang’gu’s family used silk brocades for summoning and interred his clothes to substitute for the corpse. His muzhiming acknowledges that this was not the standard practice. The answers to these questions are complicated and interrelated. Collectively, they illuminate an aspect of memory construction that this volume has yet to address. They also reveal important differences between the medieval culture of remembrance and its early Chinese predecessors.

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THE RITES OF ZHAOHUN AND FU As with the other medieval burial practices discussed in this volume, an examination of hun-summoning burials begins with its name, “zhao-hunzang.” The first character, zhao  招, means to beckon.5 The second, hun  魂, generally refers to the soul (spiritual aspect of a person) as discussed in earlier chapters. The word zhaohun 招魂, therefore, is to beckon or summon the soul. Combining zhaohun with the character zang (to conceal as a verb or burial as a noun) gives us the term zhaohun-zang, which has multiple meanings. Because a character could belong to multiple word classes in classical Chinese, the term could either mean to “summon the hun to the burial” 招魂[而]葬, or “summon the hun to inhume it” 招魂葬之, or both simultaneously. Naturally, confusions regarding its origin and practice abound. The Lyrics of Chu (Chuci 楚辭) and Classics of Rites each contains depictions of hun-summoning rites. Their aims, subjects, locations, timing, and liturgies have all been debated for centuries. The multiple, nebulous, and ever-changing concepts of hun complicated the matter further. Consequently, the relationship between these rites remains murky. Because scholars past and present had and continue to link the medieval zhaohunburial to these hun-summoning rites, they are a reasonable place to begin our investigation. The Chu lyrics, “Summons of the Hun” 招魂 and “Great Summons” 大 招 each portrays a summoning rite. Countless scholars, from the Western Han dynasty onward, have devoted themselves to identifying the lyrics’ authors, subjects, and reasons for the summons.6 I do not engage in the debates that have ensnared generations of scholars. My goal is to ascertain the connection between the hun-summoning rites these lyrics depict and zhaohun-burial by focusing on the liturgical purposes.7 The “Summons of the Hun” recounts an attempt to persuade the hun of a man of high social status to return. The lyric could be divided into six sections: the first section (lines 1–6) consists of an unnamed individual’s lament for the misfortune befell a certain virtuous man.8 The second section (lines 7–15) reports a conversation between the Lord on High (shangdi 上帝) and Shaman Yang 巫陽, in which the former commanded the latter to assist a man whose hun and po are separated and scattered (hunpo lisan  魂魄離散).9 In the third section (lines 15–53), Shaman Yang repeatedly cries out to the hun, “O hun, come back!” 魂兮歸來, and warned him of the great dangers lurking in each of the six directions (East, South, West, North, Heaven above, and Earth below).10 The fourth section (lines 53–58) describes the zhaohun-rite performed by a male invoker (zhu 祝) at the city gate. He calls out to the hun with drawn-out cries and what is

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likely to be a garment.11 Shaman Yang continues to cry out to the hun in the fifth section (lines 59–132). Rather than the dangers abroad, he details the comforts that the hun could enjoy on its return, including a lavishly furnished residence, a houseful of beautiful women, delicious food and drink in abundance, endless licentious parties, and more.12 In the last section (lines 133–147), an unnamed individual wistfully recalls the great southern campaign that the king launched earlier in spring and that ended in defeat.13 As the third, fourth, and fifth sections record the acts, words, performers, and implements of the summons, they constitute the ritual proper.14 Was the subject alive when this particular hun-summoning rite took place? No straightforward answer is possible given that the conceptualization and determination of death varied from one culture or time period to another. However, the rite’s subject appears to have stopped breathing for some time, judging from the urgency with which the Lord on High commanded Shaman Yang to intervene, saying, “I am afraid the remains’ decay would render it not reusable” 恐後之謝, 不能復用. Shaman Yang’s initial reluctance, just short of declaring it a lost cause, further strengthens this interpretation.15 Still, he went ahead to numerate the lists of perils and sensual delights, implying that the rite’s subject could return to life should its hun choose. The “Great Summons” depicts an attempt to persuade a king’s hunpo to return.16 Like the “Summons of the Hun,” it could be divided into several sections. The first (lines 1–4) indicates the summoning rite took place in the spring. It began immediately when the unnamed shaman cried out, “O hunpo, come back! Do not go far away!” 魂魄歸來, 無遠遙只.17 Thus the lyric does not provide much context of this particular performance like the “Summons of the Hun.” In the second section (lines 5–24), the shaman beckoned the hun, warning it against traveling any cardinal direction by enumerating the inhospitable landscapes and fearsome creatures the hun would encounter in his journey.18 The third section (lines 25–87) lists the comforts and pleasures awaiting the hun’s return.19 The fourth section (lines 88–111) appeals to the hun’s sense of duty as his subjects longing for his good governance to return.20 The final section describes the nobles and ministers assembled, wearing their ceremonial robes and notching arrows.21 Thus entire lyric encompasses the ritual proper. Because the rites depicted are largely identical in liturgical structure, it is reasonable to assume that they are the same ritual adapted to different circumstances. Both rites begin with listing the dangers abroad. The “Summons of the Hun” covers the four cardinal directions plus Heaven and Earth, whereas the “Great Summons” covers only the cardinal

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directions. The landscapes and creatures in the east and south in the two lyrics also differ greatly. For instance, the east in the “Summons of the Hun” is a place where colossal giants reside, and ten suns rise together, melting metal and stone, whereas that area in the “Great Summons” is a great ocean in which the dragons roam. Whereas tattooed cannibals, venomous cobra, fleet-footed foxes, and nine-headed serpents occupy the south in the “Summons of the Hun,” tigers, leopards, cow-fish foxes, and pythons are lurking there in the “Great Summons.” The difference in landscapes and inhabitants indicates that the two rites did not occur at the same locality. Moreover, in the “Summons of the Hun,” the number of lines devoted to the perils in each area varied (5 lines to the East, 7 South, 9 West, 3 North, 7 Heaven above, and 5 Earth below); in the “Great Summons,” each direction gets five lines. Accordingly, the subject’s hun in “Summons of the Hun” was likely thought to have headed west, with South and Heaven being the close seconds. It also appears to have gone further and longer from his body than its counterpart in the “Great Summons.” Both shamans also enumerated the pleasures await the summoned on the hun’s return. The specific delights and order of presentations are dissimilar in the two lyrics, likely reflecting the subjects’ different proclivity and temperament. The subject of the “Great Summons,” who was undoubtedly a ruler, also seemed to have a strong sense of duty. The lyric’s description of an orderly state and good governance also contrasts sharply with the chaos following a failed military campaign in the “Summons of the Hun.”22 Were these two subjects alive when the rite was performed? Further comparison between the two lyrics yields some clues. What afflicted them is unclear. Given that the “Great Summons” mentions arrows and the “Summons of the Hun” a military campaign, they were likely wounded in battle. In the “Great Summons,” because the subject’s hun could return to “a body that will remain healthy to ripe old age” 永宜厥身, 保壽命只 rather than one on the verge of corruption, the performer seemed to deem a full recovery possible.23 Such optimism is completely missing in the “Summons of the Hun.” Moreover, the “Great Summons” used the words hun and hunpo interchangeably, indicating that the hun and po were thought to be together when the rite took place. In contrast, the hunpo in the “Summons of the Hun” was already separated and scattered before the rite began. This lyric’s subject was clearly in a far more dire condition in body and spirit than his counterpart. Even so, both hun-summoning rites clearly assumed that the subjects are not dead and their hun could decide for themselves whether to return. Therefore, we should regard this rite as therapeutic rather than funerary.

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THE CLASSICAL FU-SUMMON The hun-summoning rite in the Classics of Rites is known as fu  復 (to recover or restore). Because its name is a homophone of the fu-rite 祔 that installs the deceased’s spirit tablet on the ancestral altar discussed in earlier chapters, I refer to the classical hun-summoning rite as the fu-summon to distinguish the two. Yili categorizes the fu-summon as an obsequy and stipulates it to be performed after a person stops breathing.24 The following is the step-by-step instruction of the one performed for an ordinary officer: A summoner takes the russet cap suit [i.e., a ceremonial robe worn on auspicious occasions] with the skirt sewn to the coat. Bearing it on the left arm and holding the collar and girdle together, he ascends from the eastern eave of the front roof to the center of the rooftop, facing north. Beckoning with the suit, he calls out, “Ah! So-and-so, return!” thrice. Afterward, he drops the suit from the roof, which should be caught with a small box, and taken up the steps to cover the corpse. The summoner then descends from the western eave of the rear roof.25

As with many classical rites and ceremonies, the fu-summon performed for the ordinary officer is the blueprint that would be elaborated or simplified based on the deceased’s court rank and gender. The higher the court rank, the more elaborated the fu-summon. The affected aspects include the number and station of the summoner, clothes to wear, type of the deceased ceremonial robes to use, number of the location at which to perform the summon, and appellation of the deceased.26 Despite the varying complexity, the summoners are uniformly a close subordinate (e.g., a valet or chamberlain) to the deceased, rather than shamans or priests, wearing the ceremonial robes when attending to the deceased on auspicious occasions, and summoning with the deceased’s ceremonial robe. The fu-summon’s importance is apparent in that the Rites offer contingencies for those who died away from home (e.g., sojourning, traveling, or in battle). For instance, the Rites instruct the summoners to use the pennons or arrows as substitutes when the deceased’s ceremonial robe is not readily available.27 The fu-summon’s importance has little to do with its potentiality of reviving the deceased because it is not expected to have any therapeutic efficacy. It takes place at the same time that the body is being prepared for Lesser Encoffining (xiaolian 小斂, or placing the corpse in the casket). While the summoner calls out to the departed on the rooftop, the household members place a horn spoon between the deceased’s teeth (xiechi 楔齒), prop his or her feet on a stool (zhuizu 綴足), wash and

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dress his or her body (muyu 沐浴 and sheshi 設飾), place food and treasure in his or her mouth (fanhan 飯含), and screen the body off from view (weitang 帷堂). The first two steps, in particular, are measures to prevent rigor mortis from hampering the preparations.28 Furthermore, as the fu-summon is also prescribed for those who died from decapitation or dismemberment, its importance is symbolic. The Liji explains: The fu-summon is a way to thoroughly express the affection [for the deceased] as prayers and sacrifices are its core. Hoping that [the departed] will return from the netherworlds, it is the way to supplicate various ghosts and spirits. [The summoner] faces North as it is a means to supplicating [those] in the netherworlds.29

Simply put, the departed has already entered the netherworlds and could not return without any otherworldly interventions. The loved ones go through the motion to display their filial piety and reconcile themselves to the loss. Noticeably, not here or anywhere in the Rites does the term hun or hunpo appear in the instruction of the fu-summon. The association seemed to have begun only in the Eastern Han. Zheng Xuan, when commenting on the first line of this passage, glosses the fu-summon as a summon of the hun and goes on to say, “Moreover, one prays to the Deities of the Five Phases [wusi  五祀] separately, hoping for the return of the deceased’s quintessential-qi [jingqi 精氣].”30 He thus suggests that the departed is the main but not the only subject of the supplication in fu-summon. The similarities and dissimilarities between the Chu hun-summoning rite and the classical fu-summon are apparent. Both attempt to speak with the departed, but the Chu rite is conversational and lengthy. Its effort to motivate the hun through fear and pleasure is absent from the fu-summon. Clothes are the ritual implement in both rites, but those in the classical rite are more personal and specific (i.e., the deceased’s ceremonial robe).31 Arrows appear in the “Great Summons” as well as the contingent fu-summon for the war dead. Further, both the Chu and classical rites are directionally specific. In the former, the perils await in each direction are spelled out; as to which direction the hun or hunpo goes, one could only speculate. In the fu-summon, the departed has gone north and entered the netherworlds; he or she can return only if some supernatural forces intervene. In short, the Chu rite assumes that the departed has agency and the fu-summon does not. The two rites are also different in their timing. The Chu rite seemed to occur when the subject is perceived to be alive and could be revived. It is therefore not part of a funerary program. In contrast, the fu-summon begins after the subject has breathed their last

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and is carried out as the family prepares the body for the Lesser Encoffining. Thus it is part of the funerary program and an expression of emotional attachment. Ultimately, both rites summon the hun to return to the body rather than to be buried in its place. It must be stressed that these rites deal with a missing hun, not a missing body. ZHAOHUN-BURIALS IN THE HAN DYNASTY Unlike the hun-summoning rites, zhaohun-burial addresses the absence rather than the presence of the body. Where the practice emerged is not known. The term “zhao-hun-zang” first appeared in sources from Eastern Han. The imperial house conducted the hun-summoning burials for female members who perished in military conflicts leaving no remains. That few liturgical details survive is likely a result of the quasi-historical nature of the preserved sources. However, their gender and specific circumstance are worth investigating. The imperial house held its first zhaohun-burial for the mother of the dynasty’s founder Liu Bang 劉邦 (r. 202–195 BCE). The oldest account known to us is in Chenliu fengsu zhuan 陳留風俗傳 (Chronicle of the Customs of the Chenliu Commandery), a local history written by Eastern Han scholar Chuan Cheng 圈稱 (fl. late second century CE). The chronicle itself is no longer extant, yet this account is collected in medieval commentaries to Shiji, Hou-Han shu, Shuijing 水經 (The Classic of Waterways), and the Early Tang florilegia Yiwen lieju 藝文類聚 (Collection of Literature Arranged by Categories). The preservation of these excerpts indicates a continuous interest in this case. Although these excerpts vary in depth and length, all contain the following passage verbatim: Duke of Pei [i.e., Liu Bang] raised an army and fought in the wilderness. He lost his august mother at the Huang Township. Once all under Heaven was pacified, he sent an envoy to summon [her] dark hun with a catalpa casket. There and then, a red snake that was bathing itself in the water leaped into the catalpa casket. The place where it bathed had a few strands of hairs remained behind. [She] was posthumously styled the “Lady of Manifested Numen” 昭靈夫人.

Li Daoyuan 酈道元 (d. 527) comments on this passage in Shuijing zhu, adding, “[Duke of Pei] therefore built her a hall of repose to appease her spirit” 因作寢以寧神也.32 Li Xian’s 李賢 (654–684) commentary to Hou Han shu elaborates: “[Duke of Pei] then built [her] a mausoleum with park containing a hall of repose, palace gates, bell stands, and guard posts.”33 Yiwen

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leiju states that the event took place in the Xiaohuang District 小黃縣 of Huang Township 黃鄉 in Song territory 宋地.”34 It follows several Han sources that identify Huang Township as her mausoleum’s location without mentioning the zhaohun-burial.35 In short, the locations of her death, summons, and mausoleum were in the same area. Three aspects of this case deserve attention. First, the envoy performed the summons using a casket made of catalpa wood. It is unclear whether the casket was empty or the envoy used any additional ritual implements or verbal or gestural commands. Second, the location of the summon and the mausoleum was where the lady was last seen. Her summoned hun was therefore not transferred to another place for burial. Third, the lady’s hun had a very corporeal presence—a red snake. The missing body is therefore replaced by a different one. That the new body is a red snake is most likely related to the dynasty’s founding myths, which would also explain the supernatural element in the account. Sima Qian reports in Shiji that Liu Bang’s mother copulated with a dragon and became pregnant. The first Han emperor was therefore the son of a dragon. Sima Qian recounts another story about Liu Bang and a snake in which young Liu Bang cut down a snake blocking his way during a drunken outing. Later that day, people found an old woman crying bitterly by the road. She told the curious passersby, “my [son], the child of the White Emperor, while he was disguised as a snake and crossing the road, was cut down by the child of the Red Emperor, that is why I cry,” and then she vanished. Sima Qian reported that Liu Bang was quite pleased when he heard.36 That his link to a red snake is stressed in these accounts may reflect a pre-Han version of the theory later known as the “Cycle of the Five Powers” 五德終始 that purportedly explains the rise and fall of every dynasty.37 The alleged material substitution (i.e., snake for the body) might be politically motivated to mythologize the dynasty founder. The second zhaohun-burial that the imperial house held was for Liu Yuan 劉元 (d. 22 CE), Liu Xiu’s 劉秀 (5 BCE–57 CE) elder sister who was married to his best friend, Deng Chen 鄧晨. The three were inseparable. She died helping her brother escape after one of his failed military campaigns against usurper Wang Mang 王莽 (c. 45 BCE–23 CE). Once Liu Xiu reclaimed the Han throne as Emperor Guangwu 光武帝 (r. 25–57), he gave her the posthumous title of Grand Princess Xinye 新野長公主, after the district where she died, and erected a shrine for her west of the district. When Deng Chen died some twenty years later, her hun was summoned and interred with him on Mount Mang 邙山, and the emperor and empress personally oversaw the funeral.38 No liturgical information on this zhaohun-burial survives.

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The similarities and differences of these two cases are revealing. Both ladies were directly related to an emperor who founded or restored a dynasty after much bloodshed. The hun of Liu Bang’s mother was summoned and entombed near where she perished. There was apparently no lengthy interval between the summon and the settling in of her spirit in the hall of repose and mausoleum where she was still receiving sacrifices during Emperor Guangwu’s reign.39 Similarly, Liu Yuan was worshiped at the shrine built specifically for her near the place of her death. Years later, her hun was summoned and entombed with her spouse. If so, her zhaohun-burial would be the first known case of a spousal joint-burial completed by such means. Interestingly, Liu Yuan continued to receive sacrifices at her shrine far away from her grave and long after her interment. Han Emperor Huan 漢桓帝 (r. 147–168) reportedly visited her shrine in 157 CE. It implies an assumption that her hun could travel freely and the shrine remained a commemorative locus.40 The purposes of these zhaohun-burials and the factors contributing to the emergence of the practice are apparent. First, they ensured that these imperial women’s spirits would have a place to settle and receive continuous sacrifices. Second, they would also give them the commemorative loci to prolong their memories. Third, the two imperial women’s zhaohunburials signaled the end of conflicts and the realm’s pacification as the victories were celebrated and the losses were tallied. Fourth, these zhaohun-burials publicized the rulers’ private grief, showing their subjects that they had suffered great personal losses in the same traumatic event. That these women were the emperors’ closest female relatives (i.e., mother and sister) likely amplified the effect. The Han classicists did not appear to find these zhaohun-burials problematic. If they ever questioned the liturgy and ritual propriety of the practice, they left no trace. It is possible that because these zhaohun-burials took place before the scholastic conference at the White Tiger Hall at which the Classics were standardized, what medieval classicists considered problematic had yet to be treated as such. At the very least, no debate of zhaohun-burial is documented until several centuries later. ZHAOHUN-BURIALS IN THE EARLY MEDIEVAL PERIOD Hun-summoning burials proliferated in the early medieval period, judging from numerous surviving sources.41 This is perhaps to be expected, given the historical context. The classical ritual programs codified in Eastern Han were aimed to cement social stratifications. Individuals and families secured their membership among the rarified cultural and political

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elite by demonstrating filial piety and mastery in classical learning. Yet prolonged social unrest and competing political and religious ideologies introduced many challenges that the Classics did not anticipate, and the necessity of resolving them only intensified as Classicism became ever more important in assigning cultural, social, and political identities.42 Moreover, losing the North to seminomadic invaders created a conundrum for the Han-Chinese elite who had fled to the South—they no longer had access to the ancestral temples and graveyards that now lay behind enemy lines. The absence of remains and loci of ancestor worship deprived elite families of their ability to properly conduct classical death rituals and ancestral sacrifices. Revising classical rituals seemed inevitable, yet any deviations from them could also threaten cultural identity, social status, and even political legitimacy. The tension led both to the objection and normalization of the zhaohun-zang practice. Tang classicist Du You’s Tong dian preserves numerous early medieval discussions centering mourning in the absence of remains and delayed burials. These include “Opinions on Wearing Mourning for Deceased Parents Whose Encoffined Corpse Was Lost” 父母死亡失屍柩服議, “Opinions on Removing the Mourning Attires When [One’s Parent Has Been] Provisionally Buried Between Walls for Three Years” 假葬牆壁間三年除服議, “Opinions on the Changing and Removing the Mourning Attires When Burying [One’s Parent] after Three Years” 三年而後葬變除議, “Opinions on Wearing Mourning Attires for Someone Who Was Long [Dead But] Unburied” 久不葬服議, and “Opinions on Wearing Mourning Attires for a Wife Who Was Long Dead [But] Unburied” 婦喪久不葬服議. These discussions reveal the serious ritual and practical dilemmas these interrelated issues engendered and the resulting anxiety. In this lengthy fascicle, Du You also add the discussion of the controversial burial practices—posthumous marriage and the joint-burial of Confucius’s parents discussed in chapter 2, and hun-summoning burial that we will turn to shortly.43 Most discussions centered on how the absence of remains and delayed burials affected the classical timetables for burial and mourning, preventing the family from effectively constructing and conveying its desired identity and memory. The classical burial and mourning timetables varied depending on the deceased’s court rank. For an ordinary officer, the bereaved put on mourning attire on the third day after the death (sanri chengfu 三日成服), formally beginning the mourning period. The material, darkness of the color, and coarseness of fabric, and who should wear which attires for how long all signify and are determined by the deceased’s and specific mourner’s consanguinity defined in the Classics (see figures 1, 2, and 3).44 Three days after death, the body would be dressed, encoffined,

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and ready for interment (sanri er bin  三日而殯). Three months after the death, the burial would take place (sanyue er zang 三月而葬). Many distant kin (such as great-great-grandsons and third cousins) could stop wearing mourning after the burial. Following the Sacrifice of Cease Wailing (zuku 卒哭) held in the same month, the other mourning relatives would change into lighter mourning attire. By the ninth month, all first and second cousin plus grandsons and grand-nephews could stop wearing mourning attire altogether. Twelve months after the deceased’s death, when the Lesser Auspicious Sacrifice (xiaoxiang ji 小祥祭) takes place, all second-degree kin would have finished mourning. At the same time, the immediate relatives (the deceased’s parents, wife, firstborn son) would put on mourning attire of a finer and brighter fabric called lian 練. After the Greater Auspicious Sacrifice (daxiang ji 大祥祭) another twelve months later, the immediate relatives would change into the mourning attires made of even finer and brighter fabric than lian, called gao 縞. One month afterward is the dan-sacrifice 禫祭, at which point the mourning period ends and a return to normal life begins.45 Accordingly, the mourning period for a father (or widowed mother) is twenty-five months (or twentyseven months, depending on how one counts), despite being customarily referred to as three years.46 Thus, burial and mourning are time sensitive, and the timetable is predicated on knowing the death date and having a corpse to bury. The disruption of the classical burial and mourning timetables, especially in cases of missing remains, created further complications for the deceased’s children. The Classics script a mourner’s countenance, speech, manner of wailing, diet, even the place for sleeping based on the degree of kinship and gender. The deceased’s sons are prohibited from leaving the gravesite (where they stay in a simple thatch hut and sleep on the floor), consuming alcohol or meat (only a small amount of plain congee daily), having sex or taking a wife or concubine, having any entertainment, and holding office during the mourning period.47 In the cases where burial is not forthcoming, the Liji stipulates, “When [the deceased] is long [dead but] unburied, only the chief mourner does not remove [his mourning attire]. The rest [of the relatives who] have worn [the mourning attire made from] hemp and completed the requisite months could remove the mourning attire and be done.”48 In short, the chief mourner is to remain in full mourning until after the burial, unable to return to normal life and, most important, to procreate. Eastern Han classicist Fan Ge 氾閣 (?–?) asked his teacher Zheng Xuan the obvious question: “There is no greater remiss of filial duties than having no heir; not removing mourning attire for life is to end the ancestors’

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lineage, is this not grievous?” Zheng Xuan replied that the chief mourner could delegate the mourning obligations to one of his brothers. Fan Ge followed up: “If [the chief mourner] has no brother, then to whom [shall he] delegate” 無庶子, 當何以? Zheng Xuan replied that the chief mourner should then pass this obligation to a cousin or second cousin. Naturally, Fan Ge’s next question was “If [the chief mourner] has no clansman, what then” 無族人云何? At this point, the great classicist fell silent.49 The noted Western Jin classicist Liu Zhi 劉智 (n.d.) was similarly quizzed: “If an individual’s father participated in a distant military expedition, [but] his army was defeated and he died on the battlefield. As his remains are lost, there is nothing to bury, how shall the individual dress [for mourning]?” Liu Zhi replied that the Classics of Rites make no provision, and what he could offer is only a suggestion based on classical principles. Namely, the chief mourner and his siblings should end their mourning after one year because the absence of remains already precludes a burial and, with it, the use of regular timetables.50 Yet Liu Zhi’s suggestion, though eliminates perpetual mourning, still disrupts the timetables. Because hun-summoning burial could easily address the disruption of the burial and mourning timetables and enable the loved ones to express their filial piety and familial devotion, the natural outcome was that the practice became normalized. However, the process was not a smooth one. Eastern Jin classicists, for instance, found plenty to object to. The Eastern Jin No early medieval debate of hun-summoning burial is better documented or studied than the one that took place at the Eastern Jin court shortly after the dynasty’s founding. Modern scholars have focused on the practice’s origin and eventual ban. Recent studies instead treat the debate as an avenue for exploring various topics ranging from court politics, early medieval concept of soul, entrenchment of Classicism among the elite, and confluences of the canonical and noncanonical rites.51 Stephen Bokenkamp perceptively notes that the intricate arguments and negotiation concerning the zhaohun-burials between the family and the state were essentially “politics continued by other means.”52 Zhang Huanjun 张焕君 maintains that combining zhaohun and zang into one word was meant to make the practice sound canonical. The combination reflects a deepening of rather than resistance to Classicism burrowing into everyday life.53 Li Meitian 李梅田 and Li Tong 李童 convincingly argue that the zhaohunzang practice and the Eastern Jin debate would not be possible without the shift in mortuary architecture, namely, that the timber-casket tomb gave way to the chamber tomb and that the chamber tomb incorporated

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sacrificial spaces inside and aboveground that previously had been found only in ancestral temples. They credit the growing belief that interment settles and provides a residence for the deceased’s spirit.54 Despite their contributions, all these scholars assume that the early medieval zhaohun-burial and the Chu and classical hun-summoning rites are conceptually and liturgically connected, ignoring the fact that the opinions of Eastern Jin classicists collected in Tong dian never once mention them. As the following analyses would show, it is important to correctly identify the rite (i.e., the yu-sacrifice 虞祭) to which the Eastern Jin classicists did associate with zhaohun-burial and to recognize the differences separating the state and family zhaohun-burials (the latter include those that the emperor held privately). A tomb, whether resulting from a canonical or noncanonical practice, or held by the family or state, was an enduring and public site of memory and physical representation of the deceased, through which the deceased and family could (re-)fashion, promote, and preserve the desired identities and memories. The Eastern Jin debate of hun-summoning burial came about when the widow of a powerful imperial prince whose remains were lost requested the newly enthroned emperor to perform one. This seemingly innocent request set off a furor because of the prince’s identity (i.e., Prince Donghai, Sima Yue 東海王司馬越; d. 311), timing (i.e., the inaugural year of the new dynasty, 317), and dynastic founder Sima Rui’s 司馬 睿 (r. 317–323) weak claim to the Jin throne. The debate indicates medieval courts’ growing awareness of the political potentials of state-held burials (canonical or zhaohun) crucial to our understanding of the practice’s normalization. The last man standing in the ruinous Rebellion of the Eight Princes 八王之亂 (291–306), Sima Yue had dominated Western Jin politics and commanded most of its armies for nearly two decades. Long harboring imperial pretensions, he died of natural causes after having plunged the dynasty into chaos with his many treacheries. He was so universally reviled that Shi Le 石勒 (274–333), a leader of the Xiongnu 匈奴 confederation, used him to justify invading China proper. Shi Le torched his remains after declaring, “this person brought disorder to all under Heaven, I now avenge for all under Heaven; thus I burn his bones in order to announce [my intention] to Heaven and Earth.” He proceeded to massacre the high-ranking officials, royals, and troops who formed the funerary procession.55 The killings decapitated the Western Jin leadership, leaving the capital city Luoyang defenseless. Two months later, Shi Le and his compatriots sacked the city, captured Emperor Huai 懷帝 (r. 307–311), slaughtered many more officials and royals, and enslaved the rest.

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Survivors either fell back to Chang’an to rally behind Sima Ye 司馬鄴 (r. 313–317), later Emperor Min 愍帝, or fled south to the Yangzi Delta to join Sima Rui, then Prince Langye 琅琊王, in Jiankang 建康 (modern-day Nanjing). The Western Jin regime would limp on for another six years largely because its enemies were too busy fighting among themselves. When Chang’an finally fell, Sima Rui declared himself emperor and founded Eastern Jin.56 The Eastern Jin court was immediately faced with the challenge of performing ancestral sacrifices, which, if mishandled, could lose the nascent regime its political legitimacy. As mentioned in chapter 1, Sima Rui’s claim to the Jin throne was weak. He was a second cousin to Emperor Hui and a second cousin once removed to Emperor Min.57 Taking a leaf from Han Emperor Guangwu’s 漢光武帝 (25–57) book, Sima Rui had Emperor Wu 武帝 (r. 266–90), the Western Jin dynasty’s founder and his first cousin once removed, posthumously adopt him as son and heir.58 This strategy, however, introduced another problem. Sima Rui must offer ancestral sacrifices to Emperor Wu, but the North was lost and with it the access to the imperial ancestral temples and mausoleums. It was at this precarious juncture that Sima Yue’s widow, Lady Pei 裴, requested a zhaohun-burial for him. Sima Rui sent her petition to the Court of Imperial Sacrifices 太常寺, the agency responsible for conducting major state sacrifices that the emperor performs personally (i.e., sacrifices at southern suburbs, imperial ancestral temples and mausoleums, and state funerals) for discussion.59 At the time, three other deceased high-ranking officials—Vice Director of the Imperial Secretariat Cao Fu 曹馥 (d. 311), Army Supervisor Wang Chong 王崇 (?–?), and Commander on the Staff of Grand Mentor Liu Qia 劉洽 (d. 311?)—had already received zhaohun-burials from their loved ones. All three were military commanders who died in armed conflicts.60 The Jin shu and Tong dian preserve the proponents’ and opponents’ opinions concerning the zhaohun-zang practice. The Tong dian, in particular, is biased against it. The opponents who were all well-known classicists and the excerpts of their opinions are generous in length. In contrast, the opinions supporting the practice are few, mostly brief, and made by individuals known to us solely because they participated in the debate.61 Interestingly, the petition itself was not the participants’ focus but four interconnected ritual issues: What is the purpose of burial? Should there be a grave if there is no corpse? Would the hun be restless if the corpse remains unburied? Does the hun receive ancestral sacrifices only at the grave? As several arguments for or against the zhaohun-zang practice from this debate resurfaced in later periods, it would be useful to examine those that did.

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The supporters of the practice maintained that burial is essential to pacify or comfort the deceased’s hun (anhun 安魂) and creates a commemorative site at which the loved ones could express their sorrow and filial devotion. They pointed to two widely performed rituals serving these purposes, the canonical burial divinations and the noncanonical but by now normalized gravesite ancestral sacrifices.62 Their opinions indicate that people remained fearful of those who died by violence, left unburied, or received no sacrifice. The concept already existed in the Spring and Autumn period. The Zuozhuan reports that shortly after Liang Xiao 良霄 (d. 543 BCE), better known as Boyou 伯有, was murdered in a bloody dispute by his distant cousins and fellow ministers of the Zheng 鄭 state, the Zheng people saw his specter in a suit of armor appear in broad daylight or in their dreams. Liang Xiao named the dates on which he would take his vengeance; sure enough, his killers turned up dead at the appointed time. The Zheng people became even more frightened afterward. Only after Zi Chan 子產 (d. 522 BCE), then the state’s chief minister, established a temple for and sacrificed to Liang Xiao, did his specter stop appearing. When questioned, Zi Chan explained, “When the ghost has a place to reside, it would not become malevolent.” He later added, “Even the hun-po of common men and women who died by violence could invade and possess the living, becoming exceedingly malevolent, let alone Liang Xiao [who was powerful in life].”63 And if Sima Yue was already a force to be reckoned with in life, how much more so would he be in death? Those against the hun-summoning burial insisted that a burial is unnecessary if no corpse is to be buried. They typically cited the classical gloss for the character “zang” 葬; namely, “to bury is to conceal” 葬者, 藏也.64 For instance, Yuan Gui 袁瑰 (d. 328?), focusing on the material aspect of interment, argued, “The outer coffin encloses the inner coffin. The inner coffin encloses the body. Thus, if there is no body, there should be no inner coffin; if there is no inner coffin, there should be no outer coffin.”65 Taking Yuan Gui’s opinion one step further, Kong Yan 孔衍 (268– 320) declared: it is the yu-sacrifice, taking place after the burial when the loved ones “invite the [deceased’s] spirit to return [home] because [they] cannot bear to be separated [from the deceased] for a day,” rather than the interment that comforts the deceased’s hun.66 He ignored the fact that, technically, there could be no yu-sacrifice without a burial. Gan Bao 干寶 (d. 336?) offered another argument that is no less contradictory: When one dies, the shen 神 [i.e., hun] rises to return to Heaven, and the xing [形; i.e., physical form or corpse] sinks to return to Earth. Thus, [we]

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construct the lineage temple to host the spirit and lay out the robes and funerary coverlets to represent the form. The inner coffin encloses the body, and the outer coffin encloses the inner coffin. Presently, [the deceased’s] form was missing elsewhere, [yet] the grave was dug here. Know that the dead could not fake being alive. How could the perished pretend being present? It would be better to perform the rite of inviting the spirit at the place [the deceased] suffered calamities. Comforting it in the lineage temple, and thoroughly mourn and revere it.67

The robes Gan Bao mentioned in this passage were typically referred to in Han and medieval texts as spirit-robes (hunyi  魂衣) or countenancerobes (rongyi 容衣). They were the clothing that the deceased had worn on specific types of occasions and should not be confused with the ceremonial robe used in the fu-summon. Throughout the funeral, the spirit-robes, riding on one or more spirit-carts (hunche  魂車) or countenance-cart (rongche 容車), would receive ritual offerings in the deceased’s place. After the burial, the spirit-robes would be transferred to the hall of repose and be presented daily sacrifices.68 Gan Bao’s emphasis that the spirit-robes represented the deceased’s form indicates some of his contemporaries might have been interring the spirit-robes as a substitute for the lost corpse. Furthermore, even as Gan Bao admitted that pacifying the deceased’s hun is necessary, he insisted that a grave is not required for this purpose. Instead, one should summon the hun where the deceased perished and lead it to the ancestral temple. Gan Bao’s proposal was essentially what the Han court performed for Liu Bang’s mother. Furthermore, his proposal indicates that for people who have no hall of repose, which is the majority of the population, the absent body was substituted with the deceased’s robes and funerary coverlets in burial. Both proponents and opponents of the zhaohun-zang practice also revisited the question of whether the hun resides in and receives ancestral sacrifices at the grave. What triggered this new round of debate was the numinous seat (lingzuo 靈座) or spirit seat (shenzuo 神座) inside the tomb. The so-called numinous seat was a raised platform (often with a canopy) that was either built as part of the architecture or a separate piece of furniture. Typically left vacant, it was the focal point of the in-tomb sacrifice (munei jisi  墓内祭祀), before which ritual offerings were set out for the deceased. It thus represented the presence of the deceased’s hun inside the tomb. The numinous seat and in-tomb sacrifice did not appear in the Classics given that they only emerged and normalized along with chambertombs.69 Notably, the proponents of zhaohun-burial pointed to the seat and the sacrifice to support the practice, whereas the opponents countered with their absences in the Classics.

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The contention over the numinous seat was not whether one should be in the tomb but what its function is. Those against zhaohun-burials argued that the hun does not sit on the numinous seat and receive sacrifice inside the tomb. They again pointed to the yu-sacrifice and fu-rite. The yu-sacrifice assumes that the hun returns home rather than stay in the grave after the burial. The fu-rite, held the next morning to install the spirit tablet on the ancestral altar, enables the deceased to enjoy sacrifices with the ancestors. It too shows that the hun does not reside in the tomb but instead attaches to the spirit tablet on the ancestral altar.70 Neither the yu-sacrifice nor the fu-rite suggest that the hun never dwell in the grave. Yet some opponents of the zhaohun-zang practice contend that it “nails the hun to the inner coffin and shuts the spirit in the outer coffin,” hampering its freedom of movement.71 Erudite (boshi  博士) Fu Chun 傅純 (?–?) insisted, That the [ancestral] sacrifices are performed at the household shrine, ancestral temple, and by the temple gate, rather than a single location, is to supplicate the spirit [of the deceased] more extensively. That [the ancestral] sacrifices are not conducted at the grave at all shows it is not where the spirit dwells.72

Hence Fu Chun opposed the practices of zhaohun-burials and the normalized gravesite ancestral sacrifices. Politically, he thus argued that a grave was not required to appease Sima Yue’s hun, and that access to the imperial mausoleums in the North was not essential to secure Sima Rui’s claim to the throne. Fu Chun’s radical departure from the common practice also ignored the fact that, because Sima Rui made himself the heir of Jin Emperor Wu 武帝 and established the ancestral temples accordingly, he could only conduct ancestral sacrifices to his own father and grandfather at their tombs. Note that, although the opponents of hun-summoning burial argued against its ritual propriety from different angles, they all took the term zhaohun-zang to mean “summoning the hun to inhume it” (zhaohun zang [zhi] 招魂葬之). The supporters of the zhaohun-zang practice seemed baffled by their opponents’ hair-splitting arguments. For instance, Li Wei 李瑋 responded, While the lineage temple is the regular location for the seasonal ancestral sacrifices, it does not mean that the deceased’s numinous spirit regularly stays in the temple. Likewise, the circular hill [i.e., the elevated, circular altar used for the emperor to worship Heaven] is the regular location for the suburban sacrifices, it is not because the spirit of Heaven regularly resides on the hill.73

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Thus there is no reason to assume that gravesite ancestral sacrifices or zhaohun-burials indicate that the hun regularly stays or even is locked inside the tomb. Perhaps the most devastating argument against Fu Chun and his compatriots was that of Gongsha Xin 公沙歆 (?–?). He mercilessly attacked their hypocrisy by highlighting the inconsistencies in the Classics and the transgressions of the sages: The numinous spirit attaches to form when staying put and attaches to the [spirit] tablet after departed [from it]. The [numinous] seat in the tomb and the [spirit] tablet in the [ancestral] temple are both for representing the deceased. Suppose in all cases, the form returns to Earth and the spirits return to Heaven, [then following] the custom of High Antiquity [i.e., the period before the Duke of Zhou] is correct and the practice of zhaohun-[burial] is wrong. Suppose [the emperors have conducted] both auspicious and inauspicious rites plainly, [whose] palaces have not been multiple fathoms in height, and [whose] tombs have no mounds or trees on top of them. In that case, the institution of Middle Antiquity [i.e., Zhou dynasty] accomplishes propriety, and the practice of zhaohun-[burial] losses it. Suppose the Five Mourning Attires are [observed] methodically, the dragon pennants with bells [i.e., imperial insignia] are again unfurled, the conduct [of mourning rituals] focuses on sending off the deceased, and the court assembly is organized according to one hundred grades. In that case, we shall treat the dead the same way as the living and perform the rites according to circumstances. Then, the procedures of recent eras are well considered, and the rationale behind the practice of zhaohun[burial] is thoroughly logical. Why must the summoned-hun be buried? [The practice] is for the filial children to exhaust themselves to express their sorrow.74

Gongsha Xin first emphasized that both the numinous seat and spirit tablet are each other’s counterpart and mere representations of the deceased. The Classics themselves contain many contradictions regarding the spirit’s and form’s final destinations. If Heaven is only a place where the hun would be, what would be the point of ancestral temples? Gongshua Xin further pointed out that many Zhou rites were new inventions or deviated from the High Antiquity custom. The Zhou sacrifices were more extravagant, the royal palaces were grander, and the tombs (including that of Confucius’s parents) were conspicuous. How is hun-summoning burial a more serious violation in comparison? If the present goal is to assert political legitimacy and restore sociopolitical order, then the new practices, like gravesite ancestral sacrifices and zhaohun-burial, accomplished it. Besides, there is no reason to assume that a zhaohun-burial inhumes and locks up the summoned hun. Erecting a grave for the absent

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dead allows the loved ones to express filial devotion and to mourn. In short, zhaohun-burial might be a new invention and noncanonical; it would enable Sima Rui to consolidate his regime and resolve the ritual crises arisen from losing the North. Gongsha Xin’s opinion is yet more evidence that whether Sima Rui should accede to Lady Pei’s petition had always been a question of political legitimacy rather than ritual propriety. He and his court must find a way to keep the throne against other claimants. That a zhaohun-burial creates a physical commemorative focal point was both an advantage and a danger, for it benefits Sima Rui and his competitors equally. To the proponents, the gains outweigh the risks. Sima Rui could thus appease Sima Yue’s potentially malicious spirit and replicate the lost imperial mausoleums in the South. This move could further strengthen his perceived connection with the main branch of the imperial clan and disassociate retaking the North from his legitimacy. The opponents insist that Sima Rui and the court should demonstrate their learnedness and moral superiority and establish the ancestral temples as a way to distinguish the imperial succession in his favor.75 This move would consolidate his position as the legitimate heir of the dynasty and reduce the importance of regaining access to mausoleums in the lost territory. A separate but equally important concern was the politics of commemoration: Who was entitled to receive a state burial? How would it shape the public perception of the deceased, the ruler, and the state? The warm personal relationship between Sima Yue and Sima Rui was well-known. The younger prince had served directly under the command of the older prince for several years. Yue, acting on Lady Pei’s advice, sent Rui to guard Jiankang. None of them knew that the North would fall, leaving a vacant throne for Rui to claim. However tenuous, the new emperor was in Lady Pei’s debt.76 When she requested a state zhaohun-burial for Yue, it placed Rui in a difficult position. He could not publicly honor a hated figure. Holding a state zhaohun-burial would create a site of memory permanently associating the new regime with the trauma Yue had inflicted on the realm. Moreover, a tomb would also give Yue’s supporters a physical representation to rally behind and perhaps even change the new regime’s narratives about the past. Rui’s decision to forward Lady Pei’s petition to the Court of Imperial Sacrifices for deliberation itself reveals his desire to hide behind the consensus and classical prescriptions. Following the debate, Sima Rui issued a universal ban of zhaohunburial. Even then, he permitted Lady Pei to perform a private one. Because none of Yue’s descendants had survived, he made his own son, Chong 沖, Yue’s heir to continue his line and regular ancestral sacrifices.77 The new

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emperor’s actions demonstrated his gratitude and magnanimity and appeased Yue’s spirit, protecting him and his regime from its wrath. That the zhaohun-tomb Lady Pei erected for her husband was soon vandalized and had to be relocated to a new site evinced just how much Yue was loathed and why Rui was right to be cautious. The similarities and contrasts between the Han and Eastern Jin cases further underline the inherent political advantages and dangers of holding state zhaohun-burials. Although all three deceased were members of the imperial clans, holding a state zhaohun-burial for a beloved mother or sister who died in war connected the ruler to his people through shared loss and allowed the new regime to define its victory. Conducting a zhaohun-burial for a powerful claimant could only prolong the memory of the competing claim. Moreover, although the remains of the two Han imperial women and Sima Yue were all lost in wars, Liu Bang’s mother and Princess Xinye were victims of violence, but Sima Yue was not. His corpse was deliberately destroyed as political propaganda. A state zhaohun-burial for such a despised figure could only damage the Eastern Jin regime. If the leader of a barbarian horde could recognize Sima Yue’s wickedness, how could the Eastern Jin ruler not? The court debate and subsequent universal ban on zhaohun-burials in 318 should be treated as political expediency rather than natural development. That Sima Yue received a privately held zhaohun-burial is itself a case in point. Indeed, the ban did nothing to dampen the popularity of the practice or diminish the imperial mausoleum’s importance as the loci of ancestral sacrifices. Petitions were presented to hold zhaohun-burials for two other princes—Prince Wuling 武陵王 and Prince Xincai 新蔡王, both killed in the chaos leading to Eastern Jin’s founding—following Sima Yue’s model after the ban. Despite the opposition, Sima Rui granted the requests.78 Four decades and five monarchs later, the image of the derelict imperial mausoleums in the North still retained its political potency. After he recovered the Luoyang, Huan Wen 桓溫 (312–373), an ambitious statesman and capable military commander, petitioned Emperor Ai 哀帝 (r. 361–365) to move back to the former capital. His main argument was that the emperor had a filial duty to repair the imperial mausoleums and perform the ancestral sacrifices there. Sun Chuo 孫綽 (314–371), his opponent, pointed out that though the imperial mausoleums in the North deserved the emperor’s attention, he should not forget that the mausoleums of his five immediate predecessors were there in the South. Thus, it would be equally unfilial for the emperor to leave them behind and return to the North.79

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Northern and Southern Dynasties To further distinguish the innovations and growing importance of private and state zhaohun-burials requires a brief look at the ever-shifting political landscape in the North in particular. Allowing private zhaohunburials were a necessary expediency to many northern regimes that adopted classical statecraft. Filial piety expressed through the correct mourning, burial, and ancestral sacrifices remained the cornerstone of moral and political authority and the chief criteria for government recruitment. Anyone who had not buried their father or grandfather was disqualified from holding office. However, in this time of incessant and widespread social unrest, when people often could not learn of their missing loved ones’ fate or recover the remains, slavishly upholding the classical stipulations would leave these regimes with a talent vacuum. Chang Wei’s 常煒 (?–?), a well-respected scholar of Han-Chinese ancestry, sums up the dilemma in his memorial to Murong Jun 慕容儁 (319–360), the founder of Former Yan 前燕: Since the time when Central Region [i.e., China Proper] slipped into disorders, [the people] has suffered from wars for many years. It was always the case that when a state is overthrown or an army is defeated, troops would be buried alive and soldiers drowned in waters. Orphaned grandsons and solitary sons were in nine of every ten households. Moreover, as three towering regimes facing off one another (i.e., Former Yan 前燕, Former Qin 前秦, and Eastern Jin 東晉), fathers and sons often find themselves in different countries. The news of whether one is alive or dead, well or unwell, rarely arrives from distant places. The dead are interred either provisionally and expeditiously or in a faraway land. Filial sons could not improve the situation even if they crush their bodies; the obedient grandsons could not reach the dead even if they desolate their hearts. Although summoning the hun for a vacant burial could not thoroughly express their filial affection, the Rites contain no writing on zhaohunburial, and the government ordinances do not record this practice, if those who uphold precious virtues are not promoted and who possess outstanding abilities are not employed [because they have performed one], it would be genuinely regrettable. I am afraid that this is not the way to elevate ignored talents and recruit the most capable men of our time.80

Put differently, the northern elite (including Han Chinese) adopted the zhaohun-zang practice to fulfill the expected mourning obligations despite its lack of ritual propriety. Few men could qualify for office otherwise. The known cases of state-sponsored hun-summoning rites performed for the dead (that may or may not include a burial) in subsequent dynasties show that this commemorative practice was applied to a greater

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variety of cases, gaining further political potency. The subjects of the summons, as in the Han and Eastern Jin cases, were the victims of armed conflicts. However, during this period, the courts performed hun-summoning rituals as often for rank-and-file soldiers as for imperial clansmen or clanswomen, and for a multitude of war dead as for individual victims in one prolonged conflict. As state-sponsored performances grew in scale and visibility, they became examples of political pageantry writ large. In 369 CE, Fu Jian 苻堅 (r. 357–385), who founded Former Qin 前秦 (350–394), destroyed Former Yan and took prisoner many prominent members of the ruling Murong clan. Following his own devastating defeat in the famed Battle of Fei River 淝水之戰 (383 CE) by Eastern Jin, his once-tight grip on the North loosened. The Murongs and many seminomadic clans rebelled against him. The situation quickly spiraled out of his control. Murong Chong 慕容冲 (d. 386) of the Yan imperial clan launched a series of deadly assaults and founded a new Yan state called Western Yan 西燕 (384–394). In 385, he laid siege to the Former Qin capital, Chang’an, trapping Fu Jian inside. The Jin shu and Wei shu both claim that tens of thousands of crows hovered above the city crying mournfully, which the residents took as an omen of the city’s imminent fall.81 What followed was nothing short of extraordinary. Former Qin officers who had been captured by the Western Yan army managed to get a message through to Fu Jian informing him of their plan to set fire to the enemy camp. Fu Jian replied, Moving by many officers’ loyalty and sincerity, how could I stop you? Yet I am presently running out of luck. I fear that such a measure will not benefit the state but lead my many officers to destroy themselves in vain— I cannot bear it. Besides, my crack troops were as [fierce as] animals, and their sharp instruments were as [fast as] frost, and yet they were overcome by a mob of exhausted and witless bandits. How is this not [the will of] Heaven? [You] should thoroughly reevaluate the plan.82

Here Fu Jian sounds like a defeatist. These Former Qin officers nonetheless pressed on with their plan and started the fire, but the scheme ultimately failed when the winds beat back the flames and killed most of them instead. This failure provided yet another proof that Fu Jian had lost Heaven’s Mandate. The public hun-summoning rite he held for these fallen officers, however, changed all that. As the Jin shu recounts, Fu Jian grieved for them deeply. He personally laid out the offerings and summoned them, saying: “You who are loyal and numinous come to this courtyard; return to your forefathers, assuming not the demonic forms.” He sighed and sobbed profusely and could not overcome his sorrow.

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Together the crowd said to one another, “His Majesty’s benevolence is such that we would rather die than switch [allegiance].”83

So, the embattled emperor got the needed support to fight another day. Whether it was a genuine outpouring of grief or a masterful manipulation of public sentiment, the rite helped him turn a disastrous event into a rallying point for the city’s defenders. It is a brilliant example of public commemoration of wartime trauma that enhanced popular support for a regime and provided a shared sense of destiny. Although the rite aims to enable these fallen officers to receive this and future sacrifices with their ancestors, it is not clear what liturgy it entailed or whether these fallen officers were subsequently “buried.” Nonetheless, the particular hunsummoning evinces the belief that reuniting those who had died violently with their ancestors would prevent them from haunting the living, revealing the religious consequence that the classicists only hinted at when discussing the absence of remains and delayed burials. The Murong clan, on the other end of the epic struggle, had also previously carried out hun-summoning burials to great political effect. Murong Chui 慕容垂 (r. 384–396), who founded the Later Yan state 後燕, performed zhaohun burials for the last emperor of Former Yan, namely, his cousin Murong Wei 慕容暐 (r. 360–370), and other kin who fell victim to Fu Jian. Although his action seemed innocent enough, given that the Murong family feuds matched in bloodiness the Sima family’s, it was anything but. Indeed, the politics surrounding Sima Yue’s hun-summoning burial played out here in reverse. Murong Chui’s rise in power had begun with his defection to Former Qin. He watched, unmoved, as Fu Jian slaughtered his kin and ended Former Yan. Following Fu Jian’s humiliating defeat at the hands of Eastern Jin, he declared himself the rightful heir to the Yan throne and rebelled. Claiming he was acting to avenge the deaths of his clansmen, Murong Chui secretly moved against other claimants to the Yan throne. The hun-summoning burials he held for the Former Yan emperors and Murong clansmen could be construed as an attempt to gain public recognition for his regime. They helped him attribute all the atrocities for which he was partially responsible to Fu Jian, pacify vengeful spirits, and, most important, creating a false memory.84 Subsequent examples from both North and South further developed the state-sponsored hun-summoning burial as a political tool. Those zhaohun-rites ordered by Emperor Xuanwu 宣武帝 (r. 499–515) of the Northern Wei 北魏 (386–534) in particular demonstrate the growing number and social diversity of recipients. This trend toward egalitarianism might have been inspired by the Buddhist ideal of universal compassion. The Northern Wei was a beacon of political stability, economic prosperity, and

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cultural refinement among the northern dynasties. And yet Emperor Xuanwu witnessed some of the bloodiest struggles in the dynasty’s history. The bloodshed began when his father, Emperor Xiaowen 孝文帝 (r. 471–499), made Luoyang the new capital city. The emperor then ordered his Xianbei tribesmen not only to leave their ancestral land for Luoyang but also to abandon their customs and language in favor of those of the Han Chinese, an inevitable policy for an illiterate and seminomadic people ruling a Han Chinese population who had numerical and technological advantages. But the policy was deeply unpopular among the Xianbei people and provoked waves of uprisings. Following the ascension of Emperor Xuanwu, Pei Xuan 裴宣 (d. 511), a highly regarded classicist of Han-Chinese ancestry, submitted a memorial in which he laid out a series of conciliatory policies, including performance of hun-summoning rites: Since moving the capital city, at the places where battles raged, along the paths through which the troops returned after fighting, for all corpses and skeletons that no one has covered or buried, please order the guards stationed at each prefecture and commandery to canvass and bury [them]. Moreover, [please] instruct the townships from which soldiers were conscribed that families that have lost someone in military service shall all be facilitated to summon the hun [of their dead] to rejoin the po and receive offerings with their forebears’ spirits; that their rents and taxes shall be returned to them; and that those who were wounded and maimed [in the war] should be excused from military service.85

The emperor took Pei Xuan’s advice. Given that this is the only memorial included in Pei Xuan’s official biography, this series of policies must have been considered his most important political legacy. The immediate purposes of such a policy were clearly to comfort the dead and neutralize the potential threats they post, project the ruler’s magnanimity, and define the memory of the conflict. One could argue that because the Former Yan, Former Qin, Later Yan, and Northern Wei were all regimes of non-Han Chinese people, their practice of the noncanonical hun-summoning rite and burial only demonstrate their foreignness. Yet the Han Chinese elites in the South also practiced zhaohun-zang. The hun-summoning burial of Xiao Fangdeng 蕭方等 (528–549), who drowned in a military campaign helping his father Xiao Yi 蕭繹 (508–555) become the next emperor, is a high-profile example. The relationship between the militarily brilliant Fangdeng and his bookish but ambitious father was tense. Initially, Xiao Yi was extremely proud of his talented eldest son and worried that he would meet with a prophesied watery calamity. These moments soon passed as Xiao Yi became increasingly absorbed in his political machinations and his relationship with

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Fangdeng’s mother turned tempestuous. When a powerful general, Hou Jing 侯景 (d. 552), rebelled in 548 CE and took his father Emperor Wu of Liang 梁武帝 (r. 502–549) prisoner, Xiao Yi and many other senior princes moved to seize the throne for themselves. Fangdeng, knowing his father was suspicious of his intentions, volunteered for the most dangerous missions. But when news of his death reached Xiao Yi, the latter did not mourn him. The compilers of the Nan shi 南史 (History of the Southern Dynasties) went so far as to state that Xiao Yi was secretly pleased that his son, who was more capable and popular than he, had died. Only after Xiao Yi had ascended the throne as Emperor Yuan 元帝 (r. 552–554) and restored nominal peace to the realm did he remember Fangdeng’s contribution. He then ordered a zhaohun-burial for his son and bestowed on him the posthumous title of the Martial and Martyred Crown Prince 武烈 世子.86 The case of Xiao Fangdeng is thus another example of a dynasticfounding or restoring emperor performing hun-summoning burials for fallen kinsmen to pacify the spirits of those who had died violent deaths and to signal the return of order. Moreover, it is a case of a newly minted emperor showing gratitude to those who died for him. These cases of state-sponsored zhaohun-burial from the Northern and Southern dynasties were less about expressing emotional attachment to the dead than were those from the Han dynasty. Instead, they demonstrate further development of zhaohun-burial as a political tool. When deployed or else avoided with care, the state-sponsored performance (or lack of it) asserted the legitimacy of the new order. As political pageantry, it fashioned public memory more effectively and expeditiously than writing the history of the previous dynasty (although the latter, when finished, typically had a significantly longer shelf life). The Eastern Jin debate over and the universal ban on the zhaohun-burial, which received so much scholarly attention, were in the end merely a temporary and aberrant blip in the otherwise ongoing political innovations associated with the practice. Had the Eastern Jin court been unaware of the benefits and dangers that come with the practice in shaping public memory, there would have been no cause for the debate. The Tang dynasty, to which we now turn to, was fully determined in making certain that all performances of zhaohunburials (private or public) would benefit the state in consolidating authority and (re-)shaping public memory. ZHAOHUN-BURIALS IN THE TANG DYNASTY A great variety of sources preserve a significant quantity of information on zhaohun-burials in the Tang. Among them are anecdotes, historical accounts, legal and ritual codes, liturgical manuals, literary works, and

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muzhiming. The abundance attests to how conventional the practice had become at court and in the society at large but does not necessarily mean that the practice was more popular during this period than others. Both the Tang court and populace performed zhaohun-burials. The primary commemorative agendas—establishing a locus of sacrifice with which the family and state could pacify the deceased, assign an identity to both the dead and relatives, and define memory—remained the same. The Tang practice also addressed a greater number of concerns and purposes than had been done in the past. The Tang court continued the practice of holding state zhaohun-burials for imperial clan members, loyal supporters, and the faceless multitude who perished in the struggles over the founding or restoration of the dynasty. As under previous dynasties, the performance signaled the ending of conflict and projected the regime’s political legitimacy. However, Tang monarchs used state zhaohun-burials more consistently and strategically to bolster their succession claims, fan the flames of patriotism, propagate specific political narratives, and shape the collective memory. Like their Han predecessors, they held zhaohun-burials for their female relatives to publicize their personal losses and highlight shared traumas. They also combined these zhaohun-burials with spousal joint-burial, aiming to shore up their legitimacy against potential challenges and check the political influence of branch and consort families. The Tang court actively encouraged the general public to practice zhaohun-zang as an expression of filial piety and familial devotion. Tang Code granted graves with no remains the same legal protections as those with them.87 But tying political legitimacy and moral authority so intimately to the practice was not without its dangers. A refusal to hold a zhaohun-burial for someone widely considered deserving could introduce doubts about a monarch’s judgment and, by extension, ability to rule. The available sources from this period provide better access to the technical aspect of the zhaohun-zang practice. Although they are brief or fragmented, we could tell that multiple liturgies existed and Chu or classical hun-summoning rites were rarely adopted unadulterated. The liturgical difference underlines the change in religious assumption and purpose. The summoning rites in the Tang zhaohun burials emphasized representing the absent corpse and enabling the deceased to receive ritual offerings with the ancestors regularly. That the court and local communities conducted propitiating rites for the unsummoned indicates the ancient belief that the unburied dead would harm the living remained pervasive, and a zhaohun-burial was expected of the loved ones. Thus the Tang practice of zhaohun-zang tied the dead’s postmortem well-being even

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more closely to the need for familial joint-burial and enhanced the grave’s importance as a site of memory. State-Sponsored Zhaohun-Burials of Imperial Clansmen and Clanswomen The Tang monarchs routinely carried out state hun-summoning burials for imperial clan members who died in dynastic struggles and left no remains, especially those whose proper burial was essential to securing political legitimacy. Prince Yong’an 永安王, Li Xiaoji 李孝基 (d. 619), exemplified those recipients who died defending the dynasty. The prince, a cousin of Emperor Gaozu 高祖 (r. 618–626), was killed while attempting to suppress an uprising in the dynasty’s inaugural year. The emperor, having failed to obtain the corpse, personally held a state zhaohun-burial for the prince after pacifying the region.88 The Tang monarchs also performed hun-summoning burials for several imperial consorts who Empress Wu Zetian or Empress-consort Wei allegedly murdered or perished during the An Lushan Rebellion. Unlike the zhaohun-burial of Liu Bang’s mother, which occurred immediately after dynastic conflicts, these were held when entombing their imperial spouses as part of the spousal joint-burial. Thus the lady’s identity could (re-)align the order of imperial succession, making these zhaohun-burials a perennial subject of contention and illuminating the concerns and sophisticated manipulations specific to the Tang. The first imperial consort to receive a hun-summoning burial was Lady Zhao 趙 (d. 688?), posthumously Empress-consort Hesi 和思皇后, chief consort of Emperor Zhongzong 中宗 (r. 684 and 705–710) before he became the heir apparent. After executing the lady’s parents for treason, Empress Wu Zetian imprisoned and probably starved Lady Zhao to death in the inner palace. Because Emperor Zhongzong was murdered by his empress-consort Lady Wei, who in turn was executed for her treason, the court decided that Lady Zhao should be the one entombed with him.89 This being the first zhaohun-burial performed for an imperial consort was significant in that the court ritualists had to devise the funerary program from scratch. Naturally, a debate ensued. Although multiple proposals were likely made, the court adopted that of Peng Jingzhi 彭景直, Erudite of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices. Intriguingly, the excerpts in his and Empress-consort Hesi’s official biographies in the dynastic histories are not identical. In the Jiu Tang shu account, Peng Jingzhi advised, The ancients did not have a rite for hun-summoning burial; [hence we] should not prepare inner and outer caskets or arrange a hearse. It is [more]

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proper to follow the precedent of interring the Yellow Emperor’s cap and gown on Mount Qiao recorded in the “Treatise of Suburban Sacrifices” in the Han shu. [First,] use the empress’ ceremonial gown to summon her hun at the hall of repose located at her mausoleum. [Next,] place the gown in a spirit palanquin. [Then,] announce [the relocation] and sacrifice [to her]. [Lastly,] transport the gown to [His Late Majesty’s] hall of repose, lay it out to the right of the imperial chaise lounge, and cover it with the funeral pall, thereby join her with [His Late Majesty] in burial.90

Here, Peng Jingzhi rejected the use of coffins to summon Lady Zhao’s hun, indicating that such a method (used for Liu Bang’s mother) was common. Instead, he proposed to imitate the precedent of the Yellow Emperor’s tomb, in which the mythical sage king’s ministers entombed his cap and robe after he had achieved immortality.91 Interestingly, Peng Jingzhi’s was an opinion rejected by Eastern Jin opponents of zhaohun-burial on the grounds that “the Yellow Emperor did die. To say that [he became] a transcendent was misguided. If he did become a transcendent, what is the point of discussing his burial?”92 Moreover, although Han shu reports Han Emperor Wu’s 漢武帝 (r. 141–87 BCE) discussion of this precedent with an advisor, it provides no information on how the Yellow Emperor’s faux-entombment was conducted. The ritual Peng Jingzhi devised for Lady Zhao’s zhaohun-burial seemed to incorporate the classical fu-summon and the Han practice of taking the cap and robe of a deceased emperor or empress-consort from the hall of repose to the mausoleum temple to receive monthly sacrifices (you yiguan 遊衣冠), as discussed in chapter 1.93 In contrast, in the Xin Tang shu account, Peng Jingzhi reportedly counseled that: There is no record of hun-summoning from ancient times. We shall not conduct it. Please emulate the precedent of storing [the Yellow Emperor’s] robe and cap on Mount Qiao. [First,] use the empress’s ceremonial gown, performing the fu-summon at her hall of repose. [Next,] lift the gown onto the spirit wagon. [Then,] announce [the relocation to her] and sacrifice an ox, a sheep, and a pig. [Last,] enclose [the ceremonial gown] inside the square [sarcophagus of the late emperor (shiguo  石椁)] and respectfully [place it] to the right of the emperor’s catalpa casket and covering it with a funeral pall.94

Here, as in the Jiu Tang shu account, Peng Jingzhi advised the emperor to follow the Yellow Emperor’s precedent and devise a rite incorporating the classical fu-summon and the Han practice. Because both proceedings began with a summon at the hall of repose, Lady Zhao must have had a

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prior zhaohun-burial that resulted in her mausoleum. Yet the liturgical details differ in the two versions. This version lists the specific ritual offerings but the Jiu Tang shu account does not. It moreover states Lady Zhao’s ceremonial gown should be placed inside the mausoleum instead of the hall of repose outside it. This difference is significant. The declared purpose of the proceeding was to accomplish spousal-joint burial via hun-summoning in both Jiu Tang shu and Xin Tang shu, namely, to “conduct the rite of hun-summoning fu-burial” 行招魂祔葬之禮 and “summoning the hun to join [his] catalpa casket” 招魂合諸梓宮, respectively.95 However, the ceremonial gown is not entombed in the Jiu Tang shu account but is in the Xin Tang shu account. Put differently, the Jiu Tang shu version is not technically a burial despite being referred to as such, whereas the Xin Tang shu version is a spousal joint-burial and in Lu style. It is impossible to know which version was implemented. The Tang court fastidiously avoided documenting funerary proceedings of deceased monarchs, their consorts, and heirs apparent because it was considered inauspicious to do so.96 Further, Emperor Zhongzong’s Ding Mausoleum 定陵 was looted several times and did not survive intact; thus, it offers no clue.97 Regardless of the inconsistency, Empress-Consort Hesi’s zhaohun-burial was significant because it represents the Tang court’s position on imperial zhaohun-burials and spousal joint-burials (especially when the former enabled the latter), as well as serving as the model for those to come. After completing Emperor Zhongzong’s and Empress-consort Hesi’s hun-summoning he-burial, Emperor Ruizong 睿宗 (r. 684–690 and 710– 712) conducted the zhaohun-burial for his own empress-consort, Lady Liu 劉皇后 (posthumously Empress-consort Suming 肅明皇后; d. 693) and Virtuous Consort, Lady Dou 竇德妃 (posthumously Empress-consort Zhaocheng 昭成皇后; d. 693). Both ladies were executed by Empress Wu Zetian on the false charge of witchcraft. Their bodies were never found. The emperor built the Hui Mausoleum 惠陵 and the Jing Mausoleum 靖陵 for Lady Liu and Lady Dou, respectively. Their spirit tablets were also installed in the Yiqun Temple 儀坤廟, where they received regular sacrifices together. When the emperor passed away in 716, both ladies were entombed with him in the Qiao Mausoleum 橋陵.98 Given that the time elapsed between these zhaohun-burials was brief, it is safe to assume that the rites performed were the same. Significantly, Emperor Ruizong’s joint-burial with both ladies was meant to further strengthen the claim of Emperor Xuanzong, the reigning monarch, to the throne. The emperor was not Emperor Ruizong’s heir apparent at first. That honor belonged to his eldest brother Li Chengqi 李成 器 (679–724)—Emperor Ruizong’s first-born son with his empress-consort.

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Nor was he the second in line. That person was Emperor Ruizong’s second-eldest son Li Chengyi 李成義 (d. 724). Yet Emperor Xuanzong leapfrogged over his two older brothers because he had led the successful coup that delivered his father a second reign.99 Although Emperor Xuanzong could not deprive Lady Liu her rightful place next to his father as his wife in the Qiao Mausoleum, he could and did entomb his birth mother Lady Dou with them. Still, he sought more ways to elevate his birth mother and thereby strengthen his claim. Knowing his desire, the court ritualists scoured the Classics and found justifications for installing his birth mother’s spirit tablet next to his father’s in his father’s temple, which was an honor that belongs to the primary wife. Emperor Xuanzong left Lady Liu’s spirit tablet at the Yiqun temple and did not move it into his father’s temple for twenty-two years.100 The state held collective and individual zhaohun-burials for imperial clan members gained still more political potency in the An Lushan Rebellion (756–763). One task that the newly enthroned Emperor Suzong 肅宗 (r. 756–762) undertook immediately after recovering the ravaged capital cities was performing hun-burials for imperial women and children killed in the conflict and whose remains were lost. After forcing his father, Emperor Xuanzong, to abdicate in his favor, Emperor Suzong further decreed zhaohun-summoning burials for all corpse-less imperial clan members within five degrees of consanguinity.101 No zhaohun-burial of an imperial consort was as emotionally and politically charged as the one for Emperor Suzong’s daughter-in-law Lady Shen 沈 (?–?). Four successive emperors—Daizong 代宗 (r. 762–779), Dezong 德宗 (r. 779–805), Shunzong 順宗 (r. 805), and Xianzong 憲宗 (r. 805–820)—mourned her loss publicly. Her zhaohun- and spousal jointburial only took place nearly five decades after her disappearance. Lady Shen was a minor concubine of Prince Guangping 廣平王, the future Emperor Daizong, when she vanished after the rebel Shi Siming 史思明 (703–761) sacked Luoyang in 761. Emperor Daizong never ceased looking for her or installed an empress-consort, despite favoring Lady Dugu 獨孤 and her children above all others. His attachment to Lady Dugu was such that he kept her coffin in the inner palace for three years after her death because he could not bear to be parted from her. Yet he only bestowed her the title of empress-consort after her death and left no instruction to be entombed with her.102 Lady Shen’s son Emperor Dezong, Emperor Daizong’s eldest, continued the search throughout his reign. He reasoned, A ruler through serving his father with filial piety illuminates his serving Heaven; through serving his mother with filial piety makes perceivable

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his serving Earth. Therefore, [no act of] serving Heaven has the priority over [serving] my august father and [no act of] serving Earth is more exalted than [serving] my revered mother.103

He sent agents to every corner of the realm in search of her. Although imposter after imposter preyed on his yearnings, the emperor told his ministers, “I would rather be lied to a hundred times in the hope that one of them is true.”104 Nonetheless, the search came up empty. Only after Emperor Xianzong, Lady Shen’s great-grandson, ascended the throne was she finally given up for dead, and only because she would have been more than eighty years old—an age rarely reached—were she still alive. Emperor Xianzong held a zhaohun-burial for her along with Emperors Dezong’s and Shunzong’s funerals. He bestowed on her the posthumous title of Great Grand Empress-dowager (zeng taihuang taihou  曾太皇太后) Ruizhen 睿真. A ceremonial gown was made for her, which was then placed on the numinous seat in the inner palace, where it received daily sacrifices. Clearly, the ceremonial gown represented her presence. Following its completion the ceremonial gown was moved to Emperor Daizong’s hall of repose and laid out next to his, and her spirit tablet was installed in his temple and placed next to his.105 The rite of her zhaohun-burial might be similar to what Peng Jinzhi proposed for Empress-consort Hesi, reported in Jiu Tang shu, for her ceremonial gown was not entombed. What makes Lady Shen’s zhaohun-burial special was these emperors’ insistence on continuing the search when other missing imperial ladies were presumed dead and given a zhaohun-burial soon after the armed conflict. Emperor Daizong might have been moved by genuine grief, but his prolonged search was also a strategy to prevent Lady Dugu’s family from gaining too much power, threatening the heir apparent and the line of succession. Containing consort-families was particularly important to him, given that his father’s empress-consort, Lady Zhang 張 (d. 762), had attempted to eliminate him and usurp the throne while his father was lying on his deathbed.106 No subsequent Tang monarch, except the penultimate, ever installed an empress-consort during their reigns. Instead, they bestowed the title to a beloved concubine after her death or elevated their birth mother to the position of empress-dowager after their enthronements. Once these empress-dowagers died, their bodies were entombed in their imperial spouses’ mausoleum park and their spirit tablets installed in their imperial spouses’ temple.107 Such practices reinforced the monarch’s power vis-à-vis the consort family while safeguarding the heir apparent, who was invariably the firstborn or eldest surviving son regardless of who his birth mother was.108 Emperor Dezong’s refusal to

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give his mother a zhaohun-burial when entombing his father was more perplexing. Leaving his father alone in the mausoleum and the ancestral temple was hardly a sign of “serving his father with filial piety.” Yet one could argue that, by doing so, he redoubled his grandfather’s and father’s efforts to entrench primogeniture not practiced before the An Lushan Rebellion, for the dynasty could ill afford any uncertainty regarding the succession while facing numerous domestic and foreign treats. Hence the search of Lady Shen and her much-delayed zhaohun-burial affirmed her direct descendants’ claim and contributed to political consolidation. State-Sponsored Zhaohun-Burials for Fallen Soldiers The Tang court routinely performed large-scale hun-summoning burials for fallen soldiers. These zhaohun-burials went beyond recognizing loyalty, inspiring further support for the regime, and appeasing the hun of war dead. In 702, Chief Minister Wei Yuanzhong 魏元忠 (d. 707) conducted a sacrifice commencing the state zhaohun-burial for those under his command who died repelling the nomads invading the western border.109 The sacrificial oration (jiwen 祭文), composed by renowned writer and soon-to-be Chief Minister Zhang Yue 張說 (667–730), vividly recounts the fierce battle in which these soldiers perished and extols their bravery. Notably, the last few lines urge their spirits to unleash the fury of their wrath upon their enemies: I grieve for you brave men who were cut down and died for the state. Why not petition the Heavenly Emperor and descended upon the western barbarians with your rancorous wrath? I cheer on, [beating the] golden drums. Requite your resentment on the battleground. The enemies’ blood would be your libation; the enemies’ fermented meat would be your sacrificial victim. While your corpses were buried where you had fallen, I summon your hun returning to your native land. Please enjoy these offerings.110

Put differently, the sacrificial oration directs the fallen to vent their rage on those who slew them rather than those who sent them to the battlefield. Thus, this state zhaohun-burial not only propitiated the dead but also gave the court the use of their might that was made more lethal by death. In the literature produced after the An Lushan Rebellion, the hunsummoning burials often conjured a profound sense of loss and the dynasty’s decline. Du Fu 杜甫 (712–770) wrote in 757 that “[as Chang’an] even now remains in ruins and fear, there must be [many] hun that have yet to be summoned.”111 The picture painted by Zhang Ji 張籍 (c. 767–783) is particularly poignant: “Xiongnu slaughtered the frontier officers in the ninth month [of the year]/the Han army was annihilated down by the

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Lao River/ten thousand li away no one was there to collect [the] white bones/every household performs under the city wall the zhaohunburial.”112 In these literary works, no remembrance was more heartbroken than the image of hun-summoning banners fluttering in the wind; no sight was more pitiable than the tearful widows and orphans before a zhaohun-grave; and no elegy was more stirring than the one a ruler offered to the fallen. These literary representations of the practice had a potency of their own, constructing a shared narrative of the trauma and fostering solidarity. They heightened zhaohun-grave’s importance as the site to which such private and public memory were attached. This profound sense of loss and fatalism permeated the discussions of state zhaohun-burial and further highlighted the fallen soldiers’ loyalty and ultimate sacrifice. Moreover, as the state zhaohun-burial became closely tied to political legitimacy and moral authority, neglect or refusal to hold one for someone widely viewed as deserving could undermine a monarch’s attempt to shape collective memory and endangered the faith in his regime. Emperor Suzong’s hesitance to hold a hun-summoning burial for Zhang Xun 張巡 (d. 757) and his comrades, who heroically defended the regime in the ten-month Siege of Suiyang 睢陽 (757) by committing unspeakable war crimes, reveals the political and moral complications. The prodigious number of sources on the siege across multiple genres, ranging from dynastic histories to Daoist ritual manuals, attests to its prominent position in the survival of the dynasty and collective memory of the An Lushan Rebellion. The Xin Tang shu and Zizhi tongjian give the most thorough and harrowing accounts. As with all stories of exceptional courage and loyalty, this one began with a regime in peril. Following the catastrophic defeat at the Tong Pass (Tong’guan 潼關), Emperor Xuanzong absconded from Chang’an, taking with him only a small entourage. His callousness left most of the imperial family and officials (not to mention his subjects) scrambling to fend for themselves. Chaos descended and communications were disrupted, so much so that he did not even receive the news that his heir apparent had declared himself emperor as Emperor Suzong.113 No one knew whether the dynasty would survive or had not already collapsed. Some imperial princes, provincial governors, prefects, magistrates, and militia leaders defected to An Lushan’s newly founded Yan regime; others rebelled against the Tang to advance their imperial ambitions; still others fell back to fortresses of great strategic importance awaiting instructions from the Tang court. Zhang Xun, a brilliant jinshi examination graduate and even more brilliant military commander, belonged to the last group.114

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A county magistrate (xianling  縣令) at the time, Zhang Xun and his militia remained loyal to the Tang even after their immediate superior had turned against it. Learning that Suiyang, a fortified city of great strategic import as the gateway to the Jiang-Huai region, was under fierce attack from the Yan army, he led three thousand men to join its defense. The forces of Zhang Xun, city mayor (chengfuling  城父令) Yao Yin 姚誾, and Prefect (taishou 太守) Xu Yuan 許遠 combined was just under seven thousand, yet they faced an opponent whose troop strength reportedly exceeded one hundred thirty thousand.115 Failing to take the city outright, the Yan army laid siege to it. Seven months into the siege, starvation and unrelenting attacks reduced Suiyang’s force to just sixteen hundred men. With food running out, the inhabitants began eating tree bark, paper, and leather. Considering Suiyang doomed and wary of defections among their ranks, all but one Tang official stationed at nearby fortresses decided against sending supplies and reinforcements despite the increasingly desperate pleas from the city. Still, the force at Suiyang determined to hold out as long as possible to shield the Jiang-Huai region. With nothing even remotely edible left, the remaining fighters finally resorted to cannibalism. Zhang Xun set the example by slaying his favorite concubine to feed the fighters, and Xu Yuan killed his own servants to do the same. For the remainder of the siege, the city’s defenders first ate women, then children, and finally the elderly. When the Yan army finally breached the city walls, they found only four hundred survivors of more than thirty thousand who had lived in this once-thriving city.116 Zhang Xun allegedly swore vengeance moments before the city fell: “In death I shall become a ghost to plague the usurper” 死為鬼以癘賊. He and some thirty officers were tortured, then executed. Xu Yuan—the highest ranking official in the city—alone was sent to Luoyang, then the Yan capital, though he was soon killed en route.117 Just three days after the city fell, the Tang army commanded by Zhang Gao 張鎬 (d. 764), Emperor Suzong’s chief minister and the governor of Henan, which had been marching day and night to Suiyang’s rescue, arrived. After successfully retaking the city, Zhang Gao punished those who watched idly its inhabitants starve and eulogized Zhang Xun’s and other Suiyang defenders’ exceptional loyalty and sacrifices in his dispatch to the court.118 When the matter of honoring the fallen defenders of Suiyang came up at court less than a month later, not everyone considered them heroes. The objection was over the cannibalism, which had been conducted, in David Graff’s words, as an “organized and systematic logistical operation.”119 The abhorrence of their horrific action against a civilian population might have even prompted Emperor Suzong to consider posthumously

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“prosecuting” (zui 罪) Zhang Xun; only after several well-respected officials interceded did the emperor relent. Although he bestowed posthumous titles on these fallen men and gave their eldest sons government posts, he made no effort to quiet the critics nor showed any willingness to hold a state hun-summoning burial for Zhang Xun and his men. Li Han 李翰 (?–?), Zhang Xun’s close friend, composed Zhang’s biography and presented it to the throne, attempting to “explain Xun’s transgression and shut the mouths of many [critics].” The widely circulated biography does not survive intact, but several versions of the memorial that accompanied it do.120 Because they had defined Zhang Xun’s posthumous reputation and the memory of this tragic event, we must examine Li Han’s representation of Zhang Xun and the court’s serious reservations. How to recognize the loyalty of those whose gruesome treatment of the civilian population under their care went beyond immorality? Could a regime that condones an atrocity against its own people still retain the Mandate of Heaven? The most complete version of Li Han’s memorial, preserved in the Quan Tang wen, was organized along four intertwining arguments for honoring Zhang Xun and his company. The first was an appeal to the emperor’s sense of obligation to those who had sacrificed their lives for the state. Emphasizing that the relationship between a ruler and his vassals was one of reciprocity and served as the foundation of the state, Li Han wrote, “A ruler therefore does not leave the vassals behind and the vassals do not turn their backs on the ruler. The ruler’s graciousness and the vassals’ fealty are thereby established.”121 He then warned Emperor Suzong that should he decline to sufficiently acknowledge those who had served him with integrity and loyalty, the political consequences of this perceived slight could be dire because he risked antagonizing his supporters and turning away would-be supporters at a time when the dynasty could least afford it. The second line of argument centered on Zhang Xun’s extraordinary loyalty and contribution, namely, that he remained steadfast even when others defected in droves and fought to his last breath to defend Suiyang and by extension the Jiang-Huai region. Li Han put it bluntly that “If not for Xun, there would be no Suiyang; if not for Suiyang, there would be no Jiang-Huai.”122 Thus he rebuffed those who attributed the cannibalism to Zhang Xun’s foolhardy refusal to evacuate the city before the situation became hopeless, pointing out that “by forsaking several hundred [he kept] all under Heaven whole.”123 Yet it would take all of Li Han’s rhetorical prowess to explain away the abominably systematic nature of the cannibalism that had caused many critics to question whether Zhang Xun and his men were “wholly human”

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(quanren 全人). He stressed that because “Xun died holding onto his integrity, he did not violate the moral teachings; splitting the corpses to cook meals was not his original intent.”124 Indeed, neither could Zhang Xun have foreseen that he would receive no reinforcements from the Tang armies stationed nearby, nor did he turn to cannibalism before all hope of a rescue was gone. Those who were truly responsible for this heinous crime against the innocents, Li Han contended, were those who refused to help.125 Hence Zhang Xun’s extraordinary loyalty and sacrifice should not be overridden by his loss of humanity; instead, his willingness to give up his humanity was a testament to that loyalty and sacrifice. The subsequent admiration of Zhang Xun and his company showed this was quite a persuasive argument.126 Whereas the critics of the cannibalism spoke up for the victims, Zhang Xun’s supporters wrote off the deaths as unfortunate collateral damage and ignored the cannibalism. Li Han’s final argument, and perhaps the most convincing, was rooted in the belief that the spirits of those who suffered a violent death would become a vicious and terrifying force. Zhang Xun’s purported vow of vengeance was in fact predicated on this belief. Like Wei Yuanzhong before him, Li Han saw the performance of hun-summoning burial as a way not only to appease but also to channel that animus into benefiting the state. As he maintained, those who died in violence become malevolent spirits into which their wandering hun is transformed. Had they a place to return to, they would not cause any calamities. Because Xun’s torso and head were severed and the rest of the troops’ corpses and skeletons were unburied, this vassal suggests that it is best to select an elevated plain in the north of the Suiyang city to perform a zhaohun-burial, ushering Xun and his troops to a monumental tomb created for their burial. Thereby the hun of the Nine Springs would think of serving the state, the members of the three armies would willingly lay down their life. In this way, it touches the numinous darklings, leaves no wronged and malevolent spirits, and moreover [shows that] the state is committed to extolling the virtuous and handing down admonition for hundreds of generations.127

In other words, the lack of humanity made Suiyang’s defenders all the more powerful and terrifying in death. Emperor Suzong accepted Li Han’s suggestion and held a state zhaohun-burial for them, consigning the innocent victims of the cannibalism to oblivion. His choice indicates that the court conceded its survival depended on the troops’ contentment rather than the people’s as the rebellion was still raging. It also shows, as David Graff insightfully argues, the scholar-officials who supported Li

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Han felt compelled to declare their loyalty when many of their friends and colleagues had defected.128 The criticism of Zhang Xun’s, Xu Yuan’s, and their officers’ actions gradually died down and were replaced by reverence. Subsequent Tang monarchs often remembered them in the Acts of Grace.129 In time, Suiyang’s defenders became legendary figures whose memory outlasted the dynasty itself, frequently appearing in official and popular writings as a symbol of ultimate loyalty. Local gazetteers show that the shrines dedicated to Zhang Xun and Xu Yuan were maintained for many centuries. Nothing is more telling about the lasting admiration and fear they commanded, however, than their inclusion in several Daoist rites of exorcism.130 Their consumption of human flesh and loss of humanity had turned them into horrifying deities without mercy. Yet whenever they were summoned, the innocent residents of Suiyang were being devoured all over again. Only this time, they were consumed not for sustaining life but for fueling the powerful and destructive force. Devoured and forgotten, they held no power over the living. Private Hun-Summoning Burials Many families gave loved ones zhaohun-burials when they could not locate the remains. Their motivations could be as varied and complicated as a state zhaohun-burial. Expressing filial piety, familial devotion, and regret was the most common motivation in Tang sources. The muzhiming belonging to Debei 德備 (whose surname was lost with the heading) succinctly explains why his son erected a tomb for his summoned hun decades after he died defending the Sui dynasty against the Tang: “Grieving that the one who raised me has no support; considering that he longs for his father [as I long for mine] and the ache is everlasting; resenting that there is no grave to which he could be committed; wanting to worship him with reverence, yet I have nowhere to go.”131 The author conjures up the disquiet ghost of his absent father to assuage his own feeling of sadness and guilt and underlined his and his father’s filial piety. A man in a sacrificial oration composed on the occasion of his younger brother’s zhaohun-burial movingly expressed his sorrow: Virtuous conducts had not brought lasting felicity, whereas quarrels had been growing in this household. Why do the deities not grant you blessing? Why does Heaven not show you favor? The fault was on me, [yet] the calamity visited upon you. I grieve for the severed hand and foot [i.e., a sibling], forever separated from beloved kin. (indecipherable); to attend the ancestors in death. . . . My heart is lacerated by the bitterness of being torn apart [from the one with whom I shared] milk; my stomach was

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pulled apart from the injury of [the one with whom I] shared umbilical cord. Although you died in north of the Great Wall, your hun must return to your native land.132

We might never learn to which “fault” was the older brother referred, but we could feel great pain and regret behind his words. These private zhaohun-burials conveyed the filial and fraternal yearning of the living and the deceased, real or imagined. They also ensured that the dead would receive sacrifice alongside the ancestors and become a part of familial memory. Clearly, the zhaohun-grave was where the family, both living and dead, came together to reinforce their bond and identity. Moreover, because the deceased in these cases had perished serving the state, the privately held hun-summoning burials reemphasized the family’s loyalty and sacrifice. Not everyone given a zhaohun-burial by the family had been previously unburied. Those loved ones who could not retrace the location where they had provisionally buried the deceased often resorted to this practice. The family of Yuan Zhen 元真 (d. 757), for instance, had to bury him hurriedly during the An Lushan Rebellion in a situation his muzhiming vividly described: The time was one of difficulties and the war went on without end. Thus [he] was temporarily interred in the orchard of the Foguo temple in this district. The treacherous vassal [Shi] Siming invaded the capital again, allowing jackals and tigers to brutally subjugate men and deities. The mound was therefore leveled. We lost its location.133

Now that the war was over, they could give him only a hun-summoning burial. Some families held one for a previously buried due to a break in family memory. This usually happened when the deceased had only very young children or none. Many years after Wang Bao 王寶 had passed away during his travels, his son and heir Wang Sili 王思禮 lamented, “My anguish is that I was then a young child and did not know I had lost my father” and “Even I could only sacrifice to him diligently [from afar] because [the location of] the gravemound with the planted tree was not recorded.”134 The case of Li Yanzhen 李延禎 illustrates how the memory of a gravesite’s whereabout could fade within the same generation. Li Yanzhen died unmarried in 685 while sojourning in the south with his brother-in-law, who was a magistrate there. That same year, his third eldest brother, Li Yanxiang 李延祥, returned his remains to Luoyang and provisionally buried him in the suburb. Twenty-four years later, his second eldest brother,

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Li Yanzu 李延祖, desiring to rebury him with their parents, who had probably only recently died, found that “The year [of the burial] and [gravesite] sacrifice was long ago, [the place] is now overgrown with brambles. I resent that the woodcutters and shepherds encroach upon [it] and lament that [the location of the] gravemound with planted tree was not recorded.” In the end, Li Yanzu gave Li Yanzhen a zhaohun-burial.135 Because Li Yanzhen had died without an heir, the only way for the family to include him in the ancestral sacrifices was to bury him with their parents. Yet, despite his brothers’ best efforts, the location of his grave was lost. Together, these two cases illuminate both the importance of familial joint-burial and the fragility of memory when not reinforced by regular grave visits. Some families, though knowing where a loved one’s remains were, still performed the zhaohun-burial. The families often gave distance and other logistical challenges that had prevented the burial relocation as their reason. When Zhang Yun’s 張暈 children summoned his hun for burial, they bluntly explained that “[our father] died in the distant Bashu area and [thus] was forever separated from his native land; his coffin was committed to dust, hence his returned hun had not been [permanently] buried; years and months have gone by, his spirit has no place to which it could affix.”136 On the one hand, they expressed concern over the state of their father’s hun. On the other, they showed no intention of going the distance to retrieve his remains. Cases like this give the impression that zhaohun-burial was an easy (and probably inexpensive) way out rather than a reluctant compromise. The ease with which a family could relieve themselves from the burden of retrieving the corpse most probably contributed to many accolades for those individuals who refused the zhaohun-zang option. Such stories of conspicuous filial piety were often disseminated by the court. The burial of Prince Yiyang 義陽王, Li Cong 李琮 (d. 752), illustrates the incredible lengths to which his son Li Xingxiu 李行休 went to locate and rebury his remains. It was recounted in the inscription of spirit path stele (shendaobei 神道碑) and his biography in the Xin Tang shu.137 Although the former was more detailed than the latter, both versions contain many supernatural elements and would not be out of place in an anthology of marvelous tales. Li Cong and his two younger brothers had been banished by Empress Wu Zetian to Guilin 桂林, a remote area deep in the southwest of the realm, and subsequently executed in 689. Twenty-five years later, when Li Xingxiu attempted to rebury his father and uncles, he found “[as] no one had presided over their funerals; [there was] no gravemound or a tree planted. Years and months had passed, and everything was [covered by] wild grass.” All his inquiries turned up nothing. When everyone with

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whom he discussed the matter counseled him to give his father and uncles zhaohun-burials, he vehemently refused, vowing that he would not give up. What followed was nothing short of a miracle. First, his father gave him clues as to the whereabouts of his remains in a dream. Then the chain-lock of the spirit hall buckled one night all by itself, bearing the imprint of three fingers. Li Xingxiu hence asked a diviner to interpret the meanings of these occurrences and was finally able to locate his father’s casket. When he realized that his father’s corpse was missing one finger, he again received instructions from his father in a dream, based on which he was able to recover both it and the caskets of his uncles.138 Li Xingxiu’s refusal to take the easy route apparently moved the spirits. The account was extraordinary not because of the supernatural elements but because the court openly celebrated Li Xingxiu’s filial conduct and included it in the official records. To publicize the imperial family’s moral authority, none other than Zhang Yue 張說, by then the chief minister, composed the stele inscription. And the text was inscribed onto the stele erected at the entrance of Li Cong’s tomb in Emperor Taizong’s 太宗 (r. 626–649) funerary park. Li Xingxiu’s determination further sheds light on Emperor Dezong’s relentless effort in search of his birth mother, Lady Shen. Her zhaohun-burial could only be the last resort after her descendants had exhausted all avenues. Burial was about memory. It allowed medieval families (imperial families included) to remember the dead in ancestral sacrifices and to reshape their identities and reinterpretate the past. The normalization of the zhaohun-zang practice occurred alongside that of the gravesite ancestral burial and familial joint-burial. It was resulted from a confluence of social and religious forces: incessant social unrest, the belief in that the unburied (and specifically victims of violence) would harm the living, and the growing importance of classical learning and the mourning as means to convey cultural and social identity and acquire political legitimacy. State zhaohun-burial for imperial family members, particularly women, publicized that the emperor shared the same grief as his subjects in the armed conflicts leading to the dynasty’s founding or restoration. Early medieval rulers came to recognize that the practice could be a powerful political tool, but it was the Tang monarchs who fully took advantage of versatility. They employed it to solidify the dynasty’s political legitimacy and define the past, reward and inspire loyalty, and create the perception of an individual monarch’s claim to the throne and thereby strengthen it. They further acquired moral authority by promoting the practice as an expression of filial piety or familial devotion, especially when a zhaohun-burial was

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conducted as a last resort and even more so when it was rejected in the face of the extraordinary challenges to locate the remains. Put differently, it was a noncanonical way to complete canonical rites; that it was not found in the Classics of Rites was immaterial. The perceived necessity to perform one in the absence of the deceased’s corpse indicates that the grave’s transformation into the primary locus of ancestral worship was more or less complete. As always in matters of burial, the dead had a presence. What set the zhaohun-burial apart were the dead’s relative passivity and silence. More than ever they were the pawns of those like Fu Jian of the Former Qin, Murong Chui of the Latter Yan, and the numerous Tang monarchs in political machinations. Their awesome power could be leveraged to serve the regime’s agenda. Even in cases of privately held hun-summoning burials, it was the family rather than the dead who “spoke” in the sacrificial oration and muzhiming. Thus the memory activated by a zhaohun-burial was more about the living and less about the dead than the one constructed through a regular burial. Even when the family adamantly refused to give up on locating their loved ones’ remains, it was they and not the dead who were held up as exemplary. Perhaps it is no surprise that when the dead did “speak” as did Prince Yiyang in his son’s dreams, they did so because they wished to be found rather than summoned. In this perspective, the cannibalized Suiyang civilians could take comfort that in not being summoned and ordered around by rulers and ritual masters alike, they were free. Despite their being nameless and powerless, history still remembers them.

E P I L O G U E

The Speakers for the Dead

After analyzing the development of burial practices and the motivations behind the production of muzhiming as a way of promoting and preserving desired identity and memory, and following the investigation of the three-way negotiation involving the individual, the family, and the state over representation of the past, it seems fitting to close the book with one last look at the dead and their relationship with the living in the late medieval culture of remembrance. The dead were ever present in the everyday life of late medieval China. To people living then, the dead really did speak to them, and often. The prevalent belief in continuous existence in the hereafter and the practice of ancestral sacrifices trained their ears to listen for the voices of the dead. Filial piety—the moral, social, and religious framework in which they inevitably found themselves—compelled them to hear and know what the dead demanded of them. The undertone of the messages from the dead was always eram quod es, eris quod sum (I was what you are; you will be what I am). It was this connection between the dead and the living that allowed the voice of the former to be heard by the latter, even if only through the mediation of burial and muzhiming. The producers of these mediums, the speakers for the dead, spoke knowing that the dead would listen in. They instinctively understood that adherence to the words (or intentions) of the dead when they spoke for them went a long way toward securing their own chance to be similarly listened to and spoken for after their own death. In this sense, the dead had been speaking ever since they, when alive, had first listened to and spoken for other dead. They wanted to be listened to as they had once 194



The Speakers for the Dead 195

listened, and to be spoken for as they once had for others. The boundary between listening and speaking was fluid, and the difference between speaking for others and for oneself minimal. Because life and death were perceived to be the two ends of one continuum, no inviolable line separated the living and the dead. Throughout this book we have been listening to the dead through the mediation of burial and muzhiming. We have been told their wishes, regrets, afflictions, and long-held secrets. We have learned what aims they strove for, what achievements they applauded, and what failures they lamented. We have watched them battle against public perceptions and social expectations, and profess their innocence and loyalty. We have taken for granted that they had a persistent social identity even as their body was rotting six feet under and accepted them as agents in the negotiation of their memory. Intentionally or unintentionally, however, we also have neglected the tangibility of their voice and the corporeality of their presence in the everyday life of medieval Chinese people. Our modern, rational assumptions compel us to ascribe their voice to the living. Our eagerness to avoid positivistic pitfalls have led us to question the authenticity of their voice and to deny them the agency they enjoyed in the late medieval period. To us, there were no speaking dead, only speakers for the dead. This epilogue is a small step in returning to them that which is rightfully theirs. My aim in writing this book was to reconstruct the late medieval culture of remembrance, including its many subtleties, and I believe I have achieved that. It is time to be reminded of what I discovered in the process. The late medieval dead did not extend the durability of their memories by being a node in the flow chart of extended kinship (which, as we saw, could easily be redrawn through familial joint-burial) or by pouring themselves into an existing mold of well-remembered ancient heroes and paragons of virtue (which caused only the mold, not the individual, to be better remembered). The late medieval culture of remembrance was thus about more and not less. It rewarded those who dared to delve into the personal and privileged individualism over genericism. The speaking dead and the speakers for the dead knew that by standing out from the crowd, they could more easily gain and retain their desired identities and memories. They embraced the dramatic, played up every commitment or refusal to follow conventions and cried foul over any perceived injustice. The dead and their speakers were aware of our natural tendency to gravitate toward spirited and heartfelt stories and thus were drawn to producing and consuming them—a family that fought against overwhelming odds to complete a familial joint-burial, a wife who vehemently

196 Epilogue

refused to be buried with her husband and in-laws, a last and fervent wish frustrated despite best efforts, an auspicious oracle turning out to be quite inauspicious, and the lost souls who were intentionally unsummoned, subsumed by their politically more relevant murderers. There was no melting into the ancestors’ shadows for the late medieval dead. If and when they attached themselves to the identities or memories of another, such as being buried with a religious teacher or recalling their completion of “the great matter,” it was to help them claim more attention. In the end, we care about the dead and the speakers for them as much as the poignant subject of which they spoke. No theoretical sophistication could hold us back from the emotions that are still vibrant, not even when they are only the echoes of a bygone culture of remembrance. Cicero pointed out long ago, Vita enim mortuorum in memoria vivorum est posita (for the life of the dead is in the memory of the living). In rediscovering, representing, and re-remembering their identities and memories, I too have become a speaker for the late medieval dead, telling their stories to whoever is listening, keeping them alive in our memory.

A P P E N D I X

The Muzhiming of the Late [Lady] Zhangsun

The Muzhiming of the Late [Lady] Zhangsun, the Wife of Wang Meichang, the Late Prefect of Runzhou of the Great Zhou1 Note: The character ☐ indicates a lacuna, marking an illegible character in the original text. TRANSLATION The cover: Muzhi of the Late [Lady] Zhangsun, the Wife of Wang Meichang, the Late Prefect of Runzhou of the Great Zhou The inscription: The Muzhiming with Preface of [Lady] Zhangsun, the Wife of Wang Meichang2 Lady Zhangsun was a native of the Henan Commandery. Of the Seven Clans3 that effused from the stream and the Ten Surnames4 that branched off from their source, her luxuriant stemma and glorious lineage shone brightly in portraits and histories; the discerning dukes and upright ministers5 [from her clan] glowed resplendently in books and volumes.6 Her great grandfather, Chang, was the Grand Master of the Palace with Golden Seal and Purple Ribbon, Chambèrlain for the Imperial Clan and State Founding Commandery Duke of Pingyuan of the Sui.7 Her grandfather, Yichang, was the Grand Master for Thorough Counsel and Commandery Duke of the Huarong of the Tang.8 Either they had a lofty name, yet they retired claiming illness, or they had a significant reputation, 197

198 Appendix

yet they hid it. They would instead drink and savor nature than discuss military stratagems. Her father was the Grand Master for Closing Court, magistrate of the Henei [District] in Huaizhou, and adjutant of Yingzhou.9 Successively serving in ten walled cities, he was praised throughout for his talent in governance; transforming [the people] by singing [accompanied by] string instruments within [the distance of] a hundred li, he was entrusted with taming the Di barbarians.10 The lady was an orchid garden that diffuses fragrance and a jade field that sustains lushness [of plants].11 She received the Three Numina’s pure essence and stood out with the Four Virtues’ noble bearing.12 She respectfully attended to the rites and ceremonies and sincerely revered the Admonitions of Women Scribes.13 In the year when she first donned the ji-hairpin,14 she married into the Wang clan of Taiyuan. After the [bridegroom] drove [the cart] for three revolutions of the wheel,15 a hundred carriages were said to return [with her].16 The qin-zither and se-lute were hence in harmony; branches and stems were her models.17 The “Eulogy of the Chrysanthemum” and the “Eulogy of the Pepper Flower” were candles brightening her heart;18 the gauze embroidered with phoenix-motifs and crane patterns were her artful designs on full display. All maiden admired her gentle example; every wife saluted her pure principle. When she first bade farewell to ☐☐☐☐, she was conferred by decree [the title of] Commandery Countess of Cheng’an; shortly afterward, she was appointed as Commandery Countess of Huaide.19 By her virtue, she rose to eminence; like her husband, she was granted an income. [Her enfeoffment was] the same as Shijiao but moreover similar to Yanxiang.20 In the first year of the Shengli reign-period [698], Late Master Wang sensed his life was to be cut short,21 and a funeral would take place soon.22 Shortly after, the lady became a cypress boat without a tether, and the creeping vines without a scaffold.23 Her will was destroyed whereas her body was alive; she pointed to the sun, and in her heart, she made an oath.24 Shortly afterward, she lived and then died as [myriad things] are impelled round and round,25 and that her time had passed. She who performed good deeds was cheated as [she] suddenly became seriously ill. The numinous plants grown in the jade field,26 she would never again encounter; the barbarian incense from the Western Region,27 she would never again come across. Alas! On the twenty-sixth day of the sixth month in the first year of the Dazu reign-period [July 26, 701], she died at her private residence in Ruzhou. She was fifty-four [sui]. The lady’s past cultivation enabled her to obtain the fundamentals [of Buddhist teaching], thoroughly penetrating the gate of dharma; her

Appendix 199

detachment from worldly entanglements led her to escape the net of desires. She maintained: “ ‘Spousal joint-burial was not an ancient practice,’28 why must we share the same grave?” Thus she left instruction to hollow a niche next to the mountain monastery of Longmen in Hegong District of Luozhou to rest her spirit. Her son Xin and the rest [of her children] exhausted filial piety beyond earthly obligations and exceeded propriety beyond heavenly regulations. Our longing chafed against windblown twigs;29 our grief twined around frost and dew.30 Were we to obey her command, the situation would be unbearable; were we to go against her instructions, our hearts would be harrowed. Therefore, we sought and consulted learned men, then reverently followed her last instruction. Accordingly, in the third year of the Chang’an reign-period [703], we installed ladders in the mountain and carved out a trail. We scaffolded the cliff and hollowed out a niche. We fashioned stones to fill its foundation and used sheared silk floss to fill its crevices. Along with the heaven and earth, may it long be impregnable; parallel to the Hall of Numinous Brilliance31 may it endure. Thus, for her, we engraved this elegy: ☐ was her great lineage, ☐矣洪緒 far-reaching was its rule. 悠哉霸圖 By the Liao River, it founded a state, 遼河建國 at Lingwu,32 it established a capital city. 靈武開都 The lands were lush and fertile, 山川演貺 the people were heroic and cunning. 人物英謨 The First 其一 She was born with such virtue 誕斯令德 she married such a gentleman. 作嬪君子 Her reputation was more luxuriant than creeping vines, 聲茂葛覃 her path flooded river branches.33 道超江汜 She tuned and harmonized the zither and lute; 調諧琴瑟 her praise was more fragrant than orchid and angelica. 譽芳蘭芷 Those with ☐ were able and attentive; 有☐淑慎 those without law resent the virtuous.34 無刑慍善 The Second 其二 After her husband died, 良人捐背 the bending branches found no support. 樛枝靡託 As the last image dimmed and darkened,35 遺象窈冥 the corner of the hall became bleak and desolated; 堂隅簫索 As the whitecap of converging waters died down,36 閱水波逝 the sun turned pale at Yuquan.37 虞泉景薄 Strong wind destroyed the orchids, 風勁蘭摧 falling frost struck down osmanthus flowers. 霜霏桂落

200 Appendix The Third 其三 The chill startled the northern mountain ridge, 寒驚嶺北 the sun faded into the western mountain. 日慘山西 The hearse transferred her person, 靈轜動駕 Yet the pall froze in grief. ☐輓凝悽 Dews wept for the destroyed pine tree, 松摧露泣 while the winds howled across the cypress screen. 柏帳風啼 Her good name will not vanish, 芳徽無泯 it shall last as long as heaven and earth. 天地俱齊 The Fourth 其四

Figure A.1  Rubbing of Lady Zhangsun’s Muzhiming The stone (59mm wide, 59mm tall) is at the National Library of China.

Appendix 201

TRANSCRIPTION Key: ■ a blank space ☐ a completely illegible character

Figure A.2  Transcription of Lady Zhangsun’s Muzhiming

Notes

Introduction  1. “Muzhi of the Late [Lady] Zhangsun, the Wife of Wang Meichang, the Late Prefect of Runzhou of the Great Zhou” 大周故潤州刺史王美暢夫人故長孫氏墓誌, TMH, 1: Chang’an 054. Lady Zhangsun was the Commandery Countess of Huaide 懷德郡君. For a full and annotated translation, see the appendix.   2.  This practice, known as “exposing the corpse burial” 露屍葬 or “forest burial” 林葬, was a Buddhist practice and a gesture of unconditional generosity (Skt. dāna). It symbolizes the deceased’s non-attachment and limitless compassion for all sentient beings. The apocryphal Sutra on the Essential Practice of Relinquishing the Body Preached by the Buddha (Foshuo yaoxing sheshen jing 佛說要行捨身經, T, 2895) provides the scriptural support for the practice. Liu Shu-fen (2008) has written extensively on the practice and its close relation to the Three Levels Movement (sanjie jiao 三階教) founded by Dhyana Master Xinxing 信行 (540–594).  3. Xiaojing, 1.4: “Body, hair, and skin, one receives them from his father and mother, and does not dare to harm them, [this] is the beginning of filiality” 身體髮膚, 受之父母, 不 敢毀傷, 孝之始也.  4. “Muzhi of Lady Zhangsun”: 從命則情所未忍, 違教則心用荒然.   5.  Mount Longmen is near the city of Luoyang 洛陽 in modern Henan 河南 Province. Several archaeologists had investigated the burial niches on the mountain, including that of Lady Zhangsun (see Zhang Naizhu 1992; Li Wensheng and Yang Chaojie 1995; Liu Wei 2012).  6. “Muzhi of Lady Zhangsun”: 宿植得本, 深悟法門, 捨離蓋纏, 超出愛網.  7. Liji, 6.198, 7.228–29. I discuss the significance and the rhetorical uses of this particular phrase in chapter 2.   8.  I label the years between 200 and 1000 CE as the Chinese medieval period following the periodization proposed by Naito Konan 内藤湖南 (1866–1934) and Miyazaki Ichisada 宫 崎市定 (1901–1995) but reject their insistence that the period ended with the An Lushan Rebellion (755–763) (Miyazaki 1955, 542, 546). I further divide the medieval period into the early (c. 200–600) and late (c. 600–1000) medieval periods. I consider China between the third and eleventh centuries as medieval because of the many comparable social and

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political trends between China and Western Europe. Both societies were upended by the collapse of an imperial state (the Han and Roman Empires, respectively) that had maintained a relatively pervasive cultural and political uniformity for several centuries. The early medieval period was dominated by political decentralization, an influx of foreign cultures and peoples, massive waves of deracination, a sharp decline in population and productivity, the concentration of private lands and cultural capitals in the hands of the provincial elite, and the rise of a mixed-heritage and highly militarized ruling class. Moreover, the spread of a universal religion (that is, Buddhism and Christianity, respectively) profoundly altered everyday life, from epistemology and lifecycle rituals to expressions of morality and political legitimacy. The late medieval period, in contrast, witnessed persistent political centralization, growth in population, urbanization, productivity and mercantile activities, renewed interest in Classicism, and (in China) bureaucratization of the elite. Whether in China or Western Europe, these changes were uneven and often localized, and many of the mentioned similarities are superficial. The label, nonetheless, helps introduce the Chinese Middle Ages to non–East Asianists. For seminal studies on medieval Europe, see Southern 1953; Jordan 2003; Brown 2013; for useful introductions to medieval China, see Lewis 2009, 2011. For a comparison between the key characteristics of Chinese and Western European medieval societies, see Knapp 2007. For useful overviews and critiques concerning whether China had a “medieval” period and if so when, see Holcombe 2016; Kurtz 2018.   9.  I see remembrance as the action of remembering and the state of being remembered; both are engendered by the rememberers. Accordingly, memory is that which has existed or happened, or which has been experienced or imagined, in the past and called up in the mind of the rememberers when prompted. I refer to the culture of remembrance (Connerton 1989; Geary 1994; Assmann 2011) as the practice by which an individual or collective connects the past and present, thereby generating the identity and meaning that embody the memory destined for present and future consumption. 10.  Some scholars find the term “Confucianism” or “Ru-ism” anachronistic and problematic (see, for example, Csikszentmihalyi and Nylan 2003). K. E. Brashier (2011, 6–18) discusses the circumstances (commemoration being one of them) under which the label of Classicism is better suited. I use the term “classical” to denote the cosmological, moral, and ritual principles drawn from the Classics. I further label scholars whose cultural and political capitals were based on their mastery of the Classics and perceived ability to govern by applying these principles to everyday life “classicists.” 11.  On the formation and influences of various Classics, see Loewe 1993; Nylan 2001. 12.  Liji, 22.802–3: 父慈, 子孝, 兄良, 弟悌, 夫義, 婦聽, 長惠, 幼順, 君仁, 臣忠. 13.  Liji, 38.1299: 禮也者, 報也. 14.  Liji, 43.1883–84: 凡人之所以為人者, 禮義也. 禮義之始, 在於正容體, 齊顏色, 順辭令. 容體 正, 顏色齊, 辭令順, 而後禮義備. 以正君臣, 親父子, 和長幼. 君臣正, 父子親, 長幼和, 而後禮義立. 15.  Liji, 61.1890–91. Elsewhere in Liji (21.773–775), the list includes charioting (yu 御) but not local functions. The Da Dai liji 大戴禮記 (80.501) lists nine categories. Instead of archery and charioting, it includes local functions (xiangyinjiu 鄉飲酒) as well as being hosted and hosting (binzhu 賓主), and military ceremonies (junlü 軍旅). 16.  Herbert Fingarette (1972, 7) calls them the “humanizing form of the dynamic relationship of man-to-man.” 17.  Liji, 1.16–20: 道德仁義, 非禮不成; 教訓正俗, 非禮不備; 分爭辨訟, 非禮不決. 君臣, 上下, 父子, 兄弟, 非禮不定; 宦學事師, 非禮不親; 班朝, 治軍, 涖官, 行法, 非禮威嚴不行; 禱祠, 祭祀, 供 給鬼神, 非禮不誠不莊. 是以君子恭敬, 撙節, 退讓以明禮. 鸚鵡能言, 不離飛鳥; 猩猩能言, 不離禽 獸. 今人而無禮, 雖能言, 不亦禽獸之心乎? 夫唯禽獸無禮, 故父子聚麀. 是故, 聖人作為禮以教人, 人以有禮. 知自別於禽獸. 18.  Patricia Ebrey (1991, 14–44) discusses in-depth the development of classical ritual theory and its shifting emphases, from rules to ethics, in establishing interpersonal



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relationships, generating individual and collective identities, and building social and political realities from antiquity to the medieval period. 19.  Liji, 38.1301–02: 著誠去偽, 禮之經也. 20.  Seligman et al. 2008, 103–130, 181. 21.  Scholars have long postulated the concept of “social death” and its consequences (see Gennep 1960; Hertz 1960; Bloch and Parry 1982; Ariès and Weaver 1991). The performance of death rituals allows the mourned and mourners to make and remake their social identities and memberships. 22.  Knapp 1995. 23.  Xiaojing, 1.5: 夫孝, 始於事親, 中於事君, 終於立身. 24.  Xiaojing, 7.55: 君子之事親孝, 故忠可移於君. 事兄悌, 故順可移於長. 居家理, 故治可移於 官. 是以行成於內, 而名立於後世矣. 25.  Brown 2007, 51–54. 26.  See figures 1, 2, and 3. Tanida Takayuki (1970) provides a comprehensive introduction to Han era mourning apparel. The dress code further served as the foundation of the Chinese legal system. It determined the types and severity of punishment for all crimes until 1911. Ding Linghua (2000) and Ding Ding (2003) each offers a thorough history of the wufu system and its sociopolitical significance. 27.  Adam Seligman and his colleagues (2008, 103) point out that the emphasis on sincerity suggests that performing the ritual without intent had become commonplace, prompting a search for authenticity. However, excessive mourning—the seemingly authentic outpouring of feelings—too, became convention once its effectiveness at demonstrating filial piety was recognized. 28.  On excessive mourning and associated social and political agendas, see Ebrey 1991, 37–43; Knapp 2005, 137–163; Brown 2007. 29.  For the connections between the correct performance of classical rites and social status, see Ebrey 1991, 37–40; for links between ritual performance and cultural identity, see Holcombe 1995. James Watson (1993) argues that the performance of death rituals in the standardized form held Chinese society together and made an individual “Chinese.” 30.  For an in-depth study, see Zhang Xiao and Hou Jiqing 2014. Ding Linghua (2000, 232–269) and Lo Tonghua (2012) outline the punishments that Han and medieval regimes imposed on officials who did not perform any mourning rituals (or even hid the news of their parents’ passing). 31.  Tong dian 通典 (The Comprehensive Institutions), completed by Tang scholar Du You 杜佑 (735–812) in 801, collects many debates over acceptable ritual improvisations. Recent scholars, such as Kan Huai-chen (2003), have also elucidated the continuous importance of Classicism in medieval China. 32.  Ebrey 1991, 37–40; Knapp 2009, 143–192. 33.  I include in Buddhism and Daoism any beliefs or practices that self-proclaim to be the teaching of the historical Buddha and Laozi, respectively. Specifically, the latter consists of the Way of Celestial Masters (tianshi dao 天師道), Supreme Clarity (shangqing 上清), and Numinous Treasure (lingbao 靈寶) traditions whose ritual and scriptural legacies made up the medieval canonic compilations. 34.  For discussions of Buddhist alternatives, see Zürcher 1959; Forte 1988; Chen Jinhua 2002; Ku Cheng-mei 2003; Sun Yinggang 2014; for Daoist alternatives, see Mather 1979; Verellen 2003, 2004; Kleeman 2016. 35.  Yili, 29.639. 36.  For mourning a widowed mother, see Yili, 30.652–3; for mourning a mother who predeceased the father, Yili, 30.658. For a great introduction to the status of mothers in early Chinese mourning system, see Zhou Yiqun 2013.

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37.  Typically, the lineage father would also be the birth father. If a man were adopted to continue a lineage, he could only wear the lesser degree of the second heaviest mourning apparels for a year when mourning his birth father (zicui bu zhangqi 齊衰不杖期, Yili, 30.668–71). 38.  Ebrey 1991, 30. 39.  On the debates surrounding the unequal ritual treatment of deceased mothers during the period, see Cheng Ya-ju 2014, 21–114; Zhang Huanjun 2012; Liao I-fang 2009, 89–110; Chen Jo-Shui 1994. 40.  Brashier 2011, 40–45, 184–228. 41.  Mu-Chou Poo (2009) discusses this phenomenon. The notion of hauntings for want in the afterlife is not unique to medieval China (see Oexle 1994; Schmitt 1999; Gordon and Marshall 2000). 42.  The term “Indian” here refers to a dominant and shared culture in specific geographical areas that were either self-identified or recognized by contemporaries as Indian. 43. Buddhism was not an organized religion in the mold of Christianity. It had no orthodoxy but shared basic teachings. For representative studies of how Buddhism arrived at China, see Rong 2004; Hansen 1998. For the spread and Sinification of Buddhism in the early medieval period, see Zürcher 1959; Ch’en 1973. Tansen Sen (2012) reassesses some of these early hypotheses concerning the spread and successful establishment of Buddhism in China. 44.  For a concise history of the Buddhist doctrine of karma and its conceptual linkage to enlightenment, rebirth, and merit, see Krishan 1997. For a short introduction to the Buddhist concept of rebirth, see Chapple 2017. For the concepts of rebirth and karmic retribution in medieval China, see Hong Yue Guo 2007. 45.  John Kieschnick (2003) illustrates the profound impact Buddhism had on the material culture of medieval China. Donald Gjertson (1981) and Robert Campany (2012) examine miracle tales that promoted various Buddhist beliefs and practices. 46.  For a detailed introduction to this memorial practice, see Teiser 1994, 24–30. Xu Jijun (1998, 311–313, 357–367) maintains that the Seven Seventh emerged no later than the Northern Wei period (386–535). 47.  For transcription, see Dunhuang yuanwenji 1995, 930–931. For a full translation of the colophons of the Sutra of Impermanence Preached by the Buddha that Chai Fengda copied and in-depth analysis, see Teiser 1994, 102–121. Beware that he misidentifies Chai Fengda’s mother as his wife. 48.  On the Buddhist impacts on the medieval Chinese concept and practice of filial piety, see Ch’en 1968; Michihata 1985; Teiser 1988; Cole 1998; Bokenkamp 2007. Buddhism had its own concept of filial piety that predated its contact with Chinese culture, see Strong 1983; Schopen 1984). 49.  Scholars have theorized the monumentality of burial with varying degrees of success. I find certain works more useful than others (for examples, Williams 2003, 2006; Cannon 1989; Cession 2001). 50.  For the timetable for burials, see Liji, 12.444; for the timetables for mourning and commemorative rituals, see Yili, juans 35–41. 51.  Accordingly, the medieval practice of reburial was not the secondary burial that James Watson (1982) observes in southern China in the twentieth century. 52.  Zhouli, 22.668–9. The Classics stipulations distinguish seven rank-groups: sons of heaven (tianzi 天子); dukes (gong 公); vassals (zhuhou 諸侯; which include marquesses [hou 侯], earls [bo 伯], viscounts [zi 子], and barons [nan 男]); ministers (qing 卿); senior officials (daifu 大夫); ordinary officers (shi 士); and commoners (shuren 庶人). Sometimes the dukes and vassals are combined into one rank-group, and so are the ministers and senior officials. 53.  Confucius, for one, did not know where his father was buried (see Liji, 6.201–202).



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54.  Here I borrow from Ann Rigney’s (2010) reworking of Pierre Nora’s lieux de mémoire (sites of memory) and her particular emphasis on the function of a more localized site of memory with relatively limited duration. 55.  The studies by Moriya Mitsuo (1951) and Donald Holzman (1986) remain the seminal studies on the Cold Food Festival. Egawa Shikibu (2010) studies in detail the institutionalization of the practice in the Tang era (for the promulgation, see THY, 23.439). 56.  These ideas are influenced by reader-response criticism, specifically, the theories on social reader-response and affective stylistics, most lucidly expounded by Stanley Fish (1980). 57.  On the force and the field of discourse, see Foucault and Hurley 1990; on the intentional and unintentional exercise of individual and collective choices that challenged and subverted, ever so incrementally, the established paradigm, see Certeau and Rendall 1984. 58.  For a useful account on how entombed epitaph inscription came to assume this material form, see Zhao Chao 2003, 102–115. 59.  Muzhiming texts had been anthologized since the sixth century. Xiao Tong 蕭統 (501–531) was perhaps the first literary arbiter to acknowledge their literary value, although his Wen Xuan 文選 (Selections of Refined Literature) collects only one muzhiming. Timothy Davis (2015, 307–357) documents its rise as a highly regarded literary genre. Song dynasty connoisseurs such as Ouyang Xiu 歐陽修 (1007–1072) and Zhao Mingcheng 趙明誠 (1081– 1129) each amassed and cataloged rubbings of Tang inscriptions about, or calligraphed or composed by notable figures. Their collections are no longer extant, but parts of their catalogs survive (see Ouyang Xiu’s Jigu lu 集古錄 and Zhao Mingcheng’s Jinshi lu 金石錄). 60.  For a list of present scholarly hypotheses, see Zhu Zhiwu 2008. 61.  For recent examples published in Chinese, see Zhao Chao 2003; Luo Xin and Ye Wei 2005. For that published in English, see Ellen Zhang, 2019. 62.  For discussion on related inscribed objects, see Davis 2015, chapter 2; on the development of muzhiming as a literary genre, see Davis 2015, chapter 6. 63.  Fengshi wenjian ji 封氏聞見集 6.5 collected in Quan Tang Wudai biji, 1.628: 魏侍中繆襲 改葬父母, 制墓下題版文. 原此旨, 將以千載之後, 陵谷遷變, 欲後人有所聞. Miao Xi was a ritual specialist at the Wei court; WS (21.620) includes his official biography. Nan-Qi shu (23.433– 38) includes a rather length biography of Wang Jian. 64. “Muzhi of Master Hou of Shanggu, the Late State Rectifier, Audience Attendant, and Retainer Clerk of the Vice-Prefect of Yanzhou of the [Northern] Wei” 魏故本國中正奉朝請燕 州治中從事史上谷侯府君墓誌, XWMS, 104–105: 陵谷或徙, 丘壟不常, 鎸此幽石, 志彼玄房. 65.  Davis 2015, 199–200. 66. “Muzhiming of Lord Yang, the Late General of the Army of Defense Commands and Prefect of Gunzhou of the [Northern] Wei” 魏故鎮國將軍袞州刺史羊公墓誌銘, XWMS, 78–80: 圖帛易湮, 口鎸無滅, 假息余漏, 用述芳獻. 67.  Early Tang emperors were famously exasperated by the elites’ preferences for marital alliances with the purportedly ancient and illustrious Five Great Clans (五大姓 wu daxing) over the royal house (for a detailed discussion, see Johnson 1977, 33–58). 68.  Davis 2015, 28–29. 69. “Muzhi of Lady Zhangsun.” 70.  Alexei Ditter (2014) introduces the idea and coins the term “commerce of commemoration.” 71.  Tang officials, such as Li Xijun 李栖筠 (719–776) and Yan Zhenqing 顏真卿 (709–785), authored their own muzhiming to protest their innocence to the throne and relate their versions of past events (see XTS, 146.4737, 153.3597). For generations, the Lü clan 呂氏 composed muzhiming for their dead members to tell their version of stories (Tang Yulin jiaozheng 唐語林校證, 2.147).

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72.  Huntington and Metcalf (1979); Oexle (1994, 292–323), and Feuchtwang (2010, 281–298) are three seminal studies on rituals (such as the production of muzhiming) and the construction of memory. 73.  Jens Brockmeier (2001, 247–280) discusses the intentionality of the life story by or regarding an individual. Donald Polkinghorne (2005, 9) examines how narratives rationalize through elaborating, exaggerating, flattening, or omitting details to produce a coherent and meaningful representation. 74.  The usefulness of appropriating anthropological methodologies, in this case, Clifford Geertz’s (1973, 1983), for historical studies has its limitations. Roger Chartier (1985) points out the dangers of basing historical analysis in reading as text that has already been textualized in a scalding criticism of Robert Darnton’s The Great Cat Massacre and Other Episodes in French Cultural History (1984). Elizabeth Clark (2004, 153–55) vividly describes the verbal sparring between Chartier and Darnton on this issue. 75.  Marc Steinberg (1999, 736–780) most succinctly explains the nature and boundaries of a discursive field as it applies to memory studies, namely, that even though one can selectively punctuate and encode past events while constructing memory, the interpretations of the outcome still depend on the representational contest between oneself and other actors. The production of “meaning,” therefore, is a dialectic process between actors. 76.  For short introductions to microhistory and its shortcomings, see Levi 1992; Burke 2004, 44–47; Clark 2004, 75–79.

Chapter 1: The Rise and Normalization of Familial Joint-Burial   1.  For Wei Xun’s and Madame Wen’s muzhiming, see “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Wei, the Late Grand Master of Court Discussion, Prefect of Mingzhou Commissioned with Extraordinary Powers and Carried the Rank of Prefect of Mingzhou, Supreme Pillar of State, and Granted the Fish Sachet with Red [Ribbons] of the Tang” 唐故朝議郎使持節明 州諸軍事守明州刺史上柱國賜緋魚韋府君墓誌銘并序, QTWBY, 8.162–163; and “Muzhi of Madame Wen of Taiyuan, Wife of Master Wei, Late Prefect of Mingzhou and Vice Censorin-chief of the Great Tang” 大唐故明州刺史御史中丞韋公夫人太原溫氏之墓誌, QTWBY, 8.172–173. Today, Mingzhou consisted of the Ningbo 寧波 city and its surrounding areas in Zhejiang 浙江 and Jiangsu 江蘇 Provinces.   2.  Distance in this work is the shortest between two locations via the modern highway, according to Google Maps. For this itinerary, it was easier to travel by boat, taking advantage of the extensive canal system during the late medieval period.   3.  Today, Changzhou is Changzhou 常州 city in Jiangsu Province. It is by the Great Canal.   4. “Muzhi of Madame Wen, Wife of Master Wei,” QTWBY, 8.173: 大江之中, 橫波柱天. 孑然一身, 更無近親. 截流忘生, 下道累日. 啟中丞之先世, 三棺並歸. 江山萬里, 幾欲幾死. 行路之 人, 聞者悲嘆.  5.  Liji, 8.279.  6.  Er’ya, 2.60; Shuowen, 1A.28. The fu-rite here should not be confused with the classical hun-summoning rite (fu 復) that shares the same pronunciation but uses a different fu character.   7. Archaeologist Han Guohe (1999, 245–247) terms the lineal burial as the lineal graves (zufenmu 族坟墓). For the development of zhaomu system and its connections to kindred laws and marriage practices in early China, see Li Hengmei 1996.  8.  Liji, 8.279.   9.  The sons born to a concubine were recognized as those of the wife. They were illegitimate only in the sense that they could not inherit the noble title or conduct sacrifices in the ancestral temple.



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 10. Zhouli, 22.667.  11. Liji, 49.1584.  12. Zhouli, 22.667. The arrangement of the royal cemetery anticipates the practice of peizang 陪葬 or pei-burial (“to accompany in burial”) that emerged during the Three Kingdoms period. In this practice, a monarch’s most beloved family members, trusted confidants, meritorious civil officials, or military commanders were interred in the enclosed funerary park of his mausoleum. The pei-burial is a way for the medieval monarch to express his personal affection or appreciation. For detailed discussions, see Xu Jijun 1998, 260, 392–94; Ma Yongying 2012.  13. Zhouli, 22.671–672.  14. The term jiuying 舊塋 first appears in the biography of Ma Guang 馬光 (d. 94) in the Dongguan Hanji, 12.439–440; the term guying 故塋 in the “Stele Inscription of the Gentleman of the Interior Ma Jiang (d. 153)” 郎中馬江碑 completed in 160; and the term xianying 先塋 in the “Stele of Liu Zhen’nan” 劉鎮南碑 composed in 228. Han Guohe (1999, 245–247) refers to the location of familial joint-burial as the “extended family graveyard” (jiazumu 家族墓地).   15.  For a thorough treatment of this development, see Huang Xiaofeng 1996; Wu Hung 2010, 20–34.   16.  The tombs of Marquis Li Cang 利蒼 (d. 186), his wife, and their son at Mawangdui 馬王堆 in Changsha 長沙 are good examples of Western Han timber-casket graves; see the initial excavation report released by Zhongguo Kexueyuan Kaogu Yanjiusuo (1972) and the latest scholarship by Chen Jianming (2013).  17. Liji, 8.288–290. Li Rusen (2003, 68–69, 75–97, 232–270) offers a useful introduction of the so-called guan-guo 棺椁 system in the classical and Han periods.   18.  Wu Hung 2010, 33.   19.  For reviews of different styles of chamber graves and the transition from timber casket graves to chamber graves, see Xu Jijun 1998, 222–232; Li Rusen 2003, 271–440.   20.  Wu Hung 2010, 33.   21.  Qi Dongfang 2006, 46–50.   22.  K. E. Brashier (2014, 294) cautions that aside from tomb architecture and the relative positioning of the grave, the cost, decoration, material, size, and amount of grave goods also helped to establish the commemorative hierarchy in a family cemetery. Cheng Yi 程义 (2012, 254–263) discusses the seminal scholarship on medieval family cemeteries, including that of Xu Pingfang 徐苹方, Han Guohe 韩国河, Li Weiran 李蔚然, Su Bai 宿白, Ma Zhongli 馬忠理, Shen Ruiwen 沈睿文, and Liu Kewei 劉可維. He also notes that the spatial arrangements were more varied in the Tang dynasty. For geomantic practices, on the Han dynasty, see Zhang Qiming 2007; on early medieval China, see Li Weiran 1983, Zhang Qiming 2008; on the Tang dynasty, see Cheng Yi 2012, 261–263. Chapter 3 deals with the geomantic practices in detail.   23.  Brashier 2014, 293–294.   24.  Qi Dongfang 2006, 46–50.  25. HHS, 10.448; Hou Hanji 後漢紀, 24.678–79. The families of Deng Zhi 鄧騭 (d. 121; HHS, 16.612–17), Ma Yuan 馬援 (d. 49; HHS, 24.827–50), and Wen Xu 溫序 (d. 30; HHS, 81.2672–73) were also said to have their own cemeteries, though the details about these did not survive.  26. SJZ, 23.414. The official biographies of Cao Teng and Cao Song (HHS, 78.2519) as well as Cao Cao (WS, 1.1–55) identify them as men of Qiao. Cao Pei’s official biography states that he was born in Qiao (WS, 2.57).   27.  Cao Cao instructed that his mausoleum be built in the western suburb of Yecheng 鄴城, in Hebei Province today (Quan Sanguo wen, 3.1068b). Cao Pi selected Mt. Shouyang 首 陽, northwest of Luoyang (WS, 2.86) and his son Cao Rui’s 曹叡 (r. 226–239) Mt. Dashi 大石, south of Luoyang (WS, 3.114, 4.123). Scholars have been debating whether a tomb

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discovered near Anyang in 2009 belongs to Cao Cao. Zhao Ling (2011) discusses the current opinions. For Cao Pi’s ancestral sacrifices at the family cemetery see WS, 2.61; SJZ, 23.414; Song shu, 16.445. Cao Xiu 曹休 (d. 228), Cao Pi’s cousin, reportedly buried his mother’s remains there (WS, 9.278).   28.  Wang Yuqing (1961) pens the archaeological report. Wang Zhongshu (1963) offers a detailed study of this cemetery. Li Rusen (1996b, 19–20; 225–226) briefly discusses this and two similar cases. Han Guohe (1999, 251–254) offers additional examples of recently excavated familial joint-burials.  29. The Hou Han shu collects the biographies of Yang Zhen (54.1759–69), Yang Bing (54.1769–75), Yang Ci (54.1775–85), Yang Biao (54.1786–89), and Yang Biao’s son Yang Xiu 楊修 (54.1789–90). Quan Hou Han wen collects the works of Yang Zhen (51.753a–754a), Yang Bing (51.754a–755a), Yang Ci (51.755a–756b), Yang Qi 奇 (51.756b) (who was Yang Zhen’s greatgrandson), Yang Biao (51.756b–757a), and Yang Xiu (51.757a–758b). It also collects the texts of the commemorative steles for Yang Zhen (102.1023a–1023b), Yang Tong (101.1016a–1016b), Yang Zhu (101.1018b); the inscriptions themselves survive only in rubbings made during the Qing dynasty. Yang Fu 楊馥 could be the unidentified subject of the commemorative stele preserved in rubbing along with the other three (103.1026a–1026b). Although the personal name of Master Yang (d. 174) is illegible in the rubbing, he is hypothesized to be a younger son of Yang Mu and a magistrate of Fanyang 繁陽. Yang Bing was the only prime minister in the family who was buried in the mausoleum park of Emperor Huan rather than the family cemetery.   30.  Brashier (2014, 2) argues that “the complexity of detail that individuates a person taxes human memory’s limited capacity,” therefore “postmortem remembrance was a process of pouring new ancestors into prefabricated modes.” He further argues that the identity of the deceased could only perpetuate when being woven “into the “preexisting infrastructure, using both tangible tools and intangible tools” (3). However, the evidence from the Eastern Han chamber tombs and family cemeteries does not support his view, as Pirazzoli-t’Serstevens (2009, 953) also observed without going into details. These Eastern Han tombs and family cemeteries represent an emerging culture of remembrance that was quite different from what Brashier so eloquently describes.   31.  Yu Weichao (1985, 23–27) is the first to point out that growing land privatization is the most important reason for the rise of fu-burial. Mark Edward Lewis (2007, 22–23) notes that, by the end of the Western Han, the emperors could no longer command powerful families to give up their ancestral cemeteries and move to where the imperial mausoleums were in the capital region.   32.  For a brief overview of Han census and household register system, see Twitchett 1986, 483–484. For recent monographs, see Yang Jiping 2007; Song Changbin 2016.   33.  For useful overviews of the Han taxation system, see Twitchett and Loewe 1986, 595–601; Li Jiannong 1990, 1:238–259; for poll tax, see Liang Xianming 1991; Lewis 2007, 66; Zang Zhifei 2017a; for most recent scholarship on the field tax, see Zang Zhifei 2017b.   34.  For detailed studies of household division and family structure in the Han, see Lo Tung-hwa 1993b; Tu Cheng-sheng 2005, 17–28; Wang Yanhui 2006; Yan Aimin 2005, 265–293. Song Changbin (2008, 111–122) covers the historical development between Eastern Han and the end of the late medieval period, during which people moved away from dividing households to multigeneration cohabitation.   35.  Lo Tung-hwa 1993a.   36.  For changes in taxation during Emperor Wu’s reign, see Twitchett and Loewe 1986, 160–161. For specifics on the property tax and the rise of local elites and manorialism, see Lewis 2007, 69–70, 111, 115–127; Du Qingyu 2010; Wang Yanhui 2012; Zang Zhifei 2019.   37.  As Tu Cheng-sheng (2007, 12) insightfully points out, “household” is a legal term and “family” is a social concept; they did not necessarily overlap when applying to how people organized themselves.



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  38.  Liu Min 2005; Wang Yanhui 2006; Pan Jianfeng and Tang Yanming 2015.   39.  Zhu Shaohou 1963, 36–40; Tu Cheng-sheng 2005, 23–28. For examples, see the official biographies of Zhang Kan 張堪 and Fan Hong 樊宏 (HHS, 31.1100–1101; 32.1119–1122).   40.  Grafflin 1981; Tang Zhangru 1983, 2–78, 1993, 42–52; Mao Han-Kuang 1990; Lewis 2007, 30–31, 115–127.  41. TPYL, 411.2024.   42.  Seminal studies in English include Yü 1987; Brashier 1996; Lo Yuet Keung 2008.  43. Liji, 47.1545–1547: 氣也者, 神之盛也; 魄也者, 鬼之盛也. 合鬼與神教之至也. 眾生必死, 死必歸土: 此之謂鬼. 骨肉斃於下, 陰為野土; 其氣發揚于上, 為昭明, 焄蒿凄愴, 此百物之精也, 神 之著也.  44. Ibid., 21.781–787.  45. Ibid., 26.953: 魂氣歸于天, 形魄歸于地. 故祭, 求諸陰陽之義也.  46. Gongyangzhuan, 13.322–324.   47.  The procedure of the yu-sacrifices is laid out in the Yili, 42.917–43.959.  48. Yili, 40.883–884.   49.  For the anecdote, see Liji,10.366: 骨肉歸復于土, 命也, 若魂氣則無不之也, 無不之也. The anecdote is important to understanding spousal joint-burial and hun-summoning burial and will be explored further in chapters treating these topics.  50. Ibid., 9.318–320.  51. Lunheng, “Speaking of the Dead” (lunsi 論死), 20.871–883; “False (Beliefs about) the Dead” (siwei 死偽), 21.885–908; and “Defining Ghost” (ding’gui 訂鬼), 23.931–947. For a thorough review of the concept of ghost in early China, see Poo 2004; in early medieval China, see Campany 1991.  52. Lunheng, 23.931–947.  53. Ibid., 20.871.  54. Ibid., 23.961.  55. Ibid., 23.71–72: 孔子曰: “身體髮膚, 受之父母, 弗敢毀傷.” 孝者怕入刑辟, 刻畫身體, 毀 傷髮膚, 少德泊行, 不戒慎之所致也. 愧負刑辱, 深自刻責, 故不升墓祀於先.  56. Ibid., 23.71: 宅與墓何別? Mark Lewis (2007, 189–190) links this particular view to the shift from timber-casket graves to chamber graves.  57. Lunheng, 23.72: 古禮廟祭, 今俗墓祀, 故不升墓, 慚負先人. The practice of gravesite sacrifice that Wang Chong identified as a new custom would be controversial for centuries to come and is discussed in detail below.  58. Lunheng, 23.72: 墓者, 鬼神所在, 祭祀之處. 祭祀之禮, 齊戒潔清, 重之至也. 今已被刑, 刑殘 之人, 不宜與祭供侍先人, . . . 緣先祖之意, 見子孫被刑, 惻怛憯傷, 恐其臨祀, 不忍歆享, 故不上墓.   59.  “Speaking of the Dead” (Lunheng, 20.871–883) is dedicated to dispelling this belief. Paul Goldin (2015, 81–82) includes Wang Chong’s doubts about the existence of ghosts in a thorough review of Chinese texts that discuss whether “the dead have consciousness.” However, it is difficult to conclude that Wang Chong denied the existence of ghosts when the statements cited suggest otherwise.   60.  These documents are well studied by scholars (see, for example, Ikeda 1981; Kleeman 1984; Seidal 1987; Li Rusen 2003; Nikerson 2006; Bai Bin 2010; Poo 2009; Xu Fei 2011a, 2011b; Lu Xiqi 2014; Davis 2015; Huang Jingchun 2016). The practice took on a more elaborated form in late medieval period (see Morgan 1996).   61.  Lewis 2007, 192–195; Pirazzoli-t’Serstevens 2009, 971–972.   62.  For Wang Chong’s comment, see note 55. See “Han guanyi” 漢官儀 in Han guan liuzhong 漢官六種, 181, for the comments of Cai Yong and Ying Shao. Cao Pi maintained that “the ancients did not have the rite of gravesite sacrifices” 古無墓祭之禮. He further decreed that “(all sacrifices) are to take place in the ancestral temples” 皆設於廟 and that there should be no hall of repose or funerary park at his father’s and his own mausoleums (JS 20.633–634).

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  63.  Ma Xin 2014; Mao Guoming 2016, 1–3; Wei Zhen 2019.  64. Zhouli, 19.586–87; Liji, 9.318. Liu Jie (2009, 92–93) discusses these sources.   65.  Li Rusen 2003, 60–64. The Shiji (47.1945) states that following the death of Confucius, many of his disciples and people from Lu relocated to be near his grave. They sacrificed to him every season for generations.  66. Liji, 10, 350–51, 19.710–711. In the latter case, when the legitimate son is away, a younger or illegitimate son could conduct the ancestral sacrifices, not inside the ancestral temple, but where the grave is in view (wangmu 望墓). When the legitimate son died, the illegitimate son reported it to the ancestors at the grave and carried on the sacrifices at home. Under no circumstance could an illegitimate son perform sacrifices inside the ancestral temple.   67.  Li Rusen 2003, 60; Xu Jijun 1998, 167–168.  68. For the standard design and layout of Han imperial mausoleums, see Xu Jijun 1998, 253–257. For a history of the hall of repose (lingqin 陵寢) at mausoleums, see Yang Kuan 2003.  69. Xi-Han huiyao, 13.1a–1b.   70.  Ma Xin 2014; Mao Guomin 2016, 1–3; Wei Zhen 2019.   71.  von Falkenhausen 1994; Hung Wu 2010, especially 32, 38–47, 63–68. The new architectural development resulted from the popularization of chamber-tombs also introduces the in-tomb platform before which the sacrifices were set out for the deceased, see Hu Xuezhu 2017.  72. Liji, 12.448–451.  73. Ibid.   74.  Multiple texts reported this incident. Xi-Han huiyao (13.1a–7b) preserves the opinions regarding ancestral sacrifices at imperial ancestral temples and mausoleums, including Kuang Heng’s petitions to the former emperors’ spirits. For Kuang Heng’s official biography, see Han shu, 81.3331–3347.   75.  For details on Liu Xiu’s dilemma and court debates regarding the establishment of ancestral temples, see HHS, 99.3193. Zhang Lizhi (2008) chronicles and analyzes this political development.   76.  Only three of fourteen Eastern Han emperors were succeeded by their firstborn son; eight were succeeded by their cousins.  77. Han guan liuzhong, 182; Han shu, 73.3115–3116; HHS, 94.3103–3104, 99.3196–3200. Xu Jijun (1998, 250–259) outlines the historical development of the imperial mausoleum complex with a hall of repose, mausoleum temple and funerary park, and regular sacrifices took place there.  78. For Cao Cao’s last command, see WS, 1.53; Song shu 15.404; Quan Sanguo wen, 3.1066a. For Cao Pi’s last command, see WS, 2.81–82; Song shu 15.404–405; Quan Sanguo wen, 8.1099a–1099b; JS, 20.633–634.  79. TD, 52.1446.   80.  For the opinions on soul-summoning burial presented during the debate, see TD, 103.2701–04. For the decree banning the practice, see JS, 6.150; TD, 103.2701; Quan Sanguo wen, 8.1507a. For further analyses, see Bokenkamp 2007, 60–94; chapter 4, this volume.  81. THY, 21.405–406; QTW, 271.2756–2757; XTS, 14.362–364, 199.5669–5670: 禮以人情為 之沿革, 何專古而泥所聞.  82. JTS, 25.945–949; XTS, 13.339–340.   83.  Regarding Emperor Xuanzong’s inferior claim, see Emperor Rang’s 讓皇帝 official biographies (JTS, 95.3009–3010; XTS, 81.3596–3597).  84. THY, 23.439; TD, 52.1451: 寒食上墓, 禮經無文, 近代相傳, 浸以成俗, 士庶有不合廟享, 何以用展孝思? 宜許上墓同拜掃.   85.  For more detail, see Egawa 2010, 35–38.



Notes to Pages 44–51

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  86.  Egawa 2010, 41–43.  87. Kaiyuan li, 78.358–359.  88. Tang liudian, 2.35; THY, 23.439–440, 61.1065, 82.1518. For further discussion, see Egawa 2010, 38–41; Ma Rongliang 2019.  89. “Muzhiming with Preface of the Deceased Eldest Daughter of Master Wei 唐韋君故 長女墓誌銘,” QTWBY, 5.359: 大漸之際, 猶有遺言, 所寄之心, 不逾孝道: 兒歿之後, 望就先塋, 祖 母恩慈, 尚未能報. 再三回顧, 更欲申情, 情未盡申, 氣即將奄.  90. “Muzhiming with Preface of Lady Wei, the Commandery Countess of Fuyang and Wife of Master Yang, Late Director of Merit Award of the Great Tang” 大唐故司勛郎中楊府 君夫人韋氏扶陽郡君墓誌銘並序, TMHX, Jingyun 006: 以為孝實天經, 哀纏風樹. 生不遂於廬墓, 死願於窀穸.  91. Liji (45.1481–82) specifies the style and location of the thatched hut (yilu 倚廬) for men of different statuses within the family and social ranks. Liji (56.1791–92) elucidates the rationale: “One stays in a thatched hut for grieving one’s parents being outside [the family home]; One sleeps on a rash mat and rests the head on a block for grieving that one’s parents are in the ground” 居於倚廬, 哀親之在外也; 寢苫枕塊, 哀親之在土也. Huang Ling (2009) offers a brief survey of the practice.  92. Liji, 44.1484: 婦人不居廬, 不寢苫.  93. JTS, 193.5143; XTS, 205.5819. Interestingly, although Madame Xiaohou divorced her husband, she was identified as her ex-husband’s wife in the heading.   94.  For further discussion, see chapter 2.   95.  Tu Cheng-sheng 2014.   96.  Cao Duanbo 2008.   97.  Lai Rui-he 2004, 139–376.   98.  For travels and relocations of Tang officials and their families, see Kan Huai-chen 1994; Hu Yun-wei 2004; Li Hao 2005; Xu Rihui and Lin Wenfei 2011; Wu Bochang 2018. For the system of avoidance, see Cao Wanru 2016, 9–49.   99.  Having a separate household and property was punishable by three years of penal servitude (TLSY, Article 155, 12.936–38; Moriya 1968; Lei Qiaoling 1993; Zhang Guogang 2005, 2014). 100.  Hu Yunwei 2004; Li Hao 2005; Wu Bochang 2018. 101.  The term guizang appears only once in the Classics of Rites. However, it refers to the return of a bride’s remains to her natal family after she had died between the wedding and presentation to her husband’s ancestors; see Liji, 18.683–684. Wu Liyu (2014) studies Tang officials’ practice of burial repatriation. Pei Hengtao (2011) and Mu Heyi (2014) discuss the familial, regional, and state identities of late medieval elites by examining the practice of burial repatriation. 102. “Muzhiming with Preface of Lady Liu, Late District Viscountess of Pengcheng of the Tang” 唐故彭城縣君劉氏墓誌銘並序, QTWBY, 2:21: 長號朔垂, 追痛修夜. 藐藐童乳, 呱呱瘡 巨, 無母何怙? 無室何依？彼蒼者天, 胡寧忍予? 103.  QTWBY, 2.21: 歷殯所任, 後克同歸. The character 殯 (bin) is more literally the encoffined body of the deceased awaiting burial. Shuowen jiezi zhu, 163. 104. Ibid.: 操筆氣索, 同穴為期. 105. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Wei of the Capital, Late Titular Mentor of Prince Yi carrying the rank of the Grand Master for Proper Consultation, Supreme Pillar of State, District Viscount of the Fengming, granted the Fish Sachet with Purple and Gold [Ribbons], of the Great Tang” 大唐故正議大夫行儀王傅上柱國奉明縣開國男賜紫金魚帶京兆韋府君墓誌 銘并序, QTWBY, 2.25–27. Wei Ji had a distinguished career as a government minister, which is outlined in his muzhiming, and official biographies (JTS, 88.2874; XTS, 116.4234). 106.  Scholars have reached no consensus as to what exactly a “low canopy” (xiazhang 下帳) might be (see Cheng Yi 2011; Cheng Mingqian 2018).

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107.  JTS, 8.174: 自古帝王皆以厚葬為誡, 以其無益亡者, 有損生業故也. 近代以來, 共行奢靡, 遞相仿效, 浸成風俗, 既竭家產, 多至凋弊. 然則魂魄歸天, 明精誠之已遠; 卜宅於地, 蓋思慕之所 存. 古者不封, 未為非達. 且墓為真宅, 自便有房. 今乃別造田園, 名為下帳, 又冥器等物, 皆競驕侈. 失禮違令, 殊非所宜; 戮屍暴骸, 實由於此. 承前雖有約束, 所司曾不申明, 喪葬之家, 無所依准. 宜 令所司據品令高下, 明為節制: 冥器等物, 仍定色數及長短大小; 園宅下帳, 並宜禁絕; 墳墓塋域, 務遵簡儉; 凡諸送終之具, 並不得以金銀為飾. 如有違者, 先決杖一百. 州縣長官不能舉察, 並貶授 遠官. See also QTW, 21.245–2; CFYG, 159.1923–1. 108.  THY, 18.693–98. Multiple edicts on the same subject were issued between then and the end of the dynasty. 109. “Muzhiming with Preface of Lady Dugu of Longxi, District Viscountess of Henai, Wife of Master Chen, Late Administrator of the Revenue Section of the Henan Garrison of the Great Tang” 大唐故河南府戶曹參軍陳府君夫人河內縣君隴西獨孤氏墓誌銘並序, TMH, 2: Yuanhe 031: 生亦極養, 歿亦崇葬, 貼賣求財, 以充凶事. 110. “Joint-Burial Muzhiming with Preface of Master Zhang of Qinghe, Late Probationary Administrator of the Military Section of the Command of the Military Guard of the Left of the Great Tang and Wife Madame Wang of Langye” 大唐故試左武衛率府兵曹參軍清 河張府君夫人琅琊王氏合祔墓誌銘並序, TMH, 2: Zhenyuan 138: 罄竭家資, 哀禮合儀. 111.  THY, 38: 習以為常, 不敢自廢. 112.  For discussion on the most common sources of funds for burial repatriation and government stipulations on subsidies, respectively, see Liu Xianwei 2010, 31–38; Wu Liyu 2014, 27–32. 113. “Muzhiming of Master Pei of Hedong, Late Probationary Assistant Minister of the Court of Judicial Review and concurrently District Magistrate of Gaocheng of the Henan Garrison of the Great Tang” 大唐故試大理正兼河南府告成縣令河東裴公墓誌銘, QTWBY, 6.463: 資產荒蕪, 門風清苦, 所為殮服喪祭, 恭儉而成. 114. Ibid., 從其便也, 蓋欲歸于秦焉. 115. “Muzhiming with Preface of the Late Madame Yin of Tian[shui] of the [Great] Tang” □唐故天□□夫人墓誌銘并序. TMH, 2: Yuanhe 051: 地遠家貧, 歸葬未剋. 116. “Muzhiming with Preface of Lady Yang, District Viscountess of Hongnong and Wife of Master Xi, Late Assistant in the Palace Library of the Great Tang” 大唐故秘書郎席府 君夫人弘農縣君楊氏墓誌銘並序, TMHX, Dali 023: 時當天下洶洶, 人不敢護骨肉, 茹菜偷生, 投 莽藏形, 而能設位張幕, 布奠靈帳. 以哀忘食, 以慼□□, 古今所稀有也. 而由采檟沐槨, 藝麻為縗, 夙夜脩備, 哀儀無缺. 迨孽殄路通, 靈轜□□，□榛軌險, 自虢達洛, 葬於龍門山之北趾, 遵遺言也. Not much is known about Cui Zhuo other than that the highest office he occupied was Prefect of Songzhou 宋州 during the Dazhong era 大中 (847–869); see QTW, 759.7880–7882. 117.  Du Nian most likely traveled the same route as Madame Wen Yuan 溫瑗 (see map 2). 118. “Muzhiming with Preface of Young Master Du, Late Prefecture Nominee for the Jinshi Examination of the Tang” 唐故鄉貢進士杜君墓誌銘并序, QTWBYX, 362: 力羸至苦, 行 哭兩千里 and 以子之行可稱, 志甚和, 志甚遠, 宜乎永世有立, 竟無祿無需亦無後, 天道豈有知乎? 士林鄉曲, 皆為之出涕. 119. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Zheng of Yingyang, Wife of Lü, Late Assistant Magistrate of Yuancheng District in Weizhou of the Tang” 唐故魏州元城縣主簿盧府君 夫人縈陽鄭氏墓誌銘並序, QTWBYX, 381–382. 120.  It was not unusual for laypeople to die in a Buddhist or Daoist monastery (for a discussion of the causes, see Chen Yanling 2008). 121.  Not resigning was a misdemeanor that carried a prison sentence of two and a half years; see TLSY, 25.1755–1758, Article 383. Lo Tong-hwa (2012) examines specific Tang regulations. Lu Wanghui later became the Prefect of Haozhou (haozhou cishi 濠州刺史). He died in 868 when the rebel Pang Xun 龐勛 (d. 869) sacked the prefectural seat (see JTS, 19.766; XTS, 9.261). No additional information on the other two brothers is known.



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122.  For Cui Xuan’s official biographies, see JTS, 165.4262–4263; XTS, 160.4974–4975. 123. Cui Hang’s official biographies were brief and attached to his father’s (see JTS, 165.4262–4263; XTS, 160.4974–4975). 124. “Muzhiming with Preface to Master Li, of Longxi, Late Defender of Xichun District in Yuanzhou of the Great Tang” 大唐故袁州宜春縣尉隴西李府君墓誌銘並序, TMH, 2: Changqing 008: 冀望親知之救. 125. Ibid.: 行路聞之, 猶且嗟嘆, 況親愛之心乎? 126. Ibid.: 中朝公卿, 皆知至屈. 127. Cui Youfu’s illustrious career is recounted in his biographies (JTS, 119.3437– 3441; XTS, 142.4666–4668), and his muzhiming, “Muzhiming with Preface of Lord Cui of Boling, Vice Minister of the Secretariat, and Jointly Appointed Minister of the Secretariat and Chancellery, State-Founding District Viscount of the Changshan, and posthumously conferred Grand Mentor of the Tang” 有唐中書侍郎同中書門下平章事常山縣開國 子贈太傅博陵崔公墓誌銘並序, QTWBY, 4.62–64. Cheng Ya-ru (2014) briefly discusses the case. 128.  I reconstruct this massive and laborious fu-burial from the muzhiming of Cui Youfu’s grandfather Cui Ai 崔皚 (QTWBY, 3.115–117), First District Baron of Anping; his grandmother Wang Yuan 王媛 (QTWBY, 3.117–118), the District Viscountess of Anping 安平縣君; his uncle’s wife, Madame Yü Fan’er 虞梵兒 (QTWBY, 1.108); his father, Cui Mian 崔沔 (QTW, 338.3426a–3429a; QTWBY, 3.113), Vice Director of the Left of the Department of State Affairs; his mother, Wang Fangda 王方大 (QTWBY, 3.95–96), Dowager Commandery Duchess of Taiyuan 太原郡太夫人; his first cousin Cui Zhongfu 崔眾甫 (QTWBY, 1.205–206; TMH, 2. Canzhi 058), Second District Baron of Anping; Zhongfu’s second wife, Li Jin 李金 (QTWBY, 4.139–140), District Viscountess of Longxi 隴西縣君; his first cousin Cui Yifu 崔夷 甫, Magistrate of the Wei District of Wei Commandery 魏郡魏縣令, and his wife Madame Li Xiaoxian 李喬仙 (QTWBY, 3.96–97); Youfu himself; and his nephew Cui Qichen 契臣 (QTWBY, 2.571), Literature Instructor of the Heir Apparent 太子文學 and Senior Aide of Ruzhou Prefecture 汝州長史. 129.  For information on the rise of the Anping house specifically or the Boling Cuis in general, see Ebrey 1978, 34–49; Zheng Fang 2009; Lu Xuejun 2011, 54–55. 130.  For Cui Mian’s 崔沔 official biographies, see JTS, 188.4927–4931; XTS, 129.4475–4478. 131. “Muzhi of Lord Cui, Grand Master for the Closing Court, in keeping the Rank of Aide of Ruzhou Prefecture, Superior Pillar of the State, the State-Founding District Baron of the Anping, and Bestowed Vice Minister of the Court of Imperial Regalia of the Tang” 有唐朝散大夫守汝州長史上柱國安平縣開國男贈衛尉少卿崔公墓誌, TMH, 2: Dali 062: 初安平 公之曾祖涼州刺史, 自河朔違葛榮之難仕西魏, 入宇文周. 自涼州以降, 二代葬於京兆咸陽北原. 安平公之仕也, 屬乘輿多在洛陽, 故家復東徙. 神龍之艱也, 御史僕射以先妣安平郡夫人有羸老之 疾, 事迫家窶, 是以有邙山之權兆. 自后繼代, 家於瀍洛. 及安平公之曾孫也, 為四葉焉. 況屬兵興, 道路多故, 今之不克西遷也, 亞於事周之不諧北葬. 通人曰: “禮非從天降, 非從地出, 人情而已 矣.” 此不用情, 又惡乎用情! For the relocations of Cui Youfu’s family between sixth and ninth centuries, see Ebrey 1978, 96–99; Wang Jingtao 2011; Lu Xuejun 2011; Cheng Ya-ju 2014. 132.  QTW, 409.4190a-b: 祐甫天倫十人, 身處其季, 夙遭險釁, 幾不聞存沒, 左右提攜, 仰於兄 姊. 頃屬中夏覆沒, 舉家南遷, 內外相從, 百有餘口. 長兄宰豐城, 間歲遭罹不淑. 仲姊寓吉郡, 周年 繼以鞠凶. 呱呱孤甥, 斬焉在疚. 宗兄著作, 自蜀來吳, 萬里歸復. 羈孤之日, 斯所依焉. 豈期積善之 人, 昊天不弔? 門緒淪替, 山頹梁折. 今茲夏末, 宗兄辭代. 顧眇眇之身, 巋然獨在. 寡弱嬰孺, 前悲 後泣. 一門之中, 髮首相弔. 133. Cui Zhi had official biographies (JTS, 119.3441–3443; XTS, 142.4468–4470). We know Cui Yingfu was a half brother because he was not among the children of Cui Youfu’s mother listed in her muzhiming (TMH, 2: Dali 061). 134.  Wu Liyu 2006.

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135.  For the official biographies of Chang Gun, see JTS, 119.3445–3447; XTS, 150.4809–10. David McMullen (1999, 170) discusses the debates over the death rites of Emperor Daizong. 136.  For the third rank and above, see Kaiyuan li, 141.674–677; for the fourth and fifth ranks, 145.697–700; and for the sixth rank and below, 149.717–720. For details, see also Egawa 2013. 137.  Kaiyuan li, 149.719–720: 維年月朔日, 子孝子某, 敢昭告於考某官封諡/妣云某氏, 改遷幽 宅, 禮極終虞, 攀號永逺, 無所逮及, 謹以潔牲剛鬛嘉薦普淖明齊溲酒, 薦虞事於考某官封諡, 尚 饗. 138.  THY, 41.739: 先經流貶罪人, 歿于貶所. 有情非惡逆, 任經刑部陳牒許歸葬, 絕遠之處, 仍 量事給棺槥. 139.  Pei Hengtao (2012) examines the implementation of the ritual code and regulations regarding burial. 140. See JTS, 174.4509–4530; XTS, 180.5327–5344. Generations of scholars have analyzed every aspect of this bitter political struggle that crippled the dynasty. For a useful English overview of the Niu-Li factional strife, see Twitchett and Fairbank 1979, 639–654. For a more thorough treatment on the subject, see Wang Yanping 2018. 141.  See Chen Yinke 1980, 9–56; Fu Hsüan-ts’ung 1984, 537–540. 142. See Dongguan zouji 東觀奏記, middle fascicle, 114; XTS, 180.5341. 143. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Liu of Pengcheng, Rarified Master of the Great Cavern, at Yandong Abby on Mount Mao of the Tang” 唐茅山燕洞宮大洞煉師彭城劉 氏墓誌銘並序, QTWBY, 1:353–354; “Muzhi with Elegy of Madame Zheng of Yingyang, Deceased Wife of Li Ye of Zhao Commandery of the Great Tang” 大唐趙郡李燁亡妻滎陽鄭 氏墓誌並銘, TMH, 2: Dazhong 157; and “Muzhiming with Preface of Gentleman Li of Zhao Commandery, the Late District Defender of Chen of the Tang” 唐故彬縣尉趙郡李君墓誌銘 并序, TMH, 2: Xiantong 016. Scholars have debated whether Madame Liu was Li Deyu’s wife or concubine. I identify her as a concubine following the opinions of Chen Yinke (1980, 40) and Sun Guiping (1999). 144.  QTWBY, 1.353. 145.  Chen Yinke 1980, 30–32. Reportedly, Emperor Xiuanzong so disliked Li Deyu that his hair stood on end (maofa xianxi 毛髮洒淅) whenever the latter came near, see ZZTJ, 248.8023. 146.  QTWBY, 1.354: 崎嶇川陸, 備嘗險艱, 首涉三時, 途經萬里. 147. “Muzhi of Madame Zheng,” TMH, 2: Dazhong 157. 148.  XTS, 180.5344. 149. “Muzhiming with Preface of the Deceased Daughter of the Li Clan of Zhaojun of the Tang” 唐故趙郡李氏女墓誌銘並序, QTWBY, 1.410. 150.  TPGJ, 337.2674–2675: 若違吾言, 神道是殛. 151. “Muzhiming with Preface of Lord Yuan, Late Commissioner with Extraordinary Power of the Military in Suizhou and Prefect of Suizhou of the Tang” 唐故使持節隨州諸軍 事隨州刺史河南源公墓誌銘並序, QTWBY, 4.19: 吾位至方伯, 貴也; 年登八十, 壽也; 生死恆理, 復 何恨哉! 雖與爾有隔, 不能忘情, 但於地下得奉先人, 實為幸矣. 152. Ibid.: 此蓋達於命而不忘於孝也. 153. Ibid.: 神道遐通, 況非遠耳. 154. Tu Chung-cheng (2013, 12–20) briefly examines some typical depictions of the deathbed scene and the last words in muzhiming. 155. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Hong, Wife of the Late District Defender of Wu in Suzhou of the Tang” 唐故蘇州吳縣尉余府君洪氏夫人墓誌銘並序, QTWBY, 6.152: 昔 吾聞俚言, 人死固有地. 始甚不信, 且吾與爾家世居吳. 今病亟於洛, 夫命豈逃哉! 然我死必葬我 於洛北. 156. Ibid.: 恭承先命, 孝也.



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Chapter Two: Spousal Joint- and Disjoint-burials   1. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Wang” 王氏墓誌銘, QTWBYX, 388: 余父塚長 安中, 茍終, 願歸室於其側. 得冥路以養, 且無恨矣.   2. Ibid.: 可謂女子之行無缺矣. 然事有不可者. 有男日京奴, 女日伊奴. 慮他日施饗奠, 亡爾 之墳, 則人子之道得無恨耶?   3. Ibid.: 余昧憨且不能聲爾令名, 然旌爾德, 煥爾行, 當在子之京奴乎?   4. For representative works, see Lu Chien-lung 2006; Liu Liqing 2008; Wan Junjie 2010, 48–62; Jiao Jie 2019.    5.  For an example, see Duan Tali 2005.    6.  For examples, see Wu Liyu 2014; Xie Siwei 2014.   7. Liji, 8.279.   8. Liji, 6.198: 合葬, 非古也. 自周公以來, 未之有改也. 吾許其大而不許其細, 何居?   9. Ibid.: 自見夷人家墓以為寢, 欲文過.  10. Ibid.: 不肯服理, 是文飾其過.  11. Ibid., 7.228–229: 蓋三妃未之從也.  12. Ibid.: 季武子曰: 周公蓋祔.  13. Ibid.: 祔謂合葬. 合葬自周公以來.  14. Ibid., 7.228: 祔即合也. 言將後喪合前喪.  15. Ibid., 7.229.  16. Ibid., 6.205–206: 孔子少孤, 不知其墓, 殯於五父之衢. 人之見之者皆以為葬. 其慎也, 蓋 殯也. 問於郰曼父之母然後得合葬於防.  17. Ibid., 6.201–202.  18. Shiji, 47.1905–1907. Hou Wenxue (2015) examines the Shiji account against the Classics and other surviving sources. He argues that Yan Zheng did not marry Shulianghe, and she returned to her kin with Confucius after the latter died. He reasons, if Yan Zheng and Confucius had stayed with the Kongs as Shulianghe’s wife and heir, respectively, how could Shulianghe’s other children, who were much older than Confucius, had no knowledge of their father’s burial? (94–97).  19. Liji, 6.205.  20. HHS, 3.137–138; Loewe 1993, 347–356. The resulting Baihu tongyi 白虎通議, better known as Baihu tong 白虎通, collected forty-three discussions on a wide variety of themes. Baihu tong shuzheng, “Hezang,” 11.558: 合葬者何? 所以同夫妻之道也 and 穀則異室, 死則同穴.  21. “Daju” 大車 (Mao 73) in Maoshi, 4.314–320: 穀則異室, 死則同穴.  22. Shijing was circulated in four versions during the Western Han. Only the version written down by Mao Heng 毛亨 (d. 211 BCE) and his son Mao Chang 毛萇 (206 BCE–8 CE) was included in the Classics and survived.  23. TD, 103.2705: 聖人而不知其父死之與生, 生不求養, 死不奉祭, 斯不然矣. Wang Su was the most important classicist of his time. For his biography, see WS 63.1407–1413.  24. TD, 103.2705. For Cai Mo’s biography, see JS, 77.2033–204.  25. TD, 103.2706: 未生之前, 不可以逆責夫子也. 既長謁墓, 固以識其外矣. 但母不告其內, 義 無強請. 然祔葬宜詳, 是以問焉. 記但言不知其墓, 非都不知也. For Fan Xuan’s biography, see JS, 91.2030–2031.  26. TD, 103.2706: “孔子既得合葬於防,” 言’既得,’ 明未葬時未知墓處也. 雖仲由之言, 亦孔 子不知其墓. 若徵在見娉, 則當言墓以告, 孔子何得不知其墓? Zhang Rong refers to the passage regarding the grave’s tall mound in Liji (6.201). Zhongyou was Confucius’ disciple Zilu 子 路 (542–480 BCE). Zhang Rong’s biography is included in Nan Qi shu (41.721–730)  27. Kongzi jiayu, 39.92.   28.  On the authenticity of Kongzi jiayu, see Wang Yuhua 2009, 13.  29. Liji, 6.205–206.

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  30.  Hou Wenxue separately arrives at this conclusion by examining how Confucius mourned for and conducted the burial of his mother. He further argues that Confucius was widely criticized for honoring Yan Zheng with the rites that would ascribe her the identity of Shulianghe’s wedded wife (2015, 97–100).  31. JS, 40.1171–1172. Qi Dongfang (2006, 28) notes, given that both the terms hezang and fuzang appear in this account, the conceptual conflation persisted when it was composed.   32.  Shu Li (2012) further contextualized the constructed qualities of Lady Guo’s representations as a jealous wife in multiple primary sources (see also Davis 2015, 262–273). Wang Li (1999) provides a short and balanced account of Jia Nanfeng’s political rise and fall.  33. Liji, 69.1859: 欲治其國者, 先齊其家; 欲齊其家者, 先脩其身.   34.  The princess is remembered in XTS (83.3653) for her three marriages and controversial he-burial.   35.  The dynastic histories praise Wang Tongjiao’s unwavering loyalty and composure in the face of execution in his official biographies (see JTS, 187.4878–4879; XTS, 191.5507– 5508). For Wu Sansi’s official biographies, see JTS, 183.4734–4736; XTS, 5837–5842.   36.  The event is recounted in JTS, 51.2171–2175 and in XTS, 76.3486–3487.   37.  Cui Xi’s brief official biography is dominated by this controversy (XTS, 201.5735).   38.  Although Wang Yao has no official biography, both JTS and XTS offer many snippets of his life.   39.  Wan Junjie (2010, 164–175) surveys the burial arrangements of remarried women in medieval China and identifies similar cases in which the remarried women were buried with their former husband.  40. Yili, 29.642–643. For her husband, the primary wife wears the heaviest mourning (zhancui 斬衰) for three years.  41. TD, 54.2552: 我則為絕, 死不就汝家葬也.  42. Ibid.: 服之三年不來葬, 服之周而無所嫁. See Yili, 30.652–653, for the rule on mourning a stepmother and Yili 30.660–661, for the rule on mourning a remarried stepmother.  43. Ibid., 54.2553: 本有求還之計, 去誓不還葬之辭. 生則己不得養, 死則不與己父同穴, 就不 成嫁, 當為去母.  44. Ibid.: 繼母持服竟後乃去, 不得謂之為遣; 比之繼母嫁, 於情為安. Despite his renown, Yu Weizhi has no official biography.  45. Ibid., 54.2555: 而式以為出母, 此即何異子出其母?  46. Ibid.: 制服依禮, 葬畢乃還家, 積年方就前家子, 比之繼嫁, 不亦可乎?   47.  Wei Hui appears to be close to his half-brother Wang Yao. The circumstance of his wrongful death is recounted in the official biographies of his murderer, Wang Hong 王鉷 (see JTS, 105. 3230; XTS, 134. 4565–4566).  48. Yijue 義絕 is the legal term for automatic annulment when one spouse or his or her immediate blood relatives intentionally injure or kill the other spouse or his or her immediate blood relatives (see TLSY, 14.1055–1060, Article 189). See Yao Ping (2004, 123–133) for a short introduction on divorce in the Tang.  49. THY, 54.934: 則生存之時, 已與前夫義絕; 殂謝之日, 合從後夫禮葬. 今若依繇所請, 卻祔 舊姻, 恐魂而有知, 王皎不納於幽壤; 死而可作, 崔銑必訴於玄天. The memorial was also preserved in paraphrase and excerpts in multiple anthologies. But Xiahou Gua is only known to us because of his objection to this he-burial.  50. Ibid., 21.414; XTS, 83.3653, 201.5735. For additional information on the tombs accompanying Emperor Zhongzong’s mausoleum, Dingling 定陵, see Liu Xiangyang 2006, 165–169.  51. “Tang Xuan,” TPGJ, 332.2635–2637: 人死之後, 魂魄異處, 皆有所錄, 杳不關形骸也. 君 何不驗夢中, 安能記其身也. 兒亡之後, 都不記死時, 亦不知殯葬之處. 錢財奴婢, 君與則知, 至如形



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骸, 實總不管. For a brief introduction and translation of the tale, see Choo 2017. Chen Jo-Shui (2007, 243–272) examines the factual basis of this story in great depth.  52. “Tang Xuan,” TPGJ, 332.2635–2637: 晅曰: “同穴不遠矣.” 妻曰: “曾聞合葬之禮, 蓋同形 骸. 至精神, 實都不見. 何煩此言也.” 晅曰: “婦人沒地, 不亦有再適乎?” 答曰: “且兒亡, 堂上欲奪 兒志, 嫁與北庭都護鄭乾觀姪明遠. 兒誓誌確然, 上下矜閔, 得免.”   53.  For the articles of law on annulment and divorce, see TLSY, 14.1033–1075. Hsiang Shu-yun (1991, 113–149) and Jin Mei (2009) explicates the law and legal enforcement of rights. Liu Yanli (2007, 164–178) examines closely how these articles were applied in real life. Sun Lulu (2012) offers an in-depth study of amicable divorce. For seminal studies of templates of amicable divorce settlement found in Dunhuang, see Yang Jiping 1999; Liu Wensuo 2005.  54. “Muzhiming with Preface of Lady Wang of Langye, the late Commandery Countess of Yishui of the Great Tang” 大唐故沂水郡君琅耶王夫人墓誌銘并序, XSMZ, no. 255: 古不合 葬. 我死之後, 可卜閑地以安吾神, 尔其識之. Wan Junjie (2010) maintains that remarried women were often buried alone or with their most recent husband, their parents, or her former husband and their children. One must accept his categories with caution, for some burial arrangements in his samples are not mutually exclusive. Hu Na (2014) closely examines several cases of a daughter carrying out her parent’s funeral.   55.  The practice of posthumous marriage is well studied. Jiang Lin (2000) provides a concise history of the practice. Yao Ping (2002, 2003, 2004) and Huang Jingchun (2005, 2009) debate the rise and popularity of the practice. Yao Yanlin (2016) offers a useful review of recent scholarship in Chinese.  56. Zhouli, 14.431.  57. Ibid.: 生不以禮相接, 死而合之.  58. Contrary to Huang Jingchun’s (2005) claim, posthumous marriage was not required for adopting an heir.  59. Shiji, 49.1972.  60. Zuozhuan, 40.1291; Gongyangzhuan, 13.319–321; HHS, 10.441–442, 79.2580–2581.  61. Han shu, 35.2856–2857; HHS, 65.2857.   62.  Zheng Zhong is typically referred to as Zheng Sinong because he was Minister of the National Treasury (sinong 司農) during the last years of his life. For his official biography, see HHS, 36.1224–1226.   63.  For analysis, see Huang Jingchun 2009. For the archaeological report, see Luoyangshi Wenwu gongsuo dui 1997.   64.  The “Stele of Xia Kan, the Junior Scribe in the Office of the Grand Councilors” 相府 小史夏堪碑, Quan Hou-Han wen, 106.1044–1042: 娉會謝氏, 幷靈合柩, 古命有之, 仲泥何㤞.  65. SGZ, 11.351, 20.580.   66.  Ibid., 5.163, 25.707.  67. WS 27.673; Bei shi 20.744.   68.  The excavation of a tomb quelling writ from the grave of a netherworld couple reveals that some posthumous marriages of commoners from the Cao-Wei period were motivated by fear (see Machida 2011; Liu Lexian 2011; Chen Hao 2012).  69. JTS, 86.2834–2835; XTS, 81.3593. For the archaeological report, see Shaanxisheng bowuguan Qianxian wenjiao ju Tangmu fajuezu, “Tang Yide taizi mu fajue xianbao.” Pei Cui was an administrative aide at the Directorate of Education 國子監丞 and an otherwise unknown figure.  70. JTS, 183.4743; XTS, 206.5843; ZZTJ, 208.6603–6604. It is likely that Wei Hao 韋浩, the eldest of the four brothers, was also given a deceased bride; however, we can only speculate until his muzhiming is recovered.  71. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Wei [Xun], Commandery Prince of Runan and posthumously appointed Minister of Ministry of Personnel and Commander-in-chief of

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Yizhou of the Great Tang” 大唐贈吏部尚書益州大都督汝南郡王韋府君墓誌銘並序. For a transcription and brief introduction, see Wang Yuanying and Luo Ningli 2004. For Xiao Zhizhong’s (d. 713) official biographies, see JTS, 92.2968–2971; XTS, 123.4371–4373.  72. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Wei [Dong] of Jingjing, Commandery Prince of Huaiyang and posthumously appointed Chamberlain of the Court of the Imperial Regalia and Commander-in-chief of Bingzhou of the Great Tang” 大唐贈衛尉卿並州大都督淮陽郡王 京淨韋府君墓誌銘並序, TMH, 1: Jinglong 011. Cui Daoyiu was a member of the prestigious Cui clan of the Qinghe commandery. He was the Household Provisioner for the Crown Prince (taizi jialing 太子家令) when the marriage was contracted. Although he did not have an official biography, we know from the “Genealogical Tables of Chief Ministers” that he later became the Left Mentor of the Heir Apparent (zuo shuzi 左庶子) and Commandery Duke of Qinghe 清河郡公 (XTS, 72.2766).  73. “Muzhiming with Preface of [Wei Zi] Late Commandery Prince of Shangcai, posthumously appointed Commander-in-chief of Jingzhou of the Great Tang” 大唐故贈荊州大 都督上蔡郡王墓誌銘並序, QTWBY, 3.39–42.  74. “Muzhiming of Wei Dong,” TMH, 1: Jinglong 011: 制以王年未及室, 靈櫬方孤, 求淑魄 於高門, 代姻無忝; 結芳神於厚夜, 同穴知安.  75. “Muzhiming of Wei Xun,” 求故事於漢府, 得遺塵於魏宫 (Wang and Luo 2004, 177–178).   76.  For an account of this posthumous marriage and Xiao Zhizhong’s official biographies, see JTS, 92.2968; XTS, 123.4373.   77.  For Li Tan’s official biographies, see JTS, 116.3384–3386; XTS, 82.3617–3619. For the reburial and posthumous marriage, see QTW, 47.515a–515b; 419.4281a–4282b.   78.  For a useful overview of posthumous marriages in the late medieval period, see Yao Ping 2002, 2003, 2004; for a study of the templates of letters and ceremonies relating to posthumous marriage, see Liu Hui-ping 2005.  79. British Corpus, vol. 11.1, 99–105. Transcription by Zhao Heping (1993, 480): 而諸禮經 繁綜浩大, 卒而難以檢尋. 乃有賢士撰集纂要吉凶書儀, 以傳世所用. For the official biographies of Zheng Yuqing, see JTS, 158.4163–4166; XTS, 165.5059–5061.  80. British corpus, vol. 3.1, 126–132. Transcription by Zhao Heping (1993, 416): 問曰: 何名 嬒婚者? 答曰: 男女早逝, 未有聘娶, 男則單栖地室, 女則獨寢泉宮. 生人為立良媒, 遣通二姓, 兩家 和許, 以骨同棺, 共就墳陵, 是在婚嬒也. 一名冥婚也.   81.  Christian de Pee (2007, 39–45) discusses the medieval marriage rituals preserved in the manuals of letters and ceremonies found in Dunhuang and their hermeneutic significance as a compromise between contemporary practices and canonical rituals.  82. French Corpus, vol. 26.3, 179–185; Transcription by Zhao Heping (1993, 356–357).  83. British corpus, vol. 3.1, 126–132. Transcription by Zhao Heping (1993, 417–418): 汝既 既年少, 未有婚對. 禍出不圖, 奄從遊沒. 新婦早逝, 未及良仇. 各寢泉中, 單居地室. 今既二姓和好, 禮媾冥婚. 白骨同棺, 魂魄共合, 神識相配, 何異生存. 吉在今辰, 遷就高壙. 內外悲愴, 彌切胸懷. 設祭墓左, 汝宜尚饗.  84. “Muzhi Text with Preface of Late Master Jia, an Untitled Gentleman of Tang” 唐故 處士賈公墓誌文並序, QTWBY, 8:23–24.  85. QTW, 672.6865b–6866a.  86. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Lu Guangxiu, the Late Gentleman for Manifested Virtue, Acting Military Adjutant of Zhongzhou and Commandant of Flying Cavalry of the Tang and His Wife Madame Sun” 唐故宣德郎行忠州參軍事飛騎尉陸廣秀公並夫人孫 氏墓誌銘並序, TMHX, Zaide 004: 今將禮葬, 遂結冥婚.  87. “Muzhiming with Preface of the Late Mister Guo of the Tang” 唐故郭君墓誌銘並序, BXMH, no. 71, 191–192.  88. Liji, 18.683.  89. TPGJ, 316.2500–2501. For an English translation and textual history of this tale, see Campany 2012, 10–12, 135. For discussions of posthumous marriage in medieval narratives, see Shigehara Hiroshi and Bai Gengsheng 1996; Song Wentao 2003.



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  90.  “Grave of the Deceased Daughter of the Li Clan of Longxi of the Tang” 唐故隴西李 氏女墓, TMH, 2: Yuanhe 022: 若神而見知, 幽魂有託. 生為秦晉, 沒也豈殊, 何必盧充, 冥婚然契?   91.  For a useful archaeological overview of the configurations of medieval he-burials, see Qi Dongfang 2006.  92. Liji, 10.384–385: 衛人之祔也離之, 魯人之祔也合之, 善夫！  93. Kongzi jiayu, 10.114: 古者不祔葬, 為不忍先死者之復見也. 詩云: “死則同穴,” 自周公已 來祔葬矣. 故衛人之祔也, 離之, 有以聞焉; 魯人之祔也, 合之. 美夫! 吾從魯.  94. Liji, 10.384.  95. Ibid., 10.385: 祔葬當合也.   96.  Li Rusen 1996a; Han Guohe 1999, 222–231.  97. Liji, 6.201–202: 自傷修墓違古, 至令今崩.   98.  Han Guohe 1999, 224–231.  99. TD, 103.2706. 100.  Liji, 10.384–385. 101.  Qi Dongfang 2006. 102. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Li, Grand-Master for Proper Consultation and Acting Administrative Aide of Maozhou of the Great Tang” 大唐正議大夫行鄚州別駕李公( 間政)墓誌銘并序, QTWBYX, 134–135. 103. “Muzhiming of Master Gongsun, the Late Left Commandant of Datong Garrison of Fuzhou and Militant Guard of Assault-Resisting Garrison of the Tang” 唐故左武衛鄜州大同 府折衝都尉公孫府君墓誌銘, TMH, 2: Kaiyuan 423. 104. “Muzhming of Lady Heba, Commandery Countess of Changcheng, the Wife of [Shiyun Lei], Lord Dongcheng, Commander Unequalled in Honor, and Commissioned with Extraordinary Powers of the Great Sui” 大隋使持節開府儀同三司洞城公妻昌城郡君賀 拔夫人之墓誌銘, XSMZ, no. 11. 105. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Lan of Henan, the late Mother of He Shaozhi, the Supreme Pillar of State, Commandant of the Imperial Treasury Protecting the Left Standby Guard, Mobile Corps Commander, and Attendant of the Palace CommandantProtector of the Right Army of the Inspired Strategy of Tang” 唐右神策軍護軍中尉押衙游擊 將軍守左衛翊台府中郎將上柱國何少直故太夫人河南蘭氏墓誌銘並序, TMHX, Kaicheng 012: 永惟同穴之儀, 仰遵歸祔之禮. 106. “Muzhiming of Master Li of Guzang, Late Administrative Supervisor of Huaizhou of Tang” 唐故懷州録事參軍姑臧李公墓誌銘, QTWBY, 8.181–183. 107. “Muzhiming of Late Master Zheng Qian of Yingyang, Demoted Revenue Manager of Taizhou, [Previously] Editorial Director [of Secretariat] of the Great Tang and his Wife Madame Wang of Langye” 大唐故著作郎貶台州司戶滎陽鄭府君(虔)並夫人琅瑘王氏墓誌銘, QTWBYX, 249–250: 大隧既開, 玄堂斯儼. 盤藤繞塔, 彰神理之獲安; 蔓葛縈棺, 未[謂]精誠之必 感. 青烏有言曰: “地之吉, 草木潤. 神之安, 福後胤. 此其是也, 必不可動.” 僉曰: “此其為萬代檉 檟, 胡造次而易哉?” . . . 遂以大歷四年八月廿五日, 祔於夫人故塋, 崇禮經也, 議不可動也. Zheng Qian’s case is not unique (see also TMH, 2: Yuanhe 005). 108. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Qin of Maojun, Wife of Master Wei, the Late Minister of the Court of the Imperial Clan of the Tang” 唐故宗正寺元俊臺令京兆韋公夫人茂 駿秦夫人墓誌銘井序, in QTWBYX, 339–340. 109.  For another example of a man buried with his two predeceased wives in the Wei style, see “Muzhi of Master Cheng, the Late Director of the Feng Mausoleum in the rank of Gentleman for Court Discussion” 故朝議郎守豐陵臺令程公墓誌, XSMZ, no. 364. 110. “Muzhiming of Master Hu, the Late Changze District Supervisor from the Court of Imperial Stud and Commandant of Light Chariots of the Great Tang, [and his wife] Madame Zhang” 大唐故太僕寺長澤監輕車都尉胡府君張夫人墓誌銘, BXMH, 2.352: 合葬非 古, 周公所制. 111. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Zuo of Qi Commandery, the late Vice-Prefect of Huangzhou” 故黃州司馬齊郡左府君墓誌并序, LLMH, 2.285: 合葬非古, 周公所存.

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Notes to Pages 101–107

112. “Muzhiming of Master Li, the Late Gentleman for Manifesting Rightness, Acting Administrator of Julu County of the Tang” 唐故宣義郎行鉅鹿郡參軍李公墓誌銘, QTWBYX, 276–277: 敬行周公之道, 遂申合祔之禮, 合葬非古, 始乎有周. 113.  Chen Zi’ang, “Muzhiming of Madame Zhang, Wife of Master Li, the Late Administer of Yuanzhou of the Tang” 唐故袁州參軍李府君妻張氏墓誌銘, QTW, 216.2128b: 嗣子某等, 悲摧欒棘, 思結寒泉. 永惟同穴之儀, 仰遵歸祔之典. 以[年月日]遷祔於袁州府君之舊塋, 禮也. 合 葬非古, 奉周公之儀; 墓而為墳, 宗仲尼之訓. 114. “Muzhiming with Preface of Lord Shi, the Late Grand Master for Dismissing Court, Supreme Pillar of State, and Magistrate of Ruyin District in Yinzhou of the Tang” 唐故朝散 大夫上柱國穎州汝陰縣令史公墓誌銘並序, TMH, 2: Kaiyuan 305: 雖合葬非古, 而垂范將來. 115. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Yu, Wife of the Late Young Master Sima of the Sui” 隋故司馬君夫人尉氏墓誌銘并序, XSMZ, no. 21: 雖合葬非古, 而同塋自昔. 116. “Muzhiming of Late Master Yang and Madame Li of the Tang” 唐故楊府君李夫人墓 誌銘, QTWBYX, 223: 且合葬非古, 同穴有聞. 117. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Lu, Wife of Master Chen, the Late Administrator of the Revenue Section of Qi Prefecture of the Great Tang” 大唐故齊州司户參軍陳府君 夫人盧氏墓誌銘并序, XSMZ, no. 244: 而合葬非古, 蒼梧不從. 118. “Muzhiming of Madame Cen, Wife of Late Master Liu of Qingyuan [District] of the Great Zhou” 大周故清苑公劉府君夫人岑氏墓誌銘, TMHX, Dazu 004. 119. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Zheng of Yingyang, Wife of Lord Pei, the Late Director of Sacrifice Section in the Department of State Affairs of the Great Tang” 大唐故尚 書祠部員外郎裴公夫人滎陽鄭氏墓誌銘並序, TMHX, Tianbao 108: 考古從宜, 蓋取諸禮也, 玄堂 一閉兮, 終天永訣. 120.  Liji, 10.366: 骨肉歸復於土, 命也. 若魂氣則無不之也, 無不之也. For a more detailed discussion on the concepts of hun, see chapter 1. 121. “Muzhiming of Madame Zhang of Qinghe, Wife of Master Dugu, the Late General of the Left Courageous Guard and concurrently the General of the Palace Guard Calvary of the Tang” 唐故左驍衛將軍兼羽林將軍獨狐公夫人清河張氏墓誌銘, QTWBY, 5:383–384: 魂氣 腎窅冥, 無不之也 and 合葬非古, 近塋而祔. 122.  For the story, see JS, 36.1075–1076. 123. “Muzhiming with Preface of Late Master Zhao of Tianshui, Supreme Pillar of State, and Late Magistrate of Jinshui District in Jianzhou of the Tang” 唐故簡州金水縣令上柱國天 水趙府君墓誌銘并序, in XSMZ, no. 206: 骨肉同歸于土, 亦何間於秦洛; 魂氣若無不之, 奚必同於 墳櫬? and 禮有不從, 周亦合祔. 124.  Kongzi jiayu, 2.18: 子貢問於孔子曰: “死者有知乎? 將無知乎?” 子曰: “吾欲言死之有知, 將恐孝子順孫妨生以送死; 吾欲言死之無知, 將恐不孝之子棄其親而不葬. 賜不欲知死者有知與 無知, 非今之急, 後自知之.” For an in-depth discussion on this subject, see Goldin 2015. 125. “Muzhiming with Preface of Lord Kou, District Viscount of Shang’gu and the Late Assistant Magistrate of Gaocheng District in Henan Garrison of the Tang” 唐故河南府告成 縣主簿上谷縣開國子寇公墓誌銘並序, TMH, 1, Tianbao 025: 生死恆理, 離合大情, 儻雙魂有知, 即二穴何苦? and 稚孺成立, 歲時循環, 永言孤翔, 吾所不忍. 於此見達人知變, 仁者用心, 義歟! 遂 從周公制, 開滕公室, 以春之六日, 合葬於金谷原先塋次. 126. “Muzhiming of Lady Wang, Dowager Commandery Countess of Langye, Wife of Master Wei, the Late District Baron of Bochang and Director of the Chancellery of the Great Zhou” 大周故納言博昌縣開國男韋府君夫人琅耶郡太君王氏墓誌銘, QTWBY, 2.9–10: 生者必 死, 人之大端. 葬之言藏, 禮有恆制. 魂而有識, 何往不通? 知或無知, 合之何益? 況合葬非古, 前聖 格言. 先嬪已創別墳, 吾復安可同穴? 若余生就畢, 啟手歸全, 但於舊塋因地之便, 別開幽室, 以瘞 殘骸. 親屬子孫, 勿違吾意. 127.  QTWBY, 2.10: 敢遵遺命, 虔奉尊靈. 即以萬歲通天二年歲次丁酉一月戊戌朔廿四日辛酉, 歸祔於雍州萬年縣銅人原之舊塋, 但域內先有二墳, 左右更無余地. 乃窆於先考博昌公大墳下之 傍穴. 雖桐閽近隔, 頗分尋丈之□; 而蒿隧潛通, 自合幽冥之路.



Notes to Pages 108–112

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128.  Zuozhuan, 2.63–64. 129. Yan Shansi, who was the director of Astrological Services (taishi ling 太史令) to Emperor Zhongzong at the time, had a long and distinguished career. For his official biographies, see JTS, 191.5102–5104; XTS, 204.5807–5809. 130.  JTS, 6.132; XTS, 76.3484: 祔廟, 歸陵, 令去帝號, 稱則天大聖皇后. 131.  Wu Zetian first began to ponder the issue of ancestral sacrifices in 690 when deliberating whether her nephew or son should inherit her throne (see JTS, 87.2854–2855; XTS, 117.4256; ZZTJ, 204.6474–6476). The issue resurfaced in 698 and again led to a fierce court debate (see XTS, 115.4211–4212; ZZTJ, 206.6525–6526). 132.  Befitting its importance, several versions of this memorial survive. Four are complete with minor variations: JTS, 191.5102–5103; WYYH, 624.3233b; THY, 20.396–397; QTW, 266.2704b. Three are abridged: TD, 86.2349–50; XTS, 204.5807–08; CFYG, 544.6528a-b. This translation is based on the JTS version. 133.  JTS, 191.5102: 臣謹按天元房錄葬法云: “尊者先葬, 卑者不合於後開入.” 則天皇后卑於 天皇大帝, 今欲開乾陵合葬, 即是以卑動尊, 事既不經, 恐不安穩. 134. Ibid.: 臣又聞乾陵玄闕, 其門以石閉塞, 其石縫隙, 鑄鐵以固其中. 今若開陵, 必須鐫鑿. 以神明之道, 體尚幽玄, 今乃動眾加功, 誠恐多所驚黷. 又若別開門道, 以入玄宮, 即往者葬時, 神位 先定, 今更改作, 為害益深. 135. Ibid.: 又以修築乾陵之後, 國頻有難. 遂至則天太后, 權總萬機, 二十餘年. 其難始定. 今乃 更加營作, 伏恐還有難生. 但合葬非古, 著在禮經; 緣情為用, 固無定準. 況今事有不安, 豈可復循 斯制. 136. Ibid.: 伏以漢時諸陵, 皇后多不合葬. 魏晉以降, 始有合者. 然以兩漢積年, 向餘四百; 魏晉 以後, 祚皆不長. 雖受命應期, 有因天假. 然以循機享德, 亦在天時. 但陵墓所安, 必須勝地, 後之允 嗣, 用託靈根. 或有不安, 後嗣固難長享. 伏望依漢朝之故事, 改魏晉之頹綱. 於乾陵之傍, 更擇吉 地, 取生墓之法, 別起一陵. 既得從葬之儀, 又成固本之業. 137.  Ibid., 191.5103: 臣伏以合葬者, 緣人私情; 不合者, 前循故事. 若以神道有知, 幽途自得通 會; 若以死者無知, 合之復有何益? 然以山川精氣, 上為星象. 若葬得其所, 則神安後昌; 若葬失其 儀, 則神危後損. 所以先哲垂範, 具之葬經. 欲使生人之道必安, 死者之神永泰. 伏望少迴天眷, 俯 覽臣言, 行古昔之明規, 割私情之愛欲, 使社稷長享, 天下乂安, 凡在懷生, 孰不慶幸? 138. Liu Xiangyang 2006, 96–100. A recent archaeological survey corroborates Yan Shansi’s information on the gate. Multiple attempts have been made to rob this tomb (including one with modern explosives), but none of them successfully penetrated it. The burial chamber of the mausoleum remains unexcavated. 139.  Yan Shansi was playing a word game. Li Rusen (2003) points out that Western Han imperial couples were mostly entombed in separated mausoleums on the same burial ground, the dynastic histories refer to the practice as hezang. Han Guohe (2007) states that Eastern Han imperial couples were often entombed in the same mausoleum, but it too was referred to as hezang in the dynastic histories. 140.  Liu Xiangyang 2006. 141. “Muzhiming with Preface of the Wife of Late Master Li, the Late Magistrate of Zhenyuan District of Haozhou of the Tang” 唐故毫州真源縣令李君夫人墓誌銘並序, QTWBYX, 260: 蹔居塵世, 五濁之難實超: 不去俗衣, 三界之緣已割. The Five Defilements (Ch. wuzhuo 五濁 and Skt. pañca-kasāya) are the five conditions that hinder the likelihood of achieving enlightenment: unceasing suffering in the world, the proliferation of false teachings, unremitting attachment and desire, truncated lifespan, and inescapable human wickedness. The Three Realms of Existence (Ch. sanjie 三界; Skt. trayo dhātava) are the three realms of the unceasing cycle of death and rebirth: the Realm of Desire, Realm of Form, and Realm of Formlessness. 142.  QTWBYX, 260: 吾聞合祔非古, 不可從也. 吾早履空門, 心懷淨土, 身歿之後, 俯精舍以塔 吾, 使旦暮得聞鍾梵之音, 死有歸矣. 143. Ibid.: 恭承遺命, 不敢顛越.

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Notes to Pages 112–120

144.  Wu Zetian employed several female political advisors and rescript writers. For an in-depth study, see Cheng Ya-ju 2014. Our knowledge of Lady Kudi’s role at Empress Wu’s court comes from this shendaobei and the official biographies of Pei Xiangjian’s son Pei Guangting 裴光庭, JTS, 84.2806–2808; XTS, 108.4089–4091. For Pei Xingjian’s official biographies, see JTS, 84.2801–2806; XTS, 108.4085–4089. 145.  “Stele of the Spirit Path Conferred Upon Duke Pei, the Defender-in-Chief” 贈太尉 裴公神道碑, QTW, 228.2304b–2308a: 皇上臨極, 旁求陰政, 再降綸言, 將留內輔. 夫人深戒榮滿, 遠悟真筌, 固辭羸憊, 超謝塵俗. 每讀信行禪師集錄, 永期尊奉, 開元五年四月二日, 歸真京邑: 其年 八月, 遷窆於終南山鴟鳴堆信行禪師靈塔之後. 古不合葬, 魂無不之, 成遺志也. 146.  Tang Wen 2012, 89–92. 147.  “Madame Pei of Hedong, Wife of Master Cui of Boling, the Late Gentleman for Court Audience and Magistrate of Zixi District in Hangzhou of the Tang” 唐故朝請郎行杭 州紫溪縣令博陵崔府君夫人河東裴氏, XSMZ, no. 237: 齋心釋典, 滌慮禪門. 收角枕於韣中, 事香 花於佛所 and 以儒祔有禮, 故同之於舊塋; 以釋戒可崇, 故封之於異穴. 148. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Jia, Wife of the Late Master Mao, Gentleman of the Tang” 大唐故毛處士夫人賈氏墓誌銘並序, TMHX, Jingyun 005: 墳兆雖同, 儀形各異, 非 周文之合葬, 祈釋教之往生. 149. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Cui of Boling, Wife of Late Master Liu of Pengcheng” 故彭城劉府君博陵崔夫人墓誌銘并序, QTWBYX, 360–361: 夫人晚參禪誦, 不茹葷 血, and 神理好靜, 合葬非古道也. 150.  Ibid., 361: 衛人之祔也, 離之幾是乎?; 差池塋闕, 永奉先意. 151. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Zhang, late Wife of Master Zhao, the late Adjutant and Manager of Requisitioned Labor of Hangzhou of the Great Tang” 大唐故杭州 司士參軍趙府君故夫人張氏墓誌銘並序, TMH, 2: Kaiyuan 276: 夫人葷則不御, 錦繢無施, 四禪 恆以在心, 六念未嘗離口. The Four Meditations (Skt. catvāri dhyānāni) remove four kinds of awareness generated by language and speech, senses, thoughts, and breathing. The Six Types of Mindfulness (Skt. sad-anusmrtayah) focus contemplation on the Buddha, Dharma, Clergy, Precepts, Almsgiving, and Heavens. None of these meditations were for casual believers. 152.  TMH, 2: Kaiyuan 276: 若逝者有知, 雖異穴而悉妨? 若逝者無知, 縱合防而何益? 我歿之 後, 勿祔先塋. 153. Ibid.: 得鳳凰兆, 昔歲齊飛; 夫蛟龍偶, 今日同歸. 154. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Su of Wugong Commandery, Wife of Master Wang, Late District Defender of Wujin in Changzhou of Tang” 唐故常州武進縣尉王府君夫 人武功蘇氏墓志銘並序, QTWBY, 1:331: 吾奉清淨教, 欲斷諸業障. 吾沒之後, 必燼吾身 and 且甥 姪之情, 何心忍視, 不從亂命, 無爽禮經. 155. Ibid.: 尊崇內誥, 果茲福效; 棉惙俄臨, 精神不撓.

Chapter Three: Burial Divinations  1. “Muzhiming with Preface on the He-burial of Master Zheng of Yingyang [Commandery], the Late Deputy Chief Military Training Commissioner of the West Jiangnan Circuit, Attendant Censor, and Court Attendant of Tang” 唐故江南西道都團練副使侍御史內 供奉滎陽鄭府君合祔墓誌銘并敘, QTWBY, 4.104–105.  2. “Inscription of the Provisional Burial of Late Madame Cui of the Qinghe [Commandery] of Great Tang” 大唐故清河崔夫人權厝墓銘, TMHX, Yuanhe 5: 先是貞於陽卜, 視兆 未叶, 故葬緩, 且不克合袝, 以俟夫通吉焉. Facilitations are the specific months and years deemed suitable, according to hemerology, for burial.  3. Ibid.: 仲弟群感深同氣, 痛劇如剡, 援毫啜泣, 謹志大略, 以置於幽隧.  4. Ibid.: 至若他歲吉卜, 誓言啓祔, 以終孤甥之志, 微生未泯, 猶功縗之不釋於身焉.  5. Yili, 31.969–67.



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  6.  For Cui Qun’s official biographies, see JTS, 159.4187–4190; XTS, 165.5080–5082.   7.  For a detailed discussion of this case, see Choo 2015.  8. For scholarship on noncanonical divinations, see Huang Zhengjian 2001; Kalinowski 2003; Jin Shenjia 2007; Chen Yuzhu 2007. On canonical burial divinations, see Iwami Kiyohiro 2005; Yi Yang 2019.   9.  Li Ling (2001, 57–68) offers a brief introduction to plastromancy and achilleomancy in early China and Field (2008, 3–38) to achilleomancy. In Kaiyuan li: for the proceeding of the third rank and above, see 138.14–16 for original burial and 141.1 for reburial; for the fourth and fifth ranks, see 142.14–16 for original burial and 145.1 for the reburial; for the sixth rank and below, see 146.10–12 for original burial and 149.1 for the reburial. 10.  Jiao Haiyan (2010, 79–81) provides a brief history of the term kanyu, pointing out that it was first associated with siting only in the Three Kingdoms period. Stephan Field offers a useful overview of the development and methods of kanyu from the Neolithic period to present times (2008, 63–83). 11.  Kaiyuan li, 146.11: 孤子姓名, 為父某官封某甫, 度茲幽宅, 無有後艱? 12.  Yili, 37.826: 謂有非常若崩壞. 13.  Kaiyuan li, 146.11. 14.  Ibid., 146.12: 若不從, 卜筮擇地如初儀. 15.  SJZ, 40.693: 筮吉龜凶八百年落江中; for the same anecdote, see also TPGJ, 391.3124. 16.  Liji, 3.104–109: see also Shangshu, “Hongfan,” 12.371–377. 17.  Liji, 3.104–109:卜筮不相襲; see also Shangshu, “Hongfan,” 12.371–377. 18.  Liji, 3.104–109; Zuozhuan, 12.382–383: 筮短龜長, 主於長者. 19.  Zuozhuan, 14.439: 龜, 象也; 筮, 數也. 物生而後有象, 象而後有滋, 滋而後有數. Stephan Field (2008, 83–87) provides a concise introduction to milfoil divination and numerology. 20.  Liji, 3.104: 龜千歲而靈, 蓍百年而神, 以其長久, 故能辯吉凶也. 21.  Ibid., 3.105: 卜者, 覆也, 以覆審吉凶. 筮者, 決也, 以決定其惑. 22.  Zuozhuan, 12.383. 23.  Shiji, 39.1645–1646. 24.  TPGJ, 391.3124: 爾後一千歲, 此地化為泉. 賴逢鄔侍御, 移我向高原. Zhang Du was a literati official who later in life became a high-ranking minister to Emperor Xizong, see JTS, 149.4026; XTS, 161.4982. Other similar accounts included “The Tale of Gao Liuzhi” 高流之, TPGJ, 391.3124; “The Tale of Wang Guo” 王果, TPGJ, 391.3125; the “Tomb in Fengdu” 豐都冢, TPGJ, 391.3125. 25.  Liu Tianqi (2009) identifies fourteen muzhiming dated to the Sui and Tang dynasties. Since then, more muzhiming including prophetic verses have been found. 26.  Zhao Zhenhua and Wang Xuechun (2004) briefly discuss these two muzhiming. 27. “Muzhi of Wang Jie, the Administrative Aide to the Prefect of Liangzhou of the Qi” 齊梁州別駕王節墓志: 一千八百年吳奴子所發, 誡之厚葬得福累世. Wang Ji’s muzhiming is currently in private hands. The translation here is based on Liu Tianqi’s (2009) transcription. 28. “Muzhiming of Master Liu, the Late Assistant Magistrate of Shu District of Bei Prefecture of Tang” 唐故貝州鄃縣主薄柳君墓誌銘, QTWBYX, 25–26: 葬後一千三百年乃為黃頭所 發. 其亦開發者當更好埋藏之, 若不好埋藏者, 凶不出年. 29. For a brief introduction to the milfoil divination with Yijing 易經 (the Classic of Changes), see Stephan Field 2008, 39–62. 30.  Three accounts of Zheng Qinyue’s legendary feat survive: his letter to Ren Shengzhi (QTW, 408.4177–4178); Li Jifu’s 李吉甫 “Discussions on Zheng Qinyue Discerning the Ancient Inscription from Datong” 編次鄭欽悅辨大同古銘論 (QTW, 520.5201; and the “Tale of Zheng Qinyue” (TPGJ, 391.3127–3128). The last, quoted here, includes and elaborates on the first two. 31.  TPGJ, 391.3127: 龜言土, 蓍言水, 甸服黃鍾啟靈趾. 瘞在三上庚, 墮遇七中巳. 六千三百浹 辰交, 二九重三四百圮. 32.  QTW, 408.4178a-b.

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33.  “Discussions on Zheng Qinyue Discerning the Ancient Inscription from Datong” 編次鄭欽悅辨大同古銘論; QTW, 520.5201. For Li Jifu’s official biographies, see JTS, 148.3992– 97; XTS, 146.4737–44. Li Jifu was probably fretting about his political future when writing this discourse. He was dismissed from court and sent as an administrative aide to a southern prefecture. Little did he know that he would become a chief minister to Emperor Xianzong 憲宗 (r. 805–820) in a few years. 34. “Muzhiming with Preface of Lady Lu, Wife of Lord Yu, the District Viscount of the Donghai, Magistrate of Guixiang District in the Weizhou, and Assistant in the Palace Library of the Great Tang” 大唐秘書郎魏州貴鄉縣令東海縣開國子于君妻盧氏墓誌銘并序, XSMZ, 107: 木拱年深, 墳荒歲久. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Houmochen, the late Grand Master for Court Audience, Supreme Pillar of State, Aide to the Magistrate of Baishui District in Tongzhou of the Tang” 唐故朝請大夫上柱國同州白水縣丞侯莫陳府君墓誌銘 并序, XSMZ, 169. Jie Shi discusses at length the sense of impermanence conjured by desolated graves (2012, 229–234, 238–243): 仙鶴不歸, 日蕪荒隧. 35. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Ni, Late Administrative Aide of Thousand Cavaliers of the Jinling Commandery held the rank of Grand Master of the Palace of the Great Tang” 大唐故中大夫守晋陵郡别驾千乘倪府君墓志铭并序, TMH, 2: Tianbao 196: 懼陵谷有遷, 冀銘石無朽; “Muzhi of Master Xu, the Late Supreme Pillar of State of the Great Zhou” 大周 故上柱國徐公墓誌, QTWBY, 8:315–316: 將恐桑田作海, 陵谷易遷, 故勒玄銘, 庶幾不朽. 36.  For Lü Cai’s official biographies, see JTS, 79.2719–2727; XTS, 107.4062–4066. For a detailed study of his life and works, see Li Zheng 2018. I take this passage from JTS, 79.2725: 富貴官品, 皆由安葬所致; 年命延促, 亦曰墳壠所招. For a slightly different version, see XTS, 107.4064–4066; for an alternative translation, see Morgan 1990, 49. 37.  JTS, 79.2723: 然 ‘孝經’ 云: ‘卜其宅兆而安厝之.’ 以其顧復事畢, 長為感慕之所; 窀穸禮終, 永作魂神之宅. 朝市遷變, 不得豫測於將來; 泉石交侵, 不可先知於地下. 是以謀及龜筮, 庶無後艱, 斯乃備於慎終之禮, 曾無吉凶之義. 38.  Ibid., 79.2723–2724: 暨乎近代以來, 加之陰陽葬法, 或選年月便利, 或量墓田遠近, 一事失 所禍及死生, 巫者利其貨賄, 莫不擅加妨害. 遂使葬書一術, 乃有百二十家, 各說吉凶, 拘而多忌. 39.  JTS, 79.2720; XTS, 107.4062. 40.  JTS, 79.2719. 41.  XTS, 107.4062. 42. Both “San fen ji” and “Xi xianying ji” are collected in QTW (458.4682b–4683a, 458.4683a–4683b). For Li Jiqing’s official biographies, see XTS, 202.5748. 43.  XTS, 202.5748: 霸陵原西視京師, 吾樂之, 可營墓, 樹十松焉. Li Shi was a scholar-official noted for his literary virtuosity and for being a compiler of the Sanjiao zhuying 三教珠英 (Pearlescent Luxuriance of the Three Teachings; completed in 701). For his official biographies in the dynastic histories, see JTS, 190.5027; XTS, 202.5747–5748. He should not be confused with his contemporary Li Shizhi 李適之, a chief minister to Emperor Xuanzong and great-grandson of the Tang founding emperor Gaozu 高祖 (r. 618–626). Luo Zhengyu (1884, 32–35), the renowned scholar of Dunhuang manuscripts and epigraphy, dated Li Shi’s death to 711. On the practice of exposing the corpse during burial, see Liu Shu-fen 2008. 44.  QTW, 458.4683a: 李氏子天假其才, 不得其壽, 盍謀及龜策, 謀及鬼神歟? 45.  Guan Lu (SGZ, 29.811–826) and Guo Pu (JS, 72.1899–1910) both lived during the Six Dynasties and were renowned practitioners of achilleomancy. Although Guan Lu is the putative author of the Guanshi dili zhimeng 管氏地理指蒙 (Master Guan’s Guide to the Terrestrial Principles) and Guo Pu of the Zangshu 葬書 (Book of Burials), neither work is mentioned in their official biographies. For the debates on the authenticity of Guo Pu’s authorship, see Yu Gege 2016. Li Jiqing’s account indicates that the geomantic methods attributed to these men were practiced in the mid-Tang era. 46.  QTW, 458.4683a. 47.  XTS, 202.5748.



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48.  Leibian Chang’an zhi 類編長安志, 10371a. 49.  Nos. 683 and 777 in the Catalogue of Chinese Rubbings from the Field Museum (1981) are the image of the rubbings. The original steles did not survive, but the Song dynasty reproductions did. Alexei Ditter (2014) discusses the relationship between circulation, preservation, and commemoration. 50. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Cui of Boling, the Late Grand Master for Thorough Counsel, Acting Chancellor of the Directorate of Education, Cavalry Commander on Campaign of Wei Prefecture, Concurrently Attendant Censor, and Supreme Pillar of State of the Tang” 唐故通議大夫檢校國子祭酒行蔚州司馬兼侍御史上柱國博陵崔府 君墓志銘並序, TMH, 2: Qianfu 006: 伏自奄鍾偏罰, 未終喪紀, 斷手之痛, 俄及長兄. 又三年, 不 孝招禍, 丁先考府君憂. 又二年, 季弟傾喪, 冤哀既甚, 行路皆傷. 於是中外親族, 俱來省慰, 退而 謂鉥曰: “孝經云: ‘卜其宅兆而安厝之.’ 子之恃怙並失, 昆弟俱喪, 得非松柏陷於不善之地乎? 有 楊均者, 居在東平, 子能迓之, 必有所益.” 鉥曰: “唯唯.” 及楊生至汝上, 目先大夫之塋, 乃告鉥曰: “子角姓耳. 艮為福德, 地不欲卑; 坤為鬼賊, 勢不欲盛, 斯地也. 皆反於經, 須求改卜, 或冀安寧. 余聞邙山之上可置子之先靈, 地曰尹村, 鄉曰金谷, 北背瀍水, 東接魏陵, 屬洛京之河南縣界. 如 神道獲安, 則子亦安矣.” 鉥曰: “且懼滅姓, 豈敢望安.” 教命敬依, 果決塋辨. 乃用乾符四年三月廿 六日, 自汝州梁縣啟護先考府君先妣夫人, 葬於此地, 即四月二日也. 長兄諱銖, 比祔葬於汝墳. 今亦改卜, 去大塋東南七十七步. 弟諱鐔, 自欲銘志, 粗紀遷移之禮, 蓋憂陵谷之更. 名諱家風, 備 於前說, 罪逆蒼天, 不孝謹志. 51. “Muzhi with Preface of Master Liu, the Late Grand Master for Court Discussion, Acting Adjutant of Mei Prefecture, and Pillar of State of the Great Tang” 大唐故朝議大夫行 眉州司馬柱國 □□□ 劉府君墓志并序, QTWBY, 5.286: 斜瞻緱氏, 白鶴迴翔, 南對洛陽, 青烏永 固, 地形起伏, 多龍虎之奇. 川勢流通, 積風煙之□. 安措之所, 今昔無儔 and 龜言此吉, 鶴兆云藏. There are many similar cases. 52.  For an excellent study on pre-Northern Song burial practices based on the Five Surnames, see Zhao Mingjin 2014. 53. “Muzhiming with Preface of the Late Madame Yuan of Henan of the Great Tang,” 大 唐故河南元氏夫人墓誌銘並序, QTWBY, 2.518: 道士臨塋, 畫五音而定穴; 書生擇兆, 布八卦而 開墳. 54.  XTS, 107.4063; JTS, 79.2720: 言五姓者, 謂宮、商、角、徵、羽等, 天下萬物, 悉配屬之, 行事 吉凶, 依此為法. 55.  JTS, 79.2720–2721; XTS, 107.4062–4063. The primary meaning of the term kanyu is the Way of Heaven and Earth, the term was not associated with geomancy until the Three Kingdoms period (see Jiao Haiyan 2010, 80). Lü Cai’s comment indicates the geomantic methods based on the Five Surnames principle attributed to the Yellow Emperor were in use during his time. He might even use it himself. Indeed, among the suspected fragments of his Yinyang shu from Dunhuang are titles such as “The Illustrated Book of [the Yellow] Emperor’s Method in Using the ‘Five Surnames’ to Select the Abodes of Yin [the home of the dead] and Yang [the home of the living] in One Fascicle” □ 帝推五姓陰陽等宅圖經一卷 (P. 2615). Scholars, including Huang Zhengjian (2001, 73), Jin Shenjia (2007, 43), and Kalinowski (2003, 564–565), argue that that P.2636v, P.2962v, P.3492r, and P.3507 also include fragments of Lü Cai’s Yinyang shu. 56.  Lunheng, 25.1028, 25.1032–1038; Qianfu lunjian jiaozheng 潛夫論箋校正, 6.296–298. 57.  DZZJ, 259. 58.  Baihu tong shuzheng, 9.401–402: 姓所以有百者何? 以為古者聖人吹律定姓, 以紀其族. 人 含五常而生, 聲有五音, 宮、商、角、徵、羽, 轉而相雜, 五五二十五, 轉生四時, 故百而異也. 氣殊音 悉備, 故殊百也. 59.  JTS, 79.2725: 今之喪葬吉凶, 皆依五姓便利. 古之葬者, 並在國都之北, 域兆既有常所, 何 取姓墓之義? 趙氏之葬, 並在九原; 漢之山陵, 散在諸處. 上利、下利, 蔑爾不論; 大墓、小墓, 其義 安在? 及其子孫富貴不絕, 或與三代同風, 或分六國而王. 此則五姓之義, 大無稽古; 吉凶之理, 何 從而生? For a technical exposition of this passage, see Chen Yuzhu 2007, 16–18.

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60. The concept of Thirty-Eight Divine Commanders was foundational to medieval Chinese geomancy. The Great and Small Tombs were names of astral deities and did not refer to the size of the tomb. Zhao Mingjin (2014, 21–71) provides the most thorough introduction to the Five Notes and Thirty-Eight Divine Commanders method. 61.  DZZJ, 125. 62. The Kaiyuan li: the third rank and above (138.16–17), fourth and fifth ranks (142.16), and sixth rank and lower (146.12). The Tong dian lays out the standard procedure for all ranks (138.3524–25). 63.  Kaiyuan li, 146.11: 孤子某, 來日某, 卜葬其父某官某甫, 考降, 無有近悔? 64.  Yili, 37.832: 言卜此日葬, 魂神上下, 得無近於咎悔者也. I translate jiuhui as afflictions or regrets, following both Zheng Xuan’s explication and the definitions given in the Shuowen jiezi 說文解字. 65.  Yili, 37.832: 㧾指一切神, 無所偏指也. 66.  Liji, 44.1442: 冀君魂神來依之. 67.  Yili, 35.761: 出入之氣謂之魂, 耳目聰明謂之魄, 死者魂神去, 離於魄, 今欲招取魂來復歸 于魄. 68.  Yili, 40.883. 69.  Liji, 5.187. 70.  Ibid., 21.781–787. 71. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Wan, the Late Gentlemen of Tang” 大唐故處士萬 君墓志銘並序, TMHX, Kaiyuan 049: 蓍龜錯逆, 卦兆相違. 72. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Wu, Wife of Master Fang, Late Administrative Supervisor of the Donghai Commandery held the rank of Gentleman for Court Discussion of Tang” 唐故朝議郎行東海郡錄事參軍房府君吳夫人墓志銘並序, TMHX, Tianbao 076: 謀龜筮 而未協, 踐霜露而增悲. 73. “Muzhiming with Preface of the He-Burial of Master Cui, the Late District Defender of Yancheng of the Caizhou of the Tang” 唐故蔡州郾城縣博陵尉崔府君合祔墓誌銘並序, QTWBY, 8: 109–110: 蓋龜謀未從之故也. 74. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Zhang of Qinghe, Wife of Supreme Pillar of State Master □, Late Left Awesome Guard, Commandant of the Assault-Resistant Garrison of Xiangling in Hezhou, Grand Master for Court Discussion and concurrently Probationary Reviewer of the Court of Judicial Review of the Tang, granted the Purple and Gold Fish Tally” 唐故左威衛和州香林府折沖都尉朝議大夫兼試大理評事賜紫金魚袋上柱國 □ 君夫人清 河張氏墓志銘並序, TMH, 2: Zhenyuan 127: “啟合非古, 周公所傳, 儻夫人之終, 但墳壟相依, 請 絕斯見.” 吾不敢違, 子先父之命乎? 汝可知之. 75.  Liji, 3.106: 葬即卜日得吉, 餘事皆吉可知. 76.  The Chinese calendar is lunisolar. The months alternate between twenty-nine and thirty days with an intercalary month of twenty-nine days added every three years. 77.  Liji, 3.103–104: 外事以剛日, 內事以柔日. 78. Ibid. 79.  For daybooks, see Liu Lexian 1992; Li Ling 2001, 197–216. For an introduction to hemerology in the Qin and Han dynasties, see Dong Tao 2015. 80.  Luheng, 24.989–990: 葬避九空、地臽, 及日之剛柔, 月之奇耦. Liu Tseng-kuei (2009, 920– 921) suggests that the Nine Spaces refers to the Chen 辰 days in the first, fifth, and ninth months; the Si 巳 days in the second, sixth, and tenth months; the Xu 戌 days in the third, seventh, and eleventh months; and the Wei 未 days in the fourth, eighth, and twelfth months. Scholars Fan Zhijun (2006), Liu Tseng-kuei (2007, 2009), and Dong Tao (2015) agree that the method Wang Chong described was not widely practiced before Eastern Han. For medieval people, this restriction alone would further limited available choices. 81.  JTS, 79.2724–2725; XTS, 107.4065. 82. See Dili xinshu jiaoli, 285–286.



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83.  Scholars have turned to the quantitative analysis made possible by tens of thousands of late medieval muzhiming to determine whether popular burial dates match the prescription of divination manuals (Wu Yu 2017; Yi Yang 2019, 68–105). 84.  For the Year Star–Taisui pairing and the Taisui Reckoning, see Chen Chun-Chih 2014; Lai Bao and Zhan Shichuang 2010. This system of recording years is known as the Suixing and Taisui Reckoning (xingsui jinian 星歲紀年). Taisui, as a theoretical planet, was created in part because the Jupiter rotation around the Sun was 11.8622 year rather than 12 to assist Zhou dynasty astronomers in calendrical calculations (Zhouli, 26.823–933). For a technical exposition on medieval Taisui hemerology, see Jin Shenjia 2006, 68–71. 85.  Quan Deyu has official biographies (JTS, 148.4001–4006; XTS, 165.5076–5080), and the inscription of his tomb stele by Han Yu provides additional biographical details (QTW, 562.5687a–5688a). 86.  Officialdom often introduced significant challenges because of the frequent travel it required and the difficulty in securing permission for absences. An auspicious date was so rare that some officials pleaded with the court to be relieved from duties in order to bury family members (see, for example, Chen Zi’ang 陳子昂, “Weiren chenqing biao” 為人陳情表, QTW, 120.2121–2122). 87.  “Tomb Memorial of Master Quan, Editorial Director and posthumously appointed Vice-Director of Palace Library” 著作郎贈祕書少監權君墓表, QTW, 321.3250a; “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Li, Wife of Master Quan, Editorial Director and posthumously appointed Vice-Director of the Palace Library” 著作郎贈祕書少監權公夫人李氏墓誌銘, QTW, 521.5297b–5298a; “Muzhiming of the Joint-burial of Late Grandmother Madame Yang of Hongnong” 王妣夫人宏農楊氏祔葬墓誌銘, QTW, 504.5126b–5127a; “Spirit Memorial to Late Father and Mother” 先公先太君靈表, QTW, 506.5154b–5155a; and “Announcement to Late Father, Lord Xiaozhen” 告先公貞孝公文, QTW, 508.5166b. 88.  QTW, 504.5127a: 言陰陽者, 利在卯酉. 89.  Surname Yang is of Shang note. See Dili xinshu jiaoli, 40. 90.  Surname Li is of Zhi note. See Dili xinshu jiaoli, 42. 91.  JTS, 14.405–410; XTS, 7.205–207; ZZTJ, 236.7606–7624. 92. My account is based on Quan Deyu’s official biographies and his chronological biography (Guo Guangwei 1994a, 1994b). Cheng Ya-ju (2014, 170–171) also painstakingly reconstructs the circumstances leading to the delays based on his career. Her list of suitable dates is, however, incomplete. 93.  QTW, 504.5721a: 歲時之不易, 事物之多故; QTW, 506.5511a: 以歲之不易, 與時之多故. 94.  Guo Guangwei 1994a, 1994b. 95.  Liu Tseng-Kuei 2009; Field 2008, 119–123. 96. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Zhang, Late Court Gentleman for Ceremonial Service and District Defender of Yucheng of Songzhou of the Great Zhou” 大周故將仕郎宋 州虞城縣尉張府君墓志銘並序, TMH, 1: Chang’an 039: 月酉建辰, 歲卯會紀, 凶儀有合墓之禮, 商族是通吉之年, 所謂歷良辰, 死同穴, 即其然也. 97. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Zheng of Yingyang, Wife of Lord Pei, Late Vice-Director of Bureau of Sacrifices in the Chancellery of the Great Tang” 大唐故尚書祠部 員外郎裴公夫人滎陽鄭氏墓志銘並序, TMHX, Tianbao 018: 議者以為歲月未通, 合祔非古, 即用 今載八月十五日安厝於舊塋之傍. 考古從宜, 蓋取諸禮也. 98.  Surname Zheng is of Zhi note. See Dili xinshu jiaoli, 42.285.

Chapter Four: The Hun-Summoning Burial   1.  Li Xiang’gu was a nobleman of royal blood. For his official biographies, see JTS, 131.3641; XTS, 80.3583. In addition to Li Xiang’gu’s official biographies, accounts of Yang Zhanqing’s mutiny and eventual capture and execution could be found in JTS, 15.470,

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16.478–480; XTS, 7.218, 8.222, 163.5009–5010; ZZTJ, 241.7779; QTW, 563.5703a. It appears that the news of mutiny did not reach the capital until November 9 of that year (JTS, 15.470) and the date of Yang Zhanqing’s execution is variously given as May 15 (ZZTJ, 241.7779), July 20 (JTS, 16.478), or September 17, 820 (JTS, 16.478); the inconsistency likely a result of multiple dispatches sent from different individuals.   2. “Muzhiming with Preface of His Excellency Li, Late Governor-general of An’nan, served as Military and Bandit-suppression Commissioner, concurrently Vice Censor-in-chief of the Tang” 唐故安南都護充本管經略招討使兼禦史中丞李公墓志銘並序, QTWBY, 4:100–101.   3. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Li, the Late District Defender of Shanfu in Songzhou of Tang” 唐故宋州單父縣尉李公墓志銘並序, QTWBY, 7:96: 初矢及于屋, 軍吏莫敢 先, 仲孝果作心, 僩然請命, 遂引左袒者遇鬥于門中, 勁忿直前, 後不繼至, 為賊刃所加, 時元和十四 年八月十九日也. 即時詔誅, 凶黨疑懼, 遂愈棄僵屍, 渾亂波瘗.   4. “Muzhiming of Li Xiang’gu”; “Muzhiming of Li Huichang.”  5.  Shuowen jiezi zhu, 601a.   6.  David Hawkes (1985, 219–223) offers a brief analysis of the lyric before presenting his translation. For useful overviews of the scholarships on this lyric, see Zhang Qingli 1987; Zhong Qipeng 2009a, 2009b; Wang Xingfen and Li Bing 2014.   7.  The vital status of the subjects whose hun are being summons has been frequently contested. Liu Gang (2013) offers a good summary of existing opinions.  8.  CZ, 10.1953–57; Hawkes 1985, 223–224. Many scholars identify this unnamed individual who speaks in first person to be the author. However, who the author is has been hotly debated since Western Han. For the most recent surveys of scholarly developments, see Xiong Renkuan 2015, 2020; Zhou Chunyan 2019.  9.  CZ, 10.1957–1963; Hawkes 1985, 224. Many aspects of this conversation have also been disputed (see Chen Weishun 2009; Zhang Fengzhi 2011).  10. CZ, 10.1956–1997; Hawkes 1985, 224–225.  11. CZ, 10.1997–2002; Hawkes 1985, 226. Scholars maintain that shaman (wu 巫) and invoker (zhu 祝) were two separated categories of ritual specialists (see Katō Jōken 1955; Peng Hongcheng 2002; Ye Guoliang 2016). Eastern Han scholar Wang Yi 王逸 (fl. 110s–140s?) glosses that the shaman uses a garment made by Qin people with multicolor threads from the Qi that Zheng people spun together (CZ, 10. 1999). In contrast, Hawkes and Huang Fengxian (2003a, 106–107) suggest that what the Qin people produced is a wicker basket.  12. CZ, 10.1997–2089; Hawkes 1985, 224–229.  13. CZ, 10.2090–2106; Hawkes 1985, 229–230. This unnamed individual seemed to be the same person who speaks at the opening of the lyric (see Xiong Renkuan 2015, 2020; Zhou Chunyan 2019).   14.  For a reconstruction of the hun-summoning rite in this lyric, see Huang Fengxian 2003a, 106–107.  15. CZ, 10.1962–63. Pan Xiaolong (1994, 38) maintains that what was decaying is the body.   16.  Like the “Summons of the Hun,” the identities of the author and the identity of the king whose hun is being summoned are still contested. For useful overviews of existing theories, see Chen Zichan 1980a, 1980b; Zhang Shuguo 2017). Hawkes (1985, 232) discusses the possible individuals who were being summoned.  17. CZ, 16.2733–2737; Hawkes 1985, 233.  18. CZ, 16.2737–2753; Hawkes 1985, 233–234.  19. CZ, 16.2753–2809; Hawkes 1985, 234–237.  20. CZ, 16.2809–2823; Hawkes 1985, 237–238.  21. CZ, 16.2823–2828; Hawkes 1985, 238.



Notes to Pages 156–160

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  22.  Wang Chuanming (2018) provides a useful chart comparing the perils and pleasures enumerated in the two lyrics. Tajima Kaya (2010) analyzes these locales one by one. Wang Chuanming, Tajima Kaya, Zhou Binggao (1999) and Huang Fengxian (2003b) also compare other aspects of the two lyrics but draw different conclusions from one another. My list is my own.  23. CZ, 16.2808; Hawkes 1985, 236.   24.  It is ascertained by placing a thin piece hemp cloth over an individual’s nose and mouth while waiting for them to stop breathing. See Liji, 44.1439: 屬纊以俟絕氣.  25. Yili, 35.761–764: 復者一人, 以爵弁服, 簪裳于衣, 左何之, 扱領于帶. 升自前東榮, 中屋, 北 面招以衣, 曰: “皐某復!” 三. 降衣于前, 受用篋, 升自阼階, 以衣尸. 復者降自後西榮. For alternative translations, see Steele 1917, 2:45; Hawkes 1985, 219. Tan Sijian (1992) annotates the ritual steps in this Yili passage.   26.  For the number and station of the summoners, see Yili, 35.761–762; for the robe worn by the summoner(s), Liji, 44.1441; for the ceremonial robes used to summon, Liji, 40.1360–1361; and for the locations at which to summon, Liji, 8. 284–285.  27. Liji, 19.718–719, 40.1342–1343, 40.1345–1348. For the stipulation restated and expanded to cover deaths under various circumstances, see Liji 44.1441–1444. For the fusummon for the war dead, see Liji, 6.218.   28.  For details, see Liji, 8.284; Yili, 35.764–790.  29. Liji, 9.309: 復, 盡愛之道也, 有禱祠之心焉; 望反諸幽, 求諸鬼神之道也. 北面, 求諸幽之義也.  30. Ibid.: 復謂招魂, 且分禱五祀, 庶幾其精氣之反. See also Zhouli, 6.185–186. The Deities of the Five Phases are Jumang 句芒, the Deity of Wood; Zhurong 祝融, the Deity of Fire; Rushou 蓐收, the Deity of Metal; Xuanming 玄冥, the Deity of Water; and Houtu 后土, the Deity of Earth. The Zhou rulers made blood sacrifices to them every season in the suburbs.   31.  Li Zhigang (2014) discusses the clothes used in both the Chu hun-summoning rite and the classical fu-summon. However, because he treats these summoning rites as one and the same, he also paradoxically argues that the classical fu-summon was therapeutic rather than funerary.  32. SJZ, 7.127: 沛公起兵野戰, 喪皇妣於黃鄉. 天下平定, 使使者以梓宮招幽魂, 於是丹蛇在 水自灑, 躍入梓宮, 其浴處有遺髮, 謚曰昭靈夫人.   33.  Li Xian, posthumously known as Crown Prince Zhanghuai 章懷太子, was the second son of Tang Emperor Gaozong and Empress Wu Zetian. Given his access to the imperial library and his scholarly renown, his account could be the most accurate (HHS, 33.1151): 因作園陵、寑殿、司馬門、鐘簴、衞守. Li Xian’s elaboration is also found in Zhang Zhoujie’s 張守節 (fl. late sixth century) commentary to Shiji (8.341).  34. Yiwen leiju, 96.1666. The Song territory refers to the holding of the Song State conquered by the Qi State in 286 BCE. The Huang Township, also known as the Xiaohuang District, is located in the Chengliu Commandery near what is today Kaifeng city in Henan Province.  35. Han Jiuyi 漢舊儀 (The Old Codes of Han Rituals) stated that “Empress Zhaoling, the mother of Emperor Gaozu, at the time of the uprising died in the north of Xiaohuang; later her landscaped shrine was erected by the palisade of Xiaohuang” 昭靈后, 高祖母, 起兵時死 小黃北, 後為作園廟于小黃柵. When Emperor Guangwu was touring the eastern part of his realm, he passed by Xiaohuang and found her mausoleum was in good repair and ritual sacrifices were made regularly. See HHS, 33.1151; Dongguan Hanji, 15.587.  36. Shiji, 8.342: 吾, 白帝子也, 化為蛇, 當道, 今為赤帝子斬之, 故哭.   37.  The theory of the “Cycle of Five Powers,” associated with Warring States philosopher Zou Yan 鄒衍 (c. 305–240 BCE), explains the rise and fall of regimes through the generative and destructive cycles of the Five Phases (Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth) and their powers. Many Chinese rulers since then had associated their own dynasty with one

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of the five phases. The court would wear ceremonial robes in the corresponding color when the ruler performed the annual sacrifices to Heaven and Earth. In this story, Liu Bang was associated with Fire as red is its color and the son of the Red Emperor (chidi 赤帝), one of Five Emperors (wudi  五帝) in ancient legends. His dynasty replaced the Qin because the latter had claimed itself descent from the White Emperor (baidi 白帝). White is the color of Metal. Fire reduces Metal. For a succinct account of Early Han discussions on the Five Powers, see Han shu, 25.1270–1271; Xi-Han huiyao, 27.1a–3b.   38.  Most of what we know about Grand Princess Xinye comes from Deng Chen’s official biography (HHS, 15.584). Xinye District was part of the Nanyang Commandery in the Han; it is now under the jurisdiction of Nanyang city in Henan Province.  39. The Han imperial couples, as discussed in chapter 2, were not interred together. Dongguan Hanji (10.587) reports that Emperor Guangwu visited her mausoleum. He found it in good repair and the sacrifices were carefully maintained. In contrast, Xi-Han huiyao (19.9b) reports that the maintenance ceased in 43 BCE, resumed in 34 BCE, and then ceased again the following year. Because Dongguan hanji was the official and contemporaneous compiled Eastern Han history when Xi-Han huiyao was assembled in 1211, I follow the former.  40. HHS, 7.324; Dongguan Hanji, 3.114.  41. For instance, Kong Yan 孔衍, a critic of zhaohun-burial claimed, “Nowadays, all those killed by marauders or bandits have no corpse for burial, whose huns are summoned and inhumed” 時有歿在寇賊, 失亡屍喪, 皆招魂而葬, TD, 103.2702.  42. Knapp 2009.  43. TD, 103.2701–2706.   44.  The Chinese classical rule of consanguinity is different from the Western one (see chart 1). The Yili devotes seven fascicles (28–34) of fifty to spell out the specifics, and Liji a further six (32, 33, 44, 45, 57 and 63) of sixty-three, not including those discussions scattered throughout the rest of the two works. Ding Linghua (2000, 9–88) explicates the stipulations of mourning attire in detail.   45.  The prescribed burial and mourning timetables could be found in the Yili (43.959– 966) and Liji (12.444–445, 43.1418–1419, 58.1816–1817). For in-depth discussions of specific changes of attires at each stage for various degrees of relatives, see Tanida Takayuki 1970, 20–54; Ding Linghua 2000, 88–99.  46. The Liji (58.1816–1818) clearly states that the mourning period for first-degree relatives ends after twenty-five months. Nonetheless, early medieval classicists Zheng Xuan and Wang Su disagreed on how to count the months. Wang Su followed the Liji, pointing out that the prescribed event occurs in the month specified. Hence the Lesser Auspicious sacrifice should occur in the twelfth month after death, the Greater Lesser Auspicious sacrifice in the twenty-fourth month and the Dan sacrifice in the twenty-fifth month. In contrast, Zheng Xuan insisted that the prescribed event occurs the month after that was specified. Hence, the Lesser Auspicious sacrifice would occur in the thirteenth month after death, the Greater Lesser Auspicious sacrifice in the twenty-fifth month, and the Dan sacrifice in the twenty-seventh month. He argued that this timetable expresses filial piety more thoroughly than the prescribed one. Zhang Huanjun (2006, 2012) offers a thorough review of their debate and the aftermath.  47. Liji, 40.1399–1400, 56.1790–1796, 57.1807–1808, 58.1816–1817. Any violations would lead to censure, demotion of rank, and immediate removal from office (if any) in addition to shunned by society. Xu Jijun (1998, 177–184, 293–296) discusses the classical stipulations and social expectation at length.  48. Liji, 32.1146–1167: 久而不葬者, 唯主喪者不除；其餘以麻終月數者, 除喪則已; see also TD, 103.2695. 49.  TD, 103.2695: 不孝莫大於無後, 終身不除, 此為絕先人之統, 無乃重乎? Fan Ge quoted from the Mengzi (7b.248). He left no other trace in history. Lu Weijin (2013) offers a survey of the Confucian discussion on this subject from Han to Early Qing.



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 50. TD, 103.2695: 若其父遠征, 軍敗死於戰場, 亡失骸骨, 無所葬, 其服如何? Liu Zhi did not specify when the family should begin mourning in this case. For Liu Zhi’s biography, see JS, 41.1198.   51.  For seminal studies, see Fang Yaguang 1992; Jin Shiwu 1998; Zhu Songlin 2002. For more recent and substantive studies, see Bokenkamp 2007; Shi Guoqiang 2012; Zhang Huanjun 2012; Li Meitian and Li Tong 2019.   52.  Bokenkamp 2007, 60–94.   53.  Zhang Huanjun 2012.   54.  Li Meitian and Li Tong 2019.   55.  Sima Yue has a lengthy biography in the Jin shu (59.1622–25); the author characterizes the cause of his death as illness resulting from worries and fear (youju  憂懼). The events surrounding the burning of his remains and the subsequent massacre are detailed in JS (5.121) and ZZTJ (87.2759–2761). The Jin shu and Zizhi tongjian word Shi Le’s declaration slightly differently. 此人亂天下, 吾為天下報之, 故燒其骨以告天地.   56.  For the most thorough account of this series of events, see ZZTJ, 87.2757–90.2843.   57.  Sima Rui was descended from Sima Yi 司馬懿 (179–251), an eminent statesman and military commander who became the de facto ruler of Cao-Wei dynasty after launching a successful coup in 249. Sima Yi had four sons: Shi 師 (208–255), Zhao 昭 (211–265), Zhou 伷 (227–283), and Lun 倫 (249–301). Zhao’s son Yan 炎 (r. 265–290) founded the Jin dynasty in 265 and Zhou was the grandfather of Sima Rui. Consequently, his house was separated from the main branch of Jin imperial clan before the dynasty was founded.  58. JS, 19.603.   59.  Hucker 1985, 476.   60.  Both Cao Fu and Liu Qia were supporters of Sima Yue; neither has an official biography but are briefly mentioned in the Jin shu several times. The Cao Fu was killed when Luoyang was sacked in 311 (see JS, 5.123, 59.1623). Liu Qia was likely killed by Shi Le along with others in the funeral procession (see JS, 29.1623, 61.1667, 47.2045). Wang Chong left no record.   61.  Stephen Bokenkamp (2007, 73) has looked into the participants’ backgrounds in more detail.  62. TD, 103.2703.   63.  For the full account, see Zuochuan, 44.1436–1439. For Zi Chan’s explanations, see 44.1436: 鬼有所歸, 乃不為厲; 44.1439: 匹夫匹婦強死, 其魂魄猶能馮依於人, 以為淫厲, 況良霄. When Zhuchuan was compiled, it was thought that those of noble birth or were powerful in life remained powerful in death.  64. Liji, 8.279: 葬者, 藏也.  65. TD, 103.2701: 故 “槨周於棺, 棺周於身,” 然則非身無棺, 非棺無槨也. Yuan Gui’s biography (JS, 83.2166–2167) mentions that he advised Sima Rui on Sima Yue’s zhaohun-burial and his advice was followed.  66. Ibid., 103.2702: 迎神而返, 不忍一日離也. I discuss the yu-sacrifice at length in chapter 1. Kong Yan was Confucius’s descendant. For his official biography, see JS, 91.2359.  67. Ibid.: 人死神浮歸天, 形沉歸地, 故為宗廟以賓其神, 衣衾以表其形. 棺周於衣, 槨周於棺. 今失形於彼, 穿塚於此, 知亡者不可以假存, 而無者獨可以偽有哉! 未若之遭禍之地, 備迎神之禮, 宗廟以安之, 哀敬以盡之. Gan Bao was a court historian and noted collector of tales of the strange. For his official biography, see JS, 82.2149–2151.   68.  For a useful introduction of the spirit robe and spirit cart in early medieval death rituals, see Wang Ming 2015.   69.  See also chapter 1 for the transformation of mortuary architecture. The numinous seat should not be confused with chong 重, a wooden object that serves as the temporary spirit tablet (zhu 主) of the deceased before the interment. It is buried outside the ancestral temple following the creation of the permanent one at the time of yu-sacrifice. For detailed studies of the development of in-tomb sacrifices and the numinous seat, see Wu Hung 2010, 64–68; Wang Ningling 2012, 38–44; Li Ting 2015; Hu Xuezhu 2017; Cheng Mingqian 2018.

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  70.  See also chapter 1.  71. TD, 103.2702: 釘魂於棺, 閉神於槨.   72.  Fu Chun has no biography in the Jin shu but is twice mentioned in reference to ritual matters (19.604, 59.1626). This opinion is included in Sima Yue’s official biography in the Jin shu (59.1626): 至於室廟寢廟祊祭非一處, 所以廣求神之道, 而獨不祭於墓, 明非神之所處也. For an alternative translation, see Bokenkamp 2007, 64–65.  73. TD, 103.2703: 且宗廟是烝嘗之常宇, 非為先靈常止此廟也; 猶圓丘是郊祀之常處, 非為天 神常居此丘也. Li Wei is otherwise unknown.  74. Ibid., 103.2703–2704: 神靈止則依形, 出則依主. 墓中之座, 廟中之主, 皆所綴意髣彿耳. 若俱歸形於地, 歸神於天, 則上古之法是, 而招魂之事非也. 若吉凶皆質, 宮不重仞, 墓不封樹, 則 中古之制得, 而招魂之事失也. 若五服有章, 龍旂重旒, 事存送終, 班秩百品, 即生以推亡, 依情以 處禮, 則近代之數密, 招魂之理通矣. 招魂者何必葬乎? 蓋孝子竭心盡哀耳. For an alternative translation, see Bokenkamp 2007, 76–77. Note that Gongsha Xin’s argument closely follows Wang Su’s opinion on hun-summoning and sacrifices inside the tomb in his commentary on Liji’s Sangfu 喪服 (Mourning Attire) chapter.   75.  Interestingly, Sima Rui reserved gravesite sacrifices to his father and grandfather.  76. JS, 6.144, 59.1626; ZZTJ, 2762.   77.  For Sima Yue’s zhaohun-burial, see JS, 83.2166. For the official biography of Sima Chong, see JS, 64.1726. Even Sima Chong’s title, Prince Ai of Donghai 東海哀王, literally the mournful prince of Donghai, expresses Sima Rui’s conflicted feeling toward the older prince.  78. TD, 103.2704. For the princes’ official biographies, see JS, 37.1096–1097, 38.1122–1123, respectively.   79.  For a detailed analysis and full translation of the memorials submitted by Huan Wen and Sun Chuo to Emperor Ai in 362, see Choo 2014.  80. Quan Jin wen, 149.2323b; JS 101.2838–2839: 自頃中州喪亂, 遭兵積年. 或遇傾城之敗, 覆 車之禍, 坑師沈卒, 往往而然. 孤孫煢子, 十室而九. 兼三方岳峙, 父子異邦, 存亡吉凶, 杳成天外. 或 便假一時, 或依嬴博之制, 孝子糜身無補, 順孫心喪靡及, 雖招魂虛葬, 㠯敘罔極之情. 又禮無招葬 之文, 令不此載. 若斯之流, 抱琳琅而無申, 懷英才而不齒, 誠可痛也. 恐非明揚側陋, 務盡時珍之 道. Chang Wei was a noted classical scholar and great debater. He does not have an official biography but is mentioned multiple times in that of Murong Jun, see JS, 101.2832, 2838– 2839.   81.  Fu Jian has biographies in several standard histories. The one in the Jin shu is the most extensive, spreading across juan 103 and 104. Murong Chong does not have any biographies. Nonetheless, his life and especially conflict with Fu Jian are recounted at length in the Jin shu (104.2919–2928), Wei shu (95.2061–2064, 95.2076–2078), and Bei shi (93.3068). The standard histories reported many omens indicating the fall of Formal Qin and the revival of the Yan. The story of the crows is only one of them.  82. JS, 103.2927: 哀諸卿忠誠之意也, 何復已已. 但時運圮喪, 恐無益於國, 空使諸卿坐自夷 滅, 吾所不忍也. 且吾精兵若獸, 利器如霜, 而衄於烏合疲鈍之賊, 豈非天也! 宜善思之.  83. Ibid.: 堅深痛之, 身為設祭而招之曰: “有忠有靈, 來就此庭. 歸汝先父, 勿為妖形.” 歔欷流 涕, 悲不自勝. 眾咸相謂曰: “至尊慈恩如此, 吾等有死無移.”   84.  Murong Chui has multiple official biographies, see JS, 123.3077–3090; WS, 95.2065– 2068; Bei shi, 98.3070–3072. The account of the zhaohun-burials appears in Jin shu (123.3087). The term it uses is zhaohun zang zhi (summon the hun to bury it).  85. WS, 45.1023: 自遷都已來, 凡戰陳之處, 及軍罷兵還之道, 所有骸骼無人覆藏者, 請悉令 州郡戍邏檢行埋掩. 并符出兵之鄉: 其家有死於戎役者, 使皆招魂復魄, 祔祭先靈, 復其年租調; 身 被傷痍者, 免其兵役.  86. Nan shi (54.1344–1346) and Liang shu (44.619–620) both include Xiao Fangdeng’s biographies.  87. TLSY, 19.1364–68, Article 277.



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  88.  Both biographies of Prince Yong’an in JTS (60.2339–2340) and XTS (78.3517) recount the circumstances surrounding his death and subsequent zhaohun-burial.   89.  For the biographies of Empress-Consort Hesi, see JTS, 51.2171; XTS, 76.3485. For the most comprehensive account of Empress-consort Wei’s usurpation, see ZZTJ, 209.6641–6647.  90. JTS, 150.2171: 古無招魂葬之禮, 不可備棺椁, 置轀輬. 宜據漢書郊祀志葬黃帝衣冠於橋 山故事, 以皇后褘衣於陵所寢宮招魂, 置衣於魂輿. 以太牢告祭, 遷衣於寢宮, 舒於御榻之右, 覆以 夷衾而祔葬焉. For a nearly identical version, see THY, 3.23.   91.  The precedent was related in the context of Emperor Wu’s inspection tour of his realm during which the Yellow Emperor’s tomb was a stop. The emperor wished to learn why the mythical king had a tomb if he achieved immortality, see Shi ji, 20. 472–473, 28.1396; Han shu, 25.1233; Xihan huiyao, 8.7b. In the early medieval anecdote collection, Han-Wu gushihan 漢武故事, the individual to whom the emperor posted the question was alchemist Gongsun Qing 公孫卿 (?–?). See Han-Wu gushi, 166.  92. Scholar Zhou, a proponent of zhaohun-burial, cited the Yellow Emperor’s fauxburial for support. His argument was promptly rejected. See TD, 103.2702: 此黃帝亦死, 言 仙, 謬也. 就使必仙, 何議於葬?   93.  See also chapter 1.  94. XTS, 199.5670: 招魂古無傳, 不可. 請如橋山藏衣冠故事, 納后褘衣, 復寢宮, 舉衣魂輅, 告以太牢, 內之方中, 奉帝梓棺右, 覆以夷衾. Tang emperors and the highest-ranking nobility used the sarcophagus as their outer coffin. These sarcophaguses are enormous and resemble a palatial residence, complete with exquisite relief sculptures on the four walls.  95. JTS, 150.2171; XTS, 199.5670. Zizhi tongjian (210.6658) provides greater details on the styles of Empress-consort Hesi’s ceremonial gown, some of which are different from those in the dynastic histories.   96.  This refusal of keeping written records frustrated the court ritualists in subsequent Tang reigns and modern scholars alike. When institutional memory lapsed, the Tang court had to devise the ritual program from scratch (Wu Liyu 2012, 1.4–14, 36–42). More records on summoning rites and zhaohun-burials for people of lower ranks have survived (see Ma Gexia 2012).  97. The Ding Mausoleum has been looted multiple times over the centuries and is almost completely destroyed. What remains of the underground structure has yet to be excavated (Liu Xiangyang 2006, 162).  98. For the official biographies of Empress-consort Suming, see JTS, 51.2176; XTS, 76.3489; and of Empress-consort Zhaocheng, see JTS, 51.2176; XTS, 76.3489–3490. See also ZZTJ, 210.6661.   99.  For Li Chengqi’s official biographies, see JTS, 95.3009; XTS, 81.3596–3599. For Li Chengyi’s biographies, see JTS, 95.3015–3016; XTS, 81.3600–3601. Emperor Xuanzong forced Li Chengqi to yield the position of crown prince to him. Li Chengqi’s posthumous treatment further demonstrates Emperor Xuanzong’s insecurity. The emperor bestowed on him the posthumous title Emperor Rang (rang Huangdi 讓皇帝, “the yielding emperor” or “the abdicated emperor”) and accorded his tomb the status of an imperial mausoleum. The mausoleum was robbed in 1999. A team of archaeologists from the Shaanxi Provincial Archaeology Research Institute carried out a salvage excavation between March 2000 and January 2001 (Liu Qingzhu 2001, 306–307). 100.  The debate is reported in numerous sources, see “Treatise of Rites,” JTS, 25.951. 101.  For the first decree, see QTW, 43.479a–479b. The second decree was part of the general amnesty commemorating Emperor Xuanzong’s abdication (see QTW, 45.493b–495a). 102.  JTS, 52.2191–2193. David McMullen (1999) provides an insightful analysis of Emperor Daizong’s funeral and the politics surrounding it. 103.  JTS, 52.2188: 王者事父孝, 故事天明; 事母孝, 故事地察. 則事天莫先於嚴父, 事地莫盛於 尊親.

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104.  XTS, 77.3501: 吾寧受百罔, 冀一得真. 105.  JTS, 52.2188–2190; XTS, 77.3501–3502; ZZTJ, 236.7622. Emperor Shunzong was gravely ill when he ascended the throne and hence in no shape to oversee his grandmother’s and father’s funerals. He soon abdicated in favor of his son Emperor Xianzong and died. Wu Liyu (2012, 118–127) discusses in depth the logistical and ritual challenges the newly crowned Emperor Xianzong faced. The ritual procedures were exceedingly complicated and fiercely debated by court ritual specialists because the Classics of Rites provided no precedent for an heir to mourn and bury three immediate forebears at the same time. 106. Both JTS (11.268, 52.2186) and XTS (77.3499) recount the coup. 107. See JTS, 52.2188–2203; XTS, 77.3502–3511. Because Emperor Dezong made the gravely ill Lady Wang, birth mother of Emperor Shunzong, empress-consort hours before her death, this case is not an exception to the rule. See JTS, 52.2193; XTS, 77.3502. 108.  This unwritten rule had an unintended consequence. When Emperor Xianzong died, he was succeeded by his eldest surviving son, Emperor Muzong 穆宗 (r. 820–824), next by his eldest grandson, Emperor Jingzong 敬宗 (r. 824–827), then by his second eldest grandson Emperor Wenzong 文宗 (r. 827–840), followed by his ninth grandson Emperor Wuzong 武宗 (r. 840–846), and finally by his thirteenth son Emperor Xiuanzong 宣宗 (r. 846–859). All five monarchs had a different birth mother. All these women, except Emperor Wuzong's birth mother, outlived their son. Thus during Emperor Wuzong, the debate over which lady should be enshrined and entombed with Emperor Muzong broke out (see QTW, 697.7161b, 706.7244b–7245a; THY, 21.410). Emperor Xianzong's chief consort, Lady Guo 郭 (d. 851), outlasted her son and three grandsons but not her stepson. Emperor Xiuanzong resolutely refused to enshrine her with his father to the dismay of his ministers (see Dongguan zouji, 1.86). 109.  For Wei Yuanzhong’s official biographies, see JTS, 92.2945–2955; XTS, 122.4339–4349. 110.  “Text composed on behalf of Wei Yuanzhong for the Sacrifice for Soldiers Perished in Battle at Shiling” 為魏元忠作 祭石嶺戰亡兵士文, QTW, 233.2359b–2360a: 痛茲壯士, 翦為國 殤. 盍訴天帝, 降厲鬼方. 助氣金鼓, 復怨沙場. 虜血爾酹, 虜醢爾嘗. 封屍死所, 招魂故鄉. 尚饗. 111.  “The Second Year of the Zhide Reign, On Just Leaving the Capital from the Golden Light Gate and Seeking the Direction to Fengxian” 至德二載, 甫自京金光門出間道歸鳳翔, QTS, 225.2414: 至今残破胆, 應有未招魂. 112.  “The Bitterness of an Army Wife of a Dispatched Soldier” 征婦怨, QTS, 382.4279: 九 月匈奴殺邊將, 漢軍全沒遼水上; 萬里無人收白骨, 家家城下招魂葬. 113.  JTS, 9.234; ZZTJ, 218.6992. 114.  Zhang Xun has biographies in the dynastic histories (see JTS, 187.4899–4902; XTS, 192.5534–5341). 115.  Both dynastic histories include Xu Yuan’s biographies (see JTS, 187.4902–4903; XTS, 192.5541–5542). For the relative troop strengths, see XTS, 192.5537; ZZTJ, 219.7016. 116.  XTS, 192.5538, 5540. 117.  Ibid., 192.5539–5541. That he did not die with his colleagues brought accusations some years later. Zhang Xun’s son in particular accused Xu Yuan of treason, prompting Han Yu to join in his defense (QTW, 556.5628a). 118.  ZZTJ, 220.7038–7040. 119.  Graff 1995. 120.  QTW, 430.4377a: 以辨巡過, 以塞眾口. Both Li Han’s biography in Xin Tang Shu (203.5777–5778) and QTW (420.4376b–4378b) include the full memorial; Zizhi tongjian (220.7046–7047) includes an excerpt. 121.  QTW, 430.4376b: 君所以不遺於臣, 臣所以不背其君. 君恩臣節, 于是乎立. 122.  Ibid., 430.4377b: 若無巡則無睢陽, 無睢陽則無江淮 123. Ibid.: 損數百之眾, 以全天下 124. Ibid.: 今巡握節而死, 非虧教也; 析骸而爨, 非本情也.



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125. Ibid. 126. Ibid. 127.  Ibid., 430.4378a: 臣又聞強死為厲, 游魂為變, 有所歸往, 則不為災. 巡既身首支離, 將士 等骸骼不掩, 臣謂宜於睢陽城北, 擇一高原, 招魂葬送巡并將士, 大作一墓而葬. 使九泉之魂, 猶思 效命; 三軍之眾, 有以輕生. 既感幽明, 且無冤厲, 亦國家志過旌善, 垂戒百世之義也. 128.  Graff 1995, 12–17. 129.  THY, 45.799–812. These Acts of Grace include the one issued in the fourteenth year of the Dali 大曆 era (779), the twelfth month of the first year of the Jianzhong 建中 era (780), the second month of the first year of the Xingyuan 興元 era (784), and the third day in the first month of the second year of the Dazong 大中 era (848). 130.  For example, see “The Secret Techniques of Marshal Zhang [Xun] of Dongping 東 平張元帥秘法” collected in Daofa huiyuan 道法會元 (DZ. 1241). See CT, 30.579b–588b. 131.  TMHX, Zhenguan 038: 悲鞠育之無依, 思陟岵而永痛, 恨墳塋之靡託, 想瞻拜而莫從. 132.  Dunhuang Manuscripts, P. 2832 BbisP2: 善行無餘慶, 舋積私門, 神何不祐? 天何不恩? 過在吾躬,禍鍾尔身, 悲断手足, 永割愛親, 尔捨我 □, 没奉先人, and 心酸斷乳之苦, 腹碎連臍之 傷. □ 终於塞北, 魂必復於故鄉. Liu Chuanqi (2019) discusses the hun-summoning sacrifices in this and several other manuscripts from Dunhuang. For an example of the wife summoning the hun of the husband, see Wu Zhen 2012. 133. “Muzhiming with Preface of Master Yuan, the late District Defender of Qiantang in Hangzhou of the Tang” 唐故杭州錢唐縣尉元公墓誌銘并序, QTWBY, 2:566–567: 時屬艱虞, 兵戈 未息, 乃權厝於縣佛果寺果園內. 賊臣思明, 再侵京邑, 縱暴豺虎, 毒虐人神, 丘壟遂平, 失其處所. 134. “Muzhiming with Preface of Late Master Wang of the Great Zhou” 大周故王府君墓 誌銘並序, QTWBY, 5:272–273: 痛 □ 年之幼孩, 厥父莫知. . . 饗祭徒勤, 墳隴無紀. 135. “Muzhiming with Preface of Late Gentleman Li of the Tang” 唐故處士隴西李君墓志 銘並序, TMHX, Jinglong 018: 年祀悠遠, 荊棘荒蕪, 恨樵牧之方侵, 嘆封樹之無紀. 136. “Muzhiming with Preface of Madame Yao of Wuxing, Wife of Master Zhang, the Late Former Mobile Corps Commander and Acting Left Commandant of the Courageous Garrison of Jinti in Shuzhou of the Tang” 唐故游擊將軍行蜀州金堤府左果毅都尉張府君夫人 吳興姚氏墓志銘並序, TMH, Zhenyuan 018: 遠之巴蜀, 永別鄉關, 亡櫬委灰, 歸魂未葬, 歲月滋 久, 神識無依. 137.  QTW, 230.2324a–2325a; XTS, 80.2578–2579. 138.  QTW, 230.2324a: 殯殮無主, 封樹缺如. 歲月茫茫, 盡為野草.

Appendix  1. This muzhiming has two published transcriptions: TMH, 1, Chang’an 054, 1029–1031, and Tang wen shiyi 唐文拾遺, 18.10556a (in QTW). My transcription collates two published transcriptions, verified against the digital production of two different rubbings of the muzhiming stone. One is Lot 4877 of the twenty-ninth auction held by China Guardian Auctions 中国嘉德国际拍卖有限公司 in 2012, and the other is provided by Shi Rui 史睿 at the Center for Research of Ancient Chinese History at Peking University.  2. Wang Meichang 王美暢 (d. 698) was a high-ranking official who served Emperor Zhongzong 中宗 (r. 684), Emperor Ruizong 睿宗 (r. 684–690), and Empress Wu Zetian (r. 690–705). His two daughters were Emperor Ruizong’s consorts. Several transmitted and excavated sources documented his ancestry and life. The transmitted sources include “Genealogical Tables of Chief Ministers” 宰相世系表 (XTS, 72.2642), the “Stele of Wang Meichang, the Posthumously Promoted Protector-General of Yizhou of the Tang” 唐贈益州 都督王美暢碑, partially preserved in Jigu lu 集古錄 (see Baoke congbian 寶刻叢編, 2.556). The excavated sources, in addition to Lady Zhangsun’s muzhiming, includes his muzhiming (XSMZ, no. 139) and the muzhiming of his second daughter Wang Fangmei 王芳媚 (673–745) (Sun Huiyang and Li Baifu 2003).

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 3. WS, 113.3006. The seven clans (qizu 七族) were Qigu 紇骨 (later Hu 胡), Pu 普 (later Zhou 周), Baba 拔拔 (later Zhangsun 長孫), Daxi 達奚 (later Xi 奚), Yilou 伊婁 (later Yi 伊), Qiudun 丘敦 (later Qiu 丘) and Hou 侯 (later Hai 亥). The progenitors were the seven brothers of Tuoba Lin 拓跋鄰 (?–?), who was a leader of the Xianbei 鮮卑 tribe that later founded a series of Northern dynasties.  4. WS, 113.3006. Tuoba Lin moreover bestowed the surnames Yizhan 乙旃 (later Shusun 叔孫) on his uncle’s descendants and Jukun 車焜 (later Ju 車) on his more distant relations. These two surnames, plus the seven clans mentioned above, and his own house, Tuoba 拓拔 (later Yuan 元), were known as the Ten Surnames (shixing 十姓).   5.  Locust tree (huai 槐) is a metaphor for the Three Dukes (sangong 三公), the three highest-ranking and titled officials at court, and Bramble (ji 棘) is that for ministers (qing daifu 卿大夫) (see Zhouli, 35.1098).  6. The term jianxiang 縑緗 refers to the fine light-yellow silk for writing. It is a metonymy for books.  7. Zhangsun Chang 長孫敞 has an official biography (see JTS, 183.4726). He was the uncle of Emperor Taizong’s 太宗 beloved wife, Empress-consort Zhangsun (601–636).  8. Zhang Yichang 長孫義常 left no other record.   9.  Her father’s name is not given in the muzhiming. 10. Singing (accompanied by) string instruments (xiange 弦歌) alludes to Ziyou 子游 (506–443 BCE), a student of Confucius, who attempts to transform the local people through music and song (see Lunyu, 17.265–266). Di 翟 is also written as Di 狄 were nomadic tribes from the north. 11.  “Orchid garden” 蘭畹 or “Nine gardens” 九畹 was where Poet Qu Yuan 屈原 allegedly grew his orchids (see CZ, 125–128). Grasses and trees were said to flourish in the “Jade field” 瓊田 in Xuanzi 荀子 (see Xunzi jijie, 1.11). Both terms denote elegance. 12.  The “Three Numina” are Heaven, Earth, and Man. There are different sets of Four Virtues. Here, to parallel the Three Numina, they most likely refer to the Four Virtues of Heaven, the Origin 元, Prevalence 亨, Effortlessness 利, Constance 貞 (Zhouyi, 1.1–2). 13.  The rites and ceremonies refer to the Zhouli 周禮, Yili 儀禮, and Liji 禮記. The Admonitions of Women Scribes (nüshi zhen 女史箴) that Western Jin literati Zhang Hua 張華 (232– 300) composed. He assumed the voice of a “women scribe,” who oversees the rites and ceremonies performed by or for the queen-consort, manages the imperial household, drafts decrees (Zhouli, 8.233), and records the virtues and vices of the queen-consort (Maosai, 2.205–206). 14.  A girl receives the ji-hairpin 笄 when she is fifteen years old at the coming-of-age ceremony, after which she is marriageable (see Liji, 28.1014). 15.  Driving for three revolutions of the (cart) wheel (yulun sanzhou 御輪三周) is part of a wedding ceremony in which the noble lord prepared to ride off with his bride (see Yili, 5.91). 16.  The phrase alludes to the poem “Que Chao” 鵲巢 (Mao, no. 12) that describes the marriage procession to and from the bride’s home (see Maoshi, 1.74–77). 17. Qin-zither and se-lute (qinse 琴瑟), a metaphor for harmonious marriage, comes from the poem “Chang Li” 常棣 (Mao, no. 164); see Maoshi, 9. 670. Branches and stems (tiaomei 條枚) allude to the poem “Ru Fen” 汝墳 (Mao, no. 10) about a noblewoman who could sympathize with her husband and encourage him to adhere to moral principle (see Maoshi, 1.68–69). 18.  Xin Xiao 辛蕭, the wife of Fu Tong 傅統, composed the “Eulogy of the Chrysanthemum” 菊花頌 (see Quan Jin wen, 144.2287b). Madame Chen 陳氏, the wife of Liu Zhen 劉臻, composed “Eulogy of the Pepper Flower” 椒花頌 and presented it to the throne on New Year’s Day (see JS, 96.2517; QJW, 144.2291b). Both women were noted writers; their husbands, though ranking officials at Jin court, are only known to us because of them. This stanza suggests that Lady Zhangsun was also an accomplished writer.



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19.  Commandery Countess 郡君 was of the fourth rank principal class upper grade (4a1). The title was commonly given to the wife and mother of an official of the fourth rank. 20. Shijiao 石窌 was the town that the Marquise of Qi gifted to the wife of the minister in charge of military fortification (bi situ 辟司徒) in 589 BCE for her propriety and concern over her lord’s and father’s well-being (Zuozhuan, 25.801). Liu Bang 劉邦 (r. 206–195 BCE) awarded Yanxiang 延鄉 to the mother of Di 翟母 for saving his life (Yiwen leiju quoted Chenliu Fengsu zhuan, 51.930). These anecdotes and that Wang Meichang did not achieve the fourth rank until 692 CE or shortly thereafter indicate Lady Zhangsun held these titles in her own right. 21.  The term “rest beside the seat” (zhizuo 止坐) alludes to the story in which Jia Yi 賈誼 (200–168 BCE) saw a fabled owl resting beside his chair. Sensing his imminent death, he composed the “Rhapsody on the Houlet” 鵬鳥賦 (see Wen xuan, 13.604–608; Knechtges 1996, 41–49). The term “calamity of the window frame” (chanzai 梴灾), comes from the poem “Ying Wu” 殷武 (Mao, no. 305) (see Maoshi, 20.1725–1726). It refers to chopping straight pine branches to make window frames for the palace. 22.  The term “offer sacrifice at the pillars” 奠楹 means making offering to the dead. Yili dictates that the newly deceased should be laid out between two pillars in the main hall where he or she would receive ritual offerings (see Yili, 12.798). 23. The cypress boat (bozhou 柏舟) alludes to the poem of the same name in Shijing (Mao, no. 26), which in turn alludes to the story of Lady Gongjiang 共姜 in which she refused to remarry after her husband’s death (see Maoshi, 3.212–215). Creeping vines (gelei 葛藟) alludes to the poem of the same name in Shijing (Mao, no. 71) on receiving no support from the family (see Maoshi, 3.212–215). 24. This line is a play on a stanza in Pan Anren’s 潘安仁 “Rhapsody on a Widow” (guaifu fu 寡婦賦), which Knechtges renders, “I point to the sun and swear a silent oath; although my body is alive, my will has died” 獨指景而心誓兮, 雖形存而志隕 (see Wen xuan, 16.739; Knechtges 1996, 189). In the rhapsody, the widow swore that she would follow her husband to death were their children not still too young. 25.  This phrase “lived and then died” (fuxiu 浮休) alludes to Zhuangzi’s comment, “A sage lives as if he is floating through life and dies as if he is resting” 其生若浮, 其死若休 (Zhuangzi jishi, 6.539). The term “going round and round” (huibao 迴薄) again comes from Jia Yi’s “Rhapsody on the Houlet” (see Wen xuan, 13.606; Knechtges 1996, 45). 26.  According to the myth, in the jade fields on the Ancestor Continent (zuzhou 祖州) grew the mushroom-shaped numinous plants that could bring the dead back to life (Hainei Shizhou ji 海內十洲記, 64–65). 27.  The incense made from the roots of the Soul-Returning trees that grew on the Clustered Caves Continent (juku zhou 聚窟洲) could revive the dead. The king of the Kucha (Yuzhi 月支) in the Western Region allegedly presented some to Han Emperor Wu 漢武帝; Hainei Shizhou ji, 67. 28.  Lady Zhangsun quoted Ji Wuzi 季武子 (?–535 BCE) on the Duke of Zhou’s invention of spousal joint-burial (see Liji, 6.198). 29.  “Windblown twigs” 風枝 alludes to the line “The tree desired stillness yet the wind would not stop; the child wishes to [provide] support yet the parents did not wait for it” 樹 欲靜而風不止, 子欲養而親不待也 in Hanshi waizhuan, 9.367. 30.  “Frost and dew” 霜露 describe filial children missing their deceased parents when they performed ancestral sacrifices in autumn (see Liji, 47.1528–1529). 31.  The Hall of Numinous Brilliance was the sole structure surviving after the chaos laid waste to the rest of the palace. The line comes from the “Rhapsody on the Hall of Numinous Brilliance in Lu” 魯靈光殿賦 by Wang Yanshou 王延壽 (see Wen xuan, 11.508; Knechtges 1996, 263).

240

Notes to Pages 199–199

32.  Lingwu is a district established in the Former Qin and located to the east of modern-day Xianyang city in Shaanxi. 33.  “The river branches” alludes to the poem “Jiang you si” 江有汜 in Shijing (Mao, no. 22) (see Maoshi, 1.114–116). The Mao commentary maintains that the poem described the virtue of a good secondary wife (媵 ying; usually the younger sister or cousin of the primary wife). 34.  The missing characters make it difficult to decipher the stanza. 35.  This line plays off a stanza in “Rhapsody on a Widow”; see Wen xuan, 16.740. Knechtges renders it thus: “I gaze up at the portrait of my late husband, look down upon the ground below the springs, where in the gloomy darkness he is hidden in sombrous shades, but he is there in my heart, and I envision him with my eyes” 上瞻兮遺象, 下臨兮泉壤. 窈冥 兮潛翳, 心存兮目想 (Knechtges 1996, 191). 36.  The stanza references a line in Lu Ji’s 陸機 “Rhapsody on Lamenting the Departed” 嘆逝賦; see Wen xuan, 16.725. Knechtges’ translation is “A stream is created by gathering water, and its waters, frothing and foaming, daily pass away” 川閱水以成川, 水滔滔而日度 (Knechtges 1996, 173). 37.  Yuquan is where the sun sets (see Huainan honglei jijie, 3.109).

References

PRIMARY SOURCES BY CATEGORY The Classics [The edition used for the thirteen classics is Li Xueqin 李學勤 et al., Shisanjing zhushu zhengli ben 十三經注疏 (整理本). 26 vols. Beijing: Peking University Press 北京大学出版 社, 2000.] Zhouyi zhengyi 周易正義. Commentaries by Bi Wang 王弼 (226–249) and Han Kangbo 韓康伯 (332–380). Subcommentary by Kong Yingda 孔穎達 (574–648). Shangshu zhengyi 尚書正義. Commentary by Kong Anguo 孔安國 (c. 156–74). Subcommentary by Kong Yingda 孔穎達. Maoshi zhengyi 毛詩正義. Transmission by Mao Heng 毛亨 (n.d.). Commentary by Zheng Xuan 鄭玄. (127–200). Subcommentary by Kong Yingda 孔穎達. Zhouli zhushu 周禮注疏. Commentary by Zheng Xuan 鄭玄. Subcommentary by Jia Gongyan 賈公彦 (fl. seventh century). Yili zhushu 儀禮注疏. Commentary by Zheng Xuan 鄭玄. Subcommentary by Jia Gongyan 賈公彥. Liji Zhengyi 禮記正義. Commentary by Zheng Xuan 鄭玄. Subcommentary by Kong Yingda 孔穎達. Chunqiu Zuozhuan Zhengyi 春秋左傳正義. Commentary by Du Yu 杜預 (222–284). Subcommentary by Kong Yingda 孔穎達. Chunqiu Gongyangzhuan zhushu 春秋公羊傳注疏. Commentary by 何休 (129–182). Subcommentary by Xu Yan 徐彥 (fl. ninth century–tenth century). Chunqiu Guliangzhuan zhushu 春秋穀梁傳注疏. Commentary by Fan Ning 范寧 (339–401). Subcommentary by Yang Shixun 楊士勛 (fl. 6th–7th century). Lunyu zhushu 論語注疏. Commentary by He Yan 何晏 (d. 249). Subcommentary by Xing Bing 邢昺 (932–1010). Erya zhushu 爾雅注疏. Commentary by Guo Pu 郭璞 (276–324). Subcommentary by Xing Bing 邢昺.

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242 References Mengzi zhushu 孟子注疏. Commentary by Zhao Qi 趙岐 (d. 201). Subcommentary by Sun Shi 孫奭 (962–1033). Xiaojing zhushu 孝經注疏. Commentary by Tang Emperor Xuanzong 唐玄宗 (685–762). Subcommentary by Xing Bing 邢昺.

Standard Histories [The edition of the standard histories is Zhonghua shuju dianjiao Ershisi shi 中華書局點 校本. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1960–2009.] Shiji 史記. By Sima Qian 司馬遷 (d. 86). Han shu 漢書. By Ban Gu 班固 (32–92). Hou Han shu 後漢書. By Fan Ye 范曄 (388–445). [HHS] Sanguo zhi 三國志. By Chen Shou 陳壽` (233–297). [SGZ] Jin shu 晉書. By Fang Xuanling 房玄齡 (579–648). [JS] Song shu 宋書. By Shen Yue 沈約 (441–513). Nan Qi shu 南齊書. By Xiao Zixian 蕭子顯 (487–537). Liang shu 梁書. By Yao Silian 姚思廉 (557–637). Wei shu 魏書. By Wei Shou 魏收 (507–572). Nan shi 南史. By Li Yanshou 李延壽 (n.d.). Bei shi 北史. By Li Yanshou 李延壽 (n.d.). Jiu Tang shu 舊唐書. By Liu Xu 劉昫 (888–947). [JTS] Xin Tang shu 新唐書. By Ouyang Xiu 歐陽修 (1007–1072). [XTS] Zizhi tongjian 資治通鑑. By Sima Guang 司馬光 (1019–1086). [ZZTJ]

Modern Muzhiming Anthologies Da Tang xishi bowuguancang muzhi 大唐西市博物館藏墓誌. Edited by Hu Ji 胡戟 and Rong Xinjiang 榮新江. 2 vols. Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 2012. [XSMZ] Luoyang liusan Tangdai muzhi huibian 洛陽流散唐代墓誌彙編. Edited by Mao Yangguang 毛 陽光 and Fuwei Yu 余扶危. 2 vols. Beijing: Guojia tushuguan chubanshe, 2013. [LLMH] Quan Tang wen buyi-Qian Tangzhi zhai xincang zhuangji 全唐文補遺: 千唐誌齋新藏專輯. Edited by Wu Gang 吳剛. Xi’an: Sanqin chubanshe, 2006. [QTWBYX] Tangdai muzhi huibian 唐代墓誌彙編. Edited by Zhou Shaoliang 周紹良 and Zhao Chao 趙超. 2 vols. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1992. [TMH] Tangdai muzhi huibian xuji 唐代墓誌彙編續集. Edited by Zhou Shaoliang 周紹良 and Zhao Chao 趙超. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2001. [TMHX] Xi’an beilin bowuguan xincang muzhi huibian 西安碑林博物館新藏墓誌彙編. Edited by Zhao Liguang 趙力光. 3 vols. Beijing: Xianzhuang shuju, 2007. [BXMH] Xi’an beilin bowuguan xincang muzhi xubian 西安碑林博物館新藏墓誌續編. Zhao Liguang 趙力光. 2 vols. Xi’an: Shanxi shifan daxue chuban zongshe, 2014. [BXMHX] Xinchu Wei-Jin-Nanbeichao muzhi shuzheng 新出魏晋南北朝墓志疏证. Edited by Luo Xin 罗新 and Ye Wei 叶炜. Beijing: Zhonghua Shuju, 2005.

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Index

Bold page numbers refer to figures. achilleomancy (shi), 122–126, 130, 138, 140, 226n45. See also burial divinations afterlife: Buddhist conceptions, 1–2, 9–10, 114, 223n141; changing conceptions of, 34–38, 40; ghosts, 34–35, 36, 67–68, 194; remarriages, 83; underworld, 67, 68, 84, 107. See also Heaven; posthumous marriages agency: of dead, 67–69, 139, 140–141, 150, 151, 158, 194–195; of dying, 46, 68–69, 72, 111–112, 115–116, 140; individual and collective, 14, 117; of loved ones, 69, 116 An Lushan Rebellion: burial delays, 59–60, 98–99, 130, 146–147; burial repatriation during, 52–53; military, 89, 185–189; political aftermath, 54–55, 184; Siege of Suiyang, 185, 186–189, 193; social disruption, 53, 59–60, 89, 99, 146, 185; traumatic memory, 53, 59–60, 184–185, 190; zhaohun-burials of dead, 182–185, 188–189. See also military ancestral altars, 26, 36, 157, 169. See also fu-rite; spirit tablets; yu-sacrifices ancestral sacrifices: at ancestral temples, 12–13, 37, 40–41, 43–44, 108, 166, 168, 169, 181–182, 183–184, 211n62, 212n66; Buddhist, 9–10; court debates, 108, 169–170, 223n131, 236n108; exclusions, 8, 36–37, 44, 212n66; at gravesite, 12–13,

36–38, 40, 42, 43–45, 169–170; at home, 169; locations, 169–170; at mausoleums, 39–40, 41–44, 108, 166, 172, 180; offerings, 35; purposes, 13, 34, 43, 167; at temples, 42; in-tomb, 168–169 ancestral temples, 12, 40–42, 43–44, 171 astronomy, 143–146, 148–149, 229n84 Ban Gu, Han shu, 86, 180 bodies: absence, 153, 159–160, 165, 167–168, 172, 178, 179, 191–192, 232n41; burial preparations, 157–159, 162–163; cannibalism, 186–189, 192; corpses, 1–2, 34–35, 50–51, 62, 83, 125, 139, 155, 167–168, 176, 184; cremation, 111–112, 116–117; exposing the corpse, 1–2, 107, 130, 203n2; as host of souls, 34, 139, 154–156, 170; mutilations, 36–37, 50–51, 61, 165, 172, 176; substitutes, 153, 160, 167–168, 170, 179–180. See also burial practices Buddhism: acceptance in China, 8–9; burial practices, 1–2, 107, 111–112, 116–117, 130, 131, 203n2; challenges to Classicism, 7–9; commemorative rituals, 9–10; devotional practices, 9–10, 111, 114; karma, 2, 9, 116; merit (gongde), 9; monasteries and temples, 1, 99, 111–112, 190; Pure Land, 9, 111, 113–114; rebirths, 9–10, 114, 223n141; Three Levels Movement, 112, 131, 203n2

263

264 Index bureaucracy: civil service examinations, 48, 70; Court of Imperial Sacrifices, 43, 83, 137, 148, 166, 171, 179; development, 19, 204n8; Ministry of Justice, 64; Ministry of Rites, 130, 148. See also officials burial divinations: basic principles, 123–124; canonical, 120, 121–122, 134, 138, 141–142; identity and memory construction, 130–133, 150–151; interpreting results, 124–125, 126–128; manuals, 108, 121, 129, 135, 137, 142; noncanonical, 120, 122, 128–129, 130, 132–133, 136–137, 142–146, 148–149, 150; previous scholarship on, 121; procedures, 121–122; purposes, 137, 138 burial divinations, on burial dates: burial delays caused, 55, 103, 104, 119–120, 140, 146–148, 149–150; canonical procedures, 138, 141–142; noncanonical methods, 142–146, 148–149 burial divinations, on burial sites: canonical, 120, 121–122, 134; contradictory results, 123–125; delays caused, 119–120; differences from date divinations, 138–142; predictions of harm or damage, 123, 125, 126–128; purposes, 122, 128–129, 130–131; for reburials, 61, 130–131, 132–133; siting (kanyu), 122, 128–129, 130, 132–133, 134–135, 136–137 burial instructions: authority, 13, 19–20, 23, 46–47, 67–69, 70–71, 99, 111–112, 116, 140–141, 151; disobeyed, 70–71, 106, 111, 114–117; obeyed, 1–2, 46–47, 69, 84–85, 107–108, 111–112; specific locations, 1, 69, 70, 111, 130; treatments of bodies, 1, 111, 116, 130 burial practices: Buddhist, 1–2, 107, 111–112, 116–117, 130, 131, 203n2; burials in or near monasteries, 1, 99, 111–112, 119, 190; canonical, 26–28; expenses, 50–51; noncanonical and semi-canonical, 10–12, 14. See also bodies; burial divinations; familial joint-burials; graves; spousal joint-burials; zhaohun-burials burial repatriations: for convicts, 63–64; hardship caused by, 24–25, 52–57, 65–67, 191–192; for officials and their families, 24–25, 49–50, 52–53, 54–57, 58–60, 64–67, 105; purposes, 11–12. See also reburials burials: provisional, 11, 51–52, 54–56, 67, 99, 119, 140, 146–147, 173, 190–191; purposes, 11–12. See also reburials

Cai Mo, 76, 77. See also Confucius Cai Yong, 38, 39. See also gravesite sacrifices calligraphers and calligraphy, 15, 16, 19, 20, 21, 116, 131–132 cannibalism, 186–189, 192 Cao Cao, 30, 42, 87, 88, 209nn26–27 Cao clan of Qiao district, 30–31, 42, 209n26. See also family cemeteries Cao Pi, 30, 42, 209–210n27, 211n62 Cao-Wei dynasty: classicists, 76, 87; family cemetery, 30; gravesite ancestral sacrifices rejected, 42–43; mausoleum, 42, 209–210n27; posthumous marriages, 86–87, 88–89; Sima Yi and, 233n57; stone epitaphs, 17 caskets: catalpa, 28, 159, 160, 180, 181; multiple, 28–29; sharing, 29, 71, 87, 89, 91, 94, 95. See also timber-casket graves; zhaohun-burials cemeteries: family, 28, 29–31, 38; royal, 27, 209n12; state, 27. See also graves chamber graves (dongshi mu): configurations, 29, 96–98; development and popularization, 28, 164–165, 168, 210n30; spousal joint-burials, 71, 96–98; in-tomb sacrifices, 212n71 Chang Gun, 60–61 Chang Wei, 173, 234n80. See also military Chang’an: An Lushan Rebellion, 52, 184, 185; burial repatriations to, 49–50, 52, 105; cemeteries near, 70, 130; as Former Qin capital, 174; officials, 48, 49, 174; sackings of, 53, 166 Chen Zi’ang, 101–102, 229n86 chief mourners (zhuren), 39, 62, 122, 138, 139, 163–164. See also mourning Classicism: canon, 3, 16; challenges to, 7–9; Council of the White Tiger Hall, 75–76, 78, 85, 136, 161; debates on divination, 120–121, 124; debates on mourning, 7–8, 162–164; definition, 3; rituals, 4–5, 6–8, 161–162; social identities, 7, 162 Classic of Filial Piety (Xiaojing), 3, 5–6, 128, 132, 133 Classics of Rites, 3, 6, 25, 116, 120, 154, 157–159, 164. See also Liji; Yili; Zhouli Cold Food (hanshi) Festival, 13, 44 concubines, 60, 65, 163, 182, 183, 186, 208n9, 216n143 Confucius: burials of parents, 74–78, 86, 95, 96, 101–102, 115, 162, 206n53, 217n18, 218n30; on consciousness of dead,

105–106; on filial piety, 5, 36; on ghosts and spirits, 34–35; grave of, 212n65; on Ji Zha, 104; on legitimacy of birth, 75–78, 86, 217n18, 218n30; mother of, 74–75, 76–78, 86, 95, 102, 217n18, 218n30; on spousal joint-burial, 95. See also Classicism; Kongzi jiayu; Liji Court of Imperial Sacrifices (taichang boshi), 43, 83, 137, 148, 166, 171, 179. See also bureaucracy cremation. See bodies; burial practices Cui clan of Boling, 57–60, 58. See also identity construction; memory construction Cui Da, Madame, 114–115, 116. See also Buddhism; spousal joint-burials Cui Qun, 119–120 Cui Shu, 132–133, 134, 137. See also burial divinations Cui Xi, 79–80, 82. See also Ding’an Cui Youfu, 57–61, 58. See also familial joint-burials; family identities culture of remembrance, 2, 19–22, 132, 137, 194–196, 204n9. See also memory construction “Cycle of the Five Powers,” 160, 231–232n37 Daizong, Emperor of Tang, 58, 60–61, 65, 89, 130, 182, 183 Daoism, 7, 19, 134, 185, 189, 205n33 Da Tang Kaiyuan li (Ritual Code of the Kaiyuan Era of the Great Tang), 44, 61–63, 121–122, 138 death rituals: Buddhist, 9–10, 203n2; classical, 6–8; importance, 5. See also burial practices; mourning debates: on ancestral sacrifices, 41–42, 43, 108, 169–170, 223n131, 236n108; on Confucius’s legitimate birth, 75–78; on divinations, 124–125; on imperial burials and death rituals, 60–61, 108–110, 236n105; on imperial succession, 108, 223n131; on mourning, 80–82, 162, 163–164; on rituals, 7, 8; on souls, 36, 105–106; on spousal joint-burial, 80, 82–83, 108–111; on zhaohun-burials, 153, 164, 165, 166–171, 172, 177, 179–181, 186–189 deities: astral, 136, 143, 228n60; Buddhist, 114; Earth, 110, 231n30; of Five Phases, 158, 231n30, 231–232n37

Index 265 Dezong, Emperor of Tang, 60–61, 90, 147, 182–184, 192, 236n107 Ding’an, Princess of Tang, 79–80, 82–83, 84. See also marriages; spousal joint-burials divination manuals, 108, 121, 129, 135, 137, 142 divinations. See achilleomancy; burial divinations; plastromancy divorces, 81, 84–85, 93, 118 Donghai, Prince of Jin. See Sima Yue Dou, Lady (Empress-consort Zhaocheng), 181–182 Du Nian, 53–54, 214n117. See also reburials Du You, Tong dian, 76, 80–82, 162–164, 165, 166 Dugu, Lady, consort of Tang Emperor Daizong, 182–183 Dugu, Lady, District Viscountess of Henai, 51 Duke of Pei. See Liu Bang Duke of Zhou, 73, 74, 95, 101–103, 105, 107, 114, 140, 170 Earth: declarations to, 37, 38; element, 126; ghosts and spirits and, 35, 170; god of, 110, 231n30; hun-summoning rites and, 155–156; serving, 182–183; spirit of, 39, 63. See also Heaven Earthly Branches, 126, 127, 135, 143, 149 Eastern Han dynasty: burial practices, 16–17, 46, 86; imperial succession, 42, 212n76; mausoleum sacrifices, 42; mourning practices, 6, 33, 46–47, 86; officials, 30, 31, 41, 180; zhaohun-burials, 159–161. See also Classicism Eastern Jin dynasty: ancestral temples, 171; battles, 174, 175; founding, 43, 165–166; hun-summoning burials, 164–172, 173–174, 177, 180; mausoleum sacrifices, 43, 172; political legitimacy, 43, 171; territorial losses, 43, 162, 171, 172. See also Sima Rui; Sima Yue entombed epitaph inscriptions. See muzhiming familial joint-burials (fuzang): challenges, 11, 18, 47–50, 52–57; classical, 25–28; costs, 34, 50–52, 63; emergence and normalization, 10–12, 18, 25, 30–31, 33–34, 45; filial piety expressed in, 18, 33–34, 45, 47–48, 54, 56, 64; identity and memory construction in, 11, 13, 45;

266 Index lineal-burial, 26–28; as political tool, 61–67; posthumous marriage and, 92–93; relationships and family identity expressed, 29–30, 33, 38, 45, 50, 57–61; sacrifices at gravesites, 12–13, 38–40, 41, 42, 43–45; spatial arrangements, 28, 29–30, 31; tomb styles, 28–29; zhaohunburials and, 12, 178–179, 191. See also burial relocation; burial repatriations; spousal joint-burials; zhaohun-burials families: collective memory, 18, 45; differences from households, 31–33; personal relationships, 3; primogeniture, 11, 26–27, 184; zhaohun-burials, 152, 153. See also familial joint-burials; filial piety; mourning family cemeteries: emergence of practice, 30–31, 38; locations, 28, 31; spatial arrangements, 28, 29–30; zhaomu formation, 26–27, 27, 29 family identities: familial joint-burial and, 11, 29–30, 33, 45–46, 50, 57–61; family cemeteries and, 29–30, 38; gravesite sacrifices and, 38, 45; redefining with reburials, 130–132, 133, 137 Fan Ge, 163–164. See also mourning Fan Xuan, 76, 96. See also Confucius fenzang (fen-burials). See spousal disjointburials filial piety (xiao): burial divinations and, 128–129, 131–134, 137, 140, 148, 150, 151; expressions of, 19–20, 46–47; familial joint-burials and, 18, 33–34, 45, 47–48, 54, 56, 64; in mourning practices, 7–8, 80–82, 173; political legitimacy and, 12, 173; promotions of officials with, 5–6, 131; spousal joint-burials of parents and, 101–102, 140–141; zhaohun-burials and, 12, 178, 189–193. See also ancestral sacrifices; Classic of Filial Piety Five Notes (wuyin) resonance, 134–138, 135, 137 Five Styles of Mourning Apparel (wufu), xxv–xxvii, 6, 26, 205n26 Five Surnames (wuxing) resonance, 134–138, 142–143 Fu Chun, 169. See also zhaohun-burials Fu Jian, Emperor of Former Qin, 174–175, 193. See also military fu-burials. See familial joint-burials funerals. See burial practices; death rituals

fu-rite, 25–26, 35, 169. See also ancestral altars; spirit tablets fu-summon, 139, 157–159, 180–181 fuzang. See familial joint-burials Gan Bao, 167–168, 233n67. See also zhaohun-burials Gaozong, Emperor of Tang, 43–44, 59, 108–110, 113, 223n138, 231n33. See also Wu Zetian Gaozu, Emperor of Tang, 179, 226n43 Gaozu, Emperor of Western Han. See Liu Bang geomancy. See burial divinations, on burial sites ghosts: appearing to living, 36, 41, 64–65, 67–68, 93, 167, 192, 193; Confucius on, 34–35; definitions, 36; fu-summon and, 158; hungry, 9; revenge, 167, 186; sacrifices to, 4, 8, 35, 37; voices, 194; Wang Chong on, 37, 211n59. See also afterlife; souls Gongsha Xin, 170–171, 234n74. See also zhaohun-burials graves: alterations, 30, 101–102; chamber, 28, 29, 71, 96–98, 164–165, 168, 210n30, 212n71; deterioration over time, 128; grave mounds, 12, 47, 96; identity and memory construction at, 165, 167; inscriptions, 14–17; interpretations of visitors, 13–14; numinous seats, 42, 54, 62–63, 109, 168–169, 170; souls residing in, 169–170; timber-casket, 28–29, 95–96, 164, 209n16; visits to, 13, 36–37, 39, 42, 44, 76, 191, 232n39. See also ancestral sacrifices; burial divinations, on burial sites; cemeteries; Cold Food Festival Guan Lu, 130, 226n45. See also divinations Guangwu, Emperor of Eastern Han. See Liu Xiu Guantao, Princess of Western Han, 86, 89 gui. See ghosts Guo Pu, 130, 226n45. See also divinations halls of repose (qin): ancestral sacrifices at, 40, 43, 159–160, 211n62; physical structure, 39, 212n77; state rituals, 42; zhaohun-burials, 159–160, 161, 168, 178–181, 183 Han dynasty: censuses, 32; imperial succession, 42, 212n76; mausoleums, 39,

40, 41, 42; taxation, 32, 33, 48; zhaohunburials, 153. See also Eastern Han; Western Han Han shu, 180 hard and soft days, 141, 142, 143 Heaven: hun-summoning rites and, 155–156; Mandate of, 40, 174, 187; serving, 182–183; spirits in, 35; Way of, 135, 227n55. See also afterlife; souls Heavenly Stems, 126, 127, 135 he-burials. See spousal joint-burials hemerology, 47, 54, 55, 103, 104, 120, 142–150 Hesi, Empress-consort of Tang Emperor Zhongzong, 179–181, 183 hezang. See spousal joint-burials households: censuses, 32; changing views of, 31–33. See also taxation Huai, Emperor of the Jin, 165–166 Huan, Emperor of Han, 31, 161, 210n29 Hui, Duke of Jin State, 124–125 Hui, Emperor of the Jin, 79, 166 huizang, meanings of, 86 hun. See souls hunpo, 34, 50, 154, 155, 156, 158. See also souls hunqi, 34, 35, 104. See also souls hun-shen, 34, 139. See also souls hun-summoning burials. See zhaohunburials hun-summoning rites, 154–159, 173–175, 176 identity construction: burials and, 11, 12, 13, 45, 165, 167; by dead, 194–196; by loved ones, 6, 12, 13, 16, 18, 20–22, 45–46, 82; with muzhiming, 16, 17, 18, 20–22, 45–46; in posthumous marriage, 92–93; reburials and, 130–132; ritual performance and, 3–5. See also family identities imperial ancestral temples, 40–42, 43–44 imperial mausoleums (ling): Ding (of Tang Emperor Zhongzong), 181, 235n94; in enemy-held territories, 43, 166, 169, 171, 172; funerary parks, 42, 83, 192, 209n12, 211n62; Hui (of Tang Empress-consort Suming), 181; Jing (of Tang Empressconsort Zhaocheng), 181; looted, 181, 223n138, 235n97; mausoleum temples, 39–40, 41–42, 180; Qian (of Tang Emperor Gaozong and Wu Zetian), 44, 108–110; Qiao (of Tang Emperor Ruizong), 181,

Index 267 182; sacrifices at, 39–40, 41–44, 108, 166, 172, 180; zhaohun-burials, 179–184. See also halls of repose imperial successions: adoptions, 43, 166; lineal-burials, 26–28; by Liu Xiu, 42; by Sima Rui, 43, 166; by Tang Emperor Zhongzong, 43, 58; of Wu Zetian, 43, 58, 223n131; zhaomu formation, 26–27, 27, 29 Ji Wuzi, 73–74, 85, 100, 101–103, 104, 150. See also Classics of Rites; souls; spousal joint-burials; zhaohun-burials Ji Zha, 35, 100, 103–105. See also Classics of Rites Jia Chong, 78–79. See also spousal jointburials Jia Gongyan, 85–86, 139 Jia Jiqing, 92. See also identity construction; reburials Jia, Madame (d. 711), 113–114, 117. See also Buddhism; spousal joint-burials Jian-Chu constellations, 148–149, 149. See also burial divinations jing, jingqi, and jingshen, 34–35, 36. See also souls Jin shu, 79, 166, 174–175 Jiu Tang shu, 129, 179–180, 181, 183 joint-burials. See familial joint-burials; spousal joint-burials Kaiyuan li. See Da Tang Kaiyuan li kao-jiang, 138–139. See also souls kinship, cogenerative pairs of identities, 3–4. See also families; filial piety; mourning attire Kong Yan, 167, 232n41, 233n66. See also ancestral sacrifices; zhaohun-burials Kong Yingda: on Confucius, 77–78; on divination, 124, 125, 139, 141; on spousal joint-burial, 73–74, 96 Kongzi jiayu (The School Saying of Confucius), 77, 95, 96, 105–106 Kuang Heng, 41 Kudi, Lady, Duchess of Jin State of Tang, 112–113 laws: annulment (yijue), 82, 218n48; divorce, 81, 84; offenses, 61, 213n99, 214n121; punishments, 36–37, 51, 61, 205n26, 213n99; sumptuary, 50–51; Tang Code, 84, 178

268 Index Li Chengqi, 181–182, 235n99. See also Wu Zetian Li Cong, Prince Yiyang of Tang, 191–192, 193. See also Li Xingxiu Li Daoyuan, Shuijing zhu, 123, 159 Li Deyu, 51, 64–67, 66, 68, 69, 216n145 Li Han, 187–189. See also Zhang Xun Li Huan, 67–68, 69. See also agency: of dead Li Huichang, 152–153. See also military; zhaohun-burials Li Jifu, 128, 226n33. See also Li Deyu Li Jiqing, 130–132, 141, 148. See also identity construction; reburials Li, Lady, consort of Duke Xian of Jin, 124–125 Li Shi, 130–131, 226n43. See also Li Jiqing Li Tan, Prince Jian’ning of Tang, 89. See also An Lushan Rebellion; posthumous marriages Li Wei, 169–170. See also zhaohun-burials Li Xian, 159, 231n33. See also zhaohunburials Li Xiang’gu, 152–153, 229n1. See also military; zhaohun-burials Li Xiaoji, Prince Yong’an of Tang, 179. See also zhaohun-burials Li Xingxiu, son of Li Cong, 191–192. See also burial repatriations Li Yangbin, 131. See also calligraphy Li Ye, son of Li Deyu, 65–67. See also Li Deyu Li Zhu, 98, 100. See also identity construction Liji: on burial date selection, 141–142; on burial practices, 28; on Confucius’s parents’ graves, 96; on divination, 124, 139; on fu-summon, 158; on grave mounds, 12; on imperial ancestral temples, 40–41; on joint burial, 26, 95; on marriage, 93; on mourning, 12, 46–47, 163, 213n91, 232n46; references to hezang, 73–75, 77; on ritual performance, 4–5; on soul, 34–36, 103–104; on spousal joint-burial, 2, 26, 103, 105 lineal-burial (zuzang), 26–28. See also zhaomu formation Linghu Tao, 64–65, 67, 69. See also Li Deyu Liu Bang, Han Emperor Gaozu, 41, 159, 160, 161, 231n35, 231–232n37, 239n20 Liu Bang, mother of, 159–160, 161, 166, 172, 179, 231n35, 232n57. See also zhaohunburials

Liu, Lady, empress-consort of Tang Emperor Ruizong. See Suming Liu Mao, 24, 49–50. See also burial repatriations Liu Xiu, Han Emperor Guangwu, 42, 43, 160, 161, 166, 231n35, 232n39. See also Eastern Han dynasty Liu Yuan. See Xinye Liu Zhi, 164, 233n50. See also mourning Lü Cai: “Preface to the Book of Residence,” 134, 136; Yinyang shu (Book of Yinyang), 128–129, 135, 137–138, 142, 227n55 Lu Chong, “Tale of Lu Chong,” 93–94. See also posthumous marriages Lu Ping, 54–56, 54. See also burial repatriations Lu style joint burials, 95, 96–97, 115, 181. See also spousal joint-burials Luoyang: burial repatriations to, 24–25, 53, 56, 65–67, 97–99, 190; cemeteries near, 53, 57, 65, 105, 146; as Northern Wei capital, 176; officials, 61; sackings of, 165–166, 182, 233n60; Tang emperors in, 59; as Yan capital, 186; zhaohun-burials, 153. See also imperial mausoleums Lyrics of Chu (Chuci): compared to fusummon, 158–159; “Great Summons,” 155–156; “Summons of the Hun,” 154–155 Mang, Mount, 59, 132, 160 manuals of letters and ceremonies (shuyi), 90–92 marriages: annulments, 79, 218n48; class endogamy, 92; ended at death, 83–84, 213n101; legitimate sons, 11, 26–27, 39, 75–78, 208n9, 212n66; posthumous, 85–94, 219n68; prenuptial divinations, 88; primary wives, 78–79, 80, 81, 84, 182, 218n40, 240n33; remarriages and stepchildren, 67–68, 79–83, 84–85, 105, 219n54; rites, 77, 90, 92–93; widowhood, 24–25, 32, 51–52, 81, 85–86, 102, 114. See also concubines; divorces; spousal joint-burials memories: collective, 18, 45; individual, 18; private, 171; public, 171; of traumas, 49, 171, 175, 185 memory construction: burial divinations and, 120, 121, 130–134, 137, 141, 150–151; with burials, 11, 13, 45, 165, 167, 192; by

the dying, 194–196; by families, 20–22, 45–46, 194; with muzhiming, 16, 17, 18, 20–22, 45–46; in posthumous marriage, 92–93; by state, 13; zhaohun-burials and, 193. See also culture of remembrance; family identities; political legitimacy migrations: caused by social unrest, warfare, or disasters, 6, 48, 52, 153, 162; factors in, 48; of officials, 48–50, 229n84. See also burial repatriations; zhaohunburials milfoil divination. See achilleomancy military: dynastic conflicts, 159, 160, 165–166, 174–175, 176, 177, 179; hunsummoning rites, 154–156, 157–159, 173–175, 176, 177; rebellions, 152–153, 177, 229–230n1; zhaohun-burials, 166, 173, 184–185, 188–189. See also Siege of Suiyang Min, Emperor of Jin, 166. See also military minghun (netherworld marriage), 85–86. See also posthumous marriages mourning: Buddhist rituals, 9–10; burial delays and, 59–60, 119–120, 139–140, 163–164; classical debates on, 7–8, 162–164; excessiveness in, 6, 205n27; filial piety and, 7–8, 80–82, 173; obligations, 6–7, 26, 80–82, 205n30; official recruitment and, 173; timetables, 9–10, 162–163, 232n46; violations, 60–61. See also chief mourners; death rituals mourning attire: for fathers, 7–8, 82; Five Styles (wufu), xxv–xxvii, 6, 26, 205n26; identity construction and, 6, 82; for mothers, 7, 80–82 Murong clan, 174, 175, 234n81. See also military; zhaohun-burials music: at ancestral sacrifices, 35; Five Notes resonance, 134–138, 135, 137; for funeral processions, 62; pitchpipes, 126 muzhiming (entombed epitaph inscriptions): audiences, 19, 20, 21; circulation, 16, 19, 20, 45, 207n59; durability, 18, 19; evolution, 16–18; functions, 16, 18, 19–20; identity and memory construction with, 16, 17, 18, 20–22, 45–46; physical attributes, 14–15; placement in tombs, 15; previous scholarship on, 16–17, 18, 20; production, 19–20, 21, 22, 207n71; reading challenges, 19, 20–21; reliability, 20–21; textual attributes, 15–16

Index 269 Niu-Li Factional Strife, 64–65 nobility: ancestral temples, 40; barons, 58, 60, 107, 206n52; countesses, 84–85, 98, 106–108, 198; duchesses, 55, 59, 112; dukes, 40, 107–108, 124–125, 159–160, 206n52; princes, 79, 89, 103–104, 165, 185; princesses, 79–80, 82–83, 84, 86, 87, 89, 160–161, 172; rank-groups, 206n52; viscountesses, 49–50, 51, 52–53; viscounts, 60, 206n52. See also individual names Northern Wei, 87, 175–176 numinous seats (lingzuo), 42, 54, 62–63, 109, 168–169, 170. See also graves officials: ancestral temples, 40; burial repatriations, 24–25, 49–50, 52–53, 54–57, 58–60, 64–67, 105; censors, 25, 56, 59, 125; chief ministers, 55, 56, 64, 65, 79–80, 88, 106–107, 112–113, 120, 146, 184, 236n43; court historians, 65, 67, 233n67; directors, 59, 67, 166; directors of Chancellery, 130; editorial directors, 59; erudites, 43, 128, 137–138, 148, 169, 179; exiled, 56–57; factions, 64; filial piety, 5–6, 12, 173; magistrates, 51–52, 54, 59, 92, 105, 185–186, 190; mayors, 49, 61, 186; ministers, 130, 148; posthumous promotions, 67, 89, 130, 160, 177; prefects, 24, 49, 57, 58–59, 68, 185, 186; provincial postings, 24, 48–50; provisional burials, 51–52, 54–55; rank-groups, 206n52; reburials, 58–60, 61–67, 105, 130–131; reburials of family members, 49–50; recruitment, 5–6, 173; secretariat drafters, 58–59; surveillance commissioners, 51; travel by, 48–50, 229n86. See also bureaucracy oracles. See burial divinations Pei, Lady, consort of Sima Yue, 166, 171, 172. See also zhaohun-burials Pei Xuan, 176. See also mourning; officials: recruitment Peng Jingzhi, 43, 110, 179–180, 183 plastromancy (bu), 119, 122–125, 138, 140. See also burial divinations political legitimacy: Buddhism and, 8–9; classical rituals and, 7, 162; familial joint-burials and, 11; filial piety and, 12, 173; mausoleum sacrifices and, 41–45,

270 Index 166; royal cemeteries and, 27; zhaohunburials and, 166, 170–171, 172, 175–177, 178, 181–182, 185, 192 posthumous marriages: bans on, 85–86; criticisms of, 86, 90–91, 92; identity and memory construction and, 92–93; of imperial family members, 86, 87, 88–89; motives of families, 87–88, 93, 219n68; practices, 86–87; rites, 90–93; sharing one casket, 87, 89, 91; terms used, 85–87 primogeniture, 11, 26–27, 184. See also zhaomu formation provisional burials (quanzang), 11, 51–52, 54–56, 67, 99, 119, 140, 146–147, 173, 190–191 Pure Land Buddhism, 9, 111, 113–114. See also Buddhism qi, 34–35, 36, 109, 139. See also souls qianzang. See transferal burial Quan Deyu, 146–148. See also burial divinations; reburials Rebellion of the Eight Princes, 79, 164. See also military; Sima Yue reburials: based on divinations, 61, 130–131, 132–133; identity and memory construction and, 130–132; of officials, 61–67; procedures, 61–63; of spouses, 97–98, 99, 100, 105. See also burial repatriations remembrance, 204n9. See also culture of remembrance; memory construction Rites. See Classics of Rites rituals: classical system, 4–5, 6–8, 161–162; identity construction and, 3–5; marriage, 77, 90, 92–93; noncanonical and semicanonical, 8; posthumous marriages, 90–93. See also death rituals; fu-rite; mourning; sacrifices Ru-ism. See Classicism Ruizhen, Empress-consort of Tang Emperor Daizong, 182–184, 192 Ruizong, Emperor of Tang, 79–80, 106, 181–182, 237n2 sacrifices: suburban, 169, 180; in-tomb, 168, 212n71. See also ancestral sacrifices; mausoleum sacrifices; yu-sacrifices Sacrifices of Repose. See yu-sacrifices sexagenary cycle, 126–128, 127, 141, 147

shamans, 154–156, 230n11 Shen, Lady (Empress-consort Ruizhen), 182–184, 192 Shiji, 38, 39, 75, 76, 77, 86, 160, 212n65 Shijing, 75–76, 95, 96 Shuijing zhu, 159 Shun, sage king, 74, 103, 105 Shunzong, Emperor of Tang, 147, 182, 183, 236n105, 236n107 Siege of Suiyang, 185, 186–189, 193 Sima Qian, Shiji, 38, 39, 75, 76, 77, 86, 160, 212n65 Sima Rui, Prince Langye of Jin: ancestral sacrifices, 43, 169, 234n75; claim to throne, 43, 165, 166, 169; lineage, 233n57; relationship with Sima Yue, 171–172, 234n75, 234n77; zhaohun-burials and, 166, 171–172, 175 Sima Ye. See Min, Emperor of Jin Sima Yue, 165–166, 167, 169, 171–172, 233n55, 233n60. See also military; zhaohun-burials Song, Empress-consort of Han Emperor Ling, 30 souls: alternative terms, 34; ancestral sacrifices for, 34, 35–37, 38–45; changing conceptions of, 34–38, 40, 154; consciousness, 105–108, 115; mobility, 36, 103–105; residences, 40, 169–170; summoning rites, 154–159, 173–175, 176 soul-summoning burials. See zhaohunburials spirit path stele (shendaobei), 112, 113, 191 spirit seats (shenzuo). See numinous seats spirit tablets (zhu), 25–26, 36, 41, 169, 170, 182, 183, 233n69. See also ancestral altars spousal disjoint-burials (fenzang): defenses of, 104, 106, 109–110, 112–113, 149–150; disputes, 78–79; due to divinations, 55–56, 104, 140–141; as expression of filial piety, 70–71; identity construction and, 103; interpretive flexibility, 71, 96–97, 100, 106–108; as posthumous divorce, 72, 82, 93, 118; religious faith and, 111–117 spousal joint-burials (hezang): of Buddhists, 113–114; burial divinations, 119–120, 143, 144, 145, 150; configurations, 94–97; of Confucius’s parents, 74–78; delayed, 78–79, 99, 119–120; as expression of filial piety, 101–102, 140–141; of imperial couples, 79–80, 82–83, 84, 108–111, 179–182, 223n139; implementing, 97–100;

interpretive creativity, 100, 104–105, 106–107; interpretive flexibility, 71, 96–97, 100, 106–108; marriage and, 78–85; normalization, 11–12; planning, 97–100; posthumous marriage and, 85–93, 94; previous scholarship on, 71–72, 73; remarriages, 79–83; spatial configurations, 71, 94–98, 100; terms and definitions, 71; with two wives, 105; zhaohun-burials and, 160, 161, 179–182 spousal joint-burials (hezang), rhetorical devices on, 73–74; “hezang was not an ancient practice,” 2, 73–74, 85, 100, 101–103, 104, 107, 109, 110, 114, 140, 149–150; “the hun-soul has nowhere it cannot reach,” 35, 100, 103–105, 112; “if the hun-soul/the dead has consciousness,” 82, 100, 105–111, 115 Suming, Empress-consort, 181–182 Sun Qiu, 70–71, 93, 116 Suzong, Emperor of Tang, 89, 130, 182, 185, 186–189 Taisui (Anti-Year Star), 143, 144–145, 145, 146, 146, 148, 229n84 Taizong, Emperor of Tang, 111, 129, 192 Tang Xuan: “Tale of Tang Xuan,” 83–84. See also ghosts; spousal joint-burials Tang Code (Tang lü), 84, 178 Tang court: ancestral sacrifices, 13, 43, 44; imperial succession, 43–44, 181–182; memory construction, 64–67, 182–183; Niu-Li Factional Strife, 64–65; pacifying the dead, 88–89, 179, 184–189; political legitimation, 44, 108, 110–111, 181–182; public expressions of filial piety, 13, 44, 47, 181–184, 191–192; rebellions, 52, 89, 152–153; rewarding loyalty, 89, 184–189; ritual stipulations, 44, 61–63, 122, 138; social regulations, 44, 50–51, 63–64. See also Wu Zetian taxation, 31–32, 33, 48 Three Levels Movement (Sanjie jiao), 112, 131, 203n2. See also Buddhism timber-casket graves (muguo mu), 28–29, 95–96, 164, 209n16 tomb-quelling writs (zhengmu wen), 37–38, 87, 88, 219n68 Tong dian, 76, 80–81, 162–163, 165, 166 tortoiseshell. See plastromancy transferal burial (qianzang), 85–86

Index 271 Wang Chong, Lunheng, 36–37, 38, 40, 135, 142, 211n59 Wang Jian, “On Death Ritual,” 17 Wang Shi, 81–82. See also mourning Wang Su, 76, 77, 95, 217n23, 232n46, 234n74. See also Confucius; mourning Wang Tongjiao, 79–80, 82–83, 84, 218n35. See also Ding’an Wang Wan, Lady (d. 696), Dowager Commandery Countess of Langye, 106–108 Wang Wan, Lady (d. 746), Commandery Countess of Yishui, 84–85 Wang Xin, 1–2, 19–20. See also Zhangsun, Lady Wang Yao, 80, 82, 218n47. See also Ding’an Wei Dong, 88–89. See also posthumous marriages Wei Ji, 24, 49–50, 213n105 Wei, Lady (d. 711), Countess of Fuyang Commandery, 46–47, 68 Wei, Lady, Empress-consort of Tang Emperor Zhongzong, 79–80, 88–89, 179 Wei Meimei, 46, 68 Wei style joint burials, 95, 96, 114–115, 140. See also spousal joint-burials Wei Xun (673–692), 88, 89. See also posthumous marriages Wei Xun (d. 836), 24–25, 24 Wei Yuanzhong, 184. See also military Wen Yuan, 24–25, 24 Wenzong, Emperor of Tang, 64, 236n108 Western Han dynasty: ancestral temples, 42; burial practices, 28, 96, 223n139; mausoleum sacrifices, 39, 40, 41; taxes, 32 Western Jin dynasty: ancestral sacrifices, 43; downfall, 165–166; founder, 166; Rebellion of the Eight Princes, 78, 79, 164; spousal joint-burial disputes, 78–79 Western Zhou dynasty, 3, 75, 85, 95–96, 100, 143. See also Duke of Zhou Wu, Emperor of Han, 32, 180, 235n91, 239n27 Wu, Emperor of Jin, 78, 166 Wu Zetian, Empress-consort of Tang Emperor Gaozong, Empress-regnant of Zhou: ancestral temples, 43–44; burial instructions, 108–111, 113; chief ministers, 106–107, 184; natal family, 43–44, 79; officials, 58–59, 108, 112, 224n144, 237n2; reign, 43, 59, 106, 107, 108;

272 Index spousal joint-burial, 44, 108–111; succession, 43, 58, 223n131; victims, 88, 179, 181, 191 Wuzong, Emperor of Tang, 64, 236n108 Xiahou Gua, 82, 84 Xiahou, Madame, 47, 213n93. See also filial piety Xian, Duke of Jin, 124–125 Xianzong, Emperor of Tang: chief ministers, 65, 120, 146; funerals of forebears, 182–183, 236n105; rebellion against, 152–153; regency, 147; succession, 236n108 Xiao Fangdeng, 176–177. See also military Xiao Yi, Emperor Yuan of Liang, 176–177 Xiao Zhizhong, 88, 89, 93 Xiaojing. See Classic of Filial Piety Xiaowen, Emperor of Northern Wei, 176 Xie Lingyun, 123, 125 Xin Tang shu, 89, 129, 131, 180, 185, 191 Xinye, Princess of Eastern Han, 160–161, 172 Xiuanzong, Emperor of Tang: accession, 236n108; on burial repatriations of convicts, 63–64; chief ministers, 55, 56, 64; relationship with Li Deyu, 65, 67, 216n145 Xu Yuan, 186, 189, 236n117. See also Siege of Suiyang Xuanwu, Emperor of Northern Wei, 175–176 Xuanzong, Emperor of Tang: abdication, 182; advisors, 226n43; chief ministers, 112–113, 236n43; children of, 82; claim to throne, 181–182, 235n99; edict on burials, 50–51; on gravesite ancestral sacrifices, 44; during An Lushan Rebellion, 185; petition on spousal joint-burial, 80, 83; reburial rules, 61 Yan Shansi, 108–111, 113, 223n129, 223nn138–139 Yan Zheng (mother of Confucius): joint burial, 74–75, 76–77, 86, 95, 102; marriage, 75, 76–78, 217n18, 218n30. See also Confucius Yang clan of Hongnong, 30, 31. See also family cemeteries Yang Yun, Lady, District Viscountess of Hongnong, 52–53. See also An Lushan Rebellion

Yang Zhanqing, rebellion by, 152–153, 229–230n1 Yang Zhen, 30–31. See also Yang clan of Hongnong Yang Zhi, 18 Yangzi River, 6, 25, 166 yarrow stalks. See achilleomancy Year Star (suixing), 143–145, 145 Yellow Emperor, 135, 179–180, 227n55, 235n91 Yili (Ceremonies and Etiquette), 3, 122, 138, 157 Ying Shao, 38, 39 Yinyang shu (Book of Yinyang), 128–129, 135, 138, 142, 227n55 Yong’an, Prince of Tang. See Li Xiaoji Yu Weizhi, 81–82, 218n44. See also mourning Yuan, Emperor of Han, 41–42. See also mausoleum sacrifices Yuan Gui, 167, 233n65. See also zhaohunburials Yun, Madame, 111–112, 116–117. See also Pure Land Buddhism yu-sacrifices (yuji), 35–36, 53, 63, 139, 165, 167, 169, 233n69 Zhang Rong, 76–77. See also Confucius Zhang Ruofan, 115–116. See also spousal joint-burials Zhang Xun, 185–189. See also Siege of Suiyang Zhang Yue, 112–113, 184, 192 Zhangsun, Lady, Commandery Countess of Huaide, 1–2, 8, 10, 13, 19–20, 21, 197–201 Zhao, Lady (Empress-consort Hesi), 179–181, 183 Zhaocheng, Empress-consort of Tang Emperor Ruizong, 181–182 zhaohun-burials (zhaohun-zang; soulsummoning burials): banned by Sima Rui, 43, 171–172; debates on, 153, 164, 165, 166–171, 172, 177, 179–181, 186–189; in early medieval period, 161–173, 175–177, 192; emergence of practice, 153, 159–161; examples, 152–153; in Han dynasty, 153, 159–161; liturgies, 178, 179–181; meanings of term, 154, 169; normalization, 11, 162, 164, 165, 192; politics and, 165, 171, 172, 173, 175–177, 192; popularity, 153; previous scholarship on, 164–165;

private, 12, 52, 189–191, 193; purposes, 12, 161, 170–171, 175, 177, 178, 181–182, 188, 189, 192–193; references in muzhiming, 189–191; with spouses, 160, 161, 179–182; state-sponsored, 175–176, 177, 178, 179–185, 188, 192; in Tang dynasty, 177–185, 188–192 Zhaoling, Lady. See Liu Bang, mother of zhaomu formation, 26–27, 27, 29 Zheng, Madame (wife of Lu Ping), 54–56 Zheng Qian, 98–99, 100 Zheng Qinyue, 126–128. See also divinations Zheng Xuan: on burial divination, 122, 139; on Confucius’s legitimate birth, 75–76, 77; on Confucius’s parents’ burials, 75, 77, 95; on fu-summon, 158; on kao-jiang, 139; on mourning, 163–164, 232n46; on

Index 273 posthumous marriage, 85, 86, 87, 90–91, 92; on souls, 139; on spousal joint-burial, 73, 74, 76, 90–91, 95; on yu-sacrifices, 35 Zheng Yuqing, 90. See also Classicism Zhongzong, Emperor of Tang: ancestral sacrifices, 43–44; chief ministers, 79–80, 88, 106–107; children of, 79; consorts of, 88, 179–181; death, 179; Ding Mausoleum, 181, 235n94; funerary park, 83; officials, 223n129; parents’ burials, 108, 110–111; posthumous marriages and, 88 Zhou dynasty, 170, 229n84. See also Western Zhou Zhouli (Rites of Zhou), 3, 27, 39, 85, 86, 101–102 Zhuang, Duke, of Zheng, 107–108 Zuochuan (Zuo Tradition), 107, 124, 167

About the Author

Jessey J. C. Choo is associate professor of Chinese history and religion at Rutgers University–New Brunswick. She is coeditor of Tales from Tang Dynasty China: Selections from the Taiping Guangji (2017) and Early Medieval China: A Sourcebook (2014).