Creation (75 page)

The whitewashed façade of Confucius’s house had been smeared with saffron-yellow paint. I never did find out the significance of those daubings. As the front door was ajar, I stepped inside. I expected to see some sort of religious ceremony. But there were no priests or even students in the outer room, which was tomb-cold.

As I crossed the outer hall I heard the sound of wailing from within the house. Thinking that it was an exorcist, I stopped in my tracks and tried to recall the proper etiquette. Was it permissible to enter someone’s house during the expulsion rite?

I was enlightened by a disciple who had slipped into the hall behind me. “The son is dead,” he whispered. “We must pay our respects to the father.” He led me into the private quarters.

Dressed in mourning, Confucius sat on a plain mat, back to the wooden column. The room was half filled with disciples. Everyone looked not only sad but shocked.

I saluted the master, who responded with his usual courtesy. We both made the gestures that are required on the saddest of occasions. As I knelt beside Tzu-lu, he murmured, “There is no consoling him.”

“How could there be when it is the height of sorrow to lose one’s eldest son?” I spoke the traditional line.

“He has lost more than that,” said Tzu-lu.

At first I did not understand what he meant. Conventionally speaking, the worst thing that can happen to a man is the loss of the eldest son. I joined in the chants; repeated the prayers; made consoling sounds. But Confucius was now genuinely weeping, as well as wailing ritually.

Finally, respectfully but firmly, Tzu-lu said, “Master, you have abandoned all restraint. Is such weeping seemly?”

Confucius stopped his wailing; tears gleamed on his cheeks like snail tracks. “Is it seemly?” he repeated. Then, before Tzu-lu could answer, he began to weep fresh tears. Simultaneously, he spoke in a surprisingly steady voice, “If any man’s death could justify abandoned weeping, it is
his
.”

I realized then that Confucius did not believe in an afterlife. Whatever he might say, ritually, about heaven as the resident of the ancestors, he himself did not believe that there was such a place. Even so, I was still somewhat surprised that he would be demoralized by the death of a son who had meant very little to him. In fact, the son had often been a source of embarrassment to the father. More than once he had been accused of taking money from Confucius’ students and keeping it for himself. Worst of all, he had been stupid.

Then an old man whom I had never seen before said, “Master, let me have your carriage so that I can use it to make a proper frame for my son’s coffin.”

I was more and more mystified. Who was this old man? Who was the dead son? Abruptly, Confucius stopped weeping. He turned to the old man. “No, my friend, you may not have it. You are bereft, which is natural. I am equally bereft. No, doubly bereft, for I have lost my own son, such as he was, and now I have lost your son, too, the best and wisest of all young men.”

It was then that I realized that Yen Hui was also dead. Twice, in quick succession, the master had been struck by ... heaven.

Yen Hui’s father began, disagreeably, to whine. “Then, is it not all-important that such a brilliant youth receive every possible honor? Was he not the wisest man’s wisest pupil?”

Confucius blinked his eyes, and annoyance replaced grief. Contrary to what people may think, the old are always more swift to change their moods than the young. “Your son was like a tree which I was able to nurse until it had flowered. But the tree did not live long enough to bear fruit.” Confucius paused; he took a deep breath; then he spoke without apparent emotion. “I cannot allow my carriage to be used for a coffin frame, because when my own son was buried—not that I mean to compare the two—I did not grant him a coffin frame either. First, because it would not be seemly and, second, because I am the premier knight and, as such, I may not proceed to the tomb on foot. Custom requires me to ride a chariot. Since this is the law, we have no choice in the matter.”

Although the father of Yen Hui was plainly displeased, he did not dare press the matter. But Tzu-lu did. “Surely, Master, we must bury Yen Hui with all possible ceremony. We can find wood for a coffin frame without depriving you of your carriage. Certainly, we must do Yen Hui every honor. We owe it to heaven. We owe it to the ancestors. We owe it to you who taught him.”

There was a long silence. Then Confucius lowered his head and whispered as if to himself, “Heaven has stolen from me what was mine.”

No sooner was this blasphemy spoken than heaven responded. An exorcist burst into the room, followed by four howling madmen. As they danced about, rattling bells, striking drums, shouting insults at all the evil spirits of the old year, Confucius slipped out of the room; and I hurried across the city to the Chi palace.

I found Fan Ch’ih in that part of the palace which corresponds to the chancellor’s second room at home. Here the business of the state is daily conducted by fair-skinned Chou knights and black-haired Shang gentlemen. I could never find out how many of these officials were Confucians. I suspect, a majority.

Fan Ch’ih had already heard about the two deaths. “This is very sad, of course. Yen Hui was a remarkable man. We shall all miss him.”

“What about the son?”

Fan Ch’ih made a noncommittal gesture. “At least all this sadness gives us time to breathe.”

Jan Ch’iu joined us. Although he looked exhausted, he welcomed me with the ceremony that is due an honored guest. He, too, had heard the news. “I wish that I could go to him. I know he must be suffering. What did he say?”

I repeated Confucius’ remark about heaven.

Jan Ch’iu shook his head. “That was not seemly, as he will be the first to admit when he no longer suffers.”

“In earlier days,” said Fan Ch’ih, “he would never have said such a thing, no matter how distressed he might have been by heaven’s will.” Both Jan Ch’iu and Fan Ch’ih were more upset by Confucius’ uncharacteristic lapse than they were by the death of the paragon Yen Hui.

“Will you attend the funeral?” I spoke to Jan Ch’iu.

“Of course. It will be a grand affair. The father’s seen to that.”

I was surprised. “But the master said that the ceremonies for Yen Hui must be as simple as those for his own son.”

“He will be disappointed.” Jan Ch’iu was flat. “I’ve already seen the plans. The father showed them to me this morning. Honored guest”—with one forefinger he touched me lightly on the forearm, a gesture of trust—“as you know, I am not welcome in the master’s house. Nevertheless, it’s urgent that I see him as soon as possible.”

“He’ll be in mourning for three months at least,” said Fan Ch’ih. “And no one will be able to talk to him about ... other matters.”

“We shall have to find a way.” Again the forefinger rested on my arm, light as a butterfly. “You are a barbarian. You are a priest. You interest him. Above all, you have never angered or displeased him. If you wish to do us a kindness—and I mean this country, not simply the family that I serve, try to arrange a meeting between him and Baron K’ang.”

“Surely, the baron can simply send for him. As premier knight, he will have to come.”

“But as divine sage, he cannot be sent for.”

“He denies—” I began.

“In the Middle Kingdom,” said Jan Ch’iu, “he is the divine sage. That he denies the fact so vehemently is simply proof that he really is what we know him to be. Baron K’ang needs Confucius.” Jan Ch’iu looked me in the eye. This is often a sign that a man is lying. But the steward had no reason to lie to me. “We have many, many troubles.”

“The taxes?”

Jan Ch’iu nodded. “They are exorbitant. But without them, we cannot pay the army. Without the army ...” Jan Ch’iu turned to Fan Ch’ih, who told me of the latest threat to the state.

“Next to Castle Pi there is a sort of holy ground called Chuan-yu. It was made autonomous by Duke Tan himself. Although this place is within the borders of Lu, it has always been independent. The fortress of Chuan-yu is almost as formidable as Castle Pi.”

I began to understand. “So the former warden of Pi ...”

“... has been subverting Chuan-yu.” Fan Ch’ih’s irresistibly cheerful face was at odds with the tension in his voice. “It is only a matter of time before we have another rebellion on our hands.”

“Baron K’ang would like to raze the fortress.” Jan Ch’iu played with the ornaments on his sash. “ ‘If we don’t do it now, my son or grandson will have to do it,’ he said. ‘We cannot permit such a powerful fortress to remain in the hands of our enemies. Naturally, Confucius will object to an attack on this holy place, on any holy place.’ ” Jan Ch’iu looked at me for the second time. I was quite unnerved. For one thing, like so many Chou knights, he had the yellow eyes of a tiger. “As ministers to the baron, we agree with him. As disciples of Confucius, we disagree with him.”

“Do you really think that anyone can convince Confucius to do something so—unseemly?” I understood their dilemma, and saw no way out.

“We must try.” Fan Ch’ih smiled. “
You
must try. Tell him that he must receive Baron K’ang. Tell him that he will be offered high office. Otherwise ...”

“Otherwise the baron will tear down the castle, anyway.” I was to the point.

“Yes,” said Jan Ch’iu. “But the castle does not concern me so much as the final days of Confucius. For many years we have worked toward one end: to bring to power the divine sage so that he can set things right.”

“Now you are trying to tell me that he can only come to power if he allows the baron to set something wrong.” I was sharp.

Jan Ch’iu was quick to take the offensive. “Rightly or wrongly, Baron K’ang thinks that Confucius worked to overthrow the Chi family when he was dealing with the treacherous warden of Pi. Rightly or wrongly, the baron thinks that the recent war was instigated by Confucius. Rightly or wrongly, the baron thinks Confucius may one day try to use his prestige throughout the Middle Kingdom to make himself the son of heaven.”

“If any of this is true, your divine sage is guilty of treason.” I remembered to smile the court-smile.

“Yes,” said Jan Ch’iu, and did not smile. “Fortunately, we won the war and our old enemy the duke of Key is dead.”

I now saw the full dimension of the plot. “Baron K’ang ...” I was going to say “murdered the duke.” But I chose discretion. “... was then able to save the state,” I finished lamely.

Fan Ch’ih nodded. “Now all that’s left to be done is to root out the rebels in Chuan-yu. Then we can sleep easily. Since the rebels at Chuan-yu are the last hope of the baron’s enemies, only their fortress stands between us and perfect peace.”

“But first the master must agree to its dismantling.”

Jan Ch’iu shook his head. “Whether he agrees or not, the walls of Chuan-yu will be torn down. But should he agree whole-heartedly, the dream of ten thousand wise men will come true. Confucius will be invited to lead the state. He has always said, ‘Give me three years, and I can make things right.’ Well, before it’s too late, I want him to have those three years. We all do.”

I was never able to understand Jan Ch’iu. I believe that he was genuinely devoted to the master; after all, he had proved his loyalty when, some years earlier, he had gone into exile with Confucius. Yet Jan Ch’iu was equally loyal to Baron K’ang. He hoped to make a bridge between—well, heaven and earth, and if I were to help him construct such a bridge, I would be sent home. That was the agreement we came to in the Chi palace on the evening of the dark day that Confucius reproached heaven for Yen Hui’s death.

As Fan Ch’ih escorted me to the vestibule of the Chi palace, I commented on the cold way that Confucius had dealt with Yen Hui’s father. Why shouldn’t Yen Hui have a splendid funeral? And why shouldn’t Confucius break with custom and walk instead of ride in a carriage?

“I’m afraid you’ve not got the point to the wisest man that ever lived,” said Fan Ch’ih.

“Since I am not at all wise myself, how could I?” I made all the usual Cathayan humble demurs.

“For Confucius, the moral life is all that matters. This means that whenever personal desire or interest conflicts with right action, then those desires and interests must be set to one side. As a man, he wants to honor Yen Hui. But as an upholder of what is right, he cannot break with what he knows to be right behavior.”

“So the humble Yen Hui gets a humble burial?”

“Yes. A man has certain duties to sovereign, parents, friends, humanity. But these duties sometimes conflict. Obviously, duty to the sovereign takes precedence over duty to a friend. Of course, there are all sorts of ambiguities. For Confucius, our rightful sovereign is Duke Ai. For us, it is Baron K’ang. In a sense, Confucius is right. In a sense, we are right. But he will not give way, and we may not give way. So there is—unhappiness.”

“Who determines, ultimately, what is right?” I was at the great door to the palace. “Heaven, honored guest.”

“What is heaven, Under-steward Fan Ch’ih?” My friend smiled. “Heaven is what is right.” We both laughed.

I think that for all practical purposes, the Confucians are atheists. They do not believe in an afterlife or a day of judgment. They are not interested in how this world was created or for what purpose. Instead, they act as if this life is all there is and to conduct it properly is all that matters. For them, heaven is simply a word to describe correct behavior. Because the common people have all sorts of irrational feelings about heaven—a concept as old as the race—Confucius has cleverly used the idea of heaven in order to give a magical authority to his pronouncements on the way that men ought to treat one another. But then, in order to impress the educated, both Chou and Shang, he took care to make himself the greatest scholar in the Middle Kingdom. As a result, there is no Chou text that he cannot quote to his own advantage. Yet despite my deep dislike of atheism and my irritation with many Confucian strictures, I have never known a man with such a clear idea of how public and private affairs should be conducted. Even Democritus finds intriguing my no doubt faulty memory of his sayings. If one is going to eliminate the creator of all things, then it is a good idea to replace the creator with a very clear idea of what constitutes goodness in the human scale.