"..... in no one form may Tao abide.
But changes and shifts like the wide wing-shadows asweep
On the mountainside";
--the sea is one, but the tides drift and eddy; the roc, or maybe
the dragon, is one, but the shadow of his wings on the mountain
sward shifts and changes and veers. When you think you have set
up a standard for Tao: when you imagine you have grasped it in
you hands:--how fleet it is to vanish! "The man of Tao," said
the fisherman of the Mi-lo to Ch'u Yuan, "does not quarrel with
his surroundings, but adapts himself to them";--and perhaps there
you have the best possible explanation of the nature of those
Great souls who come from time to time to save the world.
I think we take the Buddha as the type of them; and expect not
only a life and character that _we can recognise_ as flawless,
but also a profundity of revelation in the philosophy and ethics.
But if no two blades of grass are alike, much less are two human
Souls; and in these Great Ones, it is the picture of Souls we
are given. When we think that if all men were perfect, all would
be alike, we err with a wide mistake. The nearer you get to the
Soul, and the more perfect is the expression of it, the less is
there monotony or similarity; and almost the one thing you may
posit about any avatar is, that he will be a surprise. Tom and
Dick and Harry are alike: 'pipe and stick young men'; 'pint and
steak young men'; they get born and marry and die, and the grass
grows over them with wondrous alikeness; but when the Masters of
Men come, all the elements are cast afresh.
Everyone has a place to fill in the universal scheme; he has a
function to perform, that none else can perform; a _just what he
can do,_--which commonly he falls far short of doing. When he
does it, fully and perfectly, then he is on the road of progress;
that road opens up to him; and presently, still exercising the
fulness of his being, he becomes a completeness, like Heaven and
Earth; their 'equal,' in the Chinese phrase; or as we say, a
Perfect Man or Adept. Does anyone know what place in history he
is to fill? I cannot tell; I suppose an Adept, incarnated,
would be too busy filling it to have time or will to question.
But here perhaps we have the nearest thing possible to a standard
for measuring them; and here the virtue of Taoism, and one
greatest lesson we may learn from it. Are we to judge by the
impressiveness of the personality? No; the Man of Tao is not a
personality at all. He makes one to use, but is not identified
with it; his personality will not be great or small, or
enchanting or repellent, but simply adapted to the needs.--Is it
the depth and fulness of the philosophv he gives out? No; it may
be wiser and also more difficult to keep silent on main points,
than to proclaim them broadcast; and for this end he may elect
even not to know (with conscious brain-mind) too much;--not to
have the deep things within his normal consciousness. But he
comes into the world to meet a situation; to give the course of
history a twist in a desired direction; and the sign and measure
of his greatness is, it seems to me, his ability to meet the
situation at all points, and to do just what is necessary for the
giving of the twist,--no more and no less. And then, of course,
it takes a thousand years or so before you can judge. One
is not speaking of common statesmen, who effect quick changes
that are no changes at all, but of the Men who shepherd the
Host of Souls.
I like to imagine, before the birth of Such a One, a consultation
of the Gods upon the Mountain of Heaven. A synod of the kind
(for China) would have taken place in the sixth century B. C.,
no doubt; because in those days certainly there was a "decline
of virtue and an insurrection of vice and injustice in the
world." Transport yourselves then, say in the year 552, to the
peaks of Tien Shan of Kuen Lun, or high Tai-hsing, or the grand
South Mountain; and see the Pantheon assembled.
They look down over Chu Hia; they know that in three centuries
or so a manvantara will be beginning there, and grow anxious lest
anything has been left undone to insure its success. They note
Laotse (whom they sent some fifty years earlier) at his labors;
and consider, what those labors would achieve for the Black-
haired People. He would bring light to the most excellent minds;
the God of Light said, "I have seen to that." He would in time
waken the lute-strings of the Spirit, and set Chu Hia all a-song;
the God of Music said, "I have seen to that." They foresaw Wu
Taotse and Ma Yuan; they foresaw Ssu-k'ung T'u and the Banished
Angel; and asked "Is it not enough?" And the thought grew
on them that it was not enough, till they sighed with the
apprehensions that troubled them. Only a few minds among the
millions, they foresaw, would have proper understanding of Tao.
Now, Gods of whatever land they may be, there are those three
Bardic Brothers amongst them: He of Light, who awakens vision;
He of Song, who rouses up the harmonies and ennobling vibrations;
and He of Strength, whose gloves hold all things fast, and
neither force nor slipperiness will avail against them. It was
this third of them, Gwron, who propounded the plan that satisfied
the Pantheon. I will send one among them, with the "Gloves for
his treasure," said he.
They considered how it would be with Such a One: going among
men as the Gods' Messenger, and with those two Gloves for his
treasure.--"This way will it be," they said. "Not having the
treasure of the God of Light, he will seem as one without vision
of the God-world or remembrance whence he came. Not having the
treasure of the God of Music, he will awaken little song with the
Bards. But having the Gloves, he will hold the gates of hell
shut, so far as shut they may be, through all the cycle that
is coming."
With that the council ended. But Plenydd God of Light and Vision
thought: "Though my treasure has gone with the Old Philosopher,
and I cannot endow this man with it, I will make him Such a One
as can be seen by all men; I will throw my light on him, that he
may be an example through the age of ages." And Alawn God of
Music thought: "Though my lute has gone with Laotse, I will
confer boons on this one also. Such a One he shall be, as draws
no breath but to tunes of my playing; the motions of his mind,
to my music, shall be like the motions of the ordered stars."--
And they both thought: "It will be easy for me to do as much as
this, with his having the Gloves of Gwron on his hands."
At that time K'ung Shuhliang Heih, Commander of the district
of Tsow, in the Marquisate of Lu in Shantung, determined
to marry again.
Now China is a vast democracy: the most democratic country in
the world. Perhaps I shall come to proving that presently; for
the moment I must ask you to let it pass on the mere statement,
satisfied that it is true. Despite this radical democracy, then,
she has had two noble families. One is descended from a famous
Patriot-Pirate of recent centuries, known to Westerners as
Koxinga; with it we have no concern. The other is to be found
in the town of K'iuh-fow in Shantung, in the ancient Marquisate
of Lu. There are about fifty thousand members of it, all bearing
the surname K'ung; its head has the title of 'Duke by Imperial
Appointment and hereditary right'; and, much prouder still,
'Continuator of the Sage.'
Dukes of England sometimes trace their descent from men who came
over with William the Conqueror: a poor eight centuries is a
thing to be proud of. There may be older families in France,
Italy, and elsewhere. Duke K'ung traces his, through a line of
which every scion appears more of less in history, to the son of
this K'ung Shuhliang Heih in the sixth century B.C.; who in turn
traced his, through a line of which every scion appeared in
history, and all, with one possible exception, very honorably, to
a member of the Imperial House of Shang who, in 1122 B.C., on the
fall of that house, was created Duke of Sung in Honan by the
first of the Chows. The House of Shang held the throne for some
five centuries, beginning with Tang the Comnpleter in 1766, who
traced his descent from the Yellow Emperor in mythological
times. Duke K'ung, then, is descended in direct male line from
sovereigns who reigned beyond the horizon of history,--at the
latest, near the beginning of the third millennium B.C. The
family has been distinguished for nearly five thousand years.
The matter is not unimportant; since we are to talk of a member
of this family. We shall understand him better for remembering
the kind of heredity that lay behind him: some seventy
generations of nobility, all historic. Only one royal house in
the world now is as old as his was then: that of Japan.
Some generations before, the K'ung family had lost their duchy of
Sung and emigrated to Lu; where, in the early part of the sixth
century, its head, this Shuhliang Heih, had made a great name for
himself as a soldier. He was now a widower, and seventy years
old; and saw himself compelled to make a second marriage, or the
seventy illustrious generations of his ancestors would be
deprived of a posterity to offer them sacrifices. So he
approached a gentlman of the Yen family, who had three eligible
daughters. To these Yen put the case, leaving to them to decide
which should marry K'ung.--"Though old and austere," said he,
"he is of the high descent, and you need have no fear of him."
Chingtsai, the youngest, answered that it was for their father to
choose.--"Then you shall marry him," said Yen. She did; and
when her son was to be born, she was warned in a dream to make
pilgrimage to a cave on Mount Ne. There the spirits of the
mountain attended; there were signs and portents in the heavens
at the nativity. The _k'e-lin,_ a beast out of the mythologies,
appeared to her; and she tied a white ribbon about its single
horn. It is a creature that appears only when things of splendid
import are to happen.
Three years after, the father died, leaving his family on the
borders of poverty. At six, Ch'iu, the child, a boy of serious
earnest demeanor, was teaching his companions to play at
arranging, according to the rites, toy sacrificial vessels on a
toy altar. Beyond this, and that they were poor, and that he
doted on his mother--who would have deserved it,--we know little
of his boyhood. "At fifteen," he tells us himself, "his mind
was bent on learning." Nothing in the way of studies, seems to
have come amiss to him; of history, and ritual, and poetry, he
came to know all that was to be known. He loved music, theory
and practice; held it to be sacred: "not merely one of the
refinements of life, but a part of life itself." It is as well
to remember this; and that often, in after life, he turned
dangerous situations by breaking into song; and that his lute
was his constant companion. He used to say that a proper study
of poetry--he was not himself a poet, though he compiled a great
anthology of folk-poems later--would leave the mind without a
single depraved thought. Once he said to his son: "If you do
not learn the Odes, you will not be fit to talk to." "Poetry
rouses us," said he, "courtesy upholds us; music is our crown."
You are, then, to see in him no puritan abhorring beauty, but a
man with artistic perceptions developed. At what you might call
the other pole of knowledge, he was held to know more about the
science of war than any man living; and I have no doubt he did.
If he had consented to use or speak about or let others use that
knowledge, he might have been a great man in his day; but he
never would.
At nineteen, according to the custom, he married; and soon
afterwards accepted minor official appointments: Keeper of the
Granaries, then Superintendent of the Public Parks in his native
district. He made a name for himself by the scrupulous discharge
of his duties, that came even to the ears of the Marquis; who,
when his son was born, sent the young father a complimentary
present of a carp.--It would have been two or three years before
the beginning of the last quarter of the century when he felt the
time calling to him, and voices out of the Eternal; and threw up
his superintendentship to open a school.
Not an ordinary school by any means. The Pupils were not
children, but young men of promise and an inquiring mind; and
what he had to teach them was not the ordinary curriculum, but
right living, the right ordering of social life, and the right
government of states. They were to pay; but to pay according to
their means and wishes; and he demanded intelligence from them;
--no swelling of the fees would serve instead.--"I do not open the
truth," said he, "to one not eager after knowledge; nor do I
teach those unanxious to explain themselves. When I have
presented one corner of a subject, and the student cannot learn
from it the other three for himself, I do not repeat the lesson."
He lectured to them, we read, mainly on history and poetry,
deducing his lessons in life from these.
His school was a great success. In five years he had acquired
some two thousand pupils: seventy or eighty of them, as he said,
"men of extraordinary ability." It was that the Doors of the
Lodge had opened, and its force was flowing through him in Lu, as
it was through the Old Philosopher in Honanfu.--By this time he
had added archery to his own studies, and (like William Q. Judge)
become proficient. Also he had taken a special course in music
theory under a very famous teacher. "At thirty he stood firm."
Two of his disciples were members of the royal family; and
Marquis Chao regarded him with favor, as the foremost educationist
in the state. He had an ambition to visit the capital (of
China); where, as no where else, ritual might be studied;
where, too, was Laotse, with whom he longed to confer. Marquis
Chao, hearing of this, provided him with the means; and he
went up with a band of his pupils. There at Loyang, which is
Honanfu, we see him wandering rapt through palaces and temples,
examining the sacrificial vessels, marveling at the ancient art
of Shang and Chow. But for a few vases, it is all lost.
He did interview Laotse; we cannot say whether only once or more
often. Nor, I think, do we know what passed; the accounts we
get are from the pen of honest _Ben Trovato; Vero,_ the modest,
had but little hand in them. We shall come to them later.
And now that he stands before the world a Teacher, we may drop
his personal name, K'ung Ch'iu, and call him by the title to
which paeans of praise have been swelling through all the ages
since: K'ung Futse, K'ung the Master; latinized, Confucius. It
is a name that conveys to you, perhaps, some associations of
priggishness and pedantry: almost whereever you see him written
of you find suggestions of the sort. Forgo them at once: they
are false utterly. Missionaries have interpreted him to the
West; who have worked hard to show him something less than the
Nazarene. They have set him in a peculiar light; and others
have followed them. Perhaps no writer except and until Dr.
Lionel Giles (whose interpretation, both of the man and his
doctrine, I shall try to give you), has shown him to us as he
was, so that we can understand why he has stood the Naional Hero,
the Savior and Ideal Man of all those millions through all
these centuries.
We have been told again and again that his teaching was wholly
unspiritual; that he knew nothing of the inner worlds; never
mentions the Soul, or 'God'; says no word to lighten for you the
"dusk within the Holy of holies." He was all for outwardness,
they say: a thorough externalist; a ritualist cold and
unmagnetic.--It is much what his enemies said in his own day;
who, and not himself, provide the false-interpreters with their
weapons. But think of the times, and you may understand. How
would the missionaries feel, were Jesus translated to the Chinese
as a fine man in some respects--considering--but, unfortunately!
too fond of the pleasures of the table; "a gluttonous man
and a winebibber "?
They were stirring times, indeed; when all boundaries were in
flux, and you needed a new atlas three times a year. Robbers
would carve themselves new principalities overnight; kingdoms
would arise, and vanish with the waning of a moon. What would
this, or any other country, become, were law, order, the police
and every restraining influence made absolutely inefficient?
Were California one state today; a dozen next week; in July six
or seven, and next December but a purlieu to Arizona?--Things,
heaven knows, are bad enough as they are; there is no dearth of
crime and cheatery. Still, the police and the legal system do
stand between us and red riot and ruin. In China they did not;
the restraints had been crumbling for two or three centuries.
Human nature, broadly speaking, is much of a muchness in all
lands and ages: I warrant if you took the center of this world's
respectability, which I should on the whole put in some suburb of
London;--I warrant that if you relieved Clapham,--whose crimes,
says Kipling very wisely, are 'chaste in Martaban,'--of police
and the Pax Britannica for a hundred years or so, lurid Martaban
would have little pre-eminence left to brag about. The class
that now goes up primly and plugly to business in the City day by
day would be cutting throats a little; they would be making life
quite interesting. Their descendants, I mean. It would take
time; Mother Grundy would not be disthroned in a day. But it
would come; because men follow the times, and not the Soul; and
are good as sheep are, but not as heroes. So in Chow China.
But the young Confucius knew his history. He looked back from
that confusion to a wise Wu Wang and Duke of Chow; to a Tang the
Completer, whose morning bath-tub was inscribed with this motto
from _The New Way:_ "If at any time in his life a man can make a
new man of himself, why not every morning?" Most of all he
looked back to the golden and sinless age of Yao and Shun and Yu,
as far removed from him, nearly, as pre-Roman Britain is from us:
he saw them ruling their kingdom as a strong benevolent father
rules his house. In those days men had behaved themselves:
natural virtue had expressed itself in the natural way. In good
manners; in observation of the proprieties, for example.--In
that wild Martaban of Chow China, would not a great gentleman of
the old school (who happened also to be a Great Teacher) have
seen a virtue in even quiet Claphamism, that we cannot? It was
not the time for Such a One to slight the proprieties and
'reasonable conventions of life.' The truth is, the devotion of
his disciples has left us minute pictures of the man, so that we
see him ... particular as to the clothes he wore; and from this
too the West gathers material for its charge of externalism.
Well; and if he accepted the glossy top-hats and black Prince
Albert coats;--only with him they were caps and robes of azure,
carnation, yellow, black, or white; this new fashion of wearing
red he would have none of:--I can see nothing in it but this:
the Great Soul had chosen the personality it should incarnate in,
with an eye to the completeness of the work it should do; and
seventy generations of noble ancestry would protest, even in the
matter of clothing, against red riot and ruin and Martaban.
He is made to cite the 'Superior Man' as the model of excellence;
and that phrase sounds to us detestably priggish. In the
_Harvard Classics_ it is translated (as well as may be) 'true
gentleman,' or 'princely man'; in which is no priggish ring
at all. Again, he is made to address his disciples as "My
Children," at which, too, we naturally squirm a little: what he
really called them was 'My boys,' which sounds natural and
affectionate enough. Supposing the Gospels were translated into
Chinese by someone with the gluttonous-man-and-winebibber bias;
--what, I wonder, would he put for _Amen, amen lego humin?_ Not
"Verily, verily I say unto you"!
But I must go on with his life.
Things had gone ill in in Lu during his absence: threee great
clan chieftains had stopped fighting among themselves to fight
instead against their feudal superior, and Marquis Chao had been
exiled to Ts'i. It touched Confucius directly; his teaching on
such matters had been peremptory: he would 'rectify names':
have the prince prince, and the people his subjects:--he would
have law and order in the state, or the natural harmony of things
was broken. As suggested above, he was very much a man of mark
in Lu; and a protest from him,--which should be forth-coming--
could hardly go unnoticed. With a band of disciples he followed
his marquis into Ts'i: it is in Chihli, north of Lu, and was
famous then for its national music. On the journey he heard Ts'i
airs sung, and 'hurried forward.' One of the first things he
did on arriving at the capital was to attend a concert (or
something equivalent); and for three months thereafter, as a
sign of thanksgiving, he ate no flesh. "I never dreamed," said
he, "that music could be so wonderful."
The fame of his Raja-Yoga School (that was what it was) had gone
abroad, and Duke Ching of Ts'i received him well;--offered him a
city with its revenues; but the offer was declined. The Duke
was impressed; half inclined to turn Confucianist; wished to
retain him with a pension, to have him on hand in case of need;--
but withal he was of doubtful hesitating mind about it, and
allowed his prime minister to dissuade him. "These scholars,"
said the latter, "are impractical, and cannot be imitated.
They are haughty and self-opinionated, and will never rest
content with an inferior position. Confucius has a thousand
peculiarities";--this is the gluttonous-man-and-winebibber
saying, which the missionary interpreters have been echoing
since;--"it would take ages to exhaust all he knows about the
ceremonies of going up and down. This is not the time to examine
into his rules of propriety; your people would say you were
neglecting them."--When next Duke Ching was urged to follow
Confucius, he answered: "I am too old to adopt his doctrines."
The Master returned to Lu; lectured to his pupils, compiled the
Books of Odes and of History; and waited for the disorders
to pass.
Which in time they did, more or less. Marquis Ting came to the
throne, and made him chief magistrate of the town of Chungtu.
Now was the time to prove his theories, and show whether he was
the Man to the core, that he had been so assiduously showing
himself, you may say, on the rind. Ah ha! now surely, with hard
work before him, this scholar, theorist, conventional formalist,
ritualist, and what else you may like to call him, will be put to
shame,--shown up empty and foolish before the hard-headed men of
action of his age. Who, indeed,--the hard-headed men of action--
have succeeded in doing precisely nothing but to make confusion
worse confounded; how much less, then, will this Impractical One
do! Let us watch him, and have our laugh...--On the wrong side
of your faces then; for lo now, miracles are happening! He
takes control; and here at last is one city in great Chu Hia
where crime has ceased to be. How does he manage it? The
miracle looks but the more miraculous as you watch. He frames
rules for everything; insists on the proprieties; morning,
noon, and night holds up an example, and, says he, relies on the
power of that.--Example? Tush, he must be beheading right
and left!--Nothing of the sort; he is all against capital
punishment, and will have none of it. But there is the fact:
you can leave your full purse in the streets of Chung-tu, and
pick it up unrifled when you pass next; you can pay your just
price, and get your just measure for it, fearing no cheateries;
High Cost of Living is gone; corners in this and that are no
more; graft is a thing you must go elsewhere to look for;--there
is none of it in Chung-tu. And graft, let me say, was a thing as
proper to the towns of China then, as to the graftiest modern
city you might mention. The thing is inexplicable--but perfectly
attested. Not quite inexplicable, either: he came from the
Gods, and had the Gloves of Gwron on his hands: he had the
wisdom you cannot fathom, which meets all events and problems as
they come, and finds their solution in its superhuman self, where
the human brain-mind finds only dense impenetrability.--Marquis
Ting saw and wondered.--"Could you do this for the whole state?"
he asked.--"Surely; and for the whole empire," said Confucius.
The Marquis made him, first Assistant-Superintendent of Works,
then Minister of Crime.
And now you shall hear Chapter X of the _Analects,_ to show you
the outer man. All these details were noted down by the love of
his disciples, for whom nothing was too petty to be recorded;
and if we cannot read them without smiling, there is this to
remember: they have suffered sea-change on their way to us:
sea-change and time-change. What you are to see really is: (1)
a great Minister of State, utterly bent on reproving and
correcting the laxity of his day, performing the ritual duties of
his calling--as all other duties--with a high religious sense of
their antiquity and dignity; both for their own sake, and to set
an example. what would be thought of an English Archbishop of
Canterbury who behaved familiarly or jocularly at a Coronation
Service?--(2) A gentleman of the old school, who insists on
dressing well and quietly, according to his station. That is
what he would appear now, in any grade of society, and among men
the least capable of recognising his inner greatness: 'race' is
written in every feature of his being; set him in any modern
court, and with half an eye you would see that his family was a
thousand years or so older than that of anyone else present, and
had held the throne at various times. Here is a touch of the
great gentleman: he would never fish with a net, or shoot at a
bird on the bough; it was unsportsmanlike. (3) A very natural
jovial man, not above "changing countenance" when fine meats were
set on his table:--a thing that directly contradicts the idea of
a cold, ever play-acting Confucius. A parvenu must be very
careful; but a scion of the House of Shang, a descendant of the
Yellow Emperor, could unbend and be jolly without loss of
dignity;--and, were he a Confucius, would. "A gentleman," said
he, "is calm and spacious"; he was himself, according to the
_Analects,_ friendly, yet dignified; inspired awe, but not
fear; was respectful, but easy. He divided mankind into three
classes: Adepts or Sages; true Gentlemen; and the common run.
He never claimed to belong to the first, though all China knows
well that he did belong to it. He even considered that he fell
short of the ideal of the second; but as to that, we need pay no
attention to his opinion. Here, then, is Chapter X:
"Amongst his own countryfolk Confucius wore a homely look, like
one who has no word to say. In the ancestral temple and at court
his speech was full, but cautious. At court he talked frankly to
men of low rank, winningly to men of high rank. In the Marquis's
presence he looked intent and solemn.
"When the Marquis bade him receive guests, his face seemed to
change, his knees to bend. He bowed left and right to those
behind him, straightened his robes in front and behind, and sped
forward, his elbows spread like wings. When the guest had left,
he always reported it, saying: 'The guest has ceased to
look back.'
"Entering the palace gate he stooped, as though it were too low
for him. He did not stand in the middle of the gate, nor step on
the threshold. Passing the throne, his face seemed to change,
his knees to bend; and he spoke with bated breath. Mounting the
royal dais, he lifted his robes, bowed his back and masked his
breathing till it seemed to stop. Coming down, his face relaxed
below the first step, and bore a pleased look. From the foot of
the steps he sped forward, his elbows spread like wings; and
when again in his seat, he looked intent as before. He held his
hands not higher than in bowing, nor lower than in giving a
present. He wore an awed look and dragged his feet, as though
they were fettered."
Which means that he felt the royal office to be sacred, as the
seat of authority and government, the symbol and representative
of heaven, the fountain of order: in its origin, divine. He
treated Marquis Ting as if he had been Yao, Shun, or Yu; or
rather, the Marquis's throne and office as if one of these had
held them. There is the long history of China to prove he was
wise in the example he set.
"When presenting royal gifts his manner was formal; but he was
cheerful at the private audience.--This gentleman was never
arrayed in maroon or scarlet; even at home he would not wear red
or purple. In hot weather he wore unlined linen clothes, but
always over other garments. Over lambskin he wore black; over
fawn he wore white; over fox-skin he wore yellow. At home he
wore a long fur robe with the right sleeve short. He always had
his night-gown half as long again as his body. In the house he
wore fox- or badger-skin for warmth. When out of mourning there
was nothing wanting from his girdle. Except for court-dress, he
was sparing of stuff. He did not wear lamb's wool, or a black
cap, on a visit of condolence. On the first day of the moon he
always went to court in court dress. On fast days he always
donned clothes of pale hue, changed his food, and moved from his
wonted seat. He did not dislike his rice cleaned with care, nor
his hash copped small. He would not eat sour or mouldy rice,
putrid fish, or tainted meat. Aught discolored or high, badly
cooked, or out of season, he would not eat. He would not eat
what was badly cut, or a dish with the wrong sauce. A choice of
meats could not tempt him to eat more than he had a relish for.
To wine alone he set no limit; but he never drunk more than
enough. He did not drink brought wine, or eat ready-dried meat.
He did not eat much. Ginger was never missing at his table.
"After sacrifice at the palace he would not keep the meat
over-night; at home, not more than three days. If kept longer,
it was not eaten. He did not talk at meals, nor in bed. Though
there were but coarse rice and vegetables, he made his offering
with all reverence. If his mat were not straight, he would not
sit down. When drinking with the villagers, when those with
slaves left, he left too. At the village exorcisms he donned
court dress, and stood on the eastern steps.
"When sending inquiries to another land, he bowed twice and saw
his messenger out. On K'ang's making him a present of medicine,
he accepted it with a low bow, saying: 'I do not know; I dare
not taste it.' His stables having been burnt, the Master, on his
return from court, said: 'Is anyone hurt?' He did not ask after
the horses."
Set down in perfect good faith to imply that his concern was for
the sufferings of others, not for his personal loss: and without
perception of the fact that it might imply callousness as to the
suffering of the horses. We are to read the recorder's mind, and
not the Master's, in that omission.--
"When the marquis sent him baked meat, he set his mat straight,
and tasted it first. When the Marquis sent him raw meat, he had
it cooked for sacrifice. When the Marquis sent him a living
beast, he had it reared. When dining in attendance on the
Marquis, the latter made the offering; Confucius ate of things
first. On the Marquis coming to see him in sickness, he turned
his face to the east and had his court dress spread across him,
with the girdle over it. When summoned by the Marquis, he
walked, without waiting for his carriage. On entering the Great
Temple, he asked how each thing was done. When a friend died who
had no home, he said: 'It is for me to bury him.' When a friend
sent a gift, even of a carriage and horses, he did not bow. He
only bowed for sacrificial meat. He would not lie in a bed like
a corpse. At home he unbent.
"On meeting a mourner, were he a friend, his face changed. Even
in every-day clothes, when he met anyone in full dress, or a
blind man, his face grew staid. When he met men in mourning, he
bowed over the cross-bar. Before choice meats he rose with a
changed look. At sharp thunder or fierce wind, his countenance
changed. In mounting his chariot he stood straight and grasped
the cord. When in his chariot, he did not look round, speak
fast, or point."
There you have one side of the outer man; and the most has
been made of it. "Always figuring, always posturing," we
hear. I merely point to the seventy noble generations, the
personality made up of that courtly heredity, whose smallest quite
spontaneous acts and habits seemed to men worth recording, as
showing how the perfect gentleman behaved: a model. Another
side is found in the lover of poetry, the devotee of music, the
man of keen and intense affections. Surely, if a _poseur,_ he
might have posed when bereavement touched him; he might have
assumed a high philosophic calm. But no; he never bothered to;
even though reproached for inconsistency. His mother died when
he was twenty-four; and he broke through all rites and customs
by raising a mound over her grave; that, as he said, he might
have a place to turn to and think of as his home whereever he
might be on his wanderings. He mourned for her the orthodox
twenty-seven months; then for five days longer would not touch
his lute. On the sixth day he took it and began to play; but
when he tried to sing, broke down and wept. One is surprised;
but there is no posing about it. Yen Hui was his saint John, the
Beloved disciple. "When Yen Hui died," we read, "the Master
cried, 'Woe is me! I am undone of Heaven! I am undone of
Heaven!' When Yen Hui died the Master gave way to grief. The
disciples said: 'Sir, you are giving way.'--'Am I giving way?'
said he. 'If for this man I do not give way, for whom shall I
give way?... Hui treated me as a son his father; I have failed
to treat him as a father his son.'" Confucius was old then, and
near his own death... But what I think you will recognise in his
speech, again and again, is the peculiarly spontaneous... indeed
impetuous ... ring of it. He had that way of repeating a
sentence twice that marks a naturally impetuous man.--Of his
sense of humor I shall speak later.
He dearly loved his disciples, and was homesick when away from
them.--"My batch of boys, ambitious and hasty--I must go home to
them! I must go home to them!" said he. Once when he was very
ill, Tse Lu "moved the disciples to act as ministers":--to behave
to him as if he were a king and they his ministers.--"I know, I
know!" said Confucius; "Tse Lu has been making believe. This show
of ministers, when I have none,--whom will it deceive? Will it
deceive Heaven? I had rather die in your arms, my boys, than be
a king and die in the arms of my ministers."--"Seeing the
disciple Min standing at his side in winning strength, Tse Lu
with warlike front, Jan Yu and Tse Kung fresh and strong, the
Master's heart was glad," we read. He considered what he calls
'love' the highest state,--the condition of the Adept or Sage;
but that other thing that goes by the same name,--of that he
would not speak;--nor of crime,--nor of feats of strength,
--nor of doom,--nor of ghosts and spirits. Anything that
implied a forsaking of middle lines, a losing of the balance,
extravagance,--he abhorred.--And now back to that other side of
him again: the Man of Action.
The task that lay before him was to reform the state of Lu.
Something was rotten in it; it needed some reforming.--The
rotten thing, to begin with, was Marquis Ting himself; who was
of such stuff as Confucius referred to when he said: "You cannot
carve rotten wood." But brittle and crumbling as it was, it
would serve his turn for the moment; it would give him the
chance to show twenty-five Chinese centuries the likeness of an
Adept at the head of a state. So it should be proved to them
that Such a One--they call him _Such a One_ generally, I
believe, to avoid the light repetition of a name grown sacred--is
no impractical idealist merely, but a Master of Splendid
Successes here in this world: that the Way of Heaven is the way
that succeeds on earth--if only it be honestly tried.
Ting was by no means master in his own marquisate. As in England
under Stephen, bold bad robber barons had fortified their castles
everywhere, and from these strongholds defied the government.
The mightiest magnate of all was the Chief of Clan Chi, who
ordered things over his royal master's head, and was very much a
power for the new Minister of Crime to reckon with. A clash came
before long. Ex-marquis Chao--he that had been driven into
exile--died in Ts'i; and his body was sent home for burial with
his ancestors. Chi, who had been chief among those responsible
for the dead man's exile, by way of insulting the corpse, gave
orders that it should be buried outside the royal cemetery; and
his orders were carried out. Confucius heard of it, and was
indignant. To have had the corpse exhumed and reburied would
have been a new indignity, I suppose; therefore he gave orders
that the cemetery should be enlarged so as to include the grave;
--and went down and saw it done.--"I have done this on your
behalf," he informed Chi, "to hide the shame of your disloyalty.
To insult the memory of a dead prince is against all decency."
The great man gnashed his teeth; but the Minister of Crime's
action stood.
He turned his attention to the robber-barons, and reduced them.
I do not know how; he was entirely against war; but it is
certain that in a very short time those castles were leveled with
the ground, and the writ of the Marquis ran through Lu. He
hated capital punishment; but signed the death warrant for the
worst of the offenders;--and that despite the protest of some of
his disciples, who would have had him consistent above all
things. But his back was up, and the man was executed. One
makes no excuse for it; except perhaps, to say that such an
action, isolated, and ordained by Such a One, needs no excuse.
He was in the habit of fulfilling his duty; and duty may at times
present itself in strange shapes. It was a startling thing to
do; and Lu straight-way, as they say, sat right up and began to
take concentrated notice of a situation the like of which had not
been seen for centuries.
He had the final decision in all legal cases. A father brought a
charge against his son; relying on the bias of the Minister
whose life had been so largely given to preaching filial piety.
"If you had brought up your son properly," said Confucius, "this
would not have happened"; and astounded plaintiff, defendant,
and the world at large by putting both in prison for three
months. In a year or so he had done for Lu what he had done for
Chung-tu during his magistracy.
By this time Ts'i and Sung and Wei and the whole empire were
taking notice too. There was actually a state where crime was
unknown; where law ruled and the government was strong, and yet,
the people more than contented; a state--and such a state!--
looming ahead as the probable seat of a Bretwalda. Lu with the
hegemony! This old orthodox strict Lu!--this home of lost
causes!--this back number, and quaint _chinoiserie_ to be laughed
at!--As if Morgan Shuster had carried on his work in Persia until
Persia had become of a strength to threaten the world. Lu was
growing strong; and Ts'i--renowned military Ts'i--thought she
ought to be doing something. Thus in our own time, whenever
somnolent obsolete Turkey tried to clean her house, Russia,
land-hungry and looking to a Thanksgiving Dinner presently, felt
a call to send down emissaries, and--see that the cleaning should
not be done.
Duke Ching of Ts'i, at the first attempt, bungled his plans
badly. He would not strike at the root of things, Confucius;
perhaps retained too much respect for him; perhaps simply did
not understand; but at that harmless mutton Marquis Ting who
Confucius had successfully camouflaged up to look like a lion.
To that end he formally sought an alliance with Lu, and the Lu
Minister of Crime concurred. He intended that there should be
more of these alliances.
An altar was raised on the frontier, where the two princes were
to meet and sign the treaty. Duke Ching had laid his plans; but
they did not include the presence of Confucius at the altar as
Master or the Ceremonies on the side of Lu. There he was,
however; and after all, it could hardly make much difference.
The preliminary rites went forward. Suddenly, a roll of drums;
a rush of 'savages' out of ambush;--there were savage tribes in
those parts;--confusion; the Marquis's guard, as the Duke's, is
at some little distance; and clearly it is for the Marquis that
these 'savages' are making. But Confucius is there. He steps
between the kidnappers and his master, "with elbows spread like
wings" hustles the latter off into safety; takes hold of the
situation; issues sharp orders to the savages--who are of course
Ts'i troops in disquise: _Attention! About face!--Double
march!_--snaps out the words of command in right military style,
right in the presence of their own duke, who stands by amazed and
helpless;--and off they go. Then spaciously clears the matter
up. Finds, no doubt, that it is all a mistake; supplies, very
likely, an easy and acceptable explanation to save Ching's face;
shortly has all things peaceably _in status quo._ Then brings
back his marquis, and goes forward with the treaty; but now as
Master of the Ceremonies and something more. There had been a
land question between Lu and Ts'i: Lu territory seized some time
since by her strong neighbor, and the cause of much soreness on
the one hand and exultation on the other. By the time that
treaty had been signed Duke Ching of Ts'i had ceded back the land
to Marquis Ting of Lu,--a thing assuredly he had never dreamed of
doing; and an alliance had been established between the two
states. Since the Duke of Chow's time, Lu had never stood
so high.
Was our man a prig at all? Was he a pedant? have those who have
sedulously spread that report of him in the West told the truth
about him? Or--hath a pleasant little lie or twain served
their turn?
Duke Ching went home and thought things over. He had learned his
lesson: that ting was but a camouflage lion, and by no means the
one to strike at, if business was to be done. He devised a plan,
sweet in it simplicity, marvelous in its knowledge of what we are
pleased to call 'human' nature. He ransacked his realm for
beautiful singing and dancing girls, and sent the best eighty he
could find to his dear friend and ally of Lu. Not to make the
thing too pointed, he added a hundred and twenty fine horses--
with their trappings. What could be more appropriate than
such a gift?
It worked. Ting retired to his harem, and day after day passed
over a Lu unlighted by his countenance. Government was at a
standstill; the great Minister of Crime could get nothing done.
The Annual Sacrifice was at hand; a solemnity Confucius hoped
would remind Ting of realities and bring him to his right mind.
According to the ritual, a portion of the offering should be sent
to each high official of the state: none came to Confucius. Day
after day he waited; but Ting's character was quite gone: the
lion-skin had fallen off, and the native egregious muttonhood or
worse stood revealed.--"Master," said Tse Lu, "it is time you
went." But he was very loath to go. At last he gathered his
disciples, and slowly went out from the city. He lingered much
on the way, looking back often, still hoping for sight of the
messenger who should recall him. But none came. That was
in 497.
The old century had ended about the time he took office; and
with it, of course, the last quarter in which, as always, the
Doors of the Lodge were open, and the spiritual influx pouring
into the world. So the effort of that age had its consummation
and fine flower in the three years of his official life: to be
considered a triumph. Now, Laotse had long since ridden away
into the West; the Doors were shut; the tides were no longer
flowing; and the God's great Confucius remained in a world that
knew him not. As for holding office and governing states, he had
done all that was necessary.