Welcome to chapter one of The Emperor's Teacher. The format on these pages is a little bit different from that found on my Round and Square blog, where each of the sections (about 1,000-2,000 words each, or three to five typed pages) were posted in "serial" fashion, not unlike the way nineteenth century novels were published...but with a little less suspense between sections.
The text has changed slightly from the original posts. I would say that it is about 95% the same, but that these pages read a little bit more like a book (this is the ultimate goal of the project, of course) than a blog. There are fewer illustrations, and several paragraphs have been rewritten for enhanced clarity. If you are reading these pages, in short, you are reading The Emperor's Teacher in much the same form as I hope to see it between two paperback covers before too long. Welcome—歡迎.
IChina's Lesson Book
Almost thirty years ago, as a junior history major preparing for a seminar course on Chinese historiography, I began to read a passage from a book with a title that can be translated as the Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Ruling. I had already been assured by my professor and the authors of several articles that it was an exceptional text compiled in the eleventh century by a Confucian polymath with a "double surname"—two characters for the last name (司馬) and one for the first (光)—and that it was one of the world's first works of serious, even "scientific," history.
I learned that many scholars felt that the text was a masterwork of historical research, and that it had been praised by readers from the time of its first presentation in 1085 until the twentieth century as one of the most significant works of history ever written. This was not anything like the usual kind of thing people said about old books, which tended to be closer to "it has its uses" than "this is a masterwork." I was excited to pick up the big two volumes of translations. These tomes only covered about three percent of the Comprehensive Mirror's contents, as I would later learn, but they still made up more than a thousand pages to carry across campus, as I carefully kept my eyes on the sidewalk and avoided the still-melting southern Minnesota snow menacing each of my steps.
Back in my room, I carefully opened the volumes. They were translated by an eminent sinologist with a perfect "Round and Square/East Meets West" name. Achilles Fang had not only translated the Chinese characters for each passage in that segment of the Comprehensive Mirror, but had traced each passage to its earliest historiographical roots...and translated that, too. I was in awe, and could not help but feel that Homer had been transported to early China as (heel protected) Achilles Fang masterfully retraced the course of Chinese history. The work was so involved, so painstaking, that the 1,300 pages of the translation and background only covered the years CE 220-265. Let us not be mistaken, though. They were formative years—a "heroic period" in Chinese history that is often said to lead students to score highest on these matters in their history exams.
I was enthralled by the events recounted, which are among the most famous in all of Chinese history. There was a subtlety to the explanations, and even historical figures of somewhat ill-repute (such as Cao Cao, a powerful general who is commonly cast as an evil usurper in plays and fiction) was treated with such consummate subtlety that I felt I was reading about a real human being— complete with strengths and weaknesses—rather than a "good v.s. evil" caricature. I was amazed at the evident mastery of material that an author in the eleventh century had when dealing with matters eight hundred years before that. If this was "scientific" history, I was impressed.
I opened the first volume about a third of the way in. To this day, I believe that my whole career was set to this moment. Three more pages, and I might have come across a seemingly “objective” entry (“so-and-so invaded such-and-such in a certain year”). It didn’t work out that way, though, and that might be why (like the result of a butterfly flapping its wings over Singapore) I study things such as “do-overs” and “historical contingencies” today, rather than the facts of the past.
As chance would have it, the first passage that caught my eye that March evening described the sighting of a dragon hidden in a well. Dragons—in Chinese, “twisting, turning water creatures.” In the Comprehensive Mirror, initial disagreement over the dragon's "meaning" gave way to the emperor’s opinion that it was a sign being revealed to him for a reason. The constricted dragons, lodged in stone wells, pointed to this emperor’s inability to act forcefully and without interference from the meddling of others. It was a time of discord, and the emperor felt himself to be at the mercy of others.
I learned that many scholars felt that the text was a masterwork of historical research, and that it had been praised by readers from the time of its first presentation in 1085 until the twentieth century as one of the most significant works of history ever written. This was not anything like the usual kind of thing people said about old books, which tended to be closer to "it has its uses" than "this is a masterwork." I was excited to pick up the big two volumes of translations. These tomes only covered about three percent of the Comprehensive Mirror's contents, as I would later learn, but they still made up more than a thousand pages to carry across campus, as I carefully kept my eyes on the sidewalk and avoided the still-melting southern Minnesota snow menacing each of my steps.
Back in my room, I carefully opened the volumes. They were translated by an eminent sinologist with a perfect "Round and Square/East Meets West" name. Achilles Fang had not only translated the Chinese characters for each passage in that segment of the Comprehensive Mirror, but had traced each passage to its earliest historiographical roots...and translated that, too. I was in awe, and could not help but feel that Homer had been transported to early China as (heel protected) Achilles Fang masterfully retraced the course of Chinese history. The work was so involved, so painstaking, that the 1,300 pages of the translation and background only covered the years CE 220-265. Let us not be mistaken, though. They were formative years—a "heroic period" in Chinese history that is often said to lead students to score highest on these matters in their history exams.
I was enthralled by the events recounted, which are among the most famous in all of Chinese history. There was a subtlety to the explanations, and even historical figures of somewhat ill-repute (such as Cao Cao, a powerful general who is commonly cast as an evil usurper in plays and fiction) was treated with such consummate subtlety that I felt I was reading about a real human being— complete with strengths and weaknesses—rather than a "good v.s. evil" caricature. I was amazed at the evident mastery of material that an author in the eleventh century had when dealing with matters eight hundred years before that. If this was "scientific" history, I was impressed.
I opened the first volume about a third of the way in. To this day, I believe that my whole career was set to this moment. Three more pages, and I might have come across a seemingly “objective” entry (“so-and-so invaded such-and-such in a certain year”). It didn’t work out that way, though, and that might be why (like the result of a butterfly flapping its wings over Singapore) I study things such as “do-overs” and “historical contingencies” today, rather than the facts of the past.
As chance would have it, the first passage that caught my eye that March evening described the sighting of a dragon hidden in a well. Dragons—in Chinese, “twisting, turning water creatures.” In the Comprehensive Mirror, initial disagreement over the dragon's "meaning" gave way to the emperor’s opinion that it was a sign being revealed to him for a reason. The constricted dragons, lodged in stone wells, pointed to this emperor’s inability to act forcefully and without interference from the meddling of others. It was a time of discord, and the emperor felt himself to be at the mercy of others.
Spring, first month.
Two yellow dragons appeared in a well in Ningling. Prior to this, dragons frequently appeared in wells in other locations. The officials considered them to be auspicious signs. The emperor disagreed, saying, “Dragons represent the ruler’s virtue, yet those that have been seen are not found in heaven above; when discovered on the earth, they are not even found in fields or clearings, but are frequently dug into wells—these are not auspicious omens.” He composed a Hidden Dragon poem, which his rivals regarded with displeasure.
I was intrigued, and wondered to myself what are dragons, of all things, doing on the pages of one of the world’s great works of history? And it is not only once, and not only dragons. The pages of the Comprehensive Mirror—still, nine-hundred years after it was written, the richest single source available for many periods of Chinese history—are filled with omens such as eclipses, floods, drought, and infestations; hail as large as hens’ eggs and leaping white fish. It was a world of wonder side-by-side with a careful and reliable narrative of the events of Chinese history. I had never seen anything like it, and I wanted to know more. How was it possible that a great historian even thought to include a quotation about “imaginary” creatures? What could be sophisticated or scientific about that? I had much to learn.
Another question followed right on the heels of the first, and it was of a far more practical nature. “Why would an emperor identify with dragons hidden in a well? How could an emperor feel boxed-in?” I was young enough then to think that leaders—presidents and CEOs, perhaps, but emperors certainly—were, by the very power of their positions, able to exert their wills on their subordinates. They were in charge, weren’t they? They were head honchos, chiefs, master chefs, head coaches, and every other possible hierarchical tip-top-type I could imagine.
They weren't just kings, either...they were emperors. All I could think of was Napoleon after he "crowned" himself and before that little detour into Russia. But this text, with its strange array of portents, facts, and mystique, pointed to management challenges that I had barely begun to understand. I would soon learn more about the inability of leaders to lead (I had only to watch the news in the 1980s and pay attention to various administrators in college and graduate school), and I became even more interested in the lessons that I could learn from a Chinese historical text written long ago. A dragon in a well? Where was the “science?” An emperor boxed in? Where were “roles” and “hierarchy?” I had much to learn.
Another question followed right on the heels of the first, and it was of a far more practical nature. “Why would an emperor identify with dragons hidden in a well? How could an emperor feel boxed-in?” I was young enough then to think that leaders—presidents and CEOs, perhaps, but emperors certainly—were, by the very power of their positions, able to exert their wills on their subordinates. They were in charge, weren’t they? They were head honchos, chiefs, master chefs, head coaches, and every other possible hierarchical tip-top-type I could imagine.
They weren't just kings, either...they were emperors. All I could think of was Napoleon after he "crowned" himself and before that little detour into Russia. But this text, with its strange array of portents, facts, and mystique, pointed to management challenges that I had barely begun to understand. I would soon learn more about the inability of leaders to lead (I had only to watch the news in the 1980s and pay attention to various administrators in college and graduate school), and I became even more interested in the lessons that I could learn from a Chinese historical text written long ago. A dragon in a well? Where was the “science?” An emperor boxed in? Where were “roles” and “hierarchy?” I had much to learn.
