Creation (71 page)

The disciples speculated, openly, about Baron K’ang’s plans for Confucius. So did the master: “I came home because I was assured that I was needed, and to be needed is to serve the state, in any capacity.”

Yen Hui shook his head. “Why should the master waste his valuable time on the business of office?” When Yen Hui spoke, his voice was so low that we all had to lean forward, ears cupped. “Isn’t it best that you talk to us, to the young knights who come to see you, to the officers of state who consult you? Why should you burden yourself with the ministry of police when you alone can explain to men the way of the ancestors and so lead them to goodness?”

Tzu-lu answered Yen Hui. “You’ve heard the master say ten thousand times, ‘He who holds no rank in a state does not discuss its policies.’ Well, Baron K’ang has sent for Confucius. That means he needs him. That means that that harmonious state of affairs which we have dreamed of since the time of the Chou is close at hand.”

There was then a lengthy argument between the two points of view. Confucius listened to each speaker as if he expected to hear words of shattering wisdom. That he was plainly not shattered by what he heard seemed in no way to surprise him. Tzu-lu was a fierce old man, not at all the sort of person, one would have thought, to attach himself to a wise man—unlike Yen Hui, who was gentle, contemplative, withdrawn.

Fan Ch’ih spoke of the high esteem that Baron K’ang had for Confucius; in fact, just recently, the prime minister had mentioned the possibility of appointing Confucius chief justice. Most of the others thought that this would be a suitable honor. All chose to ignore the fact that since Confucius was only a knight, he could not hold
any
of the great offices.

Finally, when Confucius spoke, he did not address himself directly to the issue. “You know, when I was fifteen I set my heart upon learning. At thirty, I had my feet planted firmly in the ground. At forty, I no longer suffered from ... perplexities. At fifty, I knew what were the biddings of heaven. At sixty, I submitted to them. Now I am in my seventieth year.” The master looked at the edge of the mat on which he was seated. Carefully, he smoothed out a wrinkle that was imperceptible to us. Then he looked up. “I am in my seventieth year,” he repeated. “I can follow the dictates of my own heart because what I desire no longer oversteps the boundaries of what is right.”

No one quite knew how to interpret this. As it turned out, no one was obliged to because at that moment Jan Ch’iu entered the room with the news that “Our lord would like for the master to attend him at the palace,”

The Tzu-lu faction were delighted. They were positive that Confucius was to be given office. Yen Hui looked sad. But then everyone looked sad when Jan Ch’iu added, “I mean our lord, Duke Ai.”

Confucius smiled at his disciples, aware of their disappointment. “Little ones,” he said softly, “if out of the entire
Book of Songs
I had to take one phrase to cover all my teaching, I would say ‘Let there be no evil in your thoughts.’ ”

I seldom saw Baron K’ang in private. Since the victory against Key had exhausted the national treasury, the prime minister’s days were spent devising new and ingenious taxes which the equally ingenious citizens of Lu usually managed to avoid paying. I was reminded of the ruinous cost of the Greek wars that had forced Darius to levy such high taxes that Egypt had gone into rebellion.

Finally, after several meetings with Confucius, I reported directly to Baron K’ang at the Long Treasury. I found him seated at the head of a large table covered with bamboo strips, on which were listed the state’s accounts. At a second table, clerks arranged and rearranged other strips; made notations; added and subtracted. Behind the baron, the statue of Duke Tan stared at the ceiling.

“Forgive me,” said the baron, not rising. “This is the day that we check the state’s inventories. A time of discouragement, I fear.”

In Cathay, as in India, each state maintains reserves of grain. When grain is in short supply, the reserves are sold off at a small profit. In times of plenty, the grain is kept off the market. Weapons, farm implements, cloth, wagons, bullocks and horses are also maintained by the state not only as commodities to be sold when necessary but as reserves to be used in bad or interesting times. It was no secret that everything was now in short supply at Lu, including the coinage which was being not too subtly clipped.

As I advanced on tiptoe, shoulders hunched, head wagging with feigned humility and incredulity—the usual approach to a high official—the baron motioned for me to sit beside him on a low stool.

“Honored guest, your days are not too wretched, I pray, in this unworthy city.” Cathayans can talk like this by the hour. Fortunately, Baron K’ang never made these conventional sounds for more than a moment at a time; usually he was all business. He was, not unlike Darius—Darius the huckster, that is. Not Darius the Great King.

“You have seen Confucius four times.”

I nodded, not at all surprised that I’d been spied on.

“Duke Ai has received him a number of times, which is highly appropriate.”

“But
you
have not received him, Lord Baron.” I put the question in the form of a statement, a useful Persian art as yet unknown in the Middle Kingdom.

“The war.” The baron gestured at the clerks at the other long table. This meant that he had not yet spoken in private to Confucius.

“It is my impression that he thinks you sent for him in order to use him.”

“That is my impression, too.” Baron K’ang looked very solemn, a sure sign that he was amused. During my three years in Lu, I got so that I could read his face with the greatest of ease. At the end, we seldom exchanged words. We did not need to. We understood each other perfectly. I was also led to understand, from the beginning, that I was going to have to work very hard Indeed for my release from his charming cage.

I made my report. I repeated everything of interest that Confucius had said, and almost everything that Fan Ch’ih had said on the subject of the master. When I was done, the baron said, “You must interest him.”

“I am not sure that that is possible.” I allowed myself a forbidden smile. In the presence of a superior the courtier must always look humble and apprehensive—by no means a difficult task at any of the volatile Cathayan courts.

It was the genius of the Chou dynasty to mitigate man’s destructive nature through intricate rituals, observances, manners and music. A man of the court must know and act upon three hundred rules of major ritual. The mat he sits on must be straight, bedclothes must be exactly one and a half times the length of the sleeper, actual names of the recent dead must not be mentioned, and so on. In addition to the three hundred major observances, the true gentleman must also know and be able to practice three thousand minor ones. To spend one’s time with a truly punctilious Cathayan gentleman is a most disturbing experience for a foreigner. Your companion is forever making mysterious hand gestures while looking up to heaven or down to earth, not to mention rolling his eyes from side to side, whispering prayers, assisting you when no help is needed while allowing you to flounder entirely when a degree of help might be useful. Even Baron K’ang’s silences, cryptic utterances, uses or non-uses of the facial muscles were all a part of the nobleman’s code, somewhat modified for a foreigner’s benefit. Yet when men of power are together—anywhere on earth—they tend to disregard many of the niceties which they show to the public. Darius always spat in private; and laughed like a soldier.

“You must interest him.” Thus, the baron ordered me to spy directly on Confucius.

“What subjects should I bring up in order to ... interest him?” Thus, I accepted the commission.

“You are the grandson of a divine sage. That will interest him.” After a long and boring list of so-called interesting subjects, the baron came to the point. “The subject of Key is deeply interesting to him, and to me. I believe that very soon we shall have unusual news from Key. When it comes, I have no idea what his response will be. After all, he is close to Duke Chien. He was often in the company of the warden of Pi ...”

“The traitor!” I was properly outraged.

“To give him his proper name, yes. I am also aware that the warden offered to make Confucius prime minister of Lu if Confucius would help him betray his native land.”

I was, for the first time, intrigued. “Did Confucius agree?”

“That is for you to discover. Certainly, the warden made a strong case for the return, as he would put it, of all power to the duke of Lu, who has never—as we know—lost one scintilla of that true power given to him by the celestial ancestors.” The conviction that the hereditary ruler is all-powerful is central to the gentleman’s thirty-three hundred ritual observances. Everything that the dictator did he did in the name of Duke Ai.

“Was that the reason for the war? The restoration, as they falsely call it, of the duke.”

“Yes. The warden persuaded Duke Chien that now was the time to attack. Naturally, Key would like to diminish us, even absorb us. But then, over a year ago, Confucius crossed the Yellow River and settled in Wei. I don’t know why. I would like to know why. Had he fallen out with the warden, as he tends to fall out with everyone? Or was it a ruse to make us think that he had no connection with our enemies in Key or with the recent war?”

I had never heard the baron speak quite so directly. I was equally direct. “You think that Confucius is a secret agent of the warden?”

“Or of Duke Chien. Now, even if he were, it would be of no importance except for the fact”—the baron looked me straight in the eye, something a Cathayan gentleman ought never to do—“that his disciples occupy positions in every ministry of our government. My own best general is a devoted Confucian. Your good friend and my second steward, Fan Ch’ih, would give his life for the master. Well, I would prefer that no lives be given. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Lord Baron.”

It was Baron K’ang’s fear that the Confucians in his own government combined with the forces of Duke Chien might bring him down, particularly now that he lacked the resources to fight a second war. The baron had brought Confucius home not only to keep an eye on him but to neutralize him should there be a new war. In a sense, I was an ideal agent for the baron. I was a barbarian: I had no allegiance to anyone but the baron, who alone had the power to send me home. Although he did not trust me any more than I trusted him, neither of us had much choice in the matter. I accepted the commission in good faith. I would make myself interesting to Confucius—not the easiest of endeavors, since the world outside the four seas is of no concern to Cathayans. Fortunately, Confucius proved to be unique. He was fascinated by the world of the four barbarians: that is, those who live north, south, east and west of the Middle Kingdom. In fact, whenever he grew discouraged, he would say, “I think I shall just get aboard a raft and float out to sea.” This is the Cathayan formula for going native in some wild and uncivilized part of the world.

“How,” I asked Baron K’ang, “am I to get him all to myself?”

“Take him fishing,” said the baron, going back to the gloomy task of trying to salvage a state close to financial collapse.

As usual, the baron was right. Confucius had a passion for fishing. I cannot remember exactly how I got him to join me at the stream that runs through the willow grove just north of the rain altars, but one bright morning in early summer there we were, just the two of us, each equipped with bamboo pole, silken line, bronze hook, wicker basket. Confucius never fished with a net. “What pleasure can there be in that?” he would ask. “Unless your livelihood depends upon catching as many fish as you can.”

Wearing an old quilted robe, Confucius sat cross-legged on the damp green riverbank. I sat next to him on a rock. I still remember how the silver surface of the slow river reflected the sun’s light. I still remember that the white spring sky that day contained not only a hazy sun but a half-moon, like a ghost’s skull.

We had the river to ourselves. Incidentally, this was the first time that I was able to observe the master without his disciples. I found him most agreeable, and not at all priestly. In fact, he was disagreeable only when someone powerful behaved in an unseemly way.

Confucius proved to be a master angler. Once a fish had taken the hook, he would ever so delicately shift the line this way and that; it was as if the line was moved not by a human hand but by the river’s own current. Then, at precisely the right moment, he would strike.

After one long silence he said, “If only one could go on and on just like this, day after day.”

“Fishing, Master?”

The old man smiled. “That, too, honored guest. But I was referring to the river, which never stops, which always is.”

“Master Li would say that everything is already a part of the always-so.” There is no better way of getting a man to let down his guard than to mention his rivals. But Confucius was not to be drawn out on the subject of Master Li. Instead, he asked me about the Wise Lord. I answered at my customary length. He listened non-committally. I did get the impression that he was more interested in the day-to-day life of a good Zoroastrian than in the war between the Truth and the Lie. He was also curious about the various systems of government that I had encountered in my travels. I told him what I could. I found Confucius to be a most impressive man in spite of the fact that I could not begin to appreciate the vast learning for which he was honored in the Middle Kingdom. Since I knew nothing of the rituals, the odes, the histories that he had committed to memory, I could not delight in the ease with which he quoted from these ancient works. In fact, I could not always tell when he was quoting and when he was extrapolating from an old text. As a rule he spoke quite simply, unlike so many of the Greeks who make simple matters difficult with syntax and then, triumphantly, clarify what they have managed to obscure with even more complex syntax.

I was startled to find how often this traditionalist sage was at odds with received opinion. For instance, when I asked him what the latest tortoise-shell auguries had foretold, he said, “The shell asked to be reunited with the tortoise.”