by Confucius
“Not mean, not grasping,
How could this not be good?”
Zilu recited these lines all the time. The Master said, “Is this enough to be called good?”
We have already watched the unfolding of Zilu’s character in the Analects by following what Confucius says about him in 5.7, 5.8, 5.14, 6.28, 7.11, 7.35, and 9.12. In these remarks, Confucius seems dismissive of Zilu, yet this is not because Zilu came from rustic roots. Confucius’ opinion of Zilu was formed from his observation of this man: Zilu was quick-tempered; he lacked awareness and judgment; and he was a bit of a bungler. On this occasion, Confucius pointed out a noble side of Zilu, but Zilu was too clumsy to savor the moment for himself. He thought that the first of the two lines from an ode, which includes the phrases, “not mean” (out of envy) and “not grasping,” perfectly summed up Confucius’ description of him; and he wanted to drive home the point that having these traits was enough for one to be deemed “good,” so he “recited [them] all the time.” His behavior, once again, tested Confucius’ patience.
9.28 The Master said, “Only in the deepest winter do we realize that the pine and cypress are the last to shed their leaves.”
Zheng Xuan from the second century and He Yan a generation later both feel that Confucius had in mind “the gentleman” or “a man of worth” when he talked about pine and cypress. Only a man of worth “would not alter his conduct when he finds himself in the most difficult—the most desperate—circumstances,” Zheng Xuan writes. Liu Baonan thinks that what Confucius told Zilu in 15.2, when they were on the verge of being starved to death somewhere in Chen or Cai, could support such a reading: “A gentleman,” he stressed, “would persevere even in a situation [like ours]. It is the petty man who would not be able to withstand it.” To show the relationship of 9.28 and 15.2, Liu also quotes a passage from the Zhuangzi, where the author has Confucius say to his disciples: “I face the difficulties ahead and try not to lose my integrity. When the cold winter has arrived and snow and frost have fallen, only then do I realize how the pine and cypress flourish. The perils here in Chen and Cai are a blessing to me!”
9.29 The Master said, “The wise are never perplexed. The humane never suffer from vexation. The brave are never afraid.”
“The wise,” Liu Baonan writes, “examine all things with clear eyes and so they are not perplexed.” The humane, Confucius said, “feel at home in humaneness”; they are at peace “in hard or easy circumstances,” and so they do not “suffer from vexation.” The brave, in Mencius’ view, were not all the same. Some “never showed submission,” he says, others always acted “without fear,” but it was Confucius who understood “supreme courage.” And, according to Mencius’ account, Confucius described “supreme courage” in this way: “If, on looking within, one finds oneself to be in the wrong, then even though one’s adversary be only a common fellow coarsely clad, one is bound to tremble with fear. But if one finds oneself to be in the right, one goes forward even against men in the thousands.”
9.30 The Master said, “A partner in learning may not be good enough as a partner if you are on a quest for moral meaning. A partner on a quest for moral meaning may not be good enough as a partner if you intend to use the rites to help you find a steady frame and an equitable position. A partner who, like you, intends to use the rites to find a steady frame and an equitable position may not be good enough as a partner if you are in the act of exercising moral discretion.”
What Confucius is trying to say here is that no human endeavor could be as tough and lonely as the act of exercising moral discretion. And he takes us to this conclusion by the long way, beginning with learning. To find a partner in learning is probably not that difficult, the statement implies, not as hard as finding a partner who, like you, hopes to let learning take him to some moral end. And this, in turn, is not as hard as searching for a partner who, again like you, relies on the practice of the rites to help him “find a steady frame and an equitable position.” And even if you have found such a partner, he still cannot help you in matters where you have to decide what is right and what is fair.
9.31 “The flowers of the wild cherry,
how they flutter this way and that.
It’s not that I don’t think of you,
but your home is so far away.”
The Master said, “He did not think of her. If he did, how could distance have been a problem?”
The flowers fluttering mirror the speaker’s heart in this lost poem from the Book of Odes. His feelings waver: he cares for her and yet he does not. Traditional scholars insist that Confucius used the sentiment expressed in this poem—“but your home is so far away”—to talk about one’s relationship with humaneness. “Is humaneness far away?” he asks in 7.30. “As soon as I desire humaneness, it is here.” Still, it is possible to read Confucius’ response to the poem as a comment on the poet’s vacillating heart.
BOOK TEN
Book Ten is essentially a record of what other people observed about Confucius—what he was like at home or at a village gathering, at mealtime or when he took repose, in front of his superiors or around his equals, when he was ill or when friends were ill, when he was in mourning or when friends were in mourning—and also what he ate and what he wore and the guidelines he followed in food and clothes. The appellation Master Kong (Confucius) appears only in the first entry.
10.1 In his own community, Master Kong [Confucius] was agreeable and modest, and he gave the appearance of being too clumsy to speak. In the ancestral temple and at court, though fluent and forceful in his disquisitions, he was also cautious and did not say more than was necessary.
Here we find a description of Confucius when he was in his home village and when he was at the ancestral temple and at the court of his ruler. His neighborhood would be the place where his elders lived, and so he would conduct himself in a “modest” and “agreeable” manner and would defer to them as if he were “too clumsy to speak.” But the ancestral temple or the ruler’s court presented a different situation, where Confucius had to speak up either in his capacity as a ritual specialist or as a political counselor. And, the text says, Confucius was “fluent and forceful” (bianbian), but also “cautious,” and he “did not say more than necessary.”
10.2 When speaking at court with counselors of the lower rank, he was relaxed and affable. When speaking with counselors of high rank, he was frank but respectful. And in the ruler’s presence, though he was filled with reverence and awe, he was perfectly composed.
The first half of 10.2 refers to the gathering of the junior and the senior counselors to discuss state affairs before their audience with the ruler. Confucius is described as “relaxed and affable” with those who were of “the lower rank,” which means his equals, since he never attained high office, and as “frank but respectful” with those who were his superiors. The counselors’ gathering was followed by the arrival of the ruler, and in this man’s presence, though Confucius was “filled with reverence and awe,” he was not petrified, for “he was perfectly composed.”
It is helpful, I feel, to consider 10.1, 10.2, and 10.3 sequentially. Toward the end of 10.1, we are told about Confucius’ demeanor at the court of his ruler. In 10.2, we learn how he behaved at court, and in 10.3, we see how he conducted himself when he was summoned to assist the chief counselor in receiving a guest of the state.
10.3 When the ruler summoned him [to assist the chief counselor] in receiving a guest of the state, his face took on a solemn expression and his steps a brisk pace. When he bowed to those standing around him, raising his cupped hands to the right and to the left, his robed skirt swayed front and back, without being ruffled. When going forward with quickened steps, he was like a bird about to take flight [yiru]. After the guest had left, he always came back to report to the ruler, “The guest is no longer looking back.”
Ritual performances in the political realm often seemed unnatural and rigid because missteps could lead to serious consequences, and in t
he case of Confucius they were no different, but observers also pointed out the fluency with which he carried out these formalized movements: “like a bird about to take flight [yiru].” Liu Baonan says that yiru could mean either “to float like birds in air” or “to be dignified and composed.”
The eighteenth-century scholar Jiang Yong notes that a counselor of Confucius’ rank would not have been asked to receive a guest of the state—this was the prerogative of the chief counselor—and so it is possible that the ruler asked Confucius “to assist the chief counselor” on such occasions because he “knew the rites well.”
10.4 When he entered the gate of his ruler, he drew himself in [in a respectful manner] as if the gate were not wide and tall enough to let him through. He did not stand in the middle of the gate and did not tread on the threshold. When he passed by the seat of the ruler, he looked energized and his pace hastened, and when he spoke, he appeared as if he could not get all his words out. When he gathered up his robe and ascended the hall of his ruler, again he drew himself in, and he held his breath in as if he was not breathing at all. But as soon as he was leaving the hall, descending even just one step, his whole expression would be relaxed with a touch of lightness and gaiety. And once he reached the bottom of the steps, he moved forward with quickened steps, like a bird about to take flight. But the next time he passed by the seat of the ruler, he would again assume a cautious and respectful demeanor.
Traditional scholars used their knowledge of early history and the ritual texts to try to answer some of the questions raised by this description. Why, for instance, did Confucius think that when entering the gate of the ruler it was wrong to “stand in the middle” and to “tread on the threshold”? What was “the middle of the gate”? And when the text says “he passed by the seat of the ruler,” what does that mean? The gate of the regional ruler, according to the ritual prescription of the Zhou dynasty, was usually divided in two by a post in the middle. Guests of the state would enter through the left side, or the west gate, while the ruler and his counselors would enter through the right side, or the east gate. Confucius avoided standing at the center of the east gate and treading on the threshold, both of which were the prerogatives of the ruler. And “the seat” in this passage, according to scholars, refers to the throne—where the regional ruler would sit when he was holding audience. Afterward, they say, he would withdraw to the luqin, a private hall, where he would discuss political affairs with his counselors, and since he would leave first, the counselors who followed him to the private hall would be passing by an empty seat. Confucius, at that precise moment, the record says, “looked energized and his pace hastened.” And as he ascended the hall of the ruler, he would again tighten his posture, holding his breath, but as soon as he was ready to leave, “descending even just one step,” his whole body would begin to relax, and when he reached the bottom of the steps he would move forward gracefully, “like a bird about to take flight.”
10.5 When he carried the jade tablet [of his ruler in the role of an emissary], he drew himself in as if he could not bear the weight. When he held it high, it seemed as if he was bowing to someone; when he held it low, it seemed as if he was offering an object to someone. He looked alert, as though in fear of making a mistake. And he walked in small steps as though his feet never left the ground [like the wheels of a cart]. But he looked amiable when presenting the official gifts and was even more agreeable in a private audience.
Qian Mu points out that the records in this chapter give three descriptions of “drawing oneself in” (jugong) as an act of showing respect. In 10.4, when Confucius entered the gate of his ruler’s court, he “drew himself in as if the gate were not wide enough and tall enough to let him through,” and when he ascended the hall of his ruler, he also “drew himself in” and “held his breath in as if he was not breathing at all.” Here, he draws himself in as if he cannot bear the weight of the jade tablet he carries on behalf of his ruler.
Several commentaries note that when Confucius was an official in Lu, his ruler never sent him on a mission to another state. Thus the description of him holding the jade tablet of his ruler refers to something that could not have taken place, and thus it may imply that not all the records in the Analects are accurate. Some scholars, in defense of the text’s integrity, offer an explanation. They say that in 10.5 Confucius is merely giving his disciples a demonstration of how to conduct themselves should they be sent to another state as representatives of their own ruler—in other words, that ritual performance was a component of his teaching of the rites.
10.6 The gentleman would not use reddish indigo or iron gray to trim his robe, nor vermillion and red for his casual clothes. In the heat of the summer, he wore an unlined garment of either fine or coarse hemp, but he always topped it with a jacket when he went out. He wore a black dust-gown over lambskin, a white one over fawnskin, and a yellow one over fox fur. His informal fur coat was longer than his formal ones but with a shorter right sleeve. When sleeping, he always had a coverlet, which was one and half times the length of his body. He used the thick fur of badgers and foxes as cushions to sit on. Other than when he was in mourning, he always wore his big sash with jade ornaments [that were proper to his position]. And except for his ceremonial skirts [which were made from single bolts of fabric with multiple pleats], all others were cut pieces sewn together. He never wore [black] kidskin jackets and black caps when making calls of condolence. And on the day of the new moon, he always went to court in his [black] court attire.
This description may give the impression that “the gentleman”—which, scholars say, can refer only to Confucius—was a smart dresser and that each morning he gave a lot of thought to what he should wear during the day and in the evening. Aesthetic and functional considerations were important to Confucius, but even more critical was ritual correctness. Thus his clothes during mourning were unadorned—without jade pendants attached to the sash. And he did not wear black jackets and black caps to funerals because black was an elegant and auspicious color in the Chinese mind, more appropriate for attending the morning court than for paying condolences. Expense, too, was a factor for him. Skirts made from a single piece of fabric were costly, and so, he says, he would wear them only for state ceremonies. In 3.4, Confucius tells Lin Fang, “With regard to the rites as a whole, it is better to err on the side of being frugal than on that of being extravagant.” And so, unless the rites absolutely demanded extravagance, he preferred simpler, less lavish attire.
10.7 During periods of purification [before a sacrifice], he always wore a clean undergarment [mingyi] made of linen. During periods of purification, he always altered his diet, and he also changed his dwelling place.
Han scholars disagree on the meaning of mingyi. Kong Anguo thinks that the term refers to the robe one would wear after a bath of purification. But Zheng Xuan explains mingyi as a “clean undergarment” because the undergarment is the most intimate piece of clothing on the person who is performing the purification and it is up to him “to keep it clean.” The diet Confucius followed during the period of purification would have consisted of dishes prepared without meat but with fresh ingredients and a clean taste. And he would have changed his dwelling place from his private bedchamber to the front room in the house, to avoid contact with women. Purification before a sacrifice, the Book of Rites says, is meant to get a person ready to meet his ancestors with keen perception.
10.8 He did not overeat if the rice was polished or if the meat was finely cut. He did not eat rice that had gone off, nor fish or meat that had spoiled. He did not eat food with a sickly color or a foul odor, nor anything that was overcooked or undercooked. He did not eat food that was not in season, nor did he eat except at mealtimes. He did not eat meat that was not properly cut off or meat paired with the wrong sauce. Even when there was plenty of meat, he would not eat more meat than grain. Only in the case of wine was no limit laid down, but he never drank to the point of being addled. He would not touch wine that had bee
n sitting overnight nor dried meat bought from a shop. And even when he kept a plate of ginger on the table [after the meal was over], he did not eat too much of it.
Another reading of the first sentence is: “He did not mind if the rice was polished [or not] or if the meat was finely cut [or not].” This means that Confucius was able to find joy in fine or coarse food. The reading reflected in my translation, however, gives more weight to the question of balance, which is what this passage is intended to teach us: not to eat in excess even when the food is of the highest grade; not to eat more meat than rice even when meat is plentiful; and not to overeat even ginger, a condiment that could clear the head and tame one’s breath.
Here we also learn that Confucius rejected food that “had gone off” or was incorrectly prepared. Scholars who are eager to distinguish Confucius from an epicure claim that the reference to meat “not properly cut off” has a ritual overtone. In Confucius’ time and throughout the Zhou, they say, a gentleman, even when he was eating at home, would follow the rules prescribed for a formal sacrifice. Meat was served in a large chunk on these occasions, and each portion was “cut off” from it. Confucius would refuse his share if the meat was not “properly cut off” (gebuzheng). This, as these scholars point out, is not the same as saying that Confucius would refuse the meat if it was not “properly cut up” (qiebuzheng). The latter would mean that Confucius was spurning the cook for his skills, but it was not until the Han dynasty, they say, that cooks began to cut meat up and serve it in slivers or slices.
Cooking and ritual practice in early China had a close relationship in other ways. Writings about culinary techniques were often anthologized in ritual texts, perhaps because in practice such techniques were governed by the same principles of fluidity in movement and timeliness in execution. This was something the fourth-century BC thinker Zhuangzi observed. In a story about a cook, he says that looking at this man taking apart an ox is like watching someone perform a ritual dance.
