4—
Patterns to the Future

Ideas should be cleverly brought together;
language should be beautifully commissioned.
Lu Ji, Rhyme-prose on the Fu

To understand what replaced the Han dynasty pictorial celebrations of Virtue, we must turn to the third century and to the events that destroyed the unity of China. Large-scale events of history and small-scale events of men's lives during this period of disunion enable us to discern the conquest of new values and tastes. If we can never fully account for the appearance of new pictorial forms, we must at least be able to suggest why new forms were found pleasing, and to whom.

To the best of my knowledge, there are no extant portraits from the third century, except for those few uninscribed paintings from tombs at Liaoyang, perhaps datable to the Wei dynasty (220–265). Tomb master and spouse, formally seated and formally clothed, look no different from their Han predecessors.^[1]

Nor do surviving texts from the third century suggest innovations in either subject matter or function. Cao Zhi, for example, is said to have extolled the moral benefits of looking at pictures of the Sage Kings, virtuous wives, and so forth.^[2] The History of the Three Kingdoms and the later works included in its commentary refer to images (xing, xiang ) of Confucian scholars and high-minded officials;^[3] He Yan (ca. 190–249) praises the foresight of the emperor Ming (Cao Rui, r. 227–239), who ordered images (xiang ) painted to serve as examples to the ladies of the court. The list is standard and includes such worthies as the mother of Mencius and the Lady Pan. "Morning and evening one must examine [the paintings]."^[4] The exemplars are familiar, with one possible exception:

The ninth-century Lidai minghua ji records that Shi Daoshi, who may have flourished toward the end of the third century, painted a picture of the Seven Worthies (of the Bamboo Grove?).^[5] If so, this is an innovation, for I cannot imagine, from the biographical and literary material I shall discuss below, that the images in this painting could have looked much like loyal ministers or Confucian scholars. It is a new subject, and in this chapter and those that follow I shall seek to understand why someone might have wanted to paint a picture of the Seven Worthies.

The transfer of power that marked the end of the Han dynasty in A.D. 220 was but the de jure whimper of the bang that some thirty years earlier put a de facto end to centuries of relative unity. The factional struggles of Eastern Han had passed the bounds of containment when, in 189, open warfare broke out between the eunuchs at court and their opponents—a tenuous alliance of local magnates, dissident scholars, and generals. Although no faction could win a decisive victory for decades, the Han empire truly ended in 190 when the general Dong Zhuo sacked the capital of Luoyang and forced his puppet emperor to move to Chang'an.^[6]

The devastation and dislocation that flowed from the ensuing warfare are more important to our story than the dry recital of battles won or lost. It was a civil war like all civil wars: the personal and social horrors they beget are universal. The Han world of shared values had collapsed into chaos. It was a time of grief for many—and of opportunity for some.

The Three Kingdoms and Western Jin Periods

By the early third century China was divided into three kingdoms, each controlled by a warlord. Each sought to restore the empire; each thought he could become emperor.

The southwest, the kingdom of Shu-Han, was controlled by Liu Bei from his capital, modern Chengdu. He claimed descent from the first Han emperor and, in his effort to restore the dynasty, successfully lured the famous recluse Zhuge Liang to serve as his minister.^[7]

In the southeast the military Sun family, claiming descent from the fifth-century Sun Wu, founded the kingdom of Wu.^[8] In 229 the king, Sun Quan, established his capital at Jianye, modern Nanjing.

Finally, the central region, the heartland north of the Yangtze River, was held by Cao Cao (155–220), whose father was the adopted son of a highly placed eunuch. And although the lands he actually controlled may have been fewer than those usually shown on maps, he held something far more important to his ambitions—the last emperor of the Han dynasty.^[9] Disclaiming all ambition to the throne, Cao Cao avoided putting the lie to his avowal by dying beforehand. It remained for his son and heir, Cao Pi (187–226), to mount the throne in 220 and establish the Wei dynasty, with its capital at Luoyang.

Amidst continuously shifting borders and alliances, the three kingdoms contended to gain the empire. In 263 Shu fell to Wei. In 265 the Sima clan officially supplanted the Cao rulers of Wei and established the Western Jin dynasty. By 280 the kingdom of Wu had fallen to the Sima, who thus succeeded in uniting the country.

The new empire was short-lived. Weakened by decades of civil war, China was too vulnerable to the nomadic tribes on its northern and western borders. By 316 they had overrun the entire north China plain. Luoyang fell to the Xiongnu in 311, Chang'an in 317. The country was not to be unified again until 581.

With the collapse of the north, remnants of the imperial family, officials, members of the aristocracy, and many of their retainers—indeed, anyone who could flee—fled south and east to establish a new stronghold in the Yangtze Basin. In 318 the king of Langya, Sima Rui, became the emperor Yuan (r. 318–322), the first emperor of the Eastern Jin dynasty, with his capital at Jiankang, formerly Jianye.^[10]

The Seven Worthies of the Bamboo Grove, our new exemplars, were born in the first half of the third century in the kingdom of Wei. Collectively, their lives spanned almost the entire century, and they, like others of their time and place, were confronted with political and

moral choices that were later to become part of the traditions about them. Their world was very different from the old world of Han, and new social arrangements profoundly affected Art.

The Art of Governing

When the great general Cao Cao became the ruler of the kingdom of Wei, he was, for all that, chief minister to the last emperor of the Han dynasty. He thus ruled in the latter's name, but with an army loyal to his own person. He both served and ruled, that is, because he had the military power to do so. A kingdom, however, is not a military camp. Moreover, the Eastern Han system of civil administration had collapsed, for all practical purposes, long before the final years of the dynasty. For Cao Cao and his successors the first requirement was to restore centralized power.

One way was to systematically develop a strong military class loyal to the ruler. Civil administration, however, was another matter. The old system of selection of civil servants, in total disarray, could not be reimplemented under the new conditions. Important avenues to selection and promotion in Eastern Han had for long been controlled at the local level by landed families, who, aided often by Confucian scholars seeking refuge from persecution by eunuchs at the court, eagerly recommended and promoted each other.^[11] To wrest power from this old elite while avoiding its concentration in the hands of the new (those who had backed Cao Cao) required, therefore, a new system of appointment and promotion, one that could ensure loyalty to the central government.

For that Cao Cao required not only new institutions but a new ideology.^[12] The old Confucian ethic had failed, and even some Confucians, those who had not tightened into self-righteousness as their world slipped away, perceived that the old order could not be restored.^[13] Confucianism could no longer provide the Cao family with the philosophical underpinnings for its new order.^[14]

For thoughtful men, therefore, it was a time of intense intellectual search. Old Legalist and Daoist ideas, as well as those of Confucianism, were reexplored and revised.^[15] Wang Su (195–256) edited (or forged) an edition of the Kongzi jiayu in which Confucius emerged anew as a mere mortal.^[16] Wang Bi (226–249) produced commentaries on the Dao de jing and the Yijing, and Xiang Xiu wrote a commentary on the Zhuangzi, now lost.^[17] These were not idle speculations but

serious attempts by intellectuals of the governing class to forge a metaphysic whereby to understand the catastrophes of the recent past and to form a rationale for future action. The metaphysical concept of ziran, self-so-ness or spontaneity, that so occupied the commentators of the Daoist classics was not without political (and social) resonance.^[18] Eulogizing the Wei dynasty, for example, He Yan, a favorite of Cao Cao's, urged:

Embody Nature in enacting the forms of government; accord with the seasons in establishing the acts of governance. . . . At a distance, comply with the spontaneity of Yin and Yang; near at hand, base oneself on the true natures of men and things. . . . Abolish offices that have no useful function. . . . Do away with the accumulation of varied custom in the complex rites, and return the people's mentality to the pristine simplicity.^[19]

Of course, there must be an enlightened ruler to accord with the seasons and comply with spontaneity (as well as to abolish offices), and the Wei rulers seem to have found in these contemporary interpretations the philosophical basis for their innovations.^[20]

According with the season, the Wei instituted a new system of appointing officials at the local level, the jiupin zhongzheng.^[21] An attempt to avoid the collusion between powerful local families and native officials that had subverted Han civil administration, the new system was designed to link officials of all grades to the central regime. Examiners (the zhongzheng, the Impartial and the Just), appointed by the central government and dispatched to provinces other than their own, were to rank (in nine grades, jiupin ) and recommend suitable men for appointment to office.^[22] Strangers to the districts and commanderies, they would, at least in theory, avoid favoritism and be objective in their recommendations. The system thus carried the seeds of its own destruction. Lacking familiarity with the local populace, examiners were forced to rely on reports from local officials, who were as readily loyal to their own families, or as readily suborned, as in the old days.^[23] To accomplish old ends, however, new tactics were required, as we shall see.

On what basis were the Impartial and the Just to grade and recommend? Sweeping away the old, Cao Cao had enunciated it clearly in 210: "I shall promote talent (cai ) only; when I find it, I will use it."^[24] No favoritism, then; no concern for wealth or status. Not filial piety, nor uprightness, nor incorruptibility—only talent.^[25] But what was that? And how did one identify it? So nebulous a concept was open to ready subversion.^[26]

The Art of Knowing Men

Identifying the new criterion was a problem that seems to have occupied many. Of the several works known to have been written on the subject, only one has survived, the Renwu zhi (The Study of Human Abilities), by Liu Shao.^[27] Talent (cai ), he averred, is a mental trait that can be observed only through its manifestation in behavior: "The manifestations of firmness, docility, illumination, vitality, purity, and constancy are visible in the form and features, appear in the voice and looks, and issue in the passions and tastes. All are indicated by their symptoms [xiang ]. Observing the manner (rong ) we may judge: "The capacities [neng ] come from the innate abilities. Innate abilities differ in quantity. Therefore, since innate abilities and capacities are different, so their proper employment in government is also different." To assess a man's abilities one should observe him when his feelings are changing:

What is meant by observing a man's feelings at a moment when they are changing, in order to examine his principles?

A man may ordinarily have a thick face [poker face] and deep feelings. If one wishes to understand him, it is necessary to observe the meaning of his words and to examine his replies and the things of which he approves. Observing the meaning of his words is like hearing the beauty or ugliness of the sound. Examining his replies and the things of which he approves is like observing the capacities and deficiencies of his wisdom. Therefore observing his words and examining his replies is sufficient for each to check the other.^[28]

Finally, "of all wisdom, there is nothing more valuable than to know men, and those who know men are certainly wise. In this way, all the abilities are put in their proper order, so that merit will prosper." Ability shines in a man's appearance, words, and actions—in short, in his manner, which is to say, in his style. The ability to judge these manifestations of ability is as important as all others.^[29]

Note that Liu Shao states that talent is inborn, it cannot be learned. The new philosophy for selection of administrators corresponds with the new metaphysic: "Base oneself on the true natures of men and things," He Yan had advised the ruler. "Whether one is a ruler or a servitor, a superior or an inferior . . . follows from the spontaneity of Natural Principle (t'ien-li chih tzu-jan ). affirmed Guo Xiang (d.312).^[30] Ability is biologically determined; one's lot in life flows from the natural order and should therefore be accepted as natural—and inevitable. This is a very different view from Dong Zhongshu's in the Han dynasty. For him, the child Xiang To, with his innate knowledge,

was the exception, the flawless piece of jade. Most of us, although ordinary stones, could, if only we were rubbed and polished enough, achieve brilliance. Now, however, that virtual invitation to social mobility is withdrawn: the have-nots are doomed by nature to remain the have-nots. "It is analogous to the . . . head being naturally on top and the feet occupying naturally the inferior position."^[31]

Even though talent is innate, Liu Shao does not discard learning as unnecessary. On the contrary, natural talent can be cultivated; learning, although it can never reverse natural talent, can increase its bias.^[32] By its expression, one may judge: "When the substance of the mind is clear and straightforward, the bearing is strong and firm. When it is vigorous and decisive, the bearing is aggressive. When it is rational, the bearing is calm and leisurely."^[33] Liu Shao leaves much room for interpretation, but the emphasis is always on a man's behavior (rather than on his physiognomy, for example) as a guide to his innate ability. The system is not, however, one of objective criteria; it is, rather, a proposal for artistic investigation, concerned with the aesthetics of talent and behavior.^[34] Both the expression of talent and its interpretation (itself an expression of talent) are art forms.

Although written in retirement, Liu Shao's guide to the perplexed was not ignored.^[35] Art and Politics formed a new and enduring alliance that was to affect many of the important social and aesthetic developments of the following centuries.

Let us return to the new system of recommending candidates for office. The examiner is a high official who, every three years, must judge and rank at the local level a group of candidates with whom he is not, in theory, personally acquainted. If he interviews the candidate, the interview will be brief. If he does not himself see the candidate, or even if he does, he must rely on brief written reports from local officials who are personally acquainted with the man.^[36] The recommendation submitted to the capital by the Impartial and the Just must itself be brief. Brevity requires of the candidate quick thinking and quick action to make a quick impression. In turn, it requires of the examiner quick judgment and the ability to sum it all up in a quick but telling phrase.^[37]

The Art of Conversation

Thus was qingtan, Pure Conversation, born. It did not spring full grown from the womb of the new system of recommendation, of course. Its seeds lay in the Eastern Han phenomenon of qingyi, Pure

Criticism, a form of verbal judgment employed by Confucian scholars to attack their political opponents.^[38] A short jingle or a witty metaphor with one's enemy as the butt was easily remembered and easily spread, whether at the village level or in the palace. Using it judiciously, a man could build a reputation—or destroy another's. So effective was the game that almost everyone learned to play—everyone, that is, with the requisite education to grasp the allusions, puns, and metaphors that drove home the message.

Originating in politics, the new art form was commemorated much later, in the fifth century, in a book titled the Shishuo xinyu (A New Account of Tales of the World).^[39] By that time qingtan had come to be associated with the fourth-century philosophical debates known as xuan xue, or Mysterious Learning.^[40] Its original function, however, and one it was always to retain, was practical. If talent could be expressed in words, then the bon mot or quick retort stamped the candidate as a man of distinction, one destined for advancement and renown. Hearing of his fine reputation, for example, Grand Marshal Wang Yan visited Ruan Xiu and asked him, "'The Laozi and the Zhuangzi on the one hand, and the teaching of the Sage (Confucius) on the other—are they the same or different?' Ruan replied, 'Aren't they the same (jiangwu tong )?'" The ambiguity, and therefore the adroitness, of the response so pleased the grand marshal that he promptly appointed Ruan his aide.^[41] Liu Shao's prescription, cited above, had been filled to the letter.

A brief examination of the most salient aspects of this incident reveals much about the period and the new values that came to the fore. If the encounter actually occurred—a matter of far less importance to this discussion than the fact that the fifth-century editors of the Shishuo xinyu believed that it did—then it took place between members of two prominent families of the third century, the Wangs and the Ruans. The grand marshal held the highest of offices. He did not know Ruan Xiu except by reputation, which is to say that someone had recommended him to Wang. The question Wang asked him was by no means frivolous, for it concerned the important philosophical and political battles of the century. The purported exchange occurred toward its end, by which time the issues had, in a general way, sorted themselves into two fundamentally opposed points of view: ziran, associated with the newly revised teachings of Laozi and Zhuangzi, and conformity to the Moral Teaching, ming jiao, associated with Confucian thought. By mid-century the former point of view had come to be identified with the Cao family and their rule, the latter with the

family who supplanted them, the Sima. The grand marshal's question, therefore, hints at important, and dangerous, loyalties and commitments. Ruan Xiu's cleverly evasive response was, for the grand marshal, a clear sign of his talent, the ability to survive politically.

There is more—for the question implies not only innate talent but also learning. To respond successfully, Ruan Xiu must have grasped the philosophical tenets of the two schools of thought: he must, that is, be educated. The disingenuous reply, moreover, relies not only on Ruan Xiu's knowledge of the issues but on a highly educated use of language, in which subtlety and ambiguity are conveyed by the phrasing (jiangwu ).^[42] It was not Ruan Xiu's talent that earned him his appointment; it was his cultivated talent, his refinement. Whatever Cao Cao's democratic hopes for talent and its employment in government were, one form that came to be important for its expression, qingtan, was available to very few.

There were other expressions of talent whereby a man could promote his career. In 236, for example, the Wei emperor, Ming, issued a proclamation: "I desire to recruit those who have talent, wisdom, literary distinction . . . those who are pure (qing ) and cultivated (xiu ), refined (mi ) and tranquil (jing ). regardless of age or social standing."^[43] Once again we note innovations. Moral virtue, as expressed, for example, by filial piety or respect for elders, can be found in persons of any age or social standing, and perhaps that is what Ming Di meant by his requirement of purity.^[44] Wisdom might possibly refer to knowledge of the Classics, to erudition, and thus include the Confucian scholars. Literary distinction, cultivation, refinement, however, are another matter.

We cannot know the precise meaning of the emperor's stated qualifications. Perhaps by pointing to one who we know did not fit his requirements, we may be able to refine our understanding of his meaning. He Yan, for example, was famous for his sharp mind, talent, beauty, and erudition. Yet he was found wanting. The son of a consort of Cao Cao's, raised in the palace and later married to an imperial princess, he was eventually executed for plotting treason against the Sima family.^[45] Another source states that he was vain, always carried white powder, and looked back at his shadow when he walked.^[46]

He Yan dressed and ornamented himself like a crown prince, leading Emperor Wen (the crown prince Cao Pi) to refer to him as the Phony Prince.^[47] We learn, furthermore, that the emperor Ming considered Yan and his friends superficial and showy (fu hua ). Therefore,

he did not employ them.^[48] Thus, for all his talent and education, He Yan lacked two crucial qualities the emperor sought in his officials, profundity and refinement. Cao Cao required talent only; his grandson required something more.

The Art of Literature

The Jian'an era (196–219) is a benchmark period in the history of Chinese literature. Poetry flourished, and, although it did not abandon the public functions of much Han poetry, it added to them concerns of a more private nature. In addition, a new interest in formal issues emerged. Cao Cao himself wrote poetry, as did his sons, Cao Zhi (192–232) and Cao Pi (187–226), the first Wei emperor.

In a letter dated 217–218 Cao Pi remarks that "there are only two ways of attaining immortality: the better way is to establish one's virtue and become famous; the next best method is to write books."^[49] Something old, virtue as the road to fame, is here joined to something new. The Cao brothers also essayed literary criticism, in which various writers were compared, which is to say that they were judged and ranked, not in terms of erudition, but in terms of style, rather as if they were candidates for office. It was the first systematic emphasis on the creative in literature, and in a famous passage Cao Pi stressed the innate character of a writer's creativity (qi ), as Liu Shao was later to do for all abilities:

In literature, the main thing is ch'i [qi ]. The purity (or lightness, ch'ing [qing ]) or impurity (or heaviness, cho [zhuo ]) of this ch'i has substance, and cannot be achieved by strenuous efforts. To draw an analogy with music: though the tune may be the same and the rhythm regulated the same way, when it comes to the drawing of breath (ch'i ), which will be different (from person to person), or the skillfulness or clumsiness, which depends on natural endowment, even a father cannot pass it on to his son, or an older brother to a younger brother.^[50]

In addition to a new valuation for literature, Cao Pi presented a new ambience, especially for poetry. Lamenting friends who had died during a recent epidemic, the crown prince reminisced in a letter to a friend:

We would ride out in our chariots one after the other, and sit together with our mats touching [defying protocol]: not for an instant could we be separated! We would fill our wine cups and pass them to one another and then, when the strings and winds played together and our ears were hot from the

wine, we would raise our heads and chant poetry. How unconscious we were then, not knowing our own happiness!^[51]

Perhaps the reader will give his fantasy free reign and conjure a picture or two, or three, or eight—for here, in the first half of the third century, we find the tentative beginnings of a new stereotype.

This experience, so yearned for by Cao Pi, can have nothing to do with literary celebrations of dynasties, with splendors of capitals. There is no hint of lament or of quest for the transcendental to strike a serious note. Riding out to some wooded or rural setting, sitting on the ground informally, drinking wine, making music: these are moments of friendship, of leisure. In this passage, literature takes on very special associations and a new, private and personal, function.

The Seven Worthies of the Bamboo Grove and One Other

I turn now to the lives of the men whose portraits were of such significance to someone, much later, in the southern capital of Jiankang. Their collective lives were to be paradigmatic for the conflicts of the third century.^[52] As future paradigms, their lives and literary remains will enable us to tease out yet other values that became prominent in this century. The individuals are the nodes, as it were, on which important ideas converge and from which new ideas will radiate.

There are two issues: fact and tradition. If we wish to know what fourth- and fifth-century portraits meant to those who commissioned or saw them, then the facts of their subjects' lives are irrelevant. What matters are the traditions that later developed and are known to have been in circulation at the time and in the place where the portraits were made. What the patrons and audience of the fourth and fifth centuries believed to be true, that is, is more important to the purpose than historical truth. Yet the roots of fact must be considered, for they will help to trace the branches of tradition that grew from them and that eventually interlaced into stereotype.

I shall treat with traditions in their appropriate places; here I shall be concerned only with what may reasonably be accepted as fact.^[53] The sources for these facts are, above all, the literary remains of the Worthies, as well as two slender passages in Chen Shou's History of the

Three Kingdoms (Sanguo zhi ). In addition, there remain fragments from several now-lost works of the very late third and early fourth centuries.^[54]

Xi Kang (figs. 15 and 16) wrote both poetry and philosophical essays, and many of his works have come down to us.^[55] The historian Chen Shou praises his writing and goes on to say that he liked to discuss the works of Laozi and Zhuangzi. Chen adds that Xi Kang was interested in the occult. In his final remark, Chen says merely, and cautiously, that Xi Kang became involved in "an affair" and was executed in the Jingyuan era (260–263).^[56] Elsewhere, the historian remarks that the execution of Xi Kang and others was plotted by Zhong Hui (225–264), then in a position of power.^[57]

Some years later, Xiang Xiu wrote that he, Xiu, had been a close friend of Xi Kang's and Lü An's, both men of great talent, who died because of "an affair." Kang, he says, excelled in all the arts, especially music. Poignantly, Xiang Xiu recalls Xi Kang's final moments when, turning his head to see his shadow (and thus knowing his mortality), he drew close his qin and played a tune.^[58]

Neither of these near-contemporary sources alludes to the cause of Xi Kang's execution, and it may have been politically unwise to do so. For by the time of his death, the Wei emperor was but a puppet of the general and minister Sima Zhao, whom the partisans of the Cao family, in spite of years of struggle, had been unable to overthrow. Later texts, cited by Pei Songzhi (372–451) in his commentary to Chen Shou's history, state that Xi Kang was married to a great-granddaughter of Cao Cao's.^[59] As a member of the royal family, he was likely to have opposed the Sima faction (supported by the old, landed families whose power was threatened by the political innovations of the Cao). There is thus reason to suspect that political considerations played a part in Xi Kang's death, and he may well have been involved in one or more of the Cao supporters' plots. The Sima's de jure accession to power in 265 undoubtedly made it unwise for survivors to discuss "the affair" in detail.

An important letter from Xi Kang to Shan Tao attests to their friendship.^[60] It also tells us something about the political system and the clubby way it worked. It states, for example, that Tao had recommended his friend to his (Shan Tao's) uncle, the prefect of Yingquan. Moreover, the writer had learned from mutual friends that Shan Tao, upon receiving a promotion, had recommended Xi Kang to the authorities as his successor in office. "Nothing came of it, but your proposal made it obvious you really did not understand me at all."^[61]

Xi Kang then proceeds to enlighten his friend by explaining his character and its unsuitability for a holder of office.

It is not my purpose to offer yet another interpretation of this famous letter breaking off with his friend. Subterfuge, security for himself or his friend, unsullied principles—these are not the issues here. Of concern, rather, are the ideas he uses, whatever his intent. Like his poetry and essays, the letter is filled with ambiguities. In all his writings, however, similar ideas are expressed, and I shall use the letter to Shan Tao to exemplify a few of these.

He speaks of himself as lazy and arrogant, spoiled young, one who never studied the Classics.^[62] "I was already wayward and lazy by nature, so that my muscles became weak and my flesh flabby."^[63] He neglected washing and other bodily functions. Moreover, "my disposition became arrogant and careless, my bluntness diametrically opposed to etiquette." Worse, "I am always . . . running down the Duke of Chou and Confucius. If I did not stop this in society, it is clear that the religion of the times would not put up with me."^[64] If the portrait is true, one wonders what could have led Shan Tao to recommend him for office.

The letter makes it clear that Xi Kang had earlier retired from official life. He gives many reasons for wishing to remain so. First, he says that he now believes that there are people "resolutely above the world. One can be so constituted that there are things one cannot endure; honest endorsement cannot be forced."^[65] He implies that his retirement is based on abjurement of a regime he cannot condone, and he sounds little different from the Four Graybeards of Mount Shang. He adds other reasons, however.

Because Laozi and Zhuangzhou are his teachers, his taste for independence (fang ) has increased: "Any desire for fame or success [has grown] daily weaker, and my commitment to freedom increasingly firmer." He likes to sleep late, for one thing; for another, he could not bear to dress up in formal robes and bow to his superiors, if only because he is infested with lice and scratches all the time. Moreover, he likes to wander among hills and streams, "to walk, singing, with . . . lute [qin ] in . . . arms, or go fowling or fishing in the woods." To his desire for freedom and leisure he adds yet another reason for retirement: "Of late I have been studying the techniques of prolonging one's life, casting out all ideas of fame and glory, eliminating tastes, and letting my mind wander in stillness: what is most worthwhile to me is Inaction."^[66]

It has been suggested that there were four basic motives for eremit-

ism in the Han dynasty: There were the motives of those who, going off to the mountains, simply shunned society altogether; of those who dabbled in the occult, to achieve immortality or to prolong life; of those who wished to live inconspicuously but who did not abandon society; and of those who hoped to transform society by setting an example for "conspicuously virtuous conduct."^[67] In his letter to Shan Tao, Xi Kang offers all these reasons, to which he adds a new purpose, leisure—not merely leisure to sleep late or scratch his fleas, of course. As his letter reaches its close, he tells his friend, who has recently been promoted:

Today I only wish to stay on in this out-of-the-way lane and bring up my children and grandchildren, on occasion relaxing and reminiscing with old friends—a cup of unstrained wine, a song to the lute [qin ]: this is the sum of my desires and ambitions.^[68]

Friends, wine, music: these are the new dimensions of leisure that Cao Pi so missed. Here, in Xi Kang's letter, they mingle with old activities to form a new role, the cultivated recluse.

Music is mentioned by both Cao Pi and Xi Kang, but where the crown prince uses only the generic term, Xi Kang refers specifically to the qin. Although often translated as "lute," it is in fact a zither. Difficult to play, requiring considerable technical skill, it is no ordinary instrument, and it occupies a rather special role in Chinese culture.

By early Han the qin was already viewed as a "civilized and civilizing instrument of special importance."^[69] By the fourth century it had become "the nucleus of a Way, . . . as such, it was the symbol of the aesthete, relating to his need for self-cultivation, to his need for communion with friends and with nature, and ultimately to his potential for triumph over the limitations of ordinary men."^[70] I move ahead of my story with this quotation only to make the point that Xi Kang was instrumental in the development of this aesthetic. His essay on the qin, although written to the formula of the period, is considered the most beautiful—and still the most influential—on the subject. He devotes much space to the actual construction of the instrument, the proper woods, where to find them, and so forth.^[71] Music and technique are discussed, as are the proper times and places for playing the qin. Once again the notes of private enjoyment and leisure are struck:

Clad in the elegant garb proper to [the] season, together with some good friends one sets out for a pleasant excursion. They wander through fragrant gardens, climb hills, rest under old trees or sit under gaily decorated sunshades. They walk along clear streams, composing new poems. They

admire the leisurely movements of water creatures, and enjoy the verdure.^[72]

The qin, however, is not for everyone, nor for just any group of friends:

Truly, those who are not free and detached cannot find pleasure in it; those who are not profound and serene cannot rest quiet in it; those who are not liberated cannot abandon themselves to it; those who are not of the utmost refinement will be unable to discern its principles.^[73]

Detached and liberated, profound and serene, refined—such is the superior man. And only to him is true understanding of the qin possible.^[74] Thus, developing Cao Pi's depiction of leisure, Xi Kang adds to it requirements that limit the activity to a special few. To pursue that which is newly valued—the private sphere of a man's life—requires precisely what was newly required in the public sphere, as exemplified by qingtan—namely, profundity and refinement. These are the very qualities sought by Emperor Ming in his call for worthy officials.

Other activities of the men who moved in the highest circles may have played a part in the new emphasis on leisure and the private life. The Shishuo xinyu includes an anecdote in which He Yan remarks that whenever he takes a five-mineral powder (wushi san ), "not only does it heal any illness I may have, but I am also aware of my spirit and intelligence becoming receptive and lucid."^[75] Citing a fifth-century work, the commentary states that this drug, known also as cold-food powder (hanshi san ), was made popular by He Yan, who "first discovered its divine properties. . . . From his time on it enjoyed a wide currency in the world, and those who used it sought each other out."^[76]

This temporary restorer of vitality had an important influence on fashions of the day. To ensure efficacy and avoid negative effects, the user had to consume heated wine and to exercise after taking it. The resulting fever required the wearing of thin, loose clothing. Skin lesions, among the many negative consequences of this drug (which may have contained arsenic), also dictated the necessity for loose clothing.^[77] For the same reason, close-fitting shoes or slippers that exacerbated the lesions could not be worn, and they were replaced by clogs.

It is obvious that the use of five-mineral powder required a specific regimen, one clearly not appropriate for attendance at court. Strolling

in clogs and drinking wine, the wide robe loosely belted—some men dressed and behaved this way because they took the powder. Others of their class, eschewing the powder, nevertheless adopted the lifestyle. It became, in short, the fashion.^[78]

There is no evidence that Xi Kang was a devotée of the five-mineral powder. The required style of clothing, moreover, differs from his "elegant garb proper to the season." Yet, drug taking provided another dimension of that leisure which some found compelling in the third century; eventually it became part of the new aesthetic.

Many of the ideas expressed in Xi Kang's literary works were not original; they circulated in the intellectual dialogues of his time. In his poetry one finds many of the same conceits found in other works of the period, the most notable, perhaps, being the poetry of the Cao family. What seems to be original is the degree of subjectivity of his poetry.^[79] It is clear from a reading of the poetry of the period that "self-expression" has become a new theme in Chinese literature and that Xi Kang is one of its most important exponents.^[80] "If the heart is tranquil and the hands able," he writes, then "the touch of the fingers will respond to the thoughts, and the [qin ] player will be able to express himself in his music."^[81]

As for the substantive issues, Xi Kang's ideas are ambiguous and do not readily mark him as an adherent either of philosophical Daoism or of philosophical Confucianism.^[82] On the contrary, they suggest an attempt by Xi Kang to harmonize the two schools of thought. Far easier to achieve in literature than in life, it was a harmony that sanctioned, even imposed, both service and retirement.

The biography of Ruan Ji (figs. 17 and 18) in Chen Shou's admirable history is as brief as Xi Kang's.^[83] He was a son of Ruan Yu (d. 212), who was secretary to Cao Cao and a member of the famous literary group, the Seven Masters of the Jian'an period.^[84] Like his father, Ruan Ji was a poet, and his literary works, the historian adds, were exceedingly beautiful. He was, however, unrestrained and reckless. A man of few desires, he took Zhuangzi as his model. His title of office, infantry colonel (bubing xiaowei ), is the final phrase of the biography.

There is little else by way of information. We know, however, that he was acquainted with Xi Kang, for in the famous letter to Shan Tao, Kang refers to him:

Juan Chi [Ruan Ji] is not one to talk about other people's faults, and I have tried to model myself after him, but in vain. He is a man of finer character than most, one who never injured another. Only in drinking does he go to

excess. But even so the proper and correct gentlemen . . . hate him as a mortal enemy, and it is only thanks to the protection of Generalissimo Ssu-ma Chao [Sima Zhao] that he survives.^[85]

Ruan Ji drinks and is hated by the Confucians. His official rank was not very high (fourth grade); yet he was known to, and protected by, the de facto ruler.^[86] It is an interesting point, for it suggests that official rank and social status were not necessarily equivalent. Moreover, the Sima, as we know, upheld the Confucian position, yet protected Ruan Ji from their allies. Whatever his convictions, he must have been an important man in his day.

In addition to Xi Kang's testimony, a lengthy letter from one Fu Yi, otherwise unknown, to Ruan Ji is published by Yan Kejun.^[87] Donald Holzman also accepts it as authentic and summarizes its ideas. Fu Yi's commitments are orthodox: "The only way we can rejoice in our integrity and develop our nature is to be moved by the desire for glory and fame."^[88] One therefore follows the way of the Confucian sages. Yet Fu Yi can also understand and appreciate the way of the Daoist sages, who turned their backs on a parlous world. He is exasperated with Ruan Ji, however, whom he cannot classify. He hears, on the one hand, that Ji roars and sobs, ignoring all others; on the other hand, that he is refined and studious^[89] —he pleads with Ruan Ji, in effect, to make up his mind (preferably in the right direction).

Fu Yi bases his assessment, not on Ruan Ji's literary works, but rather on the conflicting stories he has heard about him. Ji's oeuvre, however, is just as ambiguous. We cannot, that is, classify him according to the philosophical conflicts of the time. He seems to have declined Fu Yi's plea, and the only clear point in his reply is that he considers Yi too stupid to understand him. As for the poetry, in one poem he turns his back on the world; in another he seeks to transcend it; in yet another he accepts orthodoxy, fame, and glory.^[90] Perhaps the ambiguities are evidence of his own uncertainty. Or perhaps, as Donald Holzman has movingly argued, he was an anguished man, a satirist who masked his grief with foolery and ambiguity.^[91] If it is difficult to discern in the evidence the basis for later stereotypes, we should nevertheless recognize how readily this protean material could be co-opted for later purposes, as we shall see. His refusal to choose, so exasperating to Fu Yi, marks him as a man ahead of his time, for, as we have observed, the same refusal, at a later date, earned his kinsman an official appointment.

If Ruan Ji leaves us in doubt about the correct interpretation of his

poems, there can be little doubt about the originality of the generic title he gave them: "Poems That Sing of My Innermost Thoughts" (Yonghuai shi ).^[92] Like the works of Xi Kang, the suggestion of self-expression is the truly innovative aspect of his oeuvre.

The remaining Worthies survived into the Western Jin period, and their biographies were not included by Chen Shou in his history. We first hear of them in texts of the fourth century, to which I shall turn in the next chapter. Some of their own writings, however, have survived.

We have met with Xiang Xiu (figs. 23 and 24) as a friend of Xi Kang's. Later sources report that he wrote a commentary to the Zhuangzi (now lost); in the fourth century it was widely believed that the later commentary by Guo Xiang (d. 312), still extant, drew heavily on Xiang Xiu's ideas.^[93] In addition to his memoir of his friend, there exists a refutation of Xi Kang's essay on Nourishing Life, as well as Xi Kang's response to the refutation.^[94]

In his essay Xi Kang argues that life can be prolonged by following a specific regimen—namely, the abstention from meat, grains, and wine while cultivating tranquillity and the lessening of desires. "He cultivates his nature to protect his spirit and calms his mind to keep his body intact. Love and hate do not dwell in his feelings; anguish and delight do not stay in his thoughts. Quiet is he and unmoved, his body and breath harmonious and still."^[95]

Rubbish, replied Xiang Xiu. The sages, such as the Duke of Zhou and Confucius, "who 'thoroughly understood the principles and exhausted their natures,'" did not live especially long—certainly not because they neglected Xi Kang's principles, but because "the appointment given by Heaven has a limit; it simply is not something things can increase." His friend is mistaken in his endeavors and will accomplish little. "Thus, to look at your shadow and sit like a corpse with rocks and trees as your neighbors is [like] imprisoning yourself while having no crime. . . . To nourish life in this way—I have never heard it was fitting."^[96]

There is no record of Liu Ling's life, family, or official rank (figs. 25 and 26). His dates are unknown, and only one work by him has come down to us, his Ode to the Virtues of Wine. It celebrates that elixir and nothing but:

At rest he grabbed a goblet or a cup,
And moving, always carried jug or pot.
For wine, and wine alone, was all his lot.
How should he know about the rest?^[97]

To all entreaties, whether from those at court or scholars in retirement, the singer responded by merely draining his cup, after which he "shook out his beard and sat, legs sprawled apart / Pillowed on barm and cushioned on the dregs."^[98] Free of all desires (except, presumably, for wine), "lighthearted and carefree," he has turned his back on the world and found his Way.

Of Shan Tao (figs. 19 and 20) we know only from the letter above that he was a friend of Xi Kang's and that he served in office under the Sima rule, as did an uncle.^[99] In his fourth-century Jin shu, Yu Yu says that Shan Tao, during the Western Jin period, held successively the offices of president of the Board of Civil Office, vice-president of the Imperial Secretariat, junior tutor to the crown prince, and director of instruction—the latter one of the three highest offices in the land (san gong ).^[100] He was, in short, extremely powerful and did not turn his back on the world. He seems to have been famous for his recommendations to office.

There are no literary remains by Ruan Xian (figs. 27 and 28) or Wang Rong (figs. 21 and 22), nor are any said to have existed. The fourth-century Mingshi zhuan says that Xian was the son of Ji's older brother, and that he held office as junior chamberlain (sanji shilang ).^[101] Another early text speaks of his musicianship.^[102] Yet another says that Wang Rong came from Langya (in Shandong province) and that he eventually held (like Shan Tao) the post of director of instruction.^[103]

No extant text from the third century mentions the Seven Worthies of the Bamboo Grove. We do hear, however, of the eighth figure in the Nanjing mural, Rong Qiqi (figs. 29 and 30). Dwelling afar on Mount Tai, wearing a deerskin gown belted with a rope, playing a zither and singing, he is visited by Confucius. The Sage is puzzled and asks him why he is so happy. For so many things, he replies:

Heaven created the myriad things to be obedient to humans—it is my good fortune to be human. . . . Among humans, men are superior to women—it is my good fortune to be a man. . . . As for long life, I've already lived ninety years. . . . Poverty is common among men and death the end for all. Living like most and awaiting my end—why shouldn't I be happy?^[104]

Xi Kang offered many reasons for his desire to withdraw from the world, including righteousness. Summoned from retirement by Liu Bei, the famous Zhuge Liang, by his authority as an exemplary recluse, legitimized Liu's claims to the throne by responding to the call. Rong Qiqi, however, suggests no such virtuous conduct. Happy with

his lot, sharing Xiang Xiu's fatalism, his reclusiveness exemplifies the concept of ziran, a concept sufficiently flexible, as we see, to serve as rationale in both public and private life.

The same story told by Huangfu Mi is found in Taiping yulan, where it is attributed to a now-lost work by Xi Kang, the Shengxian gaoshi zhuan zan.^[105] Xi Kang also refers to Rong in his essay on the qin: "Here [on the lofty ridges of steep mountains] it is that wise men fleeing the world, worthy companions of a [Rong Qiqi] . . . , together ascend high mountain arches and cross deep-cut vales. . . . Then they realize the constraining shackles of worldly life."^[106]

The story of Rong Qiqi as an exemplar of a natural and spontaneous way of life seems to have been well known at the time. In a poem to his good friend Xi Kang, Ruan Kan, best known for his disagreement with the former on the efficacy of geomancy, refers to one Rongzi, without doubt the happy recluse under discussion.^[107] Ruan Kan's disagreements with Xi Kang are often couched in traditional Confucian terms, but in the poem he approves of Rong's fatalism, and indeed, with hindsight, it reads as almost a warning to his friend. Tranquillity, he stresses, is the foundation of the Way—Laozi hated violence and Rongzi knew what brought peace.

Thus, there appears to have been no ambiguity about Rong Qiqi and the ideas he represented. He was, after all, a fictional character, presumably created, or later adorned, to represent a position. Our other Worthies, on the contrary, were human beings, as complex, perhaps as confused, as mortals tend to be. If, therefore, we find in the bare facts of their lives and in their writings ambiguities, even contradictions, we may conclude, and with reason, that we are encountering them as they may once have been—not as the stereotypes they were to become.

There is no evidence that they all knew each other, although their own prominence, or that of their families, makes it likely that they did (Liu Ling, about whom we know nothing, is excluded from the discussion). Sun Sheng (ca. 302–373), however, writing long after the events could have taken place, states that the seven men were good friends and used to gather in a bamboo grove at (or near) Xi Kang's home in Henei, north of the capital. They were called, he says, the Seven Worthies.^[108] The fifth-century commentator to Shishuo xinyu reports that Yuan Hong's Eminent Gentlemen (Mingshi zhuan ) had three divisions: famous gentlemen of the Zhengshi era, of the Central Court, and of the Bamboo Grove. The seven men were named in this last section.^[109]

It is only much later, however, that wealth of detail creates a sense of historical reality. Li Daoyuan (d. 527), citing earlier works, presents the specifics: In Shanyang prefecture, a few kilometers from White Deer Mountain, to the southeast, where Xi Kang had his home (and where, at that time, there was a grove of bamboo), summer and winter, without fail, Xi Kang, Ruan Ji, Shan Tao, Xiang Xiu, Ruan Xian, Liu Ling, and Wang Rong gathered; men of the time called them The Seven Worthies of the Bamboo Grove.^[110] Natal lands and official titles are supplied for all the men.

Perhaps it was so.^[111] What we may accept as really so is that at least some of the men did indeed know each other, were present at the capital, and moved in court circles. Through marriage, friendship, or political appointment, they were highly placed, members of the governing elite. Some—Xi Kang, Ruan Ji, and Xiang Xiu—were intellectuals who addressed themselves to prevalent philosophical issues. Two, Xi Kang and Ruan Ji, were famous for their literary ability, and the former was also devoted to that most difficult of musical instruments, the qin. One, Xi Kang, appears to have dabbled in well-known techniques for prolonging life or attaining immortality, which his friend Xiang Xiu considered futile.

They differed not only in their philosophical stances but clearly also in their political and social choices. Xi Kang desired to retire from the world, for a variety of reasons, but not to isolate himself. Liu Ling, if we accept his words at face value, turned his back on everything but the fruit of the vine. Shan Tao and Wang Rong remained firmly and well positioned in the world. I can discern no single position, commitment, or role from this array. On the contrary, the differences among them seem to outweigh the similarities.

It is possible, however, to see some of the new values at work as others begin to assess them. Chen Shou, for example, mentions the literary talent of Xi Kang and Ruan Ji. He praises, however, not their erudition (that hallmark of the Confucian scholar), but the form and style of their works, which are elegant and beautiful. He judges them, that is, by the new standards manifested in Cao Pi's private reminiscences and criticism and later in the emperor Ming's public call for officials. This is the reverse of the Han situation, in which the scholars first promulgated, and the ruler later accepted, the values of Confucian orthodoxy. These new criteria emanate from the highest circle, the imperial family, not from loyal ministers or virtuous scholars.

Once generated in court circles, the new values are adopted by others, such as Chen Shou in his assessment of the works of Xi Kang

and Ruan Ji. Others, moreover, adapt and refine them, applying them to new situations or experiences. Xi Kang, for example, yearns for the same leisurely ambience as did the crown prince. He elevates it, however, to a new status, one appropriate only to those who are refined, detached, and serene.

Here then, associated with Xi Kang and Ruan Ji, is the new cluster of talent, literature, and refinement: wrapped in a new life-style and tied with a new aesthetic. If the other five Worthies do not as yet fit into the new picture, perhaps men of a later period will arrange that.

If Shi Daoshi did paint a picture of the Seven Worthies in the third century, then it seems reasonable to suggest that the painter may have thought of his subjects rather less as virtuous and rather more as refined. What constituted refined behavior, however, remains at this point somewhat shapeless, its components dangling like loose threads. As I at last face south, toward the new capital, I shall try to weave the threads together.

Crossing the River

In the closing years of the third century, nature's wrath—droughts, floods, famine, and epidemics—and man's rage—wars of succession, banditry, and tribal incursions—became insupportable. A sizable portion of an already decimated population fled the north of China to safety in the south.^[112] Perhaps as many as one million people sought refuge in a sparsely populated region of lush, largely uncultivated lands and networks of waterways.^[113] In time, the émigrés prospered as vast tracts were opened for development, trade and commerce flourished, and shipbuilding and seaports assumed a new importance.^[114]

It was undoubtedly the expanding economy that enabled the new dynasty to survive for a full century, amidst a host of contending forces: northern émigrés and southern aristocrats competing with each other and among themselves for lands, privileges, and power; nominal rulers vainly scheming to play off contenders and wrest control; peasants fired by ecstatic visions and crushing taxes to futile revolts. At the apex, successive Sima puppets occupied the throne (except for a brief interlude in 402–404 when Huan Xuan usurped it) until 420, when the general Liu Yu officially supplanted the emperor Gong to found the Song dynasty. That dynasty, in its turn, fell to another

general, Xiao Daocheng, who, in 479, established the Southern Qi dynasty.

Eastern Jin rule was for all practical purposes a rule by oligarchy, in which a few chief ministers, supported by their own and allied clans, fought each other to hold actual power while serving their respective puppet-emperors. In never-ending rivalry, the clans maneuvered to outwit their opponents and attain political power, perhaps even the throne itself.

The Nanjing tomb, with its mural of the Seven Worthies of the Bamboo Grove, was unquestionably constructed for one who himself, or whose family, belonged to one of the many factions that bubbled at the court in Jiankang. In the chapter that follows we shall see that memories of the Seven Worthies played a role in the political intrigues of this "world of emperors and princes, courtiers, officials, generals, genteel hermits, and urbane monks."^[115]

The Eastern Jin period is often referred to as the period of the Great Families. To understand who they were, how they achieved political power, and how they retained it, we must turn back to the third century.

The wars that ended the Han dynasty impoverished the country.^[116] An ever-increasing burden of taxation forced many small landholders to abandon ownership and seek refuge as tenant-serfs on the estates of those more fortunate than them. Others—such as those deprived of home and livelihood by war, scholars out of office—joined them to swell the populations of these manorial estates, which thus became important foci of economic and military power.^[117] Their owners were a potential support for and constant threat to any centralized government.^[118]

Efforts to contain the growing power of these landed families were futile. Any generalissimo (Cao Cao, for example, or Sun Quan, king of Wu) who won the day had to reward his supporters with ennoblement, enfeoffment, or official appointment, which is to say, with more lands (including the tenants thereon). Tax rolls were never accurate, of course; distortion, by time-honored and universal means, was always in favor of the estate. Above all, the landed families' access to the system of public administration sealed their power.^[119]

An individual did not need to hold public office to gain economic power; to retain it, however, was another matter. Wealth accruing from whatever source was most frequently invested in land, the productivity of which was best safeguarded by the holding of office. One who held office, for example, was, with his family and those to whom

he had given his patronage, exempt from certain taxes.^[120] Moreover, one's official rank determined the number of dependents he was entitled to lodge on his estates, as well as the size of his land allotment. In addition, commercial opportunities not possible for private individuals were available to those who served in a public capacity, as part of the state apparatus. Thus, it was not wealth per se, nor the mere possession of vast estates, that made a family politically and socially powerful.^[121] Private opportunism joined with the old Confucian tradition of public service to reinforce the importance, even the necessity of holding office. One owed it to one's family.

Whatever the selection system for appointment, those with landed power prevailed. At the state level they held the most powerful administrative posts; at the local level they knew the right people and how to impress them with their "talent." Indeed, they were the right people (the grand marshal Wang Yan, whom Ruan Ji's nephew so impressed, was a member of the powerful Langya Wang clan from modern Shandong). So effective were they that, under the Western Jin dynasty, the families with power bases at the local level succeeded in converting some posts to hereditary appointments.^[122]

Having abandoned their lands and their official posts, the northern families might be thought to have lost all, to have become pitiful refugees, like thousands of others who swarmed across the great river. Their arrival, moreover, was greeted with something less than compassion and hospitality by the old southern families, their counterparts who had migrated to northern Anhui and the coastal region during the Han dynasty. They had prospered, and when that great dynasty fell, to ensure peace in the region, retain their landholdings, and even extend them, they joined forces with the Sun warlords. Families like the Gu, the Lu, the Zhu, and the Zhang had done well in the kingdom of Wu, serving as chief ministers and marrying into the royal family.^[123] They saw the northern incursion as a threat to their status and power and resented it. Refusing to accept them as their equals, the southern swells considered the northern swells vulgar and called them worse.^[124]

But the pitiful refugees were to outnumber and outmaneuver the southern aristocrats. Skillful leadership, headed by another Langya Wang, Dao (276–339), succeeded in winning allegiance to a new emperor.^[125] To that end, he wooed southern families with honors and appointments at court while acceding to the demands of the northern families for the restoration of their old privileges, as well as for lands to replace those they had lost.^[126] With the need to establish quickly an

administrative apparatus for governing, almost any educated man could gain appointment as an official.^[127] High-level positions, however, at least at the beginning, were awarded to those whose families had held them in the north and who claimed their continued right to them as the price of allegiance.

It is not surprising that in these chaotic times the establishing of claims to hereditary privileges and status assumed such importance. If one's ancestry entitled one to official rank, to land allotments, to tax exemptions, then proof of that ancestry was necessary. Registers of geographical origins (tu duan ) and genealogies were compiled and became increasingly important over the centuries.^[128] The world was divided into those who, by virtue of education and ancestry, were entitled to govern (the shi ) and those whom they governed (the shu ).^[129] The members of the shi class, however, were by no means a homogeneous group. Linked by a tradition of education, they were divided by differential wealth, access to high office, and social status.^[130] A family that for several generations failed to produce high-ranking officials (regardless of the reasons for this) obviously lost benefits determined by rank, leaving their scions to rely on their talents or to sink further into oblivion. Political adroitness, such as Ruan Xiu had manifested in his interview with the grand marshal, could win a patron; military prowess, as the founder of the Liu-Song dynasty was to demonstrate, was another avenue to success.

It was, therefore, most certainly not a closed system, and talent could take one far. Still, in a social class where impeccable ancestry could be used to divide the ins (the Great Families: haozu, guizu, menfa ) from the outs (the Families of the Cold Gate: hanmen ). a solid genealogy was a comfort, and more. If it did not of itself always bring wealth or high appointment, it could give social standing and access to powerful people. In this new land to which the northerners had come, their records destroyed and their families scattered, it was not uncommon to forge a genealogy or to insist on a dubious ancestry. In the fourth century, for example, the Huans, who rose to prominence through military talent, claimed descent from a Han official. When, however, Huan Xuan briefly usurped the throne in 402, he was unable to fill the imperial ancestral temple with the seven required manes, because the names and ranks of ancestors prior to his great-grandfather were "not illustrious."^[131] In a poem to his sons, Tao Yuanming traced a distinguished ancestry as far back as the legendary emperors. In reality there is little of certainty about the Tao family prior to Yuanming's great-grandfather.^[132]

For the governing elite life in the south was more than a daily jostle for power and status. On their vast country estates the wealthy delighted in the idyllic existence afforded by a mild climate and gentle landscape. With their like-minded friends, they strolled and drank wine and composed poems. In this leisurely setting, the philosophical debates known as xuan xue became even livelier as a new philosophy and religion, Buddhism, was added to the yeast of arguments about Lao-Zhuang and the Yijing. A man's wit and learning were as prized in these discussions as was the substance of his argument, and indeed the way in which something was said was often far more admired than what was said. In the same manner, the way in which a poem was written down, the calligraphy, could be valued as highly as the poem. It might be remarked that the process—the way in which something was made, the style of the argument, the style of the calligraphy, the style of the poem—took on a new valuation.

Nor was painting neglected by the elite. The emperor Ming, albeit sketchy with regard to form and coloring, was nevertheless "rather successful in getting the spirit."^[133] Gu Kaizhi was greatly admired for his paintings, and private collectors sought them.^[134] It is in this period of Eastern Jin that we first hear of private art collections. One of the first recorded collectors of paintings and calligraphy, for example, was the nouvel arrivé and usurper of the throne Huan Xuan.^[135]

Thus the arts, in several media, flourished at this period. The new aesthetic begins to take a firmer shape and to impose itself, not merely on the production of art, but on the lives of men. From that realliance of Art and Politics forged by the upheavals of the third century and tempered by the realpolitik of the fourth will emerge a new ideal-type, an exemplar liberated but refined: the cultivated gentleman.