The Inner Quarters

and Beyond
Women and Gender
in China Studies
Edited by
Grace S. Fong
McGill University

Editorial Board
Louise Edwards
Robin D.S. Yates
Harriet T. Zurndorfer

VOLUME 4
 The Inner Quarters
and Beyond
Women Writers from Ming through Qing

Edited by
Grace S. Fong and Ellen Widmer

LEIDEN • BOSTON
2010
Cover Illustration: Woman at desk with dog and cat, ink and color on silk, China,
eighteenth century, artist unknown.
Photograph courtesy of the Peabody Essex Museum, Salem, Massachusetts (E37274).
Photographer: Mark Sexton

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

The inner quarters and beyond : women writers from Ming through Qing / edited by
Grace Fong and Ellen Widmer.
p. cm. — (Women and gender in China studies ; v. 4)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-90-04-18521-0 (hardback : alk. paper)
1. Chinese literature—Women authors—History and criticism. 2. Women in
literature. 3. Women and literature—China—History. 4. Women—China—Intellectual
life. 5. Women authors, Chinese—Political and social views. I. Fong, Grace S., 1948–
II. Widmer, Ellen. III. Title. IV. Series.

PL2278.I66 2010
895.1’099287—dc22
2010013798

ISSN 1877-5772
ISBN 978 90 04 18521 0

Copyright 2010 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing,
IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
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Fees are subject to change.

printed in the netherlands

 CONTENTS

List of Figures ..................................................................................... ix

Note on Translation of Chinese Titles ........................................... xi
Acknowledgments .............................................................................. xiii

Introduction
Grace S. Fong .................................................................................. 1

PART I

IN THE DOMESTIC REALM

Chapter One
Writing and Illness: A Feminine Condition in Women’s Poetry
of the Ming and Qing ................................................................... 19
Grace S. Fong

Chapter Two
Lamenting the Dead: Women’s Performance of Grief in Late
Imperial China ............................................................................... 49
Anne E. McLaren

PART II

LARGER HORIZONS: EDITING AND ITS IMPLICATIONS

Chapter Three
Retrieving the Past: Women Editors and Women’s Poetry,
1636–1941 ....................................................................................... 81
Ellen Widmer

Chapter Four
The Unseen Hand: Contextualizing Luo Qilan and
Her Anthologies ............................................................................ 107
Robyn Hamilton
vi contents

Chapter Five
From Private Life to Public Performances: The Constituted
Memory and (Re)writings of the Early-Qing Woman
Wu Zongai ...................................................................................... 141
Wei Hua

PART III

BEYOND PRESCRIBED ROLES

Chapter Six
Women Writers and Gender Boundaries during the
Ming-Qing Transition .................................................................. 179
Wai-yee Li

Chapter Seven
Chan Friends: Poetic Exchanges between Gentry Women and
Buddhist Nuns in Seventeenth-Century China ....................... 215
Beata Grant

Chapter Eight
War, Violence, and the Metaphor of Blood in Tanci Narratives
by Women Authors ...................................................................... 249
Siao-chen Hu

PART IV

THE PERSONAL IS POLITICAL: RESPONDING

TO THE OUTSIDE WORLD

Chapter Nine
The Lady and the State: Women’s Writings in Times of
Trouble during the Nineteenth Century ................................... 283
Susan Mann

Chapter Ten
Imagining History and the State: Fujian Guixiu (Genteel Ladies)
at Home and on the Road ........................................................... 315
Guotong Li
 contents vii

Chapter Eleven
Xue Shaohui and Her Poetic Chronicle of Late
Qing Reforms ................................................................................. 339
Nanxiu Qian

CONCLUSION

Literary Authorship by Late Imperial Governing-Class Chinese

Women and the Emergence of a “Minor Literature” ............. 375
Maureen Robertson

The Inner Quarters and Beyond: Women Writers from Ming

through Qing and Its Deliberations on a “Minor
Literature” ....................................................................................... 387
Ellen Widmer

About the Contributors .................................................................... 391

Bibliography ........................................................................................ 395
Index .................................................................................................... 415
 LIST OF FIGURES AND TABLES

Figures

Figure 1. Ding Yicheng, “[Luo Qilan] Viewing Mt. Ping in

Springtime” ..................................................................................... 125

Figure 2. Luo Qilan in “The Later Three Female Disciples” ...... 128

Tables

Table 1. The seventeen female poets anthologized in Luo

Qilan’s Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren ji in order of first
appearance and their inclusion in Yuan Mei’s Suiyuan
nüdizi shijixuan ............................................................................. 140

Table 2. Contents of Xu liefu shichao (1875 edition) .................. 173

Table 3. Contents of Taoxi xue (1847, 1874 and 1875

editions) .......................................................................................... 175
 NOTE ON TRANSLATIONS OF CHINESE TITLES

With regard to the translation of Chinese titles of anthologies, lit-

erary collections, books, articles, and titles of poems, since there is
not one universally accepted translation for any Chinese title, we do
not impose a standard translation for Chinese titles cited in this vol-
ume. When a Chinese title appears for the first time in a chapter, the
romanized title will be followed by the original Chinese graphs, and a
translation will be provided in parenthesis. All subsequent citations in
the same chapter will be to the romanized title only. As there will be
variations in translating the same Chinese title by the contributors, the
Bibliography for the volume will only provide the romanization and
graphs, but not translations, of Chinese titles.
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The editors wish to convey their thanks to the several individuals and
funding sources whose support underlay the Harvard conference.
Underwritten by the ACLS and the Chiang Ching-kuo Foundation,
the planning committee was comprised of Cynthia Brokaw, Grace
Fong, Hua Wei, Wilt Idema, Susan Mann, Ellen Widmer, and Zhang
Hongsheng. The conference program was based on the recommen-
dations of this committee. Under its director Roderick MacFarquhar,
the Fairbank Center at Harvard graciously agreed to provide logistical
support as well as to supply a venue for the meeting. Thanks especially
to Wen-hao Tien, Ron Suleski, and Susan McHone for energetically
working toward a successful meeting. The Fairbank Center also sup-
ported us financially, as did the Harvard University Asia Center, under
director Anthony Saich, and the Harvard-Yenching Institute, directed
by Tu Wei-ming and administered by Peter Kelley.
We also express our gratitude to James Cheng, Director of the Har-
vard-Yenching Library, who has given moral support and professional
expertise at many phases of our work, from the McGill-Harvard web-
site to the conference preparation and meeting.
Another round of thanks goes to those who attended the confer-
ence and to Mr. Arthur Lau, Governor Emeritus of McGill Univer-
sity, who hosted the final dinner banquet. In addition to those whose
publications appear below, there were the following individuals who
presented papers: Chung Hui-ling, Deng Hongmei, Ding Yizhuang,
Li Xiaorong, Lin Mei-yi, Lü Weijing, Yu Li, Zhang Hongsheng, and
Zhang Yu. A second group provided discussion on individual papers
or commentary on the project as a whole: Peter Bol, Cynthia Brokaw,
Mark Elliott, Clara Wing-chung Ho, Wilt Idema, Atsuko Sakaki, Xiao-
fei Tian, Karen Thornber, Judith Zeitlin, and Harriet Zurndorfer.
The transition from presentations to volume was engineered by
the two editors in consultation with the planning committee, which
functioned as an advisory committee. We are particularly indebted to
Cynthia Brokaw for taking the time to set down a detailed vision of
how the volume might be configured. Once the papers were revised
another round of assistance was needed before the current volume
could emerge. Grace Fong’s team of graduate editorial assistants at
xiv acknowledgments

McGill included Chris Byrne, Melissa Curley, and Wang Wanming.

Just when the paper writers thought they had arrived at a final version
these sharp-eyed young scholars found errors to correct and stylistic
inconsistencies to iron out. Their work became a signal contribution
in its own right. The Harvard-Yenching Institute (now directed by
Elizabeth Perry) and Wellesley College provided the support through
which this fine editorial team could be employed. Last but not least,
we would like to thank the anonymous reader of our manuscript for
the objective eye, enthusiastic response, and astute comments that
brought final improvements to the volume.
In acknowledging our debt to all these individuals and funding
sources, we mean to imply that without them our dream of a confer-
ence and new volume on women’s writings would never have materi-
alized. We end by saluting the women writers of traditional China who
continue to inspire us to this day.
 INTRODUCTION

Grace S. Fong

What’s in a Text? Re(dis)covering Chinese Women’s

Literary Collections

As long ago as 1992, Charlotte Furth, in her introduction to a special

issue of Late Imperial China on women’s literary culture, noted the
impact on research of the “recovery of a very substantial body of liter-
ary production by late imperial upper-class women.”1 In retrospect,
“rediscovery” of women writers, rather than “recovery” of their texts,
would have been a more appropriate description of the state of the
field at that time. With the 1985 publication of the revised edition of
Lidai funü zhuzuo kao (Women’s writings through
the ages) compiled by Hu Wenkai (1901–1988), scholars first
became aware of the rich tradition of writing by women in China,
particularly during the last two imperial dynasties, the Ming (1368–
1644) and the Qing (1644–1911).2 Now a new reprint with supple-
ments edited by Zhang Hongsheng , the Lidai funü zhuzuo kao
(zengdingban) ( ) (Women’s writings through
the ages [expanded edition]), has just been published. It contains
much new material retrieved from local gazetteers and libraries.3 With
over 4000 entries on recorded collections of writings by women from
the Han dynasty to the Republican period, the new edition of Hu’s
work is the most comprehensive catalogue of Chinese women’s writ-
ings to date and has brought the realization that—to use Kang-i Sun
Chang’s now oft-quoted statement—“[n]o other nation has produced
more anthologies or collections of women’s poetry than late imperial

1
“Poetry and Women’s Culture in Late Imperial China: Editor’s Introduction,” in
Special Issue “Symposium on Poetry and Women’s Culture in Late Imperial China,”
Late Imperial China 13.1 (1992): 1.
2
Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1985. The first edition was published in 1957
by Shangwu yinshuguan in Shanghai.
3
This latest edition (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2008) is another measure
of the importance of Hu’s work for the burgeoning research on Chinese women’s
literary culture.
2 introduction

China.”4 Indeed, the rediscovery of pre-Republican Chinese women’s

poetry and other writings by social and cultural historians and literary
scholars in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries has led
to new critical and methodological approaches, reoriented and shaped
research agendas, and shifted the terms of historical inquiry. The
results have yielded some of the most exciting historical, literary, and
interdisciplinary scholarship both in the West and greater China.5
Cultural and social historians Dorothy Ko and Susan Mann both
conducted archival research in China and Japan to excavate texts by
women in writing their pioneering histories of women’s culture from
the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries.6 A decade after the publica-
tion of Precious Records: Women in China’s Long Eighteenth Century
(1997), Susan Mann, deftly interpreting and employing the abundant
literary writings of three generations of women—among an array of
other historical sources used, recreated a women-centered history of
the Zhang family from nineteenth-century Changzhou in the
Yangzi Delta region and re-presented these women’s subjectivities and
historical agency in a “novel” narrative form in her award-winning
book, The Talented Women of the Zhang Family.7 The use of texts writ-
ten by women as primary documentary sources in support of their
arguments has brought new evidence and fresh viewpoints to the revi-
sionist histories produced by Ko and Mann. In significant ways, it is
when we take into account what women themselves recorded of their
words and actions, of their emotions and life experiences that we have
been able to deconstruct simplistic stereotypes to arrive at alternative
perspectives and reveal the rich complexities that made up the fabric
of Chinese society and culture.

4
Kang-i Sun Chang, “Ming and Qing Anthologies of Women’s Poetry and Their
Selectin Strategies,” in Writing Women in Late Imperial China, ed. Kang-i Sun Chang
and Ellen Widmer (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 147.
5
Some of the most germane products of this women-centered scholarship (some
of which are discussed below) can be seen in the Bibliography of this volume. They
include works by or edited by scholars such as Chung Hui-ling , Clara Ho (Liu
Yongcong ), Dorothy Ko, Susan Mann, Zhang Hongsheng, Harriet Zurndor-
fer, as well as some of the contributors to this volume.
6
Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers: Women and Culture in Seventeenth-Cen-
tury China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994), and Mann, Precious Records:
Women in China’s Long Eighteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1997).
7
The Talented Women of the Zhang Family (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 2007) was awarded the John K. Fairbank Prize in East Asian History by the
American Historical Association in 2008.
 introduction 3

Nevertheless, women who had the educational opportunities at

home to become literate and chose to write were only a small minority
of all pre-modern Chinese women. Those whose works have survived
constitute an even smaller percentage. But that women did read and
write and persisted in doing so under varied, sometimes difficult, cir-
cumstances, with some of them achieving literary reputations in their
lifetimes, is a significant historical and cultural phenomenon whose
ramifications have yet to be fully elaborated. Working with women’s
texts, literary scholars such as Kang-i Sun Chang, Beata Grant, Mau-
reen Robertson, and Ellen Widmer, among others, have approached
women’s writing, particularly their poetry, as negotiation and interven-
tion in the dominant literary tradition and as articulation of gendered
voice and subjectivity in specific poetic genres. Using these as their
primary source material, they have also mapped particular women’s
literary and social networks, anthologizing practices, and aspects of
their family and religious life.
Yet literary scholars, with their critical focus on textual production,
have had to face some fundamental impediments in their research on
Ming-Qing women’s writing. At the most basic level, not only has it
been necessary to locate texts written by women, which now survive
mostly in rare book archives in China, but it has also been impor-
tant to examine enough of these texts to discern patterns of writing
and publication. While Hu Wenkai’s catalogue provides evidence for
a significant corpus of texts produced by women, it has also made us
acutely aware of the lack of availability of these individual collections
for research. In the 1990s, the sources we relied on were manifold, but
the most easily accessible tended to be a few large late Ming and Qing
anthologies of women’s poetry or anthologies with a section contain-
ing women’s poetry, several of which were compiled by literati, such
as the well-known Mingyuan shigui (Sources for poetry of
notable women, 1626) attributed to Zhong Xing (1574–1625)
and the massive Xiefangji (Collection of gathered fragrance,
1785–1795) compiled by Wang Qishu (1728–1799). Kang-i
Sun Chang’s pioneering study introduced a basic list of twelve anthol-
ogies.8 The two notable anthologies compiled and edited by women—

8
See Kang-i Sun Chang, “A Guide to Ming-Ch’ing Anthologies of Female Poetry
and Their Selection Strategies,” The Gest Library Journal 5 (1992): 119–160; reprinted
as “Ming and Qing Anthologies of Women’s Poetry and Their Selection Strategies,”
147–170. Of course other anthologies, in addition to the list in Chang’s article, and
4 introduction

Mingyuan shiwei (Classics of poetry by notable women,

1667) by Wang Duanshu (1621–c. 1685) and Guochao guixiu
zhengshi ji (Anthology of correct beginnings by bou-
doir talents of our dynasty, 1831) by Yun Zhu (1771–1833)—
have received more extensive treatment by a number of scholars.9
Some of these anthologies were better known, others had larger print
runs and were more widely circulated, thus making them better pre-
served and transmitted than smaller literary collections by individual
women, whose writings were issued in small print runs and were often
sponsored by family members as a form of cultural capital.
The work of Dorothy Ko and others has demonstrated the conjunc-
tion of social, cultural, and economic trends, commercial printing,
family publication, the privatization of family life in the Ming and
Qing, among other factors, that contributed to the growing prevalence
of educating girls in elite families in some regions, particularly the
Yangzi Delta area. Women themselves also recorded how eagerly they
pursued the opportunity for learning given them at home by their par-
ents, and they continued to write poetry throughout their lives, often
using it as a mode of autobiographical recording. Many topics and
themes in these women’s poetry mirror those of their male counter-
parts and partners, the scholar-literati. Poetry was also for women a
form of personal communication and social exchange. Women wrote
occasional pieces, contemplative poetry, travel poems, inscriptions on
literary works and paintings, poems about their everyday experiences,
whether in the inner quarters in times of peace or as fugitives fleeing
wars and rebellions in times of social and political disorder, as we shall
see in the chapters in this volume. In addition, there are subjects and

some individual women’s poetry collections were also used in the early phase of
research into women’s literary culture. See for example Ellen Widmer’s use of anthol-
ogies of letters in “The Epistolary World of Female Talent in Seventeenth-Century
China,” Late Imperial China 10.2 (1989): 1–43; and other anthologies in the Special
Issue “Symposium on Poetry and Women’s Culture in Late Imperial China,” Late
Imperial China 13.1 (1992).
9
On Wang Duanshu and her Mingyuan shiwei, see the important study by Ellen
Widmer, “Ming Loyalism and the Woman’s Voice in Fiction after Hong lou meng,”
in Widmer and Chang, Writing Women, 366–396; and Grace S. Fong, “Gender and
Reading: Form, Rhetoric, and Community in Women’s Poetic Criticism,” in Herself
an Author: Gender, Agency, and Writing in Late Imperial China (Honolulu: University
of Hawaii Press, 2008), 138–142. Susan Mann devotes a section in the chapter “Writ-
ing” to Yun Zhu and her anthologizing project, see Precious Records, 94–117; see also
Xiaorong Li, “Gender and Textual Politics during the Qing Dynasty: The Case of the
Zhengshi ji,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 69.1 (2009): 75–107.
 introduction 5

occasions that were particularly gendered feminine, such as poems on

embroidering and suicide poems.10 Efforts to examine in-depth wom-
en’s textual production in late imperial China continue in concert with
efforts to advance accessibility.
Realizing the problem arising from the inaccessibility of women-
authored texts, feminist scholars of European and American literature
initiated projects to preserve and make available collections of women’s
writings for research, and their efforts have gained ground in the West
since the 1980s and 1990s. Now, large facsimile or transcribed editions
of early modern women’s writings have been published, exemplified
by the ambitious project The Early Modern Englishwoman: A Fac-
simile Library of Essential Works.11 Furthermore, electronic resources
on women writers of early modern Europe are also available on the
web. For example, the Brown University Women Writers Project pro-
duced the searchable Women Writers Online database devoted to early
modern women’s writing,12 and the ARTFL French Women Writers
Project at the University of Chicago is “a searchable database con-
taining works by French women authors from the 16th to the 19th
century.”13
In the China field, scholars conducting research on Ming and Qing
women discovered the treasure trove of women’s writings in the Hart
Collection at the Harvard-Yenching Library.14 The fifty-three titles

10
See my articles “Female Hands: Embroidery as a Knowledge Field in Women’s
Everyday Life in Late Imperial and Republican China,” Late Imperial China 25.1
(2004): 1–58; and “Signifying Bodies: The Cultural Significance of Suicide Writings
by Women in Ming-Qing China,” Nan Nü: Men, Women and Gender in Early and
Imperial China 3.1 (2001): 105–142.
11
A multi-series, multi-set collection of facsimile reproductions of writings by
women and about women from the early modern period (1500–1750) in England
began publication in 1996 by the Ashgate Publication Company. More than seventy
volumes have been published so far. On the transformation of the history of early
modern England the availability of these texts has brought, see Bette S. Travitsky and
Anne Lake Prescott, “Preface by the General Editors,” in The Early Modern English-
woman: A Facsimile Library of Essential Works, Series III, Essential Works for the
Study of Early Modern Women, Part 2, 8 vols. (Aldershot, Hants; Burlington, VT:
Ashgate Publishing Co., 2007), 8: vii.
12
http://www.wwp.brown.edu/.
13
http://www.lib.uchicago.edu/efts/ARTFL/projects/FWW/. This website is a com-
ponent of the Project for American and French Research on the Treasury of the
French Language (ARTFL). The website indicates that the project is a collaboration
between the Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique (CNRS) in Paris and the
University of Chicago.
14
In 1983, the descendents of Professor Robert Hart donated his personal collec-
tion of close to three hundred rare Chinese books to the Harvard-Yenching Library.
6 introduction

of writings by women of the Ming and Qing in the Hart Collection

together with another forty-some in the regular Chinese holdings
make up a substantial corpus of writings by historical Chinese women
in the Harvard-Yenching Library unmatched by university libraries in
the Western world and, with few exceptions, even in China.15 Apart
from several late Ming anthologies of women’s writings, the majority
of titles date from the Qing period, and most are individual women’s
literary collections (bieji ). In order to make this valuable col-
lection of writings by women of the Ming-Qing period widely acces-
sible for scholarly research, McGill University collaborated with the
Harvard-Yenching Library in a joint digitization project from 2003–
2005 to create the Ming Qing Women’s Writings database and website.16
The present volume results from a group of scholars’ engagement
with these women’s texts accessible on the website and represents
their endeavor to increase awareness of the range of women’s writ-
ings from pre-modern China, to explore their richness, and to revise
the history of Chinese literature and pre-modern culture by bringing
women’s experiences and literary production to the center of analysis.
Several essays in this volume draw considerably on the texts and other
resources, such as search functions, in Ming Qing Women’s Writings to
explore generic and thematic topics whose data are otherwise difficult
to extrapolate, whereas most of the other essays draw on this database
in a more conventional way by using it primarily to read the texts of
one or two particular collections.
In this period of recuperation, serious translation projects of Chinese
women’s writings were also undertaken to make their works available
to a more general readership. The groundbreaking efforts of Kang-i
Sun Chang, with the collaboration of Haun Saussy, brought together
a team of more than forty scholars to translate poems and poetic
criticism by nearly one hundred and fifty women poets—the major-

Professor Robert Hart is not to be confused with the famous Sir Robert Hart (1835–
1911), who worked for the Qing government as the Inspector General of China’s
Imperial Maritime Customs Service. According to Mr. James Cheng , the
Director of the Harvard-Yenching Library, little is known about Prof. Robert Hart
except that he taught at the University of California at Berkeley.
15
Among university libraries (emphasis added), only the Peking University Library
holds a larger collection of Ming Qing women’s writings. The National Library no
doubt holds a larger collection, as do the Nanjing Library and Shanghai Library.
16
Grace S. Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings, http://digital.library.mcgill.ca/
mingqing. See “Introduction” for details of the collection.
 introduction 7

ity from the Ming and Qing, and produced the pioneering anthol-
ogy Women Writers of Traditional China: An Anthology of Poetry and
Criticism.17 More recently, in The Red Brush: Writing Women of Impe-
rial China, Wilt Idema and Beata Grant offer an impressive collection
of translations of Chinese women’s writings in a wide-range of genres,
thoughtfully contextualized through the provision of biographical and
historical information in a broadly chronological history of women’s
literature.18

Women as Writers in the Ming and Qing

In a recent survey of Western scholarship on Chinese women writers,

Wilt Idema remarks on the sharp rise in publications in this area since
the late 1980s.19 In addition to the 1992 special issue of Late Imperial
China previously mentioned and the women-centered histories and
translation works introduced above, seminal studies have been pub-
lished in journals such as Late Imperial China, Ming Studies, Chinese
Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews, not to mention the leading journal
Nan Nü: Men, Women and Gender in China, inaugurated in 1999.
Two signpost volumes of essays will highlight the difference in empha-
sis and approach between earlier scholarship and the present volume.
The first is Writing Women in Late Imperial China (1997), edited by
Ellen Widmer and Kang-i Sun Chang. In the introduction, Widmer
explains the meaning of the term “writing women” used in the title:
As for “writing women,” scholarship of the past ten years has only
just begun to document their role in this lively period [of late imperial
China]. Interest has focused on two groups of women—the high-level

17
Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999. Selections of poems, song lyrics, and
literary prefaces by one hundred and forty-three women poets from the Han to the
end of the Qing dynasty, among whom one hundred and eleven are from the Ming
and Qing periods. The anthology also contains critical prefaces on women’s writings
by twenty-eight male poets and critics.
18
Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2004.
19
Yi Weide (Wilt Idema), “Ying-Mei xuejie dui lidai Zhongguo nüxing
zuojia de yanjiu” , in Meiguo Hafo daxue Hafo
Yanjing tushuguan cang Ming Qing funü zhushu huikan
, ed. Fang Xiujie (Grace Fong) and Yi Weide
(Wilt Idema) (Guilin: Guangxi shifan daxue chubanshe, 2009). See also the “Litera-
ture” index in the bibliography by Robin D. S. Yates, Women in China from Earliest
Times to the Present: A Bibliography of Studies in Western Languages (Leiden: Brill,
2009).
8 introduction

courtesans, whose wit and style enlivened urban culture during the late
Ming in particular; and the cloistered women of established families,
who had begun to read and write at home. . . . Equally germane to this
volume are the works by men about the new “writing woman.” These
began appearing in the second half of the sixteenth century.20 (Emphasis
in the original)
Indeed, the volume reflects the fascination in earlier research with the
elite late Ming courtesans, whose beauty, talent, and love made them
into romanticized cultural icons, not only in their own time but well
into the twentieth century.21 The first and largest section of the vol-
ume (with five essays) is entitled “Writing the Courtesan,” where the
critical interest lies as much, if not more, in how these women were
inscribed as in what or how they inscribed themselves; courtesans were
doubly written about—by the authors of the essays who were writing
about how courtesans were recorded and represented by male literati
in various genres. Most of the other essays in Writing Women in Late
Imperial China also concern various male constructions of the ideal
woman and the feminine. In fact, only two essays, “Changing the Sub-
ject: Gender and Self-inscription in Author’s Prefaces and Shi Poetry”
by Maureen Robertson and “Ming Loyalism and the Woman’s Voice
in Fiction after Hong lou meng” by Ellen Widmer, focus on women’s
own textual practices. Robertson explores their gendered rhetoric and
strategies of self-representation while Widmer probes into the con-
ditions for women’s ventures into genres other than poetry, such as
biography and fiction, in the particular historical moments of the
Ming-Qing transition and the late Qing.
The second signpost volume, Chinese Women in the Imperial Past:
New Perspectives, edited by Harriet Zurndorfer, was published two
years later in 1999. It also includes only two essays (out of nine) that
are directly related to women writers and their publications: “Little
Vimalakirti: Buddhism and Poetry in the Writings of Chiang Chu
(1764–1804)” by Beata Grant and “Encouragement from the Opposite
Gender: Male Scholars and Women’s Publications in Ch’ing China,

20
“Introduction,” Writing Women in Late Imperial China, 2.
21
Two works were highly influential in setting this trend: Kang-i Sun Chang’s book
on the love affair between the Ming loyalist Chen Zilong (1608–1647) and
the courtesan Liu Rushi (1617–1664), The Late Ming Poet Ch’en Tzu-lung:
Crises of Love and Loyalism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991); and Chen
Yinke’s (Chen Yinque) monumental biography Liu Rushi biezhuan
(Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1980).
 introduction 9

A Bibliographic Study” by Clara Wing-Chung Ho.22 The chronologi-

cal scope (1000–1800) and multidisciplinary range of the volume in
part explain the narrow coverage of women as writers. As Zurndorfer
notes in the introduction, the Song (960–1278) was a period when
“women’s access to . . . literary culture was limited.”23 The diversity of
sources related to women and the typologies of women examined—
ranging from wedding ritual manuals to encyclopedias, from widows
and shrews to midwives—show that while the focus of the volume
is on Chinese women, women as writers constitute only one feature
within this multidisciplinary framework.
What research currents in the past two decades have uncovered and
elucidated is the indisputable presence of women poets and writers in
the social, cultural, and political landscape of the Ming through Qing.
What are the effects of this presence? Daughters in liberal families in
the Ming and Qing received training in reading and writing, espe-
cially in poetry as the genre appropriate for women’s self-expression
and communication, but, with few exceptions, the average woman’s
life course led inexorably to marriage and her domestic roles as wife
(daughter-in-law) and mother. How then does the role or subject posi-
tion of poet-writer intersect with and articulate women’s domestic,
social, and religious roles? After marriage, the opportunity to engage
in writing in a regular and sustained manner varied greatly among
women and among families. The attitude of the husband, his parents,
and the general environment of his family were often crucial factors
in determining whether a woman could or would continue to write.
The fact that Hu Wenkai recorded more than 4000 individual literary
collections by women from this period is strong evidence of women’s
own efforts and persistence. But, as Clara Ho and others have illus-
trated with equally strong evidence, it is only through the indispen-
sible support, encouragement, and efforts from others, most notably
husbands, fathers, and other close male kin, that women’s writings
were published and preserved.24

22
In Chinese Women in the Imperial Past: New Perspectives, ed. Harriet Zurndorfer
(Leiden: Brill, 1999), 286–307 and 308–353, respectively.
23
“Introduction: Some Salient Remarks on Chinese Women in the Imperial Past
(1000–1800),” in Zurndorfer, Chinese Women, 2.
24
See especially Ho, “Encouragement from the Opposite Gender: Male Scholars’
Interests in Women’s Publications in Ch’ing China—A Bibliographical Study,” in
Zurndorfer, Chinese Women, 308–353.
10 introduction

The Gendered Production of Space in Writing: Framework

and Organization

As indicated by the title The Inner Quarters and Beyond: Women Writ-
ers from Ming through Qing, two concepts underlie the organization
of the present volume: gender and spatiality. Restated in historically
and culturally specific terms, gender translates into an analytic focus
on women as writers from the Ming through Qing and on the effects
of their textual production in relational terms; spatiality here refers to
the organizing notion of the inner quarters as the locus of gendered
writing practices and the intellectual, imaginative, and social spaces
that were produced within and beyond it. By using a spatial metaphor
derived from women’s lived experience—the inner quarters (guige
), the conceptual frame of the volume calls attention to how the
chapters problematize the relation of women’s writing practices to
Confucian gender ideology.
Because of women’s proper place and function in the home, which
complemented men’s proper place and function in the world outside,
women’s writing, when it was produced, had no sanctioned function
or status in public life. It is common knowledge that women were
excluded from participating in the civil service examination system
and barred from serving in the state bureaucracy throughout Chinese
history.25 By examining women’s textual practices in a spatial frame-
work, we aim to call into question the normative gendered division
of space in pre-modern Chinese culture into inner (nei ) and outer
(wai ). In the process we reject the binary ascription to the “inner
quarters” of an utopian space of female culture and homosociality on
the one hand, and, on the other, a dystopian margin of abject female
existence. Significantly for this volume, our conceptual framework and
its critical edge were not externally imposed but arose out of our col-
lective engagement with women as writers from the Ming through
Qing. Through their very writings the women discussed in the essays
show how they destabilized apparently fixed boundaries and exposed
their permeability. These women writers created interstitial spaces of
hope and desire, subtle zones of affect and aspiration, nuanced and
not so nuanced articulations of personhood through complex and

25
Except briefly under the reign of Wu Zetian , the only woman ever to
reign as Emperor, when she established the Zhou Dynasty (690–704).
 introduction 11

diverse textual and thematic forms. The resulting spatial movement

from inner to outer, the crossing of boundaries between personal and
social and public spheres, and in a fundamental sense, the historical
enlargement or expansion of women’s space in and through writing
inform the organization of the volume into the Four Parts.
The two essays in Part I, “In the Domestic Realm,” take up two
subgenres of women’s poetry that were produced and performed in
the very precinct of the inner quarters or home. Grace Fong’s chapter,
“Writing and Illness: A Feminine Condition in Ming-Qing Women’s
Poetry,” investigates the topos of illness in elite women’s poetry and
its relation to writing in everyday life. Drawing on a large repertory of
poems from the Ming Qing Women’s Writings database that ostensibly
inscribe the occasion of illness, Fong provides a poetic taxonomy of
illness and puts women’s repertory in a comparative framework by
juxtaposing it to poetry on this topic by elite men. She demonstrates
the gendered difference in the experience and representation of ill-
ness. Noteworthy is the way in which women manipulate the potential
of illness for constructing an alternative space—often a creative and
imaginative one—in their quotidian lives. Anne McLaren also takes a
comparative approach in her study of the “performance” of grief by
women in pre-modern Chinese society. In “Lamenting the Dead: Wom-
en’s Performance of Grief in Late Imperial China,” McLaren examines
the age-old ritual practice of bridal laments and funeral laments by
village women of Nanhui in Jiangnan and the late Ming phenomenon
of the gentry women of Jiangnan writing poems mourning their close
deceased kin. She compares the “rules of the genre” for the expression
of gender-specific grievance in the expressive culture of both literate
and illiterate women. In the process she offers new insights into the
boundaries of female protest in pre-modern China. Her conclusion
critiques the biased view shown by the “progressive” Chinese male of
the late nineteenth and early twentieth century towards “traditional”
women’s poetry and its supposed “affected emotionality.”
The studies by Fong and McLaren focus on how women’s writ-
ing practices are associated with aspects of the “female condition”—
whether on the physical, metaphoric, or ritual level, and whether as
lived experience or gender-specific duty. In both cases the setting is
the home or domestic sphere, peopled mainly by kinfolk. The chapters
in Part II take the critical inquiry to “larger horizons” by turning to
the practice of editing and compiling literary anthologies, an activ-
ity which, for the women who assumed the position of compiler and
12 introduction

editor, noticeably moved into a non-kin related space and position of

authority. Building on her expert knowledge of women’s anthologies
and advancements made in the accessibility of sources, Ellen Wid-
mer in her study, “Retrieving the Past: Women Editors and Women’s
Poetry, 1636–1941,” discusses six women editors, their varied moti-
vations in editing, and the resulting anthologies of women’s poetry
compiled and edited by them. These works date from the late Ming
to the end of the Republican period and are examined in a broad
comparative framework which provides an overview of the history of
women’s anthologizing projects. In contrast, Robyn Hamilton’s study,
“The Unseen Hand: Contextualizing Luo Qilan (fl.1795) and Her
Anthologies,” concentrates on one woman poet who produced several
anthologies. Luo Qilan (1755–after 1813) was widowed early.
She avidly pursued a literary life in circles of contemporary women
poets and male mentors such as Yuan Mei (1716–1798). Her
talents and interests, and especially her social contacts—the women
and men included in her anthologies and profiled in Hamilton’s chap-
ter, lead away from the secluded space of the inner quarters into the
stylish world of what Hamilton calls “late eighteenth-century liter-
ary aristocracy.” Perhaps partly as reaction to the increasingly open
social interaction of literary women in the late eighteenth and early
nineteenth century, and partly in response to the destruction wrought
by foreign incursions and internal rebellions in the mid-nineteenth
century, the editors and compilers, all male, examined in Wei Hua’s
chapter, “From Private Life to Public Performances: The Constituted
Memory and Writings of the Early Qing Woman Wu Zongai,” reveal
the ethical bent behind their interest in compiling the poetry collec-
tion of Wu Zongai (1650–1674), who apparently committed
suicide to save the people in her native county from being harmed by
rebels. This case study illustrates the longstanding tradition of male
commemorators, which resurrects the life and poetry of a woman and
turns her into a moral exemplar, at times with seemingly mixed moti-
vations. Here the movement of Wu Zongai and her texts from “pri-
vate” to “public” is effected not by the agency of the woman herself,
but by the motivations of male editors, biographers, and playwrights.
This chapter reminds us of the shaping effect of male interventions on
the ways women writers were remembered.
While women writers from the Ming through Qing did demonstrate
their identification with normative gender roles, many also questioned
and transgressed these roles in multiple ways and by multiple means.
 introduction 13

We can recuperate some of these by reading their textual practices. In

their homosocial, questioning, and transgressive textual voices, new
forces were generated and uncharted affective spaces explored. The
three chapters in Part III, “Beyond Prescribed Roles,” study examples
of these textual “expeditions” and crossings undertaken by women
writers. In “Women Writers and Gender Boundaries during the Ming-
Qing Transition,” Wai-yee Li examines the remarkable, gender-defy-
ing poetic voices produced by several women who lived through this
traumatic period of dynastic conquest. By analyzing their poetry, Li
shows how women actively involved in loyalist resistance transcended
traditional gender roles, with some self-consciously developing a mar-
tial, heroic self-image and the trope of fluid gender boundaries. To Li,
women’s discontent with the limits of gender roles at this historical
juncture could become the precondition and impetus for, or the con-
sequence of, political engagement. Their articulation of valor foreshad-
ows the strong voice of social criticism and political consciousness in
a later generation of women writers as they witnessed the devastating
disorder of the nineteenth century (see Susan Mann’s chapter in the
next section). While the women poets in Beata Grant’s study, “Chan
Friends: Poetic Exchanges between Gentry Women and Buddhist
Nuns in Seventeenth-Century China,” also lived during the Ming-Qing
transition, these gentry women and Buddhist nuns crossed the spatial
and social boundaries between them in another way, not because of
dislocation and disruption, but because of the shared commonality of
learning and literary training between members of these two groups
of women. While the laywoman was inspired by the nun’s freedom
from domestic constraints and transcendence of worldly attachments,
the monastic woman poet was able to share her literary achievements
with appreciative secular friends. Thus she could continue to participate
in literary networks to which some of them belonged before entering
the religious life. The literary friendships they formed thus created for
members of both groups an enlarged spiritual and intellectual space
that defied conventional limits on female behavior. Siao-chen Hu’s
essay, “War, Violence, and the Metaphor of Blood in Tanci Narratives
by Women Authors,” analyzes gender transgressions not so much in
the lives and social practices of women writers but in the violence
enacted by female characters in the tanci verse novels that they
authored. Written by and for women, this distinctly feminine type of
tanci allowed women authors to explore radical gender crossings in
fictional form. In the process, their literary representations achieved
14 introduction

what was denied historical women. Hu’s study focuses on several late
Qing tanci that depict women’s success on the battlefield—literal and
metaphoric. These women authors seem to have delighted in creat-
ing scenes of graphic violence in which women fought as warriors,
not victims. This bloodshed becomes a metaphor for loyalty, love, and
passion. These gentry women might have been writing in their inner
quarters, but their literary imagination roamed far beyond the space
of prescribed gender roles, and this creative movement holds true for
many poets in addition to writers of tanci.
From literary representations of women warriors we return, in Part
IV, to feminine visions of historical reality in the late empire. This
section is entitled “The Personal Is Political: Responding to the Out-
side World.” We begin with “Imagining History and the State: Fujian
Guixiu (Genteel Ladies) at Home and on the Road,” Guotong Li’s study
of how gentlewomen of the southeastern province Fujian constructed
their experience of home and empire in their sojourning as family
members with male officials. Here we find the “peaceful” imaginings
of subjects whose sense of belonging in the historical and geographi-
cal space of empire had not yet been ruptured by the harsh realities
of the second half of the nineteenth century. These gentle, sometimes
nostalgic voices stand in stark contrast to the growing concern and
sense of crisis expressed by the women writers examined in Susan
Mann’s chapter, “The Lady and the State: Women’s Writings in Times
of Trouble during the Nineteenth Century.” The examples discussed
by Mann clearly delineate the spatial and topical reconfigurations in
women’s poetry. Whether writing at home or on the run as refugees
fleeing rebellions, women writers took up a broadening range of poetic
subjects: they commented on social ills, statecraft policies, and politi-
cal problems. They recorded these times of trouble and dared to voice
where they stood in the disintegrating empire of the nineteenth cen-
tury even when they felt powerless to save it. This chapter illuminates
the discrepancy between the sense of urgency expressed by educated
women in their poetry and male reformers’ disregard of or blindness
to women’s political potential. Yet, as Mann points out, even as this
generation of women writers was held up as a negative example under
China’s modernity, they were the unsung forebears of the so-called
“new women” of the early twentieth century. In “Xue Shaohui (1866–
1911) and Her Poetic Chronicle of Late Qing Reforms,” a case study
of one of these forebears, Nanxiu Qian illustrates the active response
of one woman poet to the political reform at the end of the nineteenth
 introduction 15

century. In particular, Xue’s case manifests the resilience of traditional

poetry. Xue’s poetic writings straddled inner and outer as she recorded
subtle changes in gender relationships at home and chronicled a broad
variety of events during the reform movement, from political disputes,
to military conflicts, and scientific imports from the West.
The above framework is guided by the concerns and orientations of
the women writers we encountered from the Ming through Qing. The
themes and topics in this volume emerged from our engagement with
the poetic and other writings they bequeathed. As scholars in China
and the West, junior and senior, carry on the recovery and examina-
tion of the remarkable textual production by women in late imperial
China, new critical and theoretical issues will continue to evolve and
new research questions and directions emerge. Our volume ends with
a collaborative concluding section with one such theoretical concept
proposed by Maureen Robertson in her essay on Ming-Qing women
and authorship: the concept of “minor literature,” elaborated by the
French philosophers Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari as a “site for
realizing the potential of historical change,” as Robertson puts it.
“Minor literature” stands for a productive space—perhaps a utopian
vision—in which the minority, the marginalized, the subordinate take
up the linguistic tool of the majority, not unproblematically, to con-
struct something different. While Robertson asks a number of ques-
tions that point to areas in Ming and Qing women’s literary culture
that await further research, Ellen Widmer follows up by summarizing
how some of the chapters in this volume already show the “process
of becoming” and of transformation engaged in by this minority that
were women writers of the Ming and Qing. As our knowledge of their
lives and works deepens, we may expect their writing to continue to
challenge and broaden received notions of history, literature, culture,
and society in late dynastic and early twentieth-century China.
 PART I

IN THE DOMESTIC REALM

 CHAPTER ONE

WRITING AND ILLNESS: A FEMININE CONDITION IN

WOMEN’S POETRY OF THE MING AND QING*

Grace S. Fong

Among scholars of women’s history and culture in late imperial

China, it has become well known that, from the seventeenth cen-
tury on, a critical mass of literate women took up writing poetry as
a technology of self-representation. Women sought and realized for
themselves possibilities for articulating lived experiences in everyday
life. Poetry as a cultural practice pervaded the quotidian life of edu-
cated men and women in the Ming and Qing, the result of which is
amply reflected in the large repertory of poems on many aspects of
everyday life we find in the vast poetry collections from this period.
When reading women’s poetry collections, one commonly encounters
a topical category of poems written about, during, and after illness. To
be sure, contemporary male literati as well as those in earlier periods
also wrote poems about and during illness, but women in the Ming
and Qing not only took up illness as a common topic in their poetry,
they seem also to have developed the practice of linking illness with
writing poetry, a tendency that was perhaps unique to them. For them,
the experience of illness—one of temporal duration—often functions
as a prelude and even a pretext to writing. As women writing poetry
while ill constitutes a literary phenomenon with some social and cul-
tural significance, this study will explore the reasons for their engage-
ment with this topic. It will also investigate the techniques through
which they articulated their emotions and perception of sensations in
relation to illness, which are particularly private and personal aspects
of their experience, in a “public” form such as poetry. By the public

* An earlier version of this paper was published as “A Feminine Condition? Wom-

en’s Poetry on Illness in Ming-Qing China,” in From Skin to Heart: Perceptions of
Emotions and Bodily Sensations in Traditional Chinese Culture, ed. Paolo Santangelo
and Ulrike Middendorf (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2006), 131–150. I am grate-
ful to Harrassowitz Verlag for granting me the permission to reprint.
20 chapter one

nature of the poetic form I refer to social and cultural issues that
have an effect on textual production: the “intervention” and shaping
by social etiquette and cultural tradition of women’s perception and
representation of illness in the highly formalized poetic medium with
well-developed conventions shared by a community of readers and
writers, and the exposure of this feminine condition in print.
Historians of Chinese medicine have pointed to the difficulty of
accessing the female patient’s experience of illness. With the segre-
gation of the sexes, male physicians seldom had direct contact with
upper-class women patients, whom they would diagnose through an
intermediary, usually the women’s close male kin. Therefore, even
in case histories written by some physicians, women’s voices come
through only sporadically, if at all, in the physician’s recording.1 Illness
affects the physical body and mental and emotional state of the sick
person. The body can suffer from a vast range of symptoms includ-
ing the common sensations of aches, chills and fever, nausea, dizzi-
ness, extreme fatigue, and insomnia, and extending to agonizing pain
and acute discomfort. These bodily sensations are often connected
to, and can give rise to, feelings of depression, sadness, hypersensitiv-
ity, and helplessness. Traditional Chinese medical theory emphasized
the greater difficulty of treating women’s illness and women’s suscep-
tibility to illness because of their emotional nature.2 If one were inter-
ested in the patient’s experience from the perspective of the history
of Chinese medicine, would these poems then provide a “first-hand”

1
See Charlotte Furth’s fine analysis of the case histories of Cheng Maoxian
, a physician who practiced in Yangzhou in the early seventeenth century, “A
Doctor’s Practice,” in A Flourishing Yin: Gender in China’s Medical History, 960–1665
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), particularly 245–257.
2
This is encapsulated in the well-known saying by the Tang doctor Sun Simiao
: “It is ten times more difficult to treat women’s ailments than men’s.” See
Charlotte Furth, “Blood, Body, and Gender: Medical Images of the Female Condi-
tion in China, 1600–1850,” Chinese Science 7 (1986): 48–49; and Sabine Wilms, “‘Ten
Times More Difficult to Treat’ Female Bodies in Medical Texts from Early Imperial
China,” Nan Nü: Men, Women and Gender in China 7.2 (2005): 88. However, as Yi-Li
Wu argues in her forthcoming book, beginning in the seventeenth century, a new
medical rhetoric portrayed women’s problems related to childbearing as an exception
to the rule that female and male bodies were fundamentally alike, and the female
difference in difficulty of treatment was attributable to social norms and customs
imposed on the female gender. This rhetoric overshadowed Sun Simiao’s rhetoric of
essentialist, biological difference. See Chapter One, Reproducing Women: Medicine,
Metaphor, and Childbirth in Late Imperial China (Berkeley: University of California
Press, forthcoming 2010). Personal communication from Yi-Li Wu, to whom I am
grateful for sharing this information.
 writing and illness 21

account of women’s illness in their own voices? Chinese women’s

poetry does reflect the negative condition of illness. Insofar as they
stem from personal experience, these poems are subjective records,
but as conscious literary products, they are not transparent, “realistic”
accounts of empirical experience. They serve as tools that transform
an ailing condition into a state of creativity and aesthetic and spiritual
reflection, as the examples below will show. In other words, by means
of poetry, women attempted to express alternative states of percep-
tion arising from their experience of illness. Given the overlay of the
literary and experiential dimensions in the representation of illness, I
will ask some basic questions of the material: In writing about their
experience of illness in poetic form, what bodily sensations, or, more
generally, sensory perceptions did women privilege in representation?
How are these conveyed? What emotions are represented and how are
they mapped onto bodily sensations? An examination of a substan-
tial corpus of this poetry may enable us to seek possible cultural and
social explanations for the literary interest in this topic, contextualize
its relation to the representation of femininity in late imperial China,
and suggest its significance for the women writing.

The Primary Sources and Methodological Implications

Textual sources for this study are primarily drawn from the Ming Qing
Women’s Writings database, which provides keyword search capacity
in poem titles (and generally any title that appears in the table of con-
tents of a work).3 As this is not a full-text database, one cannot search
the content of the poems and prose writings that deal with the topic
of illness but do not use the character bing (ill/illness), or a related
term such as ji , in the title. Such unmarked poems are not included
in the sample.4 Keeping these limitations in mind, a sizable sample
of roughly four hundred and fifty poems with titles containing the

3
Grace S. Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings, http://digital.library.mcgill.ca/
mingqing. The website provides access to writings by women published before 1923
in the holdings of the Harvard-Yenching Library. Citations to collections used in this
chapter will be indicated as in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings. Since the
writing of this chapter, the database has been augmented by six prose collections by
women from the Peking University Library and five individual collections from pri-
vate sources. Please see “Introduction” on the website for details.
4
There are a small number of poems that are counted twice, such as when a poem
appears both in a poet’s individual collection and also in an anthology.
22 chapter one

character bing are located in specific collections in the following cat-

egories of publication in the shi and ci (song lyric) genres:

(1) Thirty-three poetry collections by individual women authors (bieji

), with the majority of poems in the dominant shi genre in
which women generally wrote.
(2) Eight “joint publications” (heke or huike ), or what
might be referred to as series or sets that contain individually
titled collections. These series can range from a small set consist-
ing of the joint publication of the works of several women in the
same family, such as the Taizhou Zhong shi guixiu ji heke
(Joint publication of collections by the boudoir
talents of the Zhong family of Taizhou; five titles, 1807); to a large
series such as the Xiaotanluanshi huike guixiu ci
(Joint publication of song lyrics by one hundred boudoir tal-
ents from the Xiaotanluan Chamber, 1896), which contains indi-
vidually titled collections of song lyrics by one hundred women
poets.
(3) Eight large anthologies (zongji ) of selected poems by women.
Among these, the Mingyuan shiwei (Poetry classic by
notable women, 1667) and the Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji
(Anthology of correct beginnings by boudoir talents
of the present dynasty, 1831) and its appended sequel Guochao
guixiu zhengshi xuji (1836) were compiled by
women poets.

From this sample, several quantitative observations can be made.

First, poems related to illness are found in thirty-three out of forty-six
individual collections, which means that three quarters of the women
poets in the sample wrote and included such poems in their published
poetry collections.5 Second, taking into account variables such as size
and period of the compilation, the five large anthologies of women’s
shi poetry compiled by male editors show fewer selections of illness-
related poems: the three late-Ming anthologies include the same
handful of poems by women poets before the Ming, and the same

5
For the individual titles of the forty-six individual collections (bieji), see “Intro-
duction,” in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings. This number includes the poetry
collection of the Korean woman poet Xu Jingfan (Kor. Hǒ Kyǒngbǒn, 1563–
1589), which does not contain poems on illness.
 writing and illness 23

half dozen or so poems by contemporary Ming women poets; the two

Qing anthologies each contain only one such poem.6 In contrast, the
anthologies compiled by women poets contain comparatively larger
selections: the Mingyuan shiwei by Wang Duanshu (1621–
c. 1706) contains twenty-eight poems related to illness and the Guochao
guixiu zhengshi ji and its sequel (hereafter Zhengshi ji) by Yun Zhu
(1771–1833) forty-two. There are several possible explanations for
this divergence. We can point to the gender of the compilers with
regard to their relative interest in and differing assessments of the
significance of this topic for inclusion in an anthology. For example,
Yun Zhu privileges the representation of women’s everyday life expe-
riences in the inner quarters, which partly explains the liberal inclu-
sion of poems related to illness as instances of women’s experience
in everyday life.7 Gender difference also plays a role in choosing the
scope of anthologies, with male compilers tending towards a broad
diachronic span and female compilers focusing on a more synchronic,
or contemporary reach.8 Both Wang Duanshu and Yun Zhu’s antholo-
gies focus on one dynasty: the Ming and Qing respectively. These two
anthologies point to an apparent historical increase in women taking
up this topic in their poetry in the late imperial period. The Suiyuan
nüdizi shixuan (Selected poems of Suiyuan’s female
disciples, 1796), the poetry anthology of Yuan Mei’s (1716–1798)
female disciples compiled by Yuan Mei himself, contains the largest
selection of poems related to illness in an anthology by a male com-
piler. With eighteen selections, it takes third place after the Zhengshi
ji and Mingyuan shiwei. This provides further evidence of increased
interest in writing on this topic in the late eighteenth century. The

6
The three late Ming anthologies are Zhao Shijie , comp., Gujin nüshi
(Women scribes: ancient and modern); Zhong Xing , comp., Mingyuan
shigui (Sources of poetry by notable women); and Zheng Wen’ang ,
Mingyuan huishi (Collected poetry by notable women). See my discus-
sion of these and other late Ming anthologies of women’s poetry in “Gender and the
Failure of Canonization: Anthologizing Women’s Poetry in the Late Ming,” Chinese
Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews 26 (2004): 129–149. The two Qing anthologies are
Hu Xiaosi and Zhu Guang , comp. Benchao mingyuan shichao
(Poetry by notable women of our dynasty, 1765); and Lu Chang , comp.,
Lichao mingyuan shici (Poetry and song lyrics by notable women of
successive dynasties, 1772). All in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
7
On this emphasis in the Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji, see Grace S. Fong, “Female
Hands: Embroidery as a Knowledge Field in Women’s Everyday Life in Late Imperial
and Early Republican China,” Late Imperial China 25.1 (2004): 4.
8
See my discussion of this phenomenon in “Gender and the Failure of Canonization.”
24 chapter one

recurrent inclusion of poems related to illness in the poetry collections

of individual women similarly attests to a general rise in interest and
also points to women’s perception of illness as a significant physical,
emotional, and literary experience in their everyday lives since the late
Ming. Clearly, illness was an experience they wrote about on occasion
throughout their lives, as the example of Gan Lirou’s (1743–
1819) poetry collection will show.
My final general observation concerns the silence surrounding the
specific nature of the illness in poetic representation. Despite the rela-
tive prevalence of the topic in women’s poetry, with rare exceptions,
the kind of ailment and its symptoms are not specified or described,
either in the title or the text of the poem. I will discuss some excep-
tions in comparison with male patterns in the next section. In the
premodern era, women suffered from a range of ailments and dis-
eases: some chronic, others temporary; some gynecological (related
to their reproductive function, such as difficulty in conception and
pregnancy, or postpartum disorders), and many others non-gender
specific. Tuberculosis, viral infections, bacterial infections resulting
from bound feet, general malnutrition from an imbalanced diet, and
physical depletion from giving multiple births in quick succession are
some of the common “illnesses” women suffered from.9 The symptoms
may also have been generalized, for example, a feeling of weakness,
rather than localized and specific, such as stomach pain. No doubt,
well brought-up, genteel women were inhibited by their sense of mod-
esty and propriety—in conduct as in the literary medium—from mak-
ing direct and explicit references to parts and functions of the body in
writing which circulated in public. Often only vague terms were used
in the poem titles to refer to the ailment, such as xiaobing (small
illness), xinbing (new illness), and chunbing (spring illness).
The women subscribe to a poetic decorum that is fitting to their class
and status. The methodological implications then lie as much in the
genre under study as in the gender of the poet and compiler. In poetic
expression, women’s interest in writing about illness does not lie in the

9
I thank Wilt Idema for suggesting these examples. See Charlotte Furth,
“A Doctor’s Practice,” in A Flourishing Yin, and Joanna Grant, “Gender, Culture and
Medicine,” in A Chinese Physician: Wang Ji and the “Stone Mountain Medical Case
Histories” (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), 244–300 and 103–153 respectively, for
in-depth analysis of women’s medical disorders exemplified in case histories of par-
ticular physicians.
 writing and illness 25

illness itself as such, but, to reinforce a point made above, in illness

as a means of signifying other possibilities and dimensions of expe-
rience: bodily sensations, mental perceptions, emotional conditions,
and spiritual reflection in women’s private lives. This generic tendency
in poetic signification contrasts sharply with the detailed description
of symptoms and diagnosis of illness found in fiction, such as the
novels Jin Ping Mei (Golden lotus) and Honglou meng
(Dream of the red chamber).10

Gendering the Illness Topos in Poetry

The common occurrence of poems related to illness by women consti-

tutes a topic defined by the subject matter and occasion. This section
will consider the lexicography of the topic generated in the sample
by focusing on the title designations; the literary motifs in the poetic
text will be discussed in later sections. Several terms incorporating the
character bing are used with regularity in the poem titles. The follow-
ing list contains the most common terms used alone or as part of the
poem title:

bingzhong : in the sense of “while sick” or “during illness” (136

poems);
binqi : “rising from illness” as one is feeling better or well enough
to get out of bed—the state of convalescence; in rare instances, it
refers to getting up while one is still sick (84 poems);
wobing/bingwo / : “lying sick” (20/5 poems respectively);
binghuai : feelings/thoughts while sick (17 poems);
binghou : “after being sick,” that is, when convalescing; a state
similar to bingqi (10 poems);
xiaobing: “small illness” (6 poems).

10
Christopher Cullen uses the Jin Ping Mei as the textual source for identifying
different classes of doctors and healers, their varying practices in diagnosis and treat-
ment of disorders, and women and men’s contrasting attitudes towards different types
of healers and healing methods. See “Patients and Healers in Late Imperial China:
Evidence from the Jinpingmei,” Chinese Science 31 (1993): 99–150. Chi-hung Yim pro-
vides a seminal analysis of Lin Daiyu’s illness from the perspective of Chinese
medical theory and its imbrication in the narrative and allegorical structures of the
novel in “The ‘Deficiency of Yin in the Liver’—Dai-yu’s Malady and Fubi in Dream of
the Red Chamber,” Chinese Literature: Essays, Articles, Reviews 22 (2000): 85–111.
26 chapter one

A number of other terms appear with less frequency in titles but each
at least more than once: bingjiu/jiubing / (sick for a long
time), bingkuang (condition of the illness), bingyu (recov-
ering from illness), bingzuo (sitting up while sick), fubing
(braving illness [to work]), shubing (giving an account of illness),
bingwei (when critically ill), bingge (when the illness is got-
ten rid of ), and so on. Still other terms used in titles are unique in this
sample, such as shanbing (prone to illness) and bingmo
(illness demon). Upon analysis, the most common of these terms can
be seen as predominantly formed by combining the focal condition—
illness ( )—with positional-temporal indicators ( , , ), verbs of
physical postures ( , , ), and the word for thought and emotion
( ). These titles significantly draw attention to the temporal frame
of composition in relation to the illness. Despite the variations used,
most of these terms fundamentally designate two moments of writing:
during and after illness. Writing poetry would seem to enable the sick
or convalescent subject to appropriate a different temporality, a differ-
ent rhythm of feeling, and altered modes of perception from those of
normative experience. In other words, by composing poetry, a differ-
ent space or temporality is opened up around illness, detached from
normative social values, obligations, and hierarchies.
It is true, however, that these terms positioning the subject in rela-
tion to the state or stage of illness are not exclusive to women’s poetry,
as they are also found in poetry by male contemporaries. A random
survey of individual poetry collections by twenty-five mostly nine-
teenth-century male writers in the Xuxiu siku quanshu: jibu
(Sequel to the complete works in the four treasuries: section
of literary collections) yielded eighty-seven poems related to illness,11
and Yuan Mei’s poetry collection contains fifty-one poems with illness
in the title, written intermittently between the ages of twenty-six and
eighty-one, the year before his death. Their frequent use of the terms
bingzhong and bingqi shows men also regularly took up composing
poetry while sick or convalescing. Where male writers differ signifi-

11
In this sample, Chen Kuilong (b. 1857) has the largest number of illness
poems (13) in his collection, Songshoutang shichao (Poetry from Song-
shou Hall ), in Xuxiu siku quanshu: jibu, vol. 1577 (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chuban-
she, 1995–1999). The poems are located on the following pages in Chen’s collection:
2.2b, 5.13b, 5.18a, 5.17b–18a, 7.13a, 7.16a–b, 7.20b–21a, 7.31a–31b, 8.46b–47a, 9.22b,
9.22b–23a, 9.26a, 10.8a–13b. For the complete list of sample poems on illness by male
poets, please contact the author.
 writing and illness 27

cantly from women’s practices is in their not infrequent identifica-

tion of the specific ailments they were suffering from. Thus, rather
than simply using the word bing, the titles of some poems would con-
tain words for specific ailments such as diarrhea (ke ),12 skin sores
( jie ), piles (zhi ), diseases of the eyes (bingmu , also used in
poems by women), and quite often, problems with their feet (bingzu
, or zuji ).13 Reflecting their life of movement and travel out-
side the home, men frequently recorded being sick while on journeys.
As these examples show, they note and express concern about prob-
lems with their feet or legs, which impede their movement and their
proper posture (necessary in public affairs and on ritual occasions).
Turning to the examples in Yuan Mei’s collection, we should take into
account his views on poetic expression. Yuan Mei promoted express-
ing one’s “native sensibility” (xingling ) in poetry and advocated
naturalness and personal expression in writing poetry above learning
and formal and ethical concerns. To him, what one writes should be
true to one’s feelings and character, one’s “native sensibility.” Given
Yuan Mei’s advocacy of natural self-expression in his poetic theory, we
should not be surprised to find the candidness with which he wrote
about his various medical conditions. In his long life, not only did he
write his share of foot ailment poems, he also wrote poems about a
much broader range of physical disorders. In addition to some of the
types mentioned above, he wrote about suffering from nue and
shan (malaria), xuan (ringworm or scabies), chuang (sores)
on his feet, chiji/chitong / (dental problems), and fuji
(stomach ailments), often detailing the symptoms.14 In particular,
li (dysentry) seems to have given him trouble in his last years. As he
got older, Yuan Mei became more open in writing about his physical
state, even flaunting his scatological humour, such as in the poem enti-
tled “Composed after Rising from Illness” written at the age
of eighty-one. He starts the poem by complaining about the “vulgar”

12
In four examples of women’s use of the character ke (in the term yangke “to
convalesce” and weike “slight illness”), ke is used as a synonym of bing, meaning
being ill rather than denoting diarrhea.
13
These terms occur more than once in the poem titles of the collections sur-
veyed.
14
Yuan Mei, Yuan Mei quanji (Complete works of Yuan Mei), ed. Wang
Yingzhi (Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe, 1993), 1.228–229, 1.568 (nue); 1.262–263
(shan, in preface to poem); 1.528 (xuan); 1.775 (chuang); 1.240, 1.436 (chiji); 1.799,
1.817 ( fuji); 1.909, 1.910, 1.921 (li).
28 chapter one

doctor ( yongyi ), who prescribed the wrong medicine (gui fu shen

qi )15 and caused him to suffer stomachache and dizziness
for over a month. When the “good” doctor (liangyi ) came and
took his pulse, he diagnosed Yuan’s condition correctly and prescribed
three doses of rhubarb (dahuang ). Yuan describes the treatment
with a military metaphor and its efficacy with an agricultural one:
He said much of the food and drink were
blocked,
We must employ a general to break the hold.
[Author’s note:] Using three doses of rhubarb.
Sure enough it was like offending the
Heavenly Turd Star,
Exploding, it sent down manure enough for a
thousand mu of fields.
Slowly my chest and diaphragm were able to
stretch and unfold,
Only then could I swallow the five liquids and
three foods.16
No educated guixiu, no matter how aged, would ever produce such
uninhibited lines about her bodily functions in any poem she wrote
“after rising from illness.”
Women did indicate in some instances the specific illness they had,
and it almost invariably occurs when the character ji is used instead
of bing in the title. Although ji, when used alone, also refers to illness
in a general way, it more often names afflictions in combination with
another character specifying the disease. In the sixteen examples of ji
provided by the database, four are instances in which ji is used by itself
to refer to unspecified illness; twelve are instances in which ji appears
in a compound that refers to a type of disease, whether suffered by
the poet herself, her child, husband, or another close kin: zhaiji
(consumption/tuberculosis), feiji (lung disease), ganji (liver
disorder), chuanji (asthma), kaxueji (expectoration of
blood or blood stained sputum/hemoptysis), keji (cough), qiji
(strange illness), and most ironically, only one case of zuji (foot
disease).17 Culturally constructed as women’s erogenous zone, the

15
An herbal formula consisting of the four ingredients: cinnamon, aconitum ( fuzi
), ginseng, and astragalus Hoantchy (huangqi [yellow vetch]). I thank Wang
Wanming for identifying the second and fourth ingredients.
16
Yuan Mei, Yuan Mei quanji, 1.916–917.
17
Those about the poet herself include poems by Xue Shaohui (1866–1911),
“In the first month of the year Wushen my asthma was probably getting better. . . .”
 writing and illness 29

bound feet were well concealed behind leggings and layers of clothing.
Not even the tips of their three-inch lotus shoes are usually revealed
in figure painting. The bound feet make their appearance and play out
their function as fetishized objects in erotic fiction and painting but
are generally avoided in polite discourse. There are few examples of
poems on the bound feet by either men or women. Descriptions and
references are indirect and highly aestheticized.18
Chen Yunlian’s (fl. mid-nineteenth century) poem mention-
ing her foot ailment is atypical when read in this context. Nonetheless,
what it exemplifies is the relation or, more accurately, the disjunc-
tion between title and text of these poems. The title says little about
the nature of the disease, and in the poem the physical problem is
deflected into an attempt at transcendence:
My Foot Ailment Has Not Yet Healed. Feeling
Utterly Oppressed, I Write on the Spur of the
Moment Asking My Husband to Harmonize
Like the bright mirror completely [two characters
illegible],
Opening the scroll people wonder if I am reading
the Lotus Sutra.
Sitting alone in the deep boudoir who will be my
companion?
Half a bed full of books of poetry and history,
a few vases of flowers.19

. . . .; Zhang Yuzhen (fl. eighteenth century), “It’s been

more than twenty years since I learned shi and ci at nine sui. Recently I got hemop-
tysis. . . .” . . . . (To the tune “Jin lü qu”
); Tao Shu , “All year my cough has not gotten better. Recently I started
to cough blood. As I feel despondent, I write this to send away this feeling”
(To the tune “Pu sa man” ). Tao Shu takes
a philosophical attitude towards life and death in her poem. All poems in Fong, ed.,
Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
18
The Ming Qing Women’s Writings database contains only three examples, all in
the ci form: “Shaonian you: The Beauty’s Feet” : by Chu Hui (fl.
nineteenth century), in Eyuelou shiyu (Song lyrics from Eyue Tower)
(Xiaotan luanshi edition), 1a; and the two lyrics to the tune “Wang Jiangnan: Play-
fully on the Bound Feet” : by Shen Cai (b. 1752), in Chunyulou
gao (Drafts from Chunyu Tower) (Xiaotan luanshi edition), Cixia 2a–2b. I
discuss the unusually critical attitude expressed in the first of Shen Cai’s lyrics on the
bound feet in Herself an Author: Gender, Agency, and Writing in Late Imperial China
(Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2008), 80.
19
Chen Yunlian, Xinfangge shicao (Poetry drafts from the Xinfang
Loft) (1859), 5.5b–6a, in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
30 chapter one

Her movement, already limited to the space of the inner quarters,

is further hampered by an affliction of her feet. The poet turns to
religious reading to mitigate the feeling of oppression. In the end, she
tells her husband (and her readers) that it is learning, versification,
and simple aesthetic pleasures that offer her deliverance.20 Thus, the
representation of illness is contextualized differently according to the
gendered experience of men and women in their everyday life. While
men often find illness a frustrating obstacle to the pursuit of their
many goals and interests outside the home—whether going to study,
take the examination, conduct business, or visit friends and famous
sites—women on the other hand often write about their experience of
illness as an alternative space and temporality in their more sedentary
existence within the sphere of domestic life.

The Aestheticization of Illness

Paradoxically, part of the construction of an alternative space through

illness begins with its feminization. Women take the frailty associated
with illness as a fitting signifier of femininity, and illness becomes
encoded as a “feminine” condition increasingly aestheticized in art
and literature. Historically, the trajectory of the beautiful female body
evolved from the robust, voluptuous ideals of the Tang to the deli-
cate, sickly and ethereal models of the late imperial period, epitomized
by the tragic heroines of literati fiction and memoirs.21 I believe the
revival of the song lyric in the late Ming and its popularity throughout

20
Yang Binbin has examined with insight the distinctive voice of Chen Yunlian
in telling the story of her illness, one that is entangled with her embittered feelings
toward a profligate husband. See “Women and the Aesthetics of Illness: Poetry on
Illness by Qing-Dynasty Women Poets” (Ph. D. dissertation, Washington University,
2007), 128–156. Behind Chen’s poetic attempt to inscribe self-control and transcend
loneliness lies a conjugal relation gone sour between a philandering husband and a
jealous, suffering wife.
21
These fragile beauties include the famous Lin Daiyu in Honglou meng, but also
the earlier Dong Xiaowan , the courtesan-turned-concubine who died young
of failing health, portrayed in Mao Xiang’s memoir Yingmei’an yiyu
(Reminiscence of Yingmei Abode); the “peasant” woman poet Shuangqing
(fl. eighteenth century) who suffered from malaria, as recorded in Shi Zhenlin’s
memoir Xiqing sanji (Random records of West-Green); and Chen
Yun , the sensitive wife of Shen Fu (1763–c. 1808) in the Fusheng liuji
(Six records of a floating life). Judith Zeitlin argues that Pu Songling’s
delicate female ghosts are modeled on this increasingly hyperfeminine sexual-
ity in “Embodying the Disembodied: Representations of Ghosts and the Feminine,”
 writing and illness 31

the Qing—in which women participated actively22—both depended on

and contributed to this aesthetics of the feminine. From its origins
in the entertainment quarters to its refinement in the hands of lite-
rati scholars, the song lyric genre has been strongly associated with
feminine sensibilities in language and expression, a style which was
later given the designation wanyue (delicate restraint).23 It is thus
not surprising to find sixty song lyrics related to illness (all using the
term bing or ji in the subtitles of the songs) among fifty of the one
hundred collections published in the Xiaotanluanshi huike guixiu ci.
Furthermore, the aestheticizing tendency in representing illness can
also be observed in song lyrics (not the robust shi) inscribed on paint-
ings that depict women who are ill, such as the following examples: to
the tune “Shengzhazi: Painting of Yang Guifei Ill with a Toothache”
: , to the tune “Jianlan: Inscribed on the Paint-
ing ‘Embroidering Flowers While Sick,’ Composed for Huang Guyu
(Yukun) Mourning his Wife” :
, and to the tune “Suochuanghan: Inscribed on Tang Deyuan’s
Painting ‘A Moment of Delight While Ill in a Cold Boudoir’ ” :
.24
In a song lyric to the tune “Dielianhua” , Wu Shangxi
(fl. mid-nineteenth century) takes the representation of ill-
ness to its logical, feminized end by aestheticizing the condition of
illness. First, she uses the subtitle “Boudoir Illness” to locate the
experience of illness in the feminine space of the inner quarters. The
subtitle further signifies the yongwu subgenre, or “poems on
objects,” making “feminine illness” into the “object” to be elaborated
in the lyric. The access to the world of the lyric is framed by a gaze

in Writing Women in Late Imperial China, ed. Kang-i Sun Chang and Ellen Widmer
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 242–263.
22
The one hundred ci collections by women in the Xiaotanluanshi huike guixiu ci
are a strong indicator. See also studies by Kang-i Sun Chang, The Late Ming Poet Ch’en
Tzu-lung: Crises of Love and Loyalism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991), esp.
41–68; and Grace S. Fong, “Engendering the Lyric: Her Image and Voice in Song,” in
Voices of the Song Lyric in China, ed. Pauline Yu (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1994), 107–144.
23
See Fong, “Engendering the Lyric.”
24
Lu Shan , Wenmiaoxianshi ci (Song lyrics from Wenmiaoxi-
ang Chamber), 4b; and Guan Ying , Mengyinglou ci (Song lyrics from
Mengying Tower), 7a–b (both in Xiaotanluanshi huike guixiu ci); and Tang Zhi
“Suochuanghan,” in Guixiu cichao (Song lyrics by boudoir talents),
ed., Xu Naichang , 15.12b, in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
32 chapter one

that is conventionally coded “male.” Although historically and origi-

nally “male,” by the late Ming a “female gaze” had been negotiated in
women’s expression of homosocial (but not necessarily homosexual )
affection and desire.25 However, this lyric, being a pure yongwu poem
not addressed to a specific female reader, is not situated explicitly in
the context of female homosociality. The body and other attributes of
the female persona are objectified and eroticized:26
On a disheveled chignon the hairpin droops.
As sunlight moves across the gauze window,
Feeling ill, she is still asleep.
Hanging on a thread of love she seems forever
drunk.
Listless, her body half clings to the red quilt with
the lovebird pattern.
While the rouge has disappeared on her face, her
brows stay penciled dark.
Wordlessly she moans,
As though in tears from too much emotion.
A gust of piercing wind invades the embroidered
sleeves,
The small mirror unfortunately knows how wan
she is.26

This song lyric depicts feminine illness in the sensual language of the
genre, which Wu Shangxi has mastered and performs with great skill.27
Within the sensuous interior of a boudoir, the weak body of an indis-
posed female persona is endowed with alluring languor. She lies pining
in bed, with traces of make-up still visible. She feels cold and lonely,
in need of company, but only a mirror reflects back on this enclosed
world and bears witness to her ravaged emotional and physical state.

25
See examples by Lu Qingzi and Xu Yuan in the late Ming, and
Wu Zao in the Qing. Translations in Women Writers of Traditional China: An
Anthology of Poetry and Criticism, ed. Kang-i Sun Chang and Haun Saussy (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 1999), 239–256, 257–265, 601–615.
26
Wu Shangxi, Xiejunlou ci (Song lyrics from Xieyun Tower) (Xiaotan-
luanshi edition), 24a, in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
27
See also Maureen Robertson’s discussion of the “literati-feminine” voice con-
structed in male poetry in “Voicing the Feminine: Constructions of the Gendered
Subject in Lyric Poetry by Women of Medieval and Late Imperial China,” Late Impe-
rial China 13.1 (1992): 63–110.
 writing and illness 33

In objectifying a “sick” female persona rather than articulating subjec-

tive experience during illness, this lyric is uncharacteristically “imper-
sonal.” This “objective” orientation epitomizes the perceived feminine
nature of illness, which is re-presented as lovesickness. This song lyric
exemplifies poetic representation as a performative art.

Writing from the Experience of Illness: Patterns and Motifs

However, in most cases, we have little reason to doubt that when

women wrote poems about their physical and emotional states while
they were sick, they were writing about real-life, as opposed to fiction-
alized, experience. In other words, rather than using illness as a trope,
these poems inscribe an autobiographical dimension with descriptive-
mimetic elements, despite the feminine decorum around the nature of
the illness and the oblique language and constructed nature of liter-
ary representation. Articulating one’s thoughts and perceptions during
illness accords with the orthodox view of poetry as self-expression.
The subject of illness can also be injected with an ethical dimension.
Readers and poets were familiar with Du Fu’s poetic laments about
his ill health and old age which prevented him from fulfilling his
ambitions.
In the hands of women poets, the poetic representation of the expe-
rience of illness takes on gendered conventions. Generally constructed
within the spatial location of the women’s quarters, their poems draw
on a limited lexicographical range that emphasizes acute bodily sensa-
tions of being cold and thin and a heightened level of sensory percep-
tion, particularly the auditory sense, often due to the inability to sleep
at night. The persona hears the water clock dripping and the wind
blowing at night, the cock crowing and the orioles singing at dawn.
Significantly, the emotional and mental states can vary widely from
despondency to repose and even inspiration. In the following poem,
several conventional tropes succinctly convey some familiar sensations
and perceptions:
Feelings While Sick on an Autumn Night
Late into the night, the muffled sound of the lotus
water-clock,
Incense embers in a gilded censer, lingering smoke
after brewing medicine.
34 chapter one

Being prone to illness all year long, my waist has

grown yet thinner,
With silk robe so loose I cannot endure the cold.28

This poem emphasizes sensory perception while leaving the emotional

state understated and ambiguous. In the first couplet, line 1 com-
bines the persona’s state of insomnia with her heightened auditory
sense, while line 2 indexes her sense of smell, made more acute by her
immobility and the scents of incense and herbal medicine trapped
together with her in the interior. The effect of a long illness on the body
is feebleness and emaciation, signified by a thinning waistline. Even
more commonly the sense of emaciation is conveyed by references to a
sick frame, literally “sick bones” (binggu ) or “thin bones” (shougu
), in lines such as:
I have exerted my sick frame to compete with the
flowers’ thinness.29
My bony frame shattered after a new bout of illness,
A one-layer robe feels slight and cold in this first
light chill.30
In sorrow I fear it’ll be hard for my sick frame to
turn hale again.31
I exert my bony frame, which is so cold.32
The frame being thin, the cool penetrates first.33
These examples show that the sensation of coldness is consistently
linked to a thin body wasted by illness, and these become the standard
tropes for writing about the condition of illness.

28
Yan Yonghua , Renlanshi shichao (Poetry from Renlan
Chamber) (1891), 2.9a–b, in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
29
Yang Yunhui , “Composed on a Spring Night While Sick” ,
in Yinxiangshi shicao (Poetry draft from Yinxiang Chamber) (1897),
1.16a, in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
30
Yang Yunhui, “Rising after Illness by the Window in Autumn: Thoughts”
, in Yinxiangshi shicao, 1.17a, in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
31
Li Yuan , “Illness” , in Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi ji, 3.18b, in Fong, ed., Ming
Qing Women’s Writings.
32
Née Shan , “Composed by Chance on a Moonlit Night While Sick”
, in Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi ji, 20.18b–19a, in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s
Writings.
33
Yao Jingfen , “Rising after Illness in Early Autumn” , in Yun
Zhu, ed., Zhengshi xuji, buyi, 20a, in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
 writing and illness 35

Although attempts at a more realistic depiction of the experience of

other sensations are rare, we begin to see more examples of individu-
alized poems on illness in the late Qing. This change could be related
to larger discursive developments in the literary and social fields.34
I provide two examples of poems in a more mimetic mode. In the first
poem by Hu Shenrong (fl. eighteenth century) entitled “Dur-
ing Illness” , the poet attempts to describe her state of physical
and mental uncertainty caused by dizziness and unsteady gait:
Confused, my soul has nowhere to settle,
Fluttering as though in a dream.
Propped up, I am startled by the ground turning soft as
I walk,
Leaning and then lying down, my head feels empty.
Looking around I wonder if it’s all a fog,
The sound I hear seems to be a wind rising. . . .35
The second example, entitled “Seasickness” , was composed in
1897 by the prolific late Qing woman poet and reformer Xue Shaohui
(1866–1911) at the end of a trying journey traveling by boat
along the sea coast from Fujian to Shanghai:
I boarded a boat and went out on the vast sea,
Day and night my heart was pulleyed up and down.
Hot blood surged against my lungs and liver,
It felt like I was turning a hundred-ton roller.
Cast down I was again dizzy and nauseated,
Grasping the quilt I huddled with my knees curled up.
Sometimes, falling onto the pillow, I was startled awake,
Dreams of my hometown not yet done;
Other times I spat out fine pearls,
Wet, plunging like a flying waterfall.
Mouth blocked, tongue almost dried up,
From secret prescriptions I had learned to avoid grains.
Only then did I understand “The Hardship of Travel,”
I wanted to compose “Crying at the Fork in the Road.”
After entering the River, the wind’s force calmed down,
Rising at dawn, I combed my hair and washed.
Sunshine reflects off the ship’s bulwarks,
Green are the trees in the mists of Jiangnan.36

34
This point requires further research.
35
In Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi ji, 10.7a, in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings
36
Xue Shaohui, Daiyunlou shiwen ji (Collection of poetry and prose
from Daiyun Tower) (1911), 2.1a, in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
36 chapter one

Travel by boat was by no means a new experience for women in

late imperial China, when many accompanied their husbands, sons,
and fathers on their official postings. They often left poetic records
of moments experienced on these journeys, which include being sick
while traveling. But boat travel along the Grand Canal or the inland
rivers and waterways was not the same as journeying on the ocean.
The discomfort and inconvenience on a river boat would have been
quite different from the physical distress that Xue Shaohui described
in “Seasickness” when she took the trip from Fuzhou along the coast
to Shanghai. New experiences of travel brought new sensations and
impelled the search for new language for its embodiment. Xue went
into some detail describing her experience of motion sickness—palpi-
tation, dizziness, nausea—and used elegant poetic images to stand for
the most messy and dirty parts (in contrast to Yuan Mei’s scatologi-
cal metaphors), such as when she writes: “Other times I spat out fine
pearls / Wet, plunging like a flying waterfall.” Being rather sickly, Xue
wrote close to a dozen poems related to her illnesses, some in more
conventional language, and others more innovative that depart from
tradition, such as the long poem on asthma, in which she attempts to
explain the worsening of her illness, record the symptoms, and finally
adopt a philosophical attitude towards death.37 As Nanxiu Qian’s
chapter on Xue Shaohui’s politically engaged verse demonstrates, Xue
and her husband Chen Shoupeng were much involved with the 1898
Reform Movement. Her poetry shows a sphere of activity and field
of vision much enlarged beyond the conventional women’s quarters.
Almost all of Xue’s poems written when she was ill, such as “Seasick-
ness” and “Asthma,” were products of journeys to and sojourns in
Shanghai and Beijing, away from her home province of Fujian.

Writing about Illness in the Life of a Woman Poet

Arranged chronologically with a strong autobiographical flow, the

poetry collection of Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao (Drafts
from Yongxue Tower), presents a striking case for illustrating women’s
experience of illness and the practice of recording it in different phases
of their life cycle with shifting significations. Born into a scholar-

37
Xue Shaohui, “Asthma” , in Daiyunlou shiwen ji, 3.15b–16a, in Fong, ed.,
Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
 writing and illness 37

official family in Fengxin district, Jiangxi, Gan Lirou was blessed with
a childhood spent in the company of loving parents and older siblings.
She was educated in the literary arts and was taught the womanly skills
befitting a girl of her social class. In late adolescence, she suffered the
loss of a brother, her only sister, and then her mother, all within a
few years. At twenty, she married Xu Yuelü (1745–1774) in
a neighboring county. For ten years she enjoyed a happy marriage,
producing two sons and two daughters before her husband died at
a relatively young age. For more than four decades after the age of
thirty, she lived as a widow, bringing up her children and seeing to
their education and marriage. Even though her elder son turned out
to be a profligate and died young, Gan was able to enjoy the honor
and comfort that came with her younger son’s success in passing the
jinshi examination and pursuing an official career. She died at
the age of seventy-six.38
Gan Lirou arranged the four juan (chapters) of her poems accord-
ing to the stages of her life—as a young daughter living at home with
her parents and siblings, as a loving wife and dutiful daughter-in-law,
as a bereft widow bringing up her children, and finally, in old age, as
a mother living in retirement with a successful son. She named each
chapter accordingly: 210 poems written during her maidenhood were
collected in “Xiuyu cao” (Drafts after embroidering), followed
by “Kuiyu cao” (Drafts after cooking), with 248 poems written
during her married life; “Weiwang cao” (Drafts of the one who
has not died), with 187 poems written during her widowhood; and
“Jiuyang cao” (Drafts of one who lives with her children in
retirement), with 263 poems written when she lived with her younger
son after he had passed the jinshi examination and obtained official
appointment. The collection also includes more than a hundred song
lyrics in a separate chapter. This substantial collection of over one
thousand poems shows that Gan Lirou remained an active writing
woman throughout the various stages of her life.
Eleven “illness” poems are found interspersed in the collection,
from each period of her life: six during youth, one during married
life, two during widowhood, and two during old age. There is also an

38
This biographical outline is derived from Gan Lirou’s strongly autobiographical
poetry collection, Yongxuelou gao in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings. For
more details, see Fong, Herself an Author, 9–53.
38 chapter one

undated song lyric on the topic, written probably during her married
life. Five of the youthful poems are set in springtime. Spring is, along
with autumn, one of the two favorite seasonal settings in the Chinese
poetic tradition. Both are seasons of change, marked by nature’s tran-
sitional and ephemeral beauty; they are experienced and inscribed as
poignant moments of wistful melancholy and heightened sensitivity.
Spring is also a season associated with youth and beauty but often
overlaid with the qualities of fragility and transience. In the first poem,
only the third line contains an oblique reference to being ill. The acute
auditory perception of the sick girl brings fears of destruction of the
fragile blossoms of spring:
Listening to Rain While Sick on a Spring Day
The forest flowers have been shaken off by the east
wind,
It cares not that the red petals have all faded on the
branches.
Shutting the door to my boudoir by day I just lie
with my face on the pillow,
How can I bear to send the spring away amid the
sound of rain?39
Given the literary tradition within which she is writing, Gan Lirou
frames her experience of illness with her perception of spring’s con-
tradictory qualities: nature’s growth set against the sound of wind and
rain and the fading of flowers, all signaling the passing of spring.
Rising after Being Ill
The rain stays on, the ospreys have no interest in calling,
Butterflies hiding under flowers, too weary to fly.
When morning comes I struggle to rise from illness,
Not daring to ask whether spring has departed.40
The following three “illness” poems are arranged consecutively in her
collection. As a sequence, they suggest a long period of illness that
lasted from spring to summer. The first two poems continue to deploy
the trope of spring as destruction of youth. In the first poem, the sec-
ond and third lines refer to repeated experiences with the deaths of sib-
lings: first her brother, then in quick succession her sister. The intense

39
Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 1.5a.
40
Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 1.19a.
 writing and illness 39

grief has aggravated the state of her illness, figured in line 1, and the
broken-off branch in the vase in the final line could be an iconic figure
for the sick self that needs nourishment and protection.
Rising from Illness: Expressing My Thoughts
Lately I am sick so often that I no longer fit my
clothes,
What’s more I’ve gone through again the parting of
death.
Flowers of the redbud snapped off—no way to
protect them,
Bearing my sorrow, I face the branch in the gall-
shaped vase.41
While Sick: An Impromptu Composition
Too lazy to watch the willows dance in the wind,
I let the last red blossoms fall to the ground.
Lying curled up by the pillow dreams do not form,
Again I hear the parrot squawk to open the cage.42
Rising from Illness at the Beginning of Summer
Spring came and spring went while I was sick,
Suddenly I feel the warm breeze brushing against
my sleeves.
Leaning on the mirror stand I am touched by the
little maid,
Who wonders at how much thinner I have grown.43
These poems can be seen as a young girl’s efforts to write poetically
about her illness: she lies sick while the flowers fade. When the seasons
come and go, her fragile body suffers then recovers within the boudoir,
its change noted by the innocent maid. They were composed at the
stage in Gan Lirou’s life when she, as an educated daughter in a gen-
try family, was learning to write poetry by practicing daily to improve
and refine her skills. “Drafts after embroidering” contains many poems
written to match the topics and rhyme words of poems by her parents
and older siblings.44 Many poems in this period of her life are literary

41
Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 1.22a–b.
42
Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 1.22b.
43
Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 1.22b.
44
One example is entitled “Respectfully Matching Father’s Poem ‘The Stone of
Gazing for the Husband’s Return’: Two Quatrains,” which precedes the first “illness”
poem in the collection. Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 1.5a.
40 chapter one

exercises, including those she wrote while recovering from illness, a

time when she would be relieved of practicing other women’s work,
such as sewing and embroidering.
In this period as a daughter, filial affection also prompted Gan to
record an occasion of caring for her mother’s illness in a poem series,
in the first of which we find a more matter-of-fact account of a wom-
an’s ailment:
On a Snowy Night, Looking After Mother’s Illness
I remember mother’s illness dragged on all night,
Snow seeped into her liver and spleen, aided by
sprinkled water.
Her frail daughter did not understand the business
of medicine,
She could only pray that the illness would dissipate
before the snow.
[Author’s note:] Mother was afflicted by feverish
symptoms. The doctor recommended brewing the
medicine with water obtained from melted snow.45
In the following poem from “Drafts after cooking,” Gan Lirou’s emo-
tional state during illness has evolved from the innocent regret for
spring that a sick unmarried girl expressed in her poetic exercises to
the suppressed longing and desire of a young wife whose husband was
absent from home:
Stirred, I Improvised While Ill
Bound by the illness demon I constantly have to lean
on the pillow,
The night watch is silent, by the dim lamp I am
afraid to guess at my dreams.
Deep in the night, unfortunately the moon above the
empty courtyard
On purpose moved the flowers’ shadows up against
the window.46
This poem, composed while her husband was away, is preceded by
one entitled “Thinking of my Husband on a Spring Night”
and followed by another entitled “Springtime Boudoir” and sev-
eral other poems about thinking of or sent to her husband.47 The sub-

45
Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 1.24b–25a.
46
Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 2.3a.
47
Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 2.3a–4a.
 writing and illness 41

jectivity of a young wife is alluded to suggestively by her evasiveness

regarding her dreams, whose content may express her passion and
desire, emotions witnessed by the stand-in voyeur—the moon shin-
ing through her bedroom window and casting the shadows of flowers
on its screen; they too seem to be peeping at her secret dreams in the
dark. Lying sick becomes a moment to experience and write about
bodily sensations of a different order.
Gan Lirou wrote two poems while sick during her widowhood. The
first, written in autumn shortly after her husband died, is a long poem
in the sao meter—the quintessential lament form punctuated by the
sigh-like syllable xi in each line:
Sick at the End of Autumn, Stirred by
Emotions: A Long Song
Sough, sough the west wind—sigh—
fluttering the plain curtain,
Blowing into my secluded boudoir—sigh—
drawing out a myriad feelings.
Supporting myself on my sick frame—sigh—
I dust the precious paper,
Thinking back on the past—sigh—my tears
flow.
Grieved that you abandoned your mother—
sigh—and went to the Nine Springs:
You were carried back from abroad—sigh—
just for a day.
Holding regret you passed away forever—
sigh— without leaving a word,
Innocent small sons—sigh—with hair falling
over their shoulders.48
My body is without a master—sigh—
my heart is distressed,
Carefully keeping to an empty room—sigh—
like sitting on a mat of needles.
Morning and night I instruct my sons—
sigh—to learn from the sages,
Serving your parents—sigh—I take on your
duty as well.
Every moment I guard against calamity—
sigh—like on the brink of an abyss.

48
The phrase fa sui jian could mean that the children’s hair is loosened in
mourning, or that they have not reached the age when their hair would be tied up.
42 chapter one

I am pained that my parents—sigh—died

so early,
With brothers so faraway in office—sigh—
it’s hard to send letters.
How do I know that living is joyful—sigh—
and death is to be pitied,
I look up at the dark and obscure—sigh—
that vast Heaven.49
In this intensely personal poem written during illness, Gan Lirou, the
young widow, pours out her passionate lament at the untimely death
of her husband. The only reference to illness is the weakened body, the
“sick frame” (binggu) (line 3), which is stirred to write the lament by
the autumn wind blowing into her lonely chamber. The poem exem-
plifies how the state of being ill can intensify the emotional condition.
On the level of family concerns, the widow’s grief is coupled with her
worries about her fatherless children and her sonless mother-in-law,
and the multiple duties and responsibilities she has to assume in her
husband’s place. On the personal level, her emotional and physical
longing is so intense that it almost subverts propriety, by alluding to
the difficulty of controlling desire (lines 9–10), including perhaps the
desire for suicide implied in the penultimate line.
The second poem, “Thinking of My [Older] Son Nian While Ill,”
was written when her sons had grown up. Though still in the “Drafts of
the one who has not died,” Gan Lirou’s persona has evolved from the
young widow to a middle-aged widowed mother missing her son. Her
illness merely provides the occasion for dreaming of her absent son:

Thinking of My Son Nian While Ill: At the Time

He Was Studying in the Capital
In the morning I gaze north, where my son is
sojourning far,
At night when I enter Nanke, my son arrives home.50
In my illness we meet in joy—I wonder if it’s a
dream,
Waking, we are really still at opposite ends of the
sky.51

49
Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 3.5a–5b.
50
“Nanke” , meaning an empty dream, alludes to the tale in which a man
thought he was made governor of Nanke, a non-existent place.
51
Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 3.25a.
 writing and illness 43

In her old age, Gan developed eye problems (probably cataracts), which
she mentioned in passing in some poems. She also referred to them
in the title of a poem: “Because I Suffer from Eye Ailment (bingmu)
in Old Age, My [Younger] Son Tian Petitioned to be Relieved from
Office. I Composed This When He Received Permission”
52
But she made only a general refer-
ence to her near-blindness and her susceptibility to illness in the first
couplet; in the rest of the poem she turns to the son’s successful offi-
cial career and her imminent return to a peaceful retirement in their
hometown.
Just before turning sixty, Gan Lirou composed a mimetic rendition
of her experience of being ill. In “An Account of Illness” , she
provides a vivid record of bodily sensations felt by a sick person:
All of a sudden I am unsettled by a serious sickness,
My chest is bothered, my vital breath whirls around in
disorder.
In my ears I hear crickets chirp,
In front of my eyes clouds and mist arise.
Food and drink feel like enemies,
I completely give up playing the zither and writing
calligraphy.
Afraid of the earth shaking, I grasp hold of the bed,
Lying on the pillow my head feels suspended.
Facing my reflection—thin as Miss Cui,53
Looking for a prescription—pitied by Qibo.54
If I exert myself to send away idle sorrow,
I will recover naturally without any medicine.55
After listing feelings of disorientation in her breathing, hearing, sight,
and motion, Gan concludes with a philosophical attitude towards
being ill: transcendence of negative emotion as a natural cure. The
attitude expressed at the end of this poem leads to my conclusion on
how and why some women turned the occasion of being ill into a
creative or spiritual experience in their poetry.

52
Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 4.45b.
53
The referent of the term “Cui jia” (Cui family) is unclear to me. I take it to allude
to Cui Yingying of Yuan Zhen’s tale, which would mean that Gan Lirou
is using this allusion ironically to compare her frailty in old age to Cui Yingying’s
haggardness caused by abandonment by her lover.
54
The medical expert to the Yellow Emperor in the medical classic Huangdi neijing
(The Yellow Emperor’s canon of internal medicine).
55
Gan Lirou, Yongxuelou gao, 3.35a.
44 chapter one

The Epiphany of Illness: A Creative Moment in the Quotidian

The clock always drips all day long where idleness

resides,
New poems on the contrary add up while one is ill.56
The attitude expressed in this couplet by Zhuang Panzhu (fl.
eighteenth century) was not uncommon among women with literary
inclinations or aspirations. Their poems often refer to an increase in
poetic productivity while ill. Chen Yunlian, whom we met earlier with
her foot ailment, also recorded increased poetic inspiration and cre-
ativity while sick:
During Illness
The illness demon about to depart, but I am still in
poor health,
Books and scrolls lying about, dust covers the
dressing box.
While fine blooms have finished flowering, flowers
are not yet embroidered,
But now I’ve gained new poems to add to the
writing case.57
While sick, the poet has neglected making up her appearance and
missed the beauty of spring outside. She has also excused herself from
performing womanly work, as signified by the unfinished embroi-
dery. It seems the only things she can point to with pride are the
new poems written while under the weather. She makes an interest-
ing contrast to Yuan Mei, who wrote in his poem “Sick Again”
that he “distanced” himself from books and poetry while his wife and
servants came to serve him with food and medicine.58 While she was
sick, Wang Wei (fl. seventeenth century) heard that her friend
Madam Wang got ill and sent a poem to her with this couplet: “While
I am sick, I pity your sickness / With a new poem I write down old
sorrow” / .59 Regarded as one of the most

56
Zhuang Panzhu , “Rising after Illness” , in Qiushuixuan shici ji
(Collection of poetry and song lyrics from Qiushui Studio), 1.3a, in Linxia
yayin ji (Collection of elegant sounds from Linxia), ed. Mao Jun
(1882 edition), in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
57
Chen Yunlian, Xinfangge shicao, 1.12b.
58
Yuan Mei, Yuan Mei quanji, 1.295.
59
Wang Wei, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, 13.35a.
 writing and illness 45

talented of Yuan Mei’s disciples, Jin Yi’s (1770–1794) dedication

to poetry was as enduring as her chronic illness. As her friend Guo
Lin (1767–1831) put it, in responding to a poem from Jin Yi
that was written while she was ill as well as to another poem Jin wrote
endorsing Guo’s own new draft: “Relying on poetry you can pass your
days / Otherwise how can your sick frame endure these three years?”
/ .60 Where often few avenues for
women’s artistic and intellectual fulfillment existed, the role of illness
in furthering feminine creativity cannot be underestimated.
In sickness, and through writing in sickness, some women attained
equanimity and peace of mind. As Wang Duan (1793–1839) put
it in her poem “Composed during Illness at the Beginning of Winter”
: “In the past year I realized the method of calming the
mind / There’s nothing like the leisure during illness for practicing
quiet sitting” / .61 As a final illus-
tration, I offer a reading of the poem entitled “Recited While Sick”
by the Manchu noblewoman Mengyue , who was also
widowed early. Mengyue fully exploits the attributes of femininity
conventionally associated with women’s illness and the spatial loca-
tion of the inner quarters in her self-representation:

Not aware that my fingers have turned slim, I find

the dust heavy,
Surprised by the robe’s length, I didn’t realize that
my shoulders had grown thin.
With empty mind, I quietly chew over the flavor of
the Odes and History,
In the silent room, I frequently smell the fragrance
of ink.
Since ancient times the zither strings have emitted
unusual sounds,
So many wild phrases appear when I put the brush
to write pure poetry.
From the flavor experienced in illness I attain true
inspiration,
I savor slowly the hidden leisure beyond things.62

60
Yuan Mei, ed., Suiyuan nüdizi shixuan, 2.11b.
61
Wang Duan, Ziranhaoxuezhai shichao (Poetry from Ziranha-
oxue Studio), 5.14b–15a, in Linxia yayin ji, ed. Mao Jun (1882 edition), in Fong, ed.,
Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
62
Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi ji, 5.17a.
46 chapter one

The emphasis on the femininity of illness in the opening couplet

does not result in the image of a fragile beauty languishing in sorrow.
Instead, the poet turns to “chew[ing] over” the meaning of the Classic
of Poetry and History, her mind free from everyday cares in a quiet
environment. She renders the activity of her mind/intellect sensually
as tasting: she “chews” the classics, is inspired by the “flavor” of illness,
and “savors hidden leisure;” it almost fuses with her sense of smell and
motion when she writes uninhibited poems with the fragrant ink. She
claims that these “wild” lines of poetry are akin to extraordinary music
on an ancient instrument and concludes that it is through illness that
she has reached “inspiration” and spiritual transcendence—the “hid-
den leisure beyond things.”
This attitude ennobles illness as an experience that takes one beyond
the mundane to a spiritual dimension, even while the poet remains in
everyday existence. This seems to appeal to women and recurs as a
theme in their poetry. Mengyue expresses her realization in an explicit
statement. Relatedly, Jiang Zhu (fl. eighteenth century), who
was frequently ill, wrote poems with a strong spiritual bent during
her illness and periods of convalescence.63 She views illness as a kind
of spiritual training and discipline that leads her to the Dao: “With
strength in illness I can gradually understand the strength of the Dao /
The sleep demon often wants to compete with the poetry demon”
/ .64 Writing poetry is an activity
that she wants to pursue even as the need to sleep while sick seems to
take hold of her.
While ill, women in more well-to-do extended families were often
exempted from the common household chores that they normally
performed, and therefore, from the hustle and bustle of everyday life:
serving elders, looking after the welfare of husbands, taking care of the
young, teaching them appropriate lessons and tasks according to their
gender, sewing, cooking, managing housework, among many other
tasks. The occasion of illness, particularly the period of convalescence,
could provide women with a welcome break from busy routines. They

63
See Beata Grant, “Little Vimalakirti: Buddhism and Poetry in the Writings of
Chiang Chu (1764–1804),” in Chinese Women in the Imperial Past: New Perspectives,
ed. Harriet Zurndorfer (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 286–307.
64
“Expressing My Feeling While Sick” , in Qinglige ji (Col-
lection from Qingli Loft), 9b, in Wuzhong nüshi shichao (Poetry by
women scholars of Wu, 1789), ed. Ren Zhaolin and Zhang Zilan , in
Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
 writing and illness 47

had a moment to reflect, to take note of their emotions and pay atten-
tion to the state of their bodies and their sense perceptions. Some
used the occasion to meditate on the vicissitudes of life and the nature
of existence, while those who had a literary inclination also turned
to reading and writing and other creative and intellectual activities,
and in the process, many recorded the very condition of illness that
afforded them this productive space.
In short, as we have seen, varied emotions and perceptions experi-
enced during illness entered into women’s literary production. Femi-
nine illness is variously represented, from aestheticized object to lived
experience. I suggest that the prevalence of the topic of illness and
its varied representational modes in women’s poetry is related to its
potential for constructing an alternative space in women’s lives. While
this topic is closely linked to the turn towards the private and the re-
presentation of the private and personal in late imperial literati cul-
ture, it coexisted with the more public subject matters taken up by
women, such as Xue Shaohui, in their editing and writing of poetry, as
amply illustrated by several of the later chapters in this volume.65 This
subjective dimension of women’s experience of illness is not visible in
medical treatises or case histories written by physicians but can only
be recovered from women’s own poetic records of their experience of
illness.

65
I am grateful to the anonymous reader for making me consider this point.
 CHAPTER TWO

LAMENTING THE DEAD: WOMEN’S PERFORMANCE OF

GRIEF IN LATE IMPERIAL CHINA

Anne E. McLaren

Their literary minds run in four channels which can be summed up

as: praise of things, laments of the inner chambers, sorrow at part-
ing, and mourning death. . . . This is for no other reason than that they
were closed off, cut off from contact with the world. They had contact
with no one except their female relatives nearby, so they could only
see things close to their female relatives nearby. . . . Writers among
the so-called virtuous wives of ancient times could write rhymes of
many laments even without anything being wrong. (Kang Baiqing
, 1918)1
From the perspective of the forward-looking Chinese male of the early
twentieth century, the writings of Chinese women were limited in con-
tent and style, an unfortunate consequence of their having long been
sequestered from the outside world. Their expressions of grief were
thus ultimately inauthentic and specious: “[they] could write rhymes
of many laments even without anything being wrong.”
Mourning and lamentation are here highlighted as the key charac-
teristics of the poetic style of cultivated women in former times. As we
know, this summary statement of Kang Baiqing does not in any way
do justice to the scope of women’s poetry, which encompassed a much
broader range of themes than those suggested here.2 Further, poems
of mourning and lament were also very prevalent in the writings of
male literati over the centuries and were hardly unique to women

1
Kang Baiqing , “Du Wang Zhuomin lun wuguo daxue shang buyi nannü
tongxiao shangdui” (A rebuttal to Wang
Zhuomin’s view that universities in China should not yet be co-educational), Funü
zazhi (The Ladies’ Journal ) 4.11 (1918): 5–6. Trans. in Wendy Larson,
Women and Writing in Modern China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998),
66–67.
2
An indication of the scope of women’s poetry can be obtained from a glance at
the table of contents in the compendium of Lidai funü shici jianshang cidian
, ed. Shen Lidong and Ge Rutong (Dictionary for the appreciation of
women’s poetry through the ages) (Beijing: Zhongguo funü chubanshe, 1992).
50 chapter two

writers. Nonetheless, there is an important sense in which lamenta-

tion and the expression of mourning for the deceased was part of “the
emotional work” of women in Chinese society.3 I refer here to the
oral traditions of Chinese women, who were known for the practice
of elaborate bridal laments (kujia ) and funeral laments (kusang
) from imperial times until the late twentieth century. Laments
were a sophisticated genre of oral poetry, with their own “rules,” for-
mulaic repertoire and regional particularities. Women learned how to
lament from others in their communities and were judged, as in the
case of other oral arts, by how well they performed. Further, laments
were a medium for serious ritual purposes. Through carefully staged
and choreographed funeral laments, a woman would carry out her
ritual duty to deceased kin and assist souls in their passage to the
afterlife. Bridal laments allowed for the exorcism of noxious elements
and an alleviation of the dangers attendant on the bride leaving her
natal home. Bridal and funeral laments were linked semiotically as
performances involving weeping and wailing (ku ) and symbolically
as a traumatic act of separation. Both lamentation forms allowed the
lamenter to display her filial piety, one of the cardinal values of Chi-
nese culture. In the case of wedding laments, the performing bride
demonstrated her attachment to her natal home. In funeral laments,
the married-out woman negotiated the contradictory pulls of filiality
towards the patriline of the husband (pojia ), her own “uterine
family,”4 and her natal home (niangjia ).
This study of literati women’s poems of mourning draws on my
research into the performance culture of Chinese women, particu-
larly the laments of the women of coastal Nanhui, formerly a region
within the borders of Suzhou prefecture in prosperous Jiangnan.5

3
For discussion of how emotional “labor” is divided between men and women in
societies, and the prevalence of women in mourning rituals, see Tom Lutz, Crying:
The Natural and Cultural History of Tears (New York: W.W. Norton and Co., 1999),
153–157.
4
Margery Wolf, Women and the Family in Rural Taiwan (Stanford: Stanford Uni-
versity Press, 1972).
5
For bridal laments in Nanhui see Anne E. McLaren, Performing Grief: Bridal
Laments in Rural China (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2008). For Chinese
laments in Hong Kong see Elizabeth L. Johnson, “Grieving for the Dead, Grieving
for the Living: Funeral Laments of Hakka Women,” in Death Ritual in Late Impe-
rial China and Modern China, ed. James L. Watson and Evelyn S. Rawski (Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 1988), 135–163, and her “Singing of Separation,
Lamenting Loss: Hakka Women’s Expression of Separation and Reunion,” in Living
 lamenting the dead 51

I have also been influenced by studies on the gendered and culturally

bound nature of emotional expression, particularly the notion of the
“performance” of emotion through oral and ritual arts.6 In this line of
thinking, the performance of laments is not so much the product of
“authentic” felt emotion as a form of “situated social interaction” rely-
ing for its effect on the “competence” of the performer, in the words
of Richard Bauman.7 The situated nature of Chinese mourning prac-
tices is revealed in the protocols which govern the “performance” of
mourning. For example, in Chinese funeral laments, both men and
women were required to wail in line with their blood relationship to
the deceased, but it was usually women who carried out the elaborate
vocalized performance known as kusang. In common with women’s
lament traditions elsewhere, these performances dwelt on sorrowful
experiences in the lamenter’s own life and allowed her to maintain ties
of sympathy and consolation with other women.8 In this way, Chinese
women used kusang to frame their lives in terms of hardship, sickness,
and bereavement.
On available evidence, men in general and women of the literati
class did not perform kusang or kujia.9 It appears that an expressive

with Separation in China: Anthropological Accounts, ed. Charles Stafford (London:

RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), 27–52. For Nanhui funeral laments see Anne E. McLaren,
“Making Heaven Weep: Funeral Laments in Chinese Culture,” Journal of the Oriental
Society of Australia, 39/40.2 (2007/8): 369–384.
6
For lamentation performance in various cultural settings, see Lutz, Crying, 197;
for the performance of emotions, see Peter Burke, “Performing History: The Impor-
tance of Occasions,” Rethinking History 9:1 (2005): 40–41.
7
Richard Bauman, “Verbal Art as Performance,” American Anthropologist 77.2
(1975): 304–305.
8
The studies of Johnson offer many examples. Greek and Finnish-Karelian laments
are also a vehicle for the expression of female grievance, see Anna Caraveli, “The Bitter
Wounding: The Lament as Social Protest in Rural Greece,” in Gender and Power in
Rural Greece, ed. Jill Dubisch (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986), 169–94;
Gail Holst-Warhaft, Dangerous Voices: Women’s Laments and Greek Literature (Lon-
don: Routledge, 1992), 45–53; Elizabeth Tolbert, “The Voice of Lament: Female Vocal-
ity and Performative Efficacy in the Finnish-Karelian Itkuvirsi,” in Embodied Voices:
Representing Female Vocality in Western Culture, ed. Leslie C. Dunn and Nancy
A. Jones (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 186–188. Mary Louise Kete
has studied the circulation of poems of mourning amongst women in nineteenth-
century New England as the expression of a middle-class culture of sentimentality. See
her Sentimental Collaborations: Mourning and Middle-Class Identity in Nineteenth-
Century America (Durham: Duke University Press, 2000).
9
As Johnson has pointed out, Chinese men wailed at funerals but did not perform
kusang. She argues that this was because men remained at the core of public life in the
village, and so “they could only express publicly those sentiments that were orthodox,
filial and loyal, regardless of what their true feelings might have been” (“Singing of
52 chapter two

medium that allowed a woman to give an eloquent display of her filial-

ity to her marital or her natal family, and to perform a ‘public’ ritual
role, was denied the educated woman of the elite.10 However, during
the Ming period (1368–1644), educated women increasingly chose to
compose mourning poems for deceased kin, as well as close friends. In
a new trend of this period, men of their families or neighborhood col-
lected the poems written by their women and printed them for wider
circulation, thus giving women’s compositions a posthumous “public”
existence. Women’s literary prowess became a signifier of social sta-
tus, as men of letters vied with each other to exhibit the extraordinary
female talent their families had nurtured.
As I discuss below, Ming women in their poetic laments sought to
emulate conventional mourning genres composed by men, but their
very positionality as bereaved mothers, daughters and widows meant
that their poetic compositions remained irredeemably “female” in pop-
ular perception. Gentry women drew on tropes of filiality, fidelity and
female grief that paralleled those found in kusang performance. This
was due to commonalities in the condition of being female in Chi-
nese society. The death of close family members often had a sharper
impact on women than on men.11 On the death of her husband, the
wife faced the dilemma of either maintaining her loyalty to his patri-
line as a chaste widow or choosing the less socially approved option of
remarriage.12 Once her father or brothers were deceased, the married-
out daughter could be left defenseless in the home of her parents-in-
law.13 Bereft of a son, the wife lost relevance and status, and the need

Separation,” 42). From this perspective, the ability to perform laments and in so doing
vocalize their own grievances gave village women a curiously privileged status.
10
By “public” I mean a performance before the household, the neighborhood, and
the local community. The anomalous “public” nature of women’s wedding and funeral
laments is discussed in Johnson, “Grieving for the Dead,” 140. In Nanhui it was peas-
ant women who performed laments; see McLaren, Performing Grief, 60.
11
Dorothy Ko has observed the striking prevalence of women’s “emotional elegiac
poems” in the late imperial period and suggests that “women were particularly sensi-
tive to truncations in family life;” see her Teachers of the Inner Chambers: Women
and Culture in Seventeenth-Century China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994),
209–210.
12
On the dilemmas faced by widows, see Fangqin Du and Susan Mann, “Competing
Claims on Womanly Virtue in Late Imperial China” in Women and Confucian Cul-
tures in Premodern China, Korea, and Japan, ed. Dorothy Ko, Jahyun Kim Haboush,
and Joan R. Piggott (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003), 220–221.
13
On the importance of the married woman’s relations with her natal family, see
Beverly Bossler, “A Daughter is a Daughter All Her Life: Affinal Relations and Women’s
 lamenting the dead 53

for her continued existence could even come into question.14 For this
reason a woman’s “performance” of mourning, both in oral laments
and in poetic elegies, was charged with an intense need to express her
virtue and in that way affirm her status within the family. As for the
men who published and circulated women’s poetry, it appears they
appreciated these works for their display of female virtues and their
crafted but intense emotionality, which accorded with contemporary
interest in the notion of qing (passion, sentiment).
From antiquity the composition and reception of poetic laments in
China had been inextricably tied to gendered protocols and practices
of mourning. In order to appreciate the ways that Ming women writ-
ers adapted mourning traditions, I will briefly survey the development
of the poetic elegy before the Ming period and the social conventions
governing the gendered expression of mourning, including the perfor-
mance of kusang. In the latter half of the chapter I will focus particu-
larly on the poems of mourning composed by two Jiangnan women
of the late Ming, Shen Yixiu (1590–1635) and Bo Shaojun
(d. 1625).

Poems of Mourning before the Ming Period

The Chinese literary tradition encompassed a broad range of funer-

ary genres, the majority of which were formal compositions for public

Networks in Song and Late Imperial China,” Late Imperial China 21.1 (2000): 77–106.
On interventions by natal families to protect married daughters, see Janet M. Theiss,
Disgraceful Matters: The Politics of Chastity in Eighteenth-Century China (Berkeley:
University of California Press, 2004), 89–94.
14
Note this observation by Yang Jisheng (1516–1555), in his “Final Instruc-
tions,” where he attempts to dissuade his wife from committing suicide after his exe-
cution because of her obligations to their children: “Among women, there are those
who die with their husbands. This is because the husband is [the wife’s] master, and
there are no children to maintain: there would be no purpose in living, [but] if there
are still young daughters and orphaned sons with no one but the wife to rear them,
then the husband’s ancestral sacrifices, the bloodlines, and his life’s work are all bound
up with [her]. If she dies, then she is abandoning her husband and master’s ancestral
sacrifices, letting his work degenerate, turning her back on the important affairs with
which her husband and master has entrusted her, causing him endless posthumous
distress.” Trans. by Beverley Bossler, in Under Confucian Eyes: Writings on Gender in
Chinese History, ed. Susan Mann and Yu-yin Cheng (Berkeley: University of Califor-
nia Press, 2001), 122.
54 chapter two

record.15 Pan Yue (247–300) is hailed as one of the first poets

known to have written private mourning poems for members of his
family, as distinct from the dirges required at official functions.16 His
elegies for his wife, Lady Yang, his son, and his daughter set a prec-
edent for the composition of personal lamentations.17 His elegy for
Lady Yang, “Poem Mourning the Dead” , comprises eighty-
eight pentasyllabic lines divided into three sections.18 In his lament he
describes the main stages of mourning: ritual wailing and laying out
offerings before the spirit tablet in the mourning chamber; calling a
diviner to find out the right time for burial; the night vigil held before
burial; the interment of the deceased; mourning at the grave one year
after the burial; and the eventual laying aside of mourning garments.
The emotional stages of grief follow the progress of mourning activi-
ties. Immediately after death the mourner still treats the deceased as if
he or she were alive, or could even come back from the dead. With the
passage of time, the mourner comes to a realization of loss and notes
the absence of the beloved in the routines of daily life. The spirit of the
dead was believed to return at particular times during the mourning
process. Mourners sought these ghostly apparitions in dreams and, if
not encountered, regretted their absence.
Pan Yue’s elegy for Lady Yang was considered unorthodox at that
time because to compose poems at the time of death and burial vio-
lated the canonical prescription against the performance of sung

15
The preface to the sixth-century literary anthology Wenxuan (Anthology
of literature) records numerous genres related to death and mourning: dirges, condo-
lences, requiems, epitaphs, obituaries and similar; see James R. Hightower, “The Wen
Hsüan and Genre Theory,” in Studies in Chinese Literature, ed. John L. Bishop (Cam-
bridge: Harvard University Press, 1966). For surveys of personal poems of mourning
directed towards deceased parents, concubines, siblings and spouses, see the series
of articles by Wang Li , “Tongnian qingjie yu jiazu guanhuai”
(The bonds of affection in youth and care for kin), Zaozhuang shizhuan xuebao
2 (1996): 14–17; “Gudai daowang wenxue de jiannan licheng”
(The difficult course of ancient literature of mourning), Shehui
kexue yanjiu 2 (1997): 128–133; “Zhongguo gudai dao jiji wenxue de
qinggan zhixiang shitan” (An exploration of
the sentimental tendencies of ancient Chinese literature of mourning for prostitutes
and concubines), Huanghuai Journal 14.1 (1998): 57–60.
16
C. M. Lai, “The Art of Lamentation in the Works of Pan Yue: ‘Mourning the
Eternally Departed’,” Journal of the American Oriental Society 114.3 (1994): 409–425.
17
Lai, “The Art of Lamentation,” 409–410.
18
Trans. by Lai, “The Art of Lamentation,” 423–424.
 lamenting the dead 55

entertainments during funerals.19 Mourning poems were more usually

composed about a year after the death of the relative.20 There were also
social taboos against the public expression of love between husband
and principal wife. It is only in the late imperial period that one begins
to find poetic celebrations of “companionate marriages.”21 In the case
of Pan Yue, his lament was considered transgressive in his age because
he directed his poem towards his wife, not his parents, and used privi-
leged terms from the Li ji (Book of rites) to refer to his wife.22 It
is not surprising, then, that as poems of mourning for wives became
fashionable, the leading motif became the wife’s “virtue,” defined gen-
erally as her diligence in toiling for the welfare of the household and
her willingness to share weal and woe with her husband.
In later generations, authors of poetic elegies blended the expres-
sion of grief and the protocols of mourning with words of praise for
the deceased. Deceased men were admired for their achievements (or
consoled for their failures); wives were praised for their virtue and care
of the family; concubines and courtesans were hailed for their beauty.
Tao Qian’s (365–427) elegy for his deceased cousin, for example,
focuses on their relationship within the patriline and Tao’s sorrow that
death had robbed him of the chance to complete his life’s work.23
The Tang writer Yuan Zhen (779–831) wrote an influential
commemoration of his wife in shi style with three stanzas totaling
twenty-four lines.24 His “Giving Vent to Sorrow” celebrated the
virtues of a woman who had willingly shared a life of poverty but had
not lived long enough to enjoy his later success. One of the best known
lines in the elegy is “The couple who marry in poverty share together all
the troubles and toils of life” . Yuan provided details
of their life together, including his wife’s sale of her dowry to help pay
his debts and the crude meals of bitter beans they endured. In images

19
According to Lai, Pan’s elegy was considered to be in the same category as the
type of “entertainments” frowned upon in the elite funeral protocol of that age. See
Lai, “The Art of Lamentation,” 410.
20
Wang Li, “Gudai daowang wenxue,” 129.
21
Paul S. Ropp, “Love, Literacy, and Laments: Themes of Women Writers in Late
Imperial China,” Women’s History Review 2.1 (1993):107–141.
22
Lai, “The Art of Lamentation,” 410.
23
“Mourning My Cousin Zhongde” , in Tao Yuanming ji
(Compilation of the writings of Tao Yuanming), ed. Lu Qinli (Beijing: Zhonghua
shuju, 1979), 69.
24
Quan Tang shi (Complete Tang poetry), 25 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua
shuju, 1960), 12:4509–10.
56 chapter two

that became conventional in later ages, he describes how he treasured

her discarded clothes and embroidery. He also recorded the process of
mourning, from the Buddhist rites to the burning of paper money and
ultimate reunion in the grave mound. In later centuries, Mei Yaochen
(1002–1060) struck a highly personal note in shi-style laments
for his first wife, who had lived with him in poverty.25
Only a few mourning laments composed by women (or perceived
to be associated with women) are extant from before the late Ming.
One of the earliest is said to be “The Dolicho Grows” in the
Shijing (Classic of poetry), where the poet, adopting a woman’s
voice, mourns the death of her husband.26 The wife refers to herself as
a creeper clinging to a thorn bush, her ultimate goal to rest beside him
in his grave. The famous Song poet, Li Qingzhao (1084–ca.
1151), whose close companionate marriage with her first husband
became famous in later ages, used the ci (song lyric) form to con-
vey her grief at his death. In Li’s songs of mourning, the solemnity of
the shi style, with its emphasis on the prescribed stages of mourning,
was converted to a pure vehicle of elegiac sentiment in ci style: “On
the verge of words, tears flow” .27 A longer lament, written
to the tune “Yongyule” , combines her sorrow at the loss of her
husband with nostalgia for the lost glories of the former capital of the
Northern Song. The latter has long been regarded as a great patriotic
poem.28
The tiny number of extant mourning laments composed by women
before the Ming period does not accurately reflect women’s expressive
roles in mourning. Since ancient times, women had participated in
choreographed weeping and wailing at funeral ceremonies and occa-
sions of commemoration of the dead. The appropriate performance
of weeping and wailing (ku) was in fact a signal reflection of female

25
For examples in translation, see Burton Watson, Chinese Lyricism: Shih Poetry
from the Second to the Twelfth Century (New York: Columbia University Press, 1971),
210–211.
26
Mao #124, in James Legge, trans., “The Odes of Tang 11,” in The Book of Poetry
(Shanghai: Chinese Book Co., 1931), 136.
27
See Eugene Eoyang, trans., “Wuling chun” , in Women Writers of Tradi-
tional China: An Anthology of Poetry and Criticism, ed. Kang-i Sun Chang and Haun
Saussy (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 98.
28
Translated in Wilt Idema and Beata Grant, The Red Brush: Writing Women of
Imperial China (Cambridge: Harvard Asia Center, 2004), 232–233.
 lamenting the dead 57

virtue. I will briefly set out women’s historical role in lamenting the
deceased before turning to women’s literary poems of mourning.

Funeral Laments and Female Virtue

Poetic laments often contain the word ku in the title or the poem
proper. Ku is typically translated as “crying” or “weeping” but in the
canonical works relating to funerals, ku generally means “wailing.”29
It was important that wailing be controlled by the rites because, as
Mencius proclaimed: “When one mourns sorrowfully over the dead,
it is not to impress the living.”30 The Yili (Book of etiquette and
ceremonial) set out wailing in separate stages throughout the mourn-
ing process, with different mourning “performances” required of men
and women.31 While our sources are generally silent on how ku was
performed, it is clear that it involved wailing rather than just tear-
ful crying. According to Yan Zhitui (531–591), “When those
south of the [Yangzi] River wail for the dead, from time to time they
utter words of grief and protest.”32 These direct appeals to the dead are
characteristic of the kusang performances of later times in the Yangzi
delta region and further south. It was believed that wailing aided the
spirit of the deceased in finding its way home.
Wailing, when performed competently, was morally transformative.
According to Mencius, “The wives of Huazhou and Qiliang were good

29
Christoph Harbsmeier, who has surveyed the use of ku and qi in pre-Qin
texts, argues that in ancient times ku referred to the public vocalization of grief or pro-
test whereas qi referred to tearful weeping; see his “Weeping and Wailing in Ancient
China,” in Minds and Mentalities in Traditional Chinese Literature, ed. Halvor Eifring
(Beijing: Culture and Art Publishing House, 1999), 317–422.
30
Mengzi Bk. VII xia “Jin xin xia” , 33; trans. in D. C. Lau, Mencius
(New York: Penguin Books, 1970), 201. This was generally understood as an injunc-
tion not to engage in excessive mourning practices to make a show for others.
31
“Immediately after death, the principal mourners sobbed (ti ); brothers and
cousins [of the deceased] wailed (ku), his female relatives wailed and stamped (kuyong
),” Wang Meng’ou , ed., Liji jinzhu jin yi (The book of rites
with modern annotation and translation), 2 vols. (Taipei: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1970),
Sect. 22, “Sang daji” , 2:573; adapted from Legge, trans., Li Chi Book of Rites.
The Sacred Books of the East, ed. F. Max Müller, vol. 27. (1885; repr., Delhi: Motilal
Banarsidass, 1966), Bk. XIX, Sect. 1:5, 2:175. For the stages as set out in the Yili see
Patricia B. Ebrey, Confucianism and Family Rituals in Imperial China: A Short History
of Writing about Rites (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991), 18–21.
32
Yanshi jiaxun (Family instructions for the Yan clan) (Shanghai: Guji
chubanshe, 1980), 2.100.
58 chapter two

at lamenting their [deceased] husbands, and they changed the cus-

toms of their states.”33 This curious statement is taken to mean that
through their laments the women expressed their inner virtue (that
is, undying loyalty to their husbands) in outer form and this in turn
set a good example to other women. However, there is also a sense in
which these women were adept ritual practitioners; that is, they “were
good at lamenting” and the power of their laments in themselves were
seen to have a transformative effect. Early sources indicate that these
“performances” were an aesthetic experience that affected not just the
mourners but society at large. Confucius himself paused to listen to
a particularly affecting lament performance of a woman wailing at a
tomb.34 In later centuries, the collective wailing of widows was inter-
preted as symbolic of deep disturbance in the social polity. Du Fu
(712–770), writing in 766 about the turmoil of his era, sum-
moned up the general suffering in this image of anguished widows:
Widows wailing, wailing, pressed to an extreme,
From what village come those cries that rend the
autumn plain?35
Wailed performances could have supernatural efficacy, especially in
cases of exemplary virtue. A legendary story from the fifth century
tells of the virtuous wives of Shun , the sage-king of antiquity. The
two wives, both daughters of the earlier sage-king Yao , lamented so
vigorously over Shun’s dead body that their tears stained the bamboo,
which accounts for the speckled markings on bamboo to the pres-
ent day.36 The power of a woman weeping and wailing for her dead
husband is essential to the development of the story of Meng Jiangnü
, which has been retold in countless stories and plays.37

33
Mencius VI:B. Trans. in Lau, Mencius, 175.
34
Wang Meng’ou, ed., Liji jinzhu, Sect. 4, Tangong xia , 1:150; Harbsmeier,
“Weeping and Wailing,” 323.
35
Du Fu, “Baidi” , Quan Tang shi, 4:2505.
36
This story is recounted in Ren Fang , Shuyi ji (Accounts of
marvels), in Lidai xiaoshuo biji xuan (Selection of anecdotes and
jottings through the ages), ed. Jiang Yujing , vol. 1 (Shanghai: Shanghai
shudian, 1983), 166.
37
For an anthology of popular tales about Meng Jiangnü and the history of the
legend, see Wilt Idema, trans. and intro., with an essay by Haiyan Lee, Meng Jiangnü
Brings Down the Great Wall: Ten Versions of a Chinese Legend (Seattle: University of
Washington Press, 2008).
 lamenting the dead 59

These notions of female virtue and the ritual efficacy of wailing

underpinned the practice of the elaborate wailed performance known
as kusang. Kusang was prevalent across many regions of China in the
late imperial period and the first half of the twentieth century. Here
I will draw on my work on the laments of Nanhui, which are of par-
ticular interest because they represent a tradition that formerly cir-
culated within the heartland of the old Jiangnan area.38 Of all known
lament traditions, it is the Nanhui regional style that is most likely to
reflect funeral laments practiced in Jiangnan during the late imperial
period.39
The Nanhui corpus of Chinese funeral laments fall into three basic
types: the “impromptu lament” (sanku ) which was directly
addressed to the deceased, “the set piece” (taotou ) or memo-
rized conventional piece, and the sūtra (jing ) or ceremonial song,
sung at a particular stage of the funeral ceremony. These laments were
performed by women in line with their status within the patriline of
the deceased. For example, immediately upon decease, the daughter or
daughter-in-law would sing “The Final Breath Sutra” . When
the body was placed in the coffin, the daughter but not the daughter-
in-law would lament the “Coffin Sūtra” . At dawn on the third
day when the coffin was taken away, the senior daughter-in-law would
lament “Open up the Gates [of Hell]” , walk around the main
room three times, and call on the dead to eat ritual dumplings. The
daughter would then lament “Departure of the Coffin Sutra” ,
and so on. The jing-type songs described the rigors the deceased under-
went in the afterworld and the confrontation with demons in charge of
hellish torture and with Yanwang , Judge of the Underworld.40
The wife played an important ritual role in the event of the hus-
band’s death. In her lament, she would recount each stage of the
soul’s passage to the netherworld. The transition was similar to the
one we have noted for the literary lament. Immediately upon death,

38
For transcriptions of some funeral laments from Nanhui, see Ren Jiahe et al.,
Hunsang yishi ge (Ceremonial songs for weddings and funerals) (Shang-
hai: Zhongguo minjian wenyi chubanshe, 1989) and Ren Jiahe et al., Kusang ge
(Funeral songs) (Shanghai: Wenyi chubanshe, 1989).
39
Laments died out as a living tradition in this region in the 1950s and 1960s.
Material available in transcript today for both the Pearl River and Yangzi River delta
regions are records of elicited “performances” from elderly practitioners recalling the
repertoire they had learned in the first half of the twentieth century.
40
Ren Jiahe, Hunsang yishige, 279–281.
60 chapter two

the deceased was treated as if he had not entirely died, or rather, as

if he could still come back to life. Gradually the mourners prepared
mentally for the permanent separation of death. The wife began to
confront the absence of the husband in her daily routines. She would
wonder whether it was his spirit she saw in her dreams. Her contin-
ued wailing and laments assisted the soul in reaching the final ter-
rifying stage when the husband was brought to the court of Yanwang
for the act of judgment. Throughout the lament the wife complained
about the husband’s abandonment of her and her children, leaving her
defenseless in the face of the hostile gossip of the village. This enact-
ment of her own grief allowed a widow to assert her purity of purpose
and enhanced her status within the community.
Kusang practices also allowed women to demonstrate filiality to their
parents, a delicate task for the married-out woman who was expected
to transfer her loyalty to the husband’s family. A common complaint
in laments is the difficulty the married daughter experiences in carry-
ing out filial devotion to her own parents on their decease. The married
daughter typically lived at some distance from her parents’ home and
could not return immediately. The daughter-in-law was thus the one
most likely to undertake the intimate care of the dead upon decease.
Through her laments, the married-out daughter made great efforts to
publicly demonstrate her filiality. In the Hong Kong New Territories,
the daughter returning home at her parents’ decease would enter on
her knees, lamenting until she was hoarse and blaming herself for lack
of filiality.41 In the Nanhui lament below the daughter expresses pain
that it is the daughter-in-law, and not herself, who is present at the
ceremony as mourner:
It is the uncaring daughter-in-law who
accompanies you to the hall of mourning,
While your loving daughter laments by the side of
the road. . . .42

41
Tan Daxian , Lun Gang Ao Tai minjian wenxue (On
the popular literature of Hong Kong, Macau and Taiwan) (Harbin: Heilongjiang ren-
min chubanshe, 2003), 52, 54–55.
42
Ren Jiahe, Kusang ge, 45. Translations in this chapter are by the author unless
otherwise attributed. Johnson presents a sung “quarrel” between the daughter and
daughter-in-law in Hong Kong laments which makes explicit the tension between
daughter and daughter-in-law. “Singing of Separation,” 46–47.
 lamenting the dead 61

Literati women used similar tropes in their own poems of mourn-

ing. For example, Lin Yining (1655–after 1730), a member of
the Banana Garden Poetry Club, protested her lack of filiality to her
father due to her status as a married-out woman.43 Ni Ruixuan
(fl. late eighteenth century, Jiangsu province) wrote of “secretly” weep-
ing for her mother on learning of her death in her poem, “Remember-
ing my Mother” .44
The fated inability of the wife and daughter to meet the filiality
required of the mature man in Chinese society reminds the lamenter
of her subordinate status as a woman:
Dear mother,
You’ve raised me since I was small,
what use am I?
You’ve wasted your efforts, raised me
in vain.
If you raise my brothers, they can be
useful.
But you raise this young daughter to
eat someone else’s rice. . . .
You raised my brothers, they can be
of use,
When the wurong tree blossoms, its
tips reach high to the heavens,
But raising this daughter is like the
gingko tree, which, when it blooms
droops outwards.45
Kusang offered lower-class women an oral art of their own to express
their grief, filiality, and verbal eloquence, and provided women with
a strong ritual role that was relatively unusual given the androcentric
nature of China’s ritual culture.46 This sort of histrionic “public” mourn-
ing performance was not available to women of the literati classes.
Ungoverned female emotionality, the very essence of a satisfactory
performance of kusang, was anathema to the protocols of canonical

43
Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 409.
44
Shen Deqian , ed. Qingshi biecai ji (A discriminating
collection of Qing poetry) (Hong Kong: Zhonghua shuju, 1977), 31.24a.
45
Nanhui lament for deceased mother. Ren Jiahe, Kusang ge, 44–45.
46
According to Patricia Ebrey, “All of the rites described in Confucian liturgies
show ways male and female are parallel and yet male is superior to female.” See Con-
fucianism and Family Rituals, 227.
62 chapter two

mourning (li ) among the elite, and offensive to elite notions of

female virtue.47 The learned women of Jiangnan sought to differentiate
their mourning practices from the histrionic performances of kusang at
the village level through the composition of crafted poetic laments that
could be appreciated by the cognoscenti. Nonetheless, both groups of
women faced similar imperatives in their performance of laments. As I
will discuss in the next section, the classically trained woman, like her
illiterate counterpart, sought to play a symbolic ritual role in assisting
the soul on its journey, and further to exhibit her talent and virtue
through the expression of grief in a decorous and socially approved
medium. She expanded the repertoire of the traditional poetic eulo-
gies for the dead to encompass a wider range of kinfolk, including
those in her natal family or of lesser status in the patriline. Drawing
on women’s traditional roles in care of the dead and feminine poetic
tropes, these educated women laid the foundations for a specifically
female mode of mourning within the poetic tradition.48

Poems of Mourning by Women of the Late Imperial Period

Poems of mourning appear in many guises in compilations of women’s

writings from the late imperial period. Here I have taken advantage of
the Ming Qing Women’s Writings database to survey poem titles and
thus gain an overview of the prevalence of mourning poems.49 The
term ku (wailed lament), for example, occurs in 259 titles of poems
and related paratextual material (some of the titles occur more than
once). Ku implied a particularly close family relationship with the
deceased.50 The more formal word dao (mourning) occurs in 167

47
Michael Nylan argues that the canonical rites aimed at “a strong sense of bal-
ance” between “emotional extremes”; see her The Five “Confucian” Classics (New
Haven: Yale University Press, 2001), 199. For a similar view, see also Lai, “The Art of
Lamentation,” 411, n. 13.
48
Male literati elegies were not limited to those for the principal wife; kinsmen
and male friends were of course included and so too, occasionally, were concubines.
What is distinct about the Ming and Qing period is women poets mourning all sorts
of kinfolk, including some who might not have been memorialized by male literati in
the past (e.g., the wife’s natal family).
49
Grace S. Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings, http://digital.library.mcgill.ca/
mingqing.
50
Yang Zai (1271–1323) distinguished between poems of ku and wan in
his discussion of the elegiac form: “Shi-style poems of lament and elegy must arise
from true emotions and actual events. Therefore where the human ties are deep and
 lamenting the dead 63

titles. Other common key words in the titles of poetic laments are
wan (elegy) 110 times, wang (deceased) ninety-three times, and
yi (remembering) fifty times. Poems about the festivals Qingming
(eighty-nine times) and Hanshi (thirty-eight times) are also
a medium for expressions of mourning.

Mourning the ‘Uterine Family’

The life and writings of Shen Yixiu and her talented daughters, Ye
Wanwan (1610–1632), Ye Xiaowan (1613–1657) and
Ye Xiaoluan (1616–1632) have been discussed at some length
by Dorothy Ko and many of their poems appear in recent antholo-
gies of translations.51 This family was remarkable for the number of
women who were talented poets. The family writings were lovingly
compiled by Shen’s husband, Ye Shaoyuan (zi Zhongshao
, 1589–1648, of Wujiang), in 1632 in a volume entitled Wumeng-
tang ji (Collections of Wumeng Hall ). The volume was
intended to testify to the poetic talent of his kinfolk, particularly his
wife and two deceased daughters. Their premature deaths, Ye believed,
demonstrated the dictum that talented or beautiful women invariably
meet an unhappy fate: “Suppose that Wanjun and our two daughters
had not been so talented, or that their talent had not been so highly
developed: how could they then have been visited with such misfor-
tune by the great maker or have aroused the envy of celestial powers?”52
This theme is echoed elsewhere. In this interlinear comment to a poem
by Xiaoluan written to commemorate her foster-mother, Zhang Qian-
qian , who also died prematurely, Ye writes: “Why is it that
beautiful women must be ill-fated.”53
Wumengtang ji contains an abundance of poems of mourning. As
well as those by Shen and her three daughters, one also finds poems

solid then one laments (ku ); if the ties are not so close then it is simply an elegy
(wan ),” Lidai shihua (Remarks on poetry through the ages), cited in Li
Xuyu , Wumengtang ji nüxing zuopin yanjiu (Study
of women’s writings in collections of Wumeng Hall) (Taipei: Le Jin Books Ltd.,
1997), 70.
51
Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers, 187–218; translations and biographical note
by Ch’iu-ti Liu in Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 268–84 and Idema and
Grant, The Red Brush, 383–414. See also the monograph by Li Xuyu, Wumengtang ji
nüxing zuopin.
52
Trans. by Pauline Yu in Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 759.
53
Ye Shaoyuan, Wumengtang ji (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1998), 1.312.
64 chapter two

by her sons, female relatives and other educated women of the area
and records of Ye Shaoyuan’s attempts to use occult methods to com-
municate with Xiaoluan after her death. Shen Yixiu was among the
first women writers to make extensive use of poems of mourning. In
her own laments, she used the solemn tropes conventionally used by
men to commemorate their loved ones to dignify the memory of her
daughters. Shen’s life was marked by tragedies when her two daughters
died within a few months of each other. In each case their marriages
were seen to be implicated in their premature demise. The first daugh-
ter, Wanwan, endured years of an unhappy marriage. She returned
home to say farewell to her sister, Xiaoluan, who was about to leave
for her own wedding when Xiaoluan suddenly took ill and died, leav-
ing the family deeply shocked. In a lengthy lament to Xiaoluan in shi
style, Shen describes the night vigil of mourning. The candles burn
low one after another, the libations of wine are poured out, tears pour
down her cheeks as she fruitlessly seeks the form of the deceased. This
poem bears the word ku in the title, “Wailing for my Third Daugh-
ter, Xiaoluan” , an indication of the most intense form
of grief.
...
How can I find now your image of days gone past?
In the empty chamber night after night only the
wind soughs on the window pane.
The plantains alone accompany me to the frosty
dawn,
The time had come to blaze forth marriage
congratulations,54
How did this turn into the dirge of Dew on the
Shallot?55
...
In her confusion she believes she hears the voice of her beloved daugh-
ter, but then realizes with a shock that she is already deceased.

54
Yaotao refers to a woman with a face like a peach. The term is often used
to congratulate a woman on marriage and is a common poetic trope. It derives from
the Shijing poem, Zhaonan : Taoyao . See Chen Zizhan et al., eds.,
Shijing zhijie (Explications of the Book of Songs), ed. Chen Zizhan
et al., 2 vols. (Shanghai: Fudan daxue chubanshe, 1983, 1991), 1:13–14.
55
“Dew on the Shallot” is one of the oldest and best-known dirges. The idea
is that human life is as transient as dew on the shallot or onion. For a translation of
this poem and discussion see Anne Birrell, Popular Songs and Ballads of Han China
(1988; repr., Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 1993), 96–97.
 lamenting the dead 65
...
Startled I realize you are already one of the dead,
My tears, undried, pour down of themselves. . . .
...
In the final six lines the poet imitates the plaintive lament style of the
Chuci (Songs of Chu), with its caesura (xi ) midline, as like Qu
Yuan (ca. 339–278 BCE), she seeks the spirit of the dead:
As the plum flower buds, its fragrance rich and
cloying,
Plum buds swirl, entering the crimson bed
curtains,
...
Stirred by the dismal breeze, the soul is put to
flight.56
...
She commemorates her daughters at the time of the festival of the fifth
day of the fifth month (Duanwu or Chongwu ), which was
also a time when a married daughter would normally visit her natal
home. The traditional festival arrangements contrast with the work-
ings of vengeful fate:
Silk bunting drifts over cups of calamus wine,
But all events conspire to bring about our ruin. . . .57
On the first day of the tenth month, in autumn, she seeks again the soul
of her daughter:
Far far away, the soul returns not,
In vain the libation set down for sacrifice,
Only the paper money burnt to ash
Swirls in the smoke of the biting cold.58
Similar poems of commemoration are recorded for New Year’s Eve,59
at the time of the Cold Food Festival,60 and the Double Seven Festival

56
Shen Yixiu, “Wailing for my Third Daughter, Xiaoluan,” in Ye Shaoyuan,
Wumengtang ji, 1.48–49.
57
Shen Yixiu, “Mourning for My Daughter at the Time of Chongwu” , in
Ye Shaoyuan, Wumengtang ji, 1.40.
58
Shen Yixiu, “Remembering My Deceased Daughter on the First Day of the Tenth
Month” , in Ye Shaoyuan, Wumengtang ji, 1.40.
59
Shen Yixiu, “Mourning My Two Deceased Daughters on the Final Day of the
Year Renshen (1632)” , in Ye Shaoyuan, Wumengtang ji, 1.55.
60
Shen Yixiu, “Mourning My Two Deceased Daughters at the Time of the Cold
Food Festival” , in Ye Shaoyuan, Wumengtang ji, 1.56.
66 chapter two

also known as “Praying for Skill” (Qiqiao ).61 In the latter poem
she recalls the happy events of last year when they had celebrated
together the festival of the Weaving Maid and the Cowherd and played
the traditional women’s game of testing one’s skill with the needle.
Perhaps her soul will return to play once again?
This evening we test our skill as before,
Why not return this once?
A few months after Xiaoluan died, the eldest daughter, Ye Wanwan,
died of sudden sickness at the age of twenty-three. Here Shen recalls
the suffering of her daughter in her unhappy marriage and the latter’s
despair at the loss of her sister.62
Lamenting My Eldest Daughter, Zhaoqi
[Ye Wanwan]
The east wind cannot blow as far as the nether
world,
The sisters sleep for a long time, when will their
eyes open?
Rain drizzles on the pond, the spring is desolate,
At sunset clouds and mist covers the trees,
shadows flicker.
She lived half a lifetime with sorrow as her
companion,
For seven years of marriage, she was weighed down
with sorrow,
On returning to her natal home to mourn
[Xiaoluan] she was cut off in her prime,
On top of one sorrow is loaded even more grief!63
Here Shen exposes the unfortunate marriage her daughter endured
before her untimely demise. The marriages of both daughters were
associated with foreboding, suffering and death. The term guining
(returning to the natal home) refers to the joyous occasions when
the married-out daughter can return to visit the home of her birth. But
the word gui “to return” is also used to refer to death. The home of

61
Shen Yixiu, “Thinking of My Two Deceased Daughters at the Festival of the
Double Seventh” , in Ye Shaoyuan, Wumengtang ji, 1.57.
62
Shen’s sorrow was exacerbated by the lack of proper mourning by her daughter’s
husband, Yuan Silü , to the extent that the parental family took on the task of
the initial burial. See Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers, 331 n. 52.
63
Shen Yixiu, “Lamenting my Eldest Daughter, Zhaoqi,” in Ye Shaoyuan, Wumeng-
tang ji, 1.74.
 lamenting the dead 67

her birth becomes the site of her sudden death. The conjunction here
between marriage, death and lamentation parallels the understandings
in the popular tradition of kujia and kusang.
Performers of kusang provided a form of public ritual care for the
dead through elaborate singing and wailing. Shen Yixiu uses poetry
to record her own ritual care of the deceased in the solemn tropes
of the daowang style. She was one of the first to extend the scope of
the inherited mourning poem, more usually a vehicle for the man
of letters to commemorate his principal wife, to encompass mothers
mourning daughters and members of their natal family. In the canoni-
cal view, married-out daughters and unmarried daughters should not
be mourned with excessive grief. The poems examined here rely heav-
ily on traditional poetical tropes of femininity to legitimate what may
otherwise appear as imbalanced or transgressive expressions of grief
for those of low status in the patriline.
After Shen’s death, Ye Shaoyuan published her writings to local
acclaim. He “framed” the poetry and other writings of his wife and
daughters through prefaces and annotations and in that way shaped
contemporary reception of their poetry.64 For literati men, these female
compositions not only reflected the virtue and talent of their women,
but also bore out the truth of the old adage that the beautiful and tal-
ented are fated to die young.65

Wives Mourning Husbands

As we have noted, since ancient times, primary wives have been
required to make a public show of mourning for their husbands. By
the late imperial period, widows were also very preoccupied with the
public preservation of widow chastity. Meng Shuqing (fl. 1476,
Suzhou), for example, had endured an unhappy marriage, but she
nonetheless wrote a lament for her deceased husband to protest her
undying loyalty.66

64
As Clara Wing-chung Ho notes, men who published women’s writings wished
to celebrate “virtuous” women. See “Encouragement from the Opposite Gender: Male
Scholars’ Interests in Women’s Publications in Ch’ing China—A Bibliographical
Study,” in Chinese Women in the Imperial Past: New Perspectives, ed. Harriet Zurn-
dorfer (Leiden: Brill, 1999), 322. Ye is clearly validating the poetic achievements and
virtue of his wife and daughters.
65
On contemporary views of the “fatality” of female talent, see Ko, Teachers of the
Inner Chambers, 99–103.
66
Translated in Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 163.
68 chapter two

The wives of literati, scholars and officials often faced another

dilemma—should they commit suicide on the death of their husbands
to testify to their marital fidelity? One woman who made this dilemma
explicit was Shang Jinglan (1604–ca. 1680) after the sudden
suicide of her loyalist husband, Qi Biaojia (1602–45), on the
fall of the Ming dynasty. In her lament, “Mourning the Dead,” she
hails her husband’s act of loyalty to the fallen dynasty, a deed that will
surely immortalize him. Her own choice to remain alive to raise their
children may appear ignoble, but, she claims, these are simply two
different ways for both to realize exemplary virtue: political rectitude
in the case of the husband and chaste widowhood in her own.67 The
implication here is that life as a chaste widow raising her children is
as hard and noble a route as death.
A similar mourning poem expressing loyalist sentiments and the
toils of chaste widowhood is “Mourning My Husband” by
Pan Zhai (fl. mid-seventeenth century). Pan Zhai’s husband,
Fang Yizhi (d. 1671), a native of Anhui, had been part of the
famous politico-literary movement, the Fushe , and held the post
of Examining Editor in the Hanlin Academy. At the fall of the Ming
he fled first to Nanjing, then later to Fuzhou and Guangxi, where he
was captured by the Manchus. He was eventually set free and became
a wandering monk, finally travelling to Jiangxi where he died.68
I recall when we separated and you departed
this world,
I took our young children and returned to our
home.
Willing to endure poverty to retain your integrity
and good name,
I suffer endless grief that cannot be expressed.69
Another woman who faced the dilemma of suicide or chaste widow-
hood was Bo Shaojun from Changzhou, Jiangsu, the wife of Shen
Cheng (ca. 1595–1625) from Loudong, modern Taicang county
in Jiangsu. Shen Cheng had pursued the life of an official but failed at
the imperial examinations. After his early death at around the age of

67
In Lidai funü, 1701–02. Trans. by Ellen Widmer in Chang and Saussy, eds.,
Women Writers, 320.
68
Arthur Hummel, ed., Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period (1644–1912) (1943;
repr., Taipei: Ch’eng Wen Publishing, 1975), 232–233.
69
Lidai funü, 1700–1701.
 lamenting the dead 69

thirty, Bo Shaojun threw herself into a fervor of grief and died herself
a year after the death of the husband, leaving behind an infant son. It
was during this year of intense mourning that she composed the lon-
gest extant series of poems of mourning written by a woman during
the Ming period. Her “Mourning for the Dead” comprised one hun-
dred heptasyllabic quatrains, of which eighty-one are extant today. In
the opening quatrain she eschews the hackneyed boudoir verse asso-
ciated with women poets.70 Her lament, she declares, will be a more
robust expression of grief and protest:
A great man ( fengliu ) of his time is toppled
in an instant,
Endless ages have raged in vain at hoary Heaven,71
When I lament for you, it should not be a mere
autumnal complaint from the inner chamber,
This dirge of “Dew on the Shallot” must ring out
like the sound of iron clappers.72
With the opening line, Bo has placed her composition within the ele-
giac mode of nostalgia for the great heroes of the past. The term feng-
liu refers to the heroes of past ages, as in the famous song lyric of Su
Shi (1037–1101) to the tune “Niannü jiao: Remembering Red
Cliff ” : .73 It conjures up the image of a man of free

70
In this discussion of Bo Shaojun I have benefited much from the unpublished
paper of Wilt Idema, “The Biographical and the Autobiographical in the One Hun-
dred Poems Lamenting my Husband by Bo Shaojun (d. 1626)” (2006). I thank him for
giving me this manuscript and allowing me to cite it here. In my translation of Bo’s
poems I have consulted both the English translation of the whole work by Idema and
the Japanese translation of Kobayashi Tetsuyuki , Mindai josei no junshi
to bungaku (Widow suicide in the Ming era and literature)
(Tokyo: Kyuko Shoin, 2003). There are discrepancies between the two versions due to
different interpretations of whether Bo was indeed a liefu (a widow who com-
mitted suicide). Here I have focused on the less ambiguous quatrains. Bo’s extant
poems are collected in Zhong Xing, ed., Mingyuan shigui (Sources of famous ladies’
poetry) (ca. 1625), juan 36, 34.1a–16a, in Ming Qing Women’s Writings, ed. Grace S.
Fong. Shuen-fu Lin has translated eleven quatrains of her “Mourning for the Dead”
in Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 218–21.
71
Bi cang from a line in the Shijing, Qin feng, Huangniao, signifying the
heartlessness of Heaven, who destroys the best men, Shijing zhijie, 1.393. For this
quatrain, see Bo Shaojun “Mourning for the Dead,” in Zhong Xing, ed., Mingyuan
shigui, 34.1a.
72
For “Dew on the Shallot,” see note 55.
73
“The great river flows east / Its waves washing away the heroes of a thousand
ages” / . Quan Song ci (Complete lyrics of the Song)
(Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1965), 1.282.
70 chapter two

and expansive spirit, or one with outstanding literary talent, as in the

term fengliu caizi . As others have noted, Bo’s poetic lament
focuses largely on praise of her husband’s literary talent and the injus-
tice of his early demise.74 Bo thus portrays her husband as a man of
extraordinary talent, cut down in his prime by malicious fate. She por-
trays herself as a worthy counterpart to such a man. Her passionate
loyalty to him (qing) is so deep that she will turn into a “husband-
gazing rock” (wangfu shi ), like the legendary woman of old
who climbed a height and waited so long there for her husband that
she froze into the shape of a rock (quatrain 40). The wife who turned
into a rock is the subject of another of Su Shi’s poems, “Terrace of
Gazing for the Husband” , and marks the faithful wife as a
paragon of heroic virtue: “Who’ll sit and wait with me till the moun-
tain moon comes up? / By its light we’ll see that old form towering
lonely and forlorn” / .75
A further quatrain describes the pain of the yearning widow for
whom life is endless longing. The men of fishing communities return
each night to their wives, but all she can do is wait in the vain hope
that he will appear:
By the water, homes cluster like fish scales midst
the reeds,
As the fishermen return, one hears the sound of
haggling for rice and fish,
As evening falls by the embankment, passers-by
thin out,
But I continue to gaze towards the timber bridge
for your return.76
Bo constructs her persona as a faithful widow, but the sad circum-
stances of her own premature demise such a short time after her hus-
band’s death led to a somewhat different interpretation of her poetic
opus. A contemporary of the period, Zhang Sanguang (fl.
1626), intimated that Bo’s death was in line with the practice of widow
suicide (xunsi ), which was becoming more and more prevalent
in the late Ming:

74
In these sections she employs allusion and motifs drawn from literati poetry; see
discussion in Idema, “The Biographical and the Autobiographical.”
75
Trans. by Burton Watson, Selected Poems of Su Tung-p’o (Port Townsend:
Copper Canyon Press, 1994), 18.
76
Bo Shaojun, “Mourning for the Dead,” Quatrain 54, 34.10b.
 lamenting the dead 71

Once the hundred quatrains were completed, she passed away. The
sound of a metal clapper rang out more strongly than a complaint from
the boudoir. How could she think only of hastening to follow her hus-
band in death [jixun ] beneath the ground, not even caring for
the babe left behind? She could be blamed for dying after her husband
[when she had a child to raise], but believed there would be someone
to come forward and raise the orphan. In this regard Shaojun appears
prescient. . . . It may be that she expected certain death and prepared this
[suite of poems] in the expectation that it would certainly be passed on
beneath the ground [to the deceased].77
Here Zhang Sanguang observes the death of Bo Shaojun through the
prism of notions of extreme loyalty and widow chastity prevalent
amongst literati during the Ming period.78 He implies she was eager
to follow her husband in death and had reason to believe that her
orphan son would be raised by a well-wisher.79 However, Bo’s death
by sickness was not a clear-cut case of widow suicide, although she
was written up in successive gazetteers as a woman who died of exces-
sive mourning.80 One such report indicates that, due to extremes of
grief, she did not partake of food and died.81 Kobayashi Tetsuyuki has
argued that Bo’s poetic lament for her husband can be interpreted as
a declaration that she was determined to sacrifice her own life in line
with the code of widow-martyrs, a conclusion that has been challenged

77
Zhang Sanguang, “Shen Junlie yishi” (Anecdotes about Shen Cheng),
in the collected writings of Shen Cheng , Jishan ji (Collected works of
Jishan), cited in Kobayashi, Mindai josei, 13.
78
On the association made by Ming literati between the cult of qing (passion,
extremes of emotion) and actual cases of widow suicide, see Katherine Carlitz, “Shrines,
Governing-Class Identity, and the Cult of Widow Fidelity in Mid-Ming Jiangnan,”
Journal of Asian Studies 3 (1997): 617–618.
79
Zhang Sanguang would have known that a family friend had taken in the infant
son. According to Kobayashi, widow suicide was more common in cases where there
were no children, where the parents-in-law were elderly and could not provide for the
daughter-in-law after their death, or in cases where the parents-in-law had another son
who could provide for their needs and did not need the daughter-in-law. Kobayashi,
Mindai josei, 197.
80
Standard reports of her death in the local gazetteer and repeated in collections of
women’s writings state that “she poured a libation onto the [burial] ground, collapsed
and passed away” ( yi tong er wang ), Kobayashi, Mindai josei, 16. Kobayashi
mentions two other deaths in Suzhou prefecture described in similar terms. See Min-
dai josei, 208. Li Xuyu notes that the deaths of chastity martyrs are often described as
yi tong er wang, an expression implying excessive mourning practices, Wumengtang
ji nüxing zuopin, 14.
81
Kobayashi, Mindai josei, 16.
72 chapter two

by Wilt Idema.82 We know that Bo’s family circumstances, already

difficult, became more straitened after Shen Cheng’s death. Financial
stringency, the arduous mourning practices common to the era, and
Bo’s pregnancy during this period could well explain her early death.83
One can assume that Bo intended her poetic lament to be noticed after
her death and to be taken as a record of the exemplary way she had
followed the protocols of the faithful widow.84 Her lament was not
simply an expression of grief but also a symbolic form of ritualistic
mourning and a conspicuous exhibition of her fidelity to her husband.
Bo was familiar with the idea of composing poems of mourning for
ritual use. Her husband reported that she had written funeral poems
when her daughter A Zhen passed away. On the twenty-first day
after her daughter’s death (san qi ) she made sacrificial offerings
of cooked food, and then wrote and wailed out her lament (nai weiwen
ku zhi ) before sacrificially burning it.85
For the purpose of this study I will focus on those quatrains that
depict her grief and mourning, and care for the soul of the deceased.
For example, she describes putting on mourning clothes and fasting
(quatrain 5); weeping for her husband when she mistakenly perceives
him beyond the window (quatrain 6); and continuing to feel his pres-
ence in the weeks after his death. These are all familiar tropes from
earlier poetic laments but are here constructed as the behavior of a
devoted widow. She seeks his presence but finds herself constantly
disappointed:
Alone I mount the empty tower as the sun sets,
As in days of yore cold mist covers the town,
Suddenly from the quiet corridors comes the sound
of chanting,
From a distance I perceive a beard and moustache,
but it is not you.86

82
Idema, “The Biographical and the Autobiographical.”
83
Norman Kutcher notes that in the Ming period emaciation and illness from
mourning was officially commended; see Mourning in Late Imperial China: Filial Piety
and the State (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 19.
84
Bo’s laments were distinctly different from the suicide messages composed by
women who actively took their own lives. For the latter, see Grace S. Fong, “Sig-
nifying Bodies: The Cultural Significance of Suicide Writings by Women in Ming-
Qing China,” in Passionate Women: Female Suicide in Late Imperial China, ed. Paul
S. Ropp, Paola Zamperini, and Harriet T. Zurndorfer (Leiden: Brill, 2001).
85
Shen Cheng, Jishan ji, juan 2, cited in Kobayashi, Mindai josei, 17.
86
Bo Shaojun, “Mourning for the Dead,” Quatrain 11, 34.3a.
 lamenting the dead 73

She also depicts scenes of suffering and deprivation:

Within the bare walls all is desolate; wind stirs
the snow flakes,
The solitary cooking pot long since empty of
meat,
Fortune has vanished from our lives; why do
we deserve this fate?
Only the vigor of your writings can pin
down the multi-colored clouds.87
The final phrase alludes to a line in the Liezi referring to the story
of Qin Qing , whose song was so powerful that it could pin down
the drifting clouds.88 Although ostensibly Bo is referring to the power
of her husband’s writings, she could be implying that her elegy too will
ring out with the resonance of Qin Qing’s song.
In the midst of her grief, she holds onto one shred of hope. She has
borne him a son and in this way he will live again:
Sadness besets me once more, crazed by grief,
I ceaselessly wait for you to rise forth from the
coffin.
A drop bequeathed in blood by fortunate chance
beyond the grave,
Means that this day you are truly born again!89
The next quatrain records the husband’s disappointment that he had
no son (Bo was pregnant with his only son at the time of his death).
She expresses grief that the son will never meet his father (quatrain
14). As for her part, she will not flinch from following his father (
), a line interpreted after her death as a declaration of her
intention to commit suicide.90 Quatrains sixteen and seventeen con-
tinue the personal note as she refers to his enjoyment in playing with
his young daughter: “Even though not male, she could still console”

87
Bo Shaojun, “Mourning for the Dead,” Quatrain 9, 34.2b.
88
Tangwen : “[the song] rang out so loudly it halted the drifting clouds”
(xiang e xing yun ). Yang Bojun , ed. Liezi jishi (Liezi with
collected commentaries), ed. Yang Bojun (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1979),
177.
89
Bo Shaojun, “Mourning for the Dead,” Quatrain 13, 34.3a. Note I follow
Kobayashi, Mindai josei, 43, in reading as an error for .
90
The Mingyuan shigui has an interlinear comment at this point by Mao Yilu:
“‘never hesitating,’ this means that she had already determined to die,” 34.3b.
74 chapter two

.91 But this daughter too had now passed away and
would accompany her father in the desolate netherworld. Quatrain
eighteen describes the father-in-law weeping for his deceased son and
the seeming futility of the latter’s life achievements.92
She makes arrangements for his portrait to be painted. This was
another mourning convention. A portrait of the deceased would be set
up on the ancestral altar together with the spirit tablet. In his portrait,
she will seek to capture his purity of spirit: “Your heart like a lotus
flower and your inner organs white as snow, / Your spirit like autumn
waters and your vital force like the orchid flower” /
.93 At the point of interment she describes the wail-
ing of the children and the departure of his soul as he sheds his bodily
remains and flies away.94 The burial site is one of his own choosing:
Clouds drift over the Huai River, by the old
town wall stands a Buddhist temple,
Homes nestle by the river’s edge in fields by
the outer walls.
Before you laughingly said, “Bury me at this spot.”
Now it is here that the geomancers have
chosen a place for you.95
Numerous quatrains refer to the stages the soul passes through on
death and imply a role of ritual care on the part of the wife. Much as
in kusang performances, Bo elaborates on the trial in the underworld
with its demon officials and harsh Judge Yama. In this stanza she scoffs
at the corruption of the underworld and celebrates the integrity of her
husband, who bears no money to pay bribes:
The God of Cash and his venal officials will not
charge your soul,
So to what end have they captured this
impoverished scholar
Who bears not a single piece of paper money?

91
Bo Shaojun, “Mourning for the Dead,” Quatrain 17, 34.4a.
92
Bo Shaojun, “Mourning for the Dead,” 34.4a.
93
Bo Shaojun, “Mourning for the Dead,” Quatrain 29, 34.6a.
94
Bo Shaojun, “Mourning for the Dead,” Quatrain 31, 34.6b.
95
Bo Shaojun, “Mourning for the Dead,” Quatrain 46, 34.9a. According to legend,
niu mian di , “where an ox chooses to sleep,” refers to an auspicious burial site.
This alludes to a story about an ox that vanishes at the time of a funeral and is later
found sleeping in a favorable geomantic site on a hillside.
 lamenting the dead 75

Instead turn your “iron face” [face of integrity]

towards the Judge of the Netherworld.96
In subsequent quatrains Bo scoffs at the terrors that allegedly await
him. The demons of hell will surely admire his good deeds and kar-
mic merit; as soon as they see him they will want to keep him for
his literary talent (49). He committed no egregious crime, why has
Heaven taken him so soon (50)? His destiny is surely to transcend the
allocation of punishment (the boiling vat) or reward (the lotus pond)
in the afterlife:
Your spirit today lies suspended between the
living and the dead,
Just follow karmic destiny, no need for alarm,
You sought not to exert yourself to transcend
the world,
[For you] the boiling vat and the lotus pond are
mere stage acts.97
Bo Shaojun’s “Mourning for the Dead” is one of the longest and most
elaborate examples of a series of mourning poems composed by a
woman of the Ming period. She saw herself as attempting something
new—not a sentimental complaint from the inner chambers but a
masculine elegy of protest ringing out like an iron clapper. However,
other images discussed here convey a distinctly feminine ritual care for
her husband in his passage to the underworld and a concern to make
a conspicuous exhibition of her wifely virtue and literary talent. After
Bo died, her work was interpreted by the men who edited and pub-
lished it as the outpourings of a faithful widow oppressed with grief
to the point of premature death. The work gained added luster from
the very fact of her death and its association with arduous mourning.
Whatever Bo’s intention in writing her opus, the sheer size and range
of her one hundred laments shows her as an exemplary widow whose
literary talent could be fittingly commemorated together with that of
her husband.

96
Bo Shaojun, “Mourning for the Dead,” Quatrain 21, 34.4b.
97
Bo Shaojun, “Mourning for the Dead,” Quatrain 56, 34.11a.
76 chapter two

Conclusion

We began this chapter with early-twentieth-century claims about the

lack of authenticity and affected emotionality in poems composed by
women. The poems of mourning examined here follow the standard
convention of Chinese poetry that the poet is writing about a real
event and the content is not intended to be “fictive.”98 In that sense,
a lament is “authentic”; that is, it records an actual event. However,
from another point of view, the Chinese poetic lament is not a sponta-
neous expression of felt emotion but a carefully crafted demonstration
of the poet’s talent and virtue in line with class and gendered conven-
tions of mourning. The disciplined poetic laments of Jiangnan women
set these literati women apart from the ungoverned histrionics of vil-
lage women. The former adapted the inherited daowang shi to exhibit
controlled emotion appropriate to their class, whereas the latter made
a dramatic public showing of grievance and filiality. Neither of these
genres could be considered as a form of “authentic” self-expression
but served rather as a medium for the “objectification” of grief through
a shared “ritualization” of the mourning process.99 In other words, the
two “performance” genres allowed for the language of grief to be made
comprehensible, shared and culturally validated.
Both gentry and village women faced similar dilemmas in coping
with the death of close family members. They used the poetic con-
ventions open to their social class to preserve themselves at a time of
crisis when they faced the loss of husband, children, or senior mem-
bers of the natal family. The selection examined here suggests that
women shifted the focus of the inherited poem of mourning in various
ways. Women poets pushed the traditional genre of poetic mourn-
ing beyond the scope of the husband’s patriline towards the direction
of their own “uterine” and natal families. Widows were now able to
mourn their husbands in the same dignified mode that husbands had
used for centuries to mourn their principal wives and gained liter-
ary status accordingly. Through the lament medium the widow of the

98
Stephen Owen, Traditional Chinese Poetry and Poetics: Omen of the World (Mad-
ison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985), 14, passim.
99
The process of “ritualization” refers to conventional mourning protocols that
serve to “depersonalize grief ” and to allow for a “communal sharing” of grief. See
Robert Pogue Harrison, The Dominion of the Dead (Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 2003), 58–59.
 lamenting the dead 77

gentry class was able to explain the reasons why she continued to exist
in the face of the husband’s death, to exhibit the rigors of her mourn-
ing, or to simply display her literary skill. In their remolding of the
inherited poetic elegy, Jiangnan women were drawing from centuries
of gendered mourning practices, including women’s oral performance
of lamentations.
Some of the women discussed here attempted to write “like a man”
in order to have their work taken seriously. Bo Shaojun made this
point explicitly, declaring her elegy was like the clang of an iron clap-
per. Shen Yixiu applied the same poetic tropes men of the past had
used to mourn their wives in order to mourn her daughters. In spite of
the desire of these women to write solemn poems of mourning in the
male style, their literary product was marked as irretrievably “female”
by the men who edited and printed these works. For Ye Shaoyuan,
the poems by the deceased women of his family demonstrated the
logic of the dictum that women of literary talent met an early death.
Zhang Sanguang too interpreted the lament cycle of Bo Shaojun in
the light of her arduous mourning and untimely death. The premature
demise of these women enhanced the perceived value of their poetic
compositions and ensured their wider circulation in the cult of senti-
mentality of the late Ming. For the literati who appreciated the writ-
ings of these women poets, their contribution to the poetic genres of
mourning added a poignant confirmation of the fated nature of female
vulnerability.
 PART II

LARGER HORIZONS: EDITING AND ITS IMPLICATIONS

 CHAPTER THREE

RETRIEVING THE PAST:

WOMEN EDITORS AND WOMEN’S POETRY, 1636–1941

Ellen Widmer

Introduction

This study takes up six collections of women’s writings by women edi-

tors that came out between the late Ming and the end of the Republi-
can period. The six collections are: Shen Yixiu’s (1590–1635)
Yiren si (Their thoughts) of 1636; Wang Duanshu’s
(1621–85) Mingyuan shiwei (Classic of poetry by famous
women) of 1667; Yun Zhu’s (1771–1833) Guochao guixiu zheng-
shi ji (Anthology of correct beginnings by women of
this dynasty) of 1831 and the sequel of 1836; Shen Shanbao’s
(1808–62) Mingyuan shihua (Remarks on poetry by famous
women) of 1845; Shan Shili’s (1858–1945) Guixiu zhengshi
zaixu ji (Second sequel to the anthology of correct
beginnings by women of this dynasty) of 1911–1918; and Xian Yu-
qing’s (1895–1965) Guangdong nüzi yiwen kao
(Research on literary writings of women of Guangdong) of
1941.1
The works differ from one another generically. Mingyuan shihua
is a shihua , or “remarks on poetry,” whereas most of the others

1
Shen Yixiu, ed., Yiren si (1636), reprinted in Congshu jicheng xubian
(Master compendium of writings, a sequel ) (Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 1994);
Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei (Qingyin tang, 1667), in Beijing University
Library and Grace S. Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings, http://digital.library.
mcgill.ca/mingqing; Yun Zhu, ed., Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji and Guochao guixiu
zhengshi xuji (Sequel to the anthology of correct beginnings by
women of this dynasty) (Hongxiang guan, 1831 and 1836), both in Harvard-Yenching
Library and Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings; Shen Shanbao, Mingyuan shihua
(1845), in Beijing University Library; Shan Shili, ed., Guixiu zhengshi zaixu ji (Gulan
Qian Family, 1911–1918), in Harvard-Yenching Library and Fong, ed., Ming Qing
Women’s Writings; Xian Yuqing, ed., Guangdong nüzi yiwen kao (Changsha: Shangwu
yinshu guan, 1941).
82 chapter three

are anthologies, a point to be reviewed below. They also differ in other

respects, such as the size, the extent to which shi poetry is the focus,
the geographical coverage, and the time span involved. Yet collectively
they allow us to address the issue of what motivated women to col-
lect the writings of other women and how they went about doing so,
particularly when the works of previous generations were involved. In
addition, they provide insight into the means through which women’s
poetry became available to the collector, the relationship between col-
lection building and library collecting, and the way collections might
be organized. Finally, they allow us to take up the following question:
to what extent was a feminine tradition perceived to have developed
during the period under review. In contrast to Kang-I Sun Chang’s
seminal article on anthologies by editors of both genders,2 I focus on
women editors only, and I ask questions about the nature of the femi-
nine tradition in each editor’s mind. These six are clearly not the only
collections by women I might have considered, but they are all impor-
tant, and they provide a rough sense of key issues and practices.
In the six sections that follow, I proceed according to the following
points of interest (not always in the same order): the background of
the collector; the rationale behind the collection; the methods used to
collect or locate materials; the principles of organization; and the qual-
ity of the editorial work. We will discover several significant variables
as we move from collection to collection, which is to say as we move
forward in time. In the final section the question of what is meant by
feminine tradition will be reviewed in a more focused way.

Ming-Qing Dynasty Women

Shen Yixiu (1590–1635)

Shen is mostly known today as the mother of three supremely talented
daughters, two of whom died young. Along with her husband Ye Sha-
oyuan (1589–1649), she cultivated her daughters’ talents and
mourned two of them when they had passed away. The Ye daughters
and their parents were well known among later generations of gentry

2
See Kang-I Sun Chang, “Ming and Qing Anthologies of Women’s Poetry and
Their Selection Strategies,” in Writing Women in Late Imperial China, ed. Ellen Wid-
mer and Kang-I Sun Chang (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 149–170.
 retrieving the past 83

women writers. It is safe to say that the daughters came to epitomize

the trope of the talented woman writer who dies at an early age. Even
women who were not particularly interested in women’s literary his-
tory knew of and wrote about these daughters.3
Strictly speaking, Shen Yixiu does not belong in a discussion of
women interested in previous generations. Her collection Yiren si of
1636 pays little attention to such women.4 With the exception of a
concluding section of anecdotes about the Tang and Song that is set
outside the main body of poems, the only earlier women to be con-
sidered are two she accessed via the planchette. These two are from
the Song Dynasty.
According to short prefaces by Shen and her husband, the rationale
for the collection was simply to gather the works of famous contempo-
rary women. Shen most likely took advantage of her husband’s interest
in women’s poetry in compiling her collection. It is at least clear that
he was instrumental in its editing and publishing, and, one supposes,
in collecting texts as well.5 The organization is by the form in which
the materials came to Shen: printed collections (18), unpublished
manuscripts (9), personal transmission (6), biji (anecdotes) and
similar texts (11), and planchette (2). I have not been able to ascertain
any principle by which the entries are organized within categories. It
is probably safe to assume that Shen had actual possession of these
works, not that she merely knew of them. With the exception of the
planchette, Shen’s methods would continue to be employed by later
women collectors.
With only forty-six entries, Yiren si is the slightest of the six collec-
tions to be considered. Generally speaking, the subjects are Jiangnan
women. Anhui, Jiangxi, and Hunan are also represented among the
main entries, and Fujian comes up in the anecdotes about Tang and
Song. No foreign or non-Han women are included. The scholarship is
not particularly extensive, impressive, or consistent, and the use of the

3
For example, see “Inscribed at the End of Ye Xiaoluan’s Fanshengxiang Col-
lection” in Qian Shoupu , Xiufo lou shigao
(Draft poems of Xiufo Tower) (Yushan Qian shi, 1869?), 2.29a, in the Harvard-
Yenching Library and Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
4
The one date I have been able to find for any of the poets listed is 1627, the death
date of Weng Ru’an , on which see Hu Wenkai , Lidai funü zhuzuo kao
(Research on women’s writings through the ages) (Shanghai: Guji
chubanshe, 1985), 149.
5
He wrote a preface to the collection.
84 chapter three

planchette as a means of gathering materials is not what one would call

“scientific.” However, it can be taken as a sign of how intently Shen
thought about the generations of women writers that had preceded her
and aimed to retrieve their writing through different means. Whatever
its merits, Shen’s work is a seminal act of editing by a woman. It is
often cited by premodern anthologists, as well as by Hu Wenkai.6 For
these reasons, it deserves a place at the head of the line.

Wang Duanshu (1621–85?)7

Originally from Shaoxing, Wang lived in the Beijing area with her
husband Ding Shengzhao until the fall of the Ming in 1644.
After this cataclysm, the couple returned to Shaoxing, at which point
Ding went into seclusion, and Wang carried on an active social and
intellectual life in Hangzhou and Shaoxing.8 All of her extant writings
are tinged with an air of nostalgia for the Ming. These include her col-
lection of personal poems Yinhong ji (Collected red chantings)
of the early 1650s9 and her anthology Mingyuan shiwei.
Published in 1667, Mingyuan shiwei was begun in 1639 and com-
pleted twenty-six years later, in 1664. The work is massive in its pro-
portions, with over two thousand poems, representing more than
one thousand authors, in forty-two juan (chapters). According to
the general principles ( fanli ) announced at the outset, a certain
Hangzhou bookshop, Linyun ge (Linyun Loft), was to serve
as the depot for future submissions to a second collection, which
apparently never materialized. This method may have been used for
assembling the first collection as well, although the publisher of Min-
gyuan shiwei, Qingyin tang (Qingyin Hall ), was not the same.
It appears that Wang masterminded her editorial project from Hang-
zhou, Shaoxing, and possibly Beijing, receiving substantial help from

6
Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü zhuzuo kao, 248–250.
7
Wang Youding’s biographical preface to Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan
shiwei, gives the date of her birth. Many modern sources claim she died over eighty
years later. However, a recent publication, Qingren shiwenji zongmu tiyao
(General index of outstanding poems and prose of Qing writers), ed. Ke
Yuchun (Beijing: Guji chubanshe, 2002), 59, mentions a poem by Cao Rong
that appears to have been written in mourning for Wang Duanshu. Cao died
in 1685.
8
Prefatory biography by Meng Chengshun to Wang Duanshu, ed., Min-
gyuan shiwei.
9
Dated on internal evidence.
 retrieving the past 85

her husband in gathering poems. In addition, a few female family

members or friends served as assistants.10
Wang Duanshu’s copious annotations reveal a good deal about the
methods by which she gathered her materials. When the subject was
women who had lived long before Wang’s time, the most important
sources were previously published anthologies, such as Zhao Shijie’s
(fl. seventeenth century) Gujin nüshi (Women writ-
ers old and new, 1628), Zou Siyi’s (fl. seventeenth century)
Hongjiao ji (Red plantain collection, 1650s?), Zhou Zhibiao’s
(1616–1647) Lanke ji (Orchid utterance collection),
Zhong Xing’s (1574–1624) Mingyuan shigui (Sources
of notable women’s poetry), and most importantly, Qian Qianyi’s
(1582–1664) and Liu Rushi’s (1617–1664) Liechao
shiji runji (Poetry of the successive periods of the
Ming, women’s section, 1649).11 In addition, bieji (individual
collections), both published and unpublished, heke (joint publi-
cations, with husbands, sisters, and others), poems mailed in, poems
on walls (whether viewed directly or learned about indirectly), and
legends (about such shadowy figures as Feng Xiaoqing ) pro-
vided background to much of the poetry she published. Dramas and
vernacular and classical stories were other sources for the biographical
notes and the literary judgments that accompany each set of poems.
Despite the domestic cast of Wang’s editorial team, it is clear that
the project was well known among her friends. Whether through the
efforts of Ding, her Hangzhou publisher, or some other means, even
women with whom Wang had no personal acquaintance got wind of
her efforts and submitted their work to the project.12 Her own let-
ter box and those of family and friends were sources for the work
of contemporary women. Published wenji (literary collections)
were another type of source on which she drew. In at least one case,
Ding paid money to acquire a book of poems by singing girls. This
was the elegant Qinglou yunyu (Rhymed works from the

10
On Ding’s help, see the preface to juan 25 in Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shi-
wei. See also juan 41 and 42, which consist of Wang’s own poems. These were edited
by Gao Youzhen , a female in-law of Wang’s. Another female relative, Ding
Qiguang , is said to have helped with editing.
11
It is not certain how much Liu was involved in this project.
12
For correspondence between Wang and some women who wanted to publish
with her, see Wang Qi , ed., Chidu xinyu (The latest word on letters)
(Taipei: Guangwen reprint, 1663–68), 3.24.
86 chapter three

courtesans’ quarters, 1616), which became the basis of juan 25. Local
histories are seldom cited among the sources. However, the shilu
(veritable records) of various emperors come up in the sections
on imperial concubines, and one “unofficial history,” Zou Siyi’s Mingji
yiwen (Unofficial accounts of the Ming), is mentioned as a
source in juan 19. The terms in which such materials are described
suggest that a process of library building was also underway. It is not
impossible that Wang merely borrowed texts and then returned them,
but the greater likelihood is that she and Ding built up their stock of
materials as the project evolved.
The organization of Mingyuan shiwei is by author, with biographi-
cal and editorial comments for each entry preceding the poems. Every
entry was thoroughly researched and screened.13 Beginning with pal-
ace ladies, it moves downward socially. After palace ladies, the order
of categories is determined in part by virtue. That is to say, sections 3
through 18 are all entitled “Zhengji” (Correct collection), mak-
ing this by far the largest category. The poets represented here consist
entirely of guixiu (gentlewomen). In contrast to the practice of
certain mid-seventeenth-century anthologies by male poets, such as
Zou Siyi, Wang relegates courtesans and former prostitutes like Liu
Rushi and Wang Wei (ca. 1600–ca. 1647) to a back section, even
when she views their poetry as equal or superior to that by unblem-
ished wives. Women like Wu Qi (fl. mid seventeenth century)
( juan 23), who may have married more than once, or nuns who may
never have married at all (juan 26) were similarly consigned to remote
juan.
Others in the back sections include ghosts and foreigners. These for-
eigners are mainly Koreans, with a few from Dali. (Interestingly, Kore-
ans who became imperial concubines appear in the imperial concubine
section.)14 Not surprisingly, no Manchus are included, and the huge
preponderance of names is Han Chinese. As with Shen Yixiu’s collec-
tion, most of those anthologized come from Jiangnan with a smatter-
ing from other provinces. The entire last two juan (41–2) consist of
Wang’s own poems. In addition to shi poetry, the anthology contains
two juan of ci (lyrics, 35–6), two of sanqu (free standing songs,

13
Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, fanli (general principles).
14
Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, 1.2b.
 retrieving the past 87

37–8), and an empty juan (39, heading only, no entries) of poetry by

women in fiction, as Wang indicated, to be supplied later.
Chronologically speaking, Mingyuan shiwei moves forward in time.
Given that the collection was completed in the 1660s but focuses on
the Ming (1368–1644), this means that it looks back to an earlier age.
A section entitled “Yiji” (Omitted writings, juan 32) is prefaced
by a passage that conveys the rationale for the entire collection espe-
cially well:
My edited Classic of Poetry [of Famous Women] includes a section on
“Omitted Writings.” What is the reason? It is that I cannot bear to think
that there are famous women writers who will not otherwise be recorded.
Someone may ask, “You know they can write and you know their names,
why not record their poems?” I answer, “Their works are buried without
a trace, so I could not obtain them. Thus I only transmitted their names.”
Women live deep within the inner chamber and occupy themselves
exclusively with womanly duties and household management. They’re
not allowed to discuss family matters on the outside. They may have
two or three poems secretly tucked away in their writing boxes, but how
can an outsider gain access to them? Additionally, poems get lost in war,
they are burned by censors, they are suppressed by old fashioned fathers
and brothers, they are destroyed by unfilial sons and grandsons—too
many obstacles for me to enumerate. In the end, the pleasant picture
of [women writing poems in the women’s quarters] can turn dark and
provoke resentment. This is the reason my section “Omitted Writings”
seeks to fill in what is missing.15
Clearly Wang Duanshu had a sense of a feminine tradition in writing,
one that her collection attempts to detail and hence preserve. Valuable
though this sense was as an incentive for the project, it at times led to
a kind of editorial informality through which incomplete poems and
names without poems were set down. Juan 25, which transcribes a col-
lection of songs by singing girls, further contributes to the collection’s
rather uneven tone, despite the fine scholarship of the annotations.

Yun Zhu (1771–1833)

Yun Zhu is remembered today for her unusual marriage to a Manchu,
her very successful son Linqing (1791–1846), and her extraor-
dinary wealth of talents. In addition to high literacy, these included
artistic ability (in painting and embroidery) and medicine. Also nota-

15
Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, preface to juan 32, 32.1a–1b.
88 chapter three

ble are her wide travels with her father and son.16 Most of all, Yun is
remembered for her anthology, Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji.17
Published in 1831, this collection has twice as many poems (roughly
4000 versus roughly 2000) as Mingyuan shiwei and one and a half
times the number of authors (roughly 1500 versus roughly 1000). It
consists of an original volume in twenty juan and a sequel, published
posthumously, in ten juan. Each of these sets has a supplement con-
taining entries on the following: ordinary women who are not guixiu;
nuns—as long as they were guixiu before they became nuns; and cour-
tesans who ended up marrying well. A few Koreans also appear in this
section, but in the first collection only, not the sequel. Those Koreans
who do appear at all seem to have lived during the late Ming or early
Qing. From the beginning, the original, sequel, and supplements were
conceived as parts of a larger whole. The editing process is said to
have taken fifteen years.18 Yun became ill over the trouble involved
in her project,19 and her death meant that she could not personally
see her project through to completion. The editing of the sequel vol-
ume (xuji ) of 1836 is attributed to her granddaughters Wanyan
Miaolianbao (fl. mid nineteenth century) and Wanyan
Foyunbao (fl. mid nineteenth century), and her daughter-
in-law Cheng Mengmei (fl. nineteenth century). These were
the daughters and wife of Linqing, with Cheng evidently in charge.
A few points of comparison and contrast bring out Zhengshi ji’s
features vis-à-vis those of Mingyuan shiwei (incidentally, a book of
which Yun did not particularly approve).20 Whereas Wang Duanshu
worked mostly alone, Yun Zhu presided over a well-articulated team of
female assistants, especially her daughter-in-law Cheng Mengmei, who
served as assistant editor, and four granddaughters, who took turns
proofreading every juan. Wang may have worked at home, but Yun

16
See Cheng Mengmei’s colophon to the first (1831) collection of Yun
Zhu’s Zhengshi ji and Wang Duan’s (1793–1839) colophon to the sequel Zheng-
shi xuji (1836).
17
For a full study of Yun Zhu, see Susan Mann, Precious Records: Women in
China’s Long Eighteenth Century (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997).
18
See Pan Suxin’s preface to Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi ji.
19
See Linqing, Hongxue yinyuan tuji (Illustrated records of the
tracks of destiny) (Beijing: Beijing guji chuban she, 1984), vol. 2, shang, “Zaizhi shix-
uan” .
20
See Yun Zhu’s preface to Zhengshi ji. By Yun Zhu’s standards, Wang Duanshu
was insufficiently interested in virtue, perhaps because of the collection’s inclusion of
works by “singing girls.”
 retrieving the past 89

worked in a private studio (at her son’s official residence in Henan; it

is pictured in an illustration in his memoirs),21 and eventually pub-
lished her anthology with the help of commercial printers. Judging
from this illustration, as well as from passages in the collection, we
can safely infer that Yun assembled a large library in the process of
compiling her anthology. This is similar to what we hypothesize must
have occurred with Wang Duanshu. Also like Wang, Yun received
significant help from male associates. Yun’s son Linqing was at least
as deeply involved in the production of Zhengshi ji as Ding Shengzhao
had been in Mingyuan shiwei. While his mother edited and integrated
materials at her studio, Linqing and his brothers collected the poems
(or received them in the mail), and Linqing paid the printer. As the
son, husband, father or uncle to everyone associated with the project,
Linqing was also its spiritual mainstay. It was his insistence on wen-
rou dunhou (meekness and gentleness) that lay at the heart
of the collection’s concerns.22 Additionally, he resolved interpretive
problems.23
The organization of Zhengshi ji likewise offers many similarities to
Mingyuan shiwei. It, too, begins with palace ladies and moves down-
ward socially; and it starts in the past and moves forward chrono-
logically. Another similarity is the organization by author and the
provision of biographical and editorial comments as prefaces to the
poems. Finally, both editors prided themselves on their high schol-
arly standards, which means that biographical data and attributions of
authorship were all thoroughly checked.24 Up until this point, the two
anthologies can be seen as quite similar in form.
As for major differences, whereas Mingyuan shiwei’s principal sub-
ject is a bygone dynasty, Zhengshi ji is the product of a dynasty cur-
rently underway. Yun’s anthology reaches back to the early Qing, but
it underscores the continuity between this past and the present time.
It is in no way nostalgic. Rather, it asserts strong pride in the success
of the current regime. Not surprisingly, the two works differ some-
what on the issue of loyalism. Whereas Mingyuan shiwei is not explic-
itly Ming loyalist, it is compatible with a loyalist stance, as we have
seen. By contrast, Zhengshi ji reflects Yun Zhu’s mixed Sino-Manchu

21
Linqing, Hongxue yinyuan tuji, vol. 2, shang, “Zaizhi shixuan.”
22
See Zong Mei’s colophon to Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi xuji.
23
Linqing, Hongxue yinyuan tuji, vol 2, shang, “Zaizhi shixuan.”
24
See Yun Zhu, preface to Zhengshi ji.
90 chapter three

heritage. It is not anti-loyalist, but it understands loyalism as a dead

issue, and its emphasis is on the amalgamation of ethnic groups that
took place under the Qing.
Consistent with this difference are the two collections’ attitudes
toward non-Chinese. As previously noted, Mingyuan shiwei’s main
focus is on Han writers, despite its smattering of Koreans and others
whose published work was available to Wang. In contrast, Zhengshi ji
goes out of its way to obtain poems from all conceivable ethnic groups,
even when no published collections by individuals from that culture
could be found. In Yun Zhu’s oft-quoted words:
Over forty percent of my collection represents local accomplishments,
and over time many examples have been assembled. Thus, Yunnan, Gui-
zhou, Sichuan and Guangdong are not underrepresented, and there are
Mongolian wives of imperial rank, talented Hami women, Tusi scholars,
and seaside fishing wives. The last juan also presents four Koreans. These
examples go to show that the dynasty’s literary culture is flourishing and
that education for the people reaches everywhere.25
It is no surprise that Manchus are included in the collection. This is
not only because Yun was married to a Manchu or because Manchus
ruled the Qing but because many Manchu women poets had emerged
since the dynasty began.26 Manchus are not “others” here the way peo-
ple from Yunnan, Guizhou, Sichuan, and Guangdong are, or the way
people from Korea or Dali were for Wang Duanshu. As for ghosts,
Yun Zhu’s tough-mindedness as an editor means that they were not
included (as they had been in Mingyuan shiwei) and the planchette
was not used.
Yun’s hunt for sources bears some similarities to Wang’s. Materials
like wenji, shihua, and bieji are Yun’s mainstays, just as they were for
Mingyuan shiwei. Of course the number of such materials available
in Yun’s time was far greater than it was in Wang’s. Important col-
lections of women’s poetry like Wang Qishu’s (1728–1799)

25
Yun Zhu, “Liyan” , 4a–b, in Zhengshi ji.
26
Tiebao (1752–1824) is another example of the importance of Manchu cul-
ture to Yun. For more on Tiebao, see Arthur Hummel, Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing
Period (1943; repr., Taipei: Chengwen reprints, 1967), 717–718. Tiebao’s influence on
Yun Zhu is particularly interesting. It is evident in her introductory comments, where
she cites two of his works, Xichao yasong ji (Collected odes of the current
dynasty) and Baishan shijie (Introduction to poems of Baishan). See Yun
Zhu, ed., Zhengshi ji, “Liyan,” 2b and 5b, He comes up elsewhere in her work as the
husband of the woman writer Yingchuan . See Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi ji, 14.1a.
 retrieving the past 91

Xiefang ji (A nosegay of writings, 1773) and of Qing poetry

like Shen Deqian’s (1673–1769) Guochaoshi biecai ji
(My own selection of poems of this dynasty, 1759), not to
mention a host of new bieji, had become handy references. Materials
sent in by authors or third parties or purchased make another com-
mon denominator between the two. However, Yun’s collection is more
extensive than Wang’s in the kinds of materials on which it draws.
Local and dynastic histories frequently appear in the notes on indi-
vidual poets, which is not the case with Wang. Poems on paintings
and embroidered poems are another kind of source that appears more
frequently here than in Mingyuan shiwei. As for popular or vernacular
sources, both works quote from drama and bamboo-branch poems,
but only Mingyuan shiwei quotes from short stories; and Zhengshi ji
fails to mention tanci (verse novel), even under the entry for
Hou Zhi (1764–1829), a major progenitor of the genre. An inhi-
bition against using popular fiction as a reference may be responsible
for such omissions. However, Cao Xueqin’s (ca. 1717–1763)
Honglou meng (Dream of the red chamber, 1792) does come
up once in Zhengshi ji.27 Both Wang and Yun’s collections cite poems
on walls.
One particularly interesting type of source material is oral tradition
within the women’s quarters. It is not infrequent for a deceased sub-
ject’s poems to be praised on the basis that they are still quoted among
the women of Yun’s day.28 Perhaps Mingyuan shiwei was less concerned
with the longevity of women’s poems over time; or perhaps the fact
she dealt with a bygone dynasty meant that material preserved orally
in the women’s quarters was harder to come by. Whatever the reason,
Yun used this type of source much more frequently than Wang.
In sum, both in the types of sources and in geographic outreach,
Yun Zhu’s coverage is more extensive. Only when it comes to truly
popular writings, such as courtesan songs and vernacular fiction, does
Wang’s outreach go beyond Yun’s.
One further point can be made about Yun’s methods. This concerns
the determination with which she carried out her goals. Her note of

27
Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi xuji, 7.14b–15a. See also the entry on Gao Yifeng .
Gao E’s daughter, refers to her father as Honglou waishi (Unofficial
historian of Honglou [meng]). See Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi ji, 20.3a.
28
See for example the discussion of Fang Fangpei , Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi
ji, 11.1.
92 chapter three

1831 to the second supplementary section to the first collection exalts

that she had long sought the writings of the late-Ming early-Qing poet
Gu Ruopu , the progenitor of the Banana Garden Society, but
never managed to find them.29 Suddenly one of Linqing’s highly placed
friends located and sent in two poems. With this a call went out to
others of Linqing’s contacts, all very highly placed, and eventually a
whole group of new materials was located. Wang Duanshu’s pursuit
of materials may have been equally determined, but the evidence is not
as clear as it is here. Thus Ding Shengzhao’s serendipitous discovery of
singing girls’ poems at the last minute suggests an ongoing commit-
ment to the project, but not a focused quest for specific poems.
The question of propagation is another point of distinction between
Wang Duanshu and Yun Zhu. As previously noted, Wang Duanshu’s
collection was motivated by an urge to preserve the work of women.
By contrast, for Yun Zhu and her son the chief value of Zhengshi ji
lay in its ability to encourage virtue and instill high literary standards
among all reading women, as well as to support the idea that literate
women could be virtuous, hence the wish to spread the collection far
and wide.30 Zhengshi ji’s emphasis on teaching and propagation, which
is visible at many points in its prefaces and colophons, is completely
absent from Mingyuan shiwei.
To elaborate on this distinction, Wang Duanshu’s work emerges
from her sense of women as the victims of a system that discriminated
against their efforts to write and publish. Yun Zhu focuses instead
on the compatibility between women’s writings and feminine virtue,
which means that the one becomes a way to promote the other. One
could also say that Yun’s focus is more on the present, whereas an
important part of Wang’s effort is to rescue past women from oblivion
or preserve the efforts of living women against the erosions of time.
This is not to say that Wang Duanshu never thinks in terms of virtue
or that Yun Zhu is completely insensitive to the plight of women who
could not publish. It is rather that the balance of factors comes out
differently between the two. Both imagine a feminine tradition in lit-
erature, but their contextualization of this tradition is not the same.
Unlike Wang Duanshu, Yun refrains from including her own poems
in her collection. This is also true of virtually every family member

29
Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi ji, “Buyi,” 24a–b.
30
See Zong Mei’s colophon to Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi xuji.
 retrieving the past 93

who assisted in the editing process. We learn from Linqing that Yun
had been embarrassed when he published her poems in 1814; indeed
Zhengshi ji can be seen as her answer to that embarrassment, a com-
mitment to publicizing the works of others and effacing her own poet-
ical powers.31 Zhengshi ji thus embodies the idea that a woman should
be modest in her editorial role. Yun Zhu’s important accomplishment
in challenging the idea that “lack of talent in a woman is a virtue” is
all the more effective because it carries so little hint of self-promotion.
Here again we see the difference between an editor motivated by con-
cern at women’s comparative lack of opportunity, past and present,
and one committed to teaching living women—by personal example,
among other means.
One final comment is about the quality of the editing. Zhengshi ji is
far more consistent than Mingyuan shiwei in the information it sup-
plies about each poet and the limited number of poems it supplies.
This is not necessarily a virtue. Wang Duanshu’s somewhat more gen-
erous allotment of space to outstanding poets makes her collection a
fuller and hence better resource on many of them. It also gives her
work a more lively feel.

Shen Shanbao (1808–62)

Originally from Hangzhou, Shen Shanbao traveled widely with her
father but fell on hard times after his suicide. Eventually she married
well and spent a good deal of her later life in Beijing with her husband,
a jinshi (top-tier examination candidate) and high official. Shen
was a renowned writer and teacher, and she had some very accom-
plished pupils, including Wanyan Foyunbao and Zong Kang
(fl. nineteenth century), two of the women who worked with Yun Zhu
on Zhengshi ji.32 While in the capital, Shen made friends with Man-
chus as well as Chinese. The ci poet Gu Taiqing (1799–1877)
was among her Manchu friends, and her Mingyuan shihua describes
many other Manchu women. Shen’s published works include two
sets of poems, Hongxuelou shixuan chuji (Hongxue
Tower, selected poems, first collection) and Hongxuelou shicao

31
Linqing, Hongxue yinyuan tuji, vol. 2, shang, “Zaizhi shixuan.”
32
For more on Shen’s teaching, see Ellen Widmer, The Beauty and the Book:
Women and Fiction in Nineteenth-Century China (Cambridge: Harvard University
Asia Center Publications, 2006), 157.
94 chapter three

(Hongxue Tower, selected poems). Between them they cover

the years 1819–51.33
In terms of organization, Mingyuan shihua of 1845 follows pat-
terns also practiced by Wang Duanshu and Yun Zhu. Thus, guixiu
come first, followed by nuns, humble poets, courtesans who later mar-
ried, and foreigners. Also similar is the chronological order: from the
beginning of the dynasty to the end. However, Mingyuan shihua bears
the traces of Yun’s work in far greater measure than it does Wang’s.
Although Wang’s anthology is mentioned under the entry on Wang,
it is not quoted in other entries, whereas Yun’s anthology is quoted
extensively. This strongly suggests that Wang’s anthology was unavail-
able to Shen.34
Even when Yun is not quoted, her text is an important influence
on Shen’s. For example, parts of the discussion of the “Ten Women
of Wu” (Wuzhong shizi ) apparently follow Yun’s notes on
individual poets. Shen may further have been influenced by the order
in which Yun presents these poets, and she quotes some of the same
poems.35 Likewise the section on late-Ming courtesans turned concu-
bines, women such as Liu Rushi and Dong Bai (1624–1651), is
close to Yun’s version, though Yun’s is not the only influence.36 There
was undoubtedly (and understandably) a lot of boilerplate in evo-
cations of the past by women anthologists, just as there must have
been in anthologies by men. Furthermore, Shen may not have been
as entrepreneurial as Yun when it came to finding original bieji of
the women of earlier generations. If she happened to own a copy of
their works, she might quote from it, but if not, she used the sensible
recourse of drawing on collections of other editors. For example, dis-
cussing Gu Ruopu, Shen mentions that her collections have long been
lost and that she relied on poems collected by Yun Zhu or found in
Wang Qishu’s Xiefang ji.37
Although her search for rare sources may have been less intense
than Yun’s, the kinds of sources she drew upon were not noticeably

33
For more on Shen, see Grace S. Fong, “Writing Self and Writing Lives: Shen
Shanbao’s Gendered Auto/Biographical Practices,” Nan Nü 2.2 (2000): 259–303.
34
There are indications that it became difficult to find not long after it first appeared.
See Wang Qi, ed., Chidu xinyu, 24.9a.
35
Shen Shanbao, ed., Mingyuan shihua, 4.6–7.
36
Shen Shanbao, ed., Mingyuan shihua, 20.8b–10a.
37
Shen Shanbao, ed., Mingyuan shihua, 1.2a.
 retrieving the past 95

different. Local and dynastic histories, local and dynastic collections of

poetry, poetry talks, poems on paintings, embroidery, bieji, published
and unpublished collections—all come up for discussion, with only
somewhat less evidence of acquisitive zeal. The other difference I have
observed so far is that Shen seems to be more willing to emphasize
poets’ associations with Yuan Mei (1716–98) and Chen Wenshu
(1775–1845), but this may simply be a function of the later
time at which she compiled her work. Alternatively, because these two
male champions of female learning were deemed morally suspect by
many, they may also have struck Yun as names to stay away from,
whereas Shen was quite willing to refer to these mentors and to pass
on anecdotes about their lives.
The writing of Mingyuan shihua must have depended on an exten-
sive library and collection of paintings. We do not know how Shen
collected this library. Nowhere are we told of an equivalent to Wang
Duanshu’s Ding Shengzhao or Yun Zhu’s Linqing, who acquired
material from distant places. Shen appears to have been an unusually
avid reader.38 This habit, plus her long and comfortable residence in
Beijing, must have expedited the acquisition of the sources on which
Mingyuan shihua drew. We know that her vast social contacts helped
her to obtain books by living writers, some of whom came to Beijing
and sought her out, writings in hand.39 Might there also have been
booksellers who catered to people like Shen?40
As a shihua, not an anthology, Shen’s work is generically different
from Yun’s. It makes less of an attempt to be systematic in its cover-
age, it often fails to quote poems in their entirety, and there is a far
greater sense of engagement between Shen and the individual poets
represented. This is so even when it comes to poets of the past. Xiong
Lian (fl. eighteenth century) was no longer living by Shen’s time
but her Danxian shihua (Poetry talks of Danxian, posthu-

38
She is the best read in fiction of any woman that I know. See Widmer, The Beauty
and the Book, 199–200.
39
See for example Shen Shanbao, ed., Mingyuan shihua, 2.9b–10a.
40
I am intrigued to learn that Beijing resident Pan Suxin acquired a copy of Shen’s
poems even before she reached that city (Shen Shanbao, ed., Mingyuan shihua, 7.4b).
This could point to the efficiency of the book market. Alternatively, it could mean that
Pan’s friends in Hangzhou actively supplied her with reading materials. For more on
Pan see below.
96 chapter three

mously published in 1845) was an important influence on Shen.41 It

turns out that the way Shen came to know Xiong’s work was through
her mother, who had greatly admired the collection.42 With poets like
Gu Ruopu or Dong Bai no such personal connection is advanced, but
one can still infer that the poets or poems represented had qualities
that appealed to Shen. In Yun’s case, by contrast, the project is meant
to be a complete portrait of her era, whether or not Yun esteemed
every one of the poems.
Evidence of how Shen’s personal taste affected the selection pro-
cess is much greater with the abundant discussions of living women
than with those of older generations. Their poetry is often presented
in terms of the poet’s relationship with Shen. Indeed one of Mingyuan
shihua’s chief points of interest to literary historians is the anecdotal
detail it supplies on important poets in Shen’s personal circle, such
as Gu Taiqing.43 Yet Mingyuan shihua does not set out to favor the
modern over the pre-modern. Rather it understands women’s writing
across the dynasty as a connected set of concerns:
I think that guixiu learning is unlike learning by men, and transmitting
the works of guixiu is much more difficult. From an early age men study
the classics and history, learning shi and fu (rhapsody) as well. Their
fathers and elder brothers teach and admonish them, and their teachers
and friends discuss [their studies] with them; but women not only do
not have the benefit of teaching by literary gentlemen, they also cannot
concentrate on literature. Therefore unless they are of surpassing intel-
ligence, they cannot write poems.44
In this kind of statement Shen shows her affinity with the logic moti-
vating Wang Duanshu, even though she probably had not seen that
collection, and even though her format took after Yun’s.
As far as geographical coverage is concerned, Mingyuan shihua
treats poets from many parts of China. Some of this outreach reflects
Shen’s own wide travels, her youth spent in Nanchang with her father,
for example.45 At other times, it probably depended on her residency
in the capital, which exposed her to women like Pan Suxin

41
See Shen’s preface to Mingyuan shihua, quoted in Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü zhuzuo
kao, 367.
42
See Shen Shanbao, ed., Mingyuan shihua, 2.23b.
43
See Widmer, The Beauty and the Book, 181–216.
44
Preface to Shen Shanbao, ed., Mingyuan shihua, quoted in Hu Wenkai, Lidai
funü zhuzuo kao, 367.
45
Shen Shanbao, ed., Mingyuan shihua, 7.22a.
 retrieving the past 97

(1764–?), a disciple of Yuan Mei, who also traveled widely, collected

broadly, and knew poets from afar.46 Although Shen doubtless presents
poems from areas she had never visited, her incorporation of women
from distant regions has more to do with personal experience and less
to do with advancing a portrait of an age. This means that compared
to Yun’s work, Shen’s has a more casual, almost chatty feel.
As far as I can ascertain, Mingyuan shihua achieves a high level of
accuracy in its statements about poets and in its quotations. It draws
on a wide body of sources and contributes new information about
some of the poets it describes. Virtue is not completely absent from
its calculations, although Shen is not as virtue-minded as Yun. One
might say that her collection is less invested than Yun’s work in setting
literary standards or advancing social niceties, but it still manages to
convey a world in which guixiu proprieties prevail.

Women of the Republic

We move now to two collections of traditional women’s poetry by

women of the Republican era (1911–1949). Naturally, the change in
era reduces the sense of connection between anthologist and poet that
we found with Wang, Yun, and the two Shens.
The two collections are Shan Shili’s Guixiu zhengshi zaixu ji
(1911–18) and Xian Yuqing’s Guangdong nüzi yiwen kao (1941). These
are by no means the only collections of traditional women’s poetry
from the Republic. I have picked them because Shan and Xian are
highly respected scholars. Both are mentioned in the opening endorse-
ments of Hu Wenkai’s Lidai funü zhuzuo kao47 and are among the
many sources on which he drew. The two works are rather disparate
in nature. Guixiu zhengshi zaixu ji is an attempt to update Zhengshi
ji with newly discovered writings, whereas Guangdong nüzi yiwen kao
is a catalogue of biographies of women poets from a single province,
Guangdong. Despite the differences between them, in concert these

46
Pan was from Shaoxing and married a Hangzhou man. Her travels are discussed
in Shen Shanbao, ed., Mingyuan shihua, 7.17a and Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi ji, 18.1a–3b.
Also see discussion below.
47
Lidai funü zhuzuo kao, 3. See also Shum Chun, “The Chinese Rare Books: An
Overview,” in Treasures of the Yenching, the Seventy-Fifth Anniversary Exhibition
Catalogue of the Harvard-Yenching Library (Cambridge: Harvard-Yenching Library,
2003), 22, which mentions both women.
98 chapter three

two works shed interesting light on one another and on the works
reviewed so far.

Shan Shili (1858–1945)

Shan was from Xiashi, Zhejiang. Her most celebrated accomplishments
are her travelogues, especially Guimao lüxing ji (Travels
of 1903), which recounts her voyage from Tokyo to Moscow in that
year.48 Its target audience was guixiu whom it aimed to introduce to
the modern world. By contrast, Guixiu zhengshi zaixu ji works in a
much more traditional vein. Its traditional attitudes are reflected in
its physical qualities: the string-bound format, the elegant printing in
imitation Song font by a family press, and the publication date, which
is figured in the old stem/branch system. With one exception, none of
these features are found in Guimao lüxing ji, which represents Shan’s
more progressive side.49
The goal of Guixiu zhengshi zaixu ji is to supplement Yun Zhu’s
Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji. Between the two dates of publication
(1831–36 and 1911–18) many more guixiu had published their writ-
ings, and new writings had emerged. Additionally, a few more writings
by early Qing women had surfaced. Yet this new bounty was coun-
terbalanced by the huge losses suffered in war and related destruc-
tions. Shan’s annotations detail specific eruptions and disasters that
had eradicated some or all of the output of a given author. In this,
Shan’s project is rather similar to Wang Duanshu’s, except that now
the wreckage stems from the fall of the Qing, not the Ming. Like Wang,
Shan seeks to retrieve and preserve. She also aims to supplement
Yun Zhu.
To give an example of the kind of work Shan published: Yun Zhu
had excluded her own poems from Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji, as we
have seen, but they had previously come out in Hongxiang guan shi-
cao (Draft poems of Hongxiang Lodge, 1814), which was
published by her son.50 Shan’s entry on Yun, with which her anthol-
ogy begins, draws on poems in this bieji. To give another example,

48
Shan Shili, ed., Guimao lüxing ji (Changsha: Hunan renmin chu-
banshe, 1981).
49
Shan does use the old dating system in the title of her travelogue. But throughout
she is mindful of the Western dating system and uses both systems for every entry.
50
In Congshu jicheng xubian (Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 1994).
 retrieving the past 99

Liang Desheng (1771–1847) was known to Yun Zhu, but her

collection Guchun xuan shichao (Transcribed poems of
Guchun Studio, 1846?) did not come out until after Yun’s death. It
was from this collection that Shan extracted a few poems in her entry
on Liang.51 Additionally, the late-Ming poet Ye Xiaowan
(b. 1613), daughter of Shen Yixiu and Ye Shaoyuan, is represented by
a set of poems, perhaps later discovered, that Yun did not include.
Unlike Shen Shanbao’s collection, but like all the others discussed so
far, Shan’s is an anthology, not a shihua. Poems are reprinted in full,
not in part, and little attention is paid to relationships between the
subject and the anthologist. The organization is not very systematic.
Sometimes women of similar ethnicity are grouped together. Some-
times the order has more to do with when new discoveries were made.
All told this work represents about 200 authors.
Shan maintains Yun’s tradition of high scholarly standards. Her
husband, Qian Xun (1853–1927) had experience as a bibli-
ographer and might conceivably have been involved in the project,
although I have yet to find any proof that this was so.52 Notes by Wu
Zhenyu (1792–1870) sometimes crop up in later sections. Wu
was the editor of two important anthologies of poets from Hangzhou.
These notes must mean that Shan borrowed information from his
Guochao Hangjun shi ji (Edited poems of this dynasty
from Hangzhou, 1874) and its sequel Guochao Hangjun shi xuji
(Sequel to edited poems of this dynasty from Hangzhou,
53
1876).
Shan probably accumulated a library of women’s writings and paint-
ings as her project evolved: once in a while she mentions inheriting
works from relatives or coming across a book in a market. Unlike
earlier female anthologists, Shan probably shopped for books on her
own. We know that she prided herself on her strong walking skills.54
Additionally, she made good use of anthologies, local histories, poems
on paintings and embroidery, as well as bieji and unpublished poems.

51
Shan Shili, ed., Guixiu zhengshi zaixu ji, 2.4a.
52
He was a cataloguer of the Tianyige Library in Ningbo. See Hummel,
Eminent Chinese, 231.
53
One of Shan’s uncles, an important mentor, worked on the second of these col-
lections with Wu. See Shan Shili, ed., Shouzi shi shigao (Draft poems of
Shouzi Chamber) (Changsha: Hunan renmin chuban she, 1986).
54
Shan Shili, ed., Guimao lüxing ji, 61.
100 chapter three

In this she is no different from Wang Duanshu, Yun Zhu, and Shen
Shanbao.
Appearing on the eve of the May Fourth movement, Shan’s project
must be deemed somewhat conservative. Famed revolutionary Qiu Jin
(1877–1907), who flaunted guixiu etiquette in some respects, was
not included, even though Qiu came from a socially elevated fam-
ily and wrote good poems. By contrast, Shi Shuyi’s (b. 1878)
Qingdai guige shiren zhenglüe (Biographical dic-
tionary of Qing Dynasty women poets) of just a few years later (1922),
which likewise has an old-fashioned look (as evidenced by its string-
bound format, its focus on guixiu, and its frequent references to Yun
Zhu), makes a point of including and celebrating Qiu.55
Shan’s conservatism can be seen in another area, her stand with
regard to Manchus. As the Qing dynasty progressed, it became normal
to interfile Manchus with Chinese, both in anthologies and in poetry
talks on women poets. We have seen this practice at work with Yun
Zhu and Shen Shanbao. In this way of configuring the world, Kore-
ans were treated as “others” and relegated to a separate section, but
Manchus were filed alongside Chinese. Under the influence of late-
Qing nationalism, however, this state of affairs began to change. Shi
Shuyi’s separate section on Manchus and other foreigners at the end of
her collection reflects the new trend.56 In contrast, Shan Shili held fast
to mid-Qing conventions, so that Manchus and Chinese appear side
by side.
Additionally, Shan’s notes convey her immersion in the Sino-Man-
chu world view, as indicated in her comments about a host of women
from Sino-Manchu poetry circles, including one Manchu “teacher of
the inner chambers.”57 The aforementioned Pan Suxin was another
poet who claimed Shan’s attention. Pan lived a long life. She was a
friend of both Yun Zhu and Shen Shanbao but was also Shan’s aunt
by marriage.58 When Shan invokes the poetry gatherings Pan once had

55
Shi Shuyi, ed., Qingdai guige shiren zhenglüe (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshu guan,
1922).
56
Hu Wenkai’s Lidai funü zhuzuo kao likewise has a separate section for Manchus
and other “others,” such as nuns.
57
For this teacher, see Shan Shili, ed., Guixiu zhengshi zaixu ji, 4.58b. I take the
term from Dorothy Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers: Women and Culture in Sev-
enteenth-Century China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994).
58
On Pan Suxin, see Ann Waltner, “Pan Suxin,” in Biographical Dictionary of Chi-
nese Women, ed. Lily Xiao Hong Lee and A.D. Stefanowska (Armonk: M.E. Sharpe,
1998), 166–169, and the discussion above.
 retrieving the past 101

in the family compound with such notable women as Yun Zhu and
others, she conveys her familiarity and identification with this bygone
world.59
By implication, then, we can situate Shan closer to the propriety-
minded stance of Yun Zhu than to Wang Duanshu’s or Shen Shan-
bao’s affirmative action on behalf of under-published Chinese women.
However, given the fact that the world Shan celebrated no longer
existed, she could not propagate guixiu virtue among living women
in the way Yun Zhu had aimed to do. Although her project follows
directly in Yun’s footsteps, it is partly preservationist, along the lines
of Wang’s and Shan’s.

Xian Yuqing (1895–1965)

Xian Yuqing was a talented poet and painter, as well as a scholar,
and her decision never to marry was a way of giving these talents
room to flourish, a decision that would have been unthinkable in pre-
modern times. Xian held various positions at Lingnan University from
the 1920s until the 1950s, when she was accused of spying and her
health deteriorated, at which point she resigned her position.60 Xian
published extensively beginning in the 1930s, especially on subjects
relating to Guangdong.61
Her study Guangdong nüzi yiwen kao came out in a modern, punctu-
ated edition in 1941 under the imprint of Shangwu yinshuguan (Com-
mercial Press). Its chief contribution is its biographies of the women
poets of Guangdong. Furthermore, its interests are not confined to
women’s poetry but extend to short sections on classics and history.
Another change is that it does not reproduce poems. Rather, it pro-
vides titles of poetry collections, along with rather extensive biographi-
cal information. Finally, in beginning as early as the Tang Dynasty its
temporal coverage is more extensive than any of the other five works
considered here, although its roster of 106 names is not long. As with

59
Shan Shili, ed., Guixiu zhengshi zaixu ji, 3.17a.
60
See Huang Foyi , preface to Xian Yuqing, ed., Guangdong nüzi yiwen
kao.
61
For example, Guangdong wenxian congtan (General discussion
of literary contributions of Guangdong) (Hong Kong: Zhonghua shuju, 1965) and
Guangdong congtie xulu (Annotated record of prefaces to calligraphic
works from Guangdong) (n.p.: Guangdong wenxianguan, 1949).
102 chapter three

most of the other collections we have considered, the quality of the

scholarship is high.
Xian’s work takes after Yun’s, which it often cites, in that it centers
on guixiu and thinks in terms of worthy feminine behavior. However,
some literate courtesans are included. In addition to Yun, the sources
on which it is based include classical poetry collections like Liechao shiji
runji and Xiefang ji, as well as more recent ones like Xu Naichang’s
(1862–1936) Guixiu cichao (Transcribed lyrics of
women, 1909). Local histories are another important resource. His-
tories are more prominently cited here than in any of the other col-
lections, but Xian makes less use of paintings, embroidery, poems on
walls, and oral culture than Yun Zhu, Shen Shanbao, or Shan Shili.
This is no doubt a sign of her greater distance from the women’s cul-
ture of the Ming and Qing. Xian’s acknowledgments mention a couple
of individuals who lent her books.62 Her university setting probably
provided other opportunities to consult books that she did not own.
Her comments do not suggest a sustained effort to acquire texts like
that of Wang Duanshu or Yun Zhu.
Xian never cites Wang Duanshu, and she only rarely alludes to Shen
Shanbao. Nevertheless she displays the same interest in overcoming
the disadvantages women faced in trying to write and publish during
the Ming and Qing. We infer this interest from the following lines:
Arts and letters depend on applying oneself. The women of my country
typically marry early and, at seventeen or eighteen, are already someone’s
wife. Before they marry they are still children, with no real possibility of
succeeding at academic pursuits. After they marry they devote them-
selves to serving their parents-in-law and relations, to cooking and other
domestic duties, to helping their husbands and bringing up the children.
In other words, in devoting themselves completely to their wifely duties
with never a day off, what time do they have to master learning?63
Whether in format or in the type of effort involved in putting it
together, Guangdong nüzi yiwen kao is much more a product of the
modern world than any of the other works considered, including Shan
Shili’s. Where it sheds light on the others is as a foil to their vari-
ous claims to represent all of China’s womankind. Seen in the light
of Xian’s compilation, the other works come across as rather paro-

62
See Xian Yuqing’s postface to Guangdong nüzi yiwen kao, 3.
63
Xian Yuqing’s postface to Guangdong nüzi yiwen kao, 3.
 retrieving the past 103

chial, in that they are generally quite indifferent to Guangdong. The

only exception is Yun Zhu, who includes about twenty poets from this
province. Many of these twenty could be considered national rather
than local figures, in that they married out of Guangdong. Nonethe-
less, Yun clearly made an effort to include Guangdong on her map of
the land. Not surprisingly, I have found no women from Guangdong
in Shen Yixiu and Wang Duanshu. It is more of a surprise to find but
a few in Shen Shanbao and only one in Shan Shili.
Shen Shanbao makes no grand claims at representativeness, but
Shan Shili supposedly picks up where Yun left off, which would mean,
in theory, that she aimed to speak broadly about the Qing dynasty as
a whole. Shan would certainly have had greater success in accessing
poets from Guangdong had she consulted Ruan Yuan’s (1764–
1849) Guangdong tongzhi (Provincial gazetteer of Guang-
dong, 1864) and Dai Zhaochen’s Guangzhou fuzhi
(Prefectural gazetteer of Guangzhou, 1879), which had come out many
years before her collection. These two works were mainstays of Xian
Yuqing’s project. Fujian, Shandong, Zhili, Anhui, Hunan, Jiangxi,
Hubei, Sichuan, Henan, and Guangxi are all much better represented
in Shan’s Guixiu zhengshi zaixu ji than Guangdong.
This comparison between Xian’s and Shan’s collections adds to our
sense that Shan’s work is the one more fully immersed in the practices
and attitudes of the past, despite its provenance in the early Republic.
Not only does it ignore Qiu Jin and interfile Manchus with Chinese, it
barely casts a glance at an important southern province, one with 106
well-documented writers, according to Xian Yuqing.

Conclusion

It is highly artificial to separate women’s from men’s collections. After

all, not one of our women editors based her work solely on the edi-
torial efforts of other women. To what end, then, might features of
women’s anthologies be isolated and described?
The first possible advantage lies in identifying the wealth of sources
that women thought to use. In addition to printed and unprinted texts,
they turned to walls, paintings, and embroidery, and they tapped into
an as yet poorly understood oral culture within the women’s quarters
that, it seems, kept the works of favorite women poets alive long after
they had passed away. Is the use of oral sources peculiar in any way to
104 chapter three

women’s editing, or would male anthologists of women’s poems have

done the same? And what about male anthologists of poems by men?
Also on the question of sources, the growing importance of local
histories is striking. Presumably male anthologists, too, would have
made ever-increasing use of gazetteers and other histories during the
interval between the late Ming and the late Republic, as these sources
increased dramatically during that time.64 It is at least useful to dis-
cover that women editors were alert to new possibilities for documen-
tation even when their focus was on a previous dynasty.
The puzzle of how to categorize Manchus is related to increasing
anti-Manchu sentiment and modern nationalism at the end of the
Qing. Yet the work of Yun Zhu, Shen Shanbao, and Shan Shili, in par-
ticular, are richly revealing of the close cooperation between Han and
Manchu (also Mongol) ethnic groups by the mid-Qing. This phenom-
enon is likely found in men’s poetic culture, too. Certainly the notice-
able increase in women’s poetical activity from Yuan Mei through the
end of the Qing needs to be understood in its ethnic complexity as
well as in gender terms. Is it an accident that the bicultural Yun Zhu
became a major archivist of this movement? Did her situation as a Han
married to a Manchu and the mother of a Qing official help to qualify
her for the project of summing up a movement that had earlier, in
Wang Duanshu’s hands, been prominently Ming loyalist, hence anti-
Manchu? Shen Shanbao’s project gives another, more informal, view
of the wealth of ties that linked Hans and Manchus as friends. By Shan
Shili’s time, the Sino-Manchu project was no longer viable in a politi-
cal sense, which is one of the main reasons that Shan’s immersion in it
looks outdated. In other ways, too, Shan inherits earlier attitudes and
seems to embody a culture that was receding in her day.
As viewed through Xian Yuqing’s project, the Qing’s relationship
to women divides into a national and a local picture. Yun Zhu might
claim to speak for the dynasty, and she might make a sincere effort to
bring in women from Guangdong. But not even she could integrate
Guangdong completely into the dynasty as a whole. On the local side
of the fence, Xian Yuqing did a far more thorough job of rounding up
women poets from her province, including women who had not mar-
ried men from outside. However, her efforts depended significantly on

64
Endymion Wilkinson, Chinese History: A Manual (Cambridge: Harvard Asia
Center, 1998), 156, talks about the explosion of local histories during the Qing.
 retrieving the past 105

the work of Ruan Yuan, a Jiangnan native who had held political office
in Guangdong. Ruan’s major contribution may have derived from his
strong interest in women’s literary culture, which began with his own
wives but reached out more broadly in Jiangnan.65 Over time, efforts
like those of Ruan Yuan, Xian Yuqing and others would bring Guang-
dong into better alignment with the national, thus supplementing and
surpassing Yun Zhu’s efforts along these lines.
This brings us to the issue of female book collectors. To some extent
all six of our editors collected books and other artifacts, although in
Xian’s case the work of collecting was probably undertaken by a uni-
versity rather than an individual. Nowadays when one pictures a Chi-
nese bibliophile in the abstract it is easy to assume male gender, but
here we find several examples of collections built by women, no doubt
with help from men. We also learn, through their efforts, of other
women for whom book collecting was a passion.66 Given the evidence
of Wang Duanshu, Yun Zhu and the others, it is safe to conclude not
only that women could compile and edit anthologies but that they
could build and maintain the kinds of collections from which antholo-
gies might be born. This complex topic deserves a fuller treatment on
another occasion, but it can at least be mentioned here.
As promised at the beginning of this chapter, I return now to the
question of feminine tradition. Above I have identified two rather dif-
ferent currents among women editors, the one more concerned with
preserving women’s works, the other more educative in its concerns.
These two currents are by no means mutually exclusive, but the fact
that there are two prevents us from proclaiming a single, uniquely fem-
inine sense of tradition among female editors. Moreover, even these
two positions do not fully embrace all points of difference between the
six collections. Women who edited relied on male as well as female
editors, and they chose between priorities when it came to justifying
their efforts. They were alike in their pride in women’s writings, and
those that came later were inspired by the efforts of those that had
gone before. But beyond these obvious common denominators each
approached her task in a distinctive way.

65
On Ruan Yuan, see Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 309–405. See also Susan Mann’s
essay in this volume.
66
Yun Zhu, ed., Zhengshi ji, 6.13b.
 CHAPTER FOUR

THE UNSEEN HAND: CONTEXTUALIZING LUO QILAN AND

HER ANTHOLOGIES

Robyn Hamilton

Interest in the transmission of Chinese women’s literary works in the

mid to late Qing period has been measured in terms of the “unprec-
edented” increase in literary output by women.1 The ways that women
encouraged and published each other’s writings and the intellectual and
financial support menfolk gave to their female relatives and acquain-
tances has been seen as an important factor in the rise of women in
the world of literature.2 The impetus to publish women’s writings as
individual collections (bieji ) or in anthologies resulted in some
Chinese women, as individual poets and as editors, becoming more
visible by the end of the eighteenth century.
Paradoxically, despite the desire to give more exposure to Chinese
women and their writings, anthologies could also make editors and
individual poets invisible. The background of editors, the principles
they used to organize their anthologies and the social dynamics
between contributors—if they existed—were often left out of the pic-
ture. The same fate sometimes applied to the individual writers whose
works were included in anthologies. Their names and short biogra-
phies would introduce their poems chosen for inclusion. However, the
biographical notes were often drawn from records possibly written by
family members and then repeated from one anthology to another
with little critical analysis. These same notes would be followed by

1
Kang-i Sun Chang, “Ming and Qing Anthologies of Women’s Poetry and Their
Selection Strategies,” in Writing Women in Late Imperial China, ed. Ellen Widmer and
Kang-i Sun Chang (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 147–170; Hu Wenkai
, ed., Lidai funü zhuzuo kao (An examination of women’s
writings through the dynasties) (1957; rev. and repr., Shanghai: Shanghai guji chu-
banshe, 1985).
2
Clara Wing-chung Ho, “Encouragement from the Opposite Gender: Male Schol-
ar’s Interests in Women’s Publications in Ch’ing China—A Bibliographical Study,”
in Chinese Women in the Imperial Past: New Perspectives, ed. Harriet Zurndorfer
(Leiden: Brill, 1999), 320–321.
108 chapter four

an often brief selection from the poet’s sometimes quite substantial

poetry collections. In other words, women and their writings would
become part of an anthology, but their lives and their life’s work would
remain out of view.
Because of the authoritative position of editor and the “public”
dimension of publication, women who took on the role of editor could
attract more attention than the individual women poets they selected
for inclusion in their anthologies. Ellen Widmer’s study in this volume
of six anthologies of women’s writings edited by women shows how
some of the editors put their anthologies together in ways that would
reflect behavior expected from the women’s quarters. Wanyan Yun Zhu
(1771–1833) (of whom more below), for example, included
none of her own poems in her anthology, thus avoiding any accusa-
tion of self-promotion. Other female editors organized their antholo-
gies along the lines of the status, morality or virtue of their subjects,
in the process drawing attention to their own refined and discerning
taste. Still others attempted to ensure that certain ethnic groups were
either excluded from, or represented in their anthologies, depending
on the contemporary political climate. Knowledge of who and what
were deemed appropriate to include at a particular time could be a
deciding factor for the success of the editor and her anthology.
These various editorial decisions were important if the anthology
was to have a worthy after-life. In addition, particularly for those
anthologies that were local in their selections, the status and reputa-
tion of the woman editor could have an effect on the standing of the
families whose daughters, wives, sisters, and other female kin had their
work selected for publication. If the editor was of excellent reputation,
she could add luster to the profile and writings of her editorial subjects
because of her own prestige in the community. In turn, a line-up of
prestigious names in a collection of selected poems could also act as a
calling card for the editor.
This chapter will focus on some aspects of the context in which two
anthologies of poems edited by the woman poet-painter Luo Qilan
(zi Peixiang , hao Qiuting , 1755–after 1813) came
into being. Luo is known for being one of several women who were
anthologized by the eighteenth-century literatus Yuan Mei
(1716–1798).3 She was an accomplished poet, but the conditions that

3
“Luo Qilan,” in Suiyuan nüdizi shixuan (Selected poems from
the female disciples of Yuan Mei), ed. Yuan Mei, in Suiyuan sanshiliu zhong
 the unseen hand 109

allowed her to assume and maintain the role of distinguished editor

have not yet been examined in Western commentaries on her works.
The editorial style and selection process of Luo Qilan differ from
those of the anthologists surveyed elsewhere in this volume. It is
noticeable, too, that most of the female editors of the major anthologies
reviewed by Ellen Widmer had male relatives or colleagues who were
either part of the anthologizing project or who gave bibliographic or
financial support on the sidelines. The woman Wang Duanshu
(1621–1685) is one of several anthologists who received help from their
husbands in acquiring the works of women. In contrast, although Luo
Qilan’s clan is named as publisher of her anthologies, she appears to
have had no close male relative assisting her with collecting and select-
ing for her publications. Her husband had died young, she had no
son, and no mention is made in her prefaces or poems of other male
relatives assisting her projects. Her wide circle of colleagues included
a number of influential men who perhaps compensated for her lack of
close male family support. Differences and similarities in the selection
process of the various anthologists already known to us are a point of
departure for examining Luo Qilan’s anthologies more closely.4
In the first years of the Jiaqing reign (1796–1820) Luo Qilan selected
poems, essays and letters written by more than one hundred distin-
guished and talented women and men from the Jiangnan region of
China for publication in her two anthologies. The subjects of the
poems and letters in the women’s anthology Tingqiuxuan guizhong
tongren ji (Poems to the Tingqiu Studio from
my companions in women’s quarters)5 and in the men’s anthology
Tingqiuxuan zengyan (Poems of tribute to the Tingqiu
Studio)6 include praise for Luo’s artistic achievements or greetings for
her fortieth birthday. She also took the opportunity in the women’s
anthology to provide a vehicle for lesser known poets to gain expo-
sure. Her preface in Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren ji drew attention
in no uncertain terms to the injustices that women faced when trying

(Thirty-six collections from Suiyuan) (1796; repr., Shanghai: Shanghai

tushuji, 1892), 3.1a–5a.
4
While the term “anthology” usually refers to poems or writings selected from
a larger corpus of a writer’s works, several of the poems in Luo Qilan’s anthologies
appear to have been specifically written for inclusion in her publications. On this
point, especially in her Tingqiuxuan zengyan, see more below.
5
Luo Qilan, ed., Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren ji (Juqu: Luoshi, 1797).
6
Luo Qilan, ed., Tingqiuxuan zengyan (Juqu: Luoshi, 1796).
110 chapter four

to make a name for themselves. Her anthology of women’s writings

provided the means to correct this situation.7
In the course of her publishing career Luo Qilan recognized that
women lacked the means for pursuing the same routes to “fame”—
variously glossed in her writings as ming or chuan —to which
men had access.8 Some of the women discussed elsewhere in this vol-
ume may also have recognized the disadvantages women had in seek-
ing a writing career, but few articulated their discontent in such a direct
manner. Luo’s preface to her anthology Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren
ji made no bones about stating the obvious. Women were dependent
on a sympathetic nature in their husbands or fathers and other close
male kin if they were to develop their talents and be respected for them.
Even then, they had to struggle to secure a balance between achieving
fame and maintaining respect. In addition, it was usually men, and
not women, who had access to the social and literary contacts that
would help women in their careers. Thus, publishing an anthology of
women’s poetry would serve Luo Qilan’s dual concerns: to provide an
outlet for the writings of her women friends and thereby make known
their names outside their immediate family circles, and, at the same
time, to bring her prestige as an editor of published works.
Luo Qilan’s own poetry collection, Tingqiuxuan shiji
(Poems from the Tingqiu Studio), had been published the year before
the appearance of the women’s collection, in 1796.9 Poems from it were
included in Qing anthologies of women’s poetry.10 It is now customary

7
The preface is discussed in Robyn Hamilton, “Listening to Sounds: Context and
the Chinese Painter/Poet Luo Qilan (1755–after? 1813)” (Master’s thesis, University
of Auckland, 1995), and in Robyn Hamilton, “The Pursuit of Fame: Luo Qilan (1755–
1813?) and the Debates about Women and Talent in Eighteenth-Century Jiangnan,”
Late Imperial China 18.1 (1997): 39–71.
8
Luo uses the characters ming or chuan nine times in various contexts in her
preface. The usual meaning of the character chuan is “circulation and transmission.”
It has an extended meaning of “being known” or “gaining a reputation.”
9
Luo Qilan, Tingqiuxuan shiji, 6 juan (Jinling: Gongshi, 1795). The first three
juan of Tingqiuxuan shiji are included in Ming Qing Women’s Writings, ed. Grace S.
Fong, http://digital.library.mcgill.ca/mingqing. Further research is needed to clarify
any differences between the six-juan version used for this study (held in the Nanjing
University Library) and the three-juan version on the Ming Qing Women’s Writings
database. Both versions have the same prefaces. All citations from Luo Qilan’s works
in this study are from the edition held in the Nanjing University Library, with addi-
tional consultation of the editions held in the National Library of China.
10
For example, twelve poems in Guochao guige shichao (Draft poems
by gentlewomen of this dynasty), ed. Cai Dianqi (Langhuan bie guan, 1844),
juan 7; five titles in Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji (Correct beginnings
 the unseen hand 111

for Western scholars to include selections from her work in antholo-

gies of Chinese women’s poetry.11 Close attention to the organization
Luo Qilan used in her individual collection reveals patterns based on
thematics (for example, poems on “objects” and seasons are grouped
together), travel (a group of poems clustered together documents her
voyage along the river), social and family gatherings, and her inscrip-
tions for her own paintings and those of others. There is also a sense
of chronological order: her last poems in the sixth juan announce her
withdrawal from the world of poetry. Many of the nuances of her edi-
torial organization in her bieji were lost when her poems were selected
for inclusion in anthologies.
Luo Qilan, now part of the “familiar landscape” of High Qing stud-
ies, appears to be unique in her vocal criticism of the unfair treatment
of women. Contextualizing her anthologies is important because she
leads to other individuals and networks and provides us with a fuller,
more dynamic view of women’s culture. As Susan Mann has argued in
her article on the uses of feminist theory in Chinese history, new his-
torical meaning can be formulated by deconstructing familiar materi-
als and using them in new ways.12 Shifting the focus on Luo Qilan
from anthologized subject to distinguished editor brings new under-
standings of the social and cultural dynamics of late eighteenth-cen-
tury China. The glittering array of names in Luo Qilan’s anthologies
includes those of painters, embroiderers, poets, essayists, and officials
from elite Qing circles. It was not unusual for women contemporary
with Luo Qilan to receive accolades from both male and female mem-
bers of the Jiangnan literary community. Birthdays and the success-
ful publication of collections of poetry or albums of paintings were
the kind of events that attracted congratulations. Expressions of praise

collection from women poets of this dynasty), ed. Yun Zhu (Hongxiang guan,
1831–1836), juan 14.
11
For example, Irving Yucheng Lo, ed. and trans., “Luo Qilan,” in Women Writers
of Traditional China: An Anthology of Poetry and Criticism, ed. Kang-i Sun Chang and
Haun Saussy (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 703–706; Wilt Idema and
Beata Grant, The Red Brush: Writing Women of Imperial China (Cambridge: Harvard
University Press, 2004), 612–620.
12
See Susan Mann, “What Can Feminist Theory Do for the Study of Chinese
History? A Brief Review of Scholarship in the U.S.,” Jindai Zhongguo nunüshi yanjiu
/Research on Women in Modern Chinese History 1 (1993): 241–
260 for discussion of this concept.
112 chapter four

could come in varying literary forms, including prefaces, postscripts,

essays, poems and inscriptions on fans or paintings.13
Luo Qilan’s family background played a large part in creating the
prestige in which she was held by her community. Thus, the first sec-
tion of the chapter will focus on her ancestry and her geographical
context. This will be followed by a discussion of Luo’s social and lit-
erary community through biographical analysis of some of the con-
tributors to her two anthologies of poetry. These publications act as
a window into the organization and dynamics of her world, which
reads like a “who’s who” of late eighteenth-century Chinese literary
aristocracy.
First, some of the male scholars and officials who were included in
her Tingqiuxuan zengyan will be discussed. The thirteen men brought
to attention here are only a small percentage of those who endorsed
her life and works, but they are representative of the high political
or cultural ranking of the whole. The calibre of the male community
of scholars and officials with whom she was associated augmented
Luo’s own social status. Second, some of the contributors to her all-
female Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren ji will be discussed. Several of
the women Luo Qilan associated with, such as the Suzhou poet Jiang
Zhu (fl. eighteenth century), are familiar figures in studies of
Qing women, while others have yet to receive critical attention.

Paths to Fame

In spite of Luo Qilan’s prolific literary output and her distinction as

editor, relatively little has been made of her family background, her
literary pedigree, or of several of the women who were part of her
semi-formal coterie. In order to understand the part that reputation
derived from ancestry and region played in the success of Luo Qilan’s
publications, this section will situate her in her geographic, familial,
and social contexts.
Luo Qilan was born in 1755 into the Luo clan of Juqu village
in Jurong County, approximately fifty kilometers southeast of
present day Nanjing. The Luo ancestral home was near the Maoshan

13
On prefaces, see Maureen Robertson, “Changing the Subject: Gender and Self-
inscription in Authors’ Prefaces and ‘Shi’ Poetry,” in Widmer and Chang, eds., Writ-
ing Women, 171–217.
 the unseen hand 113

Range, a fact that Luo stated in her poem “Climbing to the Sum-
mit of Maoshan” :
Long I’ve heard of Three Peaked Mountain,
Misty and obscure beyond the clouds.
The middle peak especially rises up steep and beautiful,
Meeting with the azure evening sky.
I was born in Juqu village.
Day and night I would gaze skywards to the dense forests. 䎚
What bitter fate to be born and shackled as a woman,
Having no cause to tread within this immortal land.14
As one of the important Five Peaks of Daoism, Maoshan was cen-
tral to followers of the Shangqing (“Supreme Purity”) sect. Luo’s
poem records her spiritual, ancestral, and physical connection with
the mountains and temples. The poem draws on the mythology of the
mountain while conveniently using its image to illustrate the parallels
between the struggle needed to reach the summit and the tortuous path
women must negotiate in order to be recognized for their talent.
Luo Qilan’s spiritual and ancestral links to Juqu and Maoshan
enhanced her reputation among many of her contemporaries. One of
her teachers, the retired official Wang Wenzhi (1730–1802),
was a Buddhist layman and pointed out her special relation to Juqu
in his preface to her anthology.15 Later in life Luo lived in Yangzhou
and Dantu (present-day Zhenjiang), both thriving Jiangnan social and
cultural centers, where she engaged in intellectual pursuits with the
local gentry. Yangzhou was enjoyed for its gardens and scenic sites,
and Dantu was known for its school of painting. Nevertheless, despite
her association with these places it was her connection to her native
place, Juqu, that invoked the admiration of her peers.
Luo Qilan’s ancestry was well known in her community. Her ances-
tor from the Tang, the poet Luo Binwang (ca. 640–84), had
held several minor official posts in his early life but is remembered
primarily as one of the “Four Eminents of the Tang Dynasty.”16 Two of

14
Luo Qilan, Tingqiuxuan shiji, 3.1a.
15
Wang Wenzhi, “Wang [Wenzhi]’s preface” , in Luo Qilan, ed., Tingqiuxuan
shiji. Translated in full in Hamilton, Listening to Sounds, 81–3. A biographical entry
for Wang Wenzhi is in Arthur Hummel, ed., Eminent Chinese of the Ch’ing Period
(1644–1912) (Washington, D.C.: United States Government Printing Office, 1943),
840–841.
16
“Lo Pin-Wang” in The Indiana Companion to Traditional Chinese Literature,
ed. William H. Nienhauser, Jr., 2 vols. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press,
114 chapter four

17
Binwang’s poems in particular, “On the Cicada: In Prison”
and “Brief Notes to my Friends from Prison” ,
have had resonance through the ages with scholars and artists who
felt they had suffered injustices under the prevailing political regime.
These themes of disillusionment, or of one’s talents going unrecog-
nized, may have struck a chord with some of Luo Qilan’s male con-
temporaries. Her Tang ancestor’s words would resonate with those
facing disappointment in their personal or official lives.
Perhaps because of modesty Luo Qilan makes no direct reference to
her illustrious male ancestor in her writings, but her lineage undoubt-
edly played a large part in her relationships with her contemporaries
and in their willingness to endorse her literary compilations. Her three
teachers, Yuan Mei, Wang Wenzhi and Zeng Yu (1759–1830) all
cite her descent from Luo Binwang in the opening lines of their bio-
graphical prefaces to her Tingqiuxuan shiji.18 Wang Wenzhi refers to
Luo as “The Female Binwang” (nü Binwang ) in his first poem
in the series, “Eight Poems as Inscription for Luo Peixiang’s Teaching
My Daughter by an Autumn Lamp ,
thus creating a link with her ancestor’s talent and fame.19
Luo Qilan had several siblings, some of whom are named in her
poems. Her influence in the family was noted by Wang Wenzhi, who
commented in his preface on the respect she earned when dealing with
difficult matters within the family.20 Her third, fourth, and fifth sisters
shared with Luo the given name “Lan” (Orchid) indicating they
were of the same generation. Her younger sister (“Third Sister”) You-
lan lived at Plum Flower Studio in Jinling with her husband. Luo
sometimes visited her there.21 Another sister, (“Fifth Sister”) Renlan

1986–1998), 1:596–597; Stephen Owen, “Lo Pin-Wang,” in The Poetry of the Early
T’ang (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), 138–150.
17
This poem is translated in John Minford and Joseph S.M. Lau, eds., Classical
Chinese Literature: An Anthology of Translations (New York: Columbia University
Press; Hong Kong: Chinese University Press, 2000), 688–690.
18
Yuan Mei, “Yuan [Mei]’s preface” , in Luo Qilan, Tingqiuxuan shiji, 1.1a–4b;
Wang Wenzhi, “Wang [Wenzhi]’s preface,” 1.1b–4b; Zeng, “Zeng [Yu]’s preface” ,
in Luo Qilan, Tingqiuxuan shiji, 1.1a–1.3b. Each preface is separately paginated.
19
Wang Wenzhi, Menglou shiji (Poetry from the [master of] Meng
Tower) (1795; repr., Shanghai: Qianqingtang shuju, between 1912 and 1949), 12.8b.
20
Wang Wenzhi, “Wang [Wenzhi]’s preface,” translated in Hamilton, Listening to
Sounds, 82.
21
Luo Qilan, “In Jinling I Visited My Third Sister Youlan at Plum Flower Stu-
dio and Wrote a Poem on the Wall” , Tingqiuxuan
shiji, 5.11b.
 the unseen hand 115

, and her daughter Ruiyue , were the recipients of a poem

that Luo wrote in which she recorded an exhilarating river journey to
Suzhou. The speed of the boat and the freshness of the wind moved
Luo Qilan to compose a verse and send it to her sister and niece.22 The
details gleaned from these poems between sisters provide a glimpse of
her personal family relationships which would have been part of the
persona known to her contemporaries.
There were also up to six brothers in the family. On one occasion,
Luo had arranged to meet Wenfeng and Yuchu after a
separation of three years. A poem recorded her feelings as she fretted
waiting for the sound of their footsteps.23 Some of Luo’s brothers also
wrote poems for her Tingqiuxuan zengyan and presented inscriptions
for her paintings. These details of Luo Qilan’s siblings add texture
to the few details already known of her life. Her sisters and brothers
sometimes accompanied her on visits or received her as visitor, thus
widening her social and literary networks.
Luo married Gong Shizhi from the Gong clan of Jinling. By
all accounts the two had enjoyed a close literary relationship and her
husband’s clan had supported her early publishing ventures. No chil-
dren resulted from the marriage before Shizhi’s untimely death, but
Luo adopted a young girl, whose clan name was Zuo , to keep her
company.24 The subject of Luo Qilan’s poems and painting Teaching
My Daughter by an Autumn Lamp may well be her adopted daugh-
ter.25 After Daughter Zuo left home to be married,26 Luo taught her
servant Fengxiao how to draw “bamboo and orchids,” suggesting
a desire to encourage girls to study.27

22
Luo Qilan, “On an Autumn Day I Made a Trip to Wumen and Had Just Boarded
the Boat When We Met a Fair Breeze. In the Space of a Few Minutes We Had Trav-
elled Several Hundred Li. It Was So Exciting That I Composed a Verse to Send to Fifth
Sister Renlan and Her Daughter Ruiyue”
, Tingqiuxuan shiji, 6.7b.
23
Luo Qilan, “My Two Brothers Wenfeng and Yuchu Planned to Come to Visit
but After Several Days, They Had Still Not Arrived”
, Tingqiuxuan shiji, 4.6b.
24
See Luo Qilan, “Five Poems Written for My Daughter’s Wedding” ,
Tingqiuxuan shiji, 6.1a–1b.
25
See Luo Qilan, “Self-Inscription for Teaching My Daughter by an Autumn Lamp”
, Tingqiuxuan shiji, 1.13a–13b.
26
Luo Qilan, “Five Poems Written for My Daughter’s Wedding,” Tingqiuxuan
shiji, 6.1b.
27
Luo Qilan, “After My Daughter’s Wedding My Servant Fengxiao Had Nothing
to Do, so I Had Her Learn to Draw Orchids and Bamboo. . . .”
. . . ., Tingqiuxuan shiji, 6.1b.
116 chapter four

A close reading of Luo’s Tingqiuxuan shiji reveals that she was

multi-skilled in the arts. A prerequisite to membership of Jiangnan
elite circles was knowledge of, or experience in, the classical arts. Her
talents in painting and poetry are well known and she also learnt to
play the qin “later in life.” She recorded in two poems her encoun-
ter in Yangzhou with a certain Mr. Zhong whose style of playing
the qin she imitated. After a few days of practice, she wrote, Mr. Zhong
pronounced her as having a natural ability and a style of playing that
was spirited.28
Luo achieved acclaim too, for her culinary skills. Wang Wenzhi
praised her dexterity in making binger , a kind of bun, and sent a
poem in thanks.29 Yuan Mei, a self-confessed gourmet who had pub-
lished his favorite recipes and notes on food in his Suiyuan shidan
(Suiyuan’s menu), also noted her cooking skills, stating in
his Preface to her Tingqiuxuan shiji that she was able to prepare meat
and fish according to special recipes.
The image we have of Luo Qilan thus far is a woman who was
immersed in family responsibilities and who experienced the highs and
lows of everyday life. She was also respected for her literary talents.

Textual and Visual Representations

Men of Distinction
At the height of her publishing prime Luo Qilan had established lit-
erary and personal relationships with a number of women and men.
Several of her poems in her individual collection Tingqiuxuan shiji
are in fact her literary inscriptions for the paintings of colleagues. The
fourth, fifth and sixth juan, in particular, show that her involvement in
painting and demand for her inscriptions for the paintings of friends,
colleagues and patrons had increased. In a spirit of reciprocity perhaps,
and as means of endorsing the artistic endeavors of women, more than

28
Luo Qilan, “On an Autumn Day While I Was Residing in Yangzhou, Mr. Zhong
Visited Me on the Lake. He Played One Tune on the Qin and Then Was Gone. I
Imitated His Plucking Style and While Playing I Felt I Had Rather Developed a Feel
for It. . . .” . . . .,
Tingqiuxuan shiji, 5.21b (2).
29
Wang Wenzhi, “My Female Disciple Luo Peixiang Made Savory Cakes with Her
Own Hands and I Venture to Write my Thanks in Two Poems”
, Menglou shiji, 23.3b.
 the unseen hand 117

ninety men wrote poems of praise for Luo’s talents as artist and as
poet. These poems are collected in her Tingqiuxuan zengyan.
The preface for this anthology was written by Wu Yun (1746–
1838), a censor in the capital.30 Originally from Changzhou, Wu Yun
obtained the jinshi degree in 1796, the same year that Luo’s all-
male anthology was published. The establishment of the role of cen-
sor was an institutionalized form of government self-evaluation and
carried the unofficial title of “the eyes and ears of the emperor.”31 As
someone whose main duty was to keep the emperor informed on all
matters of importance, Wu’s preface for Luo’s anthology must be seen
as not only a personal endorsement but one that would attract the
interest of the court.
The first three poets presented in the Zengyan anthology, following
the prefaces by Luo Qilan and Wu Yun, were ethnically Manchu and
related to the court in some capacity. Luo’s relationship with Manchu
men suggests that the Han-Manchu divide had receded in importance
in general and for this ambitious Han woman in particular. Indeed, a
near contemporary, Wanyan Yun Zhu, who selected Luo Qilan’s poem
for inclusion in her anthology Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji, was mar-
ried to a Manchu.32 In A Translucent Mirror, Pamela Crossley warns
against imposing the “monolithic identities” of “Manchu,” “Mongol,”
and “Han” on Qing people because the new social and political order
had in many ways transcended these ethnic distinctions.33 Neverthe-
less, Luo Qilan appears to have given pride of place to male poets
of Manchu ethnicity over Han poets. Tobie Meyer-Fong has shown
that the Han literati had softened towards the new regime in the
early 1700s. Evidence of this was seen in the inclusion of Manchu or

30
Wu Yun, probably the “Wu Yun, zi Yusong ,” in Qingren shiming biecheng
zihao suoyin (Index to studio name, alternative names, zi
and hao of Qing people), ed. Yang Tingfu and Yang Tongfu (Shang-
hai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1988), 973 and Zhongguo renming da cidian
(Dictionary of Chinese names), ed. Zang Lihe (Shangwu, 1921; repr.,
Shanghai shudian, 1984), 324.
31
Charles O. Hucker, The Censorial System of Ming China (Stanford: Stanford Uni-
versity Press, 1966), 6.
32
On Yun Zhu, see Ellen Widmer, The Beauty and the Book: Women and Fiction in
Nineteenth-Century China (Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006), 127;
and Susan Mann, “Writing,” in Precious Records: Women in China’s Long Eighteenth
Century (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 94–117.
33
Pamela Kyle Crossley, A Translucent Mirror: History and Identity in Qing Imperial
Ideology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 3.
118 chapter four

Manchu-sympathizers in Han-published anthologies of poetry.34 Luo

Qilan’s connections with Manchu men seem to echo this blurring of
ethnic boundaries.
The high-ranking official Zhaolian (1780–1833) is one of the
Manchu men who appears in the first pages of Luo’s Zengyan anthology.
He was a Manchu of the Yellow Bordered Banner, and was descended
from Nurgaci (1559–1626), the founder of the Qing dynasty.35 Zhao-
lian was only fifteen years of age when he wrote his contribution to
Luo’s anthology, but his ascendancy in the ranks of the Manchu aris-
tocracy was already assured. By the age of twenty-five he had assumed
the hereditary title of Prince Li. Zhaolian’s reputation came under a
cloud after 1815, owing to his maltreatment of the manager of one of
his farms, for which he was stripped of his princedom and confined
to quarters awaiting trial. Nevertheless, Zhaolian is remembered for
his literary merits. He wrote a history of the Qing dynasty, consisting
of a collection of miscellaneous notes.36 He is described as a “compe-
tent scholar” and “highly placed in status.”37 Zhaolian’s young age at
the time of writing his two poems for Luo’s anthology precludes him
from being classed as a distinguished poet, but his status as someone
related to the court clearly would have currency for Luo Qilan and
her friends.
The Manchu Yi Tang’an (fl. eighteenth century), of the Plain
White Banner, placed eighth in the Zengyan anthology, is recorded in
Luo Qilan’s Tingqiuxuan shiji as “Magistrate Yi of Pingshan [a county
in Hebei].”38 Her poetic exchanges with Magistrate Yi and his inclu-
sion in her Zengyan do not appear to be anything more than ges-
tures of courtesy. Her liaison with the Manchu general Qinglin
(d. 1806?), son of a Grand Secretary, however, suggests a relationship
of a more intimate nature.39 The two exchanged poems and shared a

34
Tobie Meyer-Fong, “Packaging the Men of our Times: Literary Anthologies,
Friendship Networks, and Political Accommodation in the Early Qing,” Harvard Jour-
nal of Asiatic Studies 64.1 (2004): 17.
35
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 78–80.
36
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 79.
37
Alexander Woodside, “The Ch’ien-lung Reign,” in The Ch’ing Dynasty to 1800,
Part 1, ed. Willard J. Peterson, The Cambridge History of China, ed. Denis Twitchett
and John Fairbank, vol. 9 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 239.
38
Qingren shiming, 901. Luo Qilan, “Magistrate Yi Naiyuan Wrote Several
Times. . . .” . . . ., Tingqiuxuan shiji, 4.1b.
39
For details of Qinglin’s illustrious clan, including a sister who was married to
Yongxuan (1746–1832), the eighth son of the emperor, see Hummel, Eminent
Chinese, 920–921.
 the unseen hand 119

love of painting. Qinglin painted orchids, a theme close to Luo’s heart

since “Orchid” was part of her given name.40 He followed the style of
the Ming painter Wen Zhengming (1470–1559) from Suzhou41
whereas Luo’s orchids were in the style of Yun Shouping
(1633–1690).42 Qinglin sent Luo gifts while he was away on postings
and Luo’s poems to him in return contain sentimental feelings. On
receiving a bag embroidered with a pair of mandarin ducks (a con-
ventional symbol of marital bliss) she took it to her neighbor’s child to
show it off.43 The arrival of an ink-stone sent by Qinglin reminded Luo
of his talents in writing.44 While he was away in Fujian she counted on
her fingers how long it would be before he returned. She received a
letter from him, and recorded in a poem her feelings of fondness and
impatience to see him again.45
This brief discussion of non-Han contributors to Tingqiuxuan zeng-
yan should also include Fa-shi-shan (1753–1813), a jinshi of
1780, who wrote encouraging words to Luo in her collection. Fa-shi-
shan was a Mongol whose family belonged to the Plain Yellow Banner of
the Imperial Household Division. He was reportedly a bachelor and had
a wide circle of friends and colleagues of differing ethnic backgrounds.46
Fa-shi-shan is known for encouraging women in their literary efforts.
Apart from endorsements from members of the Manchu and
Mongol hierarchy, Luo naturally received poems of praise from Han
men, several of whom were connected to the court. Wu Xiqi
(1746–1818), a jinshi of 1775 from Qiantang, was a man of letters

40
On Qinglin: Qingren shiming, 1649; Zhongguo meishujia renming cidian
(Dictionary of Chinese people in the fine arts), ed. Yu Jianhua
(Shanghai: Renmin meishu chubanshe, 1981), 1340.
41
On Wen Zhengming’s influence on generations of female orchid artists see
Marsha Weidner, ed., Views from Jade Terrace: Chinese Women Artists, 1300–1912
(Indianapolis: Indianapolis Museum of Art; New York: Rizzoli, 1988), passim,
especially 83.
42
Weidner, ed., Views from Jade Terrace, 140.
43
Luo Qilan, “In Gratitude to My Father’s Friend Mr. Qing Shuzhai for Sending an
Embroidered Purse from Afar” , Tingqiuxuan shiji, 6.24a.
44
Luo Qilan, “Uncle Qingcun Presented Me with a Beautiful Inkstone and I Write a
Poem in Grateful Thanks” , Tingqiuxuan shiji, 6.11a–11b.
45
Luo Qilan, “In the Fifth Month of Summer in the Jiwei Year [1799] Uncle Qing-
cun Transferred to Fuzhou. After Leaving the Capital He Went Out of His Way to
Visit My Humble Abode. . . .” . . . .,
Tingqiuxuan shiji, 6.22b–23b. Qinglin served in Fujian from 1799 to 1805: see Qian
Shifu , Qingdai zhiguan nianbiao (A yearly chronicle of officials
in the Qing dynasty), 4 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1980), 3:2324–2331 and 4:3264
for his brief biography.
46
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 227–228.
120 chapter four

with imperial connections. In the same year that Luo’s Tingqiuxuan

zengyan was published he was serving in the court as tutor for the
imperial great-grandson.47 He was for a time director of the Anding
Academy in Yangzhou which has been described as “a typical
salt-monopoly institution” since it was financed and administered by
the salt-merchant body.48 Wu’s biography in Hummel states that his
literary works were in such demand that foreign emissaries on trib-
ute visits to Beijing vied with each other to buy them.49 The fact that
Wu Xiqi also wrote a preface for Bao Zhihui (fl. eighteenth
century), Luo Qilan’s soul-mate from Dantu, indicates that he sup-
ported women’s writing in general.50 Despite his eminent background
he was placed twenty-sixth in the list of men in her anthology, below
the painter-scholar Zhang Wentao (1764–1814).
The order of placement of these high-ranking men was not explained
by Luo Qilan and the precise nuances are not yet apparent. Occasion-
ally a pattern emerges of a lead poet setting a poetic theme which
is then taken up by several men writing poems on the same topic.
One example of this is in the first juan of Tingqiuxuan zengyan where
Bi Yuan (1730–1797) leads with the poem “Inscribing Peixiang
Furen’s Painting Teaching My Daughter by an Autumn Lamp”
. This poem is then followed by more than seventy
poems on the same theme (“On the Previous Title” ) written by
other poets.51 Although the hierarchy of the internal order of these
poets is not clear, the presence of their names in the anthology added
indisputable prestige to Luo’s reputation.
Luo Qilan held her teacher Yuan Mei in great esteem, and he led
into a network of literary and official luminaries. He had an enormous
influence on her development as an artist and writer and was a key fig-
ure in opening doors to his extensive networks. Yuan Mei considered
Luo Qilan to be one of his star students, and she in turn placed him
fourth in her Zengyan anthology. Yuan had received the jinshi in 1739
and was regarded as one of the great poets of the eighteenth century.

47
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 868–869.
48
Antonia Finnane, Speaking of Yangzhou, a Chinese City, 1550–1850 (Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 2004), 247.
49
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 868.
50
Wu Xiqi, preface (dated 1811) to Qingyu yin gao (Draft poems from
Qinyuge Loft), by Bao Zhihui.
51
Bi Yuan, “Inscribing Peixiang Furen’s Painting Teaching My Daughter by an
Autumn Lamp,” in Tingqiuxuan zengyan, 1.3a, and poems on the same theme by
various poets 1.3a–1.16a.
 the unseen hand 121

Apart from his literary fame he had held official posts in his younger
years, but retired in his early thirties to his Garden of Contentment
(Suiyuan ) in Nanjing.52
The mutual admiration that teacher and student enjoyed did not
characterize all of Yuan Mei’s relationships. He advocated the theory
of “nature and inspiration” (xingling ) in poetry, which meant an
emphasis on the poet’s sentiments and a rejection of imitation of past
masters.53 Yuan Mei admired Luo Qilan for having this quality in her
poetry. He and his followers were variously praised or criticized in the
strongest terms during his own lifetime and well into the twentieth
century. The late nineteenth-century reformer Liang Qichao
(1869–1929) considered Yuan’s works “so putrid that one cannot go
near them.”54 Contemporary criticism of Yuan Mei also reached Luo
Qilan. She declared in her preface to her Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren
ji that as one of Yuan’s female students she had either been accused
of plagiarism (“There were those who read my poetry and doubted
that I had written it, calling Tingqiuxuan the work of a plagiarist”), or
alternatively, attacked for going beyond the boundaries of what was
considered correct behavior for women (“There were those also who
said . . . that Peixiang’s [Luo Qilan] comings and goings with the three
Masters were not seemly”).55
Criticisms of Yuan Mei did not prevent him from acquiring a
vast circle of literary friends, several of whom wrote for Luo Qilan’s
Tingqiuxuan zengyan. The scholars Zhao Yi (1727–1814), Yao
Nai (1732–1815), and Bi Yuan were an important part of Yuan
Mei’s circle and are representative of the caliber of the men of fame
who endorsed Luo’s anthology. Zhao Yi worked in the educational
sphere and is known for his critical work on the classics. He is regarded
as one of the foremost poets of the Qing.56 Zhao and Wang Wenzhi

52
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 955–957.
53
Nienhauser, ed., Indiana Companion, 956–958; Kang-i Sun Chang, “Review of
J. D. Schmidt, Harmony Garden: The Life, Literary Criticism, and Poetry of Yuan Mei
(1716–1798) (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003),” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies
64.1 (2004): 167.
54
Cited in Arthur Waley, Yuan Mei: Eighteenth Century Chinese Poet (London:
George Allen and Unwin, 1956), 211.
55
See Luo Qilan, “Preface” for Tingqiuxuan guizhong, 2a, translated in Hamil-
ton, Listening to Sounds, 60.
56
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 75–76.
122 chapter four

were known with Yuan Mei and Li Tiaoyuan (1734–1803) as

the “Linxia silao” (Four Retired Scholars).57
The Anhui author and calligrapher Yao Nai is remembered for his
promotion of prose writing and has a lasting connection with Yuan Mei
because he composed Yuan’s epitaph.58 The scholar-official Bi Yuan had
enormous standing and respect among his peers. He received the top
honors in his examination year, and for his military and civil projects,
which included conservancy, he gained the distinction of being per-
mitted to wear the peacock feather. His fame did not prevent him from
earning the reputation of being kind and hospitable to younger scholars.59
Luo Qilan’s spiritual fulfillment came from her second teacher
Wang Wenzhi who was placed fifth in her Tingqiuxuan zengyan. A
jinshi of 1760, Wang took the third highest honors in the year he sat
for the examinations. Wang was an accomplished calligrapher who
rivaled the renowned calligrapher Liu Yong (1720–1805), who
enjoyed imperial patronage. Wang Wenzhi and Luo Qilan lived near
each other in Dantu. He also lived for some time at Hangzhou’s West
Lake, from which association he took the name “Xihu zhang”
(Keeper of the West Lake).60 Wang Wenzhi’s male relatives also feature
in Luo’s Tingqiuxuan zengyan. The artist Lu Gong (1741–1818)
was a relative by marriage which perhaps accounts for his inclusion.61
The role of Wang Wenzhi as spiritual advisor and artistic mentor to
Luo Qilan and her contemporaries has been overshadowed by atten-
tion to the more flamboyant Yuan Mei, but is one that awaits further
study. Luo’s relationship with Wang gave her the benefit of his deep
involvement in Buddhism which may have provided the impetus for
her devotional studies. Clearly, Wang and Luo shared a relationship
that included a mutual recognition of Buddhist beliefs. Her interest in
Buddhism also gave legitimacy to her trips to temples and other scenic
places, some of which were made in the company of Wang.62
Wang’s preface to Luo’s Tingqiuxuan shiji speaks with author-
ity of the level of Buddhist practice she had achieved (“When Qilan

57
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 487.
58
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 900–01; J. D. Schmidt, Harmony Garden: The Life,
Literary Criticism, and Poetry of Yuan Mei (1716–1798) (London: RoutledgeCurzon,
2003), 121.
59
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 622–625.
60
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 840–841.
61
Zhongguo meishujia, 975.
62
Luo Qilan, “Attending to Master Menglou When He Visited West-Ford Pavilion
in the Snow” , Tingqiuxuan shiji, 2.2a.
 the unseen hand 123

was young she liked to sit in meditation . . .”).63 He wrote of her past
involvement in Buddhist practices and how she had recently turned
again to meditation. Since the notion of a “teacher” is inherent in the
Buddhist teachings, Luo’s attachment to him was within the boundar-
ies of convention. He took a great interest in Luo’s paintings and pro-
vided inscriptions for some of them. One of these, a horizontal scroll
Three Blossoms has inscriptions by Wang and her third teacher
Zeng Yu.64 Another of Luo’s paintings, her Teaching My Daughter by
an Autumn Lamp, was the subject of a series of eight poems by Wang
which he included in his collected works.65 In the second poem of the
series he mentions Luo growing up near Huayang , a place-name
associated with Maoshan, which as noted above, has resonance with
religious devotees. This detail is further evidence of Wang’s knowledge
of the spiritual dimensions of Luo Qilan’s life.
In the manner of Yuan Mei, a co-member of the “Four Retired
Scholars,” Wang Wenzhi offered his preface for Luo’s collection of
poetry as part biography and part observation of her literary ability.
Passages from Wang Wenzhi’s preface provide a representation of Luo
Qilan that differs in tone somewhat from Yuan Mei’s preface. Wang
depicts Luo as a woman who has excelled because of her hard life. His
preface begins by establishing the background for her writing environ-
ment which she shared with her husband Gong Shizhi:
Shizhi returned from Yuedong and took her on a tour to Guangling
[Yangzhou]. As a result, they decided to settle there. Qilan was fond of
writing regulated verse, and Shizhi, too, loved to write song lyrics. Despite
Yangzhou’s famed reputation of providing a life of luxury and ease, Qilan
and Shizhi stayed behind closed doors, morning and night, exchanging
poems. In the end, however, because she disliked the noise and clamor
of the place, they soon after moved to the western outskirts of Dantu.66
Wang then comments specifically on Luo’s poetic ability and her charac-
teristic of writing in a “straightforward and robust” (shuang kang )

63
Wang Wenzhi, “Wang [Wenzhi]’s preface,” 4a.
64
A section of the painting is reproduced in a Sotheby’s catalogue in which a three-
blossomed head of flowers, probably peonies, is depicted. Sotheby’s, Fine Chinese
Paintings Catalogue (New York: June 1987), fig. 95.
65
Wang Wenzhi, “Inscribed on Gentlewoman Luo Peixiang’s Painting ‘Teaching
My Daughter by an Autumn Lamp’: Eight Poems” ,
in Menglou shiji, 21.8a–8b.
66
Wang Wenzhi, “Wang [Wenzhi]’s preface,” 1b–2a.
124 chapter four

style.67 He also outlines the reasons she sought out Yuan Mei and him-
self as her teachers, thus preempting accusations of immorality:
She once studied with the Hangzhou Hanlin scholar Yuan Zicai and
myself, and declared that she loved our poetry the most. She said that
our poetry was free of the clichés and hackneyed phrases of the times,
and this was the reason she loved it.68
Poetic contributions from visual artists in Luo’s Tingqiuxuan zengyan
provide further context for her life, as painting brought her pleasure
and financial rewards. Luo has some claim to present-day painterly
fame because she is one of the few women whose works are held in the
Palace Museum in Beijing.69 The subject matter of most of her work
seems to be botanical specimens but one of her paintings, extant in a
private collection in the United States in 1905, depicted a painting of
“a pheasant among peonies below a magnolia-tree in full blossom.”70
In this painting Luo has followed established artistic convention by
pairing the long-tailed phoenix with the peony.71
Male colleagues with a mutual interest in art who wrote verses for
Luo Qilan’s Zengyan anthology included her principal painting teacher
Zeng Yu, a jinshi of 1781.72 For several decades he worked on the com-
pilation of model parallel prose (pianti wen ) of the Qing period.
Described in Waley’s work on Yuan Mei as a poet and patron of lit-
erature, his official life included a post as Transport Commissioner in
Yangzhou.73 The painter Yu Ji (1738–1823) from Hangzhou was a
jinshi of 1766 who also features in the Zengyan anthology.74 Because he
was celebrated for being a painter of female figures, Yu, at times rather
to his discredit, had the nickname “Yu, the Painter of Beauties” (Yu
meiren ). Nevertheless, he has emerged as a major editor and
collator of literary works: he worked on the Siku quanshu
(1773–1782) and was the collator of the first printed edition of Pu
Songling’s (1640–1715) Liaozhai zhiyi (Tales of

67
Wang Wenzhi, “Wang [Wenzhi]’s preface,” 2b.
68
Wang Wenzhi, “Wang [Wenzhi]’s preface,” 2b–3a.
69
See Weidner, ed., Views from Jade Terrace, 182.
70
Friedrich Hirth, Entry 55: “Lo K’i-lan [Luo Qilan]” in Scraps from a Collector’s
Notebook, Being Notes on Some Chinese Painters of the Present Dynasty, with Appen-
dices on Some Old Masters and Art Historians (Leiden: E.J. Brill, 1905), 41.
71
C.A.S. Williams, Outlines of Chinese Symbolism and Art Motives, 3rd ed. (1932;
repr., Taipei: Dunhuang shuju, n.d.), 192.
72
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 706; Zhongguo meishujia, 1081.
73
Waley, Yuan Mei, 191.
74
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 939; Zhongguo meishujia, 264.
 the unseen hand 125

Figure 1. Ding Yicheng (?-after 1811), [Luo Qilan] Viewing Mt. Ping
in Springtime [ ] (detail). Before 1795. In Views from Jade
Terrace, ed. Marsha Weidner et al., (Indianapolis: Indianapolis Museum of
Art; New York: Rizzoli, 1988), 212. Permission to reproduce the image was
granted by the National Palace Museum, Beijing.

the strange from Liao Studio, 1766). Yu was a member of the Hanlin
Academy and held a number of official posts, mostly to do with the exam-
ination system. He contributed only one poem to Luo’s Zengyan: “[An
Inscription for] the Painting Mentioned Above” , but it is significant
that it appears as one of the earlier endorsements in the anthology.75

75
In Luo Qilan, ed., Tingqiuxuan zengyan, 1.6b.
126 chapter four

Reference to male artists endorsing Luo Qilan’s Tingqiuxuan zeng-

yan should also include mention of two known portraits of her, which
were painted by men. The first of these portraits is the vertical scroll
[Luo Qilan] Viewing Mt. Ping in Springtime , which was
painted by the Zhenjiang artist Ding Yicheng prior to 1795
(fig. 1).76 Ding was one of a father-and-son team of painters who spe-
cialized in portraits of “beauties” (meiren ).77 The painting of Luo
Qilan is spare in detail and presents her in rather austere clothing and
hairstyle. Nevertheless, our subject is represented as an elegant and
compassionate woman. She leans forward to engage with the young
child in the foreground, who points off into the distance at something
that has caught their eye. Luo’s pose is reminiscent of that of the
“mother-teacher,” which would only increase her standing in a com-
munity that valued genteel, conservative behavior in the female sex.78
Her expression and the diversion of her gaze, according to art histo-
rian Richard Vinograd, “forestalls an immodest direct gaze towards the
viewer.”79 Luo Qilan’s demeanor is plain and conservative and her bodily
adornments—hairstyle and clothing—reinforce this image of refinement.
The form and content of this painting, which includes inscriptions by
herself and her teachers, suggests what must have been the accepted con-
vention for depicting a respected literary woman of the period. Several
poems in her Zengyan anthology provide the detail on the painting and
its subject. Variations on the theme of praise for this painting, her Teach-
ing My Daughter by an Autumn Lamp (see above), and the artist herself
were set by Yuan Mei and acted as the flashpoint for his friends and col-
leagues to write more than three hundred poems on the same subjects.80

76
Reproductions of the Pingshan painting are in Yiyuan duo ying (Gems
from Chinese fine arts) 27 (1986): 37, and Weidner, ed., Views from Jade Terrace, 212.
The Weidner source states that it is a vertical colored scroll measuring 39.6 by 135.7
centimetres. The original painting is held in the Palace Museum, Beijing.
77
Ding Yicheng, zi Yimen from Danyang. A note on the painter is in Finnane,
Speaking of Yangzhou, 208, n. 128.
78
Wu Pei-yi, The Confucian’s Progress: Autobiographical Writings in Traditional
China (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990), 144, refers to the image of the
“harsh disciplinarian and compassionate mother,” the ideal combination in a mother
for producing in her offspring the perfect Buddhist personality: compassion for all
beings but attachment to none.
79
Richard Vinograd, Boundaries of the Self: Chinese Portraits, 1600–1900 (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 97.
80
Yuan Mei, “Inscribed on the Painting of My Female Disciple Peixiang View-
ing Mt. Ping in Springtime . . .” . . ., in Luo Qilan, ed.,
 the unseen hand 127

The environment in which she is portrayed in the painting also sym-

bolized good taste and high culture. Luo Qilan is standing in a slop-
ing garden at “Pingshan,” which we take for Pingshan Hall (Pingshan
tang ), one of the must-visit sites along Slender Lake.81 Luo was
accustomed to visiting the gardens in Yangzhou, which was a thriving
metropolis and tourist site—“wealthy, beautiful, and historic,” on par
with Italy’s Venice.82 Pingshan Hall and its environs were considered
to be part of Yangzhou’s “garden suburb” and carried the distinction
of being toured by the Kangxi emperor in 1705, a factor that could
only add to its attraction as a site for the elite to visit.
Whereas the Pingshan portrait presented Luo Qilan as a refined and
compassionate mother-teacher, a painting of her attending an impor-
tant literary gathering of Yuan Mei’s female disciples at West Lake
in Hangzhou in 1795 is altogether different in style and composition
(fig. 2). The West Lake painting is in the form of a long hand-scroll
and is a pictorial representation of a celebrated literary gathering of
women. Space does not permit a full discussion in this chapter of the
representations of the women in the painting. Suffice it to say that the
commissioning and endorsement of the painting by Yuan Mei and
inscriptions by some thirty men and women, combined with the tex-
tual praise in her Zengyan collection, provide further assurance of Luo
Qilan’s suitability as distinguished poet and editor.83
Insights into Luo Qilan’s community have thus far focused on her
male networks. Some of the women she associated with were also
highly respected for their personal characteristics and talents although
they did not have the official positions or social means that their male
counterparts had at their disposal to ensure that their names would be
preserved for posterity.

Tingqiuxuan zengyan, 3.1a, and various poems that follow by Wang Wenzhi and
others.
81
Finnane, Speaking of Yangzhou, 189 and Figure 14, p. 196.
82
Finnane, Speaking of Yangzhou, 3–4.
83
See fig 2. painting and caption. The painting is reproduced in the Zhongguo gudai
shuhua mulu (Illustrated catalogue of selected works of ancient
painting and calligraphy) (Beijing), 5:4154. The image used here is from a color pho-
tograph in the possession of Professor James Cahill, who kindly gave permission to
reproduce it. The title of the supplementary painting appears in Suiyuan’s [Yuan Mei]
Female Disciples Taking Instruction at Lakeside Pavilion, in
Qingchao yeshi daguan: Qingchao yiyuan : (Unofficial history
of the Qing dynasty: Qing art), ed. Xiaoheng xiangshi zhuren (1936;
repr., Shanghai: Shanghai shuju, 1981), 10.10.
128 chapter four

Figure 2. Luo Qilan (figure on right) in The Later Three Female Disciples
, a supplementary painting by Mr. Cui after the original painting
by You Zhao and Wang Gong (artists), Thirteen Female Disciples
Taking Instruction at Lakeside Pavilion . Photograph
courtesy of Professor James Cahill.

Women of Talent
It now seems possible to think that the seventeen women Luo Qilan
included in her Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren ji were part of a semi-
formal coterie of artistic women formed outside the direct influence
of contemporary male mentors Yuan Mei and Ren Zhaolin
(fl. 1776–1823). The composition of the groups of female writers
tutored and maintained by these two men is well known. However,
membership in one of these groups did not exclude the possibility of
forming horizontal relationships based on female solidarity or other
female-centered interests. Some members of the group mediated by
Luo Qilan may have only been in touch with each other in a literary
sense through exchange of letters or poems by correspondence, while
others did meet with each other in person.
 the unseen hand 129

Luo Qilan did not state her principles of selection for the Tongren ji
nor the logic for the order of the placement of the poets in the anthol-
ogy. Given her desire for recognition and respect, it seems likely that
she would think carefully about which individual poets and poems she
would include and the order in which they would be presented in the
collection so as to showcase its final look.
Of the seventeen women included in Luo Qilan’s Tongren ji,84 some,
such as the two women from the Bi clan and the three Bao sisters were
well known through their family connections and their own literary
reputations. The nuances that dictated their order of appearance in the
anthology may no longer be known to us, but the status of their male
relatives in the scholarly community clearly had currency: the two
women from the Bi clan are placed in second and third position, and
the three Bao sisters from the famous Dantu clan follow them. Still
other women in the Tongren ji appear to have been included because
they were representative of some of Luo Qilan’s personal interests.
The three women who have therefore been selected for closer dis-
cussion in the following section engaged in other activities in addition
to poetry. The woman Jiang Zhu is a familiar name in studies of Qing
women writers, in particular in the context of Buddhism and poetry.
Her connection to Luo Qilan, however, is not so well documented.
Jiang Zhu will be discussed here because she shared an interest in
religion and the status of women with Luo Qilan. Available evidence
suggests that the poet-embroiderer Lu Yuansu (fl. eighteenth
century) was not regarded by Yuan Mei as one of his “top” students
but she was sought after for rendering paintings and texts into embroi-
dery.85 She has been selected for discussion here because she appears to
have been one of Luo’s closest companions and she will invite a deeper
reflection on the status of embroidery as an art form. The poet-painter
Zhou Lilan (fl. eighteenth century) is the third woman to be
discussed in this section. Although she barely receives a mention in
English-language studies of Qing painters, Zhou Lilan was a respected
artist whose instruction came from prestigious male teachers. She may
have been a minor player in late eighteenth-century Jiangnan literary

84
See Appendix for a list of the seventeen women.
85
Guoli gugong bowuyuan , ed., Gugong zhixiu xuancui
(Masterpieces of Chinese silk tapestry and embroidery in the National Palace Museum)
(Taipei: Guoli gugong bowuyuan, 1971), 59 of Chinese version, 87 of English version.
130 chapter four

circles but her skills in the visual arts clearly appealed to Luo Qilan. By
including Lilan’s two poems in her Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren ji
Luo Qilan put into practice the sentiments she expressed in her pref-
ace to the anthology about the difficulties women faced in achieving
fame, and her desire to address that injustice.

Jiang Zhu (1764–1804)

Luo Qilan may have developed relationships based on personal reso-
nance with some of the women but shared religious interests, recog-
nition of literary talent, and female solidarity seem to have been the
principles that guided her when she selected the Suzhou woman Jiang
Zhu to head up her Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren ji.86 Jiang Zhu was
considered to be “one of the most learned” of the group known as
the “Suzhou Ten.” Their main publication, the Wuzhong nüshi shichao
(Draft poetry collection from the Suzhou Ten), was
edited by the group’s male mentor Ren Zhaolin and printed in 1789.87
Jiang Zhu appears to have had a close personal relationship with Ren;88
she also “wrote poems for Yuan Mei” although she was not one of
his “official” disciples.89 She had connections with other male teachers,
having taken lessons from “an old Suzhou poet” before she took up
her apprenticeship with Ren.90 In spite of her recognized talent and her
close relationship with Ren Zhaolin, Ren’s wife Zhang Yunzi
(fl. eighteenth century), and other editors and leading poets, Jiang was
placed in seventh position in the “Ten Poets.”91 Thus, it seems that
Jiang’s literary prowess alone was not sufficient to earn her a high

86
Biographical details are in Robertson, “Changing the Subject,” 172; Beata Grant,
“Little Vimalakirti: Buddhism and Poetry in the writings of Chiang Chu (1764–1804),”
in Chinese Women in the Imperial Past, New Perspectives, ed. Harriet Zurndorfer
(Leiden: Brill, 1999), 286–307; Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 544-548 and
778, where she is named “Jiang Bizhu.”
87
Dorothy Ko, “A Man Teaching Ten Women: A Case in the Making of Gender
Relations in Eighteenth-Century China,” published as part of the commemorative vol-
ume Yanagida Setsuko sensei koki kinen ronshû henshû I-inkai (Editorial committee to
commemorate the seventieth birthday of Professor Setsuko Yanagida), Chūgoku no
dentū shakai to kazokū (Society and family in traditional China) (Tokyo: Kyukoshin,
1993).
88
Grant, “Little Vimalakirti,” 289.
89
Ko, “A Man Teaching,” 90, n. 19.
90
Ko, “A Man Teaching,” 76.
91
Ko, “A Man Teaching,” 85.
 the unseen hand 131

place in Ren’s anthology. In contrast, she was given first place in Luo
Qilan’s Tongren ji.
Jiang Zhu’s poem, “Inscribing Peixiang’s Teaching My Daughter by
an Autumn Lamp” , is her only contribution to
Luo’s anthology. In this “lead” poem, which functions like a preface,
Jiang draws attention to Luo Qilan’s illustrious ancestry, her classical
learning, and her place in the continuum of the teacher-student rela-
tionship.92 She also cites the famed Huayang Caves as part of Luo’s per-
sonal history.93 Jiang Zhu herself is said to be especially well versed in
the classics, so it was fitting that she would comment on Luo’s classical
training and her ancestral links to historical figures and places.94 The
archetypal subject of Jiang’s poem for Luo Qilan, the devoted mother-
figure teaching a youngster, was drawn from the ancient teachings.
Jiang Zhu’s strong interest in Buddhism undoubtedly found a sym-
pathetic listener in Luo Qilan. Luo’s own religious links with Daoism
and Buddhism permeate her poetry. As I have shown, Luo’s religious
engagement was closely connected to her birthplace, the environs
of one of the most important sites for Daoism. Her expertise in the
practice of Buddhism is indicated in a Chinese dictionary of Buddhist
figures, where she is noted as having a following of “intellectuals, offi-
cials, family members and female friends.”95
The equation between Chan Buddhism and poetry was a recurring
motif in Jiang Zhu’s poetry as was the individual quest for enlighten-
ment. Her interest in Chan Buddhism was often explicitly stated in her
writings.96 She frequently engaged in Buddhist-related discussions with
contemporaries such as Ren Zhaolin, and her poems often refer to the

92
In Luo Qilan, ed., Tingqiuxuan guizhong, 1.1a.
93
Huayang, one of the Daoist Heavenly Grottoes, is in present-day Jiangsu, near
Maoshan, in Jurong County. Michael Saso, “Mao Shan Revisited,” in Interpreting Cul-
ture through Translation: A Festschrift for D. C. Lau, ed. Roger T. Ames, Sin-wai Chan,
Mau-sang Ng (Hong Kong: Chinese UP, 1991), 256 states that the Huayang Caves are
a few hundred yards from the Ying Gong Monastery, which is “hidden in the hills”
beneath the Great Maoshan. The monastery is still an active Daoist teaching center.
94
Zhongguo wenxuejia dacidian (Dictionary of Chinese writ-
ers), ed. Tan Zhengbi (Hong Kong: Wenshi chubanshe, 1961), 1623.
95
Zhongguo foxue renming cidian (The Chinese dictionary of
Buddhist personages), ed. Mingfu (Taiwan: Zhonghua shudian, 1974; repr. Bei-
jing, 1988), 613, for the biographical entry for Luo Qilan. Liang Yizhen noted
that Luo Qilan “in her middle years turned to Buddhism and did not engage in poetry
and painting lightly,” in Qingdai funü wenxueshi (History of Qing
women’s literature) (Shanghai: Zhonghua, 1925), 91.
96
Grant, “Little Vimalakirti,” passim.
132 chapter four

subtleties and metaphysics of Chan Buddhism. These references act

as additional proof of her spiritual interests. Jiang signaled her inter-
est in the Buddhist teachings by taking the name Little Vimalakīrti
after the Buddhist layman who was known for his ability to engage in
metaphysical debates.97
While Luo shared Jiang Zhu’s interests in Buddhism and Daoism,
her own collection does not show the same obvious emphasis on her
search for enlightenment. Many of her poems contain strong sugges-
tions of her belief in Buddhist philosophy, but they are less obviously
stated than in Jiang Zhu’s writings. The first poem in Luo’s own Ting-
qiuxuan shiji, “At Benevolent Clouds Nunnery on Qixia I Write a
Poem on the Wall” , records the poet’s meditation
and solitude whilst visiting a nunnery in the Qixia Mountains above
Nanjing.98 A woodcut image of the nunnery shows a small walled
building nestled in the fold of hills, set amongst trees.99 This area of
temples and chapels among the wooded hills twenty-five kilometers
west of Nanjing had been known for its scenic beauty for hundreds of
years before Luo visited and wrote of it. By placing the poem which
describes her visit to the nunnery in first place in her individual col-
lection, she makes the site a significant part of the symbolic terrain on
which her religious and social sentiments are played out.
For Luo and her companions, associations with temples provided
the opportunities for pleasurable outings to tranquil settings, includ-
ing the Qixia Mountains in her poem of the same name.100 Luo Qilan’s
poem displays some of the components of what James Liu describes
as “poetry as contemplation,” wherein Chan Buddhism’s influence
on poetry can be seen through the poet capturing nature, scene and
inspiration.101

97
Grant, “Little Vimalakirti,” 289–290.
98
Luo Qilan, Tingqiuxuan shiji, 1.1a.
99
An illustration of the Benevolent Clouds Nunnery at Qixia is reproduced in
Shoudu zhi (Gazetteer of the capital), ed. Ye Chucang and Liu Yizheng
(1935; repr., Nanjing: Nanjing gujiu shudian, 1985).
100
Not all of the visits to Qixia were made with religious intent. Some were simply
to see a particular tree or flower in blossom. On one winter’s day, for example, Luo
made a visit to collect cassia flowers to decorate the hat of a male friend attempting the
examinations: Luo Qilan, “Presenting Cassia Flowers to an Examination Candidate”
, Tingqiuxuan shiji, 6.12a.
101
James J. Y. Liu, “The Institutionalist View: Poetry as Contemplation,” in The Art
of Chinese Poetry (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1962), 81–87.
 the unseen hand 133

In addition to shared religious values, Jiang Zhu and Luo Qilan both
had a concern for the status of women in society. In her Preface to
Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren ji, Luo points out the barriers women
have in achieving poetic excellence and thus acquiring a respected
reputation:
For women to achieve artistry in poetry is more difficult than it is for
men. And so it is also just as difficult for women to achieve a good repu-
tation (ming ). Why is this? Hidden away in her quarters, the people
she sees and hears are few in the extreme. She has no friend to talk things
over with or to study with to develop her intelligence. She has no oppor-
tunity to explore the mountains and rivers in order to see the view, and,
accordingly, inspire her literary talents and virtuosity. Without a worthy
father and brothers to help her towards finding the source and towards
distinguishing true from false, she would not be able to achieve her mis-
sion in life. Later, when she marries, the time spent looking after her
husband’s parents and attending to the trifling details of the household,
often leaves her with no opportunity for writing poetry. Men of talent sit
for the examinations, rise to the official class, and strive for mastery in
poetic circles. Day by day they travel more extensively and consequently
the giants of the day come to hear about them. Thus their fame spreads.102
Jiang Zhu had similar thoughts on the unjust treatment of women.
She envisioned herself and her female circle as an “army of women”
(niangzi zhi jun ) who were on a par with men.103 Whereas
Jiang often alludes to the tension between religion and art, and the
added difficulty it presents to women, Luo was more forthright in her
criticism of a social and literary system that favored men. In Luo’s
view, the fact that women had fewer opportunities than men would
have direct financial and social repercussions, and this alone was rea-
son enough to voice her opinions.
Including Jiang Zhu in her anthology opened pathways into Jiang-
nan religious and intellectual circles for Luo Qilan. Assistance with
making contacts was inevitably provided by the husbands, male rela-
tives, and teachers of her female companions. Jiang Zhu’s member-
ship in Ren Zhaolin’s “Suzhou Ten” overlapped with her association
with Luo Qilan’s “seventeen” and widened Luo’s already extensive
networks.

102
Luo Qilan, “Preface” for Tingqiuxuan guizhong, 1a, translated in Hamilton, “Lis-
tening to Sounds,” 1.
103
See Grant, “Little Vimalakirti,” 287, and Ko, “A Man Teaching,” 78–79 for Jiang
Zhu’s mixing of gender values.
134 chapter four

Lu Yuansu (ca. 1727–?)104

Whereas Jiang Zhu shared a relationship with Luo Qilan that inevita-
bly included similar religious interests and a desire to bring attention
to the position of women, a friendship with the poet-embroiderer Lu
Yuansu complemented Luo’s artistic pursuits.105 Several of Luo’s con-
temporaries were multi-talented women. Poetry, painting, and nee-
dlework were traditional arts for women but not all reached a high
level of expertise. Lu Yuansu did write poetry—her literary collec-
tion is titled Jingxiang shichao (Jingxing draft collection of
106
poems) —and she was also a student of Yuan Mei, who placed a
selection of her poems in the fifth juan of his Suiyuan nüdizi shixuan
.107 Nevertheless, her fame seems to have come from
excelling at needlework.
Our interest in Lu comes from the painting-embroidery duo that she
formed with Luo Qilan. It seems that Luo would execute a painting,
and Lu would embroider it. This activity extended to embroidering the
characters of a poem or inscription, one of the skills that Grace Fong
has studied in her article on embroidery as women’s cultural knowl-
edge.108 The duo was so well-known that it is referred to in contempo-
rary records simply as “The Women Lu-Luo” (Nü Lu-Luo ).109
At Yuan Mei’s request, Lu Yuansu inscribed the painting of Luo
Qilan with two other women at the West Lake gathering in 1795.110

104
See the section below on the painting Red Orchids for arriving at this tentative
date of birth. The date is problematic since her husband’s year of birth is given as 1752
in Zhongguo meishujia, 1428.
105
For biographical entries see “Lu Yuansu,” in Nügongzhuan zhenglüe
(Biographies of women embroiderers), ed. Zhu Qiqian (Cunsu tang, 19–?),
2.18b–19a; “Lu Yuansu,” in Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü, 747.
106
Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü, 747.
107
See the note in the appendix regarding Lu Yuansu’s status in two different edi-
tions of Yuan Mei’s anthology.
108
Grace S. Fong, “Female Hands: Embroidery as a Knowledge Field in Women’s
Everyday Life in Late Imperial and Early Republican China,” Late Imperial China 25.1
(2004): 1–58.
109
Cited in “Lu Yuansu” in Qingdai guige shiren zhenglüe
(Biographies of Qing women poets), ed. Shi Shuyi (1922; repr., Shanghai,
1987), 6.7b.
110
Lu Yuansu, “On the Thirteenth Day of the Third Month of the Bingchen Year
[1796] Master Suiyuan Came By to Visit My Husband. He Had the Painting ‘Tak-
ing Instruction at West Lake, Continuation’ Painted and Had Me Add [an Inscrip-
tion] to It. . . .” . . . .,
in Guixiu lei (Category: boudoir talents), in Suiyuan xu tongren ji
(Suiyuan’s sequel to the collection of companions), ed. Yuan Mei, in Yuan Mei
 the unseen hand 135

This had the effect of making the embroiderer part of the occasion. It
also reminded viewers of the painting of her association with the poet-
painter-editor Luo Qilan.
Lu Yuansu’s native-place is cited as Yangzhou by Yun Zhu in her
anthology of women poets.111 Her marriage to the artist Qian Dong
(1752–?), from present-day Hangzhou, placed her firmly at the
center of the cultural capital in the Qing. In her social position as a
concubine (ceshi , literally “side room”)112 of Qian Dong, who was
an excellent composer of ci and qu,113 she became known as a painter
of “landscape, plum blossoms and orchids.”114
Lu Yuansu’s marriage to Qian Dong created a relationship with her
husband’s sister Qian Lin (also written ), who was famously
portrayed wearing a red cloak in the painting with Luo Qilan at West
Lake in 1795.115 A familial or social relationship with the Qian clan of
Hangzhou was advantageous for women wishing to make a name for
themselves. Qian Lin’s father Qian Qi and her husband Wang
Hu were high officials, and her brothers are noted as being espe-
cially talented in the arts.116
Lu Yuansu appears to have been much older than Luo Qilan. Her
painting Red Orchids is dated 1747,117 indicating that if she
was around twenty years old when she painted it, she would prob-
ably have been born around 1727. Thus, in 1797, when Luo published
her Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren ji at the age of forty-two years,
Lu Yuansu would have been around seventy years old. Seniority was

quanji , ed. Wang Yingzhi , 8 vols. (Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chubanshe,

1993), 6:247. Yuan Mei requested Lu Yuansu, along with several others, to write a
postscript to the painting.
111
“Lu Yuansu,” in Yun Zhu, ed., Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji, 14.17a, in Fong, ed.,
Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
112
Shi Shuyi, ed., Qingdai guige shiren zhenglue, 6.7b.
113
“Qian Dong,” in Qingdai huashi, zengbian (History of Chinese
painters from the Qing dynasty), ed. Sheng Shuqing (Shanghai: Youzheng
shuju, 1927), 11.5b.
114
An Index-Dictionary of Chinese Artists, Collectors, and Connoisseurs with Char-
acter Identification by Modified Stroke Count, ed. Nancy Seymour (Metuchen: Scare-
crow Press, 1988), 412.
115
Biographical details in Hu Wenkai, ed., with supplements edited by Zhang
Hongsheng , Lidai funü zhuzuo kao (zengdingban) ( )
(Women’s writings through the ages [expanded edition]) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji
chubanshe, 2008), 1179.
116
Zhongguo meishujia, 1428.
117
Weidner, ed., “Appendix: Artists and Paintings,” in Views from Jade Terrace, 182.
136 chapter four

clearly not a factor that Luo took into account when she placed her
poets in order in her anthology. Lu would have been older than the
three Bao sisters but makes her first appearance in Luo’s Tongren ji
at eighth place, while the Bao sisters were placed in fourth, fifth, and
sixth positions.
Although she is known for both her poetry and painting (she con-
tributed three poems to Luo’s Tongren ji), Lu Yuansu was better
known among her contemporaries for being an exceptional needle-
woman. Her embroidery needle was referred to as “inspired” (shen-
zhen ) in one of her biographical entries.118 She had a special
talent for rendering paintings and texts into embroidery on silk. Her
work was apparently of a different quality altogether than the needle-
work of other women from the period. Even today, she is one of the
few women singled out for individual mention in Chinese records of
textile arts. Her embroidery skills have achieved national fame and are
recorded by the National Palace Museum in Taipei as masterpieces
of silk embroidery. Lu is one of only a handful of women who are
recorded as embroiderers of note in China.119
Despite her contemporary fame as a needlewoman, and the efforts
made by succeeding generations of Chinese scholars to preserve her
works, Lu Yuansu is relatively unknown in histories of Chinese women.
She was recorded as one of the talents of the day by Luo Qilan and
now provides evidence of the caliber of the women that Luo counted
as part of her circle.

Zhou Lilan (fl. eighteenth century)

The association of Zhou Lilan with Luo Qilan came about through a
mutual love of painting. Zhou was the daughter of District Magistrate
Zhou Zhaoxiong (fl. eighteenth century) from Changzhou
(present-day Suzhou), a center where women’s learning flourished.
She had married Li Dazhen from the same county.120
Zhou Lilan was counted as being especially good at painting in the
“ink sketch” style (baimiao ).121 Neither her husband nor her

118
“Lu Yuansu,” in Zhu Qiqian, Nühongzhuan, 4.24a.
119
Guoli gugong bowuyuan, Gugong zhixiu, 59 of Chinese version, 87 of English
version.
120
“Zhou Lilan,” in Sheng Shuqing, Qingdai huashi, 23.3b; Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü,
384.
121
“Zhou Lilan,” in Sheng Shuqing, Qingdai huashi, 23.3b.
 the unseen hand 137

father were identified in this study as excelling in painting, but her family
made up for this by sending her off to study under the tutelage of dis-
tinguished artists. Her tuition in painting came from Pan Yijuan
(1740–1830), a jinshi of 1769, who was an eminent painter and author.122
Descendants of Pan Yijuan carried on the distinction of their clan
elders: a nephew was a first-class scholar and was highly honoured at
court.123 Zhou Lilan also took instruction from Yuan Weizu (fl.
eighteenth century) from Changzhou.124 Yuan had lived in Yangzhou
for more than forty years where he supported himself by selling paint-
ings, so was well known on the artistic scene. He was also one of the
several men who contributed to Luo Qilan’s Zengyan anthology125 and
he wrote a preface for Ren Zhaolin’s Wuzhong nüshi shichao.126 Thus,
Luo’s editorial relationship with Zhou Lilan led into networks of well-
known male artists who supported women’s writing.
It seems inevitable that Luo should strike up a friendship with
painters such as Lilan as she was passionate about painting to the
point where she took it up full time in her later years and gave up her
beloved poetry. As noted above, she is one of the few women painters
whose works are preserved in the Palace Museum in Beijing.127 One of
her much later admirers, the Columbia University professor Friedrich
Hirth, had some of her paintings in his possession in the early part of
the twentieth century, and likened them to Tang masterpieces.128 Near
the end of her last juan in the Tingqiuxuan shiji, Luo stated that she
would give up poetry and from then on only paint, a gesture that has
not yet been fully explored.129
In addition to sharing a talent with Luo for rendering flowers
and plants into paintings, Zhou Lilan also wrote and published. Her

122
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 607; Zhongguo meishujia, 1349.
123
Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 607.
124
Qingren shiming, 1272; Zhongguo meishujia, 761.
125
Yuan Weizu, “On the Previous Title,” in Luo Qilan, Tingqiuxuan zengyan, 1.21.
126
See Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings using keyword personal name
search “Pan Yijuan.”
127
Li Shi , ed., Gugong cang nüxing huihua (Women paint-
ers in the Forbidden City) (Beijing: Zijincheng chubanshe, 2001), 12–15.
128
Hirth, Scraps from a Collector’s Notebook, 41.
129
“I Have Spent Half of My Life Studying Poetry but My Strength is Deficient and
My Ability Is Poor. I Have Realized that I Will not be Able to Reach The Heights of
Established Writing Circles and Have Recently Taken a Look at Painting and Feel that
I Quite Like It. I Then Stopped Writing Poetry to Paint, but I Still Wrote This Poem
to Break off Poetry”
, in Luo Qilan, Tingqiuxuan shiji, 6.25b–6.26a.
138 chapter four

eight-juan collection of poems is titled Huanyunlou shicao

(Draft collection of poems from Huanyun Tower), a name that sug-
gests a desire to signal her spirituality.130 Luo Qilan placed Zhou Lilan’s
two poems in seventh position in her Tongren ji.131
The three women named above were talented and from well-con-
nected families. They each had tutoring from, or relationships with,
eminent teachers or mentors that led to wider networks. For Luo Qilan
to include them in her Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren ji was thus an
important display of solidarity that had benefits on both sides. Indi-
rectly, the husbands, fathers, brothers and teachers of her “compan-
ions” and other male supporters endorsed Luo’s reputation and talents
by allowing the writings of their female relatives and students to be
included in her anthology. Some of these men made a further gesture
of support by writing poems for her Tingqiuxuan zengyan. In return,
Luo Qilan’s quest for recognition of her talents as editor, painter and
poet was at least partially fulfilled.

Concluding Remarks

Luo Qilan is now part of the familiar landscape of Qing studies. She
comes to our attention in this volume in the context of her editorship
of two anthologies of poetry. These provided her with the means to
maneuver between the fine distinction of seeking “fame” and maintain-
ing a “reputation.” We have also discussed some of the other condi-
tions that may have allowed her to move beyond the strict boundaries
of what was considered appropriate behavior for women. She was well
connected through her ancestry, and her teachers, women friends and
male supporters gave her access to wider and more varied networks.
Her intellectual abilities are known through her published works and
the critical analysis of her peers.
A quality that distinguishes Luo Qilan from the hundreds of con-
temporary women writers who shared these same attributes, however,
is her articulation of the desire to be recognized for her talents. Para-
doxically, it could also be her public self-criticism of her search for
the fame she once so desired, in the closing section of her Preface,
that drew the admiration of her supporters. Her admission that she

130
Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü, 384.
131
Luo Qilan, ed., Tingqiuxuan guizhong, 1.3a.
 the unseen hand 139

had once held an “excessive regard for fame” (haoming ) would

deflect accusations of improper conduct, but in the same lines she
was careful to stress that it was in a “former life” that she had failed
to exercise proper constraint. Luo’s self-criticism can thus be seen as
ambiguous.
Details of Luo Qilan’s life and the background to her role as editor
have until now been rather sketchy. Drawing on a variety of sources,
I attempted to reconstruct a biographical outline to show that her
ancestral and family background included a wide range of distin-
guished family members, acquaintances, and colleagues. Her networks
included people of both sexes who came from different ethnic groups.
These people contributed poems or prefaces for her anthologies.
Luo Qilan’s avowed objective in compiling and editing Tingqiuxuan
guizhong tongren ji was to provide a medium for disseminating the
names of women who wished to be “known.” In addition, the lauda-
tory chorus of male voices that can be heard in Tingqiuxuan zengyan
speaks volumes for her standing in the community.
I discussed three of the seventeen women who were anthologized
in the Tongren ji in the context of their relationship to Luo Qilan. It
is noteworthy that the common ground Jiang Zhu appears to have
shared with Luo was based on religion and female solidarity. A strong
partnership was created with Lu Yuansu through the formation of a
painting-embroidering duo. Luo Qilan’s passion for painting, which
is beyond the scope of this chapter to examine, was shared with Zhou
Lilan. Uncovering the biographical details of these understudied
women opens up possibilities for further examination of their lives
and works.
It now seems possible to suggest that in the context of her presti-
gious background, her status in her community, and her avowed quest
for “fame,” that Luo selected women for her anthology who would
reflect aspects of her own character, talents, and interests. A writing
and social group was maintained by Luo Qilan that partly revolved
around Yuan Mei and Wang Wenzhi but was also independent of
them. These women also provided inroads into other networks leading
from their male teachers and relatives. Several of the men who wrote
poems of praise for her Tingqiuxuan zengyan were leaders in their
respective fields. By adding their names to her works they endorsed
her standing in the community.
The women Luo Qilan included in her anthology came from good
families who, in keeping with Confucian values and social propriety,
140 chapter four

insisted that the names of their clans would remain untarnished as their
daughters, wives, and other female relatives ventured into the pub-
lic domain through print. In Luo Qilan, these individual women and
their families, along with the numerous eminent men who endorsed
her work, found an elegant woman of impeccable background, whose
artistry commanded respect.

Table 1. The seventeen female poets anthologized in Luo Qilan’s Tingqiux-

uan guizhong tongren ji in order of first appearance and their inclusion in
Yuan Mei’s Suiyuan nüdizi shixuan
Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren ji Suiyuan nüdizi shixuan132

1. Jiang Zhu NO
2. Bi Fen NO
3. Bi Hui YES, juan 5
4. Bao Zhilan NO
5. Bao Zhihui YES, juan 4
6. Bao Zhifen NO
7. Zhou Lilan NO
8. Lu Yuansu NO
9. Zhang Shaoyun NO
10. Pan Yaozhen NO
11. Hou Ruzhi NO
12. Wang Qiong NO
13. Wang Qian YES, juan 5
14. Wang Huaixing NO
15. Xu Dexing YES, juan 5
16. Qin Shurong NO
17. Ye Yuzhen NO
18. Luo Qilan YES, juan 3

132
Data extracted from the index page of Yuan Mei, ed., Suiyuan nüdizi shixuan.
Lu Yuansu is included in the index of juan 5 of what appears to be the original edition
of the Suiyuan anthology (National Library of China catalogue #95049) but not in the
1892 reprint used in this study. Xu Dexing is in the index of the 1892 edition of the
Suiyuan anthology but none of her poems are included.
 CHAPTER FIVE

FROM PRIVATE LIFE TO PUBLIC PERFORMANCES:

THE CONSTITUTED MEMORY AND (RE)WRITINGS OF THE
EARLY-QING WOMAN WU ZONGAI

Wei Hua

In the thirteenth year of the Kangxi reign (1674), a young poetess and
widow Wu Zongai (courtesy name, Jiangxue , 1650–1674)
committed suicide. She had just left her home at Yongkang in
Zhejiang Province and was on her way to wed—against her will—a
rebel general in the camp of the Fujian Feudatory commander, Geng
Jingzhong (?–1682). For over 170 years following her death,
her name and record were not to be found in any gazetteer or pub-
lished history, until in 1843, a local official, Wu Tingkang
(1799–after 1881), recovered her from oblivion.1 He inquired among
the local elderly about the conditions of her death, and concluded that
she had sacrificed her life not only for the preservation of virtue but
also for the people of her hometown. Believing her story to be morally
inspiring, he gathered materials about her, asked his friends to com-
pose a play with her as heroine and to write biographies of her, and
printed her poetry collection. This poetry collection, her biographies
(including a biochronology of her life by the famous scholar Yu Yue

1
See Wu Tingkang, “Taoxi xue chuanqi ba” (Postscript to Snow
at the Peach Stream), 2a–3b, in Taoxi xue , by Huang Xieqing (1847;
repr., Yunhe xianguan, 1875). Wu hailed from Tongcheng , Anhui. He was
known as a calligrapher, seal-engraver, painter of plum blossoms and orchids, and
collector of bricks. He once compiled Mutao xuan guzhuan tulu
(A pictorial record of ancient bricks at the Mutao Studio). See Molin jinhua
(An account of painters and calligraphers today) in Qingdai zhuanji congkan
(A collection of biographies of the Qing), ed. Zhou Junfu (Taipei:
Mingwen shuju, 1986), 73:519. Recently, another local historical record Wu compiled
was published, see Xihu Lingong cizhi (Records of Lingong Shrine at
the West Lake) (Hangzhou: Hangzhou chubanshe, 2004). For Wu’s autobiography,
see “Rusou manshu” (dated 1881) in the appendix to the play Yutai qiu
(Autumn at the Jade Palace) in Suizhong Wushi cang chaoben gaoben xiqu cong-
kan (Wu Xiaoling’s collection of manuscript copies
of classical Chinese drama), ed. Wu Shuyin (Beijing: Xueyuan chubanshe,
2004), 16.110–126.
142 chapter five

(1821–1907), and the play by Huang Xieqing (1805–

1864), Taoxi xue (Snow at the Peach Stream), were all printed
repeatedly thereafter.2 As a consequence, Wu Zongai became written
into Yongkang public memory. In the early years of the Guangxu reign
(1875–1908), old and new biographies of her were included in the
Yongkang xianzhi (Gazetteer of Yongkang County), and a
shrine and a tomb with a stone tablet were erected in her memory. She
was remembered as both a talented poetess and a virtuous wife.3 In the
1950s, in the Yongkang Middle School, teachers would tell her story
of sacrifice to students, and the students would learn and recite her
poetry by heart.4 Now, if you visit the Yongkang government’s official
website, you will find her name and an account of her life under the
category of “Yongkang celebrities.”
As Paul Connerton notes in How Societies Remember, “We pre-
serve versions of the past by representing it to ourselves in words
and images.”5 Wu Tingkang must have realized the significance of re-
presenting Wu Zongai not only in his words and those of his literati
friends, but also in her own words. Hence, he published her poetry.
He must also have understood the power of using drama to display
unforgettable images before people’s eyes; hence, the play Snow at the

2
See the 1875 edition of Xu liefu shicao (Poetry of the virtuous wife
of Xu) (Yunhe xianguan), in Ming Qing Women’s Writings, ed. Grace S. Fong, http://
digital.library.mcgill.ca/mingqing. Wu Zongai’s poetry collection was first printed in
1842, then in 1854, 1874, 1875, 1912, 1927, 1949, and 1993. Taoxi xue, on the other
hand, was first printed in 1847, and likewise saw many reprints, for example, in 1851,
1857, 1874, 1875, 1881, 1906, 1907, 1919, and 1923. Unless noted otherwise, the edi-
tions I use for my discussion are Xu liefu shichao, 1875 edition and Taoxi xue, also
1875 edition.
3
See the entry “Xu liefu” in Yongkang xianzhi, ed. Pan Shutang et al. (1892;
repr., Taipei: Chengwen, 1970), 10.38–39/596–597; Pan Shutang, “Jielie Wu Jiangxue
biezhuan” (Biography of the virtuous and heroic Wu Jiangxue), in
Yongkang xianzhi, 15.8–9/844-845; Hu Wenxian , “Yong Wu Jiangxue lienü
shi” (Poems on the martyred woman Wu Jiangxue), in Yongkang
xianzhi zengbu (Expanded edition of the Yongkang Gazetteer), ed.
Lou Tongsun et al. (Taipei: Yongkang xianzhi zengbu bianzuan weiyuanhui,
1982), 300.
4
See Li Jingfu , “ ‘Yongkang lienü Wu Jiangxue’ bu”
(Supplement to “Yongkang’s martyred woman Wu Jiangxue”), Zhejiang yuekan
7.5 (1975): 29; Yao Zhenchang , “Tigong Yongkang lienü Wu Jiangxue
de jidian suojian” (My opinions on Yongkang’s
martyred woman Wu Jiangxue) in Lou Tongsun, ed., Yongkang xianzhi zengbu, 345.
Yao mentioned that when he was studying in the Yongkang Middle School, everyone
could recite Wu’s huiwen (palindrome) poem by heart.
5
Paul Connerton, How Societies Remember (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 1989), 72.
 from private life to public performances 143

Peach Stream. His conscientious effort to reconstruct her through the

written word seemed to be motivated by a desire to call into being a
social memory through which a community could be reminded of its
identity and empowered by a kind of “collective autobiography.”6 He
turned to what Connerton has called the “inscribing practice” to help
his society remember its past in order to better face its present and
future.7
Apparently, in Wu Zongai’s life story and writings, this late-Qing
official saw much social, cultural, and historical significance. I will
demonstrate in this study that the reasons for which this woman
poet was recovered, remembered, and rewritten had much more to
do with the socio-historical context of the late Qing than her own
poetic merit. Wu Zongai’s poetry or competence in poetry-writing,
like her reported beauty, captivated the imagination of the literati
mainly because it embodied her and lent poignancy and authenticity
to her short-lived existence in history. In other words, her poetry was
not so much valued in itself as it was appreciated as a window into
her life and character. To Wu Tingkang and his circle, she was not so
much a talented woman as a virtuous wife who could serve as a moral
exemplar to the men and women of Yongkang and beyond, during
times of imperial crisis—first the Opium War (1839–1842), and then
the Taiping Rebellion (1851–1864)—by virtue of her “choice” of self-
sacrifice for her county.
This choice was carefully constructed—if not invented—and empha-
sized by these men in the paratexts surrounding her poetry collection
as well as in the dramatic representation of her story. It arose from the
fact that, unlike many virtuous wives recorded in official histories, Wu
did not commit suicide the instant she encountered a threat to her vir-
tue. For unknown reasons, she procrastinated, and instead only killed
herself after she had already departed with the rebel soldiers. Under
what circumstances, for whose sake, and by what means Wu killed
herself remain a virtual mystery. Indeed, men’s writings about her all
focused on her heroic sacrifice—she just could not have killed herself
out of sheer depression! Wu Tingkang and his friends were anxious to
explain that Wu Zongai’s supposed delay in committing suicide was
not a sign of equivocation or weakness but rather a deliberate plan of

6
Connerton, How Societies Remember, 70.
7
Connerton, How Societies Remember, 73.
144 chapter five

action. According to them, she decided to lure the enemy away to save
her county from the devastation of war.
For these officials, scholars, and literati, against the backdrop of
the crises of the mid-nineteenth century, acts of loyalty were highly
significant, politically and socially. It was only natural then that they
repeatedly stressed that Wu Zongai gave up her life not merely to pre-
serve her chastity, but also out of devotion to the empire. This can be
demonstrated by their frequent comparison of her with such female
historical icons as Wang Zhaojun (fl. first century B.C.) and
Cai Yan (177–?), who, to their great disappointment, married
“barbarians” and compromised their loyalty to the Great Han.8 Such
an emphasis on Wu Zongai’s loyalty seems to have exerted an influ-
ence on local popular imagination. In a later biography found in a
nineteenth-century gazetteer of Yongkang, Wu Zongai is described as
thinking to herself, “Since my late husband and I were born under the
Qing, I shall die a ghost of the Qing.”9 These words were obviously an
adaptation of the common expression of a chaste wife at the moment
of suicide in fiction and drama: “Since I have lived in the family of
So-and-so, I shall die a ghost of the family of So-and-so.”
While Wu Zongai was mentioned as a woman poet and painter
before the late Qing in literati works such as Ranzhi xulu
(Continued record of burning rouge), Tuhui baojian (Pre-
cious mirror with illustrations), and Qingshi biecai ji
(Collected original poems of the Qing dynasty), men’s rewritings of
her in the late Qing presented her, by and large, with a quite differ-
ent identity.10 She was made a model of their “moral police” who

8
See Xu Mei , “Xu liefu zhuan” (Biography of the virtuous wife of
Xu) in Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shicao, 2a–2b, and Scene 7 in Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue,
24b–25b, which we will discuss below.
9
Pan, “Jielie Wu Jiangxue biezhuan,” 15.8/844.
10
In Ranzhi xulu, couplets from twenty poems by Wu Zongai were cited as “pure
diction and beautiful lines” (qingci liju ). Some of these poems were not
found in the 1875 edition of Xu liefu shichao that I use, and some have minor differ-
ences. In juan 8 of Tuhui baojian, Wu Zongai was praised as “being versed in paint-
ing flowers, grass, birds, and figures; in addition, her landscape paintings in color are
also good.” In juan 1 of Qingshi biecai ji, one finds the famous early-Qing poet Gong
Dingzi’s (1615–1673) poem, “On Jiangxue’s Painting Album”
. For the above, see “tici” (endorsement inscriptions), 1b–2b, 3b, in Wu
Zongai, Xu liefu shichao; and Shen Deqian , ed., Qingshi biecai ji (Shanghai:
Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1984), 38.
 from private life to public performances 145

upheld Neo-Confucian orthodoxies of chastity and loyalty.11 They also

projected their own idealized and composite image of Woman onto
her, often describing her as having the extraordinary beauty of Wang
Zhaojun, the poetic talent of Cai Yan, and the filial piety and hero-
ism of Hua Mulan .12 Fascinated by the silences and (seeming)
hesitations surrounding her death, they imagined an ideal situation
in which, even with these distinguished qualities, she was unflinching
when it came to sacrificing her life for her husband and the patriarchal
community. Her poetry, read as genuine expressions from her heart in
her private moments, stood for and embodied this beautiful, talented
and virtuous woman. They publicized it, engaged in imaginary dia-
logues with it, and found many performative uses for it.

The Publications of Wu Zongai’s Poetry Collection

Wu Zongai’s poetry collection was published only posthumously.

The first known edition appeared in 1842, published by Wang Jiaqi
(fl. nineteenth century) of Binghu shanfang in Jin-
hua , near her hometown. It consists of two juan, “Liuyi Lou
gao” (Draft of the Six Arts Tower) and “Lühua cao”
(Draft of green flower) and bore the title Jiangxue shichao
(Poetry manuscript of Jiangxue).13 When this edition was printed, Wu

11
Matthew Sommer notes, “The very vehemence of exhortation about female chas-
tity in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries suggests increasing alarm at the break-
down of moral and social order under the pressure of socio-economic realities. Such
exhortation—and the legislation that gave it force—implies an effort to enroll women
as ‘moral police’ to guard the family’s fragile boundaries against assault by the growing
crowd of rogue males at the bottom of Qing society.” Wu Zongai lived in the seven-
teenth century and her death had nothing to do with rogue males at the bottom of the
Qing society. Nevertheless, she was co-opted as “moral police” in the late Qing. See
Matthew Sommer, Sex, Law, and Society in Late Imperial China (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 2000), 15.
12
See for example, Xu Mei, “Xu liefu zhuan,” 2b, Scenes 1 and 7 in Huang Xie-
qing, Taoxi xue, and commentary on “Zeng linnü” (To a neighbor girl) in Wu
Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 1.7a–7b.
13
See “Wu Zongai” in Qingren biejie zongmu (A complete bibli-
ography of individual poetry collections from the Qing), ed. Li Lingnian and
Yang Zhong (Hefei: Anhui jiaoyu chubanshe, 2001), 897–98; Hu Wenkai ,
Lidai funü zhuzuo kao (A review of women’s writings throughout
history) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1985), 303; Wu Tingkang, “Xu liefu shi
xu” (Preface to the poetry of the virtuous wife of Xu), in Wu Zongai, Xu
liefu shichao, 1b; Chen Qitai, “Ba” (Postscript), in Wu Zongai, Xu Liefu shichao, 1a;
Xu Mei , “Xu” (Preface), in Wu Zongai, Xu Liefu shichao, 1b.
146 chapter five

Tingkang was asked to write a preface. This was probably the first
time he had read her poems. In that preface Wu praises Wu Zongai’s
talent and regrets the loss of many of her poems. He does not men-
tion her sacrifice for it was not yet known to him.14 Wu, a native of
Tongcheng , Anhui, assumed the official post of Military Consul-
tant to Yongkang in 1843. In 1854, with the help of his literati friends,
he published another new edition of Wu Zongai’s poetry with com-
mentary. In his preface to this new edition, he explains why he decided
to reprint her work:
When I served as an official in Yongkang, I discovered the virtuous wife
of Xu, Wu Jiangxue’s sacrifice for chastity. I asked celebrities to write
her biography and propagated her story through musical drama to com-
mend her in public. Previously, local people told me that Jiangxue was
a talented woman. . . . When Wang Jiaqi published her poetry, I wrote
a preface in which I merely praised her talent and regretted the loss
of many of her poems. Then when I found out the details of her sac-
rifice, I realized the transmission of Jiangxue’s name need not depend
on her poetry. There have been many talented women throughout
history—some are known for their talent alone; others, not merely for
their talent. For those whose names are known for talent alone, their
personalities need not be known for their writings to be appreciated.
If [a woman] is known on account of her talent alone, then the more
poems that are left, the more distinguished her talent will become. But
when [a woman’s] remarkable virtue and admirable deeds are illustri-
ous enough for recognition in history, even if her poetic expressions
are scarce and preserved incompletely, we can still imagine her entire
life with these few pieces. It then follows that her poetry was passed on
because of her virtue ( ), and she was not known for
poetry alone. In the case of Jiangxue, with talent or without, she will be
remembered all the same. Then why be bothered if only a few of her
poems are left? But since I have publicized Jiangxue’s deed of sacrifice, I
also want to spread her talent, so how can I not disseminate her poetry?
Therefore, I have taken the reprint of the Wang edition, and asked the
scholar Chen Qinzhai [Chen Qitai , 1800–1864] to col-
late it. Then I wrote this preface and printed her poetry. . . .15
In the preface above, by saying that a woman’s poetry was passed on
because of her virtue, Wu Tingkang obviously placed higher value on
women’s virtue than on their talent, or on women’s public behavior
than on their private writings. He also directed his readers as to how

14
Wu Tingkang, “Xu liefu shi xu,” 1b.
15
Wu Tingkang, “Xu liefu shi xu,” 1a–2a. This preface is dated 1852.
 from private life to public performances 147

to read Wu Zongai’s poetry: “to imagine her [virtuous] life” from her
poetic expressions. At the end of this preface, he mentioned in pass-
ing that Wu Zongai was also very good at painting and calligraphy.
However, he reminded his readers that these were all insignificant
details about her. Her immortality resulted from her virtue rather than
her talent.16
Chen Qitai in his 1854 postscript to Jiangxue shichao supplies more
details about this new edition.17 He points out that Wu Zongai’s poems,
originally copied by Wang Chongbing (fl. nineteenth century)
from an old household in Wuyi (near Yongkang), constituted
only half of what she wrote, for many good lines recorded in Ran-
zhi xulu were not found in these poems.18 Wang Jiaqi of Jinhua first
printed Wu Zongai’s poetry collection; then Ding Wenwei
(fl. nineteenth century) and Wang Xiling (jinshi 1845) of
Xiaoshan printed it again. His friend Wu Tingkang encouraged
both printings. Chen himself collated the Xiaoshan edition. To further
its circulation, he thought of preparing another commentarial edition
of her poetry. As he was busy, he asked his old friend Xu Mei
(1797–1870), another literatus from Haining, Zhejiang, for help in
providing a commentary that was “lenient rather than strict” (ning
kuan wu ke ) and capable of arousing readers’ attention. At
first Xu would not commit to this task, for he had written her bio-
graphy already, but he later consented because “the discontent in his
heart was in need of expression.”19 This demonstrates that male lite-
rati participation in the transmission of women’s writings and virtue
was imbricated in their own networks of male friendship and self-
expressive needs.20

16
Wu Tingkang, “Xu liefu shi xu,” 2a.
17
For details about this 1854 edition, see Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü, 303.
18
Chen Qitai, “Ba,” 1a. Wang Chongbing lived in the early Qing, during the Kangxi
reign (1662–1722). He is the author of Jinhua zhengxian lue (A brief and
credible document of Jinhua).
19
Chen Qitai, “Ba,” 1a–1b.
20
Other examples of this can be found in Chinese history. One good example was
brought to my attention by Wilt Idema. It involved the late Ming dramatist Meng
Chengshun , who published the poetry collection of the thirteenth-century
poetess Zhang Yuniang and wrote the play Zhenwen ji (Story of chas-
tity and literary talent) in praise of her chastity, which he printed with the finan-
cial help of his friends. For a detailed discussion of how and why Meng Chengshun
propagated the Zhang Yuniang story, see Wilt L. Idema, “Male Fantasies and Female
Realities: Chu Shu-Chen and Chang Yü-Niang and Their Biographers,” in Chinese
Women in the Imperial Past: New Perspectives, ed. Harriet Zurndorfer (Leiden: Brill,
148 chapter five

Xu Mei’s preface of 1854 confirms the above account. It is then clear

that from 1842 to 1854, Wu Zongai’s poetry was printed three times,
and that Wu Tingkang, Chen Qitai, and Xu Mei were the most impor-
tant people behind this new 1854 edition. Xu’s family-owned print
shop, Gujunge , printed and published it. This and the earlier
1842 edition seem to be still extant,21 although I have not been able
to examine them. The editions I have used include the one published
in 1874, held in the Fu Ssu-nien Library at Academia Sinica, and the
1875 reprint in Ming Qing Women’s Writings held in the Harvard-
Yenching Library.22
As Qin Xiangye (1813–1883) of Wuxi explains in his
preface, the old blocks of Xu liefu shichao were destroyed during the
Taiping Rebellion (1851–1864), and only a few copies were still left.
Wu Tingkang (over seventy at that time), lamenting the situation,
managed to reprint this poetry collection in 1874 and asked him to
write a preface. A historian and official, Qin notes that many unknown
women had died to preserve virtue during the Taiping Rebellion. Since
they lacked literary talent, their names were not remembered by people
other than their clansmen and neighbors. He therefore maintains that
“Though [a woman’s] poetry passes on because of her virtue, poetry
indeed helps her name to be spread around.”23 This statement, as one
may recall, differs from what Wu Tingkang proclaimed in his 1852
preface, namely, “her poetry was passed on because of her virtue.”
It appears that in this new historical context Wu Zongai’s poetry

1999), 25–52. According to him, Meng’s interest in Zhang Yuniang “may be read as
an indirect expression of admiration of Ming loyalism” (38). Wai-yee Li also discussed
Zhenwen ji from a very perceptive gendered perspective in “Heroic Transformations:
Women and National Trauma in Early Qing Literature,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic
Studies 59.2 (1999): 424-436. For another famous example of Ming-Qing male litera-
ti’s appropriation of female talents, the Xiaoqing case, see Ellen Widmer, “Xiaoqing’s
Literary Legacy and the Place of the Woman Writer in Late Imperial China,” Late
Imperial China 13.1 (1992): 111–155.
21
See “Wu Zongai,” in Li Lingnian and Yang Zhong, eds., Qingren biejie zongmu,
897–898, and Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü, 303.
22
Both were printed by Wu Tingkang’s Yunhe xianguan and both are
titled Xu liefu shichao. They are identical except that in the appendix section on Wu
Zongai’s palindromic poem and its various readings, the 1875 edition includes an
additional letter by Ying Ying of Yongkang to Wu Tingkang and a postscript
by Xu Yumin , also of Yongkang. According to Qingren bieji zongmu, in 1874
there was another typeset edition (paiyin ben ) of Wu Zongai’s poetry by Zhi-
nan Baoguan . I have not been able to examine this edition.
23
Qin Xiangye , “Chongke Xu liefu shi xu” (Preface to the
reprint of the poetry of the virtuous wife of Xu), in Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 1b.
 from private life to public performances 149

made her stand out among those virtuous wives who had sacrificed
their lives. This new interest in, and emphasis on, her talent is clearly
exhibited in the appendix, “How to Read the Shared-Heart Gardenia
Poem, with Illustration” , which was completed no
later than 1851 but printed together with her poems for the first time
in 1874.24
In the twentieth century, Wu Zongai’s poetry collection was repeat-
edly printed. The latest edition, complete with modern punctuations
and explanatory notes, was published in 1993 by the Association of the
Yongkang Fellow Townsmen of Taipei. The book’s title is no longer
Xu liefu shichao as in the 1874 and 1875 editions, but Wu Jiangxue
shichao (Poetry of Wu Jiangxue).25 The first entry in this
book, however, is still Wu Tingkang’s preface titled “Xu liefu shi xu”
dated 1852. This publication testifies to the continuation of her legacy
in the minds of people who trace their native place to Yongkang. As
the book’s editor writes, “In Yongkang’s history, Wu Jiangxue, whose
person combined beauty, talents, and virtue, can truly be said to be the
rare phoenix of the Yongkang people.”26

The Text and Paratexts of Xu liefu shichao

Compared with the 1854 edition, the 1874 or 1875 edition of Wu Zong-
ai’s poetry saw a significant title change as well as a big increase in
what Gerard Genette calls “paratexts,” namely, “the literary and print-
erly conventions that mediate between the world of publishing and the
world of the text.”27 Besides the original prefaces by Xu Mei and Wu

24
This work of considerable length was by Ying Ying, whose preface was dated
1851. It is alternatively titled, Tongxin zhizi tu dufa or Tongxin zhizi tu xubian
(A sequel to the Shared-heart Gardenia Poem, with illustration), in Fong,
ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
25
This edition was annotated by Hu Guojun and edited by Ying Yujin
. I would like to thank my former colleague Lin Meiyi for giving me a copy.
26
The book has no page number. This editor’s note is printed conspicuously next
to the title “Xu liefu shi xu” and accompanied by the drawing of a phoenix.
27
See Gerard Genette, Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 1997), xvii. A succinct definition is also given on the back
cover: “Paratexts are those liminal devices and conventions, both within and outside
the book, that form part of the complex mediation between book, author, publisher,
and reader: titles, forewords, epigraphs, and publishers’ jacket copy are part of a book’s
private and public history.” In terms of Ming-Qing poetry collections, the common
feature of commentary at the top of a page (meipi ) can also be considered as
part of the paratextual materials.
150 chapter five

Tingkang, biographies by Xu Mei and Chen Qitai, and a postscript

by Chen Qitai, a new preface, a historical account of the Geng Jing-
zhong rebellion, a biochronology of Wu Zongai’s life, several pieces
of endorsement writing (tici ), and a large appendix on extended
readings of her palindromic (huiwen ) poem are included in this
edition.28 These paratexts “surround” Wu Zongai’s work to such an
extent that less than one third of the entire book is actually devoted to
her poetry (See Table 1).
Of all the new paratextual materials, the most significant addition is
probably “Wu Jiangxue nianpu” (Biochronology of Wu
Jiangxue), a biochronology of her life written by the renowned scholar-
official Yu Yue in 1874. Yu, a top degree holder ( jinshi ) of 1850,
was a well-respected scholar of the Confucian Classics. He used Wu
Zongai’s own poems as evidence with which to reconstruct her life and
to correct some details Chen Qitai had provided in his supplement to
Xu Mei’s biography.29 So the new interest in her identity as a woman
poet seems to have been overshadowed by a still stronger interest in
her personal life. Presented in the nianpu form, narrated by year, Wu
Zongai’s entire life acquired an aura of historical authenticity that was
further strengthened by Yu’s fame as a reputed scholar of evidential
research. When Yu expressed his delight in adding one more year to
Wu Zongai’s life (compared with Chen’s account),30 it became appar-
ent that his purpose was to establish a non-disputable account of her
life within a specific period in Chinese history—and also in public
memory, as exemplified in the following entries:
The seventh year of Shunzhi (gengyin ): Wu Jiangxue was born. Xu
Mei’s biography says she was named Zongai, a native of Yongkang, and
daughter of a schoolmaster, [Wu] Shiqi [ ] .

28
All paratexts in this edition are paginated individually, as is the usual practice in
traditional Chinese editions.
29
Yu Yue, “Wu Jiangxue nianpu,” 1a–2a, in Wu Zongai, Xu Liefu shichao; Chen
Qitai, “Shu Xu liefu zhuan hou” (Postscript to the biography of the vir-
tuous wife of Xu), in Xu liefu shichao, by Wu Zongai (1854 edition), 1a–3a, reprinted
in the 1874 and 1875 editions.
30
See Yu Yue, “Wu Jiangxue nianpu” 1b–2a, and “Ti Huang Yunshan xiaolian
Taoxi xue chuanqi hou” (Postscript to Provincial Grad-
uate Huang Yunshan’s chuanqi play, Snow at the Peach Stream) in the “Tici” section
of Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue, 1b–2a. In the latter, he wrote, “The drama did not
totally accord with the facts found in her poetry. This is due to dramatic conventions.
I compiled a biochronology of Jiangxue’s life and sent it to Wu Tingkang to print it
before Jiangxue’s poetry. In contrast to Chen Qinzhai’s conclusion that Jiangxue died
at the age of 24, my biochronology has added an extra year.”
 from private life to public performances 151

.......
The sixteenth year (jihai ): She was aged ten. In her poetry collec-
tion there is the poem, “Inscribed on My Father’s Painting, ‘Teaching
Daughters’ ” . Her own note says, “When Father painted
this picture, I was only ten years old.” Hence she probably began to learn
how to write poetry from her father this year.
The seventeenth year (gengzi She was aged eleven. The poems in
this collection ought to start from this year. The opening poem of the pres-
ent volume is titled, “Inscribed on the Painting ‘Boating on a Sunny Lake
in Spring’ ” . I suspect it refers to the spring of this year.
......
The fourth year of Kangxi (yisi ): She was aged sixteen. . . . I suspect
that either in the winter of this year or the spring of the following year,
she married Xu Menghua .
......
The eleventh year (renzi ): She was aged twenty-three. This year she
wrote a letter to [her female cousin Wu] Suwen and sent her “The
Shared-Heart Gardenia Poem, with Illustration” ....
The twelfth year (guichou ): She was aged twenty-four. It must be
in the spring of this year that her husband Xu died. . . .
The thirteenth year (jiayin ): She was aged twenty-five. This year
Geng Jingzhong rebelled in Fujian, and his commander-in-chief, Xu
Shangchao , raided the eastern part of Zhejiang. In the sixth
month, Xu’s army came to Yongkang. He declared that the county
would be spared if Jiangxue were offered to him. The county people
conferred in a gathering and wanted to turn Jiangxue over to him to
relieve themselves of danger; hence Jiangxue left home. Upon reaching a
place called “Sanshili keng” , she threw herself down a cliff and
died. To sacrifice one’s life to save the entire county is no ordinary deed
of virtue and heroism. For details, see Xu Mei’s biography. Postscript:
The poem “Mourning the apricot” was written in the spring of this
year. It was her last poem ( juebi ).
Written by Yu Yue (Yinfu ) from Deqing at Chunzai Hall
in Suzhou, in the first ten-day period of the twelfth month during
the year jiaxu , the thirteenth year of the Tongzhi reign (1874).31
Yu Yue’s repeated use of the words “probably” (dang ) and “sus-
pect” (yi ) indicates that he was not completely certain about his
conclusions.32 For example, the account of the circumstances of Wu

31
Yu Yue, “Wu Jiangxue nianpu,” 2a–8a.
32
See Yu Yue, “Wu Jiangxue nianpu,” 3b–4a.
152 chapter five

Zongai’s death, as Yu admits, was based on an earlier biography,

written by Xu Mei.33 Yu did not, and indeed could not, provide any
additional textual evidence. Years later, writing about this nianpu, he
commented, “I wrote this biochronology in response to Kangfu’s [Wu
Tingkang] request. And yet, because there were different rumors and
sayings about Wu Zongai’s story, its dating is hard to verify. So I dare
not say this is the final conclusion.”34 Nevertheless, this biochrono-
logy helped spread Wu Zongai’s name as it appeared later in Yu’s own
work Quyuan zazuan (Miscellaneous jottings by Quyuan,
1899) and also in compendia like Xiangyan congshu (Col-
lectanea of the fragrant and charming, 1910) and Hongxiutianxiang
shi congshu (Collectanea of the Hongxiutianxiang
Room, 1936) well into the Republican period.35
On the subject of Wu Zongai’s death, Xu Mei’s biography was more
detailed and imaginative, reading like a piece of fiction. He writes,
Xu Shangchao told the people that if they gave Jiangxue to him, then
the county would be saved. Jiangxue, a widow, had been hiding at her
mother’s house ever since she heard of the rebellion. When the local
people decided to offer Jiangxue to Xu so as to relieve themselves of dan-
ger, Jiangxue thought to herself that were she just to kill herself at that
moment, she would cause the other people of the county to suffer. So she
said, “A widow will die in the end anyway. I will go and say no more.”
The rebels then left the county happily, with her as their captive. When
they reached a place called “Sanshili keng,” Jiangxue sent her guards to
fetch her water and then jumped off the cliff to her death. Some said that
the place was near the mouth of a stream, and there was a lake below.
Jiangxue threw herself into the lake and drowned. Since Yongkang was
isolated, one hundred and seventy-some years passed without anyone
publicizing Jiangxue’s story in any writing. Some treasured her poems
and paintings, but they saw her as no more than a talented woman. In
1843, when Wu Tingkang of Tongcheng served as an official in Yong-
kang, he found out about Jiangxue’s heroic death and was worried that
it would be forgotten, so he printed her “Liuyi lou gao” and “Lühua cao”
and asked me to write a biography of her.36

33
Yu Yue, “Wu Jiangxue nianpu,” 8a.
34
Yu Yue, “Chunzai tang quanshu luyao” (Precis of the com-
plete works of Chunzai Hall), in Chunzai tang quanshu (Complete works of Chunzai
Hall) (Taipei: Zhongguo wenxian chubanshe, 1968), 31.4. “Wu Jiangxue nianpu” was
included in his Quyuan zazuan, juan 46.
35
Li Lingnian and Yang Zhong, eds., Qingren bieji zongmu, 898.
36
Xu Mei, “Xu Liefu zhuan,” 1a–1b.
 from private life to public performances 153

Besides commending Wu Zongai’s sacrifice to save the entire county,

Xu Mei also compares her with Wang Zhaojun. He continues, “When-
ever I read the Wang Zhaojun story in the History of Han, I closed
the book and sighed. . . . If Zhaojun had been like Jiangxue, I know
she would have killed herself at the border to repay the emperor. The
emperor would then not have broken his promise, nor would Zhao-
jun have compromised her integrity. It would have brought incredible
honor to the Great Han. But Zhaojun died in a desolate foreign land.
What a pity!”37 Even though the background story for Jiangxue’s sac-
rifice was civil war and not Chinese-“barbarian” conflict, Xu linked
her departing from home with Zhaojun’s leaving the “Great Han.”
This intentional or unintentional allusion to Chinese-foreign strife
perhaps resulted from the then-fresh memory of the Opium War in
the biographer’s mind. It successfully elevated the imagined worth of
Wu Zongai’s sacrifice from the local to the national level. At the end
of this biography, Xu remarks that “Heaven endowed Jiangxue with
the beauty of [Wang] Zhaojun and the poetic talent of Wenji [Cai
Yan]; she also possessed the qualities of the Filial and Heroic General
[Hua Mulan]. She was one of a kind and worthy of being written into
‘national history.’ ”38
In the very beginning of his nianpu, Yu Yue praises Wu Zongai
as “a national beauty and genius who embraced death unflinchingly
to save the lives of the whole of Yongkang county. Indeed, she was a
remarkable woman who would shine through our time.”39 His view
concurs with that of Xu’s. Needless to say, biographical accounts such
as Xu’s and Yu’s were included by Wu Tingkang with the purpose of
inscribing Wu Zongai’s existence, as well as authenticating her worth,
in the reader’s mind. If the vividness of description marks the strong
point of Xu Mei’s zhuan, then Yu Yue’s nianpu helps strengthen its
aura of historical authenticity. Yu’s name also appears on the first page
of Wu Zongai’s poetry as one of its compilers.
A commanding officer at the military headquarter in Wulin (Hang-
zhou) named Xi Yuan contributed a historical account about
how the prefectures and counties in the eastern part of Zhejiang were

37
Xu Mei, “Xu Liefu zhuan,” 2a.
38
Xu Mei, “Xu Liefu zhuan,” 2b.
39
Yu Yue, “Wu Jiangxue nianpu,” 1a.
154 chapter five

recovered after Geng Jingzhong rebelled.40 Xi wrote the piece in 1875,

after Wu Tingkang called on him and presented him with Wu Zongai’s
poetry collection as well as the play Taoxi xue.41 It is worth noting that
despite the portrayal of Wu Zongai as a heroine in her biography and
the play, some people were still not convinced that by sacrificing her
life, she saved the entire county—Xi writes, “At first I thought it was
possible that Jiangxue jumped off a cliff to preserve her virtue, but it
was perhaps only ‘a strained interpretation’ ( fuhui zhi shuo )
42
to say that she used herself as bait to save the county from damage.”
After examining historical records, the Donghua lu (Records
from within the eastern gate) and the Guochao mingchen zhuan
(Biographies of renowned subjects of our dynasty), however,
he discovered that during Geng’s rebellion, battles were mentioned
everywhere in Zhejiang, except in Yongkang. Apparently, it did not
suffer from warfare. He then concludes, “If Wu had not used herself as
bait for the enemy in exchange for the safety of the county, how could
this have been the case?”43 Like Yu’s biochronology, Xi Yuan’s writing
aims to strengthen the historical authenticity of Wu Zongai’s heroic
sacrifice, but it still fails to provide any direct evidence. It seems that
the harder they try to prove it, the more strained it appears.
In this edition of Wu Zongai’s poetry, then, the inclusion of newly-
added historical narratives by scholar-officials and military officers
alike can be interpreted as a consequence of a stronger urgency felt
by Wu Tingkang and his circle of associates to establish “facts” (as
well as the commonly recognized worth of her sacrifice) in people’s
minds after the Taiping Rebellion had destroyed stability in the Jiang-
nan region. Yang Jinfan’s (b. 1809?) commentary, also added
to this edition, illustrates this point well, for he tries to explain why
Wu Zongai’s suicide was not recorded in public history.44 Yang, a
close friend of Wu’s, was a scholar-official from Yanghu , Jiangsu,

40
Xi Yuan, “Ji Kangxi shisan nian (1674) Gengfan panrao Zhedong kefu ge junxian
shilue, ji shuyu Yongkang liefu Xu Wushi zhuan hou”
, (A brief account of the recovery of
eastern Zhejiang after Geng’s revolt in 1674, and a postscript to Yongkang’s martyred
wife Xu, née Wu), 1a–4b, in Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao.
41
Xi Yuan, “Ji Kangxi shisan nian,” 1a.
42
Xi Yuan, “Ji Kangxi shisan nian,” 1b.
43
Xi Yuan, “Ji Kangxi shisan nian,” 3b.
44
Yang Jinfan, “Yongkang liefu Wu Jiangxue shi houlun”
(Postscript to the poems of Yongkang’s martyred wife Wu Jiangxue), 1a–2b, in Wu,
Xu liefu shicao.
 from private life to public performances 155

known for his poetry, prose, painting, and calligraphy.45 He believed

that Wu Zongai’s calm deliberations in face of crisis and her heroism
in committing suicide for righteousness should be recorded in his-
tory, and he praised Wu Tingkang’s contribution to “moral education”
( fengjiao ), recognizing her chastity and heroic sacrifice (zhenlie
).46 In his view, the primary reason that Wu Zongai’s deed had
not been commended in any gazetteer was because the exact time of
her death was not certain and her body was never found—if she had
left a poem on the wall before death like the virtuous wife Wang of
the Southern Song, who jumped off the cliff at the Green Maple Hill
in defiance of the Mongol soldiers who had captured her, there would
have been people who remembered her based upon her poem.47 His
words suggest to us how important the “inscribing practice” is. What
Wu Tingkang tried to accomplish by printing Wu Zongai’s poetry is
not unlike writing, on her behalf, her last poem on the wall like the
virtuous wife Wang.
It is conceivable then that the commentary which appears in the
top margin of almost every page of her one hundred poems serves the
function of directing the reader’s attention to their moral and ethical
content. Lacking a copy of the first commentarial edition of 1854 for
comparison, I can only rely on the commentary of the 1875 edition for
my discussion below. Two commentators’ names appear: Yang Jinfan
and Xu Mei. Given that Xu is the only commentator that Chen Qitai
mentions in his preface for the 1854 edition, I suspect that in this new
edition, Yang added some comments of his own. As Yang explains,
even though Wu Zongai’s poetry is incomplete, her illustrious virtue

45
Yang Jinfan’s biography can be found in Zhang Weixiang , Qingdai Piling
mingren xiaozhuan (Brief biographies of celebrities of Piling in
the Qing), juan 6, in Zhou Junfu, Qingdai zhuanji congkan. He once served as magis-
trate of Yanghu. His close relationship with Wu Tingkang can be seen in the fact that
in 1877 he wrote a memorial essay about Wu’s deceased son. See the appendix to the
play Yutai qiu in Wu Shuyin, Suizhong Wushi, 16.127–130.
46
Yang Jinfan, “Yongkang liefu,” 2b.
47
Yang Jinfan, “Yongkang liefu,” 1a–1b. The virtuous wife Wang of Linhai
, Zhejiang committed suicide in 1276. She became the object of worship at the
Green Maple Hill after a shrine known as “Wang liefu ci” (Shrine
of the virtuous wife Wang) was erected in her memory in 1321. See “Cisi zhi”
(Record of temples and shrines) in Zhejiang sheng Shengxian zhi
(Gazetteer of Shengxian, Zhejiang) (Taipei: Chengwen, 1975), juan 7/21:533–537.
156 chapter five

(dajie ) can be seen.48 This suggests a commentary that will treat

her poems as, more than anything, footnotes to her life and character.
We do not know in what form or sequence Wu Zongai’s poems
were originally handed down. In Xu liefu shichao at least, the com-
mentary on her poetry leads us to read her poems in a chronological
fashion. It shows little interest in the formal or artistic aspect of her
poetic compositions, but pays much attention to their implied moral
meaning and significance. Only rarely does one find succinct liter-
ary comments on her lines of poetry as poetry: it is called “deep and
aloof ” (youqiao ), “robust and vigorous” (xiongjian ), and
“elegant and erudite” (dianbo ).49 More often than not, the com-
ments are of a moral or biographical kind. For instance, on one of Wu
Zongai’s early poems, “Reply to Suwen on a Spring Day”
, the comment reads, “This was the happiest time of Jiangxue’s
life.”50 On a poem to her second elder sister Cuixiang , in which
Wu Zongai expresses concern for her elderly father, the commentator
notes, “Jiangxue was already married and yet still quite attached to her
father . . . . Later when she died, she deserved to be offered sacrifices
at the same temple as the Filial and Heroic General Hua Mulan.”51
Comments such as these hardly qualify as “literary criticism.” They
add moral interest to her poems, and further solicit sympathy for her
untimely death.
The second-last poem in her collection, “Scenes in Early Spring”
reads as follows:
As the Lantern Festival approaches within days,
The impetuous wind gradually loses its power.
When the new sun shines on the morning shades,
The thin snow is dissolving on the eaves of spring.
Little birds chirp in the sunny morning,
While tiny petals of flowers quietly fall.
How do I face these fair scenes?
All day long my window shades are drawn.52

The commentator writes, “The line ‘All day long my window shades
are drawn’ means: ‘None will make me adorn myself.’ From beginning

48
Yang Jinfan, “Yongkang liefu,” 2a.
49
Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 1.6b, 2.6a, 2.11a.
50
Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 1.2b.
51
Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 1.4b–5a.
52
Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 2.11a–b.
 from private life to public performances 157

to end, she was a woman who observed the doctrines of propriety.

Hence, we know she did not jump off the cliff haphazardly. In her
mind she had planned it ahead of time already.”53 This reading leads
to a conclusion that is entirely based on speculation. For one thing,
one has to trust the editors of her poetry collection in presenting her
poems in the current sequence, in which this poem appears after the
one in which she mentions her deceased husband (xianfu ).54 Nei-
ther the poem’s title nor its tone makes any definitive reference to her
widowhood.
Sometimes the comments on her poems are didactic. They are
clearly meant to convey the commentator’s (and the publisher’s) own
message to potential readers. For example, on her long poem to her
husband titled “Song of the Same Heart” , the commentator
notes, “Since ancient times many women with beauty and talent have
been misled by enchanting words. Jiangxue was born beautiful and
talented, and yet she conformed to propriety strictly, to the extent that
even though the song’s title is ‘Of the Same Heart,’ in every word there
is the [proper] distinction [between man and wife].”55 Actually, this is
a touching poem of love and familial devotion, in which Wu Zongai
expresses her willingness to endure hardships with her husband, and
asks him not to worry about poverty.56 Instead of commenting on the
sincerity of her emotions (qing , the commentator focuses on her
compliance with the principle of propriety (li ), as the poem begins
with these lines:
Our two families in the past were close,
So when little, I was betrothed to you.
The match was made by our parents,
While you and I did not know each other. . . .57

To the commentator, this quatrain apparently represented a young

woman whose heart was not easily stirred by romantic passion: “You
and I did not know each other.” In this line the commentator perhaps
saw her observance of the separation between the sexes (nannü youbie

53
Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 2.11b.
54
See Wu Zongai, “A Poem Written on My Second Elder Sister Cuixiang’s
Bequeathal of Her Second Son to be My Son” ,
in Xu liefu shichao, 2.10b.
55
Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 2.3a.
56
Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 2.3b.
57
Wu Zongai, “Song of the Same Heart,” in Xu liefu shichao, 2.3a.
158 chapter five

) despite the fact that she was meant to wed her husband.
Unlike those heroines in scholar-and-beauty romance (for example,
Du Liniang in Mudan ting (Peony Pavilion), in the
commentator’s view, Wu Zongai, though as beautiful and talented
as any romantic heroine, knew her proper place in society and acted
accordingly. However, one can imagine that to different readers the
same poem can convey different meanings. To take the above lines for
example: given that Wu Zongai wrote this poem when she was newly
and happily married, I feel that she could be also expressing a sense
of “regret” that she had not known her husband earlier. Nonetheless,
her thoughts of love were not the commentator’s concern. He was far
more interested in appropriating her poem for the purpose of moral
education.
The interpretations given in this commentary sometimes even over-
reach for didactic effect. For instance, two of the four poems entitled
“Miscellaneous Odes on Spring Days” read:
The peony shines gloriously by the jade terrace,
Vying to sparkle and bloom in the east wind;
When spring arrives, it touches up the world,
And everyone comes to see this flower.
After several fine rains and fluttering winds,
Out of the pond the first sound of the frogs,
Spring comes to the small garden, with no one there,
The honeysuckle in full bloom on tender vines.58

In the first poem Wu Zongai is praising the beauty of the peonies; in

the second, the lively spring scene with frogs and honeysuckles. The
commentator, however, interprets both poems as Wu Zongai’s self-
representation and asks female readers to emulate her.59 He marks the
last line of the first poem, “And everyone comes to see this flower,”
with small circles for special attention, and writes, “Read along with
the next poem, it actually means ‘When everyone else is drunk, I
alone am sober.’ ” This quotation is from “The Fisherman” in
Chu ci (The songs of the south) by Qu Yuan (343 BCE–

58
Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 2.2a.
59
Cf. the comment on another of Wu Zongai’s poem on peonies: “This [flower] is
Jiangxue’s self-representation; how can one say that she is flattering the king of flow-
ers?” See Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 2.8b.
 from private life to public performances 159

290 BCE?).60 It shows the ancient poet’s self-recognition of his unique

nobility of character among ordinary people. By alluding to Qu Yuan,
the famous poet and loyal minister who committed suicide, the com-
mentator appears to compare Wu Zongai to him. On the last two lines
of the second poem—“Spring comes to the small garden, with no one
there / The honeysuckle in full bloom on tender vines”—also marked
with small circles for special attention, the commentator notes, “They
mean ‘The secluded orchid grows in the empty valley.’ They also mean
‘The pine and the cypress withstand the winter cold.’ I would like to
entreat the female bodhisattvas of the world to close the volume and
ponder: only when it can withstand the winter (rendong ), can
it [i.e. the honeysuckle (rendonghua )] be allowed to bloom.
Do not treat the honeysuckle as just a flower name and skip this line
carelessly.”61 Here the commentator is evidently addressing the female
readers of Wu Zongai’s poetry and guiding them to read her expres-
sions of appreciation of spring flowers from a moralistic perspective.
His message is clear: these words are the outpourings of a virtuous
woman, whose character is like that of an upright, persevering gentle-
man ( junzi ), and they should all learn from her.
As I have argued in another paper, “the Chinese literary tradition
of commentary, or pingdian , can be reconsidered as a significant
cultural phenomenon with social and political—not just exegetical or
aesthetic—implications.”62 By directing the reader’s attention to her
private life, personal relations, virtuous character, and self-sacrifice,
this commentary carefully marks the boundaries within which a com-
mon reader was to appreciate, interpret, and react to her poems. It sets
out to manipulate the reception of Wu Zongai’s work, so to speak, and
influence the moral outlook of its readers; whether the commentary
succeeds in its aim would depend on the reception of the individual
reader.
The above discussion on the various paratexts of Wu Zongai’s
poetry again reminds us of Genette’s observation that the most essen-
tial property of the paratext is “functionality.” The main issue for the

60
See David Hawkes, trans., The Songs of the South: An Ancient Chinese Anthology
of Poems by Qu Yuan and Other Poets (Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England; New
York: Penguin Books, 1985).
61
Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 2.2a.
62
Wei Hua, “How Dangerous Can the Peony Be? Textual Space, Caizi Mudan ting,
and Naturalizing the Erotic,” The Journal of Asian Studies 65.4 (2006): 759.
160 chapter five

paratext is “to ensure for the text a destiny consistent with the author’s
purpose. . . . The effect of the paratext lies very often in the realm of
influence—indeed, manipulation—experienced subconsciously.”63 Of
course, in this case, “the author” in the above quotation should refer
to Wu Tingkang and his circle, for Xu liefu shichao is as much their
work as it is Wu Zongai’s.

The Representation of Wu Zongai in the Play Taoxi xue

As mentioned above, Wu Tingkang became an official of Yongkang in

1843. In the spring of 1846, Wu met his close friend Huang Xieqing—a
leading dramatist of the nineteenth century—at West Lake in Hang-
zhou.64 By that time Huang had already written six plays; Dinü hua
(The emperor’s daughter) in particular was very popular.65 Wu
told Huang about Wu Zongai’s story and asked him to write a play
to propagate it.66 Two months later, Wu came to Huang’s hometown
Haiyan for business, and he gave him an account of Wu Zong-
ai’s story that he had personally copied down. Wu came to Haiyan
three more times and each time he talked to Huang about Wu Zongai.
During the cold winter of that year, Huang finished the play within a
month. He named it Taoxi xue (Snow at the Peach Stream), because
“The Peach Stream was the place, and ‘snow’ was her name. While

63
Genette, Paratexts, 407–409.
64
Huang Xieqing, “Yuanxu” (Original preface), 1a, in Taoxi xue. For a bio-
chronology of Huang’s life, see Lu Eting , “Huang Xieqing nianpu”
(Biochronology of Huang Xieqing), in Qingdai xiqu jia congkao
(Studies of Qing dramatists) (Shanghai: Xuelin chubanshe, 1995), 117–137. For a
general discussion of his plays, see Wang Weimin , “Huang Xieqing jiuzhong
qu pingshuo” (A critique of Huang Xieqing’s nine plays), Zhong-
guo xiqu xueyuan xuebao 27.1 (2006): 44–49.
65
It is interesting to note that Huang wrote Dinü hua following the suggestion
of his close friend Chen Qitai, also a good friend of Wu Tingkang. The six plays are
Maoling xuan (Strings of Maoling, 1830), Dinü hua (1832), Jiling yuan
(Brothers in peril; 1834), Yuanyang jing (A mirror of mandarin ducks,
1834), Lingbo ying (The water nymph’s reflection, 1834), and Yutai qiu (1837).
Huang wrote a total of nine plays in his life, seven of which were known as Yiqing
lou qizhong qu (Seven plays of Yiqing Tower). According to the drama
scholar Wu Mei , Dinü hua and Taoxi xue are Huang’s best works.
66
Huang Xieqing, “Yuanxu,” 1a. Previously, Wu had asked Huang to write a play
to commemorate his wife, who died in 1834, after looking after him day and night for
twenty days when he suffered from an epidemic disease in Hangzhou. In 1837, Huang
finished the play Yutai qiu, which is an account of Wu’s family life with his wife, née
Zhang, and his two friends, including Huang himself.
 from private life to public performances 161

‘snow’ symbolizes her purity, ‘peach [blossom]’ conveys my lament

over her misfortune.”67 The play’s poetic title is rich in associations. Its
reference to peach blossoms surely reminded readers of the early Qing
play, Taohua shan (Peach blossom fan), in which the heroism
of a woman was also commended.68 It also calls to mind Tao Qian’s
(365?–427) “Spring of Peach Blossoms” , a fictitious
haven of peace, away from the political turmoil of the world, which
of course served as a contrast to the late Qing realities. Because peach
blossoms are evanescent, they are often used in Chinese literature to
allude to beautiful women who suffer misfortune. Huang may well
have invented the place “Peach Stream” (Taoxi) in order to add more
pathos to Wu Zongai’s story. Before him, there seems to be no record
of a place named “Taoxi” linked with either her birth or death.
Taoxi xue was first printed in 1847 and reprinted in 1851.69 There
were several later editions before the end of Qing. I have examined
the 1847, 1857, 1874, and 1875 editions. Once again, as with Wu
Zongai’s poetry collection, the 1874 and 1875 editions, with minor
textual differences, saw a big increase in the paratexts (See Table 2).70
The old blocks were destroyed during the Taiping Rebellion, so
Wu Tingkang managed to reprint the play.71 The text of the play
remained the same, but two comments in Scene 13, “Shen hong”
(The gentry’s quarrel) in the 1857 edition were excised in the
1875 edition. One comment was a direct attack on the gentry: “Many
are like those gentlemen who fight only on paper.”72 The other was an
explanation of writing technique: “[This aria] describes two things at
the same time. In The Water Margin we often find this.”73 The reason
for the removal is unknown. The list of credits given at the beginning

67
Huang Xieqing, “Yuanxu,” 1a–1b. This preface is dated spring of 1847.
68
See for instance, Peng Yulin’s (1816–1890) last poem in “Taoxi xue tici
shier shou” (Twelve poems on Taoxi xue), 3b, in Huang Xieqing,
Taoxi xue.
69
On record, the National Library in Beijing has these editions. The University of
Hong Kong Library has the 1847 edition. It is said that the 1851 edition used litho-
graphic printing.
70
The 1875 edition includes two new pieces of endorsement writing, one by Qin
Yun , another by Xu Weicheng . Otherwise it is identical with the 1874
edition.
71
Qin Xiangye, “Ti Taoxi xue chuanqi” (On the play Taoxi xue), 1a,
in Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue.
72
Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue, 2.11b.
73
Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue, 2.8b.
162 chapter five

of the play includes: compiled by Wu Tingkang; collated by Chen

Qitai; composed by Huang Xieqing; set to music by Qu Chuanding
; with commentary by Li Guangpu ; and collected and
published by Chen Shengzhi . This list is slightly different from
the earlier 1857 edition.74 The new names in this list and in the added
paratexts point to the widening circle involved in the circulation of
Wu Zongai’s story.
It is important to note from the above list that the play was set to
music. Other sources also suggest that the play was not only read but
also performed. Qin Yun (1812?–after 1871) for example, in his
“Long Poem on Jiangxue” writes, “Hardwood clappers almost
broke sound after sound / the new play Taoxi xue has people vying to
sing it.”75 Hu Cheng in his preface (dated 1851) notes that it was
appropriate for the play to be performed both at temple ceremonies in
memory of Wu Zongai, and at commercial theaters.76 However, actual
records of performance for this play are hard to find, except in an
1899 report in the newspaper Shenbao that states that Taoxi xue
was performed in two parts at Shanghai’s Dangui Chayuan .77
Perhaps to help the readers picture Wu Zongai when reading the
play, Wu Tingkang especially painted an image of her; it was included
along with a eulogy (zan ) by the woman poet, Yang Xuanhua
(fl. late nineteenth century), and inserted right before the text
of the play.78
Taoxi xue has twenty scenes, equally divided into two juan. The
first half begins with Wu Zongai enjoying her marital bliss with her
husband, and it ends with the latter falling seriously ill at a roadside
inn. In Huang Xieqing’s depiction, Wu Zongai appears as a gentle,

74
In the earlier 1857 edition, the list includes only four people: commentary by Li
Guangpu; composed by Huang Xieqing; set to music by Qu Chuanding and Yu Xin
.
75
Qin Yun, “Long Poem on Jiangxue,” 5b, in Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue. Qin (style
named Fuyu ), was a scholar from Changzhou known for his calligraphy.
See Li Fang , Huang Qing shushi (History of calligraphy in the Qing),
juan 9, in Zhou Junfu, ed., Qingdai zhuanji congkan.
76
Hu Cheng, “Xu” (Preface), 4b, in Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue.
77
See Lu Eting, “Huang Xieqing nianpu,” 127.
78
Yang Xuanhua was a daughter of Yang Jinfan, who once served as magistrate
of Yanghu, Jiangsu, and was one of the two commentators of Wu Zongai’s poetry in
the 1874 and 1875 editions. Yang Xuanhua’s ci poem, “Shuilong yin” , is also
included in them. In the editions that I have examined, they are all placed right before
the “Table of Contents” of the play which precedes the main text.
 from private life to public performances 163

affectionate young woman with poetic talent and moral rectitude. The
first scene, for example, presents her and her husband at home read-
ing an excerpt from her “Song of the Same Heart” together. They also
discuss the potential threat of the Geng Jingzhong rebellion to their
hometown. But Scene 7, “Ti zheng” (Composition on a kite),
best illustrates how the dramatist ingeniously used Wu Zongai’s poem
to build a scene around it in order to characterize her more fully.79
This poem appears in a group of poems titled, “Four Playful Poems
on a Kite with the Image of Zhaojun” in
Xu liefu shichao.80 At this point in the play, Wu Zongai’s husband has
left Yongkang to search for a career, while her friend Suwen and her
maid have come to keep her company. At the beginning of the scene,
Wu Zongai’s maid, Suwen’s maid, and two women from the neighbor-
hood fly kites together for fun. They sing about the stories and images
of the Four Beauties (Wang Zhaojun, Diaochan , Xi Shi , and
Yang [Gui] Fei [ ] ), which are painted on the kites. Then they
exit; Wu Zongai and Suwen come on stage. While Wu Zongai worries
about her husband, her maid reenters and asks her to write a poem
on her kite, which shows Zhaojun leaving the Han border. Admiring
the latter’s image, Suwen compares Wu Zongai’s beauty as equal to
that of Zhaojun. Wu Zongai, on the other hand, expresses sorrow for
Zhaojun’s fate, for she died in a “foreign land” (yiyu ).81 She also
laments that no Han general would fight the enemy and the emperor
had to use a woman to avoid war. With these thoughts and feelings,
she writes the following poem on the kite:
She regrets that she did not have gold to give to
the painter,
So she left the emperor’s palace like a swan goose
flying away.
As human feelings often change,
It is best to stay in the Moon Palace, high and cold.82

The moment she finishes writing, Suwen’s maid rushes in to report that
Xu Shangchao has led his army into the eastern part of Zhejiang.

79
In addition to Scenes 1 and 7, Huang cites Wu Zongai’s poem, “To My Husband”
in Scene 10, “Lü bing” (Illness at the inn). Whenever her poem is included,
he calls attention to it by specifying it as benshi (original poem).
80
Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 2.9b.
81
Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue, 1.25b.
82
Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue, 1.26a.
164 chapter five

This scene is, structurally speaking, a foreshadowing of what will

happen to Wu Zongai in the end, for she will be forced to leave home
to prevent war like Zhaojun. Thematically, it is the author’s lament
over the fate of beautiful women as sacrifice in times of war. In terms
of characterization, “Ti zheng” represents Wu Zongai’s feelings, talent,
and perception as a woman and poetess. Although her image is associ-
ated with Zhaojun, Wu Zongai is also characterized by what the lat-
ter’s image on the kite lacks, namely the ability to compose poetry, and
also by her different choice in life. As if writing in advance a farewell
note to this world, where beautiful women such as the Four Beauties
suffered misfortune, she expresses in her poem, “As human feelings
often change / It is best to stay in the Moon Palace, high and cold,”
alluding to the Moon Goddess Chang’e. Later on in the play, when
we find out about her immortal descent and return, we will see how
appropriate these lines are. Unlike Wu Zongai’s biographer Xu Mei,
who criticized Zhaojun, Huang Xieqing let his heroine express sorrow
for Zhaojun’s destiny. Wu Zongai’s sympathy for what some viewed
as an “unchaste” and “disloyal” Han woman reveals the depth and
openness of a character who tolerates others’ imperfections despite
her own observance of moral principles. This is Huang’s contribution,
for his reading of Wu Zongai’s poetry has led him to uncover some of
her innermost feelings as an affectionate and compassionate woman.
In my view, Taoxi xue is artistically praiseworthy precisely because its
moral outlook is not overly simplistic.
Although the Wu Zongai story in Taoxi xue is basically the same
as in Xu Mei’s biography,83 because it is told (and performed) in the
form of a conventional chuanqi drama, the division of characters
into different role types such as sheng (leading male), dan (lead-
ing female), jing (painted face), chou (clown), and the variety
of scenes, including martial ones (wuxi ), need to be considered.
Therefore, besides Wu Zongai (dan), who appears in eight scenes,84
her husband (sheng), her friend (Wu Suwen, xiaodan , “young
female”), and her maid (Qingyun , tie , “supporting female”)—
those whom Wu Zongai mentioned in her poetry—have important
roles in the play, as do people involved in the civil war: Geng Jing-

83
According to Wu Tingkang’s postscript to the play, Huang’s play was written
before Xu’s biography.
84
They are Scenes 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11, 14, and 15.
 from private life to public performances 165

zhong (jing), Xu Shangchao (fujing , “supporting painted face”),

and General Li Zhifang (1622–1694) (wai , “old male”) of
the Qing army, and his captains and soldiers, all play a part in it. In
addition, Huang Xieqing has added such characters as Wu Zongai’s
husband’s elderly servant (Zhen Yi , mo , “old male”), Suwen’s
maid (Ruiyue , chou), and even, in the final scene, the Queen
Mother of the West (Xiwangmu , laodan , “old female”)
and her entourage, to suit his dramatic purposes. From this cast of
characters and the scenes concerning them, one can tell that Huang
used as raw materials Wu Zongai’s poetry, biographies about her, and
historical accounts of the Geng Jingzhong Rebellion, and then inter-
wove them together with his dramatist’s imagination. Yu Yue in one of
his endorsement poems on Taoxi xue correctly notes that the play did
not accord fully with the facts found in Wu Zongai’s poetry collection,
and that this is due to the chuanqi conventions.85 He did not mention,
however, that Taoxi xue was also Huang’s creation, which showed his
perspective on the Wu Zongai story.
The second half of the play opens with Wu Zongai learning the sad
news of her husband’s death, and then moves on to focus on her sui-
cide. It carefully shows the events leading to her death as well as the
moral impact of her sacrifice. Significantly, because in Wu Zongai’s
poetry collection there is no poem by her about how she felt about
the life-and-death situation she faced, Huang as a good chuanqi dra-
matist had to make up for this gap and divine her motivations for,
and feelings about, her sacrifice, for the chuanqi convention requires
the protagonist to sing self-expressive or self-reflective arias at such
climactic moments in life.
Hence, in Taoxi xue the portrayal of Wu Zongai before her death
nicely clarifies the questions of motivation and timing surrounding
her delayed suicide. As if to leave no more room for doubt about her
possible compromise of chastity, Huang depicts her as trying to kill
herself by dashing herself against a pillar the moment she learns of
her husband’s death.86 The relationship between Wu Zongai and her
husband has been portrayed as very close; theirs is a companionate

85
Yu Yue, “Ti Huang Yunshan xiaolian Taoxi xue chuanqi hou”
(Inscribed at the end of Provincial Graduate Huan Yunshan’s Taoxi xue),
2a, in Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue.
86
Huang Xieqing, Scene 11, “Tong fu” (Grief over death), in Taoxi xue, 2.4a.
The stage direction does not specify the object she bumps against. I assume it is a pillar.
166 chapter five

marriage. We remember that the first scene presented them reading

her “Song of the Same Heart” together, and there are scenes depicting
their mutual longing.87 Her suicide attempt is therefore not so much
a consequence of her observing the behavioral norm of a chaste wife
as an outcome of her feeling of deep loss. Her maid saves her and
reminds her that she needs to take care of his proper burial. Of course,
this is only Huang Xieqing’s reconstruction of Wu Zongai’s life. Even
though in her writing she appears to love her husband very much, she
does mention that her maid Qingyun bore a daughter to her husband.88
Huang leaves no trace of this relationship between Wu Zongai’s hus-
band and her maid, which might complicate Wu Zongai’s own rela-
tionship with her husband in the play.
Taoxi xue tells a slightly different story about Wu Zongai’s death
than the ones found in the biographical accounts by Xu Mei and later,
Yu Yue. The discrepancy in “imagining” the final moment of her life
is indicative of the constructed nature of her story. In the biographies,
the rebel general Xu Shangchao asks for Wu Zongai by name. As Xu
Mei explains, Xu Shangchao once served as an official at the eastern
part of Zhejiang, so he heard about her as a very beautiful and tal-
ented young widow.89 However, in the play Xu Shangchao never asks
for any particular woman. He just announces that for those counties
that can offer him beautiful women, he will order his army not to
kill their people.90 It is the local gentry that convene to decide that
Wu Zongai will be offered up to him.91 When they swarm into Wu
Zongai’s home, they lie to her, saying Xu has asked for her, and if she
does not comply, the lives of the county people will be in danger. Wu
Zongai consents to leave for the county’s sake and also because, as
she tells the men frankly, “even if I do not go, there will be no one to
protect me.”92 By presenting the gentry as cowardly liars, Huang adds
more pathos to her story, more dramatic interest to the narrative, and

87
See for example, Huang Xieqing, Scene 7, “Ti zheng,” in Taoxi xue, 1.23b–24a,
and Scene 10, “Lü bing,” in Taoxi xue, 1.34b–35a.
88
See her explanatory note at the end of “Bao erjie zi wei si” (Adopt-
ing my second elder sister’s son) in Wu Zongai, Xu liefu shichao, 2.11a, and also Yu
Yue, “Wu Jiangxue nianpu,” entries for 1671–1673, 7a–8a.
89
See Xu Mei, “Xu liefu zhuan,” 1a. The same biography is included in the 1874 and
1875 editions of Taoxi xue, but not in the 1857 edition (See Table 2).
90
Huang Xieqing, Scene 12, “Kou bi” (The rebels’ threat), in Taoxi xue, 2.7a.
91
Huang Xieqing, Scene 13, “Shen hong,” in Taoxi xue, 2.10b.
92
Huang Xieqing, Scene 14, “Po he” (The involuntary marriage), in Taoxi
xue, 2.14a.
 from private life to public performances 167

brings into sharp relief her loyalty and heroism against the selfish and
deceitful men of the local gentry. On her way to the Xu camp, Huang
also arranges two groups of people—one, civil officials and military
officers; the other, common people (men with their wives)—to bid her
farewell and to express their gratitude toward her.93 Thus, the public
significance of her sacrifice is vividly represented. When Wu Zongai
arrives at Xu’s camp, she tells him that only after his entire army has
left Yongkang without causing any harm will she participate in the
wedding ceremony. He agrees. One may well say that while the his-
torical Wu Zongai left no words or images of herself on the verge of
death, and no local gazetteer has left a record of the circumstances of
her sacrifice, in Huang Xieqing’s dramatic representation, he fabricated
the full context of her action and recreated her as a true heroine.
Huang’s invention of a mythical framework with the immortal
Queen Mother of the West illustrates an even greater departure from
the biographical and historical accounts. With this framework, he pro-
vides an explanation of predestination for her suffering as well as a
final consolation. In Scene 15, “Zhui ya,” at the moment right before
she commits suicide, her dead husband appears onstage and explains
to the audience,
I, Xu Mingying, was in my previous life an immortal official in charge
of apricot blossoms in the Penglai Mountain. One day, the Green Water
Fairy came to play and saw the blooming apricot. When she expressed
her wish to pluck some flowers for keeping in a vase, I cut one branch
and gave it to her. The Queen Mother of the West learned about this and
was enraged. She said our behavior was not sanctioned, and also suspi-
cious, so she exiled us, demoting us immediately to the mortal world as
man and wife to experience all kinds of suffering. Now I have returned
to Heaven after my ordeals, while my wife Wu, after much torment, is
destined to fall from a cliff to her death at “Sanshili keng” of Yongkang.
The Queen Mother pities her unswerving devotion, so she has sent me
to escort her back to the Jade Pond.94
Huang’s adoption of such a mythical framework of heavenly descent
and return for explaining the hero’s or heroine’s fate has many prec-
edents in traditional Chinese drama.95 In Wu Zongai’s case, it serves

93
Huang Xieqing, Scene 15, “Zhui ya” (Jumping off the cliff), in Taoxi xue,
2.16a–17b.
94
Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue, 2.19b–20a.
95
Cf. the ending of the well-known early Qing play Changsheng dian (The
palace of everlasting life): The Tang emperor and his consort Yang, both of celestial
168 chapter five

to elevate her status in people’s imagination and to mete out poetic

justice by offering her otherworldly recompense for her suffering
in this world. As a result, it helps place worldly misfortune in per-
spective. After Wu Zongai’s death, the Queen Mother sends three
immortals and two heavenly beasts to fog up the mountain where Xu
Shangchao’s army is quartered and thus helps the Qing army win the
war. The temporal sequence of these two events may leave one with
the impression that Wu Zongai’s sacrifice contributed to the victory
of the Qing army.
In the final scene of the play, the Queen Mother appears onstage
for the first time.96 Almost like the dramatist’s mouthpiece, she reads
out a list of names of historical figures including civil officials, military
officers, and virtuous wives who died for loyalty or chastity during the
Geng Jingzhong rebellion. Then she asks the celestial couple, Xu and
Wu, to summon these people’s spirits to Heaven. She praises them for
what they have done and invites them to a banquet at Penglai
Mountain. At the banquet, she offers them heavenly nectar and grants
them the bliss of eternal life in Heaven. At the very end, when every-
one else has departed, the Queen Mother’s attendant asks her why it
has always been the case that on earth, loyal ministers, righteous men,
talented scholars, and beautiful women suffer, whereas the mediocre
enjoy good fortune. The Queen Mother replies by saying Heaven
wishes to “use the remarkable deeds of these men and women to
uphold the principle of righteousness” so that the heart of people will
not die. They serve, in other words, as moral exemplars for human-
ity; their actions can teach the unprincipled and the cowardly.97 With
these words, Huang drives his message home and elucidates his view
on the real worth of Wu Zongai’s sacrifice as well as his own rewriting
of her story.
When explaining his motive for composing the play Zhenwen ji
(Story of chastity and literary talent) in memory of the thir-
teenth-century poetess and chaste woman Zhang Yuniang ,
whose grave in Songyang , Zhejiang was a local monument, the

descent, are reunited after death at the Moon Palace. Meng Chengshun’s Zhenwen ji
about the chaste poetess Zhang Yuniang also has a mythical framework.
96
Her name was mentioned in two scenes before the last. Besides the above-quoted
passage in Scene 15, she is mentioned again in Scene 18, “Wu jie” (Triumph by
fog), in Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue, 2.29b.
97
Huang Xieqing, Scene 20, “Xian zheng” (The immortal’s sanction), in Taoxi
xue, 2.39b.
 from private life to public performances 169

late Ming and early Qing dramatist Meng Chengshun asserts

that if the remarkable occurrence memorialized by the monument is
not set to music, “it cannot spread wide and attract belief.”98 Referring
to his friends’ financial support in printing this play, he maintains that
“to commend hidden chastity and to improve depraved customs is a
passion common to all and not something that I can accomplish by
myself.”99 Indeed, with Wu Zongai, the situation is similar (except that
the initiator of the drama project was not the dramatist himself as in
the case of Zhenwen ji), for Meng Chengshun, like Wu Tingkang, was
an official of the county where such an instance of female chastity took
place. Meng, too, published the chaste woman Zhang Yuniang’s poetry
collection, Lanxue ji (Orchid snow collection). In addition, as
Wai-yee Li aptly puts it, Zhenwen ji “exemplifies the complex motives
behind turning female virtue into the emblem of loyalism.”100 Taoxi
xue, likewise, demonstrates male scholars’ self-expressive needs in
propagating female virtue and heroism in times of political turmoil.
If the historical Wu Zongai really died away from home at Sanshili
keng, she could either be regarded as a helpless victim of war who was
forced to leave her home in the face of unexpected social and political
change, or she could be imagined as a resolute heroine who left home
only to perform a public-minded act of self-sacrifice. When historical
truth was simply unrecoverable, the choice of the latter interpreta-
tion seems to have been made by Wu Tingkang, the re-discoverer of
her story, based on hearsay.101 That this interpretation of heroic action

98
Meng Chengshun, “Tici,” in Zhang Yuniang guifang sanqing yingwu mu zhen-
wen ji (Story of chastity and literary talent: Zhang
Yuniang, the three purities of the inner chamber, and the parrot’s grave) Guben xiqu
congkan erji , vol. 69 (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1955), 1b.
See also n. 20.
99
Meng Chengshun, “Tici,” 2b. For a translation of Meng’s preface, see Wilt
Idema, “Male Fantasies and Female Realities,” 42–43.
100
Li, “Heroic Transformations,” 424.
101
Wu never provided any hard evidence for his belief. He only mentioned that
“I heard about (wen ) the case of the virtuous wife of Xu, Wu Jiangxue in the Kangxi
reign, which had not been written down in the county gazetteer or family history. I
felt sorry about this, so I went about making inquiries and learned the whole story of
her sacrifice for the county. Then I asked Huang Yunshan (Xieqing) of Haiyan to write
the music drama Taoxi xue. After the play was printed, I again made many inquiries.”
He found out where the Xu family had lived and where Wu Zongai’s mother’s family
used to live, and the latter place was where the Wu clan still lived. He visited these
places in person. Some of the elderly people there were able to tell him what happened
to Wu Zongai. One account says that when she first heard the county folk’s plan to
offer her up to the rebels, she went to her mother’s family for help. But eventually her
170 chapter five

was adopted and represented in Taoxi xue should be no surprise to

us—for one thing, Wu’s didactic intent behind the circulation of Wu
Zongai’s story could not but affect Huang’s characterization of her as
courageous and morally invincible. Huang writes about Wu Tingkang
in the following manner:
My friend Wu Kangfu [Tingkang], the second person in charge (of
Yongkang), is a gentleman of utmost sincerity. He loves what is good
and ancient, and his interest is permanent and will not diminish. Wher-
ever he went and served as an official, he examined the famous sites and
historical traces of former sages. Whenever he discovered acts of loyalty,
filial piety, righteousness, and chastity that had not been publicly com-
mended, he would make them known as moral examples to the world.
His income has always been exhausted on account of this, but he has
never minded it and instead, taken great joy in it.102
It is apparent that Huang Xieqing much respected this friend of his.
However, it seems to have been more than male friendship that con-
cerned Huang when composing Taoxi xue. In his preface to the play,
dated 1847, several years after the Opium War, he notes, “Alas! To
die unflinchingly for moral integrity is hard for scholar-officials, but
now we have the example of a woman. To elucidate [what constitutes]
outstanding greatness in order to maintain [our empire’s] morale is
the obligation of high-ranking officials, but now we have an example
of a minor magistrate.”103 Because women were traditionally consid-
ered as the weaker sex, and because low-ranking officials could not be
responsible for the well-being of the empire, by writing this, Huang
was perhaps not only praising Wu Zongai and Wu Tingkang, but also
conveying his sense of imperial crisis. Huang’s hometown Haiyan was
almost attacked by British soldiers during the war, so he had to leave
home to find shelter in the country. When he heard the news of Chi-
nese casualties, he wrote several poems expressing his resentment.104
As the final scenes of Taoxi xue illustrate, Huang’s recreation of Wu

clansmen could not protect her and she left with the rebel soldiers. On the way she
committed suicide. This, as Wu Tingkang admits, suggests the existence of different
versions of her story based on hearsay. See Wu’s postscript, 2b–3a, in Huang Xieqing,
Taoxi xue.
102
Huang Xieqing, “Yuanxu,” 1a.
103
Huang Xieqing, “Yuanxu,” 2a.
104
See Jiang Xingyu , “Huang Xieqing jiqi Yiqing lou chuanqi”
(Huang Xieqing and his Plays from Yiqing Tower), in Zhong-
guo xiaoshuo xiqu lunji (Collected essays on Chinese fiction and
drama), ed. Zhao Jingshen (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1985), 116.
 from private life to public performances 171

Zongai’s heroic action and its impact bespeaks his own concern over
the issue of an individual’s “agency in history.”105 By assuring us that
heroism serves a noble cause and by granting heroes and heroines
immortality beyond this life, the dramatist seems to find comfort as
well as reassurance in traditional mores and beliefs during his own
time of historical upheaval.

Conclusion

When Wu Zongai of the early Qing wrote her poetry in the 1660s
and early 1670s, she could never have thought that some of her pri-
vate thoughts and feelings—about scenes in spring perhaps, or Wang
Zhaojun, or her marriage to her husband—would become an integral
part of her “public performances” in the late Qing. By “public per-
formance” I do not mean an actor’s impersonation of her on stage,
as in for instance the performance of Taoxi xue in Shanghai in 1899,
but rather, her performance or fulfillment of a role significant to the
public. When Huang Xieqing drew on her poem about Zhaojun for
political criticism, or when male editors published her poems under
the title, Xu liefu shichao (The collected poems of the virtuous wife of
Xu), poetic expressions originating from her private life all of a sud-
den acquired public social and moral significance. Her poems became,
so to speak, demonstrative of her virtuous life and noble character, as
defined by her presumed final act of suicide, which was interpreted by
these men as heroic sacrifice. Both the paratexts in Xu liefu shichao
and the dramatic text of Taoxi xue made use of her poems to lend
their accounts authenticity, as well as to produce an imaginative and
interactive space for the reader or audience.
In the Ming Qing Women’s Writings database, Xu liefu shichao is
the only poetry collection that bears the characters “liefu” in its title.
This title reminds one of the poetry anthology, Geming lieshi shichao
(Collected poems of revolutionary martyrs), which
has been repeatedly printed since its first publication in 1959.106 With
liefu or lieshi in the title, such a poetry collection almost immediately

105
Wai-yee Li notes that “the literary interest in victims as heroes is inseparable
from the concern with agency in history.” See “Heroic Transformation,” 436–437.
106
See Xiao San, ed., Geming lieshi shichao (Beijing: Zhongguo qingnian chuban-
she, 1959).
172 chapter five

tells us that we can expect to read poems written by heroic men and
women right before their deaths, and that it will be the editors of the
poems who will explain to us what deeds constituted the identities of
the poets in question. In Xu liefu shichao, the editors did exactly that,
even though there is no juebi or “pre-self-sacrifice” poem. Reading
this collection leaves one with an impression no different than that
one receives when reading many other collections of poetry by Ming-
Qing women, except for the many paratextual materials confirming
or commending her sacrifice, which characterize this collection as dif-
ferent. The appropriation of her writing for public moral education,
for instance, is very evident in the commentary, or pingdian, to her
poetry. This commentary reveals the extent to which the appreciation
of a woman’s poetry in the late Qing was inseparable from the evalu-
ation of her moral character. As one commentator puts it succinctly,
in these poems “her illustrious virtue can be seen.”107
Wu Zongai’s case also illustrates how male literati participation
in the editing, rewriting, and transmission of women’s works in late
imperial China was largely implicated in their own networks of male
friendship and self-expressive needs. This is true with the publications
of her poetry collection as well as of Huang Xieqing’s play with her as
heroine. The concerted efforts by officials, scholars, literati, and mili-
tary officers alike to celebrate her virtue and heroism bespeak their
anxiety over public morale and imperial destiny during times of politi-
cal crisis in the late Qing. After the Taiping Rebellion, during which
many virtuous wives killed themselves to preserve their chastity, pub-
licizing Wu Zongai’s poetry and story perhaps also helped many men
of letters to regain their sense of moral value; hence a widening of
the circle led by Wu Tingkang in the dissemination of her poetry and
of Taoxi xue. The various prefaces, postscripts, endorsement writings,
comments, biographies, and historical accounts by famous scholar-
officials found in these works most likely helped the circulation. As a
consequence, Wu Zongai’s poetry collection probably enjoyed more
reprints than most other Qing women’s individual poetry collections.
So too did Taoxi xue enjoy more reprints than many other chuanqi
plays of the late Qing.

107
Yang Jinfan, “Yongkang liefu,” 2a.
 from private life to public performances 173

Among the many historical instances of male support for the publi-
cations of Qing women’s poetry collections,108 the publications of Wu
Zongai’s poetry during the Qing were rather special because the main
person behind them, Wu Tingkang, was not related to her as fam-
ily, teacher, or friend.109 In addition, his support of her work origi-
nated mainly from his recognition of its public relevance rather than
its inherent literary value. One cannot but wonder if her poetic talent
would have been equally captivating in his or other literati’s imagina-
tion, had she not been a legendary beauty and died a young, virtuous
wife. Perhaps it is true that when judging women poets, male critics
examined the “person” (ren ) as, figuratively speaking, the “main
text,” and her poetry as only the “paratext.” In the case of Wu Zong-
ai, it also appears true that her story of self-sacrifice was mere “para-
text,” whereas the mid-nineteenth-century crisis of the empire was the
“main text.” As the effect of the paratext lies very often in the realm of
influence, we can see that the many printings of her work and writings
of her life story in the late Qing were intended for the primary purpose
of valorizing courage, virtue, and devotion.

Table 1. Contents of Xu liefu shichao (1875 edition)

Genre Title Author Place of Date

Origin
Preface 1854
Preface 1852
Preface 1874
Biography (unknown)
Biography (unknown)
110
Historical 1875
account

108
See Clara Wing-chung Ho, “Encouragement from the Opposite Gender: Male
Scholars’ Interests in Women’s Publications in Ch’ing China—A Bibliographical
Study,” in Zurndorfer, ed., Chinese Women, 308–353. Ho concludes that male involve-
ment in women’s publications resulted from both their recognition of the literary or
academic value of women’s works and their commemoration of their relationships
with these women.
109
We do not know if the fact that they both were surnamed Wu mattered to Wu
Tingkang or not.
110
Gu Kaiping was the capital Shangdu (near present-day Beijing) in the Yuan
dynasty. As he noted, Xi Yuan (1843–1894), a Mongolian, wrote this historical account
in Wulin (present-day Hangzhou).
174 chapter five

Table 1 (cont.)
Genre Title Author Place of Date
Origin
Biochronology 1874
Endorsement (unknown)
111
prose
Commentary (unknown)

Endorsement (unknown)
shi poem
Endorsement (unknown)
ci poem
Endorsement (unknown)
ci poem
Eulogy (unknown)
*(Main text) (unknown)
Shi poetry
(with
commentary)
(Appendix 1) 1672
Letter (to
Suwen with a
palindromic
poem)

Postscript 1854
(Appendix 2) (unknown)
a. Letter probably
(to Wu 1858
Tingkang)
b. Preface 1851

c. Preface 1874
d. Main text: (unknown)
Readings of
Wu Zongai’s
palindromic
poem
e. Postcript 1851

111
This tici by an unsigned editor contains previous sources about Wu Zongai. It
begins with Zhang Ruming’s praise of Wu Zongai’s poetry. Zhang was a friend to Wu
Zongai’s father. And then it continues with quoted passages about her talents in such
works as Ranzhi xulu, Tuhui baojian, Qingshi biecai ji, and Xiefang ji (Col-
lection of gathered fragrance), as well as comments on her poems by Zhang Nanshi
, Wang Chongbing, and Qin Yun.
 from private life to public performances 175

Table 2. Contents of Taoxi xue (1847, 1874 and 1875 editions)

27 (1847) 13 (1874) (1875)

,
(1857)
• • •
• •
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• • •
• • •

• •
• ( ) • **
**

** • •

** •
• •

** •

• •

•
• •
•
•

• •

• •

•
 PART III

BEYOND PRESCRIBED ROLES

 CHAPTER SIX

WOMEN WRITERS AND GENDER BOUNDARIES

DURING THE MING-QING TRANSITION

Wai-yee Li

The turmoil of the Ming-Qing transition, often portrayed in apocalyp-

tic images of destruction, produced an impressive spate of writings by
women that challenged gender boundaries. Poetry about witnessing,
understanding, and remembering this crisis necessarily transforms or
goes beyond the boudoir as subject matter, and the delicate, roman-
tic diction traditionally characterized as “feminine.” Political disorder
might also have created new possibilities of action or defined an imagi-
native space for aspirations not admissible in periods with more stable
social roles. Some women writers self-consciously developed a martial,
heroic self-image and explored the idea of fluid gender boundaries
in their writings. Women actively involved in loyalist resistance, such
as Liu Shu (born ca. 1620) or Liu Rushi (1617–1664),
transcended traditional gender roles. Fervently praised for their valor
and strategic genius, they are often said to have put men to shame.
More generally, discontent with gender roles sometimes became the
pre-condition for, as well as a consequence of, political engagement.
This was especially true of Gu Zhenli (1624–after 1685) and
Zhou Qiong (ca. mid-seventeenth century).
Concern with politics and history at this juncture—almost invari-
ably expressed as lamentation and nostalgia—often brings to mind
loyalism. For men, the refusal to serve the new dynasty broadly
defined them as “remnant subjects,” although there were many gra-
dations of association with the new regime, and even a Qing official
could hint at inner and hidden loyalist sentiments.1 Women, excluded
from participation in government, did not face the same stark politi-
cal choices. However, those who chose to dwell on dynastic decline

1
See Wai-yee Li, “Introduction,” in Trauma and Transcendence in Early Qing Lit-
erature, ed. Wilt Idema, Wai-yee Li, and Ellen Widmer (Cambridge: Harvard Univer-
sity Asia Center, 2006), 1–70.
180 chapter six

and fall sometimes did so with an implied self-definition as “loyal-

ists” or, more literally, “remnant subjects” (yimin ) of the fallen
dynasty. A woman with loyalist sympathies married to a Qing official
might even implicitly criticize her husband, as in the case of Xu Can
(ca. 1610–1678), the wife of Chen Zhilin (1605–1666).2
The designation “female remnant subject” (nü yimin ) placed a
woman beyond gender-specific virtues. We may surmise that loyalism
created a sense of mission and common cause that in turn encour-
aged a measure of independence and self-assertion for a select few
writing women, even when loyalist sentiments did not translate into
political action, as was notably the case in the writings of Li Yin
(1616–1685) and Wang Duanshu (1621–ca. 1685).

Terms of Historical Engagement

As a description of poetic diction, “masculine” is if anything more

vague than “feminine.” In the context of the moment we are focusing
on, a direct, forceful, and heroic style engaging with the contemporary
crisis would have been regarded as more “masculine.” This style was in
turn associated with bearing witness, coming to terms with historical
events, pondering historical judgment, and exploring the relationship
between history and memory, between remembering and forgetting.
These ideas are encompassed in the epithet “poet-historian” (shishi
), widely applied in praise of male writers during this period.3
While the honor is not conferred on women in extant sources, some
of them develop similar concerns in their writings.

2
See Xiaorong Li, “ ‘Singing in Harmony’ in Times of Chaos: Xu Can’s Poetic
Exchanges with her Husband Chen Zhilin during the Ming-Qing Transition,” (paper
presented for the workshop “Of Trauma, Agency, and Texts: Discourses on Disor-
der in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-Century China,” McGill University, 2004); Deng
Hongmei , Nüxing cishi (A history of song lyrics by women writers)
(Jinan: Shandong jiaoyu chubanshe, 2000), 271–300; Zhao Xuepei , Ming mo
Qing chu nü ciren yanjiu (A study of women lyricists from the
Ming-Qing transition) (Beijing: Shoudu shifan daxue chubanshe, 2008), 214–256.
3
See Wai-yee Li, “Confronting History and Its Alternatives in Early Qing Poetry”
and “History and Memory in Wu Weiye’s Poetry,” in Idema, Li, and Widmer, eds.,
Trauma and Transcendence, 73–148; Lawrence C.H. Yim, The Poet-Historian Qian
Qianyi (Routledge: Academia Sinica Series on East Asia, 2009).
 women writers and gender boundaries 181

Wang Duanshu, who became a subject of scholarly attention through

the pioneering work of Ellen Widmer and Dorothy Ko,4 manifests a
keen sense of political and historical engagement. Daughter of the
renowned late-Ming man of letters and scholar-official Wang Siren
(1575–1646), she proudly claimed inheritance of her father’s
literary legacy. Her husband, Ding Shengzhao (1621–1700?),
was appointed police magistrate of Quzhou in 1639 and retired from
public life after the fall of the Ming.5 Ding supported his wife’s liter-
ary endeavors, as evinced by his effusive prefaces to her works. He
also conceded her superior talents—many of Wang’s extant poems
were written “on his behalf” or “in his voice” (dai ), including not
only occasional poems addressed to Ding’s friends but also formal
and ceremonial writings. One of Wang’s collections, Yinhongji
(Red chants), survives.6 Some of her poems are preserved in early Qing
anthologies, such as Zou Liuqi’s (fl. seventeenth century) Shi-
yuan ba mingjia ji (Collections of eight notable women
poets) and Deng Hanyi’s (1617–1689) Shiguan chuji
(Poetic perspectives: first collection). Wang’s Mingyuan shiwei
(Complementary canon of poetry by notable women, 1667)
contains a final section on her own poetry (compiled by her sister-
in-law Ding Qiguang ); her biographical prefaces and critical
appraisals in this volume are also rich sources for understanding her
contribution as a critic and literary historian. Her anthology of prose
writings by women, Mingyuan wenwei (Complementary
canon of prose by notable women), is unfortunately lost.

4
See Ellen Widmer, “Ming Loyalism and the Woman’s Voice in Fiction after Hong
lou meng,” in Writing Women in Late-Imperial China, ed. Ellen Widmer and Kang-i
Sun Chang (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 366–396; “Wang Duanshu,”
in Women Writers of Traditional China, ed. Kang-i Sun Chang and Haun Saussy
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 363–366; Dorothy Ko, Teachers of the
Inner Chambers: Women and Culture in Seventeenth-Century China (Stanford: Stan-
ford University Press, 1994), 126–137.
5
See “Zou shu” , the memorial to the throne that Wang Duanshu composed
on her husband’s behalf in Wang Duanshu, Yinhongji (Red chants) (published
between 1651 and 1655), 19.3a.
6
Various prefaces and biographical accounts mention Wang’s Liuqie ji
(Collection remaining in the casket) and Wucai ji (Collection of one who
lacks talent), but they apparently did not survive. I would like to thank Ellen Widmer
for making Yinhongji, Shiyuan ba mingjia ji , and Shiguan chuji avail-
able to me.
182 chapter six

Wang Duanshu chronicles her tumultuous times with a self-con-

scious sense of mission.7 Some works draw directly from her own
experience. In “Song of Pain and Sufferings” ,8 for example,
Wang describes how, with her child in tow, she fled marauding Qing
troops following the collapse of the rump Ming court in Shaoxing,
headed by the Longwu emperor whom Wang supported. The details
pertaining to these events in Wang Youding’s (1598–1662)
biography of Wang Duanshu have been censored and appear as blank
squares in the text;9 making it hard to fill in the lacunae in the implied
narrative in the poem. Her husband is not mentioned; Wang seems to
have been following, with misgivings, the lead of an older brother or
cousin. The enemy is faceless; the poet describes her own confusion in
the midst of rumors. There are arresting details, such as how she could
not rouse her son when “in the middle of the night the tide came in
like lightning” . After braving privations and grave
dangers—she was robbed and her dilapidated boat lost its way—she
returned to her natal home, only to find that her father had died, her
older sister had become a nun, and the rest of her kin had become
distant.
Many poets in this period chose to filter the complexities and con-
tradictions of the historical moment through the experiences and
memories of individuals, often presenting encounters that unfold as
a kind of dramatic monologue, with the poet as sympathetic audi-
tor. Wu Weiye (1609–1672) was past master of this mode,
and he often used women as his speakers. Wang Duanshu comes to
this through her interest in speaking “on behalf of another” (daiyan
). As mentioned above, most titles marked as such were written
for her husband, often for social occasions. But she also took up the
voice of her women friends, sister-in-law, and elder sister Wang Jingshu
(referred to as “Zhen” because her Buddhist name was Yizhen
daoren ) and addressed poems to herself. More pertinent
to the confluence of historical perspective and individual experi-
ence is a poem like “A Song that Chronicles Sufferings, Written in

7
See Kang-i Sun Chang, “Women’s Poetic Witnessing: Late Ming and Late Qing
Examples,” in Dynastic Crisis and Cultural Innovation, ed. David Wang and Shang
Wei (Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2005), 504-522.
8
Wang Duanshu, Yinhongji, 4.2a–3a.
9
Wang Youding, “Wang Duanshu zhuan” (Biography of Wang Duan-
shu), in prefatory materials in Wang Duanshu, Mingyuan shiwei, 4a–4b, in Ming Qing
Women’s Writings, ed. Grace S. Fong , http://digital.library.mcgill.ca/ mingqing/.
 women writers and gender boundaries 183

the Voice of Elder Sister Zhen” .10 Zhen was a widow

fleeing disorder with her mother-in-law and three-year-old son. The
callous indifference of her kinsmen (“It is as if my clan has no one”
) is consonant with Wang’s negative judgment of them in
other poems. As the Qing army approached, Zhen “ruined her face and
shaved her head” 䈟 , becoming a nun in order to defend her
chastity. Wang imagines herself as both speaker and auditor: “Sounds
of grief fall on paper, / I can write this, but not read it” /
. Wang’s extensive response to poetic testimonies left on
walls by abducted women—in one case, she wrote twenty-eight poems
to the rhyme of the original four—shows yet another dimension of
expanding the space for empathy.
Male authors who endorse Wang’s writings in prefaces and com-
mentaries often refer to her “historian’s talent” (shicai ). Chen
Weisong (1625–1682) says that she “especially excelled in
historiography.” Mao Qiling (1623–1716) implicitly contrasts
her historical interests with “mere feminine cleverness.”11 Six of her
biographical accounts of the heroes and martyrs of Ming-Qing tran-
sition12 are incorporated into the noted literatus Zhang Dai’s
(1597–1679) historical compilation, Shigui shu (Writings in
13
the stone casket). Elaborate considerations of the timing, manner,
and circumstances of martyrdom shape Wang’s evaluations in her
“martyrology.”14 Even her beloved father did not escape her implaca-
ble judgment. When the Longwu court collapsed, Wang Siren, greatly
trusted and honored by the Longwu emperor, did not immediately
commit suicide: “How did it happen that he was as indecisive as that?”

10
Wang Duanshu, Yinhongji, 4.9b–10a. For Wang Jingshu, see also Beata Grant’s
essay in this volume.
11
Chen Weisong quotes Mao Qiling’s poem on Wang Duanshu in Furen ji
(On women), 20b, in Xiangyan congshu (Collectanea of romantic
and sensual texts), ed. Chongtianzi (1914; repr., Shanghai, Shanghai shudian,
1991). I am paraphrasing two lines from Mao’s poem: “How can she not count the
Han histories when it comes to writing? / Why would she weave brocade and invite
pity with the poem on the loom?” / . The last line
alludes to Su Hui (fl. fourth century), who wove a palindrome and sent it to her
husband Dou Tao .
12
Wang Duanshu, Yinhongji, 20.1a–9b.
13
Shigui shu stands for shishi jingui zhi shu (writings in stone cham-
bers and metal caskets), which is how Sima Qian describes the documents in
imperial archives that became the raw materials for his own Shiji (Records of
the historian).
14
Wang Duanshu, Yinhongji, juan 21–23.
184 chapter six

.15 To the modern reader such unforgiving judgment

is almost chilling. But these were also pervasive concerns among the
elite at the time. Some loyalists tirelessly debated what kinds of com-
promises were admissible and sternly adjudicated each other’s polit-
ical choices. In this sense Wang Duanshu is presenting a proleptic
defense on her father’s behalf—his delayed death is partially justified
by implied comparison with Boyi ; perhaps she is imagining how
he would have defended himself.16
Commemorative prose has its poetic counterpart; sometimes the
same figure is honored in different genres. Whereas historical judg-
ment is relatively straightforward in these writings, sometimes it is
tied to reflections on gender roles and self-understanding, as in the
following example.
The Song of Grief and Rancor
Ravaged and violated is the Han House: gown and
cap are destroyed.
Altars of the domain are in ruins: for a people,
strength depleted.
Steering troops to enter as marauders, he is called
the Khan—
Brave men of nine regions are dying on the saddle
of battle.
Fair ones taken away on horseback—to the grief of
all who heard.
In the chaos and devastation of war, a road journey
is arduous,
I dwell in a dilapidated place, scarcely seeking peace
and calm.
The sound of leaves is a rich rustle; the water, an end-
less expanse.
The moon, urging cold shadows, reaches the balus-
trade.
In long chants I intone the Han histories, reading in
the quiet night.
Reflecting on rise and fall, I brush away cold tears,

15
Wang Duanshu, Yinhonji, 21.9b.
16
According to Sima Qian, Boyi and Shuqi, princes of Guzhu (Lone Bamboo)
kingdom, refused to “eat the grains of Zhou” after Zhou conquered Shang. They
went up the Western Mountain to live on wild ferns, and died of starvation; see Shiji
(Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1964), 61.2123. In her biography of her father, Wang
writes: “All he did was pick wild ferns at the ancestral graves. His abode was called
‘Lone Bamboo.’ ” See Yinhongji, 21.9a–9b.
 women writers and gender boundaries 185

The cries of cuckoos cut through, as third watch

wanes.
How did it happen that men, heartless and spineless,
Set their mind on fame and profit, angled by their
fishing rod?
With a hammer he tried to strike the First Emper-
or—he was but frail.
Though his plot failed, in his heart he had requited
the state of Hán.
Borrow the wind of heaven, blow dry the stench of
blood.
Seek the sage in deep valleys, let the lone orchid
emerge.17
Cai Yan (ca. late second to early third century), to whom “The
Poem of Grief and Rancor” is traditionally attributed, is remembered
as the prototype of a woman poet whose account of personal suffering
also bears witness to her tumultuous times. From another perspective,
political disorder is what authenticates and legitimizes women’s writ-
ings: no further apologia is necessary. The change of “cap and gown”
(yiguan ) (l. 1), almost always associated with the enforcing of the
Manchu hairstyle and costume, marked Han cultural capitulation and
occasioned intense anguish. Together with the women abducted and
taken away on horseback (l. 5), they are recurrent symbols of the con-
quest as violation. Wang’s image of herself is as one who, in the midst
of sufferings and devastation, reflects on historical changes. But history
provides no consolation, even as the cuckoo weeping blood—accord-
ing to legend, this is a dead king mourning the loss of his domain—
stirs up only grief and lament. The hero from history presented here
is the would-be assassin Zhang Liang (l. 15–16), a noble scion
of Hán, a state eliminated by the man who unified China in 221 BCE
and became the First Emperor of Qin. Though he fails to avenge the
fall of his native kingdom with the hammer attack at Bolangsha, he
eventually topples Qin by becoming Emperor Gaozu’s chief helper
in the founding of the Han dynasty.18 The Han historian Sima Qian
describes his surprise when he saw Zhang Liang’s portrait.
He had expected the image of imposing strength, but Zhang “had the
appearance of a gentle lady.”19 Longing for the hero who looks like
a woman, Wang Duanshu also indicts the collective failure of men.

17
Wang Duanshu, Yinhongji, 3.1a–1b.
18
Sima Qian, Shiji, 55.2033–2049.
19
Sima Qian, Shiji, 55.2049.
186 chapter six

Masculine Voices and Heroic Failures

Engagement with the contemporary crisis often shades into rueful fan-
tasies of heroic action. Thus Li Yin avows shame about wielding the
woman poet’s “red brush” (tongguan ), because its redness pales
beside the blood Mulan sheds in battle:
Hearing Alarming News of Raiders’ Incursion into Yulu
Countless people are undone and adrift, as white
bones grow cold.
I heard, with alarm, that Yulu20 has been half devastated.
Vain is the will to serve the country: ashamed of the
red brush,
I envy Mulan, shedding blood on the robes of war.21

According to Huang Zongxi’s (1610–1695) biography, Li Yin

had already achieved early fame as a courtesan-poet and artist by the
time she became the concubine of Ge Zhengqi (d. 1645), a Ming
22
official, in the late 1620s. She is said to have thrown herself between
Ge and a group of mutinous soldiers in 1643: “the soldiers, awed by
her luminous beauty, did not dare harm them.”23 Ge Zhengqi died in
1645, probably in anti-Qing resistance. Li made a living as a widow
by selling her paintings. Huang commends Li’s loyalism, comparing
her to Zhang Liang who tried to avenge the annihilation of his native
kingdom, Hán. The first of Li Yin’s three collections, named after her
Laughing Bamboo Studio (Zhuxiaoxuan ), was printed in 1643,
the second sometime in early Qing (possibly late 1640s or early 1650s),
and the third in 1683. The heroic imagery in Li Yin’s poetry, when it
is not devoted to the memory of Ge Zhengqi, is almost always about
the pathos of merely imaginary heroic endeavor. Yet later periods look
back to the Ming-Qing transition as the moment when heroic fanta-
sies translated into historical reality. In Mingyuan shihua
(Remarks on poetry by notable women), for example, Shen Shanbao

20
That is, Henan and Shandong.
21
Li Yin, Zhuxiaoxuan yincao (Chants from the Laughing Bamboo
Studio), ed. Zhou Shutian (Shenyang: Liaoyang jiaoyu chubanshe, 2003), 22.
22
Huang Zongxi, “Li Yin zhuan” (Biography of Li Yin), in Li Yin, Zhuxiao-
xuan yincao, “fulu” (appendix), 103–104. Huang wrote this biographical account
to thank Li Yin for a painting presented to his mother as a birthday gift. The two
quatrains inscribed on that painting are found in Li Yin, Zhuxiaoxuan yincao, 66. For
more on Li Yin, see Grace S. Fong, Herself an Author: Gender, Agency, and Writing in
Late Imperial China (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2008), 108–119.
23
Li Yin, Zhuxiaoxuan yincao, fulu, 103.
 women writers and gender boundaries 187

(1807–1862) extols martial women (youji jiangjun ,

literally, “scouting and attacking generals”)24 who answered the clarion
call of battle during the Ming-Qing transition.25
Of course heroic women (just like heroic men) did not necessar-
ily write. The most famous martial woman of the Ming-Qing transi-
tion, Qin Liangyu (1574?–1648), earned her place in the Ming
dynastic history but left no writings.26 The figure who looms largest
in our imagination, both as poet and as hero, is Liu Rushi, thanks
in large part to Chen Yinke’s (1890–1969) monumental biog-
raphy. The anecdotes and materials about how Liu Rushi sometimes
donned male attire, enacted “role-reversal” by writing a poetic exposi-
tion about a male god of the River Luo, and addressed male friends as
intellectual and spiritual equals are well-known.27 Of her involvement
in anti-Qing resistance, we have no textual evidence from Liu’s own
writings—indeed, very few of her poems can be dated to the post-
conquest era. Instead, we have her husband Qian Qianyi’s
(1582–1664) moving tributes to her heroic exploits in the third series
of his “Later Autumn Meditations” and in some poems in his
Youxue ji (To have learning).28

24
Following Burton Watson’s translation of the term youji jiangjun in Shiji 111,
see his Record of the Grand Historian (New York: Columbia University Press, 1971),
2:196. Shen Yunying (1624–1660), known for both her learning and valor,
was honored with the title of “scouting and attacking general” after she recovered her
father’s corpse from the enemy ranks of the rebel Zhang Xianzhong (1606–
1647), see Xi Zengyun et al., eds., Zhejiang tongzhi , (Comprehen-
sive gazetteer of Zhejiang) (Zhejiang shuju, 1899), juan 210. Mao Qiling, Wang Qimo
, and Xia Zhirong (1698–1785) all wrote biographies of Shen Yunying.
She is also celebrated in various Qing plays, including Dong Rong’s (1711–1760)
Zhikan ji (The auspicious shrine).
25
See Shen Shanbao, Mingyuan shihua, 1.3a, in Qing shihua fangyi chubian
(In quest of lost Qing remarks on poetry: first collection), ed. Du Songbo
, vol. 9 (Taipei: Xinwenfang, 1987).
26
For Qin Liangyu, see Zhang Tingyu , et al., Ming shi (Ming history)
(Taipei: Dingwen shuju, 1991), juan 270. She is also the subject of many poems and
plays, including the aforementioned Zhikan ji by Dong Rong.
27
See Chen Yinke, Liu Rushi biezhuan (Biography of Liu Rushi)
(Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1980); Kang-i Sun Chang, The Late-Ming Poet
Ch’en Tzu-lung: Crises of Love and Loyalism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991);
Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers, 274–285; Wai-yee Li, “The Late-Ming Courtesan:
Invention of a Cultural Ideal,” in Widmer and Chang, eds., Writing Women in Late-
Imperial China, 46–73.
28
Qian Qianyi, Qian Muzhai quanji (Complete works of Qian Muzhai
[Qian Qianyi]), ed. Qian Zhonglian , with annotations by Qian Zeng ,8
vols. (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2003), 7:10–15, 4:74-75, 4:111.
188 chapter six

By far the most extensive poetic record by a woman on heroic aspi-

rations and the ultimate failure to fulfill heroic ideals from this period
is the corpus of Liu Shu (also called Liu Shuying ). The earliest
account of her life appears in Chen Weisong’s Furen ji (On
29
women). Liu Shu’s father, Liu Duo , was a magistrate of Yang-
zhou who died because of the machinations of the powerful eunuch
Wei Zhongxian (1568–1627). She was married to one Wang
Xie . After the fall of the Ming, she raised an army and offered
to join forces with a “commander from Yunnan.” The latter, however,
“had other intentions, and clamoring for priority after getting drunk,
spoke improperly.” Angered, Liu Shu wanted to cut him down then
and there, and “the commander ran around the pillar.”30 She threw
down the sword, calmly asked for paper and brush, and wrote a poem
in a “heroic, stirring mode.” She left with these words: “I have unfor-
tunately come to this because of the calamity of the state. But I am
[merely] a woman: I hope you, general, would do what you can.”31
Li Yao (fl. 1830), in his supplement (zhiyi ) of Wen Rui-
lin’s (juren 1705) Nanjiang yishi (Elucidation of
the history of the southern regions), gives a more elaborate account.32
Here her name appears as Liu Shuying. We are told that her mother,
Madame Xiao, taught her the books left by her father, and she came
to be learned, among other things, in military strategy and swords-
manship. Married to Wang Ai , she was widowed at eighteen.33
The commander she met at Yongxin (in Jiangxi) is identified as

29
Chen Weisong, Furen ji, 2.22b–23a. Chen cites Chao Zhenlin’s Shique
wenbu (Supplement of the gaps in history) as his source, but I have not
been able to find Chao’s book.
30
The image evokes Jing Ke’s assassination of the First Emperor of Qin (Sima Qian,
Shiji, 86.2535). The latter also ran around a pillar before he collected his wits enough
to pull out his sword.
31
Chen Weisong, Furen ji, 2.22b–23a.
32
See Li Yao, Yishi zhiyi (Supplement to the elucidation of the history of
the sourthern regions), 15.7b–8b, in Ming Qing shiliao huibian (A col-
lection of historical materials from the Ming and Qing periods), vol. 52 (Taipei: Wenhai
chubanshe, 1967), 1824-1827. This account, included in the prefatory material of the
modern edition of Liu Shu, Geshan yiji (China: Meihua shuwu, 1934), also
appears in Wang Youdian’s Shi wai (Excluded history) (1748, repr., Taipei:
Guangwen shuju, 1971), Xu Zi’s (1810–1862) Xiaotian jinian (A chrono-
logical account of remnant domains) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1958), and Sun Jing’an’s
Ming yimin lu (A record of Ming loyalists), ed. Zhao Yisheng
(Hangzhou: Zhejiang guji chubanshe, 1985).
33
The different characters for the name of Liu’s husband might have resulted from
transcription errors.
 women writers and gender boundaries 189

Zhang Xianbi , who could not face the real enemy but instead
hinted at his intention to marry Liu Shu.34 When Zhang’s soldiers
put on armor to defend their commander against Liu Shu’s fury, she
denounced them in no uncertain terms: “She chanted these lines, ‘My
courage of iron worn away, I would fain swallow the sword, / Gouge
my eyes out; my wish is to have them hung at the gate’ ” ,
/ .35 Zhang Xianbi’s more explicit
advances in this account underline a common theme in accounts of
heroic women: they imperil their chastity by venturing into the public
realm and often need to be even more adamant about their virtue.36
Despite the ultimate futility of Liu’s endeavor, the cowering Zhang
affirms her symbolic victory. Her heroic words and ritual gestures
point to the quasi-hagiographic intent of this account.
Liu Shu’s biography in the Anfu xianzhi (Gazetteer of
Anfu County) also emphasizes her extraordinary virtue and courage,
but dwells at greater length on her filial devotion and tells of her nar-
row escape.37 Liu Shu’s funereal essay honoring her father, written upon
his burial in 1648, presents her military endeavor as a tribute to what
her father would have willed. Her tone is subdued rather than defi-
ant: “And then, relying on my father’s blessing, I managed to preserve
myself and escaped harm.”38 This essay, along with Liu Shu’s preface to
her father’s writings and a poem entitled “Poem Inscribed on a Wall
in Hechuan” , which incorporates as the third couplet the
aforementioned lines she recited when she confronted Zhang Xianbi, as

34
On Zhang Xianbi’s relationship with the Yongli court, see Wang Fuzhi ,
“Cao Yang Zhang liezhuan” (Biographies of Cao Zhijian, Yang Guodong,
and Zhang Xianbi), in Yongli shilu (A factual record of the Yongli reign),
in Chuanshan quanshu (Complete writings of Chuanshan [Wang Fuzhi])
(Changsha: Yuelu shushe, 1988), 11:440–441.
35
Li Yao, Yishi zhiyi, 15.7b–8b. Before Wu Zixu committed suicide as a conse-
quence of calumny at the Wu court and the Wu king’s unjust suspicion, he declared
to his followers: “You must plant catalpas at my grave, so that they can be made into
coffins, and you must gouge my eyes out and hang them above the eastern gate of
Wu, so that I can see Yue raiders enter into Wu and extinguish it,” Sima Qian, Shiji,
66.2180. Liu Shu is implicitly comparing herself to Wu Zixu, who had no wherewithal
to fulfill his loyal intention or to avert the disaster he could foresee.
36
See, for example, Dong Rong’s Zhikan ji, where Qin Liangyu also faces impor-
tune advances.
37
Liu Shu’s biography in Anfu xianzhi is included in the prefatory material of
Geshan yiji.
38
Liu Shu, “Qi zang fu taipu Liu gong jiwen” (Funeral essay
honoring the burial of my father, senior official Liu) in Geshan yiji, 7.1b–2b.
190 chapter six

well as her brief biography, are included in the local gazetteers of Anfu
and Luling. The modern edition of Liu Shu’s Geshan yiji
(Writings left behind at Geshan), with more than nine hundred shi
poems, forty song lyrics, and fourteen prose pieces, contains a preface
by Wang Renzhao dated 1914.39 Wang claimed that he con-
sulted two rather damaged hand-copied manuscripts in the keeping
of the descendants of the Liu family in the Sanshe village in Anfu and
another manuscript in better condition that belonged to the Xiangyin
branch of the Liu clan.40 There is no way to prove or disprove the
authenticity of these claims. I do feel, however, that the circumstantial
details and contradictory emotions of these writings convey a sense
of nuance and complexity (rather than the ideological purpose one
may expect from a forgery). Perhaps more to the point, many of these
poems are extraordinary.
The poem on the wall in Hechuan, confidently declaring a heroic
ideal, is in fact not typical of her corpus as a whole. Much more often
we see irony and self-questioning, as in the following examples.
Venting Frustrations, Two Poems
One sword polished by sun and moon
Whistles among stones, its glow roaring.
Hurled in a dance, stirring wind and clouds,
It is about to take the enemy’s head.
With intense passions, others yet call me Buddhist,
Detached, carefree, I dub myself immortal.
At the cup’s bottom, I spit out the bright moon,
Scoop it up in the mirror, and return it to heaven.41

While the first poem employs the imagery of power, light, magi-
cal agency, and elemental affinities traditionally tied to the mythical
sword, the second seems to bracket it as mere fantasy. The only agency
available to the poet, with her contradictory emotions, is in the realm
of illusion (the reflection of the moon in the cup and in the mirror).

39
It was reprinted in 1934, published by Meihua shuwu. I would like to thank Mr.
Ma Xiaohe of the Harvard-Yenching Library for obtaining this edition for me from
the Shanghai Library.
40
Wang hailed from the Shazhou Village close to Sanshe, and the clans from the
two villages have intermarried for generations. See “Ke Geshan yiji yuanqi”
䋛 (Circumstances whereby Geshan yiji was published) in the prefatory materials
of Liu Shu, Geshan yiji.
41
Liu Shu, Geshan yiji, 1.1a.
 women writers and gender boundaries 191

Even when she proclaims her heroic aspirations, the context is often
failure and uncertainty, and the discrepancy between inner worth and
external oblivion, as in the following poem.
Banishing My Own Sorrows
To requite country and kin, that will is yet unfulfilled.
How can lonely anguish yield to darkening clouds?
My heart is not, like the sun or the moon, a wheel
that can be turned.
A fate akin to dust and smoke, from the mirror to
be wiped clean.
There is a secret in clinging to Buddha: but the
dragons are far from being subdued.
In what I encountered since leaving home, a star-
crossed fate.
I stretch my brow and try to brush the Qingping
sword:
To mark and cut off the Riverland, for the making of
a small abode.42
In “Cypress Boat” in the Shijing (Classic of odes) (Mao
26), the poet, in the voice of a woman in distress (possibly coerced or
abandoned), uses a series of negative comparisons to make clear that
her will is not to be bent:43
My heart is not a mirror;
It cannot hold everything.
...
My heart is not a stone;
It cannot be turned.
My heart is not a mat;
It cannot be rolled up.

For the poet to raise the register of the metaphor in line 3, and claim
that even the sun and the moon would not suffice as comparisons

42
Liu Shu, Geshan yiji, 4.6b.
43
The Mao commentator reads this as a noble man (renren ) lamenting the
malice and calumny of petty men (xiaoren ). Lienü zhuan (Accounts of
noteworthy women) (4.3) cites lines from this ode and identifies the wife of Lord Xuan
of Wei as the author. Zhu Xi (1130–1200) also avers that the poet is a woman,
possibly Zhuang Jiang of Wei; see Zhu Xi, Shi jizhuan (Exegetical tradition
of the classic of odes), ed. Wang Huabao (Nanjing: Fenghuang chubanshe,
2007), 18–19. By the late imperial period, it was common to claim female authorship
for some odes in the Shijing.
192 introduction

for her heart, is a bold move. Her greater constancy defies temporal-
ity, unlike the sun and the moon which must be “wheels that can be
turned” to mark time. Is this because her burden to “right the times”
is greater than the domestic woes of the poet in “Cypress Boat”? But
whatever grand claim being made here is deflated in line 4, when con-
stant striving produces nothing more than “dust and smoke, from the
mirror to be wiped clean.” That act of wiping in turn suggests remov-
ing the obstacles to enlightenment, which steers us to the second half
of the poem. Liu Shu thus appropriates the most basic paradigm of
choice—that between engagement and detachment—for elite men in
the tradition. Enlightenment remains elusive, however. The “dragons”
in line 5 refer to passions that have to be tamed, as in Wang Wei’s
(699–759) line, “Calm meditation quells poisonous dragons”
.44 Here “subduing the dragons” is a distant prospect. Hemo
(l. 6) is the same as Mohe (literally, scorpion), the name of
a constellation which can govern a person’s character (shen ) or his
fate (ming ). At this hopeless juncture the poem is also taking on a
more defiant tone: Su Shi (1036–1101) claims that Han Yu
(768–824) has “Mohe” as “the constellation of his person” (shengong
), while he himself has it as his fate; that is why they both receive
a great deal of slander and praise throughout their lives.45 Even as he
laments adversities, however, Su Shi is claiming Han Yu as a kindred
spirit from history. Liu Shu repeats his gesture with the same allusion:
her unhappy encounters are decreed by the stars, but they also confirm
her affinities with the great poets in history. Her solution, in the wake
of all these reversals and convolutions, is to lift her spirit and use the
mythical sword (Qingping), not for great heroic endeavors, but to cut
off a piece of Jiangnan so that she can build her own abode.

44
Wang Wei, “Passing by Xiangji Temple” , in Wang Youcheng ji jianzhu
(The annotated Wang Wei collection), ed., Zhao Diancheng ,
7.21b, in Yingyin Wenyuange Siku quanshu , vol. 1071 (Taipei:
Taiwan shang wu yin shu guan, 1983).
45
Su Shi, Dongpo zhilin (Dongpo’s [Su Shi] “Forest of Anecdotes”) in
Dongpo zhilin Qiuchi biji (Dongpo’s “Forest of anecdotes,” mis-
cellanies of Qiuchi), ed. Huadong shifan daxue guji yanjiu suo (Shanghai: Huadong
shifan daxue, 1983), 38.
 women writers and gender boundaries 193

The provisional equilibrium proposed in the building of the “small

abode” is questioned elsewhere by Liu Shu’s powerful image of “lone
existence” (gusheng ).
To the tune “Huangying’er”: Thinking of
Hechuan, Composed Upon My Return
In tears I part from Qin Pass.
The cassia boat
Rests by the narrow bank.46
My loyal heart will not follow the silver pheasant,
freed from its cage.47
The dappled peach-blossom horse is dark red,
The sword for slaying dragons is idle.
Long sleeves in the glow of the moon’s frag-
ment—
Subdued, broken by sickness.
How could I be a worthy martyr for the country?
I should just lie on Mount Shouyang.
A lone existence between heaven and earth, what
more to ask?
Already past
Are two parts out of [three].
In calm dispassion I survey the affairs of the
dusty realm.
With only this much feigned madness
And a full share of indignant fury,48
My rancor can reduce heaven to weary
melancholy.
I have bought a sword and taken wine, only to
roam the world in vain.
I laugh at that
Ephemeral insect bearing a fruit too large.
Wide heavens too hard to roll up, wilderness
with no foothold—
Only this, my lone existence, is to be.49

46
“Cassia boat” or “magnolia boat” (mulan zhou ) is a common allusion in
poetry. The trunk of the mulan tree, supposed to have a special fragrance, is said to be
used for carving boats, see Taiping guangji (Wide gleanings from the era of
great peace) (Beijing: Renmin wenxue chubanshe, 1959), 406.3277.
47
That is, her loyalty will not let her seek peace in detachment.
48
To “feign madness” (yangkuang ) is to dramatize the break between self
and society.
49
Liu Shu, Geshan yiji, 6.6b–7a. See also Deng Hongmei’s discussion of this and
other song lyrics by Liu Shu in Nüxing cishi, 214–219.
194 chapter six

“Lone existence,” in the second half of the song lyric, is a response to

the contradictions developed in the first half. Her mission failed, but
her tenacious loyalty would not let her break free and leave all behind.
The horse and the sword—emblems of martial valor—remain, but the
poet is sickly and subdued. She might not “die for the country” (xunguo
) on the battlefield, but a slower and equally inevitable martyr-
dom awaits her on Mount Shouyang, following the model of Boyi and
Shuqi . “Lone existence” is a reversion to oneself, when external
frames of reference threaten to dissolve with the resolute disjunction
between self and world. Elsewhere in her corpus, the term rings with
the conviction of constancy and tenacity of purpose.50
Lone Existence
Lone existence—what is it like?
Heaven and earth that differ from the turning wheels.51
With heaven and earth, together we stand,
Not following wheels that change with turning.
Heaven and earth cannot be fathomed,
But a lone existence is revealed to heaven and earth.52

A lone spirit, foregoing ties with the world, is not subject to change
and can be coeval with heaven and earth. In Zhongyong (The doc-
trine of the mean), the passage on how “ultimate sincerity” (zhicheng
) as truthfulness and singleness of purpose allows the fullest real-
ization of moral nature ( jinxing ) in such a way that a human can
become the counterpart of Heaven and Earth (yu tiandi san ),
belongs to a discourse of moral self-cultivation with transcendent
echoes that women writers rarely claimed as their own.53 Here Liu

50
There are also instances where the term has a more negative meaning. For exam-
ple, “My Cousin, Wang Nai’an, Has My Son Study with My Two Nephews; I Follow
His Original Rhyme and Respectfully Reply with Four Poems,”
, first poem: “Heaven seems to have feelings, sparing me
solitary death. / If I have none to rely on, how can I bear this lone existence?”
/ . (Liu Shu, Geshan yiji, 4.12b). Related terms such as
gushen (lone self) and guxin (lone mind) also appear a number of times
in her poetry.
51
As in the poem cited above, “turning wheels” here refers to the sun and the
moon.
52
Liu Shu, Geshan yiji, 1.7a.
53
Whereas stories about women as moral exemplars (especially of virtues such as
chastity and filial piety) are ubiquitous, there are very few accounts of a woman’s
moral self-examination that explores interiority, such as that which obtains in the
intellectual biographies of men in say, Huang Zongxi’s Mingru xue’an
 women writers and gender boundaries 195

Shu implicitly appropriates it as she proposes a hypothetical asymme-

try: Heaven and Earth cannot be fathomed, yet a “lone existence” is
revealed to, perhaps even understood by, Heaven and Earth.
“Lone existence” addresses the dilemma of a common humanity;
in that sense it is about carving a space beyond gender distinctions.
In many of Liu Shu’s poems, she simply wrote in the voice of a man,
or, more precisely, a failed hero. She took up his vocabulary of guilt
over survival at such a historical moment: “I pledged death with my
lord and ruler, / Yet all too soon I turned to meditation as a recluse”
/ ;54 “Being a knight-errant, I have yet kept
55
my head” ; “To keep my head is nothing more than fool-
ishness” ;56 “To steal survival—how can that be a hero’s
lot” ;57 “Then I pledged death with my lord and ruler,
/ Now I have become a sporadic wind” / .58
The sword, and a host of other weapons, are often mentioned in combi-
nation with words such as kong , man , xu (which all mean “in
vain”), rao (superfluous), xiu , can (both meaning “shame”).
She also uses the gestures and paraphernalia of the male recluse to
describe her country life, even while designating her companions as
jiemei (sisters) and nongfu (peasant women). As in the
writings of Li Yin and Wang Duanshu, who also use imagery related to
the male recluse when describing their country life, eremitic existence
is both idealized and presented as melancholy compromise or a form
of resignation: the acceptance that “the heroic will” (zhuangzhi )
has failed and action is no longer possible.

(Intellectual biographies of Ming Confucian scholars). Lü Miaofen (Lü Miaw-fen)

provides a few examples of women who self-consciously sought transcendence
through self-cultivation; see her essay “Funü yu Mingdai lixue de xingming zhuiqiu”
(Women and the quest for moral transcendence in
Ming neo-Confucianism), in Wusheng zhi sheng: jindai zhongguo funü yu wenhua
: , 1600–1950 (The voice of silence: women and cul-
ture in modern China, 1600–1950), ed. Luo Jiurong (Taipei: Academia Sinica,
2003), 133–172.
54
Liu Shu, “I Moved to Wenxin’s Abode and My Uncles and Nephews Congratu-
lated Me With Poems; I Matched Their Rhymes in Six Poems”
, second poem, in Geshan yiji, 1.8a.
55
Liu Shu, “I Moved to Wenxin’s Abode . . .” third poem, in Geshan yiji, 1.8b.
56
Liu Shu, “To the Moon, Four Poems” , first poem, in Geshan yiji,
1.14b.
57
Liu Shu, “Impromptu Poems, Sent to Uncle Youpo, Eight Poems”
, seventh poem, in Geshan yiji, 2.5a.
58
Liu Shu, “Moved” , in Geshan yiji, 1.10a.
196 chapter six

When Is a Sword a Sword?

Given the ubiquitous references to swords in Liu Shu’s corpus, we

tend to imagine their material existence. She writes about the sword
at the head of her bed (chuangtou jian ) and in the keeping of
her mother, in addition to holding (an ), stroking ( fu ), polishing
(mo ), snapping (tan ), pillowing (zhen ), or blowing on (chui
) the sword.59 But these gestures may be as much literary as actual.
How are we to interpret the more general use of martial and military
images in women’s writings during this period? When does a sword
become metaphorical? What would be its symbolic quotient?
For Liu Rushi, the sword imagery in her first collection Wuyin cao
(Drafts from the wuyin year [1638]), printed in 1638 when
Liu was twenty, marks her concern with the contemporary crisis. As
a young courtesan defining her poetic voice through exchanges with
prominent male literati, she also claims her role as their intellectual
equal through prescient political judgment:
Early Summer Ruminations: First of Four Poems
....
Lone bugle at the deserted city: a calm and
heedless brightness.
But the comet of war beyond the sky will surely
fall.
For all, there is home, but return is not yet
possible—
South of Mount Song, the sword dance cannot
quell the barbarians.60

Calm is deceptive; the falling of the comet of war—signal of looming

unrest and disorder—is there for all to see. The sword dance may be
an oblique indictment of ineffective action, policies and strategies rel-
egated to mere gestures. But it may also reflect her own sense of pow-
erlessness—heroic aspirations may be no more than the flourishes of a
“sword dance,” as she laments in the third poem in the series (l. 7–8):

59
See Liu Shu, Geshan yiji, 1.6a, 1.17a, 1.23b; 1.21a; 1.14b; 4.6a–6b; 1.11a; 6.5a;
3.1a; 1.7b.
60
Liu Rushi, “Early Summer Reflections: Four Poems” first poem,
lines 5–8, in Wuyin cao, in Liu Rushi ji (The works of Liu Rushi), ed. Zhou
Shutian and Fan Jingzhong (Hangzhou: Zhongguo meishu xueyuan
chubanshe, 2002), 23.
 women writers and gender boundaries 197

I wish to reach the dragon’s lair at Yingyang,

But the heart’s valor fades and dies.61

In many cases, the sword thus simply indicates the desire for political
engagement and heroic endeavor, and frustration at their impossibil-
ity. Apparently simple declarative intent is bound up with the vaga-
ries of self-understanding and self-representation in Li Yin’s sword
imagery:
Alarm for Barbarian Raid
Barbarian troops, numbering a hundred thousand,
fill pass beyond pass,
For naught did the iron-clad cavalry guard the
mountains north of the capital.62
Since antiquity, sword-wielding immortals have
often been women knights.
Clutching the reed-bound hilt in my hand, my
tears stream down.63

Written shortly before the collapse of the Ming, the quatrain juxta-
poses the all-too-present crisis of survival with the fantasy of succor.
It is only in legends of sword-wielding immortals that the knights are
women. The real or metaphorical sword-hilt that the poet holds thus
marks her helplessness and sense of futility. The reed-bound hilt also
alludes to a story about recognizing worth. Feng Huan , one of
Lord Mengchang’s numerous retainers during the Warring
States period and known only as the one whose “reed-bound sword-
hilt” suggests humble circumstances, seems thoroughly unremarkable
until the chance comes for him to prove his worth.64 Recognition and
the possibility of action, which beckon as promise even for disempow-
ered men, are not available to women.
The political meanings of swords and martial imagery are some-
times subsumed to a more personal sense of unconventionality, as in
these quatrains by Wu Qi (fl. mid-seventeenth century).65

61
Liu Rushi, Wuyin cao, 24.
62
The geographical marker “Ji” refers to Beijing.
63
15 Li Yin, Zhuxiaoxuan yincao, 22.
64
Sima Qian, Shiji, 75.2359–2361.
65
For Wu Qi’s biography and translations of some of her poems, see Ellen Wid-
mer’s entry in Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 372–375. See also Fong, ed.,
Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
198 chapter six

Sent to Gong Jingzhao [two quatrains]

I
A spirit unbound in poetry: with yours my nature
is one.
Leaving the world in quest of wonders, our zest
knows no limit.
I have heard that, by the green window, you are
adept in swordsmanship:
Deep in the white clouds, you pay obeisance to
Master Gibbon.
II
Since autumn’s advent, our keenness has not abated.
We match poems by the sojourner’s window, till
clouds of ink fade.
Inside the gourd is another kind of month and year—
As we peruse, night after night, secret books on the
art of war.66
These poems are found in Deng Hanyi’s anthology Shiguan chuji
(Poetic perspectives: first collection). According to Deng,
Wu Qi came from an elite official family, was recognized early on for
her precocious talents, and married a distinguished young man named
Guan Xun . Widowed after twenty years of marriage, she was
reduced to poverty but continued literary and artistic pursuits with
“two or three friends of the inner chamber”; “her spirit was especially
lofty and vigorous, and she did not deign to be trivial or sentimental”.67
She traveled with another woman poet Zhou Qiong in the Qiantang
area, and Wu and Zhou published their writings together in Biyu xin-
sheng (New sounds of the matching jades). Wu Qi eventu-
ally took Buddhist vows. Gong Jingzhao , to whom the poem
is addressed, was the daughter of a Ming official who died as a martyr
during the dynastic transition. Unhappy in her marriage, she entitled
her collection Yong Chouren ji (Collected writings by the
person of eternal sorrow), which seems to be no longer extant.68 Deng

66
Deng Hanyi, Shiguan chuji , 12.7a–7b, in Siku jinhuishu congkan: Jibu
: (Compilation of books banned from the Four Treasuries),
vol. 1 (Beijing: Beijing chubanshe, 2000).
67
Deng Hanyi, Shiguan chuji, 12.1b.
68
Ming Qing Women’s Writings includes her biography and six of her poems and
lyrics, which refer to her political engagement and obsession with books. Quan Qing
ci includes thirteen song lyrics by Gong. See also Hu Wenkai , ed., with sup-
plements edited by Zhang Hongsheng , Lidai funü zhuzuo kao (zengdingban)
( ) (Women’s writings through the ages [expanded edition])
 women writers and gender boundaries 199

Hanyi comments that she was “an extraordinary woman” (qi nüzi
).
Beyond possible actual reference (my guess is that Wu and Gong
were interested in history, politics, and military strategy,69 but there
was no actual sword), the martial images in these quatrains serve three
functions. Wu Qi uses them to highlight their defiant and unconven-
tional character (kuang , qi , first quatrain, l. 1–2). These images
also define an imaginative space that promises escape—Master Gib-
bon, the mysterious master of swordsmanship in Wu Yue Chunqiu
(Histories of Wu and Yue) and countless other works of
fiction and drama, resides “deep in the white clouds.”70 Further, the
friendship between Wu and Gong acquires an aura of hermetic self-
sufficiency, just like the gourd in Daoist lore. The promised world of
limitlessness within limits (the world that opens up in the gourd) must
be particularly appealing.
Zhou Qiong, even more than her friend Wu Qi, likes to employ
martial images and develop a masculine voice and self-image. The
rather sketchy and partially overlapping biographical information
from Furen ji, Shiguan chuji and nineteenth-century anthologies such
as Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji (Anthology of cor-
rect beginnings by boudoir talents of our dynasty) and Guixiu cichao
(Copied song lyrics of boudoir talents), conveys the impres-
sion of a woman of somewhat dubious station, something between a
concubine and a courtesan. Trapped in unfortunate unions, she might
have become a Daoist nun in her later years; in any case she took a
Daoist name, Xing Daoren . Deng Hanyi praises her style as
“lofty, vigorous, and spirited, without the effeminate affectations of the
boudoir.”71 His comments on Zhou Qiong, more than on any other
contemporary woman poet in his anthology, show deep appreciation
and empathy.

(Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2008), 811; Shen Shanbao, Mingyuan shihua,
1.6a–6b.
69
Chen Weisong says that Wu Qi “especially loved grand strategy;” see his Furen
ji, 26b.
70
The virgin of Yue fights Master Gibbon in a scene that implies both challenge and
instruction; see Zhao Ye , Wu Yue Chunqiu chunqiu jijiao huikao
(The collated and annotated edition of the histories of Wu and Yue), ed. Zhou
Shengchun (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1997), 151–152.
71
Deng Hanyi, Shiguan chuji, 12.8b.
200 chapter six

The adversities Zhou Qiong suffered and her more dubious social
station must account in part for her fascination with martial and mas-
culine images:
Roused by My Feelings
I would slay the dragon, but fail, and for now: roam
and wander!
Amid rivers and seas, a windblown tumbleweed: is
this self-decreed?
My grey hair, from too many devastations, seems to
become sparse.
A lone soul grieves, surely not for the sake of
spring’s passing.
In secret sympathy with the poet of willow catkins,
I yet lack her talent.
An intense yearning to soar to the clouds—but that
will seems to wane.
Emerald grass, green waves, longing without end—
From now on, ascend not that highest tower.72
To “roam and wander” (l. 1) is the consequence of a failure to achieve
a higher, more heroic goal (“slay the dragon”), rather than self-willed
freedom, hence the comparison with “a windblown tumbleweed” in
line 2. Lines 5 and 6 suggest that Xie Daoyun (fl. 376) and
Sima Xiangru (ca. 180–117 BCE) may be her literary
models,73 but the real exemplar of political and historical engagement,
as evinced by verbal echoes in lines 3 and 8, may be Du Fu
(712–770), whose hair grows sparse from sorrow over the country’s
sad fate, and whose grief is heightened by ascent to the tower.74 Deng
Hanyi comments: “In my opinion, Yubu (Zhou Qiong’s style name)
has the aspiration and daring of Dongge, but exceeds the latter in liter-
ary refinement. To treat Yubu as a mere concubine would be a grave

72
Deng Hanyi, Shiguan chuji, 12.9b–10a.
73
In Shishuo xinyu (A new account of tales of the world), 2.71, Xie
Daoyun famously compares snow to willow catkins, see Liu Yiqing , Shishuo
xinyu jiaojian (Annotated edition of a new account of tales of the
world), ed. Xu Zhen’e (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1984), 1.72. After reading (or
listening to) Sima Xiangru’s poetic exposition “The Great One” , Emperor
Wu of Han was greatly pleased: “He drifted away, soaring to the clouds, as if he were
roaming between heaven and earth;” see Sima Qian, Shiji, 117.3063.
74
See, for example, “Spring View” , “Ascending a Tower” in Dushi xiang-
zhu (Detailed annotations of Du Fu’s poetry), annotated by Qiu Zhaoao
(Taipei: Wenshizhe chubanshe, 1985), 4.263, 13.685.
 women writers and gender boundaries 201

mistake.”75 Dongge , also called Dong’er , was a singing girl

in the household of Liu Zeqing (fl. seventeenth century), one
of the “four commanders north of the Yangzi River” at the end of the
Ming dynasty. After Beijing fell, she went to the capital on horseback
to learn of the fate of the Ming princes. Dong’er is celebrated in early
Qing literature as a kind of “female knight-errant.” Deng’s comment
points to the urgency of Zhou Qiong’s rhetoric. For her to use a sword
metaphor or model her syntax on Du Fu’s was not just a matter of
literary choice; it determined whether or not she would be treated as
“a mere concubine.”

Gender Discontent

The other side of empathy with men is discontent with a woman’s lot.
Thus Zhou Qiong merges political lament with scorn for the suppos-
edly feminine art of pleasing:
Unbearable indeed, as always, is the powder of
adornment.
Plain lute keeps constant company with the sachet
for ancient poems.
I grieve that so much of the realm of glory and
splendor
Is reduced to grounds overrun by deer in the setting
sun.76
Deng Hanyi comments: “In this she lodges especially lofty and pro-
found feelings”. Discontent with feminine adornment (l. 1) and rejec-
tion of sensual indulgence as implied by her preference for plain lute
and ancient poetry (l. 2), which in other poems by Zhou Qiong are
more a function of protest and personal longing for freedom and ful-
fillment, are here linked to mourning for the fallen dynasty (l. 3–4).
She seems to suggest that her abjuration of adornment is analogous
with the devastation of the land. Some of the poems she addresses to
male friends also imply that feminine adornment is an impediment for

75
Deng Hanyi, Shiguan chuji, 12.10a.
76
Zhou Qiong, “About to Return to Jiangnan, I Replied by the Same Rhyme to the
Poems Deng Xiaowei (Deng Hanyi) Sent Me” , second of
nine quatrains, in Deng Hanyi, Shiguan chuji, 12.9b.
202 chapter six

a friendship based on common political engagement, as in these lines

she sent to Zhang Cichen :
For sympathy with the knightly spirit, I am shamed
by a woman’s lot.
Why deign to learn her art, and contrive lovely
adornment?77
The poems she addressed to the well-known man of letters Mao
Xiang (1611–1693) share the same concerns, as in the following
example:
Sent to Mao Chaomin (Mao Xiang)
My traces have been adrift at world’s edge, for years
on end.
Little did I expect, on this day, your unwavering
regard.
A gift of medicine, given in pity to one sickly, like
Sima Xiangru.
Offering your robe, you must feel for her, the
impoverished Du Fu.
Ashamed of being no glorious steed, meeting with
its kindred spirit,
I am loath to offer myself, and with the indifferent
world comply.
Listen to the rain: unbearable is the night in the
lonely inn.
Moved by the present, tracing the past, my tears
redoubled.78

Deng Hanyi comments: “She has, against all odds, compared herself to
Sima Xiangru and Du Fu. Why would the world still regard Yubu as a
mere woman!” Zhou Qiong chooses the common allusions about rec-
ognizing worth—“(being shown) the dark pupil of the eye” (qingyan
, here translated as “regard,” l. 2), and the glorious steed which
would be recognized only by the horse connoisseur Bole (l. 5).79

77
Deng Hanyi, Shiguan chuji, 12.9a.
78
Deng Hanyi, Shiguan chuji, 12.8a.
79
Ruan Ji showed “the white of his eyes” to those whom he disdained and
“the dark pupils” to those whom he respected, see Fang Xuanling , et al., Jin
shu (Jin history) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1974), 49.1361. In Han Yu’s parable
on recognizing talent, a rare horse will suffer oblivion but for the discernment of the
connoisseur Bole, see his “Za shuo” (Miscellanies), in Han Yu xuanji
 women writers and gender boundaries 203

Since her worth is not recognized, she is ashamed to offer her beauty
and talent to the banal men of this indifferent world (l. 6). Another
poem addressed to Mao Xiang expresses loyalist lament,80 and sug-
gests that the sense of common political cause allows her to transcend
gender boundaries.
The combination of masculine self-image, personal lament, and
political engagement in Zhou Qiong’s poetry also obtains in some song
lyrics by Gu Zhenli, who more than the other poets under discussion
develops the idea of gender discontent. She was the older sister of the
poet Gu Zhenguan (b. 1637). Whatever little we know about
her life is derived from a handful of poems from anthologies and 160
surviving song lyrics included in Quan Qing ci (Complete Qing
ci). Textual evidence suggests that Gu’s marriage was unhappy.82
81

The best example of the fusion of gender discontent and engagement

with the contemporary crisis is probably the following song lyric.
To the tune “Man jiang hong”: Hearing of the
Alarm at the Chuhuang Station
I have always been one burdened by sorrow.
How to bear then—
Woe indeed—the spirit of autumn,
Especially when it is also
The time to return and send off another,
Climbing mountains and facing the water.
One sweep of horn music beyond the mist and
clouds,
Several rows of geese forming words in the
shimmer of waves.
I try to lean over the heights
To look for the former tower of adornment—
But who will stand by me?

(Selected writings of Han Yu), ed. Sun Changwu (Shanghai: Shanghai guji
chubanshe, 1996), 253–254.
80
Deng Hanyi, Shiguan chuji, 12.8b.
81
Xu Naichang’s 1896 anthology, Xiaotanluanshi huike guixiu ci shiji
(Collected song lyrics of boudoir talents from Xiaotanluan
Chamber: 10 volumes), in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings, includes Gu’s col-
lection, Qixiangge ci (Song lyrics from the Qixiang Pavilion), with 134 song
lyrics. The editors of Quan Qing ci: Shun Kang juan : (Complete Qing
song lyrics: the Shunzhi and Kangxi reigns), 20 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 2002)
glean other extant pieces from anthologies in the section on Gu Zhenli, 3755–3787.
82
There are almost no song lyrics addressed to her husband, and those sent to her
brother, female friends and relatives are much more passionate.
204 chapter six

The homeland of dreams is far off,

Letters are so distant.
I have, for half a year,
Taken leave of home.
I sigh that, here where the head of Wu meets the
end of Chu,83
In desolate freedom my solitude lodges.
By the River, vain is my pity for the singing girl’s
oblivious song,
In the boudoir, for naught the tears I shed for the
country.
Consider: the one in white clothes and grey scarf—
Why must she be lesser than men?
It has to be the jealousy of heaven.84
The song lyric begins with the polite male self-designation, pu
(literally servant, here translated as “I”). The first line alludes to Jiang
Yan’s (444–505) “Poetic Exposition on Regrets” . In that
earlier work, the line “I have always been one burdened by sorrow” is
a response to mortality and announces how the poet, shaken in spirit,
feels compelled to enumerate examples of regrets and sorrow through
the ages.85 The next few lines are derived from the “Nine Disquisi-
tions” attributed to Song Yu (ca. third century BCE): “Woe
indeed—the spirit of autumn / Climbing mountains and facing waters,
sending off those about to leave” /
.86 In “Nine Disquisitions,” following the diction of “Encounter-
ing Sorrow” , the poet laments mutability, and more specifically
talents and integrity not recognized by a world enmeshed in inverted
values. Through these allusions, Gu Zhenli moves beyond the standard
feminine diction of longing to claim universal significance for her lam-
entation. “Horn music” (l. 7) is the sound of battle, a reminder that

83
That is, the northern part of present-day Jiangxi province, where the kingdoms of
Chu and Wu shared their boundaries during the Spring and Autumn era.
84
Quan Qing ci: Shun Kang juan, 7:3761; Gu Zhenli, Qixiangge ci, in Xiaotanluan-
shi huike guixiu ci, 1.7a–b, in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
85
Jiang Yan, “Hen fu,” in Wenxuan (Selections of fine writings), ed. Xiao
Tong (Zhengzhou: Zhongzhou guji chuban she, 1990), 219–221.
86
“Jiu bian,” in Chuci jizhu (Collected annotations on the Songs of Chu),
ed. Zhu Xi (Hong Kong: Zhonghua shuju, 1987), 6.119. For an English translation of
the Chuci corpus, see David Hawkes, The Songs of the South: An Ancient Anthology of
Poems by Qu Yuan and Other Poets (New York: Penguin, 1985).
 women writers and gender boundaries 205

lament draws its power and pathos from deep engagement with the
contemporary crisis.87
The second stanza delineates the immediate context of the composi-
tion. In the coda to a song lyric to the tune “Manting fang” ,
dated to 1685, Gu Zhenli describes her early activities as poet when
she was in Chuhuang in 1640.88 Assuming “Man jiang hong: Hearing
of the Alarm at the Chuhuang Station” was written during that period,
she would have been a young wife newly married to Hou Jin ,
who worked as a minor official in Chuhuang. The image of a solitude
at once desolate and liberating (l. 17) suggests that her marriage was
unhappy. Further, personal unhappiness seems to merge with her sense
of helplessness (“vain,” “for naught”) as she faces calamitous dynastic
crisis (l. 18–19). In Du Mu’s (803–853?) famous quatrain, “The
singing girl, oblivious to the sorrow of losing one’s country, / Still
sings, across the River, ‘Flowers in the Rear Courtyard’ ”
/ .89 The song, identified with the court of the
last Chen ruler (r. 583–87), symbolizes sensual indulgence and politi-
cal irresponsibility. The contrast between the poet’s own all-too-keen
awareness of political changes and the singing girl’s blithe indiffer-
ence is in part gender-based. Here we have one woman mourning the
obliviousness of another. Further, while Du Mu, as one who frequents
the pleasure quarters of Qinhuai, is himself implicated in the world of
heedless pleasures, Gu Zhenli in the boudoir (guizhong ) is aloof
from such associations. (It is also possible to read line 18 as referring
to Du Mu, who is then juxtaposed with the poet in line 19.) The con-
trast between the smallness of her world and the depth of her feelings
is expressed in the juxtaposition of “boudoir” and “divine continent”

87
Dated to the early 1640s, this was written when disorder was engulfing the Ming
dynasty.
88
The coda to “New Year’s Day, 1685” ( ), to the tune “Man ting
fang”: “The new year of gengchen (1640) had just come around, and snow had been
falling heavily for ten days. At the time I was at the official residence at Chuhuang. We
fashioned fine phrases from the ice and snow, parsed rhymes and inscribed poems.
Forty years had passed as if in a dream.” This note appears only in Gu Zhenli, Qixi-
angge ci, 2.3a, in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings. It is not included in the
modern edition of Quan Qing ci. Gu Zhenli, newly married to Hou Jin, must have
followed him to take up office at Chuhuang and stayed there through the early 1640s.
Based on evidence from her other works, we may infer that although the partner in
matching rhymes could be her husband, it more likely refers to her friends.
89
Du Mu, “Mooring at Qinhuai” , in Fanchuan wenji (Collected
writings of Fanchuan [Du Mu]), ed. Chen Yunji (Shanghai: Shanghai guji
chubanshe, 1984), 70.
206 chapter six

(shenzhou , here translated as “country”) (l. 19)—it is a marker of

helplessness and implicit protest.
The lyric concludes with a resounding statement of gender discon-
tent: it must be the jealous heaven that constrains a woman’s existence
and decrees her subordination to men. “White clothes and grey scarf ”
(gaoyi qijin ) describes the beloved in a poem from the Shi-
jing (Mao 93). The description is neutral enough to have invited dif-
ferent interpretations—while most commentaries identify it with the
lady, some have linked it to the male speaker. In thus representing her-
self, Gu Zhenli may be deliberately refusing the ornate, sensuous dic-
tion of female adornment. Historical-political engagement and gender
discontent thus sustain and reinforce each other in this song lyric. The
beginning appropriation of male poets’ lamentation is an enabling act
that allows the lyric to unfold. At the same time the female perspec-
tive makes for heightened perception of vain endeavors in the throes
of national crisis by merging personal disappointments with political
lament.
Some of her song lyrics have no explicit political references but fur-
ther elaborate the poet’s discontent with gender roles: “Hair combed
and coiffed, / Tiny bow shoes and narrow sleeves—/ Habit has never
made them familiar” / / ;90 “I dread, fac-
ing the goddess of needlework, the address of disciple”
;91 “Tumbling chignon, teary style—/ What I cannot learn / Are the
modes of the boudoir. . . . Sickly, I am not equal to the grind of domestic
labor. / Lacking talent, dare I despise him who exists between heaven
and earth?” / / .... /
.92 She also wrote poems and song lyrics expressing
political lament without explicit references to gender. However, on
some level these two aspects of her writings reinforce each other.

90
Gu Zhenli, to the tune “Qin yuan chun” , Quan Qing ci, 7:3761.
91
Gu Zhenli, to the tune “Qin yuan chun,” Quan Qing ci, 7:3762.
92
Gu Zhenli, to the tune “Man jiang hong,” Quan Qing ci, 7:3785. A well-known
anecdote from Shishuo xinyu (19.26) tells of Xie Daoyun’s plight. Married to the medi-
ocre Wang Ningzhi , Xie Daoyun was resentful. Her uncle tried to mollify her,
arguing that Wang, after all, came from a distinguished family (he was Wang Xizhi’s
son) and had some redeeming qualities. Xie enumerated the talented men she
knew in her own family and concluded, “Little could I know that between heaven and
earth, there actually exists one such as Master Wang!” See Liu Yiqing, Shishuo xinyu
jiaojian, 2:377.
 women writers and gender boundaries 207

Women on Writing

For many women writers, the allure of the “masculine voice” lies in the
chance to rethink the meaning of writing. Gu Zhenli imagines how eval-
uation of her work is inseparable from the figure of a woman writing:
To the tune “Nanxiang zi”
The overnight frost is all gone.
Among sparse trees barren of leaves are rows of
geese.
Where my gaze rests—
On the Rivers Xiao and Xiang,
Endless mountains and rivers send off the setting sun.
I am ashamed to claim excellence in the arena of
songs—
None but compositions crafting feminine grief and
sorrow.
How can I have the Great River all turned into wine,
And let a thousand cups
Cleanse me of all heroic strivings and romantic
longings?93
The first half of the song lyric should not earn the judgment in line 7.
The mood is somber and evocative. Indeed, if the author of those first
five lines were, say, Wang Fuzhi (1619–1692) (who wrote
some beautiful song lyrics on the Xiao and Xiang Rivers), we would
not hesitate to read into them political, historical, even moral and phil-
osophical meanings. Line 7 may thus refer to Gu’s consciousness of
how she would be read as a woman poet. Her disclaimer is a mixture
of modesty, impatience, and frustration, which she can only counter
with the extravagant image of the Yangzi River turning into wine, a
thousand cups of which would wash away all heroic (yingxiong )
and romantic (ernü ) sentiments. The goal of purgation and self-
transformation is the definition of a new voice that “rises above” the
conventionally feminine.
For Liu Shu, who sought in vain to turn the tide of history, the
escape from failure and futility is sought in writing. The following song
lyric imagines a redemptive moment of creation:

93
Quan Qing ci, 7:3771. This song lyric is dated to 1672. In the preface, Gu Zhenli
mentions that she composed this song lyric on the occasion of an excursion to Xiguan
in the company of her cousin, Madame Zhang.
208 chapter six

To the tune “Qingping yue”: Lotus

Blood that has been draining for years
Still trickles on the tip of the blossoms.
Shimmering light has first moistened the heaven-
marking brush:
Just use it to record the unsung heroes of unofficial
history.
On these emerald sheets I read endless drafts of
chapters—
They come unbidden, falling into place line upon
line.
And then dispersal: a pond of mist and clouds,
Leaving in vain the scent that rises with the water
and the moon.94

In this startling vision, the red lotus drips with blood from years of
war and devastation. The stalk of the lotus is compared to a brush
making its marks on heaven. This brush is writing on the lotus leaves,
which unfold as chapters with “line upon line” falling into place. The
juxtaposition of violence and writing, futility and creation that we
have examined in other poems is here condensed in the one image
of the lotus. This is a history dripping with blood, but the lines that
fall into place on the lotus leaves give form, order, and meaning to
this violence. Its subject is “the unsung heroes of unofficial history”
(l. 4), among whom Liu Shu may well count herself. The poet emerges
as the person who lives, writes, and reads this history. The sense of
power and agency embodied by the “heaven-marking brush,” how-
ever, is dispersed through the Buddhist images of the last two lines.
The vision may be no more than subjective illumination, but it is also
no less than that.
Of the writers we considered, Wang Duanshu wrote most exten-
sively and self-reflexively on the idea of the writing woman. Deliberate
revisionism is evident in the following example.
Poem About Losing a Fan
The master of mountains and waters is indeed
steeped in learning,
But her literary mind has long been tethered to
the east wind.

94
Liu Shu, Geshan yiji, 6.2a–2b.
 women writers and gender boundaries 209

Her talents lofty, her spirit defiant, she disdains gain

and fame,
Glad to pursue the scented orchid in the secluded
valley.
By chance good lines came to her, and she wrote
them on a fan:
One petal of a plum blossom, fluttering down with
spring.
Do you not see:
Sengyao painted the dragon, rousing thunder and
rain.
Zimei completed his poem, to the shock of gods and
spirits.
At Yanping Ford the sword vanished, transformed
into a dragon.
Lingwei must have become an immortal—he came
as a crane.
Only now do I know that a divine object cannot be
retained—
The feelings of separation came over us, not
because autumn meant the fan’s abandonment.95
“The Song of Resentment” or , attributed to the Han pal-
ace lady Ban Jieyu , uses the fan as a metonymy for the female
poetic persona.96 Fashioned from white silk, it symbolizes purity and
constancy. Its roundness conveys the hope for lasting union. Assured
a place in the lover’s sleeve during warm weather, its fate is less certain
when autumn comes:
Abandoned and left in a coffer,
Love and regard cut off midway.

To be “discarded like the fan in autumn” (qiushan jianjuan )

comes to be the idiomatic equivalent for the abandoned woman.
Wang Duanshu declares categorically that the prototype of autum-
nal abandonment does not apply—it cannot, since she is both the
fan and its owner. Instead, separation is inevitable because the fan
has become a “divine object” through the inscription of her poem.

95
Wang Duanshu, Yinhonji, 5.2b–3a.
96
In Xian Qin Han Wei Jin Nanbeichao shi (Poems from
the Qin, Han, Wei, Jin, and Northern and Southern dynasties), ed. Lu Qinli
(Taipei: Muduo chubanshe, 1982), 116–117. Stephen Owen discusses the issues sur-
rounding this problematic attribution in The Making of Early Chinese Classical Poetry
(Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006), 223–224.
210 chapter six

Numinous power cannot be accommodated by mundane reality: thus

the sword that once belonged to a master of esoteric knowledge leaps
into Yanping Ford and turns into a dragon,97 and Ding Lingwei
, having attained immortality, returns as a crane to his hometown
after a thousand year absence.98 Wang pointedly implies an analogy
between her fan and other examples of magical transformation in aes-
thetic creation: the Liang painter Zhang Sengyao (fl. early sixth
century, l. 8) desists from dotting the eyes of dragons he paints on
a wall, claiming that they will break through the walls and fly away
once endowed with spirit through painted eyes.99 Another anecdote
tells how the dragons Sengyao paints on a beam in a temple in Kuaiji
honoring the sage king Yu would fly into Mirror Lake and fight with
other dragons during stormy nights.100 Line 9 turns Du Fu’s praise
of Li Bo (701–762) into an image for Du’s own poetry. Du Fu
(Zimei ) often uses images of cosmic transformation to eulogize
other poets, most notably Li Bo:
Your brush descends, rousing wind and rain,
Your poem completed: gods and spirits weep.101

In referring to his own poetic creation, Du Fu conjoins the notion of

numinous power with an ironic sense of futility:
Aware only that in my soaring song, there are gods
and spirits,

97
Fang Xuanling, Jin shu, 36.1075–1076.
98
Soushen houji (In search of the supernatural: later records), 1.442,
in Han Wei Liuchao biji xiaoshuo daguan (Compendium
of fiction and miscellanies from the Han, Wei, and Six Dynasties), ed. Wang Genlin
, et al. (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1999).
99
Zhang Yanyuan , Lidai minghua ji (A record of famous
paintings through the ages), 7.7a–8a, in Yingyin Wenyuange Siku quanshu, vol. 812.
100
When people see that the beam is dripping wet and covered with aquatic plants,
they realize what happened and put heavy chains over the painted dragon. See Luo
Jun (fl. twelfth–thirteenth century), Baoqing Siming zhi (Gazetteer
of Siming in Boqing county [in Sichuan]) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1995),
12.16a–16b.
101
Du Fu, “To Li Bai, in Twenty Rhymes” , in Dushi xiangzhu,
8.438. See also his lines addressed to the poets Gao Shi and Cen Shen :
“The meaning, so apt, seems to soar in flight, / The poems, by the end, merge with
cosmic vastness” / (Dushi xiangzhu, 8.427); “Listening to Xu
Shiyi Chanting His Poems at Night” : “His subtlety pierces cosmic
creation, / his forcefulness overwhelms thunder” / (Dushi
xiangzhu, 3.225).
 women writers and gender boundaries 211

How would I know, being starved to death, my

body is to fill ditch and gully?102
This many-colored brush once took on the highest
powers,
Now my white head, chanting and gazing, is sunk
low in sorrow.103

Here Wang Duanshu combines the idea of numinous power not with
the irony of futile striving—although that concern surfaces in other
poems by her—but with playful spontaneity. The good lines came to
her “by chance,” as effortlessly as the fluttering descent of a flower
petal (l. 5–6), perhaps because, despite being “steeped in learning”
(l. 1), she has bowed to the whims of the east wind (l. 2)—she has thus
transcended the conventional opposition between tradition and indi-
viduality, learning and intuition in ideas about poetic creation.
In this celebration of a “second innocence” consequent upon pro-
found self-awareness, mastery of tradition, and a quest that mytholo-
gizes the power of words, Wang may also be taking her cue from Du
Fu. In the first two lines of “The Water on the River Happened to
Gather Momentum Like the Sea, So I Casually Gave a Short Account”
,104 Du Fu famously declares,
Of a nature perverse, I am obsessed with good lines:
If my words do not startle, unto death I will not let go.

Yet in what follows he claims that with old age comes a new ease, free-
dom, and spontaneity in writing poetry, and there is no further need
for deliberate craft and extravagant emotions (l. 3–4). Wang Duanshu
may be mediating the same opposites in her “mythologization” of her
own poetry—in doing so she turns the lost fan from an old trope of
female powerlessness into a symbol of aesthetic agency and a venue for
defining her own literary genealogy.
In Wang Duanshu’s corpus, many poems (and all the song lyrics)
are written in a conventionally feminine style. But that represents

102
Du Fu, “Drunken Song” , in Dushi xiangzhu, 3.187.
103
Du Fu, “Autumn Meditations: Eight Poems” , eighth poem, in Dushi
xiangzhu, 17.873–874.
104
Du Fu, Dushi xiangzhu, 10.516. The title already announces the fusion of natu-
ralness with a labored aesthetics of wonder.
212 chapter six

a stylistic choice rather than a biologically or culturally determined

venue: her “hyper-feminine” poems entitled “Imitating the Poetic
105
Style of Boudoir Ladies to Invite a Smile” seem to
have been a poetic exercise done half in jest. The title of her anthol-
ogy, Mingyuan shiwei (Complementary canon of poetry by notable
women), drawing on images of woof and warp, indicates her inten-
tion to define a body of writing by women that can complement or
supplement canonical classics of poetry by men—a point taken up in
Qian Qianyi’s preface when he eulogizes the anthology as being “both
canonical classic and history” (yijing yishi ). Self-reflexivity
in women’s poetry thus often comes with aspirations to transcend gen-
der boundaries. To dwell on the importance of writing almost always
means aspiring to the transcendent meanings and literary immortality
held out as a promise by the cultural tradition. In doing so, women
poets avail themselves of both male and female literary models, often
moving beyond their customary social roles in an expanding imagina-
tive space.

Conclusion

Swords, real, imaginary, or metaphorical, continue to define an

important tradition in the voice of women poets in the Chinese tra-
dition. Between these seventeenth century writers and Qiu Jin
(1875–1907) are nineteenth century writers like Wu Zao (ca.
1796–ca. 1862), Shen Shanbao (1808–1862), Tan Yinmei (fl.
late eighteenth century), Wu Shangxi (1808–?), Zuo Xijia
(1831–1896), and Zuo Xixuan (1829–after 1891), who
in some of their poems use similar heroic gestures. Sometimes they
continue to complain about the constraints of being a woman, and
many of them were also responding to war and devastation. As Susan
Mann demonstrates in her chapter, mid-nineteenth century turmoil
produced a great wave of women writers concerned with affairs of the
public domain, and the political and historical engagement in these
writings encompasses a spectrum of perspectives on China’s decline.
This range persists into the late Qing: thus the revolutionary fervor
of Qiu Jin finds a less radical counterpart in Xue Shaohui’s

105
Wang Duanshu, Yinhong ji, 9.4b.
 women writers and gender boundaries 213

(1866–1911) chronicle of political reforms, as Qian Nanxiu shows in

her discussion.
Several factors, working in various combinations, converge to
explain our examples. The experience of war and political disorder
raises perennial questions of human agency and limits. For some
women writers it also creates or heightens the real and imagined space
for heroic aspirations and endeavor, political engagement, and histori-
cal understanding. This is sometimes linked to discontent with gender
roles, or at least self-conscious ruminations on their meanings. There
are concomitant (and possibly related) changes in the rhetoric of
friendship (between women and between men and women). Beyond
affinities in sensibility, there is a new emphasis on political, intellectual,
and spiritual common ground, sometimes tied to an implied sense of
“common cause” (or a shared experience of national calamity). This is
also a self-reflexive moment: the women writers we discussed all dwell
on what it means to write and to write as a woman. In some cases the
gestures are grandiose, even mythologizing. It may be that the tradi-
tion of women’s writings had by that moment become “ripe” enough
for it to “turn on itself ”—that is, certain recognized feminine traits
had become standard enough to be challenged, allowing the tradi-
tion to renew itself. Our evidence suggests, however, that responses to
political disorder were decisive in shaping new directions in women’s
writings. In this sense, the writers discussed here, as well as in the
chapters by Mann, Hu, and Qian, embody the ideal of the “poet-histo-
rian,” whose poetic self-definition is realized in witnessing, remember-
ing, and understanding the momentous changes and challenges that
China faced at critical junctures.
 CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAN FRIENDS: POETIC EXCHANGES BETWEEN

GENTRY WOMEN AND BUDDHIST NUNS IN
SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY CHINA

Beata Grant

There is a long tradition in China of intellectual and literary, not to

mention religious, friendships between Buddhist monks and male lite-
rati. Indeed, as has been persuasively demonstrated in recent stud-
ies by religious historians such as Albert Welter, Mark Halperin and
Jiang Wu, lay literati have played a major role in the shaping of Chi-
nese Buddhism.1 This was particularly true of Chan Buddhism, which,
despite its often touted ideals of spontaneity and “non-dependence on
words” (buli wenzi ), was largely a textual creation of the
Song dynasty onwards. As Jiang Wu puts it, “In general, Chan monks
and the literati lived in a shared textual culture that regarded Bud-
dhist texts, especially Chan texts, as part of a textually constructed
antiquity.”2 It stands to reason, then, that in the late imperial period,
an educated gentry woman (guixiu ), aspiring to a more active
participation in the larger textual community beyond the boudoir,
might find a place for Buddhist texts—and Buddhist monastics—in
her literary life.
Personal Buddhist devotional piety had, of course, always been a
part of gentry women’s lives, and this certainly continued in the late
imperial period. This form of religious engagement was tolerated, if not
always completely approved of, by Confucian fathers and husbands, as
long as it remained within the domestic sphere. What was frowned
upon was any activity that entailed transgressing these boundaries,

1
See Mark Halperin, Out of the Cloister: Literati Perspectives on Buddhism in Sung
China, 960–1279 (Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2006); Albert Wel-
ter, Monks, Rulers, and Literati: The Political Ascendancy of Chan Buddhism (Oxford:
Oxford University Press, 2006); and Jiang Wu, Enlightenment in Dispute: The Rein-
vention of Chan Buddhism in Seventeenth-Century China (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2008).
2
Wu, Enlightenment in Dispute, 251.
216 chapter seven

whether this involved leaving the inner quarters to go on pilgrim-

age or visit temples, or allowing Buddhist nuns from outside to enter
the home. There was an especially strong social disapproval (often
reinforced, although usually unsuccessfully, by government bans) of
women traveling outside the home to visit temples and monasteries.3
This social disapproval also extended to Buddhist nuns visiting the
homes of laywomen, well illustrated by the ubiquitous figure in fiction
and drama of the (usually) elderly nun who, along with matchmakers,
fortunetellers and other women of dubious character (the so-called
sangu liupo ), was accused of introducing illicit and contami-
nating ideas and behaviors into the sanctity of the inner quarters. Nor
is this negative description confined to fiction. The noted seventeenth-
century poet and scholar-official Zhu Yizun (1629–1709), for
example, in a piece composed in honor of an aunt’s 80th birthday,
lauds the elderly woman for having spent her widowhood securely
cloistered in the inner chambers “without once having left to look out
from the gate.” Not only that, Zhu adds with undisguised admiration,
she has also made sure that no unsavory types ever set foot in her
quarters:
There are an especially large number of vulgar and clever-tongued Bud-
dhist bhiksunīs in the Wu-Yue area. They are constantly going in and out
of the women’s quarters, and they are particularly skilled at establish-
ing relationships with widows. My aunt was one of the few who firmly
resisted them, saying: “Once one becomes involved with this type, then
the words of the inner household will be taken out across the threshold.”
For this reason, not a trace of a nun could be found in [her] halls.4
Zhu’s aunt, lauded by her nephew for her exemplary adherence to
the proper Confucian norms of female behavior, not only kept nuns
out of her house, but appears to have eschewed anything at all to do
with Buddhist belief or practice. More common, perhaps, was the
containment of one’s Buddhist interests or inclinations within proper
Confucian (i.e. domestic) boundaries. In a biography written by the

3
For an excellent discussion of this question, see Vincent Goossaert, “Irrepress-
ible Female Piety: Late Imperial Bans on Women Visiting Temples,” Nan Nü: Men,
Women and Gender in China 10.2 (2008): 212–241.
4
Zhu Yizun, “Shumu He taijun bashi shou xu” (Preface for
the eightieth birthday of my aunt, the Great Lady He), Pushuting ji (Collec-
tion of Pushu Pavilion), Guoxue jiben congshu , ed. Wang Yunwu
, vol. 22 (Taibei: Taiwan shangwu yinshuguan, 1968), 689.
 chan friends 217

late-Ming literatus Wang Shizhen (1526–90) for the mother

of a Confucian literatus acquaintance of his, for example, we are told
that not only did she chant the Heart Sūtra on a regular basis, but she
was also an avid reader of Buddhist texts who “grasped the essential
meaning” (tong dayi ) of these texts, and had “a clear under-
standing of the principles of Buddhism” (ming foli ). However,
like Zhu’s aunt, she was decidedly “not fond of those witches, crones
and bhiksunīs going in and out of the inner chambers.” Her fastidious-
ness is further reflected in the fact that although she would occasion-
ally copy out Buddhist gāthās, as soon as she had done so, she would
immediately order her servants to burn them, saying that “it was not
proper to leave any traces of her handiwork for other people to see.”5
It is important to remember, however, that it was not only proper
gentry women who did not welcome nuns into their quarters; proper
nuns were not supposed to encourage gentry women to visit them in
their monastic quarters either. The regulations for nuns of the Xiaoyi
Convent in Hangzhou, which during the late Ming was often
regarded as a model of female monastic discipline, placed particular
emphasis on strictly regulating the amount and the nature of contact
that the nuns had with the outside world, including with laywomen.6
“. . . Only when a female guest has a proper reason for entering, should
the gate be opened to her” reads one of these regulations.7 It was also
forbidden for nuns “to travel far to places such as Tiantai and
Putuo and to join gatherings of women on boat excursions on

5
Wang Shizhen, “Wu yiren zhuan” (Biography of Lady of Suitability
Wu), in Yanzhou shanren xugao (Further Drafts of Yanzhou shanren),
Mingren wenji zongkan , ed. Shen Yunlong , vol. 22 (Taibei:
Wenhai chubanshe, 1970), 79.23/p. 3895.
6
The Xiaoyi Convent was associated with the nun Zhujin (courtesy name
Taisu ) née Tang . She had originally been married to a fellow Hangzhou-
native surnamed Shen , who, however, left her to become a monk and one of the
great Buddhist masters of the late Ming, Yunqi Zhuhong (1535–1615). Lady
Tang, who was only nineteen sui at the time, refused to remarry and finally, at
the age of 47, took the tonsure herself. In time, she became the abbess of the Xiaoyi
Convent and attracted many women disciples. She was particularly known for her
monastic discipline as well as her single-minded practice of the combination of Chan
and Pure Land practices advocated by Yunqi Zhuhong. She died at the age of 67 in
1614, a year before her ex-husband’s death. For more on Yunqi Zhuhong, see Yu
Chün-fang, The Renewal of Buddhism in China: Chu-hung and the Late Ming Synthesis
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1981).
7
Xiaoyian lu (Records of Xiaoyi Convent), Congshu jicheng xinbian
, ed. Wang Deyi and Li Shuzhen , vol. 49 (Taibei: Xin-
wenfeng chuban gongsi, 1989), 819.
218 chapter seven

the lake.”8 Even fellow monastics from outside were viewed with sus-
picion: “If there is a nun who comes from a distant place with whom
you are not familiar, she must not be allowed to enter or stay in the
convent.”9
It would appear then, that “proper women”—whether nuns or gen-
try women—were ideally meant to live in parallel worlds of enclosure,
with no direct contact between them. If this were actually the case, it
would mean that friendships between such women would be relatively
rare. However, the gap between the prescriptive and the actual being
what it always is, such relationships were in fact not at all uncommon.
One place where the evidence for this can be found is in the poetry
left by both types of women, and it is this poetry that will serve as the
primary basis for the discussion that follows. Most of my examples will
be drawn from the late Ming and early Qing, since this is, of course,
the period in which educated women began to read and to write and
publish as never before. Anthologies of women’s poetry also included
Buddhist nun-poets among their selections. Of particular interest are
the poems by nuns included in one of the first and most important
anthologies of women’s writings, the Mingyuan shiwei
(Complementay canon of poetry by notable women) compiled in 1667
by the woman writer Wang Duanshu (1621–ca. 1680).
The late Ming and early Qing also saw a virtual explosion of com-
mercial printing and publishing, including Buddhist publishing. Liter-
ally hundreds of Buddhist texts were printed and circulated, including
genealogical histories and discourse records ( yulu ) of both the
great Tang- and Song-dynasty Chan masters and more contemporary
teachers as well. In fact, a significant number of Buddhist nuns and
laywomen were very much involved in sponsoring the collection, carv-
ing, and printing of some of these texts, many of which found their
way into the private libraries of literati families of the period. Not only
that, they also found their way into the inner quarters of these families
where, as Qian Qianyi (1582–1664) remarks with clear disap-
proval, “discourse records and gāthās can be found in their dressing
cases, all jumbled up together with rouge and powders.”10 Qian Qianyi
was supportive of literary women—as is well known, he shocked many

8
Xiaoyian lu, 819.
9
Xiaoyian lu, 819.
10
Qian Qianyi, “Zuotuo biqiuni Chaoyin taming” (Stupa
inscription for the nun Chaoyin who attained liberation seated [in meditation]), in
 chan friends 219

of his fellow literati by wedding the poet-courtesan Liu Rushi

(1618–64). Qian also considered himself a lay Buddhist, although as a
follower of Yunqi Zhuhong, his sympathies clearly lay with the strict
segregation of the secular and the religious reflected in the regulations
for the nuns of Xiaoyi Convent.
Not only did a fair number of literary women read and even pen
commentaries on these “discourse records and gāthās,” they also
sought out others, including nuns, with whom to discuss them. Like
many of their male literati counterparts, these women did not regard
friendship with Buddhist nuns or engagement with Buddhist texts to
be anathema to their standing as proper women. On the contrary, like
their male literati counterparts, they appear to have found these con-
nections to be a source of intellectual and aesthetic, if not spiritual,
inspiration that enriched and supplemented but did not necessarily
replace their primarily Confucian allegiances. For women, as for many
of their male literati counterparts, Buddhist monasteries and monas-
tics as well as Buddhist teachings, represented, although not without
controversy, yet another option for those caught up in the trauma and
turmoil that accompanied the fall of the Ming dynasty.11 It is this com-
plex intertwining of the political, the aesthetic and the religious, which
has been explored in some detail in the case of male literati but rarely
in the case of educated women that I wish to explore more fully in
this chapter.12 Because it is a large topic, my focus will be on women’s
poetry of this period written to, by, and about female Buddhist monas-
tics. In particular, I am interested in the poetic relationships between
women of the inner chambers, the so-called guixiu, and women who
left home and entered the religious life.
The term “Chan friends” (chanyou ), found in many male lite-
rati writings from the Tang dynasty onwards, appears in an edito-
rial note to a letter written by the seventeenth-century woman poet
Shen Hui (courtesy name Lanfang ) to her friend Gui
Shufen (courtesy name Suying ). The male compilers of

Muzhai youxue ji (Muzhai’s collection of having learning) (Taibei: Tai-

wan Shangwu yinshuguan, 1979), 508.
11
Wai-yee Li, “Introduction,” in Trauma and Transcendence in Early Qing Litera-
ture, ed. Wilt L. Idema, Wai-yee Li, and Ellen Widmer (Cambridge, MA, and London:
Harvard University Press, 2006), 2.
12
For recent discussions of this complicated interface in the case of male literati,
see Li, “Introduction,” especially pp. 10–12 and, in this same volume, Lawrence C. H.
Yim, “Loyalism, Exile, Poetry: Revisiting the Monk Hanke,” 149–198.
220 chapter seven

the collection of letters in which this text is found write that Shen
Hui had four types of friends: poetry friends (shiyou ), painting
friends (danqing you ), calligraphy friends (shufa you )
and, finally, Chan-discussing friends (tan Chanyou ).”13 In this
last category is placed the woman Chan master Yikui Chaochen
(1625–1679), who, before entering the religious life and becom-
ing a Chan master, had been a young gentry-woman poet much like
both Shen Hui and Gui Shufen.14 Although I have so far been unable
to locate any extant poems written by Shen Hui to Yikui Chaochen
(or vice-versa), we do have a song-lyric composed by Gui Shufen, in
which she describes a visit to Yikui Chaochen’s Cantong Con-
vent, which was located in Jiaxing , Zhejiang province. Gui’s song
lyric reads as follows:
Blanketed by Dharma clouds,
Encircled by twin streams,
The new edifice gleams.
The pavilion towers are lofty,
A solitary lamp shines in the distance,
Sanskrit chants reach all the way to the
flowery banks.
The fragrance of the cassia circles around,
We summon the recluse to be our
companion here
In this deep valley, this secluded place.
I used to come here in my imagination to
amuse myself,
My dream-spirit wandering about—I have
not heard from you in so long.
The invalid is the most listless;
At dusk I call Lianlian [the maid] to dust
off the ancient ink stone,
Then I peruse my books, reciting until my
eyes grow dim
When winter ends and spring comes
I again come to the Chan convent.

13
Shen Hui, “Gui Suying Gao furen wen zuoshu fa” (In
reply to the questions of Gui Suoying, Madame Gao, about calligraphy methods), in
Chidu xinyu (Modern letters), ed. Wang Qi (1668), 3a–4b.
14
For a detailed biography and discussion of Yikui Chaochen, see Beata Grant,
Eminent Nuns: Women Chan Masters of Seventeenth-Century China (Honolulu: Uni-
versity of Hawai’i Press, 2008), especially chapters 3 and 4.
 chan friends 221

This time as I climb up to the hall,

And slowly stroll through this women’s
monastery
My pent-up emotions enjoy a measure of
release.
In the green shade, I listen to the warbling
of the yellow orioles.15
The15allusion to summoning the recluse in the first stanza of this song-
lyric has, of course, a long resonating history that goes back to the
Han dynasty poem “Summoning the Recluse” which was later
included in the Chuci (Elegies of Chu). In this lyric, it is the
abbess of the Cantong Convent, Yikui Chaochen, who is being sum-
moned from her reclusive hideaway, and in particular, in the words of
Yikui Chaochen herself, from “the cassia railings of its secluded cham-
bers, the winding halls of its tiny rooms; and beyond the kiosks by the
ponds the waterside pavilions, flowering plants and slender bamboo.”16
In the winter of 1656, Yikui Cantong had taken up residence in the
Cantong Convent, which her brother had built especially for her. It
would not be long, however, before her reputation as a Chan master
began to spread. And so it is with a certain nostalgia that in this same
text, she goes on to recall how in the early days “there were only six
or seven women living in the convent; and I was able to fully enjoy
the pleasure of [living in] the woods. The white clouds sealed the gates
and it was quiet and tranquil with no one around.”17
Yikui Chaochen was proud, however, of being able to add new
buildings to her convent, including the pavilion that Gui Shufen has
gone to see and to admire. It would appear from the last line of the
first stanza that Yikui Chaochen and Gui Shufen engaged in epistolary
or poetic exchanges, although Gui complains that it has been a long
time since she has received a letter from the abbess. Because she is ill,
however, she cannot go in person to call on the nun, and so resorts

15
Gui Shufen, “Rao Foge: Delighting Over the Newly-Built Dabei Tower at the
Cantong Convent” : , in Guixiu cichao (Song
lyrics by boudoir talents), ed. Xu Naichang , 4.5a–b.
16
Yikui Chaochen, “Zixu xinglüe shun tu” (A brief autobiographi-
cal account written to instruct my disciples), Yikui chanshi yulu
(Discourse records of Chan master Cantong Yikui), Mingban Jiaxing Dazangjing
(Ming edition of the Jiaxing Buddhist Canon), vol. 39 (Taibei: Xin-
wenfeng, 1987), 18a.
17
Yikui Chaochen, “Zixu xinglüe shun tu,” 8a.
222 chapter seven

to dreams and woyou (recumbent or armchair travel ). Male lite-

rati traditionally engaged in woyou when they were too ill or too old
to physically take the journey; for women, however, woyou was often
regarded as the only “proper” mode of travel, since it did not entail
leaving the inner quarters.18 Gui Shufen in her poem, however, both
recalls a visit she made there in the past and anticipates another excur-
sion to the convent with her friends once spring has come and she has
recovered from illness. In fact, it is only there on the physical grounds
of the Cantong Convent, that her “pent-up emotions [can] enjoy a
measure of release.” In other words, Gui Shufen’s pleasure in visit-
ing this “female monastery” and conversing with its highly-educated
abbess was equivalent to the pleasure male literati had long derived
from visiting with refined monks in elegant monastic surroundings.
However, it was not always, or perhaps even primarily, aesthetic
pleasure that guixiu found in the company of their Buddhist monastic
women friends. During the political and social turmoil of the Ming-
Qing transition when so many women suffered dislocation and often,
the premature loss of husbands and other family members, Buddhist
nuns and convents offered to many a friendship and solace they could
not always find elsewhere. Moreover, since during this period a number
of gentry women entered the convent after become prematurely wid-
owed, it was not unusual for there to be familial connections between
laywomen and the Buddhist nuns they visited or with whom they cor-
responded. An example is the friendship between the nun Guxu ,
also known by the religious name of Jingyin , and the celebrated
woman poet Shang Jinglan (1604–ca. 1680). We do not know
very much about Guxu, apart from the fact that she was a native of
Nanjing, and had married into the Shang family. Her husband suffered
a premature death (very likely in the turmoil surrounding the fall of
the Ming, perhaps even as a loyalist martyr), after which she became
not only a nun, but apparently also an “eminent master” (dashi ),
with a reputation for both her spiritual achievements and her poetic

18
The term woyou is believed to have been first used by the painter Zong Bing
(375–443), who after a lifetime of traveling to a wide range of famous scenic
mountains and rivers, when old and ailing, resorted to imaginary travel with the aid
of paintings and a purified mind. See Susan Bush, “Tsung Ping’s Essay on Painting
Landscape and the ‘Landscape Buddhism’ of Mount Lu,” in Theories of the Arts in
China, ed. Susan Bush and Christian Murck (Princeton: Princeton University Press,
1983), 132–164, especially p. 137.
 chan friends 223

talents. Wang Duanshu includes a poem by this nun in her anthology

of women’s writings, and in her brief biographical notice praises her as
someone who “because of her mastery of Chan teaching, [composed]
poetry of sublime elegance and simplicity.”19
Shang Jinglan composed at least two song lyrics to Guxu, both of
which are infused with a somewhat somber melancholy that bespeaks
more than a passing acquaintance. Like Wang Duanshu, Shang Jinglan
was an immensely accomplished woman who wrote, painted, and orga-
nized poetry gatherings and excursions for her women friends and
relatives. She had also suffered a great tragedy, however, when in 1645,
her loyalist husband, the noted scholar-official and writer Qi Biaojia
(1602–1645), committed suicide after Nanjing and Hangzhou fell
into the hands of the Manchu troops.20 The first of Shang Jinglan’s two
song lyrics, written to the tune of “Yi Qin’e” is titled “Parting
from Eminent Master Guxu in the Snow” :
Vain longing,
The slender hang of willows tussle in the wind
Tussle in the wind
Space: the roads are distant;
Time: like an arrow it flies.
Night moon in the inner quarters, frozen light in
the hall,
A perverse wind shreds the goose-feather
snowflakes,
The goose-feather snowflakes,
Swirling ceaselessly about:
When will we meet again?21
Shang Jinglan’s second song lyric, written to the tune “Su zhongq-
ing” is titled “On a Snowy Night, Thinking about the Woman
Monastic Guxu” :21

19
Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei (1667), 26.11a, in Fong, ed., Ming-Qing
Women’s Writings, http://digital.library.mcgill.ca/mingqing/.
20
Qi Biaojia himself engaged in a number of Buddhist practices, including sūtra-
chanting and fangsheng (releasing life). See Joanna Handlin Smith, “Benevolent Soci-
eties: The Reshaping of Charity During the Late Ming and Early Qing,” Journal of
Asian Studies 46.2 (1987): 309–337.
21
Shang Jinglan, Jinnang shiyu , in Xiaotanluan shi huike guixiu ci
(Joint publication of song lyrics by one hundred boudoir talents
from the Xiaotanluan Chamber), ed. Xu Naichang (Nanling, 1896), 7a, in Fong, ed.,
Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
224 chapter seven

I stand awhile for no reason by the latticed

window;
The shadows of the swirling catkins join the sky,
Piled up on the meditation mat, three feet of snow,
How much Chan has she been able to penetrate?
Blossoms about to burst open,
The crows are still cold:
Who feels for them?
Songs flutter in the white snow,
Reeds turn into bamboo flowers,
Frost tinges the hair at one’s temples.22
In the first of these two song lyrics, the setting is the poet’s own home
which feels cold and solitary, in part because of the snow and cold, in
part because of the sadness of parting with a friend. And of course,
underlying it all there is an existential angst that infuses all of space
and time. In the second song-lyric, we see the poet standing at the
window looking out at the swirling snow and imagining her monastic
friend in her more austere surroundings, her meditation mat covered
with snow. Whether it is empathy or pity that she feels is difficult to
say: most likely it was a mixture of the two.
This poetic posture of anticipating, or imagining, a visit with a
chanyou appears as well in the poem written by Master Guxu that
Wang Duanshu chose to include in her anthology. The anticipated
visitor in this case is the celebrated woman poet Huang Yuanjie
(courtesy name Huang Jieling , ca. 1620–ca. 1669). Huang
Yuanjie, a committed Ming loyalist, had been separated from her fam-
ily during the dislocation of the times, and was forced to support her-
self through the sale of her poems and paintings, and the generosity
of her many friends. She lived with a number of these friends, includ-
ing the women poets Liu Rushi, Wu Shan (fl. mid seventeenth
century), and Shang Jinglan herself. It may well have been during the
time Huang Yuanjie had traveled by boat to stay with Shang Jinglan
in the mid-1650s that Master Guxu wrote the following pentasyllabic
poem, entitled “Paying a Visit to Huang Jieling, but Not Finding Her
In” :
From afar I hear this distinguished guest has come;
Her boat’s double oars cutting through the river wind.
Friends in the Way are bound together from the start;

22
Shang Jinglan, Jinnang shiyu, 8a–8b.
 chan friends 225

Hearts set on Chan—to whom can one speak of this?

Clouds shift: shadows are cast on chilled sleeves;
Blossoms fall: the little pond is tinged with red.
When I do not see your solitary skiff returning,
I entrust my melancholy to the colors of dusk?23
Here Guxu is utilizing a very old poetic theme, of which Jia Dao’s
(779–843) “Seeking the Recluse and Not Finding Him In”
is undoubtedly the most well known. As Paula Varsano notes,
one of the characteristics of this theme is that the disappointment at
not finding the person one seeks at home is in the end transformed
into the “strange, peaceful exhilaration of a poet’s momentary brush
with enlightenment.”24 It is interesting to note that Jia Dao began
life as a Buddhist monk but later left the monastic life in order to
become an active participant in Han Yu’s poetic circles. Guxu, on
the other hand, as a young woman and wife, probably participated
actively in the networks of women poets that included Shang Jing-
lang and Huang Yuanjie before she became a widow and entered the
religious life. Another reversal can be seen in Gu Xu’s poem itself:
whereas traditionally it is a male literatus or layman who seeks out
a recluse or holy person, in this case it is the Buddhist nun, already
herself a Chan master, who seeks out the company of the laywoman
Huang Yuanjie. The roles are reversed, but in both cases, the initial
impulse is to find a chanyou, or in Guxu’s case, a daolü (friend
in the Way), with whom to discuss more transcendent matters. Guxu
may have once been a fellow guixiu, or even a relative by marriage,
but as a Buddhist nun what she now seeks is a spiritual friend. What
is noteworthy, however, is that she seeks this friendship not within
her own immediate monastic circle, but rather across the boundary,
however porous, between inner and outer, religious and lay, past and
present—a boundary represented poetically in her poem by the river
itself, which while it marks a division, also affords the possibility of
crossing and, by extension, of communication. It is also worth not-
ing that for Guxu, an acknowledged Chan master and thus someone
who presumably has already had a formally confirmed enlightenment
experience, the disappointment at not finding Huang Yuanjie at home

23
Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, 26.11a.
24
Paula Varsano, “Looking for the Recluse and Not Finding Him In: The Rhetoric
of Silence in Early Chinese Poetry,” Asia Major 12.2 (1999): 39–70, see p. 39.
226 chapter seven

is transmuted into a melancholy which in turn is “entrusted” to the

colors of dusk and allowed to return to its source.
Guxu and Shang Jinglan were related by marriage. Wang Duan-
shu’s relationship to the nun Yizhen was an even closer one:
Yizhen was her elder sister, known before she entered the religious
life as Wang Jingshu , and also acclaimed for her poetry. She
had married Chen Shurang , a son of the official, scholar and
playwright, Chen Ruyuan (fl. ca. 1600). Chen Shurang lost his
life in the turmoil of the fall of the Ming and his widow was forced
to flee, together with her mother-in-law and a three-year old son, to
the mountains for safety. Later, Wang Duanshu would compose a
piece entitled “Song of Suffering, Written in the Voice of Elder Sis-
ter Zhen” , in which she vicariously relives her elder
sister’s ordeals.25 It is here that we learn that, vulnerable and far from
home, Wang Jingshu shaved her head primarily in order to avoid los-
ing her chastity at the hands of the Manchu invaders. In other words,
like many other women during these traumatic times, her decision to
become a Buddhist nun was taken under extreme duress.26 Neverthe-
less, it would seem that Wang Jingshu—whose poetic personality, at
least, had always been more introverted and contemplative than that
of her energetic and forceful younger sister—found the religious life
to be congenial.
The name most often used by others to refer to Wang Jingshu after
she became a nun is Yizhen daoren (Person of the Way
Yizhen): Wang Duanshu refers to her as Elder Sister Zhen (Zhen jie
). As it turns out, however, her full religious name was Chan mas-
ter Yizhen Yu’en and she was, in fact, an officially rec-
ognized dharma successor of Linji Chan master Benchong Xingsheng
(d. 1671),27 himself a Dharma heir of one of the most famous

25
Wang Duanshu, Yinhongji, 4.9b–10a.
26
Among them were a number of educated women from Wang Duanshu’s poetic
circle, including, for example, Zhao Dongwei , who although she lived alone
for a while after the death of her husband, suffered so greatly from the “ridicule of
her clansmen” (zuren zhi ji ) that she decided to become a nun. (See Wang
Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, 13.27a). One wonders if women such as Wang Jing-
shu and Zhao Dongwei had enjoyed more supportive family situations that they
would have remained as chaste widows, living in respected if lonely lives near or in
the family home. See Wai-yee Li’s chapter in this volume for a discussion of this poem
by Wang Duanshu.
27
Wudeng quanshu (The complete books of the five lamps), in Xuzangjing
(Supplement to the Buddhist Canon) (Hong Kong: Yingyin Xuzangjing wei-
yuanhui, 1967), 141:397a–b.
 chan friends 227

Linji Chan masters of the seventeenth-century, Feiyin Tongrong

(1593–1662). Benchong Xingsheng served for a time as abbot of
the Huiyun Monastery in Hangzhou, and it was here that Wang
Jingshu no doubt met and studied with him. Wang Duanshu herself
never mentions this bit of information, which is tucked away in a brief
entry found in the Wudeng quanshu (Complete records of
the five lamps), a massive Buddhist genealogical history first published
in 1699.28 She does, however, note that her elder sister had “thoroughly
mastered the esoteric scriptures of the Mahāyāna.”29 She also quotes,
in the editorial comments appended to the selection of Wang Jingshu’s
poems included in the Mingyuan shiwei, the words of another author
who goes so far as to compare Wang Jingshu’s poems to those of such
great poets of the past known for writing Buddhist-flavored poetry,
including the Tang poets Wang Wei (701–761) and Bai Juyi
(722–846) and the Song poet Su Shi (1037–1105):
In the past, there have been those who used Chan to compose poetry,
such as Weimo [Wang Wei], Xiangshan [Bai Juyi] and Dongpo [Su Shi].
Cai [Wenji (b. 177)], Ban [Zhao (45–116)], Zuo [Fen
(ca. 255–300?)] and Bao [Linghui (fl. 464)] achieved fame in the
world solely on the basis of their poetry; it has been difficult enough for
women to write poetry; how much more difficult for them to achieve
renown for both their Chan and their poetry.30
Whether Wang Duanshu herself completely agreed with this lofty
evaluation of her sister’s poetry is difficult to say. She does note that
Wang Jingshu “had the [karmic] roots of intelligence and sublime
realization, and she took refuge in the Dharma King [the Buddha]. She
was fond of living among the famous mountains and rivers and cared
little about such things as acquiring a glorious reputation.”31 She also
tells us that her sister “in her leisure time would write little poems. She
did not seek to make them artful; she transcended both things and

28
The only hint Wang Duanshu provides that her sister was not just an ordinary
Buddhist nun but a verified Chan master is hidden away in her brief editorial notes
on a nun by the name of Shangxin Jinghui who, Wang Duanshu notes,
was a disciple of a certain Chan master Yizhen En of Qingliang (Qingliang Yizhen En
chanshi ). See Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, 26.11b.
29
Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, 15.5a.
30
Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, 15.5b. This quote is attributed to a text
entitled Tongqiu ji , which however, I have as yet been able to identify.
31
Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, 15.5b.
228 chapter seven

feelings and simply followed her elevated mood.”32 While this is not the
place for an extended discussion of Wang Jingshu’s poetry, the follow-
ing quatrain, entitled “Mountain Dwelling: Falling Leaves” ,
may serve to illustrate the spirit of many of these “little poems.”
Forest trees already half bare, proof of autumn
come;
Leaves swirl in confusion all around the bamboo
gate.
As the misty vapors send the cold into one’s very
bones;
Leisurely I gather fallen leaves to fashion a Chan
robe.33
Even after having become a nun, Wang Jingshu continued to keep in
close contact not only with her sister, but also with other relatives and
friends, especially those with whom she had so often participated in
poetic gatherings and excursions. Wang Duanshu’s poetry collection
includes a number of poems about her sister, composed both before
and after she entered the religious life. Those composed afterwards
reflect the close emotional bond she felt with her sister. They also
reflect an awareness of the differences between them, both in terms of
her sister’s new religious status and her avowed orientation towards
Buddhist transcendence. We see this combination of intimacy and dis-
tance with particular clarity in the following poem, entitled “Thinking
of Elder Sister Zhen” , in which Wang Duanshu refers to her
sister as “Master” (shi ).
She departs on her little boat, a witness to the
dharma;
To a secluded village and the chill of an ancient temple.
The wind gusts and the shadows of the banners quiver;
The moon sets, leaving little bits behind in the alms
bowl.
Exquisite beauty—the blossoming of the Udambara
tree;34
Delightful feelings—dining on the hills and rivers.35

32
Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, 15.5b.
33
Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, 15.6a.
34
In Buddhist mythology, the Udambara tree flowers once every three thousand
years and is used figuratively to indicate rarity and also insubstantiality.
35
I am not entirely sure of the translation of these two lines. I am reading (ten-
tatively) sanshui can as a variation on the expression canyun woyue
 chan friends 229

The Master has long ago transcended the Triple Realm,

While I, alas, remain caught up in my poetic worlds.36
In this poem we can sense the kind of ambivalence towards the reli-
gious life that, I would suggest, is more typical of many educated
women than it is of their male counterparts. For one thing, the pro-
priety of leaving home to enter the religious life is not an issue for
Wang Duanshu: this is true not only in the case of her own sister,
but also for the other nuns whose poems she includes in her anthol-
ogy, all of whom clearly met her high standards of moral conduct and
proper behavior. The ambivalence lies rather in the tension between
pity—the “chill” of a largely solitary life in a secluded convent—and
admiration, even envy, of a woman who has transcended, or, more
realistically, made it her goal to transcend, the Triple Realm (sanjie
, the realms of desire, form and formlessness) that, in the Bud-
dhist conception, constitute the world of samsara, that is, the world of
suffering. There was, needless to say, no dearth of often acute suffer-
ing during this difficult period, for both women and men. Even more
importantly, many living through this traumatic period of upheaval,
strongly felt that poetic expression should stem from and express their
anger and their anguish. It is with mixed feelings, then, that Wang
Duanshu laments her own continued entanglement in the world of
poetry and, by extension, with the suffering world. We find some of
these same concerns implied in a poem entitled “A Visit from Elder
Sister Zhen on a Spring Day” :
The flowers fall, zither and books turn cold:
The incense wafts, a passing bird calls out.
The east wind lessens the loneliness,
The spring bamboo laughs at my isolation.
In my heart, I cherish my memories of the Master,
I am grateful for your thoughts for me.
The Way penetrated, the Dharma should appear,
How can I topple the city of sorrow?37
The metaphor “toppling the city of sorrow” (po choucheng ),
together with some of its variants, such as “toppling the fort of sorrow”

, “to feed on the clouds and sleep under the moon,“ a metaphor for the hardships
of travel.
36
Wang Duanshu, Yinhong ji (ca. 1655), 7b–8a.
37
Wang Duanshu, Yinhong ji, 9b.
230 chapter seven

(po choulei ) in numerous poems, has a long literary history.

Normally, the weapons employed against this seemingly unbearable
anguish, sometimes successfully but usually not, are wine and poetry.38
Thus, in posing the question of how one should pit oneself against the
city of sorrow, Wang Duanshu intimates that her sister has found a
way to transcend the anguish of trauma not by shaping it into poetic
expression, but by means of her Buddhist faith, which sees sorrow as
the result not of history but of attachment. Given Wang Duanshu’s
own personality and character, not to mention her fierce loyalism and
her tremendous literary talents, this was not a path she herself would
or even could have chosen. But this does not mean that she did not
respect, perhaps even envy, her sister for having done so.
Wang Duanshu was not the only one who continued to exchange
poems with Wang Jingshu after she became a Buddhist nun. Hu Zixia
(courtesy name Fucui zhuren ), a woman poet from
Shaoxing who was a friend of both of the Wang sisters and had often
participated in poetic excursions together with them. Hu Zixia was the
second wife of Wu Guofu (fl. 1638), known best perhaps as the
co-compiler of the 3-fascicle Jingu yu ditu (Geographi-
cal maps of past and present, 1643), which contains a preface by the
famous loyalist poet and martyr, Chen Zilong (1608–1647).
Wu belonged to the famous Wu clan of Zhoushan , located in
Shaoxing bordering Mirror Lake, which during the Ming-Qing transi-
tion period was one of the primary centers of anti-Manchu resistance.39
Loyalists and poets would gather here not only to commiserate and
conspire, but also to drink wine and exchange poetry. It is because of
living in such beautiful natural surroundings, comments Wang Duan-
shu, that Hu Zixia’s poetry was “exceptionally pure and exceptionally
accomplished” (bieqing biezhi ). She did not, however, leave
very many poems—only three are included in the Mingyuan shiwei.
One of these poems was composed in exchange with Wang Duanshu.
Another commemorates a poetic excursion on the Lantern Festival,

38
See for example, Qian Qianyi’s poem in the series “The Latter Autumn Medita-
tions” , trans. by Kang-i Sun Chang in, “Qian Qianyi and His Place in History,”
in Idema, Li, Widmer, eds., Trauma and Transcendence, 211. See also Laurence Yim,
“The Poetics of Historical Memory in the Ming-Qing Transition: A Study of Qian
Qianyi’s (1582–1664) Later Poetry” (Ph.D. diss., Yale University, 1998), 254–256.
39
According to Wang Duanshu, Wu Xiangzhen , daughter of Hu’s ill-fated
son Wu Lizhen (1642–1659), studied poetry with her when she was a young
girl.
 chan friends 231

when Hu invited Wang Duansu and Wang Jingshu, as well as Tao

Gusheng (courtesy name Lüdan ), and Huang Yuanjie,
the famous poet and loyalist from Jiaxing who, as we have seen, in the
mid-1650s spent some time in Shaoxing with Shang Jinglan, to come
to her studio to celebrate.40 The third poem, translated below was com-
posed for Wang Jingshu on her fortieth birthday, by which time she
had been a Buddhist nun for a full decade.
On Master Yizhen’s Fortieth Birthday
For forty years now, she’s been an upright
woman scholar,
The famous works of her red brush like poems from
the Feng.
Rosy-cheeked and dark haired, she was an immortal
companion,
White-robed and yellow-capped, she is now a
spiritual guide.
The blue lotuses make a special offering of lapis
lazuli;
The peach blossoms serve as harbinger of spring’s
arrival.
Fasting and embroidering Buddha images, she
enjoys a long life.
Even without any “pure essence,” her hunger
has been assuaged.41
Hu opens her poem with a reference to what she perhaps still thought
of as Wang Jingshu’s primary vocation, that of poet and scholar. And
as poet and scholar, she clearly met the high moral and literary stan-
dards that her own sister lays out in the preface to the Mingyuan shi-
wei, where she notes that even the poems of women who happened
to be “Buddhist nuns, Daoist priestesses, and foreigners” were worthy
of inclusion if they “nonetheless harmonize with the Feng and Ya,”
two major sections of the Shijing (Classic of poetry).42 She then
succinctly notes the transformation of a young woman with glossy
dark hair who once joined her women friends and relatives on poetry

40
Elsewhere in the Mingyuan shiwei, one can find the poems written by Huang
Yuanjie about this particular excursion (9.21b) as well as by Wang Duanshu herself
(42.7a).
41
Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, 12.5a.
42
See Haun Saussy’s translation of this preface in Women Writers of Traditional
China, ed. Kang-i Sun Chang and Haun Saussy (Stanford: Stanford University Press,
1999), 692.
232 chapter seven

excursions—often compared to gatherings of the female immortals

around the Jasper Pond of the Queen Mother of the West—into a
Buddhist teacher dressed in white robes with a yellow cap to protect
her shaven head. She then describes her as spending her time keeping
vegetarian fasts and embroidering Buddhist images: a stock phrase for
the religious pursuits of many women, whether monastic or not. It is
these pursuits, rather than Daoist alchemical practices requiring the
cultivation of “pure essence” that, while they may not have brought
her immortality, certainly appear to have provided her old friend with
a means by which to “assuage her hunger,” that is to say, transcend,
or at least make peace with, her personal sorrow.
This same admiring acknowledgement of sorrow transcended appears
as well in a poem dedicated to Yizhen composed by Zheng Huiying
(courtesy name Mingzhan ), a woman poet from a well-
known loyalist family from Yuyao —her brother Zheng Zunyi
(?—1646, courtesy name Lügong ) who was known more
for his swordsmanship than for his literary talents, became involved
in anti-Qing insurrections during the late Ming, and ultimately com-
mitted suicide. Wang Duanshu, in her editorial comments to the
selection of Zheng Huiying’s poems included in the Mingyuan shiwei,
notes that Zheng was known not only for her poetic talent, beauty
and propriety, but, like her brother, a fondness for swordsmanship.
Zheng’s poem “A Gatha Presented to Master Yizhen” ,
in the form of a Buddhist quatrain (ji or gatha), was not just sent
to Yizhen, but respectfully “presented” (cheng ) to her as befits a lay
person to a Chan master:
In those years, we truly were fools who knew
nothing;
Surrounded by sorrow and heartbreak, we lost
our way.
Then, in the pitch of the night, you woke with
a smile;
What happiness? What sorrow? What right and
wrong?43
This short poem in many ways embodies, in highly compressed form,
the fusion of the poetic, political, and religious that, as noted earlier,
was particularly characteristic of the times. The sorrow and heartbreak,

43
In Wang Duanshu, ed., Mingyuan shiwei, 17.2a–2b.
 chan friends 233

and indeed, the “pitch of the night” here most certainly refer as much
to the dark days of the fall of the Ming as they do to the darkness of
ignorance from which, according to Buddhist teachings, one can be
liberated only through an enlightened vision of non-duality. The ques-
tions Hu poses at the end were those raised by thousands during this
period of trauma, although few, perhaps, ever found themselves to so
definitively wake from the nightmare “with a smile.” And even here,
while Hu acknowledges her friend’s seeming accomplishment, it is
clear that she herself has not sought, much less achieved, this enlight-
enment and, perhaps, is not completely convinced of its feasibility.
There were other guixiu, however, whose exchanges with Buddhist
nuns in fact led to a decision to not only take the tonsure, but to
embark on a rigorous path of study and practice that would ultimately
lead to being named an official Dharma-heir of an eminent male Chan
master. An example of this is Jin Shuxiu , who was the wife
of Xu Zhaosen of Xiushui , scion of a long line of high
officials and latterly, Ming loyalists and martyrs.44 In her official bio-
graphical accounts, she is recognized primarily for being the mother
of Xu Jiayan , who would become one of the group of Jiang-
nan literati who in 1679 sat successfully for the special “Outstanding
Scholars of Vast Learning” (boxue hongci ) examination and
subsequently went to Beijing as one of the members of the commis-
sion established to compile the Ming dynasty official history.45
Jin Shuxiu was also praised for her talents, especially in calligra-
phy, painting, and poetry. She was skilled in painting landscapes, in
which she is said to have executed in the style of the Yuan dynasty, in
“a skillful and lofty manner” (judu xuanchang ), and with a
“gentlemanly (or virile) air” (zhangfu qi ).46 She also enjoyed
delving into Chan Buddhist texts and would spend time at the nearby

44
Her father-in-law was Ming loyalist martyr Xu Shichun (1585–1641, jin-
shi 1618) who perished, along with one of his sons, his two concubines, and eighteen
other family members, defending the city of Suizhou in Hubei province against
the attack of rebel Zhang Xianzhong (1605–1647). For a detailed study of her
life and writings, see Grant, Eminent Nuns, Chapter 7.
45
Jiaxing fuzhi (Gazetteer of Jiaxing) (1682), 2.7b–2.8a. The head of this
commission, the scholar Xu Yuanwen (1634–1691), apparently wrote a brief
biography of her entitled Jin Taifuren zhuanlue . This text is mentioned
in a biographical notice for Jin found in Zhongguo meishujia renming cidian
(Biographical dictionary of Chinese artists), ed. Yu Jianhua
(Shanghai: Shanghai renmin meishu chubanshe, 1981), 557a.
46
Zhongguo meishujia renming cidian, 557.
234 chapter seven

Miaozhan Convent studying with an eminent nun named

Zukui Jifu .47 It was while visiting Zukui Jifu that Jin Shuxiu
first read the recently-printed collections of Zukui Jifu’s master, the
Linji Chan monk (and fervent loyalist) Jiqi Hongchu’s
(1605–1672) discourse records. Impressed, she persuaded the nun to
take her to visit him: we are told that Jiqi Hongchu immediately per-
ceived in her the qualities of a “great gentleman” (dazhangfu )
which in the Chan Buddhist context indicated her possession of the
intellect and, even more importantly, the fierce and heroic determina-
tion needed to follow the Chan path.48 It was probably not too long
after this that Xu Zhaosen died, leaving the middle-aged Jin Shuxiu a
widow.49 The gazetteer accounts tell us that after the death of Zhaosen,
she abandoned both her painting and calligraphy (and presumably her
poetry-writing as well) and devoted herself to the care of her son.50
She also spent her time engaged in extended religious fasts and other
religious devotions, including the embroidery of Buddhist images, a
popular devotional practice among gentry women. What the gazet-
teer does not mention is that some years later, Jin Shuxiu returned to
Lingyan Monastery and requested first the tonsure and then, full ordi-

47
Although we have almost no biographical information on this nun, we do know
that she was somewhat younger than Jin Shuxiu, and may very likely have entered the
religious life as a young girl. Despite the paucity of biographical information, Zukui
Jifu was well-known for her mastery of the Chan textual tradition, as well as for her
own literary talents. For a detailed discussion of her writings, see Grant, Eminent
Nuns, Chapter 8.
48
This information is provided by the literatus and Buddhist layman Zhang Youyu
(1598–1669), who wrote a preface to the Songgu hexiangji (Col-
lection of joint verses in praise of ancient [cases]), a collection of religious verse
composed collaboratively by Jin Shuxiu and Zukui Jifu. See “Songgu hexiang ji xu”
(Preface to Songgu hexiangji), in Mingban Jiaxing dazangjing, 35:712c.
49
Jiaxing fuzhi, 64.16b. It is unclear when exactly Xu Zhaosen died, although it was
probably sometime during the tumultuous years of the 1650s. Nearly half a century
later, in 1699, Xu Jiayan published a collection of his own poetry, to which he appended
a selection of twenty poems composed by his father that he had “saved from burning,“
in this case by storing them away in the prodigious memory for which Jiayan had been
famous even as a child. Xu Jiayan, Baojingzhai shiji (Poetry collection of
Baojing Studio) (Jinan: Qi Lu Shushe chubanshe, 1997), 309–554.
50
Susan Mann, Precious Records: Women in China’s Long Eighteenth Century
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 182–183. As Grace Fong observes: “It is
through the analogy of repeated practice, discipline, and concentration that embroi-
dery takes on religious meanings. Its practice is in some ways akin to religious recita-
tion, the accumulation of merit through endlessly repeating the name of the Buddha,
and chanting or copying a sutra.” See Grace S. Fong, “Female Hands: Embroidery as
a Knowledge Field in Women’s Everyday Life in Late Imperial and Early Republican
China,” Late Imperial China 25.1 (2004): 19–20.
 chan friends 235

nation. She would also become, like Zukui Jifu, one of Jiqi Hongchu’s
official Dharma-heirs, after which she was known as Chan Master
Baochi Jizong .
Jin Shuxiu had first gone to the Miaozhan Convent in search of a
monastic chanyou. After she became first a nun and then an abbess and
Chan master, she herself became the one to whom laywomen would
turn for advice and friendship. Perhaps the most poignant indications
of this are two poems sent to distant women friends from her previous
life as a gentry wife. The first of these, a poem addressed to a certain
Madam Zhang , would indicate that these discussions were carried
on through correspondence as well as personal visits.
This empty show in the blink of an eye reverts to
clouds and mist
Straw mat and hemp robes: I have learned to let
go of my burdens.
When ill, I do not worry, but rather seek the
marvelous medicine:
Once one has realized Emptiness, then one can
move all the gods!
The pearl-offering Dragon Girl was suited to
become a Buddha;
Pang’s comb-sticking woman was fond of
studying Chan.
A melody of the Unborn is something we can
speak of together,
Taking advantage of the winds, I dispatch the
goose with a letter.51
This poem is interesting for its allusions to two female figures in Chan
lore: the first is the well-known story of the eight-year old daughter of
the Dragon King, mentioned earlier, and the second is to the wife of
the Tang dynasty lay-poet Pang Yun (740–808), who although
she is always acknowledged as having been a woman of insight, usually
takes second place to her much more famous daughter, Lingzhao
. The story referred to here can be found in the Pang jushi yulu
(Discourse records of Layman Pang): one day Madame Pang
went into the monastery on Mt. Lumen intending to make an
offering at a ritual feast. However, she was stopped at the door by the

51
Baochi Jizong, Baochi Zong chanshi yulu (Discourse records of
Chan master Baochi Zong), Mingban Jiaxing dazangjing, vol. 35 p. 712c.
236 chapter seven

proctor who asked her what merit she hoped to gain by making this
offering.52 She then took her comb, and stuck it into her coiled bun of
hair, saying: “The merit has already been transferred.”53 Here, the ref-
erence to Madame Pang probably refers to the capacity for laywomen
in general to engage fruitfully in the study of Chan.
The second poem is addressed to another friend, a certain Lady Hou
in Luoyang. I have not been able to identify her, but she was clearly
someone whom Jin Shuxiu had known before she became a nun, and
with whom she had shared the traumas and sorrows of unsettled
times.
Recalling the changes of the past, sighing over our
parting:
Ten years without any news to bridge our separate
worlds.
Golden cups on a sandalwood altar: you have kept
well,
A stone hut and meditation mat: just the right thing
for me.
The spring warmth has yet to melt the snow on
my temples:
Only after the dream breaks am I able to make sense
of them:
Often in them I’ve felt you there providing
encouragement,
But looking back towards the Central Plains, who
else is there?54
This is one of the few poems included in Jin Shuxiu’s collection that
speaks directly of the trauma of the Ming-Qing transition, and in so
doing slips into the elegiac mode found in many literati writings of the
poetic act of “looking back towards the Central Plain.” Nevertheless,

52
See Ruth Fuller Sasaki, Yoshitaka Iriya and Dana R. Fraser, trans., A Man of Zen:
The Recorded Sayings of Layman P’ang (New York and Tokyo: Weatherhill, 1971 and
1976). A footnote to the translation of this passage explains that “It was customary for
a temple priest to write on a slip of paper the donor’s name, the gift and its purpose,
and the date. This would then be displayed in public so that the donor’s merit would
become known to others, i.e., transferred” (73).
53
This line could also be read, as “I am done with performing works of merit for
others.” Perhaps it would not be too far-fetched to interpret this as an indication that
Lady Pang was tired of other-serving virtue (the making of offerings) and ready for
something different, such as focusing on her own personal enlightenment.
54
Baochi Jizong, “Sent to Madame Hou of Luoyang,” , Baochi Zong
Chanshi yulu, 713c.
 chan friends 237

especially when seen in the context of her other writings as a nun,

it would appear that the gentry woman once known as Jin Shuxiu
and lauded for her Confucian virtues had found in the “stone hut and
meditation mat” an alternative space in which she felt quite at home.
In the last part of this chapter, we will turn to a group of poems
from the generation after that of Shang Jinglan, Wang Duanshu and
Jin Shuxiu, that is after the immediate trauma of the transition period
was over. In these poems we see a move away from the pain and sor-
row of loss and more of an emphasis on an aesthetic, if not a purely
religious, transcendence of the everyday. The central figure in this
group of poems is the woman Chan master Yuanduan Yufu
, a contemporary of Yikui Chaochen from Jiading in Jiangsu
province. Unlike Yikui Chaochen, who became a nun only after the
premature death of her husband, Yuanduan Yufu entered the religious
life at the age of twelve sui. Eventually she received dharma transmis-
sion from Linji Chan master Shanxiao Benxi (1620–1686),
who belonged to the same sublineage and was of the same genera-
tion as Yikui Chaochen’s teacher, the eminent nun Qiyuan Xinggang
(1597–1654). In fact, Yuanduan Yufu would eventually serve
as the abbess of the Fushi Convent, which had been established
by Qiyuan Xinggang and where Yikui Chaochen had also served for
a time as abbess after her teacher’s demise. The poems that we will
discuss here, however, probably date from when Yuanduan Yufu was
serving as the abbess of the famous Mingyin Convent in Hang-
zhou and before she assumed leadership of the Fushi Convent.
In the brief biography of Yuanduan Yufu found in the Xu biqiuni
zhuan (Further biographies of nuns), compiled by the
monk Zhenhua (1908–1947), we find the following comment:
“In the time she had free from meditation, she would intone poetry,
and [produced] many beautiful pieces.”55 It is worth noting that this
statement echoes a phrase often found in biographical accounts of lit-
erary gentry women, who are said to have turned to poetry in the time
they had after having duly carried out their household duties (or their
needlework): in other words, the gap between elite gentry women and
eminent nuns may not have been that great after all. The verse by
Yuanduan Yufu that is most often anthologized (and which Zhenhua

55
In Xu Biqiuni zhuan, ed. Zhen Hua, in Biqiuni quanji (Complete
collection of [biographies of] nuns) (Taibei: Fojiao shuju, 1988), 5.89.
238 chapter seven

cites as well) is entitled “An Impromptu Verse from My Writing Stu-

dio” , and if we did not know she had already entered the
religious life as a young girl, it would be easy to assume that it had
been composed in the inner quarters rather than in the convent.
Leaning on the low table, at leisure by the window:
Hand in hand we reminisce about excursions past
Brewing tea, it becomes an elegant gathering,
Unrolling scrolls, sufficient to create a pure seclusion.
After the night rain, the flowers gleam with brightness,
In the light breeze, the birds chatter away to themselves.
If we can just keep the remnant glow of the sun,
And quietly brush this plain white silk seclusion.56
In this poem, we are not told who the person is with whom the poet
is sharing tea, paintings, and reminiscences: it may have been a fellow
nun, but it is just as likely to have been a laywoman friend come to
visit. In any case, Yuanduan Yufu is mentioned in the poetry of at least
one quite well-known gentry woman-poet, Xu Zhaohua (cour-
tesy name Yibi ). Zhaohua was the daughter of the woman poet
and calligrapher Shang Jinghui, and the niece of the even-more-cele-
brated woman poet Shang Jinglan who, as we saw earlier, herself had
a number of women “Chan friends.” Xu Zhaohua learned the arts of
poetry, painting and calligraphy from her mother and aunt, and later
became a poetic disciple of her father’s good friend, the prolific poet,
scholar, Ming loyalist, and sometime Buddhist, Mao Qiling
(1623–1716), who, in his Shihua (Talks on poetry) and elsewhere,
often sings her praises.
It is in his Shihua that Mao Qiling provides the context for the three
poems that Xu Zhaohua wrote to and about Yuanduan Yufu. Mao
relates how once, when he was staying at the Dashan Monastery
in Shaoxing, the woman Chan master Yuanduan Yufu happened to
come to the monastery to pay her respects at the great stūpa for which
the monastery was famous.57 Hearing that the famous poet Mao Qil-
ing was also staying at the monastery, Yuanduan Yufu expressed a
wish to meet him. Mao refused to do so, however, saying that “it was

56
In Zhen Hua, ed., Xu Biqiuni zhuan, 5.89; also in Wanqingyi shihui
(Collected poems of the late Qing dynasty), ed. Xu Shichang (Beijing: Beijing
chubanshe, 1996), 3360.
57
This stūpa, built in 504, underwent a major restoration in 1669, around the time
Yuanduan Oufu visited it.
 chan friends 239

not proper to engage in social interchange with female monastics”58

and sent his woman poetic disciple Xu Zhaohua in his stead. Just as
Yuanduan Yufu was about to leave the monastery and return to her
convent in Hangzhou, however, the elderly poet relented and agreed
to compose a regulated verse for the nun, which he then inscribed on
her fan. The next day, when Xu Zhaohua and some women compan-
ions were seeing the nun off on her return journey to Hangzhou, they
saw what Mao had written on her fan, and the women immediately
begged Xu Zhaohua to write a poem using the same rhymes. Xu com-
plied, composing not one but two poems.
Poem I
In her past life she was originally Lingzhao:
Each time she speaks, it is with an “Amitābha.”
She begs for food to give to the mountain birds;
And she packs her incense inside a conch shell.
She came down here from beyond the clouds:
Thoughts of parting multiply as evening falls.
Just look at the moon over the thousand rivers:
Slowly, slowly arising from the verdant waves.

Poem II
She makes ready to return to her Benevolence Hall:
Where with supreme detachment she practices good.59
With a tiny bit of white hair where the brows divide,
Palms together, the whorls on her fingertips meet.60
Bestowed the whisk for having caught the lion’s tail,
She interprets the scriptures written on pattra leaves.61
In the Dragon Palace there is a goddess,
Where does she not traverse the waves?62

58
Mao Qiling, Shihua, in Xihe wenji (The collected writings of Xihe),
Guoxue jiben congshu , ed. Wang Yunwu , vol. 317 (Taibei: Tai-
wan shangwu yinshuguan), 2232. I am not quite sure whether he is expressing his own
reticence, or indirectly criticizing her for wishing to meet with him in the first place.
59
My translation of this line is tentative: wuyuan is often used to refer to the
highest form of compassion (cibei ) such as can be exercised only by those who
have attained Buddhahood. I am interpreting batuo as a transliteration of the
Sanskrit bhadra, one of the meanings of which is “good.”
60
Here again, Xu Zhaohua seems to continue her praise of Yuanduan Yufu, one of
the traditional signs of a Buddha being the white hairs between the eyebrows.
61
The earliest Buddhist scriptures were written on the leaves of the pattra tree.
62
Both this account and the subsequent poems can be found in Mao Qiling, Shi-
hua, 2232–2233.
240 chapter seven

These two poems paint rather different images of Yuanduan Yufu.

The first portrays her as a reclusive hermit living far up in the cloud-
swathed hills with wild birds as her companions. The second refers
to her status as a Chan master, wielding her whisk of authority and
elucidating difficult Buddhist texts. The emphasis is very much on
her supposedly enlightened status, indicated in the very first line by
referring to her as a reincarnation of Lingzhao, the daughter of the
famous Chan Buddhist layman poet, Pang Yün and his wife Madame
Pang (referred to in the poem quoted earlier by Jin Shuxiu), Lingzhao
was traditionally considered to have attained a deep understanding of
Chan—even, some say, deeper than either of her parents. Further on
in the poem, there are even more such references—the special marks
on Yuanduan’s body indicative of Buddhahood and, in the conclud-
ing two lines, the comparison to the “goddess” of the Dragon Pal-
ace. This, of course, refers to the famous story of the eight-year old
daughter of the Dragon King discussed above, who had to exercise
her considerable spiritual powers and transform herself into a man
to attain enlightenment. Not only that, but a woman is subject to the
five obstacles (wuzhang ), a reference to the five higher forms of
spiritual being to which a woman is barred due to her gender: that of
a Brahma King, a Śakra King, a Māra King, a Cakravartin King, and
finally, a Buddha. Once the Dragon King’s daughter assumes her male
form however, “with the thirty-two features and the eighty characteris-
tics, he expounded the wonderful Law for all living beings everywhere
in the ten directions.”63
Yet another slightly different portrait is provided by Xu Zhaohua’s
third poem, entitled “Seeing off a Nun,” .
Under winding cliffs of fairyland with their
scattering of rose-hued clouds;
We send off the traveler by the river’s edge
where scattered willows droop.
As the magnolia oars move, they create a rain of
flying blossoms;
Where we lay out brocade cushions golden
sands are spread.
Riding on a skiff, you want to cross the waters of
Wuchang,

63
Watson, The Essential Lotus (NewYork: Columbia University Press, 2001), 86.
 chan friends 241

The dust wiped away, the flowers of Mirror Lake

have already opened.64
Once you depart from these watery fields,
though we gaze at each other,
When will I again take hold of your dark
monastic robes?65
Here Xu Zhaohua creates a more approachable figure of an eminent
Buddhist nun who nonetheless enjoys the same aesthetic pleasures as
does Xu, and whose company she will miss: a picture that is closer
to the one that Yuanduan Yufu gives us in her own poem. Xu does,
however, once again refer to the nun’s spiritual attainments: Mirror
Lake, which was located just south of Shaoxing and which Yuanduan
Yufu apparently had to cross on her way home, can also be read as
the dust-free mirror of the mind, upon which the flowers of enlighten-
ment have already opened. But, what do these poems tell us about Xu
Zhaohua’s engagement with Buddhism? The first thing to note is that
her poems demonstrate a more than superficial knowledge of Bud-
dhist terms: in fact the large number of such terms in the second of
the two poems translated above makes it rather difficult to understand
unless the reader is familiar with this vocabulary. Moreover, despite
the rather exaggerated praise, it is clear that she genuinely admires the
intellectual and spiritual attainments of this particular woman Chan
master.6465
We see this same evidence of a deep familiarity with Chan Buddhist
texts in yet another poem dedicated to Yuanduan Yufu, this one by a
woman poet by the name of Huang Kexun who was a native
of She county in Anhui province. Her father was Huang Zongxia
, perhaps best known for being a student of the polymath Liu
Xianting (1648–1695), and the person responsible for edit-
ing the latter’s five-fascicle collections of miscellaneous notes entitled
Guangyang zaji (Miscellaneous records of Guangyang).
We do not know very much about Huang Kexun, Huang Zongxia’s
“beloved daughter” (ainü ). She was said have been a precocious

64
I am reading “Jianqu” as a reference to a bend (qu) in Mirror Lake, located
just south of Shaoxing.
65
The poet is asking when she will see the nun again. In Xu Dujiang shi
(Poetry of Xu the Top Student), 1.18b–19a, in Guochao guige shichao
(Draft poems by gentlewomen of this dynasty), 100 juan, 10 vols., ed. Cai Dianqi
(Langhuan bie guan, 1844), in Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings.
242 chapter seven

child who loved to write poetry, so much so, claims the literatus Yang
Yimu , a friend of her father’s who wrote a preface to Huang
Kexun’s collected works Xiuyu oucao (Spontaneous drafts
leftover from embroidery), that “if there was a single character that
was not right she would go the entire day without eating in the effort
to get it right.”66 We are also told that she was married to a man
named Zheng Ningzhou , but died in childbirth at the age of
only twenty. Her collection of poetry appears to be no longer extant.
However, seven of Huang’s poems, as well as Yang Yimu’s preface,
can be found in the Xiefang ji (Gathering fragrance collec-
tion), a massive anthology of women’s poetry compiled by the male
literatus Wang Qishu (1728–1799) and published in 1785. It is
impossible to say to what extent these seven poems reflect her larger,
lost oeuvre, but as such they certainly confirm Yang Yimu’s comment
that Huang Kezun’s poems do not suffer from the “narrowness of
rouge and powder.”67 One of these poems, for example, is a poem of
social criticism entitled “The Ballad of Abandoning a Child” ,
the concluding lines of which are: “In those days, having a child was
like having yellow gold? / But nowadays, children are tossed away like
dung” / .68 Another series of eight
poems, and the one most relevant to the present discussion, is entitled
“In Celebration of the Buddhist Nun Yufu’s Fortieth Birthday”
.69 It is unclear whether or not Huang Kexun actually
ever met Yuanduan Yufu, although among her handful of seven poems
there is one entitled “Ascending Tiger Hill” .70 Tiger Hill is a
famous landmark located in Suzhou, Yuanduan Yufu’s home territory,
and it may well be that Huang Kefu accompanied her father on a visit
to this area. In any case, not only did Huang Kefu know of Yuanduan
Yufu, the poem she composed in honor of the nun’s birthday also
shows that this young woman, not yet twenty, had a solid knowledge
of Buddhist textual sources, and in particular Chan Buddhist sources.
In fact, most of the eight poems are not readily appreciated without

66
Yang Yimu, Xiaoyu oucao xu, in Xiefang ji (Collection of gathered fra-
grance), ed. Wang Qishu (1773), 25.16a.
67
Yang Yimu, Xiaoyu oucao xu, 25.16a.
68
Xiefang ji, 25.16b.
69
Xiefang ji, 25.18a–18b.
70
Xiefang ji, 25.17b.
 chan friends 243

this knowledge, as can be seen from the three verses that I have trans-
lated and annotated below71
Poem 3
The meeting at the Dragon-flower mountain
will be magnificent:
The spring wind in a snap of the finger—a
thousand years past.
Moshan would have been more than willing to
take in Lingzhao,
And personally testify to the Chan of the Pang
family daughter.71
The Dragon Flower Assembly refers specifically to the meeting of “the
faithful” under the Dragon-flower tree when Maitreya, now waiting
in the Tushita Heaven, comes down to earth as the next world Bud-
dha. The last two lines of this poem make reference to two of Chan
Buddhism’s most well-known Tang Dynasty female icons, the nun
Moshan Liaoran and Lingzhao, who was referred to in Xu
Shaohua’s poem above. I would suggest that by juxtaposing the two,
Huang Kexun is referring to Yuanduan Yufu’s transformation from
a guixiu or woman of the inner chambers to an eminent nun like
Moshan Liaoran. Huang may also be thinking of herself, a laywoman,
in relation to Yuanduan Yufu, the nun.72
Poem 4
Illusion is no different from reality: practice
calm and insight
Not the mind, not the Buddha: bring to fruition
the Yellow Plum.
When you’ve done counting black beans, there’s
no more to say,
For you’ve succeeded in personally bringing
your half-ladle full!72

71
Xiefang ji, 25.18a. The characters in the last line normally refer to “sons
and daughters,” However, there is no mention of sons in the stories about Layman
Pang and his family: it is only his daughter Lingzhao who is said to have attained
enlightenment.
72
Xiefang ji, 25.18a.
244 chapter seven

Calm and insight refer to samatha, sometimes equated with samadhi,

which is the calming or cessation ( zhi) of all deluded thought-forms.
While highly praised by some, it was thought by others to be danger-
ous and one-sided if not accompanied by insight (guan ) into the
conditioned nature of things, or vipassyana. The first line of this poem
may well refer again to a famous case featuring the great Tang mas-
ter Mazu (709–788) in the Song dynasty collection, the Wumen
guan (Gateless gate). In this story, Mazu is asked “What is
the Buddha,” and replies, simply but cryptically, “not mind, not Bud-
dha” ( ).73 Wumen’s comment about this is: “If you under-
stand this, you have finished studying.” Yellow Plum is the name of
the mountain home of Hongren (601–674), traditionally referred
to as the Fifth Patriarch of Chan Buddhism. Thus, to bring the yel-
low plum to fruition means to attain the ultimate goal of Chan Bud-
dhism, that is, transcendence of duality. In the last two lines, we have
yet another allusion to Moshan Liaoran, who is perhaps most famous
for her Dharma encounter with the monk Guanxi Zhixian
(d. 895), the skeptical Dharma heir of Linji who went to visit her and
ended up sticking around for three years as her gardener. Afterwards,
Guanxi is reputed to have told his disciples: “I obtained half a ladle at
Papa Linji’s place, and half a ladle at Mama Moshan’s place. Together
they make up the one ladle I drank up, and from that day until now
I have never thirsted again.”74 Moshan Liaoran is thus paired equally
with Linji: if he is the patriarch of the lineage, then she is the matri-

73
See Wumen guan, in Xuzangjing, 119:165. Of course, it is never simple with Chan
masters. Earlier in Case 30, we have Mazu replying, to the same question with “This
very mind is the Buddha,” an equivalent to Huang Kexun’s reference to the phrase
“illusion is no different from reality.” (119:164) What is implied here is that, to see
identity (the Buddha is the mind, reality is the same as illusion) is not as advanced as
to reach the point of negation of both. It may be that the reference to counting black
beans, used sometimes to keep track of sutras recited or invocations made, refers to
this relatively “lower” form of religious practice, which, once enlightenment has been
achieved, becomes superfluous.
74
This story can be found in a number of places. For the version contained in the
Wudeng yantong (Strict transmissions of the five lamps), a Chan Buddhist
genealogical history compiled by the seventeenth-century Linji Chan monks, Feiyin
Tongrong (1593–1662) and Baichi Xingyuan , see Xuzangjing,
139:235a. For a more detailed discussion of Moshan Liaoran, see Miriam Levering,
“The Dragon Girl and the Abbess of Mo-shan: Gender and Status in the Ch’an Bud-
dhist Tradition,” in Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 5:1
(1982): 19–35.
 chan friends 245

arch. Huang Kexun is clearly aware of this female lineage, and thus is
able to place Yuanduan Yufu squarely within it.
Poem 8
This scholar of old now lives on the Buddha’s
grounds;
On this day, the old Chan cases have come alive
again.
All that remains is to burn up the idle words and
phrases,
Only by letting go of the overhang, can one catch a
first glimpse of truth.75
Here, in the mind of Huang Kexuan at least, Yuanduan Yufu has been
transformed from a mere “scholar” into a Buddhist master, and if she
is urged to consign her poetry to flames, it is not because such writing
is not suitable for a woman, but rather because, as an enlightened mas-
ter, she should have presumably transcended “idle words and phrases”
and, perhaps, even gender. In any case, she has gone very far from the
inner quarters.

Concluding Remarks

As Martin Huang reminds us in his introduction to a recent collec-

tion of essays on the theme of male friendship, there has always been
close connection between both the pronunciation and the concepts
of you (friendship) and you (travel). As he puts it, “To make
friends was to move beyond the compound of one’s home and to travel
afar.”76 It is this connection between travel and friendship that, in part,
explains the fact that male friendship “was often considered an impor-
tant badge of masculinity since it bespoke a man’s ability to travel and
meet other men outside his family and beyond his hometown. . . .”77 As
Huang acknowledges, gentry women of the late Ming and early Qing
periods also had wide-ranging networks of friends and relatives with
whom they would exchange poetry and letters, and with whom they
would sometimes meet for literary gatherings or temple excursions. A

75
Xiefang ji, 25.18a.
76
Martin Huang, “Male Friendship in Ming China: An Introduction,” Nan Nü:
Men, Women and Gender in China 9.1 (2007): 6.
77
Huang, “Male Friendship in Ming China,” 5–6.
246 chapter seven

number of such women also traveled, although they certainly never

spent the days and even months away from the family that their male
counterparts did. I would suggest, however, that friendships with Bud-
dhist nuns, especially perhaps Chan Buddhist nuns for whom travel
was prescribed rather than proscribed, was also predicated, although
in far less obvious ways, on this same connection between friendship
and travel. In other words, it was precisely the movement beyond the
domestic compound, whether physically or psychologically (both of
which we see in the song lyric by Gui Shufen translated at the start
of this chapter) that made friendships with nuns, however superficial
or profound, different from other sorts of relationships. As Huang
observes:
. . . for friendship to thrive, a man had to free himself from the restrictive
structure of the Confucian family, and yet, at the same time, the values
of friendship could be appreciated only in terms of models based on this
very Confucian institution. In other words, the value of a true friend
could only be authenticated or articulated when that friend was accepted
(at least symbolically) as a kinsman or a family member.78
Again, I would suggest that friendships between literati women and
Buddhist nuns also adhered to this same general principle, although
again in far less obvious ways. The restrictive structure from which
nuns were released—whether by choice or by fate—was precisely
that of the Confucian family. This did not mean, however, that edu-
cated Buddhist nuns saw themselves as having rejected all Confucian
models (although they may have been regarded as having done so by
unsympathetic critics). For one thing, the Buddhist monastic life—and
especially the Chan monastic life—is firmly based on a (patrilineal )
Confucian kinship and lineage model. Thus convent life was for many
women an alternative family, with its hierarchy and expectations of
mutual responsibility. The relationship between teacher and student
was likened to that between father and son, and indeed Buddhist nuns,
like their male counterparts, referred to each other as “dharma younger
brother” ( fadi ) and “dharma older brother” ( faxiong ). By
the same token, highly-educated Buddhist nuns like Yikui Chaochen
and Yuanduan Yufu were usually as well-read in Confucian texts as in
Buddhist ones, in secular poetry as in religious gāthās.

78
Huang, “Male Friendship in Ming China,” 15.
 chan friends 247

There was, however, a very obvious difference: for all the rules,
regulations and restraints of the female monastic life, they were not
determined primarily by the needs and demands of actual fathers,
husbands—and mothers-in-law. In reality, nuns—especially those who
were abbesses with convents to run—did not have much leisure time,
either. However, in the eyes of many gentry women, they were seen
to have relatively more freedom to read, write and study. The life of a
Buddhist nun—whose shaved head signaled her rejection of conven-
tional femininity —could, for some laywomen, represent the sort of
creative life that their male counterparts seemed to be able to enjoy so
much more easily outside of the home. From their poetry, we can see
that for some gentry women poets, visits to temples and discussions or
poetic exchanges with nuns, provided the same inner space that they
could often find only in illness. In fact the term qinghuan (pure
joy) that Kang-i Sun Chang tells us many women invented to describe
the feeling of self-contained solitude afforded by occasional illness
could easily be used to describe the experience that many of these
Buddhist nuns found, not in the sick room, but in the convent.79
Solitude can, however, quickly reveal a darker side: that of loneli-
ness. And while the domestic life had its burdens, in a relatively well-
off elite household, it could also offer certain comforts that Buddhist
nuns were supposed to have renounced. Thus, while some poems writ-
ten by laywomen describe (or imagine) a life of monastic leisure and
tranquility, others paint a somewhat more somber picture, as in the
lyric composed by Shang Jinglan quoted earlier where we find the line:
“The shadows of the swirling catkins cross the sky / Piled up on the
meditation mat, three feet of snow.” Buddhist nuns themselves played
with these images of solitude and isolation, sometimes with a whiff
of self-pity, but just as often with an acceptance that this was part
of the life they had chosen. As Wang Duanshu’s elder-sister-turned-
nun Wang Jingshu playfully writes in the poem quoted earlier: “As
the misty vapors send cold down into one’s very bones / Leisurely I
gather fallen leaves to fashion a Chan robe.” And as exemplary moth-
er-turned-Chan-master Baochi Jizong (Jin Shuxiu) writes to her friend

79
Kang-i Sun Chang, “Ming-Qing Women Poets and Cultural Androgyny,” Tam-
kang Review 30.2 (1999): 12–25. Reprinted in Critical Studies (Special Issue on Femi-
nism/Femininity in Chinese Literature) 18 (2002): 21–31, see p. 26. For illness and
women poets, see Chapter One by Grace S. Fong, “Writing and Illness: A Feminine
Condition in Ming-Qing Women’s Poetry.”
248 chapter seven

Lady Hou, also in a poem quoted earlier, “A stone hut and medita-
tion mat: just the right thing for me.” This may, of course, have been
little more than a poetic pose. Nevertheless, the seeming freedom and
transcendence of worldly sorrows on the part of Buddhist nuns was
surely appealing to laywomen still very much caught up in the sor-
rows and frustrations of the inner quarters. By the same token, edu-
cated women who, for one reason or another, decided to enter the
religious life did not necessarily abandon their literary pursuits, and,
in fact, often continued to participate in the literary networks of gentry
women to which they had belonged before becoming nuns. In other
words, there was a considerable overlap between the worlds of these
guixiu and these Buddhist nuns: they shared a common elite back-
ground, were highly literate and literary, had often undergone similar
experiences of trauma and loss, and were sometimes related by blood
or by marriage. But there was also a major difference between them:
the primary orientation of the former was still the “inner chambers,”
the latter no longer. It was this combination of closeness and distance
that underlay the special kind of personal, poetic, and even spiritual
relationship called “Chan friendship.”
 CHAPTER EIGHT

WAR, VIOLENCE, AND THE METAPHOR OF BLOOD IN

TANCI NARRATIVES BY WOMEN AUTHORS

Siao-chen Hu

In my dream I headed the imperial troops,

Gripping our lances we cleared the dust.
The troops seemed to descend like a flash,
The formation was one of birds and snakes.
At the border I displayed my heroic tactics,
On the dome of the sky I wrote my ambitions.
Until suddenly I awoke at the sound of a bell,
To find myself still wearing three-inch shoes.
Luo Qilan (1754–?), “Records of Dreams, Eight Poems”
, Poem #7.1
Luo Qilan’s eight poems on dreams encompass most of the unattain-
able aspirations of pre-modern Chinese women. What Luo describes
in these poems are themes and topics that many other women writers
also developed in their works. The desire to pass the examination and
serve in court, for example, is one of the most popular themes in wom-
en’s narratives. Heroism on the battlefield, as described in the poem
quoted above, is also a theme taken up by many women authors of
narrative. Except when they had lived through war themselves, women
writers were not experts on war, and the depiction of war in their
fictional narratives remained naïve or playful. Not much attention,
therefore, has been paid to their efforts in this direction. However,
the way women use the imagery of war to tie together the seemingly
opposed themes of love and violence should be of great interest to us
in terms of gendered practice. Tanci , or prosimetric novels, are
a rich source of this imagery.

1
Trans. by Wilt Idema and Beata Grant, The Red Brush: Writing Women of Impe-
rial China (Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2004), 616–617. Luo Qilan,
Tingqiuxuan shiji (Poetry Collection from Tingqiu Studio) (1795), 2.2b,
in Ming Qing Women’s Writings, ed. Grace S. Fong, http://digital.library.mcgill.ca/
mingqing.
250 chapter eight

Tanci can be thought of as the feminine counterpart to xiaoshuo

(vernacular fiction) in late imperial China. Tanci narratives by
women authors are particularly interesting because, in contrast to the
rarity of xiaoshuo fiction by women before the twentieth century,2
they are considerable in number, impressive in volume, and address
many sentiments and experiences in the lives of pre-modern women.
Women’s tanci are generally understood as romantic and domestic in
nature. This is true in the sense that they often portray idealized hero-
ines who achieve success in the realms of career, love, and family. But
we must note that women’s tanci also encompass a wide range of top-
ics that are not traditionally associated with the feminine, among them
warfare. In this chapter, I discuss the aspirations of women authors to
accomplish heroic and martial deeds and their depiction of the warfare
to which this desire leads. In the final section, I will focus on Liuhua-
meng (Dream of the pomegranate flower), a tanci composed
of three hundred and sixty chapters, alleged to be the longest Chinese
narrative work. It is a work that has never been studied, and there are
many possible perspectives from which we might approach this text,
which at first seems almost impossible to comprehend. I will focus on
the use of images of blood to invoke both love and war.

Parallel Civil and Military Plots

Chen Duansheng’s (1751–ca. 1796) Zaishengyuan (Kar-

mic bonds of reincarnation) may be the best known tanci. This work is
part of a whole genealogy of texts. As I have demonstrated elsewhere,
Zaishengyuan is itself a sequel to Yüchuanyuan (Karmic bonds
of the jade bracelet), which is again a sequel to two other linked works
by anonymous authors (whose gender we do not know)—Dajinqian
(The gold coin, first) and Xiaojinqian (The gold coin,
second). After the circulation of the unfinished manuscript of Zaisheng-
yuan, an important woman poet, Liang Desheng (1771–1847),
finished the work and gave it a happy ending. Another woman poet,
Hou Zhi (1764–1829), first edited the complete version for a
publisher, then published a heavily revised version of the same story

2
For discussions of the xiaoshuo fiction by women, see Ellen Widmer, The Beauty
and the Book: Women and Fiction in Nineteenth-Century China (Cambridge: Harvard
University Asia Center, 2006).
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 251

under a different title, Jinguijie (Heroines of the golden cham-

ber), and finally came up with a sequel, Zaizaotian (Heaven
rebuilt), that aimed to challenge everything said in Chen Duansheng’s
original. Yet another woman writer, Qiu Xinru (fl. 1857),
after enthusiastically reading Zaishengyuan, wrote Bishenghua
(Flowers from the writing brush, 1857) with the intention of providing
a rectified image of the heroine.3 The works in this series commonly
feature talented heroines who disguise themselves and undertake
important deeds in the public realm. The series continued well into
the late nineteenth century, in such works as Jinyuyuan
(Karmic bonds of the golden fish pendant), Zixuji (The tale
of naught) and Liuhuameng. Although the authors of these works no
longer openly referred to Zaishengyuan as a source of inspiration, it is
evident that they still wrote in dialogue with this masterpiece, address-
ing the same problems yet providing different answers. Most criticism
of these works centers on the disguised heroine’s predicament: how
can she resume a woman’s social role after she has tried out the man’s
role? On the other hand, how can she not succumb to societal pres-
sure to go back home after her true gender is discovered? Another
important point to consider is how these women authors handle the
depiction of war. Participation in warfare is an indispensable part of
the heroine’s achievement, though she may not have to fight battles
herself. In fact, many of these works have a parallel double plot, that is,
wives and concubines involved in domestic routines and tensions, and
at the same time, heroes and heroines fighting on the frontier.
This explains why in the opening chapters of Zaishengyuan,4 when
Meng Lijun escapes under the disguise of a man, her future
sister-in-law Huangfu Zhanghua , who is as capable in mar-
tial arts as her brother Shaohua , has to encounter a cross-dressed
female bandit leader Wei Yonge as she and her mother are
being sent to the capital as criminals. The two valiant women become
sworn sisters, and pacify the country together. As the double plot

3
For a detailed description of this process, see Hu Siao-chen , Cainü cheye
weimian: Jindai zhongguo nüxing xushi wenxue de xingqi :
(Burning the midnight oil: the rise of female narrative in early
modern China) (Taipei: Maitian, 2003), 21–85.
4
“Chapter” here refers to hui . The edition of Zaishengyuan used in this study
has 80 hui (chapters) divided equally into 20 juan (“scroll”) units. See Chen Duan-
sheng, Zaishengyuan (Zhengzhou: Zhongzhou guji, 1982). For all other tanci cited,
“chapter” refers to juan.
252 chapter eight

requires, the two women warriors are a necessary counterpart to

Meng Lijun, the talented cainü (talented woman) who serves as
a minister in the civil realm. Martial women are certainly celebrated
in the work. However, Chen Duansheng falls short in depicting the
battlefield, as illustrated by this passage in Chapter 15, which describes
Yonge’s capture of the villain Liu Kuibi , who leads the troops
dispatched by the emperor of the Yuan dynasty:
Softly, the chief started her incantation,
Her magic froze all movement and was indeed
extraordinary.
Liu Kuibi, who had just made a big show of
his powers,
In a twinkling of an eye was made to stand
still in front of the array of women, his head
bowed.
In vain did he hold a knife, as he was unable
to fight;
In vain was he astride a horse, as he was unable
to move forward.
“I’m doomed, today I have fallen for the ban-
dit’s black magic!” he cried.
He then ordered, “Soldiers, come save me!”
And the Yuan troops all responded accord-
ingly.
Spurring on the horses, slapping the saddles,
And waving their banners, they rushed for-
ward.
Blades shone as the sun cast light upon them,
Layers of armor were linked by chains of
rings.
Dust flew about as the horses pawed the
ground;
Clouds swirled around the pheasant tails on
their helmets.
“Here we’ve come to your rescue!” the troops
exclaimed.
They circled in and surrounded the site.
But the chief did not wait for them to come
closer
Before she started the incantation.
In a voice as tender as an oriole she com-
manded, “Halt!”
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 253

And the warriors found themselves unable to

move forward.5
As this passage demonstrates, by resorting to magic, Chen Duansheng
refrained from describing actions on the battlefield, but the magic she
could think of turned out to be quite uninventive. This is not a singu-
lar example. There are several chapters, especially Chapters 21 to 24,
that are devoted to battles, but in general they are not striking in the
description of military action.5
Chen Duansheng’s inability to handle battle scenes should not sur-
prise us, because, as Virginia Woolf tells us, women authors were lim-
ited in their experience.6 When it comes to warfare, unless the woman
author has personal experience of war—which Chen Duansheng did
not—imagination must play a decisive role. It is most interesting to
see where imagination can lead a woman author. Yüchuanyuan (of
anonymous authorship), the predecessor of Zaishengyuan, provides
an excellent example. This is a text that gives detailed descriptions,
sometimes to hilarious effect. In rendering grand battle scenes, the
young author did not hesitate to make them fun. Chapter 19 is most
remarkable in this respect. In this episode, General Wang Jingxing
is sent to defend the northern border in place of the miss-
ing General Xie Yuhui . The rebel Zhu Liang and the
Jurchen princess Minghua are formidable foes, and as a result
the experienced general, instead of fighting a pitched battle, decides to
set a trap for them. His scheme is to pretend that the Song troops lack
discipline under their new general, so that the Jurchen army will relax
their attention. General Wang then plans to ambush Zhu Liang and
the princess by setting up a “Hundred-Flower Kickball Game” (baihua
tiqiuhui ), in which the women officers of the Song army
perform a kickball dance to entertain the troops as well as the Song
civilians. The Jurchen leaders, dressing up as Song citizens to attend
the game, fall into the trap. (Whether this scheme is effective or ridicu-
lous is not my concern here.) This is how the scene is described:

5
Chen Duansheng, Zaishengyuan, 200.
6
Virginia Woolf, “Women and Fiction,” in Women and Writing (San Diego: Har-
court Brace & Company, 1979), 43–52.
254 chapter eight

The “Hundred-Flower Tent” rose to the clouds,

And the crimson canopy was made as fine as
possible.
The many-colored silk floated in the wind;
The sashes with the eight-immortals design
danced in the sun.
The tree-peony was red like the roseate clouds;
The bush-peony stood straight and graceful.
Thousands of flowers clustered around the three
clouds,
And ten thousand brocade colors attended the
sun.
...
“Figures in Chinese art are indeed ingenious,
This tent really deserves the name Hundred
Flowers!”
...
Princess Minghua could not help praising it in
secret,
And the barbarian officers were moved to joy.
...
All the barbarian generals and soldiers admired
it,
Seeking more fun, they dared not initiate an
attack.7
I have quoted only a small part of the description, but it is enough for
us to see to what extent the detail prevails over narration. This detail
shifts the reader’s attention from the tension of the ambush to the
ecstasy of the game, as the author describes how the beautiful female
soldiers “raised their skirts, exposing their tiny feet,” and began to kick
the balls to the rhythm of the music:7,8
The four madams, ladies of grace,
Began to toss the balls in the Hundred Flower
Tent.
Their multicolored boots were tiny and
pointed,8
The bud patterns in profusion—phoenix beaks
blossom.

7
Yüchuanyuan (Wencheng tang, 1841), 37b–38a.
8
The precise meaning of this sentence is unclear. I suspect there is a mistake in
the text.
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 255

The embroidered flags were blowing, light and

swift;
The silk sashes were swaying in unison.
Their eyes gleamed charmingly, their phoenix
boots raised;
Green sashes flew up and down, showing their
small waists.
The four colorful balls never touched the
ground,
Where one person tossed a ball, another caught
it.
A gust of wind blew down the peach blossoms,
thousands of petals were spinning,
The [breeze?] puffed the willows, ten thousand
branches were moving.
In the multicolored tent only the fragrant wind
blew chaotically;
On the embroidered balls only tatters of bro-
cade floated.
There were sixty-four modes of kicking, each
extraordinary,
And auspicious clouds surrounded the four
beauties.
When the kicking was at its swiftest, the women
seemed to disappear,
And all the soldiers beat the gongs together.9
This description, dense with material, even sensual, details, takes the
scene out of the military framework. The author seems to have written
it purely to indulge in visual detail. This is a woman writer’s version
of a battlefield, and it demonstrates her inability, as in Chen Duansh-
eng’s case, to deal with battle more seriously. However, the fact that
the detail is given such importance and the scene is rendered in such
a hilarious way suggests that the author was enjoying herself.9
Considering the visual effect the text attempts to produce, I suspect
what the author had in mind was a magnified version of a theatrical
performance. Theatrical influence is most apparent when we read tanci
descriptions of how martial heroes and heroines meet (and sometimes
fall in love) on the battlefield. The authors often lavish attention upon
the portrayal of the beauty of their faces, but they devote even more
time to their armor and weapons, or we should say, to their costumes.

9
Yüchuanyuan, 42b–43a.
256 chapter eight

The following example shows what Wei Yonge, disguised as a man,

looks like in the eyes of Madam Yin, Huangfu Zhanghua’s mother. (At
the time Madam Yin did not know that Wei was a woman.)10
Thus she saw him:
He was wearing an armor of gold,
A headdress with two dragons that parted in
the middle of his forehead.
There were intricate decorations in gold thread
on the sleeves,
His cloud-patterned brocade gown was covered
by an overcoat.
He wore a pair of black boots with pale-colored
soles on his feet,
A belt decorated with precious jade hung from
his waist.
On his left he carried a sword that was hidden
from sight;
Behind his head was suspended a knife with a
gold back.
He was complete with a bright and extraordi-
nary outfit,
Matching his outstanding handsomeness and
agreeable manners.
Like the peach blossom, his delicate face glowed
with a blush;
Like the willow leaves his long brows revealed
the shape of green hills.
His eyes were as clear as autumn waves, pretty
and charming;
His nose was as straight and full and as well-
formed as jade.
His red lips were as tiny as cherries,
His cheeks, as if powdered, held a rouged
charm.10
The bandit leader’s astonishing handsomeness impresses Madam Yin
so much that she begins to consider marrying her daughter Zhanghua
to him. On stage, it is a generic convention to have young heroes and
heroines who encounter one another on the battlefield admire each
other’s beauty, flirt, and fall in love. The intent is to amuse and charm
the audience with romantic and even erotic insinuations. Many epi-

10
Chen Duansheng, Zaishengyuan, 103.
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 257

sodes of battle in women’s tanci contain this kind of hidden fantasy

of romance.

War in Tanci by Women who Experienced Destruction

If warfare in those tanci which developed from Zaishengyuan is often

treated with a sense of humor, it manifests a much more solemn, even
chilling, effect in tanci novels that take historical turmoil as background.
Works based on the events of the late Ming and the late Qing deserve
particular attention. Whether or not it was actually written by a Ming
woman loyalist as it claims to be, Tianyuhua (Heaven rains
flowers) is the only tanci that seriously deals with the fall of the Ming.
As I have argued previously, it is a work that extensively explores the
father-daughter relationship in the context of both the so-called cainü
culture and the breakdown of the Chinese orthodoxy.11 As Tianyuhua
is a work embedded in Ming loyalist sentiments, we may expect to
see much warfare in it; however, the narrative does not deal directly
with war on the national scale until the last chapters, when it narrates
the battles against the roving bandits who will overthrow the dynasty.
Unlike the other tanci discussed so far, women do not actually go to
war in Tianyuhua. There is a farcical woman bandit who dominates
her husband, but no dignified female character fights on the battle-
field. Nonetheless, the dynasty has been drawing to its close since the
beginning of the narrative, and all events in the work are affected by
the shadows of chaos and impending doom. This ominous ambiance
is so strong that the heroine Zuo Yizhen persistently asks her
father to allow her to carry his pliant Coiled Dragon Sword to protect
herself. I have argued elsewhere that the presenting of the sword rep-
resents the transference of authority and power from the father to the
daughter, as well as a symbolic “borrowing” of the father’s masculin-
ity. As Zuo Yizhen acquires the retractable sword, she folds it up and
keeps it in a sachet that hangs from her girdle.12 Her sisters ridicule
her, but she defends herself by saying that they live in a time of crisis,

11
Siao-chen Hu, “The Daughter’s Vision of National Crisis: Tianyuhua and a
Woman Writer’s Construction of the Late Ming,” in Dynastic Crisis and Cultural
Innovation: From the Late Ming to the Late Qing and Beyond, ed. David Wang and
Shang Wei (Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2005), 200–231.
12
Tao Zhenhuai . Tianyuhua (Zhengzhou: Zhongzhou guji, 1984), 428.
258 chapter eight

and one can never foretell what will happen. In Chapter 11, she uses
the sword to chop off the arms of the monsters that haunt her family
garden. This episode works as a rehearsal for her heroic deed in Chap-
ter 15. When Zuo Yizhen is captured by the usurper of the throne, she
decapitates him with the sword that she has carried with her in secret.
She accomplishes this heroic deed in place of her father, the symbol
of ultimate masculine and moral authority, when he is temporarily
absent. In this sense the war she fights is in part symbolic. It is against
not only the forces threatening the dynasty but also the rules that cir-
cumscribe her as a woman.
Two tanci texts by women of the late Qing present warfare some-
what differently. In late Qing works, wars are portrayed in a more real-
istic manner. The first of the two late Qing works I will discuss here is
Jingzhongzhuan (Story of the loyal ) by Zhou Yingfang
(?–1895).13 Zhou Yingfang was a daughter of Zheng Danruo
(1811–1860), who wrote Mengyingyuan (Karmic bonds of
dream and shadow), another famous tanci, published in 1843.14 Zhou
Yingfang’s two greatest personal tragedies both had to do with wars.
In 1860, during the Taiping rebellion, her mother committed suicide
in Hangzhou. The news was said to have almost shocked Zhou Ying-
fang to death.15 Then in 1865, her husband Yan Jin (?–1865), who
served in Guizhou as a prefecture official, was killed in a local rebel-
lion. After that Zhou Yingfang moved to Zhejiang to live with a rela-
tive and raise her children.16 It took her almost thirty years to complete
her tanci. She started it in 1868, three years after her husband’s death,
and completed it in 1895, the year of her own death.17 This means that

13
Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1931. The author’s sons, daughters and daugh-
ters-in-law collaborated in editing the book for publication.
14
According to Ye Dejun , Danruo is the style name of Zheng Zhen-
hua . See Ye Dejun, “Tanci nüzuojia xiaoji” (Notes on
women authors of tanci), in Xiqu xiaoshuo congkao (Collected stud-
ies of drama and fiction) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1979), 746–747. According to
Wang Yunzhang , Zheng Danruo’s father was Mengbai Zhongcheng
. Zheng was also a good friend of Wang Yaofen . See Wang Yunzhang, Ran-
zhi yuyun (Lingering fragrance from burning the lamp oil), Qing shihua
fangyi chubian (Primary collection of lost notes on poetry of the
Qing), vol. 8 (Taipei: Xinwenfeng, 1987), 411.
15
Li Shu , “Preface” to Zhou Yingfang, Jingzhongzhuan, dated 1911.
16
Li Shu, “Preface.”
17
Li Shu, “Preface.” Li Shu probably relied on the information provided by Zhou
Yingfang’s nephew.
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 259

she wrote the work during the most dismal years of her life, which
corresponded to the chaotic period of the late Qing.
Jingzhongzhuan is a retelling of the Yue Fei (1103–1142) story
in the form of a tanci. Yue Fei’s story began to spread in oral form
soon after his death, but the earliest textual version is Da Song zhong-
xing tongsu yanyi (The romance of the revival of
the Song), compiled by Xiong Damu (fl. sixteenth century) by
1552.18 The text was reprinted many times in the late Ming,19 when
the empire was as threatened as the Southern Song. The most popu-
lar version of the Yue Fei story is Jingzhong yanyi shuoben Yuewang
quanzhuan (The romance of the loyal: full
biography of Yue Fei), often known as Shuo Yue quanzhuan
(Full biography of Yue Fei). Prefaced in 1684,20 it influenced all textual
versions and performances of the Yue Fei story from the early Qing
on,21 including the tanci Jingzhongzhuan by Zhou Yingfang. Under
Manchu rule, nothing was more potentially subversive than the Yue
Fei story, as it was so easily taken as an expression of anti-Manchu
sentiment.22 That Shuo Yue quanzhuan was banned during the Qian-
long reign (1736–1795) was not surprising.23 But the ban did not stop

18
The first edition was published in 1552, with a preface by Xiong Damu. See
Zhongguo tongsu xiaoshuo zongmu tiyao (Bibliography and
abstracts of Chinese popular fictions) (Beijing: Zhongguo wenlian, 1990), 56.
19
There are texts such as Xinkan anjian yanyi quanxiang dasong zhongxing yue-
wang quanzhuan (A new edition of Tongjian-
based romance: Full-illustrated biography of Yue Fei reviving the Song), Yue Wumu
jingzhongzhuan (Biography of Yue Fei practicing loyalty), Yue Wumu
jinzhong baoguozhuan (Biography of Yue Fei serving the country
with loyalty). See Jia Lu , “Yue Fei ticai tongsu wenxue zuopin zhitan”
(On popular works related to the theme of Yue Fei), Yuefei yanjiu
(Studies on Yue Fei) 3 (1992): 337–338.
20
Its preface is by Jin Feng . For the Jinchuntang edition, see Guben
xiaoshuo jicheng (Complete collection of old editions of fictions)
(Shanghai: Guji chubanshe, 1990).
21
The earliest edition we can see today is from the Tongzhi reign of the Qing. Some
scholars believe it was revised after being banned during the Qianlong reign. See Du
Yingtao and Yu Yun , eds., Yue Fei gushi xiqu shuochang ji
(Collection of oral performances of the Yue Fei story) (Shanghai: Shanghai
guji chubanshe, 1985), 6.
22
For example, see Ding Yaokang , Xu Jinpingmei (Sequel to Jin
Ping Mei) (Beijing: Zhongguo xiju chubanshe, 2000) or Chen Chen , Shuihu hou-
zhuan (After the water margin) (Tianjin: Tianjin guji chubanshe, 1998).
23
See Wang Xiaochuan , Yuan Ming Qing sandai jinhui xiaoshuo xiqu shi-
liao (Historical materials of the banning of fiction
and drama in Yuan, Ming and Qing dynasties) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji, 1981), 48;
260 chapter eight

the story from circulating, and the government had to cope with the
problem by incorporating the Yue Fei cult into its own ideology of
loyalty.24 How then can we understand Zhou Yingfang’s having begun
to write her version of the Yue Fei story in the 1860s?
In one of the two prefaces, the author Li Shu , who claims to
be a friend of Zhou Yingfang’s nephew, represents Zhou as a woman
with a vision as grand as a true hero’s. She had a strong historical
sense, admired Guangong and Yue Fei, and wanted to write
a Yue Fei story to rectify social ills.25 One’s sense of history is often
related to one’s immediate reality, and in Zhou Yingfang’s case, events
of national and historical importance took place during her lifetime
and had a big impact on her. Her admiration of a war hero from hun-
dreds of years ago was more than romantic nostalgia; it was brought
about by the convergence of the contemporary political situation and
her personal life experience.
As Zhou Yingfang retold the Yue Fei story based on the Shuo Yue
version, she made some changes. On the most apparent level, she used
a different form, i.e., the tanci, which she hoped would appeal to a
wider readership, especially women. This demonstrates her interest in
arousing her fellow women’s interest in history and reality in a time
of war and chaos. The most noticeable deviation in Zhou’s work from
the Shuo Yue version is the total abandonment of the framework of
retribution. The Shuo Yue version adopted the popular belief that Yue
Fei, Minister Qin’s wife Madam Wang, and the Jurchen leader Jin
Wuzhu were the reincarnations of mythical creatures who, in
a previous life, had had an entangled relationship. It explains that Yue
Fei was killed at Madam Wang’s instigation and accounts for why the
Chinese empire was defeated by the Jurchens. According to the author
of the second preface to Jingzhongzhuan, Zhou Yingfang was partic-
ularly dissatisfied with the mythical framework when she read Shuo
Yue, because she thought it blurred the boundary between good and

Li Shiren , Zhongguo jinhui xiaoshuo daquan (Complete

collection of banned Chinese fiction) (Hefei: Huangshan shushe, 1992), 259.
24
Emperor Qianlong wrote “Yue Wumu lun” (On Yue Wumu), in which
he praised Yue Fei as a loyal hero as brilliant as the sun and the moon. See Li Hanhun,
ed., Song Yue Wumu gong Fei nianpu (Chronology of Yue Wumu
of the Song) (Taipei: Commercial Press, 1980), 367. Temples and historical remains
associated with Yue Fei were also repaired during the Qing.
25
Li Shu, “Preface.”
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 261

evil.26 This may be so, but I suspect that her disinclination to use the
retribution framework also had to do with the anti-Manchu sentiment
that was rising again in the late Qing. Zhou Yingfang’s husband fought
and died for the government and was posthumously granted a high
official rank,27 so we would be on very shaky ground if we were to call
her an anti-Manchu nationalist. However, considering the ambivalent
nature of the Yue Fei story, I think Zhou Yingfang’s retelling of it car-
ried some subversive meaning. The old story of a hero who stood up
to invaders could draw on both anti-foreign and anti-Manchu senti-
ments, allowing it to blend two important currents of Zhou’s day.
Like Shuo Yue, Jingzhongzhuan contains many descriptions of war.
The intensity of wars in this work far surpasses that in romance-ori-
ented tanci works such as Yüchuanyuan and Zaishengyuan. In contrast
to Shuo Yue, however, Zhou Yingfang’s work pays more attention to
domestic details, and in that sense stands as an independent text. For
example, Yue Fei’s mother, wife and daughter, who are faceless in Shuo
Yue, are all endowed with personality and authority in Zhou’s version
of the story. Zhou Yingfang did not follow the tanci convention of
paralleling domestic life with warfare, yet she devoted three chapters,
from Chapter 38 to Chapter 40, to domestic matters, when the subject
turns to Yue Fei’s temporary retirement. In Shuo Yue, by contrast, this
period in Yue Fei’s career is left blank. In short, while Jingzhongzhuan
is exceptional among women’s tanci in its prolonged descriptions of
wars, it also offers more feminine touches that set it apart from the
masculine version of the story. The description of domestic life is the
subtext to what is otherwise a grand and martial story.
The adaptation of the story of China’s most valiant and loyal war
hero by a woman writer comes to a climax when, in Chapter 69, after
a visit to Yue Fei’s temple, a young woman composes poems and dis-
cusses Yue Fei’s greatness with her mother and grandmother.28 In this
way the grand issues of war and dynastic crisis become the topic of
women’s daily conversation. In this sense, Zhou Yingfang’s Jingzhong-
zhuan is indeed a parody of a grand narrative tradition.
The second late Qing tanci by a woman I will discuss here is Siyun-
ting (The Pavilion of the Four Clouds, preface dated 1899) by

26
Xu Desheng , “Preface” to Zhou Yingfang, Jingzhongzhuan, dated 1900.
27
See Yan Chen , ed., Tongxiang xianzhi (The gazetteer of Tongxi-
ang) (Taipei: Chengwen chubanshe, 1970), 464.
28
Zhou Yingfang, Jingzhongzhuan, 283–285.
262 chapter eight

Peng Jingjuan (fl. late nineteenth century).29 Against a back-

ground of the late Ming, the novel tells how the young gentleman
Zhao Jilong married four women, each with the word yun
(cloud) in her name. With the assistance of these four wives, all
versed in literature and martial arts, he manages to help the collapsing
dynasty survive for a dozen years. After fighting for Emperor Chong-
zhen (r. 1628–1644) against roving bandits, they recognize that their
efforts are in vain and decide to go into exile. In the end they settle
down on an island and cut off contact with China.
Accordingly to Xia Xiaohong’s research, Peng Jingjuan was a late
nineteenth-century pioneer woman in Shanghai who openly and
actively promoted schools for women.30 The preface to Siyunting
lists a series of women’s tanci, including Zaishengyuan, Bishenghua
and Tianyuhua, and puts Siyunting on top of all the previous works.
Whether the work deserves such high praise is arguable, but it is
clear that the author wrote within the tradition of women’s tanci. For
example, as with many other women’s tanci, its writing, reading and
publication were closely associated with a women’s community. Half a
dozen women contributed poems to Peng’s book, including Yan Xing-
zheng , who was actually Zhou Yingfang’s daughter. Also fol-
lowing the tradition of women’s tanci, Peng Jingjuan elevated women’s
talent in her work. Unlike many other tanci, however, topics such as
gender-crossing, domestic details, and interpersonal relationships in
polygamous families are not a focus of attention. Instead, issues such
as political and natural catastrophes, tyrannical government, roving
peasants, wars, and China’s coastal defense structure the novel.
Toward the end of the Siyunting, witnessing the accelerating decline
of the late Ming, the hero and his wives donate all the fortune they
have accumulated to fund and train a militia to defend the country.
If we consider that the work was completed in 1899, when China was
undergoing a dynastic crisis, there can be no denying that the author
wrote the novel in response to her current reality. Writing about this
historical transition, the author simultaneously displayed a longing for
order and an obsession with violence.

29
Peng Jingjuan, Siyunting (Shanghai: Tushu jichengju, 1899).
30
Xia Xiaohong , Wan Qing nüxing yu jindai Zhongguo
(Late Qing women and modern China) (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe,
2004), 16–17.
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 263

Siyunting is composed of twenty-four chapters that can be divided

into three sections. The first section consists of Chapter 1 through
Chapter 13. During the reign of Emperor Tianqi (r. 1621–1627), rebel-
lions began to rise in different places. Zhao Jilong first encounters Geng
Yunpei , a sword fairy, and through her intercession, marries a
woman bandit chief, Li Yunsu . Li Yunsu disguises herself as
a man and joins the army with Zhao Jilong. Together they quell the
roving bandits, and Li Yunsu leads the royal army in support of the
new Chongzhen emperor to ascend the throne. In the meantime, Zhao
Jilong’s primary wife Liu Yuncui , being brave and talented,
volunteers to work as a woman secretary for the disloyal minister in
power, so that she can undertake underground political work. At the
same time, the minister’s daughter Cui Yunfeng is disgusted by
her father’s treachery and constantly tries to persuade him to repent.
By the end of Chapter 13, the rebels are pacified, the arch villain, the
eunuch Wei Zhongxian (1568–1627) has been executed, and
the four women have all married Zhao Jilong. Of the four wives, the
fairy Geng Yunpei receives the most attention. She uses her magic
power to instruct and rescue the “hero,” Li Yunsu in male disguise as
a military leader. Liu Yuncui is portrayed as smart at strategy and a
genius at management. Cui Yunfeng is a typical talented woman and
writes beautifully. Each of them represents one dimension of the per-
fect woman. Chapter 14 to Chapter 19 is the second section. It serves
as a transition. After the Chongzhen emperor is enthroned, the hero
and the wives retire and return to their private manor. The second
section tells how the wives cooperate to manage the manor and make
it an ideal land. The third and last section is from Chapter 19 to the
conclusion. A new national crisis emerges as the roving bandits rise in
revolt. The Zhao family donates money, trains militia, and fights the
bandits, but this time their efforts are to no avail. In the end they flee
to an island and cut off all ties to China.
Warfare is decisive in Siyunting’s plot. The author of the preface
observes Peng Jingjuan’s interest in warfare and speaks highly of her
views on military strategy. He says,
With the exception of Lieguo (Dong Zhou lieguozhi), Sanguo (Sanguo
yanyi), and Shuihu, there are few narratives that are good at describing
war. This book, about the principles of warfare, emphasizes loyalty and
honesty, sufficient provisions, and excellent weaponry. When it comes to
actual practice, it focuses on only two strategies—know thyself and the
enemy, and attack only when the enemy is unprepared. These are the
264 chapter eight

essence of the seven canonical works on the art of war. Today western
military strategies are valued; however, I humbly believe that none of
the military victories won over different ages has ever gone beyond these
few principles.31
We must underscore that the author of the preface singles out the
topic of warfare in Siyunting and compares the work with famous war
novels such as the Sanguo yanyi (Three Kingdoms). This
is because warfare plays a very important role in the work, and, in
view of the author’s gender, I would emphasize that this is one of the
few women’s tanci that take warfare seriously—the other candidates
would be Jingzhongzhuan and Liuhuameng, but the war scenes in Jing-
zhongzhuan are often based on the Shuo Yue, and the war scenes in
Liuhuameng, while extensive, often rely on supernatural powers. In
her own preface to the book, Peng Jingjuan describes her early years:
“I followed my husband and traveled ten thousand miles. The sound
of the battle drums startled me when the frost began to fall.”32 It is
very possible that she had had some experience of the frontier before
she wrote the book and found her experience relevant to the late nine-
teenth-century national crisis.
Peng Jingjuan also revealed an obsession with violence and blood in
her text. Interestingly, in the first section of the work, when the nar-
ration is largely about how Li Yunsu leads her troops to fight, the war
scenes are not very violent. It is in the second section, when the hero
and the wives return to the homeland, that we read about extreme
violence. This is a relatively peaceful period of time, but the characters
take turns proving their heroism in extremely violent ways. The first
to do so is Liu Yuncui, who is not trained in martial arts. In Chapter
14, the hero and his family are on their way home. When Liu Yuncui
encounters some remaining confederates of the eunuch Wei Zhong-
xian who have collaborated with bandits, she uses a stratagem and suc-
cessfully recruits the bandits while exterminating the confederates. The
narrator then praises her for her many talents, and her ability to “take
killing as a game.”33 Liu Yuncui has demonstrated her talents many
times before, but it is only when she kills unscrupulously that her her-
oism is regarded as proven. Zhao Jilong comes next. Compared to the

31
“Jinghu xianpin shize” (Ten casual comments by Jinghu), in Peng
Jingjuan, Siyunting, 2a.
32
Peng Jingjuan, Siyunting, 1b.
33
Peng Jingjuan, Siyunting, 14.3b.
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 265

wives, he usually appears mediocre. In Chapter 15, he rescues a young

woman from a vicious monk who has kidnapped her. To execute the
villain, he orders him dismembered into five parts. Three of his wives
who witness the bloody scene are so excited that they exclaim, “Our
husband is a scholar, but he can be so bold. How rare!”34 Mr. Zhao is
not a military man, but this brutal killing proves he is a true hero. At
the same time his wives demonstrate their daring heroism by being
unperturbed by the bloody scene. The woman general Li Yunsu makes
the last but best show. In Chapter 16, still on the way home, Li Yunsu
dreams that her brother, the bandit chief, has been killed and asks
her to take revenge for him. She therefore makes a detour back to her
fortress, only to find that her adulterous sister-in-law has indeed killed
the chief. Li Yunsu attacks the fortress, captures the adulterous couple
and their accomplice, and kills them to offer sacrifice to her deceased
brother. The violent scene is described in graphic detail:
She commanded her followers to cut off the two villains’ right hands and
tie them. . . . She then ordered that [sister-in-law] Ugly Slug’s right hand
be hacked off. . . . With white cloth hanging down on all walls in the hall,
the bandit’s followers were lining up, and not even a bird’s chirp was
heard. On the left of the hall was laid the chief’s coffin, and on the right
there was the tablet with the chief’s name on it. . . . Yunsu sat behind
the desk, while the followers brought in Ugly Slug and the other two,
all naked, and made them kneel down in front of the tablet. . . . [Yunsu]
stabbed them in the chest and took out three hearts dripping with blood.
She then put the hearts in front of the tablet. At this time, Mr. Zhao and
the others were sitting upstairs, and they had rolled up the pearl-strewn
curtain and were burning incense. At this point, they were all so startled
they couldn’t get their drooping tongues back into their mouths. . . . The
followers dragged the three bodies out, minced their flesh, and threw it
down the ravine to feed the snakes and tigers. . . . Yunfeng said, “Sister
Su is a true heroic woman! She always acts decisively!”. . . Yuncui said,
“She had so many things to take care of, but she still managed to appear
calm and do things in order. This is such a rare quality! She will have to
be like this when she brings stability to the country in the future.”. . . Old
Madam Cui also said, “Back in the old days when I was in the capital,
I watched the play Wu Song Kills His Sister-in-Law. That was fake, and
this is real. More importantly, that was much less satisfying than this!
Madam Su is indeed an extraordinary person!”35

34
Peng Jingjuan, Siyunting, 15.4a.
35
Peng Jingjuan, Siyunting, 16.8b–10a.
266 chapter eight

There are several things to note in this scene of sacrifice. First, acts
such as cutting off hands, cleaving open the heart and mincing flesh
are meant to parallel the dismembering in the previous chapter. They
speak of the correspondence between violence and heroism. Secondly,
just as Old Madam Cui points out, the sacrifice is a replica of the
canonical scene of Wu Song sha sao (Wu Song kills his sis-
ter-in-law). Old Madam Cui recalls her past experience in the theater,
and as they “roll up the curtain” and “burn incense,” they are actually
mimicking the audience in a theater as they witness the sacrifice. This
is in fact a performance to prove Yunsu’s heroism, which the author
wanted to make comparable to Wu Song’s. The obsession with blood
and violence is demonstrated through the cutting of limbs, the cleav-
ing of hearts, and the mincing of human flesh, plus the spectators’
startled looks, widened eyes, drooping tongues, and excited comments.
Here bloodshed and the use of violence are equated with heroism and
are taken as a prerequisite for stabilizing China. The description of
extreme violence and frenzy reveals a longing for order on the one
hand, and on the other, foreshadows the approaching turmoil that will
topple the dynasty eventually.
Peng Jingjuan takes a step further toward expressing her yearning
for order by imagining the management of a perfect household. When
the homeward journey draws to an end, war and violence also come to
a halt, and the rest of the second section is devoted to the construction
of an ideal homeland. By the end of Chapter 19, the Zhao household
has been rebuilt into a manor that demonstrates financial abundance,
economic productivity and ritualistic hierarchy. While the Zhao fam-
ily is immersed in the pursuit of peace, disorder is already lurking
outside the confines of their manor. Before they set forth, they have
already received a prophecy that they will enjoy a long and prosperous
life, but that they will have to go overseas to enjoy it, and that China
will not stand.36 Right after they return home, they hear that there are
droughts in nearby provinces and revolts are about to rise. As they
have little trust in the government army, they begin to recruit sol-
diers, organize militia and buy weapons. As predicted, rebellions begin
to rise, and roving bandits pass through their province. The woman
hero Li Yunsu leads her men to fight and successfully ambushes the
enemies. However, when the bandits are defeated,

36
Peng Jingjuan, Siyunting, 17.8a.
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 267

[Li Yunsu and her husband] saw dead bodies scattered all over the green
field. Numerous horses died; those that survived were nibbling wheat
here and there. There had once been seven camps, but now they were
covered with cinders and ashes, and broken pots and bowls piled up all
over the place. The couple couldn’t help but shed tears. . . . How pitiable!
Within twenty li, there were not only no bandits, but no civilians.37
The impact of war and violence reappears, but it now has lost the
heroic and glorious dimension and is saturated with a desolate air.
This still life from the aftermath of a battle directly reflects the cruelty
of slaughter. With the comment “there were not only no bandits, but
no civilians,” the optimistic belief in the legitimacy of war and violence
is challenged and even overthrown. In the novel there are a few battles
after this one, but even when victory is achieved, the narration dis-
seminates a sense of sorrow and frustration, and the fall of the dynasty
is not far behind.

Fantasies of War and Love

In Liuhuameng, the longest Chinese narrative ever, blood is a met-

aphor for both war and love.38 Together with Jingzhongzhuan and
Siyunting, it is one of only a handful of women’s tanci narratives that
deal seriously with warfare. But it is also a work that attempts to look
into the depth of love. Love goes so deep that the essence of a human
being, i.e., blood, best defines and expresses it. In terms of love, blood
works in Liuhuameng as tears do in Hongloumeng. Love is therefore
seen as being as violent as war, and war is represented as being as
fantastic as love.
Liuhuameng is legendary for its length. It is composed of 360 chap-
ters, totaling approximately five million characters.39 Two prefaces, one
by the author Li Guiyu , the other by her woman friend Chen
Chousong , are both dated 1841. According to the prefaces, Li
Guiyu was originally from Gansu, married someone from Hunan, and

37
Peng Jingjuan, Siyunting, 10a–10b.
38
Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng (Beijing: Zhongguo wenlian, 1998).
39
When Zheng Zhenduo mentioned Liuhuameng in his Zhongguo suwenx-
ueshi (History of Chinese popular literature) (Shanghai: Shanghai
shuju, 1984), he called it a pinghua (story-telling), but actually he did not see the
work himself (see 381). A Ying called it “the longest tanci.” See “Tanci xiaoshuo lun”
(On tanci narrative), in Xiaoshuo xiantan sizhong (Casual
comments on fictions, four kinds) (Shanghai: Guji chubanshe, 1985), 36.
268 chapter eight

finally settled down in Fujian with her husband. She taught women
students for a living during her later years. Li Guiyu only lived to
write the first 357 chapters of the book, and it was not completed
until around 1935, when two women from Fujian, Weng Qiqian
and Yang Meijun , collaborated to write the conclusion.40
The work was never printed during the Qing,41 but records show it
was well received by women readers, who transcribed and circulated
it. Some say young women would take a transcribed copy of the book
as part of their dowries.42
Set in the Tang dynasty, the plot of Liuhuameng involves several
aristocratic families that generated heroes and heroines. They became
sworn brothers and sisters, married each other, encountered hardships
as the dynasty was threatened by ambitious royal in-laws, corrupt min-
isters and foreign invasion, cooperated to pacify the country, became
rulers of vassal states, and continued to bear the next generation of
heroes and heroines. Not surprisingly, heroines dominate this story
of multiple family legacies. They not only serve in the palace as lady
instructors but also fight foreigners and rebels, with their husbands
under them. The author also explicitly portrays the heroes as inferior
morally, intellectually and martially to their female counterparts.
Li Guiyu did not specifically refer to other women’s tanci works
that celebrate women’s talent, but it is textually evident that she was
writing within the tradition of this sub-genre. For example, it takes
up the common theme of elevation of the female sex. But this work

40
Weng Qiqian was an enthusiastic reader of Liuhuameng. She hated to see it
remain unfinished, and with the help of her relative Yang Meijun, she managed to
finish the last three chapters. Yang Meijun was also among the earliest women writ-
ers of the traditional prose narrative in the early twentieth century. See Wang Tiefan
and Zhang Chuanxing , “Fang Liuhuameng xuzuozhe Huanmei nüshi”
(Interview with Wanmei nüshi, the author who finished
Liuhuameng), in Pingtan tongkao (General studies on pinghua and tanci),
ed. Tan Zhengbi (Beijing: Zhongguo quyi chubanshe, 1985), 326–327.
41
Its first printed edition was published in 1998, one and a half century after the
date of the author’s preface.
42
See Wang Tiefan and Zhang Chuanxing, “Fang Liuhuameng xuzuozhe Wanmei
nüshi,” 326. As Liuhuameng was particularly popular, manuscript holders used to rent
it out, volume by volume. Some families would rent the manuscript to transcribe it.
See Chen Jiancai , ed., Ba Min zhanggu daquan (Complete col-
lection of Fujian anecdotes) (Fuzhou: Fujian jiaoyu chubanshe, 1994), 150–153; Guan
Dedong , “Li Guiyu de Liuhuameng” (Li Guiyu’s Liuhua-
meng), in his Quyi lunji (Collected essays on the art of oral performance)
(Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1983), 40–46. Its reception, however, was limited
to the Fujian area.
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 269

is distinguished by the attempt to encompass all talents, virtues, and

accomplishments in a single heroine. In her preface, the author posi-
tions her leading heroine, Gui Hengkui , as the supreme model
of the ideal woman. Her achievements surpass those of all sage kings
and queens, able ministers and valiant generals.43 Yet at the pinnacle
of her achievement the heroine faces a vast void, for there is no way to
advance. In fact, the final choice the author has arranged for her leads
the heroine to take her own life so that she can leave everything behind
and transcend the so-called feminine condition. Death as the solution
to the heroine’s predicament, if we remember, may possibly have been
the unfulfilled future Chen Duansheng had in mind for her heroine
Meng Lijun. Here too Liuhuameng fits an earlier tradition.
Li Guiyu wrote Liuhuameng in the first half of the nineteenth
century, a period often considered static in literary history. Chen
Chousong tries to portray the author as a literary woman with a par-
ticular concern for history. According to Chen’s account, she was so
immersed in study that she never stopped flipping the pages of histori-
cal books.44 Chen goes on to discuss Li’s views on the fortunes of the
Tang dynasty. She sees Li taking a negative view of the situation after
the mid-Tang, when signs of slack governance, disloyal rulers of vas-
sal states, and treacherous eunuchs began to shake the country. In her
narrative imagination, Li chose to have a heroine play the role of great
savior of the deeply troubled dynasty. More interestingly, Li Guiyu’s
heroine continues to play the role of political and military leader after
her disguise is revealed at a relatively early stage in her career. This is
different from most women’s tanci, which often postpone the lifting
of the disguise, because afterward, by convention, the heroine has to
return to domesticity. In fact, Li’s heroine is so grand and idealized
that she almost mocks the whole tradition of women’s tanci that exces-
sively elevates female heroism.
I have mentioned earlier that, as the leading heroine in Liuhua-
meng, entrusted with the mission of saving China, this woman has to
possess every virtue possible. The author’s preface provides an overall
appraisal of this heroine in parallel prose,
A descendent of a notable family, she was raised in the ladies’ cham-
ber. She was the head gentlewomen and a champion of literature. She

43
Li Guiyu, “Preface” to Liuhuameng.
44
Chen Chousong, “Preface” to Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng.
270 chapter eight

possessed the talent to govern the country and the capacity to trans-
form the world. She also had a plan to save the era and a means to aid
society. Political wisdom and military strategy were concentrated in this
one person. She was truly an outstanding woman, an exceptional hero,
and the most extraordinary person one has ever heard of through all
the ages. When she was still in the inner chambers, she laid low and
refrained from soaring and crying out. But when she met disturbing
storms and surging waves, she sprang to make achievements that would
last for a hundred years. . . . At a time when the country was in crisis and
about to collapse, she stepped forward, abandoning rouge and powder
on her vanity table, and picked up cap and gown to serve at the court.
She offered advice to the sovereign after distinguishing herself in the
imperial examination. She won honor in the expedition to the desert,
proving herself a champion of military talent. She was given the offi-
cial seal of commander-in-chief, and strove to pacify the country. In
the commander’s tent she planned strategies, and eventually fulfilled her
mission to rescue the throne. She stabilized the country and brought
peace to the land—none of the notable commanders of the past did bet-
ter. She recruited talent from the wilderness and expelled treachery from
the court—no great kings of the past did better. She not only ran the
country but also regulated the family; she not only assisted her husband
but taught her children. She blocked the king’s carriage to admonish
him, and thereby made him stop enjoying entertainment all night. She
submitted a memorial to resign from the post of vassal king, making the
emperor bestow favors on all [his secondary wives]; thereupon she made
women around her sing the songs of the katydids and the xing grass in
praise of her—no sage queens of the past did better. When suddenly
war arose on all sides and evil slanders emerged one after another, her
blood-relations were turned against her with resentment, and the coun-
try was mired in mistrust, but she was finally able to rectify the emperor
and save his mother, enlightening him to influence and transform the
people and root out the villainous officials while stabilizing the virtuous
ones. Thus the commoners enjoyed peace—no able ministers of the past
did better. What is most extraordinary about her is yet to come. In the
midst of the army of tens of thousands of soldiers and horses, she was
able to show composure while she talked and laughed. She placed herself
among the monsters and evil spirits, but no weapon could ever hurt her.
Her feeling for her sworn sister was so deep that she volunteered to cut
off flesh [to save her]. Her sense of obligation for her sworn brother was
so strong that she did not shrink from opening new territories [for him].
Her commandership and military strategy were pathbreaking, and she
never showed signs of fear when facing danger. This was a woman who
added new merit to heroines of all generations. How can it be possible
to find someone who is her match!45

45
Li Guiyu, “Preface.”
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 271

Parallel prose works perfectly here because the author piles up all the
virtues and accomplishments of the kings, queens, ministers and gener-
als and puts them on the shoulders of the heroine. Some of her virtues
are ones expected from a traditional woman—for example, allowing
her husband to take secondary wives while at the same time admon-
ishing him and stopping him from overindulging in pleasure. But
some of her other qualities are less conventional. Active involvement
in warfare is one unconventional talent. Gui Hengkui fights against
evil monsters with the assistance of fairy spirits, making Liuhuameng
a literature of fantasy. She is also conscious of the sin of taking too
many lives and is convinced that because of the sin of blood, she
will not enjoy longevity. The other unusual quality is Gui Hengkui’s
strong emotional tie with her sworn sister. Sisterhood is a common
topic in women’s tanci, often seen in same-sex marriage with one of
the women disguised as man. Meng Lijun and Su Yingxue
in Zaishengyuan are a good example of this tendency, and Jiang Dehua
and Xie Xuexian in Bishenghua are another. These
relationships are portrayed as more harmonious and intimate than a
heterosexual marriage. In Jinyuyuan, a woman’s tanci dated 1871, the
relationship goes so far that, when the cross-dressed woman decides
never to reveal her disguise, the other woman willingly agrees to per-
manently play the part of the wife. However, none of these relation-
ships is as emotionally perplexing and entangling as that between Gui
Hengkui and her sworn sister, which, with many battles and wars as
background, is tried and proven by tears, flesh, blood, and finally, life
itself.
The narrative of Liuhuameng is so monstrously long and compli-
cated that it is impossible to give a synopsis that would make sense
to contemporary readers. What I will focus on here is the triangu-
lar relationship of Gui Hengkui (originally Gui Bifang ), her
sworn sister Gui Hengchao (originally Mei Meixian ),
and their husband Huan Binyu . This relationship is not strictly
speaking warlike or violent, but it offers qualities that touch on our
main theme.
The two women are Huan Binyu’s cousins. Huan Binyu is first
engaged to Bifang, and after she is reported drowned, he is again
engaged to Meixian, who is later reported to have committed sui-
cide because the emperor has agreed to marry her off to a foreign
prince. It turns out that both women are miraculously saved. They
meet each other, decide to disguise themselves as brothers, and change
272 chapter eight

their names to Gui Hengkui and Gui Hengchao. Determined to suc-

ceed, they both pass the imperial examinations, with Hengkui winning
first place in literature and Hengchao doing the same in martial arts.
Later, when the dynasty is threatened by foreign invasion, Hengkui
and Hengchao volunteer to lead troops to defend China. Their fiancé,
Huan Binyu, who is already aware of their true identities, also joins
the army and serves under Hengkui’s commandership. For more than
eight years the three of them fight side by side at the frontier, devel-
oping close relationships that are, however, fraught with tensions that
will plague them for the rest of their lives.
To start with, there are multiple possibilities in the relationship
between Hengkui and Hengchao. First, they are sworn sisters who are
engaged to the same man. They call their friendship “golden orchid”
( jinlan ) a term customarily reserved for sisterhood. Secondly, as
they both are cross-dressed, they are known as brothers. Publicly and
privately, they habitually call each other “my brother.” Lastly, their
emotional attachment to each other is strong enough to be called love,
and they often act as a couple. But then of course Huan Binyu intrudes
on this harmony. He is particularly attracted to Hengchao. This often
causes trouble because both he and Hengkui want to win Hengchao’s
heart. The endless warfare of love continues even after both women
marry Binyu.
Throughout the work Hengkui repeatedly describes Hengchao as
qiangu duoqing , jueshi duoqing , or, the most feel-
ing person of all ages, and herself as qiangu wuqing , the
most unfeeling person of all ages. Huan Binyu, on the other hand,
being unruly in the way he loves, may be described as an indulgent
lover. Hengchao’s feelings are directed mainly to Hengkui, but also to
Binyu. When Hengkui speaks of herself as unfeeling, she always refers
to her detachment from heterosexual love and reluctance to marry
as a wife. Hengchao’s feeling is often represented by the overflow-
ing of body fluids, most notably tears and blood. Throughout, when
people comment on Hengchao’s personality, they find her particularly
charming because of her fullness of feeling (duoqing ), sensitivity
(duoxin ), worries (duolü ), illness (duobing ), and tears
(duolei ). In all respects she reminds us of Lin Daiyu in
Hongloumeng (Dream of the red chamber). Even when she
fights heroically on the battlefield, she often looks into the distance,
shedding tears, and thinking of the person she cares about, be it Heng-
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 273

kui or Binyu. Gui Hengkui, on the other hand, shows so much reserve
it is as if she is short of feeling, or, to put this metaphorically, fluids.
Lin Daiyu and her debt of tears make us think of Hengchao, who
is the incarnation of the fairy of frost, and who has a debt of blood
to pay. Indeed she sheds much blood, whether on the battlefield of
national war or the battlefield of love, spitting up blood whenever
she is wracked by anxiety. The first time she spits up blood is when
the emperor decides to marry her off to a barbarian prince, despite
the fact that she is already engaged to Huan Binyu.46 This becomes
a chronic illness, as she habitually spits up blood on her way to the
frontier. Later, when she is cross-dressed and fights as a general, she
once again spits up blood “like springs” and almost dies of anxiety,
worrying about Binyu’s life.47 After this incident, however, most of her
blood is reserved for Hengkui. For example, when Hengkui is severely
injured in one of her battles and is dying, Hengchao nearly dies of
grief too, as in the following account:48
It was as if her heart was slit open by a flying
knife,
Her blood gushed out in an upsurge, pouring
freely from her mouth.
While she was still murmuring “my brother!”
She was too weak to hold her delicate body and
collapsed on the bed.
Her consciousness was dispersed, as could be
seen on her face;
Her three souls, floating away, had already gone
out of her mind.
How pitiable! This feeling woman who valued
friendship
Lost her life after pouring out torrents of
blood.
During their lifetime, the two sisters loved each
other like a couple;
Till death they kept each other company and
went together to the gate of the dead.48

46
Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng, 16.305
47
Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng, 26.517–521.
48
Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng, 31.602.
274 chapter eight

More than twenty years later, when Hengkui finally dies of an inexpli-
cable disease (which in fact facilitates her ascent to the celestial realm),
Hengchao tries to commit suicide by cutting her own throat.4950
While the blade hit as swiftly as the wind,
Fresh blood burst out like the outpouring tide.
...
The ladies-in-waiting laid her in bed, but her
soul was already dispersed.
The most passionate person of all ages was thus
gone, forever.
Ten thousand strings of love were entangled
inside her,
As she repaid her dear friend with all the burn-
ing blood in her bosom.49
After she recovers from the wound, the old illness of spitting up blood
recurs. Half a year later, she is still determined to end her own life. She
writes a letter to her husband, in which she says that “the only word
one cannot forget is qing,” and that she is ready to splash her blood
by jumping out from a tower. As she prepares to leap, the narrator
comments,
All the burning blood from her bosom splashed
against her face.
She thereby sustained her fragrant reputation,
all for the sake of qing.50
In the narrative Hengchao’s chronic illness is called xiezheng ,
or the disease of blood. It is interesting to note that, long after she
returns from the war against the invaders, the narrator still refers to
her as “the woman commander” (nü jiangjun ). Indeed, she is
a commander in love as much as in war; in fact, she sheds more blood
on the battlefield of love than on the battlefield of war.
As Hengchao’s counterpart, Hengkui always sees herself as detached
from qing, except if it is for Hengchao. If Hengchao reminds us of Lin
Daiyu, Hengkui certainly reminds us of Meng Lijun. In Zaishengyuan,
by the end of Chapter 17, when Meng Lijun undergoes the pressure
to reveal her true identity, the reluctant heroine spits up blood. As
we all know, Chen Duansheng’s manuscript stops right at this point,

49
Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng, 340.6680.
50
Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng, 350.6883.
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 275

leaving the story in suspense. Many modern readers believe that the
author meant the heroine to die from spitting blood. Whether this is
indeed what the author had in mind, the predicament of the cross-
dressed heroine would remain for many other tanci authors to ponder.
In Liuhuameng, after Hengkui reluctantly marries Binyu, she suddenly
loses consciousness; her soul leaves her body and travels to the celes-
tial realm that she longs for. The female immortals there give her two
magic medicines: the first one will unclog the blocked blood in her
bosom, and the second will plant the seeds of love in her heart. When
she wakes up, “she spat out all the red and dispelled all the anger, /
the lump of indignation in her bosom was temporarily reduced”
/ .51 For Hengchao, blood and tears
are the fluids of passion that overflow, whereas for Hengkui, they are con-
densed anguish. The “Loveseed-Planting Pill” (Zhongqing dan )
furthermore indicates her inadequacy, that is, the inability to become
attached to a man.
However, when it comes to Hengchao, Hengkui time and again
proves her love through flesh and blood. Early in Chapter 27, for
example, when Hengchao is on the verge of death having spit up too
much blood, Hengkui secretly slices off flesh from her own arm and
cooks it in soup in order to save her sworn sister’s life.52 Cutting off
one’s flesh to make soup (gegu ) was traditionally an act reserved
for filial sons and daughters to cure very sick parents, and occasion-
ally desperate wives would try it in order to save their husbands. It is
therefore a particularly extreme act of devotion that Hengkui offers
her sworn sister. Later, trying to convince Hengchao that she will not
desert her, Hengkui stabs herself on the wrist so that her blood may
prove her sincerity. Hengchao thereupon drinks Hengkui’s blood,
completing their oath of blood to stay together.
Putting these episodes together, we realize that the love between the
two leading heroines in Liuhuameng is as violent as war in the way
that tears, blood and flesh all get involved. From this perspective, the
numerous battles against invaders and traitors throughout the narra-
tive, which are relentlessly fought with tens of thousands of people
dying, are a kind of canvas upon which they spatter their blood.

51
Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng, 71.1397–1403.
52
Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng, 27.524–525.
276 chapter eight

A question that arises at this point is why does sisterly love have to
be treated in such violent terms? It seems unavoidable to consider the
possibility of homosexual love. I must point out that among all the
women’s tanci I have read, many of which deal with intimate rela-
tionships between women, Liuhuameng presents the most explicitly
sexual attraction between the heroines. In the first part of the novel,
when Hengkui and Hengchao fight side by side, they sleep together
for years as brothers. In Chapter 28, for example, Hengkui can hardly
resist Hengchao’s beauty.
[Hengkui says to Hengchao,] “Your sister-in-
law has been invited to stay in the palace,
I will then invite you to sleep with me today.
Spring is as vast as a sea behind the brocade
curtains,
and I surely will take you, my brother, as a
charming lady.”
...
[Hengkui] helped her take off her brocade robes
and shoes,
and covered her with layers of embroidered
blankets.
...
She [Hengkui] saw how the brother, with
drunken eyes, was soundly sleeping,
her face as red as the peach blossom, so comple-
mentary to her beauty.
...
She unfolded the brocade cover and took her
beloved brother’s hands.
They lay on the same pillow of mandarin
ducks.
...
[Hengchao] was adorable and as sweet as a
piece of jade,
therefore she moved [Hengkui] into unre-
strained love.
[Hengkui] playfully stroked her sweet cheeks, as
pure as the morning dew, and thought,
“Even lilies just growing out of water are less
pretty than you!
Mr. Huan has not touched this delicate body
yet,
and it is I, Hengkui, who got ahead of him.”
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 277

She then caressed her fingers, finding Hengchao

soft and warm,
and could not help sighing and frowning.53
Descriptions of caresses and implications of intimacy abound in this
work. For example, in Chapter 40, Hengkui presses Hengchao to prom-
ise to marry her instead of Binyu, and later as they sleep, the narrator
says, “[Hengkui] had great affection for the charming sister / caressing
her53pretty body as if fondling jewelry in her hands”
/ .54 After Hengchao marries Binyü while Hengkui
is still in disguise, the two of them still spend some nights together,
risking accusations of adultery. This is described in a very ambiguous
way, with Hengkui lamenting her fate of being born a woman, which
means that her charming sister has to marry someone else.55 In simi-
lar episodes, there is a lot of closing of doors, taking off of clothes,
attendants retreating to the outside parlor, and so on. Nothing more
is said, but this is enough to provoke suspicion.56 Even ten years after
both of them have been married to Binyu, Hengkui is still attracted to
Hengchao physically. Hengkui often asks to sleep with Hengchao, and
appreciates her beauty, as in the following episode:
The queen cherished her sister, as charming as jade;
She caressed her smooth skin that was most attrac-
tive.
“No sleeping beauty can ever compete with you.
You are the best among the beautiful talking flow-
ers.
Heaven did not assist in making my wish come
true,
And I had to give up my most dear and intimate
one.
I cannot store you in one of my many golden cham-
bers;
I cannot appoint Hengchao to be the leader of my
wives and concubines.
...
Side by side on the pillow she looked carefully at her
dear sister,

53
Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng, 28.543.
54
Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng, 40.786–787.
55
Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng, 63.1254–1255.
56
For example, see Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng, 67.1325.
278 chapter eight

Who, sleeping, was unable to compose herself.

Her eyebrows, like mountains in spring, frowned as
if knitted,
Her pearly lips were like cherries, as small as a dot.
Her jade-like hands with delicate fingers were placed
by the side of the pillow,
So [Hengkui] gently put them back under the
embroidered cover.
Gazing at her for a long time, she could not help but
feel more affectionate,
But suddenly she felt unwell, unable to settle
down.57
With57so much emotional devotion and physical attraction, their
relationship also becomes a topic of gossip in the narrative. Inter-
estingly, when both women fight as generals in disguise, their fellow
soldiers often exchange comments on and even spread rumors about
Hengchao’s feminine beauty and their intimacy.58 After they both
marry Binyu, people refer to them only as devoted sisters. If intimacy
between two men is potentially scandalous, why isn’t the same true of
two women?
Though it may be far-fetched, I think a little speculation is necessary
here. Throughout the work, the term golden orchid (jinlan) is repeat-
edly used to refer to intimate relationships between women. Granted
that the term is generally applied to sworn brotherhood and sisterhood,
or just friendship, the high frequency of its appearance in Liuhuameng
is still eye-catching. We know that jinlan is also a term widely used
in areas noted for strong sisterhood, for example, Guangdong. This
is easily seen in many muyushu (wooden-fish texts). In some
parts of Hunan, where the nüshu (women’s script) and nüge
(women’s songs) customs were discovered, the same term again
describes strong bonds between women. In several places in Liuhua-
meng, the author used the term su kelian (complaints of
miseries), to refer to the intimate conversation between her female
characters, and we also know this is a term specific to the nüshu and

57
Li Guiyu, Liuhuameng, 107.2118–2119.
58
For example, one of the soldiers says that Hengchao is such a beauty, it is no
wonder the commander-in-chief is obsessed; he also suspects that the two generals
must be as intimate as a loving couple when they are alone in the tent. See Li Guiyu,
Liuhuameng, 38.743.
 war, violence, and the metaphor of blood 279

nüge tradition.59 Li Guiyu herself, if we remember from the preface by

her friend Chen Chousong, must have spent time in Hunan after she
married and before she moved to Fujian. It is possible, then, that Li
Guiyu was influenced by her experience living in the Hunan area. If
this is the case, it might explain why sisterhood is understood and rep-
resented in such strong terms. However, homosexuality, as we under-
stand it today, may not necessarily apply. This is a thesis that deserves
more exploration.60 The point for this study is that Liuhuameng
seems to need war as a way of justifying all the blood that is spilled
in the course of the two women’s love, just as it needs love to justify
the war.

Conclusion

In conclusion, the representation of war in women’s fictional narratives

originated from an interest shared by many authors in heroic deeds
from which most of them were excluded by virtue of their gender and
because they lived in relatively peaceful times. Due to lack of expo-
sure to the experience of war, their representation is often influenced
by performance of battles on the stage. This is why women authors
often use magic to solve problems on the battlefield. The result is a
romance-oriented narration, often with naïve, playful or even hilari-
ous effects. When women authors write in and/or about historical
crises such as the late Ming and the late Qing, however, they tend to
deal with warfare more realistically. In these works, war is represented
less romantically and playfully, and more violently. In such cases vio-
lence is understood as the prerequisite for heroism. In all the cases
discussed in this study, war is connected to some sort of sentiment,
be it romantic or loyal. It is always sentiment that intensifies the wars
portrayed in these narratives by women. This is especially true with
Liuhuameng. Using Liuhuameng as an example, I have attempted to
examine how a woman writer understood the emotional impact of
love and why she might have set it in the context of battles. Here war

59
See Fei-Wen Liu, “From Being to Becoming: Nüshu and Sentiments in a Chinese
Rural Community,” American Ethnologist 31.3 (2004): 422–439. See also Idema and
Grant, The Red Brush, 542–547.
60
Some studies have been done on female same-sex love; for example, see Sang
Tze-lan, The Emerging Lesbian: Female Same-Sex Desire in Modern China (Chicago;
London: University of Chicago Press, 2003).
280 chapter eight

becomes an allegory of love, and bloodshed the most effective meta-

phor for describing it.
Although this study raises more questions than it answers, it allows
us to draw one important conclusion about the depiction of violence
and war in narratives by women. Unlike the depiction of love and
of civil achievement which has a strong tradition in tanci literature,
depictions of war and violence are quite idiosyncratic. Sometimes
the source is theater, sometimes lived experience, sometimes even
xiaoshuo literature. We cannot as yet say why this might be so, but
the fact that it is so explains why the violent moments in the group
of tanci discussed above often seem quite different from one another.
This is a first look at a broad problem. With time other conclusions
may emerge.
 PART IV

THE PERSONAL IS POLITICAL: RESPONDING TO THE

OUTSIDE WORLD
 CHAPTER NINE

THE LADY AND THE STATE: WOMEN’S WRITING IN TIMES

OF TROUBLE DURING THE NINETEENTH CENTURY1

Susan Mann

Women’s writing is an untapped resource for understanding the

impact of nineteenth-century crises on the consciousness of China’s
elite. As recent studies have emphasized, women’s poems from the late
nineteenth century show a keen interest in the state of the country,
and an astute cognizance of issues that, properly speaking, belonged to
the domain of men, “beyond the women’s quarters” (kunwai ).2
Increasingly after 1840, political factions, military struggles, social prob-
lems, and even statecraft policies, became poetic subjects for women
writers. In poems on these subjects, women self-consciously under-
scored their gendered position through language, allusion, and imag-
ery. By insisting on the propriety of womanly concerns about politics,
they challenged conventional clichés about women’s words, which—in
the language of the popular dictum—should not be heard outside the
home (neiyan bu chu kunwai ). Their poems anticipate
the writings of “new women,” with whom they shared a common
political awareness. Yet even today, few historians of twentieth-century

1
The author acknowledges gratefully the assistance of Guotong Li and Yulian Wu.
For critical advice, I am indebted to Stephen West, Wilt Idema, Cynthia Brokaw, the
editors, and, especially, Wai-yee Li.
2
See, for example, Wai-yee Li, “Heroic Transformations: Women and National
Trauma in Early Qing Literature,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies 59.2 (1999):
363–443; Sun Kangyi (Kang-i Sun Chang), “Modai cainü de ‘luan li’ shi”
‘ ’ (Poems of separation in disordered times by talented women at the
end of the dynasty), in Gudai nüshiren yanjiu (Studies on women
poets in the ancient period), ed. Zhang Hongsheng and Zhang Yan
(Wuhan: Hubei jiaoyu chubanshe, 2002), 224–245; Kang-i Sun Chang, “Women’s
Poetic Witnessing: Late Ming and Late Qing Examples,” in Dynastic Crisis and Cul-
tural Innovation: From the Late Ming to the Late Qing and Beyond, ed. David Der-wei
Wang and Shang Wei (Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2005), 504–522;
and Li Guotong , “Ming Qing zhi ji de funü jiefang sixiang zongshu”
(A survey of ‘women’s liberation thought’ in the Ming-Qing
period), Jindai Zhongguo funüshi yanjiu /Research on Women in
Modern Chinese History 3 (1995): 143–161.
284 chapter nine

women look back to the nineteenth century seeking precursors of the

brilliant political writings of a Qiu Jin (1875–1907)or, later, Ding
Ling (1904–1986).
Kang-i Sun Chang has marked the late Ming as a turning point in
the development of what she calls a new engagement with “poetic his-
tory” among female poets, manifested in an emerging “concern for the
destiny of the world.”3 In the late Ming, female poets broadened the
scope of their poetry while expanding the scope of their intellectual
range, as their consciousness changed with the growth of women’s
literacy. These late-Ming female poets, particularly Wang Duanshu
(1621–before 1685), were much admired by later women writ-
ers like Shen Shanbao (1808–1862), one of the most influential
female critics of the nineteenth century. Together with women war-
riors of the late Ming such as Qin Liangyu (ca. 1574–1648)
and Shen Yunying (1624–1660), who figure in the discussion
that follows, late Ming women writers offered inspiring examples of
female heroism and loyalty in times of trouble.4 Chang argues that
women poets who recorded their own suffering in times of political
crises inscribed that suffering as “cultural memory” for the benefit of
others who lived through it, and for those who would live afterward.
Like Wai-yee Li, Chang also observes that late Ming women poets
ventured beyond the conventions of despair to offer a pointed critique
of men’s inability to rise up and fend off the chaos.5

3
Before the late Ming, Chang notes, the most influential precedent was a poem
attributed to Cai Yan , which Du Fu and others—male and female—invoked
as a model for expressing the sorrow and suffering of political chaos. See Chang,
“Women’s Poetic Witnessing,” quotations on pp. 522, 519. Stories of women recalling
the Cai Yan legend appear in the popular baimei (“hundred beauties”) illus-
trated books of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. One tells of the Five Dynas-
ties beauty known as Huarui furen , whose “Lament for a Lost Country”
voiced her despair on being forced to leave her homeland and the ruler
she loved.
4
On Wang Duanshu and late Ming female heroines, see Ellen Widmer, trans.
and intro., “Selected Short Works by Wang Duanshu (1621–after 1701),” in Under
Confucian Eyes: Writings on Gender in Chinese History, ed. Susan Mann and Yu-Yin
Cheng (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001), 179–194; and Ellen Widmer,
“Ming Loyalism and the Women’s Voice in Fiction after ‘Hong lou meng,’” in Writing
Women in Late Imperial China, ed. Ellen Widmer and Kang-i Sun Chang (Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 1997), 366–396.
5
See Wai-yee Li, “Heroic Transformations.” Chang adduces the notion of “cross-
voicing” (a parallel to “cross-dressing”) to treat the voice of women in these poems,
reversing the male use of the female voice in allegorical poems about rejected minis-
 the lady and the state 285

This chapter follows the lead of these scholars and of modern

anthologists and critics Liang Yizhen , Su Zhecong ,
and Shen Lidong and Ge Rutong , to survey tropes in
women’s writing about the troubled times of the last half of the nine-
teenth century.6 It begins with the positioning of the female political
subject as a lady in her proper domestic role, a position based on the
“exemplary” account of the Woman of Lu from Qishi (Lu Qishi nü
). The Woman of Lu, whose story in the Lienü zhuan
(Biographies of women) supplied a justification for domestic womanly
concerns with politics and government, figures prominently in many
women’s poems of the late nineteenth century, and—according to Joan
Judge—she inspired countless women writers and activists in the early
twentieth century as well.7 The chapter then moves to poems written
at mid-century, protesting military pressure from Western countries
and then reacting to the upheavals of the Taiping Rebellion. Poetic
tropes expressing outrage (ganshi “moved by events”), despair
(sangluan “death and destruction”), and the anguish of separa-
tion and dislocation (bibing or biluan “fleeing the fighting”)
fill the writing cases of female poets, while—as a counterpoint, and
sometimes running through the same poems—we find belligerent or
feisty images celebrating women warriors and keen-edged swords. A
few women turned their attention to less dramatic but practical mat-
ters of maintaining peace and security in the late nineteenth century:
annotating maritime maps, for instance. Finally, women poets wrote
about current events and political problems, responding to the state-
craft concerns of prominent officials and commenting on social prob-
lems that drew the attention of activist literati.

ters, as in Qu Yuan’s (ca. 343–ca. 277 BCE) Chu ci (The songs of the south).
See Chang, “Mo dai,” 242.
6
Liang Yizhen, Qingdai funü wenxueshi (History of women’s lit-
erature of the Qing) (Taipei: Taiwan Zhonghua shuju, 1968), 216–217; Su Zhecong,
Lidai nüzi cixuan (Selected song lyrics by women through the ages)
(Chengdu: Sichuan sheng xinhua shudian, 1988), 9–12. An entire section on “Ganshi
fengzheng” (Political critiques responding to current events) may be found
in Lidai funü shici jianshang cidian (Dictionary of critical
appreciation of women’s poetry through the ages), ed. Shen Lidong and Ge Rutong
(Beijing: Zhongguo funü chubanshe, 1992), 505–850.
7
Joan Judge, The Precious Raft of History: The Past, the West, and the Woman
Question in China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2008), 146, 148–150.
286 chapter nine

The Ruler’s Business Is Women’s Business:

The Woman of Lu from Qishi

The story of the woman from Qishi in the state of Lu appears first in
the earliest classical collection of biographies of exemplary women,
Liu Xiang’s (77?–6? BCE) Lienü zhuan. The focus of the narra-
tive is a fraught conversation between the Woman of Lu, whose loud
laments draw the attention of her neighbors, and the people trying to
calm her down. The woman’s concerned neighbors assume that she
weeps for some “domestic” womanly reason, most likely—so the story
tells us—because she is unwed and past the age of marriage. On the
contrary, the Woman of Lu retorts, she is sad because the ruler is old
and the heir apparent still young. To this her neighbors respond with
soothing words to the effect that none of that has anything to do with
her as a woman; rather it is the business of the ministers of the state.
This provokes a long speech from the Woman of Lu. She declares that
the present ruler is perverse and negligent: because of his ineptitude,
invading armies have trampled her gardens and destroyed her liveli-
hood. And, she continues, since the heir to the throne is not only still
young but also manifestly foolish, how could these problems not have
something to do with her as a woman? In the words of Albert O’Hara’s
translation, “When the kingdom of Lu has disaster, Ruler and Minister,
fathers and sons will all suffer disgrace. Misfortune will come upon the
common people; and do you think that the women alone will escape
peacefully? I am distressed by this and you say, then, what relation
has this affair to a woman?”8 Ominously, the state of Lu is vanquished
within three years of the Woman of Lu’s pronouncement.
Because the Woman of Lu makes no appeal on behalf of any other
family member (she is, after all, unwed and childless), her speech is
even more dramatic than it appears. She speaks for “women,” not for
the family as a concern of women. We might even say that she speaks
of women as a constituency of the polity. Whether or not that increased
her attraction for the women writers discussed in this chapter cannot

8
See Liu Xiang , Gu lienü zhuan (The original biographies of exem-
plary women), 3.13, in Congshu jicheng (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan,
1936), 3400:87–88; also the translation in Rev. Alfred R. O’Hara, The Position of
Woman in Early China According to the Lieh Nü Chuan, “The Biographies of Eminent
Chinese Women” (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University of America Press, 1945),
95–97 (quotation on p. 96).
 the lady and the state 287

be known. But the Woman of Lu’s main point—that women’s wel-

fare depends directly upon the competency of the government and its
leaders—is crystal clear.9
Let us look at two nineteenth-century poems in which the Woman
of Lu figures prominently. Both were written by Wang Caipin
(before 1823–1893), a contemporary of Zuo Xijia (1831–1896),
and a niece of Zhang Xiying (1792–after 1862)—all women
writers from Changzhou, Jiangsu, an area known for its talented
women.10 The first poem was composed by Wang Caipin in the early
years of the Taiping Rebellion, probably 1854. Caipin’s aunt Xiying
was living in Beijing when the Taiping armies threatened to overrun
the capital in autumn of 1853. The title of Zhang Xiying’s own poem
to her niece is now lost, but we can surmise its contents from Caipin’s
response. Xiying must have been among the thirty thousand people
who fled Beijing in October of that year. Wang Caipin’s poignant tone
in this poem reflects not only her concern for her aunt, but also her
own isolation and sense of impending doom. At the time she was a

9
Lisa Raphals notes that the woman of Lu is one of two women who are said by
Liu Xiang to “know the Dao of Heaven” (zhi tian dao ) because her comments
foretell the fall of the state of Lu three years later, when it was attacked by Qi and Jin.
See Lisa Raphals, Sharing the Light: Representations of Women and Virtue in Early
China (Albany: State University Press of New York, 1998), 57. For Raphals’ discus-
sion of other women from the Lienü zhuan who “participated in the intellectual and
political lives of their states,” see 233.
10
See Susan Mann, The Talented Women of the Zhang Family (Berkeley: University
of California Press, 2007), 44–46 et passim. As a leading woman poet and mentor
to aspiring female writers, Zhang Xiying tutored the young Wang Caipin, Xiying’s
youngest sister’s eldest child. Xiying also taught Zuo Xijia’s gifted elder sister, Zuo
Xixuan (fl. mid-nineteenth century). See Kang-i Sun Chang and Haun Sau-
ssy, eds., Women Writers of Traditional China: An Anthology of Poetry and Criti-
cism (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), 616–618; Shi Shuyi Qingdai
guige shiren zhenglüe (An overview of Qing dynasty female poets)
(1922; repr., Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 1987), 10.5a–6b; and Hu Wenkai ,
Lidai funü zhuzuo kao (A survey of women writers arranged by
dynasty) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1985), 266–267. Zuo Xijia’s husband
was deeply involved in fighting the Taiping rebels, and Xixuan’s husband was killed
by the Taipings in Zhenjiang. On the fame of the “four Zhang, one Wang, two Zuo”
female writers of Piling (the ancient name for Changzhou), see Liang Yizhen, Qingdai
funü wenxueshi, 228–238. Additional praise for Changzhou’s eminent women writers
appears in the chapbook by the poet and bibliophile Jin Wuxiang (b. 1841),
printed under the title Suxiang wubi (Fifth random jottings from Suxiang
[Studio]) (Shanghai: Saoye shan fang, 1887–1898), 2.6a–8b. Jin, a native of Jiangyin,
Jiangsu, reprinted the poems of many distinguished Changzhou writers, including
Zhao Huaiyu (1747–1823). See Arthur W. Hummel, ed., Eminent Chinese of
the Ch’ing Period (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1943), 72.
288 chapter nine

newly married woman living near Kaifeng, far from her natal family
and close to the path of the rebel advance. Caipin’s husband had left
his parents in her care while he went off to join the resistance. She
learned of his death soon after she wrote this poem.11
Responding to My Maternal Aunt Mengti’s [Xiying’s]
Poem “Moved by Events, Written on the Boat
Returning South in Flight from the Bandits”
Life-and-death partings are difficult;
Throughout our family, the sound of wretched weeping.
The wagtail on the plain cries its distress,
Rumors of war press you on your homeward journey.
How can news reach you?
You dream of safety and danger, constantly alarmed.
Your lone boat by night in lightly falling snow,
Looking ahead as far as you can see, with too much
feeling to bear.
The woman of Lu grieved and wept over the times,
Her words passed down as the Qishi lament.
I carry your poetry volume in my hand;
Reading it through, my emotions well up.
Frontier beacon fires burn three years,
News of loved ones [stretches] the heart hundreds of
miles [a thousand li].
Distant mists enfold my yearnings for my country and
my family,
Looking back I weep upon my dress. . . .11
An earlier poem by Wang Caipin, “On Reading the Biography of Qin
Liangyu” , written in 1848, sounds a very different tone:
full of confidence and even bravado. Perhaps the poem reflects youth-
ful idealism: Caipin was only about twenty years old at the time, and
still unmarried. More probably, it was written to impress her uncle
Zhang Yaosun (1807–1863), whose notes on her poems were
included when he published a collection of her poetry and presented it

11
Wang Caipin, Duxuanlou shigao (Poetry draft from Duxuan Tower)
(1894), 6.4a–b. A shengsi bie refers to a farewell that may be the last, said of
seeing a loved one off on any long journey whose outcome is not certain. The wagtail
signals the poet’s allusion to the Shijing poem “The Flowering Plum” with
its description of separated families and its celebration of sibling bonds. See n. 35
below. The phrase “frontier beacon fires burn three years” invokes Du Fu’s famous
poem “Spring prospect” . In Quan Tang shi, 7.2404. Wang Caipin’s phrase for
news of home that she could not hear comes from Cai Yan’s classic “Eighteen Songs
on a Nomad Flute” . In Yuefu shiji (Collection of yuefu poetry),
ed. Guo Maoqian (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1979), 2.860–865.
 the lady and the state 289

to her upon her marriage. In any case, the poem displays the author’s
erudition: her reading in historical texts and her ability to interweave
stories into a poem with a robust moral message and—as her uncle
notes below—a fine rhetorical show. For instance, the line “Then I
meet a fortunate interregnum, an age of flourishing peace” is an overt
political statement celebrating the grand achievements of the Man-
chu emperors to whom her uncle and grandfather were so loyal. Such
sentiments were certain to win praise from Caipin’s uncle, who had
recently been awarded the rank of magistrate and begun a career as a
civil servant.12 In her poem the author reflects on the biography of the
famous late Ming female general, commenting on women’s potential
for achievement, or the lack of it, in the world. She begins the poem by
alluding to two women who concerned themselves with the “public”
world, beginning with the Woman of Lu, followed by the more famous
Mulan .
On Reading the Biography of Qin Liangyu
Lamenting the times, the woman of Lu grieved for
Qishi,
Replacing her father, Mulan became a frontier sol-
dier.
From ancient times, women have carried our share
of unusual talent;
It is not in the boudoir alone that our fragrant vir-
tues are seen.
This female general of the Qin clan was peerless in
the world,
With military strategy and literary talent, she com-
bines lofty integrity
On the furthest border, thousands of li away, she
was made Commander-in-Chief,
A hero promoted over all the elder statesmen and
notables of the time.
Her “White Spike” soldiers served year after year in
distant campaigns,
Her “Red Jacket” battalion both shield and wall
against the enemy.13
...
Triumphant with fame from a hundred victories,
Imposing and upright, she looks like a heavenly
being.

12
Mann, Talented Women, 108–109 et passim.
290 chapter nine

But ceremonial dress and pearly cap she dismisses

with a single laugh,
In her general’s brocade gown and hanging sword,
she endures strong forever!
...
Reading history, vast and distant, sets my mind to
roaming,
Then I meet a fortunate interregnum, an age of
flourishing peace.
Who among us can leave her name in history’s last-
ing records?
Hairpins and bracelets efface entirely the heroine’s
courageous aura.
An inch-thick old account narrates a heart that has
ever been;
The span of a single lifetime drifts with the times.
The heroic energy of Heaven and Earth—can it be
allowed to die away?
Set your eyes free on the rivers and mountains,
deeper, ever deeper.14
[Her uncle here comments in the margin:] I think
of the writings of Ban [Jieyu] and Zuo [Fen].
Exalted minds live on eternally, transmitted from
age to age. Thus Qin’s heroism is revealed here
without the reader having to look for it. The line
“ceremonial dress and pearly cap she dismisses
with a single laugh,” is fitting indeed. Simple
and plain in style, the last section—with its lofty
sentiment and its far-reaching reflections—in a
single moment captures myriad nuances. What
intelligence this is!
Both of these poems, however different in tone, ground the lady writer
firmly in the domestic realm, while moving boldly into the world of
politics through the image of the woman warrior.1314

13
The poet alludes to the Shijing, Mao Ode 7, “The Rabbit Net” , celebrating
the ability of skilled defenders to protect the ruler.
14
Wang Caipin, Duxuanlou shigao, 3.8b–9a. For Qin Liangyu’s biography,
see Ming shi (Ming dynastic history) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1974), juan
270/6944–6948; also the excellent biography by Fang Zhaoying in Hummel, Eminent
Chinese, 168–169. Fang notes that Qin Liangyu’s daughter-in-law was also a military
commander who was killed in a campaign to exterminate bandits in Henan in 1633.
An English-language biography of Qin Liangyu appears in Barbara Bennett Peterson
et al., eds., Notable Women of China: Shang Dynasty to the Early Twentieth Century
(Armonk: M.E. Sharpe, 2000), 306–312. I am indebted to Stephen West for his impor-
 the lady and the state 291

Tropes of Trouble in Nineteenth-Century Poems

As Wilt Idema and Beata Grant have pointed out, “warfare is a subject
that only rarely makes its appearance in the poetry of women poets
of the eighteenth century . . .,” whereas in the troubled times of the
nineteenth century, women poets frequently turned their attention to
images of and reactions to war.15 That ganshi poems became a genre of
their own in the nineteenth century is suggested in comments by the
contemporary bibliophile Jin Wuxiang (b. 1841):
Ganshi poems are only first-rate when the allusions are precise and
appropriate, expressed with cultivation and refinement. The one I love
best is by He Shi (courtesy name Lianfang ), from his Guchui
ci (Song of percussion and wind), a poem about the 1841 inci-
dent involving the foreigners from the West:1617
No need of the general’s thundering bow,
Before the imperial banner had unfurled, the ene-
mies were pacified
Relying as we did on ceding territory as a long-
term strategy,
We yet wanted Heaven to send us a military vic-
tory.
The southern seas had no pearls but they still made
unyielding demands,
The northern gates had a passage way but in the
end were penetrated in secret.
The unending lament of our noblemen16 is
Summed up only in a single sigh, “Alas!”
Talking and laughing with ease, he pushed back
the enemy troops,
A man of refinement truly worthy of a scholar.17

tant revisions of my original translation of this poem. West called my attention espe-
cially to Caipin’s elegant juxtaposition of phrases associated with womanly and manly
virtue, playing on the nuances of both. Han jian is a euphemism for writing,
especially writing historical records; it alludes to the flame used to “sweat” the sap out
of bamboo in order to prepare the slips to receive the ink.
15
Wilt Idema and Beata Grant, The Red Brush: Writing Women of Imperial China
(Cambridge: Harvard University East Asia Center, 2004), 652.
16
The allusion here is to Shijing, Mao Ode 11, “The Footsteps of the Unicorn”
, a metaphor for the splendor of the ruling house.
17
Wai-yee Li points out that the poet is describing Lin Zexu, a master of both mar-
tial and scholarly arts. As she puts it: “The implication is that as a military commander
Lin has the refined ease of Zhou Yu (as in Su Shi’s “Chibi huaigu”) or of Zhuge Liang
(as in Sanguo yanyi).” Personal communication, Dec. 12, 2009.
292 chapter nine

Permitting the hundred barbarians to trade here

was not his original plan,
Exiled and sent ten thousand miles away, he
retains his fame.
With black and white (i.e. right and wrong) in
confusion—who can control the entire situa-
tion?
The southeast, from this time forth, will see its
defense crumble
Regretting that my lord should not have started
the border conflicts
For his great integrity, admiring sighs will linger
long.18
Jin18Wuxiang’s notes on poetry, which span the period of the Taiping
Rebellion, stress the pervasive impact of military crises on literati cul-
ture, not only because of the death toll of the rebellion itself (including
women’s suicide) but also because of the rising presence of Christian
missionaries,19 the growing awareness of the coolie trade,20 and the
numbers of scholars from his own home region who turned to military
careers during the Xianfeng (1851–1862) and Tongzhi (1862–1875)
reigns in response to the Taiping and Nian rebellions.21 Reading Jin’s
chapbook increases one’s sense of the inescapable collapse of peace
and security as the nineteenth century wore on, as evidenced in this
poem by the Changzhou poet Zuo Xijia:
Moved by Events (Ganshi)
Who can countenance the advance of the wild reb-
els across the river?

18
The editorial comment on He’s poem is by Jin Wuxiang (see note 10 above),
from Suxiang sanbi (Third random jottings from Suxiang [Studio]), 5.7b–8a.
The poem refers to Lin Zexu’s fall following his dismissal after attempting to
resist Western demands for free opium trade. The references to the southeast bringing
down the north sharply foreground the vulnerability of Canton and its implications
for imperial security. Part of the poem alludes to a song lyric by Su Shi , written
to the tune “Niannu jiao,” titled “Recalling antiquity at Red Cliff” , and the
lines “. . . amid talk and laughter / He turned the powerful enemy into flying ashes
and vanishing smoke” / . See James J.Y. Liu, Major Lyricists
of the Northern Sung, A.D. 960–1126 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974),
138–139. See also note 31, below.
19
Jin Wuxiang, Suxiang sanbi, 3.2a.
20
Jin Wuxiang, Suxiang sanbi, 6.12a–b.
21
Jin Wuxiang, Suxiang erbi (Second random jottings from Suxiang
[Studio]), 6.4a.
 the lady and the state 293

How can any invincible fortress survive this day?

North of the great river the beacon fires stretch
across Henan and Shanxi,
At the gates of Tianjin banners and drums stream
like wind and thunder.
Assigning blame in front of the troops, heads were
cut off in vain.
Beyond the port, focused attacks sow the seeds of
calamity.
With events out of control, we must still respond
with all the strength we have,
How can we cast aside armor and flee like the one
who was “big and strong”?22
Among the earliest ganshi poems by a woman during the nineteenth
century are two by Wang Caipin’s aunt, Zhang Xiying. Composed,
like He’s poem above, to the “heroic” tune “Niannu jiao”22 ,23
Xiying’s first song lyric in this vein records her reaction to the Opium
War and its aftermath, especially (again like He’s) to Lin Zexu’s

22
Zuo Xijia, Lengyinxian guan shigao (Poetry draft from Lengyin-
xian Pavilion) (1891), 2.6b–7a. The phrase yu si (“big and strong”) comes from a
song sung by builders of a city wall, about the commander of an army who was driven
into the ranks of the enemy by his charioteer, cast aside his shield, and was taken
prisoner. The commander, Hua Yuan of Song, is characterized as yu si, which Wai-yee
Li, following Karlgren, takes as loan words for yu and sai , “big” and “strong.”
Personal communication, Dec. 12, 2009. For a translation of this story from the Zuo
zhuan (Zuo commentary), see James Legge, The Ch’un Ts’ew with the Tso Chuen,
vol. 5, The Chinese Classics (1893–1895; repr., Taipei: SMC Publishing, 1991), 289.
23
This tune is associated with Su Shi’s heroic (haofang ) style, admired by
the Ming loyalist woman poet Wang Duanshu. See observations by Ellen Widmer
in Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 365. The only surviving copy of Xiying’s
song lyric that I have seen is preserved in Shen Shanbao, Mingyuan shihua
(Remarks on poetry by notable women) (Yuyanbao guan edition of 1863), 8.6a, in
the Shanghai Library. For other ci written in this tune by female poets, see Li Qing-
zhao’s (translated in Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 93); and Zhang
Yuniang’s (translated in Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 145). This
poem is singled out by Zhang Zhenhuai as the earliest precursor of Qiu Jin’s patri-
otic poems. See Zhang Zhenhuai , Qingdai nüciren xuanji
(Selections by Qing period women lyricists) (Taipei: Wenshizhe, 1997), 145–149. For
further examples of female poets writing about the “events” of the world beyond the
inner chambers, see Fang Weiyi (1585–1668) (translated by Paula Varsano in
Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 284–288, esp. 287–288), and Wang Duan-
shu (1621–ca. 1706) (translated by Ellen Widmer in Chang and Saussy, eds.,
Women Writers, 363–366). Translations of poems by Qiu Jin (1875–1907) and her
friend Xu Zihua (1873–1935) appear in Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writ-
ers, 632–666. Poems by women in wartime in The Red Brush single out especially
Zhang Chaixin , Zhang Yin (1832–1872), and Li Changxia (ca.
1830–ca. 1880). See Idema and Grant, The Red Brush, 652–676.
294 chapter nine

(1785–1850) humiliating exile to Xinjiang. The poem alludes

specifically to the emperor’s denial of an appeal on Lin’s behalf by
the official Wang Ding (1768–1842), who had requested that the
emperor permit Lin to remain in a temporary post on the Yellow River
conservancy.24 The poem’s impassioned tone, moreover, captures per-
fectly what we know of the factionalized views among male literati of
the time, as analyzed by James Polachek.2526
To the tune “Niannu jiao”: Stirred by Events (Gan-
shi)
A glowing autumn just at its peak,
When the ruler’s understanding is beclouded!26
No sooner clear than rain returns,
Transforming the face of autumn into chaos.
Sung Yu’s grief at autumn was so rightly bitter!
My ears roar with autumn squalls,
My breast fills with distress and indignation,
But how can my soundless words make any differ-
ence?
The flowing current, how I long to turn it back!
How can I bear the pain of these passing years?
My eyes search abroad, the wilted grass laden with
frost,
Amid desolate smoke, a lone tree,
Shaking, spent, utterly without direction.
The shrieking partridge cries “Don’t go on!”

24
As a result of Lin Zexu’s blockade of British supply lines in Canton, British ships
had moved northward to occupy Dinghai, Zhejiang, on 5 July 1840. Lin’s dismissal,
which followed Qishan’s conciliatory settlement with the British at Tianjin, came
on 28 September of that same year. Ordered exiled to Ili, Lin was granted a reprieve in
autumn 1841 because of floods on the Yellow River, when he was ordered to Kaifeng
to assist Wang Ding’s flood control efforts. After this work was successfully completed
and despite Wang’s positive report on Lin’s participation, however, Lin was forced to
proceed to Ili in 1842. Wang Ding subsequently died in Peking, reportedly (according
to some sources) committing suicide as a protest against Chinese policies toward the
British and, especially, the exile of Lin Zexu. Lin was later exonerated (in 1845) and
lived long enough to accept an appointment as acting governor of Guangxi during the
early years of the Taiping rebellion (1850). He died en route to his post. See Hum-
mel, Eminent Chinese, 513 for details; also Zhang Zhenhuai’s notes on this poem in
Qingdai nüciren xuanji, 146–147.
25
James M. Polachek, The Inner Opium War (Cambridge: Harvard University
Press, 1992), 12–13 et passim.
26
The allusion is to drifting clouds that obscure the ruler’s vision (fuyun bi bairi
), from the first of the “Nineteen Old Poems” . For a translation
with notes, see Burton Watson, Chinese Lyricism: Shi Poetry from the Second to the
Twelfth Century (New York: Columbia University Press, 1971), 20–22.
 the lady and the state 295

All that’s in my heart is hard to pour out.

Wu Zixu’s ghost flew on the crest of the waves;
The Miluo River where Qu Yuan drowned is deep
and wide;
Reverently sounds the voice of the aggrieved bird-
spirit.27
Deeply buried is that remonstrating memorial
What can I do? Swallow my anger forever?28
Two years later Xiying wrote a second ganshi song lyric, untitled and
set to the same tune, with additional lines composed by her poet friend
from Hangzhou,27Shen28Shanbao.29 Shanbao, in carefully preserving
their joint composition, praised Xiying’s style as “heroic” (you lieshi
zhi feng ):
A propitious moment is easily missed,
Nothing left but wind and rain,

27
“Aggrieved bird spirit” (yuan qin ) is a reference to the spirit of the daughter
of Emperor Yan , who drowned in the Eastern Sea and turned into a pheasant-
like sea bird. The poet invokes the myth of that sea bird, known as the Jingwei bird,
which tries to fill the sea with pebbles in revenge, a futile but dedicated cause. Qiu Jin
composed an unfinished tanci on the Jingwei bird in which the bird’s dropping stones
become a metaphor for the enduring struggle of women to overcome the failures of
the country’s backward leadership. See Idema and Grant, The Red Brush, 786–794.
28
Printed in Shen Shanbao, Mingyuan shihua, 8.6a. See also Zhang Zhenhuai,
Qingdai nüciren xuanji. 145–146. “Soundless words” (duoduo ) is an allusion
to a story about the general Yin Hao (fl. 350), who, after being dismissed from
office, lived in Xin’an in western Zhejiang and spent all day, every day, writing charac-
ters in the air. When closely observed, he was seen to be writing only four characters
over and over again: duoduo guaishi (“Alas! Alas! What a strange turn of
events!”). See Richard B. Mather, trans. and annot., Shih-shuo hsin-yü: A New Account
of Tales of the World, by Liu I-ch’ing with commentary by Liu Chün (Minneapolis:
University of Minnesota Press, 1976), 451. Wang Ding’s so-called “corpse admoni-
tion” (shijian ) was a memorial he allegedly prepared to submit to the throne that
was suppressed by the opposition party led by Muzhang’a .
29
On Shen Shanbao, see Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü zhuzuo kao, 366–367. On Shen
Shanbao as a collector and patron of women’s poetry, and on her life as a patron of
women’s letters in Beijing, see recent studies by Grace S. Fong: “Shen Shan-pao,” in
The Indiana Companion to Traditional Chinese Literature, ed. William H. Nienhauser,
Jr., 2 vols. (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1998), 2:138–140; and “Writing
Self and Writing Lives: Shen Shanbao’s (1808–1862) Gendered Auto-Biographical
Practices,” Nan Nü: Men, Women and Gender in Early and Imperial China 2.2 (2000):
259–303; and Herself an Author: Gender, Agency, and Writing in Late Imperial China
(Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2008), 142–158. According to Fong, Shen left
her native place of Hangzhou for Beijing in 1837, forming a poetry society with gentry
women “mostly from the Jiangnan area.” See “Shen Shan-pao,” 140. Zhang Xiying
lived with her husband in the capital from 1829 to 1846. For translations of some of
Shen’s song lyrics, see Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 552–555.
296 chapter nine

Sending spring away.

Fragrant orchids [i.e. sages] cut down one by one,
Leaving behind only floating willow catkins.
The lone goose falls in fright at the sound of the
bowstring,
The cuckoo of Shu cries up blood [for its home-
land],
Each of these pierces my heart.
Now that my grief has been entirely poured out,
How I can bear yet to hear the drums of war?
[above by Zhang Xiying]
[below by Shen Shanbao]303132
I hear it told that covering the seas is a poison
vapor [opium],
Along the river a deadly miasma,
[British] ships of war line the Guabu harbor [across
the river from Nanjing].
Guns and ships may be fierce and swift
But do we lack river guards and archers?
Stalwart angry braves, hair on end, caps atop;30
Students casting down their brushes [to take up
arms],
Laughing while they attack the enemy.31
On the bank beside Miaogao Tower,
A beautiful woman fought alongside a heroic
man.32
In this song lyric, laden with allusions to poems about kingdoms
vanquished, we hear two women joining their voices in a work that
anticipates the calls to arms discussed in a later section. As Wai-yee
Li points out, Shen Shanbao’s ardent articulation of heroism suggests

30
The poet alludes to a song lyric to the tune “Man jiang hong,” written by
the heroic Song general Yue Fei (1103–1141), who fought back the invading armies
of the Jurchens.
31
Allusion to Su Shi’s “Recalling antiquity at Red Cliff.” See note 18 above.
32
Zhang Xiying (written with Shen Shanbao), in Shen Shanbao, Mingyuan shihua,
8.5b–6a. See also Zhang Zhenhuai, Qingdai nüciren xuanji, 147–149. This second ci is
also responding to the song lyric by Su Shi cited above (n. 18). Miaogao Tower is the
highest point near Zhenjiang, the place where, in Song times, Han Shizhong’s
(Shenwu’s) concubine Liang Hongyu (“moth eyebrows”) beat the drums to
summon troops to fight against the Jin. On women poets’ allusions to this poem and
tune, see Chang and Saussy, eds. Women Writers, 623.
 the lady and the state 297

that she found Zhang Xiying’s restraint inadequate as a response to the

crisis they were facing.33
Anchored more clearly inside the women’s quarters are the hun-
dreds of women’s poems about scattered families and the anxieties of
refugees. In poems variously titled “Fleeing the Fighting” or
, women testify to their weighty responsibility for loved ones and
their anguish at being cut off from home and sources of support. The
image of sangluan (death and destruction)34 permeates these poems,
which sometimes quote the archetypal Shijing (Book of odes)
poem about families divided in times of war, “The Flowering Plum”
.35 The original poem celebrates affection and loyalty among kin
of the same generation, through the metaphor of the wagtail bird’s
characteristic bobbing movements (when one end falls, the other rises,
just as siblings and cousins reach out to help one another). The wagtail
nests in large communal groups, sometimes numbering in the thou-
sands, but in the Shijing poem, a solitary bird has become isolated
when the flock scatters and the bird becomes a symbol of a sibling cast
apart in a time of disorder:36
. . . On the dread occasions of death and burial
It is kinsmen who share the grief.
When refugees flee through the plains and marshes
It is brothers who come to save them.
If there’s a wagtail on the plain,
Like a brother in acute distress;
Even a good friend [unlike a kinsman],
Will only sigh and wring his hands. . . .36

33
Personal communication, Dec. 12, 2009.
34
Sangluan poems as a genre are discussed by Stephen West in his studies of Yuan
Haowen. See Stephen West, “Shih Kuo-ch’i’s Commentary on the Poetry of Yüan
Hao-wen,” Tsinghua hsueh pao 10.2 (1974): 142–169, esp. 143, 165 n. 10;
and Stephen H. West, “Chilly Seas and East-Flowing Rivers: Yuan Hao-wen’s Poems
of Death and Disorder, 1233–1235,” in China under Jurchen Rule: Essays on Chin
Intellectual and Cultural History, ed. Hoyt Cleveland Tillman and Stephen H. West
(Albany: State University of New York Press, 1995), 281–304. See also notes in Hanyu
da cidian (Great dictionary of the Chinese language), ed. Hanyu dacidian
bianji weiyuan hui, 12 vols. (Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1994), 1:434–435.
35
“Di” is a homonym for di (brothers and cousins). See “The flowering
plum”, in Shijing, “Small Odes” , Bk. 1, Ode 4; trans. in Legge, “Mao Ode 164,”
in The She King, vol. 4, The Chinese Classics (1893–1895; repr., Taipei: SMC Publish-
ing, 1991), 250–252.
36
Legge, She King, 251, translation freely adapted.
298 chapter nine

The metaphor of geese who no longer maintain their classic V-shaped

flight pattern is also common in such poems, which continually name
and often point to the scattered locations of refugee kinsmen and
women who have been torn apart by war.
Several examples drawn from collections in the Ming Qing Wom-
en’s Writings database illustrate the biluan subgenre and its power.37
The following poem describes the poet’s trials as a refugee during the
decade of unrest that followed the uneasy peace of the Nanjing Treaty
that ended the Opium War. In this poem by Chen Yunlian
(ca. 1800–after 1860), a native of Jiangyin and wife of Zuo Chen
of Yanghu (Changzhou), we see the continued pressure from the pres-
ence of foreign armies on the Jiangnan region. We also see the poet
forced to weigh her political sentiments against her overriding con-
cern for her personal life and her family:3839
In times of peace we speak of filial piety and chat
about loyalty
In times of war, who can be dedicated to these
utterly sincere values?
I can eat coarse food, I can drink from a ladle,
Still, I worry that my husband may not compare to
Liang Hong.38
The winds disturb our coastal cities, the sound of
beating drums,
Red flags and jeweled tents, the camps of all the
foreigners.
They talk of peace, they talk of war, all are difficult
matters,
Secure and protect the people’s lives, and the stones
will sound their praise.39

37
Grace S. Fong, ed., Ming Qing Women’s Writings, http://digital.library.mcgill.ca/
mingqing/.
38
Liang Hong, whose biography appears among the “recluses” in Fan Ye’s
Hou Han Shu (History of the Latter Han Dynasty), had a wife who donned
simple hemp and worked weaving and spinning to join him in his abstemious life.
The poet appears to suggest that her own capacity for self-denial and integrity may
exceed that of her husband.
39
Allusion to the Zuo zhuan, the eighth year of Duke Zhao, which describes stones
that speak in times of political crisis. In Legge’s translation, when “discontent and
complaints are stirring among the people, then speechless things do speak.” Legge,
Ch’un Ts’ew, 622. Chen Yunlian, “Fleeing Disorder in Shengfang, Eleven Stanzas
Composed to Record My Anxieties and also the Scenery and the Lodging En Route”
, in Xinfangge shicao (Poetry
draft from Xinfang Loft) (1859), 5.22a–23b. Quotation from 22b; notes on 23a.
 the lady and the state 299

The poem goes on to describe the foreign assault on Huai’an, detailed

in a letter sent by the poet’s elder brother; her younger brother’s flight
to Taizhou; and the suicide of a young woman of her acquaintance,
from the eminent Zhuang family of Changzhou, who threw herself
into a pond and drowned when that city fell.
The Yang sisters of Changsha, Hunan, Yang Shulan and
Yang Shuhui , whose native place was at the center of much
of the Taiping fighting, wrote diary-like poems recording their trials
as refugees. Their mother Li Xingchi , widowed in 1825 at the
age of twenty-five sui when her husband Yang Shizun died
of smallpox, was the younger sister of the noted official Li Xingyuan
(1797–1851) of Xiangyin, Hunan (not far from Changsha).
In December 1850, Li Xingyuan was appointed Imperial Commis-
sioner in charge of suppressing the Taiping Rebellion, but he died
the following year just as his campaign was beginning, and was later
canonized as Wengong . Li Xingchi’s sister-in-law (her brother’s
wife) was Guo Runyu , who was also a published poet. The
sisters’ younger brother died at a very young age, leaving behind his
wife Zhou Xifen , also a talented poet. The family’s women
were thus well positioned to take note of the Taiping uprising and its
consequences, even before the fighting reached their homes. When
the Taiping rebels attacked Hunan at the beginning of their uprising,
the family was torn apart. As Yang Shulin , the girls’ younger
cousin and his aunt’s favorite, describes it, from that time onward “the
times were hard, the family suffered,” and it never recovered. In 1863,
in Li Xingchi’s later years, her son Shujian was awarded the rank
of county magistrate because of his distinction in battle. As a result, by
imperial decree, his mother received the honorific title taiyiren
(Lady of Suitability).40 Liang Xingchi died at the age of 74, surviving
the Taiping Rebellion by nearly a decade.41
In poems recording her loved ones’ trials and separations during the
rebellion, Yang Shuhui created a record of the Taiping battles, starting
with her flight westward in the seventh month of 1852, as the rebels

40
Granted to wives of officials of the fifth rank. See Charles O. Hucker, A Diction-
ary of Official Titles in Imperial China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1985),
267.
41
Yang Shulin, “Preface” , in Danxiangge shichao (Poetry from
Danxiang Loft), by Li Xingchi (1878), 1a–3a. On Li Xingyuan and his family,
see Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 457–459.
300 chapter nine

advanced on Changsha (from which, as it turned out, they soon with-

drew and continued northward).42 Her next poem, dated 1854, second
month, recorded the Taipings’ unexpected renewed assault on Chang-
sha, when the rebels doubled back after capturing Wuchang. She wrote
to her younger brother’s widow from her refuge west of Changsha,
near Weishan and Ningxiang, noting that at that time, her sister-in-
law was with her own mother in a district to the east:4344
Shaking the earth, the war has begun,
Calamity and suffering fill my eyes with anguish.
The feathered missive flies northward
Troops and horses race to the south.
The moon chills the carriages in the commander’s tents
The wind howls through the great general’s banners.
As far as I can see on this night,
I scratch my head and my tears stream like silk.43
(Notice in this stanza the juxtaposition of warfare, military strategy,
massed troops, and the poet’s streaming tears, which she cannot
stop.)
In these strange places I’ve sojourned for so long,
My old courtyard—when will I return to it?
Heaven and earth together shed tears,
Kinsmen and family, separated so far!
The land around me overgrown with thorns,
In desolate mountains, we seek sustenance from wild
ferns.
Thinking of you, and failing to meet
And thinking too how much I miss my mother.44
Here the poet includes a note that her mother was still in “the city,”
presumably Xiangyin. Everyone knew that walled cities were the most
dangerous place to be during this time, and Xiangyin, to the north of

42
Yang Shuhui, “In the Seventh Month of Renzi (1852) the Yue Bandits Attacked
Changsha. I Escaped with Mother to Xixiang. I Was Moved to Compose This.”
, in Youhuangyinguan shichao
(Poetry from Youhuang Hall of Chanting) (1878), 3.20b–21a.
43
The phrase “scratching my head” invokes Du Fu’s great poem mourning the occu-
pation of Chang’an in 757. See Du Fu, “Spring Prospect,” Quan Tang shi, 7.2404.
44
Yang Shuhui, Youhuangyinguan shichao, 3.21a–21b. “Turtlefoot and thorn ferns”
is an allusion to a lesser ode from the Shijing, “Xiao ya,” V.10. Trans. in Legge, She
King, 359. The ode “bitterly deplores the oppression and misery of the times,” accord-
ing to commentaries.
 the lady and the state 301

Changsha, was directly in the path of the fiercest fighting. A poem by

Shuhui’s sister Shulan, also dated 1852, seventh month, shows that
Shulan at the time was living with her surviving brother in a “fortified
city” (weicheng ).45 Thus by reference to cheng or xiang ,
poems and the notes appended to them ponder the danger or safety
of loved ones.
Such poems about flight reveal a political consciousness provoked
by the plight of refugees, and show how fighting for the empire forced
women in flight to weigh their political concerns against their per-
sonal concerns for family. In a poem about fleeing from the Taiping
rebels, the Changzhou woman poet Yang Yunhui (1832–1914)
rages:4647
Every mountain peak, each drop of water, all of it
our emperor’s land,46
Over this we now let barbarian leaders rampage
about at will.47
Yang Yunhui’s words can easily be read as a critique of the imperial
government’s reliance on foreign troops in the final days of the Taip-
ing suppression.
These sentiments fill the poems of He Huisheng ,48 whose
husband, like Zuo Xijia’s and Wang Caipin’s, was killed in the Taiping
Rebellion, and who—like many female writers of her time—began to
imagine herself as a “womanly hero” (hongfen yingxiong ).49
In her poem titled “Speaking My Mind” , she wrote:
. . . The world is in turmoil, all is wind and dust,
Wishing to repay my lord’s kindness, I am ashamed
of my body.

45
Yang Shulan, Hongqu yinguan shichao (Poetry from the Hongqu
Pavilion of Recital), 2.9b–10a.
46
Allusion to the Shijing, Mao Ode 205 (“North mountain” ): “Under the wide
heaven, all is the king’s land” . See Legge, She King, 360.
47
Yang Yunhui, “Recording My Feelings on the Mid-Autumn Festival as I Flee
the Fighting with My Son and His Family on a Boat from Wu”
, in Yinxiangshi shicao (Poetry draft from Yinxiang Chamber)
(1897), 2.6b. Dated sometime after 1862. On Yang Yunhui, see Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü
zhuzuo kao, 678–679.
48
See Shi Shuyi, Qingdai guige shiren zhenglüe, 9.9a–b/525–526. Her collected
poems were printed together with her husband’s in 1879. See Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü
zhuzuo kao, 294.
49
See Liang Yizhen, Qingdai funü wenxueshi, 215–217.
302 chapter nine

If only the court would make use of us women;

Every Gaoliang should have a Lady Xian.50

Calls to Arms50

Poems about swords and women warriors, like the poems invoking
the image of Qin Liangyu quoted earlier, celebrated women in military
roles. Idema and Grant, in their discussion of women and warfare,
point out that the sixty-act play celebrating the lives of the late Ming
woman warriors Qin Liangyu and Shen Yunying, which was popular
in the eighteenth century, helped to make woman warrior imagery
readily accessible to women poets.51 The poem below, an example of
this subgenre, is the first stanza in a much longer work. In it the poet,
Wang Caipin, reflects on her aunt Zhang Xiying’s concern for the fate
of Lin Zexu, expressed in the song lyric above. Here Wang Caipin
laments Lin’s death and despairs over the inexorable advance of the
Taiping rebels. At the time this poem was written, Caipin’s uncle was
holding office in Wuchang, then considered the strategic stronghold
that would stop the Taipings before they overran the Lower Yangzi
valley. The poem was probably composed in 1852, since it describes
the seige of Guilin and depicts the rebels on the brink of invading
Hunan. The poem’s cynical indictment of the government’s weak
response to the Taiping onslaught, which had suddenly come to seem
like a “broken bamboo”—an unstoppable military tide—is stunning
in its frankness.

50
See Liang Yizhen, Qingdai funü wenxueshi, 216. The last line states that every
kingdom threatened with collapse needs a strong female leader to defend it. Gaoliang
and Xi furen refers to the Six Dynasties story of the daughter of Lord Xi
of Gaoliang, who was a skilled military strategist. She was married to the prefect of
Gaoliang, Feng Bao , at the beginning of the Datong reign of the Liang dynasty
(ca. 535). When a rebellion occurred in the prefecture, she personally led the troops
to pacify it, winning a great victory. After her husband’s death when the realm was
threatened with rebellion on all sides, she was responsible for keeping the peace. In
the subsequent Chen dynasty and later, she was honored with posthumous titles and
worshipped as a goddess.
51
Idema and Grant, The Red Brush, 653. Fang Zhaoying’s biography of Qin Liangyu
also takes note of the chuanqi play about the lives of these two women warriors, which
was printed in 1751 by Dong Rong under the title “Zhikan ji chuanqi”
(Record of the magic shrine: quanqi drama). See Hummel, Eminent Chinese,
168–169. On Dong Rong and the play, see Nienhauser, ed., The Indiana Companion
to Traditional Chinese Literature, 1:837.
 the lady and the state 303

Moved by Events (Ganshi)

Valued officials, with tallies and battleaxes, guard
strategic borders,
“Splitting bamboo” sounds an alarm that the rebels’
strength is surging.
Seizing the pass, they have already signaled their
move out of Guangxi and Guangdong,
Riding the current, they are poised to descend to
the clear Xiang [Hunan].
How many in oxcarts defend the border com-
manderies?
Whose dead bodies, wrapped in horsehide, are
pledged to die for our country?
Who has sought the origins of the rebellion, or
traced the beginnings of this disaster?
Since ancient times good governance has rested
upon agriculture and sericulture.
[Her uncle’s note:] At this time of crisis she pours
out her groans of righteous anger; she adopts a
lofty perspective and thinks deeply; these are not
merely decorative phrases.
Beacon fires at Guilin reach to the southern skies,
For one full month they besieged the city—how
pitiful!
Then at midnight, startling thunder—iron storks
come flying;
Ten thousand families weep in the wilds, provoking
the cuckoo’s cry.
The people are like fish being cooked in a pot —who
will be sent to hold back the rebels who remain?
A prairie fire is best stopped before it ever starts.
Armies have long been mustered in Sichuan and in
Chu [Hubei],
How can we bear battle carts traveling in the same
ruts that overturned others?
...
“Leaning on a pillar and mournfully singing,” a
hundred feelings stir,
Looking southward to the clouds of Chu, my
thoughts turn round and round.
The Yangzi River is Heaven’s own boundary—its
defense is urgently needed;
Beacon fires flare in the “Seven Marshes” [the Hubei
border area]—the people are easily frightened.
A decisive battle is too much to hope for from a
thousand li away,
304 chapter nine

When times are so troubling, how can I ever calm

this slip of a heart?
I want to ask for a capstring [i.e. volunteer to fight
the enemy], but I’m ashamed of being no match
for Qin Liangyu,
If I cast aside my brush [to go off to war, like Ban
Chao ], it would be hard to bring my whole
family.52
Here we see the poet torn between her awareness that she has neither
talent nor training to become a warrior like her heroine Qin Liangyu,
and her simultaneous sense that family duties make it impossible for
a woman of her social class to consider that option under any circum-
stances. This poem, like Wang Caipin’s other poem cited above, is most
striking for its juxtaposition of domestic and military images, contrast-
ing the Woman of Lu from Qishi with Mulan and Qin Liangyu. It is
also striking in its sardonic critique of the antiquated technologies and
strategies of the imperial military.52

52
Wang Caipin, Duxuanlou shigao, 6.1b–2a. “Valued officials” may refer to Zeng
Guofan, but Zeng’s Hunan Army was not fully mobilized until 1853. Wang Caipin’s
use of the phrase pozhu underscores the irony of her tone. “Splitting bamboo”
was associated with imperial victories, a term for those moments when the tide of
battle had turned decisively in favor of the government’s armies. Here the poet instead
hands the propitious momentum to the enemy. Caipin’s sarcastic comment on anti-
quated weaponry and blind reliance on traditional defenses alludes to a battle in which
the Tang Emperor Suzong, fighting the An Lushan rebels in 1756, ordered his
generals to imitate the ancient military arts. Two thousand ox carts were assembled,
backed with soldiers on horseback and on foot. The rebels used noise to panic and
stampede the oxen, then lit fires that burned downwind and destroyed the resistance.
Forty thousand imperial soldiers died. As Stephen West points out, because storks
cannot cry out, they can only clack their bills, hence the sound of horses’ hooves. The
cuckoo (dujuan ) is associated with the spirit of king Du Yu of the ancient
kingdom of Shu . Its cry was heard by exiles from Shu as a call to return home,
hence its invocation in this context. Some sources also say that the cuckoo cries up
blood. “Leaning on a pillar and mournfully singing” invokes the story of Feng Xuan
of Qi from the Zhanguo ce (Strategems of the Warring States). Having
gained admission to the retinue of the Lord of Mengchang , Feng Xuan is given
only coarse greens as food by the other retainers, who despise him for his poverty
and his self-professed lack of talent. At length he leans on a pillar, taps the hilt of his
sword and sings: “Long sword, let us return home; we have no fish to eat here.” Word
of his song reaches the Lord of Mengchang, who commands that Feng Xuan be given
meals befitting a guest. Feng Xuan keeps this up until he gets everything he wants: a
horse, a chariot, and, finally, provisions for his mother too. Here the poet alludes to
a particular nuance in the tale, that is, Feng Xuan in his quest for office was forced to
leave his mother and could no longer care for her as a proper son. The poet’s final line
returns us to this conflict between political aspirations and family responsibilities. For
another reading of Feng Xuan’s story, see Paula Varsano’s note in Chang and Saussy,
 the lady and the state 305

If the heroism of women warriors was a beloved topic of women

poets, they were also fascinated with swords. The revolutionary hero-
ine Qiu Jin is known for her sword poems, especially the verse “Pre-
cious Sword” ,53 which plays on the legend of Ganjiang and
54
Moye . Sword poems of the nineteenth century ran the gamut
of women’s writing themes, from boudoir to battlefield. A treasured
sword could be the subject of an artistic tour de force as a yongwu
shi (“poem about a thing”) composed in the women’s apart-
ments. On the other hand, a sword (and the legend of Moye) could
also invoke images of women’s sacrifice and bravado that pointed to
more political writings.

Statecraft and Social Ills in Poems by Women

The poetic, moral, and emotional resources that inspired women’s

writings about war and the fate of the empire are manifest in classi-
cal poetry as well as in biographies of women. Women’s poems about
statecraft, women’s engagement in projects related to “maritime affairs”
(yangwu ), and women’s concerns about social issues beyond
the family have more diffuse antecedents. In the nineteenth century,
some of the linkages may perhaps be traced to the leading scholar

eds., Women Writers, 393. The request for a capstring, a convention for departing to
take up arms, invokes the story of Zhong Jun of the Han, who asked for a cap-
string for his helmet before going to battle for control of the kingdom of Nan Yue; he
used it to tie up the king and bring him to court to submit to Han Wudi.
53
Translated by Li-li Ch’en in Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 652. For a
translation of a different poem on the same subject by Qiu Jin, see Idema and Grant,
The Red Brush, 774–775.
54
Ganjiang lived in the state of Wu during the third century BCE. One of the
two preeminent swordsmiths of Chinese history, he forged swords of steel that were
regarded as magical because they were so much sharper than the old bronze materials.
In one version of the legend, his wife Moye casts herself into the cauldron as a sacrifice
to ensure that the sword’s steel will set properly, with the result that two swords (one
female, one male) emerge from the forge and are named after husband and wife as a
yin and yang pair. Another version of the story holds that Ganjiang spent three years
casting two swords, male and female, for the king of Chu. Suspecting that the king
planned to have him killed once the swords were finished, Ganjiang gave the female
sword to the king and kept the male sword for his pregnant wife, charging her to
keep it and, if she gave birth to a son, to tell the son his father’s story so that he could
take revenge. Ganjiang was in fact put to death, and Moye did bear a son, who as an
adult used the sword to avenge his father. Lu Xun retells the latter version of the
legend in a story titled “Forging the Swords,” translated by Yang Hsien-yi and Gladys
Yang in Old Tales Retold (Beijing: Foreign Languages Press, 1972), 74–95.
306 chapter nine

of statecraft and classical studies Ruan Yuan (1764–1849), who

was known to be sympathetic to the talents of women.55 Ruan Yuan’s
extensive network of patronage and clientage brought hundreds of
Jiangnan literati into the ambit of his leadership at the Xuehai tang
academy in Canton.56 There, working with local scholars and
with scholars he invited as his guests, Ruan Yuan oversaw a veritable
think tank of leading minds focused on dealing with coastal warships
and trading vessels from Western countries.
The relationship of these Cantonese officials and local scholars to the
women in their families has just begun to be investigated. A suggestive
example comes from the life of the Cantonese scholar Liang Tingnan
(1796–1861), who himself eventually rose to the directorship
of the Xuehai tang, and who got his own start under Ruan Yuan’s
patronage. Liang had two daughters, whose collected poems and prose
were printed with an encomium by Lin Zexu . It was Lin Zexu
himself who remarked on these girls when he inquired about the
provenance of the thousands of tiny characters (“tiny as the head of a
fly”) annotating the maps and charts that accompanied Liang’s classic
work on coastal defense, the Guangdong haifang huilan
(A conspectus of Guangdong’s coastal defense), completed in 1836.
Liang informed Lin that the writing was all done by his daughters.57 It
is difficult to imagine that Liang’s daughters worked on those maps
without absorbing their import and significance; it is easy to picture a
father drawing his educated daughters into his scholarly project.
Rare evidence of the impact of Ruan Yuan’s statecraft concerns on a
woman writer appears in the poetry of Zhang Yin (1832–1872),
daughter of a provincial governor and wife of a provincial commis-
sioner. Zhang Yin, unlike the Changzhou poets, had family ties in the
north, in Shanxi, and in the south, in Fujian. Her writings, translated
extensively by Idema and Grant, show an abiding concern with social

55
See the discussion in Betty Peh-T’i Wei, Ruan Yuan, 1764–1849: The Life and
Work of a Major Scholar-Official in Nineteenth-Century China before the Opium War
(Hong Kong: Hong Kong University Press, 2006), 239–258.
56
See Steven B. Miles, The Sea of Learning: Mobility and Identity in Nineteenth-
Century Guangzhou (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2006), 91–126 et passim.
57
See Robert J. Antony, “State, Continuity, and Pirate Suppression in Guangdong
Province, 1809–1810,” Late Imperial China 27.1 (2006): 1–30; and Susan Mann,
“Talented Women in Local Gazetteers of the Lingnan Region during the Eighteenth
and Nineteenth Centuries,” Jindai Zhongguo funü shi yanjiu /
Research on Women in Modern Chinese History 3 (1995): 134.
 the lady and the state 307

and economic hardship among ordinary people. She wrote about war
as well as poverty, and she took a keen interest in the difficulties of
laborers. Even her more intimate and personal poems about wifely
work and motherly affection have an appealing directness.58 She wrote
the unusual poem below in response to Ruan Yuan’s own pronounce-
ments about foreign trade and tariffs, which Zhang Yin may have seen
while perusing Ruan’s collected poetry. Ruan Yuan’s policy, described
in a brief poem printed in Ruan’s own collected works, proposed a
remission of the tariff on grain imports arriving at China’s ports by
sea, in order to alleviate pressures driving up the cost of rice in the
Canton delta region: population growth and a scarcity of paddy.
Moved on Reading Master Ruan Yuan’s “On the
Arrival of Ships Bearing Rice from Southeast
Asia”
In dredging a river, you must go all the way to its
source,
In planting a seedling, you must take care of the
stem.
If the source is obstructed, the river will not run
clear,
If a stem is damaged, the leaves will not be luxuri-
ant.
As I read this poem by Master Ruan Yuan,
I suddenly feel worried and anxious.
If we exchange tea for foreign rice,
The aim is to provide a store of food for the people.
Yet though we claim that each is exchanged for
what the other lacks,
How can we tell which side will benefit more?
Moreover, if we reduce their tariffs,
This forbidden policy will bring distress to our peo-
ple.
When we have a dearth they will be spirited and
cheering,
When we have a surplus they will hold back what
they owe us.
Whether the price is high or low,

58
Idema and Grant, The Red Brush, 656–668, who translate several of Zhang Yin’s
poems, also note her close relationship with her stepdaughter and her mother-in-law,
and her frankness in writing about these intimate relationships. The “earthy” referent
is not as far off as it seems, given Zhang Yin’s fondness for gardening.
308 chapter nine

Whether the people are frugal or extravagant, the

choice will belong to them.
How is this different from teaching your sons and
younger brothers
To confine their steps to the rooms within the
walls?
But if you don’t limit their interactions with the
outside world,
Scoundrels and rascals will cause them trouble.
Our elders grow older every year,
Our youth grow more benighted every day.
Then one day when we are dead,
These foreigners will tear into our grain storage
bins.
We must open up more arable land,
Devote all our energies to farming.
How can we sit with folded hands,
And all year long beg from our neighbors?
Petty officials who hold the reins of government
everywhere,
I will not even discuss them.
When the wisest people of our time
Just speak nonsense.
Women’s words are not supposed to go “outside;”
Who will communicate them to the Emperor for
me?59
Among women’s poetic writings of this period, such an explicit com-
ment on state policy is rare. Far more common are poems of the sort
favored by Zhang Yin that identify and criticize social ills.59

59
The poem was composed in 1824, while Ruan Yuan was serving concurrently as
Liang-Guang Governor-General and also as the Superintendant of Maritime Trade
at Canton. The poem appears in Jin Wuxiang, Suxiang suibi, 6.8b. For the original,
see Ruan Yuan, “The First Arrival of Western Ships Bearing Rice” , in
Yanjingshi xuji (The Yanjing Chamber collection, supplement), 6.6b–7a.
Zhang Yin must have read the poem in a manuscript circulated among friends or
family, or in the original printing of Ruan’s collected works, which were published in
Yangzhou over a period of years spanning the Daoguang (1821–1851) and Xianfeng
reigns. See Lidai funü shici jianshang cidian, 714–716, 1826–1827. Hu Wenkai cata-
logues Zhang Yin’s collected poems. See Lidai funü zhuzuo kao, 510. As a young girl
Zhang displayed brilliant intelligence, in addition to being gifted as a painter, moral
in character, a skilled seamstress and an excellent cook, quite unlike the picture of
the typical daughter of a wealthy family. Her poems are passionate and often engage
concerns about current events. Her collected works are titled Jianwo yigao
(Remnant drafts of Jianwo). Zhang Yin was married to a provincial administration
 the lady and the state 309

Such poetry gained new salience after the Taiping Rebellion, dra-
matized in the anthology of poems titled Qing shi duo (The
tocsin-bell of Qing poetry), published in 1869 by the scholar Zhang
Yingchang (1790–1874), a member of the Grand Secretariat.
Qing shi duo reprints poems on social and political issues dating from
the Ming-Qing transition through the middle of the century. The com-
piler’s aim was to inspire his readers’ critical reflection on the crises
facing the Qing empire, from the condition of the peasantry to the
impact of natural disasters. The anthology includes many poems criti-
cizing the plight of women, with chapters on women and marriage,
and sections on prostitution, female indentured servitude, and so forth,
leading contemporary publishers to praise Zhang for his enlightened
recognition that the oppression of women was a root cause of the Qing
empire’s weakness.60
Among the nearly one thousand poets whose work is anthologized
in Qing shi duo, only seventeen are female. All of the women’s poems
in Zhang Yingchang’s anthology develop themes that were important
to women writers before the troubled times of the late nineteenth
century, including many that express concern and empathy for the
plight of oppressed women. We read of an impoverished mother sell-
ing a starving child in hopes of saving its life; the plight of a young
widow who pledges fidelity to serve her in-laws and then commits
suicide when the in-laws die; a lonely woman whose husband is on
the road.61 But nowhere in Zhang’s anthology do we hear the voices
of outrage, loyalty, or contemporary consciousness discussed in the
body of this chapter. Instead social problems symbolized by women’s
oppression become the measure of China’s weakness in the face of
foreign assault.
Zhang’s editorial note on three poems about the “pitiful fate” (bei-
ming ) of women reveals their significance in his eyes. The “pitiful
fate” poems elaborate interlocking themes: young women forced into

commissioner of Shaanxi province, Lin Shoutu , as a successor wife. For Lin

Shoutu, see Hummel, Eminent Chinese, 305–306.
60
See the publishers’ preface for the 1960 edition of Zhang Yingchang, ed., Qing
shi duo, 2 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1983), 1:1ff. For the publishers, the anthol-
ogy also underscored the class conflicts of Zhang’s day, which in their view had ulti-
mately produced the massive Taiping Rebellion and subsequent peasant revolutions.
The publishers also praised Zhang for his anti-imperialist consciousness, pointing to
his chapter on opium marketing and addiction.
61
Zhang Yingchang, Qing shi duo, 2:573, 727, 818, 875, etc.
310 chapter nine

unhappy and exploitative or abusive relationships—servitude, concu-

binage—resulting from the death or, worse, the venality, of parents.
Two of the three poems are by obscure women writers who left a sin-
gle work; the third is by the prolific and respected woman poet Liang
Desheng (1771–1847).62 It was the poems’ descriptions of piti-
ful women who were sexually exploited that drew Zhang’s attention,
as his editorial comment on the poems makes clear. He quotes from a
contemporary book of poetry criticism by Lin Changyi , a male
relative of Lin Zexu and a close associate of both Lin and Wei Yuan
in matters of foreign policy at the time of the Opium War. Lin
Changyi wrote: “Since the disturbances in the ports along the coast,
women in Dinghai and Ningbo have been subject to extreme harm.
Some have been taken off to the foreign devils’ lands; others have been
sold; still others have been wantonly assaulted and then cast overboard
to drown. Some have been presented as rewards to Chinese traitors
(Hanjian ).” Zhang quotes as well a line from a contemporary
poem linking the arrival of foreign ships to raids on Chinese women,
declaring this the worst of all the political and military problems in
the treaty ports.63
Zhang may have chosen the poems he selected because of their
availability in published sources. Poems by women in Qing shi duo,
with three exceptions, come from anthologies printed earlier in the
century, especially Wanyan Yun Zhu’s (1771–1833) Zheng-
shi ji (Anthology of correct beginnings by women
of our dynasty, 1831) and its sequel (1836). None were written after
1849.64 This is a stark reminder that contemporary women’s poems

62
Zhang Yingchang, Qing shi duo, 2:959–962.
63
Zhang Yingchang, Qing shi duo, 2:962 note.
64
Only a few of the poems Zhang chose to print in Qing shi duo are not antholo-
gized in leading collections (nor included in the Ming Qing Women’s Writings data-
base): see poems by Dai Shufen (praising a faithful maiden who moved in
with her mother-in-law to serve her after her betrothed died before the wedding, 2:
727), Yu Zhaoyong (on certain women who committed suicide at the fall of
the Ming, 2:729), and Wang Ying (praising her son for studying medicine to
heal the ills of the world, 2:875). The latter is followed by a note from the compiler
criticizing incompetent doctors (2:875). The Ming Qing Women’s Writings database
makes it possible to see when most of the poems were anthologized and published,
underscoring the difficulty of obtaining access to contemporary women’s writings in
the interim between the Opium War and the end of the Taiping Rebellion. The sev-
enteen Qing female poets included in Qing shi duo are: Gao Jingfang , Wu Lan
, Ma Shiqi , Yang Sushu , Huang Kexun , Shen Lan ,
Feng Xian , Chen Wanyong , Zeng Rulan , Dai Shufen, Kan Yu
 the lady and the state 311

on troubled times were not readily available to anthologists or readers

before the end of the nineteenth century. Their publication in bieji
(individual collections) or in rare anthologies such as Shen Shan-
bao’s had to await the return of peace in the late 1860s and 1870s,
and ultimately rediscovery by women writers and anthologists of the
twentieth century.
Zhang Yingchang’s representation of women’s poetry in the Qing
empire’s times of trouble suggests that a gap was growing between
elite men’s and elite women’s perspectives during that period of cri-
sis. Zhang’s images also help us to understand how, at the precise
moment that Liang Qichao (1873–1929) was naming women
as the most telling source of the empire’s weakness, Qiu Jin could call
on her sisters to rise up and save the country because it was evident
that men were unable to defend it. Elite women saw themselves as
an untapped resource, waiting to be called into action. Elite men saw
them as victims of a benighted polity, doomed like the empire before
the inexorable power of foreign military might.

Conclusion

How do women’s poems from the troubled times of the nineteenth

century enlighten a historian of gender relations? First, they reveal
taproots, deep in classical Chinese texts, for the seemingly modern
political consciousness of women writers like the revolutionary Qiu
Jin. One taproot springs from the Woman of Lu from Qishi, whose
story is told in the Lienü zhuan. There we see a precocious assertion
of the principle that women’s domestic concerns are actually political
matters as well (“the personal is political”). Other taproots, especially
from the late-Ming female general Qin Liangyu, anticipate Qiu Jin’s
militant political consciousness in their warrior imagery.65 Although
scholars have long recognized that famous female historical figures

, Yu Zhaoyong, Wang Ying, Song Juan , Shao Meiyi , He Guizhi

, and Liang Desheng .
65
Qin Liangyu was also one of Qiu Jin’s heroines. Qiu Jin’s interest in female role
models who were patriotic and militant was inspired by—among other things—what
Li-li Ch’en calls “Ming literatae-warriors.” See Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writ-
ers, quotation on 632. A portrait of Shen Yunying is reproduced in Ellen Widmer,
“Selected Short Works by Wang Duanshu,” 178.
312 chapter nine

supply important themes in literati writing,66 their place as a reservoir

of images from which women writers drew to express their concerns
about politics needs more attention.67
Second, these poems make a historian query the ways in which
women have served to mark the boundaries of China’s modernity,
especially with the figure of the “new woman.” Nineteenth-century
crises clearly sparked a new kind of consciousness among Chinese
women poets, clustered as they were in the Lower Yangzi region. Euro-
pean armies that threatened the southeast coast were a mere prelude to
the direct devastation of Jiangnan itself in the Taiping Rebellion. The
intellectual circles in which these women writers and their male rela-
tives moved (as measured, for instance, in the lists of men who wrote
prefaces for their poetry collections, including—in the case of Wang
Caipin—such luminaries as Feng Guifen , Zeng Guofan
, and others) brought wives and daughters directly into conversa-
tions involving foreign trade and coastal defense, as well as pacifica-
tion campaigns and the militarization of local administration.
Finally, these poems call to our attention the ways in which the
classical allusive language of poetry constituted women as imperial
subjects. Women were a constituency of the realm—not citizens, of
course, but a recognizable group with particular concerns derived
from their familial roles and responsibilities. The metonymy jinguo
(women’s head kerchief) sometimes appears in poems to mark
this constituency of women, and women poets clearly wrote to an

66
Many of these examples are cited by Zhang Xuecheng in his Fu xue
(Women’s learning). Zhang did not recommend them as female role models; he pre-
ferred to consider them historical anomalies, products of extraordinary moments that
warranted extraordinary behavior. But female readers were inclined to think otherwise
during the nineteenth century. See the study of the Song female general Yang Miao-
zhen , whose story has been reconstructed by Pei-yi Wu, “Yang Miaozhen: A
Woman Warrior in Thirteenth-Century China,” Nan Nü: Men, Women and Gender in
Early and Imperial China 4.2 (2002): 137–169. For a translation of Zhang Xuecheng’s
Fu xue, see Chang and Saussy, eds., Women Writers, 783–799.
67
See Li Guotong , “Fenceng yu zhenghe: Mingmo Qingchu funü jiaoyu
guannian zhi yanbian” : (Gradation and
integration: The development of women’s educational concepts during the Late Ming
and Early Qing) (Master’s thesis, National University of Singapore, 2001), 70–94, esp.
71. Li observes that women’s ci (song lyrics) cluster around themes from the stories
of famous women, especially Yu ji (consort of Xiang Yu), Wang Zhaojun, Sun furen,
Liang Hongyu, etc. Li observes that some female writers complained that the historical
record on such women was incomplete! The implication is that women writers who
admired these heroines turned to fiction and drama for their own inspiration.
 the lady and the state 313

audience defined in gendered terms. Female warriors as role models

certainly helped. The many women who stepped in to fight in place
of a man, documented in the archives and performed on stage, made
it easy for nineteenth-century women to identify with martial values
in wartime. New Year paintings celebrating the female generals of the
Yang family, and the exploits of Hua Mulan in her defense of the fron-
tier, only served to reinforce these impressions. Swords, it seems, were
perfectly respectable subjects for a female poet practicing “martial” or
masculine modes in writing.
What is puzzling is how little attention this awakening women’s
consciousness drew from male writers and anthologists at the time.
Reading women’s poetry of the late nineteenth century, in that sense,
shows how gender boundaries were reinforced even as women were
drawn into a consciousness of the empire as a polity under siege.
Fragmented families saw fathers and brothers killed in fighting, while
women gathered together with female relatives to mourn their losses,
share their anxieties, and vent their anger. Their keen awareness of
being protected from fighting (in their unabashed references to flight)
sharpened their sense of frustration and invited the outbursts illus-
trated in this paper. At the same time, the fact that women remained
behind the lines of warfare, in charge of the domestic realm, served
to reinforce men’s sense that women’s position in the family rendered
them useless for defending the country.
Finally, in the poems of the late nineteenth century we see hints
of the difference between threats posed by “foreigners” from abroad,
and the deadly, prolonged force of the Taiping attacks, which targeted
the Lower Yangzi homeland of the vast majority of highly educated
women writers. We should probably start to draw a line between the
writings of women who lived through the Taiping Rebellion, and
those who never experienced it. The rapid growth of women’s poetry
about troubled times after 1860 tells us how much women who sur-
vived the Taiping Rebellion, like the survivors of 9/11, were changed
by the experience. It was their generation, after all, that nurtured the
so-called “new women” of the early twentieth century.
 CHAPTER TEN

IMAGINING HISTORY AND THE STATE: FUJIAN GUIXIU

(GENTEEL LADIES) AT HOME AND ON THE ROAD*

Guotong Li

Fujian genteel ladies were frequently on the road, following male rela-
tives as they sojourned all over the Qing Empire. We find them ven-
turing into Manchuria in the northeast, settling in a border town close
to present-day Macao in the far south, and traveling across the Taiwan
Strait and throughout Taiwan. As they traveled, these women made
detailed poetic records of their experiences, which are preserved in two
extant versions of Fujian guixiu poetry collections that inspired
the present study. Minchuan guixiu shihua (Remarks
on poems by Fujian guixiu) was compiled by Liang Zhangju
(1775–1849) in 1849. A native of Fujian, Liang received his jinshi
degree in 1802, and resigned from office in 1842. His female paternal
cousin Liang Yunshu served as one of his assistants for the
collection. Yunshu visited women writers one by one to record and
deliver poems for her cousin.1 In 1914, a sequel to Liang’s collection,
compiled by Ding Yun (1859–1894), was published. Departing
from Liang’s collection, which focused largely on his family circle,
the sequel more broadly records writings by about 130 Fujian women
poets, from the seventeenth to the nineteenth century. The poems
analyzed in this chapter display Fujian women writers’ imaginings of

* The research for this essay, which forms part of my dissertation project on gender
and ethnic relations along the Fujian coast in the eighteenth century, has been gener-
ously funded by the University of California Pacific Rim Research Program (2005–
2006). I am deeply grateful to my advisor, Professor Susan Mann. I express my sincere
thanks to Professor Grace Fong for her encouragement and very thoughtful sugges-
tions on this essay at the stages of its framing and revising, and for her leadership in
designing the amazing McGill-Harvard Yenching Library Ming Qing Women’s Writ-
ings Digitization Project. My thanks also go to Professor Ellen Widmer, Professor
Clara Ho, Professor Mark Elliott, and Professor Beverly Bossler for their very helpful
suggestions on this revision. Whatever errors remain in this chapter are my own.
1
Liang Yunshu (courtesy name Ronghan ), “Preface” , in Minchuan guixiu
shihua, ed. Liang Zhangju (Shiguzhai edition, 1849).
316 chapter ten

history and of a community beyond home, around the eighteenth cen-

tury. The chapter explores how the historical and spatial consciousness
of Fujian guixiu is revealed in their poetic writings (in the above two
collections in particular) through their critical comments on history
and vivid representations of cultural and political geography.
This historical and spatial consciousness resembles the “imagined
community” described by Benedict Anderson.2 Anderson points to
three crucial resources that I use here to demonstrate imaginings
of history and the state before nationalism: centrally defined polity,
sacred script, and the notion of cosmology. Anderson suggests that in
the age before the nation-state, these resources made for an unselfcon-
scious coherence in society, which was dominated either by universal
cosmologies or by parochial identities.3 He privileges modern society
as the only social form capable of generating political self-awareness.
However, this study shows that women participated in imagined com-
munities well before the emergence of the Chinese nation state. They
identified with different representations of communities, and, as Pra-
senjit Dura puts it, “When these identifications became politicized,
they came to resemble what is called modern ‘national identities.’ ”4
There was no radical discontinuity between premodern and modern
identifications with imagined communities.
On the road, Fujian guixiu wrote poetry about climate and scenery,
invoking connections to home while consciously identifying home with
Min (the classical Chinese term for Fujian). At home, Fujian guixiu
celebrated the imperial favor bestowed on male literati in their kin-
ship circles and shared an awareness of political ties to the court. The

2
Anderson associates imagined communities with the rise of the nation state.
In his book Imagined Communities, he argues that nation came into being in part
because “the convergence of capitalism and print technology on the fatal diversity
of human language created the possibility of a new form of imagined community.”
Print-capitalism “made it possible for rapidly growing numbers of people to think
about themselves, and relate themselves to others, in profoundly new ways.” Why
did print-capitalism have such magic? Anderson explains that print-capitalism under-
mined “hierarchical and centripetal” human loyalties to monarchs in the search for
sovereignty; that the rise of literacy and vernacular literature challenged the privileged
status of the sacred script like Church Latin, Qur’anic Arabic, or Examination Chi-
nese; and that the realities of existence and afterlife were changed along with people’s
understanding of cosmology and history. Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities
(London, New York: Verso, 1991), 14, 19, 36, 61–62.
3
Anderson, Imagined Communities, 12–15, 36–46.
4
Prasenjit Duara, Rescuing History from the Nation: Questioning Narratives of
Modern China (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1995), 54.
 imagining history and the state 317

“imagined community” of Fujian guixiu also extended beyond Fujian

to other parts of the empire. This is revealed by various concepts and
expressions used in their writings. Tian (Heaven) and tianxia
(under Heaven) were frequently used to express the guixiu’s spatial
awareness of the community. While using “under Heaven” to point
out the territory where the imperial power could reach, they also used
tianwai (beyond Heaven) to describe a place outside the empire’s
borders, or tianbian (Heaven’s edge) to refer to the Fujian coast.
Their references to chaoting (imperial court) and guochao
(ruling dynasty) reveal their consciousness of the central govern-
ment. Further, their use of concepts such as saiwai (beyond the
pass), bianguan (border station), hongmiao (Red Miao
tribal people), and xilu (Western barbarian) show their con-
sciousness of the cultural boundaries dividing the “civilized” from the
“uncivilized.”
Fujian guixiu imaginings of history and spatial boundaries can be
seen in the following themes in their poems: sojourning and return-
ing, local scenery, and kin networks. The poems of the genteel ladies
record their experiences of sojourning and returning while accom-
panying their male kin who, as scholar-officials, were required to
travel on many occasions by the centrally defined polity;5 in turn, the
experience also helped sojourners identify the local, which linked the
longing for the native place to a concern for broader political com-
munity outside the borders of Fujian. Kin networks mediated these
relationships, stretching infinitely as ties connecting local peoples who
lived and acted upon these imaginings through continual affirmation
and invention of these networks. My research shows that all of the
above cultural resources were powerful shapers of guixiu imaginings
of history and the polity.
Elite men’s writings from this region indicate that they had frequent
access to provincial centers or metropolises beyond local communi-
ties, through examination trips or court service. Many guixiu travel
writings also show the kind of cosmopolitanism that we expect to find
in men’s writings, even though guixiu sat behind the curtain of the

5
For instance, the civil service examination was organized hierarchically starting
at the prefectural level and on through the provincial and metropolitan levels, ending
finally at the court level, supervised by the emperor. And the avoidance system did
not allow any degree holder to serve in his native place for the purpose of securing
the loyalty to the emperor at the capital.
318 chapter ten

carriage, sheltered under the boat roof, or stayed in the inner quarters
of the official residence.6 My analysis of these writings builds upon cur-
rent scholarship on women’s poetic production, which has challenged
the existing view of women in late imperial China from the perspec-
tives of space and place, conceptions of the body politic, and identities.
Dorothy Ko’s essay on women’s travel writings in seventeenth-century
China argues that elite women not only had access to space beyond the
home, but also used their travel experiences to reflect on and transcend
their living space.7 Susan Mann’s recent research on women’s poetic
inscriptions on the body politic suggests that even though the quan-
tity of Qing women’s poetry on the body politic was relatively small,
limited by compilers’ rules or women’s self-censorship, the tradition
of concern for the body politic can still be seen clearly. This tradition
produced a historical continuum of women’s political writing from the
eleventh century to around the turn of the twentieth century.8 My own
previous research also reveals that Ming-Qing women poets’ identi-
fication of their gender roles, family roles, and social roles was not a
simple assimilation of prescriptive norms. They did not wholly accept
the norms set forth in the didactic books for women, but rather cre-
ated revisions imbricated with their inventions and negotiations.9 In
sum, Ming-Qing elite women traveled outside the home; they were
concerned about the body politic; and they negotiated norms to suit
their own needs and perceptions, which allowed them to pursue their
own interests while dealing with the teachings on family harmony.

6
As Grace Fong has noted, the term guixiu “calls attention to the proper spatial
location of women within the home.” See Grace S. Fong, “Alternative Modernities,
or a Classical Woman of Modern China: the Challenging Trajectory of Lü Bicheng’s
(1883–1943) Life and Song Lyrics,” in Beyond Tradition and Modernity: Gender,
Genre, and Cosmopolitanism in Late Qing China, ed. Grace S. Fong, Nanxiu Qian,
and Harriet T. Zurndorfer (Leiden, Boston: Brill, 2004), 58–59.
7
Dorothy Ko, “Kong jian yu jia: Lun Ming mo Qing chu funü de shenghuo
kongjian” : (Space and place: the living space
of seventeenth-century Chinese women), Jindai Zhongguo funüshi yanjiu
/Research on Women in Modern Chinese History 3 (1995): 21–50.
8
Susan Mann, “Women’s Poetic Inscriptions on the Body Politic” (paper presented
at the International Conference on “Poetic Thought and Hermeneutics in Traditional
China: A Cross-Cultural Perspective,” Yale University, May, 1–3, 2003; [translated for
publication in Chinese] Hong Kong University Press, forthcoming).
9
Li Guotong , “Ming-Qing funü zhuzuo zhong de zeren yishi yu buxiu
guan” “ ” (The consciousness of responsibil-
ity and ‘immortality’ in women’s writings in late imperial China),” Yanjing xuebao
(Yenching Journal of Chinese Studies) 20 (2006): 55–77.
 imagining history and the state 319

Local Sceneries

Sojourners from all parts of the empire traveled in endless streams,

from native place through the metropolis or capital to other localities.
Sojourners usually identified themselves with a native place starting
with the county, then the prefecture, and finally the province. In terms
of the educated scholar-official class, these local identities were not the
same as localism; in other words, they did not represent a quest for
local leadership independent of the central government.10 Local identi-
ties in this context constituted an awareness of the centrally defined
polity, which also centrifugally brought the importance of the local to
the court. On examination or official journeys, sojourners would find
traveling-companions with whom they developed a sense of fellow-
ship based not only on their cultivated loyalty to the imperial state,
but also on their shared local identities as people hailing from the
same native place. Privileging local identities, they built up scholarly
or bureaucratic networks to patronize younger generations from their
own native place.11
Local identities were distinguished, among other things, by lan-
guage, food, products, scenery, and folk customs, which were listed
in local gazetteers. Dialect or native accent could be a marker of local
identity, but the local vernacular was not recorded in written sources.
On the one hand, the centrally defined polity set an official spoken
language—Mandarin—as the requirement for local elites who joined
the bureaucracy. The unified script integrated people who spoke vari-
ous dialects into a unified elite. Further, because the law of avoidance
did not allow any candidate to be appointed to a post in his native
place, officials had to learn the common spoken language of the elite,
Mandarin, with which they would manage a locality where people
spoke a different dialect.12 The requirement of adopting the official lan-
guage of the bureaucracy (guanhua ) was critical to the selection

10
John W. Dardess, A Ming Society: T’ai-ho County, Kiangsi, Fourteenth to Seven-
teenth Centuries (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996).
11
See Guotong Li, “Reopening the Fujian Coast, 1600–1800: Gender Relations,
Family Strategies, and Ethnic Identities in a Maritime World” (Ph.D. dissertation,
University of California, Davis, 2007), 20–65.
12
For example, according to a family genealogy, a Fujian jinshi was appointed to
office in Shandong province, but was later removed from office because he had prob-
lem with communication. See, Ke Jiyou , ed., Jinpu Caishi zupu
(Genealogy of the Cai clan in Jinpu) (typographic printing edition, 1995), 53.
320 chapter ten

process for officialdom. It could be seen as a test of assimilation for the

candidates. The Southern Chinese, especially those from Guangdong
and Fujian, had to subordinate their native tongue to elevate their spo-
ken language to the official standard, allowing the potential officials
to communicate with each other both in written and spoken forms.
The whole training process made the candidates aware of legitimate
culture through the “state language” or “correct sound.”13
A well-known poet in the Tang dynasty, Liu Zongyuan
(773–819) described his own embarrassing moment in southern
Wuling in a poem: “The prefectural city connects the southern
key posts, / and there the different costumes look strange and dia-
lects sound unfamiliar . . . Embarrassed to ask for a translator during
my court investigation, / I felt so anxious that I just wanted to take
off my official cap [and gown] and become a tattooed native”
/ ... /
.14 The poem provides a vivid picture of an uneasy official’s encoun-
ter with unfamiliar southern Wuling. Centuries later, such problems
were so common that, in 1728, a memorial complained that Fujian
scholars learned to read the classics in their local dialect, which did
not help them learn to speak Mandarin well. It recommended that
scholars learn to read the classics in Mandarin and that if they could
not speak Mandarin, they not be allowed to sit the examinations.
That same year, the Yongzheng emperor issued an edict exhorting the
scholars of Fujian and Guangdong to work hard on Mandarin. The
edict explained that an official should be able to speak and be under-
stood in the locality where he served, so he could be aware of the local
situation, and familiar with local affairs.15 One year later, in 1729, all
the prefectures and counties in Fujian established Zhengyin shuyuan
(Academies of Mandarin, or “Correct Sound”), with classes
conducted exclusively in Qing Mandarin.16

13
Benjamin Elman, “Social, Political, and Cultural Reproduction via Civil Service
Examinations in Late Imperial China,” Journal of Asian Studies 51.1 (1991): 7–28. Also
see Benjamin Elman, A Cultural History of Civil Examinations in Late Imperial China
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000).
14
Liu Zongyuan, “Liuzhou dongmang” (The Dong people of Liuzhou), in
Ruxue nanchuan shi (History of the southern transmission of Confucian-
ism), by He Chengxuan (Beijing: Beijing daxue chubanshe, 2000), 206–207.
15
Shi Hongbao , Min zaji (Miscellanies of Fujian) (Shanghai: Shen-
baoguan edition, 1878), 3.6b–7b.
16
Xuezheng quanshu (A complete book for provincial directors of edu-
cation) (1812 edition), 59.1a–b.
 imagining history and the state 321

In other words, because a local accent would affect a scholar’s admin-

istrative success, he had to correct it. Fujian scholars acquired their
“centrifugal” orientation by reading and writing in the unified script,
and speaking in the official language. By the same token, as sojourn-
ers they could not proudly and boldly attach their local identities to
a native accent. If they had to adopt the standardized language, what
else could they use to express their local identities? One poetic strat-
egy was to channel local identity through local scenery. Fujian guixiu
poems, written in classical style, reveal the use of the same strategy.
Incorporating local scenery in poems written when they were away
from home is one of the most frequent literary devices for expressing
a sense of native locality, as in this couplet by Zhu Fanghui
(fl. nineteenth century): “The island lost in the thick mist of trees, / the
sugarcane sound like waves when the wind passes” /
.17 Since the Song dynasty (960–1279), just as raising
silkworms was popular in the Lower Yangtze Valley, many farmers
in Fujian had devoted their land to planting sugarcane. Some farmers
even found specialization profitable.18 In Zhu Fanghui’s couplet, the
image of the sugarcane functions to signify her native land.
Another example is the narcissus, a noted flower in Fujian; Zhang-
zhou prefecture had become especially famous for it by the
Qing.19 Fujian guixiu Gao Sufang (fl. nineteenth century), a
native of Yongfu county (Fuzhou prefecture), composed the fol-
lowing poem on the narcissus:
An ethereal beauty with ethereal bearing—the
water fairy,
Adorned with rings and pendants, she issues
forth fragrance at twilight.

17
Ding Yun, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua xubian, 2.5a.
18
Patricia B. Ebrey, Cambridge Illustrated History: China (New York: Cambridge
University Press, 1996), 141.
19
According to a Ming source, in the Six Dynasties shuixian hua (narcis-
sus) was called yasuan (elegant garlic). See Wen Zhenheng , Zhangwu zhi
(Treatise on superfluous things) (Taipei: Shangwu yinshuju, 1966), 2.11–12,
s.v. “shuixian.” In the Southern Song dynasty, Zhangzhou prefect Yang Wanli ,
Zhu Xi , who once served in Tong’an county, in Quanzhou prefecture, and Liu
Kezhuang , who was a native of Fujian, composed poems on narcissus. In the
Qing, Zhangzhou area became specialized in planting narcissus and traded narcissus
to the Lower Yangtze Valley.
322 chapter ten

I love most when she treads the waves,

wordless in the cold,
Through the curtain I catch a glimpse
of the misty moon.20
The description of the narcissus in the poem is laden with tropes from
the literary tradition. As a water plant, the flower is personified as a
goddess treading lightly on water, alluding to Cao Zhi’s (192–232)
famous rhyme-prose “Goddess of the Luo River” : “Treading
the waves with light steps, / the mist was like the smoke generated by
silk socks” / .21 Gao Sufang’s pride in her locality
is expressed in the pride she takes in writing about this flower, which
she associates with her native land, employing the “common” poetic
language shared by literati in the empire.
Wang Qiuying (fl. nineteenth century), another guixiu from
Fujian, followed her father to his post when she was seven sui. Her
poem indicates that she had been away from her native home for
thirteen years. The poems written on her homeward-bound journey
show Qiuying’s yearnings for her home through her gaze at the distant
scenery:
Snow-white reed catkins chasing my
returning boat,
The closer to my native home, the more
subtle the scenery is.
I gaze beyond the white clouds—where is it?
The color of frost on the sail, my old home
in autumn.22
Liang Lanxing , the eldest daughter of Liang Zhangju, had
the same experience as Wang Qiuying. Lanxing followed her father,
and later her husband, as they held office in different locales. She trav-
eled across the empire for twenty years. She attached her homesick-
ness to the lychee fragrance in her memory:
I left home when I was a child,
For a long time, I have missed the lychee’s
fragrance.

20
Gao Sufang, “Narcissus” , in Ding Yun, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua
xubian, 3.7b.
21
Cao Zhi, “Goddess of the Luo River,” in Cai Zijian ji (A collection of
Cao Zijian’s work) (Taipei: Taiwan Zhonghua shuju, 1965), 3.3a.
22
Wang Qiuying, “On My Returning Boat” , in Ding Yun, ed., Minchuan
guixiu shihua xubian, 2.12a.
 imagining history and the state 323

I start my journey home after twenty years,

Heart pure as ice and snow.23
Its thick shade relieves the torrid heat,
The high hall feels so cool in summer.24
The native scenery made such an impression on these young sojourn-
ers that its memory functions in poetry to capture their sense of home.
While sojourning, they experienced regional cultures different from
their native place. As they made their journeys home, they could eas-
ily identify home with its regionally distinctive features, retrieved from
distant memory.
As we saw from Gao Sufang’s poem on the narcissus above, the
distinct local scenery was not used to isolate the local, but rather,
through poetic language, to link the local to a broader community
beyond home. In other words, these local pictures also reveal “centri-
fugal ties.” The following poem illustrates how Fujian guixiu attempted
to articulate the historical connection between the local scenery and
the empire:
Taking first place—the mountains and rivers
in all of Fujian,
Among them the lofty terrace rises sharply
above the river.
The river swallows the sky, the wind chases
the clouds,
Countless flood dragons roil the overflowing
waves.
Years ago he surrendered to the Han Empire
and was appointed lord,
Connecting the Wu and Yue kingdoms he
expanded the borders.
Pavilions with fine paintings spread out
endlessly,
The music of pipes and strings played day
and night.
Since he went away from the river, riding
the dragon,
The magic sword was left in the middle of
the current.25

23
When Liang Lanxing composed this poem, she was a widow returning to her
natal home.
24
Liang Lanxing, “Lychee Fragrance Hall” , in Liang Zhangju, ed., Minch-
uan guixiu shihua, 3.14b–15a.
25
Liang Ruizhi , “Meditating on the Past” , in Liang Zhangju, ed.,
Minchuan guixiu shihua, 3.22a.
324 chapter ten

In the poem, facing the famous Fishing Dragon Terrace (Diaolong tai
),26 the guixiu is attracted by the wild river scenery as she imag-
ines its splendid past in the Han era; this landmark serves as the time-
honored link between Fujian and the central polity. According to the
Shiji (Records of the historian), after the Qin empire collapsed,
Wuzhu , a regional ruler of Minyue , critically assisted Liu
Bang in defeating Xiang Yu . To acknowledge Wuzhu’s
help, when he founded the Han empire, Liu Bang appointed Wuzhu
as lord of the Minyue kingdom,27 and the Fishing Dragon Terrace was
named after him. The historical allusions bring together the local site,
its past, and the central polity.

Sojourning and Returning

Anderson notes that “the reality of the imagined religious commu-

nity depended profoundly on countless, ceaseless travels”—religious
pilgrimages, in his view, were the most affecting journeys of the imagin-
ation.28 In imperial China, the counterpart of these affecting journeys
was secular rather than religious, for the elite in particular. The soci-
ety was organized hierarchically around and under the Son of Heaven
in the capital. Beyond the capital, it was also organized around and
under the centers of province, prefecture, and county. The local gov-
ernors and officials were appointed by the Son of Heaven, who secured
his subject’s loyalty at the capital. A centrally defined polity like the
Qing state required peoples and documents to travel ceaselessly to and
from the metropolis and provincial centers. These linkages worked to
transmit resources and information throughout the realm, to areas
variously integrated with the central places of the empire.29 During
their journeys people encountered similarities to and differences from
their local communities in every sphere, from labor to dress, scen-
ery to climate. The records of their journeys, when printed and circu-
lated among local communities in particular, inspired local peoples’
imaginings of an empire-wide community beyond their region, while

26
Diaolong tai is in present Fuzhou, Fujian province.
27
Sima Qian , “Biography of the Eastern Yue” , in Shiji (Bei-
jing: Zhonghua shuju, 1985), juan 114/10:2979.
28
Anderson, Imagined Communities, 54–55.
29
See G. William Skinner, ed., The City in Late Imperial China (Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 1977).
 imagining history and the state 325

simultaneously sharpening their appreciation for “the local.” Fujian

guixiu poetry gives us some notable examples from their experiences
of sojourning and returning.
Xu Fuquan , a native of Houguan county in Fujian, was
an aunt of the compiler Liang Zhangju (wife of Liang’s uncle). Madam
Xu was from an official family. Her father was appointed to the post
of county magistrate in Shanxi province, and her brother was a county
magistrate in Guangdong province. She married Liang Shangguo
(1748–1815), who held office in the capital, Beijing.30 According
to the compiler, “Madam Xu stayed in Shanxi during her adolescence
accompanying her father in his postings. She entered the capital twice,
then left from Shanhaiguan (Shanhai Pass), and traveled all
over Manchuria (Liaoning and Shenyang). She was over eighty sui, and
traveled through almost half of the area under Heaven (tianxia).”31 Xu
left a poem with vivid descriptions of her experience living in the cold
and windy capital, Beijing:
Staying in the capital for three winters,
I see the dry riverbed once more.
The wind roars around the house,
Courtyard spread with snowflakes.
...
Alone I huddle by the glowing stove,
Too cold to let my feet move.
Wrapped up in my quilt till noon,
I know I’ve neglected my household chores.32
Madam Xu’s dismay at the cold of a Beijing winter is revealed clearly
in these lines. By contrast, in Fujian, the weather was warm in all four
seasons, and snow and frost were rare.33 Her experience of the weather
in the capital underscores the difference between her native place and
the capital, and her longing for home.
Madam Xu’s third daughter, Liang Xiuyun , composed a
poem entitled “Leaving the Capital” . Her view of the connec-
tion between the capital and native place is not identical to that of her
mother:

30
Hu Wenkai , Lidai funü zhuzuo kao (Catalogue of
women’s writings through the ages) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1985), 568.
31
Liang Zhangju, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua, 3.3a–b.
32
Xu Fuquan, “Thinking of Filial Piety” , in Liang Zhangju, ed., Minchuan
guixiu shihua, 3.3a–b.
33
Shi Hongbao, Min zaji, 7.2a–b.
326 chapter ten

I have stayed with my parents in the capital

almost ten years,
Looking back, the Fujian clouds turned remote
and blurred.
Now suddenly I sing the song of “returning,”
Don’t call it going home, it seems to be leaving
home.34
When Xiuyun composed the poem, her whole family was staying in
the capital, while she was to accompany her husband to South China.
Her poem shows that she looked on the capital as her home. In her
mind, home is wherever her natal family is and perhaps where she
had spent most of her life. The remote community along the southeast
coast was her native place, but it was hardly the place of her dreams.
Her memories of that home had faded. Xiuyun’s connection to her
native community was not as strong as that of her mother. So here
we see that in the same poetry collection, mother and daughter cre-
ated two versions of the capital that shaped their imaginings of the
larger community beyond home: one was windy and cold, where the
woman poet misses home; the other was an amusing place, such that
the woman poet did not like to leave.
Xiuyun also left several poems on her travels. Her readers may share
the poetic pictures she draws, such as the reflection of the mountains
in the river. Both Xiuyun and her elder sister, Yunshu, also composed
poems on Shanhaiguan, the first pass along the Great Wall. The com-
piler notes that these ladies had access to such splendid travel fre-
quently, which enriched their poetry. In her poem, entitled “Leaving
Shanhaiguan Once More” , Yunshu first describes how
her early travels inspired her poetry. In the second half of the poem,
however, she begins to think of home.
I remember the splendid journey
accompanying my father,
Nothing hid when feathery flags passed by.
My vision satisfied with the vast scenery
beyond the pass,
How can people feel sad when they are on
a journey?
Scenery of mountain and sea all waiting for
my brush,

34
Liang Xiuyun, “Leaving the Capital” , in Liang Zhangju, ed., Minchuan
guixiu shihua, 3.13a.
 imagining history and the state 327

Unmatched by leisurely poems written at

home.
Now my wandering footsteps displace
old traces,
Mountainsides and riverways [of Manchuria]
still look familiar.
The flute music to my siblings, faraway,
blocked by a thousand mountains,
Finishing a poem to my family, my feelings
run deep.
My home is at the far edge of heaven,
Every night my dream soul cannot reach it.
Hard to fly from the cage with broken wings,
I feel ashamed to be Ding Lingwei.35
I envy the wild geese crossing over the pass,
Coming and going freely, relying only on
high winds.36
Yunshu had earlier followed her father in his travels beyond Shan-
haiguan. She composed the above poem when, accompanying her
husband, she left the pass again and traveled to Manchuria, the native
place of the Manchus. When she saw the wild scenery beyond the pass
again, she was moved to compose poetry. According to her own notes,
she had dreamed of revisiting Manchuria.37 However, it seems that on
her second journey, the familiar wild mountains evoked memories of
her native home in Fujian, which was at “the far edge of the heavens.”
Yunshu thought the mountains blocked her connections to her home.
She imagined herself being “caged”; even in dreams her soul could not
return home. In the poem, Yunshu not only reveals her homesickness,
but also identifies her home with the far edge of heaven—the empire’s
margins. Her poem shows us that she tried to fit Fujian into the larger
community of the empire by articulating the spatial distance between
Fujian and Manchuria.

35
Ding Lingwei, a native of eastern Liaoning, left home to learn magic and returned
home as an immortal crane. See Tao Qian , Soushen houji (Records
of search for the supernatural: a sequel) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1981), 1.1. During
her first trip to Manchuria, Yunshu once wrote a poem saying she would like to revisit
Manchuria again, like Ding Lingwei who, transformed into the immortal crane, flew
home. Liang Yunshu, “Leaving the Shanhai Pass Once More” , in Liang
Zhangju, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua, 3.9a–9b.
36
Liang Yunshu, “Leaving the Shanhai Pass Once More,” in Liang Zhangju, ed.,
Minchuan guixiu shihua, 3.9b–10a.
37
Liang Zhangju, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua, 3.9b–10a.
328 chapter ten

A poem written by Xie Caifan (fl. nineteenth century), who

accompanied her husband to his post in Taiwan, also expresses her
view of the distance between the island and the Fujian coast. The com-
piler notes that Caifan always had her reading at hand on her journey
across the straits, no matter how the waves crashed. In the following
poem, she uses the length of time to indicate the distance of her sea
journey:
A Quatrain on Combing Hair
In the mirror, black clouds pile up to frame
my face,
Once combed, thousands of strands became
smooth and tidy.
Why did my hair become so loose?
It was dipped in the sea water for three
long nights.38
Though Xie does not mention the roaring waves, her audience can
read the hardship of the journey between the lines. Unlike Yunshu’s
complaint about her “caged” life beyond the pass, Caifan seems calm
and well prepared, although her poem does not explicitly say that
she is proud of the opportunity to take such a journey. She looks in
the mirror and brushes the hardship away with a comb. However,
some guixiu included in the same poetry collection did celebrate their
sojourns and returns.
Huang Shuting (fl. eighteenth century), who came from an
official family in Jinjiang county, Fujian, married the prefect of
Zhuozhou in Zhili (present-day Zhuozhou in Hebei prov-
ince). When her husband was serving as brigade-general of Xiangshan
county (close to Macao) in Guangdong, Shuting accompanied
him there. Some years later, her son was promoted to the post of magis-
trate of Xiangshan county. Following her son, Shuting traveled to
Xiangshan county again. Therefore, they named their west hall Zaizhi-
tang (Come-Again Hall) to signify their second arrival. Shu-
ting was so excited that she composed a poem to celebrate.
Wearing official caps for generations, we were
presented with abundant favors,
I am glad to return to the well-known county
Xiangshan again.

38
Xie Caifan, “A Quatrain on Combing Hair” , in Ding Yun, ed., Min-
chuan guixiu shihua xubian, 2.11b.
 imagining history and the state 329

In past years [my husband] was rewarded for

submitting regulations for the Red Miao,
Today in truth I follow my son’s request.
Glory for four generations has its reasons,
We should care for the lives of all the people.
I have no other words to teach my children
than these:
Be pure and never disgrace your ancestors
and parents.39
The poem says nothing about gloom, hardship or homesickness on
the journey; instead, it celebrates the family’s glorious “official caps for
four generations.” Shuting recalls that her husband once was rewarded
with the post of brigade-general of Xiangshan county due to his success
in pacifying the Red Miao. The ethnic category of Hongmiao was not
strange to her Fujian ears. In Fujian, growing numbers of Miao and
She peoples were migrating from mountainous areas to the coastal
plains during the eighteenth century. To deal with the tribal people,
Fujianese officials continually served as frontier guards engaged in
military pacification as well as “civilizing education.”40 What the poem
impresses on her readers is her view of the glory her family enjoyed for
serving the imperial state beyond the local community for generations.
Shuting herself could not enter the imperial service directly; however,
she traveled the empire by following her husband and son. Through
celebrating family glory, Shuting expressed a sense of participating in
service to the imperial state. Her celebration of her family’s service to
the imperial state reveals her own identification with the imperium. In
response to Shuting, her daughter Wu Suxin also composed
a poem:
In Response to My Mother’s Poem on Come-
Again Hall
Why have I come again to beneath the Peak
of Seven Stars?
With intense joy, I wait on my mother along
the far journey.
Best of all I hear people’s praise of my parents,
And their eulogies in remembrance of my
ancestors.41

39
In Liang Zhangju, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua, 2.13b.
40
See Sow-Theng Leong, Migration and Ethnicity in Chinese History: Hakkas, Peng-
min, and Their Neighbors (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997).
41
In Liang Zhangju, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua, 2.14a.
330 chapter ten

The audience may understand the phrase “people’s praise of parents”

(l.3) in two ways. Usually, “parent” was also a metaphor for the county
magistrate. For instance, people called their local magistrate fumu guan
, which means parent-official, since local officials should care
about their people’s welfare as if they were their children. By contrast-
ing the reference to “my ancestors” in the next line, however, we see
that “parents” should not just be taken as a metaphor for local officials.
Since Suxin’s parents had been to Xiangshan county before, and her
father had already served as a local official there, the “parents” of the
poem also refer to Suxin’s own parents. Thus, Suxin’s poem becomes
a fine footnote to her mother’s. According to Suxin, they were excited
on the journey, not about the mountain scenery that they were seeing
again, but because of the local people’s praise of her parents. Suxin and
her mother reveal the true joy of their journey, which was a celebra-
tion of the glory that came from service to the imperial state.
The Fujian guixiu discussed above traveled through the country by
following their fathers, husbands, or sons on their sojourns. Some of
them celebrated these official journeys; some found them alienating.
For the latter, such journeys stimulated the longing for home while
accomplishing their mission of family service. Even when guixiu stayed
in the capital, or journeyed to the “sacred place” of the Manchus, they
might still express their unhappiness about bad weather or blocked
communication with their native place, thus linking their journeys to
home by virtue of their dissatisfaction with the present.
Sojourning and returning provided another possibility for the elite
to see themselves as members of the imperial state. Elite women, who
were excluded from the imperial service, made up half of this group,
and they sometimes also expressed their loneliness on these journeys.
Their expressions of loneliness and homesickness, juxtaposed against
the splendid scenery and celebration of imperial service, circulated
among readers in Fujian and beyond.

Kin Networks

While their travels gave genteel ladies a sense of Fujian province’s place
under Heaven (tianxia), kin networks circulated the lived experience of
their relatives who traveled in office. Through kin networks, members
of a clan could share the glories won by those who sojourned away
from home; a celebration or a gathering would evoke the awareness
 imagining history and the state 331

of the clan, and further indicate how the clan fit into the empire-wide
political system. Local people lived and acted upon these imaginings
through the continual affirmation and invention of the kin networks.42
Fujian guixiu’s poems attest to the warmth of such celebrations. An
interesting example from the Guixiu shihua is a series of poems cele-
brating Fujian scholar Huang Ren’s (1683–1768) official achieve-
ments. Huang Ren, style name Shentian , was a native of Yongfu
county in Fujian. He received the juren degree in 1702, and served as
a county magistrate in Sihui in Guangdong province.43 I will use
the kin network around Huang Ren as an example of the circulation
of members of an extended family.

Chart of Huang Ren’s Kin Network44

♂Huang Chu’an- ♀Lin

♀-♂Huang Xingzu ♀Huang Tansheng-♂Zheng Shanshu

♀Zhuang Jiuwan ♀Zhuang-♂HUANG REN ♀Zheng Huiro ♂Fangkun-♀ ♀Shuzhi

♀Shutiao ♀Shuwan ♀Jiangrong ♀Jinluan ♀Yongxie ♀Fengtiao ♀Bingwan

Huang Ren married a woman née Zhuang . Their two daughters

Huang Shutiao and Huang Shuwan were sister poets.45
His aunt Huang Tansheng married into the Zheng family
of Jian’an county in Fujian, and gave birth to Zheng Huirou
, Zheng Fangkun and Zheng Shuzhi .46 Zheng
Fangkun (1693–?), style name Lixiang , passed the jinshi exami-
nations in 1723 and served as a prefectural official in Yanzhou

42
Michael Szonyi, Practicing Kinship: Lineage and Descent in Late Imperial China
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2002).
43
Yongfu xianzhi (Gazetteer of Yongfu county) (1749, revised edition),
7.19b and 8.12b.
44
Shi Shuyi , Qingdai guige shiren zhenglüe (Overview
of Qing dynasty women poets) (Shanghai: Shanghai shudian, 1987), juan 3.
45
Liang Zhangju, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua, 2.1a–b.
46
Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü zhuzuo kao, 662.
332 chapter ten

in Shandong province. Fangkun compiled the Quan Min shihua

(Remarks on poems of Fujian). Seven of his nine daughters had
an individual poetry collection.47 His sisters Huirou and Shuzhi were
also known for their poetry collections.48
Unlike his cousin Fangkun, Huang Ren’s examination career was
not successful. After he passed the juren examinations at twenty sui,
he attempted but never passed the jinshi examinations. After repeat-
edly failing the examinations in his youth,49 he traveled for three years.
His wife Madam Zhuang composed a poem expressing her gloom on
New Year’s Eve. She writes: “Ten thousand li away the cold night
watch thrice hastens the traveler, / In five of seven years you have not
returned home on New Year’s Eve” /
50
. Despite his failures, Huang Ren was appointed to the post of
county magistrate according to the special rule of datiao (great
selection).51 But an evaluation of his achievements in Sihui county
reads: “[He] over-indulged himself with wine and poetry; he had no
concern for administration.”52 Huang Ren shortly thereafter resigned
from office. One event, which occurred in his later years, served to cor-
rect this ill-starred record. In 1762 when Huang Ren was eighty sui, he
was honored with a second Luming feast, in honor of his longev-
ity and morality, which was called “chong yan Luming” (the
Second Luming Feast).53 Generally the Luming (literally “deer’s cry”)

47
Liang Zhangju, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua, 2.5b.
48
Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü zhuzuo kao, 666, 743–744.
49
He received the juren degree in 1702, when he was 20 sui. In the following six
or seven years (1703–1710s), he failed the jinshi examinations for three times. At this
stage, Huang was between 20 and 30 sui.
50
Zhuang shi , “Sending to [My Husband] on New Year’s Eve” , in
Liang Zhangju, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua, 1.14a.
51
Datiao was held every six years after the capital examinations. It was especially
for those juren who had either failed the jinshi examinations three times or had been
prevented by circumstances from taking the exams. They had to have a recommen-
dation from their native capital official. The recommendation was submitted to the
Board of Rites at first and then transferred to the Board of Civil Office for their choos-
ing. The first class could be appointed to a post of county magistrate, and the second
to a teaching position. See Zhongguo wenhua cidian (Dictionary of
Chinese Culture), ed. Shi Xuanyuan (Shanghai: Shanghai shehui kexueyuan
chubanshe, 1987), 404.
52
According to his biographer Yu Wenyi , Huang Ren was wronged by his
superior who was jealous of him. See below.
53
See Yu Wenyi, “Huang Shentian xiansheng zhuan” (Biography
of Mr. Huang Shentian), in Huang Ren, Xiangcaozhai shizhu (Anno-
tated collection of Xiangcao Studio), annotated by Chen Yingkui (Yongyang:
Hanwo edition, 1814). Luming is a poem title in the Shijing (Book of songs), see
Zhou Zhenpu , “Xiaoya, Luming” (Lesser odes: Deer cry), in Shijing
 imagining history and the state 333

feast was a celebration in honor of new juren who had just qualified
for an administrative career. According to the civil service examin-
ation regulations in the Qing, on the sixtieth anniversary of passing
the juren examination, all living senior juren should be honored with
a second Luming feast.54
On this august occasion, both of his daughters—Shutiao55 and
Shuwan—composed poems to celebrate their father’s glory. According
to the compiler, Shutiao’s poem was especially well received at home:
Passing the exams once is like climbing to
the heavens,
Who recognizes heavenly spirits as well
as earthly spirits?
At the feast the senior officials are your
younger generations,
With toasts children already have their
white hairs.
Your name was recorded in the degree-
holder roster,
You have been in favor for three reigns as
a respectful senior.
Such affecting feasts relate to classical stories,
Who could have expected that a mere family
celebration would make a new story!56
The imperial favor bestowed upon a retired senior official excited
Huang Ren’s children. The new juren from Huang Ren’s home place,
who were attending the Luming feast for the first time, also witnessed
the imperial favor bestowed upon their senior predecessor. In the
above poem, Shutiao emphasizes that her father had been in favor
for “three reigns” (sanchao ), and exaggerates the influence of
this celebration upon the younger generation. Huang Ren received the
juren degree in 1702 in Kangxi’s reign (1661–1722), served as a county

xuanyi (Selected translation of the Book of Songs) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju,

2005), 156–158. It became a celebration song at the feast in honor of winners in pro-
vincial examinations in the Tang. The feast of Luming alludes to the celebration of
admission to the rank of juren in the Ming and Qing dynasties.
54
Zhongguo wenhua cidian, 423.
55
Huang Shuwan, “Celebrating My Father’s Second Luming Feast and His Eight-
ieth Birthday” , in Guochao guixiu zhengshiji
(Anthology of correct beginnings by boudoir talents of our dynasties),
ed. Yun Zhu (Hongxiangguan edition, 1831), 9.19b–20a. Yun Zhu did not select
Shutiao’s poem on the same theme. Interestingly, Liang Zhangju appreciated Shutiao’s
poem more than Shuwan’s.
56
Liang Zhangju, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua, 2.1a.
334 chapter ten

magistrate in his middle ages in Yongzheng’s reign (1722–1735), and

attended his second Luming feast in 1762 in Qianlong’s reign (1735–
1796).57 As witnesses to the celebration, members of the Huang family
became aware of their own connection to the imperial court.
The celebration of imperial favor was not limited to the Huang fam-
ily. Huang Ren’s maternal cousin Zheng Huirou also joined in with
her poem, entitled “Celebrating My Cousin Shentian’s Second Luming
Feast” . Through her skillful brush, Huang Ren’s
image as an imperial sojourner comes to life. She writes:
Holding the jade axe that the adept used
to chop his cassia tree,
Stepping on the turtlehead column that
holds up the ocean.
Passers-by on the road murmured in
admiration,
So dashing even when you were just
a young man!
Serving a magistrate in your middle age was
unsatisfying,
Just trying out your talent, you encountered
a jealous superior.
Waving your sleeves, you retired to the
village and did not sweep the hilly paths,58
Besides poetry and wine, you did not seek
anything else.
By means of this you hid your talents,
nourishing your life to enjoy longevity,
Your eyes bright, your beard and eyebrows
snow-white.
The court issued an edict to honor retired
senior officials,
With splendid robes and eagle-headed staff.
Joining the feast with newly successful
candidates,

57
Yu Wenyi, “Huang Shentian xiansheng zhuan.”
58
I am grateful to Grace Fong for her very thoughtful editing. The expression at the
end of this line is not entirely clear but may mean that Huang led the life of a recluse
and did not prepare his abode for receiving visitors. A variation of this line is included
in the version reproduced in Yun Zhu, ed., Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji, 5.8b–9a, titled
“Celebrating Huang Shentian’s Second Luming Feast” . It states
that he did not receive guests ( ). What is clear then is that Huang
Ren returned to his native home and led a reclusive life.
 imagining history and the state 335

You listen to the song of the “Deer’s Cry”

once more.59
In the poem, Huirou recalls her maternal cousin Huang Ren’s journey
to imperial favor. His success in the provincial examination as a “dash-
ing youth,” the difficult time with county administration in middle
age, and the imperial glory bestowed on him in his later years together
trace the route of this journey. Huirou celebrates her cousin’s glory
and shares his experience as a sojourner. She clearly notes: “The court
issued an edict to honor retired senior officials, / with the splendid
robes and eagle-head staff.” Huang Ren is represented as a guolao
(an elder statesman). On this occasion of celebration, Huirou was
also enthusiastically involved in the family’s acknowledgement of the
imperial favor.
Through the kin network, even the relatives of Huang Ren’s wife
joined in the celebration. According to the compiler, Zhuang Jiuwan
, who was a distant relative of Huang Ren’s wife, also com-
posed a poem to celebrate the glorious event.
Celebrating Master Shentian’s Second
Luming Feast
“Unrivaled in Jiangxia”60 has its past origins,
In late years, your reputation shines over the
Fujian area.
In youth, you already topped famous scholars
with your essays,
When old, you get rid of elixirs to protect
descendants.
Your writings like the ocean, live on forever,
The music from the Eastern Hill portrays
such a recluse as you.61

59
Zheng Huirou, “Celebrating My Cousin Shentian’s Second Luming Feast”
, in Liang Zhangju, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua, 2.4a–b.
60
“Unrivaled in Jiangxia” is a historical allusion. According to the Huang family
genealogy, one noted ancestor in the Song dynasty named Huang Zhen, from Jiangxia,
Hubei province, compiled his family genealogy and submitted it to the emperor. The
emperor honored the Huang family with these words: “Unrivaled in Jiangxia, noble
officials for generations.”
61
This refers to the story of Xie An (320–385) in the Eastern Jin, who with-
drew from the society and lived in the Eastern Hill in Kuaiji in Zhejiang. He
hosted gatherings and enjoyed music and wine there. The music from the Eastern Hill
alludes to a recluse life style.
336 chapter ten

Everywhere in Daluo Heaven is music of the

celestial realm,62
Perhaps those following behind can
supplement with common songs.63
Jiuwan uses the historical allusion of “unrivaled in Jiangxia” to trace
the imperial favor bestowed on the Huang family back to the Song
dynasty. And through the connection between the Huangs in Jiangxia
and in Fujian, she magnifies the Huang family’s prestige by saying
that it shines over the Fujian area. Then she also emphasizes the influ-
ence of Huang Ren’s glory upon his descendants by saying they would
supplement Huang’s official achievement with their contributions. The
glory came to Huang Ren in his late years. For a man of eighty sui,
this glory brought a satisfying end to his official career. However, for
people around him, especially the younger generation, Huang Ren’s
glory served as motivation to undertake the same journey. Even for his
female relatives, whether close or distant, that imperial honor evoked
interest in Huang Ren’s experience as a scholar official. Their writings
on Huang Ren’s second Luming feast reveal that through their cel-
ebration, the whole kin network circulated the emperor’s favor with
expressions of warm emotion.
The above example of the kin network around Huang Ren shows
us how an event that honored a “sojourner” in the imperial system
affected his kinfolk. Especially for women relatives, who might not
have access to travel by themselves, the official celebration in honor of
a relative made them aware of how the clan fit into the empire-wide
political system. Imperial favor spread through the kin network, as
well, as kinfolk shared glory with the guolao. The Luming feast cel-
ebrated at home brought an awareness of the imperial court beyond,
and of the official service of their male relatives.

Conclusion: The Guixiu Tradition and Its Legacy

What legacy can we recover from Fujian guixiu poetry writings? Their
poems about scenery, climate, and home are not only records of their

62
Daluotian is the highest of the thirty-six heavens in religious Daoism.
Juntian is the abode of the celestial emperor.
63
Huangfu is from “Tiandi” (Heaven and earth), in Zhuangzi (Tai-
pei: Zhonghua shuju, 1965), neipian, 5.10b. It means popular songs in ancient times.
Zhuang Jiuwan, “Celebrating Master Shentian’s Second Luming Feast”
, in Liang Zhangju, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua, 1.13a–b.
 imagining history and the state 337

personal voices, but also of their political voices responding to the

outside world as they travel, whether to Manchuria, Taiwan Island,
or a southwest border town.64 Moreover, the poems in guixiu shihua
were living texts, continually cited in other guixiu poetry collections.
Even when they wrote about their own clan and the honors it received,
they could still increase awareness among their readers of the imperial
polity.
The account of the tradition of guixiu’s learning in the guixiu shihua
reveals a sense of history and common culture that guixiu shared with
other women and with male literati. The guixiu shihua also record
women’s perspectives on official sojourning and returning across the
territory of the Qing empire. In her preface for Ding Yun’s sequel to
Liang’s collection, the Fujian guixiu Xue Shaohui (1866–1911)
emphasizes the connection between women’s virtue and their literary
fame.65 She reminds us that the shihua are collections of exemplary
women’s voices: “So, in the Fujian area, exemplary women’s literary
fame is spreading, and their descendents are able to sing their moth-
ers’ songs.”66 Chen Yun (1885–1911), the eldest daughter of Xue
Shaohui, also refers to several of the guixiu poets in her poetry criti-
cism, including Xie Caifan, Gao Sufang, and Wang Ruilan
(fl. nineteenth century).67 Beyond the Fujian area, anthologists and crit-
ics like Yun Zhu (1771–1833), who was interested in celebrating
the “imperial civilizing project,”68 and Lei Jin (fl. early twentieth
century), author of Guixiu cihua (Remarks on song lyrics by
genteel women), also included these Fujian guixiu in their selections
of women poets.69
The sequel to the Fujian Guixiu shihua was compiled and published
at the same time that Liang Qichao (1873–1929) invented “New
History” (xin shi xue ) (1902) and the “New Woman” (xin nü

64
The compilers’ critical remarks provide us with the historical context, which
helps situate guixiu’s poetic voices in space.
65
For more on Xue, see Nanxiu Qian’s chapter in this volume.
66
Xue Shaohui, “Preface” , in Ding Yun, ed., Minchuan guixiu shihua xubian,
1a–2a.
67
See Xie Caifan, Gao Sufang and Wang Ruilan, in Chen Yun, Xiaodaixuan lun-
shi shi (On poetry at Xiaodai Studio) (Fuzhou: Chen shi, 1911), B.2b,
B.3a.
68
Susan Mann, Precious Records: Women in China’s Long Eighteenth Century
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 7, 20–24.
69
Yun Zhu, ed., Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji; Lei Jin, Guixiu cihua (Sao ye shan fang
edition, 1916).
338 chapter ten

xing ) (1897) in the newspaper Shiwubao (Chinese

progress).70 But rather than honoring guixiu writings, Liang charged
that guixiu were ignorant of the polity and should be replaced by “New
Women.”71 The reformers of the 1898 period portrayed women writers
of the classical tradition as useless, self-indulgent, and solipsistic.72 It
was a time when guixiu were challenged with respect to their privi-
leged status of “exemplary women.” Nationalism was building its own
narrative about history and gender.
My examination of Fujian guixiu imaginings of history and of a
community beyond the home does not suggest a radical discontinu-
ity between premodern consciousness of the polity and modern self-
consciousness of national subjectivity. We see that some of the guixiu
had already come into a consciousness of ties to the imperial state—
the political community outside the borders of Fujian. They were also
aware of the glory of serving the larger communities beyond their
native place. Fujian women did think in terms of the local in various
ways but they were not narrowly focused on Fujian. I suggest that
theirs was a premodern consciousness of a larger political community.
Their poems were very far away from Liang Qichao’s characteriza-
tion of “self-indulgent poems on the sadness of spring and the pain of
parting, or toying with images of flowers and plants.”73 Fujian guixiu’s
imagined community was “forgotten” by the nationalist narrative, but
is worthy of rescue as vital evidence of women’s “political” conscious-
ness prior to the origin and spread of nationalism.

70
Liang Qichao, “Bianfa tongyi lun nüxue” (General discussions
of reform, on female education), in Yinbingshi heji (Collected works from
the Ice-Drinker’s Studio) (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1989), wenji 1.38–39.
71
Liang Qichao, “Ji Jiangxi Kang nüshi” (Remembering Lady
Scholar Kang of Jiangxi), in Yibingshiheji, wenji, 1.119–120. Also see, Hu Ying, “Nam-
ing the First ‘New Woman’,” in Rethinking the 1898 Reform Period: Political and Cul-
tural Change in Late Qing China, ed. Rebecca E. Karl and Peter Zarrow (Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 2002), 180–211.
72
Joan Judge, “Reforming the Feminine: Female Literacy and the Legacy of 1898,”
in Karl and Zarrow, eds, Rethinking the 1898 Reform Period, 164.
73
Liang Qichao, “Bianfa tongyi lun nüxue,” 1.39.
 CHAPTER ELEVEN

XUE SHAOHUI AND HER POETIC CHRONICLE OF

LATE QING REFORMS*

Nanxiu Qian

Xue Shaohui (1866–1911), courtesy name Xiuyu and

styled Nansi , was an outstanding poet, writer, translator, and
educator of the late Qing period. Her life journey, though brief, took
place in some of the most sensitive locales of the eventful late-Qing
reform era, and intersected with almost all the important aspects of
political, social, and cultural changes of the time.
Xue, her husband Chen Shoupeng (1857–ca. 1928), and
Shoupeng’s older brother Chen Jitong (1851–1907) were from
gentry families in Minhou county (present-day Fuzhou ),
Fujian province. All were well educated in the Chinese tradition, but
the two Chen brothers also received a substantial amount of West-
ern education at both the Fuzhou Naval Academy and in Europe.
Through them, Xue Shaohui absorbed a good deal of fresh foreign
knowledge.1
During the Reform Movement of 1898 and thereafter, Xue Shaohui,
Chen Shoupeng, Chen Jitong, and Jitong’s wife, a well-educated French
woman known by her Chinese name Lai Mayi , all played
extremely important roles. Together, for example, they participated in

* This chapter draws from my Hsiang Lecture, titled “Poetic Reform Amidst Politi-
cal Reform: The Late Qing Woman Poet Xue Shaohui (1866–1911),” published in
Hsiang Lectures on Chinese Poetry 3 (2005): 1–48. My special thanks to Grace S. Fong,
Ellen Widmer, and Wai-yee Li for their detailed critique and editorial help. Unless
otherwise stated, all translations are my own.
1
See Chen Shoupeng, “Wangqi Xue gongren zhuanlue” (A brief
biography of my late wife, Lady Xue), and Chen Qiang , Chen Ying , and
Chen Hong , “Xianbi Xue gongren nianpu” (A chronologi-
cal record of our late mother, Lady Xue), both in Daiyunlou yiji (Post-
humously collected writings from Daiyun Tower), including Shiji (Collected
poetry), 4 juan; Ciji (Collected song lyrics), 2 juan; Wenji (Collected
prose), 2 juan (each collection with its own pagination); by Xue Shaohui, ed. Chen
Shoupeng (Fuzhou: Chen family edition, 1914).
340 chapter eleven

a wide-scale campaign for women’s education in Shanghai.2 After the

abrupt termination of the 1898 reforms, Xue and her husband began
another collaboration, translating and compiling a number of West-
ern literary, historical, and scientific works, and editing newspapers.3
In accordance with her reform activities, Xue, a prolific and highly
regarded poet, produced about 300 shi and 150 ci poems during
her lifetime. With these poems, Xue literally chronicled the changes of
China’s reform era and modified old (male) literary forms to express
fresh ideas and sentiments arising during this period.
Through examining Xue’s poetic response to late Qing socio-polit-
ical changes, this study intends to show that late Qing women poets
continued the work of their precursors, but also differed from them in
various ways. First, as Susan Mann points out in her contribution to
this volume, “Increasingly after 1840, political factions, military strug-
gles, social problems, and even statecraft policies, became poetic sub-
jects for women writers.”4 Xue and her fellow women reformers shared
this common political awareness with their poet-mothers, but further
expanded the boundaries of their domain of political interest when the
reform era opened the Chinese elite to the outside world. Second, sev-
enteenth- and eighteenth-century elite women and men “shared many
assumptions about Confucian virtue and its proper representation in

2
This campaign was for establishing the first Chinese school for elite young women,
the Nü xuetang (Chinese Girls’ School, established May 31, 1898). The reform-
ers also organized as their headquarters the first women’s association in China, the Nü
Xuehui (Women’s Study Society, founded on December 6, 1897), and pub-
lished as their mouthpiece the first Chinese women’s journal, the Nü xuebao
(Chinese Girl’s Progress) (twelve issues, July 24 to late October 1898). This first girls’
school differs from the first school for women, established in Ningbo in 1844 by the
English woman missionary, Miss Aldersey. See Margaret E Burton, The Education of
Women in China (New York and Chicago: Fleming H. Revell Company, 1911) and Xia
Xiaohong , Wan Qing wenren funü guan (Late Qing literati
view of women) (Beijing: Zuojia chubanshe, 1995) for detailed discussions of women’s
life and women’s rights movements during the 1898 reform era. For a detailed account
of the 1898 reformers’ efforts toward establishing the first girls’ school, see also Xia
Xiaohong, “Zhongxi hebi de Shanghai ‘Zhongguo nü xuetang’ ” “
” (Combination of the Chinese and the West: the Shanghai Chinese Girls’
School), Xueren 14 (1998): 57–92. For women reformers’ functions and their
differing attitudes as compared to male reformers in the 1898 campaign for women’s
education, see Nanxiu Qian, “Revitalizing the Xianyuan (Worthy Ladies) Tradition:
Women in the 1898 Reforms,” Modern China 29.4 (2003): 399–454.
3
See Chen Qiang, Chen Ying, and Chen Hong, “Xianbi Xue gongren nianpu,”
10a–12a.
4
Susan Mann, Chapter 9, “The Lady and the State,” 283.
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 341

women’s lives,”5 and played “guardians of Confucian morality”6 rather

than renouncing it. Xue and her fellow women reformers, while still
working in close cooperation with their male supporters, went beyond
the scope of Confucianism for a more iconoclastic intellectual con-
struct. They conducted their own quest for an ideal womanhood and
an ideal social order, often in direct dispute with the leading male
reformers’ “patriarchal nationalism.” Third, therefore, although late
Qing women poets still composed their poetry in traditional styles,
they attempted to adapt their poetic expressions to contemporary
ideas and sentiments.
Below I shall discuss Xue’s poems following a chronological order,
with each section focusing on a specific period: 1) Encountering the
outside world, Xue’s pre-1898 poems; 2) Participating in the 1898
reforms; 3) Portraying women in the Boxer Rebellion; and 4) Uphold-
ing the “New Administration” (Xinzheng ).

Encountering the Outside World

Long before her participation in the 1898 reforms, Xue Shaohui had
already expanded her poetic themes beyond life in the inner chamber.
This was because of the sensitive geographic and political position of
her hometown Fuzhou and the foreign knowledge she had absorbed
through the Chen brothers. Fuzhou in the late nineteenth century was
no ordinary region, nor were the Chens an ordinary gentry family.
The Opium War had forced China to open five treaty ports, includ-
ing Fuzhou. The ensuing self-strengthening movement also meant
that Fuzhou had become the site of the first Chinese arsenal, Fuzhou
Mawei Chuanzhengju , and the first Chinese naval
academy, Fuzhou Chuanzheng Xuetang , both estab-
lished in 1866. In 1877, the Fuzhou Naval Academy sent its first grad-
uates to Europe for further training, and thereupon nurtured China’s
earliest Western-style navy officers, scientists, engineers, translators,
diplomats, and, above all, thinkers. Among them was Xue’s brother-
in-law Chen Jitong, who would serve in Europe for the next fourteen

5
Susan Mann, Precious Records: Women in China’s Long Eighteenth Century
(Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), 3.
6
Dorothy Ko, Teachers of the Inner Chambers: Women and Culture in Seventeenth-
Century China (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1994), 9.
342 chapter eleven

years as a leading Chinese diplomat. Xue’s husband Chen Shoupeng, a

later graduate from the same academy, would join Jitong in 1886.
When Shoupeng first embarked on his journey seeking foreign
knowledge abroad, Xue expressed her doubts about what those “prim-
itive” places could offer. She thus questioned Shoupeng’s purpose in
going to Europe:
...
I heard that the country Da Qin,
Is beyond the White Wolf River.
The Hu boys play the Bili pipes;
The Qiang girls wear barbarian flowers.
Galloping on horses to hunting events;
Visiting each other in felt tents.
As the snow piles up in the early autumn,
Icy willows stretch frozen branches.
They have different customs;
Their language and writing are not ours.
[So, why should you go, my dear husband?]7
Shoupeng’s studying abroad disturbed Xue’s quiet life routine, forc-
ing her to reach out to the world. It also shattered the long-standing
myth that China was the center of the world. Since the Opium War,
the Chinese elite had been forced to contend with this reality, but they
hardly accepted it, nor did they closely study the West at this time.
For example, as this poem shows, Xue continued to refer to Europe
in derogatory terms traditionally used for barbarian places, and her
depiction of foreign lifestyles treated them stereotypically, as though
they were those of primitive peoples.
Xue’s suspicion of the West was soon offset by the enticing gifts that
Shoupeng sent back from his voyage to Europe, along with detailed
introductions to their cultural and historical origins and backgrounds.
Imbued with rich feelings and meanings, these Western things spoke
to Xue on her husband’s behalf and inspired her to poetic creation.
Xue then for the first time learned how to compose song lyrics
(ci ), possibly because the lyrical form better suited her lonely, vul-
nerable mood. This new knowledge and newly acquired poetic tech-
nique combined for Xue, offering her a proper medium to express her
longing for Shoupeng and her curiosity about the places where he was

7
Xue Shaohui, “To My Husband, Rhyming After Yan Yannian’s Poem ‘Qiuhu’ ”
, in Shiji, 1.5a.
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 343

traveling. These song lyrics, composed between 1886 to 1889, include

pieces to the tune “Rao foge: To Master Yiru [Shoupeng’s courtesy
name] for the Buddhist Sūtras Written on Palm Leaves He Sent Back
from Ceylon” : , to
the tune “Mu husha: To Yiru for the Rubbings of the Ancient Egyp-
tian Stone Carvings He Sent Back” :
, to the tune “Babao zhuang: Yiru Sent Me Several Pieces
of Jewelry. . . .” : . . ., to the tune “Shier shi: The
Gold Watch. . .” : . . ., and so forth. As shown in these titles,
Xue intentionally chose tunes that were originally titled after simi-
lar themes, in an evident attempt to match the lyrical rhythms more
closely to her feelings.
From these song lyrics, we can see that Xue obtained knowledge
about the world at amazing speed. She followed Shoupeng’s journey
using accurate geographical names instead of the archetypal terms that
had previously appeared in her poem of parting: “Your sails, blown
by the Indian wind, / Must have crossed the Red Sea”
/ .8 She studied the fall of the Egyptian civilization: “The
stone figure differs not from the bronze camel, / To this day still lying
in thorns” / .9 Her comparison of the
Sphinx—the “stone figure”—with the bronze camel, a symbol of Chi-
nese dynastic change, shows an effort to understand foreign history in
Chinese terms. She admired the refinement of Swiss watches in correct
technical terms: “I can hear the light tick-tock, / Marking each brief
moment. / Inside the axis, / Shines the splendor of metal”
/ / / .10 She even demon-
strated knowledge of Western political and legal systems. Taking her
song lyric to the tune “Babao zhuang” as an example, we can see how
she combined various value and knowledge systems to express her ide-
als and her understanding of the world.
To the tune “Babao zhuang”
Yiru sent me several pieces of jewelry. Among them is a pair of gold brace-
lets inlaid with diamond flowers and birds. They look splendid . . . deli-
cate, and elegant. His letter recounts that when Napoléon the Third
was on the throne, his queen, Eugénie, was in favor. In order to engage

8
Xue Shaohui, “Rao foge,” in Ciji, A.9a.
9
Xue Shaohui, “Mu husha,” in Ciji, A.9b.
10
Xue Shaohui, “Shier shi,” in Ciji, A.15b–16a.
344 chapter eleven

her friendship, the Queen of Spain sent an envoy to buy diamonds in

Holland and chose a French artisan to make [the bracelets], inasmuch as
the Dutch artisans were good at cutting diamonds and the French good
at making diamond ornaments. After the bracelets were done . . . the
Queen of Spain presented them to the Queen of France. Before long the
Spanish exiled their queen, enthroning the Prince of Prussia as their new
king. The Queen of France helped the Queen of Spain, and Napoléon
the Third declared war on Prussia. This was the Franco-Prussian War.
Napoléon was defeated and forced to abdicate. The French people sur-
rounded the palace, and the queen escaped in disguise. All her clothes
and jewelry were confiscated by the people and stored in the national
warehouse. The queen sued in order to retrieve them for her pension,
but her suit was rejected by the congress. In 1887, the congress made the
following decision: “All this jewelry belongs to the Queen of France, not
to Eugénie. Since Eugénie is no longer the Queen, she has no right to
possess these things. Now France, already a democratic [minzhu ]
republic, has no need to preserve the King and Queen’s belongings.
They should be sold at auction and the money should go to the national
endowment.” All agreed, and more than one thousand items . . . were
sold in a single day. Yiru paid a great amount for this pair of bracelets.
Because of their connection with French history, he sent them back for
my appreciation. What is important for a woman, I believe, is her virtue,
not her ornaments. Flying Swallow in the Han and Taizhen in the Tang
were both famous for their beautiful attire, but where are they now?
What’s more, these inauspicious things have already gone through the
rise and fall of an era—what is in them for us to treasure? So I com-
posed the following song lyric in reply to Yiru [to show my thanks for
his gift].
Neither the jade-link puzzle,
Nor the as-you-wish pearl.
Diamonds in fine cuts, to make gold bracelets.
Well-wrought gold would never decay,
Much less its dazzling splendor.
Imagine the thin-waisted foreign queen,
Delicate arms adorned with these gems.
At a farewell banquet in the encamped palace,
She waved her soldiers to the battlefields,
Hairpins tinkling.
Yet enemies were fierce,
And people were disheartened.
With no intention to fight, they rebelled.
Singing La Marseillaise,
Their sad songs rose in chorus everywhere.
To avoid disaster,
The queen covered her face with a black veil,
And fled with empty hands.
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 345

She begged for her emerald headdress;

With inlaid flowers, they were already scattered.
Only this pair of bracelets was left,
Making us sigh at the change of the world.11
Xue takes the standpoint of the French people in criticizing Queen
Eugénie. The first stanza begins with two allusions. The as-you-wish
pearl symbolizes Buddhist compassion, and the jade-link puzzle
alludes to the following story from the Zhanguo ce (Intrigue
of the Warring States):
After King Xiang of Qi died, King Zhao of Qin sent an envoy with a
jade-link puzzle to the queen [of King Xiang], saying, “Qi is full of wise
men. Is there anyone who knows how to solve this puzzle?” The queen
showed the puzzle to all the courtiers, but none knew how to disentangle
it. The queen thereupon used a hammer to break the link. She dismissed
the Qin envoy, saying: “I have respectfully solved the puzzle.”12
Smashing the jade-link puzzle, the queen smashes the male wisdom
of the arrogant, bullying Qin state and thereby defends the dignity of
Qi. Just as the gold bracelets are neither the jade-link puzzle nor the
as-you-wish pearl, Eugénie, throwing her people into warfare for a
mere ornament, is neither the wise, courageous, and patriotic queen
of Qi, nor a compassionate, merciful Buddhist. The banquet scene is
especially satirical: wearing that same bracelet on her arm, Eugénie
waves the French soldiers into battle. Small wonder that she would
stir up a mutiny!
In the second stanza, Xue transliterates the French revolutionary
song, “La Marseillaise,” into Chinese as “Maier” (Wheat), clearly
alluding to the song of “Maixiu” (Wheat sprouts), which laments
the fall of a dynasty.13 Thus, Xue interprets the French people’s rebel-
lion as a patriotic campaign. More significantly, Xue introduces the
Western democratic, congressional, and legal systems through her
poetic account of the event.
Of course, the West offered China more than a model for democracy
and a legal system. Along with these ideals came imperial ambitions

11
Xue Shaohui, Ciji, A.14a–15b.
12
“Qice liu” (Intriques of Qi, Section Six), in Zhanguo ce, 3 vols. (Shanghai:
Shanghai guji chuban she, 1985), juan 13/1:472–473.
13
See Sima Qian (145–ca. 86 BCE), “Song Weizi shijia” (Here-
ditary house of Song Weizi), in Shiji (Records of the Grand Historian), 10 vols.
(Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1959), juan 38/5:1620–21.
346 chapter eleven

accompanied by ships and cannons. During the 1884 Sino-French

War, the French Navy invaded Mawei Harbor in the vicinity of
Fuzhou. Most of Shoupeng’s schoolmates from the Fujian Naval Acad-
emy were killed in action. In 1889, Shoupeng came back from Europe
and went with his wife to mourn his dead comrades. On their way they
heard from the boat woman a story unknown to the public: although
the Mawei battle demolished the Fujian Navy in its entirety, the next
morning the French Navy encountered a sudden ambush that fatally
injured the admiral and forced the French to retreat. This ambush
puzzled both the Chinese and the French governments. According to
the boat woman’s account, the French Navy was attacked by a group
of local Fuzhou salt vendors and butchers. The ambushers themselves
also died with the French enemies. Who would mourn these common
heroes? Xue immediately composed a song lyric, to the tune “Manji-
ang hong” :
The vast, gloomy river and sky,
Remind us of the day
Crocodiles invaded.
In the wind and rain,
With stars flying, thunder roaring,
Ghosts and deities wailed.
Monkeys, cranes, insects, and sands were
washed away with the waves;
Salt vendors and butchers swarmed like
mosquitoes.
Stepping on night tides,
They beat their oars, emerged from
mid currents14
And intended to ambush the enemy.
Creak, creak: the sound of oars
In the damp of the fog and mist;
Cannon balls exploded,
Dragons and snakes hid.
They laughed at those sons of barbarian
rulers,
Who could barely breathe.
Although obliterated by the waves and
currents,

14
Alluding to the Jin general Zu Ti (266–321), who “beat his oars in mid cur-
rents” (zhongliu jiji ) to vow to recover the central plains; see Fang Xuanling
(578–648) et al., “Zu Ti zhuan” (Biography of Zu Ti) in Jinshu
(History of the Jin), 10 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1974), juan 62/6:1695.
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 347

They once subverted the thundering enemy.

Sunk into grass and swamps,
These martyrs of the country.
Who will collect their souls?15
Using the tune “Manjiang hong,” the poet paid the highest homage
to these common heroes. Not only does the redness of the river in
the tune title reconstruct the battle scene of the time, but it also
reminds us of the heroic name of the patriotic Song general Yue Fei,
to whom a well-known patriotic song was attributed, also to the tune
“Manjiang hong.”
The 1894–1895 Sino-Japanese War deeply affected Xue’s family.
After its defeat, the Qing government relinquished Taiwan to Japan
as compensation for Japan’s “war loss.” To resist the Japanese occupa-
tion, Xue’s brother-in-law Chen Jitong attempted to initiate the estab-
lishment of the Republic of Taiwan (Taiwan Minzhu Guo
) in the spring of 1895 but failed.16 On his flight back to the main-
land, Jitong composed his anguished “Mourning for Taiwan, in Four
Verses” . The third verse reads:
The whale has swallowed the body of the
Kun fish,17
The fisherman turns back, allowing me to
ask for directions.18

15
Xue Shaohui, Ciji, B.5a.
16
See Shen Yuqing (1858–1918), “Chen Jitong shilue” (Bio-
graphic sketch of Chen Jitong), in “Liezhuan” section (Biographies), in Fujian
tongzhi (General gazetteer of Fujian), ed. Shen Yuqing and Chen Yan
(1856–1937) (Fuzhou: Fujian tongzhi Bureau, 1922–1988), 39.72a.
17
The Kun fish is a mysterious creature in the Zhuangzi , “Xiaoyao you”
(Free and easy wandering). “It is so huge,” Zhuangzi describes, “I don’t know
how many thousand li he measures.” See Guo Qingfan , Zhuangzi jishi
(Collected commentary on the Zhuangzi), in Zhuzi jicheng , 8 vols. (Bei-
jing: Zhonghua shuju, 1954, 1986), 3:1; translated by Burton Watson, The Complete
Works of Chuang Tzu (New York: Columbia University Press, 1968), 29. Because of
its fish-like shape and large area, Taiwan had been known as Kun Island, now being
swallowed by Japan.
18
Yufu , the fisherman, is a character in the chapter “Yufu” of the Zhuangzi.
He advises Confucius: “If you were diligent in improving yourself, careful to hold fast
to the Truth, and would hand over external things to other men, you could avoid
these entanglements” (Guo Qingfan, Zhuangzi jishi, 446; translated by Watson, The
Complete Works of Chuang Tzu, 349). Jitong here alludes to Yufu possibly for venting
his frustration about the current political situation: should he continue his futile effort
to mend the political chaos—like what Confucius was trying to do, or should he accept
the fisherman’s advice and disentangle himself from political affairs?
348 chapter eleven

Unable to maintain the land, in vain we stick

to old ways;
On the excuse of reformation, they forget our
mutual reliance.19
Seeing an expanse of wilderness, we weep
as prisoners;
Our townspeople are startled, now that they
are next to devils.
I address my words to our Taiwan kin,20
Your change of nationality may be
inevitable.21
The Japanese occupation of Taiwan—so humiliating that it looks like
the magic Kun fish swallowed by a much smaller mundane whale—
has greatly traumatized Jitong. He is angry at the ungrateful Japanese
invaders who have quickly forgotten Japan’s once close relationship
with China. He is frustrated with the Chinese elite who are trapped
in old ways, and therefore unable to protect the land and the people.
Some of them, including Jitong himself, are trying to look for the right

19
The phrase “mutual reliance,” literally “lips and teeth” (chunchi ), alludes to
the Chunqiu Zuozhuan (The Zuo commentary on the Spring and Autumn
Annals), “Xigong wunian” (The fifth year of Duke Xi): “If the lips are gone,
the teeth will feel cold; this is the situation between Yu state and Guo state.” Chunqiu
Zuozhuan [zhengyi] ([Orthodox commentary on the] Chunqiu Zuo-
zhuan), juan 12, in Shisanjing zhushu (Commentaries on the thirteen
Chinese classics), ed. Ruan Yuan , 2 vols. (1826; rprt. Beijing: Zhonghua shuju,
1979), 2:1795.
20
Chiqian is an old name of Anpingcheng , a part of today’s Tainan
, and is used here to represent Taiwan. See Li Ruhe et al., eds., Taiwan
sheng tongzhi (General gazetteer of Taiwan province), 10 juan, 140 vols.
(Taibei: Taiwan Sheng wenxian weiyuanhui bianyin, 1968–1973), juan 1, “Tudi zhi”
(Land), vol. 1, 3b.
21
The phrase “change of nationality,” literally “morning belonging to Qin and
evening to Chu” (zhao Qin mu Chu ), alludes to Chao Buzhi
(1053–1110), Beizhuting fu (Rhyme-prose on the Northern-Isle Pavilion):
“Managing my livelihood all over the place, / so I am morning in Qin and evening in
Chu” / , in his Jile ji ( Jile collection). See Ciyuan
(Etymological dictionary of Chinese words), compact version (Beijing: Shangwu
yinshuguan, 1998), s.v. Zhao . Chao Buzhi is here comparing his personal situation
to that of the areas between Qin and Chu during the Warring States period: as the
two states fought frequently, the areas in between kept switching their affiliations. This
phrase therefore adequately renders the status of Taiwan after the 1894 Sino-Japanese
War. “Mourning for Taiwan, in Four Verses” is included in Chen Jitong, Xue Jia yin
(Chanting after Jia [Yi]), ed. Qian Nanxiu (Shanghai: Shanghai guji
chubanshe, 2005), 151–152. A slightly different version of this poem is collected in
Qingshi jishi (Qing poetry: recording events), ed. Qian Zhonglian ,
22 vols. (Nanjing: Jiangsu guji chuban she, 1987–1989), 20:14670.
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 349

direction, only to be told to keep away from worldly entanglements.

He finally laments that, perhaps, the fall of Taiwan is unavoidable.
Xue composed at least two song lyrics expressing her extreme con-
cern about the situation. One, to the tune “Haitian kuochu: Listen-
ing to Yiru about the Taiwan Incident” : ,
clearly responds to Jitong’s lines above:
The emerald sky, vast with floating clouds,
Mist fluctuates as ocean changes into
mulberry fields.22
After the Kun fish falls asleep,
And the rooster crows in its cage,23
No strong fortress has yet been built!
Do not ask about success!
Pitiable the plan to pacify the ocean
Turns out like this:
A state on a locust branch,24
A brief dream of millet,25
Leaving only
Beautiful boasts.
Onto that legendary immortal island
Suddenly leapt wicked snakes and greedy pigs.26

22
The expression “ocean changes into mulberry fields” (cangsang ) alludes to
the Shenxian zhuan (Biographies of immortals) attributed to Ge Hong
(ca. 283–ca. 363), which records the goddess Magu saying to the immortal Wang
Yuan : “Since I received you, three times we have seen the East Ocean turn into
mulberry fields.” See Ciyuan, s.v. Cang . Using this allusion, Xue describes the quick
change of the situation of Taiwan.
23
Jilong (rooster cage), the old name of today’s Jilong , used here to
refer to the entirety of Taiwan. See Li Ruhe et al., eds., Taiwan sheng tongzhi, juan 1,
“Tudi zhi”/1:34a.
24
“A state on a locust branch” alludes to Li Gongzuo’s (ca. 770–ca. 850)
“Nanke taishou zhuan” (Governor of the Southern Tributary State),
which recounts the scholar Chunyu Fen dreaming of a life journey in the
Southern Tributary State. Waking, he found that the state turned out to be an anthill
under the southern branch of a locust tree in his courtyard. See “Chuyu fen”
(a.k.a., “Nanke taishou zhuan”), in Taiping guanji (Extensive records of the
Taiping era), ed. Li Fang et al., 10 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1961), Juan
475/10:3910–15.
25
“A [brief ] dream of millet” (huangliang meng ) alludes to Shen Jiji’s
(fl. 750–800) “Zhenzhong ji” (The magic pillow), which tells how a scholar
dreamed of a lifetime glory and failure, only to wake and see the millet his host was
cooking still not yet done. See “Zhenzhong ji,” in Wenyuan yinghua (Flow-
ers of the literary garden), ed. Li Fang, 6 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1966), juan
833/5:4395–97.
26
The phrase “wicked snakes and greedy pigs” (changshe fengshi ) alludes
to the Chunqiu Zuozhuan, “Dinggong sinian” (The fourth year of Duke
350 chapter eleven

They swallow and nibble away [our land] like

whales and silkworms.27
No more friendly dealings;
Fences have collapsed.
Raging waves push against
Towering golden halls,
[Where] Lips and teeth once mutually
depended.
Facing spring tides swelling at night,
I feel deeply ashamed before the Woman
of Qishi28
Who worried about her people, for
Heaven’s sake!29
The first stanza of this song lyric elaborates upon the current situation
of Taiwan that Jitong has depicted in his poem. Comparing the abor-
tive Republic of Taiwan to “a state on a locust branch” that existed
only in a scholar’s brief dream while the millet was cooking, Xue
laments Jitong’s futile efforts to rescue Taiwan from its predestined
fall to Japan. Xue then opens the second stanza condemning Japanese
imperialist aggression on Chinese soil, like “the silkworm nibbling on
mulberry leaves.” Seeing that the collapsed national defense can no
longer protect the golden halls of China from the raging waves, Xue
invokes the Woman of Lu from Qishi to supply, as Susan Mann
puts it, “a justification for domestic womanly concerns with politics

Ding): “Wu is like a wicked snake or a greedy pig; it frequently invades the other
states.” Chunqiu Zuozhuan [zhengyi], juan 54/2:2137.
27
The expression “silkworms nibble [our land]” (canshi ) alludes to the Han
Fei zi , “Cun Han” (Preserving Han [state]): “[The states of] all the lords
can be nibbled away.” Wang Xianshen , Han Fei zi jijie (Collected
commentaries on the Han Fei zi), in Zhuzi jicheng, juan 1/5:11.
28
For the Woman of Qishi see Liu Xiang (77–6 BCE), [Gu] Lienü zhuan
([Ancient] Biographies of women), 3.13, in Congshu jicheng
(Shanghai: Shangwu yinshuguan, 1936), 3400:87–88; c.f. Albert R. O’Hara, trans., The
Position of Woman in Early China: According to the Lieh Nü Chuan [Lienü zhuan],
“The Biographies of Eminent Chinese Women” (1945; Westport: Hyperion Press, 1981),
95–97.
29
The line alludes to the Liezi , “Tianrui” (Auspicious omen of Heaven):
“In Qi state there was once a man worrying that Heaven and earth might collapse and
he would lose his lodging. He was so anxious that he could not eat or sleep.” Zhang
Zhan , Liezi zhu (Commentary on the Liezi), in Zhuzi jicheng, juan 1/3:8.
Xue here changes the idiomatic expression, “Qiren youtian” (The Qi man
worries about Heaven), into “weitian you Qi” (One worries about Qi on
behalf of Heaven), thus transforming the Qi man’s unnecessary panic into the Woman
of Qishi’s highly justifiable concern for the Lu. Xue Shaohui, Ciji, B.10a.
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 351

and government.”30 The Woman of Qishi justifies her concern over the
political situation of Lu on behalf of the people: “When the kingdom
of Lu has disaster, Ruler and Minister, fathers and sons will all suffer
disgrace. Misfortune will come upon the common people.”31 Xue fur-
ther elevates the Woman of Qishi’s argument in the conclusion of her
song lyric—women express their worry about the state and the people
on behalf of Heaven!
Both incidents—the 1884 Sino-French War and the 1894 Sino-Japa-
nese War—informed Xue that Western civilization not only produced
refined machinery and jewelry but also instigated bloodshed. Her early
exposure to foreign knowledge, with its mixed messages, prepared her
for her later participation in the 1898 Reform Movement, when she
had to seriously and systematically ponder the function of foreign
knowledge in women’s own lives and in China’s future.

Participating in the 1898 Reforms

Xue’s participation in the 1897–98 campaign for women’s education

marked the point at which she turned from a private scholar and
housewife into a public intellectual. In the campaign Xue stood out
as an independent thinker and a spokesperson on behalf of her fellow
women reformers, as can be attested by her publication of “Chuangshe
Nü xuetang tiaoyi bing xu” (Suggestions for
establishing the Girls’ School, with preface).32 In this document Xue
disputed the nationalistic agenda of male reformers for women’s edu-
cation, as typified by Liang Qichao’s (1873–1929) 1897 reform
essay, “Lun nüxue” (On education for women). Liang attrib-
uted China’s poverty and weakness to Chinese women’s jobless status
and accused them of being idle and dependent. He advocated women’s
education in order that “each could feed herself,” so that they would
not burden the nation and cause its continued backwardness.33 Xue

30
Mann, Chapter 9, “The Lady and the State,” 285.
31
Quoted from Mann, Chapter 9, “The Lady and the State,” 286. Mann notes that
the translation is from O’Hara, The Position of Women, 96.
32
Xue Shaohui, “Chuangshe Nü xuetang tiaoyi bing xu,” Qiushi bao (The
International Review) 9 (1897): 6a–7b, and 10 (1897): 8a–b.
33
Liang Qichao’s “Lun Nüxue” was published serially in Shiwu bao (The
Chinese Progress) 23 (1897): 1a–4a, and 25 (1897): 1a–2b. Here see Shiwu bao 23
(1897): 1a–2a. This sort of criticism permeated male reformers’ arguments for pro-
moting women’s education—see Jing Yuanshan ed., Nüxue jiyi chubian
352 chapter eleven

instead argued that education for women should put their self-culti-
vation above national empowerment. Following this line of reasoning,
“Chuangshe Nü xuetang” presents a systematic curriculum that adopts
both Chinese and Western educational systems, covers both Chinese
and Western knowledge, and includes both scholarly learning (xue )
and artistic and poetic creations ( yi ).34
As part of her proposed curriculum, Xue strongly advocated women’s
poetry as a major focus of women’s education. Here she directly refutes
Liang Qichao’s criticism of cainü (talented women).35 Liang’s
dismissal of women’s poetic creation as “frivolous” ( fulang )
was based on his pragmatism. He commented:
What people called “talented women” (cainü) in the past refers to
those who teased the wind and fondled the moon, plucked flowers and
caressed the grass and thereupon composed some ci- or shi-style poems
that mourn the spring and lament partings. That’s all. Doing things like
this cannot be regarded as learning (xue). Even for a man, if he has no
other accomplishment than poetic creation, he would be denounced as a
frivolous person ( fulang zhi zi ). This is all the more true of a
woman! When I say “learning,” what I mean is that which can open up
one’s mind and help one make a living in the world. . . .36
This sort of disdain toward women’s poetic talent was popular among
male reformers of the time;37 even the famous feminist, Kang Youwei’s
(1858–1927) daughter Kang Tongwei (1879–1974),
denounced gentry women’s “indulgence in poetry” as “learning of
useless things.”38
Xue Shaohui fervently rejected the trendy accusation, made by both
Western and Chinese men, that Chinese women were “two hundred
million lazy and useless people,” and she did not agree that women’s
poetic creation was nothing more than “useless.”39 She argued:

(Collected opinions on education for women, first edition) (Shanghai: Jing’s

private edition, 1898), 38b, 39a, 40a, etc.
34
See Xue Shaohui, “Chuangshe Nü xuetang tiaoyi bing xu,” 6ab.
35
See Xue Shaohui, “Chuangshe Nü xuetang tiaoyi bing xu,” 6b–7a.
36
Liang Qichao, “Lun Nüxue,” 2a.
37
See, for example, Jing Yuanshan, “Quan Jinlingdu renshi chuangkai nü xuetang
qi” (Letter to the Nanjing gentry to urge education for
women), in Nüxue jiyi chubian, 41a.
38
Kang Tongwei, “Nüxue libi shuo” (On advantages and disadvanta-
ges of education for women), Zhixin bao 52 (1898): 2b.
39
See Xue Shaohui, “Chuangshe Nü xuetang tiaoyi bing xu,” 6a–b. For a detailed
discussion of Xue’s argument with Liang Qichao, see Nanxiu Qian, “Revitalizing the
Xianyuan (Worthy Ladies) Tradition,” 425–426.
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 353

Alas, it has not been easy for women to possess talents. With integrity
and sincerity, they have composed gentle and honest poems. The Book
of Songs puts the [Airs] of Zhounan and Shaonan at the outset, show-
ing an emphasis on the guofeng [airs of the states] poems [which were
mostly composed by women]. Unfortunately, later anthologists, know-
ing nothing about the Sage’s standards of compiling the Book of Songs,
ignored women’s works entirely. Some who did include women would
only attach women’s poems to the end of an anthology, placing them
amidst poems by monks and Daoist priests. Isn’t this strange? And the
editors of these anthologies did not carefully collect women’s works.
They picked up some dozens of women poets, representing each by one
or two poems, and that is all. How does this irresponsible attitude differ
from abandoning women’s poetry to the wild mist and tangling weeds?
This is why women’s poetic collections were mostly lost.
Now the times have changed. Scholars in the know all agree to promote
women’s education. Yet what they have proposed for women to learn,
subjects such as sericulture, needlework, housekeeping, and cooking,
do not go beyond women’s work ( fugong ), in other words their
traditional obligations. For [cultivating] women’s virtue ( fude )
and women’s words ( fuyan ), I know of nothing more efficient than
learning how to compose poetry and prose. To seek to effect women’s
learning not through [poetry and prose], but from some illusory
and extravagant theories amounts to nothing less than abandoning
women’s fragile and tender substance to oblivion. The damage would be
unimaginable. It would destroy women’s learning and corrupt women’s
education!40
Fervently defending the cainü tradition against men’s wrongful accu-
sations, Xue took up a campaign for women’s education, seeing it as
a great opportunity to explore and cultivate Chinese women’s long-
ignored talents, in order to prepare them to meet the country’s needs,
even as they tended to their domestic duties. Seen in this light, Xue’s
promotion of women’s education and her introduction of women to
the Western system were not intended to change Chinese women
from useless to useful but to make them as versatile and resourceful
as men.41 For this purpose, Xue maintained that the Chinese system
of educating women, which Chinese mothers had carried on effec-
tively for centuries, should receive the same amount of attention as the
Western system.42 Poetic creation, as Xue firmly pointed out, was an

40
As recounted by Xue’s eldest daughter, Chen Yun (1885–1911), in her pref-
ace to Xiaodaixuan lunshi shi (Poems on poetics from Xiaodai Studio)
(attached to Xue Shaohui’s Daiyun lou yiji), 1a–b.
41
See Xue Shaohui, “Chuangshe Nü xuetang tiaoyi bing xu,” 6b.
42
See Xue Shaohui, “Chuangshe Nü xuetang tiaoyi bing xu,” 6b.
354 chapter eleven

indispensable component of the Chinese system of educating women,

a type of learning (xue) important in “cultivating one’s disposition and
feelings” (taoxie xingqing ).43
Xue’s sharp insights won support and respect from the Chen broth-
ers as well as other male and female reformers. Many women corrobo-
rated Xue’s opinions with poems and essays.44 Xue herself and other
major contributors wrote continuously for the first Chinese women’s
journal, Nü xuebao (Chinese Girl’s Progress).45 Their thematic
concerns ranged from women’s education, women’s rights, and even
women’s participation in politics, to Shanghai women workers’ salary
and working hours. In brief, the entire campaign for women’s educa-
tion proceeded smoothly and rapidly, bringing hopes to all Shanghai
educational circles and to Chinese and foreigners alike.46
Meanwhile, in the capital, Beijing, the leading reformers Kang
Youwei and Liang Qichao convinced Emperor Guangxu
(r. 1875–1908) to speed up political reform and thus offended Empress
Dowager Cixi (1835–1908). On September 21, 1898, Cixi termi-
nated the reforms. On September 28, six leading reformers were exe-
cuted, including Kang Guangren (1867–1898), one of the eight
initiators and the financial executive of the Shanghai Girls’ School, and
Tan Sitong (1865–1898), an active supporter of the project.47
One can imagine how shocked and devastated reformers in Shanghai
were upon hearing of Cixi’s coup d’état. Xue, however, wrote the fol-
lowing poem around September 30, the Mid-Autumn Festival, entitled
“Reading History on the Mid-Autumn Night” :

43
Xue Shaohui, “Chuangshe Nü xuetang tiaoyi bing xu,” 6b–7a.
44
See Jing Yuanshan, ed., Nüxue jiyi chubian, 15ab, 21b–22a, 44b–45a, 46b–47b.
45
See Xue Shaohui, “Nüjiao yu zhidao xiangguan shuo” (On
the pertinence of women’s education to the principles of governance), Nü xuebao 3
(1898): 2a; Du Jikun , “Zai tan Nü xuebao” (More about the Chi-
nese Girl’s Progress), Tushuguan 4 (1963): 56.
46
See Burton, The Education of Women in China, 110–111.
47
The causes of the bloody termination of the Hundred Days Reform remain to
this day a debated topic. The account here follows the conventional narrative recorded
in Tang Zhijun , Wuxu bianfa shi (History of the 1898 reforms)
(Beijing: Renmin chubanshe, 1984), 421–423; and Luke S. K. Kwong, A Mosaic of the
Hundred Days: Personalities, Politics, and Ideas of 1898 (Cambridge: Council on East
Asian Studies, 1984), 201–224. A 2008 Beijing conference commemorating the 110th
anniversary of the 1898 Reform, held by the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences and
the Chinese People’s University, focused on this topic; see Wang Yi , “Wuxu
weixin yu wan-Qing shehui biange” (The 1898 reform and
late Qing social transformation), Qingshi yanjiu 2 (May 2009): 134–148.
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 355

Disaster and good fortune never match

one another;
Success and failure are only revealed after the
chess game is over.
Grand ambition craves close association
with the top;48
The bag of wisdom contains no tactics to
protect the royal house.49
Was this a real match between ruler
and subject?
One should cherish efforts to maintain
family ties.
Last night, I observed the Northern Dipper
in the sky:
Still, the bright moon shone at the height
of autumn.50
One cannot help wondering if Xue was criticizing Kang Youwei: Kang
was eager to build close connections with Emperor Guangxu in order
to fulfill his political ambitions, yet he did not have the talent to invig-
orate the failing dynasty. Thus, his relationship with Guangxu was not
a real match between emperor and capable minister; all he did was
manipulating the young emperor and undermining his relationship
with the empress dowager. Xue lamented the difficulty of maintaining
family ties, as though she had sympathy for Cixi. In the meantime,
Xue divined the current situation of China by observing the Northern
Dipper, which, according to Chinese astrology, was the major constel-
lation for observing the political situation of the imperial court.51 And

48
Yu Li (literally, “driving Li [Ying]”) refers to the late Han scholar Xun
Shuang’s happiness at having the opportunity to drive the carriage for Li Ying
, because Li was the leading scholar of the time. People who got close to him
would feel as honored as a fish jumping over the Dragon Gate and thereby transform-
ing into a dragon. See Fan Ye (398–445), “Li Ying zhuan” (Biography of
Li Ying), in Hou Hanshu (History of the Later Han), 12 vols. (Beiing: Zhon-
ghua shuju, 1965), juan 67/ 8:2191.
49
“The bag of wisdom” (zhinang ) refers to Chao Cuo (ca. 200–154
BCE), who was a capable minister under Emperor Jingdi of the Han (Liu Qi
, r. 156–41 BCE) and was therefore titled zhinang by His Majesty; see Sima Qian,
Shiji (Records of the Grand Historian), 10 vols. (Beiing: Zhonghua shuju, 1959),
juan 101/8:2745–47.
50
Xue Shaohui, Shiji, 2.3b.
51
Sima Qian, “Tianguan shu” (Treatise of astrology), in Shiji, thus delin-
eates the astrological function of the “Northern Dipper” (Beidou ): “The Dipper
is the chariot of the Heavenly emperor. It rides in the middle and controls the four
356 chapter eleven

she concluded that the future of China still looked as bright as the
autumn moon.
To be sure, Xue and her family had no connections whatsoever with
the emperor or with the empress dowager. Chen Shoupeng, a diligent
scholar, indulged in reading and writing all his life, with no interest in
pursuing rank and wealth. His elder brother Jitong, though possessing
great talent, was never successful in his political career.52 The entire
family participated in the 1898 reforms as private scholars. Their atti-
tudes therefore represent those of “civilian” reformers outside Beijing,
individuals who were not directly involved in the politics of the so-
called Hundred Days at the capital. Reading Xue’s entire poem care-
fully, we can see that Xue had a clear idea about the situation—the
emperor failed and the empress dowager regained power. In spite of
all this, Xue still said that the chess game was not yet over. Her pri-
mary concern was obviously for the reform program itself. This poem
breaks down delineations that have long dominated modern Chinese
historiography—between reformers and conservatives, between the
emperor’s faction and the empress dowager’s faction. It represents the
voice of reformers who did not equate the reform enterprise as a whole
with one skirmish over power in the capital. Also many thought at
the time that for the reforms to succeed the reformers needed Cixi’s
support, which for a while she seemed to grant.53

directions. Dividing yin and yang, establishing the four seasons, balancing the five
elements . . . all are decided by the Dipper.” Shiji, juan 27/4:1291.
52
A remarkably learned man and a productive writer, Chen Jitong published
broadly in French and English to introduce Chinese culture during his decade-long
tenure as a diplomat in Europe. For studies of his life see Catherine Vance Yeh,
“The Life-Style of Four Wenren in Late Qing Shanghai,” Harvard Journal of Asiatic
Studies 57.2 (1997): 419–470; Chen Jitong, Zhongguo ren zihua xiang
(Chinese painted by themselves), translated from its original French version, Les
Chinois peints par eux memes by Huang Xingtao et al. with an introduction
(Guiyang: Guizhou renmin chubanshe, 1998); Sang Bing , “Goutong Ouzhou
Hanxue de xianjin: Chen Jitong lunshu” — (The
vanguard who communicated with European Sinology: On Chen Jitong), in Guoxue
yu Hanxue: Jindai Zhongwai xuejie jiaowang lu :
(National learning and sinology: Chinese and foreign scholarly exchanges in modern
times) (Hangzhou: Zhejiang renmin chubanshe, 1999), 79–108; Li Huachuan
, Wan-Qing yige waijiaoguan de wenhua licheng (The
cultural journey of a late Qing diplomat) (Beijing: Peking University Press, 2004); and
Chen Jitong, Xue Jia yin.
53
For instance, as Chen Yinke later recollected, his grandfather, Chen Bao-
zhen (1831–1900), then Governor-general of Hunan province, maintained
that a nationwide reform program could only be carried out with the approval and
support of the Empress Dowager, Cixi. See Chen Yinke, “Wuxu zhengbian yu xianzu
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 357

Although the reform movement had been dealt a devastating blow,

Xue remained optimistic and soon embarked on another avenue of
reform, translating and compiling a number of Western literary, his-
torical and scientific works with her husband.54

Portraying Women in the Boxer Rebellion

When Xue and Shoupeng were in Shanghai and then in Ningpo writ-
ing and translating, the 1900 Boxer Rebellion broke out. At least six
long poems in Xue’s Daiyunlou yiji relate to this event: “Reading the
Song History” (1900), “Eulogy to His Majesty Returning to the
Capital” (1901), “Song of the Old Courtesan” (1902),
“Inscribed on Wu Zhiying’s [1868–1934] Calligraphy Scroll in Cursive
Style” (1905), “Melody of the Golden Well”
(1908), and “Song of the Old Woman from Fengtai”
(1909). With these six poems Xue reflected on women’s life experi-
ences of the time and their opinions about the incident across a wide
class spectrum.
In “Reading the Song History” and the “Eulogy to His Majesty
Returning to the Capital,” Xue delineated her own viewpoints on the
Boxer Rebellion. The former, a seven-character old-style poem, was
written during the incident. It recounts how the Northern Song Min-
ister of War (Bingbu shangshu ) Sun Fu (d. 1128) relied
upon the “divine army” (shenbing ) led by the occultist Guo Jing
to resist the Jurchen invaders, only to cause “the bodies [of the
divine soldiers] to fill in the Guarding-Dragon River”
.55 Using this allusion, Xue delivers a sharp criticism of the Qing
court’s manipulation of the Boxers. Her critical tone becomes even

xianjun zhi guanxi” (My grandfather and father’s con-

nections with the 1898 Reform Movement), in his Hanliu tang ji (Collected
works from Cold Willow Hall) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1980), 181–182.
54
Including Jules Verne’s Around the World in Eighty Days (Bashi ri huanyou ji
) (Shanghai: Jingshi wenshe, 1900); Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler’s (1860–
1929) A Double Thread (1899) (Shuangxian ji ) (Shanghai: Zhongwai ribao
guan, 1903); Waiguo lienü zhuan (Biographies of foreign women), trans-
lated and compiled from a variety of Western sources (Nanjing: Jingling Jiangchu
bianyi zongju, 1906), etc.
55
Xue Shaohui, “Reading the Song History,” in Shiji, 2.4b; see also Tuotuo
(1313–1355) et al., “Sun Fu zhuan” (Biography of Sun Fu), in Songshi
(History of the Song), 40 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1985), juan 353/32:11137–
11138.
358 chapter eleven

stronger in the “Eulogy to His Majesty,” in which the poet blames the
government for its inept handling of the situation:
In this event of the past statesmen were bewildered and disobedient;
the ministers and the generals were idle and wanton. They wrongly
believed in Guo Jing’s heresy when he interpreted the eight trigrams in
strange and baseless ways; they allowed Zhang Jue to enroll disciples,
who confused the essence of the Three Learnings. . . . The barbarian sol-
diers thereby invaded the capital; their five-colored banners competed to
occupy the throne. Who could know how to resist the enemies? Broken
guns could not guard our grand fortress.56
Xue’s major purpose in composing the “Eulogy to His Majesty” was
to create an image of Guangxu as a benevolent emperor and filial son,
so as to fix his relationship with Cixi, which had been undermined
by Kang Youwei during the Hundred Days. With the backing of the
empress dowager, such an emperor could then go back to the capi-
tal and reissue the reform: “enlisting heavenly talents and benefiting
from the geographic situation, / the Zhou state [referring to the Qing
court] can easily reform its system. / The trunk is strong, albeit with
weak branches. / The imperial enterprise can still be rooted in its old
ground” / / /
.57 It took great courage to make such a daring suggestion at this
sensitive moment. Cixi had intended for Guangxu to abdicate follow-
ing her coup d’état on September 21, 1898, but she aroused strong
opposition from the gentry. Among them a leading figure was Jing
Yuanshan (1841–1903), the initiator of the 1898 Shanghai
campaign for women’s education and a close associate of the Chen
brothers. The Qing court put Jing in prison for over a year in an effort
to silence the reformers.58
Although even radical scholar-officials were cautious at this
moment,59 Xue frankly defended the reform-minded emperor and

56
Xue Shaohui, preface to “Eulogy to His Majesty Returning to the Capital,” in
Wenji, 1.5a–b. Although song , or eulogy, originated in the Shijing, it was later on
often categorized as wen, prose, the same here as in Xue Shaohui’s Daiyunlou yij.
57
Xue Shaohui, preface to “Eulogy to His Majesty Returning to the Capital,” 1.7b.
58
See Jing Yuanshan, Juyi chuji (First collection of Juyi’s [Jing Yuan-
shan’s] works) (Macao: Jing’s private publication, 1901), 1.1a–b; 2.47a–49b; 2.53a–
59b.
59
For example, Huang Zunxian (1848–1905), in a series of poems about
Cixi and Guangxu’s leaving from and returning to Beijing during the Boxer Rebel-
lion, never explicitly discussed reform. See his Renjinglu shicao [ jianzhu]
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 359

continued to advocate reform. In a sense, these two poetic works rep-

resented Xue’s own image as a gentry housewife who had, as she put it
in the “Eulogy to His Majesty,” “diligently obeyed the instruction that
inner words should not go out” (shenshou neiyan ).60 Now,
however, she broke this Confucian injunction and openly expressed
her opinions regarding state affairs. To help the country and the peo-
ple survive this national trauma, Xue’s efforts even went beyond the
boundary of China. Taking the Red Cross as a model, Chen Jitong led
a relief group into the most devastated parts of the Tianjin and Beijing
areas in the fall of 1900.61 At Jitong’s request, Xue sent the Korean king
a touching letter in parallel prose (pianwen ), pleading the king to
assist in the safe passage of the relief group.62
Xue’s poem “Inscribed on Wu Zhiying’s Calligraphy Scroll in
Cursive Style” (1905) further depicts the experience of gentlewomen
during the Boxer Rebellion. Wu Zhiying, a famed calligrapher, con-
tributed her talent to Chen Jitong’s relief effort. As Xue recorded in
the poem,
In the fall of 1900, scholar-officials in Shanghai organized a relief group
to help war victims in the north. They invited my brother-in-law Jingru
[Jitong’s courtesy name] to be the negotiator [with the foreign forces],
so that the ship bearing the dragon banner could pass through Dagu
harbor into the North River. My brother-in-law wrote a poem [about the
situation in the capital], with lines such as “Extravagant mansions have
not even three tiles left; / residents have fled into the nine states”
/ . Zhiying loved this poem and matched
its rhyme in two poems. She inscribed both poems on a scroll in cur-
sive style with large characters, which she presented to us. Her vigorous
strokes assimilated the style of He Zizhen (He Shaoji ,
1799–1873). I therefore inscribed my own poem after her calligraphy.
[Wu] Cailuan passed down her hand-copied
Rhymes from the High Tang;
There is also the Jade Chapter, written by
Lady [Wu] the Thirty-first.

[ ] ([Commentary on] poetic drafts from Renjing Hut), commentary by Qian

Zhonglian, 2 vols. (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1981), juan 10–11, passim.
60
Xue Shaohui, Wenji, A.8a.
61
See Shen Yuqing, “Chen Jitong shilue,” 39.72a–b; Li Huachuan, Wan-Qing yige
waijiao guan de wenhua licheng, 226–229.
62
Xue Shaohui, “Dai jiuji shanhui ni zhi Gaoli guowang shu”
(Letter to the King of Korea, on behalf of the relief group), in Wenji,
B.20a–b.
360 chapter eleven

As for women calligraphers early in our

august dynasty,
We know about [Wu] Peidian and [Wu]
Shouliang.63
Zhiying too is a daughter of the Wu family.
Her valiant calligraphy startles the wind
and rain.
I imagine when she wields her ink-brush her
hairpins vibrate;
From her tender wrists come cries of
sad swans.
My brother-in-law’s vitality swells the lakes
and seas;
“My hair turns gray, yet my tongue remains
sharp!”
When hunting he might be scolded by
a drunken guard;
In daily life he is often saluted by
foreign guests.
Years before he crossed the Sea of Misery
on a lotus boat;
Hu horses on the Yan Mountain neighed
along the way.
Gazing far into passes and rivers, he sang
a heroic song;
Who knew it would be circulated, inviting
rhymes in response?
Not satisfied with matching rhymes, she
inscribes the poem herself;
Why execute strokes with such vigor
and strength?
As with copying the Śūrangama Sūtra in
the Ten-Thousand-Willow Hall
The price of paper soars in Luoyang, and
foreigners race to buy.64

63
In these opening stanzas, Xue numerates some famed women calligraphers
surnamed Wu , including Wu Cailuan of the Tang whose hand copy of
the Tangyun (Tang rhymes) is a masterpiece of small regulated script (xiaokai
), Wu Sanyi niang who left a copy of the Yupian (Jade chapter),
also in regulated script, and the two Wu sisters Zhengui (zi Shouliang ) and
Jinggui (zi Peidian ) of the early Qing. See Li E (1692–1752), Yutai
shushi (History of calligraphy from Jade Terrace), in Xuxiu siku quanshu
(Continual compilation of the Complete Collection of the Four Treasu-
ries), vol. 1084 (1833; rprt. Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 2002), 19b–24b, 46b,
and 64b, respectively.
64
Here “Jilin” (Chicken Forest) refers to Korea, used as a general term for
Northeast Asia. For a detailed discussion of Wu Zhiying’s calligraphy and
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 361

Ink spreads and flows, like a dragon’s dance;

Her strokes pure and brisk, but also flirting
with charm.
People and ghosts compete in chanting
Bao’s poems;65
I love Guan Zhongji, for her “Song lyrics of
a Fisherman.”66
Xue’s note to the last stanza reads: “Zhiying’s works include the
‘Model Calligraphy from the Small Ten-Thousand-Willow Hall’ and a
hand-copied Śūrangama Sūtra. The Japanese paid high prices to buy
them for publication.” Xue seems to indicate that Zhiying wrote this
scroll to raise money—a newly emerging social practice of charity that
would soon gain popularity among women and girl students in Chi-
na.67 Using Wu Zhiying’s and her own experience as examples, Xue
once again disputes the male reformers’ attacks on cainü. Women,
she insists, can make great contributions with their poetic and artistic
talents: continuing the cultural tradition, crying out about the people’s
misery, and, specifically in the current situation, relieving the suffering
of the north.

its significance in the reform era, see Hu Ying, “ ‘Tossing the Brush’? Wu Zhiying
(1868–1934) and the Uses of Calligraphy,” in Different Worlds of Discourse: Transfor-
mations of Gender and Genre in Late Qing and Early Republican China, ed. Nanxiu
Qian, Grace S. Fong, and Richard J. Smith (Leiden: Brill, 2008), 57–85.
65
This line alludes to Li He’s (790–816) poem, “Autumn Comes” : “In
the autumn graves ghosts are singing Bao’s poems; / Blood of sorrow transforms into
emerald after one thousand years” / . Sanjia ping-
zhu Li Changji geshi (Three commentaries on the collected
songs of Li He) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1998), 55. “Bao’s poems” refer
to Bao Zhao’s (414–466) poems such as “Imitating the Song of Haoli”
and “Imitating the Mourning Song” that usually express sorrow of ancient
people: “They died with regrets, / and their emerald blood would not disappear /
even after one thousand years” / / (Yao Xie’s
[1805–1864] commentary on Li He, “Autumn Comes,” in Sanjia pingzhu Li Changji
geshi, 219). Here Xue seems to compare Chen Jitong’s poem composed on his relief
mission to Bao Zhao’s: both are so moving that even ghosts would chant them.
66
Zhongji is the courtesy name of Guan Daosheng (1271?–1319), a
woman poet and artist. For her four “Song-Lyrics of a Fisherman” see Chen
Yan, Yuanshi jishi (Biographic collection of Yuan poetry), in Chen Yan
shilun heji (Chen Yan’s collected commentaries on poetry ), 2 vols.
(Fuzhou: Fujian renmin chubanshe, 1999), juan 36/2:1946. Here Xue praises Wu Zhi-
ying to be as accomplished as Guan Daosheng in poetry and calligraphy. Xue Shaohui,
Shiji, 3.7a–b.
67
Chen Pingyuan introduces how girls’ schools in late Qing Beijing organized
fundraisers for disaster relief; see “Male Gaze / Female Students: Late Qing Education
for Women as Portrayed in Beijing Pictorials,” in Qian, Fong, Smith, eds., Different
Worlds of Discourse, 315–347, especially 328–330.
362 chapter eleven

Xue’s portrayal of women in the Boxer Rebellion also covered other

social groups. The “Old Courtesan” is based on the story of Fu Caiyun
(a.k.a. Sai Jinhua , ?–1936).68 Caiyun was a concubine
of the late Qing diplomat Hong Jun (1839–1893). She accom-
panied him to Europe, then came home and resumed her courtesan
identity after Hong’s death. During the 1900 Boxer Rebellion she was
rumored to have had a sexual relationship with the Commander of
the Eight-Power Allied Forces (Baguo Lianjun ), the German
general Waldersee, thereby preventing foreign soldiers from attacking
Beijing citizens.
Fu Caiyun’s legendary life became a popular literary theme of her
time. The major Tang-style poet Fan Zengxiang (1846–1931),
for one, described her life in rather pejorative terms in “Melody of Col-
ored Clouds” (1899) and “Later Melody of Colored Clouds”
(1904).69 In Fan’s depiction, Caiyun was a fox spirit, a lustful
woman of bad manners. She craved sexual encounters even amidst
warfare, and shamelessly tried to please the commander of the enemy.
She thereby enraged the spirits of the imperial ancestors, causing a
blaze in the palace. She rescued people in the capital merely to show
off her power as a femme fatale, but at no risk to herself.70
Xue’s portrayal of Fu Caiyun dismissed this conventional accusa-
tion, describing her instead as a capable assistant to her diplomat hus-
band. With her talent at foreign languages and good manners, Caiyun
won the respect of the Western courts. The following lines described
her audience with the German monarch and his consort:
On the golden dais, Their Majesties received
the heavenly envoy,

68
For Fu’s life, see, for example, Sun Zhen ed., Sai Jinhua qiren
(The woman Sai Jinhua) (Chongqing: Chongqing chubanshe, 1987). For a discussion
of Sai’s life as portrayed in Zeng Pu’s (1872–1935) novel, Niehai hua
(Flowers in a sea of retribution), see Hu Ying, “Flowers in a Sea of Retribution: A Tale
of Border-Crossing,” in Tales of Translation: Composing the New Woman in China,
1899–1918 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2000), 21–66.
69
See Fan Zengxiang, “Melody of Colored Clouds,” in Fanshan quanji xuji
(Continual collection of Fan Zengxiang’s writings) (1913 edition), 9.4a; and “Later
Melody of Colored Clouds” in Qian Zhonglian, ed., Qingshi jishi, 18:12638–12639.
For a close comparison of Xue’s “Song of the Old Courtesan” and Fan’s two “Melody
of Colored Clouds,” see Nanxiu Qian, “Poetic Reform Amidst Political Reform: The
Late Qing Woman Poet Xue Shaohui (1866–1911),” Hsiang Lectures on Chinese Poetry
3 (2005): 19–28.
70
See Fan Zengxian, “Melody of Colored Clouds” and “Later Melody of Colored
Clouds.”
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 363

Accompanied by his female attendant, Feng

Liao, in a brocade carriage.71
In an oriole voice, she played the capable
interpreter;
In elegant handwriting, she translated foreign
languages.
The Queen was pleased to meet with this
young friend.
Treating her to an imperial banquet, with
sour cream and raw meat.
In a mirror palace, two rare flowers took
a photo side by side;
[The Queen and Caiyun were] like two
sisters, born to the same parents.72
The native people all admired her favored
status.73
They saw her often at tea parties and.
ball rooms
Alas the young officers from primitive places,
Could imagine her youthful and beautiful
face only through pictures.74

71
Feng Liao (fl. first half of the 1st C. BCE), the attendant of Princess Jieyou
of the Han. She escorted the Princess to Wusun to be married to its Chanyu
and served several times as the Han envoy to settle the disputes between the Han and
Wusun. See Ban Gu (32–92), “Xiyu zhuan” (Biographies of Western
regions), in Hanshu (History of the Han), 12 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju,
1962), juan 96B/12:3907–08. Here Xue uses Feng Liao to refer to Fu Caiyun’s diplomatic
functions.
72
Cf. Zeng Pu’s detailed description of this meeting between the Queen and Fu
Caiyun in the Niehai hua, Chapter 12.
73
Yuanjian was a native of the Qiang ethnic group. A brief account of his
life is included in Fan Ye, “Xi Qiang zhuan” (Biography of Western Qiang),
in Hou Hanshu, juan 87/10:2875. Because the Qiang people lived to the west of the
center of China, Xue used Yuanjian to represent all Westerners.
74
Xue Shaohui, “Song of the Old Courtesan,” Shiji, 2.7a. Xue here jokingly quotes
from Du Fu’s (712–770) poetic series, “Chanting Inner Feelings over Histori-
cal Spots, Five Poems” , No. 3, about Wang Zhaojun , a pal-
ace woman of the Han Emperor Yuan (r. 48–33 BCE). Since the emperor had
too many women, he ordered an artist to paint their portraits so he could “choose
a youthful and beautiful face by examining the pictures” ( ).Wang
refused to bribe the painter for a fair portrayal, and the painter consequently disfig-
ured her beautiful image. Wang was eventually sent away to be married to the chanyu
of the “barbaric” Xiongnu. See Dushi xiangzhu (Detailed annotation of Du
Fu’s poems), annotated by Qiu Zhao’ao , 5 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju,
1979), juan 17/4:1502–1505. Changing “xingshi” (examining) into “xiangshi”
(imagining), Xue elevates the object of the male gaze from a mute plaything for
the emperor to a capable female envoy who attracts tremendous admirations from
barbaric youth.
364 chapter eleven

During the 1900 Boxer rebellion, Fu walked ahead to protect Beijing

women, again using her talent in foreign languages:
Soldiers assaulted women on the capital’s
streets.
In their orchid inner chambers, virtuous
ladies hid like mice.
Only the courtesan Dong’er courageously
stepped forward.75
Wearing rustic cloths, but speaking foreign
languages.
The enemy commander, stroking his beard,
rose to greet her.
What did he see? The envoy’s wife, his old
fantasy.
At their later meeting in the palace, they felt
as if in a dream;
He ordered soldiers to keep quiet, no more
bustling around.
The Wars of the Roses were stopped, and
treaties signed,76
Thanks, it seems, to this willow branch
from Zhangtai.77
...
In Xue’s poem, Caiyun courageously steps forward, without regard to
her own safety. Upon meeting the Commander of the Eight-Power
Allied Forces, one of her old admirers in Berlin, Caiyun wears rustic

75
“Donger” alludes to the major character, nicknamed Dong’er, in Wu Weiye
(1609–1672), “Linhuai laoji xing” (Old courtesan from Linhuai),
who witnessed the tumult of the Ming-Qing transition and helped with military affairs,
similar to Fu Caiyun’s experience during the Boxer Rebellion. See Wu Meicun quanji
(Complete works of Wu Weiye [Meicun]), ed. Li Xueying , 3 vols.
(Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1990), juan 11/1:285–287.
76
The Wars of the Roses were a series of dynastic civil wars between the rival houses
of Lancaster and York for the crown of England, fought mainly between 1455 and
1485. For a recent history written on this bloodiest episodes in British history, see
Trevor Royle, Lancaster Against York: The Wars of the Roses and the Foundation of
Modern Britain (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008).
77
Xue Shaohui, “Song of the Old Courtesan,” 2.8a. The Zhangtai willow (Zhangtai
liu ) was an often-used Tang poetic image for a courtesan or a concubine; see
Xu Yaozuo (fl. 780–805), “Liushi zhuan” (Biography of Née Liu), col-
lected in Tangren xiaoshuo (Tang tales), ed. Wang Pijiang (Hong
Kong: Zhonghua shuju, 1958, 1975), 52–53.
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 365

clothing, and has not the slightest intention of flirtation. Through her
efforts, the invaders finally agree to sign the peace treaty.78
The big difference between the views of Fan and Xue lies in their
divergent understanding of fudao (woman’s way). For Fan, fudao
means exclusively women’s chastity. Since Caiyun, as a courtesan, has
already lost her chastity, her life can contribute nothing of moral sig-
nificance. Fan sets up this overtone at the beginning of his “Former
Melody”: “Since Xi Shi’s lake boat harbored in Suzhou, / Trees of
female chastity all turned into bending willows” /
.79 Caiyun has grown up in a place permeated with
the bad influence of the femme fatale Xi Shi , an influence so
strong that it has transformed all pure girls (trees of female chastity)
into loose women (bending willows).
Unlike Fan, Xue attributes a much broader connotation to fudao, as
Xue concludes in her poem:
The Biographies of Women did not exclude
the vicious and depraved.
The Women’s Way should focus on virtue
and proper manner.
My poem, about that old courtesan, is
composed for the reference

78
Shan Shili (1858–1945) comments on Xue’s “Song of the Old Courte-
san,” saying: “This poem is much more detailed and accurate than Fan Zengxiang’s
‘Melody of Colored Clouds,’ comparable to Wu Weiye’s (1609–1671) ’Mel-
ody of Chen Yuanyuan’ . Yet phrases such as ‘to meet with this young friend’
(wangnian jiao ), ‘treating her to an imperial banquet’ (kai tianpao ),
and ‘taking a photo side by side’ (xie zhaoying ) reveal the poet’s ignorance
about the protocol on diplomatic occasions. . . . In brief, she was misled by the novel
Niehai hua” (quoted in Qian Zhonglian, Qingshi jishi, 22:16011–12). Xue composed
this poem in 1902, and the author of Niehai hua, Zeng Pu, began working on the novel
in 1905. Clearly, Xue could not have been misled by Zeng. On the contrary, both Xue
and Zeng adopted the story from the same origin—the Chen brothers. Hong Jun’s
appointment as the ambassador to Europe from 1888 to 1892, accompanied by Fu
Caiyun, overlapped with Jitong and Shoupeng’s diplomatic career there, and Jitong
was serving as a consul to several European countries. Thus the Chen brothers’ version
of the Fu Caiyun story is comparatively reliable, as can be testified by Xue’s accurate
account of German history and political systems. Zeng Pu, for his part, acknowledged
Chen Jitong as his great inspiration, who stimulated his enthusiasm for literature; see
Zeng’s letter to Hu Shi , in Hushi wencun (Shanghai: Yadong tushu
guan, 1920), juan 8/3:1125–11239. In chapters 31 and 32 of Niehai hua, Zeng used
Jitong’s personal life as his inspiration, describing his love triangle with his French
wife and English lover. He also mentioned Jitong’s acquaintance with Fu Caiyun; see
Niehai hua (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1979), 292–315. Seen in this light,
Xue possibly composed the “Song of the Old Courtesan” under the influence of the
Chen brothers, especially Jitong.
79
Fan Zengxiang, “Melody of Colored Clouds,” 9.7b.
366 chapter eleven

Of the gentlemen who collect folklore to learn

about the world.80
Xue’s fudao focuses on rong (manner) and de (virtue). Caiyun
behaved properly at diplomatic occasions and should, therefore, be
acknowledged as having good manners. She courageously rescued
people at her own risk, and hence demonstrated virtue. Although she
was far from a traditional chaste woman, she ought at least to receive
a favorable evaluation. Xue’s fair attitude possibly resulted from her
compilation of the Waiguo lienü zhuan (Biographies of
foreign women) that she and Shoupeng had begun in 1899. Having
written about other cultures, the Chinese standard could no longer be
presented as the only standard. By the same token, when recounting
foreign women’s lives, conventional Chinese fudao could no longer
suffice as the only basis for evaluation. Xue’s observations of West-
ern women’s moral principles and ideal personalities inspired her to
reconsider the Chinese tradition, and led her to establish her own
understanding of the Women’s Way.81
Xue’s two other poems about the Boxer Rebellion, the “Golden
Well” and “The Old Woman from Fengtai,” examine the lives of Man-
chu women of two very different social groups. The “Golden Well”
imitates Bai Juyi’s (772–846) “Song of Unending Sorrow”
, recounting the story of Emperor Guangxu and his favorite
concubine, Zhenfei (1876-1900), but with a subtlety similar to
Li Shangyin’s (813–858) “Untitled” series. The poet
describes Zhenfei’s death as a suicide: compelled by foreign invaders,
she jumped into the well to die for her emperor and her country. Xue’s
poetic narrative about Zhenfei differs from the broadly circulated
version that had Zhenfei killed by Cixi. She thus changed the cause
of Zhenfei’s death from family conflict to national emergency.82 In
“The Old Woman from Fengtai,” a Manchu wet-nurse recounts the
causes of the Boxer Rebellion, blaming the incident on the stupid, self-
interested Manchu nobles.83

80
Xue Shaohui, “Song of the Old Courtesan,” 2.8b.
81
See Nanxiu Qian, “ ‘Borrowing Foreign Mirrors and Candles to Illuminate Chi-
nese Civilization’: Xue Shaohui’s (1866–1911) Moral Vision in the Biographies of
Foreign Women,” special issue of Nan Nü: Men, Women and Gender in Early and
Imperial China 6.1 (2004): 60–101.
82
See Xue Shaohui, Shiji, 3.22a–23b.
83
See Xue Shaohui, Shiji, 4.1a–3b.
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 367

Upholding the “New Administration”

In 1907, Xue and her whole family moved to Beijing, where she spent
her last four years. Though ill, she never ceased writing. During this
period, most of her attention was still focused on reform. Her “Mis-
cellaneous Poems about Beijing” (No. 3 and No. 4) (1907)
read as follows:
Traffic police wear tidy uniforms as they
serve in rotation;
Vehicles come and go, no need to announce
them.
Merchandise richly displayed, awaiting good
prices;
Livestock lines up, diligently to plough the
fields.
Poles transport electricity along the highways.
Wheels on train tracks head out of the capital.
These pleasant views attract visitors,
With silk whips and shading hats they walk,
on the grass.
Gentle winds mildly blow through the
neighborhoods;
Ministries have abolished the clerk system.84
At tea parties, officials compete to befriend
translators;
To advance in one’s career requires learning
foreign languages.
Students mark numbers on their clothes;85
Vendors fly color flags in front of their shops.
One thing manifests the Sage’s governing:
The court just ended corporal punishment.86

84
The proposal to replace the corrupt clerks (lixu ) with secretaries (shuji
) promoted from scholars is among the eight reform suggestions of the civil service
system presented by Dai Hongci (1853–1910) and Duanfang (1861–
1911) on August 25, 1906. The proposal even mentioned that women secretaries served
effectively at government offices in foreign counties. See Gugong bowuyuan Ming
Qing dang’an bu (The Beijing Palace Museum Archives), ed.,
Qingmo choubei lixian dang’an shiliao (Historical archive of
late Qing preparation for constitutional construction), 2 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua
shuju, 1979), 1:380. This proposal was obviously accepted by the court at the time
when Xue composed the poem in 1907.
85
“Students mark numbers on their clothes,” this must be one of the late Qing
educational reforms, to be further researched.
86
Xue Shaohui, Shiji, 3.16b.
368 chapter eleven

The two poems list a series of otherwise unrelated events, linked by

her poetic talents. Xue uses the rigorous style of the seven-character
regulated poem to mediate the novel terms and noisy chaos in the
modernizing capital, making them read naturally and light-heartedly,
revealing her pleasure and optimism.
Xue’s poems about the political, economic, educational, and tech-
nological changes in the capital, as well as in other big cities like
Shanghai, Nanjing, Guangzhou, Hong Kong, and Tianjin, express her
positive attitude towards reform and new models of governance. The
complicated motivation of the “new administration” (xinzheng )
campaign that Cixi carried out after the Boxer Rebellion awaits more
research and discussion. I am here interested in Xue’s particular excite-
ment about the end of corporal punishment, which Xue had persis-
tently opposed since her early years. For instance, in 1890, her house
in Fuzhou was robbed. After the thief was arrested, she presented a
song lyric to the magistrate, requesting: “Although the administration
has to carry out the law, / Please pass a fair and proper sentence, /
No need for whipping or flogging” /
/ .87 In 1898, during the campaign for women’s educa-
tion, Xue published an article in Nü xuebao, the first Chinese women’s
journal, entitled “Nüjiao yu zhidao xiangguan shuo”
(On the pertinence of women’s education to the principles of
governance). In this article Xue particularly celebrates Ti Ying ,
a young girl of the Han dynasty, who appealed to Emperor Wen
(r. 179–157 BCE) to abolish corporal punishment in order to save her
father. While conventionally Ti Ying has been praised as a filial daugh-
ter, Xue emphasizes her influence on Emperor Wen’s political deci-
sion, and hence sets her up as a role model for women’s participation
in political affairs. Through the example of Ti Ying, Xue firmly points
the way towards women’s political participation in measures they take
to increase care for human life.88
In the poem, “Watching a Circus Show” (1909), Xue cel-
ebrates this newly imported western performance as restaging an
ancient and auspicious Chinese celebration of peace and prosperity,
describing “The myriad beasts dancing in the court” .
Shoupeng mocks Xue’s optimistic tone, pointing out that the Roman

87
Xue Shaohui, Ciji, B.6b.
88
See Xue Shaohui, “Nüjiao yu zhidao xiangguan shuo,” Nü xuebao 3 (1898): 2a.
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 369

Empire invented this sort of show for directing people’s attention

away from the real problems of the state.89 The significance of Xue’s
honest account of their argument lies not in whose opinion is correct,
but in the fact that the wife could and would publicize her argument
with her husband on grand matters such as the country’s destiny and
the popular mood. Evidently emboldened by conversations within the
family, Xue has become outspoken in public. Seen in this light, the
equal status of men and women, which has been taken as the result of
the Western influence after the May Fourth movement, had already
begun during the 1898 reform era.
Indeed, Xue’s political ideals were founded primarily on motherly
considerations. As she built up her body of poems, she also hoped to
design a usable scheme of political reform. Through such means, she
expected that China could peacefully and smoothly transform itself
into a democratic and republican society. In the Waiguo lienü zhuan,
she imaginatively transformed the world of Greco-Roman goddesses
into an ideal women’s republic.90 Such an ideal can also be found in
her poems. Her last long song, “Viewing the Lantern Gathering at the
Front Gate of the Capital” , composed a half year before
her death, provides an example of such a vision:
Frosty moonlight shines over withered trees.
Lanterns, hundreds upon thousands, line up
along the imperial road.
Streets are full of excited people, and pipes
are loudly blowing,
Like glittering stars on tides, tossing here
and there.
...
In the Forbidden City, horses and vehicles
block the streets.
People hold their breath, staring at the light
of lanterns.
I am going home to the east district on a
carriage
But cannot find my way through the crowds.
...
My servant comes to me with the following
words:

89
See Xue Shaohui, Shiji, 4.6b–7b.
90
See Qian, “Borrowing Foreign Mirrors and Candles.”
370 chapter eleven

“The Zhou has chosen a lucky day to reform

Heaven’s mandate.
The palace has announced the imperial edict,
delighting the students.
They are here to celebrate the coming of a
prosperous period.”
I recall when I lived in Shanghai,
Lamplights bobbing in the Huangpu River on
an autumn night.
People were celebrating the hundred-year
democracy of France,
But no one there called attention to its once
hegemonic ambition.
Ruler and people always form their grand
system together,
Managing millet, rice, hemp, silk, and such
commodities.
Although these lanterns look rather
extravagant and luxurious,
How can scholars criticize this celebration
as a waste of resources?
A cold wind suddenly arises, and snowflakes
whirl down.
Stars disappear, the moon sets, and lanterns
are extinguished.
Coming home, I light the lamp and write
down my poem,
On the night of the sixth day, the tenth
month, of the year Gengxu
(November 7, 1910).91
The lantern show, as Xue recounts here, was possibly held in celebration
of two imperial edicts, announced respectively on November 4 and 5,
that proclaimed the opening of parliament in 1913 and appointed
courtiers to draft the constitution and organize the cabinet. Students
in Beijing naturally gathered to celebrate these court-approved reform
programs.92
As manifested in this poem, Xue’s idea of reform embraces sev-
eral value systems. First of all, she advocates Zhouming weixin

91
Xue Shaohui, Shiji, 4.15a–b.
92
See Guo Tingyi , ed., Jindai Zhongguo shishi rizhi: Qing jii
: (Daily records of modern Chinese history: Late Qing), 2 vols. (Taibei:
Shangwu yinshu guan, 1963), 2:1372–13773.
 xue shaohui and her poetic chronicle 371

(Zhou’s reform by the mandate of Heaven)93 and thus associates

reform with the Chinese tradition. Specifically she refers to the Zhou
system that holds the Confucian ideal of wangdao (the king’s
way of benevolence) as the core of governing, in contrast to badao
(hegemony by force) that often results from Western political
reforms. As mentioned in this poem, Xue wrote another poem about
a Shanghai lantern gathering in 1906, in which she celebrated the hun-
dredth anniversary of the French Revolution but criticized Napoléon’s
hegemonic ambition. Xue then combines the Chinese wangdao with
French democracy as the ideal political system for China. This grand
system (dayi ) should be built upon cooperation between the
ruler and the people, in order to ensure the welfare of all.94
Xue’s ideal of reform represented the viewpoints of many gentry
members during the 1898 reform period. In fact, this group of late
Qing gentry, including the Chen brothers and their female relations,
most earnestly discussed China’s reform. They were on the one hand
knowledgeable about Western politics, economics, law, culture, his-
tory, military, science, and technology. For instance, Chen Jitong
was “so familiar with the French politics and the Code Napoleon that
even the very learned scholars of French law could not get the better
of him.”95 Xue Shaohui often referred to France for examples of the
Western tradition. In this she was evidently influenced by her brother-
in-law. On the other hand, these people were all well trained in the
Chinese tradition. Chen Shoupeng, after studying abroad, passed the
civil service examination and obtained the juren degree. They also had
practical experience in managing business in a modern society and
could handle finances, diplomacy, education, and journalism. When
necessary, they would insist upon what they regarded as right, often at
considerable risk. Moreover, they were the first ones to bring women

93
See “Wenwang” (King Wen), Maoshi zhengyi ([Orthodox com-
mentary on] The Book of Songs), juan 16, in Ruan Yuan, ed., Shisanjing zhushu,
1:503.
94
See Xue Shaohui, “Viewing Lamps on the Huangpu River” , in
Shiji, 3.11a–b.
95
Shen Yuqing, “Chen Jitong shilue,” 39.71a. Chen Jitong translated the 1875
French Constitution into the “Liguo lü” (Constitutional law), part of Book I of
the Code Napoleon into “Qijia lü” (Family law), and the 1810 French Press Law
into “Baoguan lü” (Press law) and had them published in various issues of the
Qiushi bao (The International Review), ed. Chen Jitong, Chen Shoupeng, and
Chen Yen, 12 issues, from September 30, 1897 to March 1898, Shanghai.
372 chapter eleven

into the center of reform and to bring women’s voices to the attention
of the public through the newly emergent news media.
Their ideas on reform and their substantial efforts to move China
towards modernity deserve the attention of modern historians. Because
of their insistence on gradual change, however, their voices have long
been eclipsed by the voices of more radical reformers such as Kang
Youwei and Liang Qichao. Thus, regrettably, the rich, complicated
1898 reform movement has been reduced to the Kang-Liang reform
saga in modern Chinese historiography.
In the summer of 1911, Xue Shaohui died of a long-term illness.
Four months later, the Republican revolution took place. The Chinese
intellectual elite replaced a highly refined imperial system with an
instant republic, one more radical than had been originally proposed
by Kang and Liang.
Liang Qichao dismissed both cainü and traditional Chinese poetry
in his “On Education for Women.” Yet it was precisely women of the
cainü type who became most active in the political and educational
reforms of the late Qing period—not merely as men’s followers, but
as independent organizers and thinkers in their own right. It was also
precisely late Qing poetry that most effectively recorded the socio-
political changes of the time and intimately registered the innermost
tumult of each reformer, offering us authentic resources for the study
of the transformation of late Qing China and the Chinese elite. Xue
Shaohui and her poetry stand as outstanding examples of the contri-
butions of cainü and old-style poetry to the reform era.
CONCLUSION
 LITERARY AUTHORSHIP BY LATE IMPERIAL
GOVERNING-CLASS CHINESE WOMEN AND THE
EMERGENCE OF A “MINOR LITERATURE”

Maureen Robertson

Chinese women’s claim to literary authorship in the late imperial

period did not come as a bolt from the blue. Although most often
lacking both the social and the technological means to preserve their
manuscripts for posterity, governing-class women were writing poetry
long before the advent of printing in the late Tang dynasty (618–907).
By the Tang, they were writing in a topical range that overlaps to a sig-
nificant extent with that in late imperial women’s verse, if the poems
by women preserved today in the Quan Tang shi (Complete
Tang poetry) are indicative.1 Still earlier, in the well-known poetic
lament for his deceased wife written by Pan Yue (247–300), one
finds him in grief at her absence, observing the personal things she has
left behind in the boudoir, among which are her writing brush and
ink.2 That these items merit mention suggests that they were valued
and used in her daily private life, and that Pan knew her as a refined
and accomplished person. The pre-Tang women writers most visible
in the written record and cultural memory, such as Ban Jieyu
(ca. 48 BCE–before 6 BCE), Ban Zhao (?–ca. 116), Zuo Fen
(fl. 275), Xie Daoyun (fl. 376), and Han Lanying
(fl. 465), were from prominent families or were associated with the
imperial court, which accounts for the circulation and preservation of
their names and some works attributed to them. I foreground the wife
of Pan Yue here to suggest that there must have been more educated
women who, like her, unknown to us by name and without literary
remains, wrote in the privacy of their rooms.3

1
Quan Tang shi, 25 vols. (Beijing: Zhonghua shuju, 1960). For poetry by women,
see vol. 11, juan 797–805.
2
“Mourning the Deceased: Three Poems” #1, in Wen xuan
(Selections of refined literature), ed. Xiao Tong (526–531; repr., Hong Kong:
Shangwu yinshuguan, 1973), juan 23/p. 500.
3
For a list of pre-Tang women writers’ works and transmitted biographical infor-
mation, see Hu Wenkai , Lidai funü zhuzuo kao (Women’s
376 maureen robertson

For the most part, such domestic authors before the late imperial
period have been shadowy presences, coming into the light only as
rare exceptions when noticed by the court, while talented courtesans
and Buddhist or Daoist women fared slightly better due to their abil-
ity to move in public spaces and thus associate with men and women
who helped secure their reputations as authors.4 The complex set of
enabling conditions that made it possible for literate, governing class
women of the Ming and Qing dynasties to assimilate literary composi-
tion more or less officially to their accomplishments as virtuous and
refined ladies and to be recognized as authors in published bieji
(collected writings) and anthologies has been the subject of study by
an increasing number of scholars since the 1980s. There is now an
impressive body of scholarship that draws upon the writings of these
authors. The sense of discovery concerning the lives and aspirations
of a class of pre-twentieth century Chinese women, conveyed in their
own words, as it were, has been exciting for contemporary scholars, a
feeling seemingly paralleled by the obvious excitement of those Ming
and Qing women writers who pursued their art with great enthusi-
asm.5 They appear to have grasped that as authors, they were taking
part in something new, an unprecedented change in gendered prac-
tices allowing them to become participants in a valued cultural activity
that gave them voice, a sense of self-worth, opportunities for experi-
menting with identity through a variety of textual speaking positions,
and for circulating their works outside family walls in printed form.
Also, as writing took place in exchanges between friends, in women’s
sewing/poetry gatherings, clubs, familial coteries of women, and epis-
tolary networks of dispersed women, it enhanced woman-to-woman
sociality and made for a solidarity that came from mutual support and

writings through the ages) (Shanghai: Shanghai guji chubanshe, 1985), 1–16. Remain-
ing texts in various genres by these women can be found in Yan Kejun , Quan
shanggu sandai Qin Han Sanguo Liuchao wen (Com-
plete prose of the Three Dynasties of high antiquity, Qin, Han, Three Kingdoms, and
Six Dynasties) (Beijing: Zhonghua, 1965).
4
See Beata Grant, “Chan Friends: Poetic Exchanges between Gentry Women and
Buddhist Nuns in Seventeenth-Century China” in this volume.
5
This excitement was observed by Nancy Armstrong, who in her “Postface” to the
volume of essays from the conference “Women and Literature in Ming-Qing China,”
held at Yale in 1993, commented that “A peculiarly self-conscious exuberance colored
the way in which the presenters at the Yale conference went about turning over new
cultural-historical ground.” Women and Writing in Late Imperial China, ed. Ellen
Widmer and Kang-I Sun Chang (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1993), 398.
 literary authorship by late imperial governing-class 377

shared commitment to an activity that, while approved in some quar-

ters, might draw strong criticism from others as injurious to fude
(women’s virtue). For women writers, other women were their most
devoted readers and serious supporters. Indeed, in a longer perspec-
tive, one recognizes that something on the order of a new conscious-
ness among writing women, collectively, was forming, albeit in the
midst of some ambivalence and mixed messages from both men and
women, and that what was once begun could not be undone.
The visibility and productivity of the late imperial writing woman
had brought “difference” visibly onto the scene of the literati textual
monoculture. Women’s writing became a site where women might
aspire to expand their cultural role; for the courtesans of late Ming
it might lead to social mobility and for governing-class women it was
a site lodged within the family, where men could not avoid recogniz-
ing and perhaps even taking pride in the literary activities of family
women, though limits were imposed that always made domestic duties
their first priority. In strict Confucian gentry families women’s educa-
tion might be confined to the arts and skills of household management
and there would be no opportunity for women to learn to write well.
However, many families negotiated an adjustment in gendered practice
by aligning women’s literature rhetorically and ritually with virtue—in
this view, publication of a family woman’s poems could be understood
as a ritual of filiality; a wife’s pursuit of poetry could be seen as fitting
her for a wifely duty as leisure-time companion to her husband; a
daughter’s graceful lyrics might add to her value in a marriage match,
or put an extra gleam in the lustre of a family tradition of learning; a
widow who was a poet could find moving ways of expressing her grief
and sustaining the memory of her husband. Personal testimony by the
authors might, however, hint at a deep commitment to the art itself.
Social historians today, drawing in part on the literary works of
these late imperial authors (primarily poetry, but also drama, prose
fiction, the essay, prosimetric narrative tanci,6 travel writing, and for-
mal, occasional prose forms such as eulogies and obituaries)7 have
acquired a resource rarely available until relatively recent times: the
textual voices of many “real” pre-twentieth-century Chinese women,

6
See Siao-chen Hu’s “War, Violence, and the Metaphor of Blood in Tanci Narra-
tives by Women Authors” in this volume.
7
See Anne E. McLaren’s “Lamenting the Dead: Women’s Performance of Grief in
Late Imperial China” in this volume.
378 maureen robertson

speaking for themselves. Scholars have produced a wealth of scholar-

ship devoted to women’s domestic and social experience, contextualiz-
ing the women’s writings in ways that provide for fuller understanding
of their import. Scholars across the disciplines have published studies
of women and the law, women and property, studies of foot-binding,
courtesans’ lives, women’s conduct books, women in religion, mothers
and children, widowhood, suicide, and many other social and cultural
circumstances and practices that reveal the experiences of women.
Scholars of literature and culture are thus better able to approach the
interpretation of the literature of late imperial women writers as a
literary art with greater confidence, though in this area there is still
much work to be done.
Questions and issues surrounding the literary status of Ming and
Qing women’s poetry and other writings have emerged. For example:
What can we say about the relationship between women’s literary prac-
tice and that of the dominant tradition of literati writing? What topi-
cal areas came to be developed specifically in women’s writing? How
can a writer from a socially subordinated group speak in texts with
authority? Who or what “confers” authority in the Chinese literary
system? Can women’s poetry, prose, or drama in general be judged to
be as technically accomplished as those of most literati? In what ways
did the “vernacularization” of later imperial Chinese literary culture
influence the writings of women? How did women adapt established
mainstream dramatic and poetic scenarios and subgenres to express
their own concerns and interests? And how might their own stories
have been appropriated by other interests in these same media?8 What
obstacles lie in the way of formulation of a late imperial women’s liter-
ary canon? In what ways does the process by which Chinese women
at length attained authorship and voice compare with that of West-
ern women’s access to textuality, at roughly the same world-historical
time? (This will call for comparative cultural/literary studies.)9 What
is the place of Ming and Qing women’s poetry, drama, prose fiction

8
See Wei Hua, “From Private Life to Public Performances: The Constituted Mem-
ory and (Re)writings of the Early-Qing Woman Wu Zongai” in this volume.
9
See Wendy Wall, “Dancing in a Net: The Problems of Female Authorship,” in
The Imprint of Gender: Authorship and Publication in the English Renaissance (Ithaca
and London: Cornell University Press, 1993), 279–340. Wall discusses, among other
issues, the masculinization of the domain of literature, the sexualization of women’s
public voices, and women’s anxieties about the publication of their sonnets in Eng-
land, 1557–1621.
 literary authorship by late imperial governing-class 379

and tanci in the history of Chinese literature? While the essays in the
present volume have addressed several of these questions, there are,
of course, many more issues that will call for future investigation as
we explore women’s literature more thoroughly as part of Chinese
literary culture.
In the study of women’s extant writing as an art it will be impor-
tant to give attention especially to the “writerly” character of this
body of texts and its voices, which are specifically literary mediations
of women’s consciousness.10 Understanding the constructedness of
poetic voices, readers learn to recognize and interpret complex verbal
expressions produced intentionally by such literary strategies as image
coding, allusion, irony, and intertextuality. They will be aware of the
distinct usages belonging to specific topical and thematic subgenres,
spot intentional manipulations of established conventions that create
new meanings or subtexts. Literature is the voice, or the many voices,
of a culture, and there is a skill to how one listens.
Access to women’s texts is improving, lists of holdings in rare book
collections now on line in major libraries in China and Taiwan, access
to relevant materials in Japanese libraries, reprinting of some materi-
als, and the creation of online databases and access to the texts such
as the McGill-Harvard-Yenching Ming-Qing Women’s Writings web-
site. Online Chinese and Japanese journals that give access to current
Asian scholarship on relevant topics are available. It is now time for
more studies of individual authors’ extant full collections, using elec-
tronic tools where possible to navigate in a writer’s corpus.11 Read-
ing in complete collections is a corrective to possibly misleading or
incomplete impressions created in anthologies, where the preferences
of editors, a poem’s length, or the ease of editorial “borrowing” from
other anthologies may dictate the selection of poems included for a
given author.12 To point to an obvious example, poems addressed to
friends constitute a staple category in literati bieji, reflecting the high
value placed on the Confucian relationship of friendship. Women’s

10
A point underscored in Grace Fong’s “Writing and Illness: A Feminine Condi-
tion in Women’s Poetry of the Ming and Qing” in this volume.
11
As we see in Robyn Hamilton’s “The Unseen Hand: Contextualizing Luo Qilan
and Her Anthologies” in this volume.
12
Anthologies are absolutely essential, of course, to our knowledge of those authors
for whom no extant collection exists. Anthologies by women are the subject of Ellen
Widmer’s “Retrieving the Past: Women Editors and Women’s Poetry, 1636–1941” in
this volume.
380 maureen robertson

poetry selected for anthologies edited by men rarely reflects the large
proportion of poems to friends usually found in women’s bieji, thus
giving the impression that friendship poems are few, or that some lite-
rati editors found little of interest in women’s friendships, regarding
them as unimportant relationships.
Careful studies and interpretation of individual writers’ collections
will be useful to scholars across the disciplines as well as to others
interested in the literature and culture of China. Fair assessments of
an author’s range and quality depend, of course, on knowledge of the
complete extant collection wherever possible. This is also the basis
upon which to identify strong writers with texts of high literary qual-
ity. We know that some authors’ commitment to composition was life-
long; they worked creatively and consistently to develop their talent,
at times reflecting critically on their own and others’ writing. Some
achieved recognition for their writing especially, but not necessarily
exclusively, among their women readers. Such authors may be candi-
dates for inclusion in a future revision of the history of Chinese litera-
ture that will include Ming and Qing women.13
With a small number of exceptions, talented women writers’ works
did not achieve full recognition and parity with those of their male
counterparts during the late imperial period. Setting aside the bar-
riers created by a gendered division of labor that produced strictly
disciplined domestic roles for women and the economic need that
worked to keep women focused on domestic service and reproduction,
the most important reason for this appears to have been the deeply
ingrained general belief that women were “naturally” subordinate and
weak, as a group unable “by nature” to achieve the intellectual rigor
or the literary brilliance attainable by men. Direct personal experience
to the contrary seems not to have affected this stereotype; one’s own
family women could always be described as exceptions. Since men’s
learning and writing skills were keys of entry to the prestigious civil
service system and the economic and status rewards that resulted, the
utility of men’s study and writing was obvious. Women’s writing, by
contrast could appear “useless,” and to some as merely frivolous or
worse.

13
Wang Duanshu, who comes up in several papers in this volume, would be an
example of what I have in mind. See especially Wai-yee Li, “Women Writers and
Gender Boundaries during the Ming-Qing Transition.”
 literary authorship by late imperial governing-class 381

But despite the lack of parity, I would suggest that for the several
generations of Ming and Qing writing women who negotiated assent
and support for their continued pursuit of learning and literature,
there was a gradual transition or expansion of the site of women’s
authorship from familial tutelage/coterie/manuscript sharing, to print
and public—even commercial circulation in a series devoted to women
authors for some—followed in the late Qing and early twentieth cen-
tury by direct political engagement. In some respects, Ming and Qing
women’s authorship can be understood as an historically transforma-
tive process that prepared many authors in the later generations with
the ability to rapidly adjust, to seek education, to speak out, and to
meet such challenges as the urgent need for the creation of new liter-
ary and political forms and ideals, and the abrupt fading and outright
rejection of guixiu (cultivated lady) culture in the early decades
of the twentieth century. In the last decades of the nineteenth century,
women were already beginning to participate in political life; their
daughters would be positioned to help carry out literature’s mission
to record the impact of engagement with modernizing forces. This
became possible even for those whose literary practice might remain
in some respects still indebted to pre-twentieth century forms.14
I wish to return now to the earlier list of questions and issues that
were offered here as examples of some topics waiting to be explored
in further studies of Ming and Qing women’s literature. With the aim
of locating a model that offers a way to think about Ming and Qing
women’s writing from a broader perspective, I will take up the final
question: what is the place of Ming and Qing women’s writing in the
history of Chinese literature? As a tentative theoretical venture, I enlist
the concept of “minor literature” as elaborated and positively valo-
rized by French philosopher-critics Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari
in their well-known 1986 study of Franz Kafka and also in an inter-
view with Deleuze by Antonio Negri in 1990.15 Though this may at
first seem an unlikely conjunction, the model generated by Deleuze

14
See Susan Mann’s “The Lady and the State: Women’s Writing in Times of Trou-
ble during the Nineteenth Century,” Guotong Li’s “Imagining History and the State:
Fujian Guixiu (Genteel Ladies) at Home and on the Road,” and Nanxiu Qian, “Xue
Shaohui and Her Poetic Chronicle of Late Qing Reforms.”
15
Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, Kafka: Toward a Minor Literature, trans. Dana
Polan, Theory and History of Literature Series, vol. 30 (Minneapolis: University of
Minnesota Press, 1986). See also Ronald Bogue, Deleuze on Literature (New York and
London: Routledge, 2003), and Gilles Deleuze, “Control and Becoming: Gilles Deleuze
382 maureen robertson

and Guattari has had some success in studies of post-colonial writers

who employ the former colonizer’s language, using it with strategic
differences that enable articulation of their own concerns.16 As theo-
rized, the concept of “minor” also reveals a space of relative freedom
and creativity belonging to the minor position. I will outline the main
aspects of this critical concept of minority literature with quotations
from the Kafka study, together with my observations on their relevance
to thinking about the positioning of late imperial women’s writing in
Chinese literary history.
The definition of “minority” given by Deleuze and Guattari has
nothing to do with relative size or number; rather, “minority” is ulti-
mately a site for realizing the potential of historical change.
The notion of minority is very complex, with musical, literary, linguis-
tic, as well as juridical and political references. The opposition between
minority and majority is not simply quantitative. Majority implies a con-
stant, of expression or content, serving as a standard measure by which
to evaluate it . . . [using the example of the average, white, adult, hetero-
sexual European male who speaks a “standard” language, for instance].
It is obvious that “man” holds the majority, even if he is less numerous
than mosquitos, children, women, blacks, peasants, and homosexuals,
etc. That is because he appears twice, once in the constant and again in
the variable from which the constant is extracted. Majority assumes a
state of power and domination, not the other way around. It assumes
the standard measure, not the other way around. . . . A minor literature
doesn’t come from a minor language; it is rather that which a minority
constructs within a major language out of the impossibility of writing
otherwise.17
A minority literature is associated with the “non-standard,” or non-
dominant, non-normative, and is written in a language that is of the

in Conversation with Antonio Negri,” trans. Martin Joughin (1991). http://www.gen-

eration-online.org/p/fpdeleuze3.htm. First published in Futur Anterieur 1 (1990).
16
See Reda Bensmaia, “ ‘Translating or Whiting Out Language’: on Khatibi’s Amour
bilingue,” in his Experimental Nations: On the Invention of the Mahgreb, translated
from French by Alyson Waters (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003), 99–147.
Especially relevant here will be the book, Deleuze and the Postcolonial, edited by Paul
Patten and Simone Bignall, May 2010 from the University of Edinburgh Press in its
Deleuze series. Chapters include essays by Bensmaia and Rey Chow; the book will be
distributed in North America by Columbia University Press.
17
Deleuze, quoted in The Deleuze Reader, edited with an introduction by Consta-
tin V. Boundas (New York and Oxford: Columbia University Press, 1993), 149–150.
Reprinted from Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism
and Schizophrenia (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987).
 literary authorship by late imperial governing-class 383

dominant but formed differently due to a necessity that springs from

some difference in position. Minority writers cannot speak their posi-
tion in the language of the dominant. This impossibility may come
from their language being in the “wrong” place, not having a place;
there is a problematic relation to the language that must be used, and
yet it is impossible to write otherwise, to not write in that language.
What results will be non-normative and therefore perceived by the
majority as flawed.
For Deleuze, a minor literature is recognized by its three primary
features: “The first characteristic of minor literature is . . . that in it lan-
guage is affected with a high coefficient of deterritorialization.”18 This
latter invented term refers to how the person who would write is either
literally separated from the place of his/her native language and the
culture that is sustained by it, or the person does not have a legitimate
territory, “ground,” or place from which to speak within the language/
culture to be used, even if that language is his/her “native” language.
We may think here of a colonized people who must learn the colo-
nizers’ language but have no rightful way to speak with authority in
that language, and certainly under the circumstances not in the native
language, either. Or one could consider the less dramatic example of a
Chinese woman whose words are under constraint and whose literary
writing must make use of a literary Chinese which was developed over
many centuries to represent masculine consciousness, experiences,
and expressive needs. Chinese women were taught in conduct books
that they should not talk too much or learn too many characters. Their
language does not have a (right) place.
When women began to engage more broadly in literary composi-
tion, issues of power and authority and the preservation of gendered
social arrangements arose in response to the threat or impropriety of
women transgressing upon a masculine domain. It can be seen here
also that one effect of the emergence of minoritarian writing is to
implicitly change the meaning of the established majority canon, with
the intrusion and existence of “difference from.” Questions of owner-
ship or power over a specific, core cultural activity may ensue.
The second characteristic of minor literatures is that everything in them
is political. In major literatures, in contrast, the individual concern
(familial, marital, and so on) joins with other no less individual con-
cerns, the social serving as a mere environment or a background . . . all

18
Deleuze and Guattari, Kafka, 16.
384 maureen robertson

becomes as one as in a large space. Minor literature is completely differ-

ent, its cramped space forces each individual intrigue to connect imme-
diately to politics [lack of power, agency, and access, or how to cope
with the power of the “major” text or language.] The individual concern
thus becomes all the more necessary, indispensable, magnified, because
a whole other story is vibrating within it.19
Literati who complained that women’s literature was “too personal”
(meaning, not touching on dayi , “higher principles” that elevated
the speaker above “purely personal” concerns) did not realize that this
was part of its political import. While women might be expected to
be heroic in regard to the great principle (dayi) of chastity, placing it
above their own personal welfare, or even survival, in life and in writ-
ing, they had difficulty employing the rhetorical strategies that tied
men’s personal poetic complaints to a more ennobled frame of refer-
ence. Due to their subordinate roles in the Confucian social order and
their historically lower profile as authors, there was no canon of liter-
ary or political same-sex “great masters” they could invoke as forbears
to lift their condition from that of the purely personal. There were, of
course, the idealized, virtuous female icons of high antiquity—wives
of the ancient kings of Zhou and certain model figures in the Han
dynasty Lienü zhuan (Biographies of women)—but these lat-
ter were largely heroes or martyrs to a principle of women’s virtue,
and they could not easily be summoned to historicize and ennoble all
of women’s sorrows and joys. For writing women, Ban Zhao and Xie
Daoyun were suitable choices, but the high frequency with which these
two figures were referred to obscures the fact that neither model could
provide later women with strong support from their literary works,
due to the losses in transmission over the many centuries. The reality
of the disparity of men’s and women’s personal political power is evi-
dent in the long period of what might be called tutelage that women
experienced as authors. While they served as literary mentors and
teachers for their young daughters, junior wives and children in the
household, there were very few adult women who did not have men as
teachers in addition, usually family relatives or in some cases local lit-
erary figures; the literary coteries of women headed by literary figures
such as Chen Wenshu (1771–1843), Ren Zhaolin (fl.
1781), Wang Yu (fl. 1785), and Yuan Mei (1716–1797) are

19
Deleuze and Guattari, Kafka, 17.
 literary authorship by late imperial governing-class 385

well documented. Late Ming poets Lu Qingzi (fl. 1596), Shen

Yixiu (1590–1635) and Ming-Qing Wang Duanshu
(1621–1706), whose literary abilities outshone those of their husbands,
are among the few acknowledged exceptions.
Deleuze’s final primary characteristic of a minor literature is the
corporate nature of its membership:
The third characteristic of minor literature is that in it everything takes
on a collective value. Indeed, because talent isn’t abundant [no recorded
history as a procession of great writers, no canon] in a minor literature,
there are no possibilities for an individuated enunciation that would
belong to this or that “master” and that could be separated from a collec-
tive enunciation. Indeed, scarcity of talent is in fact beneficial and allows
the conception of something other than a literature of masters . . . what
each author says individually already constitutes a common action, and
what he or she says or does is necessarily political, even if others aren’t
in agreement. [A minor literature is] literature that produces an active
solidarity in spite of skepticism; and if the writer is in the margins or
completely outside his or her fragile community, this situation allows
the writer all the more the possibility to express another possible com-
munity and to forge the means for another consciousness and another
sensibility; . . .20
Deleuze and Guattari write for our age, one that continues to see its
revolutions, and minoritarian theory develops in their hands as an
analysis of the power of the minor to alter history through revolution-
ary practices, among them the literary. The concept of minor literature
speaks knowingly to the desire and the position of the marginalized,
where creative change can begin, a position that may have some inter-
est as we reflect on what amounts to a deliberate and extended revo-
lutionary process for Chinese women, as they gradually came into full
voice and recognition as authors in the twentieth century. Thus, I have
often thought of the body of work written by Ming and Qing women
as China’s late imperial minor tradition, one that belongs not just to
women; it occupies a crucially important place in Chinese literary
history and was created by many remarkable women, as well as men
whose bonds of affection or interest in anthologizing or recognition of
talent made them accomplices to social change.
We cannot say that all late imperial educated women consciously
contributed to forging this tradition; there were many who seem

20
Deleuze and Guattari, Kafka, 17.
386 maureen robertson

to have been focused entirely on achieving competence in terms of

established literati norms. But without being aware of it they even so
brought to their work the involuntary tics and textures of their own
gendered consciousness and perspectives, and were perhaps unknow-
ingly acting in solidarity with their collective, for collective it was.
Even when literati men were ready to “make exceptions” for their own
family women, in doing so, they implicitly acknowledged, by that very
gesture, the minority status of late imperial women’s literature.
In Deleuze’s vision, the minor is situated in a state or process of
“becoming.” Every minor, he says, desires to become major—to be
authorized, to solve the problem of language, which, in pre-modern
literatures, is inseparable from the problem of gender. From their
minor position, however, writers may access a kind of freedom to
“become,” and in that process precipitate innovation, difference, and
change within both the minor and the major. The position of these
writers is unlike that of writers belonging to the dominant, who are
more burdened with the demands of the “constant, the standard,” hav-
ing a backward-looking reverence for masters of the past that can close
off difference. The Ming and Qing women’s writing community, and
each member in it, occupied a potentially productive position in rela-
tion to the “constants” of the literati majority. We are still discovering
the many ways in which it was participating in a process of “becom-
ing” as it persisted in aspiring toward major status and succeeded in
producing both a diverse and illuminating body of literature and posi-
tive historical change.
 THE INNER QUARTERS AND BEYOND:
WOMEN WRITERS FROM MING THROUGH QING AND ITS
DELIBERATIONS ON A “MINOR LITERATURE”

Ellen Widmer

To continue Robertson’s line of argument, in what sense or senses

does the current volume reveal the capacity of the minor to be engaged
in a process of becoming? The Ming and Qing are long gone, but the
work of interpreting them continues. Even though we scholars cannot
substitute our voices or aspirations for those of the players we describe,
we can join a contemporary project of rethinking that has helped to
bring Ming-Qing governing-class women and their male supporters
out of the marginal positions they once occupied. Remarkable bibli-
ographies like Hu Wenkai’s Lidai funü zhuzuo kao (Women’s writings
through the ages) and databases such as the McGill-Harvard Ming-
Qing Women’s Writings website are important tools in this rethinking,
as are the many volumes and articles of the past twenty years from
China and elsewhere around the world.
Many of the chapters in this volume are in implicit or explicit
dialogue with the condescending attitudes toward talented women
expressed by early twentieth-century writers, such as Liang Qichao.
Using the voice of Xue Shaohui, Nanxiu Qian actively disputes Liang’s
view of gentry women as lazy and frivolous, and she shows how Xue
herself, arguably a women of “the cainü type,” led the way toward
political and educational reform in the late Qing. Susan Mann’s arti-
cle likewise demonstrates ways in which nineteenth-century women’s
writings, far from confining themselves to the women’s quarters, took
up matters of statecraft and national policy and gave full voice to the
horrors of war. These two projects are paralleled by the work of Guo-
tong Li, whose Fujian guixiu showed themselves fully capable of imag-
ining China as a polity and understanding themselves as members of
a province, clan, and family within that polity as they accompanied
their husbands to and from the capital. Without mentioning Liang
Qichao directly, Wai-yee Li raises similar objections to the view that
gentry women were passive or frivolous, though her subject matter is
the late Ming and early Qing. Her project brings out ways in which
388 ellen widmer

national calamity stirred women poets to action, at least the action

of words. The swords they wave metaphorically can at times express
women’s frustrations with the roles to which their gender has con-
signed them, but these writers’ martial imagery can also be viewed
as a loyalist rebuke to weak and wayward males. Whichever the case,
these seventeenth-century women are demonstrably as public-spirited
as their nineteenth-century counterparts and as disinclined to main-
tain silence in the face of dynastic decline.
Other chapters focus less on moments of crisis but still work to
retrieve their subjects from the shadows. Hamilton’s chapter on Luo
Qilan documents the individuality and talent of this eighteenth-
century writer, editor, and painter. It places her in a context that
includes well-placed men like Yuan Mei and Wang Wenzhi, from
whom she learned, and women friends whose work she aimed to pro-
mote. Both types of acquaintance were included in her anthologies.
Widmer takes up editing from another angle. Like Luo Qilan, the
women editors of whom she writes believed in the creative powers
of women. Most understood editing as a kind of outreach, a way of
achieving the immortality of print for women who faced much greater
odds than their male counterparts in learning how to write in the first
place and then in having their writings preserved. Like Luo Qilan’s,
their efforts can be seen as minoritarian in the sense Deleuze means.
Grant’s chapter on religious women takes us back to the late Ming
and early Qing. It introduces a set of writings that might be deemed
a minor literature within a minor literature, because scholarship to
date has had so little to say about them. Despite the frequent (though
marginally illicit) interactions of the religious and guixiu communi-
ties, one sometimes finds that the guixiu overlooked the disadvantages
of religious life and focused envious attention on the nuns’ greater
freedom to write and travel. This reaction can probably be taken as
another sign of the frustrations some of them experienced with the
strictures under which they lived. Grant’s chapter aims to bring dig-
nity and understanding to the mysteries of religious existence and to
sweep away some of the misunderstandings that have endured.
A third group of essays emphasizes the ways in which men’s and
women’s literatures differ. Prominent among these is Siao-chen Hu’s
chapter on tanci, a genre sometimes used by men but best known today
as the women’s equivalent of xiaoshuo fiction. Another way of describ-
ing the form is as a narrativization of history, often as a metaphor for
contemporary politics, but from a woman’s point of view. Much could
 the inner quarters and beyond 389

be learned by comparing the treatment of war in this chapter with that

in Wai-yee Li’s or Susan Mann’s, but my emphasis here is on the gen-
eralities that can be advanced about this “feminine” form. Love of vari-
ous kinds is a constant in this literature, whereas martial matters and
believable violence became more prominent when the author herself
had lived through war. Tanci have occupied an ambiguous position in
the canon and are easy to dismiss as “mere” women’s literature. This
treatment brings out the interest and complexity of the form. Anne
McLaren’s chapter, too, considers a form of performance and writ-
ing that is closely associated with women writers. It is explicit in its
effort to counteract twentieth-century views that denigrate women’s
literature as limited in content and inauthentic in expression. This case
is presented via analogies to other forms of mourning, among them
kusang performances—the actual laments for the dead, as practiced
by lower class women. Such performances were perceived as “inau-
thentic,” McLaren notes, in that they were highly ritualized and thus
a step removed from spontaneous emotions. McLaren demonstrates
that when late Ming women took up writing poems of mourning they
were innovative in appropriating the venerable daowang shi to new
uses. She closes with the complex point that although the women she
discusses saw themselves as writing like men, the men that interpreted
their work saw them as “irretrievably female.” This interpretive after-
math may be one reason that the innovative qualities of this writing
have been overlooked for so long. Grace Fong’s chapter on poetry
about illness is another that comments on men’s and women’s literary
practice. One part of its subject is the gendered etiquette of describing
what is actually wrong when a person is ill. And although the chapter
is very much about literary descriptions as opposed to actual illness, it
makes the interesting point that women who were ill claimed a certain
benefit from their condition, a greater freedom to engage in literary
activity. (This point runs somewhat parallel to Grant’s point about the
freedoms nuns were thought to enjoy in their lives outside the typical
Confucian home.) Such a benefit would never have been claimed by
men, who needed no such excuse to put pen to paper. This type of
illness poem is contrasted with the aestheticized femininity that one
finds in ci poetry, where women take on added beauty for being ill.
The prevalence of illness poems by women becomes for Fong another
example of the need governing-class women had to find personal space
in their family-dominated lives.
390 ellen widmer

Wei Hua, finally, takes a rather different approach, albeit one that
sheds light on the other chapters. Her chapter is a meditation on
how the life and writings of an individual woman writer could be
appropriated and rewritten to serve the purposes of male writers. A
seventeenth-century woman poet, Wu Zongai was rediscovered and
essentially rewritten (through paratexts) in the nineteenth century in
order to realize ambitions quite different from what her poems seem
to say. The subsequent reeditions of her work, plus a biography and
a drama about her life, emphasize her wifely virtue rather than her
personal thoughts and could, in that sense, be said to have moved
her from a private to a public (or a feminine to a masculine) world.
Processes like the ones Hua describes are visibly at work in several
other chapters, for example, McLaren’s. Such tussles over genders and
meanings can be seen as well in the reverse process by which McLaren
and others attempt to “restore” women writers to what seem to have
been their original emphases.
Robertson’s piece was written long after the conference, so that
the other participants wrote their chapters with no knowledge of it,
but it is remarkable how aptly it illuminates many of their concerns.
There are of course many other facets of these chapters that cannot so
easily be put under the rubric “minoritarian literature.” This is most
obviously the case with the chapters, or parts of chapters, that portray
women in their non-literary moments: as painters, embroiderers, or
performers of mourning rituals. Whether a woman worked within a
respected medium, such as painting, or a “lesser craft” like embroidery,
she would still have confronted many of the issues faced by women in
their more purely literary moments. This volume finds its chief ratio-
nale in illuminating these issues and in addressing female talent across
a wide range of genres.
 ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

Grace S. Fong is Professor of Chinese Literature at McGill Univer-

sity in Canada. She has published widely on classical Chinese poetry
and women’s writings in late imperial China. She is project editor of
the online digital archive Ming Qing Women’s Writings (http://digital.
library.mcgill.ca/mingqing, launched in 2005) and author of Herself an
Author: Gender, Agency, and Writing in Late Imperial China (2008).

Beata Grant teaches pre-modern Chinese literature and religion at

Washington University in St. Louis. She is the author (with Wilt L.
Idema) of The Red Brush: Women Writers of Imperial China (Harvard
Asia Center, 2004), Daughters of Emptiness: Poems by Chinese Bud-
dhist Nuns (Wisdom Publications, 2003), and most recently, Eminent
Nuns: Women Chan Masters of Seventeenth-Century China (Hawai’i
University Press, 2008). She has also published articles on questions of
religion and gender in both popular ballads and classical poetry.

Robyn Hamilton is an independent scholar associated with the Univer-

sity of Auckland. Her PhD in 2003 on the late Qing revolutionary Qiu
Jin is from the University of Melbourne. Her research on Luo Qilan
began fifteen years ago and has broadened to include other women
from the same period.

Siao-chen Hu is Research Fellow of the Institute of Chinese Lit-

erature and Philosophy, Academia Sinica, in Taiwan. She has done
research in the fields of Ming-Qing narrative literature, women’s lit-
erature, and modern (early Republican) literature. She is the author
of Cainü cheye weimian: Jjindai zhongguo nüxing xushi wenxue di
xingqi (Burning the midnight oil: The rise of female narrative in
early modern China) (2003) and Xin lixiang jiu tili yü buke siyi zhi
shehui: Qingmo minchu shanghai chuantong pai wenren yü guixiu
zuojia di zhuanxing xianxiang (New ideals, old forms and a society
that is beyond understanding: Men and women writers of the “tra-
ditional” school in the transitional period of the late Qing and early
Republican era).
392 about the contributors

Wei Hua is Professor in the Department of Chinese Language and

Literature at the Chinese University of Hong Kong. She is the author
of Ming-Qing funü zhi xiqu chuangzuo yu piping (The dramatic works
and criticisms by women of late imperial China) and co-editor of Caizi
Mudan ting, a unique commentary on the Peony Pavilion by an early
Qing married couple. She has also published an anthology of women’s
plays in late imperial China (Ming-Qing funü xiqu ji). Currently she is
at work on a reference book about classical drama of the Qing era.

Guotong Li was educated at Peking University (B.A.), the National

University of Singapore (M.A.), and the University of California,
Davis (Ph.D.). She is presently an assistant professor at California
State University, Long Beach. She is the author of several articles (in
English and Chinese), including “The Consciousness of Responsibility
and ‘Immortality’ in Women’s Writings in Late Imperial China,” in
Yenching Journal of Chinese Studies (2006), and co-editor of Selected
Biographies by Hu Shih (1999).

Wai-yee Li is professor of Chinese literature at Harvard University. She

is the author of Enchantment and Disenchantment: Love and Illusion
in Chinese Literature (1993) and The Reabability of the Past in Early
Chinese Historiogrpahy (2007). She contributed essays to Trauma and
Transcendence in Early Qing Literature (2006), which she co-edited
with Ellen Widmer and Wilt Idema. Her translation of Zuozhuan, in
collaboration with Stephen Durrant and David Schaberg, will be pub-
lished by the University of Washington Press.

Anne E. McLaren is an Associate Professor in Chinese language, lit-

erature and cultural studies at the Asia Institute, University of Mel-
bourne, Australia. Her research interests include popular narratives,
storytelling, drama and print culture in late imperial China, with a
focus on the interface between the oral and written traditions. She
is the author of Chinese Popular Culture & Ming Chantefables (Brill,
1998), the editor of Chinese Women: Living & Working (Routledge,
2004) and co-editor (with Antonia Finnane) of Dress, Sex & Text in
Chinese Culture (Monash Asia Institute, 1999). Her latest book is Per-
forming Grief: Bridal Laments in Rural China (University of Hawai’i
Press, 2008).
 about the contributors 393

Susan Mann teaches Chinese history at the University of California,

Davis. A past president of the Association for Asian Studies, she is
the author of Precious Records: Women in China’s Long Eighteenth
Century (Stanford University Press, 1997) and The Talented Women of
the Zhang Family (University of California Press, 2007); and co-editor
(with Yu-Yin Cheng) of Under Confucian Eyes: Writings on Gender
in Chinese History (University of California Press, 2001). She is pres-
ently writing a book on the gender and sexuality in modern Chinese
history.

Nanxiu Qian is Associate Professor of Chinese Literature at Rice Uni-

versity. Her recent publications include Different Worlds of Discourse:
Transformations of Gender and Genre in Late Qing and Early Repub-
lican China (co-edited with Grace Fong and Richard J. Smith, 2008);
Chinese Literature: Conversations between Tradition and Modernity
(co-edited with Zhang Hongsheng, 2007); Xue Jia yin (Chanting fol-
lowing Jia), by Chen Jitong (1852–1907) (edited with an introduction,
2005); Beyond Tradition and Modernity: Gender, Genre, and Cosmo-
politanism in Late Qing China (co-edited with Grace Fong and Harriet
Zurndorfer, 2004); and Spirit and Self in Medieval China: The Shih-
shuo hsin-yü and Its Legacy (2001).

Maureen Robertson teaches in the Department of Asian and Slavic

Languages and Literatures and the Department of Cinema and Com-
parative Literature at the University of Iowa, where she also directs
the M.F.A. Program in Literary Translation. She has published studies
of medieval Chinese poetry, poetics, literary criticism, and the liter-
ary culture of late imperial Chinese women, as well as translations of
medieval and late imperial Chinese poetry. She is working on a vol-
ume of essays on artistry and politics in the collected works of selected
Ming and Qing literary women.

Ellen Widmer is Professor of Chinese Studies at Wellesley College. She

is the author of The Margins of Utopia: Shui-hu hou-chuan and the
Literature of Ming Loyalism (Harvard East Asia Monograph Series,
1987) and The Beauty and the Book: Women and Fiction in Nineteenth
Century China (Asia Center Publications, Harvard, 2006). She has
co-edited four other volumes: From May Fourth to June Fourth: Fic-
tion and Film in Twentieth-Century China (Harvard, 1993, with David
394 about the contributors

Wang), Writing Women in Late Imperial China (Stanford, 1997, with

Kang-i Sun Chang), Trauma and Transformation in Early Qing Litera-
ture (Asia Center Publication Series, Harvard, 2003, with Wilt Idema
and Wai-yee Li), and China’s Christian Colleges: Cross-Cultural Con-
nections (Stanford, 2009, with Daniel Bays). She also writes on Chinese
book culture.
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 INDEX

Page numbers followed by “f ” refer to figures; by “t,” to tables.

Anderson, Benedict 315, 324 biluan (fleeing the fighting) poems

Anfu xianzhi 189 285, 297–302
anthologies, see also Luo Qilan Bishenghua (Qiu Xinru) 251, 271
biographical notes on poets 93, 97, blood, see also war imagery
107–108 as metaphor 267
female compilers 3–4, 23, 81–82, 93, oaths 275
103–105, 108, 388 spitting up 273, 274–275
feminine tradition preserved 87, 92, in tanci 264–266, 272, 273, 275
105 Bo Shaojun 68–75, 77
geographical coverage 96–97, 103, bodies, female, see also bound feet;
337 illnesses
late-Ming 22–23 beauty 30
male compilers 3, 23, 99, 103–104, effects of illness 34, 39
379–380 book collecting, see libraries
male family members’ assistance in booksellers 95, 99
publishing 83, 99, 109 bound feet 24, 28–29
of male writers 26, 117–127 Boxer Rebellion 357–366
of martyrs’ poems 171 Boyi 184, 194
organization 83, 86–87, 89, 94, 99 bridal laments (kujia) 50
poems related to illness 22–23 Brown University Women Writers
rationales 83, 87, 92 Project 5
Republican-era publications 97–103 Buddhism, see also Chan Buddhism;
selection of poems 379–380 Chan friends; nuns
sources 85–86, 90–91, 94–95, ambivalence toward 229
99–100, 102, 103–104 gentry women’s engagement with
ARTFL French Women Writers 215–217, 232
Project 5 Luo Qilan’s links to 131, 132
monks 215, 222, 225
Bai Juyi 227, 366 mourning practices 56
Ban Jieyu 209, 375 poetry 232–233
Ban Zhao 375, 384 texts read by gentry women 217,
Bao Zhihui 120 218–219, 233–234
Baochi Jizong 235, 247–248
Bauman, Richard 51 Cai Yan 144, 145, 153, 185
Beijing cainü (talented women) 351, 352, 361,
Boxer Rebellion and 359, 362 372, 387
modernization 368 Canton, see Guangdong
poetry by sojourners in 325–326 Cantong Convent 220–222
reform movement of 1898 in 354 Cao Xueqin, Honglou meng 25, 91, 272
Taiping Rebellion and 287 Cao Zhi 322
Xue Shaohui in 367–372 Chan Buddhism
Benchong Xingsheng 226–227 discourse records ( yulu) 218, 219,
Bi Yuan 120, 121, 122 234, 235
bieji, see women’s writings, individual female masters 220–222, 237–238,
collections 240
416 index

gentry women’s interest in 131–132, Chen Yun 337

236 Chen Yunlian 29–30, 44, 298–299
legendary female figures 235–236, Chen Zhilin 180
240, 243 Cheng Mengmei 88
lineages 246 Chinese medicine 20
literati influences 215 Chinese Women in the Imperial Past
monks 215 (Zurndorfer) 8–9
patriarchs 244 chuanqi drama 164, 165
poetry related to 227 Chuci 65, 158–159, 221
texts 215, 233–234, 242–243 ci, see song lyrics
Chan friends (chanyou) 248 circuses 368–369
examples 220–224, 226–232, Cixi, Empress Dowager 354, 355, 356,
238–241 358, 366, 368
familial ties 222–224, 226, 248 clans, see kin networks
in Ming-Qing transition 222–233 commentaries
poetry of 218, 219, 220–222, Chinese traditions 159
223–226, 231–233, 388 on Wu Zongai’s poetry 154–159,
social disapproval 215–216 172
use of term 219–220 concubines, see also Lu Yuansu 94,
Chang, Kang-i Sun 1, 3, 6–8, 82, 247, 186
284 Confucianism
Changsha, Hunan 299 friendship 379
Changzhou, Jiangsu, women writers gender norms 10, 215–217, 377, 384
287 governing 371
chastity kinship 246
fudao 365–366 morality 340–341
historical examples 168–169 Neo- 145
of widows 67, 68, 70, 71 Confucius 58
Chen Chousong 267, 269, 279 Connerton, Paul 142, 143
Chen Duansheng, see Zaishengyuan corporal punishment 368
Chen Jitong courtesans, see also Liu Rushi
diplomatic career 341–342, 347, Fu Caiyun 362–366
356n52, 365n78 poetry in anthologies 86, 88, 94, 102
education 339, 341 writers 7–8, 186, 377
poetry of 347–349 cross-dressing 251, 263, 269, 271–272,
reform movement involvement 278
339–340, 356, 371–372 Crossley, Pamela 117
relief group organized 359
scholarly career 356 Dai Zhaochen, Guangzhou fuzhi 103
Chen Qitai 146, 147, 148, 150, 162 Dajinqian 250
Chen Ruyuan 226 Danxian shihua (Xiong Lian) 95–96
Chen Shengzhi 162 Daoism
Chen Shoupeng Five Peaks of 113, 131
comrades killed by French 346 Luo Qilan’s links to 131
education 339, 371 nuns 199
in Europe 342–345, 365n78, 371 Shangqing sect 113
reform movement involvement 36, Dashan Monastery 238
339–340, 356, 371–372 Da Song zhongxing tongsu yanyi (Xiong
scholarly career 356, 366, 371 Damu) 259
Chen Shurang 226 death, see also grief; mourning poems;
Chen Weisong 183 mourning practices; suicides
Furen ji 188, 199 of family members 52–53
Chen Wenshu 95, 384 soul’s journey following 59–60,
Chen Yinke 187 74–75
 index 417

Deleuze, Gilles 381–382, 383–384, 385, families, see kin networks

386, 388 Fan Zengxiang 362, 365
becoming, process of 386, 387 Fang Yizhi 68
democratic reforms 369–371 fans 209, 210, 211
Deng Hanyi, Shiguan chuji 181, Fa-shi-shan 119
198–199, 200–201, 202 feet, bound 24, 28–29
Ding Ling 284 Feiyin Tongrong 227
Ding Qiguang 181 Feng Guifen 312
Ding Shengzhao 84–85, 86, 92, 181 Feng Huan 197
Ding Wenwei 147 Feng Xuan 304n52
Ding Yicheng, “[Luo Qilan] Viewing festivals 65–66, 230–231
Mt. Ping in Springtime” 125f, filial devotion 60–61, 189, 368, 377
126–127 Fong, Grace S. 134
Ding Yun 314, 337 foreigners, see also Europe
Dong Bai 94 attitudes toward 342
Donghua lu 154 Christian missionaries 292
Dragon King, daughter of 235, 240 Koreans 86, 88, 100
Du Fu 33, 58, 200, 201, 210–211 Mongols 119
Du Mu 205 poetry in anthologies 86, 88, 94, 100
Dura, Prasenjit 315 security threats 313
treaty ports 310, 341
Early Modern Englishwoman, The 5 women’s biographies 366
editors, see anthologies: female and male France 343–345, 346–347, 371
compilers; Luo Qilan friendships, female
education, Western 339, 341–342, among writers 224, 231–232, 245,
352–353, 371 248, 376–377
education, women’s female gaze and 32
curriculum 352 poetry related to 182–183, 379
in domestic skills 377 types 219–220
in elite families 4, 9, 96, 115 friendships, male 215, 222, 245, 246
literati supporters 95 Fu Caiyun 362–366
poetry as focus 352–354 Fujian
Shanghai campaign for 340, climate 325
351–357, 358, 368 gentry families 339
embroidery language 320
of Buddhist images 234 link to empire 323–324
of Lu Yuansu 134, 136 local scenery 321–324
of poems 91, 95 narcissus as symbol 321–322
emotions, performance of, see also scholar-officials from 317, 320, 321,
grief 51 328
ethnic groups sugarcane cultivation 321
Miao and She 329 Fujian guixiu
poetry in anthologies 90 cosmopolitanism 317–318
Eugénie, Queen 343–345 imagined community 316–317, 338
Europe, see also France kin networks 317, 330–336
Boxer Rebellion and 357–366 legacy 336–338
Chinese diplomats in 341–342, poetry collections 314, 337
365n78 poetry of 321–324, 325–327,
Chinese knowledge of 342–345 328–330, 333–336
culture 368–369 political knowledge 387
education of Chinese in 339, sojourns away from native
341–342, 371 places 321–324, 325–327, 328–329
imperialism 345–347 spatial awareness 317
women writers 5 travels 314, 330
418 index

funeral laments (kusang) 50, 51, 52, mourning practices 51–52, 76

57, 59–60, 61–62, 67, 389 poetry in anthologies 86, 94, 98,
Furen ji (Chen Weisong) 188, 199 100, 337
Furth, Charlotte 1 travels 245–246
Fushi Convent 237 Geshan yiji (Liu Shu) 190
Fuzhou, treaty port 341 ghosts, poetry in anthologies 86, 90
Fuzhou Naval Academy 339, 341, 346 Gong Jingzhao 198–199
Gong Shizhi 115, 123
Gan Lirou Grant, Beata 3, 7, 8, 291, 302, 306
life 36–37 grief, see also funeral laments; mourning
poems related to illness 37–43 poems 49, 54, 61–62
Yongxuelou gao 36, 37–43 Gu Ruopu 92, 94
Ganjiang 305 Gu Taiqing 93, 96
ganshi poems 291–297, 302–304 Gu Zhenguan 203
Gao Sufang 321–322, 337 Gu Zhenli 179, 203–206, 207
Ge Rutong 285 Guangdong (Canton)
Ge Zhengqi 186 language 320
Geming lieshi shichao 171 officials 306, 325, 328
gender sisterhood 278
cross-dressing 251, 263, 269, women poets 101–103, 104–105
271–272, 278 Xuehai tang 306
division of space by 10 Guangdong haifang huilan 306
literary differences 388–389 Guangdong nüzi yiwen kao (Xian
mourning practices and 50, 53 Yuqing) 81, 97–98, 101–103,
political engagement and 179–180, 104–105
311 Guangdong tongzhi (Ruan Yuan) 103
gender roles Guangxu emperor 354, 356, 358, 366
Confucian 10, 215–217, 377, 384 Guangzhou fuzhi (Dai Zhaochen) 103
discontent with 179, 201–206, 213 Guanxi Zhixian 244
domestic 9, 10, 46–47 Guattari, Felix 381–382, 383–384, 385
of married women 9 Guchun xuan shichao (Liang Desheng)
in Ming-Qing transition 179–180, 99
184–185, 201–206 Gui Shufen 219–221, 246
stereotypes 380 guige, see inner quarters
women’s understanding 318 Guimao lüxing ji (Shan Shili) 98
of women writers 9, 383–385 guixiu, see Fujian guixiu; gentry women
Genette, Gerard 149, 159–160 Guixiu cichao (Xu Naicheng) 102, 199
Geng Jingzhong rebellion 141, 150, Guixiu cihua (Lei Jin) 337
151, 153–154, 163, 168 Guixiu zhengshi zaixu ji (Shan Shili)
gentry women ( guixiu), see also Chan 81, 97–98
friends; Fujian guixiu; women organization 99
writers poets included 98–99, 100–101, 103
Buddhism in lives of 215–217, 232, sources 99–100
234, 236 as supplement to Zengshi ji 97, 98
contrasted to modern women traditional attitude 98, 103
337–338 Gujin nüshi (Zhao Shijie) 85
criticism of literary activities Guo Jing 357
337–338, 351, 352 Guo Lin 45
domestic duties 9, 10, 46–47, 237, Guo Runyu 299
389 Guochao guixiu zhengshi ji (Yun Zhu)
education 96 4, 81
entering convent 222, 226, 233–237, comparisons to other anthologies
248 88–93, 95
mourning poems 61 compilation process 88–89, 91–92
 index 419

Guixiu zhengshi zaixu ji as Hu Cheng 162

supplement to 97, 98 Hu Shenrong 35
influence on other anthologies 94, Hu Wenkai, Lidai funü zhuzuo kao 1,
102 3, 9, 97, 387
information included 93, 199 Hu Zixia 230–232
number of poems 88 Hua Mulan 145, 153, 156, 186, 289,
organization 89 313
poems related to illness 22, 23 Huang Kexun 241–245
poets included 103, 117, 337 Huang, Martin 245, 246
rationale 92 Huang Ren 331–336
sequel volume 81, 88 Huang Shutiao 331, 333
as source for later anthologies 310 Huang Shuting 328–329
sources 90–91 Huang Shuwan 331, 333
Guochao Hangjun shi ji (Wu Huang Xieqing, Taoxi xue 142–143,
Zhenyu) 99 154, 160–171, 175t
Guochao Hangjun shi xuji (Wu Huang Yuanjie 224–226, 231
Zhenyu) 99 Huang Zongxi 186
Guochao mingchen zhuan 154 Huang Zongxia 241
Guochaoshi biecai ji (Shen Deqian) 91 Huiyun Monastery 227
Guxu (Jingyin) Hunan, Taiping Rebellion in 299,
poetry of 224–226 302
poetry written for 222–224
Idema, Wilt 7, 72, 291, 302, 306
Halperin, Mark 215 illness, in poetry
Han Lanying 375 accounts of illnesses 19, 20–21, 33,
Han Yu 192 43
Han dynasty, founding 185, 324 by Gan Lirou 37–43
Hangzhou gender differences 389
Huiyun Monastery 227 interest in topic 19, 23–24
Xiaoyi Convent 217–218 male writers and 26–28, 33
Harvard-Yenching Library, Hart meanings 25
Collection, see also Ming Qing patterns 33–36
Women’s Writings 5–6 sensory perceptions 33–34
He Huisheng 301–302 in song lyrics 31–33, 37–38, 389
He Shi 291–292 in tanci 273, 274–275
heroic women, see also martial temporality 26
self-images 186–195, 255–257, terms in poem titles 21–22, 25–27,
268–271, 301–302, 384 28–29
Hirth, Friedrich 137 terms used 24
Ho, Clara Wing-Chung 8–9 tropes 33–34
homosexuality types 27, 28–29
love 276–279 vague descriptions 24
same-sex marriages 271 illnesses, of women
Hong Jun 362, 365n78 aestheticization 30–33, 389
Hongjiao ji (Zou Siyi) 85 as break from domestic routines
Honglou meng (Cao Xueqin) 25, 91, 46–47, 247, 389
272 feminine attributes and 45–47
Hongmiao 329 paintings 31
Hongren 244 perceptions of 24, 47
Hongxuelou shicao (Shen Shanbao) poetry written during 43, 44–45
93–94 treatments 20
Hongxuelou shixuan chuji (Shen types 24
Shanbao) 93 imagined communities 315–316, 324,
Hou Zhi 91, 250–251 338
420 index

inner quarters ( guige) kujia, see bridal laments

approval of women remaining in kusang, see funeral laments
216
armchair travel from 222 Lai Mayi 339–340
Buddhist nuns’ visits to 216 laments, see also mourning poems
experiences of illness within 31–33, authenticity 76
45–47 bridal 50
as metaphor 10 funeral 50, 51, 52, 57, 59–60, 61–62,
oral traditions 91, 103–104 67, 389
performance of 51, 59–60
Japanese occupation of Taiwan 347–351 Lanke ji (Zhou Zhibiao) 85
Jia Dao 225 “Later Three Female Disciples, The”
Jiang Yan 204 127, 128f
Jiang Zhu 46, 112, 129, 130–133, 139 Lei Jin, Guixiu cihua 337
Jiangnan Li Bo 210–211
cultural centers 113 Li Dazhen 136–137
foreign armies during Opium War Li Guangpu 162
298 Li Guiyu, see also Liuhuameng
literati 111–112, 233, 306 267–268, 269, 279
Nanhui 50, 59–60, 62 Li Qingzhao 56
women writers from 83, 86 Li Shangyin 366
Jiangxue shichao (Wu Zongai) Li Shu 260
145–146, 147 Li Tiaoyuan 122
Jin Shuxiu 233–237, 247–248 Li, Wai-yee 169, 284, 296–297
Jin Wuxiang 291–292 Li Xingchi 299
Jin Yi 44–45 Li Xingyuan 299
Jing Yuanshan 358 Li Yao 188
Jinguijie 251 Li Yin 186, 197
jinguo (women’s head kerchief ) 312 Liang Desheng
Jingyin, see Guxu ending of Zaishengyuan 250
Jingzhong yanyi shuoben Yuewang Guchun xuan shichao 99
quanzhuan 259–261, 264 poetry of 310
Jingzhongzhuan (Zhou Yingfang) Liang Lanxing 322–324
258–261, 264 Liang Qichao
Jin Ping Mei 25 criticism of cainü 311, 351, 361,
Jinyuyuan 251, 271 372, 387
Jiqi Hongchu 234, 235 criticism of Yuan Mei 121
Judge, Joan 285 “Lun nüxue” 351
Juqu village 112–113 “New History” and “New Woman”
337–338
Kang Baiqing 49 reform movement involvement 351,
Kang Guangren 354 354, 372
Kang Tangwei 351 Liang Shangguo 325
Kang Youwei 351, 354, 355, 358, 372 Liang Tingnan 306
Kangxi emperor 127, 333–334 Liang Xiuyun 325–327
kin networks Liang Yizhen 285
of Fujian guixiu 317, 330–336 Liang Yunshu 314
of Luo Qilan 112–113 Liang Zhangju
kinship, Confucian norms 246 aunt 325
Ko, Dorothy 2, 4, 63, 181, 318 daughter 322–324
Kobayashi Tetsuyuki 71 Minchuan guixiu shihua 314, 331,
Koreans, poetry in anthologies 86, 88, 337
100 libraries, collecting books 86, 89, 95,
ku, see wailing 99, 105
 index 421

Lidai funü zhuzuo kao (Hu Wenkai) 1, length 250, 267

3, 9, 97, 387 plot 268
Liechao shiji runji (Qian Qianyi and Liu prefaces 267–268, 269–271, 279
Rushi) 85, 102 readers 268
Lienü zhuan (Liu Xiang) 285, 286, 311, triangular relationship 271–274,
384 275–279
Liezi 73 war scenes 264, 267
Li ji 55 local histories 102, 104
Lin Changyi 310 love
Lin Daiyu (Honglou meng) 272, 273 homosexual 276–279
Lin Yining 61 war as allegory for 275, 279–280
Lin Zexu 291n17, 292n18, 293–294, loyalty, see also Ming loyalists
302, 306, 310 exemplars of 144–145
Lingzhao 235, 240, 243 of married women 60
Linqing 87, 88, 89, 92, 93 of scholar-officials 324
literati men in wartime 169, 172, 284, 366
effects of warfare 292 of widows 67, 68, 70, 71
friendships with Buddhist monks Lu Gong 122
215, 222 Lu Qingzi 385
in Fujian 317 Lu Qishi nü (Woman of Lu from Qishi)
ganshi poems 291–293 285, 286–290, 304, 311, 350–351
illness in poetry 26–28, 33 Lu Yuansu
in Jiangnan 111–112, 233, 306 embroidery 134, 136
networks 172–173 life 135–136
“Outstanding Scholars” 233 Luo Qilan and 129, 134–136, 139
participation in transmission of paintings 135
women’s writings 147, 172–173, poetry of 134, 136
386 Luming feasts 332–336
supporters of women writers 95, Luo Binwang 113–114
384–385 Luo Qilan, see also Tingqiuxuan
views of women’s writings 67, 384 guizhong tongren ji; Tingqiuxuan
Liu Duo 188 zengyan
Liu Rushi ancestry and family 112, 113–115,
friends 224 131, 138, 139
involvement in loyalist resistance colleagues 109, 112
179, 187 criticism of the treatment of women
Liechao shiji runji 85, 102 110, 111, 133
marriage 219 editorial style 109
poetry about 187 life 112–113, 114–116, 118–119,
poetry in anthologies 86, 94 123–124
Wuyin cao 196–197 Manchu friends 118–119
Liu Shu marriage 109, 115
Geshan yiji 190 paintings 115, 116, 123, 124, 131,
life 179, 188–189 137
lone existence image 193–195 poetry in anthologies 108, 117
poetry of 189–195, 207–208 poetry of 110–111, 113, 115, 116,
Liu Xiang, Lienü zhuan 285, 286, 311, 118, 119, 131, 132, 249
384 portraits of 125f, 126–127, 128f, 134
Liu Xianting 241 religious engagement 113, 131, 132
Liu Yong 122 search for fame 138–139
Liu Zongyuan 320 social circles 112, 113, 116–117, 120,
Liuhuameng (Li Guiyu) 127–130, 133, 137, 139, 388
heroines 251, 268–271 social status 112, 113
homosexual love 276–279 teachers 114, 120–124
422 index

“Teaching My Daughter by an Minchuan guixiu shihua (Liang

Autumn Lamp” 114, 115, 120, Zhangju) 314, 331, 337
123, 126, 131 Mingji yiwen (Zou Siyi) 86
Tingqiuxuan shiji 110–111, 114, 116, Ming loyalists, see also Yun Zhu
118, 122–124, 132 choices made 184, 192
Luo clan 112–113 men 179, 192, 230
remnant subjects 179, 180
Manchuria 327 resistance efforts 179, 186–187, 230,
Manchus, see also Qing dynasty 232
anti-Manchu sentiment 104, 259, suicides 68, 223
261 women 179–180, 186–195, 196–206
Han women married to 87, 89–90, Ming-Qing transition
104, 117 friendships of gentry women and
male writers 117–118 nuns 222–233
poems on women 366 gender roles in 179–180, 184–185,
women’s poetry in anthologies 90, 201–203
93, 100, 117–118 imposition of Manchu hairstyle and
Mandarin, as official language 319–321 costume 185
Mann, Susan 2, 111, 318 martial women 186–195
Mao Qiling 183 mourning poems 68
Shihua 238–239 tanci set in 257–258, 261–267
Mao Xiang 202, 203 women’s poetry 179, 182–185,
Maoshan Range 112–113, 123 189–195, 196–206, 219, 236
marriages, see also widows Ming Qing Women’s Writings 6,
bridal laments 50 21–22, 62–63, 171–172, 379, 387
companionate 55, 56, 165–166 Mingyin Convent 237
gender roles 9 Mingyuan shigui (Zhong Xing) 3, 85
loyalty to husband’s family 60 Mingyuan shihua (Shen Shanbao) 81,
mourning poems for wives 54–56 93
natal family of wives 60–61, 65, comparisons to other anthologies 95
66–67, 76, 326 geographical coverage 96–97, 103
same-sex 271 images of martial women 186–187
martial self-images, see also heroic information included 97
women; war imagery 179, 199–201 organization 94
Mawei Harbor 346–347 sources 94–95
Mazu 244 Mingyuan shiwei (Wang Duanshu) 4,
medicine, see also illnesses 20 81
Mei Yaochen 56 collection methods 84–86, 92, 109
men, see also gender; literati men; comparisons to other anthologies
scholar-officials 88–93
family members of women writers influence 94
9, 52–53, 67, 77 information included 93
grief expressed by 49 number of poems 84
influence on women writers 114, organization 86–87
120, 384–385 poems by Hu Zixia 230–232
Mencius 57–58 poems related to illness 22, 23
Meng Chengshun 147n20 poetry by nuns 218, 223–224,
Zhenwen ji 168–169 227–228, 231
Meng Jiangnü 58 preface 212, 231
Meng Shuqing 67 publisher 84
Mengyue 45–46 rationale 87, 92
Meyer-Fong, Tobie 117 sources 85–86
Miao people 329 title 212
Miaozhan Convent 234, 235 Wang’s poetry in 181
 index 423

Mingyuan wenwei (Wang Duanshu) “new women” 283–284, 312, 313,

181 337–338
minorities 382 Ni Ruixuan 61
minor literatures 381–386, 387, 388 Nian rebellion 292
modernization, see also Reform nüge (women’s songs) 278–279
Movement of 1898 nuns, see also Chan friends
of Beijing 368 Daoist 199
democratic reforms 369–371 family connections with laywomen
“new women” 283–284, 312, 313, 222–224, 226, 248
337–338 freedom 247–248
women writers’ roles 381 poetry in anthologies 218, 223–224,
Mongols 119 227–228, 231
monks poetry of 218, 235–236, 237–238,
friendships with literati 215, 222 247–248, 388
poetry by 225 regulations 217–218, 246–247
Moshan Liaoran 243, 244–245 study by 233
mourning poems teachers of 246
interpretations of 389 travels 217–218, 246, 247
by men 49, 54–56 widows entering convent 222, 226,
before Ming period 53–57 234
song lyrics 56 nüshu (women’s script) 278–279
terms in titles 62–63 Nü xuebao 354, 368
timing of composition 55
tropes 52 officials, see scholar-officials
by widows 56, 68, 69–75 O’Hara, Albert 286
by women 52, 61, 62–67, 76–77, 389 Opium War 143, 153, 170, 293–295,
mourning practices, see also funeral 298–299, 341
laments oral poetry, see laments
Buddhist 56 oral traditions 91, 103–104
gendered 50, 53 orchids 278
night vigil 64
performance of 51, 53, 56–58, painters, see also Luo Qilan 129–130
61–62, 72, 76, 389 paintings
portraits of deceased 74 of ill women 31
stages 54 of Luo Qilan 123, 131
wailing 57–58 poetic inscriptions 91, 95, 116, 123
women’s roles 56–62 Pan Suxin 96–97, 100–101
Moye 305 Pan Yijuan 137
music Pan Yue 54–55, 375
of qin 116 Pan Yün 240
of Taoxi xue 162 Pan Zhai 68
muyushu 278 Pang Yun, wife of 235–236
Pang jushi yulu 235
Nanhui, laments of women 50, 59–60, paratexts
62 functionality 159–160
Nanjiang yishi (Wen Rulin) 188 meaning 149
Nanjing Treaty 298 of Taoxi xue 161
Napoléon III 343–344 in Wu Zongai’s poetry collection
narcissus 321–322 143, 149–160, 171, 172
nationalism 100, 104, 338, 341 Peng Jingjuan
needlework, see embroidery life 262, 264
Negri, Antonio 381 Siyunting 261–267
Neo-Confucianism 145 performances, see also plays; theater
“new governing” campaign 368 of emotions 51
424 index

of laments 51, 59–60 Qian Lin 135

of mourning 51, 53, 56–58, 61–62, Qian Qi 135
72, 76, 389 Qian Qianyi 212, 218–219
pilgrimages 324 Liechao shiji runji 85, 102
pingdian, see commentaries Youxue ji 187
Pingshan tang 127 Qian Xun 99
plays, see also theater Qin Liangyu 187, 284, 302, 304, 311
chuanqi 164, 165 Qin Qing 73
Taoxi xue 142–143, 154, 160–171, Qin Xiangye 148
175t Qin Yun 162
on woman warriors 302 Qingdai guige shiren zhenglüe (Shi
poet-historians 180, 213 Shuyi) 100
poetic history 284 Qing dynasty, see also Manchus;
poetry Ming-Qing transition; Reform
masculine style 180 Movement of 1898
as public form 19–20 anti-Manchu sentiment 104, 259,
poetry, women’s, see also anthologies; 261
mourning poems; women’s writings, Boxer Rebellion and 357–358
individual collections fall of 98
audiences 312–313 frontier guards 329
engagement with contemporary ideology 260
events 180–185 officials 289, 324
joint publications (heke or oppression of women 309–310
huike) 22, 85 tanci set during wars of late period
masculine voice 195, 199–201, 258–267
203–206, 207 Qinglin 118–119
social exchange through 4 Qinglou yunyu 85–86
topics and themes 4–5 Qing shi duo (Zhang Yingchang)
translations 6–7 309–311
on walls 85, 91, 155, 183 Qingyin tang 84
Polachek, James 294 Qiu Jin 100, 212, 284, 305, 311
political engagement, see also Reform Qiu Xinru, Bishenghua 251, 271
Movement of 1898 Qixia Mountains 132
corporal punishment issue 368 Qiyuan Xinggang 237
criticism of rulers 286, 301, 302 Qu Chuanding 162
domestic and personal concerns and Qu Yuan 65
311 Quan Qing ci 203–206
gender differences 179–180, 311 Quan Tang ci 375
historical continuum 318, 338
in late Ming period 284 recluses
in late Qing period 212–213, 340, imagery 195
381, 387–388 poetic references 335n61
in Ming-Qing transition 179–180, seeking and not finding 225
203–206 summoning 221
in poetry 180–185, 283 Red Miao 329
social criticism 308–311 Reform Movement of 1898
statecraft issues in poetry 305–308, campaign for women’s education
387 351–357, 358, 368
taproots 311–313 opponents 354, 356
of Woman of Lu from Qishi views of women writers 338
286–290, 350–351 Xue Shaohui’s involvement 36,
of women 350–351, 368, 369 212–213, 339–340, 351–357,
371–372
Qi Biaojia 68, 223 refugees 297–302, 313
Qian Dong 135 religious pilgrimages 324
 index 425

remnant subjects ( yimin), see also Ming women’s education 340, 351–357,
loyalists 179, 180 358, 368
Ren Zhaolin 128, 130–131, 133, 137, Shanxiao Benxi 237
384 Shen Cheng 68–69, 70, 72, 73
Republican era Shen Deqian, Guochaoshi biecai ji 91
anthologies published in 97–103 Shen Hui 219–220
start of 372 Shen Lidong 285
Robertson, Maureen 3, 8 Shen Shanbao, see also Mingyuan shihua
Roman Empire 368–369 Hongxuelou shicao 93–94
Ruan Yuan Hongxuelou shixuan chuji 93
Guangdong tongzhi 103 library 95
interest in women writers 105 life 93, 96–97
scholar-officials and 306 poetry of 93–94, 212, 295, 296–297
trade policies 306, 307–308 relationships with women writers
93, 96–97
same-sex marriages 271 on Wang Duanshu 284
sangluan (death and destruction) Shen Yixiu
poems 285, 297 daughters 63, 64–65, 66, 82–83, 99
sanqu 86–87 family poetry collection 63–67
Saussy, Haun 6 marriage 385
scholar-officials, see also Ming loyalists; mourning poems 64–65, 66, 77
Wu Tingkang Yiren si 81, 83–84
female family members Shen Yunying 284, 302
accompanying on travels 317, She people 329
322–324, 327, 328, 330 Shi Shuyi, Qingdai guige shiren zhenglüe
from Fujian 317, 320, 321, 328 100
kin networks 331–336 Shiguan chuji (Deng Hanyi) 181,
“Linxia silao” (Four Retired Scholars) 198–199, 200–201, 202
121–122 Shigui shu (Zhang Dai) 183–184
literary women in families 306 Shihua (Mao Qiling) 238–239
loyalty 324 shihua (remarks on poetry), see also
of Ming 233 Mingyuan shihua 95–96
official language 319–321 Shiji 324
as parents 330 Shijing 56, 191, 206, 231, 297
political interests of female family Shiyuan ba mingjia ji (Zou Liuqi) 181
members 306–308, 312 Shuo Yue quanzhuan 259–261, 264
of Qing 179, 180, 289, 324 Shuqi 194
sojourns away from native places Sima Qian 185
319, 324 Sima Xiangru 200
training 319–320 Sino-French War 346–347, 351
wives 180 Sino-Japanese War 347
Shan Shili, see also Guixiu zhengshi sisterhood 271–274, 275, 278–279
zaixu ji Siyunting (Peng Jingjuan) 261–267
Guimao lüxing ji 98 social criticism 308–311
library 99 social status, impact of family members’
life 98 deaths 52–53
Shang Jinghui 238 sojourners
Shang Jinglan homesickness 327
family 238 native places 319
friendships with other writers 224, poetry of 324–330
238 solitude, during illness 46–47, 247
friendship with Guxu 222–224 Song Yu 204
poetry of 68, 223–224, 247 Song dynasty 9, 357
Shanghai song lyrics (ci)
theatrical performances 162, 171 for Chan masters 220–222, 223–224
426 index

of Gui Shufen 220–221, 246 tanci (verse novels), see also

in Ming-Qing transition 203–206, Liuhuameng
207–208 audiences 260, 268
in Mingyuan shiwei 86 blood imagery 264–266, 272, 273,
mourning poems 56 275
political engagement 203–206 celebrating women’s talent 268
reactions to wars 293–295 cross-dressing female characters
related to illness 31–33, 37–38, 389 251, 263, 269, 278
of Su Shi 69 heroines 255–257, 268–271
of Xue Shaohui 342–345, 346–347, historical narratives 257–267,
349–351, 368 388–389
space, see also inner quarters of late Qing period 258–267
awareness of Fujian guixiu 317 number of 250
gendered division 10 poetry in anthologies 91
metaphors 10–11 romantic nature 250
statecraft, poetry on, see also political set during Ming-Qing transition
engagement 305–308, 312, 387 257–258, 261–267
Su Shi 69, 70, 192, 227, 292n18 sisterhood themes 271
Su Zhecong 285 war imagery 249, 251–267, 279–280,
suicides 388–389
of Ming loyalists 68, 223 Zaishengyuan 250–253, 256, 269,
of widows 68–69, 70–71, 73 271, 274–275
of women in wartime 169, 172, Tang dynasty 268, 375
258 Tao Gusheng 231
of Wu Zongai 141, 143–144, 153, Tao Qian 55, 161
154, 166–168 Taohua shan 161
Suiyuan nüdizi shixuan (Yuan Mei) Taoxi xue (Huang Xieqing)
23, 134, 140t contents 175t
Sun Fu 357 credits 161–162
“Suzhou Ten” 130–131, 133 didactic purpose 170–171
swords editions 161, 172
metaphors 196 music 162
poetic references 194, 195, 196–201, mythical framework 167–168
212, 285, 305, 313 paratexts 161
power represented 257–258 performances 162, 171
women’s use of 188, 232 plot 162–164, 165–168
poetry in 164, 171
Taiping Rebellion roles 164–165
deaths 258 textile arts, see embroidery
effects of 154, 292, 313 theater, see also plays
poetry written during 287, 299–304 audiences 266
survivors 313 war scenes 255–257
women’s suicides 172, 258 Ti Ying 368
woodblocks destroyed 148, 161 Tianyuhua 257–258
Taiwan times of turmoil, see also wars
Japanese occupation 347–351 discontent with gender roles 179,
officials 328 201–206, 213
travel to 328 heroines 179, 284, 313
Taizhou Zhong shi guixiu ji heke 22 loyalty 284
talented women (cainü) 351, 352, 361, poetry written during 185, 213,
372, 387 297–302, 387–388
Tan Sitong 354 refugees 297–302
Tan Yinmei 212 tanci set in 257–267
 index 427

tropes in women’s writing 285, Waldersee, general 362, 364–365

291–302 walls, poems on 85, 91, 155, 183
Tingqiuxuan guizhong tongren ji (Luo Wang Ai 188
Qilan) Wang Caipin 287–290, 293, 302–304,
organization 129, 136 312
poets included 111, 128–130, 133, Wang Chongbing 147
138, 139–140, 140t Wang Ding 294
preface 109–110, 121, 130, 133 Wang Duan 45
subjects of poems 109 Wang Duanshu, see also Mingyuan
Tingqiuxuan shiji (Luo Qilan) shiwei
110–111, 114, 116, 118, 122–124, 132 admiration by other poets 284
Tingqiuxuan zengyan (Luo Qilan) compilation of anthology 84–86,
contributors 115, 116–118, 119–125 92, 109
painters represented in 124–125, experiences during fall of
137 Ming 182–185
preface 117 family 181, 182–184, 226
sequence of poets 120, 122 feminine style in poetry 211–212
subjects of poems 109 friendships 231
travel life 84
armchair 222 marriage 181, 385
by Buddhist nuns 217–218, 246, 247 Mingyuan wenwei 181
by diplomats 341–342 poetry of 181, 208–212, 226,
by female family members of officials 228–230
317, 322–324, 327, 328, 330 political engagement 181, 182–185
friendships and 245–246 relationship with Yizhen 226–230
by Fujian guixiu 314, 330 Yinhong ji 84, 181, 182–185,
on ocean 35–36 228–230
religious pilgrimages 324 Wang Fuzhi 207
restrictions on women’s 216, Wang Hu 135
217–218, 222 Wang Jiaqi 145, 147
by scholar-officials 319–321 Wang Jingshu, see also Yizhen Yu’en
by women 35–36, 96–97, 245–246, 182–183, 247
314, 330 Wang Qishu, Xiefang ji 3, 90–91, 94,
travel writing, by women 98, 318 102, 242
treaty ports 310, 341 Wang Qiuying 322
Wang Renzhao 190
Varsano, Paula 225 Wang Ruilan 337
vernacular fiction, see xiaoshuo Wang Shizhen 217
verse novels, see tanci Wang Siren 181, 183–184
Vinograd, Richard 126 Wang Wei 44, 86, 192, 227
violence, see also war imagery 275, Wang Wenzhi 113, 114, 116, 121–124
279–280 Wang Xie 188
virtue, see also chastity; loyalty Wang Xiling 147
Confucian views 340–341 Wang Youding 182
of idealized women 384 Wang Yu 384
of martial women 189, 271 Wang Zhaojun 144, 145, 153, 163–164
mourning practices and 58–59 Wanyan Foyunbao 88, 93
of women writers 377 Wanyan Miaolianbao 88
Wu Zongai as exemplar 143, 146 Wanyan Yun Zhu, see Yun Zhu
war imagery
Waiguo lienü zhuan (Xue Shaohui) as allegory of love 275, 279–280
366, 369 ganshi poems 291–297, 302–304
wailing (ku) 57–58 humorous scenes 253–255
428 index

in men’s poems 291–293 pitiful fate of 309–310

realism 258, 263–264, 279 readers of tanci 260, 268
refugees 297–302, 313 women’s writings, individual collections
in tanci 249, 251–267, 279–280, (bieji)
388–389 catalogues of 1, 3, 9
theatrical influences 255–257 number of 1–2, 9
in women’s narratives 249, 388 poems addressed to friends 379, 380
warriors, female publication of 107, 376
disguised as men 251, 263, 269, as sources for anthologies 85, 95
271–272, 278 women writers, see also anthologies;
in late Ming period 284, 311 poetry, women’s
in Ming-Qing transition 257–258 appropriation of 390
poetic images 285, 302–304 collective consciousness 376–377
Qin Liangyu 187, 284, 302, 304, 311 deaths at early ages 83
as role models 311–312, 313 fan as metonymy 209, 211
in tanci 251–253, 256, 257–258, 263, gatherings 100–101, 127, 128f, 134,
272 223, 245, 376
virtues 189, 271 gender roles 9, 383–385
wars, see also Opium War; Taiping history 375–377
Rebellion; times of turmoil issues for further study 378–380
Sino-French 346–347, 351 in Jiangnan 111–112
Sino-Japanese 347 male family members’ assistance in
women’s experiences of 253–255, publishing 9, 52, 53, 67, 77
279 male teachers 384–385
wedding laments, see bridal laments networks 100–101, 128, 133, 248,
Wei Yuan 310 376–377
Wei Zhongxian 188, 263 obstacles faced by 102, 109–110, 133
Welter, Albert 215 place in history of Chinese literature
Wen Rulin, Nanjiang yishi 188 381–386
Wen Zhengming 119 portraits of 126
Weng Qiqian 268 in pre-Tang period 185, 375, 384
Widmer, Ellen 3, 7–8, 181 recognition 376, 380, 381, 385
widows “rediscovery” of 1–2
chastity and faithfulness 67, 68, 70, scholarship on 1–9, 376
71 “Suzhou Ten” 130–131, 133
entering convent 222, 226, 234 travel writing 98, 318
loyalty 67, 68, 70, 71 in twentieth century 385
of Ming loyalists 223 virtue 377
mourning poems 56, 68, 69–75 visibility 376–377
mourning practices 57–58, 59–60, Woolf, Virginia 253
67, 72, 76–77 writers, see literati men; women writers
social status 52 Writing Women in Late Imperial China
suicides 68–69, 70–71, 73 (Widmer and Chang) 7–8
women, see also gender; widows Wu Guofu 230
bodies 30, 34, 39 Wu, Jiang 215
cainü (talented) 351, 352, 361, 372, Wu Qi 86, 197–198, 199
387 Wu Shan 224
grief expressed by 61–62 Wu Shangxi 31–33, 212
heroic 186–195, 255–257, 268–271, Wu Suxin 329–330
301–302, 384 Wu Tingkang
ideal 269–271 career 146, 160
as imperial subjects 312 painting of Wu Zongai 162
oppression of 309–310 play on Wu Zongai and 142, 160,
painters 129–130 161, 169, 170
 index 429

promotion of Wu Zongai’s story Xu Fuquan 325

141, 142–144, 154, 155, 173 Xu Jiayan 233
publication of Wu Zongai’s Xu Mei 147, 148, 149–150, 152–153,
poetry 145–147, 148, 149–150 155, 164, 166
Wu Weiye 182 Xu Naicheng, Guixiu cichao 102, 199
Wu Xiqi 119–120 Xu Yuelü 37
Wu Yun 117 Xu Zhaohua 238–241
Wu Zao 212 Xu Zhaosen 233, 234
Wu Zhenyu 99 Xu biqiuni zhuan (Zhenhua) 237–238
Wu Zhiying 359–360 Xue Shaohui
Wu Zongai in Beijing 367–372
accounts of death 151–153, 165–168 Boxer Rebellion and 357–366
biochronology of 150–152, 153 “Chuangshe Nü xuetang tiaoyi bing
biographies 141–142, 144, 150, xu” 351–354
152–153, 164, 166 on corporal punishment 368
interpretations of death 169–170, death 372
171, 390 on female poets 337
later reconstruction of life 142–145, husband 339–340, 342–345
146, 154–155, 172 on ideal republic 369–371
marriage 165–166 knowledge of outside world
paratexts in poetry collection 143, 341–351, 368–369, 371
149–160, 171, 172, 390 life 339
play about 141, 142–143, 154, poetry of 35–36, 340, 342–345,
160–171 346–347, 349–351, 354–356, 357,
poetry collection of 141–142, 143, 359–360, 362–366, 367–371
145–149, 155–159 reform movement involvement 36,
poetry of 164, 171–173 212–213, 339–340, 351–357,
in public memory 142–143, 171–172 371–372
suicide as heroic sacrifice 141, travels 35–36
143–144, 153, 154, 166–168 Waiguo lienü zhuan 366, 369
as virtuous wife 143, 146 Xuehai tang 306
Wudeng quanshu 227 Xu liefu shichao (Wu Zongai) 148,
Wumengtang ji 63–67 149–160, 163, 171, 172, 173–174t
Wu Song sha sao 266 Xuxiu siku quanshu jibu 26
Wuzhong nüshi shichao (Ren Zhaolin)
130–131, 137 Yan Jin 258, 261
Yan Xingzheng 262
Xi Yuan 153–154 Yan Zhitui 57
Xia Xiaohong 262 Yang Jinfan 154–156
Xian Yuqing, see also Guangdong nüzi Yang Meijun 268
yiwen kao 101 Yang Shizun 299
Xiaojinqian 250 Yang Shuhui 299–301
xiaoshuo (vernacular fiction) 250 Yang Shulan 299–300, 301
Xiaotanluanshi huike guixiu ci 22, 31 Yang Shulin 299
Xiaoyi Convent 217–218 Yang Xuanhua 162
Xie An 335n61 Yang Yimu 242
Xie Caifan 328, 337 Yang Yunhui 301
Xie Daoyun 200, 375, 384 Yangzhou 113, 127, 137
Xiefang ji (Wang Qishu) 3, 90–91, 94, Yao Nai 121, 122
102, 242 Ye Shaoyuan 63, 64, 67, 77, 82, 83,
Xiong Damu, Da Song zhongxing tongsu 99
yanyi 259 Ye Wanwan 63, 64, 66
Xiong Lian, Danxian shihua 95–96 Ye Xiaoluan 63, 64
Xu Can 180 Ye Xiaowan 63, 99
430 index

Yi Tang’an 118 poetry of 92–93, 98, 108

Yikui Chaochen 237 Yunqi Zhuhong 219
poem written for 220–222
Yili 57 Zaishengyuan (Chen Duansheng)
yimin, see remnant subjects heroines 251–253, 256, 269, 271,
Yin Hao 295 274–275
Yinhong ji (Wang Duanshu) 84, 181, related texts 250–251, 253–255
182–185, 228–230 war imagery 250–253, 256
Yiren si (Shen Yixiu) 81, 83–84 Zaizaotian 251
Yizhen Yu’en (Wang Jingshu) Zeng Guofan 312
226–232, 247 Zeng Yu 114, 123, 124
Yongkang 141, 142, 143 Zhang Dai, Shigui shu 183–184
Yongkang xianzhi 142 Zhang Hongsheng 1
yongwu (poems on objects) 31–33, Zhang Liang 185, 186
305 Zhang Qianqian 63
Yongxuelou gao (Gan Lirou) 36, 37–43 Zhang Sanguang 70–71, 77
Yongzheng emperor 320, 334 Zhang Sengyao 210
Youxue ji (Qian Qianyi) 187 Zhang Wentao 120
Yu Ji 124–125 Zhang Xianbi 188–189
Yu Yue 141–142, 150–152, 153, 165, Zhang Xiying 287, 293–297, 302
166 Zhang Yaosun 288–289
Yuan Mei Zhang Yin 306–308, 308–309n59
anthologies compiled 108, 134 Zhang Yingchang, Qing shi duo
career 120–121 309–311
criticism of 121 Zhang Yuniang 147n20, 168–169
female disciples 23, 44–45, 95, Zhang Yunzi 130
96–97, 114, 127, 128, 134, 384 Zhanguo ce 345
Luo Qilan and 114, 116, 120–122, Zhao Shijie, Gujin nüshi 85
124, 126 Zhaolian 118
poems related to illness 26, 27–28, Zhao Yi 121–122
44 Zheng Danruo 258
poetic theory 27–28, 121 Zheng Fangkun 331–332
poetry of 126 Zheng Huirou 331, 334–335
Suiyuan nüdizi shixuan 23, 134, Zheng Huiying 232–233
140t Zheng Ningzhou 242
Suiyuan shidan 116 Zheng Zunyi 232
Yuan Weizu 137 Zhenhua, Xu biqiuni zhuan 237–238
Yuan Zhen 55–56 Zhenwen ji (Meng Chengshun)
Yuanduan Yufu 168–169
Huang Kexun’s poetry and 241–245 Zhong Xing, Mingyuan shigui 3, 85
life of 237 Zhongyong 194
poetry of 237–238 Zhou Lilan
Xu Zhaohua’s poetry and 238–241 life and family 136–137
Yüchuanyuan 250, 253–255 paintings 129–130, 136–137, 139
Yue Fei 259–261 poetry of 137–138
Yun Shouping 119 Zhou Qiong 179, 198, 199–203
Yun Zhu, see also Guochao guixiu Zhou Xifen 299
zhengshi ji Zhou Yingfang
compilation of anthology 88–89, Jingzhongzhuan 258–261, 264
91–92, 108 life 258–259, 261
Hongxiang guan shicao 98 Zhou Zhaoxiong 136–137
library 89 Zhou Zhibiao, Lanke ji 85
life 87–88 Zhu Fanghui 321
marriage 87, 104, 117 Zhu Yizun 216
 index 431

Zhuang Jiuwan 335–336 Mingji yiwen 86

Zhuang Panzhu 44 Zukui Jifu 234, 235
Zixuji 251 Zuo Chen 298
Zong Kang 93 Zuo Fen 375
Zou Liuqi, Shiyuan ba mingjia ji 181 Zuo Xijia 212, 287, 292–293
Zou Siyi Zuo Xixuan 212, 287n10
Hongjiao ji 85 Zurndorfer, Harriet 8–9