by Confucius
17.20 Ru Bei let Confucius know that he would like to see him. Confucius declined on the grounds that he was ill. But as soon as the man carrying the message went out the door, he took up his zither and began to sing, making sure that this man heard him.
It is common in China as elsewhere to use illness as an excuse to decline an invitation to a meeting. But here Confucius wants the messenger to know that he is really not ill and that there is a reason for his not wanting to meet with the messenger’s lord, Ru Bei. But just what is that reason? We cannot know, since there is no reliable source about this man except that he was a native of Lu.
17.21 Zai Wo asked about the three-year mourning period, saying, “A year is already too long. If a gentleman neglects the [nonmourning] rites for three years, those rites will be in ruins. If he does not allow himself to perform music, it will be the undoing of music. [In the course of a year,] as the old grain has been used up, new grain has ripened for harvest, and four types of timber have been drilled in turn to rekindle fire. A year of mourning is quite enough.”
The Master said, “And would you be able to eat rice and wear brocade and feel comfortable doing it?”
“I would.”
“If you feel comfortable doing it, then go ahead. But the gentleman in mourning finds no relish in tasty food, no pleasure in music, and no ease even in his own home. So he does not eat rice and wear brocade. But if you feel comfortable doing it, then go ahead!”
After Zai Wo had left, the Master [turned to others and] said, “Yu [Zai Wo] lacks humaneness! A child does not leave his parents’ arms until he is three. The three-year mourning is the practice observed by all in the world. Did Yu [Zai Wo] not also have three years of love and affection from his parents?”
I wrote in The Authentic Confucius: “The Analects rarely records what happens after a conversation is over. Rarer still is the above scenario, where the reader is allowed to hear what Confucius said in the absence of his principal interlocutor, Zai Wo. This heightens the tension, which was already apparent when Zai Wo was present.” And the source of this tension has to do with the question of whether or not one would feel comfortable doing this or that during a period of mourning. When asked whether he would feel comfortable “eating rice and wearing brocade” after observing only one year of mourning, Zai Wo replies that he would. To this, Confucius says, “Then go ahead.” But privately he tells the others that Zai Wo is lacking in humaneness (buren). This may seem unreasonably critical, but then humaneness, in Confucius’ view, has its grounding in the relationship one has with one’s parents, and it is for this reason that Confucius stresses the importance of proper mourning after the parents die. He believed that the mourning should take the person to the beginning of that bond—to his first three years, when he was holding on to his parents for dear life. But the three-year mourning is not just a repayment of parental love. It allows the child time for reflection and for planning what is needed because he is entering the next stage of his life. Zengzi reports in 19.17, “I have heard the Master say that [on no occasion] does a person give his utmost. If there must be one exception, it would be mourning the death of a parent.” But Zai Wo also offered valid reasons against prolonging the mourning beyond one year. He said that rites and music would suffer as a consequence and that since nature, whether in the form of grain or of fire, takes only a year to renew itself, so should human life. Confucius, however, was not convinced. For him, there could be no logical argument against a practice that was meant to assuage a loss so large and so deep as the death of one’s parents.
17.22 The Master said, “To spend the whole day stuffing yourself and not to put your mind to use at all—this is hopeless behavior. Are there not such games as bo and yi? It would be better to play these games [than to do nothing at all].”
This is Confucius’ diatribe against loafers and idlers. Why not take up board games like bo and yi? he says. At least they can keep the mind in use, which is better than letting it go to waste. Bo is liubo, which, scholars believe, is an early version of chess or of a game based on chance called shuanglu. Yi is weiqi (in Japanese, go), a game played with black and white pieces on a board of 289 squares in early China, 361 squares nowadays.
17.23 Zilu asked, “Does the gentleman [junzi] think highly of courage?”
The Master said, “The gentleman [junzi] puts rightness at the top. If a man of high status [junzi] has courage but not a sense of rightness, he will create political upheaval. If a lowly man has courage but not a sense of rightness, he will turn to banditry.”
Qian Mu, in his commentary, calls attention to the double meaning of junzi in Confucius’ remark. When Confucius first speaks about the junzi, Qian observes, he is referring to a man of moral cultivation, but in his second statement, he has in mind someone with an elevated social status. Liu Baonan, in his commentary, draws on the Book of Rites and the Xunzi to explain Confucius’ response to Zilu. The Book of Rites says, “If a man who is strong and brave wins his battles through conflicts, not through the force of his moral principle and ritual propriety, he is a troublemaker.” Xunzi describes the kind of courage that is “on the side of what is right and just and will not be swayed by circumstances” as “the courage of a gentleman,” and the kind of courage that is most evident in a fight for personal advantage and material gain, “where yielding is out of the question,” as “the courage of a bandit.”
17.24 Zigong asked, “Does the gentleman have his dislikes?”
The Master said, “He does have his dislikes. He dislikes those who call attention to the negative traits of others. He dislikes those who slander their superiors from an inferior position. He dislikes those who have courage but not ritual propriety and those who are resolute but have minds that block all light [zhi].”
The Master then added, “Si [Zigong], do you have your dislikes?”
“I dislike those who appropriate other people’s ideas as their own [yao] and then think of themselves as smart. I dislike those who take impertinence as courage. I dislike those who believe that exposing other people’s dark secrets [jie] is being forthright.”
This conversation almost needs no comment. What Confucius and Zigong each say discloses a side of human nature that is relevant to all ages but perhaps even more so in our times. Traditional commentaries, especially those collected by Liu Baonan, helped me unpack the meaning of zhi, yao, and jie, words that seem to have stories of their own to tell.
17.25 The Master said, “Women and servants [xiaoren] are the most difficult to look after. They become insolent if you get too close to them. They complain if you keep your distance.”
This is the comment that got Confucius into serious trouble with women in the twentieth century. Many called him a misogynist, but then, without a context, it is difficult to know whether this remark accurately reflects his attitude toward women. Confucius, of course, was wary of the power of women both at home and in the ruler’s court, but then he would be watchful of anyone—woman or man, concubine or courtier—who, by the circumstances of her position, found that in order to have any influence in her world, she would have to resort to charm and wiles in small or large quantities. It is also possible to understand what he says here as simply a statement about what it was like to be at close quarters with the women (wives and concubines) and xiaoren (servants or lowly men).
17.26 The Master said, “If a man, by the age of forty, is still being disliked by others, that perception will remain until the end of his life.”
Confucius expresses a similar sentiment in 9.23, but there he says, “If a man is forty or fifty and has not done anything to distinguish himself, then he is not worthy of our respect.” So while he suggests in both statements that by the time a man is forty his character is formed and so it is nearly impossible for him to change, here he stresses other people’s perception of such a man—that they will not alter their view of him and start liking him. This led the Qing scholar Yu Yue to conclude that Confucius could be speaking about himself.
BOOK EIGHTEEN
Book Eighteen stands out because, unlike other chapters in the Analects, which are characterized by their lack of organization, it follows a tight structure and sticks to its subject. The first entry introduces the subject, and it mentions three names—all of them names of virtuous men living toward the end of the Shang dynasty. These men’s fate, which foreshadowed Confucius’ own, signaled the futility of moral persuasion in the political world. And should that world become too dangerous to live in, their stories also suggested a few ways out. One could run away or feign madness, two options Confucius must have considered before rejecting them in the end. These strategies never went out of date in China’s long history, but in the second half of the twentieth century the tactics and technologies of repression became so sophisticated that they closed nearly all the escape routes, thus rendering the way of the recluse and the way of the madman obsolete.
18.1 The Viscount of Wei left him. The Viscount of Ji became his slave. Bi Gan remonstrated with him and, because of it, was put to death. Confucius said, “The Shang had these three humane men.”
The point of reference here is King Zhou, the last ruler of the Shang dynasty. The Viscount of Wei was his older brother; the Viscount of Ji and and Bi Gan were his uncles. Wei and Ji were the states that the first two men were enfeoffed in. The Viscount of Wei and the Viscount of Ji should have been at home, looking after the affairs of their states, but the behavior of their relative, King Zhou, had become so out of control that they felt they had to come to the royal court and see what they could do to bring some relief to the situation. This is the story one finds in the early histories. But just how did the events unfold? Which of the three was the first to act and which was the last? And what was Confucius’ judgment of the three? He called them “humane men,” but did he rate their humaneness as best, next best, and third? These are the questions that interested the traditional scholars. Sima Qian in his History of the Grand Historian offers two versions of how the narrative developed. In the first version, we are told that the Viscount of Wei, having witnessed for himself that his younger brother was beyond reform, “left him.” This departure was followed by Bi Gan’s more direct, and more daring, attempt to reprimand King Zhou, for which it was ordered that Bi Gan be cut open so that the king could “examine the heart of a sage.” But this was not the kind of conclusion the Viscount of Ji wanted for his life, and so he “feigned madness and let himself be enslaved to the king.” In the second version, we are told that the Viscount of Wei left the royal court after he saw what had happened to the Viscount of Ji and Bi Gan. According to Sima Qian, this man kept himself alive because he could not bear the thought of letting the sacrifices to the royal ancestors of the Shang come to an end.
And what about Confucius’ judgment of the three? Confucius himself did not say who best embodied the idea of humaneness, but some scholars say that he would have put the Viscount of Wei first, followed by the Viscount of Ji and then Bi Gan. The Han scholar Xu Gan writes:
In the Yin [Shang] dynasty there were three men who realized humaneness. The virtue of the viscount of Wei was firmer than rock and he acted promptly. Although confronted by adversity, the viscount of Ji was able to keep his aims squarely on course. Bi Gan remonstrated and had his heart cut out. The gentleman [Confucius] considered the viscount of Wei’s behavior as most exemplary, followed by that of the viscount of Ji, and Bi Gan’s being the least so. Hence in the Spring and Autumn Annals, all those counselors who were killed for remonstrating with their rulers are criticized for not using their wisdom to escape death.
Xu Gan is probably right about how Confucius would have ranked these three men. For, in his teachings, Confucius emphasizes how to live or, in the words of the Qing Confucian Jiao Xun, “how to make the right choices about life and death.” And to sacrifice one’s life in order “to have humaneness fulfilled” would have been a person’s last option, chosen only when keeping himself alive would come at the expense of humaneness. This is Confucius’ point in 15.9.
18.2 Liuxia Hui was an official of criminal justice. He was dismissed three times. Others said to him, “Isn’t it about time for you to leave for another state?” Liuxia Hui said, “If I serve another in an upright way, where can I go and not end up being dismissed three times? If I serve another by bending the way, what need is there for me to leave the state of my parents?”
Liuxia Hui offers another option for men who possessed a strong sense of moral and political responsibility. Remain in office, he tells them, and do not feel humiliated if you are pushed aside or dismissed. Mencius describes Liuxia Hui in this way:
Liuxia Hui was not ashamed of a prince with a tarnished reputation, neither was he disdainful of a modest post. When in office he did not conceal his worthiness and always acted in accordance with the Way. When he was passed over, he harbored no grudge, nor was he distressed in straitened circumstances. That is why he said, ‘you are you and I am I. Even if you were stark naked by my side, how could you defile me?’ . . . Thus he felt it would be beneath his dignity to leave.
In Mencius’ opinion, “Liuxia Hui lacked respect.” Confucius, however, is more generous toward him, if we assume that he is the speaker in 18.2.
18.3 Duke Jing of Qi was considering how to treat Confucius, and he said, “I am unable to treat him the way the head of the Jisun family is treated [in Lu]. I will treat him as if his position is somewhere between the head of the Jisuns and the head of the Mengsuns.” Later he told others privately, “I am too old. I will not able to use him in my government.” Confucius left Qi [after he heard about this].
It makes sense that this entry should follow 18.1 and 18.2. In 18.1, it is said that “the Viscount of Wei left” the royal court of Shang. In 18.2, we learn that Liuxia Hui would not leave even after he was dismissed three times, because, he said, no matter where he went, his career would follow the same pattern if he insisted on serving a ruler “in an upright way.” But here in 18.3, we are told that “Confucius left” the state of Qi because he realized that Duke Jing of Qi simply had no intention of employing him. (Duke Jing’s insincerity was patent. Anyone could have seen it, for who could have believed that he might offer a professional-for-hire, a man of Confucius’ status, a position equal in power and pay to that of the head of a hereditary family of Lu?) As for Confucius’ visit to Qi and the background of this meeting, see my commentary on 12.11.
18.4 The men of Qi made a present of singing and dancing girls. Ji Huanzi accepted the girls [on behalf of Duke Ding], and court was not held for the next three days. Confucius left Lu.
I discussed at length in The Authentic Confucius the reason Confucius left Lu. He had weathered crises much more serious than what is described here, where the ruler and his chief counselor took a three-day break from their routine duties to enjoy the company of these singing and dancing girls. So why did Confucius leave? Mencius thinks that Confucius’ departure had to do with not being given a portion of the sacrificial meat after he had participated in an official sacrifice. Mencius says, “Those who did not understand him thought that Confucius was begrudging not getting a share of the meat. But those who understood him knew that he had to go because [the ruling elite of] Lu had acted contrary to the rites.” The Han historian Sima Qian puts the two accounts together and offers his own version: The ruler and his chief counselor came under the spell of the girls first; Confucius was disappointed but was willing to give them another chance, and when he was not offered a portion of the sacrificial meat, he thought that it was time for him to go. I, however, am not persuaded by these arguments. I feel that there was a more pressing reason for him to leave, and for that we have to return to the events of 498 BC, the year before Confucius’ departure. In 17.5, we learn that Confucius for a while was tempted to use the muscle of the family retainers to get rid of the hereditary families. By 498, he seems to have given up the idea. Instead, he and his disciple Zilu were trying to persuade the hereditary families to destroy their own st
rongholds and start anew. But the retainers rebelled anyway. They took their arms to the streets of the capital of Lu, and Confucius, as the minister of crime, managed to beat the insurgents back with his band of men. His effort, however, went unsung because the hereditary families had suspected all along that Confucius, whenever he had a chance, would always try to work against them, since he wanted nothing more than to see that the political authority be returned to the legitimate ruler of Lu, who at that time was Duke Ding. Thus when he was not offered a piece of the sacrificial meat, it was, to use our vernacular, a vote of no confidence. He knew that Ji Huanzi, the head of the Jisuns and de facto ruler of Lu, was signaling him to leave. And as for the singing and dancing girls of Qi, the scandal they caused could have given Confucius further reason to pack up and go.
