# San Kuo/Volume 1/Chapter 37

CHAPTER XXXVII.
Another Scholar Introduced: the Three Visits to the Recluse.
As has been said Hsü Shu hastened to the capital. When Ts‘ao Ts‘ao knew he had arrived he sent two of his confidants to receive him and so he was led first to the minister’s palace.
“Why did such an illustrious scholar as you bow the knee to Liu Pei?” said Ts‘ao.
“I am young and I fled to avoid the results of certain escapades. I spent some time as a wanderer and so came to Hsinyeh where I became good friends with him. But my mother is here and when I thought of all her affection I could no longer remain absent.”
“Now you will be able to take care of your mother at all times. And I may have the privilege of receiving your instruction.”
Hsü Shu then took his leave and hastened to his mother’s dwelling. Weeping with emotion he made his obeisance to her at the door of her room.
But she was greatly surprised to see him and said, “What have you come here for?”
“I was at Hsinyeh, in the service of Liu of Yuchou when I received your letter. I came immediately.”
His mother suddenly grew very angry. Striking the table she cried, “You shameful and degenerate son! For years you have been a vagabond in spite of all my teaching. You are a student and know the books. You must then know that loyalty and filial piety are often opposed. Did you not recognise in Ts‘ao a traitor, a man who flouts his king and insults the mighty ones? Did you not see that Liu Pei was virtuous and upright as all the world knows? Moreover, he is of the House of Han and when you were with him you were serving a fitting master. Now on the strength of a scrap of forged writing, with no attempt at any enquiry, you have left the light and plunged into darkness and earned a disgraceful reputation. Truly you are stupid! How can I bear to look upon you? You have besmirched the fair fame of your forefathers and are of no use in the world.”
The son remained bowed to the earth, not daring to lift his eyes while his mother delivered this vilifying tirade. As she said the last word she rose suddenly and left the room. Soon ​after one of the servants came out to say she had hanged herself. Her son rushed in to try to save her, but was too late.
A eulogy of her conduct has been written thus:—
Wise Mother Hsü, fair is your fame, The storied page glows with your name, From duty’s path you never strayed, The family’s renown you made. To train your son no pains you spared, For your own body nothing cared. You stand sublime, from us apart, Through simple purity of heart. Brave Liu Pei’s virtues you extolled, You blamed Ts‘ao Ts‘ao, the basely bold. Of blazing fire you felt no fear, You blenched not when the sword came near, But dreaded lest a wilful son Should dim the fame his fathers won. Yes, Mother Hsü was of one mould With famous heroines of old, Who never shrank from injury, And even were content to die. Fair meed of praise, while still alive, Was yours, and ever will survive. Hail! Mother Hsü, your memory, While time rolls on, shall never die.
At sight of his mother dead Hsü Shu fell in a swoon and only recovered consciousness after a long time. By and bye Ts‘ao heard of it and sent mourning gifts, and in due course went in person to condole and sacrifice. The body was interred on the south of the capital and the dead woman’s unhappy son kept vigil at her tomb. He steadily rejected all gifts from Ts‘ao Ts‘ao.
At that time Ts‘ao was contemplating an attack on the south. His advisers dissuaded him, saying he should await milder weather; and he yielded. But he began to prepare, and led the river waters aside to form a lake, which he called the Training Lake, where he could accustom his men to fight on the water.
As has been said Yüan-tê prepared gifts to offer to Chuko Liang on his visit. One day his servants announced a stranger of extraordinary appearance, wearing a lofty head-dress and a wide belt.
“Surely this is he” said Yüan-tê, and, hastily arranging his dress, he went to welcome the visitor. But the first glance showed him that it was the recluse of the mountains, Ssŭma Hui. However, Yüan-tê was glad to see him and led him into the inner apartment as he would an old friend. There Pei conducted him to the seat of honour and made his obeisance, saying, “Since leaving you that day in the mountains I have been overwhelmed with military preparations and so have failed to visit you as courtesy demanded. Now that the ​brightness has descended upon me I hope this dereliction of duty may be pardoned.”
“I hear Hsü Yüan-chih is here. I have come expressly to see him,” replied the visitor bluntly.
“He has lately left for Hsüch‘ang. A messenger came with a letter telling of the imprisonment of his mother.”
“Then he has just fallen into Ts‘ao Ts‘ao’s trap, for that letter was a forgery. I have always known his mother to be a very noble woman, and even if she were imprisoned by Ts‘ao she would not summon her son like that. Certainly the letter was a forgery. If the son did not go, the mother would be safe; if he went, she would be a dead woman.”
“But how?” asked Yüan-tê, dismayed.
“She is a woman of the highest principles, who would be greatly mortified at the sight of her son under such conditions.”
Liu Pei said, “Just as your friend was leaving he mentioned the name of a certain Chuko Liang. What think you of him?”
Hui laughed, saying, “If Yüan-chih wanted to go, he was free to go. But why did he want to provoke him into coming out and showing compassion for some one else?”
“Why do you speak like that?” asked Yüan-tê.
He replied, “Five men, K‘ung-ming, Ts‘ui Chou-p‘ing, Shih Kuang-yuan, Mêng Kung-wei and Hsü Yüan-chih were the closest of friends. They formed a little coterie devoted to meditation on essential refinement. Only K‘ung-ming arrived at a perception of its meaning. He used to sit among them with his arms about his knees muttering and then, pointing to his companions, he would say, 'You, gentlemen, would become governors and prefects if you were in official life.'
“When they asked him what was his ambition he would only smile and always compared himself with the great scholars Kuan Chung and Yo I. No one could gauge his talents.”
“How comes it that Yingchou produces so many able men?” said Yüan-tê.
“That old astrologer, Yin K‘uei, used to say that the stars clustered thick over the district and so there were many wise men.”
Now Kuan Yü was there and when he heard K‘ung-ming so highly praised he said, “Kuan Chung and Yo I are the two most famous men mentioned in the 'Spring and Autumn.' They well overtopped the rest of mankind. Is it not a little too much to say that K‘ung-ming compares with these two?”
“In my opinion he should not be compared with these two, but rather with two others,” said Hui.
“Who are these two?” asked Kuan Yü.
“One of them is Chiang Tzŭ-ya, who laid the foundations of the Chou dynasty so firmly that it lasted eight hundred years, ​and the other Chang Tzu-fang, who made Han glorious for four centuries.”
Before the surprise called forth by this startling statement had subsided, the visitor walked down the steps and took his leave. Liu Pei would have kept him if he could, but he was obdurate. As he stalked proudly away he threw up his head and said, “Though the 'Sleeping Dragon' has found his lord, he has not been born at the right time. It is a pity.”
“What a wise hermit!” was Liu Pei’s comment.
Soon after the three brothers set out to find the abode of the wise man. When they drew near the spot they saw a number of peasants in a field hoeing up the weeds, and as they worked they sang:--
“The earth is a chequered board, And the sky hangs over all, Under it men are contending, Some rise, but a many fall. For those who succeed 'tis well, But for those who go under rough. There’s a dozing dragon hard by, But his sleep is n‘t deep enough."
They stopped to listen to the song and, calling up one of the peasants, asked who made it.
“It was made by Master 'Sleeping Dragon,'” said the labourer.
“Then he lives hereabout. Where?”
“South of this hill there is a ridge called The Sleeping Dragon and close by is a sparse wood. In it stands a modest cottage. That is where Master Chuko takes his repose.”
Yüan-tê thanked him and the party rode on. Soon they came to the ridge, most aptly named, for indeed it lay wrapped in an atmosphere of calm beauty.
A poet wrote of it thus:—
Not far from Hsiangyang’s massive walls There stands, clear cut against the sky, A lofty ridge, and at its foot A gentle stream goes gliding by.
The contour, curving up and down, Although by resting cloud it’s marred, Arrests the eye; and here and there The flank by waterfalls is scarred.
There, like a sleeping dragon coiled, Or phoenix hid among thick pines, You see, secure from prying eyes, A cot, reed-built on rustic lines.
The rough-joined doors, pushed by the wind, Swing idly open and disclose The greatest genius of the world Enjoying still his calm repose.
The air is full of woodland scents, Around are hedgerows trim and green, Close-growing intercrossed bamboos Replace the painted doorway screen.
But look within and books you see By every couch, near every chair; And you may guess that common men Are very seldom welcomed there.
The hut seems far from human ken, So far, one might expect to find Wild forest denizens there, trained To serve in place of human kind.
Without a hoary crane might stand As warden of the outer gate; Within a long-armed gibbon come To offer fruit upon a plate.
But enter; there refinement reigns; Brocaded silk the lutes protect, And burnished weapons on the walls The green of pines outside reflect.
For he who dwells within that hut Is talented beyond compare, Although he lives the simple life And harvest seems his only care.
He waits until the thund'rous call Shall bid him wake, nor sleep again; Then will he forth and at his word Peace over all the land shall reign.
Yüan-tê soon arrived at the door of the retreat, dismounted and knocked at the rough door of the cottage. A youth appeared and asked what he wanted.
Yüan-tê replied, “I am Liu Pei, General of the Han Dynasty, Marquis of Ichêngt‘ing, Magistrate of Yuchou and Uncle of the Emperor. I am come to salute the Master.”
“I cannot remember so many titles,” said the lad.
“Then simply say that Liu Pei has come to enquire after him.”
“The master left this morning early.”
“Whither has he gone?”
“His movements are very uncertain. I do not know whither he has gone.”
“When will he return?”
“That also is uncertain. Perhaps in three days, perhaps in ten.”
The disappointment was keen.
“Let us go back since we cannot see him,” said Chang Fei.
“Wait a little time,” said Yüan-tê.
“It would be better to return,” said Kuan Yü, “then we might send to find out when this man had come back.”
So Yüan-tê agreed, first saying to the boy, “When the master returns, tell him that Liu Pei has been.”
They rode away. Presently Liu Pei stopped and looked back at the surroundings of the little cottage in the wood. ​The mountains were picturesque rather than grand, the water clear rather than profound, the plain was level rather than extensive, the woods luxuriant rather than extensive. Gibbons ranged through the trees and cranes waded in the shallow water. The pines and the bamboos vied with each other in verdure. It was a scene to linger upon.
While Liu Pei stood regarding it, he saw a figure coming down a mountain path. The man’s bearing was lofty; he was handsome and dignified. He wore a comfortable-looking bonnet on his head and a black robe hung about his figure in easy folds. He used a staff to help him down the steep path.
“Surely that is he!” said Yüan-tê.
He dismounted and walked over to greet the stranger, whom he saluted deferentially, saying, “Are you not Master Sleeping Dragon, Sir?”
“Who are you, General?” said the stranger.
“I am Liu Pei.”
“I am not K‘ung-ming, but I am a friend of his. My name is Ts‘ui Chou-pʻing.”
“Long have I known of you! I am very glad to see you,” replied Yüan-tê. “And now I pray you to be seated just where we are and let me receive your instruction.”
The two men sat down in the wood on a stone and the two brothers ranged themselves by Liu Pei’s side.
Chou-p‘ing began, saying, “General, for what reason do you wish to see K‘ung-ming?”
Liu Pei replied, “The Empire is in confusion and troubles gather everywhere. I want your friend to tell me how to restore order.”
“You, Sir, wish to arrest the present disorder although you are a kindly man and, from the oldest antiquity, the correction of disorder has demanded stern measures. On the day that the founder of the Han dynasty first put his hand to the work and slew the wicked ruler of Ts‘in, order began to replace disorder. Good government began with The Founder, (206 B.C.), and endured two hundred years; two centuries of tranquillity. Then came Wang Mang’s rebellion and disorder took the place of order. Anon, arose Kuang-Wu, who restored the Dynasty, and order once more prevailed. We have had two centuries of order and tranquillity, and the time of trouble and battles is due. The restoration of peace will take time; it cannot be quickly accomplished. You, Sir, wish to get K‘ung-ming to regulate times and seasons, to repair the cosmos; but I fear the task is indeed difficult and to attempt it would be a vain expenditure of mental energy You know well that he who goes with the favour of Heaven travels an easy road, he who goes contrary meets difficulties. One cannot escape one’s lot; one cannot evade fate.”
​“Master,” replied Pei, “your insight is indeed deep and your words of wide meaning, but I am a scion of the House of Han and must help it. Dare I talk of the inevitable and trust to fate?”
Chou-p‘ing replied, “A simple denizen of the mountain wilds is unfitted to discuss the affairs of Empire. But you bade me speak and I have spoken; perhaps somewhat madly.”
“Master, I am grateful for your instruction. But know you whither K‘ung-ming has gone?”
“I also came to see him and I know not where he is,” said Chou-p‘ing.
“If I asked you, Master, to accompany me to my poor bit of territory, would you come?”
“I am too dilatory, too fond of leisure and ease, and no longer have any ambitions. But I will see you another time.”
And with these words he saluted and left.
The three brothers also mounted and started homeward. Presently Chang Fei said, “We have not found K‘ung-ming and we have had to listen to the wild ravings of this so-called scholar. There is the whole result of this journey.' ”
“His words were those of a deep thinker,” replied Yüan-tê.
Some days after the return to Hsinyeh, Yüan-tê sent to find out whether K‘ung-ming had returned and the messenger came back saying that he had. Wherefore Liu Pei prepared for another visit. Again Chang Fei showed his irritation by remarking, “Why must you go hunting after this villager? Send and tell him to come.”
“Silence!” said Yüan-tê, “The Teacher Mêng, (Mencius) said, 'To try to see the sage without going his way is like barring a door you wish to enter.' K‘ung-ming is the greatest sage of the day; how can I summon him?”
So Yüan-tê rode away to make his visit, his two brothers with him as before. It was winter and exceedingly cold; angry clouds covered the whole sky. Before they had gone far a bitter wind began to blow in their faces and the snow began to fall. Soon the mountains were of jade and the trees of silver.
“It is very cold and the earth is frozen hard, no fighting is possible now.” Said Chang Fei. “Yet we are going all this way to get advice which will be useless to us. Where is the sense of it? Let us rather get back to Hsinyeh out of the cold.”
Yüan-tê replied, “I am set upon proving my zeal to K‘ungming, but if you, my brother, do not like the cold, you can return.”
“I do not fear death; do you think I care for the cold? But I do care about wasting my brother’s energies,” said Chang Fei.
“Say no more,” said Yüan-tê, and they travelled on.
​When they drew near the little wood they heard singing in a roadside inn and stopped to listen. This was the song:—
Although possessed of talent rare, This man has made no name; Alas! the day is breaking late That is to show his fame. O friends you know the tale: Th’aged man constrained to leave His cottage by the sea, To follow in a prince’s train His counsellor to be. Eight hundred feudal chieftains met Who came with one accord; The happy omen, that white fish, That leapt the boat aboard; The gory field in distant wilds, Whence flowed a crimson tide, And him acknowledged chief in war Whose virtues none denied; That Kaoyang rustic, fond of wine, Who left his native place And went to serve so faithfully The man of handsome face; And one who spoke of ruling chiefs In tones so bold and free, But sitting at the festive board Was full of courtesy; And one, 'twas he who laid in dust Walled cities near four score— But men of doughty deeds like these On earth are seen no more. Now had these men not found their lord Would they be known to fame? Yet having found, they served him well And so achieved a name.
The song ended, the singer’s companion tapping the table sang:—
We had a famous emperor, Who drew his shining sword, Cleansed all the land within the seas And made himself its lord. In time his son succeeded him, And so from son to son The lordship passed, held firm until Four hundred years had run. Then dawned a day of weaklier sons, The fiery virtue failed, Then ministers betrayed their trust, Court intrigues vile prevailed. The omens came; a serpent black Coiled on the dragon throne, While in the hall of audience Unholy haloes shone. Now bandits swarm in all the land And noble strives with chief, The common people, sore perplexed, Can nowhere find relief.
Let’s drown our sorrows in the cup, Be happy while we may, Let those who wish run after fame That is to last for aye.
The two men laughed loud and clapped their hands as the second singer ceased. Yüan-tê thought full surely the longedfor sage was there, so he dismounted and entered the inn. He saw the two merry-makers sitting opposite each other at a table. One was pale with a long beard; the other had a strikingly refined face. Yan-tê saluted them and said, “Which of you is Master Sleeping Dragon?”
“Who are you, Sir?” asked the long-bearded one. “What business have you with Sleeping Dragon?”
“I am Liu Pei. I want to enquire of him how to restore tranquillity to the world.”
“Well, neither of us is your man, but we are friends of his. My name is Shih Kuang-yüan and my friend here is Mêng Kung-wei.”
“I know you both by reputation,” said Yüan-tê smiling. “I am indeed fortunate to meet you in this haphazard way. Will you not come to the Sleeping Dragon’s retreat and talk for a time? I have horses here for you.”
“We idle folk of the wilds know nothing of tranquillising States. Do not trouble to ask, please. Pray mount again and go your way in search of Sleeping Dragon.”
So he remounted and went his way. He reached the little cottage, dismounted and tapped at the door. The same lad answered his knock and he asked whether the Master had returned.
“He is in his room reading,” said the boy.
Joyful indeed was Liu Pei as he followed the lad in. In front of the middle door he saw written this pair of scrolls:—
By purity manifest the inclination: By repose affect the distant.
As he was looking at this couplet he heard some one singing in a subdued voice and stopped by the door to peep in. He saw a young man close to a charcoal brazier, hugging his knees while he sang:—
The phoenix flies high, ah me! And only will perch on a wutung tree. The scholar is hid, ah me! Till his lord appear he can patient be. He tills his fields, ah me! He is well-content and I love my home, He awaits his day, ah me! His books and his lute to leave and roam.
As the song ended Yüan-tê advanced and saluted saying, “Master, long have I yearned for you, but have found it impossible to salute you. Lately one Hsu spoke of you and ​I hastened to your dwelling, only to come away disappointed. This time I have praved the elements and come again and my reward is here; I see your face, and I am indeed fortunate.”
“The young man hastily returned the salute and said, “General, you must be that Liu Pei of Yuchou who wishes to see my brother.”
“Then, Master, you are not the Sleeping Dragon!” said Yüan-tê, starting back.
“I am his younger brother, Chün. He has an elder brother, Chin, now with Sun in Chiangtung as a secretary. K‘ung-ming is the second of our family.' ”
“Is your brother at home?”
“Only yesterday he arranged to go a jaunt with Ts‘ui Choup‘ing.”
“Whither have they gone?”
“Who can say? They may take a boat and sail away among the lakes, or go to gossip with the priests in some remote mountain temple, or wander off to visit a friend in some far away village, or be sitting in some cave with a lute or a chessboard. Their goings and comings are uncertain and nobody can guess at them.”
“What very poor luck have I! Twice have I failed to meet the great sage.”
“Pray sit a few moments and let me offer you some tea.”
“Brother, since the master is not here I pray you remount and go,” said Chang Fei.
“Since I am here, why not a little talk before we go home again?” said Yüan-tê.
Then turning to his host he continued, “Can you tell me if your worthy brother is skilled in strategy and studies works on war?”
“I do not know.”
“This is worse than the other,” grumbled Chang Fei. “And the wind and snow are getting worse; we ought to go back.”
Yüan-tê turned on him angrily and told him to stop.
Chün said, “Since my brother is absent I will not presume to detain you longer. I will return your call soon.”
“Please do not take that trouble. In a few days I will come again. But if I could borrow paper and pencil I would leave a note to show your worthy brother that I am zealous and earnest.”
Chun produced the “four treasures” of the scholar and Yüan-tê, thawing out the frozen brush between his lips, spread the sheet of delicate note-paper and wrote:—
“Pei has long admired your fame. He has visited your dwelling twice, but to his great disappointment he has gone empty away. He humbly remembers that he is a distant relative of the Emperor, that he has undeservedly enjoyed fame and rank. When he sees the proper government wrested ​aside and replaced by pretence, the foundation of the State crumbling away, hordes of bravos creating confusion in the country and an evil cabal behaving unseemly toward the rightful Prince, then his heart and gall are torn to shreds. Though he has a real desire to assist, yet is he deficient in the needful skill. Wherefore he turns to the Master, trusting in his kindness, graciousness, loyalty and righteousness. Would the Master but use his talent, equal to that of Lü Wang, and perform great deeds like Chang Tzu-fang, then would the Empire be happy and the throne would be secure.”
“This is written to tell you that, after purification of mind with fasting and of body with fragrant baths, Pei will come again to prostrate himself in your honoured presence and receive enlightenment.' ”
The letter written and given to Chün, Yüan-tê took his leave, exceedingly disappointed at this second failure. As he was mounting he saw the serving lad waving his hand outside the hedge and heard him call out, “The old Master is coming”
Yüan-tê looked and then saw a figure seated on a donkey leisurely jogging along over a bridge.
The rider of the donkey wore a cap with long flaps down to his shoulders and his body was wrapped in a fox fur robe. A youth followed him bearing a jar of wine. As he came through the snow he hummed a song:—
'Tis eve, the sky is overcast, The north wind comes with icy blast, Light snowflakes whirl adown until A white pall covers dale and hill.
Perhaps above the topmost sky White dragons strive for mastery, The armour scales from their forms riven Are scattered o‘er the world wind-driven.
Amid the storm there jogs along A simple wight who croons a song. “O poor plum trees, the gale doth tear Your blossoms off and leave you bare."
“Here at last is the Sleeping Dragon,” thought Yüan-tê, hastily slipping out of the saddle. He saluted the donkey rider as he neared and said, “Master, it is hard to make way against this cold wind. I and my companions have been waiting long.”
The rider got off his donkey and returned the bow, while Chuko Chün from behind said, “This is not my brother; it is his father-in-law, Huang Ch‘êng-yen.' ”
Yüan-tê said, “I chanced to hear the song you were singing; it is very beautiful.”
Ch'êng-yen replied, “It is a little poem I read in my son-in-law’s house and I recalled it as I crossed the bridge and saw the plum trees in the hedge. And so it happened to catch your ear, noble Sir.”
​“Have you seen your son-in-law lately?” asked Yüan-tê.
“That is just what I have come to do now.”
At this Yüan-tê bade him farewell and went on his way. The storm was very grievous to bear, but worse than the storm was the grief in his heart as he looked back at Sleeping Dragon Ridge.
One winter’s day through snow and wind A prince rode forth the sage to find; Alas! his journey was in vain, And sadly turned he home again.
The stream stood still beneath the bridge A sheet of ice draped rock and ridge, His steed benumbed with biting cold But crawled as he were stiff and old.
The snow-flakes on the rider’s head Were like pear-blossoms newly shed, Or like the willow-catkins light They brushed his cheek in headlong flight.
He stayed his steed, he looked around, The snow lay thick on tree and mound, The Sleeping Dragon Ridge lay white A hill of silver, glistening bright.
After the return to Hsinyeh the time slipped away till spring was near. Then Yüan-tê cast lots to find the propitious day for another journey in search of the sage. The day being selected he fasted for three days and then changed his dress ready for the visit. His two brothers viewed the preparations with disapproval and presently made up their minds to remonstrate.
The sage and the fighting man never agree, A warrior despises humility.
The next chapter will tell what they said.